by meredith nicholson a hoosier chronicle. with illustrations. the siege of the seven suitors. with illustrations. houghton mifflin company boston and new york a hoosier chronicle "dreams books, are each a world and books, we know, are a substantial world, both pure and good; round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, our pastime and our happiness will grow" wordsworth in personal talk [illustration: sylvia and professor kelton] a hoosier chronicle meredith nicholson with illustrations by f.c. yohn boston and new york houghton mifflin company the riverside press cambridge _published march _ to evans woollen, esq. the wise know that foolish legislation is a rope of sand which perishes in the twisting; that the state must follow and not lead the character and progress of the citizen; the strongest usurper is quickly got rid of; and they only who build on ideas, build for eternity; and that the form of government which prevails is the expression of what cultivation exists in the population which permits it. the law is only a memorandum. we are superstitious, and esteem the statute somewhat; so much life as it has in the character of living men is its force. emerson: _politics_. contents i. my lady of the constellations ii. sylvia goes visiting iii. a small dinner at mrs. owen's iv. we learn more of sylvia v. introducing mr. daniel harwood vi. home life of hoosier statesmen vii. sylvia at lake waupegan viii. silk stockings and blue overalls ix. daniel harwood receives an offer x. in the boordman building xi. the map above bassett's desk xii. blurred windows xiii. the ways of marian xiv. the passing of andrew kelton xv. a surprise at the country club xvi. "stop, look, listen" xvii. a stroll across the campus xviii. the kingdoms of the world xix. the thunder of the captains xx. interviews in two keys xxi. a short horse soon curried xxii. the gray sisterhood xxiii. a house-boat on the kankakee xxiv. a washington's birthday ball xxv. the lady of the daguerreotype xxvi. april vistas xxvii. heat lightning xxviii. a cheerful bringer of bad tidings xxix. a song and a falling star xxx. the king hath summoned his parliament xxxi. sylvia asks questions xxxii. "my beautiful one" xxxiii. the man of shadows xxxiv. we go back to the beginning a postscript by the chronicler illustrations sylvia and professor kelton _frontispiece_ whoever wrote that letter was troubled about sylvia a sudden fierce anger burned in her heart sylvia must know just what we know _from drawings by f.c. yohn_ a hoosier chronicle chapter i my lady of the constellations sylvia was reading in her grandfather's library when the bell tinkled. professor kelton had few callers, and as there was never any certainty that the maid-of-all-work would trouble herself to answer, sylvia put down her book and went to the door. very likely it was a student or a member of the faculty, and as her grandfather was not at home sylvia was quite sure that the interruption would be the briefest. the kelton cottage stood just off the campus, and was separated from it by a narrow street that curved round the college and stole, after many twists and turns, into town. this thoroughfare was called "buckeye lane," or more commonly the "lane." the college had been planted literally in the wilderness by its founders, at a time when montgomery, for all its dignity as the seat of the county court, was the most colorless of hoosier hamlets, save only as the prevailing mud colored everything. buckeye lane was originally a cow-path, in the good old times when every reputable villager kept a red cow and pastured it in the woodlot that subsequently became madison athletic field. in those days the madison faculty, and their wives and daughters, seeking social diversion among the hospitable townfolk, picked their way down the lane by lantern light. an ignorant municipal council had later, when natural gas threatened to boom the town into cityhood, changed buckeye lane to university avenue, but the community refused to countenance any such impious trifling with tradition. and besides, madison prided herself then as now on being a college that taught the humanities in all soberness, according to ideals brought out of new england by its founders. the proposed change caused an historic clash between town and gown in which the gown triumphed. university forsooth! professor kelton's house was guarded on all sides by trees and shrubbery, and a tall privet hedge shut it off from the lane. he tended with his own hands a flower garden whose roses were the despair of all the women of the community. the clapboards of the simple story-and-a-half cottage had faded to a dull gray, but the little plot of ground in which the house stood was cultivated with scrupulous care. the lawn was always fresh and crisp, the borders of privet were neatly trimmed and the flower beds disposed effectively. a woman would have seen at once that this was a man's work; it was all a little too regular, suggesting engineering methods rather than polite gardening. once you had stepped inside the cottage the absence of the feminine touch was even more strikingly apparent. book shelves crowded to the door,--open shelves, that had the effect of pressing at once upon the visitor the most formidable of dingy volumes, signifying that such things were of moment to the master of the house. there was no parlor, for the room that had originally been used as such was now shelf-hung and book-lined, and served as an approach to the study into which it opened. the furniture was old and frayed as to upholstery, and the bric-à-brac on an old-fashioned what-not was faintly murmurous of some long-vanished feminine hand. the scant lares and penates were sufficient to explain something of this shiplike trimness of the housekeeping. the broken half of a ship's wheel clung to the wall above the narrow grate, and the white marble mantel supported a sextant, a binocular, and other incidentals of a shipmaster's profession. an engraving of the battle of trafalgar and a portrait of farragut spoke further of the sea. if we take a liberty and run our eyes over the bookshelves we find many volumes relating to the development of sea power and textbooks of an old vintage on the sailing of ships and like matters. and if we were to pry into the drawers of an old walnut cabinet in the study we should find illuminative data touching the life of andrew kelton. it is well for us to know that he was born in indiana, as far as possible from salt water; and that, after being graduated from annapolis, he served his country until retired for disabilities due to a wound received at mobile bay. he thereafter became and continued for fifteen years the professor of mathematics and astronomy at madison college, in his native state; and it is there that we find him, living peacefully with his granddaughter sylvia in the shadow of the college. comfort had set its seal everywhere, but it was keyed to male ideals of ease and convenience; the thousand and one things in which women express themselves were absent. the eye was everywhere struck by the strict order of the immaculate small rooms and the snugness with which every article had been fitted to its place. the professor's broad desk was free of litter; his tobacco jar neighbored his inkstand on a clean, fresh blotter. it is a bit significant that sylvia, in putting down her book to answer the bell, marked her place carefully with an envelope, for sylvia, we may say at once, was a young person disciplined to careful habits. "is this professor kelton's? i should like very much to see him," said the young man to whom she opened. "i'm sorry, but he isn't at home," replied sylvia, with that directness which, we shall find, characterized her speech. the visitor was neither a member of the faculty nor a student, and as her grandfather was particularly wary of agents she was on guard against the stranger. "it is important for me to see him. if he will be back later i can come again." the young man did not look like an agent; he carried no telltale insignia. he was tall and straight and decidedly blond, and he smiled pleasantly as he fanned himself with his straw hat. where his brown hair parted there was a cowlick that flung an untamable bang upon his forehead, giving him a combative look that his smile belied. he was a trifle too old for a senior, sylvia reflected, soberly studying his lean, smooth-shaven face, but not nearly old enough to be a professor; and except the pastor of the church which she attended, and the physician who had been called to see her in her childish ailments, all men in her world were either students or teachers. the town men were strange beings, whom professor kelton darkly called philistines, and their ways and interests were beyond her comprehension. "if you will wait i think i may be able to find him. he may have gone to the library or to the observatory, or for a walk. won't you please come in?" her gravity amused the young man, who did not think it so serious a matter to gain an interview with a retired professor in a small college. they debated, with much formality on both sides, whether sylvia should seek her grandfather or merely direct the visitor to places where he would be likely to find him; but as the stranger had never seen professor kelton, they concluded that it would be wiser for sylvia to do the seeking. she ushered the visitor into the library, where it was cooler than on the doorstep, and turned toward the campus. it is to be noted that sylvia moves with the buoyant ease of youth. she crosses the lane and is on her own ground now as she follows the familiar walks that link the college buildings together. the students who pass her grin cheerfully and tug at their caps; several, from a distance, wave a hand at her. one young gentleman, leaning from the upper window of the chemical laboratory, calls, "hello, sylvia," and jerks his head out of sight. sylvia's chin lifts a trifle, disdainful of the impudence of sophomores. she has recognized the culprit's voice, and will deal with him later in her own fashion. sylvia is olive-skinned and dark of eye. and they are interesting eyes--those of sylvia, luminous and eager--and not fully taken in at a glance. they call us back for further parley by reason of their grave and steady gaze. there is something appealing in her that takes hold of the heart, and we remember her after she has passed us by. we shall not pretend that her features are perfect, but their trifling irregularities contribute to an impression of individuality and character. her mouth, for example, is a bit large, but it speaks for good humor. even at fifteen, her lips suggest firmness and decision. her forehead is high and broad, and her head is well set on straight shoulders. her dark hair is combed back smoothly and braided and the braid is doubled and tied with a red ribbon. the same color flashes in a flowing bow at her throat. these notes will serve to identify sylvia as she crosses the campus of this honorable seat of learning on a june afternoon. this particular june afternoon fell somewhat later than the second consulship of grover cleveland and well within the ensuing period of radicalism. the hoosiers with whom we shall have to do are not those set forth by eggleston, but the breed visible to-day in urban marketplaces, who submit themselves meekly to tailors and schoolmasters. there is always corn in their egypt, and no village is so small but it lifts a smokestack toward a sky that yields nothing to italy's. the heavens are a soundingboard devised for the sole purpose of throwing back the mellifluous voices of native orators. at the cross-roads store, philosophers, perched upon barrel and soap-box (note the soap-box), clinch in endless argument. every county has its theocritus who sings the nearest creek, the bloom of the may-apple, the squirrel on the stake-and-rider fence, the rabbit in the corn, the paw-paw thicket where fruit for the gods lures farm boys on frosty mornings in golden autumn. in olden times the french _voyageur_, paddling his canoe from montreal to new orleans, sang cheerily through the hoosier wilderness, little knowing that one day men should stand all night before bulletin boards in new york and boston awaiting the judgment of citizens of the wabash country upon the issues of national campaigns. the hoosier, pondering all things himself, cares little what ohio or illinois may think or do. he ventures eastward to broadway only to deepen his satisfaction in the lights of washington or main street at home. he is satisfied to live upon a soil more truly blessed than any that lies beyond the borders of his own commonwealth. no wonder ben parker, of henry county, born in a log cabin, attuned his lyre to the note of the first blue-bird and sang,-- 'tis morning and the days are long. it is always morning and all the days are long in indiana. sylvia was three years old when she came to her grandfather's. this she knew from the old servant; but where her earlier years had been spent or why or with whom she did not know; and when her grandfather was so kind, and her studies so absorbing, it did not seem worth while to trouble about any state of existence antedating her first clear recollections--which were of days punctuated and governed by the college bell, and of people who either taught or studied, with glimpses now and then of the women and children of the professors' households. there were times, when the winds whispered sharply round the cottage on winter nights, or when the snow lay white on the campus and in the woods beyond, when some memory taunted her, teasing and luring afar off; and once, as she walked with her grandfather on a day in march, and he pointed to a flock of wild geese moving _en échelon_ toward the kankakee and the far white canadian frontier, she experienced a similar vague thrill of consciousness, as though remembering that elsewhere, against blue spring sky, she had watched similar migrant battalions sweeping into the north. she had never known a playmate. the children of the college circle went to school in town, while she, from her sixth year, was taught systematically by her grandfather. the faithful oversight of mary, the maid-of-all-work, constituted sylvia's sole acquaintance with anything approximating maternal care. mary, unknown to sylvia and professor kelton, sometimes took counsel--the privilege of her long residence in the lane--of some of the professors' wives, who would have been glad to help directly but for the increasing reserve that had latterly marked professor kelton's intercourse with his friends and neighbors. sylvia was vaguely aware of the existence of social distinctions, but in buckeye lane these were entirely negligible; they were, in fact, purely academic, to be studied with other interesting phenomena by spectacled professors in quiet laboratories. it may, however, be remarked that sylvia had sometimes gazed, not without a twinge, upon the daughter of a village manufacturer whom she espied flashing through the lane on a black pony, and this young person symbolized all worldly grandeur to sylvia's adoring vision. sylvia knew the world chiefly from her reading,--miss alcott's and mrs. whitney's stories at first, and "st. nicholas" every month, on a certain day that found her meeting the postman far across the campus; and she had read all the "frank" books,--the prized possessions of a neighbor's boy,--from the maine woods through the gunboat and prairie exploits of that delectable hero. at fourteen she had fallen upon scott and bulwer and had devoured them voraciously during the long vacation, in shady corners of the deserted campus; and she was now fixing dickens's characters ineffaceably in her mind by cruikshank's drawings. she was well grounded in latin and had a fair reading knowledge of french and german. it was true of sylvia, then and later, that poetry did not greatly interest her, and this had been attributed to her undoubted genius for mathematics. she was old for her age, people said, and the lane wondered what her grandfather meant to do with her. the finding of professor kelton proves to be, as sylvia had surmised, a simple matter. he is at work in a quiet alcove of the college library, a man just entering sixty, with white, close-trimmed hair and beard. the eyes he raises to his granddaughter are like hers, and there is a further resemblance in the dark skin. his face brightens and his eyes kindle as he clasps sylvia's slender, supple hand. "it must be a student--are you sure he isn't a student?" sylvia was confident of it. "very likely an agent, then. they're very clever about disguising themselves. i never see agents, you know, sylvia." sylvia declared her belief that the stranger was not an agent, and the professor glanced at his book reluctantly. "very well; i will see him. i wish you would run down these references for me, sylvia. don't trouble about those i have checked off. it can't be possible i am following a false clue. i'm sure i printed that article in the 'popular science monthly,' for i recall perfectly that john fiske wrote me a letter about it. come home when you have finished and we'll take our usual walk together." professor kelton had relinquished his chair in the college when sylvia came to live with him twelve years before the beginning of this history, and had shut himself away from the world; but no one knew why. sylvia was the child of his only daughter, of whom no one ever spoke, though the older members of the faculty had known her, as they had known also the professor's wife, now dead many years. professor kelton had changed with the coming of sylvia, so his old associates said; and their wives wondered that he should have undertaken the bringing-up of the child without other aid than that of the irishwoman who had cooked his meals and taken care of the house ever since mrs. kelton's death. he was still a special lecturer at madison, and he derived some income from the sale of his textbooks in mathematics, which he revised from time to time to bring them in touch with changing educational methods. he had given as his reason for resigning a wish to secure leisure for writing, and he was known to suffer severely at times from the wounds that had driven him from active naval service. but those who knew him best imagined that he bore in his breast deeper wounds than those of war. these old friends of the college circle wondered sometimes at the strange passing of his daughter and only child, who had vanished from their sight as a girl, never to return. they were men of quality, these teachers who had been identified with the college so long; they and their households were like a large family; and when younger men joined the faculty and inquired, or when their wives asked perfectly natural questions about professor kelton and sylvia, their inquiries were met by an evasion that definitely dismissed the matter. and out of this spirit, which marked all the social intercourse of the college folk, affection for professor kelton steadily increased, and its light fell upon sylvia abundantly. there was a particular smile for her into which much might be read; there was a tenderness manifested toward her which communicated itself to the students, who were proud to win her favor and were forever seeking little excuses for bandying words with her when they met. the tradition of professor kelton's scholarship had descended to sylvia amusingly. she had never attended school, but he had taught her systematically at home, and his interests were hers. the students attributed to her the most abstruse knowledge, and stories of her precocity were repeated proudly by the lane folk. many evenings spent with her grandfather at the observatory had not been wasted. she knew the paths of the stars as she knew the walks of the campus. dr. wandless, the president emeritus, addressed her always as "my lady of the constellations," and told her solemnly that from much peering through the telescope she had coaxed the stars into her own eyes. professor kelton and his granddaughter were thus fully identified with the college and its business, which was to impart knowledge,--an old-fashioned but not yet wholly neglected function at madison. she reckoned time by semesters; the campus had always been her playground; and the excitements of her life were those of a small and sober academic community. the darkest tragedies she had known had, indeed, been related to the life of the college,--the disciplining of the class of ' for publishing itself in numerals on the face of the court-house clock; the recurring conflicts between town and gown that shook the community every washington's birthday; the predatory habits of the greek professor's cow, that botanized freely in alien gardens and occasionally immured herself in professor kelton's lettuce frames; these and like heroic matters had marked the high latitudes of sylvia's life. in the long vacations, when most of the faculty sought the northern lakes, the keltons remained at home; and sylvia knew all the trees of the campus, and could tell you just what books she had read under particular maples or elms. andrew kelton was a mathematical scholar of high attainments. in the field of astronomy he had made important discoveries, and he carried on an extensive correspondence with observers of stellar phenomena in many far corners of the world. his name in the madison catalogue was followed by a bewildering line of cabalistic letters testifying to the honor in which other institutions of learning held him. wishing to devise for him a title that combined due recognition of both his naval exploits and his fine scholarship, the undergraduates called him "capordoc"; and it was part of a freshman's initiation to learn that at all times and in all places he was to stand and uncover when professor kelton passed by. professor kelton's occasional lectures in the college were a feature of the year, and were given in mills hall to accommodate the large audience of students and town folk that never failed to assemble every winter to hear him. for into discourses on astronomy he threw an immense amount of knowledge of all the sciences, and once every year, though no one ever knew when he would be moved to relate it, he told a thrilling story of how once, guided by the stars, he had run a confederate blockade in a waterlogged ironclad under a withering fire from the enemy's batteries. and when he had finished and the applause ceased, he glanced about with an air of surprise and said: "thank you, young gentlemen; it pleases me to find you so enthusiastic in your pursuit of knowledge. learn the stars and you won't get lost in strange waters. as we were saying--" it was because of still other stories which he never told or referred to, but which are written in the nation's history, that the students loved him; and it was for this that they gave him at every opportunity their lustiest cheer. the professor found the stranger sylvia had announced waiting for him at the cottage. the young man did not mention his own name but drew from his pocket a sealed letter. "is this professor andrew kelton? i am to give you this letter and wait for an answer." professor kelton sat down at his desk and slit the envelope. the letter covered only one page and he read slowly to the end. he then re-read the whole carefully, and placed the sheet on his desk and laid a weight upon it before he faced the messenger. he passed his hand across his forehead, stroked his beard, and said, speaking slowly,-- "you were to bring this letter and bear back an answer to the writer, but you were instructed not to discuss it in any way or disclose the name or the residence of the person who sent you. so much i learn from the letter itself." "yes, sir. i know nothing of the contents of the letter. i was told to deliver it and to carry back the answer." "very good, sir. you have fulfilled your mission. please note carefully what i say. the reply is _no_. there must be no mistake about that,--do you understand?" "i am to report that you answered 'no'." "that is correct, sir," replied professor kelton quietly. the young man rose, and the professor followed him to the door. "i thank you for your trouble; it has been a warm day, the warmest of the season. good-afternoon, sir." he watched the young fellow's prompt exit through the gate in the hedge to the lane and then returned to the library, where he re-read the letter. now that he was alone he relaxed somewhat; his manner expressed mingled trepidation and curiosity. the letter was type-written and was neither dated nor signed. he carried it to the window and held it against the sunlight, but there was not even a watermark by which it might be traced. nor was there anything in the few straightforward sentences that proved suggestive. the letter ran:-- your granddaughter has reached an age at which her maintenance and education require serious consideration. a friend who cannot be known in the matter wishes to provide a sum of money to be held and expended by you for her benefit. no obligations of any sort will be incurred by you in accepting this offer. it is hardly conceivable that you will decline it, though it is quite optional with you to do so. it will not, however, be repeated. kindly designate by a verbal "yes" or "no" to the bearer whether you accept or decline. the messenger is a stranger to the person making the offer and the contents of this communication are unknown to him. if you wish to avail yourself of this gift, the amount will be paid in cash immediately, and it is suggested that you refrain from mentioning the matter to your granddaughter in any way. professor kelton had given his answer to the messenger unhesitatingly, and the trouble reflected in his dark eyes was not due, we may assume, to any regret for his negative reply, but to the jangling of old, harsh chords of memory. he crossed and recrossed the room, lost in reverie; then paused at his desk and tore the letter once across with the evident intention of destroying it; but he hesitated, changed his mind, and carried it to his bedroom. there he took from a closet shelf a battered tin box marked "a. kelton, u.s.n." which contained his commissions in the navy. he sat down on the bed, folded the letter the long way of the sheet and indorsed it in pencil: "declined." then he slipped it under the faded tape that bound the official papers together, and locked and replaced the box. sylvia meanwhile had found the review article noted on her grandfather's memorandum, and leaving a receipt with the librarian started home with the book under her arm. halfway across the campus she met her grandfather's caller, hurrying townward. he lifted his hat, and sylvia paused a moment to ask if he had found her grandfather. "yes; thank you. my business didn't take much time, you see. i'm sorry i put you to so much bother." "oh, that was nothing." "is that new building the college library?" "yes," replied sylvia. "are you a madison man?" "no. i was never here before. i went to a very different college and"--he hesitated--"a little bigger one." "i suppose there are bigger colleges," sylvia remarked, with the slightest accent on the adjective. the young man laughed. "that's the right spirit! madison needs no praise from me; it speaks for itself. is this the nearest way to the station?" it had been on sylvia's tongue to ask him the name of his college, but he had perhaps read this inquiry in her eyes, and as though suddenly roused by the remembrance of the secrecy that had been imposed upon him, he moved on. "yes, i understand," he called over his shoulder. "thank you, very much." he whistled softly to himself as he continued on his way, still glancing about alertly. the manner of the old professor in receiving the letter and the calmness with which he had given his reply minimized the importance of the transaction in the mind of the messenger. he was thinking of sylvia and smiling still at her implication that while there were larger colleges than madison there was none better. he turned to look again at the college buildings closely clasped by their strip of woodland. madison was not a college to sneer at; he had scanned the bronze tablet on the library wall that published the roll of her sons who had served in the civil war. many of the names were written high in the state's history and for a moment they filled the young man's mind. as she neared home sylvia met her friend dr. wandless, the former president, who always had his joke with her. "hail, lady of the constellations! you have been looting the library, i see. hast thou named the stars without a gun?" "that isn't right," protested sylvia. "you're purposely misquoting. you've only spoiled emerson's line about the birds." "bless me, i believe that's so!" laughed the old gentleman. "but tell me, sylvia: 'canst thou bind the sweet influences of pleiades, or loose the bands of orion? canst thou bring forth mazzaroth in his season? or guide arcturus with his sons?'" sylvia, with brightening eyes and a smile on her lips, answered:-- "knowest thou the ordinances of heaven? canst thou set the dominion thereof in the earth?" "ah, if only i could, sylvia!" said the old minister, smiling gravely. they came in high spirits to the parting of their ways and sylvia kept on through the hedge to her grandfather's cottage. the minister turned once, a venerable figure with snowy beard and hair, and beat the path softly with his stick and glanced back, as sylvia's red ribbon bobbed through the greenery. "'whose daughter art thou?'" he murmured gently. then, glancing furtively about, he increased his gait as though to escape from his own thoughts; but the question asked of bethuel's daughter by abraham's servant came again to his lips, and he shook his head as he repeated:-- "whose daughter art thou?" chapter ii sylvia goes visiting "how old did you say you were, sylvia?" "i'm sixteen in october, grandpa," answered sylvia. "is it possible!" murmured the professor. "and to think that you've never been to school." "why, i've been going to school every day, almost, ever since i can remember. and haven't i had the finest teacher in the world, all to myself?" his face brightened responsive to her laugh. this was at the tea-table--for the keltons dined at noon in conformity with local custom--nearly a week after the unsigned letter had been delivered to andrew kelton by the unknown messenger. sylvia and her grandfather had just returned from a walk, prolonged into the cool dusk. they sat at the square walnut table, where they had so long faced each other three times a day. sylvia had never doubted that their lives would go on forever in just this way,--that they would always be, as her grandfather liked to put it, "shipmates," walking together, studying together, sitting as they sat now, at their simple meals, with just the same quaintly flowered dishes, the same oddly turned teapot, with its attendant cream pitcher (slightly cracked as to lip) and the sugar-bowl, with a laboring ship depicted in blue on its curved side, which was not related, even by the most remote cousinship, to anything else in the pantry. professor kelton was unwontedly preoccupied to-night. sylvia saw that he had barely touched his strawberries--their first of the season, though they were fine ones and the cream was the thickest. she folded her hands on the edge of the table and watched him gravely in the light of the four candles whose flame flared in the breeze that swept softly through the dining-room windows. feeling her eyes upon him the old gentleman suddenly roused himself. "we've had good times, haven't we, sylvia? and i wonder if i have really taught you anything. i suppose i ought to have been sending you to school with the other youngsters about here, but the fact is that i never saw a time when i wanted to part with you! you've been a fine little shipmate, but you're not so little any more. sixteen your next birthday! if that's so it isn't best for us to go on this way. you must try your oar in deeper water. you've outgrown me--and i'm a dull old fellow at best. you must go where you will meet other girls, and deal with a variety of teachers,--not just one dingy old fellow like me. have you ever thought what kind of a school you'd like to go to?" "i don't believe i have; i don't know much about schools." "well, don't you think you'd like to get away from so much mathematics and learn things that will fit you to be entertaining and amusing? you know i've taught you a lot of things just to amuse myself and they can never be of the slightest use to you. i suppose you are the only girl of your age in america who can read the sextant and calculate latitude and longitude. but, bless me, what's the use?" "oh, if i could only--" "only what?" he encouraged her. he was greatly interested in getting her point of view, and it was perfectly clear that a great idea possessed her. "oh, if i could only go to college, that would be the finest thing in the world!" "you think that would be more interesting than boarding-school? if you go to college they may require greek and you don't even know what the letters look like!" "oh, yes, i know a little about it!" "i think not, sylvia. how could you?" "oh, the letters were so queer, i learned them just for fun out of an old textbook i found on the campus one day. nobody ever came to claim it, so i read it all through and learned all the declensions and vocabularies, though i only guessed at the pronunciation." professor kelton was greatly amused. "you tackled greek just for fun, did you?" he laughed; then, after a moment's absorption: "i'm going to indianapolis to-morrow and i'll take you with me, if you care to go along. in fact, i've written to mrs. owen that we're coming, and i've kept this as a little surprise for you." so, after an early breakfast the next morning, they were off for the station in one of those disreputable, shaky village hacks that dr. wandless always called "dark icarian birds," with their two bags piled on the seat before them. on the few railway journeys sylvia remembered, she had been carried on half-fare tickets, an ignominy which she recalled with shame. to-day she was a full-grown passenger with a seat to herself, her grandfather being engaged through nearly the whole of their hour's swift journey in a political discussion with a lawyer who was one of the college trustees. "i told mrs. owen not to meet us; it's a nuisance having to meet people," said the professor when they had reached the city. "but she always sends a carriage when she expects me." as they stepped out upon the street a station wagon driven by an old negro appeared promptly at the curb. "mawnin', cap'n; mawnin'! yo' just on time. mis' sally tole me to kerry you all right up to the haouse. yes, seh." sylvia did not know, what later historians may be interested to learn from these pages, that the station wagon, drawn by a single horse, was for years the commonest vehicle known to the people of the hoosier capital. the panic of had hit the town so hard, the community's punishment for its sins of inflation had been so drastic, that it had accepted meekly the rebuke implied in its designation as a one-horse town. in came another shock to confidence, and in , still another earthquake, as though the knees of the proud must at intervals be humbled. the one-horse station wagon continued to symbolize the quiet domesticity of the citizens of the hoosier capital: women of unimpeachable social standing carried their own baskets through the aisles of the city market or drove home with onion tops waving triumphantly on the seat beside them. we had not yet hitched our wagon to a gasoline tank, but traffic regulations were enforced by cruel policemen, to the terror of women long given to leisurely manoeuvres on the wrong side of our busiest thoroughfares. the driving of cattle through washington street did not cease until , when cobbles yielded to asphalt. it was in that same year that benjamin harrison was chosen to the seat of the presidents. what hallowed niches now enshrine the general's fence, utterly disintegrated and appropriated, during that bannered and vociferous summer, by pious pilgrims! down the busy meridional avenue that opened before sylvia as they drove uptown loomed the tall shaft of the soldiers' monument, and they were soon swinging round the encompassing plaza. professor kelton explained that the monument filled a space once called circle park, where the governor's mansion had stood in old times. in her hurried glimpses sylvia was unable to account for the lack of sociability among the distinguished gentlemen posed in bronze around the circular thoroughfare; and she thought it odd that william henry harrison wore so much better clothes than george rogers clark, who was immortalized for her especial pleasure in the very act of delivering the wabash from the british yoke. "i wonder whether mrs. owen will like me?" said sylvia a little plaintively, the least bit homesick as they turned into delaware street. "of course she will like you!" laughed professor kelton, "though i will say that she doesn't like everybody by any manner of means. you mustn't be afraid of her; she gets on best with people who are not afraid to talk to her. she isn't like anybody you ever saw, or, i think, anybody you are ever likely to see again!" and the professor chuckled softly to himself. mrs. owen's big comfortable brick house stood in that broad part of delaware street where the maple arch rises highest, and it was surrounded by the smoothest of lawns, broken only by a stone basin in whose centre posed the jolliest of cupids holding a green glass umbrella, over which a jet of water played in the most realistic rainstorm imaginable. another negro, not quite as venerable as the coachman, opened the door and took their bags. he explained that mrs. owen (he called her "mis' sally") had been obliged to attend a meeting of some board or other, but would return shortly. the guests' rooms were ready and he at once led the way upstairs, where a white maid met them. professor kelton explained that he must go down into the city on some errands, but that he would be back shortly, and sylvia was thus left to her own devices. it was like a story book to arrive at a strange house and be carried off to a beautiful room, with a window-seat from which one could look down into the most charming of gardens. she opened her bag and disposed her few belongings and was exploring the bathroom wonderingly (for the bath at home was an affair of a tin tub to which water was carried by hand) when a maid appeared with a glass of lemonade and a plate of cakes. it was while she munched her cakes and sipped the cool lemonade in the window-seat with an elm's branches so close that she could touch them, and wondered how near to this room her grandfather had been lodged, and what the mistress of the house was like, that mrs. owen appeared, after the lightest tap on the high walnut door. throughout her life sylvia will remember that moment when she first measured mrs. owen's fine height and was aware of her quick, eager entrance; but above all else the serious gray eyes that were so alive with kindness were the chief item of sylvia's inventory. "i thought you were older,--or younger! i didn't know you would be just like this! i didn't know just when you were coming or i should have tried to be at home--but there was a meeting,--there are so many things, child!" mrs. owen did not sigh at the thought of her burdens, but smiled quite cheerfully as though the fact of the world's being a busy place was wholly agreeable. she sat down beside sylvia in the window-seat and took one of the cakes and nibbled it while they talked. sylvia had never been so wholly at ease in her life. it was as though she had been launched into the midst of an old friendship, and she felt that she had conferred the greatest possible favor in consenting to visit this house, for was not this dear old lady saying,-- "you see, i'm lonesome sometimes and i almost kidnap people to get them to visit me. i'm a terribly practical old woman. if you haven't heard it i must tell you the truth--i'm a farmer! and i don't let anybody run my business. other widows have to take what the lawyers give them; but while i can tell oats from corn and horses from pigs i'm going to handle my own money. we women are a lot of geese, i tell you, child! i'm treasurer of a lot of things women run, and i can see a deficit through a brick wall as quick as any man on earth. don't you ever let any man vote any proxy for you--you tell 'em you'll attend the stockholders' meetings yourself, and when you go, kick!" sylvia had not the faintest notion of what proxy meant, but she was sure it must be something both interesting and important or mrs. owen would not feel so strongly about it. "when i was your age," mrs. owen continued, "girls weren't allowed to learn anything but embroidery and housekeeping. but my father had some sense. he was a kentucky farmer and raised horses and mules. i never knew anything about music, for i wouldn't learn; but i own a stock farm near lexington, and just between ourselves i don't lose any money on it. and most that i know about men i learned from mules; there's nothing in the world so interesting as a mule." when professor kelton had declared to sylvia on the way from the station that mrs. owen was unlike any other woman in the world, sylvia had not thought very much about it. to be sure sylvia's knowledge of the world was the meagrest, but certainly she could never have imagined any woman as remarkable as mrs. owen. the idea that a mule, instead of being a dull beast of burden, had really an educational value struck her as decidedly novel, and she did not know just what to make of it. mrs. owen readjusted the pillow at her back, and went on spiritedly:-- "your grandpa has often spoken of you, and it's mighty nice to have you here. you see a good many of us hoosiers are kentucky people, and your grandpa's father was. i remember perfectly well when your grandpa went to the naval academy; and we were all mighty proud of him in the war." mrs. owen's white hair was beautifully soft and wavy, and she wore it in the prevailing manner. her eyes narrowed occasionally with an effect of sudden dreaminess, and these momentary reveries seemed to the adoring sylvia wholly fascinating. she spoke incisively and her voice was deep and resonant. she was exceedingly thin and wiry, and her movements were quick and nervous. hearing the whirr of a lawn-mower in the yard she drew a pair of spectacles from a case she produced from an incredibly deep pocket, put them on, and criticized the black man below sharply for his manner of running the machine. this done, the spectacles went back to the case and the case to the pocket. in our capital a woman in a kimono may still admonish her servants from a second-story window without loss of dignity, and gentlemen holding high place in dignified callings may sprinkle their own lawns in the cool of the evening if they find delight in that cheering diversion. joy in the simple life dies in us slowly. the galloping time-spirit will run us down eventually, but on sundays that are not too hot or too cold one may even to-day count a handsome total of bank balances represented in our churches, so strong is habit in a people bred to righteousness. "you needn't be afraid of me; my bark is worse than my bite; you have to talk just that way to these black people. they've all worked for me for years and they don't any of 'em pay the slightest attention to what i say. but," she concluded, "they'd be a lot worse if i didn't say it." we reckon time in our capital not from fires or floods or even _anno urbis conditæ_, but from seemingly minor incidents that have nevertheless marked new eras and changed the channels of history. precedents sustain us in this. a startled goose rousing the sleeping sentinels on the ramparts; a dull peasant sending an army in the wrong direction; the mischievous phrase uttered by an inconspicuous minister of the gospel to a few auditors,--such unconsidered trifles play havoc with fame's calculations. and so in our calendar the disbanding of the volunteer fire department in looms gloomily above the highest altitudes of the strenuous sixties; the fact that billy sanderson, after his father's failure in , became a brakeman on the j.m. & i. railroad and invested his first month's salary in a silver-mounted lantern, is more luminous in the retrospect than the panic itself; the coming of a lady with a lorgnette in (the scion of one of our ancient houses married her in ohio) overshadows even the passing of beecher's church; and the three-days' sojourn of henry james in shattered all records and established a new orientation for our people. it was sally owen who said, when certain citizens declared that mr. james was inaudible, that many heard him perfectly that night in the propylæum who had always thought balzac the name of a tooth-powder. mrs. owen's family, the singletons, had crossed the ohio into hoosier territory along in the fifties, in time for sally to have been a student--not the demurest from all accounts--at indiana female college. where stood the college the board of trade has lately planted itself, frowning down upon christ church, whose admirable gothic spire chimed for union victories in the sixties (there's a story about that, too!) and still pleads with the ungodly on those days of the week appointed by the book of common prayer for offices to be said or sung. mrs. jackson owen was at this time sixty years old, and she had been a widow for thirty years. the old citizens who remembered jackson owen always spoke of him with a smile. he held an undisputed record of having been defeated for more offices than any other hoosier of his time. his chief assets when he died were a number of farms, plastered with mortgages, scattered over the commonwealth in inaccessible localities. his wife, left a widow with a daughter who died at fourteen, addressed herself zealously to the task of paying the indebtedness with which the lamented jackson had encumbered his property. she had made a point of clinging to all the farms that had been so profitless under his direction, and so successfully had she managed them that they were all paying handsomely. a four-hundred-acre tract of the tallest corn i ever saw was once pointed out to me in greene county and this plantation, it was explained, had been a worthless bog before mrs. owen "tiled" it; and later i saw stalks of this corn displayed in the rooms of the agricultural society to illustrate what intelligent farming can do. at the state fair every fall it was taken as a matter of course that "s. owen" (such was her business designation) should win more red ribbons than any other exhibitor either of cereals or live stock. there was nothing that sally owen did not know about feeding cattle, and a paper she once read before the short-horn breeders' association is a classic on this important subject. mrs. owen still retained the active control of her affairs, though she had gradually given over to a superintendent much of the work long done by herself; but woe unto him who ever tried to deceive her! she maintained an office on the ground floor of her house where she transacted business and kept inventories of every stick of wood, every bushel of corn, every litter of pigs to which she had ever been entitled. for years she had spent much time at her farms, particularly through the open months of the year when farm tasks are most urgent; but as her indulgence in masculine pursuits had not abated her womanly fastidiousness, she carried with her in all her journeys a negro woman whose business it was to cook for her mistress and otherwise care for her comfort. she had acquired the farm in kentucky to continue her ties with the state of her birth, but this sentimental consideration did not deter her from making the lexington farm pay; sally owen made everything pay! her southern ancestry was manifest in nothing more strikingly than in her treatment of the blacks she had always had about her. she called them niggers--as only a southerner may, and they called her "mis' sally" and were her most devoted and obedient servants. much of this sylvia was to learn later; but just now, as mrs. owen sat in the cool window-seat, it was enough for sylvia to be there, in the company of the first woman--so it seemed to her--she had ever known, except irish mary at home. the wives of the professors in buckeye lane were not like this; no one was ever like this, she was sure! "we shall be having luncheon at half-past twelve, and my grandniece marian will be here. marian is the daughter of my niece, mrs. morton bassett, who lives at fraserville. marian comes to town pretty often and i've asked her down to-day particularly to meet you." "i'm sure that is very kind," murmured sylvia, though she would have been perfectly happy if just she and her grandfather had been left alone with mrs. owen. "there's the bell; that must be marian now," said mrs. owen a moment later, and vanished in her quick fashion. then the door opened again instantly and she returned to the room smiling. "what _is_ your name, dear?" mrs. owen demanded. "how very stupid of me not to have asked before! your grandpa in speaking of you always says my granddaughter, and that doesn't tell anything, does it?" "my name is sylvia--sylvia garrison." "and that's a very nice name," said mrs. owen, looking at her fixedly with her fine gray eyes. "you're the first sylvia i have ever known. i'm just plain sally!" then she seized sylvia's hands and drew her close and kissed her. as sylvia had brought but one white gown, she decided that the blue serge skirt and linen shirt-waist in which she had traveled would do for luncheon. she put on a fresh collar and knotted a black scarf under it and went downstairs. she ran down quickly, to have the meeting with the strange niece over as quickly as possible. mrs. owen was not in sight, and her grandfather had not returned from town; but as sylvia paused a moment at the door of the spacious high-ceilinged drawing-room she saw a golden head bent over a music rack by the piano. sylvia stood on the threshold an instant, shy and uncertain as to how she should make herself known. the sun flooding the windows glinted on the bright hair of the girl at the piano; she was very fair, and her features were clear-cut and regular. there was no sound in the room but the crisp rustle of the leaves of music as the girl tossed them about. then as she flung aside the last sheet with an exclamation of disappointment, sylvia made herself known. "i'm sylvia garrison," she said, advancing. they gravely inspected each other for a moment; then marian put out her hand. "i'm marian bassett. aunt sally told me you were coming." marian seated herself with the greatest composure and sylvia noted her white lawn gown and white half-shoes, and the bow of white ribbon at the back of her head. sylvia, in her blue serge, black ribbons, and high shoes, felt the superiority of this radiant being. marian took charge of the conversation. "i suppose you like to visit; i love it. i've visited a lot, and i'm always coming to aunt sally's. i'm in miss waring's school, here in this city, so i come to spend sundays with aunt sally very often. mama is always coming to town to see how i'm getting on. she's terribly ambitious for me, but i hate school, and i simply _cannot_ learn french. miss waring is terribly severe; she says it's merely a lack of application in my case; that i _could_ learn but won't. when mama comes she takes me to luncheon at the whitcomb and sometimes to the matinée. we saw john drew last winter: he's simply perfect--so refined and gentlemanly; and i've seen julia marlowe twice; she's my favorite actress. mama says that if i just will read novels i ought to read good ones, and she gave me a set of thackeray for my own; but you can skip a whole lot in him, i'm here to state! one of our best critics has said (mama's always saying that) that the best readers are those who know how to skip, and i'm a good skipper. i always want to know how it's going to come out. if they can't live happy forever afterward i want them to part beautifully, with soft music playing; and _he_ must go away and leave _her_ holding a rose as a pledge that _he_ will never forget." when marian paused there was a silence as sylvia tried to pick out of this long speech something to which she could respond. marian was astonishingly wise; sylvia felt herself immeasurably younger, and she was appalled by her own ignorance before this child who had touched so many sides of life and who recounted her experiences so calmly and lightly. "this is the first time i ever visited," sylvia confessed. "i live with my grandfather kelton, right by madison college, that's at montgomery, you know. grandfather was a professor in the college, and still lectures there sometimes. i've never been to school--" "how on earth do you escape?" demanded marian. "it's not an escape," laughed sylvia; "you see grandfather, being a professor, began teaching me almost before i began remembering." "oh! but even that would be better than a boarding-school, where they make you study. it would be easy to tell your grandfather that you didn't want to do things." "i suppose it would," sylvia acknowledged; "but it's so nice to have him for a teacher that i shouldn't know just how to do it." this point of view did not interest marian, and she recurred to her own affairs. "i've been to europe. papa took us all last year. we went to paris and london. it was fine." "my grandfather was in the united states navy, before he began teaching at madison, so i know a good deal from him about europe." "blackford--he's my brother--is going to annapolis," said marian, thus reminded of her brother's aspirations. "at least he says he is, though he used to talk about west point. i hope he will go into the army. i should like to visit west point; it must be perfectly fascinating." "i suppose it is. i think i should like college." "not for me!" exclaimed marian. "i want to go to a convent in paris. i know a girl right here in indianapolis who did that, and it's perfectly fine and ever so romantic. to get into college you have to know algebra, don't you?" "yes; i think they require that," sylvia replied, on guard against a display of too much knowledge. "do you know algebra?" demanded marian. "sometimes i think i don't!" "well, there's no doubt about me! i'm sure i don't. it's perfectly horrid." the entrance of mrs. owen and the return of professor kelton terminated these confidences. the four were soon at the luncheon table, where the array of crystal and silver seemed magnificent to sylvia's unaccustomed eyes. she had supposed that luncheon meant some such simple meal as the suppers she had been used to at home; but it included fried chicken and cold ham, and there were several vegetables; and hot biscuits and hot corn bread; and it became necessary for sylvia to decline an endless succession of preserves and jellies. for dessert there were the most fragrant red raspberries conceivable, with golden sponge cake. the colored man who served the table seemed to enjoy himself immensely. he condescended to make suggestions as he moved about. "a little mo' of the cold ham, cap'n?" or, "i 'membah you like the sparrograss, mis' marian," he murmured. "the co'n bread's extra fine, mis'"--to sylvia. "the hossis is awdahed for three, mis' sally"--to mrs. owen. "you still have kentucky cooking, sally," remarked professor kelton, who had praised the corn bread. "i do, andrew," replied the old lady; "everybody knows that the best things in indiana came through kentucky. that includes you and me!" prompted by mrs. owen's friendly questioning, sylvia found herself talking. she felt that she was talking more than marian; but she was much less troubled by this than by marian's sophisticated manner of lifting her asparagus stalks with her fingers, while sylvia resorted to the fork. but sylvia comforted herself with the reflection that this was all in keeping with marian bassett's general superiority. marian conducted herself with the most mature air, and she made it quite necessary for professor kelton to defend the navy against her assertion that the army was much more useful to the country. the unhurried meal passed, and after they had returned to the drawing-room marian left to meet her mother at the dressmaker's and return with her to fraserville. "i hope to see you again," said marian, shaking hands with sylvia. "i hope so, too," sylvia replied. chapter iii a small dinner at mrs. owen's professor kelton announced that he had not finished his errands in town, and begged to be excused from the drive which mrs. owen had planned. "very well, andrew. then i shall take your sylvia for a longer drive than i should expect you to survive. we'll go out and see how the wheat looks." in this new environment sylvia was aware that despite his efforts to appear gay her grandfather was not himself. she was quite sure that he had not expected to spend the afternoon downtown, and she wondered what was troubling him. the novelty of the drive, however, quickly won her to the best of spirits. mrs. owen appeared ready for this adventure with her tall figure wrapped in a linen "duster." her hat was a practical affair of straw, unadorned save by a black ribbon. as she drew on her gloves in the _porte-cochère_ the old coachman held the heads of two horses that were hitched to a smart road wagon. when her gloves had been adjusted, mrs. owen surveyed the horses critically. "lift pete's forefoot--the off one, joe," she commanded, stepping down into the asphalt court. "um,--that's just what i thought. that new blacksmith knows his business. that shoe's on straight. that other man never did know anything. all right, sylvia." mrs. owen explained as the trim sorrels stepped off smartly toward the north that they were estabrook stock and that she had raised them herself on her kentucky farm, which she declared sylvia must visit some day. it was very pleasant to be driving in this way under a high blue sky, beside a woman whose ways and interests were so unusual. the spirited team held mrs. owen's attention, but she never allowed the conversation to flag. several times as they crossed car lines it seemed to sylvia that they missed being struck only by perilously narrow margins. when they reached the creek they paused on the bridge to allow the sorrels to rest, and mrs. owen indicated with her whip the line of the new boulevard and recounted the history of the region. at the state fair grounds mrs. owen drove in, explaining that she wanted to see what they were doing to the track. sylvia noticed that the employees they passed grinned at mrs. owen as though she were a familiar acquaintance, and the superintendent came up and discussed horses and the track changes with mrs. owen in a strange vocabulary. he listened respectfully to what mrs. owen said and was impressed, sylvia thought, by her opinions. she referred to other tracks at lexington and louisville as though they were, of course, something that everybody knew about. the sun was hot, but mrs. owen did not seem to mind the heat a particle. the superintendent looked the sorrels over carefully; they had taken no end of ribbons at fairs and horse shows. here was a team, mrs. owen announced, that she was not afraid to show in madison square garden against any competitors in its class; and the superintendent admitted that the estabrooks were a fine stock. he nodded and kept repeating "you're right," or "you're mighty right," to everything the old lady said. it seemed to sylvia that nobody would be likely to question or gainsay any opinions mrs. owen might advance on the subject of horses. she glanced over her shoulder as they were driving back toward the gate and saw the superintendent looking after them. "he's watching the team, ain't he, sylvia? i thought i'd touch up his envy a little. that man," continued mrs. owen, "really knows a horse from an elephant. he's been trying to buy this team; but he hasn't bid up high enough yet. it tickles me to think that some of those rich fellows down in new york will pay me a good price when i send 'em down there to the show. they need working; you can't do much with horses in town; the asphalt plays smash with their feet. there's a good stretch of pike out here and i'll show you what this team can do." this promised demonstration was the least bit terrifying to sylvia. her knowledge of horses was the slightest, and in reading of horse races she had not imagined that there could be such a thrill in speeding along a stretch of good road behind a pair of registered roadsters, the flower of the estabrook stock, driven by so intrepid and skillful a whip as mrs. sally owen. "i guess that mile would worry the boys some," observed mrs. owen with satisfaction as she brought the team to a walk. this was wholly cryptic to sylvia, but she was glad that mrs. owen was not disappointed. as they loitered in a long shady lane mrs. owen made it possible for sylvia to talk of herself. sally owen was a wise woman, who was considered a little rough and peculiar by some of her townspeople, chiefly those later comers who did not understand the conditions of life that had made such a character possible; but none had ever questioned her kindness of heart. and in spite of her frank, direct way of speech she was not deficient in tact. sally owen had an active curiosity, but it was of the healthy sort that wastes no time on trifling matters. she was curious about sylvia, for sylvia was a little different from the young girls she knew. quite naturally she was comparing the slim, dark-eyed girl at her side with marian bassett. marian was altogether obvious; whereas mrs. owen felt the barriers of reserve in sylvia. sylvia embodied questions in the kelton family history that she could not answer, though she had known andrew kelton all his life, and remembered dimly his only daughter, who had unaccountably vanished. "where do you go to school, sylvia?" she asked. "i don't go to school,--not to a real school,--but grandfather teaches me; he has always taught me." "and you are now about--how old?" "sixteen in october. i've been talking to grandfather about going to college." "they do send girls to college nowadays, don't they! we're beginning to have some of these college women in our town here. i know some of 'em. let's see. what they say against colleges for women is that the girls who go there learn too much, so that men are afraid to marry 'em. i wonder how that is? but that's in favor of college, i think; don't you?" mrs. owen answered her own question with a laugh; and having opened the subject she went on to disclose her opinions further. "i guess i'm too old to be one of these new women we're hearing so much about. even farming's got to be a science, and it keeps me hustling to learn what the new words mean in the agricultural papers. i belong to a generation of women who know how to sew rag carpets and make quilts and stir soft soap in an iron kettle and darn socks; and i can still cure a ham better than any chicago factory does it," she added, raking a fly from the back of the "off" sorrel with a neat turn of the whip. "and i reckon i make 'em pay full price for my corn. well, well; so you're headed for college." "i hope so," said sylvia; "then after that i'm going to teach." "poor pay and hard work. i know lots of teachers; they're always having nervous prostration. but you look healthy." "oh, i'm strong enough," replied sylvia. "i think i should like teaching." "marian was at miss waring's school last winter and i couldn't see what she was interested in much but chasing to matinées. are you crazy about theatres?" "why, i've never been to one," sylvia confessed. "you're just as well off. actors ain't what they used to be. when you saw edwin booth in 'hamlet' or jefferson in 'rip,' you saw acting. i haven't been in any theatre since i saw jefferson in the 'rivals' the last time he came round. there used to be a stock company at the metropolitan about war-time that beat any of these new actor folks. i'd rather see a good circus any time than one of these singing pieces. sassafras tea and a circus every spring; i always take both." sylvia found these views on the drama wholly edifying. circuses and sassafras tea were within the range of her experience, and finding that she had struck a point of contact, mrs. owen expressed her pity for any child that did not enjoy a round of sassafras tea every spring. sassafras in the spring, and a few doses of quinine in the fall, to eliminate the summer's possible accumulation of malaria, were all the medicine that any good hoosier needed, mrs. owen averred. "i'm for all this new science, you understand that," mrs. owen continued. "a good deal of it does seem to me mighty funny, but when they tell me to boil drinking-water to kill the bugs in it, and show me pictures of the bugs they take with the microscope, i don't snort just because my grandfather didn't know about those things and lived to be eighty-two and then died from being kicked by a colt. i go into the kitchen and i say to eliza, 'bile the water, liza; bile it twice.' that's the kind of a new woman i am. but let's see; we were speaking of marian." "i liked her very much; she's very nice and ever so interesting," said sylvia. "bless you, she's nice enough and pretty enough; but about this college business. i always say that if it ain't in a colt the trainer can't put it there. my niece--that's mrs. bassett, marian's mother--wants marian to be an intellectual woman,--the kind that reads papers on the poets before literary clubs. mrs. bassett runs a woman's club in fraserville and she's one of the lights in the federation. they got me up to fraserville to speak to their club a few years ago. it's one of these solemn clubs women have; awful literary and never get nearer home than doctor johnson, who was nothing but a fat loafer anyhow. i told 'em they'd better let me off; but they would have it and so i went up and talked on ensilage. it was fall and i thought ensilage was seasonable and they ought to know about it if they didn't. and they didn't, all right." sylvia had been staring straight ahead across the backs of the team; she was conscious suddenly that mrs. owen was looking at her fixedly, with mirth kindling in her shrewd old eyes. sylvia had no idea what ensilage was, but she knew it must be something amusing or mrs. owen would not have laughed so heartily. "it was a good joke, wasn't it--talking to a literary club about silos. i told 'em i'd come back and read my little piece on 'winter feeding,' but they haven't called me yet." they had driven across to meridian street, and mrs. owen sent the horses into town at a comfortable trot. they traversed the new residential area characterized by larger grounds and a higher average of architecture. "that's edward thatcher's new house--the biggest one. they say it's easier to pay for a castle like that out here than it is to keep a cook so far away from washington street. i let go of ten acres right here in the eighties; we used to think the town would stop at the creek," mrs. owen explained, and then announced the dictum: "keep land; mortgage if you got to, but never sell; that's my motto." it was nearly six when they reached home, and dinner was appointed for seven. mrs. owen drove directly into the barn and gave minute instructions as to the rubbing-down and feeding of the horses. in addressing the negroes she imitated their own manner of speech. sylvia had noticed that mrs. owen did not always pronounce words in the same way, but such variations are marked among our southwestern people, particularly where, as in mrs. owen's case, they have lived on both sides of the ohio river. sometimes she said "hoss," unmistakably; and here, and again when she said "bile" for "boil," it was obviously with humorous intention. except in long speeches she did not drawl; at times she spoke rapidly, snapping off sentences abruptly. her fashion of referring to herself in the third person struck sylvia as most amusing. "look here, you joe, it's a nice way to treat yo' mis' sally, turning out that wagon with the dash all scratched. don' you think i'm blind and can't tell when you boys dig a broom into a varnished buggy! next time i catch yo' doing that i'll send you down to greene county to plow co'n and yo'll not go to any more fancy hoss shows with me." as she followed mrs. owen into the house sylvia thought she heard suppressed guffawing in the stable. mrs. owen must have heard it too. "a worthless lot," she muttered; "i'm going to clean 'em all out some day and try the irish"; but mrs. sally owen had often made this threat without having the slightest intention of carrying it into effect. professor kelton had just reached the house, and he seemed so hot and tired that sylvia was struck with pity for him. he insisted, however, that he was perfectly well, but admitted that his errands had proved to be more vexatious than he had expected. "what kind of a time have you been having?" he asked as they went upstairs together. "oh, the finest in the world! i'm sure i've learned a lot to-day--a great many things i never dreamed about before." "horses?" "i never knew before that there was anything to know about horses; but mrs. owen knows all about them. and that team we drove behind is wonderful; they move together perfectly and go like lightning when you want them to." "well, i'm glad you've enjoyed yourself. you'd better put on your white dress,--you brought one, didn't you? there will be company at dinner." "don't you scare that child about company, andrew," said mrs. owen, coming up behind them with the linen duster flung over her arm. "if you haven't any white dress, sylvia, that blue one's perfectly good and proper." she followed sylvia to her room, continuing to reassure her. she even shook out the gown, exclaiming, "well, well" (sylvia didn't know why), and went out abruptly, instructing sylvia to ring for the maid if she needed help. there were three other guests for dinner, and they were unlike any other people that sylvia had known. she was introduced first to admiral martin, a retired officer of the navy, who, having remained in the service of his country to the retiring age, had just come home to live in the capital of his native state. he was short and thick and talked in a deep, growling voice exactly as admirals should. the suns and winds of many seas had burned and scored his face, and a stubby mustache gave him a belligerent aspect. he mopped his brow with a tremendous handkerchief and when mrs. owen introduced sylvia as professor kelton's granddaughter he glared fiercely. "well, i declare, andy, your granddaughter; well, i declare." he held sylvia's hand a moment and peered into her face. "i remember your mother very well. andy, i recall distinctly that you and your wife were at old point in about the winter of ' and your daughter was with you. so this is your granddaughter? well, i declare; i wish she was mine." "i'm glad to see you, sylvia," said mrs. martin, a shy, white-haired little woman. "i remember that winter at old point. i was waiting for my husband there. you look like your mother. it's really a very striking resemblance. we were all so fond of edna." this was the first time that any one except her grandfather had ever spoken to sylvia of her mother, and the words of these strangers thrilled her strangely and caused the tears to shine suddenly in her eyes. it was all over in a moment, for mrs. martin, seeing sylvia's trembling lips, changed the subject quickly. the last guest was just entering,--a tall trapper-like man who crossed the room to mrs. owen with a long, curious stride. he had shaken hands with professor kelton, and mrs. owen introduced him to the martins, who by reason of their long absences had never met him before. "mr. ware, this is sylvia garrison," said mrs. owen. sylvia was given then as later to quick appraisements, and she liked the reverend john ware on the instant. he did not look or act or talk in the least like a minister. he was very dark, and his mustache was only faintly sprinkled with gray. his hair still showed black at a distance, though he was sixty-five. he had been, sometime earlier, the pastor of the first congregational church, but after a sojourn in other fields had retired to live among his old parishioners in the city which had loved him best. it had been said of him in the days of his pastorate that he drew the largest congregations and the smallest collections of any preacher the community had ever known. but ware was curiously unmindful of criticism. he had fished and hunted, he had preached charity and kindness, and when there was an unknown tramp to bury or some unfortunate girl had yielded to despair, he had officiated at the funeral, and, if need be, ridden to the cemetery on the hearse. "i'm mrs. owen's neighbor, you know," he explained to sylvia. "my family have gone for the summer; i'm hanging on here till my indian sends me a postal that the fishing is right on the nipigon. nothing like getting off the train somewhere and being met by an indian with a paddle on his shoulder. you can learn a lot from an indian." there were candles and flowers on the round table, and the dishes and silver were mrs. owen's "company best," which was very good indeed. the admiral and professor kelton sat at mrs. owen's right and left, and sylvia found herself between the minister and the admiral. the talk was at once brisk and general. the admiral's voice boomed out tremendously and when he laughed the glasses jingled. every one was in the best of spirits and sylvia was relieved to find that her grandfather was enjoying himself immensely. the admiral's jokes harked back to old times, when he and kelton were at the naval academy, or to their adventures in the war. it was odd to hear mrs. owen and the admiral calling her grandfather "andrew" and "andy"; no one else had ever done that; and both men addressed mrs. owen as "sally." at a moment when sylvia had begun to feel the least bit awkward at being the only silent member of the company, the minister spoke to her. he had seemed at first glance a stoical person; but his deep-set, brown eyes were bright with good humor. "these old sea dogs made a lot of history. i suppose you know a good deal about the sea from your grandfather." "yes; but i've never seen the sea." "i've crossed it once or twice and tramped england and scotland. i wanted to see burns's country and the house at chelsea where carlyle smoked his pipe. but i like our home folks best." "mr. ware," growled the admiral, "a man told me the other day that you'd served in the army. i wish i'd had a chaplain like you in the navy; i might have been a different man." mrs. owen glanced at ware with a twinkle in her eyes. "afraid i'm going to be discovered," he remarked to sylvia as he buttered a bit of bread. "well, what part of the army did you serve in?" demanded the admiral. "captain, fifth new york cavalry," replied the minister quietly, shrugging his shoulders. "captain! you were a fighting man?" the admiral boomed. "sort of one. we had a good deal of fun one way or another. four years of it. didn't begin fighting the devil till afterward. how are things at the college, doctor kelton?" ware thus characteristically turned the conversation from himself. it was evident that he did not care to discuss his military experiences; in a moment they were talking politics, in which he seemed greatly interested. "we've kept bosses out of this state pretty well," professor kelton was saying, "but i can see one or two gentlemen on both sides of the fence trying to play that game. i don't believe the people of indiana will submit to it. the bosses need big cities to prey on and we aren't big enough for them to work in and hide in. we all live in the open and we're mostly seasoned american stock who won't be driven like a lot of foreign cattle. this city isn't a country town any longer, but it's still american. i don't know of any boss here." "well, sally, how about mort bassett?" asked the admiral. "i hope you don't mind my speaking of him." "not in the slightest," mrs. owen replied. "the fact that morton bassett married my niece doesn't make it necessary for me to approve of all he does--and i don't. when i get a chance i give him the best licks i can. he's a democrat, but i'm not; neither am i a republican. they're all just as crooked as a dog's hind leg. i gave up when they beat tilden out of the presidency. why, if i'd been samuel tilden i'd have moved into the white house and dared 'em to throw me out. the democratic party never did have any gumption!" she concluded vigorously. "a sound idea, sally," grumbled the admiral, "but it's not new." "bassett isn't a bad fellow," remarked ware. "you can hardly call him a boss in the usual sense of the term." "personally, he's certainly very agreeable," said mrs. martin. "you remember, mrs. owen, i visited your niece the last time i was home and i never saw a man more devoted to his family than mr. bassett." "there's no complaint about that," mrs. owen assented. "and morton's a very intelligent man, too; you might even call him a student. i've been sorry that he didn't keep to the law; but he's a moneymaker, and he's in politics as a part of his business." "i've wondered," said professor kelton, "just what he's aiming at. most of these men are ambitious to go high. he's a state senator, but there's not much in that. he must see bigger game in the future. i don't know him myself; but from what you hear of him he must be a man of force. weak men don't dominate political parties." "this political game looks mighty queer to me," the admiral remarked. "i've never voted in my life, but i guess i'll try it now they've put me on the shelf. do you vote, mr. ware?" "oh, yes! i'm one of these sentimentalists who tries to vote for the best man. naturally no man i ever vote for is elected." "if i voted i should want to see the man first," mrs. owen averred. "i should ask him how much he expected to make out of the job." "you'd be a tartar in politics, sally," said the admiral. "the governor told me the other day that when he hears that you're coming to the state house to talk about the woman's reformatory,--or whatever it is you're trustee of,--he crawls under the table. he says they were going to cut down the reformatory's appropriation last winter, but that you went to the legislature and gave an example of lobbying that made the tough old railroad campaigners green with envy." "i reckon i did! i told the members of that committee that if they cut that appropriation i'd go into their counties and spend every cent i've got fighting 'em if they ever ran for office again. joshua, fill the glasses." sylvia was anxious to know the rest of the story. "i hope they gave you the money, mrs. owen," she said. did they give it to me? why, child, they raised it twenty thousand dollars! i had to hold 'em down. then morton bassett pulled it through the senate for me. i told him if he didn't i'd cut his acquaintance." "there's ed thatcher, too, if we're restricted to the democratic camp," the minister was saying. "thatcher has a fortune to use if he ever wants to try for something big in politics, which doesn't seem likely." "he has a family that can spend his money," said mrs. martin. "what would he want with an office anyway? the governorship would bore him to death." "it might tickle him to go to the senate, particularly if he had a score to clean up in connection with it," remarked ware. "just what do you mean by that?" asked the admiral. "well," ware replied, "he and bassett are as thick as thieves just now in business operations. if some day it came about that they didn't get on so well,--if bassett tried to drop him as they say he has sometimes dropped men when he didn't have any more use for them,--then thatcher's sporting blood might assert itself. i should be sorry for bassett if that time came." "edward thatcher knows a horse," interposed mrs. owen. "i like edward thatcher." "i've fished with bassett," said the minister. "a good fisherman ought to make a good politician; there's a lot, i guess, in knowing just how to bait the hook, or where to drop the fly, and how to play your fish. and bassett is a man of surprising tastes. he's a book collector,--rare editions and fine bindings and that sort of thing." "is it possible! the newspapers that abuse him never mention those things, of course," said mrs. martin. a brief restraint fell upon the company, as they realized suddenly that they were discussing the husband of their hostess's niece, whom the opposition press declared to be the most vicious character that had ever appeared in the public life of the state. the minister had spoken well of him; the others did not know him, or spoke cautiously; and mrs. owen herself seemed, during ware's last speech, to be a trifle restless. she addressed some irrelevant remark to the admiral as they rose and adjourned to the long side veranda where the men lighted cigars. "i think i like this corner best," remarked ware when the others had disposed themselves. "miss sylvia, won't you sit by me?" she watched his face as the match flamed to his cigar. it was deep-lined and rugged, with high cheek bones, that showed plainly when he shut his jaws. it occurred to sylvia that but for his mustache his face would have been almost typically indian. she had seen somewhere a photograph of a sioux chief whose austere countenance was very like the minister's. ware did not fit into any of her preconceived ideas of the clerical office. dr. wandless, the retired president of madison college, was a minister, and any one would have known it, for the fact was proclaimed by his dress and manner; he might, in the most casual meeting on the campus, have raised his hands in benediction without doing anything at all extraordinary. ware belonged to a strikingly different order, and sylvia did not understand him. he had been a soldier; and sylvia could not imagine dr. wandless in a cavalry charge. ware flung the match-stick away and settled himself comfortably into his chair. the others were talking amongst themselves of old times, and sylvia experienced a sense of ease and security in the minister's company. "those people across there are talking of the hoosiers that used to be, and about the good folks who came into the wilderness and made indiana a commonwealth. i'm a pilgrim and a stranger comparatively speaking. i'm not a hoosier; are you?" "no, mr. ware; i was born in new york city." "ho! i might have known there was some sort of tie between us. i was born in new york myself--'way up in the adirondack country. you've heard of old john brown? my father's farm was only an hour's march from brown's place. i used to see the old man, and it wasn't my fault i wasn't mixed up in some of his scrapes. father caught me and took me home--didn't see any reason why i should go off and get killed with a crazy man. didn't know brown was going to be immortal." "there must have been a good many people that didn't know it," sylvia responded. she hoped that ware would talk of himself and of the war; but in a moment his thoughts took a new direction. "stars are fine to-night. it's a comfort to know they're up there all the time. know matthew arnold's poems? he says 'with joy the stars perform their shining.' i like that. when i'm off camping the best fun of it is lying by running water at night and looking at the stars. odd, though, i never knew the names of many of them; wouldn't know any if it weren't for the dippers,--not sure of them as it is. there's the north star over there. suppose your grandfather knows 'em all." "i think he does," replied sylvia. "he still lectures about them sometimes." "wonder what that is, just across the farthest tip of that maple? it's familiar, but i can't name it." "that," said sylvia, "is cassiopeia." "so? how many constellations do you know?" sylvia was silent a moment. she was not sure that it was polite to disclose her knowledge of the subject to a man who had just confessed his ignorance. she decided that anything beyond the most modest admission would be unbecoming. "i know several, or i think i do. this is june. that's the north star over the point of that tree, as you said, and above it is ursa minor, and winding in and out between it and the big dipper is draco. then to the east, higher up, are cygnus, lyra, and aquila. and in the west--" she paused, feeling that she had satisfied the amenities of conversation with this gentleman who had so frankly stated his lack of knowledge. ware struck his knee with his hand and chuckled. "i should say you do know a few! you've mentioned some i've always wanted to get acquainted with. now go back to cygnus, the swan. i like the name of that one; i must be sure to remember it." politeness certainly demanded that sylvia should answer; and now that the minister plied her with questions, her own interest was aroused, and she led him back and forth across the starry lanes, describing in the most artless fashion her own method of remembering the names and positions of the constellations. as their range of vision on the veranda was circumscribed, ware suggested that they step down upon the lawn to get a wider sweep, a move which attracted the attention of the others. "sylvia, be careful of the wet. josephus just moved the sprinkler and that ground is soaked." "don't call attention to our feet; our heads are in the stars," answered ware. "i must tell the indian boys on the nipigon about this," he said to sylvia as they returned to the veranda. "i didn't know anybody knew as much as you do. you make me ashamed of myself." "you needn't be," laughed sylvia. "very likely most that i've told you is wrong. i'm glad grandfather didn't hear me." the admiral and professor kelton were launched upon a fresh exchange of reminiscences and the return of ware and sylvia did not disturb them. it seemed, however, that ware was a famous story-teller, and when he had lighted a fresh cigar he recounted a number of adventures, speaking in his habitual, dry, matter-of-fact tone, and with curious unexpected turns of phrase. conversation in indiana seems to drift into story-telling inevitably. john ware once read a paper before the indianapolis literary club to prove that this hoosier trait was derived from the south. he drew a species of ellipsoid of which the ohio river was the axis, sketching his line to include the missouri of mark twain, the illinois of lincoln, the indiana of eggleston and riley, and the kentucky that so generously endowed these younger commonwealths. north of the ohio the anecdotal genius diminished, he declared, as one moved toward the great lakes into a region where there had been an infusion of population from new england and the middle states. he suggested that the early pioneers, having few books and no newspapers, had cultivated the art of story-telling for their own entertainment and that the soldiers returning from the civil war had developed it further. having made this note of his thesis i hasten to run away from it. let others, prone to interminable debate, tear it to pieces if they must. this kind of social intercourse, with its intimate talk, the references to famous public characters, as though they were only human beings after all, the anecdotal interchange, was wholly novel to sylvia. she thought ware's stories much droller than the admiral's, and quite as good as her grandfather's, which was a great concession. the minister was beginning a new story. he knocked the ashes from his cigar and threw out his arms with one of his odd, jerky gestures. "there's a good deal of fun in living in the woods. up in the adirondacks there was a lot for the boys to do when i was a youngster. i liked winter better than summer; school was in winter, but when you had the fun of fighting big drifts to get to it you didn't mind getting licked after you got there. the silence of night in the woods, when the snow is deep, the wind still, and the moon at full, is the solemnest thing in the world. not really of this world, i guess. sometimes you can hear a bough break under the weight of snow, with a report like a cannon. the only thing finer than winter is spring. i don't mean lilac time; but before that, the very earliest hint of the break-up. used to seem that there was something wild in me that wanted to be on the march before there was a bud in sight. i'm a northern animal some way; born in december; always feel better in winter. i used to watch for the northward flight of the game fowl--wanted to go with the birds. too bad they're killing them all off. wild geese are getting mighty scarce; geese always interested me. i once shot a gander in a kankakee marsh that had an eskimo arrow in its breast. a friend of mine, distinguished ethnologist, verified that; said he knew the tribe that made arrows of that pattern. but i was going to say that one night,--must have been when i was fourteen,--i had some fun with a bear . . ." sylvia did not hear the rest of the story. she had been sitting in the shadow of the porch, with her lips apart, listening, wondering, during this prelude. ware's references to the north woods had touched lightly some dim memory of her own; somewhere she had seen moon-flooded, snowy woodlands where silence lay upon the world as soft as moonlight itself. the picture drawn by the minister had been vivid enough; for a moment her own memory of a similar winter landscape seemed equally clear; but she realized with impatience that it faded quickly and became dim and illusory, like a scene in an ill-lighted steropticon. to-night she felt that a barrier lay between her and those years of her life that antedated her coming to her grandfather's house by the college. it troubled her, as such mirages of memory trouble all of us; but ware finished his story, and amid the laughter that followed mrs. martin rose. "late hours, sylvia," said professor kelton when they were alone. "it's nearly eleven o'clock and time to turn in." chapter iv we learn more of sylvia andrew kelton put out his hand to say good-night a moment after sylvia had vanished. "sit down, andrew," said mrs. owen. "it's too early to go to bed. that draft's not good for the back of your head. sit over here." he had relaxed after the departure of the dinner guests and looked tired and discouraged. mrs. owen brought a bottle of whiskey and a pitcher of water and placed them near his elbow. "try it, andrew. i usually take a thimbleful myself before going to bed." the novelty of this sort of ministration was in itself sufficient to lift a weary and discouraged spirit. mrs. owen measured his whiskey, and poured it into a tall glass, explaining as she did so that a friend of hers in louisville kept her supplied out of the stores of the pendennis club. "it's off the wood. this bottled drug-store whiskey is poison. i'd just as lief take paregoric. i drew this from my own 'bar'l' this morning. don't imagine i'm a heavy consumer. a 'bar'l' lasts me a long time. i divide it around among my friends. remind me to give you some to take home. try one of those cigars; john ware keeps a box here. if they're cabbage leaf it isn't my fault." "no, thanks, sally. you're altogether too kind to me. it's mighty good to be here, i can tell you." "now that you are here, andrew, i want you to remember that i'm getting on and you're just a trifle ahead of me on the dusty pike that has no turning." "i wish i had your eternal youth, sally. i feel about ninety-nine to-night." "that's the reason i'm keeping you up. you came here to talk about something that's on your mind, and the sooner it's over the better. no use in your lying awake all night." professor kelton played with his glass and moved uneasily in his chair. "come right out with it, andrew. if it's money that worries you, don't waste any time explaining how it happened; just tell me how much. i had my bank book balanced yesterday and i've got exactly twelve thousand four hundred and eighteen dollars and eleven cents down at tom adams's bank. if you can use it you're welcome; if it ain't enough i'm about to sell a bunch o' colts i've got on my lexington place and they're good for six thousand more. i can close the trade by a night telegram right now." kelton laughed. the sums she named so lightly represented wealth beyond the dreams of avarice. it afforded him infinite relief to be able to talk to her, and though he had come to the city for the purpose, his adventures of the day with banks and trust companies had given a new direction to his needs. but the habit of secrecy, of fighting out his battles alone, was so thoroughly established that he found it difficult to enter into confidences even when this kind-hearted friend made the way easy for him. "come, out with it, andrew. you're the only person i know who's never come to me with troubles. i'd begun to think you were among the lucky ones who never have any or else you were afraid of me." "it's not fair to trouble you about this, but i'm in a corner where i need help. when i asked you to let me bring sylvia here i merely wanted you to look her over. she's got to an age where i can't trust my judgment about her. i had a plan for her that i thought i could put through without much trouble, but i found out to-day that it isn't so easy. i wanted to send her to college." "you want to send her to college and you thought you would come over and let me give her a little motherly counsel while you borrowed the money of tom adams to pay her college bills. is that what's happened?" "just about that, sally. adams is all right; he has to protect the bank." "adams is a doddering imbecile. how much did you ask him for?" "five thousand dollars. i offered to put up my life insurance policy for that amount and some stock i own. he said money was tight just now and they'd want a good name on the paper besides the collateral, and that i'd better try my home bank. i didn't do that, of course, because montgomery is a small town and--well, i'd rather not advertise my affairs to a whole community. i'm not a business man and these things all seem terribly complicated and embarrassing to me." "but you tried other places besides adams? i saw it in your eye when you came home this evening that you had struck a snag. well, well! so money is tight, is it? i must speak to tom adams about that. he told me yesterday they had more money than they could lend and that the banks were cutting down their dividends. he's no banker; he ought to be in the old-clothes business." "i can't blame him. i suppose my not being in business, and not living here, makes a difference." "rubbish! but you ought to have come to me. you spoke of stock; what's that in?" "shares in the white river canneries. i put all i had in that company. everybody seemed to make money in the canning business and i thought it would be a good investment. it promised well in the prospectus." "it always does, andrew," replied the old lady dryly. "let me see, morton bassett was in that." "i believe so. he was one of the organizers." "um." "adams told me to-day there had been a reorganization and that my shares were valueless." "well, well. so you were one of the suckers that put money into that canning scheme. you can charge it off, andrew. let's drop the money question for a minute, i want to talk about the little girl." "yes i'm anxious to know what you think of her" "well, she's a kelton; it's in the eyes; but there's a good deal of her grandmother evans in her, too. let me see,--your wife was one of those posey county evanses? i remember perfectly. the old original evans came to this country with robert owen and started in with the new harmony community down there. there was a streak o' genius in that whole set. but about sylvia. i don't think i ever saw sylvia's mother after she was sylvia's age." "i don't think you did. she was away at school a good many years. sylvia is the picture of her mother. it's a striking likeness; but their natures are wholly different." he was very grave, and the despondency that he had begun to throw off settled upon him again. "andrew, who was sylvia's father? i never asked you that question before, and maybe i oughtn't to ask it now; but i've often wondered. let me see, what was your daughter's name?" "edna." "just what happened to edna, andrew?" she persisted. kelton rose and paced the floor. thrice he crossed the room; then he flung himself down on the davenport beside mrs. owen. "i don't know, sally; i don't know! she was high-spirited as a girl, a little willful and impulsive, but with the best heart in the world. she lost her mother too soon; and in her girlhood we had no home--not even the half-homes possible to naval officers. she had a good natural voice and wanted to study music, so after we had been settled at madison college a year i left her in new york with a woman i knew pretty well--the widow of a brother officer. it was a horrible, terrible, hideous mistake. the life of the city went to her head. she wanted to fit herself for the stage and they told me she could do it--had the gift and all that. i ought never to have left her down there, but what could i do? there was nothing in a town like montgomery for her; she wouldn't listen to it." "you did your best, andrew; you don't have to prove that to me. well--" "edna ran off--without giving me any hint of what was coming. it was a queer business. the woman i had counted on to look out for her and protect her seemed utterly astonished at her disappearance and was helpless about the whole matter when i went down there. it was my fault--all my fault!" he rose and flung up his arms with a gesture of passionate despair. "sit down, andrew, and let's go through with it," she said calmly. "i reckon these things are hard, but it's better for you to tell me. you can't tell everybody and somebody ought to know. for the sake of the little girl upstairs you'd better tell me." "what i've said to you i've never said to a soul," he went on. "i've carried this thing all these years and have never mentioned it. my friends at the college are the noblest people on earth; they have never asked questions, but they must have wondered." "yes; and i've wondered, too, since the first time you came here and told me you had brought your daughter's child home. it's perfectly natural, andrew, for folks to wonder. go on and tell me the rest." "the rest!" he cried. "oh, that's the hardest part of it! i have told you all i know! she wrote me after a time that she was married and was happy, but she didn't explain her conduct in any way. she signed herself garrison, but begged me not to try to find her. she said her husband wasn't quite prepared to disclose his marriage to his family, but that it would all be right soon. the woman with whom i had left her couldn't help me to identify him in any way; at least she didn't help me. there had been a number of young men boarding in the neighborhood--medical and law students; but there was no garrison among them. it was in june that this happened, and when i went down to try to trace her they had all gone. i was never quite sure whether the woman dealt squarely with me or not. but it was my fault, sally; i want you to know that i have no excuse to offer. i don't want you to try to say anything that would make my lot easier." it was not sally owen's way to extenuate errors of commission or omission. her mental processes were always singularly direct. "are you sure she was married; did you find any proof of it?" she asked bluntly. he was silent for a moment before he met her eyes. "i have no proof of it. all i have is edna's assurance in a letter." their gaze held while they read each other's thoughts. she made no comment; there was nothing to say to this, nor did she show surprise or repugnance at the dark shadow his answer had flung across the meagre picture. "and garrison--who was he?" "i don't know even that! from all i could learn i think it likely he was a student in one of the professional schools; but whether law or medicine, art or music--i couldn't determine. the whole colony of students had scattered to the four winds. probably garrison was not his real name; but that is wholly an assumption." "it's clear enough that whoever the man was, and whether it was straight or not, edna felt bound to shield him. that's just like us fool women. how did sylvia come to your hands?" "there was nothing in that to help. about four years had passed since i lost track of her and i had traveled all over the east and followed every clue in vain. i spent two summers in new york walking the streets in the blind hope that i might meet her. then, one day,--this was twelve years ago,--i had a telegram from the superintendent of a public hospital at utica that edna was there very ill. she died before i got there. just how she came to be in that particular place i have no idea. the hospital authorities knew nothing except that she had gone to them, apparently from the train, seriously ill. the little girl was with her. she asked them to send for me, but told them nothing of herself. she had only hand baggage and it told us nothing as to her home if she had one, or where she was going. her clothing, the nurse pointed out, was of a style several years old, but it was clean and neat. most surprising of all, she had with her several hundred dollars; but there was nothing whatever by which to reconstruct her life in those blank years." "but she wrote to you--the letters would have given a clue of some kind?" "the few letters she wrote me were the most fragmentary and all in the first year; they were like her, poor child; her letters were always the merest scraps. in all of them she said she would come home in due course; that some of her husband's affairs had to be straightened out first, and that she was perfectly happy. they were traveling about, she said, and she asked me not to try to write to her. the first letters came from canada--montreal and quebec; then one from albany; then even these messages ceased and i heard no more until the telegram called me to utica. she had never mentioned the birth of the child. i don't know--i don't even know where sylvia was born, or her exact age. the nurse at the hospital said edna called the child sylvia." "i overheard sylvia telling ware to-night that she was born in new york. could it be possible--" "no; she knows nothing. you must remember that she was only three. when she began to ask me when her birthday came--well, sally, i felt that i'd better give her one; and i told her, too, that she was born in new york city. you understand--?" "of course, andrew. you did perfectly right. she's likely to ask a good many questions now that she's growing up." "oh," he cried despairingly, "she's already asked them! it's a heartbreaking business, i tell you. many a time when she's piped up in our walks or at the table with some question about her father and mother i've ignored it or feigned not to hear; but within the past year or two i've had to fashion a background for her. i've surrounded her origin and antecedents with a whole tissue of lies. but, sally, it must have been all right--i had edna's own word for it!" he pleaded brokenly. "it must have been all right!" "well, what if it wasn't! does it make any difference about the girl? all this mystery is a good thing; the denser the better maybe, as long as there's any doubt at all. your good name protects her; it's a good name, andrew. but go on; you may as well tell me the whole business." "i've told you all i know; and as i've told it i've realized more than before how pitifully little it is." "well, there's nothing to do about that. i've never seen any sense in worrying over what's done. it's the future you've got to figure on for sylvia. so you think college is a good thing for girls--for a girl like sylvia?" "yes; but i want your opinion. you're the only person in the world i can talk to; it's helped me more than i can tell you to shift some of this burden to you. maybe it isn't fair; you're a busy woman--" "i guess i'm not so busy. i've been getting lazy, and needed a hard jolt. i've been wondering a good deal about these girls' colleges. some of this new woman business looks awful queer to me, but so did the electric light and the telephone a few years ago and i can even remember when people were likely to drop dead when they got their first telegram. sylvia isn't"--she hesitated for an instant--"from what you say, sylvia isn't much like her mother?" "no. her qualities are wholly different. edna had a different mind altogether. there was nothing of the student about her. the only thing that interested her was music, and that came natural to her. i've studied sylvia carefully,--i'm ashamed to confess how carefully,--fearing that she would grow to be like her mother; but she's another sort, and i doubt if she will change. you can already see the woman in her. that child, sally, has in her the making of a great woman. i've been careful not to crowd her, but she has a wonderful mind,--not the brilliant sort that half sees things in lightning flashes, but a vigorous mind, that can grapple with a problem and fight it out. i'm afraid to tell you how remarkable i think she is. no; poor edna was not like that. she hated study." "sylvia's very quiet, but i reckon she takes everything in. it's in her eyes that she's different. and i guess that quietness means she's got power locked up in her. children do show it. now marian, my grandniece, is a different sort. she's a forthputting youngster that's going to be hard to break to harness. she looks pretty, grazing in the pasture and kicking up her heels, but i don't see what class she's going to fit into. now, hallie,--my niece, mrs. bassett,--she's one of these club fussers,--always studying poetry and reading papers and coming up to town to state conventions or federations and speaking pieces in a new hat. hallie's smart at it. she was president of the daughters once, by way of showing that our folks in north carolina fought in the revolution, which i reckon they did; though i never saw where hallie proved it; but the speech i heard her make at the propylæum wouldn't have jarred things much if it hadn't been for hallie's feathers. she likes her clothes--she always had 'em, you know. my brother blackford left her a very nice fortune; and morton bassett makes money. well, as i started to say, there's all kinds of women,--the old ones like me that never went to school much, and hallie's kind, that sort o' walked through the orchard and picked the nearest peaches, and then starts in at thirty to take courses in italian art, and marian, who gives her teachers nervous prostration, and sylvia, who takes to books naturally." "there are all kinds of girls, just as there are all kinds of boys. good students, real scholars have always been rare in the world--men and women. i should like to see sylvia go high and far; i should like her to have every chance." "all right, andrew; let's do it. how much does a college course cost for a girl?" "i didn't come here to interest you in the money side of it, sally; i expected--" "answer my question, andrew." "i had expected to give her a four-year course for five thousand dollars. the actual tuition isn't so much; it's railroad fare, clothing, and other expenses." mrs. owen turned towards kelton with a smile on her kind, shrewd face. "andrew, just to please me, i want you to let me be partners with you in this. what you've told me and what i've seen of that little girl have clinched me pretty strong. i wish she was mine! my little elizabeth would be a grown woman if she'd lived; and because of her i like to help other people's little girls; you know i helped start elizabeth house, a home for working girls--and i'm getting my money back on that a thousand times over. it's a pretty state of things if an old woman like me, without a chick of my own, and with no sense but horse sense, can't back a likely filly like your sylvia. i want you to let me call her our sylvia. we'll train her in all the paces, andrew, and i hope one of us will live to see her strike the home stretch. come into my office a minute," she said, rising and leading the way. the appointments of her "office" were plain and substantial. a flat-topped desk stood in the middle of the room--a relic of the lamented jackson owen; in one corner was an old-fashioned iron safe in which she kept her account books. a print of maud s. adorned one wall, and facing it across the room hung a lithograph of thomas a. hendricks. twice a week a young woman came to assist mrs. owen with her correspondence and accounts,--a concession to age, for until she was well along in the fifties sally owen had managed these things alone. "you've seen my picture-gallery before, andrew? small but select. i knew both the lady and the gentleman," she continued, with one of her humorous flashes. "i went to cleveland in ' to see maud s. she ate up a mile in : - / --the prettiest thing i ever saw. you know bonner bought her as a four-year-old--the same bonner that owned the 'new york ledger.' i used to read the 'ledger' clear through, when henry ward beecher and fanny fern wrote for it. none of these new magazines touch it. and you knew tom hendricks? that's a good picture. tom looked like a statesman anyhow, and that's more than most of 'em do." she continued her efforts to divert his thoughts from the real matter at hand, summoning from the shadows all the hoosier statesmen of the post-bellum period to aid her, and she purposely declared her admiration of several of these to provoke kelton's ire. "that's right, andrew; jump on 'em," she laughed, as she drew from the desk a check book and began to write. when she had blotted and torn out the check she examined it carefully and placed it near him on the edge of her desk. "now, andrew kelton, there's a check for six thousand dollars; we'll call that our educational fund. you furnish the girl; i put in the money. i only wish i had the girl to put into the business instead of the cash." "but i don't need the money yet; i shan't need it till fall," he protested. "that's all right. fall's pretty close and you'll feel better if you have it. now, you may count on more when that's gone if you want it. in case anything goes wrong with you or me it'll be fixed. i'll attend to it. i look on it as a good investment. your note? look here, andrew kelton, if you mention that life insurance to me again, i'll cut your acquaintance. you go to bed; and don't you ever let on to that baby upstairs that i have any hand in her schooling." she dropped her check book into a drawer and swung round in her swivel chair until she faced him. "i don't want to open up that affair of sylvia's mother again, but there's always the possibility that something may happen. you know edna's dead, but there's always a chance that sylvia's father may turn up. it's not likely; but there's no telling about such things; and it wouldn't be quite fair for you to leave her unprepared if it should happen." "there's one more circumstance i haven't told you about. it happened only a few days ago. it was that, in fact, which crystallized my own ideas about sylvia's education. a letter was sent to me by a stranger, offering money for sylvia's schooling. the whole thing was surrounded with the utmost secrecy." "so? then some one is watching sylvia; keeping track of her, and must be kindly disposed from that. you never heard anything before?" "never. i was asked to send a verbal answer by the messenger who brought me the letter, accepting or declining the offer. i declined it." "that was right. but there's no hiding anything in this world; you must have some idea where the offer came from." "i haven't the slightest, not the remotest idea. the messenger was a stranger to me; from what sylvia said he was a stranger at montgomery and had never seen the college before. time had begun to soften the whole thing, and the knowledge that some one has been watching the child all these years troubles me. it roused all my old resentment; i have hardly slept since it occurred." "it's queer; but you'd better try to forget it. somebody's conscience is hurting, i reckon. i wouldn't know how to account for it in any other way. if it's a case of conscience, it may have satisfied itself by offering money; if it didn't, you or sylvia may hear from it again." "it's just that that hurts and worries me,--the possibility that this person may trouble sylvia sometime when i am not here to help her. it's an awful thing for a woman to go out into the world followed by a shadow. it's so much worse for a woman; women are so helpless." "some of us, like me, are pretty tough, too. sylvia will be able to take care of herself; you don't need to worry about her. if that's gnawing some man's conscience--and i reckon it is--you can forget all about it. a man's conscience--the kind of man that would abandon a woman he had married, or maybe hadn't married--ain't going to be a ghost that walks often. you'd better go to bed, andrew." kelton lingered to smoke a cigar in the open. he had enjoyed to-night an experience that he had not known in years--that of unburdening himself to a kindly, sympathetic, and resourceful woman. while they talked of her, sylvia sat in her window-seat in the dark above looking at the stars. she lingered there until late, enjoying the cool air, and unwilling to terminate in sleep so eventful a day. she heard presently her grandfather's step below as he "stood watch," marking his brief course across the dim garden by the light of his cigar. sylvia was very happy. she had for a few hours breathed the ampler ether of a new world; but she was unconscious in her dreaming that her girlhood, that had been as tranquil water safe from current and commotion, now felt the outward drawing of the tide. chapter v introducing mr. daniel harwood on the day following the delivery to andrew kelton of the letter in which money for sylvia's education was offered by an unknown person, the bearer of the message was to be seen at indianapolis, in the law office of wright and fitch, attorneys and counselors at law, on the fourth floor of the white river trust company's building in washington street. in that office young mr. harwood was one of half a dozen students, who ran errands to the courts, kept the accounts, and otherwise made themselves useful. wright and fitch was the principal law firm in the state in the period under scrutiny, as may readily be proved by an examination of the court dockets. the firm's practice was, however, limited. persons anxious to mulct wicked corporations in damages for physical injuries did not apply to wright and fitch, for the excellent reason that this capable firm was retained by most of the public service corporations and had no time to waste on the petty and vexatious claims of minor litigants. mr. wright was a republican, mr. fitch a democrat, and each of these gentlemen occasionally raised his voice loud enough in politics to emphasize his party fealty. in the seventies mr. wright had served a term as city attorney; on the other hand, mr. fitch had once declined the italian ambassadorship. both had been mentioned at different times for the governorship or for the united states senate, and both had declined to enter the lists for these offices. daniel harwood had been graduated from yale university a year before we first observed him, and though the world lay before him where to choose, he returned to his native state and gave himself to the study of law by day and earned a livelihood by serving the "courier" newspaper by night. as mr. harwood is to appear frequently in this chronicle, it may be well to summarize briefly the facts of his history. he was born on a farm in harrison county, and his aversion to farm life had been colored from earliest childhood by the difficulties his father experienced in wringing enough money out of eighty acres of land to buy food and clothing and to pay taxes and interest on an insatiable mortgage held somewhere by a ruthless life insurance company that seemed most unreasonably insistent in its collections. daniel had two older brothers who, having satisfied their passion for enlightenment at the nearest schoolhouse, meekly enlisted under their father in the task of fighting the mortgage. daniel, with a weaker hand and a better head, and with vastly more enterprise, resolved to go to yale. this seemed the most fatuous, the most profane of ambitions. if college at all, why not the state university, to support which the harwood eighty acres were taxed; but a college away off in connecticut! there were no precedents for this in harrison county. no harwood within the memory of man had ever adventured farther into the unknown world than to the state fair at indianapolis; and when it came to education, both the judge of the harrison county circuit court and the presiding elder of the district had climbed to fame without other education than that afforded by the common schools. daniel's choice of yale had been determined by the fact that a professor in that institution had once addressed the county teachers, and young harwood had been greatly impressed by him. the yale professor was the first graduate of an eastern university that daniel had ever seen, and he became the young hoosier's ideal of elegance and learning. daniel had acquired at this time all that the county school offered, and he made bold to approach the visitor and ask his advice as to the best means of getting to college. we need not trace the devious course by which, after much burning of oil during half a dozen winters, dan harwood attained to a freshman's dignity at new haven, where, arriving with his effects in a canvas telescope, he had found a scholarship awaiting him; nor need we do more than record the fact that he had cared for furnaces, taken the night shift on a trolley car, and otherwise earned money until, in his junior year, his income from newspaper correspondence and tutoring made further manual labor unnecessary. it is with profound regret that we cannot point to harwood as a football hero or the mainstay of the crew. having ploughed the mortgaged acres, and tossed hay and broken colts, college athletics struck him as rather puerile diversion. he would have been the least conspicuous man in college if he had not shone in debate and gathered up such prizes and honors as were accessible in that field. his big booming voice, recognizable above the din in all 'varsity demonstrations, earned for him the sobriquet of "foghorn" harwood. for the rest he studied early and late, and experienced the doubtful glory, and accepted meekly the reproach, of being a grind. history and the dismal science had interested him immensely. his assiduous attention to the classes of professor sumner had not gone unnoticed by that eminent instructor, who once called him by name in chapel street, much to dan's edification. he thought well of belles-lettres and for a time toyed with an ambition to enrich english literature with contributions of his own. during this period he contributed to the "lit" a sonnet called "the clam-digger" which began:-- at rosy dawn i see thine argosy; and which closed with the invocation:-- fair tides reward thy long, laborious days. the sonnet was neatly parodied in the "record," and that journal printed a gratuitous defense of the fisherman at whom, presumably, the poem had been directed. "the sonnet discloses nothing," said the "record," "as to the race, color, or previous condition of servitude of the unfortunate clammer to justify a son of eli in attacking a poor man laudably engaged in a perfectly honorable calling. the sonneteer, coming, we believe, from the unsalt waters of the wabash, seems to be unaware that the fisherman at whom he has leveled his tuneful lyre is not seeking fair tides but clams. we therefore suggest that the closing line of the sextette be amended to read-- fair clams reward thy long, laborious days." harwood was liked by his fellow students in the law office. two yalensians, already established there, made his lot easier, and they combined against a lone harvardian, who bitterly resented harwood's habit of smoking a cob pipe in the library at night. the bouquet of dan's pipe was pretty well dispelled by morning save to the discerning nostril of the harvard man, who protested against it, and said the offense was indictable at common law. harwood stood stoutly for his rights and privileges, and for yale democracy, which he declared his pipe exemplified. there was much good-natured banter of this sort in the office. harwood was busy filing papers when mr. fitch summoned him to his private room on the day indicated. fitch was short, thin, and bald, with a clipped reddish beard, brown eyes, and a turn-up nose. he was considered a better lawyer than wright, who was the orator of the firm, and its reliance in dealing with juries. in the preparation of briefs and in oral arguments before the supreme court, fitch was the superior. his personal peculiarities had greatly interested harwood; as, for example, fitch's manner of locking himself in his room for days at a time while he was preparing to write a brief, denying himself to all visitors, and only occasionally calling for books from the library. then, when he had formulated his ideas, he summoned the stenographer and dictated at one sitting a brief that generally proved to be the reviewing court's own judgment of the case in hand. some of fitch's fellow practitioners intimated at times that he was tricky. in conferences with opposing counsel, one heard, he required watching, as he was wary of committing himself and it was difficult to discover what line of reasoning he elected to oppose or defend. in such conferences it was his fashion to begin any statement that might seem even remotely to bind him with the remark, "i'm just thinking aloud on that proposition and don't want to be bound by what i say." the students in the office, to whom he was unfailingly courteous, apostrophized him as "the fox." he called them all "mister," and occasionally flattered them by presenting a hypothetical case for their consideration. fitch was sitting before the immaculate desk he affected (no one ever dared leave anything on it in his absence) when harwood entered. the lawyer's chair was an enormous piece of furniture in which his small figure seemed to shrink and hide. his hands were thrust into his pockets, as they usually were, and he piped out "good-morning" in a high tenor voice. "shut the door, please, mr. harwood. what have you to report about your errand to montgomery?" he indicated with a nod the one chair in the room and harwood seated himself. "i found professor kelton without difficulty and presented the letter." "you delivered the letter and you have told no one of your visit to montgomery." "no one, sir; no one knows i have been away from town. i handed the letter to the gentleman in his own house, alone, and he gave me his answer." "well?" "_no_ is the answer." fitch polished his eyeglasses with his handkerchief. he scrutinized harwood carefully for a moment, then asked:-- "did the gentleman--whose name, by the way, you have forgotten--" "yes, sir; i have quite forgotten it," harwood replied promptly. "did he show any feeling--indignation, pique, as he read the letter?" "no; but he read it carefully. his face showed pain, i should say, sir, rather than indignation. he gave his negative reply coldly--a little sharply. he was very courteous--a gentleman, i should say, beyond any question." "i dare say. what kind of an establishment did he keep?" "a small cottage, with books everywhere, right by the campus. a young girl let me in; she spoke of the professor as her grandfather. she went off to find him for me in the college library." "a young person. what did she look like?" "a dark young miss, with black hair tied with a red ribbon." fitch smiled. "you are sure of the color, are you? this man lives there with his granddaughter, and the place was simple--comfortable, no luxuries. you had no conversation with him." "i think we exchanged a word about the weather, which was warm." fitch smiled again. his was a rare smile, but it was worth waiting for. "what did the trip cost you?" harwood named the amount and the lawyer drew a check book from his impeccable desk and wrote. "i have added one hundred dollars for your services. this is a personal matter between you and me, and does not go on the office books. by the way, mr. harwood, what are you doing out there?" he asked, moving his head slightly toward the outer office. "i'm reading law." "is it possible! the other youngsters in the office seem to be talking politics or reading newspapers most of the time. how do you manage to live?" "i do some work for the 'courier' from time to time." "ah! you are careful not to let your legal studies get mixed with the newspaper work?" "yes, sir. they put me on meetings, and other night assignments. as to the confidences of this office, you need have no fear of my--" "i haven't, mr. harwood. let me see. it was of you professor sumner wrote me last year; he's an old friend of mine. he said he thought you had a sinewy mind--a strong phrase for sumner." "he never told me that," said dan, laughing. "he several times implied quite the reverse." "he's a great man--sumner. i suppose you absorbed a good many of his ideas at new haven." "i hope i did, sir: i believe in most of them anyhow." "so do i, mr. harwood." fitch pointed to a huge pile of manuscript on a table by the window. it was a stenographic transcript of testimony in a case which had been lost in the trial court and was now going up on appeal. "digest that evidence and give me the gist of it in not more than five hundred words. that's all." harwood's hand was on the door when fitch arrested him with a word. "to recur to this private transaction between us, you have not the remotest idea what was in that letter, and nothing was said in the interview that gave you any hint--is that entirely correct?" "absolutely." "very well. i know nothing of the matter myself; i am merely accommodating a friend. we need not refer to this again." when the door had closed, the lawyer wrote a brief note which he placed in his pocket, and dropped later into a letter-box with his own hand. mr. fitch, of the law firm of wright and fitch, was not in the habit of acting as agent in matters he didn't comprehend, and his part in harwood's errand was not to his liking. he had spoken the truth when he said that he knew no more of the nature of the letter that had been carried to professor kelton than the messenger, and harwood's replies to his interrogatories had told him nothing. many matters, however, pressed upon his attention and offered abundant exercise for his curiosity. with harwood, too, pleased to have for the first time in his life one hundred dollars in cash, the incident was closed. chapter vi home life of hoosier statesmen in no other place can a young man so quickly attain wisdom as in a newspaper office. there the names of the good and great are playthings, and the bubble reputation is blown lightly, and as readily extinguished, as part of the day's business. no other employment offers so many excitements; in nothing else does the laborer live so truly behind the scenes. the stage is wide, the action varied and constant. the youngest tyro, watching from the wings, observes great incidents and becomes their hasty historian. the reporter's status is unique. youth on the threshold of no other profession commands the same respect, gains audience so readily to the same august personages. doors slammed in his face only flatter his self-importance. he becomes cynical as he sees how easily the spot light is made to flash upon the unworthiest figures by the flimsiest mechanism. he drops his plummet into shoal and deep water and from his contemplation of the wreck-littered shore grows skeptical of the wisdom of all pilots. harwood's connection with the "courier" brought him in touch with politics, which interested him greatly. the "courier" was the organ of the democratic party in the state, and though his father and brothers in the country were republicans, dan found himself more in sympathy with the views represented by the democratic party, even after it abandoned its ancient conservatism and became aggressively radical. about the time of harwood's return to his native state the newspaper had changed hands. at least the corporation which had owned it for a number of years had apparently disposed of it, though the transaction had been effected so quietly that the public received no outward hint beyond the deletion of "published by the courier newspaper company" from the head of the editorial page. the "policy" of the paper continued unchanged; the editorial staff had not been disturbed; and in the counting-room there had been no revolution, though an utterly unknown man had appeared bearing the title of general manager, which carried with it authority in all departments. this person was supposed to represent the unknown proprietor, about whom there had been the liveliest speculation. the "courier's" rivals gave much space to rumors, real and imaginary, as to the new ownership, attributing the purchase to a number of prominent politicians in rapid succession, and to syndicates that had never existed. it was an odd effect of the change in the "courier's" ownership that almost immediately mystery seemed to envelop the editorial rooms. the managing editor, whose humors and moods fixed the tone of the office, may have been responsible, but whatever the cause a stricter discipline was manifest, and editors, reporters and copy-readers moved and labored with a consciousness that an unknown being walked among the desks, and hung over the forms to the very last moment before they were hurled to the stereotypers. the editorial writers--those astute counselors of the public who are half-revered and half-despised by their associates on the news side of every american newspaper--wrote uneasily under a mysterious, hidden censorship. it was possible that even the young woman who gleaned society news might, by some unfortunate slip, offend the invisible proprietor. but as time passed nothing happened. the imaginable opaque pane that separated the owner from the desks of the "courier's" reporters and philosophers had disclosed no faintest shadow. occasionally the managing editor was summoned below by the general manager, but the subordinates in the news department were unable, even by much careful study of their subsequent instructions, to grasp the slightest thread that might lead them to the concealed hand which swayed the "courier's" destiny. it must be confessed that under this ghostly administration the paper improved. every man did his best, and the circulation statements as published monthly indicated a widening constituency. even the sunday edition, long a forbidding and depressing hodge-podge of ill-chosen and ill-digested rubbish, began to show order and intelligence. in october following his visit to professor kelton, harwood was sent to fraserville, the seat of fraser county, to write a sketch of the honorable morton bassett, in a series then adorning the sunday supplement under the title, "home life of hoosier statesmen." the object of the series was frankly to aid the circulation manager's efforts to build up subscription lists in the rural districts, and personal sketches of local celebrities had proved potent in this endeavor. most of the subjects that had fallen to harwood's lot had been of a familiar type--country lawyers who sat in the legislature, or county chairmen, or judges of county courts. as the "sunday courier" eschewed politics, the series was not restricted to democrats but included men of all faiths. it was harwood's habit to spend a day in the towns he visited, gathering local color and collecting anecdotal matter. while this employment cut deeply into his hours at the law office, he reasoned that there was a compensating advantage in the knowledge he gained on these excursions of the men of both political faiths. before the train stopped at fraserville he saw from the car window the name "bassett" written large on a towering elevator,--a fact which he noted carefully as offering a suggestion for the introductory line of his sketch. as he left the station and struck off toward the heart of the town, he was aware that bassett was a name that appealed to the eye frequently. the bassett block and bassett's bank spoke not merely for a material prosperity, rare among the local statesmen he had described in the "courier," but, judging from the prominence of the name in fraserville nomenclature, he assumed that it had long been established in the community. harwood had not previously faced a second generation in his pursuit of hoosier celebrities, and he breathed a sigh of relief at the prospect of a variation on the threadbare scenario of early hardship, the little red schoolhouse, patient industry, and the laborious attainment of meagre political honors--which had begun to bore him. harwood sought first the editor of the "fraser county democrat," who was also the "courier's" fraserville correspondent. fraserville boasted two other newspapers, the "republican," which offset the "democrat" politically, and the "news," an independent afternoon daily whose function was to encourage strife between its weekly contemporaries and boom the commercial interests of the town. the editor of the "democrat" was an extremely stout person, who sprawled at ease in a battered swivel chair, with his slippered feet thrown across a desk littered with newspapers, clippings, letters, and manuscript. a file hook was suspended on the wall over his shoulder, and on this it was his habit to impale, by a remarkable twist of body and arm, gems for his hebdomadal journal. he wrote on a pad held in his ample lap, the paste brush was within easy reach, and once planted on his throne the editor was established for the day. bound volumes of the "congressional record" in their original wrappers were piled in a corner. a consular report, folded in half, was thrust under the editor's right thigh, easly accessible in ferocious moments when he indulged himself in the felicity of slaughtering the roaches with which the place swarmed. he gave dan a limp fat hand, and cleared a chair of exchanges with one foot, which he thereupon laboriously restored to its accustomed place on the desk. "so you're from the 'courier'? well, sir, you may tell your managing editor for me that if he doesn't print more of my stuff he can get somebody else on the job here." dan soothed mr. pettit's feelings as best he could; he confessed that his own best work was mercilessly cut; and that, after all, the editors of city newspapers were poor judges of the essential character of news. when pettit's good humor had been restored, dan broached the nature of his errand. as he mentioned morton bassett's name the huge editor's face grew blank for a moment; then he was shaken with mirth that passed from faint quivers until his whole frame was convulsed. his rickety chair trembled and rattled ominously. it was noiseless laughter so far as any vocal manifestations were concerned; but it shook the gigantic editor as though he were a mould of jelly. he closed his eyes, but otherwise his fat face was expressionless. "goin' to write mort up, are you? well, by gum! i've been readin' those pieces in the 'courier.' your work? good writin'; mighty interestin' readin', as old uncle horace greeley used to say. i guess you carry the whitewash brush along with you in your pilgrimages. you certainly did give bill ragsdale a clean bill o' health. that must have tickled the folks in tecumseh county. know ragsdale? i've set with bill in the lower house three sessions, and i come pretty near knowin' him. i don't say that bill is crooked; but i suspect that if bill's moral nature could be dug out and exposed to view it would be spiral like a bedspring; just about. it's an awful load on the republican party in this state, having to carry bill ragsdale. o lord!" he pursed his fat lips, and his eyes took on a far-away expression, as though some profound utterance had diverted his thoughts to remote realms of reverie. "so you're goin' to write mort up; well, my god!" the exact relevance of this was not apparent. harwood had assumed on general principles that the honorable isaac pettit, of the "fraser county democrat," was an humble and obedient servant of the honorable morton bassett, and would cringe at the mention of his name. to be sure, mr. pettit had said nothing to disturb this belief; but neither had the editor manifested that meek submission for which the reporter had been prepared. the editor's gargantuan girth trembled again. the spectacle he presented as he shook thus with inexplicable mirth was so funny that harwood grinned; whereupon pettit rubbed one of his great hands across his three-days' growth of beard, evoking a harsh rasping sound in which he seemed to find relief and satisfaction. "you don't know mort? well, he's all right; he will he mighty nice to you. mort's one of the best fellows on earth; you won't find anybody out here in fraser county to say anything against mort bassett. no, sir; by god!" again the ponderous frame shook; again the mysterious look came into the man's curious small eyes, and harwood witnessed another seismic disturbance in the bulk before him; then the honorable isaac pettit grew serious. "you want some facts for a starter. well, i guess a few facts don't hurt in this business, providin' you don't push in too many of 'em." he pondered for a moment, then went on, as though summarizing from a biography:-- "only child of the late jeremiah bassett, founder of bassett's bank. old jerry was pure boiler plate; he could squeeze ten per cent interest out of a frozen parsnip. he and blackford singleton sort o' divided things up in this section. jerry bassett corralled the coin; blackford rolled up a couple of hundred thousand and capped it with a united states senatorship. mort's not forty yet; married only child of blackford f. singleton--jerry made the match, i guess; it was the only way he could get blackford's money. mort prepared for college, but didn't go. took his degree in law at columbia, but never practiced. always interested in politics; been in the state senate twelve years; two children, boy and girl. i guess mort bassett can do most anything he wants to--you can't tell where he'll land." "but the next steps are obvious," suggested harwood, encouragingly--"the governorship, the united states senate--ever onward and upward." "well, yes; but you never know anything from _him_. _we_ don't know, and you might think we'd understand him pretty well up here. he declined to go to congress from this district--could have had it without turning a hand; but he put in his man and stayed in the state senate. i reckon he cuts some ice there, but he's mighty quiet. bassett doesn't beat the tom-tom to call attention to himself. i guess no man swings more influence in a state convention--but he's peculiar. you'll find him different from these yahoos you've been writin' up. i know 'em all." "a man of influence and power--leading citizen in every sense--" dan murmured as he scribbled a few notes. "yep. mort's considered rich. you may have noticed his name printed on most everything but the undertaker's and the jail as you came up from the station. the elevator and the bank he inherited from his pap. mort's got a finger in most everything 'round here." "owns everything," said harwood, with an attempt at facetiousness, "except the brewery." mr. pettit's eyes opened wide, and then closed; again he was mirth-shaken; it seemed that the idea of linking morton bassett's name with the manufacture of malt liquor was the most stupendous joke possible. the editor's face did not change expression; the internal disturbances were not more violent this time, but they continued longer; when the strange spasm had passed he dug a fat fist into a tearful right eye and was calm. "oh, my god," he blurted huskily. "breweries? let us say that he neither makes nor consumes malt, vinous nor spirituous liquor, within the meaning of the statutes in such cases made and provided. he and ed thatcher make a strong team. ed started out as a brewer, but there's nothing wrong about that, i reckon. over in england they make lords and dukes of brewers." "a man of rectitude--enshrined in the hearts of his fellow-citizens, popular and all that?" suggested harwood. yes. mort rather _retains_ his heat, i guess. some say he's cold as ice. his ice is the kind that freezes to what he likes. mort's a gentleman if we have one in fraser county. if you think you're chasin' one of these blue jeans politicians you read about in comic papers you're hitting the wrong trail, son. mort can eat with a fork without appearin' self-conscious. good lord, boy, if you can say these other fellows in indiana politics have brains, you got to say that mort bassett has _intellect_. which is different, son; a dern sight different." "i shall be glad to use the word in my sketch of mr. bassett," remarked dan dryly. "it will lend variety to the series." harwood thanked the editor for his courtesy and walked to the door. strange creakings from the editorial chair caused him to turn. the honorable isaac pettit was in the throes of another convulsion. the attack seemed more severe than its predecessors. dan waited for him to invoke deity with the asthmatic wheeziness to which mirth reduced his vocal apparatus. "it's nothin', son; it's nothin'. it's my temperament: i can't help it. did you say you were from the 'courier'? well, you better give mort a good send-off. he appreciates a good job; he's a sort o' literary cuss himself." as another mirthful spasm seemed imminent dan retired, wondering just what in himself or in his errand had so moved the fat editor's risibilities. he learned at the bassett bank that mr. bassett was spending the day in a neighboring town, but would be home at six o'clock, so he surveyed fraserville and killed time until evening, eating luncheon and supper with sundry commercial travelers at the grand hotel. harwood's instructions were in every case to take the subjects of his sketches at their own valuation and to set them forth sympathetically. the ambitions of most of the gentlemen he had interviewed had been obvious--obvious and futile. nearly every man who reached the legislature felt a higher call to congress or the governor's chair. harwood had already described in the "courier" the attainments of several statesmen who were willing to sacrifice their private interests for the high seat at the state capitol. the pettiness and sordidness of most of the politicians he met struck him humorously, but the tone of his articles was uniformly laudatory. when the iron gate clicked behind him at the bassett residence, his notebook was still barren of such anecdotes of his subject as he had usually gathered in like cases in an afternoon spent at the court-house. stories of generosity, of the kindly care of widows and orphans, gifts to indigent pastors, boys helped through college, and similar benefactions had proved altogether elusive. either harwood had sought in the wrong places or morton bassett was of tougher fibre than the other gentlemen on whom his pencil had conferred immortality. in response to his ring a boy opened the door and admitted him without parley. he had a card ready to offer, but the lad ran to announce him without waiting for his name and reappeared promptly. "papa says to come right in, sir," the boy reported. dan caught a glimpse of a girl at the piano in the parlor who turned to glance at him and continued her playing. the lad indicated an open door midway of the long hall and waited for harwood to enter. a lady, carrying a small workbasket in her hand, bade the reporter good-evening as she passed out. on a table in the middle of the room a checkerboard's white and black belligerents stood at truce, and from the interrupted game rose a thick-set man of medium height, with dark hair and a close-trimmed mustache, who came toward him inquiringly. "good-evening. i am mr. bassett. have a chair." harwood felt the guilt of his intrusion upon a scene so sheltered and domestic. the father had evidently been playing checkers with his son; the mother's chair still rocked by another table on which stood a reading lamp. harwood stated his errand, and bassett merely nodded, offering none of those protestations of surprise and humility, those pleas of unworthiness that his predecessors on dan's list had usually insisted upon. dan made mental note at once of the figure before him. bassett's jaw was square and firm--power was manifest there, unmistakably, and his bristling mustache suggested combativeness. his dark eyes met harwood's gaze steadily--hardness might be there, though their gaze was friendly enough. his voice was deep and its tone was pleasant. he opened a drawer and produced a box of cigars. "won't you smoke? i don't smoke myself, but you mustn't mind that." and harwood accepted a cigar, which he found excellent. a moment later a maid placed on the table beside the checkerboard a tray, with a decanter and glasses, and a pitcher of water. "that's for us," remarked bassett, nodding toward the glasses. "help yourself." "the cigar is all i need; thank you." the reporter was prepared to ask questions, following a routine he had employed with other subjects, but bassett began to talk on his own initiative--of the town, the county, the district. he expressed himself well, in terse words and phrases. harwood did not attempt to direct or lead: bassett had taken the interview into his own hands, and was imparting information that might have been derived from a local history at the town library. dan ceased, after a time, to follow the narrative in his absorption in the man himself. harwood took his politics seriously and the petty politicians with whom he had thus far become acquainted in his newspaper work had impressed him chiefly by their bigotry or venality. it was not for nothing that he had worshiped at sumner's feet at yale and he held views that were not readily reconcilable with parochial boss-ships and the meek swallowing of machine-made platforms. bassett was not the vulgar, intimate good-fellow who slapped every man on the back--the teller of good stories over a glass of whiskey and a cigar. he was, as pettit had said, a new type, not of the familiar _cliché_. the decanter was a "property" placed in the scene at the dictates of hospitality; the checkerboard canceled any suggestion of conviviality that might have been conveyed by the decanter of whiskey. bassett's right hand lay on the table and dan found himself watching it. it was broad but not heavy; the fingers that opened and shut quietly on a small paperweight were supple. it was a hand that would deal few blows, but hard ones. harwood was aware, at a moment when he began to be bored by the bald facts of local history, that bassett had abruptly switched the subject. "parties are necessary to democratic government. i don't believe merely in my own party; i want the opposition to be strong enough to make a fight. the people are better satisfied if there's a contest for the offices. i'm not sorry when we lose occasionally; defeat disciplines and strengthens a party. i have made a point in our little local affairs of not fighting independents when they break with us for any reason. believing as i do that parties are essential, and that schismatic movements are futile, i make a point of not attacking them. their failures strengthen the party--and incidentally kill the men who have kicked out of the traces. you never have to bother with them a second time." "but they help clear the air--they serve a purpose?" suggested harwood. he had acquired a taste for the "nation" and the new york "evening post" at college, and bassett's frank statement of his political opinions struck dan as mediæval. he was, however, instinctively a reporter, and he refrained from interposing himself further than was necessary to stimulate the talk of the man before him. "you are quite right, mr. harwood. they serve an excellent purpose. they provide an outlet; they serve as a safety valve. now and then they will win a fight, and that's a good thing too, for they will prove, on experiment, that they are just as human and weak in practical application of their ideas as the rest of us. i'd even go as far as to say that in certain circumstances i'd let them win. they help drive home my idea that the old parties, like old, established business houses, have got to maintain a standard or they will lose the business to which they are rightfully entitled. when you see your customers passing your front door to try a new shop farther up the street, you want to sit down and consider what's the matter, and devise means of regaining your lost ground. it doesn't pay merely to ridicule the new man or cry that his goods are inferior. yours have got to be superior--or"--and the gray eyes twinkled for the first time--"they must be dressed up to look better in your show window." bassett rose and walked the length of the room, with his hands thrust into his trousers pockets, and before he sat down he poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher and drank it slowly, with an air of preoccupation. he moved easily, with a quicker step than might have been expected in one of his figure. the strength of his hand was also in the firm line of his vigorous, well-knit frame. and his rather large head, dan observed, rested solidly on broad shoulders. harwood's thoughts were, however, given another turn at once. morton bassett had said all he cared to say about politics and he now asked dan whether he was a college man, to which prompting the reporter recited succinctly the annals of his life. "you're a harrison county boy, are you? so you didn't like the farm, and found a way out? that's good. you may be interested in some of my books." dan was immediately on guard against being bored; the library of even an intelligent local statesman like morton bassett was hardly likely to prove interesting. one of his earlier subjects had asked him particularly to mention his library, which consisted mainly of government reports. "i've been a collector of americana," bassett remarked, throwing open several cases. "i've gone in for colonial history, particularly, and some of these things are pretty rare." the shelves rose to the ceiling and bassett produced a ladder that he might hand down a few of the more interesting volumes for dan's closer inspection. "here's wainwright's 'brief description of the ohio river, with some account of the savages living thereon'--published in london in , and there are only three copies in existence. this is atterbury's 'chronicle of the chesapeake settlements'--the best thing i have. the author was an english sailor who joined the colonists in the revolution and published a little memoir of his adventures in america. the only other copy of that known to exist is in the british museum. i fished mine out of a pile of junk in baltimore about ten years ago. when i get old and have time on my hands i'm going to reprint some of these--wide margins, and footnotes, and that sort of thing. but there's fun enough now in just having them and knowing the other fellow hasn't!" he flung open a panel of the wainscoting at a point still free of shelves and disclosed a door of a small iron safe which he opened with a key. "this isn't the family silver, but a few little things that are more valuable. these are first editions of american authors. here's lowell's 'fable for critics,' first edition; and this is emerson's 'nature,' --a first. these are bound by orpcutt; had them done myself. they feel good to the hand, don't they!" harwood's pleasure in the beautiful specimens of the binder's art was unfeigned and to his questioning bassett dilated upon the craftsmanship. "the red morocco of the emerson takes the gold tooling beautifully, and the oak-leaf border design couldn't be finer. i believe this olive-green shade is the best of all. this whittier--a first edition of 'in war time'--is by durand, a french artist, and one of the best specimens of his work." those strong hands of his touched the beautiful books fondly. harwood took advantage of a moment when bassett carried to the lamp lowell's "under the willows" in gold and brown, the better to display the deft workmanship, to look more closely at the owner of these lovely baubles. the iron hand could be very gentle! bassett touched the volume caressingly as he called attention to its perfection. his face, in the lamp's full light, softened, but there was in it no hint of sensuousness to prepare one for this indulgence in luxurious bibliomania. there was a childlike simplicity in bassett's delight. a man who enjoyed such playthings could not be hard, and dan's heart warmed with liking. "are you a reader of poetry?" asked dan, as bassett carefully collected the books and returned them to the safe. "no. that is something we leave behind us with our youth," he said; and looking down at the bent head and sturdy shoulders, and watching the strong fingers turning the key, dan wondered what the man's youth had been and what elements were mixed in him that soft textures of leather and delicate tracings of gold on brown and scarlet and olive could so delight him. his rather jaunty attitude toward the "home life of hoosier statesmen" experienced a change. morton bassett was not a man who could be hit off in a few hundred words, but a complex character he did not pretend to understand. threads of various hues had passed before him, but how to intertwine them was a question that already puzzled the reporter. bassett had rested his hand on dan's shoulder for a moment as the younger man bent over one of the prized volumes, and dan was not insensible to the friendliness of the act. mrs. bassett and the two children appeared at the door a little later. "come in, hallie," said the politician; "all of you come in." he introduced the reporter to his wife and to marian, the daughter, and blackford, the son. "the children were just going up," said mrs. bassett. "as it's saturday they have an hour added to their evening. i think i heard mr. bassett talking of books a moment ago. it's not often he brings out his first editions for a visitor." they talked of books for a moment, while the children listened. then bassett recurred to the fact, already elicited, that harwood was a yale man, whereupon colleges were discussed. "many of our small fresh-water colleges do excellent work," remarked bassett. "some educator has explained the difference between large and small colleges by saying that in the large one the boy goes through more college, but in the small one more college goes through the boy. of course i'm not implying, mr. harwood, that that was true in your case." "oh, i'm not sensitive about that, mr. bassett. and i beg not to be taken as an example of what yale does for her students. some of the smaller colleges stand for the best things; there's madison college, here in our own state--its standards are severely high, and the place itself has quality, atmosphere--you feel, even as a casual visitor, that it's the real thing." "so i've always heard," remarked mrs. bassett. "my father always admired madison. strange to say, i have never been there. are you acquainted in montgomery?" bassett bent forward slightly at the question. "i was there for an hour or so last spring; but i was in a hurry. i didn't even take time to run into my fraternity house, though i saw its banner on the outer wall." "your newspaper work must give you many interesting adventures," suggested the politician. "not always as pleasant as this, i assure you. but i'm a person of two occupations--i'm studying law, and my visit to montgomery was on an errand for the office where i'm allowed to use the books in return for slight services of one kind and another. as a newspaper man i'm something of an impostor; i hope i'm only a passing pilgrim in the business." dan faced mrs. bassett as he made this explanation, and he was conscious, as he turned toward the master of the house, that bassett was observing him intently. his gaze was so direct and searching that harwood was disconcerted for a moment; then bassett remarked carelessly,-- "i should think newspaper work a good training for the law. it drills faculties that a lawyer exercises constantly." mrs. bassett now made it possible for marian and young blackford to contribute to the conversation. "i'm going to annapolis," announced the boy. "you've had a change of heart," said his father, with a smile. "it was west point last week." "well, it will be annapolis next week," the lad declared; and then, as if to explain his abandonment of a military career, "in the navy you get to see the world, and in the army you're likely to be stuck away at some awful place on the plains where you never see anything. the indians are nearly all killed anyhow." "we hear a good deal nowadays about the higher education of woman," mrs. bassett remarked, "and i suppose girls should be prepared to earn their own living. mothers of daughters have that to think about." miss marian, catching dan's eye, smiled as though to express her full appreciation of the humor of her mother's remark. "mama learned that from my aunt sally," she ventured; and dan saw that she was an independent spirit, given to daring sayings, and indulged in them by her parents. "well, aunt sally is the wisest woman in the world," replied mrs. bassett, with emphasis. "it would be to your credit if you followed her, my dear." marian ignored her mother's rebuke and addressed herself to the visitor. "aunt sally lives in indianapolis and i go there to miss waring's school. i'm just home for sunday." "mrs. owen is my aunt; you may have heard of her, mr. harwood; she was my father's only sister." "oh, _the_ mrs. owen! of course every one has heard of her; and i knew that she was senator singleton's sister. i am sorry to say i don't know her." unconsciously the sense of morton bassett's importance deepened. in marrying mrs. jackson owen's niece bassett had linked himself to the richest woman at the state capital. he had not encumbered himself with a crude wife from the countryside, but had married a woman with important connections. blackford singleton had been one of the leading men of the state, and mrs. owen, his sister, was not a negligible figure in the background against which the reporter saw he must sketch the fraserville senator. harwood had met the wives of other hoosier statesmen--uninteresting creatures in the main, and palpably of little assistance to ambitious husbands. it appeared that the bassetts spent their summers at their cottage on lake waupegan and that mrs. owen had a farm near them. it was clear that bassett enjoyed his family. he fell into a chaffing way with his children and laughed heartily at marian's forwardness. he met his son on the lad's own note of self-importance and connived with him to provoke her amusing impertinences. bassett imposed no restrictions upon harwood's pencil, and this, too, was a novel experience. his predecessors on the list of leaders in hoosier politics had not been backward about making suggestions, but bassett did not refer to harwood's errand at all. when dan asked for photographs of mrs. bassett and the children with which to embellish his article, bassett declined to give them with a firmness that ended the matter; but he promised to provide photographs of the house and grounds and of the waupegan cottage and send them to harwood in a day or two. * * * * * harwood gave to his sketch of morton bassett a care which he had not bestowed upon any of his previous contributions to the "courier's" series of hoosier statesmen. he remained away from the law office two days the better to concentrate himself upon his task, and the result was a careful, straightforward article, into which he threw shadings of analysis and flashes of color that reflected very faithfully the impression made upon his mind by the senator from fraser. the managing editor complained of its sobriety and lack of anecdote. "it's good, harwood, but it's too damned solemn. can't you shoot a little ginger into it?" "i've tried to paint the real bassett. he isn't one of these raw hayseeds who hands you chestnuts out of patent medicine almanacs. i've tried to make a document that would tell the truth and at the same time please him." "why?" snapped the editor, pulling the green shade away from his eyes and glaring at the reporter. "because he's the sort of man you feel you'd like to please! he's the only one of these fellows i've tackled who didn't tell me a lot of highfalutin rot they wanted put into the article. bassett didn't seem to care about it one way or another. i rewrote most of that stuff half a dozen times to be sure to get the punk out of it, because i knew he hated punk." "you did, did you! well, mcnaughton of tippecanoe county is the next standard-bearer you're to tackle, and you needn't be afraid to pin ribbons on him. you college fellows are all alike. try to remember, harwood, that this paper ain't the 'north american review'; it's a newspaper for the plain people." dan, at some personal risk, saw to it that the illustrations were so minimized that it became unnecessary to sacrifice his text to accommodate it to the page set apart for it. he read his screed in type with considerable satisfaction, feeling that it was an honest piece of work and that it limned a portrait of bassett that was vivid and truthful. the editor-in-chief inquired who had written it, and took occasion to commend harwood for his good workmanship. a little later a clerk in the counting-room told him that bassett had ordered a hundred copies of the issue containing the sketch, and this was consoling. several other subjects had written their thanks, and dan had rather hoped that bassett would send him a line of approval; but on reflection he concluded that it was not like bassett to do so, and that this failure to make any sign corroborated all that he knew or imagined of the senator from fraser. chapter vii sylvia at lake waupegan the snow lay late the next year on the madison campus. it had been a busy winter for sylvia, though in all ways a happy one. when it became known that she was preparing for college all the buckeye lane folk were anxious to help. professor kelton would not trust his own powers too far and he availed himself of the offers of members of the faculty to tutor sylvia in their several branches. buckeye lane was proud of sylvia and glad that the old professor found college possible for her. happiness reigned in the cottage, and days were not so cold or snows so deep but that sylvia and her grandfather went forth for their afternoon tramp. there was nothing morbid or anæmic about sylvia. every morning she pulled weights and swung indian clubs with her windows open. a mischievous freshman who had thrown a snowball at sylvia's heels, in the hope of seeing her jump, regretted his bad manners: sylvia caught him in the ear with an unexpected return shot. a senior who observed the incident dealt in the lordly way of his kind with the offender. they called her "our co-ed" and "the boss girl" after that. the professor of mathematics occasionally left on his blackboard sylvia's demonstrations and pointed them out to his class as models worthy of their emulation. spring stole into the heart of the wabash country and the sap sang again in maples and elms. lilacs and snowballs bloomed, and professor kelton went serenely about among his roses. sylvia passed her examinations, and was to be admitted to wellesley without conditions,--all the lane knew and rejoiced! the good news was communicated to mrs. owen, who wrote at once to professor kelton from the summer headquarters she had established on her farm in northern indiana that just then required particular attention. it ran:-- i want you to make me a visit. sylvia must be pretty tired after her long, busy year and i have been tinkering the house here a little bit so you can both be perfectly comfortable. it's not so lonely as you might think, as my farm borders lake waupegan, and the young people have gay times. my niece, mrs. bassett, has a cottage on the lake only a minute's walk from me. i should like marian and sylvia to get acquainted and this will be easy if only you will come up for a couple of weeks. there are enough old folks around here, andrew, to keep you and me in countenance. i inclose a timetable with the best trains marked. you leave the train at waupegan station, and take the steamer across the lake. i will meet you at any time you say. so it happened that on a june evening they left the train at waupegan and crossed the platform to the wheezy little steamer which was waiting just as the timetable had predicted; and soon they were embarked and crossing the lake, which seemed to sylvia a vast ocean. twilight was enfolding the world, and all manner of fairy lights began to twinkle at the far edges of the water and on the dark heights above the lake. overhead the stars were slipping into their wonted places. "you can get an idea of how it is at sea," said her grandfather, smiling at her long upward gaze. "only you can hardly feel the wonder of it all here, or the great loneliness of the ocean at night." it was, however, wonder enough, for a girl who had previously looked upon no more impressive waters than those of fall creek, sugar creek, and white river. the steamer, with much sputtering and churning and not without excessive trepidation on the part of the captain and his lone deck hand, stopped at many frail docks below the cottages that hung on the bluff above. every cottager maintained his own light or combination of lights to facilitate identification by approaching visitors. they passed a number of sailboats lazily idling in the light wind, and several small power boats shot past with engines beating furiously upon the still waters. "the bassetts' dock is the green light; the red, white, and blue is mrs. owen's," explained the captain. "we ain't stoppin' at bassett's to-night." these lights marked the farthest bounds of lake waupegan, and were the last points touched by the boat. sylvia watched the green light with interest as they passed. she had thought of marian often since their meeting at mrs. owen's. she would doubtless see more of her now: the green light and the red, white and blue were very close together. mrs. owen called to them cheerily from the dock, and waved a lantern in welcome. she began talking to her guests before they disembarked. "glad to see you, andrew. you must be mighty hungry, sylvia. don't smash my dock to pieces, captain; it's only wood." mrs. owen complained after a few days that she saw nothing of sylvia, so numerous were that young person's engagements. mrs. bassett and marian called promptly--the former a trifle dazed by sylvia's sudden advent, and marian genuinely cordial. mrs. bassett had heard of the approaching visit with liveliest interest. a year before, when marian had reported the presence in mrs. owen's house at indianapolis of a strange girl with professor kelton, her curiosity had been piqued, but she soon dismissed the matter. marian had carried home little information, and while mrs. bassett saw her aunt often on her frequent excursions to the city, she knew by long experience that mrs. owen did not yield gracefully to prodding. mrs. bassett had heard all her life of professor kelton and she had met him now and then in the delaware street house, but her knowledge of him and his family was only the most fragmentary. nothing had occurred during the year to bring the keltons again to her attention; but now, with a casualness in itself disconcerting, they had arrived at mrs. owen's farmhouse, where, mrs. bassett was sure, no guests had ever been entertained before. the house had just been remodeled and made altogether habitable, a fact which, mrs. bassett had been flattering herself, argued for mrs. owen's increasing interest in herself and her family. the immediate arrival of the keltons was disquieting. through most of her life hallie bassett had assumed that she and her children, as sally owen's next of kin, quite filled the heart of that admirable though often inexplicable woman. mrs. bassett had herself inherited a small fortune from her father, blackford f. singleton, mrs. owen's brother, a judge of the indiana supreme court and a senator in congress, whose merits and services are set forth in a tablet at the portal of the fraser county court-house. the bassetts and the singletons had been early settlers of that region, and the marriage of hallie singleton to morton bassett was a satisfactory incident in the history of both families. six years of mrs. bassett's girlhood had been passed in washington; the thought of power and influence was dear to her; and nothing in her life had been more natural than the expectation that her children would enjoy the fortune mrs. owen had been accumulating so long and, from all accounts, by processes hardly less than magical. mrs. bassett's humor was not always equal to the strain to which her aunt subjected it. hallie bassett had, in fact, little humor of any sort. she viewed life with a certain austerity, and in literature she had fortified herself against the shocks of time. conduct, she had read, is three fourths of life; and wordsworth had convinced her that the world is too much with us. mrs. bassett discussed nothing so ably as a vague something she was fond of characterizing as "the full life," and this she wished to secure for her children. her boy's future lay properly with his father; she had no wish to meddle with it; but marian was the apple of her eye, and she was striving by all the means in her power to direct her daughter into pleasant paths and bright meadows where the "full life" is assured. hers were no mean standards. she meant to be a sympathetic and helpful wife, the wisest and most conscientious of mothers. mrs. bassett was immensely anxious to please her aunt in all ways; but that intrepid woman's pleasure was not a thing to be counted on with certainty. she not only sought to please her aunt by every means possible, but she wished her children to intrench themselves strongly in their great aunt's favor. the reports of such of mrs. owen's public benefactions as occasionally reached the newspapers were always alarming. no one ever knew just how much money sally owen gave away; but some of her gifts in recent years had been too large to pass unnoticed by the press. only a few months before she had established a working-girls' home in memory of a daughter--her only child--who had died in early youth, and this crash from a clear sky had aroused in mrs. bassett the gravest apprehensions. it was just so much money said to be eighty thousand dollars--out of the pockets of marian and blackford; and, besides, mrs. bassett held views on this type of benevolence. homes for working-girls might be well enough, but the danger of spoiling them by too much indulgence was not inconsiderable; mrs. bassett's altruism was directed to the moral and intellectual uplift of the mass (she never said masses) and was not concerned with the plain prose of housing, feeding, and clothing young women who earned their own living. mrs. owen, in turning over this home to a board of trustees, had stipulated that music for dancing should be provided every saturday evening; whereupon two trustees, on whom the christian religion weighed heavily, resigned; but mrs. owen did not care particularly. trustees were only necessary to satisfy the law and to assure the legal continuity of elizabeth house, which mrs. owen directed very well herself. mrs. bassett encouraged marian's attentions to mrs. owen's young visitor; but it must be said that marian, on her own account, liked sylvia and found delight in initiating her into the mysteries of waupegan life. she taught her to ride, to paddle a canoe, and to swim. there were dances at the casino, and it was remarkable how easily sylvia learned to dance. marian taught her a few steps on the first rainy day at the bassett house, and thereafter no one would have doubted that sylvia had been to dancing-school with the boys and girls she met at the casino parties. marian was the most popular girl in the summer colony and sylvia admired her ungrudgingly. in all outdoor sports marian excelled. she dived from a spring-board like a boy, she paddled a canoe tirelessly and with inimitable grace, and it was a joy to see her at the tennis court, where her nimbleness of foot and the certainty of her stroke made her easily first in all competitions. at the casino, after a hard round of tennis, and while waiting for cakes and lemonade to be served, she would hammer ragtime on the piano or sing the latest lyrical offerings of broadway. quiet, elderly gentlemen from cincinnati, louisville, and indianapolis, who went to the casino to read the newspapers or to play bridge, grinned when marian turned things upside down. if any one else had improvised a bowling-alley of ginger-ale bottles and croquet-balls on the veranda, they would have complained of it bitterly. she was impatient of restraint, and it was apparent that few restraints were imposed upon her. her sophistication in certain directions was to sylvia well-nigh incomprehensible. in matters of personal adornment, for example, the younger girl's accomplishments were astonishing. she taught sylvia how to arrange her hair in the latest fashion promulgated by "vogue"; she instructed her in the refined art of manicuring according to the method of the best shop in indianapolis; and it was amazing how wonderfully marian could improve a hat by the slightest readjustments of ribbon and feather. she tested the world's resources like a spoiled princess with an indulgent chancellor to pay her bills. she gave a party and ordered the refreshments from chicago, though her mother protested that the domestic apparatus for making ice-cream was wholly adequate for the occasion. when she wanted new tennis shoes she telegraphed for them; and she kept in her room a small library of mail-order catalogues to facilitate her extravagances. marian talked a great deal about boys, and confided to sylvia her sentimental attachment for one of the lads they saw from day to day, and with whom they played tennis at the casino court. for the first time sylvia heard a girl talk of men as of romantic beings, and of love as a part of the joy and excitement of life. a young gentleman in a gibson drawing which she had torn from an old copy of "life" more nearly approximated marian's ideal than even the actors of her remote adoration. she had a great number of gowns and was quite reckless in her use of them. she tried to confer upon sylvia scarf pins, ties, and like articles, for which she declared she had not the slightest use. in the purchase of soda water and candy at the casino, where she scribbled her father's initials on the checks, or at the confectioner's in the village where she enjoyed a flexible credit, her generosity was prodigal. she was constantly picking up other youngsters and piloting them on excursions that her ready fancy devised; and if they returned late for meals or otherwise incurred parental displeasure, to marian it was only part of the joke. she was always late and ingeniously plausible in excusing herself. "mother won't bother; she wants me to have a good time. and when papa is here he just laughs at me. papa's just the best ever." mrs. bassett kept lamenting to professor kelton her husband's protracted delay in colorado. he was interested in a mining property there and was waiting for the installation of new machinery, but she expected to hear that he had left for indiana at any time, and he was coming direct to waupegan for a long stay. mrs. owen was busy with the waupegan farm and with the direction of her farms elsewhere. on the veranda of her house one might frequently hear her voice raised at the telephone as she gave orders to the men in charge of her properties in central and southern indiana. her hearing was perfect and she derived the greatest satisfaction from telephoning. she sold stock or produce on these distant estates with the market page of the "courier" propped on the telephone desk before her, and explained her transactions zestfully to professor kelton and sylvia. she communicated frequently with the superintendent of her horse farm at lexington about the "string" she expected to send forth to triumph at county and state fairs. the "annual stud register" lay beside the bible on the living-room table; and the "western horseman" mingled amicably with the "congregationalist" in the newspaper rack. the presence of the old professor and his granddaughter at waupegan continued to puzzle mrs. bassett. mrs. owen clearly admired sylvia, and sylvia was a charming girl--there was no gainsaying that. at the farmhouse a good deal had been said about sylvia's plans for going to college. mrs. owen had proudly called attention to them, to her niece's annoyance. if sylvia's advent marked the flowering in mrs. owen of some new ideals of woman's development, mrs. bassett felt it to be her duty to discover them and to train marian along similar lines. she felt that her husband would be displeased if anything occurred to thwart the hand of destiny that had so clearly pointed to marian and blackford as the natural beneficiaries of the estate which mrs. owen by due process of nature must relinquish. in all her calculations for the future mrs. owen's fortune was an integer. mrs. bassett received a letter from her husband on saturday morning in the second week of sylvia's stay. its progress from the mining-camp in the mountains had been slow and the boat that delivered the letter brought also a telegram announcing bassett's arrival in chicago, so that he was even now on his way to waupegan. as mrs. bassett pondered this intelligence sylvia appeared at the veranda steps to inquire for marian. "she hasn't come down yet, sylvia. you girls had a pretty lively day yesterday and i told marian she had better sleep a while longer." "we certainly have the finest times in the world," replied sylvia. "it doesn't seem possible that i've been here nearly two weeks." "i'm glad you're going to stay longer. aunt sally told me yesterday it was arranged." "we really didn't expect to stay more than our two weeks; but mrs. owen made it seem very easy to do so." "oh, you needn't be afraid of outstaying your welcome. it's not aunt sally's way to bore herself. if she didn't like you very much she wouldn't have you here at all; aunt sally's always right straight out from the shoulder." "marian has done everything to give me a good time. i want you to know i appreciate it. i have never known girls; marian is really the first girl i have ever known, and she has taught me ever so many things." "marian is a dear," murmured mrs. bassett. she was a murmurous person, whose speech was marked by a curious rising inflection, that turned most of her statements into interrogatories. to sylvia this habit seemed altogether wonderful and elegant. "suppose we take a walk along the lake path, sylvia. we can pretend we're looking for wild flowers to have an excuse. i'll leave word for marian to follow." they set off along the path together. mrs. bassett had never seemed friendlier, and sylvia was flattered by this mark of kindness. mrs. bassett trailed her parasol, using it occasionally to point out plants and flowers that called for comment. she knew the local flora well, and kept a daybook of the wildflowers found in the longitude and latitude of waupegan; and she was an indefatigable ornithologist, going forth with notebook and opera glass in hand. she spoke much of thoreau and burroughs and they were the nucleus of her summer library; she said that they gained tang and vigor from their winter hibernation at the cottage. her references to nature were a little self-conscious, as seems inevitable with such devotees, but we cannot belittle the accuracy of her knowledge or the cleverness of her detective skill in apprehending the native flora. she found red and yellow columbines tucked away in odd corners, and the blue-eyed-mary with its four petals--two blue and two white--as readily as sylvia's inexperienced eye discovered the more obvious ladies'-slipper and jack-in-the-pulpit. to-day mrs. bassett rejoiced in the discovery of the season's first puccoon, showing its orange-yellow cluster on a sandy slope. she plucked a spray of the spreading dogbane, but only that she might descant upon it to sylvia; it was a crime, mrs. bassett said, to gather wild flowers, which were never the same when transplanted to the house. when they came presently to a rustic seat mrs. bassett suggested that they rest there and watch the lake, which had always its mild excitements. "you haven't known aunt sally a great while, i judge, sylvia? of course you haven't known any one a great while!" "no; i never saw her but once before this visit. that was when grandfather took me to see her in indianapolis a year ago. she and grandfather are old friends." "all the old citizens of indiana have a kind of friendship among themselves. somebody said once that the difference between indiana and kentucky is, that while the kentuckians are all cousins we hoosiers are all neighbors. but of course so many of us have had kentucky grandfathers that we understand the kentuckians almost as well as our own people. i used to meet your grandfather now and then at aunt sally's; but i can't say that i ever knew him. he's a delightful man and it's plain that his heart is centred in you." "there was never any one like grandfather," said sylvia with feeling. "i suppose that as he and aunt sally are such old friends they must have talked a good deal together about you and your going to college. it would be quite natural." sylvia had not thought of this. she was the least guileful of beings, this sylvia, and she saw nothing amiss in these inquiries. "i suppose they may have done so; and mrs. owen talked to me about going to college when i visited her." "oh! if _she_ undertook to persuade you, then it is no wonder you decided to go. she's a very powerful pleader, as she would put it herself." "it wasn't just that way, mrs. bassett. i think grandfather had already persuaded me. mrs. owen didn't know of it till afterward; but she seemed to like the idea. her ideas about girls and women are very interesting." "yes? she has a very decided way of expressing herself. i should imagine, though, that with her training and manner of life she might look a little warily at the idea of college training for women. personally, you understand, i am heartily in favor of it. i have hoped that marian might go to college. aunt sally takes the greatest interest in marian, naturally, but she has never urged it upon us." sylvia gazed off across the lake and made no reply. she recalled distinctly mrs. owen's comments on marian, expressed quite clearly on the day of their drive into the country, a year before. it was not for her to repeat those observations; she liked marian and admired her, and she saw no reason why marian should not go to college. sylvia, guessing nothing of what was in mrs. bassett's mind, failed to understand that mrs. owen's approval of marian's education was of importance. nothing could have been more remote from her thoughts than the idea that her own plans concerned any one but herself and her grandfather. she was not so dull, however, but that she began to feel that mrs. bassett was speaking defensively of marian. "marian's taste in reading is very unusual, i think. i have always insisted that she read only the best. she is very fond of tennyson. i fancy that after all, home training is really the most valuable,--i mean that the atmosphere of the home can give a child what no school supplies. i don't mean, of course, that we have it in _our_ home; but i'm speaking of the ideal condition where there _is_ an atmosphere. i've made a point of keeping good books lying about the house, and the best magazines and reviews. i was never happier than the day i found marian curled up on a lounge reading keats. it may be that the real literary instinct, such as i feel marian has, would only be spoiled by college; and i should like nothing better than to have marian become a writer. a good many of our best american women writers have not been college women; i was looking that up only the other day." sylvia listened, deeply interested; then she laughed suddenly, and as mrs. bassett turned toward her she felt that it would do no harm to repeat a remark of mrs. owen's that had struck her as being funny. "i just happened to remember something mrs. owen said about colleges. she said that if it isn't in the colt the trainer can't put it there; and i suppose the successful literary women have had genius whether they had higher education or not. george eliot hadn't a college training, but of course she was a very great woman." mrs. bassett compressed her lips. she had not liked this quotation from mrs. owen's utterances on this vexed question of higher education. could it be possible that aunt sally looked upon marian as one of those colts for whom the trainer could do nothing? it was not a reassuring thought; her apprehensions as to sylvia's place in her kinswoman's affections were quickened by sylvia's words; but mrs. bassett dropped the matter. "i have never felt that young girls should read george eliot. she doesn't seem to me _quite_ an ideal to set before a young girl." as sylvia knew nothing of george eliot, except what she had gleaned from the biographical data in a text-book on nineteenth-century writers, she was unable to follow mrs. bassett. she had read "mill on the floss," and "romola" and saw no reason why every one shouldn't enjoy them. mrs. bassett twirled her closed parasol absently and studied the profile of the girl beside her. "the requirements for college are not really so difficult, i suppose?" she suggested. sylvia's dark eyes brightened as she faced her interlocutor. those of us who know sylvia find that quick flash of humor in her eyes adorable. "oh, they can't be, for i answered most of the questions!" she exclaimed, and then, seeing no response in her inquisitor, she added soberly: "it's all set out in the catalogue and i have one with me. i'd be glad to bring it over if you'd like to see it." "thank you, sylvia. i should like to see it. i may want to ask you some questions about the work; but of course you won't say anything to marian of our talk. i am not quite sure, and i'll have to discuss it with mr. bassett." "of course i shan't speak of it, mrs. bassett." marian's voice was now heard calling them, down the path, and the girl appeared, a moment later, munching a bit of toast stuccoed with jam, and eager to be off for the casino where a tennis match was scheduled for the morning. "don't be late for dinner this evening, marian; your father will be here, and if you see blackford, be sure to tell him to meet the . ." "yes, mama, i'll remember, and i'll try to meet the train too." and then to sylvia, as she led the way to the boathouse to get the canoe, "i'm glad dad's coming. he's perfectly grand, and i'm going to see if he won't give me a naphtha launch. dad's a good old scout and he's pretty sure to do it." marian's manner of speaking of her parents disclosed the filial relationship in a new aspect to sylvia, who did not at once reconcile it with her own understanding of the fifth commandment. marian referred to her father variously as "the grand old man," "the true scout," "sir morton the good knight," and to her mother as "the princess pauline," or "one's mama," giving to _mama_ the french pronunciation. all this seemed to sylvia to be in keeping with marian's general precociousness. sylvia had formed the habit of stealing away in the long twilights, after the cheerful gathering at mrs. owen's supper-table, for a little self-communing. usually mrs. owen and professor kelton fell to talking of old times and old friends at this hour and sylvia's disappearances were unremarked. she felt the joy of living these days, and loved dearly the delaying hour between day and night that is so lovely, so touched with poetry in this region. there was always a robin's vesper song, that may be heard elsewhere than in indiana, but can nowhere else be so tremulous with joy and pain. a little creek ran across mrs. owen's farm, cutting for itself a sharp defile to facilitate its egress into the lake; and sylvia liked to throw herself down beside a favorite maple, with the evening breeze whispering over the young corn behind her, and the lake, with its heart open to the coming of the stars, quiet before her, and dream the dreams that fill a girl's heart in those blessed and wonderful days when the brook and river meet. on this saturday evening sylvia was particularly happy. the day's activities, that had begun late, left her a little breathless. she was wondering whether any one had ever been so happy, and whether any other girl's life had ever been so pleasantly ordered. her heartbeat quickened as she thought of college and the busy years that awaited her there; and after that would come the great world's wide-open doors. she was untouched by envy, hatred, or malice. there was no cloud anywhere that could mar; the stars that stole out into the great span of sky were not more tranquil than her own heart. the world existed only that people might show kindness one to another, and that all this beauty of wood, field, water, and starry sky might bring joy to the souls of men. she knew that there was evil in the world; but she knew it from books and not from life. her path had fallen in pleasant places, and only benignant spirits attended her. she was roused suddenly by the sound of steps in the path beneath. this twilight sanctuary had never been invaded before, and she rose hastily. the course of an irregular path that followed the lake was broken here by the creek's miniature chasm, but adventurous pedestrians might gain the top and continue over a rough rustic bridge along the edge of mrs. owen's cornfield. sylvia peered down, expecting to see marian or blackford, but a stranger was approaching, catching at bushes to facilitate his ascent. sylvia stepped back, assuming it to be a cottager who had lost his way. a narrow-brimmed straw hat rose above the elderberry bushes, and with a last effort the man stood on level ground, panting from the climb. he took off his hat and mopped his face as he glanced about. sylvia had drawn back, but as the stranger could not go on without seeing her she stepped forward, and they faced each other, in a little plot of level ground beside the defile. "pardon me!" he exclaimed, still breathing hard; and then his eyes met hers in a long gaze. his gray eyes searched her dark ones for what seemed an interminable time. sylvia's hand sought the maple but did not touch it; and the keen eyes of the stranger did not loosen their hold of hers. a breeze blowing across the cornfield swept over them, shaking the maple leaves, and rippled the surface of the lake. the dusk, deepening slowly, seemed to shut them in together. "pardon me, again! i hope i didn't frighten you! i am mr. bassett, marian's father." "and i am sylvia garrison. i am staying--" "oh," he laughed, "you needn't tell me! they told me at the supper-table all about you and that you and marian are fast friends." "i knew you were coming; they were speaking of it this morning." they had drawn closer together during this friendly exchange. again their eyes met for an instant, then he surveyed her sharply from head to foot, as he stood bareheaded leaning on his stick. "i must be going," said sylvia. "there's a path through the corn that mrs. owen lets me use. they'll begin to wonder what's become of me." "why not follow the path to the lane,--i think there is a lane at the edge of the field,--and i will walk to the house with you. the path through the corn must be a little rough, and it's growing dark." "yes, thank you, mr. bassett." "i had no idea of meeting any one when i came out. i usually take a little walk after supper when i'm here, and i wanted to get all the car smoke out of my lungs. i was glad to get out of chicago; it was fiercely hot there." the path was not wide enough for two and she walked before him. after they had exhausted the heat as a topic, silence fell upon them. he still swung his hat in his hand. once or twice he smote his stick smartly upon the ground. he timed his pace to hers, keeping close, his eyes upon her straight slender figure. when they reached the lane they walked together until they came to the highway, which they followed to the house. an oil lamp marked the walk that led through mrs. owen's flower garden. "aren't you coming in, mr. bassett?" asked sylvia, as they paused. her hand clicked the latch and the little white-washed gate swung open. in the lamplight their eyes met again. "i'm sorry, but i must go home. this is the first time i've been here this summer, and my stay is short. i must be off again to-morrow." "oh, that's too bad! marian has been telling me that you would stay a month, she will be terribly disappointed" "my western trip took more time than i expected i have a good deal to do at fraserville and must get back there" she stepped inside, thinking he delayed out of courtesy to her, but to her surprise he fastened the latch deliberately and lingered. "they tell me you and your grandfather live at montgomery. it's a charming town, one of the most interesting in the state." "yes, mr. bassett. my grandfather taught in the college there." "i have often heard of professor kelton, of course. he's a citizen our state is proud of. mrs. bassett says you're going to college this fall--to wellesley, is it? mrs. bassett has an idea that marian ought to have a college education. what do you think about it?" he smiled kindly, and there was kindness in his deep voice. "i think girls should go who want to go," answered sylvia, her hands on the pickets of the gate. "you speak like a politician," laughed bassett. "that's exactly what i think; and i haven't seen that marian is dying for a college career." "she has plenty of time to think of it," sylvia replied. "i'm ever so much older"; and this seemed to dispose of that matter. "you are staying here some time?" "another week. it seems that we've hardly been here a day." "you are fortunate in having mrs. owen for a friend. she is a very unusual woman." "the most wonderful person i ever knew!" responded sylvia warmly. he still showed no haste to leave her, though he had just reached waupegan, and was going away the next day. "your grandfather isn't teaching at madison now, i believe?" "no; but he lectures sometimes, and he has taught me; there was never a better teacher," she answered, smiling. "you must have been well taught if you are ready for college so early; you are--you say you're older than marian--do you mind my asking how old you are?" "nearly seventeen; seventeen in october." "oh! then you are four years older than marian. but i mustn't keep you here. please remember me to mrs. owen and tell her i'll drop in before i go." he bent over the gate and put out his hand. "good-night, miss garrison!" sylvia had never been called miss garrison before, and it was not without trepidation that she heard herself so addressed. mr. bassett had spoken the name gravely, and their eyes met again in lingering contact. when the door closed upon her he walked on rapidly; but once, before the trees had obscured mrs. owen's lights, he turned and glanced back. chapter viii silk stockings and blue overalls one night in this same june, harwood was directed by the city editor of the "courier" to find mr. edward g. thatcher. two reporters had failed at it, and it was desirable to verify reports as to certain transactions by which thatcher, in conjunction with morton bassett, was believed to be effecting a merger of various glass-manufacturing interests. thatcher had begun life as a brewer, but this would long since have been obscured by the broadening currents of fortune if it had not been for his persistent dabbling in politics. whenever the republican press was at a loss for something to attack, thatcher's breweries--which he had concealed in a corporation that did not bear his name were an inviting and unfailing target. for years, though never seeking office, he had been a silent factor in politics, and he and bassett, it was said, controlled their party. mrs. thatcher had built an expensive house, but fearing that the money her husband generously supplied was tainted by the remote beer vats, she and her two daughters spent most of their time in europe, giving, however, as their reason the ill-health of thatcher's son. thatcher's income was large and he spent it in his own fashion. he made long journeys to witness prize fights; he had the reputation of being a poor poker player, but "a good loser"; he kept a racing-stable that lost money, and he was a patron of baseball and owned stock in the local club. he was "a good fellow" in a sense of the phrase that requires quotation marks. mrs. sally owen, whose opinion in all matters pertaining to her fellow citizens is not to be slighted, fearlessly asked thatcher to dinner at her house. she expressed her unfavorable opinion of his family for deserting him, and told him to his face that a man who knew as little about horses as he did should have a guardian. "he's in town somewhere," said the city editor; "don't come back and tell me you can't find him. try the country club, where he was never known to go, and the university club, where he doesn't belong, and all the other unlikely places you can think of. the other boys have thrown up their hands." dan had several times been fortunate in like quests for men in hiding, and he had that confidence in his luck which is part of the good reporter's endowment. he called all the clubs and the thatcher residence by telephone. the clubs denied all knowledge of edward g. thatcher, and his residence answered not at all; whereupon harwood took the trolley for the thatcher mansion in the new quarter of meridian street beyond the peaceful shores of fall creek. a humorist who described the passing show from the stern of a rubber-neck wagon for the instruction of tourists announced on every round that "this is edward g. thatcher's residence; it contains twelve bath-rooms, and cost seventy-five thousand dollars four years ago. the family have lived in it three months. does it pay to be rich?" as harwood entered the grounds the house loomed darkly before him. most of the houses in this quarter were closed for the summer, but dan assumed that there must be some sort of caretaker on the premises and he began patiently punching the front-door bell. failing of any response, he next tried a side door and finally the extreme rear. he had begun to feel discouraged when, as he approached the front entrance for a second assault, he saw a light flash beyond the dark blinds. the door opened cautiously, and a voice gruffly bade him begone. "i have a message for mr. thatcher; it's very important--" "mr. thatcher not at home; nobody home," growled a voice in broken english. "you get right off dis place, quick!" dan thrust his walking-stick into the small opening to guard against having the door slammed in his face and began a parley that continued for several minutes with rising heat on the part of the caretaker. the man's rage at being unable to close the door was not without its humor; but dan now saw, beyond the german's broad shoulders, a figure lurking within, faintly discernible from the electric lamps in a bronze sconce on the wall. the reporter and the caretaker were making no progress in their colloquy and dan was trying to catch a glimpse of the other man, who leaned against the wall quite indifferent to the struggle for the door. dan supposed him to be another servant, and he had abandoned hope of learning anything of thatcher, when a drawling voice called out:-- "open the door, hans, and let the gentleman in: i'll attend to him." dan found himself face to face with a young man of about his own age, a slender young fellow, clad in blue overalls and flannel shirt. he lounged forward with an air of languor that puzzled the reporter. his dress was not wholly conclusive as to his position in the silent house; the overalls still showed their pristine folds, the shirt was of good quality and well-cut. the ends of a narrow red-silk four-in-hand swung free. he was clean-shaven save for an absurd little mustache so fair as to be almost indistinguishable. his blond hair was brushed back unparted from his forehead. another swift survey of the slight figure disclosed a pair of patent-leather pumps. his socks, revealed at the ankles, were scarlet. dan was unfamiliar with the ménage of such establishments as this, and he wondered whether this might not be an upper servant of a new species peculiar to homes of wealth. he leaned on his stick, hat in hand, and the big blue eyes of the young man rested upon him with disconcerting gravity. a door slammed at the rear upon the retreating german, whom this superior functionary had dispatched about his business. at a moment when the silence became oppressive the young man straightened himself slightly and spoke in a low voice, and with amusement showing clearly in his eyes and about his lips,-- "you're a reporter." "yes; i'm from the 'courier.' i'm looking for mr. thatcher." "suppose, suppose--if you're not in a great hurry, you come with me." the pumps, with the scarlet socks showing below the overalls, turned at the end of the broad hall and began ascending the stairs. the young man's manner was perfectly assured. he had not taken his hands from his pockets, and he carried himself with an ease and composure that set dan's conjectures at naught. in the absence of the family, a servant might thus conduct himself; and yet, if thatcher was not at home, why should he be thus ushered into the inner sanctities of the mansion by this singular young person, whose silk hose and bright pumps were so utterly out of harmony with the rest of his garb. there might be a trick in it; perhaps he had intruded upon a burglarious invasion,--this invitation to the upper chambers might be for the purpose of shutting him in somewhere until the place had been looted. it was, in any case, a novel adventure, and his curiosity was aroused by the languid pace with which, without pausing at the second floor, the young man continued on to the third. through an open door dan saw a bedroom in order for occupancy; but the furniture in the upper and lower halls was draped, and a faint odor of camphor hung upon the air. it had occurred to harwood that he might be stumbling upon material for a good "story," though just what it might prove to be was still a baffling question. his guide had not spoken or looked at him since beginning the ascent, and harwood grasped his stick more firmly when they gained the third floor. if violence was in the programme he meant to meet it gallantly. his conductor passed through a spacious bedroom, and led the way to a pleasant lounging- and reading-room with walls lined with books. without pausing he flung open a door that divulged a shop, with a bench and tools. the litter of carpentry on the bare floor testified to the room's recent use. "sit down, won't you, and have a cigar?" dan hesitated. he felt that he must be the victim of a practical joke, and it was time that his dignity asserted itself. he had accepted a cigar and was holding it in his fingers, still standing. his strange guide struck a match and held it, so that dan perforce took advantage of the proffered flame; and he noticed now for the first time the young fellow's slender, nervous hands, which bore no marks of hard toil. he continued to watch them with interest as they found and filled a pipe. they were amazingly deft, expressive hands. "have a chair! it's a good one; i made it myself!" with this the young gentleman jumped lightly upon the workbench where he nursed his knees and smoked his pipe. he was a graceful person, trimly and delicately fashioned, and in this strange setting altogether inexplicable. but dan's time was important, and he had not yet learned anything as to edward g. thatcher's whereabouts. this languid young gentleman seemed wholly indifferent to the reporter's restlessness, and dan's professional pride rebelled. "pardon me, but i must see mr. thatcher. where is he, please?" "he's gone, skipped! no manner of use in looking for him. on my honor, he's not in town." "then why didn't you say so and be done with it?" demanded dan angrily. "please keep your seat," replied the young fellow from the workbench. "i really wish you would." he drew on his pipe for a moment, and dan, curiously held by his look and manner and arrested by the gentleness of his voice, awaited further developments. he had no weapons with which to deal with this composed young person in overalls and scarlet hose. he swallowed his anger; but his curiosity now clamored for satisfaction. "may i ask just who you are and why on earth you brought me up here?" "those are fair questions--two of them. to the first, i am allen thatcher, and this is my father's house. to the second--" he hesitated a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "well, if you must know,--i was so devilish lonesome!" he gazed at harwood quizzically, with a half-humorous, half-dejected air. "if you're lonesome, mr. thatcher, it must be because you prefer it that way. it can't be necessary for you to resort to kidnapping just to have somebody to talk to. i thought you were in europe." "nothing as bad as that! what's your name, if you don't mind?" when dan gave it, thatcher nodded and thanked him. "college man?" "yale." "that's altogether bully. i envy you, by george! you see," he went on easily, as though in the midst of a long and intimate conversation, "they took me abroad, and it never really counted. they always treated me as though i were an invalid; and kept me for a year or two squatting on an alp on account of my lungs. it amused them, no doubt; and it filled in my time till i was too old to go to college. but now that i'm grown up, i'm going to stay at home. i've been here a month, having a grand old time; a little lonesome, and yet i'm a person of occupations and hans cooks enough for me to eat. i haven't been down town much, but nobody knows me here anyhow. dad's been living at the club or a hotel, but he moved up here to be with me. dad's the best old chap on earth. i guess he liked my coming back. they rather bore him, i fancy. we've had a bully day or two, but dad has skipped. gone to new york; be back in a week. wanted me to go; but not me! i've had enough travel for a while. they gave me a dose of it." these morsels of information fell from him carelessly. his "they," dan assumed, referred to his mother and sisters somewhere on the other side of the atlantic; and young thatcher spoke of them in a curiously impersonal and detached fashion. the whimsical humor that twinkled in his eyes occasionally was interesting and pleasing; and dan imagined that he was enjoying the situation. silk socks and overalls were probably a part of some whim; they certainly added picturesqueness to the scene. but the city editor must be informed that edward g thatcher was beyond his jurisdiction and dan rose and moved toward the door. allen jumped down and crossed to him quickly. "oh, i say! i really wish you wouldn't go!" there was no doubt of the pleading in his voice and manner. he laid a hand very gently on dan's arm. "but i've got to get back downtown, if your father has really gone and isn't hidden away here somewhere." "i've cut you a slice right out of the eternal truth on that, old man. father will be in new york for breakfast in the morning. search the house all you please; but, do you know, i'd rather like you to believe me." "of course, i believe you; but it's odd the office didn't know you were here. they told me you and your mother and sisters were abroad, but that your father was in town. a personal item in the 'courier' this morning said that you were all in the hartz mountains." "i dare say it did! the newspapers keep them all pretty well before the public. but i've had enough junketing. i'm going to stay right here for a while." "you prefer it here--is that the idea?" "yes, i fancy i should if i knew it; i want to know it. but i'm all kinds of crazy, you know. they really think i'm clear off, simply because their kind of thing doesn't amuse me. i lost too much as a kid being away from home. they said i had to be educated abroad, and there you see me--dresden awhile, berlin another while, a lot of geneva, and paris for grand sprees. and my lung was always the excuse if they wanted to do a winter on the nile,--ugh! the very thought of egypt makes me ill now." "it all sounds pretty grand to me. i was never east of boston in my life." "by jove! i congratulate you," exclaimed the young man fervidly. "and i'll wager that you went to school at a cross-roads school-house and rode to town in a farm wagon to see a circus that had lions and elephants; and you probably chopped wood and broke colts and went swimming in an old swimmin'-hole and did all the other things you read about in american biographies and story books. i can see it in your eye; and you talk like it, too." "i dare say i do!" laughed dan. "they've always told me that my voice sounds like a nutmeg grater." "they filed mine off! mother was quite strong for the italian _a_, and i'm afraid i've caught it, just like a disease." "i should call it a pretty good case. i was admiral of a canal boat in new jersey one summer trying to earn enough money to carry my sophomore year in college, and cussing the mules ruined my hope of a reputable accent. it almost spoiled my hoosier dialect!" "by george, i wonder if the canal-boat people would take me! it would be less lonesome than working at the bench here. dad says i can do anything i like. he's tickled to death because i've come home. he's really the right sort; he did all the horny-handed business himself--ploughed corn, wore red mittens to a red school-house, and got licked with a hickory stick. but he doesn't understand why i don't either take a job in his office or gallop the paris boulevards with mother and the girls; but he's all right. we're great pals. but the rest of them made a row because i came home. for a while they had dad's breweries as an excuse for keeping away, and my lungs! dad hid the breweries, so their hope of a villa at sorrento is in my chest. dad says my lungs have been their main asset. there's really nothing the matter with me; the best man in new york told me so as i came through." his manner of speaking of his family was deliciously droll; he yielded his confidences as artlessly as a child. "they almost got a steam yacht on me last year," he went on. "hired a vienna doctor to say i ought to be kept at sea between gibraltar and the bosphorus. and here, by george, is america the dear, bully old america of washington, franklin, andrew jackson, and abraham lincoln! and they want to keep me chasing around among ruins and tombs! i say to you, mr. harwood, in all solemnity, that i've goo-gooed my last goo-goo at the tombs of dead kings!" they stood near the shop door during this interchange. dan forgot, in his increasing interest and mystification, that the "courier's" city editor was waiting for news of thatcher, the capitalist. young thatcher's narrative partook of the nature of a protest. he was seriously in rebellion against his own expatriation. he stood erect now, with the color bright in his cheeks, one hand thrust into his pocket, the other clenching his pipe. "i tell you," he declared, "i've missed too much! life over here is a big thing!--it's wonderful, marvelous, grand, glorious! and who am i to spend winters on the dead old nile when history is being made right here on white river! i tell you i want to watch the great experiment, and if i were not a poor, worthless, ignorant ass i'd be a part of it." dan did not question the young fellow's sincerity. his glowing eyes and the half-choked voice in which he concluded gave an authentic stamp to his lament and pronouncement. a look of dejection crossed his face. he had, by his own confession, asked dan into the house merely to have some one to talk to; he was dissatisfied, unhappy, lonely; and his slender figure and flushed cheeks supported his own testimony that his health had been a matter of concern. the nile and the alps against which he had revolted might not be so unnecessary as he believed. the situation was so novel that harwood's mind did not respond with the promptness of his heart. he had known the sons of rich men at college, and some of them had been his friends. it was quite the natural and accepted order of things that some children should be born to sheltered, pampered lives, while others were obliged to hew their own way to success. he had observed in college that the sons of the rich had a pretty good time of it; but he had gone his own way unenviously. it was not easy to classify young thatcher. he was clearly an exotic, a curious pale flower with healthy roots and a yearning for clean, free air. dan was suddenly conscious that the young fellow's eyes were bent upon him with a wistfulness, a kind of pleading sweetness, that the reporter had no inclination to resist. he delayed speaking, anxious to say the right word, to meet the plea in the right spirit. "i think i understand; i believe i should feel just as you do if i were in your shoes. it's mighty interesting, this whole big scheme we're a part of. over there on the other side it's all different, the life, the aims, and the point of view. and here we've got just what you call it--the most wonderful experiment the world ever saw. great scott!" he exclaimed, kindling from the spark struck by thatcher's closing words, "it's prodigious, overwhelming! there mustn't be any question of losing!" "that's right!" broke in thatcher eagerly; "that's what i've been wanting somebody to say! it's so beautiful, so wonderful; the hope and promise are so immense! you believe it; i can see you do!" he concluded happily. his hand stole shyly from the pocket that seemed to be its inevitable hiding-place, and paused uncertainly; then he thrust it out, smiling. "will you shake hands with me?" "let us be old friends," replied dan heartily. "and now i've got to get out of here or i'll lose my job." "then i should have to get you another. i never meant to keep you so long. you've been mighty nice about it. i suppose i couldn't help you--i mean about dad? all you wanted was to see father or find you couldn't." "i had questions to ask him, of course. they were about a glass-factory deal with bassett." "oh, i dare say they bought them! he asked me if i didn't want to go into the glass business. he talks to me a lot about things. dad's thinking about going to the senate. dad's a democrat, like jefferson and jackson. if he goes to the senate i'll have a chance to see the wheels go round at washington. perfectly bully for me!" harwood grinned at the youth's naïve references to edward thatcher's political ambitions. thatcher was known as a wealthy "sport," and dan had resented his meddling in politics. but this was startling news--that thatcher was measuring himself for a senatorial toga. "you'd better be careful! there's a good story in that!" "but you wouldn't! you see, i'm not supposed to know!" "bassett and your father will probably pull it off, if they try hard enough. they've pulled off worse things. if you're interested in american types you should know bassett. ever see him?" allen laughed. his way of laughing was pleasant; there was a real bubbling mirth in him. "no; but i read about him in the 'courier,' which they always have follow them about--i don't know why. it must be that it helps them to rejoice that they are so far away from home; but i always used to read it over there, i suppose to see how much fun i missed! and at a queer little place in switzerland where we were staying--i remember, because our landlord had the drollest wart on his chin--a copy of the 'courier' turned up on a rainy day and i read it through. a sketch of bassett tickled me because he seemed so real. i felt that i'd like to be morton bassett myself,--the man who does things,--the masterful american,--a real type, by george! and that safe filled with beautiful bindings; it's fine to know there are such fellows." "your words affect me strangely; i wrote the piece!" "now that is funny!" allen glanced at dan with frank admiration. "you write well--praise from sir hubert--i scribble verses myself! so our acquaintance really began a long time ago. it must have been last october that we were at that place." "yes; it was in the fall sometime. it's pleasant to know that anything printed in a newspaper is ever remembered so long. bassett is an interesting man all right enough." "it must be bully to meet men like that--the men who have a hand in the big things. i must get dad to introduce me. i suppose you know everybody!" he ended admiringly. they retraced their steps through the silent house and down to the front door, continuing their talk. as dan turned for their last words on the veranda steps he acted on an impulse and said:-- "have supper with me to-morrow night--we won't call it dinner--at the whitcomb house. i'll meet you in the lobby at six o'clock. the honorable state committee is in town and i'll point out some of the moulders of our political destiny. they're a joy to the eye, i can tell you!" allen's eager acquiescence, his stumbling, murmured thanks, emphasized dan's sense of the forlorn life young thatcher had described. * * * * * "so the old boy's skipped, has he?" demanded the city editor. "well, that's one on us! who put you on?" "i kept at the bell until the door opened and then i saw thatcher's son. he told me." "oh, the family idiot let you in, did he? then there's no telling whether it's true or not. he's nutty, that fellow. didn't know he was here." "i believe he told me the truth. his father's on his way to new york." "well, that sounds definite; but it doesn't make any difference now. we've just had a tip to let the deal alone. for god's sake, keep at the law, harwood; this business is hell." the city editor bit a fat cigar savagely. "you no sooner strike a good thing and work on it for two days than you butt into a dead wall. what? no; there's nothing more for you to-night." chapter ix daniel harwood receives an offer a brief note from morton bassett, dated at fraserville, reached harwood in july. in five lines bassett asked dan to meet him at the whitcomb house on a day and hour succinctly specified. harwood had long since exhausted the list of hoosier statesmen selected for niches in the "courier's" pantheon. after his visit to fraserville, he had met bassett occasionally in the street or at the whitcomb house; and several times he had caught a glimpse of him passing through the reception room of the law office into mr. fitch's private room. on these occasions dan was aware that bassett's presence caused a ripple of interest to run through the office. the students in the library generally turned from their books to speak of bassett in low tones; and mr. wright, coming in from a journey on one of these occasions and anxious to see his partner forthwith, lifted his brow and said "oh!" meaningfully when told that it was morton bassett who engaged the time of the junior member. bassett's name did not appear in the office records to dan's knowledge nor was he engaged in litigation. his conferences were always with fitch alone, and they were sometimes of length. harwood was not without his perplexities these days. his work for the "courier" had gradually increased until he found that his time for study had diminished almost to the vanishing point. the home acres continued unprofitable, and he had, since leaving college, devoted a considerable part of his earnings to the relief of his father. his father's lack of success was an old story and the home-keeping sons were deficient in initiative and energy. dan, with his ampler outlook, grudged them nothing, but the home needs were to be reckoned with in the disposition of his own time. he had now a regular assignment to the county courts and received a salary from the "courier." he was usually so tired at the end of his day's work that he found it difficult to settle down to study at night in the deserted law office. the constant variety and excitement of newspaper work militated against the sober pondering of legal principles and dan had begun to realize that, with the necessity for earning money hanging over him, his way to the bar, or to a practice if he should qualify himself, lay long and bleak before him. dan had heard much of morton bassett since his visit to fraserville. his conviction, dating from the fraserville visit, that bassett was a man of unusual character, destined to go far in any direction in which he chose to exert his energies, was proved by bassett's growing prominence. a session of the legislature had intervened, and the opposition press had hammered bassett hard. the democratic minority under bassett's leadership had wielded power hardly second to that of the majority. bassett had introduced into state politics the bi-partisan alliance, a device by virtue of which members of the assembly representing favored interests cooperated, to the end that no legislation viciously directed against railways, manufacturers, brewers and distillers should succeed through the deplorable violence of reformers and radicals. apparently without realizing it, and clearly without caring greatly, bassett was thus doing much to destroy the party alignments that had in earlier times nowhere else been so definitely marked as in indiana. partisan editors of both camps were glad when the sessions closed, for it had been no easy matter to defend or applaud the acts of either majority or minority, so easily did republicans and democrats plot together at neutral campfires. it had not been so in those early post-bellum years, when oliver morton of the iron mace still hobbled on crutches. harrison and hendricks had fought no straw men when they went forth to battle. harwood began to be conscious of these changes, which were wholly irreconcilable with the political ideals he had imbibed from sumner at yale. he had witnessed several political conventions of both parties from the press table, and it was gradually dawning upon him that politics is not readily expressed in academic terminology. the silver lining of the democratic cloud had not greatly disturbed morton bassett. he had been a delegate to the national convention of , but not conspicuous in its deliberations; and in the subsequent turbulent campaign he had conducted himself with an admirable discretion. he was a member of the state committee and the chairman was said to be of his choosing. bassett stood for party regularity and deplored the action of those democrats who held the schismatic national convention at indianapolis and nominated the palmer and buckner ticket on a gold-standard platform. he had continued to reelect himself to the senate without trouble, and waited for the political alchemists of his party to change the silver back to gold. the tariff was, after all, the main issue, bassett held; but it was said that in his business transactions during these vexed years he had stipulated gold payment in his contracts. this was never proved; and if, as charged, he voted in for republican presidential electors it did not greatly matter when a considerable number of other hoosier democrats who, to outward view were virtuously loyal, managed to run with both hounds and hare. bassett believed that his party would regain its lost prestige and come into power again; meanwhile he prospered in business, and wielded the democratic minority at the state house effectively. dan presented himself punctually at the whitcomb house where bassett, with his bag packed, sat reading a magazine. he wore a becoming gray suit without a waistcoat, and a blue négligé shirt, with a turnover collar and a blue tie. he pulled up his creased trousers when he sat down, and the socks thus disclosed above his tan oxfords proved to be blue also. his manner was cordial without effusiveness; when they shook hands his eyes met dan's with a moment's keen, searching gaze, as though he sought to affirm at once his earlier judgment of the young man before him. "i'm glad to see you again, mr. harwood. i was to be in town for the day and named this hour knowing i should be free." "i supposed you were taking it easy at lake waupegan. i remember you told me you had a place there." bassett's eyes met dan's quickly; then he answered:-- "oh, i ought to be there, but i've only had a day of it all summer. i had to spend a lot of time in colorado on some business; and when i struck waupegan i found that matters had been accumulating at home and i only spent one night at the lake. but i feel better when i'm at work. i'm holding waupegan in reserve for my old age." "you don't look as though you needed a vacation," remarked dan. "in fact you look as though you'd had one." "the colorado sun did that. how are things going with you?" "well, i've kept busy since i saw you in fraserville. but i seem doomed to be a newspaper man in spite of myself. i like it well enough, but i think i told you i started out with some hope of landing in the law." "yes, i remember. i'm afraid the trouble with you is that you're too good a reporter. that sketch you wrote of me proved that. if i had not been the subject of it i should be tempted to say that it showed what i believe they call the literary touch. mrs. bassett liked it; maybe because there was so little of her in it. we both appreciated your nice feeling and consideration in the whole article. well, just how are you coming on in the law?" "some of my work at college was preliminary to a law course, and i have done all the reading possible in wright and fitch's office. but i have to eat and the 'courier' takes care of that pretty well; i've had to give less time to study. i don't know enough to be able to command a position as law clerk,--there aren't many pay jobs of that sort in a town like this." "i suppose that's true," assented bassett. "i suppose i shall always regret i didn't hang on at the law, but i had other interests that conflicted. but i'm a member of the bar, as i probably told you at fraserville, and i have a considerable library stored away." "that," laughed dan, "is susceptible of two interpretations." "oh, i don't mean it's in my head; it's in a warehouse in fraserville." the grimness of bassett's face in repose was an effect of his close-trimmed mustache. he was by no means humorless and his smile was pleasant. dan felt drawn to him again as at fraserville. here was a man who stood four square to the winds, undisturbed by the cyclonic outbursts of unfriendly newspapers. in spite of the clashing winter at the state house and all he had heard and read of the senate leader since the fraserville visit, dan's opinion of bassett stood. his sturdy figure, those firm, masterful hands, and his deep, serious voice all spoke for strength. "it has occurred to me, mr. harwood, that we might be of service to each other. i have a good many interests. you may have gathered that i am a very practical person. that is wholly true. in business i aim at success; i didn't start out in life to be a failure." bassett paused a moment and dan nodded. it was at the tip of his tongue to say that such should be every man's hope and aim, but bassett continued. "i'm talking to you frankly. i'm not often mistaken in my judgments of men and i've taken a liking to you. i want to open an office here chiefly to have a quiet place from which to keep track of things that interest me. fraserville is no longer quite central enough and i'm down here a good deal. i need somebody to keep an office open for me. i've been looking about and there are some rooms in the boordman building that i think would be about right. you might call the position i'm suggesting a private secretaryship, as i should want you to take charge of correspondence, make appointments, scan the papers, and keep me advised of the trend of things. i'm going to move my law library down here to give the rooms a substantial look, and if you feel like joining me you'll have a good deal of leisure for study. then when you're ready for practice i may be in a position to help you. you will have a salary of, say, twelve hundred to begin with, but you can make yourself worth more to me." dan murmured a reply which bassett did not heed. "your visit to my home and the article in the 'courier' first suggested this to me. it struck me that you understood me pretty well. i read all the other sketches in that series and the different tone in which you wrote of me gave me the idea that you had tried to please me, and that you knew how to do it. how does the proposition strike you?" "it couldn't be otherwise than gratifying, mr. bassett. it's taken my breath away. it widens all my horizons. i have been questioning my destiny lately; the law as a goal had been drawing further away. and this mark of confidence--" "oh, that point, the confidence will have to be mutual. i am a close-mouthed person and have no confidants, but of necessity you will learn my affairs pretty thoroughly if you accept my offer. you have heard a good deal of talk about me--most of it unflattering. you have heard that i drive hard bargains. at every session of the legislature i am charged with the grossest corruption. there are men in my own party who are bent on breaking me down and getting rid of me. i'm going to give them the best fight i can put up. i can't see through the back of my head: i want you to do that for me." "i don't know much about the practical side of politics; it's full of traps i've never seen sprung, but i know they're planted." "to be perfectly frank, it's because you're inexperienced that i want you. i wouldn't trust anybody who had political ambitions of his own, or who had mixed up in any of these local squabbles. and, besides, you're a gentleman and an educated man, and that counts for something." "you are very kind and generous. i appreciate this more than i can tell you. and i'd like--" "don't decide about it now. i'd rather you didn't. take a week to it, then drop me a line to fraserville, or come up if you want to talk further." "thank you; i shan't want so much time. in any event i appreciate your kindness. it's the most cheering thing that ever happened to me." bassett glanced at his watch. he had said all he had to say in the matter and closed the subject characteristically. "here's a little thing i picked up to-day,--a copy of darlington's 'narrative,'--he was with st. clair, you know; and practically all the copies of the book were burned in a philadelphia printing-office before they were bound; you will notice that some of the pages are slightly singed. as you saw at my house, i'm interested in getting hold of books relating to the achievements of the western pioneers. some of these bald, unvarnished tales give a capital idea of the men who conquered the wilderness. they had the real stuff in them, those fellows!" he took the battered volume--a pamphlet clumsily encased in boards, and drew his hand across its rough sides caressingly. "another of my jokes on the state library. the librarian told me i'd never find a copy, and this was on top of a pile of trash in a second-hand shop right here in this town. it cost me just fifty cents." he snapped his bag shut on the new-found treasure and bade dan good-bye without referring again to the proposed employment. dan knew, as he left the hotel, that if an answer had been imperatively demanded on the spot, he should have accepted bassett's proposition; but as he walked slowly away questions rose in his mind. bassett undoubtedly expected to reap some benefit from his services, and such services would not, of course, be in the line of the law. they were much more likely to partake of the function of journalism, in obtaining publicity for such matters as bassett wished to promulgate. the proposed new office at the capital marked an advance of bassett's pickets. he was abandoning old fortifications for newer and stronger ones, and dan's imagination kindled at the thought of serving this masterful general as aide-de-camp. he took a long walk, thinking of bassett's offer and trying to view it from a philosophical angle. the great leaders in american politics had come oftener than not from the country, he reflected. fraserville, in dan's cogitations, might, as bassett's star rose, prove to be another springfield or fremont or canton, shrouding a planet destined to a brilliant course toward the zenith. he did not doubt that bassett's plans were well-laid; the state senator was farseeing and shrewd, and by attaching himself to this man, whose prospects were so bright, he would shine in the reflected glory of his successes. and the flattery of the offer was not in itself without its magic. however, as the days passed dan was glad that he had taken time for reflection. he began to minimize the advantages of the proposed relationship, and to ponder the ways in which it would compel a certain self-effacement. he had sufficient imagination to color the various scenes in which he saw himself bassett's "man." in moods of self-analysis he knew his nature to be sensitive, with an emotional side whose expressions now and then surprised him. he rallied sharply at times from the skeptical attitude which he felt journalism was establishing in him, and assured himself that his old ideals were safe in the citadel his boyhood imagination had built for them. dan's father was a veteran of the civil war and he had been taught to believe that the democratic party had sought to destroy the union and that the republican party alone had saved it. throughout his boyhood on the harrison county farm, he had been conscious of the recrudescence of the wartime feeling in every political campaign. his admiration for the heroes of the war was in no wise shaken at new haven, but he first realized there that new issues demanded attention. he grew impatient of all attempts to obscure these by harking back to questions that the war had finally determined, if it had served any purpose whatever. he broke a lance frequently with the young men who turned over the books in wright and fitch's office, most of whom were republicans and devout believers that the furnace fires of america's industries were brought down from heaven by protection, a modern prometheus of a new order of utilitarian gods. in the view of these earnest debaters, protection was the first and last commandment, the law and the prophets. the "indianapolis advertiser" and protection newspapers generally had long attacked periodically those gentlemen who, enjoying the sheltered life of college and university, were corrupting the youth of the land by questioning the wisdom of the fire-kindling god. there was a wide margin between theory and practice, between academic dilletantism and a prosperous industrial life fostered and shielded by acts of congress. it required courage for young men bred in the popular faith to turn their backs upon the high altar, so firmly planted, so blazing with lamps of perpetual adoration. while dan was considering the politician's offer, a letter from home brought a fresh plea for help, and strengthened a growing feeling that his wiser course was to throw in his fortunes with bassett. in various small ways mr. fitch had shown an interest in harwood, and dan resolved to take counsel of the lawyer before giving his answer. the little man sat in his private room in his shirt sleeves, with his chair tipped back and his feet on his desk. he was, in his own phrase, "thinking out a brief." he fanned himself in a desultory fashion with a palm leaf. dan had carried in an arm load of books which fitch indicated should be arranged, back-up, on the floor beside him. dan lingered a moment and fitch's "well" gave him leave to proceed. he stated bassett's offer succinctly, telling of his visit to fraserville and of the interview at the whitcomb. when he had concluded fitch asked:-- "why haven't you gone ahead and closed the matter? on the face of it it's a good offer. it gives you a chance to read law and to be associated with a man who is in a position to be of great service to you." "well, to tell the truth, sir, i have had doubts. bassett stands for some things i don't approve of--his kind of politics, i mean." "oh! he doesn't quite square with your ideals, is that it?" "i suppose that is it, mr. fitch." the humor kindled in the little man's brown eyes, and his fingers played with his whitening red beard. "just how strong are those ideals of yours, mr. harwood?" "they're pretty strong, i hope, sir." fitch dropped his feet from the desk, opened a drawer, and drew out a long envelope. "it may amuse you to know that this is the sketch of bassett you printed in the 'courier' last fall. i didn't know before that you wrote it. no wonder it tickled him. and--er--some of it is true. i wouldn't talk to any other man in indiana about bassett. he's a friend and a client of mine. he doesn't trust many people; he doesn't"--the little man's eyes twinkled--"he doesn't trust wright!--and he trusts me because we are alike in that we keep our mouths shut. you must have impressed him very favorably. he seems willing to take you at face value. it would have been quite natural for him to have asked me about you, but he didn't. do you know thatcher--edward g.? he has business interests with bassett, and thatcher dabbles in politics just enough to give him power when he wants it. thatcher is a wealthy man, who isn't fooling with small politics. if some day he sees a red apple at the top of the tree he may go for it. there'd be some fun if bassett tried to shake down the same apple." "i know thatcher's son." "allen? i met him the other day. odd boy; i guess that's one place where ed thatcher's heart is all right." after a moment's reflection with his face turned to the open window fitch added:-- "mr. harwood, if you should go to bassett and in course of time, everything running smoothly, he asked you to do something that jarred with those ideals of yours, what should you do?" "i should refuse, sir," answered dan, earnestly. fitch nodded gravely. "very well; then i'd say go ahead. you understand that i'm not predicting that such a moment is inevitable, but it's quite possible. i'll say to you what i've never said before to any man: i don't understand morton bassett. i've known him for ten years, and i know him just as well now as i did the day i first met him. that may be my own dullness; but ignoring all that his enemies say of him,--and he has some very industrious ones, as you know,--he's still, at his best, a very unusual and a somewhat peculiar and difficult person." "he's different, at least; but i can't think him half as bad as they say he is." "he isn't, probably," replied fitch, whose eyes were contemplating the cornice of the building across the street. then, as though just recalling dan's presence: "may i ask you whether, aside from that 'courier' article, you ever consciously served bassett in any way--ever did anything that might have caused him to feel that he was under obligations?" "why, no, sir; nothing whatever." "--or--" a considerable interval in which fitch's gaze reverted to the cornice--"that you might have some information that made it wise for him to keep his hand on you?" "absolutely nothing," answered dan, the least bit uncomfortable under this questioning. "you're not aware," the lawyer persisted deliberately, "that you ever had any dealings of any kind even remotely with mr. bassett." "no; never, beyond what i've told you." "then, if i were in your place, and the man i think you are, i'd accept the offer, but don't bind yourself for a long period; keep your mouth shut and hang on to your ideals,--it's rather odd that you and i should be using that word; it doesn't get into a law office often. if you feel tempted to do things that you know are crooked, think of billy sumner, and act accordingly. it's getting to be truer all the time that few of us are free men. what's shakespeare's phrase?--'bound upon a wheel of fire';--that, mr. harwood, is all of us. we have valuable clients in this office that we'd lose if i got out and shouted my real political convictions. we're all cowards; but don't you be one. as soon as i'm sure i've provided for my family against the day of wrath i'm going to quit the law and blow the dust off of some of my own ideals; it's thick, i can tell you!" this was seeing fitch in a new aspect. dan was immensely pleased by the lawyer's friendliness, and he felt that his counsel was sound. fitch broke in on the young man's thoughts to say:-- "by the way, you know where i live? come up and dine with me to-morrow at seven if you're free. my folks are away and i'd like to swap views with you on politics, religion, baseball, and great subjects like that." dan wrote his acceptance of bassett's offer that night. chapter x in the boordman building harwood opened the office in the boordman building, and settled in it the law books bassett sent from fraserville. the lease was taken in dan's name, and he paid for the furniture with his own check, bassett having given him five hundred dollars for expenses. the boordman was one of the older buildings in washington street, and as it antedated the era of elevators, only the first of its three stories was occupied by offices. its higher altitudes had fallen to miscellaneous tenants including a few telegraph operators, printers, and other night workers who lodged there for convenience. dan's immediate neighbors proved to be a shabby lawyer who concealed by a professional exterior his real vocation, which was chattel mortgages; a fire insurance agency conducted by several active young fellows of dan's acquaintance; and the office of a pittsburg firm of construction contractors, presided over by a girl who answered the telephone if haply it rang at moments when the heroes of the novels she devoured were not in too imminent peril of death. this office being nearest, dan went in to borrow a match for his pipe while in the midst of his moving and found the girl rearranging her hair before a mirror. "that's as near heart disease as i care to come," she said, turning at his "beg pardon." "there hasn't been a man in this place for two weeks, much less a woman. yes, i can stake you for a match. i keep them for those insurance fellows--nice boys they are, too. you see," she continued, not averse to prolonging the conversation, "our business is mostly outside. hear about the sky-scraper we're building in elwood? three stories! one of the best little towns in indiana, all right. say, the janitor service in this old ark is something i couldn't describe to a gentleman. if there's anything in these microbe fairy stories we'll all die early. you might as well know the worst:--they do light housekeeping on the third floor and the smell of onions is what i call annoying. oh, that's all right; what's a match between friends! the last man who had your office--you've taken sixty-six?--well, he always got his matches here, and touched me occasionally for a pink photo of george washington--stamp, ha! ha! see! he was real nice and when his wife dropped in to see him one day and i was sitting in there joshing him and carrying on, he was that painfully embarrassed! i guess she made him move; but, lord, they have to bribe tenants to get 'em in here. to crawl up one flight of that stairway you have to be a mountain climber. i only stay because the work's so congenial and it's a quiet place for reading, and all the processions pass here. the view of that hairdressing shop across the way is something i recommend. if i hadn't studied stenography i should have taken up hairdressing or manicuring. a little friend of mine works in that shop and the society ladies are most confidential. i'm miss rose farrell, if you tease me to tell. you needn't say by any other name it's just as sweet--the ruffle's a little frayed on that." bassett had stipulated that his name should not appear and he suggested that dan place his own on the door. later, when he had been admitted to the bar it would be easy to add "attorney at law," bassett said. each of the three rooms of what the agent of the building liked to call a suite opened directly into the hall. in the first harwood set up a desk for himself; in the second he placed the library, and the third and largest was to be bassett's at such times as he cared to use it. throughout the summer harwood hardly saw bassett, and he began to regret his reluctant assent to a relationship which conferred so many benefits with so little work. he dug hungrily at the law, and felt that he was making progress. fitch, who was braving the heat in town, had outlined a course of reading for him, and continued his manifestations of friendliness by several times asking him to dinner, with a motor ride later to cool them off before going to bed. bassett kept pretty close to fraserville, running into the city occasionally for a few hours. he complained now and then because he saw so little of his family, who continued at the lake. dan had certain prescribed duties, but these were not onerous. a great many of the country newspapers began to come to the office, and it was harwood's business to read them and cut out any items bearing upon local political conditions. bassett winnowed these carefully, brushing the chaff into his wastebasket and retaining a few kernels for later use. he seemed thoroughly familiar with the state press and spoke of the rural newspapers with a respect that surprised harwood, who had little patience with what he called the "grapevine dailies," with their scrappy local news, patent insides, and servile partisan opinions. still, he began to find in a considerable number of these papers, even those emanating from remote county seats, a certain raciness and independence. this newspaper reading, which dan had begun perfunctorily, soon interested him. it was thus, he saw, that bassett kept in touch with state affairs. sporadic temperance movements, squabbles over local improvements, rows in school boards, and like matters were not beneath bassett's notice. he discussed these incidents and conditions with harwood, who was astonished to find how thoroughly bassett knew the state. through all this dan was not blind to the sins charged against bassett. there were certain corporations which it was said bassett protected from violence at the state house. but as against this did not the vast horde of greedy corporations maintain a lobby at every session and was not a certain amount of lobbying legitimate? again, bassett had shielded the liquor interests from many attacks; but had not these interests their rights, and was it not a sound doctrine that favored government with the least restraint? rather uglier had been bassett's identification with the organization of the white river canneries company, a combination of industries on which a scandalous overissue of stock had been sold in generous chunks to a confiding public, followed in a couple of years by a collapse of the business and a reorganization that had frozen out all but a favored few. still, bassett had not been the sole culprit in that affair, and was not this sort of financiering typical of the time? bassett and thatcher had both played the gentle game of freeze-out in half a dozen other instances, and if they were culpable, why had they not been brought to book? in his inner soul dan knew why not: in the bi-partisan political game only the stupid are annoyed by grand juries, which take their cue tamely from ambitious prosecuting attorneys eager for higher office. bassett's desk stood against the wall and over it hung a map of indiana. it was no unusual thing for dan to find bassett with his chair tipped back, his eyes fixed upon the map. the oblong checkerboard formed by the ninety-two counties of the hoosier commonwealth seemed to have a fascination for the man from fraserville. when dan found him thus in rapt contemplation bassett usually turned toward him a little reluctantly and absently. it was thus that morton bassett studied the field, like a careful general outlining his campaigns, with ample data and charts before him. this was an "off" year politically, or, more accurately, the statutes called for no state election in indiana. for every one knows that there is no hour of the day in any year when politics wholly cease from agitating the waters of the wabash: somewhere some one is always dropping in a pebble to see how far the ripple will widen. in the torrid first days of september the malfeasance of the treasurer of an ohio river county afforded the republican press an opportunity to gloat, the official in question being, of course, a democrat, and a prominent member of the state committee. for several days before the exposure bassett had appeared fitfully at the whitcomb and in the boordman building. on the day that the republican "advertiser" screamed delightedly over the democratic scandal in ranger county, bassett called dan into his office. bassett's name had been linked to that of miles, the erring treasurer, in the "advertiser's" headlines; and its leading editorial had pointed to the defalcation as the sort of thing that inevitably follows the domination of a party by a spoilsman and corruptionist like the senator from fraser. bassett indicated by a nod a copy of the "advertiser" on his desk. "the joke was on us this time. they're pinning miles on me, and i guess i'll have to wear him like a bouquet. i've been in louisville fixing this thing up and they won't have as much fun as they thought. it's a simple case: miles hadn't found out yet that corn margins are not legitimate investments for a county's money. he's a good fellow and will know better next time. we couldn't afford to have a member of the state committee in jail, so i met the bondsmen and the prosecuting attorney--he's a republican--in louisville and we straightened it all out. the money's in bank down there. it proves to be after all a matter of bookkeeping,--technical differences, which were reconciled readily enough. miles got scared; those fellows always do. he'll be good now." dan had been standing. bassett pointed to a chair. "i want you to write an interview with me on this case, laying emphasis on the fact that the trouble was all due to an antiquated system of keeping the accounts, which miles inherited from his predecessors in office. the president of the bank and the prosecutor have prepared statements,--i have them in my pocket,--and i want you to get all the publicity you know how for these things. let me see. in my interview you'd better lay great stress on the imperative need for a uniform accounting law for county officials. say that we expect to stand for this in our next platform; make it strong. have me say that this incident in ranger county, while regrettable, will serve a good purpose if it arouses the minds of the people to the importance of changing the old unsatisfactory method of bookkeeping that so frequently leads perfectly trustworthy and well-meaning officials into error. do you get the idea?" "yes; perfectly," dan replied. "as i understand it, miles isn't guilty, but you would take advantage of the agitation to show the necessity for reform." "exactly. and while you're about it, write a vigorous editorial for the 'courier,' on the same line, and a few ironical squibs based on the eagerness of the republican papers to see all democrats through black goggles." the humor showed in bassett's eyes for an instant, and he added: "praise the republican prosecutor of ranger county for refusing to yield to partisan pressure and take advantage of a democrat's mistakes of judgment. he's a nice fellow and we've got to be good to him." this was the first task of importance that bassett had assigned to him and dan addressed himself to it zealously. if miles was not really a defaulter there was every reason why the heinous aspersions of the opposition press should be dealt with vigorously. dan was impressed by bassett's method of dealing with a difficult situation. miles had erred, but bassett had taken the matter in hand promptly, secretly, and effectively. his attitude toward the treasurer's sin was tolerant and amiable. miles had squandered money in bucket-shop gambling, but the sin was not uncommon, and the amount of his loss was sufficient to assure his penitence; he was an ally of bassett's and it was bassett's way to take care of his friends. bassett had not denied that the culprit had been guilty of indiscretions; but he had minimized the importance of his error and adorned the tale with a moral on which dan set about laying the greatest emphasis. he enjoyed writing, and in the interview he attributed ideas to bassett that would have been creditable to the most idealistic of statesmen. he based the editorial bassett had suggested upon the interview; and he wrote half a dozen editorial paragraphs in a vein of caustic humor that the "courier" affected. in the afternoon he copied his articles on a typewriter and submitted them to bassett. "good, very good. too bad to take you out of the newspaper business; you have the right point of view and you know how to get hold of the right end of a sentence. let me see. i wish you would do another interview changing the phraseology and making it short, and we'll give the 'advertiser' a chance to print it. i'll attend to these other things. you'd better not be running into the 'courier' office too much now that you're with me. they haven't got on to that yet, but they'll give us a twist when they do." dan had been admitted to the ante-chamber of bassett's confidence, but he was to be permitted to advance a step further. at four o'clock he was surprised by the appearance of atwill, the "courier's" manager. dan had no acquaintance with atwill, whose advent had been coincident with the "courier's" change of ownership shortly after dan's tentative connection with the paper began. atwill had rarely visited the editorial department, but it was no secret that he exercised general supervision of the paper. it had been whispered among the reporters that every issue was read carefully in proof by atwill, but dan had never been particularly interested in this fact. as atwill appeared in the outer office, bassett came from his own room to meet him. the door closed quickly upon the two and they were together for half an hour or more. then bassett summoned dan. "mr. atwill, this is mr. harwood. he was formerly employed on the 'courier.' it was he that wrote up the hoosier statesmen, you may remember." atwill nodded. "i remember very well. those articles helped business,--we could follow your pencil up and down the state on our circulation reports. i jumped the city editor for letting you go." atwill was a lean, clean-shaven man who chewed gum hungrily. his eyes were noticeably alert and keen. there was a tradition that he had been a "star" reporter in new york, a managing editor in pittsburg, and a business manager in minneapolis before coming to supervise the "courier" for its new owner. "atwill, you and harwood had better keep in touch with each other. harwood is studying law here, but he will know pretty well what i'm doing. he will probably write an editorial for you occasionally, and when it comes in it won't be necessary for the regular employees of the 'courier' to know where it comes from. harwood won't mind if they take all the glory for his work." when atwill left, bassett talked further to harwood, throwing his legs across a chair and showing himself more at ease than dan had yet seen him. "harwood," he said,--he had dropped the mister to-day for the first time in their intercourse,--"i've opened the door wider to you than i ever did before to any man. i trust you." "i appreciate that, mr. bassett." "i've been carrying too much, and it's a relief to find that i've got a man i can unload on. you understand, i trust you absolutely. and in coming to me as you did, and accepting these confidences, i assume that you don't think me as wicked as my enemies make me out." "i liked you," said dan, with real feeling, "from that moment you shook hands with me in your house at fraserville. when i don't believe in you any longer, i'll quit; and if that time comes you may be sure that i shan't traffic in what i learn of your affairs. i feel that i want to say that to you." "that's all right, harwood. i hope our relations will be increasingly friendly; but if you want to quit at any time you're not tied. be sure of that. if you should quit me to-morrow i should be disappointed but i wouldn't kick. and don't build up any quixotic ideas of gratitude toward me. when you don't like your job, move on. i guess we understand each other." if dan entertained any doubts as to the ethics involved in bassett's handling of the situation in ranger county they were swept away by the perfect candor with which bassett informed their new intimacy. the most interesting and powerful character in indiana politics had made a confidant of him. without attempting to exact vows of secrecy, or threatening vengeance for infractions of faith, but in a spirit of good-fellowship that appealed strongly to harwood, bassett had given him a pass-key to many locked doors. "as you probably gathered," bassett was saying, "atwill represents me at the 'courier' office." "i had never suspected it," dan replied. "has anybody suspected it?" asked bassett quickly. "well; of course it has been said repeatedly that you own or control the 'courier.'" "let them keep on saying it; they might have hard work to prove it. and--" bassett's eyes turned toward the window. his brows contracted and he shut his lips tightly so that his stiff mustache gave to his mouth a sinister look that dan had never seen before. the disagreeable expression vanished and he was his usual calm, unruffled self. "and," he concluded, smiling, "i might have some trouble in proving it myself." dan was not only accumulating valuable information, but bassett interested him more and more as a character. he was an unusual man, a new type, this senator from fraser, with his alternating candor and disingenuousness, his prompt solutions of perplexing problems. it was unimaginable that a man so strong and so sure of himself, and so shrewd in extricating others from their entanglements, could ever be cornered, trapped, or beaten. bassett's hands had impressed dan that first night at fraserville, and he watched them again as bassett idly twisted a rubber band in his fingers. how gentle those hands were and how cruel they might be! the next morning dan found that his interview with bassett was the feature of the first page of the "courier," and the statement he had sent to the "advertiser" was hardly less prominently displayed. his editorial was the "courier's" leader, and it appeared _verbatim et literatim_. he viewed his work with pride and satisfaction; even his ironical editorial "briefs" had, he fancied, something of the piquancy he admired in the paragraphing of the "new york sun." but his gratification at being able to write "must" matter for both sides of a prominent journal was obscured by the greater joy of being the chief adjutant of the "courier's" sagacious concealed owner. the "advertiser" replied to bassett's statement in a tone of hilarity. bassett's plea for a better accounting system was funny, that was all. miles, the treasurer of ranger county, had been playing the bucket shops with public moneys, and the honorable morton bassett, of fraserville, with characteristic zeal in a bad cause, had not only adjusted the shortage, but was craftily trying to turn the incident to the advantage of his party. the text for the "advertiser's" leader was the jingle:-- "when the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be; when the devil got well, the devil a monk was he!" bassett had left town, but the regular staff of the "courier" kept up the fight along the lines of the articles dan had contributed. the "advertiser," finding that the republican prosecuting attorney of ranger county joined with the local bank in certifying to miles's probity, dropped the matter after a few scattering volleys. however, within a week after the miles incident, the "advertiser" gave harwood the shock of an unlooked-for plunge into ice-water by printing a sensational story under a double-column headline, reading, "the boss in the boordman building." the honorable morton bassett, so the article averred, no longer satisfied to rule his party amid the pastoral calm of fraser county, had stolen into the capital and secretly established headquarters, which meant, beyond question, the manifestation of even a wider exercise of his malign influence in indiana politics. harwood's name enjoyed a fame that day that many years of laborious achievement could not have won for it. the "advertiser's" photographers had stolen in at night and taken a flashlight picture of the office door, bearing the legend daniel harwood harwood's personal history was set forth in florid phrases. it appeared that he had been carefully chosen and trained by bassett to aid in his evil work. his connection with the "courier," which had seemed to dan at the time so humble, assumed a dignity and importance that highly amused him. it was quite like the fraserville boss to choose a young man of good antecedents, the graduate of a great university, with no previous experience in politics, the better to bend him to his will. dan's talents and his brilliant career at college all helped to magnify the importance of bassett's latest move. morton bassett was dangerous, the "advertiser" conceded editorially, because he had brains; and he was even more to be feared because he could command the brains of other men. dan called bassett at fraserville on the long distance telephone and told him of the disclosure. bassett replied in a few sentences. "that won't hurt anything. i'd been expecting something of the kind. put you in, did they? i'll get my paper to-night and read it carefully. better cut the stuff out and send it in an envelope, to make sure. call atwill over and tell him we ignore the whole business. i'm taking a little rest, but i'll be in town in about a week." dan was surprised to find how bitterly he resented the attack on bassett. the "advertiser" spoke of the leader as though he were a monster of immorality and dan honestly believed bassett to be no such thing. his loyalty was deeply intensified by the hot volleys poured into the boordman building; but he was not disturbed by the references to himself. he winced a little bit at being called a "stool pigeon"; but he thought he knew the reporter who had written the article, and his experience in the newspaper office had not been so brief but that it had killed his layman's awe of the printed word. when he walked into the whitcomb that evening the clerk made a point of calling his name and shaking hands with him. he was conscious that a number of idlers in the hotel lobby regarded him with a new interest. some one spoke his name audibly, and he enjoyed in some degree the sensation of being a person of mark. he crossed university square and walked out meridian street to fitch's house. the lawyer came downstairs in his shirt sleeves with a legal envelope in his hand. "glad to see you, harwood. i'm packing up; going to light out in the morning and get in on the end of my family's vacation. they've moved out of maine into the berkshires and the boys are going back to college without coming home. i see the 'advertiser' has been after you. how do you like your job?" "i'm not scared," dan replied. "it's all very amusing and my moral character hasn't suffered so far." fitch eyed him critically. "well, i haven't time to talk to you, but here's something i wish you'd do for me. i have a quit-claim deed for mrs. owen to sign. i forgot to tell one of the boys in the office to get her acknowledgment, but you're a notary, aren't you? i've just been telephoning her about it. you know who she is? come to think of it, she's bassett's aunt-in-law. you're not a good hoosier till you know aunt sally. i advise you to make yourself solid with her. i don't know what she's doing in town just now, but her ways are always inscrutable." dan was soon ringing the bell at mrs. owen's. mrs. owen was out, the maid said, but would be back shortly. dan explained that he had come from mr. fitch, and she asked him to walk into the parlor and wait. sylvia garrison and her grandfather had been at montgomery since their visit to waupegan and were now in indianapolis for a day on their way to boston. the delaware street house had been closed all summer. the floors were bare and the furniture was still jacketed in linen. sylvia rose as harwood appeared at the parlor door. "pardon me," said dan, as the maid vanished. "i have an errand with mrs. owen and i'll wait, if you don't mind?" "certainly. mrs. owen has gone out to make a call, but she will be back soon. she went only a little way down the street. please have a chair." she hesitated a moment, not knowing whether to remain or to leave the young man to himself. dan determined the matter for her by opening a conversation on the state of the weather. "september is the most trying month of the year. just when we're all tired of summer, it takes its last fling at us." "it has been very warm. i came over from montgomery this afternoon and it was very dusty and disagreeable on the train." "from montgomery?" repeated dan, surprised and perplexed. then, as it dawned upon him that this was the girl who had opened the door for him at professor kelton's house in montgomery when he had gone there with a letter from fitch, "you see," he said, "we've met before, in your own house. you very kindly went off to find some one for me--and didn't come back; but i passed you on the campus as i was leaving." he had for the moment forgotten the name of the old gentleman to whom he had borne a letter from mr. fitch. he would have forgotten the incident completely long ago if it had not been for the curious manner in which the lawyer had received his report and the secrecy so carefully enjoined. it was odd that he should have chanced upon these people again. dan did not know many women, young or old, and he found this encounter with sylvia wholly agreeable, sylvia being, as we know, seventeen, and not an offense to the eye. "it was my grandfather, professor kelton, you came to see. he's here with me now, but he's gone out to call on an old friend with mrs. owen." every detail of dan's visit to the cottage was clear in sylvia's mind; callers had been too rare for there to be any dimness of memory as to the visit of the stranger, particularly when she had associated her grandfather's subsequent depression with his coming. dan felt that he should scrupulously avoid touching upon the visit to montgomery otherwise than casually. he was still bound in all honor to forget that excursion as far as possible. this young person seemed very serious, and he was not sure that she was comfortable in his presence. "it was a warm day, i remember, but cool and pleasant in your library. i'm going to make a confession. when you went off so kindly to find professor kelton i picked up the book you had been reading, and it quite laid me low. i had imagined it would be something cheerful and frivolous, to lift the spirit of the jaded traveler." "it must have been a good story," replied sylvia, guardedly. "it was! it was the 'Æneid,' and i began at your bookmark and tried to stagger through a page, but it floored me. you see how frank i am; i ought really to have kept this terrible disclosure from you." "didn't you like madison? i remember that i thought you were comparing us unfavorably with other places. you implied"--and sylvia smiled--"that you didn't think madison a very important college." "then be sure of my contrition now! your virgil sank deep into my consciousness, and i am glad of this chance to render unto madison the things that are madison's." his chaffing way reminded her of dr. wandless, who often struck a similar note in their encounters. sylvia was quite at ease now. her caller's smile encouraged friendliness. he had dropped his fedora hat on a chair, but clung to his bamboo stick. his gray sack suit with the trousers neatly creased and his smartly knotted tie proclaimed him a man of fashion: the newest and youngest member of the madison faculty, who had introduced spats to the campus, was not more impressively tailored. "you said you had gone to a large college; and i said--" "oh, you hit me back straight enough!" laughed harwood. "i didn't mean to be rude," sylvia protested, coloring. they evidently both remembered what had been said at that interview. "it wasn't rude; it was quite the retort courteous! my conceit at being a yale man was shattered by your shot." "well, i suppose yale is a good place, too," said sylvia, with a generous intention that caused them both to laugh. "by token of your virgilian diversions shall i assume that you are a collegian, really or almost?" "just almost. i'm on my way to wellesley now." "ah!" and his exclamation was heavy with meaning. a girl bound for college became immediately an integer with which a young man who had not yet mislaid his diploma could reckon. "i have usually been a supporter of vassar. it's the only woman's college i ever attended. i went up there once to see a girl i had met at a prom--such is the weakness of man! i had arrayed myself as the lilies of the field, and on my way through pokip i gathered up a beautiful two-seated trap with a driver, thinking in my ignorance that i should make a big hit by driving the fair one over the hills and far away. the horses were wonderful; i found out later that they were the finest hearse horses in poughkeepsie. she was an awfully funny girl, that girl. she always used both 'shall' and 'will,' being afraid to take chances with either verb, an idea i'm often tempted to adopt myself." "it's ingenious, at any rate. but how did the drive go?" "oh, it didn't! she said she couldn't go with me alone unless i _was_ or _were_ her cousin. it was against the rules. so we agreed to be cousins and she went off to find the dean or some awful autocrat like that, to spring the delightful surprise, that her long-lost cousin from kalamazoo had suddenly appeared, and might she go driving with him. that was her idea, i assure you,--my own depravity could suggest nothing more euphonious than canajoharie. and would you believe it, the consent being forthcoming, she came back and said she wouldn't go--absolutely declined! she rested on the fine point in ethics that, while it was not improper to tell the fib, it would be highly sinful to take advantage of it! so we strolled over the campus and she showed me the sights, while those funeral beasts champed their bits at so much per hour. she was a connecticut girl, and i made a note of the incident as illustrating a curious phase of the new england conscience." while they were gayly ringing the changes on these adventures, steps sounded on the veranda. "that's mrs. owen and my grandfather," said sylvia. "i wonder--" began dan, grave at once. "you're wondering," said sylvia, "whether my grandfather will remember you." she recalled very well her grandfather's unusual seriousness after harwood's visit; it seemed wiser not to bring the matter again to his attention. "i think it would be better if he didn't," replied dan, relieved that she had anticipated his thought. "i was only a messenger boy anyhow and i didn't know what my errand was about that day." "he doesn't remember faces well," said sylvia, "and wouldn't be likely to know you." as mrs. owen asked dan to her office at once, it was unnecessary for sylvia to introduce him to her grandfather. alone with mrs. owen, dan's business was quickly transacted. she produced an abstract of title and bade him read aloud the description of the property conveyed while she held the deed. at one point she took a pen and crossed a _t_; otherwise the work of wright and fitch was approved. when she had signed her name, and while dan was filling in the certificate, she scrutinized him closely. "you're in mr. fitch's office, are you?" she inquired. "not now; but i was there for a time. i happened to call on mr. fitch this evening and he asked me to bring the deed over." "let me see, i don't believe i know any harwoods here." "i haven't been here long enough to be known," answered dan, looking up and smiling. mrs. owen removed her hat and tossed it on a little stand, as though hats were a nuisance in this world and not worthy of serious consideration. she continued her observation of dan, who was applying a blotter to his signature. "i'll have to take this to my office to affix the seal. i'm to give it to mr. wright in the morning for recording." "where is your office, mr. harwood?" she asked flatly. "boordman building," answered dan, surprised to find himself uncomfortable under her direct, penetrating gaze. "humph! so you're morton bassett's young man who was written up in the 'advertiser.'" "mr. bassett has given me a chance to read law in his office. he's a prominent man and the 'advertiser' chose to put its own interpretation on his kindness to me. that's all," answered dan with dignity. "sit still a minute. i forget sometimes that all the folks around here don't know me. i didn't mean to be inquisitive, or disagreeable; i was just looking for information. i took notice of that 'advertiser's' piece because mr. bassett married my niece, so i'm naturally interested in what he does." "yes, mrs. owen, i understand." dan had heard a good deal about mrs. sally owen, in one way or another, and persuaded now, by her change of tone, that she had no intention of pillorying him for bassett's misdeeds, he began to enjoy his unexpected colloquy with her. she bent forward and clasped her veined, bony hands on the table. "i'm glad of a chance to talk to you. it's providential, your turning up this way. i just came to town yesterday and edward thatcher dropped in last night and got to talking to me about his boy." "allen?" dan was greatly surprised at this turn of the conversation. mrs. owen's tone was wholly kind, and she seemed deeply in earnest. "yes, i mean allen thatcher. his father says he's taken a great shine to you. i hardly know the boy, but he's a little queer and he's always been a little sickly. edward doesn't know how to handle him, and the boy's ma--well, she's one of those terre haute bartlows, and those people never would stay put. edward's made too much money for his wife's good, and the united states ain't big enough for her and the girls. but that boy got tired o' gallivanting around over there, and he's back here on edward's hands. the boy's gaits are too much for edward. he says you and allen get on well together. i met him in the bank to-day and he asked me about you." "i like allen;--i'm even very fond of him, and i wish i could help him find himself. he's amusing"--and dan laughed, remembering their first meeting--"but with a fine, serious, manly side that you can't help liking." "that's nice; it's mighty nice. you be good to that boy, and you won't lose anything by it. how do you and morton get on?" "first-rate, i hope. he's treated me generously." then she fastened her eyes upon him with quizzical severity. "young man, the 'advertiser' seems to think morton bassett is crooked. what do you think about it?" dan gasped and stammered at this disconcerting question. she rested her arms on the table and bent toward him, the humor showing in her eyes. "if he _is_ crooked, young man, you needn't think you have to be as big a sinner as he is! you remember that sally owen told you that. be your own boss. morton's a terrible persuader. funny for me to be talking to you this way; i don't usually get confidential so quick. i guess"--and her eyes twinkled--"we'll have to consider ourselves old friends to make it right." "you are very kind, indeed, mrs. owen. i see that i have a responsibility about allen. i'll keep an eye on him. "drop in now and then. i eat a good many sunday dinners alone when i'm at home, and you may come whenever you feel like facing a tiresome old woman across the table." she followed him into the hall, where they ran into sylvia, who had been upstairs saying good-night to her grandfather. mrs. owen arrested sylvia's flight through the hall. "sylvia, i guess you and mr. harwood are already acquainted." "except," said dan, "that we haven't been introduced!" "then, miss garrison, this is mr. harwood. he's a yale college man, so i read in the paper." "oh, i already knew that!" replied sylvia, laughing. "at wellesley please remember, miss garrison, about the kalamazoo cousins," said dan, his hand on the front door. "i guess you young folks didn't need that introduction," observed mrs. owen. "don't forget to come and see me, mr. harwood." chapter xi the map above bassett's desk sometimes, in the rapid progress of their acquaintance, allen thatcher exasperated harwood, but more often he puzzled and interested him. it was clear that the millionaire's son saw or thought he saw in dan a type. to be thought a type may be flattering or not; it depends upon the point of view. dan himself had no illusions in the matter. allen wanted to see and if possible meet the local characters of whom he read in the newspapers; and he began joining harwood in visits to the hotels at night, hoping that these wonderful representatives of american democracy might appear. harwood's acquaintance was widening; he knew, by sight at least, all the prominent men of the city and state, and after leaving the newspaper he still spent one or two evenings a week lounging in the hotel corridors. tradition survived of taller giants before the days of the contemporaneous agamemnons. allen asked questions about these and mourned their passing. harrison, the twenty-third president; gresham, of the brown eyes, judge and cabinet minister; hendricks, the courtly gentleman, sometime vice-president; "uncle joe" mcdonald and "dan" voorhees, senators in congress, and loved in their day by wide constituencies. these had vanished, but dan and allen made a pious pilgrimage one night to sit at the feet of david turpie, who had been a senator in two widely separated eras, and who, white and venerable, like aigyptos knew innumerable things. the cloaked poets once visible in market street had vanished before our chronicle opens, with the weekly literary journals in which they had shone, but dan was able to introduce allen to james whitcomb riley in a bookshop frequented by the poet; and that was a great day in allen's life. he formed the habit of lying in wait for the poet and walking with him, discussing keats and burns, stevenson and kipling, and others of their common admirations. one day of days the poet took allen home with him and read him a new, unpublished poem, and showed him a rare photograph of stevenson and the outside of a letter just received from kipling, from the uttermost parts of the world. it was a fine thing to know a poet and to speak with him face to face,--particularly a poet who sang of his own soil as allen wished to know it. still, allen did not quite understand how it happened that a poet who wrote of farmers and country-town folk wore eyeglasses and patent-leather shoes and carried a folded silk umbrella in all weathers. the active politicians who crossed his horizon interested allen greatly; the rougher and more uncouth they were the more he admired them. they were figures in the great experiment, no matter how sordid or contemptible harwood pronounced them. he was always looking for "types" and "big" jordan, the republican chief, afforded him the greatest satisfaction. he viewed the local political scene from an angle that harwood found amusing, and dan suggested that it must be because the feudal taint and the servile tradition are still in our blood that we submit so tamely to the rule of petty lordlings. in his exalted moments allen's ideas shot far into the air, and dan found it necessary to pull him back to earth. "i hardly see a greek frieze carved of these brethren," dan remarked one night as they lounged at the whitcomb when a meeting of the state committee was in progress. "these fellows would make you weep if you knew as much about them as i do. there's one of the bright lights now--the honorable ike pettit, of fraser. the honorable ike isn't smart enough to be crooked; he's the bellowing falstaff of the hoosier democracy. i wonder who the laugh's on just now; he's shaking like a jelly fish over something." "oh, i know him! he and father are great chums; he was at the house for dinner last night." "what!" harwood was unfeignedly surprised at this. the editor of the "fraser county democrat" had probably never dined at the bassetts' in his own town, or at least dan assumed as much; and since he had gained an insight into bassett's affairs he was aware that the physical property of the "fraser county democrat" was mortgaged to morton bassett for quite all it was worth. it was hardly possible that thatcher was cultivating pettit's acquaintance for sheer joy of his society. as the ponderous editor lumbered across the lobby to where they sat, dan and allen rose to receive his noisily cordial salutations. on his visits to the capital, arrayed in a tremendous frock coat and with a flapping slouch hat crowning his big iron-gray head, he was a prodigious figure. "boys," he said, dropping an arm round each of the young men, "the democratic party is the hope of mankind. free her of the wicked bosses, boil the corruption out of her, and the grand old hoosier democracy will appear once more upon the mountain tops as the bringer of glad tidings. what's the answer, my lads, to uncle ike's philosophy?" "between campaigns we're all reformers," said harwood guardedly. "i feel it working in my own system." "between campaigns," replied the honorable isaac pettit impressively, "we're all a contemptible lot of cowards, that's what's the matter with us. was thomas jefferson engaged in manipulating legislatures? did he obstruct the will of the people? not by a long shot he did _not_! and that grand old patriot, andrew jackson, wasn't he satisfied to take his licker or let it alone without being like a heathen in his blindness, bowing down to wood and stone carved into saloons and distilleries?" "it's said by virtuous republicans that our party is only a tail to the liquor interests. if you're going back to the sage of monticello, how do you think he would answer that?" "bless you, my dear boy; it's not the saloons we try to protect; it's the plain people, who are entitled to the widest and broadest liberty. if you screw the lid down on people too tight you'll smother 'em. i'm not a drinkin' man; i go to church and in my newspaper i preach the felicities of sobriety and domestic peace. but it's not for me to dictate to my brother what he shall eat or wear. no, sir! and look here, don't you try to read me out of the democratic party, young man. at heart our party's as sweet and strong as corn; yea, as the young corn that leapeth to the rains of june. it's the bosses that's keepin' us down." "your reference to corn throws us back on the distilleries," suggested harwood, laughing. but he was regarding the honorable isaac pettit attentively. pettit had changed his manner and stood rocking himself slowly on his heels. he had been a good deal at the capital of late, and this, together with his visit to thatcher's house, aroused harwood's curiosity. he wondered whether it were possible that pettit and thatcher were conspiring against bassett: the fact that he was so heavily in debt to the senator from fraser seemed to dispose of his fears. since his first visit to fraserville dan had heard many interesting and amusing things about the editor. pettit had begun life as a lawyer, but had relapsed into rural journalism after a futile effort to find clients. he had some reputation as an orator, and dan had heard him make a speech distinguished by humor and homely good sense at a meeting of the democratic state editorial association. pettit, having once sat beside henry watterson at a public dinner in louisville, had thereafter encouraged as modestly as possible a superstition that he and mr. watterson were the last survivors of the "old school" of american editors. one of his favorite jokes was the use of the editorial "we" in familiar conversation; he said "our wife" and "our sanctum," and he amused himself by introducing into the "democrat" trifling incidents of his domestic life, beginning these items with such phrases as, "while we were weeding our asparagus bed in the cool of tuesday morning, our wife--noble woman that she is--" etc., etc. his squibs of this character, quoted sometimes in metropolitan newspapers, afforded him the greatest glee. he appeared occasionally as a lecturer, his favorite subject being american humor; and he was able to prove by his scrap-book that he had penetrated as far east as xenia, ohio, and as far west as decatur, illinois. once, so ran fraserville tradition, he had been engaged for the lyceum course at springfield, missouri, but his contract had been canceled when it was found that his discourse was unillumined by the stereopticon, that vivifying accessory being just then in high favor in that community. out of his own reading and reflections allen had reached the conclusion that franklin, emerson, and lincoln were the greatest americans. he talked a great deal of lincoln and of the civil war, and the soldiers' monument, in its circular plaza in the heart of the city, symbolized for him all heroic things. he would sit on the steps in the gray shadow at night, waiting for dan to finish some task at his office, and harwood would find him absorbed, dreaming by the singing, foaming fountains. allen spoke with a kind of passionate eloquence of this stupendous experiment, or this beautiful experiment, as he liked to call america. dan put walt whitman into his hands and afterwards regretted it, for allen developed an attack of acute whitmania that tried dan's patience severely. dan had passed through whitman at college and emerged safely on the other side. he begged allen not to call him "camerado" or lift so often the perpendicular hand. he suggested to him that while it might be fine and patriotic to declaim "when lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd," from the steps of the monument at midnight, the police might take another view of the performance. he began to see, however, that beneath much that was whimsical and sentimental the young fellow was sincerely interested in the trend of things in what, during this whitman period, he called "these states." sometimes allen's remarks on current events struck harwood by their wisdom: the boy was wholesomely provocative and stimulating. he began to feel that he understood him, and in his own homelessness allen became a resource. allen was a creature of moods, and vanished often for days or weeks. he labored fitfully in his carpenter shop at home or with equal irregularity at a bench in the shop of lüders, a cabinetmaker. dan sometimes sought him at the shop, which was a headquarters for radicals of all sorts. the workmen showed a great fondness for allen, who had been much in germany and spoke their language well. he carried to the shop quantities of german books and periodicals for their enlightenment. the shop's visitors included several young americans, among them a newspaper artist, a violinist in a theatre orchestra, and a linotype expert. they all wore large black scarfs and called each other "comrade." allen earnestly protested that he still believed in the american idea, the great experiment; but if democracy should fail he was ready to take up socialism. he talked of his heroes; he said they all owed it to the men who had made and preserved the union to give the existing government a chance. these discussions were entirely good-humored and harwood enjoyed them. sometimes they met in the evening at a saloon in the neighborhood of the shop where allen, the son of edward thatcher, whom everybody knew, was an object of special interest. he would sit on a table and lecture the saloon loungers in german, and at the end of a long debate made a point of paying the score. he was most temperate himself, sipping a glass of wine or beer in the deliberate german fashion. allen was a friendly soul and every one liked him. it was impossible not to like a lad whose ways were so gentle, whose smile was so appealing. he liked dancing and went to most of the parties--our capital has not outgrown its homely provincial habit of calling all social entertainments "parties." he was unfailingly courteous, with a manner toward women slightly elaborate and reminiscent of other times. there was no question of his social acceptance; mothers of daughters, who declined to speak to his father, welcomed him to their houses. allen introduced dan to the households he particularly fancied and they made calls together on dan's free evenings or on sunday afternoons. snobbishness was a late arrival among us; any young man that any one vouched for might know the "nicest" girls. harwood's social circle was widening; fitch and his wife said a good word for him in influential quarters, and the local yale men had not neglected him. allen liked the theatre, and exercised considerable ingenuity in devising excuses for paying for the tickets when they took young women of their acquaintance. he pretended to dan that he had free tickets or got them at a discount. his father made him a generous allowance and he bought a motor car in which he declared dan had a half interest; they needed it, he said, for their social adventures. at the thatcher house, harwood caught fitful glimpses of allen's father, a bird of passage inured to sleeping-cars. occasionally harwood dined with the father and son and they would all adjourn to allen's shop on the third floor to smoke and talk. when allen gave rein to his fancy and began descanting upon the grandeur of the republic and the beautiful experiment making in "these states," dan would see a blank puzzled look steal into thatcher's face. thatcher adored allen: he had for him the deep love of a lioness for her cubs; but all this idealistic patter the boy had got hold of--god knew where!--sounded as strange to the rich man as a discourse in sanskrit. thatcher had not been among bassett's callers in the new office in the boordman, but late one afternoon, when dan was deep in the principles of evidence, thatcher came in. "i'm not expecting mr. bassett to-day, if you wish to see him," said dan. "nope," thatcher replied indifferently, "i'm not looking for mort. he's in fraserville, i happen to know. just talking to him on the telephone, so i rather guessed you were alone, that's why i came up. i want to talk to you a little bit, harwood. it must be nearly closing time, so suppose you lock the door. you see," he continued, idling about the room, "mort's in the newspapers a good deal, and not being any such terrible sinner as he is i don't care to have his labels tacked on me too much. not that mort isn't one of my best friends, you know; but a family man like me has got to be careful of his reputation." harwood opened his drawer and took out a box of cigars. thatcher accepted one and lighted it deliberately, commenting on the office as he did so. he even strolled through the library to the open door of bassett's private room beyond. the map of indiana suspended above bassett's desk interested him and he stood leaning on his stick and surveying it. there was something the least bit insinuating in his manner. the room, the map, the fact that morton bassett of fraserville had, so to speak, planted a vedette in the heart of the capital, seemed to afford him mild, cynical amusement. he drew his hand across his face, twisted his mustache, and took the cigar from his mouth and examined the end of it with fictitious interest. "well," he ejaculated, "damn it all, why not?" harwood did not know why not; but a man as rich as edward thatcher was entitled to his vagaries. thatcher sank into bassett's swivel chair and swung round once or twice as though testing it, meanwhile eyeing the map. then he tipped himself back comfortably and dropped his hat into his lap. his grayish brown hair was combed carefully from one side across the top in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal his baldness. "i guess mort wouldn't object to my sitting in his chair provided i didn't look at that map too much. who was the chap that the sword hung over by a hair--damocles? well, maybe that's what that map is--it would smash pretty hard if the whole state fell down on mort. but mort knows just how many voters there are in every township and just how they line up election morning. there's a lot of brains in bassett's head; you've noticed it?" "it's admitted, i believe, that he's a man of ability," said dan a little coldly. thatcher grinned. "you're all right, harwood. i know you're all right or mort wouldn't have put you in here. i'm rather kicking myself that i didn't see you first." "mr. bassett has given me a chance i'd begun to fear i shouldn't get; you see i'm studying law here. mr. bassett has made that possible. he's the best friend i ever had." "that's good. bassett usually picks winners. from what i hear of you and what i've seen i think you're all right myself. my boy has taken quite a great fancy to you." thatcher looked at the end of his cigar and waited for dan to reply. "i've grown very fond of allen. he's very unusual; he's full of surprises." "that boy," said thatcher, pointing his cigar at dan, "is the greatest boy in the world; but, damn it all, i don't make him out." "well, he's different; he's an idealist. i'm not sure that he isn't a philosopher!" thatcher nodded, as though this were a corroboration of his own surmises. "he has a lot of ideas that are what they call advanced, but it's not for me to say that he isn't right about them. he talks nonsense some of the time, but occasionally he knocks me down with a big idea--or his way of putting a big idea. he doesn't understand a good deal that he sees; and yet he sometimes says something perfectly staggering." "he does; by george, he does! damn it, i took him to see a glassworks the other day; thought it would appeal to his sense of what you call the picturesque; but, lord bless me, he asked how much the blowers were paid and wanted me to raise their pay on the spot. that was one on me, all right; i'd thought of giving him the works to play with, but i didn't have the nerve to offer it to him after that. 'fraid he'd either turn it down or take it and bust me." thatcher had referred to this incident with unmistakable pride; he was evidently amused rather than chagrined by his son's scorn of the gift of a profitable industry. "i offered him money to start a carpenter shop or furniture factory or anything he wanted to tackle, but he wouldn't have it. said he wanted to work in somebody else's shop to get the discipline. discipline? that boy never had any discipline in his life! i've kept my nose to the grindstone ever since i was knee-high to a toad just so that boy wouldn't have to worry about his daily bread, and now, damn it all, he runs a carpenter shop on the top floor of a house that stands me, lot, furniture, and all, nearly a hundred thousand dollars! i can't talk to everybody about this; my wife and daughters don't want any discipline; don't like the united states or anything in it except exchange on london; and here i am with a boy who wears overalls and tries to callous his hands to look like a laboring man. if you can figure that out, it's a damn sight more than i can do! it's one on ed thatcher, that's all!" "if i try to answer you, please don't think i pretend to any unusual knowledge of human nature; but what i see in the boy is a kind of poetic attitude toward america--our politics, the whole scheme; and it's a poetic strain in him that accounts for this feeling about labor. and he has a feeling for justice and mercy; he's strong for the underdog." "i suppose," said thatcher dryly, "that if he'd been an underdog the way i was he'd be more tickled at a chance to sit on top. when i wore overalls it wasn't funny. well, what am i going to do with him?" "if you really want me to tell you i'd say to let him alone. he's a perfectly clean, straight, high-minded boy. if he were physically strong enough i should recommend him to go to college, late as it is for him, or better, to a school where he would really satisfy what seems to be his sincere ambition to learn to do something with his hands. but he's all right as he is. you ought to be glad that his aims are so wholesome. there are sons of prosperous men right around here who see everything red." "that boy," declared thatcher, pride and love surging in him, "is as clean as wheat!" "quite so; no one could know him without loving him. and i don't mind saying that i find myself in accord with many of his ideas." "sort of damned idealist yourself?" "i should blush to say it," laughed dan; "but i feel my heart warming when allen gets to soaring sometimes; he expresses himself with great vividness. he goes after me hard on my _laissez-faire_ notions." "i take the count and throw up the sponge!" "oh, that's a chestnut that means merely that the underdog had better stay under if he can't fight his way out." "it seems tough when you boil it down to that; i guess maybe allen's right--we all ought to divide up. i'm willing, only"--and he grinned quizzically--"i'm paired with mort bassett." the light in his cigar had gone out; he swung round and faced the map of indiana above morton bassett's desk, fumbling in his waistcoat for a match. when he turned toward harwood again he blew smoke rings meditatively before speaking. "if you're one of these rotten idealists, harwood, what are you doing here with bassett? if that ain't a fair question, don't answer it." harwood was taken aback by the directness of the question. bassett had always spoken of thatcher with respect, and he resented the new direction given to this conversation in bassett's own office. dan straightened himself with dignity, but before he could speak thatcher laughed, and fanned the smoke of his cigar away with his hands. "don't get hot. that was not a fair question; i know it. i guess bassett has his ideals just like the rest of us. i suppose i've got some, too, though i'd be embarrassed if you asked me to name 'em. i suppose"--and he narrowed his eyes--"i suppose mort not only has his ideals but his ambitions. they go together, i reckon." "i hope he has both, mr. thatcher, but you are assuming that i'm deeper in his confidence than the facts justify. you and he have been acquainted so long that you ought to know him thoroughly." thatcher did not heed this mild rebuke; nor did he resort to propitiatory speech. his cool way of ignoring dan's reproach added to the young man's annoyance; dan felt that it was in poor taste and ungenerous for a man of thatcher's years and position to come into bassett's private office to discuss him with a subordinate. he had already learned enough of the relations of the two men to realize that perfect amity was essential between them; he was shocked by the indifference with which thatcher spoke of bassett, of whom people did not usually speak carelessly in this free fashion. harwood's own sense of loyalty was in arms; yet thatcher seemed unmindful that anything disagreeable had occurred. he threw away his cigar and drew out a fresh one which he wobbled about in his mouth unlighted. he kept swinging round in his chair to gaze at the map above bassett's desk. the tinted outlines of the map--green, pink, and orange--could not have had for him any novelty; similar maps hung in many offices and thatcher was moreover a native of the state and long familiar with its configuration. perhaps, dan reflected, its juxtaposition to bassett's desk was what irritated his visitor, though it had never occurred to him that this had any significance. he recalled now, however, that when he had arranged the rooms the map had been hung in the outer office, but that bassett himself had removed it to his private room--the only change he had made in dan's arrangements. it was conceivable that thatcher saw in the position of the map an adumbration of bassett's higher political ambition, and that this had affected the capitalist unpleasantly. thatcher's manner was that of a man so secure in his own position that he could afford to trample others under foot if he liked. it was--not to put too fine a point upon it--the manner of a bully. his reputation for independence was well established; he was rich enough to say what he pleased without regard to the consequences, and he undoubtedly enjoyed his sense of power. "i suppose i'm the only man in indiana that ain't afraid of mort bassett," he announced casually. "it's because mort knows i ain't afraid of him that we get on so well together. you've been with him long enough by this time to know that we have some interests together." dan, with his fingers interlocked behind his head, nodded carelessly. he had grown increasingly resentful of thatcher's tone and manner, and was anxious to be rid of him. "mort's a good deal closer-mouthed than i am. mort likes to hide his tracks--better than that, by george, mort doesn't _make_ any tracks! well, every man is bound to break a twig now and then as he goes along. by george, i tear down the trees like an elephant so they can't miss me!" as dan made no reply to this thatcher recurred in a moment to allen and harwood's annoyance passed. it was obvious that the capitalist had sought this interview to talk of the boy, to make sure that harwood was sincerely interested in him. thatcher's manner of speaking of his son was kind and affectionate. the introduction of bassett into the discussion had been purely incidental, but it was not less interesting because of its unpremeditated interjection. there was possibly some jealousy here that would manifest itself later; but that was not dan's affair. bassett was beyond doubt able to take care of himself in emergencies; dan's admiration for his patron was strongly intrenched in this belief. the bulkier thatcher, with the marks of self-indulgence upon him, and with his bright waistcoat and flashy necktie transcending the bounds of good taste, struck him as a weaker character. if thatcher meditated a break with bassett, the sturdier qualities, the even, hard strokes that bassett had a reputation for delivering, would count heavily against him. "i'm glad you get on so well with the boy," thatcher was saying. "i don't mind telling you that his upbringing has been a little unfortunate--too much damned europe. he's terribly sore because he didn't go to college instead of being tutored all over europe. it's funny he's got all these romantic ideas about america; he's sore at me because he wasn't born poor and didn't have to chop rails to earn his way through college and all that. the rest of my family like the money all right; they're only sore because i didn't make it raising tulips. but that boy's all right. and see here--" thatcher seemed for a moment embarrassed by what was in his mind. he fidgeted in his chair and eyed harwood sharply. "see here, harwood, if you find after awhile that you don't get on with bassett, or you want to change, why, i want you to give me a chance at you. i'd like to put my boy with you, somehow. i'll die some day and i want to be sure somebody'll look after him. by god, he's all i got!" he swung round, but his eyes were upon the floor; he drew out a handkerchief and blew his nose noisily. "by george," he exclaimed, "i promised allen to take you up to sally owen's. you know mrs. owen? that's right; allen said she's been asking about you. she likes young folks; she'll never be old herself. allen and i are going there for supper, and he's asked her if he might bring you along. aunt sally's a great woman. and"--he grinned ruefully--"a good trader. she has beat me on many a horse trade, that woman; and i always go back to try it again. you kind o' like having her do you. and i guess i'm the original easy mark when it comes to horse. get your hat and come along. allen's fixed this all up with her. i guess you and she are the best friends the boy's got." chapter xii blurred windows with sylvia's life in college we have little to do, but a few notes we must make now that she has reached her sophomore year. she had never known girls until she went to college and she had been the shyest of freshmen, the least obtrusive of sophomores. she had carried her work from the start with remarkable ease and as the dragons of failure were no longer a menace she began to give more heed to the world about her. she was early recognized as an earnest, conscientious student whose work in certain directions was brilliant; and as a sophomore her fellows began to know her and take pride in her. she was relieved to find herself swept naturally into the social currents of the college. she had been afraid of appearing stiff or priggish, but her self-consciousness quickly vanished in the broad, wholesome democracy of college life. the best scholar in her class, she was never called a grind and she was far from being a frump. the wisest woman in the faculty said of sylvia: "that girl with her head among the stars has her feet planted on solid ground. her life will count." and the girlhood that sylvia had partly lost, was recovered and prolonged. it was a fine thing to be an american college girl, sylvia realized, and the varied intercourse, the day's hundred and one contacts and small excitements, meant more to her than her fellow students knew. when there was fun in the air sylvia could be relied upon to take a hand in it. her allowance was not meagre and she joined zestfully in such excursions as were possible, to concerts, lectures, and the theatre. she had that reverence for new england traditions that is found in all young westerners. it was one of her jokes that she took two boston girls on their first pilgrimage to concord, a joke that greatly tickled john ware, brooding in his library in delaware street. a few passages from her letters home are illuminative of these college years. here are some snap-shots of her fellow students:-- "i never knew before that there were so many kinds of people in the world--girls, i mean. all parts of the country are represented, and i suppose i shall always judge different cities and states by the girls they send here. there is a california freshman who is quite tall, like the redwood trees, i suppose. and there is a little girl in my class--she seems little--from omaha who lives on a hilltop out there where she can see the missouri river--and when her father first settled there, indians were still about. she is the nicest and gentlest girl i know, and yet she brings before me all those pioneer times and makes me think how fast the country has grown. and there is a virginia girl in my corridor who has the most wonderful way of talking, and there's history in that, too,--the history of all the great war and the things you fought for; but i was almost sorry to have to let her know that you fought on the other side, but i _did_ tell her. i never realized, just from books and maps, that the united states is so big. the girls bring their local backgrounds with them--the different aims and traits. . . . i have drawn a map of the country and named all the different states and cities for the girls who come from them, but this is just for my own fun, of course. . . . i never imagined one would have preferences and like and dislike people by a kind of instinct, without really knowing them, but i'm afraid i do it, and that all the rest of us do the same. . . . nothing in the world is as interesting as people--just dear, good folksy people!" the correspondence her dormitory neighbors carried on with parents and brothers and sisters and friends impressed her by its abundance; and she is to be pardoned if she weighed the letters, whose home news was quoted constantly in her hearing, against her own slight receipts at the college post-office. she knew that every tuesday morning there would be a letter from her grandfather. her old friend dr. wandless sent occasionally, in his kindly humorous fashion, the news of buckeye lane and the college; and mrs. owen wrote a hurried line now and then, usually to quote one of john ware's sayings. the minister asked about sylvia, it seemed. these things helped, but they did not supply the sympathy, of which she was conscious in countless ways, between her fellow students and their near of kin. with the approach of holiday times, the talk among her companions of the homes that awaited them, or, in the case of many, of other homes where they were to visit, deepened her newly awakened sense of isolation. fathers and mothers appeared constantly to visit their daughters, and questions that had never troubled her heart before arose to vex her. why was it, when these other girls, flung together from all parts of the country, were so blest with kindred, that she had literally but one kinsman, the grandfather on whom all her love centred? it should not be thought, however, that she yielded herself morbidly to these reflections, but such little things as the receipt of gifts, the daily references to home affairs, the photographs set out in the girls' rooms, were not without their stab. she wrote to professor kelton:-- "i wish you would send me your picture of mother. i often wondered why you didn't give it to me; won't you lend it to me now? i think it is put away in your desk in the library. almost all the girls have pictures of their families--some of them of their houses and even the horse and dog--in their rooms. and you must have a new picture taken of yourself--i'd like it in your doctor's gown, that they gave you at williams. it's put away in the cedar chest in the attic--mary will know where. and if you have a picture of father anywhere i should like to have that too." she did not know that when this reached him--one of the series of letters on which the old gentleman lived these days, with its wellesley postmark, and addressed in sylvia's clear, running hand, he bowed his white head and wept; for he knew what was in the girl's heart--knew and dreaded this roused yearning, and suffered as he realized the arid wastes of his own ignorance. but he sent her the picture of her mother for which she asked, and had the cottage photographed with mills hall showing faintly beyond the hedge; and he meekly smuggled his doctor's gown to the city and sat for his photograph. these things sylvia proudly spread upon the walls of her room. he wrote to her--a letter that cost him a day's labor:-- "we don't seem to have any photograph of your father; but things have a way of getting lost, particularly in the hands of an old fellow like me. however, i have had myself taken as you wished, and you can see now what a solemn person your grandfather is in his _toga academica_. i had forgotten i had that silk overcoat and i am not sure now that i didn't put the hood on wrong-side-out! i'm a sailor, you know, and these fancy things stump me. the photographer didn't seem to understand that sort of millinery. please keep it dark; your teachers might resent the sudden appearance in the halls of wellesley of a grim old professor _emeritus_ not known to your faculty." the following has its significance in sylvia's history and we must give it place--this also to her grandfather:-- "the most interesting lecture i ever heard (except yours!) was given at the college yesterday by miss jane addams, of hull house, the settlement worker and writer on social reforms. she's such a simple, modest little woman that everybody loved her at once. she made many things clear to me that i had only groped for before. she used an expression that was new to me, 'reciprocal obligations,' which we all have in this world, though i never quite thought of it before. she's a college woman herself, and feels that all of us who have better advantages than other people should help those who aren't taught to climb. it seems the most practical idea in the world, that we should gather up the loose, rough fringes of society and weave the broken threads into a common warp and woof. the social fabric is no stronger than its weakest thread. . . . to help and to save for the sheer love of helping and saving is the noblest thing any of us can do--i feel that. this must be an old story to you; i'm ashamed that i never saw it all for myself. it's as though i had been looking at the world through a blurred window, from a comfortable warm room, when some one came along and brushed the pane clear, so that i could see the suffering and hardship outside, and feel my own duty to go out and help." professor kelton, spending a day in the city, showed this to mrs. owen when she asked for news of sylvia. mrs. owen kept the letter that john ware might see it. ware said: "deep nature; i knew that night she told me about the stars that she would understand everything. you will hear of her. wish she would come here to live. we need women like that." professor kelton met sylvia in new york on her way home for the holidays in her freshman year and they spent their christmas together in the cottage. she was bidden to several social gatherings in buckeye lane; and to a dance in town. she was now miss garrison, a student at wellesley, and the good men and women at madison paid tribute to her new dignity. something sylvia was knowing of that sweet daffodil time in the heart of a girl before the hovering swallows dare to fly. in the midyear recess of her sophomore year she visited one of her new friends in boston in a charming home of cultivated people. the following easter vacation her grandfather joined her for a flight to new york and washington, and this was one of the happiest of experiences. during the remainder of her college life she was often asked to the houses of her girl friends in and about boston; her diffidence passed; she found that she had ideas and the means of expressing them. the long summers were spent at the cottage in the lane; she saw mrs. owen now and then with deepening attachment, and her friend never forgot to send her a christmas gift--once a silver purse and a twenty-dollar gold piece; again, a watch--always something carefully chosen and practical. sylvia arranged to return to college with two st. louis girls after her senior christmas, to save her grandfather the long journey, for he had stipulated that she should never travel alone. by a happy chance dan harwood, on his way to boston to deliver an issue of telephone bonds in one of bassett's companies, was a passenger on the same train, and he promptly recalled himself to sylvia, who proudly presented him as a yale man to her companions. a special car filled with young collegians from cincinnati and the south was later attached to the train, and dan, finding several yalensians in the company, including the year's football hero, made them all acquainted with sylvia and her friends. it was not till the next day that dan found an opportunity for personal talk with sylvia, but he had already been making comparisons. sylvia was as well "put up" as any of the girls, and he began to note her quick changes of expression, the tones of her voice, the grace of her slim, strong hands. he wanted to impress himself upon her; he wanted her to like him. "news? i don't know that i can give you any news. you probably know that mrs. owen went to fraserville for christmas with the bassetts? let me see, you do know the bassetts, don't you?" "yes. i was at waupegan three summers ago at mrs. owen's, and mrs. bassett and all of them were very good to me." "you probably don't know that i'm employed by mr. bassett. he has an office in indianapolis where i'm trying to be a lawyer and i do small jobs for him. i'm doing an errand for him now. it will be the first time i've been east of the mountains since i left college, and i'm going to stop at new haven on my way home to see how they're getting on without me. by the way, you probably know that marian is going to college?" "no; i didn't know it," exclaimed sylvia. "but i knew her mother was interested and i gave her a wellesley catalogue. that was a long time ago!" "that was when you were visiting mrs. owen at waupegan? i see, said the blind man!" "what do you see?" asked sylvia. "i see mrs. bassett and marian, niece and grandniece respectively, of aunt sally owen; and as i gaze, a stranger bound for college suddenly appears on mrs. owen's veranda, in cap and gown. tableau!" "i don't see the picture," sylvia replied, though she laughed in spite of herself. "i not only see," dan continued, "but i hear the jingle of red, red gold, off stage." this was going a trifle too far. sylvia shook her head and frowned. "that isn't fair, mr. harwood, if i guess what you mean. there's no reason why marian shouldn't go to college. my going has nothing to do with it. you have misunderstood the whole matter." "pardon me," said dan quickly. "i mean no unkindness to any of them. they are all very good to me. it's too bad, though, that marian's preparation for college hadn't been in mind until so recently. it would save her a lot of hard digging now. i see a good deal of the family; and i'm even aware of marian's doings at miss waring's school. master blackford beguiles me into taking him to football games, and i often go with all of them to the theatre when they're in town. mr. bassett is very busy, and he doesn't often indulge himself in pleasures. he's the kind of man whose great joy is in work--and he has many things to look after." "you are a kind of private secretary to the whole family, then; but you work at the law at the same time?" harwood's face clouded for a moment; she noticed it and was sorry she had spoken; but he said immediately:-- "well, i haven't had much time for the law this winter. i have more things to do outside than i had expected. but i fear i need prodding; i'm too prone to wander into other fields. and i'm getting a good deal interested in politics. you know mr. bassett is one of the leading men in our state." "yes, i had learned that; i suppose he may be senator or governor some day. that makes it all the more important that marian should be fitted for high station." "i don't know that just that idea has struck her!" he laughed, quite cheerful again. "it's too bad it can't be suggested to her. it might help her with her latin. she tells me in our confidences that she thinks latin a beast. it's my rôle to pacify her. but a girl must live up to her mother's ambitions, and mrs. bassett is ambitious for her children. and then there's always the unencumbered aunt to please into the bargain. mrs. owen is shrewd, wise, kind. since that night i saw you there we've become pals. she's the most stimulating person i ever knew. she has talked to me about you several times"--dan laughed and looked sylvia in the eyes as though wondering how far to go--"and if you're not the greatest living girl you have shamefully fooled mrs. owen. mr. ware, the minister, came in one evening when i was there and i never heard such praise as they gave you. but i approved of it." "oh, how nice of you!" said sylvia, in a tone so unlike her that dan laughed outright. "you are the embodiment of loyalty; but believe me, i am a loyal person myself. please don't think me a gossip. marian's mother still hopes to land her in college next year, but she's the least studious of beings; i can't see her doing it. mrs. bassett's never quite well, and that's been bad for marian. college would be a good thing for her. i've seen many soaring young autocrats reduced to a proper humility at new haven, and i dare say you girls have your own way of humbling a proud spirit." "i don't believe marian needs humbling; one can't help liking her; and she's ever so good to look at." "she's certainly handsome," dan admitted. "she's altogether charming," said sylvia warmly; "and she's young--much younger than i am, for example." "how old is young, or how young is old? i had an idea that you and she were about the same age." "you flatter me! i'm nearly four years older! but i suppose she seems much more grown-up, and she knows a great many things i don't." "i dare say she does!" dan laughed. and with this they turned to other matters. dan sat facing her, hat in hand, and as the train rushed through the berkshires sylvia formed new impressions of him. she saw him now as a young man of affairs, with errands abroad--this in itself of significance; and he had to do with politics, a subject that had begun to interest sylvia. the cowlick where his hair parted kept a stubborn wisp of brown hair in rebellion, and it shook amusingly when he spoke earnestly or laughed. his gray eyes were far apart and his nose was indubitably a big one. he laughed a good deal, by which token one saw that his teeth were white and sound. something of the southwestern drawl had survived his years at new haven, but when he became earnest his eyes snapped and he spoke with quick, nervous energy, in a deep voice that was a little harsh. sylvia had heard a great deal about the brothers and young men friends of her companions at college and was now more attentive to the outward form of man than she had thought of being before. when they reached boston, harwood took sylvia and her companions to luncheon at the touraine and put them on their train for wellesley. his thoughtfulness and efficiency could not fail to impress the young women. he was an admirable cavalier, and sylvia's companions were delighted with him. he threatened them with an early visit to college, suggesting the most daring possibilities as to his appearance. he repeated, at sylvia's instigation, the incident of the hearse horses at poughkeepsie, with new flourishes, and cheerfully proposed a cousinship to all of them. "or, perhaps," he said, when he had found seats for them and had been admonished to leave, "perhaps it would be more in keeping with my great age to become your uncle. then you would be cousins to each other and we should all be related." speculations as to whether he would ever come kept the young women laughing as they discussed him. they declared that the meeting on the train had been by ulterior design and they quite exhausted the fun of it upon sylvia, who gained greatly in importance through the encounter with harwood. she was not the demure young person they had thought her; it was not every girl who could produce a personable young man on a railway journey. sylvia wondered much about marian and dramatized to herself the girl's arrival at college. it did not seem credible that mrs. bassett was preparing marian for college because she, sylvia garrison, was enrolled there. sylvia was kindly disposed toward all the world, and she resented harwood's insinuations. as for mrs. owen and dan's intimations that marian must be educated to satisfy the great aunt's ideals as represented in sylvia--well, sylvia had no patience whatever with any such idea. chapter xiii the ways of marian the historian may not always wait for the last grain of sand to mark the passing of an hour; he must hasten the flight of time frequently by abrupt reversals of the glass. much competent evidence (to borrow from the lawyers) we must reject as irrelevant or immaterial to our main issue. harwood was admitted to practice in the united states courts midway of his third year in bassett's office. the doors of the state courts swing inward to any hoosier citizen of good moral character who wants to practice law,--a drollery of the hoosier constitution still tolerated. the humor of being a mere "constitutional" lawyer did not appeal to harwood, who revered the traditions and the great names of his chosen profession, and he had first written his name on the rolls of the united states district court. his work for bassett grew more and more congenial. the man from fraser was concentrating his attention on business; at least he found plenty of non-political work for dan to do. after the troubled waters in ranger county had been quieted and bassett's advanced outpost in the boordman building had ceased to attract newspaper reporters, an important receivership to which bassett had been appointed gave harwood employment of a semi-legal character. bassett had been a minor stockholder in a paper-mill which had got into difficulties through sheer bad management, and as receiver he addressed himself to the task of proving that the business could be made to pay. the work he assigned to harwood was to the young man's liking, requiring as it did considerable travel, visits to the plant, which was only a few hours' journey from the capital, and negotiations which required the exercise of tact and judgment. however, harwood found himself ineluctably drawn into the state campaign that fall. bassett was deeply engaged in all the manoeuvres, and harwood was dispatched frequently on errands to county chairmen, and his aid was welcomed by the literary bureau of the state committee. he prepared a speech whose quality he tested at small meetings in his own county, and his efforts having been favorably received he acted as a supply to fill appointments where the regular schedule failed. toward the end of the campaign his assignments increased until all his time was taken. by studying his audiences he caught the trick of holding the attention of large crowds; his old college sobriquet of "foghorn" harwood had been revived and the newspapers mentioned his engagements with a casualness that implied fame. he enjoyed his public appearances, and the laughter and applause were sweet to him. after the election bassett admonished him not to neglect the law. "i want you to make your way in the profession," he said, "and not let my affairs eat up all your time. give me your mornings as far as possible and keep your afternoons for study. if at any time you have to give me a whole day, take the next day for yourself. but this work you're doing will all help you later. lawyers these days have got to be business men; you understand that; and you want to get to the top." dan visited his parents and brothers as often as possible on the infertile harrison county acres, to which the mortgage still clung tenaciously. he had felt since leaving college that he owed it to the brothers who had remained behind to wipe out the old harassing debt as soon as possible. the thought of their struggles often made him unhappy, and he felt that he could only justify his own desertion by freeing the farm. after one of these visits bassett drew from him the fact that the mortgage was about to mature, and that another of a long series of renewals of the loan was necessary. bassett was at once interested and sympathetic. the amount of the debt was three thousand dollars, and he proposed that dan discharge it. "i've never said so, but at the conclusion of the receivership i've intended paying you for your additional work. if everything goes well my own allowance ought to be ten thousand dollars, and you're entitled to a share of it. i'll say now that it will be not less than two thousand dollars. i'll advance you that amount at once and carry your personal note for the other thousand in the fraserville bank. it's too bad you have to use your first money that way, but it's natural for you to want to do it. i see that you feel a duty there, and the folks at home have had that mortgage on their backs so long that it's taken all the spirit out of them. you pay the mortgage when it's due and go down and make a little celebration of it, to cheer them up. i'll carry that thousand as long as you like." miss rose farrell, nigh to perishing of ennui in the lonely office of the absentee steel construction agents, had been installed as stenographer in room a year earlier. miss farrell had, it appeared, served bassett several terms as stenographer to one of the legislative committees of which he was chairman. "you needn't be afraid of my telling anything," she said in reply to dan's cautioning. "those winters i worked at the state house i learned enough to fill three penitentiaries with great and good men, but you couldn't dig it out of me with a steam shovel. they were going to have me up before an investigating committee once, but i had burned my shorthand notes and couldn't remember a thing. your little irish rose knows a few things, mr. harwood. i was on to your office before the 'advertiser' sprung that story and gave it away that mr. bassett had a room here. i spotted the senator from fraser coming up our pedestrian elevator, and i know all those rubes that have been dropping up to see him--struck 'em all in the legislature. he won't tear your collar if you put me on the job. and if i do say it myself i'm about as speedy on the machine as you find 'em. all your little rose asks is the right to an occasional wednesday matinée when business droops like a sick oleander. you needn't worry about me having callers. i'm a business woman, i am, and i guess i know what's proper in a business office. if i don't understand men, mr. harwood, no poor working girl does." bassett was pleased with dan's choice of a stenographer. he turned over to rose the reading of the rural newspapers and sundry other routine matters. there was no doubt of miss farrell's broad knowledge of the world, or of her fidelity to duty. harwood took early opportunity to subdue somewhat the pungency of the essences with which she perfumed herself, and she gave up gum-chewing meekly at his behest. she assumed at once toward him that maternal attitude which is peculiar to office girls endowed with psychological insight. he sought to improve the character of fiction she kept at hand for leisure moments, and was surprised by the aptness of her comments on the books she borrowed on his advice from the public library. she was twenty-four, tall and trim, with friendly blue-gray eyes and a wit that had been sharpened by adversity. it cannot be denied that mrs. bassett and marian found harwood a convenient reed upon which to lean. nor was blackford above dragging his father's secretary (as the family called him) forth into the bazaars of washington street to assist in the purchase of a baseball suit or in satisfying other cravings of his youthful heart. mrs. bassett, scorning the doctors of fraserville, had now found a nerve specialist at the capital who understood her troubles perfectly. marian, at miss waring's school, was supposed to be preparing for college, though miss waring had no illusions on the subject. marian made mrs. owen her excuse for many absences from school: what was the use of having a wealthy great-aunt living all alone in a comfortable house in delaware street if one didn't avail one's self of the rights and privileges conferred by such relationship? when a note from miss waring to mrs. bassett at fraserville conveyed the disquieting news of her daughter's unsatisfactory progress, mrs. bassett went to town and dealt severely with marian. mrs. owen was grimly silent when appealed to; it had never been her idea that marian should be prepared for college; but now that the girl's mother had pledged herself to the undertaking mrs. owen remained a passive spectator of the struggle. mrs. owen was not so dull but that she surmised what had inspired this zeal for a collegiate training for marian; and her heart warmed toward the dark young person at wellesley, such being the contrariety of her kindly soul. to miss waring, a particular friend of hers and one of her admirations, mrs. owen said:-- "i want you to do the best you can for marian, now that her mother's bitten with this idea of sending her to college. she's smart enough, i guess?" "too much smartness is marian's trouble," replied miss waring. "there's nothing in the gymnasium she can't do; she's become the best french scholar we ever had, but that's about all. she's worked hard at french because she thinks it gives her a grand air. i can't imagine any other reason. she's adorable and--impossible!" "do the best you can for her; i want her to go to college if she can." miss waring had the reputation of being strict, yet marian slipped the cords of routine and discipline with ease. she had passed triumphantly from the kitchen "fudge" and homemade butterscotch period of a girl's existence into the realm of _marrons glacés_. nothing bored her so much as the afternoon airings of the school under the eye of a teacher; and these she turned into larks when she shared in them. twice in one winter she had hopped upon a passing street car and rolled away in triumph from her meek and horrified companions and their outraged duenna. she encouraged by means the subtlest, the attentions of a strange young gentleman who followed the school's peregrinations afar off. she carried on a brief correspondence with this cavalier, a fence corner in pennsylvania street serving as post-office. luck favored her astonishingly in her efforts to escape the rigors of school discipline. just when she was forbidden to leave miss waring's to spend nights and sundays at mrs. owen's, her mother came to town and opportunely (for marian) fell ill, at the whitcomb. mrs. bassett was cruising languidly toward the sombre coasts of neurasthenia, and though she was under the supervision of a trained nurse, marian made her mother's illness an excuse for moving down to the hotel to take care of her. her father, in and out of the city caring for his multiplying interests, objected mildly but acquiesced, which was simpler and more comfortable than opposing her. having escaped from school and established herself at the whitcomb, marian summoned harwood to the hotel on the flimsiest pretexts, many of them most ingeniously plausible. for example, she avowed her intention of carrying on her studies at the hotel during her enforced retirement from miss waring's, and her father's secretary, being a college man, could assist her with her latin as well as not. dan set tasks for her for a week, until she wearied of the pretense. she insisted that it was too stupid for her to go unattended to the hotel restaurant for her meals, and it was no fun eating in her mother's room with that lady in bed and the trained nurse at hand; so harwood must join her for luncheon and dinner at the whitcomb. mrs. owen was out of town, bassett was most uncertain in his goings and comings, and mrs. bassett was beyond harwood's reach, so he obeyed, not without chafing of spirit, these commands of marian. he was conscious that people pointed her out in the restaurant as morton bassett's daughter, and he did not like the responsibility of this unauthorized chaperonage. mrs. bassett was going to a sanatorium as soon as she was able to move; but for three weeks marian was on harwood's hands. her bland airs of proprietorship amused him when they did not annoy him, and when he ventured to remonstrate with her for her unnecessary abandonment of school to take care of her mother, her pretty _moue_ had mitigated his impatience. she knew the value of her prettiness. dan was a young man and marian was not without romantic longings. just what passed between her and her mother harwood could not know, but the hand that ruled indulgently in health had certainly not gained strength in sickness. this was in january when the theatres were offering an unusual variety of attractions. dan had been obliged to refuse--more harshly than was agreeable--to take marian to see a french farce that had been widely advertised by its indecency. her cool announcement that she had read it in french did not seem to harwood to make an educational matter of it; but he was obliged finally to compromise with her on another play. her mother was quite comfortable, she averred; there was no reason why she should not go to the theatre, and she forced the issue by getting the tickets herself. that evening when they reached their seats dan observed that allen thatcher sat immediately in front of them. he turned and nodded to dan, and his eyes took in marian. in a moment she murmured an inquiry as to who the young man was; and harwood was aware thereafter that marian divided her attention between allen and the stage. allen turned once or twice in the entr'actes with some comment on the play, and marian was pleased with his profile; moreover he bore a name with which she had long been familiar. as the curtain fell she whispered to harwood:-- "you must introduce me to mr. thatcher,--please--! his father and papa are friends, and i've heard so much about the family that i just have to know him." harwood looked down at her gravely to be sure it was not one of her jokes, but she was entirely serious. he felt that he must take a stand with her; if her father and mother were unaware of her venturesome nature he still had his responsibility, and it was not incumbent on him to widen her acquaintance. "no!" he said flatly. but marian knew a trick or two. she loitered by her seat adjusting her wrap with unnecessary deliberation. allen, wishing to arrange an appointment with dan for luncheon the next day, waited for him to come into the aisle. dan had not the slightest idea of introducing his charge to allen or to any one else, and he stepped in front of her to get rid of his friend with the fewest words possible. but marian so disposed herself at his elbow that he could not without awkwardness refuse her. she murmured allen's name cordially, leveling her eyes at him smilingly. "i've often heard mr. harwood speak of you, mr. thatcher! he has a great way of speaking of his friends!" allen was not a forthputting person, and dan's manner was not encouraging; but the trio remained together necessarily through the aisle to the foyer. marian took advantage of their slow exit to discuss the play and with entire sophistication, expressing astonishment that allen was lukewarm in his praise of it. he could not agree with her that the leading woman was beautiful, but she laughed when he remarked, with his droll intonation, that the star reminded him of a dressed-up mannikin in a clothing-store window. "that is just the kind of thing i imagined you would say. my aunt, mrs. owen, says that you always say something different." "oh, aunt sally! she's the grandest of women. i wish she were my aunt. i have aunts i could trade for her." at the door allen paused. marian, running on blithely, gave him no opportunity to make his adieux. "oh, aren't you going our way?" she demanded, in a tone of invitation. "yes; come along; it's only a step to the hotel where miss bassett is staying," said harwood, finding that they blocked the entrance and not seeing his way to abandoning allen on the spot. he never escaped the appeal that lay in allen; he was not the sort of fellow one would wound; and there could be no great harm in allowing him to walk a few blocks with marian bassett, who had so managed the situation as to make his elimination difficult. it was a cold, clear night and they walked briskly to the whitcomb. when they reached the hotel, dan, who had left the conversation to marian and allen, breathed a sigh that his responsibility was at an end. he and allen would have a walk and talk together, or they might go up to the boordman building for the long lounging parleys in which allen delighted and which dan himself enjoyed. but dan had not fully gauged the measure of marian's daring. "won't you please wait a minute, mr. harwood, until i see if poor mama needs anything. you know we all rely on you so. i'll be back in just a moment." "so that's morton bassett's daughter," observed allen when marian had fluttered into the elevator. "you must have a lot of fun taking her about; she's much more grown-up than i had imagined from what you've said. she's almost a dangerous young person." the young men found seats and allen nursed his hat musingly. he had nothing whatever to do, and the chance meeting with harwood was a bright incident in a bleak, eventless day. "oh, she's a nice child," replied harwood indifferently. "but she finds childhood irksome. it gives her ladyship a feeling of importance to hold me here while she asks after the comfort of her mother. i suppose a girl is a woman when she has learned that she can tell a man to wait." "you should write a book of aphorisms and call it 'the young lady's own handbook.' perhaps i ought to be skipping." "for heaven's sake, don't! i want you as an excuse for getting away." "i think i'd better go," suggested allen. "i can wait for you in the office." "then i should pay the penalty for allowing you to escape; she can be very severe; she is a much harder taskmaster than her father. don't desert me." allen took this at face value; and it seemed only ordinary courtesy to wait to say good-night to a young woman who was coming back in a moment to report upon the condition of a sick mother. in ten minutes marian reappeared, having left her wraps behind. "mama is sleeping beautifully. and that's a sign that she's better." here clearly was an end of the matter, and dan had begun to say good-night; but with the prettiest grace possible marian was addressing allen:-- "i'm terribly hungry and i sent down an order for just the smallest supper. you see, i took it for granted that you would both be just as hungry as i am, so you must come and keep me company." and to anticipate the refusal that already glittered coldly in dan's eye, she continued, "mama doesn't like me to be going into the restaurant alone, but she approves of mr. harwood." the head waiter was already leading them to a table set for three in accordance with the order manan had telephoned from her room. she had eliminated the possibility of discussion, and harwood raged in his helplessness. there was no time for a scene even if he had thought it wise to precipitate one. "it's only a lobster, you know," she said, with the careless ease of a young woman quite habituated to midnight suppers. harwood's frown of annoyance had not escaped her; but it only served to add to her complete joy in the situation. there were other people about, and music proceeded from a screen of palms at the end of the dining-room. having had her way, marian nibbled celery and addressed herself rather pointedly to allen, unmindful of the lingering traces of harwood's discomfiture. by the time the lobster was served she was on capital terms with allen. in his own delight in marian, allen failed utterly to comprehend harwood's gloomy silence. dan scarcely touched his plate, and he knew that marian was covertly laughing at him. "do you know," said allen, speaking directly to dan, "we're having great arguments at lüders's; we turn the universe over every day." "you see, miss bassett," allen explained to marian; "i'm a fair carpenter and work almost every day at louis lüders's shop. i earn a dollar a day and eat dinner--dinner, mind you!--at twelve o'clock, out of a tin pail. you can see that i'm a laboring man--one of the toiling millions." "you don't mean that seriously, mr. thatcher; not really!" "oh, why will you say that? every one says just that! no one ever believes that i mean what i say!" this was part of some joke, marian surmised, though she did not quite grasp it. it was inconceivable that the son of the house of thatcher should seriously seek a chance to do manual labor. allen in his dinner jacket did not look like a laborer: he was far more her idea of a poet or a musician. "i went to lüders's house the other evening for supper," allen was saying. "i rather put it up to him to ask me, and he has a house with a garden, and his wife was most amusing. we all talked german, including the kids,--three of them, fascinating little fellows. he's a cabinetmaker, miss bassett,--a producer of antiques, and a good one; and about the gentlest human being you ever saw. he talks about existing law as though it were some kind of devil,--a monster, devouring the world's poor. but he won't let his wife spank the children,--wouldn't, even when one of them kicked a hole in my hat! i supposed that of course there would be dynamite lying round in tomato cans; and when i shook the pepper box i expected an explosion; but i didn't see a gun on the place. he's beautifully good-natured, and laughed in the greatest way when i asked him how soon he thought of blowing up some of our prominent citizens. i really believe he likes me--strange but true." "better not get in too deep with those fellows," warned dan. "the police watch lüders carefully; he's considered dangerous. it's the quiet ones, who are kind to their families and raise cabbages, that are the most violent." "oh, lüders says we've got to smash everything! he rather favors socialism himself, but he wants to tear down the court-houses first and begin again." "you'd better be careful or you'll land in jail, mr. thatcher," remarked marian, taking an olive. "oh, if anything as interesting as that should happen to me, i should certainly die of joy!" "but your family wouldn't like it if you went to jail," persisted marian, delighting in the confidences of a young gentleman for whom jails had no terrors. "the thought of my family is disturbing, it's positively disturbing," allen replied. "lüders has given me a chance in his shop, and really expects me to work. surprising in an anarchist; you'd rather expect him to press a stick of dynamite in your hand and tell you to go out and blow up a bank. lüders has a sense of humor, you know: hence the antiques, made to coax money from the purses of the fat rich. there are more ways than one of being a cut-purse." the lobster had been consumed, and they were almost alone in the restaurant. marian, with her elbows on the table, was in no haste to leave, but dan caught the eye of the hovering waiter and paid the check. "you shouldn't have done that," marian protested; "it was my party. i sign my own checks here." but having now asserted himself, dan rose, and in a moment he and allen had bidden her good-night at the elevator door. "you didn't seem crazy about your lobster, and you were hardly more than polite to our hostess. sorry to have butted in. but why have you kept these tender recreations from me!" "oh, that child vexes my spirit sometimes. she's bent on making people do things they don't want to do. of course the lobster was a mere excuse for getting acquainted with you; but you needn't be too set up about it: i think her curiosity about your family is responsible,--these fake newspaper stories about your sister--which is it, hermione or gwendolen--who is always about to marry a count. countesses haven't been common in indiana. we need a few to add tone to the local gossip." "oh," murmured allen dejectedly: "i'm sorry if you didn't want me in the party. it's always the way with me. nobody ever really loves me for myself alone. what does the adorable do besides midnight lobsters? i thought aunt sally said she was at miss waring's school." "she is, more or less," growled dan. "her mother wants to put her through college, to please the wealthy great-aunt. mrs. owen has shown interest in another girl who is now at wellesley; hence marian must go to college, and the bare thought of it bores her to death. she's as little adapted to a course in college as one of those bright goddesses who used to adorn olympus." "she doesn't strike me as needing education; she's a finished product. i felt very young in the divine presence." "she gives one that feeling," laughed dan, his mood of impatience dissolving. "who's this rival who has made the higher education seem necessary for morton bassett's daughter?" "she's an amazing girl; quite astonishing. if mrs. bassett were a wise woman she wouldn't enter marian in competition. and besides, i think her fears are utterly groundless. marian is delightful, with her waywardness and high-handedness; and mrs. owen likes originals, not feeble imitations. i should hate to try to deceive mrs. sally owen--she's about the wisest person i ever saw." "oh, sylvia! mrs. owen has mentioned her. the girl that knows all the stars and that sort of thing. but where's morton bassett in all this? he's rather more than a shadow on the screen?" "same old story of the absorbed american father and the mother with nerves" * * * * * two afternoons later, as harwood was crossing university park on his way to his boarding-house, he stopped short and stared. a little ahead of him in the walk strolled a girl and a young man, laughing and talking with the greatest animation. there was no questioning their identity. it was five o'clock and quite dark, and the air was sharp. harwood paused and waited for the two loiterers to cross the lighted space about the little park's central fountain. it seemed incredible that marian and allen should be abroad together in this dallying fashion. his anger rose against allen, but he curbed an impulse to send him promptly about his business and take marian back to the whitcomb. mr. bassett was expected in town that evening and dan saw his duty clearly in regard to marian; she must be returned to school willy-nilly. the young people were hitting it off wonderfully, and marian's laughter rang out clearly upon the winter air. her tall, supple figure, her head capped with a fur toque, and more than all, the indubitable evidence that such a clandestine stroll as this gave her the keenest delight, drove home to harwood the realization that marian was no longer a child, but a young woman, obstinately bent upon her own way. allen was an ill-disciplined, emotional boy, whose susceptibilities in the matter of girls dan had already noted. the combination had its dangers and his anger rose as he followed them at a safe distance. they prolonged their walk for half an hour, coming at last to the whitcomb. harwood waylaid allen in the hotel office a moment after marian had gone to her room. the young fellow's cheeks were unwontedly bright from the cold or from the excitement of his encounter. "halloa! i was going to look you up and ask you to have dinner with me." "you were looking for me in a likely place," replied harwood coldly. "see here, allen, i've been laboring under the delusion that you were a gentleman." "oh! have we come to that?" "you know better than to go loafing through town with a truant school-girl you hardly know. i suppose it's my fault for introducing you to her. i want you to tell me how you managed this. did you telephone her or write a note? sit down here now and let's have it out." they drew away from the crowd and found seats in a quiet corner of the lobby. harwood, his anger unabated, repeated his question. "out with it; just how did you manage it?" allen was twisting his gloves nervously; he had not been conscious of transgressing any law, but he would not for worlds have invited harwood's displeasure. he was near to tears; but he remained stubbornly silent until harwood again demanded to know how he contrived the meeting with marian. "i'm sorry, old man," allen answered, "but i can't tell you anything about it. i don't see that my crime is so heinous. she has been cooped up in the hotel all day with her sick mother, and a short walk--it was only a few blocks--couldn't have done her any harm. i think you're making too much of it." "you were dallying there in the park, in a way to attract attention, with a headstrong, silly girl that you ought to have protected from that sort of thing. you know better than that." allen, enfolded in his long ulster, shuffled his feet on the tiling like a school-boy in disgrace. deep down in his heart, harwood did not believe that allen had proposed the walk to marian; it was far likelier that marian had sought the meeting by note or telephone. he turned upon allen with a slight relaxation of his sternness. "you didn't write her a note or telephone her,--you didn't do either, did you?" allen, silent and dejected, dropped his gloves and picked them up, the color deepening in his cheeks. "i just happened to meet her; that's all," he said, avoiding dan's eyes. "she wrote you a note or telephoned you?" silence. "humph," grunted harwood. "she's wonderfully beautiful and strong and so tremendously vivid! i think those nice girls you read of in the greek mythology must have been like that," murmured allen, sighing heavily. "i dare say they were!" snapped harwood, searching the youngster's thin, sensitive face, and meeting for an instant his dreamy eyes. he was touched anew by the pathos in the boy, whose nature was a light web of finespun golden cords thrilling to any breath of fancy. the superb health, the dash and daring of a school-girl that he had seen but once or twice, had sent him climbing upon a frail ladder of romantic dreams. harwood struck his hands together sharply. if he owed a duty to marian and her family, not less he was bound to turn allen's thoughts into safe channels. "of course it wouldn't do--that sort of thing, you know, allen. i didn't mean to beat you into the dust. let's go over to pop june's and get some oysters. i don't feel up to our usual boarding-house discussion of christian science to-night." at the first opportunity dan suggested to bassett, without mentioning marian's adventure with allen, that the whitcomb was no place for her, and that her pursuit of knowledge under his own tutorship was the merest farce; whereupon bassett sent her back immediately to miss waring's. chapter xiv the passing of andrew kelton andrew kelton died suddenly, near the end of may, in sylvia's senior year at college. the end came unexpectedly, of heart trouble. harwood read of it in the morning newspaper, and soon after he reached his office mrs. owen called him on the telephone to say that she was going to montgomery at once, and asking him to meet sylvia as she passed through indianapolis on her way home. both of the morning papers printed laudatory articles on kelton; he had been held in high esteem by all the friends of madison college, and his name was known to educators throughout the country. on the same afternoon bassett appeared in town on the heels of a letter saying that dan need not expect him until the following week. "thought i'd better see fitch about some receiver business, so i came down a little ahead of time. what's new?" "nothing very exciting. there's a good deal of political buzz, but i don't believe anything has happened that you don't know. from the way candidates are turning up for state office our fellows must think they have a chance of winning." bassett was unfailingly punctilious in forecasting his appearances in town, and his explanation that legal matters had brought him down was not wholly illuminative. dan knew that the paper-mill receivership was following its prescribed course, and he was himself, through an arrangement made by bassett, in touch with fitch and understood the legal status of the case perfectly. as bassett passed through the library to his own room he paused to indulge in a moment's banter with miss farrell. it was not until he had opened his desk that he replied to harwood's remark. "a few good men on our ticket might pull through next time, but it will take us a little longer to get the party whipped into shape again and strong enough to pull a ticket through. but hope springs eternal. you have noticed that i don't talk on national affairs when the reporters come to me. in the state committee i tell them to put all the snap they can into the county organizations, and try to get good men on local tickets. when the boys out west get tired of being licked we will start in again and do business at the old stand. i've always taken care that they shouldn't have a chance to attack my regularity." "i've just been reading a book of cleveland's speeches," remarked dan. "solemn, but sound. he will undoubtedly go down as one of the great presidents. i think republicans and men of all sorts of political ideas will come to that." "but i don't feel that all this radicalism is a passing phase. it's eating deeply into the republicans too. we're on the eve of a revival of patriotism, and party names don't mean what they did. but i believe the democratic party is still the best hope of the people, even when the people go clean off their heads." "you believe in democracy, but you doubt sometimes whether the democratic party is really the custodian of the true faith of democracy--is that it?" "that's exactly it. and my young republican friends feel the same way about their party." "well, i guess i stand about where you do. i believe in parties. i don't think there's much gained by jumping around from one party to another; and independent movements are as likely to do harm as good. i don't mind confessing to you that i had a good notion to join the democratic schism in ' , and support palmer and buckner. but i didn't, and i'm not sorry i kept regular and held on. i believed the silver business would pass over; and it's out of sight. they charged me with voting the republican ticket in ' ; but that's a lie. i've never scratched a ticket since i first voted, and"--bassett smiled his grim smile--"i've naturally voted for a good many rascals. by the way, how much are you seeing of atwill?" "i make a point of seeing him once a week or oftener. when i'm downtown at night i usually catch him for a late supper." "the 'courier' is regular, all right enough. it's a good property, and when our party gets through chasing meadow-larks and gets down to business again it will be more valuable. was that your editorial yesterday on municipal government? good. i'm for trying some of these new ideas. i've been reading a lot of stuff on municipal government abroad, and some of those foreign ideas we ought to try here. i want the 'courier' to take the lead in those things; it may help"--and bassett smiled--"it may help to make the high brows see that ours has really been the party of progress through these years when it's marched backward." bassett swung round slowly until his gaze fell upon the map, reminding the young man of thatcher's interest in that varicolored oblong of paper. dan had never mentioned thatcher's visit to the office, feeling that if the capitalist were really the bold man he appeared to be, he would show his hand to bassett soon enough. moreover, harwood's confidence in bassett's powers had never wavered; in the management of the paper-mill receivership the senator from fraser had demonstrated a sagacity and resourcefulness that had impressed dan anew. bassett possessed, in unusual degree, the astuteness and executive force of the successful american business man, and his nice feeling for the things that interest cultivated people lifted him far above the common type of political boss. dan had yet to see a demonstration of bassett's political venality; the bank and his other interests at fraserville were profitable. it must be a craving for power, not money, dan reasoned, that led bassett into politics. bassett turned to his desk with some letters he had taken from his pocket. it occurred to dan that as mrs. owen had suggested that he accompany sylvia to montgomery, it would be well to mention the possibility of his leaving town for a day. "mrs. owen telephoned me this morning of professor kelton's death. you probably read of it in to-day's papers. mrs. owen is an old friend of his, and went to montgomery on the noon train. she asked me to meet the professor's granddaughter, miss garrison, when she comes through here in the morning on her way home. i know her slightly, and i think i'd better go over to montgomery with her, if you don't mind." "yes, certainly; i was sorry to read of kelton's death. mrs. owen will feel it deeply. it's a blow to these old people when one of them drops out of the ranks. i'm glad the 'courier' printed that capital sketch of him; much better than the 'advertiser's.' while i think of it, i wish you would tell atwill that i like the idea of saying a word editorially for these old citizens as they leave us. it gives the paper tone, and i like to show appreciation of fine characters like kelton." bassett had turned round with a letter in his hand. he unfolded it slowly and went on, scanning it as he talked. "i'm sorry i never knew kelton. they say he was a very able mathematician and astronomer. it's rather remarkable that we should have kept him in indiana. i suppose you may have seen him at mrs. owen's; they had a common tie in their kentucky connections. i guess there's no tie quite like the kentucky tie, unless it's the virginian." he seemed absorbed in the letter--one of a number he had taken from his bag; then he glanced up as though waiting for dan's reply. "no, i never saw him at mrs. owen's; but i did meet him once, in montgomery. he was a fine old gentleman. you would hardly imagine him ever to have been a naval officer; he was quite the elderly, spectacled professor in his bearing and manner." "i suppose even a man bred to the sea loses the look of a sailor if he lives inland long enough," bassett observed. "i think my brief interview with him rather indicated that he had been a man of action--the old discipline of the ship may have been in that," remarked harwood. then, fearing that he might be laying himself open to questions that he should have to avoid answering, he said: "kelton wrote a good deal on astronomical subjects, and his textbooks have been popular. sylvia garrison, the granddaughter, is something of a wonder herself." "bright girl, is she?" "quite so; and very nice to look at. i met her on the train when i went to boston with those bonds in january. she was going back to college after the holidays. she's very interesting--quite different." "different?" repeated bassett vaguely, dropping back in his chair, but again referring absently to the letter. "yes," dan smiled. "she has a lot of individuality. she's a serious young person; very practical-minded, i should say. they tell me she walks through mathematics like a young duchess through the minuet. some other wellesley girls were on the train and they did not scruple to attribute miraculous powers to her; a good sign, other girls liking her so much. they were very frank in their admiration." "mrs. owen had her at waupegan several years ago, and my wife and marian met her there. mrs. bassett was greatly impressed by her fine mind. it seems to me i saw her, too, that summer; but of course she's grown up since then." he glanced at harwood as though for confirmation of these details, but dan's thoughts were elsewhere. he was thinking of sylvia speeding homeward, and of the little cottage beside the campus. his subsequent meetings with sylvia had caused a requickening of all the impressions of his visit to professor kelton, and he had been recalling that errand again to-day. the old gentleman had given his answer with decision; harwood recalled the crisp biting-off of the negative, and the professor had lifted his head slightly as he spoke the word. dan remembered the peace of the cottage, the sweet scents of june blowing through the open windows; and he remembered sylvia as she had opened the door, and their colloquy later, on the campus. "you'd better go to montgomery with miss garrison and report to mrs. owen for any service you may render her. does the old gentleman's death leave the girl alone?" "quite so, i think. she had lived with him nearly all her life. the papers mentioned no other near relatives." "i'll be in town a day or two. you do what you can over there for mrs. owen." that evening, returning to the office to clear off his desk in preparation for his absence the next day, dan found bassett there. this was unusual; bassett rarely visited the office at night. he had evidently been deeply occupied with his thoughts, for when dan entered he was sitting before his closed desk with his hat on. he nodded, and a few moments later passed through the library on his way out. "suppose i won't see you to-morrow. well, i'm going to be in town a few days. take your time." * * * * * dan harwood never doubted that he loved sally owen after that dark day of sylvia's home-coming. from the time sylvia stepped from the train till the moment when, late that same afternoon, just as the shadows were gathering, andrew kelton was buried with academic and military honors befitting his two-fold achievements, mrs. owen had shown the tenderness of the gentlest of mothers to the forlorn girl. the scene at the grave sank deep into dan's memory--the patriarchal figure of dr. wandless, with the faculty and undergraduates ranged behind him; the old minister's voice lifted in a benediction that thrilled with a note of triumphant faith; and the hymn sung by the students at the end, boys' voices, sweet and clear, floating off into the sunset. and nothing in dan's life had ever moved him so much as when mrs. owen, standing beside sylvia and representing in her gaunt figure the whole world of love and kindness, bent down at the very end and kissed the sobbing girl and led her away. harwood called on mrs. owen at the cottage in buckeye lane that evening. she came down from sylvia's room and met him in the little library, which he found unchanged from the day of his visit five years before. "that little girl is a hero," she began. "i guess she's about the lonesomest girl in the world to-night. andrew kelton was a man and a good one. he hadn't been well for years, the doctor tells me; trouble with his heart, but he kept it to himself; didn't want to worry the girl. i tell you everything helps at a time like this. admiral martin came over to represent the navy, and you saw the g.a.r. there; it caught me in the throat when the bugle blew good-night for andrew. sylvia will rally and go on and do some big thing. it's in her. i reckon she'll have to go back to college, this being her last year. too bad the commencement's all spoiled for her." "yes; she won't have much heart for it; but she must get her degree." "she'll need a rest after this. i'll go back with her, and then i'm going to take her up to waupegan with me for the summer. there are some things to settle about her, and i'm glad you stayed. andrew owned this house, but i shouldn't think sylvia would want to keep it: houses in a town like this are a nuisance if you don't live where you can watch the tenants," she went on, her practical mind asserting itself. "i suppose--" dan began and then hesitated. it gave him a curious feeling to be talking of sylvia's affairs in this way. "go on, daniel,"--this marked a departure; she had never called him by his first name before. "i'm closer to that girl than anybody, and i'm glad to talk to you about her affairs." "i suppose there will be something for her; she's not thrown on her own resources?" "i guess he didn't make any will, but what he left is sylvia's. he had a brother in los angeles, who died ten years ago. he was a rich man, and left a big fortune to his children. if there's no will there'll have to be an administrator. sylvia's of age and she won't need a guardian." dan nodded. he knew mrs. owen well enough by this time to understand that she usually perfected her plans before speaking, and that she doubtless had decided exactly how andrew kelton's estate should be administered. "i'm going to ask the court to appoint you administrator, daniel. you ever acted? well, you might as well have the experience. i might take it myself, but i'm pretty busy and there'll be some running back and forth to do. you come back in a day or two and we'll see how things stand by that time. as soon as sylvia gets rested she'll go back to college to finish up, and then come to me for the summer." "she might not like my having anything to do with her affairs," dan suggested. "i shouldn't want to seem to be intruding." "oh, sylvia likes you well enough. the main thing is getting somebody that you've got confidence in. i know some people here, and i guess the court will do about what we want." "i should have to come over here frequently until everything was settled," dan added, thinking of his duties in the city. "i suppose if you find it possible for me to serve that i shall have to get mr. bassett's consent; he pays for my time, you know." "that's right, you ask him; but be sure to tell him that i want it to be that way. morton won't make any fuss about it. i guess you do enough work for him. what's he paying you, daniel?" "eighteen hundred since he got the paper-mill receivership." she made no comment, but received the intelligence in silence. he knew from the characteristic quick movement of her eyelids that she was pondering the equity of this carefully; and his loyalty to bassett asserting itself, he added, defensively:-- "it's more than i could begin to make any other way; and he's really generous about my time--he's made it plain that he wants me to keep up my reading." "they don't read much after they're admitted, do they? i thought when you got admitted you knew it all." "not if you mean to be a real lawyer," said dan, smiling. "well, i guess you had better go now. i don't want to leave sylvia alone up there, poor little girl. i'll let you know when to come back." chapter xv a surprise at the country club "that's all right. i shall be glad to have you serve mrs. owen in any way. it's a good deal of a compliment that she thought of you in that connection. go ahead, and call on me if i can help you. you'll have to furnish local bondsmen. see what's required and let me know." such was bassett's reply when harwood asked his permission to serve as administrator of andrew kelton's estate. bassett was a busy man, and his domestic affairs often gave him concern. he had talked to harwood a good deal about marian, several times in fits of anger at her extravagance. his wife retired fitfully to sanatoriums, and he had been obliged to undertake the supervision of his children's schooling. blackford was safe for the time in a military school, and marian had been tutored for a year at home. the idea of a college course for marian had been, since sylvia appeared, a mania with mrs. bassett. marian had not the slightest interest in the matter, and bassett was weary of the struggle, and sick of the idea, that only by a college career for her could mrs. owen's money be assured to his children. mrs. bassett being now at a rest cure in connecticut, and bassett, much away from home, and seeing nothing to be gained by keeping his daughter at fraserville, had persuaded miss waring to take her as a special student, subject to the discipline of the school, but permitted to elect her own studies. it was only because bassett was a man she liked to please that the principal accepted marian, now eighteen years old, on this anomalous basis. marian was relieved to find herself freed of the horror of college, but she wished to be launched at once upon a social career; and the capital and not fraserville must be the scene of her introduction. bassett was merely tiding over the difficult situation until his wife should be able to deal with it. marian undoubtedly wheedled her father a good deal in the manner of handsome and willful daughters. she had rarely experienced his anger; but the remembrance of these occasions rose before her as the shadowy background of any filial awe she may be said to have had. bassett asked dan to accompany him and marian to the country club for dinner one evening while harwood still waited for mrs. owen's summons to montgomery. picking up marian at miss waring's, they drove out early and indulged in a loitering walk along the towpath of the old canal, not returning to the clubhouse until after seven. when they had found a table on the veranda, dan turned his head slightly and saw thatcher, allen, and pettit, the fraserville editor, lounging in after-dinner ease at a table in a dim corner. "why, there's mr. thatcher," exclaimed marian. "and if that isn't mr. pettit! i didn't know he ever broke into a place like this." they all bowed to the trio. thatcher waved his hand. "mr. pettit," observed bassett dryly, "is a man of the world and likely to break in anywhere." his manner betrayed no surprise; he asked marian to order dinner, and bowed to a tableful of golfers, where an acquaintance was whispering his name to some guests from out of town. it was the least bit surprising that the honorable isaac pettit should be dining at the country club with mr. edward thatcher, and yet it was possible to read too much seriousness into the situation. harwood was immensely interested, but he knew it was bassett's way to betray no trepidation at even such a curious conjunction of planets as this. dan was in fact relieved that bassett had found the men together: bassett had seen with his own eyes and might make what he pleased of this sudden intimacy. marian had scorned the table d'hôte dinner, and was choosing, from the "special" offerings, green turtle soup and guinea fowl, as affording a pleasant relief from the austere regimen of miss waring's table. the roasting of the guinea hen would require thirty minutes the waiter warned them, but bassett made no objection. marian thereupon interjected a postscript of frogs' legs between soup and roast, and bassett cheerfully acquiesced. "you seem to be picking the most musical birds offered," he remarked amiably. "i don't believe i'd eat the rest of the olives if i were you." "why doesn't allen thatcher come over here and speak to us, i'd like to know," asked marian. "you wouldn't think he'd ever seen us before." the three men having dined had, from appearances, been idling at the table for some time. pettit was doing most of the talking, regaling his two auditors with tales from his abundant store of anecdotes. at the end of a story at which thatcher had guffawed loudly, they rose and crossed the veranda. hearing them approaching, bassett rose promptly, and they shook hands all round. if there were any embarrassments in the meeting for the older men, it was concealed under the cordiality of their greetings. pettit took charge of the situation. "well, sir," he boomed, "i might've known that if i came to town and broke into sassiety i'd get caught at it; you can't get away from home folks! thatcher has filled me amply with expensive urban food in this sylvan retreat--nectar and ambrosia. i'm even as one who drinks deep of the waters of life and throws the dipper in the well. just come to town and wander from the straight and narrow path and your next-door neighbor will catch you every time. fact is i lectured on 'american humor' in churubusco last night and am lifting the spirits of brazil to-morrow. this will be all from ike pettit, the fraserville funny man, until the wheat's safe and our chautauquas pitch their tents in green fields far away. reminds me of what dan voorhees said once,--dear old dan voorhees,--i almost cry when i think o' dan: well, as i was saying--" "didn't know you were in town, mort," thatcher interrupted. "i've been in chicago a week and only got back this evening. i found your esteemed fellow townsman about to hit a one-arm lunch downtown and thought it best to draw him away from the lights of the great city." this was apology or explanation, as one chose to take it. bassett was apparently unmoved by it. "i've been in town a day or two. i don't live in sleeping-cars the way you do, ed. i keep to the main traveled road--the straight and narrow path, as our brother calls it," said bassett. "well, i'm going to quit working myself to death. it's getting too hot for poker, and i'm almost driven to lead a wholesome life. the thought pains me, mort." marian had opened briskly upon allen. she wanted to know whether he had passed the school the night before with a girl in a blue hat; she had been sure it was he, and his denial only intensified her belief that she had seen him. she had wagered a box of caramels with her roommate that it was allen; how dare he deny it and cause her to lose a dollar of her allowance? allen said the least he could do would be to send the candy himself; a proposition which she declared, in a horrified whisper, he must put from his thoughts forever. candy, it appeared, was contraband at miss waring's! bassett, ignoring the vivacious colloquy between his daughter and allen, continued to exchange commonplaces with thatcher and pettit. marian's ease of manner amused harwood; allen was bending over her in his eager way; there was no question but that he admired her tremendously. the situation was greatly to her liking, and she was making the most of it. it was in her eye that she knew how to manage men. seeing that mr. thatcher was edging away, she played upon him to delay his escape. "i wish you would come up to waupegan this summer, mr. thatcher. you and father are such friends, and we should all be so glad to have you for a neighbor. there are always houses to be rented, you know." "stranger things have happened than that, miss marian," replied thatcher, eying her boldly and quite satisfied with her appearance. "my women folks want allen and me to come across for the summer; but we like this side of the big water. little old united states--nothing touches it! allen and i may take a run up into canada sometime when it gets red hot." "reminds me--speaking of the heat--back in the hancock campaign--" pettit was beginning, but thatcher was leaving and the editor and allen followed perforce. in a moment they heard thatcher's voice peremptorily demanding his motor from the steps of the entrance. "pettit's lecture dates must be multiplying," observed dan carelessly. "they seem to be," bassett replied, indifferently. "i can find out easily enough whether he lectured at churubusco last night or not, or is going to invade brazil to-morrow," dan suggested. "easy, but unnecessary. i think i know what's in your mind," bassett answered, as marian, interested in the passing show, turned away, "but it isn't of the slightest importance one way or another." "that was miss bosworth," announced marian--"the one in the white flannel coat; she's certainly grand to look at." "please keep your eyes to the front," bassett admonished; "you mustn't stare at people, marian." and then, having dismissed pettit, and feeling called upon to bring his daughter into the conversation, he said: "marian, you remember the miss garrison your aunt is so fond of? her grandfather died the other day and miss garrison had to come home. your aunt sally is in montgomery with her now. mr. harwood went to the funeral." "that's too bad," said marian, at once interested. "sylvia's a mighty nice girl, and i guess her grandfather had just about raised her, from what she told me. i wonder what she's going to do?" she asked, turning to harwood. "she's going back to college to take her degree, and then mrs. owen is going to have her at waupegan this summer." "oh! i didn't know aunt sally was going to open her house this summer!" said marian, clearly surprised. "it must be just that she wants to have sylvia with her. they're the best kind of pals, and of course aunt sally and the old professor were friends all their lives. i'm glad sylvia's going to be at the lake; she will help some," she concluded. "you don't mean that you're tired of the lake?" asked harwood, noting the half-sigh with which she had concluded. "i thought all waupegan people preferred it to the maine coast or europe." "oh, i suppose they do," said marian. "but i think i could live through a season somewhere else. it will be good fun to have aunt sally's house open again. she must be making money out of that farm now. i suppose sylvia's grandfather didn't have much money. still sylvia's the kind of girl that wouldn't much mind not having money. she isn't much for style, but she does know an awful lot." "don't you think a girl may be stylish and know a lot, too?" asked her father. "i suppose it _is_ possible," the girl assented, with a reluctance that caused both men to laugh. "let me see: papa, you didn't see sylvia that summer she was at the lake. that was the summer you played a trick on us and only spent a day at waupegan. yes; i remember now; you came home from colorado and said hello and skipped the next morning. of course you didn't see sylvia." "oh, yes, i did," replied bassett. "i remember her very well, indeed. i quite agree with your mother and aunt sally that she is an exceedingly fine girl." "she certainly discouraged me a good deal about college. four years of school after you're seventeen or eighteen! not for marian!" and she shook her head drolly. bassett was either absorbed in thought or he chose to ignore marian's remark. he was silent for some time, and the girl went on banteringly with harwood. she availed herself of all those immunities and privileges which the gods confer upon young women whom they endow with good looks. in the half-freedom of the past year she had bought her own clothes, with only the nominal supervision of miss waring's assistant; and in her new spring raiment she was very much the young lady, and decidedly a modish one. dan glanced from her to the young people at a neighboring table. among the girls in the party none was prettier or more charmingly gowned than marian. in the light of this proximity he watched her with a new attention, and he saw that her father, too, studied her covertly, as though realizing that he had a grown daughter on his hands. her way with harwood was not without coquetry; she tapped his arm with her fan lightly when he refused to enter into a discussion of his attentions, of which she protested she knew much, to miss bosworth. he admitted having called on miss bosworth once; her brother was a yale man, and had asked him to the house on the score of that tie; but marian knew much better. she was sure that he was devoting himself to miss bosworth; every one said that he was becoming a great society man. she had wearied of his big-brother attitude toward her. except the callow youth of fraserville and the boys she had known all the summers of her life at waupegan, harwood and allen thatcher were the only young men she knew. in her later freedom at school she had made the office telephone a nuisance to him, but he sympathized with her discreetly in her perplexities. several times she had appealed to him to help her out of financial difficulties, confiding to him tragically that if certain bills reached fraserville she would be ruined forever. marian found the country club highly diverting; it gave her visions of the social life of the capital of which she had only vaguely dreamed. she knew many people by sight who were socially prominent, and she longed to be of their number. it pleased her to find that her father, who was a non-resident member and a rare visitor at the club, attracted a good deal of attention; she liked to think him a celebrity. the speaker of the house in the last session of the general assembly came out and asked bassett to meet some men with whom he had been dining in the rathskeller; while her father was away, marian, with elbows resting on the table, her firm, round chin touching her lightly interlaced fingers, gave a capital imitation of a girl making herself agreeable to a young man. dan was well hardened to her cajoleries by this time; he was confident that she would have made "sweet eyes at caliban." harwood, smoking the cigar bassett had ordered for him, compared favorably with other young men who had dawned upon marian's horizon. like most western boys who go east to college, he had acquired the habit of careful pressing and brushing and combing; his lean face had a certain distinction, and he was unfailingly courteous and well-mannered. "this will be tough on mama," she observed casually. "pray, be more explicit!" "oh, aunt sally having sylvia up there at the lake again." "why shouldn't she have her there if she wants her? i thought your mother admired sylvia. i gathered that ray of light somewhere, from you or mrs. owen." "oh, mama was beautiful to her; but i shall always think, just between you and me and that spoon, that it was aunt sally asking sylvia to the lake that time that gave mama nervous prostration." "nonsense! i advise you, as an old friend, not to say such things: you'd better not even think them." "well, it was after that, when she saw that aunt sally had taken up sylvia, that mama got that bug about having me go to college. she got the notion that it was sylvia's intellectual gifts that interested aunt sally; and mama thought i'd better improve my mind and get into the competition." "you thought your mother was jealous? i call that very unkind; it's not the way to speak of your mother." "well, if you want to be nasty and lecture me, go ahead, mr. harwood. you must like sylvia pretty well yourself; you took her back to college once and had no end of a lark,--i got that from aunt sally, so you needn't deny it." "humph! of course i like sylvia; any one's bound to." "but if aunt sally leaves her all her money, just because she's so bright, and educated, and cuts me off, then what would be the answer?" "i shouldn't have anything to say about it; it would be mrs. owen that did the saying," laughed dan. "why didn't you meet the competition and go to college? you have brains, but you don't seem interested in anything but keeping amused." "i suppose," she answered petulantly, "it would please you to see me go to teaching a kindergarten or something like that. not for marian! i'm going to see life--" and she added ruefully--"if i get the chance! why doesn't papa leave fraserville and come to the city? they say he can have any political office he wants, and he ought to run for governor or something like that, just on my account." "i dare say he's just waiting for you to suggest it. why not the presidency? you could get a lot of fun out of the white house, ordering the army around, and using the battleships to play with. the governorship and trifles like that would only bore you." "don't be silly. the newspapers print most horrible things about papa--" "which aren't true." "of course they're newspaper lies; but if he lets them say all those things he ought to get something to pay for it. he's only a state senator from the jayest county in indiana. it makes me tired." the girl's keen penetration had often surprised and it had sometimes appalled harwood in the curious intimacy that had grown up between them. her intuitions were active and she had a daring imagination. he wondered whether bassett was fully aware of the problem marian presented. dan had never ventured to suggest a sharper discipline for the girl, except on the occasion when he had caught her walking with allen in the park. he had regretted his interference afterward; for bassett's anger had seemed to him out of all proportion to the offense. like most indifferent or indulgent parents, bassett was prone to excesses in his fitful experiments in discipline. dan had resolved not to meddle again; but marian was undeniably a provoking young person. it had been suggested to him of late by one or two of his intimates that in due course of events he would of course marry his employer's daughter. as she faced him across the table, the pink light of the candle-shade adding to the glow of health in her pretty cheeks, she caused him to start by the abruptness with which she said:-- "i don't see much ahead of me but to get married; do you?" "if you put it up to me, i don't see anything ahead of you, unless you take a different view of life; you never seem to have a serious thought." "mr. harwood, you can be immensely unpleasant when you choose to be. you talk to me as though i were only nine years old. you ought to see that i'm very unhappy. i'm the oldest girl at miss waring's--locked up there with a lot of little pigeons that coo every time you look at them. they treat me as though i were their grandmother." "why don't you say all these things to your father?" asked harwood, trying to laugh. "i dare say he'll do anything you like. but please cheer up; those people over there will think we're having a terrible quarrel." the fact that they were drawing the glances of miss bosworth's party pleased her; she had been perfectly conscious of it all the time. "well, they won't think you're making _love_ to me, mr. harwood; there's that to console you." and she added icily, settling back in her chair as her father approached, "i hope you understand that i'm not even leading you on!" chapter xvi "stop, look, listen" bassett and atwill held a conference the next day and the interview was one of length. the manager of the "courier" came to the office in the boordman building at eleven o'clock, and when harwood went to luncheon at one the door had not been opened. miss farrell, returning from her midday repast, pointed to the closed door, lifted her brows, and held up her forefinger to express surprise and caution. miss farrell's prescience was astonishing; of women she held the lightest opinion, dan had learned; her concern was with the affairs of men. harwood, intent upon the compilation of a report of the paper-mill receivership, was nevertheless mindful of the unwonted length of the conference. when he returned from luncheon, bassett had gone, but he reappeared at three o'clock, and a little later atwill came back and the door closed again. this second interview was short, but it seemed to leave bassett in a meditative frame of mind. wishing to discuss some points in the trial balance of the receiver's accountant, harwood entered and found bassett with his hat on, slowly pacing the floor. "yes; all right; come in," he said, as harwood hesitated. he at once addressed himself to the reports with his accustomed care. bassett carried an immense amount of data in his head. he understood bookkeeping and was essentially thorough. dan constantly found penciled calculations on the margins of the daily reports from the paper-mill, indicating that bassett scrutinized the figures carefully, and he promptly questioned any deviation from the established average of loss and gain. bassett threw down his pencil at the end of half an hour and told dan to proceed with the writing of the report. "i'd like to file it personally so i can talk over the prospect of getting an order of sale before the judge goes on his vacation. we've paid the debts and stopped the flow of red ink, so we're about ready to let go." while they were talking miss farrell brought in a telegram for harwood; it was the summons from mrs. owen that he had been waiting for; she bade him come to montgomery the next day. he handed the message to bassett. "go ahead. i'll go over there if you like and find you the necessary bondsmen. i know the judge of the circuit court at montgomery very well. you go in the morning? very well; i'll stay here till you get back. mrs. bassett will be well enough to leave the sanatorium in a few days, and i'm going up to waupegan to get the house ready." "it will be pleasant for mrs. bassett to have mrs. owen there this summer. anybody is lucky to have a woman of her qualities for a neighbor." "she's a noblewoman," said bassett impressively, "and a good friend to all of us." on the train the next morning harwood unfolded the day's "courier" in the languidly critical frame of mind that former employees of newspapers bring to the reading of the journals they have served. he scanned the news columns and opened to the editorial page. the leader at once caught his eye. it was double-leaded,--an emphasis rarely employed at the "courier" office, and was condensed in a single brief paragraph that stared oddly at the reader under the caption "stop, look, listen." it held harwood's attention through a dozen amazed and mystified readings. it ran thus:-- it has long been indiana's proud boast that money unsupported by honest merit has never intruded in her politics. a malign force threatens to mar this record. it is incumbent upon honest men of all parties who have the best interests of our state at heart to stop, look, listen. the courier gives notice that it is fully advised of the intentions, and perfectly aware of the methods, by which the fair name of the hoosier state is menaced. the courier, being thoroughly informed of the beginnings of this movement, whose purpose is the seizure of the democratic party, and the manipulation of its power for private ends, will antagonize to the utmost the element that has initiated it. honorable defeats the party in indiana has known, and it will hardly at this late day surrender tamely to the buccaneers and adventurers that seek to capture its battleflag. this warning will not be repeated. stop! look! listen! from internal evidence harwood placed the authorship readily enough: the paragraph had been written by the chief editorial writer, an old hand at the game, who indulged frequently in such terms as "adventurer" and "buccaneer." it was he who wrote sagely of foreign affairs, and once caused riotous delight in the reporters' room by an editorial on turkish politics, containing the phrase, "we hope the sultan--" but not without special authority would such an article have been planted at the top of the editorial page, and beyond doubt these lines were the residuum of bassett's long interview with atwill. and its aim was unmistakable: mr. bassett was thus paying his compliments to mr. thatcher. the encounter at the country club might have precipitated the crisis, but, knowing bassett, dan did not believe that the "courier's" batteries would have been fired on so little provocation. bassett was not a man to shoot wildly in the dark, nor was he likely to fire at all without being sure of the state of his ammunition chests. so, at least, harwood reasoned to himself. several of his fellow passengers in the smoking-car were passing the "courier" about and pointing to the editorial. all over indiana it would be the subject of discussion for a long time to come; and dan's journalistic sense told him that in the surrounding capitals it would not be ignored. "if thatcher and bassett get to fighting, the people may find a chance to sneak in and get something," a man behind dan was saying. "nope," said another voice; "there won't be 'no core' when those fellows get through with the apple." "i can hear the cheering in the republican camp this morning," remarked another voice gleefully. "oh, pshaw!" said still another speaker; "bassett will simply grind thatcher to powder. thatcher hasn't any business in politics anyhow and doesn't know the game. by george, bassett does! and this is the first time he's struck a full blow since he got behind the 'courier.' something must have made him pretty hot, though, to have let off a scream like that." harwood was interested in these remarks because they indicated a prevalent impression that bassett dominated the "courier," in spite of the mystery with which the ownership of the paper was enveloped. the only doubt in harwood's own mind had been left there by bassett himself. he recalled now bassett's remark on the day he had taken him into his confidence in the ranger county affair. "i might have some trouble in proving it myself," bassett had said. harwood thought it strange that after that first deliberate confidence and his introduction to atwill, bassett had, in this important move, ignored him. it was possible that his relations with allen thatcher, which bassett knew to be intimate, accounted for the change; or it might be due to a lessening warmth in bassett's feeling toward him. he recalled now that bassett had lately seemed moody,--a new development in the man from fraser,--and that he had several times been abrupt and unreasonable about small matters in the office. certain incidents that had appeared trivial at the time of their occurrence stood forth disquietingly now. if bassett had ceased to trust him, there must be a cause for the change; slight manifestations of impatience in a man so habitually calm and rational might be overlooked, but dan had not been prepared for this abrupt cessation of confidential relations. he was a bit piqued, the more so that this astounding editorial indicated a range and depth of purpose in bassett's plans that dan's imagination had not fathomed. he tore out the editorial and put it away carefully in his pocketbook as montgomery was called. a messenger was at the station to guide him to the court-house, where he found mrs. owen and sylvia waiting for him in the private room of the judge of the circuit court. mrs. owen had, in her thorough fashion, arranged all the preliminaries. she had found in akins, the president of the montgomery national bank, an old friend, and it was her way to use her friends when she needed them. at her instance, akins and another resident freeholder had already signed the bond when dan arrived. dan was amused by the direct manner in which mrs. owen addressed the court; the terminology pertaining to the administration of estates was at her fingers' ends, and there was no doubt that the judge was impressed by her. "we won't need any lawyer over here, daniel; you can save the estate lawyer's fees by acting yourself. i guess that will be all right, judge?" his honor said it would be; people usually yielded readily to mrs. owen's suggestions. "you can go up to the house now, sylvia, and i'll be along pretty soon. i want to make a memorandum for an inventory with daniel." at the bank akins gave them the directors' room, and andrew kelton's papers were produced from his box in the safety vault. akins explained that kelton had been obliged to drop life insurance policies for a considerable amount; only one policy for two thousand dollars had been carried through. there were a number of contracts with publishers covering the copyrights in kelton's mathematical and astronomical textbooks. the royalties on these had been diminishing steadily, the banker said, and they could hardly be regarded as an asset. "life insurance two thousand, contracts nothing, and the house is worth two with good luck. take it all in--and i reckon this _is_ all--we'll be in luck to pinch a little pin-money out of the estate for sylvia. it's more than i expected. you think there ain't anything else, mr. akins?" "the professor talked to me about his affairs frequently, and i have no reason to think there's anything more. he had five thousand dollars in government bonds, but he sold them and bought shares in that white river canneries combination. a lot of our montgomery people lost money in that scheme. it promised fifteen per cent--with the usual result." "yes. andrew told me about that once. well, well!" "he had money to educate his granddaughter; i don't know how he raised it, but he kept it in a special account in the bank. he told me that if he died before she finished college that was to be applied strictly to her education. there is eight hundred dollars left of that." "sylvia's going to teach," said mrs. owen. "i've been talking to her and she's got her plans all made. she's got a head for business, that girl, and nothing can shake her idea that she's got a work to do in the world. she knows what she's going to do every day for a good many years, from the way she talks. i had it all fixed to take her with me up to waupegan for the summer; thought she'd be ready to take a rest after her hard work at college, and this blow of her grandpa dying and all; but not that girl! she's going to spend the summer taking a normal course in town, to be ready to begin teaching in indianapolis next september. i guess if we had found a million dollars in her grandpa's box it would have been the same. when you talk about health, she laughs; i guess if there's a healthy woman on earth it's that girl. she says she doubled all her gymnasium work at college to build herself up ready for business. you know dr. wandless's daughter is a wellesley woman, and keeps in touch with the college. she wrote home that sylvia had 'em all beat a mile down there; that she just walked through everything and would be chosen for the phi beta kappa--is that right, daniel? she sort o' throws you out of your calculations, that girl does. i'd counted on having a good time with her up at the lake, and now it looks like i'd have to stay in town all summer if i'm going to see anything of her." it was clear enough that mrs. owen was not interesting herself in sylvia merely because the girl was the granddaughter of an old friend; she admired sylvia on her own account and was at no pains to disguise the fact. the bassett expectations were, dan reflected, scarcely at a premium to-day! mr. akins returned the papers to the safety box, and when mrs. owen and harwood were alone, she closed the door carefully. "now, daniel," she began, opening her hand-satchel, "i always hold that this is a funny world, but that things come out right in the end. they mostly do; but sometimes the devil gets into things and it ain't so easy. you believe in the devil, daniel?" "well, my folks are presbyterians," said dan. "my own religion is the same as ware's. i'm not sure he vouches for the devil." "it's my firm conviction that there is one, daniel,--a red one with a forked tail; you see his works scattered around too often to doubt it." dan nodded. mrs. owen had placed carefully under a weight a paper she had taken from her reticule. "daniel,"--she looked around at the door again, and dropped her voice,--"i believe you're a good man, and a clean one. and fitch says you're a smart young man. it's as much because you're a good man as because you've got brains that i've called on you to attend to sylvia's business. now i'm going to tell you something that i wouldn't tell anybody else on earth; it's a sacred trust, and i want you to feel bound by a more solemn oath than the one you took at the clerk's office not to steal sylvia's money." she fixed her remarkably penetrating gaze upon him so intently that he turned uneasily in his chair. "it's something somebody who appreciates sylvia, as i think you do, ought to know about her. andrew kelton told me just before sylvia started to college. the poor man had been carrying it alone till it broke him down; he had never told another soul. i reckon it was the hardest job he ever did to tell me; and i wouldn't be telling you except somebody ought to know who's in a position to help sylvia--sort o' look out for her and protect her. i believe"--and she put out her hand and touched his arm lightly--"i believe i can trust you to do that." "yes, mrs. owen." she waited until he had answered her, and even then she was silent, lost in thought. "professor kelton didn't know, daniel," she began gravely, "who sylvia's father was." she minimized the significance of this by continuing rapidly. "andrew had quit the navy soon after the war and came out here to madison college to teach, and his wife had died and he didn't know what to do with his daughter. edna kelton was a little headstrong, i reckon, and wanted her own way. she didn't like living in a country college town; there wasn't anything here to interest her. i won't tell you all of andrew's story, but it boils down to just this, that while edna was in new york studying music she got married without telling where, or to whom. andrew never saw her till she was dying in a hospital and had a little girl with her,--that's sylvia. now, whether there was any disgrace about it andrew didn't know; and we owe it to that dead woman and to sylvia to believe it was all right. you see what i mean, daniel? now that brings me down to what i want you to know. somebody has been keeping watch of sylvia,--andrew told me that." she was thinking deeply as though pondering just how much more it was necessary to tell him, and before she spoke she picked up the folded paper and read it through carefully. "when andrew got this it troubled him a lot: the idea that somebody had an eye on the girl, and took enough interest in her to do this, made him uneasy. sylvia never knew anything about it, of course; she doesn't know anything about anything, and she won't ever need to." "as i understand you, mrs. owen, you want some friend of hers to be in a position to protect her if any one tries to harm her; you want to shield her from any evil that might follow her from her mother's errors, if they were indeed errors. we have no right to assume that she had done anything to be ashamed of. that's the only just position for us to take in such a matter." "that's right, daniel. i knew you'd see it that way. it looks bad, and andrew knew it looked bad; but at my age i ain't thinking evil of people if i can help it. if a woman goes wrong, she pays for it--keeps on paying after she's paid the whole mortgage. that's the blackest thing in the world--that a woman never shakes a debt like that the way a man can. you foreclose on a woman and take away everything she's got; put her clean through bankruptcy, and the balance is still against her; but we can't make over society and laws just sitting here talking about it. i reckon edna kelton suffered enough. but we don't want sylvia to suffer. she's entitled to a happy life, and we don't want any shadows hanging over her. now that her grandpa's gone she can't go behind what he told her,--poor man, he had trouble enough answering the questions she had a right to ask; and he had to lie to her some." "yes; i suppose she will be content now; she will feel that what he didn't tell her she will never know. she's not a morbid person, and won't be likely to bother about it." "no; i ain't afraid of her brooding on what she doesn't know. it's the fear it may fly up and strike her when she ain't looking that worries me, and it worried the professor, too. that was why he told me. i guess when he talked to me that time he knew his heart was going to stop suddenly some day. and he'd got a hint that somebody was interested in watching sylvia--sort o' keeping track of her. and there was conscience in it; whoever it is or was hadn't got clean away from what he'd done. now i had a narrow escape from letting sylvia see this letter. it was stuck away in a tin box in andrew's bedroom, along with his commissions in the navy. i was poking round the house, thinking there might be things it would be better not to show sylvia, and i struck this box, and there was this letter, stuck away in the middle of the package. i gave sylvia the commissions, but she didn't see this. i don't want to burn it till you've seen it. this must have been what andrew spoke to me about that time; it was hardly before that, and it might have been later. you see it isn't dated. he started to tear it up, but changed his mind, so now we've got to pass on it." she pushed the letter across the table to harwood, and he read it through carefully. he turned it over after the first reading, and the word "declined," written firmly and underscored, held him long--so long that he started when mrs. owen roused him with "well, daniel?" he knew before he had finished reading that it was he who had borne the letter to the cottage in buckeye lane, unless there had been a series of such communications, which was unlikely on the face of it. mrs. owen had herself offered confirmation by placing the delivery of the dateless letter five years earlier. the internal evidence in the phrases prescribing the manner in which the verbal reply was to be sent, and the indorsement on the back of the sheet, were additional corroboration. it was almost unimaginable that the letter should have come again to his hand. he realized the importance and significance of the sheet of paper with the swiftness of a lightning flash; but beyond the intelligence conveyed by the letter itself there was still the darkness to grope in. his wits had never worked so rapidly in his life; he felt his heart beating uncomfortably; the perspiration broke out upon his forehead, and he drew out his handkerchief and mopped his face. "it's certainly very curious, very curious indeed," he said with all the calmness he could muster. "but it doesn't tell us much." "it wasn't intended to tell anything," said mrs. owen. "whoever wrote that letter, as i told you, was troubled about sylvia. i reckon it was a man; and i guess it's fair to assume that he felt under obligations, but hadn't the nerve to face 'em as obligations. is that the way it strikes you?" [illustration: whoever wrote that letter was troubled about sylvia] "that seems clear enough," he replied lamely. he made a pretense of rereading the letter, but only detached phrases penetrated to his consciousness. his imagination was in rebellion against the curbing to which he strove to subject it. when he had borne his answer back to fitch's office and been discharged with the generous payment of one hundred dollars for his services as messenger, just what had been the further history of the transaction? he had so far controlled his agitation that he was able to continue discussing the letter formally with the kind old woman who had placed the clue in his hands. he was little experienced in the difficult art of conversing with half a mind, and a direct question from mrs. owen roused him to the necessity of heeding what she was saying. he had resolved, however, that he would not tell her of his own connection with the message that lay on the table before them. he needed time in which to consider; he must not add a pebble's weight to an avalanche that might go crashing down upon the innocent. his training had made him wary of circumstantial evidence; after all it was possible that this was not the letter he had carried to professor kelton. it would be very like mrs. owen, if she saw that anything could be gained by such a course, to go direct to fitch and demand to know the source of the offer that had passed through his hands so mysteriously; but fitch had not known the contents of the letter, or he had said as much to harwood. there was also the consideration, and not the lightest, that dan was bound in honor to maintain the secrecy fitch had imposed upon him. the lawyer had confided the errand to him in the belief that he would accept the mission in the spirit in which it was entrusted to him, and his part in the transaction was a matter between himself and fitch and did not concern mrs. owen in any way whatever. no possible benefit could accrue to sylvia from a disclosure of his suspicion that he had borne the letter to her grandfather. mrs. owen had given him the letter that he might be in a position to protect sylvia, and there was nothing incompatible between this confidence and his duty to fitch, who continued to be a kind and helpful friend. he dreaded the outcome of an interview between this shrewd, penetrating, and indomitable woman and the lawyer. the letter, cold and colorless in what it failed to say, and torn half across to mark the indecision of the old professor, had in it a great power for mischief. while harwood's mind was busy with these reflections he had been acquiescing in various speculations in which mrs. owen had been indulging, without really being conscious of their import. "i don't know that any good can come of keeping the letter, daniel. i reckon we might as well tear it up. you and i know what it is, and i've been studying it for a couple of days without seeing where any good can come of holding it. you might burn it in the grate there and we'll both know it's out of the way. i guess that person feels that he done his whole duty in making the offer and he won't be likely to bother any more. that conscience was a long time getting waked up, and having done that much it probably went to sleep again. there's nothing sleeps as sound as a conscience, i reckon, and i shouldn't be a bit surprised if mine took a nap occasionally. better burn that little document, daniel, and we'll be rid of it and try to forget it." "no; i don't believe i'd do that," he said slowly. "it might be better to hold on to it, at least until the estate is closed up. you can't tell what's behind it." and then, groping for a plausible reason, he added: "the author of the letter may be in a position to annoy sylvia by filing a claim against the professor's estate, or something of that kind. it's better not to destroy the only thing we have that might help if that should occur. i believe it's best to hold on to it till the estate's settled." this was pretty lame, as he realized, but his caution pleased her, and she acquiesced. she was anxious to leave no ground for anyone to rob sylvia of her money, and if there was any remote possibility that the letter might add to the girl's security she was willing that it should be retained. she sent dan out into the bank for an envelope, and when it was brought, sealed up the letter and addressed it to dan in her own hand and marked it private. "you take good care of that, daniel, and when you get the estate closed up you burn it." "yes, it can do no harm to hold it a little while," he said with affected lightness. chapter xvii a stroll across the campus dan joined mrs. owen and sylvia at the cottage later. he was to see them off in the morning; and he exerted himself to make sylvia's last evening in buckeye lane as happy as possible. the cottage was to be left in the care of the old servant until it could be disposed of; mary herself was to be provided for in some way--sylvia and mrs. owen had decided that this was only fair and right. after tea mrs. owen said she had letters to write and carried her portfolio to the library for the purpose. dan and sylvia being thus left to themselves, he proposed a stroll across the campus. "there's something about a campus," he said, as they started out;--"there's a likeness in all of them, or maybe it's sentiment that binds them together. wellesley speaks to yale, and the language of both is understood by madison. ah--there's the proof of it now!" integer vitæ, scelerisque purus! a dozen students lounging on the steps of the library had begun to sing the latin words to a familiar air. dan followed in his deep bass to the end. "the words are the words of horace, but the tune is the tune of eli with thanks to dr. fleming," he remarked. "it's that sort of thing that makes college worth while. i'll wager those are seniors, who already feel a little heartache because their college years are so nearly over. i'm getting to be an old grad myself, but those songs still give me a twinge." "i understand that," said sylvia. "i'll soon be saying good-bye to girls i may never see again, or when i meet them at a reunion in five or ten years, they'll be different. college is only the beginning, after all." "it's only the beginning, but for some fellows it's the end, too. it scares me to see how many of my classmates are already caught in the undertow. i wonder sometimes whether i'm not going under myself." sylvia turned toward him. "i rather imagine that you're a strong swimmer. it would surprise me if you didn't do something pretty big. mrs. owen thinks you will; she's not a person for any one to disappoint." "oh, she has a way of thinking in large totals of people she likes, and she does like me, most unaccountably." "she has real illusions about _me_," laughed sylvia. "she has an idea that colleges do things by magic; and i'm afraid she will find out that the wand didn't touch me." "you didn't need the wand's magic," he answered, "for you are a woman of genius." "which sounds well, mr. harwood; no one ever used such words to me before! i've learned one thing, though: that patience and work will make up for a good many lacks. there are some things i'm going to try to do." they loitered in the quiet paths of the campus. "bright college years" followed them from the singers at the library. if there's any sentiment in man or woman the airs of a spring night in our midwestern country will call it out. the planets shone benignantly through the leaves of maple and elm; and the young grass was irregular, untouched as yet by the mower--as we like it best who love our madison! a week-old moon hung in the sky--ample light for the first hay-ride of the season that is moving toward water babble to the strains of guitar and banjo and boy and girl voices. it's unaccountable that there should be so much music in a sophomore--or maybe that's a fraternity affair--sigma chi or delta tau or deke. or mayhap those lads wear a "fiji" pin on their waistcoats; i seem to recall spring hay-rides as an expression of "fiji" spirit in my own days at madison, when i myself was that particular blithe hellenist with the guitar, and scornful of all barbarians! sylvia was a woman now. Æons stretched between to-night and that afternoon when she had opened the door for harwood in buckeye lane. his chivalry had been deeply touched by mrs. owen's disclosure at the bank, and subsequent reflection had not lightened the burden of her confidence. such obscurities as existed in the first paragraph of the first page of sylvia's life's record were dark enough in any circumstances, but the darkness was intensified by her singular isolation. the commission he had accepted in her behalf from mrs. owen carried a serious responsibility. these things he pondered as they walked together. he felt the pathos of her black gown; but she had rallied from the first shock of her sorrow, and met him in his key of badinage. she was tall--almost as tall as he; and in the combined moon- and star-light of the open spaces their eyes met easily. he was conscious to-night of the charm in sylvia that he had felt first on the train that day they had sped through the berkshires together. no other girl had ever appealed to him so strongly. it was not the charm of cleverness, for she was not clever in the usual sense; she said few bright, quotable things, though her humor was keen. she had carried into womanhood the good looks of her girlhood, and she was a person one looked at twice. her eyes were fine and expressive, and they faced the world with an engaging candor. they had learned to laugh since we saw her first--college and contact with the world had done that for her. her face was long, her nose a compromise of good models, her mouth a little large, but offering compensations when she smiled in her quick, responsive fashion. one must go deeper, harwood reflected, for sylvia's charm, and it dawned upon him that it was in the girl's self, born of an alert, clear-thinking mind and a kind and generous heart. individuality, personality, were words with which he sought to characterize her; and as he struggled with terms, he found that she was carrying the burden of the talk. "i suppose," she was saying, in her voice that was deeper than most women's voices, and musical and agreeable to hear,--"i suppose that college is designed to save us all a lot of hard knocks; i wonder if it does?" "if you're asking me personally, i'll say that there are lumps on my brow where i have bumped hard, in spite of my a.b. degree. i'm disposed to think that college only postpones the day of our awakening; we've got to shoot the chutes anyhow. it is so written." she laughed at his way of putting it. "oh, you're not so much older that you can frighten me. people on the toboggan always seem to be having a good time; the percentage of those whose car jumps the track isn't formidable." "just enough fatalities to flavor the statistics. the seniors over there have stopped singing; i dare say they're talking about life in large capital letters." "well, there are plenty of chances. i'm rather of the opinion that we're all here to do something for somebody. nobody's life is just his own. whether we want it that way or not, we are all links in the chain, and it's our business not to be the weakest." "i'm an individualist," he said, "and i'm very largely concerned in seeing what daniel harwood, a poor young lawyer of mediocre abilities, can do with this thing we hear mentioned as life." "oh, but there's no such thing as an individualist; the idea is purely academic!" and she laughed again, but less lightly. "we're all debtors to somebody or something--to the world itself, for example." "for the stars up there, for grass and trees, for the moon by night and the sun by day--for the gracious gift of friends?" "a little, yes; but they don't count so much. i owe my debt to people--real human beings, who may not be as lucky as i. for a good many thousand years people have been at work trying to cheer up the world--brighten it and make it a better place to live in. i owe all those people something; it's not merely a little something; it's a tremendous lot, and i must pay these other human beings who don't know what they're entitled to. you have felt that; you have felt it just as i have, i'm sure." "you are still in college, and that is what undergraduates are taught to call ideals, miss garrison. i hope you will hold on to them: i had mine, but i'm conscious of late that i'm losing my grip on them. it's inevitable, in a man's life. it's a good thing that women hold on to them longer; without woman's faith in such things the world would be a sad old cinder, tumbling aimlessly around in the void." she stopped abruptly in the path, very tall and slim in the dusk of starlight and moonlight. he had been carrying his hat in his hand and he leaned on his stick wondering whether she were really in earnest, whether he had displeased her by the half-mocking tone in which he had spoken. "please don't talk this old, romantic, mediæval nonsense about women! this is the twentieth century, and i don't believe for a minute that a woman, just by being a woman, can keep the world sweet and beautiful. once, maybe; but not any more! a woman's ideals aren't a bit better than a man's unless she stands up for them and works for them. you don't have to take that from a college senior; you can ask dear mrs. owen. i suppose she knows life from experience if any woman ever did, and she has held to her ideals and kept working away at them. but just being a woman, and being good, and nice, and going to church, and belonging to a missionary society--well, mr. harwood?" she had changed from earnestness to a note of raillery. "yes, miss garrison," he replied in her own key; "if you expect me to take issue with you or mrs. owen on any point, you're much mistaken. you and she are rather fortunate over many of the rest of us in having both brains and gentle hearts--the combination is irresistible! when you come home to throw in your lot with that of about a quarter of a million of us in our hoosier capital, i'll put myself at your disposal. i've been trying to figure some way of saving the american republic for the plain people, and i expect to go out in the campaign this fall and make some speeches warning all good citizens to be on guard against corporate greed, invasions of sacred rights, and so on. my way is plain, the duty clear," he concluded, with a wave of his stick. "well," said sylvia, "if you care enough about it to do that you must still have a few ideals lying around somewhere." "i don't know, to be honest about it, that it's so much my ideals as a wish to help my friend mr. bassett win a fight." "i didn't know that he ever needed help in winning what he really wanted to win. i have heard of him only as the indomitable leader who wins whenever it's worth while." "well," dan answered, "he's got a fight on hand that he can't afford to lose if he means to stay in politics." "i must learn all about that when i come home. i never saw mr. bassett but once; that was at waupegan when i was up there with mrs. owen nearly five years ago. he had just come back from the west and spent only a day at the lake." "then you don't really know him?" "no; they had counted on having him there for the rest of the summer, but he came one day and left the next. he didn't even see mrs. owen; i remember that she expressed surprise that he had come to the lake and gone without seeing her." "he's a busy man and works hard. you were getting acquainted with marian about that time?" "yes; she was awfully good to me that summer. i liked mr. bassett, the glimpse i had of him; he seemed very interesting--a solid american character, quiet and forceful." "yes, he is that; he's a strong character. he's shown me every kindness--given me my chance. i should be ashamed of myself if i didn't feel grateful to him." they had made the complete circuit of the campus several times and sylvia said it was time to go back. the remembrance of bassett had turned her thoughts to marian, and they were still talking of her when mrs. owen greeted them cheerily from the little veranda. they were to start for boston in the morning, and harwood was to stay in montgomery a day or two longer on business connected with the estate. "don't let my sad philosophy keep you awake, mr. harwood!--i've given him all my life programme, mrs. owen. i think it has had a depressing influence on him." "it's merely that you have roused me to a sense of my own general worldliness and worthlessness," he replied, laughing as they shook hands. "i guess sylvia can tell you a good many things, daniel," said mrs. owen. "i wish you'd call myers--he's my seymour farmer--on the long distance in the morning, and tell him not to think i won't be down to look at his corn when i get back. tell him i've gone to college, but i'll be right down there when i get home." chapter xviii the kingdoms of the world harwood reached the capital on the afternoon of the second day after mrs. owen and sylvia had gone east, and went at once to the boordman building. miss farrell was folding and sealing letters bearing bassett's signature. "hello, little stranger; i'd begun to think you had met with foul play, as the hero says in scene two, act three, of 'the dark switch-lantern'--all week at the park theatre at prices within the reach of all. business has been good, if you press me for news, but that paper-mill hasn't had much attention since you departed this life. everybody's saying 'stop, look, listen!' when in doubt you say that,--the white aprons in the one-arm lunch rooms say it now when you kick on the size of the buns. you will find your letters in the left-hand drawer. i told that collector from the necktie foundry that he needn't wear himself to a shadow carrying bills up here; that you paid all your bills by check on the tenth of the month. as that was the twenty-ninth, you'd better frame some new by-laws to avoid other breaks like that. i can't do much lying at my present salary." she stood with her hands clasping her belt, and continued to enlighten him on current history as he looked over his letters. "that young allen thatcher has been making life a burden to me in your lamented absence. wanted to know every few hours if you had come back, and threatened to call you up on the long distance at montgomery, but i told him you were trying a murder case over there, and that if he didn't want to get nailed for contempt of court he'd better not interrupt the proceedings." "you're speaking of mr. allen thatcher, are you, miss farrell?" asked harwood, in the tone to which the girl frequently drove him. "the same, like the mind reader you are! say, that boy isn't stuck on you or anything. he came up here yesterday afternoon when the boss was out and wanted to talk things over. he seemed to think i hadn't anything to do but be a sister to him and hear his troubles. well, i've got embarrassments of my own, with that true sport his papa sending me an offer of a hundred per month to work for him. one hundred dollars a month in advance! this, mr. harwood, is private and confidential. i guess i haven't worked at the state house without learning a few tricks in this mortal vale of politics." she had calculated nicely the effect of this shot. harwood might treat her, as she said, like a step-child with a harelip, but occasionally she made him sit up. he sat up now. he remarked with the diplomatic unconcern that it was best to employ with her:-- "refused the offer, did you, miss farrell?" "i certainly did. as between a fat old sport like ed thatcher and a gentleman like mr. bassett, money doesn't count--not even with a p.w.g., or poor working girl, like me. hush!--are we quite alone?" she bent toward the door dramatically. "what he was playing for, as neat as a hatpin in your loved one's eye, was some facts about the boss's committee work in that last session i worked at the state house. cute of thatcher? well, not so awful bright! he doesn't know what he's up against if he thinks mort bassett can be caught on flypaper, and you can be dead sure i'm not going to sprinkle the sugar to catch our boss with. all that transportation committee business was just as straight as the way home; but"--miss farrell tapped her mouth daintily with her fingers to stifle an imaginary yawn--"but little rose brought down her shorthand notebooks marked 'm.b. personal,' and the boss and i burned them yesterday morning early, right there in that grate in his room. that's what i think of mr. ed thatcher. a pearl necklace for my birthday ought to be about right for that." harwood had been drinking this in as he opened and sorted his letters. he paused and stared at her absently. "you referred to a caller a moment ago--the gentleman who annoyed you so much on the telephone. was i to call him or anything like that?" "he left a good many orders, but i think you were to eat food with him in the frosty halls of the university club almost at once. he's in a state of mind. in love with the daughter of his father's enemy--just like a park theatre thriller. wants you to tell him what to do; and you will pardon me for suggesting that if there's to be an elopement you write it up yourself for the 'courier.' i was talking to a friend of mine who's on the ding-ding desk at the whitcomb and she says the long-distance business in that tavern is painful to handle--hot words flying over the state about this thatcher-bassett rumpus. you may take it from me that the fight is warm, and i guess somebody will know more after the convention. but say--!" "um," said harwood, whose gaze was upon the frame of a new building that was rising across the street. he was thinking of allen. if marian and allen were subjects of gossip in connection with the break between their fathers he foresaw trouble; and he was sorry, for he was sincerely devoted to the boy; and marian he liked also, in spite of her vagaries. a great many people were likely to be affected by the personal difficulties of thatcher and bassett. even quiet montgomery was teeming, and on the way from the station he had met half a dozen acquaintances who had paused to shake hands and say something about the political situation. his ignorance of bassett's real intentions, which presumably the defiance of the "courier" merely cloaked, was not without its embarrassment. he had been known as a bassett man; he had received and talked to innumerable politicians of bassett's party in the boordman building; and during the four years of his identification with bassett he had visited most of the county seats on political and business errands. the closeness of their association made all the more surprising this sudden exclusion. "i said 'say,'" repeated miss farrell, lightly touching the smooth cliff of yellow hair above her brow with the back of her hand. "i was about to give you a message from his majesty our king, but if you're on a pipe dream don't let me call you home." "oh, yes; pardon me. what were you about to say?" "mr. bassett said that if you came in before i quit to ask you to come over to the whitcomb. mrs. bassett blew in to-day from that sanatorium in connecticut where they've been working on her nerves. miss marian brought her back, and they've stopped in town to rest. and say,"--here miss farrell lowered her voice,--"the missis must try his soul a good deal! i wonder how he ever picked _her_ out of the bunch?" "that will do!" said harwood sharply. "i'll find mr. bassett at the whitcomb and i shan't have anything for you to-day." there had been a meeting of the central committee preliminary to the approaching state convention. a number of candidates had already opened headquarters at the whitcomb; members of congress, aspirants for the governor's seat, to be filled two years hence, and petty satraps from far and near were visible at the hotel. if bassett's star was declining there was nothing to indicate it in the conduct of the advance guard. if any change was apparent it pointed to an increase of personal popularity. bassett was not greatly given to loafing in public places; he usually received visitors at such times in an upper room of the hotel; but harwood found him established on a settee in the lobby in plain view of all seekers, and from the fixed appearance of the men clustered about him he had held this position for some time. harwood drew into the outer edge of the crowd unnoticed for a moment. bassett was at his usual ease; a little cheerfuler of countenance than was his wont, and yet not unduly anxious to appear tranquil. he had precipitated one of the most interesting political struggles the state had ever witnessed, but his air of unconcern before this mixed company of his fellow partisans, among whom there were friends and foes, was well calculated to inspire faith in his leadership. some one was telling a story, and at its conclusion bassett caught harwood's eye and called to him in a manner that at once drew attention to the young man. "hello, dan! you're back from the country all right, i see! i guess you boys all know harwood. you've seen his name in the newspapers!" several of the loungers shook hands with harwood, who had cultivated the handshaking habit, and he made a point of addressing to each one some personal remark. thus the gentleman from tippecanoe, who had met dan at the congressional convention in lafayette two years earlier, felt that he must have favorably impressed bassett's agent on that occasion; else how had harwood asked at once, with the most shameless flattery, whether they still had the same brand of fried chicken at his house! and the gentleman from the remote shores of the lake, a rare visitor in town, had every right to believe, from dan's reference to the loss by fire of the gentleman's house a year earlier, that that calamity had aroused in dan the deepest sympathy. dan had mastered these tricks; it rather tickled his sense of humor to practice them; but it must be said for him that he was sincerely interested in people, particularly in these men who played the great game. if he ever achieved anything in politics it must be through just such material as offered itself on such occasions as this in the halls of the whitcomb. these men might be tearing the leader to pieces to-morrow, or the day after; but he was still in the saddle, and not knowing but that young harwood might be of use to them some day, they greeted him as one of the inner circle. most of these men sincerely liked and admired bassett; and many of them accepted the prevailing superstition as to his omniscience and invulnerability; even in the republican camp many shared the belief that the spears of the righteous were of no avail against him. dan's loyalty to bassett had never been more firmly planted. bassett had always preserved a certain formality in his relations with him; to-night he was calling him dan, naturally and as though unconscious of the transition. this was not without its effect on harwood; he was surprised to find how agreeable it was to be thus familiarly addressed by the leader in such a gathering. bassett suggested that he speak to mrs. bassett and marian, who were spending a few days in town, and he found them in the hotel parlor, where bassett joined them shortly. mrs. bassett and dan had always got on well together; his nearness to her husband brought him close to the domestic circle; and he had been invariably responsive to her demands upon his time. dan had learned inevitably a good deal of the inner life of the bassetts, and now and then he had been aware that mrs. bassett was sounding him discreetly as to her husband's plans and projects; but these approaches had been managed with the nicest tact and discretion. in her long absences from home she had lost touch with bassett's political interests and occupations, but she knew of his break with thatcher. she prided herself on being a woman of the world, and while she had flinched sometimes at the attacks made upon her husband, she was nevertheless proud of his influence in affairs. bassett had once, at a time when he was being assailed for smothering some measure in the senate, given her a number of books bearing upon the anti-slavery struggle, in which she read that the prominent leaders in that movement had suffered the most unjust attacks, and while it was not quite clear wherein lay bassett's likeness to lincoln, lovejoy, and wendell phillips, she had been persuaded that the most honorable men in public life are often the targets of scandal. her early years in washington with her father had impressed her imagination; the dream of returning there as the wife of a senator danced brightly in her horizons. it would mean much to marian and blackford if their father, like their grandfather singleton, should attain a seat in the senate. and she was aware that without such party service as bassett was rendering, with its resulting antagonisms, the virulent newspaper attacks, the social estrangements that she had not escaped in fraserville, a man could not hope for party preferment. bassett had recently visited blackford at the military school where his son was established, and talk fell upon the boy. "black likes to have a good time, but he will come out all right. the curriculum doesn't altogether fit him--that's his only trouble." bassett glanced at harwood for approval and dan promptly supported the father's position. blackford had, as a matter of fact, been threatened with expulsion lately for insubordination. bassett had confessed to dan several times his anxiety touching the boy. to-day, when the lad's mother had just returned after a long sojourn in a rest cure, was not a fit occasion for discussing such matters. "what's allen doing?" asked marian. "i suppose now that papa is having a rumpus with mr. thatcher i shall never see him any more." "you shouldn't speak so, marian. a hotel parlor is no place to discuss your father's affairs," admonished mrs. bassett. "oh, allen's ever so much fun. he's a socialist or something. aunt sally likes him ever so much. aunt sally likes mr. thatcher, too, for that matter," she concluded boldly. "mr. thatcher is an old friend of mine," said bassett soberly. "you can be awfully funny when you want to, papa," replied marian. "as we came through pittsburg this morning i bought a paper that told about 'stop, look, listen.' but allen won't mind if you do whistle to his father to keep off the track." "mr. thatcher's name was never mentioned by me in any such connection," replied bassett; but he laughed when marian leaned over and patted his cheek to express her satisfaction in her father's cleverness. "i think it unfortunate that you have gone to war with that man," remarked mrs. bassett wearily. "you dignify it too much by calling it a war," harwood interjected. "we don't want such men in politics in this state and somebody has to deal with them." "i guess it will be a lively scrap all right enough," said marian, delighted at the prospect. "we're going to move to the city this fall, mr. harwood. hasn't papa told you?" mrs. bassett glanced at her husband with alert suspicion, thinking that perhaps in her absence he had been conniving to this end with marian. bassett smiled at his daughter's adroitness in taking advantage of harwood's presence to introduce this subject; it had been the paramount issue with her for several years. "i shall be glad enough to stay at fraserville the rest of my days if i get through another waupegan summer safely," said mrs. bassett. "the mere thought of moving is horrible!" "oh, we wouldn't exactly move in coming here; we'd have an apartment in one of these comfortable new houses and come down while the legislature's in session, so we can be with papa. and there's ever so much music here now, and the theatres, and i could have a coming-out party here. you know i never had one, papa. and it would be nice to be near aunt sally; she's getting old and needs us." "yes; she undoubtedly does," said bassett, with faint irony. her daughter's rapid fire of suggestions wearied mrs. bassett. she turned to harwood:-- "mr. bassett and marian have been telling me, mr. harwood, that aunt sally went back to college with sylvia garrison after professor kelton's death. poor girl, it's quite like aunt sally to do that. sylvia must be very forlorn, with all her people gone. i think aunt sally knew her mother. i hope the girl isn't wholly destitute?" "no, the professor left a small estate and miss garrison expects to teach," dan answered. "dan is the administrator," remarked bassett "i'm sure you will be glad to know that miss garrison's affairs are in good hands, hallie." "aunt sally is very fond of you, mr. harwood; i hope you appreciate that," said mrs bassett. "aunt sally doesn't like everybody." "aunt sally's a brick, all right," declared marian, as an accompaniment to dan's expression of his gratification that mrs. owen had honored him with her friendship. "it's too bad the girl will have to teach," said mrs. bassett; "it must be a dog's life." "i think miss garrison doesn't look at it that way," harwood intervened. "she thinks she's in the world to do something for somebody; she's a very interesting, a very charming young woman." "well, i haven't seen her in five years; she was only a young girl that summer at the lake. how soon will aunt sally be back? i do hope she's coming to waupegan. if i'd known she was going to wellesley, we could have waited for her in new york, and marian and i could have gone with them to see sylvia graduated. i always wanted to visit the college." "it was better for you to come home, hallie," said mr. bassett. "you are not quite up to sight-seeing yet. and now," he added, "dan and i have some business on hand for an hour or so, and i'm going to send you and marian for an automobile ride before dinner. you must quit the moment you are tired. wish we could all go, but i haven't seen dan much lately, and as i'm going home with you to-morrow we shan't have another chance." when his wife and daughter had been dispatched in the motor bassett suggested that they go to a private room he had engaged in the hotel, first giving orders at the office that he was not to be disturbed. he did not, however, escape at once from men who had been lying in wait for him in the lobby and corridors, but he made short work of them. "i want to thresh out some things with you to-day, and i'll be as brief as possible," said bassett when he and harwood were alone. "you got matters fixed satisfactorily at montgomery--no trouble about your appointment?" "none; mrs. owen had arranged all that." "you mentioned to her, did you, my offer to help?" "oh, yes! but she had already arranged with akins, the banker, about the administrator's bond, and we went at once to business." "that's all right; only i wanted to be sure mrs. owen understood i had offered to help you. she's very kind to my wife and children; mrs. bassett has been almost like a daughter to her, you know. there's really some property to administer, is there?" "very little, sir. the professor had been obliged to drop part of his life insurance and there was only two thousand in force when he died. the house he lived in may bring another two. there are some publishers' contracts that seem to have no value. and the old gentleman had invested what was a large sum for him in white river canneries." bassett frowned and he asked quickly:-- "how much?" "five thousand dollars." "as much as that?" bassett's connection with white river canneries was an incident of the politician's career to which harwood had never been wholly reconciled. nor was he pleasantly impressed by bassett's next remark, which, in view of mrs. bassett's natural expectations,--and these dan had frequently heard mentioned at the capital,--partook of the nature of a leading question. "that's unfortunate. but i suppose mrs. owen, by reason of her friendship for the grandfather, won't let the girl suffer." "she's not the sort of girl who would be dependent in any case. she holds rather altruistic ideas in fact," remarked harwood. "i mean," he added, seeing that bassett waited for him to explain himself, "that miss garrison feels that she starts life in debt to the world--by reason of her own opportunities and so on; she expects to make payments on that debt." "in debt?" bassett repeated vacantly. "oh, not literally, i see! she expects to teach and help others in that way. that's commendable. but let me see." he had taken an unsharpened lead pencil from his pocket and was slipping it through his fingers absently, allowing its blunt ends to tap the arm of his chair at intervals. after a moment's silence he plunged into his own affairs. "you probably saw my tip to thatcher in the 'courier'? i guess everybody has seen it by this time," he added grimly; and he went on as though making a statement his mind had thoroughly rehearsed: "thatcher and i have been pretty thick. we've been in a good many business deals together. we've been useful to each other. he had more money than i had to begin with, but i had other resources--influence and so on that he needed. i guess we're quits on the business side. you may be interested to know that i never had a cent of money in his breweries and distilleries; but i've helped protect the traffic in return for support he has given some of my own enterprises. i never owned a penny in that fraserville brewery, for instance; but i've been pointed out as its owner. they've got the idea here in indiana that saloons are my chief joy in life; but nothing is farther from the truth. when mrs. bassett has been troubled about that i have always been able to tell her with a good conscience that i hadn't a penny in the business. i've frankly antagonized legislation directed against the saloon, for i've never taken any stock in this clamor of the prohibitionists and temperance cranks generally; but i've stood consistently for a proper control. thatcher and i got along all right until he saw that the party was coming into power again and got the senatorial bee in his bonnet. he's got the idea that he can buy his way in; and to buy a seat he's got to buy my friends. that's a clear proposition, isn't it?" "yes, sir; i haven't seen that he had any personal influence worth counting." "exactly. now, i don't intend that ed thatcher shall buy a seat in the united states senate if our party in indiana has one to dispose of. i'm not so good myself, but when i found that thatcher had begun to build up a little machine for himself, i resolved to show him that i can't be used by any man so long as he thinks he needs me and then kicked out when i'm in the way. and i've got some state pride, too, and with all the scandals going around in other states over the sale of seats at washington i'm not going to have my party in the state where i was born and where i have lived all my life lend itself to the ambitions of an ed thatcher. i think you share that feeling?" "the people of the whole state will commend that," replied dan warmly. "and if you want to go to the senate--" "i don't want anything from my party that it doesn't want me to have," interrupted bassett. he rose and paced the floor. an unusual color had come into his face, but otherwise he betrayed no agitation. he crossed from the door to the window and resumed his seat. "they've said of me that i fight in the dark; that i'm a man of secret and malign methods. the 'advertiser' said only this morning that i have no courage; that i never make an attack where it costs me anything. i've already proved that to be a lie. my attack on thatcher is likely to cost me a good deal. you may be sure he won't scruple to make the bill as heavy as he can. i'm talking to you freely, and i'll say to you that i expect the better element of the party to rally to my support. you see, i'm going to give you idealists a chance to do something that will count. thatcher is not a foe to be despised. here's his reply to my 'stop, look, listen,' editorial. the sheriff served it on me just as i stepped into the elevator to come up here." the paper harwood took wonderingly was a writ citing bassett to appear as defendant in a suit brought in the circuit court by edward g. thatcher against the courier publishing company, morton bassett, and sarah owen. bassett stretched himself at ease in his chair and explained. "i wanted a newspaper and he was indifferent about it at the time; but we went in together, and he consented that i should have a controlling interest. as i was tied up tight right then i had to get mrs. owen to help me out. it wasn't the kind of deal you want to hawk about town, and neither thatcher nor i cared to have it known for a while that we had bought the paper. but it's hardly a secret now, of course. mrs. owen and i together own one hundred and fifty-one shares of the total of three hundred; thatcher owns the rest and he was satisfied to let it go that way. he signed an agreement that i should manage the paper, and said he didn't want anything but dividends." "mrs. owen's interest is subject to your wishes, of course; that goes without saying." "well, i guaranteed eight per cent on her investment, but we've made it lately, easily. i've now got to devise some means of getting rid of thatcher; but we'll let him cool till after the convention. mrs. owen won't be back for several weeks, i suppose?" "no; she and miss garrison will return immediately after the commencement exercises." "well, thatcher brought that suit, thinking that if he could throw the paper into a receivership he'd run up the price when it came to be sold and shake me out. he knew, too, that it would annoy mrs. owen to be involved in litigation. it's surprising that he would incur her wrath himself; she's always been mighty decent to ed and kind to his boy. but i'll have to buy her stock and let her out; it's a delicate business, and for mrs. bassett's sake i've got to get her aunt out as quickly as possible." "that, of course, will be easily managed. it's too bad she's away just now." "it was the first time i ever asked her help in any of my business affairs, and it's unfortunate. the fact is that mrs. bassett doesn't know of it." he rose and crossed the room slowly with his hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets. "but if mrs. owen is guaranteed against loss there's no ground for criticizing you," said dan. "there's nothing to trouble about on that side of it, i should think." "oh, i'm not troubling about that," replied bassett shortly. he shrugged his shoulders and walked to the window, gazing out on the street in silence for several minutes. then he sat down on the edge of the bed. "i told you, dan, when you opened our office in the boordman building, that if ever the time came when you didn't want to serve me any longer you were to feel free to quit. you are under no obligations to me of any sort. i caught a bargain in you; you have been useful to me in many ways; you have carried nearly the whole burden of the paper-mill receivership in a way to win me the praise of the court and all others interested. if you should quit me to-night i should still be your debtor. i had about decided to leave you out of my calculations in politics; you have the making of a good lawyer and if you opened an office to-morrow you would find clients without trouble. you are beginning to be known, very well known for a man of your years." harwood demurred feebly, unheeded by bassett, who continued steadily. "i had thought for a time that i shouldn't encourage you to take any part in politics--at least in my affairs. the receivership has been giving you enough to do; and the game, after all, is a hard one. even after i decided to break with thatcher i thought i'd leave you out of it: that's why i gave you no intimation of what was coming, but put the details into atwill's hands. i had really meant to show you a proof of that editorial, but i wasn't sure until they had to close the page that night that i was ready to make the break. i had been pretty hot that evening at the country club when i saw pettit and thatcher chumming together; i wanted to be sure i had cooled off. but i find that i've got in the habit of relying on you; i've been open with you from the beginning, and as you know i'm not much given to taking men into my confidence. but i've been leaning on you a good deal--more, in fact, than i realized." there was no questioning bassett's sincerity, nor was there any doubt that this appeal was having its effect on the younger man. if bassett had been a weakling timorously making overtures for help, harwood would have been sensible of it; but a man of demonstrated force and intelligence, who had probably never talked thus to another soul in his life, was addressing him with a candor at once disarming and compelling. it was not easy to say to a man from whom he had accepted every kindness that he had ceased to trust him; that while he had been his willing companion on fair-weather voyages, he would desert without a qualm before the tempest. but even now bassett had asked nothing of him; why should he harden his heart against the man who had been his friend? "you have your ideals--fine ideas of public service that i admire. our party needs such men as you; the young fellows couldn't get away from us fast enough after ' ; many of the sons of old-time democrats joined the republicans. fitch has spoken to me of you often as the kind of man we ought to push forward, and i'm willing to put you out on the firing-line, where you can work for your ideals. my help will handicap you at first,"--his voice grew dry and hard here,-"but once you have got a start you can shake me off as quick as you like. it's a perfectly selfish proposition i'm making, harwood; it simply gets down to this, that i need your help." "of course, mr. bassett; if i can serve you in any way--" "anything you can do for me you may do if you don't feel that you will be debasing yourself in fighting under my flag. it's a black flag, they say--just as black as thatcher's. i don't believe you want to join thatcher; the question is, do you want to stick to me?" bassett had spoken quietly throughout. he had made no effort to play upon harwood's sympathies or to appeal to his gratitude. he was, in common phrase, to be taken or let alone. harwood realized that he must either decline outright or declare his fealty in a word. it was in no view a debatable matter; he could not suggest points of difference or even inquire as to the nature of the service to be exacted. he was face to face with a man who, he had felt that night of their first meeting at fraserville, gave and received hard blows. yet he did not doubt that if their relations terminated to-day bassett would deal with him magnanimously. he realized that after all it was not bassett who was on trial; it was daniel harwood! he saw his life in sharp fulgurations; the farm (cleared of debt through bassett's generosity, to be sure!) where his father and brothers struggled to wrest a livelihood from reluctant soil, and their pride and hope in him; he saw his teachers at college, men who had pointed the way to useful and honorable lives; and more than all, sumner rose before him--sumner who had impressed him more than any other man he had ever known. sumner's clean-cut visage was etched grimly in his consciousness; verily sumner would not have dallied with a man of bassett's ilk. he had believed when he left college that sumner's teaching and example would be a buckler and shield to him all the days of his life; and here he was, faltering before a man to whom the great teacher would have given scarce a moment's contemptuous thought. he could even hear the professor's voice as he ironically pronounced upon sordid little despots of bassett's stamp. and only forty-eight hours earlier he had been talking to a girl on the campus at madison who had spoken of idealism and service in the terms of which he had thought of those things when he left college. even allen thatcher, in his whimsical fashion, stood for ideals, and dreamed of the heroic men who had labored steadfastly for great causes. here was his chance now to rid himself of bassett; to breathe free air again! on the other hand, bassett had himself suggested that harwood, once in a position to command attention, might go his own gait. his servitude would be for a day only, and by it he should win eternal freedom. he caught eagerly at what bassett was saying, grateful that the moment of his choice was delayed. "the state convention is only three weeks off and i had pretty carefully mapped it out before the 'courier' dropped that shot across thatcher's bows. i've arranged for you to go as delegate to the state convention from this county and to have a place on the committee on resolutions. this will give you an introduction to the party that will be of value. they will say you are my man--but they've said that of other men who have lived it down. i want thatcher to have his way in that convention, naming the ticket as far as he pleases, and appearing to give me a drubbing. the party's going to be defeated in november--there's no ducking that. we'll let thatcher get the odium of that defeat. about the next time we'll go in and win and there won't be any more thatcher nonsense. this is politics, you understand." harwood nodded; but bassett had not finished; it clearly was not his purpose to stand the young man in a corner and demand a choice from him. bassett pursued negotiations after a fashion of his own. "thatcher thinks he has scored heavily on me by sneaking into fraserville and kidnaping old ike pettit. that fellow has always been a nuisance to me; i carried a mortgage on his newspaper for ten years, but thatcher has mercifully taken that burden off my shoulders by paying it. thatcher can print anything he wants to about me in my own town; but it will cost him some money; those people up there don't think i'm so wicked, and the 'fraser county democrat' won't have any advertisements for a while but fake medical ads. but ike will have more room for the exploitation of his own peculiar brand of homely hoosier humor." bassett smiled, and harwood was relieved to be able to laugh aloud. he was enjoying this glimpse of the inner mysteries of the great game. his disdain of thatcher's clumsy attempts to circumvent bassett was complete; in any view bassett was preferable to thatcher. as the senator from fraser had said, there was really nothing worse than thatcher, with his breweries and racing-stable, his sordidness and vulgarity. thatcher's efforts to practice bassett's methods with bassett's own tools was a subject for laughter. it seemed for the moment that harwood's decision might be struck on this note of mirth. dan wondered whether, in permitting bassett thus to disclose his plans and purposes, he had not already nailed his flag to the bassett masthead. "i don't want these fellows who are old-timers in state conventions--particularly those known to be my old friends--to figure much," bassett continued. "i'm asking your aid because you're new and clean-handed. the meanest thing they can say against you is that you're in my camp. they tell me you're an effective speaker, a number of county chairmen have said your speeches in the last campaign made a good impression. i shall want you to prepare a speech about four minutes long, clean-cut and vigorous,--we'll decide later what that speech shall be about. i've got it in mind to spring something in that convention just to show thatcher that there are turns of the game he doesn't know yet. i'm going to give you a part that will make 'em remember you for some time, dan." bassett's smile showed his strong sound teeth. he rarely laughed, but he yielded now to the contagion of the humor he had aroused in harwood. "it's a big chance you're giving me to get into things," replied harwood. "i'll do my best." then he added, in the glow of his complete surrender: "you've never asked me to do a dishonorable thing in the four years i've been with you. there's nothing i oughtn't to be glad to do from any standpoint, and i'm grateful for this new mark of your confidence." "that's all right, dan. there are things in store for young men in politics in this state--republicans and democrats," said bassett, without elation or any show of feeling whatever. "once the limelight hits you, you can go far--very far. i must go over to the 'courier' office now and see atwill." chapter xix the thunder of the captains marian had suggested to her mother that they visit mrs. owen in town before settling at waupegan for the summer, and it was marian's planning that made this excursion synchronize with the state convention. mr. bassett was not consulted in the matter; in fact, since his wife's return from connecticut he had been unusually occupied, and almost constantly away from fraserville. mrs. bassett and her daughter arrived at the capital the day after mrs. owen reached home from wellesley with sylvia, and the bassetts listened perforce to their kinswoman's enthusiastic account of the commencement exercises. mrs. owen had, it appeared, looked upon smith and mount holyoke also on this eastward flight, and these inspections, mentioned in the most casual manner, did not contribute to mrs. bassett's happiness. finding that her father was inaccessible by telephone, marian summoned harwood and demanded tickets for the convention; she would make an occasion of it, and mrs. owen and sylvia should go with them. mrs. bassett and her family had always enjoyed the freedom of mrs. owen's house; it was disheartening to find sylvia established in delaware street on like terms of intimacy. the old heartache over marian's indifference to the call of higher education for women returned with a new poignancy as mrs. bassett inspected sylvia's diploma, as proudly displayed by mrs. owen as though it marked the achievement of some near and dear member of the family. sylvia's undeniable good looks, her agreeable manner, her ready talk, and the attention she received from her elders, were well calculated to arm criticism in a prejudiced heart. on the evening of their arrival admiral and mrs. martin and the reverend john ware had called, and while mrs. bassett assured herself that these were, in a sense, visits of condolence upon andrew kelton's granddaughter, the trio, who were persons of distinction, had seemed sincerely interested in mrs. owen's protégée. mrs. bassett was obliged to hear a lively dialogue between the minister and sylvia touching some memory of his first encounter with her about the stars. he brought her as a "commencement present" bacon's "essays." people listened to sylvia; sylvia had things to say! even the gruff admiral paid her deference. he demanded to know whether it was true that sylvia had declined a position at the naval observatory, which required the calculation of tides for the nautical almanac. mrs. bassett was annoyed that sylvia had refused a position that would have removed her from a proximity to mrs. owen that struck her as replete with danger. and yet mrs. bassett was outwardly friendly, and she privately counseled marian, quite unnecessarily, to be "nice" to sylvia. on the same evening mrs. bassett was disagreeably impressed by harwood's obvious rubrication in mrs. owen's good books. it seemed darkly portentous that dan was, at mrs. owen's instigation, managing sylvia's business affairs; she must warn her husband against this employment of his secretary to strengthen the ties between mrs. owen and this object of her benevolence. mrs. bassett's presence at the convention did not pass unremarked by many gentlemen upon the floor, or by the newspapers. "while the state chairman struggled to bring the delegates to order, miss marian bassett, daughter of the honorable morton bassett, of fraser county, was a charming and vivacious figure in the balcony. at a moment when it seemed that the band would never cease from troubling the air with the strains of 'dixie,' miss bassett tossed a carnation into the marion county delegation. the flower was deftly caught by mr. daniel harwood, who wore it in his buttonhole throughout the strenuous events of the day." this item was among the "kodak shots" subjoined to the "advertiser's" account of the convention. it was stated elsewhere in the same journal that "never before had so many ladies attended a state convention as graced this occasion. the wives of both republican united states senators and of many prominent politicians of both parties were present, their summer costumes giving to the severe lines of the balcony a bright note of color." the "capital," in its minor notes of the day, remarked upon the perfect amity that prevailed among the wives and daughters of republicans and democrats. it noted also the presence in mrs. bassett's party of her aunt, mrs. jackson owen, and of mrs. owen's guest, miss sylvia garrison, a graduate of this year's class at wellesley. the experiences and sensations of a delegate to a large convention are quite different from those of a reporter at the press table, as dan harwood realized; and it must be confessed that he was keyed to a proper pitch of excitement by the day's prospects. in spite of bassett's promise that he need not trouble to help elect himself a delegate, harwood had been drawn sharply into the preliminary skirmish at the primaries. he had thought it wise to cultivate the acquaintance of the men who ruled his own county even though his name had been written large upon the bassett slate. in the weeks that intervened between his interview with harwood in the upper room of the whitcomb and the primaries, bassett had quietly visited every congressional district, holding conferences and perfecting his plans. "never before," said the "advertiser," "had morton bassett's pernicious activity been so marked." the belief had grown that the senator from fraser was in imminent peril; in the republican camp it was thought that while thatcher might not control the convention he would prove himself strong enough to shake the faith of many of bassett's followers in the power of their chief. there had been, apparently, a hot contest at the primaries. in the northern part of the state, in a region long recognized as bassett's stronghold, thatcher had won easily; at the capital the contestants had broken even, a result attributable to thatcher's residence in the county. the word had passed among the faithful that thatcher money was plentiful, and that it was not only available in this preliminary skirmish, but that those who attached themselves to thatcher early were to enjoy his bounty throughout his campaign--which might be protracted--for the senatorship. bassett was not scattering largess; it was whispered that the money he had used previously in politics had come out of thatcher's pocket and that he would have less to spend in future. bassett, in keeping with his forecast to harwood, had made a point of having many new men, whose faces were unfamiliar in state conventions, chosen at the primaries he controlled, so that in a superficial view of the convention the complexion of a considerable body of the delegates was neutral. here and there among the delegations sat men who knew precisely bassett's plans and wishes. the day following the primaries, bassett, closeted with harwood in his room at the boordman building, had run the point of a walking-stick across every county in the state, reciting from memory just how many delegates he absolutely controlled, those he could get easily if he should by any chance need them, and the number of undoubted thatcher men there were to reckon with. in dan's own mingling with the crowd at the whitcomb the night before the convention he had learned nothing to shake his faith in bassett's calculations. the honorable isaac pettit, of fraser, was one of the most noteworthy figures on the floor. had he not thrown off the bassett yoke and trampled the lord of fraser county underfoot? did not the opposition press applaud the editor for so courageously wresting from the despicable chieftain the control of a county long inured to slavery? verily, the honorable isaac had done much to encourage belief in the guileless that such were the facts. even the "courier" proved its sturdy independence by printing the result of the primary without extenuation or aught set down in malice. the honorable isaac pettit undoubtedly believed in himself as the savior of fraser. he had personally led the fight in the fraser county primaries and had vanquished bassett! "bassett had fought gamely," the republican organ averred, to make more glorious the honorable isaac's victory. it was almost inconceivable, they said, that bassett, who had dominated his party for years, should not be able to elect himself a delegate to a state convention. in a statement printed in the "courier," bassett had accepted defeat in a commendable spirit of resignation. he and atwill had framed that statement a week before the primaries, and miss rose farrell had copied at least a dozen drafts before bassett's critical sense was satisfied. harwood was increasingly amused by the manifestations of bassett's ironic humor. "i have never yet," ran the statement, "placed my own ambitions before the wishes of my party; and if, when the democrats of fraser county meet to choose a candidate for state senator, they are not disposed to renominate me for a seat which i have held for twelve years, i shall gladly resign to another and give my loyal support to the candidate of their choice." it was whispered that the honorable isaac pettit would himself be a candidate for the nomination. the chattel mortgage scrolls in the office of the recorder of fraser county indicated that his printing-press no longer owed allegiance to the honorable morton bassett. thatcher had treated pettit generously, taking his unsecured note for the amount advanced to cleanse the "fraser county democrat" of the taint of bassettism. as they gathered in the convention hall many of the delegates were unable to adjust themselves to the fact that bassett had not only failed of election as delegate from his own county, but that he was not even present as a spectator of the convention. the scene was set, the curtain had risen, but hamlet came not to the platform before the castle. many men sought harwood and inquired in awed whispers as to bassett's whereabouts, but he gave evasive answers. he knew, however, that bassett had taken an early morning train for waupegan, accompanied by fitch, their purpose being to discuss in peace and quiet the legal proceeding begun to gain control of the "courier." the few tried and trusted bassett men who knew exactly bassett's plans for the convention listened in silence to the hubbub occasioned by their chief's absence; silence was a distinguishing trait of bassett's lieutenants. among the uninitiated there were those who fondly believed that bassett was killed, not scotched, and they said among themselves that the party and the state were well rid of him. thatcher was to be reckoned with, but he was no worse than bassett: with such cogitations they comforted themselves amid the noise and confusion. the old bassett superstition held, however, with many: this was only another of the boss's deep-laid schemes, and he would show his hand in due season and prove himself, as usual, master of the situation. others imagined that bassett was sulking, and these were not anxious to be the target of his wrath when he chose to emerge from his tent in full armor. a young woman reporter, traversing the galleries to note the names and gowns of the ladies present, sought mrs. bassett for information as to her husband's whereabouts. when mrs. bassett hesitated discreetly, marian rose promptly to the occasion:-- "papa's gone fishing," she replied suavely. this was not slow to reach the floor. "papa's gone fishing" gained wide currency as the answer to the most interesting question of the day. the honorable isaac pettit, seated majestically with the fraser county delegation, tested the acoustics of the hall at the first opportunity. while the chairman of the state central committee was endeavoring to present as the temporary chairman of the convention a patriot known as the "war eagle of the wabash," the gentleman from fraser insisted upon recognition. "who is that preposterous fat man?" demanded mrs. owen, plying her palm-leaf fan vigorously. "that's mr. pettit, from our town," said mrs. bassett. "he's an editor and lecturer." "he's the man that defeated papa in our primaries," added marian cheerfully. "he's awfully funny, everybody says, and i suppose his defeating papa was a joke. he's going to say something funny now." "he doesn't need to," said sylvia, not the least interested of the spectators. "they are laughing before he begins." the chairman of the state committee feigned not to hear or see the delegate from fraser, but mr. pettit continued to importune the chair amid much laughter and confusion. the chairman had hardened his heart, but the voice of the gentleman from fraser alone rose above the tumult, and in a moment of comparative calm he addressed the chair unrecognized and unpermitted. "i beg to call your attention, sir, to the presence in the gallery of many of the fair daughters of the old hoosier state. (applause.) they hover above us like guardian angels. they have come in the spirit that brought their sisters of old to watch true knights battle in the tourney. as a mark of respect to these ladies who do us so much honor, i ask the chair to request gentlemen to desist from smoking, and that the sergeant-at-arms be ordered to enforce the rule throughout our deliberations." (long-continued applause.) the state chairman was annoyed and showed his annoyance. he had been about to ingratiate himself with the ladies by making this request unprompted; he made it now, but the gentleman from fraser sat down conscious that the renewed applause was his. "why don't they keep on smoking?" asked mrs. owen. "the hall couldn't be any fuller of smoke than it is now." "if they would all put on their coats the room would be more beautiful," said marian. "they always say the republicans are much more gentlemanly than the democrats." "hush, marian; some one might hear you," mrs. bassett cautioned. she did not understand her husband's absence; he rarely or never took her into his confidence in political matters. she had not known until that morning that he was not to be present at the convention. she did not relish the idea that he had been defeated in the primaries; in her mind defeat was inseparable from dishonor. the "war eagle of the wabash" was in excellent voice and he spoke for thirty minutes; his speech would have aroused greater enthusiasm if it had not been heard in many previous state conventions and on the hustings through many campaigns. dan voorhees had once expressed his admiration of that speech; and it was said that tom hendricks had revised the original manuscript the year he was chosen vice-president. it was a safe speech, containing nothing that any good american might not applaud; it named practically every democratic president except the twenty-second and twenty-fourth, whom it seemed the better part of valor just then to ignore. with slight emendations that same oration served admirably for high-school commencements, and it had a recognized cash value on the chautauqua circuit. the peroration, closing with "thou, too, sail on, o ship of state!" was well calculated to bring strong men to their feet. the only complaint the war eagle might have lodged against the ship of state (in some imaginable admiralty court having jurisdiction of that barnacled old frigate) would have been for its oft-repeated rejection of his own piloting. the permanent chairman now disclosed was a man of business, who thanked the convention briefly and went to work. by the time the committee on resolutions had presented the platform (on which bassett and harwood had collaborated) the convention enjoyed its first sensation as thatcher appeared, moving slowly down the crowded main aisle to join the delegation of his county. his friends had planned a demonstration for his entrance, and in calling it an ovation the newspapers hardly magnified its apparent spontaneity and volume. the man who had undertaken the herculean task of driving morton bassett out of politics was entitled to consideration, and his appearance undoubtedly interrupted the business of the convention for fully five minutes. thatcher bowed and waved his hand as he sat down. the cordiality of his reception both pleased and embarrassed him. he fanned himself with his hat and feigned indifference to the admiration of his countrymen. "papa always gets more applause than that," marian remarked to sylvia. "i was at the state convention two years ago and father came in late, just as mr. thatcher did. they always come in late after all the stupid speeches have been made; they're surer to stir up a big rumpus that way." sylvia gave serious heed to these transactions of history. her knowledge of politics was largely derived from lectures she had heard at college and from a diligent reading of newspapers. the report of the committee on resolutions--a succinct document to each of whose paragraphs the delegates rose in stormy approval--had just been read. "i don't see how you can listen to such stuff," said marian during a lull in the shouting. "it's only the platform and they don't mean a word of it. there's colonel ramsay, of aurora,--the man with white hair who has just come on the stage. he had dinner at our house once and he's perfectly lovely. he's a beautiful speaker, but they won't let him speak any more because he was a gold bug--whatever that is. they say colonel ramsay has stopped gold-bugging now and wants to be governor. sylvia, all these men that don't want to be united states senator want to be governor. isn't it funny? i don't see why silver money isn't just as good as any other kind, do you?" "they told me at college," said sylvia, "but it's rather complicated. why didn't your father come to the convention even if he wasn't a delegate? he could have sat in the gallery; i suppose a lot of those men down there are not really delegates." "oh, that wouldn't be papa's way of doing things. i wish he had come, just on mama's account; she takes everything so hard. if papa ever did half the naughty things they say he does he'd be in the penitentiary good and tight. i should like to marry a public man; if i trusted a man enough to marry him i shouldn't be jarred a bit by what the newspapers said of him. i like politics; i don't know what it's all about, but i think the men are ever so interesting." "i think so too," said sylvia; "only i don't understand why they make so much noise and do so little. that platform they read a little bit ago seemed splendid. i read a lot of political platforms once in college--they were part of the course--and that was the best one i ever heard. it declared for laws against child labor, and i'm interested in that; and for juvenile courts and a lot of the new enlightened things. it was all fine." "do you think so? it sounded just like a trombone solo to me. mr. harwood was on that committee. didn't you hear his name read? he's one of these high brows in politics, and father's going to push him forward so he can accomplish the noble things that interest him. father told me mr. harwood would be a delegate to the convention. that's the reason i wanted to come. i hope he will make a speech; they say he's one of the best of the younger men. i heard him at the opera house at fraserville in the last campaign and he kept me awake, i can tell you. and funny! you wouldn't think he could be funny." "oh, i can see that he has humor--the lines around his mouth show that." they had discussed the convention and its possibilities at mrs. owen's breakfast table and with the morning newspapers as their texts. sylvia had gained the impression that bassett had met a serious defeat in the choice of delegates, and she had been conscious that mrs. bassett was distressed by the newspaper accounts of it. marian bubbled on elucidatively, answering all of sylvia's questions. "don't you think that because papa isn't here he won't be heard from; i think i know papa better than that. he didn't think this convention would amount to enough for him to trouble with it. i told aunt sally not to talk much before mother about papa and politics; you will notice that aunt sally turned the subject several times this morning. that lawsuit mr. thatcher brought against papa and aunt sally made her pretty hot, but papa will fix that up all right. papa always fixes up everything," she concluded admiringly. it was in sylvia's mind that she was witnessing a scene of the national drama and that these men beneath her in the noisy hall were engaged upon matters more or less remotely related to the business of self-government. she had derived at college a fair idea of the questions of the day, but the parliamentary mechanism and the thunder of the captains and the shouting gave to politics a new, concrete expression. these delegates, drawn from all occupations and conditions of life, were citizens of a republic, endeavoring to put into tangible form their ideas and preferences; and similar assemblies had, she knew, for years been meeting in every american commonwealth, enacting just such scenes as those that were passing under her eyes. her gravity amused mrs. owen. "don't you worry, sylvia; they are all kind to their families and most of 'em earn an honest living. i've attended lots of conventions of all parties and they're all about alike: there are more standing collars in a republican convention and more whiskers when the prohibitionists get together, but they're all mostly corn-fed and human. a few fellows with brains in their heads run all the rest." "look, marian, mr. harwood seems to be getting ready to do something," said sylvia. "i wonder what that paper is he has in his hand. he's been holding it all morning." harwood sat immediately under them. several times men had passed notes to him, whereupon he had risen and searched out the writer to give his answer with a nod or shake of the head. when thatcher appeared, dan had waited for the hubbub to subside and then he left his seat to shake hands with bassett's quondam ally. he held meanwhile a bit of notepaper the size of his hand, and scrutinized it carefully from time to time. it contained the precise programme of the convention as arranged by bassett. morton bassett was on a train bound for the pastoral shades of waupegan a hundred miles away, but the permanent chairman had in his vest pocket a copy of bassett's scheme of exercises; even thatcher's rapturous greeting had been ordered by bassett. there had already been one slight slip; the eagerness of the delegates to proceed to the selection of the state ticket had sent matters forward for a moment beyond the chairman's control. a delegate with a weak voice had gained recognition for the laudable purpose of suggesting a limitation upon nominating speeches; the permanent chairman had mistaken him for another gentleman for whom he was prepared, and he hastened to correct his blunder. he seized the gavel and began pounding vigorously and the man with the weak voice never again caught his eye. in the middle of the hall a delegate now drew attention to himself by rising upon a chair; he held a piece of paper in his hand and waved it; and the chairman promptly took cognizance of him. the chairman referred to him as the gentleman from pulaski, but he might have been the gentleman from vallombrosa for all that any one cared. the convention was annoyed that a gentleman from pulaski county should have dared to flourish manuscript when there were innumerable orators present fully prepared to speak extempore on any subject. for all that any one knew the gentleman from pulaski might be primed with a speech on the chinch bug or the jewish kritarchy; a man with a sheet of paper in his hand was a formidable person, if not indeed a foe of mankind, and he was certainly not to be countenaced or encouraged in a hot hall on a day of june. yet all other human beings save the gentleman from pulaski were as nothing, it seemed, to the chairman. the tallest delegate, around whose lean form a frock coat hung like a fold of night, and who flung back from a white brow an immense quantity of raven hair, sought to relieve the convention of the sight and sound of the person from pulaski. the tallest delegate was called smartly to order; he rebelled, but when threatened with the sergeant-at-arms subsided amid jeers. the gentleman from pulaski was indulged to the fullest extent by the chairman, to whom it had occurred suddenly that the aisles must be cleared. the aisles were cleared and delegates were obliged to find their seats before the unknown gentleman from pulaski was allowed to proceed. even the war eagle had received no such consideration. the gentleman from pulaski calmly waited for a completer silence than the day had known. ten men in the hall knew what was coming--not more; miss rose farrell had typed ten copies of the memorandum which harwood held in his hand! the gentleman from pulaski did not after all refer to his manuscript; he spoke in a high, penetrating voice that reached the farthest corner of the hall, reciting from memory:-- "be it resolved by this convention that, whereas two years hence it will be the privilege and duty of the indiana democracy to elect a united states senator to fill the seat now occupied by a republican, we, the delegates here assembled, do hereby pledge the party's support for the office of senator in congress to the honorable edward g. thatcher, of marion county." there was a moment's awed calm before the storm broke; thatcher rose in his seat to look at the strange gentleman from pulaski who had thus flung his name into the arena. thatcher men rose and clamored blindly for recognition, without the faintest idea of what they should do if haply the cold eye of the chairman fell upon them. the galleries joined in the uproar; the band began to play "on the banks of the wabash" and was with difficulty stopped; a few voices cried "bassett," but cries of "thatcher" rose in a mighty roar and drowned them. the chairman hammered monotonously for order; mr. daniel harwood might have been seen to thrust his memorandum into his trousers pocket; he bent forward in his seat with his eye upon the chairman. the honorable isaac pettit had been for a moment nonplussed; he was unacquainted with the gentleman from pulaski, nor had he known that an effort was to be made to commit the convention to thatcher's candidacy; still the tone of the resolution was friendly. thatcher, rising to his feet, was noisily cheered; his face was red and his manner betokened anger; but after glancing helplessly over the hall he sank into his seat. the chairman thumped with his gavel; it seemed for a moment that he had lost control of the convention; and now the honorable isaac pettit was observed demanding to be heard. the chairman lifted his hand and the noise died away. it lay in his power to ignore the resolution wholly or to rule it out of order; the chairman was apparently in no haste to do anything. "good old uncle ike," howled some one encouragingly, and there was laughter and applause. with superb dignity mr. pettit appealed for silence with gestures that expressed self-depreciation, humility, and latent power in one who would, in due course, explain everything. a group of delegates in the rear began chanting stridently, "order! order!" and it was flung back antiphonally from a dozen other delegations. mr. harwood became active and climbed upon his chair. gentlemen in every part of the hall seemed at once anxious to speak, but the chairman was apparently oblivious of all but the delegate from marion. the delegate from marion, like the mysterious person from pulaski, was a stranger to state conventions. the ladies were at once interested in the young gentleman with the red carnation in his buttonhole--a trim young fellow, in a blue serge suit, with a blue four-in-hand knotted under a white winged collar. as he waited with his eye on the chairman he put his hand to his head and smoothed his hair. "is daniel going to speak?" asked mrs. owen. "he ought to have asked me if he's going to back edward thatcher for senator." "i always think his cowlick's so funny. he's certainly the cool one," said marian. "i don't know what they're talking about a senator for," said mrs. bassett. "it's very unusual. if i'd known they were going to talk about that i shouldn't have come. there's sure to be a row." the chairman seemed anxious that the delegate from marion should be honored with the same close attention that had been secured for the stranger from pulaski. "i hope he'll wait till they all sit down," said sylvia; "i want to hear him speak." "you'll hear him, all right," said marian. "you know at yale they called him 'foghorn' harwood, and they put him in front to lead the cheering at all the big games." apparently something was expected of mr. harwood of marion. thatcher had left his seat and was moving toward the corridors to find his lieutenants. half a dozen men accosted him as he moved through the aisle, but he shook them off angrily. an effort to start another demonstration in his honor was not wholly fruitless. it resulted at least in a good deal of confusion of which the chair was briefly tolerant; then he resumed his pounding, while harwood stood stubbornly on his chair. the tallest delegate, known to be a recent convert to thatcher, was thoroughly aroused, and advanced toward the platform shouting; but the chairman leveled his gavel at him and bade him sit down. the moment was critical; the veriest tyro felt the storm-spirit brooding over the hall. the voice of the chairman was now audible. "the chair recognizes the delegate from marion." "out of order! what's his name!" howled many voices. the chairman graciously availed himself of the opportunity to announce the name of the gentleman he had recognized. "mr. harwood, of marion, has the floor. the convention will be in order. the gentleman will proceed." "mr. chairman, i rise to a point of order." dan's voice rose sonorously; the convention was relieved to find that the gentleman in blue serge could be heard; he was audible even to mr. thatcher's excited counsellors in the corridors. "the delegate will kindly state his point of order." the chairman was quietly courteous. his right hand rested on his gavel, he thrust his left into the side pocket of his long alpaca coat. he was an old and tried hand in the chair, and his own deep absorption in the remarks of mr. harwood communicated itself to the delegates. dan uttered rapidly the speech he had committed to memory for this occasion a week earlier. every sentence had been carefully pondered; both bassett and atwill had blue penciled it until it expressed concisely and pointedly exactly what bassett wished to be said at this point in the convention's proceedings. interruptions, of applause or derision, were to be reckoned with; but the speaker did not once drop his voice or pause long enough for any one to drive in a wedge of protest. he might have been swamped by an uprising of the whole convention, but strange to say the convention was intent upon hearing him. once the horde of candidates and distinguished visitors on the platform had been won to attention, harwood turned slowly until he faced the greater crowd behind him. several times he lifted his right hand and struck out with it, shaking his head with the vigor of his utterance. ("his voice," said the "advertiser's" report, "rumbles and bangs like a bowling-alley on saturday night. there was a big bump every time a sentence rumbled down the hall and struck the rear wall of the building.") "sir, i make the obvious point of order that there are no vacancies to fill in the office of united states senator, and that it does not lie within the province of the delegates chosen to this convention to pledge the party to any man. i do not question the motive of the delegate from pulaski county, who is my personal friend; and i am animated by no feelings of animosity in demanding that the convention proceed to the discharge of its obligations without touching upon matters clearly beyond its powers. i confidently hope and sincerely believe that our party in indiana is soon to receive a new commission of trust and confidence from the people of the old hoosier state. but our immediate business is the choice of a ticket behind which the hoosier democracy will move on to victory in november like an army with banners. (cheers.) there have been intimations in the camp of our enemy that the party is threatened with schism and menaced by factional wars; but i declare my conviction that the party is more harmonious and more truly devoted to high ideals to-day than at any time since the grand old name of democrat became potent upon hoosier soil. and what have we to do with leaders? men come and men go, but principles alone are eternal and live forever. the great task of our party must be to bring the government back to the people. (scattering applause.) but the choice of an invulnerable state ticket at this convention is our business and our only business. as for indiana's two seats in the national senate which we shall soon wrest from our adversaries, in due season we shall fill them with tried men and true. sir, let us remember that whosoever maketh himself a king speaketh against caesar. stop, look, listen!" hardly a man in the hall so dull that this did not penetrate! dan had given to his last words a weird, mournful intonation whose effect was startling. he jumped lightly to the floor and was in his seat before the deep boom of his voice had ceased reverberating. then instantly it seemed that the seventeen hundred delegates had been multiplied by ten, and that every man had become a raving lunatic. this was bassett's defiance--bassett, who had gone fishing, but not before planting this mine for the confusion of thatcher. a hundred men who had already committed themselves to thatcher sought to rescue their new leader; they rose upon chairs and demanded to be heard. "stop, look, listen" had suggested the idea of a locomotive bearing down upon a dangerous crossing, and bassett's men began to whistle. the whistling increased in volume until it drowned the shouts, the cheers, and the laughter. ladies in the galleries stopped their ears while the whistling convention earned its name. it now occurred to the chairman, who had wasted no energy in futile efforts to stay the storm, that he had a duty to perform. even to his practiced hand the restoration of order was not easy; but by dint of much bawling and pounding he subdued the uproar. then after impressive deliberation he said:-- "a point of order has been raised against the resolution offered by the gentleman from pulaski. it is the ruling of the chair that the point is well taken. the resolution is out of order." this was greeted with great applause; but the chair checked it promptly. the ten gentlemen who had copies of the bassett programme in their pockets were not surprised by the decision. thatcher stood at a side door and two of his men were pushing their way through the aisles to reach pettit; for the honorable isaac pettit was on his feet demanding recognition while thatcher's delegates shouted to him to sit down; humiliation must go no farther, and if the fraser county editor did not realize that his new chief was the victim of a vile trick, the gentleman from fraser must be throttled, if necessary, to prevent a further affront to thatcher's dignity. thatcher was purple with rage; it was enough to have been made the plaything of an unscrupulous enemy once, without having one's ambitions repeatedly kicked up and down a convention hall. the chairman, fully rehearsed in his part, showed a malevolent disposition to continue toward the friends of thatcher an attitude at once benevolent and just. so many were demanding recognition amid cat-calling and whistling that the fairest and least partial of presiding officers might well have hesitated before singling out one gentleman when so many were eagerly, even furiously, desirous of enlightening the convention. but the presiding officer was obeying the orders communicated to him by a gentleman who was even at this moment skimming across the cool waters of lake waupegan. it would more fully have satisfied the chairman's sense of humor to have recognized the honorable isaac pettit and have suffered an appeal from the ruling of the chair, which presumably the editor wished to demand. by this means the weakness of thatcher might have expressed itself in figures that would have deepened thatcher's abasement in the eyes of his fellow partisans; but this idea had been discussed with bassett, who had sharply vetoed it, and the chairman was not a man lightly to disobey orders even to make a hoosier holiday. he failed to see the editor of the "fraser county democrat" and peremptorily closed the incident. there was no mistaking his temper as he announced:-- "the chair announces that the next business in order is the call of the roll of counties for nominations for the office of secretary of state. what is the pleasure of the convention?" colonel ramsay had repaired to the gallery to enjoy the proceedings with mrs. bassett's party. in spite of his support of the palmer and buckner ticket (how long ago that seems!), the colonel had never lost touch with the main body of his party, and he carried several indiana counties in his pocket. his relations with bassett had never been in the least intimate, though always outwardly cordial, and there were those who looked to him to eliminate the fraser county chief from politics. he was quite as rich as bassett, and a successful lawyer, who had become a colonel by grace of a staff appointment in the spanish war. he had a weakness for the poets, and his speeches were informed with that grace and sentiment which, we are fond of saying, is peculiar to southern oratory. the colonel, at all fitting occasions in our commonwealth, responded to "the ladies" in tender and moving phrases. he was a bachelor, and the ladies in the gallery saw in him their true champion. "please tell _us_--we don't understand a bit of it," pleaded marian--"what it's all about, colonel ramsay." "oh, it's just a little joke of your father's; nothing funnier ever happened in a state convention." colonel ramsay grinned. "the key to the situation is right there: that pulaski county delegate offered his resolution just to make trouble; it was a fake resolution. of course the chairman is in the joke. this young fellow down here--yes, harwood--made his speech to add to the gayety of nations. he had no right to make it, of course, but the word had been passed along the line to let him go through. amazing vocal powers, that boy,--you couldn't have stopped him!" sylvia was aware that colonel ramsay's explanation had not pleased mrs. bassett; but mrs. owen evinced no feeling. marian was enjoying colonel ramsay's praise of her father's adroitness. near sylvia were other women who had much at stake in the result of the convention. the wife of a candidate for secretary of state had invited herself to a seat beside mrs. bassett; the wife of a congressman who wished to be governor, sat near, publishing to the world her intimate acquaintance with morton bassett's family. the appearance and conduct of these women during the day interested sylvia almost as much as the incidents occurring on the floor; it was a new idea that politics had a bearing upon the domestic life of the men who engaged in the eternal contest for place and power. the convention as a spectacle was immensely diverting, but she had her misgivings about it as a transaction in history. colonel ramsay asked her politics and she confessed that she had none. she had inherited republican prejudices from her grandfather, and most of the girls she had known in college were of republican antecedents; but she liked to call herself an independent. "you'd better not be a democrat, sylvia," mrs. owen warned her. "i suffered a good deal in my husband's lifetime from being one. there are still people in this town who think a democrat's the same as a rebel or a copperhead. it ain't hardly respectable yet, being a democrat, and if they don't all of 'em shut up about the 'fathers' and the constitution, i'm going to move to mexico where it's all run by niggers." sylvia had singled out several figures in the drama enacting below for special attention. the chairman had interested her by reason of his attitude of scrupulous fairness, in which she now saw the transparent irony; the banalities of the temporary chairman had touched her humor; she watched him for the rest of the morning with a kind of awe that any one could he so dull, so timorous, and yet be chosen to address nearly two thousand american citizens on an occasion of importance. she was unable to reconcile thatcher's bald head, ruddy neck, and heavy shoulders with marian's description of the rich man's son, who dreamed of heroes and played at carpentry. dan's speech had not been without its thrill for her, and she now realized its significance. it had been a part of a trick, and in spite of herself she could not share the admiration colonel ramsay was expressing for harwood's share in it. he was immeasurably superior to the majority of those about him in the crowded hall; he was a man of education, a college man, and she had just experienced in her own life that consecration, as by an apostolic laying-on of hands, by which a college confers its honors and imposes its obligations upon those who have enjoyed its ministry. yet harwood, who had not struck her as weak or frivolous, had lent himself to-day to a bit of cheap claptrap merely to humble one man for the glorification of another. bassett she had sincerely liked in their one meeting at waupegan; and yet this was of his plotting and harwood was his mouthpiece and tool. it did not seem fair to take advantage of such supreme stupidity as thatcher's supporters had manifested. her disappointment in harwood--and it was quite that--was part of her general disappointment in the methods by which men transacted the serious business of governing themselves. harwood was conscious that he was one of the chief figures in the convention; every one knew him now; he was called here and there on the floor, by men anxious to impress themselves upon bassett's authorized spokesman. it is a fine thing at twenty-seven to find the doors of opportunity flung wide--and had he not crossed the threshold and passed within the portal? he was bassett's man; every one knew that now; but why should he not be bassett's man? he would go higher and farther than bassett: bassett had merely supplied the ladder on which he would climb. he was happier than he had ever been before in his life; he had experienced the intoxication of applause, and he was not averse to the glances of the women in the gallery above him. the nomination of candidates now went forward rather tamely, though relieved by occasional sharp contests. the ten gentlemen who had been favored with copies of the bassett programme were not surprised that so many of thatcher's friends were nominated; they themselves voted for most of them. it seemed remarkable to the uninitiated that bassett should have slapped thatcher and then have allowed him to score in the choice of the ticket. the "advertiser," anxious to show bassett as strong and malignant as possible, expressed the opinion that the fraserville boss had not after all appreciated the full force of the thatcher movement. * * * * * on the veranda of his waupegan cottage bassett and fitch enjoyed the wholesome airs of the country. late in the afternoon the fussy little steamer that traversed the lake paused at the bassett dock to deliver a telegram, which bassett read without emotion. he passed the yellow slip of paper to fitch, who read it and handed it back. "harwood's a clever fellow; but you oughtn't to push him into politics. he's better than that." "i suppose he is," said bassett; "but i need him." chapter xx interviews in two keys mrs. bassett remained in bed the day following the convention, less exhausted by the scenes she had witnessed than appalled by their interpretation in the newspapers. the reappearance of sylvia garrison had revived the apprehensions which the girl's visit to waupegan four years earlier had awakened. she had hoped that sylvia's long absences might have operated to diminish mrs. owen's interest and she had managed in one way and another to keep them apart during the college holidays, but the death of professor kelton had evidently thrown sylvia back upon mrs. owen. jealous fears danced blackly in mrs. bassett's tired brain. at a season when she was always busiest with her farms mrs. owen had made a long journey to see sylvia graduated; and here was the girl established on the most intimate terms in the delaware street house, no doubt for the remainder of her life. mrs. owen did not lightly or often change her plans; but she had abandoned her project of spending the summer at the lake to accommodate herself to the convenience of her protégée. mrs. bassett's ill-health was by no means a matter of illusion; she was not well and her sojourns in sanatoriums had served to alienate her in a measure from her family. marian had grown to womanhood without realizing her mother's ideals. she had hoped to make a very different person of her daughter, and sylvia's reappearance intensified her sense of defeat. even in the retrospect she saw no reason why marian might not have pursued the course that sylvia had followed; in her confused annoyances and agitations she was bitter not only against marian but against marian's father. the time had come when she must take a stand against his further dallyings in politics. her day at the convention hall had yielded only the most disagreeable impressions. such incidents as had not eluded her own understanding on the spot had been freely rendered by the newspapers. it was all sordid and gross--not at all in keeping with her first experience of politics, gained in her girlhood, when her father had stood high in the councils of the nation, winning coveted positions without the support of such allies as she had seen cheering her husband's triumph on the floor of the convention. there had strayed into her hands an envelope of newspaper clippings from an agency that wished to supply her, as, its circular announced, it supplied the wives of many other prominent americans, with newspaper comments on their husbands. as a bait for securing a client these examples of what the american press was saying of morton bassett were decidedly ill-chosen. the "stop, look, listen" editorial had suggested to many influential journals a re-indictment of bossism with the bassett-thatcher imbroglio as text. it was disenchanting to find one's husband enrolled in a list of political reprobates whose activities in so many states were a menace to public safety. her father had served with distinction and honor this same commonwealth that her husband was debasing; he had been a statesman, not a politician, not a boss. blackford singleton had belonged to the coterie that included such men as hoar and evarts, thurman and bayard; neither her imagination nor her affection could bridge the chasm that separated men of their type from her husband, who, in middle life, was content with a seat in the state legislature and busied himself with wars upon petty rivals. such reflections as these did not contribute to her peace of mind. she was alone in her room at mrs. owen's when bassett appeared, late in the afternoon. mrs. owen was downtown on business matters; marian, after exhausting all her devices for making her mother comfortable, had flown in search of acquaintances; and sylvia had that day taken up her work in the normal school. left to herself for the greater part of the warm afternoon, mrs. bassett had indulged luxuriously in forebodings. she had not expected her husband, and his unannounced entrance startled her. "well," she remarked drearily, "so you have come back to face it, have you?" "i'm undoubtedly back, hallie," he answered, with an effort at lightness, crossing to the bedside and taking her hand. he had rarely discussed his political plans with her, but he realized that the rupture with thatcher must naturally have distressed her; and there was also thatcher's lawsuit involving her aunt, which had disagreeable possibilities. "i'm sorry your name got into the papers, hallie. i didn't want you to go to the convention, but of course i knew you went to please marian. where is marian?" "oh, she's off somewhere. i couldn't expect her to stay here in this hot room all day." the room was not uncomfortable; but it seemed wiser not to debate questions of temperature. he found a chair and sat down beside her. "you mustn't worry about the newspapers, hallie; they always make the worst of everything. the temptation to distort facts to make a good story is strong; i have seen it in my connection with the 'courier.' it's lamentable, but you can't correct it in a day. i'm pretty well hardened to it myself, but i'm sorry you have let these attacks on me annoy you. the only thing to do is to ignore them. what's that you have there?" she still clasped the envelope of clippings and thrust it at him accusingly. the calmness of his inspection irritated her and she broke out sharply:-- "i shouldn't think a man with a wife and family would lay himself open to such attacks in all the newspapers in the country. those papers call you another such political boss as quay and gorman. there's nothing they don't say about you." "well, hallie, they've been saying it for some time; they will go on saying it probably not only about me but about every other man who won't be dictated to by impractical reformers and pharisaical newspapers. but i must confess that this is rather hard luck!" he held up two of the cuttings. "i've undertaken to do just what papers like the new york 'evening post' and the springfield 'republican' are forever begging somebody with courage to do--i've been trying to drive a rascal out of politics. i'm glad of this chance to talk to you about thatcher. he and i were friends for years, as you know." "i never understood how you could tolerate that man; he's so coarse and vulgar that his wife stays abroad to keep her daughters away from him." "well, that's not my affair. i have had all i want of him. there's nothing mysterious about my breaking with him; he got it into his head that he's a bigger man in this state than i am. i have known for several years that he intended to get rid of me as soon as he felt he could do it safely, and be ready to capture the senatorship when he saw that our party was in shape to win again. i've always distrusted him, and i've always kept an eye on him. when he came into fraser county and stooped low enough to buy old ike pettit, i thought it time to strike. you read a lot about courage in politics in such newspapers as these that have been philosophizing about me at long range. well, i'm not going to brag about myself, but it required some courage on my part to take the initiative and read the riot act to thatcher. i've done what men are sometimes praised for doing; but i don't want praise; i only want to be judged fairly. i've always avoided bringing business or politics home; i've always had an idea that when a man goes home he ought to close the door on everything but the interests the home has for him. i may have been wrong about that; and i'm very sorry that you have been troubled--sincerely sorry. but you may as well know the truth now, which is that thatcher is out of it altogether. you know enough of him to understand that he's not a man to trust with power, and i've done the state and my party a service in turning him out of doors." he had spoken quietly and earnestly, and his words had not been without their effect. he had never been harsh with her or the children; his manner to-day was kind and considerate. he had to an extent measurably rehabilitated himself as a heroic public character, a man of honor and a husband to be proud of; but she had not spent a sleepless night and a gray day without fortifying herself against him. all day her eyes had been fixed upon an abandoned squirrel box in the crotch of an elm outside her window; it had become the repository of her thoughts, the habitation of her sorrows. she turned her head slightly so that her eyes might rest upon this tabernacle of fear and illusion, and renewed the assault refreshed. "how is it, then, that newspapers away off in new york and massachusetts speak of you in this outrageous fashion? they're so far away that it seems strange they speak of you at all." he laughed with relief, feeling that the question marked a retreat toward weaker fortifications. "you're not very complimentary, are you, hallie? they must think me of some importance or they'd let me alone. i wouldn't subscribe to that clipping bureau if you fear we're too much in the limelight. i've been taking the service of one of these bureaus for several years, and i read every line the papers print about me. it's part of the regular routine in my office to paste them in scrapbooks." "i shouldn't think you could burn them fast enough; what if the children should see them some day!" "well, you may be surprised to know that they're not all so bitter. once in a long while i get a kind word. that bill i got through the assembly separating hardened criminals from those susceptible of reform--the indeterminate sentence law--was praised by penologists all over the country. it's all in the day's work; sometimes you're patted on the back and the next time they kick you down stairs. without political influence you have no chance to help the good causes or defeat the bad schemes." "yes, i suppose that is true," she murmured weakly. he had successfully met and turned her attack and the worst had passed; but he expected her to make some reference to thatcher's lawsuit for the control of the "courier" and he was not disappointed. marian, who had a genius for collecting disagreeable information and a dramatic instinct for using it effectively, had apprised her of it. this hazarding of mrs. owen's favor became now the gravamen of his offense, the culmination of all his offenses. she demanded to know why he had secretly borrowed money of her aunt, when from the time of their marriage it had been understood that they should never do so. her own fortune he had been free to use as he liked; she demanded to know why he had not taken her own money; but to ask financial favors of aunt sally, and this, too, without consultation, was beyond her comprehension. she was on secure ground here; he had always shared her feeling that mrs. owen required cautious handling, but he had nevertheless violated their compact. she rushed breathlessly and with sobs through her recital. "and you haven't seen aunt sally since; you have made no effort to make it right with her!" "as to that, hallie, i haven't had a chance to see her; she's only been home two days and i've been away myself since. now that i'm in her house i shall explain it all to her before i leave." "but you haven't explained to me why you did it! it seems to me that i have a right to know how you came to do such a thing." "well, then, the fact is that newspapers these days are not cheap and the 'courier' cost a lot of money. i've been pretty well tied up in telephone and other investments of late; and i have never taken advantage of my ownership of the bassett bank to use its money except within my reasonable credit as it would be estimated by any one else. your own funds i have kept invested conservatively in gilt-edged securities wholly removed from speculative influences. i knew that if i didn't get the newspaper thatcher would, so i made every possible turn to go in with him. i was fifty thousand dollars shy of what i needed to pay for my half, and after i had raked up all the money i could safely, i asked aunt sally if she would lend me that sum with all my stock as security." "fifty thousand dollars, morton! you borrowed that much money of her!" her satisfaction in learning that mrs. owen commanded so large a sum was crushed beneath his stupendous error in having gone to her for money at all. "oh, she didn't lend it to me, after all, hallie; she refused to do so; but she allowed me to buy enough shares for her to make up my quota. thatcher and i bought at eighty cents on the dollar and she paid the same. she has her shares and it's a good investment, and she knows it. if she hadn't insisted on having the shares in her own name, thatcher would never have known it." he turned uneasily in his chair, and she was keenly alert at this sign of discomfiture, and not above taking advantage of it. "so without her you are at thatcher's mercy, are you? i haven't spoken to her about this and she hasn't said anything to me; but marian with her usual heedlessness mentioned it, and it was clear that aunt sally was very angry." "what did she say?" asked bassett anxiously. "she didn't say anything, but she shut her jaw tight and changed the subject. it was what she didn't say! you'd better think well before you broach the subject to her." "i've been thinking about it. if i take her stock at par she ought to be satisfied. i'll pay more if it's necessary. and of course i'll make every effort to restore good feeling. i think i understand her. i'll take care of this, but you must stay out of it, and tell marian to keep quiet. "well, aunt sally and thatcher are friends. he rather amuses her, with his horse-racing, and drinking and gambling. that kind of thing doesn't seem so bad to her. she's so used to dealing with men that she makes allowances for them." "then," he said quickly, with a smile, eager to escape through any loophole, "maybe she will make some allowances for me! for the purpose of allaying her anger we'll assume that i'm as wicked as thatcher." "well," she answered, gathering her strength for a final assault, "it doesn't look as simple as that to me. your first mistake was in getting her into any of your businesses and the second was in making it possible for thatcher to annoy her by all this ugly publicity of a lawsuit. and what do you think has happened on top of all this--_that girl is here_--here under this very roof!" "that girl--what girl?" his opacity incensed her; she had been brooding over her aunt's renewed interest in sylvia garrison all day and his dull ignorance was the last straw upon nerves screwed to the breaking-point. she sat up in bed and drew her dressing-gown about her as though it were the vesture of despair. "that garrison girl! she's not only back here, but from all appearances she's going to stay! aunt sally's infatuated with her. when the girl's grandfather died, aunt sally did everything for her--went over to montgomery to take charge of the funeral, and then went back to wellesley to see the girl graduate. and now she's giving up her plan of going to waupegan for the summer to stay here in all the heat with a girl who hasn't the slightest claim on her. when the keltons visited waupegan four years ago i saw this coming. i wanted marian to go to college and tried to get you interested in the plan because that was what first caught aunt sally's fancy--sylvia's cleverness, and this college idea. but you wouldn't do anything about marian, and now she's thrown away her chances, and here's this stranger graduating with honors and aunt sally going down there to see it! aunt sally's going to make a companion of her, and you can't tell what will happen! i'd like to know what you can say to your children when all aunt sally's money, that should rightly go to them, goes to a girl she's picked up out of nowhere. this is what your politics has got us into, morton bassett!" the soberness to which this brought him at last satisfied her. she had freely expressed the anxiety caused by sylvia's first appearance on the domestic horizon, but for a year or two, in his wife's absences in pursuit of health, he had heard little of her apprehensions. marian's own disinclination for a college career had, from the beginning, seemed to him to interpose an insurmountable barrier to parental guidance in that direction. his wife's attitude in these new circumstances of the return of her aunt's protégée struck him as wholly unjustified and unreasonable. "you're not quite yourself when you talk that way, hallie. professor kelton was one of aunt sally's oldest friends; old people have a habit of going back to the friends of their youth; there's nothing strange in it. and this being true, nothing could have been more natural than for aunt sally to help the girl in her trouble, even to the extent of seeing her graduated. it was just like aunt sally," he continued, warming to his subject, "who's one of the stanchest friends anybody could have. aunt sally's devoted to you and your children; it's ungenerous to her to assume that a young woman she hardly knows is supplanting you or marian. this newspaper notoriety i'm getting has troubled you and i'm sorry for it; but i can't let you entertain this delusion that your aunt's kindness to the granddaughter of one of her old friends means that aunt sally has ceased to care for you, or lost her regard for marian and blackford. if you think of it seriously for a moment you'll see how foolish it is to harbor any jealousy of miss garrison. come! cheer up and forget it. if aunt sally got an inkling of this you may be sure that _would_ displease her. you say the girl is here in the house?" "she's not only here, but she's here to stay! she's going to intrench herself here!" she sent him to the chiffonier to find a fresh handkerchief. he watched her helplessly for a moment as she dried her eyes. then he took her hands and bent over her. "won't you try to see things a little brighter? it's all just because you got too tired yesterday. you oughtn't to have gone to the convention; and i didn't know you were going or i should have forbidden it." "well, marian wanted to go; and we were coming to town anyhow. and besides, aunt sally had taken it into her head to go, too. she wanted this garrison girl to see a political convention; i suppose that was the real reason." he laughed, gazing down into her tearful face, in which resentment lingered waveringly, as in the faces of children persuaded against their will and parting reluctantly with the solace of tears. "you must get up for dinner, hallie. your doctors have always insisted that you needed variety and change; and to-morrow we'll take you up to the lake out of this heat. we have a good deal to be grateful for, after all, hallie. you haven't any right to feel disappointed in marian: she's the nicest girl in the state, and the prettiest girl you'll find anywhere. we ought to be glad she's so high-spirited and handsome and clever. college never was for her; she certainly was never for college! i talked that over with miss waring a number of times. and i don't believe aunt sally thinks less of marian because she isn't a better scholar. only a small per cent of women go to college, and i'm not sure it's a good thing. i'm even a little doubtful about sending blackford to college; this education business is overdone, and the sooner a boy gets into harness the better." her deep sigh implied that he might do as he liked with his son, now that she had so completely failed with her daughter. "aunt sally is very much interested in mr. harwood. she has put sylvia's affairs in his hands. could it be possible--" he groped for her unexpressed meaning, and seeing that he had not grasped it she clarified it to his masculine intelligence. "if there are two persons she is interested in, and they understand each other, it's all so much more formidable." and then, seeing that this also was too subtle, she put it flatly: "what if harwood should marry sylvia!" "well, that _is_ borrowing trouble!" he cried impatiently. "aunt sally is interested in a great many young people. she is very fond of allen thatcher. and allen seems to find marian's society agreeable, more so, i fancy, than harwood does;--why not speculate along that line? it's as plausible as the other." "oh, that boy! that's something we must guard against, morton; that is quite impossible." "i dare say it is," he replied. "but not more unlikely than that harwood will marry this sylvia who worries you so unnecessarily." "marian is going to marry somebody, some day, and that's on my mind a great deal. you have got to give more thought to family matters. it's right for marian to marry, and i think a girl of her tastes should settle early, but we must guard her from mistakes. i've had that on my conscience several years." "of course, hallie; and i've not been unmindful of it." "and if aunt sally is interested in young harwood and you think well of him yourself--but of course i don't favor him for marian. i should like marian to marry into a family of some standing." "well, we'll see to it that she does; we want our daughter to be happy--we must do the best we can for our children," he concluded largely. she promised to appear at the dinner table, and he went down with some idea of seeing mrs. owen at once, to assure her of his honorable intentions toward her in the "courier" matter; he wanted to relieve his own fears as well as his wife's as to the mischief that had been wrought by thatcher's suit. in the hall below he met sylvia, just back from her first day at the normal school. the maid had admitted her, and she was slipping her parasol into the rack as he came downstairs. she heard his step and turned toward him, a slender, dark young woman in black. in the dim hall she did not at once recognize him, and he spoke first. "good-afternoon, miss garrison! i am mr. bassett; i believe i introduced myself to you at waupegan--and that seems a long time ago." "i remember very well, mr. bassett," sylvia replied, and they shook hands. "you found me in my dream corner by the lake and walked to mrs. owen's with me. i remember our meeting perfectly." he stood with his hand on the newel regarding her intently. she was entirely at ease, a young woman without awkwardness or embarrassment. she had disposed of their previous meeting lightly, as though such fortuitous incidents had not been lacking in her life. her mourning hat cast a shadow upon her face, but he had been conscious of the friendliness of her smile. her dark eyes had inspected him swiftly; he was vaguely aware of a feeling that he wanted to impress her favorably. "the maid said mrs. owen and marian are still out. i hope mrs. bassett is better. i wonder if i can do anything for her." "no, thank you; she's quite comfortable and will be down for dinner." "i'm glad to hear that; suppose we find seats here." she walked before him into the parlor and threw back the curtains the better to admit the air. he watched her attentively, noting the ease and grace of her movements, and took the chair she indicated. "it's very nice to see mrs. bassett and marian again; they were so good to me that summer at waupegan; i have carried the pleasantest memories of that visit ever since. it seems a long time ago and it is nearly four years, isn't it." "four this summer, i think. i remember, because i had been to colorado, and that whole year was pretty full for me. but all these years have been busy ones for you, too, i hear. your grandfather's death must have been a great shock to you. i knew him only by reputation, but it was a reputation to be proud of." "yes; grandfather kelton had been everything to me." "it was too bad he couldn't have lived to see you through college; he must have taken a great interest in your work there, through his own training and scholarship." "it was what he wanted me to do, and i wish he could have known how i value it. he was the best of men, the kindest and noblest; and he was a wonderful scholar. he had the habit of thoroughness." "that, i suppose, was partly due to the discipline of the navy. i fancy that a man trained in habits of exactness gets into the way of keeping his mind ship-shape--no loose ends around anywhere." she smiled at this, and regarded him with rather more attention, as though his remark had given her a new impression of him which her eyes wished to verify. "they tell me you expect to teach in the city schools; that has always seemed to me the hardest kind of work. i should think you would prefer a college position;--there would be less drudgery, and better social opportunities." "every one warns me that it's hard work, but i don't believe it can be so terrible. somebody has to do it. of course college positions are more dignified and likely to be better paid." he started to speak and hesitated. "well," she laughed. "you were going to add your warning, weren't you! i'm used to them." "no; nothing of the sort; i was going to take the liberty of saying that if you cared to have me i should be glad to see whether our state university might not have something for you. i have friends and acquaintances who could help there." "oh, you are very kind! it is very good of you to offer to do that; but--" a slight embarrassment was manifest in the quick opening and closing of her eyes, a slight turning of the head, but she smiled pleasantly, happily. he liked her way of smiling, and smiled himself. he found it agreeable to be talking to this young woman with the fine, candid eyes, whose manner was so assured--without assurance! she smoothed the black gloves in her lap quietly; they were capable hands; her whole appearance and manner somehow betokened competence. "the fact is, mr. bassett, that i have declined one or two college positions. my own college offered to take me in; and i believe there were one or two other chances. but it is kind of you to offer to help me." she had minimized the importance of the offers she had declined so that he might not feel the meagreness of his proffered help; and he liked her way of doing it; but it was incredible that a young woman should decline an advantageous and promising position to accept a minor one. in the world he knew there were many hands on all the rounds of all the available ladders. "of course," he hastened to say, "i knew you were efficient; that's why i thought the public schools were not quite--not quite--worthy of your talents!" some explanation seemed necessary, and sylvia hesitated for a moment. "do i really have to be serious, mr. bassett? so many people--the girls at college and some of my instructors and mrs. owen even--have assured me that i am not quite right in my mind; but i will make short work of my reasons. please believe that i really don't mean to take myself too seriously. i want to teach in the public schools merely to continue my education; there are things to learn there that i want to know. so, you see, after all, it's neither important nor interesting; it's only--only my woman's insatiable curiosity!" he smiled, but he frowned too; it annoyed him not to comprehend her. school-teaching could only be a matter of necessity; her plea of curiosity must cover something deeper that she withheld. "i know," she continued, "if i may say it, ever so much from books; but i have only the faintest notions of life. now, isn't that terribly muggy? people--and their conditions and circumstances--can only be learned by going to the original sources." this was not illuminative. she had only added to his befuddlement and he bent forward, soliciting some more lucid statement of her position. "i had hoped to go ahead and never have to explain, for i fear that in explaining i seem to be appraising myself too high; but you won't believe that of me, will you? if i took one of these college positions and proved efficient, and had good luck, i should keep on knowing all the rest of my life about the same sort of people, for the girls who go to college are from the more fortunate classes. there are exceptions, but they are drawn largely from homes that have some cultivation, some sort of background. the experiences of teachers in such institutions are likely to cramp. it's all right later on, but at first, it seems to me better to experiment in the wider circle. now--" and she broke off with a light laugh, eager that he should understand. "it's not, then, your own advantage you consult; the self-denial appeals to you; it's rather like--like a nun's vocation. you think the service is higher!" "oh, it would be if i could render service! please don't think i feel that the world is waiting for me to set it right; i don't believe it's so wrong! all i mean to say is that i don't understand a lot of things, and that the knowledge i lack isn't something we can dig out of a library, but that we must go to life for it. there's a good deal to learn in a city like this that's still in the making. i might have gone to new york, but there are too many elements there; it's all too big for me. here you can see nearly as many kinds of people, and you can get closer to them. you can see how they earn their living, and you can even follow them to church on sunday and see what they get out of that!" "i'm afraid," he replied, after deliberating a moment, "that you are going to make yourself uncomfortable; you are cutting out a programme of unhappiness." "why shouldn't i make myself uncomfortable for a little while? i have never known anything but comfort." "but that's your blessing; no matter how much you want to do it you can't remove all the unhappiness in the world--not even by dividing with the less fortunate. i've never been able to follow that philosophy." "maybe," she said, "you have never tried it!" she was seeking neither to convince him nor to accomplish his discomfiture and to this end was maintaining her share of the dialogue to the accompaniment of a smile of amity. "maybe i never have," he replied slowly. "i didn't have your advantage of seeing a place to begin." "but you have the advantage of every one; you have the thing that i can never hope to have, that i don't ask for: you have the power in your hands to do everything!" his quick, direct glance expressed curiosity as to whether she were appealing to his vanity or implying a sincere belief in his power. "power is too large a word to apply to me, miss garrison. i have had a good deal of experience in politics, and in politics you can't do all you like." "i didn't question that: men of the finest intentions seem to fail, and they will probably go on failing. i know that from books; you know it of course from actual dealings with the men who find their way to responsible places, and who very often fail to accomplish the things we expect of them." "the aims of most of the reformers are futile from the beginning. legislatures can pass laws; they pass far too many; but they can't make ideal conditions out of those laws. i've seen it tried." "yesterday, when you were able to make that convention do exactly what you wanted it to, without even being there to watch it, it must have been because of some ideal you were working for. you thought you were serving some good purpose; it wasn't just spite or to show your power. it couldn't have been that!" "i did it," he said doggedly, as though to destroy with a single blunt thrust her tower of illusions--"i did it to smash a man named thatcher. there wasn't any ideal nonsense about it." he frowned, surprised and displeased that he had spoken so roughly. he rarely let go of himself in that fashion. he expected her to take advantage of his admission to point a moral; but she said instantly:-- "then, you did it beautifully! there was a certain perfection about it; it was, oh, immensely funny!" she laughed, tossing her head lightly, a laugh of real enjoyment, and he was surprised to find himself laughing with her. it seemed that the thatcher incident was not only funny, but that its full humorous value had not until that moment been wholly realized by either of them. she rose quickly. one of her gloves fell to the floor and he picked it up. the act of restoring it brought them close together, and their talk had, he felt, justified another searching glance into her face. she nodded her thanks, smiling again, and moved toward the door. he admired the tact which had caused her to close the discussion at precisely the safe moment. he was a master of the art of closing interviews, and she had placed the period at the end of the right sentence; it was where he would have placed it himself. she had laughed!--and the novelty of being laughed at was refreshing. he and thatcher had laughed in secret at the confusion of their common enemies in old times; but most men feared him, and he had the reputation of being a mirthless person. he had rarely discussed politics with women; he had an idea that a woman's politics, when she had any, partook of the nature of her religion, and that it was something quite emotional, tending toward hysteria. he experienced a sense of guilt at the relief he found in sylvia's laughter, remembering that scarcely half an hour earlier he had been at pains to justify himself before his wife for the very act which had struck this girl as funny. he had met mrs. bassett's accusations with evasion and dissimulation, and he had accomplished an escape that was not, in retrospect, wholly creditable. he hated scenes and tiresome debates as he hated people who cringed and sidled before him. his manner of dealing with thatcher had been born of a diabolical humor which he rarely exercised, but which afforded him a delicious satisfaction. it was the sort of revenge one reserved for a foe capable of appreciating its humor and malignity. the answer of laughter was one to which he was unused, and he was amazed to find that it had effected an understanding of some vague and intangible kind between him and sylvia garrison. she might not approve of him, he had no idea that she did; but she had struck a chord whose vibrations pleased and tantalized. she was provocative and, to a degree, mystifying, and the abrupt termination of their talk seemed to leave the way open to other interviews. he thought of many things he might have said to her at the moment; but her period was not to be changed to comma or semicolon; she was satisfied with the punctuation and had, so to speak, run away with the pencil! she had tossed his political aims and strifes into the air with a bewildering dismissal, and he stood like a child whose toy balloon has slipped away, half-pleased at its flight, half-mourning its loss. she picked up some books she had left on a stand in the hall. he stood with his hands in his pockets, watching her ascent, hearing the swish of her skirts on the stairs: but she did not look back. she was humming softly to herself as she passed out of sight. chapter xxi a short horse soon curried sylvia sat beside bassett at dinner that night, and it was on the whole a cheerful party. mrs. bassett was restored to tranquillity, and before her aunt she always strove to hide her ills, from a feeling that that lady, who enjoyed perfect health, and carried on the most prodigious undertakings, had little patience with her less fortunate sisters whom the doctors never fully discharge. mrs. owen had returned so late that bassett was unable to dispose of the lawsuit before dinner; she had greeted her niece's husband with her usual cordiality. she always called him morton, and she was aunt sally to him as to many hundreds of her fellow citizens. she discussed crops, markets, rumors of foreign wars, prospective changes in the president's cabinet, the price of ice, and the automobile invasion. talk at sally owen's table was always likely to be spirited. bassett's anxiety as to his relations with her passed; he had never felt more comfortable in her house. only the most temerarious ever ventured to ask a forecast of mrs. owen's plans. marian, who had found a school friend with an automobile and had enjoyed a run into the country, did not share the common fear of her great-aunt. mrs. owen liked marian's straightforward ways even when they approached rashness. it had occurred to her sometimes that there was a good deal of singleton in marian; she, sally owen, was a singleton herself, and admired the traits of that side of her family. marian amused her now by plunging into a description of a new flat she had passed that afternoon which would provide admirably a winter home for the bassetts. mrs. bassett shuddered, expecting her aunt to sound a warning against the extravagance of maintaining two homes; but mrs. owen rallied promptly to her grandniece's support. "if you've got tired of my house, you couldn't do better than to take an apartment in the verona. i saw the plans before they began it, and it's first-class and up-to-date. my house is open to you and always has been, but i notice you go to the hotel about half the time. you'd better try a flat for a winter, hallie, and let marian see how we do things in town." instantly mrs. bassett was alert. this could only be covert notice that sylvia was to be installed in the delaware street house. marian was engaging her father in debate upon the merits of her plan, fortified by mrs. owen's unexpected approval. mrs. bassett raised her eyes to sylvia. sylvia, in one of the white gowns with which she relieved her mourning, tranquilly unconscious of the dark terror she awakened in mrs. bassett, seemed to be sympathetically interested in the bassetts' transfer to the capital. sylvia was guilty of the deplorable sin of making herself agreeable to every one. she had paused on the way to her room before dinner to proffer assistance to mrs. bassett. with a light, soothing touch she had brushed the invalid's hair and dressed it; and she had produced a new kind of salts that proved delightfully refreshing. since coming to the table mrs. bassett had several times detected her husband in an exchange of smiles with the young woman, and marian and the usurper got on famously. mrs. bassett had observed that sylvia's appetite was excellent, and this had weakened her belief in the girl's genius; there was a good deal of early-victorian superstition touching women in hallie bassett! but mrs. owen was speaking. "i suppose i'd see less of you all if you moved to town. marian used to run off from miss waring's to cheer me up, mostly when her lessons were bad, wasn't it, marian?" "i love this house, aunt sally, but you can't have us all on your hands all the time." "well," mrs. owen remarked, glancing round the table quizzically, "i might do worse. but even sylvia scorns me; she's going to move out to-morrow." mrs. bassett with difficulty concealed her immeasurable relief. mrs. owen left explanations to sylvia, who promptly supplied them. "that sounds as though i were about to take leave without settling my bill, doesn't it? but i thought it wise not to let it get too big; i'm going to move to elizabeth house." "elizabeth house! why, sylvia!" cried marian. mrs. bassett smothered a sigh of satisfaction. if aunt sally was transferring her protégée to the home she had established for working girls (and it was inconceivable that the removal could be upon sylvia's own initiative), the bassett prospects brightened at once. aunt sally was, in her way, an aristocrat; she was rich and her eccentricities were due largely to her kindness of heart; but mrs. bassett was satisfied now that she was not a woman to harbor in her home a girl who labored in a public school-house. not only did mrs. bassett's confidence in her aunt rise, but she felt a thrill of admiration for sylvia, who was unmistakably a girl who knew her place, and her place as a wage-earner was not in the home of one of the richest women in the state, but in a house provided through that lady's beneficence for the shelter of young women occupied in earning a livelihood. "it's very nice there," sylvia was saying. "i stopped on my way home this afternoon and found that they could give me a room. it's all arranged." "but it's only for office girls and department store clerks and dressmakers, sylvia. i should think you would hate it. why, my manicure lives there!" marian desisted, warned by her mother, who wished no jarring note to mar her satisfaction in the situation. "that manicure girl is a circus," said mrs. owen, quite oblivious of the undercurrent of her niece's thoughts. "when they had a vaudeville show last winter she did the best stunts of any of 'em. you didn't mention those jewesses that i had such a row to get in? smart girls. one of 'em is the fastest typewriter in town; she's a credit to jerusalem, that girl. and a born banker. they've started a savings club and miriam runs it. they won't lose any money." mrs. owen chuckled; and the rest laughed. there was no question of mrs. owen's pride in elizabeth house. "did you see any plumbers around the place?" she demanded of sylvia. "i've been a month trying to get another bathroom put in on the third floor, and plumbers do try the soul." "that's all done," replied sylvia. "the matron told me to tell you so." "i'm about due to go over there and look over the linen," remarked mrs. owen, with an air of making a memorandum of a duty neglected. "well, i guess it's comfortable enough," said marian. "but i should think you could do better than that, sylvia. you'll have to eat at the same table with some typewriter pounder. with all your education i should think it would bore you." "sylvia will have to learn about it for herself, marian," said mrs. bassett. "i've always understood that the executive board is very careful not to admit girls whose character isn't above reproach." mrs. owen turned the key of her old-fashioned coffee urn sharply upon the cup she was filling and looked her niece in the eye. "oh, we're careful, hallie; we're careful; but i tell 'em not to be _too_ careful!" "well, of course the aim is to protect girls," mrs. bassett replied, conscious of a disconcerting acidity in her aunt's remark. "i'm not afraid of contamination," observed sylvia. "of course not _that_," rejoined mrs. bassett hastily. "i think it's fine that with your culture you will go and live in such a place; it shows a beautiful spirit of self-sacrifice." "oh, please don't say that! i'm going there just because i want to go!" and then, smiling to ease the moment's tension, "i expect to have the best of times at elizabeth house." "sylvia"--remarked mrs. owen, drawling the name a trifle more than usual--"sylvia can do what she pleases anywhere." "i think," said bassett, who had not before entered into the discussion, "that aunt sally has struck the right word there. in these days a girl can do as she likes; and we haven't any business to discuss miss garrison's right to live at elizabeth house." "of course, sylvia, we didn't mean to seem to criticize you. you know that," said mrs. bassett, flushing. "you are my friends," said sylvia, glancing round the table, "and if there's criticizing to be done, you have the first right." "if sylvia is to be criticized,--and i don't understand that any one has tried it," remarked mrs. owen,--"i want the first chance at her myself." and with the snapping of her spectacle case they rose from the table. they had barely settled themselves in the parlor when harwood and allen arrived in allen's motor. dan had expected his friend to resent his part in the convention, and he had sought allen at lüders's shop to satisfy himself that their personal relations had not been disturbed. he had found allen, at the end of a day's work, perched upon a bench discoursing to the workmen on the great experiment. allen had, it seemed, watched the convention from an obscure corner of the gallery. he pronounced dan's speech "immense"; "perfectly bully"; he was extravagant in his praise of it. his father's success in naming the ticket had seemed to him a great triumph. allen viewed the whole matter with a kind of detachment, as a spectator whose interest is wholly impersonal. he thought there would be a great fight between the combatants; his dad hadn't finished yet, he declared, sententiously. the incidents of the convention had convinced him that the great experiment was progressing according to some predestined formula. he and harwood had dined together at the university club and he was quite in the humor to call on the bassetts at mrs. owen's; and the coming of sylvia, as to whom mrs. owen had piqued his curiosity, was not to be overlooked. he cleared the air by brushing away the convention with a word, addressed daringly to bassett:-- "papa's come back from fishing! _my_ papa is digging bait," and they all laughed. "miss garrison, you must be the greatest of girls, for you have my own ideas! our invincible young orator here has been telling me so!" "that was a grand speech; many happy returns of the day!" was marian's greeting to dan. "you certainly have a great voice, daniel," remarked mrs. owen, "and you had your nerve with you." "you were effective from the first moment, mr. harwood. you ought to consider going on the lecture platform," said mrs. bassett. "oh, dan hasn't come to that yet; its only defeated statesmen who spout in the chautauquas," bassett remarked. harwood was in fine fettle. many men had expressed their approval of him; at the club he had enjoyed the chaffing of the young gentlemen with whom he ate luncheon daily, and whose tolerance of the universe was tinged with a certain cynicism. they liked harwood; they knew he was a "smart" fellow; and because they liked and admired him they rallied him freely. the president of a manufacturing company had called at the boordman building to retain him in a damage suit; a tribute to his growing fame. dan was a victim of that error to which young men yield in exultant moments, when, after a first brush with the pickets, they are confident of making their own terms with life. dan's attitude toward the world was receptive; here in the bassett domestic circle he felt no shame at being a bassett man. all but sylvia had spoken to him of his part in the convention, and she turned to him now after a passage with allen that had left the young man radiant. "you have a devoted admirer in mr. thatcher. he must be a difficult friend to satisfy," said sylvia. "then do you think i don't satisfy him?" "oh, perfectly! he's a combination of optimist and fatalist, i judge. he thinks nothing matters much, for everything is coming out all right in the end." "then where do you place me in his scheme of things?" "that depends, doesn't it," she replied carelessly, "on whether you are the master of the ship or only a prisoner under the hatches." he reddened, and she added nothing to relieve his embarrassment. "you think, then--?" and he stopped, uneasy under her gaze. "some of the time i don't think; i just wonder. and that's very different, isn't it?" he realized now how much he had counted on the kind things he had expected her to say. he had plainly lost ground with her since their talk on the madison campus, and he wanted to justify himself, to convince her of his rectitude, and of her failure to understand his part in the convention, but the time and place were unpropitious. allen was calling attention to the moonlight and proposing an automobile flight into the country. his car would hold them all, and he announced himself the safest of chauffeurs. mrs. owen declined, on the double plea that she had business to attend to and did not ride in motor cars even to please allen thatcher; bassett also excused himself; so the rest set off presently under mrs. bassett's chaperonage. "are you going downtown, morton?" asked mrs. owen, as they watched the motor roll away. "no; i'd like to see you on a business matter, aunt sally, if you can give me a few minutes." "certainly, morton; come right in." she flashed on the lights in her office where thomas a. hendricks still gazed benevolently at maud s. breaking her record. "i owe you an apology, aunt sally," bassett began at once. "i'm sorry i got you into a lawsuit, but things moved so fast that i didn't have a chance to pull you out of the way. thatcher and i have agreed to disagree, as you doubtless know." mrs. owen drew her spectacle case from her pocket (there were pockets and deep ones in all her gowns), wiped her glasses and put them on. "you and edward do seem to be having a little trouble. when i got home i found that summons the sheriff left here. let me see; it was away back in ' that i was sued the last time. agent for a cornplanter sued me for a machine i never ordered and it wasn't worth a farthing anyhow. that was on my greene county place. just for that i had him arrested for trespass for going on the farm to take away the machine. he paid the costs all right, and i hope he learned better manners." this reminiscence, recalled with evident enjoyment, was not wholly encouraging. it seemed darkly possible that she had cited a precedent applicable to every case where she was haled before a court. the chairs in mrs. owen's office were decidedly uncomfortable; bassett crossed and recrossed his legs, and pressed his hand nervously to his pocket to make sure of his check-book; for he was prepared to pay his wife's aunt for her shares in the "courier" newspaper to facilitate her elimination as a co-defendant in the suit at bar. "it was contemptible of thatcher to drag you into this, for he knew you took those shares merely to help me out. i'm sorry it has turned out this way, but i'm anxious to make it right with you, and i'm ready to buy your shares--at your own price, of course." she chose a letter from the afternoon's mail, and opened it with a horn-handled paper-cutter, crumpling the envelope and dropping it over her shoulder into a big waste-paper basket. she was not apparently overcome by his magnanimity. "well, well," she said, glancing over the letter; "that man i've got at waupegan is turning out better than i expected when i put him there; or else he's the greatest living liar. you never can tell about these people. well, well!--oh, yes, morton; about that lawsuit. i saw edward this afternoon and had a little talk with him about it." "you saw thatcher about the suit!" "i most certainly did, morton. i had him go down to the bank to talk to me." "i'm sorry you took the trouble to do that. if you'd told me--" "oh, i'm not afraid of edward thatcher. if a man brings a lawsuit against me, the sooner i see him the better. i sent word to edward and he was waiting at the bank when i got there." "i'd given thatcher credit for being above dragging a woman who had always been his friend into a lawsuit. he certainly owed you an apology." "i didn't see it just that way, morton, and he didn't apologize. i wouldn't have let him!" she looked at him over her glasses disconcertingly, and he could think of no reply. it was possible that thatcher had bought her stock or that she had made him bid for it. she had a reputation for driving hard bargains, and he judged from her manner that her conference with thatcher, whatever its nature, had not been unsatisfactory. he recalled with exasperation his wife's displeasure over this whole affair; it was incumbent upon him not only to reëstablish himself with mrs. owen, but to do it in a way to satisfy mrs. bassett. "you needn't worry about that lawsuit, morton; there ain't going to be any lawsuit." she gave this time to "soak in," as she would have expressed it, and then concluded:-- "it's all off; i persuaded edward to drop the suit. the case will be dismissed in the morning." "dismissed? how dismissed, aunt sally?" "just dismissed; that's all there is of it. i went to see fitch, too, and gave him a piece of my mind. he wrote me a letter i found here saying that in my absence he'd taken the liberty of entering an appearance for me, along with you, in the case. i told him i'd attend to my own lawsuits, and that he could just scratch his appearance off the docket." the presumption of her lawyer seemed to obscure all other issues for the moment. morton bassett was annoyed to be kept waiting for an explanation that was clearly due him as her co-defendant; he controlled his irritation with difficulty. her imprudence in having approached his enemy filled him with forebodings; there was no telling what compromises she might have negotiated with edward g. thatcher. "i suppose you shamed him out of it?" he suggested. "shamed him? i _scared_ him out of it! he owns a lot of property in this town that's rented for unlawful purposes, and i told him i'd prosecute him; that, and a few other things. he offered to buy me out at a good price, but he didn't get very far with that. it was a good figure, though," she added reflectively. his spirits rose at this proof of her loyalty and he hastened to manifest his appreciation. his wife's fears would be dispelled by this evidence of her aunt's good will toward the family. "i rather imagined that he'd be glad to quit if he saw an easy way out, and i guess you gave it to him. now about your stock, aunt sally. i don't want you to be brought into my troubles with thatcher any further. i appreciate your help so far, and i'm able now to pay for your shares. i don't doubt that ed offered you a generous price to get a controlling interest. i'll write a check for any sum you name, and you'll have my gratitude besides." he drew out his check-book and laid it on the table, with a feeling that money, which according to tradition is a talkative commodity, might now conclude the conversation. mrs. owen saw the check-book--looked at it over her glasses, apparently without emotion. "i'm not going to sell those shares, morton; not to you or anybody else." "but as a matter of maintaining my own dignity--" "your own dignity is something i want to speak to you about, morton. i've been watching you ever since you married hallie, and wondering just where you'd bump. you and edward thatcher have been pretty thick and you've had a lot of fun out of politics. this row you've got into with him was bound to come. i know edward better--just a little better than i know you. he's not a beautiful character, but he's not as bad as they make out. but you've given him a hard rub the wrong way and he's going to get even with you. he's mighty bitter--bitterer than it's healthy for one man to be against another. if it hadn't been for this newspaper fuss i shouldn't ever have said a word to you about it; but i advise you to straighten things up with edward. you'd better do it for your own good--for hallie and the children. you've insulted him and held him up to the whole state of indiana as a fool. you needn't think he doesn't know just where you gripped that convention tight, and just where you let him have it to play with. he's got more money than you have, and he's going to spend it to give you some of your own medicine or worse, if he can. he's like a mule that lays for the nigger that put burrs under his collar. you're that particular nigger just now. you've made a mistake, morton." "but aunt sally--i didn't--" "about that newspaper, morton," she continued, ignoring him. "i've decided that i'll just hang on to my stock. you've built up the 'courier' better than i expected, and that last statement showed it to be doing fine. i don't know any place right now where i can do as well with the money. you see i've got about all the farms i can handle at my age, and it will be some fun to have a hand in running a newspaper. i want you to tell 'em down at the 'courier' office--what's his name? atwill? well, you tell him i want this 'stop, look, listen' business stopped. if you can't think of anything smarter to do than that, you 'd better quit. you had no business to turn a newspaper against a man who owns half of it without giving him a chance to get off the track. you whistled, morton, after you had pitched him and his side-bar buggy into the ditch and killed his horse." "but who had put him on the track? i hadn't! he'd been running over the state for two years, to my knowledge, trying to undermine me. i was only giving him in broad daylight what he was giving me in the dark. you don't understand this, aunt sally; he's been playing on your feelings." "morton bassett, there ain't a man on earth that can play on my feelings. i didn't let him jump on you; and i don't intend to let you abuse him. i've told you to stop nagging him, but i haven't any idea you'll do it. that's your business. if you want a big bump, you go on and get it. about this newspaper, i'm going to keep my shares, and i've told edward that you wouldn't use the paper as a club on him while i was interested in it. you can print all the politics you want, but it must be clean politics, straight out from the shoulder." he had lapsed into sullen silence, too stunned to interrupt the placid flow of her speech. she had not only meddled in his affairs in a fashion that would afford comfort to his enemy, but she was now dictating terms--this old woman whose mild tone was in itself maddening. the fear of incurring his wife's wrath alone checked an outburst of indignation. in all his life no one had ever warned him to his face that he was pursuing a course that led to destruction. he had always enjoyed her capriciousness, her whimsical humor, but there was certainly nothing for him to smile at in this interview. she had so plied the lash that it cut to the quick. his pride and self-confidence were deeply wounded;--his wife's elderly aunt did not believe in his omnipotence! this was a shock in itself; but what fantastic nonsense was she uttering now? "since i bought that stock, morton, i've been reading the 'courier' clean through every day, and there are some things about that paper i don't like. i guess you and edward thatcher ain't so particularly religious, and when you took hold of it you cut out that religious page they used to print every sunday. you better tell atwill to start that up again. i notice, too, that the 'courier' sneaks in little stingers at the jews occasionally--they may just get in by mistake, but you ought to have a rule at the office against printing stories as old as the hills about jews burning down their clothing-stores to get the insurance. i've known a few gentiles that did that. the only man i know that i'd lend money to without security is a jew. let's not jump on people just to hurt their feelings. and besides, we don't any of us know much more these days than old moses knew. and that fellow who writes the little two-line pieces under the regular editorials--he's too smart, and he ain't always as funny as he thinks he is. there's no use in popping bird-shot at things if they ain't right, and that fellow's always trying to hurt somebody's feelings without doing anybody any good." she opened a drawer of her desk and drew out a memorandum to refresh her memory. "you've got a whole page and on sundays two pages about baseball and automobiles, and the horse is getting crowded down into a corner. we"--he was not unmindful of the plural--"we must print more horse news. you tell atwill to send his young man that does the 'horse and track' around to see me occasionally and i'll be glad to help him get some horse news that is news. i wouldn't want to have you bounce a young man who's doing the best he can, but it doesn't do a newspaper any good to speak of dan patch as a trotting-horse or give the record of my two-year-old filly penelope o as : - / when she made a clean : . you've got to print facts in a newspaper if you want people to respect it. how about that, morton?" "you're right, aunt sally. i'll speak to atwill about his horse news." he began to wonder whether she were not amusing herself at his expense; but she gave him no reason for doubting her seriousness. they might have been partners from the beginning of time from her businesslike manner of criticizing the paper. she had not only flatly refused to sell her shares, but she was taking advantage of the opportunity (for which she seemed to be prepared) to tell him how the "courier" should be conducted! "about farming, morton," she continued deliberately, "the 'courier' has fun every now and then over the poor but honest farmer, and prints pictures of him when he comes to town for the state fair that make him look like a scarecrow. farming, morton, is a profession, nowadays, and those poor yaps eggleston wrote about in 'the hoosier schoolmaster' were all dead and buried before you were born. farmers are up and coming i can tell you, and i wouldn't lose their business by poking fun at 'em. that saturday column of farm news, by the way, is a fraud--all stolen out of the 'western farmers' weekly' and no credit. they must keep that column in cold storage to run it the way they do. they're usually about a season behind time--telling how to plant corn along in august and planting winter wheat about christmas. our farm editor must have been raised on a new york roof-garden. another thing i want to speak of is the space they give to farmers' and stockmen's societies when they meet here. the last time the hoosier state mulefoot hog association met right here in town at the horticultural society's room at the state house--all the notice they got in the 'courier' was five lines in 'minor mention.' the same day the state bankers' association filled three columns, and most of that was a speech by tom adams on currency reform. you might tell that funny editorial man to give adams a poke now and then, and stop throwing chestnuts about gold bricks and green goods at farmers. and he needn't show the bad state of his liver by sarcastically speaking of farmers as honest husbandmen either; a farmer is a farmer, unless, for lack of god's grace, he's a fool! i guess the folks are coming now. i hope allen won't knock down the house with that threshing-machine of his. that's all this time. let me see--you'd better tell your editor to call on me now and then. what did you say his name was, morton?" "atwill--arthur p." "is he a son of that ebenezer atwill who used to be a professor in asbury college?" "i'm afraid not, aunt sally; i don't think he ever heard of ebenezer," replied bassett, with all the irony he dared. chapter xxii the gray sisterhood elizabeth house was hospitable to male visitors, and dan found sylvia there often on the warm, still summer evenings, when the young women of the household filled the veranda and overflowed upon the steps. sylvia's choice of a boarding-house had puzzled dan a good deal, but there were a good many things about sylvia that baffled him. for example, this preparation for teaching in a public school when she might have had an assistant professorship in a college seemed a sad waste of energy and opportunity. she was going to school to her inferiors, he maintained, submitting to instruction as meekly as though she were not qualified to enlighten her teachers in any branch of knowledge. it was preposterous that she should deliberately elect to spend the hottest of summers in learning to combine the principles of pestalozzi with the methods of dewey and kendall. the acquaintance of sylvia and allen prospered from the start. she was not only a new girl in town, and one capable of debating the questions that interested him, but he was charmed with elizabeth house, which was the kind of thing, he declared, that he had always stood for. the democracy of the veranda, the good humor and ready give and take of the young women delighted him. they liked him and openly called him "our beau." he established himself on excellent terms with the matron to the end that he might fill his automobile with her charges frequently and take them for runs into the country. when dan grumbled over sylvia's absurd immolation on the altar of education, allen pronounced her the grandest girl in the world and the glory of the great experiment. sylvia was intent these days upon fitting herself as quickly as possible for teaching, becoming a part of the established system and avoiding none of the processes by which teachers are created. her fellow students, most of whom were younger than she, were practically all the green fruitage of high schools, but she asked no immunities or privileges by reason of her college training; she yielded herself submissively to the "system," and established herself among the other novices on a footing of good comradeship. during the hot, vexatious days she met them with unfailing good cheer. the inspiring example of her college teachers, and not least the belief she had absorbed on the madison campus in her girlhood, that teaching is a high calling, eased the way for her at times when--as occasionally happened--she failed to appreciate the beauty of the "system." the superintendent of schools, dropping into the normal after hours, caught sylvia in the act of demonstrating a problem in geometry on the blackboard for the benefit of a fellow student who had not yet abandoned the hope of entering the state university that fall. the superintendent had been in quest of a teacher of mathematics for the manual training school, and on appealing to the wellesley authorities they had sent him sylvia's name. sylvia, the chalk still in her fingers, met his humorous reproaches smilingly. she had made him appear ridiculous in the eyes of her _alma mater_, he said. sylvia declined his offer and smiled. the superintendent was not used to smiles like that in his corps. and this confident young woman seemed to know what she was about. he went away mystified, and meeting john ware related his experience. ware laughed and slapped his knee. "you let that girl alone," the minister said. "she has her finger on time's wrist. physician of the golden age. remember matthew arnold's lines on goethe? good poem. sylvia wants to know 'the causes of things.' watch her. great nature." at seven o'clock on a morning of september, sylvia left elizabeth house to begin her novitiate as a teacher. allen had declared his intention of sending his automobile for her every morning, an offer that was promptly declined. however, on that bright morning when the young world turned schoolward, harwood lay in wait for her. "this must never happen again, sir! and of course you may not carry my books--they're the symbol of my profession. seventeen thousand young persons about like me are on the way to school this morning right here in indiana. it would be frightfully embarrassing to the educational system if young gentlemen were allowed to carry the implements of our trade." "you can't get rid of me now: i never get up as early as this unless i'm catching a train." "so much the worse for you, then!" "there will be mornings when you won't think it so much fun. it rains and snows in indiana sometimes." he still resented the idea of her sacrifice, as he called it, in the cause of education. they were now so well acquainted that they were not always careful to be polite in their talk; but he had an uneasy feeling that she didn't wholly approve of him. all summer, when they had discussed politics, she had avoided touching upon his personal interests and activities. his alliance with bassett, emphasized in the state convention, was a subject she clearly avoided. this morning, as he kept time to her quick step, he craved her interest and sympathy. her plain gray suit and simple cloth hat could not disguise her charm or grace. it seemed to him that she was putting herself a little further away from him, that she was approaching the business of life with a determination, a spirit, a zest, that dwarfed to insignificance his own preoccupation with far less important matters. she turned to glance back at a group of children they had passed audibly speculating as to the character of teacher the day held in store for them. "don't you think they're worth working for?" sylvia asked. dan shrugged his shoulders. "i suppose more lives are ground up in the school-teaching machine than in any other way. go on! the girl who taught me my alphabet in the little red school-house in harrison county earned her salary, i can tell you. she was seventeen and wore a pink dress." "i'm sorry you don't approve of me or my clothes. now allen approves of me: i like allen." "his approval is important, i dare say." "yes, very. it's nice to be approved of. it helps some." "and i suppose there ought to be a certain reciprocity in approval and disapproval?" "oh, there's bound to be!" their eyes met and they laughed lightheartedly. "i'm going to tell you something," said dan. "on the reciprocal theory i can't expect anything, but i'm lonesome and have no friends anyhow, so i'll give you a chance to say something withering and edged with a fine scorn." "good! i'll promise not to disappoint you." "i'm going to be put on the legislature ticket to-day--to fill a vacancy. i suppose you'll pray earnestly for my defeat." "why should i waste prayers on that? besides, allen solemnly declares that the people are to be trusted. it's not for me to set my prayers against the will of the pee-pull." "if you had a vote," he persisted, "you wouldn't vote for me?" "i should have to know what you want to go to the legislature for before committing myself. what _are_ you doing it for?" "to do all the mischief i can, of course; to support all the worst measures that come up; to jump when the boss's whip cracks!" she refused to meet him on this ground. he saw that any expectation he might have that she would urge him to pledge himself to noble endeavor and high achievements as a state legislator were doomed to disappointment. he was taken aback by the tone of her retort. "i hope you will do all those things. you could do nothing better calculated to help your chances." "chances?" "your chances--and we don't any of us have too many of coming to some good sometime." "i believe you are really serious; but i don't understand you." "then i shall be explicit. just this, then, to play the ungrateful part of the frank friend. the sooner you get your fingers burnt, the sooner you will let the fire alone. i suppose mr. bassett has given the word that you are graciously to be permitted to sit in his legislature. he could hardly do less for you than that, after he sent you into the arena last june to prod the sick lion for his entertainment." they were waiting at a corner for a break in the street traffic, and he turned toward her guardedly. "you put it pretty low," he mumbled. "the thing itself is not so bad. from what i have heard and read about mr. bassett, i don't think he is really an evil person. he probably didn't start with any sort of ideals of public life: you did. i read in an essay the other night that the appeal of the highest should be always to the lowest. but you're not appealing to anybody; you're just following the band wagon to the centre of the track. stop, look, listen! you've come far enough with me now. the walls of my prison house loom before me. good-morning!" "good-morning and good luck!" that night sylvia wrote a letter to one of her classmates in boston. "i'm a school-teacher," she said,--"a member of the gray sisterhood of american nuns. all over this astonishing country my sisters of this honorable order rise up in the morning, even as you and i, to teach the young idea how to shoot. i look with veneration upon those of our sisterhood who have grown old in the classroom. i can see myself reduced to a bundle of nerves, irascible, worthless, ready for the scrap-pile at, we will say, forty-two--only twenty years ahead of me! my work looks so easy and i like it so much that i went in fright to the dictionary to look up the definition of teacher. i find that i'm one who teaches or instructs. think of it--i! that definition should be revised to read, 'teacher: one who, conveying certain information to others, reads in fifty faces unanswerable questions as to the riddle of existence.' 'school: a place where the presumably wise are convinced of their own folly.' note well, my friend: i am a gray sister, in a gray serge suit that fits, with white cuffs and collar, and with chalk on my fingers. oh, it's not what i'm required to teach, but what i'm going to learn that worries me!" lüders's shop was not far from sylvia's school and allen devised many excuses for waylaying her. his machine being forbidden, he hung about until she appeared and trudged homeward with her. often he came in a glow from the cabinetmaker's and submitted for her judgment the questions that had been debated that day at the shop. there was something sweet and wistful and charming in his boyishness; and she was surprised, as harwood had been from the first, by the intelligence he evinced in political and social questions. he demanded absolute answers to problems that were perplexing wise men all over the world. "if i could answer that," she would say to him, "i should be entitled to a monument more enduring than brass. the comfort and happiness of mankind isn't to be won in a day: we mustn't pull up the old tree till we've got a new one planted and growing." "the great experiment will turn out all right yet! some fellow we never heard of will give the lever a jerk some day, and there will be a rumble and a flash and it will run perfectly," he asserted. the state campaign got under way in october, and harwood was often discussed in relation to it. allen always praised dan extravagantly, and was ever alert to defend him against her criticisms. "my dad will run the roller over bassett, but dan will be smart enough to get from under. it's the greatest show on earth--continuous vaudeville--this politics! dan's all right. he's got more brains than bassett. one of these days dan will take a flop and land clean over in the thatcher camp. it's only a matter of time. gratitude and considerations like that are holding him back. but i'm not a partisan--not even on dad's side. i'm the philosopher who sits on the fence and keeps the score by innings." it seemed to her, in those days and afterward, that allen symbolized the unknown quantity in all the problems that absorbed him. his idealism was not a thing of the air, but a flowering from old and vigorous roots. his politics was a kind of religion, and it did not prove upon analysis to be either so fantastical or so fanatical as she had believed at first. as the days shortened, he would prolong their walk until the shops and factories discharged their employees upon the streets. the fine thing about the people was, he said, the fact that they were content to go on from day to day, doing the things they did, when the restraints upon them were so light,--it proved the enduring worth of the great experiment. then they would plunge into the thick of the crowd and cross the monument plaza, where he never failed to pay a tribute in his own fashion to the men the gray shaft commemorated. in these walks they spoke french, which he employed more readily than she: in his high moods it seemed to express him better than english. it amused him to apply new names to the thoroughfares they traversed. for example, he gayly renamed monument place the place de la concorde, assuring her that the southward vista in the rue de la méridienne, disclosing the lamp-bestarred terrace of the new federal building, and the electric torches of the monument beyond, was highly reminiscent of paris. sylvia was able to dramatize for herself, from the abundant material he artlessly supplied, the life he had led abroad during his long exile: as a youngster he had enjoyed untrammeled freedom of the streets of paris and berlin, and he showed a curiously developed sympathy for the lives of the poor and unfortunate that had been born of those early experiences. he was a great resource to her, and she enjoyed him as she would have enjoyed a girl comrade. he confessed his admiration for marian in the frankest fashion. she was adorable; the greatest girl in the world. "ah, sometime," he would say, "who knows!" chapter xxiii a house-boat on the kankakee harwood's faith in bassett as a political prophet was badly shaken by the result of the campaign that fall. about half the democratic candidates for state office were elected, but even more surprising was the rolling-up of a good working majority in both houses of the general assembly. if thatcher had knifed bassett men or if thatcher men had been knifed at bassett's behest, evidence of such perfidy was difficult to adduce from the returns. harwood was not sure, as he studied the figures, whether his party's surprising success was attributable to a development of real strength in thatcher, who had been much in evidence throughout the campaign, or whether bassett deserved the credit. he was disposed to think it only another expression of that capriciousness of the electorate which is often manifested in years when national success is not directly involved. while thatcher and bassett had apparently struck a truce and harmonized their factions, harwood had at no time entertained illusions as to the real attitude of the men toward each other. when the _entente_ between the leaders was mentioned among thatcher's intimates they were prone to declare that ed would "get" bassett; it might take time, but the day of retribution would surely come. as a candidate for the lower house in marion county, harwood had been thrust forward prominently into a campaign whose liveliness belied the traditional apathy of "off" years. on the saturday night before the election, thatcher and bassett had appeared together on the platform at a great meeting at the capital--one of those final flourishes by which county chairmen are prone to hearten their legions against the morrow's battle. bassett had spoken for ten minutes at this rally, urging support of the ticket and in crisp phrases giving the lie to reports of his lukewarmness. his speech was the more noteworthy from the fact that it was the first time, in all his political career, that he had ever spoken at a political meeting, and there was no questioning its favorable impression. bassett was, moreover, reelected to his old seat in the senate without difficulty; and harwood ran ahead of his associates on the legislative ticket in marion county, scoring a plurality that testified to his personal popularity. another campaign must intervene before the united states senatorship became an acute issue, and meanwhile the party in the state had not in many years been so united. credit was freely given to the "courier" for the formidable strength developed by the democracy: and it had become indubitably a vigorous and conservative reflector of party opinion, without estranging a growing constituency of readers who liked its clean and orderly presentation of general news. the ownership of the newspaper had become, since the abrupt termination of the lawsuit instituted by thatcher, almost as much of a mystery as formerly. harwood's intimate relations with it had not been revived, and neither mrs. owen nor bassett ever spoke to him of the newspaper except in the most casual fashion. dan was conscious that the senator from fraser had changed in the years that had passed since the beginning of their acquaintance. bassett had outwardly altered little as he crossed the watershed of middle life; but it seemed to dan that the ill-temper he had manifested in the thatcher affair had marked a climacteric. the self-control and restraint that had so impressed him at first had visibly diminished. what harwood had taken for steel seemed to him now only iron after all--and brittle iron. during the last week of the campaign an incident occurred that shook harwood a good deal. he had been away from the capital for several days making speeches, and finding that his itinerary would permit it, he ran into town unexpectedly one night to replenish his linen and look at his mail. an interurban car landed him in town at eleven o'clock, and he went directly to the boordman building. as he walked down the hall toward his office he was surprised to see a light showing on the ground-glass door of room . though bassett kept a room at the whitcomb for private conferences, he occasionally used his office in the boordman for the purpose, and seeing the rooms lighted, dan expected to find him there. he tried the door and found it locked, and as he drew out his key he heard suddenly the click of the typewriter inside. miss farrell was rarely at the office at night, but as harwood opened the door, he found her busily tapping the keys of her machine. she swung round quickly with an air of surprise, stretched herself, and yawned. "well, i wasn't exactly looking for you, but i can't deny that i'm glad to be interrupted. hope you don't mind my doing a small job on the side--" as harwood stood, suit-case in hand, blinking at her, he heard a door farther down the hall close, followed by a step in the hall outside. harwood had seen no lights in the neighboring offices as he crossed the hall, and in his frequent long night vigils with his law books, it was the rarest thing to find any of the neighboring tenants about. he turned quickly to the door while the retreating steps were still audible. "oh!" rose had half-risen from her seat as he put his hand to the knob and her tone of alarm arrested him. instead of flinging open the door he dropped his bag into a corner. his face flushed with sudden anger. "i didn't suppose you'd mind my doing a little extra work out of hours, mr. harwood. colonel ramsay was in the office to see mr. bassett this afternoon and asked me to take some dictation for him. i guess it's about time for me to go home." she pulled the sheet of paper from the typewriter with a sharp _brrrrr_ and dropped it into a drawer with a single deft twist of the wrist. "the colonel didn't mention it to me," remarked dan, feigning indifference and not looking at her. "he was making a speech at terre haute to-night when i left there." he tried to minimize the disagreeable aspects of the matter. rose had been employed by bassett as stenographer to one of his legislative committees before dan's relations with the politician began. since harwood employed her bassett had made use of her constantly in the writing of letters. there would have been nothing extraordinary in his calling her to the office for an evening's work; it was the girl's falsehood about ramsay and the quiet closing of the door of bassett's inner room that disturbed harwood. he passed into the library and rose left without saying good-night. the incident annoyed dan; bassett's step had been unmistakable, and the girl's confusion had its disagreeable significance. he had not thought this of bassett; it was inconsonant with the character of man he still believed morton bassett to be. in winding up the receivership of the paper company bassett had treated harwood generously. dan was out of debt; he had added forty acres of good land to his father's farm, and he kept a little money in bank. he had even made a few small investments in local securities that promised well, and his practice had become quite independent of bassett: almost imperceptibly bassett had ceased to be a factor in his prosperity. the office in the boordman building remained the same, and bassett spent a good deal of time there. there were days when he seemed deeply preoccupied, and he sometimes buried himself in his room without obvious reason; then after an interval he would come out and throw his leg over a corner of dan's desk and talk to him with his earlier frankness. once he suggested that dan might like to leave the boordman for a new office building that was lifting the urban skyline; but the following day he came rather pointedly to dan's desk, and with an embarrassment he rarely showed, said that of course if dan moved he should expect to go with him; he hoped dan had understood that. a few days later he entrusted dan with several commissions that he seemed to have devised solely to show his good will and confidence. harwood was happy these days. he was still young and life had dealt kindly with him. among lawyers he was pointed to as a coming light of the bar; and in politics he was the most conspicuous man of his age in the state. he was invited to harrison county that fall to deliver an address at a reunion of the veterans of his father's regiment, and that had pleased him. he had more than justified the hopes of his parents and brothers, and they were very proud of him. while they did not understand his apostasy from the family's stern republicanism, this did not greatly matter when dan's name so often came floating home in the indianapolis newspapers. his mother kept careful track of his social enthrallments; her son was frequently among those present at private and public dinners; and when the president of yale visited indiana, dan spoke at the banquet given in his honor by the alumni; and not without emotion does a woman whose life has been spent on a humble farm find that her son has won a place among people of distinction in a city which is to her the capital of the universe. there were times when dan wished to be free of bassett. he had reached a point where bassett was not only of little service to him, but where he felt he was of little use to bassett. and it was irksome to find that all the local newspapers, except the "courier," constantly identified the boordman building with bassett's political activities. amid all the agitations of the campaign dan had seen as much as possible of sylvia. the settlement of andrew kelton's estate gave him an excuse for consulting her frequently, but he sought her frankly for the pleasure of seeing her. he found that she was a good deal at mrs. owen's, and it was pleasanter to run in upon her there than at elizabeth house, where they must needs share the parlor with other callers. often he and allen met at mrs. owen's and debated the questions that were forever perplexing young thatcher's eager mind,--debates that mrs. owen suffered to run so far and then terminated with a keen observation that left no more to be said, sending them to the pantry to forage for food and drink. thatcher had resented for a time harwood's participation in his humiliation at the convention; but his ill-feeling had not been proof against allen's warm defense. thatcher's devotion to his son had in it a kind of pathos, and it was not in him to vent his spleen against his son's best friend. a few days after the election thatcher invited harwood to join him and allen in a week's shooting in the kankakee where he owned a house-boat that allen had never seen. "come up, dan, and rest your voice. it's a good place to loaf, and we'll take john ware along as our moral uplifter. maybe we'll pot a few ducks, but if we don't we'll get away from our troubles for a little while anyhow." the house-boat proved to be commodious and comfortable, and the ducks scarce enough to make the hunter earn his supper. i may say in parenthesis that long before thatcher's day many great and good hoosiers scattered birdshot over the kankakee marshes--which, alack! have been drained to increase indiana's total area of arable soil. "lew" wallace and other hoosier generals and judges used to hunt ducks on the kankakee; and maurice thompson not only camped there, but wrote a poem about the marshes,--a poem that _is_ a poem,--all about the bittern and the plover and the heron, which always, at the right season, called him away from the desk and the town to try his bow (he was the last of the toxophilites!) on winged things he scorned to destroy with gunpowder. (oh what a good fellow you were, maurice thompson, and what songs you wrote of our lakes and rivers and feathered things! and how i gloated over those songs of fair weather in old "atlantics" in my grandfather's garret, before they were bound into that slim, long volume with the arrow-pierced heron on its cover!) john ware, an ancient and honorable son of the tribe of nimrod, was the best of comrades. the striking quality in ware was his beautiful humanness, which had given him a peculiar hold upon men. thatcher was far from being a saint, but, like many other cheerful sinners in our capital, he had gone to church in the days when ware occupied the first congregational pulpit. a good many years had passed since ware had been a captain of cavalry, chasing stuart's boys in the valley of virginia, but he was still a capital wing shot. a house-boat is the best place in the world for talk, and the talk in thatcher's boat, around the sheet-iron stove, was good those crisp november evenings. on sunday ware tramped off to a country church, taking his companions with him. it was too bad to miss the ducks, he said, but a day's peace in the marshes gave them a chance to accumulate. that evening he talked of emerson, with whom he had spoken face to face in concord in that whitest of houses. we shouldn't bring this into our pages if it hadn't been that ware's talk in that connection interested thatcher greatly. and ordinarily thatcher knew and cared less about emerson than about the vedic hymns. allen was serenely happy to be smoking his pipe in the company of a man who had fought with sheridan, heard phillips speak, and talked to john brown and emerson. when ware had described his interview with the poet he was silent for a moment, then he refilled his pipe. "it's odd," he continued, "but i've picked up copies of emerson's books in queer places. not so strange either; it seems the natural thing to find loose pages of his essays stuck around in old logging-camps. i did just that once, when i was following thoreau's trail through the maine woods. some fellow had pinned a page of 'compensation' on the door of a cabin i struck one night when it was mighty good to find shelter,--the pines singing, snowstorm coming on. that leaf was pretty well weather-stained; i carried it off with me and had it framed--hangs in my house now. another time i was doing california on horseback, and in an abandoned shack in the sierras i found emerson's 'poems'--an old copy that somebody had thumbed a good deal. i poked it out of some rubbish and came near making a fire of it. left it, though, for the next fellow. i've noticed that if one thing like that happens to you there's bound to be another. is that superstition, thatcher? i'm not superstitious,--not particularly,--but we've all got some of it in our hides. after that second time--it was away back in the seventies, when i was preaching for a spell in 'frisco--i kept looking for the third experience that i felt would come." "oh, of course it did come!" cried allen eagerly. "well, that third time it wasn't a loose leaf torn out and stuck on a plank, or just an old weather-stained book; it was a copy that had been specially bound--a rare piece of work. i don't care particularly for fine bindings, but that had been done with taste,--a dark green,--the color you get looking across the top of a pine wood; and it seemed appropriate. emerson would have liked it himself." the sheet-iron stove had grown red hot and harwood flung open the door. the glow from the fire fell full upon the dark, rugged face and the white hair of the minister, who was sitting on a soap-box with his elbows on his knees. in a gray flannel shirt he looked like a lumberman of the north. an unusual tenderness had stolen into his lean, indian-like face. "that was a long while after that ride in the sierras. let me see, it was more than twenty years ago,--i can't just place the year; no difference. i'd gone up into the adirondacks to see my folks. i told you about our farm once, allen,--not far from john brown's old place. it isn't as lonesome up there now as it was when i was a boy; there were bully places to hide up there; i used to think of that when i was reading scott and cooper. brown could have hid there forever if he'd got out of virginia after the raid. nowadays there are too many hotels, and people go canoeing in ironed collars. no good. my folks were all gone even then, and strangers lived in my father's house. from the old place i moved along, walking and canoeing it. stopped on saturday in a settlement where there was a church that hadn't been preached in since anybody could remember. preached for 'em on sunday. an old indian died, while i was there, and i baptized and buried him. but that wasn't what kept me. there was a young woman staying at the small boarding-house where i stopped--place run by a man and his wife. stranger had brought her there early in the summer. city people--they told the folks they came from new york. they were young, well-appearing folks--at least the girl was. the man had gone off and left her there, and she was going to have a child soon and was terribly ill. they called me in one day when they thought the woman was dying. the country doctor wasn't much good--an old fellow who didn't know that anything particular had happened in his profession since harvey discovered the circulation of the blood. i struck off to saranac and got a city doctor to go and look at the woman. nice chap he was, too. he stayed there till the woman's troubles were over. daughter born and everything all right. she never mentioned the man who had left her there. wouldn't answer the doctor's questions and didn't tell me anything either. strange business, just to drop in on a thing like that." it occurred to harwood that this big, gray, kindly man had probably looked upon many dark pictures in his life. the minister appeared to be talking half to himself, and there had been abrupt pauses in his characteristically jerky recital. there was a long silence which he broke by striking his hands together abruptly, and shaking his head. "the man that kept the boarding-house was scared for fear the woman wasn't straight; didn't like the idea of having a strange girl with a baby left on his hands. i had to reason some with that fellow; but his wife was all right, and did her full duty by the girl. she was a mighty pretty young girl, and she took her troubles, whatever they were, like what you'd call a true sport, ed." thatcher, stretched out on a camp bed at the side of the room, chewing a cigar, grunted. "well," the minister continued, "i was around there about three weeks; put in all my vacation there. fact is i hated to go off and leave that girl until i was sure i couldn't do anything for her. but she was getting out of the woods before i left, and i offered to help her any way i could. she didn't seem to lack for money; a couple of letters with money came for her, but didn't seem to cheer her much. there was a beast in the jungle,--no doubt of that,--but she was taking good care to hide him. didn't seem to care much about taking care of herself, even when she must have known that it looked bad for her. she was a flighty, volatile sort of creature; made a lot of what i'd done for her in bringing over the doctor. that doctor was a brick, too. lots of good people in the world, boys. let me see; dan, feel in that shooting-coat of mine on the nail behind you and you'll find the book i started to tell you about. thanks. you see it's a little banged up because i've carried it around with me a good deal--fishing-trips and so on; but it's acquired tone since i began handling it--the green in that leather has darkened. 'society and solitude.' there's the irony of fate for you.--where had i got to? when i went in to say good-bye we had quite a talk. i thought maybe there was some message i could carry to her friends for her, but she was game and wouldn't hear to it. she wanted the little girl baptized, but said she hadn't decided what to name her; asked me if i could baptize a baby without having a real name. she was terribly cut up and cried about it. i said i guessed god almighty didn't care much about names, and if she hadn't decided on one i'd name the baby myself and i did: i named the little girl--and a mighty cute youngster she was, too--i named her elizabeth--favorite name of mine;--just the mother, lying there in bed, and the man and woman that kept the boarding-house in the room. the mother said she wanted to do something for me; and as i was leaving her she pulled this book out and made me take it." "i suppose it was a favorite book of hers and all that," suggested dan. "i don't think anybody had ever opened that book," replied ware, smiling. "it was brand-new--not a scratch on it." "and afterward?" asked allen, anxious for the rest of the story. "well, sir, i passed through there four years afterward and found the same people living in the little cottage there at that settlement. strange to say, that woman had stayed there a couple of years after the baby was born. hadn't any place to go, i reckon. nobody ever went near her, they said; but finally she picked up and left; took the baby with her. she had never been well afterward, and finally, seeing she hadn't long to live, she struck out for home. wanted to die among her own people, maybe. i don't know the rest of the story, allen. what i've told you is all i know,--it's like finding a magazine in a country hotel where you haven't anything to read and dip into the middle of a serial story. i never told anybody about that but my wife. i had a feeling that if that woman took such pains to bury herself up there in the wilderness it wasn't my business to speak of it. but it's long ago now--most everything that an old chap like me knows is!" thatcher rose and crossed to the stove and took the book. he turned it over and scrutinized it carefully, scanned the blank pages and the silk-faced lids in the glow from the stove, and then handed it to allen. "what does that say there, that small gold print on the inside of the cover?" "that's the binder's name--z. fenelsa." allen closed the book, passed his hand over the smooth covers, and handed it back to ware. "what did you say the woman's name was, ware?" asked thatcher. "didn't say, but the name she went by up there was forbes. she told me it was an assumed name. the people she stayed with told me they never knew any better." several minutes passed in which no one spoke. the minister lapsed into one of his deep reveries. thatcher stood just behind him peering into the fire. suddenly he muttered under his breath and almost inaudibly, "well, by god!" chapter xxiv a washington's birthday ball the bassetts moved to the capital that winter, arriving with the phalanx of legislators in january, and establishing themselves in a furnished house opportunely vacated by the bosworths, who were taking the mediterranean trip. bassett had been careful to announce to the people of fraserville that the removal was only temporary, and that he and his family would return in the spring, but marian held private opinions quite at variance with her father's published statements. mrs. bassett's acquiescence had been due to mrs. owen's surprising support of marian's plan. in declaring that she would never, never consent to live in a flat, mrs. bassett had hoped to dispose of marian's importunities, to which bassett had latterly lent mild approval. when, however, mrs. owen suggested the bosworth house, which could be occupied with the minimum of domestic vexation, mrs. bassett promptly consented, feeling that her aunt's interest might conceal a desire in the old lady's breast to have some of her kinsfolk near her. mrs. bassett had not allowed her husband to forget the dangerous juxtaposition of sylvia garrison to mrs. owen's check-book. "that girl," as mrs. bassett designated sylvia in private conversation with her husband, had been planted in elizabeth house for a purpose. her relief that sylvia had not been settled in the delaware street residence had been of short duration: mrs. bassett saw now that it was only the girl's adroit method of impressing upon mrs. owen her humility and altruism. still mrs. bassett was not wholly unhappy. it was something to be near at hand where she could keep track of sylvia's movements; and the social scene at the capital was not without its interest for her. she was not merely the wife of morton bassett, but the only child of the late blackford singleton, sometime senator in congress. she was moreover the niece of sally owen, and this in itself was a social asset. she showed her husband the cards that were left at their door, and called his attention to the fact that the representative people of the capital were looking them up. he made the mistake of suggesting that the husbands of most of the women who had called had axes to grind at the state house,--a suggestion intended to be humorous; but she answered that many of her callers were old friends of the singletons, and she expressed the hope that he would so conduct himself as to adorn less frequently the newspaper headlines; the broad advertisement of his iniquities would be so much worse now that they were in the city, and with marian's future to consider, and all. it should be said that marian's arrival had not gone unheeded. the society columns of the capital welcomed her, and the "advertiser" reproduced her photograph in a picture hat. she began at once to be among those included in all manner of functions. allen danced cheerfully to her piping and she still telephoned to harwood when she thought of ways of using him. mrs. owen had declared her intention of giving a "party" to introduce marian to the society of the capital. sally owen had not given a "party" since mrs. bassett's coming out, but she brought the same energy and thoroughness to bear upon a social affair that characterized her business undertakings. in preparing the list (in itself a task) and in the discussion of details, it was necessary of course to consult marian,--one usually heard marian's views whether one consulted her or not,--but she and her aunt were on the best of terms, and mrs. owen was sincerely anxious to satisfy her in every particular. on half a dozen evenings allen or dan brought sylvia to the delaware street house to meet marian and plan the coming event. no one would have imagined, from the zest with which sylvia discussed such deep questions as the employment of musicians, the decorating of the hall, the german favors and the refreshments, that she had been at work all day in a schoolroom that had been built before ventilation was invented. when sylvia was busy, she was the busiest of mortals, but when she threw herself heart and soul into play, it was with the completest detachment. she accomplished wonderful things in the way of work after schoolhours if she received warning that either of her faithful knights meditated a descent upon her. during these councils of war to plan marian's belated début, sylvia might snowball allen or dan or both of them all the way from elizabeth house to mrs. owen's door, and then appear demurely before that amiable soul, with cheeks aglow and dark eyes flashing, and mrs. owen would say: "this school-teaching ain't good for you, sylvia; it seems to be breaking down your health." that was a lively quartette--sylvia, marian, allen, and dan! dan, now duly sworn to serve the state faithfully as a legislator, had been placed on several important committees, and a busy winter stretched before him. morton bassett's hand lay heavily upon the legislature; the young man had never realized until he took his seat in the lower house how firmly bassett gripped the commonwealth. every committee appointment in both houses had to be approved by the senator from fraser. dan's selection as chairman of the committee on corporations both pleased and annoyed him. he would have liked to believe himself honestly chosen by the speaker on the score of fitness; but he knew well enough that there were older men, veteran legislators, more familiar with the state's needs and dangers, who had a better right to the honor. the watchful "advertiser" had not overlooked his appointment. on the day the committees were announced it laid before its readers a cartoon depicting bassett, seated at his desk in the senate, clutching wires that radiated to every seat in the lower house. one desk set forth conspicuously in the foreground was inscribed "d.h." "the lion and daniel" was the tag affixed to this cartoon, which caused much merriment among dan's friends at the round table of the university club. miss bassett's début was fixed for washington's birthday, and as mrs. owen's house had no ballroom (except one of those floored attics on which our people persist in bestowing that ambitious title) she decided that the propylæum alone would serve. pray do not reach for your dictionary, my friend! no matter how much greek may have survived your commencement day, you would never know that our propylæum (reared by the women of our town in north street, facing the pillared façade of the blind institute) became, on its completion in , the centre of our intellectual and social life. the club "papers" read under that roof constitute a literature all the nobler for the discretion that reserves it for atrabilious local criticism; the later editions of our _jeunesse dorée_ have danced there and boxed and coxed as dramatic club stars on its stage. "billy" sumner once lectured there on "war" before the contemporary club, to say nothing of mr. james's appearance (herein before mentioned), which left us, filled with wildest surmise, on the crest of a new and ultimate darien. nor shall i omit that memorable tea to the chinese lady when the press became so great that a number of timorous occidentals in their best bib and tucker departed with all possible dignity by way of the fire-escape. so the place being historic, as things go in a new country, mrs. owen did not, in vulgar parlance, "hire a hall," but gave her party in a social temple of loftiest consecration. it was a real winter night, with a snowstorm and the jangle of sleigh-bells outside. the possibilities of a hall famed for its many brilliant entertainments had never been more fully realized than on this night of marian bassett's presentation. the stage was screened in a rose-hung lattice that had denuded the conservatories of newcastle and richmond; the fireplace was a bank of roses, and the walls were festooned in evergreens. nor should we overlook a profile of the father of his country in white carnations on a green background, with all the effect of a marble bas-relief,--a fitting embellishment for the balcony,--done by the florist from allen's design and under allen's critical eye. in the receiving line, established in one of the lower parlors, were mrs. owen, mr. and mrs. morton bassett, the governor and his wife (he happened just then to be a republican), colonel and mrs. vinning (retired army people), and the pick of the last october's brides and their young husbands. we may only glance hurriedly at the throng who shook mrs. owen's hand, and were presented to mr. and mrs. bassett and by them in turn to their daughter. every one remarked how stunning the hostess looked (her gown was white, and in the latest fashion, too,--none of your quaint old lace and lavender for aunt sally!), and what amusing things she said to her guests as they filed by, knowing them all and in her great good heart loving them all! it is something to be an aunt sally where the name is a synonym for perpetual youth and perpetual kindness and helpfulness. (and if aunt sally didn't live just a little way down my own street, and if she hadn't bribed me not to "put her in a book" with a gift of home-cured hams from her greene county farm last christmas, there are many more things i should like to say of her!) since the little affair of the "courier" morton bassett had fought shy of his wife's aunt; but to-night he stood beside her, enjoying, let us hope, the grim humor of his juxtaposition to the only person who had ever blocked any of his enterprises. nothing escaped mrs. bassett, and her heart softened toward her politician husband as she saw that next to her aunt and marian (a daughter to be proud of to-night!) morton bassett was the person most observed of all observers. she noted the glances bent upon him by the strangers to whom he was introduced, and many acquaintances were at pains to recall themselves to him. her husband was a presentable man anywhere, and she resolved to deal more leniently with his offenses in future. the governorship or a seat in the united states senate would amply repay her for the heartaches so often communicated by the clipping bureau. mrs. bassett prided herself on knowing who's who in her native state and even she was satisfied that the gathering was representative. the "list" had not been submitted for her approval; if it had been she might have deleted certain names and substituted others. she was unable, for example, to justify the presence of the senior thatcher, though her husband assured her in a tone of magnanimity that it was all right; and she had never admired colonel ramsay, though to be sure nearly every one else did. was not the colonel handsome, courteous, genial, eloquent, worthy of all admiration? mrs. owen had chosen a few legislators from among her acquaintances, chiefly gentlemen who had gallantly aided some of her measures at earlier sessions of the assembly. this accounted for the appearance of a lone prohibitionist who by some miracle appeared biennially in the lower house, and for a prominent labor leader whom mrs. owen liked on general principles. the statesman who has already loomed darkly in these pages as the tallest delegate was taller than ever in a dress coat, but in all ways a citizen of whom vermillion county had reason to be proud. john ware and admiral martin, finding themselves uncomfortable in the crowd, rescued thatcher and adjourned with him to a room set apart for smokers. there they were regarded with mild condescension by young gentlemen who rushed in from the dance, mopping their brows and inhaling cigarettes for a moment, wearing the melancholy air becoming to those who support the pillars of society. at ten o'clock the receiving line had dissolved and the dance was in full swing above. sylvia had volunteered to act as mrs. owen's adjutant, and she was up and down stairs many times looking after countless details. she had just dispatched allen to find partners for some out-of-town girls when morton bassett accosted her in the hall. "i'm thirsty, miss garrison; which punch bowl do you recommend to a man of my temperate habits?" she turned to the table and took a glass from mrs. owen's butler and held it up. "the only difference between the two is that one is pink. i put it in myself. your health and long life to marian," said sylvia. "i'm going to take this chance to thank you for your kind interest in marian's party. we all appreciate it. even if you didn't do it for us but for mrs. owen, we're just as grateful. there's a lot of work in carrying off an affair like this." he seemed in no hurry and apparently wished to prolong the talk. they withdrew out of the current of people passing up and down the stairway. "you are not dancing?" he asked. "no; i'm not here socially, so to speak. i'm not going out, you know; i only wanted to help mrs. owen a little." "pardon me; i hadn't really forgotten. you are a busy person; marian tells me you have begun your teaching. you don't show any evidences of wear." "oh, i never was so well in my life!" "you will pardon me for mentioning it here, but--but i was sorry to hear from mr. harwood that the teaching is necessary." he was quite right, she thought, in saying that the time and place were ill-suited to such a remark. he leaned against the wall and she noticed that his lids drooped wearily. he seemed content to linger there, where they caught fitfully glimpses of marian's bright, happy face in the dance. mrs. owen and mrs. bassett were sitting in a group of dowagers at the other end of the ballroom, identifying and commenting upon the season's débutantes. "i suppose you are very busy now," sylvia remarked. yes; this will be a busy session." "and i suppose you have more to do than the others; it's the penalty of leadership." he flushed at the compliment, changed his position slightly, and avoided her eyes for a moment. she detected in him to-night something that had escaped her before. it might not be weariness after all that prompted him to lean against the wall with one hand carelessly thrust into his pocket; he was not a man to show physical weariness. it seemed, rather, a stolid indifference either to the immediate scene or to more serious matters. their meeting had seemed accidental; she could not believe he had contrived it. if the dance bored him she was by no means his only refuge; many present would have thought themselves highly favored by a word from him. a messenger brought sylvia a question from mrs. owen. in turning away to answer she gave him a chance to escape, but he waited, and when she was free again she felt that he had been watching her. he smiled, and stood erect as though impelled by an agreeable thought. "we don't meet very often, miss garrison, and this is hardly the place for long conversations; you're busy, too; but i'd like to ask you something." "certainly, mr. bassett!" the newest two-step struck up and she swung her head for a moment in time to it and looked out upon the swaying forms of the dancers. "that's marian's favorite," she said. "that afternoon, after the convention, you remember--" "of course, mr. bassett; i remember perfectly." "you laughed!" they both smiled; and it seemed to him that now, as then, it was a smile of understanding, a curious reciprocal exchange that sufficed without elucidation in words. "well!" said sylvia. "would you mind telling me just why you laughed?" "oh! that would be telling a lot of things." any one seeing them might have thought that this middle-aged gentleman was taking advantage of an opportunity to bask in the smile of a pretty girl for the sheer pleasure of her company. he was purposely detaining her, but whether from a wish to amuse himself or to mark his indifference to what went on around him she did not fathom. the fact was that sylvia had wondered herself a good deal about that interview in mrs. owen's house, and she was not quite sure why she had laughed. "i'd really like to know, miss garrison. if i knew why you laughed at me--" "oh, i didn't laugh at you! at least--it wasn't just you alone i was laughing at!" "not at me?" his look of indifference vanished wholly; he seemed sincerely interested as he waited for her reply, delayed a moment by the passing of a group of youngsters from the ballroom to the fresher air of the hall. "i know perfectly well this isn't a good place to be serious in; but i laughed--do you really want to know?" "yes, please. don't try to spare my feelings; they're pretty badly shot up anyhow." "it must have been because it struck me as funny that a man like you--with all your influence and power--your capacity for doing big things--should go to so much trouble merely to show another man your contempt for him. just a moment"--she deliberated an instant, lifting her head a trifle,--"it was funny, just as it would be funny if the united states went to war to crush a petty, ignorant pauper power; or it would be like using the biggest pile driver to smash a mosquito. it was ridiculous just because it seemed so unnecessarily elaborate--such a waste of steam." she had spoken earnestly and quickly, but he laughed to assure her that he was not offended. "so that was it, was it?" "i think so; something like that. and you laughed too that day!" "yes; why did i laugh?" he demanded. "because you knew it was grotesque, and not to be taken at all seriously as people did take it. and then, maybe--maybe i thought it funny that you should have employed mr. harwood to pull the lever that sent the big hammer smashing down on the insect." "so that was it! well, maybe it wasn't so unnecessary after all; to be frank, i didn't think so. in my conceit i thought it a good stroke. that's a secret; nobody else knows that! why shouldn't i have used mr. harwood--assuming that i did use him?" "can you stand any more? shan't we talk of something else?" their colloquy had been longer than sylvia found comfortable: every one knew bassett; every one did not know her. she was a comparative stranger in the city, and it was not wholly kind in him to make her conspicuous; yet he seemed oblivious to his surroundings. "you cast an excellent actor for an unworthy part, that's all." "i was debasing him? is that what you think?" he persisted. "yes," she answered steadily, meeting his eyes. "you like him; you believe in him?" "he has ability," she answered guardedly. "then i've done nothing to thwart him in the use of it. he's the best advertised young man in the state in either political party. he's in a place now where he can make good." his smile was grave; it was impossible to answer him in the key of social small talk. "the 'advertiser' seems to think that he's in the legislature to do what you tell him to." "he doesn't have to do it, does he? he owes me nothing--absolutely nothing. he can kick me down stairs to-morrow if he wants to. it was understood when he came into my office that he should be free to quit me whenever he liked. i'd like you to know that." she was embarrassed by the direct look that accompanied this. her opinions could not interest him one way or another, and he was going far in assuming that she was deeply concerned in harwood's welfare. the incongruity of their talk was emphasized by the languorous strains of the newest popular waltz that floated over them from the ballroom. "if it were any of my affair--which it certainly isn't--i should tell him to stand by you--to say no to you if need be and yet remain your friend." "you think, then, that i am not beyond reclamation--that i might be saved--pulled out of the mire?" "no man is beyond reclamation, is he? i think not; i believe not." the music ceased; the dancers were demanding a repetition of the number. bassett stood his ground stubbornly. "well, i've asked him to do something for me--the only thing i have ever asked him to do that wasn't straight." there was no evading this; she wondered whether he had deliberately planned this talk, and what it was leading to. in any view it was inexplicable. his brow knit and there was a curious gravity in his eyes as they sought hers searchingly. "that's his affair entirely, mr. bassett," she replied coldly. "he and i are good friends, and of course i should hate to see him make a mistake." "but the mistake may be mine; let us say that it is mine." "i had an idea that you didn't make mistakes. why should you make the serious mistake of asking a good man to do a bad thing?" "the natural inference would be that i'm a bad man, wouldn't it?" "it wouldn't be my way of looking at it. all you need is courage to be a great man--you can go far!" he smiled grimly. "i need only one thing, you say;--but what if it's the thing i haven't got?" "get it!" she replied lightly. "but your defiance in the convention wasn't worthy of you; it was only a piece of bravado. you don't deserve to be abused for that,--just scolded a little. that's why i laughed at you that afternoon; i'm going to laugh at you now!" the music had ceased again and allen and marian flashed out upon them in the highest spirits. "well, i like this!" cried marian. "what are you two talking so long about? oh, i saw you through three dances at least!" "miss garrison has been laughing at me," said bassett, smiling at his daughter. "she doesn't take me at all seriously--or too seriously: i don't know which!" "how could she take you seriously!" demanded marian. "i never do! sylvia, where on earth is our little daniel? it's nearly time for the cotillion. and if dan harwood doesn't show up for that i'll never forgive him in this world." "the cotillion?" repeated bassett, glancing at his watch. "hasn't dan got here yet? he had a committee meeting to-night, but it ought to have been over before now." sylvia noted that the serious look came into his eyes again for an instant. "he oughtn't to have had a committe meeting on the night of my party. and it's a holiday too." "and after all the rehearsing we've done at aunt sally's the cherry-tree figure absolutely has to have him," said allen. "maybe i'd better send a scout to look him up or run over to the state house myself." "oh, he'll be here," murmured sylvia. dan had undoubtedly intended to appear early at the dance, and she wondered whether his delay might not be due to the crisis in his relations with bassett of which the politician had hinted. as she ran off with allen to make sure the apparatus for the german was in order, she wished bassett had not spoken to her of harwood. sylvia and allen had despaired of dan when at a quarter of twelve he appeared. he met their reproaches cheerfully, and airily explained his delay. "state's business! can you imagine me fresh from richelieu's cabinet, with a trail of dead horses on the road behind me? in plain prose i didn't get home to dress until eleven, and the snow makes it hard going." he had dressed with care nevertheless and had never looked better. sylvia sent allen ahead to begin clearing the floor for the cotillion, and followed more slowly with harwood. "i suppose," he remarked, half to himself, "that i really oughtn't to do it." "what--you hesitate now after keeping the stage waiting!" "it may be a case for an understudy. there are reasons why." "then--you have done it?" they were at the turn of the stair and sylvia paused. he was conscious of a quick catch in her breath. her eyes met his for an instant searchingly. "yes; i have done it," he answered, and looked at her wonderingly. a moment later he had made his peace with mrs. owen and paid his compliments to mrs. bassett at the favor table, heaped high with beribboned hatchets and bunches of cherries for the first figure. morton bassett had heard praise of his daughter from many lips, but he watched her joyous course through the cherry-tree figure in the german with an attention that was not wholly attributable to fatherly pride. harwood's white-gloved hand led her hither and thither through the intricate maze; one must have been sadly lacking in the pictorial sense not to have experienced a thrill of delight in a scene so animate with grace, so touched with color. it was ungracious to question the sincerity of those who pronounced marian the belle of the ball when colonel ramsay, the supreme authority in hoosier pulchritude, declared her to be the fairest rose in a rose-garden of girls. he said the same thing to the adoring parents of a dozen other girls that night. (the colonel was born in tecumseh county, on our side of the ohio, and just plays at being a kentuckian!) mothers of daughters, watching the dance with a jealous eye on their own offspring, whispered among themselves that as likely as not marian's tall, broad-shouldered cavalier was the man chosen of all time to be her husband. he was her father's confidential man, and nothing could stay his upward course. bassett saw it all and guessed what they were thinking. sylvia flashed across his vision now and then. he overheard people asking who she was, and he caught the answers, that she was a girl mrs. owen had taken up; a public school-teacher, they believed, the daughter of an old friend. sylvia, quite unconscious of this interest, saw that the figures she had done so much toward planning were enacted without a hitch. the last one, the pergola, with real roses, if you must know, well deserved colonel ramsay's compliment. "you can't tell," said the colonel in his best manner, "where the roses end and the girls begin!" it was two o'clock when harwood, after taking mrs. owen down to supper, found himself free. he met thatcher in the lower hall, muffled in astrakhan and swearing softly to himself because his carriage had been lost in the blizzard. "well; how are things going with you, young man?" "right enough. i'm tired and it's about bed-time for me." "haven't got house bill ninety-five in your pockets have you?" asked thatcher with a grin. "a reporter for the 'advertiser' was in here looking for you a minute ago. he said your committee had taken a vote to-night and he wanted to know about it. told him you'd gone home. hope you appreciate that; i'm used to lying to reporters. you see, my son, i ain't in that deal. you understand? that bill was fixed up in chicago, and every corporation lawyer that does business in the old hoosier state has his eye on it. i'm not asking any questions; lord, no! it's up to you. grand party; that's a nice girl of bassett's. my wagon here? all right. good-night, dan! good-night, bassett!" harwood turned and found himself face to face with bassett, who was loitering aimlessly about the hall. "good-evening, sir," he said, and they shook hands mechanically. "how are you? party about over?" "i should like to speak to you to-night, mr. bassett. it need take but a minute." "better now, if it's important," replied bassett carelessly. "we voted on house bill ninety-five in committee to-night: the majority report will be against it." "so? what was the matter with it?" "it's crooked, that's all. i wouldn't stand for it; two members were willing to support it, and there will be a minority report. it's that same bill that was jumped on so hard at the last session, only it's been given a fresh coat of paint." "it seems to have taken you several weeks to find that out. there's nothing wrong with that bill. it merely frames a natural and reasonable right into a statute. those labor cranks at the state house have been trying to scare you." "no, sir; that thing's dead wrong! you not only know it's wrong, but you misled me about it. that public benefit clause is put in there to throw dust in the eyes of the people; it makes possible the very combination and absorption of industries that the party is pledged to fight. i have bawled against those things in every county in indiana!" bassett nodded, but showed no irritation. his manner irritated harwood. the younger man's lips twitched slightly as he continued. "and the fact that you were behind it has leaked out; the 'advertiser' is on to it and is going to go after it to-morrow. house bill ninety-five is an outrage on the party honor and an affront to the intelligence of the people. and moreover your interest in having me made chairman of the committee that had to pass on it doesn't look good." "well, sir, what are you going to do about it? i'm not particularly interested in that bill; but a lot of our friends are behind it, and we've got to take care of our friends," said bassett, without raising his voice. their relations were practically at an end; and bassett did not care. but dan felt the wrench; he felt it the more keenly because of bassett's impassiveness at this moment of parting. "you've been a kind friend to me, sir; you've--" bassett laid his hand with an abrupt gesture upon harwood's arm, and smiled a curious, mirthless smile. "none of that! i told you, when the time came for you to go, you need shed no tears at the parting. remember, you don't owe me anything; we're quits." "i hoped you wouldn't see it just this way; that you would realize the danger of that bill--to the party, to yourself!" "you can score heavily by showing up the bill for what you think it is. go ahead; it's your chance. i haven't a word to say to you." he folded his white gloves and put them away carefully in his breast pocket. "good-night, sir!" "good-night, harwood!" the dancing continued above. mrs. owen insisted on seeing her last guest depart, but begged harwood to take sylvia home at once. as they left a few minutes later dan caught a glimpse of bassett sitting alone in the smoking-room. on the way to elizabeth house dan told sylvia what had happened. the carriage plunged roughly through the drifting snow. sleet drove sharply against the windows. "he lied to me about it; and i thought that with all his faults he would play square with me. the whole corporation lobby is back of the bill. i was stupid not to have seen it earlier; i've been a dull ass about a lot of things. but it's over now; i'm done with him." "i'm glad--glad you met it squarely--and glad that you settled it quickly. i'm glad"--she repeated slowly--"but i'm sorry too." "sorry?" "oh, i'm so sorry for him!" chapter xxv the lady of the daguerreotype "daniel doesn't seem to be coming," remarked mrs. owen. "he hardly ever misses a sunday afternoon." "he's working hard. i had no idea legislators had to work so hard," said sylvia. they sat in mrs. owen's office, which was cosier than the sitting-room, and the place where she seemed most comfortable. since we looked at her desk last a file-hook has been added to its furniture, and on it hang impaled a few cuttings from agricultural newspapers. the content of these clippings will ultimately reach the "courier's" readers,--there is no doubt of that, as mrs. owen and mr. atwill now understand each other perfectly. it was the first sunday in march and a blustery day, with rain and sleet alternating at the windows and an impudent wind whistling in the chimneys. hickory logs snapped pleasantly in the small fireplace that was a feature of the room. sylvia had dined with her friend, and the day being of the sort that encourages confidences, they had prolonged their talk. "when did you see daniel last?" asked mrs. owen casually. "last night," replied sylvia, meeting her friend's eyes easily. "he dropped in for a little while. he wanted to talk about his stand on that corporation bill." "well, he and morton have broken up housekeeping. daniel has climbed on to the other side of the breastworks." sylvia smiled. "yes, that's about it. but i think he has acted quite finely about it." "you mean he didn't jump on morton as he might have done--didn't make a grand stand play of it?" "yes; he might have made capital for himself out of the corporation bill, but he didn't. he made his report without bringing personalities into it." "and the bill was passed over the governor's veto! that was morton's way of showing that he didn't need daniel." "very likely. i'm rather glad it happened that way." "glad daniel got a licking?" "oh, not just that; but it shows him that if he's going to be the people's champion he will have to be unhorsed pretty often. if all these things could be accomplished easily, there wouldn't be any glory in success. it's not an easy thing to drive a man like mr. bassett out of politics, or even to defeat the dangerous measures he introduces in the legislature. if it were easy to get rid of them, such men wouldn't last long. besides, i'm a little afraid it wasn't half so much dan's patriotism that was involved as it was his vanity. he was bitter because he found that mr. bassett had deceived him and was trying to use him. but in view of mr. bassett's many kindnesses to him he wouldn't make a personal matter of it in the house. dan's opposition was based on legal defects in that bill,--points that were over the heads of most of the legislators,--but he is now determined to keep up the fight. he finds that mr. bassett is quite able to do as he pleases even without his services. he felt that he dealt with him magnanimously in keeping his antagonism to the corporation bill on the high plane of its legal unsoundness. mr. bassett ignored this, and merely secured the passage of the bill by marshaling all the votes he needed in both parties." "that's a new scheme they say morton has introduced into indiana--this getting men on both sides to vote for one of these bad bills. that shuts up the party newspapers, and neither side can use that particular thing as ammunition at the next election. instead of talking about house bill ninety-five in the next campaign, they will howl about the tariff on champagne, or pensions for veterans of the black hawk war. they're all tarred with the same stick and don't dare call attention to the other fellow. daniel had better get out of politics," she ended leadingly. "please, no! he'd better stay in and learn how to make himself count. so far as mr. bassett is concerned, i think that for some reason he had gone as far with dan as he cared to. i think he was prepared for the break." mrs. owen was wiping her spectacles on a piece of chamois skin she kept in her desk for the purpose, and she concluded this rite with unusual deliberation. "how do you figure that out, sylvia?" "this must be confidential, aunt sally; i have said nothing to dan about it; but the night of your party mr. bassett was in a curious frame of mind." "it seemed to me he was particularly cheerful. i thought morton had as good a time as anybody." "superficially, yes; but i had a long talk with him--in the hall, after the dancing had begun. i think in spite of his apparent indifference to the constant fire of his enemies, it has had an effect on him. he's hardened--or, if he was always hard, he doesn't care any longer whether he wears the velvet glove or not. that attack on mr. thatcher in the convention illustrates what i mean. his self-control isn't as complete as most people seem to think it is; he lets go of himself like a petulant child. that must be a new development in him. it doesn't chime with the other things you hear of him as a shrewd, calculating manager, who strikes his enemies in the dark. he was in an evil humor that night or he wouldn't have talked to me as he did. he was ugly and vindictive. he was not only glad he had put dan in the way of temptation, but he wanted me to know that he had done it. he seemed to be setting his back to the wall and daring the world." "well, well," said mrs. owen. "morton has seemed a little uneasy lately. but there don't seem to be any reason why he should have picked you out to jump on. you never did anything to morton." "yes," said sylvia, smiling; "i laughed at him once! i laughed at him about the way he had treated mr. thatcher. we stopped right there, with the laugh; he laughed too, you know. and he took that up again at the party--and i had to explain what my laugh meant." "oh, you explained it, did you?" and sylvia recounted the interview. "i guess morton hasn't been laughed at much, and that was why he remembered it and wanted to talk to you again. i suspect that hallie scolds him when she doesn't pet him. most folks are afraid of morton; that's why he could take care of that corporation bill with the 'advertiser' jumping him the way it did. well, well! that must have been quite a day for morton. you laughed at him, and when the rest of you went off in allen's automobile that night i ran the harrow over him a few times myself. well, well!" mrs. owen smiled as though recalling an agreeable experience. "as long as there are old stumps in a field that you must plough around i haven't got much use for the land. when the corn comes up you don't see the stumps, just sitting on the fence and looking over the scenery; but when you go to put the plow through again, your same old stumps loom up again, solider than ever. i guess daniel will come out all right; he was raised on a farm and ought to know how to drive a straight furrow. by the way, they telephoned me from elizabeth house last night that there's a vacant room there. who's moved out?" mrs. owen always prolonged the e of elizabeth, and never referred to the house except by its full title. "rose farrell has left. went unexpectedly, i think. i didn't know she was going." "let me see. she's that girl that worked for morton and daniel. what's she leaving for?" "i'm going to see if i can't get her back," replied sylvia evasively. "why rose has been at elizabeth house for two years and under the rules she can stay a year longer. she ain't getting married, is she?" "i think not," replied sylvia. "i'm going to look her up and get her back if possible." "you do that, sylvia. it ain't just your place, but i'll be glad if you'll see what's the matter. we don't want to lose a girl if we can help it." mrs. owen rose and transferred a pile of paperbound books from a shelf to her desk. sylvia recognized these as college catalogues and noted bits of paper thrust into the leaves as markers. "i've been looking into this business some since we went down to college. i had a lot of these schools send me their catalogues and they're mighty interesting, though a good deal of it i don't understand. sylvia" (sylvia never heard her name drawled as mrs. owen spoke it without a thrill of expectancy)--"sylvia, there's a lot of books being written, and pieces in the magazines all the time, about women and what we have done or can't do. what do you suppose it's all leading up to?" "that question is bigger than i am, aunt sally. but i think the conditions that have thrown women out into the world as wage-earners are forcing one thing--just one thing, that is more important now than any other--it's all summed up in the word efficiency." "efficiency?" mrs. owen reached for the poker and readjusted the logs; she watched the resulting sparks for a moment, then settled herself back in her chair and repeated sylvia's word again. "you mean that a woman has got to learn how to make her jelly jell? is that your notion?" "exactly that. she must learn not to waste her strokes. any scheme of education for woman that leaves that out works an injury. if women are to be a permanent part of the army of wage-earning americans they must learn to get full value from their minds or hands--either one, it's the same. the trouble with us women is that there's a lot of the old mediæval taint in us." "mediæval? say that some other way, sylvia." "i mean that we're still crippled--we women--by the long years in which nothing was expected of us but to sit in ivy-mantled casements and work embroidery while our lords went out to fight, or thrummed the lute under our windows." "well, there was joan of arc: she delivered the goods." "to be sure; she does rather light up her time, doesn't she?" laughed sylvia. "sylvia, the day i first saw a woman hammer a typewriter in a man's office, i thought the end had come. it seemed, as the saying is, 'agin nater'; and i reckon it was. nowadays these buildings downtown are full of women. at noontime washington street is crowded with girls who work in offices and shops. they don't get much pay for it either. most of those girls would a lot rather work in an office or stand behind a counter than stay at home and help their mothers bake and scrub and wash and iron. these same girls used to do just that,--help their mothers,--coming downtown about once a month, or when there was a circus procession, and having for company some young engine-wiper who took them to church or to a thanksgiving matinée and who probably married them some day. a girl who didn't marry took in sewing for the neighbors, and as like as not went to live with her married sister and looked after her babies. i've seen all these things change. nowadays girls have got to have excitement. they like spending their days in the big buildings; the men in the offices jolly them, the men bookkeepers and clerks seem a lot nicer than the mechanics that live out in their neighborhood. when they ain't busy they loaf in the halls of the buildings flirting, or reading novels and talking to their bosses' callers. they don't have to soil their hands, and you can dress a girl up in a skirt and shirt-waist so she looks pretty decent for about two weeks of her wages. they don't care much about getting married unless they can strike some fellow with an automobile who can buy them better clothes than they can buy themselves. what they hanker for is a flat or boarding-house where they won't have any housekeeping to do. housekeeping! their notions of housekeeping don't go beyond boiling an egg on a gas range and opening up a sofa to sleep on. you're an educated woman, sylvia; what's going to come of all this?" "it isn't just the fault of the girls that they do this, is it? near my school-house there are girls who stay at home with their mothers, and many of them are without any ambition of any kind. i'm a good deal for the girl who wants to strike out for herself. the household arts as you knew them in your youth can't be practised in the home any more on the income of the average man. most women of the kind we're talking about wear ready-made clothes--not because they're lazy, but because the tailor-made suits which life in a city demands can't be made by any amateur sempstress. they're turned out by the carload in great factories from designs of experts. there's no bread to bake in the modern mechanic's home, for better bread and cake are made more cheaply in the modern bakeshop. wasn't there really a good deal of nonsense about the pies that mother used to make--i wonder? there were perhaps in every community women who were natural cooks, but our mary used to drive grandfather crazy with her saleratus biscuits and greasy doughnuts. a good cook in the old times was famous all over the community because the general level of cooking was so low. women used to take great pride in their preservings and jellyings, but at the present prices of fruit and sugar a city woman would lose money making such things. it's largely because this work can't be done at home that girls such as we have at elizabeth house have no sort of manual dexterity and have to earn a poor living doing something badly that they're not interested in or fitted for. women have one terrible handicap in going out into the world to earn their living; it's the eternal romance that's in all of us," said sylvia a little dreamily. "i don't believe any woman ever gets beyond that." it was a note she rarely struck and mrs. owen looked at her quickly. "i mean, the man who may be always waiting just around the corner." "you mean every girl has that chance before her? well, a happy marriage is a great thing--the greatest thing that can happen to a woman. my married life was a happy one--very happy; but it didn't last long. it was my misfortune to lose my husband and the little girl when i was still young. they think i'm hard--yes, a good many people do--because i've been making money. but i had to do something; i couldn't sit with my hands folded; and what i've done i've tried to do right. i hope you won't leave love and marriage out of your life, sylvia. in this new condition of things that we've talked about there's no reason why a woman shouldn't work--do things, climb up high, and be a woman, too. he'll be a lucky man who gets you to stand by him and work for him and with him." "oh," sighed sylvia, "there are so many things to do! i want to know so much and do so much!" "you'll know them and do them; but i don't want you to have a one-sided life. dear sylvia," and mrs. owen bent toward the girl and touched her hand gently, "i don't want you to leave love out of your life." there was an interval of silence and then mrs. owen opened a drawer and drew out a faded morocco case. "here's a daguerreotype of my mother and me, when i was about four years old. notice how cute i look in those pantalets--ever see those things before? well, i've been thinking that i'm a kind of left-over from daguerreotype times, and you belong to the day of the kodak. i'm a dingy old shadow in a daguerreotype picture, in pantalets, cuddled up against my mother's hoopskirt. you, sylvia, can take a suit-case and a kodak and travel alone to siam; and you can teach in a college alongside of men and do any number of things my mother would have dropped dead to think about. and," she added quizzically, "it gives me heart failure myself sometimes, just thinking about it all. i can't make you throw your kodak away, and i wouldn't if i could, any more than i'd want you to sit up all night sewing clothes to wear to your school-teaching when you can buy better ones already made that have real style. it tickles me that some women have learned that it's weak-minded to massage and paraffine their wrinkles out--those things, sylvia, strike me as downright immoral. what i've been wondering is whether i can do anything for the kind of girls we have at elizabeth house beyond giving them a place to sleep, and i guess you've struck the idea with that word efficiency. no girl born to-day, particularly in a town like this, is going back to make her own soap out of grease and lye in her back yard. but she's got to learn to do something well or she'll starve or go to the bad; or if she doesn't have to work she'll fool her life away doing nothing. now you poke a few holes in my ideas, sylvia." "please, aunt sally, don't think that because i've been to college i can answer all those questions! i'm just beginning to study them. but the lady of the daguerreotype in hoops marks one era, and the kodak girl in a short skirt and shirt-waist another. women had to spend a good deal of time proving that their brains could stand the strain of higher education--that they could take the college courses prescribed for men. that's all been settled now, but we can't stop there. a college education for women is all right, but we must help the girl who can't go to college to do her work well in the office and department store and factory." "or to feed a baby so it won't die of colic, and to keep ptomaine poison out of her ice box!" added mrs. owen. "exactly," replied sylvia. "suppose a girl like marian had gone to college just as you did, what would it have done for her?" "a good deal, undoubtedly. it would have given her wider interests and sobered her, and broadened her chances of happiness." "maybe so," remarked mrs. owen; and then a smile stole over her face. "i reckon you can hardly call marian a kodak girl. she's more like one of these flashlight things they set off with a big explosion. only time i ever got caught in one of those pictures was at a meeting of the short-horn breeders' association last week. they fired off that photograph machine to get a picture for the 'courier'--i've been prodding them for not printing more farm and stock news--and a man sitting next to me jumped clean out of his boots and yelled fire. i had to go over to the 'courier' office and see the editor--that atwill is a pretty good fellow when you get used to him--to make sure they didn't guy us farmers for not being city broke. as for marian, folks like her!" "no one can help liking her. she's a girl of impulses and her impulses are all healthy and sound. and her good fellowship and good feeling are inexhaustible. she came over to see me at elizabeth house the other evening--had allen bring her in his machine and leave her. the girls were singing songs and amusing themselves in the parlor, and marian took off her hat and made herself at home with them. she sang several songs, and then got to 'cutting up' and did some of those dances she's picked up somewhere--did them well too. but with all her nonsense she has a lot of good common sense, and she will find a place for herself. she will get married one of these days and settle down beautifully." "allen?" "possibly. the bassetts don't seem troubled by allen's attentions to marian; but the real fight between mr. thatcher and mr. bassett hasn't come yet." "who says so?" "oh, it's in the air; every one says so. dan says so." "i've warned morton to let edward thatcher alone. the united states senate wouldn't be ornamented by having either one of them down there. i met colonel ramsay--guess he's got the senatorial bee in his hat, too--coming up on the train from louisville the other day. there's only one qualification i can think of that the colonel has for going to the senate--he would wring tears out of the galleries when he made obituary speeches about the dead members. when my brother blackford was senator, it seemed to me he spent most of his time acting as pallbearer for the dead ones. but what were we talking about, sylvia? oh, yes. i'm going to send those catalogues over to your room, and as you get time i want you to study out a scheme for a little school to teach what you call efficiency to girls that have to earn their living. i don't mean school-teaching, but a whole lot of things women ought to be doing but ain't because they don't know how. do you get the idea?" "a school?" asked sylvia wonderingly. "a kind of school." "it's a splendid, a beautiful idea, but you need better advice than i can give you. they talk a good deal now about vocational training, and it's going to mean a great deal to women." "well, we must get hold of all the latest ideas, and if there's any good in us old daguerreotypes, we'll keep it, and graft it on to the kodak." "oh, i hope there will always be ladies of the daguerreotype! one thing we women have to pray to be saved from is intolerance toward our sisters. you know," continued sylvia with a dropping of her voice and a tilting of her head that caused mrs. owen to laugh,--"you know we are not awfully tolerant. and there's a breadth of view, an ability to brush away trifles and get to the heart of things, that we're just growing up to. and magnanimity--i think we fall short there. i'm just now trying to cultivate a sisterly feeling toward these good women for whom jane austen and sir roger de coverley and the knitting of pale-blue tea cosies are all of life--who like mild twilight with the children singing hymns at the piano and the husband coming home to find his slippers set up against the baseburner. that was beautiful, but even they owe something to the million or so women to whom jane addams is far more important than jane austen. it might be more comfortable if the world never moved, but unfortunately it does seem to turn over occasionally." "i notice that you can say things like that, sylvia, without waving your hands, or shouting like an old woman with a shawl on her head swinging a broom at the boys in her cherry tree. we've got to learn to do that. it was some time after i went into business, when jackson owen died, before i learned that you couldn't shoo men the way you shoo hens. you got to drop a little corn in a fence corner and then throw your apron over 'em. it strikes me that if you could catch these girls that go to work in stores and offices young enough you might put them in the way of doing something better. there are schools doing this kind of thing, but i'd like to plant one right here in indiana for the kind of girls we've got at elizabeth house. they haven't much ambition, most of 'em; they're stuck right where they are. i'd like to see what can be done toward changing that, and see it started in my lifetime. and we must do it right. think it over as you get time." she glanced at the window. "you'd better stay all night, sylvia; it's getting dark." "no, i must run along home. the girls expect me." "that school idea's just between you and me for the present," mrs. owen remarked as she watched sylvia button her mackintosh. "look here, sylvia, don't you need some money? i mean, of course, don't you want to borrow some?" "oh, never! by the way, i didn't tell you that i expect to make some? the publisher of one of grandfather's textbooks came to see me about the copyright, and there were some changes in the book that grandfather thought should be made and i'm going to make them. there's a chance of it's being adopted in one or two states. and then, i want to make a geometry of my own. all the textbooks make it so hard--and it really isn't. the same publisher told me he thought well of my scheme, and i'm going ahead with it." "well, don't you kill yourself writing geometries: i should think teaching the youngsters would be a full job." "that's not a job at all, aunt sally; that's just fun. and you know i'm not going to do it always. i'm learning things now that i needed to know. i only wish my mind were as sound as my health." "you ought to wear heavier flannels, though; it's a perfect scandal what girls run around in nowadays." she rested her hands on sylvia's shoulders lightly, smiled into her face, and then bent forward and kissed her. "i don't understand why you won't wear rubbers, but be sure you don't sit around all evening in wet stockings." a gray mist was hastening nightfall, though the street lamps were not yet lighted. the glow of mrs. owen's kindness lingered with sylvia as she walked toward elizabeth house. she was constantly surprised by her friend's intensely modern spirit--her social curiosity, and the breadth and sanity of her views. this suggestion of a vocational school for young women had kindled sylvia's imagination, and her thoughts were upon it as she tramped homeward through the slush. to establish an institution such as mrs. owen had indicated would require a large sum of money, and there were always the bassetts, the heirs apparent of their aunt's fortune. any feeling of guilt sylvia may have experienced by reason of her enforced connivance with mrs. owen for the expenditure of her money was mitigated by her belief that the bassetts were quite beyond the need of their aunt's million, the figure at which mrs. owen's fortune was commonly appraised. she was thinking of this when a few blocks from mrs. owen's she met morton bassett. the electric lamp overhead was just sputtering into light as he moved toward her out of an intersecting street. his folded umbrella was thrust awkwardly under his arm, and he walked slowly with bent head. the hissing of the lamp caused him to lift his eyes. sylvia paused an instant, and he raised his hat as he recognized her. "good evening, miss garrison! i've just been out for a walk. it's a dreary evening, isn't it?" sylvia explained that she had been to mrs. owen's and was on her way home, and he asked if he might go with her. "marian usually walked with me at fraserville, but since we've been here, sunday seems to be her busy day. i find that i don't know much about the residential district; i can easily lose myself in this part of town." during these commonplaces she wondered just where their conversation at marian's ball had left them; the wet street was hardly a more favorable place for serious talk than the crowded propylæum. the rain began to fall monotonously, and he raised his umbrella. "some things have happened since our last talk," he observed presently. "yes?" she replied dubiously. "i want to talk to you of them," he answered. "dan has left me. you know that?" "yes; i know of it." "and you think he has done quite the fine thing about it--it was what you would have had him do?" "yes, certainly. you practically told me you were putting him to the test. you weren't embarrassed by his course in any way; you were able to show him that you didn't care; you didn't need him." "you saw that? you read that in what followed?" "it was written so large that no one could miss it. you are the master. you proved it again. i suppose you found a great satisfaction in that. a man must, or he wouldn't do such things." "you seem to understand," he replied, turning toward her for an instant. "but there may be one thing you don't understand." there was a moment of silence, in which they splashed on slowly through the slush. "i liked dan; i was fond of him. and yet i deliberately planned to make him do that kind of thing for me. i pulled him out of the newspaper office and made it possible for him to study law, just that i might put my hand on him when he could be useful. please understand that i'm not saying this in the hope that you will intercede to bring him back. nothing can bring him back. i wouldn't let him come back to me if he would starve without my help." sylvia was silent; there was nothing with which she could meet this. "what i mean is," he continued, "that i'm glad he shook me; i had wondered from the beginning just when it would come, and when i saw his things going out of my office, it satisfied something in me. i wonder whether there's some good in me after all that made me glad in spite of myself that he had the manhood to quit." bassett was a complex character; his talk and manner at marian's ball had given her a sense of this which he was now confirming. success had not brought him happiness; the loss of dan had been a blow to him, and she felt the friendlessness and isolation of this man whom men feared. he had spoken doggedly, gruffly, and if she had marveled at their talk at the dance, her wonder was the greater now. it was inconceivable that morton bassett should come to her with his difficulties. if his conscience troubled him, or if he was touched with remorse for his conduct toward dan harwood, she was unable to see why he should make his confession to her. it seemed that he had read her thoughts, for he spoke roughly, as though defending himself from an attack. "you like him; you've known him for several years; you know him probably better than you know any other man." "i suppose i do, mr. bassett," said sylvia; "we are good friends, but--that's all." he stopped short, and she felt his hand touch her arm for an instant lightly--it was almost like a caress, there in the rain-swept street with the maple boughs swishing overhead in the cold west wind. he quickened his pace now, as though to mark a new current in his thoughts. "there's a favor i want to ask of you, miss garrison. dan talked to me once or twice about your grandfather's estate. he owned some shares in a business i had helped to organize, the white river canneries. the scheme failed for many reasons; the shares are worthless. i want you to let me pay you back the money professor kelton paid for them. i should have to do it privately--it would have to be a matter between you and me." [illustration: a sudden fierce anger burned in her heart] "oh, no! dan explained that to me; he didn't hold you responsible. he said the company failed, that was all. you are kind to offer, but i can't think of accepting it." "very well," he said quietly. and then added, as though to explain himself more fully: "your grandfather and mrs. owen were old friends. he wasn't a business man. i promoted the canneries scheme and i was responsible for it, no matter what harwood says about it." she had experienced sharp alternations of pity and apprehension in this brief walk. he was a prominent man; almost, it might be said, a notorious character. the instinct of self-protection was strong in her; what might lie behind his confidences, his blunt confessions, and his offer of help, she did not know. they had reached elizabeth house, and she paused on the broad steps under the shelter of the veranda. with her back toward the door she looked down upon him as he stood on the sidewalk, his umbrella deeply shadowing his head and shoulders. she stood before him like a vestal guarding her temple from desecration. she was conscious of a sharp revulsion of feeling, and a sudden fierce anger burned in her heart. she spoke with a quick, passionate utterance. "there is something you can do for me, mr. bassett. i'm going to bring rose farrell back to this house. i want you to let her alone!" he stood dumbly staring at the door as it closed upon her. he lingered a moment, the rain beating down upon him, and then walked slowly homeward. chapter xxvi april vistas "is it _possible_? _is_ it possible!" colonel ramsay's entrances were frequently a bit theatrical, and on a particular afternoon in april, as he opened the door of dan harwood's new office in the law building, the sight of miss farrell at the typewriter moved him to characteristic demonstrations. carefully closing the door and advancing, hat in hand, with every appearance of deepest humility, he gazed upon the young woman with a mockery of astonishment. "verily, it is possible," he solemnly ejaculated. "and what is it that our own poet says:-- "'when she comes home again! a thousand ways i fashion to myself the tenderness of my glad welcome: i shall tremble--yes--'" "stop trembling, colonel, and try one of our new office chairs, warranted to hold anybody but brother ike pettit without fading away." the colonel bent over miss farrell's hand reverently and sat down. "i've been trying to earn an honest living practicing law down at home and this is the first chance i've had to come up and see what the late lamented legislature left of the proud old hoosier state. is dan locked up inside there with some lucrative client?" "i regret to say that i don't believe there's a cent in his present caller." "hark!" at this moment a roar was heard from the inner room on which "private" was printed in discreet letters. the colonel was at once alert. "'ask me no more; the moon may draw the sea' but isaac pettit's jokes shall shake the land,-- with apologies to the late laureate. so the boys are finding their way up here, are they? i'll wait an hour or two till that compendium of american humor has talked dan to sleep. so you and dan left your uncle morton all alone in gloomy splendor in the boordman building!" "mr. harwood made me an offer and i accepted it," replied rose. "this is a free country and a p.w.g. can work where she pleases, can't she?" "p.w.g.?" "certainly, a poor working-girl"--rose clasped her hands and bowed her head--"if the initials fail to illuminate." the colonel inspected the room, and his eyes searched miss farrell's desk. "let me see, i seem to miss something. it must be the literary offerings that used to cluster about the scene of your labors. your selections in old times used to delight me. no one else of my acquaintance has quite your feeling for romance. i always liked that one about the square-jawed american engineer who won the crown princess of piffle from her father in a poker game, but decided at the last minute to bestow her upon his old college friend, the russian heir-apparent, just to preserve the peace of europe. i remember i found you crying over the great renunciation one day." "oh, i've passed that all up, colonel. i'm strong for the pale high-brow business now. i'm doing time in all the night classes at elizabeth house where i board, and you'll hardly know your little rose pretty soon." "fitting yourself for one of the learned professions?" "scarcely. just fitting myself to be decent," replied rose in a tone that shifted the key of the conversation--a change which the colonel respected. "that's right, rose. this is a good place for you, and so is mrs. owen's boarding-house. by the way, who's this school-teacher aunt sally has taken up--saw her at the party-great chum of the old lady's." "you must mean miss sylvia." "sylvia?" "miss sylvia garrison. colonel ramsay," continued rose earnestly, resting an elbow lightly on her typewriter, "you and i are old pals--you remember that first winter i was over at the state house?" "very well, rose." "well, it wasn't a good place for me to be. but i was a kid and hadn't much sense. i've learned a good deal since then. it ain't so easy to walk straight; so many people are careless about leaving banana peelings lying round." the colonel nodded. "you needn't apologize to me, rose. it's all right now, is it?" "you can be dead sure of it, colonel. miss garrison caught me by the heel of my shoe, just as i was going down the third time, and yanked me back. there's a good many cheap imitations of human beings loose around this world, but that's a woman, i can tell you!" "glad you struck a good friend, rose. you did well to come along with harwood." "well, she fixed that, too, after i cut loose from _him_--you understand? i guess miss garrison and mr. harwood are pretty good friends." "oh!" ejaculated ramsay. "so there's that, is there?" "i hope so; they're all white and speak the same language. this is on the dead. i'm only talking to you because you're an old friend." an occasional roar from within testified to mr. pettit's continued enjoyment of his own jokes. "you know," rose continued, "i learned a good deal those winters i spent at the state house, when i was stenog to certain senate committees. i see where you stand now, all right, colonel. i always knew you didn't belong in that bunch of lobbyists that was always gum-shoeing through the marble halls of the state house. thatcher sends somebody around to look me up every little while to see if he can't coax something out of me,--something he can use, you know." "thatcher oughtn't to do that. if you want me to, i'll pull him off." "no; i guess i can take care of myself. he"--rose indicated the inner office with a slight movement of the head, "he never tries to pump me. he ain't that kind of a fighter. but everybody that's anywhere near the inside knows that thatcher carries a sharp knife. he's going to shed some pink ink before he gets through. are you on?" they exchanged a glance. "something that isn't nice?" rose nodded. "i hate to see that sort of thing brought into the game. but they'll never find anything. the gentleman we are referring to works on noiseless rollers." colonel ramsay indicated the closed door by an almost imperceptible gesture of interrogation; and rose replied by compressing her lips and shaking her head. "he isn't in on that; he's a gentleman, you know; not a mud-slinger." "he might have to stand for anything thatcher springs. thatcher has developed into a shrewd and hard fighter. the other crowd don't laugh at him any more; it was his work that got our legislative ticket through last fall when bassett passed the word that we should take a licking just to magnify his importance. is thatcher in town now?" "no; that boy of his with the bad lung had to go off to the adirondacks, and he went with him." the inner door opened at this moment, disclosing the honorable isaac pettit, who greeted ramsay effusively. "what is immortality, gentlemen!" the honorable isaac pettit inquired, clinging to the colonel's hand. "we had a little social gathering for our new pastor up at fraser the other night, and i sprung a new game on the old folks. offered a prize for anybody who could name all the vice-presidents of the united states since lincoln's administration, and they couldn't even get past grant--and schuyler colfax being right off our own hoosier pastures! then we tried for the democratic candidates for president, beginning back at the war, and they couldn't even start. one young chap piped up and said jeff davis--oh, lord!--which reminds me that the teaching of history in the public schools ain't what it ought to be. they hadn't heard of hancock, and when somebody said blaine, the teacher of the infant class in our sunday school said blaine who? that reminds me of one time when i met dan voorhees, than whom god almighty never made a nobler soul; i met dan down here in the lobby of the old bates house, carrying a 'harper's weekly' with one of tom nast's cartoons spread wide open. you know dan had--" colonel ramsay had been edging toward the door of harwood's private room, and he now broke in upon the editor's reminiscences. "you tell that story to miss farrell, ike. i'm spouting myself to-night, at a christian endeavor rally at tipton, and want to see dan a minute." miss farrell was inured to pettit's anecdotes of dan voorhees, and the fraserville editor continued, unmindful of the closing of the door upon dan and ramsay. ramsay pushed his fedora to the back of his head and inspected dan's new furniture. "well, you did it! you've cut loose from your base and burned your bridges behind you. i would have brought my congratulations sooner, but i've had a long jury case on hand. you did it, my boy, and you did it like a gentleman. you might have killed him if you had wanted to." "i don't want to kill anybody," smiled dan. "i want to practice law." "that's a laudable ambition, but you can't go back on us now. what we've needed for a long time was a young man of about your make-up who wasn't afraid." "don't rub it in, colonel. i was a mighty long time seeing the light, and i don't deserve any praise from anybody. i mean what i say about practicing law. i'm a free man now and any political work i do is going to be along the lines of the simple, childish ideas i brought home from college with me. i had begun to feel that all this political idealism was sheer rubbish, but i put the brakes on before i got too far downhill. if a few of us who have run with the machine and know the tricks will turn and help the bewildered idealists, we can make idealism effective. most of the people don't want a handful of crooks to govern them, but there's a kind of cheap cynicism abroad that discourages the men who are eager to revolt. there are newspapers that foster that sentiment, and scores of men who won't take time to go to a caucus keep asking what's the use. now, as for bassett, i'm not going to bite the hand that fed me; i'm simply going to feed myself. pettit was just in here to sound me as to my feelings toward thatcher. quite frankly, i'm not interested in thatcher as a senatorial possibility." "that's all right; but if you had to make a choice between thatcher and bassett?" dan shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "you mustn't exaggerate the importance of my influence. i don't carry united states senatorships around in my pocket." "you're the most influential man of your age in our state. i'm not so sure you wouldn't be able to elect any man you supported if the election were held to-morrow." "you've mastered the delicate art of flattery, colonel; when the time comes, i'll be in the fight. it's not so dead certain that our party's going to have a senator to elect--there's always that. but all the walls are covered with handwriting these days that doesn't need interpreting by me or any other daniel. many of the younger men all over this state in both parties are getting ready to assert themselves. what we want--what you want, i believe--is to make this state count for something in national affairs. just changing parties doesn't help anything. i'd rather not shift at all than send some fellow to the senate just because he can capture a caucus. it's my honest conviction that any man can get a caucus vote if he will play according to the old rules. you and i go out over the state bawling to the people that they are governing this country. we appeal to them for their votes when we know well enough that between thatcher and bassett as democrats, and 'big' jordan and ridgefield in the republican camp, the people don't stand to win. it may tickle you to know that i've had some flattering invitations lately to join the republicans--not from the old guard, mind you, but from some of the young fellows who want to score results for policies, not politicians. i suppose, after all, colonel, i'm only a kind of academic democrat, with no patience whatever with this eternal hitching of our ancient mule to the saloons and breweries just to win. in the next campaign i'm going to preach my academic democracy all the way from lake michigan to the ohio river, up and down and back and forth--and i'm going to do it at my own expense and not be responsible to any state committee or anybody else. that's about where i stand." "good; mighty good, dan. all the rest of us want is for you to holler that in your biggest foghorn voice and you'll find the crowd with you." "but if the crowd isn't with me, it won't make a bit of difference; i shall bark just the same." "now that we've got down to brass tacks, i'll tell you what i've thought ever since bassett got his clamps on the party: that he really hasn't any qualities of leadership; that grim, silent way of his is a good deal of a bluff. if anybody ever has the nerve to set off a firecracker just behind him, he'll run a mile. the newspapers keep flashing him up in big headlines all the time, and that helps to keep the people fooled. the last time i saw him was just after he put through that corporation bill you broke on, and he didn't seem to have got much fun out of his victory; he looked pretty gray and worried. it wasn't so easy pulling through house bill ninety-five; it was the hardest job of mort's life; but he had to do it or take the count. and lord! he certainly lost his head in defeating those appropriation bills; he let his spite toward the governor get the better of him. it wasn't the republican governor he put in the hole; it was his own party." "that's the way with all these men of his type on both sides; they have no real loyalty; they will sacrifice their parties any time just to further personal ends, or in this case it would seem to have been out of sheer bad temper. i didn't use to think bassett had any temper or any kind of emotional organization. but when he's mad it's the meanest kind of mad, blind and revengeful." "he's forced an extra session--he's brought that on us. just chew on that a minute, dan. a republican governor has got to reassemble a democratic legislature merely to correct its own faults. it looks well in print, by george! speaking of print, how did he come to let go of the 'courier,' and who owns that sheet anyway? i thought when thatcher sprung that suit and dragged our aunt sally into it, the wabash river would run hot lava for the next forty years. but that night of the ball she and mort stood there on the firing-line as though nothing had ever happened." harwood grinned and shook his head gravely. "there are some things, colonel, that even to a good friend like you i can't give away. besides, i promised atwill not to tell." "all right, dan. and now, for fear you may think i've got something up my sleeve, i want to say to you with my hand on my heart that i don't want any office now or ever!" "now, colonel, be very careful!" laughed dan. "no; i'm not up here on a fishing-trip. but i want you to know where i stand and the friendly feeling of a whole lot of people toward you. you say the younger men are getting tired of the old boss system; i'll tell you that a lot of the old fellows too are beginning to get restless. the absurdity of the whole game on both sides is beginning to get into the inner consciousness of the people. you know if i had stayed regular when the free-silver business came on i might have been in a position now to play for the governorship--which is the only thing i ever wanted; rather nice to be governor of your own state, and have your name scratched on a slab at the state house door; it's even conceivable, daniel, that a man might do a little good--barely possible," he concluded dryly. "i'm out of it now for good; but anything i can do to help you, don't wait to write, just telephone me. now--" "i'm not so sure you can't make it yet; i'd like to see you there." "thanks, daniel; but like you i'm in the ranks of the patriots and not looking for the pie counter. here's another matter. do you mind telling me what you're up to in this white river canneries business? i notice that you've been sticking the can-opener into it." "yes; that protest of the original stockholders against the reorganization is still pending. as administrator of the estate of professor kelton--you remember him--madison college--i filed a petition to be let into the case. it's been sleeping along for a couple of years--stockholders too poor to put up a fight. i've undertaken to probe clear into the mire. i've got lots of time and there's lots of mire!" "good. they say the succotash and peaches were all cooked in the same pot, and that our uncle mort did the skimming." "so they say; but believe me, i can attack him without doing violence to my professional conscience. white river canneries was never in the boordman office to my knowledge. this isn't vengeance on my part; it's my duty to get what i can for the estate." "well, some of our farmers down my way got soaked in that deal, but it never seemed worth while to waste their money in litigation. i'll be glad to turn the claims i have in my office over to you; the more you have, the stronger fight you can make." "good. i welcome business. i'm going to see if i can't get to the bottom of the can." as a _révolté_ dan had attracted more attention than he liked, in all the circumstances. now that the legislature had adjourned, he was anxious to give his energy to the law, and he did not encourage political pilgrims to visit his office. he felt that he had behaved generously toward his old chief when the end came, and the promptness with which bassett's old guard sought to impeach his motives in fighting the corporation bill angered him. threats of retaliation were conveyed to him from certain quarters; and from less violent sources he heard much of his ingratitude toward the man who had "made" him. he had failed in his efforts to secure the passage of several measures whose enactment was urged by the educational and philanthropic interests of the community, and this was plainly attributable to the animosity aroused by his desertion of the corporation bill. he had not finished with this last measure, which had been passed by bassett's bi-partisan combination over the governor's veto. the labor organizations were in arms against it and had engaged dan to attack it in the courts. * * * * * sylvia's approval of his course had been as cordial as he could have asked, and as the spring advanced they were much together. they attended concerts, the theatre, and lectures, as often as she had time for relaxation, and they met pretty regularly at mrs. owen's dinner table on sunday--often running out for long tramps in the country afterward, to return for supper, and a renewal of their triangular councils. the bassetts were to continue at the bosworth house until june, and when marian dashed in upon these sunday symposiums--sometimes with a young cavalier she had taken out for a promenade--she gave dan to understand that his difficulties with her father made not the slightest difference to her. "but, mama!" she spoke of her mother as of one whose views must not weigh heavily against the world's general good cheer--"mama says she _never_ trusted you; that there was just that something about you that didn't seem quite--" marian would shake her head and sigh suggestively, whereupon mrs. owen would rebuke her and send her off to find the candy in the sideboard. allen, relegated for a time to a sanatorium in the adirondacks, amused himself by telegraphing to marian daily; and he usually managed to time a message to reach mrs. owen's sunday dinner table with characteristic remembrances for all who might be in her house. to dan he wrote a letter commending his course in the legislature. "i always knew you would get on dad's side one of these days. the great experiment is making headway. don't worry about me. i'm going to live to be a hundred. there's really nothing the matter with my lungs, you know. dad just wanted an excuse to come up here himself (mother and the girls used me as an excuse for years, you remember). he's doing big stunts tramping over the hills. you remember that good story ware told us that night up in the house-boat? you wouldn't think dad would have so much curiosity, but he's been over there to look at that place ware told about. he's left me now to go down to new york to see the lights. . . . i'm taking quite a literary turn. you know, besides emerson and those chaps who camped with him up here, stevenson was here, too,--good old r.l.s.!" several times sylvia, marian, and dan collaborated in a sunday round robin to allen, in the key of his own exuberances. chapter xxvii heat lightning "we'll finish the peaches to-night, and call it a day's work," remarked mrs. owen. "sylvia, you'd better give another turn to the covers on those last jars. there's nothing takes the heart out of a woman like opening a can of fruit in january and finding mould on top. there, annie, that's enough cinnamon. put in too much and your peaches will taste like a drug store." spicy odors floated from the kitchen of mrs. owen's house on waupegan. the august afternoon sun struck goldenly upon battalions of glasses and jars in the broad, screened veranda, an extension of the kitchen itself. the newly affixed labels announced peach, crab-apple, plum, and watermelon preserves (if the mention of this last item gives you no thrill, so much the worse for you!); jellies of many tints and flavors, and tiny cucumber pickles showing dark green amid the gayer colors. only the most jaded appetite could linger without sharp impingements before these condensations and transformations of the kindly fruits of the earth. in mrs. owen's corps of assistants we recognize six young women from elizabeth house--for since the first of july elizabeth house has been constantly represented on waupegan, girls coming and going in sixes for a fortnight at the farm. mrs. owen had not only added bedrooms to the rambling old farmhouse to accommodate these visitors, but she had, when necessary, personally arranged with their employers for their vacations. on the face of it, the use of her farm as a summer annex to the working girls' boarding-house in town was merely the whim of a kind-hearted old woman with her own peculiar notions of self-indulgence. a cynical member of the summer colony remarked at the casino that mrs. owen, with characteristic thrift, was inveigling shop-girls to her farm and then putting them to work in her kitchen. mrs. owen's real purpose was the study of the girls in elizabeth house with a view to determining their needs and aptitude: she was as interested in the woman of forty permanently planted behind a counter as in the gayest eighteen-year-old stenographer. an expert had built for her that spring a model plant for poultry raising, an industry of which she confessed her own ignorance, and she found in her battery of incubators the greatest delight. "when a woman has spent twenty years behind a counter, sylvia, or working a typewriter, she hasn't much ahead of her. what's the matter with ducks?" they made prodigious calculations of all sorts that summer, and continued their study of catalogues. mrs. owen expected to visit the best vocational schools in the country during the fall and winter. the school could not be a large one, but it must be wisely planned. mrs. owen had already summarized her ideas on a sheet of paper in the neat, italian script which the daguerreotype ladies of our old seminaries alone preserve for us. the students of the proposed school were to be girls between fifteen and eighteen, who were driven by necessity into shops, factories, and offices. none should be excluded for lack of the knowledge presupposed in students ready for high school, and the general courses were to be made flexible so that those who entered deficient might be brought to a fixed standard. the vocational branches were the most difficult, and at sylvia's suggestion several well-known authorities on technical education were called into conference. one of these had visited waupegan and expressed his enthusiastic approval of mrs. owen's plans. she was anxious to avoid paralleling any similar work, public or private. what the city schools did in manual training was well enough, and she did not mean to compete with the state's technical school, or with its reformatory school for erring girls. the young girl about to take her place behind the ribbon counter, or at a sewing-machine in a garment factory, or as a badly equipped, ignorant, and hopeless stenographer, was the student for whom in due course the school should open its doors. where necessary, the parents of the students were to be paid the wages their daughters sacrificed in attending school during the two-year course proposed. the students were to live in cottages and learn the domestic arts through their own housekeeping, the members of each household performing various duties in rotation. the school was to continue in session the year round, so that flower--and kitchen--gardening might take rank with dressmaking, cooking, fruit culture, poultry raising, and other branches which mrs. owen proposed to have taught. "i can't set 'em all up in business, but i want a girl that goes through the school to feel that she won't have to break her back in an overall factory all her life, or dance around some floor-walker with a waxed mustache. they tell me no american girl who has ever seen a trolley car will go into a kitchen to work--she can't have her beaux going round to the back door. sylvia, we've got to turn out cooks that are worth going to kitchen doors to see! now, i've taught you this summer how to make currant jelly that you needn't be ashamed of anywhere on earth, and it didn't hurt you any. a white woman can't learn to cook the way darkies do, just by instinct. that's a miracle, by the way, that i never heard explained--how these colored women cook as the good ones do--those old-fashioned darkies who take the cook book out of your hand and look at it upside down and grin and say, 'yes, miss sally,' when they can't read a word! you catch a clean, wholesome white girl young enough, and make her understand that her kitchen's a laboratory, and her work something to be proud of, and she'll not have any trouble finding places to work where they won't ask her to clean out the furnace and wash the automobile." the bassetts had opened their cottage early and morton bassett had been at the lake rather more constantly than in previous summers. marian was off on a round of visits to the new-found friends that were the fruit of her winter at the capital. she was much in demand for house parties, and made her engagements, quite independently of her parents, for weeks and fortnights at widely scattered mid-western resorts. mrs. bassett was indulging in the luxury of a trained nurse this summer, but even with this reinforcement she found it impossible to manage marian. it need hardly be said that mrs. owen's philanthropic enterprises occasioned her the greatest alarm. it was enough that "that girl" should be spending the summer at waupegan, without bringing with her all her fellow boarders from elizabeth house. mrs. bassett had now a tangible grievance against her husband. blackford's course at the military school he had chosen for himself had been so unsatisfactory that his father had been advised that he would not be received for another year. it was now mrs. bassett's turn to cavil at her husband for the sad mess he had made of the boy's education. she would never have sent blackford to a military school if it had been her affair; she arraigned her husband for having encouraged the boy in his dreams of west point. blackford's father continuing indifferent, mrs. bassett rose from bed one hot august day filled with determination. blackford, confident of immunity from books through the long vacation, was enjoying himself thoroughly at the lake. he was a perfectly healthy, good-natured lad, whose faults were much like those of the cheerful, undisciplined marian. his mother scanned the reports of blackford's demerits and decided that he required tutoring immediately. she thereupon reasoned that it would score with her aunt if she employed "that girl" to coach the delinquent blackford. it would at any rate do no harm to manifest a friendly interest in her aunt's protégée, who would doubtless be glad of a chance to earn a little pin-money. she first proposed the matter to her aunt, who declared promptly that it must be for sylvia to say; that sylvia was busy writing a book (she was revising her grandfather's textbook), besides helping to entertain the elizabeth house guests; but when the matter was referred to sylvia, she cheerfully agreed to give blackford two hours a day. sylvia quickly established herself on terms of good comradeship with her pupil. blackford was old enough to find the proximity of a pretty girl agreeable, and sylvia was sympathetic and encouraging. when he confided to her his hopes of a naval career (he had finally renounced the army) sylvia sent off to annapolis for the entrance requirements. she told him of her grandfather kelton's service in the navy and recounted some of the old professor's exploits in the civil war. the stories sylvia had heard at her grandfather's knee served admirably as a stimulus. as the appointments to annapolis had to be won in competitive examinations she soon persuaded him that the quicker he buckled down to hard study the sooner he would attain the goal. this matter arranged, mrs. bassett went back to bed, where she received sylvia occasionally and expressed her sorrow that mrs. owen, at her time of life, should be running a boarding-house for a lot of girls who were better off at work. her aunt was merely making them dissatisfied with their lot. she did not guess the import of the industries in mrs. owen's kitchen, as reported through various agencies; they were merely a new idiosyncracy of her aunt's old age, a deplorable manifestation of senility. sylvia was a comfortable confessor; mrs. bassett said many things to her that she would have liked to say to mrs. owen, with an obscure hope that they might in due course be communicated to that inexplicable old woman. and sylvia certainly was past the difficult art of brushing hair without tangling and pulling it, thereby tearing one's nerves to shreds--as the nurse did. mrs. owen's visits were only occasional, but they usually proved disturbing. she sniffed at the nurse and advised her niece to get up. she knew a woman in terre haute who went to bed on her thirtieth birthday and left it only to be buried in her ninetieth year. sylvia was a far more consoling visitor to this invalid propped up on pillows amid a litter of magazines, with the cool lake at her elbow. sylvia did not pooh-pooh christian science and new thought and such things with which mrs. bassett was disposed to experiment. sylvia even bestowed upon her a boon in the shape of the word "psychotherapy." mrs. bassett liked it, and declared that if she read a paper before the fraserville woman's club the next winter--a service to which she was solemnly pledged--psychotherapy should be her subject. thus mrs. bassett found sylvia serviceable and comforting. and the girl knew her place, and all. morton bassett found sylvia tutoring his son one day when he arrived at waupegan unexpectedly. mrs. bassett explained the arrangement privately in her own fashion. "you seem to take no interest in your children, morton. i thought blackford was your particular pride, but the fact that he was practically expelled from school seemed to make not the slightest impression on you. i thought that until you _did_ realize that the boy was wasting his time here, i'd take matters into my own hands. miss garrison seems perfectly competent; she tells me blackford is very quick--all he needs is application." "i hadn't got around to that yet, hallie. i'd intended taking it up this week. i'm very busy," murmured bassett. his wife's choice of a tutor seemed inconsistent with her earlier animosity toward sylvia, but he shrank from asking explanations. mrs. bassett had grown increasingly difficult and arbitrary. "that's the american father all over! well, i've done my duty." "no doubt it's a good arrangement. we've got to keep blackford in hand. where's marian?" "she's visiting the willings at their place at whitewater. she's been gone a week." "the willings? not those burton willings? how did that happen;--i don't believe we care to have her visit the willings." "they are perfectly nice people," she replied defensively, "and marian knew their daughter at school. allen thatcher is in the party, and they're all people we know or know about." "well, i don't want marian visiting around promiscuously. i know nothing about the family, but i don't care for willing. and we've had enough of young thatcher. marian's already seen too much of him." "allen's a perfectly nice fellow. it isn't fair to dislike him on his father's account. allen isn't a bit like his father; but even if he were you used to think well enough of ed thatcher." this shot was well aimed, and bassett blinked, but he felt that he must exercise his parental authority. if he had been culpable in neglecting blackford he could still take a hand in marian's affairs. "so i did," he replied. "but i'm going to telegraph marian to come home. what's the willings' address?" "oh, you'll find it on a picture postal card somewhere about. i'll write marian to come home; but i wouldn't telegraph if i were you, morton. and if you don't like my employing miss garrison, you can get rid of her: i merely felt that _something_ had to be done. i turn it all over to you," she ended mournfully. "oh, i have no objections to miss garrison. we'll see how blackford gets on with her." bassett was troubled by other things that summer than his son's education. harwood's declaration of war in the white river canneries matter had proved wholly disagreeable, and fitch had not been able to promise that the case might not come to trial, to bassett's discomfiture. it was a hot summer, and bassett had spent a good deal of time in his office at the boordman building, where harwood's name no longer adorned the door of room . the 'advertiser' continued to lay on the lash for his defeat of the appropriations necessary to sustain several important state institutions while he carried through his corporation bill. they were saying in some quarters that he had lost his head, and that he was now using his political power for personal warfare upon his enemies. thatcher loomed formidably as a candidate for the leadership, and many predicted that bassett's power was at last broken. on the other hand, bassett's old lieutenants smiled knowingly; the old bassett machine was still in perfect running order, they said, as thatcher would learn when he felt the wheels grinding him. bassett saw sylvia daily, and he was wary of her at first. she had dealt him a staggering blow that rainy evening at the door of elizabeth house--a blow which, from her, had an effect more poignant than she knew. that incident was ended, however, and he felt that he had nothing to fear from her. no one appreciates candor so thoroughly as the man who is habitually given to subterfuge, evasion, and dissimulation. sylvia's consent to tutor blackford indicated a kindly feeling toward the family. it was hardly likely that she would report to mrs. bassett his indiscretions with rose farrell. and his encounters with sylvia had moreover encouraged the belief that she viewed life broadly and tolerantly. there was little for a man of bassett's tastes to do at waupegan. most of the loungers at the casino were elderly men who played bridge, which he despised; and he cared little for fishing or boating. tennis and golf did not tempt him. his wife had practically ceased to be a figure in the social life of the colony; marian was away, and blackford's leisure was spent with boys of his own age. morton bassett was lonely. it thus happened that he looked forward with growing interest to sylvia's daily visits to his house. he found that he could mark her progress from mrs. owen's gate round the lake to his own cottage from the window of a den he maintained in the attic. he remained there under the hot shingles, conscious of her presence in his house throughout her two hours with blackford. once or twice he took himself off to escape from her; but on these occasions he was surprised to find that he was back on the veranda when sylvia emerged from the living-room with her pupil. she was always cheery, and she never failed to say something heartening of blackford's work. a number of trifling incidents occurred to bring them together. the cook left abruptly, and mrs. bassett was reduced to despair. bassett, gloomily pacing his veranda, after hearing his wife's arraignment of the world in general and domestic servants in particular, felt the clouds lift when sylvia came down from a voluntary visit to the invalid. he watched her attack the problem by long-distance telephone. sensations that were new and strange and sweet assailed him as he sat near in the living-room of his own house, seeing her at the telephone desk by the window, hearing her voice. her patience in the necessary delays while connection was made with the city, her courtesy to her unseen auditors, the smile, the occasional word she flung at him--as much as to say, of course it's bothersome but all will soon come right!--these things stirred in him a wistfulness and longing such as the hardy oak must feel when the south wind touches its bare boughs with the first faint breath of spring. "it's all arranged--fixed--accomplished!" sylvia reported at last. "there's a cook coming by the afternoon train. you'll attend to meeting her? please tell mrs. bassett it's senator ridgefield's cook who's available for the rest of the summer, as the family have gone abroad. she's probably good--the agent said mrs. ridgefield had brought her from washington. let me see! she must have thursday afternoon off and a chance to go to mass on sunday. and you of course stand the railroad fare to and from the lake; it's so nominated in the bond!" she dismissed the whole matter with a quick gesture of her hands. their next interview touched again his domestic affairs. he had telegraphed marian to come home without eliciting a reply, and the next day he found in a chicago newspaper a spirited and much-beheadlined account of the smashing of the willings' automobile in a collision. it seemed that they had run into chicago for a day's shopping and had met with this misadventure on one of the boulevards. the willings' chauffeur had been seriously injured. miss marian bassett, definitely described as the daughter of morton bassett, the well-known indiana politician, had been of the party. allen thatcher was another guest of the willings, a fact which added to bassett's anger. he had never visited his hatred of thatcher upon allen, whom he had regarded as a harmless boy not to be taken seriously; but the conjunction of his daughter's name with that of his enemy's son in a newspaper of wide circulation in indiana greatly enraged him. it was bound to occasion talk, and he hated publicity. the willings were flashy people who had begun to spend noisily the money earned for them by an automobile patent. the indictment he drew against marian contained many "counts." he could not discuss the matter with his wife; he carefully kept from her the newspaper story of the smash-up. the hotel to which the willings had retired for repairs was mentioned, and bassett resolved to go to chicago and bring marian home. the best available train passed waupegan station at midnight, and he sat alone on his veranda that evening with anger against marian still hot in his heart. he had yet to apprise mrs. bassett of his intended journey, delaying the moment as long as possible to minimize her inevitable querulous moanings. blackford was in his room studying, and bassett had grimly paced the veranda for half an hour when the nurse came down with a request that he desist from his promenade, as it annoyed mrs. bassett in her chamber above. he thereupon subsided and retired to the darkest corner of the veranda. a four-hour vigil lay before him, and he derived no calm from the still stars that faintly shadowed the quiet waters below. he was assailed by torments reserved for those who, having long made others writhe without caring that they suffered, hear the swish of the lash over their own heads. he had only lately been conscious of his growing irritability. he hated men who yield to irritation; it was a sign of weakness, a failure of self-mastery. he had been carried on by a strong tide, imagining that he controlled it and guided it. he had used what he pleased of the apparatus of life, and when any part of the mechanism became unnecessary, he had promptly discarded it. it angered him to find that he had thrown away so much, that the mechanism was no longer as responsive as it had been. the very peace of the night grated upon him. a light step sounded at the end of the veranda. a figure in white was moving toward the door, and recognizing sylvia, he rose hastily and advanced to meet her. "is that you, mr. bassett? i ran over with a new grammar for blackford that he will like better than the one he's using. i've marked his lesson so he can look it over before i come in the morning. how is mrs. bassett?" "she's very tired and nervous to-night. won't you sit down?" "thank you, no. if it isn't too late i'll run up and see mrs. bassett for a moment." "i think you'd better not. the nurse is trying to get her to sleep." "oh, then of course i shan't stop," and sylvia turned to go. "how soon will marian be home?" "to-morrow evening; i'm going up to get her to-night," he answered harshly. "you are going to the willings to come home with her?" asked sylvia, surprised by his gruffness. he spoke in a lower tone. "you didn't see to-day's papers? she's been to chicago with those willings and their machine was smashed and the chauffeur hurt. i'm going to bring her back. she had no business to be visiting the willings in the first place, and their taking her to chicago without our consent was downright impudence. i don't want mrs. bassett to know of the accident. i'm going up on the night train." it satisfied his turbulent spirit to tell her this; he had blurted it out without attempting to conceal the anger that the thought of marian roused in him. "she wasn't hurt? we should be glad of that!" sylvia lingered, her hand on the veranda rail. she seemed very tall in the mellow starlight. his tone had struck her unpleasantly. there was no doubt of his anger, or that marian would feel the force of it when he found her. "oh, she wasn't hurt," he answered dully. "it's very unfortunate that she was mixed up in it. i suppose she ought to come home now anyhow." "the point is that she should never have gone! the willings are not the kind of people i want her to know. it was a great mistake, her ever going." "yes, that may be true," said sylvia quietly. "i don't believe--" "well--" he ejaculated impatiently, as though anxious for her to speak that he might shatter any suggestion she made. before she came he had sharply vizualized his meeting with marian and the willings. he was impatient for the encounter, and if sylvia projected herself in the path of his righteous anger, she must suffer the consequences. "if i were you i shouldn't go to chicago," said sylvia calmly. "i think your going for marian would only make a disagreeable situation worse. the willings may not be desirable companions for her, but she has been their guest, and the motor run to chicago was only an incident of the visit. we ought to be grateful that marian wasn't hurt." "oh, you think so! you don't know that her mother had written for her to come home, and that i had telegraphed her." "when did you telegraph her?" asked sylvia, standing her ground. "yesterday; yesterday morning, in care of willing at his farm address." "then of course she didn't get your message; she couldn't have had it if the accident happened in time for this morning's chicago papers. it must have taken them all day to get from their place to chicago." "if she had been at the willings' where we supposed she was she would have, got the message. and her mother had written--twice!" "i still think it would be a serious mistake in all the circumstances for you to go up there in a spirit of resentment to bring marian home. it's not exactly my business, mr. bassett. but i'm thinking of marian; and you could hardly keep from mrs. bassett the fact that you went for marian. it would be sure to distress her." "marian needs curbing; she's got to understand that she can't go gallivanting over the country with strangers, getting her name in the newspapers. i'm not going to have it; i'm going to stop her nonsense!" his voice had risen with his anger. sylvia saw that nothing was to be gained by argument. "the main thing is to bring marian home, isn't it, mr. bassett?" "most certainly. and when i get her here she shall stay; you may be sure of that!" "i understand of course that you want her back, but i hope you will abandon the idea of going for her yourself. please give that up! i promise that she shall come home. i can easily take the night train and come back with her. what you do afterward is not my affair, but somehow i think this is. please agree to my way of doing it! i can manage it very easily. mrs. owen's man can take me across to the train in the launch. i shan't even have to explain about it to her, if you'd rather i didn't. it will be enough if i tell her i'm going on business. you will agree, won't you--please?" it was not in his heart to consent, and yet he consented, wondering that he yielded. the rescue of marian from the willings was taken out of his hands without friction, and there remained only himself against whom to vent his anger. he was curiously agitated by the encounter. the ironic phrases he had already coined for marian's discomfiture clinked into the melting-pot. sylvia was turning away and he must say something, though he could not express a gratitude he did not feel. his practical sense grasped one idea feebly. he felt its imbecility the moment he had spoken. "you'll allow me, of course, to pay your expenses. that must be understood." sylvia answered over her shoulder. "oh, yes; of course, mr. bassett. certainly." he meant to accompany her to mrs. owen's door, but before he could move she was gone, running along the path, a white, ghost-like figure faintly discernible through the trees. he walked on tiptoe to the end of the veranda to catch the last glimpse of her, and waited till he caught across the quiet night the faint click of mrs. owen's gate. and he was inexpressibly lonely, now that she had gone. he opened the door of the living-room and found his wife standing like an accusing angel by the centre table. she loomed tall in her blue tea-gown, with her brown braids falling down her back. "whom were you talking to, morton?" she demanded with ominous severity. "miss garrison came over to bring a book for blackford. it's a grammar he needed in his work." he held up the book in proof of his assertion, and as she tossed her head and compressed her lips he flung it on the table with an effort to appear at ease. "she wanted him to have it before his lesson in the morning." "she certainly took a strange time to bring it over here." "it struck me as very kind of her to trouble about it. you'll take cold standing there. i supposed you were asleep." "i've no doubt you did, morton bassett; but how do you suppose i could sleep when you were talking right under my window? i had already sent word about the noise you were making on the veranda." "we were not talking loudly; i didn't suppose we were disturbing you." "so you were talking quietly, were you! will you please tell me what you have to talk to that girl about that you must whisper out there in the dark?" "please be reasonable, hallie. miss garrison was only here a few minutes. and as i knew noises on the veranda had disturbed you i tried to speak in a low tone. we were speaking of blackford." "well, i'd like you to know that i employed that girl to remedy your mistakes in trying to educate blackford, and if she has any report to make she can make it to me." "very well, then. it was only a few days ago that you told me you had done all you were going to do about blackford; you gave me to understand that you washed your hands of him. you're nervous and excited,--very unnecessarily excited,--and i insist that you go back to bed. i'll call miss featherstone." "miss featherstone is asleep and you needn't bother her. i'm going to send her away at the end of her week anyhow. she's the worst masseuse i ever had; her clumsiness simply drives me frantic. but i never thought you would treat me like this--entertaining a young woman on the veranda when you thought i was asleep and out of the way. i'm astonished at miss garrison; i had a better opinion of her. i thought she knew her place. i thought she understood that i employed her out of kindness; and she's abused my confidence outrageously." "you can't speak that way of that young woman; she's been very good to you. she's come to see you nearly every day and shown you many kindnesses. it is kind of her to be tutoring blackford at all when she came to the lake for rest." "for rest!" she gulped at the enormity of this; it was beyond belief that any intelligent being could have been deceived in a matter that was as plain as daylight to any understanding. "you think she came here for rest! don't you know that she's hung herself around aunt sally's neck, and that she's filling aunt sally's head with all manner of wild ideas? she's been after aunt sally's money ever since she saw that she could influence her. did you ever know of aunt sally's taking up any other girl? has she ever traveled over the country with marian or shown any such interest in her own flesh and blood?" "please quiet yourself. you'll have blackford and the nurse down here in a minute. you know perfectly well that aunt sally started elizabeth house long before she had ever heard of this girl, and you know that your aunt is a vigorous, independent woman who is not led around by anybody." her nostrils quivered and her eyes shone with tears. she leveled her arm at him rigidly. "i saw you walking with that girl yesterday! when she left here at noon you came down from the den and walked along to aunt sally's gate with her. i could see you through the trees from my bed, laughing and talking with her. i suppose it was then you arranged for her to come and sit with you on the veranda when you thought i was asleep!" he took a step toward her and seized the outstretched hand roughly. "you are out of your senses or you wouldn't speak in this way of miss garrison. she's been a kind friend to you all summer; you've told me yourself self how she's gone up to brush your hair and do little things for you that the nurse couldn't do as well. you've grown morbid from being ill so long, but nothing was ever more infamous than your insinuations against miss garrison. she's a noble girl and it's not surprising that aunt sally should like her. everybody likes her!" having delivered this blow he settled himself more firmly on his feet and glared. "everybody likes her!" she repeated, snatching away her hand. "i'd like to know how you come to know so much about her." "i know enough about her: i know all about her!" "then you know more than anybody else does. nobody else seems to know _anything_ about her!" she ended triumphantly. "there you go again with insinuations! it's ungenerous, it's unlike you." "morton bassett," she went on huskily, "if you took some interest in your own children it would be more to your credit. you blamed me for letting marian go to the willings' and then telegraphed for her to come home. it's a beautiful relationship you have established with your children! she hasn't even answered your telegram. but i suppose if she had you'd have kept it from me. the newspapers talk about your secretive ways, but they don't know you, morton bassett, as i do. i suppose you can't imagine yourself entertaining marian on the veranda or walking with her, talking and laughing, as i saw you with that girl." "well, thank god there's somebody i can talk and laugh with! i'm glad to be able to tell you that marian will be home to-morrow. you may have the satisfaction of knowing that if you _would_ let her go to the willings' with allen thatcher i can at least bring her back after you failed to do it." "so you did hear from her, did you! of course you couldn't have told me: i suppose you confide in miss garrison now," she ended drearily. his wife's fatigue, betrayed in her tired voice, did not mitigate the stab with which he wished to punish her references to sylvia. and he delivered it with careful calculation. "you are quite right, hallie. i did speak to miss garrison about marian. miss garrison has gone to bring marian home. that's all; go to bed." chapter xxviii a cheerful bringer of bad tidings the announcement that harwood was preparing to attack the reorganization of the white river canneries corporation renewed the hopes of many victims of that experiment in high finance, and most of the claims reached dan's office that summer. the legal points involved were sufficiently difficult to evoke his best energies, and he dug diligently in the state library preparing his case. he was enjoying the cool, calm heights of a new freedom. many older men were eking out a bare living at the law, and the ranks were sadly overcrowded, but he faced the future confidently. he meant to practice law after ideals established by men whose names were still potent in the community; he would not race with the ambulance to pick up damage suits, and he refused divorce cases and small collection business. he meant to be a lawyer, not a scandal-hunting detective or pursuer of small debtors with a constable's process. he tried to forget politics, and yet, in spite of his indifference, hardly a day passed that did not bring visitors to his office bent upon discussing the outlook. many of these were from the country; men who, like ramsay, were hopeful of at last getting rid of bassett. some of his visitors were young lawyers like himself, most of them graduates of the state colleges, who were disposed to take their politics seriously. nor were these all of his own party. he found that many young republicans, affected by the prevailing unrest, held practically his own views on national questions. several times he gathered up half a dozen of these acquaintances for frugal dinners in the university club rathskeller, or they met in the saloon affected by allen's friends of lüders's carpenter shop. he wanted them to see all sides of the picture, and he encouraged them to crystallize their fears and hopes; more patriotism and less partisanship, they all agreed, was the thing most needed in america. allen appeared in dan's office unexpectedly one hot morning and sat down on a chair piled with open lawbooks. allen had benefited by his month's sojourn in the adirondacks, and subsequent cruises in his motor car had tanned his face becomingly. he was far from rugged, but he declared that he expected to live forever. "i'm full of dark tidings! much has happened within forty-eight hours. see about our smash-up in chicago! must have read it in the newspapers?" "a nice, odorous mess," observed dan, filling his pipe. "i'm pained to see that you go chasing around with the plutocrats smashing lamp-posts in our large centres of population. that sort of thing is bound to establish your reputation as the friend of the oppressed. was the chauffeur's funeral largely attended?" "pshaw; he was only scratched; we chucked him into the hospital to keep him from being arrested, that was all. look here, old man, you don't seem terribly sympathetic. maybe you didn't notice that it was _my_ car that got smashed! it looked like a junk dealer's back yard when they pulled us out. i told them to throw it into the lake: i've just ordered a new car. i never cared for that one much anyhow." "another good note for the boys around lüders's joint! you're identified forever with the red-necked aristocrats who smash five thousand dollar motors and throw them away. you'd better go out in the hall and read the sign on the door. i'm a lawyer, not a father confessor to the undeserving rich." "this is serious, dan," allen remonstrated, twirling his straw hat nervously. "all that happened in connection with the smash-up didn't get into the newspapers." "the 'advertiser' had enough of it: they printed, published, and uttered an extra with marian's picture next to yours on the first page! you can't complain of the publicity you got out of that light adventure. how much space do you think it was worth?" "stop chaffing and hear me out! i'm up against a whole lot of trouble, and i came to get your advice. you see, dan, the bassetts didn't know marian was going on that automobile trip. her mother had written her to leave the willings' and go home--twice! and her father telegraphed--after we left the farm. she never got the telegram. then, when mr. bassett read of the smash in the papers, i guess he was warm clear through. you know he doesn't cut loose very often; and--" "and he jumped on the train and went to chicago to snatch marian away from the willings? i should think he would have done just that." "no; oh, no! he sent sylvia!" cried allen. "sylvia came up on the night train, had a few words privately with marian, took luncheon with the willings, all as nice as you please, and off she went with marian." harwood pressed his thumb into his pipe-bowl and puffed in silence for a moment. allen, satisfied that he had at last caught his friend's attention, fanned himself furiously with his hat. "well," said dan finally, "there's nothing so staggering in that. sylvia's been staying at the lake: i suppose mrs. bassett must have asked her to go up and bring marian home when the papers screamed her daughter's name in red ink. i understand that mrs. bassett's ill, and i suppose bassett didn't like to leave her. there's nothing fuddlesome in that. sylvia probably did the job well. she has the habit. what is there that troubles you about it, allen?" his heart had warmed at the mention of sylvia, and he felt more kindly toward allen now that she had flashed across his vision. many times a day he found sylvia looking up at him from the pages of his books; this fresh news brought her near. sylvia's journey to chicago argued an intimacy with the bassetts that he did not reconcile with his knowledge of her acquaintance with the family. he was aroused by the light touch of allen's hand on his knee. the young man bent toward him with a bright light in his eyes. "you know," he said, "marian and i are engaged!" "you're what?" bellowed dan. "we're engaged, old man; we're engaged! it happened there at the willings'. you know i think i loved her from the very first time i saw her! it's the beautifullest thing that ever came into my life. you don't know how happy i am: it's the kind of happiness that makes you want to cry. oh, you don't know; nobody could ever know!" dan rose and paced the floor, while allen stood watching him eagerly and pouring his heart out. dan felt that tragedy loomed here. he did not doubt allen's sincerity; he was not unmoved by his manner, his voluble description of all the phases of his happiness. allen, with all his faults and weaknesses, had nevertheless a sound basis of character. harwood's affection for him dated from that first encounter in the lonely meridian street house when the boy had dawned upon him in his overalls and red silk stockings. he had never considered allen's interest in marian serious; for allen had to dan's knowledge paid similar attentions to half a dozen other girls. allen's imagination made a goddess of every pretty girl, and dan had settled down to the belief that his friend saw in marian only one of the many light-footed dianas visible in the city thoroughfares, whom he invested with deific charms and apostrophized in glowing phrases. but that he should marry marian--marian, the joyous and headstrong; marian the romping, careless thalia of allen's bright galaxy! she was ill-fitted for marriage, particularly to a dreamy, emotional youngster like allen. and yet, on the other hand, if she had arrived at a real appreciation of allen's fineness and gentleness and had felt his sweetness and charm, why not? dan's common sense told him that quite apart from the young people themselves there were reasons enough against it. dan had imagined that allen was content to play at being in love; that it satisfied the romantic strain in him, just as his idealization of the great experiment and its actors expressed and satisfied his patriotic feelings. the news that he had come to terms of marriage with marian was in all the circumstances dismaying, and opened many dark prospects. allen stood at the window staring across the roofs beyond. he whirled round as dan addressed him. "have you spoken to mr. bassett? you know that will be the first thing, allen." "that's exactly what i want you to help me about? he's at waupegan now, and of course i've got to see him. but you know this row between him and dad makes it hard. you know dad would do anything in the world for me--dear old dad! of course i've told _him_. and you'd be surprised to see the way he took it. you know people don't know dad the way i do. they think he's just a rough old chap, without any fine feeling about anything. and mother and the girls leaving him that way has hurt him; it hurts him a whole lot. and when i told him last night, up at that big hollow cave of a house, how happy i was and all that, it broke him all up. he cried, you know--dad cried!" the thought of edward g. thatcher in tears failed to arrest the dark apprehensions that tramped harshly through dan's mind. as for bassett, dan recalled his quondam chief's occasional flings at allen, whom the senator from fraser had regarded as a spoiled and erratic but innocuous trifler. mrs. bassett, dan was aware, valued her social position highly. as the daughter of blackford singleton she considered herself unassailably a member of the upper crust of the hoosier aristocracy. and dan suspected that bassett also harbored similar notions of caste. independently of the struggle in progress between thatcher and bassett, it was quite likely that the bassetts would look askance at the idea of a union between their daughter and edward thatcher's son, no matter what might be said in allen's favor. bassett's social acceptance was fairly complete, and he enjoyed meeting men of distinction. he was invariably welcomed to the feasts of reason we are always, in our capital, proffering to the great and good of all lands who pause for enlightenment and inspiration in our empurpled athens. he was never ignored in the choice of those frock-coated and silk-hatted non-partisan committees that meet all trains at the union station, and quadrennially welcome home our eternal candidates for the joyous office of vice-president of the republic. he kept his dress suit packed for flight at fraserville free of that delicate scent of camphor that sweetens the air of provincial festivals. thatcher never, to the righteous, sensitive, local consciousness, wholly escaped from the maltster's taint, in itself horrible and shocking; nor did his patronage of budding genius in the prize ring, or his adventures (often noisily heralded) as a financial pillar of comic opera, tend to change or hide the leopard's spots in a community where the ten commandments haven't yet been declared unconstitutional, save by plumbers and paperhangers. women who had never in their lives seen mrs. thatcher admired her for remaining in exile; they knew she must be (delectable phrase!) a good woman. "you know dad has had an awful lonely time of it, dan, and if he has done things that haven't sounded nice, he's as sorry as anybody could ask. you know dad never made a cent in his life at poker, and his horses have come near busting him lots of times. and sentiment against breweries over here would astonish people abroad. it's that old puritan strain, you know. you understand all that, dan." dan grinned in spite of himself. it was hardly less than funny to attempt a defense of ed thatcher by invoking the shades of the puritans. but thatcher did love his boy, and dan had always given him full credit for that. "never mind the breweries; tell me the rest of it." "well," allen continued, "dad always tells me everything, and when i spoke of marian he told me a lot of things. he wants to put bassett out of business and go to the senate. dad's set his heart on that. i didn't know that any man could hate another as he hates bassett. that business in the state convention cut him deep;--no, don't you say a word! dad hasn't any feeling against you; he thinks you're a fine fellow, and he likes to feel that when you quit bassett you put yourself on his side. maybe he's wrong, but just for my sake i want you to let him think so. but he's got it in for bassett; he's got his guns all loaded and primed. dad's deeper than you think. they used to say that dad was only second fiddle to bassett, but you'll see that dad knows a thing or two." dan drummed his desk. this reference to thatcher's ambitions only kindled his anger and he wished that allen would end his confidences and take himself off. but he pricked up his ears as allen went on. "i'm telling you this just to show you how it mixes up things for marian and me. i came to you for help, old man; and i want you to see how hard it is for me to go to mr. bassett and tell him i want to marry marian." "just a minute, allen. are you quite sure that marian has made up her mind to marry you; that she really wants to marry anybody?" "i tell you it's all fixed! you don't imply that marian is merely amusing herself at my expense! it wouldn't be like you to think that. i have always thought you liked marian and saw how superb she is." "of course i like marian," said dan hastily. "my one hope is that both of you will be happy; and the difficulties you have suggested only make that more important. you will have to wait. i'm not sure but that you had better keep this to yourselves for a while--maybe for a long time. it would be wise for you to talk to aunt sally. she's a good friend of yours, and one of the wisest of women." it was not in allen's eye that he sought wisdom. with him, as with most people who ask advice, advice was the last thing he wanted. it was his way to unbosom himself, however, and he forged ahead with his story, with what seemed to harwood a maddening failure to appreciate its sinister import. "you remember that when we were up there on the kankakee, john ware told a story one night--a mighty good story about an experience he had once?" "yes; he told a lot of stories. which one do you mean?" "oh, the best one of all--about the woman in the adirondacks. you haven't forgotten that?" "no; i do remember something about it." "you may not have noticed that while ware was telling the story dad got up from the bed in the corner and walked over to the stove, after ware had asked you--it was you, wasn't it?--to reach into the pocket of his coat over your head and get the book he was talking about--it was you he spoke to, wasn't it?" "yes; it comes back to me now," replied dan, frowning. "well, i remember, because it struck me as odd that dad should be interested; it was emerson, you know; and dad looked at the book in the light from the stove and asked me what the name was down in the inside of the cover. it was the binder's name in small letters,--z. fenelsa. well, there's a long story about that. it's a horrible story to know about any man; but dad had been trying to find something he could use on bassett. he's had people--the sort you can get to do such jobs--going over bassett's whole life to find material. dad says there's always something in every man's life that he wants to hide, and that if you keep looking you can find it. you see--" "i don't like to see," growled harwood. "it's an ugly idea." and then, with sudden scorn for thatcher's views on man's frailty, he said with emphasis: "now, allen, it's all right for you to talk to me about marian, and your wish to marry her; but don't mix scandal up in it. i'm not for that. i don't want to hear any stories of that kind about bassett. politics is rotten enough at best without tipping over the garbage can to find arguments. i don't believe your father is going to stoop to that. to be real frank with you, i don't think he can afford to." "you've got to hear it; you can't desert me now. i'm away up in the air this morning, and even if you do hate this kind of thing, you've got to see where dad's hatred of bassett puts marian and me." "it puts you clean out of it; away over the ropes and halfway home! that's where it puts you," boomed harwood. "well, you've got to listen, and you've got to tell me what to do. dad had already investigated bassett's years in new york, when he was a young man studying in the law school down there. but they could get about so far and no farther. it's a long time ago and all the people bassett knew at that time had scattered to the far corners of the earth. but that book struck dad all of a heap. it fitted into what he had heard about bassett as a dilettante book collector; even then bassett was interested in such things. and you know in that account of him you wrote in the 'courier' that i told you i had read on the other side that first time we met? well, when dad and i went to the adirondacks it was only partly on my account; he met a man up there who had been working up bassett's past, and dad went over all the ground himself. it was most amazing that it should all come out that way, but he found the place, and the same man is still living at the house where the strange woman stayed that ware told about. i know it's just as rotten as it can be, but dad's sure bassett was the man who took that woman there and deserted her. it fits into a period when bassett wasn't in new york and he wasn't at fraserville. they've found an old file of the fraserville paper at the state library that mentions the fact that bassett's father was very ill--had a stroke--and they had hard work locating bassett, who was the only child. there's only one missing link in the chain of evidence, and that's the woman herself, and her child that was born up there. ware told us that night how he failed to get track of them later, and dad lost the trail right there too. but that's all i need tell you about it. that's what i've got hanging over me. and dad won't promise not to use it on bassett if he has to." harwood's face had gone white, but he smiled and knit his fingers together behind his head with an air of nonchalance that he did not feel. he knew that thatcher meant to drive bassett out of politics, but he had little faith in thatcher's ability to do so. he discredited wholly the story allen had so glibly recited. by allen's own admission the tale was deficient in what harwood's lawyer's instinct told him were essentials. the idea that bassett could ever have been so stupid as to leave traces of any imaginable iniquities plain enough for thatcher to find them after many years was preposterous. the spectacle of the pot calling the kettle black, never edifying, aroused dan's ire against thatcher. and bassett was not that sort; his old liking for the man stirred to life again. even the rose farrell incident did not support this wretched tissue of fabrication. he had hated bassett for that; but it was not for the peccable thatcher to point a mocking finger at achilles's heel. "well," said allen impatiently. "well," dan blurted contemptuously, "i think your father's stooped pretty low, that's all. you can tell him for me that if he's digging in the muck-pile for that sort of thing, i'm done with him; i'm not only done with him, but if he attempts to use any such stuff as that, i'll fight him; i will raise a war on him that won't be forgotten in this state through all eternity. you tell him that; tell him you told me your story and that's what i said about it." "but, dan, old man--" began allen pleadingly. harwood shook his head until his cowlick bobbed and danced. "you'd better get out of here, allen. if you think you can marry morton bassett's daughter with that kind of a scandal in your pocket, i tell you you're mad--you've plumb gone insane! great god, boy, you don't know the meaning of the words you use. you handle that thing like a child with a loaded pistol. don't you see what that would mean--to marian, to blackford, to mrs. bassett--to aunt sally! now, you want my advice, or you said you did, and i'm going to give you some. you go right down to that bank over there on the corner and buy a steamer ticket and a long letter of credit. then take the first train for new york and go back to your mother and stay there till i send for you to come home. i mean that--every word of it. if you don't skip i'm damned if i don't go to bassett and tell him this whole rotten story." allen, the tears glistening in his frightened eyes, turned toward the door. "good-bye, dan, old man; i'm sorry it had to end this way. i'm disappointed, that's all." he paused after opening the door, hoping to be called back, but harwood had walked to the window and stood with his hands in his pockets staring into the street. chapter xxix a song and a falling star this was on friday, and harwood took the afternoon train for waupegan. he had found that when he was tired or lonely or troubled he craved the sight of sylvia. sylvia alone could restore his equanimity; sylvia who worked hard but never complained of weariness; sylvia who saw life steadily and saw it whole, where he caught only fitful, distorted glimpses. yes; he must see sylvia. not only must he see her but there were things he meant to say to her. he needed sylvia. for several months he had been sure of that. he loved her and he meant to marry her. since leaving college he had indulged in several more or less ardent flirtations, but they had ended harmlessly; it was very different with sylvia! he had realized all that spring that she was becoming increasingly necessary to him; he needed her solace and her inspiration. he thrust one or two new books on the prevailing social unrest into his suit case and added a box of candy, smiling at the combination. sylvia with all her ideals was still so beautifully human. she was quite capable of nibbling bon-bons to the accompaniment of a vivacious discussion of the sorrows of the world--he had seen her do just that! with her ideals of life and service, she would not be easily won; but he was in the race to win. yes, there were things he meant to say to sylvia, and in the tedious journey through the hot afternoon to waupegan he formulated them and visualized the situations in which he should utter them. dan reached waupegan at six o'clock and went to one of the little inns at the lakeside near the village. he got into his flannels, ate supper, and set off for mrs. owen's with his offerings on the seven o'clock boat. in the old days of his intimacy with bassett he had often visited waupegan, and the breach between them introduced an element of embarrassment into his visit. he was very likely to meet his former chief, who barely bowed to him now when they met in hotels or in the streets of the capital. jumping aboard the steamer just as it was pulling out, he at once saw bassett sitting alone in the bow. there were only a few other passengers, and hearing dan's step on the deck behind him, bassett turned slightly, nodded, and then resumed his inspection of the farther shore lines. a light overcoat lay across his knees, and the protruding newspapers explained his visit to the village. dan found a seat on the opposite side of the deck, resolved to accept bassett's own definition of their relations--markedly expressed in bassett's back and shoulders that were stolidly presented to him. dan, searching out the lights that were just beginning to blink on the darkling shores, found the glimmering lanterns of mrs. owen's landing. sylvia was there! it was sylvia he had come to see, and the coldness with which morton bassett turned his back upon him did not matter in the least. it was his pliability in bassett's hands, manifested at the convention where he had appeared as the boss's spokesman, that had earned him sylvia's first rebuke. he was thinking of this and of sylvia when bassett left his chair and crossed the deck. dan barely turned his head, thinking he was merely changing his seat for a better view; but as bassett stopped in front of him, dan rose and pushed forward a chair. "no, thank you; i suppose you came up on the evening train. i just wondered whether you saw fitch to-day." "no, sir; i didn't see him; i didn't know he wanted to see me." "he was here yesterday and probably hadn't had time to see you before you left town. he had a proposition to make in that canneries case." "i didn't know that, of course, or i should have waited. i've never had any talk with him about the canneries business." "so he said." bassett clapped his hand savagely upon his hat suddenly to save it from the breeze that had been roused by the increasing speed of the boat. he clearly disliked having to hold his hat on his head. dan marked his old chief's irritation. there were deep lines in bassett's face that had only lately been written there. "i'll see him monday. i only ran up for a day or two. it's frightfully hot at home." neither the heat, nor harwood's enterprise in escaping from it, interested bassett, who lifted his voice above the thumping of the machinery to say:-- "i told fitch to talk to you about that suit of yours and fix it up if we can come to terms. i told him what i'd stand for. i'm not afraid of the suit, and neither is fitch, and i want you to understand that. my reasons for getting rid of it are quite apart from the legal questions." "it will save time, mr. bassett, if you tell fitch that the suit won't be dropped until all the claims i represent are paid in full. several of your associates in the reorganization have already sounded me on that, and i've said no to all of them." "oh, you have, have you?" there was a hard glitter in bassett's eyes and his jaws tightened. "all right, then; go ahead," he added, and walked grimly back to his chair. when the steamer stopped at his landing, bassett jumped off and began the ascent to his house without looking at harwood again. dan felt that it had been worth the journey to hear direct from bassett the intimations of a wish to compromise the canneries case. and yet, while the boat was backing off, it was without exultation that he watched bassett's sturdy figure slowly climbing the steps. the signs of wear, the loss of the politician's old elasticity, touched a chord of pity in harwood's breast. in the early days of their acquaintance it had seemed to him that bassett could never be beaten; and yet dan had to-night read defeat in his face and manner. the old morton bassett would never have yielded an inch, never have made overtures of compromise. he would have emerged triumphant from any disaster. harwood experienced something of the sensations of a sculptor, who, having begun a heroic figure in the grand manner of a michael angelo, finds his model shrinking to a pitiful pygmy. as bassett passed from sight he turned with a sigh toward the red, white and blue lanterns that advertised mrs. owen's dock to the mariner. "well, well, if it isn't daniel," exclaimed mrs. owen, as harwood greeted her and sylvia on her veranda. "one of the farm hands quit to-day and you can go to work in the morning, daniel." "not if i'm strong enough to run, aunt sally. i'm going to have forty-eight hours' vacation if i starve to death the rest of my life." rose farrell had told him that mrs. owen was entertaining the elizabeth house girls in installments, and he was not surprised to find the veranda filled with young women. some of them he knew and sylvia introduced him to the others. "when's rose coming up?" asked sylvia, balancing herself on the veranda rail. "you know she's expected." "do i know she's expected? didn't i have a note from you, aunt sally, ordering me to send her up? she's coming just as soon as i get back, but i think of staying forever." "a man has come and he's come to stay forever," murmured one of the young women. "oh, you're an event!" laughed sylvia. "but don't expect us to spoil you. the sport for to-morrow is tomato pickles, and the man who skipped to-day left because aunt sally wanted him to help scald and peel the tomats. your job is cut out for you." "all right," he replied humbly. "i'll do anything you say but plough or cut wood. my enchanted youth on the farm was filled with those delights, and before i go back to that a swift marathon runner must trip me." he was aware presently that one by one the girls were slipping away; he saw them through the windows settling themselves at the round table of the living-room, where mrs. owen was reading a newspaper. not more than a quarter of an hour had passed when he and sylvia found themselves alone. "i haven't scarlet fever or anything," he remarked, noting the flight with satisfaction. "i suppose we might go inside, too," suggested sylvia obtusely. "oh, i came up for the fresh air! most of my nights lately have been spent in a hot office with not even a june bug for company. how are the neighbors?" "the bassetts? oh, mrs. bassett is not at all well; marian is at home now; blackford is tutoring and getting ready to take the annapolis examinations the first chance he gets." "i saw allen to-day," he remarked carelessly. she said nothing. he moved his chair nearer. "he told me things that scared me to death--among others that he and marian are engaged." "yes, marian told me that." "ah! she really takes it seriously, does she?" "yes, she takes it seriously; why shouldn't she?" "it's the first time she ever took anything seriously; that's all." "please don't speak of her like that, dan. you know she and i are friends, and i thought you and she were friends too. she always speaks of you in the very kindest way. your leaving mr. bassett didn't make any difference with her. and you are the greatest of blackford's heroes next to nelson and farragut." dan laughed. "so it isn't napoleon, and grant and custer any more? i'm glad he's settled down to something." "he's a fine boy with a lot of the right stuff in him. we've been having some lessons together." "tutoring blackford? you'll have to explain the psychological processes that brought that about." "oh, they're simple enough. he hadn't done well in school last year; mrs. bassett was troubled about it. i take him for a couple of hours every morning. mrs. bassett engaged me, and mr. bassett approved of the plan. allen probably told you all the news, but he didn't know just how i came to go to chicago cago to bring marian home. it was to keep the news of that automobile smash from mrs. bassett, and to save marian's own dignity with the willings." "oh! you went at her father's instance, did you?" "yes. i offered to go when i found that he was very angry and likely to deal severely and ungenerously with marian. i thought it would be better for me to go." "as near as i can make out, you've taken the bassetts on your shoulders. i didn't suppose aunt sally would stand for that." "aunt sally doesn't know why i went to chicago. i assume mrs. bassett knows i went to bring marian home, but i don't know what mr. bassett told her about it, and i haven't seen her since. it's possible my going may have displeased her. blackford came here for his lessons this morning." dan moved uneasily. the domestic affairs of the bassetts did not interest him save as they involved sylvia. it was like sylvia to help them out of their scrapes; but sylvia was not a person that he could scold or abuse. "you needed rest and it's too bad you've had to bother with their troubles. bassett was on the boat as i came over. he had a grouch. he doesn't look like a happy man." "i don't suppose he is altogether happy. and i've begged marian not to tell him she wants to marry allen. that would certainly not cheer him any, right now." "i'm glad you had a chance to do that. i told allen to skip right out for europe and hang on to his mother's apron strings till i send for him. this old capulet and montague business doesn't ring quite true in this twentieth century; there's something unreal about it. and just what those youngsters can see in each other is beyond me." "you must be fair about that. we haven't any right to question their sincerity." "oh, allen is sincere enough; but you'll have to show me the documents on marian's side of it. she sees in the situation a great lark. the fact that her father and thatcher are enemies appeals to her romantic instincts." "i think better of it than that, dan. she's a fine, strong, loyal girl with a lot of hard common sense. but that doesn't relieve the situation of its immediate dangers. she's promised me not to speak to her father yet--not until she has my consent. when i see that it can't be helped, i'm going to speak to mr bassett about it myself." "you seem to be the good angel of the bassett household," he remarked sullenly. a lover's jealousy stirred in his heart, he did not like to think of sylvia as preoccupied with the affairs of others, and he saw no peace or happiness ahead for marian and allen. "it's all more wretched than you imagine. this war between thatcher and bassett has passed the bounds of mere political rivalry. there's an implacable hatred there that's got to take its course. allen told me of it this morning when he was trying to enlist me in his cause with marian. it's hideous--a perfectly rotten mess. thatcher is preparing a poisoned arrow for bassett. he's raked up an old scandal, an affair with a woman. it makes my blood run cold to think of its possibilities." "but mr. thatcher wouldn't do such a thing; he might threaten, but he wouldn't really use that sort of weapon!" "you don't know the man, sylvia. he will risk anything to break bassett down. there's nothing respectable about thatcher but his love for allen, and that doesn't redeem everything." "but you won't let it come to that. you have influence enough yourself to stop it. even if you hated him you would protect mrs. bassett and the children." "i could do nothing of the kind, sylvia. now that i've left bassett my influence has vanished utterly. besides, i'm out of politics. i hate the game. it's rotten--rotten clean through." "i don't believe it's quite true that you have lost your influence. i read the newspapers, and some of them are saying that you are the hope of your party, and that you have a large following. but you wouldn't do that, dan; you wouldn't lend yourself to such a thing as that!" "i'm not so sure," he replied doggedly, angry that they should be discussing the subject at all, though to be sure he had introduced it. "a man's family has got to suffer for his acts; it's a part of the punishment. i'd like to see bassett driven out of politics, but i assure you that i don't mean to do it. there's no possibility of my having the chance. he put me in the legislature to use me; and i'm glad that's all over. as i tell you, i'm out of the game." "i don't sympathize with that at all, dan; you not only ought to stay in, but you ought to do all you can to make it impossible for men like bassett and thatcher to have any power. the honor of the state ought to be dear to all of us; and if i belonged to a party i think i should have a care for its honor too." the time was passing. it was not to discuss politics that he had gone to waupegan. "come," he said. "let's find a canoe and get out under the stars." sylvia went for a wrap, and they had soon embarked, skimming along in silence for a time till they were free of the shores. there was no moon, but the stars shone brilliantly; a fitful west wind scarcely ruffled the water. along the deep-shadowed shores the dock lanterns twinkled, and above and beyond them the lamps of the cottages flashed and vanished. dan paddled steadily with a skilled, splashless stroke. the paddle sank noiselessly and rose to the accompaniment of a tinkling drip as the canoe parted the waters. there is nothing like a canoe flight under stars to tranquilize a troubled and perplexed spirit, and dan was soon won to the mood he sought. it seemed to him that sylvia, enfolded in the silvery-dim dusk in the bow, was a part of the peace of sky and water. they were alone, away from the strifes and jars of the world, shut in together as completely as though they had been flung back for unreckoned ages into a world of unbroken calm. the peace that wordsworth sought and sang crept into their blood, and each was sensible that the other knew and felt it and that it was grateful to them both. sylvia spoke, after a time, of immaterial things, or answered his questions as to the identity of the constellations mapped in the clear arch above. "i dream sometimes of another existence," she said, "as i suppose every one does, when i knew a quiet lake that held the stars as this does. i even think i remember how it looked in winter, with the ice gleaming in the moonlight, and of snow coming and the keen winds piling it in drifts. it's odd, isn't it? those memories we have that are not memories. the metempsychosis idea must have some substance. we have all been somebody else sometime, and we clutch at the shadows of our old selves, hardly believing they are shadows." "it's a good deal a matter of imagination, isn't it?" asked dan, idling with the paddle. "oh, but i haven't a bit of that. that's one thing i'm not troubled with, and i'm sorry for it. when i look up at the stars i think of the most hideous formula for calculating their distances from the earth. when i read in a novel that it was a night of stars, i immediately wonder what particular stars. it used to make dear grandfather kelton furiously indignant to find a moon appearing in novels contrary to the almanac; he used to check up all the moons, and he once thought of writing a thesis on the 'erroneous lunar calculations of recent novelists,' but decided that it didn't really make any difference. and of course it doesn't." as they discussed novels new and old, he drew in his paddle and crept nearer her. it seemed to him that all the influences of earth and heaven had combined to create this hour for him. to be talking to her of books that interpreted life and of life itself was in itself something sweet; he wished such comradeship as this, made possible by their common interests in the deep, surging currents of the century in which they lived, to go on forever. their discussion of tolstoy was interrupted by the swift flight of a motor boat that passed near, raising a small sea, and he seized the paddle to steady the canoe. then silence fell upon them. "sylvia" he said softly, and again, "sylvia!" it seemed to him that the silence and the beauty of the night were his ally, communicating to her infinite longings hidden in his heart which he had no words to express. "i love you, sylvia; i love you. i came up to-night to tell you that." "oh, dan, you mustn't say it--you must never say it!" the canoe seemed to hang between water and stars, a motionless argosy in a sea of dreams. "i wanted to tell you before you came away," he went on, not heeding; "i have wanted to tell you for a long time. i want you to marry me. i want you to help me find the good things; i want you to help me to stand for them. you came just when i needed you; you have already changed me, made a different man of me. it was through you that i escaped from my old self that was weak and yielding, and i shall do better; yes, i shall prove to you that i am not so weak but that i can strive and achieve. every word you ever spoke to me is written on my heart. i need you, sylvia!" "you're wrong, you're terribly wrong about all that; and it isn't fair to let you say such things. please, dan! i hoped this would never come--that we should go on as we have been, good friends, talking as we were a while ago of the fine things, the great things. and it will have to be that way--there can be nothing else." "but i will do my best, sylvia! i'm not the man you knew first; you helped me to see the light. without you i shall fall into the dark again. i had to tell you, sylvia. it was inevitable that i should tell you; i wonder i kept it to myself so long. without you i should go adrift--no bearings, no light anywhere." "you found yourself, dan; that was the way of it. i saw it and appreciated it--it meant more to me than i can tell you. i knew exactly how it was that you started as you did; it was part of your fate; but it made possible the finer thing. it's nothing in you or what you've done or may do. but i have my own work to do. i have cut a pattern for my own life, and i must try to follow it. i think you understand about that--i told you that night when we talked of our aims and hopes on the campus at montgomery that i wanted to do something for the world. and i must still go on trying to do that. it's a poor, tiny little gleam; but i must follow the gleam." "but there's nothing in that that we can't do together. we can go on seeking it together," he pleaded. "i hope it may be so. we must go on being the good friends we are now. you and aunt sally are all i have--the best i have. i can't let you spoil that," she ended firmly, as though, after all, this were the one important thing. there was nothing here, he reasoned, that might not be overcome. the work that she had planned to do imposed no barrier. men and women were finding out the joy of striving together; she need give up nothing in joining her life to his. he touched the hand that lay near and thrilled to the contact of her lingers. "please, dan!" she pleaded, drawing her hand away. "i mean to go on with my life as i have begun it. i shall never marry, dan,--marriage isn't in my plan at all. but for you the right woman will come some day--i hope so with all my heart. we must understand all this now. and i must be sure, oh, very sure, that you know how dear it is to have had you say these things to me." "but i shall say them again and always, sylvia! this was only the beginning; i had to speak to-night; i came here to say these things to you. i am able to care for you now--not as i should like to, but i'm going to succeed. i want to ease the way for you; i mean that you mustn't go back to teaching this fall!" "there, you see"--and he knew she smiled in her patient, sweet way that was dear to him--"you want to stop my work before it's begun! you see how impossible it would be, dan!" "but you can do other things; there are infinite ways in which you can be of use, doing the things you want to do. the school work is only a handicap,--drudgery that leads to nothing." he knew instantly that he had erred; and that he must give her no opportunity to defend her attitude toward her work. he returned quickly to his great longing and need. "without you i'm a failure, sylvia. if it hadn't been for you i should never have freed myself of that man over there!" and he lifted his arm toward the lights of the bassett landing on the nearer shore. "no; you would have saved yourself in any case; there's no questioning that. you were bound to do it. and it wasn't the man; it was the base servitude that you came to despise." "not without you! it was your attitude toward me, after that cheap piece of melodrama i figured in in that convention, that brought me up with a short turn. it all came through you--my wish to measure up to your ideal." "that's absurd, dan. if i believed that i should think much less of you; i really should!" she exclaimed. "it was something finer and higher than that; it was your own manhood asserting itself. that man over there," she went on more quietly, "is an object of pity. he's beset on many sides. it hurt him to lose you. he's far from happy." "he has no claim upon happiness; he doesn't deserve happiness," replied dan doggedly. "but the break must have cost you something; haven't you missed him just a little bit?" it was clear from her tone that she wished affirmation of this. the reference to his former employer angered him. he had been rejoicing in his escape from morton bassett, and yet sylvia spoke of him with tolerance and sympathy. the bassetts were coolly using her to extricate themselves from the embarrassments resulting from their own folly; it was preposterous that they should have sent sylvia to bring marian home. and his rage was intensified by the recollection of the pathos he had himself felt in bassett that very evening, as he had watched him mount the steps of his home. sylvia was causing the old chords to vibrate with full knowledge that, in spite of his avowed contempt for the man, morton bassett still roused his curiosity and interest. it was unfair for sylvia to take advantage of this. "bassett's nothing to me," he said roughly. "he seems to me the loneliest soul i ever knew," replied sylvia quietly. "he deserves it; he's brought himself to that." "i don't believe he's altogether evil. there must be good in him." "it's because he's so evil that you pity him; it's because of that that i'm sorry for him. it's because we know that he must be broken upon the wheel before he realizes the vile use he has made of his power that we are sorry for him. why, sylvia, he's the worst foe we have--all of us who want to do what we call the great things--ease the burdens of the poor, make government honest, catch the gleam we seek! even poor allen, when he stands on the monument steps at midnight and spouts to me about the great experiment, feels what morton bassett can't be made to feel." "but he may yet see it; even he may come to see it," murmured sylvia. "he's a hard, stubborn brute; it's in the lines of his back--i was studying him on the boat this evening, and my eyes followed him up the steps after they dropped him at his dock. it's in those strong, iron hands of his. i tell you, what we feel for him is only the kind of pity we have for those we know to be doomed by the gods to an ignominious end. he's not worth our pity. he asks no mercy and he won't get any." he was at once ashamed of the temper to which he had yielded, and angry at himself for having broken the calm of the night with these discordant notes. sylvia's hand touched the water caressingly, waking tiny ripples. "sylvia," he said when he was calm again, "i want you to marry me." "i have told you, dan, that i can never marry any one; and that must be the end of it." "but your work can go on--" he began, ready for another assault upon that barrier. a sailboat loitering in the light wind had stolen close upon them, and passed hardly a paddle's length away. dan, without changing his position, drove the canoe toward the shore with a few strokes of the paddle, then steadied himself to speak again. sylvia's eyes watched the sails vanishing like ghosts into the dark. "that won't do, sylvia: that isn't enough. you haven't said that you don't care for me; you haven't said that you don't love me! and i can't believe that your ambitions alone are in the way. believe me, that i respect them; i should never interfere with them. there must be some other reason. i can't take no for an answer; this night was made for us; no other night will ever be just like this. please, dear, if there are other reasons than my own poor spirit and the little i can offer, let me know it. if you don't care, it will be kinder to say it now! if that is the reason--even if there's some other man--let me know it now. tell me what it is, sylvia!" it was true that she had not said she did not care. her silence now at the direct question stirred new fears to life in his breast, like the beat of startled wings from a thicket in november. only the lights of the sailboat were visible now, but suddenly a girl's voice rose clear and sweet, singing to the accompaniment of guitar and mandolin. the guitar throbbed; and on its deep chords the mandolin wove its melody. the voice seemed to steal out of the heart of the night and float over the still waters. the unseen singer never knew the mockery of the song she sang. it was an old song and the air was one familiar the world round. and it bore the answer to dan's question which sylvia had carried long in her heart, but could not speak. she did not speak it then; it was ordained that she should never speak it. and dan knew and understood. "who is sylvia, what is she, that all the swains adore her?" "_who is sylvia_?" dan knew in that hour the answer of tears! the song ceased. when dan saw sylvia's head lift, he silently took the paddle and impelled the canoe toward the red, white, and blue lanterns that defined mrs. owen's landing. they were within a hundred yards of the intervening green light of the bassett dock when a brilliant meteor darted across the zenith, and dan's exclamation broke the tension. their eyes turned toward the heavens--sylvia's still bright with tears, dan knew, though he could not see her face. "poor lost star!" she murmured softly. dan was turning the canoe slightly to avoid the jutting shore that made a miniature harbor at the bassett's when sylvia uttered a low warning. dan, instantly alert, gripped his paddle and waited. some one had launched a canoe at the bassett boathouse. there was a stealthiness in the performance that roused him to vigilance. he cautiously backed water and waited. a word or two spoken in a low tone reached dan and sylvia: two persons seemed to be embarking. a canoe shot out suddenly from the dock, driven by a confident hand. "it must be marian; but there's some one with her," said sylvia. dan had already settled himself in the stern ready for a race. "it's probably that idiot allen," he growled. "we must follow them." away from the shore shadows the starlight was sufficient to confirm dan's surmise as to the nature of this canoe flight. it was quite ten o'clock, and the lights in the bassett house on the bluff above had been extinguished. it was at once clear to dan that he must act promptly. allen, dismayed by the complications that beset his love-affair, had proposed an elopement, and marian had lent a willing ear. "they're running away, sylvia; we've got to head them off." he bent to his paddle vigorously. "they can't possibly get away." but it was not in marian's blood to be thwarted in her pursuit of adventure. she was past-mistress of the canoeist's difficult art, and her canoe flew on as though drawn away into the dark on unseen cords. "you'd better lend a hand," said dan, and sylvia turned round and knelt, paddling indian fashion. the canoe skimmed the water swiftly. it was in their thoughts that marian and allen must not land at waupegan, where their intentions would be advertised to the world. the race must end before the dock was reached. at the end of a quarter of an hour dan called to sylvia to cease paddling. "we've passed them; there's no doubt of that," he said, peering into the dark. "maybe they're just out for fun and have turned back," suggested sylvia. "i wish i could think so. more likely they're trying to throw us off. let's check up for a moment and see if we hear them again." he kept the canoe moving slowly while they listened for some sign of the lost quarry. then suddenly they heard a paddle stroke behind them, and an instant later a canoe's bow brushed their craft as lightly as a hand passing across paper. dan threw himself forward and grasped the sides firmly; there was a splashing and wobbling as he arrested the flight. a canoe is at once the most docile and the most intractable of argosies. sylvia churned the water with her paddle, seeking to crowd the rocking canoes closer together, while marian endeavored to drive them apart. "allen!" panted dan, prone on the bottom of his canoe and gripping the thwarts of the rebellious craft beside him, "this must end here." "let us go!" cried allen stridently. "this is none of your business. let us go, i say." finding it impossible to free her canoe, marian threw down her paddle angrily. they were all breathless; dan waited till the canoes rode together quietly. sylvia had brought an electric lamp which dan now flashed the length of the captive canoe. it searched the anxious, angry faces of the runaways, and disclosed two suit cases that told their own story. "i told you to keep away from here, allen. you can't do this. it won't do," said dan, snapping off the light; "you're going home with us, marian." "i won't go back; you haven't any right to stop me!" "you haven't any right to run away in this fashion," said sylvia, speaking for the first time. "you would cause endless trouble. it's not the way to do it." "but it's the only way out," stormed allen. "there's no other way. dan told me himself i couldn't speak to mr. bassett, and this is the only thing we could do." "will you kindly tell me just what you intended doing?" asked dan, still gripping the canoe. "i'd spoken to the minister here in the village. marian was going to spend the night at his house and we were to be married in the morning as soon as i could get a license." "you can't get a marriage license in waupegan; your minister ought to know that." "no; but we could have driven over early to the county seat and got it; i tell you i had it all fixed. you let go of that canoe!" "stand by, sylvia," said dan with determination. he steadied himself a moment, stepped into marian's canoe, and caught up her paddle. "wait here, sylvia. i'm going to land allen over there at that dock with the two white lights, and i'll come back with marian and we'll take her home. flash the light occasionally so i shan't lose you." a few minutes later when allen, sulky and breathing dire threats, had been dropped ashore, harwood paddled marian home, sylvia trailing behind. it was near midnight when sylvia, having hidden marian's suit case in mrs. owen's boathouse, watched the tearful and wrathful juliet steal back into her father's house. allen lodged at the inn with dan that night and, duly urged not to make a fool of himself again, went home by the morning train. chapter xxx the king hath summoned his parliament the great seal of the hoosier commonwealth, depicting a sturdy pioneer felling a tree while behind him a frightened buffalo gallops madly into oblivion, was affixed to a proclamation of the governor convening the legislature in special session on the th of november. it was morton bassett's legislature, declared the republican press, brought back to the capital to do those things which it had left undone at the regular session. the democratic newspapers proved conclusively that the demands of the state institutions said to be in dire need were the fruit of a long period of republican extravagance, for which the democratic party, always prone to err on the side of frugality, was in no wise responsible. the republican governor had caused the legislative halls to be reopened merely to give a false impression of democratic incompetence, but in due season the people would express their opinion of that governor. so reasoned loyal democrats. legislatures are not cheap, taken at their lowest valuation, and a special session, costing something like one hundred thousand of the people's dollars, is an extravagance before which a governor may well hesitate. this particular convocation of the hoosier lawmakers, summoned easily enough by a stroke of the pen, proved to be expensive in more ways than one. on the third day of the special session, when the tardiest member, hailing from the remote fastnesses of switzerland county, was just finding his seat, and before all the others had drawn their stationery and registered a generous computation of their mileage, something happened. the bill for an act entitled an act to lift the lid of the treasure chests was about to be read for the first time when a page carried a telegram to morton bassett in the senate chamber. senator bassett read his message once and again. his neighbors on the floor looked enviously upon the great man who thus received telegrams without emotion. it seemed, however, to those nearest him, that the bit of yellow paper shook slightly in bassett's hand the clerk droned on to an inattentive audience. bassett put down the telegram, looked about, and then got upon his feet. the lieutenant-governor, yawning and idly playing with his gavel, saw with relief that the senator from fraser wished to interrupt the proceedings. "mr. president." "the senator from fraser." "mr. president, i ask leave to interrupt the reading of the bill to make an announcement." "there being no objection, the senator will make his announcement." senators who had been smoking in the cloakroom, or talking to friends outside the railing, became attentive. the senator from fraser was little given to speech, and it might be that he meant at this time to indicate the attitude of the majority toward the appropriations asked by the governor. in any event, it was always wise to listen to anything morton bassett had to say. the senator was unusually deliberate. even when he had secured the undivided attention of the chamber he picked up the telegram and read it through again, as though to familiarize himself with its contents. "mr. president, i have just received the following message from a personal friend in washington: 'the honorable roger b. ridgefield, united states senator from indiana, while on a hunting trip in chesapeake bay with a party of baltimore friends, died suddenly this morning. the death occurred at a point remote from the telegraph. no particulars have yet been received at washington.' it is with profound sorrow, mr. president, that i make this announcement. though senator ridgefield had long been my political antagonist, he had also been, for many years, a valued personal friend. the republican party has lost one of its great leaders, and the state of indiana a son to whom men of all parties have given their ungrudging admiration. mr. president, i move that the senate do now adjourn to meet at ten o'clock to-morrow morning." even before the motion could be put, bassett was passing about among the desks. the men he spoke to nodded understandingly. a mild, subdued excitement reigned in the chamber. it flashed through the mind of every democratic member that that death in the chesapeake had brought a crisis in the war between bassett and thatcher. in due course the assembly, convened in joint session, would mourn decorously the death of a statesman who had long and honorably represented the old hoosier state in the greatest tribunal on earth; and his passing would be feelingly referred to in sonorous phrases as an untoward event, a deplorable and irreparable loss to the commonwealth. to republicans, however, it was a piece of stupendous ill-luck that the senator should have indulged in the childish pastime of duck shooting at an inconvenient season when the democratic majority in the general assembly would be able to elect a successor to complete his term of office. when the gavel fell, adjourning the senate, gentlemen were already seeking in the federal constitution for the exact language of the section bearing upon this emergency. if the republican governor had not so gayly summoned the legislature he might have appointed a senator of his own political faith to serve until the next regular session, following the elections a year hence. it was ungenerous and disloyal of roger b. ridgefield to have taken himself out of the world in this abrupt fashion. before the first shock had passed, there were those about the state house who, scanning the newspaper extras, were saying that a secret fondness for poker and not an enthusiasm for ducks had led the honorable roger b. ridgefield to the remote arm of the chesapeake, where he had been the guest of a financier whose influence in the upper house of congress was notoriously pernicious. this did not, however, alter the immediate situation. the language of the federal and state constitutions was all too explicit for the republican minority; it was only in recess that a governor might fill a vacancy; and beyond doubt the general assembly was in town, lawfully brought from the farm, the desk, the mine, and the factory, as though expressly to satisfy the greed for power of a voracious democracy. groups of members were retiring to quiet corners to discuss the crisis. bassett had already designated a committee room where he would meet his followers and stanch adherents. thatcher men had gone forth to seek their chief. the democrats would gain a certain moral strength through the possession of a senator in congress. the man chosen to fill the vacancy would have an almost irresistible claim upon the senatorship if the democrats should control the next legislature. it was worth fighting for, that dead man's seat! the full significance of the news was not wasted upon representative harwood. the house adjourned promptly, and dan hastened to write telegrams. he wired colonel ramsay, of aurora, to come to the capital on the first train. telegrams went flying that afternoon to every part of indiana. thatcher read the evening papers in chicago and kept the wires hot while he waited for the first train for indianapolis. one of his messages, addressed to harwood, read: "breakfast with me to-morrow morning at my house. strictly private. this is your big chance." harwood, locked in his office in the law building, received this message by telephone, and it aroused his ire. his relations with thatcher did not justify that gentleman in tendering him a strictly private breakfast, nor did he relish having a big chance pointed out to him by mr. thatcher. it cannot be denied that dan, too, felt that senator ridgefield had chosen a most unfortunate season for exposing himself to the ravages of the pneumococcus. he kept away from the state house and hotels that evening, having decided to take no part in the preliminary skirmishes until he had seen ramsay, who would bring a cool head and a trained hand to bear upon this unforeseen situation. he studied the newspapers as he ate breakfast alone at the university club early the next morning. the "advertiser" had neatly divided its first page between the honorable roger b. ridgefield, dead in a far country, and the honorable morton bassett, who, it seemed, was very much alive at the hoosier capital. a double column headline conveyed this intelligence:-- bassett is himself again harwood, nibbled his toast and winnowed the chaff of speculation from the grains of truth in this article. he had checked off the names of all the bassett men in both houses of the assembly, and listed thatcher's supporters and the doubtful members. bassett would undoubtedly make a strong showing in a caucus, but whether he would be able to command a majority remained to be seen. there were men among the doubtful who would be disposed to favor thatcher because he had driven a wedge into the old bassett stone wall. no one else had ever succeeded in imperiling the security of that impregnable stronghold. the thought of this made harwood uncomfortable. it was unfortunate from every standpoint that the legislature should be called upon to choose a senator without the usual time for preparation. dan had already been struck by the general air of irresponsibility that prevailed among the legislators. many of the members had looked upon the special session as a lark; they seemed to feel that their accountability to their constituents had ended with the regular session. the "courier," dan observed, printed an excellent biographical sketch of the dead senator, and its news article on the democratic opportunity was seemly and colorless. the state and federal statutes bearing upon the emergency were quoted in full, but the names of bassett and thatcher did not appear, nor were any possible successors to ridgefield mentioned. dan opened to the editorial page, and was not surprised to find the leading article a dignified eulogy of the dead senator. then his eye fastened upon an article so placed that it dominated the whole page. it was the old "stop, look, listen!" editorial, reproduced with minute citation of the date of original publication. dan flinched as though a cupful of ice water had struck him in the face. whatever scandalous knowledge touching bassett's public or private life thatcher might possess, it was plain that bassett was either ignorant of it or knew and did not fear exposure. in either event, the republication of the "stop, look, listen!" article was an invitation to battle. it was in no happy frame of mind that harwood awaited the coming of ramsay. chapter xxxi sylvia asks questions the wares had asked sylvia to dine with them on friday evening a fortnight later, and harwood was to call for her at the minister's at nine o'clock. sylvia went directly to the wares' from school, and on reaching the house learned that mrs. ware had not come home and that the minister was engaged with a caller in the parlor. sylvia, who knew the ways of the house well, left her wraps in the hall and made herself comfortable in the study, that curious little room that was never free from the odor of pipe smoke, and where an old cavalry sabre hung above the desk upon which in old times many sermons had been written. a saddle, a fishing-rod, and a fowling-piece dwelt together harmoniously in one corner, and over the back of a chair hung a dilapidated corduroy coat. it had been whispered in orthodox circles that ware had amused himself one winter after his retirement by profanely feeding his theological library into the furnace. however true this may be, few authors were represented in his library, and these were as far as possible compressed in one volume. shakespeare, milton, emerson, arnold, and whittier were always ready to his hand; and he kept a supply of slender volumes of sill's "poems" in a cupboard in the hall and handed them out discriminatingly to his callers. the house was the resort of many young people, some of them children of ware's former parishioners, and he was much given to discussing books with them; or he would read aloud--"sohrab and rustum," lowell's essay on lincoln, or favorite chapters from "old curiosity shop"; or again, it might be a review article on the social trend or a fresh view of an old economic topic. the wares' was the pleasantest of small houses and after mrs. owen's the place sought oftenest by sylvia. "there's a gentleman with mr. ware: he's been here a long time," said the maid, lingering to lay a fresh stick of wood on the grate fire. sylvia, warming her hands at the blaze, heard the faint blur of voices from the parlor. she surveyed the room with the indifference of familiarity, glanced at a new magazine, and then sat down at the desk and picked up a book she had never noticed before. she was surprised to find it a copy of "society and solitude" that did not match the well-thumbed set of emerson--one of the few "sets" ware owned. she passed her hand over the green covers, that were well worn and scratched in places. the fact that the minister boasted in his humorous way of never wasting money on bindings caused sylvia to examine this volume with an attention she would not have given it in any other house. on the fly leaf was written in pencil, in ware's rough, uneven hand, an inscription which covered the page, with the last words cramped in the lower corner. these were almost illegible, but sylvia felt her way through them slowly, and then turned to the middle of the book quickly with an uncomfortable sense of having read a private memorandum of the minister's. the margins of his books she knew were frequently scribbled over with notes that meant nothing whatever to any one but ware himself. after a moment her eyes sought again irresistibly the inscription. she re-read it slowly:-- "the way of peace they know not; and there is no judgment in their goings; they have made them crooked paths; whosoever goeth therein shall not know peace. tramping in adirondacks. baptized elizabeth at harris's." it was almost like eavesdropping to come in this way upon that curiously abrupt ware-like statement of the minister's: "tramping in adirondacks. baptized elizabeth at harris's." the discussion in the parlor had become heated, and occasionally words in a voice not ware's reached sylvia distinctly. some one was alternately beseeching and threatening the minister. it was clear from the pauses in which she recognized ware's deep tones that he was yielding neither to the importunities nor the threats of his blustering caller. sylvia had imagined that the storms of life had passed over the retired clergyman, and she was surprised that such an interview should be taking place in his house. she was about to retreat to the dining-room to be out of reach of the voices when the parlor door opened abruptly and thatcher appeared, with anger unmistakably showing in his face, and apparently disposed to resume in the hall the discussion which the minister had terminated in the library. thatcher seemed balder and more repellent than when she had first seen him on the floor of the convention hall on the day harwood uttered bassett's defiance. sylvia rose with the book still in her hand and walked to the end of the room; but any one in the house might have heard what thatcher was saying. "that's the way with you preachers; you talk about clean politics, and when we get all ready to clean out a bad man, you duck; you're a lot of cowardly dodgers. i tell you, i don't want you to say a word or figure in this thing at all; but you give me that book and i'll scare mort bassett out of town. i'll scare him clean out of indiana, and he'll never show his head again. why, ware, i've been counting on it, that when you saw we were in a hole and going to lose, you'd come down from your high horse and help me out. i tell you, there's no doubt about it; that woman's the woman i'm looking for! i guessed it the night you told that story up there in the house-boat." "quit this business, ed," the minister was saying; "i'm an old friend of yours. but i won't budge an inch. i'd never breathed a word of that story before and i shouldn't have told it that night. it was so far back that i thought it was safe. but your idea that bassett had anything to do with that is preposterous. your hatred of him has got the better of you, my friend. drop it: forget it. if you can't whip him fair, let him win." "not much i won't; but i didn't think you'd go back on me; i thought better of you than that!" thatcher strode to the door and went out, slamming it after him. the minister peered into the library absently, and then, surprised to find sylvia, advanced to meet her, smiling gravely. he took both her hands, and held them, looking into her face. "what's this you've been reading? ah, that book!" the volume slipped into his hands and he glanced at it, frowning impatiently. "poor little book. i ought to have burned it years ago; and i ought to have learned by this time to keep my mouth shut. they've always said i look like an indian, but an indian never tells anything. i've told just one story too many. _mea maxima culpa!_" he sat down in the big chair beside his desk, placed the book within reach, and kept touching it as he talked. "i saw mr. thatcher," said sylvia. "he seemed very much aroused. i couldn't help hearing a word now and then." "that's all right, sylvia. i've known thatcher for years, and last fall i went up to his house-boat on the kankakee for a week's shooting. allen and dan harwood were the rest of the party--and i happened to tell the story of this little book--an unfinished story. we ought never to tell stories until they are finished. and it seems that thatcher, with a zeal worthy of a better cause, has been raking up the ashes of an old affair of bassett's with a woman, and he's trying to hitch it on to the story i told him about this book. he says by shaking this at bassett he can persuade him that he's got enough ammunition to blow him out of the water. but i don't believe a word of it; i won't believe such a thing of morton bassett. and even if i did, thatcher can't have that book. i owe it to the woman whose baby i baptized up there in the hills to keep it. and the woman may be living, too, for all i know. i think of her pretty often. she was game; wouldn't tell anything. if a man had deceived her she stood by him. whatever she was--i know she was not bad, not a bit of it--the spirit of the hills had entered into her--and those are cleansing airs up there. i suppose it all made the deeper impression on me because i was born up there myself. when i strike adirondacks in print i put down my book and think a while. it's a picture word. it brings back my earliest childhood as far as i can remember. i call words that make pictures that way moose words; they jump up in your memory like a scared moose in a thicket and crash into the woods like a cavalry charge. i can remember things that happened when i was three years old: one day father shot a deer in our cornfield and i recall it perfectly. the general atmosphere of the old place steals over me yet. the very thought of the pointed spruces, the feathery tamaracks, all the scents and sounds of summer, and the long, white winters, does my soul good now. the old hebrews understood the effect of landscape on character. they knew most everything, those old chaps. 'i will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.' any strength there is in me dates back to the hills of my youth. i'd like to go back there to die when the bugle calls." mrs. ware had not yet come in. ware lighted the lamp and freshened the fire. while he was doing this, sylvia moved to a chair by the table and picked up the book. what ware had said about the hills of his youth, the woods, the word tamarack that he had dropped carelessly, touched chords of memory as lightly as a breeze vibrates a wind harp. was this merely her imagination that had been stirred, or was it indeed a recollection? often before she had been moved by similar vague memories or longings, whatever they were. they had come to trouble her girlhood at montgomery, when the snow whitened the campus and the wind sang in the trees. she was grateful that the minister had turned his back. her hands trembled as she glanced again at the scribbled fly leaf; and more closely at the words penciled at the bottom: "baptized elizabeth at harris's." thatcher wanted this book to use against bassett. bassett was a collector of fine bindings; she had heard it spoken of in the family. it was part of marian's pride in her father that he was a bookish man. when the minister returned to his seat sylvia asked as she put down the book:-- "who was elizabeth?" and then, little by little, in his abrupt way, he told the story, much as he had told it that night on the kankakee, with pauses for which sylvia was grateful--they gave her time for thought, for filling in the lapses, for visualizing the scene he described. and the shadow of the morton bassett she knew crept into the picture. she recalled their early meetings, that first brief contact on the shore of the lake; their talk on the day following the convention when she had laughed at him; that wet evening when they met in the street and he had expressed his interest in harwood and the hope that she might care for the young lawyer. with her trained habits of reasoning she rejected this or that bit of testimony as worthless; but even then enough remained to chill her heart. her hands were cold as she clasped them together. who was elizabeth? ah, who was sylvia? the phrase of the song that had brought her to tears that starry night on the lake when dan harwood had asked her to marry him smote her again. her grandfather's evasion of her questions about her father and mother, and the twinges of heartache she had experienced at college when other girls spoke of their homes, assumed now for the first time a sinister meaning. had she, indeed, come into the world in dishonor, and had she in truth known that far hill country, with its evergreens and glistening snows? ware had finished his story, and sat staring into the crackling fire. at last he turned toward sylvia. in the glow of the desk lamp her face was white, and she gazed with unseeing eyes at the inscription in the book. the silence was still unbroken when a few minutes later mrs. ware came in with harwood, whom she had met in the street and brought home to dinner. dan was full of the situation in the legislature, and the table talk played about that topic. "we're sparring for time, that's all, and the people pay the freight! the deadlock is clamped on tight. i never thought thatcher would prove so strong. i think we could shake loose enough votes from both sides to precipitate a stampede for ramsay, but he won't hear to it. he says he wants to do the state one patriotic service before he dies by cleaning out the bosses, and he doesn't want to spoil the record by taking the senatorship himself. meanwhile bassett stands fast and there's no telling when he'll break through thatcher's lines." "thatcher was here to see me to-day--the third time. he won't come back. you know what he's after?" said ware. "yes; i understand," dan answered. "there won't be anything of that kind, will there, dan?" dan shrugged his shoulders, and glanced at sylvia and mrs. ware. "mrs. ware knows about it; i had to tell her," remarked the minister, chuckling. "when ed thatcher makes two calls on me in one week, and one of them at midnight, there's got to be an explanation. and sylvia heard him raving before i showed him out this afternoon." sylvia's plate was untouched; her eyes searched those of the man who loved her before she spoke. "that's an ethical point, mr. ware. if it were necessary to use that,--if every other resource failed,--would you use it?" "no! not if bassett's success meant the utter destruction of the state. i don't believe a word of it. i haven't the slightest confidence in thatcher's detective work, and the long arm of coincidence has to grasp something firmer than my pitiful little book to convince me." dan shook his head. "he doesn't need the book, mr. ware. i've seen the documents in the case. most of the evidence is circumstantial, but you remember what your friend thoreau said about circumstantial evidence--something to the effect that it's sometimes pretty convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk." "but has thatcher found the trout?" "well, no; he hasn't exactly found the trout, but there's enough, there's altogether too much!" ended dan despairingly. "the caucus doesn't meet again till to-morrow night, when thatcher promises to show his hand. i'm going to put in the time trying to persuade ramsay to come round." "you might take it yourself, dan," suggested mrs. ware. "oh, i'm not eligible; i'm a little shy of being old enough! and besides, i couldn't allow ramsay to prove himself a better patriot than i am. there are plenty of fellows who have no such scruples, and we've got to look out or bassett will shift suddenly to some man of his own if he finds he can't nominate himself." "but do you think he has any idea what thatcher has up his sleeve?" asked ware. "it's possible; i dare say he knows it. he's always been master of the art of getting information from the enemy's camp. but thatcher has shown remarkable discretion in managing this. he tells me solemnly that nobody on earth knows his intentions except you, allen, and me. he's saving himself for a broadside, and he wants its full dramatic effect." sylvia had hardly spoken during this discussion; but the others looked at her curiously as she said:-- "i don't think he has it to fire; it's incredible; i don't believe it." "neither do i, sylvia," said the minister earnestly. the talk at the wares' went badly that evening. harwood's mind was on the political situation. as he sat in the minister's library he knew that in upper chambers of the state house, and in hotels and boarding-houses, members of the majority in twos and threes, or here and there a dozen, were speculating and plotting. the deadlock was becoming intolerable. interest in the result was keen in all parts of the country, and the new york and chicago newspapers had sent special representatives to watch the fight. dan was sick of the sight and sound of it. in the strict alignment of factions he had voted with thatcher, yet he told himself he was not a thatcher man. he had personally projected ramsay's name one night in the hope of breaking the bassett phalanx, but the only result was to arouse thatcher's wrath against him. bassett's men believed in bassett. the old superstition as to his invulnerability had never more thoroughly possessed the imaginations of his adherents. bassett was not only himself again, but his iron grip seemed tighter than ever he was making the fight of his life, and he was beyond question a "game" fighter, the opposition newspapers that most bitterly opposed bassett tempered their denunciations with this concession. dan fumed at this, such bosses were always game fighters, they had to be, and the readiness of americans to admire the gameness of the bassetts deepened his hostility. the very use of sporting terminology in politics angered him. in his mind the case was docketed not as thatcher _versus_ bassett, but as thatcher and bassett _versus_ the people. it all came to that. and why should not the people--the poor, meek, long-suffering people, the "pee-pul" of familiar derision--sometimes win? his pride in the state of his birth was strong; his pride in his party was only second to it. he would serve both if he could. not only must bassett be forever put down, but thatcher also; and he assured himself that it was not the men he despised, but the wretched, brutal mediæval system that survived in them. and so pondering, it was no wonder that dan brought no joy to john ware's library that night. the minister himself seemed unwontedly preoccupied; sylvia stared at the fire as though seeking in the flames answers to unanswerable questions. mrs. ware sought vainly to bring cheer to the company: shortly after eight o'clock, sylvia rose to leave. "aunt sally got home from kentucky this afternoon, and i must drop in for a minute, dan, if you don't mind." sylvia hardly spoke on the way to mrs. owen's. since that night on the lake she had never been the same, or so it seemed to dan. she had gone back to her teaching, and when they met she talked of her work and of impersonal things. once he had broached the subject of marriage,--soon after her return to town,--but she had made it quite clear that this was a forbidden topic. the good comradeship ship and frankness of their intercourse had passed, and it seemed to his despairing lover's heart that it could never be regained. she carried her head a little higher; her smile was not the smile of old. he shrank from telling her that nothing mattered if she cared for him as he believed she did. she gave him no chance, for one thing, and he had never in his bitter self-communing found any words in which to tell her so. more than ever he needed sylvia, but sylvia had locked and barred the doors against him. mrs. owen received them in her office, and the old lady's cheeriness was grateful to both of them. "so you've been having supper with the wares, have you, while i ate here all by myself? a nice way to treat a lone old woman,--leaving me to prop the 'indiana farmer' on the coffee pot for company! i had to stay at lexington longer than i wanted to, and some of my kentucky cousins held me up in louisville. i notice, daniel, that there are some doings at the state house. i must say it was a downright sin for old ridgefield to go duck shooting at his time of life and die just when we were getting politics calmed down in this state. when i saw that old 'stop, look, listen!' editorial printed like a thanksgiving proclamation in the 'courier,' i knew there was trouble. i must speak to atwill. he's letting the automobile folks run the paper again." she demanded to know when dan would have time to do some work for her; she had disposed of her kentucky farm and was going ahead with her scheme for a vocational school to be established at waupegan. this was the first that dan had heard of this project, and its bearing upon the hopes of the bassetts as the heirs apparent of mrs. owen's estate startled him. "i want you to draw up papers covering the whole business, daniel, but you've got to get rid of your legislature first. i thought of a good name for the school, sylvia. we'll call it elizabeth house school, to hitch it on to the boarding-house. i want you and daniel to go down east with me right after christmas to look at some more schools where they do that kind of work. we'll have some fun next spring tearing up the farm and putting up the new buildings. are hallie and marian in town, sylvia?" "no, they're at fraserville," sylvia replied. "and i had a note from blackford yesterday. he's doing well at school now." "well, i guess you did that for him, sylvia. i hope they're all grateful for that." "oh, it was nothing; and they paid me generously for my work." "humph!" mrs. owen sniffed. "children, there are things in this world that a check don't settle." there were some matters of business to be discussed. dan had at last received an offer for the kelton house at montgomery, and mrs. owen thought he ought to be able to screw the price up a couple of hundred dollars. "i'm all ready to close the estate when the sale is completed," said dan. "practically everything will be cleaned up when the house is sold. that canneries stock that we inventoried as worthless is pretty sure to pan out. i've refused to compromise." "that's right, daniel. don't you compromise that case. this skyrocket finance is all right for new york, but we can't allow it here in the country where folks are mostly square or trying to be." "it seems hard to let the house go," said sylvia. "it's given mary a home and we'll have to find a place for her." "oh, that's all fixed," remarked mrs. owen. "i've got work for her at elizabeth house. she can do the darning and mending. daniel, have you brought the papers from andrew's safety box over here?" "yes, aunt sally; i did that the last time i was in montgomery. i wanted to examine the abstract of title and be ready to close this sale if you and sylvia approved of it." "well, well," mrs. owen said, in one of those irrelevances that adorned her conversation. dan knew what was in her mind. since that night on waupegan, blessed forever by sylvia's tears, the letter found among professor kelton's papers had led him through long, intricate mazes of speculation. it was the torn leaf from a book that was worthless without the context; a piece of valuable evidence, but inadmissible unless supported and illuminated by other testimony. [illustration: sylvia must know just what we know] sylvia had been singularly silent, and mrs. owen's keen eyes saw that something was amiss. she stopped talking, as much as to say, "now, if you young folks have anything troubling you, now's your time to come out with it." an old clock on the stair landing boomed ten. mrs. owen stirred restlessly. sylvia, sitting in a low chair by the fire, clasped her hands abruptly, clenched them hard, and spoke, turning her head slowly until her eyes rested upon dan. "dan," she asked, "did you ever know--do you know now--what was in the letter you carried to grandfather kelton that first time i saw you--the time i went to find grandfather for you?" dan glanced quickly at mrs. owen. "answer sylvia's question, daniel," the old lady replied. "yes; i learned later what it was. and aunt sally knows." "tell me; tell me what you know about it," commanded sylvia gravely, and her voice was clear now. dan hesitated. he rose and stood with his arm resting on the mantel. "it's all right, daniel. now that sylvia has asked, she must know just what we know," said mrs. owen. "the letter was among your grandfather's papers. it was an offer to pay for your education. it was an unsigned letter." "but you know who wrote it?" asked sylvia, not lifting her head. "no; i don't know that," he replied earnestly; "we haven't the slightest idea." "but how did you come to be the messenger? who gave you the letter?" she persisted quietly. "daniel never told me that, sylvia. but if you want to know, he must tell you. it might be better for you not to know; you must consider that. it can make no difference now of any kind." "it may make a difference," said sylvia brokenly, not lifting her head; "it may make a great deal of difference. that's why i speak of it; that's why i must know!" "go on, daniel; answer sylvia's question." "mr. fitch gave it to me. it had been entrusted to him for delivery by a personal friend or a client: i never knew. he assured me that he had no idea what the letter contained; but he knew of course where it came from. he chose me for the errand, i suppose, because i was a new man in the office, and a comparative stranger in town. i remember that he asked me if i had ever been in montgomery, as though to be sure i had no acquaintances there. i carried back a verbal answer--which was stipulated in the letter. the answer was 'no,' and in what way mr. fitch passed it on to his client i never knew." "you didn't tell me those things when we found the letter, daniel," said mrs. owen reproachfully. the old lady opened a drawer, found a chamois skin, and polished her glasses slowly. dan walked away as though to escape from that figure with averted face crouching by the fire. but without moving sylvia spoke again, with a monotonous level of tone, and her question had the empty ring of a lawyer's interrogatory worn threadbare by repetition to a succession of witnesses:-- "at that time was mr. bassett among the clients of wright and fitch, and did you ever see him in the office then, or at any time?" mrs. owen closed the drawer deliberately and raised her eyes to dan's affrighted gaze. "daniel, you'd better run along now. sylvia's going to spend the night here." sylvia had not moved or spoken again when the outer door closed on harwood. chapter xxxii "my beautiful one" miss farrell was surprised to find her employer already in his office when she unlocked the door at eight o'clock the next morning, and her surprise was increased when harwood, always punctilious in such matters, ignored the good-morning with which she greeted him. the electric lights over dan's desk were burning, a fact not lost upon his stenographer. it was apparent that harwood had either spent the night in his office or had gone to work before daylight. rose's eyes were as sharp as her wits, and she recognized at a glance the file-envelopes and papers relating to the kelton estate, many of them superscribed in her own hand, that lay on harwood's desk. she snapped off the lights with an air that implied reproof, or could not have failed of that effect if the man at the desk had been conscious of the act. he was hopelessly distraught and his face appeared no less pallid in daylight than in the electric glare in which rose had found him. as the girl warmed her hands at the radiator in the reception room the telephone chimed cheerily. the telephone provides a welcome companionship for the office girl: its importunities and insolences are at once her delight and despair. rose took down the receiver with relief. she parleyed guardedly with an unseen questioner and addressed harwood from the door in the cautious, apologetic tone with which wise office girls break in upon the meditations of their employers. "pardon me, mr. harwood. shall i say you're engaged. it's mr. thatcher." dan half-turned and replied with a tameness rose had not expected. "say what you please, rose; only i don't want to talk to him or see him, or anybody." the clock in the court-house tower boomed nine sombrely. dan distrusted its accuracy as he distrusted everything in the world that morning. he walked listlessly to the window and compared the face of the clock with his watch. he had thought it must be noon; but the hour of the day did not matter greatly. "it's all right," said rose meekly from the door. "i told him you were probably at the state house." "whom? oh, thank you, rose." and then, as though to ease her conscience for this mild mendacity, he added: "i believe i did have an engagement over there at nine." "he said--" rose began warily; and then gave him an opportunity to cut her short. "what did he say?" "oh, he was hot! he said if you came in before he found you, to say that if you and ramsay didn't help him deliver the freight to-day he would get action to-morrow; that that's the limit." "he said to-morrow, did he? very well, rose. that's all." rose, virtuously indexing the letter-book, saw harwood as he idly ranged the rooms try the hall door to make sure it was bolted. then he stood at the window of his own room, staring at nothing. the telephone chimed cheerfully at intervals. ramsay sought him; thatcher had stationed one of his allies at a telephone booth in the state house corridor to call the office at regular intervals. newspaper reporters demanded to know where harwood could be found; the governor, rankling under the criticism he had brought upon his party by the special session, wished to see harwood to learn when, if possible, the legislature would take itself home. to these continual importunities rose replied in tones of surprise, regret, or chagrin, as the individual case demanded, without again troubling her employer. the index completed, she filed papers, smoothed her yellow hair at the wash stand, exchanged fraternal signals with a girl friend in the office opposite, and read the "courier's" report of the senatorial struggle with complete understanding of its intricacies. "rose!" it was twelve o'clock when harwood called her. he had brushed aside the mass of documents she had noted on her arrival, and a single letter sheet lay before him. without glancing up he bade her sit down. she had brought her notebook prepared to take dictation. he glanced at it and shook his head. the tired, indifferent harwood she had found at the end of his night vigil had vanished; he was once more the alert, earnest young man of action she admired. "rose, i want to ask you some questions. i think you will believe me if i say that i shouldn't ask them if they were not of importance--of very great importance." "all right, mr. harwood." her eyes had fallen upon the letter and her lids fluttered quickly. she touched her pompadour with the back of her hand and tightened the knot of her tie. "this is on the dead, rose. it concerns a lot of people, and it's important for me to know the truth. and it's possible that you may not be able to help; but if you can't the matter ends here." he rose and closed the door of his room to shut out the renewed jingle of the telephone. "i want you to look at this letter and tell me whether you ever saw it before." she took it from him, glanced at the first line indifferently, looked closely at the paper, and gave it back, shaking her head. "we never had anything like that in the office, paper or machine either. that's heavier than the stationery you had over in the boordman building, and that's a black ribbon; we've always used purple copying-ribbons. and that letter wasn't copied; you can tell that." "that doesn't answer my question, rose. i want to know whether you ever saw that letter before. perhaps you'd better take another look at it." "oh, i can tell any of my work across the street! i don't know anything about that letter, mr. harwood." her indifference had yielded to respectful indignation. she set her lips firmly, and her blue eyes expressed surprise that her employer should be thus subjecting her to cross-examination. "i understand perfectly, rose, that this is unusual, and that it is not quite on the square. but this is strictly between ourselves. it's on the dead, you understand." "oh, i'd do anything for you that i'd do for anybody, yes, sir--i'd do more: but i refused ten thousand dollars for what i know about what happened in the transportation committee that winter i was its stenog. that's a lot of money; it would take care of me for the rest of my life; and you know thatcher kept after me until i had to tell him a few things i'd do to him if he didn't let me alone. i'll answer your question straight," and she looked him in the eye, "i never saw that letter before, and i don't know anything about it. is that all?" "to go back again, rose," resumed dan patiently, "not many girls would have the strength to resist a temptation like that, as you did. but this is a very different case. i need your help, but it isn't for myself that i'm trying to trace that letter. if it weren't a matter of actual need i shouldn't trouble you--be sure of that." "i always thought you were on the square, but you're asking me to do something you wouldn't do yourself. and i've told you again that i don't know anything about that letter; i never saw it before." she tapped the edge of the desk to hide the trembling of her fingers. the tears shone suddenly in her blue eyes. dan frowned, but the frown was not for rose. she had already betrayed herself; he was confident from her manner that she knew. the prompt denial of any knowledge of the fateful sheet of paper for which he had hoped all night had not been forthcoming. but mere assumptions would not serve him; he had walked in darkness too long not to crave the full light. the pathos of this girl's loyalty had touched him; her chance in life had been the slightest, she had been wayward and had erred deeply, and yet there were fastnesses of honor in her soul that remained unassailable. her agitation distressed him; he had never seen her like this; he missed the little affectations and the droll retorts that had always amused him. she was no longer the imperturbable and ready young woman whose unwearying sunniness and amazing intuitions had so often helped him through perplexities. "as a matter of your own honor, rose, you wouldn't tell me. but if the honor of some one else--" she shook her head slowly, and he paused. "no," she said. "i'm only a poor little devil of a stenog and i've been clear down,--you know that,--but i won't do it. i turned down thatcher's ten thousand dollars, and i turned it down hard. the more important that letter is, the less i know about it. i'll go into court and swear i never saw or heard of it before. i don't know anything about it. if you want me to quit, it's all right; it's all right, mr. harwood. you've been mighty good to me and i hate to go; but i guess i'd better quit." he did not speak until she was quite calm again. as a last resource he must shatter her fine loyalty by an appeal to her gratitude. "rose, if some one you knew well--some one who had been the kindest of friends, and who had lent you a hand when you needed it most--were in danger, and i needed your help to protect--that person--would you tell me?" their eyes met; she looked away, and then, as she met his gaze again, her lips parted and the color deepened in her face. "you don't mean--" she began. "i mean that this is to help me protect a dear friend of yours and of mine. i shouldn't have told you this if it hadn't been necessary. it's as hard for me as it is for you, rose. there's a great deal at stake. innocent people will suffer if i'm unable to manage this with full knowledge of all the facts. you think back, six years ago last spring, and tell me whether you have any knowledge, no matter how indefinite, as to where that letter was written." "you say," she began haltingly, "there's a friend of mine that i could help if i knew anything about your letter? you'll have to tell me who it is." "i'd rather not do that; i'd rather not mention any names, not even to you." she was drying her eyes with her handkerchief. her brows knit, she bent her head for an instant, and then stared at him in bewilderment and unbelief, and her lips trembled. "you don't mean my friend--my beautiful one!--not the one who picked me up out of the dirt--" she choked and her slender frame shook--and then she smiled wanly and ended with the tears coursing down her cheeks. "my beautiful one, who took me home again and kissed me--she kissed me here!" she touched her forehead as though the act were part of some ritual, then covered her eyes. "you don't mean"--she cried out suddenly,--"you don't mean it's that!" "no; it's not that; far from _that_," replied dan sadly, knowing what was in her mind. he went out and closed the door upon her. he called mrs. owen on the telephone and told her he would be up immediately. then he went back to rose. "it was like this, mr. harwood," said the girl, quite composed again. "i knew him--pretty well--you know the man i mean. after that transportation committee work i guess he thought he had to keep his hand on me. he's like that, you know. if he thinks anybody knows anything on him he watches them and keeps a tight grip on them, all right. you know that about him?" dan nodded. he saw how the web of circumstance had enmeshed him from the beginning. all the incidents of that chance visit to fraserville to write the sketch of bassett for the "courier" lived in his memory. something had been said there about madison college; and his connection with fitch's office had been mentioned, and on the fears thus roused in morton bassett, he, daniel harwood, had reared a tottering superstructure of aims, hopes, ambitions, that threatened to overwhelm him! but now, as the first shock passed, he saw all things clearly. he would save sylvia even though bassett must be saved first. if thatcher could be silenced in no other way, he might have the senatorship; or dan would go direct to bassett and demand that he withdraw from the contest. he was not afraid of morton bassett now. "i had gone to work for that construction company in the boordman where you found me. it was his idea to move me into your office--i guess you thought you picked me out; but he gave me a quiet tip to ask you for the job. well, he'd been dropping into the construction office now and then to see me--you know the boss was never in town and i hadn't much to do. he used to dictate letters--said he couldn't trust the public stenogs in the hotels; and one day he gave me that letter to copy. he had written it out in lead pencil beforehand, but seemed mighty anxious to get it just right. after i copied it he worked it over several times, before he got it to suit him. he said it was a little business he was attending to for a friend. we burnt up the discards in the little old grate in the office. he had brought some paper and envelopes along with him, and i remember he held a sheet up to the light to make sure it didn't have a watermark. he threw down a twenty-dollar gold piece and took the letter away with him. after i had moved into your office he spoke of that letter once: one day when you were out he asked me how much money had been mentioned in the letter." "when was that, rose?" "a few days after the state convention when you shot the hot tacks into thatcher. he had been at waupegan, you remember." dan remembered. and he recalled also that bassett had seen sylvia at mrs. owen's the day following the convention, and it was not astonishing that the sight of her had reminded him of his offer to pay for her education. his own relation to the matter was clear enough now that rose had yielded her secret. rose watched him as he drew on his overcoat and she handed him his hat and gloves. her friend, "the beautiful one," would not suffer; she was confident of this, now that harwood was fully armed to protect her. "keep after ramsay by telephone until you find him. tell him to come here and wait for me if it's all day. if you fail to catch him by telephone, go out and look for him and bring him here." in a moment he was hurrying toward mrs. owen's. chapter xxxiii the man of shadows the dome was a great blot against the stars when, shortly after eight o'clock that evening, sylvia entered the capitol. all night, in the room she had occupied on that far day of her first visit to mrs. owen, sylvia had pondered. it is not for us to know what passed in that still chamber between her and her friend; but it was the way of both women to meet the truth squarely. they discussed facts impersonally, dispassionately, and what sylvia had assumed, her old friend could not controvert. not what others had done, not what others might do, but what course sylvia should follow--this was the crux of the situation. "i must think it out; i must think it out," sylvia kept repeating. at last mrs. owen left her lying dressed on the bed, and all night sylvia lay there in the dark. toward morning she had slept, and later when mrs. owen carried up her breakfast she did not refer to her trouble except to ask whether there was any news. mrs. owen understood and replied that there was nothing. sylvia merely answered and said: "then there is still time." what she meant by this her kind old friend did not know; but she had faith in her sylvia. dan came, but he saw mrs. owen only. later sylvia asked what he had said, and she merely nodded when rose's story was repeated. again she said: "yes; there is still time." sylvia had kept her room all day, and mrs. owen had rigidly respected her wish to be alone. she voluntarily appeared at the evening meal and talked of irrelevant things: of her school work, of the sale of the house at montgomery, of the projected school at waupegan. "i'm going out for a while," she said, after an hour in the little office. "i shan't be gone long, aunt sally; don't trouble about me. i have my key, you know." when she had gone, mrs. owen called one of the colored men from the stable and gave him a line to harwood, with a list of places where dan might be found. her message was contained in a single line:-- "sylvia has left the house. keep an eye out for her; she told me nothing." sylvia found consolation and courage in the cold night air; her old friends the stars, whose names she had learned before she knew her letters, did not leave her comfortless. they had unconsciously contributed to her gift for seeing life in long vistas. "when you are looking at the stars," professor kelton used to say, "you are not thinking of yourself." it was not of herself that sylvia was thinking. she prolonged her walk, gathering strength as the exercise warmed her blood, planning what she meant to do, even repeating to herself phrases she meant to use. so it happened that mrs. owen's messenger had found dan at the state house and delivered the note, and that dan, called from a prolonged conference with ramsay, saw sylvia's unmistakable figure as she reached the top of the stairway, watched her making inquiries of a lounger, saw men staring at her. it crossed his mind that she was seeking him, and he started toward her; but she had stopped again to question one of the idlers in the hall. he saw her knock at a door and knew it was bassett's room--a room that for years had been set apart for the private councils of the senator from fraser. as sylvia knocked, several men came out, as though the interruption had terminated an interview. the unveiled face of the tall, dark girl called for a second glance; it was an odd place for a pretty young woman to be seeking morton bassett. they looked at each other and grinned. a single lamp on a table in the middle of the high-ceilinged room shed a narrow circle of light that deepened the shadows of the walls. bassett, standing by a window, was aware of a lighter step than was usual in this plotting chamber. he advanced toward the table with his hands in his pockets, waited till sylvia was disclosed by the lamp, stopped abruptly, stared at her with eyes that seemed not to see her. then he placed a chair for her, muttering:-- "i thought you would come." it seemed to her that a sigh broke from him, hidden by the scraping of the chair across the bare floor. he crossed and recrossed the floor several times, as though now that she had come he had dismissed her from his thoughts. then as he passed near her with slow, heavy step she spoke. "i came to talk to you, mr. bassett. please turn on the other lights." "pardon me," he said; and she heard his fingers fumbling for the switch by the door. in a moment the room was flooded from the chandelier overhead, and he returned, and sat down by the table without looking at her. "i shouldn't have come here, but i knew of no other way. it seemed best to see you to-night." "it's all right," he replied indifferently. he sat drooping, as though the light had in itself a weight that bore him down. his face was gray; his hands hung impotently from the arms of his chair. he still did not meet her eyes, which had taken in every line of his figure, the little details of his dress, even the inconspicuous pearl pin thrust through the loose ends of his tie. a man opened the door hurriedly and peered in: bassett was wanted elsewhere, he said. without rising bassett bade him wait outside. the man seemed to understand that he was to act as guard, and he began patroling the corridor. the sound of his steps on the tiles was plainly distinguishable as he passed the door. "it's all right now," bassett explained. "no one will come in here." he threw his arm over the back of his chair and bent upon sylvia a glance of mingled curiosity and indifference. "i understand," she said quietly, "that nothing has been done. it is not yet too late. the situation here is as it has been?" "yes; if you mean out _there_. they are waiting for me." "i suppose mr. harwood is there, and mr. thatcher." he blinked at the names and changed his position slightly. "i dare say they are," he answered coldly. "i thought it best to see you and talk to you; and i'm glad i knew before it was too late." his eyes surveyed her slowly now from head to foot. why was she glad she had known before it was too late? her calmness made him uneasy, restless. it was a familiar characteristic of morton bassett that he met storm and stress stoically. he was prepared for scorn, recrimination, tears; but this dark-eyed girl, sitting before him in her gray walking-dress and plain hat with a bunch of scarlet flowers showing through the veil she had caught up over them, seemed in no danger of yielding to tears. her voice fell in cool, even tones. he had said that he expected her, but she did not know what manner of meeting he had been counting on in his speculations. after a long look he passed his hand across his face. "i hope you haven't thought--you didn't think i should let them bring you into it." he spoke as though this were something due her; that she was entitled to his reassurance that the threatened cataclysm should not drag her down with him. when she made no reply he seemed to feel that he had not made himself clear, and he repeated, in other terms, that she need not be concerned for the outcome; that he meant to shield her. "yes; i supposed you would do that; i had expected that." "and," he went on, as though to anticipate her, to eliminate the necessity for her further explanations, "you have a right to ask what you please. or we can meet again to arrange matters. i am prepared to satisfy your demands in the fullest sense." his embarrassment had passed. she had sought the interview, but he had taken charge of it. beyond the closed door the stage waited. this was the briefest interlude before the moment of his triumphant entrance. sylvia smiled, an incredulous smile, and shook her head slowly, like a worn, tired mother whose patience is sorely taxed by a stubborn, unyielding child at her knee. her lips trembled, but she bent her head for a moment and then spoke more quickly than before, as though overriding some inner spirit that strove rebelliously within her breast. "i know--almost all i ever need to know. but there are some things you must tell me now. this is the first--and the last--time that i shall ever speak to you of these things. i know enough--things i have stumbled upon--and i have built them up until i see the horror, the blackness. and i want to feel sure that you, too, see the pity of it all." her note of subdued passion roused him now to earnestness, and he framed a disavowal of the worst she might have imagined. he could calm her fears at once, and the lines in his face relaxed at the thought that it was in his power to afford her this relief. "i married your mother. there was nothing wrong about it. it was all straight." "and you thought, oh, you thought i came for that--you believed i came to have you satisfy me of her honor! i never doubted her!" and she lifted her head proudly. "and that is what you thought i came for?" the indignation that flashed in her first stammered sentences died falteringly in a contemptuous whisper. her words had cut him deep; he turned away aimlessly, fingering some papers on the table beside him. then he plunged to the heart of the matter, as though in haste to exculpate himself. "i never meant that it should happen as it did. i knew her in new york when we were both students there. my father had been ill a long time; he was bent upon my marrying the daughter of his old friend singleton, a man of wealth and influence in our part of the state. i persuaded your mother to run away and we were married, under an assumed name,--but it was a marriage good in law. there's no question of that, you understand. then i left her up there in the adirondacks, and went home. my father's illness was prolonged, and his condition justified me in asking your mother to wait. she knew the circumstances and agreed to remain away until i saw my way clear to acknowledging her and taking her home. you were born up there. your mother grew impatient and hurt because i could not go back to her. but i could not--it would have ruined all my chances at home. when i went to find my wife she had disappeared. she was a proud woman, and i suppose she had good cause for hating me." he told the story fully, filling in the gaps in her own knowledge. he did not disguise the fact of his own half-hearted search for the woman he had deserted. he even told of the precautions he had taken to assure himself of the death of edna kelton by visiting montgomery to look at her grave before his marriage to hallie singleton. he had gone back again shortly before he made the offer to pay for sylvia's schooling, and had seen her with her grandfather in the little garden among the roses. outside the guard slowly passed back and forth. sylvia did not speak; her seeming inattention vexed and perplexed him. he thought her lacking in appreciation of his frankness. "thatcher knows much of this story, but he doesn't know the whole," he went on. "he believes it was irregular. he's been keeping it back to spring as a sensation. he's told those men out there that he can break me; that at the last minute he will crush me. they're waiting for me now--thatcher and his crowd; probably chuckling to think how at last they've got me cornered. that's the situation. they think they're about rid of morton bassett." "you left her; you deserted her; you left her to die alone, unprotected, without even a name. you accepted her loyalty and fidelity, and then threw her aside; you slunk away alone to her grave to be sure she wouldn't trouble you again. oh, it is black, it is horrible!" sylvia was looking at him with a kind of awed wonder in her eyes. for an instant there had been a faint suggestion of contrition in his tone, but it was overwhelmed by his desire for self-justification. it was of himself he was thinking, not of the deed in itself, not of the woman he had left to bear her child in an alien wilderness. "i tried to do what i could for you. i want you to know that. i meant to have cared for you, that no harm should come to you," he said, and the words jarred upon his own ears as he spoke them. in her face there was less of disdain than of marvel. he wished to escape from her eyes, but they held him fast. messengers ran hurriedly through the corridors; men passed the door talking in tones faintly audible; but the excitement in the rival camps communicated nothing of its intensity to this quiet chamber. men had feared morton bassett; this girl, with her wondering dark eyes, did not fear him. but he was following a course he had planned for this meeting, and he dared not shift his ground. "i don't want you to think that i haven't been grieved to see you working for your living; i never meant that you should do that. hereafter that will be unnecessary; but i am busy to-night. to-morrow, at any time you say, we will talk of those things." there was dismissal in his manner and tone. he was anxious to be rid of her. the color deepened in her olive cheeks, but she bent upon him once more her patient, wondering, baffling smile. "please never propose such a thing again, mr. bassett. there is absolutely nothing of that kind that you can do for me." "you want to make it hard for me; but i hope you will think better of that. it is right that i should make the only reparation that is possible now." this rang so false and was so palpably insincere that he was relieved when she ignored it. "you said a moment ago that your enemies, waiting out there, thought they had you beaten. i want you to tell me just how you propose to meet mr. thatcher's threat." "what am i going to do?" he broke out angrily. "i'm going into that caucus and beat thatcher's game; i'm going to tell his story first! but don't misunderstand me; i'm going to protect you. i know men, and those men will respect me for coming out with it. i haven't been in politics all these years to be beaten at last by ed thatcher. i've pledged votes enough to-day to give me a majority of three on the next ballot; but i'll explode thatcher's bombshell in his own hands. i'm all prepared for him; i have the documents--the marriage certificate and the whole business. but you won't suffer; you won't be brought into it. that's what i'm going to do about it!" the failure of his declaration to shake her composure disturbed him; perhaps after all his contemplated _coup_ was not so charged with electricity as he had imagined. nothing in his bald statement of his marriage to her mother and the subsequent desertion had evoked the reproach, the recrimination, for which he had steeled himself when she entered the room. he felt his hold upon the interview lessening. he had believed himself expert in calculating effects, yet apparently she had heard his announcement, delivered with a brutal directness, without emotion. "this isn't quite all, mr. bassett," sylvia began after a moment. "you have offered me reparation, or what you called by that name. you can't deny that i have a right to be satisfied with that reparation." "certainly; anything in reason. it is for you to name the terms; i expect you to make them--adequate." "let us go back a moment," she began, smiling at the care with which he had chosen his last word. "last night i fought out for myself the whole matter of your scoundrelly, cowardly treatment of my mother. you can make no reparation to her. the time passed long ago for that. and there is absolutely nothing you can do for me. i will accept nothing from you, neither the name you denied to her nor money, now or later. so there is only one other person whose interest or whose happiness we need consider." he stared at her frowning, not understanding. once more, as on that day when she had laughed at him, or again when she had taken the affairs of his own household into her hands, he was conscious of the strength that lay in her, of her power to drive him back upon himself. something of his own masterful spirit had entered into her, but with a difference. her self-control, her patient persistence, her sobriety of judgment, her reasoning mind, were like his own. she was as keen and resourceful as he, and he was eager for the explanation she withheld, as though, knowing that she had driven in his pickets, he awaited the charge of her lines. he bent toward her, feeling her charm, yielding to the fascination she had for him. "no," he said gently and kindly. "i don't see; i don't understand you." she saw and felt the change in him; but she was on guard against a reaction. he could not know how her heart throbbed, or how it had seemed for a moment that words would not come to her lips. "it is to you; it is to yourself that you must make the reparation. and you must make it now. there may never be a time like this; it is your great opportunity." "you think, you ask--" he began warily; and she was quick to see that the precise moment for the full stroke had not come; that the ground required preparation. "i think," she interrupted, smiling gravely, "that you want me to be your friend. more than that, we have long been friends. and deep down in your heart i believe you want my regard; you want me to think well of you. and i must tell you that there's a kind of happiness--for it must be happiness--that comes to me at the thought of it. something there is between you and me that is different; somehow we understand each other." his response was beyond anything she had hoped for; a light shone suddenly in his face. there was no doubt of the sincerity of the feeling with which he replied:-- "yes; i have felt it; i felt it the first day we met!" "and because there is this understanding, this tie, i dare to be frank with you: i mean to make your reparation difficult. but you will not refuse it; you will not disappoint me. i mean, that you must throw away the victory you are prepared to win." he shook his head slowly, but he could not evade the pleading of her eyes. "i can't do it; it's too much," he muttered. "it's the goal i have sought for ten years. it would be like throwing away life itself." "yes; it would be bitter; but it would be the first sacrifice you ever made in your life. you have built your life on lies. you have lurked in shadows, hating the light. you have done your work in the dark, creeping, hiding, mocking, vanishing. what you propose doing to-night in anticipating the blow of your enemy is only an act of bravado. there is no real courage in that. when you thrust dan harwood into the convention to utter your sneer for you, it was the act of a coward. and that was contemptible cowardice. you picked him up, a clean young man of ideals, and tried to train him in your cowardly shadow ways. when the pricking of your conscience made you feel some responsibility for me, you manifested it like a coward. you sent a cowardly message to the best man that ever lived, not knowing, not caring how it would wound him. and you have been a great thief, stealing away from men the thing they should prize most, but you have taught them to distrust it--their faith in their country--even more, their faith in each other! the shadows have followed you to your own home. you have hidden yourself behind a veil of mystery, so that your own wife and children don't know the man you are. you have never been true to anything--not to yourself, not to those who should be near and dear to you. and you have sneered at the people who send you here to represent them; you have betrayed them, not once but a hundred times; and you know it hasn't paid. you are the unhappiest man in the world. but there's a real power in you, or you could never have done the things you have done--the mean and vile things. you have brains and a genius for organizing and managing men. you could never have lasted so long without the personal qualities that a man must have to lead men. and you have led them, down and down." to all appearances she had spoken to dull ears. occasionally their eyes had met, but his gaze had wandered away to range the walls. when she ceased he moved restlessly about the room. "you think i am as bad as that?" he asked, pausing by the table and looking down at her. "you are as bad--and as good--as that," she replied, the hope that stirred in her heart lighting her face. he shrugged his shoulders and sat down. "you have the wit to see that the old order of things is passing; the old apparatus you have learned to operate with a turn of the hand is out of date. now is your chance to leave the shadow life and begin again. it's not too late to win the confidence--the gratitude even--of the people who now distrust and fear you. the day of reckoning is coming fast for men like you, who have made a mystery of politics, playing it as a game in the dark. i don't pretend to know much of these things, but i can see that men of your type are passing out; there would be no great glory for you in waiting to be the last to go. and there are things enough for you to do. if you ally yourself with the good causes that cry for support and leadership, you can be far more formidable than you have ever been as a skulking trickster; you can lead men up as you have led them down." "the change is coming; i have seen it coming," he replied, catching at the one thing it seemed safest to approve. but she was not to be thwarted by his acquiescence in generalities. he saw that she had brought him back to a point whence he must elect his course, but he did not flinch at the flat restatement of her demand. "you have done nothing to deserve the senatorship; you are not the choice of the people of this state. you must relinquish it; you must give it up!" the earnestness with which she uttered her last words seemed, to her surprise, to amuse him. "you think," he said, "that i should go back and make a new start by a different route? but i don't know the schedule; my transportation is good on only one line." and he grinned at his joke. "oh, you will have to pay your fare!" she replied quickly. "you've never done that." his grin became a smile, and he said: "you want me to walk if i can't pay my way!" "yes," she laughed happily, feeling that her victory was half won; "and you would have to be careful to stop, look, and listen at the crossings!" the allusion further eased the stress of the hour; humor shone in his gray eyes. he consulted his watch, frowned, bent his eyes upon the floor, then turned to her with disconcerting abruptness. "i haven't been half the boss you think me. i've been hedged in, cramped, and shackled. all these fellows who hop the stick when i say 'jump' have their little axes i must help grind. i've fooled away the best years of my life taking care of these little fellows, and i've spent a lot of money on them. it's become a little monotonous, i can tell you. it's begun to get on my nerves, for i have a few; and all this hammering i've taken from the newspapers has begun to make me hot. i know about as much as they do about the right and wrong of things; i suppose i know something about government and the law too!" "yes," sylvia assented eagerly. he readjusted himself in his chair, crossing his legs and thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets. "it _would_ be rather cheerful and comfortable," he continued musingly, as though unburdening himself of old grievances, "to be free to do as you like once in a lifetime! those fellows in thatcher's herd who have practically sold out to me and are ready to deliver the goods to-night are all rascals, swung my way by a few corporations that would like to have me in washington. it would be a good joke to fool them and elect a man who couldn't be bought! it's funny, but i've wondered sometimes whether i wasn't growing tired of the old game." "but the new game you can play better than any of them. it's the only way you can find peace." with a gesture half-bold, half-furtive, he put out his hand and touched lightly the glove she had drawn off and laid on the table. "you believe in me; you have some faith left in me?" "yes." her hand touched his; her dark eyes searched the depths of his soul--sought and found the shadows there and put them to flight. when she spoke it was with a tenderness that was new to all his experience of life; he had not known that there could be balm like this for a bruised and broken spirit. this girl, seeking nothing for herself, refusing anything he could offer, had held up a mirror in which he saw himself limned against dancing, mocking shadows. nothing in her arraignment had given him a sharper pang than her reference to his loneliness, his failure to command sympathy and confidence in his home relationships. no praise had ever been so sweet to him as hers; she not only saw his weaknesses and dealt with them unsparingly, but she recognized also the strength he had wasted and the power he had abused. she saw life in broad vistas as he had believed he saw it; he was not above a stirring of pride that she appreciated him and appraised his gifts rightly. he had long played skillfully upon credulity and ignorance; he had frittered away his life in contentions with groundlings. it would be a relief, if it were possible, to deal with his peers, the enlightened, the far-seeing, and the fearless, who strove for great ends. so he pondered, while outside the sentinel kept watch like a fate. "yes," sylvia was saying slowly, "you can make restitution. but not to the dead--not to my mother asleep over there at montgomery, oh, not to me! what is done is past, and you can't go back. there's no going back in this world. but you can go on--you can go on and up--" "no! you don't see that; you don't believe that?" "yes, i believe it. the old life--the life of mystery and duplicity is over; you will never go back to the old way." "the old way?" he repeated. "the old unhappy way." "up there at the lake you knew i was unhappy; you knew things weren't right with me?" "things weren't right because you were wrong! success hadn't made you happy. the shadows kept dancing round you. mrs. bassett's troubles came largely from worrying about you. in time marian and blackford will begin to see the shadows. i should think--i should think"--and he saw that she was deeply moved--"that a man would want the love of his children; i should think he would want them to be proud of him." "his children; yes; i haven't thought enough of that." she had so far controlled herself, but an old ache throbbed in her heart. "in college, when i heard the girls talking of their homes, it used to hurt me more than you can ever know. there were girls among my friends whose fathers were fine men,--some of them great and famous; and i used to feel sure that my father would have been like them. i felt--that i should have been proud of him." and suddenly she flung her arms upon the table and bowed her face upon them and wept. he stood beside her, patiently, helplessly. the suggestion of her lonely girlhood with its hovering shadow smote him the more deeply because it emphasized the care she had taken to subordinate herself throughout their talk. "do you think you could ever be proud of me?--that you might even care a little, some day?" he asked, bending over her. "oh, if it could be so!" she whispered brokenly, so low that he bent closer to hear. the room was very still. sylvia rose and began drawing on her glove, not looking at him. she was afraid to risk more; there was, indeed, nothing more to say. it was for him to make his choice. he was silent so long that she despaired. then he passed his hand across his face like one roused from sleep. "wait a moment," he said, "and i will walk home with you." he went to the door and dispatched the guard on an errand; then he seated himself at the table and picked up a pad of paper. he was still writing when harwood entered. sylvia and dan exchanged a nod, but no words passed between them. they watched the man at the table, as he wrote with a deliberation that dan remembered as characteristic of him. when he had finished, he copied what he had written, put the copy in his breastpocket and buttoned his coat before glancing at harwood. "if i withdraw my name, what will happen?" he asked quietly. "ramsay will be nominated, sir," dan answered. bassett studied a moment, fingering the memorandum he had written; then he looked at dan quizzically. "just between ourselves, dan, do you really think the colonel's straight?" "if he isn't, he has fooled a lot of people," dan replied. he had no idea of what had happened, but he felt that all was well with sylvia. it seemed a long time since bassett had called him dan! "well, i guess the colonel's the best we can do. i'm out of it. this is my formal withdrawal. hand it to robbins--you know him, of course. it tells him what i want done. my votes go to ramsay on the next ballot. i look to you to see that it's played square. give the colonel my compliments. that's all. good-night." * * * * * harwood called robbins from the room where bassett's men lounged, waiting for the convening of the caucus, and delivered the message. as he hurried toward thatcher's headquarters he paused suddenly, and bent over the balcony beneath the dome to observe two figures that were slowly descending one of the broad stairways. morton bassett and sylvia were leaving the building together. a shout rang out, echoing hollowly through the corridors, and was followed by scattering cheers from men who were already hastening toward the senate chamber where the caucus sessions were held. somehow morton bassett's sturdy shoulders, his step, quickened to adapt it to the pace of his companion, did not suggest defeat. dan still watched as the two crossed the rotunda on their way to the street. bassett was talking; he paused for an instant and looked up at the dome, as though calling his companion's attention to its height. sylvia glanced up, nodded, and smiled as though affirming something bassett had said; and then the two vanished from dan's sight. chapter xxxiv we go back to the beginning "sylvia was reading in her grandfather's library when the bell tinkled." with these words our chronicle began, and they again slip from the pen as i begin these last pages. when morton bassett left her at the door of elizabeth house she had experienced a sudden call of the truant spirit. sylvia wanted to be alone, to stand apart for a little while from the clanging world and take counsel of herself. hastily packing a bag she caught the last train for montgomery, walked to the kelton cottage, and roused mary, who had been its lone tenant since the professor's death. she sent mary to bed, and after kindling a fire in the grate, roamed about the small, comfortable rooms, touching wistfully the books, the pictures, the scant bric-à-brac. she made ready her own bed under the eaves where she had dreamed her girlhood dreams, shaking from the sheets she found in the linen chest the leaves of lavender that mary had strewn among them. the wind rose in the night and slammed fitfully a blind that, as long as she could remember, had uttered precisely that same protest against the wind's presumption. it was all quite like old times, and happy memories of the past stole back and laid healing hands upon her. she slept late, and woke to look out upon a white world. across the campus floated the harsh clamor of the chapel bell, and she saw the students tramping through the swirling snow just as she had seen them in the old times, the glad and happy times when it had seemed that the world was bounded by the lines of the campus, and that nothing lay beyond it really worth considering but centre church and the court-house and the dry-goods shop where her grandfather had bought her first and only doll. she bade mary sit down and talk to her while she ate breakfast in the little dining-room; and the old woman poured out upon her the gossip of the lane, the latest trespasses of the greek professor's cow, the escapades of the phi gamma delta's new dog, the health of dr. wandless, the new baby at the house of the latin professor, the ill-luck of the madison eleven, and like matters that were, and that continue to be, of concern in buckeye lane. rumors of the sale of the cottage had reached mary, but sylvia took pains to reassure her. "oh, you don't go with the house, mary! mrs. owen has a plan for you. you haven't any cause for worry. but it's too bad to sell the house. i'd like to get a position teaching in montgomery and come back here and live with you. there's no place in the world quite like this." "but it's quiet, miss, and the repairs keep going on. mr. harwood had to put a new downspout on the kitchen; the old one had rusted to pieces. the last time he was over--that was a month ago--he came in and sat down to wait for his train, he said; and i told him to help himself to the books, but when i looked in after a while he was just sitting in that chair out there by the window looking out at nothing. and when i asked him if he'd have a cup of tea, he never answered; not till i went up close and spoke again. he's peculiar, but a good-hearted gentleman. you can see that. and when he paid me my wages that day he made it five dollars extra, and when i asked him what it was for, he smiled a funny kind of smile he has, and said, 'it's for being good to sylvia when she was a little girl.' he's peculiar, very peculiar, but he's kind. and when i said i didn't have to be paid for that, he said all right, he guessed that was so, but for me to keep the money and buy a new bonnet or give it to the priest. a very kind gentleman, that mr. harwood, but peculiar." the sun came out shortly before noon. sylvia walked into town, bought some flowers, and drove to the cemetery. she told the driver not to wait, and lingered long in the kelton lot where snow-draped evergreens marked its four corners. the snow lay smooth on the two graves, and she placed her flowers upon them softly without disturbing the white covering. a farmboy whistling along the highway saw her in the lonely cemetery and trudged on silently, but he did not know that the woman tending her graves did not weep, or that when she turned slowly away, looking back at last from the iron gates, it was not of the past she thought, nor of the heartache buried there, but of a world newly purified, with long, broad vistas of hope and aspiration lengthening before her. but we must not too long leave the bell--an absurd contrivance of wire and knob--that tinkled rather absently and eerily in the kitchen pantry. let us repeat once more and for the last time:-- sylvia was reading in her grandfather's library when the bell tinkled. truly enough, a book lay in her lap, but it may be that, after all, she had not done more than skim its pages--an old "life of nelson" that had been a favorite of her grandfather's. sylvia rose, put down the book, marked it carefully as on that first occasion which so insistently comes back to us as we look in upon her. mary appeared at the library door, but withdrew, seeing that sylvia was answering the bell. some one was stamping vigorously on the step, and as sylvia opened the door, dan harwood stood there, just as on that other day; now, to be sure, he seemed taller than then, though it must be only the effect of his long ulster. "how do you do, sylvia," he said, and stepped inside without waiting for a parley like that in which sylvia had engaged him on that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon in june. "you oughtn't to try to hide; it isn't fair for one thing, and hiding is impossible for another." "it's too bad you came," said sylvia, "for i should have been home to-morrow. i came just because i wanted to be alone for a day." "i came," said dan, laughing, "because i didn't like being alone." "i hope aunt sally isn't troubled about me. i hadn't time to tell her i was coming here; i don't believe i really thought about it; i simply wanted to come back here once more before the house is turned over to strangers." "oh, aunt sally wasn't worried half as much as i was. she said you were all right; she has great faith in your ability to take care of yourself. i'm pretty sure of it, too," he said, and bent his eyes upon her keenly. there was nothing there to dismay him; her olive cheeks still glowed with color from her walk, and her eyes were clear and steady. "did you see the paper--to-day's paper?" he asked, when they were seated before the fire. "no," she replied, folding her arms and looking at the point of her slipper that rested against the brass fender. "you will be glad to know that the trouble is all over. ramsay has the senatorship, all but the confirmation of the joint session, which is merely a formality. they've conferred on me the joy of presenting his name. ramsay is clean and straight, and thoroughly in sympathy with all the new ideas that are sound. personally i like him. he's the most popular and the most presentable man we have, and his election to the senate will greatly strengthen the party." he did not know how far he might speak of the result and of the causes that had contributed to it. he was relieved when she asked, very simply and naturally,-- "i suppose mr. bassett made it possible; it couldn't have been, you couldn't have brought it about, without him." "if he hadn't withdrawn he could have had the nomination himself! thatcher's supporters were growing wobbly and impatient. we shouldn't any of us care to see thatcher occupy a seat in the senate that has been filled by oliver morton and joe macdonald and ben harrison and dave turpie. we hoosiers are not perfect, but our senators first and last have been men of brains and character. ramsay won't break the apostolic succession; he's all right." "you think mr. bassett might have had it; you have good reason for believing that?" she asked. "i could name you the men who were ready to go to him. he had the stampede all ready, down to the dress rehearsal. he practically gave away a victory he had been working for all his life." "yes; he is like that; he can do such things," murmured sylvia. "history has been making rapidly in the past twenty-four hours. bassett has bought thatcher's interest in the 'courier,' and he proposes editing it himself. more than that, he was at my office this morning when i got there, and he asked me, as a special favor to him, to take a few shares in the company to qualify me as secretary of the corporation, and said he wanted me to help him. he said he thought it about time for indiana to have a share in the general reform movement; talked about it as though this were something he had always intended doing, but had been prevented by press of other matters. he spoke of the canneries case and wanted to know if i cared to reconsider my refusal to settle it. he put it quite impersonally--said fitch told him he couldn't do more than prolong the litigation by appeals, and that in the end he was bound to be whipped. and i agreed, on terms that really weren't generous on my part. he said all right; that he wanted to clear up all his old business as quickly as possible. as he left my office i almost called him back to throw off the last pound i had exacted; he really made me feel ashamed of my greed. the old spell he had for me in the beginning came back again. i believe in him; i never believed in any man so much, sylvia! and if he does throw his weight on the right side it will mean a lot to every good cause men and women are contending for these days. it will mean a lot to the state, to the whole country." "and so much, oh, so much to him!" just what had passed between bassett and sylvia he only surmised; but it was clear that the warmth with which he had spoken of his old employer was grateful to sylvia. he had not meant to dwell upon bassett, and yet the brightening of her eyes, her flash of feeling, the deep inner meaning of her ejaculation, had thrilled him. "i've said more than i meant to; i didn't come to talk of those things, sylvia." "i'm glad you thought i should like to know--about him. i'm glad you told me." they were quiet for a little while, then he said, "sylvia!" very softly. "not that, dan; please! i can't bear to hear that. it will break my heart if you begin that!" she rose and faced him, her back to the wall. he had come to complete the declaration which the song had interrupted on the lake, and at the first hint the chords that had been touched by the unknown singer vibrated sharply, bringing back her old heartache. he crossed to her quickly that he might show her how completely the memory of that night had been obliterated; that it had vanished utterly and ceased to be, like the ripple stirred to a moment's life by the brush of a swallow's wing on still water. he stood beside her and took both her hands in his strong clasp. "we are going to be married, sylvia; we are going to be married, here, now, to-day!" "no, no!" she turned away her head, but his arms enfolded her; he bent down and kissed her forehead, her eyes, and her lips last of all. "yes; here and now. unless you say you don't care for me, that you don't love me. if you say those things i shall go away." she did not say them. she clung to him and looked long into his face, and kissed him. harwood had chosen the hour well. sylvia had met bravely the great crisis of her life, and had stood triumphant and satisfied, weary but content in the clear ether to which she had climbed; but it was a relief to yield herself at last to the sway of emotions long checked and stifled. save for her grandfather's devoted kindness, and the friendship of mrs. owen, her experiences of affection had been singularly meagre. she had resolved that if dan should speak of love again she would be strong enough to resist him; but she had yielded unhesitatingly at a word. and it was inexpressibly sweet to yield, to feel his strong arms clasping her, to hear his protestations and assurances, to know that her life had found shelter and protection. she knew that she had never questioned or doubted, but that her faith had grown with her love for him. not only had he chosen the hour well, but there was a fitness in his choice of place. the familiar scene emphasized her sense of dependence upon him and gave a sweet poignancy to the memories of her childhood and youth that were enshrined within the cottage walls. in this room, in the garden outside, on the campus across the lane, she had known the first tremulous wonderings and had heard the first whispered answers to life's riddles and enigmas; and now she knew that in love lives the answer to all things. after a little she rested her hands on his shoulders, half-clinging to him, half-repelling him, and he pressed his hands upon her cheeks, to be ready for the question he had read in her eyes. "but," she faltered, "there are things i have promised to do for aunt sally; we shall have to wait a long time!" "not for aunt sally," he cried happily. "here she is at the door now. i left her and john ware at dr. wandless's." "well, well!" exclaimed mrs. owen, advancing into the room and throwing open her coat. "you said you meant to get back to the city in time to catch that limited for new york, and you haven't got much margin, daniel, i can tell you that!" * * * * * it seemed to the people who heard of it afterward a most romantic marriage, that of sylvia and dan harwood; but whatever view we may take of this, it was certainly of all weddings the simplest. they stood there before the mantel above which still hung the broken half of a ship's wheel. mrs. owen, very tall and gaunt, was at one side, and dr. wandless at the other; and old mary, abashed and bewildered, looked on with dilated eyes and crossed herself at intervals. john ware drew a service book from his pocket, and his fingers trembled as he began. for none in the room, not even for sylvia, had this hour deeper meaning than for the gray soldier. he read slowly, as though this were a new thing in the world, that a man and a woman had chosen to walk together to the end of their days. and once his voice broke. he who, in a hill country far away, had baptized this woman into the fold of christ the shepherd, wavered for an instant as he said:-- "elizabeth, wilt thou have this man--" sylvia lifted her head. she had not expected this, nor had dan; but dr. wandless had already stepped forward to give her in marriage, and as she repeated her name after the minister, she felt the warm, reassuring pressure of dan's hand. and so they went forth together from the little cottage by the campus where they had first met; nor may it have been wholly a fancy of dr. wandless's that the stars came out earlier that white, winter evening to add their blessing! a postscript by the chronicler those who resent as an impertinence the chronicler's intrusion upon the scene may here depart and slam the door, if such violence truly express their sentiments. others, averse to precipitous leavetaking, may linger, hat in hand, for the epilogue. i attended a public hearing by the senate committee on child labor at the last session of the general assembly, accompanying my neighbor, mrs. sally owen, and we found seats immediately behind mr. and mrs. daniel harwood. "there's _e_-lizabeth and daniel," remarked mrs. owen, as they turned round and nodded to us. i found it pleasant to watch the harwoods, who are, as may have been surmised, old friends of mine. the meeting gathered headway, and as one speaker after another was presented by the chairman, i observed that mrs. harwood and her husband frequently exchanged glances of approval; and i'm afraid that mrs. harwood's profile, and that winning smile of hers, interested me quite as much as the pleas of those who advocated the pending bill. then the representative of a manufacturers' organization inveighed against the measure, and my two friends became even more deeply absorbed. it was a telling speech, by one of the best-known lawyers in the state. once i saw dan's cowlick shake like the plume of an angry warrior as his wife turned toward him inquiringly. when the orator concluded, i saw them discussing his arguments in emphatic whispers, and i was so pleased with the picture they made that i failed to catch the name of the speaker whom the chairman was introducing. a nudge from mrs. owen caused me to lift my eyes to the rostrum. "the next speaker is mrs. allen thatcher," announced the chairman, beaming inanely as a man always does when it becomes his grateful privilege to present a pretty woman to an audience. having known marian a long time, it was almost too much for my composure to behold her there, beyond question the best-dressed woman in the senate chamber, with a single american beauty thrust into her coat, and a bewildering rose-trimmed hat crowning her fair head. a pleasant sight anywhere on earth, this daughter of the honorable morton bassett, sometime senator from fraser; but her appearance in the legislative hall long dominated by her father confirmed my faith in the ultimate adjustments of the law of compensations. i had known marian of old as an expert golfer and the most tireless dancer at waupegan; but that speech broke all her records. great is the emotional appeal of a pretty woman in an unapproachable hat, but greater still the power of the born story-teller! i knew that marian visited elizabeth house frequently and told stories of her own or gave recitations at the saturday night entertainments; but this was marian with a difference. she stated facts and drove them home with anecdotes. it was a vigorous, breathless performance, and the manufacturers' attorney confessed afterward that she had given him a good trouncing. when she concluded (i remember that her white-gloved hand smote the speaker's desk with a sharp thwack at her last word), i was conscious that the applause was started by a stout, bald gentleman whom i had not noticed before. i turned to look at the author of this spontaneous outburst and found that it was the honorable edward g. thatcher, whose unfeigned pride in his daughter-in-law was good to see. when the applause had ceased, mrs. owen sighed deeply and ejaculated: "well, well!" as we walked home aunt sally grew talkative. "i used to say it was all in the book of job and believed it; but there are some things that job didn't know after all. when i put marian on the board of trusteees of _e_-lizabeth house school, it was just to make good feeling in the family, and i didn't suppose she would attend a meeting; but she's one of the best women on that job. and _e_-lizabeth"--i loved the way she drawled the name, and repeated it--"_e_-lizabeth says they couldn't do without her. i guess between 'em those girls will make _e_-lizabeth house school go right. that investment will be a dividend payer. and there's morton bassett, that i never took much stock in, why, he's settled down to being a decent and useful citizen. there ain't a better newspaper in the country than the 'courier,' and that first editorial, up at the top of the page every morning, he writes himself, and it's got a smack to it--a kind of pawpaw and persimmon flavor that shows it's honest. i guess settling up that canneries business cost him some money, but things had always come too easy for morton. and now that they've moved down here, hallie's cheered up a good deal, and she shows signs of being cured of the sanatorium habit." we were passing round the monument, whose candelabra flooded the plaza with light, and mrs. owen inveighed for a moment against automobiles in general as we narrowly escaped being run down by a honking juggernaut at christ church corner. "it seems morton has grown some," she resumed. "he's even got big enough to forgive his enemies, and john ware says only great men do that. you've noticed that 'hoosier folks at home' column in the 'courier'? well, ike pettit runs that; morton brought him to town on purpose after edward thatcher closed out the fraserville paper. i read every word of that column every day. it gives you a kind of moving-picture show of cloverfields, and children singing in the country schools, and rural free delivery wagons throwing off magazines and newspapers, and the interurban cars cutting slices out of the lonesomeness of the country folks. it's certainly amazing how times change, and i want to live as long as i can and keep on changing with 'em! why, these farmers that used to potter around all winter worrying over their debts to the insurance companies are now going to lafayette every january to learn how to make corn pay, and they're putting bathrooms in their houses and combing the hay out of their whiskers. they take their wives along with 'em to the university, so they can have a rest and learn to bake bread that won't bring up the death-rate; and when those women go home they dig the nails out of the windows to let the fresh air in, and move the melodeon to the wood-pile, and quit frying meat except when the minister stops for dinner. it's all pretty comfortable and cheerful and busy in indiana, with lots of old-fashioned human kindness flowing round; and it's getting better all the time. and i guess it's always got to be that way, out here in god's country." the end a forest hearth [illustration: publishers symbol] [illustration: "he produced a small gold watch with the word 'rita' engraved upon the case."] a forest hearth a romance of indiana in the thirties by charles major author of "dorothy vernon of haddon hall," "the bears of blue river," "when knighthood was in flower," etc. _with illustrations by clyde o. deland_ new york the macmillan company london: macmillan & co., ltd. _all rights reserved_ copyright, , by the macmillan company. set up, electrotyped, and published october, . norwood press j. s. cushing & co.--berwick & smith co. norwood, mass., u.s.a. contents chapter page i. on the heart of the hearth ii. the bachelor heart iii. the sycamore divan iv. the debutante v. under the elm canopy vi. the fight by the river side vii. the trial viii. a christmas hearth log ix. dic lends money gratis x. the tournament xi. a kiss and a duel xii. the love powder xiii. the dimpler xiv. wise miss tousy xv. the christmas gift illustrations page "he produced a small gold watch with the word 'rita' engraved upon the case" _frontispiece_ "she changed it many times" "she flung at the worthy shepherd the opprobrious words, 'you fool'" "'i've come to get my kiss,' said doug" "covering her face with her hands, she began to weep" "'kill him, dic; kill him as you would a wolf'" "miss tousy softly kissed her and said, ... 'there, don't cry, sweet one'" "'here,' replied the girl" on the heart of the hearth a forest hearth chapter i on the heart of the hearth a strenuous sense of justice is the most disturbing of all virtues, and those persons in whom it predominates are usually as disagreeable as they are good. any one who assumes the high plane of "justice to all, and confusion to sinners," may easily gain a reputation for goodness simply by doing nothing bad. look wise and heavenward, frown severely but regretfully upon others' faults, and the world will whisper, "ah, how good he is!" and you will be good--as the sinless, prickly pear. if the virtues of omission constitute saintship, and from a study of the calendar one might so conclude, seek your corona by the way of justice. for myself, i would rather be a layman with a few active virtues and a small sin or two, than a sternly just saint without a fault. breed virtue in others by giving them something to forgive. conceive, if you can, the unutterable horror of life in this world without a few blessed human faults. he who sins not at all, cannot easily find reason to forgive; and to forgive those who trespass against us, is one of the sweetest benedictions of life. i have known many persons who built their moral structure upon the single rock of justice; but they all bred wretchedness among those who loved them, and made life harder because they did not die young. one woman of that sort, i knew,--mrs. margarita bays. to her face, or in the presence of those who might repeat my words, i of course called her "mrs. bays"; but when i felt safe in so doing, i called her the "chief justice"--a title conferred by my friend, billy little. later happenings in her life caused little to christen her "my lady jeffreys," a sobriquet bestowed upon her because of the manner in which she treated her daughter, whose name was also margarita. the daughter, because she was as sweet as the wild rose, and as gentle as the soft spring sun, received from her friends the affectionate diminutive of rita. and so i shall name her in this history. had not rita been so gentle, yielding, and submissive, or had her father, tom bays,--husband to the chief justice,--been more combative and less amenable to the corroding influences of henpeck, i doubt if madam bays would ever have attained a dignity beyond that of "associate justice." that strong sense of domineering virtue which belongs to the truly just must be fed, and it waxes fat on an easy-going husband and a loving, tender daughter. in the bays home, the mother's righteous sense of justice and duty, which applied itself relentlessly upon husband and daughter, became the weakest sort of indulgence when dealing with the only son and heir. without being vicious, tom, jr., was what the negroes called "jes' clean triflin'," and dominated his mother with an inherited club of inborn selfishness. before tom's selfishness, justice threw away her scales and became maudlin sentiment. i have been intimately acquainted with the bays family ever since they came to blue river settlement from north carolina, and i am going to tell you the story of the sweetest, gentlest nature god has ever given me to know--rita bays. i warn you there will be no heroics in this history, no palaces, no grand people--nothing but human nature, the forests, and a few very simple country folk indeed. rita was a babe in arms when her father, her mother, and her six-year-old brother tom moved from north carolina in two great "schooner" wagons, and in the year ' or ' settled upon blue river, near the centre of a wilderness that had just been christened "indiana." the father of tom bays had been a north carolina planter of considerable wealth and culture; but when the old gentleman died there were eight sons and two daughters among whom his estate was to be divided, and some of them had to choose between moving west and facing the terrors of battle with nature in the wilderness, and remaining in north carolina to become "poor white trash." tom bays, sr., had married margarita, daughter of a pompous north carolinian, judge anselm fisher. whether he was a real judge, or simply a "kentucky judge," i cannot say; but he was a man of good standing, and his daughter was not the woman to endure the loss of caste at home. if compelled to step down from the social position into which she had been born, the step must be taken among strangers, that part at least of her humiliation might be avoided. with a heart full of sorrow and determination, madam bays, who even then had begun to manifest rare genius for leadership, loaded two "schooners" with her household goods, her husband, her son, and her daughter, and started northwest with the laudable purpose of losing herself in the wilderness. they carried with them their inheritance, a small bag of gold, and with it they purchased from the government a quarter-section--one hundred and sixty acres--of land, at five shillings per acre. the land on blue was as rich and fertile as any the world could furnish; but for miles upon miles it was covered with black forests, almost impenetrable to man, and was infested by wild beasts and indians. here madam and her husband began their long battle with the hardest of foes--nature; and that battle, the terrors of which no one can know who has not fought it, doubtless did much to harden the small portion of human tenderness with which god had originally endowed her. they built their log-cabin on the east bank of blue river, one mile north of the town of the same name. the river was spoken of simply as blue. artistic beauty is not usually considered an attribute of log-cabins; but i can testify to the beauty of many that stood upon the banks of blue,--among them the house of bays. the main building consisted of two ground-floor rooms, each with a front door and a half-story room above. a clapboard-covered porch extended across the entire front of the house, which faced westward toward blue. back of the main building was a one-story kitchen, and adjoining each ground-floor room was a huge chimney, built of small logs four to six inches in diameter. these chimneys, thickly plastered on the inside with clay, were built with a large opening at the top, and widened downward to the fireplace, which was eight or ten feet square, and nearly as high as the low ceiling of the room. the purpose of these generous dimensions was to prevent the wooden chimney from burning. the fire, while the chimney was new, was built in the centre of the enormous hearth that the flames might not touch the walls, but after a time the heat burnt the clay to the hardness of brick, and the fire was then built against the back wall. by pointing up the cracks, and adding a coat of clay now and then, the walls soon became entirely fireproof, and a fire might safely be kindled that would defy boreas in his bitterest zero mood. an open wood fire is always cheering; so our humble folk of the wilderness, having little else to cheer them during the long winter evenings, were mindful to be prodigal in the matter of fuel, and often burned a cord of wood between candle-light and bedtime on one of their enormous hearths. a cord of wood is better than a play for cheerfulness, and a six-foot back-log will make more mirth than dan rice himself ever created. economy did not enter into the question, for wood was nature's chief weapon against her enemies, the settlers; and the question was not how to save, but how to burn it. to this place rita first opened the eyes of her mind. the girl's earliest memories were of the cozy log-cabin upon the banks of the limpid, gurgling creek. green in her memory, in each sense of the word, was the soft blue-grass lawn, that sloped gently a hundred yards from the cabin, built upon a little rise in the bottom land, down to the water's edge. often when she was a child, and i a man well toward middle life, did i play with the enchanting little elf upon the blue-grass lawn, and drink the waters of perennial youth at the fountain of her sweet babyhood. vividly i remember the white-skinned sycamores, the gracefully drooping elms, and the sweet-scented honey-locust that grew about the cabin and embowered it in leafy glory. even at this long distance of time, when june is abroad, if i catch the odor of locust blossoms, my mind and heart travel back on the wings of a moment, and i hear the buzzing of the wild bees, the song of the meadow-lark, the whistle of bob-white, and the gurgling of the creek--all blended into one sweet refrain like the mingling tones of a perfect orchestra by the soft-voiced babble of my wee girl-baby friend. i close my eyes, and see the house amid the hollyhocks and trees, a thin line of blue smoke curling lazily from the kitchen chimney and floating away over the deep, black forest to the north and east. i see the maples languidly turning the white side of their leaves to catch the south wind's balmy breath, and i see by my side a fate-charged, tiny tot, dabbling in the water, mocking the songs of the birds, and ever turning her face, with its great brown wistful eyes, to catch the breath of destiny and to hear the sad dread hum of the future. but my old chum billy little was the child's especial friend. in those good times there was another child, a boy, diccon bright, who often came down from his cabin home a mile up river to play with rita on the blue-grass lawn in summer, or to sit with her on the hearth log in winter. in cold weather the hearth log was kept on one side of the hearth, well within the fireplace itself, ready for use when needed. it gloried in three names, all of which were redolent of home. it was called the "hearth log" because it was kept upon the hearth; the "waiting log" because it was waiting to take the place of the log that was burning, and the "ciphering log" because the children sat upon it in the evening firelight to do their "ciphering"--a general term used to designate any sort of preparation for the morrow's lesson. in those times arithmetic was the chief study, and from it the acquisition of all branches of knowledge took the name of ciphering. diccon--where on earth his parents got the name, i cannot tell--was four or five years older than rita. he was a manly boy, and when my little friend could hardly lisp his name she would run to him with the unerring instinct of childhood and nestle in his arms or cling to his helpful finger. the little fellow was so sturdy, strong, and brave, and his dark gray eyes were so steadfast and true, that she feared no evil from him, though ordinarily she was a timid child. she would sit by him on the ciphering log during the long winter evenings, and the boy, the girl, and the fire were the best of friends, and had glorious times together on the heart of the cheery hearth. the north wind might blow, the snow might snow, and the cold might freeze, rita, dic, and the fire cared not a straw. "i want no better mirror, my little sweetheart," he would say, "than your brown eyes; no prettier color than your rosy cheeks and glossy black hair, and no truer friend than your loving little heart." and the fire crackled its entire approval. "very well, dic," she would reply, laughing with delight, "if you really want them, you may have them; they are all yours." and the fire smiled rosily, beaming its benediction. "but what will your father and mother say and tom?" asked dic. "we'll not tell them," replied this tiny piece of eve; and the fire almost choked itself with spluttering laughter. so, with the fire as a witness, the compact was made and remade many times, until she thought she belonged to dic and gloried in her little heart because of it. diccon and rita's brother, tom, even during their early childhood, when they were hardly half so tall as the guns they carried, were companion knights in the great wars waged by the settlers against the wild beasts of the forests, and many a bear, wolf, wildcat, and deer fell before the prowess of small sir diccon la valorous and little sir thomas de triflin'. out of their slaughter grew friendship, and for many years sir thomas was a frequent guest upon the ciphering log of sir diccon, and sir diccon spent many winter evenings on the hearth at castle bays. as the long years of childhood passed, dic began to visit the bays home more frequently than tom visited the brights'. i do not know whether this change was owing to the increasing age of the boys, or--but rita was growing older and prettier every day, and you know that may have had something to do with dic's visits. dic had another boy friend--an old boy, of thirty-five or more--whose name was william little. he was known generally as billy little, and it pleased the little fellow to be so called, "because," said he, "persons give the diminutive to fools and those whom they love; and i know i am not a fool." the sweetest words in the german language are their home diminutives. it is difficult to love a man whom one _must_ call thomas. tom, jack, and billy are the chaps who come near to us. billy was an old bachelor and an englishman. his family had intended him for the church, and he was educated at trinity with that end in view. although not an irreligious man, he had views on religion that were far from orthodox. "i found it impossible," he once remarked, "to induce the church to change its views, and equally impossible to change my own; so the church and i, each being unreasonably stubborn, agreed to disagree, and i threw over the whole affair, quarrelled with my family, was in turn thrown over by them, and here i am, in the wilderness, very much pleased." he lived in the little town of blue river, and was justice of the peace, postmaster, storekeeper, and occasionally school-teacher. he was small in stature, with a tendency to become rotund as he grew older. he took pride in his dress and was as cleanly as an englishman. he was reasonably willing to do the duty that confronted him, and loved but three forms of recreation,--to be with his two most intimate friends, rita and dic, to wander in the trackless forests, and to play upon his piano. his piano was his sweetheart, and often in the warm summer evenings, when his neighbors were in bed, would the strains of his music lull them to sleep, and float out into the surrounding forests, awakening the whippoorwill to heart-rending cries of anguish that would give a man the "blues" for a month. i believe many ignorant persons thought that billy was not exactly "right in the top," as they put it, because he would often wander through the forests, night or day, singing to himself, talking to the trees and birds, and clasping to his soul fair nature in her virgin strength and sweetness. he often communed with himself after this fashion: "i am a fortunate man in the things i love, for i have them to my heart's content. rita and dic are children. i give them knowledge. they give me youth. i touch my piano. it fills my soul with peace. if it gives me a discordant note, the fault is mine. i go to the forest, and sweet nature takes me in her arms and lulls me to ecstasy." billy little and i had been college chums, and had emigrated on the same ship. i studied law, entered the practice, married, and have a family. while my wife and family did not mar the friendship between little and myself, it prevented frequency of intercourse, for a wife and family are great absorbents. however, he and i remained friends, and from him i have most of the facts constituting this story. this friend of dic's was a great help to the boy intellectually, and at fourteen or fifteen years of age, when other boys considered their education complete if they could spell phthisis and constantinople, our hero was reading virgil and shakespeare, and was learning to think for himself. the knowledge obtained from billy little the boy tried to impart to rita. tom held learning and books to be effeminate and wasteful of time; but rita drank in dic's teaching, with now and then a helpful draught from billy little, and the result soon began to show upon the girl. thus it was that dic often went to see tom, but talked to tom's sister. many an evening, long after tom had unceremoniously climbed the rude stairway to bed, would the brown-eyed maid, with her quaint, wistful touch of womanhood, sit beside dic on the ciphering log inside the fireplace, listening to him read from one of billy little's books, watching him trace continents, rivers, and mountains on a map, or helping him to cipher a complicated problem in arithmetic. the girl by no means understood all that dic read, but she tried, and even though she failed, she would clasp her hands and say, "isn't it grand, dic?" and it was grand to her because dic read it. lamps were unknown to our simple folk, so the light of the fireplace was all they had to read by. it was, therefore, no uncommon sight in those early cabin homes to see the whole family sitting upon the broad hearth, shading their eyes with their hands, while some one--frequently the local school-teacher--sat upon the hearth log and read by the fire that furnished both light and heat. this reading was frequently dic's task in the bays home. one who has seen a large family thus gathered upon the spacious hearth will easily understand the love for it that ages ago sprang up in the hearts of men and crickets. at no place in all the earth, and at no time in all its history, has the hearth done more in moulding human character than it did in the wilderness on the north side of the lower ohio when the men who felled the forest and conquered nature offered their humble devotions on its homely altar. so it came to pass that dic and rita grew up together on the heart of the hearth; and what wonder that their own hearts were welded by the warmth and light of its cheery god. thus the boy grew to manhood and the girl to maidenhood, then to young womanhood, at which time, of course, her troubles began. chief among the earlier troubles of our little maid was a growing tenderness for dic. of that trouble she was not for many months aware. she was unable to distinguish between the affection she had always given him and the warming tenderness she was beginning to feel, save in her disinclination to make it manifest. when with him she was under a constraint as inexplicable to her as it was annoying. it brought grief to her tender heart, since it led her into little acts of rudeness or neglect, which in turn always led to tears. she often blamed dic for the altered condition, though it was all owing to the change in herself. there was no change in him. he sought the girl's society as frankly as when they were children, though at the time of which i write he had made no effort to "keep company" with her. she, at fifteen, believing herself to be a young lady, really wished for the advances she feared. sukey yates, who was only fourteen, had "company" every sunday evening, and went to all the social frolics for miles around. polly kaster, not sixteen, was soon to be married to bantam rhodes. many young men had looked longingly upon rita, who was the most beautiful girl on blue; but the chief justice, with her daughter's hearty approval, drove all suitors away. the girl was wholly satisfied with dic, who was "less than kin," but very much "more than kind." he came to see the family, herself included; but when he went out to social functions, church socials, corn-huskings, and dances he took sukey yates, or some other girl, and upon such evenings our own little maiden went to bed dissatisfied with the world at large, and herself in particular. of course, she would not have gone to dances, even with dic. she had regard for the salvation of her soul, and the chief justice, in whom the girl had unquestioning faith, held dancing to be the devil's chief instrument of damnation. even the church socials were not suitable for young girls, as you will agree if you read farther; and mrs. margarita, with a sense of propriety inherited from better days, tried to hold her daughter aloof from the country society, which entertained honest but questionable views on many subjects. dic paid his informal visit to the bays household in the evenings, and at the time of the girl's growing inclination she would gaze longingly up the river watching for him; while the sun, regretful to leave the land, wherein her hero dwelt, sank slowly westward to shine upon those poor waste places that knew no diccon. when she would see him coming she would run away for fear of herself, and seek her room in the loft, where she would scrub her face and hands in a hopeless effort to remove the sun-brown. then she would scan her face in a mirror, for which dic had paid two beautiful bearskins, hoping to convince herself that she was not altogether hideous. "if i could only be half as pretty as sukey yates," she often thought, little dreaming that sukey, although a very pretty girl, was plain compared with her own winsome self. after the scrubbing she would take from a little box the solitary piece of grandeur she possessed,--a ribbon of fiery red,--and with this around her neck or woven through the waving floods of her black hair, she felt she was bedecked like a veritable queen of hearts. but the ribbon could not remove all doubts of herself, and with tears ready to start from her eyes she would stamp her foot and cry out: "i hate myself. i am an ugly fool." then she would slowly climb down the rude stairway, and, as we humble folk would say, "take out her spite" against herself on poor dic. she was not rude to him, but, despite her inclination, she failed to repay his friendliness in kind as of yore. tom took great pleasure in teasing her, and chuckled with delight when his indulgent mother would tell her visiting friends that he was a great tease. one evening when rita had encountered more trouble than usual with the sun-brown, and was more than ever before convinced that she was a fright and a fool, she went downstairs, wearing her ribbon, to greet dic, who was sitting on the porch with father, mother, and tom. when she emerged from the front door, tom, the teaser, said:-- "oh, just look at her! she's put on her ribbon for dic." then, turning to dic, "she run to her room and spruced up when she saw you coming." dic laughed because it pleased him to think, at least to hope, that tom had spoken the truth. poor rita in the midst of her confusion misunderstood dic's laughter; and, smarting from the truth of tom's words, quickly retorted:-- "you're a fool to say such a thing, and if--if--if--mr.--mr. bright believes it, he is as great a fool as you." "mr. bright!" cried de triflin'. "my, but she's getting stylish!" rita looked at dic after she spoke, and the pain he felt was so easily discernible on his face that she would have given anything, even the ribbon, to have had her words back, or to have been able to cry out, "i didn't mean it, dic; i didn't mean it." but the words she had spoken would not come back, and those she wanted to speak would not come forward, so tears came instead, and she ran to her loft, to do penance in sobs greatly disproportionate to her sin. soon dic left, and as he started up the forest path she tried by gazing at him from her window to make him know the remorse she felt. she wanted to call to him, but she dared not; then she thought to escape unseen from the house and run after him. but darkness was rapidly falling, and she feared the black, terrible forest. we talk a great deal about the real things of after life; but the real things of life, the keen joys and the keenest pains, come to a man before his first vote, and to a woman before the days of her mature womanhood. the bachelor heart chapter ii the bachelor heart rita's first great pain kept her sleepless through many hours. she resolved that when dic should come again she would throw off the restraint that so hurt and provoked her, and would show him, at whatever cost, that she had not intended her hard words for him. the next day seemed an age. she sought all kinds of work to make the time pass quickly. churning, usually irksome, was a luxury. she swept every nook and corner of the house, and longed to sweep the whole farm. that evening she did not wait till dic was in sight to put on her ribbon. she changed it many times from her throat to her hair and back again, long before the sun had even thought of going down. her new attitude toward dic had at least one good effect: it took from her the irritation she had so often felt against herself. losing part of her self-consciousness in the whirl of a new, strong motive, wrought a great change, not only in her appearance, but also in her way of looking at things--herself included. she was almost satisfied with the image her mirror reflected. she might well have been entirely satisfied. there was neither guile nor vanity in the girl's heart, nor a trace of deceit in her face; only gentleness, truth, and beauty. she had not hitherto given much thought to her face; but with the change in her way of seeing dic, her eyes were opened to the value of personal beauty. then she began to wonder. regret for her hard words to dic deepened her longing for beauty, in the hope that she might be admired by him and more easily forgiven. billy little, who had seen much of the world, once said that there was a gentleness and beauty about rita at this time which he believed no other woman ever possessed. she was child and woman then, and that combination is hard to beat, even in a plain girl. poor old billy little! he was more than thirty years her senior, but i believe there is no period in the life of a bachelor, however case-hardened he may be, when his heart is entirely safe from the enemy. that evening rita sat on the porch watching for dic. but the sun and her heart went down, and dic did not come. the plaintive rain cry of a whippoorwill from the branches of a dead tree across the river, and the whispering "peep, peep, peep," of the sleepy robins in the foliage near the house, helped to deepen her feeling of disappointment, and she was thoroughly miserable. she tried to peer through the gloaming, and feared her father and mother would mark her troubled eagerness and guess its cause. but her dread of their comments was neutralized by the fear that dic would not come. opportunity is the touchstone of fate, save with women. with them it is fate itself. had dic appeared late that evening, there would have been a demonstration on rita's part, regardless of who might have seen, and the young man would have discovered an interesting truth. rita, deeply troubled, discovered it for herself, and thought surely it was plain enough for every one else to see. when darkness had fallen, she became reckless of concealment, and walked a short way up the river in the hope of meeting dic. the hooting of an owl frightened her, but she did not retreat till she heard the howling of a wolf. then she ran home at full speed and went to bed full of the most healthful suffering a heart can know--that which it feels because of the pain it has given another. [illustration: "she changed it many times."] thus dic missed both opportunity and demonstration. the next evening he missed another opportunity, and by the morning of the third day our little girl, blushing at the thought, determined to write to him and ask his forgiveness. there was one serious obstacle to writing: she had neither paper nor ink, nor money with which to buy them. hitherto she had found little use for money, but now the need was urgent. tom always had money, and she thought of begging a few pennies from him. no! tom would laugh, and refuse. if she should ask her mother, a string of questions would ensue, with "no" for a snapper. her father would probably give her money, if she asked for it; but her mother would ask questions later. she would ride to town, one mile south on blue, and ask credit of her old friend, billy little, to the extent of a sheet of paper and a small pot of ink. for a pen she would catch a goose, pluck a quill, and ask billy to cut it. billy could cut the best pen of any one on blue. dinner over, she caught the goose after an exciting chase, plucked the quill, saddled her horse, and was slipping away from the back yard when her mother's voice halted her. "where are you going?" asked mrs. margarita. "i'm--i'm--going--going to see sukey yates," answered the girl. she had not intended going to sukey's, but after her mother's peremptory demand for information, she formed the _ex post facto_ resolution to do so, that her answer might not be a lie. "now, what on earth do you want there?" asked the chief justice. "i--i only want to sit awhile with her," answered rita. "may i go? the work is all done." "no, you shan't go," responded the kind old lady. you see, one of the maxims of this class of good persons is to avoid as many small pleasures as possible--in others. that they apply the rule to themselves, doesn't help to make it endurable. rita--with whom to hear was to obey--sprang from her horse; but just then her father came upon the scene. his soft words and soothing suggestions mollified justice, and rita started forth upon her visit to sukey. she had told her mother she was going to see sukey yates; and when she thought upon the situation, she became convinced that her _ex post facto_ resolution, even though honestly acted upon, would not avail her in avoiding a lie, unless it were carried out to the letter and in the spirit. there was not a lie in this honest girl--not a fractional part of a lie--from her toes to her head. she went straight to see sukey, and did not go to town, though she might easily have done so. she did not fear discovery. she feared the act of secret disobedience, and above all she dreaded the lie. a strong motive might induce her to disobey, but the disobedience in that case would be open. she would go to sukey's to-day. to-morrow she would go to town in open rebellion, if need be. the thought of rebellion caused her to tremble; but let the powers at home also tremble. like many of us, she was brave for to-morrow's battle, since to-morrow never comes. rita was not in the humor to listen to sukey's good-natured prattle, so her visit was brief, and she soon rode home, her heart full of trouble and rebellion. but the reward for virtue, which frequently fails to make its appearance, waited upon our heroine. when she was about to dismount at the home gate, her father called to her:-- "while you're on your horse, rita, you might ride to town and ask billy little if there's a letter. the mail came in three days ago." the monster, rebellion, at once disappeared, and the girl, conscience-smitten, resolved never, never to entertain him again. she rode down the river path through the forest, happy after many days of wretchedness. billy little's store building consisted of two log-built rooms. the long front room was occupied by the store and post-office. the back room, as billy said, was occupied by his piano and himself. when he saw rita, clothed in dainty calico and smiles, gallop up to the hitching-post, his heart was filled with joy, his face beamed with pleasure, and his scalp was suffused by a rosy hue. billy's smooth-shaven face was pale, the blood never mounting to his cheeks, so he made amends as best he could and blushed with the top of his head. "good evening to you, rita," he said, as he lifted her to the ground and hitched her horse. "i am delighted to see you. you come like the rosy sun after a rainy day." "the sun doesn't come after the day, billy little," retorted the laughing girl. "you probably mean the pale moon, or a poor dim little star." "i know what i mean," answered the little old fellow in tones of mock indignation, "and i'll not allow a chit of a girl to correct my astronomy. i'm your schoolmaster, and if i say the sun comes after the day, why after the day it comes. now, there!" he continued, as they entered the store. "turn your face to the wall and do penance. such insolence!" the girl faced the wall, and after a moment she looked laughingly over her shoulder at him. "if you'll let me turn around, i'll admit that the sun comes at midnight, if you say it does, billy little." "midnight it is," said billy, sternly. "take your seat." she ran laughing to billy, and clasping his arm affectionately, said with a touch of seriousness:-- "it comes whenever you say it does, billy little. i'd believe you before i'd believe myself." poor old bachelor heart! look to your breastworks; the enemy is at hand. "now i've noticed," said cynical billy, "that whenever the feminine heart wants something, it grows tender. what do you want?" "i want a letter, billy little. father sent me down to fetch it, if there is one." "yes, there's one here," he answered, going back of the glass-covered pigeon-holes. "there's one here from indianapolis. it's from your uncle jim fisher. i suppose he's after your father again to sell his farm and invest the proceeds in the indianapolis store. precious fool he'll be if he does." "indeed, he would not be a fool," retorted the girl. "i'm just wild for father to move to indianapolis. i don't want to grow up in the country like a ragweed or mullein stalk, and i--" ("like a sweetbrier or a golden-rod," interrupted billy) "and i don't want you to advise him not to go," she continued, unmindful of billy's flowers of poesy. "well, here's the letter. do you want anything else?" "n-o-o-no." "then, for once, i've found a disinterested female in a coaxing mood," replied this modern diogenes. he came from behind the counter, pretending to believe her, and started toward the door. "how's dic?" he asked. "i haven't seen him for a fortnight. i've been wondering what has become of him." the girl's face turned red--painfully so to billy--as she replied:-- "i--i haven't seen him either for--for a very long time--three days." she stopped talking and billy remained silent. after a long pause she spoke up briskly, as if she had just remembered something. "oh, i almost forgot--there _is_ something i want, and--and after all, you're right. i want--i want--won't you--will you--i say, billy little, won't you let me have a sheet of writing paper and a pot of ink, and won't you cut this pen for me?" billy took the quill and turned to go behind the counter. the girl was dancing nervously on her toes. "but say, billy little, i can't pay you for them now. will--will--you trust me?" billy did not reply, but went to the letter-paper box. "you had better take more than one sheet, rita," he said softly. "if you're going to write a love-letter to dic, you will be sure to spoil the first sheet, perhaps the second and third." billy's head blushed vividly after he had spoken, for his remark was a prying one. the girl had no thought of writing a love-letter, and she resented the insinuation. she was annoyed because she had betrayed her purpose in buying the paper. but she loved billy little too dearly to show her resentment, and remained silent. the girl, billy, and dic differing as much as it is possible for three persons to differ, save in their common love for books and truth, had been friends ever since her babyhood, and billy was the only person to whom she could easily lay bare her heart. upon second thought she concluded to tell him her trouble. "it was this way, billy little," she began, and after stumbling over many words, she made a good start, and the little story of her troubles fell from her lips like crystal water from a babbling spring. after her story was finished--and she found great relief in the telling--billy said:-- "of course i'll trust you. i'd trust you for the whole store if you wanted to buy it. i'd trust you with my soul," he added after a pause. "there's not a false drop of blood in your veins." "ah, billy little," she answered, as she took his hand caressingly for an instant, and her eyes, with their wonderful capacity for expression, said the rest. "so, you see, i _do_ want to write a letter to dic," she said, dropping his hand; "but it is not to be a love-letter. i could not write one if i wished. i was very wicked. oh, billy little, i honestly think, at times, i'm the worst girl that ever lived. something terrible will happen to me for my wickedness, i'm sure. mother says it will." "yes, something terrible--terrible, i'm sure," returned billy, musingly. "and i want to apologize to him," she continued, "and tell him i didn't mean it. isn't it right that i should?" "oh, yes--yes," answered billy, starting out of his revery. "of course, yes--maxwelton's braes are bonny--um--um--um--um--um--yes, oh yes." when vexed, pleased, or puzzled, billy was apt to hum the opening line of "annie laurie," though the first four words were all that received the honor of distinct articulation. the remainder of the stanza he allowed to die away under his breath. rita was of course familiar with the habit, but this time she could not tell which motive had prompted the musical outburst. billy himself couldn't have told, but perhaps the bachelor heart was at the bottom of it. "thank you, billy little, for the paper," said rita. "i'll pay you with the first money i get." billy silently helped her to mount her horse. she smiled, "good-by," and he walked slowly back to the store muttering to himself: "billy little, billy little, your breastworks are weak, and you are a--maxwelton's braes--um--um--um--um.--ah, good evening, mrs. carson. something i can do for you this evening? sugar? ah, yes, plenty. best in town. best shipment i ever had," and billy was once more a merchant. when rita reached home supper was ready, and after the supper work was finished it was too dark to write; so the letter was postponed a day, and she took her place on the porch, hoping that dic would come and that the letter might be postponed indefinitely. but he did not come. next morning churning had again become loathsome, sweeping was hard work, and dinner was a barbarous institution. rita had no appetite, and to sympathize with those who are hungry one must be hungry. innumerable very long minutes had woven themselves into mammoth hours when rita, having no table in her room, found herself lying on the floor writing her momentous letter. it was not to be a love-letter; simply an appeal for forgiveness to a friend whom she had wantonly injured. "dear old billy little," she said to herself, when she opened the package. "what pretty paper--and he has given me six sheets in place of one--and a little pot of ink--and a sand-box! i wonder if the quill is a good one! ah, two--three quills! dear old billy little! here is enough paper to last me for years." in that respect she was mistaken. she experienced difficulty with effort number one, but finished the letter and read it aloud; found it wholly unsatisfactory, and destroyed it. she used greater care with the next, but upon reading it over she found she had said too much of what she wished to leave unsaid, and too little of what she wanted to say. she destroyed number two with great haste and some irritation, for it was almost a love-letter. the same fate befell numbers three, four, and five. after all, billy's liberal supply of paper would not last for years. if it proved sufficient for one day, she would be satisfied. number six, right or wrong, must go to dic, so she wrote simply and briefly what was in her heart. "dear friend dic: my words were not intended for you. i was angry with tom, as i had good reason to be, though he spoke the truth. i did put on my ribbon because i saw you coming, and i have cried every night since then because of what i said to you, and because you do not come to let me tell you how sorry i am. you should have given me a chance. i would have given you one. rita." it was a sweet, straightforward letter, half-womanly, half-childish, and she had no cause to be ashamed of it; but she feared it was bold, and tears came to her eyes when she read it, because there were no more sheets of paper, and modest or bold it must go to dic. having written the letter, she had no means of sending it; but she had entered upon the venture, and was determined to carry it through. mrs. bays and her husband had driven to town, and there was no need for _ex post facto_ resolutions. when the letter had been properly directed and duly sealed, the girl saddled her horse and started away on another journey to sukey yates. this time, however, she went somewhat out of her way, riding up the river path through the forest to dic bright's home. when she reached the barnyard gate dic was hitching the horses to the "big wagon." he came at rita's call, overjoyed at the sight of her. he knew she had come to ask forgiveness. for many months past he had tried not to see that she was unkind to him, but her words on the porch had convinced him, and he saw that her coldness had been intentional. of course he did not know the cause of her altered demeanor, and had regretfully put it down to an altered sentiment on her part. but when he saw her at the barnyard gate, he was again in the dark as to her motive. when dic came up to her she handed him the letter over the gate, saying: "read it alone. let no one see it." dic had only time to say, "thank you," when the girl struck her horse and galloped down the forest path, bound for sukey. when she had passed out of sight among the trees, dic went down the river to a secluded spot, known as "the stepoff," where he could read the letter without fear of detection. he had long suspected that his love for the girl was not altogether brotherly, and his recent trouble with her had crystallized that suspicion into certainty. but he saw nothing back of the letter but friendship and contrition. the girl's love was so great a treasure that he dared not even hope for it, and was more than satisfied with the platonic affection so plainly set forth in her epistle. we who have looked into rita's heart know of a thing or two that does not resemble platonism; but the girl herself did not fully know what she felt, and dic was sure she could not, under any circumstances, feel as he did. his mistake grew partly out of his lack of knowledge that woman's flesh and blood is of exactly the same quality that covers the bones and flows in the veins of man, and--well, rita was rita, and, in dic's opinion, no other human being was ever of the quality of her flesh, or cast in the mould of her nature. the letter told him that he still held her warm, tender love as a friend. he was thankful for that, and would neither ask nor expect anything more. if upon rita's former visit to sukey she had been too sad to enjoy the vivacious little maiden, upon this occasion she was too happy. she sat listening patiently to her chat, without hearing much of it, until sukey said:-- "dic was over to see me last night. i think he's so handsome, don't you?" rita was so startled that she did not think anything at the moment, and sukey presently asked:-- "don't you think he has a fine head? and his eyes are glorious. the gray is so dark, and they look right at you." rita, compelled to answer, said, "i think he is--is all right--strong." "indeed, he is strong," responded sukey. "when he takes hold of you, you just feel like he could crush you. oh, it's delicious--it's thrilling--when you feel that a man could just tear you to pieces if he wanted to." "why?" asked rita; "i don't understand." "oh, just because," replied sukey, shrugging her shoulders and laughing softly, her red lips parted, her little teeth glistening like wet ivory, and the dimples twinkling mischievously. "just because" explained nothing to rita, but something in sukey's laughter and manner aroused undefined and disagreeable suspicions, so she said:-- "well, sukey, i must be going home." "why, you just came," returned sukey, still laughing softly. she had shot her arrow intentionally and had seen it strike the target's centre. sukey was younger than rita, but she knew many times a thing or two; while poor rita's knowledge of those mystic numbers was represented by the figure o. why should dic "take hold" of any one, thought rita, while riding home, and above all, why should he take hold of sukey? sukey was pretty, and sukey's prettiness and dic's "taking hold" seemed to be related in some mysterious manner. she who saw others through the clear lens of her own conscience did not doubt dic and sukey, but notwithstanding her trustfulness, a dim suspicion passed through her mind that something might be wrong if dic had really "taken hold" of sukey. where the evil was, she could not determine; and to connect the straightforward, manly fellow with anything dishonorable or wicked was impossible to her. so she dismissed the subject, and it left no trace upon her mind save a slight irritation against sukey. rita felt sure that dic would come to see tom that evening, and the red ribbon was in evidence soon after supper. dic did come, and there was at least one happy girl on blue. the sycamore divan chapter iii the sycamore divan a virgin love in the heart of a young girl is like an effervescent chemical: it may withstand a great shock, but a single drop of an apparently harmless liquid may cause it to evaporate. this risk dic took when he went that evening to see tom; and the fact that rita had written her letter, of which she had such grave misgivings, together with the words of sukey yates, made his risk doubly great. poor dic needed a thorough knowledge of chemistry. he did not know that he possessed it, but he was a pure-minded, manly man, and the knowledge was innate with him. "good evening, rita," said dic, when, after many efforts, she came out upon the porch where he was sitting with her father, her mother, and tom. "good morning," answered rita, confusedly, and her mistake as to the time of day added to her confusion. "good morning!" cried tom. "it's evening. my! but she's confused because you're here, dic." tom was possessed of a simian acuteness that had led him to discover poor rita's secret before she herself was fully aware of its existence. she, however, was rapidly making the interesting discovery, and feared that between the ribbon, the letter, and tom's amiable jokes, dic would discover it and presume upon the fact. from the mingling of these doubts and fears grew a feeling of resentment against dic--a conviction before the fact. she wished him to know her regard for him, but she did not want him to learn it from any act of hers. she desired him to wrest it from her by main force, and as little awkwardness as a man may use. had dic by the smallest word or act shown a disposition to profit by what rita feared had been excessive frankness in her letter, or had he, in any degree, assumed the attitude of a confident lover, such word or act would have furnished the needful chemical drop, and dic's interests would have suffered. his safety at this time lay in ignorance. he did not suspect that rita loved him, and there was no change in his open friendly demeanor. he was so easy, frank, and happy that evening that the girl soon began to feel that nothing unusual had happened, and that, after all, the letter was not bold, but perfectly right, and quite proper in all respects. unconsciously to her dic received the credit for her eased conscience, and she was grateful to him. she was more comfortable, and the evening seemed more like old times than for many months before. soon after dic's arrival, tom rode over to see sukey yates. as the hollyhock to the bees, so was sukey to the country beaux--a conspicuous, inviting, easily reached little reservoir of very sweet honey. later, mr. and mrs. bays drove to town, leaving dic and rita to themselves, much to the girl's alarm, though she and dic had been alone together many times before. thus dic had further opportunity to make a mistake; but he did not mention the letter, and the girl's confidence came slowly back to her. the evening was balmy, and after a time dic and rita walked to the crest of the little slope that fell gently ten or fifteen feet to the water's edge. a sycamore log answered the purpose of a divan, and a great drooping elm furnished a royal canopy. a half-moon hung in the sky, whitening a few small clouds that seemed to be painted on the blue-black dome. the air, though not oppressive, was warm enough to make all nature languorous, and the soft breath of the south wind was almost narcotic in its power to soothe. a great forest is never still; even its silence has a note of its own. the trees seem to whisper to each other in the rustling of their leaves. the birds, awakened by the wind or by the breaking of a twig, speak to their neighbors. the peevish catbird and the blue jay grumble, while the thrush, the dove, and the redbird peep caressingly to their mates, and again fall asleep with gurgles of contentment in their throats. rita and dic sat by the river's edge for many minutes in silence. the ever wakeful whippoorwill piped his doleful cry from a tree across the water, an owl hooted from the blackness of the forest beyond the house, and the turtle-doves cooed plaintively to each other in their far-reaching, mournful tones, giving a minor note to the nocturnal concert. now and then a fish sprang from the water and fell back with a splash, and the water itself kept up a soft babble like the notes of a living flute. certainly the time was ripe for a mistake, but dic did not make one. a woman's favor comes in waves like the flowing of the sea; and a wise man, if he fails to catch one flood, will wait for another. dic was unconsciously wise, for rita's favor was at its ebb when she walked down to the river bank. ebb tide was indicated by the fact that she sat as far as possible from him on the log. the first evidence of a returning flood-tide would be an unconscious movement on her part toward him. should the movement come from him there might be no flood-tide. during the first half-hour dic did most of the talking, but he spoke only of a book he had borrowed from billy little. with man's usual tendency to talk a subject threadbare, he clung to the one topic. a few months prior to that time his observations on the book would have interested the girl; but recently two or three unusual events had touched her life, and her dread that dic would speak of them, was rapidly growing into a fear that he would not. by the end of that first half-hour, her feminine vivacity monopolized the conversation with an ostentatious display of trivial details on small subjects, and she began to move toward his end of the log. still dic kept his place, all unconscious of his wisdom. geese seemed to be rita's favorite topic. most women are clever at periphrasis, and will go a long way around to reach a desired topic, if for any reason they do not wish to approach it directly. the topics rita wished to reach, as she edged toward dic on the log and talked about geese, were her unkind words and her very kind letter. she wished to explain that her words were not meant to be unkind, and that the letter was not meant to be kind, and thought to reach the desired topics by the way of geese. "do you remember, dic," she asked, "a long time ago, when tom and i and the yates children spent the afternoon at your house? we were sitting near the river, as we are sitting now, and a gray wolf ran down from the opposite bank and caught a gander?" "yes, i remember it as if it were yesterday," replied dic. "geese are such fools when they are frightened," continued rita, clinging to her subject. "so are people," answered dic. "we are all foolish when frightened. the other day the barn door slammed to with a crash, and i was so frightened i tried to put the collar in the horse's mouth." rita laughed, and dic continued, "once i was in the woods hunting, and a bear rose up--" "but geese are worse than anybody when disturbed," interrupted rita, "worse even than you when the barn door slams. the other day i wanted to catch a goose to get a--" "they are not worse than a lot of girls at gabbling," interrupted dic, ungallantly retaliating for rita's humorous thrust. "they are not half so dull as a lot of men," she replied, tossing her head. "when men get together they hum and hum about politics and crops, till it makes one almost wish there were no government or crops. but geese are--the other day i wanted to catch one to get a--" "all men don't hum and hum, as you say," returned dic. "there's billy little--you don't think he hums, do you?" "no," answered the girl; "billy little always says something when he talks, but he's always talking. i will put him against any man in the world for a talking match. but the other day i wanted to catch a goose to get a quill, and--" "oh, that reminds me," broke in dic, "my uncle joe bright is coming to visit us soon. talk about talkers! he is a seventh day adventist preacher, and his conversation--no, i'll say his talk, for that's all it is--reminds me of time." "how is that?" queried rita. "it's made up of small particles, goes on forever, and is all seconds. he says nothing first hand. his talk is all borrowed." rita laughed and tried again. "well, i wanted to catch--" "you just spoke of a talking match," said dic. "i have an idea. let us bring billy little and my uncle together for a talking match." "very well," replied rita, laughing heartily. "i'll stake my money on billy little. but i was saying, the other day i--" "i'll put mine on uncle joe," cried dic. "billy little is a 'still bill' compared with him." rita was provoked, and i think with good reason; but after a pause she concluded to try once more. "the other day i wanted a quill for a pen, and when i tried to catch a goose i thought their noise would alarm the whole settlement." "geese awakened rome," said dic. "if they should awaken blue river, it, also, might become famous. the geese episode is the best known fact concerning the eternal city--unless perhaps it is her howling." "rome had a right to howl," said rita, anxious to show that she remembered his teaching. "she was founded by the children of a wolf." dic was pleased and laughingly replied: "that ponderous historical epigram is good enough to have come from billy little himself. when you learn a fact, it immediately grows luminous." the girl looked quickly up to satisfy herself that he was in earnest. being satisfied, she moved an inch or two nearer him on the log, and began again:-- "i wanted to catch the goose--" but she stopped and concluded to try the billy little road. "dear old billy little," she said, "isn't he good? the other day he said he'd trust me for the whole store, if i wanted to buy it. i had no money and i wanted to buy--" "why should he not trust you for all you would buy?" asked dic. "he knows he would get his money." the billy little route also seemed hilly. she concluded to try another, and again made a slight movement toward dic on the log. "i went from your house this afternoon over to sukey's." she looked stealthily at dic, but he did not flinch. after a pause she continued, with a great show of carelessness and indifference, though this time she moved away from him as she spoke. "she said you had been over to see her last night." and to show that she was not at all interested in his reply, she hummed the air of a song and carefully scrutinized a star that was coming dangerously close to the moon. "yes, i went over to borrow their adze. ours is broken," returned dic. the song ceased. star and moon might collide for all the singer cared. she was once again interested in things terrestrial. "now, dic," she cried, again moving toward him and unduly emphasizing the fact that she was merely teasing (she talked to tease, but listened to learn), "now, dic, you know the adze was only an excuse. you went to see sukey. you know you did. why didn't you borrow kaster's adze? they live much nearer your house." she thought she had him in a trap, and laughed as if she were delighted. "i went to kaster's first. they had none." the girl concluded she was on the wrong road. but the side road had suddenly become interesting, and she determined to travel it a short way. silence ensued on dic's part, and travel on the side road became slow. rita was beginning to want to gallop. if she continued on the side road, she feared her motive might grow to look more like a desire to learn than a desire to tease; but she summoned her boldness, and with a laugh that was intended to be merry, said:-- "dic, you know you went to see sukey, and that you spent the evening with her." "did she say i did?" he asked, turning sharply upon her. "well--" replied rita, but she did not continue. the sukey yates road _was_ interesting, unusually so. dic paused for an answer, but receiving none, continued with emphasis:-- "i did not go into the house. i wasn't there five minutes, and i didn't say ten words to sukey." "you need not get mad about it," replied the girl. "i don't care how often you go to see sukey or any other girl." "i know you don't," he returned. "of course you don't care. i never hoped--never even dreamed--that you would," and his breath came quickly with his bold, bold words. "you might as well begin to dream," thought the girl, but she laughed, this time nervously, and said, "she told me you were there and took--took hold of--that is, she said you were so strong that when you took hold of her she felt that you could crush her." then forgetting herself for a moment, she moved quite close to dic and asked, "_did_ you take--take--" but she stopped. "tell me, rita," returned dic, with a sharpness that attracted her attention at once, "did she say i took hold of her, or are you trying to tease me? if you are teasing, i think it is in bad taste. if she said--" "well," interrupted the girl, slightly frightened, "she said that when you take hold of one--" "oh, she did not say herself?" asked dic. "i don't see that she could have meant any one else," replied rita. "but, dear me, i don't care how often you take hold of her; you need not get angry at me because you took hold of her. there can be no harm in taking hold of any one, i'm sure, if you choose to do so; but why one should do it, i don't know, and i'm sure i don't care." no _ex post facto_ resolution could cure that lie, though of course it is a privileged one to a girl. dic made no reply, save to remark: "i'll see miss sukey to-morrow. if i wanted to 'take hold' of her, as she calls it, i would do so, but--but i'll see her to-morrow." the answer startled rita. she did not want to be known as a tale-bearer. especially did she object in this particular case; therefore she said:-- "you may see her if you wish, but you shall not speak to her of what i have told you. she would think--" "let her think what she chooses," he replied. "i have never 'taken hold' of her in my life. lord knows, i might if i wanted to. all the other boys boast that they take turn about, but--. she would be a fool to tell if it were true, and a story-teller if not. so i'll settle the question to-morrow, and for all time." a deal of trouble might have been saved had rita permitted him to make the settlement with sukey, but she did not. the infinite potency of little things is one of the paradoxes of life. "no, you shall not speak of this matter to her," she said, moving close to him upon the log and putting her hand upon his arm coaxingly. "promise me you will not." he would have promised to stop breathing had she asked it in that mood. it was the first he had ever seen of it, and he was pleased, although, owing to an opaqueness of mind due to his condition, it told him nothing save that his old-time friend was back again. "if you tell her," continued the girl, "she will be angry with me, and i have had so much trouble of late i can't bear any more." at last she was on the straight road bowling along like a mail coach. "after i spoke to you as i did the other night--you know, when tom--i could not eat or sleep. oh, i was in so much trouble! you and i had always been such real friends, and you have always been so good to me--" a rare little lump was rapidly and alarmingly growing in her throat--"i have never had even an unkind look from you, and to speak to you as i did,--oh, dic,--" the lump grew too large for easy utterance, and she stopped speaking. dic was wise in not pursuing the ebb, but he was foolish in not catching the flood. but perhaps if he would wait, it might ingulf him of its own accord, and then, ah, then, the sweetness of it! "never think of it again," he said soothingly. "your words hurt me at the time, but your kind, frank letter cured the pain, and i intended never to speak of it. but since you have spoken, i--i--" the girl was frightened, although eager to hear what he would say, so she remained silent during dic's long pause, and at length he said, "i thank you for the letter." a sigh of mingled relief and disappointment came from her breast. "it gave me great pleasure, for it made me know that you were still my friend," said dic, "and that your words were meant for tom, and not for me." "indeed, not for you," said rita, still struggling with the lump in her throat. "let us never speak of it again," said dic. "i'm glad it happened. it puts our friendship on a firmer basis than ever before." "that would be rather hard, to do, wouldn't it?" asked the girl, laughing contentedly. "we have been such good friends ever since i was a baby--since before i can remember." the direct road was becoming too smooth for rita, and she began to fear she would not be able to stop. "let us make this bargain," said dic. "when you want to say anything unkind, say it to me. i'll not misunderstand." "very well," she replied laughingly, "the privilege may be a great comfort to me at times. i, of course, dare not scold mother. if i look cross at tom, mother scolds me for a week, and i could not speak unkindly to poor father. you see, i have no one to scold, and i'm sure every one should have somebody to explode upon with impunity now and then. so i'll accept your offer, and you may expect--" there was a brief pause, after which she continued: "no, i'll not. never again so long as i live. you, of all others, shall be safe from my ill temper," and she gave him her hand in confirmation of her words. in all the world there was no breast freer from ill temper than hers; no heart more gentle, tender, and trustful. her nature was like a burning spring. it was pure, cool, and limpid to its greatest depths, though there was fire in it. dic did not consider himself obliged to release rita's hand at once, and as she evidently thought it would be impolite to withdraw it, there is no telling what mistakes might have happened had not tom appeared upon the scene. tom seated himself beside dic just as that young man dropped rita's hand, and just as the young lady moved a little way toward her end of the log. "you are home early," remarked rita. "yes," responded tom, "doug hill was there--the lubberly pumpkin-head." no man of honor would remain in a young lady's parlor if at the time of his arrival she had another gentleman visitor unless upon the request of the young lady, and no insult so deep and deadly could be offered to the man in possession as the proffer of such a request by the young lady to the intruder. after a few minutes of silence tom remarked: "this night reminds me of the night i come from cincinnati to brookville on the canal-boat. everything's so warm and clear like. i set out on top of the boat and seed the hills go by." "did the hills go by?" asked rita, who had heard the story of tom's cincinnati trip many times. "well, they seemed to go by," answered tom. "of course, they didn't move. it was the boat. but i jest seed them move as plain as i see that cloud up yonder." that tom had not profited by billy little's training and his mother's mild corrections now and then (for the chief justice had never entirely lost the habits of better days), was easily discernible in his speech. rita's english, like dic's and billy little's, was corrupted in spots by evil communication; but tom's--well, tom was no small part of the evil communication itself. dic had heard the cincinnati story many times, and when he saw symptoms of its recurrence, he rose and said:-- "well, tom, if you _seed_ the hills go by, you'll _seed_ me go by if you watch, for i'm going home," and with a good night he started up the river path, leaving rita and her brother tom seated on the log. "so doug hill was there?" asked rita. "yes," responded tom; "and how any girl can let him kiss her, i don't know. his big yaller face reminds me of the under side of a mud-turtle." "i hope sukey doesn't allow him nor any one else to kiss her," cried rita, with a touch of indignant remonstrance. tom laughed as if to say that he could name at least one who enjoyed that pleasant privilege. rita was at that time only sixteen years old, and had many things to learn about the doings of her neighbors, which one would wish she might never know. the chief justice had at least one virtue: she knew how to protect her daughter. no young man had ever been permitted to "keep company" with rita, and she and her mother wanted none. dic, of course, had for years been a constant visitor; but he, as you know, was like one of the family. aside from the habit of dic's visits, and growing out of them, madam bays had dim outlines of a future purpose. dic's father, who was dead, had been considered well-to-do among his neighbors. he had died seized of four "eighties," all paid for, and two-thirds cleared for cultivation. eighty acres of cleared bottom land was looked upon as a fair farm. one might own a thousand acres of rich soil covered with as fine oak, walnut, and poplar as the world could produce and might still be a poor man, though the timber in these latter days would bring a fortune. cleared land was wealth at the time of which i write, and in building their houses the settlers used woods from which nowadays furniture is made for royal palaces. every man on blue might have said with louis xiv, "i am housed like a king." cleared land was wealth, and dic, upon his mother's death, would at least be well able to support a wife. the chief justice knew but one cause for tenderness--tom. when rita was passing into womanhood, and developing a beauty that could not be matched on all the river blue, she began to assume a commercial value in her mother's eyes that might, madam b. thought in a dimly conscious fashion, be turned to tom's account. should rita marry a rich man, there would be no injustice--justice, you know, was the watchword--in leaving all the bays estate to the issue male. therefore, although mrs. bays was not at all ready for her young daughter to receive attention from any man, when the proper time should come, dic might be available if no one better offered, and tom, dear, sweet, sir thomas de triflin', should then have all that his father and mother possessed, as soon as they could with decent self-respect die and get out of his way. as time passed, and rita's beauty grew apace, mrs. bays began to feel that dic with his four "eighties" was not a price commensurate with the winsome girl. but having no one else in mind, she permitted his visits with a full knowledge of their purpose, and hoped that chance or her confidential friend, providence, might bring a nobler prize within range of the truly great attractiveness of tom's sister. mrs. bays knew that the life she and her neighbors were leading was poor and crude. she also knew that men of wealth and position were eagerly seeking rare girls of rita's type. by brooding over better things than dic could offer, her hope grew into a strong desire, and with rita's increasing beauty this motherly desire took the form of faith. still, dic's visits were permitted to continue, and doubtless would be permitted so long as they should be made ostensibly to the family. tom's remarks upon sukey and sukey's observations concerning dic had opened rita's eyes to certain methods prevalent among laddies and lasses, and as a result sukey, for the time, became _persona non grata_ to her old-time friend. rita was not at the time capable of active jealousy. she knew sukey was pretty enough, and, she feared, bold enough to be dangerous in the matter of dic, but she trusted him. sukey certainly was prettily bedecked with the pinkest and whitest of cheeks, twinkling dimples, and sparkling eyes; but for real beauty she was not in rita's class, and few men would think of her fleshly charms twice when they might be thinking of our little heroine. thus tom and sukey became fountain-heads of unhallowed knowledge upon subjects concerning which every young girl, however pure, has a consuming curiosity. rita had heard of the "kissing games" played by the youngsters, and a few of the oldsters, too, at country frolics, corn-huskings, and church socials; but as i have told you, the level-headed old chief justice had wisely kept her daughter away from such gatherings, and rita knew little of the kissing, and never telling what was going on about her. tom and sukey had thrown light upon the subject for her, and she soon understood, feared, and abhorred. would she ever pity and embrace? the debutante chapter iv the debutante a year after the small happenings i have just related, great events began to cluster about dic. they were truly great for him and of course were great for rita. through billy little's aid dic received an offer from an eastern horse buyer to lead a drove of horses to new york. the task was difficult, and required a man of health, strength, judgment, and nerve. the trip going would require two months, and the horses must be kept together, fed, cared for, and, above all, protected night and day from horse thieves, until after the alleghanies were crossed. the horses were driven loose in herds of one hundred or more. three men constituted a crew. in this instance dic was to be in charge, and two rough horse-boys would be his assistants. it would have been impossible to _drive_ the horses over the fenceless roads and through the leagues of trackless forest; therefore, they were led. the men would take turns about riding in advance, and the man leading would continually whistle a single shrill note which the horses soon learned to follow. should the whistling cease for a moment, the horses would stop and perhaps stampede. this might mean forty-eight hours of constant work in gathering the drove, with perhaps the loss of one or more. if you will, for one hour, whistle a shrill note loud enough to reach the ears of a herd of trampling, neighing horses, you will discover that even that task, which is the smallest part of horse "leading," is an exhausting operation. the work was hard, but the pay was good, and dic was delighted with the opportunity. one of its greatest attractions to him was the fact that he would see something of the world. billy little urged him to accept the offer. "a man," said he, "estimates his own stature by comparing it with those about him, and the most fatal mistake he can make is to underestimate his size. self-conceit is ugly, but it never injured any one. modesty would have ruined napoleon himself. the measure of a man, like the length of a cloth-yard, depends upon the standard. go away from here, dic. find your true standard. measure yourself and return, if you wish. this place is as good as another, if a man knows himself; if he doesn't, he is apt to be deceived by the littleness of things about him. yet there are great things here, too--greater, in some respects, than any to be found in new york; but the great things here are possibilities. of course, possibilities are but the raw material. they must be manufactured--achieved. but achievement, my boy, achievement! that's the whole thing, after all. what would cæsar germanicus and napoleon have been without possibilities? a ready-made opportunity is a good thing in its way, but it is the creation of opportunity out of crude possibilities that really marks and makes the man and stamps the deed. any hungry fool would seize the opportunity to eat who might starve if he had to make his bread. go out into the world. you have good eyes. it will not take long to open them. when they are opened, come back and you will see opportunities here that will make you glad you are alive." "but, billy little," replied dic, who was sitting with rita on the sycamore divan, while their small elderly friend sat upon the grass facing them, "you certainly have seen the world. your eyes were opened before you came here, and it seems to me your learning and culture are buried here among the possibilities you speak of." "no, dic," answered billy, "you see, i--well, i ran away from--from many things. you see, you and i are cast in different moulds. you are six feet tall, physically and temperamentally." rita thought billy was the most acute observer in christendom, but she did not speak, save with her eyes. those eyes nowadays were always talking. "six feet don't amount to much," responded dic. "there is doug hill, who is six feet three, with no more brains than a catfish. it is what's at the top of the six feet that counts. you have more at the top of your five feet four than the tallest man on blue, and as i said, you seem to be buried here. where are the possibilities for you, billy little? and if you can't achieve something great--poor me!" "there are different possibilities for different men. i think, for example, i have achieved something in you. what say you, rita?" the girl was taken unawares. "indeed you have, glorious--splendid--that is, i mean you have achieved something great in all of us whom you have tried to influence. i see your possibilities, billy little. i see them stamped upon the entire blue river settlement. la salle and marquette, of whom dic read to me from your book, had the same sort of opportunities. their field was broader, but i doubt if their influence will be more lasting than yours." "rather more conspicuous," laughed billy. "yes," answered rita, "your achievements will not be recorded. their effect will probably be felt by all of us, and the achievement must be your only reward." "it is all i ask," returned billy. then, after a pause, he spoke in mock reproof to dic, "now, hang your head in shame." "i suppose it's my turn," dic replied. "the achievements of picturesque men only should be placarded to the world," said billy. "the less said about a little old knot like me the better for--better for the knot." "you are not a knot," cried rita indignantly. "rita," said dic, "you know the walnut knot, while it shows the roughest bark, has the finest grain in the tree." "i am going home if you don't stop that sort of talking," said billy, pleased to his toes, but pretending to be annoyed. a fortnight before dic's intended departure for new york an opportunity presented itself of which the young man, after due consideration, determined to take advantage. he walked over one evening to see tom, but, as usual, found rita. after a few minutes in which to work his courage up, he said:-- "there is to be a church social at scott's to-morrow night--the baptists. i wonder if you would like--that is, would want to--would be willing to go with me?" "i would be glad to go," answered the girl; "but mother won't let me." "we'll go in and ask her, if you wish," he replied. "there's no use, but we can try. perhaps if she thinks i don't want to go, she will consent." into the house they went, and dic made his wants known to the head of the family. "no," snapped the good lady, "she can't go. girls of sixteen and seventeen nowadays think they are young ladies." "they are dull, anyway," said rita, referring to church socials. "i have heard they are particularly dull at scott's--the baptists are so religious. sukey yates said they did nothing but preach and pray and sing psalms and take up a collection at the last social scott gave. it's just like church, and i don't want to go anyway." she had never been to a church social, but from what she had heard she believed them to be bacchanalian scenes of riotous enjoyment, and her remarks were intended to deceive. "you should not speak so disrespectfully of the church," said the chief justice, sternly. "the lord will punish you for it, see if he doesn't. since i think about it, the socials held at scott's are true, religious, god-fearing gatherings, and you shall go as a punishment for your sacrilegious sneers. perhaps if you listen to the word, it may come back after many days." margarita, sr., often got her biblical metaphors mixed, but that troubled her little. there was, she thought, virtue in scriptural quotations, even though entirely inapplicable to the case in point. "come for her to-morrow evening, dic," said mrs. b. "she shall be ready." then turning to rita: "to speak of the holy word in that manner! you shall be punished." dic and rita went out to the porch. dic laughed, but the girl saw nothing funny. "it seems to me just as if i had told a story," she said. "one may act a story as easily as tell it." "well, you are to be punished," laughed dic. "but you know i want to go. i have never been to a social, and it will not punish me to go." "then you are to be punished by going with me," returned the stalwart young fisherman. she looked up to him with a flash of her eyes--those eyes were worse than a loose tongue for tattling--and said:-- "that is true." dic, who was fairly boiling with pleasant anticipations, went to town next day and boiled over on billy little. "i'm going to take rita to scott's social this evening," he said. "ah, indeed," responded billy; "it's her first time out, isn't it?" "yes." "i envy her, by george, i do, and i envy you," said billy. he did not envy dic; but you may remember my remarks concerning bachelor hearts and their unprotected condition in this cruel world. there may be pain of the sort billy felt without either envy or jealousy. "dic, i have a mind to send rita a nice ribbon or two for to-night. what do you think about it?" asked billy. "she would be delighted," answered dic. "she would accept them from you, but not from me." "there is no flattery in that remark," answered billy, with a touch of sharpness. "why, billy little, what do you suppose i meant?" asked dic. "i know you spoke the truth. she would accept a present from the little old knot, but would refuse it from the straight young tree." "why, billy little, i meant nothing of the sort." "now, not another word," interrupted billy. "give these ribbons to her when you ride home, and tell her the knot sends them to the sweetbrier." then turning his face to the shelves on the wall, and arranging a few pieces of goods, he hummed under his breath his favorite stanza, "maxwelton's braes," and paid no further attention to his guest. rita came out as dic rode up to the gate. he did not dismount, but handed her the ribbons across the fence, saying: "billy little sends you these for to-night. he said they were from the knot to the sweetbrier." the girl's suppressed delight had been troubling her all day. her first party, her first escort, and that escort dic! what more could a girl desire? the ribbons were too much. and somebody was almost ready to weep for joy. she opened the little package and her eyes sparkled. when she felt that speech was entirely safe, she said:-- "the little package is as prim and neat as billy little himself. dear, sweet, old billy little." dic, whose heart was painfully inflamed, was almost jealous of billy, and said:-- "i suppose you would not have accepted them from me?" "why not?" she responded. "of course i would." her eyes grew wide when she looked up to him and continued, "did you get them for me and tell me that billy little sent them?" "no," answered dic, regretfully, as he began to see possibilities, even on blue. one possibility, at least, he saw clearly--one that he had lost. "it was more than a possibility," he said to himself, as he rode homeward. "it was a ready-made opportunity, and i did not see it. the sooner i go to new york or some place else and get my eyes opened, the better it will be for me." * * * * * the church social opened with a long, sonorous prayer by the baptist preacher, mr. wetmore. then followed a psalm, which in turn was followed by a "few words." after the few words, rev. wetmore said in soft, conciliatory tones, "now, brethren, if deacon moore will be so kind as to pass the hat, we will receive the offering." wetmore was not an ordained minister, nor was he recognized by the church to which he claimed to belong. he was one of the many itinerant vagabonds who foisted themselves upon isolated communities solely for the sake of the "offering." deacon moore passed his hat, and when he handed it to wetmore that worthy soul counted out two large copper pennies. there were also in the hat two brass buttons which tom, much to sukey's amusement, had torn from his clothing for the purpose of an offering. sukey laughed so inordinately at tom's extravagant philanthropy that she convinced de triflin' he was a very funny fellow indeed; but she brought upon her pretty flaxen head a reprimand from wetmore. "undue levity," said he, "ill becomes even frivolous youth at this moment. later you will have ample opportunity to indulge your mirth; but for the present, the lord's business--" at the word "business" he received the hat from deacon moore, and looked eagerly into it for the offering. disappointment, quite naturally, spread itself over his sallow face, and he continued: "buttons do not constitute an acceptable offering to the lord. he can have no use for them. i think that during the course of my life work in the vineyard i have received a million buttons of which i--i mean the lord--can have no possible use. if these buttons had been dollars or shillings, or even pennies, think of the blessings they would have brought from above." the reverend man spoke several times with excusable asperity of "buttons," and after another psalm and a sounding benediction the religious exercises were finished, and the real business of the evening, the spelling-bee and the kissing games, began. at these socials many of the old folks took part in the spelling-bee, after which they usually went home--an event eagerly awaited by the young people. there was but one incident in the spelling-bee that touched our friends, and i shall pass briefly over that part of the entertainment preceding it. the class, ranging in years from those who lisped in youth to those who lisped in age, stood in line against the wall, and wetmore, spelling-book in hand, stood in front of them to "give out" the words. it was not considered fair to give out a word not in the spelling-book until the spelling and "syllabling" of sentences was commenced. all words were syllabled, but to spell and syllable a sentence was not an easy task, and by the time sentences were reached the class usually had dwindled down to three or four of the best spellers. of course, one who missed a word left the class. our friends--billy little, dic, rita, and sukey yates--were in the contest. the first word given out was metropolitan, and it fell to douglas of the hill. he began: "m-e-t--there's your met; r-o--there's your ro; there's your metro; p-o-l--there's your pol; there's your ro-pol; there's your met-ro-pol; i--there's your i; there's your pol-i; there's your ro-pol-i; there's your met-ro-pol-i; t-e-n--there's your--" "t-a-n," cried the girl next to him, who happened to be sukey yates, and douglas stepped down and out. a score or more of words were then spelled without an error, until constantinople fell to the lot of an elderly man who stood by rita. he began: "c-o-n--there's your con; s-t-a-n--there's your stan; there's your con-stan; t-i--there's your ti; there's your stan-ti; there's your con-stan-ti; n-o--there's your no; there's your ti-no; there's your stan-ti-no; there's your con-stan-ti-no; p-e-l--there's your pell; there's your no--"--"p-l-e--there's your pell" (so pronounced); "there's your con-stan-ti-no-ple," chimed rita, and her elderly neighbor took a chair. others of the class dropped out, leaving only our four acquaintances,--dic, billy, sukey, and rita. dic went out on "a" in place of "i" in collectible, sukey turning him down. rita had hoped he would win the contest and had determined, should it narrow down to herself and him, to miss intentionally, if need be. after dic had taken a chair, judgment fell to and upon sukey. she began "j-u-d-g-e--there's your judge;" whereupon billy little said, "sink the e," and sukey sank, leaving billy little and rita standing against the wall, as if they were about to be married. billy, of course, was only awaiting a good opportunity to fail in order that the laurels of victory might rest upon rita's brow. "we will now spell and syllable a few sentences," said wetmore. "mr. little, i give you the sentence, 'an abominable bumblebee with his tail cut off.'" it must be remembered that in spelling these words and sentences each syllable was pronounced separately and roundly. b-o-m was a full grown, sonorous bom. b-u-m was a rolling bum, and b-l-e was pronounced bell with a strong, full, ringing, liquid sound. the following italics show the emphasis. billy slowly repeated the sentence and began:-- "a-n--there's your an; a--there's your a; there's your an-a; b-o-m--there's your _bom_; there's your _a_-bom; there's your _an_-a-_bom_; i--there's your i; there's your _bom_-i; there's your _a_-bom-i; there's your _an_-a-bom-i; n-a--there's your na; there's your _i_-na; there's your _bom_-i-na; there's your _a_-bom-i-_na_; there's your _an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_; b-l-e--there's your bell; there's your _na_-bell; there's your _i_-na-bell; there's your _bom_-i-_na_-bell; there's your _a_-bom-i-_na_-bell; there's your _an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_-bell; b-u-m--there's your bum; there's your _bell_-bum; there's your _na_-bell-bum; there's your _i_-na-_bell_-bum; there's your _bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_; there's your _a_-bom-i-_na_-_bell_-_bum_; there's your _an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_; b-l-e--there's your bell; there's your _bum_-bell; there's your _bell_-bum-_bell_; there's your _na_-bell-_bum_-bell; there's your _i_-na-bell-_bum_-bell; there's your _bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell; there's your _a_-bom-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell; there's your _an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell; b-e-e--there's your bee; there's your _bell_-bee; there's your _bum_-bell-bee; there's your _bell_-bum-_bell_-bee; there's your _na_-bell-_bum_-_bell_-bee; there's your _i_-na-bell-_bum_-bell-bee; there's your _bom_-i-na-_bell_-_bum_-bell-bee; there's your _a_-bom-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee; there's your_an_-a-bom-i-_na_ bell-_bum_-_bell_-bee; w-i-t-h--h-i-s--there's your with-his; there's your _bee_-with-his; there's your _bell_-bee-with-his; there's your _bum_-bell-bee-with-his; there's your _bell_-bum-_bell_-bee-with-his; there's your _na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his; there's your _i_-na-_bell_-_bum_-bell-_bee_-with-his; there's your _bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his; there's your _a_-_bom_-i-na-_bell_-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his; there's your _an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his; t-a-l-e--there's your--" but rita chimed in at once: "t-a-i-l--there's your tail; there's your _with_-his-tail; there's your _bee_-with-his-tail; there's your _bell_-bee-with-his-_tail_; there's your _bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail; there's your _bell_-bum-bell-bee-with-his-tail; there's your _na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail; there's your _i_-na-_bell_-bum-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail; there's your _bom_-i-na-_bell_-bum-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail; there's your _a_-bom-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail; there's your _an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail; c-u-t--there's your cut; there's your _tail_-cut; there's your _with_-his-tail-cut; there's your _bee_-with-his-tail-cut; there's your _bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut; there's your _bum_-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut; there's your _bell_-bum-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut; there's your _na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut; there's your _i_-na-_bell_-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-_tail_-cut; there's your _bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-_bee_-with-his -_tail_-cut; there's your _a_-bom-i-_na_-_bell_-bum -_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-_cut_; there's your _an_-a-_bom_ -i-_na_-bell-_bum_-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut; o-f-f--there's your off; there's your _cut_-off; there's your _tail_-cut-off; there's your _with_-_his_-tail-cut-off; there's your _bee_-with -his-tail-cut-off; there's your _bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your _bum_-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your _bell_-bum-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your _na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your _i_-na-_bell_-bum-_bell_-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your _bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your _a_-bom-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with-his-tail-cut-off; there's your _an_-a-_bom_-i-_na_-bell-_bum_-bell-bee-with his-tail-cut-_off_," and rita took her seat, filled with triumph, save for the one regret that dic had not won. many of the old folks, including billy little, departed when the bee closed, and a general clamor went up for the kissing games to begin. rita declined to take part in the kissing games, and sat against the wall with several other young ladies who had no partners. to dic she gave the candid reason that she did not want to play, and he was glad. doug hill, who, in common with every other young man on the premises, ardently desired rita's presence in the game, said:-- "oh, come in, rita. don't be so stuck up. it won't hurt you to be kissed." doug was a bold, devil-may-care youth, who spoke his mind freely upon all occasions. he was of enormous size, and gloried in the fact that he was the neighborhood bully and very, very "tough." doug would have you know that doug would drink; doug would gamble; doug would fight. he tried to create the impression that he was very bad indeed, and succeeded. he would go to town saturdays, "fill up," as he called getting drunk, and would ride furiously miles out of his way going home that he might pass the houses of his many lady-loves, and show them by yells and oaths what a rollicking blade he was. the reputation thus acquired won him many a smile; for, deplore the fact as we may, there's a drop of savage blood still alive in the feminine heart that does not despise depravity in man as it really should. "come into the game," cried doug, taking rita by the arm, and dragging her toward the centre of the room. "i don't want to play," cried the girl. "please let loose of my arms; you hurt me," but doug continued to drag her toward the ring of players that was forming, and she continued to resist. doug persisted, and after a moment of struggling she called out, "dic, dic!" she had been accustomed since childhood to call upon that name in time of trouble, and had always found help. dic would not have interfered had not rita called, but when she did he responded at once. "let her alone, hill," said dic, as pleasantly as possible under the circumstances. "if she doesn't want to play, she doesn't have to." "you go to--" cried doug. "maybe you think you can run over me, you stuck-up mr. proper." "i don't want to do anything of the sort," answered dic; "but if you don't let loose of rita's arm, i'll--" "what will you do?" asked doug, laughing uproariously. for a moment dic allowed himself to grow angry, and said, "i'll knock that pumpkin off your shoulders," but at once regretted his words. doug thought dic's remark very funny, and intimated as much. then he bowed his head in front of our hero and said, "here is the pumpkin; hit it if you dare." dic restrained an ardent desire, and doug still with bowed head continued, "i'll give you a shillin' if you'll hit it, and if you don't, i'll break your stuck-up face." dic did not accept the shilling, which was not actually tendered in lawful coin, but stepped back from doug that he might be prepared for the attack he expected. after waiting what he considered to be a reasonable time for dic to accept his offer, doug started toward our hero, looking very ugly and savage. dic was strong and brave, but he seemed small beside his bulky antagonist, and rita, frightened out of all sense of propriety, ran to her champion, and placing her back against his breast, faced doug with fear and trembling. the girl was not tall enough by many inches to protect dic's face from the breaking doug had threatened; but what she lacked in height she made up in terror, and she looked so "skeert," as doug afterwards said, that he turned upon his heel with the remark:-- "that's all right. i was only joking. we don't want no fight at a church social, do we, dic?" "i don't particularly want to fight any place," replied dic, glad that the ugly situation had taken a pleasant turn. "reckon you don't," returned doug, uproariously, and the game proceeded. partly from disinclination, and partly because he wanted to talk to rita, dic did not at first enter the game, but during an intermission sukey whispered to him:-- "we are going to play drop the handkerchief, and if you'll come in i'll drop it behind you every time, and--" here the whispers became very low and soft, "i'll let you catch me, too. we'll make pumpkin-head sick." the game of skill known as "drop the handkerchief" was played in this fashion: a circle of boys and girls was formed in the centre of the room, each person facing the centre. one of the number was chosen "it." "it's" function was to walk or run around the circle and drop the handkerchief behind the chosen one. if "it" happened to be a young man, the chosen one, of course, was a young woman who immediately started in pursuit. if she caught the young man before he could run around the circle to the place she had vacated, he must deposit a forfeit, to be redeemed later in the evening. in any case she became the next "it." a young lady "it" of course dropped the handkerchief behind a young man, and equally, of course, started with a scream of frightened modesty around the circle of players, endeavoring to reach, if possible, the place of sanctuary left vacant by the young man. he started in pursuit, and if he caught her--there we draw the veil. if the young lady were anxious to escape, it was often possible for her to do so. but thanks to providence, all hearts were not so obdurate as rita's. i would say, however, in palliation of the infrequency of escapes, that it was looked upon as a serious affront for a young lady to run too rapidly. in case she were caught and refused to pay the forfeit, her act was one of deadly insult gratuitously offered in full view of friends and acquaintances. dic hesitated to accept sukey's invitation, though, in truth, it would have been inviting to any man of spirit. please do not understand me to say that dic was a second joseph, nor that he was one who would run away from a game of any sort because a pretty miss potiphar or two happened to be of the charmed and charming circle. he had often been in the games, and no one had ever impugned his spirit of gallantry by accusing him of unseemly neglect of the beautiful misses p. his absence from this particular game was largely due to the fact that the right miss potiphar was sitting against the wall. a flush came to rita's cheek, and she moved uneasily when she saw sukey whispering to dic; but he did not suspect that rita cared a straw what sukey said. neither did it occur to him that rita would wish him to remain out of the game. he could, if he entered the game, make doug hill "sick," as sukey had suggested, and that was a consummation devoutly to be wished. he did not wish to subject himself to the charge of ungallantry; and sukey was, as you already know, fair to look upon, and her offer was as generous as she could make under the circumstances. so he chose a young lady, left rita by the wall, and entered the game. doug hill happened to be "it" and dropped the handkerchief behind sukey, whereupon that young lady walked leisurely around the circle, making no effort to capture the redoubtable. such apathy was not only an infringement of the etiquette of the game, but might, if the injured party were one of high spirits, be looked upon as an insult. sukey then became "it," and, dropping the handkerchief behind dic, deliberately waited for him to catch her; when, of course, a catastrophe ensued. meantime, the wall was growing uncomfortable to rita. she had known in a dimly conscious way that certain things always happened at country frolics, but to _see_ them startled her, and she began to feel very miserable. her tender heart fluttered piteously with a hundred longings, chief among which was the desire to prevent further catastrophes between dic and sukey. compared to sukey, there was no girl in the circle at all entitled to be ranked in the potiphar class of beauty. so, when dic succeeded sukey as "it," he dropped the handkerchief behind her. then she again chose dic, and in turn became the central figure in a catastrophe that was painful to the girl by the wall. if rita had been in ignorance of her real sentiments for dic, that ignorance had, within the last few minutes, given place to a knowledge so luminous that it was almost blinding. the room seemed to become intensely warm. meantime the play went on, and the process of making doug "sick" continued with marked success. sukey always favored dic, and he returned in kind. this alternation, which was beyond all precedent, soon aroused a storm of protests. "if you want to play by yourselves," cried tom, "why don't you go off by yourselves?" "yes," cried the others; "if you can't play fair, get out of the game." the order of events was immediately changed, but occasionally sukey broke away from time-honored precedent and repeated her favors to dic. doug was rapidly growing as "sick" as his most inveterate enemy could have desired. there was another person in the room who was also very wretched--one whom dic would not have pained for all the sukey potiphars in egypt. the other person was not only pained, she was grieved, confused, frightened, desperate. she feared that she would cry out and ask dic not to favor sukey. she did not know what to do, nor what she might be led to do, if matters continued on their present course. soon after tom's reprimand, sukey found the duty of dropping the handkerchief again devolving upon her pretty self. she longed with all her heart to drop it behind dic; but, fearing the wrath of her friends, she concluded to choose the man least apt to arouse antagonism in dic's breast. she would choose one whom he knew she despised, and would trust to luck and her swift little feet to take her around the circle before the dropee could catch her. wetmore had been an active member, though a passive participant, in the game, since its beginning. when a young lady "it" walked back of him, he would eagerly watch her approach, and when she passed him, as all did, he would turn his face after her and hope for better things from the next. repeated disappointments had lulled his vigil, and when sukey, the girl of all others for whom he had not hoped, dropped the sacred linen behind his reverend form, he was so startled that he did not seize the precious moment. he was standing beside doug hill, and the handkerchief fell almost between the two. it was clearly intended for his reverence; but when he failed instantly to meet the requirements of the situation, the douglas, most alert of men, resolved to appropriate the opportunity to himself. at the same moment brother w. also determined to embrace it, and, if possible, "it." each stooped at the same instant, and their heads collided. "let it alone, parson, it's for me," cried the douglas. parson did not answer, but reached out his hand for the coveted prize. thereupon douglas pushed him backward, causing him to be seated with great violence upon the floor. at that unfortunate moment sukey, who had taken speed from eagerness, completed her trip around the circle, and being unable to stop, fell headlong over the figure of the self-made parson. she had not seen doug's part in the transaction, and being much disturbed in mind and dress, turned upon poor wetmore and flung at the worthy shepherd the opprobrious words, "you fool." when we consider the buttons in the offering, together with sukey's unjust and biting words, we cannot help believing that wetmore had been born under an unlucky star. one's partner in this game was supposed to favor one now and then, when opportunity presented; but wetmore's partner, miss tompkinson, having waited in vain for favors from that gentleman, quitted the game when sukey called him, "you fool." wetmore thought, of course, he also would be compelled to drop out; but, wonder of wonders, rita, the most beautiful girl in the room, rose to her feet and said:-- "i'll take your place, miss tompkinson." she knew that if she were in the game, sukey's reign would end, and she had reached the point of perturbation where she was willing to do anything to prevent the recurrence of certain painful happenings. she knew that she should not take part in the game,--it was not for such as her,--but she was confused, desperate, and "didn't care." she modestly knew her own attractions. every young man in the circle was a friend of tom's, and had at some time manifested a desire to be a friend to tom's sister. tom was fairly popular for his own sake, but his exceeding radiance was borrowed. the game could not be very wicked, thought rita, since it was encouraged by the church; but even if it were wicked, she determined to take possession of her own in the person of dic. out of these several impulses and against her will came the words, "i'll take your place, miss tompkinson," and almost before she was aware of what she had done she was standing with fiercely throbbing pulse, a member of the forbidden circle. [illustration: "she flung at the worthy shepherd the opprobrious words, 'you fool.'"] as rita had expected, the handkerchief soon fell behind her, and without the least trouble she caught the young fellow who had dropped it, for the man did not live who could run from her. the pledge, a pocket-knife, was deposited, and rita became a trembling, terrified "it." what to do with the handkerchief she did not know, but she started desperately around the circle. after the fourth or fifth trip the players began to laugh. dic's heart was doing a tremendous business, and he felt that life would be worthless if the handkerchief should fall from rita's hand behind any one but him. meanwhile the frightened girl walked round and round the circle, growing more confused with every trip. "drop it, rita," cried doug hill, "or you'll drop." "she's getting tired," said another. "see how warm she is," remarked gentle tom. "somebody fan her," whispered sukey. "i don't believe i want to play," said rita, whose cheeks were burning. a chorus of protests came from all save dic; so she took up her burden again and of course must drop it. after another long weary walk an inspiration came to her; she would drop the handkerchief behind tom. she did so. tom laughed, and all agreed with one accord that it was against the rules of the game to drop the handkerchief behind a brother or sister. then rita again took up her burden, which by that time was a heavy one indeed. she had always taken her burdens to dic, so she took this one to him and dropped it. "i knew she would," screamed every one, and rita started in dreadful earnest on her last fatal trip around the circle. a moment before the circle had been too small, but now it seemed interminable, and poor rita found herself in dic's strong arms before she was halfway home. she almost hated him for catching her. she did not take into consideration the facts that she had invited him and that it would have been ungallant had he permitted her to escape, but above all, she did not know the desire in his heart. she had surprised and disappointed him by entering the game; but since it was permitted, he would profit by the surprise and snatch a joyful moment from his disappointment. but another surprise awaited him. when a young lady was caught a certain degree of resistance, purely for form's sake, was expected, but usually the young lady would feel aggrieved, or would laugh at the young man were the resistance taken seriously. when dic caught rita there was one case, at least, where the resistance was frantically real. she covered her face with her hands and supposed he would make no effort to remove them. she was mistaken, he acted upon the accepted theories of the game. she was a baby in strength compared with dic, and he easily held her hands while he bent her head backward till her upturned face was within easy reach. "don't kiss me," she cried. there was no sham in her words, and dic, recognizing the fact, released her at once and she walked sullenly to a chair. according to the rude etiquette of the time, she had insulted him. there had been so many upheavals in the game that the trouble between dic and rita brought it to a close. dic was wounded, and poor rita felt that now she had driven him from her forever. her eyes followed him about the room with wistful longing, and although they were eloquent enough to have told their piteous little story to one who knew anything about the language of great tender eyes, they spoke nothing but reproachfulness to dic. he did not go near her, but after a time she went to him and said:-- "i believe i will go home; but i am not afraid to go alone, and you need not go with me--that is, if you don't want to." "i do want to go with you," he responded. "i would not let you ride by yourself. even should nothing harm you, the howling of a wolf would frighten you almost to death." she had no intention of riding home alone. she knew she would die from fright before she had ridden a hundred yards into the black forest, so she said demurely:-- "of course, if you will go with me after--" "i would go with you after anything," he answered, but she thought he spoke with a touch of anger. had dic ever hoped to gain more than a warm friendship from the girl that hope had been shattered for all time, and never, never, never would he obtrude his love upon her again. as a matter of fact, he had not obtruded it upon her even once, but he had thought of doing it so many times that he felt as if he had long been an importunate suitor. under the elm canopy chapter v under the elm canopy dic and rita rode home through the forest in silence. his anger soon evaporated, and he was glad she had refused to pay the forfeit. he would be content with the friendship that had been his since childhood, and would never again risk losing it. what right had he, a great, uncouth "clodhopper," to expect even friendship from so beautiful and perfect a creature as the girl who rode beside him; and, taking it all in all, the fault, thought he, lay entirely at his door. in this sombre mood he resolved that he would remain unmarried all his life, and would be content with the incompleted sweet of loving. he would put a guard upon himself, his acts, his words, his passion. the latter was truly as noble and pure as man ever felt for woman, but it should not be allowed to estrange his friend. she should never know it; no, never, never, never. rita's cogitations were also along the wrong track. during her silent ride homeward the girl was thinking with an earnestness and a rapidity that had never before been developed in her brain. she was, at times, almost unconscious that dic was riding beside her, but she was vividly conscious of the fact that she would soon be home and that he also would be there. she determined to do something before parting from him to make amends for her conduct at the social. but what should she do? hence the earnest and rapid intellection within the drooping head. she did not regret having refused to kiss dic. she would, under like circumstances, again act in the same manner. she regretted the circumstances. to her, a kiss should be a holy, sacred thing, and in her heart she longed for the time when it would be her duty and her privilege to give her lips to the one man. but kissing games seemed to her little less than open and public shame. she could not, for obvious reasons, tell dic she was sorry she had refused him, and she certainly would not mend matters by telling him she was glad. still less could she permit him to leave her in his present state of mind. all together it was a terrible dilemma. if she could for only one moment have a man's privilege to speak, she thought, it would all be very simple. but she could not speak. she could do little more than look, and although she could do that well, she knew from experience that the language of her eyes was a foreign tongue to dic. when they reached home, dic lifted rita from her saddle and stabled her horse. when he came from the barn she was holding his horse and waiting for him. he took the rein from her hands, saying:-- "it seems almost a pity to waste such a night as this in the house. i believe one might read by the light of the moon." "yes," murmured the girl, hanging her head, while she meditatively smoothed the grass with her foot. "it's neither warm nor cold--just pleasant," continued dic. "no," she responded very softly. "but we must sleep," he ventured to assert. she would not contradict the statement. she was silent. "if the days could be like this night, work would be a pleasure," observed dic, desperately. "no," came the reply, hardly louder than a breath. she was not thinking of the weather, but dic stuck faithfully to the blessed topic. "it may rain soon," he remarked confusedly. there was not a cloud in sight. "yes," breathed the pretty figure, smoothing the grass with her foot. "but--but, i rather think it will not," he said. the girl was silent. she didn't care if it snowed. she longed for him to drop the subject of the weather and to say something that would give her an opportunity to speak. her manner, however, was most unassuring, and convinced dic that he had offended beyond forgiveness, while his distant, respectful formality and persistency in the matter of the weather almost convinced the girl that he was lost to her forever. thus they stood before each other, as many others have done, a pair of helpless fools within easy reach of paradise. dic's straightforward habits of thought and action came to his aid, however, and he determined to make at least one more effort to regain the girl's friendly regard. he abandoned the weather and said somewhat abruptly:-- "rita, if i offended you to-night, i am sorry. i cannot tell you all the pain i feel. when you dropped the handkerchief behind me, i thought--i know i was wrong and should have known better at the time--but i thought--" "oh, dic," she softly interrupted, still smoothing the grass with her foot, "i am not offended; it is you." had the serene yellow moon burst into a thousand blazing suns, dic could not have been more surprised. "rita, do you mean it? do you really mean it?" he asked. "yes," she whispered. "and were you afraid i was offended?" "yes," again very softly. "and did you care?" "yes," with an emphatic nod of the head. "and do you--" he paused, and she hesitatingly whispered:-- "yes." she did not know what his question would have been; but whatever he wished to ask, "yes" would be her answer, so she gave it, and dic continued:-- "do you wish me to remain for a few minutes?" this time the "yes" was given by a pronounced drooping of the head, but she took his hand for an instant that she might not possibly be misunderstood. dic hitched his horse to the fence, and, turning to rita, said:-- "shall we go over to the log by the river?" "yes." ah, how many yeses she had for him that night, and yes is a sweet word. when they were seated on the log the girl waited a reasonable time for dic to begin the conversation. he remained silent, and soon she concluded to take the matter temporarily in her own hands. he had begun a moment before, but had stopped; perhaps with a little help he would begin again. "i was sure you were angry," she said, "and i thought you would not forgive me this time. i have so often given you cause to dislike me." "oh, rita, i don't believe you know that you could not make me dislike you. when i thought that--that you did not care for me, i was so grieved that life seemed almost worthless, but i love you so dearly, rita--" but that was just what he had determined never, never to tell her. he stopped midway in his unintentional confession, surprised that the girl did not indignantly leave him. her heart beat wofully. breathing suddenly became harder work than churning. she sat demurely by his side on the log, only too willing to listen, with a dictionary full of "yeses" on the end of her tongue, and he sat beside her, unable for the moment to think. after a long pause she determined to give him a fresh start. "i was in the wrong, dic, and if you wish i'll apologize to you before all who saw me. but i was frightened. i should not have gone into the game. it may be right for other girls--i would not say that it is not right--but for me, i know it would be a sin--a real sin. i am not wise, but, dic, something tells me that certain things cannot occupy a middle ground. they must be holy and sacred, or they are sinful, and i--i did not want it to--to happen then, because--because--" there she stopped speaking. she had unintentionally used the word "then," with slight emphasis; but slight as it was, it sent dic's soul soaring heavenward, buoyant with ecstasy. "why, rita, why did you not want it to happen--" he feared to say "then," and it would seem from the new position of his arm, he also feared she might fall backward off the log. "because--because," came in soft whispers. the beautiful head was drooped, and the face was hidden from even the birds and the moon, while dic's disengaged hand, out of an abundance of caution lest she might fall, clasped hers. "because--why, rita?" he pleaded. softly came the response, "because i wanted to be alone with--with--you when it--it happened." it happened before she had finished her sentence, but when it was finished the head lay upon his shoulder, and the birds, should they awaken, or the moon, or any one else, might see for aught she cared. it was holy and sacred now, and she felt no shame: she was proud. the transfer of herself had been made. she belonged to him, and he, of course, must do with his own property as he saw fit. it was no longer any affair of hers. the victory of complete surrender is sometimes all-conquering; at any rate, dic was subjugated for life. his situation was one that would be hard to improve upon in the way of mere earthly bliss. heaven may furnish something better, and if it does, the wicked certainly have no conception of what they are going to miss. tom, for example, would never have put buttons in the offering. doug would not gamble and drink. poor, painted nanon would starve rather than sin. old man jones, in the amen corner, would not swindle his neighbor; nor would wetmore, the baptist, practise the holy calling of shepherd, having in his breast the heart of a wolf. we all, saving a woman here and there, have our sins, little and great, and many times in the day we put in jeopardy that future bliss. but i console myself with the hope that there is as much forgiveness in heaven as there is sin on earth, save for the hypocrite. there may be forgiveness even for him, but i trust not. i have done this bit of philosophizing that i might give dic and rita a moment to themselves on the sycamore divan. you may have known the time in your life when you were thankful for the sight of a dear friend's back. there was little said between our happy couple for many minutes after the explosion; but like a certain lady, who long ago resided for a time in a beautiful garden, the girl soon began to tempt the man: not to eat apples, for rita was one of the "women here and there" spoken of above. she was pure and sinless as the light of a star. her tempting was of another sort. had rita been eve, there would have been no fall. after several efforts to speak, she said, "now you will not go to new york, will you?" "why, rita," he responded confidently, "of course i'll go. there is more reason now for my going than ever before." "why more now than ever before?" asked the girl. "because i want money that i may support you," he responded. "i'll tell you a great secret, rita, but you must promise you will never tell it to any one." "i promise--cross my heart," she answered, and dic knew that wild horses could not tear the secret from her girlish breast. "i'm studying law," continued dic. "billy little has been buying law books for me. they are too expensive for me to buy. he bought me 'blackstone's commentaries'--four large volumes." the big words tasted good in his mouth, and were laden with sweetness and wisdom for her ears. "i have read them twice," continued dic. "he is going to buy 'kent,' and after that i'll take up works on pleading and special subjects. he has consulted mr. switzer, and if i can save enough money to keep you and me for two or three years in idleness, i am to go into mr. switzer's office to learn the practice. it is a great and beautiful study." "oh, it must be, dic," cried the girl, delightedly. "to think that you will be a lawyer. i have always known that you would some day be a great man. maybe you will be a judge, or a governor, or go to congress." "that is hardly possible," responded dic, laughing. "indeed it is possible," she responded very seriously. "anything is possible for you--even the presidency, and i'll help you. i will not be a millstone, dic. i'll help you. we'll work together--and you'll see i'll help you." accordingly, she began to help him at once by putting her arm coaxingly over his shoulder, and saying:-- "but if you are going to do all this you should not waste your time leading horses to new york." "but you see, rita," he responded, "i can make a lot of money by going, and i shall see something of the world, as you heard billy little say." "oh, you would rather see the world than me?" queried the girl, drawing away from him with an injured air, whereupon dic, of course, vowed that he would rather see her face than a thousand worlds. "then why don't you stay where you can see it?" she asked poutingly. "because, as i told you, i want to make money so that when i go into mr. switzer's office i can support you--and the others--" he stopped, surprised by his words. "the others? what others?" asked the girl. that was a hard question to answer, and he undertook it very lamely. "you see, rita," he stammered, "there will be--there might--there may be--don't you know, rita?" "no, i don't know, dic. why are you so mysterious? what others--who--oh!" and she hid her face upon his breast, while her arms stole gently about his neck. "you see," remarked dic, speaking softly to the black waves of lustrous hair, "i must take iago's advice and put money in my purse. i have always hoped to be something more than i am. billy little, who has been almost a father to me, has burned the ambition into me. but with all my yearning, life has never held a real purpose compared with that i now have in you. the desire for fame, rita, the throbbing of ambition, the lust for gold and dominion, are considered by the world to be the great motives of human action. but, rita, they are all simply means to one end. there is but one great purpose in life, and that is furnished to a man by the woman he loves. billy little gave me the thought. it is not mine. how he knew it, being an old bachelor, i cannot tell." "perhaps billy little has had the--the purpose and lost it," said rita, being quite naturally in a sentimental mood. "i wonder?" mused dic. "poor, dear old billy little," mused rita. "but you will not go to new york?" continued miss persistency. dic had resolved, upon hearing rita's first petition concerning the new york trip, that he would be adamant. his resolution to go was built upon the rock of expediency. it was best for him, best for rita, that he should go, and he had no respect for a poor, weak man who would permit a woman to coax him from a clearly proper course. she should never coax him out of doing that which was best for them both. "we'll discuss it at another time," he answered evasively, as he tried to turn her face up toward him. but her face would not be turned, and while she hid it on his breast she pushed his away, and said:-- "no, we'll discuss it now. you must promise me that you will not go. if you do not, i shall not like you, and you shall not--" she did not finish the sentence, and dic asked gently:-- "i shall not--what, rita?" "anything," came the enlightening response from the face hidden on his breast. "besides, you will break my heart, and if you go, i'll know you don't care for me. i'll know you have been deceiving me." then the face came up, and the great brown eyes looked pleadingly into his. "dic, i've leaned on you so long--ever since i was a child--that i have no strength of my own; but now that i have given myself up to you, i--i cannot stand alone, even for a day. if you go away from me now, it will break my heart. i tell you it will." dic felt her tears upon his hand, and soon he heard soft sobs and felt their gentle convulsions within her breast. of course the result was inevitable; the combatants were so unevenly matched. woman's tears are the most potent resolvent know to chemistry. they will dissolve rocks of resolution, and dic's resolutions, while big with intent, were small in flintiness, though he had thought well of them at the time they were formed. he could not endure the pain inflicted by rita's tears. he had not learned how easy and useful tears are to women. they burned him. "please, rita, please don't cry," he pleaded. the tears, while they came readily and without pain, were honest; at any rate, the girl being so young, they were not deliberately intended to be useful. they were a part of her instinct of self-preservation. "don't cry, please, rita. your tears hurt me." "then promise me you won't go to new york." i fear there is no getting away entirely from the theory of utility. with evident intent to crowd the battle upon a wavering foe, the tears came fast and furious. "promise me," sobbed rita; and i know you will love dic better when i tell you that he promised. then the girl's face came up, and, i grieve to say, the tears, having served their purpose, ceased at once. next morning dic went to see billy little and told him he had come to have a talk. billy locked the store door and the friends repaired to the river. there they found a shady resting-place, and billy, lighting his pipe, said:-- "blaze away." "i know you will despise me," the young man began. "no, i won't," interrupted billy. "you are human. i don't look for unmixed good. if i did, i should not find it except once in a while in a woman. what have you been doing? go on." billy leaned forward on his elbows, placed the points of his fingers together, and, while waiting for dic to begin, hummed his favorite stanza concerning the braes of maxwelton. "well," responded dic, "i've concluded not to go to new york." billy's face turned a shade paler as he took his pipe from his lips and looked sadly at dic. after a moment of scrutiny he said:-- "i had hoped to get you off before it happened. it's _all_ off now. you might as well throw blackstone into blue." "what do you mean?" queried dic. "before what happened?" "before rita happened," responded billy. "rita?" cried dic in astonishment. "how did you know?" "how do i know that spring follows winter?" asked billy. "i had hoped that winter would hold a little longer, and that i might get you off to new york before spring's arrival." "billy little, you are talking in riddles," said dic, pretending not to understand. "drop your metaphor and tell me what you mean." "you know well enough what i mean, but i'll tell you. i hoped that you would go to new york before rita came to you. there would have been oceans of time after your return. she is very young, not much over sixteen." "but you see, billy little, it was this way." "oh, i know all about how it was. she cried and said you didn't care for her, that you were breaking her heart, and wouldn't let you kiss her till you gave her your promise. oh, bless your soul, i know exactly how it came about. maxwelton's braes are um, um, um, um, yes, yes." "have you seen rita?" asked dic, who could not believe that she would tell even billy of the scene on the log. "of course i have not seen her. how could i? it all happened last night after the social, and it is now only seven a.m." "billy little, i believe you are a mind reader," said dic, musingly. "no, i'm not," replied billy, with asperity. "let's go back to the store. you've told me all i want to know; but i don't blame you much after all. you couldn't help it. no man could. but you'll die plowing corn. perhaps you'll be happier in a corn field than in a broader one. doubtless the best thing one can do is to drift. with all due reverence, i am almost ready to believe that providence made a mistake when it permitted our race to progress beyond the pastoral age. stick to your ploughing, dic. it's good, wholesome exercise, and rita will furnish everything else needful to your happiness." they walked silently back to the store. dic, uninvited, entered and sat down on a box. billy distributed the morning mail and hummed maxwelton braes. then he arranged goods on the counter. dic followed the little old fellow with his eyes, but neither spoke. the younger man was waiting for his friend to speak, and the friend was silent because he did not feel like talking. he loved dic and rita with passionate tenderness. he had almost brought them up from infancy, and all that was best in them bore the stamp of his personality. between him and dic there was a feeling near akin to that of father and son, but unfortunately rita was not a boy. still more unfortunately the last year had added to her already great beauty a magnetism that was almost mesmeric in its effect. there had also been a ripening in the sweet tenderness of her gentle manner, and if you will remember the bachelor heart of which i have spoken, you will understand that poor billy little couldn't help it at all, at all. god knows he would have helped it. the fault lay in the girl's winsomeness; and if billy's desire to send dic off to new york was not an unmixed motive, you must not blame billy too severely. neither must you laugh at him; for he had the heart of a boy, and the most boyish act in the world is to fall in love. billy had never misunderstood rita's tenderness and love for him. there was no designing coquetry in the girl. she had always since babyhood loved him, perhaps better even than she loved her parents, and she delighted to show him her affection. billy had never been deceived by her preference, and of course was careful that she should not observe the real quality of his own regard for her. but the girl's love, such as she gave, was sweet to him--oh, so sweet, this love of this perfect girl--and he, even he, old and gray though he was, could not help longing for that which he knew was as far beyond his reach as the bending rainbow is beyond the hand of a longing child. he was more than fifty in years, but his heart was young, and we, of course, all agree that he was very foolish indeed--which truth he knew quite as well as we. so this disclosure of dic's was a shock to billy, although it was the thing of all others he most desired should come to pass. "are you angry, billy little?" asked dic, feeling somewhat inclined to laugh, though standing slightly in fear of his little friend. "certainly not," returned billy. "why should i be angry? it's no affair of mine." "no affair of yours, billy little?" asked dic, with a touch of distress in his voice, though he knew that it was an affair very dear to billy's heart. "do you really mean it?" "no, of course i don't mean it," returned billy; "but i wish you wouldn't bother me. don't you see i'm at work?" billy's conduct puzzled dic, as well it might, and the young man turned his face toward the door, determined to wait till an explanation should come unsought. billy's bachelor apartment--or apartments, as he called his single room--was back of the store. there were his bed,--a huge, mahogany four-poster,--his library, his bath-tub, a half-dozen good pictures in oil and copper-plate, a pair of old fencing foils,--relics of his university days,--a piano, and a score of pipes. under the bed was a flat leather trunk, and on the floor a rich, though worn, velvet carpet. three or four miniatures on ivory rested on the rude mantel-shelf, and in the middle of the room stood a mahogany table covered with _blackwood's magazines_, pamphlets, letters, and books. in the midst of this confusion on the table stood a pair of magnificent gold candlesticks, each holding a half-burned candle, and over all was a mantle of dust that would have driven a woman mad. certainly the contents of billy's "apartments" was an incongruous collection to find in a log-cabin of the wilderness. at the end of half an hour billy called to dic, saying:-- "i wish you would watch the store for me. i'm going to my apartments for a bit. if mrs. hawkins comes in, give her this bottle of calomel and this bundle of goods. the calomel is a fippenny bit; the goods is four shillin', but i don't suppose she'll want to pay for them. don't take coonskins. i won't have coonskins. if i can't sell my goods for cash, i'll keep 'em. butter and eggs will answer once in a while, if the customer is poor and has no money, but i draw the line on coonskins. the hawkinses always have coonskins. i believe they breed coons, but they can't trade their odoriferous pelts to me. if she has them, tell her to take them to hackett's. he'll trade for fishing worms, if she has any, and then perhaps get more than his shoddy goods are worth. well, here's the calomel and the goods. get the cash or charge them. there's a letter in the c box for seal coble. give it to mrs. hawkins, and tell her to hand it to seal as she drives past his house. tell her to read it to the old man. he doesn't know _a_ from _x_. i doubt if mrs. hawkins does. but you can tell her to read it--it will flatter her. i'll return when i'm ready. meantime, i don't want to be disturbed by any one. understand?" "yes," answered dic, and the worthy merchant disappeared, locking the door behind him. billy sat down in the arm-chair, leaned his head backward, and looked at the ceiling for a few minutes; then, resting his elbows on his knees, he buried his face in his hands. there he sat without moving for an hour. at the end of that time he arose, drew the trunk from under the bed, unlocked it, and raised the lid. a woman's scarf, several bundles of letters, two teakwood boxes, ten or twelve inches square and three or four inches deep, beautifully mounted in gold, and a dozen books neatly wrapped in tissue paper, made up the contents. these articles seemed to tell of a woman back somewhere in billy's life; and if they spoke the truth, there must have been grief along with her for billy. for although he was created capable of great joy, by the same token he could also suffer the deepest grief. out of the trunk came one of the gold-mounted boxes, and out of the box came a package of letters neatly tied with a faded ribbon. billy lifted the package to his face and inhaled the faint odor of lavender given forth; then he--yes, even he, billy little, quaint old cynic, pressed the dainty bundle to his lips and breathed a sigh of mingled sorrow and relief. "ah, i knew they would help me," he said. "they always do. whatever my troubles, they always help me." he opened the package, and, after carefully reading the letters, bound them again with the ribbon, and took from the box a small ivory jewel case, an inch cube in size. from the ivory box he took a heavy plain gold ring and went over to the chair, where he sat in bachelor meditation, though far from fancy free. suddenly he sprang from the chair, exclaiming: "i'll do it. i'll do it. she would wish me to--i will, i will." he then went back to the storeroom, loitered behind the letter-boxes a few minutes, called dic back to him, and said:-- "you are going to have one of the sweetest, best girls in all the world for your wife," said he. "you are lucky, dic, but she is luckier. when you first told me of--of what happened last night, i was disappointed because i saw your career simply knocked end over end. no man, having as sweet a wife as rita, ever amounted to anything, unless she happened to be ambitious, and rita has no more ambition than a spring violet. such a woman, unless she is ambitious, takes all the ambition out of a man. she becomes sufficient for him. she absorbs his aspirations, and gives him in exchange nothing but contentment. of course, if she is ambitious and sighs for a crown for him, she is apt to lead him to it. but rita knows how to do but one thing well--first conjugation, present infinitive, _amare_. she knows all about that, and she will bring you mere happiness--nothing else. by jove, i'm sorry for you. you'll only be happy." "but, billy little," cried dic, "you have it wrong. don't you see that she will be an inspiration? she will fire me. i will work and achieve greater things for her sake than i could possibly accomplish without her." "that's why you're going to new york, is it?" asked dic's cynical friend. "well, you know, that was her first request, and--and, you must understand--" "yes, i understand. i know she will coax you out of leaving her side long enough to plow a corn row if you are not careful. there'll be happy times for the weeds. women of rita's sort are like fire and water, dic; they are useful and delightful, but dangerous. no man, however wise, knows their power. egad! one of them would coax the face off of ye if she wanted it, before you knew you had a face. it's their god-given privilege to coax; but bless your soul, dic, what a poor world this would be without their coaxing. god pity the man who lacks it! eh, dic?" billy was thinking of his own loneliness. "rita certainly knows how to coax," replied dic. "and--and it is very pleasant." "have you an engagement ring for her?" asked billy. "no," responded dic, "i can't afford one now, and rita doesn't expect it. after i'm established in the law, i'll buy her a beautiful ring." "after you're established in the law! if the poor girl waits for that--but she shan't wait. i have one here," said billy, drawing forth the ivory box. "i value it above all my possessions." his voice broke piteously. "it is more precious to me ... than words can ... tell or ... money can buy. it brought me ... my first great joy ... my first great grief. i give it to you, dic, that you may give it to rita. egad! i believe i've taken a cold from the way my eyes water. there, there, don't thank me, or i'll take it back. now, i want to be alone. damme, i say, don't thank me. get out of here, you young scoundrel; to come in here and take my ring away from me! jove! i'll have the law on you, the law! good-by." "i fear i should not have given them the ring," mused billy when dic had gone.... "it might prove unlucky.... it came back to me because she was forced to marry another.... i wonder if it will come back to dic? nonsense! it is impossible.... nothing can come between them.... but it was a fatal ring for me.... i am almost sorry ... but it can bring no trouble to dic and rita ... impossible. but i am almost sorry ... go off, billy little; you are growing soft and superstitious ... but it would break her heart. i wonder ... ah! nonsense. maxwelton's braes are bonny, um, um, um, um, um, um." and billy first tried to sing his grief away, then sought relief from his beloved piano. the fight by the river side chapter vi the fight by the river side deep in the forest on the home path, dic looked at the ring, and quite forgot billy little, while he anticipated the pleasure he would take in giving the golden token to rita. he did not intend to be selfish, but selfishness was a part of his condition. a great love is, and should be, narrowing. that evening dic walked down the river path to bays's and, as usual, sat on the porch with the family. twenty-four hours earlier sitting on the porch with the family would have seemed a delightful privilege, and the moments would have been pleasure-winged. but now mrs. bays's profound and frequently religious philosophizing was dull compared to what might be said on the log down by the river bank. tom, of course, talked a good deal. among other things he remarked to dic:-- "i 'lowed you'd never come back here again after the way rita treated you last night." of course he did not know how exceedingly well rita had treated dic last night. "oh, that was nothing," returned dic. "rita was right. i hope she will always--always--" the sentence was hard to finish. "you hope she'll always treat you that-a-way?" asked tom, derisively. "i bet if you had her alone she wouldn't be so hard to manage--would you, rita?" tom thought himself a rare wit, and a mistake of that sort makes one very disagreeable. rita's face burned scarlet at tom's witticism, and mrs. bays promptly demanded of her daughter:-- "what on earth are you talking about?" poor rita had not been talking at all, and therefore made no answer. the demand was then made of tom, but in a much softer tone of voice:-- "tell me, tom," his mother asked. "i'll not tell you. rita and dic may, but i'll not. i'm no tell-tale." no, not he! the chief justice turned upon rita, looked sternly over her glasses, and again insisted:-- "what have you been doing, girl? tell me at once. i command you by the duty you owe your mother." "i can't tell you, mother. please don't ask," replied rita, hanging her head. "you can tell me, and you shall," cried the fond mother. "i can't tell you, mother, and i won't. please don't ask." "do my ears deceive me? you refuse to obey your parents? 'obey thy father and thy mother that thy days may be long'--" tom interrupted her: "oh, mother, for goodness' sake, quit firing that quotation at rita. i'm sick of it. if it's true, i ought to have died long ago. i don't mind you. never did. never will." "yes, you do, tom," answered his mother, meekly. "and this disobedient girl shall mind me, too." rita had never in all her life disobeyed a command from either father or mother. she was obedient from habit and inclination, and in her guileless, affectionate heart believed that a terrific natural cataclysm of some sort would surely occur should she even think of disobeying. with ostentatious deliberation mrs. bays folded her knitting and placed it on the floor beside her; took off her spectacles, put them in the case, and put the case in her pocket. rita knew her mother was clearing the decks for action and that justice was coldly arranging to have its own. so great was the girl's love and fear for this hard woman that she trembled as if in peril. "now, margarita fisher bays," the chief justice began, glaring at the trembling girl. when on the bench she addressed her daughter by her full name in long-drawn syllables, and rita's full name upon her mother's lips meant trouble. but at the moment mrs. bays began her address from the bench billy little came around the corner of the house and stopped in front of the porch. tom said, "hello, billy little," mr. bays said, "howdy," and mrs. bays said majestically: "good evening, mr. little. you have come just in time to see the ungratefullest creature the world can produce--a disobedient daughter." "i can't believe that you have one," smiled billy. rita's eyes flashed a look of gratitude upon her friend. dic might not be able to understand the language of those eyes, but billy knew their vocabulary from the smallest to the greatest word. "i wouldn't believe it either," said mrs. bays, "if i had not just heard her say it with my own ears." "did she say it with your own ears?" interrupted tom. "now, tom, please don't interrupt, my son," said mrs. bays. "she said to her own mother, mr. little, 'i won't;' said it to her own mother who has toiled and suffered and endured for her sake all her life long; to her own mother who has nursed her and watched over her and tried to do her duty according to the poor light that god has vouchsafed--and--and i've been troubled with my heart all day." rita, poor girl, had been troubled with her heart many days. "yes, with my heart," continued the dutiful mother. "dr. kennedy says i may drop any moment." (billy secretly wished that kennedy had fixed the moment.) "and when i asked her to tell me what she did last night at the social, she answered, 'i can't and won't.' i should have known better than to let her go. she hasn't sense enough to be let out of my sight. she lied to me about the social, too. she pretended that she did not want to go, and she did want to go." that was the real cause of mrs. margarita's anger. she suspected she had been duped into consenting, and the thought had rankled in her heart all day. "you did want to go, didn't you?" snapped out the old woman. "yes, mother, i did want to go," replied rita. "there, you hear for yourself, mr. little. she lied to me, and now is brazen enough to own up to it." tom thought the scene very funny and laughed boisterously. had tom been scolded, rita would have wept. "go it, mother," said tom. "this is better than a jury trial." "oh, tom, be still, son!" said mrs. bays, and then turning to rita: "now you've got to tell me what happened at scott's social. out with it!" rita and dic were sitting near each other on the edge of the porch. mr. bays and tom occupied rocking-chairs, and billy little was standing on the ground, hat in hand. "tell me this instant," cried mrs. bays, rising from her chair and going over to the girl, who shrank from her in fear. "tell me, or i'll--i'll--" "i can't, mother," the girl answered tremblingly. "i can't tell you before all these--these folks. i'll tell you in the house." "you went into the kissing game. that's what you did," cried mrs. bays, "and your punishment shall be to confess it before mr. little." rita began to weep, and answered gently:-- "yes, mother, i did, but i did not--did not--" a just and injured wrath gathered on the face of justice. "didn't i command you not?" "i'll tell you all about it, mrs. bays," interrupted dic. "i coaxed her to go in." (rita's heart thanked him for the lie.) "the others all insisted. one of the boys dragged her to the centre of the room and she just had to go into the game. she only remained a short time, and what tom referred to is this: she would not allow any one to--to kiss her, and she quit the game when she--she refused me." "she quit the game when it quit, i 'low. isn't that right?" asked the inquisitor. "the game stopped when she went out--" "i thought as much," replied mrs. bays, straightening up for the purpose of delivering judgment. "now go to bed at once, you disobedient, indecent girl! i'm ashamed of you, and blush that mr. little should know your wickedness." "oh, please let me stay," sobbed rita, but mrs. bays pointed to the door and rita rose, gave one glance to dic, and went weeping to her room. mr. bays said mildly:-- "margarita, you should not have been so hard on the girl." "now, tom bays," responded the strenuous spouse, "i'll thank you not to meddle with my children. i know my duty, and i'll do it. lord knows i wish i could shirk it as some people do, but i can't. i must do my duty when the lord is good enough to point it out, or my conscience will smite me. there's many a person with my heart would sit by and let her child just grow up in the wilderness like underbrush; but i _must_ do my duty, mr. little, in the humble sphere in which providence has placed me. give every man his just dues, and do my duty. that's all i know, mr. little. 'justice to all and punishment for sinners;' that's my motto and my husband will tell you i live up to it." she looked for confirmation to her spouse, who said regretfully:-- "yes, i must say that's true." "there," cried triumphant justice. "you see, i don't boast. i despise boasting." she took up her knitting, put on her glasses, closed her lips, and thus announced that court was also closed. poor rita, meantime, was sobbing, upstairs at her window. after a long, awkward silence, billy little addressed dic. "i came up to spend the night with you, and if you are going home, i'll walk and lead my horse. i suppose you walked down?" "yes," answered dic; "i'll go with you." "i'm sorry to carry off your company, mrs. bays," said billy, "but i want to--" "oh, dic's no company; he's always here. i don't know where he finds time to work. i'd think he'd go to see the girls sometimes." "rita's a girl, isn't she?" asked billy, glancing toward dic. "rita's only a child, and a disobedient one at that," replied mrs. bays, but billy's words put a new thought into her head that was almost sure to cause trouble for rita. when billy and dic went around the house to fetch billy's horse, rita was sitting at the window upstairs. she smiled through her tears and tossed a note to dic, which he deciphered by the light of the moon. it was brief, "please meet me to-morrow at the step-off--three o'clock." the step-off was a deep hole in the river halfway between bays's and bright's. dic and billy walked up the river path a little time in silence. billy was first to speak. "i consider," said he, "that profane swearing is vulgar, but i must say damn that woman. what an inquisitor she would make. i hope kennedy is right about her heart. think of her as your mother-in-law!" "when rita is my wife," replied dic, "i'll protect her, if i have to--to--" "what will you do, dic?" asked billy. "such a woman is utterly unmanageable. you see, the trouble is, that she believes in herself and is honest by a species of artificial sincerity. show me a stern, hard woman who is bent on doing her duty, her whole duty, and nothing but her duty, and i'll show you a misery breeder. did you give rita the ring?" "i haven't had the chance," answered dic. "i'll do it to-morrow. billy little, i want to thank you--you must let me tell you what i think, or i'll burst." "burst, then," returned billy. "i'd rather be kicked than thanked. i knew how rita and you would feel, or i should not have given you the ring. do you suppose i would have parted with it because of a small motive? have you told the chief justice?" "no; she will learn when she sees the ring on rita's finger." silence then ensued, which was broken after a few minutes by billy little humming under his breath, "maxwelton's braes are bonny." dic soon joined in the sweet refrain, and, each encouraging the other, they swelled their voices and allowed the tender melody to pour forth. i can almost see them as they walked up the river path, now in the black shadow of the forest, and again near the gurgling water's edge, in the yellow light of the moon. the warm, delicious air was laden with the odor of trees and sweetbrier, and to the song the breath of the south wind played an accompaniment of exquisite cadence upon the leaves. i seem to hear them singing,--billy's piping treble, plaintive, quaint, and almost sweet, carrying the tenor to dic's bass. there was no soprano. the concert was all tenor and bass, south wind, and rustling leaves. the song helped dic to express his happiness, and enabled billy to throw off the remnants of his heartache. music is a surer antidote to disappointment, past, present, and future, than the philosophy of all the stoics that ever lived; and if all who know the truth of that statement were to read these pages, billy little would have many millions of sympathizers. dic did not neglect rita's note, but read it many times after he had lighted the candle in the loft where he and billy were to sleep. long after billy had gone to bed dic sat up, thinking of rita, and anon replenishing his store of ecstasy from the full fountain of her note. after an unreasonable period of waiting billy said:-- "if you intend to sit there all night, i wish you would smother the candle. it's filling the room with bugs. here is a straddle-bug of some sort that's been trying to saw my foot off." "in a moment, billy little," answered dic. the moment stretched into many minutes, until billy, growing restive, threw his shoe at the candle and felled it in darkness to the floor. dic laughed and went to bed, and billy fell into so great a fit of laughter that he could hardly check it. neither slept much, and by sun-up billy was riding homeward. that he might be sure to be on time, dic was at the step-off by half-past two, and five minutes later rita appeared. the step-off was at a deep bend in the river where the low-hanging water-elm, the redbud, and the dogwood, springing in vast luxuriance from the rich bottom soil, were covered by a thick foliage of wild grape-vines. "the river path," used only as a "horse road" and by pedestrians, left the river at the upper bend, crossing the narrow peninsula formed by the winding stream, and did not intrude upon the shady nook of raised ground at the point of the peninsula next the water's edge. there was, however, a horse path--wagon roads were few and far apart--on the opposite side of the river. this path was little used, save by hunters, the west side of the river being government land, and at that time a vast stretch of unbroken forest. rita had chosen the step-off for her trysting-place because of its seclusion, and partly, perhaps, for the sake of its beauty. she and dic could be seen only from the opposite side of the river, and she thought no one would be hunting at that time of the year. the pelts of fur-giving animals taken then were unfit for market. venison was soft, and pheasants and turkeys were sitting. there would be nothing she would wish to conceal in meeting dic; but the instinct of all animate nature is to do its love-making in secret. "oh, dic," said the girl, after they were seated on a low, rocky bench under a vine-covered redbud, "oh, dic, i did so long to speak to you last night. after what happened night before last--it seems ages ago--i have lived in a dream, and i wanted to talk to you and assure myself that it is all true and real." "it is as real as you and i, rita, and i have brought you something that will always make you know it is real." "isn't it wonderful, dic?" said the girl, looking up to him with a childish wistfulness of expression that would always remain in her eyes. "isn't it wonderful that this good fortune has come to me? i can hardly realize that it is true." "oh, but i am the one to whom the good fortune has really come," replied dic. "you are so generous that you give me yourself, and that is the richest present on earth." "ah, but you are so generous that you take me. i cannot understand it all yet; i suppose i shall in time. but what have you brought that will make me know it is all real?" dic then brought forth the ivory box and held it behind him. "oh, what is it?" cried the girl, eagerly. "give me your hand," commanded dic. the hand was promptly surrendered. "now close your eyes," he continued. the eyes were closed, very, very honestly. rita knew no other way of doing anything, and never so much as thought of peeping. then dic lifted the soft little hand to his lips, and slipped the gold band on the third finger. "oh, i know what it is now," she cried delightedly, but she would not look till dic should say "open." "open" was said, and the girl exclaimed:-- "oh, dic, where did you get it?" bear this fact in mind: if you live among the trees, the wild flowers, and the birds, you will always remain a child. rita was little more than a child in years, and i know you will love dic better because within his man's heart was still the heart of his childhood. the great oak of the forest year by year takes on its encircling layer of wood, but the layers of a century still enclose the heart of a sprig that burst forth upon a spring morning from its mother acorn. for a moment after rita asked dic where he got the ring he regretted he had not bought it, but he said:-- "billy little gave it to me that i might give it to you; so it really is his present." a shade of disappointment spread over her face, but it lasted only a moment. "but you give it to me," she said. "it was really yours, and you give it to me. i am almost glad it comes from billy little. he has been so much to me. you are by nature different from other men, but the best difference we owe to billy little." the pronoun "we" was significant. it meant that she also was billy little's debtor for the good he had brought to dic, since now that wonderful young man belonged to her. "i wonder where he got it?" asked the girl. "i don't know," replied dic. "he said he valued it above all else he possessed, and told me it had brought him his sweetest joy and his bitterest grief. i think he gave it to a sweetheart long years ago, and she was compelled to return it and to marry another man. i am only guessing. i don't know." "perhaps we had better not keep it," returned the girl, with a touch of her forest-life superstition. "it might bring the same fate to us. i could not bear it, dic, now. i should die. before you spoke to me--before that night of scott's social--it would have been hard enough for me to--to--but now, dic, i couldn't bear to lose you, nor to marry another. i could not; indeed, i could not. let us not keep the ring." dic's ardor concerning the ring was dampened, but he said:-- "nonsense, rita, you surprise me. nothing can come between us." "i fear others have thought the same way. perhaps billy little and his sweetheart"--she was almost ready for tears. "yes, but what can come between us? your parents, i hope, won't object. mine won't, and we don't--do we?" said dic, argumentatively. "ah," answered rita with her lips, but her eyes, whose language dic was beginning to comprehend, said a great deal more than can be expressed in mere words. "then what save death can separate us?" asked dic. "we would offend billy little by returning the ring, and it looks pretty on your finger. don't you like it, rita?" "y-e-s," she responded, her head bent doubtingly to one side, as she glanced down at the ring. "you don't feel superstitious about it, do you?" he asked. "n-o-o." "then we'll keep it, won't we?" "y-e-s." he drew the girl toward him and she turned her face upward. he would have kissed her had he not been startled by a call from the opposite side of the river. "here, here, stop that. that'll never do. too fine-haired and modest for a kissing game, but mighty willin' when all alone. we'll come over and get into the game ourselves." dic and rita looked up quickly and saw the huge figure of doug hill standing on the opposite bank with a gun over his shoulder and a bottle of whiskey in his uplifted hand. by his side was his henchman, patsy clark. the situation was a trying one for dic. he could not fight the ruffian in rita's presence, and he had no right to tell him to move on. so he paid no attention to doug's hail, and in a moment that worthy nimrod passed up the river. dic and rita were greatly frightened, and when doug passed out of sight into the forest they started home. they soon reached the path and were walking slowly down toward bays's, when they were again startled by the disagreeable voice of the douglas. this time the voice came from immediately back of them, and dic placed himself behind rita. "i've come to get my kiss," said doug, laughing boisterously. he was what he called "full"; not drunk, but "comfortable," which meant uncomfortable for those who happened to be near him. "i've come for my kiss," he cried again. [illustration: "'i've come to get my kiss,' said doug."] "you'll not get it," answered rita, who was brave when dic was between her and her foe. dic, wishing to avoid trouble, simply said, "i guess not." "oh, you guess not?" said doug, apparently much amused. "you guess not? well, we'll see, mr. fine-hair; we'll see." thereupon, he rested his gun against a tree, stepped quickly past dic, and seized rita around the waist. he was drawing her head backward to help himself when dic knocked him down. patsy clark then sprang upon dic, and, in imitation of his chief, fell to the ground. doug and patsy at once rose to their feet and rushed toward dic. rita screamed, as of course any right-minded woman would have done, and, clasping her hands in terror, looked on fascinated and almost paralyzed. patsy came first and again took a fall. this time, from necessity or inclination,--probably the latter,--he did not rise, but left the drunken douglas to face dic single-handed and alone. though tall and strong, dic was by no means the equal of doug in the matter of bulk, and in a grappling match doug could soon have killed him. dic fully understood this, and, being more active than his huge foe, endeavored to keep him at arm's length. in this he was successful for a time; but at last the grapple came, and both men fell to the ground--doug hill on top. poor rita was in a frenzy of terror. she could not even scream. she could only press her hands to her heart and look. when dic and doug fell to the ground, patsy clark, believing himself safe, rose to a sitting posture, and doug cried out to him:-- "give me your knife, patsy, give me your knife." patsy at once responded by placing his hunting-knife in doug's left hand. dic saw his imminent danger and with his right hand clasped doug's left wrist in a grasp that could not be loosened. after several futile attempts to free his wrist, doug tossed the knife over to his right side. it fell a few inches beyond his reach, and he tried to grasp it. rita saw that very soon he would reach the knife, and dic's peril brought back her presence of mind. doug put forth terrific efforts to reach the knife, and, despite dic's resistance, soon had it in his grasp. in getting the knife, however, doug gave dic an opportunity to throw him off, and he did so, quickly springing to his feet. doug was on his feet in a twinkling, and rushed upon dic with uplifted knife. dic knew that he could not withstand the rush, and thought his hour had come; but the sharp crack of a rifle broke the forest silence, and the knife fell from doug's nerveless hand, his knees shook under him, his form quivered spasmodically for a moment, and he plunged forward on his face. dic turned and saw rita standing back of him, holding doug's rifle to her shoulder, a tiny curl of blue smoke issuing from the barrel. the girl's face turned pale, the gun fell from her hands, her eyes closed, and she would have fallen had not dic caught her in his arms. he did not so much as glance at doug, but at once carried the unconscious rita home with all the speed he could make. "now for goodness' sake, what has she been doing?" cried mrs. bays, as dic entered the front door with his almost lifeless burden. "that girl will be the death of me yet." "she has fainted," replied dic, "and i fear she's dead." with a wild scream mrs. bays snatched rita from dic's arms in a frenzy of grief that bore a touch of jealousy. in health and happiness rita for her own good must bow beneath the rod; but in sickness or in death rita was her child, and no strange hand should minister to her. a blessed philosopher's stone had for once transmuted her hard, barren sense of justice to glowing love. she carried the girl into the house and applied restoratives. after a little time rita breathed a sigh and opened her eyes. her first word was "dic!" "here i am, rita," he softly answered, stepping to her bedside and taking her hand. mrs. bays, after her first inquiry, had asked no questions, and dic had given no information. after rita's return to consciousness tears began to trickle down her mother's furrowed cheek, and, ashamed of her weakness, she left the room. dic knelt by rita's bed and kissed her hands, her eyes, her lips. his caresses were the best of all restoratives, and when mrs. bays returned, rita was sitting on the edge of the bed, dic's arm supporting her and her head resting on his shoulder. mrs. bays came slowly toward them. the girl's habitual fear of her mother returned, and lifting her head she tried to move away from dic, but he held her. mrs. bays reached the bedside and stood facing them in silence. the court of love had adjourned. the court of justice was again in session. she snatched up rita's hand and pointed to the ring. "what is that?" she asked sternly. "that is our engagement ring," answered dic. "rita has promised to be my wife." "never!" cried the old woman, out of the spirit of pure antagonism. "never!" she repeated, closing her lips in a spasm of supposed duty. rita's heart sank, and dic's seemed heavier by many pounds than a few moments before, though he did not fear the apostle of justice and duty as did rita. he hoped to marry rita at once with her mother's consent; but if he could not have that, he would wait until the girl was eighteen, when she could legally choose for herself. out of his confidence came calmness, and he asked, "why shall not rita be my wife? she shall want for nothing, and i will try to make her happy. why do you object?" "because--because i do," returned mrs. bays. "in so important a matter as this, mrs. bays, 'because' is not a sufficient reason." "i don't have to give you a reason," she answered sharply. "you are a good woman, mrs. bays," continued dic, with a deliberate and base intent to flatter. "no man or woman has ever had injustice at your hands, and i, who am almost your son, ask that justice which you would not refuse to the meanest person on blue." the attack was unfair. is it ever fair to gain our point by flattering another's weakness? dic's statement of the case was hard to evade, so mrs. margarita answered:-- "the girl's too young to marry. i'll never consent. i'll have nothing of the sort going on, for a while at any rate; give him back the ring." rita slipped the ring from her finger and placed it in dic's hand. "now tell me," mrs. bays demanded, "how this came about? how came rita to faint?" rita hung her head and began to weep convulsively. "rita and i," answered dic, "were walking home down the river path. we had been sitting near the step-off. doug hill and patsy clark came up behind us, and doug tried to kiss rita. i interfered, and we fought. he was about to kill me with patsy's hunting-knife when--when--when i shot him. then rita fainted, and i feared she was dead, so i brought her home and left doug lying on his face, with patsy clark standing over him." rita so far recovered herself as to be able to say:-- "no, mother, i killed him." "you," shrieked mrs. bays, "you?" "yes," the girl replied. "yes," replied dic to mrs. bays's incredulous look, "that was the way of it, but i was the cause, and i shall take the blame. you had better not speak of this matter to any one till we have consulted billy little. i can bear the blame much better than rita can. when the trial comes, you and rita say nothing. i will plead guilty to having killed doug hill, and no questions will be asked." "if you will do it, dic, if you will do it," wailed mrs. bays. "i certainly will," returned dic. "no, you shall not," said rita. "you must be guided by your mother and me," replied dic. "i know what is best, and if you will do as we direct, all may turn out better than we now hope. he was about to kill me, and i had a right to kill him. i do not know the law certainly, but i fear you had no right to kill him in my defence. i have read in the law books that a man may take another's life in the defence of one whom he is bound to protect. i fear you had no right to kill doug hill for my sake." "i had, oh, i had!" sobbed rita. "but you will be guided by your mother and me, will you not, rita?" despite fears of her mother, the girl buried her face on dic's breast, and entwining her arms about his neck whispered:-- "i will be guided by you." dic then arose and said: "it may be that doug is not dead. i will take one of your horses, mrs. bays, and ride to town for dr. kennedy." within ten minutes dic was with billy little, telling him the story. "i'm going for kennedy," said dic. "saddle your horse quickly and ride up with us." five minutes later, dic, kennedy, and billy little were galloping furiously up the river to the scene of battle. when they reached it, doug, much to dic's joy, was seated leaning against a tree. his shirt had been torn away, and patsy was washing the bullet wound in the breast and back, for the bullet had passed entirely through doug's body. "well, he's not dead yet," cried kennedy. "so far, so good. now we'll see if i can keep from killing him." while the doctor was at work dic took billy to one side. "i told mrs. bays and rita not to speak about this affair," he said. "i will say upon the trial that i fired the shot." "why, dic, that will never do." "yes, it will; it must. you see, i had a good right to kill him, but rita had not. at any rate, don't you know that they might as well kill rita at once as to try her? she couldn't live through a trial for murder. it would kill her or drive her insane. i'll plead guilty. that will stop all questioning." "yes," replied billy, deep in revery, and stroking his chin; "perhaps you are right. but how about hill and clark? they will testify that rita did the shooting." "no one will have the chance to testify if i plead guilty," said dic. "and if doug should die, you may hang or go to prison for life on a mere unexplained plea of guilty. that shall never happen with my consent." "billy little, you can't prevent it. i'll make a plea of guilty," responded dic, sharply; "and if you try to interfere, i'll never speak your name again, as god is my help." billy winced. "no wonder she loves you," he said. "i'll not interfere. but take this advice: say nothing till we have consulted switzer. don't enter a plea of guilty. you must be tried. i believe i have a plan that may help us." "what is it, billy little?" asked dic, eagerly. "i'll not tell you now. trust me for a time without questions, dic. i am good for something, i hope." "you are good for everything concerning me, billy little," said dic. "i will trust you and ask no questions." "little," said kennedy, "if you will make a stretcher of boughs we will carry hill up to bright's house and take him home in a wagon. i think he may live." accordingly, a rude litter was constructed, and the four men carried the wounded douglas to dic's house, where he was placed upon a couch of hay in a wagon, and taken to his home, two or three miles eastward. on the road over, billy little asked dr. kennedy to lead his horse while he talked to patsy clark, who was driving in the wagon. "how did dic happen to shoot him?" asked billy when he was seated beside patsy. "d-dic d-di-didn't shoot him. ri-ta did," stuttered doug's henchman. "no, patsy, it was dic," said billy little. "i-i re-reckon i or-orter know," stammered patsy. "i-i was there and s-saw it. you wasn't." "you're wrong, patsy," insisted billy. "b-by ned, i re-reckon i know," he returned. "now listen to me, patsy," said billy, impressively. "i say you are wrong, and--by the way, patsy, i want you to do a few little odd jobs about the store for the next month or so. i'll not need you frequently, but i should like to have you available at any time. if you will come down to the store, i will pay you twenty dollars wages in advance, and later on i will give you another twenty. you are a good fellow, and i want to help you; but i am sure you are wrong in this case. i know it was dic who fired the shot. now, think for a moment. wasn't it dic?" "we-well, c-come to think a-a-about it, i believe you're right. damned if i don't. he t-tuk the gun and jes' b-b-blazed away." "i knew that was the way of it," said billy, quietly. "b-betch yur life it was jes' that-a-way. h-how the h----did you know?" "dic told me," answered billy. "well, that-a-a-a-way was the way it was, sure as you're alive." "you're sure of it now, patsy, are you?" "d-dead sure. wa-wa-wasn't i there and d-d-didn't i see it all? yes, sir, d-d-dead sure. and the tw-twenty dollars? i'll g-get it to-morrow, you say?" "yes." "a-and the other t-t-twenty? i'll get it later, eh?" "you can trust me, can't you, patsy?" queried billy. "b-betch yur life i can. e-e-e-everybody does. b-but how much later?" "when it is all over," answered billy. "a-all right," responded his stuttering friend. "but," asked billy, "if doug recovers, and should think as you did at first, that rita fired the shot?" "sa-sa-say, b-billy little, you couldn't make it another t-t-twenty later on for that ere job about the st-store, could ye?" "i think i can," returned billy. "well, then, doug'll g-get it straight--never you f-f-fear. he was crazy drunk and ha-ha-half blind with blood where dic knocked him, and he didn't know who f-f-fired the shot." "but suppose he should know?" "b-but he won't know, i-i tell ye. i-i t-trust you; c-can't you trust patsy? i-i'm not as big a f-fool as i look. i-i let p-people think i'm a fool because when p-people think you're a f-fool, it's lots easier t-t-to work 'em. see?" * * * * * billy left doug hovering between life and death, and hurried back to dic. "patsy says you took the gun from where it was leaning against the tree and shot hill. i suppose he doesn't know exactly how it did happen. i told him you said that was the way of it, and he assents. he says doug doesn't know who fired the shot. we shall be able to leave rita entirely out of the case, and you may, with perfect safety, enter a plea of self-defence." dic breathed a sigh of relief and longed to thank billy, but dared not, and the old friend rode homeward unthanked but highly satisfied. on the way home billy fell into deep thought, and the thoughts grew into mutterings: "billy little, you are coming to great things. a briber, a suborner of perjury, a liar. i expect soon to hear of you stealing. burglary is a profitable and honorable occupation. go it, billy little.--and for this you came like a wise man out of the east to leaven the loaf of the west--all for the sake of a girl, a mere child, whom you are foolish enough to--nonsense--and for the sake of the man she is to marry." then the grief of his life seemed to come back to him in a flood, and he continued almost bitterly: "i don't believe i have led an evil life. i don't want to feel like a pharisee; but i don't recollect having injured any man or woman in the whole course of my miserable existence, yet i have missed all that is best in life. even when i have not suffered, my life has been a pale, tasteless blank with nothing but a little poor music and worse philosophy to break the monotony. the little pleasure i have had from any source has been enjoyed alone, and no joy is complete unless one may give at least a part of it to another. if one has a pleasure all to himself, he is apt to hate it at times, and this is one of the times. billy little, you must be suffering for the sins of an ancestor. i wonder what he did, damn him." this mood was unusual for billy. in his youth he had been baptized with the chrism of sorrow and was safe from the devil of discontent. he was by nature an apostle of sunshine; but when we consider all the facts, i know you will agree with me that he had upon this occasion good right to be a little cloudy. that evening dic was arrested and held in jail pending doug hill's recovery or death. should douglas die, dic would be held for murder and would not be entitled to bail. in case of conviction for premeditated murder, death or imprisonment for life would be his doom. if doug should recover, the charge against dic would be assault and battery, with intent to commit murder, conviction for which would mean imprisonment for a term of years. if self-defence could be established--and owing to the fact that neither dic nor rita was to testify, that would be difficult to accomplish--dic would go free. these enormous "ifs" complicated the case, and dic was detained in jail till doug's fate should be known. the trial chapter vii the trial i shall not try to tell you of rita's suffering. she wept till she could weep no more, and the nightmare of suspense settled on her heart in the form of dry-eyed suffering. she could not, even for a moment, free her mind from the fact that dic was in jail and that his life was in peril on account of her act. billy went every day to encourage her and to keep her silent by telling her that dic would be cleared. mrs. bays prohibited her from visiting the jail; but, despite rita's fear of her mother, the girl would have gone had not dic emphatically forbidden. doug recovered, and, court being then in session, dic's trial for assault and battery, with intent to commit murder, came up at once. i shall not take you through the tedious details of the trial, but will hasten over such portions as closely touch the fate of our friends. upon the morning of dic's arraignment he was brought into court and the jury was empanelled. rita had begged piteously to go to the trial, but for many reasons that privilege was denied. the bar was filled with lawyers, and the courtroom was crowded with spectators. mr. switzer defended dic, who sat near him on the right hand of the judge, the state's attorney, with doug hill and patsy clark, the prosecuting witnesses, sitting opposite on the judge's left. the jury sat opposite the judge, and between the state's attorney and mr. switzer and the judge and the jury was an open space fifteen feet square. on a raised platform in this vacant space was the witness chair, facing the jury. doug hill and patsy clark were the only witnesses for the state. the defendant had summoned no witnesses, and dic's fate rested in the hands of his enemy and his enemy's henchman. patsy and doug had each done a great deal of talking, and time and again had asserted that dic had deliberately shot doug hill after the fight was over. mr. switzer's only hope seemed to be to clear dic on cross-examination of doug and patsy. "not one lie in a hundred can survive a hot cross-examination," he said. "if a woman is testifying for the man she loves, or for her child, she will carry the lie through to the end without faltering. every instinct of her nature comes to her help; but a man sooner or later bungles a lie if you make him angry and keep at him." doug was the first witness called. he testified that after the fight was over dic snatched up the gun and said, "i'm going to kill you;" that he then fired the shot, and that afterward doug remembered nothing. the story, being simple, was easily maintained, and mr. switzer's cross-examination failed to weaken the evidence. should patsy clark cling to the same story as successfully, the future looked dark for dic. when doug left the stand at noon recess, billy rode up to see rita, and in the course of their conversation the girl discovered his fears. billy's dark forebodings did not affect her as he supposed they would. he had expected tears and grief, but instead he found a strange, unconcerned calmness that surprised and puzzled him. soon after billy's departure rita saddled her horse and rode after him. mrs. bays forbade her going, but for the first time in her life the girl sullenly refused to answer her mother, and rode away in dire rebellion. court convened at one o'clock, and patsy clark was called to the stand. the state's attorney began his examination-in-chief:-- _question._--"state your name." _answer by patsy._--"sh-shucks, ye know my name." "state your name," ordered the court. _answer._--"pa-pa-patsy c-clark." _question by state's attorney._--"where do you live?" _answer._--"north of t-t-town, with d-doug hill's father." _question._--"where were you, mr. clark, on fifth day of last month at or near the hour of three o'clock p.m.?" _answer._--"don't know the day, b-but if you mean the d-day doug and d-dic had their fight, i-i was up on b-blue about halfway b-between dic bright's house and t-tom bays', at the step-off." _question._--"what, if anything, occurred at that time and place?" _answer._--"a f-fight--damned bad one." _question._--"who fought?" _answer._--"d-doug hill and d-dic bright." _question._--"now, mr. clark, tell the jury all you heard and saw take place, in the presence of the defendant dic bright, during that fight." the solemnity of the court had made a deep impression on patsy, and he trembled while he spoke. he was angry because the state's attorney, as he supposed, had pretended not to know his name, whereas that self-same state's attorney had been familiar with him prior to the election. "we'll get the truth out of this fellow on cross-examination," whispered mr. switzer to his client. "be careful not to get too much truth out of him," returned dic. patsy began his story. "well, me and d-doug was a-g-a-goin' up the west b-bank of b-blue when we seed--" _state's attorney._--"never mind what you saw at that time. answer my question. i asked you to tell all you saw and heard during the fight." _answer._--"i-i w-will if you'll l-let me. j-jest you keep still a minute and l-l-let me t-talk. i-i c-can't t-t-talk very well anyway. c-can't talk near as well as you. b-but i can say a he-heap more. whe-whe-when you talk so much, ye-ye-you g-get me to st-st-st-stuttering. s-see? now listen to that." _state's attorney._--"well, go on." _answer._--"well, we seed dic and rita bays, p-prettiest girl in the h-h-whole world, on the op-opposite side of the river, and he wa-wa-was a-kissin' her." _state's attorney._--"never mind that, but go ahead. tell it your own way." "i object," interposed mr. switzer. "the witness must confine himself to the state's question." "confine your answer to the question, mr. clark," commanded the court. patsy was growing angry, confused, and frightened. _state's attorney._--"go on. tell your story, can't you?" _answer._--"well, doug, he hollered across the river and said he-he wa-wa-wanted one hisself and would g-g-go over after it." _state's attorney._--"did you not understand my question? what did you see and hear? what occurred during the fight?" _answer._--"well, g-good l-l-lord! a-ain't i tryin' to t-tell ye? when we crossed the river and g-got to the step-off, rita and d-dic had went away and d-doug and me st-started after 'em down the path toward b-bays's. when we g-got up t-to 'em d-doug he says, says 'ee, 'i-i've come for my k-kiss,' says 'ee, jes' that-a-way. 'ye wo-won't get none,' says rita, says she, jes' that-a-way, and d-dic he p-puts in and says, says 'ee, 'i-i g-guess not,' says 'ee, jes' that-a-way. then doug he-he puts his gun agin' a gum tree and g-grabs rita about the wa-waist, hugging her up to him ti-tight-like. then he-he push her head back-like, so's 'ee c-could get at her mouth, and then dic he-he ups and knocks him d-down. then d-doug he-he gets up quick-like and they clinches and falls, and d-doug on top. then doug he-he says, says 'ee to me, 'g-give me your n-knife, patsy,' jes' that-a-way, and i ups and gives him my knife, but he d-drops it and some way d-dic he throws doug o-off and gets up, and doug he picks up the knife and st-starts for dic, lookin' wilder 'en hell. jes' then rita she ups with d-doug's gun and shoots him right through. he-he trembled-like for a minute and his knees shuk and he shivered all over and turned white about the mouth like he was awful sick, and then he d-dropped on his face, shot through and through." the confusion in the courtroom had been growing since the beginning of patsy's story, and by the time he had finished it broke into an uproar. the judge called "order," and the sheriff rose to quiet the audience. _state's attorney._--"do you mean to say, mr. clark, that rita bays fired the shot that wounded douglas hill?" douglas, you remember, had just sworn that dic fired the shot. _answer._--"yes, sir, you betch yur life that's jes' the way w-w-what i mean to say." _state's attorney._--"now, mr. clark, i'll ask you if you did not tell me and many other citizens of this community that the defendant, dic bright, fired the shot?" "i object," cried mr. switzer. "the gentleman cannot impeach his own witness." "you are right, mr. switzer," answered the court, "unless on the ground of surprise; but i overrule your objection. proceed, mr. state's attorney." "answer my question," said that official to patsy. _answer._--"yes, sir, i-i d-did tell you, and lots of other folks, too, that d-dic shot doug hill." question.--"then, sir, how do you reconcile those statements with the one you have just made?" answer.--"don't try to re-re-re-reconcile 'em. can't. i-i wa-wa-was talkin' then. i'm sw-sw-swearin' now." dic sprang to his feet, exclaiming:-- "if the court please, i wish to enter a plea of guilty to the charge against me." "your plea will not be accepted," answered the court. "i am beginning to see the cause for the defendant's peculiar behavior in this case. mr. sheriff, please subpoena miss rita bays." dic broke down, and buried his face in his folded arms on the table. the sheriff started to fetch rita, but met her near the courthouse and returned with her to the courtroom. she was directed to take the witness stand, which she did as calmly as if she were taking a seat at her father's dinner table; and her story, told in soft, clear tones, confirmed patsy in all essential details. mr. switzer objected to the questions put to her by the court on the ground that she could not be compelled to give evidence that would incriminate herself. the judge admitted the validity of mr. switzer's objection; but after a moment spent in private consultation with the state's attorney, he said:-- "the state and the court pledge themselves that no prosecution will be instituted against miss bays in case her answers disclose the fact that she shot doug hill." after rita had told her story the judge said: "miss bays, you did right. you are a strong, noble girl, and the man who gets you for a wife will be blessed of god." rita blushed and looked toward dic, as if to say, "you hear what the judge says?" but dic had heard, and thought the judge wise and excellent to a degree seldom, if ever, equalled among men. the judge then instructed the jury to return a verdict of not guilty, and within five minutes dic was a free and happy man. billy little did not seem to be happy; for he, beyond a doubt, was crying, though he said he had a bad cold and that colds always made his eyes water. he started to sing maxwelton's braes in open court, but remembered himself in time, and sang mentally. mrs. bays had followed rita; and when the girl and dic emerged from the courthouse door, the high court of the chief justice seized its daughter and whisked her off without so much as giving her an opportunity to say a word of farewell. rita looked back to dic, but she was in the hands of the high court, which was a tribunal differing widely from the _nisi prius_ organization she had just left, and by no means to be trifled with. dic stopped for dinner at the inn with billy little, and told him that mrs. bays refused her consent. "did you expect anything else?" asked billy. "yes, i did," answered dic. "even rita will be valued more highly if you encounter difficulties in getting her," replied his friend. "i certainly value her highly enough as it is," said dic, "and mrs. bays's opposition surprises me a little. i know quite as well as she--better, perhaps--that i am not worthy of rita. no man is. but i am not lazy. i would be willing to die working for her. i am not very good; neither am i very bad. she will make me good, and i don't see that any one else around here has anything better to offer her. the truth is, rita deserves a rich man from the city, who can give her a fine house, servants, and carriages. it is a shame, billy little, to hide such beauty as rita's under a log-cabin's roof in the woods." "i quite agree with you," was billy's unexpected reply. "but i don't see any chance for her catching that sort of a man unless her father goes in business with fisher at indianapolis. even there the field is not broad. she might, if she lived at indianapolis, meet a stranger from cincinnati, st. louis, or the east, and might marry the house, carriages, and servants. i understand bays--perhaps i should say mrs. bays--contemplates making the move, and probably you had better withdraw your claim and give the girl a chance." dic looked doubtingly at his little friend and said, "i think i shall not withdraw." "i have not been expecting you would," answered billy. "but what are you going to do about the chief justice?" "i don't know. what would you do?" billy little paused before answering. "if you knew what mistakes i have made in such matters, you would not ask advice of me." dic waited, hoping that billy would amplify upon the subject of his mistakes, but he waited in vain. "nevertheless," he said, "i want your advice." "i have none to give," responded billy, "unless it is to suggest in a general way that in dealing with women boldness has always been considered the proper article. humility is sweet in a beautiful woman, but it makes a man appear sheepish. the first step toward success with all classes of persons is to gain their respect. humility in a man won't gain the respect of a hound pup. face the world bravely. egad! st. george's little affair with the fiery dragon grows pale when one thinks of the icy dragoness of duty and justice you must overthrow before you can rescue rita. but go at the old woman as if you had fought dragons all your life. tell her bluntly that you want rita; that you must and will have her, and that it is not in the power of duty and justice to keep her from you. be bold, and you will probably get the girl, together with her admiration and gratitude. i guess there is no doubt they like it--boldness. but lord bless your soul, dic, i don't know what they like. i think the best thing you can do is to go to new york with sampson, the horse-dealer. he sails out of here in a few days, and if you will go with him he will pay you five hundred dollars and will allow you to take a few horses on your own account. you will double your money if you take good horses." "do you really think he would pay me five hundred dollars?" asked dic. "yes, i believe he will. i'll see him about it." "i believe i'll go," said dic. "that is, i'll go if--" "if rita will let you, i suppose you are going to say," remarked billy. "we'll name the new firm of horse-buyers sampson and sampson; for if you are not mindful this gentle young delilah will shear you." "i promised her i would not go. i cannot break my word. if she will release me, i will go, and will thank you with all my heart. billy little, you have done so much for me that i must--i must--" "there you go. 'deed if i don't leave you if you keep it up. you have four or five good horses, and i'll loan you five hundred dollars with which you may buy a dozen or fifteen more. you may take twenty head of horses on your own account, and should make by the trip fifteen hundred or two thousand dollars, including your wages. why, dic, you will be rich. unless i am mistaken, wealth is greater even than boldness with icy dragonesses." "not with rita." "you don't need help of any sort with her," said billy. "poor girl, she is winged for all time. you may be bold or humble, rich or poor; it will be all one to her. but you want to get her without a fight. you don't know what a fight with a woman like the chief justice means. carnage and destruction to beat napoleon. i believe if you had two thousand dollars in gold, there would be no fight. good sinews of war are great peace-makers." "i know rita will release me if i insist," said dic. "i'm sure she will," responded his friend. "i will go," cried dic, heroically determined to break the tender shackles of rita's welding. "now you are a man again," said billy. "you may cause her to cry a bit, but she'll like you none the less for that. if tears caused women to hate men, there would be a sudden stoppage in population." billy sat contemplative for a moment with his finger tips together. "men are brutes"--another pause--"but they salt the earth while women sweeten it. personally, i would rather sweeten the earth than salt it; but a sweet man is like a pokeberry--sugarish, nauseating and unhealthful. my love for sweetness has made me a failure." "you are not a failure, billy little. you are certainly of the salt of the earth," insisted dic. "a man fails when he does not utilize his capabilities to their limit," said billy, philosophically. "he is a success when he accomplishes all he can. the measure of the individual is the measure of what should constitute his success. his capabilities may be small or great; if he but use them all, he is a success. a fishing worm may be a great success as a fishing worm, but a total failure as a mule. bless me, what a sermon i have preached about nothing. i fear i am growing garrulous," and billy looked into the fire and hummed maxwelton's braes. that evening dic went to call on rita and made no pretence of wishing to see tom. that worthy young man had served his purpose, and could never again be a factor in dic's life or courtship. mrs. bays received dic coldly; but mr. bays, in a half-timid manner, was very cordial. dic paid no heed to the coldness, and, after talking on the porch with the family for a few minutes, boldly asked rita to walk across the yard to the log by the river. rita gave her mother a frightened glance and hurried away with dic before justice could assert itself, and the happy pair sought the beloved sycamore divan by the river bank. "in the midst of all my happiness," began rita, "i'm very unhappy because i, in place of patsy clark, did not liberate you. i always intended to tell the truth. you must have known that i would." "i never even hoped that you would not. i knew that when the time should come you would not obey me," returned dic. "in all else, dic, in all else." there was the sweet, all-conquering humility of which billy had spoken. "in all else, rita? do you mean what you say?" "yes." "i will put you to the test at once. for your sake and my own i should go with sampson to new york, and i want you to release me from my promise. i would not ask you did i not feel that it is an opportunity such as i may never have again. it is now july; i shall be back by the middle of november, and then, rita, you will go home with me, won't you?" for answer the girl gently put her hand in his. "and you will release me from my promise?" she nodded her head, and after a short silence added: "i fear i have no will of my own. i borrow all from you. i cannot say 'no' when you wish 'yes'; i cannot say 'yes' when you wish 'no.' i fear you will despise me, i am so cheap; but i am as i am, and it is your fault that i have so many faults. you have made me what i am. will it not be wonderful, dic, if i, who clung to your finger in my babyhood, should be led by your hand from my cradle to--to my grave? i have never in all my life, dic, known any real help but yours--and some from billy little. so you see my dependence upon you is excusable, and you cannot think less of me because i am so weak." she looked up to him with a tearful smile in which the past and the future contributed each its touch of sadness. "rita, come to the house this instant!" called mrs. bays (to dic her voice sounded like a broken string in billy little's piano). dic and rita went to the house, and mrs. bays, pointing majestically to a chair, said to her daughter:-- "now, you sit there, and if you move, off to bed you go." the threat was all-sufficient. dic sat upon the edge of the porch thinking of st. george and the dragon, and tried to work his courage up to the point of attack. he talked ramblingly for a while to mr. bays; then, believing his courage in proper form, he turned to that gentleman's better nine-tenths and boldly began:-- "i want rita, mrs. bays. i know i am not worthy of her" (here the girl under discussion flashed a luminous glance of flat contradiction at the speaker), "and i know i am asking a great deal, but--but--" but the boldness had evaporated along with the remainder of what he had to say, for with dic's first words justice dropped her knitting to her lap, took off her glasses, and gazed at the unfortunate malefactor with an injured, fixed, and icy stare. dic retired in disorder; but he soon rallied his forces and again took up the battle. "i'm going to new york in a few days," he said. "i will not be home till november. i have rita's promise. i can, if i must, be satisfied with that; but i should like your consent before i go." brave words, those, to the dragoness of justice. but she did not even look at the presumptuous st. george. she was, as justice should be, blind. likewise she appeared to be deaf. "may i have your consent, mr. bays?" asked dic, after a long pause, turning to rita's father. "yes," he replied, "yes, dic, i will be glad--" justice at the moment recovered sight and hearing, and gazed stonily at its mate. the mate, after a brief pause, continued in a different tone:-- "that is, i don't care. you and mother fix it between you. i don't know anything about such matters." mr. bays leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and examined his feet as if he had just discovered them. after a close scrutiny he continued:-- "rita's the best girl that ever lived. i don't care where you look, there's not another like her in all the world. she has never caused me a moment of pain--" rita moved her chair to her father's side and took his hand--"she has brought me nothing but happiness, and i would--" he ceased speaking, and no one has ever known what mr. bays "would," for at that interesting point in his remarks his worthy spouse interrupted him-- "nothing brings you pain. you shirk it and throw it all on me. lord knows the girl has brought trouble enough to me. i have toiled and worked and suffered for her. i bear the burdens of this house, and if my daughter is better than other girls,--i don't say she is, and i don't say she isn't,--but if she is better than other girls, i say it is because i have done my duty by her." truth compels me to admit that she had done her duty toward the girl with a strenuous sincerity that often amounted to cruelty, but in the main she had done her best for rita. dic had unintentionally turned the tide of battle on mr. bays, and that worthy sufferer, long used to the anguish of defeat, and dead to the shame of cowardice, rose from his chair and beat a hasty retreat to his old-time sanctuary, the barn. dic did not retreat; single-handed and alone, he took lance in hand and renewed the attack with adroit thrusts of flattery and coaxing. after many bouts a compromise was reached and an armistice declared between the belligerent powers until dic should return from new york. this armistice was virtually a surrender of the bays forces, so that evening when dic started home rita accompanied him to the gate beneath the dark shadow of a drooping elm, and the gate's the place for "a' that and a' that." next morning bright and early dic went to town to see sampson, the horse-dealer. he found him sitting on the inn porch. "well, you're going to take the horses for me, after all?" asked that worthy descendant of one of the tribes. "billy little said you would give me five hundred dollars. that is a very large sum. you first offered me only one hundred." "yes," returned sampson; "i had a talk with little. horses are in great demand in new york, and i want an intelligent man who can hurry the drove through to harrisburg, where i'll meet them. if we get them to new york in advance of the other dealers, we should make a profit of one hundred dollars a head on every good horse. you will have two other men with you, but i will put you in charge. don't speak of the five hundred dollars you're to have; the others are to receive only fifty dollars each." the truth is, billy had contributed four hundred dollars of the sum dic was to receive, and four hundred dollars was one-tenth of all billy's worldly goods. dic completed his arrangements with sampson, which included the privilege of taking twenty horses on his own account, and then, as usual, went to see billy little. "well, billy little," said dic, joyfully, "i'm going. i've closed with sampson. he gives me five hundred dollars, and allows me to take twenty horses of my own. i ought to get fine young horses at twenty-five dollars a head." "sure," answered billy, "that would amount to--how many have you of your own?" "four," answered dic. "then you'll want to buy sixteen--four hundred dollars. here is the money," and he handed him a canvas shot-bag containing the gold. "now, billy little," said dic, "i want to give you my note for this money, bearing the highest rate of interest." "all right," responded our backwoods usurer, "i'll charge you twelve per cent. i do love a good interest. there is no antonio about me. i'll lend no money gratis and bring down the rate of usance. not i." the note signed, dic looked upon himself as an important factor in the commercial world, and felt his obligation less because of the high rate of interest he was paying. the young man at once began looking for horses, and within three days had purchased sixteen "beauties," as billy little called them, which, with his own, made up the number he was to take. his adventurous new york trip raised him greatly in the estimation of mrs. bays. it brought her to realize that he was a man, and it won, in a degree, her reluctant respect. the ride over the mountains through rain and mud and countless dangers was an adventure worthy to inspire respect. the return would be easier than the eastward journey. dic would return from new york to pittsburg by canal boat and stage. from pittsburg, if the river should be open, he would go to madison by the ohio boats. from madison he would come north to columbus on the mail stage, and at columbus he would be within twenty-five miles of home. as i have told you, mrs. bays grew to respect dic; and being willing to surrender, save for the shame of defeat, she honestly kept the terms of her armistice. thus rita and dic enjoyed the sycamore divan by the river's edge without interference. on the night before his departure he gave rita the ring, saying, "this time it is for keeps." "i hope so," returned the girl, with a touch of doubt in her hesitating words. he spoke buoyantly of his trip and of the great things that were sure to come out of it, and again rita softly hoped so; but intimated in a gentle, complaining tone of voice that something told her trouble would come from the expedition. she felt that she was being treated badly, though, being such a weak, selfish, unworthy person,--so she had been taught by her mother to believe,--she deserved nothing better. dic laughed at her fears, and told her she was the one altogether perfect human being. although by insistence he brought her to admit that he was right in both propositions, he failed to convince her in either, and she spoke little, save in eloquent sighs, during the remainder of the evening. after the eventful night of scott's social, rita's surrender of self had grown in its sweetness hour by hour; and although dic's love had also deepened, as his confidence grew apace he assumed an air of patronage toward the girl which she noticed, but which she considered quite the proper thing in all respects. there was no abatement of his affection this last evening together, but she was sorry to see him so joyful at leaving her. their situation was simply a repetition of the world-wide condition: the man with many motives and ambitions, the woman with one--love. after dic had, for the twentieth time, said he must be going, the girl whispered:-- "i fear you will carry away with you the memory of a dull evening, but i could not talk, i could not. oh, dic--" thereupon she began to weep, and dic, though pained, found a certain selfish joy in comforting her, compared to which the conversation of madame de staël herself would have been poor and commonplace. then came the gate, a sweet face wet with tears, and good-by and good-by and good-by. dic went home joyful. rita went to her room weeping. it pained him to leave her, but it grieved her far more deeply, and she began then to pay the penalty of her great crime in being a woman. do not from the foregoing remark conclude that dic was selfish in his lack of pain at parting from rita. he also lacked her fears. did the fear exist in her and not in him because her love was greater or because she was more timid? had her abject surrender made him over-confident? when a woman gives as rita did she should know her man, else she is in danger. if he happens to be a great, noble soul, she makes her heaven and his then and there. if he is a selfish brute, she will find another place of which we all stand in wholesome dread. a christmas hearth log chapter viii a christmas hearth log on the morning of dic's departure, billy little advised him to invest the proceeds of his expedition in goods at new york, and to ship them to madison. "you see," said billy, "you will make your profit going and coming, and you will have a nice lump of gold when you return. gold means rita, and rita means happiness and ploughing." "not ploughing, billy little," interrupted dic. "we'll see what we will see," replied billy. "here is a list of goods i advise you to buy, and the name of a man who will sell them to you at proper prices. you can trust him. he wouldn't cheat even a friend. good-by, dic. write to me. of course you will write to rita?" "indeed i shall," replied dic in a tone expressive of the fact that he was a fine, true fellow, and would perform that pleasant duty with satisfaction to himself and great happiness to the girl. you see, dic's great new york journey had caused him to feel his importance a bit. "i wish you would go up to see her very often," continued our confident young friend; "if i do say it myself, she will miss me greatly. when i return, she shall go home with me. mrs. bays has almost given her consent. you will go often, won't you, billy little? next to me, i believe she loves you best of all the world." billy watched dic ride eastward on the michigan road, and muttered to himself:-- "'next to me'; there is no next, you young fool." then he went in to his piano and caressed the keys till they yielded their ineffable sweetness in the half-sad tones of handel's "messiah"; afterward, to lift his spirits, they gave him a glittering sonata from mozart. but it is better to feel than to think. it is sweeter to weep than to laugh. so when he was tired of the classics, he played over and over again, in weird, minor, improvised variations, his love of loves, "annie laurie," and tears came to his eyes because he was both happy and sad. the keys seemed to whisper to him, so gently did he touch them, and their tones fell, not upon his ears, but upon his heart, with a soothing pathos like the sough of an old song or a sweet, forgotten odor of a day that is past. billy did his best to console rita, though it was a hopeless task and full of peril for him. there was but one topic of interest to her. rome and greece were dull. what cared she about the romans? dic was not a roman. conversation upon books wearied her, and subjects that a few months ago held her rapt attention, now threw her into revery. i am sorry to say she was a silly, love-lorn young woman, and not in the least entitled to the respect of strong-minded persons. i would not advise you, my dear young girl, to assume rita's faults; but if you should do so, many a good, though misguided man will mistake them for virtues and will fall at your feet. you will not deceive your sisters; but you won't care much for their opinion. * * * * * soon after dic's departure, jim fisher, mrs. bays's brother, renewed his offer to take mr. bays as a partner in the indianapolis store. the offer was a good one and was honestly made. fisher needed more capital, and to that extent his motive was selfish; but the business was prosperous, and he could easily have found a partner. one saturday evening he came up to talk over the matter with his brother-in-law. he took with him to blue no less a person than roger williams--not the original, redoubtable roger who discovered rhode island, but a descendant of his family. williams was a man of twenty-five. boston was his home, and he was the son of a father williams who manufactured ploughs, spades, wagons, and other agricultural implements. the young man was his father's western representative, and fisher sold his goods in the indianapolis district. he dressed well and was affable with his homespun friends. in truth, he was a gentleman. he made himself at home in the cabin; but he had brains enough to respect and not to patronize the good people who dwelt therein. of course it will be useless for me to pretend that this young fellow did not fall in love with rita. if i had been responsible for his going to blue, you would be justified in saying that i brought him there for the purpose of furnishing a rival to dic; but i had nothing to do with his going or loving, and take this opportunity to proclaim my innocence of all such responsibility. he came, he stayed till tuesday, and was conquered. he came again two weeks later, and again, and still again. he saw, but did he conquer? that is the great question this history is to answer. meantime dic was leading a drove of untamed horses all day long, and was sleeping sometimes at a wretched inn, sometimes in the pitiless storm, and sometimes he was chasing stampeded horses for forty-eight hours at a stretch without sleeping or eating. but when awake he thought of rita, and when he slept he dreamed of her, though in his dreams there was no handsome city man, possessed of a fine house, servants, and carriages, sitting by her side. had that fact been revealed to him in a dream, the horses might have stampeded to jericho for all he would have cared, and he would have stampeded home to look after more important interests. but to return to fisher's visits. after supper, saturday evening, the question of the new store came up. fisher said: "if you can raise three thousand dollars, tom, you may have a half-interest in the business. i have three thousand dollars now invested, and have credit for an additional three thousand with mr. williams. if we had six thousand dollars, we may have credit for six thousand more, twelve thousand in all, and we can easily turn our stock twice a year. tom, it's the chance of your life. don't you think it is, margarita?" "it looks that way, jim," said mrs. bays; "but we haven't the three thousand dollars, and we must think it over carefully and prayerfully." "can't you sell the farm or mortgage it?" suggested fisher. tom, jr., gazed intently into the tree-tops, and, in so doing, led the others to ask what he was seeking. there was nothing unusual to be seen among the trees, and mrs. bays inquired:-- "what on earth are you looking for, tom?" "i was looking to see if there was anybody roosting up there, waiting to buy this half-cleared old stump field." "tom's right," said his father. "i fear a purchaser will be hard to find, and i don't know any one who would loan me three thousand dollars. if we can find the money, we'll try it. what do you say, margarita?" mrs. bays was still inclined to be careful and prayerful. since rita had expressed to billy little her desire to remove to indianapolis (on the day she bought the writing paper, which, by the way, she had never paid for) so vast a change had taken place within herself that she had changed her way of seeing nearly everything outside. especially had she changed the point of view from which she saw the indianapolis project, and she was now quite content to grow up "a ragweed or a mullein stalk," if she could grow in dic's fields, and be cared for by his hand. i believe that when a woman loves a strong man and contemplates marriage with him, as she is apt to do, a comforting sense of his protecting care is no small part of her emotions. she may not consider the matter of her daily bread and raiment, but she feels that in the harbor of his love she will be safe from the manifold storms and harms that would otherwise beset her. owing to rita's great change the conversation on the porch was fraught with a terrible interest. while the others talked, she, as in duty bound,--girls were to be seen and not heard in those days,--remained silent. fortunately the fact that she was a girl did not preclude thinking. that she did plenteously, and all lines of thought led to the same question, "how will it affect dic?" she could come to no conclusion. many times she longed to speak, but dared not; so she shut her lips and her mind and determined to postpone discussing the question with herself till she should be in bed where she could think quietly. meanwhile williams seated himself beside her on the edge of the porch and rejoiced over this beautiful rose he had found in the wilderness. she being a simple country flower, he hoped to enjoy her fragrance for a time without much trouble in the plucking, and it looked as though his task would be an easy one. at first the girl was somewhat frightened at his grandeur; but his easy, chatty conversation soon dispelled her shyness, and she found him entertaining. he at first sight was charmed by her beauty. he quickly discovered that her nose, chin, lips, forehead, and complexion were faultless, and as for those wonderful eyes, he could hardly draw his own away from them, even for a moment. but after he had talked with her he was still more surprised to find her not only bright, but educated, in a rambling way, to a degree little expected in a frontier girl. williams was a harvard man, and when he discovered that the girl by his side could talk on subjects other than bucolic, and that she could furthermore listen to him intelligently, he branched into literature, art, travel, and kindred topics. she enjoyed hearing him talk, and delighted him now and then with an apt reply. so much did her voice charm him that he soon preferred it even to his own, and he found himself concluding that this was not a wild forest rose at all, but a beautiful domestic flower, worthy of care in the plucking. they had several little tilts in the best of humor that confirmed williams in the growing opinion that the girl's beauty and strength were not all physical. he talked much about boston and its culture, and spoke patronizingly of that unfortunate portion of the world's people who did not enjoy the advantage of living within the sacred walls. although rita knew that his boast was not all vain, and that his city deserved its reputation, she laughed softly and said in apparent seriousness:-- "it is almost an education even to meet a person from boston." williams looked up in surprise. he had not suspected that sarcasm could lurk behind those wonderful eyes, but he was undeceived by her remark, and answered laughingly:-- "that is true, miss bays." "boston has much to be proud of," continued the girl, surprised and somewhat frightened at the rate she was bowling along. she had never before talked so freely to any one but billy little and dic. "yes, all good comes out of boston. i've been told that if you hear her church bells toll, your soul is saved. there is a saving grace in their very tones. it came over in the _mayflower_, as you might transport yeast. if you walk through harvard, you will be wise; if you stand on bunker hill, treason flees your soul forever; and if you once gaze upon the common, you are safe from the heresy of the quaker and the sin of witchcraft." "i fear you are making a jest of boston, miss bays," replied williams, who shared the sensitiveness peculiar to his people. "no," she replied, "i jest only at your boasting. your city is all you claim for it; but great virtue needs no herald." williams remained silent for a moment, and then said, "have you ever been in boston?" "i? indeed, no," she answered laughingly. "i've never been any place but to church and once to a fourth of july picnic. i was once at a church social, but it brought me into great trouble and i shall never go to another." williams was amused and again remained, for a time, in silent meditation. she did not interrupt him, and at length he spoke stammeringly:-- "pardon me--where did you learn--how comes it--i am speaking abruptly, but one would suppose you had travelled and enjoyed many advantages that you certainly could not have here." "you greatly overestimate me, mr. williams. i have only a poor smattering of knowledge which i absorbed from two friends who are really educated men,--mr. little and dic--mr. bright!" "are they old--elderly men?" asked williams. "one is," responded rita. "which one?" he asked. "mr. little." "and the other--mr. bright--is he young?" asked the inquisitive bostonian. there was no need for rita to answer in words. the color in her cheeks and the radiance of her eyes told plainly enough that mr. bright _was_ young. but she replied with a poor assumption of indifference:-- "i think he is nearly five years older than i." there was another betrayal of an interesting fact. she measured his age by hers. "and that would make him--?" queried williams. "twenty-two--nearly." "are you but seventeen?" he asked. rita nodded her head and answered:-- "shamefully young, isn't it? i used to be sensitive about my extreme youth and am still a little so, but--but it can't be helped." williams laughed, and thought he had never met so charming a girl. "yes," he answered, "it is more or less a disgrace to be so young, but it is a fault easily overlooked." he paused for a moment while he inspected the heavens, and continued, still studying astronomy: "i mean it is not easily overlooked in some cases. sometimes it is 'a monster of such awful mien' that one wishes to jump clear over the enduring and the pitying, and longs to embrace." "we often see beautiful sunsets from this porch," answered rita, "and i believe one is forming now." there was not a society lady in boston who could have handled the situation more skilfully; and williams learned that if he would flatter this young girl of the wilderness, he must first serve his probation. she did not desire his flattery, and gave him to understand as much at the outset. she found him interesting and admired him. he was the first man of his type she had ever met. in the matter of education he was probably not far in advance of dic, and certainly was very far arrear of billy little. but he had a certain polish which comes only from city life. billy had that polish, but it was of the last generation, was very english, and had been somewhat dimmed by friction with the unpolished surfaces about him. dic's polish was that of a rare natural wood. as a result of these conditions, rita and williams walked up the river on the following afternoon--sunday. more by accident than design they halted at the step-off and rested upon the same rocky knoll where she and dic were sitting when doug hill hailed them from the opposite bank of the river. the scene was crowded with memories, and the girl's heart was soon filled with dic, while her thoughts were busy with the events of that terrible day. nothing that williams might say could interest her, and while he talked she listened but did not hear, for her mind was far away, and she longed to be alone. one would suppose that the memory of the day she shot doug hill would have been filled with horror for her, but it was not. this gentle girl, who would not willingly have killed a worm, and to whom the sight of suffering brought excruciating pain, had not experienced a pang of regret because of the part she had been called upon to play in the tragedy of the step-off. when doug was lying between life and death, she hoped he would recover; but no small part of her interest in the result was because of its effect upon dic and herself. billy little had once expressed surprise at this callousness, but she replied with a touch of warmth:-- "i did right, billy little. even mother admits that. i saved dic's life and my own honor. i would do it again. i am sorry i _had_ it to do, but i am glad, oh so glad, that i had strength to do it. god helped me, or i could never have fired the shot. you may laugh, billy little--i know your philosophy leads you to believe that god never does things of that sort--but i know better. you know a great deal more than i about everything else, but in this instance i am wiser than you. i know god gave me strength at the moment when i most needed it. that moment taught me a lesson that some persons never learn. it taught me that god will always give me strength at the last moment of my need, if i ask it of him, as i asked that day." "he gave it to you when you were born, rita," said billy. "no," she replied, "i am weak as a kitten, and always shall be, unless i get my strength from him." "well," said billy, meaning no irreverence, "if he would not give to you, he would not give to any one." "ah, billy little," said the girl, pleased by the compliment--you see her pleasure in a compliment depended on the maker of it--"you think every one admires me as much as you do." billy knew that was impossible, but for obvious reasons did not explain the true situation. other small matters served to neutralize the horror rita might otherwise have felt. the affair at the step-off had been freely talked about by her friends in her presence, and the thought of it had soon become familiar to her; but the best cure was her meeting with doug hill a fortnight after the trial. it occurred on the square in the town of blue river. she saw doug coming toward her, and was so shaken by emotions that she feared she could not stand, but she recovered herself when he said in his bluff manner:-- "rita, i don't want to have no more fights with you. you're too quick on trigger for doug. but i want to tell you i don't hold no grudge agin' you. you did jes' right. you orter a-killed me, but i'm mighty glad you didn't. that shot of your'n was the best sermon i ever had preached to me. i hain't tasted a drap of liquor since that day, and i never will. i'm goin' to start to illinoy to-morrow, and i'm goin' to get married and be a man. better marry me, rita, and go along." "i'm sure you will be a man, doug," responded rita. "i don't believe i want to get married, but--but will you shake hands with me?" "bet i will, rita. mighty glad to. you've the best pluck of any girl on yarth, with all you're so mild and kitten-like, and the purtiest girl, too--yes, by gee, the purtiest girl in all the world. everybody says so, rita." rita blushed, and began to move away from his honest flattery, so doug said:-- "well, good-by. tell dic good-by, and tell him i don't hold no grudge agin' him neither. hope he don't agin' me. he ortent to. he's got lots the best of it--he won the fight and got you. gee, i'd 'a' been glad to lose the fight if i could 'a' got you." thus it happened that these two, who had last met with death between them, parted as friends. doug started for illinois next day; and now he drops out of this history. i have spoken thus concerning rita's feeling about the shooting of doug hill to show you how easy it was for her, while sitting beside williams that placid sunday afternoon, to break in upon his interesting conversation with the irrelevant remark:-- "i once shot a man near this spot." for a moment or two one might have supposed she had just shot williams. he sprang to his feet as if he intended to run from her, but at once resumed his place, saying:-- "miss bays, your humor always surprises me. it takes me unawares. of course you are jesting." "indeed, i am not. i have told you the truth. you will hear it sooner or later if you remain on blue. it is the one great piece of neighborhood history since the indians left. it is nothing to boast of. i simply state it as a fact,--a lamentable fact, i suppose i should say. but i don't feel that way about it at all." "did you kill him?" asked the astonished bostonian. "no, i'm glad to say he lived; but that was not my fault. i tried to kill him. he now lives in illinois." williams looked at her doubtingly, and still feared she was hoaxing him. he could not bring himself to believe there dwelt within the breast of the gentle girl beside him a spirit that would give her strength to do such a deed under any conditions. never had he met a woman in whom the adorable feminine weaknesses were more pronounced. she was a coward. he had seen her run, screaming in genuine fright, from a ground squirrel. she was meek and unresisting, to the point of weakness. he had seen her endure unprovoked anger and undeserved rebuke from her mother, and intolerable slights from tom, that would surely have aroused retaliation had there been a spark of combativeness in her gentle heart. that she was tender and loving could be seen in every glance of her eyes, in every feature of her face, in every tone of her soft, musical voice. surely, thought williams, the girl could not kill a mouse. where, then, would she find strength to kill a man? but she told him, in meagre outline, her story, and he learned that a great, self-controlled, modest strength nestled side by side with ineffable gentleness in the heart of this young girl; and that was the moment of roger williams's undoing, and the beginning of rita's woe. prior to that moment he had believed himself her superior; but, much to his surprise, he found that roger occupied second place in his own esteem, while a simple country girl, who had never been anywhere but to church, a fourth of july picnic, and one church social, with his full consent quietly occupied first. this girl, he discovered, was a living example of what unassisted nature can do when she tries. all this change in williams had been wrought in an instant when he learned that the girl had shot a man. she was the only woman of his acquaintance who could boast that distinction. what was the mental or moral process that had led him to his conclusions? we all know there is a fascination about those who have lived through a moment of terrible ordeal and have been equal to its demands. but do we know by what process their force operates upon us? we are fascinated by a noted duellist who has killed his score of men. we are drawn by a certain charm that lurks in his iron nerve and gleams from his cold eyes. the toreador has his way with the spanish dons and señoritas alike. the high-rope dancer and the trapeze girl attract us by a subtle spell. is it an unlabelled force in nature? i can but ask the question. i do not pretend to answer. whatever the force may be, rita possessed it; and, linked with her gentleness and beauty, its charm was irresistible. here, at last, was the rich man from the city who could give rita the fine mansion, carriages, and servants she deserved. now that these great benefactions were at her feet, would dic be as generous as when he told billy little that rita was not for him, but for one who could give her these? would he unselfishly forego his claim to make her great, and perhaps happy? great love in a great heart has often done as much, permitting the world to know nothing of the sacrifice. i have known a case where even the supposed beneficiary was in ignorance of the real motive. perhaps billy little could have given us light upon a similar question, and perhaps the beneficiary did not benefit by the mistaken generosity, save in the poor matter of gold and worldly eminence; and perhaps it brought years of dull heartache to both beneficiary and benefactor, together with hours of longing and conscience-born shame upon two sinless hearts. after rita had told her story, roger's chatty style of conversation suddenly ceased. he made greater efforts to please than before, but the effort seemed to impair his power of pleasing. rita, longing to be alone, had resolved many times to return to the house, but before acting upon that resolve she heard a voice calling, "rita!" and a moment afterward a pair of bright blue eyes, a dimpled rosy face, and a plump little form constructed upon the partridge model came in sight and suddenly halted. "oh, excuse me," said our little wood-nymph friend, sukey yates. "i did not know i was intruding. your mother said you had come in this direction, and i followed." "you are not intruding," replied rita. "come and sit by me. mr. williams, miss yates." miss yates bowed and blushed, stammered a word or two, and sat by rita on the rocky bench. she was silent and shy for a moment, but williams easily loosened her tongue and she went off like a magpie. billy used to say that sukey was the modern incarnation of the ancient and immortal "chatterbox." after sukey's arrival, rita could be alone, and an hour passed before she returned to the house. that evening billy little took supper with mrs. bays, and rita, considering williams her father's guest, spent most of the evening on the sycamore log with the bachelor heart. "dic gave me the ring again," she said, holding out her hand for inspection. billy took the hand and held it while he said:-- "it's pretty there--pretty, pretty." "yes," she responded, looking at the back of her hand, "it's very pretty. it was good of you--but you need not be frightened; i'm not going to thank you. where do you suppose he is at this moment?" "i don't know," answered billy. "i suppose he's between pittsburg and new york." "i had a letter from him at pittsburg two weeks ago," said rita; "but i have heard nothing since. his work must be very hard. he has no time to think of me." "he probably finds a moment now and then for that purpose," laughed billy. "oh, i don't mean that he doesn't think of me! of course he does that all the time. i mean that he must have little time for writing." "you must feel very sure of him when you say he thinks of you all the time. how often have you thought of him since he left?" asked billy. "once," replied the girl, smiling and blushing. "do you mean all the time?" queried billy. she nodded her head. "yes, all the time. oh, billy little, you won't mind if i tell you about it, will you? i must speak--and there is no one else." "what is it you want to say, rita?" he asked softly. "i hardly know--perhaps it is the great change that has taken place within me since the night of scott's social and the afternoon i shot doug hill. i seem to be hundreds of years older. i must have been a child before that night." "you are a child now, rita." "oh, no," she replied, "trouble matures one." "but you are not in trouble?" "n-o--" she answered hesitatingly, "but--but this is what i want to say. tell me, billy little, do you think anything can come between dic and me? that is the thought that haunts me all the time and makes me unhappy." "do you feel sure of dic?" asked billy. "indeed, i do," she replied; "i am as sure of him as i am of myself." "how about that fellow in there?" asked billy, pointing toward the house with his thumb. "how? in what way?" inquired the girl. "don't you find him interesting?" asked billy. for reply she laughed softly. the question was not worth answering. the bachelor heart had felt a strong twinge of jealousy on williams's account, because it knew that with wealth, an attractive person, and full knowledge of the world, williams would, in the long run, prove a dangerous rival to any man who was not upon the field. the fact that rita dismissed him with a laugh did not entirely reassure the bachelor heart. it told only what was already known, that she loved dic with all the intensity of her nature. but billy also knew that many a girl with such a love in her heart for one man had married another. rita, he feared, could not stand against the domineering will of her mother; and, should williams ply his suit, billy felt sure he would have a stubborn, potent ally in the hard chief justice. there was, of course, an "if," but it might easily be turned into a terrible "is"--terrible for billy, dic, and rita. billy had grown used to the thought that rita would some day become dic's wife, and after the first spasm of pain the thought had brought joy; but any other man than dic was a different proposition, and billy's jealousy was easily and painfully aroused. he endured a species of vicarious suffering while dic was not present to suffer for himself. soon he began to long for dic's return that he might do his own suffering. billy's question concerning williams had crystallized rita's feeling that the "fellow in there" was "making up" to her, and when she returned to the house that evening, she had few words for roger. monday rita was unusually industrious during the day, but the evening seemed long. she was not uncivil to her father's guest, but she did not sit by him on the edge of the porch as she had done upon the first evening of his visit. he frequently came to her side, but she as frequently made an adroit excuse to leave him. she did not dislike him, but she had found him growing too attentive. this girl was honest from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, and longed to let williams understand that she was the property of another man to whom she would be true in the spirit and in the letter. tuesday morning the guests departed. mrs. bays urgently invited williams to return, and he, despite rita's silence, assured his hostess that he would accept her invitation. the indianapolis project had been agreed upon, provided bays could raise the money. if that could be done, the new firm would begin operations january first. that afternoon rita went to the step-off and looked the indianapolis situation in the face. it stared back at her without blinking, and she could evolve no plans to evade it. dic would return in november--centuries off--and she felt sure he would bring help. until then, indianapolis, with the figures of her mother and williams in the background, loomed ominously before her vision. williams's second visit was made ostensibly to rita's father. the third, two weeks later, was made openly to her father's daughter. it was preceded by an ominous letter to rita requesting the privilege of making the visit to her. rita wished to answer at once by telling him that she could not receive him, but rita's mother thought differently. "say to him," commanded mrs. bays, "that you will be pleased to see him. he is a fine young man with a true religious nature. i find that he has been brought up by a god-fearing mother. i would not have you receive him because he is rich, but that fact is nothing against him. i can't for the life of me understand what he sees in you, but if he--" she stopped speaking, and her abrupt silence was more emphatic than any words could have been. rita saw at once the drift of her mother's intentions and trembled. "but i would not be pleased to see him, mother," the girl responded pleadingly; "and if i write to him that i would, i should be telling a lie." "i tell a lie," cried the stern old woman in apparent anguish. "oh, my heart!" she sank to a chair, and gasping between her words, continued, "oh, that i should have lived to be told by my own child that i'm a liar!" her head fell backward, and one would have supposed dissolution near. mr. bays ran to fetch a cup of water, and rita stood in deep trouble by her mother's side fanning her. "a liar! a liar!" moaned the dying woman. "i did not say that, mother. i said--" "a liar! yes, i'm a liar. my own daughter that i have loved and cherished in my own bosom, and have toiled and suffered for all my life, says i'm a liar." "mother, i protest, dear mother, hear me," began rita, but mother interrupted her by closing her eyes and supposedly her ears as if she were on the point of passing over. the only signs of life in the old woman were her gasps for breath. the girl, who had no deceit in her heart, could not recognize it in others, least of all was she able to see it in her own mother, whose transcendent virtues had been dinned into her ears ever since she had possessed those useful organs. out of her confiding trustfulness came a deadly fear for her mother's life. she fell on her knees and cried: "forgive me, mother dear, forgive me. i was wrong. i'll write whatever you wish." this surrender, i know, was weak in our heroine; but her words restored her mother to life and health, and rita rejoiced that she had seen her duty and had performed it in time. justice was soon again in equilibrium, and rita, amid a flood of tears, wrote to williams, "i shall be pleased to see you," and he came. she did not treat him cordially, though she was not uncivil, and williams thought her reticence was due to modesty,--a mistake frequently made by self-sufficient men. the girl felt that she was bound by her letter, and that she could not in justice mistreat him. it was by her invitation he had come. he could not know that she had been forced to write the letter, and she could not blame him for acting upon it. she was relieved that he attempted no flattery, and felt that surely her lack of cordiality would prevent another visit. but she was mistaken. he was not a man easily rebuffed. a fortnight later mrs. bays announced to her daughter the receipt of a letter from mr. williams, stating that he would be on hand next saturday evening. "he is trying to induce his father to loan us the money," said mrs. bays, "and your father and i want you to be particularly kind to him. your father and i have suffered and worked and toiled for you all your life. now you can help us, and you shall do so." "mother, i can't receive him. i can't talk to him. it will be wicked. it would not be honest; i can't, i can't," sobbed poor rita. "i don't know much, but i know it is wrong for me to receive visits from mr. williams when there can be nothing between--between--" "why can't there be anything between you and williams, girl? why?" demanded mrs. bays. "there are many reasons, mother," returned the weeping girl, "even if it were not for dic--" "dic!" screamed the old woman, and an attack of heart trouble at once ensued, when rita was again called upon to save her mother's life. thus williams came the third time to visit rita, and showed his ignorance of womankind by proposing marriage to a girl who was unwilling to listen. he was promptly but politely rejected, and won the girl's contempt by asking for her friendship if he could not have her love. the friendship, of course, was readily granted. she was eager to give that much to all the world. "i hope you will not speak of this, even to your father or mother," said williams. "let it be hereafter as if i had never spoken. i regret that i did speak." rita gladly consented to comply with his request, since she was certain heart trouble would ensue, with probably fatal results, should her mother learn that she had refused the young man with the true religious nature. williams adroitly regained his ground by exciting rita's ever ready sympathy, and hoped to remain in the battle upon the plane of friendship until another and more favorable opportunity should arise for a successful attack. his was a tenacious nature that held to a purpose by hook or by crook till victory crowned his efforts or defeat was absolute. williams continued to visit rita, and dic did not return till christmas. during the last month of waiting the girl's patient longing was piteous to behold. to see her brought grief to billy's heart, but it angered the chief justice. dic had written that he would be home by the middle of november, and rita had counted the days, even the hours, up to that time; but when he did not arrive as expected, she had not even the poor comfort of computing time, for she did not know when to expect him. each day of longing and fear ended in disappointment and tears, until at last, on the day before christmas, she heard from the lips of sukey yates that dic was at home. there was a touch of disappointment in receiving the news from sukey, but the news was so welcome that she was glad to have it from any one. sukey had ridden over to see rita. "why, haven't you seen him yet?" cried the dimpler, in surprise. "i supposed, of course, he would come here first--before seeing me. why, i'm quite proud." "no," returned rita; "i have not seen him." "he'll come this evening, i'm sure," said sukey, patronizingly. "i have company to-night. he's looking well, though he was sick for three or four weeks at an inn near wheeling. his illness caused the delay in getting home. i just thought he never would come, didn't you?" rita was too happy to be disturbed by insinuations of any kind, and although she would have liked to be the first person to see dic, she paid no heed to sukey's suggestive remarks. "he's as handsome as ever," continued sukey, "and has a mustache. but you will see him for yourself this evening. good-by. i must be going. now come over real soon." "i will," answered rita, and sukey left her musing happily upon the hearth log. mr. bays had been in indianapolis for several days. he had not raised the three thousand dollars, williams, sr., being at that time short of money. mrs. bays and tom had that evening driven to town to meet the nominal head of the house. it was two o'clock when sukey left rita gazing into the fire and computing the minutes till evening, when she knew dic would be with her. he might possibly come over for supper. the weather was cold, and snow had been falling since noon. the sycamore log was under the snow, and she did not hope to have dic to herself; but to have him at all would be joy sufficient, and she would dream of him until he should come. while dreaming, she turned her face toward the window to watch the falling snow. she did not see the snow, but instead saw a man. she did not scream with delight, as i suppose she should have done; she simply rose to her feet and waited in the fireplace till the door opened and dic walked in. she did not go to him, but stood motionless till he came to her. "are you not glad to see me, rita?" he asked. he could not see her eyes in the dark room, or he would have had no need to ask. "are you not glad?" he repeated. she did not answer, but taking his face between her hands drew it down to hers with infinite tenderness and passion. then, with her arms about his neck, she spoke the one word, "glad?" and dic knew. after she had uttered the big word of one syllable, she buried her face on his breast and began to weep. "don't cry, rita," pleaded dic, "don't cry. i can't bear it." "ah, but let me cry for one little moment," she begged. "it is better than laughing, and it helps me so much." there was, of course, but one answer, and dic, turning up her tear-stained face, replied eloquently. after a chaotic period of several minutes they took their childhood's place upon the hearth log within the warm, bright fireplace. dic stirred the fire, and the girl, nestling beside him, said:-- "now tell me everything." "where shall i begin?" asked dic; and after a pause in which to find a starting-point, he said:-- "i have brought you a little present. i wanted to keep it till to-morrow--christmas--but i find i cannot." he produced a small gold watch with the word "rita" engraved upon the lid. rita was delighted; but after a moment or two of admiration she repeated her request. dic rapidly ran over the events of his trip. he had brought home twenty-six hundred dollars, and the gold was at that moment in billy little's iron-box. of the wonders he had seen he would tell her at leisure. he had received her three letters, and had them in his pocket in a small leather case purchased expressly to hold them. they had never left his person. he had been ill at an inn near wheeling, and was "out of his head" for three weeks; hence his failure to write during that time. "yes, sukey told me you had been ill. i was sorry to learn it. especially--especially from her," said the girl, with eyes bent demurely upon the hearth. "why from her?" asked dic. "well, from any one," she replied. "i hoped you would come to see me first. you see, i am a very exacting, jealous, disagreeable person, dic, and i wanted you to see me and tell me everything before you should go to see any one else." "indeed, i would," he returned. "i have come here first." "did you not go around by sukey's and see her on your way home?" rita asked. "i did not," replied dic. "she was in town and rode with mother and me as far as the yates cross-path. she heard me telling mother i had been ill." dic did not tell rita that sukey had whispered to him in billy little's store that she, sukey, had been going to town every day during the last fortnight in the hope that she might be the first one to see him, and that she was so wild with joy at his return that she could easily find it in her heart to kiss him right then and there in full view of a large and appreciative audience; and that if he would come over christmas night when the folks were going to marion, she would remain at home and--and would he come? dic did not mention these small matters, and, in fact, had forgotten what sukey had said, not caring a baw-bee how often she had gone to meet him or any one else, and having no intention to accept her hospitality christmas night. sukey's words had, for a moment, tickled his vanity,--an easy task for a pretty woman with any man,--but they had gone no deeper than his vanity, which, in dic's case, was not very deep. dic lends money gratis chapter ix dic lends money gratis such an hour as our young friends spent upon the ciphering log would amply compensate for the trouble of living a very long life. "everything," as rita had asked, was told volubly, until dic, perhaps by accident, clasped rita's hand. his failure to do so earlier in the afternoon had been an oversight; but after the oversight had been corrected, comparative silence and watching the fire from the ciphering log proved a sufficiently pleasant pastime, and amply good enough for them. good enough! i hope they have fireplaces and ciphering logs, soft, magnetic hands, and eloquent silence in paradise, else the place will surely be a failure. snow was falling furiously, and dark winter clouds obscured the sinking sun, bringing night before its time; and so it happened that rita did not see her mother pass the window. the room was dark, save in the fireplace where rita and dic were sitting, illumined by the glow of hickory embers, and occasionally by a flickering flame that spluttered from the half-burned back-log. unexpected and undesired, mrs. bays, followed closely by our friend williams, entered through the front door. dic sprang to his feet, but he was too slow by several seconds, and the newcomers had ample opportunity to observe his strict attention to the business in hand. mrs. bays bowed stiffly to dic, and walked to the bed, where she deposited her wraps. williams approached rita, who was still seated in the fireplace. she rose and accepted his proffered hand, forgetting in her confusion to introduce dic. roger's self-composure came to his relief. "this must be mr. bright," said he, holding out his hand to dic. "i have heard a great deal of you from miss bays during the last four months. we heard in town that you had returned. since rita will not introduce me, i will perform that duty for myself. i am mr. williams." "how do you do," said dic, as he took roger's hand. "i am delighted to meet you," said williams, which, as we know, was a polite fiction. dic had no especial occasion to dispute williams's statement, but for some undefined reason he doubted its truth. he did not, however, doubt his own feelings, but knew that he was not glad to meet williams. the words, "i have heard a great deal of you from miss bays during the last four months," had so startled him that he could think of nothing else. after the narrative of his own adventures, he had, in imitation of rita, asked _her_ to tell _him_ "everything"; but the name of williams, her four-months' friend, had not been mentioned. dic could not know that the girl had forgotten williams's very existence in the moment of her joy. her forgetfulness was the best evidence that williams was nothing to her; but, i confess, her failure to speak of him had an ugly appearance. williams turned to rita, and, with a feeling of satisfaction because dic was present, handed her a small package, saying:-- "i have brought you a little christmas gift." rita hesitatingly accepted the package with a whispered "thank you," and mrs. bays stepped to her side, exclaiming:-- "ah, how kind of you, mr. williams." rita, mrs. bays, and williams were facing the fire, and dic stood back in the shadow of the room. a deep, black shadow it was to dic. mrs. bays, taking the package from rita's hand, opened it; and there, nestling in a bed of blue velvet, was a tiny watch, rich with jewels, and far more beautiful than the one dic had brought from new york. encircling the watch were many folds of a massive gold chain. mrs. bays held the watch up to the light of the firelight, and dic, with an aching sensation in the region of his heart, saw its richness at a glance. he knew at once that the giver must be a man of wealth; and when mrs. bays delightedly threw the gold chain over rita's head, and placed the watch in her unresisting hand, he remarked that he must be going. poor, terrified rita did not hear dic's words. receiving no reply, he took his hat from the floor where he had dropped it on entering the room several centuries before, opened the door, and walked out. all that i have narrated as taking place after williams entered upon the scene occurred within the space of two or three minutes, and rita first learned that dic was going when she heard the door close. "dic!" she cried, and started to follow him, but her mother caught her wrist and said sternly:-- "stay here, rita. don't go to the door." "but, mother--" "stay here, i command you," and rita did not go to the door. dic met mr. bays at the gate, paused for a word of greeting, and plunged into the snow-covered forest, while the words "during the last four months" rang in his ears with a din that was almost maddening. "she might have told me," he muttered, speaking as if to the storm. "while i have been thinking of her every moment, she has been listening to him. but her letters were full of love. she surely loved me when i met her two hours ago. no woman could feign love so perfectly. she must love me. i can't believe otherwise. i will see her again to-night and she will explain all, i am sure. there is no deceit in her." his returning confidence eased, though it did not cure, his pain. it substituted another after a little time--suspense. it was not in his nature to brook suspense, and he determined again and again to see rita that evening. but his suspense was ended without seeing rita. when he reached home he found sukey, blushing and dimpling, before the fire, talking to his mother. "been over to see rita?" she asked, parting her moist, red lips in a smile, showing a gleam of her little, white teeth, and dimpling exquisitely. "yes," answered dic, laconically. "thought maybe you would stay for supper," she continued. "no," replied dic. "perhaps the other fellow was there," remarked sukey, shrugging her plump shoulders and laughing softly. dic did not reply, but drew a chair to the hearth. "guess they're to be married soon," volunteered sukey. "he has been coming saturdays and staying over sunday ever since you left. guess he waited for you to get out of the way. i think he's so handsome. met him one sunday afternoon at the step-off. i went over to see rita, and her mother said she had gone to take a walk with mr. williams in that direction after dinner. i knew they would be at the step-off; it's such a lonely place. he lives in boston, and they say he's enormously rich." during the long pause that followed dic found himself entirely relieved of suspense. there was certainty to his heart's content. he did not show his pain; and much to her joy sukey concluded that dic did not care anything about the relations between williams and rita. "rita showed me the ring he gave her," continued sukey. dic winced, but controlled himself. it was his ring that sukey had seen on rita's finger, but dic did not know that. "some folks envy her," observed the dimpler, staring in revery at the fire. "she'll have a fine house, servants, and carriages"--dic remembered having used those fatal words himself--"and will live in boston; but for myself--well, i never intend to marry, but if i do i'll take one of the boys around here, or i'll die single. the boys here are plenty good enough for me." the big, blue eyes, covered by downcast lashes, were carefully examining a pair of plump, little, brown hands resting in her lap, but after a pause she flashed a hurried glance upon dic, which he did not see. when a woman cruelly wounds a man as rita had wounded dic, the first remedy that suggests itself to the normal masculine mind is another woman, and the remedy is usually effective. there may not be as good fish in the sea as the one he wants, but good fish there are, in great numbers. balm of gilead doubtless has curative qualities; but for a sore, jealous, aching, masculine heart i would every time recommend the fish of the sea. sukey, upon mrs. bright's invitation, remained for supper, and dic, of course, was compelled to take her home. upon arrival at the yates mansion, sukey invited dic to enter. dic declined. she drew off her mittens and took his hand. "why," she said, "your hands are like ice; you must come in and warm them. please do," so dic hitched his horse under a straw-covered shed and went in with the remedy. one might have travelled far and wide before finding a more pleasant remedy than sukey; but dic's ailments were beyond cure, and sukey's smiles might as well have been wasted upon her brother snowman in the adjacent field. soon after dic's arrival, all the family, save sukey, adjourned to the kitchen, leaving the girl and her "company" to themselves, after the dangerous manner of the times. if any member of the family should remain in the room where the young lady of the house was entertaining a friend, the visitor would consider himself _persona non grata_, and would come never again. of course the bays family had never retired before dic; but he had always visited tom, not rita. the most unendurable part of williams's visits to rita was the fact that they were made to her, and that she was compelled to sit alone with him through the long evenings, talking as best she could to one man and longing for another. when that state of affairs exists, and the woman happens to be a wife, the time soon comes when she sighs for the pleasures of purgatory; yet we all know some poor woman who meets the wrong man every day and gives him herself and her life because god, in his inscrutable wisdom, has permitted a terrible mistake. to this bondage would rita's mother sell her. dic did not remain long with the tempting little remedy. while his hand was on the latch she detained him with many questions, and danced about him in pretty impatience. "why do you go?" she asked poutingly. "you said bob kaster was coming," replied dic. "oh, well, you stay and i'll send him about his business quickly enough," she returned. "would you, sukey?" asked dic, laughing. "indeed, i will," she responded, "or any one else, if you will stay." she took his hand again, and, leaning against him, smiled pleadingly into his face. her smiles were as sweet and enticing as she or any other girl could make. there were no redder lips, no whiter teeth, nor prettier dimples than sukey's on all blue river or any other river, and there could be no prettier, more tempting picture than this pouting little nymph who was pleading with our joseph not to run away. but dic, not caring to remain, hurriedly closed the door and went out into the comforting storm. after he had gone sukey went to the ciphering log and sat gazing meditatively into the fire. vexation and disappointment alternately held possession of her soul; but dic was more attractive to her because he was unattainable, and she imagined herself greatly injured and deeply in love. she may have imagined the truth; but sukey, though small in herself, had a large, comprehensive heart wherein several admirers might be accommodated without overtaxing its capacity, and soon she was comforting herself with bob kaster. there was little rest for dic that night. had he been able to penetrate darkness and log walls, and could he have seen rita sobbing with her face buried in her pillow, he might have slept soundly. but darkness and log walls are not to be penetrated by ordinary eyes. riding home from sukey's, dic thought he had learned to hate rita. he swore mighty oaths that he would never look upon her face again. but when he had rested a little time in bed he recalled her fair face, her gentleness, her honesty, and her thousand perfections. he remembered the small hand he had held so tenderly a few hours since. its magnetic touch, soft as the hand of a duchess, still tingled through his nerves. with these memories came an anguish that beat down his pride, and, like rita, he clasped his hands over his head, turned his face to his pillow, and alas! that i should say it of a strong man, wept bitter, scalding tears. do the real griefs of life come with age? if dic should live till his years outnumbered those of methuselah, no pain could ever come to him worthy of mention compared to this. it awakened him to the quality and quantity of his love. it seemed that he had loved her ever since she lisped his name and clung to his finger in tottering babyhood. he looked back over the years and failed to see one moment in all the myriads of moments when he did not believe himself first in her heart as she had always been first in his; and now, after he had waited patiently, and after she, out of her own full heart, had confessed her woman's love, after she had given him herself in abject, sweet surrender, and had taken him for her own, the thought of her perfidy was torture to him. then came again like a soothing balm the young memory of their last meeting. he recalled and weighed every word, act, and look. surely, he thought, no woman could feign the love she had shown for him. she had not even tried to show her love. it had been irrepressible. why should she wish to feign a love she did not feel? there was nothing she could gain by deceit. but upon the heels of this slight hope came that incontestable fact,--williams. dic could see her sitting with the stranger as she had sat with himself at the step-off. williams had been coming for four months. she might be in his arms at that moment--the hour was still early--before the old familiar fireplace, while the family were in the kitchen. he could not endure the picture he had conjured, so he rose from his bed, dressed, stole softly from the house, and walked through the winter storm down the river to bays's. feeling like a thief, he crept to the window. the night being cold, the fire had not been banked, but threw its glow out into the room; and dic's heart leaped for joy when he saw the room was empty. at that same moment rita was in her own room, not twenty feet away from him, sobbing on her pillow and wishing she were dead. dic's discovery of the empty room had no real significance, but it seemed a good omen, and he went home and slept. rita did not sleep. she knew the first step had been taken to separate her from dic. she feared the separation was really effected. she had offended this manly, patient lover so frequently that surely, she thought, he would not forgive her this last and greatest insult. she upbraided herself for having, through stupidity and cowardice, allowed him to leave her. he had belonged to her for years; and the sweet thought that she belonged to him, and that it was her god-given privilege to give herself to him and to no other, pressed upon her heart, and she cried out in the darkness: "i will not give him up! i will not! if he will forgive me, i will fall upon my knees and beg him to try me once again." christmas was a long, wretched day for dic. what it was to rita you may easily surmise. early after supper dic walked over to see sukey, and his coming filled that young lady's ardent little soul with delight. his reasons for going would be hard to define. perhaps his chief motive was the hope of running away from himself, and the possibility of hearing another budget of unwelcome news concerning rita and williams. he dreaded to hear it; but he longed to know all there was to be known, and he felt sure sukey had exhaustive knowledge on the subject, and would be ready to impart it upon invitation. he had been sitting with sukey half an hour when tom bays walked in. thomas, of course, could not remain when he found the field occupied; and much to dic's regret and sukey's delight he took his departure, after a visit of ten minutes. dic urged him to remain, saying that he was going soon, and sukey added, "yes, won't you stay?" but she was far from enthusiastic, and thomas went home with disappointment in his heart and profanity on his lips. when tom entered the room where rita was doing her best to entertain williams, she said, "i thought you were going to see sukey?" "dic's there," answered tom, and rita's white face grew whiter. tom started toward the back door on his way to the kitchen, where his father and mother were sitting, and rita said, pleadingly:-- "don't go, tom; stay here with us. please do." she forgot williams and continued: "please, brother. i don't ask much of you. this is a little thing to do for me. please stay here," but brother laughed and went to the kitchen without so much as answering her. when the door closed on tom, rita stood for a moment in front of the fireplace, and, covering her face with her hands, began to weep. williams approached her, overflowing with consolation, and placed his hand caressingly upon her arm. she sprang from him as if she had been stung, and cried out:-- "don't put your hand on me! don't touch me!" she stepped backward toward the door leading upstairs to her room. "why, rita," said williams, "i did not intend anything wrong. i would not offend you for all the world. you are nervous, rita, and--and--" "don't call me rita," she interrupted, sobbing. "i hate--i hate--" she was going to say "i hate you," but said,--"the name." he still approached her, though she had been retreating backward step by step. he had no thought of touching her; but as he came toward her, she lost self-control and almost screamed:-- "don't touch me, i say! don't touch me!" she had endured his presence till she could bear it no longer, and the thought of dic sitting with sukey had so wrought upon her that her self-control was exhausted. williams walked back to the fireplace, and rita, opening the stair door, hurriedly went to her room. [illustration: "covering her face with her hands, she began to weep."] she was not one in whom the baser sort of jealousy could exist; but the thought of dic, her dic, sitting with sukey, while she was compelled to endure the presence of the man she had learned almost to hate, burned her. her jealousy did not take the form of hatred toward sukey, and the pain it brought her was chiefly because it confirmed her in the belief that she had lost dic. she did not doubt that dic had loved her, and her faith in that fact quickened her sense of loss. she blamed no one but herself for the fact that he no longer loved her, and was seeking another. still, she was jealous, though even that unholy passion could not be base in her. sukey smiled and dimpled at dic for an hour or two with no appreciable effect. he sat watching the fire, seeing none of her little love signals, and went home quite as wretched as he had come. evidently, sukey was the wrong remedy, though upon seeing her charms one would have felt almost justified in warranting her,--no cure, no pay. perhaps she was a too-willing remedy: an overdose of even the right drug may neutralize itself. as for myself, i love dic better because his ailment responded to no remedy. next day, tom, without at all deserving it, won rita's gratitude by taking williams out shooting. after supper rita said, "my head aches, and if i may be excused, i will go to my room." but her mother vetoed the proposition:-- "your head does not ache, and you will stay downstairs. your father and i are going to church, and mr. williams will not want to be alone, will you, mr. williams?" "indeed, i hope miss bays will keep me company," answered this persistent, not-to-be-shaken-off suitor. so rita remained downstairs with williams and listened to his apologies for having offended her the night before. she felt contrite, and in turn told him she was the one who should apologize, and said she hoped he would forgive her. her gentle heart could not bear to inflict pain even upon this man who had brought so much suffering to her. the next morning took williams away, and rita's thoughts were all devoted to formulating a plan whereby she might see dic and beg his forgiveness after a fashion that would have been a revelation to williams. several days of furious storm ensued, during which our rita, for the first time in her life, was too ill to go abroad. mr. bays had gone to indianapolis with williams, and returned on thursday's coach, having failed to raise the three thousand dollars. at the supper table, on the evening of his return, tom offered a suggestion. "i'll tell you where you can get most of the money," he said. "dic has twenty-six hundred dollars in billy little's box. he'll loan it to you." "that's just the thing," cried mrs. bays, joyfully. "tom, you are the smartest boy on blue. it took you to help us out." one would have thought from her praise that tom, and not dic, was to furnish the money. addressing her husband, she continued:-- "you go over and see him this evening. if he won't loan it to us after all we have done for him, he ought to be horsewhipped." "what have we ever done for him?" asked tom. the chief justice sought for an answer. failing to find a better one, she replied:-- "he's had five hundred meals in this house if he's had one." "and he's given us five hundred deer and turkeys if he's given us one," answered tom. "well, you know, tom, just as well as i do, that we have always been helping him. it is only your generous nature keeps you from saying so," responded mrs. bays. tom laughed, and tom, sr., said:-- "i'll go over and see him this evening. i wonder where he has been? i haven't seen him but once since he came home." "guess williams scared him off," suggested tom. rita tried in vain to think of some plan whereby she might warn dic against loaning the money, or prevent her father from asking it. after supper tom went to town while his father went up to see dic. when the after-supper work was finished, mrs. bays took her knitting and sat before the fire in the front room. rita, wishing to be alone, remained in the kitchen, watching the fire die down and cuddling her grief. she had been there but a few minutes when the outer door opened and in walked dic. "i have come to ask you if you have forgotten me?" he said. the girl answered with a cry of joy, and ran to him. "ah, dic, i have forgotten all else. forgive me. forgive me," she replied, and as the tears came, he drew her to his side. "but, rita--this man williams?" he asked. "i ... i know, dic," she said between sobs, "i ... i know, but i can't ... can't tell you now. wait till i can speak. but i love you. i ... can tell you that much. i will try to ... to explain when ... i can talk." "you need explain nothing," said dic, soothingly. "i want only to know that you have not forgotten me. i have suffered terribly these last few days." "i'm so glad," responded the sobbing girl, unconscious of her apparent selfishness. the kitchen fireplace was too small for a hearth log, so dic and rita took chairs before the fire, and the girl, regardless of falling tears, began her explanation. "you see, it was this way, dic," she sobbed. "he came with uncle jim, and then he came again and again. i did not want him--i am sure you know that i did not--but mother insisted, and i thought you would make it all right when you returned. you know mother has heart trouble, and any excitement may kill her. she is so--so--her will is so strong, and i fear her and love her so much. she is my mother, and it is my duty to obey her when--when i can. the time may come when i cannot obey her. it has come, several times, and when i disobey her i suffer terribly and always think how i would feel if she were to die." dic longed to enlighten her concerning the mother heart, but could not find it in his heart to attack even his arch-enemy through rita's simple, unquestioning faith. that faith was a part of the girl's transcendent perfection, and a good daughter would surely make a good wife. rita continued her explanation: "he came many times to see me, and it seems as though he grew to liking me. then he asked me to marry him, but i refused, dic; i refused. i should have told him then that i had promised to be your wife--" here she gave dic her hand--"but i was ashamed and--and, oh, i can't explain after all. i can't tell you how it all happened. i thought i could; but i really do not myself understand how it has all come about." "you have not promised him?" asked dic in alarm. "indeed, i have not, and i never shall. he has tried, with mother's help, to force himself upon me, and i have been frightened almost to death for fear he would succeed. oh, take me now, dic. take me at once and save me from him." "i would, rita, but you are not yet eighteen, and we must have the consent of your parents before we can marry. that, you know, your mother would refuse. when you are eighteen--but that will be almost a year from now--i will take you home with me. do not fear. give me your love, and trust to me for the rest." "now i feel safe," she cried, snatching up dic's hand. "you are stronger than mother. i saw that the evening before you left, when we were all on the porch and you spoke up so bravely to her. you will meet her face to face and beat down her will. i can't do it. i become helpless when she attacks me. i am miserably weak. i sometimes hate myself and fear i should not marry you. i know i shall not be able to make you a good wife." dic expressed an entire willingness to take the risk. "but why did you accept a ring from him?" "i did not," responded rita, with wide-open eyes. "he offered me a diamond when he asked me to--to--but i refused it. i gave him back his watch, too; but mother does not know i did. she would be angry. she thinks the watch you gave me is the one he offered." "sukey yates said you showed her his ring." "dic," returned rita, firing up indignantly, "did sukey tell you that--that lie? i don't like to use the word, but, dic, she lied. she once saw your ring upon my finger, before i could hide it from her, but i did not tell her who had given it to me. i told her nothing. i don't believe she intended to tell a story. i am sorry i used the other word. she probably thought that mr.--mr.--that man had given it to me." after she had spoken, a shadowy little cloud came upon her face. "you were over to see sukey christmas night," she said, looking very straight into the fire. "yes," returned dic. "how did you learn that i was there?" "tom told me," she answered. "and i cried right out before mr.--mr.--the boston man." "ah, did you?" asked dic, leaning forward and taking her hand. "yes; and when he put his hand on my arm," she continued, very proud of the spirit she had shown, "i just flew at him savagely. oh, i can be fierce when i wish. he will never touch me again, you may depend on it." she then gave the details of the scene with williams, dwelling proudly upon the fact of her successful retreat to bed, and meekly telling of what she called her jealousy and wickedness. she had asked forgiveness of god, and now she would ask it of dic, evidently believing that if god and dic would forgive her wicked jealousy, no one else had any right to complain. she was justly proud of the manner in which she had accomplished the retreat movement, and really felt that she was becoming dare-devilish to a degree seldom, if ever, equalled by an undutiful daughter. "you don't know how wicked i can be," she said, in great earnestness. "i know how good and beautiful you are," answered dic. "i know you are the one perfect human being in all the world--and it is useless for me to try to tell you how much you are to me. when i am alone, i am better able to realize what i feel, but i cannot speak it." "oh, dic, is it really true?" asked the girl. "neither can i tell how--how--" but those emotions which cannot be spoken in words, owing to the poverty of our language, must be expressed otherwise. god or satan taught the proper method to adam and eve, and it has come down to us by patristic succession, so that we have it to-day in all its pristine glory and expressiveness. some have spoken against the time-honored custom, and claim to mark its decadence. connecticut forbade it by law on sundays, and frowned upon it "fridays, saturdays, and all"; but when it dies, the lord will whitewash this old earth and let it out as a moon to shine upon happier worlds where the custom still lives. rita and dic did not disturb mrs. bays, and she, unconscious of his presence, did not disturb them until mr. bays returned. when mrs. bays learned that dic had been in the kitchen an hour, she felt that the highest attribute of the human mind had been grossly outraged. but her husband was about to ask a favor of dic, and she limited her expression of dissent to an exhibition of frigid, virtuous dignity, worthy of the king's bench, or judge anselm fisher himself. when bays came home, dic and rita went into the front room and took their old places on the ciphering log. mr. and mrs. bays sat on the hearth before the fire. mrs. bays brought a chair and indicated by a gesture that rita should occupy it; but with dic by her side that young lady was brave and did not observe her mother's mute commands. amid the press of other matters in the kitchen, rita had not remembered to warn dic not to lend her father the money. when that fluttering heart of hers was in great trouble or joy, it was apt to be a forgetful little organ, and regret in this instance followed forgetfulness. the regret came after she was seated with dic on the hearth log, and, being in her mother's presence, dared not speak. mr. bays was genuinely glad to see dic, and listened with delight to the narrative of his trip. when an opportunity arose, tom, sr., said:-- "i have a fine opportunity to go into business with jim fisher. i want to borrow three thousand dollars, and i wonder if you will be willing to lend me your money?" "yes," answered dic, eagerly, "i am glad to lend it to you." he welcomed the proposition as a blind man would welcome light. he was glad to help his lifelong friend; but over and above that motive mr. bays's request for money seemed to mean rita. it certainly could mean nothing else; and if the family moved to indianapolis, it would mean rita in the cosey log-cabin up the river at once. dic and his mother lived together, and, even without rita, the log house was a delightful home, warm in winter and cool in summer; but the beautiful girl would transmute the log walls to jasper, the hewed floors to beaten gold, and would create a paradise on the banks of blue. the thought almost made him dizzy. he had never before felt so near to possessing her. "indeed i will," he repeated. "i will pay you the highest rate of interest," said mr. bays. "i want no interest, and you may repay the loan in one or ten years, as you choose." rita, unable to repress her desire to speak, exclaimed: "oh, dic, please don't," but mrs. bays gazed sternly over her glasses at her daughter and suppressed the presumptuous, forward girl. the old lady, seeing dic's eagerness to lend the money, seized the opportunity to lessen her obligation in the transaction and to make it appear that she was conferring a favor upon dic. if she and mr. bays would condescend to borrow his money, she determined that dic should fully appreciate the honor they were doing him. therefore, after a formulative pause, she spoke to her daughter:-- "mind your own affairs. girls should be seen and not heard. some girls are seen altogether too much. your father and dic will arrange this affair between themselves without your help. it is purely an affair of business. dic, of course, wishes to invest his money; and if your father, after due consideration, is willing to help him, i am sure he should feel obliged to us, and no doubt he will. he would be an ungrateful person indeed if he did not. i am sure your father's note is as good as the bank. he pays his just debts. he is my husband and could not do otherwise. no man lives who has not at all times received his dues from us to the last penny. if a penny is coming to us, we want it. if we owe one, we pay it. my father, judge anselm fisher, was the same way. his maxim was, 'justice to all and confusion to sinners.' he died beholden to no man. neither have i ever been beholden to any one. dic is fortunate, indeed, in finding so good an investment for his money, at interest; very fortunate indeed." "i don't want interest," said the too eager dic. "indeed, that is generous in you," returned mrs. bays, though she was determined that dic should not succeed in casting the burden of an obligation upon her shoulders. "but of course you know your money will be safe, and that is a great deal in these days of weak banks and robbers. if i were in mr. bays's place, i should pause and consider the matter carefully and prayerfully before assuming responsibility for anybody's money. if it should be stolen from him, he, and not you, would lose it. i think it is very kind in him to undertake the responsibility." that phase of the question slightly dimmed its rosiness; but dic still hoped that lending the money would make smoother his path to rita. at first he had not foreseen that he, and not the bayses, would rest under an obligation. to the girl the lending of this money meant indianapolis, williams, and separation from dic. the tournament chapter x the tournament mr. bays, rash man that he was, without care or prayer, accepted dic's loan and was thankful, despite the good wife's effort to convince him he was conferring a favor. her remarks had been much more convincing to dic than to her husband. the latter could not entirely throw off the feeling that dic was doing him a favor. the money was to be delivered and the note executed in ten days, mrs. margarita insisting that dic should be responsible for his own money until it was needed by her husband. "he certainly would not ask us to be responsible for his money till we can use it," she observed, in an injured tone, to her daughter. one would have supposed from her attitude that an imposition was being put upon her, though she, herself, being accustomed to bear the burdens of others, would bow her neck beneath this yoke and accept the responsibility of dic's money. she not only convinced herself that such was the proper view to take of the transaction, but succeeded fairly well in impressing even rita with that belief. such an achievement required generalship of the highest order; but mrs. bays possessed that rare quality to a degree seldom, if ever, equalled. the loan was to bear no interest, dic hoping to heighten the sense of obligation in mr. bays. he succeeded; but of course the important member of the family still felt that dic was beholden to her. she could not, however, with either safety or justice, exclude from her house the man who was to lend the much-needed money. while she realized the great favor she was conferring on dic, and fully understood the nature of the burden she was taking upon herself solely for his sake, she had no thought of shrinking from her duty;--not she. the money had not been delivered, and dic, if offended, might change his mind and foolishly refuse her sacrifice. it might not be entirely safe to presume too largely upon his sense of obligation--some persons are devoid of gratitude--until the money was in hand. for these reasons dic was tolerated, and during the next ten days spent his evenings with rita, though mother and father bays did not migrate to the kitchen, in accordance with well-established usage on blue, and as they had done when williams came a-wooing. dic cared little for the infringement, and felt that old times had come again. rita, growing bold, braved her mother's wrath, and continued each evening to give him a moment of his own. one evening it would be a drink from the well that she wanted. again, it was a gourdful of shell-barks from the cellar under the kitchen, whence she, of course, was afraid to fetch them alone. the most guileless heart will grow adroit under certain well-known conditions; and even rita, the simplest of girls, easily made opportunities to give dic these little moments from which she came back rosy, while that lucky young man was far from discontented. rita paid each evening for dic's moment when the door closed on him, and continued payment during the next day till his return. but she considered the moment a great bargain at the price, continued her purchases, and paid the bills on demand to incarnate justice. the bills were heavy, and had not rita been encased by an armor of trusty steel, wrought from the links of her happiness, her soft, white form would have been pierced through and through by the tough, ashen shafts of her mother's relentless cruelty. we are apt to feel pain and suffering comparatively. to one who has experienced a great agony, smaller troubles seem trivial. rita had experienced her great agony, and her mother's thrusts were but needle pricks compared with it. * * * * * arrangements were quickly made for moving to indianapolis, and at the end of ten days all was ready for the money to be delivered. dic again asked for rita, and mr. bays was for delivering the girl at once. his new venture at indianapolis had stimulated his sense of self-importance, and he insisted, with a temerity never before dared, that dic, whom he truly loved, should have the daughter whom they each loved. but the chief justice would agree to nothing more than an extension of the armistice, and graciously consented that dic might visit the _family_ at indianapolis once in a while. after dic had agreed to lend the money, he at once notified billy little, in whose strong-box it was stored. dic, in the course of their conversation, expressed to billy the sense of obligation he felt to the bayses. "i declare," vowed billy, "that old woman is truly great. when she goes to heaven, she will convince st. peter that she is doing him a favor by entering the pearly gates. neither will she go in unless everything suits her. there is not another like her. archimedes said he could lift the world with a lever if he had a fulcrum. undiluted egotism is the fulcrum. but one must actually believe in one's self to be effective. one cannot impose a sham self-faith upon the world. only the man who believes his own lie can lie convincingly. egad! dic, it would have been beautiful to see that self-sufficient old harridan attempting to convince you that she was conferring a favor by taking your money. you will probably never see a fippenny bit of it again. and without interest! jove! i say it was beautiful. had she wanted your liver, i suppose you would have thanked her for accepting it. she is a wonder." these remarks opened dic's eyes and convinced him that the new york trip had not effaced all traces of unsophistication. in those days of weak strong-boxes and numerous box-breakers, men hesitated to assume the responsibility of taking another's gold for safe-keeping. there could be no profit to billy little in dic's gold. he took it to keep for him only because he loved him. the sum total of billy's wealth, aside from his stock of goods valued at a thousand dollars, consisted of notes, secured by mortgages, amounting to four thousand dollars. of this sum he had lent five hundred dollars to dic, who had repaid him in gold. the money had been placed in billy little's strong-box with dic's twenty-six hundred dollars. each sum of gold was contained in a canvas shot-bag. of course news of dic's wealth had spread throughout the town and country, and had furnished many a pleasant hour of conversation among persons with whom topics were scarce. late one night billy little's slumbers were disturbed by a noise in the store, and his mind at once turned to the gold. he rose quickly, seized his shot-gun, and opened the door leading into the storeroom just in time to see two men climb out through the open window near the post-office boxes. billy ran to the window and saw the men a hundred yards away. he climbed out and hurried in pursuit, but the men were soon out of sight, and billy returned shivering to the store. he could see by the dim light from the window that the doors of his strong-box were standing open. there was no need to examine the box. billy well knew the gold had vanished. he shut the iron doors and went back to his room, poked the fire, seated himself at the piano, and for the next hour ran through his favorite repertoire, closing the concert with "annie laurie." then he went to bed and slept like an untroubled child till morning. the safe had been unlocked by means of a false key. there were no visible signs of robbery, and billy little determined to tell no one of his loss. the first question that confronted him in the morning was, what should be done about the loss of dic's gold? that proposition he quickly settled. he went across the road to the inn, got his breakfast, returned to his room, donned his broadcloth coat, made thirty years before in london, took from his strong-box notes to the amount of twenty-six hundred dollars, and left for indianapolis by the noon stage. at indianapolis he sold the notes and brought back dic's gold. this he kept in his iron box during the day and under his pillow at night. * * * * * the household effects of the bays family were placed in two wagons to be taken to indianapolis. dic had offered to drive one team, and tom was to drive the other. mr. bays had preceded the family by a day or two; but before leaving he and dic had gone to billy little's store for the money. dic, of course, knew nothing of the robbery. billy had privately advised his young friend to lend the money payable on demand. "you should buy a farm when a good opportunity offers," said he. "land hereabouts will increase in value a hundred per cent in ten years. you should not tie up your money for a long time." billy made the same representation to bays, and that gentleman, eager to get the money on any terms, agreed with him. little's real, though unspoken, reason was this: he felt that if dic held a debt against bays, collectible upon demand, it would be a protection against mrs. margarita's too keen sense of justice, and might prove an effective help in winning rita from the icy dragoness. therefore, the note was drawn payable on demand. when mrs. bays learned that fact, she named over to her spouse succinctly the various species of fool of which he was the composite representative. the satisfaction she felt in unbosoming herself was her only reward, for the note remained collectible on demand. the weather was very cold, and the snow-covered road would be rough. so it had been determined that rita and her mother should travel to indianapolis by the stage coach. but when the wagons were ready to start, at sun-up, mrs. bays being in bed, rita basely deserted that virtuous woman and climbed over the front wheel to the seat beside dic. she left a note for her mother, saying that she would go with the wagon to save the seven shilling stage fare. she knew she was making a heavy purchase of "moments," and was sure she would be called upon for instant payment that night when she should meet her mother. she was willing to pay the price, whatever it might be, for the chariot of phoebus would have been a poor, tame conveyance compared with the golden car whereon she rode. the sun was barely above the horizon, and the crisp, cold air was filled with glittering frost dust when the wagons crossed blue on the ice at the ford below bays's barn. the horses' breath came from their nostrils like steam from kettle-spouts, and the tires, screaming on the frozen snow, seemed to laugh for joy. it would have been a sad moment for rita had she not been with dic; but with him by her side she did not so much as turn her head for one backward look upon the home she was leaving. dic wore a coat made from mink pelts which he had taken in the hunt, and he so wrapped and enveloped rita in a pair of soft bearskin robes that the cold could not come near her. he covered her head, mouth, nose, and cheeks with a great fur cap of his own; but he left her eyes exposed, saying, "i must be able to see them, you know." as he fastened the curtains of the cap under her chin, he received a flashing answer from the eyes that would have warmed him had he been clothed in gossamer and the mercury freezing in the bulb. if i were to tell you all the plans that were formulated upon that wagon while it jolted and bumped over the frozen ruts of the michigan road; if i were to write down here all the words of hope and confidence in the fickle future; if i were to tell you of the glances, touches, and words of love that were given and spoken between sun-up and sun-down upon this chariot of the gods--i will say of the blind god--i should never finish writing, nor would you ever finish reading. it was:-- "you will write to me every day?" "yes, every day." "you will think of me every day and night?" "yes, dic, every moment, and--" "you will come back to me soon--very soon?" "yes, dic, whenever you choose to take me." "and you will be brave against your mother?" "yes, brave as i can be, for your sake, dic. but you must not forget that i cannot be very brave long at a time without help from you! oh, dic, how can i bear to be so far away from you? i shall see you only on sundays; a whole week apart! you have never been from me so long since i can remember till you went to new york. i told you trouble would come from that trip; but you will come to me sundays--by saturday night's stage?" "yes, every sunday." "surely? you will never fail me? i shall die of disappointment if you fail me once. all week i shall live on the hope of sunday." "i'll come, rita. you need not fear." "and dic, you will not go often to see sukey yates, will you?" "i'll not speak to her, if you wish. she is nothing to me. i'll not go near her." "no, i don't ask that. i fear i am very selfish. you will be lonely when i am gone and--and you may go to see sukey--and--and the other girls once in a while. but you won't go too often to see sukey and--and you won't grow to caring for her--one bit, will you?" "i will not go at all." "oh, but you must; i command you. you would think i do not trust you if i would not let you go at all. i don't entirely trust her, though i am sure i am wrong and wicked to doubt her; but i trust you, and would trust you with any one." "i, too, trust you, rita. it will be impossible for you to mistreat williams, associated as he is with your father. for the sake of peace, treat him well, but--" "he shall never touch my hand, dic; that i swear! i can't keep him from coming to our house, but it will be torture when i shall be wanting you. oh, dic--" and tears came before she could take her hands from under the bearskins to cover her face. but as i said, i cannot tell you all the plans and castles they built, nor shall i try. the wise man buildeth many castles, but he abideth not therein, lest they crumble about his ears and crush him. castles built of air often fall of stone. therefore, only the foolish man keeps revel in the great hall or slumbers in the donjon-keep. * * * * * early upon the second sunday after the bayses' advent to indianapolis, dic, disdaining the stage, rode a-horseback and covered the distance before noon. mr. bays and tom received him with open arms. rita would have done likewise in a more literal sense could she have had him alone for a moment. but you can see her smiles and hear her gentle heart beats, even as dic saw and heard them. a bunch of cold, bony fingers was given to dic by mother justice. when he arrived williams was present awaiting dinner, and after mrs. bays had given the cold fingers, she said:-- "i suppose we'll have to try to crowd another plate on the table. we didn't expect an extra guest." rita endured without complaint her mother's thrusts when she alone received them, but rebelled when dic was attacked. in the kitchen she told her mother that she would insult williams if mrs. bays again insulted dic. the girl was so frightened by her own boldness that she trembled, and although the mother's heart showed signs of weakness, there was not time, owing to the scorching turkey, for a total collapse. there was, however, time for a few random biblical quotations, and they were almost as effective as heart failure in subduing the insolent, disobedient, ungrateful, sacrilegious, wicked daughter for whom the fond mother had toiled and suffered and endured, lo! these many years. when rita and her mother returned to the front room to invite the guests to dinner, dic thanked mrs. bays, and said he would go to the tavern. rita's face at once became a picture of woe, but she was proud of dic's spirit, and gloried in his exhibition of self-respect. when mrs. bays saw that dic resented her insult, she insisted that he should remain. she said there was plenty for all, and that there was more room at the table than she had supposed. but dic took his hat and started toward the door. tom tried to take the hat from his hand, saying:-- "nonsense, dic, you will stay. you must," and mr. bays said:-- "come, come, boy, don't be foolish. it has been a long time since you took a meal with us. it will seem like old times again. put down your hat." dic refused emphatically, and tom, taking up his own hat, said:-- "if dic goes to the inn, i go with him. mother's a damned old fool." i wish i might have heard the undutiful son speak those blessed words! williams was delighted when rita did not insist upon dic's remaining, but his delight died ignominiously when the girl with tears in her eyes took dic's hand before them all and said:-- "come back to me soon, dic. i will be waiting for you." our little girl is growing brave, but she trembles when she thinks of the wrath to come. dinner was a failure. mrs. bays thought only of the note payable on demand, and feared that her offensive conduct to dic might cause its instant maturity. if the note had been in her own hands under similar circumstances, and if she had been in dic's place, she well knew that serious results would have followed. she judged dic by herself, and feared she had made a mistake. there were but two modes of living in peace with this woman--even in semi-peace. domineer her coldly, selfishly, and cruelly as did tom, and she would be a worm; or submit to her domineering, be a worm yourself, and she would be a tyrant. those who insist on domineering others usually have their way. the world is too good-natured and too lazy to combat them. fight them with their own weapons, and they become an easy prey. tom was his mother's own son. he domineered her, his father, and rita; but, like his mother, his domineering was inflicted only upon those whose love for him made them unresisting. but i have wandered from the dinner. rita sat by williams, but she did not eat, and vouchsafed to him only such words as were absolutely necessary to answer direct questions. williams was a handsome fellow, and many girls would have been glad to answer his questions volubly. he, like mrs. bays, was of a domineering nature, and clung to a purpose once formed with the combative tenacity of a bull-dog or the cringing persistency of a hound. success in all his undertakings was his object, and he cared little about the means to desired ends. such a man usually attains his end; among other consummations, he is apt to marry a rare, beautiful girl who hates him. "dic is like a brother to rita," said mrs. bays, in explanation of her daughter's conduct. "her actions may seem peculiar to a stranger, but she could only feel for him the affection she might give to a brother." "brother!" exclaimed rita, in accent of contempt, though she did not look up from her plate. the young lady was growing rebellious. wait for the reckoning, girl! rita's red flag of rebellion silenced mrs. bays for the time being, and she attempted no further explanations. poor father bays could think of nothing but dic eating dinner at the tavern. rita trembled in rebellion, and was silent. after a time the general chilliness penetrated even williams's coat of polish, and only the clinking of the knives and forks broke the uncomfortable stillness. dic was well avenged. soon after dinner tom and dic returned. tom went to the kitchen, and his mother said:-- "tom, my son, your words grieved me, and i--" "oh, shut up," answered de triflin'. "your heart'll bust if you talk too much. do you want to make dic sue us for the money we owe him, and throw us out of business? don't you know we would have to go back to blue if dic asked for his money? if you hain't got any sense, you ought to keep your mouth shut." "tom, you should be ashamed," said rita, looking reproachfully at her brother. "you shut up too," answered tom. "go in and talk to your two beaux. god! but you're popular. how are you going to manage them to-night?" that question had presented itself before, and rita had not been able to answer it. after mrs. bays had gone from the kitchen, tom repeated his question:-- "how will you manage them to-night, sis?" "i don't know," answered rita, almost weeping. "i suppose dic will go away. he has more pride than--than the other. i suppose mr. williams will stay. tom, if you find an opportunity, i want you to tell dic to stay--tell him i want him to stay. he must stay with me until williams goes, even if it is all night. please do this for me, brother, and i'll do anything for you that you ask--i always do." but tom laughed, and said, "no, i'll not mix in. i like dic; but, sis, you're a fool if you don't take williams. the tousy girls would jump at him. they were at the tavern, and laughed at dic's country ways." tom lied about the tousy girls. they were splendid girls, and their laughter had not been at dic's country ways. in fact, the eldest miss tousy had asked tom the name of his handsome friend. tom left rita, and her tears fell unheeded as she finished the after-dinner work. for ten days she had looked forward to this sunday, and after its tardy arrival it was full of grief, despite her joy at seeing dic. at two o'clock williams left, and the remainder of the afternoon richly compensated the girl for her earlier troubles. tom went out, and about four o'clock mr. bays went for a walk while justice was sleeping upstairs. during the father's absence, dic and rita had a delightful half hour to themselves, during which her tongue made ample amends for its recent silence, and talked such music to dic as he had never before heard. she had, during the past ten days, made memoranda of the subjects upon which she wished to speak, fearing, with good reason, that she would forget them all, in the whirl of her joy, if she trusted to memory. so the memoranda were brought from a pocket, and the subjects taken up in turn. to dic that half hour was well worth the ride to indianapolis and home again. to her it was worth ten times ten days of waiting, and the morning with its wretched dinner was forgotten. mrs. margarita, stricken by tom's words, had been thinking all the afternoon of the note payable on demand, and had grown to fear the consequences of her conduct at dinner-time. she had hardly grown out of the feeling that dic was a boy, but his prompt resentment of her cold reception awakened her to the fact that he might soon become a dangerous man. rita's show of rebellion also had an ominous look. she was nearing the dangerous age of eighteen and could soon marry whom she chose. dic might carry her off, despite the watchfulness of open-eyed justice, and cause trouble with the note her husband had so foolishly given. all these considerations moved margarita, the elder, to gentleness, and when she came downstairs she said:-- "dic, i am surprised and deeply hurt. we always treat you without ceremony, as one of the family, and i didn't mean that i didn't want you to stay for dinner. i did want you, and you must stay for supper." dic's first impulse was to refuse the invitation; but the pleading in rita's eyes was more than he could resist, and he remained. how different was the supper from the dinner! rita was as talkative as one could ask a girl to be, and mrs. bays would have referred to the relative virtues of hearing and seeing girls, had she not been in temporary fear of the demand note. tom was out for supper with williams. mr. bays told all he knew; and even the icy dragoness, thawed by the genial warmth, unbent to as great a degree as the daughter of judge anselm fisher might with propriety unbend, and was actually pleasant--for her. after supper dic insisted that mrs. bays should go to the front room, and that he should be allowed, as in olden times, when he was a boy, to assist rita in "doing up" the after-supper work. so he, wearing an apron, stood laughingly by rita's side drying the dishes while she washed them. there were not enough dishes by many thousand, and when the paltry few before them had been dried and placed in a large pan, dic, while rita's back was turned, poured water over them, and, of course, they all had to be dried again. rita laughed, and began her task anew. "who would have thought," she whispered, shrugging her shoulders, "that washing dishes could be such pleasant work." dic acknowledged his previous ignorance on the subject. he was for interrupting the work semi-occasionally, but when the interruptions became too frequent, she would say: "don't, dic," and laughingly push him away. she was not miserly. she was simply frugal, and dic had no good reason to complain. after every dish had been washed and dried many times, rita started toward her torture chamber, the front room. at the door she whispered to dic:-- "mr.--that man is in there. he will remain all evening, and i want you to stay till he goes." "very well," responded dic. "i don't like that sort of thing, but if you wish, i'll stay till morning rather than leave him with you." williams was on hand, and as a result rita had no words for any one. there was no glorious fireplace in the room, and consequently no cosey ciphering log. in its place was an iron stove, which, according to rita, made the atmosphere "stuffy." toward nine o'clock mr. and mrs. bays retired, and the "sitting-out" tournament began. the most courteous politeness was assumed by the belligerent forces, in accordance with established custom in all tournaments. the great clock in the corner struck ten, eleven, and twelve o'clock. still the champions were as fresh as they had been at nine. no one could foretell the victor, though any one could easily have pointed out the poor victim. after ten o'clock the conversation was conducted almost entirely by williams and dic, with a low monosyllable now and then from rita when addressed. she, poor girl, was too sleepy to talk, even to dic. soon after twelve o'clock the knight from blue, pitying her, showed signs of surrender; but she at once awoke and mutely gave him to understand that she would hold him craven should he lower his lance point while life lasted. the clock struck one. the champions had exhausted all modern topics and were beginning on old rome. dic wondered what would be the hour when they should reach greece and egypt in their backward flight. but after the downfall of rome, near the hour of two, sir roger was unhorsed, and went off to his castle and to bed. then rita bade dic good-by, after exacting from him a solemn promise to return the next sunday. rita thought dic's victory was a good omen, and drew much comfort from it. she tried to lie awake to nurse her joy, but her eyes were so heavy that she fell asleep in the midst of her prayer. dic saddled his horse and started home. the sharp, crisp air was delicious. the starlit sky was a canopy of never ceasing beauty, and the song in his heart was the ever sweet song of hope. the four hours' ride seemed little more than a journey of as many minutes; and when he stabled his horse at home, just as the east was turning gray and the sun-blinded stars were blinking, he said to himself:-- "a fifty-two-mile ride and twenty-four hours of happiness,--anticipation, realization, and memory,--cheap!" he slept for two or three hours and hunted all day long. tuesday's stage brought a letter from rita, and it is needless to speak of its electrifying effect on dic. there was a great deal of "i" and "me" and "you" in the letter, together with frequent repetitions; but tautology, under proper conditions, may have beauties of its own, not at all to be despised. dic went to town tuesday evening and sat before billy little's fire till ten o'clock, telling our worthy little friend of recent events. they both laughed over the "sitting-out" tournament. "it begins to look as if you would get her," remarked billy, leaning forward in his chair and resting his elbows on his knees. he was intensely jealous of williams, and was eager to help dic in any manner possible. "i hope you are right, billy little," replied dic. "when persons agree as do rita and i, there should be a law against outside interference." "there is such a law," answered billy--"god's law, but most persons have greater respect for a legislative statute." "i didn't know you were religious," said dic. "of course i am. every man with any good in him is religious. one doesn't have to be a methodist, a baptist, or a roman catholic to be religious. but bless my soul, dic, i don't want to preach." he leaned forward looking into the fire, took his pipe from his mouth and, as usual, hummed maxwelton's braes. "if rita were a different girl, my task would be easier," observed dic. "she is too tender-hearted and affectionate to see faults in any one who is near to her. notwithstanding her mother's cruelty and hypocrisy, rita loves her passionately and believes she is the best and greatest of women. she stands in fear of her, too, and when the diabolical old fiend quotes scripture, no matter how irrelevantly, or has heart trouble, the girl loses self-control and would give up her life if her mother wanted it. rita is a coward, too; but that is a sweet fault in a woman, and i would not have her different in any respect. i believe mrs. bays has greater respect for me since i lent the money. i could see the good effect immediately." "her respect would not have been so perceptible had you taken a note payable in one or two years. hold that demand note as a club over the old woman, and perhaps you will get the girl." "was that your reason for advising me to take the note payable on demand?" asked dic. "it was one of my reasons--perhaps the chief one." "then i'll write to mr. bays asking him to draw a new note payable in two years," said dic. billy took a small piece of paper, wrote a line or two, and handed it to dic, saying:-- "sign this and deliver it to williams when you take bays's note due in two years." the slip read, "pay on demand to roger williams, esq., one rita bays." dic laughed nervously, and said: "i guess you're right, as usual. after all, it is a shame that i should take her to my poor log-cabin when she might have a mansion in boston and all that money can buy. if i were an unselfish man, i should release my claims to her." a silence of several moments ensued, during which billy drew the leather trunk from under the bed and took a fresh letter from the musty package we have already seen. he drew his chair near to the candle, slipped the letter from its envelope, and slowly read its four pages to himself. after gazing at the fire for several minutes in meditation he said:-- "i received a christmas gift, dic. it came from england. i got it this morning. it is the miniature of an old friend. i have not seen or heard from her in thirty years. i also have a letter. if you wish, you may be the only person in all the world, save myself, to read it." "indeed, i'll be glad--if you wish me to read it. you know i am deeply interested in all that touches you." "i believe i know," answered billy, handing him the letter across the table. dic read to himself:-- ----, england, "my dear friend: each christmas day for many years have i written a letter to you, but none of them have ever been seen by any eyes save my own. i have always intended sending them to you, but my courage upon each occasion has failed me, and none of them has ever reached you. this one i mean to send. i wonder if i shall do so? how many years is it, my friend, since that day, so full of pain,--ah, so full of pain,--when i returned the ring you had given me, and you released me to another. in your letter you made pretence that you did not suffer, knowing that i would suffer for the sake of your pain. but you did not deceive me. i knew then, as i know now, that you released me because you supposed the position and wealth which were offered me would bring happiness. but, my friend, that was a mistaken generosity. life has been rich in many ways. i have wealth and exalted position, and am honored and envied by many. my husband is a good, kind man. i have no children and am thankful in lacking them. a woman willingly bears children only for the man she loves. but, oh, my friend, the weariness that never ceases, the yearning that never stops, the dull pain that never really eases, have turned me gray, and i am old before my time. i fear the longing and the pain are sinful, and nightly i pray god to take them from my heart. at times he answers, in a degree, my prayers, and i almost forget; but again, he forsakes me, and at those moments my burden seems heavier than i can bear. one may easily endure if one has a bright past or a happy future to look upon. one may live over and over again one's past joys, or may draw upon a hopeful future; but a dead, ashen past, a barren present, and a hopeless future bring us at times to rebellion against an all-wise god because he has given us life. time is said to heal all wounds; but it has failed with me, and they, i fear, will ache so long as i live. i suppose you, too, are old, though you will always be young to me, and doubtless the snow is also in your hair. i, sinful one that i am, send you with this letter, my miniature and a lock of my hair, that you may realize the great change that has been wrought in me by time. this letter i surely will post. may it take to you in the wilderness a part of my wretchedness, for so selfish am i that i would take comfort in knowing that i do not suffer alone. i retract the last sentence and in its place ask, not that you suffer, but that you do not forget. in health i am blessed beyond my deserts, and i hope the same comfort abides with you. you will hear from me never again. i have allowed myself this one delightful moment of sin, and god, i know, will give me strength against another. i wish you all the good that one human being can wish another. "regretfully, fondly, farewell. "rita." dic, almost in tears, returned the letter to billy little, and that worthy man, wishing to rob the scene of its sentimentality, said:-- "she says she supposes my hair is gray! she doesn't know i am as bald as a gourd. here is her miniature. i'll not send her mine; she might laugh." dic took the picture and saw a sweet, tender face, fringed by white curls, and aglow with soft, brown eyes. "do you see a resemblance in the miniature to--to any one you know?" asked billy little. "by george!" exclaimed dic, holding the picture at arm's length, "rita--her mouth, her eyes; the same name, too," and he kissed the miniature rapturously. "look here, young fellow," cried billy little. "hand me that miniature. you shan't be kissing all my female friends. by jove! if she were to come over here, i'd drive you out of the settlement with a shot-gun, 'deed if i wouldn't. now you will probably change your mind about unselfishly surrendering rita to williams. i tell you, dic, a fool conscience is more to be dreaded than a knavish heart." "you are always right, billy little, though, to tell you the truth, i had no intention whatever of surrendering rita to any one," returned dic. "i know you hadn't. of course i knew you could not even have spoken about it had you any thought that it might be possible." a kiss and a duel chapter xi a kiss and a duel i shall not attempt to give you an account of dic's numerous journeyings to indianapolis. with no abatement in affection, the period of his visits changed from weekly to fortnightly, and then to monthly. meantime, williams was adroitly plying his suit; and by convincing rita that he had abandoned the rôle of lover for that of friend, he succeeded in regaining her confidence. as agent for his father's products, he had an office at indianapolis, and large sums of money passed through his hands. he and tom became great cronies, for it was williams's intention to leave no stone unturned, the turning of which might assist him in winning rita. his passion for the girl became almost desperate at times, and her unmistakable coldness added fuel to the flame. he well knew she did not love him; but, like many another mistaken man, he believed he could teach her that great lesson if she were his wife, and could not believe that she entertained either a serious or a lasting sentiment for so inferior a person as diccon bright. williams had invariably found smooth sailing with other young ladies; and head winds in rita's case caused the harbor to appear fairer than any other for which he had ever trimmed his sails. soon after rita's entrance into indianapolis society she became popular with the fair sex and admired of the unfair; that condition, in my opinion, being an unusual triumph for any young woman. to that end williams was of great assistance. a rich, cultured society man of boston was sure to cut a great figure among the belles and mothers of a small frontier town. the girl whom williams delighted to honor necessarily assumed importance in the eyes of her sisters. in most cases they would have disliked her secretly in direct ratio to the cube of their outward respect; but rita was so gentle and her beauty was so exquisite, yet unassertive, that the girl soon numbered among her friends all who knew her. there were the tousy and the peasly girls, the wright girls and the morrisons, to say nothing of the smiths, browns, and joneses, many of whom were the daughters of cultured parents. if any one nowadays believes that indianapolis--little spot in the wilderness though it was--lacked refined society during the thirties, he is much mistaken. servants were scarce, and young ladies of cultured homes might any day be called upon to cook the dinner or the supper, and afterward to "do up" the work; but they could leave the kitchen after preparing a good meal, walk into the parlor and play beethoven and mozart with credit to themselves and their instructors, and pleasure to their audience. they could leave the piano and discuss shakespeare, addison, dick steele, provost, and richardson; and, being part of the immutable feminine, could also discuss their neighbors upon occasion, and speak earnestly upon the serious subject of frocks and frills. as to beauty--but that is a benediction granted to all times and places, creating more or less trouble everywhere. the tousy girls, having wealth, beauty, and numbers--there were five of them, ranging in years from fifteen to twenty-five--led the social march; and they at once placed the stamp of unqualified approval upon our little country girl from blue. the eldest of the tousy brood was, of course, miss tousy; then came sue, kate, and the others, both of whom, naturally, had names of their own. miss tousy will soon make her appearance again in these pages for a short time. her own romance i should like to tell you some day. * * * * * the firm of fisher and fox thrived famously during the first few months of their partnership, and that tom might not be ashamed of rita when in society, mrs. bays consented that she should have some new gowns, hats, and wraps. all this fine raiment pleased dic for rita's sake, and troubled him for his own. the first he saw of the new gowns was on a certain bright sunday afternoon in spring. rita's heart had been divided between two desires: she longed to tell dic in her letters of her beautiful new gowns, but she also wished to surprise him. by a masterful effort she took the latter course, and coming downstairs after dinner upon the sunday mentioned she burst suddenly upon dic in all her splendor. her delight was so intense that she could not close her lips for smiling, and dic was fairly stunned by her grandeur and beauty. she turned this way and that, directing him to observe the beautiful tints and the fashionable cut of her garments, and asked him if the bonnet with its enormous "poke," filled with monster roses, was not a thing of beauty and a joy so long as it should last. dic agreed with her, and told her with truth that he had never seen a fashion so sweet and winsome. then he received his reward, after being cautioned not to disturb the bonnet, and they started out for a walk in the sunshine. dic's garments were good enough,--he had bought them in new york,--but rita's outfit made his clothes look poor and rusty. ever since her residence in indianapolis he had felt the girl slipping away from him, and this new departure in the matter of dress seemed to be a further departure in the matter of rita. in that conclusion he was wrong. the girl had been growing nearer to him day by day. her heart belonged to him more entirely than it had even on the banks of blue, and she longed for the sycamore divan and the royal canopy of elm. still, she loved her pretty gowns. "i am almost afraid of you," said dic, when he had closed the gate and was taking his place beside her for the walk. "why?" asked rita, delightedly. her heart was full of the spring and dic; what more could she desire? "your gown, your bonnet, your dainty shoes, your gloves, your beauty, all frighten me," said dic. "i can't believe they belong to me. i can't realize they are mine." "but they are," she said, flashing up to him a laughing glance from her eyes. "my new gown should not frighten you." "but it does," he returned, "and you, too." "i am glad if i frighten you," she answered, while lacing her gloves. "i have been afraid of you long enough. it is your turn now." "you have been afraid of me?" asked dic in surprise. "yes," she returned quite seriously. "i have always been slightly afraid of you, and i hope i always shall be. the night of scott's social i was simply frightened to death, and before that night for a long, long time i was in constant fear of you. i was afraid you would speak of--you know--and i was afraid you would not. i did not know what terrible catastrophe would happen if you did speak, and i did not know what would happen to me if you did not. so you see i have always been afraid of you," she said laughingly. "why, rita, i would not harm a hair of your head." "of course not. i did not fear you in that way. you are so strong and big and masterful; that is what frightens me. perhaps i enjoy fearing you just a bit." "but you are so much grander than i," returned dic, "that you seem to be farther from me than ever before." "farther?" she asked in surprise. "yes, you seem to be drifting from me ever since you came to indianapolis," he returned. "ah, dic, i have been feeling just the reverse," and her eyes opened wide as she looked into his without faltering. there was not a thought in all their gentle depths she would not gladly have him know. a short silence ensued, during which she was thinking rapidly, and her thoughts produced these remarkable words:-- "you should have taken me long ago." dic wondered how he might have taken her; but failing to discover any mistake, he went on:-- "i am going to new york again this spring and,--and you will be past eighteen when i return. you can then marry me without your mother's consent, if you will. will you go home with me when i return?" the eyes and the face were bent toward the ground, but the lips whispered distinctly, "yes, dic," and that young man bitterly regretted the publicity of their situation. soon our strollers met other young persons, and dic was presented. all were dressed in holiday attire, and the young man from blue felt that his companion and her friends outshone him completely. rita was proud of him, and said as much in reply to dic's remark when they resumed their walk. "you might come to see me during the week, when the stores are open," she said, "and you might buy one of the new-fashioned hats. if you can afford it, you might order a long coat for sunday. polished shoes would look well, too; but i am satisfied with you as you are. i only suggest these purchases because you seem to feel uncomfortable." after rita's suggestion he did feel uncomfortable. he had earned no money since his return from new york, and rita's fine feathers had been purchased by the proceeds of his twenty-six hundred dollars invested in her father's business. therefore, hat, coat, and shoes were not within his reach unless he should go into debt, and that he had no thought of doing. with her husband's increasing prosperity, mrs. bays grew ever more distant in her manner toward dic. rita, having once learned that rebellion did not result in instant death to her or to her parent, had taken courage, and governed her treatment of williams by her mother's conduct toward dic. therefore justice, though stern, was never insulting. after rita's suggestion bearing upon the coat, dic, though ardently desiring to see her, dreaded to go to indianapolis, and at that time his visits became monthly, much to rita's grief. she complained in her letters, and her gentle reproaches were pathetic and painful to dic. tom frequently visited the old home, and, incidentally, sukey yates, upon whom his city manner and fashionable attire made a tremendous impression. returning home from his visits to sukey, tom frequently spoke significantly of dic's visits to that young lady's ciphering log, and rita winced at her brother's words, but said nothing. miss yates probably multiplied the number of dic's visits by two or more in speaking of them to tom, having in mind the double purpose of producing an effect upon that young man and also upon his sister. but there was too much truth in her boasting, since our hero certainly submitted himself to sukey's blandishments and placed himself under the fatal spell of her dimples with an increasing frequency which was to be lamented. especially was it lamented by billy little. sukey was so perfect a little specimen of the human animal, and her heart was so prone to tenderness, that she became, upon intimate acquaintance, the incarnation of that condition into which the right sort of people pray kind providence to lead them not. the neighborhood gossips and prophets freely predicted that rita would marry williams, in which case it was surmised miss yates would carry her dimples into the bright family. this theory sukey encouraged by arch glances and shy denials. tom had become a great dandy, and considered himself one of the commercial features of the indiana metropolis. he would have his old home friends, including sukey, believe that he directed the policy of fisher and fox, and that he was also the real business brain in the office of roger williams, where he occupied the position of confidential clerk. he was of little real value to williams, save in the matter of wooing tom's sister. tom knew that he held his clerkship only by the tenure of rita's smiles, and williams, by employing him, gained an ally not at all to be despised. on a certain monday morning, after rita had the day previous shown marked preference to dic, williams said:-- "tom, father orders me to cut down expenses, and i fear i shall be compelled to begin with your salary. i regret the necessity, but the governor's orders are imperative. we will let it stand as it is for this month and will see what can be done afterward." this gentle hint was not lost on thomas. he went home that day to dinner, and rita felt the heavy hand of her brother's displeasure. "you are the most selfish, ungrateful girl living," said tom, who honestly thought his fair sister had injured him. tom's sense of truth, like his mother's, ran parallel to his wishes. "why?" asked rita, wonderingly. had the earth slipped from its axis, tom and his mother would have placed the blame on rita. "why?" repeated tom. "because you know i have a good position with williams. he pays me a better salary than any one else would give me; yet you almost insulted him yesterday and went off for a walk with that country jake." "isn't dic your friend?" asked rita. "no, of course he ain't," replied tom. "do you think i'd take him out calling, with such clothes as he wears, to see any of the girls?" "i hope not," answered rita, struggling with a smile. "no, sir," insisted tom, "and if i lose my place because you mistreat williams on dic's account, he shan't come into this house. do you understand? if he does, i'll kick him out." "you kick dic!" returned rita, laughing. "you would be afraid to say 'boo' to him. tom, i should be sorry to see you after you had tried to kick dic." "well, i'll tell you now, sis," said tom, threateningly, "you treat williams right. if you don't, your big, jakey friend will suffer." "it is on dic's capital that father is making so much money," responded rita. "had it not been for him we would still be on blue. i certainly wish we were back there." "your father will soon pay dic his money," said mrs. bays, solemnly, "and then we will be free to act as we wish." "the debt to dic is no great thing," said tom. "the firm owes williams nearly four times that amount, and he isn't a man who will stand much foolishness. father is not making so much money, either, as you think for, and the first thing you know, with your smartness, you will ruin him and me both, if you keep on making a fool of yourself. but that wouldn't hurt you. you don't think of nobody but yourself." "that has always been rita's chief fault," remarked the chief justice, sitting in solemn judgment upon a case that was not before her. poor rita was beginning to feel that she was a monster of selfishness. her father came feebly to her defence. "i don't believe the girl lives," said thomas, sr., "who is less selfish than rita. but fisher and i do owe williams a great deal of money, and are not making as much as we did at first. the crops failed last summer, and collections are hard. williams has been pressing for money, and i hope all the family will treat him well, for he is the kind of man who might take out his spite upon me, for the sake of getting even with somebody else." rita's heart sank. her father, though a weak vassal, had long been her only ally. had williams not been a suitor for her hand, rita would have found him agreeable; and if her heart had been free, he might have won it. so long as he maintained the attitude of friend and did not conflict with dic's claims, he was well received; but when he became a lover--a condition difficult to refrain from--she almost hated and greatly feared him. despite her wretchedness, she accepted his visits and invitations for her father's sake, and at times felt that she was under the spell of a cruel wizard from boston. with all these conditions, the battle of dic's wooing, though he held the citadel,--rita's heart,--was by no means an even fight. there were other causes operating that might eventually rout him, even from that citadel. one evening, while sitting before billy little's fire, dic's campaign was discussed in detail. the young man said:-- "rita and i are to be married soon after i return from new york. if her mother consents, well and good; if she refuses, we will bear up manfully under her displeasure and ignore it. i have often thought of your remark about mrs. bays as a mother-in-law." "she certainly would be ideal," responded billy. "but i hope you will get the girl. she's worth all the trouble the old lady can make." "why do you say 'hope'?" asked dic. "i'm sure of getting her. why, billy little, if i were to lose that girl, i believe i should go mad." "no, you wouldn't," returned his friend. "you would console yourself with the dimpler." "why, billy little, you are crazy--excuse me--but you don't understand," expostulated dic. "for me, all that is worth possessing in the whole big universe is concentrated in one small bit of humanity. her little body encompasses it all. sukey yates could be nothing to me, even though i cared nothing for rita. she has too many other friends, as she calls them, and probably is equally generous to all." "if you care for rita, you should remain away from sukey," remarked billy. "she may be comprehensive in her affections, and she may have been--to state it mildly--overtender at times; but when a girl of her ardent temperament falls in love, she becomes dangerous, because she is really very attractive to the eye." "i don't go there often, and i'll take your advice and remain away. i have feared the danger you speak of, but--" "speak out, dic; you may trust me," said billy. dic continued:-- "i don't like to speak of a girl as i was going to speak of sukey, but i'll explain. i have, of course, been unable to explain to rita, and i'm a selfish brute to go to sukey's at all. rita has never complained, but there is always a troubled look in her eyes when she jestingly speaks of sukey as my 'other girl.' well, it's this way: sukey often comes to see mother, who prefers her to rita, and if she comes in the evening, of course i take her home. i believe i have not deliberately gone over to see her three times in all my life. sometimes i ride home from church with her and spend part of the evening. sukey is wonderfully pretty, and her health is so good that at times she looks like a little nymph. she is, in a way, entertaining too. as you say, she appeals to the eye, and when she grows affectionate, her purring and her dimples make a formidable array not at all to be despised. you are right. she is the same to a score of men, and i could not fall in love with her were she the only girl on earth. i should be kicked for speaking so of her or of any girl, but you know i would not speak so freely to any one but you. speaking to you seems almost like thinking." "if it makes you think, i shall be glad you spoke," answered billy. "no more sukey for me," said dic. "i'll have nothing more to do with her. i want to be decent and worthy of rita. i want to be true to her, and sukey is apt to lead me in the other direction, without even the excuse on my part of caring for her. an honest man will not deliberately lead himself into temptation." upon the sunday previous to dic's intended departure for new york he visited rita. he had made this new york trip once before, and had returned safely, therefore its terrors for rita were greatly reduced. her regret on account of the second expedition was solely because she would be separated from dic for three or four months, and that bitterness was sweetened by the thought that she would have him always after his return. "how shall i act while you are away?" she asked. "shall i continue to receive mr. williams, or shall i refuse to see him? you must decide for me, and i'll act as you wish. you know how unhappy mother will be if i refuse to see him and--and, you know she will be very severe with me. i would not care so much for that, although her harshness hurts me terribly. but mother's in bad health--her heart is troubling her a great deal of late--and i can't bear to cause her pain. on the other hand, it tortures me when that man comes near me, and it must pain you when i receive him kindly. i can't bear to pain you and--and at times i fear if i permit his attention you will--will doubt me. that would kill me, dic; i really believe it would." "don't worry on that score," replied dic, placing his hand on her heart, "there is nothing but truth here." "i hope not, dic," she replied. she could not boast even of her fidelity. there might be many sorts of evil in that heart, for all she knew. "indeed, there is not," said dic, tenderly. "if by any chance we should ever be separated,--if we should ever lose each other,--it will not be because of your bad faith." "but, dic," cried rita, "that terrible 'if.' it is the first time you ever used the word with reference to us." "it means nothing, rita," answered dic, reassuringly. "there can be no 'if' between you and me. as for williams, you must receive him and treat him kindly. tom is his clerk, and i should hate to see tom lose his position. tom is a mighty good fellow. you say your father owes williams a large debt. he might, if he chose, act ugly. therefore, you must act prettily. poor williams! i'm sorry for him. we will give them all the slip when i return." the slip came in an unexpected manner, and dic did not go to new york. rita's continued aversion to williams, instead of cooling that young man's ardor, fired it to a degree previously unknown in the cool-blooded williams family. he had visited his cultured home for the purpose of dilating upon the many charms of body, soul, and mind possessed by this fair girl of the wilderness. his parents, knowing him to be a young man of sound mayflower judgment and worthy to be trusted for making a good, sensible bargain in all matters of business, including matrimony, readily gave their consent, and offered him his father's place at the head of the agricultural firm, in case he should marry. they were wise enough to know that a young man well married is a young man well made; and they had no doubt, judging from roger's description, that rita was the girl of girls. williams did not tell his parents that up to that time his wooing had been in vain, and they, with good reason, did not conceive it possible that any girl in her right mind would refuse their son. roger was willing, roger's parents were willing, rita's parents were eager for the match; every person and everything needful were on his side, save one small girl. roger thought that trifling obstacle would soon yield to the pressure of circumstances, the persuasion of conditions, and the charm of his own personality. he and the conditions had been warring upon the small obstacle for many months, and still it was as small as ever--but no smaller. the non-aggressive, feather-bed stubbornness of insignificant obstacles is often very irritating to an enterprising soul. williams was a fine, intellectual fellow, and his knowledge of human nature had enabled him to estimate--at least to approximate--the inestimable value of the girl he so ardently desired. her rare beauty would, he thought, grace a palace; while her manifold virtues and good common-sense would accomplish a much greater task, and grace a home. added to these reasons of state was a passionate love on the part of williams of which any woman might have been proud. williams was, ordinarily, sure-footed, and would have made fewer mistakes in his wooing had his love been less feverish. he also had a great fund of common-sense, but love is inimical to that rare commodity, and under the blind god's distorting influence the levelest head will, in time, become conical. so it happened that, after many months of cautious manoeuvring, williams began to make mistakes. for the sake of her parents and tom, rita had treated williams with quiet civility, and when she learned that she could do so without precipitating a too great civility on his part, she gathered confidence and received him with undisguised cordiality. roger, in his eagerness, took undue hope. believing that the obstacle had become very small, he determined, upon occasion, to remove it entirely, by one bold stroke. rita's kindness and roger's growing hope and final determination to try the issue of one pivotal battle, all came into being during the period when dic had reduced his visits to one month. the final charge by the boston 'vincibles was made on the evening following dic's visit last-mentioned. an ominous quiet had reigned in the williams camp for several months, and the beleaguered city, believing that hostilities had ceased, was lulled into a state of unwatchfulness, which, in turn, had given great hope to the waiting cohorts. upon the monday evening referred to, the girl commanding the beleaguered forces received the enemy, whom she wished might be her friend, into her outworks, the front parlor. little dreaming that a perfidious greek was entering her trojan gates, she laughed and talked charmingly, hoping, if possible, to smooth the road for her father and tom by the help of her all-powerful smiles. poor and weak she considered those smiles to be; but the greek thought them wondrous, and coveted them as no greek ever coveted troy. feeling that williams sought only her friendship, and being more than willing to give him that, she was her natural self, and was more winsome and charming than she had ever before appeared to him. her graciousness, which he should have been wise enough to understand but did not, her winsomeness and beauty, which he should have been strong enough to withstand but was not, and his love, which he tried to resist but could not, induced him upon that evening to make an attack. many little items of local interest had been discussed, foreign affairs were touched upon, books, music, and the blessed weather had each been duly considered, and short periods of silence had begun to occur, together with an occasional smothered yawn from rita. williams, with the original purpose of keeping the conversation going and with no intent to boast, said:-- "my father has purchased a new home in boston beyond the common, over on the avenue, and has offered to give me his old house. he has determined to retire from the firm and i am to take his place. i shall start for boston christmas day"--here his self-control forsook him--"and, rita, if you will go with me, i shall be the happiest man on earth." the girl remained silent, feeling that he knew her mind on the subject, and hoping he would proceed no farther. hope, spurred by desire, is easily awakened, and williams, misunderstanding her silence, continued:-- "i do not mean to boast, but i cannot help telling you that your home in boston, if you will go with me, will be one of the most beautiful in the city. all that wealth can buy you shall have, and all that love and devotion can bring you shall possess. other girls would jump at the chance--" (poor conical head--this to this girl) "but i want you, rita--want you of all the world." rita rose to her feet, surprised and alarmed by this grecian trick, and williams, stepping quickly to her side, grasped her hand. he had lost his wonted self-control and was swept forward by the flood of his long-pent-up emotions. "mr. williams, i beg you will not--" cried rita, endeavoring to withdraw her hand. "you shall listen to me," he cried, half in anger, half pleadingly. "i have loved you as tenderly and unselfishly as woman ever was loved, since i first knew you. i know i am not worthy of you, but i am the equal of any other man, and you shall treat me fairly." the girl, in alarm, struggled to free herself from his grasp, but he held her and continued:-- "no other man can give you the love i feel for you, and you shall respond to it." "it is impossible, mr. williams," she said pleadingly. "you do not know all. i am sorry, so sorry, to give you pain." her ever ready tears began to flow. "but i do not feel toward you as you wish. i--there is another. he is--has been very near to me since i was a child, and i have promised to be his wife this long time." her words were almost maddening to williams, and he retorted as if he were, in truth, mad. "that country fellow? you shall never marry him! i swear it! he is a poor, supercilious fool and doesn't know it! he has nothing in this world, and has never seen anything beyond the limits of his father's farm." "he has been to new york," interrupted rita, in all seriousness. williams laughed. "i tell you he is a boor. he is a--" "he is to be my husband, mr. williams, and i hope you will not speak ill of him," said rita, with cold dignity. "he is not to be your husband," cried williams, angrily. "you shall be mine--mine; do you hear? mine! i will have you, if i must--" he caught the girl in his arms, and pressing her head back upon the bend of his elbow, kissed her lips to his heart's content and to his own everlasting undoing. when he released her she started from the room, but he, grasping her arm, detained her, saying:-- "rita, i beg your pardon. i lost my head. i am sorry. forgive me." "there can be no forgiveness for you," she said, speaking slowly, "and i wish you to let me leave the room." "rita, forgive me," he pleaded. "i tell you i was insane when i--i did that. you have almost driven me mad. you can surely forgive me when you know that my act was prompted by my love. your heart is ready with forgiveness and love for every one but me, and i, more than all others, love you. i beg you to forgive me, and if i cannot have your love, forget what i have done this night and again be my friend." after a long, painful pause, she spoke deliberately: "i would not marry you, mr. williams, if you were a king, or if i should die by reason of refusing you. i cannot now be even your friend. i shall tell my father and brother what you have done, and they will order you out of this house. i will tell dic, and he will kill you!" her eyes, usually so gentle, were hard and cold, as she continued: "there is the door. i hope you will never darken it again." she again started to leave the room, and he again detained her. he knew that disgrace would follow exposure, and, being determined to silence her at any cost, said angrily:-- "if you tell your father, i will take from him his store, his home, his farm. he owes me more than all combined are worth. if you will not listen to me through love, you shall do so from fear. i am sorry, very sorry, for what happened. i know the consequences if you speak of it. no one can be made to understand exactly how it happened, and i will protect myself; of that you may be sure. if you speak of what i did, driven to it by my love for you, i say i will turn your father and mother into the street. they will be penniless in their old age. your brother tom is a thief. he has been stealing from me ever since he came to my office. only last night i laid a trap for him and caught him in the act of stealing fifty dollars. he took the money and lost it at welch's gambling saloon. he has taken, in all, nearly a thousand dollars. i have submitted to his thefts on your account. i have extended your father's notes because he is your father. but if you tell any one that i--i kissed you to-night, or if you repeat what i have told concerning your father and brother, your parents go to the street, and tom to the penitentiary. now, do you understand me?" "yes." "will you remain silent?" "yes." then he took his hat, saying, "i have been beside myself to-night, but it was through love for you, and you will forgive me, won't you?" "yes." "and i may come again?" he asked. "yes." "and we will forget all that has happened this evening and you will be my friend?" "yes." "if you will forgive me," he continued, recovering his senses, "and will allow me the sweet privilege of your friendship, i promise never again to speak of my love until you have given me permission. shall it be a compact?" "yes," murmured the girl. "will you give me your hand?" he asked. she offered the hand, and he clasping it, said:-- "you have much to forgive, but your heart is full of gentleness, and you have promised." "yes, i have promised," she returned huskily. "good night, rita." "good night." the girl hurried to her room, and, almost unconscious of what she was doing, dressed for the night. during the first few minutes after she had extinguished the candle and had crept into bed, she could not think coherently, but soon consciousness came in an ingulfing flood. williams's kisses seemed to stick to her. she rubbed her lips till they were raw, but still the clinging pollution seemed to penetrate to her soul. her first coherent thought, of course, was of dic. no man but he had ever, till that night, touched her lips, and with him a kiss was a sacrament. now he would scorn her. the field of her disaster seemed to broaden, as she thought of it, and with the chastity of her lips she felt that she had lost everything worth having in life. abandoning her pillow, she covered her head with the counterpane, and drawing her knees to her breast, lay trembling and sobbing. dic was lost to her. there seemed to be no other possible outcome to the present situation. she feared williams as never before, and felt that she was in his clutches beyond escape. the situation seemed hopeless beyond even the reach of prayer, her usual refuge, and she did not pray. she knew of her father's debt to williams, and had always feared that tom was not to be trusted. she was convinced without evidence other than williams's words that he had told the truth, and she knew that ruin and disgrace for her father and tom waited upon a nod from the man whom she hated, and that the nod waited upon her frown. the next morning rita's face lacked much of its wonted beauty. her eyes were red and dim, the cheeks were pale and dim, her lips were blue and dim, and all the world, seen by her eyes, was dark and dim. the first thing that must be done, of course, was to tell dic of the ravaged kiss. she had no more desire to conceal that terrible fact from him than a wounded man has to deceive the surgeon. he must be told without delay, even should he at once spurn her forever. she feared williams, bearing in mind his threat, and determined first to pledge dic to secrecy, and then to tell him of her disgrace. she wrote to him, begging him to come to her at once; and he lost no time in going. he arrived at the bays house an hour past noon, and rita soon had him to herself in the front parlor. when they entered the room and were alone he took her hand; but she withdrew it, saying:-- "no, no; wait till you hear what has happened." he readily saw that something terrible had transpired. "what is it, rita? tell me quickly." "i can't, dic, till i have your solemn promise that you will never repeat what i am about to tell you." "but, rita--" he began, in expostulation. "no--no, you must promise. you must swear--if you will hear." "i promise. i swear if you wish. what can it be?" then she drew him to a settee, and with downcast eyes began her piteous story. "monday evening mr. williams came to call upon me. you know you said i must receive him kindly. i did so. and he again asked me to--to--you know--to marry him. when i told him it was impossible, he grew angry; and when i became frightened and tried to leave the room, he caught me by the hand and would not let me go. then he told me again how desperately he cared for me; and when i answered angrily and tried to escape, he held me and--and--oh, dic, i can't tell you. i thought i could, but i can't. i--i loathe myself." she bent her head forward, and covering her face with her hands, sobbed convulsively. "go on, rita. my god! you must tell me," demanded dic. "i know i must," she replied between sobs. "oh, dic, do not hate me. he held me to him as you sometimes do,--but, oh, it was so different. i was helpless, and he bent back my head and kissed me on the lips till i thought i should faint." "the cowardly hound. he shall pay dearly for his--" "i have your promise, your oath," said the girl, interrupting him. "but, rita--" "i trusted you, dic, and i know you will faithfully keep your promise. father owes williams a large sum of money, and tom has been stealing from him." here she began to weep. "he will ruin father and send tom to the penitentiary if he learns that i have told you this. he told me he would, and i promised i would tell no one; but my duty to you is higher than my duty to keep my promise. now you know why i held you off when we came in here." "no, i don't know," he replied. "you have not promised to marry him?" "no, no," she returned excitedly. "then why did you refuse me?" "i'm not worthy to be your wife. i feel that i have been contaminated," she answered. "no, no, girl," he cried joyfully. "it was not your fault. the falling snow is not purer than you, and truth itself is not truer than your heart. i go to new york soon, and when i return all your troubles will cease." "they have ceased already, dic," she murmured, placing her head upon his breast, while tears fell unheeded over her cheeks. "i thought an hour ago i should never again be happy, but i am happy already. dic, you are a wonderful man to produce such a change in so short a time." "i am wonderful only in what you give me," he answered. "how beautifully you speak," she whispered; but the remainder of that interview is not at all necessary to this story. dic left rita late in the afternoon and met williams on the street down town. they could not easily pass each other without exchanging words, so they stopped and spoke stiffly about the weather, past, present, and future. dic tried to conceal all traces of resentment, and partially succeeded. williams, still smarting from his troubles and mistakes with rita, and hating dic accordingly, concealed his feelings with poor success. the hatred of these men for each other was plain in every word and act, and in a few moments, williams, unable longer to bear the strain, said:-- "this sham between us is disgusting. let us settle our differences as gentlemen adjust such affairs." "do you mean that we shall fight it out?" asked dic. "yes," returned williams. "you are not afraid to fight, are you?" "no, and yes," answered dic. "i have had but few fights--i fear i could not go into a fight in cold blood and--and for many reasons i do not wish to fight you." "i supposed you would decline. i knew you to be a coward," sneered williams, growing brave upon seeing dic's disinclination. "no," responded dic, calmly looking into williams's face, "i have nothing to fear from you. you could not stand against me even for one minute." "but you misunderstand me," said williams. "i do not wish to fight with my fists. that is the method of ruffians and country bullies. i am not surprised at your mistake." dic laughed softly and replied: "i do not know why your words don't anger me. perhaps because i pity you. i can afford to be magnanimous and submit to your ravings; therefore, i am neither angry nor afraid." "i propose to settle our difficulty as gentlemen adjust such affairs," said williams. "of course, you know nothing about the methods of gentlemen. i challenge you to meet me in a duel. now do you understand--understand?" williams was nervous, and there was a murderous gleam in his eyes. dic's heart throbbed faster for a moment, but soon took again its regular beat. he rapidly thought over the situation and said:-- "i don't want to kill you and don't want you to kill me." he paused for a moment with a smile on his lips and continued: "suppose we let the girl decide this between us. but perhaps i am again showing my ignorance of gentlemanly methods. do gentlemen force their attentions upon unwilling ladies?" "oh, if you refuse," retorted williams, ignoring his question, "i can slap your face now in the public streets." "don't do it, williams," responded dic, looking to the ground and trying to remain calm. "why?" williams asked. "because--i will fight you if you insist, without the occasion of a street brawl. another name might be brought into that." "am i to understand that you accept my challenge?" asked williams. "yes, if you insist," replied dic, calmly, as if he were accepting an invitation to dinner. "i have always supposed that this sort of an affair should be arranged between gentlemen by their friends; but of course i don't know how gentlemen act under these circumstances. perhaps you don't consider me a gentleman, and you certainly must have some doubts in your mind concerning yourself; therefore, it may be proper for us to arrange this little matter with each other." "i suppose you would prefer seconds," returned williams. "they might prevent a meeting." after a few moments of silence dic said, "if we fight, i fear another person's name will be dragged into our quarrel." "you may, if you wish, find plenty of excuses," returned roger. "if you wish to accept my challenge, do so. if not, say so, and i will take my own course." "oh, i'll accept," returned dic, cheerily. "as the challenged party, if we were gentlemen, i believe i might choose the weapons." "yes," responded williams. "what do you suppose would be the result were i to choose rifles at two hundred yards?" asked dic, with an ugly smile on his face. "i should be delighted," responded the other. "i expected you to choose hoes or pitchforks." "i think it fair to tell you," said dic, "that i can hit a silver dollar four times out of five shots at two hundred yards, and you will probably do well to hit a barn door once out of ten at that distance. i will let you see me shoot before i definitely choose weapons. afterwards, if you prefer some other, i will abide your choice." "i am satisfied with your choice," responded williams, who prided himself upon his rifle-shooting, in which accomplishment dic had underrated his antagonist. "we must adopt some plan to prevent people from connecting another person with this affair," suggested dic. "if you will come down to bays's farm for a day's hunting, i will meet you there, and the result may be attributed by the survivor to a hunting accident." "the plan suits me," said williams. "i'll meet you there to-morrow at noon. i'll tell tom i have an engagement to go squirrel-hunting with you." dic rode home, and of course carried the news of his forthcoming duel to billy little. "there are worse institutions in this world than the duel," remarked billy, much to his listener's surprise. "it helps to thin out the fools." "but, billy little, i must fight him," responded dic. "he insists, and will not accept my refusal. he says i am afraid to fight him." "if he should say you were a blackamoor, i suppose you would be black," retorted billy. "is that the way of it?" "but i am glad he does not give me an opportunity to refuse," said dic. "i supposed as much," answered billy. "you will doubtless be delighted if he happens to put a bullet through you, and will surely be happy for life if you kill him." "it is his doing, billy little," said dic, with an ugly gleam in his eyes, "and i would not balk him. billy little, i would fight that man if i knew i should hang for it the next day. i'll tell you--he grossly insulted rita monday evening. he held her by force and kissed her lips till she was hardly conscious." "good god!" cried billy, springing to his feet and trembling with excitement. "fight him, dic! kill him, dic! kill the brute! if you don't, by the good god, i will." "you need not urge me, billy little. i'm quite willing enough. still i hope i shall not kill him." "you hope you will not kill him?" demanded billy. "if you do not, i will. where do you meet?" "he will be at bays's house to-morrow noon, and we will go up to my cleared eighty, half a mile north. there we will step off a course of two hundred yards and fire. whatever happens we will say was the result of a hunting accident." billy determined to be in hiding near the field of battle, and was secreted in the forest adjoining the cleared eighty an hour before noon next day. late in the morning dic took his rifle and walked down to the bays's house. i shall not try to describe his sensations. williams was waiting, and dic found him carefully examining his gun. the gun contained a bullet which, dic thought, with small satisfaction, might within a short time end his worldly troubles, and the troubles seemed more endurable than ever before. sleep had cooled his brain since his conversation with billy, and he could not work himself into a murderous state of mind. he possessed rita, and love made him magnanimous. he did not want to fight, though fear was no part of his reluctance. the manner of his antagonist soon left no doubt in dic's mind that the battle was sure to come off. something in williams--perhaps it was his failure to meet his enemy's eyes--alarmed dic's suspicions, and for a moment he feared treachery at the hands of his morose foe; but he dismissed the thought as unworthy, and opening the gate started up the river path, taking the lead. he was ashamed to show his distrust of williams, though he could not entirely throw it off, and the temptation to turn his head now and then to watch his following enemy was irresistible. they had been walking but a few minutes when dic, prompted by distrust, suddenly turned his head and looked into the barrel of a gun held firmly to the shoulder of our gentleman from boston. with the nimbleness of a cat, dic sprang to one side, and a bullet whistled past his face. one second later in turning his head and the hunting accident would have occurred. after the shot williams in great agitation said:-- "i saw a squirrel and have missed it." "you may walk ahead," answered dic, with not a nerve ruffled. "you might see another squirrel." williams began to reload his gun, but dic interrupted the proceeding. "don't load now. we will soon reach the clearing." williams continued reloading, and was driving the patch down upon the powder. dic cocked his rifle, and raising it halfway to his shoulder, said:-- "don't put the bullet in unless you wish me to see a squirrel. i'll not miss. throw me your bullet pouch." williams, whose face looked like a mask of death, threw the bullet pouch to dic, and, in obedience to a gesture, walked forward on the path. after taking a few steps he looked backward to observe the man he had tried to murder. "you need not watch me," dic said; "i'm not hunting squirrels." soon they reached the open field. dic had cleared every foot of the ground, and loved it because he had won it single-handed in a battle royal with nature; but nature was a royal foe that, when conquered, gave royal spoils of victory. the rich bottom soil had year by year repaid dic many-fold for his labor. he loved the land, and if fate should prove unkind to him, he would choose that spot of all others upon which to fall. "is this the place?" asked williams. "yes," answered dic, tossing the bullet pouch. "now you may load." when williams had finished loading, dic said: "i will drop my hat here. we will walk from each other, you going west, i going east. the sun is in the south. when we have each taken one hundred steps, we will call 'ready,' turn, and fire when we choose." accordingly, dic dropped his hat, and the two men started, one toward the east, one toward the west, while the sun was shining in the south. williams quickly ran his hundred steps. dic had counted forty steps when he heard the cry "dic" coming from the forest ten yards to the south, and simultaneously the sharp crack of a rifle behind him. at the same instant his left leg gave way under him and he fell to the ground, supposing he had stepped into a muskrat hole. after he had fallen he turned quickly toward williams and saw that gentleman hastily reloading his gun. then he fully realized that his antagonist had shot him, though he was unable to account for the voice he had heard from the forest. that mystery, too, was quickly explained when he heard billy's dearly loved voice calling to williams:-- "drop that gun, or you die within a second." turning to the left dic saw his friend holding the rifle which had fallen from his own hands when he went down, and the little fellow looked the picture of determined ferocity. williams dropped his gun. dic was sitting upright where he had fallen, and billy, handing him the weapon, said:-- "kill him, dic; kill him as you would a wolf. i'm afraid if i shoot i'll miss him, and then he will reload and kill you." williams was a hundred and forty yards away, but dic could easily have pierced his heart. he took the gun and lifted it to his shoulder. williams stood motionless as a tree upon a calm day. dic lowered his gun, but after a pause lifted it again and covered williams's heart. he held the gun to his shoulder for a second or two, then he threw it to the ground, saying:-- "i can't kill him. tell him to go, billy little. tell him to go before i kill him." [illustration: "'kill him, dic; kill him as you would a wolf.'"] williams took up his gun from the ground and started to leave, when dic said to billy little:-- "tell him to leave his bullets." williams dropped the bullet pouch without a command from billy, and again started to leave. dic tried to rise to his feet, but failed. "i guess i'm wounded," he said hoarsely. "my god, billy little, look at the blood i've lost! i--i feel weak--and--and dizzy. i believe i'm going to faint," and he accordingly did so. billy cut away the trousers from dic's wounded leg, disclosing a small round hole in the thigh. the blood was issuing in ugly spurts, and at once billy knew an artery had been wounded. he tore the trousers leg into shreds and made a tourniquet which he tied firmly above the wound and soon the hæmorrhage was greatly reduced. by the time the tourniquet was adjusted, williams was well down towards the river, and billy called to him:-- "go up the river to the first house and tell mrs. bright to send the man down with the wagon. perhaps if you assist us, the theory of the accident will be more plausible." williams did as directed. dic was taken home. within an hour kennedy, summoned by an unwilling messenger, was by the wounded man's side. billy little was watching with dic's mother, anxious to hear the doctor's verdict. there was still another anxious watcher, our pink and white little nymph, sukey, though the pink had, for the time, given way to the white. she made no effort to conceal her grief, and was willing that all who looked might see her love for the man who was lying on the bed unconscious. williams remained with bays's tenant till next day, and then returned to indianapolis, carrying the news of the "accident." the love powder chapter xii the love powder rita was with her mother when she received the terrible news. of course the accident was the theme of conversation, and rita was in deep trouble. even mrs. bays was moved by the calamity that had befallen the man whose face, since his early boyhood, had been familiar in her own house. at first rita made no effort to express her grief. "it is too bad, too bad," was the extent of mrs. bays's comment. taking courage from even so meagre an expression of sympathy, rita begged that she might go home--she still called the banks of blue her home--and help mrs. bright nurse dic. mrs. bays gazing sternly at the malefactor, uttered the one word "no," and rita's small spark of hope was extinguished almost before it had been kindled. within a few days billy little went to see rita, and relieved her of anxiety concerning dic. before he left he told her that sukey was staying with mrs. bright and assisting in the nursing and the work. "i have been staying there at night," said billy, "and sukey hangs about the bed at all hours." billy did not wish to cause jealousy in rita's breast, but hoped to induce her to expostulate gently with dic about the attentions he permitted himself to receive from the dimpler. for a minute or two his words caused a feeling of troubled jealousy in rita's heart, but she soon dismissed it as unworthy of her, and unjust to dic and sukey. to that young lady she wrote: "i am not permitted to nurse him, and i thank you for taking my place. i shall remember your goodness so long as i live." the letter should have aroused in sukey's breast high impulses and pure motives; but it brought from her red lips, amid their nest of dimples, the contemptuous expletive "fool," and i am not sure that she was entirely wrong. a due respect for the attractiveness and willingness of her sisters is wise in a woman. rita's lack of wisdom may be excused because of the fact that her trust in sukey was really a part of her faith in dic. thus it came to pass that dic did not go to new york, but was confined to his home for several months with a fractured thigh bone. during that period rita was in constant prayer and sukey in daily attendance. the dimpler's never ceasing helpfulness to dic and his mother won his gratitude, while the dangerous twinkling of the dimples and the pretty sheen of her skin became familiar to him as household gods. he had never respected the girl, nor was his respect materially augmented by her kindness, which at times overleaped itself; but his gratitude increased his affection, and his sentiment changed from one of almost repugnance to a kindly feeling of admiration for her seductive beauty, regard for her kindly heart, and pleasure in her never failing good temper. sukey still clung to her dominion over several hearts, receiving them upon their allotted evenings; and although she had grown passionately fond of dic, she gave a moiety of kindness to her subjects, each in his turn. she easily convinced each that he was the favored one, and that the others were friends and were simply tolerated. she tried no such coquetry with dic, but gladly fed upon such crumbs as he might throw her. if he unduly withheld the crumbs, she, unable to resist her yearning for the unattainable, at times lost all maidenly reserve, and by eloquent little signs and pleadings sought them at the hand of her dives. the heart of a coquette is to be won only by running away from it, and dic's victory over sukey was achieved in retreat. during dic's illness tom's heart, quickened doubtless by jealousy, had grown more and more to yearn for sukey's manifold charms, physical and temperamental. billy little, who did not like sukey, said her charms were "dimple-mental"; but billy's heart was filled with many curious prejudices, and tom's judgment was much more to be relied upon in this case. one morning when sukey entered dic's room she said: "tom was to see me last night. he said he would come up to see you to-day." "he meant that he will come up to see you," replied dic, teasing her. "one of these times i'll lose another friend to indianapolis, and when i go up there with my country ways you won't know me." "i'll never go to indianapolis," sukey responded, with a demure glance. "dear old blue is good enough for me. the nearer i can live to it, the better i shall be satisfied." dic's lands were on the river banks, while those of sukey's father were a mile to the east. "if you lived too close to the river, you might fall in," returned dic, choosing to take sukey's remark in jest. "i'm neither sugar nor salt," she retorted, "and i would not melt. i'm sure i'm not sugar--" "but sugarish," interrupted dic. "_you_ don't think i'm even sugarish," she returned poutingly. "indeed i do," he replied; "but you must not tell tom i said so." "why not?" asked sukey. "he's nothing to me--simply a friend." so the conversation would run, and sukey, by judicious fishing, caught a minnow now and then. * * * * * during the latter days of dic's convalescence, sukey paid a visit to her friend rita, and the girls from blue attracted the beaux of the capital city in great numbers. for the first time in sukey's life she felt that she had found a battle-field worthy of her prowess, and in truth she really did great slaughter. balls, hay rides, autumn picnics, and nutting parties occurred in rapid succession. tom and williams were, of course, as tom expressed it, "johnny on the spot," with our girls. after rita's stormy interview with williams she had, through fear, continued to receive him in friendliness. at first the friendliness was all assumed; but as the weeks passed, and he, by every possible means, assured her that his rash act was sincerely repented, and under no conditions was to be repeated, she gradually recovered her faith in him. her heart was so prone to forgive that it was an easy task to impose upon it, and soon williams, the greek, was again encamped within the walls of trusting troy. he frequently devoted himself to other young ladies, and our guileless little heroine joyfully reached the conclusion that she no longer reigned queen of his cultured heart. for this reason she became genuinely kind to him, and he accordingly gave her much of his company during the month of sukey's visit. one day a nutting party, including our four friends, set forth on their way up white river. at the mouth of fall creek was a gypsy camp, and the young folks stopped to have their fortunes told. the camp consisted of a dozen covered wagons, each containing a bed, a stove, and cooking utensils. to each wagon belonged a woman who was able and anxious to foretell the future for the small sum of two bits. our friends selected the woman who was oldest and ugliest, those qualities having long been looked upon as attributes of wisdom. rita, going first, climbed over the front wheel of the ugliest old woman's covered wagon, and entered the temple of its high priestess. the front curtain was then drawn. the interior of the wagon was darkened, and the candle in a small red lantern was lighted. the hag took a cage from the top of the wagon where it had been suspended, and when she opened the door a small screech owl emerged and perched upon the shoulders of its mistress. there it fluttered its wings and at short intervals gave forth a smothered screech, allowing the noise to die away in its throat in a series of disagreeable gurgles. when the owl was seated upon the hag's shoulder, she took from a box a half-torpid snake, and entwined it about her neck. with the help of these symbols of wisdom and cunning she at once began to evoke her familiar spirits. to this end she made weird passes through the air with her clawlike hands, crying in a whispered, high-pitched wail the word, "labbayk, labbayk," an arabian word meaning "here am i." rita was soon trembling with fright, and begged the hag to allow her to leave the wagon. "sit where you are, girl," commanded the gypsy in sepulchral tones. "if you attempt to pass, the snake will strike you and the owl will tear you. the spirit of wisdom is in our presence. the stone god has already told me your fate. it is worth your while to hear it." rita placed her trembling hand in the hag's claw. "no purer woman ever lived than you," began the sorceress; "but if you marry the dark man who awaits you outside, you will become evil; you will be untrue to him; you will soon leave him in company with another man who is light of complexion, tall, and strong. disgrace and ruin await your family if you marry the light man. even the stone god cannot foretell a woman's course when love draws her in opposite directions. may the stone god pity you." the hag's ominous words, fitting so marvellously the real situation, frightened rita and she cried, "please let me out," but the gypsy held her hand, saying:-- "sit still, ye fool; sit and listen. for one shilling i will teach you a spell which you may throw over the man you despise, and he will wither and die; then you may marry the one of your choice, and all evil shall be averted." "no, no!" screamed the girl, rising to her feet and forcing her way to the front of the wagon. in passing the witch she stumbled, and in falling, grasped the snake. the owl screeched, and rita sprang screaming from the wagon-seat to the ground. sukey's turn came next, and although rita begged her not to enter the gypsy's den, our lady of the dimples climbed over the front wheel, eager for forbidden fruit. the hideous witch, the owl, and the snake for a moment frightened sukey; but she, true daughter of eve, hungered for apples, and was determined to eat. after foretelling numerous journeys, disappointments, and pleasures which would befall sukey, the gypsy said:-- "you have many admirers, but there is one that remains indifferent to your charms. you may win him, girl, if you wish." "how?" cried sukey, with eagerness. "i can give you a love powder by which you may cause him to love you. i cannot sell it; but a gift for a gift is no barter. if you will give me gold, i will give you the powder." "i have no money with me," answered sukey; "but i will come to-morrow and bring you a gold piece." "it must be gold," said the hag, feeling sure of her prey. "a gift of baser metal would kill the charm." "i will bring gold," answered sukey. laden with forbidden knowledge and hope, she sprang from the front wheel into tom's arms, and was very happy. that night she asked rita, "have you a gold dollar?" "yes," replied rita, hesitatingly, "i have a gold dollar and three shillings. i'm saving my money until christmas. i want five dollars to buy a--" she stopped speaking, not caring to tell that she had for months been keeping her eyes on a trinket for dic. "i am not accumulating very rapidly," she continued laughing, "and am beginning to fear i shall not be able to save that much by christmas." "will you loan it to me--the gold dollar?" asked sukey. "yes," returned rita, somewhat reluctantly, having doubts of sukey's intention and ability to repay. but she handed over the gold dollar with which the borrower hoped to steal the lender's lover. next day sukey asked tom to drive her to the gypsy camp, but she did not explain that her purpose was to buy a love powder with which she hoped to win another man. sukey, with all her amiable disposition,--billy little used to say she was as good-natured as a hound pup,--was a girl who could kiss your lips, gaze innocently into your eyes, and betray you to cæsar, all unconscious of her own perfidy. rita was her friend. still she unblushingly borrowed her money, hoping therewith to steal dic. tom was her encouraged lover; still she wished him to help her in obtaining the love powder by which she might acquire the love of another man. sukey was generous; but the world and the people thereof were made for her use, and she, of course, would use them. she did not know she was false--but why should i dwell upon poor sukey's peccadilloes as if she were the only sinner, or responsible for her sins? who is responsible for either sin or virtue? rita deserved no praise for being true, pure, gentle, and unselfish. those qualities were given with her heart. the chief justice should not be censured because she held peculiar theories of equity and looked upon the words "as we forgive those who trespass against us" as mere surplusage. she was born with her theories and opinions. sukey should not be blamed because of her dimples and her too complacent smiles. for what purpose were dimples and smiles created save to give pleasure, and incidentally to cause trouble? but i promise there shall be no more philosophizing for many pages to come. sukey, by the help of tom and rita, purchased her love powder, and, being eager to administer it, informed rita that evening that she intended to return home next morning. accordingly, she departed, leaving rita to receive alone the attentions of her persistent lover. within a week or two after sukey's return, dic, having almost recovered, went to see rita. he was not able to go a-horseback, so he determined to take the stage, and billy little went with him as body-guard. while they waited for the coach in billy's back room, williams became the topic of conversation. "he will marry rita in spite of you," said billy, "if you don't take her soon. what do you say? shall we bring her home with us to-morrow? she was eighteen last week." billy was eager to carry off the girl, for he knew the williams danger, and stood in dread of it. dic sprang from his chair, delighted with the proposition. the thought of possessing rita to-morrow carried with it a flood of rapturous emotions. "how can we bring her?" he asked. "we can't kidnap her from her mother." "perhaps rita may be induced to kidnap herself," remarked billy. "if we furnish the plan, do you believe rita will furnish the girl? will she come with us?" you see billy, as well as dic, was eloping with this young lady. "yes, she will come when i ask her," returned dic, with confidence. after staring at the young man during a full minute, billy said: "i am afraid all my labor upon you has been wasted. if you are so great a fool as not--do you mean to say you have never asked her to go with you--run away--elope?" "i have never asked her to elope," returned dic, with an expression of doubt in his face. billy's words had aroused him to a knowledge of the fact that he was not at all the man for this situation. "you understand it is this way," continued dic, in explanation of his singular neglect. "rita does not see her mother with our eyes. she believes her to be a perfect woman. she believes every one is good; but her mother has, for so many years, sounded the clarion of her own virtues, that rita takes the old woman at her own valuation, and holds her to be a saint in virtue, and a feminine solomon in wisdom. rita believes her mother the acme of intelligent, protecting kindness, and looks upon her cruelty as the result of parental love, meant entirely for the daughter's own good. i have not wanted to pain my future wife by causing a break with her mother. should rita run off with me, there would be no forgiveness for her in the breast of justice." "the girl, doubtless, could live happily without it," answered billy. "not entirely happy," returned dic. "she would grieve. you don't know what a tender heart it is, billy little. there is not another like it in all the world. had it not been for that consideration, i would have been selfish enough to bring her home with me when she offered to come, and would--" "mighty moses!" cried billy, springing to his feet. "she offered to go with you?" "yes," replied dic; "she said when last i saw her, 'you should have taken me long ago.'" "and--and you"--billy paused for breath and danced excitedly about the room--"and you did not--you--you, oh--maxwelton's braes--and you--ah, well, there is nothing to be gained by talking to you upon that subject. what _do_ you think of the administration? jackson is a hickory blockhead, eh? congress a stupendous aggregation of asses. yes, everybody is an ass, of course; but there is one who is monumental. monumental, i say. monu--ah, well--maxwelton's braes are bonny--um--um--um--um--damn!" and billy sat down disgusted, turning his face from dic. after a long pause dic spoke: "i believe you are right, billy little. i should have brought her." "believe--" cried the angry little friend. "don't you know it? the _pons asinorum_ is a mere hypothesis compared to the demonstration in this case." "but she was not of age, and could not marry without her parents' consent," said dic. "had i brought her home, we could have found no one to perform the ceremony." "i would have done it quickly enough; i am a justice of the peace. i could have done it as well as forty preachers. i should have been fined for transgressing the law in marrying you without a license, but i would have done it, and it would have been as legal as if it had taken place in a cathedral. we could have paid the fine between us." "well, what's to be done?" asked dic, after a long, awkward pause. "it's not too late." "yes, it's too late," answered billy. "i wash my hands of the whole affair. when a man can get a girl like rita, and throws away his chance, he's beyond hope. i supposed you had bought her for twenty-six hundred dollars--you will never see a penny of it again--and a bargain at the price. she is worth twenty-six hundred million; but if you could not buy her, you should have borrowed, stolen, kidnapped--anything to get her. now what do you think of yourself?" "not much, billy little, not much," answered dic, regretfully. "but you should have said all this to me long ago. advice after the fact is like meat after a feast--distasteful." "ah, you are growing quite epigrammatic," said billy, snappishly; "but there is some truth in your contention. we will begin again. when we see rita, we will formulate a plan and try to thwart justice." "what plan have you in mind?" asked dic, eager to discuss the subject. "i have none," billy replied. "rita will perhaps furnish both the plan and the girl." dic did not relish the suggestion that rita would be willing to take so active a part in the transaction, and said:-- "i fear you do not know rita. she is not bold enough to do what you hope. if she will come with us, it will be all i can expect. we must do the planning." "you say she offered to come with you?" asked billy. "y-e-s," responded dic, hesitatingly; "but she is the most timid of girls, and we shall need to be very persuasive if--" billy laughed and interrupted him: "all theory, dic; all theory and wrong. 'deed, if i knew you were such a fool! the gentlest and most guileless of women are the bravest and boldest under the stress of a great motive. the woman who is capable of great love is sure also to have the capacity for great courage. i know rita better than you suppose, and, mark my words, she will furnish both the plan and the girl; and if you grow supercilious, egad! i'll take her myself." "i'll not grow supercilious. she is perfect, and anything she'll do will be all right. i can't believe she is really to be mine. it seems more like a castle in the air than a real fact." "it is not a fact yet," returned billy, croakingly; "and if this trip doesn't make it a fact, i venture to prophesy you will have an untenanted aerial structure on your hands before long." "you don't believe anything of the sort, billy little," said dic. "i can't lose her. it couldn't happen. it couldn't." "we'll see. there's the stage horn. let us hurry out and get an inside seat. the sky looks overcast, and i shouldn't like to have this coat rained upon. there's a fine piece of cloth, dic. feel it." dic complied. "soft as silk, isn't it?" continued billy. "they don't make such cloth in these days of flimsy woolsey. got it thirty years ago from the famous schwitzer on cork street. tailor shop there for ages. small shop--dingy little hole, but that man schwitzer was an artist. made garments for all the beaux. brummel used to draw his own patterns in that shop--in that very shop, dic. think of wearing a coat made by brummel's tailor. remarkable man that, brummel--george bryan brummel. good head, full of good brains. son of a confectioner; friend of a prince. upon one occasion the prince of wales wept because brummel made sport of his coat. yes, egad! blubbered. i used to know him well. knew the 'first gentleman' of europe, too, the prince of wales. won a thousand and eleven pounds from brummel one night at whist. he paid the eleven and still owes the thousand. had a letter from him less than a year ago, saying he hoped to pay me some day; but bless your soul, dic, he'll never be able to pay a farthing. he's in france now, because he owes nearly every one in england. fine gentleman, though, fine gentleman, every inch of him. well, this coat was made by his tailor. you don't blame me for taking good care of it, do you?" "indeed not," answered dic, amused, though in sympathy with beau brummel's friend. "i have two vests in my trunk by the same artist," continued billy. "i don't wear them now. they won't button over my front. i'll show them to you some day." at this point in the conversation our friends stepped into the stage coach. others being present, billy was silent as an owl at noonday. with one or two sympathetic listeners billy was a magpie; with many, he was a stork--he loved companionship, but hated company. arriving at indianapolis, our worthy kidnappers sought the house of unsuspecting justice, and were received with a frigid dignity becoming that stern goddess. dic, wishing to surprise rita, had not informed her of his intended visit. after waiting a few minutes he asked, "where is rita?" "she is sick," responded mrs. bays. "she has not been out of her bed for three days. we have had two doctors with her. she took seven different kinds of medicine all yesterday, and to-day she has been very bad." "no wonder," remarked billy; "it's a miracle she isn't dead. seven different kinds! it's enough to have killed a horse. fortunately she is young and very strong." "well, i'm sure she would have died without them," answered mrs. bays. "you believe six different kinds would not have saved her, eh?" asked billy. "something saved her. it must have been the medicine," replied mrs. bays, partly unconscious of billy's irony. she was one of the many millions who always accept the current humbug in whatever form he comes. let us not, however, speak lightly of the humble humbug. have you ever considered how empty this world would be without his cheering presence? you notice i give the noun "humbug" the masculine gender. the feminine members of our race have faults, but great, monumental, world-pervading humbugs are masculine, one and all, from the old-time witch doctor and druid priest down to the--but mrs. bays was speaking:-- "the doctors worked with her for four hours last night, and when they left she was almost dead." "almost?" interrupted billy. "fortunate girl!" "i hope i may see her," asked dic, timidly. "no, you can't," replied mrs. bays with firmness. "she's in bed, and i _hardly_ think it would be the proper thing." "dic!" called a weak little voice from the box stairway leading from the room above. "dic!" and that young man sprang to the stairway door with evident intent to mount. mrs. bays hurried after him, crying:-- "you shall not go up there. she's in bed, i tell you. you can't see her." billy rose to his feet and stood behind her. when dic stopped, at the command of mrs. bays, billy made an impatient gesture and pointed to the room above, emphasizing the movement with a look that plainly said, "go on, you fool," and dic went. mrs. bays turned quickly upon billy, but his pale countenance was as expressionless as usual, and he was examining his finger tips with such care one might have supposed them to be rare natural curiosities. "ah, dic," cried the same little voice from the bed, when that young man entered the room, and two white arms, from which the sleeves had fallen back, were held out to him as the pearly gates might open to a wandering soul. dic knelt by the bedside, and the white arms entwined themselves about his neck. he spoke to her rapturously, and placed his cool cheek against her feverish face. then the room grew dark to the girl, her eyes closed, and she fainted. dic thought she was dead, and in an agony of alarm placed his ear to her heart, hoping to hear its beating. no human motive could have been purer than dic's. of that fact i know you are sure, else i have written of him in vain; but when mrs. bays entered the room and saw him, she was pleased to cry out:-- "help! help! he has insulted my daughter." billy mounted the stairway in three jumps, a feat he had not performed in twenty years, and when he entered the room mrs. bays pointed majestically to the man kneeling by rita's bed. "take that man from my house, mr. little," cried mrs. bays in a sepulchral, judicial tone of voice. "he broke into her room and insulted my sick daughter when she was unconscious." dic remained upon his knees by the bedside, and did not fully grasp the meaning of his accuser's words. billy stepped to rita's side, and taking her unresisting hand hastily sought her pulse. then he spoke gruffly to mrs. bays, who had wrought herself into a spasm of injured virtue. "she has fainted," cried billy. "fetch cold water quickly, and a drop of whiskey." mrs. bays hastened downstairs, and dic followed her. "get the whiskey," he cried. "i'll fetch the water," and a few seconds thereafter billy was dashing cold water in rita's face. the great brown eyes opened, and the half-conscious girl, thinking that dic was still leaning over her, lifted her arms and gave poor old billy a moment in paradise, by entwining them about his neck. he enjoyed the delicious sensation for a brief instant, and said:-- "i'm billy little, rita, not dic." then the eyes opened wider as consciousness returned, and she said:-- "i thought dic was here." "yes--yes, rita," said dic, "i am here. i was by your side a moment since. i came so suddenly upon you that you fainted; then billy little took my place." "and you thought i was dic," said billy, laughingly. "i'm glad i did," answered the girl with a rare smile, again placing her arms about his neck and drawing his face down to hers; "for i love you also very, very dearly." billy's heart sprang backward thirty years, and thumped away astonishingly. at that moment mrs. bays returned with the whiskey, and billy prepared a mild toddy. "the doctor said she must not have whiskey while the fever lasts," interposed mrs. bays. "we'll try it once," replied billy, "and if it kills her, we'll not try it again. here, rita, take a spoonful of this." dic lifted her head, and billy administered the deadly potion, while the humbug lover stood by, confidently expecting dire results, but too much subdued by the situation to interpose an objection. soon rita asked that two pillows be placed under her head, and, sitting almost upright in bed, declared she felt better than for several days. mrs. bays knew that dic's motive had been pure and spotless, but she had no intention of relinquishing the advantage of her false position. she had for months been seeking an excuse to turn dic from her house, and now that it had come, she would not lose it. going to rita's side, she again took up her theme:-- "no wonder my poor sick daughter fainted when she was insulted. i can't tell you, mr. little, what i saw when i entered this room." "oh, mother," cried rita, "you were wrong. you do not understand. when i saw dic, i held up my arms to him, and he came to me because i wanted him." "_you_ don't know, my daughter, you don't know," interrupted mrs. bays. "i would not have you know. but i will protect my daughter, my own flesh and blood, against insult at the cost of my life, if need be. i have devoted my life to her; i have toiled and suffered for her since i gave her birth, and no man shall enter my house and insult her while i have strength to protect her." she gathered force while she spoke, and talked herself into believing what she knew was false, as you and i may easily do in very important matters if we try. "my dear woman," said billy, in surprise bordering on consternation, "you don't mean you wish us to believe that you believe that dic insulted rita?" "yes, i saw him insult her. i saw it with my own eyes." "in what manner?" demanded dic. he was beginning to grasp the meaning of her accusation, and was breathing heavily from suppressed excitement. before she could reply he fully understood, and a wave of just anger swept over him. "old woman, you know you lie!" he cried. "i revere the tips of rita's fingers, and no unholy thought of her has ever entered my mind. _i_ insult her! you boast of your mother's love. you have no love for her of any sort. you have given her nothing but hard, cold cruelty all her life under the pretence--perhaps belief--that you were kind; but if your love were the essence of mother love, it would be as nothing compared to my man's love for the girl who will one day be my wife and bear my children." the frightened old woman shrank from dic and silently took a chair by the window. then dic turned to the bed, saying:-- "forgive me, rita, forgive me. i was almost beside myself for a moment. tell me that you know i would not harm you." "of course you would do me no harm," she replied sobbing. "you could not. you would be harming yourself. but how could you speak so violently to my mother? you were terrible, and i was frightened. how could you? how could you?" "i was wild with anger--but i will explain to you some day when you are my wife. i will not remain in this house. i must not remain, but i will come to you when you are well. you will write me, and i will come. you want me, don't you, rita?" "as i want nothing else in all the world," she whispered, taking his face between her hands. "and you still love me?" he asked. "ah," was her only reply; but the monosyllable was eloquent. dic at once left the house, but billy little remained. "i never in all my life!" exclaimed mrs. bays, rising from her chair. billy did not comprehend the exact meaning of her mystic words, but in a general way supposed they referred to her recent experiences as unusual. "you were mistaken, mrs. bays," he said. "dic could not offer insult to your daughter. you were mistaken." "i guess i was," she replied; "i guess i was, but i never, i never in all my life!" the old woman was terribly shaken up; but when billy took his departure, her faculties returned with more than pristine vigor, and poor, sick rita, as usual, fell a victim to her restored powers of invective. mrs. bays shed no tears. the salt in her nature was not held in solution, but was a rock formation from which tears could not easily be distilled. "i have nursed you through sickness," she said, turning upon rita with an indignant, injured air. "i have toiled for you, suffered for you, prayed for you. i have done my duty by you if mother ever did duty by child, and now i am insulted for your sake; but i bear it all with a contrite spirit because you are my daughter, though god's just hand is heavy upon me. there is one burden i will bear no longer. you must give up that man--that brute, who just insulted me." "he did not insult you, mother." "he did, and nothing but god's protecting grace saved me from bodily harm in my own house while protecting my daughter's honor." "but, mother," cried rita, weeping, "you are wrong. if there was any wrong, it was i who did it." "you don't know! oh, that i should live to see what i did see, and endure what i have endured this day for the sake of an ungrateful daughter--oh, sharper than a serpent's tooth, as the good book says--to be insulted--i never! i never!" rita, of course, had been weeping during her mother's harangue; but when the old woman took up her meaningless refrain, "i never! i never!" the girl's sobs became almost convulsive. mrs. bays saw her advantage and determined not to lose it. "promise me," demanded this tender mother, rudely shaking the girl, "promise me you will never speak to him again." rita did not answer--she could not, and the demand was repeated. still rita answered not. "if you don't promise me, i'll leave your bedside. i'll never speak your name again." "oh, mother," sobbed the girl, "i beg you not to ask that promise of me. i can't give it. i can't. i can't." "give me the promise this instant, or i'll disown you. do you promise?" the old woman bent fiercely over her daughter and waited stonily for an answer. rita shrank from her, but could not resist the domineering old creature, so she whispered:-- "yes, mother, i promise," and the world seemed to be slipping away from her forever. the dimpler chapter xiii the dimpler billy little soon found dic and greeted him with, "well, we haven't got her yet." "no, but when she recovers, we will have her. what an idiot i was to allow that old woman to make me angry!" "you are right for once, dic," was billy's consoling reply. "she has been waiting for an excuse to turn you from her doors, and you furnished it. i suppose you can never enter the house again." "i don't want to enter it, unless by force to take rita. why didn't i take her long ago? it serves no purpose to call myself a fool, but--" "perhaps it's a satisfaction," interrupted billy, "a satisfaction to discover yourself at last. self-knowledge is the summit of all wisdom." "ah, billy little, don't torture me; i am suffering enough as it is." billy did not answer, but took dic's hand and held it in his warm clasp for a little time as they walked in silence along the street. the two disconsolate lovers who had come a-kidnapping remained over night in indianapolis, and after breakfast billy suggested that they discuss the situation in detail. "have you thought of any plan whereby you may communicate with rita?" he asked. "no," answered dic. "do you know any of her girl friends?" "the very thing!" exclaimed dic, joyous as possible under the circumstances. "i'll see miss tousy, and she will help us, i'm sure." "is she sentimentally inclined?" queried billy. "i don't know." "is her face round or oval?" "oval," replied dic, in some perplexity. "long oval?" "rather." "good!" exclaimed billy. "does she talk much or little?" "little, save at times." "and her voice?" "low and soft." "better and better," said billy. "what does she read?" "she loves shakespeare and shelley." "go to her at once," cried billy, joyfully. "i'll stake my life she'll help. show me a long oval face, a soft voice speaking little, and a lover of poetry, and i'll show you the right sort of heart. but we must begin at once. buy a new stock, dic, and have your shoes polished. get a good pair of gloves, and, if you think you can handle it properly, a stick. fine feathers go farther in making fine birds than wise men suppose. too much wisdom often blinds a man to small truths that are patent to a fool. i wish you were small enough to wear my coat." dic congratulated himself upon his bulk, but he took billy's advice regarding the gloves and stock. billy was a relic of the days of the grand beaux, when garments, if they did not make the man, at least could mar the gentleman, and held his faith in the omnipotence of dress, as a heritage from his youth--that youth which was almost of another world. dic was one of the few men whose splendor of person did not require the adornments of dress. all women looked upon his redolence of life and strength with pleasure, and soon learned to respect his straightforward, fearless honesty. miss tousy had noted dic's qualities on previous occasions, and valued him accordingly. she was also interested in rita, who was her protégée; and she was graciousness itself to dic that day as she asked him, "what good fortune brings you?" "it is bad fortune brings me, i am sorry to say," returned dic. "yesterday was the unluckiest day of my life, and i have come to you for help." miss tousy's kind heart responded, as billy little had predicted. "then your ill luck is my good fortune. in what way can i help you? i give you _carte blanche_; ask what you will." "i will not hold you to your offer until i tell you what i want. then you may refuse if you feel that--" "i'll not refuse," answered the kindly young lady. "go on." "you know that ri--, miss bays, is--has been for a long time--that is, has promised to be--" "i know. but what has happened?" "it's a long story. i'll not tell you all. i--" "yes, tell me all--that is, if you wish. i'm eager to hear all, even to the minutest details. don't mind if the story is long." and she settled herself comfortably among the cushions to hear his sentimental narrative. dic very willingly told the whole story of yesterday's woes, and miss tousy gave him her sympathy, as only a woman can give. it was not spoken freely in words, merely in gestures and little ejaculatory "ah's," "oh's," and "too bad's"; but it was soothing to dic, and sweet miss tousy gained a lifelong friend. "you see," said dic, after he had finished his story, "i cannot communicate with rita. she is ill, and i shall be unable to hear from her." "i'll keep you informed; indeed i will, gladly. oh, that hard old woman! there is no hallucination so dangerous to surrounding happiness as that of the pharisee. mrs. bays has in some manner convinced herself that her hardness is goodness, and she actually imposes the conviction upon others. her wishes have come to bear the approval of her conscience. every day of my life i grow more thankful that i have a sweet, gentle mother. but mrs. bays intends right, and that, perhaps, is a saving grace." "i prefer a person who intends wrong and does right to one who intends right and does wrong," replied dic. "i know nothing so worthless and contemptible as mistaken good intentions. but we should not criticise rita's mother." "no," returned miss tousy; "and i'll go to see rita every day--twice a day--and will write to you fully by every mail." "i intend to remain at the inn till she recovers. i couldn't wait for the mail." "very well, that is much better. i'll send you word to the inn after each visit, or, if you wish, you may come to me evenings, and i'll tell you all about her. shall i see you to-night, and shall i carry any message?" "tell her i will remain till she is better, and--and then i--i will--that will be all for the present." * * * * * billy little was for going home at noon, but dic begged him to remain. the day was very long for dic, notwithstanding billy's companionship, and twice during the afternoon he induced his friend to exhibit the brummel coat at the street-crossing a short distance south of the house wherein the girl of girls lay ill and grieving. after much persuasion, billy consented to accompany dic on his visit that evening to miss tousy. the schwitzer coat was carefully brushed, the pale face was closely shaved and delicately powdered, and the few remaining hairs were made to do the duty of many in covering billy's blushing baldness. "i wish i had one of my waistcoats here," said our little coxcomb. "i would button it if i had to go into stays--egad! i would. i will show you those waistcoats some day,--india silk--corn color, with a touch of gold braid at the pockets, ivory buttons the size of a sovereign, with gold centres, made by the artist who made the coat. the coat is all right. wouldn't be ashamed to wear it to a presentation. i will button it over this waistcoat and it will not be noticed. how do you like this stock--all right?" "i think it is." "i have a better one at home. got it down by the bank. smith, dye and company, limited, haberdashers. i can recommend the place if--if you ever go to london. brummel's haberdasher--brummel knew the best places. depend upon him for that. where he dealt, there you would hear the tramp of many feet. he made schwitzer's fortune. wonderful man, brummel. wonderful man, and i like him if he does owe me a thousand pounds thirty years past due. egad! it has been so long since i carried a stick i have almost lost the knack of the thing. a stick is a useful thing to a gentleman. gives him grace, furnishes occupation for his hands. gloves in one hand, stick in the other--no man need get his hands mixed. got this stick down on washington street an hour ago. how do i seem to handle it?" he walked across the room, holding the stick in the most approved fashion--of thirty years before. "it's fine, billy little, it's fine," answered dic, sorry to see an apparent weakness in his little friend, though loving him better for the sake of it. the past had doubled back on billy for a day, and he felt a touch of his youth--of that olden time when the first dandy of england was heir-apparent to the crown and blubbered over an ill-fitting coat. if you will look at the people of those times through the lens of that fact, you will see something interesting and amusing. after many glances toward the mirror, billy announced that he was ready, and marched upon miss tousy, exulting in the fact that there was not in all the state another coat like the one he wore. billy's vanity, to do him justice, was not at all upon his own account. he wished to appear well for dic's sake, and ransacked his past life for points in etiquette and manner once familiar, but now almost forgotten by him and by the world. his quaint old resurrections were comical and apt to create mirth, but beneath their oddities i believe a discerning person would easily have recognized the gentleman. i shall not describe to you billy's regency bow when dic presented him to miss tousy; nor shall i bring into his conversation all the "my dear madams," "dear ladys," and "beg pardons," scattered broadcast in his effort to do credit to his protégé. but miss tousy liked billy, while she enjoyed his old-fashioned affectations; and in truth the man was in all respects worthy of the coat. "rita is very ill," miss tousy said. "mrs. bays says your conduct almost killed her daughter. two doctors are with her now." "terrible, my dear madam, terrible," interrupted billy, and miss tousy continued:-- "i whispered to rita that you would remain, and she murmured, 'i'm so glad. tell him mother forced me to promise that i would never see him again, and that promise is killing me. i can't forget it even for a moment. ask him to forgive me, and ask him if it will be wrong for me to break the promise when i get well. i cannot decide whether it would be wrong for me to keep it or to break it. both ways seem wicked to me!'" "wicked!" cried billy springing from his chair excitedly, and walking across the room, gloves in one hand, stick in the other, and brummel coat buttoned tightly across the questionable waistcoat, "my dear lady, tell her it will be wicked--damnable--beg pardon, beg pardon; but i must repeat, dear lady, it will be wicked and wrong--a damning wrong, if she keeps the promise obtained by force--by force, lady, by duress. tell her i absolve her from the promise. i will go to rome and get the pope's absolution. no! that will be worse than none for rita; she is a baptist. well, well, i'll hunt out the head baptist,--the high chief of all baptists, if there is one,--and will get his absolution. but, my dear miss tousy, she has faith in me. i have never led her wrong in my life, and she knows it. tell her i say the promise is not binding, before either god or man, and you will help her." "and tell her she will not be able to keep the promise," interrupted dic. "i'll make it impossible. when she recovers, i'll kidnap her, if need be." "i'll go at once and tell her," returned miss tousy. "she is in need of those messages." dic and billy walked down to bays's with miss tousy, and waited on the corner till she emerged from the house, when they immediately joined her. "i gave her the messages," said miss tousy, "and she became quieter at once. 'tell him i'll get well now,' she whispered. then she smiled faintly, and said, 'wouldn't it be romantic to be kidnapped?' after that she was silent; and within five minutes she slept, for the first time since yesterday." rita's illness proved to be typhoid fever, a frightful disease in those days of bleeding and calomel. billy returned home after a few days, but dic remained to receive his diurnal report from miss tousy. one evening during the fourth week of rita's illness dic received the joyful tidings that the fever had subsided, and that she would recover. he spent a great part of the night watching her windows from across the street, as he had spent many a night before. on returning to the inn he found a letter from sukey yates. he had been thinking that the fates had put aside their grudge against him, and that his luck had turned. when he read the letter announcing that the poor little dimpler was in dire tribulation, and asking him to return to her at once and save her from disgrace, he still felt that the fates had changed--but for the worse. he was sure sukey might, with equal propriety, make her appeal to several other young men--especially to tom bays; but he was not strong enough in his conviction to relieve himself of blame, or entirely to throw off a sense of responsibility. in truth, he had suffered for weeks with an excruciating remorse; and the sin into which he had been tempted had been resting like lead upon his conscience. he remembered billy's warning against sukey's too seductive charms; and although he had honestly tried to follow the advice, and had clearly seen the danger, he had permitted himself to be lured into a trap by a full set of dimples and a pair of moist, red lips. he was not so craven as to say, even to himself, that sukey was to blame; but deep in his consciousness he knew that he had tried not to sin; and that sukey, with her allurements, half childish, half-womanly, and all-enticing, had tempted him, and he had eaten. the news in her letter entirely upset him. for a time he could not think coherently. he had never loved sukey, even for a moment. he could not help admiring her physical beauty. she was a perfect specimen of her type, and her too affectionate heart and joyous, never-to-be-ruffled good humor made her a delightful companion, well fitted to arouse tenderness. add virtue and sound principle to sukey's other attractions, and she would have made a wife good enough for a king--too good, far too good. for the lack of those qualities she was not to blame, since they spring from heredity or environment. sukey's parents were good, honest folk, but wholly unfitted to bring up a daughter. sukey at fourteen was quite mature, and gave evidence of beauty so marked as to attract men twice her age, who "kept company" with her, as the phrase went, sat with her till late in the night, took her out to social gatherings, and--god help the girl, she was not to blame. she did only as others did, as her parents permitted; and her tender little heart, so prone to fondness, proved to be a curse rather than the blessing it would have been if properly directed and protected. mentally, physically, and temperamentally she was very close to nature, and nature, in the human species, needs curbing. the question of who should bear the blame did not enter into dic's perturbed cogitations. he took it all upon his own broad shoulders, and did not seek to hide his sin under the cloak of that poor extenuation, "she did tempt me." if rita's love should turn to hatred (he thought it would), he would marry sukey and bear his burden through life; but if rita's love could withstand this shock, sukey's troubles would go unrighted by him. those were the only conclusions he could reach. his keen remorse was the result of his sin; and while he pitied sukey, he did not trust her. next morning dic saw miss tousy and took the stage for home. his first visit was to billy little, whom he found distributing letters back of the post-office boxes. "how is rita?" asked billy. "she's much better," returned dic. "miss tousy tells me the fever has left her, and the doctors say she will soon recover. i wanted to see her before i left, but of course that could not be; and--and the truth is i could not have looked her in the face." "why?" billy was busy throwing letters. "because--because, billy little, i am at last convinced that i represent the most perfect combination of knave and fool that ever threw heaven away and walked open-eyed into hell." "oh, i don't know," replied the postmaster, continuing to toss letters into their respective boxes. "i ... don't know. the world has seen some rare (mrs. sarah cummins) combinations of that sort." after a long pause he continued: "i ... i don't believe (peter davidson) i don't believe ... there is much knave in you. fool, perhaps (atkinson, david. he doesn't live here), in plenty--." another pause, while three or four letters were distributed. "suppose you say that the formula--the chemical formula--of your composition would stand (peter smith) f_{ } k_{ }. of course, at times, you are all m, which stands for man, but (jane anderson, jane anderson. jo john's wife, i suppose)--" "you will not jest, billy little, when you have heard all." "i am not ... jesting now. go back ... into my apartments. i'll lock the door (samuel richardson. great writer) and come back to you (leander cross. couldn't read a signboard. what use writing letters to him?) when i have handed (mrs. margarita bays. they don't know she has moved to indianapolis, damn her)--when i have handed out the mail." dic went back to the bedroom, and billy opened the delivery window. the little crowd scrambled for their letters as if they feared a delay of a moment or two would fade the ink, and when the mail had been distributed the calm postmaster went back to hear dic's troubles. at no time in that young man's life had his troubles been so heavy. he feared billy little's scorn and biting sarcasm, though he well knew that in the end he would receive sympathy and good advice. the relation between dic and billy was not only that of intimate friendship; it was almost like that between father and son. billy felt that it was not only his privilege, but his duty, to be severe with the young man when necessity demanded. when dic was a boy he lost his father, and billy little had stood as substitute for, lo, these many years. when billy entered the room, dic was lost amid the flood of innumerable emotions, chief among which were the fear that he had lost rita and the dread of her contempt. billy went to the fireplace, poked the fire, lighted his pipe, and leaned against the mantel-shelf. "well, what's the trouble now?" asked brummel's friend. "read this," answered dic, handing him sukey's letter. billy went to the window, rested his elbows upon the piano, put on his "other glasses," and read aloud:-- "'dear dic: i'm in so much trouble.'" ("maxwelton's braes," exclaimed billy. the phrase at such a time was almost an oath.) "'please come to me at once.'" (billy turned his face toward dic and gazed at him for thirty long seconds.) "'come at once. oh, please come to me, dic. i will kill myself if you don't. i cannot sleep nor eat. i am in such agony i wish i were dead; but i trust you, and i am sure you will save me. i know you will. if you could know how wretched and unhappy i am, if you could see me tossing all night in bed, and crying and praying, you certainly would pity me. oh, god, i will go crazy. i know i will. come to me, dic, and save me. i have never said that i loved you--you have never asked me--but you know it more surely than words can tell.' "'sukey.'" when billy had finished reading the letter he spoke two words, as if to himself,--"poor rita." his first thought was of her. her pain was his pain; her joy was his joy; her agony was his torture. then he seated himself on the stool and gazed across the piano out the window. after a little time his fingers began to wander over the keys. soon the wandering fingers began to strike chords, and the random chords grew into soft, weird improvisations; then came a few chords from the beloved, melodious "messiah"; but as usual "annie laurie" soon claimed her own, and billy was lost, for the time, to dic and to the world. meanwhile dic sat by the fireplace awaiting his friend's pleasure, and to say that he suffered, but poorly tells his condition. "well, what are you going to do about it?" asked billy, suddenly turning on the stool. dic did not answer, and billy continued: "damned pretty mess you've made. proud of yourself, i suppose?" "no." "lady-killer, eh?" "no." "oh, perhaps it wasn't your fault, adam? you are not to blame? she tempted you?" "i only am to blame." "'deed if i believe you have brains enough to know who is to blame." "yes, i have that much, but no more. oh, billy little, don't--don't." billy turned upon the piano-stool, and again began to play. dic had known that billy would be angry, but he was not prepared for this avalanche of wrath. billy had grown desperately fond of rita. no one could know better than he the utter folly and hopelessness of his passion; but the realization of folly and a sense of hopelessness do not shut folly out of the heart. if they did, there would be less suffering in the world. billy's love was a strange combination of that which might be felt by a lover and a father. he had not hoped or desired ever to possess the girl, and his love for dic had made it not only easy, but joyous to surrender her to him. especially was he happy over the union because it would insure her happiness. his love was so unselfish that he was willing to give up not only the girl, but himself, his blood, his life, for her sweet sake. with all his love for dic, that young man was chiefly important as a means to rita's happiness, and now he had become worse than useless because he was a source of wretchedness to her. you may understand, then, the reason for billy's extreme anger against this young man, who since childhood had been his friend, almost as dear as if he were his son. after rambling over the keys for two or three minutes, he turned savagely upon dic, saying:-- "i wish you would tell me why you come to me for advice. you don't take it." "yes, i do, billy little. i value your advice above every one else's." "stuff and nonsense. i warned you against that girl--the dimpler: much you heeded me. do you think i'm a free advice factory? get out of here, get out of here, i say, and let me never see your face--" "oh, billy little, don't, don't," cried dic. "you can't forsake me after all these years you have helped me. you can't do it, billy little!" "get out of here, i say, and don't come back--" ("ah, billy little, i beg--") "till to-morrow morning. come to-morrow, and i will try to tell you what to do." dic rushed upon the terrible little fellow, clasped his small form with a pair of great strong arms, and ran from the room. billy sat for a moment gazing at the door through which dic had passed; then he arranged his stock, and turned to his piano for consolation and inspiration. billy knew that he knew dic, and believed he knew sukey. he knew, among other facts concerning dic, that he was not a libertine; that he was pure in mind and purpose; that he loved and revered rita bays; and that he did not care a pin for sukey's manifold charms of flesh and blood. he believed that sukey was infatuated with dic, and that her fondness grew partly out of the fact that he did not fall before her smiles. he also believed that her regard for dic did not preclude, in her comprehensive little heart, great tenderness for other men. sukey had, upon one occasion, been engaged to marry three separate and distinct swains of the neighborhood, and a triangular fight among the three suitors had aroused in the breast of her girl friends a feeling of envy that was delicious to the dimpling little _casus belli_. after dic's departure, billy sat throughout most of the night gazing into the fire, smoking his pipe, and turning the situation over in his mind. when dic arrived next morning he was seated on the counter ready with his advice. the young man took a seat beside him. "now tell me all about it," said billy. "i think i know, but tell me the exact truth. don't spare the dimpler, and don't spare yourself." thereupon dic unfolded his story with a naked truthfulness that made him blush. "i thought as much," remarked billy, when the story was finished. "miss potiphar from egypt has brought you and herself into trouble." "no, no, billy little, you are wrong. i cannot escape blame by placing the fault upon her. i should despise myself if i did; but i would be a blind fool not to see that--that--oh, i cannot explain. you know there are jap bertram, dick olders, tom printz, and, above all, tom bays, who are her close friends and constant visitors and--and, you know--you understand my doubts. i do not trust her. i may be wrong, but i suppose i should wish to err on the right side. it is better that i should err in trusting her than to be unjust in doubting her. the first question is: shall i marry sukey if rita will forgive me? the second, shall i marry her if rita refuses to forgive me? am i bound by honor and duty to sacrifice my happiness for the sake of the girl whom i do not, but perhaps should, trust?" "i don't see that your happiness has anything to do with the case," returned billy. "if that alone were to be considered, i should say marry sukey regardless of your doubts. you deserve the penalty; but rita has done no sin, and you have no right to punish her to pay your debts. you are bound by every tie of honor to marry her, and you shall do so. the dimpler is trying to take you from rita, and if you are not careful your fool conscience will help her to do it." "if rita will forgive me," said dic. "she'll forgive you sooner or later," answered billy. "her love and forgiveness are benedictions she cannot withhold nor you escape." i doubt if billy little would have been so eager in forwarding this marriage had not williams been frowning in the background. billy, as you know, had a heart of his own--a bachelor heart; but he hated williams, and was intensely jealous of him. so, taking the situation at its worst, dic was the lesser of two evils. but, as i have already told you many times, he passionately loved dic for his own sake, and his unselfish regard for the priceless girl made the young man doubly valuable as a means to her happiness. if rita wanted a lover, she must have him. if she wanted the moon, she ought to have it--should have it, if billy little could get it for her. so felt billy, whose advice brought joy to dic. it also brought to him the necessity of a painful interview with sukey. he dreaded the interview, and told billy he thought he would write to sukey instead. "you can pay at least a small part of the penalty you owe by seeing the girl and bearing the pain of an interview," replied billy. "but if you are too cowardly to visit her, write. i suppose that's what i should do if i were in your place. but i'd be a poor example for a manly man to follow." "i'll see her," replied dic. "poor sukey! i pity her." "it isn't safe to pity a girl like sukey. pity has a dangerous kinsman," observed billy. * * * * * on his way home, dic called upon sukey, and, finding her out, left word he would return that evening. when she received the message her heart throbbed with hope, and the dimples twinkled joyously for the first time in many days. she used all the simple arts at her command to adorn herself for his reception, and toiled to assist the dimples in the great part they would soon be called upon to play in the drama of her life. she knew that dic did not trust her, and from that knowledge grew her own doubts as to the course he would take. hope and fear warmed and chilled her heart by turns; but her efforts to display her charms were truly successful; and faith, born of man's admiration, led her to believe she would that night win the greatest prize the world had to offer, and would save herself from ruin and disgrace. soon after supper the family were relegated to the kitchen, and sukey, with palpitating heart, waited in the front room for dic. among our simple rural folk a décolleté gown was considered immodest. in order to be correct the collar must cover the throat, as nearly to the chin and ears as possible. sukey's dresses were built upon this plan, much to her regret; for her throat and bosom were as white and plump--but never mind the description. they suited sukey, and so far as i have ever heard they were entirely satisfactory to those so fortunate as to behold them. therefore, when she was alone, knowing well the inutility of the blushing rose unseen, she opened the dress collar and tucked it under at each side, displaying her rounded white throat, with its palpitating little spot--almost another dimple--where it merged into the bosom. there was no immodest exposure, but when mrs. yates returned to the room for her glasses, the collar was quickly readjusted and remained in place till dic's step was heard. now, ready, and all together: dimples, lips, teeth, eyes, and throat, do your duty! so much depended upon dic that she wanted to fall upon her knees when he entered. it grieves me to write thus of our poor, simple little girl, whose faults were thrust upon her, and i wish i might have told this story with reference only to her dimples and her sweetness; but dic shall not be hopelessly condemned for his sin, if i can prevent it, save by those who are entitled to cast stones, and to prevent such condemnation i must tell you the truth about sukey. the fact that he would not claim the extenuation of temptation is at least some reason why he should have it. i shall not tell you the details of this interview. soon after dic's arrival our little hebe was in tears, and he, moved by her suffering, could not bring himself to tell her his determination. truly, billy was right. it was dangerous to pity such a girl. dic neither consented nor refused to marry her, but weakly evaded the subject, and gave her the impression that he would comply with her wishes. he did not intend to create that impression; but in her ardent desire she construed his silence to suit herself, and, becoming radiant with joy, was prettier and more enticing than she had ever before appeared. therefore, as every man will agree, dic's task became difficult in proportion, and painful beyond his most gloomy anticipations. his weakness grew out of a great virtue--the wholesome dread of inflicting pain. during the evening sukey offered dic a cup of cider, and her heart beat violently while he drank. "it has a peculiar taste," he remarked. "there are crab apples in it," the girl answered. there was something more than crab apples in the cider; there was a love powder, and two hours after dic's arrival at home he became ill. dr. kennedy ascribed the illness to poisoning, and for a time it looked as if sukey's love powder would solve several problems; but dic recovered, and the problems were still unsolved. from the day dic received sukey's unwelcome letter, he knew it was his duty to inform rita of his trouble. he was sure she would soon learn the interesting truth from disinterested friends, should the secret become public property on blue, and he wanted at least the benefit of an honest confession. that selfishness, however, was but a small part of his motive. he sincerely felt that it was rita's privilege to know all about the affair, and his duty to tell her. he had no desire to conceal his sin; he would not take her love under a false pretence. he almost felt that confession would purge him of his sin, and looked forward with a certain pleasure to the pain he would inflict upon himself in telling her. in his desire for self-castigation he lost sight of the pain he would inflict upon her. he knew she would be pained by the disclosure, but he feared more its probable effect upon her love for him, and looked for indignant contempt and scorn from her, rather than for the manifestation of great pain. he resolved to write to rita at once and make a clean breast of it; but billy advised him to wait till she was entirely well. dic, quite willing to postpone his confession, wrote several letters, which kind miss tousy delivered; but he did not speak of sukey yates until rita's letters informed him that she was growing strong. then he wrote to her and told her in as few words as possible the miserable story of his infidelity. he did not blame sukey, nor excuse himself. he simply stated the fact and said: "i hardly dare hope for your forgiveness. it seems that you must despise me as i despise myself. it is needless for me to tell you of my love for you, which has not wavered during so many years that i have lost their count. but now that i deserve your scorn; now that i am in dread of losing you who have so long been more than all else to me, you are dearer than ever before. write to me, i beg, and tell me that you do not despise me. ah, rita, compared to you, there is no beauty, no purity, no tenderness in the world. there seems to be but one woman--you, and i have thrown away your love as if i were a blind fool who did not know its value. write to me, i beg, and tell me that i am forgiven." but she did not write to him. in place of a letter he received a small package containing the ivory box and the unfortunate band of gold that had brought trouble to billy little long years before. wise miss tousy chapter xiv wise miss tousy upon first reading dic's letter, rita was stunned by its contents; but within a day or two her thoughts and emotions began to arrange themselves, and out of order came conclusion. the first conclusion was a surprise to her: she did not love dic as she had supposed. a scornful indifference seemed to occupy the place in her heart that for years had been dic's. with that indifference came a sense of change. dic was not the dic she had known and loved. he was another person; and to this feeling of strangeness was added one of scorn. this new dic was a man unworthy of any pure girl's love; and although her composite emotion was streaked with excruciating pain, as a whole it was decidedly against him, and she felt that she wished never to see him again. she began a letter to him, but did not care to finish it, and returned the ring without comment, that being the only answer he deserved. pages of scorn could not have brought to dic a keener realization of the certainty and enormity of his loss. he returned the ring to billy little. "i thank you for it, billy, though it has brought grief to me as it did to you. i do not blame the ring; my loss is my own fault; but it is strange that the history of the ring should repeat itself. it almost makes one superstitious." "egad! no one else shall suffer by it," said billy, opening the huge iron stove and throwing the ring into the fire. dic's loss was so heavy that it mollified billy's anger, which for several days had been keen against his young friend. billy's own pain and grief also had a softening effect upon his anger; for with dic out of the way, rita bays, he thought, would soon become mrs. roger williams, and that thought was torture to the bachelor heart. rita, bearing the name of his first and only sweetheart, had entered the heart of this man's second youth; and in the person of dic he was wooing her and fighting the good fight of love against heavy odds. dic, upon receiving the ring, was ready to surrender; but billy well knew that many a battle had been won after defeat, and was determined not to throw down his arms. thinking over his situation, dic became convinced that since rita was lost to him, he was in honor bound to marry sukey yates. life would be a desert waste, but there was no one to thank for the future sahara but himself, and the self-inflicted sand and thirst must be endured. the thought of marrying sukey yates at first caused him almost to hate her; but after he had pondered the subject three or four days, familiarity bred contempt of its terrors. once having accepted the unalterable, he was at least rid of the pain of suspense. he tried to make himself believe that his pain was not so keen as he had expected it would be; and by shutting out of his mind all thoughts of rita, he partially succeeded. sunday afternoon dic saw sukey at church and rode home with her, resting that evening upon her ciphering log. he had determined to tell her that he would marry her; but despite his desire to end the suspense, he could not bring himself to speak the words. he allowed her to believe, by inference, what she chose, and she, though still in great doubt, felt that the important question was almost settled in her favor. during the interim of four or five days billy little secretly called upon miss tousy, and incidentally dropped in to see rita. after discussing matters of health and weather, billy said: "rita, you must not be too hard on dic. he was not to blame. sukey is a veritable little eve, and--" "billy little, i am sorry to hear you place the blame on sukey. i suppose dic tells you she was to blame." "by jove! i've made a nice mess of it," muttered billy. "no, dic blames himself entirely, but i know whereof i speak. that girl is in love with him, and has set this trap to steal him from you and get him for herself. she has been trying for a long time to entrap him, and you are helping her. dic is a true, pure man, who has been enticed into error and suffers for it. you had better die unmarried than to lose him." "i hope to die unmarried, and i pray that i may die soon," returned rita with a deep, sad sigh. "no, you'll not die unmarried. you will marry williams," said billy, looking earnestly into her eyes. "i shall not." "if you wish to throw dic over and marry williams, you should openly avow it, and not seize this misfortune of dic's as an excuse." "oh, billy little, you don't think me capable of that, do you?" answered rita, reproachfully. "do you give me your word you will not marry williams?" asked billy, eagerly. "yes, i give you my word i will not marry him, if--if i can help it," she answered, and poor billy collapsed. he took his handkerchief from his pocket to dry the perspiration on his face, although the room was cold, and rita drew forth her handkerchief to dry her tears. "dic loves you, rita. he is one man out of ten thousand. he is honest, true, and pure-minded. he has sinned, i know; but he has repented. one sin doesn't make a sinner, and repentance is the market price of mercy. i know a great deal of this world, my girl, and of its men and women, and i tell you dic is as fine a character as i know. i don't know a man that is his equal. don't let this one fault condemn him and yourself to wretchedness." "i shall not be wretched," she replied, the picture of woe, "for i don't--don't care for him. i'm surprised, billy little, that i do not, and i think less of myself. there must be something wrong about me. i must be wicked when my--my love can turn so easily to indifference. but i do not care for him. he is nothing to me any more. you may be sure i speak the truth and--and although i am glad to have you here, i don't want you to remain if you continue to speak of--of him." the situation certainly was confusing, and billy, in a revery, resorted to maxwelton's braes as a brain clarifier. soon wild thoughts came to his mind, and wilder hopes arose in his bachelor heart. this girl, whom he had loved for, lo, these many years, was now free of heart and hand. could it be possible there was hope for him? pat with this strange thought spoke rita:-- "you say he is a splendid man, pure and true and honest; but you know, billy little, that measured by the standard of your life, he is not. i used to think he was like you, that you had made him like yourself, and i did love him, billy little. i did love him. but there is no one like you. you are now my only friend." tears came to her eyes, and she leaned toward billy, gently taking his hand between her soft palms. tumult caused the poor bachelor heart to lose self-control, and out of its fulness to speak:-- "you would not marry me?" he asked. the words were meant as a question, but fortunately rita understood them as a mere statement of a patent fact, spoken jestingly, so she answered with a laugh:-- "no, of course not. i could not marry you, billy little. but i wish you were young; then, do you know, i would make you propose to me. you should not have been born so soon, billy little. but if i can't have you for my husband, i'll have you for my second father, and _you_ shall not desert me." her jest quickly drove the wild hopes out of the bachelor heart, and billy trembled when he thought of what he had tried to say. he left the house much agitated, and returned to see miss tousy. after a consultation with that lady covering an hour, he went to the tavern and took the stage for home. next day, in the midst of dic's struggles for peace, and at a time when he had almost determined to marry sukey yates, a letter came from miss tousy, asking him to go to see her. while waiting for the stage, dic exhibited miss tousy's letter, and billy feigned surprise. two or three days previous to the writing of miss tousy's letter, rita had told that sympathetic young lady the story of the trouble with dic. the confidence was given one afternoon in miss tousy's cosey little parlor. "when is your friend mr. bright coming to see you?" asked miss tousy. "you are welcome to meet him here if you cannot receive him at home." "he will not come again at all," answered rita, closely scanning her hands folded on her lap. "why?" asked her friend, in much concern, "has your mother at last forced you to give him up?" "no, mother knows nothing of it yet--nothing at all. i simply sent his ring back and don't want to--to see him again. never." "my dear girl, you are crazy," exclaimed miss tousy. "you don't know what you are doing--unless you have grown fond of mr. williams; but i can't believe that is true. no girl would think twice of him when so splendid a fellow as dic--mr. bright--was--" "no, indeed," interrupted rita, "that can never be true. i would never care for any man as i cared for--for him. but i care for him no longer. it is all over between--between--it is all over." from the hard expression of the girl's face one might easily have supposed she was speaking the truth; there was no trace of emotion. "but, rita! this will never do!" insisted miss tousy. "you don't know yourself. you are taking a step that will wreck your happiness. you should also consider him." "you don't know what he has done," answered rita, still looking down at her folded hands. "i don't _care_ what he has done. you did not make yourself love him, and you cannot throw off your love. you may for a time convince yourself that you are indifferent, but you are simply lying to yourself, my dear girl, and you had better lie to any one else--the consequences will be less serious. never deceive yourself, rita. that is a deception you can't maintain. you may perhaps deceive all the rest of the world so long as you live--many a person has done it--but yourself--hopeless, rita, perfectly hopeless." "i'm not deceiving myself," answered the wilful girl. "you don't know what he has done." "i don't _care_," retorted miss tousy warmly. "if he were my lover, i--i tell you, rita bays, i'd forgive him. i'd keep him. he is one out of a thousand--so big and handsome; so honest, strong, and true." "but he's not true; that's the trouble," answered rita, angrily, although there had been a soft, tell-tale radiance in her eyes when miss tousy praised him. "ah, he has been inveigled into smiling upon another girl," asked miss tousy, laughing and taking rita's hand. "that is the penalty you must pay for having so splendid a lover. of course other girls will want him. i should like to have him myself--and, rita, there are lots of girls bold enough or weak enough to seek him outright. you mustn't see those little things. frequently the best use a woman can make of her eyes is to shut them." in place of shutting her eyes, rita began to weep, and miss tousy continued:-- "this man loves you and no other, my sweet one. that's the great thing, after all. no girl can steal his heart from you--of that you may be sure." "but i say you don't know," sobbed rita. "i will tell you." and she did tell her, stumbling, sobbing, and blushing through the narrative of dic's unforgivable perfidy. miss tousy whistled in surprise. after a moment of revery she said: "she is trying to steal him, rita, and she is as bad as she can be. if you will give me your promise that you will never tell, i'll tell you something sue davidson told me." rita promised. "not long since your brother tom called on sue and left his great-coat in the hall. sue's young sister got to rummaging in tom's great-coat pockets, for candy, i suppose, and found a letter from this same sukey yates to tom. sue told me about the letter. it breathed the most passionate love, and implored tom to save her from the ruin he had wrought. so you see, dic is not to blame." she paused, expecting her listener to agree with her; but rita sighed and murmured:-- "he is not excusable because others have been wicked." "but i tell you i wouldn't let that little wretch steal him from me," insisted miss tousy. "that's what she's trying to do, and you're helping her. when she was here i saw plainly that she was infatuated with him, and was bound to win him at any price--at any cost. she had no eyes nor dimples for any one else when he was by; yet he did not notice her--did not see her smiles and dimples. don't tell me he cares for her. he had eyes for no one but you. haven't you seen how other girls act toward him? didn't you notice how sue davidson went at him every chance she got?" "no," answered rita, still studying her folded hands, and regardless of her tear-stained face. "i think sue is the prettiest girl in town, excepting you," continued miss tousy, "and if she could not attract him, it would be hopeless for any one else to try." "nonsense," murmured rita, referring to that part of miss tousy's remark which applied to herself. "no, it isn't nonsense, rita. you are the prettiest girl i ever saw--but no matter. she is pretty enough for me to hate her. she is the sort of pretty girl that all women hate and fear. she obtrudes her prettiness--keeps her attractions always _en évidence_, as the french say. she moistens her lips to make them tempting, and twitches the right side of her face to work that dimple of hers. she is so attractive that she is not usually driven to seek a man openly; but dic--i mean mr. bright--did not even see her smiles. every one else did; and i will wager anything you like she has written love-notes to him--real love-notes. he would, of course, be too honorable to tell. he's not the sort of man who would kiss and tell--he is the sort women trust with their favors--but i'll wager i'm right about sue davidson." she was right, though dic's modesty had not permitted him to see miss d.'s notes in the light miss tousy saw them. "he is not the man," continued miss tousy, "to blame a girl for a fault of that sort, even in his own mind, and he would not explain at a woman's expense to save his life. with a man of his sort, the girl is to blame nine times out of ten. i wouldn't give a fippenny bit for a man no other girl wanted. there is a large class of women you don't know yet, rita. you are too young. the world has a batch of mawkish theories about them, but there are also a few very cold facts kept in the dark,--lodge secrets among the sex. dic is modest, and modesty in an attractive man is dangerous--the most dangerous thing in the world, rita. deliver me from a shy, attractive man, unless he cares a great deal for me. shyness in a man is apt to make a girl bold." "it did not make me bold," said rita, with a touch of fire. "not in the least?" asked miss tousy, leaning over the girl's lap, looking up into her face and laughing. "now come, rita, confess; you're as modest as a girl has any good reason to be, but tell me, didn't you--didn't you do your part? now confess." "well, i may have been a little bold, i admit, a very little--just at--you know, just at one time. i _had_ to be a little--just a little--you see--you know, outspoken, or--you know what i mean. he might not have--oh, you understand how such things happen." the hands in the lap were growing very interesting during these remarks, and the tear-stained cheeks were very hot and red. "yes, yes, dear," said miss tousy, leaning forward and kissing the hot cheeks, "yes, yes, sweet one. i know one just _has_ to help them a bit; but that is not boldness, that is charity." "since i think about it, perhaps i was," murmured rita. "i know i have often turned hot all over because of several things i did; but i cared so much for him. i was so young and ignorant. that was over two years ago. i cared so much for him and was all bewildered. nothing seemed real to me during several months of that time. part of the time it seemed i was in a nightmare, and again, it was like being in heaven. a poor girl is not a responsible being at such times. she doesn't know what she does nor what she wants; but it's all over now. i ... don't ... care anything ... about ... him now. it's all over." such a mournful little voice you never heard, and such a mournful little face you never saw. still, it was all over. miss tousy softly kissed her and said: "well, well, we'll straighten it all out. there, don't cry, sweet one." but rita did cry, and found comfort in resting her head on miss tousy's sympathetic bosom. the letter sue davidson had found altered rita's feeling toward sukey; but it left untouched dic's sin against herself, and she insisted that she did not care for him, and never, never would forgive. with all her gentleness she had strong nerves, and her spirit, when aroused, was too high to brook patiently the insult dic had put upon her. miss tousy's words had not moved her from her position. dic was no longer dic. he was another person, and she could love no man but dic. she had loved him all her life, and she could love none other. with such poor sophistry did she try to convince herself that she was indifferent. at times she succeeded beyond her most sanguine hope, and tried to drive conviction home by a song. but the song always changed to tears, the tears to anger, anger to sophistry, and all in turn to a dull pain at the heart, making her almost wish she were dead. * * * * * meanwhile the affairs of fisher and fox were becoming more and more involved. crops had failed, and collections could not be made. williams, under alleged imperative orders from boston, was pressing for money or security. tom had "overdrawn" his account in williams's office; and, with the penitentiary staring him in the face, was clamoring for money to make good the overdraft. at home he used the words "overdraft" and "overdrawn" in confessing the situation. williams, when speaking to tom of the shortage, had used the words "embezzlement" and "thief." [illustration: "miss tousy softly kissed her and said, ... 'there, don't cry, sweet one.'"] rita's illness had prevented williams's visits; but when she recovered, he began calling, though he was ominously sullen in his courtship, and his passion for the girl looked very much like a mania. one evening at supper table, tom said: "father, i must have five hundred dollars. i have overdrawn my account with williams, and i'll lose my place if it is not paid. i _must_ have it. can't you help me?" "what on earth have you been doing with the money?" asked tom, sr. "i have paid your tailor bills and your other bills to a sufficient amount, in all conscience, and what could you have done with the money you got from williams and your salary?" tom tried to explain, and soon the chief justice joined in: "la, father, there are so many temptations in town for young men, and our tom is so popular. money goes fast, doesn't it, tom? the boy can't tell what went with it. poor tom! if your father was half a man, he'd get the money for you; that's what he would. if your sister was not the most wicked, selfish girl alive, she could settle all our troubles. mr. williams would not press his brother-in-law or his wife's father. i have toiled and suffered and worked for that girl all my life, and so has her father, and so have you, tom. we have all toiled and suffered and worked for her, and now she's too ungrateful to help us. oh, 'sharper than a serpent's tooth,' as the immortal bard of avon truly says." rita began to cry and rose from her chair, intending to leave the room, but her mother detained her. "sit down!" she commanded. "at least you shall hear of the trouble you bring upon us. i have been thinking of a plan, and maybe you can help us carry it out if you want to do anything to help your father and brother. as for myself, i don't care. i am always willing to suffer and endure. 'blessed are they that suffer, for they shall inherit the kingdom of heaven.'" tom pricked up his ears, tom, sr., put down his knife and fork to listen, and rita again took her seat at table. "billy little has plenty of money," continued mrs. margarita, addressing her daughter. "the old skinflint has refused to lend it to your father or tom, but perhaps he'll not refuse you if you ask him. i believe the old fool is in love with you. what they all want with you i can't see, but if you'll write to him--" "oh, i can't, mother, i can't," cried rita, in a flood of tears. i will not drag the reader through another scene of heart failure and maternal raving. rita, poor girl, at last surrendered, and, amid tears of humiliation, wrote to billy little, telling of her father's distress, her mother's commands, and her own grief because she was compelled to apply to him. "you need not fear loss of your money, my friend," she wrote, honestly believing that she told the truth. "you will soon be repaid. mr. williams is demanding money from my father and uncle jim, and i dislike, for many reasons well known to you, to be under obligations to him. if you can, without inconvenience to yourself, lend this money, it will help father greatly just at this time, and will perhaps save me from a certain frightful importunity. the money will be repaid to you after harvest, when collections become easier. if i did not honestly believe so, even my mother's commands would not induce me to write this letter." rita fully believed the money would be paid; but billy knew that if he made the loan, he would be throwing his money away forever. after making good dic's loss of twenty-six hundred dollars,--which sum, you may remember, went to bays,--little had remaining in his strong-box notes to the amount of two thousand dollars, which, together with his small stock of goods and two or three hundred dollars in cash, constituted the total sum of his worldly wealth. he had reached a point in life where he plainly saw old age staring him in the face--an ugly stare which few can return with equanimity. the small bundle of notes was all that stood between him and want when that time should come "sans everything." but williams was staring rita in the face, and if the little hoard could save her, she was welcome to it. billy's sleep the night after he received rita's letter was meagre and disturbed, but next morning he took his notes and his poor little remainder of cash and went to indianapolis. he discounted the notes, as he had done in dic's case, and with the proceeds he went to the store of fisher and bays. fisher was present when billy entered the private office and announced his readiness to supply the firm with twenty-three hundred dollars on their note of hand. the money, of course, being borrowed by the firm, went to the firm account, and was at once applied by fisher upon one of the many williams notes. therefore tom's "overdrafts" remained _in statu quo_; likewise the penitentiary. the payment of billy little's twenty-three hundred dollars upon the williams debt did not help matters in the least. the notes owed by the firm of fisher and bays to the williams house aggregated nearly fourteen thousand dollars, and billy's poor little all did not stem the tide of importunity one day, although it left him penniless. the thought of his poverty was of course painful to billy, but he rode home that evening without seeing rita, happy and exultant in the mistaken belief that he had helped to save her from the grasp of williams. that same evening at supper tom, sr., told of billy little's loan, and there was at once an outburst of wrath from mother and son because part of the money had not been applied to tom's "overdraft." "the pitiful sum of twenty-three hundred dollars!" cried tom. "the old skinflint might as well have kept his money for all the good it will do us. do you think that will keep williams from suing us?" in tom's remarks mrs. bays concurred, saying that she "always knew he was a mean old miser." rita tried to speak in her friend's defence, but the others furiously silenced her, so she broke down entirely, covered her face with her hands, and wept bitterly. she went through the after-supper work amid blinding tears, and when she had finished she sought her room. without undressing she lay down on the bed, sobbing till the morning light shone in at her window. before she had lost dic her heart could fly from every trouble and find sweet comfort in thoughts of him; but now there was no refuge. she was alone in the world, save for billy little. she loved her father, but she knew he was weak. she loved tom, but she could not help despising him. she loved her mother, but she feared her, and knew there was no comfort or consolation for her in that hard heart. billy had not come to see her when he brought the money, and she feared she had offended him by asking for it. such was the situation when dic received miss tousy's letter inviting him to call upon her. * * * * * miss tousy greeted dic kindly when he presented himself at her door, and led him to the same cosey front parlor wherein rita had imparted the story of her woes and of dic's faithlessness. she left her guest in the parlor a moment or two, while she despatched a note to a friend in town. when she returned she said:-- "i'm sorry to hear of the trouble between you and rita, and am determined it shall be made up at once." "i fear that is impossible, miss tousy," returned dic, sadly. "she will never forgive me. i should not were i in her place. i do not expect it and am not worth it." "but she will forgive you; she will not be able to hold out against you five minutes if you crowd her. trust my word. i know more about girls than you do; but, above all, i know rita." miss tousy watched him as he stood before her, hanging his head, a very handsome picture of abject humility. after a moment of silence dic answered:-- "miss tousy, the truth is, i have lost all self-respect, and know that i am both a fool and a--a criminal. rita will not, cannot, and ought not to forgive me. i am entirely unworthy of her. she is gentle and tender as she can be; but she has more spirit than you would suspect. i have seen her under the most trying circumstances, and with all her gentleness she is very strong. i have lost her and must give her up." "you'll be no such fool," cried miss tousy; "but some one is knocking at the front door. be seated, please." she opened the front hall door, kissed "some one" who had knocked, and said to "some one":-- "step into the parlor, please. i will be with you soon." then she closed the parlor door and basely fled. dic sprang to his feet, and rita, turning backward toward the door, stood trembling, her hand on the knob. "don't go, rita," said dic, huskily. "i did not know you were coming here. i give you my word, i did not set a trap for you. miss tousy will tell you i had no thought of seeing you here. i wanted to see you, but i would not try to entrap you. i intended going to your house openly that you might refuse to see me if you wished; but since you are here, please--oh, rita, for god's sake, stay and hear me. i am almost crazed by what i have suffered, though i deserve it all, all. you don't know what i have to say." she partly opened the door; but he stepped quickly to her side, shut the door, and spoke almost angrily:-- "you shall hear me, and after i have spoken, if you wish, you may go, but not until then." he unclasped her hand from the knob, and, using more of his great strength than he knew, led her to a chair and brought another for himself. the touch of command in dic's manner sent a strange thrill to the girl's heart, and she learned in one brief moment that all her sophistry had been in vain; that her love was not dead, and could not be killed. that knowledge, however, did not change her resolution not to forgive him. you see, there was a touch of the chief justice in the girl. "i want you to hear me, rita, and, if you can, i want you to forgive me, and then i want you to forget me," said dic. the words "forget me" were not what she had expected to hear. she had supposed he would make a plea for forgiveness and beg to be taken back; but the words "forget me," seeming to lead in another direction, surprised her. with all her resolutions she was not prepared to forget. she lifted her eyes for a fleeting glance, and could not help thinking that the memory of his face had been much less effective than its presence. the tones of his voice, too, were stronger and sweeter at close range than she had remembered. in short, dic by her side and dic twenty-five miles away were two different propositions--the former a very dangerous and irresistible one, indeed. still, she would not forgive him. she could not and would not forget him; but she would shut her eyes to the handsome face, she would close her ears to the deep, strong voice, she would harden her heart to his ardent love, and, alas! to her own. she insisted to herself that she no longer loved him, and never, never would. every word that sukey had ever spoken concerning dic, every meeting of which she knew that had ever taken place between him and the dimpler,--in fact, all the trivial events that had happened between her lover and the girl who was trying to steal him from her, including the occurrence at scott's social,--came vividly back to rita at that moment with exaggerated meaning, and told her she had for years been a poor, trusting dupe. she would listen to dic because he was the stronger and could compel her to remain in the room; but when he should finish, she would go and would never speak to miss tousy again. "this is a terrible calamity i have brought upon us," said dic, speaking with difficulty and constraint. "it is like blindness or madness, and means wretchedness for life to you and me." still the unexpected direction, thought rita, but she answered out of her firm resolve:-- "i shall not be wretched, for i do not--don't care. the time was when i did care very, very much; but now i--" she did not finish the sentence, and her conscience reproached her, for she knew she was uttering a big, black lie. dic had expected scorn, and had thought he would be able to bear it without flinching. he had fortified himself days before by driving all hope out of his heart, but (as we say and feel when our dear ones die) he was not prepared, even though he well knew what was coming. her words stunned him for a moment, but he soon pulled himself together, and his unselfish love brought a feeling akin to relief: a poor, dry sort of joy, because he had learned that she did not suffer the pain that was torturing him. no mean part of his pain was because of rita's suffering. if she did not suffer, he could endure the penalty of his sin with greater fortitude. this slight relief came to him, not because his love was weak, but because his unselfishness was strong. "if i could really believe that you do not care," he said, struggling with a torturing lump in his throat, "if i could surely know that you do not suffer the pain i feel, i might endure it--god in heaven! i suppose i might endure it. but when i think that i have brought suffering to you, i am almost wild." the girl's hands were folded demurely upon her lap, and she was gazing down at them. she lifted her eyes for an instant, and there was an unwonted hardness in them as she answered: "you need not waste any sympathy on me. i don't want it." "is it really true, rita," he asked, "that you no longer care for me? was your love a mere garment you could throw off at will?" he paused, but rita making no reply, he continued: "it wounds my vanity to learn that i so greatly overestimated your love for me, and i can hardly believe that you speak the truth, but--but i hope--i almost hope you do. every sense of honor i possess tells me i must accept the wages of my sin and marry sukey yates, even though--" suddenly a change came over the scene. the girl who had been so passive and cold at once became active and very warm. she sprang to her feet, panting with excitement. resolutions and righteous indignation were scattered to the four winds by the tremendous shock of his words. sukey at last had stolen him. that thought seemed to be burning itself into the very heart of her consciousness. "you--you marry sukey yates!" she cried, breathing heavily and leaning toward dic, one hand resting on the arm of his chair, "you _marry_ her?" the question was almost a wail. "but if you no longer care there can be no reason why i should not," said dic, hardly knowing in the whirl of his surprise what he was saying. rita thought of the letter to tom, and all the sympathetic instincts of her nature sprang up to protect dic, and to save him from sukey's wicked designs. "oh," she cried, falling back into her chair, "you surely did not believe me!" "and you do care?" asked dic, almost stunned by her sudden change of front. rita's conduct had always been so sedate and sensible that he did not suppose she was possessed of ordinary feminine weaknesses. "oh, dic," she replied, "i never thought you would desert me." _in_consistency may also be a jewel. dic concluded he was an incarnate mistake. whichever way he turned, he seemed to be wrong. "i desert you?" he exclaimed. "but you returned my ring and did not even answer my letter, and now your scorn--" "what else could you expect?" asked the girl, in a passionate flow of tears. "i don't know what i expected, but i certainly did not expect this," answered dic, musing on the blessed fault of inconsistency that dwells in every normal woman's breast. "i did not expect this, or i should have acted differently toward her after you returned the ring. i would not have--i--i--god help me!" and he buried his face in his hands. "you would not have done what, dic? tell me all." her heart came to him in his trouble. he had sinned, but he was suffering, and that she could not bear. the low, soft tones of her voice soothed him, and he answered: "i would not have allowed her to believe i intended marrying her. i did not tell her in words that i would, but--i can't tell you. i can't speak." he saw rita's face turn pale, and though his words almost choked him, he continued, "i suppose i must pay the penalty of my sin." he gently put the girl from him, and went to the window, where he leaned, gazing into the street. she also rose, and stood waiting for him to speak. after a long pause she called his name,-- "dic!" when he turned she was holding out her arms to him, and the next moment they were round his neck. after a blank hour of almost total silence in the parlor, miss tousy came to the door and knocked. she had listened at the door several times during the hour; but, hearing no enlightening words or sounds, she had retreated in good order. allowing a moment to elapse after knocking, miss tousy called:-- "are you still there?" rita had been very still there, and was vividly conscious of the fact when miss tousy knocked. going to the door, rita opened it, saying:-- "yes, we are still here. i'm ashamed to have kept you out so long." she looked her shame and blushed most convincingly. upon hearing the knock, dic hurried over to the window, and when miss tousy entered he deluded himself into the belief that his attitude of careless repose would induce her to conclude he had been standing there all the afternoon. but miss tousy, in common with all other young ladies, had innate knowledge upon such subjects, and possibly also a little experience--she was twenty-five, mind you--; so she was amused rather than deceived. "well?" she asked, and paused for answer. "yes," answered rita. they understood each other, if we do not, for miss tousy kissed rita and then boldly went to dic and deliberately kissed him. thereupon rita cried, "oh!" dic blushed, and all three laughed. "but i'll leave you to yourselves again," said accommodating miss tousy. "i know you want to be alone." "oh, we are through," answered rita, blushing, and dic reluctantly assented. miss tousy laughed and asked:-- "through what?" then there was more blushing and more laughing, and rita replied, "just through--that's all." "well, i congratulate you," said miss tousy, taking rita's hand, "and am very happy that i have been the means of bringing you together again. take the advice of one who is older than you," continued miss tousy, the old and the wise, "and never, never again allow anything to separate you. love is the sweetest blossom of life, whose gentle wings will always cover you with the aromatic harmony of an everlasting sunlight." rita thought the metaphor beautiful, and dic was too interested to be critical. then rita and miss tousy, without any reason at all, began to weep, and dic felt as uncomfortable as the tears of two women could make him. the christmas gift chapter xv the christmas gift dic started home with his heart full of unalloyed happiness; but at the end of four hours, when he was stabling his horse, the old pain for the sake of another's sorrow asserted itself, and his happiness seemed to be a sin. rita's tender heart also underwent a change while she lay that night wakeful with joy and gazing into the darkness. amid all her joy came the ever recurring vision of sukey's wretchedness. while under the convincing influence of her own arguments and dic's resistless presence, she had seen but one side of the question,--her own; but darkness is a great help to the inner sight, and now the other side of the case had its hearing. she remembered sukey's letter to tom, but she knew the unfortunate girl loved dic. was it right, she asked herself over and over again, was it right that she should be happy at the cost of another's woe? then came again the flood of her great longing--the longing of her whole life--and she tried to tell herself she did not care who suffered, she intended to be happy. that was the way of the world, and it should be her way. but rita's heart was a poor place for such thoughts to thrive, and when she arose next morning, after a sleepless night of mingled joy and sorrow, she was almost as unhappy as she had been the previous morning. she spent several days and nights alternating between two opinions; but finally, after repeated conversations with miss tousy, whose opinions you already know, and after meditating upon sukey's endeavor to entrap two men, she arrived at two opposing conclusions. first, it was her duty to give dic up; and second, she would do nothing of the sort. that was the first, and i believe the only selfish resolve that ever established itself in the girl's heart with her full knowledge and consent. but the motive behind it was overpowering. she shut her lips and said she "didn't care," and once having definitely settled the question, she dismissed it, feeling that she was very sinful, but also very happy. dic, of course, soon sought billy little, the ever ready receptacle of his joys and sorrows. no man loved the words, "i told you so," more dearly than little, and when dic entered the store he was greeted with that irritating sentence before he had spoken a word. "you told me what?" asked dic, pretending not to understand. "come, come," returned billy, joyously, "i see it in your face. you know what i mean. don't try to appear more thick-headed than you are. oh, perhaps you are troubled with false modesty, and wish to hide the light of a keen perception. let it shine, dic, let it shine. hide it not. avoid the bushel." dic laughed and said: "well, you were right; she did forgive me. now please don't continue to point out your superior wisdom. i see it without your help. get thee a bushel, billy little, lest you shine too brightly." "no insolence, young man, no insolence," retorted billy, with a face grave and serious, save for a joyful smile in his eyes. "close the store door, billy little," said dic, after a few minutes of conversation, "and come back to the room. i want to talk to you." "the conceit of some people!" replied the happy merchant. "so you would have me close my emporium for the sake of your small affairs?" "yes," responded dic. "well, nothing wins like self-conceit," answered billy. "here's the key. lock the front door, and i'll be with you when i fold this bolt of india silk." dic locked the door, billy finished folding the india silk--a bolt of two-bit muslin,--and the friends went into the back room. how sweet it is to prepare one's self deliberately for good news! billy, in a glow of joy, lighted his pipe, moved his chair close to the fireplace, for the day was cold, and gave the word of command--"go ahead!" dic told him all that had happened in miss tousy's parlor, omitting, of course, to mention the blank hour, and added: "i had a letter from rita this morning, and she feels as i do, that we are very cruel; but she says she would rather be selfish and happy than unselfish and miserable, which, as you know, is not at all true. she couldn't be selfish if she were to try." "good little brain in that little head," exclaimed billy. "there never was a better. but, as you say, she's wrong in charging herself with selfishness. i believe she has more common sense, more virtue, more tenderness, gentleness, beauty, and unselfishness than any other girl in the world." dic laughed, very much pleased with his friend's comments upon rita. "i believe you are in love with her yourself." the shaft unintentionally struck centre and billy's scalp blushed as he haltingly remarked, "well, i suppose you're right." then after a long pause--"maxwelton's braes, um, um, um." another long pause ensued, during which billy knocked the ashes from his pipe against the wall of the fireplace, poked the back-log, and threw on two or three large pieces of wood. "i don't mind telling you," he said, chuckling with laughter, "that i was almost in love with her at one time. she was so perfect--had the same name, face, and disposition of--of another that--jove! i was terribly jealous of you." "nonsense," answered dic, with a great pleased laugh. "of course it was nonsense. i knew it then and know it now; but when, let me ask you, had nonsense or any other kind of sense anything to do with a man falling in love?" "i think it the most sensible thing a man can do," answered dic, out of the fulness of his cup of youth. "has it made you happy?" "yes, and no." "but mostly no?" responded the cynic. "yes, billy little, so far it's been mostly no; but the time will come when i will be very happy because of it." "not if you can help it. we will see how it turns out in the end." "billy little, you are the greatest croaker i ever knew," observed dic, testily. "it is better to croak early than to sing too soon. but what do you want?" "i want to know again what i shall do about sukey since this new change in rita. when i thought rita was lost to me, i fear i permitted sukey to believe i would, you know, comply with her wishes; but now i can't, and i don't know how to tell her about it. i said nothing, but my silence almost committed me." after a moment spent in thought, billy answered: "frederick the great used to say, 'in default of unanswerable arguments it is better to express one's self laconically and not go beating about the bush.' go tell her." "that's easier to advise than to do," retorted dic. "she will cry, and--" "yes, i know; if it were as easy to do as it is to advise, this would be a busy world. she will cry, and a woman's tears hurt the right sort of man. but bless my soul, dic, why don't you settle your own affairs? i'm tired of it all. it's getting to trouble me as much as it troubles you." billy paused, gazing into the fire, and dropped into a half-revery. "i can see the poor little dimpler weeping and grieving. i can hear her sobs and feel her heartaches. she is not good; but the fault is not hers, and i wish i might bear her pain and suffer in her stead. i believe it hurts me more to see others suffer than to suffer myself. i wish i might bear every one's suffering and die on a modern calvary. what a glorious thought that is, dic--the master's vicarious atonement! even if the story be nothing but a fable, as some men claim, the thought is a glorious one, and the fate--ah, the fate--but such a fate is only for god. if i can't help the suffering of the world, i wish i might live in the midst of sahara, where i could not hear of human pain. it hurts me, dic. indeed it does. and this poor little dimpler--i'm sorry, i'm sorry." "ah, billy little, think of my sorrow," said dic. "it's a question whether we should shrink from our troubles or face them," continued little; "but in your case i should choose the shrinking, and write to the poor, pathetic little dimpler. poor thing! her days of dimpling are over. if you knew that you had led her astray, your duty, i believe, would be clear; but there is the 'if' that gives us serious pause and makes cowards of us both. write to her, dic. you are too great a coward to face her, and i'm not brave enough even to advise it." dic wrote to sukey, and avoided the pain of facing her, but not the pain of knowing that she suffered. his letter brought an answer from sukey that was harder to bear than reproaches. within two or three days sukey wrote to rita, whom she knew to be the cause of dic's desertion. the letter to rita, like the one to dic, contained no word of reproach. "i do not blame you for keeping him," she said in closing. "he has always belonged to you. i hope you will be happy and not trouble yourselves about me. no one knows about this terrible affair, rita, but you and dic, and i hope you will tell nobody. especially, please, please, don't tell tom. this is the only request i make: don't let tom know anything about it. i want to confess, rita, that i have been very wicked, and that dic is not to blame. i feel it my duty to tell you this, so that you may not blame him. i have brought trouble to you both, and it is as little as i should do to tell you the truth. the fault was mine. i gave him a love powder. but i loved him." sukey's letter came one morning four or five days before christmas. rita wept all day over it, and at night it helped her in taking a step that settled all the momentous questions touching dic and herself. on the same fateful day mr. bays and tom came home together in the middle of the afternoon. that unwonted event was, in itself, alarming. rita was reading near the window, and her mother was knitting before the fire. when our toms, father and son, entered the room, trouble was plainly visible upon their faces. tom senior threw his cap and great fur coat on the bed, while de triflin' leaned against the mantel-shelf. drawing a chair to the fire, tom the elder said:-- "well, margarita, i guess we're ruined--jim and me and tom--all of us. i see no earthly way out of it." "what's the matter?" asked madam jeffreys, folding her knitting and placing it in her lap with great deliberation. rita dropped her book, and went over to her father. "williams, i suppose?" queried madam jeffreys. "yes; he has had orders from home to collect the money we owe the house, or else to take the store, the farm, our household furniture, everything, at once. williams leaves for home christmas day, and everything must be settled before then. he gives us till to-morrow noon to raise the money. but that is not the worst," continued mr. bays, nervously, rising and turning his back to the fire, "tom has--has overdrawn his account more than a thousand dollars in williams's office. williams don't call it 'overdrawn.' he calls it embezzlement, theft. tom and me went to judge blackford and told him just how the money was taken. the judge says williams is right about it; it is embezzlement, and williams says the firm insists on prosecuting tom and sending him to the penitentiary if the money is not replaced. god only knows what we are to do, margarita. the farm is mortgaged for its full value, and so far as i can see we are ruined, ruined." tears began to flow over his cheeks, and rita, drawing his face down to hers, stood on tiptoe and tried to kiss the tears away. "let me go to see billy little," she said in desperation. "he will lend us the money; i know he will." "like h--he will," cried gentle tom. "dic asked him to loan me enough money to pay my overdraft--said he would go on the note--but he refused point blank; said the twenty-three hundred dollars he loaned father and uncle jim fisher was all the money he had. the miserly old curmudgeon!" mrs. bays went weeping to tom's side. "poor tom, my dear, dear son," she whimpered, trying to embrace him. dear son roughly repulsed her, saying: "there's no need to go outside of our family for help. if rita wasn't the most selfish, ungrateful fool alive, she'd settle all our troubles by one word." "would you have me sell myself, tom?" asked the ungrateful sister. "of course i would!! sell yourself!! rot!! you'd be getting a mighty good price. there's lots better-looking girls 'en you would jump at the chance. sell yourself? ain't williams a fine gentleman? where's another like him? ain't he rich? ain't he everything a girl could want in a man--everything but a green country clodhopper?" "all that may be true, tom, but i can't marry him. i can't," returned rita, weeping and sobbing in her father's arms. "can't you, rita?" asked mr. bays. "all that tom says about him is true, every word. williams is good enough for any girl in the world but you. no man is that. you would soon forget dic." "no, no, father, never, never, in all my life." "and you would soon learn to like williams," continued the distracted father. "please, rita, try to do this and save me and tom." "she shall do it," cried madam jeffreys, taking courage from the knowledge that at last her husband was her ally. she went to rita and pulled her from her father's arms. "she shall do it or go into the street this very night, never to enter my house again. i'll never speak to her again if she don't. it will pain me to treat my own flesh and blood so harshly, but it is my duty--my duty. i have toiled and suffered and endured for her sake all my life, and it will almost kill me to turn against her now; but if she don't save her father and brother, i surely will. god tells me it is my duty. i do not care for myself. i have eaten husks all my life, ever since i got married, and i can die eating them; but for the sake of my dear husband and my dear son who bears his own father's name, it is my duty, god tells me it is my duty to spurn her. it is but duty and justice; and justice to all is my motto. it was my father's motto." she was a wordy orator, but her vocabulary was limited; and after several repetitions of the foregoing sentiments, she turned from oratory to anatomy. "oh, my heart," she cried, placing her hand upon her breast, "i believe i am about to die." she sank gasping into the chair, from which she had risen to hurl her philippic at rita's head, and by sheer force of her indomitable will caused a most alarming pallor to overspread her face. rita ran for the camphor, mr. bays fetched the whiskey, and under these restoratives madam jeffreys so far recovered that her husband and son were able to remove her from the chair to the bed. rita, in tribulation and tears, sat upon the bedside, chafing her mother's hands and doing all in her power to relieve the sufferer. "don't touch me, ungrateful child," cried mrs. margarita, "don't touch me! if you won't save your father and brother from ruin when you can, you are not fit to touch your mother. i am dying now," she continued, gasping for breath. "because of your cruelty and ingratitude, the blow has been more than god, in his infinite mercy, has given me strength to endure. when i am gone, you will remember about this. i forgive you; i forgive you." sigh followed sigh, and rita feared she had killed her parent. "oh, mother," she sobbed, "i will do what you wish. ah, no, i can't. i can't do it. don't ask me." "beg her, father, beg her," whispered mrs. bays to her spouse when she saw that rita was wavering. bays hesitated; but a look from the bed brought him to a proper condition of obedience:-- "rita, won't you save your father and brother?" he asked, taking his daughter's hands in his own. "we are all ruined and disgraced and lost forever if you do not. rita, i beg you to do this for my sake." the father's appeal she could not withstand. she covered her face with her hands; then, suddenly drawing herself upright and drying her tears, she said in a low voice, "i will." those two little words changed the world for father and son from darkness to light. they seemed also to possess wonderful curative powers for heart trouble, for within three minutes they snatched my lady jeffreys from the jaws of death and placed her upright in the bed. within another minute she was on her feet, well and hearty as ever, busily engaged evolving a plan for immediate action. "write to williams at once," she said to rita, "asking him to call this evening. tell him you want to talk to him about your father's affairs." rita again hesitated, but she had given her word, and accordingly wrote:-- "mr. williams: if not otherwise engaged, will you please call this evening. i am in great trouble about my father and tom, and wish to talk to you concerning their affairs. "rita." tom delivered the note, which threw williams into a state of ecstasy bordering on intoxication. i beg you to pause and consider this girl's piteous condition. never in all the eighteen years of her life had she unnecessarily given pain to a human heart. a tender, gentle strength, love for all who were near her, fidelity to truth, and purity without the blemish of even an impure thought, had gone to make up the sum of her existence. as a reward for all these virtues she was now called upon to bear the burden of an unspeakable anguish. what keener joy could she know than that which had come to her through her love for dic? what agony more poignant could she suffer than the loss of him? but, putting dic aside, what calamity could so blacken the future for her, or for any pure girl, as marriage with a man she loathed? we often speak of these tragedies regretfully and carelessly; but imagine yourself in her position, and you will pity this poor girl of mine, who was about to be sold to the man whom she despised--and who, worst of all, loved her. madame pompadour says in her memoirs, "i was married to one whom i did not love, and a misfortune still greater was that he loved me." that condition must be the acme of a woman's suffering. williams knocked at rita's door early in the evening, and was admitted to the front parlor by the girl herself. she took a chair and asked him to be seated. then a long, awkward silence ensued, which was broken by williams:-- "you said you wished to see me. is there any way in which i can serve you?" "yes," she murmured, speaking with difficulty. "my father and tom are in trouble, and i wanted to ask you if anything could be done to--to--" she ceased speaking, and in a moment williams said:-- "i have held the house off for four or five months, and i cannot induce them to wait longer. their letters are imperative. i wish i had brought them." "then nothing can save them?" asked rita. the words almost choked her, because she knew the response they would elicit. she was asking him to ask her to marry him. "rita, there is one thing might save them," replied roger of the craven heart. "you know what that is. i have spoken of it so often i am almost ashamed to speak again." well he might be. "well, what is it? go on," said rita, without a sign of faltering. she wanted to end the agony as soon as possible. "if you will marry me, rita--you know how dearly i love you; i need not tell you of that. were you not so sure of my love, i might stand better with you. you see, if you will marry me my father could not, in decency, prosecute tom or ruin your father. he would be compelled to protect them both, being in the family, you know." "if you will release tom and save my father from ruin i will ... will do ... as ... you ... wish," answered the girl. cold and clear were the words which closed this bargain, and cold as ice was the heart that sold itself. williams stepped quickly to her side, exclaiming delightedly, "rita, rita, is it really true at last?" he attempted to kiss her, but she held up her hand warningly. "no," she said, "not till i am your wife. then i must submit. till then i belong to myself." "i have waited a long time," answered this patient suitor, "and i can wait a little longer. when shall we be married?" "fix the time yourself," she replied. "i am to leave christmas morning by the napoleon stage for home, and if you wish we may be married christmas eve. that will give you four days for preparation." "as you wish," was the response. "i know, rita, you do not love me," said williams, tenderly. "you surely do," she interrupted. "but i also know," he continued, "that i can win your love when you are my wife. i know it, or i would not ask you to marry me. i would not accept your hand if i were not sure that i would soon possess your heart. i will be so loving and tender and your life will be so perfect--so different from anything you have ever known--that you will soon be glad you gave yourself to me. it will not be long, rita, not long." "perhaps you are right," she answered with her lips; but in her heart this girl, who was all tenderness and love, prayed god to strike him dead before christmas eve should come. williams again took his chair, but rita said, "i have given you my promise. i--i am--i fear i am ill. please excuse me for the rest of the evening and--and leave me, i beg you." williams took his leave, and rita went into the sitting room, where father, mother, and tom were waiting for the verdict. "you are saved," said rita, as if she were announcing dinner. "my daughter! my own dear child! god will bless you!" exclaimed the tender mother, hurrying to embrace the cause of her joy. "don't touch me!" said rita. "i--i--god help me! i--i fear--i--hate you." she turned to the stairway and went to her own room. for hours she sat by the window, gazing into the street, but toward morning she lighted a candle and told dic the whole piteous story in a dozen pages of anguish and love. * * * * * after receiving sukey's letter, dic left home for a few days to engage horses to take east with him in the spring. he did not return until late in the afternoon of the day before christmas. on the morning of that day--the day before christmas--jasper yates, sukey's father, came to billy little's store in great agitation. tom bays had been there the day before and had imparted to billy the news of rita's forthcoming wedding. she had supposed that dic would tell him and had not written; but dic was away from home and had not received her letter. i cannot describe to you the overpowering grief this announcement brought to the tender bachelor heart. it stunned him, crushed him, almost killed him; but he tried to bear up manfully under the weight of his grief. he tried, ah, so hard, not to show his suffering, and maxwelton's braes, was sung all day and was played nearly all night; but the time had come to billy when even music could not soothe him. there was a dry, hard anguish at his heart that all the music of heaven or of earth could not soften. late in the night he shut his piano in disgust and sat before the fire during the long black hours without even the comfort of a tear. when tom imparted the intelligence of rita's wedding, he also asked billy for a loan of four hundred dollars. as an inducement, he explained that he had forged the name of mr. wallace to a note calling for that sum, and had negotiated the note at an indianapolis bank. rita's marriage would settle the williams theft, but the matter of the forgery called for immediate adjustment in cash. billy refused the loan; but he gave tom fifty dollars and advised him to leave the state. "if you don't go," said billy, savagely, "you will be sent to the penitentiary. rita can't marry every one you have stolen from. what did you do with the money you stole from me--dic's money? tell me, or i'll call an officer at once. i'll arrest you myself and commit you. i'm a justice of the peace. now confess, you miserable thief." tom turned pale, and, seeing that billy was in dreadful earnest, began to cry: "there was five of us in that job," he whispered, "and, mr. little, i never got none of the money. con gagen and mike doles got it all. i give them the sacks to keep for a while after i left the store. they promised to divide, but they run away soon afterwards, and of course we others were afeared to peach. i didn't know you knowed it. con gagen put me up to it." "well, i do know it. i recognized you when you climbed out the window, and did not shoot you because you were rita's brother. i said nothing of the robbery for the same reason, but i made a mistake. leave my store. get out of the state at once. if you are here christmas day, i'll send you where you belong." tom took the fifty dollars and the advice; and the next day--the day before christmas, the day set for rita's wedding--sukey's father entered billy's store, as i have already told you, in great agitation. after yates had talked to billy for three or four minutes, the latter hurriedly closed the store door, donned the brummel coat, and went across the road to the inn where the indianapolis coach was waiting, and took his place. at six o'clock that evening dic arrived at billy little's store from his southern expedition. finding the store door locked, he got the key from the landlord of the inn, in whose charge billy had left it, went to the post-office, and rejoiced to find a letter from rita. he eagerly opened it--and rode home more dead than alive. rita's wedding would take place that night at eight o'clock. the thing was hopeless. he showed the letter to his mother, and asked that he might be left alone with his sorrow. mrs. bright kissed him and retired to her bed in the adjoining room, leaving dic sitting upon the hearth log beside the fire. dic did not blame rita. he loved her more dearly than ever before, if that were possible, because she was capable of making the awful sacrifice. he well knew what she would suffer. the thought of her anguish drowned the pain he felt on his own account, and his suffering for her sake seemed more than he could bear. billy little, he supposed, had gone to the wedding, and for the first time in dic's life he was angry with that steadfast friend. dic knew that the sudden plunge from joy to anguish had brought a benumbing shock, and while he sat beside the fire he realized that his suffering had only begun--that his real anguish would come with the keener consciousness of reaction. at four o'clock that same afternoon billy was seated in rita's parlor, whispering to her. "my dear girl, i bring you good news. you can't save tom. he forged wallace's name to a note for four hundred dollars, and passed it at the bank six weeks ago. he wanted to borrow the money from me to pay the note, but i did not have it. i gave him fifty dollars, and he has run away--left the state for no one knows where. he carried off two of yates's horses, and, best of all, he carried off sukey. all reasons for sacrificing yourself to this man williams are now removed, save only your father's debt. that, fisher tells me, has been renewed for sixty days, and at the end of that time your father and fisher will again have it to face. you could not save them, rita, if you were to marry half the men in boston. even if this debt were paid--cancelled --instead of renewed, your father would soon be as badly off as ever. a bank couldn't keep him in business, rita. every one he deals with robs and cheats him. he's a good man, rita, kind, honest, and hard working, but he is fit only to farm. i hate to say it, but in many respects your father is a great fool, very much like tom. it is easier to save ten knaves than one fool. a leopard is a leopard; a nigger is a nigger. god can change the spots of the one and the color of the other, but i'm blessed if i believe even god can unmake a fool. now my dear girl, don't throw away your happiness for life in a hopeless effort to save your father from financial ruin." "but i have given my word, billy little," replied the girl, to whom a promise was a sacred thing. "i believe my father and mother would die if i were to withdraw. i must go on, i must; it is my doom. it is only three hours--oh, my god! have mercy on me--" and she broke down, weeping piteously. soon she continued: "the guests are all invited, and oh, i can't escape, i can't! i have given my word; i am lost. thank you, dear friend, thank you, for your effort to help me; but it is too late, too late!" "no, it is not too late," continued billy; "but in three hours it will be too late, and you will curse yourself because you did not listen to me." "i know i shall; i know it only too well," replied the weeping girl. "i will not ask you to remain for the--the tragedy." "i would not witness it," cried billy, "for all the gold in the world! when i'm gone, rita, remember what i've said. do not wait until it is too late, but come with me; come now with me, rita, and let the consequences be what they will. they cannot be so evil as those which will follow your marriage. you do not know. you do not understand. come with me, girl, come with me. do not hesitate. when i have left you, it will be too late, too late. god only can help you; and if you walk open-eyed into this trouble, he will _not_ help you. he helps those who help themselves." "no, billy little, no; i cannot go with you. i have given my word. i have cast the die." with these words billy arose, took up his hat, stick, and gloves, went out into the hall, and opened the front door to go. "when i'm gone, rita, remember what i have said and what i'm about to say, and even though the minister be standing before you, until you have spoken the fatal words, it will not be too late. you are an innocent girl, ignorant of many things in life. still, every girl, if she but stops to think, has innate knowledge of much that she is supposed not to know. when i'm gone, rita, _think_, girl, _think_, think of this night; this night after the ceremony, when all the guests have gone and you are alone with him. kill yourself, rita, if you will, if there is no other way out of it--kill yourself, but don't marry that man. for the sake of god's love, don't marry him. death will be sweet compared to that which you will suffer if you do. good-by, rita. think of this night, girl; think of this night." "good-by, billy little, good-by," cried the girl, while tears streamed over her cheeks. as she closed the door behind him she covered her face with her hands and moaned: "i cannot marry him. how can i kill myself? how can i escape?" meanwhile madam jeffreys had donned her black silk dress, made expressly for the occasion, and was a very busy, happy woman indeed. she did not know that tom had run away, but was expecting him home from blue by the late stage, which would arrive about seven o'clock. billy left for home on the five o'clock stage, but before he left he had a talk with rita's father. soon after billy's departure, miss tousy and a few young lady friends came to assist at the bride's toilet. it was a doleful party of bridesmaids in rita's room, you may be sure; but by seven o'clock she was dressed. when the task was finished, she said to her friends:-- "i am very tired. i have an hour before the ceremony, and i should like to sit alone by the window in the dark to rest and think. please leave me to myself. i will lock the door, and, miss tousy, please allow no one to disturb me." "no one shall disturb you, my dear," answered miss tousy, weeping as she kissed her. then the young ladies left the room, and rita locked the door. ten minutes later mr. bays entered from tom's room, which was immediately back of rita's. a stairway descended from tom's room to the back yard. [illustration: "'here,' replied the girl."] mr. bays kissed rita, and hastily whispered: "my great-coat, cap, and gloves are on tom's bed. buck is saddled in the stable. don't ever let your mother know i did this. good-by. i would rather die than see you marry this man and lose dic. don't let your mother know," and he hurried from the room. rita went hurriedly into tom's room and put on the great-coat, made of coonskins, a pair of squirrel-skin gloves, and a heavy beaver cap with curtains that fell almost to her shoulders. she also drew over her shoes a pair of heavy woollen stockings; and thus arrayed, she ran down the stairway to the back yard. flurrying to the stable, she led out "old buck," mr. bays's riding horse, and galloped forth in the dark, cold night for a twenty-six mile ride to billy little. soon after rita's departure the guests began to assemble. at ten minutes before eight came williams. upon his arrival, mrs. bays insisted that rita should be called, so she and miss tousy went to rita's door and knocked. the knock was repeated; still no answer. then mrs. bays determined to enter rita's room through tom's,--and i will draw a veil over the scene of consternation, confusion, and rage that ensued. * * * * * near the hour of two o'clock in the morning another scene of this drama was enacted, twenty-six miles away. billy little was roused from his dreams--black nightmares they had been--by a knocking on his store door, and when he sat up in bed to listen, he heard rita's voice calling:-- "billy little, let me in." billy ran to unlock the front door, crying: "come in, come in, god bless my soul, come in. maxwelton's braes _are_ bonny, bonny, bonny. tell me, are you alone?" "yes, billy, i'm alone, and i fear they will follow me. hide me somewhere. but you'll freeze without your coat. go and--" "bless me, i haven't my coat and waistcoat on. excuse me; excuse--maxwelton's--i'll be out immediately." and the little old fellow scampered to his bedroom to complete his toilet. then he lighted a candle, placed wood on the fire, and called rita back to his sanctum sanctorum. she was very cold; but a spoonful of whiskey, prescribed by dr. little, with a drop of water and a pinch of sugar, together with a bit of cheese and a biscuit from the store, and the great crackling fire on the hearth, soon brought warmth to her heart and color to her cheeks. "what are you going to do with me now you've got me? they will come here first to find me," she asked, laughing nervously. "we'll go to dic," said billy, after a moment's meditation. "we'll go to dic as soon as you are rested." "oh, billy little, i--i can't go to him. you know i'm not--not--you know." "not married? is that what you mean?" "yes." "i'm mighty thankful you are not. dic's mother is with him. it will be all perfectly proper. but never mind; i have another idea. i'll think it over as we ride." after rita had rested, billy donned the beau brummel coat and saddled his horse, and the pair started up blue to awaken dic. he needed no awakening, for he was sitting where we left him, on the hearth, gazing into a bed of embers. when our runaway couple reached dic's house, billy hitched his horse, told rita to knock at the front door, and took her horse to the stable. when dic heard the knock at that strange hour of the night, he called:-- "who's there?" "rita." dic began to fear his troubles had affected his mind; but when he heard a voice unmistakably hers calling, "please let me in; i have brought you a christmas gift," he knew that he was sane, and that either rita or her wraith was at the door. when she entered, clad in her wedding gown, coonskin coat and beaver cap, he again began to doubt his senses and stood in wonder, looking at her. "aren't you glad to see me, dic?" she asked, laughing. still he did not respond, and she continued, "i have ridden all night to bring you a christmas gift." "a christmas gift?" he repeated, hardly conscious of the words he spoke, so great had been the shock of his awakening from a dream of pain to a reality of bliss. "where--where is it?" "here," replied the girl, throwing off the great-coat and pressing her hands upon her bosom to indicate herself. then dic, in a flood of perceptive light and returning consciousness, caught the priceless christmas gift to his heart without further question. in a moment billy little entered the door that rita had closed. "here, here, break away," cried billy, taking rita and dic each by the right hand. as he did so dic's mother entered from the adjoining room, and billy greeted her with "howdy," but was too busy to make explanations. "now face me," said that little gentleman, speaking in tones of command to rita and dic. "clasp your right hands." the hands were clasped. "now listen to me. diccon bright, do you take this woman whom you hold by the hand to be your wedded wife?" dic's faculties again began to wane, and he did not answer at once. "the answer is, 'i do,' you stupid," cried billy, and dic said, "i do." "do you, rita fisher bays,--margarita fisher bays,--take this man whom you hold by the right hand to be your husband?" rita's faculties were in perfect condition and very alert, so she answered quickly, "i do." "then," continued our worthy justice of the peace, "by virtue of authority vested in me by the laws of the state of indiana, i pronounce you husband and wife. i kiss the bride." after kissing rita, and shaking hands with dic and mrs. bright, billy hurried out through the door, and the new-made husband and wife watched him as he mounted and rode away. he was singing--not humming, but singing--at his topmost pitch, "maxwelton's braes are bonny, where early falls the dew." he had never before been known to complete the stanza. his voice could be heard after he had passed out of sight into the forest, and just as the sun peeped from the east, turning the frost dust to glittering diamonds and the snow-clad forest to a paradise in white, the song lost itself among the trees, and dic, closing the door, led rita to his hearth log. * * * * * dorothy vernon of haddon hall by charles major _author of "when knighthood was in flower," etc._ with eight full-page illustrations by howard chandler christy cloth mo $ . 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"the book is thoroughly healthy, and it is infused through and through with the breath of the forests. it is a delightful book to read."--_charleston sun-news._ "the book is especially adapted to boys, but the well-rounded style of the author, combined with a little natural history, makes it at once interesting and instructive to young and old alike."--_plymouth weekly._ "this is not a mere 'boy's book'; it is a work of art, appealing to the most cultured reader."--_christian world._ "though the story may have been written for boys, it is even better fun for older people and sportsmen, as a well-written, spirited book of so strenuous a life."--_literary world._ * * * * * the mettle of the pasture by james lane allen author of "the choir invisible," "a kentucky cardinal," etc., etc. cloth mo $ . "'the mettle of the pasture' contains more characters and a greater variety of them, it has more versatility, more light and shade, more humor, than any of his previous books. the story, too, is wider in scope and the central tragedy draws irresistibly to it.... "'the mettle of the pasture' is a novel of greatness; it is so far mr. allen's masterpiece; a work of beauty and finished art. there can be no question of its supreme place in our literature; there can be no doubt of its wide acceptance and acceptability. more than any of his books it is destined to an enviable popularity. it does not take extraordinary prescience to predict an extraordinary circulation for it." --james macarthur in a review in the august _reader_. "it may be that 'the mettle of the pasture' will live and become a part of our literature; it certainly will live far beyond the allotted term of present-day fiction. our principal concern is that it is a notable novel, that it ranks high in the entire range of american and english fiction, and that it is worth the reading, the re-reading, and the continuous appreciation of those who care for modern literature at its best."--_the boston transcript._ "in 'the mettle of the pasture' mr. allen has reached the high-water mark thus far of his genius as a novelist. the beauty of his literary style, the picturesque quality of his description, the vitality, fulness, and strength of his artistic powers never showed to better advantage.... its reader is fascinated by the picturesque descriptions, the humor, the clear insight, and the absolute interest of his creations."--_the brooklyn eagle._ * * * * * the call of the wild by jack london author of "the children of the frost," etc., etc. illustrated cloth mo $ . all those who have read it believe that jack london's new story, "the call of the wild," will prove one of the half-dozen memorable books of . this story takes hold of the universal things in human and animal nature; it is one of those strong, thrilling, brilliant things which are better worth reading the second time than the first. entertaining stories we have in plenty; but this is something more--it is a piece of literature. at the same time it is an unforgettable picture of the whole wild, thrilling, desperate, vigorous, primeval life of the klondike regions in the years after the gold fever set in. it ranks beside the best things of its kind in english literature. the tale itself has for its hero a superb dog named buck, a cross between a st. bernard and a scotch shepherd. buck is stolen from his home in southern california, where judge miller and his family have petted him, taken to the klondike, and put to work drawing sledges. first he has to be broken in, to learn "the law of club and fang." his splendid blood comes out through the suffering and abuse, the starvation and the unremitting toil, the hardship and the fighting and the bitter cold. he wins his way to the mastership of his team. he becomes the best sledge dog in alaska. and all the while there is coming out in him "the dominant primordial beast." but meantime, all through the story, the interest is almost as much in the human beings who own buck, or who drive him, or who come in contact with him or his masters in some way or other, as in the dog himself. he is merely the central figure in an extraordinarily graphic and impressive picture of life. in none of his previous stories has mr. london achieved so strong a grip on his theme. in none of them has he allowed his theme so strongly to grip him. he has increased greatly in his power to tell a story. the first strong note in the book is the coming out of the dog's good blood through infinite hardship; the last how he finally obeyed "the call of the wild" after his last and best friend, thornton, was killed by the indians. it has been very greatly praised during its serial run, mr. mabie writing in _the outlook_ of "its power and its unusual theme.... this remarkable story, full of incident and of striking descriptions of life and landscape in the far north, contains a deep truth which is embedded in the narrative and is all the more effective because it is never obtruded." * * * * * people of the whirlpool from the experience book of a commuter's wife _by the author of "the garden of a commuter's wife"_ with eight full-page illustrations cloth mo $ . "the book is in every way a worthy companion to its very popular predecessor."--_the churchman._ "altogether the story is fascinating, holding the attention with its charm of narrative and its pictures of real life."--_grand rapids herald._ "the whole book is delicious, with its wise and kindly humor, its just perspections of the true values of things, its clever pen pictures of people and customs, and its healthy optimism for the great world in general."--_philadelphia telegraph._ * * * * * anne carmel by gwendolen overton author of "the heritage of unrest" with illustrations by arthur i. keller cloth mo $ . "a novel of uncommon beauty and depth ... in every way an unusual book."--_louisville times._ "one of the few very important books of the year."--_the sun_, new york. "is so far above the general run of the fiction of to-day as to be strongly attractive, just because of this contrast, but it is, for itself, something to move heart and brain to quick action and deep admiration."--_nashville american._ * * * * * the heart of rome by f. marion crawford author of "saracinesca," "in the palace of the king," "cecilia," "ave roma immortalis," etc. cloth mo $ . this striking title is perfectly descriptive of the book. mr. crawford, who has studied rome in all its phases and has been writing novels and serious books about it for twenty years, has undertaken to put "the heart of rome" into his latest novel. many authors have undertaken to do this, but in almost every case the result, however it may have been praised for various features, has been adjudged in the end unsatisfactory. the author of "saracinesca" has here written his strongest and best work; a novel in which, around an absorbing love story, are described the manifold elements that go to make up the whole of the eternal city as it exists at the present time. it is said by those who have read the story that it will stand as a picture of roman and italian life without a peer. mr. crawford has been living in italy most of the year in order to be close to the atmosphere and the life of the city which he has here depicted. * * * * * the literary sense by e. nesbit author of "the red house," "the would-be-goods," etc. cloth mo $ . this is a collection of very clever and original short stories, by an author whose work has attracted much favorable attention here and in england. the stories deal with lovers' meetings, partings, misunderstandings or reconciliations. they are little tragedies or little comedies, and sometimes both. the situations are strong and ingeniously conceived, and each tale has a turn or twist of its own. there is throughout a quiet vein of humor and a light touch even where the situation is strained. in a way the stories are held together, because most or all of them have a bearing on the idea which is set forth in the first story--the one that gives the book its title. in that story the girl loses her lover because, instead of acting simply and naturally, she tries to act as if she were in a book, to follow her "literary sense"; in other words, she has something of the same temperament that distinguished mr. barrie's "sentimental tommy." this idea appears and reappears in the other stories, notably in that called "miss eden's baby," which in its way is a little masterpiece. * * * * * on the we-a trail by caroline brown author of "knights in fustian" cloth mo $ . this story incidentally portrays the vicissitudes and the lives of the american pioneers in the "great wilderness," as the country west of the alleghanies was generally known. the capture and recapture of fort sackville, at vincennes on the wabash, are important features among the central incidents. the action begins in mid-wilderness and culminates with the fall of the fort under the assault of george rogers clark. here the lovers are reunited after months of separation and adventures. they were first parted by the savages, who murdered the heroine's entire family save herself. driven into the forest, she is taken captive by the indians. she makes her escape. later she is taken to the fort by one of hamilton's _coureurs de bois_, and adopted into the family of the commandant. the lover meantime wanders from kaskaskia to detroit in pursuit of the tribe which has taken captive his sweetheart, and has various adventures by the way, many of which take place on the famous we-a trail. the action of the story is practically confined to indiana, the author's native state; and it forms an important addition to the increasing number of novels dealing with the early life of that region of the country. * * * * * the black chanter and other highland tales by nimmo christie cloth mo $ . this is a remarkable group of stories by a new writer. they are all scotch, and deal with scotland at a remote period--about the twelfth century. all the tales except one--"the wise woman," which is the best of all--deal with fighting, and the pipers appear in almost all. they are stories rather for men than for women, because they deal with a rough time in a direct way; but they are so clever that women whom virility attracts will like them. the striking originality of these stories augurs well for the author's future. the tales consist largely in legends, traditions, and dramatic incidents connected with the old life of scottish clans. each tale has at the end an unexpected turn or quick bit of action, and these endings are almost invariably tragic. the style is well suited to the character of the stories, which are wild, weird, and queer. they have a true imaginative vein. * * * * * blount of breckenhow by beulah marie dix author of "the making of christopher ferringham," "soldier rigdale," and "hugh gwyeth" cloth mo $ . its scene is laid in england in the years - . it is not a historical novel, nor a romance, nor an adventure story; it is the story of a brave man and a noble woman as set forth in the letters of a prosperous family of yorkshire gentry. james blount, the hero, comes by his father's side of a race of decayed northern gentry, and by his mother's side from the yeomanry. entering the king's army as a private trooper, he wins a commission; but he never wins social recognition from his brother officers, and he is left much alone. he meets arundel carewe and loves her. the moment when he is about to tell his love he learns that she is betrothed to his captain, and only friend, bevill rowlestone. blount keeps silent till near the end of the story. meanwhile arundel is married to bevill, who is a delightful seventeenth-century lover, but not wholly satisfactory as a husband. arundel is in garrison with bevill at a lonely village through the first dreary winter of their married life. bevill neglects what he has won, but blount in all honor is very tender and thoughtful of her. on the night when arundel's child is born, bevill makes a gross error of judgment and shifts a body of troops which exposes his whole position. he entreats blount, who is his subaltern, to shoulder the blame. for the sake of arundel and her child, blount does so. the matter proves very serious. blount is tried by court-martial, publicly degraded, and kicked out of the army. all trace of him is lost for some eighteen months. then, when arundel and her child are in great danger in their besieged country house, blount, who is serving again as a private trooper, appears and rescues her. the book does not teem with battle and violence; only twice do the people in the story come within sound of the guns. * * * * * mctodd by cutcliffe hyne author of "captain kettle" and "thompson's progress" cloth mo $ . mr. cutcliffe hyne's "mctodd" enriches literature with a new and fascinating figure. the author established himself with his "captain kettle" books, and he has made his popularity considerably more sure through his latest story, "thompson's progress." mctodd, the engineer, was quite as popular a hero in the last captain kettle book as that fiery little sailor, and mr. hyne now makes him the chief character in a better story. the author's invention never flags, and the new story is full of incidents and experiences of the liveliest and most fascinating kind. besides drawing a better character, the author has made his experiences more like those of real people, and has constructed a story which is well knit, forceful, and absorbing. he has outgrown the crudities observable in his previous books, and it is expected that his new creation will give him a much better place in literature and will greatly strengthen his hold on the popular approval. the macmillan company fifth avenue, new york transcriber's note: a number of instances of 'dic' being misspelt as 'dick' have been corrected. printer's errors have been corrected, all other inconsistencies are as in the original. counsel for the defense by leroy scott author of "the shears of destiny," "to him that hath," "the walking delegate" frontispiece by charles m. chapman garden city new york doubleday, page & company _copyright, , , by_ leroy scott _all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian_ [illustration: "thrilling with an unexpected hope, katherine rose and tried to keep herself before the eyes of doctor sherman like an accusing conscience"] to helen principal characters katherine west. dr. david west, her father. arnold bruce, editor of the _express_. harrison blake, ex-lieutenant-governor. mrs. blake, his mother. "blind charlie" peck, a political boss. hosea hollingsworth, an old attorney. billy harper, reporter on the _express_. the reverend dr. sherman, of the wabash avenue church. mrs. sherman, his wife. mrs. rachel gray, katherine's aunt. roger kennedy, prosecuting attorney. judge kellog. mr. brown, of the national electric & water company. mr. manning, a detective. elijah stone, a detective. contents chapter page i. westville prepares to celebrate ii. the bubble reputation iii. katherine comes home iv. doctor west's lawyer v. katherine prepares for battle vi. the lady lawyer vii. the mask falls viii. the editor of the _express_ ix. the price of a man x. sunset at the sycamores xi. the trial xii. opportunity knocks at bruce's door xiii. the deserter xiv. the night watch xv. politics make strange bedfellows xvi. through the storm xvii. the cup of bliss xviii. the candidate and the tiger xix. when greek meets greek xx. a spectre comes to town xxi. bruce to the front xxii. the last stand xxiii. at elsie's bedside xxiv. billy harper writes a story xxv. katherine faces the enemy xxvi. an idol's fall xxvii. the end of the beginning counsel for the defense chapter i westville prepares to celebrate the room was thick with dust and draped with ancient cobwebs. in one corner dismally reposed a literary junk heap--old magazines, broken-backed works of reference, novels once unanimously read but now unanimously forgotten. the desk was a helter-skelter of papers. one of the two chairs had its burst cane seat mended by an atlas of the world; and wherever any of the floor peered dimly through the general débris it showed a complexion of dark and ineradicable greasiness. altogether, it was a room hopelessly unfit for human habitation; which is perhaps but an indirect manner of stating that it was the office of the editor of a successful newspaper. before a typewriter at a small table sat a bare-armed, solitary man. he was twenty-eight or thirty, abundantly endowed with bone and muscle, and with a face----but not to soil this early page with abusive terms, it will be sufficient to remark that whatever the divine sculptor had carved his countenance to portray, plainly there had been no thought of re-beautifying the earth with an apollo. he was constructed not for grace, but powerful, tireless action; and there was something absurdly disproportionate between the small machine and the broad and hairy hands which so heavily belaboured its ladylike keys. it was a custom with bruce to write the big local news story of the day himself, a feature that had proved a stimulant to his paper's circulation and prestige. to-morrow was to be one of the proudest days of westville's history, for to-morrow was the formal opening of the city's greatest municipal enterprise, its thoroughly modern water-works; and it was an extensive and vivid account of the next day's programme that the editor was pounding so rapidly out of his machine for that afternoon's issue of the _express_. now and then, as he paused an instant to shape an effective sentence in his mind, he glanced through the open window beside him across main street to where, against the front of the old court house, a group of shirt-sleeved workmen were hanging their country's colours about a speakers' stand; then his big, blunt fingers thumped swiftly on. he had jerked out the final sheet, and had begun to revise his story, making corrections with a very black pencil and in a very large hand, when there sauntered in from the general editorial room a pale, slight young man of twenty-five. the newcomer had a reckless air, a humorous twist to the left corner of his mouth, and a negligent smartness in his dress which plainly had its origin elsewhere than in westville. the editor did not raise his eyes. "in a minute, billy," he said shortly. "nothing to hurry about, arn," drawled the other. the young fellow drew forward the atlas-bottomed chair, leisurely enthroned himself upon the nations of the earth, crossed his feet upon the window-sill, and lit a cigarette. about his lounging form there was a latent energy like that of a relaxed cat. he gazed rather languidly over at the square, its sides abustle with excited preparation. across the fronts of stores bunting was being tacked; from upper windows crisp cotton flags were being unscrolled. as for the court house yard itself, to-day its elm-shaded spaces were lifeless save for the workmen about the stand, a litigant or two going up the walk, and an occasional frock-coated lawyer, his vest democratically unbuttoned to the warm may air. but to-morrow---- the young fellow had turned his head slowly toward the editor's copy, and, as though reading, he began in an emotional, declamatory voice: "to-morrow the classic shades of court house square will teem with a tumultuous throng. in the emblazoned speakers' stand the westville brass band, in their new uniforms, glittering like so many grand marshals of the empire, will trumpet forth triumphant music fit to burst; and aloft from this breeze-fluttered throne of oratory----" "go to hell!" interrupted bruce, eyes still racing through his copy. "and down from this breeze-fluttered throne of oratory," continued billy, with a rising quaver in his voice, "mr. harrison blake, westville's favourite son; the reverend doctor sherman, president of the voters' union, and the honourable hiram cogshell, calloway county's able-bodiest orator, will pour forth prodigal and perfervid eloquence upon the populace below. and dr. david west, he who has directed this magnificent work from its birth unto the present, he who has laid upon the sacred altar of his city's welfare a matchless devotion and a lifetime's store of scientific knowledge, he who----" "see here, young fellow!" the editor slammed down the last sheet of his revised story, and turned upon his assistant a square, bony, aggressive face that gave a sense of having been modelled by a clinched fist, and of still glowering at the blow. he had gray eyes that gleamed dogmatically from behind thick glasses, and hair that brush could not subdue. "see here, billy harper, will you please go to hell!" "sure; follow you anywhere, arn," returned billy pleasantly, holding out his cigarette case. "you little chicago alley cat, you!" growled bruce. he took a cigarette, broke it open and poured the tobacco into a black pipe, which he lit. "well--turn up anything?" "governor can't come," replied the reporter, lighting a fresh cigarette. "hard luck. but we'll have the crowd anyhow. blake tell you anything else?" "he didn't tell me that. his stenographer did; she'd opened the governor's telegram. blake's in indianapolis to-day--looking after his chances for the senate, i suppose." "see doctor west?" "went to his house first. but as usual he wouldn't say a thing. that old boy is certainly the mildest mannered hero of the day i ever went up against. the way he does dodge the spot-light!--it's enough to make one of your prima donna politicians die of heart failure. to do a great piece of work, and then be as modest about it as he is--well, arn, i sure am for that old doc!" "huh!" grunted the editor. "when it comes time to hang the laurel wreath upon his brow to-morrow i'll bet you and your spavined old arrangements committee will have to push him on to the stand by the scruff of his neck." "did you get him to promise to sit for a new picture?" "yes. and you ought to raise me ten a week for doing it. he didn't want his picture printed; and if we did print it, he thought that prehistoric thing of the eighties we've got was good enough." "well, be sure you get that photo, if you have to use chloroform. i saw him go into the court house a little while ago. better catch him as he comes out and lead him over to dodson's gallery." "all right." the young fellow recrossed his feet upon the window-sill. "but, arn," he drawled, "this certainly is a slow old burg you've dragged me down into. if one of your leading citizens wants to catch the seven-thirty to indianapolis to-morrow morning, i suppose he sets his alarm to go off day before yesterday." "what's soured on your stomach now?" demanded the editor. "oh, the way it took this suburb of nowhere thirty years to wake up to doctor west! every time i see him i feel sore for hours afterward at how this darned place has treated the old boy. if your six-cylinder, sixty-horse power, seven-passenger tongues hadn't remembered that his grandfather had founded westville, i bet you'd have talked him out of the town long ago." "the town didn't understand him." "i should say it didn't!" agreed the reporter. "and i guess you don't understand the town," said the editor, a little sharply. "young man, you've never lived in a small place." "till this, chicago was my smallest--the gods be praised!" "well, it's the same in your old smokestack of the universe as it is here!" retorted bruce. "if you go after the dollar, you're sane. if you don't, you're cracked. doctor west started off like a winner, so they say; looked like he was going to get a corner on all the patients of westville. then, when he stopped practising----" "you never told me what made him stop." "his wife's death--from typhoid; i barely remember that. when he stopped practising and began his scientific work, the town thought he'd lost his head." "and yet two years ago the town was glad enough to get him to take charge of installing its new water system!" "that's how it discovered he was somebody. when the city began to look around for an expert, it found no one they could get had a tenth of his knowledge of water supply." "that's the way with your self-worshipping cross-roads towns! you raise a genius--laugh at him, pity his family--till you learn how the outside world respects him. then--hurrah! strike up the band, boys! when i think how that old party has been quietly studying typhoid fever and water supply all these years, with you bunch of hayseeds looking down on him as a crank--i get so blamed sore at the place that i wish i'd chucked your letter into the waste-basket when you wrote me to come!" "it may have been a dub of a town, billy, but it'll be the best place in indiana before we get through with it," returned the editor confidently. "but whom else did you see?" "ran into the honourable hiram cogshell on main street, and he slipped me this precious gem." billy handed bruce a packet of typewritten sheets. "carbon of his to-morrow's speech. he gave it to me, he said, to save us the trouble of taking it down. the honourable hiram is certainly one citizen who'll never go broke buying himself a bushel to hide his light under!" the editor glanced at a page or two of it with wearied irritation, then tossed it back. "guess we'll have to print it. but weed out some of his flowers of rhetoric." "pressed flowers," amended billy. "swipe the honourable hiram's copy of 'bartlett's quotations' and that tremendous orator would have nothing left but his gestures." "how about the grand jury, billy?" pursued the editor. "anything doing there?" "farmer down in buck creek township indicted for kidnapping his neighbour's pigs," drawled the reporter. "infants snatched away while fond mother slept. very pathetic. also that second-story man was indicted that stole alderman big bill perkins's clothes. remember it, don't you? big bill's clothes had so much diameter that the poor, hard-working thief couldn't sell the fruits of his industry. pathos there also. guess i can spin the two out for a column." "spin 'em out for about three lines," returned bruce in his abrupt manner. "no room for your funny stuff to-day, billy; the celebration crowds everything else out. write that about the governor, and then help stevens with the telegraph--and see that it's carved down to the bone." he picked up the typewritten sheets he had finished revising, and let out a sharp growl of "copy!" "that's your celebration story, isn't it?" asked the reporter. "yes." and bruce held it out to the "devil" who had appeared through the doorway from the depths below. "wait a bit with it, arn. the prosecuting attorney stopped me as i was leaving, and asked me to have you step over to the court house for a minute." "what's kennedy want?" "something about the celebration, he said. i guess he wants to talk with you about some further details of the programme." "why the deuce didn't he come over here then?" growled bruce. "i'm as busy as he is!" "he said he couldn't leave." "couldn't leave?" said bruce, with a snap of his heavy jaw. "well, neither can i!" "you mean you won't go?" "that's what i mean! i'll go to the very gates of hell to get a good piece of news, but when it comes to general affairs the politicians, business men, and the etceteras of this town have got to understand that there's just as much reason for their coming to me as for my going to them. i'm as important as any of them." "so-ho, we're on our high horse, are we?" "you bet we are, my son! and that's where you've got to be if you want this town to respect you." "all right. she's a great nag, if you can keep your saddle. but i guess i'd better tell kennedy you're not coming." without rising, billy leaned back and took up bruce's desk telephone, and soon was talking to the prosecuting attorney. after a moment he held out the instrument to the editor. "kennedy wants to speak with you," he said. bruce took the 'phone. "hello, that you kennedy?... no, i can't come--too busy. suppose you run over here.... got some people there? well, bring 'em along.... why can't they come? who are they?... can't you tell me what the situation is?... all right, then; in a couple of minutes." bruce hung up the receiver and arose. "so you're going after all?" asked billy. "guess i'd better," returned the editor, putting on his coat and hat. "kennedy says something big has just broken loose. sounds queer. wonder what the dickens it can be." and he started out. "but how about your celebration story?" queried billy. "want it to go down?" bruce looked at his watch. "two hours till press time; i guess it can wait." and taking the story back from the boy he tossed it upon his desk. he stepped out into the local room, which showed the same kindly tolerance of dirt as did his private office. at a long table two young men sat before typewriters, and in a corner a third young man was taking the clicking dictation of a telegraph sounder. "remember, boys, keep everything but the celebration down to bones!" bruce called out. and with that he passed out of the office and down the stairway to the street. chapter ii the bubble reputation despite its thirty thousand population--"forty thousand, and growing, sir!" loyally declared those disinterested citizens engaged in the sale of remote fields of ragweed as building lots--westville was still but half-evolved from its earlier state of an overgrown country town. it was as yet semi-pastoral, semi-urban. automobiles and farm wagons locked hubs in brotherly embrace upon its highways; cowhide boots and patent leather shared its sidewalks. there was a stockbroker's office that was thoroughly metropolitan in the facilities it afforded the élite for relieving themselves of the tribulation of riches; and adjoining it was simpson brothers & company, wherein hick'ry-shirted gentlemen bartered for threshing machines, hayrakes, axle grease, and such like baubles of arcadian pastime. there were three topics on which one could always start an argument in westville--politics, religion, and the editor of the _express_. a year before arnold bruce, who had left westville at eighteen and whom the town had vaguely heard of as a newspaper man in chicago and new york but whom it had not seen since, had returned home and taken charge of the _express_, which had been willed him by the late editor, his uncle. the _express_, which had been a slippered, dozing, senile sheet under old jimmie bruce, burst suddenly into a volcanic youth. the new editor used huge, vociferous headlines instead of the mere whispering, timorous types of his uncle; he wrote a rousing, rough-and-ready english; occasionally he placed an important editorial, set up in heavy-faced type and enclosed in a black border, in the very centre of his first page; and from the very start he had had the hardihood to attack the "established order" at several points and to preach unorthodox political doctrines. the wealthiest citizens were outraged, and hotly denounced bruce as a "yellow journalist" and a "red-mouthed demagogue." it was commonly held by the better element that his ultra-democracy was merely a mask, a pose, an advertising scheme, to gather in the gullible subscriber and to force himself sensationally into the public eye. but despite all hostile criticism of the paper, people read the _express_--many staid ones surreptitiously--for it had a snap, a go, a tang, that at times almost took the breath. and despite the estimate of its editor as a charlatan, the people had yielded to that aggressive personage a rank of high importance in their midst. bruce stepped forth from his stairway, crossed main street, and strode up the shady court house walk. on the left side of the walk, a-tiptoe in an arid fountain, was poised a gracious nymph of cast-iron, so chastely garbed as to bring to the cheek of elderly innocence no faintest flush. on the walk's right side stood a rigid statue, suggesting tetanus in the model, of the city's founder, col. davy west, wearing a coonskin cap and leaning with conscious dignity upon a long deer rifle. bruce entered the dingy court house, mounted a foot-worn wooden stairway, browned with the ambrosial extract of two generations of tobacco-chewing litigants, and passed into a damp and gloomy chamber. this room was the office of the prosecuting attorney of calloway county. that the incumbent might not become too depressed by his environment, the walls were cheered up by a steel engraving of daniel webster, frowning with multitudinous thought, and by a crackled map of indiana--the latter dotted by industrious flies with myriad nameless cities. three men arose from about the flat-topped desk in the centre of the room, the prosecutor, the reverend doctor sherman, and a rather smartly dressed man whom bruce remembered to have seen once or twice but whom he did not know. with the first two the editor shook hands, and the third was introduced to him as mr. marcy, the agent of the acme filter company, which had installed the filtering plant of the new water-works. bruce turned in his brusque manner to the prosecuting attorney. "what's the matter?" he asked. "suppose we all sit down first," suggested the prosecutor. they did so, and kennedy regarded bruce with a solemn, weighty stare. he was a lank, lantern-jawed, frock-coated gentleman of thirty-five, with an upward rolling forelock and an adam's-apple that throbbed in his throat like a petrified pulse. he was climbing the political ladder, and he was carefully schooling himself into that dignity and poise and appearance of importance which should distinguish the deportment of the public man. "well, what is it?" demanded bruce shortly. "about the water-works?" "yes," responded kennedy. "the water-works, mr. bruce, is, i hardly need say, a source of pride to us all. to you especially it has had a large significance. you have made it a theme for a continuous agitation in your paper. you have argued and urged that, since the city's new water-works promised to be such a great success, westville should not halt with this one municipal enterprise, but should refuse the new franchise the street railway company is going to apply for, take over the railway, run it as a municipal----" "yes, yes," interrupted bruce impatiently. "but who's dead? who wants the line of march changed to go by his grocery store?" "what i was saying was merely to recall how very important the water-works has been to us," the prosecutor returned, with increased solemnity. he paused, and having gained that heightened stage effect of a well-managed silence, he continued: "mr. bruce, something very serious has occurred." for all its ostentation the prosecutor's manner was genuinely impressive. bruce looked quickly at the other two men. the agent was ill at ease, the minister pale and agitated. "come," cried bruce, "out with what you've got to tell me!" "it is a matter of the very first importance," returned the prosecutor, who was posing for a prominent place in the _express's_ account of this affair--for however much the public men of westville affected to look down upon the _express_, they secretly preferred its superior presentment of their doings. "doctor sherman, in his capacity of president of the voters' union, has just brought before me some most distressing, most astounding evidence. it is evidence upon which i must act both as a public official and as a member of the arrangements committee, and evidence which concerns you both as a committeeman and as an editor. it is painful to me to break----" "let's have it from first hands," interrupted bruce, irritated by the verbal excelsior which the prosecutor so deliberately unwrapped from about his fact. he turned to the minister, a slender man of hardly more than thirty, with a high brow, the wide, sensitive mouth of the born orator, fervently bright eyes, and the pallor of the devoted student--a face that instantly explained why, though so young, he was westville's most popular divine. "what's it about, doctor sherman?" the editor asked. "who's the man?" there was no posing here for bruce's typewriter. the minister's concern was deep and sincere. "about the water-works, as mr. kennedy has said," he answered in a voice that trembled with agitation. "there has been some--some crooked work." "crooked work?" ejaculated the editor, staring at the minister. "crooked work?" "yes." "you are certain of what you say?" "yes." "then you have evidence?" "i am sorry--but--but i have." the editor was leaning forward, his nostrils dilated, his eyes gleaming sharply behind their thick glasses. "who's mixed up in it? who's the man?" the minister's hands were tightly interlocked. for an instant he seemed unable to speak. "who's the man?" repeated bruce. the minister swallowed. "doctor west," he said. bruce sprang up. "doctor west?" he cried. "the superintendent of the water-works?" "yes." if the editor's concern for the city's welfare was merely a political and business pose, if he was merely an actor, at least he acted his part well. "my god!" he breathed, and stood with eyes fixed upon the young minister. then suddenly he sat down again, his thick brows drew together, and his heavy jaws set. "let's have the whole story," he snapped out. "from the very beginning." "i cannot tell you how distressed i am by what i have just been forced to do," began the young clergyman. "i have always esteemed doctor west most highly, and my wife and his daughter have been the closest friends since girlhood. to make my part in this affair clear, i must recall to you that of late the chief attention of the voters' union has naturally been devoted to the water-works. i never imagined that anything was wrong. but, speaking frankly, after the event, i must say that doctor west's position was such as made it a simple matter for him to defraud the city should he so desire." "you mean because the council invested him with so much authority?" demanded bruce. "yes. as i have said, i regarded doctor west above all suspicion. but a short time ago some matters--i need not detail them--aroused in me the fear that doctor west was using his office for--for----" "for graft?" supplied bruce. the minister inclined his head. "later, only a few weeks ago, a more definite fear came to me," he continued in his low, pained voice. "it happens that i have known mr. marcy here for years; we were friends in college, though we had lost track of one another till his business brought him here. a few small circumstances--my suspicion was already on the alert--made me guess that mr. marcy was about to give doctor west a bribe for having awarded the filter contract to his company. i got mr. marcy alone--taxed him with his intention--worked upon his conscience----" "mr. marcy has stated," the prosecutor interrupted to explain, "that doctor sherman always had great influence over him." mr. marcy corroborated this with a nod. "at length mr. marcy confessed," doctor sherman went on. "he had arranged to give doctor west a certain sum of money immediately after the filtering plant had been approved and payment had been made to the company. after this confession i hesitated long upon what i should do. on the one hand, i shrank from disgracing doctor west. on the other, i had a duty to the city. after a long struggle i decided that my responsibility to the people of westville should overbalance any feeling i might have for any single individual." "that was the only decision," said bruce. "go on!" "but at the same time, to protect doctor west's reputation, i decided to take no one into my plan; should his integrity reassert itself at the last moment and cause him to refuse the bribe, the whole matter would then remain locked up in my heart. i arranged with mr. marcy that he should carry out his agreement with doctor west. day before yesterday, as you know, the council, on doctor west's recommendation, formally approved the filtering plant, and yesterday a draft was sent to the company. mr. marcy was to call at doctor west's home this morning to conclude their secret bargain. just before the appointed hour i dropped in on doctor west, and was there when mr. marcy called. i said i would wait to finish my talk with doctor west till they were through their business, took a book, and went into an adjoining room. i could see the two men through the partly opened door. after some talk, mr. marcy drew an envelope from his pocket and handed it to doctor west, saying in a low voice, 'here is that money we spoke about.'" "and he took it?" bruce interrupted. "doctor west slipped the envelope unopened into his pocket, and replied, 'thank you very much; it will come in very handy just now.'" "my god!" breathed the editor. "though i had suspected doctor west, i sat there stunned," the minister continued. "but after a minute or two i slipped out by another door. i returned with a policeman, and found doctor west still with mr. marcy. the policeman arrested doctor west, and found the envelope upon his person. in it was two thousand dollars." "now, what do you think of that?" kennedy demanded of the editor. "won't the town be thunderstruck!" bruce turned to the agent, who had sat through the recital, a mere corroborative presence. "and this is all true?" "that is exactly the way it happened," replied mr. marcy. bruce looked back at the minister. "but didn't he have anything to say for himself?" "i can answer that," put in kennedy. "i had him in here before i sent him over to the jail. he admits practically every point that doctor sherman has made. the only thing he says for himself is that he never thought the money mr. marcy gave him was intended for a bribe." bruce stood up, his face hard and glowering, and his fist crashed explosively down upon the table. "of all the damned flimsy defenses that ever a man made, that's the limit!" "it certainly won't go down with the people of westville," commented the prosecutor. "and i can see the smile of the jury when he produces that defense in court." "i should say they would smile!" cried bruce. "but what was his motive?" "that's plain enough," answered the prosecutor. "we both know, mr. bruce, that he has earned hardly anything from the practice of medicine since we were boys. his salary as superintendent of the water-works was much less than he has been spending. his property is mortgaged practically to its full value. everything has gone on those experiments of his. it's simply a case of a man being in a tight fix for money." bruce was striding up and down the room, scowling and staring fiercely at the worn linoleum that carpeted the prosecutor's office. "i thought you'd take it rather hard," said kennedy, a little slyly. "it sort of puts a spoke in that general municipal ownership scheme of yours--eh?" bruce paused belligerently before the prosecutor. "see here, kennedy," he snapped out. "because a man you've banked on is a crook, does that prove a principle is wrong?" "oh, i guess not," kennedy had to admit. "well, suppose you cut out that kind of talk then. but what are you going to do about the doctor?" "the grand jury is in session. i'm going straight before it with the evidence. an hour from now and doctor west will be indicted." "and what about to-morrow's show?" "what do you think we ought to do?" "what ought we to do!" again the editor's fist crashed upon the desk. "the celebration was half in doctor west's honour. do we want to meet and hurrah for the man that sold us out? as for the water-works, it looks as if, for all we know, he might have bought us a lot of old junk. do we want to hold a jubilee over a junk pile? you ask what we ought to do. god, man, there's only one thing to do, and that's to call the whole damned performance off!" "that's my opinion," said the prosecutor. "what do you think, doctor sherman?" the young minister wiped his pale face. "it's a most miserable affair. i'm sick because of the part i've been forced to play--i'm sorry for doctor west--and i'm particularly sorry for his daughter--but i do not see that any other course would be possible." "i suppose we ought to consult mr. blake," said kennedy. "he's not in town," returned bruce. "and we don't need to consult him. we three are a majority of the committee. the matter has to be settled at once. and it's settled all right!" the editor jerked out his watch, glanced at it, then reached for his hat. "i'll have this on the street in an hour--and if this town doesn't go wild, then i don't know westville!" he was making for the door, when the newspaper man in him recalled a new detail of his story. he turned back. "how about this daughter of doctor west?" he asked. the prosecutor looked at the minister. "was she coming home for the celebration, do you know?" "yes. she wrote mrs. sherman she was leaving new york this morning and would get in here to-morrow on the limited." "what's she like?" asked bruce. "haven't you seen her?" asked kennedy. "she hasn't been home since i came back to westville. when i left here she was a tomboy--mostly legs and freckles." the prosecutor's lean face crinkled with a smile. "i guess you'll find she's grown right smart since then. she went to one of those colleges back east; vassar, i think it was. she got hold of some of those new-fangled ideas the women in the east are crazy over now--about going out in the world for themselves, and----" "idiots--all of them!" snapped bruce. "after she graduated, she studied law. when she was back home two years ago she asked me what chance a woman would have to practise law in westville. a woman lawyer in westville--oh, lord!" the prosecutor leaned back and laughed at the excruciating humour of the idea. "oh, i know the kind!" bruce's lips curled with contempt. "loud-voiced--aggressive--bony--perfect frights." "let me suggest," put in doctor sherman, "that miss west does not belong in that classification." "yes, i guess you're a little wrong about katherine west," smiled kennedy. bruce waved his hand peremptorily. "they're all the same! but what's she doing in new york? practising law?" "no. she's working for an organization something like doctor sherman's--the municipal league, i think she called it." "huh!" grunted bruce. "well, whatever she's like, it's a pretty mess she's coming back into!" with that the editor pulled his hat tightly down upon his forehead and strode out of the court house and past the speakers' stand, across whose front twin flags were being leisurely festooned. back in his own office he picked up the story he had finished an hour before. with a sneer he tore it across and trampled it under foot. then, jerking a chair forward to his typewriter, his brow dark, his jaw set, he began to thump fiercely upon the keys. chapter iii katherine comes home next morning when the limited slowed down beside the old frame station--a new one of brick was rising across the tracks--a young woman descended from a pullman at the front of the train. she was lithe and graceful, rather tall and slender, and was dressed with effective simplicity in a blue tailored suit and a tan straw hat with a single blue quill. her face was flushed, and there glowed an expectant brightness in her brown eyes, as though happiness and affection were upon the point of bubbling over. standing beside her suit-case, she eagerly scanned the figures about the station. three or four swagger young drummers had scrambled off the smoker, and these ambassadors of fashion as many hotel bus drivers were inviting with importunate hospitality to honour their respective board and bed. there was the shirt-sleeved figure of jim ludlow, ticket agent and tenor of the presbyterian choir. and leaning cross-legged beneath the station eaves, giving the effect of supporting the low roof, were half a dozen slowly masticating, soberly contemplative gentlemen--loose-jointed caryatides, whose lank sculpture forms the sole and invariable ornamentation of the façades of all western stations. but nowhere did the young woman's expectant eyes alight upon the person whom they sought. the joyous response to welcome, which had plainly trembled at the tips of her being, subsided, and in disappointment she picked up her bag and was starting for a street car, when up the long, broad platform there came hurrying a short-legged little man, with a bloodshot, watery eye. he paused hesitant at a couple of yards, smiled tentatively, and the remnant of an old glove fumbled the brim of a rumpled, semi-bald object that in its distant youth had probably been a silk hat. the young woman smiled back and held out her hand. "how do you do, mr. huggins." "how de do, miss katherine," he stammered. "have you seen father anywhere?" she asked anxiously. "no. your aunt just sent me word i was to meet you and fetch you home. she couldn't leave doctor west." "is father ill?" she cried. the old cabman fumbled his ancient headgear. "no--he ain't--he ain't exactly sick. he's just porely. i guess it's only--only a bad headache." he hastily picked up her suit-case and led her past the sidling admiration of the drummers, those sovereign critics of western femininity, to the back of the station where stood a tottering surrey and a dingy gray nag, far gone in years, that leaned upon its shafts as though on crutches. katherine clambered in, and the drooping animal doddered along a street thickly overhung with the exuberant may-green of maples. she gazed with ardent eyes at the familiar frame cottages, in some of which had lived school and high-school friends, sitting comfortably back amid their little squares of close-cropped lawn. she liked new york with that adoptive liking one acquires for the place one chooses from among all others for the passing of one's life; but her affection remained warm and steadfast with this old town of her girlhood. "oh, but it feels good to be back in westville again!" she cried to the cabman. "i reckon it must. i guess it's all of two years sence you been home." "two years, yes. it's going to be a great celebration this afternoon, isn't it?" "yes'm--very big"--and he hastily struck the ancient steed. "get-ep there, jenny!" mr. huggins's mare turned off station avenue, and katharine excitedly stared ahead beneath the wide-boughed maples for the first glimpse of her home. at length it came into view--one of those big, square, old-fashioned wooden houses, built with no perceptible architectural idea beyond commodious shelter. she had thought her father might possibly stumble out to greet her, but no one stood waiting at the paling gate. she sprang lightly from the carriage as it drew up beside the curb, and leaving mr. huggins to follow with her bag she hurried up the brick-paved path to the house. as she crossed the porch, a slight, gray, quakerish little lady, with a white kerchief folded across her breast, pushed open the screen door. her katherine gathered into her arms and kissed repeatedly. "i'm so glad to see you, auntie!" she cried. "how are you?" "very well," the old woman answered in a thin, tremulous voice. "how is thee?" "me? oh, you know nothing's ever wrong with me!" she laughed in her buoyant young strength. "but you, auntie?" she grew serious. "you look very tired--and very, very worn and worried. but i suppose it's the strain of father's headache--poor father! how is he?" "i--i think he's feeling some better," the old woman faltered. "he's still lying down." they had entered the big, airy sitting-room. katherine's hat and coat went flying upon the couch. "now, before i so much as ask you a question, or tell you a thing, aunt rachel, i'm going up to see dear old father." she made for the stairway, but her aunt caught her arm in consternation. "wait, katherine! thee musn't see him yet." "why, what's the matter?" katherine asked in surprise. "it--it would be better for him if thee didn't disturb him." "but, auntie--you know no one can soothe him as i can when he has a headache!" "but he's asleep just now. he didn't sleep a minute all night." "then of course i'll wait." katherine turned back. "has he suffered much----" she broke off. her aunt was gazing at her in wide-eyed, helpless misery. "why--why--what's the matter, auntie?" her aunt did not answer her. "tell me! what is it? what's wrong?" still the old woman did not speak. "something has happened to father!" cried katherine. she clutched her aunt's thin shoulders. "has something happened to father?" the old woman trembled all over, and tears started from her mild eyes. "yes," she quavered. "but what is it?" katherine asked frantically. "is he very sick?" "it's--it's worse than that." "please! what is it then?" "i haven't the heart to tell thee," she said piteously, and she sank into a chair and covered her face. katherine caught her arm and fairly shook her in the intensity of her demand. "tell me! i can't stand this another instant!" "there--there isn't going to be any celebration." "no celebration?" "yesterday--thy father--was arrested." "arrested!" "and indicted for accepting a bribe." katherine shrank back. "oh!" she whispered. "oh!" then her slender body tensed, and her dark eyes flashed fire. "father accept a bribe! it's a lie! a lie!" "it hardly seems true to me, either." "it's a lie!" repeated katherine. "but is he--is he locked up?" "they let me go his bail." again katherine caught her aunt's arm. "come--tell me all about it!" "please don't make me. i--i can't." "but i must know!" "it's in the newspapers--they're on the centre-table." katherine turned to the table and seized a paper. at sight of the sheet she had picked up, the old woman hurried across to her in dismay. "don't read that _express_!" she cried, and she sought to draw the paper from katherine's hands. "read the _clarion_. it's ever so much kinder." but katherine had already seen the headline that ran across the top of the _express_. it staggered her. she gasped at the blow, but she held on to the paper. "i'll read the worst they have to say," she said. her aunt dropped into a chair and covered her eyes to avoid sight of the girl's suffering. the story, in its elements, was a commonplace to katherine; in her work with the municipal league she had every few days met with just such a tale as this. but that which is a commonplace when strangers are involved, becomes a tragedy when loved ones are its actors. so, as she read the old, old story, katherine trembled as with mortal pain. but sickening as was the story in itself, it was made even more agonizing to her by the manner of the _express's_ telling. bruce's typewriter had never been more impassioned. the story was in heavy-faced type, the lines two columns wide; and in a "box" in the very centre of the first page was an editorial denouncing doctor west and demanding for him such severe punishment as would make future traitors forever fear to sell their city. article and editorial were rousing and vivid, brilliant and bitter--as mercilessly stinging as a salted whip-lash cutting into bare flesh. katherine writhed with the pain of it. "oh!" she cried. "it's brutal! brutal! who could have had the heart to write like that about father?" "the editor, arnold bruce," answered her aunt. "oh, he's a brute! if i could tell him to his face----" her whole slender being flamed with anger and hatred, and she crushed the paper in a fierce hand and flung it to the floor. then, slowly, her face faded to an ashen gray. she steadied herself on the back of a chair and stared in desperate, fearful supplication at the bowed figure of the older woman. "auntie?" she breathed. "yes?" "auntie"--eyes and voice were pleading--"auntie, the--the things--this paper says--they never happened, did they?" the old head nodded. "oh! oh!" she gasped. she wavered, sank stricken into a chair, and buried her face in her arms. "poor father!" she moaned brokenly. "poor father!" there was silence for a moment, then the old woman rose and gently put a hand upon the quivering young shoulder. "don't, dear! even if it did happen, i can't believe it. thy father----" at that moment, overhead, there was a soft noise, as of feet placed upon the floor. katherine sprang up. "father!" she breathed. there began a restless, slippered pacing. "father!" she repeated, and sprang for the stairway and rapidly ran up. at her father's door she paused, hand over her heart. she feared to enter to her father--feared lest she should find his head bowed in acknowledged shame. but she summoned her strength and noiselessly opened the door. it was a large room, a hybrid of bedroom and study, whose drawn shades had dimmed the brilliant morning into twilight. an open side door gave a glimpse of glass jars, bellying retorts and other paraphernalia of the laboratory. walking down the room was a tall, stooping, white-haired figure in a quilted dressing-gown. he reached the end of the room, turned about, then sighted her in the doorway. "katherine!" he cried with quavering joy, and started toward her; but he came abruptly to a pause, hesitating, accused man that he was, to make advances. her sickening fear was for the instant swept away by a rising flood of love. she sprang forward and threw her arms about his neck. "father!" she sobbed. "oh, father!" she felt his tears upon her forehead, felt his body quiver, and felt his hand gently stroke her back. "you've heard--then?" he asked, at length. "yes--from the papers." he held her close, but for a moment did not speak. "it isn't a--a very happy celebration--i've prepared for you." she could only cry convulsively, "poor father!" "you never dreamt," he quavered, "your old father--could do a thing like this--did you?" she did not answer. she trembled a moment longer on his shoulder; then, slowly and with fear, she lifted her head and gazed into his face. the face was worn--she thrilled with pain to see how sadly worn it was!--but though tear-wet and working with emotion, it met her look with steadiness. it was the same simple, kindly, open face that she had known since childhood. there was a sudden wild leaping within her. she clutched his shoulders, and her voice rang out in joyous conviction: "father--you are not guilty!" "you believe in me, then?" "you are not guilty!" she cried with mounting joy. he smiled faintly. "why, of course not, my child." "oh, father!" and again she caught him in a close embrace. after a moment she leaned back in his arms. "i'm so happy--so happy! forgive me, daddy dear, that i could doubt you even for a minute." "how could you help it? they say the evidence against me is very strong." "i should have believed you innocent against all the evidence in the world! and i do, and shall--no matter what they may say!" "bless you, katherine!" "but come--tell me how it all came about. but, first, let's brighten up the room a little." so great was her relief that her spirits had risen as though some positive blessing had befallen her. she crossed lightly to the big bay window, raised the shades and threw up the sashes. the sunlight slanted down into the room and lay in a dazzling yellow square upon the floor. the soft breeze sighed through the two tall pines without and bore into them the perfumed freshness of the spring. "there now, isn't that better?" she said, smiling brightly. "that's just what your home-coming has done for me," he said gratefully--"let in the sunlight." "come, come--don't try to turn the head of your offspring with flattery! now, sir, sit down," and she pointed to a chair at his desk, which stood within the bay window. "first,"--with his gentle smile--"if i may, i'd like to take a look at my daughter." "i suppose a father's wish is a daughter's command," she complained. "so go ahead." he moved to the window, so that the light fell full upon her, and for a long moment gazed into her face. the brow was low and broad. over the white temples the heavy dark hair waved softly down, to be fastened in a simple knot low upon the neck, showing in its full beauty the rare modelling of her head. the eyes were a rich, warm, luminous brown, fringed with long lashes, and in them lurked all manner of fathomless mysteries. the mouth was soft, yet full and firm--a real mouth, such as nature bestows upon her real women. it was a face of freshness and youth and humour, and now was tremulous with a smiling, tear-wet tenderness. "i think," said her father, slowly and softly, "that my daughter is very beautiful." "there--enough of your blarney!" she flushed with pleasure, and pressed her fresh cheek against his withered one. "you dear old father, you!" she drew him to his desk, which was strewn with a half-finished manuscript on the typhoid bacillus, and upon which stood a faded photograph of a young woman, near katherine's years and made in her image, dressed in the tight-fitting "basque" of the early eighties. westville knew that doctor west had loved his wife dearly, but the town had never surmised a tenth of the grief that had closed darkly in upon him when typhoid fever had carried her away while her young womanhood was in its freshest bloom. katherine pressed him down into his chair at the desk, sat down in one beside it, and took his hand. "now, father, tell me just how things stand." "you know everything already," said he. "not everything. i know the charges of the other side, and i know your innocence. but i do not know your explanation of the affair." he ran his free hand through his silver hair, and his face grew troubled. "my explanation agrees with what you have read, except that i did not know i was being bribed." "h'm!" her brow wrinkled thoughtfully and she was silent for a moment. "suppose we go back to the very beginning, father, and run over the whole affair. try to remember. in the early stages of negotiations, did the agent say anything to you about money?" he did not speak for a minute or more. "now that i think it over, he did say something about its being worth my while if his filter was accepted." "that was an overture to bribe you. and what did you say to him?" "i don't remember. you see, at the time, his offer, if it was one, did not make any impression on me. i believe i didn't say anything to him at all." "but you approved his filter?" "yes." "mr. marcy says in the _express_, and you admit it, that he offered you a bribe. you approved his filter. on the face of it, speaking legally, that looks bad, father." "but how could i honestly keep from approving his filter, when it was the very best on the market for our water?" demanded doctor west. "then how did you come to accept that money?" the old man's face cleared. "i can explain that easily. some time ago the agent said something about the acme filter company wishing to make a little donation to our hospital. i'm one of the directors, you know. so, when he handed me that envelope, i supposed it was the contribution to the hospital--perhaps twenty-five or fifty dollars." "and that is all?" "that's the whole truth. but when i explained the matter to the prosecuting attorney, he just smiled." "i know it's the truth, because you say it." she affectionately patted the hand that she held. "but, again speaking legally, it wouldn't sound very plausible to an outsider. but how do you explain the situation?" "i think the whole affair must be just a mistake." "possibly. but if so, you'll have to be able to prove it." she thought a space. "could it be that this is a manufactured charge?" doctor west's eyes widened with amazement. "why, of course not! you have forgotten that the man who makes the charge is mr. sherman. you surely do not think he would let himself be involved in anything that he did not believe to be in the highest degree honourable?" "i do not know him very well. during the four years he has been here, i have met him only a few times." "but you know what your dearest friend thinks of him." "yes, i know elsie considers her husband to be an ecclesiastical sir galahad. and i must admit that he has seemed to me the highest type of the modern young minister." "then you agree with me, that mr. sherman is thoroughly honest in this affair? that his only motive is a sense of public duty?" "yes. i cannot conceive of him knowingly doing a wrong." "that's what has forced me to think it's only just a mistake," said her father. "you may be right." she considered the idea. "but what does your lawyer say?" his pale cheeks flushed. "i have no lawyer," he said slowly. "i see. you were waiting to consult me about whom to retain." he shook his head. "then you have approached some one?" "i have spoken to hopkins, and williams, and freeman. they all----" he hesitated. "yes?" "they all said they could not take my case." "could not take your case!" she cried. "why not?" "they made different excuses. but their excuses were not their real reason." "and what was that?" the old man flushed yet more painfully. "i guess you do not fully realize the situation, katherine. i don't need to tell you that a wave of popular feeling against political corruption is sweeping across the country. this is the first big case that has come out in westville, and the city is stirred up over this as it hasn't been stirred in years. the way the _express_----you saw the _express_?" her hands instinctively clenched. "it was awful! awful!" "the way the _express_ has handled it has especially--well, you see----" "you mean those lawyers are afraid to take the case?" doctor west nodded. katherine's dark eyes glowed with wrath. "did you try any one else?" "mr. green came to see me. but----" "of course not! it would kill your case to have a shyster represent you." she gripped his hand, and her voice rang out: "father, i'm glad those men refused you. we're going to get for you the biggest man, the biggest lawyer, in westville." "you mean mr. blake?" "yes, mr. blake." "i thought of him at first, of course. but i--well, i hesitated to approach him." "hesitated? why?" "well, you see," he stammered, "i remembered about your refusing him, and i felt----" "that would never make any difference to him," she cried. "he's too much of a gentleman. besides, that was five years ago, and he has forgotten it." "then you think he'll take the case?" "of course, he'll take it! he'll take it because he's a big man, and because you need him, and because he's no coward. and with the biggest man in westville on your side, you'll see how public opinion will right-about face!" she sprang up, aglow with energy. "i'm going to see him this minute! with his help, we'll have this matter cleared up before you know it, and"--smiling lightly--"just you see, daddy, all westville will be out there in the front yard, tramping over aunt rachel's sweet williams, begging to be allowed to come and kiss your hand!" he kissed her own. he rose, and a smile broke through the clouds of his face. "you've been home only an hour, and i feel that a thousand years have been lifted off me." "that's right--and just keep on feeling a thousand years younger." she smiled caressingly, and began to twist a finger in a buttonhole of his coat. "u'm--don't you think, daddy, that such a very young gentleman as you are, such a regular roaring young blade, might--u'm--might----" "might what, my dear?" "might----" she leaned forward and whispered in his ear. a hand went to his throat. "eh, why, is this one----" "i'm afraid it is, daddy--very!" "we've been so upset i guess your aunt must have forgotten to put out a clean one for me." "and i suppose it never occurred to the profound scientific intellect that it was possible for one to pull out a drawer and take out a collar for one's self." she crossed to the bureau and came back with a clean collar. "now, sir--up with your chin!" with quick hands she replaced the offending collar with the fresh one, tied the tie and gave it a perfecting little pat. "there--that's better! and now i must be off. i'll send around a few policemen to keep the crowds off aunt rachel's flower-beds." and pressing on his pale cheek another kiss, and smiling at him from the door, she hurried out. chapter iv doctor west's lawyer katherine's refusal of harrison blake's unforeseen proposal, during the summer she had graduated from vassar, had, until the present hour, been the most painful experience of her life. ever since that far-away autumn of her fourteenth year when blake had led an at-first forlorn crusade against "blind charlie" peck and swept that apparently unconquerable autocrat and his corrupt machine from power, she had admired blake as the ideal public man. he had seemed so fine, so big already, and loomed so large in promise--it was the fall following his proposal that he was elected lieutenant-governor--that it had been a humiliation to her that she, so insignificant, so unworthy, could not give him that intractable passion, love. but though he had gone very pale at her stammered answer, he had borne his disappointment like a gallant gentleman; and in the years since then he had acquitted himself to perfection in that most difficult of rôles, the lover who must be content to be mere friend. katherine still retained her girlish admiration of mr. blake. despite his having been so conspicuous at the forefront of public affairs, no scandal had ever soiled his name. his rectitude, so said people whose memories ran back a generation, was due mainly to fine qualities inherited from his mother, for his father had been a good-natured, hearty, popular politician with no discoverable bias toward over-scrupulosity. in fact, twenty years ago there had been a great to-do touching the voting, through a plan of the elder blake's devising, of a gang of negroes half a dozen times down in a river-front ward. but his party had rushed loyally to his rescue, and had vindicated him by sending him to congress; and his sudden death on the day after taking his seat had at the time abashed all accusation, and had suffused his memory with a romantic afterglow of sentiment. blake lived alone with his mother in a house adjoining the wests', and a few moments after katherine had left her father she turned into the blakes' yard. the house stood far back in a spacious lawn, shady with broad maples and aspiring pines, and set here and there with shrubs and flower-beds and a fountain whose misty spray hung a golden aureole upon the sunlight. it was quite worthy of westville's most distinguished citizen--a big, roomy house of brick, its sterner lines all softened with cool ivy, and with a wide piazza crossing its entire front and embracing its two sides. the hour was that at which westville arose from its accustomed mid-day dinner--which was the reason katherine was calling at blake's home instead of going downtown to his office. she was informed that he was in. telling the maid she would await him in his library, where she knew he received all clients who called on business at his home, she ascended the well-remembered stairway and entered a large, light room with walls booked to the ceiling. despite her declaration to her father that that old love episode had been long forgotten by mr. blake, at this moment it was not forgotten by her. she could not subdue a fluttering agitation over the circumstance that she was about to appeal for succour to a man she had once refused. she had but a moment to wait. blake's tall, straight figure entered and strode rapidly across the room, his right hand outstretched. "what--you, katherine! i'm so glad to see you!" she had risen. "and i to see you, mr. blake." for all he had once vowed himself her lover, she had never overcome her girlhood awe of him sufficiently to use the more familiar "harrison." "i knew you were coming home, but i had not expected to see you so soon. please sit down again." she resumed her soft leather-covered chair, and he took the swivel chair at his great flat-topped library desk. his manner was most cordial, but lurking beneath it katherine sensed a certain constraint--due perhaps, to their old relationship--perhaps due to meeting a friend involved in a family disgrace. blake was close upon forty, with a dark, strong, handsome face, penetrating but pleasant eyes, and black hair slightly marked with gray. he was well dressed but not too well dressed, as became a public man whose following was largely of the country. his person gave an immediate impression of a polished but not over-polished gentleman--of a man who in acquiring a large grace of manner, has lost nothing of virility and bigness and purpose. "it seems quite natural," katherine began, smiling, and trying to speak lightly, "that each time i come home it is to congratulate you upon some new honour." "new honour?" queried he. "oh, your name reaches even to new york! we hear that you are spoken of to succeed senator grayson when he retires next year." "oh, that!" he smiled--still with some constraint. "i won't try to make you believe that i'm indifferent about the matter. but i don't need to tell you that there's many a slip betwixt being 'spoken of' and actually being chosen." there was an instant of awkward silence. then katherine went straight to the business of her visit. "of course you know about father." he nodded. "and i do not need to say, katherine, how very, very sorry i am." "i was certain of your sympathy. things look black on the surface for him, but i want you to know that he is innocent." "i am relieved to be assured of that," he said, hesitatingly. "for, frankly, as you say, things do look black." she leaned forward and spoke rapidly, her hands tightly clasped. "i have come to see you, mr. blake, because you have always been our friend--my friend, and a kinder friend than a young girl had any right to expect--because i know you have the ability to bring out the truth no matter how dark the circumstantial evidence may seem. i have come, mr. blake, to ask you, to beg you, to be my father's lawyer." he stared at her, and his face grew pale. "to be your father's lawyer?" he repeated. "yes, yes--to be my father's lawyer." he turned in his chair and looked out to where the fountain was flinging its iridescent drapery to the wind. she gazed at his strong, clean-cut profile in breathless expectation. "i again assure you he is innocent," she urged pleadingly. "i know you can clear him." "you have evidence to prove his innocence?" asked blake. "that you can easily uncover." he slowly swung about. though with all his powerful will he strove to control himself, he was profoundly agitated, and he spoke with a very great effort. "you have put me in a most embarrassing situation, katherine." she caught her breath. "you mean?" "i mean that i should like to help you, but--but----" "yes? yes?" "but i cannot." "cannot! you mean--you refuse his case?" "it pains me, but i must." she grew as white as death. "oh!" she breathed. "oh!" she gazed at him, lips wide, in utter dismay. suddenly she seized his arm. "but you have not yet thought it over--you have not considered," she cried rapidly. "i cannot take no for your answer. i beg you, i implore you, to take the case." he seemed to be struggling between two desires. a slender, well-knit hand stretched out and clutched a ruler; his brow was moist; but he kept silent. "mr. blake, i beg you, i implore you, to reconsider," she feverishly pursued. "do you not see what it will mean to my father? if you take the case, he is as good as cleared!" his voice came forth low and husky. "it is because it is beyond my power to clear him that i refuse." "beyond your power?" "listen, katherine," he answered. "i am glad you believe your father innocent. the faith you have is the faith a daughter ought to have. i do not want to hurt you, but i must tell you the truth--i do not share your faith." "you refuse, then, because you think him guilty?" he inclined his head. "the evidence is conclusive. it is beyond my power, beyond the power of any lawyer, to clear him." this sudden failure of the aid she had so confidently counted as already hers, was a blow that for the moment completely stunned her. she sank back in her chair and her head dropped down into her hands. blake wiped his face with his handkerchief. after a moment, he went on in an agitated, persuasive voice: "i do not want you to think, because i refuse, that i am any less your friend. if i took the case, and did my best, your father would be convicted just the same. i am going to open my heart to you, katherine. i should like very much to be chosen for that senatorship. naturally, i do not wish to do any useless thing that will impair my chances. now for me, an aspirant for public favour, to champion against the aroused public the case of a man who has--forgive me the word--who has betrayed that public, and in the end to lose that case, as i most certainly should--it would be nothing less than political suicide. your father would gain nothing. i would lose--perhaps everything. don't you see?" "i follow your reasons," she said brokenly into her hands, "i do not blame you--i accept your answer--but i still believe my father innocent." "and for that faith, as i told you, i admire and honour you." she slowly rose. he likewise stood up. "what are you going to do?" he asked. "i do not know," she answered dully. "i was so confident of your aid, that i had thought of no alternative." "your father has tried other lawyers?" "yes. they have all refused. you can guess their reason." he was silent for an instant. "why not take the case yourself?" "i take the case!" cried katherine, amazed. "yes. you are a lawyer." "but i have never handled a case in court! i am not even admitted to the bar of the state. and, besides, a woman lawyer in westville---- no, it's quite out of the question." "i was only suggesting it, you know," he said apologetically. "oh, i realized you did not mean it seriously." her face grew ashen as her failure came to her afresh. she gazed at him with a final desperation. "then your answer--it is final?" "i am sorry, but it is final," said he. her head dropped. "thank you," she said dully. "good-by." and she started away. "wait, katherine." she paused, and he came to her side. his features were gray-hued and were twitching strangely; for an instant she had the wild impression that his old love for her still lived. "i am sorry that--that the first time you asked aid of me--i should fail you. but but----" "i understand." "one word more." but he let several moments pass before he spoke it, and he wet his lips continually. "remember, i am still your friend. though i cannot take the case, i shall be glad, in a private way, to advise you upon any matters you may care to lay before me." "you are very good." "then you accept?" "how can i refuse? thank you." he accompanied her down the stairway and to the door. heavy-hearted, she returned home. this was sad news to bring her father, whom but half an hour before she had so confidently cheered; and she knew not in what fresh direction to turn for aid. she went straight up to her father's room. with him she found a stranger, who had a vague, far-distant familiarity. the two men rose. "this is my daughter," said doctor west. the stranger bowed slightly. "i have heard of miss west," he said, and in his manner katherine's quick instinct read strong preconceived disapprobation. "and, katherine," continued her father, "this is mr. bruce." she stopped short. "mr. bruce of the _express_?" "of the _express_," bruce calmly repeated. her dejected figure grew suddenly tense, and her cheeks glowed with hot colour. she moved up before the editor and gazed with flashing eyes into his square-jawed face. "so you are the man who wrote those brutal things about father?" he bristled at her hostile tone and manner, and there was a quick snapping behind the heavy glasses. "i am the man who wrote those true things about your father," he said with cold emphasis. "and after that you dare come into this house!" "pardon me, miss west, but a newspaper man dares go wherever his business takes him." she was trembling all over. "then let me inform you that you have no business here. neither my father nor myself has anything whatever to say to yellow journalists!" "katherine! katherine!" interjected her father. bruce bowed, his face a dull red. "i shall leave, miss west, just as soon as doctor west answers my last question. i called to see if he wished to make any statement, and i was asking him about his lawyer. he told me he had as yet secured none, but that you were applying to mr. blake." doctor west stepped toward her eagerly. "yes, katherine, what did he say? will he take the case?" she turned from bruce, and as she looked into the white, worn face of her father, the fire of her anger went out. "he said--he said----" "yes--yes?" she put her arms about him. "don't you mind, father dear, what he said." doctor west grew yet more pale. "then--he said--the same as the others?" she held him tight. "dear daddy!" "then--he refused?" "yes--but don't you mind it," she tried to say bravely. without a sound, the old man's head dropped upon his chest. he held to katherine a moment; then he moved waveringly to an old haircloth sofa, sank down upon it and bowed his face into his hands. bruce broke the silence. "i am to understand, then, that your father has no lawyer?" katherine wheeled from the bowed figure, and her anger leaped instantly to a white heat. "and why has he no lawyer?" she cried. "because of the inhuman things you wrote about him!" "you forget, miss west, that i am running a newspaper, and it is my business to print the news." "the news, yes; but not a malignant, ferocious distortion of the news! look at my father there. does it not fill your soul with shame to think of the black injustice you have done him?" "mere sentiment! understand, i do not let conventional sentiment stand between me and my duty." "your duty!" there was a world of scorn in her voice. "and, pray, what is your duty?" "part of it is to establish, and maintain, decent standards of public service in this town." "don't hide behind that hypocritical pretence! i've heard about you. i know the sort of man you are. you saw a safe chance for a yellow story for your yellow newspaper, a safe chance to gain prominence by yelping at the head of the pack. if he had been a rich man, if he had had a strong political party behind him, would you have dared assail him as you have? never! oh, it was brutal--infamous--cowardly!" there was an angry fire behind the editor's thick glasses, and his square chin thrust itself out. he took a step nearer. "listen to me!" he commanded in a slow, defiant voice. "your opinion is to me a matter of complete indifference. i tell you that a man who betrays his city is a traitor, and that i would treat an old traitor exactly as i would treat a young traitor, i tell you that i take it as a sign of an awakening public conscience when reputable lawyers refuse to defend a man who has done what your father has done. and, finally, i predict that, try as you may, you will not be able to find a decent lawyer who will dare to take his case. and i glory in it, and consider it the result of my work!" he bowed to her. "and now, miss west, i wish you good afternoon." she stood quivering, gasping, while he crossed to the door. as his hand fell upon the knob she sprang forward. "wait!" she cried. "wait! he has a lawyer!" he paused. "indeed! and whom?" "one who is going to make you take back every cowardly word you have printed!" "who is it, katherine?" it was her father who spoke. she turned. doctor west had raised his head, and in his eyes was an eager, hopeful light. she bent over him and slipped an arm about his shoulders. "father dear," she quavered, "since we can get no one else, will you take me?" "take you?" he exclaimed. "because," she quavered on, "whether you will or not, i'm going to stay in westville and be your lawyer." chapter v katherine prepares for battle for a long space after bruce had gone katherine sat quiveringly upon the old haircloth sofa beside her father, holding his hands tightly, caressingly. her words tumbled hotly from her lips--words of love of him--of resentment of the injustice which he suffered--and, fiercest of all, of wrath against editor bruce, who had so ruthlessly, and for such selfish ends, incited the popular feeling against him. she would make such a fight as westville had never seen! she would show those lawyers who had been reduced to cowards by bruce's demagogy! she would bring the town humiliated to her father's feet! but emotion has not only peaks, but plains, and dark valleys. as she cooled and her passion descended to a less exalted level, she began to see the difficulties of, and her unfitness for, the rôle she had so impulsively accepted. an uneasiness for the future crept upon her. as she had told mr. blake, she had never handled a case in court. true, she had been a member of the bar for two years, but her duties with the municipal league had consisted almost entirely in working up evidence in cases of municipal corruption for the use of her legal superiors. an untried lawyer, and a woman lawyer at that--surely a weak reed for her father to lean upon! but she had thrown down the gage of battle; she had to fight, since there was no other champion; and even in this hour of emotion, when tears were so plenteous and every word was accompanied by a caress, she began to plan the preliminaries of her struggle. "i shall write to-night to the league for a leave of absence," she said. "one of the things i must see to at once is to get admitted to the state bar. do you know when your case is to come up?" "it has been put over to the september term of court." "that gives me four months." she was silently thoughtful for a space. "i've got to work hard, hard! upon your case. as i see it now, i am inclined to agree with you that the situation has arisen from a misunderstanding--that the agent thought you expected a bribe, and that you thought the bribe a small donation to the hospital." "i'm certain that's how it is," said her father. "then the thing to do is to see doctor sherman, and if possible the agent, have them repeat their testimony and try to search out in it the clue to the mistake. and that i shall see to at once." five minutes later katherine left the house. after walking ten minutes through the quiet, maple-shaded back streets she reached the wabash avenue church, whose rather ponderous pile of bedford stone was the most ambitious and most frequented place of worship in westville, and whose bulk was being added to by a lecture room now rising against its side. katherine went up a gravelled walk toward a cottage that stood beneath the church's shadow. the house's front was covered with a wide-spreading rose vine, a tapestry of rich green which june would gorgeously embroider with sprays of heart-red roses. the cottage looked what katherine knew it was, a bower of lovers. her ring was answered by a fair, fragile young woman whose eyes were the colour of faith and loyalty. a faint colour crept into the young woman's pale cheeks. "why--katherine--why--why--i don't know what you think of us, but--but----" she could stammer out no more, but stood in the doorway in distressed uncertainty. katherine's answer was to stretch out her arms. "elsie!" instantly the two old friends were in a close embrace. "i haven't slept, katherine," sobbed mrs. sherman, "for thinking of what you would think----" "i think that, whatever has happened, i love you just the same." "thank you for saying it, katherine." mrs. sherman gazed at her in tearful gratitude. "i can't tell you how we have suffered over this--this affair. oh, if you only knew!" it was instinctive with katherine to soothe the pain of others, though suffering herself. "i am certain doctor sherman acted from the highest motives," she assured the young wife. "so say no more about it." they had entered the little sitting-room, hung with soft white muslin curtains. "but at the same time, elsie, i cannot believe my father guilty," katherine went on. "and though i honour your husband, why, even the noblest man can be mistaken. my hope of proving my father's innocence is based on the belief that doctor sherman may somehow have made a mistake. at any rate, i'd like to talk over his evidence with him." "he's trying to work on his sermon, though he's too worn to think. i'll bring him right in." she passed through a door into the study, and a moment later reëntered with doctor sherman. the present meeting would have been painful to an ordinary person; doubly so was it to such a hyper-sensitive nature. the young clergyman stood hesitant just within the doorway, his usual pallor greatly deepened, his thin fingers intertwisted--in doubt how to greet katherine till she stretched out her hand to him. "i want you to understand, katherine dear," little mrs. sherman put in quickly, with a look of adoration at her husband, "that edgar reached the decision to take the action he did only after days of agony. you know, katherine, doctor west was always as kind to me as another father, and i loved him almost like one. at first i begged edgar not to do anything. edgar walked the floor for nights--suffering!--oh, how you suffered, edgar!" "isn't it a little incongruous," said doctor sherman, smiling wanly at her, "for the instrument that struck the blow to complain, in the presence of the victim, of _his_ suffering?" "but i want her to know it!" persisted the wife. "she must know it to do you justice, dear! it seemed at first disloyal--but finally edgar decided that his duty to the city----" "please say no more, elsie." katherine turned to the pale young minister. "doctor sherman, i have not come to utter one single word of recrimination. i have come merely to ask you to tell me all you know about the case." "i shall be glad to do so." "and could i also talk with mr. marcy, the agent?" "he has left the city, and will not return till the trial." katherine was disappointed by this news. doctor sherman, though obviously pained by the task, rehearsed in minutest detail the charges he had made against doctor west, which charges he would later have to repeat upon the witness stand. also he recounted mr. marcy's story. katherine scrutinized every point in these two stories for the loose end, the loop-hole, the flaw, she had thought to find. but flaw there was none. the stories were perfectly straightforward. katherine walked slowly away, still going over and over doctor sherman's testimony. doctor sherman was telling the indubitable truth--yet her father was indubitably innocent. it was a puzzling case, this her first case--a puzzling, most puzzling case. when she reached home she was told by her aunt that a gentleman was waiting to see her. she entered the big, old-fashioned parlour, fresh and tasteful despite the stiff black walnut that, in the days of her mother's marriage, had been spread throughout the land as beauty by the gentlemen who dealt conjointly in furniture and coffins. from a chair there rose a youthful and somewhat corpulent presence, with a chubby and very serious pink face that sat in a glossy high collar as in a cup. he smiled with a blushful but ingratiating dignity. "don't you remember me? i'm charlie horn." "oh!" and instinctively, as if to identify him by charlie horn's well-remembered strawberry-marks, katherine glanced at his hands. but they were clean, and the warts were gone. she looked at him in doubt. "you can't be nellie horn's little brother?" "i'm not so little," he said, with some resentment. "since you knew me," he added a little grandiloquently, "i've graduated from bloomington." "please pardon me! it was kind of you to call, and so soon." "well, you see i came on business. i suppose you have seen this afternoon's _express_?" she instinctively stiffened. "i have not." he drew out a copy of the _express_, opened it, and pointed a plump, pinkish forefinger at the beginning of an article on the first page. "you see the _express_ says you are going to be your father's lawyer." katharine read the indicated paragraphs. her colour heightened. the statement was blunt and bare, but between the lines she read the contemptuous disapproval of the "new woman" that a few hours since bruce had displayed before her. again her anger toward bruce flared up. "i am a reporter for the _clarion_," young charlie horn announced, striving not to appear too proud. "and i've come to interview you." "interview me?" she cried in dismay. "what about?" "well, you see," said he, with his benign smile, "you're the first woman lawyer that's ever been in westville. it's almost a bigger sensation than your fath--you see, it's a big story." he drew from his pocket a bunch of copy paper. "i want you to tell me about how you are going to handle the case. and about what you think a woman lawyer's prospects are in westville. and about what you think will be woman's status in future society. and you might tell me," concluded young charlie horn, "who your favourite author is, and what you think of golf. that last will interest our readers, for our country club is very popular." it had been the experience of nellie horn's brother that the good people of westville were quite willing--nay, even had a subdued eagerness--to discourse about themselves, and whom they had visited over sunday, and who was "sundaying" with them, and what beauties had impressed them most at niagara falls; and so that confident young ambassador from the _clarion_ was somewhat dazed when, a moment later, he found himself standing alone on the west doorstep with a dim sense of having been politely and decisively wished good afternoon. but behind him amid the stiff, dark, solemn-visaged furniture (calvinists, every chair of them!) he left a person far more dazed than himself. charlie horn's call had brought sharply home to katherine a question that, in the press of affairs, she hardly had as yet considered--how was westville going to take to a woman lawyer being in its midst? she realized, with a chill of apprehension, how profoundly this question concerned her next few months. dear, bustling, respectable westville, she well knew, clung to its own idea of woman's sphere as to a thing divinely ordered, and to seek to leave which was scarcely less than rebellion against high god. in patriarchal days, when heaven's justice had been prompter, such a disobedient one would suddenly have found herself rebuked into a bit of saline statuary. katherine vividly recalled, when she had announced her intention to study law, what a raising of hands there was, what a loud regretting that she had not a mother. but since she had not settled in westville, and since she had not been actively practising in new york, the town had become partially reconciled. but this step of hers was new, without a precedent. how would westville take it? her brain burned with this and other matters all afternoon, all evening, and till the dawn began to edge in and crowd the shadows from her room. but when she met her father at the breakfast table her face was fresh and smiling. "well, how is my client this morning?" she asked gaily. "do you realize, daddy, that you are my first really, truly client?" "and i suppose you'll be charging me something outrageous as a fee!" "something like this"--kissing him on the ear. "but how do you feel?" "certain that my lawyer will win my case." he smiled. "and how are you?" "brimful of ideas." "yes? about the----" "yes. and about you. first, answer a few of your counsel's questions. have you been doing much at your scientific work of late?" "the last two months, since the water-works has been practically completed, i have spent almost my whole time at it." "and your work was interesting?" "very. you see, i think i am on the verge of discovering that the typhoid bacillus----" "you'll tell me all about that later. now the first order of your attorney is, just as soon as you have finished your coffee and folded your napkin, back you go to your laboratory." "but, katherine, with this affair----" "this affair, worry and all, has been shifted off upon your eminent counsel. work will keep you from worry, so back you go to your darling germs." "you're mighty good, dear, but----" "no argument! you've got to do just what your lawyer tells you. and now," she added "as i may have to be seeing a lot of people, and as having people about the house may interrupt your work, i'm going to take an office." he stared at her. "take an office?" "yes. who knows--i may pick up a few other cases. if i do, i know who can use the money." "but open an office in westville! why, the people----won't it be a little more unpleasant----" he paused doubtfully. "did you see what the _express_ had to say about you?" she flushed, but smiled sweetly. "what the _express_ said is one reason why i'm going to open an office." "yes?" "i'm not going to let fear of that mr. bruce dictate my life. and since i'm going to be a lawyer, i'm going to be the whole thing. and what's more, i'm going to act as though i were doing the most ordinary thing in the world. and if mr. bruce and the town want to talk, why, we'll just let 'em talk!" "but--but--aren't you afraid?" "of course i'm afraid," she answered promptly. "but when i realize that i'm afraid to do a thing, i'm certain that that is just exactly the thing for me to do. oh, don't look so worried, dear"--she leaned across and kissed him--"for i'm going to be the perfectest, properest, politest lady that ever scuttled a convention. and nothing is going to happen to me--nothing at all." breakfast finished, katherine despotically led her father up to his laboratory. a little later she set out for downtown, looking very fresh in a blue summer dress that had the rare qualities of simplicity and grace. her colour was perhaps a little warmer than was usual, but she walked along beneath the maples with tranquil mien, seemingly unconscious of some people she passed, giving others a clear, direct glance, smiling and speaking to friends and acquaintances in her most easy manner. as she turned into main street the intelligence that she was coming seemed in some mysterious way to speed before her. those exemplars of male fashion, the dry goods clerks, craned furtively about front doors. bare-armed and aproned proprietors of grocery stores and their hirelings appeared beneath the awnings and displayed an unprecedented concern in trying to resuscitate, with aid of sprinkling-cans, bunches of expiring radishes and young onions. owners of amiable steeds that dozed beside the curb hurried out of cavernous doors, the fear of run-away writ large upon their countenances, to see if a buckle was not loose or a tug perchance unfastened. behind her, as she passed, main street stood statued in mid-action, strap in motionless hand, sprinkling-can tilting its entire contents of restorative over a box of clothes-pins, and gaped and stared. this was epochal for westville. never before had a real, live, practising woman lawyer trod the cement walk of main street. when katherine came to court house square, she crossed to the south side, passed the _express_ building, and made for the hollingsworth block, whose first floor was occupied by the new york store's "glittering array of vast and profuse fashion." above this alluring pageant were two floors of offices; and up the narrow stairway leading thereunto katherine mounted. she entered a door marked "hosea hollingsworth. attorney-at-law. mortgages. loans. farms." in the room were a table, three chairs, a case of law books, a desk, on the top of the desk a "plug" hat, so venerable that it looked a very great-grandsire of hats, and two cuspidors marked with chromatic evidence that they were not present for ornament alone. from the desk there rose a man, perhaps seventy, lean, tall, smooth-shaven, slightly stooped, dressed in a rusty and wrinkled "prince albert" coat, and with a countenance that looked a rank plagiarism of the mask of voltaire. in one corner of his thin mouth, half chewed away, was an unlighted cigar. "i believe this is mr. hollingsworth?" said katherine. the question was purely formal, for his lank figure was one of her earliest memories. "yes. come right in," he returned in a high, nasal voice. she drew a chair away from the environs of the cuspidors and sat down. he resumed his place at his desk and peered at her through his spectacles, and a dry, almost imperceptible smile played among the fine wrinkles of his leathery face. "and i believe this is katherine west--our lady lawyer," he remarked. "i read in the _express_ how you----" bruce was on her nerves. she could not restrain a sudden flare of temper. "the editor of that paper is a cad!" "well, he ain't exactly what you might call a hand-raised gentleman," the old lawyer admitted. "at least, i never heard of his exerting himself so hard to be polite that he strained any tendons." "you know him, then?" "a little. he's my nephew." "oh! i remember." "and we live together," the old man loquaciously drawled on, eying her closely with a smile that might have been either good-natured or satirical. "batch it--with a nigger who saves us work by stealing things we'd otherwise have to take care of. we scrap most of the time. i make fun of him, and he gets sore. the trouble with the editor of the _express_ is, he had a doting ma. he should have had an almighty lot of thrashing when a boy, and instead he never tasted beech limb once. he's suffering from the spared rod." katherine had a shrinking from this old man; an aversion which in her mature years she had had no occasion to examine, but which she had inherited unanalyzed from her childhood, when old hosie hollingsworth had been the chief scandal of the town--an infidel, who had dared challenge the creation of the earth in seven days, and yet was not stricken down by a fiery bolt from heaven! she did not pursue the subject of bruce, but went directly to her business. "i understand that you have an office to rent." "so i have. like to see it?" "that is what i called for." "just come along with me." he rose, and katherine followed him to the floor above and into a room furnished much as the one she had just left. "this office was last used," commented old hosie, "by a young fellow who taught school down in buck creek township and got money to study law with. he tried law for a while." the old man's thin prehensile lips shifted his cigar to the other side of his mouth. "he's down in buck creek township teaching school to get money to pay his back office rent." "how about the furniture?" asked katherine. "that was his. he left it in part payment. you can use it if you want to." "but i don't want those things about"--pointing gingerly to a pair of cuspidors. "all right. though i don't see how you expect to run a law office in westville without 'em." he bent over and took them in his hands. "i'll take 'em along. i need a few more, for my business is picking up." "i suppose i can have possession at once." "whenever you please." standing with the cuspidors in his two hands the old lawyer looked her over. he slowly grinned, and a dry cackle came out of his lean throat. "i was born out there in buck creek township myself," he said. "folks all quakers, same as your ma's and your aunt rachel's. i was brought up on plowing, husking corn and going to meeting. never smiled till after i was twenty; wore a halo, size too large, that slipped down and made my ears stick out. my grandfather's name was elijah, my father's elisha. my father had twelve sons, and beginning with me, hosea, he named 'em all in order after the minor prophets. being brought up in a houseful of prophets, naturally a lot of the gift of prophecy sort of got rubbed off on me." "well?" said katherine impatiently, not seeing the pertinence of this autobiography. again he shifted his cigar. "well, when i prophesy, it's inspired," he went on. "and you can take it as the word that came unto hosea, that a woman lawyer settling in westville is going to raise the very dickens in this old town!" chapter vi the lady lawyer when old hosie had withdrawn with his expectorative plunder, katherine sat down at the desk and gazed thoughtfully out of her window, taking in the tarnished dome of the court house that rose lustreless above the elm tops and the heavy-boned farmhorses that stood about the iron hitch-racks of the square, stamping and switching their tails in dozing warfare against the flies. once more, she began to go over the case. having decided to test all possible theories, she for the moment pigeon-holed the idea of a mistake, and began to seek for other explanations. for a space she vacantly watched the workmen tearing down the speakers' stand. but presently her eyes began to glow, and she sprang up and excitedly paced the little office. perhaps her father had unwittingly and innocently become involved in some large system of corruption! perhaps this case was the first symptom of the existence of some deep-hidden municipal disease! it seemed possible--very possible. her two years with the municipal league had taught her how common were astute dishonest practices. the idea filled her. she began to burn with a feverish hope. but from the first moment she was sufficiently cool-headed to realize that to follow up the idea she required intimate knowledge of westville political conditions. here she felt herself greatly handicapped. owing to her long residence away from westville she was practically in ignorance of public affairs--and she faced the further difficulty of having no one to whom she could turn for information. her father she knew could be of little service; expert though he was in his specialty, he was blind to evil in men. as for blake, she did not care to ask aid from him so soon after his refusal of assistance. and as for others, she felt that all who could give her information were either hostile to her father or critical of herself. for days the idea possessed her mind. she kept it to herself, and, her suspicious eyes sweeping in all directions, she studied as best she could to find some evidence or clue to evidence, that would corroborate her conjecture. in her excited hope, she strove, while she thought and worked, to be indifferent to what the town might think about her. but she was well aware that old hosie's prophecy was swift in coming true--that a storm was raging, a storm of her own sex. it should be explained, however, in justice to them, that they forgot the fact, or never really knew it, that she had been forced to take her father's case. to be sure, there was no open insult, no direct attack, no face-to-face denunciation; but piazzas buzzed indignantly with her name, and at the meeting of the ladies' aid the poor were forgotten, as at the missionary society were the unbibled heathen upon the foreign shore. fragments of her sisters' pronouncements were wafted to katherine's ears. "no self-respecting, womanly woman would ever think of wanting to be a lawyer"--"a forward, brazen, unwomanly young person"--"a disgrace to the town, a disgrace to our sex"--"think of the example she sets to impressionable young girls; they'll want to break away and do all sorts of unwomanly things"--"everybody knows her reason for being a lawyer is only that it gives her a greater chance to be with the men." katherine heard, her mouth hardened, a certain defiance came into her manner. but she went straight ahead seeking evidence to support her suspicion. every day made her feel more keenly her need of intimate knowledge about the city's political affairs; then, unexpectedly, and from an unexpected quarter, an informant stepped out upon her stage. several times old hosie hollingsworth had spoken casually when they had chanced to pass in the building or on the street. one day his lean, stooped figure appeared in her office and helped itself to a chair. "i see you haven't exactly made what charlie horn, in his dramatic criticisms, calls an uproarious and unprecedented success," he remarked, after a few preliminaries. "i have not been sufficiently interested to notice," was her crisp response. "that's right; keep your back up," said he. "i've been agin about everything that's popular, and for everything that's unpopular, that ever happened in this town. i've been an 'agin-er' for fifty years. they'd have tarred and feathered me long ago if there'd been any leading citizen unstingy enough to have donated the tar. then, too, i've had a little money, and going through the needle's eye is easy business compared to losing the respect of westville so long as you've got money--unless, of course," he added, "you're a female lawyer. i tell you, there's no more fun than stirring up the animals in this old town. any one unpopular in westville is worth being friends with, and so if you're willing----" he held out his thin, bony hand. katherine, with no very marked enthusiasm, took it. then her eyes gleamed with a new light; and obeying an impulse she asked: "are you acquainted with political conditions in westville?" "me acquainted with----" he cackled. "why, i've been setting at my office window looking down on the political circus of this town ever since noah run aground on mount ararat." she leaned forward eagerly. "then you know how things stand?" "to a t." "tell me, is there any rotten politics, any graft or corruption going on?" she flushed. "of course, i mean except what's charged against my father." "when blind charlie peck was in power, there was more graft and dirty----" "not then, but now?" she interrupted. "now? well, of course you know that since blake run blind charlie out of business ten years ago, blake has been the big gun in this town." "yes, i know." "then you must know that in the last ten years westville has been text, sermon, and doxology for all the reformers in the state." "but could not corruption be going on without mr. blake knowing it? could not mr. peck be secretly carrying out some scheme?" "blind charlie? blind charlie ain't dead yet, not by a long sight--and as long as there's a breath in his carcass, that good-natured old blackguard is likely to be a dangerous customer. but though charlie's still the boss of his party, he controls no offices, and has got no real power. he's as helpless as satan was after he'd been kicked out of heaven and before he'd landed that big job he holds on the floor below. nowadays, charlie just sits in his side office over at the tippecanoe house playing seven-up from breakfast till bedtime." "then you think there's no corrupt politics in westville?" she asked in a sinking voice. "not an ounce of 'em!" said old hosie with decision. this agreed with the conviction that had been growing upon katherine during the last few days. while she had entertained suspicion of there being corruption, she had several times considered the advisability of putting a detective on the case. but this idea she now abandoned. after this talk with the old lawyer, katherine was forced back again upon misunderstanding. she went carefully over the records of her father's department, on file in the court house, seeking some item that would cast light upon the puzzle. she went over and over the indictment, seeking some loose end, some overlooked inconsistency, that would yield her at least a clue. for days she kept doggedly at this work, steeling herself against the disapprobation of the town. but she found nothing. then, in a flash, an overlooked point recurred to her. the trouble, so went her theory, was all due to a confusion of the bribe with the donation to the hospital. where was that donation? here was a matter that might at last lead to a solution of the difficulty. again on fire with hope, she interviewed her father. he was certain that a donation had been promised, he had thought the envelope handed him by mr. marcy contained the gift--but of the donation itself he knew no more. she interviewed doctor sherman; he had heard mr. marcy refer to a donation but knew nothing about the matter. she tried to get in communication with mr. marcy, only to learn that he was in england studying some new filtering plants recently installed in that country. undiscouraged, she one day stepped off the train in st. louis, the home of the acme filter, and appeared in the office of the company. the general manager, a gentleman who ran to portliness in his figure, his jewellery and his courtesy, seemed perfectly acquainted with the case. in exculpation of himself and his company, he said that they were constantly being held up by every variety of official from a county commissioner to a mayor, and they were simply forced to give "presents" in order to do business. "but my father's defense," put in katherine, "was that he thought this 'present' was in reality a donation to the hospital. was anything said to my father about a donation?" "i believe there was." "that corroborates my father!" katherine exclaimed eagerly. "would you make that statement at the trial--or at least give me an affidavit to that effect?" "i'll be glad to give you an affidavit. but i should explain that the 'present' and the donation were two distinctly separate affairs." "then what became of the donation?" katherine cried triumphantly. "it was sent," said the manager. "sent?" "i sent it myself," was the reply. katherine left st. louis more puzzled than before. what had become of the check, if it had really been sent? home again, she ransacked her father's desk with his aid, and in a bottom drawer they found a heap of long-neglected mail. doctor west at first scratched his head in perplexity. "i remember now," he said. "i never was much of a hand to keep up with my letters, and for the few days before that celebration i was so excited that i just threw everything----" but katherine had torn open an envelope and was holding in her hands a fifty dollar check from the acme filter company. "what was the date of your arrest?" she asked sharply. "the date mr. marcy gave you that money?" "the fifteenth of may." "this check is dated the twelfth of may. the envelope shows it was received in westville on the thirteenth." "well, what of that?" "only this," said katherine slowly, and with a chill at her heart, "that the prosecution can charge, and we cannot disprove the charge, that the real donation was already in your possession at the time you accepted what you say you believed was the donation." then, with a rush, a great temptation assailed katherine--to destroy this piece of evidence unfavourable to her father which she held in her hands. for several moments the struggle continued fiercely. but she had made a vow with herself when she had entered law that she was going to keep free from the trickery and dishonourable practices so common in her profession. she was going to be an honest lawyer, or be no lawyer at all. and so, at length, she laid the check before her father. "just indorse it, and we'll send it in to the hospital," she said. afterward it occurred to her that to have destroyed the check would at the best have helped but little, for the prosecution, if it so desired, could introduce witnesses to prove that the donation had been sent. suspicion of having destroyed or suppressed the check would then inevitably have rested upon her father. this discovery of the check was a heavy blow, but katherine went doggedly back to the first beginnings; and as the weeks crept slowly by she continued without remission her desperate search for a clue which, followed up, would make clear to every one that the whole affair was merely a mistake. but the only development of the summer which bore at all upon the case--and that bearing seemed to katherine indirect--was that, since early june, the service of the water-works had steadily been deteriorating. there was frequently a shortage in the supply, and the filtering plant, the direct cause of doctor west's disgrace, had proved so complete a failure that its use had been discontinued. the water was often murky and unpleasant to the taste. moreover, all kinds of other faults began to develop in the plant. the city complained loudly of the quality of the water and the failure of the system. it was like one of these new-fangled toys, averred the street corners, that runs like a miracle while the paint is on it and then with a whiz and a whir goes all to thunder. but to this mere by-product of the case katherine gave little thought. she had to keep desperately upon the case itself. at times, feeling herself so alone, making no inch of headway, her spirits sank very low indeed. what made the case so wearing on the soul was that she was groping in the dark. she was fighting an invisible enemy, even though it was no more than a misunderstanding--an enemy whom, strive as she would, she could not clutch, with whom she could not grapple. again and again she prayed for a foe in the open. had there been a fight, no matter how bitter, her part would have been far, far easier--for in fight there is action and excitement and the lifting hope of victory. it took courage to work as she did, weary week upon weary week, and discover nothing. it took courage not to slink away at the town's disapprobation. at times, in the bitterness of her heart, she wished she were out of it all, and could just rest, and be friends with every one. in such moods it would creep coldly in upon her that there could be but one solution to the case--that after all her father must be guilty. but when she would go home and look into his thoughtful, unworldy old face, that solution would instantly become impossible; and she would cast out doubt and despair and renew her determination. the weeks dragged heavily on--hot and dusty after the first of july, and so dry that out in the country the caked earth was a fine network of zigzagging fissures, and the farmers, gazing despondently upon their shrivelling corn, watched with vain hope for a rescuing cloud to darken the clear, hard, brilliant heavens. at length the summer burned to its close; the opening day of the september term of court was close at hand. but still the case stood just as on the day katherine had stepped so joyously from the limited. the evidence of sherman was unshaken. the charges of bruce had no answer. one afternoon--her father's case was set for two days later--as katherine left her office, desperate, not knowing which way to turn, her nerves worn fine and thin by the long strain, she saw her father's name on the front page of the _express_. she bought a copy. in the centre of the first page, in a "box" and set in heavy-faced type, was an editorial in bruce's most rousing style, trying her father in advance, declaring him flagrantly guilty, and demanding for him the law's extremest penalty. that editorial unloosed her long-collected wrath--wrath that had many a reason. in bruce's person katherine had from the first seen the summing up, the leader, of the bitterness against her father. all summer he had continued his sharp attacks, and the virulence of these had helped keep the town wrought up against doctor west. moreover, katherine despised bruce as a powerful, ruthless, demagogic hypocrite. and to her hostility against him in her father's behalf and to her contempt for his quack radicalism, was added the bitter implacability of the woman who feels herself scorned. the town's attitude toward her she resented. but bruce she hated, and him she prayed with all her soul that she might humble. she crushed the _express_, flung it from her into the gutter, and walked home all a-tremble. her aunt met her in the hall as she was laying off her hat. a spot burned faintly in either withered cheek of the old woman. "who does thee think is here?" she asked. "who?" katherine repeated mechanically, her wrath too high for interest in anything else. "mr. bruce. upstairs with thy father." "what!" cried katherine. her hat missed the hook and fell to the floor, and she went springing up the stairway. the next instant she flung open her father's door, and walked straight up to bruce, before whom she paused, bosom heaving, eyes on fire. "what are you doing here?" she demanded. his powerful figure rose, and his square-hewn face looked directly into her own. "interviewing your father," he returned with his aggressive calm. "he was asking me to confess," explained doctor west. "confess?" cried katherine. "just so," replied bruce. "his guilt is undoubted, so he might as well confess." scorn flamed at him. "i see! you are trying to get a confession out of him, in advance of the trial, as a big feature for your terrible paper!" she moved a pace nearer him. all the suppressed anger, all the hidden anguish, of the last three months burst up volcanically. "oh! oh!" she cried breathlessly. "i never dreamt till i met you that a man could be so low, so heartless, as to hound an old man as you have hounded my father--and all for the sake of a yellow newspaper sensation. but he's a safe man for you to attack. yes, he's safe--old, unpopular, helpless!" bruce's heavy brows lowered. he did not give back a step before her ireful figure. "and because he's old and unpopular i should not attack him, eh?" he demanded. "because he's down, i should not hit him? that's your woman's reasoning, is it? well, let me tell you," and his gray eyes flashed, and his voice had a crunching tone--"that i believe when you've got an enemy of society down, don't, because you pity him, let him up to go and do the same thing again. while you've got him down, keep on hitting him till you've got him finished!" "like the brute that you are!" she cried. "but, like the coward you are, you first very carefully choose your 'enemy of society.' you were careful to choose one who could not hit back!" "i did not choose your father. he thrust himself upon the town's attention. and i consider neither his weakness nor his strength. i consider only the fact that your father has done the city a greater injury than any man who ever lived in westville." "it's a lie! i tell you it's a lie!" "it's the truth!" he declared harshly, dominantly. "his swindling westville by giving us a worthless filtering-plant in return for a bribe--why, that is the smallest evil he has done the town. before that time, westville was on the verge of making great municipal advances--on the verge of becoming a model and a leader for the small cities of the middle west. and now all that grand development is ruined--and ruined by that man, your father!" he excitedly jerked a paper from his pocket and held it out to her. "if you want to see what he has brought us to, read that editorial in the _clarion_!" she fixed him with glittering eyes. "i have read one cowardly editorial to-day in a westville paper. that is enough." "read that, i say!" he commanded. for answer she took the _clarion_ and tossed it into the waste-basket. she glared at him, quivering all over, in her hands a convulsive itch for physical vengeance. "if i thought that in all your fine talk about the city there was one single word of sincerity, i might respect you," she said with slow and scathing contempt. "but your words are the words of a mere poseur--of a man who twists the truth to fit his desires--of a man who deals in the ideas that seem to him most profitable--of a man who cares not how poor, how innocent, is the body he uses as a stepping stone for his clambering greed and ambition. oh, i know you--i have watched you--i have read you. you are a mere self-seeker! you are a demagogue! you are a liar! and, on top of that, you are a coward!" whatever arnold bruce was, he was a man with a temper. fury was blazing behind his heavy spectacles. "go on! i care _that_ for the words of a woman who has so little taste, so little sense, so little modesty, as to leave the sphere----" "you boor!" gasped katharine. "perhaps i am. at least i am not afraid to speak the truth straight out even to a woman. you are all wrong. you are unwomanly. you are unsexed. your pretensions as a lawyer are utterly preposterous, as the trial on thursday will show you. and the condemnation of the town is not half as severe a rebuke----" "stop!" gasped katherine. a wild defiance surged up and overmastered her, her nerves broke, and her hot words tumbled out hysterically. "you think you are a god-anointed critic of humanity, but you are only a heartless, conceited cad! just wait--i'll show you what your judgment of me is worth! i am going to clear my father! i am going to make this westville that condemns me kneel at my feet! and as for you--you can think what you please! but don't you ever dare to speak to my father again--don't you ever dare speak to me again--don't you ever dare enter this house again! now go! go! i say. go! go! go!" his face had grown purple; he seemed to be choking. for a space he gazed at her. then without answering he bowed slightly and was gone. she glared a moment at the door. then suddenly she collapsed upon the floor, her head and arms on the old haircloth sofa, and her whole body shook with silent sobs. doctor west, first gazing at her a little helplessly, sat down upon the sofa, and softly stroked her hair. for a time there were no words--only her convulsive breathing, her choking sobs. presently he said gently: "i'm sure you'll do everything you said." "no--that's the trouble," she moaned. "what i said--was--was just a big bluff. i won't do any--of those things. your trial is two days off--and, father, i haven't one bit of evidence--i don't know what we're going to do--and the jury will have to--oh, father, father, that man was right; i'm just--just a great big failure!" again she shook with sobs. the old man continued to sit beside her, softly stroking her thick brown hair. chapter vii the mask falls but presently the sobs subsided, as though shut off by main force, and katherine rose to her feet. she wiped her eyes and looked at her father, a wan smile on her reddened, still tremulous face. "what a hope-inspiring lawyer you have, father!" "i would not want a truer," said he loyally. "we won't have one of these cloud-bursts again, i promise you. but when you have been under a strain for months, and things are stretched tighter and tighter, and at last something makes things snap, why you just can't help--well," she ended, "a man would have done something else, i suppose, but it might have been just as bad." "worse!" avowed her father. "anyhow, it's all over. i'll just repair some of the worst ravages of the storm, and then we'll talk about our programme for the trial." as she was arranging her hair before her father's mirror, she saw, in the glass, the old man stoop and take something from the waste-basket. turning his back to her, he cautiously examined the object. she left the mirror and came up behind him. "what are you looking at, dear?" he started, and glanced up. "oh--er--that editorial mr. bruce referred to." he rubbed his head dazedly. "if that should happen, with me even indirectly the cause of it--why, katherine, it really would be pretty bad!" he held out the _clarion_. "perhaps, after all, you had better read it." she took the paper. the _clarion_ had from the first opposed the city's owning the water-works, and the editorial declared that the present situation gave the paper, and all those who had held a similar opinion, their long-awaited triumph and vindication. "this failure is only what invariably happens whenever a city tries municipal ownership," declared the editorial. "the situation has grown so unbearably acute that the city's only hope of good water lies in the sale of the system to some private concern, which will give us that superior service which is always afforded by private capital. westville is upon the eve of a city election, and we most emphatically urge upon both parties that they make the chief plank of their platforms the immediate sale of our utterly discredited water-works to some private company." the editorial did not stir katherine as it had appeared to stir bruce, nor even in the milder degree it had stirred doctor west. she was interested in the water-works only in so far as it concerned her father, and the _clarion's_ proposal had no apparent bearing on his guilt or innocence. she laid the _clarion_ on the table, without comment, and proceeded to discuss the coming trial. the only course she had to suggest was that they plead for a postponement on the ground that they needed more time in which to prepare their defense. if that plea were denied, then before them seemed certain conviction. on that plea, then, they decided to place all their hope. when this matter had been talked out doctor west took the _clarion_ from the table and again read the editorial with troubled face, while katherine walked to and fro across the floor, her mind all on the trial. "if the town does sell, it will be too bad!" he sighed. "i suppose so," said katherine mechanically. "it has reached me that people are saying that the system isn't worth anything like what we paid for it." "is that so?" she asked absently. doctor west drew himself up and his faded cheeks flushed indignantly. "no, it is not so. i don't know what's wrong, but it's the very best system of its size in the middle west!" she paused. "forgive me--i wasn't paying any attention to what i was saying. i'm sure it is." she resumed her pacing. "but if they sell out to some company," doctor west continued, "the company will probably get it for a third, or less, of what it is actually worth." "so, if some corporation has been secretly wanting to buy it," commented katherine, "things could not have worked out better for the corporation if they had been planned." she came to a sudden pause, and stood gazing at her father, her lips slowly parting. "it could not have worked out better for the corporation if it had been planned," she repeated. "no," said doctor west. she picked up the _clarion_, quickly read the editorial, and laid the paper aside. "father!" her voice was a low, startled cry. "yes?" she moved slowly toward him, in her face a breathless look, and caught his shoulders with tense hands. "_perhaps it was planned!_" "what?" her voice rang out more loudly: "_perhaps it was planned!_" "but katherine--what do you mean?" "let me think. let me think." she began feverishly to pace the room. "oh, why did i not think of this before!" she cried to herself. "i thought of graft--political corruption--everything else. but it never occurred to me that there might be a plan, a subtle, deep-laid plan, to steal the water-works!" doctor west watched her rather dazedly as she went up and down the floor, her brows knit, her lips moving in self-communion. her connection with the municipal league in new york had given her an intimate knowledge of the devious means by which public service corporations sometimes gain their end. her mind flashed over all the situation's possibilities. suddenly she paused before her father, face flushed, triumph in her eyes. "father, _it was planned!_" "eh?" said he. "father," she demanded excitedly, "do you know what the great public service corporations are doing now?" her words rushed on, not waiting for an answer. "they have got hold of almost all the valuable public utilities in the great cities, and now they are turning to a fresh field--the small cities. westville is a rich chance in a small way. it has only thirty thousand inhabitants now. but it is growing. some day it will have fifty thousand--a hundred thousand." "that's what people say." "if a private company could get hold of the water-works, the system would not only be richly profitable at once, but it would be worth a fortune as the city grows. now if a company, a clever company, wanted to buy in the water-works, what would be their first move?" "to make an offer, i suppose." "never! their first step would be to try to make the people want to sell. and how would they try to make the people want to sell?" "why--why----" "by making the water-works fail!" her excitement was mounting; she caught his shoulders. "fail so badly that the people would be disgusted, just as they now are, and willing to sell at any price. and now, father--and now, father--" he could feel her quivering all over--"listen to me! we're coming to the point! how would they make the water-works fail?" he could only blink at her. "they'd make it fail by removing from office, and so disgracing him that everything he had done would be discredited, the one incorruptible man whose care and knowledge had made it a success! don't you see, father? don't you see?" "bless me," said the old man, "if i know what you're talking about!" "with you out of the way, whom they knew they could not corrupt, they could buy under officials to attend to the details of making the water bad and the plant itself a failure--just exactly what has been done. you are not the real victim. you are just an obstruction--something that they had to get out of the way. the real victim is westville! it's a plan to rob the city!" his gray eyes were catching the light that blazed from hers. "i begin to see," he said. "it hardly seems possible people would do such things. but perhaps you're right. what are you going to do?" "fight!" "fight?" he looked admiringly at her glowing figure. "but if there is a strong company behind all this, for you to fight it alone--it will be an awful big fight!" "i don't care how big the fight is!" she cried exultantly. "what has almost broken my heart till now is that there has been no one to fight!" a shadow fell on the old man's face. "but after all, katherine, it is all only a guess." "of course it is only a guess!" she cried. "but i have tested every other possible solution. this is the only one left, and it fits every known circumstance of the case. it is only a guess--but i'll stake my life on its being the right guess!" her voice rose. "oh, father, we're on the right track at last! we're going to clear you! don't you ever doubt that. we're going to clear you!" there was no resisting the ringing confidence in her voice, the fire of her enthusiasm. "katherine!" he cried, and opened his arms. she rushed into them. "we're going to clear you, father! and, oh, won't it be fine! won't it be fine!" for a space they held each other close, then they parted. "what are you going to do first?" he asked. "try to find the person, or corporation, behind the scheme." "and how will you do that?" "first, i shall talk it over with mr. blake. you know he told me to come to him if i ever wished his advice. he knows the situation here--he has the interests of westville at heart--and i know he will help us. i'm not going to lose a second, so i'm off to see him now." she rushed downstairs. but she did have to lose a second, and many of them, for when she called up mr. blake's office on the telephone, the answer came back that mr. blake was in the capital and would not return till the following day on the one forty-five. it occurred to katherine to advise with old hosie hollingsworth, for during the long summer her blind, childish shrinking had changed to warm liking of the dry old lawyer; and she had discovered, too, that the heresies it had been his delight to utter a generation before--and on which he still prided himself--were now a part of the belief of many an orthodox divine. but she decided against conferring with old hosie. her adviser and leader must be a man more actively in the current of modern affairs. no, blake was her great hope, and precious and few as were the hours before the trial, there was nothing for it but to wait for his return. she went up to her room, and her excited mind, now half inspired, went feverishly over the situation and all who were in any wise concerned in it. she thought of the fifty dollar check from the acme filter company. with her new viewpoint she now understood the whole bewildering business of that check. the company, or at least one of its officers, was somehow in on the deal, and there had been some careful scheming behind the sending of that fifty dollars. the company had been confronted with two obvious difficulties. first, it had to make certain that the check would not be received until after the two thousand dollars was in the hands of her father. second, the date of the check and the date of the westville postmark must be earlier than the day the two thousand dollars was delivered--else doctor west could produce check and envelope to prove that the check had not arrived until after he had already accepted what he thought was the donation, and thus perhaps ruin the whole scheme. what had been done, katherine now clearly perceived, was that some one, most probably an assistant of her father, had been bought over to look out for the arrival of the letter, to hold it back until the critical day had passed, and then slip it into her father's neglected mail. her mind raced on to further matters, further persons, connected with the situation. when she came to bruce her hands clenched the arms of her wicker rocking chair. in a flash the whole man was plain to her, and her second great discovery of the day was made. bruce was an agent of the hidden corporation! the motive behind his fierce desire to destroy her father was at last apparent. to destroy doctor west was his part in the conspiracy. as for his rabid advocacy of municipal ownership, and all his fine talk about the city's betterment, that was mere sham--merely the virtuous front behind which he could work out his purpose unsuspected. no one could quote the scripture of civic improvement more loudly than the civic despoiler. she always had distrusted him. now she knew him. many a time through the night her mind flashed back to him from other matters and she thrilled with a vengeful joy at the thought of tearing aside his mask. it was a long and feverish night to katherine, and a long and feverish forenoon. at a quarter to two she was in blake's office, which was furnished with just that balance between simplicity and richness appropriate to a growing great man with a constituency half of the city and half of the country. she had sat some time at a window looking down upon the square, its foliage now a dusty, shrivelled brown, when blake came in. he had not been told that she was waiting, and at sight of her he came to a sudden pause. but the next instant he had crossed the room and was shaking her hand. for that first instant katherine's eyes and mind, which during the last twenty-four hours had had an almost more than mortal clearness, had an impression that he was strangely agitated. but the moment over, the impression was gone. he placed a chair for her at the corner of his desk and himself sat down, his dark, strong, handsome face fixed on hers. "now, how can i serve you, katherine?" there were rings about her eyes, but excitement gave her colour. "you know that to-morrow is father's trial?" "yes. you must have a hard, hard fight before you." "perhaps not so hard as you may think." she tried to keep her tugging excitement in leash. "i hope not," said he. "i think it may prove easy--if you will help me." "help you?" "yes. i have come to ask you that again." "well--you see--as i told you----" "but the situation has changed since i first came to you," she put in quickly, not quite able to restrain a little laugh. "i have found something out!" he started. "you have found--you say----" "i have found something out!" she smiled at him happily, triumphantly. "and that?" said he. she leaned forward. "i do not need to tell you, for you know it, that the big corporations have discovered a new gold mine--or rather, thousands of little gold mines. that all over the country they have gained control, and are working to gain control, of the street-car lines, gas works and other public utilities in the smaller cities." "well?" she spoke excitedly, putting the case more definitely than it really was, to better the chance of winning his aid. "well, i have just discovered that there is a plan on foot, directed by a hidden some one, to seize the water-works of westville. i have discovered that my father is not guilty. he is the victim of a trick to ruin the water-works and make the people willing to sell. the first thing to do is to find the man behind the scheme. i want you to help me find this man." a greenish pallor had overspread his features. "and you want me--to find this man?" he repeated. "yes. i know you will take this up, simply because of your interest in the city. but there is another reason--it would help you in your larger ambition. if you could disclose this scheme, save the city, become the hero of a great popular gratitude, think how it would help your senatorial chances!" he did not at once reply, but sat staring at her. "don't you see?" she cried. "i--i see." "why, it would turn your chance for the senate into a certainty! it would--but, mr. blake, what's the matter?" "matter," he repeated, huskily. "why--why nothing." she gazed at him with deep concern. "but you look almost sick." in his eyes there struggled a wild look. her gaze became fixed upon his face, so strangely altered. in her present high-wrought state all her senses were excited to their intensest keenness. there was a moment of silence--eyes into eyes. then she stood slowly up, and one hand reached slowly out and clutched his arm. "mr. blake!" she whispered, in an awed and terrified tone. she continued to stare into his eyes. "mr. blake!" she repeated. she felt a tensing of his body, as of a man who seeks to master himself with a mighty effort. he tried to smile, though his greenish pallor did not leave him. "it is my turn," he said, "to ask what is the matter with you, katherine." "mr. blake!" she loosed her hold upon his arm, and shrank away. he rose. "what is the matter?" he repeated. "you seem upset. i suppose it is the nervous strain of to-morrow's trial." in her face was stupefied horror. "it is what--what i have discovered." "what you call your discovery would be most valuable, if true. but it is just a dream, katherine--a crazy, crazy dream." she still was looking straight into his eyes. "mr. blake, it is true," she said slowly, almost breathlessly. "for i have found the man behind the plan." "indeed! and who?" "i think you know him, mr. blake." "i?" "better than any one else." his smile had left him. "who?" she continued to stare at him for a moment in silence. then she slowly raised her arm and pointed at him. the silence continued for several moments, each gazing at the other. he had put one hand upon his desk and was leaning heavily upon it. he looked like a man sick unto death. but soon a shiver ran through him; he swallowed, gripped himself in a strong control, and smiled again his strained, unnatural smile. "katherine, katherine," he tried to say it reprovingly and indulgently, but there was a quaver in his voice. "you have gone quite out of your head!" "it is true!" she cried. "all unintentionally i have followed one of the oldest of police expedients. i have suddenly confronted the criminal with his crime, and i have surprised his guilt upon his face!" "what you say is absurd. i can explain it only on the theory that you are quite out of your mind." "never before was i so much in it!" in this moment when she felt that the hidden enemy she had striven so long to find was at last revealed to her, she felt more of anguish than of triumph. "oh, how could you do such a thing, mr. blake?" she burst out. "how could you do it?" he shook his head, and tried to smile at her perversity--but the smile was a wan failure. "i see--i see!" she cried in her pain. "it is just the old story. a good man rises to power through being the champion of the people--and, once in power, the opportunities, the temptation, are too much for him. but i never--no, never!--thought that such a thing would happen with you!" he strove for the injured air of the misjudged old friend. "again i must say that i can only explain your charges by supposing that you are out of your head." "here in westville you believe it is not woman's business to think about politics," katherine went on, in her voice of pain. "but i could not help thinking about them, and watching them. i have lost my faith in the old parties, but i had kept my faith in some of their leaders. i believe some of them honest, devoted, indomitable. and of them all, the one i admired most, ranked highest, was you. and now--and now--oh, mr. blake!--to learn that you----" "katherine! katherine!" and he raised his hands with the manner of exasperated, yet indulgent, helplessness. "mr. blake, you know you are now only playing a part! and you know that i know it!" she moved up to him eagerly. "listen to me," she pleaded rapidly. "you have only started on this, you have not gone too far to turn back. you have done no real wrong as yet, save to my father, and i know my father will forgive you. drop your plan--let my father be honourably cleared--and everything will be just as before!" for a space he seemed shaken by her words. she watched him, breathless, awaiting the outcome of the battle she felt was waging within him. "drop the plan--do!--do!--i beg you!" she cried. his dark face twitched; a quivering ran through his body. then by a mighty effort he partially regained his mastery. "there is no plan for me to drop," he said huskily. "you still cling to the part you are playing?" "i am playing no part; you are all wrong about me," he continued. "your charges are so absurd that it would be foolish to deny them. they are merely the ravings of an hysterical woman." "and this is your answer?" "that is my answer." she gazed at him for a long moment. then she sighed. "i'm so sorry!" she said; and she turned away and moved toward the door. she gave him a parting look, as he stood pale, quivering, yet controlled, behind his desk. in this last moment she remembered the gallant fight this man had made against blind charlie peck; she remembered that fragrant, far-distant night of june when he had asked her to marry him; and she felt as though she were gazing for the last time upon a dear dead face. "i'm sorry--oh, so sorry!" she said tremulously. "good-by." and turning, she walked with bowed head out of his office. chapter viii the editor of the _express_ katherine stumbled down into the dusty, quivering heat of the square. she was still awed and dumfounded by her discovery; she could not as yet realize its full significance and whither it would lead; but her mind was a ferment of thoughts that were unfinished and questions that did not await reply. how had a man once so splendid come to sell his soul for money or ambition? what would westville think and do, westville who worshipped him, if it but knew the truth? how was she to give battle to an antagonist, so able in himself, so powerfully supported by the public? what a strange caprice of fate it was that had given her as the man she must fight, defeat, or be defeated by, her former idol, her former lover! shaken with emotion, her mind shot through with these fragmentary thoughts, she turned into a side street. but she had walked beneath its withered maples no more than a block or two, when her largest immediate problem, her father's trial on the morrow, thrust itself into her consciousness, and the pressing need of further action drove all this spasmodic speculation from her mind. she began to think upon what she should next do. almost instantly her mind darted to the man whom she had definitely connected with the plot against her father, arnold bruce, and she turned back toward the square, afire with a new idea. she had made great advance through suddenly, though unintentionally, confronting blake with knowledge of his guilt. might she not make some further advance, gain some new clue, by confronting bruce in similar manner? ten minutes after she had left the office of harrison blake, katherine entered the _express_ building. from the first floor sounded a deep and continuous thunder; that afternoon's issue was coming from the press. she lifted her skirts and gingerly mounted the stairway, over which the _express's_ "devil" was occasionally seen to make incantations with the stub of an undisturbing broom. at the head of the stairway a door stood open. this she entered, and found herself in the general editorial room, ankle-deep with dirt and paper. the air of the place told that the day's work was done. in one corner a telegraph sounder was chattering its tardy world-gossip to unheeding ears. in the centre at a long table, typewriters before them, three shirt-sleeved young men sprawled at ease reading the _express_, which the "devil" had just brought them from the nether regions, moist with the black spittle of the beast that there roared and rumbled. at sight of her tall, fresh figure, a red spot in her either cheek, defiance in her brown eyes, billy harper, quicker than the rest, sprang up and crossed the room. "miss west, i believe," he said. "can i do anything for you?" "i wish to speak with mr. bruce," was her cold reply. "this way," and billy led her across the wilderness of proofs, discarded copy and old newspapers, to a door beside the stairway that led down into the press-room. "just go right in," he said. she entered. bruce, his shirt-sleeves rolled up and his bared fore-arms grimy, sat glancing through the _express_, his feet crossed on his littered desk, a black pipe hanging from one corner of his mouth. he did not look round but turned another page. "well, what's the matter?" he grunted between his teeth. "i should like a few words with you," said katherine. "eh!" his head twisted about. "miss west!" his feet suddenly dropped to the floor, and he stood up and laid the pipe upon his desk. for the moment he was uncertain how to receive her, but the bright, hard look in her eyes fixed his attitude. "certainly," he said in a brusque, businesslike tone. he placed the atlas-bottomed chair near his own. "be seated." she sat down, and he took his own chair. "i am at your service," he said. her cheeks slowly gathered a higher colour, her eyes gleamed with a pre-triumphant fire, and she looked straight into his square, rather massive face. over blake she had felt an infinity of regret and pain. for this man she felt only boundless hatred, and she thrilled with a vengeful, exultant joy that she was about to unmask him--that later she might crush him utterly. "i am at your service," he repeated. she slowly wet her lips and gathered herself to strike, alert to watch the effects of her blow. "i have called, mr. bruce," she said with slow distinctness, "to let you know that i know that a conspiracy is under way to steal the water-works! and to let you know that i know that you are near its centre!" he started. "what?" he cried. her devouring gaze did not lose a change of feature, not so much as the shifting in the pupil of his eye. "oh, i know your plot!" she went on rapidly. "it's every detail! the first step was to ruin the water-works, so the city would sell and sell cheap. the first step toward ruining the system was to get my father out of the way. and so this charge against my father was trumped up to ruin him. the leader of the whole plot is mr. blake; his right hand man yourself. oh, i know every detail of your infamous scheme!" he stared at her. his lips had slowly parted. "what--you say that mr. blake----" "oh, you are trying to play your part of innocence well, but you cannot deceive me!" she cried with fierce contempt. "yes, mr. blake is the head of it. i just came from his office. there's not a doubt in the world of his guilt. he has admitted it. oh----" "admitted it?" "yes, admitted it! oh, it was a fine and easy way to make a fortune--to dupe the city into selling at a fraction of its value a business that run privately will pay an immense and ever-growing profit." he had stood up and was scratching his bristling hair. "my god! my god!" he whispered. she rose. "and you!" she cried, glaring at him, her voice mounting to a climax of scorn, "you! don't walk the room"--he had begun to do so--"but look me in the face. to think how you have attacked my father, maligned him, covered him with dishonour! and for what? to help you carry through a dirty trick to rob the city! oh, i wish i had the words to tell you----" but he had begun again to pace the little room, scratching his head, his eyes gleaming behind the heavy glasses. "listen to me!" she commanded. "oh, give me all the hell you want to!" he cried out. "only don't ask me to listen to you!" he paused abruptly before her, and, eyes half-closed, stared piercingly into her face. as she returned his stare, it began to dawn upon her that he did not seem much taken aback. at least his guilt bore no near likeness to that of mr. blake. suddenly he made a lunge for the door, jerked it open, and his voice descended the stairway, out-thundering the press. "jake! oh, jake!" a lesser roar ascended: "yes!" "stop the press! rip open the forms! get the men at the linotypes! and be alive down there, every damned soul of you! and you, billy harper, i'll want you here in two minutes!" he slammed the door, and turned on katherine. she had looked upon excitement before, but never such excitement as was flaming in his face. "now give me all the details!" he cried. she it was that was taken aback. "i--i don't understand," she said. "no time to explain now. looks like i've been all wrong about your father--perhaps a little wrong about you--and perhaps you've been a little wrong about me. let it go at that. now for the details. quick!" "but--but what are you going to do?" "going to get out an extra! it's the hottest story that ever came down the pike! it'll make the _express_, and"--he seized her hand in his grimy ones, his eyes blazed, and an exultant laugh leaped from his deep chest--"and we'll simply rip this old town wide open!" katherine stared at him in bewilderment. "oh, won't this wake the old town up!" he murmured to himself. he dropped into his chair, jerked some loose copy paper toward him, and seized a pencil. "now quick! the details!" "you mean--you are going to print this?" she stammered. "didn't i say so!" he answered sharply. "then you really had nothing to do with mr. blake's----" "oh, hell! i beg pardon. but this is no time for explanations. come, come"--he rapped his desk with his knuckles--"don't you know what getting out an extra is? every second is worth half your lifetime. out with the story!" katherine sank rather weakly into her chair, beginning to see new things in this face she had so lately loathed. "the fact of the matter is," she confessed, "i guess i stated my information a little more definitely than it really is." "you mean you haven't the facts?" "i'm afraid not. not yet." "nothing definite i could hinge a story on?" she shook her head. "i didn't come prepared for--for things to take this turn. it would spoil everything to have this made public before i had my case worked up." "then there's no extra!" he flung down his pencil and sprang up. "nothing doing, billy," he called to harper, who that instant opened the door; "go on back with you." he began to walk up and down the little office, scowling, hands clenched in his trousers' pockets. after a moment he stopped short, and looked at katherine half savagely. "i suppose you don't know what it means to a newspaper man to have a big story laid in his hands and then suddenly jerked out?" "i suppose it is something of a disappointment." "disappointment!" the word came out half groan, half sneer. "rot! if you were waiting in church and the bridegroom didn't show up, if you were----oh, i can't make you understand the feeling!" he dropped back into his chair and scratched viciously at the copy paper with his heavy black pencil. she watched him in a sort of fascination, till he abruptly looked up. suspicion glinted behind the heavy glasses. "are you sure, miss west," he asked slowly "that this whole affair isn't just a little game?" "what do you mean?" "that your whole story is nothing but a hoax? nothing but a trick to get out of a tight hole by calling another man a thief?" her eyes flashed. "you mean that i am telling a lie?" "oh, you lawyers doubtless have a better-tasting word for it. you would call it, say, a 'professional expedient.'" she was still not sufficiently recovered from her astonishment to be angry. besides, she felt herself by an unexpected turn put in the wrong regarding bruce. "what i have said to you is the absolute truth," she declared. "here is the situation--believe me or not, just as you please. i ask you, for the moment, to accept the proposition that my father is the victim of a plot to steal the water-works, and then see how everything fits in with that theory. and bear in mind, as an item worth considering, my father's long and honourable career--never a dishonouring word against him till this charge came." and she went on and outlined, more fully than on yesterday before her father, the reasoning that had led her to her conclusion. "now, does not that sound possible?" she demanded. he had watched her with keen, half-closed eyes. "h'm. you reason well," he conceded. "that's a lawyer's business," she retorted. "so much for theory. now for facts." and she continued and gave him her experience of half an hour before with blake, the editor's boring gaze fixed on her all the while. "now i ask you this question: is it likely that even a poor water system could fail so quickly and so completely as ours has done, unless some powerful person was secretly working to make it fail? do you not see it never could? we all would have seen it, but we've all been too busy, too blind, and thought too well of our town, to suspect such a thing." his eyes were still boring into her. "but how about doctor sherman?" he asked. "i believe that doctor sherman is an innocent tool of the conspiracy, just as my father is its innocent victim," she answered promptly. bruce sat with the same fixed look, and made no reply. "i have stated my theory, and i have stated my facts," said katherine. "i have no court evidence, but i am going to have it. as i remarked before, you can believe what i have said, or not believe it. it's all the same to me." she stood up. "i wish you good afternoon." he quickly rose. "hold on!" he said. she paused at the door. he strode to and fro across the little office, scowling with thought. then he paused at the window and looked out. "well?" she demanded. he wheeled about. "it sounds plausible." "thank you," she said crisply. "i could hardly expect a man who has been the champion of error, to admit that he has been wrong and accept the truth. good afternoon." again she reached for the door-knob. "wait!" he cried. there was a ring of resentment in his voice, but his square face that had been grudgingly non-committal was now aglow with excitement. "of course you're right!" he exclaimed. "there's a damned infernal conspiracy! now what can i do to help?" "help?" she asked blankly. "help work up the evidence? help reveal the conspiracy?" she had not yet quite got her bearings concerning this new bruce. "help? why should you help? oh, i see," she said coldly; "it would make a nice sensational story for your paper." he flushed at her cutting words, and his square jaw set. "i suppose i might follow your example of a minute ago and say that i don't care what you think. but i don't mind telling you a few things, and giving you a chance to understand me if you want to. i was on a chicago paper, and had a big place that was growing bigger. i could have sold the _express_ when my uncle left it to me, and stayed there; but i saw a chance, with a paper of my own, to try out some of my own ideas, so i came to westville. my idea of a newspaper is that its function is to serve the people--make them think--bring them new ideas--to be ever watching their interests. of course, i want to make money--i've got to, or go to smash; but i'd rather run a candy store than run a sleepy, apologetic, afraid-of-a-mouse, mere money-making sheet like the _clarion_, that would never breathe a word against the devil's fair name so long as he carried a half-inch ad. you called me a yellow journalist yesterday. well, if to tell the truth in the hardest way i know how, to tell it so that it will hit people square between the eyes and make 'em sit up and look around 'em--if that is yellow then i'm certainly a yellow journalist, and i thank god almighty for inventing the breed!" as katherine listened to his snappy, vibrant words, as she looked at his powerful, dominant figure, and into his determined face with its flashing eyes, she felt a reluctant warmth creep through her being. "perhaps--i may have been mistaken about you," she said. "perhaps you may!" he returned grimly. "perhaps as much as i was about your father. and, speaking of your father, i don't mind adding something more. ever since i took charge of the _express_, i've been advocating municipal ownership of every public utility. the water-works, which were apparently so satisfactory, were a good start; i used them constantly as a text for working up municipal ownership sentiment. the franchises of the westville traction company expire next year, and i had been making a campaign against renewing the franchises and in favour of the city taking over the system and running it. opinion ran high in favour of the scheme. but doctor west's seeming dishonesty completely killed the municipal ownership idea. that was my pet, and if i was bitter toward your father--well, i couldn't help it. and now," he added rather brusquely, "i've explained myself to you. to repeat your words, you can believe me or not, just as you like." there was no resisting the impression of the man's sincerity. "i suppose," said katherine, "that i should apologize for--for the things i've called you. my only excuse is that your mistake about my father helped cause my mistake about you." "and i," returned he, "am not only willing to take back, publicly, in my paper, what i have said against your father, but am willing to print your statement about----" "you must not print a word till i get my evidence," she put in quickly. "printing it prematurely might ruin my case." "very well. and as for what i have said about you, i take back everything--except----" he paused; she saw disapprobation in his eyes. "except the plain truth i told you that being a lawyer is no work for a woman." "you are very dogmatic!" said she hotly. "i am very right," he returned. "excuse my saying it, but you appear to have too many good qualities as a woman to spoil it all by going out of your sphere and trying----" "why--why----" she stood gasping. "do you know what your uncle told me about you?" "old hosie?" he shrugged his shoulders. "hosie's an old fool!" "he said that the trouble with you was that you had not been thrashed enough as a boy. and he was right, too!" she turned quickly to the door, but he stepped before her. "don't get mad because of a little truth. remember, i want to help you." "i think," said she, "that we're better suited to fight each other than to help each other. i'm not so sure i want your help." "i'm not so sure you can avoid taking it," he retorted. "this isn't your father's case alone. it's the city's case, too, and i've got a right to mix in. now do you want me?" she looked at him a moment. "i'll think it over. for the present, good afternoon." he hesitated, then held out his hand. she hesitated, then took it. after which, he opened the door for her and bowed her out. chapter ix the price of a man when, half an hour before, katherine walked with bowed head out of harrison blake's office, blake gazed fixedly after her for a moment, and his face, now that he was private, deepened its sickly, ashen hue. then he strode feverishly up and down the room, lips twitching nervously, hands clinching and unclinching. then he unlocked a cabinet against the wall, poured out a drink from a squat, black bottle, gulped it down, and returned the bottle, forgetting to close the cabinet. after which he dropped into his chair, gripped his face in his two hands, and sat at his desk breathing deeply, but otherwise without motion. presently his door opened. "mr. brown is here to see you," announced a voice. he slowly raised his head, and stared an instant at his stenographer in dumfounded silence. "mr. brown!" he repeated. "yes," said the young woman. he continued to stare at her in sickly stupefaction. "shall i tell him you'll see him later?" "show him in," said blake. "but, no--wait till i ring." he passed his hand across his moist and pallid face, paced his room again several times, then touched a button and stood stiffly erect beside his desk. the next moment the door closed behind a short, rather chubby man with an egg-shell dome and a circlet of grayish hair. he had eyes that twinkled with good fellowship and a cheery, fatherly manner. "well, well, mr. blake; mighty glad to see you!" he exclaimed as he crossed the room. blake, still pale, but now with tense composure, took the hand of his visitor. "this is a surprise, mr. brown," said he. "how do you happen to be in westville?" mr. brown disposed himself comfortably in the chair that katherine had so lately occupied. "to-morrow's the trial of that doctor west, isn't it?" "yes." "well, i thought i'd better be on the ground to see how it came out." blake did not respond at once; but, lips very tight together, sat gazing at the ruddy face of his visitor. "everything's going all right, isn't it?" asked mr. brown in his cheery voice. "about the trial, you mean?" blake asked with an effort. "of course. the letter i had from you yesterday assured me conviction was certain. things still stand the same way, i suppose?" blake's whole body was taut. his dark eyes were fixed upon mr. brown. "they do not," he said quietly. "not stand the same way?" cried mr. brown, half rising from his chair. "why not?" "i am afraid," replied blake with his strained quiet, "that the prosecution will not make out a case." "not make out a case?" "to-morrow doctor west is going to be cleared." "cleared? cleared?" mr. brown stared. "now what the devil--see here, blake, how's that going to happen?" blake's tense figure had leaned forward. "it's going to happen, mr. brown," he burst out, with a flashing of his dark eyes, "because i'm tired of doing your dirty work, and the dirty work of the national electric & water company!" "you mean you're going to see he's cleared?" "i mean i'm going to see he's cleared!" "what--you?" ejaculated mr. brown, still staring. "why, only in your letter yesterday you were all for the plan! what's come over you?" "if you'd gone through what i've just gone through----" blake abruptly checked his passionate reference to his scene with katherine. "i say enough when i say that i'm going to see that doctor west is cleared. there you have it." no further word was spoken for a moment. the two men, leaning toward each other, gazed straight into one another's eyes. blake's powerful, handsome face was blazing and defiant. the fatherly kindness had disappeared from the other, and it was keen and hard. "so," said mr. brown, cuttingly, and with an infinity of contempt, "it appears that mr. harrison blake is the owner of a white liver." "you know that's a lie!" blake fiercely retorted. "you know i've got as much courage as you and your infernal company put together!" "oh, you have, have you? from the way you're turning tail----" "to turn tail upon a dirty job is no cowardice!" "but there have been plenty of dirty jobs you haven't run from. you've put through many a one in the last two or three years on the quiet." "but never one like this." "you knew exactly what the job was when you made the bargain with us." "yes. and my stomach rose against it even then." "then why the devil did you tie up with us?" "because your big promises dazzled me! because you took me up on a high mountain and showed me the kingdoms of the earth!" "well, you then thought the kingdoms were pretty good looking property." "good enough to make me forget the sort of thing i was doing. good enough to blind me as to how things might come out. but i see now! and i'm through with it all!" the chubby little man's eyes were on fire. but he was too experienced in his trade to allow much liberty to anger. "and that's final--that's where you stand?" he asked with comparative calm. "that's where i stand!" cried blake. "i may have got started crooked, but i'm through with this kind of business now! i'm going back to clean ways! and you, mr. brown, you might as well say good-by!" but mr. brown was an old campaigner. he never abandoned a battle merely because it apparently seemed lost. he now leaned back in his chair, slowly crossed his short legs, and thoughtfully regarded blake's excited features. his own countenance had changed its aspect; it had shed its recent hardness, and had not resumed its original cheeriness. it was eminently a reasonable face. "come, let's talk this whole matter over in a calm manner," he began in a rather soothing tone. "neither of us wants to be too hasty. there are a few points i'd like to call your attention to, if you'll let me." "go ahead with your points," said blake. "but they won't change my decision." "first, let's talk about the company," mr. brown went on in his mild, persuasive manner. "frankly, you've put the company in a hole. believing that you would keep your end of the bargain, the company has invested a lot of money and started a lot of projects. we bought up practically all the stock of the westville street car lines, when that municipal ownership talk drove the price so low, because we expected to get a new franchise through your smashing this municipal ownership fallacy. we have counted on big things from the water-works when you got hold of it for us. and we have plans on foot in several other cities of the state, and we've been counting on the failure of municipal ownership in westville to have a big influence on those cities and to help us in getting what we want. in one way and another this deal here means an awful lot to the company. your failing us at the last moment means to the company----" "i understand all that," interrupted blake. "here's a point for you to consider then: since the company has banked so much upon your promise, since it will lose so heavily if you repudiate your word, are you not bound in honour to stand by your agreement?" blake opened his lips, but mr. brown raised a hand. "don't answer now. i just leave that for you to think upon. so much for the company. now for yourself. we promised you if you carried this deal through--and you know how able we are to keep our promise!--we promised you grayson's seat in the senate. and after that, with your ability and our support, who knows where you'd stop?" mr. brown's voice became yet more soft and persuasive. "isn't that a lot to throw overboard because of a scruple?" "i can win all that, or part of it, by being loyal to the people," blake replied doggedly, but in a rather unsteady tone. "come, come, mr. blake," said brown reprovingly, "you know you're not talking sense. you know that the only quick and sure way of getting the big offices is by the help of the corporations. so you realize what you're losing." blake's face had become drawn and pale. he closed his eyes, as though to shut out the visions of the kingdoms mr. brown had conjured up. "i'm ready to lose it!" he cried. "all right, then," mr. brown went mildly on. "so much for what we lose, and what you lose. now for the next point, the action you intend to take regarding doctor west. do you mind telling me just how you propose to undo what you have done so far?" "i haven't thought it out yet. but i can do it." "of course," pursued mr. brown blandly, "you propose to do it so that you will appear in no way to be involved?" blake was thinking of katherine's accusation. "of course." "just suppose you think about that point for a minute or two." there was a brief silence. when mr. brown next spoke he spoke very slowly and accompanied each word with a gentle tap of his forefinger on the desk. "can you think of a single way to clear doctor west without incriminating yourself?" blake gave a start. "what's that?" "can you get doctor west out of his trouble without showing who got him into his trouble? just think that over." during the moment of silence blake grew yet more pale. "i'll kill the case somehow!" he breathed. "but the case looks very strong against doctor west. everybody believes him guilty. do you think you can suddenly, within twenty-four hours, reverse the whole situation, and not run some risk of having suspicion shift around to you?" blake's eyes fell to his desk, and he sat staring whitely at it. "and there's still another matter," pursued the gentle voice of mr. brown, now grown apologetic. "i wouldn't think of mentioning it, but i want you to have every consideration before you. i believe i never told you that the national electric & water company own the majority stock of the acme filter company." "no, i didn't know that." "it was because of that mutual relationship that i was able to help out your little plan by getting marcy to do what he did. now if some of our directors should feel sore at the way you've thrown us down, they might take it into their minds to make things unpleasant for you." "unpleasant? how?" mr. brown's fatherly smile had now come back. it was full of concern for blake. "well, i'd hate, for instance, to see them use their pressure to drive mr. marcy to make a statement." "mr. marcy? a statement?" "because," continued mr. brown in his tone of fatherly concern, "after mr. marcy had stated what he knows about this case, i'm afraid there wouldn't be much chance for you to win any high places by being loyal to the people." for a moment after this velvet threat blake held upon mr. brown an open-lipped, ashen face. then, without a word, he leaned his elbows upon his desk and buried his face in his hands. for a long space there was silence in the room. mr. brown's eyes, kind no longer, but keenest of the keen, watched the form before him, timing the right second to strike again. at length he recrossed his legs. "of course it's up to you to decide, and what you say goes," he went on in his amiable voice. "but speaking impartially, and as a friend, it strikes me that you've gone too far in this matter to draw back. it strikes me that the best and only thing is to go straight ahead." blake's head remained bowed in his hands, and he did not speak. "and, of course," pursued mr. brown, "if you should decide in favour of the original agreement, our promise still stands good--senate and all." mr. brown said no more, but sat watching his man. again there was a long silence. then blake raised his face--and a changed face it was indeed from that which had fallen into his hands. it bore the marks of a mighty struggle, but it was hard and resolute--the face of a man who has cast all hesitancy behind. "the agreement still stands," he said. "then you're ready to go ahead?" "to the very end," said blake. mr. brown nodded. "i was sure you'd decide that way," said he. "i want to thank you for what you've said to bring me around," blake continued in his new incisive tone. "but it is only fair to tell you that this was only a spell--not the first one, in fact--and that i would have come to my senses anyhow." "of course, of course." it was not the policy of mr. brown, once the victory was won, to discuss to whom the victory belonged. blake's eyes were keen and penetrating. "and you say that the things i said a little while back will not affect your attitude toward me in the future?" "those things? why, they've already passed out of my other ear! oh, it's no new experience," he went on with his comforting air of good-fellowship, "for me to run into one of our political friends when he's sick with a bad case of conscience. they all have it now and then, and they all pull out of it. no, don't you worry about the future. you're o. k. with us." "thank you." "and now, since everything is so pleasantly cleared up," continued mr. brown, "let's go back to my first question. i suppose everything looks all right for the trial to-morrow?" blake hesitated a moment, then told of katherine's discovery. "but it's no more than a surmise," he ended. "has she guessed any other of the parties implicated?" mr. brown asked anxiously. "i'm certain she has not." "is she likely to raise a row to-morrow?" "i hardly see how she can." "all the same, we'd better do something to quiet her," returned mr. brown meaningly. blake flashed a quick look at the other. "see here--i'll not have her touched!" mr. brown's scanty eyebrows lifted. "hello! you seem very tender about her!" blake looked at him sternly a moment. then he said stiffly: "i once asked miss west to marry me." "eh--you don't say!" exclaimed the other, amazed. "that is certainly a queer situation for you!" he rubbed his naked dome. "and you still feel----" "what i feel is my own affair!" blake cut in sharply. "of course, of course!" agreed mr. brown quickly. "i beg your pardon!" blake ignored the apology. "it might be well for you not to see me openly again like this. with miss west watching me----" "she might see us together, and suspect things. i understand. needn't worry about that. you may not see me again for a year. i'm here--there--everywhere. but before i go, how do things look for the election?" "we'll carry the city easily." "who'll you put up for mayor?" "probably kennedy, the prosecuting attorney." "is he safe?" "he'll do what he's told." "that's good. is he strong with the people?" "fairly so. but the party will carry him through." "h'm." mr. brown was thoughtful for a space. "this is your end of the game, of course, and i make it a point not to interfere with another man's work. the only time i've butted in here was when i helped you about getting marcy. but still, i hope you don't mind my making a suggestion." "not at all." "we've got to have the next mayor and council, you know. simply got to have them. we don't want to run any risk, however small. if you think there's one chance in a thousand of kennedy losing out, suppose you have yourself nominated." "me?" exclaimed blake. "it strikes you as a come-down, of course. but you can do it gracefully--in the interest of the city, and all that, you know. you can turn it into a popular hit. then you can resign as soon as our business is put through." "there may be something in it," commented blake. "it's only a suggestion. just think it over, and use your own judgment." he stood up. "well, i guess that's all we need to say to one another. the whole situation here is entirely in your hands. do as you please, and we ask no questions about how you do it. we're not interested in methods, only in results." he clapped blake heartily upon the shoulder. "and it looks as though we all were going to get results! especially you! why, you, with this trial successfully over--with the election won--with the goods delivered----" he suddenly broke off, for the tail of his eye had sighted blake's open cabinet. "will you allow me a liberty?" "certainly," replied blake, in the dark as to his visitor's purpose. mr. brown crossed to the cabinet, and returned with the squat, black bottle and two small glasses. he tilted an inch into each tumbler, gave one to blake, and raised the other on high. his face was illumined with his fatherly smile. "to our new senator!" he said. chapter x sunset at the sycamores when the door had closed behind the pleasant figure of mr. brown, blake pressed the button upon his desk. his stenographer appeared. "i have some important matters to consider," he said. "do not allow me to be disturbed until doctor and mrs. sherman come with the car." his privacy thus secured, blake sat at his desk, staring fixedly before him. his brow was compressed into wrinkles, his dark face, still showing a yellowish pallor, was hard and set. he reviewed the entire situation, and as his consuming ambition contemplated the glories of success, and the success after that, and the succession of successes that led up and ever up, his every nerve was afire with an excruciating, impatient pleasure. for a space while katherine had confronted him, and for a space after she had gone, he had shrunk from this business he was carrying through. but he had spoken truthfully to mr. brown when he had said that his revulsion was but a temporary feeling, and that of his own accord he would have come back to his original decision. he had had such revulsions before, and each time he had swung as surely back to his purpose as does the disturbed needle to the magnetic pole. westville considered harrison blake a happy blend of the best of his father and mother; whereas, in point of fact, his father and his mother lived in him with their personalities almost intact. there was his mother, with her idealism and her high sense of honour; and his father, with his boundless ambition and his lack of principles. in the earlier years of blake's manhood his mother's qualities had dominated. he had sincerely tried to do great work for westville, and had done it; and the reputation he had then made, and the gratitude he had then won, were the seed from which had grown the great esteem with which westville now regarded him. but a few years back he had found that rise, through virtue, was slow and beset with barriers. his ambition had become impatient. now that he was a figure of local power and importance, temptation began to assail him with offers of rapid elevation if only he would be complaisant. in this situation, the father in him rose into the ascendency; he had compromised and yielded, though always managing to keep his dubious transactions secret. and now at length ambition ruled him--though as yet not undisturbed, for conscience sometimes rose in unexpected revolt and gave him many a bitter battle. when his stenographer told blake that doctor and mrs. sherman were waiting at the curb, he descended with something more like his usual cast of countenance. elsie and her husband were in the tonneau, and as blake crossed the sidewalk to the car she stretched out a nervous hand and gave him a worn, excited smile. "it is so good of you to take us out to the sycamores for over night!" she exclaimed. "it's such a pleasure--and such a relief!" she did not need to explain that it was a relief because the motion, the company, the change of scene, would help crowd from her mind the dread of to-morrow when her husband would have to take the stand against doctor west; she did not need to explain this, because blake's eyes read it all in her pale, feverish face. blake shook hands with doctor sherman, dismissed his chauffeur, and took the wheel. they spun out of the city and down into the river road--the favourite drive with westville folk--which followed the stream in broad sweeping curves and ran through arcades of thick-bodied, bowing willows and sycamores lofty and severe, their foliage now a drought-crisped brown. after half an hour the car turned through a stone gateway into a grove of beech and elm and sycamore. at a comfortable distance apart were perhaps a dozen houses whose outer walls were slabs of trees with the bark still on. this was the sycamores, a little summer resort established by a small group of the select families of westville. blake stopped the car before one of these houses--"cabins" their owners called them, though their primitiveness was all in that outer shell of bark. a rather tall, straight, white-haired old lady, with a sweet nobility and strength of face, was on the little porch to greet them. she welcomed elsie and her husband warmly and graciously. then with no relaxation of her natural dignity into emotional effusion, she embraced her son and kissed him--for to her, as to westville, he was the same man as five years before, and to him she had given not only the love a mother gives her only son, but the love she had formerly borne her husband who, during his last years, had been to her a bitter grief. blake returned the kiss with no less feeling. his love of his mother was the talk of westville; it was the one noble sentiment which he still allowed to sway him with all its original sincerity and might. they had tea out upon the porch, with its view of the river twinkling down the easy hill between the trees. mrs. blake, seeing how agitated elsie was, and under what a strain was doctor sherman, and guessing the cause, deftly guided the conversation away from to-morrow's trial. she led the talk around to the lecture room which was being added to doctor sherman's church--a topic of high interest to them all, for she was a member of the church, blake was chairman of the building committee, and doctor sherman was treasurer of the committee and active director of the work. this manoeuvre had but moderate success. blake carried his part of the conversation well enough, and elsie talked with a feverish interest which was too great a drain upon her meagre strength. but the stress of doctor sherman, which he strove to conceal, seemed to grow greater rather than decrease. presently blake excused himself and doctor sherman, and the two men strolled down a winding, root-obstructed path toward the river. as they left the cabin behind them, blake's manner became cold and hard, as in his office, and doctor sherman's agitation, which he had with such an effort kept in hand, began to escape his control. once he stumbled over the twisted root which a beech thrust across their path and would have fallen had not blake put out a swift hand and caught him. yet at this neither uttered a word, and in silence they continued walking on till they reached a retired spot upon the river's bank. here doctor sherman sank to a seat upon a mossy, rotting log. blake, erect, but leaning lightly against the scaling, mottled body of a giant sycamore, at first gave no heed to his companion. he gazed straight ahead down the river, emaciated by the drought till the bowlders of its bottom protruded through the surface like so many bones--with the ranks of austere sycamores keeping their stately watch on either bank--with the sun, blood red in the september haze, suspended above the river's west-most reach. thus the pair remained for several moments. then blake looked slowly about at the minister. "i brought you down here because there is something i want to tell you," he said calmly. "i supposed so; go ahead," responded doctor sherman in a choked voice, his eyes upon the ground. "you seem somewhat disturbed," remarked blake in the same cold, even tone. "disturbed!" cried doctor sherman. "disturbed!" his voice told how preposterously inadequate was the word. he did not lift his eyes, but sat silent a moment, his white hands crushing one another, his face bent upon the rotted wood beneath his feet. "it's that business to-morrow!" he groaned; and at that he suddenly sprang up and confronted blake. his fine face was wildly haggard and was working in convulsive agony. "my god," he burst out, "when i look back at myself as i was four years ago, and then look at myself as i am to-day--oh, i'm sick, sick!" a hand gripped the cloth over his breast. "why, when i came to westville i was on fire to serve god with all my heart and never a compromise! on fire to preach the new gospel that the way to make people better is to make this an easier world for people to be better in!" that passion-shaken figure was not a pleasant thing to look upon. blake turned his eyes back to the glistening river and the sun, and steeled himself. "yes, i remember you preached some great sermons in those days," he commented in his cold voice. "and what happened to you?" "you know what happened to me!" cried the young minister with his wild passion. "you know well enough, even if you were not in that group of prominent members who gave me to understand that i'd either have to change my sermons or they'd have to change their minister!" "at least they gave you a choice," returned blake. "and i made the wrong choice! i was at the beginning of my career--the church here seemed a great chance for so young a man--and i did not want to fail at the very beginning. and so--and so--i compromised!" "do you suppose you are the first man that has ever made a compromise?" "that compromise was the direct cause of to-morrow!" the young clergyman went on in his passionate remorse. "that compromise was the beginning of my fall. after the prominent members took me up, favoured me, it became easy to blink my eyes at their business methods. and then it became easy for me to convince myself that it would be all right for me to gamble in stocks." "that was your great mistake," said the dry voice of the motionless figure against the tree. "a minister has no business to fool with the stock market." "but what was i to do?" doctor sherman cried desperately. "no money behind me--the salary of a dry goods clerk--my wife up there, whom i love better than my own life, needing delicacies, attention, a long stay in colorado--what other chance, i ask you, did i have of getting the money?" "well, at any rate, you should have kept your fingers off that church building fund." "god, don't i realize that! but with the market falling, and all the little i had about to be swept away, what else was a half frantic man to do but to try to save himself with any money he could put his hands upon?" blake shrugged his shoulders. "well, if luck was against you when that church money was also swept away, luck was certainly with you when it happened that i was the one to discover what you had done." "so i thought, when you offered to replace the money and cover the whole thing up. but, god, i never dreamed you'd exact such a price in return!" he gripped blake's arm and shook it. his voice was a half-muffled shriek. "if you wanted the water-works, if you wanted to do this to doctor west, why did you pick on me to bring the accusation? there are men who would never have minded it--men without conscience and without character!" blake steadfastly kept his steely gaze upon the river. "i believe i have answered that a number of times," he replied in his hard, even tone. "i picked you because i needed a man of character to give the charges weight. a minister, the president of our reform body--no one else would serve so well. and i picked you because--pardon me, if in my directness i seem brutal--i picked you because you were all ready to my hand; you were in a situation where you dared not refuse me. also i picked you, instead of a man with no character to lose, because i knew that you, having a character to lose and not wanting to lose it, would be less likely than any one else ever to break down and confess. i hope my answer is sufficiently explicit." doctor sherman stared at the erect, immobile figure. "and you still intend," he asked in a dry, husky voice, "you still intend to force me to go upon the stand to-morrow and commit----" "i would not use so unpleasant a word if i were you." "but you are going to force me to do it?" "i am not going to force you. you referred a few minutes ago to the time when you had a choice. well, here is another time when you have a choice." "choice?" cried doctor sherman eagerly. "yes. you can testify, or not testify, as you please. only in reaching your decision," added the dry, emotionless voice, "i suggest that you do not forget that i have in my possession your signed confession of that embezzlement." "and you call that a choice?" cried doctor sherman. "when, if i refuse, you'll expose me, ruin me forever, kill elsie's love for me! do you call that a choice?" "a choice, certainly. perhaps you are inclined not to testify. if so, very well. but before you make your decision i desire to inform you of one fact. you will remember that i said in the beginning that i brought you down here to tell you something." "yes. what is it?" "merely this. that miss west has discovered that i am behind this affair." "what!" doctor sherman fell back a step, and his face filled with sudden terror. "then--she knows everything?" "she knows little, but she suspects much. for instance, since she knows that this is a plot, she is likely to suspect that every person in any way connected with the affair is guilty of conspiracy." "even--even me?" "even you." "then--you think?" blake turned his face sharply about upon doctor sherman--the first time since the beginning of their colloquy. it was his father's face--his father in one of his most relentless, overriding moods--the face of a man whom nothing can stop. "i think," said he slowly, driving each word home, "that the only chance for people who want to come out of this affair with a clean name is to stick the thing right through as we planned." doctor sherman did not speak. "i tell you about miss west for two reasons. first, in order to let you know the danger you're in. second, in order, in case you decided to testify, that you may be forewarned and be prepared to outface her. i believe you understand everything now?" "yes," was the almost breathless response. "then may i be allowed to ask what you are going to do--testify, or not testify?" the minister's hands opened and closed. he swallowed with difficulty. "testify, or not testify?" blake insisted. "testify," whispered doctor sherman. "just as you choose," said blake coldly. the minister sank back to his seat upon the mossy log, and bowed his head into his hands. "oh, my god!" he breathed. there followed a silence, during which blake gazed upon the huddled figure. then he turned his set face down the glittering, dwindled stream, and, one shoulder lightly against the sycamore, he watched the sun there at the river's end sink softly down into its golden slumber. chapter xi the trial katherine's first thought, on leaving bruce's office, was to lay her discovery before doctor sherman. she was certain that with her new-found knowledge, and with her entirely new point of view, they could quickly discover wherein he had been duped--for she still held him to be an unwitting tool--and thus quickly clear up the whole case. but for reasons already known she failed to find him; and learning that he had gone away with blake, she well knew blake would keep him out of her reach until the trial was over. in sharpest disappointment, katherine went home. with the trial so few hours away, with all her new discoveries buzzing chaotically in her head, she felt the need of advising with some one about the situation. bruce's offer of assistance recurred to her, and she found herself analyzing the editor again, just as she had done when she had walked away from his office. she rebelled against him in her every fibre, yet at the same time she felt a reluctant liking for him. he was a man with big dreams, a rough-and-ready idealist, an idealist with sharply marked limitations, some areas of his mind very broad, some dogmatically narrow. opinionated, obstinate, impulsive, of not very sound judgment, yet dictatorial because supremely certain of his rightness--courageous, unselfish, sincere--that was the way she now saw the editor of the _express_. but he had sneered at her, sharply criticized her, and she hotly spurned the thought of asking his aid. instead of him, she that evening summoned old hosie hollingsworth to her house, and to the old lawyer she told everything. old hosie was convinced that she was right, and was astounded. "and to think that the good folks of this town used to denounce me as a worshipper of strange gods!" he ejaculated. "gee, what'll they say when they learn that the idol they've been wearing out their knee-caps on has got clay feet that run clear up to his adam's-apple!" they decided that it would be a mistake for katherine to try to use her new theories and discoveries openly in defence of her father. she had too little evidence, and any unsupported charges hurled against blake would leave that gentleman unharmed and would come whirling back upon katherine as a boomerang of popular indignation. she dared not breathe a word against the city's favourite until she had incontrovertible proof. under the circumstances, the best course seemed for her to ask for a postponement on the morrow to enable her to work up further evidence. "only," warned hosie, "you must remember that the chances are that blake has already slipped the proper word to judge kellog, and there'll be no postponement." "then i'll have to depend upon tangling up that mr. marcy on the stand." "and doctor sherman?" "there'll be no chance of entangling him. he'll tell a straightforward story. how could he tell any other? don't you see how he's been used?--been made spectator to a skilfully laid scheme which he honestly believes to be a genuine case of bribery?" at parting old hosie held her hand a moment. "d'you remember the prophecy i made the day you took your office--that you would raise the dickens in this old town?" "yes," said katherine. "well, that's coming true--as sure as plug hats don't grow on fig trees! only not in the way i meant then. not as a freak. but as a lawyer." "thank you." she smiled and slowly shook her head. "but i'm afraid it won't come true to-morrow." "of course a prophecy is no good, unless you do your best." "oh, i'm going to do my best," she assured him. the next morning, on the long awaited day, katherine set out for the court house, throbbing alternately with hope and fear of the outcome. mixed with these was a perturbation of a very different sort--an ever-growing stage-fright. for this last there was good reason. trials were a form of recreation as popular in calloway county as gladiatorial contests in ancient rome, and this trial--in the lack of a sensational murder in the county during the year--was the greatest of the twelvemonth. moreover, it was given added interest by the fact that, for the first time in recorded history, calloway county was going to see in action that weirdest product of whirling change, a woman lawyer. hub to hub about the hitch-racks of the square were jammed buggies, surries, spring wagons and other country equipages. the court-room was packed an hour before the trial, and in the corridor were craning, straining, elbowing folk who had come too late. in the open windows--the court-room was on the ground floor--were the busts of eager citizens whose feet were pedestaled on boxes, the sale of which had been a harvest of small coin to neighbouring grocers; and in the trees without youths of simian habit clung to advantageous limbs and strained to get a view of the proceedings. old judge kellog who usually dozed on his twenty-first vertebra through testimony and argument--once a young fledgling of a lawyer, sailing aloft in the empyrean of his eloquence, had been brought tumbling confusedly to earth by the snoring of the bench--attested to the unusualness of the occasion by being upright and awake. and bud white, the clerk, called the court to order, not with his usual masterpiece of mumbled unintelligibility, brought to perfection by long years of practice, but with real words that could have been understood had only the audience been listening. but their attention was all fixed upon the counsel for the defence. katherine, in a plain white shirt waist and a black sailor, sat at a table alone with her father. doctor west was painfully nervous; his long fingers were constantly twisting among themselves. katherine was under an even greater strain. she realized with an intenser keenness now that the moment for action was at hand, that this was her first case, that her father's reputation, his happiness, perhaps even his life, were at stake; and she was well aware that all this theatre of people, whose eyes she felt burning into her back, regarded her as the final curiosity of nature. behind her, with young harper at his side, she had caught a glimpse of arnold bruce, eying her critically and sceptically she thought; and in the audience she had glimpsed the fixed, inscrutable face of harrison blake. but she clung blindly to her determination, and as bud white sat down, she forced herself to rise. a deep hush spread through the court-room. she stood trembling, swallowing, voiceless, a statue of stage-fright, wildly hating herself for her impotence. for a dizzy, agonizing moment she saw herself a miserable failure--saw the crowd laughing at her as they filed out. a youthful voice, from a balcony seat in an elm tree, floated in through the open window: "speak your piece, little girl, or set down." there was a titter. she stiffened. "your--your honour," she stammered, "i move a postponement in order to allow the defence more time to prepare its case." judge kellog fingered his patriarchal beard. katherine stood hardly breathing while she waited his momentous words. but his answer was as old hosie had predicted. "in view of the fact that the defence has already had four months in which to prepare its case," said he, "i shall have to deny the motion and order the trial to proceed." katherine sat down. the hope of deferment was gone. there remained only to fight. a jury was quickly chosen; katherine felt that her case would stand as good a chance with any one selection of twelve men as with any other. kennedy then stepped forward. with an air that was a blend of his pretentious--if rather raw-boned--dignity as a coming statesman, of extreme deference toward katherine's sex, and of the sense of his personal belittlement in being pitted against such a legal weakling, he outlined to the jury what he expected to prove. after which, he called mr. marcy to the stand. the agent of the filter company gave his evidence with that degree of shame-facedness proper to the man, turned state's witness, who has been an accomplice in the dishonourable proceedings he is relating. it all sounded and looked so true--so very, very true! when katherine came to cross-examine him, she gazed at him steadily a moment. she knew that he was lying, and she knew that he knew that she knew he was lying. but he met her gaze with precisely the abashed, guilty air appropriate to his rôle. what she considered her greatest chance was now before her. calling up all her wits, she put to mr. marcy questions that held distant, hidden traps. but when she led him along the devious, unsuspicious path that conducted to the trap and then suddenly shot at him the question that should have plunged him into it, he very quietly and nimbly walked around the pitfall. again and again she tried to involve him, but ever with the same result. he was abashed, ready to answer--and always elusive. at the end she had gained nothing from him, and for a minute stood looking silently at him in baffled exasperation. "have you any further questions to ask the witness?" old judge kellog prompted her, with a gentle impatience. for a moment, stung by this witness's defeat of her, she had an impulse to turn about, point her finger at blake in the audience, and cry out the truth to the court-room and announce what was her real line of defence. but she realized the uproar that would follow if she dared attack blake without evidence, and she controlled herself. "that is all, your honour," she said. mr. marcy was dismissed. the lean, frock-coated figure of mr. kennedy arose. "doctor sherman," he called. doctor sherman seemed to experience some difficulty in making his way up to the witness stand. when he faced about and sat down the difficulty was explained to the crowd. he was plainly a sick man. whispers of sympathy ran about the court-room. every one knew how he had sacrificed a friend to his sense of civic duty, and everyone knew what pain that act must have caused a man with such a high-strung conscience. with his hands tightly gripping the arms of his chair, his bright and hollow eyes fastened upon the prosecutor, doctor sherman began in a low voice to deliver his direct testimony. katherine listened to him rather mechanically at first, even with a twinge of sympathy for his obvious distress. but though her attention was centred here in the court-room, her brain was subconsciously ranging swiftly over all the details of the case. far down in the depths of her mind the question was faintly suggesting itself, if one witness is a guilty participant in the plot, then why not possibly the other?--when she saw doctor sherman give a quick glance in the direction where she knew sat harrison blake. that glance brought the question surging up to the surface of her conscious mind, and she sat bewildered, mentally gasping. she did not see how it could be, she could not understand his motive--but in the sickly face of doctor sherman, in his strained manner, she now read guilt. thrilling with an unexpected hope, katherine rose and tried to keep herself before the eyes of doctor sherman like an accusing conscience. but he avoided her gaze, and told his story in every detail just as when doctor west had been first accused. when kennedy turned him over for cross-examination, katherine walked up before him and looked him straight in the eyes a full moment without speaking. he could no longer avoid her gaze. in his eyes she read something that seemed to her like mortal terror. "doctor sherman," she said slowly, clearly, "is there nothing you would like to add to your testimony?" his words were a long time coming. katherine's life hung suspended while she waited his answer. "nothing," he said. "there is no fact, no detail, that you may have omitted in your direct testimony, that you now desire to supply?" "nothing." she took a step nearer, bent on him a yet more searching gaze, and put into her voice its all of conscience-stirring power. "you wish to go on record then, before this court, before this audience, before the god whom you have appealed to in your oath, as having told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" he averted his eyes and was silent a moment. for that moment blake, back in the audience, did not breathe. to the crowd it seemed that doctor sherman was searching his mind for some possible trivial omission. to katherine it seemed that he was in the throes of a final struggle. "you wish thus to go on record?" she solemnly insisted. he looked back at her. "i do," he breathed. she realized now how desperate was this man's determination, how tightly his lips were locked. but she had picked up another thread of this tangled skein, and that made her exult with a new hope. she went spiritedly at the cross-examination of doctor sherman, striving to break him down. so sharp, so rigid, so searching were her questions, that there were murmurs in the audience against such treatment of a sincere, high-minded man of god. but the swiftness and cleverness of her attack availed her nothing. doctor sherman, nerved by last evening's talk beside the river, made never a slip. from the moment she reluctantly discharged him she felt that her chance--her chance for that day, at least--was gone. but she was there to fight to the end, and she put her only witness, her father, upon the stand. his defence, that he was the victim of a misunderstanding, was smiled at by the court-room--and smiled at with apparently good reason, since kennedy, in anticipation of the line of defense, had introduced the check from the acme filter company which dr. west had turned over to the hospital board, to prove that the donation from the filter company had been in dr. west's hands at the time he had received the bribe from mr. marcy. dr. west testified that the letter containing this check had not been opened until many days after his arrest, and katharine took the stand and swore that it was she herself who had opened the envelope. but even while she testified she saw that she was not believed; and she had to admit within herself that her father's story appeared absurdly implausible, compared to the truth-visaged falsehoods of the prosecution. but when the evidence was all in and the time for argument was come, katherine called up her every resource, she remembered that truth was on her side, and she presented the case clearly and logically, and ended with a strong and eloquent plea for her father. as she sat down, there was a profound hush in the court-room. her father squeezed her hand. tears stood in his eyes. "whatever happens," he whispered, "i'm proud of my daughter." kennedy's address was brief and perfunctory, for the case seemed too easy to warrant his exertion. still stimulated by the emotion aroused by her own speech and the sense of the righteousness of her cause, katherine watched the jury go out with a fluttering hope. she still clung to hope when, after a short absence, the jury filed back in. she rose and held her breath while they took their seats. "you have reached a verdict, gentlemen?" asked judge kellog. "we have," answered the foreman. "what is it?" "we find the defendant guilty." doctor west let out a little moan, and his head fell forward into his arms. katherine bent over him and whispered a word of comfort into his ear; then rose and made a motion for a new trial. judge kellog denied the motion, and haltingly asked doctor west to step forward to the bar. doctor west did so, and the two old men, who had been friends since childhood, looked at each other for a space. then in a husky voice judge kellog pronounced sentence: one thousand dollars fine and six months in the county jail. it was a light sentence--but enough to blacken an honest name for life, enough to break a sensitive heart like doctor west's. a little later katherine, holding an arm of her father tightly within her own, walked with him and fat, good-natured sheriff nichols over to the old brick county jail. and yet a little later, erect, eyes straight before her, she came down the jail steps and started homeward. as she was passing along the square, immediately before her harrison blake came out of his stairway and started across the sidewalk to his waiting car. discretion urged her to silence; but passion was the stronger. she stepped squarely up before him and flashed him a blazing look. "well--and so you think you've won!" she cried in a low voice. his colour changed, but instantly he was master of himself. "what, katherine, you still persist in that absurd idea of yesterday." "oh, drop that pretence! we know each other too well for that!" she moved nearer and, trembling from head to foot, her passionate defiance burst all bounds. "you think you have won, don't you!" she hotly cried. "well, let me tell you that this affair is not merely a battle that was to-day won and ended! it's a war--and i have just begun to fight!" and sweeping quickly past him, she walked on into main street and down it through the staring crowds--very erect, a red spot in either cheek, her eyes defiantly meeting every eye. chapter xii opportunity knocks at bruce's door on the following morning bruce had just finished an editorial on doctor west's trial, and was busily thumping out an editorial on the local political situation--the republican and democratic conventions were both but a few days off--when, lifting his scowling gaze to his window while searching for the particular word he needed, he saw katherine passing along the sidewalk across the street. her face was fresh, her step springy; hers was any but a downcast figure. forgetting his editorial, he watched her turn the corner of the square and go up the broad, worn steps of the dingy old county jail. "well, what do we think of her?" queried a voice at his elbow. bruce turned abruptly. "oh, it's you, billy. d'you see blake?" "yes." the young fellow sank loungingly into the atlas-seated chair. "he wouldn't say anything definite. said it was up to the convention to pick the candidates. but it's plain kennedy's his choice for mayor, and we'll be playing perfectly safe in predicting kennedy's nomination." "and peck?" "blind charlie said it was too early to make any forecasts. in doubt as to whom they'd put forward for mayor." "would blake say anything about doctor west's conviction?" "sorry for doctor west's sake--but the case was clear--trial fair--a wholesome example to the city--and some more of that line of talk." bruce grunted. the reporter leisurely lit a cigarette. "but how about the lady lawyer, eh?" he playfully prodded his superior's calf with his pointed shoe. "i suppose you'll fire me off your rotten old sheet for saying it, but i still think she made a damned good showing considering that she had no case--and considering also that she was a woman." again he thrust his toe into his chief. "considering she was a woman--eh, arn?" "shut up, billy, or i _will_ fire you," growled bruce. "oh, all right," answered the other cheerfully. "after half a year of the nerve-racking social whirl of this metropolis, i think it would be sort of restful to be back in dear, little, quiet chicago. but seriously now, arn, you've got to admit she's good-looking?" "good looks don't make a lawyer!" retorted bruce. "but she's clever--got ideas--opinions of her own, and strong ones too." "perhaps." the reporter blew out a cloud of smoke. "arn, i've been thinking about a very interesting possibility." "well, make it short, and get in there and write your story!" "i've been thinking," continued billy meditatively, "over what an interesting situation it would make if the super-masculine editor of the _express_ should fall in love with the lady law----" bruce sprang up. "confound you, billy! if i don't crack that empty little----" but billy, tilted back in his chair, held out his cigarette case imperturbably. "take one, arn. you'll find them very soothing for the nerves." "you impertinent little pup, you!" he grabbed billy by his long hair, held him a moment--then grinned affectionately and took a cigarette. "you're the worst ever!" he dropped back into his chair. "now shut up!" "all right. but speaking impersonally, and with the unemotional aloofness of a critic, you'll have to admit that it would make a good dramatic situation." "blast you!" cried the editor. "shall i fire you, or chuck you through the window?" "inasmuch as our foremost scientists are uniformly agreed that certain unpleasant results may eventuate when the force of gravitation brings a human organism into sudden and severe juxtaposition with a cement sidewalk, i humbly suggest that you fire me. besides, that act will automatically avenge me, for then your yellow old newspaper will go plum to blazes!" "for god's sake, billy, get out of here and let me work!" "but, seriously, arn--i really am serious now"--and all the mischief had gone out of the reporter's eyes--"that miss west would have put up a stunning fight if she had had any sort of a case. but she had nothing to fight with. they certainly had the goods on her old man!" bruce turned from his machine and regarded the reporter thoughtfully. then he crossed and closed the door which was slightly ajar, and again fixed his eyes searchingly on young harper. "billy," he said in a low, impressive voice, "can you keep a big secret?" at bruce's searching, thoughtful gaze a look of humility crept into billy's face. "oh, i know you've got every right to doubt me," he acknowledged. "i certainly did leak a lot at the mouth in chicago when i was boozing so much. but you know since you pulled me out of that wild bunch i was drinking my way to hell with and brought me down here, i've been screwed tight as a board to the water-wagon!" "i know it, billy. i shouldn't for an instant----" "and, arn," interrupted billy, putting his arm contritely across the other's shoulder, "even though i do joke at you a little--simply can't help it--you know how eternally grateful i am to you! you're giving me the chance of my life to make a man of myself. people in this town don't half appreciate you; they don't know you for what i know you--the best fellow that ever happened!" "there, there! cut it out, cut it out!" said bruce gruffly, gripping the other's hand. "that's always the way," said billy, resentfully. "your only fault is that you are so infernally bull-headed that a fellow can't even thank you." "you're thanking me the right way when you keep yourself bolted fast to the water-cart. what i started out to tell you, what i want you to keep secret, is this: they put the wrong man in jail yesterday." "what!" ejaculated billy, springing up. "i tell you this much because i want you to keep your eye on the story. hell's likely to break loose there any time, and i want you to be ready to handle it in case i should have to be off the job." "good god, old man!" billy stared at him. "what's behind all this? if doctor west's the wrong man, then who's the right one?" "i can't tell you any more now." "but how did you find this out?" "i said i couldn't tell you any more." a knowing look came slowly into billy's face. "h'm. so that was what miss west called here about day before yesterday." "get in there and write your story," said bruce shortly, and again sat down before his typewriter. billy stood rubbing his head dazedly for a long space, then he slowly moved to the door. he opened it and paused. "oh, i say, arn," he remarked in an innocent tone. "yes?" "after all," he drawled, "it would make an interesting dramatic situation, wouldn't it?" bruce whirled about and threw a statesman's year book, but young harper was already on the safe side of the door; and the incorrigible billy was saved from any further acts of reprisal being attempted upon his person by the ringing of bruce's telephone. bruce picked up the instrument. "hello. who's this?" he demanded. "mr. peck," was the answer. "what! you don't mean 'blind charlie'?" "yes. i called up to see if you could come over to the hotel for a little talk about politics." "if you want to talk to me you know where to find me! good-by!" "wait! wait! what time will you be in?" "the paper goes to press at two-thirty. any time after then." "i'll drop around before three." four hours later bruce was glancing through that afternoon's paper, damp from the press, when there entered his office a stout, half-bald man of sixty-five, with loose, wrinkled, pouchy skin, drooping nose, and a mouth--stained faintly brown at its corners--whose cunning was not entirely masked by a good-natured smile. one eye had a shrewd and beady brightness; the gray film over the other announced it without sight. this was "blind charlie" peck, the king of calloway county politics until blake had hurled him from his throne. bruce greeted the fallen monarch curtly and asked him to sit down. bruce did not resume his seat, but half leaned against his desk and eyed blind charlie with open disfavour. the old man settled himself and smiled his good-natured smile at the editor. "well, mr. bruce, this is mighty dry weather we're having." "yes. what do you want?" "well--well--" said the old man, a little taken aback, "you certainly do jump into the middle of things." "i've found that the quickest way to get there," retorted bruce. "you know there's no use in you and me wasting any words. you know well enough what i think of you." "i ought to," returned blind charlie, dryly, but with good humour. "you've said it often enough." "well, that there may be no mistake about it, i'll say it once more. you're a good-natured, good-hearted, cunning, unprincipled, hardened old rascal of a politician. now if you don't want to say what you came here to say, the same route that brings you in here takes you out." "come, come," said the old man, soothingly. "i think you have said a lot of harder things than were strictly necessary--especially since we both belong to the same party." "that's one reason i've said them. you've been running the party most of your life--you're still running it--and see what you've made of it. every decent member is ashamed of it! it stinks all through the state!" blind charlie's face did not lose its smile of imperturbable good nature. it was a tradition of calloway county that he had never lost his temper. "you're a very young man, mr. bruce," said the old politician, "and young blood loves strong language. but suppose we get away from personalities, and get away from the party's past and talk about its present and its future." "i don't see that it has any present or future to talk about, with you at the helm." "oh, come now! granted that my ways haven't been the best for the party. granted that you don't like me. is that any reason we shouldn't at least talk things over? now, i admit we don't stand the shadow of a ghost's show this election unless we make some changes. you represent the element in the party that has talked most for changes, and i have come to get your views." bruce studied the loose-skinned, flabby face, wondering what was going on behind that old mask. "what are your own views?" he demanded shortly. blind charlie had taken out a plug of tobacco and with a jack-knife had cut off a thin slice. this, held between thumb and knife-blade, he now slowly transferred to his mouth. "perhaps they're nearer your own than you think. i see, too, that the old ways won't serve us now. blake will put up a good ticket. i hear kennedy is to be his mayor. the whole ticket will be men who'll be respectable, but they'll see that blake gets what he wants. isn't that so?" bruce thought suddenly of blake's scheme to capture the water-works. "very likely," he admitted. "now between ourselves," the old man went on confidingly, "we know that blake has been getting what he wants for years--of course in a quiet, moderate way. did you ever think of this, how the people here call me a 'boss' but never think of blake as one? blake's an 'eminent citizen.' when the fact is, he's a stronger, cleverer boss than i ever was. my way is the old way; it's mostly out of date. blake's way is the new way. he's found out that the best method to get the people is to be clean, or to seem clean. if i wanted a thing i used to go out and grab it. if blake wants a thing he makes it appear that he's willing to go to considerable personal trouble to take it in order to do a favour to the city, and the people fall all over themselves to give it to him. he's got the churches lined up as solid behind him as i used to have the saloons. now i know we can't beat blake with the kind of a ticket our party has been putting up. and i know we can't beat blake with a respectable ticket, for between our respectables----" "charlie peck's respectables!" bruce interrupted ironically. "and blake's respectables," the old man continued imperturbably, "the people will choose blake's. are my conclusions right so far?" "couldn't be more right. what next?" "as i figure it out, our only chance, and that a bare fighting chance, is to put up men who are not only irreproachable, but who are radicals and fighters. we've got to do something new, big, sensational, or we're lost." "well?" said bruce. "i was thinking," said blind charlie, "that our best move would be to run you for mayor." "me?" cried bruce, starting forward. "yes. you've got ideas. and you're a fighter." bruce scrutinized the old face, all suspicion. "see here, charlie," he said abruptly, "what the hell's your game?" "my game?" "oh, come! don't expect me to believe in you when you pose as a reformer!" "see here, bruce," said the other a little sharply, "you've called me about every dirty word lying around handy in the middle west. but you never called me a hypocrite." "no." "well, i'm not coming to you now pretending that i've been holding a little private revival, and that i've been washed in the blood of the lamb." "then what's behind this? what's in it for you?" "i'll tell you--though of course i can't make you believe me if you don't want to. i'm getting pretty old--i'm sixty-seven. i may not live till another campaign. i'd like to see the party win once more before i go. that's one thing. another is, i've got it in for blake, and want to see him licked. i can't do either in my way. i can possibly do both in your way. mere personal satisfaction like this would have been mighty little for me to have got out of an election in the old days. but it's better than nothing at all"--smiling good-naturedly--"even to a cunning, unprincipled, hardened old rascal of a politician." "but what's the string tied to this offer?" "none. you can name the ticket, write the platform----" "it would be a radical one!" warned bruce. "it would have to be radical. our only chance is in creating a sensation." "and if elected?" "you shall make every appointment without let or hindrance. i know i'd be a fool to try to bind you in any way." bruce was silent a long time, studying the wrinkled old face. "well, what do you say?" queried blind charlie. "frankly, i don't like being mixed up with you." "but you believe in using existing party machinery, don't you? you've said so in the _express_." "yes. but i also have said that i don't believe in using it the way you have." "well, here's your chance to take it and use it your own way." "but what show would i stand? feeling in town is running strong against radical ideas." "i know, i know. but you are a fighter, and with your energy you might turn the current. besides, something big may happen before election." that same thought had been pulsing excitedly in bruce's brain these last few minutes. if katherine could only get her evidence! bruce moved to the window and looked out so that that keen one eye of blind charlie might not perceive the exultation he could no longer keep out of his face. bruce did not see the tarnished dome of the court house--nor the grove of broad elms, shrivelled and dusty--nor the enclosing quadrangle of somnolent, drooping farm horses. he was seeing this town shaken as by an explosion. he was seeing cataclysmic battle, with blind charlie become a nonentity, blake completely annihilated, and himself victorious at the front. and, dream of his dreams! he was seeing himself free to reshape westville upon his own ideals. "well, what do you say?" asked blind charlie. controlling himself, bruce turned about. "i accept, upon the conditions you have named. but at the first sign of an attempt to limit those conditions, i throw the whole business overboard." "there will be no such attempt, so we can consider the matter settled." blind charlie held out his hand, which bruce, with some hesitation, accepted. "i congratulate you, i congratulate myself, i congratulate the party. with you as leader, i think we've all got a fighting chance to win." they discussed details of bruce's candidacy, they discussed the convention; and a little later blind charlie departed. bruce, fists deep in trousers pockets, paced up and down his little office, or sat far down in his chair gazing at nothing, in excited, searching thought. billy harper and other members of the staff, who came in to him with questions, were answered absently with monosyllables. at length, when the court house clock droned the hour of five through the hot, burnt-out air, bruce washed his hands and brawny fore-arms at the old iron sink in the rear of the reporter's room, put on his coat, and strode up main street. but instead of following his habit and turning off into station avenue, where was situated the house in which he and old hosie ate and slept and had their quarrels, he continued his way and turned into an avenue beyond--on his face the flush of defiant firmness of the bold man who finds himself doing the exact thing he had sworn that he would never do. he swung open the gate of the west yard, and with firm step went up to the house and rang the bell. when the screen swung open katherine herself was in the doorway--looking rather excited, trimly dressed, on her head a little hat wound with a veil. "may i come in?" he asked shortly. "why, certainly," and she stepped aside. "i didn't know." he bowed and entered the parlour and stood rather stiffly in the centre of the room. "my reason for daring to violate your prohibition of three days ago, and enter this house, is that i have something to tell you that may prove to have some bearing upon your father's case." "please sit down. when i apologized to you i considered the apology as equivalent to removing all signs against trespassing." they sat down, and for a moment they gazed at each other, still feeling themselves antagonists, though allies--she smilingly at her ease, he grimly serious. "now, please, what is it?" she asked. bruce, speaking reservedly at first, told her of blind charlie's offer. as he spoke he warmed up and was quite excited when he ended. "and now," he cried, "don't you see how this works in with the fight to clear your father? it's a great opportunity--haven't thought out yet just how we can use it--that will depend upon developments, perhaps--but it's a great opportunity! we'll sweep blake completely and utterly from power, reinstate your father in position and honour, and make westville the finest city of the middle west!" but she did not seem to be fired by the torch of his enthusiasm. in fact, there was a thoughtful, questioning look upon her face. "well, what do you think of it?" he demanded. "i have been given to understand," she said pleasantly, "that it is unwomanly to have opinions upon politics." he winced. "this is hardly the time for sarcasm. what do you think?" "if you want my frank opinion, i am rather inclined to beware of greeks bearing gifts," she replied. "what do you mean?" "when a political boss, and a boss notoriously corrupt, offers an office to a good man, i think the good man should be very, very suspicious." "you think peck has some secret corrupt purpose? i've been scrutinizing the offer for two hours. i know the ins and outs of the local political situation from a to z. i know all peck's tricks. but i have not found the least trace of a hidden motive." "perhaps you haven't found it because it's hidden so shrewdly, so deeply, that it can't be seen." "i haven't found it because it's not there to find!" retorted bruce. "peck's motive is just what he told me; i'm convinced he was telling the truth. it's a plain case, and not an uncommon case, of a politician preferring the chance of victory with a good ticket, to certain defeat with a ticket more to his liking." "i judge, then, that you are inclined to accept." "i have accepted," said bruce. "i hope it will turn out better than worst suspicion might make us fear." "oh, it will!" he declared. "and mark me, it's going to turn out a far bigger thing for your father than you seem to realize." "i hope that more fervently than do you!" "i suppose you are going to keep up your fight for your father?" "i expect to do what i can," she answered calmly. "what are you going to do?" she smiled sweetly, apologetically. "you forget only one day has passed since the trial. you can hardly expect a woman's mind to lay new plans as quickly as a man's." bruce looked at her sharply, as though there might be irony in this; but her face was without guile. she glanced at her watch. "pardon me," he said, noticing this action and standing up. "you have your hat on; you were going out?" "yes. and i'm afraid i must ask you to excuse me." she gave him her hand. "i hope you don't mind my saying it, but if i were you i'd keep all the eyes i've got on mr. peck." "oh, i'll not let him fool me!" he answered confidently. as he walked out of the yard he was somewhat surprised to see the ancient equipage of mr. huggins waiting beside the curb. and he was rather more surprised when a few minutes later, as he neared his home, mr. huggins drove past him toward the station, with katherine in the seat behind him. in response to her possessed little nod he amazedly lifted his hat. "now what the devil is she up to?" he ejaculated, and stared after her till the old carriage turned in beside the station platform. as he reached his gate the eastbound limited came roaring into the station. the truth dawned upon him. "by god," he cried, "if she isn't going back to new york!" chapter xiii the deserter bruce was incensed at the cool manner in which katherine had taken leave of him without so much as hinting at her purpose. in offering her aid and telling her his plans he had made certain advances. she had responded to these overtures by telling nothing. he felt he had been snubbed, and he resented such treatment all the more from a woman toward whom he had somewhat relaxed his dignity and his principles. as he sat alone on his porch that night he breathed out along with his smoke an accompanying fire of profanity; but for all his wrath, he could not keep the questions from arising. why had she gone? what was she going to do? was she coming back? had she given up her father's case, and had she been silent to him that afternoon about her going for the simple reason that she had been ashamed to acknowledge her retreat? he waited impatiently for the return of his uncle, who had been absent that evening from supper. he thought that hosie might answer these questions since he knew the old man to be on friendly terms with katherine. but when old hosie did shuffle up the gravel walk, he was almost as much at a loss as his nephew. true, a note from katherine had been thrust under his door telling him she wished to talk with him that afternoon; but he had spent the day looking at farms and had not found the note till his return from the country half an hour before. bruce flung away his cigar in exasperation, and the dry night air was vibrant with half-whispered but perfervid curses. she was irritating, erratic, irrational, irresponsible--preposterous, simply preposterous--damn that kind of women anyhow! they pretended to be a lot, but there wasn't a damned thing to them! but he could not subdue his curiosity, though he fervently informed himself of the thousand and one kinds of an unblessed fool he was for bothering his head about her. nor could he banish her image. her figure kept rising before him out of the hot, dusty blackness: as she had appeared before the jury yesterday, slender, spirited, clever--yes, she had spoken cleverly, he would admit that; as she had appeared in her parlour that afternoon, a graceful, courteous, self-possessed home person; as he had seen her in mr. huggins's old surrey, with her exasperating, non-committal, cool little nod. but why, oh, why, in the name of the flaming rendezvous of lost and sizzling souls couldn't a woman with her qualities also have just one grain--only one single little grain!--of the commonest common-sense? the next morning bruce sent young harper to inquire from doctor west in the jail, and after that from katherine's aunt, why katherine had gone to new york, whether she had abandoned the case, and whether she had gone for good. but if these old people knew anything, they did not tell it to billy harper. westville buzzed over katherine's disappearance. the piazzas, the soda-water fountains, the dry goods counters, the ladies' aid, were at no loss for an explanation of her departure. she had lost her case--she had discovered that she was a failure as a lawyer--she had learned what westville thought of her--so what other course was open to her but to slip out of town as quietly as she could and return to the place from which she had come? the women's club in particular rejoiced at her withdrawal. thank god, a pernicious example to the rising young womanhood of the town was at last removed! perhaps woman's righteous disapproval of katherine had a deeper reason than was expressed--for what most self-searching person truly knows the exact motives that prompt his actions? perhaps, far down within these righteously indignant bosoms, was unconsciously but potently this question: if that type of woman succeeds and wins man's approval, then what is going to become of us who have been built upon man's former taste? at any rate, feminine westville declared it a blessing that "that terrible thing" was gone. westville continued to buzz, but it soon had matters more worth its buzzing. pressing the heels of one another there came two amazing surprises. the city had taken for granted the nomination of kennedy for mayor, but the convention's second ballot declared blake the nominee. blake had given heed to mr. brown's advice and had decided to take no slightest risk; but to the people he let it be known that he had accepted the nomination to help the city out of its water-works predicament, and westville, recognizing his personal sacrifice, rang with applause of his public spirit. the respectable element looked forward with self-congratulation to him as the next chief of the city--for he would have an easy victory over any low politician who would consent to be blind charlie's candidate. then, without warning, came bruce's nomination, with a splendid list of lesser candidates, and upon a most progressive platform. westville gasped again. then recovering from its amazement, it was inclined to take this nomination as a joke. but bruce soon checked their jocularity. that he was fighting for an apparently defunct cause seemed to make no difference to him. perhaps old hosie had spoken more wisely than he had intended when he had once sarcastically remarked that bruce was "a cross between a bulldog and don quixote." certainly the qualities of both strains were now in evidence. he sprang instantly into the campaign, and by the power and energy of his speeches and of his editorials in the _express_, he fairly raised his issue from the dead. bruce did not have a show, declared the people--not the ghost of a show--but if he maintained the ferocious earnestness with which he was starting out, this certainly was going to be the hottest campaign which westville had seen since blake had overthrown blind charlie peck. people recalled katherine now and then to wonder what she was doing and how mortified she must feel over her fiasco, and to laugh good-naturedly or sarcastically at the pricked soap-bubble of her pretensions. but the newer and present excitement of the campaign was forcing her into the comparative insignificance of all receding phenomena--when, one late september sunday morning, westville, or that select portion of westville which attended the wabash avenue church, was astonished by the sight of katherine west walking very composedly up the church's left aisle, looking in exceedingly good health and particularly stunning in a tailor-made gown of rich brown corduroy. she quietly entered a vacant pew and slipped to a position which allowed her an unobstructed view of doctor sherman, and which allowed doctor sherman an equally unobstructed view of her. worshippers who stared her way noticed that she seemed never to take her gaze from the figure in the pulpit; and it was remarked, after the service was over, that though doctor sherman's discourses had been falling off of late--poor man, his health was failing so!--to-day's was quite the poorest sermon he had ever preached. the service ended, katherine went quietly out of the church, smiling and bowing to such as met her eyes, and leaving an active tongue in every mouth behind her. so she had come back! well, of all the nerve! did you ever! was she going to stay? what did she think she was going to do? and so on all the way home, to where awaited the heavy sunday dinner on which westville gorged itself python-like--if it be not sacrilege to compare communicants with such heathen beasts--till they could scarcely move; till, toward three o'clock, the church paper sank down upon the distended stomachs of middle age, and there arose from all the easy chairs of westville an unrehearsed and somewhat inarticulate, but very hearty, hymnal in praise of the bounty of the creator. at about the time westville was starting up this chorus, old hosie hollingsworth, in katherine's parlour, deposited his rusty silk hat upon the square mahogany piano that had been doctor west's wedding gift to his wife. the old lawyer lowered himself into a rocker, crossed his attenuated legs, and shook his head. "land sakes--i certainly was surprised to get your note!" he repeated. "when did you get back?" "late last night." he stared admiringly at her fresh young figure. "i must say, you don't look much like a lawyer who has lost her first case and has sneaked out of town to hide her mortification!" "is that what people have been saying?" she smiled. "well, i don't feel like one!" "then you haven't given up?" "given up?" she lifted her eyebrows. "i've just begun. it's still a hard case, perhaps a long case; but at last i have a start. and i have some great plans. it was to ask your advice about these plans that i sent for you." "my advice! huh! i ain't ever been married--not even so much as once," he commented dryly, "but i've been told by unfortunates that have that it's the female way to do a thing and then ask whether she should do it or not." "now, don't be cynical!" laughed katherine. "you know i tried to consult you before i went away. but it still is not too late for your advice. i'll put my plans before you, and if your masculine wisdom, whose superiority you have proved by keeping yourself unmarried, can show me wherein i'm wrong, i'll change them or drop them altogether." "fire away," he said, half grumbling. "what are your plans?" "they're on a rather big scale. first, i shall put a detective on the case." "that's all right, but don't you underestimate harrison blake," warned old hosie. "since you've come back blake will be sure you're after him. he will be on his guard against you; he will expect you to use a detective; he will watch out for him, perhaps try to have his every move shadowed. i suppose you never thought of that?" he demanded triumphantly. "oh, yes i did," katherine returned. "that's why i'm going to hire two detectives." the old man raised his eyebrows. "two detectives?" "yes. one for mr. blake to watch. one to do the real work." "oh!" it was an ejaculation of dawning comprehension. "the first detective will be a mere blind; a decoy to engage mr. blake's attention. he must be a little obvious, rather blundering--so that mr. blake can't miss him. he will know nothing about my real scheme at all. while mr. blake's attention and suspicion are fixed on the first man, the second man, who is to be a real detective with real brains in his head, will get in the real work." "splendid! splendid!" cried old hosie, looking at her enthusiastically. "and yet that pup of a nephew of mine sniffs out, 'her a lawyer? nothing! she's only a woman!'" katherine flushed. "that's what i want mr. blake to think." "to underestimate you--yes, i see. have you got your first man?" "no. i thought you might help me find him, for a local man, or a state man, will be best; it will be easiest for him to be found out to be a detective." "i've got just the article for you," cried old hosie. "you know elijah stone?" "no. but, of course, i've seen him." "he's westville's best and only. he thinks he's something terrible as a detective--what you might call a hyper-super-ultra detective. detective sticks out big all over him--like a sort of universal mumps. he never looks except when he looks cautiously out of the corner of his eye; he walks on his tiptoes; he talks in whispers; he simply oozes mystery. fat head?--why, lige stone wears his hat on a can of lard!" "come, i'm not engaging a low comedian for a comic opera." "oh, he's not so bad as i said. he's really got a reputation. he's just the kind of a detective that an inexperienced girl might pick up. blake will soon find out you've hired him, he'll believe it a bona fide arrangement on your part, and will have a lot of quiet laughs at your simplicity. god made lige especially for you." "all right. i'll see him to-morrow." "have you thought about the other detective?" "yes. one reason i went to new york was to try to get a particular person--mr. manning, with whom i've worked on some cases for the municipal league. he has six children, and is very much in love with his wife. the last thing he looks like is a detective. he might pass for a superintendent of a store, or a broker. but he's very, very competent and clever, and is always master of himself." "and you got him?" "yes. but he can't come for a couple of weeks. he is finishing up a case for the municipal league." "how are you going to use him?" "i don't just know yet. perhaps i can fit him into a second scheme of mine. you've heard of mr. seymour, of seymour & burnett?" "the big bankers and brokers?" "yes. i knew elinor seymour at vassar, and i visited her several times; and as mr. seymour is president of the municipal league, altogether i saw him quite a great deal. i don't mean to be conceited, but i really believe mr. seymour has a lot of confidence in me." "that's a fine compliment to his sense," old hosie put in. "he's about the most decent of the big capitalists," she went on. "he was my second reason for going to new york. when i got there he had just left to spend a week-end in paris, or something of the sort. i had to wait till he came back; that's why i was gone so long. i went to him with a plain business proposition. i gave him a hint of the situation out here, told him there was a chance the water-works might be sold, and asked authority to buy the system in for him." "and how did he take it?" old hosie asked eagerly. "you behold in me an accredited agent of seymour & burnett. i don't know yet how i shall use that authority, but if i can't do anything better, and if the worst comes to the very worst, i'll buy in the plant, defeat mr. blake, and see that the city gets something like a fair price for its property." old hosie stared at her in open admiration. "well, if you don't beat the band!" he exclaimed. "in the meantime, i shall busy myself with trying to get my father's case appealed. but that is really only a blind; behind that i shall every minute be watching mr. blake. now, what do you think of my plans? you know i called you in for your advice." "advice! you need advice about as much as an angel needs a hat pin!" "but i'm willing to change my plans if you have any suggestions." "i was a conceited old idiot when i was a little sore awhile ago because you had called me in for my opinion after you had settled everything. go right ahead. it's fine. fine, i tell you!" he chuckled. "and to think that harrison blake thinks he's bucking up against only a woman. just a simple, inexperienced, dear, bustling, blundering woman! what a jar he's got coming to him!" "we mustn't be too hopeful," warned katherine. "there's a long, hard fight ahead. perhaps my plan may not work out. and remember that, after all, i am only a woman." "but if you do win!" his old eyes glowed excitedly. "your father cleared, the idol of the town upset, the water-works saved--think what a noise all that will make!" a new thought slowly dawned into his face. "h'm--this old town hasn't been, well, exactly hospitable to you; has laughed at you--sneered at you--given you the cold shoulder." "has it? what do i care!" "it would be sort of nice, now wouldn't it," he continued slowly, keenly, with his subdued excitement, "sort of heaping coals of fire on westville's roofs, if the town, after having cut you dead, should find that it had been saved by you. i suppose you've never thought of that aspect of the case--eh? i suppose it has never occurred to you that in saving your father you'll also save the town?" she flushed--and smiled a little. "oh, so we've already thought of that, have we. i see i can't suggest anything new to you. let the old town jeer all it wants to now, we'll show 'em in the end!--is that it?" she smiled again, but did not answer him. "now you'll excuse me, won't you, for i promised to call on father this afternoon?" "certainly." he rose. "how is your father--or haven't you seen him yet?" "i called at the jail first thing this morning. he's very cheerful." "that's good. well, good-by." old hosie was reaching for his hat, but just then a firm step sounded on the porch and there was a ring of the bell. katherine crossed the parlour and swung open the screen. standing without the door was bruce, a challenging, defiant look upon his face. "why, mr. bruce," she exclaimed, smiling pleasantly. "won't you please come in?" "thank you," he said shortly. he bowed and entered, but stopped short at sight of his uncle. "hello! you here?" "just to give an off-hand opinion, i should say i am." old hosie smiled sweetly, put his hat back upon the piano and sank into his chair. "i just dropped in to tell miss katherine some of those very clever and cutting things you've said to me about the idea of a woman being a lawyer. i've been expostulating with her--trying to show her the error of her ways--trying to prove to her that she wasn't really clever and didn't have the first qualification for law." "you please let me speak for myself!" retorted bruce. "how long are you going to stay here?" old hosie recrossed his long legs and settled back with the air of the rock of ages. "why, i was expecting miss katherine was going to invite me to stay to supper." "well, i guess you won't. you please remember this is your month to look after jim. now you trot along home and see that he don't fry the steak to a shingle the way you let him do it last night." "last night i was reading your editorial on the prospects of the corn crop and i got so worked up as to how it was coming out that i forgot all about that wooden-headed nigger. i tell you, arn, that editorial was one of the most exciting, stirring, nerve-racking, hair-breadth----" "come, get along with you!" bruce interrupted impatiently. "i want to talk some business with miss west!" old hosie rose. "you see how he treats me," he said plaintively to katherine. "i haven't had one kind word from that young pup since, when he was in high-school, he got so stuck on himself because he imagined every girl in town was in love with him." bruce took old hosie's silk hat from the piano and held it out to him. "you certainly won't get a kind word from me to-night if that steak is burnt!" katherine followed hosie out upon the porch. "he's a great boy," whispered the old man proudly--"if only i can lick his infernal conceit out of him!" he gripped her hand. "good-by, and luck with you!" she watched the bent, spare figure down the walk, then went in to bruce. the editor was standing stiffly in the middle of the parlour. "i trust that my call is not inopportune?" "i'm glad to see you, but it does so happen that i promised father to call at five o'clock. and it's now twenty minutes to." "perhaps you will allow me to walk there with you?" "but wouldn't that be, ah--a little dangerous?" "dangerous?" "yes. perhaps you forget that westville disapproves of me. it might not be a very politic thing for a candidate for mayor to be seen upon the street with so unpopular a person. it might cost votes, you know." he flushed. "if the people in this town don't like what i do, they can vote for harrison blake!" he swung open the door. "if you want to get there on time, we must start at once." two minutes later they were out in the street together. people whom they passed paused and stared back at them; groups of young men and women, courting collectively on front lawns, ceased their flirtatious chaffing and their bombardments with handfuls of loose grass, and nudged one another and sat with eyes fixed on the passing pair; and many a solid burgher, out on his piazza, waking from his devotional and digestive nap, blinked his eyes unbelievingly at the sight of a candidate for mayor walking along the street with that discredited lady lawyer who had fled the town in chagrin after losing her first case. at the start katherine kept the conversation upon bruce's candidacy. he told her that matters were going even better than he had hoped; and informed her, with an air of triumph he did not try to conceal, that blind charlie peck had been giving him an absolutely free rein, and that he was more than ever convinced that he had correctly judged that politician's motives. katherine meekly accepted this implicit rebuke of her presumption, and congratulated him upon the vindication of his judgment. "but i came to you to talk about your affairs, not mine," he said as they turned into main street. "i half thought, when you left, that you had gone for good. but your coming back proves you haven't given up. may i ask what your plans are, and how they are developing?" her eyes dropped to the sidewalk, and she seemed to be embarrassed for words. it was not wholly his fault that he interpreted her as crest-fallen, for katherine was not lacking in the wiles of eve. "your plans have not been prospering very well, then?" he asked, after a pause. "oh, don't think that; i still have hopes," she answered hurriedly. "i am going to keep right on at the case--keep at it hard." "were you successful in what you went to new york for?" "i can't tell yet. it's too early. but i hope something will come of it." he tried to get a glimpse of her face, but she kept it fixed upon the ground--to hide her discomfiture, he thought. "now listen to me," he said kindly, with the kindness of the superior mind. "here's what i came to tell you, and i hope you won't take it amiss. i admire you for the way you took your father's case when no other lawyer would touch it. you have done your best. but now, i judge, you are at a standstill. at this particular moment it is highly imperative that the case go forward with highest speed. you understand me?" "i think i do," she said meekly. "you mean that a man could do much better with the case than a woman?" "frankly, yes--still meaning no offense to you. you see how much hangs upon your father's case besides his own honour. there is the election, the whole future of the city. you see we are really facing a crisis. we have got to have quick action. in this crisis, being in the dark as to what you were doing, and feeling a personal responsibility in the matter, i have presumed to hint at the outlines of the case to a lawyer friend of mine in indianapolis; and i have engaged him, subject to your approval, to take charge of the matter." "of course," said katherine, her eyes still upon the sidewalk, "this man lawyer would expect to be the chief counsel?" "being older, and more experienced----" "and being a man," katherine softly supplied. "he of course would expect to have full charge--naturally," bruce concluded. "naturally," echoed katherine. "of course you would agree to that?" "i was just trying to think what a man would do," she said meditatively, in the same soft tone. "but i suppose a man, after he had taken a case when no one else would take it, when it was hopeless--after he had spent months upon it, made himself unpopular by representing an unpopular cause, and finally worked out a line of defense that, when the evidence is gained, will not only clear his client but astound the city--after he had triumph and reputation almost within his grasp, i suppose a man would be quite willing to step down and out and hand over the glory to a newcomer." he looked at her sharply. but her face, or what he saw of it, showed no dissembling. "but you are not stating the matter fairly," he said. "you should consider the fact that you are at the end of your rope!" "yes, i suppose i should consider that," she said slowly. they were passing the court house now. he tried to study her face, but it continued bent upon the sidewalk, as if in thought. they reached the jail, and she mounted the first step. "well, what do you say?" he asked. she slowly raised her eyes and looked down on him guilelessly. "you've been most thoughtful and kind--but if it's just the same to you, i'd like to keep on with the case a little longer alone." "what!" he ejaculated. he stared at her. "i don't know what to make of you!" he cried in exasperation. "oh, yes you do," she assured him sweetly, "for you've been trying to make very little of me." "eh! see here, i half believe you don't want my aid!" he blurted out. standing there above him, smiling down upon him, she could hardly resist telling him the truth--that sooner would she allow her right hand to be burnt off than to accept aid from a man who had flaunted and jeered at her lawyership--that it was her changeless determination not to tell him one single word about her plans--that it was her purpose to go silently ahead and let her success, should she succeed, be her reply to his unbelief. but she checked the impulse to fling the truth in his face--and instead continued to smile inscrutably down upon him. "i hope that you will do all for my father, for the city, for your own election, that you can," she said. "all i ask is that for the present i be allowed to handle the case by myself." the court house tower tolled five. she held out to him a gloved hand. "good-by. i'm sorry i can't invite you in," she said lightly, and turned away. he watched the slender figure go up the steps and into the jail, then turned and walked down the street--exasperated, puzzled, in profound thought. chapter xiv the night watch the next morning elijah stone appeared in katherine's office as per request. he was a thickly, if not solidly, built gentleman, in imminent danger of a double chin, and with that submerged blackness of the complexion which is the result of a fresh-shaven heavy beard. he kept his jaw clinched to give an appearance of power, and his black eyebrows lowered to diffuse a sense of deeply pondered mystery. his wife considered him a rarely handsome specimen of his sex, and he permitted art to supplement the acknowledged gifts of nature so far as to perfume his glossy black hair, to wear a couple of large diamond rings, and to carry upon the watch chain that clanked heavily across the broad and arching acreage of his waistcoat a begemmed lodge emblem in size a trifle smaller than a paper weight. he was an affable, if somewhat superior, being, and he listened to katherine with a still further lowering of his impressive brows. she informed him, in a perplexed, helpless, womanly way, that she was inclined to believe that her father was "the victim of foul play"--the black brows sank yet another degree--and that she wished him privately to investigate the matter. he of course would know far, far better what to do than she, but she would suggest that he keep an eye upon blake. at first mr. stone appeared somewhat sceptical and hesitant, but after peering darkly out for a long and ruminative period at the dusty foliage of the court house elms, and after hearing the comfortable fee katherine was willing to pay, he consented to accept the case. as he left he kindly assured her, with manly pity for her woman's helplessness, that if there was anything in her suspicion she "needn't waste no sleep now about gettin' the goods." in the days that followed, katherine saw her monsieur lecoque shadowing the movements of blake with the lightness and general unobtrusiveness of a mahogany bedstead ambling about upon its castors. she soon guessed that blake perceived that he was being watched, and she imagined how he must be smiling up his sleeve at her simplicity. had the matters at stake not been so grave, had she been more certain of the issue, she might have put her own sleeve to a similar purpose. in the meantime, as far as she could do so without exciting suspicion, she kept close watch upon blake. it had occurred to her that there was a chance that he had an unknown accomplice whose discovery would make the gaining of the rest of the evidence a simple matter. there was a chance that he might let slip some revealing action. at any rate, till mr. manning came, her rôle was to watch with unsleeping eye for developments. her office window commanded the entrance to blake's suite of rooms, and no one went up by day whom she did not see. her bedroom commanded blake's house and grounds, and every night she sat at her darkened window till the small hours and watched for possible suspicious visitors, or possible suspicious movements on the part of blake. also she did not forget doctor sherman. on the day of her departure for new york, she had called upon doctor sherman, and in the privacy of his study had charged him with playing a guilty part in blake's conspiracy. she had been urged to this course by the slender chance that, when directly accused as she had dared not accuse him in the court-room, he might break down and confess. but doctor sherman had denied her charge and had clung to the story he had told upon the witness stand. since katherine had counted but little on this chance, she had gone away but little disappointed. but she did not now let up upon the young minister. regular attendance at church had of late years not been one of katherine's virtues, but after her return it was remarked that she did not miss a single service at which doctor sherman spoke. she always tried to sit in the very centre of his vision, seeking to keep ever before his mind, while he preached god's word, the sin he had committed against god's law and man's. he visibly grew more pale, more thin, more distraught. the changes inspired his congregation with concern; they began to talk of overwork, of the danger of a breakdown; and seeing the dire possibility of losing so popular and pew-filling a pastor, they began to urge upon him the need of a long vacation. katherine could not but also give attention to the campaign, since it was daily growing more sensational, and was completely engrossing the town. blake, in his speeches, stood for a continuance of the rule that had made westville so prosperous, and dwelt especially upon an improvement in the service of the water-works, though as to the nature of the improvements he confined himself to language that was somewhat vague. katherine heard him often. he was always eloquent, clever, forceful, with a manly grace of presence upon the platform--just what she, and just what the town, expected him to be. but the surprise of the campaign, to katherine and to westville, was arnold bruce. katherine had known bruce to be a man of energy; now, in her mind, a forceful if not altogether elegant phrase of carlyle attached itself to him--"a steam-engine in pants." he was never clever, never polished, he never charmed with the physical grace of his opponent, but he spoke with a power, an earnestness, and an energy that were tremendous. by the main strength of his ideas and his personality he seemed to bear down the prejudice against the principle for which he stood. he seemed to stand out in the mid-current of hostile opinion and by main strength hurl it back into its former course. the man's efforts were nothing less than herculean. he was a bigger man, a more powerful man, than westville had ever dreamed; and his spirited battle against such apparently hopeless odds had a compelling fascination. despite her defiantly critical attitude, katherine was profoundly impressed; and she heard it whispered about that, notwithstanding blake's great popularity, his party's certainty of success was becoming very much disturbed. both katherine and bruce were fond of horseback riding--doctor west's single luxury, his saddle horse, was ever at katherine's disposal--and at the end of one afternoon they met by chance out along the winding river road, with its border of bowing willows and mottled sycamores, between whose browned foliage could be glimpsed long reaches of the broad and polished river, steel-gray in the shadows, a flaming copper where the low sun poured over it its parting fire. little by little bruce began to talk of his ideals. presently he was speaking with a simplicity and openness that he had not yet used with katherine. she perceived, more clearly than before, that whereas he was dogmatic in his ideas and brutally direct in their expression, he was a hot-souled idealist, overflowing with a passionate, even desperate, love of democracy, which he feared was in danger of dying out in the land--quietly and painlessly suffocated by a narrowing oligarchy which sought to blind the people to its rule by allowing them the exercise of democracy's dead forms. his square, rude face, which she watched with a rising fascination, was no longer repellent. it had that compelling beauty, superior to mere tint and moulding of the flesh, which is born of great and glowing ideas. she saw that there was sweetness in his nature, that beneath his rough exterior was a violent, all-inclusive tenderness. now and then she put in a word of discriminating approval, now and then a word of well-reasoned dissent. "i believe you are even more radical than i am!" he exclaimed, looking at her keenly. "a woman, if she is really radical, has got to be more radical than a man. she sees all the evils and dangers that he sees, and in addition she suffers from injustices and restrictions from which man is wholly free." he was too absorbed in the afterglow of what he had been saying to take in all the meanings implicated in her last phrase. "do you know," he said, as they neared the town, "you are the first woman i have met in westville to whom one could talk about real things and who could talk back with real sense." a very sly and pat remark upon his inconsistency was at her tongue's tip. but she realized that he had spoken impulsively, unguardedly, and she felt that it would be little short of sacrilege to be even gently sarcastic after the exalted revelation he had made of himself. "thank you," she said quietly, and turned her face and smiled at the now steel-blue reaches of the river. he dropped in several evenings to see her. when he was in an idealistic mood she was warmly responsive. when he was arbitrary and opinionated, she met him with chaffing and raillery, and at such times she was as elusive, as baffling, as exasperating as a sprite. on occasions when he rather insistently asked her plans and her progress in her father's case, she evaded him and held him at bay. she felt that he admired her, but with a grudging, unwilling admiration that left his fundamental disapproval of her quite unshaken. the more she saw of this dogmatic dreamer, this erratic man of action, the more she liked him, the more she found really admirable in him. but mixed with her admiration was an alert and pugnacious fear, so big was he, so powerful, so violently hostile to all the principles involved in her belief that the whole wide world of action should in justice lie as much open to woman to choose from as to man. without cessation katherine kept eyes and mind on blake. she searched out and pondered over the thousand possible details and ramifications his conspiracy might have. no human plan was a perfect plan. by patiently watching and studying every point there was a chance that she might discover one detail, one slip, one oversight, that would give her the key to the case. one of the thousand possibilities was that he had an active partner in his scheme. since no such partner was visible in the open, it was likely that his associate was a man with whom blake wished to have seemingly no relations. were this conjecture true, then naturally he would meet this confederate in secret. she began to think upon all possible means and places of holding secret conferences. such a meeting might be held there in westville in the dead of night. it might be held in any large city in which individuals might lose themselves--indianapolis, louisville, cincinnati, chicago. it might be held at any appointed spot within the radius of an automobile journey. katherine analyzed every possible place of this last possibility. she began to watch, as she watched other possibilities, the comings and goings of the blake automobile. it occurred to her that, if anything were in this conjecture, the meeting would be held at night; and then, a little later, it occurred to her to make a certain regular observation. the blake garage and the west stable stood side by side and opened into the same alley. every evening while blake's car was being cleaned--if it had been in use during the day--katherine went out to say good night to her saddle horse, and as she was on friendly terms with blake's man she contrived, while exchanging a word with him, to read the mileage record of the speedometer. this observation she carried on with no higher hope of anything resulting from it than from any of a score of other measures. it was merely one detail of her all-embracing vigilance. every night she sat on watch--the evening's earlier half usually in the rustic summer-house in the backyard, the latter part at her bedroom window. one night after most of westville was in bed, her long, patient vigil was rewarded by seeing the blake automobile slip out with a single vague figure at the wheel and turn into the back streets of the town. hours passed, and still she sat wide-eyed at her window. it was not till raucous old muzzains of roosters raised from the watch-towers of their various coops their concatenated prophecy of the dawn, that she saw the machine return with its single passenger. the next morning, as soon as she saw blake's man stirring about his work, she slipped out to her stable. watching her chance, she got a glimpse of blake's speedometer. then she quickly slipped back to her room and sat there in excited thought. the evening before the mileage had read ; this morning the reading was . blake, in his furtive midnight journey, had travelled twenty-two miles. if he had slipped forth to meet a secret ally, then evidently their place of meeting was half of twenty-two miles distant. where was this rendezvous? almost instantly she thought of the sycamores. that fitted the requirements exactly. it was eleven miles distant--blake had a cabin there--the place was deserted at this season of the year. nothing could be safer than for two men, coming in different vehicles, from different points perhaps, to meet at that retired spot at such an eyeless hour. perhaps there was no confederate. perhaps blake's night trip was not to a secret conference. perhaps the sycamores was not the rendezvous. but there was a chance that all three of these conjectures were correct. and if so, there was a chance,--aye, more, a probability--that there would be further midnight trysts. bruce had fallen into the habit of dropping in occasionally for a few minutes at the end of an evening's speaking to tell katherine how matters seemed to be progressing. when he called that night toward ten he was surprised to be directed around to the summer-house. his surprise was all the more because the three months' drought had that afternoon been broken, and the rain was now driving down in gusts and there was a far rumbling of thunder that threatened a nearer and a fiercer cannonading. crouching beneath his umbrella, he made his way through the blackness to the summer-house, in which he saw sitting a dim, solitary figure. "in mercy's name, what are you doing out here?" he demanded as he entered. "watching the rain. i love to be out in a storm." every clap of thunder sent a shiver through her. "you must go right into the house!" he commanded. "you'll get wet. i'll bet you're soaked already!" "oh, no. i have a raincoat on," she answered calmly. "i'm going to stay and watch the storm a little longer." he expostulated, spoke movingly of colds and pneumonia. but she kept her seat and sweetly suggested that he avoid his vividly pictured dangers of a premature death by following his own advice. he jerked a rustic chair up beside her, growled a bit in faint imitation of the thunder, then ran off into the wonted subject of the campaign. as the situation now stood he had a chance of winning, so successful had been his fight to turn back public opinion; and if only he had and could use the evidence katherine was seeking, an overwhelming victory would be his beyond a doubt. he plainly was chafing at her delays, and as plainly made it evident that he was sceptical of her gaining proof. but she did not let herself be ruffled. she evaded all his questions, and when she spoke she spoke calmly and with good-nature. presently, sounding dimly through a lull in the rising tumult of the night, they heard the court house clock strike eleven. soon after, katherine's ear, alert for a certain sound, caught a muffled throbbing that was not distinguishable to bruce from the other noises of the storm. she sprang up. "you must go now--good night!" she said breathlessly, and darted out of the summer-house. "wait! where are you going?" he cried, and tried to seize her, but she was gone. he stumbled amazedly after her vague figure, which was running through the grape-arbour swiftly toward the stable. the blackness, his unfamiliarity with the way, made him half a minute behind katherine in entering the barn. "miss west!" he called. "miss west!" there was no answer and no sound within the stable. just then a flash of lightning showed him that the rear door was open. as he felt his way through this he heard katherine say, "whoa, nelly! whoa, nelly!" and saw her swing into the saddle. he sprang forward and caught the bridle rein. "what are you going to do?" he cried. "going out for a little gallop," she answered with an excited laugh. "what?" a light broke in upon him. "you've been sitting there all evening in your riding habit! your horse has been standing saddled and bridled in the stall! tell me--where are you going?" "for a little ride, i said. now let loose my rein." "why--why--" he gasped in amazement. then he cried out fiercely: "you shall not go! it's madness to go out in a storm like this!" "mr. bruce, let go that rein this instant!" she said peremptorily. "i shall do nothing of the sort! i shall not let you make an insane fool of yourself!" she bent downward. though in the darkness he could not see her face, the tensity of her tone told him her eyes were flashing. "mr. bruce," she said with slow emphasis, "if you do not loosen that rein, this second, i give you my word i shall never see you, never speak to you again." "all right, but i shall not let you make a fool of yourself," he cried with fierce dominance. "you've got to yield to sense, even though i use force on you." she did not answer. swiftly she reversed her riding crop and with all her strength brought its heavy end down upon his wrist. "nelly!" she ordered sharply, and in the same instant struck the horse. the animal lunged free from bruce's benumbed grasp, and sprang forward into a gallop. "good night!" she called back to him. he shouted a reply; his voice came to her faintly, wrathful and defiant, but his words were whirled away upon the storm. chapter xv politics make strange bed-fellows she quieted nelly into a canter, made her way through the soundly sleeping back streets, and at length emerged from the city and descended into the river road, which was slightly shorter than grayson's pike which led over the high back country to the sycamores. she knew what nelly could do, and she settled the mare down into the fastest pace she could hold for the eleven miles before her. katherine was aquiver with suspense, one moment with hopeful expectation, the next with fear that her deductions were all awry. perhaps blake had not gone out to meet a confederate. and if he had, perhaps the sycamores was not the rendezvous. but if her deductions were correct, who was this secret ally? would she be able to approach them near enough to discover his identity? and would she be able to learn the exact outlines of the plot that was afoot? if so, what would it all prove to be? such questions and doubts galloped madly through her mind. the storm grew momently in fierceness. the water and fury of three months of withheld storms were spending themselves upon the earth in one violent outburst. the wind cracked her skirt like a whip-lash, and whined and snarled and roared among the trees. the rain drove at her in maddened sheets, found every opening in her raincoat, and soon she was as wet as though dropped in the river yonder. the night was as black as the interior of a camera, save when--as by the opening of a snapshot shutter--an instantaneous view of the valley was fixed on katherine's startled brain by the lightning ripping in fiery fissures down the sky. then she saw the willows bending and whipping in the wind, saw the gnarled old sycamores wrestling with knotted muscles, saw the broad river writhing and tossing its swollen and yellow waters. then, blackness again--and, like the closing click of this world-wide camera, there followed a world-shaking crash of thunder. katherine would have been terrified but for the stimulant within. she crouched low upon her horse, held a close rein, petted nelly, talked to her and kept her going at her best--onward--onward--onward--through the covered wooden bridge that spanned buck creek--through the little old village of sleepy eye--up red man's ridge--and at last, battered, buffeted, half-drowned, she and nelly drew up at the familiar stone gateway of the sycamores. she dismounted, led nelly in and tied her among the beeches away from the drive. then cautiously, palpitantly, she groped her way in the direction of the blake cabin, avoiding the open lest the lightning should betray her presence. at length she came to the edge of a cleared space in which she knew the cabin stood. but she could see nothing. the cabin was just a cube of blackness imbedded in this great blackness which was the night. she peered intently for a lighted window; she listened for the lesser thunder of a waiting automobile. but she could see nothing but the dark, hear nothing but the dash of the rain, the rumble of the thunder, the lashing and shrieking of the wind. her heart sank. no one was here. her guesses all were wrong. but she crept toward the house, following the drive. suddenly, she almost collided with a big, low object. she reached forth a hand. it fell upon the tire of an automobile. she peered forward and seemed to see another low shape. she went toward it and felt. it was a second car. she dashed back among the trees, and thus sheltered from the revealing glare of the lightning, almost choking with excitement, she began to circle the house for signs which would locate in what room were the men within. she paused before each side and peered closely at it, but each side in turn presented only blackness, till she came to the lee of the house. this, too, was dark for the first moment. then in a lower window, which she knew to be the window of blake's den, two dull red points of light appeared--glowed--subsided--glowed again--then vanished. a minute later one reappeared, then the other; and after the slow rise and fall and rise of the glow, once more went out. she stood rigid, wondering at the phenomenon. then suddenly she realized that within were two lighted cigars. bending low, she scurried across the open space and crouched beside the window. luckily it had been opened to let some fresh air into the long-closed room. and luckily this was the lee of the house and the beat of the storm sounded less loudly here, so that their voices floated dimly out to her. this lee was also a minor blessing, for katherine's poor, wet, shivering body now had its first protection from the storm. tense, hardly breathing, with all five senses converged into hearing, she stood flattened against the wall and strained to catch their every word. one voice was plainly blake's. the other had a faintly familiar quality, though she could not place it. this second man had evidently come late, for their conversation was of a preliminary, beating-around-the-bush character--about the fierceness of the storm, and the additional security it lent their meeting. katherine searched her memory for the owner of this second voice. she had thought at first of doctor sherman, but this voice had not a tone in common with the young clergyman's clear, well-modulated baritone. this was a peculiar, bland, good-natured drawl. she had not heard it often, but she had unmistakably heard it. as she ransacked her memory it grew increasingly familiar, yet still eluded her. then, all of a sudden, she knew it, and she stood amazed. the second voice was the voice of blind charlie peck. katherine was well acquainted with the secret bi-partisan arrangement common in so many american cities, by which the righteous voter is deluded into believing that there are two parties contending for the privilege of giving him their best service, whereas in reality the two are one, secretly allied because as a political trust they can most economically and profitably despoil the people. her first thought was that these ancient enemies, who for ten years had belaboured one another with such a realistic show of bitterness upon the political stage of westville, had all along been friends and partners behind the scenes. but of this idea she was presently disillusioned. "well, mr. blake, let's get down to business," blind charlie's voice floated out to her. "you've had a day to think over my proposition. now what have you got to say to it?" there was a brief silence. when blake did speak, katherine could discern in his repressed tone a keen aversion for his companion. "my position is the same as last night. what you say is all guesswork. there is nothing in it." blind charlie's voice was soft--purringly soft. "then why didn't you ask me to go to hell, and stay at home instead of coming out here?" there was again a short silence. "come now," the soft voice persuaded, "let's don't go over what we did last night. i know i'm right." "i tell you you're only guessing," blake doggedly returned. "you haven't a scrap of proof." "i don't need proof, when i'm certain about a thing," gently returned the voice of blind charlie. "i've been in politics for forty-eight years--ever since i was nineteen, when i cast my first vote. i've got sharpened up considerable in that time, and while i haven't been in on much in the last ten years, i can still smell a fat deal clean across the state. for the last three months i've been smelling, and smelling it keener every day, that you've got a rich game going." "and so"--rather sarcastically--"you set bruce on, to try to run the game down!" "well, i would use a little different figure of speech," returned blind charlie smoothly. "when i've got a coon up a hollow tree i build a fire in the hollow to bring him down. bruce is my fire." "and you think your coon is coming down?" "i rather think he is. don't you?" "well, i tell you he's not! for there's no coon up the tree!" "i see i've got to state the thing to you again," said blind charlie patiently, and so softly that katherine had to strain her utmost to get his words. "when i grew sure you had a big deal on about the water-works, i saw that the only way to force you to let me in was to put you in a fix where you would either have to split up or be in danger of losing the whole thing. so i nominated bruce. he's one of the easiest i ever took in; but, i tell you, he is certainly one hell of a fighter! that's what i nominated him for. you know as well as i do the way he's swinging the voters round. it beats anything i've ever seen. if he keeps this up till election, and if i pull off a couple of good tricks i've got all ready, he'll be a winner, sure! and now"--blind charlie's purring voice thrust out its claws--"either i put bruce in and smash your deal till it's not worth a damn, or else you come across!" "there's nothing in it, i tell you!" declared blake. "there's no use keeping up that pretence," continued blind charlie. "you've had a day to think over my proposition. you know perfectly well what your choice is between: a sure thing if you divide with me, the risk of nothing if you refuse. so let's waste no more time. come, which is it?" there was a long silence. "i understand," commented blind charlie, with a soft sympathy that katherine knew was meant to bite like acid. "it's hard for a respectable man like you to mix up with charlie peck. but political business makes strange bed-fellows, and unless you're willing to sleep with almost anybody you'd better keep out of this kind of business altogether. but after all," he added, "i guess it's better to share a good bed than to have no bed at all." "what do you want?" blake asked huskily. "only my share of the bed," blandly returned blind charlie. "what's that, in plain words?" "not much. only half of what you're going to make." blake exploded. "damn you, peck, you're nothing but a damned blackmailer!" "all right, i agree to that," said blind charlie. then he added in his soft voice: "but if i'm a blackmailer in this affair, then please, mr. blake, what do you call yourself?" "you--you----" to the crouching figure outside the window blake seemed to be half-choking. but suddenly he exploded again. "i'll not do it, peck! i'll not do it--never while god's earth stands!" "i guess you will, blake!" blind charlie's voice was no longer soft; it had a slow, grating, crunching sound. "damn your soul, you've been acting toward me with your holier-than-thou reformer's attitude for ten years. d'you think i'm a man to swallow that quietly? d'you think i haven't had it in for you all those ten years? why, there hasn't been a minute that i haven't been looking for my chance. and at last i've got it! i've not only got a line on this water-works business, but i've found out all about your pretty little deal with adamson during the last months you were lieutenant-governor!" "adamson!" ejaculated blake. "yes, adamson!" went on the harsh voice of blind charlie. "that hits you where you live, eh! you didn't know i had it, did you? well, i didn't till to-day--but i've got it now all right! there, my cards are all on the table. look 'em over. i don't want bruce elected any more than you do; but either you do what i say, or by god i turn over to bruce all i know about the adamson affair and all i know about this water-works deal! now i give you just one minute to decide!" katherine breathlessly awaited the answer. a space passed. she heard blind charlie stand up. "time's up! good night--and to hell with you!" "wait! wait!" blake cried. "then you accept?" blake's voice shook. "before i answer, what do you want?" "i've already told you. half of what you get." "but i'm to get very little." "very little!" blind charlie's voice was ironical; it had dropped its tone of crushing menace. "very little! now i figure that you'll get the water-works for a third, or less, of their value. that'll give you something like half a million at the start-off, not to speak of the regular profits later on. now as for me," he concluded drily, "i wouldn't call that such a very little sum that i'd kick it out of my way if i saw it lying in the road." "but no such sum is lying there." "no? then what do you get?" blake did not answer. "come, speak out!" blake's voice came with an effort. "i'm not doing this for myself." "then who for?" blake hesitated, then again spoke with an effort. "the national electric & water company." blind charlie swore in his surprise. "but i reckon you're not doing it for them for charity?" "no." "well, what for?" blake again remained silent. "come, what for?" impatiently demanded charlie. "for a seat in the senate." "that's no good to me. what else?" "fifty thousand dollars." "the devil! is that all?" ejaculated blind charlie. "everything." blind charlie swore to himself for a moment. then he fell into a deep silence. "well, what's the matter?" blake presently inquired. "i was just wondering," replied blind charlie, slowly, "if it wouldn't be better to call this business off between you and me." "call it off?" "yes. i never imagined you were playing for such a little pile as fifty thousand. since there's only fifty thousand in it"--his voice suddenly rang out with vindictive triumph--"i was wondering if it wouldn't pay me better to use what i know to help elect bruce." "elect bruce?" cried blake in consternation. "exactly. show you up, and elect bruce," said blind charlie coolly. "to elect my mayor--there's more than fifty thousand for me in that." there was a dismayed silence on blake's part. but after a moment he recovered himself, and this time it was his voice that had the note of ascendency. "you are forgetting one point, mr. peck," said he. "yes?" "bruce's election will not mean a cent to you. you will get no offices. moreover, the control of your party machinery will be sure to pass from you to him." "you're right," said the old man promptly. "see how quick i am to acknowledge the corn. however, after all," he added philosophically, "what you're getting is really enough for two. you take the senatorship, and i'll take the fifty thousand. what do you say to that?" "what about bruce--if i accept?" "bruce? bruce is just a fire to smoke the coon out. when the coon comes down, i put out the fire." "you mean?" "i mean that i'll see that bruce don't get elected." "you'll make sure about that?" "oh, you just leave bruce to me!" said blind charlie with grim confidence. "and now, do you accept?" blake was silent. he still shrunk from this undesirable alliance. outside, katherine again breathlessly hung upon his answer. "what do you say?" demanded the old man sharply. "do you accept? or do i smash you?" "i accept--of course." "and we'll see this thing through together?" "yes." "then here you are. let's shake on it." they talked on, dwelling on details of their partnership, katherine missing never a word. at length, their agreement completed, they left the room, and katherine slipped from the window across into the trees and made such haste as she could through the night and the storm to where she had left her horse. she heard one car go slowly out the entrance of the grove, its lamps dark that its visit might not be betrayed, and she heard it turn cautiously into the back-country road. after a little while she saw a glare shoot out before the car--its lamps had been lighted--and she saw it skim rapidly away. soon the second car crept out, took the high back-country pike, and repeated the same tactics. then katherine untied nelly, mounted, and started slowly homeward along the river road. chapter xvi through the storm bowed low to shield herself against the ever fiercer buffets of the storm, katherine gave nelly free rein to pick her own way at her own pace through the blackness. the rain volleyed into her pitilessly, the wind sought furiously to wrest her from the saddle, the lightning cracked open the heavens into ever more fiery chasms, and the thunder rattled and rolled and reverberated as though a thousand battles were waging in the valley. it was as if the earth's dissolution were at hand--as if the long-gathered wrath of the judgment day were rending the earth asunder and hurling the fragments afar into the black abysm of eternity. but katherine, though gasping and shivering, gave minor heed to this elemental rage. whatever terror she might have felt another time at such a storm, her brain had now small room for it. she was exultantly filled with the magnitude of her discovery. the water-works deal! the national electric & water company! bruce not a bona fide candidate at all, but only a pistol at blake's head to make him stand and deliver! blake and blind charlie--those two whole-hearted haters, who belaboured each other so valiantly before the public--in a secret pact to rob that same dear public! at the highest moments of her exultation it seemed that victory was already hers; that all that remained was to proclaim to westville on the morrow what she knew. but beneath all her exultation was a dim realization that the victory itself was yet to be won. what she had gained was only a fuller knowledge of who her enemies were, and what were their purposes. her mind raced about her discovery, seeking how to use it as the basis of her own campaign. but the moment of an extensive and astounding discovery is not the moment for the evolving of well-calculated plans; so the energies of her mind were spent on extravagant dreams or the leaping play of her jubilation. one decision, however, she did reach. that was concerning bruce. her first impulse was to go to him and tell him all, in triumphant refutation of his ideas concerning woman in general, and her futility in particular. but as she realized that she was not at the end of her fight, but only at a better-informed beginning, she saw that the day of her triumph over him, if ever it was to come, had at least not yet arrived. as for admitting him into her full confidence, her woman's pride was still too strong for that. it held her to her determination to tell him nothing. she was going to see this thing through without him. moreover, she had another reason for silence. she feared, if she told him all, his impetuous nature might prompt him to make a premature disclosure of the information, and that would be disastrous to her future plans. but since he was vitally concerned in blake's and peck's agreement, it was at least his due that he be warned; and so she decided to tell him, without giving her source of information, that blind charlie proposed to sell him out. nelly's pace had slowed into a walk, and even then the gale at times almost swept the poor horse staggering from the road. the rain drove down in ever denser sheets. the occasional flashes of lightning served only to emphasize the blackness. so dense was it, it seemed a solid. the world could not seem blacker to a toad in the heart of a stone. the instants of crackling fire showed katherine the river, below her in the valley, leaping, surging, almost out of its banks--the trees, writhing and wrestling, here and there one jaggedly discrowned. and once, as she was crossing a little wooden bridge that spanned a creek, she saw that it was almost afloat--and for an instant of terror she wished she had followed the higher back-country road taken by the two automobiles. she had reached the foot of red man's ridge, and was winding along the river's verge, when she thought she heard her name sound faintly through the storm. she stopped nelly and sat in sudden stiffness, straining her ears. again the voice sounded, this time nearer, and there was no mistaking her name. "miss west! katherine!" she sat rigid, almost choking. the next minute a shapeless figure almost collided with nelly. it eagerly caught the bridle-rein and called out huskily: "is that you, miss west?" she let out a startled cry. "who are you? what do you want?" "it's you! thank god, i've found you!" cried the voice. "arnold bruce!" she ejaculated. he loosened the rein and moved to her side and put his hand upon the back of her saddle. "thank god i've found you!" he repeated, with a strange quaver to his voice. "arnold bruce! what are you doing here?" "didn't you hear me shout after you, when you started, that i was coming, too?" "i heard your voice, but not what you said." "do you think i would let you go out alone on a night like this?" he demanded in his unstrung tone. "it's no night for a man to be out, much less a woman!" "you mean--you followed me?" "what else did you think i'd do?" "and on foot?" "if i had stopped to get a horse i'd have lost your direction. so i ran after you." they were moving on now, his hand upon the back of her saddle to link them together in the darkness. he had to lean close to her that their voices might be heard above the storm. "and you have run after me all this way?" "ran and walked. but i couldn't make much headway in the storm--calling out to you every few steps. i didn't know what might have happened to you. all kinds of pictures were in my mind. you might have been thrown and be lying hurt. in the darkness the horse might have wandered off the road and slipped with you into the river. it was--it was----" she felt the strong forearm that lay against her back quiver violently. "oh, why did you do it!" he burst out. a strange, warm tingling crept through her. "i--i----" something seemed to choke her. "oh, why did you do it!" he repeated. contrary to her determination of but a little while ago, an impulse surged up in her to tell him all she had just learned, to tell him all her plans. she hung for a moment in indecision. then her old attitude, her old determination, resumed its sway. "i had a suspicion that i might learn something about father's case," she said. "it was foolishness!" he cried in fierce reproof, yet with the same unnerved quaver in his voice. "you should have known you could find nothing on such a night as this!" she felt half an impulse to retort sharply with the truth. but the thought of his stumbling all that way in the blackness subdued her rising impulse to triumph over him. so she made no reply at all. "you should never have come! if, when you started, you had stopped long enough for me to speak to you, i could have told you you would not have found out anything. you did not, now did you?" she still kept silent. "i knew you did not!" he cried in exasperated triumph. "admit the truth--you know you did not!" "i did not learn everything i had hoped." "don't be afraid to acknowledge the truth!" "you remember what i said when you were first offered the nomination by mr. peck--to beware of him?" "yes. you were wrong. but let's not talk about that now!" "i am certain now that i was right. i have the best of reasons for believing that mr. peck intends to sell you out." "what reasons?" she hesitated a moment. "i cannot give them to you--now. but i tell you i am certain he is planning treachery." "your talk is wild. as wild as your ride out here to-night." "but i tell you----" "let's talk no more about it now," he interrupted, brushing the matter aside. "it--it doesn't interest me now." there was a blinding glare of lightning, then an awful clap of thunder that rattled in wild echoes down the valley. "oh, why did you come?" he cried, pressing closer. "why did you come? it's enough to kill a woman!" "hardly," said she. "but you're wet through," he protested. "and so are you." "have my coat." and he started to slip it off. "no. one more wet garment won't make me any drier." "then put it over your head. to keep off this awful beat of the storm. i'll lead your horse." "no, thank you; i'm all right," she said firmly, putting out a hand and checking his motion to uncoat himself. "you've been walking. i've been riding. you need it more than i do." and then she added: "did i hurt you much?" "hurt me?" "when i struck you with my crop." "that? i'd forgotten that." "i'm very sorry--if i hurt you." "it's nothing. i wish you'd take my coat. bend lower down." and moving forward, he so placed himself that his broad, strong body was a partial shield to her against the gale. this new concern for her, the like of which he had never before evinced the faintest symptoms, begot in her a strange, tingling, but blurred emotion. they moved on side by side, now without speech, gasping for the very breath that the gale sought to tear away from their lips. the storm was momently gaining power and fury. afterward the ancient weather-men of calloway county were to say that in their time they had never seen its like. the lightning split the sky into even more fearsome fiery chasms, and in the moments of wild illumination they could see the road gullied by scores of impromptu rivulets, could glimpse the broad river billowing and raging, the cattle huddling terrified in the pastures, the woods swaying and writhing in deathlike grapple. the wind hurled by them in a thousand moods and tones, all angry; a fine, high shrieking on its topmost note--a hoarse snarl--a lull, as though the straining monster were pausing to catch its breath--then a roaring, sweeping onrush as if bent on irresistible destruction. and on top of this glare, this rage, was the thousandfold crackle, rattle, rumble of the thunder. at such a time wild beasts, with hostility born in their blood, draw close together. it was a storm to resolve, as it were, all complex shades of human feeling into their elementary colours--when fear and hate and love stand starkly forth, unqualified, unblended. without being aware that she was observing, katherine sensed that bruce's agitation was mounting with the storm. and as she felt his quivering presence beside her in the furious darkness, her own emotion surged up with a wild and startling strength. a tree top snapped off just before them with its toy thunder. "will this never stop!" gasped bruce, huskily. "god, i wish i had you safe home!" the tremulous tensity in his voice set her heart to leaping with an unrestraint yet wilder. but she did not answer. suddenly nelly stumbled in a gully and katherine pitched forward from the saddle. she would have fallen, had not a pair of strong arms closed about her in mid-air. "katherine--katherine!" bruce cried, distracted. nelly righted herself and katherine regained her seat, but bruce still kept his arm about her. "tell me--are you hurt?" he demanded. she felt the arms around her trembling with intensity. "no," she said with a strange choking. "oh, katherine--katherine!" he burst out. "if you only knew how i love you!" what she felt could not crystallize itself into words. "do you love me?" he asked huskily. just then there was a flash of lightning. it showed her his upturned face, appealing, tender, passion-wrought. a wild, exultant thrill swept through her. without thinking, without speaking, her tingling arm reached out, of its own volition as it were, and closed about his neck, and she bent down and kissed him. "katherine!" he breathed hoarsely. "katherine!" and he crushed her convulsively to him. she lay thrilled in his arms.... after a minute they moved on, his arm about her waist, her arm about his neck. rain, wind, thunder were forgotten. forgotten were their theories of life. for that hour the man and woman in them were supremely happy. chapter xvii the cup of bliss the next morning katherine lay abed in that delicious lassitude which is the compound of complete exhaustion and of a happiness that tingles through every furthermost nerve. and as she lay there she thought dazedly of the miracle that had come to pass. she had not even guessed that she was in love with arnold bruce. in fact, she had been resisting her growing admiration for him, and the day before she could hardly have told whether her liking was greater than her hostility. then, suddenly, out there in the storm, all complex counter-feelings had been swept side, and she had been revealed to herself. she was tremulously, tumultuously happy. she had had likings for men before, but she had never guessed that love was such a mighty, exultant thing as this. but, as she lay there, the thoughts that had never come to her in the storm out there on the river road, slipped into her mind. into her exultant, fearful, dizzy happiness there crept a fear of the future. she clung with all her soul to the ideas of the life she wished to live; she knew that he, in all sincerity, was militantly opposed to those ideas. difference in religious belief had brought bitterness, tragedy even, into the lives of many a pair of lovers. the difference in their case was no less firmly held to on either side, and she realized that the day must come when their ideas must clash, when they two must fight it out. quivering with love though she was, she could but look forward to that inevitable day with fear. but there were too many other new matters tossing in her brain for her to dwell long upon this dread. at times she could but smile whimsically at the perversity of love. the little god was doubtless laughing in impish glee at what he had brought about. she had always thought in a vague way that she would sometime marry, but she had always regarded it as a matter of course that the man she would fall in love with would be one in thorough sympathy with her ideas and who would help her realize her dream. and here she had fallen in love with that dreamed-of man's exact antithesis! and yet, as she thought of arnold bruce, she could not imagine herself loving any other man in all the world. love gave her a new cause for jubilation over her last night's discovery. victory, should she win it, and win it before election, had now an added value--it would help the man she loved. but as she thought over her discovery, she realized that while she might create a scandal with it, it was not sufficient evidence nor the particular evidence that she desired. blake and peck would both deny the meeting, and against blake's denial her word would count for nothing, either in court or before the people of westville. and she could not be present at another conference with two or three witnesses, for the pair had last night settled all matters and had agreed that it would be unnecessary to meet again. her discovery, she perceived more clearly than on the night before, was not so much evidence as the basis for a more enlightened and a more hopeful investigation. another matter, one that had concerned her little while bruce had held but a dubious place in her esteem, now flashed into her mind and assumed a large importance. the other party, as she knew, was using bruce's friendship for her as a campaign argument against him; not on the platform of course--it never gained that dignity--but in the street, and wherever the followers of the hostile camps engaged in political skirmish. its sharpest use was by good housewives, with whom suffrage could be exercised solely by influencing their husbands' ballots. "what, vote for mr. bruce! don't you know he's a friend of that woman lawyer? a man who can see anything in that katherine west is no fit man for mayor!" all this talk, katherine now realized, was in some degree injuring bruce's candidacy. with a sudden pain at the heart she now demanded of herself, would it be fair to the man she loved to continue this open intimacy? should not she, for his best interests, urge him, require him, to see her no more? she was in the midst of this new problem, when her aunt rachel brought her in a telegram. she read it through, and on the instant the problem fled her mind. she lay and thought excitedly--hour after hour--and her old plans altered where they had been fixed, and took on definite form where previously they had been unsettled. the early afternoon found her in the office of old hosie hollingsworth. "what do you think of that?" she demanded, handing him the telegram. old hosie read it with a puzzled look. then slowly he repeated it aloud: "'bouncing boy arrived tuesday morning. all doing well. john.'" he raised his eyes to katherine. "i'm always glad to see people lend the census a helping hand," he drawled. "but who in old harry is john?" "mr. henry manning. the new york detective i told you about." "eh? then what----" "it's a cipher telegram," katherine explained with an excited smile. "it means that he will arrive in westville this afternoon, and will stay as long as i need him." "but what should he send that sort of a fool thing for?" "didn't i tell you that he and i are to have no apparent relations whatever? an ordinary telegram, coming through that gossiping mr. gordon at the telegraph office, would have given us away. now i've come to you to talk over with you some new plans for mr. manning. but first i want to tell you something else." she briefly outlined what she had learned the night before; and then, without waiting to hear out his ejaculations, rapidly continued: "i told mr. manning to come straight to you, on his arrival, to learn how matters stood. all my communications to him, and his to me, are to be through you. tell him everything, including about last night." "and what is he to do?" "i was just coming to that." her brown eyes were gleaming with excitement. "here's my plan. it seems to me that if blind charlie peck could force his way into mr. blake's scheme and become a partner in it, then mr. manning can, too." old hosie blinked. "eh? eh? how?" "you are to tell mr. manning that he is mr. hartsell, or whoever he pleases, a real estate dealer from the east, and that his ostensible business in westville is to invest in farm lands. buying in run-down or undrained farms at a low price and putting them in good condition, that's a profitable business these days. besides, since you are an agent for farm lands, that will explain his relations with you. understand?" "yes. what next?" "secretly, he is to go around studying the water-works. only not so secretly that he won't be noticed." "but what's that for?" "buying farm land is only a blind to hide his real business," she went on rapidly. "his real business here is to look into the condition of the water-works with a view to buying them in. he is a private agent of seymour & burnett; you remember i am empowered to buy the system for mr. seymour. when mr. blake and mr. peck discover that a man is secretly examining the water-works--and they'll discover it all right; when they discover that this man is the agent of mr. seymour, with all the seymour millions behind him--and we'll see that they discover that, too--don't you see that when they make these discoveries this may set them to thinking, and something may happen?" "i don't just see it yet," said old hosie slowly, "but it sounds like there might be something mighty big there." "when mr. blake learns there is another secret buyer in the field, a rival buyer ready and able to run the price up to three times what he expects to pay--why, he'll see danger of his whole plan going to ruin. won't his natural impulse be, rather than run such a risk, to try to take the new man in?--just as he took in blind charlie peck?" "i see! i see!" exclaimed old hosie. "by george, it's mighty clever! then what next?" "i can't see that far. but with mr. manning on the inside, our case is won." old hosie leaned forward. "it's great! great! if you're not above shaking hands with a mere man----" "now don't make fun of me," she cried, gripping the bony old palm. "and while you're quietly turning this little trick," he chuckled, "the honourable harrison blake will be carefully watching every move of elijah stone, the best hippopotamus in the sleuth business, and be doing right smart of private snickering at the simplicity of womankind." she flushed, but added soberly: "of course it's only a plan, and it may not work at all." they talked the scheme over in detail. at length, shortly before the hour at which the afternoon express from the east was due to arrive, katherine retired to her own office. half an hour later, looking down from her window, she saw the old surrey of mr. huggins' draw up beside the curb, in it a quietly dressed, middle-aged passenger who had the appearance of a solid man of affairs. he crossed the sidewalk and a little later katherine heard him enter old hosie's office on the floor below. after a time she saw the stranger go out and drive around the square to the tippecanoe house, peck's hotel, where katherine had directed that mr. manning be sent to facilitate his being detected by the enemy. her plan laid, katherine saw there was little she could do but await developments--and in the meantime to watch blake, which mr. mannings' rôle would not permit his doing, and to watch and study doctor sherman. despite this new plan, and her hopes in it, she realized that it was primarily a plan to defeat blake's scheme against the city. she still considered doctor sherman the pivotal character in her father's case; he was her father's accuser, the man who, she believed more strongly every day, could clear him with a few explanatory words. so she determined to watch him none the less closely because of her new plan--to keep her eyes upon him for signs that might show his relations to blake's scheme--to watch for signs of the breaking of his nerve, and at the first sign to pounce accusingly upon him. when she reached home that afternoon she found bruce awaiting her. since morning, mixed with her palpitating love and her desire to see him, there had been dread of this meeting. in the back of her mind the question had all day tormented her, should she, for his own interests, send him away? but sharper than this, sharper a hundredfold, was the fear lest the difference between their opinions should come up. but bruce showed no inclination to approach this difference. love was too new and near a thing for him to wander from the present. for this delay she was fervently grateful, and forgetful of all else she leaned back in a big old walnut chair and abandoned herself completely to her happiness, which might perhaps be all too brief. they talked of a thousand things--talk full of mutual confession: of their former hostility, of what it was that had drawn their love to one another, of last night out in the storm. the spirits of both ran high. their joy, as first joy should be, was sparkling, effervescent. after a time she sat in silence for several moments, smiling half-tenderly, half-roguishly, into his rugged, square-hewed face, with its glinting glasses and its _chevaux de frise_ of bristling hair. "well," he demanded, "what are you thinking about?" "i was thinking what very bad eyes i have." "bad eyes?" "yes. for up to yesterday i always considered you----but perhaps you are thin-skinned about some matters?" "me thin-skinned? i've got the epidermis of a crocodile!" "well, then--up to yesterday i always thought you--but you're sure you won't mind?" "i tell you i'm so thick-skinned that it meets in the middle!" "well, then, till yesterday i always thought you rather ugly." "glory be! eureka! excelsior!" "then you don't mind?" "mind?" cried he. "did you think that i thought i was pretty?" "i didn't know," she replied with her provoking, happy smile, "for men are such conceited creatures." "i'm not authorized to speak for the rest, but i'm certainly conceited," he returned promptly. "for i've always believed myself one of the ugliest animals in the whole human menagerie. and at last my merits are recognized." "but i said 'till yesterday'," she corrected. "since then, somehow, your face seems to have changed." "changed?" "yes. i think you are growing rather good-looking." behind her happy raillery was a tone of seriousness. "good-looking? me good-looking? and that's the way you dash my hopes!" "yes, sir. good-looking." "woman, you don't know what sorrow is in those words you spoke! just to think," he said mournfully, "that all my life i've fondled the belief that when i was made god must have dropped the clay while it was still wet." "i'm sorry----" "don't try to comfort me. the blow's too heavy." he slowly shook his head. "i never loved a dear gazelle----" "oh, i don't mean the usual sort of good-looking," she consoled him. "but good-looking like an engine, or a crag, or a mountain." "well, at any rate," he said with solemn resignation, "it's something to know the particular type of beauty that i am." suddenly they both burst into merry laughter. "but i'm really in earnest," she protested. "for you really are good-looking!" he leaned forward, caught her two hands in his powerful grasp and almost crushed his lips against them. "perhaps it's just as well you don't mind my face, dear," he half-whispered, "for, you know, you're going to see a lot of it." she flushed, and her whole being seemed to swim in happiness. they did not speak for a time; and she sat gazing with warm, luminous eyes into his rugged, determined face, now so soft, so tender. but suddenly her look became very grave, for the question of the morning had recurred to her. should she not give him up? "may i speak about something serious?" she asked with an effort. "something very serious?" "about anything in the world!" said he. "it's something i was thinking about this morning, and all day," she said. "i'm afraid i haven't been very thoughtful of you. and i'm afraid you haven't been very thoughtful of yourself." "how?" "we've been together quite often of late." "not often enough!" "but often enough to set people talking." "let 'em talk!" "but you must remember----" "let's stop their tongues," he interrupted. "how?" "by announcing our engagement." he gripped her hands. "for we are engaged, aren't we?" "i--i don't know," she breathed. "don't know?" he stared at her. "why, you're white as a sheet! you're not in earnest?" "yes." "what does this mean?" "i--i had started to tell you. you must remember that i am an unpopular person, and that in my father i am representing an unpopular man. and you must remember that you are candidate for mayor." he had begun to get her drift. "well?" "well, i am afraid our being together will lessen your chances. and i don't want to do anything in the world that will injure you." "then you think----" "i think--i think"--she spoke with difficulty--"we should stop seeing each other." "for my sake?" "yes." he bent nearer and looked her piercingly in the eyes. "but for your own sake?" he demanded. she did not speak. "but for your own sake?" he persisted. "for my sake--for my sake----" half-choked, she broke off. "honest now? honest?" she did not realize till that moment all it would mean to her to see him no more. "for my own sake----" suddenly her hands tightened about his and she pressed them to her face. "for my sake--never! never!" "and do you think that i----" he gathered her into his strong arms. "let them talk!" he breathed passionately against her cheek. "we'll win the town in spite of it!" chapter xviii the candidate and the tiger the town's talk continued, as katherine knew it would. but though she resented it in bruce's behalf, it was of small importance in her relationship with him compared with the difference in their opinions. she was in constant fear, every time he called, lest that difference should come up. but it did not on the next day, nor on the next. he was too full of love on the one hand, too full of his political fight on the other. the more she saw of him the more she loved him, so thoroughly fine, so deeply tender, was he--and the more did she dread that avoidless day when their ideas must come into collision, so masterful was he, so certain that he was right. on the fourth evening after their stormy ride she thought the collision was at hand. "there is something serious i want to speak to you about," he began, as they sat in the old-fashioned parlour. "you know what the storm has done to the city water. it has washed all the summer's accumulation of filth down into the streams that feed the reservoir, and since the filtering plant is out of commission the water has been simply abominable. the people are complaining louder than ever. blake and the rest of his crew are telling the public that this water is a sample of what everything will be like if i'm elected. it's hurting me, and hurting me a lot. i don't blame the people so much for being influenced by what blake says, for, of course, they don't know what's going on beneath the surface. but i've got to make some kind of a reply, and a mighty strong one, too. now here's where i want you to help me." "what can i do?" she asked. "if i could only tell the truth--what a regular knock-out of a reply that would be!" he exclaimed. "some time ago you told me to wait--you expected to have the proof a little later. do you have any idea how soon you will have your evidence?" again she felt the impulse to tell him all she knew and all her plans. but a medley of motives worked together to restrain her. there was the momentum of her old decision to keep silent. there was the knowledge that, though he loved her as a woman, he still held her in low esteem as a lawyer. there was the instinct that what she knew, if saved, might in some way serve her when they two fought their battle. and there was the thrilling dream of waiting till she had all her evidence gathered and then bringing it triumphantly to him--and thus enable him through her to conquer. "i'm afraid i can't give you the proof for a while yet," she replied. she saw that he was impatient at the delay, that he believed she would discover nothing. she expected the outbreak that very instant. she expected him to demand that she turn the case over to the indianapolis lawyer he had spoken to her about, who _would_ be able to make some progress; to demand that she give up law altogether, and demand that as his intended wife she give up all thought of an independent professional career. she nerved herself for the shock of battle. but it did not come. "all right," he said. "i suppose i'll have to wait a little longer, then." he got up and paced the floor. "but i can't let blake and his bunch go on saying those things without any kind of an answer from me. i've got to talk back, or get out of the fight!" he continued pacing to and fro, irked by his predicament, frowning with thought. presently he paused before her. "here is what i'm going to say," he announced decisively. "since i cannot tell the whole truth, i'm going to tell a small part of the truth. i'm going to say that the condition of the water is due to intentional mismanagement on the part of the present administration--which everybody knows is dominated by blake. blake's party, in order to prevent my election on a municipal ownership platform, in order to make sure of remaining in power, is purposely trying to make municipal ownership fail. and i'm going to say this as often, and as hard, as i can!" in the days that followed he certainly did say it hard, both in the _express_ and in his speeches. the charge had not been made publicly before, and, stated with bruce's tremendous emphasis, it now created a sensation. everybody talked about it; it gave a yet further excitement to a most exciting campaign. there was vigorous denial from blake, his fellow candidates, and from the _clarion_, which was supporting the blake ticket. again and again the _clarion_ denounced bruce's charge as merely the words of a demagogue, a yellow journalist--merely the irresponsible and baseless calumny so common in campaigns. nevertheless, it had the effect that bruce intended. his stock took a new jump, and sentiment in his favour continued to grow at a rate that made him exult and that filled the enemy with concern. this inquietude penetrated the side office of the tippecanoe house and sorely troubled the heart of blind charlie peck. so, early one afternoon, he appeared in the office of the editor of the _express_. his reception was rather more pleasant than on the occasion of his first visit, now over a month before; for, although katherine had repeated her warning, bruce had given it little credit. he did not have much confidence in her woman's judgment. besides, he was reassured by the fact that blind charlie had, in every apparent particular, adhered to his bargain to keep hands off. "just wait a second," bruce said to his caller; and turning back to his desk he hastily scribbled a headline over an item about a case of fever down in river court. this he sent down to the composing-room, and swung around to the old politician. "well, now, what's up?" "i just dropped around," said blind charlie, with his good-natured smile, "to congratulate you on the campaign you're making. you're certainly putting up a fine article of fight!" "it does look as if we had a pretty fair chance of winning," returned bruce, confidently. "great! great!" said blind charlie heartily. "i certainly made no mistake when i picked you out as the one man that could win for us." "thanks. i've done my best. and i'm going to keep it up." "that's right. i told you i looked on it as my last campaign. i'm pretty old, and my heart's not worth a darn. when i go, whether it's up or down, i'll travel a lot easier for having first soaked blake good and proper." bruce did not answer. he expected blind charlie to leave; in fact, he wanted him to go, for it lacked but a quarter of an hour of press time. but instead of departing, blind charlie settled back in his chair, crossed his legs and leisurely began to cut off a comfortable mouthful from his plug of tobacco. "yes, sir, it's a great fight," he continued. "it doesn't seem that it could be improved on. but a little idea has come to me that may possibly help. it may not be any good at all, but i thought it wouldn't do any harm to drop in and suggest it to you." "i'll be glad to hear it," returned bruce. "but couldn't we talk it over, say in half an hour? it's close to press time, and i've got some proofs to look through--in fact the proof of an article on that water-works charge of mine." "oh, i'll only take a minute or two," said blind charlie. "and you may want to make use of my idea in this afternoon's paper." "well, go ahead. only remember that at this hour the press is my boss." "of course, of course," said blind charlie amiably. "well, here's to business: now i guess i've been through about as many elections as you are years old. it isn't what the people think in the middle of the campaign that wins. it's what they think on election day. i've seen many a horse that looked like he had the race on ice at the three quarters licked to a frazzle in the home stretch. same with candidates. just now you look like a winner. what we want is to make sure that you'll still be out in front when you go under the wire." "yes, yes," said bruce impatiently. "what's your plan?" "you've got the people with you now," the old man continued, "and we want to make sure you don't lose 'em. this water-works charge of yours has been a mighty good move. but i've had my ear to the ground. i've had it to the ground for nigh on fifty years, and if there's any kind of a political noise, you can bet i hear it. now i've detected some sounds which tell me that your water-works talk is beginning to react against you." "you don't say! i haven't noticed it." "of course not; if you had, there'd be no use for me to come here and tell you," returned blind charlie blandly. "that's where the value of my political ear comes in. now in my time i've seen many a sensation react and swamp the man that started it. that's what we've got to look out for and guard against." "u'm! and what do you think we ought to do?" bruce was being taken in a little easier than blind charlie had anticipated. "if i were you," the old man continued persuasively, "i'd pitch the tune of the whole business in a little lower key. let up on the big noise you're making--cut out some of the violent statements. i think you understand. take my word for it, quieter tactics will be a lot more effective at this stage of the game. you've got the people--you don't want to scare them away." bruce stared thoughtfully, and without suspicion, at the loose-skinned, smiling, old face. "u'm!" he said. "u'm!" blind charlie waited patiently for two or three minutes. "well, what do you think?" he asked. "you may be right," bruce slowly admitted. "there's no doubt of it," the old politician pleasantly assured him. "and of course i'm much obliged. but i'm afraid i disagree with you." "eh?" said blind charlie, with the least trace of alarm. bruce's face tightened, and the flat of his hand came down upon his desk. "when you start a fight, the way to win is to keep on fighting. and that's what i'm going to do." blind charlie started forward in his chair. "see here," he began, authoritatively. but in an instant his voice softened. "you'll be making a big mistake if you do that. better trust to my older head in this. i want to win as much as you do, you know." "i admit you may be right," said bruce doggedly. "but i'm going to fight right straight ahead." "come, now, listen to reason." "i've heard your reasons. and i'm going right on with the fight." blind charlie's face grew grim, but his voice was still gentle and insinuating. "oh, you are, are you? and give no attention to my advice?" "i'm sorry, but that's the way i see it." "i'm sorry, but that's the way i don't see it." "i know; but i guess i'm running this campaign," retorted bruce a little hotly. "and i guess the party chairman has some say-so, too." "i told you, when i accepted, that i would take the nomination without strings, or i wouldn't take it at all. and you agreed." "i didn't agree to let you ruin the party." bruce looked at him keenly, for the first time suspicious. katherine's warning echoed vaguely in his head. "see here, charlie peck, what the devil are you up to?" "better do as i say," advised peck. "i won't!" "you won't, eh?" blind charlie's face had grown hard and dark with threats. "if you don't," he said, "i'm afraid the boys won't see your name on the ticket on election day." bruce sprang up. "damn you! what do you mean by that?" "i reckon you're not such an infant that you need that explained." "you're right; i'm not!" cried bruce. "and so you threaten to send word around to the boys to knife me on election day?" "as i said, i guess i don't need to explain." "no, you don't, for i now see why you came here," cried bruce, his wrath rising as he realized that he had been hoodwinked by blind charlie from the very first. "so there's a frame-up between you and blake, and you're trying to sell me out and sell out the party! you first tried to wheedle me into laying down--and when i wouldn't be fooled, you turned to threats!" "the question isn't what i came for," snapped blind charlie. "the question is, what are you going to do? either you do as i say, or not one of the boys will vote for you. now i want your answer." "you want my answer, do you? why--why----" bruce glared down at the old man in a fury. "well, by god, you'll get my answer, and quick!" he dropped down before his typewriter, ran in a sheet of paper, and for a minute the keys clicked like mad. then he jerked out the sheet of paper, scribbled a cabalistic instruction across its top, sprang to his office door and let out a great roar of "copy!" he quickly faced about upon blind charlie. "here's my answer. listen: "'this afternoon charlie peck called at the office of the _express_ and ordered its editor, who is candidate for mayor, to cease from his present aggressive campaign tactics. he threatened, in case the candidate refused, to order the "boys" to knife him at the polls. "'the candidate refused. "'voters of westville, do your votes belong to you, or do they belong to charlie peck?' "that's my answer, peck. it all goes in big, black type in a box in the centre of the first page of this afternoon's paper. we'll see whether the party will stand for your methods." at this instant the grimy young servitor of the press appeared. "here, boy. rush that right down." "hold on!" cried peck in consternation. "you're not going to print that thing?" "unless the end of the world happens along just about now, that'll be on the street in half an hour." bruce stepped to the door and opened it wide. "and, now, clear out! you and your votes can go plum to hell!" "damn you! but that piece will do you no good. i'll deny it!" "deny it--for god's sake do! then everybody will know i'm telling the truth. and let me warn you, charlie peck--i'm going to find out what your game is! i'm going to show you up! i'm going to wipe you clear off the political map!" blind charlie swore at him again as he passed out of the door. "we're not through with each other yet--remember that!" "you bet we're not!" bruce shouted after him. "and when we are, there'll not be enough of you left to know what's happened!" chapter xix when greek meets greek two hours later bruce was striding angrily up and down the west parlour, telling katherine all about it. she refrained from saying, "i told you so," by either word or look. she was too wise for such a petty triumph. besides, there was something in that afternoon's _express_, which bruce had handed her that interested her far more than his wrathful recital of blind charlie's treachery; and although she was apparently giving bruce her entire attention, and was in fact mechanically taking in his words, her mind was excitedly playing around this second piece of news. for doctor sherman, so said the _express_, had that day suddenly left westville. he had been failing in health for many weeks and was on the verge of a complete breakdown, the _express_ sympathetically explained, and at last had yielded to the importunities of his worried congregation that he take a long vacation. he had gone to the pine woods of the north, and to insure the unbroken rest he so imperatively required, to prevent the possibility of appealing letters of inconsiderate parishioners or other cares from following him into his isolation, he had, at his doctor's command, left no address behind. katherine instantly knew that this vacation was a flight. the situation in westville had grown daily more intense, and doctor sherman had seemed to her to be under an ever-increasing strain. blake, she was certain, had ordered the young clergyman to leave, fearing, if he remained, that his nerve might break and he might confess his true relation to her father's case. she realized that now, when doctor sherman was apparently weakening, was the psychological time to besiege him with accusation and appeal; and while bruce was rehearsing his scene with blind charlie she was rapidly considering means for seeking out doctor sherman and coming face to face with him. her mind was brought back from its swift search by bruce swinging a chair up before her and sitting down. "but, katherine--i'll show peck!" he cried, fiercely, exultantly. "he doesn't know what a fight he's got ahead of him. this frees me entirely from him and his machine, and i'm going to beat him so bad that i'll drive him clear out of politics." she nodded. that was exactly what she was secretly striving to help him do. he became more composed, and for a hesitant, silent moment he peered thoughtfully into her eyes. "but, katherine--this affair with peck this afternoon shows me i am up against a mighty stiff proposition," he said, speaking with the slowness of one who is shaping his statements with extreme care. "i have got to fight a lot harder than i thought i would have to three hours ago, when i thought i had peck with me. to beat him, and beat blake, i have got to have every possible weapon. consequently, circumstances force me to speak of a matter that i wish i did not have to talk about." he reached forward and took her hand. "but, remember, dear," he besought her tenderly, "that i don't want to hurt you. remember that." she felt a sudden tightening about the heart. "yes--what is it?" she asked quietly. "remember, dear, that i don't want to hurt you," he repeated. "it's about your father's case. you see how certain victory would be if we only had the evidence to prove what we know?" "i see." "i don't mean to say one single unkind word about your not having made--having made--more encouraging progress." he pressed her hand; his tone was gentle and persuasive. "i'll confess i have secretly felt some impatience, but i have not pressed the matter because--well, you see that in this critical situation, with election so near, i'm forced to speak about it now." "what would you like?" she said with an effort. "you see we cannot afford any more delays, any more risks. we have got to have the quickest possible action. we have got to use every measure that may get results. now, dear, you would not object, would you, if at this critical juncture, when every hour is so valuable, we were to put the whole matter in the hands of my indianapolis lawyer friend i spoke to you about?" the gaze she held upon his continued steady, but she was pulsing wildly within and she had to swallow several times before she could speak. "you--you think he can do better than i can?" "i do not want to say a single word that will reflect on you, dear. but we must admit the facts. you have had the case for over four months, and we have no real evidence as yet." "and you think he can get it?" "he's very shrewd, very experienced. he'll follow up every clue with detectives. if any man can succeed in the short time that remains, he can." "then you--you think i can't succeed?" "come, dear, let's be reasonable!" "but i think i can." "but, katherine!" he expostulated. she felt what was coming. "i'm sure i can--if you will only trust me a little longer!" she said desperately. he dropped her hand. "you mean that, though i ask you to give it up, you want to continue the case?" she grew dizzy, his figure swam before her. "i--i think i do." "why--why----" he broke off. "i can't tell you how surprised i am!" he exclaimed. "i have said nothing of late because i was certain that, if i gave nature a little time in which to work, there would be no need to argue the matter with you. i was certain that, now that love had entered your life, your deeper woman's instincts would assert themselves and you would naturally desire to withdraw from the case. in fact, i was certain that your wish to practise law, your ambition for a career outside the home, would sink into insignificance--and that you would have no desire other than to become a true woman of the home, where i want my wife to be, where she belongs. oh, come now, katherine," he added with a rush of his dominating confidence, taking her hand again, "you know that's just what you're going to do!" she sat throbbing, choking. she realized that the long-feared battle was now inevitably at hand. for the moment she did not know whether she was going to yield or fight. her love of him, her desire to please him, her fear of what might be the consequence if she crossed him, all impelled her toward surrender; her deep-seated, long-clung-to principles impelled her to make a stand for the life of her dreams. she was a tumult of counter instincts and emotions. but excited as she was, she found herself looking on at herself in a curious detachment, palpitantly wondering which was going to win--the primitive woman in her, the product of thousands of generations of training to fit man's desire, or this other woman she contained, shaped by but a few brief years, who had come ardently to believe that she had the right to be what she wanted to be, no matter what the man required. "oh, come now, dear," bruce assured her confidently, yet half chidingly, "you know you are going to give it all up and be just my wife!" she gazed at his rugged, resolute face, smiling at her now with that peculiar forgiving tenderness that an older person bestows upon a child that is about to yield its childish whim. "there now, it's all settled," he said, smoothing her hand. "and we'll say no more about it." and then words forced their way up out of her turbulent indecision. "i'm afraid it isn't settled." his eyebrows rose in surprise. "no?" "no. i want to be your wife, arnold. but--but i can't give up the other." "what! you're in earnest?" he cried. "i am--with all my heart!" he sank back and stared at her. if further answer were needed, her pale, set face gave it to him. his quick anger began to rise, but he forced it down. "that puts an entirely new face on the matter," he said, trying to speak calmly. "the question, instead of merely concerning the next few weeks, concerns our whole lives." she tried to summon all her strength, all her faculties, for the shock of battle. "just so," she answered "then we must go over the matter very fully," he said. his command over himself grew more easy. he believed that what he had to do was to be patient, and talk her out of her absurdity. "you must understand, of course," he went on, smiling at her tenderly, "that i want to support my wife, and that i am able to support my wife. i want to protect her--shield her--have her lean upon me. i want her to be the goddess of my home. the goddess of my home, katherine! that's what i want. you understand, dear, don't you?" she saw that he confidently expected her to yield to his ideal and accept it, and she now knew that she could never yield. she paused a space before she spoke, in a sort of terror of what might be the consequence of the next few moments. "i understand you," she said, duplicating his tone of reason. "but what shall i do in the home? i dislike housework." "there's no need of your doing it," he promptly returned. "i can afford servants." "then what shall i do in the home?" she repeated. "take things easy. enjoy yourself." "but i don't want to enjoy myself. i want to do things. i want to work." "come, come, be reasonable," he said, with his tolerant smile. "you know that's quite out of the question." "since you are going to pay servants," she persisted, "why should i idle about the house? why should not i, an able-bodied person, be out helping in the world's work somehow--and also helping you to earn a living?" "help me earn a living!" he flushed, but his resentment subsided. "when i asked you to marry me i implied in that question that i was able and willing to support you. really, katherine, it's quite absurd for you to talk about it. there is no financial necessity whatever for you to work." "you mean, then, that i should not work because, in you, i have enough to live upon?" "of course!" "do you know any man, any real man i mean," she returned quickly, "who stops work in the vigour of his prime merely because he has enough money to live upon? would you give up your work to-morrow if some one were willing to support you?" "now, don't be ridiculous, katherine! that's quite a different question. i'm a man, you know." "and work is a necessity for you?" "why, of course." "and you would not be happy without it?" she eagerly pursued. "certainly not." "and you are right there! but what you don't seem to understand is, that i have the same need, the same love, for work that you have. if you could only recognize, arnold, that i have the same feelings in this matter that you have, then you would understand me. i demand for myself the right that all men possess as a matter of course--the right to work!" "if you must work," he cried, a little exasperated, "why, of course, you can help in the housework." "but i also demand the right to choose my work. why should i do work which i do not like, for which i have no aptitude, and which i should do poorly, and give up work which interests me, for which i have been trained, and for which i believe i have an aptitude?" "but don't you realize, in doing it, if you are successful, you are taking the bread out of a man's mouth?" he retorted. "then every man who has a living income, and yet works, is also taking the bread out of a man's mouth. but does a real man stop work because of that? besides, if you use that argument, then in doing my own housework i'd be taking the bread out of a woman's mouth." "why--why----" he stammered. his face began to redden. "we shouldn't belittle our love with this kind of talk. it's all so material, so sordid." "it's not sordid to me!" she cried, stretching out a hand to him. "don't be angry, arnold. try to understand me--please do, please do. work is a necessity of life to you. it is also a necessity of life to me. i'm fighting with you for the right to work. i'm fighting with you for my life!" "then you place work, your career, above our happiness together?" he demanded angrily. "not at all," she went on rapidly, pleadingly. "but i see no reason why there should not be both. our happiness should be all the greater because of my work. i've studied myself, arnold, and i know what i need. to be thoroughly happy, i need work; useful work, work that interests me. i tell you we'll be happier, and our happiness will last longer, if only you let me work. i know! i know!" "dream stuff! you're following a mere will-o'-the-wisp!" "that's what women have been following in the past," she returned breathlessly. "look among your married friends. how many ideally happy couples can you count? very, very few. and why are there so few? one reason is, because the man finds, after the novelty is worn off, that his wife is uninteresting, has nothing to talk about; and so his love cools to a good-natured, passive tolerance of her. most married men, when alone with their wives, sit in stupid silence. but see how the husband livens up if a man joins them! this man has been out in the interesting world. the wife has been cooped up at home. the man has something to talk about. the wife has not. well, i am going to be out in the interesting world, doing something. i am going to have something to talk to my husband about. i am going to be interesting to him, as interesting to him as any man. and i am going to try to hold his love, arnold, the love of his heart, the love of his head, to the very end!" he was exasperated by her persistence, but he still held himself in check. "that sounds very plausible to you. but there is one thing in your argument you forget." "and that?" "we are grown-up people, you and i. i guess we can talk straight out." "yes. go on!" he gazed at her very steadily for a moment. "there are such things as children, you know." she returned his steady look. "of course," she said quickly. "every normal woman wants children. and i should want them too." "there--that settles it," he said with triumph. "you can't combine children and a profession." "but i can!" she cried. "and i should give the children the very best possible care, too! of course there are successive periods in which the mother would have to give her whole attention to the children. but if she lives till she is sixty-five the sum total of her forty or forty-five married years that she has to give up wholly to her children amounts to but a few years. there remains all the balance of her life that she could give to other work. do you realize how tremendously the world is changing, and how women's work is changing with it?" "oh, let's don't mix in statistics, and history, and economics with our love!" "but we've got to if our love is to last!" she cried. "we're living in a time when things are changing. we've got to consider the changes. and the greatest changes are, and are going to be, in woman's work. up in our attic are my great-grandmother's wool carders, her spinning wheel, her loom, all sorts of things; she spun, wove, made all the clothing, did everything. these things are now done by professional experts; that sort of work has been taken away from woman. now all that's left for the woman to do in the home is to cook, clean, and care for children. life is still changing. we are still developing. some time these things too will be done, and better done, by professional experts--though just how, or just when, i can't even guess. once there was a strong sentiment against the child being taken from the mother and being sent to school. now most intelligent parents are glad to put their children in charge of trained kindergartners at four or five. and in the future some new institution, some new variety of trained specialist, may develop that will take charge of the child for a part of the day at an even earlier age. that's the way the world is moving!" "thanks for your lecture on the rise, progress and future of civilization," he said ironically, trying to suppress himself. "but interesting as it was, it has nothing whatever to do with the case. we're not talking about civilization, and the universe, and evolution, and the fourth dimension, and who's got the button. we're talking about you and me. about you and me, and our love." "yes, arnold, about you and me and our love," she cried eagerly. "i spoke of these things only because they concern you and me and our love so very, very much." "of all things for two lovers to talk about!" he exclaimed with mounting exasperation. "they are the things of all things! for our love, our life, hangs upon them!" "well, anyhow, you haven't got these new institutions, these new experts," he retorted, brushing the whole matter aside. "you're living to-day, not in the millennium!" "i know, i know. in the meantime, life for us women is in a stage of transition. until these better forms develop we are going to have a hard time. it will be difficult for me to manage, i know. but i'm certain i can manage it." he stood up. his face was very red, and he swallowed once or twice before the words seemed able to come out. "i'm surprised, katherine--surprised!--that you should be so persistent in this nonsense. what you say is all against nature. it won't work." "perhaps not. but at least you'll let me try! that's all i ask of you--that you let me try!" "it would be weak in me, wrong in me, to yield." "then you're not willing to give me a chance?" he shook his head. she rose and moved before him. "but, arnold, do you realize what you are doing?" she cried with desperate passion. "do you realize what it is i'm asking you for? work, interesting work--that's what i need to make me happy, to make you happy! without it, i shall be miserable, and you will be miserable in having a miserable wife about you--and all our years together will be years of misery. so you see what a lot i'm fighting for: work, development, happiness!--the happiness of all our married years!" "that's only a delusion. for your sake, and my sake, i've got to stand firm." "then you will not let me?" "i will not." she stared palely at his square, adamantine face. "arnold!" she breathed. "arnold!--do you know what you're trying to do?" "i am trying to save you from yourself!" "you're trying to break my will across yours," she cried a little wildly. "you're trying to crush me into the iron mould of your idea of a woman. you're trying to kill me--yes, to kill me." "i am trying to save you!" he repeated, his temper breaking its frail leash. "your ideas are all wrong--absurd--insane!" "please don't be angry, arnold!" she pleaded. "how can i help it, when you won't listen to reason! when you are so perversely obstinate!" "i'm not obstinate," she cried breathlessly, holding one of his hands tightly in both her own. "i'm just trying to cling as hard as i can to life--to our happiness. please give me a chance, arnold! please, please!" "confound such obstinate wrong-headedness!" he exploded. "no, i tell you! no! and that settles it!" she shrank back. "oh!" she cried. her breast began to rise and fall tumultuously, and her cheeks slowly to redden. "oh!" she cried again. then her words leaped hotly out: "oh, you bigot!" "if to stand by what i know is right, and to save you from making a fool of yourself, is to be a bigot--then i'm a bigot all right, and i thank the god that made me one!" "and you think you are going to save me from myself?" she demanded. he stepped nearer, and towering over her, he took hold of her shoulders in a powerful grasp and looked down upon her dominantly. "i know i am! i am going to make you exactly what i want you to be!" her eyes flamed back up into his. "because you are the stronger?" "because i am the stronger--and because i am right," he returned grimly. "i admit that you are the superior brute," she said with fierce passion. "but you will never break me to your wishes!" "and i tell you i will!" "and i tell you you will not!" there was a strange and new fire in her eyes. "what do you mean?" he asked. "i mean this," she returned, and the hands that gripped her shoulders felt her tremble through all her body. "i should not expect you to marry a woman who was so unreasonable as to demand that you, for her sake, should give up your loved career. and, for my part, i shall never marry a man so unreasonable as to make the same demand of me." he fell back a pace. "you mean----" "was i not plain enough? i mean that you will never have the chance to crush me into your iron mould, for i will never marry you." "what!" and then: "so i'm fired, am i?" he grated out. "yes, for you're as narrow and as conventional as the rest of men," she rushed on hotly. "you never say a word so long as a woman's work is unpleasant! it's all right for her to scrub, and wash dishes, and wear her life away in factories. but as soon as she wants to do any work that is pleasant and interesting and that will gain her recognition, you cry out that she's unwomanly, unsexed, that she's flying in the face of god! oh, you are perfectly willing that woman, on the one hand, should be a drudge, or on the other the pampered pet of your one-woman harem. but i shall be neither, i tell you. never! never! never!" they stared at one another, trembling with passion. "and you," he said with all the fierce irony of his soul, "and you, i suppose, will now go ahead and clear your father, expose blake, and perform all those other wonders you've talked so big about!" "that's just what i am going to do!" she cried defiantly. "and that's just what you are not!" he blazed back. "i may have admired the woman in you--but, for those things, you have not the smallest atom of ability. your father's trial, your failure to get evidence--hasn't that shown you? you are going to be a failure--a fizzle--a fiasco! did you hear that? a pitiable, miserable, humiliated fiasco! and time will prove it!" "we'll see what time will prove!" and she swept furiously past him out of the room. chapter xx a spectre comes to town for many an hour katherine's wrath continued high, and she repeated, with clinched hands, all her invectives against the bigotry of bruce. he was a bully--a boor--a brute--a tyrant. he considered himself the superman. and in pitiable truth he was only a moral coward--for his real reason in opposing her had been that he was afraid to have westville say that his wife worked. and he had insulted her, for his parting words to her had been a jeering statement that she had no ability, only a certain charm of sex. how, oh, how, had she ever imagined that they two might possibly share a happy life together? but after a season her wrath began to subside, and she began to see that after all bruce was no very different man from the bruce she had loved the last few weeks. he had been thoroughly consistent with himself. she had known that he was cocksure and domineering. she had foreseen that the chances were at least equal that he would take the position he had. she had foreseen and feared this very issue. his virtues were just as big as on yesterday, when she and he had thought of marriage, and his faults were no greater. and she realized, after the first passion of their battle had spent its force, that she still loved him. in the long hours of the night a pang of emptiness, of vast, irretrievable loss, possessed her. she and love had touched each other for a space--then had flung violently apart, and were speeding each in their eternally separate direction. life for her might be rich and full of honour and achievement, but as she looked forward into the long procession of years, she saw that life was going to have its dreariness, its vacancies, its dull, unending aches. it was going to be such a very, very different business from that life of work and love and home and mutual aid she had daringly dreamed of during the two weeks she and bruce had been lovers. but she did not regret her decision. she did not falter. her resentment of bruce's attitude stiffened the backbone of her purpose. she was going straight ahead, bear the bitterness, and live the life she had planned as best she could. but there quickly came other matters to share her mind with a lost love and a broken dream. first was the uproar created by bruce's defiant announcement in the _express_ of blind charlie's threatened treachery. that sensation reigned for a day or two, then was almost forgotten in a greater. this second sensation made its initial appearance quite unobtrusively; it had a bare dozen lines down in a corner of the same issue of the _express_ that had contained bruce's defiance and doctor sherman's departure. the substance of the item was that two cases of illness had been reported from the negro quarter in river court, and that the doctors said the symptoms were similar to those of typhoid fever. those two cases of fever in that old frame tenement up a narrow, stenchy alley were the quiet opening of a new act in the drama that was played that year in westville. the next day a dozen cases were reported, and now the doctors unhesitatingly pronounced them typhoid. the number mounted rapidly. soon there were a hundred. soon there was an epidemic. and the spectre showed no deference to rank. it not only stalked into the tenements of river court and railroad alley--and laid its felling finger on starveling children and drink-shattered men--it visited the large and airy homes on elm and maple streets and wabash avenue, where those of wealth and place were congregated. in westville was the reign of terror. haggard doctors were ever on the go, snatching a bite or a moment's sleep when chance allowed. till then, modern history had been reckoned in westville from the town's invasion by factories, or from that more distant time when lightning had struck the court house. but those milestones of time are to-day forgotten. local history is now dated, and will be for many a decade, from the "days of fever" and the related events which marked that epoch. in the early days of the epidemic katherine heard one morning that elsie sherman had just been stricken. she had seen little of elsie during the last few weeks; the strain of their relation was too great to permit the old pleasure in one another's company; but at this news she hastened to elsie's bedside. her arrival was a god-send to the worn and hurried doctor woods, who had just been called in. she telegraphed to indianapolis for a nurse; she telegraphed to a sister of doctor sherman to come; and she herself undertook the care of elsie until the nurse should arrive. "what do you think of her case, doctor?" she asked anxiously when doctor woods dropped in again later in the day. he shook his head. "mrs. sherman is very frail." "then you think----" "i'm afraid it will be a hard fight. i think we'd better send for her husband." despite her sympathy for elsie, katherine thrilled with the possibility suggested by the doctor's words. here was a situation that should bring doctor sherman out of his hiding, if anything could bring him. once home, and unnerved by the sight of his wife precariously balanced between life and death, she was certain that he would break down and confess whatever he might know. she asked elsie for her husband's whereabouts, but elsie answered that she had had letters but that he had never given an address. katherine at once determined to see blake, and demand to know where doctor sherman was; and after the nurse arrived on an afternoon train, she set out for blake's office. but blake was out, and his return was not expected for an hour. to fill in the time, katherine paid a visit to her father in the jail. she told him of elsie's illness, and told at greater length than she had yet had chance to do about the epidemic. in his turn he talked to her about the fever's causes; and when she left the jail and returned to blake's office an idea far greater than merely asking doctor sherman's whereabouts was in her mind. this time she was told that blake was in, but could see no one. undeterred by this statement, katherine walked quickly past the stenographer and straight for his private door, which she quickly and quietly opened and closed. blake was sitting at his desk, his head bowed forward in one hand. he was so deep in thought, and she had entered so quietly, that he had not heard her. she crossed to his desk, stood opposite him, and for a moment gazed down upon his head. "mr. blake," she remarked at length. he started up. "you here!" he ejaculated. "yes. i came to talk to you." he did not speak at once, but stood staring a little wildly at her. she had not spoken to him since the day of her father's trial, nor seen him save at a distance. she was now startled at the change this closer view revealed to her. his eyes were sunken and ringed with purple, his face seemed worn and thin, and had taken on a tinge of yellowish-green. "i left orders that i could see no one," he said, trying to speak sharply. "i know," she answered quietly. "but you'll see me." for an instant he hesitated. "very well--sit down," he said, resuming his chair. "now what is it you wish?" she seated herself and leaned across the desk toward him. "i wish to talk to you about the fever," she said with her former composure, and looking him very steadily in the eyes. "i suppose you know what caused it?" "i am no doctor. i do not." "then let me tell you. my father has just told me that there must have been a case of typhoid during the summer somewhere back in the drainage area of the water-system. that recent big storm carried the summer's accumulation of germ-laden filth down into the streams. and since the city was unguarded by a filter, those germs were swept into the water-mains, we drank them, and the epidemic----" "that filter was useless--a complete failure!" blake broke in rather huskily. "you know, mr. blake, and i know," she returned, "that that filter has been, and still is, in excellent condition. and you know, and i know, that if it had been in operation, purifying the water, there might possibly have been a few cases of typhoid, but there would never have been this epidemic. that's the god's truth, and you know it!" he swallowed, but did not answer her. "i suppose," she pursued in her steady tone, "you realize who is responsible for all these scores of sick?" "if what you say is true, then your father is guilty, for building such a filter." "you know better. you know that the guilty man is yourself." his face grew more yellowish-green. "it's not so! no one is more appalled by this disaster than i am!" "i know you are appalled by the outcome. you did not plan to murder citizens. you only planned to defraud the city. but this epidemic is the direct consequence of your scheme. every person who is now in a sick bed, you put that person there. every person who may later go to his grave, you will have sent that person there." her steady voice grew more accusing. "what does your conscience say to you? and what do you think the people will say to you, to the great public-spirited mr. blake, when they learn that you, prompted by the desire for money and power, have tried to rob the city and have stricken hundreds with sickness?" his yellowish face contorted most horribly, but he did not answer. "i see that your conscience has been asking you those same questions," katherine pursued. "it is something, at least, that your conscience is not dead. those are not pleasant questions to have asked one, are they?" again his face twisted, but he seemed to gather hold of himself. "you are as crazy as ever--that's all rot!" he said huskily, with a denying sweep of a clinched hand. "but what do you want?" "three things. first, that you have the filter put back in commission. let's at least do what we can to prevent any more danger from that source." "the filter is useless. besides, i am no official, and have nothing to do with it." "it is in perfect condition, and you have everything to do with it," she returned steadily. he swallowed. "i'll suggest it to the mayor." "very well; that is settled. to the next point. have you heard that mrs. sherman is sick?" "yes." "she wants her husband." "well?" "my second demand is to know where you have hidden doctor sherman." "doctor sherman? i have nothing to do with doctor sherman!" "you also have everything to do with doctor sherman," she returned steadily. "he is one of the instruments of your plot. you feared that he would break down and confess, and so you sent him out of the way. where is he?" again his face worked spasmodically. "i tell you once more i have nothing whatever to do with doctor sherman! now i hope that's all. i am tired of this. i have other matters to consider. good day." "no, it is not all. for there is my third demand. and that is the most important of the three. but perhaps i should not say demand. what i make you is an offer." "an offer?" he exclaimed. she did not reply to him directly. she leaned a little farther across his desk and looked at him with an even greater intentness. "i do not need to ask you to pause and think upon all the evil you have done the town," she said slowly. "for you have thought. you were thinking at the moment i came in. i can see that you are shaken with horror at the unforeseen results of your scheme. i have come to you to take sides with your conscience; to join it in asking you, urging you, to draw back and set things as nearly right as you can. that is my demand, my offer, my plea--call it what you will." he had been gazing at her with wide fixed eyes. when he spoke, his voice was dry, mechanical. "set things right? how?" "come forward, confess, and straighten out the situation of your own accord. westville is in a terrible condition. if you act at once, you can at least do something to relieve it." "by setting things right, as you call it, you of course include the clearing of your father?" "the clearing of my father, of course. and let me say to you, mr. blake--and for this moment i am speaking as your friend--that it will be better for you to clear this whole matter up voluntarily, at once, than to be exposed later, as you certainly will be. to clear this matter at once may have the result of simplifying the fight against the epidemic--it may save many lives. that is what i am thinking of first of all just now." "you mean to say, then, that it is either confess or be exposed?" "there is no use in my beating about the bush with you," she replied in her same steady tone. "for i know that you know that i am after you." he did not speak at once. he sat gazing fixedly at her, with twitching face. she met his gaze without blinking, breathlessly awaiting his reply. suddenly a tremor ran through him and his face set with desperate decision. "yes, i know you are after me! i know you are having me followed--spied upon!" there was a biting, contemptuous edge to his tone. "even if i were guilty, do you think i would be afraid of exposure from you? oh, i know the man you have sleuthing about on my trail. elijah stone! and i once thought you were a clever girl!" "you refuse, then?" she said slowly. "i do! and i defy you! if your accusations against me are true, go out and proclaim them to the city. i'm willing to stand for whatever happens!" she regarded his flushed, defiant face. she perceived clearly that she had failed, that it was useless to try further. "very well," she said slowly. "but i want you to remember in the future that i have given you this chance; that i have given you your choice, and you have chosen." "and i tell you again that i defy you!" "you are a more hardened man, or a more desperate man, than i thought," said she. he did not reply upon the instant, but sat gazing into her searching eyes. before he could speak, the telephone at his elbow began to ring. he picked it up. "hello! yes, this is mr. blake.... her temperature is the same, you say?... no, i have not had an answer yet. i expect a telegram any minute. i'll let you know as soon as it comes. good-by." "is some one sick?" katherine asked, as he hung up the receiver. "my mother," he returned briefly, his recent defiance all gone. katherine, too, for the moment, forgot their conflict. "i did not know it. there are so many cases, you know. who is attending her?" "doctor hunt, temporarily," he answered. "but these westville doctors are all amateurs in serious cases. i've telegraphed for a specialist--the best man i could hear of--doctor brenholtz of chicago." his defiance suddenly returned. "if i have seemed to you worn, unnerved, now you know the real cause!" he said. "so," she remarked slowly, "the disaster you have brought on westville has struck your own home!" his face twitched convulsively. "i believe we have finished our conversation. good afternoon." katherine rose. "and if she dies, you know who will have killed her." he sprang up. "go! go!" he cried. but she remained in her tracks, looking him steadily in the eyes. while they stood so, the stenographer entered and handed him a telegram. he tore it open, glanced it through, and stood staring at it in a kind of stupor. "my god!" he breathed. he tore the yellow sheet across, dropped the pieces in the waste-basket and began to pace his room, on his face a wild, dazed look. he seemed to have forgotten katherine's presence. but a turn brought her into his vision. he stopped short. "you still here?" "i was waiting to hear if doctor brenholtz was coming," she said. he stared at her a moment. then he crossed to his desk, took the two fragments of the telegram from his waste-basket and held them out to her. "there is what he says." she took the telegram and read: "no use my coming. best man on typhoid in west lives in your own town. see dr. david west." katherine laid down the yellow pieces and raised her eyes to blake's white, strained face. the two gazed at each other for a long moment. "well?" he said huskily. "well?" she quietly returned. "do you think i can get him?" "how can you get a man who is serving a sentence in jail?" "if i--if i----" he could not get the words out. "yes. if you confess--clear him--get him out of jail--of course he will treat the case." "i didn't mean that! god!" he cried, "is confession of a thing i never did the fee you exact for saving a life?" "what, you still hold out?" "i'm not guilty! i tell you, i'm not guilty!" "then you'll not confess?" "never! never!" "not even to save your mother?" "she's sick--very sick. but she's not going to die--i'll not let her die! your father does not have to be cleared to get out of jail. in this emergency i can arrange to get him out for a time on parole. what do you say?" she gazed at the desperate, wildly expectant figure. a little shiver ran through her. "what do you say?" he repeated. "there can be but one answer," she replied. "my father is too big a man to demand any price for his medical skill--even the restoration of his honest name by the man who stole it. parole him, and he will go instantly to mrs. blake." he dropped into his chair and seized his telephone. "central, give me six-o-four--quick!" there was a moment of waiting. "this you, judge kellog?... this is harrison blake. i want you to arrange the proper papers for the immediate parole of doctor west. i'll be responsible for everything. am coming right over and will explain." he fairly threw the receiver back upon its hook. "your father will be free in an hour," he cried. and without waiting for a reply, he seized his hat and hurried out. chapter xxi bruce to the front katherine came down from blake's office with many thoughts surging through her brain: of her father's release--of blake's obduracy--of his mother's illness; but at the forefront of them all, because demanding immediate action, was the need of finding doctor sherman. as she stepped forth from the stairway, she saw arnold bruce striding along the square in her direction. there was a sudden leaping of her heart, a choking at her throat. but they passed each other with the short cold nod which had been their manner of greeting during the last few days when they had chanced to meet. the next instant a sudden impulse seized her, and she turned about. "mr. bruce," she called after him. he came back to her. his face was rather pale, but was doggedly resolute. her look was not very different from his. "yes, miss west?" said he. for a moment it was hard for her to speak. no word, only that frigid nod, had passed between them since their quarrel. "i want to ask you something--and tell you something," she said coldly. "i am at your service," said he. "we cannot talk here. suppose we cross into the court house yard?" in silence he fell into step beside her. they did not speak until they were in the yard where passers-by could not overhear them. "you know of mrs. sherman's illness?" she began in a distant, formal tone. "yes." "it promises to be serious. we must get her husband home if possible. but no one has his address. an idea for reaching him has been vaguely in my head. it may not be good, but it now seems the only way." "do you mind telling me what it is?" "doctor sherman is somewhere in the pine woods of the north. what i thought about doing was to order some chicago advertising agency to insert notices in scores of small dailies and weeklies up north, announcing to doctor sherman his wife's illness and urging him to come home. my hope is that one of the papers may penetrate whatever remote spot he may be in and the notice reach his eyes. what i want to ask you is the name of an agency." "black & graves are your people," said he. "also i want to know how to go about it to get prompt action on their part." "write out the notice and send it to them with your instructions. and since they won't know you, better enclose a draft or money order on account. no, don't bother about the money; you won't know how much to send. i know phil black, and i'll write him to-day guaranteeing the account." "thank you," she said. "you're perfectly welcome," said he with his cold politeness. "is there anything else i can do?" "that's all about that. but i have something to tell you--a suggestion to make for your campaign, if you will not consider it impertinent." "quite otherwise. i shall be very glad to get it." "you have been saying in your speeches that the bad water has been due to intentional mismanagement of the present administration, which is ruled by mr. blake, for the purpose of rendering unpopular the municipal ownership principle." "i have, and it's been very effective." "i suggest that you go farther." "how?" "make the fever an issue of the campaign. the people, in fact all of us, have been too excited, too frightened, to understand the relation between the bad management of the water-works, the bad water, and the fever. tell them that relation. only tell it carefully, by insinuation if necessary, so that you will avoid the libel law--for you have no proof as yet. make them understand that the fever is due to bad water, which in turn is due to bad management of the water-works, which in turn is due to the influence of mr. blake." "great! great!" exclaimed bruce. "oh, the idea is not really mine," she said coldly. "it came to me from some things my father told me." her tone recalled to him their chilly relationship. "it's a regular knock-out idea," he said stiffly. "and i'm much obliged to you." they had turned back and were nearing the gate of the yard. "i hope it will really help you--but be careful to avoid giving them an opening to bring a libel charge. permit me to say that you have been making a splendid campaign." "things do seem to be coming my direction. the way i threw blind charlie's threat back into his teeth, that has made a great hit. i think i have him on the run." he hesitated, gave her a sharp look, then added rather defiantly: "i might as well tell you that in a few days i expect to have blake also on the run--in fact, in a regular gallop. that indianapolis lawyer friend of mine, wilson's his name, is coming here to help me." "oh!" she exclaimed. "you'll remember," he continued in his defiant tone, "that i once told you that your father's case was not your case. it's the city's. i'm going to put wilson on it, and i expect him to clear it all up in short order." she could not hold back a sudden uprush of resentment. "so then it's to be a battle between us, is it?" she demanded, looking him straight in the face. "a battle? how?" "to see which one gets the evidence." "we've got to get it--that's all," he answered grimly. in an instant she had resumed control of herself. "i hope you succeed," she said calmly. "good afternoon." and with a crisp nod she turned away. bruce's action in calmly taking the case out of her hands, which was in effect an iteration of his statement that he had no confidence in her ability, stung her bitterly and for a space her wrath flamed high. but there were too many things to be done to give much time to mere resentment. she wrote the letter to the chicago advertising agency, mailed it, then set out to find her father. at the jail she was told that he had been released and had left for blake's. there she found him. he came out into the hall, kissed her warmly, then hurried back into the bedroom. katherine, glancing through the open door, saw him move swiftly about the old gray-haired woman, while blake stood in strained silence looking on. when her father had done all for mrs. blake he could do at that time, katherine hurried him away to elsie sherman. he replaced the very willing doctor woods, who knew little about typhoid, and assumed charge of elsie with all his unerring mastery of what to do. he gave her his very best skill, and he hovered about her with all the concern that the illness of his own child might have evoked, for she had been a warm favourite with him and the charges of her husband had in no degree lessened his regard. whatever science and care and love could do for her, it all was certain to be done. within two hours after blake had received doctor brenholtz's telegram its contents had flashed about the town. doctor west was besieged. the next day found him treating not only as many individual cases as his strength and the hours of the day allowed, but found him in command of the board of health's fight against the plague, with all the rest of the city's doctors accepting orders from him. all his long life of incessant study and experiment, all those long years when he had been laughed at for a fool and jeered at for a failure--all that time had been but an unconscious preparation for this great fight to save a stricken city. and the town, for all its hatred, for all the stain upon his name, as it watched this slight, white-haired man go so swiftly and gently and efficiently about his work, began to feel for him something akin to awe--began dimly to feel that this old figure whom it had been their habit to scorn for near a generation was perhaps their greatest man. while katherine watched this fight against the fever with her father as its central figure, while she awaited in suspense some results of her advertising campaign, and while she tried to press forward the other details of her search for evidence, she could but keep her eyes upon the mayoralty campaign--for it was mounting to an ever higher climax of excitement. bruce was fighting like a fury. the sensation created by his announcement of blind charlie's threatened treachery was a mere nothing compared to the uproar created when he informed the people, not directly, but by careful insinuation, that blake was responsible for the epidemic. blake denied the charge with desperate energy and with all his power of eloquence; he declared that the epidemic was but another consequence of that supremest folly of mankind, public ownership. he was angrily supported by his party, his friends and his followers--but those followers were not so many as a few short weeks before. passion was at its highest--so high that trustworthy forecasts of the election were impossible. but ten days before election it was freely talked about the streets, and even privately admitted by some of blake's best friends, that nothing but a miracle could save him from defeat. in these days of promise bruce seemed to pour forth an even greater energy; and in his efforts he was now aided by mr. wilson, the indianapolis lawyer, who was spending his entire time in westville. katherine caught in bruce's face, when they passed upon the street, a gleam of triumph which he could not wholly suppress. she wondered, with a pang of jealousy, if he and mr. wilson were succeeding where she had failed--if all her efforts were to come to nothing--if her ambition to demonstrate to bruce that she could do things was to prove a mere dream? toward noon one day, as she was walking along the square homeward bound from elsie sherman's, she passed bruce and mr. wilson headed for the stairway of the _express_ building. both bowed to her, then katherine overheard bruce say, "i'll be with you in a minute, wilson," and the next instant he was at her side. "excuse me, miss west," he said. "but we have just unearthed something which i think you should be the first person to learn." "i shall be glad to hear it," she said in the cold, polite tone they reserved for one another. "let's go over into the court house yard." they silently crossed the street and entered the comparative seclusion of the yard. "i suppose it is something very significant?" she asked. "so significant," he burst out, "that the minute the _express_ appears this afternoon harrison blake is a has-been!" she looked at him quickly. the triumph she had of late seen gleaming in his face was now openly blazing there. "you mean----" "i mean that i've got the goods on him!" "you--you have evidence?" "the best sort of evidence!" "that will clear my father?" "perhaps not directly. indirectly, yes. but it will smash blake to smithereens!" she was happy on bruce's account, on her father's, on the city's, but for the moment she was sick upon her own. "is the nature of the evidence a secret?" "the whole town will know it this afternoon. i asked you over here to tell you first. i have just secured a full confession from two of blake's accomplices." "then you've discovered doctor sherman?" she exclaimed. "doctor sherman?" he stared at her. "i don't know what you mean. the two men are the assistant superintendent of the water-works and the engineer at the pumping-plant." "how did you get at them?" "wilson and i started out to cross-examine everybody who might be in the remotest way connected with the case. my suspicion against the two men was first aroused by their strained behaviour. i went----" "then it was you who made this discovery, not that--that other lawyer?" "yes, i was the first to tackle the pair, though wilson has helped me. he's a great lawyer, wilson. we've gone at them relentlessly--with accusation, cross-examination, appeal; with the result that this morning both of them broke down and confessed that blake had secretly paid them to do all that lay within their power to make the water-works a failure." they followed the path in silence for several moments, katherine's eyes upon the ground. at length she looked up. in bruce's face she plainly read what she had guessed to be an extra motive with him all along, a glowering determination to crush her, humiliate her, a determination to cut the ground from beneath her ambition by overturning blake and clearing her father without her aid. "and so," she breathed, "you have made good all your predictions. you have succeeded and i have failed." for an instant his square face glowed upon her, exultant with triumph. then he partially subdued the look. "we won't discuss that matter," he said. "it's enough to repeat what i once said, that wilson is a crackerjack lawyer." "all the same, i congratulate you--and wish you every success," she said; and as quickly thereafter as she could she made her escape, her heart full of the bitterness of personal defeat. that afternoon the _express_, in its largest type, in its editor's highest-powered english, made its exposure of harrison blake. and that afternoon there was pandemonium in westville. violence might have been attempted upon blake, but, fortunately for him, he had gone the night before to indianapolis--on a matter of state politics, it was said. blake, however, was a man to fight to the last ditch. on the morning after the publication of the _express's_ charges, the _clarion_ printed an indignant denial from him. that same morning bruce was arrested on a charge of criminal libel, and that same day--the grand jury being in session--he was indicted. blake's attorney demanded that, since these charges had a very direct bearing upon the approaching election, the trial should take precedence over other cases and be heard immediately. to this bruce eagerly agreed, for he desired nothing better than to demolish blake in court, and the trial was fixed for five days before election. katherine, going about, heard the people jeer at blake's denial; heard them say that his demand for a trial was mere bravado to save his face for a time--that when the trial came he would never show up. she saw the former favourite of westville become in an hour an object of universal abomination. and, on the other hand, she saw bruce leap up to the very apex of popularity. for bruce's sake, for every one's sake but her own, she was rejoiced. but as for herself, she walked in the valley of humiliation, she ate of the ashes of bitterness. swept aside by the onrush of events, feeling herself and her plans suddenly become futile, she decided to cease all efforts and countermand all orders. but she could not veto her plan concerning doctor sherman, for her money was spent and her advertisements were broadcast through the north. as for mr. manning, he stated that he had become so interested in the situation that he was going to stay on in westville for a time to see how affairs came out. on the day of the trial katherine and the city had one surprise at the very start. contrary to all predictions, harrison blake was in the court-room and at the prosecution's table. despite all the judge, the clerk, and the sheriff could do to maintain order, there were cries and mutterings against him. not once did he flinch, but sat looking straight ahead of him, or whispering to his private attorney or to the public prosecutor, kennedy. he was a brave man. katherine had known that. bruce, all confidence, recited on the witness stand how he had come by his evidence. then the assistant superintendent told with most convincing detail how he had succumbed to blake's temptation and done his bidding. next, the engineer testified to the same effect. the crowd lowered at blake. certainly matters looked blacker than ever for the one-time idol of the city. but blake sat unmoved. his calmness begat a sort of uneasiness in katherine. when the engineer had completed his direct testimony, kennedy arose, and following whispered suggestions from blake, cross-questioned the witness searchingly, ever more searchingly, pursued him in and out, in and out, till at length, snap!--katherine's heart stood still, and the crowd leaned forward breathless--snap, and he had caught the engineer in a contradiction! kennedy went after the engineer with rapid-fire questions that involved the witness in contradiction on contradiction--that got him confused, then hopelessly tangled up--that then broke him down completely and drew from him a shamefaced confession. the fact was, he said, that mr. bruce, wanting campaign material, had privately come to him and paid him to make his statements. he had had no dealings with mr. blake whatever. he was a poor man--his wife was sick with the fever--he had needed the money--he hoped the court would be lenient with him--etc., etc. the other witness, recalled, confessed to the same story. amid a stunned court room, bruce sprang to his feet. "lies! lies!" he cried in a choking fury. "they've been bought off by blake!" "silence!" shouted judge kellog, pounding his desk with his gavel. "i tell you it's trickery! they've been bought off by blake!" "silence!" thundered the judge, and followed with a dire threat of contempt of court. but already mr. wilson and sheriff nichols were dragging the struggling bruce back into his chair. more shouts and hammering of gavels by the judge and clerk had partially restored to order the chaos begotten by this scene, when a bit of paper was slipped from behind into bruce's hand. he unfolded it with trembling fingers, and read in a disguised, back-hand scrawl: "there's still enough left of me to know what's happened." that was all. but bruce understood. here was the handiwork and vengeance of blind charlie peck. he sprang up again and turned his ireful face to where, in the crowd, sat the old politician. "you--you----" he began. but before he got further he was again dragged down into his seat. and almost before the crowd had had time fairly to regain its breath, the jury had filed out, had filed back in again, had returned its verdict of guilty, and judge kellog had imposed a sentence of five hundred dollars fine and sixty days in the county jail. in all the crowd that looked bewildered on, katherine was perhaps the only one who believed in bruce's cry of trickery. she saw that blake, with blind charlie's cunning back of him, had risked his all on one bold move that for a brief period had made him an object of universal hatred. she saw that bruce had fallen into a trap cleverly baited for him, saw that he was the victim of an astute scheme to discredit him utterly and remove him from the way. as blake left the court house katherine heard a great cheer go up for him; and within an hour the evidence of eye and ear proved to her that he was more popular than ever. she saw the town crowd about him to make amends for the injustice it considered it had done him. and as for bruce, as he was led by sheriff nichols from the court house toward the jail, she heard him pursued by jeers and hisses. katherine walked homeward from the trial, completely dazed by this sudden capsizing of all of bruce's hopes--and of her own hopes as well, for during the last few days she had come to depend on bruce for the clearing of her father. that evening, and most of the night, she spent in casting up accounts. as matters then stood, they looked desperate indeed. on the one hand, everything pointed to blake's election and the certain success of his plans. on the other hand, she had gained no clue whatever to the whereabouts of doctor sherman; nothing had as yet developed in the scheme she had built about mr. manning; as for mr. stone, she had expected nothing from him, and all he had turned in to her was that he suspected secret relations between blake and peck. furthermore, the man she loved--for yes, she loved him still--was in jail, his candidacy collapsed, the cause for which he stood a ruin. and last of all, the city, to the music of its own applause, was about to be colossally swindled. a dark prospect indeed. but as she sat alone in the night, the cheers for blake floating in to her, she desperately determined to renew her fight. five days still remained before election, and in five days one might do much; during those five days her ships might still come home from sea. she summoned her courage, and gripped it fiercely. "i'll do my best! i'll do my best!" she kept breathing throughout the night. and her determination grew in its intensity as she realized the sum of all the things for which she fought, and fought alone. she was fighting to save her father, she was fighting to save the city, she was fighting to save the man she loved. chapter xxii the last stand the next morning katherine, incited by the desperate need of action, was so bold as to request mr. manning to meet her at old hosie's. she was fortunate enough to get into the office without being observed. the old lawyer, in preparation for the conference, had drawn his wrinkled, once green shade as far down as he dared without giving cause for suspicion, and before the window had placed a high-backed chair and thrown upon it a greenish, blackish, brownish veteran of a fall overcoat--thus balking any glances that might rove lazily upward to his office. old hosie raised his lean figure from his chair and shook her hand, at first silently. he, too, was dazed by the collapse of bruce's fortunes. "things certainly do look bad," he said slowly. "i never suspected that his case would suddenly stand on its head like that." "nor did i--though from the beginning i had an instinctive feeling that it was too good, too easy, to be true." "and to think that after all we know the boy is right!" groaned the old man. "that's what makes the whole affair so tantalizing. we know he is right--we know my father is innocent--we know the danger the city is in--we know mr. blake's guilt--we know just what his plans are. we know everything! but we have not one jot of evidence that would be believed by the public. the irony of it! to think, for all our knowledge, we can only look helplessly on and watch mr. blake succeed in everything." old hosie breathed an imprecation that must have made his ancestors, asleep behind the old quaker meeting-house down in buck creek, gasp in their grassy, cedar-shaded graves. "all the same," katherine added desperately, "we've got to half kill ourselves trying between now and election day!" they subsided into silence. in nervous impatience katherine awaited the appearance of the pseudo-investor in run-down farms. he seemed a long time in coming, but the delay was all in her suspense, for as the court house clock was tolling the appointed hour mr. manning, _alias_ mr. hartsell, walked into the office. he was, as katherine had once described him to old hosie, a quiet, reserved man with that confidence-inspiring amplitude in the equatorial regions commonly observable in bank presidents and trusted officials of corporations. as he closed the door his subdued but confident dignity dropped from him and he warmly shook hands with katherine, for this was their first meeting since their conference in new york six weeks before. "you must know how very, very terrible our situation is," katherine rapidly began. "we've simply _got_ to do something!" "i certainly haven't done much so far," said manning, with a rueful smile. "i'm sorry--but you don't know how tedious my rôle's been to me. to act the part of bait, and just lie around before the noses of the fish you're after, and not get a bite in two whole weeks--that's not my idea of exciting fishing." "i know. but the plan looked a good one." "it looked first-class," conceded manning. "and, perhaps----" "with election only four days off, we've simply got to do something!" katherine repeated. "if nothing else, let's drop that plan, devise a new one, and stake our hopes on some wild chance." "wait a minute," said manning. "i wouldn't drop that plan just yet. i've gone two weeks without a bite, but--i'm not sure--remember i say i'm not sure--but i think that at last i may possibly have a nibble." "a nibble you say?" cried katherine, leaning eagerly forward. "at least, the cork bobbed under." "when?" "last night." "last night? tell me about it!" "well, of late i've been making my study of the water-works more and more obvious, and i've half suspected that i've been watched, though i was too uncertain to risk raising any false hopes by sending you word about it. but yesterday afternoon blind charlie peck--he's been growing friendly with me lately--yesterday blind charlie invited me to have supper with him. the supper was in his private dining-room; just us two. i suspected that the old man was up to some game, and when i saw the cocktails and whiskey and wine come on, i was pretty sure--for you know, miss west, when a crafty old politician of the peck variety wants to steal a little information from a man, his regulation scheme is to get his man so drunk he doesn't know what he's talking about." "i know. go on!" "i tried to beg off from the drinking. i told mr. peck i did not drink. i liked it, i said, but i could not carry it. a glass or two would put me under the table, so the only safe plan for me was to leave it entirely alone. but he pressed me--and i took one. and he pressed me again, and i took another--and another--and another--till i'd had five or----" "but you should never have done it!" cried katherine in alarm. manning smiled at her reassuringly. "i'm no drinking man, but i'm so put together that i can swallow a gallon and then sign the pledge with as steady a hand as the president of the w. c. t. u. but after the sixth drink i must have looked just about right to blind charlie. he began to put cunning questions at me. little by little all my secrets leaked out. the farm lands were only a blind. my real business in westville was the water-works. there was a chance that the city might sell them, and if i could get them i was going to snap them up. in fact, i was going to make an offer to the city in a very few days. i had been examining the system closely; it wasn't really in bad shape at all; it was worth a lot more than the people said; and i was ready, if i had to, to pay its full value to get it--even more. i had plenty of money behind me, for i was representing mr. seymour, the big new york capitalist." "good! good!" cried katharine breathlessly. "how did he seem to take it?" "i could see that he was stirred up, and i guessed that he was thinking big thoughts." "but did he say anything?" "not a word. except that it was interesting." "ah!" it was an exclamation of disappointment. then she instantly added: "but of course he could not say anything until after he had talked it over with mr. blake. he'll do that this morning--if he did not do it last night. you may be approached by them to-day." she stood up excitedly, and her brown eyes glowed. "after all, something may come of the plan!" "it's at least an opening," said manning. "yes. and let's use it for all it's worth. don't you think it would be best for you to go right back to your hotel, and keep yourself in sight, so mr. peck won't have to lose a second in case he wants to talk to you again?" "that's what i had in mind." "and all day i'll be either in my office, or at home, or at mrs. sherman's. and the minute anything develops, send word to mr. hollingsworth and he'll send word to me." "i'll not waste a minute," he assured her. all day she waited with suppressed excitement for good news from manning. but the only news was that there was no news. and so on the second day. and so on the third. her hopes, that had flared so high, sunk by slow degrees to mere embers among the ashes. it appeared that the nibble, which had seemed but the preliminary to swallowing the bait, was after all no more than a nibble; that the fish had merely nosed the worm and swum away. in the meantime, while eaten up by the suspense of this inaction, she was witness to activity of the most strenuous variety. never had she seen a man spring up into favour as did harrison blake. his campaign meetings were resumed the very night of bruce's conviction; the city crowded to them; the blake marching club tramped the streets till midnight, with flaming torches, rousing the enthusiasm of the people with their shouts and campaign songs; and wherever blake appeared upon the platform he was greeted by an uproar, and even when he appeared by daylight, when men's spirits are more sedate, his progress through the streets was a series of miniature ovations. as for bruce, katherine saw his power and position crumble so swiftly that she could hardly see them disappear. the structure of a tremendous future had stood one moment imposingly before her eyes. presto, and it was no more! the sentiment he had roused in favour of public ownership, and against the regime of blake, was as a thing that had never been. with him in jail, his candidacy was but the ashes that are left by a conflagration--though, to be sure, since the ballots were already printed, it was too late to remove his name. he was a thing to be cursed at, jeered at. he had suddenly become a little lower than nobody, a little less than nothing. and as for his paper, when katherine looked at it it made her sick at heart. within a day it lost a third in size. advertisers no longer dared, perhaps no longer cared, to give it patronage. its news and editorial character collapsed. this last she could hardly understand, for billy harper was in charge, and bruce had often praised him to her as a marvel of a newspaper man. but one evening, when she was coming home late from elsie sherman's and hurrying through the crowd of main street, billy harper lurched against her. the next day, with a little adroit inquiry, she learned that harper, freed from bruce's restraining influence, and depressed by the general situation, was drinking constantly. it required no prophetic vision for katherine to see that, if things continued as they now were going, on the day bruce came out of jail he would find the _express_, which he had lifted to power and a promise of prosperity, had sunk into a disrepute and a decay from which even so great an energy as his could not restore it. since there was so little she could do elsewhere, katherine was at the shermans' several times a day, trying in unobtrusive ways to aid the nurse and doctor sherman's sister. miss sherman was a spare, silent woman of close upon forty, with rather sharp, determined features. despite her unloveliness, katherine respected her deeply, for in other days elsie had told her sister-in-law's story. miss sherman and her brother were orphans. to her had been given certain plain virtues, to him all the graces of mind and body. she was a country school-teacher, and it had been her hard work, her determination, her penny-counting economy, that had saved her talented brother from her early hardships and sent him through college. she had made him what he was; and beneath her stern exterior she loved him with that intense devotion a lonely, ingrowing woman feels for the object on which she has spent her life's thought and effort. whenever katherine entered the sick chamber--they had moved elsie's bed into the sitting-room because of its greater convenience and better air--her heart would stand still as she saw how white and wasted was her friend. at such a time she would recall with a choking keenness all of elsie's virtues, each virtue increased and purified--her simplicity, her purity, her loyalty. several times elsie came back from the brink of the great abyss, over which she so faintly hovered, and smiled at katherine and spoke a few words--but only a few, for doctor west allowed no more. each time she asked, with fluttering trepidation, if any word had come from her husband; and each time at katherine's choking negative she would try to smile bravely and hide her disappointment. on one of the last days of this period--it was the sunday before election--doctor west had said that either the end or a turn for the better must be close at hand. katherine had been sitting long watching elsie's pale face and faintly rising bosom, when elsie slowly opened her eyes. elsie pressed her friend's hand with a barely perceptible pressure and smiled with the faintest shadow of a smile. "you here again, katherine?" she breathed. "yes, dear." "just the same dear katherine!" "don't speak, elsie." she was silent a space. then the wistful look katherine had seen so often came into the patient's soft gray eyes, and she knew what elsie's words were going to be before they passed her lips. "have you heard anything--from him?" katherine slowly shook her head. elsie turned her face away for a moment. a sigh fluttered out. then she looked back. "but you are still trying to find him?" "we have done, and are doing, everything, dear." "i'm sure," sighed elsie, "that he would come if he only knew." "yes--if he only knew." "and you will keep on--trying--to get him word?" "yes, dear." "then perhaps--he may come yet." "perhaps," said katherine, with hopeful lips. but in her heart there was no hope. elsie closed her eyes, and did not speak again. presently katherine went out into the level, red-gold sunlight of the waning november afternoon. the church bells, resting between their morning duty and that of the night, all were silent; over the city there lay a hush--it was as if the town were gathering strength for its final spasm of campaign activity on the morrow. there was nothing in that sabbath calm to disturb the emotion of elsie's bedside, and katherine walked slowly homeward beneath the barren maples, in that fearful, tremulous, yearning mood in which she had left the bedside of her friend. in this same mood she reached home and entered the empty sitting-room. she was slowly drawing off her gloves when she perceived, upon the centre-table, a special delivery letter addressed to herself. she picked it up in moderate curiosity. the envelope was plain, the address was typewritten, there was nothing to suggest the identity of the sender. in the same moderate curiosity she unfolded the inclosure. then her curiosity became excitement, for the letter bore the signature of mr. seymour. "i have to-day received a letter from mr. harrison blake of westville," mr. seymour wrote her, "of which the following is the text: 'we have just learned that there is in our city a mr. hartsell who represents himself to be an agent of yours instructed to purchase the water-works of westville. before entering into any negotiations with him the city naturally desires to be assured by you that he is a representative of your firm. as haste is necessary in this matter, we request you to reply at once and by special delivery." "ah, i understand the delay now!" katherine exclaimed. "before making a deal with mr. manning, mr. blake and mr. peck wanted to be sure their man was what he said he was!" "and now, miss west," mr. seymour wrote on, "since you have kept me in the dark as to the details of your plan, and as i have never heard of said hartsell, i have not known just how to reply to your mr. blake. so i have had recourse to the vague brevity of a busy man, and have sent the following by the same mail that brings this to you: 'replying to your inquiry of the rd inst. i beg to inform you that i have a representative in westville fully authorized to act for me in the matter of the water-works.' i hope this reply is all right. also there is a second hope, which is strong even if i try to keep it subdued; and that is that you will have to buy the water-works in for me." from that instant katherine's mind was all upon her scheme. she was certain that mr. seymour's reply was already in the hands of blake and peck, and that they were even then planning, or perhaps had already planned, what action they should take. at once she called old hosie up by telephone. "i think it looks as though the 'nibble' were going to develop into a bite, and quick," she said rapidly. "get into communication with mr. manning and tell him to make no final arrangement with those parties till he sees me. i want to know what they offer." it was an hour later, and the early night had already fallen, when there was a ring at the west door, and old hosie entered, alone. katharine quickly led the old lawyer into the parlour. "well?" she whispered. "manning has just accepted an invitation for an automobile ride this evening from charlie peck." katherine suddenly gripped his hand. "that may be a bite!" the old man nodded with suppressed excitement. "they were to set out at six. it's five minutes to six now." without a word katherine crossed swiftly and opened the door an inch, and stood tensely waiting beside it. presently, through the calm of the sabbath evening, there started up very near the sudden buzzing of a cranked-up car. then swiftly the buzzing faded away into the distance. katherine turned. "it's mr. blake's car. they'll all be at the sycamores in half an hour. it's a bite, certain! get hold of mr. manning as soon as he comes back, and bring him here. the house will be darkened, but the front door will be unlocked. come right in. come as late as you please. you'll find me waiting here in the parlour." the hours that followed were trying ones for katherine. she sat about with her aunt till toward ten o'clock. then her father returned from his last call, and soon thereafter they all went to their rooms. katherine remained upstairs till she thought her father and aunt were settled, then slipped down to the parlour, set the front door ajar, and sat waiting in the darkness. she heard the court house clock with judicial slowness count off eleven o'clock--then after a long, long space, count off twelve. a few minutes later she heard blake's car return, and after a time she heard the city clock strike one. it was close upon two when soft steps sounded upon the porch and the front door opened. she silently shook hands with her two vague visitors. "we didn't think it safe to come any sooner," explained old hosie in a whisper. "you've been with them out at the sycamores?" katherine eagerly inquired of manning. "yes. for a four hours' session." "well?" "well, so far it looks o. k." in a low voice he detailed to katherine how they had at first fenced with one another; how at length he had told them that he had a formal proposal to the city to buy the water-works all drawn up and that on the morrow he was going to present it--and that, furthermore, he would, if necessary, increase the sum he offered in that proposal to the full value of the plant. blake and peck, after a slow approach to the subject, in which they admitted that they also planned to buy the system, had suggested that, inasmuch as he was only an agent and there would be no profit in the purchase to him personally, he abandon his purpose. if he would do this they would make it richly worth his while. he had replied that this was such a different plan from that which he had been considering that he must have time to think it over and would give them his answer to-morrow. on which understanding the three had parted. "i suppose it would hardly be practicable," said katherine when he had finished, "to have a number of witnesses concealed at your place of meeting and overhear your conversation?" "no, it would be mighty difficult to pull that off." "and what's more," she commented, "mr. blake would deny whatever they said, and with his present popularity his words would carry more weight than that of any half dozen witnesses we might get. at the best, our charges would drag on for months, perhaps years, in the courts, with in the end the majority of the people believing in him. with the election so near, we must have instantaneous results. we must use a means of exposing him that will instantly convince all the people." "that's the way i see it," agreed manning. "when did they offer to pay you, in case you agreed to sell out to them?" "on the day they got control of the water-works. naturally they didn't want to pay me before, for fear i might break faith with them and buy in the system for mr. seymour." "can't you make them put their proposition in the form of an agreement, to be signed by all three of you?" asked katherine. "but mebbe they won't consent to that," put in old hosie. "mr. manning will know how to bring them around. he can say, for example, that, unless he has such a written agreement, they will be in a position to drop him when once they've got what they want. he can say that unless they consent to sign some such agreement he will go on with his original plan. i think they'll sign." "and if they do?" queried old hosie. "if they do," said katherine, "we'll have documentary evidence to show westville that those two great political enemies, mr. blake and mr. peck, are secretly business associates--their business being a conspiracy to wreck the water-works and defraud the city. i think such a document would interest westville." "i should say it would!" exclaimed old hosie. they whispered on, excitedly, hopefully; and when the two men had departed and katherine had gone up to her room to try to snatch a few hours' sleep, she continued to dwell eagerly upon the plan that seemed so near of consummation. she tossed about her bed, and heard the court house clock sound three, and then four. then the heat of her excitement began to pass away, and cold doubts began to creep into her mind. perhaps blake and peck would refuse to sign. and even if they did sign, she began to see this prospective success as a thing of lesser magnitude. the agreement would prove the alliance between blake and peck, and would make clear that a conspiracy existed. it was good, but it was not enough. it fell short by more than half. it would not clear her father, though his innocence might be inferred, and it would not prove blake's responsibility for the epidemic. as she lay there staring wide-eyed into the gloom of the night, listening to the town clock count off the hours of her last day, she realized that what she needed most of all, far more than manning's document even should he get it, was the testimony which she believed was sealed behind the lips of doctor sherman, whose present whereabouts god only knew. chapter xxiii at elsie's bedside the day before election, a day of hope deferred, had dragged slowly by and night had at length settled upon the city. doctor west had the minute before come in from a long, dinnerless day of hastening from case to case, and now he, katherine, and her aunt were sitting about the supper table. to katherine's eye her father looked very weary and white and frail. the day-and-night struggle at scores of bedsides was sorely wearing him down. as for katherine, she was hardly less worn. she scarcely touched the food before her. the fears that always assail one at a crisis, now swarmed in upon her. with the election but a few hours distant, with no word as yet from mr. manning, she saw all her high plans coming to naught and saw herself overwhelmed with utter defeat. from without there dimly sounded the beginning of the ferment of the campaign's final evening; it brought to her more keenly that to-morrow the city was going to give itself over unanimously to be despoiled. across the table, her father, pale and worried, was a reminder that, when his fight of the plague was completed, he must return to jail. her mind flashed now and then to bruce; she saw him in prison; she saw not only his certain defeat on the morrow, but she saw him crushed and ruined for life as far as a career in westville was concerned; and though she bravely tried to master her feeling, the throbbing anguish with which she looked upon his fate was affirmation of how poignant and deep-rooted was her love. and yet, despite these flooding fears, she clung with a dizzy desperation to hope, and to the determination to fight on to the last second of the last minute. while swinging thus between despair and desperate hope, she was maintaining, at first somewhat mechanically to be sure, a conversation with her father, whom she had not seen since their early breakfast together. "how does the fever situation seem to-night?" she asked. "much better," said doctor west. "there were fewer new cases reported to-day than any day for a week." "then you are getting the epidemic under control?" "i think we can at last say we have it thoroughly in hand. the number of new cases is daily decreasing, and the old cases are doing well. i don't know of an epidemic of this size on record where the mortality has been so small." she came out of her preoccupation and breathlessly demanded: "tell me, how is elsie sherman? i could not get around to see her to-day." he dropped his eyes to his plate and did not answer. "you mean she is no better?" "she is very low." "but she still has a chance?" "yes, she has a chance. but that's about all. the fever is at its climax. i think to-night will decide which it's to be." "you are going to her again to-night?" "right after supper." "then i'll go with you," said katherine. "poor elsie! poor elsie!" she murmured to herself. then she asked, "have they had any word from doctor sherman?" "i asked his sister this afternoon. she said they had not." they fell silent for a moment or two. doctor west nibbled at his ham with a troubled air. "there is one feature of the case i cannot approve of," he at length remarked "of course the shermans are poor, but i do not think miss sherman should have impaired elsie's chances, such as they are, from motives of economy." "impaired elsie's chances?" queried katherine. "and certainly she should not have done so without consulting me," continued doctor west. "done what?" "oh, i forgot i had not had a chance to tell you. when i made my first call this morning i learned that miss sherman had discharged the nurse." "discharged the nurse?" "yes. during the night." "but what for?" "miss sherman said they could not afford to keep her." "but with elsie so dangerously sick, this is no time to economize!" "exactly what i told her. and i said there were plenty of friends who would have been happy to supply the necessary money." "and what did she say?" "very little. she's a silent, determined woman, you know. she said that even at such a time they could not accept charity." "but did you not insist upon her getting another nurse?" "yes. but she refused to have one." "then who is looking after elsie?" "miss sherman." "alone?" "yes, alone. she has even discharged old mrs. murphy, who came in for a few hours a day to clean up." "it seems almost incomprehensible!" ejaculated katherine. "think of running such a risk for the sake of a few dollars!" "after all, miss sherman isn't such a bad nurse," doctor west's sense of justice prompted him to admit. "in fact, she is really doing very well." "all the same, it seems incomprehensible!" persisted katherine. "for economy's sake----" she broke off and was silent a moment. then suddenly she leaned across the table. "you are sure she gave no other reason?" "none." "and you believe her?" "why, you don't think she would lie to me, do you?" exclaimed doctor west. "i don't say that," katherine returned rapidly. "but she's shrewd and close-mouthed. she might not have told you the whole truth." "but what could have been her real reason then?" "something besides the reason she gave. that's plain." "but what is it? why, katherine," her father burst out, half rising from his chair, "what's the matter with you?" her eyes were glowing with excitement. "wait! wait!" she said quickly, lifting a hand. she gazed down upon the table, her brow puckered with intense thought. her father and her aunt stared at her in gathering amazement, and waited breathlessly till she should speak. after a minute she glanced up at her father. the strange look in her face had grown more strange. "you saw no one else there besides miss sherman?" she asked quickly. "no." "nor signs of any one?" "no," repeated the bewildered old man. "what are you thinking of, katherine?" "i don't dare say it--i hardly dare think it!" she pushed back her chair and arose. she was quivering all over, but she strove to command her agitation. "as soon as you're through supper, father, i'll be ready to go to elsie." "i'm through now." "come on, then. let's not lose a minute!" they hurried out and entered the carriage which, at the city's charge, stood always waiting doctor west's requirements. "to mrs. sherman's--quick!" katherine ordered the driver, and the horse clattered away through the crisp november night. already people were streaming toward the centre of the town to share in the excitement of the campaign's closing night. as the carriage passed the square, katherine saw, built against the court house and brilliantly festooned with vari-coloured electric bulbs, the speakers' stand from which blake and others of his party were later to address the final mass-meeting of the campaign. the carriage turned past the jail into wabash avenue, and a minute afterward drew up beside the sherman cottage. pulsing with the double suspense of her conjecture and of her concern for elsie's life, katherine followed her father into the sick chamber. as they entered the hushed room the spare figure of miss sherman rose from a rocker beside the bed, greeted them with a silent nod, and drew back to give place to doctor west. katherine moved slowly to the foot of the bed and gazed down. for a space, one cause of her suspense was swept out of her being, and all her concern was for the flickering life before her. elsie lay with eyes closed, and breathing so faintly that she seemed scarcely to breathe at all. so pale, so wasted, so almost wraithlike was she as to suggest that when her spirit fled, if flee it must, nothing could be left remaining between the sheets. as she gazed down upon her friend, hovering uncertainly upon life's threshold, a tingling chill pervaded katherine's body. since her mother's loss in unremembering childhood, death had been kind to her; no one so dear had been thus carried up to the very brink of the grave. all that had been sweet and strong in her friendship with elsie now flooded in upon her in a mighty wave of undefined emotion. she was immediately conscious only of the wasted figure before her, and its peril, but back of consciousness were unformed memories of their girlhood together, of the inseparable intimacy of their young womanhood, and of that shy and tender time when she had been the confidante of elsie's courtship. there was a choking at her throat, tears slipped down her cheeks, and there surged up a wild, wild wish, a rebellious demand, that elsie might come safely through her danger. but, presently, her mind reverted to the special purpose that had brought her hither. she studied the face of miss sherman, seeking confirmation of the conjecture that had so aroused her--studying also for some method of approaching miss sherman, of breaking down her guard, and gaining the information she desired. but she learned nothing from the expression of those spare, self-contained features; and she realized that the lips of the sphinx would be easier to unlock than those of this loyal sister of a fugitive brother. that her conjecture was correct, she became every instant more convinced. she sensed it in the stilled atmosphere of the house; she sensed it in the glances of cold and watchful hostility miss sherman now and then stole at her. she was wondering what should be her next step, when doctor west, who had felt elsie's pulse and examined the temperature chart, drew miss sherman back to near where katherine stood. "still nothing from doctor sherman?" he whispered in grave anxiety. "nothing," said miss sherman, looking straight into her questioner's eyes. "too bad, too bad!" sighed doctor west. "he ought to be home!" miss sherman let the first trace of feeling escape from her compressed being. "but still there is a chance?" she asked quickly. "a fighting chance. i think we shall know which it's to be within an hour." at these words katherine heard from behind her ever so faint a sound, a sound that sent a thrill through all her nerves. a sound like a stifled groan. for a minute or more she did not move. but when doctor west and miss sherman had gone back to their places and doctor west had begun the final fight for elsie's life, she slowly turned about. before her was a door. her heart gave a leap. when she had entered she had searched the room with a quick glance, and that door had then been closed. it now stood slightly ajar. some one within must have noiselessly opened it to hear doctor west's decree upon the patient. swiftly and silently katherine slipped through the door and locked it behind her. for a moment she stood in the darkness, striving to master her throbbing excitement. at length she spoke. "will you please turn on the light, doctor sherman," she said. there was no answer; only a black and breathless silence. "please turn on the light, doctor sherman," katherine repeated. "i cannot, for i do not know where the electric button is." again there was silence. then katherine heard something like a gasp. there was a click, and then the room, doctor sherman's study, burst suddenly into light. behind the desk, one hand still upon the electric key, stood doctor sherman. he was very thin and very white, and was worn, wild-eyed and dishevelled. he was breathing heavily and he stared at katherine with the defiance of a desperate creature brought at last to bay. "what do you want?" he demanded huskily. "a little talk with you," replied katherine, trying to speak calmly. "you must excuse me. with elsie so sick, i cannot talk." she stood very straight before him. her eyes never left his face. "we must talk just the same," she returned. "when did you come home?" "last night." "why did you not let your friends know of your return? all day, in fact for several days, they have been sending telegrams to every place where they could conceive your being." he did not answer. "it looks very much as if you were trying to hide." again he did not reply. "it looks very much," she steadily pursued, "as if your sister discharged the nurse and the servant in order that you might hide here in your own home without risk of discovery." still he did not answer. "you need not reply to that question, for the reply is obvious. i guessed the meaning of the nurse's discharge as soon as i heard of it. i guessed that you were secretly hovering over elsie, while all westville thought you were hundreds of miles away. but tell me, how did you learn that elsie was sick?" he hesitated, then swallowed. "i saw a notice of it in a little country paper." "ah, i thought so." she moved forward and leaned across the desk. their eyes were no more than a yard apart. "tell me," she said quietly, "why did you slip into town by night? why are you hiding in your own home?" a tremor ran through his slender frame. with an effort he tried to take the upperhand. "you must excuse me," he said, with an attempt at sharp dignity. "i refuse to be cross-examined." "then i will answer for you. the reason, doctor sherman, is that you have a guilty conscience." "that is not----" "do not lie," she interrupted quickly. "you realize what you have done, you are afraid it may become public, you are afraid of the consequences to yourself--and that is why you slipped back in the dead of night and lie hidden like a fugitive in your own house." a spasm of agony crossed his face. "for god's sake, tell me what you want and leave me!" "i want you to clear my father." "clear your father?" he cried. "and how, if you please?" "by confessing that he is innocent." "when he is guilty!" "you know he is not." "he's guilty--he's guilty, i tell you! besides," he added, wildly, "don't you see that if i proclaim him innocent i proclaim myself a perjured witness?" she leaned a little farther across the desk. "is not that exactly what you are, doctor sherman?" he shrank back as though struck. one hand went tremulously to his chin and he stared at her. "no! no!" he burst out spasmodically. "it's not so! i shall not admit it! would you have me ruin myself for all time? would you have me ruin elsie's future! would you have me kill her love for me?" "then you will not confess?" "i tell you there is nothing to confess!" she gazed at him steadily a moment. then she turned back to the door, softly unlocked and opened it. he started to rush through, but she raised a hand and stopped him. "just look," she commanded in a whisper. he stared through the open door. they could see elsie's white face upon the pillow, with the two dark braids beside it; and could see doctor west hovering over her. he had not heard them, but miss sherman had, and she directed at katherine a pale and hostile glance. the young husband twisted his hands in agony. "oh, elsie! elsie!" he moaned. katherine closed the door, and turned again to doctor sherman. "you have seen your work," she said. "do you still persist in your innocence?" he drew a deep, shivering breath and shrank away behind his desk, but did not answer. katherine followed him. "do you know how sick your wife is?" "i heard your father say." "she is swinging over eternity by a mere thread." katherine leaned across the desk and her eyes gazed with an even greater fixity into his. "if the thread snaps, do you know who will have broken it?" "don't! don't!" he begged. "her own husband," katherine went on relentlessly. a cry of agony escaped him. "you saw that old man in there bending over her," she pursued, "trying with all his skill, with all his love, to save her--to save her from the peril you have plunged her into--and with never a bitter feeling against you in his heart. if she lives, it will be because of him. and yet that old man is ruined and has a blackened reputation. i ask you, do you know who ruined him?" "don't! don't!" he cried, and he sank a crumpled figure at his desk, and buried his face in his arms. "look up!" cried katherine sternly. "wait!" he moaned. "wait!" she passed around the desk and firmly raised his shoulders. "look me in the eyes!" he lifted a face that worked convulsively. she stood accusingly before him. "out with the truth!" she commanded in a rising voice. "in the presence of your wife, perhaps dying, and dying as the result of your act--in the presence of that old man, whom you have ruined with your word--do you still dare to maintain your innocence? out with the truth, i say!" he sprang to his feet. "i can stand it no longer!" he gasped in an agony that went to katherine's heart. "it's killing me! it's been tearing me apart for months! what i have suffered--oh, what i have suffered! i'll tell you all--all! oh, let me get it off my soul!" the desperation of his outburst, the sight of his fine face convulsed with uttermost agony and repentance, worked a sudden revulsion in katherine's heart. all her bitterness, her momentary sternness, rushed out of her, and there she was, quivering all over, hot tears in her eyes, gripping the hands of elsie's husband. "i'm so glad--not only for father's sake--but for your sake," she cried chokingly. "let me tell you at once! let me get it out of myself!" "first sit down," and she gently pressed him back into his chair and drew one up to face him. "and wait for a moment or two, till you feel a little calmer." he bowed his head into his hands, and for a space breathed deeply and tremulously. katherine stood waiting. through the night sounded the brassy strains of "my country 'tis of thee." back at the court house blake's party was opening its great mass-meeting. "i'm a coward--a coward!" doctor sherman groaned at length into his hands. and in a voice of utmost contrition he went on and told how, to gain money for the proper care of elsie, he had been drawn into gambling in stocks; how he had made use of church funds to save himself in a falling market, and how this church money had, like his own, been swallowed down by wall street; how blake had discovered the embezzlement, for the time had saved him, but later by threat of exposure had driven him to play the part he had against doctor west. "you must make this statement public, instantly!" katherine exclaimed when he had finished. he shrank back before that supreme humiliation. "let me do it later--please, please!" he besought her. "a day's delay will be----" she caught his arm. "listen!" she commanded. both held their breath. through the night came the stirring music of "the star spangled banner." "what is that?" he asked. "the great rally of mr. blake's party at the court house." her next words drove in. "to-morrow mr. blake is going to capture the city, and be in position to rob it. and all because of your act, doctor sherman!" "you are right, you are right!" he breathed. she held out a pen to him. "you must write your statement at once." "yes, yes," he cried, "only let it be short now. i'll make it in full later." "you need write only a summary." he seized the pen and dipped it into the ink and for a moment held it shaking over a sheet of paper. "i cannot shape it--the words won't come." "shall i dictate it then?" "do! please do!" "you are willing to confess everything?" "everything!" katherine stood thinking for a moment at his side. "ready, then. write, 'i embezzled funds from my church; mr. blake found me out, and replaced what i had taken, with no one being the wiser. later, by the threat of exposing me if i refused, he compelled me to accuse doctor west of accepting a bribe and still later he compelled me to testify in court against doctor west. mr. blake's purpose in so doing was to remove doctor west from his position, ruin the water-works, and buy them in at a bargain. i hereby confess and declare, of my own free will, that i have been guilty of lying and of perjury.' do you want to say that?" "yes! yes!" "'and i further confess and declare that dr. david west is innocent in every detail of the charges made against him. signed, harold sherman.'" he dropped his pen and sprang up. "and now may i go in to elsie?" "you may." he hurried noiselessly across the room and through the door. katherine, picking up the precious paper she had worked so many months to gain, followed him. miss sherman saw them come in, but remained silent. doctor west was bending over elsie and did not hear their entrance. doctor sherman tiptoed to the bedside, and stood gazing down, his breath held, hardly less pale than the soft-sleeping elsie herself. presently doctor west straightened up and perceived the young minister. he started, then held out his hand. "why, doctor sherman!" he whispered eagerly. "i'm so glad you've come at last!" the younger man drew back. "you won't be willing to shake hands with me--when you know." then he took a quick half step forward. "but tell me," he breathed, "is there--is there any hope?" "i dare not speak definitely yet--but i think she is going to live." "thank god!" cried the young man. suddenly he collapsed upon the floor and embraced doctor west about the knees, and knelt there sobbing out broken bits of sentences. "why--why," stammered doctor west in amazement, "what does this mean?" katherine moved forward. her voice quavered, partly from joy, partly from pity for the anguished figure upon the floor. "it means you are cleared, father! this will explain." and she gave him doctor sherman's confession. the old man read it, then passed a bewildered hand across his face. "i--i don't understand this!" "i'll explain it later," said katherine. "is--is this true?" it was to the young minister that doctor west spoke. "yes. and more. i can't ask you to forgive me!" sobbed doctor sherman. "it's beyond forgiveness! but i want to thank you for saving elsie. at least you'll let me thank you for that!" "what i have done here has been only my duty as a physician," said doctor west gently. "as for the other matter"--he looked the paper through, still with bewilderment--"as for that, i'm afraid i am not the chief sufferer," he said slowly, gently. "i have been under a cloud, it is true, and i won't deny that it has hurt. but i am an old man, and it doesn't matter much. you are young, just beginning life. of us two you are the one most to be pitied." "don't pity me--please!" cried the minister. "i don't deserve it!" "i'm sorry--so sorry!" doctor west shook his head. apparently he had forgotten the significance of this confession to himself. "i have always loved elsie, and i have always admired you and been proud of you. so if my forgiveness means anything to you, why i forgive you with all my heart!" a choking sound came from the bowed figure, but no words. his embracing arms fell away from doctor west. he knelt there limply, his head bowed upon his bosom. there was a moment of breathless silence. in the background miss sherman stood looking on, white, tense, dry-eyed. doctor sherman turned slowly, fearfully, toward the bed. "but, elsie," he whispered in a dry, lost voice. "it's all bad--but that's the worst of all. when she knows, she never can forgive me!" katherine laid a hand upon his shoulder. "if you think that, then you don't know elsie. she will be pained, but she loves you with all her soul; she would forgive you anything so long as you loved her, and she would follow you through every misery to the ends of the world." "do you think so?" he breathed; and then he crept to the bed and buried his face upon it. katherine looked down upon him for a moment. then her own concerns began flooding back upon her. she realized that she had not yet won the fight. she had only gained a weapon. "i must go now," she whispered to her father, taking the paper from his hand. throbbing with returned excitement, she hurried out to the dimly comprehended, desperate effort that lay before her. chapter xxiv billy harper writes a story as katherine crossed the porch and went down the steps she saw, entering the yard, a tall, square-hatted apparition. "is that you, miss katherine?" it called softly to her. "yes, mr. hollingsworth." "i was looking for you." he turned and they walked out of the yard together. "i went to your house, and your aunt told me you were here. i've got it!" he added excitedly. "got what?" "the agreement!" she stopped short and seized his arm. "you mean between blake, peck, and manning?" "yes. i've got it!" "signed?" "all signed!" and he slapped the breast pocket of his old frock-coat. "let me see it! please!" he handed it to her, and by the light of a street lamp she glanced it through. "oh, it's too good to believe!" she murmured exultantly. "oh, oh!" she thrust it into her bosom, where it lay beside doctor sherman's confession. "come, we must hurry!" she cried. and with her arm through his they set off in the direction of the square. "when did mr. manning get this?" she asked, after a moment. "i saw him about an hour ago. he had then just got it." "it's splendid! splendid!" she ejaculated. "but i have something, too!" "yes?" queried the old man. "something even better." and as they hurried on she told him of doctor sherman's confession. old hosie burst into excited congratulations, but she quickly checked him. "we've no time now to rejoice," she said. "we must think how we are going to use these statements--how we are going to get this information before the people, get it before them at once, and get it before them so they must believe it." they walked on in silent thought. from the moment they had left the shermans' gate the two had heard a tremendous cheering from the direction of the square, and had seen a steady, up-reaching glow, at intervals brilliantly bespangled by rockets and roman candles. now, as they came into main street, they saw that the court house yard was jammed with an uproarious multitude. within the speakers' stand was throned the westville brass band; enclosing the stand in an imposing semicircle was massed the blake marching club, in uniforms, their flaring torches adding to the illumination of the festoons of incandescent bulbs; and spreading fanwise from this uniformed nucleus it seemed that all of westville was assembled--at least all of westville that did not watch at fevered bedsides. at the moment that katherine and old hosie, walking along the southern side of main street, came opposite the stand, the first speaker concluded his peroration and resumed his seat. there was an outburst of "blake! blake! blake!" from the enthusiastic thousands; but the westville brass band broke in with the chorus of "marching through georgia." the stirring thunder of the band had hardly died away, when the thousands of voices again rose in cries of "blake! blake! blake!" the chairman with difficulty quieted the crowd, and urged them to have patience, as all the candidates were going to speak, and blake was not to speak till toward the last. kennedy was the next orator, and he told the multitude, with much flinging heavenward of loose-jointed arms, what an unparalleled administration the officers to be elected on the morrow would give the city, and how first and foremost it would be their purpose to settle the problem of the water-works in such a manner as to free the city forever from the dangers of another epidemic such as they were now experiencing. as supreme climax to his speech, he lauded the ability, character and public spirit of blake till superlatives could mount no higher. when he sat down the crowd went well-nigh mad. but amid the cheering for the city's favourite, some one shouted the name of doctor west and with it coupled a vile epithet. at once doctor west's name swept through the crowd, hissed, jeered, cursed. this outbreak made clear one ominous fact. the enthusiasm of the multitude was not just ordinary, election-time enthusiasm. beneath it was smouldering a desire of revenge for the ills they had suffered and were suffering--a desire which at a moment might flame up into the uncontrollable fury of a mob. katherine clutched old hosie's arm. "did you hear those cries against my father?" "yes." "well, i know now what i shall do!" he saw that her eyes were afire with decision. "what?" "i am going across there, watch my chance, slip out upon the speakers' stand, and expose and denounce mr. blake before mr. blake's own audience!" the audacity of the plan for a moment caught old hosie's breath. then its dramatic quality fired his imagination. "gorgeous!" he exclaimed. "come on!" she cried. she started across the street, with old hosie at her heels. but before she reached the opposite curb she paused, and turned slowly back. "what's the matter?" asked old hosie. "it won't do. the people on the stand would pull me down before i got started speaking. and even if i spoke, the people would not believe me. i have got to put this evidence"--she pressed the documents within her bosom--"before their very eyes. no, we have got to think of some other way." by this time they were back in the seclusion of the doorway of the _express_ building, where they had previously been standing. for several moments the hoarse, vehement oratory of a tired throat rasped upon their heedless ears. once or twice old hosie stole a glance at katherine's tensely thoughtful face, then returned to his own meditation. presently she touched him on the arm. he looked up. "i have it this time!" she said, with the quiet of suppressed excitement. "yes?" "we're going to get out an extra!" "an extra?" he exclaimed blankly. "yes. of the _express_!" "an extra of the _express_?" "yes. get it out before this crowd scatters, and in it reproductions of these documents!" he stared at her. "son of methuselah!" then he whistled. then his look became a bit strange, and there was a strange quality to his voice when he said: "so you are going to give arnold bruce's paper the credit of the exposure?" his tone told her the meaning that lay behind his words. he had known of the engagement, and he knew that it was now broken. she flushed. "it's the best way," she said shortly. "but you can't do it alone!" "of course not." her voice began to gather energy. "we've got to get the _express_ people here at once--and especially mr. harper. everything depends on mr. harper. he'll have to get the paper out." "yes! yes!" said old hosie, catching her excitement. "you look for him here in this crowd--and, also, if you can see to it, send some one to get the foreman and his people. i'll look for mr. harper at his hotel. we'll meet here at the office." with that they hurried away on their respective errands. arrived at the national house, where billy harper lived, katherine walked into the great bare office and straight up to the clerk, whom the mass-meeting had left as the room's sole occupant. "is mr. harper in?" she asked quickly. the clerk, one of the most prodigious of local beaux, was startled by this sudden apparition. "i--i believe he is." "please tell him at once that i wish to see him." he fumbled the white wall of his lofty collar with an embarrassed hand. "excuse me, miss west, but the fact is, i'm afraid he can't see you." "give him my name and tell him i simply _must_ see him." the clerk's embarrassment waxed greater. "i--i guess i should have said it the other way around," he stammered. "i'm afraid you won't want to see him." "why not?" "the fact is--he's pretty much cut up, you know--and he's been so worried that--that--well, the plain fact is," he blurted out, "mr. harper has been drinking." "to-night?" "yes." "much?" "well--i'm afraid quite a little." "but he's here?" "he's in the bar-room." katherine's heart had been steadily sinking. "i must see him anyhow!" she said desperately. "please call him out!" the clerk hesitated, in even deeper embarrassment. this affair was quite without precedent in his career. "you must call him out--this second! didn't you hear me?" "certainly, certainly." he came hastily from behind his desk and disappeared through a pair of swinging wicker doors. after a moment he reappeared, alone, and his manner showed a degree of embarrassment even more acute. katherine crossed eagerly to meet him. "you found mr. harper?" "yes." "well?" "i couldn't make him understand. and even if i could, he's--he's--well," he added with a painful effort, "he's in no condition for you to talk to, miss west." katherine gazed whitely at the clerk for a moment. then without a word she stepped by him and passed through the wicker door. with a glance she took in the garishly lighted room--its rows of bottles, its glittering mirrors, its white-aproned bartender, its pair of topers whose loyalty to the bar was stronger than the lure of oratory and music at the square. and there at a table, his head upon his arms, sat the loosely hunched body of him who was the foundation of all her present hopes. she moved swiftly across the sawdusted floor and shook the acting editor by the shoulder. "mr. harper!" she called into his ear. she shook him again, and again she called his name. "le' me 'lone," he grunted thickly. "wanter sleep." she was conscious that the two topers had paused in mid-drink and were looking her way with a grinning, alcoholic curiosity. she shook the editor with all her strength. "mr. harper!" she called fiercely. "g'way!" he mumbled. "'m busy. wanter sleep." katherine gazed down at the insensate mass in utter hopelessness. without him she could do nothing, and the precious minutes were flying. through the night came a rumble of applause and fast upon it the music of another patriotic air. in desperation she turned to the bartender. "can't you help me rouse him?" she cried. "i've simply _got_ to speak to him!" that gentleman had often been appealed to by frantic women as against customers who had bought too liberally. but katherine was a new variety in his experience. there was a great deal too much of him about the waist and also beneath the chin, but there was good-nature in his eyes, and he came from behind his counter and bore himself toward katherine with a clumsy and ornate courtesy. "don't see how you can, miss. he's been hittin' an awful pace lately. you see for yourself how far gone he is." "but i must speak to him--i must! surely there is some extreme measure that would bring him to his senses!" "but, excuse me; you see, miss, mr. harper is a reg'lar guest of the hotel, and i wouldn't dare go to extremes. if i was to make him mad----" "i'll take all the blame!" she cried. "and afterward he'll thank you for it!" the bartender scratched his thin hair. "of course, i want to help you, miss, and since you put it that way, all right. you say i can go the limit?" "yes! yes!" the bartender retired behind his bar and returned with a pail of water. he removed the young editor's hat. "stand back, miss; it's ice cold," he said; and with a swing of his pudgy arms he sent the water about harper's head, neck, and upper body. the young fellow staggered up with a gasping cry. his blinking eyes saw the bartender, with the empty pail. he reached for the tumbler before him. "damn you, murphy!" he growled. "i'll pay you----" but katherine stepped quickly forward and touched his dripping sleeve. "mr. harper!" she said. he slowly turned his head. then the hand with the upraised tumbler sank to the table, and he stared at her. "mr. harper," she said sharply, slowly, trying to drive her words into his dulled brain, "i've got to speak to you! at once!" he continued to blink at her stupidly. at length his lips opened. "miss west," he said thickly. she shook him fiercely. "pull yourself together! i've got to speak to you!" at this moment mr. murphy, who had gone once more behind his bar, reappeared bearing a glass. this he held out to harper. "here, billy, put this down. it'll help straighten you up." harper took the glass in a trembling hand and swallowed its contents. "and now, miss," said the bartender, putting harper's dry hat on him, "the thing to do is to get him out in the cold air, and walk him round a bit. i'd do it for you myself," he added gallantly, "but everybody's down at the square and there ain't no one here to relieve me." "thank you very much, mr. murphy." "it's nothing at all, miss," said he with a grandiloquent gesture of a hairy, bediamonded hand. "glad to do it." she slipped her arm through the young editor's. "and now, mr. harper, we must go." billy harper vaguely understood the situation and there was a trace of awakening shame in his husky voice. "are you sure--you want to be seen with me--like this?" "i must, whether i want to or not," she said briefly; and she led him through the side door out into the frosty night. the period that succeeded will ever remain in katherine's mind as matchless in her life for agonized suspense. she was ever crying out frantically to herself, why did this man she led have to be in such a condition at this the time when he was needed most? while she rapidly walked her drenched and shivering charge through the deserted back streets, the enthusiasm of court house square reverberated maddeningly in her ears. she realized how rapidly time was flying--and yet, aflame with desire for action as she was, all she could do was to lead this brilliant, stupefied creature to and fro, to and fro. she wondered if she would be able to bring him to his senses in time to be of service. to her impatience, which made an hour of every moment, it seemed she never would. but her hope was all on him, and so doggedly she kept him going. presently he began to lurch against her less heavily and less frequently; and soon, his head hanging low in humiliation, he started shiveringly to mumble out an abject apology. she cut him short. "we've no time for apologies. there's work to be done. is your head clear enough to understand?" "i think so," he said humbly, albeit somewhat thickly. "listen then! and listen hard!" briefly and clearly she outlined to him her discoveries and told him of the documents she had just secured. she did not realize it, but this recital of hers was, for the purpose of sobering him, better far than a douche of ice-water, better far than walking in the tingling air. she was appealing to, stimulating, the most sensitive organ of the born newspaper man, his sense of news. before she was through he had come to a pause beneath a sputtering arc light, and was interrupting her with short questions, his eyes ablaze with excitement. "god!" he ejaculated when she had finished, "that would make the greatest newspaper story that ever broke loose in this town!" she trembled with an excitement equal to his own. "and i want you to make it into the greatest newspaper story that ever broke loose in this town!" "but to-morrow the voting----" "there's no to-morrow about it! we've got to act to-night. you must get out an extra of the _express_." "an extra of the _express_!" "yes. and it must be on the streets before that mass-meeting breaks up." "oh, my god, my god!" billy whispered in awe to himself, forgetting how cold he was as his mind took in the plan. then he started away almost on a run. "we'll do it! but first, we've got to get the press-room gang." "i've seen to that. i think we'll find them waiting at the office." "you don't say!" ejaculated billy. "miss west, to-morrow, when there's more time, i'm going to apologize to you, and everybody, for----" "if you get out this extra, you won't need to apologize to anybody." "but to-night, if you'll let me," continued billy, "i want you to let me say that you're a wonder!" katherine let this praise go by unheeded, and as they hurried toward the square she gave him details she had omitted in her outline. when they reached the _express_ office they found old hosie, who told them that the foreman and the mechanical staff were in the press-room. a shout from billy down the stairway brought the foreman running up. "do you know what's doing, jake?" cried billy. "yes. mr. hollingsworth told me." "everything ready?" "sure, billy. we're waiting for your copy." "good! first of all get these engraved." he excitedly handed the foreman katherine's two documents. "each of 'em three columns wide. we'll run 'em on the front page. and, jake, if you let those get lost, i'll shoot you so full of holes your wife'll think she's married to a screen door! now chase along with you!" billy threw off his drenched coat, slipped into an old one hanging on a hook, dropped into a chair before a typewriter, ran in a sheet of paper, and without an instant's hesitation began to rattle off the story--and katherine, in a sort of fascination, stood gazing at that worth-while spectacle, a first-class newspaperman in full action. but suddenly he gave a cry of dismay and his arms fell to his sides. "my mind sees the story all right," he groaned. "i don't know whether it's that ice-water or the drink, but my arms are so shaky i can't hit the keys straight." on the instant katherine had him out of the chair and was in his place. "i studied typewriting along with my law," she said rapidly. "dictate it to me on the machine." there was not a word of comment. at once billy began talking, and the keys began to whir beneath katherine's hands. the first page finished, billy snatched it from her, gave a roar of "copy!" glanced it through with a correcting pencil, and thrust it into the hands of an in-rushing boy. as the boy scuttled away, a thunderous cheering arose from the court house yard--applause that outsounded a dozen-fold all that had gone before. "what's that?" asked katherine of old hosie, who stood at the window looking down upon the square. "it's blake, trying to speak. they're giving him the ovation of his life!" katherine's face set. "h'm!" said billy grimly, and plunged again into his dictation. now and then the uproar that followed a happy phrase of blake almost drowned the voice of billy, now and then old hosie from his post at the window broke in with a sentence of description of the tumultuous scene without; but despite these interruptions the story rattled swiftly on. again and again billy ran to the sink at the back of the office and let the clearing water splash over his head; his collar was a shapeless rag; he had to keep thrusting his dripping hair back from his forehead; his slight, chilled body was shivering in every member; but the story kept coming, coming, coming, a living, throbbing creation from his thin and twitching lips. as katherine's flying hands set down the words, she thrilled as though this story were a thing entirely new to her. for billy harper, whatever faults inheritance or habit had fixed upon him, was a reporter straight from god. his trained mind had instantly seized upon and mastered all the dramatic values of the complicated story, and his english, though crude and rough-and-tumble from his haste, was vivid passionate, rousing. he told how doctor west was the victim of a plot, a plot whose great victim was the city and people of westville, and this plot he outlined in all its details. he told of doctor sherman's part, at blake's compulsion. he told of the secret league between blake and peck. he declared the truth of the charges for which bruce was then lying in the county jail. and finally--though this he did at the beginning of his story--he drove home in his most nerve-twanging words the fact that blake the benefactor, blake the applauded, was the direct cause of the typhoid epidemic. as a fresh sheet was being run into the machine toward the end of the story there was another tremendous outburst from the square, surpassing even the one of half an hour before. "blake's just finished his speech," called old hosie from the window. "the crowd wants to carry him on their shoulders." "they'd better hurry up; this is one of their last chances!" cried billy. then he saw the foreman enter with a look of concern. "any thing wrong, jake?" "one of the linotype men has skipped out," was the answer. "well, what of that?" said harper. "you've got one left." "it means that we'll be delayed in getting out the paper. i hadn't noticed it before, but grant's been gone some time. we're quite a bit behind you, and simmons alone can't begin to handle that copy as fast as you're sending it down." "do the best you can," said billy. he started at the dictation again. then he broke off and called sharply to the foreman: "hold on, jake. d'you suppose grant slipped out to give the story away?" "i don't know. but grant was a blake man." billy swore under his breath. "but he hadn't seen the best part of the story," said the foreman. "i'd given him only that part about blake and peck." "well, anyhow, it's too late for him to hurt us any," said billy, and once more plunged into the dictation. fifteen minutes later the story was finished, and katherine leaned back in her chair with aching arms, while billy wrote a lurid headline across the entire front page. with this he rushed down into the composing-room to give orders about the make-up. when he returned he carried a bunch of long strips. "these are the proofs of the whole thing, documents and all, except the last part of the story," he said. "let's see if they've got it all straight." he laid the proofs on katherine's desk and was drawing a chair up beside her, when the telephone rang. "who can want to talk to us at such an hour?" he impatiently exclaimed, taking up the receiver. "hello! who's this?... what!... all right. hold the wire." with a surprised look he pushed the telephone toward katherine. "somebody to talk to you," he said. "to talk to me!" exclaimed katherine. "who?" "harrison blake," said billy. chapter xxv katherine faces the enemy katherine took up the receiver in tremulous hands. "hello! is this mr. blake?" "yes," came a familiar voice over the wire. "is this miss west?" "yes. what is it?" "i have a matter which i wish to discuss with you immediately." "i am engaged for this evening," she returned, as calmly as she could. "if to-morrow you still desire to see me, i can possibly arrange it then." "i must see you to-night--at once!" he insisted. "it is a matter of the utmost importance. not so much to me as to you," he added meaningly. "if it is so important, then suppose you come here," she replied. "i cannot possibly do so. i am bound here by a number of affairs. i have anticipated that you would come, and have sent my car for you. it will be there in two minutes." katherine put her hand over the mouthpiece, and repeated blake's request to old hosie and billy harper. "what shall i do?" she asked. "tell him to go to!" said billy promptly. "you've got him where you want him. don't pay any more attention to him." "i'd like to know what he's up to," mused old hosie. "and so would i," agreed katherine, thoughtfully. "i can't do anything more here; he can't hurt me; so i guess i'll go." she removed her hand from the mouthpiece and leaned toward it. "where are you, mr. blake?" "at my home." "very well. i am coming." she stood up. "will you come with me?" she asked old hosie. "of course," said the old lawyer with alacrity. and then he chuckled. "i'd like to see how the senator looks to-night!" "i'll just take these proofs along," she said, thrusting them inside her coat. the next instant she and old hosie were hurrying down the stairway. as they came into the street the westville brass band blew the last notes of "columbia, the gem of the ocean," out of cornets and trombones; the great crowd, intoxicated with enthusiasm, responded with palm-blistering applause; and then the candidate for president of the city council arose to make his oratorical contribution. he had got no further than his first period when blake's automobile glided up before the _express_ office, and at once katherine and old hosie stepped into the tonneau. they sped away from this maelstrom of excitement into the quiet residential streets, katherine wondering what blake desired to see her about, and wondering if there could possibly be some flaw in her plan that she had overlooked, and if after all blake still had some weapon in reserve with which he could defeat her. five minutes later they were at blake's door. they were instantly admitted, and katherine was informed that blake awaited her in his library. she had had no idea in what state of mind she would find blake, but she had at least expected to find him alone. but instead, when she entered the library with old hosie, a small assembly rose to greet her. there was blake, blind charlie peck, manning, and back in a shadowy corner a rather rotund gentleman, whom she had observed in westville the last few days, and whom she knew to be mr. brown of the national electric & water company. blake's face was pale and set, and his dark eyes gleamed with an unusual brilliance. but in his compressed features katherine could read nothing of what was in his mind. "good evening," he said with cold politeness. "will you please sit down, miss west. and you also, mr. hollingsworth." katherine thanked him with a nod, and seated herself. she found her chair so placed that she was the centre of the gaze of the little assembly. "i take it for granted, miss west," blake began steadily, formally, "that you are aware of the reason for my requesting you to come here." "on the other hand, i must confess myself entirely ignorant," katherine quietly returned. "pardon me if i am forced to believe otherwise. but nevertheless, i will explain. it has come to me that you are now engaged in getting out an issue of the _express_, in which you charge that mr. peck and myself are secretly in collusion to defraud the city. is that correct?" "entirely so," said katherine. she felt full command of herself, yet every instant she was straining to peer ahead and discover, before it fell, the suspected counter-stroke. "before going further," blake continued, "i will say that mr. peck and i, though personal and political enemies, must join forces against such a libel directed at us both. this will explain mr. peck's presence in my house for the first time in his life. now, to resume our business. what you are about to publish is a libel. it is for your sake, chiefly, that i have asked you here." "for my sake?" "for your sake. to warn you, if you are not already aware of it, of the danger you are plunging into headlong. but surely you are acquainted with our libel laws." "i am." his face, aside from its cold, set look, was still without expression; his voice was low-pitched and steady. "then of course you understand your risk," he continued. "you have had a mild illustration of the working of the law in the case of mr. bruce. but the case against him was not really pressed. the court might not deal so leniently with you. i believe you get my meaning?" "perfectly," said katherine. there was a silence. katherine was determined not to speak first, but to force blake to take the lead. "well?" said he. "i was waiting to hear what else you had to say," she replied. "well, you are aware that what you purpose printing is a most dangerous libel?" "i am aware that you seem to think it so." "there is no thinking about it; it _is_ libel!" he returned. for the first time there was a little sharpness in his voice. "and now, what are you going to do?" "what do you want me to do?" "suppress the paper." "is that advice, or a wish, or a command?" "suppose i say all three." her eyes did not leave his pale, intent face. she was instantly more certain that he had some weapon in reserve. but still she failed to guess what it might be. "well, what are you going to do?" he repeated. "i am going to print the paper," said katherine. an instant of stupefied silence followed her quiet answer. "you are, are you?" cried blind charlie, springing up. "well, let me----" "sit down, peck!" blake ordered sharply "come, give me a chance at her!" "sit down! i'm handling this!" blake cried with sudden harshness. "well, then, show her where she's at!" grumbled blind charlie, subsiding into his chair. blake turned back to katherine. his face was again impassive. "and so it is your intention to commit this monstrous libel?" he asked in his former composed tone. "perhaps it is not libel," said katherine. "you mean that you think you have proofs?" "no. that is not my meaning." "what then do you mean?" "i mean that i _have_ proofs." "ah, at last we are coming to the crux of the matter. since you have proofs for your statements, you think there is no libel?" "i believe that is sound law," said katherine. "it is sound enough law," he said. he leaned toward her, and there was now the glint of triumph in his eyes. "but suppose the proofs were not sound?" katherine started. "the proofs not sound?" "yes. i suppose your article is based upon testimony?" "of course." his next words were spoken slowly, that each might sink deeply in. "well, suppose your witnesses had found they were mistaken and had repudiated their testimony? what then?" she sank back in her chair. at last the expected blow had fallen. she sat dazed, thinking wildly. had they got to doctor sherman since she had seen him, and forced him to recant? had manning, offered the world by them in this crisis, somehow sold her out? she searched the latter's face with consternation. but he wore a rather stolid look that told her nothing. blake read the effect of his words in her white face and dismayed manner. "suppose they have repudiated their statements? what then?" he crushingly persisted. she caught desperately at her courage and her vanishing triumph. "but they have not repudiated." "you think not? you shall see!" he turned to blind charlie. "tell him to step in." blind charlie moved quickly to a side door. katherine leaned forward and stared after him, breathless, her heart stilled. she expected the following moment to see the slender figure of doctor sherman enter the room, and hear his pallid lips deny he had ever made the confession of a few hours before. blind charlie opened the door. "they're ready for you," he called. it was all katherine could do to keep from springing up and letting out a sob of relief. for it was not doctor sherman who entered. it was the broad and sumptuous presence of elijah stone, detective. he crossed and stood before blake. "mr. stone," said blake, sharply, "i want you to answer a few questions for the benefit of miss west. first of all, you were employed by miss west on a piece of detective work, were you not?" "i was," said mr. stone, avoiding katherine's eye. "and the nature of your employment was to try to discover evidence of an alleged conspiracy against the city on my part?" "it was." "and you made to her certain reports?" "i did." "let me inform you that she has used those reports as the basis of a libellous story which she is about to print. now answer me, did you give her any real evidence that would stand the test of a court room?" mr. stone gazed at the ceiling. "my statements to her were mere surmises," he said with the glibness of a rehearsed answer. "nothing but conjecture--no evidence at all." "what is your present belief concerning these conjectures?" "i have since discovered that my conjectures were all mistakes." "that will do, mr. stone!" blake turned quickly upon katherine. "well, now what have you got to say?" he demanded. she could have laughed in her joy. "first of all," she called to the withdrawing detective, "i have this to say to you, mr. stone. when you sold out to these people, i hope you made them pay you well." the detective flushed, but he had no chance to reply. "this is no time for levity, miss west!" blake said sharply. "now you see your predicament. now you see what sort of testimony your libel is built upon." "but my libel is not built upon that testimony." "not built----" he now first observed that katherine was smiling. "what do you mean?" "just what i said. that my story is not based on mr. stone's testimony." there were exclamations from mr. brown and blind charlie. "eh--what?" said blake. "but you hired stone as a detective?" "and he was eminently successful in carrying out the purpose for which i hired him. that purpose was to be watched, and bought off, by you." blake sank back and stared at her. "then your story is based----" "partly on the testimony of doctor sherman," she said. blake came slowly up to his feet. "doctor sherman?" he breathed. "yes, of doctor sherman." blind charlie moved quickly forward. "what's that?" he cried. "it's not true!" burst from blake's lips. "doctor sherman is in canada!" "when i saw him two hours ago he was at his wife's bedside." "it's not true!" blake huskily repeated. "and i might add, mr. blake," katherine pursued, "that he made a full statement of everything--everything!--and that he gave me a signed confession." blake stared at her blankly. a sickly pallor was creeping over his face. katherine stood up. "and i might furthermore add, gentlemen," she went on, now also addressing blind charlie, "that i know all about the water-works deal, and the secret agreement among you." "hold on! you're going too far!" the old politician cried savagely. "you've got no evidence against me!" "i could hardly help having it, since i was present at your proceedings." "you?" "personally and by proxy. i am the agent of mr. seymour of new york. mr. hartsell here, otherwise mr. manning, has represented me, and has turned over to me the agreement you signed to-day." they whirled about upon manning, who continued unperturbed in his chair. "what she says is straight, gentlemen," he said. "i have only been acting for miss west." a horrible curse fell from the thick, loose lips of blind charlie peck. blake, his sickly pallor deepening, stared from manning to katherine. "it isn't so! it can't be so!" he breathed wildly. "if you want to see just what i've got, here it is," said katherine, and she tossed the bundle of proofs upon the desk. blake seized the sheets in feverish hands. blind charlie stepped to his side, and mr. brown slipped forward out of his corner and peered over their shoulders. first they saw the two facsimiles, then their eyes swept in the leading points of billy harper's fiery story. then a low cry escaped from blake. he had come upon billy harper's great page-wide headline: "blake conspires to swindle westville; direct cause of city's sick and dead." at that blake collapsed into his chair and gazed with ashen face at the black, accusing letters. this relentless summary of the situation appalled them all into a moment's silence. blind charlie was the first to speak. "that paper must never come out!" he shouted. blake raised his gray-hued face. "how are you going to stop it?" "here's how," cried peck, his one eye ablaze with fierce energy. "that crowd at the square is still all for you, blake. don't let the girl out of the house! i'll rush to the square, rouse the mob properly, and they'll raid the office, rip up the presses, plates, paper, every damned thing!" "no--no--i'll not stand for that!" blake burst out. but blind charlie had already started quickly away. not so quickly, however, but that the very sufficient hand of manning was about his wrist before he reached the door. "i guess we won't be doing that to-night, mr. peck," manning said quietly. the old politician stood shaking with rage and erupting profanity. but presently this subsided, and he stood, as did the others, gazing down at blake. blake sat in his chair, silent, motionless, with scarcely a breath, his eyes fixed on the headline. his look was as ghastly as a dead man's, a look of utter ruin, of ruin so terrible and complete that his dazed mind could hardly comprehend it. there was a space of profound silence in the room. but after a time blind charlie's face grew malignantly, revengefully jocose. "well, blake," said he, "i guess this won't hurt me much after all. i guess i haven't much reputation to lose. but as for you, who started this business--you the pure, moral, high-minded reformer----" he interrupted himself by raising a hand. "listen!" faintly, from the direction of the square, came the dim roar of cheering, and then the outburst of the band. blind charlie, with a cynical laugh, clapped a hand upon blake's shoulder. "don't you hear 'em, blake? brace up! the people still are for you!" blake did not reply. the old man bent down, his face now wholly hard. "and anyhow, blake, i'm getting this satisfaction out of the business. i've had it in for you for a dozen years, and now you're going to get it good and plenty! good night and to hell with you!" blake did not look up. manning slipped an arm through the old man's. "i'll go along with you for a little while," said manning quietly. "just to see that you don't start any trouble." as the pair were going out mr. brown, who had thus far not said a single word, bent his fatherly figure over blake. "of course, you realize, mr. blake, that our relations are necessarily at an end," he said in a low voice. "of course," blake said dully. "i'm very sorry we cannot help you, but of course you realize we cannot afford to be involved in a mess like this. good night." and he followed the others out, old hosie behind him. for a space katherine stood alone, gazing down upon blake's bowed and silent figure. now that it was all over, now that his allies had all deserted him, to see this man whom she had known as so proud, so strong, so admired, with such a boundless future--who had once been her own ideal of a great man--who had once declared himself her lover--to see this man now brought so low, stirred in her a strange emotion, in which there was something of pity, something of sympathy, and a tugging remembrance of the love he long ago had offered. but the noise of the front door closing upon the men recalled her to herself, and very softly, so as not to disturb him, she started away. her hand was on the knob, when there sounded a dry and husky voice from behind her. "wait, katherine! wait!" chapter xxvi an idol's fall she turned. blake had risen from his chair. "what is it?" she asked. he came up to her, the proofs still in his hands. he was unsteady upon his feet, like a man dizzy from a heavy blow. the face which she had been accustomed to see only as full of poise and strength and dignity was now supremely haggard. when he spoke he spoke in uttermost despair--huskily, chokingly, yet with an effort at control. "do you know what this is going to do to me?" he asked, holding out the proof-sheets. "yes," she said. "it is going to ruin me--reputation, fortune, future! everything!" she did not answer him. "yes, that is going to be the result," he continued in his slow, husky voice. "only one thing can save me." "and that?" he stared at her for a moment with wildly burning eyes. then he wet his dry lips. "that is for you to countermand this extra." "you ask me to do that?" "it is my only chance. i do." "i believe you are out of your mind!" she cried. "i believe i am!" he said hoarsely. "think just a moment, and you will see that what you ask is quite impossible. just think a moment." he was silent for a time. a tremor ran through him, his body stiffened. "no, i do not ask it," he said. "i am not trying to excuse myself now, but when a thing falls so unexpectedly, so suddenly----" a choking at the throat stopped him. "if i have seemed to whimper, i take it back. you have beaten me, katherine. but i hope i can take defeat like a man." she did not answer. they continued gazing at one another. in the silence of the great house they could hear each other's agitated breathing. into his dark face, now turned so gray, there crept a strange, drawn look--a look that sent a tingling through all her body. "what is it?" she asked. "to think," he exclaimed in a low, far-away voice, almost to himself, "that i have lost everything through you! through you, through whom i might have gained everything!" "gained everything? through me?" she repeated. "how?" "i am sure i would have kept out of such things--as this--if, five years ago, you had said 'yes' instead of 'no'." "said yes?" she breathed. "i think you would have kept me in the straight road. for i would not have dared to fall below your standards. for i"--he drew a deep, convulsive breath--"for i loved you, katherine, better than anything in all the world!" she trembled at the intensity of his voice. "you loved me--like that?" "yes. and since i have lost you, and lost everything, there is perhaps no harm in my telling you something else. only on that one night did i open my lips about love to you--but i have loved you through all the years since then. and ... and i still love you." "you still love me?" she whispered. "i still love you." she stared at him. "and yet all these months you have fought against me!" "i have not fought against _you_," he said. "somehow, i got started in this way, and i have fought to win--have fought against exposure, against defeat." "and you still love me?" she murmured, still amazed. as she gazed at him there shot into her a poignant pang of pity for this splendid figure, tottering on the edge of the abyss. for an instant she thought only of him. "you asked me a moment ago to suppress the paper," she cried impulsively. "shall i do it?" "i now ask nothing," said he. "no--no--i can't suppress the paper!" she said in anguish. "that would be to leave father disgraced, and mr. bruce disgraced, and the city----but what are you going to do?" "i do not know. this has come so suddenly. i have had no time to think." "you must at least have time to think! if you had an hour--two hours?" there was a momentary flash of hope in his eyes. "if i had an hour----" "then we'll delay the paper!" she cried. she sprang excitedly to the telephone upon blake's desk. the next instant she had billy harper on the wire, blake watching her, motionless in his tracks. "mr. harper," she said, "it is now half-past ten. i want you to hold the paper back till eleven-thirty.... what's that?" she listened for a moment, then slowly hung up the receiver. she did not at once turn round, but when she did her face was very white. "well?" blake asked. "i'm sorry," she said, barely above a whisper. "the paper has been upon the street for ten minutes." they gazed at one another for several moments, both motionless, both without a word. then thin, sharp cries penetrated the room. blake's lips parted. "what is that?" he asked mechanically. katherine crossed and raised a window. through it came shrill, boyish voices: "extry! extry! all about the great blake conspiracy!" these avant couriers of blake's disgrace sped onward down the avenue. katherine turned slowly back to blake. he still stood in the same posture, leaning heavily upon an arm that rested on his mahogany desk. he did not speak. nor was there anything that katherine could say. it was for but a moment or two that they stood in this strained silence. then a dim outcry sounded from the centre of the town. in but a second, it seemed, this outcry had mounted to a roar. "it is the crowd--at the square," said blake, in a dry whisper. "yes." "the extra--they have seen it." the roar rose louder--louder. it was like the thunder of an on-rushing flood that has burst its dam. it began to separate into distinct cries, and the shuffle of running feet. "they are coming this way," said blake in his same dry, mechanical tone. there was no need for katherine to reply. the fact was too apparent. she moved to the open window, and stood there waiting. the roar grew nearer--nearer. in but a moment, it seemed to her, the front of this human flood appeared just beyond her own house. the next moment the crowd began to pour into blake's wide lawn--by the hundreds--by the thousands. many of them still carried in clenched hands crumpled copies of the _express_. here and there, luridly illuminating the wild scene, blazed a smoking torch of a member of the blake marching club. and out of the mouths of this great mob, which less than a short hour before had lauded him to the stars--out of the mouths of these his erewhile idolaters, came the most fearful imprecations, the most fearful cries for vengeance. katherine became aware that blake was standing behind her gazing down upon this human storm. she turned, and in his pallid face she plainly read the passionate regret that was surging through his being. his had been the chance to serve these people, and serve them with honour to himself--honour that hardly had a limit. and now he had lost them, lost them utterly and forever, and with them had lost everything! some one below saw his face at the window and swore shriekingly to have his life. blake drew quickly back and stood again beside his desk. he was white--living flesh could not be more white--but he still maintained that calm control which had succeeded his first desperate consternation. "what are you going to do?" katherine asked. he very quietly drew out a drawer of his desk and picked up a pistol. "what!" she cried. "you are not going to fight them off!" "no. i have injured enough of them already," he replied in his measured tone. "keep all this from my mother as long as you can--at least till she is stronger." as she saw his intention katherine sprang forward and caught the weapon he was turning upon himself. "no! no! you must not do that!" "but i must," he returned quietly. "listen!" the cries without had grown more violent. the heavy front door was resounding with blows. "don't you see that this is the only thing that's left?" he asked. "and don't you see," she said rapidly, "its effect upon your mother? in her weakened condition, your death will be her death. you just said you had injured enough already. do you want to kill one more? and besides, and in spite of all," she added with a sudden fire, "there's a big man in you! face it like that man!" he hesitated. then he relaxed his hold upon the pistol, still without speaking. katherine returned it to its place and closed the drawer. at this instant old hosie, who had been awaiting katherine below, rushed excitedly into the library. "don't you know hell's broke loose?" he cried to katherine. "they'll have that front door down in a minute! come on!" but katherine could not take her gaze from blake's pale, set face. "what are you going to do?" she asked again. "what is he going to do?" exclaimed old hosie. "better ask what that mob is going to do. listen to them!" a raging cry for blake's life ascended, almost deafening their ears. "no, no--they must not do that!" exclaimed katherine, and breathlessly she darted from the room. old hosie looked grimly at blake. "you deserve it, blake. but i'm against mob law. quick, slip out the back way. you can just catch the eleven o'clock express and get out of the state." without waiting to see the effect of his advice old hosie hurried after katherine. she had reached the bottom of the stairway just as cooperated shoulders crashed against the door and made it shiver on its hinges. her intention was to go out and speak to the crowd, but to open the front door was to admit and be overwhelmed by the maddened mob. she knew the house almost as well as she knew her own, and she recalled that the dining-room had a french window which opened upon the piazza on the side away from the crowd. she ran back through the darkened rooms, swung open this window and ran about the piazza to the front door. as she reached it, the human battering-ram drew back for another infuriated lunge. she sprang between the men and the door. "stop! stop!" she cried. "what the hell's this!" ejaculated the leader of the assault. "say, if it ain't a woman!" cried a member of the battering-ram. "out of the way with you!" roared the leader in a fury. but she placed her back against the door. "stop--men! give me just one word!" "better stop this, boys!" gasped a man at the foot of the steps, struggling in half a dozen pairs of arms. "i warn you! it's against the law!" "shut up, jim nichols; this is our business!" cried the leader to the helpless sheriff. "and now, you"--turning again to katherine--"out of the way!" the seething, torch-lit mob on the lawn below repeated his cry. the leader, his wrath increasing, seized katherine roughly by the arm and jerked her aside: "now, all together, boys!" he shouted. but at that instant upon the front of the mob there fell a tall, lean fury with a raging voice and a furiously swinging cane. it was old hosie. before this fierce chastisement, falling so suddenly upon their heads, the battering-ram for a moment pressed backward. "you fools! you idiots!" the old man cried, and his high, sharp voice cut through all the noises of the mob. "is that the way you treat the woman that saved you!" "saved us?" some one shouted incredulously. "her save us?" "yes, saved you!" old hosie cried in a rising voice down upon the heads of the crowd. his cane had ceased its flailing; the crowd had partially ceased its uproar. "do you know who that woman is? she's katherine west!" "oh, the lady lawyer!" rose several jeering voices. for the moment old hosie's tall figure, with his cane outstretched, had the wrathful majesty of a prophet of old, denouncing his foolish and reprobate people. "go on, all of you, laugh at her to-night!" he shouted. "but after to-night you'll all slink around westville, ashamed to look anything in the face higher than a dog! for half a year you've been sneering at katherine west. and see how she's paid you back! it was she that found out your enemy. it was she that dug up all the facts and evidence you've read in those papers there. it was she that's saved you from being robbed. and now----" "she done all that?" exclaimed a voice from the now stilled mob. "yes, she done all that!" shouted old hosie. "and what's more, she got out that paper in your hands. while you've been sneering at her, she's been working for you. and now, after all this, you're not even willing to listen to a word from her!" his voice rose in its contemptuous wrath still one note higher. "and now listen to me! i'm going to tell you exactly what you are! you are all----" but westville never learned exactly what it was. just then old hosie was firmly pulled back by the tails of his prince albert coat and found himself in the possession of the panting, dishevelled sheriff of galloway county. "you've made your point, hosie," said jim nichols. "they'll listen to her now." katherine stepped forward into the space old hosie had involuntarily vacated. with the torchlights flaring up into her face she stood there breathing deeply, awed into momentary silence by the great crowd and by the responsibility that weighed upon her. "if, as mr. hollingsworth has said," she began in a tremulous but clear voice that carried to the farthest confines of the lawn, "you owe me anything, all i ask in return is that you refrain from mob violence;" and she went on to urge upon them the lawful course. the crowd, taken aback by the accusations and revelations old hosie had flung so hotly into their faces, strangely held by her impassioned woman's figure pedestalled above them on the porch, listened to her with an attention and respect which they as yet were far from understanding. she felt that she had won her audience, that she had turned them back to lawful measures, when suddenly there was a roar of "blake! blake!"--the stilled crowd became again a mob--and she saw that the focus of their gaze had shifted from her to a point behind her. looking about, she saw that the door had opened, and that blake, pale and erect, was standing in the doorway. the crowd tried to surge forward, but the front ranks, out of their new and but half-comprehended respect for katherine, stood like a wall against the charge that would have overwhelmed her. blake moved forward to her side. "i should like to speak to them, if i can," he said quietly. katherine held up her hand for silence. the mob hissed and cursed him, and tried to break through the human fortification of the front ranks. through it all blake stood silent, pale, without motion. katherine, her hand still upraised, continued to cry out for silence; and after a time the uproar began in a measure to diminish. katherine took quick advantage of the lull. "gentlemen," she called out, "won't you please give mr. blake just a word!" cries that they should give him a chance to speak ran through the crowd, and thus abjured by its own members the mob quieted yet further. while they were subsiding into order blake looked steadily out upon this sea of hostile faces. katherine watched him breathlessly, wondering what he was about to say. it swept in upon her, with a sudden catching of the throat, that he made a fine figure standing there so straight, so white, with so little sign of fear; and despite what the man had done, again some of her old admiration for him thrilled through her, and with it an infinite pang of regret for what he might have been. at length there was moderate order, and blake began to speak. "gentlemen, i do not wish to plead for myself," he said quietly, yet in his far-carrying voice. "what i have done is beyond your forgiveness. i merely desire to say that i am guilty; to say that i am here to give myself into your hands. do with me as you think best. if you prefer immediate action, i shall go with you without resistance. if you wish to let the law take its course, then"--here he made a slight gesture toward jim nichols, who stood beside him--"then i shall give myself into the hands of the sheriff. i await your choice." with that he paused. a perfect hush had fallen on the crowd. this man who had dominated them in the days of his glory, dominated them for at least a flickering moment in this the hour of his fall. for that brief moment all were under the spell of their habit to honour him, the spell of his natural dignity, the spell of his direct words. then the spell was over. the storm broke loose again. there were cries for immediate action, and counter cries in favour of the law. the two cries battled with each other. for a space there was doubt as to which was the stronger. then that for the law rose louder and louder and drowned the other out. sheriff nichols slipped his arm through blake's. "i guess you're going to come with me," he said. "i am ready," was blake's response. he turned about to katherine. "you deserved to win," he said quietly. "thank you. good-by." "good-by," said she. the sheriff drew him away. katherine, panting, leaning heavily against a pillar of the porch, watched the pair go down the steps--watched the great crowd part before them--watched them march through this human alley-way, lighted by smoking campaign torches--watched them till they had passed into the darkness in the direction of the jail. then she dizzily reached out and caught old hosie's arm. "help me home," she said weakly. "i--i feel sick." chapter xxvii the end of the beginning it was the following night, and the hour was nine. old hosie stood in the sheriff's office in galloway county jail, while jim nichols scrutinized a formal looking document his visitor had just delivered into his hands. "it's all right, isn't it?" said the old lawyer. "yep." the sheriff thrust the paper into a drawer. "i'll fetch him right down." "remember, don't give him a hint!" old hosie warned again. "you're sure," he added anxiously, "he hasn't got on to anything?" "how many more times have i got to tell you," returned the sheriff, a little irritated, "that i ain't said a word to him--just as you told me! he heard some of the racket last night, sure. but he thought it was just part of the regular campaign row." "all right! all right! hurry him along then!" left alone, old hosie walked excitedly up and down the dingy room, whose sole pretension in an æsthetic way was the breeze-blown "yachting girl" of a soap company's calendar, sailing her bounding craft above the office cuspidor. the old man grinned widely, rubbed his bony hands together, and a concatenation of low chuckles issued from his lean throat. but when sheriff nichols reappeared, ushering in arnold bruce, all these outward manifestations of satisfaction abruptly terminated, and his manner became his usual dry and sarcastic one with his nephew. "hello, arn!" he said. "h'are you?" "hello!" bruce returned, rather gruffly, shaking the hand his uncle held out. "what's this the sheriff has just told me about a new trial?" "it's all right," returned old hosie. "we've fought on till we've made 'em give it to us." "what's the use of it?" bruce growled. "the cards will be stacked the same as at the other trial." "well, whatever happens, you're free till then. i've got you out on bail, and i'm here to take you home with me. so come along with you." old hosie pushed him out and down the jail steps and into a closed carriage that was waiting at the curb. bruce was in a glowering, embittered mood, as was but natural in a man who keenly feels that he has suffered without justice and has lost all for which he fought. "you know i appreciate your working for the new trial," he remarked dully, as the carriage rattled slowly on. "how did you manage it?" "it's too long a story for now. i'll tell you when we get home." bruce was gloomily silent for a moment. "of course the blake crowd swept everything at the election to-day?" "well, on the whole, their majority wasn't as big as they'd counted on," returned old hosie. they rode on, bruce sunk in his bitter, rebellious dejection. the carriage turned into the street that ran behind the court house, then after rattling over the brick pavement for a few moments came to a pause. hosie opened the door and stepped out. "hello! what are we stopping here for?" demanded bruce. "this is the court house. i thought you said we were going home?" "so we are, so we are," old hosie rapidly returned, an agitation in his manner that he could not wholly repress. "but first we've got to go into the court house. judge kellog is waiting for us; there's a little formality or two about your release we've got to settle with him. come along." and taking his arm old hosie hurried him into the court house yard, allowing no time for questioning the plausibility of this explanation. but suddenly bruce stopped short. "look at that, won't you!" he cried in amazement. "see how the front of the yard is lighted up, and see how it's jammed with people! and there goes the band! what the dickens----" at that moment some one on the outskirts of the crowd sighted the pair. "there's bruce!" he shouted. immediately there was an uproar. "hurrah for bruce! hurrah for bruce!" yelled the crowd, and began to rush to the rear of the yard, cheering as they ran. bruce gripped old hosie's arm. "what's this mean?" "it means we've got to run for it!" and so saying the old man, with a surprising burst of speed left over from his younger years, dragged his nephew up the walk and through the rear door of the court house, which he quickly locked upon their clamorous pursuers. bruce stared at his uncle in bewilderment. "hosie--hosie--what's this mean?" the old man's leathery face was twitching in a manner remarkable to behold. "drat it," he grumbled, with a quaver in his voice, "why don't you read the _express_ and keep up with the news!" "what's this mean?" demanded bruce. "well, here's a copy of your old rag. read it and see for yourself." bruce seized the _express_ the old man held out to him. up in one corner were the words "_election extra_," and across the top of the page ran the great headline: "bruce ticket sweeps city" bruce looked slowly up, stupefied, and steadied himself with a hand against the door. "is--is that true?" "for my part," declared old hosie, the quaver in his voice growing more prominent, "i don't believe more'n half i see in that dirty sheet!" "then--it's true?" "don't you hear them wild indians yelling for mayor bruce?" bruce was too dazed to speak for a moment. "tell me--how did it happen?" "oh, read your old rag and see!" "for god's sake, hosie, don't fool with me!" he cried. "how did it happen? somebody has been at work. who did it?" "eh! you really want to know that?" "yes, yes! who did it?" "it was done," said old hosie, looking at him very straight and blinking his eyes, "by a party that i understand you thought couldn't do much of anything." "but who? who?" "if you really want to know, the party's name is miss katherine west." bruce's stupefaction outdid itself. "katherine west!" he repeated. old hosie could maintain his rôle no longer. "yes, katherine west!" he burst out in triumphant joy, his words tumbling over one another. "she did it all--every bit of it! and that mob out in front is there to celebrate your election. we knew how things were going to turn out, so we were safe in getting this thing ready in advance. and i don't mind telling you, young fellow, that this celebration is just as much for her as it is for you. the town has simply gone crazy about her and is looking for a chance to kiss her feet. she said she wouldn't come to-night, but we all insisted. i promised to bring her, and i've got to be off. so good-by!" bruce caught his arm. "wait, hosie! tell me what she did! tell me the rest!" "read that paper i gave you! and here, i brought this for you, too." he took from his inside pocket a copy of the extra katherine and billy harper had got out the night before. "those two papers will tell you all there is to tell. and now," he continued, opening a door and pushing bruce through it, "you just wait in there so i'll know where to find you when i want you. i've got to hustle for a while, for i'm master of ceremonies of this show. how's that for your old uncle? it's the first time i've ever been connected with a popular movement in my life except to throw bricks at it, and i ain't so sure i can stand popularity for one whole night." with that he was gone. bruce recognized the room into which he had been thrust as the court room in which he had been tried and sentenced, in which katherine had pleaded her father's case. over the judge's desk, as though in expectation of his coming, a green-shaded drop lamp shed its cone of light. bruce stumbled forward to the desk, sank into the judge's chair, and began feverishly to devour the two copies of his paper. billy harper, penitently sober and sworn to sobriety for all his days, had outdone himself on that day's issue. he told how the voters crowded to the polls in their eagerness to vote for bruce, and he gave with a tremendous exultation an estimate of bruce's majority, which was so great as to be an almost unanimous election. also he told how blind charlie peck had prudently caught last night's eleven o'clock express and was now believed to be repairing his health down at hot springs, arkansas. also he gave a deal of inside history: told how the extra had been gotten out the night before, with the blake mass-meeting going on beneath the _express's_ windows; told of the scene at the home of blake, and blake's strange march to jail; and, freed from the restraint of katherine's presence, who would have forbidden him, he told with a world of praise the story of how she had worked up the case. the election extra finished, bruce spread open the extra of the night before, the paper that had transferred him from a prison cell to the mayor's office, and read the mass of katherine's evidence that billy had so stirringly set forth. then the head of the editor of the _express_, of the mayor of westville, sank forward into his folded arms and he sat bowed, motionless, upon the judge's desk. a great outburst of cheering from the crowd, though louder far than those that had preceded it, did not disturb him; and he did not look up until he heard the door of the court room open. then he saw that old hosie had entered, and with him katherine. "i'll just leave you two for a minute," old hosie said rapidly, "while i go out and start things going by introducing the honourable hiram cogshell." with that the old man took the arm of katherine's father, who had been standing just behind, slipped through the door and was gone. a moment later, from in front, there arose a succession of cheers for doctor west. bruce came slowly down from behind the railing of judge kellog's desk and paused before katherine. she was very white, her breath came with a tremulous irregularity, and she looked at him with wide, wondering, half-fearful eyes. at first bruce could not get out a word, such a choking was there in his throat, such a throbbing and whirling through all his being. he dizzily supported himself with a hand upon the back of a bench, and stood and gazed at her. it was she that broke the silence. "mr. hollingsworth did not tell me--you were here. i'd better go." and she started for the door. "no--no--don't!" he said. he drew a step nearer her. "i've just read"--holding up the two papers--"what you have done." "mr. harper has--has exaggerated it very much," she returned. her voice seemed to come with as great a difficulty as his own. "and i have read," he continued, "how much i owe you." "it's--it's----" she did not finish in words, but a gesture disclaimed all credit. "it has made me. and i want to thank you, and i do thank you. and i do thank you," he repeated lamely. she acknowledged his gratitude with an inclination of her head. motions came easier than words. "and since i owe it all to you, since i owe nothing to any political party, i want to tell you that i am going to try to make the very best mayor that i can!" "i am sure of that," she said. "i realize that it's not going to be easy," he went on. "the people seem to be with me now, thanks to you--but as soon as i try to carry out my ideas, i know that both parties will rise up and unite against me. the big fight is still ahead. but since--since you have done it all--i want you to know that i am going to fight straight ahead for the people, no matter what happens to me." "i know," she said. "my eyes have been opened to many things about politics," he added. she did not speak. silence fell between them; the room was infiltered by a multitudinous hum from without. presently the thought, and with it the fear, that had been rising up stronger and stronger in bruce for the last half hour, forced itself through his lips. "i suppose that now--you'll be going back to new york?" "no. i have had several cases offered me to-day. i am going to stay in westville." "oh!" he said--and was conscious of a dizzy relief. then, "i wish you success." "thank you." again there was a brief silence, both standing and looking in constraint at one another. "this celebration is very trying, isn't it?" she said. "i suppose we might sit down while we wait." "yes." they each took the end of a different bench, and rather stiffly sat gazing into the shadowy severity of the big room. sounding from the front of the court house they heard rather vaguely the deep-chested, sonorous rhetoric of the honourable hiram. but they heard it for but an instant. suddenly the court room door flew open and old hosie marched straight up before them. "you're the dad-blastedest pair of idiots i ever saw!" he burst out, with an exasperation that was not an entire success, for it was betrayed by a little quaver. they stood up. "what's the matter?" stammered bruce. "matter?" cried old hosie. "what d'you suppose i left you two people here together for?" "you said you had to start----" "well, couldn't i have another and a bigger reason? i've been listening outside the door here, and the way you people have acted! see here, you two know you love one another, and yet you act toward each other like a pair of tame icebergs that have just been introduced!" he turned in a fury upon his nephew, blinking to keep the moisture from his eyes. "don't you love her?" he demanded, pointing to katherine, who had suddenly grown yet more pale. "why--yes--yes----" "then why in the name of god don't you tell her so?" "i'm--i'm afraid she won't care to hear it," stammered bruce, not daring to look at katherine. "tell her so, and see what she says," shouted old hosie. "how else are you going to find out? tell her what a fool you've been. tell her she's proved to you you're all wrong about what you thought she ought to do. tell her unless you get some one of sense to help run you, you're going to make an all-fired mess of this mayor's job. tell her"--there was a choking in his voice--"oh, boy, just tell her what you feel! "and now," he added quickly, and again sharply, "that mob outside won't listen to the honourable hiram much longer. they want you folks. i give you just two minutes to fix things up. two minutes--no more!" and pulling his high hat down upon his forehead, old hosie turned abruptly and again left the room. bruce looked slowly about upon katherine. his rugged, powerful face was working with emotion. "what uncle hosie has said is all true," he stammered fearfully. "you know i love you, katherine. and there isn't anything you'll want to do that i'll not be glad to have you do. won't you forget, katherine, and won't you--won't you----" he stretched out his arms to her. "oh, katherine!" he cried. "i love you! i want you! i need you!" while he spoke her face had grown radiant. "and i--and i"--she choked, then her voice went on with an uprush of happiness--"and i--oh, arnold, i need you!" * * * * * when old hosie reëntered a minute later and saw what there was to be seen, he let out a little cry of joy and swooped down upon them. "look out, katherine," he warned, quaveringly, "for i'm going to kiss you!" but despite this warning the old man succeeded in his enterprise. "this is great!--great!" he cried, shaking a hand of each. "but we'll have to cut this hallelujah business short till that little picnic outside is over. i just pulled the honourable hiram down--and, say, just listen to that roar!" a roar it was indeed. of a bursting brass band, of thousands of eager people. "and who do you suppose they're shouting for?" inquired the joyous hosie. katherine smiled a tear-bright smile at bruce. "for the new mayor," she said. "no, no! all for you!" said he. "well, come on and we'll see who it's for!" cried old hosie. and taking an arm of each he led them out to face the cheering multitude. the end the country life press garden city. n. y. transcriber's note: minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. si klegg si and shorty meet mr. rosenbaum, the spy, who relates his adventures by john mcelroy book no. published by the national tribune, washington, d. c. [illustration: si and shorty as mounted infantry] (chapter viii.) published by the national tribune co. washington, d. c. second edition copyright contents: preface chapter i. out on picket chapter ii. rosenbaum, the spy chapter iii. the deacon goes home chapter iv. a spy's experiences chapter v. the boys go spying chapter vi. letter from home chapter vii. corn pone and buttermilk chapter viii. a period of self-disgust chapter ix. shorty gets a letter chapter x. trading with the rebs chapter xi. shorty's correspondent chapter xii. the ban on wet goods chapter xiii. the jew spy writes chapter xiv. shorty has an adventure with si chapter xv. shorty nearly got married chapter xvi. an unexpected marriage chapter xvii. gathering information chapter xviii. the jew spy again preface "si klegg, of the th ind., and shorty, his partner," were born years ago in the brain of john mcelroy, editor of the national tribune. these sketches are the original ones published in the national tribune, revised and enlarged somewhat by the author. how true they are to nature every veteran can abundantly testify from his own service. really, only the name of the regiment was invented. there is no doubt that there were several men of the name of josiah klegg in the union army, and who did valiant service for the government. they had experiences akin to, if not identical with, those narrated here, and substantially every man who faithfully and bravely carried a musket in defense of the best government on earth had sometimes, if not often, experiences of which those of si klegg are a strong reminder. the publishers. this book is respectfully dedicated to the rank and file of the grandest army ever mustered for war. chapter i. out on picket the boys show the deacon a new wrinkle in the culinary art. some days later, si had charge of a picket-post on the readyville pike, near cripple deer creek. the deacon went with them, at their request, which accorded with his own inclinations, the weather was getting warmer every day, which made him fidgety to get back to his own fields, though si insisted that they were still under a foot of snow in indiana. but he had heard so much about picket duty that, next to battle, it was the thing he most wanted to see. abraham lincoln was left behind to care for the "house." he had been a disappointment so far, having developed no strong qualities, except for eating and sleeping, of which he could do unlimited quantities. "no use o' takin' him out on picket," observed shorty, "unless we kin git a wagon to go along and haul rations for him. i understand now why these rebels are so poor; the niggers eat up everything they kin raise. i'm afraid, deacon, he'll make the wabash valley look sick when you turn him loose in it." "i guess my farm kin stand him," said the deacon proudly. "it stood si when he was a growin' boy, though he used, to strain it sometimes." they found a comfortable fence-corner facing{ } south for their "tent," which they constructed by making a roof of cedar boughs resting on a rail running from one angle to another. they laid more boughs down in the corner, and on this placed their blankets, making a bed which the deacon pronounced very inviting and comfortable. they built a fire in front, for warmth and for cooking, and so set up housekeeping in a very neat and soldier-like way. [illustration: mr. klegg enjoys solid comfort. ] the afternoon passed without special incident. shorty came in with a couple of chickens, but the{ } deacon had learned enough to repress any questions as to where and how he got them. he soon became more interested in his preparations for cooking them. he had built a big fire in a hole in the ground, and piled a quantity of dry cedar on this. then he cut off the heads and legs of the chickens, and, getting some mud from the side of the road, proceeded to cover each, feathers and all, with a coating nearly an inch thick. "what in the world do you mean by that, shorty?" asked the deacon in surprise. "he's all right. pap," assured si. "he'll show you a new wrinkle in chicken-fixin' that you kin teach mother when you go home. she knows more about cookin' than any other woman in the world, but i'll bet she's not up to this dodge." the fire had by this time burned down to a heap of glowing embers. the boys scraped a hole in these, laid on it their two balls of mud, then carefully covered them with live coals and piled on a little more wood. "i'll say right now," said the deacon, "that i don't think much o' that way. why didn't you take their feathers off and clean out their innards? seems to me that's a nasty way." "wait and see," said shorty sententiously. si had mixed some meal into a dough in the half-canteens he and shorty carried in their haversacks. he spread this out on a piece of sheet-iron, and propped it up before the fire. in a little while it was nicely browned over, when si removed it from the sheet-iron, turned it over, and browned the other side. he repeated this until he had a sufficiency of{ } "hoe cakes" for their supper. a kettle of good, strong coffee had been boiling on the other side of the fire while this was going on. then they carefully raked the embers off, and rolled out two balls of hard-baked clay. waiting for these to cool a little, they broke them. the skin and feathers came off with the pieces and revealed deliciously savory, sweet meat, roasted just to a turn. the intestines had shriveled up with the heat into little, hard balls, which were thrown away. "yum--yum--yum," said shorty, tearing one of the chickens in two, and handing a piece to the deacon, while si gave him a sweet, crisp hoe cake and a cup of strong coffee. "now, this's what you might call livin'. never beat that cookin' in any house that had a roof. only do that when you've stars in the roof of your kitchen." "it certainly is splendid," admitted the deacon. "i don't think maria could've done better." it was yet light when they finished their supper, filled their pipes, and adjusted themselves for a comfortable smoke. one of the men came back and said: "corporal, there's a rebel on horseback down the road a little ways who seems to be spying on us. we've noticed him for some little time. he don't come up in good range, and we haven't fired at him, hopin' he'd come closer. better come and take a look at him." "don't do anything to scare him off," said si. "keep quiet. me and shorty'll sneak down through the field, out of sight, and git him." they picked up their guns and slipped out under{ } the cover of the undergrowth to where they could walk along the fence, screened by the heavy thicket of sumach. catching the excitement of the occasion, the deacon followed them at a little distance. without discovery si and shorty made their way to a covert within an easy yards of where the horseman sat rather uneasily on a fine, mettled animal. they got a good look at him. he was a young, slender man, below medium hight, with curly, coalblack hair, short whiskers, a hooked nose, and large, full eyes. he wore a gray suit of rather better make and material than was customary in the rebel army. he had a revolver in his belt and a carbine slung to his saddle, but showed no immediate intention of using either. his right hand rested on his thigh, and his eyes were intently fixed on the distant picket-post. "a rebel scout," whispered si. "shall we knock him over, and then order him to surrender, or halt him first, and then shoot?" "he can't git away," said shorty. "i have him kivered. you kivver his hoss's head. then call him down." si drew his sights fine on the horse's head and yelled: "surrender, there, you dumbed rebel." [illustration: "surrender, there, you dumbed rebel." ] the man gave a quick start, a swift glance at the blue uniforms, and instantly both hands went up. "that is all right, boys. don't shoot. i'm a friend," he called in a strong german accent. "climb down off o' that boss, and come here, and do it mighty sudden," called out si, with his finger still on the trigger.{ } the horse became restive at the sound of strange voices, but the man succeeded in dismounting, and taking his reins in his hand, led the horse up to the fence. "very glad to see you, boys," said he, surveying their blue garments with undisguised satisfaction, and putting out his other hand to shake. "take off that revolver, and hand it here," ordered the wary shorty, following the man with the muzzle of his gun. the man slipped his arm through the reins, unbuckled his revolver, and handed it to shorty. si jumped over the fence and seized the carbine. "who are you, and where did you come from?" asked si, starting the man up the road toward the post. "what rechiment do you belong to?" asked the stranger, warily. "we belong to co. q, th injianny, the best regiment in gen. rosecrans's army," answered si proudly, that the captive might understand where the honor of his taking belonged. "that is all right," said the stranger, with an air of satisfaction. "the th indianny is a very good regiment. i saw them whip john morgan's cavalry at green river. clumsy farmer boys, but shoot like born devils." "but who are you, and where did you come from?" repeated si impatiently. "i'm all right. i'm levi rosenbaum of gen. rosecrans's secret service. i got some news for him." "you have?" said si suspiciously. "why didn't you ride right in and tell it to him? what've you{ } bin hangin' around here all afternoon, watchin' our post for?" "i wasn't sure you was there. i was told that the yankee pickets was going to be pushed out to cripple deer creek to-day, but i didn't know it for sure. i was afraid that the rebels was there yet. jim jones, of the secret service, had agreed to come out this afternoon and wave a flag if it was all{ } right. i was waiting for his sign. but he is probably drunk. he always gets so when he reaches camp." the deacon joined them in the road, and gave a searching glance at the prisoner. "ain't you a jew?" he inquired presently. "ain't your name rosenbaum? didn't you go through posey county, ind., a year or two ago, with a wagon, sellin' packs o' cloth to the farmers?" "i'm an american citizen," said the man proudly, "the same as the rest of you. my religion is hebrew. i don't know and don't care what your religion is. every man has the religion that suits him. my name is rosenbaum. i did sell cloth in posey county, unt all over indianny. it was good cloth, too, unt i sold it at a bargain." "it certainly was good cloth, and cheap," admitted the deacon. "what in the world are you doin' down here in them clothes?" "i'm doing just what these men are doing here in their cloze," answered rosenbaum. "i'm trying to serve the country. i'm doing it different from them, because i'm built different from them. i hope i'm doing it well. but i'm awfully hungry. got anything to eat? just a cup of coffee and a cracker? don't care for any pork." "yes, we'll give you something to eat," said shorty. "i think there's some of our chicken left. you'll find that good." "how did you cook that?" said rosenbaum, looking at the tempting morsel suspiciously. shorty explained.{ } "thanks; i can't eat it," said rosenbaum with a sigh. "it ain't kosher." "what the devil's that?" asked shorty. "it's my religion. i can't explain. send for the officer of the guard to take me to headquarters," answered rosenbaum, sipping his coffee. chapter ii. rosenbaum, the spy the jew tells the thrilling story of his adventure. the officer of the guard was a long time in coming, and mr. rosenbaum grew quite chatty and communicative, as they sat around the bright fire of cedar logs and smoked. "yes," he said, "i have been in the secret service ever since the beginning of the war--in fact, before the war, for i began getting news for frank blair in the winter before the war. they say jews have no patriotism. that's a lie. why should they have no patriotism for countries where they were treated like dogs? in germany, where i was born, they treated us worse than dogs. they made us live in a little, nasty, pig-pen of an alley; we had to go in at sundown, unt stay there; we had to wear a different cloze from other folks, unt we didn't dare to say our souls were our own to any dirty loafer that insulted us. "here we are treated like men, unt why shouldn't we help to keep the country from breaking up? jews ought to do more than anybody else, unt i made up my mind from the very first that i was going to do all that i could. the generals have told me that i could do much better for the country in the secret service than as a soldier; they could get plenty of soldiers unt but few spies."{ } "now you're shoutin'," said shorty. "they kin git me to soldier as long as the war lasts, for the askin', but i wouldn't be a spy minutes for a corn-basket full o' greenbacks. i have too much regard for my neck. i need it in my business." "you a spy," said si derisively. "you couldn't spy for sour apples. them big feet o' your'n 'd give you dead away to anybody that'd ever seen you before." "spyin' isn't the business that any straightfor'rd man,"--the deacon began to say in tones of cold disapproval, and then he bethought him of courtesy to the stranger, and changed hastily--"that i'd like to do. it's entirely too resky." "o, it's jest as honorable as anything else. pap," said si, divining his father's thought. "all's fair in love and war. we couldn't git along without spies. they're as necessary as muskets and cannon." "indeed they are," said mr. rosenbaum earnestly; "you wouldn't know what to do with your muskets and cannon if the spies didn't tell you where the rebels were, unt how many there was of them. i go out unt get information that it would cost hundreds of lives to get, unt may save thousands of lives, unt all that it costs is one poor little jew's neck, when they drop on to him some day, unt leave him swinging from a tree. but when that time comes, i shall make no more complaint than these other poor boys do, who get their heads knockt off in battle. i'm no better than they are. my life belongs to the country the same as theirs, unt this free government is worth all our lives, unt more, too." his simple, sincere patriotism touched the deacon{ } deeply. "i'd no idee that there was so much o' the man in a jew," he said to himself. then he asked the stranger: "how did you come to go into the spy business, mr. rosenbaum?" "well, i was in st. louis in the clothing pizniss, unt you know it was purty hot there. all the germans were for the union, unt most of the americans unt irish seemed to be secessionists. i sided with the germans, but as nobody seemed to think that a jew had any principles or cared for anything but the almighty dollar, everybody talked right out before me, unt by keepin' my ears wide open i got hold of lots of news, which i took straight to general lyon. i got well acquainted with him, and he used to send me here and there to find out things for him. i'd sell gray uniforms and other things to the secessionists; they'd talk to one another right before me as to what was being done, and i'd keep my ears wide open all the time, though seemed to be only thinking about the fit and the buttons and the gold lace. "then general lyon wanted to find out just exactly how many men there was in camp jackson--no guesswork--no suppose. i took , of my business cards, printed on white, and , printed on gray paper. i went through the whole camp. to every man in uniform i give a white card; to every man without a uniform, who seemed to be there for earnest, i give a gray card. when i got back i counted my cards in general lyon's office, unt found i'd give out white cards unt gray{ } ones. then general lyon took out about , men, unt brought the whole crowd back with him." "then general lyon," continued rosenbaum, "sent me out from springfield, mizzouri, to see how many men old pap price unt ben mccullough had gathered up against him from mizzouri, arkansaw, texas unt the plains. holy moses, i was scared when i saw the pile of them. the whole world seemed to be out there, yipping unt yelling for jeff davis, drinking raw sod-corn whisky, making secession speeches, unt shooting at marks. "i rode right into them, unt pretended that i was looking for mexican silver dollars to take to mexico to buy powder unt lead for the rebel army. i had a lot of new confedrit notes that i'd got from my cousin, who was in the tobacco business in memphis. they was great curiosities, unt every man who had a mexican dollar wanted to trade it for a confedrit dollar. "there was no use tryin' to count the men--might as well have tried to count the leaves on the trees, so i begun to count the regiments. i stuck a pin in my right lapel for every mizzouri regiment, one in my left lapel for every arkansaw regiment, one in my vest for every one from texas. i had black pins for the cannons. i was getting along very well, when i run across bob smiles, a dirty loafer, who had been a customer in st. louis. he wouldn't pay me, unt i had to get out a writ unt levy on his clothes just as he was dressing to go to a quadroon ball. "i left him with only a necktie, which was worth nothing to me, as it had been worn and soiled. he was very sore against me, unt i was not surprised.{ } "it made me sick at my stomach when i saw him come up. "'hello, you damn dutch jew,' he said. 'what are you doing here?' "i tried to be very pleasant, unt i put out my hand unt said, with my best smile: "'good gracious. bob, how glad i am to see you. when did you get here? are you well? how are the other boys? who's here? where are you stopping?' "but i might as well have tried to make friends with a bull dog in front of a farm house where all the people had gone away. "'go to blazes,' he said. 'none of your bizniss how i am, how i got here, or how the other boys are. better not let them find out you're here. they'll take it out of your jew hide for the way you used to skin them in st. louis. i want to know what the devil you are doing here?' "'now, mister smiles,' i said, pleasant as a may morning, 'that's not the way to talk to me. you know i got up the stylishest clothes unt the best fits in st. louis. we had a little trouble, it is true. it was nothing, though. just a little business dispute. you know i always thought you one of the very nicest men in st. louis, unt i said so, even to the squire unt to the constable.' "'go to the devil, you savior-killing jew,' said he. 'shut up your mouth, or i'll stuff a piece of pork in it. i want to know at once what you are doing here? where did you come from?' "'i come from memphis,' said i. 'i'm in the service of the southern confedrisy. general pillow sent{ } me to gather up all the mexican dollars i could find, to send to mexico to buy ammunition.' "'it's a lie, of course,' said he. 'a jew'd rather lie than eat, any day. then you're one of them st. louis dutch--them imported hessians. they're all dead against us. they all ought to be killed. i ought to kill you myself for being so cussed mean to me.' "he put his hand on his revolver in a way that made my breakfast sour in my stomach, but then i knew that bob smiles was a great blowhard, unt his bark was much worse than his bite. in st. louis he was always going to fight somebody unt kill somebody, but he never done neither. quite a crowd gathered around, unt bob blew off to them, unt they yelled, 'hang the jew spy. kill the damn rascal,' and other things that made me unhappy. but what made my flesh crawl was to see a man who wasn't saying much, go to a wagon, pull out a rope, unt begin making a noose on the end. bob smiles caught hold of my collar unt started to drag me toward a tree. just as i was giving up everything for lost, up comes jim jones--the same man i'm going to meet here--he come runnin' up. he was dressed in full uniform as a rebel officer--gray coat unt pants, silver stars on his collar, high boots, gray slouched hat with gold cord, unt so on. "'here, what is the matter? what's all this fuss in camp?' he said. "'we've ketched one of them dutch jews from st. louis spying our camp, major,' said bob smiles, letting loose of my collar to salute the major's silver stars. 'and we are going to hang him.'{ } "'a spy? how do you know he's a spy?'" asked jim jones. "'well, he's dutch; he's a jew, unt he's from st. louis. what more do you want?'" asked bob smiles. [illustration: trying to save his neck. ] the crowd yelled, unt de man with the rope went to the tree unt flung one end over a limb. "'his being a st. louis dutchman is against him,'{ } said jim jones, 'but his being a jew is in his favor. a jew don't care a blame for politics. he hain't got no principles. he'd rather make a picayune off you in a trade than have a wagon-load of principles. but you fellers have got nothing to do with spies, anyway. that's headquarters' bizniss. i'm an officer at general price's headquarters. i'll take him up there unt examine him. bring him along.' "'go along, jew,' said two of three of them, giving me kicks, as bob smiles started with me. the man with the rope stood by the tree looking very disappointed. "when we got near general price's tent, jim jones says to the rest: "'you stop there. come along with me, jew.' "he took me by the collar, unt we walked toward general price's tent. he whispered to me as we went along: 'you're all right, rosenbaum. i know you, unt i know what you're here for. just keep a stiff upper lip, tell your story straight, unt i'll see you through.' [illustration: "i know you, unt what you're here for." ] "that scared me worse than ever, but all that i could do was to keep up my nerve, unt play my cards coolly. we went into the general's tent, but he was busy, unt motioned us with his hand to the adjutant-general. "'what's the matter?' asked the adjutant-general, motioning me to sit down, while he went on making tally marks on a sheet of paper, as a man called off the regiments that had reported. then he footed them all up, unt, turning to another officer, read from it so many arkansaw regiments, so many{ } louisianny, so many mizzouri, so many texas, so many batteries of artillery, unt he said to another officer as he laid the paper face down among the other papers on his table: 'just as i told you, colonel. we have fully , men ready for battle.' then to us: 'well, what can i do for you?' "'the boys had picked up this jew for a spy, colonel,' said jim jones, pointing to me, 'unt they{ } were about to hang him, just to pass away the afternoon more than for anything else. i took him away from them, telling them that it was your privilege to hang spies, unt you could do it according to the science of war. i brung him up here to get him away from them. after they're gone away or got interested in something else i'll take him unt put him outside of camp.' "'all right," said de adjutant-general, without taking much interest in the matter. 'do with him as you please. a jew more or less isn't of any consequence. probably he deserves hanging, though, but it isn't well to encourage the boys to hang men on sight. they're quite too ready to do that, anyway.' "he talked to the other man a little, unt then when he went away he turned to me, unt said, sort of lazy like, as if he didn't care anything about it: "'where are you from?' "'from memphis,' said i. "'great place, memphis,' said he; 'one of the thriving suburbs of satan's kingdom. had lots of fun there. i know every faro bank in it, which speaks well for my memory, if not for my morals. what bizniss was you in?' "'clothing,' said i. "'what a fool question to ask a jew,' said he, yawning. 'of course, you was in the clothing trade. you was born in it. all jews have been since they gambled for the savior's garments.' "'they wasn't jews what gambled for christ's clothes,' said i, picking up a little courage. 'they vass romans--italians--dagoes.'{ } "'was they?' said he. 'well, mebbe they was. i haven't read my bible for so long that i've clean forgot. say, what are you doing with all them pins?' "the question come so unexpected that it come nearly knocking me off my base. i had calculated on almost every other possible thing, unt was ready for it, except that fool question. i thought for a minit that disappointed man by the tree with the rope was going to get his job, after all. but i gathered myself together with a jerk, unt calmly said with a smile: "'o, that's some of my foolishness. i can't get over being a tailor, and sticking all the pins what i find in my lapel. i must pick up every one i see.' "'queer where you found them all,' said he. 'must've brung them from memphis with you. i can't find one in the whole camp. our men use nails unt thorns instead of pins. i've been wanting a lot of pins for my papers. let me have all you got. i wish you had a paper of them.' "i did have two or three papers in my pockets, unt first had a fool idea of offering them to him. then i remembered that disappointed man with the rope by the tree, unt pulled the pins out of my lapels one by one unt give them to him, trying to keep count in my head as i did so. "'what are you doing here, anyway?' he asked as he gathered up the pins unt put them in a pasteboard box. "'i come here at general pillow's orders, to pick up some mexican silfer dollars, to buy ammunition in mexico. "'another of old blowhard pillow's fool schemes,'{ } said he. 'i know old pillow. i served with him in mexico, when he dug his ditch on the wrong side of his fortification. he's probably going to do some-thing else with the dollars than buy ammunition. old gid pillow's a mighty slick one, i tell you, when it comes to filling his own pockets. he's no fool there, whatever he may be in other ways. he's working some scheme to skin our men, unt making you his partner, then he'll turn around unt skin you. i'll stop it going any further by turning you out of camp, unt i ought to take away from you all the money you've gathered up, but i won't do it on one condition.' "'what is your condition?' said i, trying not to speak too quick. "'you say you are in the clothing pizniss. i want awfully a nice uniform, just like the major's there. what's such a uniform worth?' "'about $ ,' said i. "'i paid $ for this in st. louis,' said jim jones. "'well, $ is not much of a skin for a memphis jew,' laughed the adjutant-general. 'i tell you what i'll do, if you'll swear by the book of deuteronomy, unt moses, abraham unt isaac, to have me inside of two weeks just such a uniform as the major's there, i'll let you off with all the money you have made already, unt when you come back with it i'll give you written permission to trade for every silver dollar in camp.' "'it is a bargain,' said i. "'unt it'll be a perfect fit," said he. "'just like the paper on the wall,' said i. 'let me{ } take your measure.' "i had my eye all the time on the paper he had laid carelessly down unt forgotten. i pulled my tapemeasure out. the old idee of the tailor come up. i forgot about the disappointed man with the rope by the tree, unt was my old self taking the measure of a customer. i put all the figures down on his piece of paper, without his noticing what i was using. i asked him about the lining, the trimming, unt the pockets, unt wrote them down. then i folded up the paper unt stuck it in my breast pocket, unt my heart gave a big thump, though i kept my face straight, unt went on talking about buttons unt silk braid unt gold lace for the sleeves. i promised him he should have the uniform in the army in two weeks' time. just then some officers come in, unt jim jones hurried me out. i could not understand jim jones. he hurried me across to a place behind the woods, where we found some horses. "'untie that one unt get on quick,' he said. 'my god, you've got the thing dead to rights; you've got everything on that piece of paper. my god, what luck! smartest thing i ever saw done. get that paper in general lyon's hands before midnight if you kill yourself unt horse in doing it. i'll take you out past part of the guards, unt show you how to avoid the rest. then ride as if the devil was after you, until you reach general lyon's tent.' "i was dumfounded. i looked at jim jones. his eyes was like fire. then it suddenly occurred to me that jim jones was a spy, too. "as i mounted i looked back across the camp. i saw the rope still hanging from a limb of the tree,{ } and the disappointed man sitting down beside it patiently waiting. "that night the paper was in general lyon's hands, unt the next night the army moved out to fight the battle of wilson's creek. "the adjutant-general is still waiting for that uniform." "halt, who comes there?" called out shorty, whose quick ears caught the sound of approaching footsteps. "the officer of the guard," responded from the bank of darkness in the rear. "advance, officer of the guard, and give the countersign," commanded shorty, lowering his musket to a charge bayonets. the officer advanced, leaned over the bayonet's point, and whispered the countersign. "countersign's correct," announced shorty, bringing his gun to a present. "good evening. lieutenant. we have got a man here who claims to belong to the secret service." "yes," answered the officer. "we've been expecting him all afternoon, but thought he was coming in on the other road. i'd have been around here long ago only for that. this is he, is it? well, let's hurry in. they want you at headquarters as soon as possible." "good night, boys," called out mr. rosenbaum as he disappeared; "see you again soon." { } chapter iii. the deacon goes home shorty falls a victim to his gambling propensities. the boys did not finish their tour of picket duty till the forenoon of the next day, and it was getting toward evening when they reached their own camp. "what in the world's going on at the house?" si asked anxiously, as they were standing on the regimental parade ground waiting to be dismissed. strange sounds came floating from that direction. the scraping of a fiddle was mingled with yells, the rush of feet, and laughter. "i'll go over there and see," said the deacon, who had sat down behind the line on a pile of the things they had brought back with them. he picked up the coffee-pot, the frying-pan, and one of the haversacks, and walked in the direction of the house. as he turned into the company street and came in sight of the cabin he looked for an instant, and then broke out: "i'm blamed if they don't seem to be havin' a nigger political rally there, with the house as campaign headquarters. where in time could they have all come from? looks like a crow-roost, with some o' the crows drunk." apparently, all the negro cooks, teamsters, officers' servants, and roustabouts from the adjoining camps{ } had been gathered there, with groundhog, pilgarlic, and similar specimens of the white teamsters among them and leading them. [illustration: the negroes merrymaking. ] seated on a log were three negroes, one sawing on an old fiddle, one picking a banjo, and one playing the bones. two negroes were in the center of a ring, dancing, while the others patted "juba." all were more or less intoxicated. groundhog and pilgarlic were endeavoring to get up a fight between abraham lincoln and another stalwart, stupid negro, and were plying them with whisky from a canteen and egging them on with words.{ } the deacon strode up to groundhog and, catching him by the arm, demanded sternly: "what are you doing, you miserable scoundrel? stop it at once." groundhog, who had drunk considerable himself, and was pot-valiant, shook him off roughly, saying: "g'way from here, you dumbed citizen. this hain't none o' your bizniss. go back to your haymow and leave soldiers alone." the deacon began divesting himself of his burden to prepare for action, but before he could do so, shorty rushed in, gave groundhog a vigorous kick, and he and si dispersed the rest of the crowd in a hurry with sharp cuffs for all they could reach. the meeting broke up without a motion to adjourn. the deacon caught abraham lincoln by the collar and shook him vigorously. "you black rascal," he said, "what've you bin up to?" "didn't 'spect you back so soon. boss," gasped the negro. "said you wouldn't be back till termorrer." "no matter when you expected us back," said the deacon, shaking him still harder, while si winked meaningly at shorty. "what d'ye mean by sich capers as this? you've bin a-drinkin' likker, you brute." "cel'bratun my freedom," gasped the negro. "groundhog done tole me to." "i'd like to celebrate his razzled head offen him," exploded the deacon. "i'll welt him into dog's meat hash if i kin lay my hands on him. he's too mean and wuthless to even associate with mules. if i'd a{ } dog on my place as onery as he is i'd give him a button before night. he's not content with bein' a skunk himself; he wants to drag everybody else down to his level. learnin' you to drink whisky and fight as soon as you're out o' bondage. next thing he'll be learnin' you to steal sheep and vote for vallandigham. i'd like to put a stone around his neck and feed him to the catfish." there was something so strange and earnest about the deacon's wrath that it impressed the negro more than any of the most terrible exhibitions of wrath that he had seen his master make. he cowered down, and began crying in a maudlin way and begging: "pray god, boss, don't be so hard on a poor nigger." si, who had learned something more of the slave nature than his father, ended the unpleasant scene by giving abraham lincoln a sharp slap across the hips with a piece of clapboard and ordering: "pick up that camp-kettle, go to the spring and fill it, and git back here in short meter." the blow came to the negro as a welcome relief. it was something that he could understand. he sprang to his feet, grinned, snatched up the campkettle, and ran to the spring. "i must get that man away from here without delay," said the deacon. "the influences here are awful. they'll ruin him. he'll lose his soul if he stays here. i'll start home with him to-morrow." "he'll do worse'n lose his soul," grumbled shorty, who had been looking over the provisions. "he'll lose the top of his woolly head if he brings another{ } gang o' coons around here to eat us out o' house and home. i'll be gosh durned if i don't believe they've eat up even all the salt and soap. there ain't a crumb left of anything. talk about losin' his soul. i'd give six bits for something to make him lose his appetite." "i'll take him home to-morrow," reiterated the deacon. "i raised over 'leven hundred bushels o' corn last year, 'bout o' wheat, and just an even ton o' pork. i kin feed him awhile, anyway, but i don't know as i'd chance two of him." "what'll you do if you have him and the grasshoppers the same year, pap?" inquired si. that night the deacon began his preparations for returning home. he had gathered up many relics from the battlefield to distribute among his friends at home and decorate the family mantlepiece. there were fragments of exploded shells, some canister, a broken bayonet, a smashed musket, a solid -pound shot, and a quart or more of battered bullets picked up in his walks over the scenes of the heavy fighting. "looks as if you were going into the junk business. pap," commented si, as the store was gathered on the floor. the faithful old striped carpetsack was brought out, and its handles repaired with stout straps. the thrifty deacon insisted on taking home some of si's and shorty's clothes to be mended. the boys protested. "we don't mend clothes in the army, pap," said si. "they ain't wuth it. we just wear 'em out throw 'em away, and draw new ones." the deacon held out that his mother and sisters{ } would take great pleasure in working on such things, from the feeling that they were helping the war along. finally the matter was compromised by putting in some socks to be darned and shirts to be mended. then the bullets, canister, round-shot, fragments of shell, etc., were filled in. "i declare," said the deacon dubiously, as he hefted the carpetsack. "it's goin' to be a job to lug that thing back home. better hire a mule-team. but i'll try it. mebbe it'll help work some o' the stupidity out o' abraham lincoln." the whole of co. q and most of the regiment had grown very fond of the deacon, and when it was noised around that he was going, they crowded in to say good-by, and give him letters and money to take home. the remaining space in the carpetsack and all that in the deacon's many pockets were filled with these. the next morning the company turned out to a man and escorted him to the train, with si and his father marching arm-in-arm at the head, the company fifers playing, "ain't i glad to get out of the wilderness, way down in tennessee," and abraham lincoln, laden with the striped carpetsack, the smashed musket and other relics, bringing up the rear, under the supervision of shorty. tears stood in the old man's eyes as he stood on the platform of the car, and grasped si's and shorty's hands in adieu. his brief farewell was characteristic of the strong, self-contained western{ } man: "good-by, boys. god bless you. take care of yourselves. be good boys. come home safe after the war." [illustration: klegg starts home. ] the boys stood and watched the train with sorrowful eyes until it had passed out of sight in the woods beyond overall's creek, and then turned to go to their camp with a great load of homesickness weighing down their hearts. "just think of it; he's going straight back to god's country," said someone near. a sympathetic sigh went up from all. "shet up," said shorty savagely. "i don't want to hear a word o' that kind. he pulled his hat down over his eyes, rammed his hands deep in his pockets, and strode off, trying to whistle "when this cruel war is over," but the attempt was a dismal failure. si separated from the crowd and joined him. they took an unfrequented and roundabout way back to camp. "i feel all broke up. si," said shorty. "i wish that we were goin' into a fight, or something to stir us up." si understood his partner's mood, and that it was likely to result in an outbreak of some kind. he tried to get him over to the house, so that he could get him interested in work there. they came to a little hidden ravine, and found it filled with men playing that most fascinating of all gambling games to the average soldier--chucka-luck. there were a score of groups, each gathered around as{ } many "sweat-boards." some of the men "running" the games were citizens, and some were in uniform. each had before him a small board on which was sometimes painted, sometimes rudely marked with charcoal, numbers from to . on some of the boards the numbers were indicated by playing-cards, from ace to six-spot, tacked down. the man who "ran" the game had a dice-box, with three dice. he would shake the box, turn it upside{ } down on the board, and call upon the group in front of him to make their bets. the players would deposit their money on the numbers that they fancied, and then, after the inquiry, "all down?" the "banker" would raise the box and reveal the dice. those who had put their money on any of the three numbers which had turned up, would be paid, while those who bet on the other three would lose. chuck-a-luck was strictly prohibited in camp, but it was next to impossible to keep the men from playing it. citizen gamblers would gain admittance to camp under various pretexts and immediately set up boards in secluded places, and play till they were discovered and run out, by which time they would have made enough to make it an inducement to try again whenever they could find an opportunity. they followed the army incessantly for this purpose, and in the aggregate carried off immense sums of the soldiers' pay. chuck-a-luck is one of the fairest of gambling games, when fairly played, which it rarely or never is by a professional gambler. a tolerably quick, expert man finds little difficulty in palming the dice before a crowd of careless soldiers so as to transfer the majority of their bets to his pocket. the regular citizen gamblers were reinforced by numbers of insatiable chuck-a-luckers in the ranks, who would set up a "board" at the least chance, even under the enemy's fire, while waiting the order to move. chuck-a-luck was shorty's greatest weakness. he found it as difficult to pass a chuck-a-luck board as an incurable drunkard does to pass a dram-shop.{ } si knew this, and shuddered a little as he saw the "layouts," and tried to get his partner past them. but it was of no use. shorty was in an intractable mood. he must have a strong distraction. if he could not fight he would gamble. "i'm goin' to bust this feller's bank before i go another step," said he, stopping before one. "i know him. he's the same feller that, you remember, i busted down before nashville. i kin do it agin. he's a bum citizen gambler. he thinks he's the smartest chuck-a-lucker in the army o' the cumberland, but i'll learn him different." "don't risk more'n a dollar," begged si as a final appeal. "all down?" called the "banker." "allow doublin'?" inquired shorty. "double as much as you blamed please, so long's you put your money down," answered the "banker" defiantly. "well, then, here goes a dollar on that five-spot," said shorty, "skinning" a bill from a considerable roll. "don't allow more'n cents bet on single cards, first bet," said the "banker," dismayed by the size of the roll. "thought you had some sand," remarked shorty contemptuously. "well, then, here's cents on the five-spot, and cents on the deuce," and he placed shin-plasters on the numbers. "now, throw them dice straight, and no fingerin'. i'm watchin' you." "watch and be durned," said the "banker" surlily. "watch your own business, and i'll watch mine. i'm as honest as you are any day."{ } the "banker" lifted the box, and showed two sixes and a tray up. he raked in the bets on the ace, deuce, four and five-spots, and paid the others. "fifty cents on the deuce; cents on the five," said shorty, laying down the fractional currency. again they lost. "a dollar on the deuce; a dollar on the five," said shorty. the same ill luck. "two dollars on the deuce; two dollars on the five," said shorty, though si in vain plucked his sleeve to get him away. the spots remained obstinately down. "four dollars on the deuce; four dollars on the five," said shorty. no better luck. "eight dollars on the deuce; eight dollars on the five," said shorty. "whew, there goes more'n a month's pay," said the other players, stopping to watch the dice as they rolled out, with the deuce and five-spot down somewhere else than on top. "and his roll's beginning to look as if an elephant had stepped on it. now we'll see his sand." "come, shorty, you've lost enough. you've lost too much already. luck's agin you," urged si. "come away." "i ain't goin'," said shorty, obstinately. "now's my chance to bust him. every time them spots don't come up increases the chances that they'll come up next time. they've got to. they're not loaded; i kin tell that by the way they roll. he ain't fingerin' 'em; i stopped that when i made him{ } give 'em a rollin' throw, instead o' keep in' 'em kivvered with the box." "sixteen dollars on the deuce; sixteen dollars on the five-spot. and i ain't takin' no chances o' your jumpin' the game on me, mr. banker. i want you to plank down $ alongside o' mine." shorty laid down his money and put his fists on it. "now put yours right there." "o, i've got money enough to pay you. don't be skeered," sneered the "banker," "and you'll git it if you win it." "you bet i will," answered shorty. "and i'm goin' to make sure by havin' it right on the board alongside o' mine. come down, now." the proposition met the favor of the other players, and the "banker" was constrained to comply. "now," said shorty, as the money was counted down, "i've jest $ more that says that i'll win. put her up alongside." the "banker" was game. he pulled out a roll and said as he thumbed it over: "i'll see you $ , and go you $ better that i win." shorty's heart beat a little faster. all his money was up, but there was the $ which the deacon had intrusted to him for charitable purposes. he slipped his hand into his bosom, felt it, and looked at si. si was not looking at him, but had his eyes fixed on a part of the board where the dice had been swept after the last throw. shorty resisted the temptation for a moment, and withdrew his hand. "come down, now," taunted the "banker." "you've blowed so much about sand. don't weaken over a{ } little thing like $ . i'm a thoroughbred, myself, i am. the man don't live that kin bluff me." the taunt was too much for shorty. he ran his hand into his bosom in desperation, pulled out the roll of the deacon's money, and laid it on the board. si had not lifted his eyes. he was wondering why the flies showed such a liking for the part of the board where the dice were lying. numbers of them had gathered there, apparently eagerly feeding. he was trying to understand it. he had been thinking of trying a little shy at the four-spot himself, as he had noticed that it had never won, and two or three times he had looked for it before the dice were put in the box, and had seen the "banker" turn it down on the board before picking the dice up. a thought flashed into his mind. the "banker" picked up the dice with seeming carelessness, dropped them into the box, gave them a little shake, and rolled them out. two threes and a six came up. the "banker's" face lighted up with triumph, and shorty's deadened into acute despair. "i guess that little change is mine," said the "banker" reaching for the pile. "hold on a minnit. mister," said si, covering the pile with his massive hands. "shorty, look at them dice. he's got molasses on one side. you kin see there where the flies are eatin' it." shorty snatched up the dice, felt them and touched his tongue to one side. "that's so, sure's you're a foot high," said he sententiously. just then someone yelled: "scatter! here come the guards!"{ } all looked up. a company coming at the doublequick was almost upon them. the "banker" made a final desperate claw for the money, but was met by the heavy fist of shorty and knocked on his back. shorty grabbed what money there was on the board, and he and si made a burst of speed which took them out of reach of the "provos" in a few seconds. looking back from a safe distance they could see the "bankers" and a lot of the more luckless ones being gathered together to march to the guard-house. "another detachment of horny-handed laborers for the fortifications," said shorty grimly, as he{ } recovered his breath, watched them, and sent up a yell of triumph and derision. "another contribution to the charity fund," he continued, looking down at the bunch of bills and fractional currency in his hands. [illustration: shorty settles with the banker. ] "shorty," said si earnestly, "promise me solemnly that you'll never bet at chuck-a-luck agin as long as you live." "si, don't ask me impossibilities. but i want you to take every cent o' this money and keep it. don't you ever give me more'n $ at a time, under any consideration. don't you do it, if i git down on my knees and ask for it. lord, how nigh i come to losin' that $ o' your father's." chapter iv. a spy's experiences mr. rosenbaum tells the boys more of his adventures. mr. rosenbaum became a frequent visitor to the hoosier's rest, and generally greatly interested si and shorty with his stories of adventure. "how did you happen to come into the army of the cumberland?" asked si. "i'd a-thought you'd staid where you knowed the country and the people." "that was just the trouble," replied rosenbaum. "i got to know them very well, but they got to know me a confounded sight better. when i was in the clothing pizniss in st. louis i tried to have everybody know me. i advertised. i wanted to be a great big sunflower that everybody noticed. but when i got to be a spy i wanted to be a modest little violet that hid under the leaves, unt nobody saw. then every man what knew me become a danger, unt it got so that i shuddered every time that i see a limb running out from a tree, for i didn't know how soon i might be hung from it. i had some awful narrow escapes, i tell you. "but what decided me to leave the country unt skip over de mississippi river was something that happened down in the boston mountains just before the battle of pea ridge. i was down there watching van dorn unt ben mccullough for general curtis, unt{ } was getting along all right. i was still playing the old racket about buying up mexican silver dollars to buy ammunition. one night i was sitting at a campfire with two or three others, when a crowd of texans come up. they was just drunk enough to be devilish, unt had a rope with a noose on the end, which i noticed first thing. i had begun to keep a sharp lookout for such things. my flesh creeped when i saw them. i tried to think what had stirred them up all at once, but couldn't for my life recollect, for everything had been going on all right for several days. the man with the rope--a big, ugly brute, with red hair unt one eye--says: "'you're a jew, ain't you?' "'yes,' says i; 'i was born that way.' "'well,' says he, 'we're going to hang you right off.' unt he put the noose around my neck unt began trying to throw the other end over a limb." [illustration: close call for rosenbaum. ] "'what for?' i yelled, trying to pull the rope off my neck. 'i ain't done nothing.' "'hain't eh?' said the man with one eye. 'you hook-nosed jews crucified our savior.' "'why, you red-headed fool,' said i, catching hold of the rope with both hands, 'that happened more as , years ago. let me go.' "'i don't care if it did,' said the one-eyed man, getting the end of the rope over the limb, 'we didn't hear about it till the chaplain told us this morning, unt then the boys said we'd kill every jew we come across. catch hold of the end here, bowers.' "the other fellers around me laughed at the texans so that they finally agreed to let me go if i'd promise not to do it again, holler for jeff davis, unt treat all around. it was a fool thing, but it scared me worse'n anything else, unt i resolved to get out of there unt go where the people read their bibles unt the newspapers." "how did you manage to keep gen. curtis posted as to the number of rebels in front of him?" asked si. "you couldn't always be running back and forth from one army to the other." "o, that was easy enough. you see. general{ } curtis was advancing, unt the rebels falling back most of the time. there was cabins every little ways along the road. all these have great big fireplaces, built of smooth rocks, which they pick up out of the creek unt wherever they can find them. "i'd go into these houses unt talk with the people unt play with the children. i'd sit by the fire unt pick up a dead coal unt mark on these smooth rocks. sometimes i'd draw horses unt wagons unt men to amuse the children. sometimes i'd talk to the old folks about how long they'd been in the country, how many bears unt deers the man had killed, how far it was to the next place, how the roads run, unt so on, unt i'd make marks on the jam of the fireplace to help me understand. "the next day our scouts would come in unt see the marks unt understand them just as well as if i'd wrote them a letter. i fixed it all up with them before i left camp. i kin draw very well with a piece of charcoal. i'd make pictures of men what would make the children unt old folks open their eyes. our scouts would understand which one meant ben mccullough, which one van dorn, which one pap price, unt so on. other marks would show which way each one was going unt how many men he hat with him. the rebels never dropt on to it, but they came so close to it once or twice that my hair stood on end." "that curly mop of yours'd have a time standing on end," ventured shorty. "i should think it'd twist your neck off tryin' to." "well, something gave me a queer feeling about the throat one day when i saw a rebel colonel stop{ } unt look very hard at a long letter which i'd wrote this way on a rock. "'who done that?' he asked. "'this man here,' says the old woman, 'he done it while he was gassing with the old man unt fooling with the children. lot o' pesky nonsense, marking up de walls dat a-way.' "'looks like very systematic nonsense,' said the colonel very stern unt sour. 'there may be something in it. did you do this?' said he, turning to me. "'yes, sir,' said i, 'i have a bad habit of marking when i'm talking. i always done it, even when i was a child. my mother used to often slap me for spoiling the walls, but she could never break me of it.' "'humph,' said he, not at all satisfied with my story, unt looking at the scratches harder than ever. 'who are you, unt what are you doing here?' "i told him my story about buying mexican silver dollars, unt showed him a lot of the dollars i'd bought. "'your story ain't reasonable,' said he. 'you haven't done bizniss enough to pay you for all the time you've spent around the army. i'll put you under guard till i can look into your case.' "he called to the sergeant of the guard, unt ordered him to take charge of me. the sergeant was that same dirty loafer. bob smiles, that i had the trouble with by wilson's creek. he kicked me unt pounded me, unt put me on my horse, with my hands tied behind me, unt my feet tied under the horse's belly. i was almost dead by night, when we reached headquarters. they gave me something to{ } eat, unt i laid down on the floor of the cabin, wishing i was pontius pilate, so that i could crucify every man in the southern confedrisy, especially bob smiles. an hour or two later i heard bob smiles swearing again." [illustration: the spy in custody. ] "'make out the names of all the prisoners i have,' he was saying, 'with where they belong unt the charges against them. i can't. do they take me for a counter-jumping clerk? i didn't come into the army to be a white-faced bookkeeper, i sprained{ } my thumb the other day, unt i can't write even a httle bit. what am i to do?' "that was all moonshine about his spraining his thumb. he vas ignorant as a jackass. if he had thumbs he couldn't write even his own name so's anybody could read it. "'i don't believe these's a man in a mile of here that can make out such a list,' he went on. they're all a set of hominy-eating blockheads. perhaps that hook-nosed jew might. he's the man. i'll make him do it, or break his swindling head.' "he come in, kicked me, unt made me get up, unt then took me out unt set me down at a table, where he had paper, pen unt ink, unt ordered me to take down the names of the prisoners as he brought them up. he'd look over my shoulder as i wrote, as if he was reading what i set down, but i knowed that he couldn't make out a letter. i was tempted to write all sorts of things about him, but i didn't, for i was in enough trouble already. when i come to my own name, he said: "'make de charge a spy, a thief, unt a dutch traitor to the southern confedrisy.' "i just wrote: 'levi rosenbaum, memphis, tenn. merchant. no charge.' "he scowled very wisely at it, unt pretended to read it, unt said: "'it's lucky for you that you wrote it just as i told you. i'd 'a' broke every bone in your body if you hadn't.' "i'd just got done when an officer come down from headquarters for it. he looked it over unt said: "'who made this out?' "'why, i made it out,' said bob smiles, bold as brass. "'but who wrote it?" said de officer. "'o, i sprained my thumb, so i couldn't write very well, unt i made a jew prisoner copy it,' said bob smiles. "'it's the best writing i have seen,' said the officer. 'i want the man what wrote it to go with me to headquarters at once. i have some copying there to be done at once, unt not one of them corn-crackers that i have up there can write anything fit to read. bring that man out here unt i will take him with me." "bob smiles hated to let me go, but he couldn't help himself, unt i went with the officer. i was so tired i could hardly move a step, unt i felt i could not write a word. but i seemed to see a chance at headquarters, unt i determined to make every effort to do something. they gave me a stiff horn of whisky unt set me to work. they wanted me to make out unt copy a consolidated report of the army. "i almost forgot i was tired when i found out what they wanted, for i saw a chance to get something of great value. they'd been trying to make up a report from all sorts of scraps unt sheets of paper sent in from the different headquarters, unt they had spoiled a half-dozen big sheets of paper after they'd got them partly done. if i do say it myself, i can write better and faster and figure quicker than most any man you ever saw. those rebels thought they had got hold of a wonder--a{ } lightning calculator unt lightning penman together. "as fast as i could copy one paper, unt it would prove to be all right, i would fold it up unt stick it into a big yaller envelope. i also folded up the spoiled reports, unt stuck them in the envelope, saying that i wanted to get rid of them--put them where seeing them wouldn't bother me. i carefully slipped the envelope under the edge of a pile of papers near the edge of the table. i had another big yaller envelope that looked just like it lying in the middle of the table, into which i stuck papers that didn't amount to nothing. i was very slick about it, unt didn't let them see that i had two envelopes. "it was past midnight when i got the consolidated report made out, unt the rebels was tickled to death with it. they'd never seen anything so well done before. they wanted a copy made to keep, unt i said i'd make one, though i was nearly dead for sleep. i really wasn't, for the excitement made me forget all about being tired. "i was determined, before i slept, to have that yellow envelope, with all those papers, in general curtis's hands, though he was miles away. how in the world i was going to do it i could not think, but i was going to do it, if i died a trying. the first thing was to get that envelope off the table into my clothes; the next, to get out of that cabin, away from bob smiles unt his guards, through the rebel lines, unt over the mountains to general curtis's camp. it was a dark, windy night, unt things were in confusion about the camp--just the kind of a time when{ } anybody might kill a jew pedler, unt no questions would be asked. "i had got the last copy finished, unt the officers was going over it. they had their heads together, not inches from me, across the table. i had my fingers on the envelope, but i didn't dare slip it out, though my fingers itched. i was in hopes that they'd turn around, or do something that'd give me a chance. "suddenly bob smiles opened the door wide, unt walked in, with a dispatch in his hand. the wind swept in, blew the candles out, unt sent de papers flying about the room. some went into the fire. the officers yelled unt swore at him, unt he shut the door, but i had the envelope in my breast-pocket. "then to get away. how in the name of moses unt the ten commandments was i to do that? "one of the officers said to bob smiles: 'take this man away unt take good care of him until to-morrow. we'll want him again. give him a good bed, unt plenty to eat, unt treat him well. we'll need him to-morrow.' "'come on, you pork-hating jew,' said bob smiles crabbedly. 'i'll give you a mess of spare-ribs unt corn-dodgers for supper.' "'you'll do nothing of the kind,' said the officer. 'i told you to treat him well, unt if you don't treat him well, i'll see about it. give him a bed in that house where de orderlies stay.' "bob smiles grumbled unt swore at me, unt we vent out, but there was nothing to do but to obey orders. he give me a good place, unt some coffee unt bread, unt i lay down pretending to go to sleep.{ } "i snored away like a good feller, unt presently i heard some one come in. i looked a little out the corner of my eye, unt see by the light of the fire that bob smiles was sneaking back. he watched me for a minute, unt then put his hand on me. "i was scared as i never was, for i thought he vas after my precious yaller envelope. but i thought of my bowie knife, which i always carried out of sight in my bosom, unt resolved dat i vould stick it in his heart, if he tried to take away my papers. but i never moved. he felt over me until he come to de pocket where i had the silver dollars, unt then slipped his fingers in, unt pulled them out one by one, just as gently as if he vas smoothing the hair of a cat. i let him take them all, without moving a muscle. i was glad to haf him take them. i knowed that he was playing poker somewhere, unt had run out of cash, unt would take my money unt go back to his game. "as soon as i heard his footsteps disappear in the distance, i got up unt sneaked down to where the headquarters horses were tied. i must get a fresh one, because my own vas played nearly out. he would never do to carry me over the rough roads i must ride before morning. but when i got there i saw a guard pacing up unt down in front of them. i had not counted on this, unt for a minit my heart stood still. there were no other horses anywheres around. "i hesitated, looked up at headquarters, unt saw de lights still burning, unt made up my mind at once to risk everything on one desperate chance. i remembered that i had put in my envelope some{ } blank sheets of paper, with headquarters, army of the frontier,' unt a rebel flag on dem. there was a big fire burning ofer to the right mit no one near. i went up in de shadow of a tree, where i could see by the firelight, took out one of the sheets of paper unt wrote on it an order to have a horse saddled for me at once. then i slipped back so that it would look as if i was coming straight from headquarters, unt walked up to the guard unt handed him the order. he couldn't read a word, but he recognized the heading on the paper, unt i told him the rest. he thought there was nothing for him to do but obey. "while he was getting the horse i wrote out, by the fire, a pass for myself through the guards. i was in a hurry, you bet, unt it was all done mighty quick, unt i was on the horse's back unt started. i had lost all direction, but i knowed that i had to go generally to the northeast to get to general curtis. but i got confused again, unt found i was riding around unt around the camp without getting out at all. i even come up again near the big fire, just where i wrote out the pass. "just then what should i hear but bob smiles's voice. he had lost all his money--all my money--at poker, unt was damning the fellers he had been playing with as cheats. he was not in a temper to meet, unt i knowed he would see me if i went by the big fire; but i was desperate, unt i stuck the spurs into my horse unt he shot ahead. i heard bob smiles yell: "'there is that jew. where is he going? halt, there! stop him!'{ } "i knowed that if i stopped now i would be hung sure. the only safety was to go as fast as i could. i dashed away, where, i didn't know. directly a guard halted me, but i showed him my pass, unt he let me go on. while he was looking at it i strained my ears, unt could hear horses galloping my way. i knowed it was bob smiles after me. my horse was a good one, unt i determined to get on the main road unt go as fast as i could. i could see by the campfires that i was now getting away from the army, unt i began to hope that i was going north. i kept my horse running. "pretty soon the pickets halted me, but i didn't stop to answer them. i just bolted ahead. the chances of their shooting me wasn't as dreadful as of bob smiles catching me. they fired at me, but i galloped right through them, unt through a rain of bullets that they sent after me. i felt better then, for i was confident i was out in the open country, but i kept my horse on the run. it seemed to me that i went a hundred miles. "just as the day was breaking in the east, i heard a voice, with a strong german accent call out the brush: "'halt! who comes there?' [illustration: rosenbaum runs into sigel's pickets. ] "i was so glad that i almost fainted, for i knowed that i'd reached general sigel's pickets. i couldn't get my lips to answer. "there came a lot of shots, unt one of them struck my horse in the head, unt he fell in the road, throwing me over his head. the pickets run out unt picked me up. the german language sounded the sweetest i ever heard it.{ } "as soon as i could make myself talk, i answered them in german, unt told them who i was. then they couldn't do enough for me. they helped me back to where they could get an ambulance, in which they sent me to headquarters, for i was top weak to ride or walk a step. i handed my yellow envelope to general curtis, got a dram of whisky to keep me up while i answered his questions, unt then went to{ } sleep, unt slept through the whole battle of pea ridge. "after the battle, general curtis wanted to know how much he ought to pay me, but i told him that all i wanted was to serve the country, unt i was already paid many times over, by helping him win a victory. "but i concluded that there was too much bob smiles in that country for me, unt i had better leave for some parts where i was not likely to meet him. so i crossed the mississippi river, unt joined general rosecrans's headquarters." chapter v. the boys go spying on an expedition with rosenbaum they make a capture. mr. rosenbaum's stories of adventure were not such as to captivate the boys with the career of a spy. but the long stay in camp was getting very tedious, and they longed for something to break the monotony of camp guard and work on the interminable fortifications. therefore, when mr. rosenbaum came over one morning with a proposition to take them out on an expedition, he found them ready to go. he went to regimental headquarters, secured a detail for them, and, returning to the hoosier's rest, found the boys lugubriously pulling over a pile of homespun garments they had picked up among the teamsters and campfollowers. "i suppose we've got to wear 'em, shorty," said si, looking very disdainfully at a butternut-colored coat and vest. "but i'd heap rather wear a mustard plaster. i'd be a heap comfortabler." "i ain't myself finicky about clothes," answered shorty. "i ain't no swell--never was. but somehow i've got a prejudice in favor of blue as a color, and agin gray and brown. i only like gray and brown on a corpse. they make purty grave clothes. i always like to bury a man what has butternut clothes on."{ } "what are you doing with them dirty rags, boys?" asked rosenbaum, in astonishment, as he surveyed the scene. "why, we've got to wear 'em, haven't we, if we go out with you?" asked si. "you wear them when you go out with me--you disguise yourselves," said rosenbaum, with fine scorn. "you'd play the devil in disguise. you can't disguise your tongues. that's the worst. anybody'd catch on to that indianny lingo first thing. you've got to speak like an educated man--speak like i do--to keep people from finding out where you're from. i speak correct english always. nobody can tell where i'm from." the boys had hard work controlling their risibles over mr. rosenbaum's self-complacency. "what clothes are we to wear, then?" asked si, much puzzled. "wear what you please; wear the clothes you have on, or anything else. this is not to be a full-dress affair. gentlemen can attend in their working clothes if they want to." "i don't understand," mumbled si. "of course, you don't," said rosenbaum gaily. "if you did, you would know as much as i do, unt i wouldn't have no advantage." "all right," said shorty. "we've decided to go it blind. go ahead. fix it up to suit yourself. we are your huckleberries for anything that you kin turn up. it all goes in our $ a month." "o. k.," answered rosenbaum. "that's the right way. trust me, unt i will bring you out all straight. now, let me tell you something. when you{ } captured me, after a hard struggle, as you remember (and he gave as much of a wink as his prominent jewish nose would admit), i was an officer on general roddey's staff. it was, unt still is, my business to keep up express lines by which the rebels are supplied with quinine, medicines, gun-caps, letters, giving information, unt other things. unt i do it." the boys opened their eyes wide, and could not restrain an exclamation of surprise. "now, hold your horses; don't get excited," said rosenbaum calmly. "you don't know as much about war as i do--not by a hundred per cent. these things are always done in every war, unt general rosecrans understands the tricks of war better as any man in the army. he beats them all when it comes to getting information about the enemy. he knows that a dog that fetches must carry, unt that the best way is to let a spy take a little to the enemy, unt bring a good deal back. "the trouble at the battle of stone river was that the spies took more to general bragg than they brought to general rosecrans. but general rosecrans was new to the work then. it won't be so in future. he knows a great deal more about the rebels now than they know about him, thanks to such men as me." "i don't know as we ought to have anything to do with this, shorty," said si dubiously. "at least, we ought to inquire of the colonel first." "that's all right--that's all right," said rosenbaum quickly. "i've got the order from the colonel which will satisfy you. read it yourself." he handed the order to si, who looked carefully{ } at the printed heading, "headquarters, th ind., near murfreesboro', tenn.," and then read the order aloud to shorty: "corporal josiah klegg and one private, whom he may select, will report to mr. levi rosenbaum for special duty, and will obey such orders and instructions as he may give, and on return report to these headquarters. by order of the colonel. philip blake, adjutant." "that seems all straight. shorty," said si, folding up the order, and putting it in his pocket. "straight as a string," assented shorty. "i'm ready, anyway. go ahead, mr. cheap clothing. i don't care much what it is, so long's it ain't shovelin' and diggin' on the fortifications. i'll go down to tullahoma and pull old bragg out of his tent rather than handle a pick and shovel any longer." "well, as i was going to tell you, i have been back to tullahoma several times since you captured me, unt i have got the express lines between here unt there running pretty well. i have to tell them all sorts of stories how i got away from the yankees. luckily, i have a pretty good imagination, unt can furnish them with first-class narratives. "but there is one feller on the staff that i'm afraid of. his name is poke bolivar, unt he is a terrible feller, i tell you. always full of fight, unt desperate when he gets into a fight. i've seen him bluff all those other fellers. he is a red-hot secessionist, unt wants to kill every yankee in the country. of late he has seemed very suspicious of me, unt has said lots of things that scared me. i want to settle him, either kill him or take him prisoner, unt keep him away, so's i can feel greater ease when i'm in{ } general bragg's camp. i can't do that so long as i know he's around, for i feel that his eyes are on me, unt that he's hunting some way to trip me up. "i'm going out now to meet him, at a house about five miles from the lines. i have my pockets unt the pockets on my saddles full of letters unt things. just outside the lines i will get some more. he will meet me unt we will go back to tullahoma together--that is, if he don't kill me before we get there. i have brought a couple of revolvers, in addition to your guns, for poke bolivar's a terrible feller to fight, unt i want you to make sure of him. i'd take more'n two men out, but i'm afraid he'd get on to so many. "i guess we two kin handle him," said shorty, slipping his belt into the holster of the revolver and buckling it on. "give us a fair show at him, and we don't want no help. i wouldn't mind having it out with mr. bolivar all by myself." "well, my plan is for you to go out by yourselves to that place where you were on picket. then take the right-hand road through the creek bottom, as if you were going foraging. about two miles from the creek you will see a big hewed-log house standing on the left of the road. you will know it by its having brick outside chimneys, unt de doors painted blue unt yaller. there's no other house in that country like it. "you're to keep out of sight as much as you can. directly you will see me come riding out, follered by a nigger riding another horse. i will go up to the house, jump off, tie my horse, go inside, unt presently come out unt tie a white cloth to{ } a post on the porch. that will be a signal to poke bolivar, who will be watching from the hill a mile ahead. you will see him come in, get off his horse, unt go into the house. "by this time it will be dark, or nearly so. you slip up as quietly as you can, right by the house, hiding yourselves behind the lilacs. if the dogs run at you bayonet them. you can look through the windows, unt see me unt bolivar sitting by the fire talking, unt getting ready to start for tullahoma as soon as the nigger who is cooking our supper in the kitchen outside gets it ready unt we eat it. you can wait till you see us sit down to eat supper, unt then jump us. better wait until we are pretty near through supper, for i'll be very hungry, unt want all i can get to keep me up for my long ride. "you run in unt order us to surrender. i'll jump up unt blaze away with my revolver, but you needn't pay much attention to me--only be careful not to shoot me. while you are 'tending to bolivar i'll get on my horse unt skip out. you can kill bolivar, or take him back to camp with you, or do anything that you please, so long's you keep him away from tullahoma. you understand, now?" "perfectly," said shorty. "i think we can manage it, and it looks like a pretty good arrangement. you are to git away, and we're to git mr. bolivar. those two things are settled. any change in the evening's program will depend on mr. bolivar. if he wants a fight he kin git whole gobs of it." going over the plan again, to make sure that the boys understood it, and cautioning them once more as to the sanguinary character of polk bolivar,{ } mr. rosenbaum started for his horse. he had gone but a little ways when he came back with his face full of concern. "i like you boys better than i can tell you," he said, taking their hands affectionately, "unt i never would forgive myself if you got hurt. do you think that two of you'll be able to manage poke bolivar? if you're not sure i'll get another man to help you. i think that i had better, anyway." "o, go along with you," said shorty scornfully. "don't worry about us and mr. bolivar. i'd stack si klegg up against any man that ever wore gray, in any sort of a scrimmage he could put up, and i'm a better man than si. you just favor us with a meeting with mr. bolivar, and then git out o' the way. if it wasn't for dividing up fair with my partner here i'd go out by myself and tackle mr. bolivar. you carry out your share of the plan, and don't worry about us." rosenbaum's countenance brightened, and he hastened to mount and away. the boys shouldered their guns and started out for the long walk. they followed rosenbaum's directions carefully, and arrived in sight of the house, which they recognized at once, and got into a position from which they could watch its front. presently they saw rosenbaum come riding along the road and stop in front of the house. he tied his horse to a scraggy locust tree, went in, and then reappeared and fastened the signal to a post supporting the roof of the porch. [illustration: watching the house. ] they had not long to wait for the answer. soon a horseman was seen descending from the distant hill. as he came near he was anxiously scanned,{ } and appeared a cavalier so redoubtable as to fully justify rosenbaum's apprehensions. he was a tall, strongly-built young man, who sat on his spirited horse with easy and complete mastery of him. even at that distance it could be seen that he was heavily armed. "looks like a genuine fighter, and no mistake," said si, examining the caps on his revolver. "he'll be a stiff one to tackle."{ } "we must be very careful not to let him get the drop on us," said shorty. "he looks quicker'n lightnin', and i've no doubt that he kin shoot like dan'l boone. we might drop him from here with our guns," he added suggestively. "no," said si, "that wouldn't be fair. and it wouldn't be the way rosenbaum wants it done. he's got his reasons for the other way. besides, i'd be a great deal better satisfied in my mind, if i could have it out with him, hand-to-hand. it'd sound so much better in the regiment." "guess that's so," assented shorty. "well, let's sneak up to the house." when they got close to the house they saw that it had been deserted; there were no dogs or other domestic animals about, and this allowed them to get under the shade of the lilacs without discovery. the only inmates were rosenbaum and bolivar, who were seated before a fire, which rosenbaum had built in the big fireplace in the main room. the negro was busy cooking supper in the outbuilding which served as a kitchen. the glass was broken out the window, and they could hear the conversation between rosenbaum and bolivar. it appeared that rosenbaum had been making a report of his recent doings, to which bolivar listened with a touch of disdain mingled with suspicion. the negro brought in the supper, and the men ate it sitting by the fire. [introduction: bolivar and rosenbaum ] "i declare," said bolivar, stopping with a piece of bread and meat in one hand and a tin-cup of coffee in the other, "that for a man who is devoted to the{ } south you can mix up with these yankees with less danger to yourself and to them than any man i ever knew. you never get hurt, and you never hurt any of them. that's a queer thing for a soldier. war means hurting people, and getting hurt yourself. it means taking every chance to hurt some of the enemy. i never miss any opportunity of killing a yankee, no matter what i may be doing, or what the risk is to me. i can't help myself. whenever i see a yankee in range i let him have it. i never go near their lines without killing at least{ } one." shorty's thumb played a little with his gunlock, but si restrained him with a look. "well," said rosenbaum, "i hates the enemy as badly as any one can, but i always have business more important at the time than killing men. i want to get through with what i have to do, unt let other men do the killing. there's enough gentlemen like you for that work." "no, there's not enough," said bolivar savagely. "it's treasonable for you to say so. our enemies outnumber us everywhere. it is the duty of every true southern man to kill them off at every chance, like he would rattlesnakes and wolves. you are either not true to the south, or you hain't the right kind of grit. why, you have told me yourself that you let two yankees capture you, without firing a shot. think of it; a confederate officer captured by two yankee privates, without firing a shot." "they had the dead drop on me," murmured rosenbaum. "if i had moved they'd killed me sure." "dead drop on you!" repeated bolivar scornfully. "two men with muskets have the dead drop on you! and you had a carbine and a revolver. why, i have ridden into a nest of or yankees, who had me covered with their guns. i killed three of them, wounded three others, and run the rest away with my empty revolver. if i'd had another revolver, not one would've got away alive. i always carry two revolvers now." "i think our guns'll be in the way in that room," said shorty, sotting his down. his face bore a look of stern determination. "they're too long. i'm itching to have it out with that feller hand-to-hand.{ } we'll rush in. you pretend to be goin' for rosenbaum and leave me to have it out with mr. bolivar. don't you mix in at all. if i don't settle him he ought to be allowed to go." "no," said si decisively. "i'm your superior officer, and it's my privilege to have the first shy at him. i'll 'tend to him. i want a chance singlehanded at a man that talks that way. you take care of rosenbaum." "we mustn't dispute," said shorty, stooping down and picking up a couple of straws. "here, pull. the feller that gits the longest 'tends to bolivar; the other to rosenbaum." si drew and left the longer straw in shorty's hand. they drew their revolvers and rushed for the room, shorty leading, rosenbaum and bolivar sprang up in alarm at the sound of their feet on the steps, and drew their revolvers. "surrender, you infernal rebels," shouted the boys, as they bolted through the door. with the quickness of a cat, rosenbaum had sidled near the door through which they had come. suddenly he fired two shots into the ceiling, and sprang through the door so quickly that si had merely the chance to fire a carefully-aimed shot through the top of his hat. si jumped toward the door again, and fired a shot in the air, for still further make-believe. he would waste no more, but reserve the other four for bolivar, if he should need them. shorty confronted bolivar with fierce eyes and leveled revolver, eagerly watching every movement and expression. the rebel was holding his pistol pointed upward, and his eyes looked savage. as his eyes met shorty's the latter was amazed to see him close the left with a most emphatic wink. seeing this was recognized, the rebel fired two shots into the ceiling, and motioned with his left hand to si to continue firing. without quite understanding. si fired again. the rebel gave a terrific yell and fired a couple of shots out the window. "do the same," he said to shorty, who complied, as si had done, in half-comprehension. the rebel handed his revolver to shorty, stepped to the window and listened. [illustration: the surprise ] there came the sounds of two horses galloping away on the hard, rocky road. "he's gone, and taken the nigger with him," he said contentedly, turning from the window, and giving another fierce yell. "better fire the other two shots out of that pistol, to hurry him along." shorty fired the remaining shots out of the rebel's revolver. "what regiment do you belong to, boys?" asked bolivar calmly. "the th ind.," answered si, without being able to control his surprise. "a very good regiment," said the rebel. "what's your company?" "co. q," answered si. "who's your colonel?" "col. duckworth." "who's your captain?" "capt. mcgillicuddy." "all right," said the rebel, with an air of satisfaction. "i asked those questions to make sure you were genuine yankees. one can't be too careful in my business. i'm in the united states secret service, and have to be constantly on the watch to keep it from being played on me by men pretending to be yankees when they are rebels, and rebels when they are yankees. i always make it the first point to ask them the names of their officers. i know almost all the officers in command on both sides." "you in the secret service?" exploded the boys.{ } they were on the point of adding "too," but something whispered to them not to betray rosenbaum. "yes," answered bolivar. "i've just come from tullahoma, where i've been around bragg's headquarters. i wanted to get inside our lines, but i was puzzled how to do it. that jew you've just run off bothered me. i wish to the lord you'd killed him. i'm more afraid of him than any other man in bragg's army. he's smart as a briar, always nosing around where you don't want him, and anxious to do something to commend him to headquarters, jew like. i've thought he suspected me, for he'd been paying special attention to me for some weeks. two or three times i've been on the point of tailing him into the woods somewhere and killing him, and so get rid of him. it's all right now. he'll go back to tullahoma with a fearful story of the fight i made against you, and that i am probably killed. i'll turn up there in a week or two with my own story, and i'll give him fits for having skipped out and left me to fight you two alone. say, it's a good ways to camp. let's start at once, for i want to get to headquarters as soon as possible." "you've got another revolver there," said si, who had prudently reloaded his own weapon. "that's so," said bolivar, pulling it out. "you can take and carry it or i'll take the cylinder out, if you are not convinced about me." "you'd better let me carry it," said shorty, shoving the revolver in his own belt. "these are queer times, and one can't be too careful with rebels who{ } claim to be yankees, and yankees who claim to be rebels." they trudged back to camp, taking turns riding the horse. when the rebel rode, however, one of the boys walked alongside with the bridle in his hand. all doubts as to bolivar's story were dispelled by his instant recognition by the provost-marshal, who happened to be at the picket-post when they reached camp. "the longer i live," remarked shorty, as they made their way along to the hoosier's rest, "and i seem to live a little longer every day, the less i seem to understand about this war." shorty spoke as if he had had an extensive acquaintance with wars. "the only thing that i've come to be certain about," assented si, "is that you sometimes most always can't generally tell." and they proceeded to get themselves some supper, accompanying the work of denunciations of the commissary for the kind of rations he was drawing for the regiment, and of the orderly-sergeant for his letting the other orderlies eucher him out of the company's fair share. chapter vi. letter from home the deacon's troubles in getting home with abraham lincoln. one morning the orderly-sergeant handed si the following letter: deer son: i got hoam safely a weke ago, thanks all-protecting providens; likewise about pound of tuff & helthy josiah klegg. providens helpt rite along, but it tuk -year-old injianny hickory & whit-leather pull through sum ov the tite plasis. abraham lincoln is as strong as an ox, but i never thought that anything that diddent wear horns or chew the cud could be so measly dumb. he kin eat as much as buck, our off-steer, & i declare i don't believe he knows any more. we had only bin on the train long enuff for abe to finish up the whole of the days rations you provided us with last us home, when i notist that blowhard billings was on board. he was still dressed in full uniform, & playin off officer yit, but i happened recolleck that he was no officer no more, & it wuz lucky that i done so. he wuz lookin at me & abe hard with them mean, fatfish ize ov hizn. jest as a matter ov precaushon. i make abe change seats with me & taik the inside. billings{ } caim up. you know what i thought ov him ov old, & there's never bin any love lost betwixt us sence i stopped him cheatin poor eli mitchell outen his plow-team. i told him then that the coppers on a dead nigger's eyes wuzzent saif when he wuz around, & i woulddent trust him ez fur ez i could sling a bull by the tale. he got mad at this & never got over it. i never encouraged him to. i woulddent feel satisfied with myself if he wuzzent mad at me. i coulddent change my opinion, even when he tried to steal into respectability by goin into the army. i knowed he'd do anything but fite, & woulddent've bin supprized any day by hearing that him and the other mules in camp had disappeared together. presently billings he cum up very corjil like & says: "howdy, deacon. i hope you air very well." i told him i wuz tollable peart, and he says: "i see a man in the third car forward that wuz inquiring for you, and wanted to see you powerful bad." "that so?" says i, unconcernedlike. "yes," says he. "he wuz awful anxious to see you, and i said i'd send you to him if i cum acrost you." somehow, i dropped onto it in a minnit that he wuz schemin' to git me away from abraham lincoln-- "well," says i, "it's about ez fur for me forward to him as it is for him back here to me. i don't know as i want to see him at all. if he wants to see me so bad let him cum back here."{ } "i think i'd go forward and see him," said billings, sort ov impatient-like. "you'll have no trouble finding him. he's in the third car from here, up at the front end, right-hand side, next to the watercooler. he inquired most partickerlerly for you." "probably he wants borry money," says i, without stirrin'. "men that want particularly see me always do. well, i hain't got none lend--hain't got no more'n 'll talk me hoam." "you'd better go forward & see him," he said very bossy like, as if he was orderin me. "i'd better stay right here, & i'm goin' to stay," says i, so decided that billings see that it was no use. his patience gave clean away. "look here, klegg," said he, mad as a hornet, "i'm after that ere nigger you're trying to steal away into injianny, and by the holy poker i'm goin' to have him! come along here, you black ape," and he laid his hand on abe lincoln's collar. abe showed the white ov his eyes as big as buckeyes, put his arm around the piece betwixt the winders, and held on for deer life. i see by the grip he tuk that the only way git him wuz tear out the side of the car, and i thought i'd let them tussle it out for a minnit or . the others in the car who thought it grate fun to see a lieutenant-kurnol wrastlin' with a nigger, laffed and yelled: "go it, nigger," "go it, kurnel," "grab a root," "i'l bet on the nigger if the car is stout onuf,"{ } and sich. jest then groundhog cum runnin' up to help billings, and reached over and ketched abe, but i hit him a good biff with the musket that changed his mind. billings turned on me, and called out to the others: "men, i order you to arrest this man and tie him up." sum ov them seemed a-mind to obey, but i sung out: "feller-citizens, he ain't no officer--no more'n i am. he ain't got no right to wear shoulder-straps, and he knows it as well as i do." at this they all turned agin him & began yellin at him put his head in a bag. he turned me savage as a meat-ax, but i ketched him by the throat, & bent him back over the seat. the provo-guard cum up, & i explained it them, & showed my passes for me & abe. so they made us all sit down & keep quiet. bimeby we got to nashville. abe lincoln wuz hungry, & i stopped git him something to eat. my gracious, the lot ov ham & aigs at cents a plate & sandwiches at cents a piece that contraband kin eat. he never seemed git full. he looked longingly at the pies, but i let him look. i wuzzent runnin no astor house in connexion with the freedmen's buro. we walked through the city, crost on the ferry, & wuz jest gittin in the cars which wuz about ready start, when up comes billings agin, with or other men in citizen's cloze. one ov these claps his hand on my shoulder & says: "i'm a constable, & i arrest you in the name ov{ } the state ov tennessee for abductin a slave. make no trubble, but come along with me." i jest shook him off, & clumb onto the platform, pullin abe after me. the constable & his men follered us, but i got abe lincoln inside the door, shet it & made him put his shoulders agin it. the constable & his assistants wuz buttin away at it, & me grinnin at them when the train pulled off, & they had jump off. i begin think there wuz something good in abe lincoln, after all, & when we stopped at an eatin-plais, about half-way louisville, & abe looked at the grub as if he haddent had a mouthful sence the war begun, i busted a $ -bill all pieces gittin' him a little supper. if i wuz goin into the bizniss ov freein slaves i'd want have a mule train haulin grub follering me at every step. abe wuz awful hungry agin when we reached louisville, but i found a place where a dollar would buy him enuf pork & beans probably last him over the river. but i begun be efeard that sum nosin pryin mike medler might make trubble in gitting abe safely acrost the ohio. i tuk him a house, & laid it down strong him that he must stay inside all day, and make sure i bargained with the woman keep him eating as much as she could. i ruined a $ bill, & even then abe looked as if he could hold some more. i've always made it a pint lend the lord for the benefit ov the heathen as much as my means would allow, but i begun think that my missionary contribushions this year would beat what i was layin out on my family.{ } after it got dark, me & abe meandered down through the streets the ferry. there wuzzent many people out, except soljers, & i've got feel purty much at home with them. they seem more likely think more nearly my way than folks in every-day clothes. there wuz quite a passel ov soljers on the wharf boat waitin' for the ferry when we got there. they saw at wuns that i had probably bin down the front see my son, & sum ov them axed me what rigiment he belonged. when i told them the th injianny volunteer infantry they all made friends with me at wunst, for they said they knowed it wuz a good rigiment. bimeby a big, important-lookin' man, with a club with a silver head for a cane, cum elbowin through the crowd & scowling at everybody as if he owned the wharf-boat & all on it. he stopped in frunt ov abraham lincoln & says very sharp & cross: "boy, where did you come from?" abe diddent say nothin'. his ize got all white, he grinned sort ov scared like, showed his white teeth, & looked sickly over at me. i spoke up & says: "i brung him along with me from murfreesboro'." "so i sposed," said he. "he's a slave you're tryin steal from his master. you can't do it. i'll jest take charge ov him myself. that's my dooty here," & he ketched hold ov abraham lincoln's collar. abe, in his scare, put out his arms to ketch hold ov something, & throwed them around the big important man, & lifted him clean offen his feet. i never before realized how strong abe wuz. the soljers gethered around, purty mad, and then laffin and{ } yellin when they see the man in abe's arms. suddenly sum one hollered: "throw him overboard; throw him in the river." abe was wuss scared than ever when he found he had the man in his arms. he wuz afeared hold on & still more afeared let go. he heard them hollerin, & thought he had do jest as they said, & begun edgin toward the river. the man got more scared than abe. he began kickin & wrigglin & hollerin: "don't let him do it. help me. i can't swim a lick." at this the men hollered worsen ever: "throw him in the river! duck him! baptize him! drown him!" i'm a baptist, but i don't believe in immersion onless the convert has bin prepared for it, & is willin, which neither this man wuz. i stepped forward make abe let him down, but before t could do anything abe had got the edge of the wharfboat & let go, & plunk went the man into about foot ov water. abe, scared now nearly death, stood there with his ize biggern sassers & whitern goose-eggs. in a minnit the man cum up, sputterin & hollerin. a big sergeant, with his left arm in a sling, reached over & ketchod him by the collar & held his head above water. "if i pull you out will you promis go out ov the niggor-kotchin bizniss forever?" axed the sergeant. "pull me out & then i'll talk you," says the man grabbin for the slippery sides ov the wharfboat.{ } "no, i won't," said the sergeant, sousin him under water agin. "yes, yes, i'll promise," says the man, when he come up agin. "will you swear it?" axed the sergeant. "yes, i'll swear it before a justice ov the peace." "will you swear support the constitution ov the united states agin all enemies & opposers whatsumever, & vote for abraham lincoln every time?" axed the sergeant. "i'll take the oath ov allegiance," says the man, sputterin the water out ov his mouth, "but i'll never vote for that abolition ape as long as i live." "then down you go," says the sergeant, sousin him again. "yes, yes, i'll vote for abe lincoln, & anybody else, if you'll only pull me out," said the man, in a tired tone of voice, when he cum up agin. i begin see that immersion had a great deal ov good in it, even if a man isn't prepared & willin. "will you swear always love a nigger as a man & a brother, until death do you part, & aid & comfort all them who are tryin git away from slavery?" axed the sergeant. "damned if i will," says the man. "no nigger kin ever be a brother me. i'll die first." "then you'll die right now," says the sergeant, sendin him down as far as his long arm would reach & holding him there until i wuz scared for fear he wuz really goin drown the man. when he brung him up the man whimpered: "yes, only pull me out--save my life--& i'll do anything you want."{ } by this time the ferryboat had cum up. we got aboard & crost over to injianny, & i felt so glad at bein on my nativ soil wuns more that i took abe up the eatin stand, & blowed in a dollar filin up the vacant plasis in his hide. when we tried git on the train there cum another trubble: the conductor woulddent let him ride in the car with white folks--not even in the smokin-car. he made him go into the baggage-car. abe wuz so scared about leavin me for a minnit in' that strange country that i tried go into the baggage-car with him, but the conductor woulddent let me. he said it wuz agin the rules for passengers to ride in the baggage-cars, but abe could go in there, same as dogs, prize poultry, & household pets. i tried joke with him, tellin him that in sum plasis i wuz considered a household pet, but he said ide have git another mug on me before he could believe it. one of zeke biltner's hogs ditched the train jest before we got home, & turned the baggage-car over. sum crates ov aigs wuz smashed over abraham lincoln, & he wuz a sight to behold. he wuz awfully scared, though, & begged me let him go the rest ov the way on foot. he said he wuz a thousand years older than when he left his ole massa, & i could understand what he meant. i found your mother & the girls bright & chipper & jest tickled death to see me safe back. they axed me so many questions about you & shorty that my head buzzed like a bee-hive. it is hard git away from them tend my spring work, but i've made an arrangement giv em an hour mornin{ } & evenin answerin questions. i think this will keep me purty busy till the snow flise agin. wheat is lookin surprisinly well, though i found sum bare plasis in the north field. i think we'll have a fair crop ov apples and peaches. your colt is growin up the purtiest thing that ever went on four legs, & jumped an eight-rail fence. my hogs wintered in good shape, & pork is risin. they have the measles over on the crick, & school's broke up. bill scripp's out agin for sheriff, & i spose i'le have turn agin & beat him. singler, that he'll never know when he's got enuff. if anything, abraham lincoln's appetite has bin improved by wabash air. i wuzzent goin have the wimmen folks wear theirselves out cookin for him. so i fix-ed up a place for him in the old log house, & took him over some sides ov meat, a few bushel ov pertaters, a jug ov sorghum molasses, & every time mother bakes she sends over some leaves ov bread. i jest turned him loose there. he seems be very happy, & we hear him singin & yellin most all the time when he's by hisself. he's a good worker when i stand right over him, & he'll lift & dig as patient as an ox. but he hain't no more sense about goin ahead by hisself than a steer has, & the moment my back's turned he stops work. ime af eared i've got a job on my hands makin a firstclass farmer out ov him. but if that's my share ov the work that providens has chalked out for me, there's nothin left for me but go ahead & do it in fear & tremblin. no more from your affeckshionate father. p. s. give my best respects shorty. chapter vii. corn pone and buttermilk si and shorty go foraging and are captured and robbed si and shorty got the common feeling of men of some months' service, that they had fully mastered the art of war, and that there was little, if anything, left for them to learn. it did not take some men even so long as months to acquire this pleasant idea of themselves. some entered the army feeling quite capable of giving advice to the oldest general in it, and they were not slow about offering their opinions. si and shorty had had successes enough since their enlistment to develop a self-confidence which might be pardoned if it expanded into self-sufficiency and vanity. the th ind. had been sent out on a reconnoissance toward shelbyville. no sign of rebels in force developed in any direction, and si and shorty got permission to go off on a little scout of their own. "no use o' huntin' rebels with a brass band," said si, who, since his association with mr. rosenbaum, had gotten some idea that stealth and cunning were efficient war powers. "we kin jest slip around out here somewhere, and if there is any rebels, find 'em, and git more information than the whole regiment kin." "i'm not so thirsty for information and rebels{ } as i am for some fresh buttermilk," said shorty. "somehow, i've been hankering for buttermilk and cornpone for days. i hain't had any for a coon's age, and it'd go mighty good as a change from camp rations. buttermilk and rebels sometimes grow near together. you look for one, i'll look for the other. mebbe we kin git both." "i wouldn't mind havin' some buttermilk an' cornpone myself," said si. "but i'd like much better to drop on some rebels somewhere, and bring 'em into camp, and show that we kin git more information than the whole regiment kin." "all right," assented shorty; "ask the captain to let us go. i'll be bound we'll find something worth goin' for, if it's no more'n a chicken for the captain's supper. i'd like to take in one for him. he's been mighty good to me and you in several ways, and i'd like to show him that we appreciate it." as the regiment had gone as far as ordered without discovering anything that in the least threatened the peace in that portion of tennessee, it would start on its return, after the men had rested and had dinner. si and shorty, consequently, had no difficulty in securing the desired permission. they cut off through a side-road, which gave promise of leading into a better-settled part of the country than that they had been traversing. a mile or so of walking brought them in sight of the substantial chimneys of a farmhouse showing above the trees. a glimpse of a well-fenced field roused warm hopes in shorty's heart. "now, i think we're comin' to a better thing than we've ever struck before," said he, as they stopped{ } and surveyed the prospect. "we've got out o' the barren plateaus and into the rich farming country. that's likely a farm jest like they have up in injianny, and it's way off where they hain't knowed nothin' o' the war. no soljer's ever anigh 'em, and they've jest got lots and plenty o' everything. they've got a great big barnyard full o' chickens and turkeys, pigs and geese and guineas. there, you kin hear the guineas hollerin' now. there's cows layin' in the shade chawin' the cud, while their calves are cavortin' around in the sun, hogs rootin' in the woods-pasture, horses and sheep in the medder, and everything like it is at home. and down a little ways from the house there's a cool springhouse, with clear, cold water wellin' up and ripplin' out over the clean, white sand, with crocks o' fresh milk setting in it with cream half an inch thick, and big jars o' buttermilk from the last churnin', and piggins o' fresh butter, and mebbe a big crock full o' smearkase. si, do you like smearkase?" "'deed i do," answered si, his mouth watering at the thought. "my goodness, you jest orter eat some o' mother's smearkase. she jest lays over all the women in the country for smearkase. many's the time i've come in hot and sweatin from the field, and got a thick slice o' bread clear acrost the loaf from one o' the girls, and went down to our spring-house and spread it with fresh butter, and then put a thick layer o' smearkase on top o' that, and then got about a quart o' cool milk, that was half cream, from ono o' the crocks, and then--" "shot up, si," shouted shorty, desperately. "do you want me to bang you over the head with my{ } musket? do you s'pose i kin stand everything? but i believe there's jest sich a spring-house down there, and we'll find it plumb-full o' all them sort o' things. le's mosey on." "do you think there's any rebels around here?" said si, the caution which experience had taught him making a temporary reassertion of itself. "naw," said shorty, contemtpuously, "there ain't no rebel this side o' the duck river, unless some straggler, who'd run if he saw us. if we ketch sight o' one we'll take him into camp, jest to gratify you. but i ain't lookin' for none. buttermilk and cornpone's what i want." the scene was certainly peaceful enough to justify shorty's confidence. a calmer, quieter landscape could not have been found in the whole country. a negro was plowing in a distant field, with occasional sonorous yells to his team. he did not seem to notice the soldiers, nor did a gray-haired white man who was sitting on the fence superintending him. a couple of negresses were washing the family linen by a fire under a large kettle on the creek bank, at some distance from the house, and spreading the cleansed garments out on the grass to dry and bleach. cattle and horses were feeding on the fresh spring grass and sheep browsing on the bushes on the hillside. hens cackled and roosters crowed; the guineas, ever on the lookout, announced their approach with shrill, crackling notes. two or three dogs waked up and barked lazily at them as they walked up the path to where an elderly, spectacled woman sat on the porch knitting. she raised{ } her eyes and threw her spectacles on top of her head, and looked curiously at them. whatever faint misgivings si might have had vanished at the utter peacefulness of the scene. it was so like the old home that he had left that he could not imagine that war existed anywhere near. it seemed as if the camp at murfreesboro' and the bloody field of stone river must be a thousand miles away. the beds of roses and pinks which bordered the walk were the same as decorated the front yard at home. there were the same clumps of snowballs and lilacs at the corners of the house. "howdy, gentlemen?" said the woman, as they came up. it seemed almost a wrong and insult to be carrying deadly arms in the presence of such a woman, and si and shorty let their guns slip down, as if they were rather ashamed of them. "good day, ma'am," said shorty, taking off his hat politely and wiping his face. "we're lookin' around to git some cornpone and buttermilk, and didn't know but what you might let us have some. we're willin' to pay for it." "if you want suthin' to eat," said the woman promptly, "i kin gin it to ye. i never turn no hungry man away from my door. wait a minnit and i'll bring ye some." she disappeared inside the house, and si remarked to shorty: "your head's level this time, as it generally is. we'll git something that's worth while comin' after." the woman reappeared with a couple of good-size corn-dodgers in her hand.{ } "this appears to be all the bread that's left over from dinner," she said. "and the meat's all gone. but the wenches 'll be through their washin' purty soon, and then i'll have them cook ye some more, if ye'll wait." "thankee, ma'am," said shorty; "we can't wait. this'll be a plenty, if we kin only git some buttermilk to go with it. we don't want no meat. we git plenty o' that in camp." "you can have all the buttermilk you want to drink," she answered, "if you'll go down to the spring-house thar and git it. it's fresh, and you'll find a gourd right beside o' the jar. i'd go with you, but it allers gives me rheumatiz to go nigh the spring-house." "don't bother, ma'am, to go with us," said shorty politely. "we are very much obliged to you, indeed, and we kin make out by ourselves. how much do we owe you?" and he pulled a greenback dollar from his pocket. "nothin', nothin' at all," said the woman hastily. "i don't sell vittels. never thought o' sich a thing. ye're welcome to all ye kin eat any time." "well, take the money, and let us ketch a couple of them chickens there," said shorty, laying down the bill on the banister rail. after a little demur the woman finally agreed to this, and picked up the money. the boys selected two fat chickens, ran them down, wrung their necks, and, after repeating their thanks, took their bread and started for the spring-house. they found it the coolest and most inviting place in the world on a hot, tiresome day--just such a spot as shorty had{ } described. it was built of rough stones, and covered with a moss-grown roof. a copious spring poured out a flood of clear, cool water, which flowed over white pebbles and clean-looking sand until it formed a cress-bordered rivulet just beyond the house. in the water sat crocks of fresh milk, a large jar of buttermilk, and buckets of butter. the looks, the cool, pure freshness of the place, were delightful{ } contrasts from the tiresome smells and appearances of the camp kitchens. the boys reveled in the change. they forgot all about war's alarms, stood their rifles up against the side of the spring-house, washed their dust-grimed faces and hands in the pure water, dried them with their handkerchiefs, and prepared to enjoy their meal. how good the buttermilk tasted along with the cornpone. the fresh milk was also sampled, and some of the butter spread upon their bread. si even went to the point of declaring that it was almost as good as the things he used to eat at home, which was the highest praise he could possibly give to any food. si never found anywhere victuals or cooking to equal that of his mother. he was pointing out to shorty, as they munched, the likenesses and unlikenesses of this spring-house to that on the wabash, when they were startled by the stern command: "surrender, there, you infernal yankees!" [illustration: undesirable acquaintances. ] they looked up with startled eyes to stare into a dozen muskets leveled straight at their heads from the willow thickets. corn-dodgers and milk-gourds dropped into the water as they impulsively jumped to their feet. "if yo'uns move we'uns 'll blow the lights outen yo'uns," shouted the leader of the rebels. "hold up yer hands." it was a moment of the most intense anguish that either of them had ever known. their thoughts were lightning-like in rapidity. the rebel muzzles were not a rod away, their aim was true, and it{ } would be madness to risk their fire, for it meant certain death. the slightest move toward resistance was suicide. si gave a deep groan, and up went his hands at the same moment with shorty's. the rebels rushed out of the clump of willows behind which they had crept up on the boys, and surrounded them. two snatched up their guns, and the others began pulling off their haversacks and other personal property as their own shares of the booty. in the midst of this, si looked around, and saw the woman standing near calmly knitting. "you ain't so afeared o' rheumatism all at once," he said bitterly. "my rheumatiz has spells, young man, same ez other people's," she answered, pulling one of the needles out, and counting the stitches with it. "sometimes it is better, and sometimes it is wuss. jest now it is a great deal better, thankee. i only wisht i could toll the whole yankee army to destruction ez easy ez you wuz. my, but ye walked right in, like the fly to the spider. i never had nothin' do my rheumatiz so much good." and she cackled with delight. "when you git through," she continued, addressing the leader of the rebels, "come up to the house, and i'll have some dinner cooked for ye. i know ye're powerful tired an' hungry. i s'pose nothin' need be cooked for them," and she pointed her knitting-needle contemptuously at si and shorty. "ole satan will be purvidin' fur them. i'll take these along to cook fur ye."{ } she gathered up the dead chickens and stalked back to the house. "ef we're gwine t' shoot they'uns le's take they'uns over thar on the knoll, whar they'uns won't spile nothin'," said one evil-looking man, who had just ransacked si's pockets and appropriated everything in them. "hit'd be too bad t' kill they'uns here right in sight o' the house." "le'me see them letters, bushrod;" said the leader, snatching a package of letters and annabel's picture out of the other's hand. "mebbe thar's some news in them that the captain'd like to have." si gnashed his teeth as he saw the cherished missives rudely torn open and scanned, and especially when the ambrotype case was opened and annabel's features made the subject of coarse comment. the imminent prospect of being murdered had a much lighter pang. while the letters and ambrotype were being looked over the process of robbery was going on. one had snatched si's cap, another had pulled off his blouse, and there was a struggle as to who should have possession of his new government shoes, which were regarded as a great prize. si had resisted this spoliation, but was caught from behind and held, despite his kicks and struggles, while the shoes were pulled off. shorty was treated in the same way. [illustration: the spoils of war ] in a few minutes both, exhausted by their vigorous resistance, were seated on the ground, with nothing left on them but their pantaloons, while their captors were quarreling over the division of their personal effects, and as to what disposition was to be made of them. in the course of the discussion{ } the boys learned that they had been captured by a squad of young men from the immediate neighborhood, who had been allowed to go home on furlough, had been gathered together when the regiment appeared, and had been watching every movement from safe coverts. they had seen si and shorty leave, and had carefully dogged their steps until such moment as they could pounce on them. "smart as we thought we wuz," said si bitterly, "we played right into their hands. they tracked us down jest as if we'd bin a couple o' rabbits, and ketched us jest when they wanted us." he gave a groan which shorty echoed. bushrod and two others were for killing the two boys then and there and ending the matter. "they orter be killed, ike, right here," said bushrod to the leader. "they deserve it, and we'uns hain't got no time to fool. we'uns can't take they'uns back with we'uns, ef we wanted to, and i for one don't want to. i'd ez soon have a rattlesnake around me." but ike, the leader, was farther-seeing. he represented to the others the vengeance the yankees would take on the people of the neighborhood if they murdered the soldiers. this developed another party, who favored taking the prisoners to some distance and killing them there, so as to avoid the contingency that ike had set forth. then there were propositions to deliver them over to the guerrilla leaders, to be disposed of as they pleased. finally, it occurred to ike that they were talking entirely too freely before the prisoners, unless they{ } intended to kill them outright, for they were giving information in regard to the position and operations of rebel bands that might prove dangerous. he drew his squad off a little distance to continue the discussion. at first they kept their eyes on the prisoners and their guns ready to fire, but as they talked they lost their watchful attitude in the eagerness of making their points. si looked at shorty, and caught an answering gleam. like a flash both were on their feet and started on a mad rush for the fence. bushrod saw{ } them start, and fired. his bullet cut off a lock of si's auburn hair. others fired as fast as they could bring their guns up, and the bullets sang viciously around, but none touched the fugitives. their bare feet were torn by the briars as they ran, but they thought not of these. they plunged into the blackberry briars along the fence, climbed it, and gained the road some distance ahead of their pursuers, who were not impelled by the fear of immediate death to spur them on. up the road went si and shorty with all the speed that will-power could infuse into their legs. some of the rebels stopped to reload; the others ran after. a score of noisy dogs suddenly waked up and joined in the pursuit. the old white man mounted his horse and came galloping toward the house. on the boys ran, gaining, if anything, upon the foremost of the rebels. the dogs came nearer, but before they could do any harm the boys halted for an instant and poured such a volley of stones into them that they ran back lamed and yelping. the fleetest-footed of the rebels, who was the sanguinary bushrod, also came within a stone's throw, and received a well-aimed bowlder from si's muscular hand full in his face. this cheered the boys so that they ran ahead with increased speed, and finally gained the top of the hill from which they had first seen the farmhouse. they looked back and saw their enemies still after them. ike had taken the old man's horse and was coming on a gallop. they knew he had a revolver, and shivered at the thought. but both stooped and selected the best stones to throw, to attack him with{ } as soon as he came within range. they halted a minute to get their breath and nerve for the good effort. ike had reached a steep, difficult part of the road, where his horse had to come down to a walk and pick his way. [illustration: an uncomfortable situation ] "now, si," said shorty, "throw for your life, if you never did before. i'm goin' to git him. you take his horse's head. aim for that white blaze in his forehead." si concentrated his energy into one supreme effort.{ } he could always beat the rest of the boys in throwing stones, and now his practice was to save him. he flung the smooth, round pebble with terrific force, and it went true to its mark. the horse reared with his rider just at the instant that a bowlder from shorty's hand landed on ike's breast. the rebel fell to the ground, and the boys ran on. at the top of the next hill they saw the regiment marching leisurely along at the foot of the hill. it was so unexpected a deliverance that it startled them. it seemed so long since they had left the regiment that it might have been clear back to nashville. they yelled with all their remaining strength, and tore down the hill. co. q saw them at once, and at the command of the captain came forward at the double-quick. the rebels had in the meanwhile gained the top of the hill. a few shots were fired at them as they turned from the chase. the colonel rode back and questioned the boys. then he turned to the captain of co. q and said: "captain, take your company over to that house. if you find anything that you think we need in camp, bring it back with you. put these boys in the ambulance." the exhausted si and shorty were helped into the ambulance, the surgeon gave them a reviving drink of whisky and quinine, and as they stretched themselves out on the cushioned seats si remarked: "shorty, we ain't ez purty ez we used to be, but we know a durned sight more." "i doubt it," said shorty surlily. "i think me and you'll be fools as long as we live. we won't be fools the same way agin, you kin bet your life, but we'll find some other way." chapter viii. a period of self-disgust si and shorty have an attack of it, followed by recovery. it took many days for the boys' lacerated feet to recover sufficiently to permit their going about and returning to duty. they spent the period of enforced idleness in chewing the cud of bitter reflection. the thorns had cut far more painfully into their pride than into their feet. the time was mostly passed in moody silence, very foreign to the customary liveliness of the hoosier's rest. they only spoke to one another on the most necessary subjects, and then briefly. in their sour shame at the whole thing they even became wroth with each other. shorty sneered at the way si cleaned up the house, and si condemned shorty's cooking. thenceforth shorty slept on the floor, while si occupied the bed, and they cooked their meals separately. the newness of the clothes they drew from the quartermaster angered them, and they tried to make them look as dirty and shabby as the old. once they were on the point of actually coming to blows. si had thoughtlessly flung some dishwater into the company street. it was a misdemeanor that in ordinary times would have been impossible to him. now almost anything was. shorty instantly growled:{ } "you slouch, you ought to go to the guard-house for that." si retorted hotly: "slouch yourself! look where you throwed them coffee-grounds this morning," and he pointed to the tell-tale evidence beside the house. [illustration: shorty and si are at outs. ] "well, that ain't near so bad," said shorty crustily. "that at least intended to be tidy." "humph," said si, with supreme disdainfulness. "it's the difference betwixt sneakin' an' straightout. i throwed mine right out in the street. you tried to hide yours, and made it all the nastier. but{ } whatever you do's all right. whatever i do's all wrong. you're a pill." "look here, mister klegg," said shorty, stepping forward with doubled fist, "i'll have you understand that i've took all the slack and impudence from you that i'm a-goin' to." "shorty, if you double your fist up at me," roared the irate si, "i'll knock your head off in a holy minute." the boys of co. q were thunderstruck. it seemed as if their world was toppling when two such partners should disagree. they gathered around in voiceless sorrow and wonderment and watched, developments. shorty seemed in the act of springing forward, when the sharp roll of the drum at headquarters beating the "assembly" arrested all attention. everyone looked eagerly toward the colonel's tent, and saw him come out buckling on his sword, while his orderly sped away for his horse. apparently, all the officers had been in consultation with him, for they were hurrying away to their several companies. "fall in, co. q," shouted the orderly-sergeant. "fall in promptly." everybody made a rush for his gun and equipments. "hurry up. orderly," said capt. mcgillicuddy, coming up with his sword and belt in hand. "let the boys take what rations they can lay their hands on, but not stop to cook any. we've got to go on the jump." all was rush and hurry. si and shorty bolted for their house, forgetful of their mangled feet. si{ } got in first, took his gun and cartridge-box down, and buckled on his belt. he looked around for his rations while shorty was putting on his things. his bread and meat and shorty's were separate, and there was no trouble about them. but the coffee and sugar had not been divided, and were in common receptacles. he opened the coffee-can and looked in. there did not seem to be more than one ration there. he hesitated a brief instant what to do. it would serve shorty just right to take all the coffee. he liked his coffee even better than shorty did, and was very strenuous about having it. if he did not take it shorty might think that he was either anxious to make up or afraid, and he wanted to demonstrate that he was neither. then there was a twinge that it would be mean to take the coffee, and leave his partner, senseless and provoking as he seemed, without any. he set the can down, and, turning as if to look for something to empty it in, pretended to hear something outside the house to make him forget it, and hurried out. presently shorty came out, and ostentatiously fell into line at a distance from si. it was the first time they had not stood shoulder to shoulder. the orderly-sergeant looked down the line, and called out: "here, corp'l klegg, you're not fit to go. neither are you, shorty. step out, both of you." "yes, i'm all right," said shorty. "feet's got well. i kin outwalk a wea injun." "must've bin using some lightning elixir liniment," said the orderly-sergeant incredulously.. "i saw you both limping around like string-halted{ } horses not minutes ago. step out, i tell you." "captain, le' me go along," pleaded si. "you never knowed me to fall out, did you?" "captain, i never felt activer in my life," asserted shorty; "and you know i always kept up. i never played sore-foot any day." "i don't believe either of you're fit to go," said capt. mcgillicuddy, "but i won't deny you. you may start, anyway. by the time we get to the pickets you can fall out if you find you can't keep up." "the rebel calvary's jumped a herd of beef cattle out at pasture, run off the guard, and are trying to get away with them," the orderly-sergeant hurriedly explained as he lined up co. q. "we're to make a short cut across the country and try to cut them off. sir, the company's formed." "attention, co. q!" shouted capt. mcgillicuddy. "right face!--forward, file left!--march!" the company went off at a terrific pace to get its place with the regiment, which had already started without it. though every step was a pang. si and shorty kept up unflinchingly. each was anxious to outdo the other, and to bear off bravery before the company. the captain and orderly-sergeant took an occasional look at them until they passed the picket-line, when other more pressing matters engaged the officers' attention. the stampeded guards, mounted on mules or condemned horses, or running on foot, came tearing back, each with a prodigious tale of the numbers and ferocity of the rebels.{ } the regiment was pushed forward with all the speed there was in it, going down-hill and over the level stretch at a double-quick. si felt his feet bleeding, and it seemed at times that he could not go another step, but then he would look back down the line and catch a glimpse of shorty keeping abreast of his set of fours, and he would spur himself to renewed effort. shorty would long to throw himself in a fence-corner and rest for a week, until, as they went over some rise, he would catch sight of si's sandy hair, well in the lead, when he would drink in fresh determination to keep up, if he died in the attempt. presently they arrived at the top of the hill from which they could see the rebel cavalry rounding up and driving off the cattle, while a portion of the enemy's horsemen were engaged in a fight with a small squad of infantry ensconced behind a high rail fence. si and shorty absolutely forgot their lameness as co. q separated from the column and rushed to the assistance of the squad, while the rest of the regiment turned off to the right to cut off the herd. but they were lame all the same, and tripped and fell over a low fence which the rest of the company easily leaped. they gathered themselves up, sat on the ground for an instant, and glared at one another. "blamed old tangle-foot," said shorty derisively. "you've got hoofs like a foundered hoss," retorted si. after this interchange of compliments they staggered painfully to their feet and picked up their{ } guns, which were thrown some distance from their hands as they fell. by this time co. q was a quarter of a mile away, and already beginning to fire on the rebels, who showed signs of relinquishing the attack. "gol darn the luck!" said si with wabash emphasis, beginning to limp forward. "wish the whole outfit was a mile deep in burnin' brimstone," wrathfully observed shorty. a couple of lucky shots had emptied two of the rebel saddles. the frightened horses turned away from the fighting line, and galloped down the road to the right of the boys. the leading one suddenly halted in a fence-corner about yards away from si, threw up his head and began surveying the scene, as if undecided what to do next. the other, seeing his mate stop, began circling around. hope leaped up in si's breast. he began creeping toward the first horse, under the covert of the sumach. shorty saw his design and the advantage it would give si, and, standing still, began swearing worse than ever. si crept up as cautiously as he had used to in the old days when he was rabbit-hunting. the horse thrust his head over the fence, and began nibbling at a clump of tall rye growing there. si thrust his hand out and caught his bridle. the horse made one frightened plunge, but the hand on his bridle held with the grip of iron, and he settled down to mute obedience. si set his gun down in the fence-corner and climbed into the saddle. shorty made the spring air yellow with profanity{ } until he saw si ride away from his gun toward the other horse. when the latter saw his mate, with a rider, coming toward him he gave a whinney and dashed forward. in an instant si had hold of his bridle and was turning back. his face was bright with triumph. shorty stopped in the middle of a soul-curdling oath and yelled delightedly: "bully for old wabash! you're my pardner after all si." he hastened forward to the fence, grabbed up si's gun and handed it to him and then climbed into the other saddle. the rebels were now falling back rapidly before co. q's fire. a small part detached itself and started down a side road. si and shorty gave a yell, and galloped toward them, in full sight of co. q. who raised a cheer. the rebels spurred their horses, but si and shorty gained on them. "come on. shorty." si yelled. "i don't believe they've got a shot left. they hain't fired once since they started." he was right. their cartridge-boxes had been emptied. at the bottom of the hill a creek crossing the road made a deep, wide quagmire. the rebels were in too much hurry to pick out whatever road there might have been through it. their leaders plunged in, their horses sank nearly to the knees, and the whole party bunched up. "surrender, you rebel galoots." yelled si reining up at a little distance, and bringing his gun to bear.{ } "surrender, you off-scourings of secession," added shorty. [illustration: si and shorty as mounted infantry ] the rebels looked back, held up their hands, and said imploringly: "don't shoot, mister. we'uns give up. we'uns air taylored." "come back up here, one by one," commanded si,{ } "and go to our rear. hold on to your guns. don't throw 'em away. we ain't afraid of 'em." one by one the rebels extricated their horses from the mire with more or less difficulty and filed back. si kept his gun on those in the quagmire, while shorty attended to the others as they came back. co. q was coming to his assistance as fast as the boys could march. what was the delight of the boys to recognize in their captives the squad which had captured them. the sanguinary bushrod was the first to come back, and si had to restrain a violent impulse to knock him off his horse with his gun-barrel. but he decided to settle with him when through with the present business. by the time the rebels were all up, co. q had arrived on the scene. as the prisoners were being disarmed and put under guard, si called out to capt. mcgillicuddy: "captain, one o' these men is my partickler meat. i want to 'tend to him." "all right. corporal," responded the captain, "attend to him, but don't be too rough on him. remember that he is an unarmed prisoner." si and shorty got down off their horses, and approached bushrod, who turned white as death, trembled violently, and began to beg. "gentlemen, don't kill me," he whined. "i'm a poor man, an' have a fambly to support. i didn't mean nothin' by what i said. i sw'ar't' lord a'mighty i didn't." "jest wanted to hear yourself talk--jest practicin' your voice," said shorty sarcastically, as he took the{ } man by the shoulder and pulled him off into the bush by the roadside. "jest wanted to skeer us, and see how fast we could run. pleasant little pastime, eh?" "and them things you said about a young lady up in injianny," said si, clutching him by the throat. [illustration: bushrod prays for his life ] "i want to wring your neck jest like a chicken's. what'd you do with her picture and letters?" si thrust his hand unceremoniously into bushrod's pocket and found the ambrotype of annabel. a brief glance showed him that it was all right, and he gave a sigh of satisfaction, which showed some amelioration of temper toward the captive.{ } "what'd you do with them letters?" si demanded fiercely. "ike has 'em," said bushrod. "you've got my shoes on, you brindle whelp," said shorty, giving him a cuff in bitter remembrance of his own smarting feet. "if we're goin' to shoot him, let's do it right off," said si, looking at the cap on his gun. "the company's gittin' ready to start back." "all right," said shorty, with cheerful alacrity. "johnny, your ticket for a brimstone supper's made out. how'd you rather be shot--standin' or kneelin'?" "o, gentlemen, don't kill be. ye hadn't orter. why do ye pick me out to kill? i wuzzent no wuss'n the others. i wuzzent rayly half ez bad. i didn't rayly mean t' harm ye. i only talked. i had t' talk that-a-way, for i alluz was a union man, and had t' make a show for the others. i don't want t' be shot at all." "you ain't answerin' my question," said shorty coolly and inexorably. "i asked you how you preferred to be shot. these other things you mention hain't nothin' to do with my question." he leveled his gun at the unhappy man and took a deliberate sight. "o, for the lord a'mighty's sake, don't shoot me down like a dog," screamed bushrod. "le'me have a chance to pray, an' make my peace with my maker." "all right," conceded shorty, "go and kneel down there by that cottonwood, and do the fastest prayin* you ever did in all your born days, for you have need of it. we'll shoot when i count three. you'd{ } better make a clean breast of all your sins and transgressions before you go. you'll git a cooler place in the camp down below." unseen, the rest of co. q were peeping through the bushes and enjoying the scene. bushrod knelt down with his face toward the cottonwood, and began an agonized prayer, mingled with confessions of crimes and malefactions, some flagrant, some which brought a grin of amusement to the faces of co. q. "one!" called out shorty in stentorian tones. "o, for the love o' god, mister, don't shoot me," yelled bushrod, whirling around, with uplifted arms. "i'm too wicked to die, an' i've got a fambly dependin' on me." "turn around there, and finish your prayin'," sternly commanded shorty, with his and si's faces down to the stocks of their muskets, in the act of taking deliberate aim. bushrod flopped around, threw increased vehemence into his prayer, and resumed his recital of his misdeeds. "two!" counted shorty. again bushrod whirled around with uplifted hands and begged for mercy. "nary mercy," said shorty. "you wouldn't give it to us, and you hain't given it to many others, according to your own account. your light's flickerin', and we'll blow it out at the next count. turn around, there." bushrod made the woods ring this time with his fervent, tearful appeals to the throne of grace. he was so wrought up by his impending death that he{ } did not hear co. q quietly move away, at a sign from the captain, with si and shorty mounting their horses and riding off noiselessly over the sod. for long minutes bushrod continued his impassioned appeals at the top of his voice, expecting every instant to have the yankee bullets crash through his brain. at length he had to stop from lack of breath. everything was very quiet--deathly so, it seemed to him. he stole a furtive glance around. no yankees could be seen out of the tail of his eye on either side. then he looked squarely around. none was visible anywhere. he jumped up, began cursing savagely, ran into the road, and started for home. he had gone but a few steps when he came squarely in front of the musket of the orderly-sergeant of co. q, who had placed himself in concealment to see the end of the play and bring him along. "halt, there," commanded the orderly-sergeant; "face the other way and trot. we must catch up with the company." si and shorty felt that they had redeemed themselves, and returned to camp in such good humor with each other, and everybody else, that they forgot that their feet were almost as bad as ever. they went into the house and began cooking their supper together again. shorty picked up the coffeecan and said: "si klegg, you're a gentleman all through, if you was born on the wabash. a genuine gentleman is knowed by his never bein' no hog under no circumstances. i watched you when you looked into this coffee-can, and mad as i was at you, i said you was a thorobred when you left it all to me." { } chapter ix. shorty gets a letter becomes entangled in a highly important correspondence. a light spring wagon, inscribed "united states sanitary commission," drove through the camp of the th ind., under the charge of a dignified man with a clerical cast of countenance, who walked alongside, looking at the soldiers and into the tents, and stopping from time to time to hand a can of condensed milk to this one, a jar of jam to another, and bunches of tracts to whomsoever would take them. shorty was sitting in front of the house bathing his aching feet. the man stopped before him, and looked compassionately at his swollen pedals. "your feet are in a very bad way, my man," he said sadly. "yes, durn 'em," said shorty impatiently. "i don't seem to git 'em well nohow. must've got 'em pizened when i was runnin' through the briars." "probably some ivy or poison-oak, or nightshade among the briars. poison-oak is very bad, and nightshade is deadly. i knew a man once that had to have his hand amputated on account of getting poisoned by something that scratched him--nightshade, ivy, or poison-oak. i'm afraid your feet are beginning to mortify." "well, you are a job's comforter," thought shorty.{ } "you'd be nice to send for when a man's sick. you'd scare him to death, even if there was no danger o' his dyin'." "my friend," said the man, turning to his wagon, "i've here a nice pair of home-made socks, which i will give you, and which will come in nicely if you save your legs. if you don't, give them to some needy man. here are also some valuable tracts, full of religious consolation and advice, which it will do your soul good to peruse and study." shorty took the gift thankfully, and turned over the tracts with curiosity. "on the sin of idolatry," he read the title of the first. "now, why'd he give that? what graven image have i bin worshipin'? what gods of wood and stone have i bin bowin' down before in my blindness? there've bin times when i thought a good deal more of a commissary tent then i did of a church, but i got cured of that as soon as i got a square meal. i don't see where i have bin guilty of idolatry. "on the folly of self-pride," he read from the next one. "humph, there may be something in that that i oughter read. i am very liable to git stuck on myself, and think how purty i am, and how graceful, and how sweetly i talk, and what fine cloze i wear. especially the cloze. i'll put that tract in my pocket an' read it after awhile." "on the evils of gluttony," he next read. "well, that's a timely tract, for a fact. i'm in the habit o' goin' around stuffin' myself, as this says, with delicate viands, and drinkin' fine wines--'makin' my belly a god.' the man what wrote this must've bin{ } intimately acquainted with the sumptuous meals which uncle sam sets before his nephews. he must've knowed all about the delicate, apetizin' flavor of a slab o' fat pork four inches thick, taken off the side of the hog that's uppermost when he's laying on his back. and how i gormandize on hardtack baked in the first place for the revolutioners, and kept over ever since. that feller knows jest what he's writin' about. i'd like to exchange photographs with him." "thou shalt not swear." shorty read a few words, got red in the face, whistled softly, crumpled the tract up, and threw it away. "on the sin of dancing," shorty yelled with laughter. "me dance with these hoofs! and he thinks likely mortification'll set in, and i'll lose 'em altogether. well, he oughter be harnessed up with thompson's colt. which'd come out ahead in the race for the fool medal? but these seem to be nice socks. fine yarn, well-knit, and by stretching a little i think i kin get 'em on. i declare, they're beauties. i'll jest make si sick with envy when i show 'em to him. i do believe they lay over anything his mother ever sent him. hello, what's this?" he extracted from one of them a note in a small, white envelope, on one end of which was a blue zouave, with red face, hands, cap and gaiters, brandishing a red sword in defense of a star spangled banner which he held in his left hand. "must belong to the army o' the potomac," mused shorty, studying the picture. "they wear all sorts o' outlandish uniforms there. that red-headed woodpecker'd be shot before he'd git a mile o' the rebels out here. all that hollyhock business'd jest be meat{ } for their sharpshooters. and what's he doin' with that 'ere sword? i wouldn't give that springfield rifle o' mine for all the swords that were ever hammered out. when i reach for a feller or even yards away i kin fetch him every time. he's my meat unless he jumps behind a tree. but as for swords, i never could see no sense in 'em except for officers to put on lugs with. i wouldn't pack one a mile for a wagonload of 'em." he looked at the address on the envelope. straight lines had been scratched across with a pin. on these was written, in a cramped, mincing hand: "to the brave soljer who gits these socks." "humph," mused shorty, "that's probably for me. i've got the socks, and i'm a soldier. as to whether i'm brave or not's a matter of opinion. sometimes i think i am; agin, when there's a dozen rebel guns pinted at my head, not feet away, i think i'm not. but we'll play that i'm brave enough to have this intended for me, and i'll open it." on the sheet of paper inside was another valorous red-and-blue zouave defending the flag with drawn sword. on it was written: "bad ax, wisconsin, "janooary the th, . "braiv soljer: i doant know who you air, or whair you may bee; i only know that you air serving your country, and that is enuf to entitle to the gratitude and afl'ection of every man and woman who has the breath of patriotism in their bodies. "i am anxious to do something all the time, very little though it may be, to help in some way the men{ } who air fiting the awful battles for me, and for every man and woman in the country. "i send these socks now as my latest contribution. they aint much, but i've put my best work on them, and i hoap they will be useful and comfortable to some good, braiv man. "how good you may be i doant know, but you air sertingly a much better man than you would be if you was not fiting for the union. i hoap you air a regler, consistent christian. ide prefer you to be a methodist episcopal, but any church is much better than none. "he be glad to heer that you have received these things all rite. "sincerely your friend and well-wisher, "jerusha ellen briggs." although shorty was little inclined to any form of reading, and disliked handwriting about as much as he did work on the fortifications, he read the letter over several times, until he had every word in it and every feature of the labored, cramped penmanship thoroughly imprinted on his mind. then he held it off at arm's length for some time, and studied it with growing admiration. it seemed to him the most wonderful epistle that ever emanated from any human hand. a faint scent of roses came from it to help the fascination. "i'll jest bet my head agin a big red apple," he soliloquized, "the woman that writ that's the purtiest girl in the state o' wisconsin. i'll bet there's nothin' in injianny to hold a candle to her, purty as si thinks his annabel is. and smart--my! jest look at that letter. that tells it. every word spelled correckly,{ } and the grammar away up in g. annabel's a mighty nice girl, and purty, too, but i've noticed she makes mistakes in spelling, and her grammar's the wabash kind--home-made." he drew down his eyebrows, pursed his lips, and assumed a severely critical look for a reperusal of the letter and judgment upon it according to the highest literary standards. "no, sir," he said, with an air of satisfaction, "not a blamed mistake in it, from beginnin' to end. every word spelled jest right, the grammar straight as the ten commandments, every t crossed and i dotted accordin' to regulashuns and the constitushun of the united states. she must be a school-teacher, and yit a school-teacher couldn't knit sich socks as them. she's a lady, every inch of her. religious, too. belongs to the methodist church. si's father's a baptist, and so's my folks, but i always did think a heap o' the methodists. i think they have a little nicer girls than the baptists. i think i'd like to marry a methodist wife." then he blushed vividly, all to himself, to think how fast his thoughts had traveled. he returned to the letter, to cover his confusion. "bad ax, wis. what a queer name for a place. never heard of it before. wonder where in time it is? i'd like awfully to know. there's the st and st wis. in rousseau's division, and the th wis. battery in palmer's division. i might go over there and ask some o' them. mebbe some of 'em are right from there. i'll bet it's a mighty nice place." he turned to the signature with increased interest. "jerusha ellen briggs. why, the name itself is{ } reg'lar poetry. jerusha is awful purty. your mollies and sallies and emmies can't hold a candle to it. and annabel--pshaw! ellen--why that's my mother's name. briggs? i knowed some briggses once âÂ�Â� way-up, awfully nice people. seems to me they wuz presbyterians, though, and i always thought that presbyterians wuz stuck-up, but they wuzzent stuck-up a mite. i wonder if miss jerusha ellen briggs--she must be a miss--haint some beau? but she can't have. if he wuzzent in the army she wouldn't have him; and if he was in the army she'd be sending the socks to him, instead of to whom it may concern." this brilliant bit of logic disposed of a sudden fear which had been clutching at his heart. it tickled him so much that he jumped up, slapped his breast, and grinned delightedly and triumphantly at the whole landscape. "what's pleasin' you so mightily. shorty?" asked si, who had just come up. "got a new system for beatin' chuck-a-luck, or bin promoted?" "no, nothin'! nothin's happened," said shorty curtly, as he hastily shoved the letter into his blouse pocket. "will you watch them beans bilin' while i go down to the spring and git some water?" he picked up the camp-kettle and started. he wanted to be utterly alone, even from si, with his new-born thought. he did not go directly to the spring, but took another way to a clump of pawpaw bushes, which would hide him from the observation of everyone. there he sat down, pulled out the letter again, and read it over carefully, word by word. "wants me to write whether i got the socks," he{ } mused. "you jest bet i will. i've a great mind to ask for a furlough to go up to wisconsin, and find out bad ax. i wonder how fur it is. i'll go over to the suiter's and git some paper and envelopes, and write to her this very afternoon." he carried his camp-kettle back to the house, set it down, and making some excuse, set off for the sutler's shop. "le'me see your best paper and envelopes," he said to the pirate who had license to fleece the volunteers. "awfully common trash," said shorty, looking over the assortment disdainfully, for he wanted something superlatively fine for his letter. "why don't you git something fit for a gentleman to write to a lady on? something with gold edges on the paper and envelopes, and perfumed? i never write to a lady except on gilt-edged paper, smellin' o' bergamot, and musk, and citronella, and them things. i don't think it's good taste." "well, think what you please," said the sutler. "that's all the kind i have, and that's all the kind you'll git. take it or leave it." shorty finally selected a quire of heavy letter paper and a bunch of envelopes, both emblazoned with patriotic and warlike designs in brilliant red and blue. "better take enough," he said to himself. "i've been handlin' a pick and shovel and gun so much that i'm afeared my hand isn't as light as it used to be, and i'll have to spile several sheets before i git it just right." on his way back he decided to go by the camp of{ } one of the wisconsin regiments and learn what he could of bad ax and its people. "is there a town in your state called bad ax?" he asked of the first man he met with "wis." on his cap. "cert'," was the answer. "and another one called milwaukee, one called madison, and another called green bay. are you studying primary geography, or just getting up a postoffice directory?" "don't be funny, skeezics," said shorty severely. "know anything about it? mighty nice place, ain't it?" "know anything about it? i should say so. my folks live in bad ax county. it's the toughest, ornerist little hole in the state. run by lead-miners. more whisky-shanties than dwellings. it's tough, i tell you." "i believe you're an infernal liar," said shorty, turning away in wrath. not being fit for duty, he could devote all his time to the composition of the letter. he was so wrought up over it that he could not eat much dinner, which alarmed si. "what's the matter with your appetite. shorty?" he asked. "haint bin eatin' nothin' that disagreed with you, have you? "naw," answered shorty impatiently; "nothin' wuss'n army rations. they always disagree with me when i'm layin' around doin' nothin'. why, in the name of goodness, don't the army move? i've got sick o' the sight o' every cedar and rocky knob in middle tennessee. we ought to go down and take a look at things around tullahoma, where mr. bragg{ } is." it was si's turn to clean up after dinner, and, making an excuse of going over into another camp to see a man who had arrived there, shorty, with his paper and envelopes concealed under his blouse, and si's pen and wooden ink-stand furtively conveyed to his pocket, picked up the checkerboard when si's back was turned, and made his way to the pawpaw thicket, where he could be unseen and unmolested in the greatest literary undertaking of his life. he took a comfortable seat on a rock, spread the paper on the checkerboard, and then began vigorously chewing the end of the penholder to stimulate his thoughts. it had been easy to form the determination to write; the desire to do so was irresistible, but never before had he been confronted with a task which seemed so overwhelming. compared with it, struggling with a mule-train all day through the mud and rain, working with pick and shovel on the fortifications, charging an enemy's solid line-of-battle, appeared light and easy performances. he would have gone at either, on the instant, at the word of command, or without waiting for it, with entire confidence in his ability to master the situation. but to write a half-dozen lines to a strange girl, whom he had already enthroned as a lovely divinity, had more terrors than all of bragg's army could induce. but when shorty set that somewhat thick head of his upon the doing of a thing, the thing was tolerably certain to be done in some shape or another. "i believe, if i knowed whore bad ax was, i'd git a furlough, and walk clean there, rather than write a line," he said, as he wiped from his brow the sweat{ } forced out by the labor of his mind. "i always did hate writin'. i'd rather maul rails out of a twisted elm log any day than fill up a copy book. but it's got to be done, and the sooner i do it the sooner the agony 'll be over. here goes." he began laboriously forming each letter with his lips, and still more laboriously with his stiff fingers, adding one to another, until he had traced out: "headquarters co. q, th injianny volunteer infantry, murfreesboro, aprile the th eighteen hundred & sixty three." the sweat stood out in beads upon his forehead after this effort, but it was as nothing compared to the strain of deciding how he should address his correspondent. he wanted to use some term of fervent admiration, but fear deterred him. he debated the question with himself until his head fairly ached, when he settled upon the inoffensive phrase: "respected lady." the effort was so exhausting that he had to go down to the spring, take a deep drink of cold water, and bathe his forehead. but his determination was unabated, and before the sun went down he had produced the following: "i talk mi pen in hand inform u that ive reseeved the sox u so kindly cent, & i thank u , times them. they are boss sox & no mistake. they are the bossest sox that ever wuz nit. the man is a lire who sez they aint. he dassent tel me so. u are a boss nitter. even misses linkun can't hold a candle u. "the sox fit me a t, but that is becaws they are nit so wel, & stretch."{ } "i wish i knowed some more real strong words to praise her knitting," said shorty, reading over the laboriously-written lines. "but after i have said they're boss what more is there to say? i spose i ought to say something about her health next. that's polite." and he wrote: "ime in fair helth, except my feet are" locoed, & i weigh pounds, & hope u are injoying the saim blessing." "i expect i ought to praise her socks a little more," said he, and wrote: "the sox are jest boss. they outrank anything in the army of the cumberland." after this effort he was compelled to take a long rest. then he communed with himself: "when a man's writin' to a lady, and especially an educated lady, he should always throw in a little poetry. it touches her." there was another period of intense thought, and then he wrote: "dan elliott is my name, & single is my station, injianny is mi dwelling place, & christ is mi salvation." "now," he said triumphantly, "that's neat and effective. it tells her a whole lot about me, and makes her think i know shakspere by heart. wonder if i can't think o' some more? hum--hum. yes, here goes: "the rose is red, the vilet's blue; ime the union, so are u." shorty was so tickled over this happy conceit that he fairly hugged himself, and had to read it over{ } several times to admire its beauty. but it left him too exhausted for any further mental labor than to close up with: "no moar at present, from yours til death. "dan elliott, "co. q, th injianny volunteer infantry." he folded up the missive, put it into an envelope, carefully directed to miss jerusha ellen briggs, bad ax, wis., and after depositing it in the box at the chaplain's tent, plodded homeward, feeling more tired than after a day's digging on the fortifications. yet his fatigue was illuminated by the shimmering light of a fascinating hope. chapter x. trading with the rebs the boys have some friendly commerce with the rebel pickets. the th ind. volunteer infantry had been pushed out to watch the crossings of duck river and the movements of the rebels on the south bank of that narrow stream. the rebels, who had fallen into the incurable habit of objecting to everything that the "yankees" did, seemed to have especial and vindictive repugnance to being watched. probably no man, except he be an actor or a politician, likes to be watched, but few ever showed themselves as spitefully resentful of observation as the rebels. co. q was advanced to picket the north bank of the river, but the moment it reached the top of the hill overlooking the stream it had to deploy as skirmishers, and enfield bullets began to sing viciously about its ears. "looks as if them fellers think we want to steal their old river and send it north," said shorty, as he reloaded his gun after firing at a puff of smoke that had come out of the sumach bushes along the fence at the foot of the hill. "they needn't be so grouchy. we don't want their river--only to use it awhile. they kin have it back agin after we're through with it." "blamed if that feller didn't make a good line{ } shot," said si, glancing up just above his head to where a twig had been clipped off the persimmon tree behind which he was standing. "he put up his sights a little too fur, or he'd 'a' got me." si took careful aim at where he supposed the lurking marksman to be and fired. there was a waving of the tops of the bushes, as if the men concealed there had rushed out. "guess we both landed mighty close," said shorty triumphantly. "they seem to have lost interest in this piece o' sidehill, anyway." he and si made a rush down the hill, and gained the covert of the fence just in time to see the rails splintered by a bunch of shots striking them. "lay down, yanks!" called out shorty cheerily, dropping into the weeds. "grab a root!" to the right of them they could see the rest of co. q going through similar performances. si and shorty pushed the weeds aside, crawled cautiously to the fence, and looked through. there was a road on the other side of the fence, and beyond it a grove of large beech trees extending to the bank of the river. half concealed by the trunk of one of these stood a tall, rather good-looking young man, with his gun raised and intently peering into the bushes. he had seen the tops stir, and knew that his enemies had gained their cover. he seemed expecting that they would climb the fence and jump down into the road. at a little distance to his right could be seen other men on the sharp lookout. shorty put his hand on si to caution and repress{ } him. with his eyes fixed on the rebel, shorty drew his gun toward him. the hammer caught on a trailing vine, and, forgetting himself, he gave it an impatient jerk. it went off, the bullet whistling past shorty's head and the powder burning his face. the rebel instantly fired in return, and cut the leaves about four feet above shorty. "purty good shot that, johnny," called out shorty as he reloaded his gun; "but too low. it went between my legs. you hain't no idee how tall i am." "if i couldn't shoot no better'n you kin on a sneak," answered the rebel, his rammer ringing in his gun-barrel, "i wouldn't handle firearms. your bullet went a mile over my head. must've bin shootin' at an angel. but you yanks can't shoot nary bit--you're too skeered." "i made you hump out o' the bushes a few minutes ago," replied shorty, putting on a cap. "who was skeered then? you struck for tall timber like a cotton-tailed rabbit." "i'll rabbit ye, ye nigger-lovin' whelp," shouted the rebel. "take that," and he fired as close as he could to the sound of shorty's voice. shorty had tried to anticipate his motion and fired first, but the limbs bothered his aim, and his bullet went a foot to the right of the rebel's head. it was close enough, however, to make the rebel cover himself carefully with the tree. "that was a much better shot, yank," he called out. "but ye orter do a powerful sight better'n that on a sneak. ye'd never kill no deer, nor rebels nuthor, with that kind o' shootin'. you yanks are{ } great on the sneak, but that's all the good it does, yet ye can't shoot fer a handful o' huckleberries." "sneaks! can't shoot!" roared shorty. "i kin outshoot you or any other man in jeff davis's kingdom. i dare you to come out from behind your tree, and take a shot with me in the open, accordin' to hardee's tactics. your gun's empty; so's mine. my chum here'll see fair play; and you kin bring your chum with you. come out, you skulkin' brindle pup, and shoot man fashion, if you dare."{ } "ye can't dare me, ye nigger-stealin' blue-belly," shouted the rebel in return, coming out from behind his tree. shorty climbed over the fence and stood at the edge of the road, with his gun at order arms. si came out on shorty's left, and a rebel appeared to the right of the first. for a minute all stood in expectancy. then shorty spoke: "i want nuthin' but what's fair. your gun's empty; so's mine. you probably know hardee's tactics as well as i do." "i'm up in hardee," said the rebel with a firm voice. "well, then," continued shorty, "let my chum here call off the orders for loadin' and firin', and we'll both go through 'em, and shoot at the word." "go ahead--i'm agreed," said the rebel briefly. shorty nodded to si. "carry arms," commanded si. both brought their guns up to their right sides. "present arms." both courteously saluted. "load in nine times--load," ordered si. both guns came down at the same instant, each man grasped his muzzle with his left hand, and reached for his cartridge-box, awaiting the next order. "handle cartridges." "tear cartridges." "charge cartridges," repeated si slowly and distinctly. the rebel's second nodded approval of his knowledge of the drill, and sang out: "good soldiers, all of yo'uns." "draw rammer," continued si,{ } "turn rammer." "ram cartridge." shorty punctiliously executed the three blows on the cartridge exacted by the regulations, and paused a breath for the next word. the rebel had sent his cartridge home with one strong thrust, but he saw his opponent's act and waited. "return rammer," commanded si. he was getting a little nervous, but shorty deliberately withdrew his rammer, turned it, placed one end in the thimbles, deliberately covered the head with his little finger, exactly as the tactics prescribed, and sent it home with a single movement. the rebel had a little trouble in returning rammer, and shorty and si waited. "cast about," "prime!" both men capped at the same instant. "ready!" shorty cocked his piece and glanced at the rebel, whose gun was at his side. "aim!" both guns came up like a flash. [illustration: the duel. ] si's heart began thumping at a terrible rate. he was far more alarmed about shorty than he had ever been about himself. up to this moment he had hoped that shorty's coolness and deliberation would "rattle" the rebel and make him fire wildly. but the latter, as si expressed it afterward, "seemed to be made of mighty good stuff," and it looked as if both would be shot down. "fire!" shouted si, with a perceptible tremor in his voice.{ } both guns flashed at the same instant. si saw shorty's hat fly off, and him stagger and fall, while the rebel dropped his gun, and clapped his hand to his side. si ran toward shorty, who instantly sprang up again, rubbing his head, from which came a faint trickle of blood. "he aimed at my head, and jest scraped my scalp," he said. "where'd i hit him? i aimed at his heart, and had a good bead." "you seem to have struck him in the side," answered si, looking at the rebel. "but not badly, for he's still standin' up. mebbe you broke a rib though." "couldn't, if he's still up. i must file my trigger gun pulls too hard. i had a dead aim on his heart, but i seem to've pulled too much to the right." "say, i'll take a turn with you," said si, picking up his gun and motioning with his left hand at the other rebel. "all right," answered the other promptly. "my gun ain't loaded, though." "i'll wait for you," said si, looking at the cap on his gun. a loud cheer was heard from far to the right, and co. q was seen coming forward on a rush, with the rebels in front running back to the river bank. several were seen to be overtaken and forced to surrender. the two rebels in front of the boys gave a startled look at their comrades, then at the boys, and turned to run. si raised his gun to order them to halt. "no," said shorty. "let 'em go. it was a fair bargain, and i'll stick to it. skip out johnnies, for every cent you're worth."{ } the rebels did not wait for the conclusion of the sentence, but followed their comrades with alacrity. the boys ran forward through the woods to the edge of the bank, and saw their opponents climbing up the opposite bank and getting behind the sheltering trees. si waited till his particular one got good shelter behind a large sycamore, and then sent a bullet that cut closely above his head. this was the signal for a general and spiteful fusillade from both sides of the river and all along the line. the rebels banged away as if in red-hot wrath at being run across the stream, and co. q retorted with such earnestness that another company was sent forward to its assistance, but returned when the irish lieutenant, who had gone forward to investigate, reported: "faith, its loike the divil shearing a hog--all cry and no wool at all." so it was. both sides found complete shelter behind the giant trunks of the trees, and each fired at insignificant portions of the anatomy allowed to momentarily protrude beyond the impenetrable boles. after this had gone on for about half an hour those across the river from si and shorty called out: "say, yanks, ye can't shoot down a beech tree with a springfield musket, nohow ye kin do it. if we'uns hain't killin' more o' yo'uns than yo'uns is a-killin' o' we'uns, we'uns air both wastin' a powerful lot o' powder an' lead and good shootin'. what d' yo'uns say to king's excuse for awhile?" "we're agreed," said si promptly, stepping from{ } behind the tree, and leaving his gun standing against it. "hit's a go," responded the rebels, coming out disarmed. "we'uns won't shoot no more till ordered, an' then'll give yo'uns warnin' fust." [illustration: the overture for trade. ] "all right; we'll give you warning before we shoot," coincided si. "say, have yo'uns got any yankee coffee that{ } you'll trade for a good plug o' terbacker?" inquired the man whom si had regarded as his particular antagonist. "yes," answered si. "we've got a little. we'll give you a cupful for a long plug with none cut off." "what kind of a cupful?" asked the bartering "johnny." "a big, honest cupful. one o' this kind," said si, showing his. "all right. hit's to be strike measure," said the rebel. "here's the plug," and he held up a long plug of "natural leaf." "o. k.," responded si. "meet me half way." the truce had quickly extended, and the firing suspended all along the line of co. q. the men came out from behind their trees, and sat down on the banks in open view of one another. si filled his cup "heaping-full" with coffee, climbed down the bank and waded out into the middle of the water. the rebel met him there, while his companion and shorty stood on the banks above and watched the trade. "y're givin' me honest measure, yank," said the rebel, looking at the cup. "now, if ye hain't filled the bottom o' yer cup with coffee that's bin biled before, i'll say y're all right. some o' yo'uns air so dod-gasted smart that y' poke off on we'uns coffee that's bin already biled, and swindle we'uns." "turn it out and see," said si. the rebel emptied the cup into a little bag, carefully scrutinizing the stream as it ran in. it was all fine, fragrant, roasted and ground coffee.{ } "lord, thar's enough t' last me a month with keer," said the rebel, gazing unctuously at the rich brown grains. "i won't use more'n a spoonful a day, an' bile hit over twice. yank, here's yer terbacker. i've made a good trade. here's a chatanooga paper i'll throw in to boot. got a northern paper about ye anywhar?" si produced a somewhat frayed cincinnati gazette. "i can't read myself," said the rebel, as he tucked the paper away. "never l'arned to. pap wuz agin hit. said hit made men lazy. he got erlong without readin', and raised the biggest fambly on possum crick. but thar's a feller in my mess kin read everything but the big words, and i like t' git a paper for him to read to the rest o' we'uns." "was your pardner badly hurt by mine's shot?" asked si. "no. the bullet jest scraped the bone. he'll be likely to have a stitch in his side for awhile, but he's a very peart man, and won't mind that. i'm s'prised he didn't lay your pardner out. he's the best shot in our company." "well, he was buckin' agin a mighty good shot, and i'm surprised your pardner's alive. i wouldn't 've given three cents for him when shorty drawed down on him; but shorty's bin off duty for awhile, and his gun's not in the best order. howsumever, i'm awful glad that it come out as it did. his life's worth a dozen rebels." "the blazes you say. i'd have you know, yank, that one confederit is wuth a whole rijimint o' lincoln hirelings. i'll--"{ } "o, come off--come off--that's more o' your old five-to-one gas," said si irritatingly. "i thought we'd walloped that dumbed nonsense out o' your heads long ago. we've showed right along that, man for man, we're a sight better'n you. we've always licked you when we've had anything like a fair show. at stone river you had easy two men to our one, and yit we got away with you." "'tain't so. it's a lie. if hit wuzzent for the{ } dutch and irish you hire, you couldn't fight we'uns at all." "look here, reb," said si, getting hot around the ears, "i'm neither a dutchman nor an irishman; we hain't a half dozen in our company. i'm a better man than you've got in your regiment. either me or shorty kin lick any man you put up; co. q kin lick your company single-handed and easy; the th injianny kin lick any regiment in the rebel army. to prove it, i kin lick you right here." [illustration: si wants a fight ] si thrust the plug of tobacco into his blouse pocket and began rolling up his sleeves. the rebel did not seem at all averse to the trial and squared off at him. then shorty saw the belligerent attitude and yelled: "come, si. don't fight there. that's no place. if you're goin' to fight, come up on level ground, where it kin be fair and square. come up here, or we'll go over there." "o, come off," shouted the rebel on the other side. "don't be a fool, bill. fist-foutin' don't settle nothin'. come back here and git your gun if ye want to fout. but don't le's fout no more to-day. thar's plenty of it for ter-morrer. le's keep quiet and peaceful now. i want powerfully to take a swim. air you fellers agreed?" "yes; yes," shouted shorty. "you fellers keep to your side o' the river, and we will to ours." the agreement was carried into instantaneous effect, and soon both sides of the stream were filled with laughing, romping, splashing men. there was something very exhilarating in the cool, clear, mountain water of the stream. the boys{ } got to wrestling, and si came off victorious in two or three bouts with his comrades. "cock-a-doodle-doo," he shouted, imitating the crow of a rooster. "i kin duck any man in the th injianny." the challenge reached the ears of the rebel with whom si had traded. he was not satisfied with the result of his conference. "you kin crow over your fellers, yank," he shouted; "but you dassent come to the middle an' try me two falls outen three." si immediately made toward him. they surveyed each other warily for a minute to get the advantages of the first clinch, when a yell came from the rebel side: "scatter, confeds! hunt yer holes, yanks! the cunnel's a-comin'." both sides ran up their respective banks, snatched up their guns, took their places behind their trees, and opened a noisy but harmless fire. { } chapter xi. shorty's correspondent gets a letter from bad ax, wis., and is almost overcome with joy. shorty had always been conspicuously lacking in the general interest which his comrades had shown in the mails. probably at some time in his life he had had a home like the rest of them, but for some reason home now played no part in his thoughts. the enlistment and muster-rolls stated that he was born in indiana, but he was a stranger in the neighborhood when he enrolled himself in co. q. his revelations as to his past were confined to memories of things which happened "when i was cuttin' wood down the mississippi," or "when i was runnin' on an ohio sternwheel." he wrote no letters and received none. and when the joyful cry, "mail's come," would send everybody else in the regiment on a run to the chaplain's tent, in eager anticipation, to jostle one another in impatience, until the contents of the mailpouch were distributed, shorty would remain indifferent in his tent, without an instant's interruption in his gun cleaning, mending, or whatever task he might have in hand. a change came over him after he sent his letter to bad ax, wis. the cry, "mail's come," would make{ } him start, in spite of himself, and before he could think to maintain his old indifference. he was ashamed, lest he betray his heart's most secret thoughts. the matter of the secure transmission of the mails between camp and home began to receive his earnest attention. he feared that the authorities were not taking sufficient precautions. the report that john morgan's guerrillas had captured a train between louisville and nashville, rifled the mail car, and carried off the letters, filled him with burning indignation, both against morgan and his band and the generals who had not long ago exterminated that pestiferous crowd. he had some severe strictures on the slovenly way in which the mail was distributed from the division and brigade headquarters to the regiments. it was a matter, he said, which could not be done too carefully. it was a great deal more important than the distribution of rations. a man would much rather lose several days' rations than a letter from home. he could manage in some way to get enough to live on, but nothing would replace a lost letter. then, he would have fits of silent musing, sometimes when alone, sometimes when with si in the company, over the personality of the fair stocking-knitter of wisconsin and the letter he had sent her. he would try to recall the exact wording of each sentence he had laboriously penned, and wonder how it impressed her, think how it might have been improved, and blame himself for not having been more outspoken in his desire to hear from her again. he would steal off into the brush, pull out the socks{ } and letter, which he kept carefully wrapped up in a sheet of the heavy letter paper, and read over the letter carefully again, although he knew every word of it by heart. these fits alarmed si. "i'm af eared," he confided to some cronies, "that rebel bullet hurt shorty more'n he'll let on. he's not actin' like hisself at times. that bullet scraped so near his thinkery that it may have addled it. it was an awful close shave." "better talk to the surgeon," said they. "glancing bullets sometimes hurt worse'n they seem to." "no, the bullet didn't hurt shorty, any more than make a scratch," said the surgeon cheerfully when si laid the case before him. "i examined him carefully. that fellow's head is so hard that no mere scraping is going to affect it. you'd have to bore straight through it, and i'd want at least a six-pounder to do it with if i was going to undertake the job. an indiana head may not be particularly fine, but it is sure to be awfully solid and tough. no; his system's likely to be out of order. you rapscallions will take no care of yourselves, in spite of all that i can say, but will eat and drink as if you were ostriches. he's probably a little off his feed, and a good dose of bluemass followed up with quinine will bring him around all right. here, take these, and give them to him." the surgeon was famous for prescribing bluemass and quinine for every ailment presented to him, from sore feet to "shell fever." si received the medicines with a proper show of thankfulness, saluted, and left. as he passed through the clump if bushes he was tempted to add them to the{ } collection of little white papers which marked the trail from the surgeon's tent, but solicitude for his comrade restrained him. the surgeon was probably right, and it was si's duty to do all that he could to bring shorty around again to his normal condition. but how in the world was he going to get his partner to take the medicine? shorty had the resolute antipathy to drugs common to all healthy men. it was so grave a problem that si sat down on a log to think about it. as was si's way, the more he thought about it, the more determined he became to do it, and when si klegg determined to do a thing, that thing was pretty nearly as good as done. "i kin git him to take the quinine easy enough," he mused. "all i've got to do is to put it in a bottle o' whisky, and he'd drink it if there wuz 'doses o' quinine in it. but the bluemass's a very different thing. he's got to swaller it in a lump, and what in the world kin i put it in that he'll swaller whole?" si wandered over to the sutler's in hopes of seeing something there that would help him. he was about despairing when he noticed a boy open a can of large, yellow peaches. "the very thing," said si, slapping his thigh. "say, young man, gi' me a can o' peaches jest like them." si took his can and carefully approached his tent, that he might decide upon his plan before shorty could see him and his load. he discovered that shorty was sitting at a little distance, with his back to him, cleaning his gun, which he had taken apart. "bully," thought si. "just the thing. his hands{ } are dirty and greasy, and he won't want to tech anything to eat." he slipped into the tent, cut open the can, took out a large peach with a spoon, laid the pellet of bluemass in it, laid another slice of peach upon it, and then came around in front of shorty, holding out the spoon. "open your mouth and shut your eyes, shorty," he said. "i saw some o' the nicest canned peaches down at the sutler's, and i suddenly got hungry for some. i bought a can and brung 'em up to the tent. jest try 'em." he stuck the spoon out towards shorty's mouth. the latter, with his gunlock in one hand and a greasy rag in the other, looked at the tempting morsel, opened his mouth, and the deed was done. "must've left a stone in that peach," he said, as he gulped it down. "mebbe so," said si, with a guilty flush, and pretending to examine the others. "but i don't find none in the rest have another?" shorty swallowed two or three spoonfuls more, and then gasped: "they're awful nice, si, but i've got enough. keep the rest for yourself." si went back to the tent and finished the can with mingled emotions of triumph at having succeeded, and of contrition at playing a trick on his partner. he decided to make amends for the latter by giving shorty an unusually large quantity of whisky to take with his quinine. si was generally very rigid in his temperance ideas, he strongly disapproved of shorty's{ } drinking, and always interposed all the obstacles he could in the way of it. but this was an extraordinary case--it would be "using liquor for a medicinal purpose"--and his conscience was quieted. co. q had one of those men--to be found in every company--who can get whisky under apparently any and all circumstances. in every company there is always one man who seemingly can find something to get drunk on in the midst of the desert of sahara. to co. q's representative of this class si went, and was piloted to where, after solemn assurances against "giving away," he procured a halfpint of fairly-good applejack, into which he put his doses of quinine. in the middle of the night shorty woke up with a yell. "great cesar's ghost!" he howled, "what's the matter with me? i'm sicker'n a dog. must've bin them dodgasted peaches. si, don't you feel nothin'?" "no," said si sheepishly; "i'm all right. didn't you eat nothin' else but them?" "naw," said shorty disgustedly. "nothin' but my usual load o' hardtack and pork. yes, i chawed a piece o' sassafras root that one of the boys dug up." "must've bin the sassafras root," said si. he hated to lie, and made a resolution that he would make a clean breast to shorty--at some more convenient time. it was not opportune now. "that must've bin a sockdologer of a dose the surgeon gave me," he muttered to himself. shorty continued to writhe and howl, and si made{ } a hypocritical offer of going for the surgeon, but shorty vetoed that emphatically. "no; blast old sawbones," he said. "he won't do nothin' but give me bluemass, and quinine, and i never could nor would take bluemass. it's only fit for horses and hogs." toward morning shorty grew quite weak, and correspondingly depressed. "si," said he, "i may not git over this. this may be the breakin' out o' the cholera that the folks around here say comes every seven years and kills off the strangers. si, i'll tell you a secret. a letter may come for me. if i don't git over this, and the letter comes, i want you to burn it up without reading it, and write a letter to miss jerusha ellen briggs, bad ax, wis., tellin' her that i died like a man and soldier, and with her socks on, defendin' his country." si whistled softly to himself. "i'll do it. shorty," he said, and repeated the address to make sure. the crisis soon passed, however, and the morning found shorty bright and cheerful, though weak. si was puzzled how to get the whisky to shorty. it would never do to let him know that he had gotten it especially for him. that would have been so contrary to si's past as to arouse suspicion. he finally decided to lay it where it would seem that someone passing had dropped it, and shorty could not help finding it. the plan worked all right. shorty picked it up in a few minutes after si had deposited it, and made quite an ado over his treasure trove. "splendid applejack," he said, tasting it; "little bitter, but that probably comes from their using{ } dogwood in the fires when they're 'stilhn'. they know that dogwood'll make the liquor bitter, but they're too all-fired lazy to go after any other kind o' wood." he drank, and as he drank his spirits rose. after the first dram he thought he would clean around the tent, and make their grounds look neater than anybody else's. after the second he turned his attention to his arms and accouterments. after the third he felt like going out on a scout and finding some rebels to vary the monotony of the camp-life. after the fourth, "groundhog," unluckily for himself, came along, and shorty remembered that he had long owed the teamster a licking, and he felt that the debt should not be allowed to run any longer. he ordered groundhog to halt and receive his dues. the teamster demurred, but shorty was obdurate, and began preparations to put his intention into operation, when the orderly-sergeant came down through the company street distributing mail. [illustration: shorty wants to fight groundhog ] "shorty," he said, entirely ignoring the bellicosity of the scene, "here's a letter for you." shorty's first thought was to look at the postmark. sure enough, it was bad ax, wis. instantly his whole demeanor changed. here was something a hundred times more important than licking any teamster that ever lived. "git out, you scab," he said contemptuously. "i haint no time to fool with you now. you'll keep. this won't." groundhog mistook the cause of his escape. "o, you're powerful anxious to fight, ain't you, till you find i'm ready for you, and then you quiet down. i'll let you know, sir, that you mustn't give me no more o' your sass. i won't stand it from you. you jest keep your mouth shet after this, if you know when you're well off." the temptation would have been irresistible to shorty at any other time, but now he must go off somewhere where he could be alone with his letter, and to the amazement of all the spectators he made no reply to the teamster's gibes, but holding the{ } precious envelope firmly in his hand, strode off to the seclusion of a neighboring laurel thicket. his first thought, as he sat down and looked the envelope over again, was shame that it had come to him when he was under the influence of drink. he remembered the writer's fervent christianity, and it seemed to him that it would be a gross breach of faith for him to open and read the letter while the fumes of whisky were on his breath. he had a struggle with his burning desire to see the inside of the envelope, but he conquered, and put the letter back in his pocket until he was thoroughly sober. but he knew not what to do to fill up the time till he could conscientiously open the letter. he thought of going back and fulfilling his long-delayed purpose of thrashing groundhog, but on reflection this scarcely commended itself as a fitting prelude. he heard voices approaching--one sympathetic and encouraging, the other weak, pain-breathing, almost despairing. he looked out and saw the chaplain helping back to the hospital a sick man who had over-estimated his strength and tried to reach his company. the man sat down on a rock, in utter exhaustion. shorty thrust the letter back into his blousepocket, sprang forward, picked the man up in his strong arms, and carried him bodily to the hospital. it taxed his strength to the utmost, but it sobered him and cleared his brain. he returned to his covert, took out his letter, and again scanned its exterior carefully. he actually feared to open it, but at last drew his knife and carefully slit one side. he unfolded the inclosure as{ } carefully as if it had been a rare flower, and with palpitating heart slowly spelled out the words, one after another: [illustration: shorty reading the letter ] "bad ax, wisconsin, "april the twenty-first, . "mister daniel elliott, company q, th indiana volunteer infantry. "respected sir: i taik my pen in hand toe inform you that i am wel, and hoap that you aire in joying{ } the saim blessing. for this, god be prazed and magnified forever." "goodness, how religious she is," said he, stopping to ruminate. "how much nicer it makes a woman to be pious. it don't hurt a man much to be a cuss--at least while he's young--but i want a woman to be awfully religious. it sets her off more'n anything else." he continued his spelling exercise: "i am verry glad that my sox reached you all rite, that they fell into the hands of a braiv, pious union soldier, and he found them nice." "brave, pious union soldier," he repeated to himself, with a whistle. "jewhilikins, i'm glad bad ax, wis., is so fur away that she never heard me makin' remarks when a mule-team's stalled. but i must git a brace on myself, and clean up my langwidge for inspection-day." he resumed the spelling: "i done the best i could on them, and moren that no one can do. wimmen cant fite in this cruel war, but they ought all to do what they can. i only wish i could do more. but the wimmen must stay at home and watch and wait, while the men go to the front." "that's all right. miss jerusha ellen briggs," said he, with more satisfaction. "you jest stay at home and watch and wait, and i'll try to do fightin' enough for both of us. i'll put in some extra licks in future on your account, and they won't miss you from the front." the next paragraph read: "i should like to hear more of you and your{ } regiment. the only time i ever beared of the th indiana regiment was in a letter writ home by one of our wisconsin boys and published in the bad ax grindstone, in which he said they wuz brigaded with the th indiana, a good fighting regiment, but which would stele even the shoes off the brigade mules if they wuzzent watched, and sumtimes when they wuz. ime sorry to hear that any union soldier is a thief. i know that our boys from wisconsin would rather die than stele." "steal! the th injianny steal!" shorty flamed out in a rage. "them flabbergasted, knock-kneed, wall-eyed wisconsin whelps writin' home that the injiannians are thieves! the idee o' them longhaired, splay-footed lumbermen, them chuckleheaded, wap-sided, white-pine butchers talking about anybody else's honesty. why, they wuz born stealin'. they never knowed anything else. they'd steal the salt out o' your hardtack. they'd steal the lids off the bible. they talk about the th injiannny! i'd like to find the liar that writ that letter. i'd literally pound the head offen him." it was some time before he could calm himself down sufficiently to continue his literary exercise. then he made out: "spring's lait here, but things is looking very well. wheat wintered good, and a big crop is expected. we had a fine singing-school during the winter, but the protracted meeting drawed off a good many. we doant complain, however, for the revival brought a great many into the fold. no moar at present, but belave me "sincerly your friend, "jerusha ellen briggs."{ } shorty's heart almost choked him when he finished. it was the first time in his hfe that he had received a letter from any woman. it was the first time since his mother's days that any woman had shown the slightest interest in his personality. and, true man like, his impulses were to exalt this particular woman into something above the mere mortal. then came a hot flush of indignation that the wisconsin men should malign his regiment, which, of course, included him, to the mind of such a being. he burned to go over and thrash the first wisconsin man he should meet. "call us thieves; say we'll steal," he muttered, as he walked toward the wisconsin camp. "i'll learn 'em different." he did not see anybody in the camp that he could properly administer this needed lesson to. all the vigorous, able-bodied members seemed to be out on drill or some other duty, leaving only a few sick moping around the tents. shorty's attention was called to a spade lying temptingly behind one of the tents. he and si had badly wanted a spade for several days. here was an opportunity to acquire one. shorty sauntered carelessly around to the rear of the tent, looked about to see that no one was observing, picked up the implement and walked off with it with that easy, innocent air that no one could assume with more success than he when on a predatory expedition. chapter xii. the ban on wet goods si has a hard time trying to keep whisky out of camp. "detail for guard to-morrow," sang out the orderly-sergeant, after he had finished the evening roll-call: "bailey, belcher, doolittle, elliott, fracker, gleason, hendricks, hummerson. long, mansur, nolan, thompson." "corp'l klegg, you will act as sergeant of the guard. "dan elliott will act as corporal of the guard." it is one of the peculiarities of men that the less they have to do the less they want to do. the boys of co. q were no different from the rest. when they were in active service a more lively, energetic crowd could not be found in the army. they would march from daybreak till midnight, and build roads, dig ditches, and chop trees on the way. they were ready and willing for any service, and none were louder than they in their condemnation when they thought that the officers did not order done what should be. but when lying around camp, with absolutely nothing to do but ordinary routine, they developed into the laziest mortals that breathed. to do a turn of guard duty was a heart-breaking affliction, and the orderly-sergeant's announcement of those who were detailed for the morrow brought forth a yell of protest from every man whose name was called.{ } "i only come off guard day before yesterday," shouted bailey. "i'm sick, and can't walk a step," complained belcher, who had walked miles the day before, hunting "pies-an'-milk." "that blamed orderly's got a spite at me; he'd keep me on guard every day in the week," grumbled doolittle. "i was on fatigue dooty only yesterday," protested fracker, who had to help carry the company rations from the commissary's tent. "i'm goin' to the surgeon an' git an excuse," said gleason, who had sprained his wrist a trifle in turning a handspring. so it went through the whole list. "i want to see every gun spick-and-span, every blouse brushed and buttoned, and every shoe neatly blacked, when i march you up to the adjutant," said the orderly, entirely oblivious to the howls. "if any of you don't, he'll have a spell of digging up roots on the parade. i won't have such a gang of scarecrows as i have had to march out the last few days. you fellows make a note of that, and govern yourselves accordingly." "right face--break ranks--march!" "corp'l klegg," said the officer of the day the next morning, as si was preparing to relieve the old guard, "the colonel is very much worked up over the amount of whisky that finds its way into camp. now that we are out here by ourselves we certainly ought to be able to control this. yet there was a disgusting number of drunken men in camp yesterday, and a lot of trouble that should not be. the colonel has{ } talked very strongly on this subject, and he expects us to-day to put a stop to this. i want you to make an extra effort to keep whisky out. i think you can do it if you try real hard." "i'll do my best, sir," said si, saluting. "shorty," si communed with his next in rank before they started on their rounds with the first relief, "we must see that there's no whisky brung into camp this day." "you jest bet your sweet life there won't be, either," returned shorty. he felt not a little elated over his brevet rank and the responsibilities of his position as corporal of the guard. "this here camp'll be as dry as the state o' maine to-day." it was a hot, dull day, with little to occupy the time of those off guard. as usual, satan was finding "some mischief for idle hands to do." after he put on the first relief, si went back to the guard tent and busied himself awhile over the details of work to be found there. there were men under sentence of hard labor that he had to find employment for, digging roots, cleaning up the camp, chopping wood and making trenches. he got the usual chin-music from those whom he set to enforced toil, about the injustice of their sentences and "the airs that some folks put on when they wear a couple of stripes," but he took this composedly, and after awhile went the rounds to look over his guard-line, taking shorty with him. everything seemed straight and soldierly, and they sat down by a cool spring in a little shady hollow. "did you ever notice, shorty," said si, speculatively, as he looked over the tin cup of cool water he{ } was sipping, "how long and straight and string-like the cat-brier grows down here in this country? you see or feet of it at times no thicker'n wooltwine. now, there's a piece layin' right over there, on t'other side o' the branch, more'n a rod long, and no thicker'n a rye straw." "i see it, an' i never saw a piece o' cat-brier move endwise before," said shorty, fixing his eyes on the string-like green. "as sure's you're alive, it is movin'," said si, starting to rise. "set still, keep quiet an' watch," admonished shorty. "you'll find out more." si sat still and looked. the direction the brier was moving was toward the guard-line, some feet away to the left. about the same distance to the right was a thicket of alders, where si thought he heard voices. there were indications in the weeds that the cat-brier extended to there. the brier maintained its outward motion. presently a clump of rags was seen carried along by it. "they're sending out their money for whisky," whispered shorty. "keep quiet, and we'll confiscate the stuff when it comes in." they saw the rag move straight toward the guardline, and pass under the log on which the sentry walked when he paced his beat across the branch. it finally disappeared in a bunch of willows. presently a bigger rag came out from the willows, in response to the backward movement of the long cat-brier, and crawled slowly back under the log and into camp. as it came opposite si jumped out, put his foot on the cat-brier and lifted up the rag. he{ } found, as he had expected, that it wrapped up a pint flask of whisky. "o, come off, si; come off, shorty!" appealed some of co. q from the alders. "drop that. you ain't goin' to be mean, boy's. you don't need to know nothin' about that, an' why go makin' yourselves fresh when there's no necessity? we want that awful bad, and we've paid good money for it." "no, sir," said shorty sternly, as he twisted the bottle off, and smashed it on the stones. "no whisky goes into this camp. i'm astonished at you. whisky's a cuss. it's the bane of the army. it's the worm that never dies. its feet lead down to hell. who hath vain babblings? who hath redness of eyes? the feller that drinks likker, and especially tennessee rotgut." "o, come off; stop that dinged preaching, shorty," said one impatiently. "there's nobody in this camp that likes whisky better'n you do; there's nobody that'll go further to get it, an' there's nobody up to more tricks to beat the guard." "what i do as a private soldier, mr. blakesley," said shorty with dignity, "haint nothing to do with my conduct when i'm charged with responsible dooty. it's my dooty to stop the awful practice o' likker-drinkin' in this camp, an' i'm goin' to do it, no matter what the cost. you jest shet up that clam-shell o' your'n an' stop interfering with your officers." si and shorty went outside the lines to the clump of willows, but they were not quick enough to catch groundhog, the teamster, and the civilian whom our readers will remember as having his head shaved in the camp at murfreesboro some weeks before. they{ } found, however, a jug of new and particularly rasping apple-jack. there was just an instant of wavering in shorty's firmness when he uncorked the jug and smelled its contents. he lifted it to his lips, to further confirm its character, and si trembled, for he saw the longing in his partner's eyes. the latter's hand shook a little as the first few drops touched his tongue, but with the look of a hero he turned and smashed the jug on a stone. "you're solid. shorty," said si. "yes, but it was an awful wrench. le's git away from the smell o' the stuff," answered shorty. "i'm afraid it'll be too much for me yit." "corporal of the guard, post no. ." "sergeant of the guard, post no. ," came down the line of sentries as the two boys were sauntering back to camp. "somethin's happening over there at the gate," said si, and they quickened their steps in the direction of the main entrance to the camp. they found there a lank, long-haired, ragged tennesseean, with a tattered hat of white wool on his head. his scanty whiskers were weather-beaten, he had lost most of his front teeth, and as he talked he spattered everything around with tobacco-juice. he rode on a blind, raw-bone horse, which, with a dejected, broken-down mule, was attached by ropes, fragments of straps, withes, and pawpaw bark to a shackly wagon. in the latter were some strings of dried apples, a pile of crescents of dried pumpkins, a sack of meal, a few hands of tobacco, and a jug of buttermilk. "i want t' go inter the camps an' sell a leetle jag{ } o' truck," the native explained, as he drenched the surrounding weeds with tobacco-juice. "my ole woman's powerful sick an' ailin', an' i need some money awfully t' git her some quinine. yarbs don't seem t' do her no sort o' good. she must have some yankee quinine, and she's nigh dead fer some yankee coffee. this war's mouty hard on po' people. hit's jest killin' 'em by inches, by takin' away their coffee an' quinine. i'm a union man, an' allers have bin." "you haint got any whisky in that wagon, have you?" asked si. "o, lord, no! nary mite. you don't think i'd try t' take whisky into camp, do you? i'm not sich a bad man as that. besides, whar'd i git whisky? the war's broke up all the 'stilleries in the country. what the confedrits didn't burn yo'uns did. i've bin sufferin' for months fur a dram o' whisky, an' as fur my ole woman, she's nearly died. that's the reason the yarbs don't do her no good. she can't get no whisky to soak 'em in." "he's entirely too talkative about the wickedness o' bringin' whisky into camp," whispered shorty. "he's bin there before. he's an old hand at the business." "sure you've got no whisky?" said si. "sartin, gentlemen; sarch my wagon, if you don't take my word. i only wish i knowed whar thar wuz some whisky. i'd walk miles in the rain t' git one little flask fur my ole woman and myself. i tell you, thar haint a drap t' be found in the hull duck river valley. 'stilleries all burnt, i tell you." and in the earnestness of his protestations he sprayed his team,{ } himself, and the neighboring weeds with liquid tobacco. si stepped back and carefully searched the wagon, opening the meal sack, uncorking the buttermilk jug, and turning over the dried apples, pumpkins and tobacco. there certainly was no whisky there. shorty stood leaning on his musket and looking at the man. he was pretty sure that the fellow had had previous experience in running whisky into camp, and was up to the tricks of the trade. instead of a saddle the man had under him an old calico quilt, whose original gaudy colors were sadly dimmed by the sun, rain, and dirt. shorty stepped forward and lifted one corner. his suspicions were right. it had an under pocket, in which was a flat, half-pint flask with a cob stopper, and filled with apple-jack so new that it was as colorless as water. "i wuz jest bringin' that 'ere in fur you, capting," said the tennesseean, with a profound wink and an unabashed countenance. "stick hit in your pocket, quick. none o' the rest 's seed you." shorty flung the bottle down and ordered the man off his horse. the quilt was examined. it contained a half-dozen more flasks, each holding a "half-pint of throat-scorch and at least two fights," as shorty expressed it. a clumsy leather contrivance lay on the hames of the mule. flasks were found underneath this, and the man himself was searched. more flasks were pulled out from the tail pockets of his ragged coat; from his breast; from the crown of his ragged hat. "well," said shorty, as he got through, "you're a regler grogshop on wheels. all you need is a lot{ } o' loafers talkin' politics, a few picturs o' racin' hosses and some customers buried in the village graveyard to be a first-class bar-room. turn around and git back to that ole woman o' your'n, or we'll make you sicker'n she is." si and shorty marched around with the second relief, and then sat down to talk over the events of the morning. "i guess we've purty well settled the whisky business for to-day, at least," said si. "the colonel can't complain of us. i don't think we'll have any more trouble. seems to me that there can't be no more whisky in this part o' tennessee, from the quantity we've destroyed." "don't be too dinged sure o' that," said shorty. "whisky seems to brew as naturally in this country as the rosin to run out o' the pine trees. i never saw sich a country fur likker. they have more stills in tennessee than blacksmith shops, and they work stiddier." si looked down the road and saw returning a wagon which had been sent out in the morning for forage. it was well loaded, and the guards who were marching behind had a few chickens and other supplies that they had gathered up. "boys seem to be purty fresh, after their tramp," said he, with the first thought of a soldier looking at marching men. "they've all got their guns at carry arms. i noticed that as they came over the hill." "yes," answered shorty, after a glance, "and they're holdin' 'em up very stiff an' straight. that gives mo an idee. lo's go over there an' take a look at 'em."{ } shorty had sniffed at a trick that he had more than once played in getting the forbidden beverage past the lynx-eyed sentry. "don't you find it hard work to march at routstep with your guns at a carry?" he said insinuatingly. "no need o' doin' that except on parade or drill. right-shoulder-shift or arms-at-will is the thing when you're on the road." "h-s-sh," said the leading file, with a profound wink and a sidelong glance at si. "keep quiet, shorty," he added in a stage whisper. "we'll give you some. it's all right. we'll whack up fair." "no, it ain't all right," said shorty, with properly offended official dignity. "don't you dare offer to bribe me, buck harper, when i'm on duty. hand me that gun this minute." harper shamefacedly handed over the musket, still holding it carefully upright. shorty at once reversed it and a stream of whisky ran out upon the thirsty soil. si grasped the situation, and disarmed the others with like result. "i ought to put every one o' you in' the guardhouse for this. it's lucky that the officer of the guard wasn't here. he'd have done it. there he comes now. skip out after the wagon, quick, before he gits on to you." "what next?" sighed si. "is the whole world bent on bringin' whisky into this camp? haint they got none for the others?" "sergeant of the guard, post no. ," rang out upon the hot air. si walked over again to the entrance, and saw seeking admission a tall, bony{ } woman, wearing a dirty and limp sunbonnet and smoking a corn-cob pipe. she was mounted on a slab-sided horse, with ribs like a washboard, and carried a basket on her arm covered with a coarse cloth none too clean. "looks as if she'd bin picked before she was ripe and got awfully warped in the dryin'. all the same she's loaded with whisky," commented shorty as the woman descended from her saddle and approached the sentry with an air of resolute demand. "you haint got no right to stop me, young feller," she said. "i come in hyar every day an' bring pies. your jinerul said i could, an' he wanted me to. his men want my pies, an' they do 'em good. hit's homecookin', an' takes the taste o' the nasty camp vittles out o' their mouths, an' makes 'em healthy. you jest raise yer gun, an' let me go right in, or i'll tell yer jinerul, an' he'll make it warm fur yer. i've got a pass from him." "let me see your pass," said si, stepping forward. the woman unhooked her linsey dress, fumbled around in the recesses, and finally produced a soiled and crumpled paper, which, when straightened out, read: "mrs. sarah bolster has permission to pass in and out of the camp of the th indiana volunteer infantry. "by order of col. quackenbush. "d. l. blakemore, lieut. & adj't." "what've you got in that basket?" asked si, still hesitating. "pies," she answered confidently. "the best pies you ever seed. some of 'em pumpkin; but the rest{ } of 'em dried apple, with lots o' 'lasses in fur sweetenin'. your mother never baked better pies 'n 'em." "to my mind," muttered shorty, as he stepped forward to investigate the basket, "she's the kind o' a woman i'd like to have bake pies for a gang o' state's prison birds that i wanted to kill off without the trouble o' hangin'. say, ma'am, are your pies pegged or sewed? what'd you use for shortenen'--injy rubber or aunt jemimy's plaster?" he continued as he turned back the cloth and surveyed the well-known specimens of mountain baking which were as harmful to uncle sam's boys as the bullets of their enemies. "young feller, none o' yer sass," she said severely. "them's better pies than ye're used ter. folks that's never had nothin' air allers the most partickeler, an' turnin' up thar noses at rayly good things. don't fool with me no more, but let me go on inter camp, fur the soljers air expectin' me." "sure you haint got no whisky down in the bottom o' that basket?" said si, pushing the pies about a little, to get a better look. the indignation of the woman at this insinuation was stunning. she took her pipe out of her mouth to better express her contempt for men who would insult a southern lady by such a hint--one, too, that had been of so much benefit to the soldiers by toiling over the hot oven to prepare for them food more acceptable than the coarse rations their stingy government furnished them. she had never been so insulted in her life, and she would bring down on them dire punishment from the colonel. several experiences with the tongue-lashings of{ } southern viragoes had made si and shorty less impressed by them than they had been earlier in their service. still, they had the healthy young man's awe of anything that wore skirts, and the tirade produced its effect, but not strong enough to eradicate the belief that she was a whisky-bringer. while she stormed si kept his eyes fixed upon the scant linsey dress which draped her tall form. presently he said to shorty: "what do you think? shall we let her go in?" shorty whispered back with great deliberation: "si, what i know about the female form don't amount to shucks. least of all the tennessee female form. but i've been lookin' that 'ere woman over carefully while she's been jawin', an' while she's naturally covered with knots and knobs in places where it seems to me that women generally don't have 'em, i can't help believin' that she's got some knots and knobs that naturally don't belong to her. in other words, she's got a whole lot o' flasks of whisky under her skirts." "jest what i've been suspicionin'," said si. "i've heard that that's the way lots o' whisky is brung into camp. shorty, as corporal o' the guard, it's your duty to search her." "what!" yelled shorty, horror-struck at the immodest thought. "si klegg, are you gone plum crazy?" "shorty," said si firmly, "it's got to be done. she's got a pass, and the right to go into camp. we're both o' the opinion that she's carryin' in whisky. if she was a man there'd be no doubt that she'd have to be searched. i don't understand that the law{ } knows any difference in persons. no matter what you may think about it, it is your duty, as corporal o' the guard, to make the search." "no, sir-ree," insisted shorty. "you're sergeant o' the guard, and it's your dooty to make all searches." "shorty," expostulated si, "i'm much younger and modester'n you are, an' haint seen nearly so much o' the world. you ought to do this. besides, you're under my orders, as actin' corporal. i order you to make the search." "si klegg," said shorty firmly, "i'll see you and all the corporals and sergeants betwixt here and washington in the middle o' next week before i'll do it. you may buck-and-gag me, and tie me up by the thumbs, and then i won't. i resign my position as corporal right here, and'll take by gun and go on post." "what in the world are we goin' to do?" said si desperately. "if we let her in, she'll fill the camp full o' whisky, and she'll have to go in, unless we kin show some reason for keepin' her out. hold on; i've got an idee." he went up to the woman and said: "you say you want to go into camp to sell your pies?" "yes, sir, an' i want to go in right off--no more foolin' around," she answered tartly. "how many pies've you got?" she went through a laborious counting, and finally announced: "eight altogether." "how much are they worth?" "fifty cents apiece."{ } "very good," announced si taking some money from his pocket. "that comes to $ . i'll take the lot and treat the boys. here's your money. now you've got no more business in camp, jest turn around and mosey for home. you've made a good day's business, and ought to be satisfied." the woman scowled with disappointment. but she wisely concluded that she h'd better be content with the compromise, remounted her horse and disappeared down the road. "that was a sneak out of a difficulty," si confessed to shorty; "but you were as big a coward as i was." "no, i wasn't," insisted shorty, still watchful. "you'd no right to order me do something that you was afraid to do yourself. that's no kind o' officering." { } chapter xiii. the jew spy writes shorty has an adventure with a lone, lorn widder lady." "i wonder what has become of our jew spy, shorty?" said si, as he and shorty sat on the bank of duck river and watched the rebel pickets lounging under the beeches on the other side. "we hain't heard nothin' of him for more'n a month now." "he's probably hung," answered shorty. "he was entirely too smart to live long. a man can't go on always pokin' his finger into a rattlesnake's jaw without gittin' it nipped sooner or later." "i'm looking fur a man called si klegg," they heard behind them. looking around they saw the tall, gaunt woman whom they had turned back from entering the camp a few days before, under the belief that she was trying to smuggle in whisky. "what in the world can she want o' me?" thought si; but he answered: "that's my name. what'll you have?" a flash of recognition filled at once her faded blue eyes. without taking her pipe from between her yellow, snaggly teeth she delivered a volley of tobacco-juice at an unoffending morning-glory, and snapped out: "o, y'r him, air ye? y'r the dratted measly{ } sapsucker that bounced me 'bout takin' likker inter camp. what bizniss wuz hit o' your'n whether i tuk likker in or not? jest wanted t' be smart, didn't ye? jest wanted t' interfere with a lone, lorn widder lady makin' a honest livin' for herself and children. my ole man ketched the black ager layin' out in the brush to dodge the conscripters. it went plumb to his heart an' killed him. he wa'n't no great loss, nohow, fur he'd eat more in a week than he'd kill, ketch, or raise in a year. when his light went out i'd only one less mouth to feed, and got rid o' his jawin' an' cussin' all the time. but that hain't nothin' t' do with you. you 's jest puttin' on a lettle authority kase ye could. but all men air alike that-a-way. elect a man constable, an' he wants t' put on more airs than the guv-nor; marry him, an' he makes ye his slave." "i should think it'd be a bold man that'd try to make you his slave. madam," si ventured. "y' she'd think," she retorted, with her arms akimbo. "who axed y' t' think, young feller? what d' y' do hit with. why d' y' strain y'rself doin' somethin' y' ain't used t'?" it did shorty so much good to see si squelched, that he chuckled aloud and called out: "give it to him, old snuff-dipper. he's from the wabash, an' hain't no friends. he's bin itchin' a long time for jest such a skinnin' as you're givin' him." "who air y' callin' snuff-dipper?" she retorted, turning angrily on shorty. "what've ye got t' say agin snuff-dippin', anyway, y' terbacker-chawin', likker-guzzlin', wall-oyed, splay-footed, knock-kneed{ } oaf? what air y' greasy hirelings a-comin' down heah fo', t' sass and slander southern ladies, who air yo' superiors?" "give it to him, old corncob pipe," yelled si "he needs lambastin' worse'n any man in the regiment. but what did you want to see me for?" "i wanted to see yo' bekase i got a letter to yo' from a friend o' mine, who said yo' wuz gentlemen, an' rayly not yankees at all. he said that yo' wuz forced into the army agin yo' will." "gracious, what a liar that man must be," murmured shorty to himself. "an' yo' rayly had no heart to fight for the nigger, an' that yo'd treat me like a sister." "a sister," shorty exploded internally. "think of a feller's havin' a sister like that. why, i wouldn't throw her in a soap-grease barrel." "who was this friend. madam?" said si, "and where is his letter?" "i don't know whether to give it to yo' or not," said she. "y're not the men at all that he ascribed to me. he said yo' wuz very good-lookin', perlite gentlemen, who couldn't do too much for a lady." "sorry we're not as handsome as you expected," said si; "but mebbe that's because we're in fatigue uniforms. you ought to see my partner there when he's fixed up for parade. he's purtier'n a red wagon then. let me see the letter. i can tell then whether we're the men or not." "kin yo' read?" she asked suspiciously. "o, yes," answered si laughingly at the thought almost universal in the south that reading and writing were--like the gift of tongues--a special{ } dispensation to a few favored individuals only. "i can read and do lots o' things that common people can't. i'm seventh son of a seventh son, born with a caul on my head at the time o' the full moon. let me see the letter." she was not more than half convinced, but unhooked her dress and took a note from her bosom, which she stuck out toward si, holding tightly on to one end in the meanwhile. si read, in levi rosenbaum's flourishing, ornate handwriting: "corporal josiah klegg, co. q, th indiana volunteers, in camp on duck river." "that means me," said si, taking hold of the end of the envelope. "there ain't but one th injianny volunteers; there's no other co. q, and i'm the only josiah klegg." the woman still held on to the other end of the letter. "it comes," continued si, "from a man a little under medium size, with black hair and eyes, dresses well, talks fast, and speaks a dutch brogue." "that's him," said the woman, relinquishing the letter, and taking a seat under the shade of a young cucumber tree, where she proceeded to fill her pipe, while awaiting the reading of the missive. si stepped off a little ways, and shorty looked over his shoulder as he opened the letter and read: "dear boys: this will be handed you, if it reaches you at all, by mrs. bolster, who has more about her than you think."{ } "i don't know about that," muttered shorty; "the last time i had the pleasure o' meetin' the lady she had 'steen dozen bottles o' head-bust about her." "she's a confederate, as far as she goes." si continued reading, "which is not very far. she don't go but a little ways. a jay-bird that did not have any more brains would not build much of a nest. but she is very useful to me, and i want you to get in with her. as soon as you read this i want si to give her that pair of horn combs i gave him. do it at once. sincerely your friend, "levi rosenbaum." si knit his brows in perplexity and wonderment over this strange message. he looked at shorty, but shorty's face was as blank of explanation as his own. he fumbled around in his blouse pocket, drew forth the combs, and handed them to the woman. her dull face lighted up visibly. she examined the combs carefully, as if fitting them to a description, and, reaching in her bosom, pulled out another letter and handed it to si. when this was opened si read: "dear boys: now you will understand the comb business. i wanted to make sure that my letter reached the right men, and the combs were the only things i could think of at the moment. mrs. b. will prize them, though she will never think of using them, either on herself or one of her shock-headed brats. i want you to play it on her as far as your consciences will allow. pretend that you are awful sick of this abolition war, and tired fighting for the nigger, and all that stuff. make her the happiest{ } woman in tennessee by giving her all the coffee you can spare. that will fetch her quicker and surer than anything else. like most southern women, she is a coffee-drinker first and a rebel afterward, and if some preacher would tell her that heaven is a place where she will get all the yankee coffee she can drink, she would go to church regularly for the rest of her life. tell her a lot of news--as much of it true as you can and think best; as much of it otherwise as you can invent. follow her cautiously when she leaves camp. don't let her see you do so. you will find that she will lead you to a nest of spies, and the place where all the whisky is furnished to sell in camp. i write you thus freely because i am certain that this will get in your hands. i know that your regiment is out here, because i have been watching it for a week, with reference to its being attacked. it won't be for at least awhile, for there's another hen on. but make up to the old lady as much as your consciences and stomachs will allow you. it will be for the best interests of the service. "sincerely your friend, levi rosenbaum." "i wonder what game levi is up to?" si said, as he stood with the letter in his hand and looked at the woman. "i'll give her all the coffee i can and be very civil to her, but that's as far as i'll go. the old rebel cat. i'll not lie to her for levi rosenbaums." "well, i will," said shorty. "you fix her up with the coffee, and leave the rest to me. i always had a fancy for queer animals, and run off from home once to travel with a menagerie. i'd like to take her up{ } north and start a side-show with her. 'the queen o' the raccoon mountains,' or the 'champion snuff-dipper o' the sequatchie valley.' how'd that do for a sign?" "well, go ahead," said si. "but expect no help from me." "mr. klegg, when i want your help in courtin' a lady i'll let you know," said shorty with dignity. si went back to the tent to see about getting the coffee, and shorty approached mrs. bolster with an engaging expression on his countenance. she was knocking the ashes out of her pipe. "let me fill your pipe up again. madam, with something very choice," said he, pulling out a plug of bright natural leaf. "here's some terbacker the like o' which you never see in all your born days. it was raised from seed stole from the private stock of the high-muk-a-muk o' turkey, brung acrost the ocean in a silver terbacker box for the use o' president buchanan, and planted in the new o' the moon on a piece o' ground that never before had raised nothin' but roses and sweet-williams. my oldest brother, who is a senator from oshkosh, got just one plug of it, which he divided with me." "o, my! is that true?" she gurgled. "it's as true as that you are a remarkably fine lookin' woman," he said with unblushing countenance, as he began whittling off some of the tobacco to fill her pipe. "i was struck by your appearance as soon as i saw you. i always was very fond of the southern ladies." "sakes alive, air y'?" she asked; "then what air yo'uns down here foutin' we'uns fur?"{ } "that's a long story, m'm," answered shorty. "it was a trick o' the abolition politicians that got us into it. i'm awful sick o' the war (that we hain't gone ahead and knocked the heads offen this whole crowd instead o' layin' 'round here in camp for months)" he added as a mental reservation, "and wisht i was out of it (after we've hung jeff davis on a sour-apple tree). then i might settle down here and marry some nice woman. you're a widder, i believe you said." "yes, i'm a widder," she answered, taking her pipe from her mouth and giving him what she intended for a languishing smile, but which shorty afterward said reminded him of a sun-crack in a mud fence. "yes, i'm a widder. bin so for gwine on six months. sakes alive, but ye do talk nice. you air the best-lookin' yankee i've ever seed." "nothin' painfully bashful about her," thought shorty. "but i must be careful not to let her get me near a justice of the peace. she'd marry me before i could ketch my breath. madam," he continued aloud. "yo' may call me sophrony," she said, with another cavernous smile. "well, sophrony, let me present you with half o' this plug o' famous terbacker." he drew his jackknife and sliced the plug in two. "take it, with my warmest respects. here comes my partner with some coffee i've sent him for, and which i want you to have. it is not as much as i'd like to give you, but it's all that i have. some other day you shall have much more." "law's sakes." she bubbled, as the fragrant odor{ } of the coffee reached her nose, and she hefted the package. "yo' air jest the nicest man i ever did see in all my born days. i didn't s'pose thar wuz so nice a man, or sich a good-lookin' one, in the hull yankee army, or in the oonfederit either, fur that matter. but, then, yo' ain't no real blue-bellied yankee." "no, indeed, sophrony. i never saw new england in all my life, nor did any o' my people. they wuz from virginny (about miles, as near as i kin calculate)" he added to himself as a mental poultice. "say, mister, why don't you leave the yankee army?" "can't," said shorty, despairingly. "if i tried to git back home the provos 'll ketch me. if i go the other way the rebel's ketch me. i'm betwixt the devil and the deep sea." she sat and smoked for several minutes in semblance of deep thought, and spat with careful aim at one after another of the prominent weeds around. then she said: "if yo' want t' splice with me, i kin take keer o' yo'. i've helped run off several o' the boys who wuz sick o' this abolition war. thar's two o' them now with bill phillips's gang makin' it hot for the yankee trains and camps. they're makin' more'n they ever did soljerin', an' havin' a much better time, for they take whatever they want, no matter who it belongs to. d' yo' know groundhog, a teamster? he's in cahoots with us." "oh!" said shorty to himself. "here's another lay altogether. guess it's my duty to work it for all that it's worth."{ } "is it a bargain?" she said suddenly, stretching out her long, skinny hand. "sophrony," said shorty, taking her hand, "this is so sudden. i never thought o' marryin'--at least till this cruel war is over. i don't know what kind of a husband i'd make. i don't know whether i could fill the place o' your late husband!" "yo're not gwine t' sneak out," she said, with a fierce flash in her gray eyes. "if yo' do i'll have yo' pizened." "now, who's talkin' about backin' out?" said shorty in a fever of placation, for he was afraid that some of the other boys would overhear the conversation. "don't talk so loud. come, let's walk on toward your home. we kin talk on the way." the proposition appeared reasonable. she took the bridle of her horse in her arm, and together they walked out through the guard-line. the sentries gave shorty a deep, knowing wink as he passed. he went the more willingly, as he was anxious to find out more about the woman, and the operations of the gang with which she was connected. she had already said enough to explain several mysterious things of recent occurrence. night came down and as her ungainliness was not thrust upon him as it was in the broad glare of day, he felt less difficulty in professing a deep attachment for her. he even took her hand. on her part she grew more open and communicative at every step, and shorty had no difficulty in understanding that there was gathered around her a gang that was practicing about everything detrimental to the army. they were by turns spies, robbers, murderers, whisky{ } smugglers, horse-thieves, and anything else that promised a benefit to themselves. ostensibly they were rebels, but this did not prevent their preying upon the rebels when occasion offered. some were deserters from the rebel army, some were evading the conscript laws, two or three were deserters from our army. shorty and the woman had reached a point nearly a half-mile outside of the guard-line when he stopped and said: "i can't go no farther now. i must go back." "why must yo' go back?" she demanded, with a{ } sudden angry suspicion. "i thought yo' wuz gwine right along with me." "why, no. i never thought o' that. i must go back and get my things before i go with you," said shorty, as the readiest way of putting her off. "plague take y'r things," she said. "let 'em go. yo' kin git plenty more jest as good from the next yankee camp. yo' slip back some night with the boys an' git yo'r own things, if y'r so dratted stuck on 'em. come along now." she took hold of his wrist with a grip like iron. shorty had no idea that a woman could have such strength. "i want to go back and git my partner," said shorty. "me and him 've bin together all the time we've bin in the army. he'll go along with me, i'm sure. me and him thinks alike on everything, and what one starts the other jines in. i want to go back an' git him." "i don't like that partner o' your'n. i don't want him. i'll be a better partner t' yo' than ever he was. yo' mustn't think more o' him than yo' do o' me." "look here, sophrony," said shorty desperately, "i cannot an' will not go with you to-night. i'm expectin' important letters from home to-morrow, and i must go back an' git 'em. i've a thousand things to do before i go away. have some sense. this thing's bin sprung on me so suddenly that it ketches me unawares." with the quickness of a flash she whipped out a long knife from somewhere, and raised it, and then hesitated a second. [illustration: she whipped out a long knife. ] "i believe yo're foolin' me, and if i wuz shore i'd{ } stick yo'. but i'm gwine t' give yo' a chance. yo' kin go back now, an' i'll come for yo' ter-morrer. if you go back on me hit'll be a mouty sorry day for yo'. mind that now." shorty gallantly helped her mount, and then hurried back to camp. chapter xiv. shorty has an adventure with si he goes out to visit mrs. bolster. shorty sauntered thoughtfully back to the tent, and on the way decided to tell si the whole occurrence, not even omitting the deceit practiced. he had to admit to himself that he was unaccountably shaken up by the affair. si was so deeply interested in the revelations that he forgot to blame shorty's double-dealing. "never had my nerve so strained before," shorty frankly admitted. "at their best, women are curiouser than transmogrified hullaloos, and when a real cute one sets out to hornswoggle a man he might as well lay down and give right up, for he hain't no earthly show. she gits away with him every time, and one to spare. that there woman's got the devil in her bigger'n a sheep, and she come nigher makin' putty o' your uncle ephraim than i ever dreamed of before. it makes me shivery to think about it." "i don't care if she's more devils in her than the gadarene swine, she must be stopped at once," said si, his patriotic zeal flaming up. "she's doin' more mischief than a whole regiment o' rebels, and must be busted immediately. we've got to stop{ } her." "but just how are we goin' to stop her?" shorty asked. there was a weak unreadiness in shorty's tones that made si look at him in surprise. never before, in any emergency, had there been the slightest shade of such a thing in his bold, self-reliant partner's voice. "i'd rather tackle any two men there are in the southern confederacy than that woman," said shorty. "i believe she put a spell on me." "le's go up and talk to capt. mcgillicuddy about it," said si. ordinarily, this was the last thing that either of them would have thought of doing. their usual disposition was to go ahead and settle the problem before them in their own way, and report about it afterward. but shorty was clearly demoralized. capt. mcgillicuddy listened very gravely to their story. "evidently that old hen has a nest of bad, dangerous men, which has to be broken up," he said. "we can get the whole raft if we go about it in the right way, but we've got to be mighty smart in dealing with them, or they'll fly the coop, and leave the laugh on us. you say she's coming back to-morrow?" "yes," said shorty, with a perceptible shiver. "well, i want you to fall right in with all her plans--both of you. pretend to be anxious to desert, or anything else that she may propose. go back home with her. i shall watch you carefully, but without seeming to, and follow you with a squad big enough to take care of anything that may be out there. go back to your tent now, and think it{ } all over, and arrange some signal to let me know when you want me to jump the outfit." the boys went back to their tent, and spent an hour in anxious consideration of their plans. si saw the opportunity to render a great service, and was eager to perform it, but he firmly refused to tell any lies to the woman or those around her. he would not say that he was tired of the service and wanted to desert; he would not pretend liking for the southern confederacy or the rebels, nor hatred to his own people. he would do nothing but go along, share all the dangers with shorty, and be ready at the moment to co-operate in breaking up the gang. "some folks's so durned straight that they lean over backwards," said shorty impatiently. "what in thunder does it amount to what you tell these onery gallinippers? they'll lie to you as fast as a hoss kin trot. there's no devilment they won't do, and there kin be nothin' wrong in anything you kin do and say to them." "everybody settles some things for himself," said the unchangeable si. "i believe them folks are as bad as they kin be made. i believe every one o' 'em ought to be killed, and if it wuz orders to kill 'em i'd kill without turnin' a hair. but i jest simply won't lie to nobody, i don't care who he is. i'll stand by you until the last drop; you kin tell 'em what you please, but i won't tell 'em nothin', except that they're a pizen gang, and ought t've bin roastin' in brimstone long ago." "but," expostulated shorty, "if you only go along with me you're actin' a lie. if you go out o' camp with mo you'll pretend to bo desertin' and j'inin' in{ } with 'em. seems to me that's jest as bad as tellin' a lie straight out." "well," said the immovable si, "i draw the line there. i'll go along with you, and they kin think what they like. but if i say anything to 'em, they'll git it mighty straight." "well, i don't know but, after all, we kin better arrange it that way," said shorty, after he had thought it over in silence for some time. "i'm sure that if you'd talk you'd give us dead away. that clumsy basswood tongue o' your'n hain't any suppleness, and you'd be sure to blurt out something that'd jest ruin us. an idee occurs to me. you jest go along, look sour and say nothin'. i'll tell 'em you ketched cold the other night and lost your speech. it'll give me a turn o' extra dooty talkin' for two, but i guess i kin do it." "all right," agreed si. "let it go that way." "now, look here, si," said shorty, in a low, mysterious tone, "i'm goin' to tell you somethin' that i hadn't intended to. i'm scared to death lest that old hag'll git the drop on me some way and marry me right out of hand. i tell you, she jest frightens the life out o' me. that worries me more'n all the rest put together. i expect i ought t 'v' told you so at the very first." "nonsense," said si contemptuously. "the idee o' you're being afeared o' such a thing." "it's all very well for you to snort and laugh, si klegg," persisted shorty. "you don't know her. i sneered at her, too, at first, but when i was left alone with her she seemed to mesmerize me. i found myself talkin' about marryin' her before i knowed{ } it, and the next thing i was on the p'int o' actually marryin' her. i believe that if she'd got me to walk a half-mile further with her she'd a run me up agin a justice o' the peace and married me in spite of all that i could do. i'd much ruther have my head blowed off than married to that old catamount. "bah, you can't marry folks unless both are willin'," insisted si. "a man can't have a marriage rung in on him willy-nilly." "there's just where you're shootin' off your mouth without any sense. you don't know what you're talkin' about. men are lassoed every day and married to women that they'd run away from like a dog from a porcupine, if they could. you jest look around among the married folks you know, and see how many there are that wouldn't have married one another if they'd bin in their senses." "well, i don't think o' many," said si, whose remembrances were that the people in posey county seemed generally well-mated. "well, there mayn't be many, but there's some, and i don't propose to be one of 'em. there's some spell or witchcraft about it. i've read in books about things that gave a woman power to marry any man she wanted to, and he couldn't help himself. that woman's got something o' that kind, and she's set her eye on me. i'm goin' to meet her, and i want to help break up her gang, but i'd a great deal rather tackle old bragg and his entire army. i want you to stay right by me every minnit, and keep your eye on me when she's near me."{ } "all right," said si sleepily, as he crawled into bed. the next morning, as they were discussing the question of signals, they happened to pass the sutler's, and si caught a glimpse of packages of firecrackers, which the regimental purveyor had, for some inscrutable reason, thought he might sell. an idea occurred to si, and he bought a couple of packages, and stowed them away in his blouse pocket and told the captain that their firing would be the signal, unless a musket-shot should come first. it was yet early in the forenoon as they walked on the less-frequented side of the camp. shorty gave a start, and gasped: "jewhilikins, there she is already." si looked, and saw mrs. bolster striding toward them. shorty hung back instinctively for an instant, and then braced up and bade her good morning. she grunted an acknowledgment, and said rather imperiously: "y're a-gwine, air yo'?" "certainly," answered shorty. "and yo'?" she inquired, looking at si. "he's a-goin', too," answered shorty. "mustn't expect him to talk. he's short on tongue this mornin'. ketched a bad cold night before last. settled on his word-mill. unjinted his clapper. can't speak a word. doctor says it will last several days. not a great affliction. couldn't 've lost anything o' less account." "must've bin an orful cold," said she, taking her pipe from her mouth and eyeing si suspiciously.{ } "never knowed a cold to shut off any one's gab afore. seems t' me that hit makes people talk more. but these yankees air different. whar air yer things? did yo' bring plenty o' coffee?' "we've got 'em hid down here in the brush," said shorty. "we'll git 'em when we're ready to start." "we're ready now," she answered. "come along." "but we hain't no passes," objected shorty. "we must go to the captain and git passes." "yo' won't need no passes," she said impatiently. "foller me." shorty had expected to make the pretext about the passes serve for informing capt. mcgillicuddy of the presence of the woman in the camp. he looked quickly around and saw the captain sauntering carelessly at a little distance, so that any notification was unnecessary. he turned and followed mrs. bolster's long strides, with si bringing up the rear. they went to the clump of brush where they had hidden their haversacks and guns. mrs. bolster eagerly examined the precious package of coffee. "i'll take keer o' this myself," she said, stowing it away about her lanky person. "i can't afford to take no resks as to hit." si and shorty had thought themselves very familiar with the campground, but they were astonished to find themselves led outside the line without passing under the eye of a single guard. si looked at shorty in amazement, and shorty remarked: "well, i'll be durned." the woman noticed and understood. "yo' yanks,"{ } she said scornfully, "think yourselves moughty smart with all your book-larnin', and yo'uns put on heaps o' airs over po' folks what hain't no eddication; but what you don't know about tennessee woods would make a bigger book than ever was printed." "i believe you," said shorty fervently. his superstition in regard to her was rapidly augmenting to that point where he believed her capable of anything. he was alarmed a'bout capt. mcgillicuddy's being able to follow their mysterious movements. but they soon came to the road, and looking back from the top of a hill, shorty's heart lightened as he saw a squad moving out which he was confident was led by capt. mcgillicuddy. but little had been said so far. at a turn of the road they came upon a gray-bearded man, wearing a battered silk hat and spectacles, whom mrs. bolster greeted as "'squire." the word seemed to send all the blood from shorty's face, and he looked appealingly to si as if the crisis had come. the newcomer looked them over sharply and inquired: "who are these men, mrs. bolster?" "they'uns 's all right. they'uns 's had enough o' abolition doin's, and hev come over whar they'uns allers rayly belonged. this one is a partickler friend o' mine," and she leered at shorty in a way that made his blood run cold. "hain't yo' time t' stop a minute, 'squire?" she asked appealingly, as the newcomer turned his horse's head to renew his journey.{ } "not now; not now," answered the 'squire, digging his heels into his steed's side. "i want to talk t' yo' and these 'ere men 'bout what's gwine on in the lincoln camps, but i must hurry on now to meet capt. solomon at the winding blades. i'll come over to your house this evening," he called back. "don't fail, 'squire," she answered, "fur i've got a little job for yo', an' i want hit partickerly done this very evenin'. hit can't wait." "i'll be there without fail," he assured her. "capt. solomon's the man what sent the letter to you," she explained, which somewhat raised shorty's depressed heart, for he began to have hopes that rosenbaum might rescue him if capt. mcgillicuddy should be behind time. as they jogged onward farther from camp mrs. bolster's saturnine earnestness began to be succeeded by what were intended to be demonstrations of playful affection for her future husband, whom she now began to regard as securely hers. she would draw shorty into the path a little ahead of si, and walk alongside of him, pinching his arm and jabbering incoherent words which were meant for terms of endearment. when the narrowness of the road made them walk in single file she would come up from time to time alongside with cuffs intended for playful love-taps. at each of these shorty would cast such a look of wretchedness at si that the latter had difficulty in preserving his steadfast silence and rigidity of countenance. but the woman's chief affection seemed to be called forth by the package of coffee. she would{ } stop in the midst of any demonstration to pull out the bag containing the fragrant berry, and lovingly inhale its odor. it was long past noon when she announced: "thar's my house right ahead." she followed this up with a ringing whoopee, which made the tumbledown cabin suddenly swarm with animation. a legion of loud-mouthed dogs charged down toward the road. children of various ages, but of no variety in their rags and unkempt wildness, followed the dogs, or perched upon the fence-corners and stumps, and three or four shambling, evil-faced mountaineers lunged forward, guns in hand, with eyes fiercer than the dogs, as they looked over the two armed soldiers. "they'uns is all right, boys," exclaimed the woman. "they'uns 's plum sick o' doggin' hit for abe lincoln an' quit." "let 'em gin up thar guns, then," said the foremost man, who had but one eye, reaching for shorty's musket. "i'll take this one. i've been longin' for a good yankee gun for a plum month to reach them yankee pickets on duck river." though shorty and si had schooled themselves in the part they were to play, the repugnant thought of giving up their arms to the rebels threatened to overset everything. instinctively they threw up their guns to knock over the impudent guerrillas. the woman strode between them and the others, and caught hold of their muskets. "don't be fools. let 'em have your guns," she said, and she caught si's with such quick unexpectedness that she wrenched it from his grasp and flung{ } it to the man who wanted shorty's. she threw one arm around shorty's neck, with a hug so muscular that his breath failed, and she wrenched his gun away. she kept this in her hand, however. "now, i want these 'ere men treated right," she announced to the others, "and i'm a-gwine to have 'em treated right, or i'll bust somebody's skillet. they'uns is my takings, and i'm a-gwine to have all the say 'bout 'em. i've never interfered with any yankees any o' yo'uns have brung in. yo've done with them as you pleased, an' i'm a-gwine to do with these jest as i please, and yo'uns that don't like hit kin jest lump hit, that's all." [illustration: take your arm from around that yank's neck ] "'frony bolster, i want yo' to take yo'r arms from around that yank's neck," said the man who had tried to take shorty's gun. "i won't 'low yo' to put yo'r arm 'round another man's neck as long's i'm alive to stop it." "ye won't, jeff hackberry," she sneered. "jealous, air ye? you've got no bizniss o' bein'. done tole ye 'long ago i'd never marry yo', so long as i could find a man who has two good eyes and a 'spectable character. i've done found him. here he is, and 'squire corson 'll splice us to-night." how much of each of the emotions of jealousy, disappointment, hurt vanity, and rebel antagonism went into the howl that mr. jeff hackberry set up at this announcement will never be known. he made a rush with clenched fists at shorty. a better description could be given of the operations of the center of a tornado than of the events of the next few minutes. shorty and hackberry grappled fiercely. mrs. bolster mixed in to stop the fight and save shorty. si and the other three rebels flung themselves into the whirlpool of strikes, kicks, and grapples. the delighted children came rushing in, and eagerly joined the fray, striking with charming impartiality at every opportunity to get a lick in anywhere on anybody; and finally the legion of dogs, to whom such scenes seemed familiar and gladsome, rushed in with an ear-splitting clamor, and jumped and bit at the arms and legs that went flying around.{ } this was too violent to last long. everybody and everything had to stop from sheer exhaustion. but when the stop came mrs. bolster was sitting on the prostrate form of jeff hackberry. the others were disentangling themselves from one another, the children and the dogs, and apparently trying to get themselves into relation with the points of the compass and understand what had been happening. "have yo' had enough, jeff hackberry," inquired mrs. bolster, "or will yo' obleege me to gouge yer other eye out afore yo' come to yer senses?" "le' me up, 'frony," pleaded the man, "an' then we kin talk this thing over." chapter xv. shorty nearly got married breaking up a bad rebel nest is no picnic. when physical exhaustion called a halt in the fracas, mrs. bolster was seated on jeff hackberry's breast with her sinewy hands clutching his long hair, and her thumb, with a cruel, long nail, pressing the ball of his one good eye. shorty was holding down one of the guerrillas who had tried to climb on his back when he was grappling with hackberry. si had knocked one guerrilla senseless with his gun-barrel, and now came to a breathless standstill in a struggle with another for the possession of his gun. the children and dogs had broken up into several smaller stormcenters, in each of which a vicious fight was going on. in some it was dog and dog; in some child and child, and in others dogs and children mixed. then they all halted to observe the outcome of the discussion between mrs. bolster and jeff hackberry. "holler 'nuff, jeff, or out goes yer last light," commanded mrs. bolster, emphasizing her words by rising a little, and then settling down on jeff's breast with a force that drove near every spoonful of breath out of him. "'frony, le' me up," he begged in gasps.{ } "mrs. bolster," she reminded him, with another jounce upon his chest. "mrs. bolster, le' me up. i'd 'a' got away with that 'ere yank ef ye' hedn't tripped me with them long legs o' your'n." "i'm right smart on the trip, aint i," she grinned. "i never seed a man yit that i couldn't throw in any sort of a rastle." "le' me up, mrs. bolster, an le's begin over agin, an' yo' keep out," begged hackberry. "not much i won't. i ain't that kind of a chicken," she asserted with another jounce. "when i down a man i down him fer good, an' he never gits up agin 'till he caves entirely. if i let yo' up, will yo' swar to quite down peaceable as a lamb, an' make the rest do the same?" "never," asserted hackberry. "i'm ergwine to have it out with that yank." "no you haint," she replied with a still more emphatic jounce that made hackberry use all the breath left him to groan. "i'll quit," he said, with his next instalment of atmosphere. "will yo' agree t' let me marry this yank, an' t' give me away as my oldest friend, nearest o' kin, an' best man?" she inquired, rising sufficiently to let him take in a full breath and give a free, unforced answer. "nary a time," he shrieked. "i'll die fust, afore i'll 'low yo' t' marry ary other man but me." "then you'll lose yor blinker, yo' pigheaded, likker-guzzling', ornery, no-account sand-hill crane," she said, viciously coming down on his chest with{ } her full weight and sticking the point of hei nail against his eye. "i wouldn't marry yo' if ye wuz the last nubbin' in the lord a'mighty's crib, and thar'd never be another crap o' men. ye'll never git no chance to make me yer slave, and beat me and starve me t' death as yo' did nance brill. i ain't gwine t' fool with yer pervarsity nary a minnit longer. say this instant whether yo'll do as i say with a freewill and good heart, or out goes yer peeper." "i promise," groaned jeff.{ } "yo' sw'ar hit?" she demanded. "yes, i sw'ar hit," answered jeff. mrs. bolster rose, and confirmed the contract by giving him a kick in the side with her heavy brogan. "that's jest a lovetap," she remarked, "'t let yo' know t' le' me alone hereafter. now, le's straighten things around here fer a pleasant time." she initiated her proposed era of good feeling by a sounding kick in the ribs of the most obstreperous of the dogs, and a slap on the face of a -year-old girl, who was the noisest and most pugnacious of the lot. each of these set up a howl, but there was a general acquiescence in her assertion of authority. [illustration: jeff sat up and rubbed himself ] jeff hackberry sat up, scratched and rubbed himself, seemed to be trying to once more get a full supply of air in his lungs, and turned a one-eyed glare on his surroundings. the guerrilla whom si had knocked down began to show signs of returning consciousness, but no one paid any attention to him. one of the other two pulled out a piece of tobacco, split it in two, put the bigger half in his mouth and handed the remainder to his partner. both began chewing meditatively and looking with vacant eyes for the next act in the drama. shorty regained his gun, and he and si looked inquiringly at one another and the mistress of the ranch. "come on up t' the house," she said, starting in that direction. the rest followed, with si and shorty in the lead. the boys gazed around them with strong curiosity. the interior was like that of the other log cabins they had seen--a rough puncheon floor for the single room, a fireplace as big as a barn door, built of rough{ } stones, with a hearth of undressed flat stones, upon which sat a few clumsy cooking utensils of heavy cast-iron, three-legged stools for chairs, a table of rough whip-sawed boards held together by wooden pins. in two of the corners were beds made of a layer of poles resting upon a stick supported at one end upon a log in the wall and at the other end a forked stick driven between the puncheons into the ground below. upon this was a pile of beech leaves doing duty as a mattress. the bed-clothes were a mass of ragged fabrics, sheepskins, etc., used in the daytime for saddle-blankets and at night upon the bed. there had been added to them, however, looking particularly good and rich in contrast with their squalor, several blankets with "u. s." marked upon them. around the room were canteens, shoes, and other soldier belongings. "have they killed and robbed the men to whom these belonged, or merely traded whisky for them?" was the thought that instantly flashed through si's and shorty's minds. the answer seemed to be favorable to murder and robbery. "set down an' make yourselves at home. i'll git yo' out suthin' t' wet yer whistles," said mrs. bolster, wreathing as much graciousness as she could into her weathered-wood countenance. she apparently kicked at the same instant a stool toward them with her left foot, and a dog out of the way with her right, a performance that excited shorty's admiration. "when i see a woman kick in different directions with both feet at the same time, i understood how dangerous her trip would be in a rastle," he said afterward.{ } si and shorty shoved two of the stools so that they could sit with their backs to the wall, still holding their guns. the guerrillas came filing in, with an expectant look on their faces. even jeff hackberry looked more thirstily longing than wrathful. the man who had fallen under si's gunbarrel had gotten able to walk, was rubbing his head and moaning with the design of attracting attention and sympathy. mrs. bolster produced a key from her pocket. the others understood what this meant. they lifted aside some sacks of meal and shelled corn, and revealed a puncheon which had been cut in two, and the short piece was garnished by rude iron hinges and hasp, all probably taken from some burned barn. the hasp was locked into the staple by one of the heavy padlocks customary on the plantations, and this mr. bolster proceeded to open with her key. when the puncheon was turned up it revealed a pit beneath, from which she lifted a large jug of whisky. she poured some out in a tin cup and handed it to shorty. "take a big swig," she said; "hit's mouty good stuff--ole jeff thompson's brewin' from yaller corn raised on rich bottom land." si trembled as he saw his partner take the cup. shorty smelled it appreciatively. "that is good stuff," he said. "roses ain't nowhere alongside." he put the cup to his lips and took a sip. "tastes as good as it smells," he said, heartily, while the mouths of the guerrillas were watering. he put the cup again to his lips, as if to take a deep draft. then came a short cough and a tremendous{ } sputter, followed by more painful coughing and strangling. "jest my infernal luck," gasped shorty. "i would talk, an' i got some down the wrong way. "lord, it's burnin' my lights out. gi' me a drink o' water, somebody." one of the children handed him a gourdful of water, while he continued to cough and sputter and blame himself for talking when he was drinking. the woman handed the cup to si, who feared that the liquor might be poisoned or drugged. he made a pretense of drinking, and then handed the cup back, making motions that his throat was so sore that he could not drink much. mrs. bolster looked at him suspiciously, but the clamor of the guerillas distracted her attention, and she turned to supply them. "no, jeff hackberry," she said firmly, "yo' can't have more'n two fingers. i know yo' of old, an' jest how much yo' orter tote. two fingers'll make yo' comfortable an' sociable; three'll raise the devil in yo,' an' four'll make yo' dancin' drunk, when yo'll have t' be held down. yo'll have jest two fingers, an' not a drap more." "jest another finger, 'frony. remember, yo've bin orful rough on me, an' i need more. i'll promise t' be good," pleaded hackberry. "no, not a drap more'n two fingers now. if yo' behave yo'self i'll give yo' another two fingers by-an'-by." "hackberry swallowed his portion at a thirsty gulp and sat down on the door-sill to let it do its invigorating work. the other two guerrillas were{ } given each two fingers, and the man whom si knocked down had his moanings rewarded by three fingers and a liberal application in addition to the wound on his head, which he declared was much relieved by it. "set your guns up agin the wall an' ack nacherul," commanded mrs. bolster. "nobody's a-gwine to hurt yo'. the 'squire'll be here soon, we'll git spliced, an' have a good time all around." the noisy barking of the dogs announced the approach of someone. "lord, i hope that's 'squire corson," said mrs. bolster, running eagerly to the door. "if hit's him, we kin go right ahead with the weddin'." "if that's the 'squire," said shorty, in a low whisper, without turning his head, "we'll grab our guns and fight to the death. we may clean out this gang." si's attention had been in the meanwhile attracted to some boxes concealed under the beds, and his curiosity was aroused as to what such unusual things in a cabin might contain. "no; hit's capt. sol. simmons," said she in a tone of disappointment mixed with active displeasure. "now, he'll be cavortin' and tearin' around, and wantin' t' kill somebody. i wish he wuz whar hit's a good deal hotter." she came over to where the boys were sitting, and said in a low tone: "this man's allers makin' trouble, an' he's bad from his boots up. keep a stiff upper lip, both on yo', an' we'll try t' manage him. don't weaken. hit'll do no good. he'll be wuss'n ever then."{ } si and shorty instinctively felt for the revolvers in their pockets. the newcomer tied his horse to a sapling and strode into the house. the guerrillas seemed rather more fearful than otherwise to see him, but met him with manners that were ranged from respectful by jeff hackberry to absolute servility by the others. he was a burly, black-bearded man, wearing a fairly-good uniform of a rebel captain. his face showed that he was a bully, and a cruel one. he acknowledged in an overbearing way the greetings of the others, and called out imperiously: "'frony, gi' me a stiff dram o' yer best at wunst. my throat's drier'n a lime-kiln. bin ridin' all mornin'." "folks wantin' likker don't say must t' me, but will yo', an' please," she answered sulkily. "'must,' 'please,' yo' hag," he said savagely. "talk that a-way to me. i'll 'please' yo'. i've killed two yankees this mornin', an' i'm not in the humor to fool around with an old pennyroyal huzzy like yo'. gi' me some whisky at wunst, or i'll baste yo'." if ever mrs. bolster had been favorably disposed to him, she could not endure to have him treat her this way before shorty. she would assert herself before him if ever. she put her arms akimbo and retorted vigorously: "nary drap o' likker yo'll git from me, sol. simmons. go and git yer likker whar y're welcome. y're not welcome here. i don't keer if yo' have killed two yankees or yankees. y're allers talkin' about killin' yankees, but nobody never sees none that y've killed. i'm a better confederit than yo'{ } ever dared be. i'm doin' more for the southern confedrisy. y're allers a-blowin' while i'm allers adoin.' everybody knows that. talk about the two yankees y've killed, an' which nobody's seed, here i've brung two yankees right outen their camps, an' have 'em to show. more'n that, they're gwine to jine we'uns." she indicated the two boys with a wave of her hand. simmons seemed to see them for the first time. "yankees here, an' yo' haint killed 'em," he yelled. he put his hand to his revolver and stepped forward. the two boys jumped up and snatched their guns, but before another move could be made mrs. bolster's unfailing trip brought simmons heavily to the floor, with his revolver half out the holster. in an instant she sat down heavily upon him, and laid her brawny hand upon his pistol. the dogs and children gathered around in joyous expectation of a renewal of general hostilities. but the dogs broke away at the scent or sight of someone approaching. "mebbe that's 'squire corson,'" said mrs. bolster with a renewed flush of pleasant anticipation. instead, a rather, good-looking young rebel officer wearing a major's silver stars dismounted from his horse and, followed by two men, entered the cabin. "hello, simmons," said the major in a tone of strong rebuke as soon as he entered. "what in the world are you doing here? is this the way you carry out the general's orders? you're at your old tricks again. you were sent out here early this morning, to capture or drive away that yankee picket at raccoon ford, so as to let capt. gillen come through{ } with his pack-mules. i expected to meet him here and go on with him. your men have been waiting at the crossroads for you since daylight, while you've been loitering around the rear. i ought to have you shot, and you would be if i reported this to the general. you skulking whelp, you ought to be shot. but i'll give you one more chance. it may not be too late yet. break for your place as fast as you can, and take these whelps with you. i'll wait here till sundown for you. if you don't report back to me by that time you'd better make your will. jump now." mrs. bolster had let go of simmons as this exordium proceeded, as she felt that he was in good hands. as they disappeared the major turned to mrs. bolster and inquired: "did capt. gillen get through with that quinine and guncaps?" "they're thar," she said, pointing to the boxes under the beds. "very good. i've brought some men to take them away. we need them very badly. who are these men?" mrs. bolster told her story about how they were tired of the abolition war, and had yielded to her persuasions to join the southern army. the major looked them over sharply, and began a close cross-questioning as to where they were born, what regiment they belonged to, how long they had been in the service, what battles they had been engaged in and on what part of the field, where their regiment now was, its brigade, division and corps, commanders, etc., etc.{ } as shorty did not see any present occasion for lying, he had no trouble in telling a convincing straightforward story. si successfully worked the loss-of-voice racket, and left the burden of conversation to his partner. the major seemed satisfied, and said at the conclusion: "very good. i'll take you back with me when i return, and place you in a good regiment." this was a new and startling prospect, which was almost too much for shorty's self-control. for a minute he had wild thoughts of assassinating the major then and there, and making a run for life. but he decided to wait a little longer and see what would develop. if mrs. bolster's hue had permitted she would have turned pale at this threatened loss of a husband and upsetting of all her plans. she merely gulped down a lump in her throat and seemed to be thinking. she became very attentive to the major, and brought for his edification a private bottle of fine old whisky. she set about preparing something for them to eat. again the dogs barked, and in walked a man dressed in the fatigue uniform of a union soldier with the chevrons of a sergeant. the boys gave a start of surprise, and a great one when they saw on his cap: a ind. vols. si would have sprung up to greet him, but shorty laid a restraining hand, and whispered:{ } "he don't belong to our regiment." a second glance satisfied si of this. while it is hardly possibly for a man to know every other man in his regiment, yet in a little while there comes something which enables him to know whether any man he meets does or does not belong to his regiment. the major and mrs. bolster instantly recognized the newcomer. "awful glad to see you, tuggers," said the major, rising and shaking his hand. "did you get through without any trouble?" "not a bit o' trouble, thanks to you and mrs. bolster here. she got me this uniform and this cap," said tuggers, taking off the latter article and scanning the lettering. "rather more brass than i'm in the habit of carrying on top of my head, no matter how much i have in my face. i got your not giving me the positions of the yankee regiments, for which i suppose we must also thank mrs. bolster. i found them all correct. as the th ind. was the farthest out, i had no difficulty getting through the rest of them by saying that i was on my way to my regiment. of course, i didn't come through the camp of the th ind., but modestly sought a byroad which mrs. bolster had put me onto. i've got a lot of important letters from the mail in nashville, among which are some letters for the general, which i am told are highly important. i'm mighty glad to be able to place them in your hands, and relieve myself of the responsibility. here they are. thanks, i don't care if i do, since you press me so hard,"{ } said he, without change of voice, as he handed over the letters and picked up the bottle and tin cup. "excuse me, tuggers, for not asking you before," said the major. "i was so interested in you and your letters i forgot for the moment that you might be thirsty. help yourself." "i didn't forget it," said tuggers, pouring out a liberal dram. "here's to our deserving selves and our glorious cause." a shy girl of about eight had responded to si's persistent encouragement, and sidled up to him, examining his buttons and accouterments. si gave her some buttons he had in his pocket, and showed her his knife and other trinkets in his pockets. the other children began to gather around, much interested in the elaborate dumb show he was making of his inability to speak. again the dogs barked. mrs. bolster ran to the door. "hit's 'squire corson," she exclaimed joyously, and hustled around to make extra preparations for his entertainment. the 'squire entered, mopping his face with his bandana, and moving with the deliberation and dignity consistent with his official position. he looked at the boys with a severe, judicial eye, and gave the ominous little cough with which he was wont to precede sentences. but he recognized the major and tuggers, and immediately his attention was centered in them. they were connected with army headquarters; they were repositories of news which he could spread among his constituents. he greeted them effusively, and was only too glad to accept their invitation to sit down and drink. but{ } he suggested, with official prudence, that they go out in front and sit under a tree where they could converse wore at liberty. "afore you go out, 'squire," said mrs. bolster, with an attempt at coyness, "i want yo' t' do a little job fer me." shorty's hair tried to stand on end. "jest wait a little, my good woman," said the 'squire patronizingly. "i want to talk to these gentlemen first; i kin 'tend to your matter any time." they lighted their pipes, and talked and talked, while mrs. bolster fidgeted around in growing anxiety. finally, as the sun was going down, she could stand it no longer, and approached the group. "'squire," she said, "i'm orferly anxious to have a little job o' mine done. 'twon't take yo' five minits. please 'tend to it right away." "what is it she wants?" inquired the major. "i think she wants me to marry her to a yankee deserter in there. she whispered suthin' o' that kind to me awhile ago." "that reminds me," said the major; "i want you to swear those two men into the service of the southern confederacy. you might as well do it now, if you please, for i want to take them back with me and put them into a regiment." "that won't give much of a honeymoon to mrs. bolster," grinned the 'squire. "well, we've all got to make sacrifices for the cause," said the major; "her honeymoon'll be the sweeter for being postponed. i've had to postpone mine." "well, bring the men out," said the 'squire, pouring himself out another drink.{ } si and shorty had moved to the front door when mrs. bolster went out, and could hear the whole conversation. they looked at one another. their faces were whiter than they had ever been on the field of battle. "take the oath of allegiance to the southern confederacy? die right here a hundred times," surged through both their hearts. si pulled the bunches of firecrackers from his pocket, undid them before the children's wondering eyes. he went through a pantomime to tell them to take a coal from the fire, run out back with them, and touch it to the fuses. "take a coal, run back, and tech it to them strings," said shorty, forgetting himself in his excitement. "it'll be the greatest fun ye ever saw." "what's that y're sayin'?" said mrs. bolster. "jest talkin' to the children," said shorty, seeing with relief the children bolt out of the back door. he slipped his hand on his revolver, determined to kill the 'squire, the major, and the other three men before he would take a syllable of the oath. "come out here, men," said the major authoritatively. si slipped his hand into his pocket, grasped his revolver, and walked forward very slowly. "ahem," said the 'squire, with an official cough. "raise yer right hands, and repeat these words after me, givin' your own names." the other rebels took off their hats. the dogs raised a clamor, which directed all eyes to the road. sol simmons and the rest could be seen coming on a dead run. "what does that mean?" said the major anxiously.{ } at the same instant there was a series of crashes behind the house; the firecrackers were going off like a volley of rifle-shots. the major whirled around to see what that meant, and looked into the muzzle of shorty's revolver. "surrender, or i'll kill you," shouted shorty desperately. "don't stop a minit. throw up your hands, i tell you." si was making a similar demand on tuggers, while the 'squire was standing, open-mouthed, with the first word of the oath apparently still on his tongue. the major sprang at shorty, whose bullet cut his hair. the next bullet caught the officer in the shoulder, and he reeled and went down. si was not so fortunate with tuggers, who succeeded in grappling him. simmons dashed by and struck si, in passing, with his fist, which sent him to the ground, with tuggers on top. the next minute the 'squire, who was the only one who had any opportunity to look, saw yankees pop out of the brush and jump the fences in a long, irregular line which immediately surrounded the house. capt. mcgillicuddy cut down simmons with his sword, and the rest incontinently surrendered. "we had got tired of waiting, and were on the point of dashing in, anyhow, when we heard the firecrackers," said capt. mcgillicuddy, after the prisoners had been secured and things quieted down. "that feller that i cut down was out there with a squad and caught sight of us, and started back this way, and i concluded to follow him up and jump the house. neither of you hurt, are you?"{ } "not hurt a mite," answered shorty cheerfully, "but it's the closest squeak i ever had. wouldn't go through it agin for a pile o' greenbacks big as a cornshock. say, cap., you've made a ten-strike today that ought to make you a major. that house's plum full o' contraband, and there's a lot o' important letters there. but, say, cap., i want you to either kill that 'squire or git him as fur away as possible. i ain't safe a minnit as long as him and that woman's a-nigh me." chapter xvi. an unexpected marriage the boys capture rebels and administer the oath. the rebel major accepted the unexpected turn of events with soldierly philosophy. tuggers, captured in a blue uniform, saw the ignominious fate of a spy loom up before his eyes. his face grew very white and set. he sat down on a log, looked far away, and seemed oblivious to everything around him. jeff hackberry and sol simmons were frightened into nerveless terror, and occasionally sighed and groaned audibly. their men huddled together like frightened sheep, and looked anxiously at every move of their captors. 'squire corson had ventured two or three remarks in a judicial and advisory way, but had been ordered by capt. mcgillicuddy to sit down and keep quiet. he took a seat on a stump, pulled a large bandana out of his beaver crowned hat, wiped his bald head, and anxiously surveyed the scene as if looking for an opportunity when the power and dignity of the state of tennessee might be invoked to advantage. only mrs. bolster retained her aggressiveness and her tongue. if anything, she seemed to be more savage and virulent than ever. she was wild that she had been outwitted, and particularly by si, whose fluent speech had returned the moment the{ } firecrackers went oif. she poured out volleys of scorching epithets on all the yankees from president lincoln down to corp'l si klegg, and fervently invoked for them speedy death and eternal torment where the worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched. capt. mcgillicuddy rounded up his prisoners, took arms from those who still retained them, had si and shorty do what they could toward dressing the major's wound, and then began an examination of the house. he found abundant evidence of all that he, si and shorty had believed of it. it was a rendezvous for spies, both great and small--both those, like mrs. bolster, who infested our camps, and got news of whatever was going on there, and those who operated on a larger scale, passing directly from the headquarters of the rebels to the headquarters of ours, and to the rear, and the sources of information at nashville and louisville. it was an important station on the route for smuggling gun-caps, quinine, medicines and other contraband from the north. quantities of these were there waiting to be forwarded. as the source of the fighting whisky introduced into the camp of the th ind. too much was known of it to require any further information. and it was more than probable that it was the scene of darker crimes--union soldiers lured thither under some pretext, murdered and robbed. "how in the world am i going to break this infernal nest up?" said capt. mcgillicuddy, with a puzzled air, after he had ordered the whisky destroyed and the other things gotten in shape to send{ } back to camp. "by rights, i ought to burn that house down, but that would leave all these children without shelter. by the same token, i ought to shoot or at least send off to prison that old she-catamount, but that would mean starving the children to death. i declare, i don't know what to do." he had drawn apart a little with si and shorty, to whom he spoke confidentially, while casting his eyes about him as if seeking some solution of the problem. "if you'll allow me. captain," said shorty, "i've an idee. now that we've got the trap, let's set it agin, and see if we can't ketch some more." "splendid idea. shorty," said the captain, catching on at once. "and my idee," said shorty, emboldened by the reception of his first suggestion, "is that you take all the company but me and si and four or fire of the boys back to camp, leavin' us here until to-morrow at least. there'll probably some very interestin' men happen along here to-night, not knowing what's happened, and we'll jest quietly yank 'em in." "that's good," assented the captain. "in the meantime," continued shorty, "you kin be considerin' what you'll do with the house. it may be best to let it stand, and watch it. that's a good way to do with a bee-tree or a woodchuck hole. "i believe you are right. i'll do as you say. si, you and shorty pick out as many men as you want to stay with you. i'll leave one of these horses with you. if you should happen to need any more, mount one of the boys and send him back for help. i'll come out with the whole company."{ } shorty and si consulted together for a few minutes, picked out their men, gave their names to the captain, and received his assent to the selection. then shorty said: "captain, you don't want to take that old woman, the 'squire and that skunk they call jeff hackberry back to camp with you, do you? leave 'em here with us. i've got a little scheme." "the old woman and the 'squire you can take and welcome," answered the captain. "i'll be glad to have them oif my hands. but hackberry is a rebel soldier. i don't know about giving him up." "leave him with us, then. we'll turn him back to you all right, and the old woman and the 'squire, too, if you want 'em." "no," said the captain, with an impatient wave of his hand. "keep them, do what you please with them. if you should accidentally kill the old woman i should not be unduly distressed. but don't let hackberry get away from you. i'll take the rest back to camp, and i must start at once, for it's getting late, and we didn't bring any rations with us. do you suppose you can find enough around the house to keep you till morning?" "o, yes," said si. "there's a sack of meal in there and some side-meat. we gave the old woman a lot of coffee. we'll make out all right." the prisoners had been watching the captain and his men with greatest anxiety. they now saw si with his squad take the 'squire. mrs. bolster and hackberry off to one side, while the captain placed the remainder of the prisoners in the center of his company and started back to camp with them.{ } there was something in this separation that terrified even mrs. bolster, who stopped railing and began to look frightened. "what are yo'uns goin' to do with we'uns?" she inquired hoarsely of si. "you'll find out soon enough," said si significantly. "set down there on that log and think about what you deserve. you might put in any spare time you have in doing some big repentin'." hackberry began to whine and beg for mercy, but shorty ordered him to keep silent. "i want you to understand," said the 'squire, "that i'm a regerlarly elected and qualified magistrate o' the state o' tennessee; that i'm not subjeck to military laws, and if any harm comes to me you'll have to answer for it to the state o' tennessee." "blast the state o' tennessee," said shorty contemptuously. "when we git through there won't be no state o' tennessee. it'll be roasting in the same logheap with south caroliny and virginny, with jeff davis brilin' in the middle." "boys," ordered si, "a couple of you look around the house and see if you can't find a mattock and shovel." terrible fears assailed the three unhappy prisoners at this. what could a mattock and shovel be wanted for but to dig their graves? shorty stepped over a little distance to a large clump of "red-sticks." these grow in long wands of brilliant red, as straight as a corn-stalk, and slenderer. they are much used about the farms of the south for rods for rough measurement. he cut one off about six feet long and stripped off its leaves.{ } the anxious eyes of the prisoners followed every movement. two of the boys appeared with an old mattock and shovel. "guess you'd better dig right over there," said si, indicating a little bare knoll. "nothin' else's ever bin planted there. at least nothin's ever come up. the chances are agin their comin' up if we plant 'em there." "stand up," said shorty, approaching hackberry with the bright crimson rod in his hand. "i'm goin' to measure you for a grass-green suit that'll last you till gabriel blows his horn." hackberry gave a howl of terror. the 'squire and mrs. bolster began a clamor of protests. "don't fuss," said shorty calmly to them, as he took hackberry's dimensions. "i ain't goin' to show no partiality. i'll serve you both the same way. your turns 'll come after his'n." the children, aware that something unusual was going on, yet unable to comprehend what it was, stood silently around, their fingers in their mouths and their vacant eyes fixed in the stolid stare of the mountaineer youth. even the dogs were quiet, and seemed watching the scene with more understanding than the children. mrs. bolster's mood suddenly changed from bitter vituperation. she actually burst into tears, and began pleading for her life, and making earnest promises as to better conduct in the future. the 'squire and hackberry followed suit, and blubbered like schoolboys. mrs. bolster reminded si and shorty how she had saved them from being killed by the{ } fierce hackberry and the still fiercer simmons. this seemed to move them. she tried a ghastly travesty of feminine blandishments by telling shorty how handsome she had thought him, and had fallen in love with him at first sight. shorty gave a grimace at this. he and si stepped back a little for consultation. when they came back shorty said oracularly: "our orders is strict, and we should've carried 'em out at once. but, talkin' with my partner here, we're reminded o' somethin'. we believe it's the law that when a man or woman is sentenced to death the execution kin be put off if they kin find anybody to marry 'em. is that good law, 'squire?" "h-m-m," answered the magistrate, resuming his judicial manner at once; "that is a general belief, and i've heard o' some instances of it. but before sayin' positively, i should like to examine the authorities an' hear argument." "well, there hain't goin' to be no continuance in this case for you to look up authorities and hear arguments," said shorty decisively. "we're the higher court in this case, and we decided that the law's good enough for it. we've settled that if mrs. bolster 'll marry hackberry, and hackberry 'll marry mrs. bolster, and you'll marry 'em both, we'll grant a stay o' proceedings in the matter o' the execution o' the sentence o' death until we kin be advised by the higher authorities." "i'll do anything. mister," blubbered hackberry. "i'll marry her this minnit. say the words, 'squire." "i've said i'd rather die times over than marry yo', jeff hackberry," murmured mrs. bolster. "i've{ } bin the wife o' one ornery snipe of a whisky-sucking sand-digger, and when the lord freed me from him i said i'd never git yoked with another. but i s'pose i've got to live for my children, though the lord knows the yaller-headed brats hain't wuth hit. they're everyone of 'em their dad over agin--all bolsters, and not wuth the powder to blow 'em to kingdom come. i'd a heap ruther marry jeff hackberry to make sure o' havin' him shot than to save him from shootin'." "you hain't no choice, madam," said shorty severely. "law and orders is strict on that pint." "well, then," said she, "since hit's a ch'ice betwixt death and jeff hackberry, i'll take jeff hackberry, though i wouldn't take him on no other terms, and i'm afeared i'm makin' a mistake as hit is." "what do you say, 'squire?" asked shorty. "i've bin studyin' on jest whar i come in," answered the magistrate. "these two save their necks by marryin', but do you understand that the law says that the magistrate who marries 'em gits his neck saved?" "the court is not clear on that as a p'int o' law," said shorty; "but in the present case it'll hold that the 'squire who does the splicin' gets as much of a rake-off as the rest. this is not to be considered a precedent, however." "all right," assented the 'squire; "let the couple jine hands." with an air of glad relief, hackberry sprang up and put out his hand. mrs. bolster came up more slowly and reluctantly grasped his hairy fist in her{ } large, skinny hand. the 'squire stood up before them in his most impressive attitude. "hold on," suddenly called out tom welch, who was the "guard-house lawyer" of co. q, and constantly drawing the "regulations," the "tactics," and the "constitution and laws of the united states," in which he was sharply proficient, upon the members of the regiment. "i raise the point that the 'squire can't officiate until he has taken the oath of allegiance to the united states." si and shorty looked at one another. "that's a good point," said si. "he's got to take the oath of allegiance." "never," shouted the 'squire, who had begun to recover his self-confidence. "never, as long as i live. i've sworn allegiance to the southern confederacy, and won't take no other oath." "grave for one!" called out shorty to the boys with the pick and shovel, as if he were giving an order in a restaurant. "full size, and hurry up with it." he picked up his measuring rod and started to take the 'squire's dimensions. the 'squire wilted at once. "i s'pose i've got to yield to force," he muttered. "i'll take the oath." "who knows the oath?" inquired si. "do you, tom?" "not exactly," replied tom, non-plused for once. "but i know the oath we took when mustered in. that ought to do. what's good enough for us is good enough for him." "go ahead," ordered si. "we ought to have a bible by rights," said tom.{ } "where kin we find your bible, mrs. bolster, asked si. "we'uns air done clean out o' bibles," she said, rather shamefacedly. "thar hain't nary one in the house. i allers said we orter have a bible. hit looked 'spectable to have one in the house. but andy allers wanted every cent to guzzle on." "here's a testament. that'll do," said tom, handing si one which some of the boys had about him. "le's make 'em all take the oath while we're at it." "you'll all raise your right hands," said si, opening the book. "place your left on this book, and repeat the words after that man there, givin' your own names." si was as solemn about it as he believed everyone should be at such a ceremony. hackberry and mrs. bolster were not sure which were their right hands, but si finally got them started, and tom welch repeated slowly and impressively: "you do solemnly swear to support the constitution and laws of the united states, and all laws made in pursuance thereof, against all enemies and opposers whatsoever, whether foreign or domestic, and to obey the orders of all officers duly appointed over you. so help you god, and kiss this book." "and to quit liquor selling, smuggling, spying and giving aid and comfort to the enemy," added shorty, and this was joined to the rest of the oath. "i ought to have added that they wash their faces once a day, and put more shortenin' and fillin' in mrs. bolster's pies," said shorty in an undertone to{ } si. "but i suppose we oughtn't to ask impossible things." "now go ahead with the wedding ceremony," ordered si. again the 'squire commanded them to join hands, and after mumbling over the fateful words, pronounced thomas jefferson hackberry and mrs. sophronia bolster man and wife. "now," said shorty, who felt at last fully insured against a great danger, "i believe it's the law and custom for all the witnesses to a weddin' to see the bride and bridegroom in bed together. you'll go inside the house and take one of them beds, and after we've seen you there we'll consider your cases further. you're all right, anyway, until we hear from camp to-morrow." amid the grins of the rest the boys conducted the newly-weds into the house. he and si brought out the sack of meal, a few cooking utensils, a side of bacon, and the package of coffee, which they gave to the other boys to get supper with. they closed the door behind them, excluding the children and dogs, and left the pair to their own reflections. "gentlemen, what air you gwine to do with me?" asked the 'squire. "i'd powerful like to git on home, if you've no further use for me." "we hain't decided what to do with you, you old fomenter o' rebellion," said si. "we ought to shoot you for what you've done in stirring up these men to fight us. we'll settle your case to-morrow. you'll stay with us till then. we'll give you your{ } supper, and after awhile you kin go in and sleep in that other bed, with the children." the 'squire gave a dismal groan at the prospect, which was lost on the boys, who were very hungry and hurrying around helping to get supper. they built a fine fire and cooked a bountiful meal, of which all, including the 'squire and children, partook heartily. a liberal portion, with big cups of strong coffee, were sent into the bridal couple. as bed-time drew near, they sent the 'squire and the children into the house, and divided themselves up into reliefs to watch during the night. chapter xvii. gathering information si and shorty work a trap and land some prisoners. the boys were sitting around having another smoke before crawling into their blankets, spread under the shade of the scraggly locusts and mangy cedars, when the dogs raised an alarm. "get back under the shadow of the trees, boys, and keep quiet," said si. "hello, the house!" came out of the darkness at the foot of the hill. "hello, thar' yourself," answered shorty, imitating mrs. bolster's voice. "hit's me--brad tingle. don't yo' know my voice? call off yer dogs. they'll eat me up." "hullo, brad; is that yo'? whar'd yo' come from? git out, thar, watch! lay down, tige! begone, bones! come on up, brad." shorty's imitations of mrs. bolster's voice and manner were so good as to deceive even the dogs, who changed their attitude of shrill defiance to one of fawning welcome. "whar'd yo' come from, brad?" repeated shorty as the newcomer made his way up the narrow, stony path. "jest from the yankee camps," answered the newcomer. "me an' jim wyatt's bin over thar by that{ } hoosier camp tryin' to git the drop on their kurnel as he was gwine t' brigade headquarters. we a'most had him when a company o' yankees that'd bin out in the country for something a'most run over us. they'uns wuz a-nigh on top o' we'uns afore we seed they'uns, an' then we'uns had t' scatter. jim run one way an' me another. i come back here t' see ef yo' had any o' the boys here. i hearn tell that a passel o' yankee ossifers is at a dance over at the widder brewster's an' i thought we'uns might done gether they'uns in ef we'uns went about it right." "so you kin--so you kin," said shorty, reaching out from behind the bushes and catching him by the collar. "and to show you how, i'll jest gether you in." a harsh, prolonged, sibilant, far-reaching hiss came from the door of the cabin, but came too late to warn brad tingle of the trap into which he was walking. shorty understood it at once. he jerked tingle forward into si's strong clutch, and then walked toward the cabin, singing out angrily: "jeff hackberry, i want you to make that wife o' your'n mind her own bisness, and let other people's alone. you and her've got quite enough to do to tend to your honeymoon, without mixing into things that don't concern you. take her back to bed and keep her there." he went back to where si was disarming and searching tingle. the prisoner had a united states musket, cartridge-box, canteen, and a new haversack, all of which excited shorty's ire.{ } "you hound, you," he said, taking him by the throat with a fierce grasp, "you've bin bushwhacking, and got these things off some soldier you sneaked onto and killed. we ought to kill you right now, like we would a dog." "no, mister, i haint killed nobody; i swar t' god i haint," gurgled the prisoner, trying to release his throat from shorty's grip. "where'd you git these things?" demanded shorty. "mrs. bolster gi' me the gun an' cartridge-box; i done found the canteen in the road, an' the poke with the letters in hit the yank had done laid down beside him when he stopped t' git a drink, an' me an' jim crep' up on him an' ordered him to surrender. he jumped an' run, an' we wuz af eared to shoot least we bring the rest o' the yanks down onto us." at the mention of letters si began eagerly examining the contents of the haversack. he held some of them down to the light of the fire, and then exclaimed excitedly: "why, boys, this is our mail. it was will gobright they were after." a sudden change came over shorty. he took the prisoner by the back of the neck and ran him up to the door of the house and flung him inside. then he hastened back to the fire and said: "le's see them letters." a pine-knot had been thrown on the fire to make a bright blaze, by the light of which si was laboriously fumbling over the letters. even by the flaring, uncertain glare it could be seen that a ruddy hue came into his face as he came across one with a gorgeous flag on one end of the envelope, and directed in a{ } pinched, labored hand on straight lines scratched by a pin. he tried to slip the letter unseen by the rest into his blouse pocket, but fumbled it so badly that he dropped the rest in a heap at the edge of the fire. "look out, si," said shorty crossly, and hastily snatching the letters away from the fire. "you'll burn up somebody's letters, and then there'll be no end o' trouble. you're clumsier'n a foundered horse. your fingers are all thumbs." "handle them yourself, if you think you kin do any better," said si, who, having got all that he wanted, lost interest in the rest. if si's fingers were all thumbs. shorty's seemed all fists. besides, his reading of handwriting was about as laborious as climbing a ladder. he tackled the lot bravely, though, and laboriously spelled out and guessed one address after another, until suddenly his eye was glued on a postmark that differed from the others. "wis." first caught his glance, and he turned the envelope around until he had spelled out "bad ax" as the rest of the imprint. this was enough. nobody else in the regiment got letters from bad ax, wis. he fumbled the letter into his blouse pocket, and in turn dropped the rest at the edge of the fire, arousing protests from the other boys. "well, if any o' you think you kin do better'n i kin, take 'em up. there they are," said he. "you go over 'em, tom welch. i must look around a little." shorty secretly caressed the precious envelope in his pocket with his great, strong fingers, and pondered as to how he was going to get an opportunity to read the letter before daylight. it was too sacred{ } and too sweet to be opened and read before the eyes of his unsympathetic, teasing comrades, and yet it seemed an eternity to wait till morning. he stole a glance out of the corner of his eye at si, who was going through the same process, as he stood with abstracted air on the other side of the fire. the sudden clamor of the dogs recalled them to present duties. "hullo, the house!" came out of the darkness. "hullo, yourself!" replied shorty, in mrs. bolster's tones. "it's me--groundhog. call off yer dogs." si and shorty looked startled, and exchanged significant glances. "needn't 've told it was him," said shorty. "i could smell his breath even this far. hullo, groundhog," he continued in loud tones. "come on up. git out, watch! lay down, tige! begone, bones! come on up, groundhog. what's the news?" a louder, longer, more penetrating hiss than ever sounded from the house. shorty looked around angrily. si made a break for the door. "no, i can't come up now," said groundhog; "i jest come by to see if things wuz all right. a company went out o' camp this mornin' for some place that i couldn't find out. i couldn't git word t' you, an' i've bin anxious 'bout whether it come this way." "never tetched us," answered shorty, in perfect reproduction of mrs. bolster's accents. "we'uns is all right." the hissing from the cabin became so loud that it seemed impossible for groundhog not to hear it.{ } "blast it, si, can't you gag that old guinea-hen," said shorty, in a savage undertone. si was in the meanwhile muttering all sorts of savage threats at mrs. bolster, the least of which was to go in and choke the life out of her if she did not stop her signalling. "glad t' hear it," said groundhog. "i was a leetle skeery all day about it, an' come out as soon's i could. have yo' seed brad tingle?" "yes; seen him to-day." "d' yo' know whar he is? kin yo' git word to him quick?" "yes, indeed; right off." "well, send word to him as soon as you kin, that i've got the mules ready for stampedin' an' runnin' off at any time, an' waitin' for him. the sooner he kin jump the corral the better. to-night, if he kin, but suttinly not later'n to-morrer night. be sure and git word to him by early to-morrer mornin' at the furthest." "i'll be sure t' git word t' him this very night," answered the fictitious mrs. bolster. "well, good-night. i must hurry along, an' git back afore the second relief goes off. all my friends air on it. see yo' ter-morrer, if i kin." "you jest bet you'll see me to-morrow," said shorty grimly, as he heard groundhog's mule clatter away. "if you don't see me the disappointment 'll come nigh breaking my heart. now i'll go in and learn mr. and mrs. hackberry how to spend the first night o' their wedded lives." "i don't keer ef yo' do shoot me. i'd a heap ruther be shot than not," she was saying to si as shorty{ } came up. "i've changed my mind sence i've bin put in here. i'd a heap ruther die than live with jeff hackberry." "never knowed married folks to git tired o' one another so soon," commented shorty. "but i should've thought that jeff' d got tired first. but this it no time to fool around with fambly jars. look here, jeff hackberry, you must make that wife o' yourn keep quiet. if she tries to give another signal we'll tie you up by the thumbs now, besides shoot you in the mornin'." "what kin i do with her?" whined jeff. "do with her? you kin make her mind. that's your duty. you're the head o' the fambly." "head o' the fambly?" groaned jeff, in mournful sarcasm. "mister, you don't seem to be acquainted with 'frony. "head o' the fambly," sneered his wife. "he aint the head o' nothin'. not the head o' a pin. he haint no more head'n a fishworm." "look here, woman," said shorty, "didn't you promise to love, honor and obey him?" "no, i didn't nuther. i said i'd shove, hammer an' belay him. hit's none o' yer bizniss, nohow, yo' sneakin' yankee' what i do to him. you hain't no call t' mix betwixt him an' me. an' my mouth's my own. i'll use hit jest as i please, in spite o' yo' an' him, an' others like yo'. hear that?" "well, you git back into that bed, an' stay there, and don't you dare give another signal, or i'll buck-and-gag you on your wedding-night." "don't you dar tetch me," she said menacingly. "i aint goin' to tech you. i'm too careful what i{ } touch. but i'll tie you to that bed and gag you, if you don't do as i say. get back into bed at once." "i ain't gwine t', and yo' can't make me," she said defiantly. "take hold of her, jeff," said shorty, pulling out his bayonet and giving that worthy a little prod. jeff hesitated until shorty gave him a more earnest prod, when he advanced toward his wife, but, as he attempted to lay his hands on her shoulders, she caught him, gave him a quick twist and a trip, and down he went; but he had clutched her to save himself from falling, and brought her down with him. shorty caught her elbows and called to si to bring him a piece of cord, with which he tied her arms. another piece bound her ankles. she lay on the floor and railed with all the vehemence of her vicious tongue. "pick her up and lay her on the bed there," shorty ordered jeff. jeff found some difficulty in lifting the tall, bony frame, but shorty gave him a little help with the ponderous but agile feet, and the woman was finally gotten on the bed. "now, we'll gag you next, if you make any more trouble," threatened shorty. "we don't allow no woman to interfere with military operations." they had scarcely finished this when the dogs began barking again, and si and shorty hurried out. the operations in the house had rather heated them, the evening was warm, and shorty had taken off his blouse and drawn it up inside of his belt, in the rear. the noise of the dogs betokened the approach of something more than usual visitors. through the clamor the boys' quick ears could detect the clatter{ } of an ominous number of hoofs. the other boys heard it, too, and were standing around, gun in hand, waiting developments. "hullo, dere, de house!" came in a voice si and shorty dimly recognized having heard somewhere before. "hullo, yourself," answered shorty. "who air yo?"{ } "i'm capt. littles," came back above the noise of barking. "call off your togs. i'm all righdt. is it all right up dere?" "yes. lay down. watch! git out, tige!" shorty started to answer, when he was interrupted by the apparition of mrs. bolster-hackberry flying out of the door, and yelling at the top of her voice: "no, hit ain't all right at all. captain. the yankees 've got us. thar's a right smart passel o' 'em here, with we'uns prisoners. jump 'em, if you' kin. if yo' can't, skeet out an' git enough t' down 'em an' git us out." si and shorty recognized that the time for words was passed. they snatched up their guns and fired in the direction of the hail. the other boys did the same. there was a patter of replying shots, aimed at the fire around which they had been standing, but had moved away from. apparently, capt. littles thought the yankees were in too great force for him to attack, for his horses could be heard moving away. the boys followed them with shots aimed at the sound. si and shorty ran down forward a little ways, hoping to get a better sight. the rebels halted, apparently{ } dis mounted, got behind a fence and began firing back at intervals. si and shorty fired from the point they had gained, and drew upon themselves quite a storm of shots. "things look bad," said si to shorty. "they've halted there to hold us while they send for reinforcements. we'd better go back to the boys and get things in shape. mebbe we'd better send back to camp for help." "we'll wait till we find out more about 'em," said shorty, as they moved back. they had to cross the road, upon the white surface of which they stood out in bold contrast and drew some shots which came uncomfortably close. the other boys, after a severe struggle, had caught mrs. bolster-hackberry and put her back in the cabin. after a brief consultation, it was decided to hold their ground until daylight. they could get into the cabin, and by using it as a fortification, stand off a big crowd of enemies. the rest of the boys were sent inside to punch out loop-holes between the logs, and make the place as defensible as possible. si and shorty were to stay outside and observe. "i've got an idee how to fix that old woman," said shorty suddenly. "buck-and-gag her?" inquired si. "no; we'll go in there and chuck her down that hole where she kept her whisky, and fasten the hasp in the staple." "good idee, if the hole will hold her." "it's got to hold her. we can't have her{ } rampaging round during the fight. i'd rather have a whole company o' rebels on my back." they did not waste any words with the old woman, but despite her yells and protests si took hold of one shoulder shorty the other, and forced her down in the pit and closed the puncheon above her. they went out again to reconnoiter. the enemy was quiet, apparently waiting. only one shot, fired in the direction of the fire, showed that they were still there. shorty suddenly bethought him of his blouse, in the pocket of which was the precious letter. he felt for it. it was gone. he was stunned. "i remember, now," he said to himself, "it was working out as i ran, and it slipped down as i climbed the fence." he said aloud: "si, i've lost my blouse. i dropped it down there jest before we crossed the road. i'm goin' to get it." "blast the blouse," said si; "let it be till mornin'. you need something worse'n a blouse to-night. you'll ketch a bullet sure's you're alive if you try to go acrost that road agin. they rake it." "i don't care if they do," said shorty desperately. "i'd go down there if a battery raked it. there's a letter in the pocket that i must have." si instinctively felt for the letter in his own pocket. "very well," he said, "if you feel as if you must go i'll go along." "no, you sha'n't. you stay here in command; it's your duty. you can't help if you do go. i'll go alone. i'll tell you what you might do, though. you might go over there to the left and fire on 'em, as if{ } we wuz feelin' around that way. that'll draw some o' their attention." si did as suggested. shorty crept back to the point they had before occupied. the rebels saw him coming over a httle knoll, and fired at him. he ran for the fence. he looked over at the road, and thought he saw the blouse lying in the ditch on the opposite side. he sprang over the fence and ran across the road. the rebels had anticipated this and sent a volley into the road. one bullet struck a small stone, which flew up and smote shorty's cheek so sharply that he reeled. but he went on across, picked up the blouse, found the dear letter, and deliberately stopped in the road until he transferred it to the breast of his shirt. then he sprang back over the fence, and stopped there a moment to rest. he could hear the rebel captain talking to his men, and every moment the accents of the voice became more familiar. "don't vaste your shods," he was saying. "don'd vire undil you sees somedings to shood ad, unt den vire to hid. see how many shods you haf alretty vired mitout doing no goot. you must dink dat ammunition's as blenty as vater in de southern confederacy. if you hat as much druble as i haf to ket cartridges you vould pe more garcful of dem." capt. littles was rosenbaum, the jew spy, masquerading in a new role. shorty's heart leaped. instantly he thought of a way to let rosenbaum know whom he had run up against. "corporal si klogg!" he called out in his loudest tones. "what is it, shorty?" answered the wondering si.{ } "don't let any more o' the boys shoot over there to the left. that's the way capt. mcgillicuddy's a-comin' in with co. q. i think i kin see him now jest raisin' the hill. yes, i'm sure it's him." the next instant he heard the rebel captain saying to his men: "boys, dey're goming up in our rear. dey're de men ve saw a liddle vhile ago. de only vay is to mount unt make a rush past de house. all mount unt vollow me as vast as dey gan." there was a gallop of horsemen up the road, and they passed by like the wind, while si and shorty fired as fast as they could load--shorty over their heads. si at the noise. just opposite the house the captain's horse stumbled, and his rider went over his head into a bank of weeds. the rest swept on, not heeding the mishap. "surrender, levi," said shorty, running up. "certainly, my tear poy," said rosenbaum. "anyding dat you vant. how are you, any vay? say, dat vas a nead drick, vasn't it? haf your horse sdumble unt trow you jest ad de righd dime unt place? it dook me a long dime to deach my horse dot. i'm mighty glat to see you." { } chapter xviii. the jew spy again mr. rosenbaum recites a thrilling experience. "hist, boys, don't talk friendly to me out loud," said the prudent rosenbaum. "what's happened? i know you have got the house. i have been expecting for a long time that there would be a raid made upon it. what the devil is that saying you have: 'it's a long worm that don't have a turn.' no; that isn't it. 'it's an ill lane that blows nobody no good.' no; that's not it, neither. well, anyway, mrs. sophronia unt her crowd got entirely too bold. they played too open, unt i knew they'd soon get ketched. who did you get in the house?" si started to call over the names, and to recite the circumstances, but as he reached that of brad tingle, rosenbaum clutched him by the arm and said earnestly: "hold on. tell me the rest after a while. i'm afraid of that man. he's come pretty near getting on to me several times already. he's listening now, unt he'll be sure to suspect something if he don't hear you treating me as you did the others. begin swearing at me as you did at the rest." si instantly took the hint. "i'll stand no more foolishness," he called out{ } angrily. "if you don't surrender at once i'll blow your rebel head off." "i have to give up," rosenbaum replied in an accent of pain, "for i believe i broke my leg when i fell. i find i can't stand up." "give up your arms, then, and we'll help you up to the fire, and see how badly you're hurt," said si. rosenbaum gave groans of anguish as si and shorty picked him up and carried him over to the fire. "now we're out of ear-shot o' the house," said si, as they deposited him on the opposite side, and somewhat behind a thicket of raspberries, "and we can talk. where did you come from this time, levi?" "straight from general bragg's headquarters at tullahoma, and i have got information that will make general rosecrans's heart jump for joy. i have got the news he has been waiting for all these weeks to move his army. i have got the number of bragg's men, just where they are stationed, and how many is at each place. i'm crazy to get to general rosecrans with the news. i have been cavorting around the country all day trying some way to get in, unt at my wits' ent, for some of the men with me had their suspicions of me, unt wouldn't have hesitated to shoot me, if they didn't like the way i was acting. to tell the truth, it's been getting pretty hot for me over there in the rebel lines. too many men have seen me in yankee camps. this man. brad tingle, has seen me twice at general rosecrans's headquarters, unt has told a lot of stories that made much trouble. i think that this is the last{ } visit i'll pay general bragg. i'm fond of visiting, but it rather discourages me to be so that i can't look at a limb running out from a tree without thinking that it may be where they will hang me." "excuse me from any such visitin'," said si sympathetically. "i'd much rather stay at home. i've had or hours inside the enemy's lines, playin' off deserter, and i've had enough to last me my three years. i'll take any day o' the battle o' stone river in preference. i ain't built for the spy business in any shape or form. i'm plain, out-and-out wabash prairie style--everything above ground and in sight." "well, i'm different from you," said shorty. "i own up that i'm awfully fond o' a game o' hocuspocus with the rebels, and tryin' to see which kin thimble-rig the other. it's mighty excitin' gamblin' when your own head's the stake, an' beats poker an' faro all holler. but i want the women ruled out o' the game. never saw a game yit that a woman wouldn't spile if she got her finger in." "mrs. bolster came mighty near marrying him, and he's pale yet from the scare," si explained. "yes," said shorty frankly. "you'll see i'm still while all around the gills. never wuz so rattled in my life. that woman's a witch. you could only kill her by shooting her with a silver bullet. she put a spell on me, sure's you're a foot high. lord, wouldn't i like to be able to manage her. i'd set her up with a faro-bank or a sweat-board, and she'd win all the money in the army in a month." "yes, she's a terror," accorded rosenbaum. "she{ } made up her mind to marry me when i first come down here. i was awfully scared, for i was sure she saw through me sharper than the men did, and would marry me or expose me. but i got some points on her about poisoning a neighboring woman that she hated unt was jealous of, unt then i played an immediate order from general bragg to me to report to his headquarters. but it took all the brains i had to keep her off me." "she's safe now from marryin' anybody for awhile," said shorty, and he related the story of her nuptials, which amused rosenbaum greatly. "but you have signed jeff hackberry's death warrant," he said. "if he tries to live with her she'll feed him wild parsnip, unt he'll get a house of red clay, that you put the roof on with a shovel. it'll be no great loss. jeff ain't worth in a year the bread he'll eat in a day." "she may be smothered in that hole," shorty bethought himself. "i guess we'd better let her out for awhile." "yes," said rosenbaum. "she can't do no harm now. nobody else will come this way to-night. the men that were with me will scatter the news that the house is in yankee hands. they think there's a big force here, unt so we won't be disturbed till morning." "then i'll go in and let her out," said shorty. the other inmates of the cabin were asleep when he entered, but they waked up, and begged him not to let the woman out until morning. "keep her in there till daylight," said 'squire corson, "and then restore me to my home and functions,{ } and i'll call out a posse comitatus, and have her publicly ducked, according to the laws of the land, as a common scold. i've never heard such vile language as she applied to me when i gave her the advice it was my duty to give to live in peace and quietness with her husband. that there woman's a niagary of cuss words and abuse." "if yo' let her out, take me outside with yo'," begged jeff hackberry. "she'll kill me, sho', if i've to stay in here till mornin' with her. she begun by flingin' a bag o' red pepper in my face, and set us all to sneezin' until i thought the 'squire'd sneeze his durned head off. then she jobbed me with a bayonet, and acted as no woman orter act toward her lawful husband, no matter how long they'd bin married, let alone their weddin' night." "sorry, but it's agin all my principles to separate man and wife," said shorty, as he moved to the puncheon trap-door and undid the hasp. "you took her for better or worse, and it's too early in the game to complain that you found her a blamed sight worse than you took her for. you're one now, you know, and must stay that way until death do you part." shorty lifted up the trap-door, and si helped the woman out with some difficulty. they expected a torrent of abuse, but she seemed limp and silent, and sank down on the floor. the boys picked her up and laid her on the bed beside jeff hackberry. "she's fainted; she's dead. she's bin sufferkated in that hole," said jeff. "no, yo' punkin-headed fool," she gasped. "i hain't dead, nor i hain't fainted, nor i hain't{ } sufferkated. yo'll find out when i git my wind back a little, i'm so full o' mad an' spite that i'm done tuckered clean out. i'm clean beat, so clean beat that i hain't no words to fit the 'casion. i've got t' lay still an' think an' gether up some." "she's comin' to, shorty," said si. "it'll be pleasanter outside." "you say you have been having unusually exciting times," said si to rosenbaum, as the boys again seated themselves by the fire. "veil, i should say so," replied rosenbaum with emphasis. "do you know that general bragg is the very worst man that ever lived?" "all rebels are bad," said shorty oracularly. "but i suppose that some are much worse than others. i know that the private soldiers are awful, and i suppose the higher you go the wuss they are. the corporals are cussider than the privates, the sergeants can give the corporals points in devilishness, and so it goes on up until the general commanding an army must be one of the devil's favorite imps, while jeff davis is old horney's junior partner." "no; it isn't that," said rosenbaum. "i've known a good many rebel generals, unt some of them ain't really bad fellers, outside of their rebelness. but old bragg is a born devil. he has no more heart than a rattlesnake. he actually loves cruelty. he'd rather kill men than not. i've seen plenty of officers who were entirely too willing to shoot men for little or nothing. general bragg is the only man i ever saw who would shoot men for nothing at all--just 'for example,' as he says, unt to make the others{ } afraid unt ready to obey him. he coolly calculates to shoot so many every month. if they've done anything to deserve it, all right. if they hain't, he shoots them all the same, just to 'preserve discipline.'" si and shorty uttered exclamations of surprise at this cold-blooded cruelty. "i know it's hard to believe," said rosenbaum, "but it's true all the same, as anybody around his headquarters will tell you. jeff davis knows it unt approves it. he is the same kind of a man as general bragg--no more heart than a tiger, i have seen a good deal of the inside of the rebel army, unt general bragg is the coldest-blooded, cruelest man in it or in the whole world. it's true that the men he orders shot are generally of no account, like our man jeff hackberry--but it's the principle of the thing that shocks me. he just takes a dislike to the way a man looks or acts, or the way he parts his hair, looks at him with his steely-gray eyes, unt says coldly: 'put him in the bull-pen.' in the bullpen the poor devil goes, unt the next time general bragg gets an idea that the discipline of the army is running down, unt he must stiffen it up with a few executions, he orders all the men that happen to be in the bull-pen taken out unt shot." "without any trial, any court-martial, any evidence against them?" gasped si. "absolutely without anything but general bragg's orders. it is like you read of in the books about those eastern countries where the sultan or other high-muk-a-muk says, 'cut that man's head off,' unt the man's head is cut off, unt no questions asked.{ } unt no funeral ceremonies except washing up the blood." "lucky for you, levi," said shorty, "that he didn't have any of the common prejudices against jews, and slap you in the bull-pen." "o, but he did," said rosenbaum. "he hated a jew worse than any man i ever met. unt it brought me so near death that i actually watched them digging my grave. "while i had my ups unt downs, unt some very narrow escapes," continued rosenbaum, "when i first went inside bragg's lines, i got along very well generally. i played the peddler unt smuggler for the southern confederacy in great shape, unt run them through a lot of gun-caps, quinine, medicines, unt so so on, unt brought in a great deal of information which they found to be true. some of dis general rosecrans gave me himself, for he is smart enough to know that if he wants his secret service men to succeed he must give them straight goods to carry to the enemy. "i brought in exact statements of what divisions, brigades unt regiments were at this place unt that place, how many men was in them, who their commanders were, unt so on. general rosecrans would have these given me. it helped him in his plans to know just what information was reaching the enemy, for he knew just how old bragg would act when he had certain knowledge. if he knew that sheridan with , men was at this place, with tom wood miles away with , more, he would do a certain thing, unt rosecrans would provide for it. the news that i brought in the rebels could test by{ } the reports they got from others, unt they always found mine correct. "my work pleased the rebel generals so well that they made me a captain in their army, transferred me from brigade headquarters to division, unt then to corps headquarters. i was given command of squads of scouts. i can draw very well, unt i made good maps of the country unt the roads, with the positions of yankee unt rebel forces. this was something that the other rebel spies could not do, unt it helped me lots. i was careful to make copies of all these maps, unt they got to general rosecrans's headquarters. "the other rebel spies got very jealous of me because i was promoted over them, unt they laid all sorts of plans to trip me up. they came awful near catching me several times, but i was too smart for them, unt could outwit them whenever i got a pointer as to what they were up to. once they watched me go to a hollow sycamore tree, which i used as a postoffice for jim jones to get the things i wanted to send to general rosecrans. they found there maps i had made at shelbyville, with the positions of the rebel un yankee forces unt the fortifications all shown. "that was an awful close call, unt i could feel the rope tightening around my neck. but i kept my nerve, unt told a straight story. i said that that tree was my regular office where i kept lots of things that i was afraid to carry around with me when i was in danger of falling into the yankee hands, as i was every day when i was scouting. luckily for me i had some other private things unt a lot of{ } confederate money hid there, too, which i showed them. they didn't more than half believe my story, but they led me off, probably because they needed me so bad. "i saw that the thing was only skimmed over, unt was ready to break out again any minute worse than ever, unt i kept my eyes peeled all the time. that's one reason why you have not seen me for so long. i didn't dare send general rosecrans anything or go near outside the rebel lines. i had to play very good, but i kept gathering up information for the day when i should make a final break unt leave the rebels for good. "a week ago i was ordered to go up to general bragg's headquarters to help them with their maps unt reports. they had nobody there that could do the work, unt jeff davis, who always wants to know everything about the armies, was bunching them up savagely for full information. he wanted accurate statements about the yankee strength unt positions, unt about the rebel strength unt positions, to see if he couldn't do something to pull the yankees off of pemberton at vicksburg. bragg's adjutant-general sent word through all the army for to find good rapid penmen unt map-makers, unt i was sent up. "the adjutant-general set me to work under a fly near headquarters, unt he was tickled almost to death with the way i did my work. old bragg himself used to walk up unt down near, growling unt cussing unt swearing at everything unt everybody. once or twice the adjutant-general called his attention to my work. old bragg just looked it over, grunted, unt bored me through unt through with{ } those sharp, cold, gray eyes of his. but i thought i was safe so long as i was at headquarters, unt i gave a great stiff to other secret service men who had been trying to down me. [illustration: old bragg used to walk up unt down, growling unt cussing. ] "one morning old bragg was in an awful temper--the worst i had ever seen. every word unt order was a cruelty to somebody. finally, up comes this brad tingle that you have inside. he is a sort of a half-spy--not brains enough to be a real one, but with a good deal of courage unt activity to do small work. he had been sent by general cheatham to carry some papers unt make a report. whatever it was, it put old bragg in a worse temper than ever. brad tingle happened to catch sight of me, unt he said in a surprised way: "'why, there's that jew i saw sitting in general rosecrans's tent talking to him, when i was playing off refugee tennesseean in the yankee camps.' "'what's that? what's that, my man?' said old bragg, who happened to overhear him. "brad tingle told all he knew about me. old bragg turned toward me unt give me such a look. i could feel those cold, cruel eyes boring straight through me. "'certainly he is a jew, unt one of old rosecrans's best spies,' he said. 'old rosecrans is a jew, a dutch jew, himself. i knowed him well in the old army. he's got a regular jew face. he plays off catholic, but that is to hide his jewishness. he can't do it. that hook nose'd give him away if nothing else did, unt he has got enough else. he likes to have jews about him, because he understands them better than he does white people, unt{ } particularly he is fond of jew spies. he can trust them where nobody else can. they'll be true to him because he is a jew. put that man in the bull-pen, unt shoot him with the rest to-morrow morning.' "'heavens,' gasped the adjutant-general; 'he is{ } by far the best man i ever had. i can't get along without him.' "'you must get along without him,' said old bragg. 'i'm astonished at you having such a man around. where in the world did you pick him up? but it's just like you. how in god's name jeff davis expects me to command an army with such makeshifts of staff officers as he sends me, i don't know. he keeps the best for old lee unt sends me what nobody else'll have, unt then expects me to win battles against a better army than the army of the potomac. i never got a staff officer that had brains once.' "a sergeant of the provost guard, who was a natural beast, unt was kept by old bragg because he was glad to carry out orders to murder men, caught hold of me by my shoulder unt run me down to the bull-pen, leaving the adjutant-general with forty expressions on his angry face. "my goodness, my heart sunk worse than ever before when i heard the door shut behind me. there were or others in the bull-pen. they were all lying around--dull, stupid, sullen, silent, unt hopeless. they hardly paid any attention to me. i sat down on a log, unt my heart seemed to sink clear out of me. for the first time in my life i couldn't see the slightest ray of hope. through the cracks in the bull-pen i could see the fresh graves of the men who had already been shot, unt while i looked i saw a squad of niggers come out unt begin digging the graves of those who were to be shot to-morrow. i could see rebel soldiers unt officers passing by, stop unt look a moment at the graves, shrug their{ } shoulders, unt go on. it froze my blood to think that tomorrow they would be looking at my grave that way. after a while a man came in unt gave each one of us a piece of cornbread unt meat. the others ate theirs greedily, but i could not touch it. night came on, unt still i sat there. suddenly the door opened, unt the adjutant-general came in with a man about my size and dressed something like me. as he passed he caught hold of my arm in a sort of way that made me understand to get up unt follow behind him, i did so at once without saying a word. i walked behind him around the bull-pen until we came back to the door, when the guard presented arms, unt he walked out, with me still behind him, leaving the other man inside. after we had gone a little way he stopped unt whispered to me: "'the general had to go off in a hurry toward war trace this afternoon. he took the provost-sergeant unt part of his staff with him, but i had to be left behind to finish up this work. i can't get anybody else to do it but you. i'm going to take you over to a cabin, where you'll be out of sight. i want you to rush that work through as fast as the lord'll let you. after you get it done you can go where you damned please, so long as you don't let the general set eyes on you. i've saved your life, unt i'm going to trust to your honor to play fair with me. help me out, do your work right, unt then never let me see you again.' "of course, i played fair. i asked no questions, you bet, about the poor devil he had put in my place. i worked all that night unt all the next day getting his papers in the best possible shape, unt in making{ } copies of them for general rosecrans, which i stuck behind the chimney in the cabin. along in the morning i heard the drums beating as the men were marched out to witness the execution. it made my heart thump a little, but i kept on scratching away with my pen for hfe unt death. then the drums stopped beating for a while, unt then they begun again. then i heard a volley that made me shiver all over. then the drums beat as the men were marched back to their camps. if i had had time to think i should have fainted. towards evening i had got everything in first-class shape. the adjutant-general came in. he looked over the papers in a very satisfied way, folded them up, checked off from a list a memorandum of the papers he had given me to copy unt compile, unt saw that i had given them all back to him. then he looked me straight in the eye unt said: "'now, jew, there's no use of my saying anything to you. you heard that volley this morning, unt understood it. never let me or the general lay eyes on you again. you have done your part all right, unt i mine. good-by.' "he took his papers unt walked out of the cabin. as soon as he was gone i snatched the copies that i had hidden behind the chimney, stuck them here unt there in my clothes, unt started for the outer lines. "i made my way to a house where i knew i'd find some men who had scouted with me before. i knew they might be suspicious of me, but i could get them to go along by pretending to have orders from headquarters for a scout. i got to the house by morning, found some of them there, gathered up some more{ } unt have been riding around all day, looking at the yankee lines, unt trying to find some way to get inside. i'm nearly dead for sleep, but i must have these papers in general rosecrans's hands before i close my eyes." "your horse is all right, isn't he?" asked shorty. "yes, i think so," answered rosenbaum. "well, we have a good horse here. i'll mount him and go with you to camp, leaving si and the rest of the boys here. i can get back to them by daylight." so it was agreed upon. day was just breaking when shorty came galloping back. "turn out, boys!" he shouted. "pack up, and start back for camp as quick as you kin. the whole army's on the move." "what's happened, shorty?" inquired si, as they all roused themselves and gathered around. "well," answered shorty, rather swelling with the importance of that which he had to communicate, "all i know is that we got into camp a little after midnight, and went direct to gen. rosecrans's headquarters. of course, the old man was up; i don't believe that old hook-nosed duffer ever sleeps. he was awful glad to see rosenbaum, and gave us both great big horns o' whisky, which rosenbaum certainly needed, if i didn't, for he was dead tired, and almost flopped down after he handed his papers to the general. but the general wanted him to stay awake, and kept plying him with whisky whenever he would begin to sink, and, my goodness, the questions he did put at that poor jew.{ } "i thought we knowed something o' the country out here around us, but, jerusalem, all that we know wouldn't make a primer to rosecrans's fifth reader. how were the bridges on this road? where did that road lead to? how deep was the water in this creek? how many rebels were out there? where was bragg's cavalry? where's his reserve artillery? and so on, until i thought he'd run a seine through every water-hole in that jew's mind and dragged out the last minner in it. i never heard the sharpest lawyer put a man through such a cross-examination. "rosenbaum was equal to everything asked him, but it seemed to me that gen. rosecrans knowed a great deal more about what was inside the rebel lines than rosenbaum did. all this time they was goin' over the papers that rosenbaum brung, and old rosey seemed tickled to death to git 'em. he told rosenbaum he'd done the greatest day's work o' his life and made his fortune. "in the meantime the whole staff had waked up and gathered in the tents, and while the general was pumpin' rosenbaum he was sending orders to this general and that general, and stirrin' things up from dan to beersheba. lord, you ought t've seen that army wake up. i wouldn't 've missed it for a farm. everything is on the move--right on the jump. we're goin' for old bragg for every cent we're worth, and we want to git back to the regiment as quick as our leg'll carry us. hustle around, now." "but what'er we goin' to do with our prisoners?" asked si. "blast the prisoners!" answered shorty with profane emphasis. "let 'em go to blue blazes, for all{ } that we care. we're after bigger game than a handful o' measly pennyroyal sang-diggers. we hain't no time to fool with polecats when we're huntin' bears. go off and leave 'em here." "that's all right," said si, to whom an idea occurred. "hustle around, boys, but don't make no noise. we'll march off so quietly that they won't know that we're gone, and it'll be lots o' fun thinking what they'll do when they wake up and begin clapper-clawin' one another and wonderin' what their fate'll be." end book three generously made available by the bibliothèque nationale de france (http://www.bnf.fr/) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through the bibliothèque nationale de france and can be seen at http://visualiseur.bnf.fr/visualiseur?nompage=webccacat&lan=fr&adr= . . . &interne=false&o= &notice= & smithsonian institution--bureau of ethnology. j. w. powell, director. cessions of land by indian tribes to the united states: illustrated by those in the state of indiana by c. c. royce. first annual report of the bureau of ethnology to the secretary of the smithsonian institution, - , government printing office, washington, , pages - [illustration: map of the state of indiana] character of the indian title. the social and political relations that have existed and still continue between the government of the united states and the several indian tribes occupying territory within its geographical limits are, in many respects, peculiar. the unprecedentedly rapid increase and expansion of the white population of the country, bringing into action corresponding necessities for the acquisition and subjection of additional territory, have maintained a constant straggle between civilization and barbarism. involved as a factor in this social conflict, was the legal title to the land occupied by indians. the questions raised were whether in law or equity the indians were vested with any stronger title than that of mere tenants at will, subject to be dispossessed at the pleasure or convenience of their more civilized white neighbors, and, if so, what was the nature and extent of such stronger title? these questions have been discussed and adjudicated from time to time by the executive and judicial authorities of civilized nations ever since the discovery of america. the discovery of this continent, with its supposed marvelous wealth of precious metals and commercial woods, gave fresh impetus to the ambition and cupidity of european monarchs. spain, france, holland, and england each sought to rival the other in the magnitude and value of their discoveries. as the primary object of each of these european potentates was the same, and it was likely to lead to much conflict of jurisdiction, the necessity of some general rule became apparent, whereby their respective claims might be acknowledged and adjudicated without resort to the arbitrament of arms. out of this necessity grew the rule which became a part of the recognized law of nations, and which gave the preference of title to the monarch whose vessels should be the first to discover, rather than to the one who should first enter upon the possession of new lands. the exclusion under this rule of all other claimants gave to the discovering nation the sole right of acquiring the soil from the natives and of planting settlements thereon. this was a right asserted by all the commercial nations of europe, and fully recognized in their dealings with each other; and the assertion, of such a right necessarily carried with it a modified denial of the indian title to the land discovered. it recognized in them nothing but a possessory title, involving a right of occupancy and enjoyment until such time as the european sovereign should purchase it from them. the ultimate fee was held to reside in such sovereign, whereby the natives were inhibited from alienating in any manner their right of possession to any but that sovereign or his subjects. the recognition of these principles seems to have been complete, as is evidenced by the history of america from its discovery to the present day. france, england, portugal, and holland recognized them unqualifiedly, and even catholic spain did not predicate her title solely upon the grant of the holy see. no one of these countries was more zealous in her maintenance of these doctrines than england. in king henry vii commissioned john and sebastian cabot to proceed upon a voyage of discovery and to take possession of such countries as they might find which were then unknown to christian people, in the name of the king of england. the results of their voyages in the next and succeeding years laid the foundation for the claim of england to the territory of that portion of north america which subsequently formed the nucleus of our present possessions. the policy of the united states since the adoption of the federal constitution has in this particular followed the precedent established by the mother country. in the treaty of peace between great britain and the united states following the revolutionary war, the former not only relinquished the right of government, but renounced and yielded to the united states all pretensions and claims whatsoever to all the country south and west of the great northern rivers and lakes as far as the mississippi. in the period between the conclusion of this treaty and the year it was undoubtedly the opinion of congress that the relinquishment of territory thus made by great britain, without so much as a saving clause guaranteeing the indian right of occupancy, carried with it an absolute and unqualified fee-simple title unembarrassed by any intermediate estate or tenancy. in the treaties held with the indians during this period--notably those of fort stanwix, with the six nations, in , and fort finney, with the shawnees, in --they had been required to acknowledge the united states as the sole and absolute sovereign of all the territory ceded by great britain. this claim, though unintelligible to the savages in its legal aspects, was practically understood by them to be fatal to their independence and territorial rights. although in a certain degree the border tribes had been defeated in their conflicts with the united states, they still retained sufficient strength and resources to render them formidable antagonists, especially when the numbers and disposition of their adjoining and more remote allies were taken into consideration. the breadth, and boldness of the territorial claims thus asserted by the united states were not long in producing their natural effect. the active and sagacious brant succeeded in reviving his favorite project of an alliance between the six nations and the northwestern tribes. he experienced but little trouble in convening a formidable assemblage of indians at huron village, opposite detroit, where they held council together from november to december , . these councils resulted in the presentation of an address to congress, wherein they expressed an earnest desire for peace, but firmly insisted that all treaties carried on with the united states should be with the general voice of the whole confederacy in the most open manner; that the united states should prevent surveyors and others from crossing the ohio river; and they proposed a general treaty early in the spring of . this address purported to represent the five nations, hurons, ottawas, twichtwees, shawanese, chippewas, cherokees, delawares, pottawatomies, and the wabash confederates, and was signed with the totem of each tribe. such a remonstrance, considering the weakness of the government under the old articles of confederation, and the exhausted condition immediately following the revolution, produced a profound sensation in congress. that body passed an act providing for the negotiation of a treaty or treaties, and making an appropriation for the purchase and extinguishment of the indian claim to certain lands. these preparations and appropriations resulted in two treaties made at fort harmar, january , , one with the six nations, and the other with the wiandot, delaware, ottawa, chippewa, pottawatima, and sac nations, wherein the indian title of occupancy is clearly acknowledged. that the government so understood and recognized this principle as entering into the text of those treaties is evidenced by a communication bearing date june , , from general knox, then secretary of war, to president washington, and which was communicated by the latter on the same day to congress, in which it is declared that-- the indians, being the prior occupants, possess the right of soil. it cannot be taken from them, unless by their free consent, or by right of conquest in case of a just war. to dispossess them on any other principle would be a gross violation of the fundamental laws of nature, and of that distributive justice which is the glory of a nation. the principle thus outlined and approved by the administration of president washington, although more than once questioned by interested parties, has almost, if not quite, invariably been sustained by the legal tribunals of the country, at least by the courts of final resort; and the decisions of the supreme court of the united states bear consistent testimony to its legal soundness. several times has this question in different forms appeared before the latter tribunal for adjudication, and in each case has the indian right been recognized and protected. in , , and , chief justice marshall successively delivered the opinion of the court in important cases involving the indian status and rights. in the second of these cases (the cherokee nation _vs_. the state of georgia) it was maintained that the cherokees were a state and had uniformly been treated as such since the settlement of the country; that the numerous treaties made with them by the united states recognized them as a people capable of maintaining the relations of peace and war; of being responsible in their political character for any violation of their engagements, or for any aggression committed on the citizens of the united states by any individual of their community; that the condition of the indians in their relations to the united states is perhaps unlike that of any other two peoples on the globe; that, in general, nations not owing a common allegiance are foreign to each other, but that the relation of the indians to the united states is marked by peculiar and cardinal distinctions which exist nowhere else; that the indians were acknowledged to have an unquestionable right to the lands they occupied until that right should be extinguished by a voluntary cession to our government; that it might well be doubted whether those tribes which reside within the acknowledged boundaries of the united states could with strict accuracy be denominated foreign nations, but that they might more correctly perhaps be denominated domestic dependent nations; that they occupied a territory to which we asserted a title independent of their will, but which only took effect in point of possession when their right of possession ceased. the government of the united states having thus been committed in all of its departments to the recognition of the principle of the indian right of possession, it becomes not only a subject of interest to the student of history, but of practical value to the official records of the government, that a carefully compiled work should exhibit the boundaries of the several tracts of country which have been acquired from time to time, within the present limits of the united states, by cession or relinquishment from the various indian tribes, either through the medium of friendly negotiations and just compensation, or as the result of military conquest. such a work, if accurate, would form the basis of any complete history of the indian tribes in their relations to, and influence upon the growth and diffusion of our population and civilization. such a contribution to the historical collections of the country should comprise: st. a series of maps of the several states and territories, on a scale ranging from ten to sixteen miles to an inch, grouped in atlas form, upon which should be delineated in colors the boundary lines of the various tracts of country ceded to the united states from time to time by the different indian tribes. d. an accompanying historical text, not only reciting the substance of the material provisions of the several treaties, but giving a history of the causes leading to them,, as exhibited in contemporaneous official correspondence and other trustworthy data. d. a chronologic list of treaties with the various indian tribes, exhibiting the names of tribes, the date, place where, and person by whom negotiated. th. an alphabetic list of all rivers, lakes, mountains, villages, and other objects or places mentioned in such treaties, together with their location and the names by which they are at present known. th. an alphabetic list of the principal rivers, lakes, mountains, and other topographic features in the united states, showing not only their present names but also the various names by which they have from time to time been known since the discovery of america, giving in each case the date and the authority therefor. indian boundaries. the most difficult and laborious feature of the work is that involved under the first of these five subdivisions. the ordinary reader in following the treaty provisions, in which the boundaries of the various cessions are so specifically and minutely laid down, would anticipate but little difficulty in tracing those boundaries upon the modern map. in this he would find himself sadly at fault. in nearly all of the treaties concluded half a century or more ago, wherein cessions of land were made, occur the names of boundary points which are not to be found on any modern map, and which have never been known to people of the present generation living in the vicinity. in many of the older treaties this is the case with a large proportion of the boundary points mentioned. the identification and exact location of these points thus becomes at once a source of much laborious research. not unfrequently weeks and even months of time have been consumed, thousands of old maps and many volumes of books examined, and a voluminous correspondence conducted with local historical societies or old settlers, in the effort to ascertain the location of a single boundary point. to illustrate this difficulty, the case of "hawkins' line" may be cited, a boundary line mentioned in the cession by the cherokees by treaty of october , . an examination of more than four thousand old and modern maps and the scanning of more than fifty volumes failed to show its location or to give even the slightest clue to it. a somewhat extended correspondence with numerous persons in tennessee, including the veteran annalist, ramsey, also failed to secure the desired information. it was not until months of time had been consumed and probable sources of information had been almost completely exhausted that, through the persevering inquiries of hon. john m. lea, of nashville, tenn., in conjunction with the present writer's own investigations, the line was satisfactorily identified as being the boundary line mentioned in the cherokee treaty of july , , and described as extending from the north carolina boundary "north to a point from which a line is to be extended to the river clinch that shall pass the holston at the ridge which divides the waters running into little river from those running into the tennessee." it gained the title of "hawkins' line" from the fact that a man named hawkins surveyed it. that this is not an isolated case, and as an illustration of the number and frequency of changes in local geographical names in this country, it may be remarked that in twenty treaties concluded by the federal government with the various indian tribes prior to the year , in an aggregate of one hundred and twenty objects and places therein recited, seventy-three of them are wholly ignored in the latest edition of colton's atlas; and this proportion will hold with but little diminution in the treaties negotiated during the twenty years immediately succeeding that date. another and most perplexing question has been the adjustment of the conflicting claims of different tribes of indians to the same territory. in the earlier days of the federal period, when the entire country west of the alleghanies was occupied or controlled by numerous contiguous tribes, whose methods of subsistence involved more or less of nomadic habit, and who possessed large tracts of country then of no greater value than merely to supply the immediate physical wants of the hunter and fisherman, it was not essential to such tribes that a careful line of demarkation should define the limits of their respective territorial claims and jurisdiction. when, however, by reason of treaty negotiations with the united states, with a view to the sale to the latter of a specific area of territory within clearly-defined boundaries, it became essential for the tribe with whom the treaty was being negotiated to make assertion and exhibit satisfactory proof of its possessory title to the country it proposed to sell, much controversy often arose with other adjoining tribes, who claimed all or a portion of the proposed cession. these conflicting claims were sometimes based upon ancient and immemorial occupancy, sometimes upon early or more recent conquest, and sometimes upon a sort of wholesale squatter-sovereignty title whereby a whole tribe, in the course of a sudden and perhaps forced migration, would settle down upon an unoccupied portion of the territory of some less numerous tribe, and by sheer intimidation maintain such occupancy. in its various purchases from the indians, the government of the united states, in seeking to quiet these conflicting territorial claims, have not unfrequently been compelled to accept from two, and even three, different tribes separate relinquishments of their respective rights, titles, and claims to the same section of country. under such circumstances it can readily be seen, what difficulties would attend a clear exhibition upon a single map of these various coincident and overlapping strips of territory. the state of illinois affords an excellent illustration. the conflicting cessions in that state may be briefly enumerated as follows: . the cession at the mouth of chicago river, by treaty of august , , was also included within the limits of a subsequent cession made by treaty of august , , with the ottawas, chippewas, and pottawatomies. . the cession at the mouth of the illinois river, by treaty of , was overlapped by the kaskaskia cession of , again by the sac and fox cession of , and a third time by the kickapoo cession of . . the cession at "old peoria fort, or village," by treaty of , was also overlapped in like manner with the last preceding one. . the cessions of at fort massac and at great salt spring are within the subsequent cession by the kaskaskias of . . the cession of august , , by the kaskaskias, as ratified and enlarged by the kaskaskias and peorias september , , overlaps the several sessions by previous treaty of at the mouth of the illinois river, at great salt spring, at fort massac, and at old peoria fort, and is in turn overlapped by subsequent cessions of july , and august , , by the kickapoos and by the pottawatomie cession of october , . . the sac and fox cession of november , (partly in missouri and wisconsin) overlaps the cessions of at the mouth of the illinois river and at old peoria fort. it is overlapped by two chippewa, ottawa, and pottawatomie cessions of july , , the winnebago cessions of august , , and september , , and by the chippewa, ottawa, and pottawatomie cession of september , . . the piankeshaw cession of december , , is overlapped by the kickapoo cession of . . the ottawa, chippewa, and pottawatomie cession of august , , overlaps the cession of around chicago. . the cession of october , , by the pottawatomies (partly in indiana), is overlapped by the subsequent cession of , by the kickapoos. . the combined cessions of july , and august , , by the kickapoos (partly in indiana), overlap the cessions of at the mouth of the illinois river and at old fort peoria; also the kaskaskia and peoria cessions of and , the piankeshaw cession of , and the pottawatomie cession of october , , and are overlapped by the subsequent pottawatomie cession of october , . . two cessions were made by the chippewas, ottawas and pottawatomies by treaty of july , (partly located in wisconsin), one of which is entirely and the other largely within the limits of the country previously ceded by the sacs and foxes, november , . . the winnebago cession of august , (which is partly in wisconsin), is also wholly within the limits of the aforesaid sac and fox cession of . . cession by the winnebagoes september , , which is mostly in the state of wisconsin and which was also within the limits of the sac and fox cession of . . pottawatomie cession of october , , which overlaps the kaskaskia and peoria cession of august , , as confirmed and enlarged september , , and also the kickapoo cession by treaties of july and august , . from this it will be seen that almost the entire country comprising the present state of illinois was the subject of controversy in the matter of original ownership, and that the united states, in order fully to extinguish the indian claim thereto, actually bought it twice, and some portions of it three times. it is proper, however, to add in this connection that where the government at the date of a purchase from one tribe was aware of an existing claim to the same region by another tribe, it had the effect of diminishing the price paid. original and secondary cessions. another difficulty that has arisen, and one which, in order to avoid confusion, will necessitate the duplication in the atlas of the maps of several states, is the attempt to show not only original, but also secondary cessions of land. the policy followed by the united states for many years in negotiating treaties with the tribes east of the mississippi river included the purchase of their former possessions and their removal west of that river to reservations set apart for them within the limits of country purchased for that purpose from its original owners, and which were in turn retroceded to the united states by its secondary owners. this has been largely the case in missouri, arkansas, kansas, nebraska, and indian territory. the present state of kansas, for instance, was for the most part the inheritance of the kansas and osage tribes. it was purchased from them by the provisions of the treaties of june , , with the osage, and june , , with the kansas tribe, they, however, reserving in each case a tract sufficiently large for their own use and occupancy. these and subsequent cessions of these two tribes must be shown upon a map of "original cessions." after securing these large concessions from the kansas and osages, the government, in pursuance of the policy above alluded to, sought to secure the removal of the remnant of ohio, indiana, and illinois tribes to this region by granting them, in part consideration for their eastern possessions, reservations therein of size and location suitable to their wishes and necessities. in this way homes were provided for the wyandots, delawares, shawnees, pottawatomies, sacs and foxes of the mississippi, kickapoos, the confederated kaskaskias, peorias, piankeshaws, and weas, the ottawas of blanchard's fork and roche de boeuf, and the chippewas and munsees. a few years of occupation again found the advancing white settlements encroaching upon their domain, with the usual accompanying demand for more land. cessions, first; of a portion and finally of the remnant, of these reservations followed, coupled with the removal of the indians to indian territory. these several reservations and cessions must be indicated upon a map of "secondary cessions." object illustration is much, more striking and effective than mere verbal description. in order, therefore, to secure to the reader the clearest possible understanding of the subject, there is herewith presented as an illustration a map of the state of indiana, upon which is delineated the boundaries of the different tracts of land within that state ceded to the united states from time to time by treaty with the various indian tribes. the cessions are as follows: no. . a tract lying east of a line running from opposite the mouth of kentucky river, in a northerly direction, to fort recovery, in ohio, and which forms a small portion of the western end of the cession made by the first paragraph of article , treaty of august , , with the wyandots, delawares, miamis, and nine other tribes. its boundaries are indicated by scarlet lines. the bulk of the cession is in ohio. no. . six miles square at confluence of saint mary's and saint joseph's rivers, including fort wayne; also ceded by treaty of august , , and bounded on the map by scarlet lines. no. . two miles square on the wabash, at the end of the portage of the miami of the lake; also ceded by treaty of august , , and bounded on the map by scarlet lines. no. . six miles square at outatenon, or old wea towns, on the wabash; also ceded by treaty of august , , and bounded on the map by scarlet lines. this tract was subsequently retroceded to the indians by article , treaty of september , , and finally included within the pottawatomie session of october , , and the miami cession of october , . no. . clarke's grant on the ohio river; stipulated in deed from virginia to the united states in to be granted to general george rogers clarke and his soldiers. this tract was specially excepted from the limits of the indian country by treaty of august , , and is bounded on the map by scarlet lines. no. . "post of vincennes and adjacent country, to which the indian title has been extinguished." this tract was specially excluded from the limits of the indian country by treaty of august , . doubt having arisen as to its proper boundaries, they were specifically defined by treaty of june , . it is known as the "vincennes tract"; is partly in illinois, and is bounded on the map by scarlet lines. no. . tract ceded by the treaties of august , , with the delawares, and august , , with the piankeshaws. in the southern part of the state, and bounded on the map by green lines. no. . cession by the treaty of august , , with the miamis, eel rivers, and weas, in the southeastern part of the state, and designated by blue lines. no. . cession by treaty of september , , with the miami, eel river, delaware, and pottawatomie tribes, adjoining "vincennes tract" (no. ) on the north, and designated by yellow lines. this cession was concurred in by the weas in the treaty of october , . no. . cession by the same treaty of september , ; in the southeastern portion of the state; bounded on the map by yellow lines. no. . cession also by the treaty of september , ; marked by crimson lines, and partly in illinois. this cession was conditional upon the consent of the kickapoos, which was obtained by the treaty with them of december , . no. . cession by the kickapoos, december , , which was subsequently reaffirmed by them june , . it was also assented to by the weas october , , and by the miamis october , . it is partly in illinois, and is bounded on the map by green lines. the kickapoos also assented to the cession no. by the miamis _et al._, of september , . no. . cession by the wyandots, september , . this is mostly in ohio, and is bounded on the map by yellow lines. no. . cession by the pottawatomies, october , ; partly in illinois, and is denoted by brown lines. a subsequent treaty of august , , with the kickapoos, cedes a tract of country (no. ) which overlaps this cession, the overlap being indicated by a dotted blue line. by the treaty of october , , the weas ceded all the land claimed by them in ohio, indiana, and illinois, except a small reserve on the wabash river. their claim was of a general and indefinite character, and is fully covered by more definite cessions by other tribes. by the treaty of october , , the delawares ceded all their claim to land in indiana. this claim, which they held in joint tenancy with the miamis, was located on the waters of white river, and it is included within the tract marked , ceded by the miamis october , . no. . cession by the miamis, october , ; bounded on the map by purple lines. its general boundaries cover all of central indiana and a small portion of western ohio, but within its limits were included the wea reservation of (no. ), and six tracts of different dimensions were reserved for the future use of the miamis [nos. , ( and ), ( , , , and ), , and ]. the miamis also assented to the kickapoo cession of december , (no. ). the kickapoos in turn, by treaty of july , , relinquished all claim to country southeast of the wabash, which was an indefinite tract, and is covered by the foregoing miami cession of . no. . cession by the kickapoos, august , . this cession is bounded on the map by blue lines, and is largely in illinois. it overlaps the pottawatomie cession of october , (no. ), the overlap being indicated by a dotted blue line. it is inborn overlapped by the pottawatomie cession (no. ) of october , . no. . cession by the weas, august , , of the tract reserved by them october , . it is on the wabash river, in the western part of the state, and is indicated by blue lines. it is within the general limits of the miami cession (no. ) of october , . no. . cession of august , , by the ottowas, chippewas, and pottawatomies, indicated by green lines, and mostly in michigan. no. . cession by the pottawatomies, by first clause of first article of the treaty of october , . it lies north of wabash river, and is bounded on the map by blue lines. this and an indefinite extent of adjoining country was also claimed by the miamis, who ceded their claim thereto october , , with the exception of sundry small reservations, four of which [nos. , , , and ] were partially or entirely within the general limits of the pottawatomie. no. . cession by the last clause of the first article of the pottawatomie treaty of october , ; in the northwest corner of the state, and bounded on the map by scarlet lines. as above stated, the miamis, by treaty of october , , ceded all their claim to land in indiana lying north and west of the wabash and miami (maumee) rivers, except six small tribal, and a number of individual reserves and grants. these six tribal, reserves were numbers , , , , , and , the first four of which, as above remarked, were either partially or entirely within the pottawatomie cession by the first clause of the first article of the treaty of october , , and the other two within the pottawatomie cession of october , . no. . cession by the eel river miamis, february , , bounded on the map by green lines. this tract is within the general limits of the miami cession (no. ) of , and was reserved therefrom. no. . cession by the second clause of the first article of the pottawatomie treaty of september , , designated by brown lines. no. . cession by the pottawatomies, october , , is in the northwest portion of the state, and is indicated by yellow lines. near the southwest corner it overlaps the kickapoo cession (no. ) of august , . within the general limits of this cession seven tracts were reserved for different bands of the tribe, which will be found on the map numbered as follows: , , , (two reserves), , and . no. . cession by the pottawatomies of indiana and michigan, october , , which in terms is a relinquishment of their claim to any remaining lands in the states of indiana and illinois, and in the territory of michigan south of grand river. the cession thus made in indiana is bounded on the map by scarlet lines. within the general limits of this cession, however, they reserved for the use of various bands of the tribe eleven tracts of different areas, and which are numbered as follows: , , , , (two reserves), (two reserves), , , and . nos. to , inclusive. cession of october , , by the miamis, of eight small tracts previously reserved to them, all bounded on the map by green lines. these are located as follows: no. . tract of thirty-six sections at flat belly's village, reserved by treaty of ; in townships and north, ranges and east. no. . tract of five miles in length on the wabash, extending back to eel river, reserved by treaty of ; in townships and north, ranges and east. no. . tract of ten sections at raccoon's village, reserved by the treaty of ; in townships and north, ranges and east. no. . tract of ten sections on mud creek, reserved by the treaty of ; in township north, range east. the treaty of october , , with the pottawatomies, established a reserve of sixteen sections for the bands of ash-kum and wee-si-o-nas (no. ), and one of five sections for the band of wee-sau (no. ), which overlapped and included nearly all the territory comprised in the mud creek reserve. no. . tract of two miles square on salamanie river, at the mouth of at-che-pong-quawe creek, reserved by the treaty of ; in township north, ranges and east. no. . a portion of the tract opposite the mouth of aboutte river, reserved by the treaty of ; in townships and north, ranges , , and east. no. . a portion of the tract known as the "big reserve," established by the treaty of ; in townships to , inclusive, ranges and east. no. . tract of ten sections at the forks of the wabash, reserved by the treaty of . this cession provides for the relinquishment of the indian title and the issuance of a patent to john b. richardville therefor. in township north, ranges and east. no. . cession of december , , by com-o-za's band of pottawatomies, of a tract of two sections reserved for them on the tippecanoe river by the treaty of october , . no. . cession of december , , by mau-ke-kose's (muck-rose) band of pottawatomies, of six sections reserved to them by the treaty of october , ; in township north, range east, and bounded on the map by crimson lines. no. . cession of december , , by the pottawatomies, of two sections reserved by the treaty of october , , to include their mills on the tippecanoe river. no. . cession of december , , by mota's band of pottawatomies, of four sections reserved for them by the treaty of october , ; in townships and north, range east, indicated by blue lines. no. . cession of march , , by mes-quaw-buck's band of pottawatomies, of four sections reserved to them by the treaty of october , ; in township north, range east, indicated by crimson lines. no. . cession of march , , by che-case's band of pottawatomies, of four sections reserved for them by the treaty of october , ; in townships and north, ranges and east, bounded on the map by yellow lines. no. . cession of april , , by aub-ba-naub-bee's band of pottawatomies, of thirty-six sections reserved for them, by the treaty of october , . in townships and north, ranges and east, bounded on the map by blue lines. no. . cession of april , , by the bands of o-kaw-mause, kee-waw-nee, nee-boash, and ma-che-saw (mat-chis-jaw), of ten sections reserved to them by the pottawatomie treaty of october , . no. . cession of april , , by the bands of nas-waw-kee (nees-waugh-gee) and quash-quaw, of three sections reserved for them by the treaty of october , ; in township north, range east, bounded on the map by scarlet lines. no. . cession of august , , by the bands of pee-pin-ah-waw, mack-kah-tah-mo-may, and no-taw-kah (pottawatomies), of twenty-two sections reserved for them and the band of menom-i-nee (the latter of which does not seem to be mentioned in the treaty of cession), by treaty of october , ; in township north, ranges and east, bounded on the map by green lines. no. . cession of september , , by the bands of to-i-sas brother me-mot-way, and che-quaw-ka-ko, of ten sections reserved for them by the pottawatomie treaty of october , , and cession of september , , by ma-sac's band of pottawatomies, of four sections reserved for them by the treaty of october , ; in township north, range east, bounded on the map by crimson lines. nos. to , inclusive. cessions of september , , by various bands of pottawatomies, of lands reserved for them by the treaty of (being all of their remaining lands in indiana), as follows: no. . four sections each for the bands of kin-kash and men-o-quet; in township north, ranges and east, bounded on the map by crimson lines. no. . ten sections for the band of che-chaw-kose; in township north, range east, designated by scarlet lines. no. . sixteen sections for the bands of ash-kum and wee-si-o-nas; in townships and north, range east, bounded on the map by a dotted black line, and overlapping no. . no. . five sections for the band of wee-sau; in township north, range east, adjoining no. , bounded on the map by a dotted black line, and overlapping nos. and . a cession for the second time is also made by this treaty of the four sections reserved for the band of mota (no. ), by the treaty of october , . nos. to , inclusive. cessions of november , , by the miamis, as follows: no. . a portion of the "big reserve," in townships , , and north, ranges , , , , , and east, bounded on the map by crimson lines, within the limits of which is reserved a tract for the band of me-to-sin-ia, numbered . no. . the reservation by the treaty of , on the wabash river, below the forks thereof; in townships and north, ranges and east, bounded on the map by scarlet lines. no. . the remainder of the tract reserved by the treaty of , opposite the mouth of abouette river; in townships and north, ranges , , and east, denoted by crimson lines. no. . the reserve by the treaty of at the mouth of flat rock creek; in township north, ranges and east, bounded on the map by crimson lines. no. . the reserve at seek's village by the treaty of ; in townships and north, ranges and east, marked by yellow lines. no. . cession of november , , of the residue of the "big reserve" (except the grant to me-to-sin-ia's band no. ); in townships to north, ranges to east, designated by yellow lines. no. . by the miami treaty of november , , a reserve of ten miles square was made (out of the general cession) for the band of me-to-sin-ia. by the treaty of november , , the united states agreed to convey this tract to me-shing-go-me-sia, son of me-to-sin-ia, in trust for the band. by act of congress approved june , , this reserve was partitioned among the members of the band, in number, and patents issued to each of them for his or her share. it is in townships and north, ranges and east, and is bounded on the map by green lines. this ended all indian tribal title to lands within the state of indiana. * * * * * the results to accrue from the researches contemplated under the d, d, th, and th subdivisions of the work suggested have already been outlined with sufficient clearness, and need not be farther elaborated here. a source of much delay in the collection of facts essential to the completion of the work is the apparent indifference of librarians and others in responding to letters of inquiry. some, however, have entered most zealously and intelligently into the work of searching musty records and interviewing the traditional "oldest inhabitant" for light on these dark spots. thanks are especially due in this regard to hon. john m. lea, nashville, tenn.; william harden, librarian state historical society, savannah, ga.; k.a. linderfelt, librarian public library, milwaukee, wis.; dr. john a. rice, merton, wis.; hon. john wentworth, chicago, ill.; a. cheesebrough and hon. j.n. campbell, of detroit, mich.; d.s. durrie, librarian state historical society, madison, wis.; h.m. robinson, milwaukee, wis.; andrew jackson, sault ste. marie, mich.; a.w. rush, palmyra, mo.; h.c. campbell, centreville, mich., and others. index atlas showing cessions of land boundaries, indian cabot, john , sebastian cessions of land, xxvii by the indians, in indiana original and secondary council, indian, at huron village hawkins line (boundary) illinois, purchase of land for indians in indian title, character of indiana, cession of land by the indians land cessions lea, john m original and secondary cessions possession, right of purchases of land from indians in illinois title, indian, character of inheres in discoverer treaties at fort harmar by meredith nicholson otherwise phyllis. with frontispiece in color. the provincial american and other papers. a hoosier chronicle. with illustrations. the siege of the seven suitors. with illustrations. houghton mifflin company boston and new york otherwise phyllis [illustration: phyllis] otherwise phyllis by meredith nicholson [illustration] boston and new york houghton mifflin company the riverside press cambridge copyright, , by meredith nicholson all rights reserved _published september _ to albert b. anderson a citizen of the hoosier commonwealth whose attainments as lawyer and judge have added to the fame of montgomery this book is inscribed with sincere regard and admiration contents i. the kirkwoods break camp ii. the montgomerys of montgomery iii. buckeye lane iv. a transaction in apples v. the otherwiseness of phyllis vi. the smoking-out of amzi vii. ghosts see the light again viii. listening hill ix. on an orchard slope x. phil's party xi. brothers xii. nan bartlett's decision xiii. the best interests of montgomery xiv. turkey run xv. lois xvi. merry christmas xvii. phil's perplexities xviii. amzi is flabbergasted xix. phil moves to amzi's xx. back to stop seven xxi. phil's fists xxii. mr. waterman's great opportunity xxiii. pleasant times in main street xxiv. the forsaken garden xxv. phil encounters the sheriff xxvi. a call in buckeye lane xxvii. amzi's perfidy otherwise phyllis otherwise phyllis chapter i the kirkwoods break camp "stuff's all packed, phil, and on the wagon. camera safe on top and your suit-case tied to the tail-gate. shall we march?" "not crazy about it, daddy. why not linger another week? we can unlimber in a jiffy." "it's a tempting proposition, old lady, but i haven't the nerve." kirkwood dropped an armful of brush on the smouldering camp-fire and stood back as it crackled and flamed. there came suddenly a low whining in the trees and a gust of wind caught the sparks from the blazing twigs and flung them heavenward. he threw up his arm and turned his hand to feel the wind. "the weather's at the changing point; there's rain in that!" "well, we haven't been soaked for some time," replied phil. "we've been awfully respectable." "respectable," laughed her father. "we don't know what the word means! we're unmitigated vagabonds, you and i, phil. if i didn't know that you like this sort of thing as well as i do, i shouldn't let you come. but your aunts are on my trail." "oh, one's aunts! oh, one's three aunts!" murmured phil. "not so lightly to be scorned! when i was in town yesterday your aunt kate held me up for a scolding in the post-office. i'd no sooner climbed up to my den than your aunt josie dropped in to ask what i had done with you; and while i was waiting for you to buy shoes at fisher's your aunt fanny strolled by and gave me another overhauling. it's a question whether they don't bring legal process to take you away from me. what's a father more or less among three anxious aunts! as near as i can make out, aunt fanny's anxiety is chiefly for your complexion. she says you look like an indian. and she implied that i am one." "one of her subtle compliments. i've always thought indians were nice." it was clear that this father and daughter were on the best of terms, and that admiration was of the essence of their relationship. phil stooped, picked up a pebble and flung it with the unconscious grace of a boy far down the creek. her aunt fanny's solicitude for her complexion was or was not warranted; it depended on one's standard in such matters. phil was apparently not alarmed about the state of her complexion. "suppose we wait for the moon," kirkwood suggested. "it will be with us in an hour, and we can loaf along and still reach town by eleven. only a little while ago we had to get you to bed by eight, and it used to bother me a lot about your duds; but we've outgrown that trouble. i guess--" he paused abruptly and began to whistle softly to himself. phil was familiar with this trick of her father's. she knew the processes of his mind and the range of his memories well enough to supply the conclusion of such sentences as the one that had resolved itself into a doleful whistle. as he was an excellent amateur musician, the lugubrious tone of his whistling was the subject of many jokes between them. the walls of a miniature cañon rose on either side of the creek, and the light of the wind-blown camp-fire flitted across the face of the shelving rock, or scampered up to the edge of the overhanging cliff, where it flashed fitfully against the sky. the creek splashed and foamed through its rough, boulder-filled channel, knowing that soon it would be free of the dark defile and moving with dignity between shores of corn toward the wabash. the cliffs that enclosed turkey run represented some wild whim of the giant ice plow as it had redivided and marked this quarter of the world. the two tents in which the kirkwoods had lodged for a month had been pitched in a grassy cleft of the more accessible shore, but these and other paraphernalia of the camp were now packed for transportation in a one-horse wagon. as a fiercer assault of the wind shook the vale, the horse whinnied and pawed impatiently. "cheer up, billo! we're going soon!" called phil. kirkwood stood by the fire, staring silently into the flames. phil, having reassured billo, drew a little away from her father. in earlier times when moods of abstraction fell upon him, she had sought to rouse him; but latterly she had learned the wisdom and kindness of silence. she knew that this annual autumnal gypsying held for him the keenest delight and, in another and baffling phase, a poignancy on which, as she had grown to womanhood, it had seemed impious to allow her imagination to play. she watched him now with the pity that was woven into her love for him: his tall figure and the slightly stooped shoulders; the round felt hat that crowned his thick, close-cut hair, the dejection that seemed expressed in so many trifles at such moments,--as in his manner of dropping his hands loosely into the pockets of his corduroy coat, and standing immovable. without taking his eyes from the fire he sat down presently on a log and she saw him fumbling for his pipe and tobacco. he bent to thrust a chip into the fire with the deliberation that marked his movements in these moods. now and then he took the pipe from his mouth, and she knew the look that had come into his gray eyes, though she saw only the profile of his bearded face as the firelight limned it. now, as at other such times, on summer evenings in the little garden at home, or on winter nights before the fire in their sitting-room, she felt that he should be left to himself; that his spirit traversed realms beyond boundaries she might not cross; and that in a little while his reverie would end and he would rise and fling up his long arms and ask whether it was breakfast-time or time to go to bed. phil kirkwood was eighteen, a slim, brown, graceful creature, with a habit of carrying her chin a little high; a young person who seemed to be enjoying flights into the realm of reverie at times, and then, before you were aware of it, was off, away out of sight and difficult to catch with hand or eye. as a child this abruptness had been amusing; now that she was eighteen her aunts had begun to be distressed by it. her critics were driven to wild things for comparisons. she was as quick as a swallow; and yet a conscientious ornithologist would have likened her in her moments of contemplation to the thrush for demureness. and a robin hopping across a meadow, alert in all his mysterious senses, was not more alive than phil in action. her middle-aged aunts said she was impudent, but this did not mean impudent speech; it was phil's silences that annoyed her aunts and sometimes embarrassed or dismayed other people. her brown eye could be very steady and wholly respectful when, at the same time, there was a suspicious twitching of her thread-of-scarlet lips. the aunts were often outraged by her conduct. individually and collectively they had endeavored to correct her grievous faults, and she had received their instructions meekly. but what could one do with a mild brown eye that met the gaze of aunts so steadily and submissively, while her lips betrayed quite other emotions! phil's clothes were another source of distress. she hated hats and in open weather rejected them altogether. a tam-o'-shanter was to her liking, and a boy's cap was even better. the uniform of the basketball team at high school suited her perfectly; and yet her unreasonable aunts had made a frightful row when she wore it as a street garb. she gave this up, partly to mollify the aunts, but rather more to save her father from the annoyance of their complaints. she clung, however, to her sweater,--on which a large "m" advertised her _alma mater_ most indecorously,--and in spite of the aunts' vigilance she occasionally appeared at center church in tan shoes; which was not what one had a right to expect of a great-granddaughter of amzi i, whose benevolent countenance, framed for adoration in the sunday-school room, spoke for the conservative traditions of the town honored with his name. phil had no sense of style; her aunts were agreed on this. her hair-ribbons rarely matched her stockings; and the stockings on agile legs like phil's, that were constantly dancing in the eyes of all montgomery, should, by all the canons of order and decency, present holeless surfaces to captious critics. that they frequently did not was a shame, a reproach, a disgrace, but no fault, we may be sure, of the anxious aunts. manifestly phil had no immediate intention of growing up. the idea of being a young lady did not interest her. in june of this particular year she had been graduated from the montgomery high school, in a white dress and (noteworthy achievement of the combined aunts!) impeccable white shoes and stockings. pink ribbons (pink being the class color) had enhanced the decorative effect of the gown and a pink bow had given a becoming touch of grace to her head. phil's hair--brown in shadow and gold in sunlight--was washed by montgomery's house-to-house hairdresser whenever aunt fanny could corner phil for the purpose. phil's general effect was of brownness. midwinter never saw the passing of the tan from her cheek; her vigorous young fists were always brown; when permitted a choice she chose brown clothes: she was a brown girl. * * * * * speaking of phil's graduation, it should be mentioned that she had contributed a ten-minute oration to the commencement exercises, its subject being "the dogs of main street." this was not conceded a place on the programme without a struggle. the topic was frivolous and without precedent; moreover, it was unliterary--a heinous offense, difficult of condonation. to admit the dogs of main street to a high-school commencement, an affair of pomp and ceremony held in hastings's theater, was not less than shocking. it had seemed so to the principal, but he knew phil; and knowing phil he laughed when the english teacher protested that it would compromise her professional dignity to allow a student to discuss the vagrant canines of main street in a commencement essay. she had expected phil to prepare a thesis on "what the poets have meant to me," and for this "the dogs of main street" was no proper substitute. the superintendent of schools, scanning the programme before it went to the printer, shuddered; but it was not for naught that phil's "people" were of montgomery's elect. phil was, in fact, _a_ montgomery. her great-grandfather, amzi montgomery, observing the unpopulous hoosier landscape with a shrewd eye, had, in the year of grace , opened a general store on the exact spot now occupied by montgomery's bank, and the proper authorities a few years later called the name of the place montgomery, which it remains to this day. this explains why the superintendent of schools overlooked the temerity of amzi's great-granddaughter in electing the main street fauna as the subject of her commencement address rather than her indebtedness to the poets, though it may not be illuminative as to the holes in phil's stockings. but on this point we shall be enlightened later. phil raised her head. there had come a lull in the whisper of the weather spirit in the sycamores, and she was aware of a sound that was not the noise of the creek among the boulders. it was a strain of music not of nature's making and phil's healthy young curiosity was instantly aroused by it. her father maintained his lonely vigil by the fire, quite oblivious of her and of all things. she caught another strain, and then began climbing the cliff. the ascent was difficult, but she drew herself up swiftly, catching at bushes, seeking with accustomed feet the secure limestone ledges that promised safety, pausing to listen when bits of loosened stone fell behind her. finally, catching the protruding roots of a great sycamore whose shadow had guided her, she gained the top. the moon, invisible in the vale, now greeted her as it rose superbly above a dark woodland across a wide stretch of intervening field. but there were nearer lights than those of star and moon, and their presence afforded her a thrill of surprise. clearer now came the strains of music. here was a combination of phenomena that informed the familiar region with strangeness. the music came from a barn, and she remembered that barn well as a huge, gloomy affair on the holton farm. satisfied of this, phil turned, half-unconsciously, and glanced up at the sycamore. that hoary old landmark defined a boundary, and a boundary which, on various accounts, it was incumbent upon the great-granddaughter of amzi montgomery i to observe. a dividing fence ran from the sycamore, straight toward the moon. it was a "stake-and-rider" fence, and the notches on the holton side of it were filled with wild raspberry, elderberry, and weeds; but on the montgomery side these interstices were free of such tangle. the fact that lights and music advertised the holton farm to the eye and ear seemed to phil a matter worthy of her attention. the corn was in the shock on the montgomery side; the adjacent holton field had lain fallow that year. the shocks of corn suggested to phil's imagination the tents of an unsentineled host or an abandoned camp; but she walked fearlessly toward the lights and music, bent upon investigation. the moon would not for some time creep high enough to light the valley and disturb her father's vigil by the camp-fire: there need be no haste, for even if he missed her he would not be alarmed. the old holton house and its outbuildings lay near the fence and phil calculated that without leaving her ancestral acres she would be able to determine exactly the nature and extent of this unprecedented revelry in the holton barn. she approached as near as possible and rested her arms on the rough top rail of the fence. there were doors on both sides of the lumbering old structure, and her tramp across the cornfield was rewarded by a comprehensive view of the scene within. the music ceased and she heard voices--gay, happy voices--greeting some late-comers whose automobile had just "chug-chugged" into the barnyard. she saw, beyond the brilliantly lighted interior, the motors and carriages that had conveyed the company to the dance; and she caught a glimpse of the farmhouse itself, where doubtless refreshments were even now in readiness. phil was far enough away to be safe from observation and yet near enough to identify many of the dancers. they were chiefly young people she had known all her life, and the strangers were presumably friends of the holtons from indianapolis and elsewhere. the strains of a familiar waltz caused a quick reassembling of the dancers. the music tingled in phil's blood. she kept time with head and hands, and then, swinging round, began dancing, humming the air as her figure swayed and bent to its cadences. by some whim the nearest corn-shock became the center of her attention. round and round it she moved, with a child's abandon; and now that the moon's full glory lay upon the fields, her shadow danced mockingly with her. fauns and nymphs tripped thus to wild music in the enchanted long ago when the world was young. hers was the lightest, the most fantastic of irresponsible shadows. it was not the mere reflection of her body, but a prefigurement of her buoyant spirit, that had escaped from her control and tauntingly eluded capture. her mind had never known a morbid moment; she had never feared the dark, without or within. and this was her private affair--a joke between her and the moon and the earth. it was for the moment all hers--earth and heaven, the mystery of the stars, the slumbering power of a beneficent land that only yesterday had vouchsafed its kindly fruits in reward of man's labor. after a breathless interval a two-step followed, and phil danced again, seizing a corn-stalk and holding it above her head with both hands like a wand. when the music ended she poised on tiptoe and flung the stalk far from her toward the barn as though it were a javelin. then as she took a step toward the fence she was aware that some one had been watching her. it was, indeed, a nice question whether the flying stalk had not grazed the ear of a man who stood on holton soil, his arms resting on the rail just as hers had been ten minutes earlier, and near the same spot. "'lo!" gasped phil breathlessly. "'lo!" they surveyed each other calmly in the moonlight. the young man beyond the fence straightened and removed his hat. he had been watching her antics round the corn-shock and phil resented it. "what were you doing that for?" she demanded indignantly, her hands in her sweater pockets. "doing what, for instance?" "watching me. it wasn't fair." "oh, i liked your dancing; that was all." "oh!" an "oh" let fall with certain intonations is a serious impediment to conversation. the young gentleman seemed unable at this crucial instant to think of a fitting reply. finding himself unequal to a response in her own key he merely said:-- "i'm sorry. i really didn't mean to. i came over here to sit on the fence and watch the party." "watch it! why don't you go in and dance?" he glanced down as though to suggest that if phil were to scrutinize his raiment she might very readily understand why, instead of being among the dancers, he contented himself with watching them from a convenient fence corner. he carried a crumpled coat on his arm; the collar of his flannel shirt was turned up round his throat. his hat was of battered felt with a rent in the creased crown. "my brother and sister are giving the party. i'm not in it." "i suppose your invitation got lost in the mail," suggested phil, this being a form of explanation frequently proffered by local humorists for their failure to appear at montgomery functions. "nothing like that! i didn't expect to be here to-day. in fact, i've been off trying to borrow a team of horses; one of mine went lame. i've just brought them home, and i'm wondering how long i've got to wait before the rumpus is over and those folks get out of there and give the horses a chance. it's going to rain before morning." phil had heard the same prognostication from her father, and it was in the young man's favor that he was wise in weather lore. the musicians had begun to play a popular barn dance, and the two spectators watched the dancers catch step to it. then phil, having by this time drawn a trifle closer to the fence and been reassured by her observations of the clean-shaven face of the young man, became personal. "are you charlie holton?" "no; fred. charlie's my brother." "and your sister's name is ethel." "o. k. i'm trying to figure you out. if you weren't so tall i'd guess you were phyllis kirkwood." "that's all of my name," replied phil. "i remember you now, but you must have been away a long time. i hadn't heard that anybody was living over there." "the family haven't been here much since i was a kid. they have moved out their things. what's left is mine." mr. frederick holton turned and extended the hand that held his hat with a comprehensive gesture. there was a tinge of irony in his tone that phil did not miss. "what's left here--house, barn, and land--belongs to me. the town house has been sold and charlie and ethel have come out here to say good-bye to the farm." "oh!" this time phil's "oh" connoted mild surprise, polite interest, and faint curiosity. the wind rustled the leaves among the corn-shocks. the moon gazed benevolently upon the barn, tolerant of the impertinence of man-made light and a gayety that was wholly inconsonant with her previous knowledge of this particular bit of landscape. fred holton did not amplify his last statement, so phil's "oh," in so far as it expressed curiosity as to the disposition of the holton territory and mr. frederick holton's relation to it, seemed destined to no immediate satisfaction. "i must skip," remarked phil; though she did not, in fact, skip at once. "staying over at your grandfather's?" the young man's arm pointed toward the north and the venerable farmhouse long occupied by tenants of the montgomerys. old amzi had acquired much land in his day and his grandson, amzi iii, clung to most of it. but this little availed phil, as we shall see. still it was conceivable and pardonable that fred holton should assume that phil was domiciled upon soil to which she had presumably certain inalienable rights. "no; i've been camping and my father's waiting for me down there in turkey run. we've been here a month." "it must be good fun, camping that way." "oh, rather! but it's tough--the going home afterwards." "i hate towns myself. i expect to have some fun out here." "i heard this farm had been sold," remarked phil leadingly. "well, i suppose it amounts to that. they were dividing up father's estate, and i drew it." "well, it's not so much to look at," remarked phil, as though the appraisement of farm property were quite in the line of her occupations. "i've been across your pasture a number of times on my way to uncle amzi's for milk, but i didn't know any one was living here. one can hardly mention your farm in terms of grandeur or splendor." fred holton laughed, a cheerful, pleasant laugh. phil had not thought of it before, but she decided now that she liked him. his voice was agreeable, and she noted his slight drawl. phil's father, who was born in the berkshires, said all hoosiers drawled. as a matter of fact, phil, who was indubitably a hoosier, did not, save in a whimsical fashion of her own, to give a humorous turn to the large words with which she sometimes embellished her conversation. her father said that her freedom from the drawl was no fault of the montgomery high school, but attributable to his own vigilance. phil knew that it was unseemly to be talking across a fence to a strange young man, particularly when her father was doubtless waiting for her to return for the homeward journey; and she knew that she was guilty of a grievous offense in talking to a holton in any circumstances. still the situation appealed to her imagination. there hung the moon, patron goddess of such encounters, and here were fields of mystery. "they say it's no good, do they? they're right. i know all about it, so you don't need to be sorry for me." sensitiveness spoke here; obviously others had made the mistake, of which she would not be guilty, of sympathizing with him in his possession of these unprofitable acres. phil had no intention of being sorry for him. she rather liked him for not wanting her sympathy, though to be sure there was no reason why he should have expected it. "you've been living in indianapolis?" "the folks have. father died, you know, nearly two years ago. i was in mexico, and now i'm back to stay." "i suppose you learned farming in mexico?" phil pursued. "well, hardly! mining; no silver; quit." "oh," said phil, and filed his telegram for reference. they watched the dance for a few minutes. "what's that?" phil started guiltily as holton turned his head toward the creek, listening. her father was sounding the immelodious fish-horn which he called their signal corps. he must have become alarmed by her long absence or he would not have resorted to it, and she recalled with shame that it had been buried in a soap-box with minor cooking-utensils at the bottom of the wagon, and could not have been resurrected without trouble. "good-bye!" she ran swiftly across the field toward the creek. the horn, sounding at intervals in long raucous blasts, roused phil to her best speed. she ran boy fashion with her head down, elbows at her sides. fred holton watched her until she disappeared. he made a detour of the barn, followed a lane that led to the town road, and waited, in the shadow of a great walnut at the edge of a pasture. he was soon rewarded by the sound of wheels coming up from the creek, and in a moment the one-horse wagon bearing phil and her father passed slowly. he heard their voices distinctly; kirkwood was chaffing phil for her prolonged absence. their good comradeship was evident in their laughter, subdued to the mood of the still, white night. fred holton was busy reconstructing all his previous knowledge of the kirkwoods, and he knew a good deal about them, now that he thought of it. at the crest of listening hill,--so called from the fact that in old times farm-boys had listened there for wandering cows,--the wagon lingered for a moment--an act of mercy to the horse--and the figures of father and daughter were mistily outlined against the sky. then they resumed their journey and fred slowly crossed the fields toward the barn. chapter ii the montgomerys of montgomery a stout, spectacled gentleman of fifty or thereabouts appeared at intervals, every business day of the year, on the steps of montgomery's bank, at the corner of main and franklin streets. as he stood on this pedestal, wearing, winter and summer, a blue-and-white seersucker office coat tightly buttoned about his pudgy form, and frequently with an ancient straw hat perched on the side of his head, it was fair to assume that he was in some way connected with the institution from whose doors he emerged. this was, indeed, the fact, and any intelligent child could have enlightened a stranger as to the name of the stout gentleman indicated. he was one of the first citizens of the community, if wealth, probity, and long residence may be said to count for anything. and his name, which it were absurd longer to conceal, was amzi montgomery, or, to particularize, amzi montgomery iii. as both his father and his grandfather who had borne the same name slept peacefully in greenlawn, it is unnecessary to continue in this narrative the numerical designation of this living amzi who braved the worst of weathers to inspect the moving incidents of main street as a relief from the strain and stress of the business of a private banker. when, every hour or so, mr. montgomery, exposing a pink bald head to the elements, glanced up and down the street, usually with a cigar planted resolutely in the corner of his mouth, it was commonly believed that he saw everything that was happening, not only in main street, but in all the shops and in the rival banking-houses distributed along that thoroughfare. after surveying the immediate scene,--having, for example, noted the customers waiting at the counter of the first national bank, diagonally opposite,--something almost invariably impelled his glance upward to the sign of a painless dentist, immediately above the first national,--a propinquity which had caused a wag (one of the montgomery's customers) to express the hope that the dentist was more painless than the bank in his extractions. there was a clothing store directly opposite amzi's bank, and his wandering eye could not have failed to observe the lettering on the windows of the office above it, which, in badly scratched gilt, published the name of thomas kirkwood, attorney at law, to the litigiously inclined. still higher on the third and final story of the building hung a photographer's sign in a dilapidated condition, and though a studio skylight spoke further of photography, almost every one knew that the artist had departed years ago, and that tom kirkwood had never found another tenant for those upper rooms. at two o'clock on the afternoon of the day following the return of phil kirkwood and her father from their camp on sugar creek, as mr. montgomery appeared upon the steps of the bank and gazed with his usual unconcern up and down main street, his spectacles pointed finally (or so it seemed) to the photographer's studio over the way. although a slight mist was falling and umbrellas bobbed inanely in the fashion of umbrellas, amzi in his seersucker coat was apparently oblivious of the weather's inclemency. one of the windows of the abandoned photograph gallery was open, and suddenly, without the slightest warning, the head of miss phyllis kirkwood bent over the cornice and she waved her hand with unmistakable friendliness. it was then that mr. montgomery, as though replying to a signal, detached his left hand from its pocket, made a gesture as graceful as a man of his figure is capable of, and then, allaying suspicion by passing the hand across his bald head, he looked quickly toward the court-house tower and immediately withdrew to continue his active supervision of the four clerks who sufficed for his bank's business. as depositors were now bringing to the receiving teller's window their day's offerings, mr. montgomery took his stand at the paying teller's window,--a part of his usual routine,--to relieve the pressure incident to the closing hour, one teller at other times being quite equal to the demands of both departments. mr. montgomery's manner of paying a check was in itself individual. he laid his cigar on the edge of the counter, passed the time of day with a slightly asthmatic voice, drew the check toward him with the tips of his fingers, read it, cocked an eye at the indorsement, and counted out the money with a bored air. if silver entered into the transaction, he usually rang the last coin absently on the glass surface of the counter. in other times the sign on the window had proclaimed "montgomery & holton, bankers"; and the deletion of the second name from the copartnership was due to an incident that must be set down succinctly before we proceed further. amzi ii had left a family of five children, of whom phil kirkwood's three aunts have already been mentioned. the only one of the montgomery girls, as they were locally designated, who had made a marriage at all in keeping with the family dignity, had been lois. lois, every one said, was the handsomest, the most interesting of the montgomerys, and she had captured at eighteen the heart of tom kirkwood, who had come out of the east to assume the chair of jurisprudence in madison college, which, as every one knows, is an institution inseparably associated with the fame of montgomery as a community of enlightenment. tom kirkwood was a graduate of williams college, with a berlin ph.d., and he had, moreover, a modest patrimony which, after his marriage to lois montgomery, he had invested in the block in main street opposite the montgomery bank. the year following the marriage he had, in keeping with an early resolution, resigned his professorship and begun the practice of law. he seemed to have escaped the embarrassments and prejudices that attend any practical undertakings by men who have borne the title of professor, and whether his connection with the montgomery family saved him from such disqualification it was nevertheless true that he entered upon the law brilliantly. two or three successes in important cases had launched him upon this second career auspiciously. amzi ii was still living at the time of the marriage, and as he valued his own position in the community and wished his family to maintain its traditions, he had subdivided a large tract of woodland in which his father's house stood, and bestowed an acre lot upon each of his daughters. his son had declined a similar offer, having elected early in life the bachelor state in which we have found him. as lois had been the first to marry, her house was planted nearest to the gray old brick in which she had been reared. if the gods favored the montgomerys, they seemed no less to smile with a peculiar indulgence upon the kirkwoods. people who had said that lois was a trifle strong-willed and given to frivolity were convinced that her marriage had done much to sober her. in the second year thereafter phyllis was born, a further assurance that lois was thoroughly established among the staid matrons of her native town. then in the fifth year of her marriage, rumors--almost the first scandalous gossip that had ever passed current in those quiet streets--began to be heard. it did not seem possible that in a community whose morals were nurtured in center church, a town where everybody was "good," where no respectable man ever entered a saloon and divorce was a word not to be spoken before children,--that here, a daughter of the house of montgomery was causing anxiety among those jealous of her good name. a few of kirkwood's friends--and he had many--may have known the inner history of the cloud that darkened his house; but the end came with a blinding flash that left him dazed and dumb. the town was so knit together, so like a big family, that lois montgomery's escapade was a tragedy at every hearth-side. it was immeasurably shocking that a young woman married to a reputable man, and with a child still toddling after her, should have done this grievous thing. to say that she had always been flighty, and that it was what might have been expected of a woman as headstrong as she had been as a girl, was no mollification of the blow to the local conscience, acutely sensitive in all that pertained to the honor and sanctity of the marriage tie. and jack holton! that she should have thrown away a man like tom kirkwood, a gentleman and a scholar, for a rogue like holton, added to the blackness of her sin. the holtons had been second only to the montgomerys in dignity. the conjunction of the names on the old sign over the bank at main and franklin streets had expressed not only unquestioned financial stability, but a social worth likewise unassailable. jack holton, like amzi montgomery, had inherited an interest in the banking-house of montgomery & holton. to be sure his brother william had been the active representative of the second generation of holtons, and jack had never really settled down to anything after he returned from the eastern college to which he had been sent; but these were things that had not been considered until after he decamped with lois kirkwood. many declared after the event that they had "always known" that jack was a bad lot. those who sought to account for lois kirkwood's infatuation remembered suddenly that he and lois had been boy and girl sweethearts and that she had once been engaged to marry him. it was explained that his temperament and hers were harmonious, and that kirkwood, for all his fine abilities, was a sober-minded fellow, without holton's zest for the world's gayety. any further details--the countless trifles with which for half a dozen years the gossips of montgomery regaled themselves--are not for this writing. many years had passed--or, to be explicit, exactly sixteen. one of the first results of the incident had been the immediate elimination of the holton half of the firm name by which the bank had long been known. jack's brother william organized the first national bank, toward which mr. amzi montgomery's spectacles pointed several times daily, as already noted. samuel, the oldest son of the first holton, tried a variety of occupations before he was elected secretary of state. he never fully severed his ties with montgomery, retaining a house in town and the farm on sugar creek. after retiring from office, he became a venturesome speculator, capitalizing his wide political acquaintance in the sale of shares in all manner of mining and plantation companies, and dying suddenly, had left his estate in a sad clutter. in due course of time it became known that lois kirkwood had divorced her husband at long range, from a western state where such matters were at the time transacted expeditiously, and a formal announcement of her marriage to holton subsequently appeared in the montgomery "evening star." the day after his wife's departure kirkwood left his home and did not enter it again. it was said by romanticists among the local gossips that he had touched nothing, leaving it exactly as it had been, and that he always carried the key in his pocket as a reminder of his sorrow. phil was passed back and forth among her aunts, _seriatim_, until she went to live with her father, in a rented house far from the original roof-tree. even in practicing the most rigid economy of space some reference must be made to the attitude of lois kirkwood's sisters toward her as a sinning woman. their amazement had yielded at once to righteous indignation. it was enough that she had sinned against heaven; but that she should have brought shame upon them all and placed half the continent between herself and the scene and consequences of her iniquity, leaving her family to shoulder all its responsibilities, was too monstrous for expression. they were montgomerys _of_ montgomery; it seemed incredible that the town itself could ever recover from the shock of her egregious transgression. they vied with each other in manifestations of sympathy for kirkwood, whose nobility under suffering was so admirable; and they lavished upon phil (it had been _like_ lois, they discovered, to label her with the preposterous name of phyllis!) an affection which became in time a trial to the child's soul. their fury gained ardor from the fact that their brother amzi had never, after he had blinked at them all when they visited him in his private room at the bank the morning after the elopement, mentioned to any living soul the passing of this youngest sister. it had been an occasion to rouse an older brother and the head of his house to some dramatic pronouncement. he should have taken a stand, they said, though just what stand one should take, when one's sister has run off with another man and left a wholly admirable husband and a winsome baby daughter behind, may not, perhaps, have been wholly clear to the minds of the remaining impeccable sisters. they demanded he should confiscate her share of their father's estate as punishment; this should now be phil's; they wanted this understood and they took care that their friends should know that they had made this demand of amzi. but a gentleman of philosophic habit and temper, who serenely views the world from his bank's doorstep, need hardly be expected to break his natural reticence to thunder at an erring sister, or even to gladden the gallery (imaginably the whole town that bears his name) by transfers of property, of which he was the lawful trustee, to that lady's abandoned heir. lois had caused all eyes to focus upon the montgomerys with a new intentness. before her escapade they had been accepted as a matter of course; now that she had demonstrated that the montgomerys were subject to the temptations that beset all mankind, every one became curious as to the further definition of the family weaknesses. the community may be said to have awaited the marriages of the three remaining montgomery girls in much the same spirit that a family physician awaits the appearance of measles in a child that has been exposed to that malady. and montgomery was not wholly disappointed. kate, who like lois, was a trifle temperamental, had fallen before the charms of one lawrence hastings. the manner of hastings's advent in montgomery is perhaps worthy of a few words, inasmuch as he came to stay. hastings was an actor, who visited montgomery one winter as a member of a company that had trustfully ventured into the provinces with a shakespearean repertoire. montgomery was favored in the hope that, being a college town, it would rally to the call of the serious drama. unfortunately the college was otherwise engaged at the moment with a drama of more contemporaneous interest and authorship. an unusually severe january added to the eager and nipping air upon which the curtain rises in "hamlet," and proved too much for the well-meaning players. hastings (so ran tradition) had gallantly bestowed such money as he had upon the ladies of the company to facilitate their flight to new york. his father, a successful manufacturer of codfish packing-boxes at newburyport, telegraphed money for the prodigal's return with the stipulation that he should forswear the inky cloak and abase himself in the box factory. at this point kate montgomery, in charge of an entertainment for the benefit of center church, invited hastings (thus providentially flung upon the hoosier coasts) to give a reading in the church parlors. almost coincidently the opera house at montgomery needed a manager, and hastings accepted the position. the avon dramatic club rose and flourished that winter under hastings's magic wand. it is not every town of fifteen thousand that suddenly enrolls a hamlet among her citizens, and as the creator and chief spirit of the dramatic club, hastings's social acceptance was immediate and complete. in other times the town would have been wary of an actor; but had not hastings given his services free of charge for the benefit of center church, and was he not a gentleman, the son of a wealthy manufacturer, and had he not declined money offered by telegraph that he might cling stubbornly to his art? kate montgomery talked a good deal about his art, which he would not relinquish for the boxing of codfish. after hastings had given a lecture on "macbeth" (with readings from the play) in the chapel of madison college, his respectability was established. there was no reason whatever why kate montgomery should not marry him; and she did, at the end of his first year in town. he thereupon assumed the theater lease and what had been the old "grand opera house" became under his ownership "hastings's theater," or "the hastings." fanny montgomery had contented herself with the hand of a young man named fosdick who had been summoned to town to organize a commercial club. in two years he added several industries to montgomery's scant list, and wheedled a new passenger station out of one of the lordly railroads that had long held the town in scorn. two of the industries failed, the new station was cited as an awful example by the professor of fine arts at the college, and yet paul fosdick made himself essential to montgomery. the commercial club's bimonthly dinners gave the solid citizens an excuse for leaving home six nights a year, and in a community where meetings of whist clubs and church boards constituted the only justification for carrying a latch-key this new freedom established him at once as a friend of mankind. fosdick was wholly presentable, and while his contributions to the industrial glory of montgomery lacked elements of permanence, he had, so the "evening star" solemnly averred, "done much to rouse our citizens from their lethargy and blaze the starward trail." after he married fanny, fosdick opened an office adjoining the commercial club rooms and his stationery bore the legend "investment securities." judge walters, in appointing a receiver for a corporation which fosdick had organized for the manufacture and sale of paving-brick, inadvertently spoke of the promoter's occupation as that of a "dealer in insecurities"; but this playfulness on the court's part did not shake confidence in fosdick. he was a popular fellow, and the success of those commercial club dinners was not to be discounted by the cynical flings of a judge who was rich enough to be comfortably indifferent to criticism. amzi montgomery being, as hinted, a person of philosophic temperament, had interposed no manner of objection to the several marriages of his sisters until josephine, the oldest, and the last to marry, tendered him a brother-in-law in the person of alexander waterman. josephine was the least attractive of the sisters, and also, it was said, the meekest, the kindest, and the most amiable. an early unhappy affair with a young minister was a part of the local tradition, and she had been cited as a broken-hearted woman until she married waterman. waterman was a lawyer who had been seized early in life with a mania for running for congress. the district had long been republican, but with singular obstinacy waterman insisted on being a democrat. his party being hopelessly in the minority he was graciously permitted to have such nominations as he liked, with the result that he had been defeated for nearly every office within the gift of a proud people. he was a fair jury lawyer, and an orator of considerable repute among those susceptible to the blandishments of the florid school. amzi's resentment of josephine's choice was said to be due to a grilling the banker had received at waterman's hands on the witness stand. once while standing on the steps of his bank for a survey of the visible universe, amzi was rewarded with an excellent view of the liveliest runaway that had thrilled main street in years. several persons were hurt, and one of the victims had sued the grocer whose wagon had done the mischief. waterman was the plaintiff's attorney, and amzi montgomery was, of course, an important though reluctant witness. the banker loathed litigation in all its forms and in his own affairs studiously avoided it. it enraged him to find one of his idiosyncrasies advertised by the fact that he had observed the violent collision of a grocer's wagon with a fellow-citizen. his anger was augmented by the patronizing manner in which waterman compelled him to contribute to the record of the case admissions touching his habits of life, which, though perfectly lawful and decorous, became ridiculous when uttered on oath in a law court. every one knew that mr. montgomery stood on the bank steps at intervals to take the air, but no one had ever dreamed that he would be obliged to discuss or explain the habit. the "evening star" printed all of his testimony that it dared; but as the cross-examination had been conducted before a crowded courtroom the neat give and take between lawyer and witness had not lacked thorough reporting. for several weeks thereafter amzi did not appear on the bank steps; nor did he revert to his old habit until satisfied that groups of idlers were not lying in wait. after josephine introduced waterman to the family circle amzi seemed generously to overlook the offense. he was as cordial toward him as toward either of the other brothers-in-law, with the exception of kirkwood, though of course kirkwood, strictly speaking, no longer continued in that relationship. these details aside, it is possible to return to the bank, and await the result of that furtive gesture with which mr. amzi montgomery responded to phil kirkwood's signal from the window of the photograph gallery. by half-past four the clerks had concluded their day's work; the routine letters to chicago, cincinnati, and indianapolis correspondents had been sealed and dispatched, and the vault locked by mr. montgomery's own hand. thereupon he retired to the back room, unlocked the franklin street door and beguiled himself with the "evening star." shortly before five o'clock he heard light steps outside followed by a tap and phil opened and closed the door. "lo, amy!" she pronounced the _a_ long, after a fashion she had adopted in childhood and refused to relinquish. amzi was "a-mee" to phil. she glanced into the bank room, seized his newspaper, crunched it into a football, and kicked it over the tellers' cages into the front window. then she pressed her uncle down into his chair, grasped his face in her hands, and held him while she kissed him on the nose, the left eye, and the right cheek, choosing the spot in every instance with provoking deliberation as she held his wriggling head. he lost his cigar and his spectacles were knocked awry, but he did not appear to be distressed. phil set his spectacles straight, struck a match for a fresh cigar, and seated herself on the table. "i'm back, amy. how did you know we'd be home to-day?" "dreamed it," said amzi, apparently relieved that her assaults upon his peace and dignity were ended. "i'd been watching for you half an hour before you came out on the steps. i'd about given you up." "so? you were pretty late getting home last night. your father ought to be ashamed of himself." amzi glared at phil. his curiously large blue eyes could, at will, express ferocity, and the red and purple in his face deepened as he shut his jaws tight. she was not, however, in the least disturbed, not even when he pushed back his chair to escape her swinging legs, and pointed his finger at her threateningly. "i wanted to see you," he gasped. "so i inferred," phil remarked, bending forward and compressing her lips as though making a careful calculation, then touching the point of his nose. amzi rubbed the outraged nose with the back of his hand, wheezed hoarsely (the effect of the rain upon his asthma), and cleared his throat. "you'll come down from your high horse in a minute. i've got something to tell you that will sober you up a bit." phil raised her hands and with brown nimble fingers found and readjusted the pin that affixed a shabby felt hat to her hair. then she folded her arms and looked at the tips of her shoes. "the suspense is killing me. i who am about to die salute you!" amzi frowned at her levity. his frown caused a disturbance throughout his vast tracts of baldness. "you'll change your tune in a minute, my young commodore. have you seen your aunts?" "no; but it's not their fault! aunt josie called; the others telephoned for dates. i saw aunt josie first, which explains why we didn't meet. i knew something was up." "something is up. they got me over to josie's last night to ask me to help. it's a big programme. and i wanted to warn you in advance. you've got to stop all your capers; no more camps on sugar creek, no more tomboy foolishness; no more general nonsense. you've got to be a civilized woman, and conduct yourself according to the rules in such cases made and provided." "oh, is that it? and they got you to tell me, did they? how sweet of them!" observed phil. "i might have guessed it from the look of aunt josie's back as she went out the gate." "her back? thunder! how did you see her back?" "from the roof, amy, if you must know. if you had three aunts who had turned up every few minutes all your natural life to tell you what not to do, you'd run for the roof, too, every time you heard the gate click. and that last cook they put in the house was just a spy for them. but she didn't spy long! i've bounced her!" amzi blinked and coughed, and feigned even greater ferocity. "that's it! that's the kind of thing you've got to stop doing! you're always bouncing the hired girls your aunts put in the house to take care of you and you've got to quit; you've got to learn how to manage a servant; you've got"--and he drew himself up to charge his words with all possible dignity--"you've got to be a lady." "you insinuate, amy, that i'm not one, just natural born?" "i don't mean any such thing," he blurted. "you know mighty well what i mean--this skylarking, this galloping around town on your pony. you've got to behave yourself; you've got to pay attention to what your aunts tell you. you've got to listen to me!" "look me in the eye, you old fraud! i'll bet every one of 'em has called you up to tell you to see me and give me a lecturing. they're a jolly lot of cowards, that's all. and i came over here thinking you wanted to be nice and cheerful like you always used to be. all by your dear old lonesome you'd never think of talking to me like this; i've a good notion to muss you up!" the thought of being mussed was clearly disturbing. he rose hastily and retreated to the barred window, with the table between them. "oh, you're guilty! i always know when they've been putting you up to something. come along now and sit down like a good old uncle and tell me what new idea has struck those foolish females. sit down right there in your little chair, amy; i'll let you off from that mussing if you tell the truth." "you see, phil," he began earnestly, "you've grown up. you're not a kid any more to chase cats and dogs through the court-house square, and flip on the interurbans, but a grown woman, and you've got to begin acting like one. and you've got to begin right now. just look at your shoes; look at that hat! what kind of clothes is that sailor boy's suit you're wearing? you've got to dress like a decent white girl that's had some bringing-up, and you've got to--you've got--" amzi coughed as though afraid of the intended conclusion of his sentence. phil's eyes were bent upon him with disconcerting gravity. he hoped that phil would interrupt with one of her usual impertinences; but with the suspicion of laughter in her eyes she waited, so that he perforce blurted it out. "you've got to go into society; that's what's the matter!" phil moved her head slightly to one side, and her lips parted. a faraway look came into her eyes for an instant only. amzi was watching her keenly. he was taken aback by her abrupt change of manner; her sudden sobriety baffled him. something very sweet and wistful came into her face; something that he had not seen there before, and he was touched by it. "i suppose i must change my ways, uncle amy. i do act like a wild zebra,--i know that. but i'm sorry. of course it's silly for a girl who's nearly nineteen to be as skittish as i am. and they tell me i'm a bad example to my cousins and the whole town. it's tough to be a bad example. what's this they're going to do to me?" "oh, you've got to be brought out; you've got to have a party; they want me to have it in my house." "all right," said phil tamely. she seemed, indeed, to be thinking of something else. her manner continued to puzzle him; he was even troubled by it. he relighted his cigar and watched the smoke of the extinguished match after he had tossed it into the little grate. "uncle amy," said phil, quite soberly, "i'm really serious now. i've been wondering a good deal about what's going to become of me." "how's that, phil?" "well, i'm not as silly as i act; and i've been wondering whether i oughtn't to try to do something?" "what kind of something? housekeeping--that sort of thing?" "yes; but more than that. i ought to go to work to earn money." amzi shrugged his shoulders. "thunder! you can't do that," he said with decision. "it wouldn't be proper for you to do that." "i don't see why not. other girls do." "girls do when they have to. you don't have to." "i'm not so sure of that. we might as well be sensible if we're going to talk about it." amzi agreed to this with a nod and resettled himself in his chair. "daddy isn't making enough to take care of us, that's all. this afternoon i was over in his office cleaning up his desk,--you know he never does it himself, and even a harum-scarum like me can help it some,--and i saw a lot of things that scared me. bills and things like that. and it would be hard to talk to daddy about it; i don't think i ever could. and you know he really could make a lot of money if he wanted to; i can tell that from the letters he gets. he doesn't answer his letters. every month last year i used to straighten his desk, and some of last spring's bills are still there, and they haven't been paid. i know, of course, that that can't go on forever." "you oughtn't to have to bother about that, phil. it's none of your business." "yes," she replied, earnestly, "it is my business. and it's been troubling me for a long time. i can't talk to father about it; you can see how that would be; and he's such a dear--so fine and kind. i suppose there isn't anybody on earth as fine as daddy. and he breaks my heart, sometimes; goes about so quiet, as though he had gone into himself and shut the blinds, as they do in a house where somebody's dead. it seems just like that, uncle amy." amzi was uncomfortable. it was not to hear her speak of drawn blinds in houses of the dead that he had summoned phil for this interview. his sisters had asked him to reason with her, as they had often appealed to him before in their well-meant but tactless efforts to correct her faults, but she had evinced an accession of reasonableness that made him uneasy. she had changed from the impulsive, exasperating young creature he knew into an anxious, depressed woman in a mackintosh, whom he did not know at all! he breathed hard for a few minutes, angry at his sisters for bringing this situation to pass. it was absurd to tame a girl of phil's spirit. he had enjoyed, more than anything in his life, his confidential relations with phil. it was more for the fun of the thing than because there was any cause for it that a certain amount of mystery was thrown about such interviews as this. there was no reason on earth why phil shouldn't have entered by the front door in banking-hours, or visited him in her grandfather's house where he lived. but he liked the joke of it. he liked all their jokes, and entered zestfully into all manner of conspiracies with her, to the discomfiture of the aunts, to thwart their curbing of her liberties. he prided himself upon his complete self-control, and it was distinctly annoying to find that phil's future, seen against a background plastered with her father's unpaid bills, caused a sudden hot anger to surge in his heart. within the range of his ambitions and desires he did as he liked; and he had a hardened bachelor's fondness for having his way. he walked to the window and stared out at the street. it grew late and the rain was gathering volume as though preparing for a night of it. a truck heavily loaded with boxes and crates of furniture moved slowly through franklin street toward the railway. amzi was at once alert. he read much current history in the labels on passing freight, and often formed the basis for credits therefrom. was it possible that one of the bank's customers was feloniously smuggling merchandise out of town to avoid writs of attachment? such evils had been known. phil jumped from the table and joined him at the window. she knew her uncle amzi's mental processes much better than he imagined; suspicion was writ large on his countenance. "humph!" she said. "that's only the stuff from the samuel holton house. charlie and ethel are moving to indianapolis. that's some of the furniture they had in their town house here. i saw the crates in the yard this morning." "i believe you're right, phil; i believe you're right." his eyes opened and shut several times quickly, as he assimilated this information. then he recurred to phil's affairs. "speaking of money, phil, we'll have to do something about those unpaid bills. in a town like this everybody knows everybody's business--except yours and mine. we can't have your father's bills piling up; they've got to be paid. and this brings me to something i've meant to speak to you about for some time. in fact, i've just been waiting for a chance, but you're so confoundedly hard to catch. there's--a--some money--er--that is to say, phil, as executor of your grandfather's estate, i hold some money, that--er--" he coughed furiously, blew his nose, and made a fresh start. "i'm going to open an account for you--your own money, understand!--and you can pay those bills yourself. we'll start with, say, five hundred dollars and you can depend on a hundred a month. it will be strictly--er--your money. understand? you needn't say anything to your father about it. that's all of that." he feigned sudden interest in the wet street, but phil, whose eyes had not left him, tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "oh, no, you don't! you haven't a cent that belongs to me, and you know it, you splendid old fraud. and don't you try that game on me again or i'll stop speaking to you." "do you mean--" he began to bluster; "do you mean to say that i don't know my own business? do you think i'm going to steal money from your grandfather's estate to give you? why--" "you weren't born to adorn the front row of successful liars, amy. and even if you had a million or two lying round loose, you couldn't give me a cent of it; i wouldn't take it. it wouldn't be square to daddy; daddy's a gentleman, you know, and i couldn't do anything meaner than to take your money to pay his debts with. so there, you old dear, i've a good notion to muss you up, after all." he again put the table between them, and stood puffing from the unwonted haste with which he had eluded her grasp. he had managed the matter badly, and as his hand, thrust into his coat pocket, touched a check he had written and placed there as a preliminary to this interview, a sheepish expression crossed his face. "well," he blurted, "i'd like to know what in thunder you're going to do! i tell you it's yours by right. i ought to have given it to you long ago." "i'm skipping," said phil, reaching down to button her raincoat. "we're going to rose's for tea." "tea?" amzi's emphasis implied that in tea lay the sole importance of phil's announcement; and yet, subjected to even the most superficial analysis, mr. montgomery's sensations were not in the least attributable to the thought of tea. tea in the sense intended by phil was wholly commonplace,--a combination of cold meat, or perhaps of broiled chicken, with hot biscuits, and honey or jam, or maybe canned peaches with cream. considered either as a beverage or as a meal, tea contained no thrill; and yet perhaps the thought of tea at miss rose bartlett's aroused in amzi montgomery's breast certain emotions which were concealed by his explosive emphasis. phil, turning up the collar of her mackintosh, reaffirmed the fact of tea. "you never come to my house for just tea, but you go to rose's. you're always going to rose's for tea," boomed amzi. "daddy likes to go," added phil, moving toward the door. "i suppose he does," remarked amzi, a little absently. "by-by, amy. thanks, just the same, anyhow." "good-night, phil!" phil lingered, her hand on the knob. "come over yourself, after tea. there may be music. daddy keeps his 'cello over there, you know." "his 'cello?" it seemed that 'cello, like tea, was a word of deep significance. amzi glared at phil, who raised her head and laughed. "nonsense!" he ejaculated, though it was not clear just wherein the nonsense lay. "oh, your old flute is over there, too," said phil, not without scorn. having launched this she laughed again and the door closed upon her with a bang. she hammered the glass with her knuckles to attract his attention, flung back her head as she laughed again, and vanished. amzi stared at the door's rain-splashed pane. the world was empty now that phil had gone. he drew down the shabby green blind with a jerk and prepared to go home. chapter iii buckeye lane the bartlett sisters lived in buckeye lane, a thoroughfare that ran along the college campus. most of the faculty dwelt there, and the bartlett girls (every one said "the bartlett girls" just as every one said "the montgomery girls": it was established local usage) were daughters of a professor who had died long ago. rose was the housekeeper, and a very efficient one she was, too. in all business transactions, from the purchase of vegetables to the collection of the dividends on their small inheritance, rose was the negotiator and active agent. she was, moreover, an excellent cook; her reputation in this department of domestic science was the highest. and as two women can hardly be expected to exist on something like four hundred dollars a year (the sum reluctantly yielded by their patrimony), miss rose commercialized her genius by baking cakes, cookies, jumbles, and pies, if demanded. in montgomery, where only mrs. william holton had ever kept more than one servant (though fanny fosdick had attempted higher flights), miss rose was an ever-ready help in times of domestic adversity to distracted housekeepers who found the maintenance of even one servant attended with the gravest difficulties. miss nan was an expert needlewoman, and, like her sister, augmented their income by the labor of her hands. her contributions to the pot were, indeed, much larger than rose's. the clients she served were chiefly women of fastidious taste in these matters who lived in surrounding cities. her exhibitions of cross-stitching, hemstitching, and drawn-work were so admirable as to establish a broad field for her enterprises. her designs were her own, and she served ladies who liked novel and exclusive patterns. these employments had proved in no wise detrimental to the social standing of the bartlett girls. if rose baked a cake for a wedding supper, this did not militate in the least against her eligibility as a guest of the occasion. and likewise nan could unfold a napkin she had herself hemstitched for a consideration, without the slightest fear that any one would make invidious comments upon the fact. in the matter of the respective ages of the sisters no stranger was ever informed of the exact fact, although every one knew. judge walters had established an unchangeable age for both of them. they were, the judge said, twenty-nine; though as they were not twins, and as he had persisted in this fallacy for almost a decade, it is difficult to see how they could both be permanently twenty-nine. not all the time of these ladies was spent in cooking and needlework. miss rose was a musician, who played the organ at center church and was usually the sympathetic accompanist at all concerts given by local talent. and, as though not to be outdone, miss nan quietly exercised the pen conjointly with the needle. several editors in new york were quite familiar with the neat backhand of a lady they had never seen who sent them from an unheard-of town in indiana the drollest paragraphs, the most amusing dialogues, and the merriest of jingles. now and then nancy bartlett's name was affixed to an amusing skit in which various montgomery people found their foibles published to the world, though with a proper discretion, and so amiably that no one could take offense. with the perversity of such communities, many declared that miss rose was more talented than miss nan, and that she could have written much better things than her sister if she had chosen. but what could have been more ridiculous than any attempt to arouse rivalry between sisters who dwelt together so contentedly, and who were the busiest and happiest women in town! the bartlett girls were the best friends the college boys had. if one of these ladies undertook, in the absence of a manservant, to drive the mower across their fifty feet of lawn, some youngster invariably appeared to relieve her of this task. or if wood or coal were observed lying upon the walk in front of the bartlett gate, it was always a question whether the sigma chis or the phi gamma deltas would see the fuel first and hasten to conceal anything so monstrous, so revolting to the soul of young greeks, in the bartlett cellar. amid all their vocations and avocations, the bartletts moved tranquilly in an atmosphere of luxurious leisure. they were never flustered; their employments were a kind of lark, it seemed, never to be referred to except in the most jocular fashion. when rose had entrusted to the oven a wedding-cake or a pan of jumbles she would repair to the piano for a ten-minute indulgence in chopin. similarly indifferent to fate, nan at intervals in the day drew a tablet and fountain-pen from her sewing-table and recorded some whimsicality which she had seemingly found embedded in the mesh of a shopping-bag she was embellishing. and when, in due course, a funny-looking, canary-colored envelope carried this fragment to the desk of some bored phlegmatic editor, he would, as like as not, grin and scribble an order to the cashier for two dollars (or some such munificent sum) and pin it to the stamped "return" canary envelope, which would presently reach number buckeye lane, montgomery, indiana. phil kirkwood hardly remembered a time when number had not been a safe port in the multitudinous squalls that beset her youth. the bartletts were wholly human, as witness their pantry and garret--veritable magazines of surprises! miss rose was a marvel at cutting out silhouettes; miss nan would, with the slightest provocation, play bear or horse, crawling over the floor with phil perched on her back blowing a horn. it was no wonder that phil's vagrant steps turned instinctively toward number . in the beginning her father used to seek her there; and having by this means learned the way, it was the most natural thing in the world for father and daughter to visit the bartletts together. a man whose wife divorces him is entitled to some social consolations, and if tea and jam at the house of two maiden ladies of irreproachable character satisfies him, the community should be satisfied also. the gossips had never been able to decide which of the bartlett girls was likelier to assume the rôle of phil's stepmother. there were those who favored rose. as kirkwood played the 'cello, rose to some observers seemed more plausible by reason of her musical talent. others believed that it would be nan, as nan was "literary" and kirkwood was a scholar, suspected of "writing," though just what he wrote no one was able to say. it had been said thousands of times that amzi montgomery must eventually marry one of the bartletts, but here, too, opinion was divided as to which one would probably be so favored. amzi had fluted in the schumann quartette, devoted to chamber music, but his asthma had broken up the club, and he now rarely essayed the instrument. still, amzi loved his joke, and nan was a joker. so it was clear that either kirkwood or montgomery might with propriety marry either rose or nan. whenever a drought seemed imminent in local gossip, these oases bubbled. phil's aunts were not unaware of the high favor in which their niece held the bartletts; nor had they failed to speculate upon the chances of kirkwood's remarrying. they resented the idea, chiefly because such action would cause a revival of the old scandal involving their sister, which they were pardonably anxious to have forgotten. then, too, it was their solemn duty to keep their hands on phil, who was a montgomery and entitled to their consideration and oversight, and if kirkwood should remarry, phil would be relinquished to the care of a stepmother, a grievous thought at all times. on this rainy october evening, tea was dispatched in the gayest humor in the little bartlett dining-room. rose and phil disappeared in the kitchen to "do" the dishes while nan and kirkwood communed in the book-lined living-room. "you've had a talking with phil," said kirkwood. "yes; she came in this morning, when rose was out and i said several things to her that i ought to have said long ago. it wasn't easy to say them. but it's time for her to sober down a little, though i wish in my heart she could go on forever just as she is. it doesn't seem possible that she's a woman, with a future to think about." "phil's future--" murmured kirkwood pensively. "your future and hers are bound up together; there's no escaping that." "i'm afraid that's so! there are a thousand things i know should be done for her, but i don't grasp them. i seem unable to get hold of anything these days." he looked at his hands, as though wondering at their impotence. they were bronzed and rough from the camp, but his sensitive nature was expressed in them. the gray showed in his beard and hair. where the short beard did not hide his cheeks they were tanned. his blue serge suit had been freshly pressed; a polka-dot scarf was neatly tied under the points of a white-wing collar. he suggested an artist who had just returned from a painting trip in the open--a town man who wasn't afraid of the sun. if an artist one might have assumed that he was none too prosperous; his white cuffs were perceptibly frayed. nan bartlett scrutinized him closely, and there came into her eyes the look of one about to say something, long withheld and difficult to say. she was a small, fair woman, with a becoming roundness of figure. her yellow hair, parted evenly in the middle, curled prettily on her forehead. a blue shirt-waist with a turnover collar and a ready-made skirt spoke for a severe taste in dress. a gold-wire bracelet on her left wrist and a stickpin in her four-in-hand tie were her only ornaments. she had a fashion of raising her arm and shaking the bracelet back from her hand. when she did this, it was to the accompaniment of a slight turning of the head to one side and a dreamy look came into her large blue eyes. it was a pretty, graceful trick. she did not hesitate now that her mind was made up, but spoke quickly and crisply. "you don't work hard enough; you are not making your time count. it isn't fair to phil; it isn't fair to yourself." "that's true; i know it," he replied, meeting her eyes quickly. "and now's the time for you to change; phil needs you. phil's going to need a lot of things--money, for example. and you've reached a time of life when it's now or never." the bracelet flashed back under her cuff. she looked at her wrist wonderingly as if surprised that the trinket had disappeared; then she glanced at kirkwood, casually, as though she were in the habit of saying such things to him, which was not, however, the fact. he straightened himself and his hands clenched as though to do battle at her behest. "mine's a wasted life; for years everything has seemed futile. i'm glad you spoke to me. i need to be brought up short." nan nodded. this was not a debatable question; undeniably he did need to be brought up with a sharp turn. it was in her mind that perhaps she had said enough; but she wished to make sure of it. "nobody can touch you at your best; it's your best that you've got to put into the struggle. it mustn't be said of you that you neglect business, and even refuse cases; and they do say that of you." "i've grown careless and indifferent," he confessed; "but it's time for me to wake up. i can't see phil heading for the poorhouse and that's where we're going." "no doubt of it!" she assented. "phil's aunts complain of you, and say that if you won't care for her you ought to turn her over to them. that's funny, on one side, and on the other it isn't. there's a good deal to support their attitude. phil's needs are those of a girl ready to meet the world, and she will need money. and i've noticed that money is a shy commodity; it doesn't just come rolling uphill to anybody's doorstep." kirkwood knew perfectly well the elusiveness of money; it seemed less so now from nan's way of stating the fact. when one needed a dollar one should go and find it; this was clearly miss nan's philosophy, and in her own affairs he knew that she had demonstrated its efficacy. he lowered his voice as though about to touch upon a matter even more confidential than any that had engaged their attention. it was evidently something wholly pleasant that he wished to speak of; his eye brightened and his face flushed slightly. the look he bent upon her was of unmistakable liking. "'the gray knight of picardy' is booming. i saw a stack of him at crosby's to-day: half a dozen people have asked me if i read it. it was put out so late in the spring that it's astonishing how it's carried through the summer. some of the papers are just reviewing it--and the more deliberate journals are praising it. and when we were speaking of money matters a bit ago, i clean forgot that i have a check from the publisher that i'm going to hand you now." he drew from his pocket a draft which she took eagerly and glanced at. it was for two thousand dollars, payable to nancy bartlett. nan slipped it quickly into the drawer of her sewing-table. as she drew her hand away, he caught and held it an instant. nan did not look at him as she quietly freed herself. she ignored the act, though her cheek flushed scarlet. she minimized the incident by shaking down her bracelet. "half of that is yours," she said. "i will deposit it to-morrow and give you my check. you ought to have made the contract in your own name, but i never thought they would take it--much less that it would sell, or i should have insisted in the beginning." "well, i had faith in your three quarters of the work; mine is the poorest part of it." "your half made it possible,--the form and the planning. i never could have done a long-sustained thing like that; i'm a paragrapher, that's all." "you're a humorist of a high order," he said warmly. "it's the huge joke of the thing that is making people like it. let me see, the publisher is advertising a quotation from some paper that has called it the funniest book in ten years." "that's a stock phrase of the critics," said nan; "they merely change the title of the book from year to year. but it's been fun doing a book that way and putting it out anonymously. judge walters spoke to me of it yesterday; said he had stayed up all night to finish it." "it's going to take more ingenuity than i possess to hide the authorship; that's why i want you to carry the burden. the publisher says the public demand to know who merlin shepperd is. and three magazines want a short story by the author of 'the gray knight of picardy.' i'll send you the letters. that enterprising phil has an uncomfortable habit of running through my desk and i'm likely to forget to lock up these things. she thought i was working on a brief all last winter when i was doing my part of the 'gray knight.' but i turn the partnership over to you now--with all the assets and liabilities and the firm name and style. you are merlin shepperd and i am kirkwood, attorney and counselor at law, over bernstein's. you see," he added, smiling, "your lecture led right up to that. no more literary ventures for me!" "well, i'd forgotten the 'gray knight' for the moment; but in spite of him i believe you had better stick to the law." "there's this, nan," he said earnestly, looking at her with an intentness that caused her to move uneasily; "it would seem quite natural for a partnership like this to be extended further. this world would be a pretty bleak place without you. you know and understand that. and there is phil; phil needs you just as i do. i mean to start afresh at the law; i mean to make myself count. and i need you." he rose and looked down at her. it was as though by this act he presented himself as a rehabilitated thomas kirkwood; a man ready to grapple with the world afresh for her sake. he bent over and touched lightly her hands clasped quietly upon her knee. "dear nan: i love you, nan," he said softly, and stepped back, waiting for her to speak. she raised her head and their eyes met. "tom," she said, "you are the dearest of men; but that is not for you and me. it will never be for you and me. and please, tom, because you are the finest of men, never speak of this again. you will promise, won't you?" "no," he said, shaking his head slowly; "i will not promise. you have reasons and i think i know what they are. i want to talk to you soon, for this has been in my heart a long time. i meant to speak to you last spring. but now the need is greater. i not only need you, but phil needs you." she smiled at the mention of phil. "that's a poor argument. phil really doesn't need any one but you. i should be afraid of spoiling dear, splendid phil." it was upon this that rose and phil came in from the kitchen. rose was taller than her sister, a slender, handsome woman, with an air of distinction which dishwashing in no wise abated. she was one of those american women who wear an apron like a vestment--who, the _vestis domestica_ flung aside, adorn the parlor as charmingly as they grace the kitchen. phil began to whistle a tune, which rose tried to identify for her by striking the chords. "what are you two talking about?" asked phil, turning from the piano. "discussing the origin of the pyramids," replied nan, rising. "you and rose must have settled something in all the time you took to the dishes. it was a noisy session, too. you must have been playing drop the teacup." phil clasped her hands dramatically, reciting:-- "a moment then, she poised upon the dishpan's utmost verge the heirloom teapot old, with flowers bedight. and with a cry--" she paused, feigning forgetfulness. her father rose quickly and caught up the imaginary fragment:-- "and with a cry as when some greedy wight, on porridge keen, gulps it, and bawleth loud to find it hot,-- screams for the cook and tuggeth at his sword--" "familiar," observed rose dreamily from the piano. "is it 'pelleas and etarre' or 'the passing of arthur'?" "nope. 'the bold buccaneer,' by the honest iceman of mazoopa," answered phil. "and here he is now," said nan as the front door boomed and rattled. there was no bell at the bartletts': but from the door hung a bass-drumstick, with which visitors were expected to thump. this had been a part of the equipment of a local band that had retired from business. in the dispersion of its instruments the drum had reached a second-hand store. nan, with a keen eye for such chances, had bought and dismantled the drum, and used the frame as a stockade for fresh chirpers from her incubator. the drumstick seemed to have been predestined of all time to serve as a knocker. "it's amy. i told him to come," said phil. her father's face fell almost imperceptibly. the company was complete as it was and much as he liked amzi he resented his appearance at this hour. rose went to the door. "it may be judge walters. he's been trying to get over for some time to talk about that new book on hypnotism," said nan. it proved, however, to be amzi. they heard him telling rose in the entry that he was just passing and thought he would drop in. "that will do for that, amy," called phil. "you told me you were coming." "i told you nothing of the kind!" blustered amzi. "then, sir, you didn't; you _did not_!" amzi glared at them all fiercely. his cherubic countenance was so benevolent, the kind eyes behind his spectacles so completely annulled his ferocity, that his assumed fierceness was absurd. he addressed them all by their first names, and drew out a cigar. kirkwood was smoking his pipe. phil held a match for her uncle and placed a copper ash-tray on the table at his elbow. rose continued her search for a piece of music, and nan curled herself on the corner of a davenport that occupied one side of the room under the open bookshelves. "this looks like a full session; first we've had for some time," remarked amzi. "been playing, rose?" "no; phil's trying to remember a tune. whistle it, phil." phil whistled it, her eyes twinkling. "sounds like a dead march done in ragtime," suggested nan, whose ear was said to be faulty. "all the great masters will be done over pretty soon by the raggists," declared phil. "spoken like the philistine you are not, phil," said kirkwood. "what you were trying to whistle is the 'lucia sextette' upside down. rose, let's have the 'mozart minuet' we used to play. we haven't had it for moons." she played it, phil turning the music. then kirkwood was reminded of the existence of his 'cello. amzi watched him tuning it, noted the operation restlessly, and then rose demanding:-- "nan, where's my flute? seems to me i left it here the last time we played." this was a joke. it had been in the house at least six years. phil whistled a few bars from a current light opera, and pretended to be absorbed in an old etching of beethoven that hung over the piano. she glanced covertly at her uncle, who knew perfectly well that phil was laughing at him. nan, meanwhile, produced the flute. it was in this fashion that the trio was usually organized. "bad night for asthma, but let's tackle some of the good old ones," said amzi. this, too, was part of a familiar formula, and rose found the music. soon amzi's cheeks were puffing with the exertion of fluting the "minuet," while kirkwood bent to the 'cello. nan and phil became an attentive audience on the davenport, as often before. when amzi dropped out (as he always did), phil piped in with her whistle, and that, too, was the usual procedure. she whistled a fair imitation of the flute; she had a "good ear"; rose said her "ear" was too good, and that this explained her impatience of systematic musical instruction. amzi abused the weather and incidentally the flute; they essayed the bach-gounod "ave maria" and the "träumerei," with like failure on amzi's part. then rose played, number after number, beethoven, schumann, chopin, without pause. it was clear that the woman loved her music; that it meant a very great deal to her. its significance was in the fine lines of her face, beautifully grave, but lighting wonderfully through passages that spoke to her with special meaning. her profile was toward kirkwood. he had, indeed, taken a seat that gave him a particular view that he fancied and his eyes wandered from her hands to her lovely, high-bred face. no one spoke between the numbers, or until rose, sitting quiet a moment at the end, while the last chord died away, found her own particular seat by the white wooden mantel. "i guess those chaps knew their business," observed amzi. "and i guess you know yours, rose. i don't know that you ever brought out that nocturne quite so well before. eh, tom?" kirkwood agreed with him. rose had surpassed herself, in the opinion of the lawyer. both men found pleasure in paying tribute to her talents. amzi turned to nan, who nodded acquiescence. the banker really loved music, and slipped away several times every winter to chicago, to hear concerts or the opera. on occasions he had taken kirkwood and phil and they had made a great lark of it. "what's this rumor about the sycamore traction being in trouble?" asked nan. amzi rubbed his head. he had not come to the bartletts' to discuss business, and the topic was not, moreover, one that interested him at the moment. "there are a lot of papers on your desk about that, daddy," phil remarked. "but i suppose those are office secrets." there was, indeed, a telegram from a new york lawyer asking why kirkwood had not replied to a certain letter. he glanced at her quickly, apparently disturbed that the matter had been mentioned. her father's inattention to the letter of the new york lawyer had, independently of nan bartlett's reference to the traction company, caused phil to make certain resolutions touching both her father and herself. "i've got my hand on that, phil. i've answered." phil saw that the subject of this correspondence, whose import she had scarcely grasped, was not to be brought into the conversation. she turned away as amzi addressed her father in a low tone. "tom, as i remember, you made a report on that scheme before the bonds were sold. do you mind telling me whether that was for the same crowd that finally took it up?" "yes; but they cut down the amount they undertook to float. sam holton sold a lot of the bonds along the line; a good many of them are held right here in this county." "they are, indeed. it seemed a plausible thing for the home folks to own the securities of a company that was going to do so much for the town; they pulled that string hard. it was a scheme to draw the coin out of the old stocking under the fireplace. if it was good for widows and orphans out in seattle and bangor, why wasn't it good for 'em at home? and it _is_ good for the people at home if it's played straight. i've had an idea that these cross-country trolleys will have about the same history the steam roads had,--a good many of 'em will bust and the original investors will see their securities shrink; and there will be smash-ups and shake-downs and then in time the lines will pay. just what's the trouble here, tom, if you don't mind?" "there's an apprehension that the november interest won't be paid. the company's had some hard luck--a wreck that's piled up a lot of damage suits, for one thing; and in one or two counties the commissioners are trying to make them pay for new bridges--a question of the interpretation of the franchise. i gave warning of that possibility." "thunder! i hope it won't come to the worst. i didn't know you were keeping track of it." "one of my old classmates at williams is counsel for the desbrosses trust and guaranty company which is the trustee for the bondholders. i passed on the mortgage for them as to its local aspects. i'm going over to indianapolis to meet him in a few days to determine what to do in event the interest is defaulted. the management has been unsatisfactory, and after five years the replacements are running ahead of the estimates." "i wonder--" began amzi; then he paused and rubbed his scalp. "i suppose my neighbor bill is already out from under." "i don't know," said kirkwood soberly. "it was sam who was the chief promoter." "sam was a smooth proposition. thunder! i lost money when sam died. i'd made a bet with myself that they'd pin something on him before he got through, but he died just out of spite to make me lose. thunder! bill makes strong statements." the strength of the statements made by the first national bank did not, however, seem to disturb amzi. what he had learned from kirkwood had not been in the nature of fresh information, but it had confirmed certain suspicions touching the sycamore traction company. the bartletts and phil were talking quietly in a corner. amzi rose and pulled down his percale waistcoat and buttoned the top button of his cutaway coat, in which he looked very much like a fat robin. he advanced toward the group in the corner. "nan," he said, "you didn't buy a sycamore bond that time i told you not to, did you?" rose beat time for her sister mockingly, and they answered in singsong. "we did not! we did not! but," nan added, dropping her hands to her sides tragically, "but if we had, oh, sir!" "if you had i should have bought it of you at a premium. it's hard work being a banker for women: they all want ten per cent a month." "paul fosdick's things were all guaranteed ten per cent a year," remarked rose. they all waited for the explosion that must follow the mention of this particular brother-in-law. nowhere else in town would any one have dared to bring fosdick, who was believed to be his pet abomination, into a conversation. even in hastings he found a kind of joy; the presence of a retired hamlet among the foliage of the family tree was funny now that he had got used to it; and amzi had a sense of humor. this little company expected him to explode and he must not disappoint them. the color mounted to his bald dome and his eyes bulged. "thunder! rose, play that jiggly funeral march of a marionette!" "i refuse," said rose, spreading her skirts on the divan, "to do anything so cruel!" "and besides," said nan, "i bought a share of stock in his brickyard." "nan bartlett," said amzi, planting himself before her, "i will give you a peck of parsnips for that share." "couldn't take advantage of you, amzi; and we never eat parsnips. they're bad for the complexion." "thunder!" he snorted contemptuously. "thunder" was his favorite, almost his only, expletive, but his thunder was only a single boom without reverberations. his four auditors understood him perfectly, however. fosdick was always "starting" something. he had even attempted to organize a new cemetery association, which, as greenlawn was commodious, and as any amount of land adjacent made possible its indefinite expansion, amzi regarded as an absurd and unholy project. with fosdick, amzi had no business relations of any kind. he belonged to the commercial club, to be sure, but this was a concession on his part; he never attended any of its meetings. and he had, it was said, requested his enterprising brother-in-law to withdraw his patronage from the montgomery bank for reasons never wholly clear to the curious. fosdick had talked about it in bitterness of spirit; amzi had not. amzi never talked of his business. he rarely lost a customer; and if a citizen transferred his account to the first or the citizens' national, it was assumed that amzi no longer cared particularly to have that individual on his ledgers. such a transfer aroused in cautious minds a degree of suspicion, for horses rarely died in amzi's stable. "thunder! it's time to go home. guess the rain's stopped." amzi set out for home with the kirkwoods. he was in capital spirits, and kept up a steady give and take with phil. just before reaching his own gate they passed kirkwood's former home. amzi's sisters persistently demanded that something be done about the abandoned house, which, with its neglected garden, was a mournful advertisement of their sister's ill-doings. it had been a shock to them to discover, a few years after her flight, that it had passed from her to amzi and from him to kirkwood. the consideration had been adequate; the county records told the story plainly. there was, of course, no reason why lois should continue to own a house for which she had no use; but there was less reason why her former husband should acquire the property merely, as it seemed, from motives of sentiment. every weed in the garden--and the crop was abundant--called attention to the blot on the montgomery 'scutcheon. and if kirkwood was silly enough to cling to the old home, while living in a rented house in a less agreeable neighborhood, there was no reason why he should refuse to lease it and devote the income to phil's upbringing. it was not a cheerful item of the urban landscape and the sorrow of amzi's sisters that it should remain dolefully at their own thresholds was pardonable. the moon looked down at it soberly through dispersing clouds as though grieved by its disrepair. the venerable forest trees that gave distinction to the "old montgomery place" had shaken their leaves upon this particular part and parcel of the elder amzi's acres, and piled them upon the veranda steps. the gate, fastened to the post by a chain and padlock, sagged badly, and bulged upon the public walk. amzi stopped and pushed it back, causing the chain to rattle dolorously. kirkwood watched him indifferently. phil lent her uncle a hand. amzi, panting from his efforts, ejaculated: "thunder!" and a moment later they bade each other good-night under the gas lamp at his own gate. chapter iv a transaction in apples phil was not visible the next morning when at seven o'clock kirkwood glanced about the house for her. she had indulged herself in the matter of rising since the high-school bell no longer regulated her habits, and her father had hardly expected to see her. there was no morning newspaper to read--he took a chicago daily at his office--and he opened the windows and doors to admit the air. domestic affairs interested thomas kirkwood little. during the years in which phil was passed from aunt to aunt he had lived at the morton house, and after establishing the new home that he might have her with him, one or another of the aunts had supervised his household, and at times, to his discomfiture, all had taken a hand at it. this rented cottage where the kirkwoods lived was in the least fashionable part of main street, beyond the commercial district and near the railroad. trains thundered through a cut not far from the rear fence, and the cars of the sycamore traction company rumbled by at intervals. the cottage was old but comfortable, and it was remarked that kirkwood had probably chosen it for the reason that he could go to and from his office without passing his abandoned home. phil liked living on main street. her devotion to that thoroughfare had been a source of great pain to her aunts. even as her uncle amzi absorbed local color from the steps of his bank, phil was an alert agent in the field, on nodding terms with the motormen of the interurban cars, and with the jehus, who, cigarette in mouth and hat tipped on one side, drove the village hacks. captain joshua wilson, who had been recorder of his county continuously since he lost a leg at missionary ridge, and who wrote a poem every year for the reunion of his regiment, had written certain lines for the "evening star" in which "p. k." was addressed as the diana of main street. as to the soundness of his mythology there might be debate, but there was no question as to phil's thorough identification with main street, all the way from her father's house, past the court-house, shops, and banks, out to the old sugar creek bridge where the town became country without any warning whatever. it was judge walters who first called her "otherwise phyllis." this was in phil's school days before she passed from her aunts' custody. the judge delighted in phil's battles with the aunts. whenever his wife began to recount a day's occurrences at the supper-table, and the recital opened promisingly, it was the judge's habit to cut short her prefaces with, "otherwise phyllis--" and bid her hurry on to the catastrophe, sparing no tragic detail. kirkwood had never, from the day his wife left him, offered himself in the market-place as an object of sympathy. he had been a man of reserves at all times, and the sudden termination of his married life had merely driven him in further upon himself. if he was broken-hearted, the fragments were well hidden. he felt that he was a failure, and he saw men of less ability passing him in the race. now and then he had roused himself under stress and demonstrated his unusual gifts by striking successes; but after one of these spurts he would relapse into an indifference to which he seemed increasingly ready to yield. he had risen this morning with a new resolution, attributable to his talk with nan bartlett the night before. even if he did not care for himself, there was always phil to consider. and phil was very much to consider. she had decided for herself that the high school had given her all the education she needed. kirkwood had weighed the matter carefully and decided that she would not profit greatly by a college course--a decision which phil had stoutly supported. her aunts favored a year at a finishing school to tone down her rough edges, but having laid their plan before their brother amzi that gentleman had sniffed at it. what was the use of spoiling phil? he demanded. "thunder!" and there was no reason in the world why phil should be spoiled. phil was not, in any view of the case, an ignorant person. she knew a great many things that were not embraced in the high-school curriculum. her father harbored an old-fashioned love of the poets; which is not merely to say that at some time in his life he had run through them, but that he read poetry as one ordinarily reads novels, quite naturally and without shame. something of his own love of poetry had passed to his daughter. he had so trained her that literature meant to phil not printed pages, but veritable nature and life. books were a matter of course, to be taken up and put down as the reader pleased, and nothing to grow priggish about. she had caught from him an old habit, formed in his undergraduate days, of a light, whimsical use of historical and literary allusions. she entered zestfully into the spirit of this kind of fooling; and, to his surprise, she had developed an astonishing knack of imitation and parody. sometimes kirkwood without preluding, would utter a line for phil to cap; they even composed sonnets in this antiphonal fashion and pronounced them superior to the average magazine product. phil had not only learned much from her father, but she had absorbed a great deal of lore at the bartletts', where everything bookish was vitalized and humanized. kirkwood, hearing the creak of the swinging door between the pantry and dining-room,--a familiar breakfast signal,--chose with care a volume of bagehot and carried it to the table which had been set, he imagined, by the "girl" selected by his sisters-in-law to carry on his establishment during the winter. he helped himself to grapes, and was eating with his eye on a page of bagehot when the door swung again and phil piped a cheerful good-morning. she was an aproned young phil and her face was flushed from recent proximity to the range. she described her entrance in lines she had fashioned for the purpose:-- "she came while yet the jocund day was young, and fetched in hands but lightly singed upon the stove the coffee-pot, with muddy contents filled--" kirkwood, concealing his surprise at seeing her, took his cue:-- "and he, toying meanwhile with fruitage of the vine, to-wit the mellow grape, scarce breathed to see the nut-brown maid, and gasped, 'where is the cook?'" "oh, the cook has went, to come down to the plain prose of it, daddy. there was one here yesterday, but one's dynastic aunts had picked her for her powers of observation and ready communication, so i fired her hence. and with that careless grace which i hope you find becoming in me i decided to run the shop all by my lonesome for a while. i thought i'd start with breakfast so that any poisons that may creep into the victuals will have time to work while the drug-stores are open. how long do you cook an egg, is it two minutes or two weeks?" "this will never do," said kirkwood gravely, watching her pour the coffee. "you shouldn't have discharged one cook until you had another." "tut! there's not enough to do in this house for two able-bodied women--and i'm one! rose taught me how to make coffee yesterday, and toast and eggs are easy. just look at that coffee! real amber? it's an improvement for looks on what you've been brewing for yourself in camp. and i've been watching your winning ways with the camp frying-pan. rose gave me a cook-book that is full of perfectly adorable ideas. come up for lunch and i'll show you some real creations." she slipped away into the kitchen and reappeared with toast and boiled eggs. she had cooked the eggs by the watch as rose had instructed her. her father relaxed the severity of his countenance to commend them. but he did not like phil in this new rôle. the casting forth of the cook provided by the aunts would be regarded as an offense not lightly to be passed by those ladies; but phil had never appeared so wholly self-possessed. she poured coffee for herself, diluted it with hot water, buttered a slice of toast with composure, tasted it and complained that the grocer had sent rancid butter. kirkwood pushed aside his bagehot. he did not know just how to deal with a daughter who, without the slightest warning, dispatched her cook and took upon herself the burden of the household. the coffee was to his liking; it was indubitably better than he had been used to; but the thing would not do. he must show phil the error of her ways and lose no time about it. "i'm sorry you didn't like the girl they sent you; but you must find another. there's no reason, of course, why you shouldn't choose for yourself; but it's not easy to find help in a town like this. i can't have you doing the housework. that must be understood, phil." "you're not having me; i'm having me, which is a very different thing. if you had driven me into the kitchen with loud, furious words, i should have rebelled--screamed, and made a terrible scene. but you did nothing of the kind. it happened in this wise. glancing up quite by chance, as it were, you beheld me pouring coffee of my own brewing. fatherly pride extinguished any feeling of shock or chagrin. you have smothered any class feeling that may linger in your aristocratic soul and are making a good bluff at enjoying the eating of your breakfast with the lady who cooked it. could anything be more beautiful? the ayes seem to have it; the ayes have it, as i used to be fond of saying when i was boss of the philomathean. i wish now i'd taken the domestic science course more seriously and spent less time in the gymnasium. but thus it is we live and learn." phil's tone made rebuke difficult. he loved her foolishness just as her uncle amzi did--just as every one did except her aunts, for whom the affected stiltedness of her speech was merely a part of her general deplorable unconventionality. "well, phil, the idea of your cooking the meals for this establishment isn't debatable. you're overruled and the debate closed." "still harping on my daughter's cooking! please, in current idiom, cut it out. try marmalade on that too, too perfect toast." he accepted marmalade and returned to the attack. "you see, phil, everything's different now. you've got to wake up to your social responsibilities." "and be a perfect lady? i know. amy got me into the back room of the bank yesterday and told me. one's aunts had bullied the old dear into springing the sad intelligence. then nan had already given me a session. and now you, too, brutus, are about to lay the matter before me in a few crisp sentences. but why all this assumption that i'm not a real lady? there's a good deal of loose thinking on that subject, to use one of your own best phrases. if there is nothing more before the house--" phil had been studiously stuccoing her toast with marmalade, and she bit into it before looking at her father. "you know perfectly well what i mean, phil. this is a serious time in your life. you've got to adapt yourself to the ways of the world--the world of convention. you must consider yourself as a member of society. it's only in a limited sense that we can be individualists. and i can't have my daughter weighed down with such cares as these you threaten to assume. it would hurt me more than i can tell you if i believed it necessary. but it isn't necessary. none the less i know perfectly well that if it were necessary you would be equal to it--you are equal to anything you undertake. but i can't have you wasting yourself on such things." "daddy dear, this is getting terribly philosophical. let us be really serious for a little bit. you know, we haven't much money, have we? not very much, anyhow." she had broached the matter as delicately as possible. it had been in her mind that she must speak to her father about their affairs, but she had not thought the opportunity would offer so quickly. it was hard to say to him that she had undertaken to manage the housekeeping as an economical measure; that she knew he owed money that he had no immediate prospect of paying. the hurt look that she had seen in his eyes sometimes was heartbreaking. when phil was younger, she used to ask about her mother, but later she had never referred to her. her aunts had, after their fashion, not been above using her mother to point a moral. in their lack of appreciation of the keenness of the child's intuitions or her eager imagination, they had established in her a belief that her mother was a bad woman: the facts spoke for themselves. and having had a bad mother it was incumbent upon phil to choose her path with a particular care and to walk in it circumspectly. phil had, by this time, considered the case from the changing viewpoints natural to the young mind. in that rosy light through which a girl of fifteen is apt to view life,--the first realizations of sex, the age of the first novels,--phil had not been free from the contemplation of her mother as a romantic figure. for a woman to forsake a husband for a lover was not without precedents. phil had dreamed over this a good deal, in an impersonal sort of way, and the unknown mother had been glorified in scenes of renunciation, following nobly the high call of a greater love. by a swift transition her father assumed the sympathetic rôle in the domestic drama. she chanced upon novels in which the spurned husband was exalted to the shame of the dishonorable wife. her father fitted well into this picture. she even added herself to the _dramatis personæ_, not without a sense of her value in the scene. but these were only passing phases. there was no morbid strain in phil. her father was the best of companions, and she was quick to recognize his fineness and gentleness and to appreciate his cultivation with its background of solid learning. phil's question startled her father. money had never been discussed in the household, and this new gravity in his daughter's eyes troubled him. phil's needs had been few; her demands had burdened him little. her aunts had bought her clothes and sent him the bills. when he gave her money to spend, he never asked for an accounting, though he was often amused by the uses to which she put it; and sometimes he had been touched by her gifts at christmas or on his birthdays, which ranged from a reckless investment in gay neckties to a set of some author whose definitive edition he had coveted--shelley or landor or matthew arnold. no; money was not a subject that had interested phil, and her father found her direct question disconcerting. "no, phil. we are not rich--far from it. it's hardly possible for a lawyer to grow rich in a town like this. but i haven't been doing as well as i could lately. i've got to do better and i must be about it." he drew himself up in his chair and glanced at his watch. it had stopped, and as the court-house clock boomed eight he set it. it was quite like him to allow his watch to run down. "i was in your office yesterday, daddy, and i hope you won't mind, but i was straightening your desk and i couldn't help seeing some old bills. several of them had been there a long time. my graduating dress hasn't been paid for--and some things like that. we must economize until those bills are paid. and i was thinking that you ought to get more money out of the building. rents are going up on main street. i heard paul fosdick say so. you ought to raise the clothing store rent right away. i don't know of any easier way of getting money," she added drolly, "than by wringing it from the tenants." she laughed, to make it easier for him. "yes; that's one way of doing it; only bernstein had a long lease that expires--i'm not sure when it does expire--" he concluded, and the color deepened in his dark cheeks. it was his business to know when the lease on the property expired, and as though reminded by this lapse of similar failures in other directions, he drew out his watch again and made sure that he had wound it. "it expires," said phil, "on the last day of this next december. i looked it up yesterday afternoon in that little memorandum book you keep in your desk." "i guess that's right. i'm glad you mentioned it. i'll see bernstein right away and ask him if he wants to renew the lease. i suppose i ought to coax a higher rent out of him, but he's been there a long time." "oh, he'll stand another fifty and be glad of it. his sign is on all the fences in the country--'bernstein's--the same old place.' it would cost him some money to change that. and you could cheer him up by painting the front of the building. the interurban is bringing a lot more business to montgomery. i've been thinking we ought to do something about that third floor room where the photograph shop used to be. bernstein has an upstairs room in the next building where his tailor imparts that final deft touch that adjusts ready-made garments to the most difficult figure. it would be handier for him to conduct the sartorial transformations in the chamber over his own gate, wouldn't it? and i don't think we need wait for that photographer to come back from the penitentiary or wherever he languisheth." she was minimizing the significance of these suggestions--a significance that lay, she knew, in the fact of their coming from her--by lapsing into the absurdities with which she embellished her familiar talk. she pronounced "languisheth" with a prolongation of the last syllable that gave to it a characteristic touch of mockery. "i'd been hoping he'd show up again and cart off his rubbish. but we've had some fun out of the gallery. if we rent it to bernstein for his retouching mysteries, we shan't have any place to develop our negatives." "that's so; but maybe we can retouch bernstein for enough extra to get them done for us. it's the ducats, my lord, that move my fancy. the bernsteins have grown almost disagreeably rich at the same old stand and it's about time the kirkwoods were thrusting their talons into the treasure chest." sounds of disaster in the kitchen caused phil to rise hastily and disappear through the swing doors. she returned calmly a moment later. "only the tea-kettle playing at being a geyser. when we get rich i'm going to have a gas range. they say it's the only way to cook and cook and be a lady still." "that brings us back to cooking--" began her father. "not at all, daddy. the subject is dismissed forever. i'm going to have that ethiop who does chores for us clean up the photograph gallery. i'll be down after while, to see how it looks." she bade him good-bye at the front door, and went whistling about the further business of the morning. the sky was blue and the air warmed as the sun climbed into the heavens. phil felt that she had conveyed to her father a sense of their imperative needs without wounding him. she was resolved to help him if she could. her pride had been pricked by her uncle amzi's proffered aid, which she had carefully avoided mentioning to her father. she knew that it would have hurt him, and she had reasoned, much in the fashion of nan bartlett, that her father owed it to himself to exercise his unquestioned gifts to reëstablish himself in his profession. as he left her and walked toward the street, she was aware that he strode away more quickly than was his wont. phil's morning was not eventless. the telephone jingled three times, as three aunts demanded to know why she had parted with the maid-of-all-work they had installed in the kirkwood kitchen. aunt josie was censorious and aunt fanny mildly remonstrative; aunt kate sought light as to the reason for the cook's early passing, as she was anxious to try her herself. phil disposed of these calls with entire good humor. then a senior, between lectures at the college, asked her if she would go driving with him sunday afternoon. the senior, in the security of his fraternity house, prolonged the conversation. as this was thursday and there was never any imperative need in montgomery for making engagements so far ahead, the senior was exercising unjustifiable precaution. phil declined the invitation. her aunts had repeatedly warned her against college boys. a daughter of the house of montgomery was not to waste herself upon students, a lawless body of whom no one knew anything in particular save that they seized every opportunity to murder sleep for reputable citizens. phil employed the telephone to order of the grocer and butcher, made beds, swept rooms, and sat down with a new magazine, dropped at the door by the postman, to run her eyes over the pictures. one or two things she was sure her father would like; a sketch of massenet she must call to rose bartlett's attention. she planned luncheon and began the peeling of potatoes with a page of keats propped on the table beside her--a trick she had learned at the bartletts'. "endymion" need suffer nothing from proximity to potatoes, though it should be said that phil's paring would have distressed a frugal housekeeper. while thus employed a step sounded on the brick walk, and a young man knocked at the open door without glancing in. he chewed a straw as he observed the chimneys of the adjoining house, and phil, sitting by the kitchen table, paused in her paring to make sure of his identity. then she placed her pan of potatoes on the table and crossed quickly to the door. "good-morning, madam. would you like--" he extended two apples as samples. phil glanced at them with interest. they were not the best of apples, as any one could see. fred holton removed his hat and pulled the straw from his mouth. "i beg your pardon, miss kirkwood," he said, with a gravity that was not mitigated by a slight quivering of phil's lips as she continued to ignore their earlier acquaintance. "i didn't know this was your house or i shouldn't have come in." "then it's a good thing you didn't know," replied phil. "if you're selling apples you have to try all the houses you come to. not to go into every gate wouldn't be business." "well, i suppose that's so," observed holton doubtfully, letting one of the apples fall. phil picked it up with the quick reach of a shortstop. she ignored his apologies for failing to recover it himself, and examined the apple critically. "if you haven't any better apples in your wagon than this, you're not likely to sell many," phil commented. "this one's spotted and it's a safe guess that a worm nestles within. you ought to pick out the best for samples." "they're not a very good lot," confessed holton. "it's an old orchard and it hasn't had any attention. i'm going to put out some new trees next year." "that's a good idea," phil observed reflectively. "i've noticed that they've been planting pears and apples in several places around there. uncle amy got a good first crop this year from his young orchard. but he had a man spray the bugs off. there are a lot of things to do to an orchard. the land uncle amy turned into an orchard runs right up to your place, and it must be the same kind of land. but it isn't as easy as it looks--apples isn't." "apples isn't?" he repeated soberly. "oh, cheer up, that's a joke! i know apples _aren't_!" the young man smiled. "mine _isn't_, i'm afraid, from what you say about them." "i think maybe that speck isn't a wormhole, after all," said phil, subjecting the apple she still held to another scrutiny. "you might give us a half a bushel of these. my ambitions lead me toward apple pie, and if it doesn't come out well i can blame your apples." he smiled again, and frank admiration shone in his eyes as they surveyed phil with more assurance. "if you really want some of these i'll bring them in. half a bushel?" "that will be enough," replied phil succinctly. she rubbed the apple with the corner of her blue-and-white apron, chose a spot that inspired confidence, and bit into it. she waited for the effect absently and puckered her lips. "it's a cooker. what's the name of the brand?" "give it up." "then i'll tell you. it's a 'liza browning. you'd better learn the names of apples before you go much further in the business. any farmhand can tell you. uncle amy's taught me about twenty. what's the price of this precious fruit?" "oh, i couldn't charge you for these, you know. you see--" "then i won't take them--nary an apple! you bring in those apples and i'll pay you just the same price you ask everybody else." her attention was attracted by a black cat moving along the alley fence with noble unconcern. phil stepped out upon the brick walk, drew back her arm and threw the apple. it struck the fence immediately beneath the cat, which vanished on the alley side. "good shot. you almost got him!" "almost nothing!" said phil scornfully. "you didn't suppose i wanted to hit the wretch, did you? he's an old pal of mine and would be lonesome if i didn't scare him to death occasionally." holton brought the apples in a sack which he emptied into a basket phil found for the purpose. his absence had been prolonged. to measure half a bushel of apples is not ordinarily a serious matter, but in this instance the vendor chose fastidiously. the fruit that went into the sack was beyond question the best in the wagon. "how much?" asked phil, surveying her purchase, purse in hand. "oh, about a quarter." she handed him a fifty cent piece. "please don't try that again--not here! i've been telephoning the grocery and apples about like those are a dollar a bushel. good-morning!" "good-morning, miss kirkwood." he looked at her intently, laughed, threw the sack over his shoulder and went out, holding the coin in his hand. chapter v the otherwiseness of phyllis hint to those who read with an eye on the clock: skip this chapter! it is made up from notes furnished by mrs. john newman king, judge walters, captain joshua wilson, the veteran recorder, former-sheriff whittlesey and others, and is included merely to satisfy those citizens of montgomery who think this entire history should be devoted to phil, to the exclusion of her friends and relations. the historian hopes he is an open-minded person, and he would rather please montgomery than any other center of thought and industry he knows; but the laws of proportion (as phil would be the first to point out) may not lightly be ignored. phil's otherwiseness was always difficult to keep in bounds; it must not tyrannize these pages. skip and carry thirteen, but don't complain if pilgrims from montgomery take you to task for denying phil five minutes of your time. phil was on her way to buckeye lane the first cold day in november to call on the daughter of a newly enrolled member of the madison faculty when she saw her uncle amzi on the bank steps taking the air. she had on her best walking-suit, and swung a silver cardcase in her hand. the cardcase marked an advance. formal calls were not to phil's taste, but her aunts had lately been endeavoring to persuade her that it was no longer seemly for her to "drop in" when and where she pleased, but that there were certain calls of duty and ceremony which required her best togs and the leaving of circumspect bits of cardboard inscribed "miss kirkwood." when phil set forth to call upon a girl friend it was still something of a question whether caller and callee would sit in the parlor and be ladies or seek the open to crack walnuts on the kitchen steps or slide down the cellar door. as phil spied her uncle she stopped abruptly, feigned to be looking at the sign over his head, and when his glasses presently focused upon her, pretended suddenly to be intent upon the face of the court-house clock two blocks distant. "beg pardon, sir, but is this a bank?" thus accosted mr. montgomery looked upon his niece with exaggerated surprise. "a bank, little girl? what on earth do you want with a bank?" "i thought i might separate it from some of its cash; or if the terms are satisfactory i might leave some money. if the venerable old party i address holds a job inside we might withdraw from the public gaze and commune within the portals. the day is raw and that ice-cream suit invites pneumonia." passers-by viewed the pair with an amused smile. captain wilson, stumping along at the moment, asked without pausing:-- "stranger in town, amzi?" "yes, cap; she's just bought the town and wants the key to the bank vault." phil followed her uncle into the bank and waited for him to walk round behind the cages. the dingy old room with its walnut counter and desks seemed at once a brighter place. the four clerks made it convenient to expose themselves to phil's smile. she planted herself at the paying teller's cage and waited for amzi's benevolent countenance to appear at the wicket. she held up her cardcase that he might have the full benefit of her splendor, extracted a small bit of paper, and passed it in to him. seeing that it was not one of the familiar checks of the montgomery bank, he scrutinized it closely. it was a check of the "journey's end" magazine company for fifty dollars, drawn upon a new york bank and payable to phyllis kirkwood. amzi's face expressed no surprise. he threw it back and waved her away. "it's no good. worthless!" "no good? you don't mean--" "no good, miss kirkwood--without your indorsement." "why didn't you say so! i don't want to come as near sudden death as that again." he thrust out a pen so that she need not turn to the tall desk behind her to make the indorsement. he examined the signature carefully and blotted it. "one of your own efforts, phil?" he asked carelessly. "well, yes, you might say so. i suppose you'd call it that." "poetry?" "a poor guess, amy, and marks you as an ignorant person. fifty dollars for a poem out of my green little cantaloupe? that's half what milton got for 'paradise lost.' and the prices haven't gone up much since john died." she knew that his curiosity was aroused. this play of indifference was an old game of theirs, a part of the teasing to which she subjected him and which he encouraged. "story?" "absurd! everybody in this town is writing a novel. every time i go into the post-office i see scared-looking people getting their manuscripts weighed, and nervously looking round for fear of being caught. nan says it's a kind of literary measles people have in indiana. aunt josephine's cook writes poetry--burnt up a pan of biscuits the other day when she was trying to find a rhyme for 'isaiah.'" "i wondered what caused me so much pain the last time i ate supper at josie's. i must have swallowed a sonnet. what's your line, phil?" "zoölogy." "possible?" "it was this way, amy. you know that piece i read at the high-school commencement--'the dogs of main street'?" "i do, phil, i do; i nearly laughed myself to death." "well, it did seem to tickle the folks. i was about to kindle the fire with it one day when i happened to think that if it would make a high-school commencement laugh it ought to raise a laugh out of 'most anybody. so i touched it up and put in a few new dogs i've got the boys in landers's livery-stable taking care of, and sent it to three magazines. the first two regretted, but the third fell for it. they want pictures of the dogs, though, and will give me twenty more round iron dollars for a full set, so if you see me on the hike with the camera in the morning, don't ring up the town marshal." "well, well," said amzi; "it sounds like easy money. going to keep it up?" "i have said nothing," replied phil, holding up her cardcase and swinging it by its short chain. "just credit me with the fifty and i'll bring in my book the next time i find it." in front of the theater she ran into her uncle lawrence, gloomily posed before the entrance with his astrakhan collar drawn up about his ears. he had once seen richard mansfield in just such a coat and had been moved to imitation. "divinity!" breathed hastings tragically, noting phil's glowing cheeks and satisfying raiment. "forget it!" said phil. "how about a box for the saturday matinee? i think i'll pull off a party for a bunch of girls at your expense. what is that on the boards? you don't mean that 'her long road home' threatens this town again? why rub it in, lawr_i_nce?" "they've canceled," said hastings with a sigh. "that booking-office is a den of thieves. no honor, no feeling, no ideals of art!" his tones were unusually abysmal. he stood with his back to the door of his theater as though shielding it from philistine assaults upon the drama's divine temple. "by the way, lawr_i_nce--" her aunt kate had rebuked her at least a thousand times for calling him "lawr_i_nce." he had asked her to call him "uncle larry," which was her main reason for not doing so. her standard of uncles was high. she had never admitted her aunts' husbands to a share in a relationship that was ennobled by amzi montgomery. fosdick was usually "paul" to phil; waterman she always called "judge," which he hated. "lawr_i_nce, what became of that play you wrote yourself and put on in chicago? why don't you bring it here and give the town a treat?" hastings bent upon her the grieved look of a man who suffers mutely the most unkindest cut of all. _et tu, brute!_ was in his reproachful glance. "i didn't think this of you, phil. of course you knew the piece closed saturday night at peoria." she had not known. her aunt had spoken largely of the venture. the theatrical powers of new york having frowned upon hastings's play, he had produced it himself, sending it forth from chicago to enlighten the west before carrying it to broadway, there to put to rout and confusion the lords of the drama who had rejected it. five thousand dollars had been spent and the play had failed dismally. nor was this the first of hastings's misadventures of the same sort. phil analyzed her uncle's gloom and decided that it was sincere, and she was sorry for him as was her way in the presence of affliction. hastings was an absurd person, intent upon shining in a sphere to which the gods had summoned him only in mockery. phil lingered to mitigate his grief as far as possible. "i'm sorry; but i suppose if a play won't go, it won't." "a play of merit won't! my aim was to advance the ideal of american drama; that was all. the same money put into musical comedy would have nailed s. r. o. on the door all winter." "lawr_i_nce," said phil, glancing up at the façade of the hastings, "i'll tell you how you can make a barrel of money out of this brick building." he looked at her guardedly. phil was a digger of pits, as he knew by experience, and he was in no humor for trifling. his own balance at the bank was negligible, and his wife had warned him that no more money would be forthcoming for the encouragement of the american drama. "lawr_i_nce, what you ought to do is to hire that blind piano-pounder who thumps for the fraternity dances, put a neat red-haired girl in a box on the sidewalk, get one of the football team who's working his way through college to turn the crank, and put on a fil-lum." this was, indeed, rubbing salt in his wounds. he flinched at the thought. "turn my house over to the 'movies'! phil, i didn't think this of you. after all i've tried to do to lift this dingy village to a realizing sense of what drama is--what it should mean--" "trim it, hector. you can break all the banks in town uplifting the drama and never put it over. about once a winter you have a good piece; the rest of the time the folks who want to see real actors go to indianapolis or sneak up to chicago for a week and beat you to it. that fil-lum show down by the court-house is rotten. coarse and stupid. why not spend a few dollars changing the front of this joint and put on good pictures? the people who keep the pictures moving in indianapolis sit around the fire sunday evenings and burn money--it comes in so fast the banks haven't room for it. call this 'the home fireside'--no nickelodeon business--and get the center church quartette to sing. it will sound just like prayer-meeting to people who think a real theater a sinful place. if you don't tackle it, i'll throw bernstein out and take it up myself. there's a new man in town right now trying to locate a screen; beat him to the wire, lawr_i_nce." "by jove, phil--!" she started off briskly and a little farther on met jack whittlesey the sheriff, who grinned and touched his coonskin cap. "got an engagement, phil? hope not. uncle alec is goin' to holler in a few minutes." "i'm out calling, sheriff, but if you're sure the judge is going to act up, i'll take a look in." she crossed the street to the court-house. to phil nothing was funnier than alec waterman in the throes of oratory. waterman was big and burly, with a thunderous voice; and when he addressed a jury he roared and shook his iron-gray mane in a manner truly terrifying. in warm weather when the windows were open, he could be plainly heard in any part of the court-house square. when phil reached the circuit court-room judge walters, with his feet on the judicial desk, was gazing at the ceiling, as was his habit when trials grew tedious. as phil entered, he jerked down his feet, sat erect, snapped his fingers at the bailiff, and directed the placing of a chair within the space set apart for the bar. phil smiled her thanks, and made herself comfortable with her back to the clerk's desk. the case in progress was a suit for personal injuries against the sycamore traction company, brought by waterman for a farmer, who, on the preceding fourth of july, had been tossed a considerable distance toward chicago by a violent contact with one of the defendant's cars. the motorman and the conductor had both testified that the car was running empty and that the proper signals had been given at the required crossings. the judge left the bench and lounged about the clerk's desk, hoping to catch phil's eye and draw her aside for one of the parleys in which he delighted; but phil had immediately become absorbed in the testimony. waterman's voice rose louder and louder as he sought to befuddle the motorman as to the time of the accident, the place where the collision occurred and the signaling, but without avail. the attorney for the company looked on with an amused smile of unconcern. both the motorman and the conductor had been carefully rehearsed in their testimony and there was little likelihood that plaintiff's counsel would be able to trap them. waterman was going back and forth over the time of day, attempting to show that the car was behind its schedule, and exceeding the speed limit, but the man clung to his story stubbornly. it was at exactly five minutes past three; he was running slowly, and had whistled at all the earlier stops; and when he saw the plaintiff driving upon the right of way ahead of him he put on the brakes as quickly as possible. phil moved to a chair just behind waterman. he was so deeply engrossed that he did not notice her. he was making no headway, and was about to drop the witness when phil bent over and whispered. without turning round he rose and renewed the attack. "i will ask you, sir, to state to this jury whether it is not a fact that the brake of your car was out of order and whether it had not given you trouble before you struck the plaintiff?" the witness stammered and glanced at counsel for the defendant, who rose and objected to the question as not proper cross-examination. the judge returned to the bench with renewed interest and overruled the objection. the witness admitted that there had been some slight trouble with the brake, and waterman roared another question that drowned the explanation. "isn't it a fact that you ran past stop just south of the scene of this collision, and did not stop your car because it was out of control by reason of a crippled brake?" the witness was plainly disturbed, and the defendant's counsel was unable to protect him. he admitted that the brake might not have been in perfect order, but it was an old car-- "it was an old car," boomed waterman, "and the brake was worn out and you couldn't have stopped at that crossing even if you had wanted to! isn't that the fact?" the motorman telegraphed appealingly to the company's lawyer. the judge ordered him to answer the question. "there were no passengers on the car," the man, now thoroughly confused, murmured inconsequently. waterman bent his head and took another cue from phil, then strode majestically toward the witness. "there were no passengers on your car? why not?" he thundered. "why not what?" faltered the witness. "i ask you, sir, if it isn't true that there was a passenger waiting at stop and that you ran by that crossing because your brake wouldn't work?" the witness looked at phil and involved himself in difficulty by admitting that the car's speed was such that he was unable to see clearly whether any passenger was waiting at stop . after sparring between counsel, phil was placed upon the stand and sworn to tell the whole truth. main street had heard that something unusual was happening in the circuit court and the room filled. her name, she testified, was phil kirkwood. (she always signed herself phil at school, distrusting phyllis as high-falutin'.) "otherwise phyllis," interposed the judge soberly. "it is essential that the record identify all witnesses beyond per-adventure." the audience tittered. phil began her story. she had been spending the fourth of july at her uncle amzi's farm, but wanted to return home before her uncle was ready, to attend a party. there was no question of the time, as she had walked across the fields to that particular stop to meet the car on its scheduled hour. she had stood upon the track and waved the flag placed in the shed at the stop for that purpose, but to her disgust the car had rushed by at full speed. she had heard the hissing of the air as the car whirled by, and there being no other car for an hour she had been obliged to return to the farm and wait for her uncle to drive her in. counsel for defendant, a stranger to the ways of montgomery, who had come from indianapolis to try the case, asked phil ironically if she were an expert in the management of a trolley car. "oh, i shouldn't say that," said phil; "but i used to ride with motormen sometimes, back and forth to the farm, and they let me stop and start the car." she explained that she knew from the sound as the air went on that the brake was out of order. the twelve good men and true in the jury box bent forward attentively as she met the lawyer's questions. he was a young man and phil was undeniably pretty. in her calling clothes she did not look like a girl who would chum with motormen. his manner was elaborately deferential. "miss kirkwood, may i trouble you to tell the jury whether you ever rode in the car of this particular motorman?" he asked. "no, sir," replied phil. "you never saw him before, and after all you're not sure he's the man who was in charge of that car that day, are you?" phil dangled the cardcase from her white-gloved fingers carelessly. "perfectly confident of it," she answered. "if you are sure of it, will you kindly tell the jury just how it is you remember him--how you identify him as the motorman on this car on that particular afternoon?" "oh! do you really want me to tell that?" asked phil. "answer the question!" the attorney returned sharply, misreading her apparent reluctance. "why," began phil, speaking rapidly and distinctly and turning toward the jurors,--"why, it's because i had noticed him all that summer passing our house and he always ran faster than the other motormen,--you could tell his car at night if you didn't see it because it ran so fast,--and he's the same man who ran into bernstein's delivery wagon--the one with the lame horse--at the corner of monon street about a week before the fourth of july. i saw that, too!" "if your honor please," said waterman, rising as the court ruled that phil's last answer, which the defendant's counsel had sought vainly to interrupt, should be stricken out, "the plaintiff rests. we will waive argument in this case," he added impressively, putting from him, with unprecedented self-denial, the chance of pillorying the unfeeling defendant corporation. judge walters looked down at phil solemnly. "the court is unable to determine whether the witness is also associate counsel for plaintiff, but in any event, i suggest that she claim the usual witness fee at the clerk's office." phil left the court-room and resumed her walk toward buckeye lane. paul fosdick, just coming down from his office, arrested her. fosdick, whose blithe spirit was never greatly disturbed by the failure of his enterprises, greeted phil gayly. he entertained a high opinion of phil. at family gatherings, which his wife and sisters-in-law made odious by petty bickerings, phil was always a refuge. it was nothing to phil which of her aunts wore the best hat, or that mrs. hastings had been abroad and to new york while the others had been denied these recreations and delights. if his wife's faith in him had been shaken by his inability to grasp the fortune which always seemed just within reach; and if, on christmas and new year's and thanksgiving day, when they met at amzi's, he was a bit uncomfortable, knowing that his wife's share of the montgomery money had gone into many ventures without ever coming out again, phil could be depended upon to infuse cheer into those somber occasions. he frequently discussed his schemes with phil, who was usually sympathetic; and now and then she made a suggestion that was really worth considering. where other members of the family criticized him harshly behind his back, phil delivered her criticisms face to face. "lo, phil!" "lo, paul!" "phil, what's new about sycamore traction? they say your pa's going to have a receiver appointed." "if he does they will print it in the papers. how do you like my hat?" "it's a dream, but i hope you're not going to make trouble for your dear aunts' husbands by going in for clothes. the competition in the family is hot enough now without you butting in. hastings is in mourning at the bank and waterman is sad over his last political licking and my billions are coming by slow freight." "by the way, paul, i fell over that busted brickyard of yours out by the flour mill the other day when i was walking for my health. there ought to be money in bricks," she ended meditatively. "there ought, phil, but there ain't. i'm still hoping to pull that scheme out, but it takes time. you know this town doesn't know how to back up its enterprises." "cease knocking! what you want to do is to stop trying to organize an undertakers' trust in this town where everybody lives to a green old age and get busy with brick. the last time i was in indianapolis i saw a lot of new houses built out of brick that looked just about like those pink-and-yellow effects you started in on. they came from over in illinois somewhere, and i guess the clay's off the very same stratum. what you ought to do is to nail close to some of the city architects and hypnotize them into using your goods." "we tried all that, phil; but they wouldn't listen." "let me see; what name did you give those bricks?" "we called 'em the 'gold finish.' nothing the matter with that, is there?" "'most everything's the matter with that name. anything that suggests a gold brick is bound to scare sensible people. think of living in a house that people would laugh at and call the 'gold-brick' house! you've got to get a lot better, paul. try once more and call 'em the 'daffodil' or the 'crocus'--something that sounds springlike and cheerful. and play up local pride--a hoosier product for hoosier people. then when you've done that, fly to chicago and give away enough to build a house in one of the new suburbs and daffodils will spring up all over the prairie. am i lucid?" "there may be something in giving an old dog a new name. i've a good notion to give it a try, and if--" "oh, there's no charge! you might send me up a couple of those brick; i can use 'em for nut-crackers." judge walters once said of phil that if she would keep a diary and write down honestly everything that happened to her if would some day put pepys to the blush. not every day was as rich in adventure as this; but this is not a bad sample. if phil had been a prig or fresh or impertinent, she would not have been the idol of main street. a genius for being on the spot when events are forward must be born in one, and her casual, indifferent air contributed to a belief in main street that she was leagued with supernatural agencies. if there was a fire, phil arrived ahead of the department; and if a prisoner broke out of jail, phil knew it before the "evening star" could print the fact. "some one told me," captain wilson would begin, addressing judge walters; and the judge would answer, "otherwise phyllis." and the judge would say, "i'm going to quit taking the 'star' and subscribe for phil." phil had, on the whole, a pretty good time. chapter vi the smoking-out of amzi although a holton had brought scandal upon the house of montgomery by eloping with one of its duly married daughters, or perhaps because of that disagreeable circumstance, mrs. hastings, mrs. fosdick, and mrs. waterman were constantly exercised over the affairs of the holtons. the holtons prospered, as witness the fashion in which william (the wicked jack's brother) had built up the first national bank after the dissolution of the old montgomery & holton partnership. and there was samuel, who had varied his political activities by organizing companies to raise vanilla beans or sarsaparilla, or to dig silver in mexico--a man of affairs, unquestionably, who had outgrown montgomery and moved to the state capital where he died. even samuel's paltry achievements were touched with a certain magnificence in the eyes of these ladies; samuel had escaped from montgomery and this was a consummation that had long been the burden of their prayers. the very existence of the first national bank was offensive to the sisters of amzi montgomery. they had wanted amzi to "nationalize" his bank when the break occurred and it had been "just like" their stubborn brother to continue in the old rut. mrs. william holton lived in a modern house that was superior to anything the montgomerys could boast. it had two bathrooms, a music-room, and electric lights. in montgomery one bathroom had long been a summit-crowning achievement, to which the fortunate possessor might point with pride; and as for dedicating a room to music, and planting in it a grand piano flanked by a bust of mozart, and shedding upon it a dim opalescent glow from concealed lights--no one in the community had ever before scaled such heights of grandeur. for half a dozen years after their sister's escapade the montgomery sisters had not spoken to a holton; but in such communities as theirs the "cutting" of persons with whom one has been brought up is attended with embarrassments. william holton had married, a little late, a memphis woman he had met on a trip to mexico to inspect the plantations in which he and his brother samuel were interested. she was "a southern woman," with a charming accent, as every one admitted. the accent was greatly admired. several young girls sought to soften the vowels of their native hoosier speech in conformity with the models introduced by mrs. holton. the coming of this lady, the zest with which she entered into the social life of the town, the vacillations of certain old friends of the montgomerys who had taken sides against the holtons after the kirkwood incident, had given the three sisters an excuse for abandoning the feud in so far at least as it applied to william holton. in any view of the case, no matter how base the holtons might be, there was no reason why the family sins should be visited upon the lady with the aforesaid accent, whose taste in dress was unassailable and who poured tea with such an air. amzi read his newspaper in the little back room of the bank on a november afternoon and awaited the coming of his sisters. the necessity for any business discussions between them had steadily diminished. their father's estate had long ago been distributed, and amzi had not troubled himself as to the subsequent fate of the money he had paid to his sisters. they were all blessed with husbands, and if these gentlemen did not safeguard their wives' property it was no affair of his. there had been about half a million dollars, which meant in round figures a hundred thousand dollars apiece, and this in montgomery is a great deal of money. when his sisters arrived, amzi rose with the nice courtesy that lay in him and placed chairs for them about the table. then panting from his exertion he pulled a cigar from his waistcoat and dry-smoked it. they were unwontedly grave, suggesting the gloom of a committee appointed to perfect funeral arrangements for a poor relation. "you have talked to phil about the party, i suppose," said mrs. waterman. "i have: i most certainly have, josie," replied amzi, sighing heavily. "and she's going to do what we want?" amzi tilted his head to one side reflectively, and took the cigar from his mouth. "she's going to stand for the party, if that's what you mean; but as to doing what you want on general principles, i'm not so dead sure." "it was your duty, amzi, to go into the matter thoroughly--to lay down the law to her," observed mrs. fosdick. "all right," nodded amzi. "in the words of the poet, i done it. but phil doesn't need lectures." "doesn't need them?" sniffed mrs. fosdick. "that poor child couldn't have a lecture too many. she always pulls the wool over your eyes. it's right and proper for us to know just what she said when you told her she had to stop running round so much and act like a respectable well-brought-up girl." "you're a lot of silly geese about phil--all of you," declared amzi, bringing his gaze to bear upon them _seriatim_. "phil is far from being a fool, and there's a heart in her as big as the court-house. we don't appreciate her; we're always nagging her and trying to reform her." the plural was pure chivalry. it was not amzi who nagged phil. the aunts, perfectly aware of this, and ready usually to challenge any intimation that their attitude toward phil was not dictated by equity and wisdom, were silent. their failure to respond with their customary defense aroused his suspicions. they had been to a tea somewhere and were in their new fall togs. their zealous attempts to live up to what were to him the absurdest, the most preposterous ideals, struck him just now as pathetic; but he was fond of his sisters. if the course of their lives was inexplicable and their ambitions ridiculous and futile, his good humor never failed in his intercourse with them. but they had not disclosed their hand on this occasion--he was confident of this--and he warily fortified himself to meet whatever assault their strategy had planned. the three women glanced at one another covertly: kate and fanny seemed to be deferring to their older sister. it was with unmistakable diffidence and after a minute scrutiny of her cardcase that mrs. waterman spoke. "amzi, this is an important time in phil's life, and there are some things we ought to counsel each other about. we all take it for granted that you know where lois is." amzi crossed his fat legs and shrugged his fat shoulders. he was not in the least pleased by the direction of the inquiry. "we feel we are entitled to know all you know about her," added mrs. fosdick. "you should remember," said mrs. hastings, "that she's our sister as well as yours." amzi's jaws tightened and he inspected the end of his cigar. this sudden manifestation of sisterly interest in lois was not without its amusing side. they had long ago spurned their sister with bitterness, and his speculations as to the real object of their visit had not touched the remote horizons against which lois was vaguely limned. "i don't see," he observed deliberately, "that lois has anything whatever to do with phil or any of the rest of us." "of course not, amzi. that's exactly the point. we only want to be sure she's a long way off; we're entitled to know that. and we've heard--" mrs. hastings laid upon _heard_ that fine, insinuating inflection that is a part of the grammar of gossip. his sisters had heard something, and while he discounted its value automatically, as was his way, he was not without curiosity as to its nature. they saw that he was interested. "the walters have just got back from a western trip, and they heard in seattle that lois has left holton. he had been doing badly--drinking, and all that." "it was bound to come, of course," said mrs. waterman. "you can't tell me that people who do a thing like that can ever be happy." her tone did not please amzi. it was clear that he found the whole subject disagreeable. he was immensely annoyed that they had come to him to discuss lois after years of silence. it was as though a great rock planted in the avenue of her exit had succumbed to the tooth of time and its exfoliations were falling ominously about him. "i thought it was understood long ago that we had dropped lois. if she and holton got tired of each other, it's their business. i don't imagine you want me to send for her to come home." "amzi!" they gasped. it seemed that this shuddering exclamation expressed a horror that shook their very souls. it was incredible that so dark a thought should have crossed the mind of a man commonly looked upon as sane. "that would be the limit," cried mrs. hastings. "don't even mention such a thing--it's too horrible to joke about." "i wasn't joking. if she's gone to smash with holton, i thought maybe you wanted us to bring the prodigal home, and give her veal loaf for sunday evening tea. by the way, kate, don't ever turn me loose on any of your veal loaf again. the last i had at your house gave me indigestion; it might have led to apoplexy and killed me." the fierceness of his frowning caused his scalp to wrinkle clear back to his fringe of hair. his sisters were vexed by his attempt to relieve the discussion with humor. it was necessary to sober him, and mrs. hastings thought she could effect the sobering of amzi. "minnie walters says they have lost their money; the judge saw jack holton, but you know how the judge is; he wouldn't ever speak of it to a soul." "minnie would," said amzi dryly. "minnie only mentioned it in the kindest way," said mrs. waterman, coloring. "you know minnie doesn't gossip; but as an old friend of our family she thought we ought to know. i think it was kind of her to tell us." "well, it doesn't seem to have made you girls much happier. what on earth are you going to do; what do you want me to do?" he demanded, blowing out his cheeks and glaring. "we don't want you to do anything, amzi," said mrs. hastings, with that sweetness with which women of little discernment attempt to blunt the wrath of man. it was important to keep phil in the picture: with phil dancing before them amzi could be held in subjection. mrs. waterman hastened to mention phil and the responsibility they all felt about her, to justify their curiosity as to phil's mother. amzi blew his nose and readjusted his spectacles. mrs. waterman advanced the battle-line boldly. "we assume that you have always kept in touch with poor lois and that you still hear from her. and we feel that the time has come for you to treat us more frankly about her. it's for phil's sake, you know, amzi." amzi could not see how any of the later transactions in the life of phil's mother were of the slightest importance to phil. he shook his head impatiently and shrugged his shoulders. "lois," he blurted, "is in dresden." "then she _has_ left him!" cried mrs. fosdick, with a note of triumph that trumpeted the complete vindication of mrs. waterman's averments. "i tell you i don't know anything about holton," replied amzi, who had, in strictest truth, told them nothing of the kind. he experienced the instant regret suffered by secretive persons who watch a long-guarded fact slip away beyond reclamation; but repentance could avail nothing, so he added,-- "yes; she's abroad. she's been over there for some time." "of course, he's run through her money; that was to be expected!" exclaimed mrs. fosdick in a tone that implied a deep resentment of the fate that had robbed the erring lois of her money. "if he did she never told me so," amzi answered. "but lois was never what you might call a squealer; if he robbed her you can be pretty dead sure she wouldn't sob about it on the street corners. that wouldn't be a bit like the lois i remember. lois wasn't the woman to go scampering off after the devil and then get scared and burst out crying when she found her shoes beginning to get hot." after all these years amzi had spoken, and his sisters did not like his tone. their brother, a gentleman the correctness of whose life had never been questioned, was referring to the conduct of the sister who had disgraced her family in outrageous and sinful terms. the prince of darkness and the fervid pavements of his kingdom were not to be brought into conversation with any such lightness, as though the going to the devil were not, after all, so horrible--not something to be whispered with terror in the dark confessional of their souls. one might have imagined that lois's very sins had endeared her to this phlegmatic older brother! there was not only this gloomy reflection, but his admissions had opened long vistas to their imaginations. he probably knew more than he meant to disclose, and this made it necessary to continue their pumping with the greatest discretion. "it would be hard if she came back on you for help--after everything that's happened; but of course that would be your affair, amzi," said mrs. hastings leadingly. "it would," amzi admitted explosively. "it undoubtedly would!" this, in their eagerness, seemed an admission. the interview was proving fruitful beyond their fondest hopes. he had doubtless been in lois's fullest confidence from the first; and darkest of all, it was wholly likely, now that she had broken with holton, that amzi was supplying her with the means of subsistence in the capitals of europe. around this last thought they rallied. "of course, if lois should really be in need, amzi," said mrs. waterman, "it would be the duty of all of us to help her; that would only be right. but even if it comes to that we should have to consider phil, too. when you think of everything, our responsibility is much greater for phil than for lois. phil is here; her life's before her; she's one _of_ us, you know, amzi." "right, josie; you are mighty right. what you mean is that if it came to a question of lois's starving in europe and phil's starving on our doorsteps, we'd help phil first because she's right here under our noses. but i don't understand that lois is starving; nor is phil for that matter. phil's all right." the thought that he was sending money to lois was disagreeable; that he should be doing so when phil's needs cried so stridently aroused the direst apprehensions. they had all received from amzi their exact proportion of their father's estate; even waterman had never been able to find a flaw in the adjustment. through waterman they had learned that lois's proper receipt was on file; they knew exactly the date on which it had been placed of record in the county clerk's office. they had looked upon this as the final closing of all the doors that shut this sister out of their calculations. they, or their children, were potential beneficiaries in amzi's property if he ultimately died a bachelor. and there was no telling when his asthma might be supplemented by a fatal pneumonia. this was never to be whispered in so far as the chances of their own offspring were concerned; but of phil and the propriety of her expectations they might speak with entire candor. "while we are talking of these matters," observed mrs. hastings, "we may as well face one or two things that have troubled us all a good deal. you know as well as we do that poor tom has gradually been playing out; it's pitiful the way he has been letting his business go. every one knows that he has ability, but he's been living more and more up in the air. he owns the block over there and the rent he gets from that is about all he has. and i shouldn't be at all surprised if the block had been mortgaged." "i've heard," said mrs. waterman, examining a button on her white glove, "that he has borrowed money on it." they looked guardedly at amzi. mrs. waterman's husband, who kept an eye on the county records, had, at his wife's behest, assured himself frequently that kirkwood's block in main street was unencumbered. kirkwood's former home, the decaying monument to his domestic tragedy, and the only other thing he owned, was free also. in this process of "smoking out" their brother it would have helped if they could have pointed to the menace of her father's encumbered property to phil; but they had already learned more than they had expected in establishing beyond per-adventure the fact that lois and amzi maintained communication, and that in all likelihood he was providing for her in her exile. it was high time they scanned the top shelves of the closet occupied by the dancing family skeleton! "while we're about it we may as well face the possibility that tom may marry again," remarked mrs. fosdick suddenly. amzi drew his hand across his pink dome. "nothing to hinder him that i know of," he replied. "i don't know of anything that would wake him up unless it would be that. the right sort of woman could do a lot for a man like tom, with all that he has suffered." this from mrs. waterman, who seemed deeply moved by the thought of kirkwood's sufferings. "but phil--i can't imagine phil with a stepmother. we never could allow that; we should have to take her away from him," declared mrs. fosdick. amzi rested his elbow on the table, and breathed hard for a minute. he took the unlighted cigar from his mouth and waved it at them. "what's got into you girls anyhow! you're borrowing trouble in all the banks in the universe--a little above your line of credit. you seem terribly anxious about lois all of a sudden. it just happens that i know she ain't hungry, and that she's over there living like a respectable woman. lois isn't like the rest of us; lois is different! there's more electricity in lois than the rest of us have; you know it as well as i do. now just to satisfy your curiosity i'll tell you that i saw lois--" "you saw her!" they chorused. "i saw her in chicago about two months ago. she was on her way to europe then; i had dinner with her and put her on the train for new york, and she sailed the day she got there; so now, if you're scared to death for fear she's going to turn up here in town, you can put it clean out of your minds." they sighed their relief. he was not given to long speeches and the effort of his recent deliverances caused him to cough, and the coughing brought his voice finally to a high wheeze. he had not quite finished yet, however. "now, as for tom kirkwood marrying," he went on, "let him marry. it's none of our business, is it? he married into our family and got the worst of it. it wasn't a particularly cheerful business, the way it came out. if he's fool enough to try it again, it's his trouble not ours; and you can't tell but he might make a go of it next time." "we have no idea of trying to hinder him," said mrs. waterman with dignity. "as you say, it's tom's trouble. and of course we could manage so phil wouldn't suffer, no matter what he did." "phil suffer! thunder! what are you always talking about phil for; i tell you phil's all right! phil's got more gumption than all the rest of us put together. phil's an honor to the family; she's the best girl in this town and the best girl in the whole state of indiana, or the united states, for that matter. if you have visions of seeing phil chased over the back lot by any stepmother, you have another guess coming. thunder!" he drew out a white silk handkerchief and blew his nose. the sisters saw with regret that there was no recurring to the attractive subject of that interview in chicago, though their minds were beset with a thousand questions they wished to ask him about it. they realized that to do so would be a blunder. they had stumbled upon a gold mine and were obliged to leave its rich hoard untouched. they returned to phil, who, as a topic, offered safer ground than her mother. "phil's party," said mrs. hastings briskly, "ought to be in keeping with the family dignity. we thought it a lot better for you to have it in your house than for us--our own houses are small." (this with resignation.) "and it doesn't seem quite nice for _us_ to have it in the masonic hall, though some of the nicest people are doing that. to bring phil out in her grandfather's house speaks for the whole family. and it's dear of you to consent to it. we all appreciate that, amzi." "of course it's the place for it!" affirmed amzi impatiently. "i'll give that party and you can get whatever phil needs and do it right; you understand? and then i want you to give me all the bills. now what else do you want?" "we feel," began mrs. fosdick, "that the invitations, which will go out in your name, should take in everybody we want phil to know." amzi grinned guardedly. "that's pretty good, fanny. do you suppose there's a man, woman, baby, or yellow dog in this town that phil doesn't know? i doubt it. but go on." "we don't mean that way, amzi," said mrs. waterman patiently. "we mean--" "thunder! go on!" "we mean that the list should be representative--that old differences should be put aside." the wrinkles on amzi's pink pate scampered back to find refuge in his absurd fringe of pale-gold hair. mrs. waterman advanced her pickets hurriedly. "you know we've had to recognize the holtons of late, disagreeable though it has been. william isn't like jack--you know that; and when he brought his wife here, a perfect stranger, it didn't seem fair to ignore her." "the fact is," mrs. fosdick interpolated, "we simply couldn't, amzi. this town's too small to carry on a feud comfortably. we all stopped speaking to the holtons after poor lois left, but the rest of them couldn't help what jack did; and, of course, lois--" "you want to ask mr. and mrs. william to phil's party?" mrs. fosdick, fearing from the fierceness with which he reduced the matter to words, that he was about to veto the suggestion, hastened to strengthen their case. "for business reasons, amzi, we feel that we ought to bury the hatchet. paul has to meet william holton constantly. no matter what we think, william _is_ really one of the wide-awake business men of the town, and in all sorts of things; and paul has to keep him on the executive committee of the commercial club--the president of the first national bank can't be overlooked, though you can't ever doubt paul's devotion to all our interests." "and," mrs. waterman added, "mr. holton retained alec in a case last winter." "yep," observed amzi, "he did. it was that suit about opening up chapel street and i was one of the defendants." and then he added, with calculated softness, as though recalling a pleasant memory, "alec lost the suit." the mention of the chapel street extension had been an unfortunate slip on mrs. waterman's part; but amzi was generous. "bill holton is undoubtedly a leading citizen," he observed, looking at the ceiling and rubbing his nose absently. the irony of this, if he intended any, was well hidden. william holton, president of the first national bank, was a business rival, and amzi never abused his competitors. having satisfied his curiosity as to the ceiling, he announced his complete acquiescence in the idea of inviting the william holtons. "no objection whatever," he declared, "to asking bill and his wife. is that all of 'em you want?" "well, there are ethel and charlie. they've just closed their house here and mean to live in indianapolis, but of course they still belong here. charlie is doing very well, they say--quite a brilliant young man; and ethel is very sweet and well-bred. she went to miss waring's school in indianapolis and knows some of the nicest young people in the city. i think it would be nice to ask them; it always looks well to have some out-of-town guests." "that sam's children you're talking about? what's the matter with the other boy?" "fred? i think the less we say about him the better. he's been down in mexico on one of sam's schemes and i guess he didn't do well. he's on the old farm next your place. i guess ethel and charlie can represent that branch of the family. if you think--" began mrs. fosdick, anxious that amzi should be fully satisfied. "thunder! i don't think. you fix it up to suit yourselves." they began to adjust their wraps, fairly well satisfied with the results of the visit. amzi eyed their autumnal splendors with the mild wonder a woman's raiment always aroused in him. "tom marry again, you say," he observed pensively. "what's put that idea in your head?" "why, you know as well as we do, amzi, that he and rose bartlett are very sympathetic," exclaimed mrs. hastings, veiling a sharp glance at him. the three women, feigning inattention, were alert for their brother's reply. it came promptly. "rose is a fine woman," he said with cordial emphasis. "a fine woman. and," he immediately added, "so's nan!" then he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and filled his cheeks and glared. they were grieved by the mention of nan. the bluff heartiness with which he had expressed his admiration for rose had been gratifying and satisfying; but by speaking with equal fervor of nan he had sent them adrift again. chapter vii ghosts see the light again kirkwood plunged into work with an ardor that was not lost upon phil. he rose early and kept office hours with a new faithfulness, and he frequently carried books and papers home for study. something was impending, phil surmised, in the affairs of the sycamore traction company, for he had been to indianapolis to confer with the new york lawyer who represented the trustee for the bondholders and they had made an inspection of the road together. it had always been kirkwood's way when aroused to devote himself tirelessly to his client's business, and phil had not failed to note how completely labor transformed him. his languor and indifference now disappeared; he spoke feelingly of the generosity of his williams classmate, who had placed the sycamore case in his hands. it was a great opportunity and he assured her that he meant to make the most of it. he warned her that she was not to tell any one what he was engaged upon, and that she must not be surprised into confessions by her aunts. he began to visit the capital, always returning on the evening train, though she knew that he might more comfortably have spent the night in the city. he explained to phil that he hoped to adjust the sycamore's affairs without litigation. "i'm just enough of an old fogy to cut myself out of a big fee by smoothing the wrinkles without a lawsuit. it's the professor in me, phil; it's the academic taint." and to this the obvious retort was, of course, that it was because of his highmindedness that he sought peaceable adjustments where more drastic measures would have been to his profit. she, too, was putting forth her best energies, and he was relieved to find that she disposed of her work so lightly; even her frequent calamities were a matter for jesting. they made a joke of the washing of the supper dishes: he insisted on helping her, and would don an apron and do the rougher part of it. he declared that he had never been so well fed before, and that her cooking showed real genius. it would be a dark day when his fee in the traction case would make it possible to install a new maid-of-all work. phil was aware that their talk drifted often and with seeming inevitableness to the bartletts. her successes with the housekeeping were due to the friendly supervision of the sisters in buckeye lane. he liked to hear her recount the ways in which they were her guide and inspiration. in doubts she flew to them; but one or the other appeared almost daily at the cottage. "rose showed me how to make that sponge cake," phil would say; or, if the furniture in their little parlor had been rearranged, it was very likely nan who had suggested the change. it was a considerable distance across town from the kirkwoods' to number buckeye lane, and as these women were exceedingly busy it was not without sacrifice that they visited phil so constantly. "nan read me some new jokes she's just sending off this morning: i wonder how people think up such things," phil would observe, turning, perhaps, with her hand on the pantry door; and she knew that her father's face lighted at the mention of nan and her jokes. the aunts had not been above planting in phil's young breast the suspicion that her father was romantically "interested" in one of the bartletts--as to which one they hoped she would enlighten them. they tried to keep track of the visits paid by the father and daughter to buckeye lane; their veiled inquiries were tinged also with suspicions that amzi might be contemplating marriage with one of these maiden ladies of the lane--the uncertainties in each case as to the bright star of particular adoration giving edge to their curiosity. the cautious approaches, the traps set in unexpected places, amused phil when she was not angered by them. as she viewed the matter it would be perfectly natural for her father to marry either of the bartlett sisters, her only fear being that marriage would disturb the existing relations between the two houses which were now so wholly satisfactory. phil managed to visit her father's office every day or two, trips to "town" being among the montgomery housewife's privileges, a part of her routine. much visiting was done in main street, and there was always something to take one into struby's drug-store, which served as a club. even in winter there was hot chocolate and bouillon to justify the sociably inclined in lingering at the soda-water tables by the front windows. phil, heedful of the warnings of the court-house clock, managed to keep in touch with current history without jeopardizing the regularity of meals at home. she was acquiring the ease of the bartletts in maintaining a household with a minimum of labor and worry. her aunts had convoyed her to indianapolis to buy a gown for the coming-out party, which was now fixed for the middle of november; and they were to return to the city shortly for a fitting. all main street was aware that phil was to be brought out; the aunts had given wide publicity to the matter; they had sighingly confessed to their friends the difficulties, the labor, the embarrassment of planting their niece firmly in society. phil, dropping into her father's office in the middle of an afternoon and finding him absent, dusted it from force of habit and began turning the pages of a battered copy of "elia" she kept tucked away in an alcove that contained the indiana reports. a sign pinned on the door stated that her father would return in half an hour. this card, which had adorned the door persistently for several years, had lately ceased to prophesy falsely, phil knew, and she thought she heard her father on the stairs when a young man she did not at once recognize opened the door and glanced about, then removed his hat and asked if mr. kirkwood would return shortly. "i'm mr. charles holton," said the visitor. for a man to prefix "mister" to his own name was contrary to local usage, and the manner, the voice, the city clothes of charles holton at once interested phil. she was sitting in her father's old swivel chair, well drawn in under his big flat-top desk, across which she surveyed the visitor at leisure. she placed him at once in his proper niche among the holtons: it was of him that people were speaking as a montgomery boy who was making himself known at the capital. he was the brother of ethel and fred, and clearly an alert and dashing person. "pardon me; but i remember you perfectly, miss kirkwood. i hope we may dispense with the formality of an introduction--we old montgomery people--and that sort of thing!" holton carried a stick, which was not done in montgomery save by elderly men, or incumbents of office, like judge walters or congressman reynolds. his necktie also suggested more opulent avenues than main street. "by the outward and visible sign upon the portal i assume that mr. kirkwood will return shortly." he referred to his watch, absently turned the stem-key, and sat down in one of the chairs which phil had lately dusted. "i used to see you around a lot when i was a boy--you and your pony; but we've all been away so much--my sister ethel and i. you know ethel?" "i've seen her," said phil. "we've just been breaking up our old home here. rather tough, too, when you think we're quite alone. we've sold the old house; sorry, but the best offer i got was from a doctor who wants to turn it into a drink-cure sanatorium. tough on the neighbors, but there you are! it didn't seem square to stand in the way of bracing up booze victims." he expected her approval of this attitude; and phil murmured phrases that seemed to fill the gap he left for them. "had to go to the highest bidder--you can hardly give away an old house like that in a place like this. neighbors are kicking, but it wasn't my fault." phil said she supposed that was so. she was still noting various small items of holton's raiment--his tan oxford shoes, brilliant socks, and brown derby. a brown derby seemed odd in montgomery. from the pocket of his sackcoat protruded the cuffs of tan gloves, and he wore an inconspicuous watch chain passed from pocket to pocket of his waistcoat. not even the most prosperous of the college seniors had ever presented to phil's eye a variety of adornments so tastefully chosen, a color scheme so effective. the interview seemed to be to the young man's liking. he talked with assurance, holding his light stick with one hand, and balancing his hat on his knee with the other. often before men had come into the office as phil sat there and she had conversed with them while they waited for her father. she had usually exhausted the possibilities in forecasting her father's return at such times; but this gentleman seemed in no wise impatient. he spoke of the world's affairs lightly and with a flattering confidence in the understanding and sympathy of his auditor. the theatrical attractions at the capital, the promise of grand opera in chicago, the political changes, these were things of passing interest, but nothing to grow feverish about. "the new trolley line will make a lot of difference to towns like montgomery--revolutionize things in fact. part of the great social change that is apparent all over the middle west. there won't be any country folks any more; all hitched on to the cities--the rubes derubenized and inter-urbanized!" phil admitted that the changes he suggested were of significance. her father often used similar phrases in speaking of tendencies and influences; but it was to be expected of him. the same ideas as expressed by charles holton derived a certain importance from the fact that he condescended to utter them; they gained weight and authority from his manner of presenting them. he was not only a man of the world, but an acute observer of social phenomena; and he was a new sort. she had not known any one like him. the memory of her two meetings with fred came back to her: she recalled them the more clearly by reason of the contrast between the brothers. "your brother has moved back to the farm," she suggested to gain confirmation of a relationship which seemed hardly plausible with this radiant young person before her. "oh, fred! well, i'd have you know that i offered to take fred in with me, but he wouldn't see it. i'd like the folks over here to know that; but i couldn't do anything with him. he camped on one of our mexican mines so long that he is afraid of cities,--isn't city-broke,--and seemed relieved when i suggested that he take the farm. it's no great shakes of a farm as farms go, but he's one of these plodding chaps who like a hard job. he came back and took a look around and said it was back to the soil for him! so there was the farm, just waiting for somebody to tackle it. i haven't seen him for some time,--i'm terribly busy,--but i dare say he's out there, an earnest young husbandman anxious to become one of these prosperous farmers who push the price of bread out of sight and cry to have the tariff taken off champagne. you don't happen to know fred?" "i've met your brother," said phil with reserve. "well, i suppose we montgomery folks are all acquainted without being introduced. lots of 'em moving to indianapolis; i'm thinking of organizing a club over there to keep the montgomery people together--an annual dinner, say; and that sort of thing. do you know, it's rather nice of you to be talking to me in this friendly, neighborly way; it really is." as phil seemed not to see at once wherein the particular kindness of it lay, he smiled and continued:-- "our families haven't been so friendly, you know. pardon me!" phil, seeing now what he meant, colored deeply, and glancing out of the window was rewarded by a glimpse of amzi's back. he had just concluded an observation and was turning into the bank. "you will pardon me, won't you," pleaded young holton, lowering his voice. "i think father will be here shortly," phil remarked irrelevantly. he had opened himself to the suspicion that he had broached the subject of the antipathy between their houses merely to test its dramatic value. to be talking to the daughter of a woman with whom his uncle had eloped made a situation; it is possible that he liked situations that called into action his wits and an evident gift for using his voice and eyes. he had been rapidly noting phil's good points. he wished to impress her, and he was not convinced that the impression he had made was favorable or that she forgave him for touching, however lightly, upon the ungrateful topic of her mother's dereliction. he had never thought of his uncle jack's escapade with mrs. kirkwood concretely; it had happened long ago, before he became attentive to such things; but the young woman with whom he was now conversing visualized the episode for him. in his mind there was an element of picturesqueness in that joint page of holton-montgomery history. he wondered whether phil looked like her mother. phil was pretty enough, though in repose she seemed rather spiritless. she was swinging herself in the swivel chair, carelessly, and since his reference to the old scandal he saw or imagined that he saw her manner change from courteous interest to a somewhat frosty indifference. his pride was pricked by the sense of his blunder. he flattered himself that in his intercourse with men and women he was adroit in retrieving errors, and his instinct warned him that the curtain must not fall upon a scene that left him in discomfiture at the back of the stage. "it pleased ethel and me very much to have an invitation to your party, miss kirkwood. it was nice of you to ask us, and we shall certainly come over, even if i have to give up a trip to new york i had expected to make at just that time. let me see, it's the twentieth, isn't it? well, i guess i can make them wait down there. we western folks don't often get a chance to make new yorkers wait." phil was disposed to be magnanimous. he undoubtedly wished to be agreeable; and it was his uncle, a remote person whom she had never seen, who had decamped with her mother. it was hardly just to hold him accountable for his uncle's misdeeds. she wondered whether the uncle had been like this nephew, or whether he was more like william holton, whom she had seen frequently all her life. in her encounters with fred holton, she had only vaguely associated him with that other and indubitably wicked holton who had eloped with her mother. she was conscious that some one was stirring in the room overhead, and she became attentive to the sounds. her father had asked delay in disposing of the apparatus of the old photograph gallery; he had wanted to look the old stuff over, he had said, and he wished also to utilize the darkroom in developing the pictures he had taken on their last outing. one of the objects of her call this afternoon had been to urge him to haste, as bernstein wanted to move his remodeling shop into the rooms at once. "i make it a rule of my life," holton went on, "to duck when it comes to other people's mistakes. i make enough of my own without shouldering those my friends and relations are responsible for--particularly my relations. for example, if dear old fred wants to throw himself away on a farm, that's his trouble. i did all i could to save him. and when i had done that, i had done my best, and i'm a busy man with troubles of my own!" her reception of this was not wholly satisfactory. she made in fact no reply at all. "excuse me," she said, hearing steps unmistakably; "i think maybe father is on the floor above. if you will wait here, i'll run up and see." he saw her erect for the first time as she passed him. her apparent languor as she swung in the old creaky chair had belied what was evidently her more natural manner. the few steps necessary to carry her from the desk to the door were taken lightly, with a long, free stride. captain wilson, in apostrophizing her as the diana of main street, had paid no inappropriate tribute to phil's graceful carriage. holton rose as she crossed the room, noting her brown cheek, the golden glint in her hair, her finely modeled features, her clear brown eyes and their dark lashes. his eyes still rested upon the door for a moment after it had closed upon her. then he struck the floor with his stick, and whistled softly. "lordy!" he ejaculated. phil accused herself of dullness in not having thought earlier of the photograph gallery. her father must have been conducting himself very quietly there or she would have heard him before. it had been a bright day and he had undoubtedly been taking advantage of the sun to do his printing. she had always encouraged his experiments in photography, which afforded him one of his few recreations. he owned a fine camera and he gave to every detail of the photographer's art the care he bestowed upon anything that deeply interested him. they had bound in portfolios many of the views obtained in their adventures afield, and he had won prizes at state and national exhibitions of camera societies. phil was relieved to know that he was developing these newest plates, for now there would be no excuse for retaining the deserted gallery and it could be turned over to bernstein without further delay. it had grown late, and even under the glazed roof she did not at once make him out. "daddy!" she called softly. she had broken in upon one of his deep reveries, and as she spoke he started guiltily. the oblong of glass he had been holding, staring at in the lessening light, fell with a crash, breaking into countless pieces. "oh, daddy! did i scare you like that! hope it wasn't one of the best negatives that went to smash--hard luck to wipe one of those autumn on sugar creek gems out of existence!" "it's all right, phil--all right. it was only an old negative. i was looking over the rubbish here and amused myself by printing some of the old plates. there are a lot of old ghosts hidden away there in the closet. this was an old shop, you know, dating back to the civil war, and there are negatives here of a lot of our local heroes. i wonder if it's right to throw them away? it's like exterminating a generation to destroy them. there must be people who would like to have prints of some of these." "we might sell them to that new photographer for money enough to paint the building," she suggested. "the real owner would owe us a lot of rent if he ever turned up, which he never will. that would be our only way of getting even." "there spoke a practical mind, phil!" she knew from the poor result of his effort to appear cheery that something had occurred to depress him. his own associations with montgomery had been too recent for the resurrection of old citizens to have any deep significance for him. "we must go, phil; i didn't mean for you to catch me here. i've wasted the whole afternoon--but some of the sugar creek views have come out wonderfully. we must clean up and turn the room over to bernstein right away." her alert eyes marked the sugar creek pictures at one end of a shelf built against the window, but from his position at the moment she had surprised him in his brooding she knew that he had not been studying them. nor did these new prints from old plates present likenesses of montgomery's heroes of the sixties; but there were three--a little quaint by reason of the costumes--of a child, a girl of fourteen, and a young woman; and no second glance was necessary to confirm her instant impression that these represented her mother--the mother of whom she had no memory whatever. there were photographs and a miniature of her mother at home, and at times she had dreamed over them; and there was a portrait done by an itinerant artist which hung in her uncle amzi's house, but this, her aunt josephine had once told her, did not in the least resemble lois. kirkwood tried clumsily to hide the prints. "no; phil, please don't!" he exclaimed harshly. "of course, i may see them, daddy,--of course!" he allowed her to take them from him. "it's mamma," said phil. "how dear they are!" she murmured softly. as she turned the prints to catch the dimming light, he watched her, standing inertly with his elbow on the shelf. "isn't it odd that i never saw any of these! even uncle amy hasn't them." she bent over the print of the child, who stood with a hoop, smiling as though in delight at her belated rescue from oblivion. "you were going to give these to me, weren't you, daddy?" she was running over the others. one that showed the mature woman in a fur cape long out of fashion and with a fur cap perched on her head, held her longest. "if you want them," said her father, "you shall have them, of course. i will touch them up a bit in the morning." "maybe," said phil looking at him quickly, "it is better not to keep them. was it one of these plates that broke?" "yes," said kirkwood; "it was this one"; and he indicated the picture that revealed his wife in her young womanhood. it was over this that he had been dreaming alone in the dim gallery when she had interrupted his reverie. the pity of it all, the bleak desolation of his life, smote her sharply, now that she had caught a glimpse of the ghosts scampering off down the long vistas. with an abrupt gesture she flung aside the melancholy reminder of his tragedy. "dear old daddy!" she held him in her strong arms and kissed him. she felt that all these spectres must be driven back into their world of shadows, and she seized the prints and tore them until only little heaps of paper remained and these she scattered upon the floor. "are these the plates?" he indicated them with a nod. one after the other they crashed echoingly in the bare gallery. she accomplished the destruction swiftly and with certainty. one that fell on edge undamaged she broke with her heel. then she took a match from his pocket and lit the gas in one of the old burners. the light revealed a slight smile on his face, but it was not his accustomed smile of good humor. his eyes were very sad and gentle. "thank you, dear old phil! i guess that's the best way, after all. it must be time to go home now. are you ready?" "wait here a minute--you had better pull down the windows and lock up. i'll close the office and you can meet me on the landing." she went out, closing the door, and ran down to the office, where charles holton stood at the window looking out upon main street, where the electric lamps were just sputtering into light. "ah," he cried turning toward her with a bow, "i'd begun to think you had forgotten my unworthy presence on earth!" "not at all, mr. holton. i'm sorry, but my father is too much engaged to see you to-day. if you really want to see him you can come in to-morrow." this was not what he had expected. dismissal was in her tone rather more than in her words. their eyes met for a moment in the dim dusk and he would have prolonged the contact; but she walked to the desk and stood there, looking down at the copy of "elia" which lay as she had left it when he had interrupted her reading. she refused to be conscious of his disappointment or to make amends for having caused him to wait needlessly. he turned at the door. "i hope i haven't put you to any inconvenience?" he remarked, but without resentment. "not at all, mr. holton. good-afternoon!" "good-day, miss kirkwood." she listened until his step died away down the stair and then went out and whistled for her father. chapter viii listening hill the holton farmhouse, a pretentious place in the day of frederick holton's grandfather, was now habitable and that was the most that could be said for it. when the second generation spurned the soil and became urbanized, the residence was transformed from its primal state into a country home, and the family called it "listening hill farm." its austere parlor of the usual rural type was thrown together with the living-room, the original fireplace was reconstructed, and running water was pumped to the house by means of a windmill. the best of the old furniture had been carried off to adorn the town house, so that when fred succeeded to the ownership it was a pretty bare and comfortless place. samuel had never lived there, though the farm had fallen to him in the distribution of his father's estate; but he had farmed it at long range, first from montgomery, and latterly, and with decreasing success, from indianapolis after his removal to the capital. the year before fred's arrival no tenant had been willing to take it owing to the impoverished state of the land. most of the farms in the neighborhood were owned by town people, and operated by tenants. as for fred, he knew little about agriculture. on the mexican plantation which his father and uncle william had controlled, he had learned nothing that was likely to prove of the slightest value in his attempt to wrest a living from these neglected hoosier acres. his main qualifications for a farming career were a dogged determination to succeed and a vigorous, healthy body. the holtons had always carried their failures lightly, and even samuel, who had died at indianapolis amid a clutter of dead or shaky financial schemes, was spoken of kindly in montgomery. samuel had saved himself with the group of politicians he had persuaded to invest in the mexican mine by selling out to a german syndicate just before he died; and samuel had always made a point of taking care of his friends. he had carried through several noteworthy promotion schemes with profit before his mexican disasters, and but for the necessity of saving harmless his personal and political friends he might not have left so little for his children. so spake the people of montgomery. charles holton was nearing thirty, and having participated in his father's political adventures, and been initiated into the mysteries of promotion, he had a wide acquaintance throughout central indiana. he had been graduated from madison, and in his day at college had done much to relieve the gray calvinistic tone of that sedate institution. it was he who had transformed the old "college chorus"--it had been a "chorus" almost from the foundation--into a glee club, and he had organized the first guitar and banjo club. the pleasant glow he left behind him still hung over the campus when fred entered four years later. charles's meteoric social career had dimmed the fact (save to a few sober professors) that he had got through by the skin of his teeth. fred's plodding ways, relieved only by his prowess at football, had left a very different impression. fred worked hard at his studies because he had to; and even with persistence and industry he had not shone brilliantly in the scientific courses he had elected. the venerable dean once said that fred was a digger, not a skimmer and skipper, and that he would be all right if only he dug long enough. he was graduated without honors and went south to throw in his fortunes with his father's mexican projects. he was mourned at the college as the best all-round player a madison eleven had ever boasted; but this was about all. when he accepted listening hill farm as his share of his father's estate, fred had a little less than one thousand dollars in cash, which he had saved from the salaries paid him respectively by the plantation and mining companies. this had been deposited as a matter of convenience in an indianapolis bank and he allowed it to remain there. he realized that this money must carry him a long way, and that every cent must go into the farm before anything came out of it. he had moved to the farm late in the summer--just in time to witness the abundant harvests of his neighbors. one of the friendliest of these was a young man named perry, who had charge of amzi montgomery's place. perry belonged to the new school of farmers, and he had done much in the four years that he had been in the banker's employ to encourage faith in "book farming," as it had not yet ceased to be called derisively. he was a frank, earnest, hard-working fellow whose ambition was to get hold of a farm of his own as quickly as possible. he worked amzi's farm on shares, with certain privileges in the matter of feeding cattle. amzi picked him up by chance and with misgivings; but perry had earned the biggest dividends the land had ever paid. perry confided to fred a hope he had entertained of leasing the holton farm for himself when his contract with montgomery expired. now that fred had arrived on the scene he explained to the tyro exactly what he had meant to do with the property. as he had seriously canvassed the situation for a couple of years, witnessing the failures of the last two tenants employed by samuel holton, fred gladly availed himself of his advice. fred caught from perry the spirit of the new era in farming. it no longer sufficed to scratch the earth with a stick and drop in a seed; the earth itself must be studied as to its weaknesses and the seed must be chosen with intelligent care. one of the experts from the state agricultural school, in the field to gather data for statistics, passed through the country, and spent a week with fred for the unflattering reason that the holton acres afforded material for needed information as to exhausted soils. he recommended books for fred to read, and what was more to the point sent a young man to plan his work and initiate him into the mysteries of tilling and fertilizing. the soil expert was an enthusiast, and he left behind him the nucleus of a club which he suggested that the young men of the neighborhood enlarge during the winter for the discussion of new methods of farm efficiency. fred hired a man and went to work. he first repaired the windmill and assured the water-supply of the house and barn. a farmer unembarrassed by crops, he planned his campaign a year ahead. he worked harder on his barren acres than his neighbors with the reward of their labor in sight. he tilled the low land in one of his fallow fields and repaired the fences wherever necessary. his most careful scrutiny failed to disclose anything on which money could be realized at once beyond half a dozen cords of wood which he sent to town and sold and the apples he had offered for sale in the streets of montgomery. these by-products hardly paid for the time required to market them. perry had suggested that winter wheat be tried on fifty acres which he chose for the experiment, and in preparing and sowing the land fred found his spirits rising. the hired man proved to be intelligent and capable, and fred was not above learning from him. fred did the cooking for both of them as part of his own labor. some of his old friends, meeting him in main street on his visits to town, commiserated him on his lot; and others thought william holton ought to do something for fred, as it was understood that he was backing charles in his enterprises. still other gossips, pointing to the failure of the mexican ventures, inclined to the belief that fred was a dull fellow, and that he would do as well on the farm as anywhere else. on a sunday afternoon in this same november, fred had cleaned up after his midday meal with the hired man and was sprawled on an old settle reading when a motor arrived noisily in the dooryard. charles was driving and with him were three strangers. fred went out to meet his brother, who introduced his companions as business men from indianapolis. "we're taking a run over the route of the new trolley line you've probably read about in the papers. hadn't heard of it yet? well, it's going to cut the sycamore line at right angles in montgomery, and run down into the coal fields. we're going to haul coal by electricity--a new idea in these parts--and it's going to be a big factor in stimulating manufactures in small centers. it's going to be a big thing for this section--your farm is worth twenty dollars more an acre just on our prospectus." "no doubt you'd be glad to take that twenty right now," remarked one of the strangers. "oh, i'll wait for it," replied fred, laughing. "are you implying that you're likely to have to wait?" demanded charles. "my dear boy, we're doing this just for you farmers. in the old days the railroads were all in league against the poor but honest farmer; he was crippled as much as he was helped by the railroads; but with the trolley the farmer can be in the deal from the jump. we want every farmer on this line to have an interest; we're going to give him a chance to go in. am i right, evans?" evans warmed to the topic. he was a young broker and wore city clothes quite as good as charles's. it was going to be a great thing for the country people; the possibilities of the trolley line had not yet been realized. social and economic conditions were to be revolutionized, and the world generally would be a very different place when the proposed line was built. charles allowed his friends to do most of the talking and they discussed the project eloquently for an hour. the men refused fred's invitation to go indoors, and said they would walk to the highway and the machine could pick them up. when the brothers were alone, charles spoke of the farm. "i see you've got to work. the whole thing looks better than i ever saw it. i'm glad you've painted the barn red; there's nothing like red for a barn. i must make a note of that; all barns should be painted red." with a gesture he colored all the barns in the world to his taste. fred grinned his appreciation of his brother's humor. "i thought that on sundays all you young farmers hitched a side-bar buggy to a colt and gave some pretty girl a good time." "i'd be doing just that but for two reasons--i haven't the colt or the side-bar, and i don't know any girls. what about this trolley line? i thought the field was crowded now." "oh, uncle will and i are going to put this one through and we're going to make some money out of it, too. there's money in these things if you know how to handle 'em. it's in the promotion, not the operating." "but i heard in town that the sycamore line isn't doing well. there are rumors--" "oh, i know about that; it's only a fuss among the fellows who are trying to control it to reorganize and squeeze the bondholders. if father had lived he'd have kept it level. but we're all out of it--away out and up the street." "glad to hear it," fred remarked. the gift of easy and picturesque speech had been denied him. all his life he had heard his father talk in just this strain; and his uncle william, while less voluble, was even more persuasive and convincing. charles did not always ring true, but any deficiencies in this respect were compensated for by his agreeable and winning manners. fred had the quiet man's distrust of ready talkers; but he admired his brother. charles was no end of a bright fellow and would undoubtedly get on. "i tell you what i'll do with you, old man," charles continued. "i suppose you already know some of these farmers around here. we're going to give them every chance to go in with us--let 'em in on the ground floor. we feel that this should be the people's line in the broadest sense,--give 'em a share of the benefits,--not merely that they can flip a can of milk on board one of our cars and hustle it direct to the consumer and get back coal right at their door, but they shall participate in the profits they help to create. now listen to this; there's not much you can do this winter out here and i stopped to make you an offer to solicit stock subscriptions among the country people. a lot of these farmers are rich fellows,--the farmers are getting altogether too much money for their own good,--and here's an ideal investment for them, a chance to add to the value of their farms and at the same time earn a clean six per cent on our bonds and share in the profits on a percentage of common that we're giving bondholders free gratis for nothing. what do you say to taking a hand with us? we'll put you on a salary right away if you say so. the very fact that you've chosen to come here to live and take up farming will give you standing with the country folks." fred smiled at this. "on the other side of the sketch the fact that i'm as ignorant of farming as the man in the moon is likely to rouse their suspicions. i'm much obliged, charlie, but my job's right here. i'm going to try to raise something that i can haul to town in a wagon and get money for. i haven't your business genius. it would seem queer to me to go about asking people to take their money out of the bank to give me in exchange for pieces of paper that might not be good in the end. and besides, a good many of these country people swallowed the same hook when it was baited with sycamore. it's not a good time to try the same bait in this neighborhood,--not for the holton family, at any rate." "mossback! i tell you we're out of sycamore with clean hands. don't you know that the big fellows in new york are the men who get in on such promotions as this and clean up on it! i'm giving you a chance that lots of men right here in this county would jump at. it's a little short of a miracle that a trolley coal road hasn't been built already. and think, too, of the prestige our family will get out of it. we've always been the only people in montgomery that had any 'git up and git.' you don't want to forget that your name holton is an asset--an asset! why, over in indianapolis the fact that i'm one of the montgomery holtons helps me over a lot of hard places, i can tell you. of course, father had plowed the ground, and the more i hear about him the more i admire him. he had vision--he saw things ahead." "and he came pretty near dying busted," observed fred. "but no man lost a cent through him!" charles flashed. "that makes me swell up with pride every time i think of it--that he took care of his friends. he saw things big, and those mexican schemes were all right. if he'd lived, they would have pulled through and been big moneymakers." they had been walking slowly towards charles's machine. "i'm not saying anything against father," said fred; "but the kind of things he took up strike me as dangerous. i know all about that plantation and the mine, too, for that matter. i don't blame father for sending me down there, but i wish i had back the years i put on those jobs." "oh, rot! the experience was a big thing for you. and you got paid for it. you must have saved some money--wasn't any way to spend money down there." "i don't keep an automobile," remarked fred ruefully. "by jove, i can't afford it myself, but i've got to make a front. now those fellows--" his companions were hallooing from the highway to attract his attention. he waved and shouted that he was coming. "those fellows are in touch with a lot of investors. nice chaps. i promised to get 'em home for dinner, and i must skip. you'd better think over my proposition before turning it down for good. i don't like to think of your being out here all winter doing nothing. you might as well take a hand with us. i'll guarantee that you won't regret it." "i don't believe i care to try it. i'm a born rube, i guess; i like it out here. and i'm going to stick until i make good or bust." charles had cranked his machine and jumped in. "look here, fred," he said, raising his voice above the noise of the engine, "when i can do anything for you, i want you to call on me. and if you need money at any time, i want you to come to me or go to uncle will. in fact, he's a little sore because you don't drop in on him oftener. so long!" the machine went skimming down the road, and when it reached the pike and charles picked up his friends, fred watched its slow ascent of listening hill, and waited for it to disappear beyond the crest. chapter ix on an orchard slope fred moved off across the fields in quest of perry. charles never left him wholly happy. his long absence from home had in a way lessened his reliance on family ties, and an interview with his brother deepened the sense of his own dullness. he wondered whether it were not proof of his general worthlessness that he was so quickly adjusting himself to the conditions of rural life; and yet from such reflections his spirit quickly rebounded. in the very soil itself, he felt a kinship, born of a hidden, elusive, cramped vein of poetic feeling that lay deep in his nature. all life, he vaguely realized, is of a piece: man and the earth to which he is born respond to the same laws. he contemplated the wheatfield, tilled partly by his own hands, with a stirring of the heart that was new to his experience. he was wedded to this land; his hope was bound up in it; and he meant to serve it well. he sprang over the fence into a woods pasture on amzi montgomery's farm and strode on. he picked up a walnut and carried it in his hand, sniffing the pungent odor of the rind. it was as warm as spring, and the dead leaves, crisp and crackling under his tread, seemed an anomaly. the wood behind him, he crossed a pasture toward the barn and hesitated, seeing that perry was entertaining visitors. he had fallen into the habit of dropping in at the perrys' on sunday afternoons and he was expected to-day, so he kept on. as he reached the barn lot, he identified amzi montgomery and phyllis kirkwood, to whom perry was apparently dilating on the good points of a jersey calf that was eyeing the visitors wonderingly. "don't be afraid, holton; my lecture is just over. you've heard it before and i'm not going to repeat it," perry called to him. "how do you do, mr. holton," said phil. he pulled off his hat and walked up to shake hands with her. "i didn't expect to find you here. i usually come over sunday afternoons." "does that mean you wouldn't have come if you'd known we were here!" laughed phil. "oh, uncle amy, this is mr. fred holton. he's your next-door neighbor." amzi turned from his observation of the calf and took the cigar from his mouth. he remembered fred holton as a boy and the young man had latterly fallen within his range of vision in main street. he availed himself of this nearer view to survey samuel holton's younger son deliberately. fred waited an instant for the banker to make a sign. amzi took a step toward him and fred advanced and offered his hand. "how d' ye do, fred," said amzi, and looked him over again. he addressed him quite as cordially as he would have spoken to any other young man he might have found there. "perry has told me about you. i guess you've got quite a job over there." "yes, but i was looking for a job when i took it," said fred. "i like being a farmer myself," said the banker, "when i know the corn's growing while i'm in bed in town." "i think i'll stay up nights to watch my corn grow, if it ever does," said fred. "that land of yours is all right," said amzi amiably, "but it's got to be brought up. that farm's been cursed with overdrafts, and overdrafts in any business are bad." "that's a new way of putting it," fred replied, "but i'm sure it's sound doctrine. you can't take out what you don't put in." "that," said amzi, feeling in his pocket for his matchbox, "is a safe general principle." he passed his cigar-case to perry and fred, commended his own cigars humorously, and looked fred over again as the young man refused, explaining that he had grown used to a pipe and was afraid of the shock to his system of a good cigar. "we were going to take a walk over the place; mr. montgomery wants to see his orchard. come along, won't you?" said perry. fred waited for a confirmation of the tenant's invitation. "yes; come along, fred," said amzi. his manner toward holton was that of an old acquaintance; he called him fred quite as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to do so. phil and perry moved off together and amzi walked along beside fred across a field of wheat stubble toward the orchard that stretched away on a slope that corresponded to the rise of listening hill in the highway. he talked of fruit-growing in which he appeared to be deeply interested, and declared that there was no reason why fruit should be only an insect-blighted by-product of such farms as his; that intelligent farmers were more and more taking it up. he confessed his firm belief in scientific farming in all its branches. most men in small towns keep some touch with the soil. in a place like montgomery the soil is the immediate source of urban prosperity, and in offices and stores men discuss crop conditions and prospects as a matter of course. amzi owned a number of farms in different parts of the county, but this one that had been long in the family was his particular pride. he paused now and then to point out features of his possessions for fred's admiration. "land," he observed reflectively, "is like a man or a horse; you got to treat 'em right or they won't work. thunder! you think you'll stick it out over there, do you?" "i've got to; and i want to! i want to make it go!" amzi glared at him a moment with puffed cheeks. fred had spoken with warmth, and being unfamiliar with the banker's habit of trying to blow up occasionally, for no reason whatever, he was a little appalled by amzi's manner of receiving his declaration. "if you mean it like that," said the banker, "you will make it go. it's the wanting to do a thing real hard that brings it round. is that gospel?" he blurted his question with a ferociousness that again startled fred; but he was beginning to suspect that this was the banker's usual way of conversing, and his awe of him diminished. amzi was an amusing person, with a tang of his own; and he clearly meant to be kind. it was necessary to answer the banker's last explosion and fred replied soberly: "i hope it is; i hope the wanting to do it will help in the doing." amzi made no response to this. he seemed to ignore it, and spoke of perry admiringly, as the kind of man he liked, quoting statistics of the wheat yield of the field they were traversing, and then stopped abruptly. "thunder! how did they come to give you the farm?" "i took it: i chose to take it. it was by an agreement between my brother and sister and me. i'm not sure but that i got the best of the partition. the stocks and bonds father left didn't mean anything to me. i don't know anything about such things." "they let you have the farm as your share; you were afraid of the other stuff?" "yes; it didn't look very good and i was perfectly satisfied. i thought the arrangement fair enough to me: charlie knew about the other things and i didn't. most of them were very doubtful." "they told you they were doubtful; you didn't know anything about them. was that the way of it?" "yes; that was about the way of it, mr. montgomery." amzi glared and drew out his handkerchief to mop his face. "i saw an automobile come out of your place awhile ago and climb the hill toward town. charlie been to see you?" "yes. he had some friends with him from the city. charlie knows no end of people." "there are people like that," said amzi, kicking a clod, and in doing so nearly losing his equilibrium; "there are people with a talent for knowing folks." this was not an important observation, nor was it at all relevant. mr. montgomery had merely gone as far as he cared to in the discussion of the distribution of samuel holton's estate and this was his way of changing the subject. amzi walked ahead with perry when they met at the edge of the orchard and phil loitered behind with fred. a hawk swung from the cloudless blue; sparrows, disturbed by these visitors, flew down the orchard aisles in panic. the air was as dry as the stubble of the shorn fields. from the elevation crowned by the orchard it was possible to survey the neighborhood and phil and fred paused in silence for several minutes, with their faces turned toward the creek. seeing phil thus was very different from seeing her across a fence in the moonlight, or meeting her at her kitchen door. her new dark-blue gown with hat to match struck him as being very stylish, as indeed, they were, having come from the best shop in indianapolis. phil in gloves was a different phil, a remote being quite out of hailing distance. he was torn between admiration for her dressed-upness and rebellion against a splendor that set her apart like a goddess for timorous adoration. standing beside and a little behind her, his soul was shaken by the quick shadowings of her lashes. he was so deep in thought during this silent contemplation that he started and blushed when she turned round suddenly. "we're terribly solemn, i think," she remarked, regarding him carelessly. this was unfair. she had no right to look at him in that fashion, taking his breath away and saying something to which he could think of no reply whatever. amzi and perry had wandered away out of sight. she had spoken of solemnity; it was a solemn thing to be alone with a girl like phil, on a day like this, under a fleckless sky, and with the scarlet maples and the golden beeches gladdening the distances. without looking at him, phil extended her monologue:-- "i like cheerfulness myself." "i'm not so opposed to it as you may imagine," he replied, smiling. "i'm not much of a talker. i've been alone a whole lot, in lonesome places where there wasn't anybody to talk to. i suppose talking is a habit. when there are people around who talk about things it's natural to get into the way of talking. isn't that so?" "i suspect it is," phil answered. "while my critics haven't exactly said that i talk too much, they agree that i talk at the wrong time. let's all be seated." she dropped down on the grass, and smoothed her skirt. it was the best everyday dress she had ever owned and she meant to be careful of it. her patent leather oxford ties were the nicest she had ever had, and she was not without her pride in their brightness. fred seated himself near her. his clothes were his sunday best, and none too good at that; he was painfully conscious of the contrast of their raiment. "your brother charlie talks a good deal. i saw him the other day," said phil. "yes; charlie talks mighty well. he can talk to anybody. where did you meet him?" "in town, at father's office." "oh; he was there, was he?" it was plain that fred was surprised that there should be any intercourse between the kirkwoods and his brother. "he called to see father; but he didn't see him," explained phil, as though reading his thoughts and willing to satisfy his curiosity. "charlie's getting up a new trolley line. he wanted me to go in with him." "gave you a chance to escape from your farm? i should think you would be tempted." "i didn't feel the temptation particularly," answered fred; "but it was kind of him to come and see me." "well, there is that," phil replied indifferently. "you seemed to get on first-rate with uncle amy. was that the first time you ever talked to him?" "yes. but i remember that once when i was a little chap he met me in the street over by the college--i remember the exact spot--and gave me a penny. i seem to remember that he used to do that with children quite unexpectedly. i imagine that he does a lot of nice things for people." "uncle amy," said phil deliberately, "is the second grandest man now present on earth. daddy is the first." "i don't know your father, except as i see him in the street." "i suppose not," said phil. these commonplaces were leading nowhere, and they were becoming the least bit trying. "my aunts have decided that the montgomerys and the holtons might as well bury the hatchet. they're going to ask your uncle william to my party. they can't stand not knowing your aunt." he did not at once grasp this. he was only dimly conscious of montgomery social values and the prominence of his uncle william's wife had not seemed to him a matter of importance. his acquaintance with that lady was indeed slight, and he did not see at once wherein phil's aunts had anything to gain by cultivating her society, nor did phil enlighten him. this turn of the talk embarrassed him by its suggestion of the escapade in which phil's mother and his uncle had figured. phil was not apparently troubled by this. "they didn't invite you to my party, did they?" he did not know exactly whom she meant by "they"; and he had not heard of phil's party. "no," he answered, smiling; "they probably never heard of me." "well, you will be invited. your brother and sister are coming. your brother charlie told me so. he's going to give up a trip to new york just to be there." phil, he reflected, had been pleased by charles's magnanimity in changing plans that embraced the magical name of new york to be present at her coming-out party. from his knowledge of his brother he felt quite sure that charles must think it worth while to abandon the visit to new york to pay the tribute of his presence to a daughter of the montgomerys. this contributed to fred's discomfiture and made it more difficult to talk to phil. on the face of it phil was not a difficult person. he had seen her dance round a corn-shock in the moonlight, and a girl who would do that ought to be easy to talk to; and he had seen her, aproned at her kitchen door, throw an apple at a cat with enviable exactness of aim, and a girl who threw apples at cats should be human and approachable. it must be her smart city frock that made the difference: he hated phil's clothes, and he resented with particular animosity the gloves that concealed her hands. she saw the frown on his face. "i don't believe i heard you say whether you were coming to my party or not. if you expect to travel about that time you needn't put yourself out, of course. you shall have one of our regular engraved invitations. how do you get mail out here?" she ended practically. "r.f.d. . it will be thrilling to get something out of that bird's nest besides bills, fertilizer and incubator circulars, and the bulletins of the department of agriculture. thank you very much. but if, after conferring with your aunts, you find that they don't approve of me, it will be all right." "you have funny thoughts in your head, don't you? don't you suppose i'm going to have something to say about my own party? just for a postscript i'll tell you now that i expect you to come. if i've got to have a party i want to have as many fellow-sufferers as possible." "does that mean"--and fred laughed--"that you are not terribly excited about your own party? it sounded that way." he was not interested in parties himself; he had hardly been to one since he was a child, and the thought of such an imposing function as he assumed phil's coming out would be appalled him. and there was the matter of clothes: the dress-suit he had purchased while he was in college had gone glimmering long ago. the sunday best he wore to-day was two years old, and a discerning eye might have detected its imperfections which a recent careful pressing had not wholly obliterated. his gaze turned for a moment toward the land in which lay his hope; he had to look past phil to see those acres. his thoughts were still upon her party and his relation to it, so that it was with a distinct shock that he heard her say softly and wistfully:-- "it's queer, isn't it?" "what is?" she lifted her arm with a sweeping gesture. "the world--things generally--what interests you and me; what interests uncle amy and mr. perry; the buzzings in all our noddles. thousands of people, in towns just like montgomery, live along some way or other, and most of them do the best they can, and keep out of jails and poorhouses, mostly, and nothing very important happens to them or has to. it always strikes me as odd how unimportant we all are. we're just us, and if god didn't make us very big or wise or good, why, there's nothing to be done about it. and no matter how hard we get knocked, or how often we stumble, why, most of us like the game and wouldn't give it up for anything. i think that's splendid; the way we just keep plugging on. we all think something pleasant is going to happen to-morrow or day-after-to-morrow. everybody does. and that's what keeps the world moving and everybody tolerably cheerful and happy." phil the philosopher was still another sort of person. she had spoken in her usual tone and he looked at her wonderingly. it was a new experience to hear life reduced to the simple terms phil used. she seemed to him like a teacher who keeps a dull pupil after class, and, by eliminating all unessential factors, makes clear what an hour before had been only a jumble of meaningless terms in the student's mind. he was still dumb before this new phil with her a, b, c philosophy when her eyes brightened, and she sprang to her feet. bending forward with her hand to her ear, and then dropping her arms to her sides, she said:-- "adown the orchard aisles they come, methinks,-- my lord who guardest well his treasure chests, attended by his squire and faithful drudge, and back to town i soon must lightly skip else father will be roaring for his tea." she was, indeed, a mystifying being! it was not until the absurdity of her last line broke upon him that he saw that this was only another side of phil the inexplicable. she threw up her arm and signaled to her uncle amzi, who was approaching with perry. the interruption was unwelcome. it had been a bewildering experience to sit beside phil on the sunny orchard slope. he had not known that any girl could be like this. "do you write poetry?" he asked, from the depths of his humility. she turned with a mockery of disdain. "i should think you could see, mr. holton, that these are not singing robes, nor is this lovely creation of a hat wrought in the similitude of a wreath of laurel; but both speak for the plain prose of life. you have, therefore, no reason to fear me." in a moment they were all on their way to the house; and soon phil and amzi were driving homeward. "what was fred holton talking to you about?" asked amzi, as he shook the reins over the back of his roadster. "he wasn't talking to me, amy; i was talking to him. he's a nice boy." "he doesn't run so much to gold watches and chains as the rest of 'em. he seems to be pretty decent. perry says he's got the right stuff in him." and then, with more animation: "those holtons! thunder!" chapter x phil's party mr. amzi montgomery thought it only proper to learn all that was possible of the affairs of his customers. this was the part of wisdom in a cautious banker; and he was distressed when checks that were not self-explanatory passed through the receiving-teller's window. a small bank is a good place in which to sharpen one's detective sense. every check tells a story and is in some degree a clue. no account on his bank's ledgers was more often scrutinized than that of nancy bartlett, and when she deposited a draft for $ . , the incident was not one to be passed lightly. no such sum had ever before been placed to nan's credit. he knew that she received five- and ten- and even fifty-dollar drafts from eastern periodicals, and he had touched these with reverent hands: but two thousand dollars in a lump from one of the best-known publishers in the country staggered amzi. to add to his mystification, half the amount plus one cent, to-wit, $ . , was immediately transferred to thomas kirkwood's account, and this left amzi away up in the air. just what right tom kirkwood had to participate in nan's earnings amzi did not know, nor did he see immediately any way of finding out. what did happen, though, coincident with this event, and much to his gratification, was the installation of a girl-of-all-work in kirkwood's house. phil had been dislodged from the kitchen, and amzi was mightily relieved by this. a kitchen was no place for his niece, that flower of the montgomery flock. his spirits rose when phil hailed him one morning as he stood baring his head to the november air on the bank steps, and told him that her occupation was gone. she made the confession ruefully; it was unfair for her father to discharge her just as she was getting the hang of the range and learning to broil a steak without incinerating it. "just for that" she would spend a great deal of time in main street, and ruin her constitution at struby's soda-fountain. while amzi was still trying to account for nan's check, two other incidents contributed further to his perplexities. on his way home one evening he saw nan and kirkwood walking together. it was only a fair assumption that the two friends had met by chance and that kirkwood was merely accompanying nan to her door, as he had every right to do. they were walking slowly and talking earnestly. to avoid passing them, amzi turned off at the first cross-street, but stood for a moment staring after them. then the next evening he had gone to call at the bartletts' and all his intervening speculations were overthrown when he found kirkwood there alone with rose, nan being, it seemed, in indianapolis on a visit. rose and kirkwood had evidently been deeply engrossed, too, when amzi interrupted their conference with the usual thump of the drumstick. the piano, he observed, was closed, and it was inexplicable that kirkwood should be spending an unmusical evening with rose. nor was phil with her father. this was another damaging fact. it was a blow to amzi to find that such things could happen in his own town, and under his very eyes. if it hadn't been for phil's party, the preparations for which gave him plenty to do, amzi's winter would have opened most unhappily; but phil's party was an event of importance not only in her life, but in amzi's as well. everybody who had the slightest title to consideration received an invitation. he was glad his sisters had suggested that the holtons be invited. it gave him an excuse for opening the doors wide. he heard much from his kinsfolk about the prosperity of the holtons, who were held up to him in rebuke for his own sluggish business methods. he wanted his sisters and the rest of the world to know that the first national bank of montgomery aroused in him no jealous pangs. phil arrived at amzi's early and ran upstairs to take off her wraps. when this was accomplished and her aunt fanny's housemaid, lent for the occasion, had duly admired her, she knocked boldly on her uncle's door. "come in, you phil," he shouted. amzi stood before his chiffonier in his shirt sleeves, trying to make a bow of his white tie. a cigar, gripped firmly in his teeth, was not proving of much assistance in the operation. as phil crossed the room, he jerked off the strip of lawn and threw it into the open drawer. "see what you've done? see all that litter? all that stuff crumpled up and wasted just on your account? i told that fellow in indianapolis to give me the ready-made kind that buckles behind, but he wouldn't listen; said they don't keep 'em any more. and look at that! it's a good thing i got a dozen! thunder!" the "thunder" was due to the fact that in his excess of emotion over the difficulties with his raiment, his eyes had not until that instant taken in phil. his jaw fell as he stared and tears filled his eyes. above the soft folds of her white crêpe gown the firm clean lines of her shoulders and throat were revealed and for the first time he fully realized that the phil who had gladdened his days by her pranks--phil the romp and hoyden--had gone, and that she would never be quite the same again. there was a distinct shock in the thought. it carried him back to the day when her mother had danced across the threshold from youth to womanhood, with all of phil's charm and grace and her heart of laughter. phil fanned herself languidly, feigning to ignore his bewilderment. an aigrette in her hair emphasized her height. she lifted her arms and, whistling softly, pirouetted about the room. her movements were those of vigorous, healthy youth. her eyes were bright and her cheeks aglow. "thunder!" gasped amzi, feeling absently of his collar. "is that you, phil?" "generally speaking, it _ain't_, amy. what do you think of the gladness of these joyful rags anyhow?" "you look right, phil. you've grown about six inches since i saw you last. high heels?" she thrust out a slipper for his inspection. "those clothes are not as bad as some i've seen. i don't mind the low-in-the-neck effect when there's a neck to show like yours. most of 'em look like the neck of a picked gander. i guess fanny did about the right thing. fanny's taste is usually pretty fair." "oh, the whole syndicate took a hand in it," said phil with a sigh. "they nearly wore me out; but they were so busy consulting each other that they didn't notice that i chose the crêpe myself. but i wanted you to like my things, amy." "of course i like 'em. you certainly look grand." he rummaged in one of the chiffonier drawers. "just wait a minute," he said; "you've got to fix this fool thing for me." he placed a fresh tie round his white-wing collar and loosely crossed the ends. "i ain't going to take any chances of spoiling this. now, phil, do your noblest." "with gloves on? well, i'm used to doing daddy's over again, so here goes." he stood with his chin in air while she tied the bow. her youth, her loveliness, her red lips, compressed at the crucial moment when the bow took form, moved and thrilled him. no one in the world had ever been so dear to him as phil! when she rested her hands on his shoulders and tilted her head to one side to study her handiwork he raised himself on his toes and lifted his hands, in one of which he had concealed something. "bend your head a little, phil; i ought to have a ladder for this." and in a moment he drew down upon her neck a chain with a pendant of pearls, which he had chosen with the greatest care at the best jeweler's in indianapolis. "now look at yourself!" she sprang to the mirror, and while she was exclaiming over it, he remarked, "i guess it don't make you look much worse, phil. but it doesn't make you look much nicer. thunder! nothing could!" "amy! i'm going to muss you up!" she cried, wheeling round. "phil--don't you touch me; don't you dare!" he backed away and began drawing on his coat, and she abandoned the idea of mussing him to make sure his tie didn't crawl up over his collar. she clasped him tight and kissed him on the mouth. "what a dear old pal you are, amy," she said, laying her cheek against his. "don't you ever think i don't appreciate what you do for me--what you are to me!" "i guess that's all right, phil," he said, and turned round to the chiffonier and blew his nose furiously. "where's tom?" "i guess daddy's gone downstairs." "well, most of your aunts are on the job somewhere and we'd better go down and start this party. i hear the fiddlers tuning up." amzi ii had built a big house with a generous hall and large rooms, and it had been a matter of pride with amzi iii to maintain it as it had been, refusing to listen to the advice of his sisters that he shut off part of it. amzi liked space, and he was not in the least dismayed by problems of housekeeping. in preparing for phil's party he had had all the white woodwork repainted, and the floors of the drawing- and living-rooms had been polished for dancing. in montgomery functions of all sorts begin early. the number of available public vehicles is limited, and by general consent the citizens take turns in the use of them. there hadn't been a party at the montgomery homestead since the marriage of the last of the montgomery girls. it was not surprising that to-night many people thought a little mournfully of the marriage of the first! the launching of phil afforded opportunity for contrasting her with her mother; she was or she was not like lois; nearly all the old people had an opinion one way or another. among the early arrivals was mrs. john newman king. mrs. king, at eighty, held her own as the person of chief social importance in town. the montgomerys were a good second; but their standing was based merely upon long residence and wealth; whereas mrs. king had to her credit not only these essential elements of provincial distinction, but she had been the wife of a united states senator in the great days of the civil war. she had known lincoln and all the host of wartime heroes. lincoln, grant, and sherman had been her guests right there in montgomery--at the big place with the elms and beeches, all looking very much to-day as it did in the stirring sixties. mrs. king wore a lace cap and very rustling silk, and made pretty little curtsies. she talked politics to gentlemen, and asked women about their babies, and was wholly charming with young girls. she paused before phil, in the semicircle that included amzi and his sisters with their husbands, and tom kirkwood. "my dear child, on this proud occasion i want to say that the day you fell out of the cherry tree in my back yard and broke your arm and came into the house to get a sand tart as usual before going home, just as though nothing had happened, i loved you and i have loved you ever since. and you didn't cry either!" "i didn't cry, aunt jane, because i hadn't sense enough to know i'd been hurt!" "you were always a child of spirit! it's spirit that counts in this life. and for all we know in the next one, too. don't you let all these relations of yours spoil you; i've known all the montgomerys ever since your great-grandfather came here from virginia, and you please me more than all the rest of 'em put together. do you hear that, amzi!" amzi was prepared to hear just this; he was nigh to bursting with pride, for mrs. king was the great lady of the community and her opinion outweighed that of any dozen other women in that quarter of indiana. montgomery is just a comfortable, folksy, neighborly town, small enough to make hypocrisy difficult and unnecessary. in a company like this that marked phil's entrance upon the great little world, no real montgomeryite remembered who had the most money, or the costliest automobile, or the largest house. the madison professors, who never had any hope of earning more than fifteen hundred dollars a year if they lived forever, received the special consideration to which they were entitled; and judge walters might be hated by most of the lawyers at the bar for his sharp admonitions from the bench, but they all respected him for his sound attainments and unquestioned probity. among others who were presented to phil (as though they hadn't known her all her life!) were a general and a colonel and other officers of the line, including captain joshua wilson, poet and county recorder, and the editors of the two newspapers, and lawyers and doctors and shopkeepers, and, yes, clerks who stood behind counters, and insurance agents and the postmaster, all mingling together, they and their children, in the most democratic fashion imaginable. "we're all here," said old general wilks, who had been a tower of strength in the army of the tennessee, "and we're the best people of the best state on earth. i claim the privilege of age, amzi, to kiss the prettiest girl in indiana." beyond question the arrival of the william holtons, with their niece and nephew from indianapolis, caused a stir. they were among the late comers, and the curious were waiting to witness their reception, which proved to be disappointingly undramatic. their welcome in no wise differed from that accorded to other guests. every one said that charles holton was a handsome fellow, and his sister ethel a very "nice" though rather an insipid and colorless young woman. it was generally understood that amzi's sisters had forced his hand. the conservatives were disposed to excuse amzi for permitting the holtons to be invited; but they thought the holtons displayed bad taste in accepting. it was phil's party, and no holton had any business to be connected with anything that concerned phil. and tom kirkwood's feelings ought to have been considered, said his old friends. "you see," charles holton remarked to phil, when he had bowed over her hand with a good deal of manner, "i really did give up that new york trip. i would have come back from china to see you in that gown!" the musicians (five artists from the capital, and not the drummer and piano-thumper usually considered adequate in montgomery for fraternity and class functions) now struck up the first number. "please give me a lot of dances," begged charles, looking at phil's card. "one! just one!" replied phil. "you are bound to be a great tyrant; you should be merciful to your humblest subject." "i haven't seen any of the humility yet," she laughed. her uncle lawrence hastings had undertaken to manage the dance and he glided away with her to the strains of the first waltz. hastings boasted a velvet collar to his dress-coat, and the town had not yet ceased to marvel that fortune had sent to its door a gentleman so exquisite, so finished, so identified with the most fascinating of all the arts. hastings had for the social affairs of montgomery a haughty scorn. it pained him greatly to be asked to a neighbor's for "supper," particularly when it was quite likely that the hostess would herself cook and serve the food; and the fortnightly assembly, a club of married folk that met to dance in masonic hall, was to him the tamest, the dullest of organizations, and the fact that his brother-in-law waterman, who waltzed like a tipsy barrel, enjoyed those harmless entertainments had done much to embitter hastings's life. hastings imagined himself in love frequently; the dramatic club afforded opportunities for the intense flirtations in which his nature delighted. the parents of several young women who had taken part in his amateur theatricals had been concerned for their daughters' safety. and now phil interested him--this new phil in city clothes. the antics of phil, the tomboy of main street, had frequently aroused his indignation; phil, a débutante in an evening gown that he pronounced a creation of the gods, was worthy of serious attention. she was, he averred, hermione, rosalind, portia, beatrice, combined in one perfect flower of womanhood. "you are adorable, phil," he sighed, when the music ceased, leaving them at the end of the living-room. "a star danced and you were born." "that is very sweet, lawr_i_nce," said phil; "but here comes my next partner. you mustn't stand in the way of the young men." the very lightest laughing emphasis on "young" made a stab of this. he posed in a window and watched her, with his gloomiest hamlet-like air, until his wife, noting this familiar symptom, interrupted his meditations and commissioned him to convoy a lady with an ear-trumpet to the dining-room. the party was going merrily; there was no doubt of its complete success. some of the older folk remarked upon the fact that phil had danced with charles holton; and he danced well. there was a grace in the holtons, and charles was endowed with the family friendliness. he made a point of speaking to every one and of dancing with the wall-flowers. it was noted presently that he saw mrs. king to her carriage, and was otherwise regardful of the old folks. phil had wondered whether fred holton would come. she had hoped he would when she asked him at her uncle's farm, and the formal invitation had been dispatched to r.f.d. as promised. it was ten o'clock when fred appeared. phil saw him over her partner's shoulder talking to amzi in the hall door, and as she swept by him in the dance she caught his eye. fred had come late out of sheer timidity, but he had arrived at a moment when the gayety was at its height. his diffidence had been marked even in his college days, and he was unused to gatherings of this kind. the proximity of so many gay, laughing people was a real distress to him. and if the other members of his family were able to overlook jack holton's great sin, fred was acutely conscious of it now that phil had dawned on his horizon. he had no sooner entered the house than he regretted his temerity in coming; and he had come merely to see phil--that was the whole of it. nor did the thought of this now contribute to his comfort. his glimpses of her as she danced up and down the room with three partners in turn--one of them his brother--set his pulses throbbing. phil in her simple white gown--this glowing, joyous woman was no longer of his world. for the first time in his life his heart was shot through with jealousy. he had always felt charles's superiority, but with a younger brother's loyal admiration he had not resented it. he resented it now. fred had resurrected a cutaway coat for this adventure, and he was acutely aware that there were more dress-coats in evidence than he had imagined were available in montgomery. amzi, who had greeted him kindly, introduced him to a visiting girl whose name he did not catch, and he was doing his best to present an appearance of ease in talking to her. it had been a long time since he had danced, and he did not know the new steps. the girl asked him why he did not invite her to dance, and this added to his discomfiture. there is no greater unhappiness than that of the non-dancing young man at a dancing-party. he is drawn to such functions by a kind of fascination; he does not understand why other young men with no better brains than his are able to encircle the waists of the most beautiful girls and guide them through difficult evolutions. he vows that he will immediately submit himself to instruction and lift himself from the pits of torment. the visiting girl was carried off, evidently to her relief and delight, by a strange young man and fred was left stranded in an alcove. he had never felt so lonesome in his life. phil vanished and now that he no longer enjoyed even his earlier swift glimpses of her, his dejection increased. he was meditating an escape when, as his eyes sought her, she stood suddenly breathless beside him. a divinity had no right thus to appear unheralded before mortal eyes. fred blushed furiously and put out his hand awkwardly. phil's latest partner begged for another dance; there was to be an extra, he pleaded; but she dismissed him with a wave of her fan. there had been high-school dances where phil had learned to steel her heart against the importunate. "why didn't you come and speak to me?" demanded phil when they were alone. "i was just waiting for a chance. i didn't want to bother you." "well, you'll have to do better than this! you're the only person in the house who hasn't spoken to me! but it was nice of you to come: it must be a trouble to come to town at night when you live so far." she sat down in the window-seat and bade him do likewise. "you did see uncle amy, didn't you? i saw you talking to him; but you ought to have come earlier while there was a receiving-line ready for you. now you'll have to look around for everybody; you have to speak to my three aunts and all my uncles and my father." "i'll be glad to," declared fred; and then realizing the absurdity of his fervor in consenting to speak to the aunts and uncles he laughed. "you're scared," said phil. "and if you won't tell anybody i'm a little bit scared myself, just because everybody tells me how grown-up i am." the music struck up and a young cavalier--a college senior, who had worshiped phil since his freshman year--came to say that it was his dance. she told him that she was tired and would have to be excused. he wished to debate the question, but she closed the incident promptly and effectively. "i'm busy talking to mr. holton; and i can see you any time, walter." walter departed crestfallen; she treated him as though he were still a freshman. he was wearing his first dress-coat and the tallest collar he could buy, and it was humiliating to be called walter and sent away by a girl who preferred to talk to a rustic-looking person in a cutaway coat and a turnover collar with a four-in-hand tie. phil carried fred off for a tour of the rooms, pausing to introduce him to her father and to the three aunts, to whom she said how kind it was of fred to come; that he was the only person she had personally asked to the party. and it was just like phil, for years the loyal protector of all the discards among the cats and dogs in town, to choose a clodhopper for special attention. kirkwood, who had forgotten fred's existence, greeted him in his pleasant but rather absent way. the torrid wabash valley summers of many years had not greatly modified the chill in kirkwood's new england blood, and the isolation in which he had lived so long had deepened his reserve. the scholarly stamp had not been effaced by his abandonment of the academic life, and many of his fellow-townsmen still addressed him as professor kirkwood. his joy to-night lay in phil's happiness; his heart warmed to the terms of praise in which every one spoke of her. it touched his humor that his daughter was in some degree a public character. her escapades in childhood and youth had endeared her to the community. in her battles with the aunts public sympathy had been pretty generally with phil. "otherwise phyllis--?" many a smile had been occasioned by that question. tom kirkwood knew all this and was happy and grateful. he had not attended a large gathering of his fellow-townfolk since his wife left him, so that his daughter's coming-out was an event of double significance for him. the aunts were somewhat critical of the arrangements for refreshing the guests. amzi, refusing to heed their suggestions that the catering be entrusted to an indianapolis firm, had arranged everything himself. the cakes were according to the best recipes known at buckeye lane, and rose and nan were there, assisting, by amzi's special command. during the evening he consulted first one and then the other; and when his sisters asked icily for instructions, he told them to look handsome and keep cheerful. this was unbrotherly, of course, but amzi was supremely happy. the older people had been served in the dining-room and many of them had already gone or were now taking leave, and the waiters were distributing little tables for the young people. "let me see, you were to have refreshments with me, miss kirkwood; i have a table in the drawing-room alcove all ready," said charles holton to phil as she still stood talking to fred in the hall. fred had been wondering just what his own responsibilities were in the matter. charles had greeted him affably; but fred's diffidence deepened in his brother's presence: charles was a master of the social arts, whereas fred had only instinctive good-breeding to guide him. fred was about to move away, but phil detained him. "isn't it curious that you two brothers should have the same idea," said phil artlessly. "it's really remarkable! but i think"--and she turned gravely to fred--"i think, as long as you came too late for a dance with me, i shall eat my piece of pie with you--and i think right up there on the stairs would be an excellent place to sit!" fred, radiant at the great kindness of this, went off to bring the salad for which she declared she was perishing. charles looked at her with an amused smile on his face. "you're a brick! it's mighty fine of you to be so nice to fred. dear old fred!" phil frowned. "why do you speak of your brother in that way?" "how did i speak of him?" "oh, as if he were somebody to be sorry for!" "oh, you misunderstood me! i was merely pleased that you were being nice to him. fred would never have thought of asking you to sit on the stairs with him--i knew that; it was just like you to save him from embarrassment." "oh!" he was piqued by the connotations suggested by phil's "oh!" phil was not only stunningly pretty, but she had wits. it was his way to impress girls he met, and there was no time for dallying now; fred would return in a moment and take phil away from him. he intended to see a great deal of her hereafter, and he believed that in the opening skirmishes of a flirtation a bold shot counts double. phil waved her hand in the direction of the table where the bartletts, her father, and amzi were seating themselves, and when she looked round at holton, she found his eyes bent upon her with a fair imitation of wistfulness and longing which in previous encounters of this sort he had found effective. "i don't believe you realize how beautiful you are. i've been over the world a good deal and there's no one anywhere who touches you. there are lots of nice and pretty girls, of course, but you are different; you are a beautiful woman! to see you like this is to know for the first time what beauty is. and i know--i appreciate the beautiful soul there is in you--that shines out of your eyes!" his voice was low, and a little tremulous. "i want the chance to fight for you! from that first moment i saw you in your father's office i have thought of nothing but you. that's why i came--why i gave up business of real importance to come. and i shall come again and again, until you tell me i may come no longer." his voice seemed to break with the stress of deep feeling. phil listened, first in surprise that yielded perhaps to fear, and then her head bent and she looked down at her fan which she slowly opened and shut. she did not lift her eyes until she was sure he had finished. "by the way," she remarked, with studied carelessness, as she continued to play with her fan, "i wish i could quote things offhand like that. it must be fine to have such a memory! let me see, what is that from--'the prisoner of zenda' or 'how lulu came to logansport'? oh!" (with sudden animation as fred came bearing two plates) "there's my young life-saver now!" then to charles again: "well, i shall certainly look up that quotation. it was ever so nice of you to remind me of it!" holton struck his gloved hands together smartly in his irritation and turned away. phil was undoubtedly different; but she was not through yet. she called him back, one foot on the stair, and said in a confidential tone, "that nice little orbison girl,--the blonde one, i mean, who's visiting here from elwood,--i wish you'd take good care of her; i'm afraid she isn't having a wildly exciting time." "this is what i call being real comfortable and cozy," she remarked to fred as they disposed themselves on one of the lower steps. below and near at hand were most of the members of her family. she saw from the countenances of the three aunts that they were displeased with her, but the consciousness of this did not spoil life for her. she humanly enjoyed their discomfiture, knowing that it was based upon the dinginess of fred's clothes and prospects. their new broad tolerance of the holtons did not cover the tragic implications of fred's raiment. they meant to protect phil in every way, and yet there was ground for despair when she chose the most undesirable young man in the county to sit with in the intimacy of the refreshment hour at her own coming-out. mrs. fosdick leaned back from her table to ask amzi in an angry whisper what he meant by allowing phil to invite fred holton to her party. "what's that? allow her! i didn't allow her! nobody allows phil! thunder!" and then, after he had picked up his fallen napkin, he turned to add: "there's nothing the matter with fred that i know of!" the comparative quiet that now reigned was much more to fred's liking than the gayety of the dance. phil treated their companionship as a matter of course and his timidity and restraint vanished. nothing in his experience had ever been so agreeable and stimulating as this. that phil, of all humankind, should have made this possible was to him inexplicable. it could not be that when this was over, he should be hurled back to stop . phil, who had disposed of charles's confession of adoration to her own satisfaction, now seemed bent upon winning some praise from the halting tongue of charles's brother. to make conversation she directed attention to her new trinket, holding out the chain for fred to admire the pearls. in doing this he saw the pulse throbbing in her slim throat, and this in itself was disturbing. her nearness there on the stairway affected him even more than on the orchard slope where he had experienced similar agitations. when she laughed he noticed an irregularity in one of her white teeth; and there was a tiny mole on her neck, just below her left ear. he did not know why he saw these things, or why seeing them increased his awe. it seemed wonderful that she could so easily slip her hands out of her gloves without drawing the long gauntlets from her arms. farther and farther receded the phil of the kitchen apron with whom he had bargained for the sale of the saddest apples that had ever been brought to montgomery by a self-respecting farmer! when her father came to the stair-rail to ask if she felt a draft from the upper windows, fred was shaken with fear; the thought that the airs of heaven might visit affliction upon this brown-haired and brown-eyed marvel was at once a grief to him. he felt the world rock at the bare thought of any harm ever coming to her. "as if," said phil, when her father had been reassured, "the likes of me could take cold. what do you do all day on a farm in winter weather?" "let me see; i chopped wood, this morning; and i'd bought some corn of perry--that is, of your uncle--and went over with the wagon to get it; and this afternoon i brought the wood i had chopped to the woodshed; and then i went out to look at my wheatfield, and almost bought a cow of another neighbor--but didn't quite make a bargain. and then i began to get ready to come to your party." "you must have worked awfully hard to get ready," said phil, "for you were late getting here." "well, i loafed around outside for an hour or so before i came in," and he smiled ruefully. "i'm not used to parties." "you seem to get on pretty well," said phil reassuringly. one of the waiters had brought them ice-cream and cake, and after she had tasted the cake phil caught rose bartlett's eye and expressed ecstasy and gratitude by a lifting of the head, a closing of the eyes, a swift folding of the hands. "how are you going to amuse yourself out there by yourself all winter?" she remarked to fred; "i shouldn't think there would be much to do!" "oh, there won't be any trouble about that! i've got plenty to do and then i want to do some studying, too. i'm going up to the university in january to hear lectures--farming and stock-raising and things like that. perry has put me up to it. and then in between times i want to get acquainted with the neighbors; they're all mighty nice people and kind and friendly. that sounds pretty stupid, doesn't it?" "well, it sounds wholesome if not wildly exciting. i've lost my job. they took my kitchen away from me just as i was getting started; and i haven't anything much to do--except being sociable." "of course, you've come out now, and you'll be going to receptions and dances all the time." "i can't exactly cry o joy, o joy at the thought of it. there must have been gypsies in my family somewhere. you'll think i'm crazy, but i'd like to go out right now and run a mile. but there will be skating afterwhile; and snowstorms to go walking in. i like walking in snowstorms,--the blustering kind where you can't see and go plunking into fences." fred agreed to this; he readily visualized phil tramping 'cross-country in snowstorms. "it's an awful thing," phil resumed, "to have to be respectable. aunt kate wants to go south this winter and take me with her. but that would mean being shut up in a hotel. if daddy didn't have to work, i'd make him take me to california where we could get a wagon and just keep camping. camping out is the most fun there is in _this_ world. there's a nice wooziness in waking up at night and hearing an owl right over your head; and there are the weather changes, when you go to sleep with the stars shining and wake up and hear the rain slapping the tent. and when you've gone for a long tramp and come back tired and wet and hungry, and sit and talk about things awhile and then tumble into bed and get up in the morning to do it all over again--! does that sound perfectly wild? if it does, then i'm crazy, for that's the kind of thing i like--not to talk about it at parties in my best clothes, but to go out and do it and keep on doing it forever and ever." she put the last crumb of the bartlett cake into her mouth meditatively. "i like the outdoors, too," said fred, for whom this statement of her likings momentarily humanized his goddess and brought her within the range of his understanding. "the earth is a good old earth. there are no jars in the way she does her business. there's something that makes me feel sort o' funny inside when i go out now and see that little wheat-patch of mine, and know that the snow is going to cover it, and that with any kind of good luck it's going to live right through the cold and come to harvest next summer. and it gives me a queer feeling, and always did, the way it all goes on--and has always gone on since the beginning of the world. when i was a little boy here in montgomery and went to center church sunday-school, the most interesting things in the bible were about those old testament people, raising cattle and tending flocks and farming just like the people right here at home. i suppose it's a feeling like that i always had that makes me want to be a farmer and live close to the ground--that and wanting to earn a living," he concluded, smiling. he was astonished at his own speech, which had expressed ideas that had never crystallized in his mind before. "that," said phil, "is what poetry is--feeling like that." "i suppose it is," fred assented. the waiters were relieving the guests of their burdens, and carrying out the tables, and there was a stir through the house as the musicians took their places. phil rose and nodded to a young gentleman who sought her for the next dance. "i've got to go," said fred. "i'll just about catch my last car. it's been fine to be here. and i've enjoyed talking to you. it was mighty kind of you to sit up here with me. i shall always remember it." phil was drawing on her gloves, looking down upon the hall through which the guests from the other rooms were now passing. at this moment the outer hall door opened cautiously and a man stepped inside, closed it noisily, and placed his back against it with an air of defiance. he stood blinking in the strong light, moving his head from side to side as though in the effort to summon speech. the waiter who had been stationed at the door was helping to clear away the tables, but he hurried forward and began directing this latest guest where to leave his wraps. the stranger shook his head protestingly. it was quite evident that he was intoxicated. he wore a long overcoat spattered with mud, and there was a dent in the derby hat he removed with elaborate care and then swung at arm's length. the doorways filled. something not down in the programme was occurring. a sudden hush fell upon the house; whispered inquiries as to the identity of the stranger, who stood drunkenly turning his gaze from left to right, passed guardedly from lip to lip. amzi, kirkwood, and the bartletts remained near where they had risen from their table, sharing the general consternation. amzi was the first to recover; he took a step toward the door, but paused as the man began to speak slowly and drunkenly. he seemed annoyed by his inability to control his tongue and his voice rose raspingly. "'m looking for my bruf--my bruf--my brother. tole me 'tis h-h--'tis house he was 't amzi's to party. holtons and mungummer--montgomerys all good fr'ens now. bes' ole fam'lies in town. 'pologize for coming s' late; no time change my clothes; disgraceful--puf-puf-perfectly disgraceful, that's whasmasser. want t' see will. anybody here seen will? don' tell me will's gone home s' early; mos' unfashion'ble; mos' disgracefully unfashion'ble!" jack holton had come back, and this was the manner of his coming. to most of those who saw him that night tipsily planted against the door of the old montgomery house, he was an entire stranger, so long had been his exile; but to amzi, to tom kirkwood, to rose and nan bartlett there came at the instant of identification a thronging weight of memories. some one had called william holton--he was discussing local business prospects with paul fosdick--and the crowd about the drawing-room door made way for him. his nephew charles was at his elbow. "bring my coat and hat to the back door, charlie, and see that your aunt nellie gets home," he said; and people spoke admiringly afterward of the composure with which he met the situation. amzi was advancing toward the uninvited guest and william turned to him. "this is unpardonable, mr. montgomery, but i want you to know that i couldn't have foreseen it. i am very sorry. good-night!" preceded by amzi, william led his brother, not without difficulty, through the hall to the dining-room and into the kitchen, where charles joined him in a moment by way of the back stairs. "it's uncle jack, is it?" charles asked, looking at the tall figure with a curiosity that was unfeigned. "m' dear boy, i s'pose 's possible i'm your lon--lon--long los' uncle; but i haven't zonner--haven't zonner your acquaintance. want to see will. got prodigal on zands, will has. seems t'ave come back mos' 'no--mos' 'nopportune 'casion. all right, ole man: jus' give me y' arm and i get 'long mos' com-for-ble, mos' comfort-_a_-ble," he ended with a leer of triumph at having achieved the vowel. charles helped him down the steps to the walk and then returned to the house. in his unfamiliarity with its arrangements, he opened by mistake the door that led to a little den where amzi liked to read and smoke. there quite alone stood tom kirkwood, his hands in his pockets, staring into the coal-fire of the grate. charles muttered an apology and hastily closed the door. through the house rang the strains of a waltz, and the dance went on. chapter xi brothers william holton spoke the truth to amzi when he said that he had had no warning of his brother's return. william, with all his apparent prosperity, was not without his troubles, and he took it unkindly that this brother, who for sixteen years had kept out of the way, should have chosen so unfortunate a moment for reintroducing himself to his native town. he had not set eyes on jack since his flight with lois kirkwood, though samuel had visited the western coast several times on business errands and had kept in touch with him. william had been glad enough to forget jack's existence, particularly as the reports that had reached him--even those brought back by the sanguine samuel--had been far from reassuring as to jack's status in seattle. jack's return meant a recrudescence of wounds which time had seemingly healed, with resulting discomforts that might have far-reaching consequences. mrs. william had a pride of her own, and it was unjust to her for a man who had so shocked the moral sensibilities of the town to thrust himself back upon his family, especially when he had chosen to present himself first at the domicile of the head of a house against which he had so grossly sinned. william took jack home and put him to bed; and when charles followed a little later with mrs. holton, the prodigal slept the sleep of weary intoxication in her guest chamber. the next day the town buzzed, and the buzzing was loud enough to make itself heard at the desk of the president of the first national bank. william had left word at home that when jack came to himself, he was to be dispatched to the bank forthwith. he meant to deal with this unwelcome pilgrim upon a business basis strictly, without any softening domestic influences. the honor of the holtons was touched nearly and jack must be got rid of. mrs. holton telephoned at eleven o'clock that jack was on his way downtown, and william was prepared for the interview when his brother strolled in with something of his old jauntiness. the door of the directors' room closed upon them. the word passed along main street that jack and william were closeted in the bank. phil, walking downtown on an errand, with the happiness of her party still in her eyes, was not without her sense of the situation. at the breakfast-table her father, deeply preoccupied, had brought himself with an effort to review the happier events of the party. knowing what was in his mind phil mentioned the untoward misfortune that had cast jack holton of all men upon the threshold of her uncle's house. "it really didn't make any difference, daddy,--that man's coming. everybody tried to forget it. and some of the young people didn't know him at all." "no; it didn't matter, phil. your uncle amzi is a fine gentleman: i never fully appreciated his goodness and generosity as much as i did last night." phil did not know that amzi had sought kirkwood in the den where the lawyer had gone to take counsel with himself, and had blown himself purple in the face in his kind efforts to make light of the incident. the two men had never been drawn closer together in their lives than in that meeting. "it wasn't uncle amy's fault that the william holtons were asked to the party; i think it was aunt kate who started that. and when i heard of it, it was all over and the invitations had been sent," phil said. kirkwood repeated his assurance that it made no difference in any way. and phil remembered for a long time a certain light in his gentle, candid eyes as he said:-- "we get over most of our troubles in this world, phil; and i want you to know that that particular thing doesn't hurt me any more. only it was a shock; the man had aged so and his condition and the suddenness of it--but it's all over and it didn't spoil the party; that's the main thing." phil was immensely relieved, for she knew that her father told the truth. jack holton greeted a number of old friends on his way to the bank, but the president emeritus of the college cut him. the cold stare he received from this old man, who had been president of madison college for forty years, expressed a contempt that hurt. mrs. king, in whose yard he had played as a boy, looked over his head, though he was confident she knew him. his nostrils caught no scent of roast veal in the familiar streets. at his brother's house his sister-in-law, whom he had never seen, had not appeared when he went down for his breakfast. he followed his brother into the directors' room in a defiant humor. they took account of each other with a frank curiosity begotten of their long separation. "you haven't changed much, will. you've grown a little stouter than father did, but dear old sam never lost his shape, and you're like him." there was little resemblance between the two men. william's face, clean-shaven save for a mustache, showed few lines, though his hair had whitened at the temples. jack's hair and mustache were well sprinkled with gray, and his crown was bald. he fingered a paper-weight on the table nervously. a history of dissipation was written legibly in his eyes and he had a disconcerting way of jerking his head. "damn it all! i guess you're not tickled to death to see me. and i need hardly say that if i hadn't been drunk, i wouldn't have turned up at old amzi's on the night of that kid's coming-out party. drunk when i struck town--hadn't been feeling well, and fell in with some old friends at indianapolis and filled up. hope you'll overlook my little indiscretions. reckon the town would have found out i was here soon enough and there's nothing like coming right out in the open. when they told me at your house you were at amzi's, i couldn't believe it and i was just drunk enough to want to investigate." william muttered something that jack preferred to ignore. "well, i wasn't so drunk i didn't take in kirkwood. old tom has held his own pretty well; but he's the type time don't batter much. i'd thought a good deal about what might happen if we ever met--had rather figured on a little pistol work; but lord! it's funny how damned soon we get over these things. trifles, will, trifles--bubbles of human experience that vanish in thin air. damn it all! life's a queer business. we put our faith in women and they're a bad investment, damned uncertain and devilish hard to please, and shake you when the night falleth and you need a prop to lean on. by the way, your own consort ducked me this morning; i had to have breakfast alone, with only one of africa's haughty daughters to break my eggs. i hope madam your wife is well. by the way, has she given any hostages to fortune? thought i hadn't heard of it. you've treated me in a hell of a little brotherly fashion, will. if it hadn't been for sam, who was a true sport if i know one, i shouldn't have known anything about you, dead or alive." william had listened with an almost imperceptible frown while he minutely studied his brother. the items he collected were not calculated to inspire confidence or quicken fraternal feeling. jack, whom he remembered as fastidious in old times, was sadly crumpled. the cuffs of his colored shirt were frayed; there were spots on his tie, and his clothes looked as though they had been slept in. the lining of the ulster he had thrown across a chair had been patched, and threads hung where his legs had rubbed it. the impressions reflected in william's eyes were increasingly disagreeable ones, as he diagnosed moral, physical, and financial decrepitude. it was nothing short of impudence on jack's part to intrude himself upon the town and upon his family. it was with a slight sneer that william replied to his brother's long speech by ejaculating:-- "well, i like your nerve! you come back drunk just when the community had begun to forget you, and wander into the last house in the world where you ought to show yourself. your being drunk doesn't excuse you. why didn't you tell me you were coming?" jack smiled ironically. "suppose you climb off your high horse for a little bit. if i have to get a permit from my only brother to come back to the town where i was born, things have come to a nice pass. better cut all that out." "you're certainly a past-master at making a mess of things," william continued. "your coming back that way fits neatly into your departure. you needn't think people have forgotten that you ran off with another man's wife. and your coming back right now, just when the montgomerys had buried the hatchet, was calculated with the devil's own mind." "so that's the tune, is it?" said jack, stretching his arms upon the table and clasping his fingers to subdue their nervous twitchings. "that's just the tune! this town isn't big enough to hold you and the rest of us. you've cost me a lot of money first and last. you made it necessary for us to pull away from amzi and start all over again, and there was a prejudice against me from the start that i've just about lived down." jack grinned unpleasantly. "oh, the bank hasn't been terribly prosperous, then!" william blinked at the thrust. he had given the conversation an unfortunate turn, and he sought uncomfortably for another line of attack. jack unwittingly opened the way for him. "you were the good boy of the family and used to be a pillar in the church. i have a distinct though melancholy impression that when i took myself hence you were passing the basket in center church every sunday morning. i don't recall that i ever _saw_ you do it, but it was a matter of common knowledge in this town, will, that you did that very thing. and being a christian, just how do you square your effusive brotherly welcome with the gospel? the only reason god makes sinners is to give 'em a chance to repent. without repentance what do you suppose would become of your churches anyhow?" "i don't see any repentance in you; and i want to know right now what you've done with that woman?" jack blinked, then smiled and gave a laugh expressive of disdain and contempt. "if you please, which woman?" william's frown deepened. the one woman was certainly enough, and his rage was increased by the leer that accompanied the question. "oh, i dare say there have been enough of them! i mean the one you took away from here; i mean lois kirkwood." "oh, lois!" he spoke as though surprised that she should be chosen for particular attention, and his lip curled scornfully. "when a man goes wrong, will, he pays for it. take it from me that that's one gospel truth that i've proved to my entire satisfaction. it's queer, will, how soon a bonfire burns out--the bigger the fire the quicker it goes. i went plum crazy about that girl. she'd married the one particular man on earth who was least likely to make her happy. he bored her. and i guess her baby bored her, too,--she wasn't a domestic animal,--no pussy cat to sit by the fire and play with the baby and have hubby's slippers toasting when he came home to supper. and i had time to play with her; i wasn't so intellectual as tom, but my nature was a damned sight more sympathetic. it looked as though we had been made for each other, and i was fooled into thinking so. and i was bored myself--this silly little town, with nothing to hold anybody. lois and i were made for a bigger world--at least we thought so: and by jove, it was funny how we fooled each other--it was altogether too damned funny!" "i'm glad you take a humorous view of it," replied william coldly. "not satisfied with disgracing the family, you come back to rub it in. where did you leave the woman? i suppose you've chucked her--the usual way." jack threw back his head and laughed. "well, i like that! you don't know what i had to put up with! she made me suffer, i can tell you! i don't believe she'd deny herself that she made it damned uncomfortable for me. she liked to spend money, for one thing, and i couldn't make it fast enough; and she wanted to mingle with the rich and gay, and our story had followed us, and it's funny, will, what a lot of old-fashioned, stupid, thursday-night-prayer-meeting and the-pastor-in-to-tea morality there is left in this fool world! it cut lois up a good deal, being snubbed by people she wanted to stand well with. it gave me a jolt to find that i wasn't all-sufficient for her after all; which hurt some when we'd decided we could be happy alone together in the woods for the rest of our days. it's a long story, and i'm not going to talk about it. with the money i took away from here i began monkeying with real estate; it didn't seem that anybody out there could lose just then: but i was a bad guesser. in five years i had played in all my chips, and had to sneak around office buildings trying to sell life insurance, which wasn't dignified nor becoming in a member of the haughty house of holton." "sam told me a different story. why don't you tell the truth if you talk about it at all? you gambled and lost your money--that's what happened; and real estate speculation was only a side line. but lois had money; i suppose you played that away, too. sam never seemed quite clear about your relations with her." "i guess he didn't! there's a queer woman, will. the inscrutable ways of providence were not in it with hers. she hated me, but she wouldn't let go of me; seemed to be her idea that shaking one man was enough and she wouldn't let me make her a widow a second time. by george, i couldn't shake her--i had to live off her!" william shrugged his shoulders and scowled. it was incredible that this could be his own brother who spoke thus of the gravest relationships of life. and it was with a steady sinking of spirit that it was beaten in upon him that this man had come back to plant himself at his door. he was busy calculating the effect upon himself, his family, and his business of the prodigal's return. he was shocked, disgusted, alarmed. his wife had told him in the long vigil that followed her return from amzi montgomery's house, when she learned that her brother-in-law was sleeping off his spree in her guest-room, that jack had to go. she was proud and arrogant, and she had no idea of relinquishing her social pre-eminence--not too easily won--in the town to which william holton had brought her to live out her life. one or two of the old families had never received her with any cordiality, clearly by reason of the old scandal. and where there are only seventeen thousand people in a town the indifference of two or three, when they happen to include a woman like mrs. king, was not to be ignored or borne without rancor. william's indignation was intensified as he reviewed jack's disclosures from the angle his wife had drawn for him in the midnight conference. his curiosity was sharpened, however, as to the subsequent relationship of jack and lois kirkwood. seattle is a long way from montgomery and lines of communication few and slight. samuel, returning from his visits to the coast, had usually been too full of his own schemes to furnish any satisfactory details of jack and his wife. william dropped his plumb-line in a new spot where he fancied the water would prove shallow. "you lived off her, didn't you, until you had lived up all she had? the gospel didn't neglect her; she got her share of the punishment." "look here, will, you mustn't make me laugh like that! you know i used to think i understood human nature, but i never started with that woman. i did live at her expense,--i had to,--and she stood for it until i got to hanging round the saloons too much. she used to pay my dues in the club, damned if she didn't, until i got fired for too much poker in the chamber over the gate. i must say she was a good sport: as a fair-minded man, i've got to admit that. and she swung the lash over me--never laid it on, but made it sizz--whistle--till i'd duck and sniffle; and she did exactly what she pleased without caring a damn whether i liked it or not! by george, i knew she was a wonder when i took her off kirkwood's hands, but she wasn't wonderful in just the way i thought she'd be. that was where the joke came in. and she made people like her; she could do that; and she got on, so that wherever she could go without me she was welcome. that was after people got sorry for her because she was hooked up to me; but most of 'em, i guess, liked her on her own account. a queer development, will. for the past five years i've just been a piece of furniture, to be dusted and moved occasionally like an old rocking-chair that gets into a house, nobody knows exactly how, and is shoved around, trying corners where it won't be noticed much, until it winds up in the garret. but after all the corners had been tried,--she didn't have any garret; we lived mostly in hotels and flats,--i was gradually worked out on the second-hand man's wagon, and here i am." "she kept her money, then?" asked william with assumed indifference. "will," said jack with a mockingly confidential air, leaning forward on the table, "after the first two or three years i never knew whether she had a cent or not, that's the straight of it. considering that she had thrown away her reputation like an old shoe just for me, and that we lived along under the same roof, that was the most astonishing thing of all. she began by handing me out a hundred now and then when i was broke; then it dropped to ten, and then it got down to a dollar a week,--humiliating, will, considering that i had given up my interest in the ancient and honorable firm of montgomery & holton, bankers, just for her! but when she shook me for good, i'm damned if she didn't give me a clean thousand just as a consolation prize." william was more interested in this phase of the relationship than in anything that had gone before. he was aware of the local belief that jack had thrown away his wife's share of her father's estate in his real estate speculations in seattle and that amzi supported her dutifully by a regular allowance; in fact, the three sisters had encouraged this impression by characteristic insinuations. "what's become of her? where is she now?" "that's where you've got me stung: how do i know where she is! after she slipped me the thousand and bade me a long and chilling farewell, i used to keep track of her in one way or another. she had a restless streak in her,--that's why she couldn't stand tom and the rest of it,--and when it was all peach blossoms and spring with us she liked to take spurts over the world. we used to run down to san francisco for little sprees, and then when that played out she shifted to new york. but i've lost her trail--i don't any more know where she is than if i'd never laid eyes on her. she went abroad a couple of times and she may be over there now. say, if amzi's putting up for her you will lose your main competitor one of these days! she'd bust the biggest bank in wall street, that woman! she's a luxurious little devil, and a wonder for looks. even the harsh trial of living with me didn't wear her to a frazzle the way you might suppose it would. i guess if i hadn't poisoned the wells for her, she could have shaken me for most any man she liked. by george, i'll get to weeping on your neck in a minute, just thinking about her. i started in to tell you what a miserable little wretch she is and i'm winding up by bragging about her. she's got that in her! but she'll bust amzi before she winds up. and i hope you appreciate the value of that news. old amzi, if he hasn't changed, is a fat-head who's content to sit in his little bank and watch the world go by. and i guess he's got a nice bunch of brothers-in-law on his hands. poor old amzi! there was always something amusing about the cuss, even when he was a smug little roly-poly as a boy. but i passed his bank this morning and it looked like an undertaker's office. the contrast between that old tomb and your plant pleases me, will; it soothes my family pride. you are an able man and i congratulate you on your success. sam liked to cut didoes on thin ice a little too well; but you're a born banker--inherited it from father; and i guess i didn't do you so ill a turn after all when i cut loose with lois and broke up the old partnership. there wasn't enough room in montgomery & holton for all of us." several times william shifted his position uneasily. his brother's flattery merely paved the way to a demand--he was confident of this; and he had no intention of yielding to demands. to begin advances to this melancholy wreck would be to establish a precedent for interminable benefactions. it was better to deal with the matter at once. a clerk called him out to speak to a customer and when he came back, jack was moodily glaring out upon the little court at the rear of the bank. william did not seat himself again, but stood by the table, as though to indicate his intention of terminating the interview. "i can't give you any more time. just what have you come back for? i'm entitled to know, and we may as well have it out." "what have i come back for? i've come back to stay, that's what i'm back for! i want a job, that's all, and if you won't give me one, i'd like to know just where your brotherly heart expects me to go." "you can't stay here, jack. you've got to clear out. i don't mean to be hard on you, and i'll give you enough to take you wherever you want to go; but you can't camp here; you've got to move on. if you'd come back like a gentleman, it might have been different; but the whole town's upset. i'd just about lived you down, and here you come back and stir up the whole mess. the way you came back puts us all in the hole; the sympathy of the community was swinging round to our side a little, and even the montgomerys were making it clear that they were willing to let bygones be bygones and here you come to spoil it all! and you've not only got to go, but you've got to go now, this very day by the first train." this was received blinkingly. jack shook his head as though in pity for his brother's harshness. "for a man brought up by a christian father and mother to point the door to a long-lost brother is painful, will. it wounds me deeply. i tell you right now that i'm not going away from here until i get good and ready. do you follow me?" he rested the tips of his fingers on the table and bent toward his brother with a cold glitter in his eyes. under the mockery of his phrases a hot anger lurked. "all right," said william. "stay, then. but you can't hang yourself around my neck. understand that right here." "you haven't heard all my story yet--" "i've heard all i'm going to hear. i've heard enough to make me sick. i hope nobody else in this town will ever hear it. it's worse than i had ever imagined--you allowing that woman to support you! and it's nauseating to think that you don't realize the rottenness of it. but you seem to be incapable of any decent feeling about anything." "stop sentimentalizing and listen to me. i didn't come back here to enter upon a new social career; i came back on business. you remember, will, that sam came west when you and he were selling bonds in this sycamore traction line on which i rode proudly home last night. i helped sam sell a pretty big bunch of those bonds out there. sam could sell anything--sam was a wonder! and he planted a big bunch of those things along the coast--my friends, you know. sam's dead and gone now and i ain't going to knock him--but sam was an exuberant chap and he overcalculated the cost of building the road. that was on the construction company, but you and sam were in that--same old game of working both sides of the street. it was just a mistake in figures, of course, but some of those people out there hear the road ain't doing well, and they're friends of mine, will, valued friends, and now that sam's gone it's up to you and me to take care of 'em--do you follow me?" "if that's what you're up to you've made a big mistake. that road's one of the most successful traction lines in the west, and pays its bond interest on the dot." "nothing easier; but i happen to know that the last payment was made with borrowed money. of course, only a little temporary accommodation, but just the same it wasn't paid out of earnings. and, will, you ought to be mighty careful--you oughtn't to advance bank funds for such a purpose; it's damned bad business; it's downright immoral; that's all! but how about the bonds your construction company got--that nice little margin between a fair profit for building the road and a big fat steal at the expense of the bondholders? and you authorized the sale of bonds at eighty to pay the construction bill, got ninety, and pocketed the difference. oh, you needn't get white and blink at me. i know what he did with his share of the boodle--he had to take care of his political chums he got into other schemes. i know all about sam--he was always borrowing, we will call it, from peter to pay paul, and most of it got into sam's pocket. now here's my position; right here's where i come in. i'm going to help you take care of this, but you've got to act white with me. i'm not going to be kicked out of town--not unless you go with me. is that plain?" "you're a fool. i understand nothing except that you're trying to blackmail me; and it won't go. why, you ought to know that the thing you accuse sam of doing would have landed him and me, too, in the penitentiary. what do you suppose the trustee for the bondholders was doing? what do you imagine the new york investors were thinking about?" "they were asleep, will," jack replied, with a gleam of malignant humor. "and sam was awful slick. sam could sell winter underwear in hell. and i guess you could sell anthracite at a profit down there, too. you talk about the family dignity;--by george, i never started with you fellows! running away with another man's wife is tame business compared with your grafting. and i've got a little more news for you. the clouds are gathering, you might say, in all parts of the horizon." he swept the room with a comprehensive gesture. "it's just one of those queer twists of the screw of fate that brings us all up against tom kirkwood. tom's smart: he always was, and as straight a man as god almighty ever put on the footstool, and he's prying into sycamore traction. i stopped off for a day or two in indianapolis and got on to this. there was a lawyer and an officer of the desbrosses trust & guaranty company out here from new york to talk things over with kirkwood,--he has some pull down there,--and they've employed him. while sam lived he watched little things like that; filled up the accountants with champagne and took care of the statements, but i guess you are not quite as smart as sam. i guess it's about all you can do to take care of the bank examiner when he drops in to shake hands." william had listened intently, his arms folded, a smile of derision on his face. "just how much do you charge for this information?" he demanded coldly. "i'm not going to charge you; i'm going to help you, will. it's my duty as a brother to warn you and help you out of trouble. family feeling is strong in me: i'm not a man to let my own brother go down if i can keep him up. i see it in your eye that--" william flung round to the door and swung it open. "get out of here!" "oh, is that the answer? then, all right!" he picked up his hat, drew on his coat unhurriedly, walked calmly round the table and lounged out of the bank. chapter xii nan bartlett's decision "dad's gone to indianapolis to be gone several days and didn't expect to be back to-night; so come over and stay with me, won't you--please? if you won't i'll have to go to aunt josephine's, which is a heartbreaking thought." this was the second day after the party, and nan agreed to go. phil's maid-of-all-work did not sleep at the house and the aunts had asserted that phil's new status as a member of society made necessary some sort of chaperonage. nan arrived at the house late in the afternoon and found phil opening a box of roses that had just come from indianapolis by express. "american beauties! and grand ones!" she handed nan the card and watched her face as she read it. "i should have guessed charlie holton," said nan colorlessly. "well, they're fine specimens." "it's very nice of him, i think," said phil. "particularly when i was so snippy to him." "why did you snip him?" asked nan, watching phil thrust the last of the long stems into a tall vase. "oh, he started in to rush me. and i guess he's some rusher. i suppose he's had a lot of practice." "i suppose he has," said nan indifferently. "and nobody ever gave me just the line of talk he puts up, except of course lawr_i_nce." she feigned to be observing the adjustment of the roses with a particular interest, and looking round caught nan frowning. "is he trying to flirt with you? i supposed even he had his decent moments. when did that happen?" "oh, at the party; everything happened at the party." "two men making love to you on the same evening is a good record for montgomery. i suppose lawrence played the ardent romeo game; i understand that he's better 'off' than 'on.' and you snipped him, of course." "oh, i mean to snip them all! isn't that right?" "it's pathetic that lawrence hastings never quite forgets that he played the banana circuit in repertoire. that man's an awful bore." "i find him amusing," said phil provokingly. "and he always gives me a box at matinées. which is just that much more than i ever get out of my other imitation uncles. if i led him on a trifle, don't you suppose he might come to the point of proposing to fly with me? that would be a consummation devoutly to be worked for." "phil, i'll send you to bed if you talk like that." "there's always the window and the old apple tree; i dare you to put me to bed! i suppose," she said, nodding in the direction of the roses, "that those are a sort of peace offering, to make up for his uncle coming to the party as he did. if that's the idea it was decent of him." the maid brought in a box that had just been left at the kitchen door. phil ran to the window and caught a glimpse of a man closing the gate. it was fred holton, in a long ulster with the collar turned up about his ears. he untied his horse, attached to a ramshackle buggy, and drove off. phil recognized him instantly, but made no sign to nan. across the top of the small pasteboard box, "perishable" was scrawled. inside, neatly dressed, lay six quails. on a card was written:-- "_compliments of listening hill farm._" "what's listening hill farm?" asked nan. "that's fred holton's. he lives out there now. it's just like that boy to slip round to the back door with an offering like that. roses from charlie; birds from fred. and there's just about that difference between them." nan's eyes clouded. "phil," she said with emphasis, "those three aunts of yours haven't the sense of rabbits! the comparison flatters them. they had no business asking the holtons to your party. it was unnecessary--it was absurd. it was cruel!" nan was not often like this. there was unmistakable indignation in her tone as she continued:-- "your uncle amzi should have set his face against it. and i suppose they were satisfied with the outcome; i devoutly hope so." "well, don't jump on amy; he only let them have their way to avoid a fuss. when the three of them descend on him they do try amy's soul; he never admits it, but i always know afterwards. it unsettles him for a week." "those women," said nan, "have been all over town apologizing for jack holton--as though it was up to them to defend him for turning up at your party vilely drunk. i tell you, phil, i'm glad you have the sense you have in that head of yours and that you've grown up to a point where we can talk of things. the holtons are no good! there's a crooked streak in the whole lot. and all that's the matter with your blessed trio of aunts is their ambition to stand well with mrs. william, and your precious uncles lean on the first national counter when they want to borrow money. but you'd think they'd have some respect for your father, for your uncle, for you!" "oh, well, it's all over now," replied phil. "it's a good thing you're the wise child you are! you understand perfectly that the holtons are not for you in this world. and if your father weren't the gentleman he is he would have made a big row about those people being asked to your party: it was an insult, too deep for my powers of description. those women treat your father as though he were a halfway idiot--a fool to be thrust around when it pleases them, and to be the object of simpering tears when they want to play the pathetic in speaking of your mother to people. they are detestable, contemptible. and jack holton's turning up at amzi's was the very last straw." phil gazed at nan with increasing surprise. this was not the familiar nan bartlett of the unfailing gentleness, the whimsical humor. this was almost a scene, and scenes were not to the liking of either of the bartlett sisters. "daddy hardly referred to that, nan. i don't think it really troubled him." "that's the worst of it, dear child! of course he wouldn't show feeling about it! that's the heartbreaking thing about that father of yours, that he has borne that old trouble so bravely. it was ghastly that that man of all men should have stumbled into amzi's house in that way. nothing was ever nobler than the way your father bore it." she knelt suddenly and clasped phil in her arms as though to shield her from all the wrongs of the world. there were tears in nan's eyes, unmistakably, when phil stroked her cheek, and then for the first time with a sudden impulse nan kissed her. phil's intercourse with the bartletts had been in the key of happy companionship, marked with a restraint that the girl respected and admired. there had been an imperceptible line beyond which she had never carried her pranks with them. tears she had never associated with either of the sisters. she would have assumed, if it had ever been a question in her mind, that rose would have been the likelier to yield to emotion. nan walked to the window and looked out upon the slowly falling snow. phil was busy for a moment readjusting herself to the new intimacy established by the sight of her friend's agitation. these first tears that phil had ever seen in nan's eyes had a clarifying effect upon her consciousness and understanding. there flashed upon her keen mind a thought--startling, almost incredible. it was as though in some strange fashion, in the unlikeliest spot, she had come upon a rare flower, too marvelous to breathe upon. her quick wits held it off guardedly for bewildered inspection. could it be possible that it was for her father that nan had yielded to tears? beneath liking and sympathy might there lie a deeper feeling than friendship in this woman's heart? there had always seemed to be an even balance of regard for the sisters in all her father's intercourse with buckeye lane. they had been a refuge and resource, but she had imagined that he went there as she did because it was the very pleasantest place in town to visit. whether he admired one more than the other had never been a problem in her mind, though now she recalled the intimations of her aunts--intimations which she had cast into the limbo to which she committed their views and insinuations on most topics. phil stood by the black slate mantel of the shelf-lined sitting-room, her heart beating fast. but nan turned to her laughingly. "it's old age, phil! rose always tells me that i must stop peppering my victuals or i'll become one of the sobbing sisterhood one of these days. what have you been reading lately, phil?" "just finished 'the gray knight of picardy.' daddy didn't want me to read it--said it was only half good and that i oughtn't to waste time on books that weren't a hundred per cent good. i think it's bully. i'm crazy about it. it's so beautifully, deliciously funny. and nan--why, nan, it sounds just like you!" "elucidate," remarked nan carelessly. "oh, it's like you, some of it--the general absurdness of it all; and then some of it is so amazingly like dad--when he has a high-falutin' fit and talks through his hat in the old morte darthur lingo. it's malory brought up to date, with a dash of quixote. i nearly died at that place where the knight breaks his lance on the first automobile he ever saw and then rides at the head of the circus parade. it's certainly a ticklesome yarn." she advanced upon nan dramatically, with arm outstretched, pointing accusingly. "look me in the eye, nan! did you and daddy frame that up between you? be careful now! dad wrote prodigiously all last winter--let me think it was a brief; and you and he used to get your heads together a good deal, private like, and i feigned not to notice because i thought you were talking about me!" she clasped nan by the wrists and laughed into her eyes. "go and sit in your little chair, phil. your intuitions are playing tricks with your judgment." "fudge! i know it's true now. the author's name in the book is a _nom de plume_. i saw that in a literary note somewhere." nan had seriously hoped phil would not learn of the joint authorship; but already it was an accepted fact in the girl's mind. she was smitten with contrition for her blindness in having failed to see earlier what was now plain enough! nan was in love with her father! their collaboration upon a book only added plausibility to her surmise. nothing could be plainer, nothing, indeed, more fitting! her heart warmed at the thought. her father stood forth in a new light; she was torn with self-accusations for her stupidity in not having seen it all before. admitting nothing, nan parried her thrusts about the "gray knight." when phil caught up the book and began to read a passage that she had found particularly diverting, and which she declared to be altogether "nanesque," as she put it, nan snatched the book away and declined to discuss the subject further. nan had recovered her spirits, and the two gave free rein to the badinage in which they commonly indulged. they were sitting down at the table when kirkwood arrived. he had found it possible to come home for the night and run back to the city in the morning. now that phil's suspicions had been aroused as to nan, she was alert for any manifestation of reciprocal feeling in her father. he was clearly pleased to find nan in his house; but there was nothing new in this. he would have been as glad to see rose, phil was sure. phil launched daringly upon "the gray knight of picardy," parrying evasion and shattering the wall of dissimulation behind which they sought to entrench themselves. it was just like nan and her father; no one else would ever have thought up anything so preposterous, so killingly funny. she went for the book and cited chapters and attributed them, one after the other, to the collaborators. "oh, you can't tell me! that talk between the knight and the cigar-store indian is yours, nan; and the place where he finds the militia drilling and chases the colonel into the creek is yours, daddy! and i'm ashamed of both of you that you never told me! what have i done to be left out of a joke like this! you might have let me squeeze in a little chapter somewhere. i always thought i could write a book if some one would give me a good start." "we're cornered," said nan finally. "but we'll have to bribe her." "i came by the office and found some more letters from magazines that want short stories, serials, anything from the gifted author of 'the gray knight of picardy,'" said kirkwood. "why not enlarge the syndicate, nan, and let phil in? but i've got to retire; i mustn't even be suspected. this is serious. it would kill my prospects as a lawyer if it got out on me that i dallied at literature. it's no joke that the law is a jealous mistress. and now i have the biggest case i ever had; and likely to be the most profitable. how do we come by these birds, phil?" "fred holton brought them in, daddy. you remember him; he was at the party." "yes; i remember, phil. he's samuel's boy, who's gone to live on their old farm." nan turned the talk away from the holtons and they went into the living-room where kirkwood read some of the notices he had found in his mail. he improvised a number of criticisms ridiculing the book mercilessly and he abused the imaginary authors until, going too far, phil snatched away the clippings and convicted him of fraud. she declared that he deserved a mussing and drove him to a corner to make the threat good, and only relented when she had exacted a promise from him never to leave her out again in any of his literary connivings with nan. the wind whistled round the house, and drove the snow against the panes. a snowstorm makes for intimacy, and the three sat by the grate cozily, laughing and talking; it was chiefly books they discussed. this was the first time nan had ever shared a winter-night fireside with the kirkwoods, much as she saw of them. and phil was aware of a fitness in the ordering of the group before the glowing little grate. the very books on the high shelves seemed to make a background for nan. nothing could be more natural than that she should abide there forever. phil became so engrossed in her speculations that she dropped out of the talk. inevitably the vague shadow of the mother she had never known stole into the picture. she recalled the incident of the broken negative that had slipped from her father's fingers upon the floor of the abandoned photograph gallery. her young imagination was kindled, and her sympathies went out to the man and woman who sat there before the little grate, so clearly speaking the same language, so drawn together by common interests and aspirations. she was brought to earth by nan's sudden exclamation that she must go home. there was no question about it, she said, when they pleaded the storm as a reason for spending the night; she had come merely to relieve phil's loneliness. nan protested that she could go alone; but kirkwood without debating the matter got into his ulster, and phil, screened by the door, watched them pass under the electric light at the corner. * * * * * the streets were deserted and the storm had its will with the world. nan and kirkwood stopped for breath and to shake off the snow where a grocer's shed protected the sidewalk. "i came back to-night," he said, "because i wanted to see you, and i knew i should find you with phil. nan, after what happened at amzi's the other night i find i need you more than i ever knew. i was afraid you might imagine that would make a difference. but not in the way you may think--not about lois! it was just the thought of him--that he had once been my friend, and came back like that. it was only that, nan. if she had come back and stood there in the door i shouldn't have had a twinge. i'm all over that. i've been over it for a long time." "i think i understand that, but nothing can make any difference as to us. that is one thing that is not for this world! come, we must hurry on!" as she took a step forward he sprang in front of her. "nan, i've got to go back to the city on the morning train. i want you to tell me now that you will marry me--let us say in the spring. let me have that to look forward to. i've waited a long time, and the years are passing. i want you to say 'yes' to-night." he touched her shoulders lightly with his hands. they slipped along her arms till he clasped her fingers, tightly clenched in her muff. "you love me, nan; i know you do! and you have known a long time that i care for you. nothing was ever as dear as the thought of you. whatever has gone before in my life is done and passed. i can't have you say 'no' to me. please, dear nan--dearest!" it was a strange place for lovers' talk, but the tumult of the storm was in kirkwood's heart. the weariness of a laborious day vanished in the presence of this woman. his habitual restraint, the reticences of his nature were swept away. his was no midsummer passion; winter's battle-song throbbed in his pulses. he caught her arm roughly as she sought to continue their flight. "no, tom; no!" "then why?" he persisted. "it can't be because of lois--you can't suspect that even the thought of her wounds me now. jack's coming back proved that to me: i mean what i say; i don't care any more! there's nothing for me in this world but you--you and phil! the memory of that other woman is gone; i give myself to you as though she had never been." "oh, tom, i don't believe you! i don't believe any man like you ever forgets! and phil mustn't know you even think you have forgotten! that would be wrong; it would be a great sin! she must never think you have forgotten the woman who is her mother. and it isn't right that you should forget! there are men that might, but not you--not you, dear tom!" she shook off his hands and flung herself against the storm. he plunged after her, following perforce. it was impossible to talk, so blinding was the slant of snow and sleet in their faces. she drove on with the energy born of a new determination, and he made no effort to speak again as he tramped beside her. when they reached the house in buckeye lane he sought to detain her with a plaintive "please, nan?" but she rapped on the door and when rose opened it slipped in, throwing a breathless good-night over her shoulder. chapter xiii the best interests of montgomery phil dropped into the "evening star" office to write an item about the approaching christmas fair at center church, for which she was the publicity agent. incidentally she asked billy barker, the editor, to instruct her in the delicate art of proof-reading. as he was an old friend she did not mind letting him into the secret of "the dogs of main street." barker's editorial sense was immediately roused by phil's disclosure. he said he would write to "journey's end" for advance sheets and make it a first-page feature the day it appeared. montgomery was a literary center; in the early eighties it had been referred to by the boston "transcript" as the hoosier athens; and the athenians withheld not the laurel from the brows of their bards, romancers, and essayists. not since barker had foreshadowed the publication of "the deathless legion," general whitcomb's famous tale of the cæsars, had anything occurred that promised so great a sensation as the news that phil had ventured into the field of authorship. barker even fashioned phrases in which he meant to publish the glad tidings,--"a brilliant addition to the hoosier group"; "a new jane austen knocks at the door of fame," etc. he jotted down a list of the commonest typographical symbols, and warned phil against an over-indulgence in changes, as it might prejudice the "journey's end" office against her. "i was about to offer you a job, phil, but now that you're a high-priced magazine writer i'm ashamed to do it. our local has skipped and i'm almost up against going out to chase a few items myself. you might pull out that church fair a few joints, or i'll be reduced to shoving in boiler plate on the first page; which is reprehensible. kindly humble yourself and give me some 'personal and society,'--some of your highly interesting family must be doing something or somebody,--dish it up and don't spare the gravy." "you haven't heard rumors that the hastings is to be turned into a fil-lum show-house, have you?" asked phil, fishing a lead pencil stub from her pocket. "lord, no! has our own hamlet come to that? write a hot roast of it; turn the screw on this commercializing of our only theater--this base betrayal of public confidence by one to whom we all looked for nobler things. i'm sore at lawrence anyhow for kicking at our write-up of those outlaws who strolled through here playing 'she never told her love.' the fact is that girl told it in the voice of one who should be bawling quick orders in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. here's where we taunt mr. hastings with his own lofty idealism. have all the fun with him you like; and not a soul shall ever know from me who knocked him." phil nibbled her pencil meditatively. "you've got the wrong number. lawr_i_nce hasn't found the price yet; he's only getting estimates; but you'd better coax him to make the change--bring the drammer closer to the hearts of the people. none of these cheap fil-lums where a comic dog runs in and upsets the tea-table, just as the parson is about to say grace, but the world's greatest artists brought within the reach of all who command the homely nickel. do you follow me, o protector of the poor?" "i see your family pride is stung, phil. let it go at that. there's a cut of hastings as romeo that i'm utilizing as a paper-weight, and i'll run that just to show there's no hard feeling. by the by, phil, how's your pa getting on with the traction company?" "nothing doing! i'm not as foolish as i am young. and besides i don't know." the editor took a turn across the room and rumpled his hair. he pointed to a clipping on his desk from the indianapolis "advertiser" of that morning. the headlines proclaimed:-- scandal in sycamore traction rumors that receivership is imminent foreign bondholders threatening holton estate to be investigated phil's face grew serious. her father had not been home for several days and she knew that his business in indianapolis had absorbed his time and attention increasingly. "i'm sure i don't know anything about it," she answered, "and of course if you thought i did you wouldn't ask me." "of course not, phil. but it's a mess. and i don't know whether to print something about it or let it go. bill holton's out of town and i don't like to shoot without giving him a chance. but i owe him a few. if the company goes bust, there's going to be a row round here we won't forget in a hurry. every widow and orphan in the county has got some of that stuff. they worked that racket as hard as they could--home road for the home people. what's the answer?" phil drew up the editor's clip of paper and wrote:-- "mr. amzi montgomery went to indianapolis yesterday to attend the nordica concert." barker stared at this item blankly. "what's that got to do with it?" "nothing," said phil indifferently; "it's only an item." "amzi's always going to concerts," remarked the editor inconsequently. "i thought maybe he wasn't going to this one, for the excellent reason that he declined to take me along." barker ran his hand through his hair, looked at phil with dawning intelligence, and his brow cleared. "i haven't said anything," remarked phil discreetly, "because i don't know anything." barker put on his coat and hat. "guess i'll go out and sniff the local feeling on this proposition. it's about time i blew the lid off and said a few things about bill holton. if bernstein brings in copy for his christmas 'ad,' whistle for the boy and tell 'em to hustle it. hang your stuff on the hook and i'll write the heads later. don't let your playful humor get away with you, and if any farmers come in with the biggest pumpkin ever raised on sugar creek, note the name and weight carefully, call the boy and send the precious fruit right home to our wife. our annual biggest pumpkin is long overdue and undelivered. you might just head that item 'when the frost is on the punkin.' we have captious subscribers who check up on favorite quotations and our aim is to please one and all." a desk stood by the window from which the editorial eye in its frenzied rollings enjoyed a fine sweep of main street. to phil main street ran round the world. its variety was infinite. no one knew the ways, the interests, the joys and sorrows of montgomery better than she. every one was, in a sense, a character. more or less unconsciously she fitted them all into little dramas, or sketched them with swift, telling strokes. the fact that this main street summarized american life; that there were hundreds of main streets presenting much the same types, the same mild encounters and incidents, appealed to her sense of humor. her longest journey in the world had been a summer excursion to new england with her father, and she had been struck by the similarity of the phenomena observable in williamstown, pittsfield, northampton--and montgomery! in every town, no matter what its name, there was always the same sleepy team in front of the farmers' bank, the same boy chasing his hat, the same hack-driver in front of the hotel, the same pretty girl bowing to the same delighted young man near the same town pump or the soldiers' monument in the square. phil wrote busily. it was easy for her to write, and when, looking up casually, items were suggested to her by the passers-by, she returned to her work with a smile on her face. judge walters passed carrying a satchel; this meant that he had returned from holding court in boone county; captain wilson stumped by with a strange young man who phil reasoned immediately must be the nephew he had expected to visit him during the holidays. the new auto-truck of the express company, which had long been forecast in main street rumor, rumbled by, and she heralded its arrival in a crisp paragraph. "spress," the venerable dog that for ages had followed the company's old horse and wagon, was at last out of commission, phil's "brevity" recited. the foreman came in from the composing-room, told her gravely that the paper was overset, and departed with her copy. she took up the article relating to sycamore traction and read it through to the end. many of the terms meant nothing to her; but the guarded intimations of improper conduct on the part of the promoters and directors were sufficiently clear. what interested her most of all was the accusation, cautiously attributed "to one in a position to know," that the estate of samuel holton had been so manipulated as to conceal part of the assets, and that a movement was on foot to reopen the estate with a view to challenging the inventory. the names of charles holton and his uncle william, president of the first national bank of montgomery, appeared frequently in the article, which closed with a statement signed by both men that the stories afloat were baseless fabrications; that the company was earning its charges and that the rumors abroad through the state were the result of a conspiracy by a number of stockholders to seize control of the company. looking up, phil saw her father pass the window, and before she could knock on the glass to attract his attention he came in hurriedly. "'lo, daddy!" "what are you up to, phil? where's barker?" "out taking the air. his local's quit and i'm doing a few literary gems for him." she rose and leaned across the counter. anxiety was plainly written on her father's face, and she surmised that something of importance had brought him back from the city at this hour. he had not expected to return until saturday, and this was only thursday. "i must see barker. where do you suppose he went?" "he's trying to make up his mind what to do about that," said phil, indicating the clipping. kirkwood took from his pocket several sheets of typewritten legal cap, and ran them over. "i want him to print this; it must get in to-day. the people here mustn't be stampeded by those stories. a repetition of them in the 'star' might do great harm--incalculable harm to the community and to all its interests." "it doesn't sound pretty--that piece in the 'advertiser.'" "it's all surmise and speculation. that's what i've been in the city about lately; and if they give us a chance we'll pull it out without scandal." "suppose i write an interview with you along that line and stick your statement on the end of it?" "i'll have to see barker first: he's supposed to be unfriendly to the holtons--old political feeling." it occurred to phil that it was odd for her father to be interposing himself between the holtons and scandalous insinuations of the press as to their integrity. tom kirkwood reflected a moment, then opened the gate in the office railing and sat down beside her. "i've got to get the twelve o'clock train back," he said, "and this must go in to-day. we must reassure the people as quickly as possible." she wrote an opening paragraph without further parley and read it. he made a few changes, and then dictated a statement as attorney for the desbrosses trust & guaranty company, trustee for the sycamore bondholders. the stories set afloat at indianapolis were gross exaggerations, he declared, and there was no occasion for alarm in any quarter. it was true that the company had suffered serious losses owing to unfortunate accidents, but these were not of a character to jeopardize the interests of bondholders. a thorough investigation was in progress, and judgment should be reserved until the exact truth should be known. the trustee meant to safeguard every interest of the investors. kirkwood was lost in thought for several minutes, and then took a sheet of paper and experimented with a number of sentences until these survived his careful editing:-- "i personally believe that the affairs of the sycamore traction company will be speedily adjusted in a way that will satisfy those concerned, and meanwhile all efforts to shake public confidence in any of the interests or institutions of montgomery can only react disastrously upon those guilty of such attempts." he read this over frowningly. "i think that will be all, phil," he said, handing her a clean copy. while she was numbering the pages, barker came in and kirkwood drew him into a corner, where they conversed earnestly. the editor had met that morning many citizens who spoke bitterly of the sycamore traction company. the indianapolis "advertiser's" circulation in montgomery was almost equal to that of the "evening star"; and on the wintry corners of main street, in the lobby of the morton house, and in the court-house, men were speculating as to the effect of the reports from indianapolis upon the holton bank. the holtons were democrats and the "evening star" was the republican county organ. barker disliked william holton on personal grounds and here was his chance for reprisal. "they're all crooks," said the editor hotly; and cut kirkwood short with "no one knows that better than you." kirkwood ignored this thrust. "it isn't your feeling or mine, barker, about these people. it's the town and its best interests we've got to consider. i give you my word that i believe these kinks in sycamore will be straightened out. nobody knows more about the situation than i do. if you repeat this 'advertiser' article, you'll start a run on the first national bank, and if it should go down, it wouldn't do any of us any good, would it? it wouldn't help the town any, would it? i want you to trust me about this. there's no question of newspaper enterprise involved; but there is a chance for you to serve the community. the very fact that you have never been friendly to the holtons will give additional weight to what you print to-day. i'm not asking you to smother this talk as a favor to me, but for the good of the town--all of us. and i believe you're big enough and broad enough to see it." barker was reluctant to yield. his paper was one of the most influential country papers in the state. he was proud of its reputation and anxious to do nothing that would injure its hard-won prestige. "that's all right, kirkwood, but how about that swindling construction company the holtons worked as a side line? the bad service the company has given from the start pretty nearly proves that there was crooked work there. how do you get around that?" "you'll have to believe what i say, that we will handle it all to the satisfaction of the public. but smashing a bank won't help any. we're trying to manage in such way that no innocent party will suffer." "well, there's nothing innocent about these holtons. sam died and got out of it, but will and this young charlie are off the same block. and now jack's come back to make trouble for them. i don't see myself jumping in to protect these fellows; if they've got themselves in a hole, let them wiggle out." "you're not talking like a reasonable human being, barker. try to overcome personal prejudices. just remember that several hundred people--our friends and neighbors--are going to be hurt if the bank fails. i've just headed off waterman. he was about to bring suit for a receiver on behalf of one of the local bondholders on the ground of mismanagement. that would be a mistake. it's in our plans to bring up the road's efficiency at once. the trustee is in a position to do that. i want you to help me quiet these disturbing rumors. if i didn't believe it would all come out right, i'd tell you so very frankly." barker shrugged his shoulders and walked to his desk. he read phil's introduction and the accompanying statement with kirkwood's name attached. "all right, tom. but remember that this is personal to you; i wouldn't do it for any other man on earth." "you're doing it for the town, barker. we're all friends and neighbors here; and i give you my word that you won't regret it. i've got to run, phil. sorry; but i'll be back in a day or two. how are nan and rose?" "fine." "nan staying with you?" "no; i've moved over there for a few days." "that's all right. give them my compliments." the door closed on him as barker came back from the composing-room, where he had carried the sycamore article and ordered it double-leaded. phil, gathering up her belongings, lingered for a word. barker ripped the wrapper from an exchange absently. "phil, you've never suspected your father of being a little touched in his upper story, have you?" "that short-circuited; say it some other way," observed phil, buttoning her glove. "that dad of yours, phil, if he ain't plumb crazy, is the whitest white man that ever trod the footstool. i always suspected him of being tolerably highminded, but i guess if ever a man climbed on top of his soul and knew that he was the boss of it with the help of almighty god, that man is tom kirkwood. it's got me fuddled, phil. it's addled me like the report of a tariff commission or an argument for government ownership of laying hens; but i respect it, and i admire it. be good to your daddy. so far as i know he hasn't any competition in his class." phil pondered this as she walked toward buckeye lane. it was not necessary for her to understand the intricacies of the traction company's troubles to realize that her father had interceded for the holtons. barker's praise of him warmed her heart. she knew that her father was by no means tame and bloodless. in many long talks, tramping and camping, they had discussed nearly every subject under the sun; and she knew that his wrath blazed sometimes at the evils and wrongs of the world. once she had gone unbidden to the court-house to hear him speak in a criminal case, where he had volunteered to defend an italian railroad laborer who had been attacked by a gang of local toughs and in the ensuing fight had stabbed one of his assailants. kirkwood was not an orator by the accepted local standard,--a standard established by "dan" voorhees and general "tom" nelson of an earlier generation,--but that afternoon, after pitilessly analyzing the state's case, he had yielded himself to a passionate appeal for the ignorant alien that had thrilled through her as great music did. she had never forgotten that; it had given her a new idea of her father. there had been something awful and terrifying in his arraignment of the witnesses who sought to swear away the cowed prisoner's liberty. her father's gentleness, his habitual restraint, had seemed finer and nobler after that. in the nature of her upbringing phil had developed the habit of thinking her way out of perplexities. her intimate knowledge of the history and traditions of montgomery furnished the basis for a healthy philosophy, and the wide range of her well-directed reading had opened doors that let in upon her intelligence much of the light and shadow of human experience. happiness was not, she knew, an inalienable right, but something to be sought and worked for. her thoughts played about her father and his life--that broken column of a life, with its pathetic edges! what would become of him and nan, now that she knew nan loved him, and imaginably, he loved her? for the first time in her life she found her face pressed against a dark pane, unable to see light. she was conscious that some one was walking rapidly behind her, and she whirled round as her name was spoken. it was fred holton, who had evidently been following her. "why so formal! why didn't you whistle?" she asked, shaking hands with him. "those birds you sent me were meat for gods. 'then mighty jove, grabbing the last brown quail from off the plate, shouted, "for gods alone such food"; and bade dian to skip, with bow well bent, and bring a billion birds to grace another feast.'" "if dian filled that order," said fred, "it would get her into trouble with the game warden." "that was one good thing about the gods," remarked phil as he caught step with her; "they didn't have to be afraid of policemen. how did you come to tear yourself loose from stop to-day?" "trouble, if you want the real truth." they had reached the college and were walking along the buckeye lane side of the campus. fred was wrapped in his ulster and wore an old fur cap with its ear-flaps gathered up and tied on top. now that the first pleasure of the meeting had passed, an anxious look had come into his face. he stared straight ahead, walking doggedly. "i came into town to see your father, but i just missed him. i wanted to talk to him." "he hasn't been in town much lately and he was only here for an hour this morning. but he'll be back in a few days." "i'm sorry," said fred, "not to see him to-day." just what business he had with her father she could not imagine; but she was sorry for his trouble, whatever it might be. in her recent reflections touching the holtons she had not thought of fred at all; nor did it occur to her now that he was in any way concerned with the sycamore difficulties. "miss kirkwood--" "well, mr. holton, if you will be real nice, i'll let you call me phil. i met you before i grew up--that night i danced in the cornfield. the moon introduced and chaperoned us, after a fashion, so we'll consider that you belong to the earlier period of what might be called my life. that was my last fling. when i came home that night i was a grown-up. how do you like that, fred?" "more than i care to say!" and his face lighted. he realized perfectly that knowing his diffidence she was trying to make things easier for him, just as she had at her party. phil was wondering whether she dared ask him to go to the bartletts' with her for luncheon. "it's lonesome, phil, not having anybody to talk to about your troubles. there are times when we've got to lean up against advice." "they say i never do much leaning," phil replied. "my aunts say it. there ought to be a place like a post-office where you could poke in a question and get the answer right back; but there isn't." "our folks are in a lot of trouble, according to the papers," said fred. "that's what i wanted to see your father about." "oh!" "i felt that i ought to see him as soon as possible." "i wouldn't trouble about what's in the papers. that's what my father came back for to-day--to head off the home papers about the traction company." "just how do you mean?" he asked, clearly puzzled. "i thought he was on the other side of the case." "well, the 'star' this evening will say that everything will be all right, and for people not to get excited. i don't see why you should bother. you're a farmer and not mixed up in the traction business." he seemed not to notice when they reached and passed the bartletts', though she had told him she was going there for luncheon. "they say charlie didn't play straight in settling father's estate; that it's going to be opened up and that we've got to give back what we got from it. the 'advertiser' had all that this morning. perry brought me his paper and we talked it over before i came in. he said it wasn't any of my business; but i think it is. we owe it to father--all of us--if there's anything wrong, to show our willingness to open up the estate. i thought i'd like to tell your father that." "we've got to turn back here. i understand how you feel, but i can't advise you about that. that article said you weren't responsible--it said in very unpleasant words that you had been robbed, and that giving you the farm and making you think that was your fair share was a part of the fraud. if they should go into that, you might get a lot more. isn't that so?" "i don't believe charlie did it; i don't believe it any more than i believe that my father made money unfairly out of the building of the trolley line. but it's up to us to reply to this attack in a way to stop all criticism. we can't have people thinking such things about us," he went on more earnestly. "it's ghastly! and i'm going to surrender the farm; i won't keep it if these things are true or half true. i won't hold an acre of it until these questions are settled!" "that sounds square enough. but i don't know anything about it. just on general principles, as long as you're not mixed up in the fuss, i'd hang on to my farm, particularly if you were entitled to more than you got. but you need a lawyer, not a girl to talk to." "i suppose that's so; and i oughtn't to have talked to you about it at all. but somehow--" they had reached the bartletts' again and phil paused with her hand on the gate. she had decided not to ask him in to luncheon; his mood was not one that promised well for a luncheon party; and nan, at least, had clearly manifested her unfriendliness toward all the holtons. "somehow, i felt that i'd like to tell you how i felt about it. i shouldn't want you to think we were as bad as that story in the 'advertiser' makes us out." "that's all right, fred. this will all come out right"; and phil swung open the gate and stepped into the little yard. "i want," said fred, detainingly, speaking across the gate; "i want you to think well of me! i care a good deal about what you think of me!" "oh, everybody thinks well of you!" answered phil, and caught up the drumstick and announced herself. chapter xiv turkey run a week before christmas mrs. william holton gave a sleigh-ride and skating-party for a niece from memphis, and phil was invited. she mentioned the matter to her father, and asked him what she should do about it. he had come back from indianapolis in good spirits, and told her that the affairs of the traction company had been adjusted and that he hoped there would be no more trouble. he seemed infinitely relieved by the outcome, and his satisfaction expressed itself to her observing eyes in many ways. the confidence reposed in him by his old friend, the counsel of the desbrosses trust & guaranty company, had not only pleased him, but the success that had attended his efforts to adjust the traction company's difficulties without resorting to the courts had strengthened his waning self-confidence. he even appeared in a new suit of clothes, and with his beard cut shorter than he usually wore it,--changes that evoked the raillery in which phil liked to indulge herself. he was promised the care of certain other western interests of the trust company, and he had been offered a partnership in indianapolis by one of the best lawyers in the state. "things are looking up, phil. if another year had gone by in the old way, i should have been ready for the scrap heap. but i miss the cooking our poverty introduced me to; and i shan't have any more time for fooling with excursions into picardy with the gray knight. by the way, i found some strange manuscript on my desk at the office to-day. if you've take up the literary life you'll have to be careful how you leave your vestigia in lawyers' offices. it was page eighteen of something that i took the liberty of reading, and i thirsted for more." she had not told him about "the dogs of main street," wishing to wait until she could put the magazine containing it into his hands. under the stimulus of the acceptance of her sketch she had been scratching vigorously in her spare moments. having begun with dogs she meditated an attack upon man, and the incriminating page she had left behind in her father's office was a part of a story she was writing based upon an incident that had occurred at a reunion of captain wilson's regiment that fall in montgomery. a man who had been drummed out of the regiment for cowardice suddenly reappeared among his old comrades with an explanation that restored him to honored fellowship. phil had elaborated the real incident as captain wilson described it, and invested it with the element of "suspense," which she had read somewhere was essential to the short story. phil was living just now in a state of exaltation. she began a notebook after the manner of hawthorne's, and was astonished at the ease with which she filled its pages. now that her interest was aroused she saw "material" everywhere. the high school had given her german and french, and having heard her father say that the french were the great masters of fiction, she addressed herself to balzac and hugo. the personalities of favorite contemporaneous writers interested her tremendously, and she sought old files of literary periodicals that she might inform herself as to their methods of work. she kept lamb and stevenson on the stand by her bed and read them religiously every night. there had never been any fun like this! her enjoyment of this secret inner life was so satisfying that she wished no one might ever know of it. she wrote and rewrote sentences and paragraphs, thrust them away into the drawers of the long table in her room to mellow--she had got this phrase from nan,--and then dug them out in despair that they seemed so lifeless. she planned no end of books and confidently set down titles for these unborn masterpieces. nan and rose marked the change in her. at times she sat with her chin in her hand staring into vacancy. the two women speculated about this and wondered whether her young soul was not in the throes of a first love affair. now that fortune smiled upon her father phil's happiness marked new attitudes, with no cloud to darken the misty-blue horizons of her dreams. she meant to be very good to her father. and as to his marrying nan, she was giving much time to plots for furthering their romance. "fred holton was looking for you the other day. i suppose you haven't seen him." "yes; he came to indianapolis and saw me at the hotel. i remember that he was at your party, but i don't recall how you got acquainted with him?" phil laughed. "oh, that last night we camped at turkey run i wandered off by myself and met him in the funniest fashion, over by the holton barn. they were having a dance--charlie and ethel, and fred was watching the revel from afar, and saw me dancing like an idiot round the corn-shocks. and i talked to him across the fence and watched the dance in the barn until you blew the horn. i didn't tell you about it because it seemed so silly--and then i thought you wouldn't like my striking up acquaintances with those people. but fred is nice, i think." "he seems to be a very earnest young person. he came to me on a business matter in a spirit that is to his credit." phil had decided, in view of nan's unlooked-for arraignment, to give her father another chance to express himself as to her further social relations with the holtons. "daddy dear, i want you to tell me honestly whether you have any feeling about those people," she said when they were established at the fireside for the evening. "of course, you know that one's aunts were responsible for asking them to amy's party; it wasn't amy's doings; but if you want me to keep clear of them i'll do it. please tell me the truth--just how you feel about it." "phil," said kirkwood, meeting her eyes steadily, "those aunts of yours are silly women--with vain, foolish, absurd ideals. they didn't consult me about asking the holtons because i'm a stupid old frump, and it didn't make any difference whether i'd like it or not. but i'm eternally grateful that they did it; and i'm glad that other man came back just as he did. for all those things showed me that the years have blotted out any feeling i had against them. i haven't a bit, phil. maybe i ought to have; but however that may be there's no bitterness in my soul. and i'm glad i've discovered that; it's a greater relief to me than i can describe." his smile, the light touch he gave her hands, carried conviction. the discussion seemed to afford him relief. "so far as the holtons concern me, there's peace between our houses. it's perfectly easy for a man to shoot another who has done him a wrong; but it doesn't help any, for,"--and he smiled the smile that phil loved in him--"for the man being dead can't know how much his enemy enjoys his taking off! murder, as a fine art, phil, falls short right there." he had not mentioned her mother; and phil wondered whether she too shared this amnesty. it was inconceivable that he should have forgiven the man if he still harbored hatred of the woman. with a sudden impulse she rose and caught his face in her hands. "why don't you marry nan, daddy?" she saw the color deepen in his cheeks and a startled look came into his eyes. "what madness is this, phil?" he asked, with an effort at lightness. "it means that i think it would be nice--nice for you and nan and nice for me. i can see her here, sitting right there in that chair that she always sits in when she comes. i think it would be fun--lots of fun for her to be here all the time, so we wouldn't always be trailing over there." he laughed; she felt that he was not sorry that she had spoken of nan. "are we always trailing over there? i suppose they really are our best friends. but there is rose, you know. wouldn't she look just as much at home in her particular chair as nan?" "well, rose is fine, too, but rose is different." "oh, you think there's a difference, do you?" he picked up a book, turned over the leaves idly, and when he spoke again it was not of nan. "if you want to go to mrs. holton's party it's all right, phil. i suppose most of the young people will be there." "yes; it's a large party." "then go and have a good time. and phil--" "yes, daddy." "be careful what foolish notions you get into your head." * * * * * mrs. william holton undeniably did things with an air. it may have been an expression of her relief at having disposed of jack holton so quickly and effectively--he had vanished immediately after his interview with william in the bank--that her sleigh-ride and skating-party as originally planned grew into a function that well-nigh obscured phil's "coming-out." it began with a buffet luncheon at home, followed by the ride countryward in half a dozen bob-sleds and sleighs of all descriptions. it was limited to the young people, and phil found that all her friends were included. ethel and charles holton had come over from indianapolis to assist their aunt in her entertainment. "mighty nice to find you here!" said charles to phil as he stood beside her on the sidewalk waiting for their appointed "bob." "and you may be sure i'm glad to get a day off. i tell you this business life is a grind. it's what general sherman said war is. i suppose your father told you what a time we've been having straightening out the traction tangle. scandal--most outrageous lying--but that father of yours is a master negotiator. he ought to be in the diplomatic service." he looked at her guardedly with a quick narrowing of the eyes. "oh, i suppose it wasn't really so serious," said phil indifferently. "father never brings business home with him and i only know that i don't like having him away so much." "yes," said holton, "i don't doubt that you miss him. but montgomery is getting gay. over in indianapolis there's more doing, of course, and bigger parties; but they don't have the good old home flavor. it's these informal gatherings of boys and girls who have known each other all their lives that count." it was the brightest of winter days, with six inches of snow, and cold enough to set young blood tingling. they set off with a merry jingling of bells and drove through town to advertise their gayety before turning countryward. the destination was turkey run, that fantastic anomaly of the hoosier landscape, where montgomery did much of its picnicking. a scout sent ahead the day before had chosen a stretch of ice where the creek broadened serenely after its bewilderingly tumultuous course through the gorge. there the ice was even and solid and the snow had been scraped away. in the defile, sheltered by its high rocky banks, bonfires were roaring. the party quickly divided itself into twos--why is it that parties always effect that subdivision with any sort of opportunity?--and the skaters were off. phil loved skating as she loved all sports that gave free play to her strong young limbs. the hero of the thanksgiving football game had attached himself to her, but phil, resenting his airs of proprietorship, deserted him after one turn. as her blood warmed, her spirits rose. the exercise and the keen air sent her pulses bounding. it was among the realizations of her new inner life that physical exercise stimulated her mental processes. to-day lines, verses, couplets--her own or fragments of her reading--tumbled madly over each other in her head. no one ranged the ice more swiftly or daringly. she had put aside her coat and donned her sweater--not the old relic of the basketball team, but a new one from her fall outfit, which included also the prettiest of fur toques. the color was bright in her cheeks and the light shone in her eyes as she moved up and down the course with long, even strides or let herself fly at the boundaries, or turned in graceful curves. skating was almost as much fun as swimming, and even better fun than paddling a canoe. she kept free of companions for nearly an hour, taunting those who tried to intercept her, and racing away from several cavaliers who combined in an effort to corner her. then having gained the heights of her imaginings, she was ready to be a social being once more. charles holton, who had viewed her flights with admiration as he helped the timid and awkward tyros of the company, swung into step with her. "it's wonderful how you do it? please be kind to me a mere mortal!" he caught her pace and they moved along together at ease. her mood had changed and she let him talk all he liked and as he liked. they had met twice at parties since she had snubbed him at amzi's the night of her presentation, and he had made it plain that he admired her. he contrasted advantageously with the young gentlemen of montgomery. he was less afraid of being polite, or his politeness was less self-conscious and showed a higher polish. he had twice sent her roses and once a new novel, and these remembrances had not been without their effect. it was imaginable that his tolerance of the simple sociabilities of montgomery was attributable to an interest in phil, who dreamed a great deal these days; and there was space enough in the ivory tower of her fancy to enshrine lovers innumerable. charles was a personable young man, impressionable and emotional, and not without imagination of his own. her humor, and the healthy common-sense philosophy that flowered from it, were the girl's only protection from her own emotionalism and susceptibility. even in the larger world of the capital there was no girl as pretty as phil, charles assured himself; she was not only agreeable to look at, but she piqued him by her indifference to his advances. his usual cajoleries only provoked retorts that left him blinking, not certain whether they were intended to humble him or to stimulate him to more daring efforts. "you're the only girl in the bunch who skates as though she loved it. you do everything as though it was your last hour on earth and you meant to make the most of it. i like that. it's the way i feel about things myself. if i had your spirit i'd conquer the world." "well, the world is here to be conquered," said phil. "what peak have you picked to plant your flag on?" "oh, i want money first--you've got to have it these days to do things with; and then i think i'd like power. i'd go in for politics--the governor's chair or the senate. if father hadn't died he could have got the governorship easy; he was entitled to it and it would have come along just in the course of things. what would you like to do best of all?" "if i told you, you wouldn't believe it. i don't want a thing i haven't got--not a single thing. on a day like this everything is mine--that long piece of woods over there--black against the blue sky--and the creek underfoot--i couldn't ask for a single other thing!" "but there must be a goal you want to reach--everybody has that." "oh, you're talking about to-morrow! and this is to-day. and sufficient unto the day is the joy thereof. if i ever told anybody what i mean to do to-morrow, it would be spoiled. i'm full of dark secrets that i never tell any one." "but you might tell me--i'm the best possible person to tell secrets to." "i can't be sure of that, when i hardly know you at all." "that's mighty cruel, you know, when i feel as though i had known you always." he tried to throw feeling into this, but the time and place and her vigorous strides over the ice did not encourage sentiment. "you oughtn't to tell girls that you feel you have known them always. it isn't complimentary. you ought to express sorrow that they are so difficult to know and play the card that you hope by great humility and perseverance one day to know them. that is the line i should take if i were a man." he laughed at this. there were undoubted fastnesses in her nature that were not easily attainable. she seemed to him amazingly mature in certain ways, and in others she was astonishingly childlike. "they say you're a genius; that you're going to do wonderful things," he said. "who says it?" asked phil practically, but not without interest. "oh, my aunt says it; she says other people say it." "well, my aunts haven't said it," remarked phil. "according to them my only genius is for doing the wrong thing." "we needn't any of us expect to be appreciated in our own families. that's always the way. you read a lot, don't you?" "i like to read; but you can read a lot without being a genius. geniuses don't have to read--they know it all without reading. so there's that." "i'll wager you write, too;--confess now that you do!" "letters to my father when he's away from home--one every night. but he isn't away very much." "but stories and things like that. yes; don't deny it: you mean to be a writer! i'm sure you can succeed at that. lots of women do; some of the best writers are women. you will write novels like--like--george eliot." phil laughed her derision of the idea. "she knew a lot; more than i could ever know if i studied all my life. but there's only one george eliot; i'm hardly likely--just phil kirkwood in montgomery, indiana,--to be number two." the direction of the talk was grateful to her. it was pleasant to feel the warmth of his interest in her new secret aims without having to acknowledge them. it was flattering that he surmised the line of her interests, and spoke of them so kindly and sympathetically. "i try to do some reading all the time," he went on; "but a business man hasn't much chance. still, i usually keep something worth while on the center table, and when i travel i carry some good book with me. i like pictures, too, and music; and those things you miss in a town like montgomery." "well, montgomery is interesting just the same," said phil defensively. "the people are all so nice and folksy." he hastened to disavow any intention of slurring the town. he should always feel that it was home, no matter how far he might wander. he explained, in the confidence that seemed to be establishing itself between them, that there was a remote possibility that he might return to montgomery and go into the bank with his uncle, who needed assistance. it was desirable, he explained, to keep the management of the bank in the hands of the family. "you know," he went on, "they printed outrageous stories about all of us in the 'advertiser.' they were the meanest sort of lies, but i'd like you to know that we met the issue squarely. i've turned over to your father as trustee all the property they claimed we had come by dishonestly. the world will never know this, for your father shut up the newspapers--it was quite wonderful the way he managed it all;--and, of course, it doesn't make any difference what the world thinks. this was my affair, the honor of my family, and a matter of my own conscience." her knowledge of the traction muddle was sufficient to afford a background of plausibility for this highminded renunciation. there was something likable in charles holton. his volubility, which had prejudiced her against him in the beginning, seemed now to speak for a frankness that appealed to her. there was no reason for his telling her these things unless he cared for her good opinion; and it was not disagreeable to find that this man, who was ten years her senior and possessed of what struck her as an ample experience of life, should be at pains to entrench himself in her regard. as she made no reply other than to meet his eyes in a look of sympathetic comprehension, he went on:-- "you won't mind my saying that we were all terribly cut up over uncle jack's coming back here; but i guess we've disposed of him. i don't think he's likely to trouble montgomery very much. uncle will had it out with him the day after he showed up so disgracefully at your party; and, of course, uncle jack would never have done that if he had been himself. he went to indianapolis and tried to make a lot of trouble for all of us, but that was where your father showed himself the fine man he is. i guess it isn't easy to put anything over on that father of yours; he's got the brains and character to meet any difficulty squarely." phil murmured her appreciation. they had paused in the middle of the course and were idly cutting figures, keeping within easy conversational range. "your initials are hard to do," said holton, backing into line beside her and indicating the letters his skates had traced on the surface. the "p. k." was neatly done. phil without comment etched a huge "c" and then cut an "h" within its long loop. "splendid! you are the best skater i ever saw! i'd like to cut that out and keep it in cold storage as a souvenir." this did not please her so much as his references to her hidden ambitions, and seeing that she failed to respond, and fearing one of her taunts, he led the way toward the gorge. it was four o'clock, and already shadows were darkening the deep vale where most of the skaters had now gathered about the bonfires. phil's popularity was attested by the tone in which the company greeted her. she sat down on a log and entered into their give-and-take light-heartedly, while holton unfastened her skates. he had found her coat and thrown it round her shoulders. he was very thoughtful and attentive, and his interest in her had not gone unremarked. "we were just wondering," said one of the girls, "whether anybody here was sport enough to scale that wall in the winter? we've saved that for you, phil." phil lifted her head and scanned the steep slope. she had scaled it often; in fact one of her earliest remembered adventures had been an inglorious tumble into the creek as the reward of her temerity. that was in her sixth year when she had clambered up the cliff a few yards in pursuit of a chipmunk. "i haven't done that for several moons; but i have done it, children. there wouldn't be any point in doing it, of course, if anybody else had done it--i mean to-day, with ice all over the side." "you mustn't think of it, phil," said mrs. holton, glancing up anxiously. "i shan't think of it, mrs. holton, unless somebody says it can't be done. i'm not going to take a dare." "just for that," said charles, "i'm going to do it myself." "better not tackle it," said one of the college boys, eyeing the cliff critically. "i've done it in summer, and it's hard enough then; but you can see how the ice and snow cover all the footholds. you'd have to do it with ropes the way they climb the alps." holton looked at phil as she sat huddled in her coat. it was in her eyes that she did not think he would attempt it, and he resented her lack of faith in his courage. "i don't think," she remarked, helping herself to a sandwich, "that anybody's going to be cruel enough to make me do it." "if i do it," said holton, "no one else will ever have to try it again in winter. it will be like discovering the north pole--there's nothing in it for the second man." "you're not going to try it! please don't!" cried mrs. holton. "if you got hurt it would spoil the party for everybody." "don't worry, aunt nellie. it's as easy as walking home." he was already throwing off his overcoat, measuring the height and choosing a place for his ascent. amid a chorus of protests and taunts he began climbing rapidly. phil rose and watched him with sophisticated eyes as he began mounting. she saw at once that he had chosen the least fortunate place in the whole face of the declivity for an ascent. there were two or three faintly scratched paths, by which the adventurous sometimes struggled to the top, and she had herself experimented with all of them; but holton had essayed the most precipitous and hazardous point for his attempt. at the start he sprang agilely up the limestone which for a distance thrust out rough shelves with ladder-like regularity; and when this failed, he caught at the wild tangle of frozen shrubbery and clutched the saplings that had hopefully taken root wherever patches of earth gave the slightest promise of succor. as his difficulties increased a hush fell upon the spectators. he accomplished half the ascent, and paused to rest, clinging with one hand to a slender maple. he turned and waved his cap, and was greeted with a cheer. "better let it go at that!" called one of the young men. "come on back." charles flung down a contemptuous answer and addressed himself to the more difficult task beyond. particles of ice and frozen earth detached by his upward scramble clattered down noisily. withered leaves, shaken free from niches where the winds had gathered them, showered fitfully into the valley. he began drawing himself along by shrubs and young trees that covered a long outward curve in the face of the cliff. those below heard the crackle of frozen twigs, and the swish of released boughs that marked his progress. phil stood watching him with an absorbed interest in which fear became dominant. better than the others phil knew the perils of the cliff, the scant footholds offered by even the least formidable points in the rough surface. he was rounding the bulging crag with its sparse vegetation when, as he seemed to have cleared it safely, a sapling that he had grasped for a moment yielded, and he tumbled backward. those below could see his frantic struggles to check his descent as his body shot downward with lightning-like swiftness. a short clump of bushes caught and held him for an instant, then gave way, and they saw him struggling for another hold. then a shelf of rock caught him. he lay flat for a moment afraid to move, and those below could not see him. then he sat up and waved his cap, and shouted that he was safe. the awe-struck crowd hardly knew what phil was doing until she had crossed the ice and begun to climb. while charles was still crashing downward, she had run to a favorable point her quick eyes had marked and was climbing up a well-remembered trail. the snow and ice had increased its hazards, and an ominous crackling and snapping of twigs attended her flight. "come back! come back!" they called to her. half a dozen young men plunged after her; but already well advanced, she cried to them not to follow. "tell him to stay where he is," she called; and was again nimbly creeping upward. there was no way to arrest or help her, and she had clearly set forth with a definite purpose and could not be brought back. cries of horror marked every sound as her white sweater became the target of anxious eyes. the white sweater paused, hung for tremulous instants, was lost and discernible again. a frozen clod, loosened as she clutched at the projecting roots of a young beech, ricocheted behind her. her course, paralleling that taken by holton, was about ten yards to the left of it. to those below it seemed that her ascent was only doubling the hour's peril. charles, perched on the rock that had seemingly flung out its arm to save him, was measuring his chances of escape without knowing that phil was climbing toward him. as she drew nearer he heard the sounds of her ascent, and peering over saw the sweater dangling like a white ball from the cliff-side. "go down, phil! you can't make it; nobody can do it! tell the boys to get a rope," he shouted. "please go back!" already messengers had run for assistance, but the little cañon in its pocket-like isolation was so shut in that it was a mile to the nearest house. along the tiny thread of a trail, transformed by sleet and snow until it was scarcely recognizable, phil pressed on steadily. charles, seeing that she would not go back, ceased his entreaties, fearing to confuse or alarm her. her hands caught strong boughs with certainty; the tiny twigs slapped her face spitefully. here and there she flung herself flat against the rocky surface and crept guardedly; then she was up dancing from one vantage-point to another, until finally she paused, clinging to a sapling slightly above holton. when she had got her breath she called an "all right!" that echoed and reëchoed through the valley. "you thought you could do it, didn't you?" she said mockingly; "and now i've had to spoil my clothes to get you off that shelf." "for god's sake, stay where you are! there's nothing you can do for me. the boys have gone round to bring a rope, and until they come you must stay right there!" phil, still panting, laughed derisively. "you're perfectly ridiculous--pinned to a rock like prometheus--simeon on his pillar! but it wouldn't be dignified for you to let the boys haul you up by a rope. you'd never live that down. they'll be years getting a rope; and it would be far from comfortable to sit there all night." while she chaffed she was measuring distances and calculating chances. the shelf which had caught him was the broader part of a long edge of outcrop. phil beat among the bushes to determine how much was exposed, but the ledge was too narrow for a foothold. "please stop there and don't move!" holton pleaded. "if you break your neck, i'd never forgive myself, and i'd never be forgiven." phil laughed her scorn of his fears and began creeping upward again. the situation appealed to her both by reason of its danger and its humor; there was nothing funnier than the idea of charlie holton immured on a rock, waiting to be hauled up from the top of the cliff. she meant to extricate him from his difficulties: she had set herself the task; it was like a dare. her quick eyes searching the rough slope noted a tree between her and the shelf where holton clung, watching her and continuing his entreaties not to heed him, but to look out for her own safety. its roots were well planted in an earthy cleft and its substantial air inspired confidence. it had been off the line of his precipitous descent and he had already tried to reach it; but in the cautious tiptoeing to which his efforts were limited by the slight margin of safety afforded by the rock he could not touch it. "if i swing down from that tree and reach as far as i can, you ought to be able to catch my hand; and if you can i'll pull, and you can make your feet walk pitty-pat up the side." her face, aglow from the climb, hung just above him. she had thrown off her hat when she began the ascent and her hair was in disorder. her eyes were bright with excitement and fun. it was immensely to her liking--this situation: her blood sang with the joy of it. she addressed him with mocking composure. "it's so easy it isn't right to take the money." he protested that it was a foolish risk when he would certainly be rescued in a short time. she, too, must remain where she was until the ropes were brought. "they never do that way in books," said phil. "if i'd taken that tumble, some man would have rescued me; and now that you're there, it's only fair that i should pull you off. if i hadn't as good as told you you couldn't, you wouldn't be there. that's the simple philosophy of that. all ready! here goes!" clinging to the tree with her knees to get a better grip she swung herself down as far as possible. the sapling bent, but held stoutly. holton ceased protesting, held up his arms to catch her if she fell; then as she repeated her "ready," he tiptoed, but barely touched her finger-tips. she drew back slowly to gather strength for another effort. it was the most foolhardy of undertakings. only the tree, with its questionable hold upon the cliff-side, held her above the gorge. she strained her arms to the utmost; their finger-tips touched and she clasped his hand. there was a tense moment; then her aid making it possible, he dug his feet into the little crevices of the rocky surface and began creeping up. once begun there was no letting go. the maple under their combined weight curved like a bow. phil set her teeth hard; her arms strained until it seemed they would break. then, as holton began to aid himself with his free hand, his weight diminished, and in one of these seconds of relief, phil braced herself for a supreme effort and drew him toward her until he clutched the tree. he dragged himself up, and flung himself down beside her. neither spoke for several minutes. those of the party who remained below were now calling wildly to know what had happened. "trumpet the tidings that we are safe," said phil when she had got her breath. "that was awful; horrible! what did you do it for? it was so absurd--so unnecessary!" he cried, relief and anger mingling in his tone. "the horror of it--i'll never get over it as long as i live." "forget it," said phil. "it was just a lark. but now that it's over, i'll confess that i thought for about half a second--just before you began edging up a little--that i'd have to let go. but don't you ever tell anybody i said so; that's marked confidential." the note was obviously forced. her heart still pounded hard and weariness was written plainly in her face. now that the stress of the half-hour had passed, she was not without regret for what she had done. her father would not be pleased; her uncle would rebuke her sharply; her aunts would shudder as much at the publicity her wild adventure was sure to bring her as at the hazard itself. she was conscious of the admiration in holton's eyes; conscious, indeed, of something more than that. "i want to know that you did that for me: i must think so!" he said hoarsely. his lips trembled and his hands shook. her foolhardiness had placed both their lives in jeopardy. it pleased him to think that she had saved his life--whereas in strictest truth she had only added to his peril. "i didn't do it for you: i did it for fun," she replied shortly; and yet deep down in her heart she did not dislike his words or the intense manner in which he spoke them. her dallyings with boys of her own age, with only now and then a discreet flirtation with one of the college seniors, comprised her personal experiences of romance. "you are beautiful--wonderful! yours is the bravest soul in the world. i loved you the day i first saw you in your father's office. phil--" for a moment his hand lay upon hers that was trembling still from its grip of the tree. "we must climb to the top; the joke will be spoiled if we let them help us," she cried, springing to her feet. "come! the way will be easier along the old path." across the vale some one hallooed to them. her white sweater was clearly printed against the cliff and a man on the edge of the farther side stood with the light of the declining sun playing round him. the ravine narrowed here and the distance across was not more than a hundred yards. phil fluttered her handkerchief. "it's fred!" she said. "see! there by the big sycamore." fred waved his cap, then dropped his arm to his side and stood, a sentinel-like figure, at the edge of his acres, etched in heroic outline against the winter sky. his trousers were thrust into his boots; the collar of the mackinaw coat he wore at his work was turned up about his throat. he leaned upon an axe with which he had been cutting the coarser brush in the fence corners. the wind ruffled his hair as he stood thus, in the fading light. he had been busy all afternoon and quite unmindful of his aunt's party, to which, for reasons sufficient to that lady, he had not been bidden. a sense of his rugged simplicity and manliness seemed to be borne to phil across the ravine. something in fred holton touched her with a kind of pathos--there was in him something of her father's patience, and something of his capacity for suffering. as she looked he swung the axe upon his shoulders and struck off homeward across the fields. charles sprang ahead of her and began the remainder of the ascent. it was he who was now impatient. "we must hurry unless you want the crowd to carry us up." "let me go ahead," she answered, ignoring the hand he reached down to her, and eager to finish the undertaking. "there's nothing hard about the rest of it and i know every inch of the path." chapter xv lois a lady stepped from the westbound train at montgomery just at nightfall on the day before christmas. the porter of the parlor car pulled down more luggage than travellers usually bring to montgomery, and its surfaces were plastered with steamship and hotel labels. amzi montgomery, who had been lurking in the shadow of the baggage-room for some time, advanced and shook hands hurriedly. "well, lois!" "well, amzi!" in the electric-lighted shed the lady might have been seen to smile at the brevity and colorlessness of this exchange, or possibly at the haste with which amzi was crossing the platform to the hack-stand. "here are my checks, please, amzi. don't be discouraged--there are only six of them!" she said cheerfully; her remarks being punctuated by the thump of her trunks as they were tumbled out of the baggage-car. she stood glancing about with careless interest while amzi shouted for the transfer man. she trailed her umbrella composedly as she idled about the platform, refreshing herself with deep inhalations of the crisp december air, while amzi ordered the trunks delivered to his own house. her brother's perturbation was in no wise reflected in mrs. holton's manner. to all appearances she was at peace with the world, and evidently the world had treated her kindly. her handsome sables spoke for prosperity, her hat for excellent taste; she was neatly gloved and booted. she gave an impression of smoothness and finish. in her right hand she carried a tiny purse, which she loosened carelessly from time to time, letting it swing by its chain, and catching it again with a graceful gesture. "the town may have changed," she remarked, when amzi came back and put her into the dingy carriage, "but the hacks haven't. i recall the faint bouquet of old times. that must be the court-house clock," she continued, peeping from the window. "they were building the new courthouse about the time i left. i miss something; it must be the old familiar jiggle of the streets. asphalt? really! i suppose the good citizens have screamed and protested at the improvements, as good citizens always do. it's stuffy in here. if you don't mind, amzi, we'll have some air." she gave the strap a jerk and the window dropped with a bang. "how's your asthma these days? you never speak of yourself in your letters, and when i saw you in chicago i didn't like your wheeze." "thunder! i haven't got the asthma. i'm as fit as a fiddle. doctors tell me to watch my blood pressure and cut off my toddies. remember? i used to like 'em pretty well." "verily you did!"--and she laughed merrily. "you used to mix a toddy about once a month as near as i can remember. frightful dissipation! unless you've changed mightily, you're a model, amzi; a figure to point young men and maidens to. whee!" she exclaimed as the hack rattled across the interurban track in main street, "behold the lights! not so different from paris after all. what did i see there--hastings's theater? didn't that use to be the grand opera house? what a fall, my countrymen! that must be where our illustrious brother-in-law holds forth in royal splendor. what's his first name, amzi?" "lawr_i_nce," he replied, and she saw him grin broadly as the light from an overhead lamp shone upon them. "that's what phil calls him." "phil's at home, of course?" this was her first reference to phil, and she had spoken of her daughter carelessly, casually. amzi shuffled his feet on the hack floor. "i guess phil's back; she's been in indianapolis. phil's all right. there's nothing the matter with phil." he was so used to declaring phil's all-rightness to his other sisters that the defensive attitude was second nature. his tone was not lost upon lois and she replied quickly:-- "of course, phil's all right; i just wondered whether she were at home." "she's with tom," amzi added; and as the hack had reached his house he clambered out and bade the driver carry in the bags. she paused midway of the walk that led in from the street and surveyed the near landscape. this had been her father's house, and there within a stone's throw stood the cottage in which she had begun her married life. the street lights outlined it dimly, and her gaze passed on to the other houses upon the montgomery acres, in which her sisters lived. these had not been there when she left, and the change they effected interested her, though, it seemed, not deeply. the door was opened by a white-jacketed negro. "this is my sister, mrs. holton, jerry. you can take her things right up to the front room." "yes, sah. good-evenin', ma'am; good-evenin'. mighty fine weather we're havin'; yes, ma'am, it shore is cole." he helped her deftly, grinning with the joy of his hospitable race in "company," and pleased with the richness of the coat he was hanging carefully on the old rack in the hall. "tell sarah we'll have supper right away. want to go to your room now, lois?" "thanks, no; i'm hungry and the thought of food interests me. you don't dress for dinner, do you, amzi?" "thunder, no! i'll put on my slippers and change my collar. back in a minute." as he climbed the stairs she gave herself an instant's inspection in the oblong gilt-framed mirror over the drawing-room mantel, touching her hair lightly with her fingers, and then moved through the rooms humming softly. when amzi came down she met him in the hall. "well, old fellow, it's wonderful how you don't change! you're no fatter than you were twenty years ago, but your hair has gone back on you scandalously. kiss me!" she put her arm round his neck and when the kiss had been administered, patted his cheeks with her small delicate hands. supper was announced immediately and she put her arm through his as they walked to the dining-room. "it's a dear old house, just as it always was; and it's like your sentimental old soul to hang on to it. sentiment counts, after all, amzi. too bad you had to be a banker, when i distinctly remember how you used to drive us all crazy with your flute; and you did spout byron--you know you did! you ought to travel; there's nothing like it--a sentimental pilgrimage would brighten you up. if i couldn't move around i'd die. but i always was a restless animal. dear me! if this isn't the same old dinner service father bought when we were youngsters. it's wonderful that you've kept it; but i don't miss a thing. you've even hung on to the old double-barreled pickle thing and the revolving castor." she tasted her soup with satisfaction. "i can see that you are not averse to the fleshpots. i dare say your bachelor establishment is a model. don't the neighbors try to break in and steal the help? as i remember fanny she always took the easiest way round. which is kate's house, the one beyond the next, or the third?" "the second; she came next. there's nothing in between your old house and kate's place." amzi met his sister's eyes with a scrutiny that expressed mild surprise that she should thus make necessary a reference to her former domicile, and with somewhat less interest than she had taken in the ancestral china. to amzi her return was a fact of importance, and since receiving her telegram from new york announcing her visit to montgomery he had been in the air as to its meaning. jack holton's appearance only a few weeks earlier still agitated the gossips. he assumed that lois knew nothing of this, as, indeed, she did not; but there was nothing in his knowledge of his sister to encourage the belief that she would have cared if she had known. his old love for her warmed his heart as he watched her across the table. in the one interview he had had with her after her flight,--an hour's talk in chicago,--he had not so fully realized as now, in this domestic setting, how gracefully she bore her years and her griefs! it was this that puzzled him. sorrow was not written in her still youthful face, nor was it published in her fine brown eyes. they were singularly lovely eyes--retaining something of their girlish roguishness. his masculine eye saw no hint of gray in her brown hair. she was astonishingly young, not only in appearance but in manner, and her vivacity--her quick smile, her agreeable murmurous laughter--deepened his sense of her charm. she had not only been his favorite sister in old times; but through all these years he had carried her in his heart. and though his restraint yielded before her good humor he was appalled by the situations--no end of them!--created by her return. not a soul knew of her coming. as he reflected that his sisters were even then dining tranquilly in their several domiciles, quite oblivious of the erring lois's proximity, he inwardly chuckled. they had for years been "poor-loising" lois, and jack holton's re-appearance had strengthened their belief that she was in straitened circumstances, a pensioner on amzi; and they deplored any drain upon resources to which they believed themselves or their children after them justly entitled. they would be outraged to learn that the prodigal had reëntered by the front door of her father's house, followed by a wagonload of trunks, presumably filled with fine raiment. amzi did not know what had brought her back, nor did he care, now that he saw her across his table, enjoying tearlessly her fricassee chicken, and sipping the claret he always produced for a guest. the penitential husks which her sisters would have thought proper in the circumstances were not for lois. he could not imagine her, no matter how grievously she might sin, as meekly repenting in sackcloth and ashes. he wondered just what she meant to do now that she had come back; he wondered what her sisters and the rest of montgomery would do! the situation interested him impersonally. it sufficed for the moment that she was there, handsome, cheerful, amusing, for he had been seriously troubled about her of late. he was aware that a lone woman, with her history, and blessed or cursed with her undeniable charm, is beset by perils, and it was a comfort to see her under his roof, with no visible traces of the rust of time. she smiled into his eyes and lifted her glass. "to the old house, amzi!" he saw her lips quiver and her eyes fill. there was sincere feeling in her voice, but the shadow upon her spirit was a fleeting one. "i'm going to run up and change my shoes," she said as they left the table, and in a few moments he heard the click of her heels as she came down. "this is much cozier," she remarked, resting her smart pumps on the fender beside his worn leathern slippers. "now tell me about the girls; how do they get on?" he sketched for her briefly the recent history of the family, replying to her constant interruptions with the frankness she demanded. waterman she remembered; she had never seen fosdick or hastings. amzi's description of hastings amused her, and she laughed gayly at her brother's account of the former actor's efforts to lift the local dramatic standard. "so that's what kate did, is it? well, i suppose she has had some fun spending her money on him. alec waterman was always an absurd person, but from what you say i judge josie has held on to her money better than the others. alec never had sense enough to be a big spender." "thunder!" amzi ejaculated. "josie's broke like the rest of 'em. alec has a weakness for gold mines. that's cost a heap, and he doesn't earn enough practicing law to pay for the ice in josie's ice-box. fosdick lives up in the air--away up, clean out of sight. i figure that as a floorwalker in a department store hastings would be worth about twelve dollars a week; and fosdick might succeed as barker for a five-legged calf in a side-show; but alec's place in the divine economy is something i have never placed, and i defy any man to place it!" amzi was enjoying himself. it was with real zest that he hit off his brothers-in-law to this sister, who afforded him an outlet for long-stifled emotions. he had been honestly loyal to the three homekeeping sisters and to their husbands also for that matter; and the fact that he could at last let himself go deepened his sense of the sympathy and the understanding that had always existed between him and lois. he hated fuss; and his other sisters were tiresomely fussy and maddeningly disingenuous. in half an hour lois had learned all she cared to know of the family history. she merely dipped into the bin, brought up a handful of wheat, blew away the chaff, eyed the remaining kernels with a sophisticated eye, and tossed them over her shoulder. "as near as i can make out they're all broke; is that about it?" "just about," amzi replied. "they haven't mortgaged their homes yet, but if mrs. bill holton turns up with a new automobile next spring or gets some specially dazzling rags, i expect to see three nice fresh mortgages on those homes out there." "ah! mrs. william sets the pace, does she? it's a good thing father died before he saw the montgomerys trying to keep up with the holtons. william prospers?" "judged by mrs. bill's doings he does. by the way, jack has been back here." amzi turned to see what effect the mention of jack holton would have upon her; but in no wise embarrassed, with only a slight lifting of the brows, she said quickly:-- "i thought it likely. i suppose william ran to meet him--general love-feast and all that?" they were approaching delicate ground; but it seemed as well to go on and be done with it. he told her, more fully than he had recounted any other incident of the sixteen years, of phil's party; of the insistence of her sisters upon a reconciliation with the william holtons, and of jack's appearance on the threshold. his indignation waxed hot; the enormity of the offense was intensified by the fact that he was describing it to lois; it seemed even more flagrantly directed against her, now that he thought of it, than to phil or phil's father. he rose and stood with his back to the fire as he dilated upon it. lois frowned once or twice, but at the end she laughed, her light little laugh, saying:-- "and william has got rid of him, of course." "oh, they had it out the next day at the bank, but jack's not far away. he's been in indianapolis making trouble. he resented being kicked out of the bank--which is about what it came to. and bill bounced him with reason. he's in trouble. in spite of automobiles and the fine front they put up generally, bill and the first national are not so all-fired prosperous. tom's been trying to fix things up for them." "tom kirkwood?" she frowned again at the mention of her first husband, but appeared interested, listening attentively as he described the sycamore traction difficulties. "samuel always was a bad case. so it's come to this, that tom is trying to keep william out of jail? it's rather a pretty situation, as you think of it," she murmured. "just how does tom get on?" "tom didn't get on at all for a long time; but whenever he was pushed into a case he burnt himself up on it. tom was always that kind of a fellow--if the drums beat hard enough he would put on his war paint and go out and win the fight. there's a dreamy streak in tom; i guess he never boiled out all the college professor he had in him; but he's to the front now. they think a lot of him over at indianapolis; he's had a chance to go into one of the best law firms there. he's got brains in his head--and if--" his jaws shut with a snap, as he remembered that his auditor was a woman who had weighed tom kirkwood in the balance and found him wanting. lois noted his abrupt silence. she had clasped her knees and bent forward, staring musingly into the fire, as he began speaking of kirkwood. amzi's cheeks filled with the breath that had nearly voiced that "if." "if he hadn't married a woman who didn't appreciate him and who wrecked his life for him, there's no telling what he might have done." she finished his sentence dispassionately, and sat back in her chair; and as he blinked in his fear of wounding her by anything he might say, she took matters in her own hands. "i was a fool, amzi. there you have it all tied up in a package and labeled in red ink; and we needn't ever speak of it again. it's on the shelf--the top one, behind the door, as far as i'm concerned. i haven't come back to cry over spilt milk, like a naughty dairymaid who trips and falls on the cellar steps. i ought to; i ought to put on mourning for myself and crawl into center church on my knees and ask the lord's forgiveness before the whole congregation. but i'm not going to do anything of the kind. one reason is that it wouldn't do me any good; and the other is that i'd never get out of the church alive. they'd tear me to pieces! it's this way, amzi, that if we were all made in the same mould you could work out a philosophy from experience that would apply to everybody; but the trouble is that we're all different. i'm different; it was because i was different that i shook tom and went off with jack. of course, the other man is a worthless cur and loafer; that's where fate flew up and struck at me--a deserved blow. but when i saw that i had made a bad break, i didn't sit down and sob; i merely tried to put a little starch into my self-respect and keep from going clear downhill. tom's probably forgotten me by this time; he never was much of a hater and i guess that's what made me get tired of him. he always had the other cheek ready, and when i annoyed him he used to take refuge in the greek poets, who didn't mean anything to me." she smiled as though the recollection of the greek poets amused her and ran on in her low, musical voice:-- "when i saw i'd drawn a blank in jack holton, it really didn't bother me so much as you might think. of course, i was worried and humiliated at times; and there were days when i went into the telegraph office and went through the motions of sending for you to come and fish me out of my troubles. i tore up half a dozen of those messages, so you never heard me squeal; and then i began playing my own game in my own way. i hung a smile on the door, so to speak, and did my suffering inside. for ten years jack never knew anything about me--the real me. for a long time i couldn't quite come to the point of shaking him, and he couldn't shake me,--he couldn't without starving"; and she smiled the ghost of a grim little smile. "i suppose i wasn't exactly in a position to insist on a husband's fidelity, but when he began to be a filthy nuisance i got rid of him. just before i went abroad this last time i divorced him, and gave him enough to keep him running for a while. my story in a nutshell is this," and she touched her fingers lightly as she epitomized her personal history: "married at eighteen, to a gentleman; a mother at twenty; at twenty-three, ran off with a blackguard; married him in due course to satisfy the _convenances_. not forty yet and divorced twice! and here i am, tolerably cheerful and not so much the worse for wear." she waited for him to say something; but there appeared to be little for amzi to say. "i guess we all do the best we can, lois. you don't have to talk to me about those things. i'm glad you're back; that's all." he showed his embarrassment, shifting from one foot to the other, and rubbing his hand nervously across his head. "amzi, you're the best man in the world, and i didn't come back here to be a nuisance to you. i can sleep here and run off on the early train--i looked it up before i came. but i thought i'd like to see the house--and you in it--once more. it's a big world, and there are plenty of places to go. there's a lot of europe i haven't seen yet, and i like it over there. i have some good friends in dresden, and i promised them to come back. so don't feel that i'm on your hands. i'm not! i can clear out in the morning and nobody need know that i've been here." he walked up to her and laid his hands on her shoulders. he gasped at her suggestion of immediate flight. he had not known how much she meant to him; and oh, she was so like phil! it was phil who had danced in his mind while she summarized her life; it was the phil she did not know--had never known--and for whom, astonishingly, she had not asked beyond her casual inquiry as to the girl's whereabouts. nothing was clear in his mind save that lois must see and know phil. "i want you to stay, lois; you've got to stay. and everything's going to be all right." "please be square with me, amzi. this is a small town and a woman can't coolly break all the commandments and then come back and expect to be met with a brass band. you and i understand each other; but you've got to think of the rest of the family; my coming will doubtless outrage our sisters' delicate moral natures--i know that--and there's tom--it's hardly fair to him to come trailing back. and the town's too small for me to hide in--it was always a gossipy hole." he clasped her wrists tightly. the working of his face showed his deep feeling. not often in his life had he been so touched, so moved. two big tears rolled down his ruddy cheeks. "you've got to stay because of phil! i tell you there's nobody to think about but phil!" suddenly she threw her arms about his neck and burst into tears. "oh, i couldn't speak of her! you don't understand that it's because of phil i ought to go! you thought i was heartless about it, but it's not that i don't care. i'm afraid to see phil! i'm afraid!" "don't you worry about phil," he answered, digging the tears out of his eyes with his knuckles. "phil's all right," he concluded. he crossed the hall and when he returned, carrying a bulky photograph album, she had regained her composure, and stood holding her hands to the fire. "sit here and look at phil: i've got all her pictures from the time she was a baby. i guess you remember these first ones." she sat down by the center table and he turned up the gas in the blue-shaded lamp. she passed the baby pictures quickly, but looked closely at those that showed her daughter at school age. under each photograph amzi had written the date, so that as a record the collection was complete. there were half a dozen disclosures of phil in her m.h.s. sweater. amzi called attention to these with a chuckle. "nearly killed the girls; phil chasing round town in that thing! and here she's trigged out in her graduating clothes. i guess you'd have been proud of her that night. her piece was about tramp dogs; funniest thing you ever heard! and here she is--let me see--yes, that was last summer. those other things are just little snapshots; and here's a group showing phil with her class. phil in front--she was the head of her class all right!" he ended proudly. whatever emotions may have been aroused by this pictorial review of her child's life, lois outwardly made no sign. she murmured her pleasure at one and another of the pictures, looked closely at the latest in point of time, sighed and closed the book. "she looks like me, i suppose. is she taller?" "the least bit, maybe; but you're as like as two peas," answered amzi; and then added, with the diffidence of a man unused to graceful speeches, "i guess you'd almost pass for sisters. by george, lois, you're a wonder! you ain't a year older!" "that's no compliment, amzi! i ought to have changed," she replied soberly. "but there's gray in my hair if you know where to look, and the wrinkles are getting busy." "the more i think of it, the more remarkable the resemblance gets," he persisted, ignoring her confessions. "that doesn't make it any easier, amzi; please don't speak of that again." she tossed the book on the table, as though dismissing a disagreeable subject. "well," she said, "about going?" "you're not going," he replied with decision. "i won't let you go. i don't know how we're going to work it all out, but it won't be so bad. the girls have got to take it." she caught a gleam of humor in his eye. the displeasure of his other sisters at her return clearly had no terrors for him. it may have been that she herself shared his pleasure in the thought of their discomfiture. she crossed the hall, wandering aimlessly about, while he waited and wondered. when she returned she said with the brisk manner of one given to quick decisions:-- "i'm going to stay, amzi. but let us understand now that if i'm a trouble to you, or the rest of them make you uncomfortable, i'll clear out and go to the hotel, or set up a house of my own. so don't be silly about it. i'm a practical person and can take care of myself. i'm not on your hands, you know, financially speaking or any other way." "thunder! no!" this was the first time she had touched upon money matters. while she turned the leaves of the album, the clumsy baggage-men had pounded laboriously up the back stairs with her trunks, emphasizing the prosperity of which her visible apparel spoke. he was not without an acute curiosity as to the state of her fortunes. lois had always been a luxurious person, but she was, unaccountably, the only one of his sisters who had never asked him for money. he had made what they called "advances" to all of them and these had increased as their fortunes dwindled. there was something bafflingly mysterious here. it was a fair assumption that jack holton had spent lois's money long ago, and the fact that she had floated home with her flags flying and had just announced her ability to set up an establishment for herself was disquieting rather than reassuring. he was ashamed of his fears, but it was against reason that she should have escaped the clutches of a worthless blackguard like jack holton with any of her patrimony. now that she had announced her determination to remain her spirits rose buoyantly. the thought of meeting phil had shaken her; and yet that had been but a moment's fleeting shadow, as from a stray cloud wandering across a summer sky. when she referred to phil again, it was with a detachment at which he marveled. if he had not loved her so deeply and if his happiness at her return had been less complete, he should have thought her heartless. she had called herself "different"; and she was, indeed, different in ways that defied his poor powers of analysis. she was a mystifying creature. her assurance, her indifference toward the world in general, the cool fashion in which she had touched off on her pretty fingers the chief incidents of her life did not stagger him so much as they fascinated him. she was of his own blood, and yet it was almost another language that she spoke. she had brought down a box of bon-bons which she now remembered and urged him to try, moving fitfully about the room and poking at the box from time to time absently, while he volunteered information touching old friends. her interest in local history was apparently the slightest: he might have been talking of the gauls in the time of cæsar for all the interest she manifested in her contemporaries and their fortunes. he finally mentioned with dogged daring the bartletts whom she had known well; they had been exceedingly kind to phil, he said. her manner was so provokingly indifferent that he was at the point of bringing kirkwood into the picture in a last effort to shatter her unconcern. she bit a bon-bon in two, made a grimace of dissatisfaction, and tossed the remaining half into the fire. "oh, the bartlett girls! let me see, which was the musical one--rose or nan?" "rose. nan's literary. they're fine women, and they've been a mighty big help to phil," he persisted. "very nice of them, i'm sure," she said, yawning. the yawn reminded her that she was sleepy, and without prelude she kissed him, asked the breakfast hour, and went up to bed. he followed to make sure that she had what she needed, surveyed the trunks that loomed in the hall like a mountain range, and went below to commune with the fire. as he reviewed the situation, to the accompaniment of her quick, light patter on the guest-room floor, he was unable to key himself to a note of tragedy. the comedy of life had never been wasted on him, and it was, after all, a stupendous joke that lois should have come back almost as tranquilly as though she had been away for a week's visit. the longer he brooded the more it tickled him. she either was incapable of comprehending the problems involved in her return or meant to face them with the jauntiness which her troubled years had increased rather than diminished. life with her, he mused, was not a permanent book of record, but a flimsy memorandum, from which she tore the leaves when they displeased her and crumpled them into the wastebasket of oblivion. it was a new idea; but it had, he reflected, its merits. he went to the front door, as was his habit, to survey the heavens before retiring. the winter stars shone gloriously, and the night was still. the town clock boomed twelve, ushering in christmas. he walked a little way down the path as he counted the strokes, glanced up at lois's window, then across the hedges to the homes of the other daughters of the house of montgomery, chuckled, said "thunder!" so loudly that his own voice startled him, and went hurriedly in and bolted the door. chapter xvi merry christmas on every christmas morning it was the custom of amzi's sisters to repair with their several families to his house, carrying their gifts and bearing thence such presents as he might bestow. the fosdicks and the watermans had children, and these were encouraged to display themselves frequently at their uncle's. and amzi was kind and generous in his relations with all of them. amzi waterman and amzi fosdick, still in short trousers, had been impressed at their respective homes with the importance of ingratiating themselves with uncle amzi, and amzi, fully cognizant of this, was an ideal uncle to each impartially. mrs. fosdick hoped that her little susan would be as thoroughly established in amzi's regard as phil; there was always phil,--that unbridled, unbroken, fearless young mustang of a phil. amzi was down early giving the final revision to his list of presents. having found in years gone by that it was decidedly unsafe to buy gifts for his sisters, as they were never satisfied with his selections and poorly concealed their displeasure, he had latterly adopted the policy of giving each of them one hundred dollars in gold. ten was the usual hour for the family gathering, and as the clock struck, amzi began wandering through the house restlessly. occasionally he grinned, and said "thunder!" quietly to himself. in the night watches he had pondered the advisability of warning lois's sisters of her return; but he saw nothing to be gained by this. something of lois's serene indifference had communicated itself to him; and as an attentive student of the continuing human comedy he speculated cheerfully as to the length and violence of the impending storm. kirkwood had never participated in these christmas morning visits, and phil usually dropped in after her aunts had departed. it seemed easier to let fate take charge of the disclosure. a door slammed in the upper hall, and amzi heard the colored woman descending the back stairs. lois was having her breakfast in her room, an unprecedented circumstance in the domestic economy. then jeremiah was summoned to distribute the much-belabeled trunks. amzi's sensations during these unwonted excitements were, on the whole, not disagreeable. the invasion of his bachelor privacy was too complete for any minute analysis of what he liked or didn't like. it was a good deal of a joke,--this breakfasting in bed, this command of the resources of his establishment to scatter trunks about. as he crossed the hall he was arrested by a cheerful "merry christmas." lois, in a pink kimona, smilingly waved her hand from the top step where she sat composedly watching him. "merry christmas!" he called back. "here's a present for you,--got it in paris, special. if you don't like it, i'll trade you another for it. catch!" she tossed him a box containing a scarfpin, and she nursed her knees, humming to herself and clicking her slipper heels while he examined it. she interrupted his stammered thanks to ask whether any of the "folks" had been in yet. she had dressed her hair in the prevailing pompadour fashion, which was highly becoming; and the kimona imparted to her face a soft rose color. she was a pretty rose of a woman, and he leaned against the newel and regarded her with appreciation. "i slept like a top; it's as still as the woods around here. i suppose montgomery's never going to grow much; and it's just as well. what's property worth a front foot on main street,--oh, say within a couple of blocks of the court-house?" "about five hundred dollars, i guess." she lifted her head as though thinking deeply. "real estate's the only thing, if you get into it right. you were never much on speculation, were you, amzi? well, you were wise to keep out of it. it takes imagination--" she brushed the subject away gracefully. "you still own a farm or two?" "yes." "i always thought i'd like to go in for farming sometime. i've looked into the fruit business out west and there must be a lot of cheap land in indiana that would do splendidly for apples. there's no reason why you should have to pay the freight on apples all the way from oregon. ever tackled apples?" "yes; i have an orchard or two," he admitted wonderingly. if he had spent the night guessing what subject she would choose for a morning confab, apple culture would not have been on the list. he had thought that perhaps the day would bring a torrent of questions about old friends, but she seemed more aloof than ever. the pearl in his scarfpin was a splendid specimen; he roughly calculated that it represented an expenditure of at least a hundred dollars; and she had flung it at him as carelessly as though she were tossing cherries from a tree. "can i do anything for you about the trunks? you can have jerry as long as you like." "oh, i shan't work on that job all day. it's too much bother. i'll dig the stuff out gradually. i'll have to throw most of it away anyhow. i've got everything i own in that pile. i suppose i'd better get dressed--what did you say about the morning gathering,--is it a ceremonial affair?" "well, the girls have liked to do it that way,--all come in a bunch after their home doings." "that's very nice, really picturesque! i suppose they're all a lot of comfort to you, living alone this way. do they dine here to-day? how about tom and phil?" it was clear from her tone that the identity of his guests was a negligible matter. she mentioned her former husband without emotion, and her tone implied no particular interest in the answer. "we were all of us to dine with josie to-day; we sort o' move around, and it's her turn; but if you'd rather stay here we'll have dinner together or any way you like. tom never mixes up in the dinner parties. but phil will be here after a while; say about eleven. you'd better be ready." "certainly; i'll get into some other clothes right away." she stood, lifted her arms, and stretched herself lazily. "it's nice to see you looking so well; but sarah confided to me when she brought up my breakfast that you eat altogether too much. sarah's very nice; i like sarah. and i can see that jerry dotes on you. you're pampered, amzi; i can see that you don't resist the temptation to stuff yourself with sarah's cooking. i'd be a roly-poly myself if i didn't cut off starch and sweets now and then." there was a sound of steps at the front door, followed by a prolonged tinkle of the doorbell. amzi glanced up to make sure she was out of sight. he heard her humming as she passed down the hall to her room and then he rubbed his head vigorously as though rallying his wits in readiness for the invasion, and flung open the door. the two young amzis and little susan greeted him effusively and he yielded himself with avuncular meekness to their embraces. they had come bearing gifts which they bestowed upon him noisily, while the remainder of the delegation crowded in. his three sisters kissed him in succession, in the ascending order of age, and he shook hands with his brothers-in-law. "morning, amzi!" "morning, lawrence!" "morning, amzi!" "morning, paul!" "morning, amzi!" "morning, alec!" these greetings were as stiff as those that pass between a visiting statesman and the local yeomanry at a rural reception. lawrence, paul, and alec undoubtedly hated this perfunctory annual tribute to the head of the house of montgomery, but amzi liked the perpetuation of his father's house as a family center. it did not matter that greed and sentimentalism were back of his sisters' stubborn devotion to the montgomery tradition; with him it was an honest sentiment; and as to their avarice, to which he was not insensible, it should be said that charity was not least among his rugged virtues. he made a lark of opening his gifts for the delight of the children. a truce had been effected between the fosdicks and watermans by which each of the young amzis bestowed a box of neckties of approximately the same value upon their uncle. little susan gave him a muffler; the sisters had joined in a new easy chair which jeremiah now carried in; their husbands had combined in their usual tribute of cigars. a toy and a five-dollar gold-piece for each child; the little chamois-skin bags of gold-pieces for the sisters; a book for each brother-in-law, completed amzi's offerings. he announced to the children that he was going to build a toboggan in the back yard for their joint use just as soon as spring came. this was a surprise and called forth much joyous chorusing from the youngsters, whose parents viewed this pendant to the expected gifts with satisfaction, as indicating the increasing warmth of amzi's affection for their children. "you are always generous, amzi," said mrs. waterman fervidly. "you can put the toboggan on our lot if you like." "and cut down the trees! i should rather do without it than destroy a single one of the old beeches," averred mrs. hastings, who, having no children to enjoy the felicities of tobogganing, was not deeply interested in the project. "no trees shall be cut down," replied amzi quickly; "i'm going to put it on my own place. you can't tell but i may use it myself more or less--after dark. the children won't mind, and the doctors say i need exercise." mrs. waterman pinched her young amzi, who sweetly chirruped, "we'd love to have you use it, uncle amzi." "if uncle amzi falls off and breaks hims neck, it would be so fun-nee," piped susan delightedly. "susan!" exclaimed susan's mother, lifting a severe finger. "it _would_ be fun-nee. wouldn't it be fun-nee, aunt katie? danny holton, he fell off hims bicycle going down hims toboggan and breaked one leg; and it ain't got mended yet. and papa says uncle amzi's so fat an' he tumble on the ice it would smash him like a old cucumber. yes, i did, too, hear him say it. didn't you hear him say it, mamma?" mrs. fosdick had heard nothing of the kind, for the excellent reason, as her husband declared, that no such impious thought had ever crossed his mind, much less expressed itself in susan's presence. amzi roared with delight, caught up susan and planted her on his shoulder. even if paul fosdick really had compared him to a mature cucumber it did not greatly matter. fanny fosdick glared at her paul. all the adults present except amzi were plainly distressed. mrs. hastings, being childless and therefore entitled to her opinions as to the rearing of children, resolved that at last she must speak to fanny about susie. and all this embarrassment and irritation by the guileless susie had not disturbed amzi one whit. amzi had no intention of rewriting his will to punish susie, or her forbears. hastings, gloomily inhaling a cigarette, turned over the pages of the book which amzi had given him. it was a late study of the art of henry irving, and its bestowal had been a conscious flattery on amzi's part. still, it touched unhappy chords in hastings's bosom. who was better equipped than he to catch up the fallen mantle of irving? and here he lay impotent in the hands of the fates that had set him down in a dull village, without means even to hang a moving-picture screen upon the deserted stage of his theater. amzi, having crawled over the floor with susie at some personal inconvenience and distress, was now helping his namesakes to set up the engines he had given them, while their mothers murmured suggestions and warnings. waterman stood at the window looking out upon the snow-covered lawn. fosdick scanned the market page in amzi's copy of the indianapolis "advertiser." it was in waterman's mind that if he had the essential funds he might the next year renew his assaults upon the halls of congress. the brothers-in-law distrusted and disliked each other. each, after his fashion, was a failure; and the angle of their several failures had become acute. their wives made a brave showing to the public and to each other; there was always the montgomery pride to be sustained. amzi, having abandoned the field of engineering to his nephews, contemplated the scene philosophically with his back to the fire. his sisters discussed the annual ball to be given in january by the sons of montgomery. they were on the invitation committee, and were confronted with the usual problems of elimination. there was a standard to maintain, and the newells, who had just moved from ladoga, and set up a new house and a six-cylinder automobile, were, as every one was saying, _such_ nice people; and newell undoubtedly made a lot of money out of his sawmills; and all that. they were painfully conscious that their husbands were not amusing amzi or each other. "where's phil, amzi?" asked mrs. waterman. "phil hasn't showed up yet. i guess she'll be along pretty soon." "tom has had her with him over at indianapolis all week. i don't think he ought to take her over there, to run around town while he's busy. she's had so little experience, and with her heedlessness; and all--" mrs. waterman left the conclusion to their imaginations, and as amzi made no response and as the other gentlemen seemed indifferent, mrs. fosdick threw a bit of kindling upon the dull ashes of the conversation. "mary fanning said she saw phil on the street with a young man over at indianapolis, only last tuesday. it isn't fair of tom; or right, amzi--" "thunder! i heard what mary was saying. she saw phil in washington street, with charlie holton. what have you girls got against charlie? if it hadn't been for you phil wouldn't have known him." "oh, there's nothing against charlie; he's a fine fellow. i didn't know it was charlie," she ended weakly. "well, it was charlie. nan bartlett heard what mary was saying, and asked her about it, and that was all there was to it: she saw phil and charlie walking along washington street, just as they might walk down main street here at home if they happened to meet. and for that matter phil hasn't been depending on her father for amusement over there. she's been visiting the fitches--the lawyer fitch, of wright and fitch. tom's been offered a place in the firm; they're the best lawyers in indiana; and i guess there's nothing the matter with mrs. fitch, is there?" this was not only news, but it was astonishing news. mrs. fitch's name not only guaranteed a scrupulous chaperonage, but the fact that phil was a guest in her house was significant of tom kirkwood's standing at the capital and of phil's social acceptance by a woman whose name was constantly impressed upon all students of the society columns of the indianapolis newspapers. "the last time i was over i saw mrs. fitch in a box at the theater, and i must say that i couldn't do much for her clothes," remarked mrs. hastings. "you didn't have to do anything for them," said amzi amiably. "here, jerry, put that down on the side table." jeremiah had appeared with a tray that supported a huge bowl. this followed established custom: eggnog was always served at these gatherings of the clan. amzi sent the darky away and began filling the glasses, as he liked to serve the tipple himself. the faces of his brothers-in-law brightened. the persistence with which their wives fussed about phil exasperated them, and their attacks upon their niece, open or veiled, always roused amzi. and there was nothing whatever to be gained, as they knew from long experience, by suggesting phil's delinquencies. the husbands of phil's aunts admired phil; the more the girl annoyed her aunts, the more they admired her. "why doesn't phil come?" demanded fosdick. "the circle isn't complete without her." mrs. waterman had several times during the hour pricked up her ears at sounds above which she was unable to adjust to her knowledge of amzi's _ménage_. the step on the floor above was not that of the heavy-footed sarah, nor yet that of the shuffling jeremiah. sarah could be heard in the kitchen, and jeremiah was even now passing cakes and orange juice to the children at the dining-room table. "amzi, who's upstairs?" demanded mrs. waterman. "upstairs? thunder! a woman!" whereupon amzi, having handed round the eggnog, stood sipping a glass contentedly in his favorite post by the hearth. "a woman upstairs!" "yep. she's a woman." "amzi!" their backs grew rigid. they had never believed their brother capable of such a thing. they exchanged glances that telegraphed the horror of this depravity. if it had been any one else on earth! and the brazenness of it! hastings and fosdick grinned at each other, as much as to say that after all you never can tell. it was a pleasant discovery that their brother-in-law was only human. the cheek of the thing was stupendous; his indifference to the fine scorn of their impeccable wives was superb. hereafter those ladies would be more tolerant of weak and erring man. amzi rocked himself on his heels, ignoring them. he had wondered why lois did not add herself to the family circle. he, too, had heard her quick steps on the floor above, and had grown impatient at her long delay; but that was part of the joke of it all: lois would take her time and appear when it suited her convenience. not for gold, not for much fine gold would he have preluded her approach with any warning. and their ready assumption that they had caught him in an act of impropriety tickled him tremendously. they were all listening now; and there was undeniably something really naughty and devilish in the patter of those french heels! a door above closed with a bang. the shameless creature was tripping downstairs as gayly as though the house belonged to her. the ease of her descent spoke for youth; it was in three minds that old fools are always more susceptible to the wiles of young adventuresses. the sisters averted their faces from the contaminating sight. amzi was crossing the room and reached the open door as it framed his sister. he had a fine, instinctive sense of courtesy and even his pudgy figure could not diminish his dignity. he took lois by the hand and led her to the broad hearth as though the fireplace symbolized the domestic altar, and he was restoring her to its protection. "this is lois," he said simply, as she swung round; and as they stared dully he repeated, "this is lois." mrs. fosdick was nearest, and mrs. holton put out her hand to her. "well, fanny!" she said; and then, sweeping them all with her smile, "merry christmas!" her clasp of mrs. fosdick's hand seemed to bring them all to their feet, and she moved quickly from one to the other, with some commonplace of greeting, and a bright smile for each. clasping the hands of kate and josephine together she looked from one to the other and said in her pleasant voice,-- "how like old times it seems; and how nice to come in on you all at christmas! you are a bit stouter--you two--but fanny hasn't changed a bit. alec"--she swung round toward the bewildered men--"i don't believe you know me, but i should have recognized you anywhere. please, now, which is which of you?" "that's paul fosdick, lois; and that's lawrence hastings. gentlemen, mrs. holton." "very glad to meet you, gentlemen. odd, isn't it? that this should be the first time!" she gave them her hand in turn in her quick graceful way. since marrying into the family they had heard much of this lois, and lo! their preconceived notions of her went down with a bang. they had been misled and deceived; she was not that sort of person at all! she had effected as by a miracle a change in the atmosphere of the room. it was as though the first daffodil had daringly lifted its head under a leaden february sky. amzi, prepared for an explosion, marveled that none had shaken the house from its foundations. but while the masculine members of the family yielded up their arms without a struggle their wives were fortifying themselves against the invader. amzi's conduct was wholly reprehensible; he had no right to permit and sanction lois's return; the possibilities implied in her coming were tremendous and far-reaching. it was a staggering blow, this unlooked-for return. while their husbands stood grinning before the shameless woman, they conferred in glances, furtively looking from each other to the prodigal. amzi fortified himself with another glass of eggnog. lois had dominated the scene from the moment of her appearance. her entrance had been the more startling by reason of its very simplicity. she was taking everything as a matter of course, quite as though there were nothing extraordinary in the parting of the waters to afford her passage dry shod, through those sixteen years, to a promised land imaginably represented by montgomery. her sisters, huddled by the center table, struggled against their impotence to seize the situation. this was not their idea of the proper return of a woman who had sinned against heaven, to say nothing of the house of montgomery. their course was the more difficult by reason of their ignorance of the cause of her descent upon them. amzi should suffer for this; but first she must be dealt with; and they meant to deal with her. their rage surged the more hotly as they saw their husbands' quick capitulation. they, too, should be dealt with! "let us all sit down and be comfortable," said lois easily, and hastings and fosdick bumped heads in their mad haste to place a chair for her. hastings, with his theatric instincts stimulated, and realizing that silence would give the massed artillery of the enemy a chance to thunder, immediately engaged the newcomer in conversation. paris and its theaters served admirably as a theme. lois clearly knew her paris well; and she had met rostand--at a garden party--and spoke of the contemporaneous french drama with the light touch of sophistication. french phrases slipped from her tongue trippingly, and added to her charm and mystery, her fellowship with another and wider world. from hastings she turned to embrace them all in her talk. the immobile countenances of her sisters, reflecting stubborn resentment and antagonism, were without effect upon her. instead of sitting before them as the villainess of this domestic drama, a culprit arraigned for her manifold wickednesses, she was beyond question the heroine of the piece. "you remember, fanny, what a hard business we used to make of our french? well, in seattle i had a lot of time on my hands and i put in a good deal of it studying languages. there was a wonderful frenchwoman out there and i got her to teach me,--all good fun, with her; we used to go places together, and i finally reached the point where i could talk back to a french waiter. i really believe i could set up as a teacher now without being indicted for taking money under false pretenses. you have been over, haven't you, kate? it seems to me i heard of your being there; but you might all have gone round the world a dozen times! whose children are those out there? bring them in and let me have a look at them." the children were brought in by their fathers and presented without any interruption to her flow of talk. she let fall a question here and there that was presumably directed to one or the other of her sisters, but their faint, reluctant answers apparently did not disturb her. she was treating them as though they were dingy frumps; and they revolted against all this prattle about paris. it was distinctly unbecoming in a woman whose sins were so grievous to ripple on so light-heartedly about the unholiest of cities when they sat there as jurors waiting to hear her plea for mercy. "susan, you dear angel, come here!" susie toddled into her aunt's arms, raised a face that stickily testified to her uncle amzi's plentiful provision of candy, and was kissed. mrs. waterman, formulating a plan of campaign, took a step toward susan as though to save the child from this desecration of its innocence; but a glance from amzi gave her pause. "oo have booful clothes. whas oor name?" "i'm a new aunt; i'm your aunt lois. you never heard of me, did you? well, it doesn't matter the tiniest little bit. something tells me that we're going to get on famously. i shouldn't wonder, i shouldn't wonder at all, susan, if we became the best of friends." her voice softened into new and charming tones. she held the sticky, chubby hands unmindfully. she was one of those women who are incapable of an awkward attitude. the child lingered, examining with wide-eyed scrutiny the enchantments of the new lady's apparel. "she's charming, fanny," lois remarked, glancing up suddenly at susan's mother; "a perfectly adorable baby." "oo going to stay in this house? this uncle amzi ims house." "now, susan, do you really want me to stay?" susan surveyed her newfound aunt gravely before passing upon this question that was so much more momentous than she realized. lois, bending forward in her low chair with her head slightly to one side, met the child's gaze with like gravity. it might have been assumed from her manner that she attached the greatest importance to susan's verdict; there may even have been an appeal in the brown eyes; but if there was it was an affair between the woman and the child in which the spectators had no share. susan swallowed. "oo stay and play wif me. uncle amzi ims going to make big toboggan in ims yard and oo can slide down wif me. and phil she come and play. phil make me bow and arroo and phil, her shooted it at old rooster and ims est runned and runned." "how splendid!" laughed lois. "you may go now, susan," said her mother, feeling that this flirtation had progressed far enough. thus admonished susan withdrew, while her brother and cousin submitted themselves to the new aunt's closer inspection. "two amzis! it's quite fine of you to perpetuate the name, girls. you must be sure, boys, always to spell your name out; don't hide in behind an initial. these old bible names are a lot better than these new fancy ones. there must be a million donalds and dorothys right now scattered over the united states. where do you go to school, boys?" she plainly interested them. she was a new species, and had for them the charm of strangeness. she wore on her wrist a tiny watch, the like of which they had never seen before, and one of them poked it shyly with his finger. she accommodatingly slipped it off and gave it to them to examine, telling them of the beautiful shop in geneva where she had bought it. susan returned to share in these further revelations by the wonderful lady. the spectacle of their children gathered at the erring lois's knees, filled the watchful sisters with dismay. the ease of the woman's conquests, her continued indifference to their feelings, caused their indignation to wax hot. "the children must go. run along home now, and, boys, see that susie gets home safely. no; you must go at _once_!" said mrs. waterman. "oo bring lady home to ours house, mamma; my wants to play with lady's watch." "skip along, susan; you'll have lots of time to play with my watch," said lois. "oh, wait a minute!" jeremiah was bringing fresh glasses for the eggnog, and she sent him to her room to bring down some packages she had left on her bed. while he was gone she romped with susan, running back through the hall into the dining-room with the chirruping child trotting after her, and paused breathless as jeremiah placed the parcels on the center table. "that is altogether unnecessary; the children have had enough presents," said mrs. fosdick. "the children must go at once." "oh, these are only trifles; just a minute more," lois flung over her shoulder. she peered into a box, inspected the contents with a moment's quick appraisement, and clasped on susie's chubby wrist a tiny bracelet. "there, susan! what do you think of that?" susan thought well of it beyond question and trotted to her mother to exhibit the treasure. three pairs of eyes looked upon the trinket coldly. careless of their scorn lois was enjoying the mystification of the young amzis, to whom she held out two boxes and bade them make a choice. she laughed merrily when they opened them and found two silver watches as like as two peas. there was no questioning lois's complete success with the children. their fathers responded in grateful praise of the gifts: their uncle amzi said "thunder!" and expressed his delight. "now, you youngsters run along or i'll get scolded for keeping you. scoot!" lois urged them to the door, where susan presented her face for further osculation. "you shouldn't have done that, lois; it was altogether unnecessary," announced mrs. fosdick. "oh, those things! they're not of the slightest importance. i didn't know just how many youngsters you had, and the shops over there are simply irresistible." she ladled herself a glass of eggnog composedly, as though wholly unconscious that the withdrawal of the noncombatants had cleared the field for battle. the sisters, having sipped amzi's christmas tipple apprehensively, noted that this was lois's second glass. "well, what are you all doing with yourselves?" she asked, sinking into a chair. "kate, i believe i look more like you than either fanny or jo. i think you are taller than i am, but we have the same complexion. my face is all chopped up from the sea; it was the worst crossing i ever made, but i only missed one day on deck. the captain is the best of fellows and kept an officer trailing me to see that i didn't tumble overboard." she glanced at hastings as though he were more likely than the others to respond to observations on sea travel. he declared that he always preferred winter crossings; it was the only way to feel the power and majesty of the sea. "i always feel so," said lois. amzi fidgeted about the room, wishing they would all go. "lois," said mrs. waterman, gathering herself together, "you will understand, of course, that we don't mean to be unkind, but we feel that we have a right--that it is only proper and just for us to know why you have come back in this way, without giving us any warning, so that we might prepare ourselves--" lois's brows lifted slightly; the slim fingers of her right hand clasped the gold band by which the blue enameled watch was attached to her left wrist. she tilted her head to one side, as though mildly curious as to the drift of her sister's remark. "oh, you mustn't mind that at all! i should have been sorry if you had gone to any trouble for me. dropping in this way, what should one expect?" a pretty shrug expressed her feeling that nothing at all had been expected. "jo, do you remember that time you were running from captain joshua wilson's cow, in his pasture over there beyond the college, and you fell over a fence and cracked a tooth, and how you bawled about it? and i suppose that gold tooth is a memento of the occasion. we used to be the maddest of harum-scarums in those days!" it was not wholly kind, perhaps, for a woman whose white, even teeth were undisfigured by fillings thus to direct attention to the marks of the dentist's tool in her sister's mouth. and yet lois had not meant to be unkind; the past as symbolized by captain wilson's cow sent her off tangentially into the recent history of captain joshua's family, and she demanded information as to the wilsons' daughter amanda, who ran away and married an army officer she had met at columbus, ohio. as the sisters had never liked amanda wilson, they were not pleased to be obliged to confess that the marriage had been a satisfactory one in every particular, and that amanda's husband was now a colonel. the barometer fell steadily and the gloom of the arctic night deepened in the faces of the trio. "anybody have any more eggnog?" asked amzi guilelessly. "i think," said mrs. fosdick furiously, "that we've all had enough of that stuff." this was the least bit pointed, as her husband was at that moment filling a fourth glass for himself. mrs. waterman renewed her attack, drawing nearer to the culprit. "of course, you realize, lois, that after all that has happened, your coming back here, particularly unannounced, creates a very delicate situation. it can't be possible that you don't understand how it complicates things--that as a matter of fact--" "oh, as a matter of fact it's a great bore to talk of it! i suppose i'm the one that's likely to be most annoyed, but you needn't waste any time being sorry for me. i didn't have to come; nobody asked me. you'll not be in the least embarrassed by my coming. i don't look as though i were in deep distress about anything, do i? well, i'm not. so don't prepare to weep over me. tears are bad for the complexion and puckering up your face makes wrinkles." fosdick snickered, an act of treachery on his part which brought his wife to mrs. waterman's support. fanny fosdick was readier of speech than josephine, who was inclined to pomposity when she tried to be impressive. "you can't dodge the situation in any such way; you had no right to come back. your coming can only bring up the old scandal, that we have been trying to live down. it's not a thing you can laugh off. a woman can't do what you did in a town like this and come back expecting everybody to smile over it." "and jack holton has just been here; that was bad enough!" threw in mrs. hastings. "and if you are still running after _him_--" "girls!" exploded amzi, "you'd better cut all this out. you're not going to help matters by fussing over what lois did. i'm sure we're all glad to have her back; i'm sure we've always hoped she would come back." "i think the least you say about it the better, amzi," said mrs. waterman witheringly. "it's your fault that she's here. and if you had honored us with your confidence and taken our advice--" "thunder! what would you have done about it! i didn't think it was any of your business." this from the potential benefactor of their children was not reassuring. the financial considerations crystallized by the return of the wanderer were not negligible. every one in montgomery knew that jack holton had come back to wrest money from william, and it was inconceivable that lois had not flung herself upon amzi for shelter and support. and as they had long assumed that she was a pensioner upon her brother's bounty, they were now convinced by the smartness of her gown and her general "air" as of one given to self-indulgence in the world's bazaars, that she had become a serious drain upon amzi's resources. "i think," declared mrs. waterman, "that it is a good deal our business. we can't make the world over to suit ourselves, and we can't fly in the face of decency without getting scratched. and when a woman brought up as lois was does what she did, and runs through with her money, and comes home--" she gulped in her effort to express the enormity of her sister's transgressions; whereupon mrs. fosdick caught the ball and flung back:-- "of course, if lois is in need of help, we all stand ready to help her. she must understand that we feel strongly the ties of blood, and i want to say that i'm willing to do my share, in the very fullest sense." lois rose impatiently. "don't be a lot of geese, you girls! of course, you're all cut up at seeing me so unexpectedly, but i'm not going to let you be foolish about it. it's all in a lifetime anyway: and i really wish you wouldn't say things which to-morrow or the day after you'll be sorry for. i understand as perfectly as though you ran on all night just how you feel; you're horrified, ashamed, outraged--all those things. bless me, you wouldn't be respectable women if you were not! if you fell on my neck and kissed me i should resent it. really i should! you would be a disgrace to civilization if my showing up here on christmas morning didn't give you nausea. i've been divorced twice, and anybody with any sort of nice feeling about life would make a rumpus about it. i'm rather annoyed about it myself; so that's all perfectly regular. you have said just what you ought to have said and you feel just as you should feel. now that's understood, why not talk of something else and be comfortable?" the three men had discreetly betaken themselves across the hall and the children of amzi ii were alone. "you forget, lois, that there are other persons besides ourselves to consider. if it were just amzi and us--" persisted mrs. waterman, shifting her ground before this shameless confession. "there's the whole world, when you come to that," said lois. "what's in your mind, jo,--tom and phil? well, there's nothing novel in that; i thought about them a good deal before i came back. you may scratch tom off the list; he's clear out of it. but as for phil--" "as for phil, you have no right--" "i haven't the slightest claim on phil, of course; i never said i had, and i don't pretend to have. please don't assume, fanny, that i've lost all the wits i ever had! i'll say to you frankly that i feel that my coming may be troublesome to phil; and yet the fact that i am here" (she smiled and threw out her arms, allowing them to fall to emphasize the futility of words)--"the fact that i am here shows that i have considered that and decided to take the risk of coming, in spite of phil." "lois, you don't seem to have the slightest comprehension of the case--not the slightest," urged mrs. waterman, resenting the smile with which her sister had ended. "you brutally abandoned phil; and now you come back to spoil her life. i didn't suppose there was a woman in the world so callous, so utterly without shame, so blindly selfish--" amzi paused in his stride across the room and planted himself belligerently before his oldest sister. his eyes bulged angrily. "josie, you can't talk like that to lois; not in this house! i tell you, lois is all right. if you don't like her, you can let her alone. i'm not going to have you talk to her like this--not here. now i want you to understand, you, josie; you, kate; you, fanny" (he indicated each in turn with his pudgy forefinger) "i wouldn't let her badger you, and i'm not going to let you jump on her." "you talk like a fool, amzi," said mrs. waterman, angry tears flashing in her eyes. "if you realized what we have always stood for in this community, and what it means to you as well as the rest of us; and poor little phil, and all--" "what have you all got to do with phil? phil's all right," he shouted hoarsely. "i think," shot mrs. hastings, "that the easiest thing for lois, and the best thing, is for her to go quietly without seeing phil." "that's my own opinion," affirmed mrs. fosdick. lois listened with her detached air, as though the subject under discussion related to some one she knew slightly but was not particularly interested in. "bless me! such a wow and a wumpus. you really think i'd better go?" she asked casually. the three, accepting this as a sign of yielding, chorused an eager, sibilant yes. "think of phil, just at the threshold of her life. we've done our best for poor dear phil," said mrs. fosdick chokingly. "amzi can't deny that we've tried to do our duty by her." "of course, you have all been nice to her," remarked lois, picking up a box of candy and shaking it to bring to the surface some particular sweetmeat. "it has not been so easy to bring phil up!" declared mrs. waterman, enraged that phil's mother should take their assumption of responsibility for the child's upbringing so lightly, so entirely as a matter of course. "you ought to know, without our telling you, lois," said mrs. hastings, "that your coming back will be the worst thing possible for dear phil. if you think about it quietly for an hour or two, i'm sure you will see that." "you ought to go down on your knees to god with it!" boomed mrs. waterman, "before you think of contaminating her young life. it's only right that we should talk to our pastor before coming to a decision." amzi snorted and walked to the window. there he saw as he looked out upon the lawn something that interested him; that caused a grin to fasten itself upon his rubicund countenance. phil, under a fire of snowballs from a group of boys who were waiting with their christmas sleds for a chance to hitch to a passing vehicle, gained amzi's gate, ducked behind the fence to gather ammunition, rose and delivered her fire, and then retreated toward the house. her aunts, still stubbornly confronting her mother, and sobbingly demanding that phil be kept away pending a recourse to spiritual counsel, started at the sound of an unmistakable voice. amzi, chewing his cigar, watched phil's flight up the path, and noted the harmless fall of the final shots about her. she waved her hand from the doorstep, commented derisively upon the enemy's marksmanship, and flung the door open with a bang. a gust of cold air seemed to precipitate phil into the room. "hello, amy! merry christmas, everybody!" amzi walked toward lois. "phil, this is your mother." mrs. hastings glided from her post by the hearth until she stood between phil and lois, who stood with her back to the center table, the tips of her fingers resting upon it. her face betrayed no apprehensions. for the moment she was out of the scene and the contest lay between phil and her aunts. "phil, this is not the place for you! go into the other room at once," said mrs. hastings, swallowing a sob. amzi struck a match and lighted a cigar with his habitual three puffs. across the flame he saw phil sweeping the group with her eyes. she stood erect, her hands in her muff to which particles of snow clung where it had fallen in her encounter with the boys at the gate. the crisp air had brightened her cheeks. she wore that look of unconcern for which she had been distinguished as a child. she moved her head slightly, to avoid the figure of the intercepting aunt, and met for an instant her mother's indifferent, unappealing gaze. her intuitions grasped the situation and weighed its nice points. phil had rarely in her life been surprised and she showed no surprise now. "it's rather cold, isn't it, phil?" lois remarked. "chilly in here--rather!" said phil in the same key. "phil!" thundered the aunts. "christmas is nicer with snow. i hate green christmases," observed lois, who had not changed her position. "i've never seen but two," replied phil, as readily as though the dialogue had been rehearsed; "and i hated them." then, drawing her hand from her muff, she flung it out in a burlesque of the amateur recitationist:-- "o pray, upon my christmas morn, let snow the leaf-shorn boughs adorn. "how _is_ that, amy! a little worse than my worst?" she stepped round her aunt kate, shook hands with her mother, then upon second thought dropped her muff, seized both her hands, and kissed her. "were you all really just about going? i'm late! made nine stops on the way, took a brief sleigh-ride with captain wilson, ate too much butter-scotch at the bartletts', and here we are!" she pushed a chair toward the hearth so violently that the castors screeched and her aunt kate jumped to avoid being run over. "why not sit down, mamma? amy, where's my present? here's me to you." she picked up her muff, drew out a parcel tied with red ribbon, with a bit of mistletoe tucked under the bow-knot, and tossed it to amzi. "it's perfectly bully that you're back," she said, addressing herself again to her mother. "actually here all right,--a real christmas surprise. i'll take that up with amy later; he's no business playing such a trick. but it must tickle you to see how dee-lighted everybody is! oh, are you off, aunt josie? hello, lawr_i_nce!" she turned to wave her hand to hastings at the door, where waterman, fosdick, and he had witnessed their wives' discomfiture. those ladies were now attempting to impart to their exits the majesty of righteous indignation. phil kicked an old carpeted footstool to the hearth, and dropped upon it at her mother's feet. "what an old fraud amy is not to have told me!" she waited for the ultimate sounds of departure, and kissed her fingers to the closed door. then she raised her arms quickly and drew down her mother's head until their cheeks touched. "thunder!" said amzi, and left them together. chapter xvii phil's perplexities phil reached home shortly before one, and called her father's name in the hall without eliciting a response. the odor of roasting turkey was in the house, and she noted that the table was set for four. the maid-of-all-work was moulding cranberry jelly when phil thrust her head into the kitchen. "there's going to be company for dinner," the woman explained. "your pa came in and told me so. he's gone down to his office for a minute." phil had not heard that they were to have guests. she stood in the dining-room viewing the two extra places and wondering whom her father had asked. usually on holidays, when the rest of the family assembled at amzi's, the kirkwoods had eaten their midday meal alone. if he had asked the bartletts' to share this particular christmas feast it must have been without premeditation, for she had herself visited the sisters on her way to amzi's, and nothing had been said about a later meeting. it was not like her father to invite guests without consulting her. her mother's return had changed the world's orbit. nothing was as it had been; nothing seemed quite real. the house in buckeye lane, about which so many happy memories clustered, was suddenly become distorted and all out of drawing, as though she viewed it through a defective window-pane. she went upstairs and glanced warily into her father's bedroom, as though fearing to find ghosts there. as she redressed her hair she regarded herself in the mirror with a new curiosity. she was a stranger to herself; she was not the same phil kirkwood who had stood before the glass that morning, but a very different person--a phil who had come suddenly upon a hidden crevasse in the bright, even meadow of her life and peered into an undreamed-of abyss. if her mother--that mother who had always lived less vividly in her imagination than her favorite characters in fiction--had not proved so bewilderingly, so enthrallingly captivating, so wholly charming and lovable, she might have grappled the situation with some certainty. but no woman had ever been like that! her mother was the most wonderful being in the world! little by little through the years her aunts had been creating in phil's mind a vulgar, vain, wicked figure and pointing to it as a fair portrait of her mother. she had always disliked her aunts; she found herself hating them now with a passionate intensity that frightened her. she flung herself down in the window-seat and looked toward main street with unseeing eyes. a wonderful voice murmured in her ears, speaking a new language. she tried to recall what had been said as she crouched at her mother's feet, her head in her lap, before the fire in amzi's living-room; but it was like the futile effort to recall an elusive strain of music. she had felt curiously no disparity of years in that interview; it had been like a talk with a newfound sister, or with a girl with whom she had established one of the sudden intimate friendships of school days. this wonderful lois touched with a warm brilliancy innumerable points and surfaces that flashed and gleamed before phil's fascinated, eager eyes. she had satisfied her curiosity as to phil in a dozen direct questions that elicited information without leaving any ground for discussing it. was phil well?--and happy? what was phil most interested in? had there been money enough for her needs? and always with the implication that if the answers to these questions should not prove satisfactory, it did not greatly matter, as the deficiencies could easily be supplied. they were to see each other, phil and this enchanting mother--to-morrow; yes, there had been definite agreement upon that. but lois had seemed as indifferent to days after to-morrow as to days before yesterday. and while this troubled phil, she had caught so much of her mother's spirit, she had been so responsive to the new amazing language that fell so fascinatingly from her mother's lips, that she accepted the promise of a single to-morrow without misgivings. sufficient unto the day was the wonder thereof! she drew from her pocket a wristlet of diamonds, which lois had given her as they parted at amzi's door. the gems sparkled in the sunny window. it was a trinket of beauty and value, and phil clasped it upon her wrist and contemplated it with awe and delight. it was worth, she assumed, almost or quite as much as the house in which she lived; and yet her mother had bestowed it upon her with gay apologies for its paltriness--this mother out of a fairy-tale, this girlish mother with the wise, beautiful eyes, and most entrancing of voices. the gate clicked and she glanced down at the yard. her father was bringing rose and nan to the house! they were walking briskly, and advanced to the door laughing. the women looked up, saw phil, and waved their hands. her father flung a snowball at the window. happiness was in the faces of the trio--a happiness that struck phil with forebodings. she had never in her imaginings thought an hour would come when she would begrudge her father any joy that might come to him; even less had it ever seemed possible that she would look forward with dread to meeting rose and nan. she hid her mother's gift and ran down to let them in. "you remember," said her father, "the maryland epicure's remark about the turkey being an annoying bird--just a leetle too big for one and not quite big enough for two? i decided to see how it would work for four." "we didn't know we were coming, phil, when we saw you. your father came along afterward and found we were going to eat a plain, domestic duck by ourselves; and we weakly, meekly fell," explained rose. "there can't be a real christmas unless there's a party; and i thought it about time we had a quiet little celebration of 'the gray knight of picardy'--seventh edition now printing, and the english rights well placed. phil, it's up to you to carry on the literary partnership with nan. i'm out of it. i'm going to write the publisher at once to go ahead and enlighten the wondering world as to the authorship of the 'gray knight'--miss nancy bartlett, of buckeye lane!" "you shall do nothing of the kind, tom," declared nan with emphasis; and immediately blushed. this was the first time phil had heard nan call her father by his first name. to be sure, he always addressed both nan and rose by their christian names; but that was not surprising, as he had known the bartletts' well from the time of his coming to the college, when every one called him professor or doctor. at the table nan and kirkwood did most of the talking, and now and then they exchanged glances that expressed to phil some new understanding between them. it had never before been so clear to phil how perfectly sympathetic these two were. her father was a clever man and nan bartlett an unusually clever woman. at other times phil would have delighted in their sharp fencing; the snap and crackle of their dialogue; but her heart ached to-day. she felt the presence of a specter at the table. she heard that other voice with its new and thrilling accents, that careless, light laugh with its gentle mockery. she was recalled from a long reverie by a question from rose. "how did you find the gathering of the clans at amzi's?" "just about as cheerful as usual," replied phil colorlessly. "amzi's seat will be in the front row of the heavenly choir-loft," observed nan. "what he has taken from those women has given him a clear title to joys ineffable." "amy is not a mere man," said phil; "he is a great soul." she had spoken so earnestly that they all looked at her in surprise. if she had referred to her uncle as a brick, or a grand old sport, or the dearest old indian on the reservation, they would have taken it as a matter of course; but phil was not quite herself to-day. "don't you feel well, phil?" asked nan, so pointedly referring to the unwonted sobriety with which she had spoken of her uncle that they all laughed. "the aunts must have been unusually vexatious to-day. you're not quite up to pitch, phil. too much candy has spoiled your appetite," remarked her father. "i guess my sweet tooth did betray me into indiscretions," she answered with an effort at lightness; and added, "the bon-bon and the caramel poor phyllis did waylay; and being only a weak mortal young thing to whom christmas comes but once a year is it surprising what befell? for she knew not the sad word nay." "oh, unutterable horrors! that's the worst you ever perpetrated!" cried her father. "just for that you shall eat another piece of mince pie." "nothing of the kind, tom; we must not add to the sufferings of one whose own rhymes are punishment enough," said nan. the two women looked at phil more closely. she seemed preoccupied and her contributions to their banter were perfunctory and spiritless. when they were established in the living-room, phil crouched on a stool by the fire. concealment and dissimulation were so wholly foreign to her nature that it was with difficulty that she resisted an impulse to blurt out the whole thing. they would know within a few hours of her mother's return, and the fact that she had withheld the information would make her situation more difficult. she saw her father furtively touch nan's hand; he was beyond question very much in love with her; and nan had practically confessed, on that memorable afternoon following amzi's party, her regard for kirkwood. then it had seemed to phil the most natural and rational thing in the world for her father and nan to marry; but now in this whirling chaos to which the world had been reduced, the thought of it was abhorrent. no wonder they looked at her curiously, not understanding her silence. phil loved them all! phil wanted everybody to be happy! yet clearly happiness even in the small circle of her nearest and dearest was impossible. her nimble fancy led her over rough chaotic peaks in an effort to find a point from which to survey the general desolation. in practical terms she reasoned that men and women sometimes remarried after a long estrangement. perhaps--but she was unable to push beyond that perhaps. the bell rang and she was glad of the interruption. fred holton had come to call. kirkwood greeted him cordially, and they widened the circle before the grate to admit him. phil addressed herself to fred with the kindliness he always inspired in her. he was a trifle abashed by the presence of the bartletts, and on seeing them, furtively dropped a package he had brought on a chair by the door. phil, inspecting it glancingly, saw her name scribbled on the paper wrapper. "christmas gift! who guesses this is a christmas gift for me?" "everybody!" cried the bartletts. "i guess it's a book. i hope it's a book. i shall be disappointed if it isn't a book," continued phil. fred blushed, and said it wasn't anything. the clerk in the bookstore had recommended it, and he thought phil might like it. phil tore off the wrapper and held up "the gray knight of picardy." the sight of it sent a quick, sharp pain through her heart. it was no longer merely the best tale of the season that her father and one of her dearest friends had written, but a book her father and the woman he loved had written; and this, in the light of the day's events, was a very different matter. "thank you, fred. it's nice of you to think of me. and i'm sure it's a good story." "they say it's awfully funny," said fred. nothing seemed funny to phil; but she exerted herself to be entertaining. she was in a mood to be touched by his gift. charles holton had sent her a box of roses from indianapolis and they were nodding from the tall vase on the mantel. she saw fred eyeing them, and hastened to say that books made the finest possible gifts. "it must be lonely in the country to-day," remarked nan. "but i suppose you've spent the day in town." "only part of it," replied fred. "i couldn't desert the live stock; and i have a man there with me. we had our christmas feast and i hopped on the interurban." "turkey?" asked phil. "no; rabbit. rabbit's much more wholesome for christmas than turkey. we sell turkeys to the city folks and feast on rabbits when we need them. i poached this one, too. but don't tell mr. montgomery. it ran under his fence into my pasture, and fearing it was my last chance for christmas dinner, i pulled the trigger. is that a high crime, mr. kirkwood?" "not at all. we'll assume that it was really your rabbit that had just been out for a stroll on mr. montgomery's side of the fence. i'll promise to get you off if you're prosecuted." "i should think it would be quite grand and splendid to own a farm and go out and pick off game that way," said phil musingly. "monarch of all you survey, and that sort of thing. when i had a flobert rifle in my enchanted youth and shot sparrows in our back yard, i had something of the same exalted feeling. only our estate here is too limited. the neighbors kicked; so many wild shots. absurd how sensitive people are. but i suppose if i hadn't broken a few glasses of new quince preserves the lady across our alley had put to sun in her kitchen window, i might never have lost the gun." "i don't seem to remember that incident of your career, phil," said rose. "i hope nobody does. the lady's husband happened to be the town marshal, and he told daddy a lot of sad things that were going to happen to me if i didn't stop shooting at his perfectly good wife as she followed her usual avocations." the bartletts were relieved to find phil restored to something like her normal cheerful self. they all enlarged upon the impingement of her bullets upon the marshal's wife's quinces, discussing the subject in the mock-serious vein that was common in their intercourse. if phil had killed her neighbor, would it have been proper for the defense to prove that the quinces were improperly prepared? kirkwood insisted that such testimony would have been grossly irregular and that an able jurist like judge walters would certainly have rejected it. they played with the idea of phil's heinous crime until they wore it out. "put on the black cap and tell me when i'm to die," said phil. "i'm guilty. i really did kill the woman and i buried her under the plum tree in her back yard. now let's think of something cheerful." nan and kirkwood dropped out of the circle a little later, and phil heard them talking in subdued tones in the library. rose withdrew to the window and became absorbed in a book. "i saw you and charlie that day you climbed up the bluff," said fred the moment rose was out of hearing. "i hope you won't do that any more. i hope you won't ever do things like that again!" he ended earnestly. "it was just a lark; why shouldn't i do it?" "the chances were that you'd fall and be killed. you had no right to take the chance. and charlie had no right to let you do it." "charlie hadn't anything to do with it. he couldn't have helped himself," said phil defensively. "then the rest of them down on the creek should have stopped you. it was the craziest thing i ever saw." "i suppose it was silly," phil admitted tamely, "but it's all over now." it was in her heart to say that nothing greatly mattered, and yet there was a certain comfort in knowing that he cared. his blue eyes told her frankly how much he cared; and she was not unmindful of the wistful smile with which he regarded her. his glance wandered from her face to the long-stemmed roses on the mantel-shelf behind her. he knew perfectly well where those roses had come from. she saw the resentment in his eyes. the resumption of social relations between her aunts and the holtons that had brought her in contact with these nephews of jack holton struck her in a new light, with fred there before her, with charles's roses flaunting themselves unrebuked in her father's house. she had no business to be receiving fred holton; charles's flowers assumed suddenly a dire significance. she meant to be rid of them the moment she could do so without attracting attention. it was on her tongue to say something unkind to fred; her loyalty to her mother seemed to demand it. and yet neither fred nor charles had been in any wise responsible for her mother's tragedy. fred had risen and stood before the fire with his arms folded. the care he took to make himself presentable, expressed in his carefully brushed clothes; the polish on his rough shoes; his clean-shaven face, touched her now as at other times. she wondered whether, if they had been alone, she would not have confessed her perplexities and asked his counsel. in their talks she had been impressed by his rugged common sense, and her plight was one that demanded the exercise of just that quality. rose turned the pages of her book. her father and nan continued their conference in low tones in the adjoining room. "you promise--don't you--that you won't ever do foolish things like that any more," and fred put out his hand half in farewell, half as though the clasp he invited would mean a pledge. "please forget it. i'll probably never have another chance. that was the kind of thing you do only once; there wouldn't be any fun in doing it over again." "your father has been mighty nice to me: i wanted to tell him i appreciated it. i felt i'd like to say that to him on christmas--just a kind of sentimental feeling about it. but you please say it for me. he'll understand; i couldn't say it before the others." she responded passively: there were a good many things that she must say to her father! kirkwood and nan reappeared as they heard fred saying good-bye to rose. nan said she and her sister must be going, too, as they had some calls to make. at the door nan kissed phil, and asked her to come to see her the next day. the kiss and this special invitation, half-whispered, confirmed phil's belief that her father and nan would have told her of their engagement if fred's coming had not interfered. she was glad for the delay, and yet it would have been easier in many ways to have met the issue squarely before nan and rose. she and her father watched fred and the women pass from sight toward town. "he seems to be a nice fellow," remarked kirkwood, as they returned to the living-room--"a clean, manly sort of chap." "he's all that," replied phil. "he came to thank you for something: he's too shy to talk much in company and he asked me to tell you how much he appreciated something or other you had done for him." "queer chap, for a holton," kirkwood observed, striking a match on the underside of the slate mantel-shelf. "there's a real nobility in that boy. he didn't tell you what he wanted to speak to me about? that's better yet. i imagine his brother isn't so shy about publishing his good works before men." kirkwood's eyes sought the roses. the "attentions" phil was receiving had roused in him the mixed bewilderment and awe with which a father realizes that he has on his hands a daughter upon whom other men have begun to look covetously. half a dozen young fellows were dancing attendance upon phil. in the hotel and at the theater in indianapolis men and women had paid her the tribute of a second glance, and mrs. fitch had been enthusiastic about her. his tolerant spirit had not visited upon the young holtons the sins of their uncle. charles's devotion to phil had rather amused him; he had taken it as an oblique compliment to himself, assuming that it was due to anxiety on charles's part to ingratiate himself with phil's father quite as much as with phil. "i suppose what fred meant was a little matter between us in the traction business. you know that farm he settled on next to amzi's? he's turned it over to me." "you mean he doesn't own it any more?" asked phil. "strictly speaking, no. in the general holton mess he thought he ought to surrender the property. rather quixotic, but creditable to the boy. you see charlie was executor of their father's estate. charlie's beyond doubt a very smooth young person. and no end plausible. he got fred to take that farm in settlement of all claims against samuel's estate. and when fred found out there was trouble over his father's financiering of the sycamore he hopped on the trolley and came to the city and turned over the farm to me as trustee. he seemed no end grateful to me for allowing him to do it." "but you didn't let him--it isn't fair! why the farm's no good anyhow! and besides, charlie wouldn't have done fred an injury. he talked to me the other day at his aunt's skating-party about all that traction business and i'm sure he never meant any harm. he couldn't help what his father did. but to take fred's farm away--why, daddy, that would be the supreme grand lim_ite_!" kirkwood laughed and pinched her chin. "what a terrible young person you are! you seem to forget that i'm not the holtons' attorney. i'm hired by the poor innocents who bought sam holton's bonds, and it's my business to get all the money for them i can. charles's tricks with his father's estate only figure incidentally, but they have a dark look. it's merely a case of the sins of the parents being visited upon the children--" he had been speaking half-carelessly, not really heeding what he said, and he arrested himself with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. the visitation of a parent's sins upon children was not a subject for discussion in that household, as phil realized with a poignancy born of her morning's adventure. kirkwood was instantly contrite as he saw tears in phil's eyes. he would not for worlds have wounded her. it was impossible for him to know how in her new sensitiveness this careless speech, which a day earlier would have passed unheeded, aroused all her instincts of defense. she was half-aware of the irony by which their talk about the nephews of jack holton had carried them with so fateful a directness to her mother. kirkwood frowned. his former wife was of all subjects the most ungrateful on this christmas day. the old wounds had healed absolutely and the scars even had vanished in his new hope and happiness. he did not mean to have his day spoiled. he crossed the room to the window where phil stood pulling idly at a withered geranium leaf. he drew her round and kissed her. "forgive me, dear old phil! i wouldn't hurt you for ten thousand kingdoms. and i didn't mean that. i don't think it; moreover, i don't believe in that philosophy." his contrition was unmistakedly sincere; yet she knew that if he had not obliterated the thought of her mother from his mind he would not have let slip that reference to parental sins. his forgetfulness was worse than the offense itself. she experienced a sensation, new in all their intercourse, of wanting to hurt him. this was, in all kindness and charity, the instant for announcing her mother's return; and yet before making that disclosure phil meant to force him to tell her in so many words that he was engaged to marry nan. this was the most astonishing of all phil's crowding experiences of the day, that she harbored with cruel satisfaction the thought of inflicting pain upon her father--her old comrade, with whom she had so joyfully camped and tramped and lived so many happy days in this little house, where now for the first time shadows danced malevolently. "i wanted this to be a happy day, phil. what do we care about the holtons or sycamore traction! charlie and fred are all right, and i must say that i've been a good deal pleased by the attitude of both the young fellows. but i have something to tell you; something you've been prepared for for a long time in that wise, old head of yours. it's made me the happiest man in the world; and i hope it will make you almost as happy. and i believe it's for your good; that it's going to be a great big factor in working out all your problems and mine! come now, forgive me, and tell me whether you want three guesses as to what it is!" he rested the tips of his fingers on her shoulders, standing off and looking at her with all the old fondness in his eyes. he had spoken buoyantly; his manner was that of a young man about to confide a love affair to a sympathetic sister. phil slipped from under his hands and stood rigid, with her back against the geranium box. she swallowed a sob and lifted her head to meet the blow. he would not have it thus, but caught her hands and swung them in a tight clasp. "it's nan, phil, dear: nan's promised to marry me! she's been saying she never would. it was only last night she agreed to take this poor old wreck and try to make a man of me. we meant to tell you to-day if fred holton hadn't come in, and then the girls had to run. but nobody is to know for a month yet; we mean to be married at easter. that last point we fixed up just now in the library. you see what a lot of things can happen right here in dear old montgomery within twenty-four hours." he waited for one of her characteristic philesque outbursts--one of the tumultuous mussings with which she celebrated her happy surprises. nothing was needed to complete his joy but phil's approval, about which he had never had the slightest question. in his last talk with nan on christmas eve they had discussed phil and the effect of their marriage upon her rather more than upon themselves. and he had now exhausted himself upon the announcement; there was nothing more that he could say. phil's hands were cold in his, and with an almost imperceptible pressure she was thrusting him away from her. two great tears welled in her eyes and stole down her cheeks. "why, phil! i thought you--you of all people in the world--" "mamma has come back!" said phil colorlessly; and repeated, "mamma has come back. she is at uncle amy's, and i have seen her." there was silence for a little space while he stared at her. their eyes met in a long gaze. he grew suddenly white and she felt the trembling of his hands. "o god, no!" he said hoarsely. "you don't mean that, phil. this is a joke--not here; not in montgomery! she would never do that. come, you mustn't trifle with me; it's--it's too horrible." his voice sank to a whisper with his last word. the word and his tone in uttering it had not expressed the full sense of the horror that was in his face. "it is true, daddy," she said softly, kindly. "i have seen her; i have talked with her." "you saw her at amzi's?" he asked dully. "yes; she came last night. i didn't know it until i got to the house this morning. they were all there, and when i went in they tried to send me off; they thought i oughtn't to see her." "there was a scene, then; they were ugly about it?" "they tried to be; but it didn't go!" he noted the faltering triumph of her tone and looked at her more closely. "they wanted her to go and she held her ground against them?" "i held it with her," said phil. "you didn't think she should go; was that it, phil?" "i didn't think she should be treated like a dog!" phil drew away, with her head held high, her fists tightly clenched. kirkwood walked slowly across the room thrice while she stood immovable. he recalled her presence in a moment and remarked absently:-- "amzi should have told me. it wasn't fair for him to do this. if i had known last night that she was here--" he broke off with a groan. the resigned, indifferent air he had lately flung off possessed him again, and seeing it the pity stole back into her heart. she moved about, avoiding him, fearful of meeting again that hurt, wounded look in his eyes. the short day was drawing to an end, and the shadows deepened. he was mechanically lighting his pipe, and she crouched in her favorite seat by the fire. "it's a little tough, phil," he said finally with a revival of courage, pausing in his slow, aimless wandering through the rooms. "it's a little tough after so long, and _now_." she could not controvert this; she merely waited to see what further he had to say. he paused presently, his arm on the mantel-shelf, his fingers nervously playing with his pipe. "what is she like, phil?" "oh, she is lovely! she is the most charming woman that ever lived!" "you liked her, then; she was nice to you?" "she is dear and sweet and wonderful! oh, i didn't know she would be like that!" his eyes opened and shut quickly. there was an implied accusation against him in the fervor of her admiration for the wife who had deserted him. he groped for something in self-justification with which to confute lois montgomery's daughter. "you found her what you would like your mother to be,--you didn't think her hard or cruel?" "no." "you wouldn't have thought her a woman who would desert a husband and a helpless baby and run away with another man?" there was silence in the room. he had mercilessly condensed the case against lois montgomery, reducing it to its harshest terms for phil's contemplation. it was in phil's mind that she had nothing to do with those things; that the woman against whose cheek she had laid her own was not thomas kirkwood's recreant wife, but another and very different person. she did not know how to express this; it seemed preposterous to insist to her father that his former wife was not the same woman that she had held speech with that day. "i can't talk about her in that way, daddy. i can't tell you just how i feel. but it seemed so wonderful, when i went into the house, and those horrible creatures were circling round her like wolves, that we understood each other, she and i, without a word being said! and i hated them all, except dear old amy. they all went home and amy went off and left us alone, and we talked just as though we had been old friends." she ceased as though to attempt to describe it would be profanation. "what did she say--about me?" he asked blindly. "oh, she didn't talk about you at all! it wasn't that kind of talk--not about what she had done--not even about what she meant to do! she is so young! she is just like a girl! and she speaks so charmingly, with the loveliest voice. it's like the way the water ripples round the big boulders at the run." "she hadn't anything to say about her going off? i don't quite believe you mean that, phil." "that's exactly the truth, daddy"; and there was grieved surprise in her tone. "why, she isn't like that; she wouldn't ever say anything to hurt any one. i haven't words to tell you about her, because there was never any one like her. she is all sunniness and sweetness. and she's the most amusing person i ever saw,--ever so droll and funny!" phil's refusal or inability to see her mother in robes of sin irritated kirkwood. for phil to call her an amusing person was sheer childish naïveté. phil was the victim of an infatuation which he could understand now that his wife began to live again in his imagination. he had read in books that the maternal instinct will assert itself after long separations, where mother and child are without other clue than that of the mysterious filial and maternal tie to guide them; but his practical sense rejected the idea. if he had been warned of lois's unaccountable return, he might have fortified phil against her charms, but now it was too late. lois was phil's mother. shocked as he was by this termination of his christmas-day happiness, his nature revolted against any attempt to shatter phil's new idol. the fact that lois had sinned as much against phil as against himself was not something that he could urge now that phil had taken her stand. the thought of lois brought before him not only the unhappy past, but she seemed, with the cruelest calculation, to have planted herself in the path of his happy future. he was intent upon a situation that called for immediate handling. he tried to bring the scattered dim stars in this new firmament to focus. he might go to nan and endeavor to minimize the effects of lois's return, urging that if she wished to spend the rest of her life in montgomery it was her affair, and had nothing whatever to do with her former husband or the woman he meant to marry. this was a sane, reasonable view of the situation; but its sanity and reasonableness were not likely to impress nan bartlett. such an event as the sudden return of lois would pass into local history as a great sensation. jack holton's re-appearance only a few weeks earlier had caused his fellow-townsmen to attack the old scandal with the avidity of a dog unearthing a neglected bone; and the return of the woman in the case could hardly fail to prove far more provocative of gossip. if lois persisted in remaining in montgomery, it was wholly unlikely that nan would ever marry him; nor could he with any delicacy insist upon her doing so. they might marry and move to indianapolis, thereby escaping the discomforts of the smaller town's criticism; and this was made possible by his brightening prospects. at any rate, it was only fair to go to nan at once and lay the matter before her. even now the news might have reached her; news spreads quickly in the world's compact montgomerys. phil aroused herself as she heard him fumbling for his coat at the hall-rack. she found a match and lighted the gas. "going out, daddy?" she asked in something like her usual tone. he looked at her vaguely as he drew on his coat, as though trying to understand what she had said. "well, you'll be back for supper. there'll be the usual holiday-cold-turkey supper, daddy." "yes, phil; i'll be back after while. i'm going for a tramp." but she knew that he had gone to see nan. chapter xviii amzi is flabbergasted struby's drug-store did a large business in hot drinks in the week following christmas, as citizens and citizenesses met to discuss the return of lois montgomery. the annual choir-row in center church caused scarcely a ripple; the county poorhouse burned to the ground, and nobody cared particularly; an august professor in the college was laid low with whooping-cough, and even this calamity failed to tickle the community as it would have done in ordinary circumstances. wonder and mystery were in the air of main street. persons who had no money in montgomery's bank, and whom the liveliest imagination could not dramatize as borrowers from that institution, dropped in casually on fictitious errands, in the hope of seeing or hearing something. housewives who lived beyond the college, or over in the new bungalow addition across the monon tracks, who had no business whatever in the neighborhood of the old montgomery place, made flimsy excuses for visiting that region in the hope of catching a glimpse of a certain lady who, after a long absence, had reappeared in town with bewildering suddenness. what amzi had said to his sisters kate, josie, and fanny and what they had said to him, and what mrs. lois montgomery holton had said to them all afforded an ample field for comment where facts were known; and where there were no facts, speculation and invention rioted outrageously. had tom kirkwood seen his former wife? would phil break with her father and go to live at amzi's with her mother? was it true that lois had come back to indiana in the hope of effecting a reconciliation with jack holton, of whom unpleasant reports were now reaching montgomery from the state capital? an intelligent community possessed of a healthy curiosity must be pardoned for polishing its spectacles when a drama so exciting and presenting so many characters is being disclosed upon its stage. it was said that mrs. holton emerged from amzi's house daily to take the air. she had been observed by credible witnesses at the stamp window of the post-office; again, she had bought violets at the florist's; she had been seen walking across the madison campus. the attendants in the new carnegie library had been thrilled by a visit from a strange lady who could have been none other than mrs. holton. at four o'clock on the afternoon of january , mrs. holton drank a cup of bouillon at struby's counter, informed the white-jacketed attendant that it was excellent, and crossed main street to montgomery's bank under the admiring eyes of a dozen young collegians who happened to be loafing in the drug-store. amzi escorted his sister at once to his private room at the rear, poked the fire, buttoned his coat and sat down. "well, lois, how goes it?" his question was the one he habitually asked his customers, and he had no idea that anything of importance had happened to his sister since he left her at one o'clock. "the air in the counting-room is bad, amzi; you ought to put in ventilators. a little fresh air would increase the efficiency of the clerks one hundred per cent," she remarked, tossing her muff and a package on the table. it was a solid package that fell with a bang. "then they'd want more pay. you've got another guess coming." "no. you'd cut down their wages because they worked less time." he rubbed his head and chuckled. it was plainly written on his face that he was immensely fond of her, that her presence in the dim, dingy old room gave him pleasure. he clasped his hands behind his head to emphasize his comfort. "i passed center church on my way down just as my perfectly good sisters three were entering the side door. the presbyterians haven't set up a confessional, have they?" "lemme see. i guess this is the afternoon they sew for the heathen. no. this is tuesday. pastor's aid society. caught 'em in the act, did you?" "i suppose i did. they bowed and i bowed. when i got to the corner i turned round to take a look at the steeple and they were inspecting my clothes. they're rather funny human beings, those sisters of ours. how do you suppose they ever happened anyhow? how do you suppose they came to be so good and you and i so naughty? i mention your naughtiness, amzi, just to keep from being so lonesome." "thunder!" he puffed, evidently rejoicing in the wickedness she conferred upon him. "i came to talk business a little, amzi. didn't want to do it at the house. in fact, i'm out of money; broke; busted. i bought a cup of soup at the drug-store over the way and left my last dime on the counter." he rubbed his pink pate and cleared his throat. he was not surprised; he had expected her to be broke. several times in the week that had passed since her return, he had thought of broaching the subject of money, but had refrained. lois could have anything he had; that was his feeling about it; and no doubt when she needed money she would ask for it. his other sisters had never hesitated. "just say how much, lois." his tone was reassuring. the others had bled him for years; he had kept an account of his "advances," as they called them, in a pass-book, and within a few days he had credited lois with an amount equal to the total of these sums. it was approximately this amount that he had tried to bestow upon phil the previous fall when that unreasonable young person had scorned it. lois had not answered him. her face wore a look of abstraction and she compressed her lips poutingly. he had found her increasingly interesting and amusing as the days passed. the subjects she discussed in their long evenings together were as various as her costumes. she was always cheery, always a delight to his admiring eyes. now that she needed money she would be sure to ask for it in her own charming fashion. "speak up; don't be afraid. the sooner we fix it the quicker we can forget it," he added kindly. "i was just wondering how to divide things around a little," she replied. "divide how? among your creditors?" "creditors? bless your silly head, amzi, i haven't any creditors!" "i thought you said you were broke." "oh, i believe i did," she replied, still only half-attentive to what he said, and apparently not particularly interested in explaining herself. she reached for a pad and made rapid calculations. he lighted a cigar and watched her gloved hand dancing over the paper. the package she had tossed on the table was much bewaxed and sealed. "when i said i was broke, i meant that i hadn't any money in my pocket. i want to open an account here so i can cash a check. i suppose you haven't any prejudices against accepting small deposits?" "no prejudices exactly, lois; but it's so long since any member of the family came into this bank without wanting to make a touch that i'm likely to drop dead." she laughed, drew out her purse, and extracted three closely folded slips of crisp paper, took up a pen and scratched her name across the back of each. "there," she said, "consider these on deposit and give me a check-book." he ran the drafts through his fingers, reading the amounts, and from force of habit compared the indorsement with the name on the face. he smoothed them out on the table and laid a weight on them. he looked at the end of his cigar, then at her. of the three bills of exchange on new york, one was for ten thousand dollars, issued by a seattle bank; another was for fifteen thousand, issued by a san francisco house, and the third was a certified check for seven thousand and some odd dollars and cents. something over thirty-two thousand dollars! he unconsciously adopted with her something of his way with phil. he would not express surprise at the magnitude of the sum she had so indifferently fished out of her purse, but rather treat the matter as though he had been prepared for it. the joke of it--that lois should have come back with money, when her sisters certainly, and the rest of the community probably, assumed that her return to montgomery meant nothing more or less than the collapse of her fortunes--this was a joke so delicious, so stupendous, that his enjoyment of it dulled the edge of his curiosity as to the history the fact concealed. she hadn't even taken off her gloves to write her name on the drafts! there were depositors who had shown more emotion over confiding one hundred dollars to his care than she had displayed in writing her name on the books as his largest individual depositor. he wanted to giggle; it was the funniest thing that had ever happened. he remarked casually,-- "got a gold mine, lois?" he was so full of the joy of it that he gasped at her reply. "how did you know?" she asked sharply. "i didn't." "i thought not. nobody knows. and nobody need know. just between ourselves--all this." he nodded. she was an amazing creature, this sister! the joke grew. he hoped she would delay and prolong her revelations, that he might miss nothing of their humor. "nevada," she remarked sententiously. "ground floor?" "something like that." she pushed toward him the pad with her calculations. they read thus:-- seattle r. e. , (about) broken axe (gov't 's) , a. t. & s. f. bonds , phoenix lumber , other securities , (maybe) his jaw fell and he gulped when he tried to speak. even amzi could not joke about half a million dollars. "thunder! you must be fooling, lois." "i may be fooled about some of that stuff, but those figures are supposed to be conservative by people who ought to know." "lord! you're a rich woman, lois," he remarked with awe. "it's flabbergasting!" "oh, i haven't done so badly. you'd probably like to know how it came about, and i might as well tell you the whole story. jack was an awful fizzle--absolutely no good. i saw that early in the game, and i knew where i'd bring up if i didn't look out for myself. he began nibbling like a hungry rat at my share of father's estate as soon as you sent it to me. i backed him in half a dozen things he wanted to go into. he hadn't the business sense of a baby, and i began to see that i was going to bump my head good and hard if i didn't look sharp. he began to cheer himself during his failures by getting drunk, which wasn't exactly pretty. he went his way and i went mine, and as he lied to me about everything i began to lie to him about my money. i made some friends, and one of these happened to be the wife of a banker with brains. through him i made some small turns in real estate, covering them up so jack wouldn't know. the fifth year after i left here i made twenty thousand dollars in one turn. then i grub-staked two young fellows who wanted to try their luck in nevada--nice college boys, all on the square. i invested about two thousand dollars in those youngsters, and as a result got into broken axe. it was so good that it scared me, and i sold out for the two hundred and fifty thousand you see on the slip there, and bought government bonds with it. my banker covered all these things up for me as long as i had jack on my hands. when he became intolerable i got rid of him, legally, for fear he'd cause trouble if he found what i'd been doing. i'm a little tired of running my own business now and mean to dump it off on you if you don't mind. i left my papers in a safety vault in chicago, but here's my phoenix lumber and a jumble of miscellaneous junk i want to send west to be sold so i can put it into things around here. i'm not going back there any more." "lord!" he ejaculated, rubbing his head. "you made all that money yourself?" "sheer luck, mostly. but it isn't so bad, take it all round. by the way, in that junk there are some sycamore traction bonds i took off the bank's hands out there. they were carrying them as collateral for a man sam holton stung on one of his western trips. he'd planted all he could in new york and had to try a new field. the bank foreclosed on the bonds and i bought twenty of them at sixty-five. i suppose from what i hear that they're not good for much but kindling." "you got 'em at sixty-five, lois?" "the bank only lent on them at that, and there was no market for them out there. what's going to become of that road?" amzi glanced toward the empty counting-room where a single clerk was sealing the mail. "tom's trying to save it. and i've been buying those things myself at seventy." "you think it's a good buy at that? going to clean up something out of it?" amzi flushed, and moved uneasily in his seat. "no. that's not just the way of it. i don't want to make any money out of it; neither does tom. we're trying to protect the honest people around here at home who put their money into that scheme. sam and bill holton made a big play for small investors, and a lot of people put their savings into it--the kind o' folks who scrimp to save a dollar a week. tom's trying to sift out the truth about the building of the line, and if he can force the surrender of the construction company's graft over and above the fair cost of the road, sycamore will be all right. your bonds are good, i think. people have been up in the air over the rumors, and anxious to sell at any price. what i'm doing, lois, as far as i'm able--" he fidgeted uneasily, seemingly reluctant to disclose just what he was doing. "well," she said impatiently. "i'm picking up all i can from these little fellows--farmers, widows, and so on, and if tom works out his scheme and the bonds are good, i'm going to let them have them back. that's all," he ended shamefacedly; and added, as though such a piece of quixotism required justification to a woman who had rolled up a fortune and was therefore likely to be critical of business methods, "i suppose i'd be entitled to interest." "i suppose you would, you gay napoleon of finance!" she looked at him musingly with good humor and affection in her fine eyes. "i sort o' like this old town, lois, and i don't want any harm to come to the folks--particularly these little fellows that don't know how to take care of themselves." "is tom animated by the same philanthropic motives, or is he going to get a fee for his work?" "oh, he'll get paid all right. it's different with tom." "i suppose so. he ought to have a good fee if he can straighten out that tangle. but, amzi--" she hesitated a moment, then began again more deliberately. "if you're getting more of those bonds than you want, you might buy some with my money--i mean with a view to taking care of these home investors who are in a panic about sycamore. i suppose i owe something to the community myself--after--" she gave him her quick, radiant smile. he nodded gravely. "all right, lois. i'll remember that. and i'll tell you something else, now that we're on business matters. the first national bank over the way there is built up in the air too high; it's got all the weaknesses of the holton family--showy without any real bottom to it. some of their stock has always been owned around through the state--quite a bunch of it--and bill has had to sell part of his own holdings lately; he's got only a scant majority. i've been picking up a little myself, on the quiet. after tom gets through with the holtons, i doubt if bill's going to be able to hold on. i know his line of customers; i guess i could tell you about every piece of paper he's got. it's a poor line, wobbly and uncertain. there was a new examiner here not long ago, and he stayed in town two or three days when he usually cleans up in a day. banking is a business, lois, not a pastime, and bill isn't a banker; he's a promoter. do you get the idea?" "i think i see the point, but if his bank's going to smash, why don't you keep away from it? there's a double liability on national bank stock, isn't there? seems to me that's the reason i never bought any." "right, lois; but i don't intend the first shall bust. it won't do me or my bank or the town any good to have it go to smash. a town of the size of this don't live down a bank failure in one generation. it soaks clear in. i've got enough now to assert my rights as a stockholder, only i'm keeping under cover; there's no use in screaming in the newspapers. i haven't anything against bill holton, and if he pulls through, all right; but if he can't--well, i've never wanted to nationalize this bank, but that would be one way of doing it." "you seem to be full of large thoughts, brother. you may play with my money all you like in your charitable games, with a few reservations. i like to eat and i don't want to spend my old age in the poorhouse. there's cash enough here to run me for some time and you can use half of that in any way you like. i'll take any chance you do, and you'll find i won't cry if the boiler bursts. my seattle real estate is all right--and i mean to hold fast to it. now i want to do something for phil; i want to make sure she never comes to want. that's only right, you know." she waited for his affirmation. "you ought to do it, lois," he said. "i mean to do the right thing by her myself. if i should die to-night, phil would be taken care of." "that's like you, amzi, but it isn't necessary. i want to set aside one hundred thousand for phil. i'd like to make a trust fund of it, and let her have the income from now on, and turn over the principal when she's thirty, say. how does that strike you?" "it's splendid, lois. by george, it's grand!" he blew his nose violently and wiped his eyes. and then his humor was touched again. phil, the long-unmothered, the main street romp, the despair of sighing aunts, coming in for a hundred thousand dollars! and from the mother whom those intolerant, snobbish sisters had execrated. he was grateful that he had lived to see this day. "you've been fine to phil, and i appreciate it, amzi. she's told me all about it; the money you offered her and all that; and how you've stood by her. those dear sisters of mine have undoubtedly worked me hard as an awful example. if they hadn't painted me so black, the dear beautiful child wouldn't have warmed to me as she has." "if the girls knew you had all that money, lois, it would brace 'em up a good deal. it's a funny thing about this funny old world, how the scarletest sins fade away into pale pink at the jingle of money." this bit of philosophy seemed not to interest her; she was thinking of something else, humming softly. her sins were evidently so little in her mind that she paid no heed to his remark or the confusion that covered him when he realized that he had been guilty of a tactless and ungracious speech. "mrs. king called on me this afternoon, the dear old soul." "you don't say!" "i do, indeed. she put on her best clothes and drove up in the old family chariot. she hasn't changed a bit." amzi sat pigeon-toed. mrs. john newman king, whose husband had been united states senator and who still paid an annual visit to washington, where the newspapers interviewed her as to her recollections of lincoln, was given to frank, blunt speech as amzi well knew. it was wholly possible that she had called on lois to administer a gratuitous chastisement, and if she had done so, all montgomery would know of it. "don't worry! she was as nice as pie. josie had kindly gone to see her to tell her the 'family' had warned me away; the 'family' wanted her to know, you know. didn't want an old and valued friend like the widow of john newman king to think the good members of the house of montgomery meant to overlook my wickedness. not a bit of it! you can hear josie going on. she evidently laid it on so thick it made the old lady hot. when she came in, she took me by both hands and said, 'you silly little fool, so you've come back.' then she kissed me. and i cried, being a silly little fool, just as she said. and she didn't say another word about what i'd done or hadn't done, but began talking about her trip abroad in , when she saw it all, she says--the nile and everything. she swung around to phil and told me a lot of funny stories about her. she talked about tom and you before she left; said she'd never made out how you and tom meant to divide up the bartlett girls; seems to be bent on marrying you both into the family." "thunder!" he exploded. this unaccountable sister had the most amazing way of setting a target to jingling and then calmly walking off. the thought of her husband's marrying again evidently gave her no concern whatever. "not nice of you to be keeping your own prospects a dark secret when i'm living under the same roof with you. out with it." "don't be foolish, lois." "but why don't you be a good brother and 'fess up? as i remember they're both nice women--quite charming and fine. i should think you'd take your pick first, and then let tom have what's left. you deserve well of the world, and time flies. don't you let my coming back here interfere with your plans. i'm not in your way. if you think i'm back on your hands, and that you can't bring home your bonny bride because i'm in your house, you're dead wrong. you ought to be relieved." she ended by indicating the memorandum of her assets; and then tore it into bits and began pushing them into a little pile on the table. "it must be rose--the musical one. phil has told me about the good times you and she and tom have had in buckeye lane. i looked all over the house for your flute and wondered what had become of it; so you keep it there, do you--you absurd brother! rose plays the piano, you flute, and tom saws the 'cello, and nan and phil are the audience. by the way, mrs. king mentioned a book nan bartlett seems to be responsible for--'the gray knight of picardy.' everybody was reading it on the train when i came out, but i didn't know it was a montgomery production. another hoosier author for the hall of fame! it comes back to me that nan always was rather different--quiet and literary. i don't doubt that she would be a splendid woman for tom to marry." "i don't know anything about it," said amzi. "humph!" she flung the scraps of paper into the air and watched them fall about him in a brief snowstorm. she seemed to enjoy his discomfiture at the mention of the bartletts. "let's not be silly, you dear, delightful, elusive brother! if you want to marry, go ahead; the sooner the better. and if tom wants to try again, i'll wish him the best luck in the world--the lord knows i ought to! i suppose it's nan, the literary one, he's interested in. she writes for the funny papers; phil told me that; and if she's done a book that people read on trains, she'll make money out of it. and tom's literary; i always had an idea he'd go in for writing sometime." she mused a moment while amzi mopped his head. he found it difficult to dance to the different tunes she piped. he would have given his body to be burned before referring to the possibility of tom's marrying again; and yet lois broached the subject without embarrassment. nothing, in fact, embarrassed her. he knew a great banker in chicago who made a point of never allowing any papers to lie on his desk; who disposed of everything as it came; and lois reminded him of that man. there was no unfinished business on her table, no litter of memories to gather dust! he not only loved her as a sister, but her personality fascinated him. "they've been good to tom; and they've been perfectly bully to phil. they're fine women," he said. "but as to whether tom means to marry, i don't know; i honestly don't." "tut! you needn't be so solemn about it. i intend to see that you get married. if you wait much longer, some widow will come along and marry you for your money--a poor shrimp of a woman with a lot of anæmic children to worry you into your grave. and as for tom, the quicker the better. i wonder--" he waited while she wondered. she had an exceedingly pretty way of wondering. "i wonder," she finished briskly, as though chagrined that she hadn't thought of it before--"i wonder if i oughtn't to tell tom so!" the "thunder!" died in his throat at the appalling suggestion. "o lord, _no_!" he cried hoarsely. chapter xix phil moves to amzi's when he had recovered from the first shock of his wife's return, kirkwood adjusted himself to the new order of things in a philosophic temper. nan had withdrawn absolutely her day-old promise to marry him. that episode in his life was ended. he felt the nobility of her attitude without wholly accepting its conclusions. he had tried to persuade her that the geography of the matter had nothing to do with it; that having promised to marry him when they believed lois to be safely out of the way, her return did not affect their status in the least. this was the flimsiest casuistry, as he well knew. it made a tremendous difference where lois was! "i have to go away to-morrow, phil, and i'm likely to be in indianapolis much of the time until spring. i can't take you with me very well; a hotel is no place for you, and i shall be very busy. and i can't leave you here alone, you know." his tone was kind; he always meant to be kind, this dear father of hers! he hurried on with an even greater thoughtfulness to anticipate a solution of this problem which had occurred to her instantly, but which she lacked the courage to suggest. "i saw your uncle amzi to-day and had a long talk with him about you. i proposed that you go to his house and stay, at least until i get through my work with the sycamore company. we won't make any definite date for your return, for the reason that i don't just know when i'll be free to settle down here again. amzi was perfectly agreeable to the idea--quite splendid about it, in fact. your mother, it seems, means to stay with him. and now there's this further thing, phil. you won't mind my going into it a little bit, once and for all. the law gave you to me long ago, but apart from that i suppose i have a certain moral claim to you. but i want you to feel free to do as you like where your mother's concerned. what i said of her yesterday i'm sorry for; i shouldn't have done that if i'd been myself. and i'm not making it necessary for you to make a choice between us. we're old comrades, you and i, phil, and there can't be any shadow of a difference between us, now or ever. it's the simplest and easiest thing for you to go to your uncle's house, and we won't even consider the fact that your mother is there; we'll just assume that her being there is the most natural thing in the world, and that it's a matter of our common convenience for you to be there, too. you see how perfectly easy and natural it all comes about." she clung to him, the tears welling. she had never been disappointed in him, and this generosity moved her deeply. he was making it easy for her to go to her mother; that was all. her soul rebelled against the fate that made necessary any choice when her father was so gentle, so wise, so kind, and her mother so transcendently charming and lovable. "you are so good to me; you have always been so good!" she sobbed. "and i'm sorry i was ugly yesterday, about nan. you know i love nan. no one was ever kinder to me than nan--hardly you, even! and i don't want you to give her up; you need each other; you do understand each other! oh, everything is so queer and wrong!" "no, phil; things are not as queer and wrong as they look. don't get that idea into your head. life isn't queer or wrong; life simply isn't as easy as it looks, and that's very different." he smiled, turning her face so that she could see that he smiled not unhappily. "but i don't want you to go away; i'd die if i thought i shouldn't see you any more--and all the good times we've had, right here in this old house--and everything--" "but this isn't the end of things. when i'm back, as i shall be for a day or two frequently, i'll always let you know; or you can run over to the city and do a theater with me whenever you like. so let's be cheerful about everything." the passing of her trunk from her father's house to her uncle's was not neglected by the gossips. her three aunts noted it, and excoriated kirkwood and amzi. they took care that every one should know how they felt about the transfer of poor, dear phil (on whom they had lavished their love and care for years, to the end that she might grow up respectable, etc., etc.) to a roof that sheltered her jezebel of a mother. "that was nice of him," said lois, when phil explained her coming. "how's your father getting on these days?" "oh, quite well!" phil replied. she was establishing herself in a room adjoining her mother's. lois, in a flowered silk kimona, commented upon phil's clothes as they were hauled from the trunk. her opinions in the main were touched with her light, glancing irony. "i'll wager jo bought that walnut-stain effect," she remarked, pointing an accusing finger at a dark waist. "that has josephine stamped on it. poor old soul!" her manner of speaking of her sister set phil to giggling. mrs. waterman had bought that particular article over phil's solemn protest, and she now sat on the bed and watched her mother carry the odious thing gingerly by the collar to the door and fling it in the direction of the back stairs. lois brought from her own room a set of silver toilet articles and distributed them over the top of phil's bureau. "i forgot all about these, phil; but they fit in handily right here. a little self-indulgence of my own, but my old ones are good enough. oh, please don't!" she exclaimed, as phil began to thank her. "why shouldn't you have them? who has a better right to them, i'd like to know!" whereupon she began experimenting with the nail-polisher from phil's set. "this is a good polisher, phil. i'm going to show you how to do your own manicuring--every lady her own maid. sarah dug up a colored hairdresser, manicurist, and light-running domestic chatterbox this morning, and she gave my hair a pulling i shan't forget in a hurry. never again! if you can't have a trained maid, you'd better be your own beautifier. i had a wonderful girl the last time i was over, and took her with me on a motor trip through the château country. she was an outrageous little flirt. two chauffeurs got into a row about her during the week we spent at tours, and one pounded the other into a pulp. the french rural police are duller than the ox, and they locked up marie as a witness. imagine my feelings! it was very annoying." her smile belied the annoyance. phil surmised that she had enjoyed the experience; but lois added no details to her hasty picture. lois did not trouble herself greatly with details; everything with her was sketchy and impressionistic. "what about boys, phil?" "i've had one proposal; he was a senior with a funny stammer. he went away with his diploma last june, and said he'd never forget. i got his cards to-day. she's a lafayette girl he had down for the 'pan' in his senior year. she has golden hair," phil added musingly. "the scoundrel; to forget you as quick as that!" and lois laughed as phil bent her head and clasped her hands in a mockery of dejection. "you've come out and i suppose you are asked to all the parties. let me see, when i was a girl there were candy-pullings, and 'companies' where you sat around and were bored until somebody proposed playing 'the prince of paris lost his hat' or some game like that. when the old folks went to bed, our hostess would find a pack of cards--authors, most likely--or play a waltz on the soft pedal for two couples to dance. wholesome but not exciting." "oh, we're livelier and better than that! they have real balls now at the masonic hall; and all the fraternities have dances, and there's the pan-hellenic, and so on. and there are dinners in courses, and bridge no end!" "bridge!" lois shrugged her shoulders, lifted her pretty brows, and tossed the nail-polisher on to the bureau to emphasize her contempt for bridge in all its forms. "as to young men, phil. tell me all about the montgomery cavaliers." "oh, every girl knows all the boys. they are divided into two classes as usual, nice and un-nice. some of them have flirted with me and i have flirted with them. i suppose there was nothing very naughty in that." "we will pass that for the present. tell me about the young fellows who pay you attentions." phil ran over the list, lois interrupting when some familiar name arrested her attention. phil hit off one after the other in a few apt phrases. her mother in a rocking-chair, with arms folded, was more serious than in any of their previous talks. what phil disclosed was only the social experience of the average country-town girl. the fact that she had made a few acquaintances in indianapolis interested her mother. "the fitches? yes; nice people. that was through your father? all right. go on." "well, there are the two holton boys," said phil, self-conscious for the first time. "you see, my aunts thought everything ought to be fixed up with the holtons, and they asked mr. and mrs. william to my party, and threw in charlie and ethel, and i suggested that they add fred, too. they are samuel's children. there being the two brothers it didn't seem nice to leave out one; and i already knew fred anyhow." "why this sudden affection of your aunts for the holtons?--there is a reason for everything those creatures do." "mrs. william is stylish and does things. her maid wears a cap when she opens the door, and mrs. william makes her calls in a neat electric." "everything is explained quite satisfactorily, phil. amzi told me our sisters had buried the hatchet, but he didn't put it quite as clearly as you do. he did tell me, though, that jack had spoiled your beautiful party by turning up drunk. that was nasty, vile," she added, shrugging her shoulders. "well, about these nephews?" "charlie is older, and very citified; quite the most dashing man who lightens our horizons. he sends me flowers and bon-bons, most expensive. and he's a joy at paying compliments; makes you feel that you're the only one, or tries to. he has very large ideas about business and life generally. but nice, i think, and kind and generous. but, mamma--" she paused, disconcerted by a sudden keen look her mother gave her. "he sounds like an agreeable person," remarked lois, glancing at the point of her slipper. "what i started to say was that if you think i shouldn't see them any more--" "bless me, no! i see what's in your mind, phil, but you needn't trouble about that. we're just trying to get acquainted, you and i. we understand each other beautifully, and after while we'll see whether we have any advice for each other. at your age i hadn't the sense of a kitten. you're most astonishingly wise; i marvel at you! and you've grown up a nice, sensible girl in spite of your aunts--none of their cattishness--not a hint of it. i can't tell you how relieved i am to find you just as you are. the way they have cuddled up to the holtons is diverting, but nothing more. it's what you would have expected of them. the proud and haughty montgomerys turned snobs! it's frightful to think of it! as for me, i have nothing against the holtons. i'm this kind of a sinner, phil: i carry my own load. no shoving it off on anybody else! some people are born with ideals; i wasn't! but i hope to acquire some before i die; we're all entitled to a show at them. but, bless me, what are we talking about? there's the other holton boy; what's he got to say for himself?" "oh, he'd never say it if it were left to him! he's shy, modest, proud. no frills." "handsome?" "well, he has a nice face," phil answered, so earnestly that her mother laughed. "and he's modest and genuine and sincere." "those are good qualities. as near as i can make out, you like all these young men well enough--the boys you knew in high school and the college boys. and these holtons have broken into the circle lately, and have shown you small attentions--nothing very important." "charlie sends me american beauties, and fred has brought me quails and a book." "what was the book?" "'the gray knight of picardy.'" "that's nan bartlett's?" lois looked at the palm of her hand carelessly. "yes; it's a great success--the hit of the season." "i suppose your father and nan have been good friends--literary interests in common, and all that?" "of course," phil answered, uncomfortable under this seemingly indifferent questioning. "i have read the story. there are pages in it that are like your father. i suppose, seeing so much of each other, they naturally talked it over--a sort of collaboration?" the question required an answer, and phil shrank from answering. closeted with her mother she was reluctant to confess how close had been the relationship between her father and nan bartlett. her mind worked quickly. she was outspokenly truthful by habit; but she was a loyal soul, too. she decided that she could answer her mother's question without violating her father's confidence as to his feelings toward nan. that was all over now; her father had told her so in a word. lois hummed, picking bits of lint from her skirt while phil deliberated. "father did help with it. i suppose he even wrote part of it, but nobody need know that. daddy doesn't mean to go in for writing; he says the very suspicion that he's literary would hurt him in the law." "i suppose he helped on the book just to get nan interested. now that she's launched as a writer, he drops out of the combination." "something like that. daddy is very busy, you know." phil entertained views of her own as to the cause of her father's sudden awakening. she was sure that his interest in nan was the inspiration of it, quite as much as alarm at the low ebb of his fortunes. in the general confusion into which the world had been plunged, phil groped in the dark along unfamiliar walls. it was a grim fate that flung her back and forth between father and mother, a shuttle playing across the broken, tangled threads of their lives. she started suddenly as a new thought struck her. perhaps behind this seemingly inadvertent questioning lay some deeper interest. suddenly the rose light of romance touched the situation. phil looked at lois guardedly. what if--? with an accession of feeling she flung herself at her mother's knees and took her hands. "could you and daddy ever make it up? could you do that now, after all these years?" she asked earnestly. lois looked at her absently, with her trick of trying to recall a question not fully comprehended. "oh, _that_! never in this world! what do you think your father's made of?" again the shrug, so becoming, so expressive, so final! she freed her hands, and drew out and replaced a hairpin. for an instant phil was dismayed, but once so far afield in dangerous territory she would not retreat. "but what would you say?" she persisted. "dear phil, don't think of such a terrible thing; it fairly chills me. your father is a gentleman; he wouldn't--he wouldn't do anything so cruel as that!" she said ambiguously. "i don't see how it would be cruel, if he meant it--if he wanted to!" "that's because you are an angel and don't know anything about this sad old world of ours. life isn't like the story-books, phil. in a novel a nice dear daughter like you might reconcile her parents with tears and flowers and that sort of thing; but in real life it's very different as you will see when you think of it; only i don't want you to think of it at all. i believe you like me; we hit it off quite wonderfully; and i should expect you to hate me if i ever dreamed of anything so contemptible as spoiling a man's life twice." and remembering nan, phil could not argue the matter. she was unable to visualize her father on his knees to her mother. no flimsy net of sentiment flung across the chasm could bring them within hailing distance of each other; they were utterly irreconcilable characters. it was incredible that they had ever pledged themselves to love and cherish each other forever. "phil, what did your father say about my coming back?" asked lois abruptly. phil hesitated. her mother looked at her keenly in that instant of delay, and then laid her hand gently upon phil's lips. "no; don't answer that! it isn't a fair question. and now let us forget all these things forever and ever!" she proposed a walk before dinner. "i'll get into my boots and be ready in a minute." phil heard her whistling as she moved about her room. chapter xx back to stop seven charles holton met his brother fred in the lobby of the morton house on an afternoon near the end of january. charles was presenting a buoyant exterior to the world despite a renewal of the disquieting rumors of the fall as to sycamore traction and equally disagreeable hints in inner financial and legal circles as to the reopening of samuel holton's estate. he resented fred's meddling in the matter; he was the head of the family and a man of affairs, and he was not pleasantly impressed by the fact that on two occasions to his knowledge fred had visited kirkwood at his indianapolis office. "i want to see you," said charles. "why don't you come to see me when you're in the city and save me the trouble of chasing over here?" "well, charlie, you've found me now. what is it you want?" "come up to my room. i don't care to have all montgomery hear us." when the door closed on them, charles threw off his overcoat and confronted his brother with a dark countenance. "you're playing the devil with the whole bunch of us--do you realize that! you've been sneaking over to kirkwood to tell him all our family history. you think by playing up to him you'll get a lot of money. if you had any claims against father's estate you ought to have come to me with them--not gone to the man that's trying to pull us all down." "stop, right where you are! i went to kirkwood because i felt that the only square thing was to turn the farm over to him until things were straightened out. and after i'd turned in the farm, you fell over yourself to surrender some stuff you had--things you'd tried to hide or placed a fake appraisement on." charles, standing by the window with his hands in his pockets, smiled derisively. fred's long ulster accentuated his rural appearance. he was a big fellow and his deep voice had boomed with an aggressive note his brother resented. "don't bawl as though you were driving cattle. there's no need of telling all main street our affairs. do you know what's the matter with you--kirkwood's working you! he's trying to scare you with threats of the penitentiary into telling him a lot of stuff about the family. he meant to try it on me, but i beat him to it--i told him to go to the bottom of everything. and if you'd kept your mouth shut i'd have taken care of you, too. you took that farm with your eyes open; and i'll say to you right now that you got a better share of the estate than ethel and i did." "then you haven't anything to be afraid of. if it's all straight there can't be any trouble. is this all you wanted?" this was evidently not in the least what charles wanted, for he changed his tone and the direction of the talk. "you know, fred, i was in father's confidence very fully. i am older than you, and i was associated with him in his schemes and knew all about them. father was a very able man; you know that; everybody said he was one of the shrewdest and most farseeing men in the state. i won't say that his methods were always just what they should have been; but he's dead and gone, and it's not for us to jump on him or let anybody else kick him. so far we understand each other, don't we?" "all right; hurry up with the rest of it." "this is not a hurrying matter. i've got to take you into my confidence, and i want it understood that what i say doesn't go back to kirkwood. he's a relentless devil, once he gets started. i suppose it hasn't occurred to you that he may have a motive for pursuing us--you and me and any other holton he has a chance to injure. you see that point, don't you?" "no. what is it?" "well, you're duller than i think you are if it hasn't occurred to you that kirkwood is trying to even up with us for the loss of his wife. it was our dear uncle jack that ran off with her; it was a holton that did it! you recollect that, don't you?" "i seem to recall it," replied fred ironically. he had mechanically drawn out his pipe and was filling it from a canvas bag of cheap tobacco. "and that's all there is to it. kirkwood had mooned around town here for years, doing nothing. then suddenly an old friend of his in the east took pity on him and gave him this sycamore company to meddle in, and he's contemptible enough to use a law case for personal vengeance against perfectly innocent people. and you walked into the trap like a silly sheep!" "you know you don't believe that, charlie. kirkwood isn't that kind of man. he's on the level and high grade." "he may be all that; but he's a human being too. there's no man on earth who'd pass a thing like that. an ignorant, coarse beast would have shot somebody; but an educated man like kirkwood calculates carefully and sticks the knife in when he sees a chance to make it go clear through. that girl of his is the cutest kid in indiana, and i wouldn't do anything to hurt her. but we've got to protect ourselves, you and i, fred. we're not responsible for uncle jack's sins. the whole thing is blistering kirkwood right now because uncle jack's turned up and the lady in the case has had so little decency as to follow him." "i don't suppose she thought of doing anything of the kind. she and uncle jack broke long ago. he told me so, in fact, at indianapolis, and made her cruel abandonment an excuse for borrowing five dollars of me." "well, we've got to get rid of _him_! he's doing all he can against us; sending people to kirkwood with stories about father, and the traction business. i tell you, fred," he declared ardently, "our family is in danger of going to hell if you and i don't do something pretty quick to stop it." fred puffed his pipe and watched his brother fidgeting nervously about the room. a phonograph across the street called attention to a moving-picture show. in the hotel office below, the porter proclaimed the departure of the 'bus to connect with the six-three for peoria and all points west. "there they go now!" exclaimed charles from the window. "by george! she's a good-looking woman yet!" fred joined him and looked down. phil and her mother were passing rapidly on the opposite side of the street. unconsciously fred drew off his cap. "she's a very pleasant woman," he remarked. "phil introduced me to her the other day." "the devil she did! where did all this happen?" "at mr. montgomery's. phil's staying there while her father's away." "i like your cheek! they say my nerve is pretty well developed, but it isn't equal to that. how did our late aunt--i suppose that's what she is," he grinned--"take you?" "like a lady, for instance. my going there wasn't as cheeky as you imagine. i was invited." "phil?" "no; mr. montgomery." "there must be a trick in it somewhere. he's a foxy old boy, that amzi. has the general appearance of a fool, but he never loses any money." "he's offered me a job," said fred. "he's _what_?" "offered me a job." "what's the joke? you don't mean that with all this fuss over his sister's coming back he's picked out a holton to offer a job to!" "that's what's happened. they want perry--his farmer--to take a teaching place at the agricultural school. it's a fine chance for him, and mr. montgomery has released him from his contract. perry recommended me, and mr. montgomery asked me to the house a few evenings ago to talk it over. the arrangement includes my own farm, too, which kirkwood holds as trustee until the sycamore business is straightened out." charles backed away and stared at his brother scornfully. "you idiot! don't you see what they're doing? they're buying you body and soul. they want to get you on their side--don't you see it?--to use against uncle will and me. well! of all the smooth, cold-blooded, calculating scoundrels i ever heard of, they are the beatingest. of course you _saw_ it; you haven't walked into the trap!" "i've accepted the position." "you blundering fool, you can't accept it! i won't let you accept it!" "i'm moving my traps to the montgomery farmhouse to-morrow, so you'll have to call out the troops if you stop me." "well, of all the damned fools!" then after a turn across the room he flashed round at his brother. "look here, fred; i see your game. you want to marry that girl. well, you can't do that either!" "all right, charlie. suppose you write out a list of the various things i can't do so i won't miss any of them. you haven't any sense of humor or you wouldn't talk about phil marrying me. phil's not likely to marry a clodhopper, her uncle's hired hand." "don't be an ass, fred. phil's a fine girl; she's a wonder." "i suppose," said fred deliberately, "that if you wanted to marry phil kirkwood yourself there would be no disloyalty to our family in that. it would be perfectly proper; quite the right thing." "i didn't say i wanted to marry her," jerked charles. he was pacing the floor with bent head. his brother's equanimity irritated him and intensified his anger. he struck his hands together suddenly as though emphasizing a resolution, and arrested fred, who had knocked the ashes from his pipe and was walking slowly toward the door. "i say, fred, i didn't mean to flare up that way, but all this sycamore business has got on my nerves. sit down a minute. uncle will's in a terrible funk. plumb scared to death. and just between you and me he's got a right to be." he crossed to the door, opened it and peered into the hall. fred balanced himself on the footboard of the bed, and watched his brother expectantly. earlier in the interview charles had begun to say something as to their father's affairs, but had failed to reach the point, either by design or through the chance drift of their talk. charles was deeply worried; that was clear; and fred resolved to give him time to swing back to the original starting-point. "i'm sorry if uncle will's in trouble," he remarked. "it's the first national," charles went on in an excited whisper. "the examiner made a bad report last month and the comptroller sent a special agent out who's raised the devil--threatened to shut him up. that's bad enough. if old kirkwood gets ugly about sycamore, you can't tell what he may do. he's playing an awful deep, quiet game. the fact is he's got us all where he wants us. if he turned the screws right now we're pinched. and here's something i didn't mean to tell you; but i've got to; and you've got to come in and help me. father knew the sycamore was over-bonded. the construction company was only a fake and charged about double a fair price for its work. father only cashed part of the bonds he got on the construction deal and hid the rest; and when he died suddenly i had to think hard and act quick, for i saw the road was going to the bad, and that the people who had bought bonds in good faith would rise up and howl. when i took hold as administrator, i inventoried only the obvious stuff--that's why it looked so small. i meant to give you and ethel your share when the danger was all over--didn't want to involve you; you see how it was. and now kirkwood's trying to trace that stuff--about three hundred thousand--a hundred thousand apiece for you and ethel and me. no; not a word till i get through," he whispered hoarsely as fred tried to break in. "they can send me up for that; juggling the inventory; but you see how we're all in the same boat. and what you can do to save me and the bank and father's good name is to go to kirkwood--he thinks well of you and will believe you--and tell him you know positively that father never got any of the construction bonds. you can be sure the construction company fellows got rid of theirs and took themselves off long ago. it was a fake company, anyhow. it's all in kirkwood's hands; if you shut him off, uncle will can pull the bank through. and i'll give you your share of the bonds now." the perspiration glistened on his forehead; he ran his hands through his hair nervously. misreading the look in fred's face for incredulity, he pointed to the closet door. "i've got the bonds in my suit-case; i was afraid kirkwood might find a way of getting into my safety box at indianapolis. he's no end smart, that fellow. and i figure that if the road goes into a receivership the bonds will pay sixty anyhow. you see where that puts you--no more of this farmer rot. you'd be well fixed. and it will be easy for you to satisfy kirkwood. just the right word and he will pull his probe out of the administratorship, and get a receiver who will represent us and give us the proceeds when the trouble's all over. damn it! don't look at me that way! don't you see that i've been taking big chances in hiding that stuff, just for you and ethel! i'm going crazy with the responsibility of all this, and now you've got to help me out. and if kirkwood gets to the grand jury with that administration business, you see where it puts us--what it means to you and ethel, the disgrace of it. don't forget that father took those bonds--his share of sycamore swag--and left it up to me to defend his good name and divide the proceeds when it was safe. don't stand there like a dead man! say something, can't you!" it had slowly dawned upon fred that he was listening to an appeal for mercy, a cry for help from this jaunty, cocksure brother. it was a miserable mess; beyond doubt much of what he had heard in the stuffy hotel room was true. it would not be charles's way to incriminate himself so far unless driven to it by direst necessity. it was clear that he was alarmed for his personal safety. fred did not doubt that charles had attempted to swindle him; had in fact gone the full length of doing so. his simple, direct nature was awed by a confession that combined so many twists and turns, so many oblique lines and loops and circles. he sank into a creaky rocker, and rapped the arm idly with his pipe-bowl, conscious that charles hovered over him as though fearful that he might escape. "come back to life, can't you! it's not much i'm asking of you; it won't cost you anything to help tide this thing over with kirkwood. and you get your share right now--to-night. why--" his lip curled with scornful depreciation as he began again to minimize the importance of the transaction. fred shook himself impatiently. "please don't! don't go over that story again or i may do something ugly. sit down over there in that chair." he bent forward, his elbows on his knees and gesticulated with the pipe, speaking slowly. "let's shake the chaff out and see what's left of all this. you stole my share of those bonds, and now that you're in danger of getting caught you want me to help you hide the boodle. you flatter me with the idea that my reputation is so much better than yours that i'm in a position to keep you out of jail. and for a little thing like that you're willing to give me my honest share of a crooked deal! you're a wonder, charlie! it must have tickled you to death to see me turning my poor old farm over to kirkwood to uphold the family honor while you were chasing over the country with the real stuff packed away with your pajamas. it's picturesque, i must say!" his eyes rested upon his brother's face lingeringly, but his tone and manner were indulgent, as though he were an older brother who had caught a younger one in a misdemeanor. "cut that out! i've told you the whole truth. if you won't help, all right." "no, it isn't all right. there's no all right about any of this. it's rotten clean through." he frowned with the stress of his thought, then rose, and began buttoning his coat. "well?" charles questioned harshly, impatient for his brother's decision. "i won't do it. i won't have anything to do with your scheme. after the trouble you've taken to steal those bonds it would be a shame to take any of them away from you. i advise you to carry them back to indianapolis and turn them over to kirkwood. he's not half the cold-blooded scoundrel you seem to think. you'd make a big hit with him." "and after i've told you everything--after i've shown you that i was only covering up father's share in that construction business, for your sake, and our sister's, that's all you've got to say about it!" "every word!" a malevolent grin crossed the older man's face. he was white with passion. "you'll pay for this; i'll land one on you for this that will hurt." he waited expectantly for fred to demand the nature of this vengeance; his rage cried for the satisfaction of seeing him flinch at the blow. fred settled his cap on his head and walked stolidly toward the door. charles caught him by the shoulder and flung him round. "you think you can drop me like that! not by a damned sight you can't! you think you stand pretty close to the montgomerys, don't you?--the only real good holton in the bunch--but i'll give you a jar. you imagine you're going to marry phil, don't you?--but i'll show you a thing or two. i'm going to marry phil myself; it's all practically understood." "that's all right, too, charlie," replied fred calmly. "the ambition does you proud. i suppose when you tell kirkwood you're engaged to his daughter he will call off the dogs." "oh, they're not so high and mighty! now that phil's mother has brought her smirched reputation back here, phil will be glad to marry and get out." "just for old time's sake, charlie, i advise you not to play that card." "you're too late with your advice. that day phil and i climbed the cliffs she promised to marry me. you saw us up there; that was before her mother came back. but as far as her mother's concerned, i'll stand for her. a woman that's been through the divorce mill twice has got to be humble. you can be dead sure she would never have shown up here if it hadn't been for old amzi's ducats. women like that go where the money comes easiest." fred listened with a kind of bewildered intensity. that a man should speak thus of the mother of a girl whom he meant to marry touched the uttermost depths of vulgarity. little as he had in common with his brother, he had never believed him capable of anything so base. yet much as he distrusted him, he half-believed the story of the engagement. there must be some basis for his declaration, and it would be quite like charles to hasten matters with a view to blocking kirkwood's investigations of the holton estate. jealousy and anger surged in his heart. the air of the room stifled him. "you've lost your mind; that's the only way i can explain you. if you were quite sane, you wouldn't forget the part our father's brother played in phil's mother's affairs." "don't take that tragic tone with me; uncle jack's told me all about that woman. she's the very devil. she led him a dog's life until he chucked her." fred nodded, slowly drawing on his gloves, whose shabbiness affected his brother disagreeably. charles had expected to score heavily with his declaration that phil had promised to marry him; but this had apparently been a wasted shot. he wondered whether he had misread the symptoms that had seemed to indicate fred's interest in that quarter. fred's composure was irritating. charles was never sure what impression he made on this quiet brother, whose very unresponsiveness had driven him to disclosures he had not meant to make. he had managed the interview clumsily; he was not up to the mark, or he would not have made so many false starts in this talk, on whose results he had counted much. his fingers touched his scarfpin and tie nervously. "now that you know the whole business i needn't ask you to keep your mouth shut. but i suppose with your delicate sense of honor i'm safe." "you are quite safe, charlie. i'd repeat my advice if i thought it would do any good. i'd turn that stuff over to kirkwood as quickly as i could." he had opened the door and started down the hall when charles, his apprehensions aroused as he saw his brother's determined stride toward the stairs, sprang after him. "what are you up to; where are you going?" he demanded excitedly. "stop . good-night!" chapter xxi phil's fists "this is very kind of you, mrs. holton. please be sure that i appreciate it." charles holton bowed profoundly, and lifted his head for a closer inspection of mrs. lois montgomery holton. he had called for phil, whom he had engaged to escort to a lecture in the athenæum course. when his note proposing this entertainment reached phil, she dutifully laid it before her mother who lay on her bed reading a french novel. "special delivery! a wild extravagance when there's a perfectly good telephone in the house." lois read the note twice; her eyes resting lingeringly upon the signature. "wayland brown bayless, ll.d., on 'sunshine and shadow.' he was giving that same lecture here when i was a girl; it ought to be well mellowed by this time. either the president of the college or the pastor of center church will present him to the audience and the white pitcher of sugar creek water that is always provided. well, it's a perfectly good lecture, and old enough to be respectable: smiles and sobs stuck in at regular intervals. i approve of the lecture, phil. i'd almost make amzi take me, just to see how bayless, ll.d., looks after all these years. away back there when i heard him he looked so old i thought he must have been a baby playing in the sand when they carved the sphinx." she returned the note to phil and her eyes reverted to the book. "what about it, mamma?" "oh, about going! let me see. this is the other holton boy, so to speak--the provider of american beauties, as distinguished from the dispenser of quails?" phil confirmed this. "it's charlie. he's taken me to parties several times. i rather think this note is a feeler. he doesn't know whether he ought to come here--now--" and phil ended, with the doubt she attributed to charles holton manifest in her own uncertainty. "we went over that the other day, phil. as those wise aunts of yours introduced you to this person, i shouldn't suggest that you drop his acquaintance on my account. you see"--she raised herself slightly to punch a more comfortable hollow in the pillows--"you see that would merely stir up strife, which is highly undesirable. if you think you can survive bayless, ll.d.'s, plea for optimism, accept the gentleman's invitation. there's only this--you yourself might be a little uncomfortable, for reasons we needn't mention; you'll have to think of that. i suppose chaperons didn't reach montgomery with the electric light; girls run around with young men just as they used to." "i don't care what people say, so far as that is concerned," replied phil. "charlie has been kind to me--and the lecture is the only thing that offers just now." lois laughed. "then, go!" "and besides, just now people are talking about the sycamore company and father's connection with it, and i shouldn't want charlie to feel that i thought he wasn't all straight about that; for i don't suppose he did anything wrong. he doesn't seem like that." lois reached for a pot of cold cream and applied the ointment to her lips with the tip of a slim, well-cared-for finger. "you think maybe he's being persecuted?" "oh, i've wondered; that's all." "i shouldn't worry about that part of it: if you feel like going, tell him you'll go. it will give me a chance to look at him. this is charles, is it? then it was fred who came the other evening to see amzi;--he's pretty serious but substantial--permissible if not exactly acceptable. you'll have to learn to judge men for yourself. and you'll do it. i'm not a bit afraid for you. and it's rather fortunate than otherwise that you have specimens of the holton family to work on, particularly with me standing by to throw a word in now and then." so it came about that when charles appeared the next evening, fortified with one of the village hacks, lois went down to inspect him. amzi had returned to the bank, and phil was changing her gown. charles, having expressed his appreciation of mrs. holton's courtesy, found difficulty in concealing the emotions she aroused in him. he had expected to feel uncomfortable in the presence of this lady, of whom her former husband, his uncle, had spoken so bitterly; but she was not at all the sort of person one would suspect of being in league with the devil--an alliance vouched for in profane terms by jack holton. charles liked new sensations, and it was positively thrilling to stand face to face with this woman who had figured so prominently in his family history. he placed a chair for her with elaborate care, and bowed her into it. she was a much more smoothly finished product than her daughter. he liked "smart" women, and mrs. holton was undeniably "smart." her languid grace, the faint hints of sachet her raiment exhaled; her abrupt, crisp manner of speaking--in innumerable ways she was delightful and satisfying. she was a woman of the world: as a man of the world he felt that they understood each other without argument. the disparity of their years was not so great as to exclude the hope that little attentions from him would be grateful to her; it was a fair assumption that a woman who had dismissed two husbands would not be averse to the approaches of a presentable young man. he wished to fix himself in her mind as one who breathed naturally the ampler ether of her own world. it would be easier to win phil with her mother as an ally. "you did go to madison? i suppose all good montgomery boys go to the home college." "well, of course that was one of my mistakes. you never quite recover what you lose by going to these little freshwater colleges. you never quite get the jay out of your system." the obvious reply to this was that in his case it had not mattered, for patently he did not even remotely suggest the state or condition of jayness; but mrs. holton ignored the opportunity to appease his vanity. "oh!" phil's "oh" was ambiguous enough; but her mother's was even more baffling. "of course, we all love madison," he hastened to add; "but i'm around a good deal, here and there over the country, and when i meet yale and harvard men i always feel that i have missed something; there is a difference." "clothes--neckties?" suggested mrs. holton. "it's a little deeper than that." "knack of ordering a dinner?" "oh, you're putting me in a corner! i'd never thought it all out; but i've always felt a difference. if i'm wrong, there's nobody i'd rather have set me right than you." her laugh was enthralling. she had no intention of committing herself on the relative advantages of big and little colleges. "let me see, mr. holton, your business is--" "oh, i'm a broker in investment securities; that's the way they have me down in the indianapolis directory." "you advise people what to do with their money and that sort of thing? it's very responsible, i should think, and it must be wearing." her face reflected the gravity associated with the delicate matter of investments. for a woman whose two matrimonial adventures had left her a stranded dependent she carried this off well, and she could play a part; and he liked people who could carry a part gracefully. she turned so that the firelight fell upon her face and raised a fan to shield her cheek from the heat. her use of her hands charmed him. he could not recall a more graceful woman in all his acquaintance. he added trim ankles and a discriminating taste in silk hose to his itemized appraisement of her attractions. "if a poor lone woman should come to you with a confession that she owned, say, fifty to a hundred thousand dollars' worth of government 's, what would you advise her to do with them?" it was as though she spoke of poetry or the moonlit sea. "fifty or a hundred!" she could as easily have spoken of a chest of spanish doubloons, or some other monetary unit of romance. he was flattered that she was taking so much pains with him; a woman who was so fair to look upon might amuse herself at his expense as much as she liked. it was delightful trifling. he felt that it was incumbent upon him to respond in kind. "oh, i should feel it my duty to double her income--or triple it. few of us can afford to fool with governments; but, of course, there are not many first-rate securities that pay high interest. that's where i come in: it's my business to find them for my clients." "what would you recommend--i mean right now--something that would net seven per cent and be safe for the poor widow we're talking about?" "well," he laughed nervously, "i haven't anything better right now than bonds of the hornbrook electric power at a price to net six." "but--that sounds very conservative. and besides--they say there's not enough water in hornbrook creek to furnish power for any great number of mills. the engineer's report was very unsatisfactory--quite so. i looked into that. should you say that the territory adjacent to the creek is likely to invite--oh, factories, mills, and that sort of thing?" he colored as her brown eyes met his in one of her flashing glances. she mentioned hornbrook creek in her low, caressing voice as though it were only an item of landscape, and the report of the engineers might have been a pirate's round-robin, hidden in an old sea chest from the way she spoke of it. it was inconceivable that she had prepared for this interview. she touched her pompadour lightly with the back of her hand--the smallest of hands--and he was so lost in admiration of the witchery of the gesture that he was disconcerted to find her eyes bent upon him keenly. "of course, it's got to be developed--like anything else," he replied. "but--the fixed charges--and that sort of thing?" he wished she would not say "that sort of thing." the phrase as she used it swept everything before it like a broom. "it's a delicate matter, the sale of bonds," she continued. "i suppose if they turn out badly the investors have the bad manners to complain." "well, it's up to the broker to satisfy them. my father taught me that," he went on largely. "he promoted a great number of schemes and nobody ever had any kick. you may have heard of the sycamore troubles--well, i'm personally assuming the responsibility there. i deeply regret, as you may imagine, that there should be all this talk, but i'm going to pull it out. it's only fair to myself to say to you that that's my attitude. there's a lot of spite work back of it; you probably realize that." he wanted to say that tom kirkwood was the malignant agent in the situation, but he shrank from mentioning the lawyer. he wished phil would come down and terminate an interview that was becoming increasingly disagreeable. "what do you consider those sycamore bonds worth, mr. holton?" "par!" he ejaculated. "you really think so?" "my word of honor! there's not a better 'buy' in the american market," he affirmed solemnly. "you can dispose of them at full face value?" she queried, arching her brows, her eyes full of wonder. "i'll pay that for any you have, mrs. holton," he threw out at a venture, feeling that it was a "safe" play. "then i have twenty of them, and i believe i'll sell. you may bring me a check to-morrow. i shall have the bonds here at, say, three o'clock." she glanced carelessly at the watch on her wrist, and murmured something about phil's delay. the bond transaction was concluded, so far as she was concerned; she spoke now of the reported illness of the czar. she had visited st. petersburg and appeared to be conversant with russian politics. it was in charles's mind that his uncle jack would never have dropped a woman who owned twenty bonds that were worth even a dime apiece. he was confident of some trick. phil's mother had led him into ambush, and was now enjoying his discomfiture. his face reddened with anger. she knew perfectly well that he could not fulfill the commission he had been trapped into undertaking. his pride was stung, and his humiliation was deepened by her perfect tranquillity. phil's delay had been by connivance, to give time for this encounter. his uncle jack had been right: the woman belonged to the devil's household. his ordeal had lasted only twenty minutes, though it had seemed an hour. phil's tardiness was due to the fact that she had returned from a tea just as dinner was announced, and she had gone to the table without changing her gown. she had, of course, no idea of what had occurred when she appeared before them, and met with her habitual cheeriness her mother's chaffing rebuke for her dallying. "sorry! but it's only eight, and the lecturer dined with mrs. king, who never hurries. hope you two haven't bored each other!" she thrust out her white-sheathed arm for her mother's help with the buttons. charles, still smarting, drew on his gloves with an effort at composure. his good looks were emphasized by his evening clothes, and a glimpse he caught of himself in the gilt-framed mirror above the mantel was reassuring. he picked up the wrap phil had flung on the chair, and laid it over her shoulders, while lois stood by, her finger-tips resting on the back of a chair. if she lacked in the essential qualities of a lady, he at least could be a gentleman; and when he had donned his overcoat, he bowed over her hand, with his best imitation of the ambassadorial elegance which the honorable stewart king (son of mrs. john newman king) had brought back to montgomery from the belgian court. "i'm glad to have had this opportunity, mrs. holton." "not a word to phil!" the slightest inclination of her head, a compression of the lips, the lifting of her brows, suggested that the most prodigious secrets had been discussed. she was quite equal to rubbing salt in the wounds she inflicted! he was in no mood for a discussion of sunshine and shadow; the lecture would be a bore, but he would have an hour and a half in which to plan revenge upon mrs. holton. as the carriage rattled toward masonic hall, phil talked gayly of the afternoon's tea. when they reached the hall the lecturer was just walking onto the platform, and charles saw with elation that phil and he shared public attention with the orator. as they took their seats there was much craning of necks. lois's return had set all manner of rumors afloat. it had been said that she had come back to keep phil out of the clutches of the holtons; and here was phil with charlie holton. glances of surprise were exchanged. it was plain that lois was not interfering with phil's affairs. possibly the appearance of the two just now had a special significance. it was tough on tom kirkwood, though, that his daughter should be thrown in the way of a son of the house of holton! the pastor of center church introduced the lecturer to an inattentive audience. * * * * * at the end there was the usual "visiting," and phil remained perforce to take her part in it. phil had enjoyed the lecture; phil always enjoyed everything! charles, with her cloak on his arm, made himself agreeable to a visiting girl to whom phil entrusted him while she obeyed a command from mrs. king to meet the speaker. wayland brown bayless was encircled by a number of leading citizens and citizenesses. judge walters was in the group, and captain joshua wilson, and mr. and mrs. alec waterman, and general and mrs. wilks, and the wife of congressman reynolds--representatives of montgomery's oldest and best. phil shook hands with wayland brown bayless and told him she was glad he had quoted shelley's "skylark," her favorite poem, whereupon he departed hurriedly to catch a train. it was then that mrs. king took advantage of the proximity of so many leading citizens and citizenesses, who had just heard pessimism routed and optimism glorified, to address phil in that resonant tone of authority she brought to all occasions. "phil, how's your mother?" "mamma's very well, thank you, mrs. king." "i wish you would tell lois to make no engagement for thursday night--thursday, remember--as i want her to dine with me;--that means you and amzi, too. the sir edward gibberts, who made the nile trip when i did in ' , are on their way home from japan and are stopping off to see me. don't forget it's thursday, phil." it was all montgomery she addressed, not phil, as phil and every one in hearing distance understood perfectly. reduced to terms, what had happened was this: mrs. john newman king, the indisputable social censor of montgomery, whose husband, etc., etc., was "taking up" lois holton! not since that april afternoon when general wilks, judge of the circuit court, left the bench and personally beat a drum on the court-house steps to summon volunteers to avenge the firing upon sumter had anything quite touched the dramatic heights of this incident. and mrs. king's pew in center church was number on the middle aisle! phil's blood tingled and her eyes filled. her aunt josephine flung a murderous glance at her, as though she were in any wise responsible for the vagaries of mrs. john newman king! the gloomy station hack was waiting at the door when she emerged with her escort. charles had exerted himself to interest the visiting girl--and she had promised to call him up the next time she was in indianapolis, which was some compensation for the banalities of the lecture. "it's a fine night; let's walk home," said phil. charles discharged the hackman without debate. his had been the only carriage at the door, except mrs. king's ancient coach, and he felt that phil had not appreciated his munificence. the remembrance of his encounter with her mother rankled, and as he thought of fred's rejection of his proposal about the bonds and of kirkwood's persistent, steady stroke in the traction matter, he was far from convinced by the lessons of the lecture. the sight of montgomery in its best clothes, showing its delight in optimism, had only aroused his contempt. he had been annoyed by phil's manifestations of pleasure; she had laughed aloud once at a story, before the rest of the audience caught the point, and he felt that considerable patient labor would be required to smooth out phil's provincial crudenesses. phil's spirits soared. the world was, indeed, a good place, and full of charity and kindness. wayland brown bayless had said so; mrs. john newman king had done much to prove it. she walked from the hall in one of her moods of exaltation, her head high. "i apologize, phil; i had no idea the old fellow could be such a bore. i heard him once when i was in college and thought he was the real thing--and it was, to the sophomoric taste." "oh, he's a perfect dear! don't you dare apologize! and his stories were perfectly killing--all new to me." "you deserve better things, phil, than the entertainments this town affords. you were destined for the wider world; i've always felt that about you." he had forced a slower pace than the quick step with which phil had set out. his mind was working busily. phil was an exceedingly pretty and a very intelligent girl, and it would be a good stroke on his part to marry her. amzi would undoubtedly do the generous thing by her. he had made his boast to fred--and why not? there was no surer way of staying kirkwood's hand than to present himself as the affianced husband of the lawyer's daughter. phil's mother did not matter, after all. kirkwood would probably be relieved to find that phil had been rescued from a woman he had every reason to hate. "you never looked so well as you did to-night, phil. i was proud of you. and you won't mind my saying it, but it was fine of you to go with me when--well, you know what i mean." phil knew what he meant. she said:-- "fine, nothing. you were kind to ask me and i had a good time every minute." "i wasn't sure you'd go. things have happened queerly--you know what i mean." phil knew what he meant. "oh, don't be looking for queernesses; we've got to take things as they come along. that's my way of doing; and i'm more than ever convinced that optimism is the true doctrine." in spite of herself her last words ended a little dolorously. he was quick to seize advantage of this unfamiliar mood. "i hope you know that any trouble that may come to you is my trouble, too, phil. not many girls would have done what you did to-night. no other girl i ever knew or read of would have taken the chance of stirring up gossip as you did in going with me. it was splendid and heroic." "pshaw! i don't see anything heroic in going to a lecture you want to hear if a kind friend offers to take you. let's talk of something else." "i want to talk about you, phil." "then you'll have to find somebody else to listen; i won't! i like to hear about interesting things. now don't feel you must tell me i'm a fruitful topic!" "i'm serious to-night. i haven't been happy lately. i've had a lot of responsibilities thrown on me--things i never knew about have been dumped down on me without any warning. i was tired to death to-night, and i can't tell you what a joy it's been to be with you. i wasn't listening to the lecture; it meant nothing to me. i was thinking of you, phil." phil stopped short. the senior who had proposed to her had employed a similar prelude, and she had no intention of subjecting herself to a second attack. "you may think of me all you like; but don't tell me; just let me guess. it isn't any fun if you know people think of you. we expect our friends to think of us. that's what we have them for." she started off more briskly, but he refused to accommodate himself to her pace. the undercurrent of resentment in his soul gathered force. he must justify his boast to his brother, for one thing; and for another, his face smarted from her mother's light, ironic whip. "phil!" he began endearingly. "oh, come on! we can't stand in the street all night discussing the philosophy of life." "since that afternoon at the run," he continued, as they started forward again, "everything has been different with me, phil. i never felt until lately that i really wanted to follow my good inclinations: i've done a lot of things i'm sorry for, but that's all over. i felt that day, as we stood together at the top of the bluff, that a new spirit had come into my life. you know i'm a good deal older than you, phil--just about ten years' difference; but you seem immensely older and wiser. i never knew a woman who knew as much." she stopped again, and drew away from him. "mr. holton!" she ejaculated mockingly; "please don't try that kind of jollying on me. i don't like it." this, uttered with sharp peremptoriness, did not soothe him; nor was he in any humor to be thwarted. he had felt that phil liked him; and a great many girls had been in love with him. if she made his approaches difficult, there was the more reason for believing that his proposal of marriage would not fall upon ungrateful ears. and, besides, phil was just the sort of perverse, willful young woman to jump at a proposal, the more readily if the suitor was set apart from her by barriers that invited a young romantic imagination. "i wasn't jollying you," he said, "and you know i wasn't. you've known from the first that i admired you. in fact, it was all over with me the first time i spoke to you--when you took me down so. i liked your spirit; i hate these tame, perfectly conventional girls; they bore me to death." "oh, i like _that_! how dare you say i'm not perfectly conventional!" she laughed. "you know perfectly well what i mean. you have a mind and will of your own, and i like that in you. you're a perfect wonder, phil. you're the most fascinating creature in the world!" "creature!" she mocked. "look here, phil; i don't want you to pick me up like that. i'm entitled to better treatment. i'm in terrible earnest and i don't mean to be put off in any such way." "well, i'm not afraid to walk home alone!" she made a feint at leaving him; then waited for him to catch up with her. it had been said of phil that she liked to tease; she had, with a pardonable joy, made the high-school boys dance to her piping, and the admiration of the young collegians was tempered with awe and fear. she felt herself fully equal to any emergencies that might arise with young men. the boys she had known had all been nice fellows, good comrades, with whom she had entered into boyish sports zestfully, until her lengthening skirts had excluded her from participation in town-ball and the spring's delight in marbles. when her chums became seniors in college and appeared at parties in dress-suits, the transformation struck her as funny. they were still the "boys" who had admired the ease with which she threw, and caught, and batted, and whom she had bankrupted in naughty games of chance with marbles. she liked charles holton. the difference in their years added to the flattery of his attentions. he was a practiced flirt, and she had made experiments of her own in the gentle art of flirtation. phil was human. "if you knew how depressed i am, and how i need a little sympathy and friendliness, you wouldn't act like that. we are good friends, aren't we?" "i haven't questioned it." "we understand each other, don't we?" "in the plain old hoosier language, yes!" "and if i tell you out of the depths of my humility that no one in the world means so much to me as you do, you understand, don't you, phil?" "certainly. your words are admirably chosen and we'll let it go at that." her flippancy now invited rather than repelled him. it was his experience that girls like to be made love to; the more reluctant they appear, the better they like it; and as she moved along beside him her beauty, her splendid health, her audacity struck fire in him. it was to-night or never between phil and him. his to-morrows were uncertain; there was no guessing what kirkwood might do, and phil alone could protect and save him. "phil, this whole situation here is an impossible one for you. because i'm older i realize it probably more than you do. first it was my uncle jack that came back here and stirred things up, and now--you won't take it unkindly if i say that your mother's return has been most unfortunate--for all of us. a girl like you oughtn't to be exposed to the gossip of a country town. it's not fair to you. i love you, phil; i want you to marry me, at once, the quicker the better. i want to take you away from all this. phil--dear!" his tone thrilled her; she was persuaded of his kindness and generosity. he had not abused her mother or spoken unkindly of his uncle even. he had shown the nicest tact and discretion in his proposal of marriage, hinting at his own difficulties without attempting to play upon her sympathies. she could not laugh it off; she felt no inclination to do so. "i'm sorry, charlie; i'm awfully sorry; and i didn't want you to go on; i really didn't mean to let you; i tried to stop you. i respect you and like you; but i don't love you. so that's all there is to it. now we must hurry home." they were quite near amzi's gate, and there was need for urgency. the thought of her mother gave him an angry throb; very likely she was waiting for them. "you don't mean that, phil! i can't have it that way." "i do mean just that. so please don't say any more about it; we won't either of us be happier for talking about it." "that's not square, phil. you knew it was bound to come to this. you let me go on believing, hoping--" "if you think such things of me, i shall be sorry i ever saw you." "i've offered you a way out for yourself; your happiness is at stake. you must get away from here. let us get married now--to-night, and leave this place forever, phil!" "no!" she cried angrily, frightened now as he stopped and planted himself before her at the edge of amzi's lawn, where the house loomed darkly against the stars. he gripped her arms. in all her rough play with boys, none had ever dared to touch her, and she choked with wrath. he had taken her off guard. her hands, thrust into her muff, were imprisoned there by his grasp of her arms. "phil, you can't leave me like this. you've got to say yes. i'll kill myself if you don't." she tried to wrench herself free, but his anger had slipped its leash and was running away with him. he drew her toward him, and the brute in him roused at her nearness. he threw an arm round her suddenly, and bent to kiss her. abruptly she flung him back, wrenched her arms free and seized his wrists. her fear left her on the instant; she was as strong or stronger than he, and she held him away from her easily, breathing deeply, and wondering just how to dispose of him. she laughed mockingly as he struggled, confident in the security of her greater strength. the light from amzi's gate-lamp fell upon them, and she peered into his face curiously. at other times the spectacle of a gentleman in a silk hat held at ease by a young woman in her best evening bonnet would have been amusing, but phil was thoroughly angry. "i didn't think you would be like this. i thought all the time that you were a man; i even thought you were a gentleman!" he jerked back in an effort to free his arms, a movement that precipitated his hat to the pavement. she gave his wrists a wrench that caused him to cry out in pain. to be held in a vise-like grip by a girl he had tried to kiss was a new and disagreeable experience. his anger rioted uncontrollably. he brought his face closer and sneered:-- "you needn't take such grand airs;--think what your mother is!" she flung him against the iron fence with a violence that shook it, and her fists beat a fierce tattoo on his face--white-gloved fists, driven by sound, vigorous, young arms; and then as he cowered, with his arms raised to protect himself from her blows, she stepped back, her anger and contempt still unsatisfied. he lifted his head, guardedly, thinking the attack was over, and with a quick sweep of her arm she struck his face with her open hand, a sharp, tingling slap. as she turned toward the gate, her foot encountered his hat. she kicked it into the street, and then, without looking back, swung the gate open and ran up the path to the house. chapter xxii mr. waterman's great opportunity jack holton reappeared in montgomery toward the end of march, showed himself to main street in a new suit of clothes, intimated to old friends that he was engaged upon large affairs, and complained bitterly to a group of idlers at the morton house of the local-option law that had lately been invoked to visit upon montgomery the curse of perpetual thirst. he then sought alexander waterman in that gentleman's office. waterman he had known well in old times, and he correctly surmised that the lawyer was far from prosperous. men who married into the montgomery family didn't prosper, some way! an assumption that they were both victims of daughters of the house of montgomery may have entered into his choice of waterman as a likely person to precipitate a row in sycamore affairs. it was with a purpose that he visited waterman's office on the mill street side of the court-house, over redmond's undertaking parlors--a suggestive proximity that had not been neglected by local humorists. "this is your chance, old man, to take up a fight for the people that can't fail to make you solid. what this poor old town needs is a leader. they're all sound asleep, dead ones, who'd turn over and take another nap if gabriel blew his horn. these fellows are getting ready to put over the neatest little swindle ever practiced on a confiding public. the newspapers are in it--absolutely muzzled. i won't lie to you about my motive in coming to you. i'm sore all over from the knocks i've got. my dear brother will has kicked me out; actually told me he'd have me arrested if i ever showed up here again. like a fool i sent word to kirkwood that i could be of service in getting to the bottom of sycamore; thought he'd let bygones be bygones when it came to straight business, but, by george, he didn't even answer my letter! cold as a frozen lobster, and always was! you see i thought it was all on the level--his tinkering with the traction company--but he's in on the shrewdest piece of high finance that was ever put over in indiana. talk about my lamented brother samuel--sam never started in his class!" waterman, with his ponderous swivel-chair tipped back against the indiana reports that lined the wall, listened guardedly. it was not wholly flattering to be chosen by a man of jack holton's reputation as the repository of confidences; but things had been going badly with waterman. his passion for speculation had led him to invest funds he held as guardian in pork margins, and a caprice of the powers that play with pork in chicago had wiped him out. judge walters had just been asking impertinent questions about the guardianship money, and when he had gone to the first national bank for a loan to tide over the judicial inquiry and avert an appeal to his bondsmen, william holton had "called" a loan of three hundred dollars that the bank had been carrying for two years. this was very annoying, and it made the lawyer more tolerant of jack holton than he should otherwise have been. "we're talking on the dead, are we?" waterman grunted his acquiescence. "well, kirkwood and old amzi have framed it up to pinch the small sycamore stockholders. kirkwood stands in with those eastern fellows who have the big end of it--he's their representative, as everybody knows. and old amzi is gumshoeing through the woods buying bonds of the yaps who shelled out to samuel--telling them the company's gone to the bad, and that he's the poor man's friend, anxious to assume their burdens. it's a good story, all right. of course he has his tip from kirkwood that the bonds are going to boom or he wouldn't be putting money into 'em. you know amzi--he's the king of gumshoe artists--and he and kirkwood are bound to make a big clean-up out of this." waterman was interested. he had always disliked amzi. he felt that the banker had never dealt squarely with him, and in particular the peremptory fashion in which amzi, seven years earlier, had pushed his pass-book through the window and suggested that he take his account elsewhere had eaten into his soul. "i knew somebody was picking up those bonds, but i didn't know it was amzi. one of my clients had five of them, and i'd got him to the point of letting me bring suit for a receiver, but somebody shut him off." "your client's bonds are in kirkwood's pocket, all right enough. by george, can you beat it! and here's another thing. a man hates to talk against his own flesh and blood; and you may think i'm not in a position to strut around virtuously and talk about other people's sins; but i guess i've got some sense of honor left. i've never stolen any money. i did run off with another man's wife, and i got my pay for _that_. that was in the ardor of youth, waterman; it was a calamitous mistake. nobody knows it better than i do. i got my punishment. i don't wish the woman any harm; she's a brazen one, and don't need anybody's sympathy." lois montgomery holton's brazenness had been brought to waterman's attention convincingly at home. josephine, kate, and fanny were almost insane over their sister's bold return. her impudence in settling herself upon amzi, under their very noses, was discussed every day and all day on sunday, whenever lois's sisters could get their heads together. waterman felt that jack holton's direct testimony as to the brazenness of their wicked sister would be grateful to the ears of his wife and sisters-in-law. "i guess," said waterman, "that hasn't anything to do with the case. if what you say's true--" "oh, it's true, all right enough. you go over to the 'star' office and ask why they've shut up about sycamore; ask judge walters why certain damage suits against the sycamore company haven't been tried; go out among the people who had put the savings of years into the traction company and ask them who's buying their bonds. and then, just for a joke, telegraph the comptroller at washington and ask him why he sent out a special agent of the treasury to look over the first national after the examiner's last visit. i tell you, this town's going to have a big jar in a day or two, and it's just about up to you to get out among the people and tell 'em how they're being worked." "the people like being worked," replied waterman, who had been trying to bring the people to a realizing sense of their wrongs in every campaign for twenty years. in a few months they would again be choosing a representative in congress for the seat he had long coveted, and it was conceivable that if he should now show himself valiant in their behalf he might avert his usual biennial defeat. it was worth considering. "the thing to do is to hold a mass meeting and make one of your big speeches, pitching into walters for refusing to bring those damage suits to trial, and telling the truth about what kirkwood and amzi are doing, and then go over to indianapolis and bring suit for the appointment of a receiver. and, by the way, i'm not as altruistic as i look. i'll take the receivership and you'll be the receiver's attorney, of course. between us we ought to clear up something handsome, besides rendering a great public service that you can cash in here any way you like." only that day judge walters had granted the request of wright and fitch, the indianapolis attorneys, for a postponement of the trial of a damage suit against the sycamore company in which waterman represented the plaintiff, and this now assumed new significance in the lawyer's mind. if he got before a mass meeting with a chance to arraign the courts for their subservience to corporations, he was confident that it would redound to his credit at the fall election. his affairs were in such shape that some such miracle as his election to congress was absolutely necessary to his rehabilitation. "you don't think the first national's going under, do you? bill isn't fool enough to let it come to that?" holton winked knowingly to whet his auditor's appetite. "i don't think it; i know it! kirkwood's a merciless devil, and he's got bill and my hopeful nephew charlie where the hair's short. if sam had lived he'd have taken care of this traction business; sam was a genius, all right. sam could sell lemons for peaches, and when people made faces he sugared the lemons and proved they were peaches. sam was no second-story man; he worked on the ground floor in broad daylight. good old sam!" * * * * * a chicago newspaper had given currency to a rumor that the sycamore line was soon to be put into the hands of a receiver, and while kirkwood denied this promptly, there were many disquieting stories afloat as to the fate of the road. the reports of an expert as to the road's physical condition had been reassuring, on the whole, and a thorough audit had placed kirkwood in possession of all the facts as to the property and its possibilities. some of the most prominent men in the state had been stockholders in the sanford construction company. samuel holton had enrolled in that corporation his particular intimates, who had expected him to "take care of them" as he was in the habit of doing. the list included several former state officials and the benevolent bosses who manipulated the legislature by a perfectly adjusted bi-partisan mechanism. it was with a disagreeable shock that they found that samuel had departed this life, leaving them to bear the burden of his iniquities. tom kirkwood had assembled these gentlemen in the inner room of wright and fitch's offices and laid the incontrovertible figures before them, with an alternative that they return their respective shares of the plunder or answer to an action at law. kirkwood was an absurd person. it was politely suggested that it would be much to his advantage to allow the sycamore company to take its course through the courts, under a receiver friendly to the stockholders of the sanford construction company. kirkwood was informed that things had always been done that way; but, having no political ambitions or ties, he was little impressed. it seemed to the business politicians weakminded for a man who had "pull" enough to secure employment from one of the most powerful trust companies on the continent to refuse to listen to "reason." it was almost incredible that he should be trying to save the road instead of wrecking it, when there was no money to be made out of saving a trolley line that had been marked for destruction from the day its first tie was laid. kirkwood smiled coldly upon them and their attorneys when they passed from persuasions to threats. it was difficult to find an effective club to use on a man who was so unreasonable as to threaten them with the long arm of the grand jury. the most minute scrutiny of kirkwood's private life failed to disclose anything that might be used to frighten him. it had seemed to kirkwood that the beneficiaries of the construction company should pay into the sycamore treasury enough money to repair the losses occasioned by dishonest work. interest on the sycamore bonds was due the st of april. the november payment had been made with money advanced by half a dozen country banks through negotiations conducted by william holton. on the day that jack holton was persuading alec waterman to thrust himself forward as the people's protagonist, kirkwood was tightening the screws on the construction company. if the sum he demanded was not paid by the st of april, he assured samuel holton's former allies that criminal proceedings would be instituted. as one of the construction crowd was just then much in the newspapers as a probable nominee for a state office, kirkwood's determination to force a settlement on his own terms was dismaying. the bi-partisan bosses had figured altogether too much in the newspapers, and it was not pleasant to contemplate the opening of the books of the company to public gaze. march prepared to go out like a lion in montgomery that year. while alec waterman was pondering his duty to the public as brought to his attention by jack holton, fate seemed to take charge of his affairs. on march the whistle of the sugar creek furniture company failed to rouse the town. the sugar creek company, one of the industries that paul fosdick had promoted, had seemed to escape the dark fate that had pursued his other projects, so that the abruptness with which it shut down gave the local financial seismograph a severe wrench. the factory had been one of the largest employers of labor in montgomery, and its suspension was reported to be due to the refusal of the first national to advance money for its next maturing weekly pay-roll. to several of the workingmen who consulted waterman about their claims, he broached the matter of a mass meeting in the circuit courtroom to discuss the business conditions of montgomery. two hundred men and boys were thrown out of work by the failure of the furniture company; rumors as to the relations between the company and the first national caused the stability of the holton bank to be debated guardedly; and april st was fixed definitely in the minds of the main street gossips as the date for drastic action in sycamore matters. * * * * * mr. amzi montgomery's frequent absences in indianapolis had occasioned comment of late. he returned, however, on the evening of the th, and before the "bank open" side of the battered tin sign was presented to main street on the morning of the th, a number of citizens had called to ask his opinion of the local financial conditions. he answered their anxious inquiries with his habitual nonchalance, leaning against the counter, with his cigar at an angle that testified to unruffled serenity and perfect peace with the world. amzi had brought home from the capital a new standing collar, taller than he was in the habit of wearing, and from its deep recesses his countenance appeared more than usually chaste and demure. the collar, a dashing bow tie, and a speckled waistcoat that was the most daring expression of sartorial art available at the capital, gave to amzi an air of uncommon jauntiness. "what about this, amzi? is the whole town going to smash?" asked judge walters. "nope. worst's over. nothing to worry about." "i've got to appoint a receiver for the furniture company in a few minutes. i hope i'm not going to have to run the whole town through my court." "you won't. the sugar creek furniture company is a year behind time; i thought it would go down last year. then they bounced fosdick, and it naturally picked up a little; but it's hard to overcome a bad start, judge." "i've politely turned over my court-room for a meeting of the furniture company employees this afternoon. alec's going to holler; they say he's going to pitch into the traction company and dust off the banks and capital generally." "good for alec! he'll do a good job of it. shouldn't wonder if he'd lead a mob down main street, hanging all the merchants, bankers, and judges of courts." "that would require more energy than alec has; his love of the downtrodden is purely vocal." the county treasurer who followed the judge found amzi disposed to be facetious over the reports that other failures were likely to follow the embarrassment of the furniture company. "worst's over. just a little flurry. when there's a rotten apple in the barrel, better get it out." the treasurer jerked his head in the direction of the first national. amzi met his gaze, took the cigar from his mouth, and looked at the ash. "thunder! it's all right." "how do you know that!" "i just guess it; that's all." "they say," the treasurer whispered, "that bill has skipped." "bill's over there in his bank right now," amzi replied impatiently. "how do you make that out?" "because i was talking to him on the 'phone ten minutes ago. if he's skipped, it must have been sudden. tell people not to borrow trouble when they can borrow money. money's easy on main street." amzi wobbled his cigar in his mouth the while he smoothed his new waistcoat with both hands. he was feeling good. his house was in order; failures and rumors of failures could not disturb him. this was saturday, and their spring needs had brought an unusual number of farm-folk to town. the proximity of interest-paying day made an acute issue of sycamore traction. amzi had by no means gathered up all the bonds held by small investors. book learning has not diminished the husbandman's traditional incredulity: if sycamore traction bonds were worth seventy to amzi montgomery, they were undoubtedly worth eighty, at least, to the confiding original purchasers. those who had clung to their bonds were disposed to ridicule those who had sold; and yet no one was wholly comfortable, either way. the collapse of the furniture company might prelude a local panic, and farmers and country merchants collected in groups along main street to discuss the situation. the saturday half-holiday in the various montgomery industries added to the crowd that drifted toward the courthouse at two o'clock, drawn by the announcement that alec waterman was to discuss many local issues, which the failure of the furniture company had rendered acute. the circuit court-room was packed with farmers, mechanics, and the usual idlers when waterman without introduction began to speak. at that moment amzi montgomery, in his seersucker coat and with his old straw hat tilted to one side, stood at the door of his bank and observed half a dozen men on the steps of the first national. amzi, a careful student of his fellow-townsmen, was aware that men and women were passing into the rival bank in larger numbers than usual, even for a saturday, and that the mellifluous oratory of alec waterman had not drawn from the first national corner a score of idlers who evidently felt that the center of interest lay there rather than at the court-house. amzi planted himself in his favorite chair in the bank window and watched the crowd increase. by half-past two the town marshal had taken official notice that citizens were gathering about the bank doors, and overflowing from the sidewalk halfway across main street, to the interruption of traffic. women and girls, with bank-books in their hands or nervously fingering checks, conferred in low tones about the security of their deposits. the citizens' national and the state trust company were also receiving attention from their depositors. as three o'clock approached, the montgomery bank filled, and the receiving-teller began to assist the paying-teller in cashing checks. amzi lounged along the lines outside, talking to his customers. "going to buy automobiles with your money, boys? thunder! you in town, jake?" he greeted them all affably, ignoring their anxiety. "boys, i'll have to get a new shop if business keeps on like this." a depositor who had drawn his money and was anxiously hiding it in his pocket, dropped a silver dollar that rolled away between the waiting lines. "never mind, gentlemen, we sweep out every night," said amzi. "now, let's all understand each other," he continued, tilting his hat over his left ear, and flourishing his cigar. "it's all right for you folks to come and get your money. the regular closing time of banks in this town is p.m., saturdays included. we've got a right to close in fifteen minutes. but just to show there's no hard feeling, i'm going to change the closing hour to-day from p.m. to a.m. tomorrow's sunday, and you can tell folks that's got money here that they won't have any trouble getting their change in time to put it in the collection basket to-morrow morning." a number of depositors, impressed by amzi's tranquillity, tore up their checks and left the bank. to a woman who asked him what the excitement meant, amzi explained politely that the town was experiencing what he called a "baby panic." "as an old friend, martha, i advise you to leave your money here; if i decide to bust, i'll give you notice." along the two lines, that now extended out upon the sidewalk, there was a craning of necks. a demand from one depositor that he repeat to all what he had said to the woman caused amzi to retire behind the counter. there he stood upon a chair and talked through the screen, "i don't blame you folks for being nervous. nobody wants to lose his money. money is hard to get and harder to keep. but i've never lied across this counter to any man, woman, or child"--and then, as though ashamed of this vulgar assertion of rectitude, he added--"unless they needed to be lied to." there was laughter at this. the room was packed, and the lines had been broken by the crowd surging in from the street. "you can all have your money. but i hope you won't spend it foolishly or stick it in the chimney at home where it'll burn up. i ain't going to bust, ladies and gentlemen. this town is all right; it's the best little town in indiana; sound as sugar creek bottom corn. this little sick infant panic we've had to-day will turn over and go to sleep pretty soon. as an old friend and neighbor of you all, i advise you to go home--with your money or without it, just as you like. it's all the same to me." "how about the first national?" a voice demanded. amzi was relighting his cigar. there was a good deal of commotion in the room as many who had been pressing toward the windows withdrew, reassured by the banker's speech. amzi, with one foot on a chair, the other on the note-teller's counter, listened while the question about the first national was repeated. "i'll say to you folks," said amzi, his voice clearing and rising to a shrill pipe, "that in my judgment the first national bank can pay all its claims. in fact--in fact, i'm dead sure of it!" the crowd began to disperse. most of those who had drawn their money waited to re-deposit it, and amzi walked out upon the step to view the situation at the first national, to whose doors a great throng clung stubbornly. the marshal and a policeman were busily occupied in an effort to keep a way open for traffic. observed by only a few idlers, tom kirkwood emerged from the first national's directors' room and walked across to where amzi stood like a guardian angel before the door of montgomery's bank. the briefest colloquy followed between kirkwood and his quondam brother-in-law. "it's fixed, amzi." "thunder, tom; i didn't know you'd got back." "got in at one, and have been shut up with holton ever since. he's seen the light, and we've adjusted his end of the sycamore business; i'm taking part cash and notes with good collateral. the whole construction crowd have settled, except charlie, and he'll come in--he's got to. the settlement makes the traction company good--it's only a matter now of spending the money we've got back in putting the property in shape." "that's good, tom." and amzi looked toward the courthouse clock. "bill say anything about me?" "yes; he most certainly did. he wants you to go over and take charge of his bank!" "thunder! it's sort o' funny, tom, how things come round." kirkwood smiled at amzi's calmness. he drew from his pocket a folded piece of paper. "here's your stock certificate, amzi. bill asked me to hand it to you. it's in due form. he wanted me to ask you to be as easy on him as you could. i think what he meant was that he'd like it to look like a _bona-fide_, voluntary sale. those ten shares give you the control, and the sycamore claim wiped out the rest of his holdings. i'm afraid," he added, "there's going to be some trouble. where's phil?" "probably at the court-house hearing her uncle alec talk about the money devils. we ought to let a few banks bust, just to encourage alec. thunder! phil's all right!" chapter xxiii pleasant times in main street phil, on her way to a tea, reached main street shortly before three o'clock. her forehandedness was due to the fact that her hostess (the wife of the college president) had asked her to perform divers and sundry preliminary offices pertaining to refreshments, and it had occurred to phil that it would be as well to drop in at the bartletts' to see whether rose had sent the cakes she had contracted to bake for the function, as the sophomore who delivered rose's creations was probably amusing himself at the try-out of baseball material on mill's field. shopkeepers restlessly pacing the sidewalk before the doors of their neglected stores informed phil of the meeting at the court-room, and of the panicky rumors. no good reason occurred to phil for absenting herself from a mass meeting at which her uncle alec was to speak. phil liked meetings. from the crest of a stack of chicken crates near the freight depot she had heard albert jeremiah beveridge speak when that statesman had vouchsafed ten minutes to the people of montgomery the preceding autumn. she had heard such redoubtable orators as william jennings bryan, charles warren fairbanks, and "tom" marshall, and when a socialist had spoken from the court-house steps on a rainy evening, phil, then in her last year in high school, had been the sole representative of her sex in the audience. waterman was laboriously approaching his peroration when she reached the packed court-room. men were wedged tightly into the space reserved for the court officials and the bar, and a number stood on the clerk's desk. she climbed upon a chair at the back of the room, the better to see and hear. there were other women and girls present--employees of the furniture factory--but it must be confessed that even without their support phil would not have been embarrassed. waterman was in fine fettle, and cheers and applause punctuated his discourse. "i am not here to arouse class hatred, or to set one man against another. we of montgomery are all friends and neighbors. many of you have lived here, just as i have, throughout your lives. it is for us to help each other in a neighborly spirit. factories may close their doors, banks may fail, and credit be shaken, but so long as we may appeal to each other in the old terms of neighborliness and comradeship, nothing can seriously disturb our peace and prosperity. "it grieves me, however, to be obliged to confess that there are men among us who have not felt the responsibility imposed upon them as trustees for the less fortunate. i have already touched on the immediate plight of those of you who are thrown out of employment, with your just labor claims unpaid. there are others--and some of them are perhaps in this room--who entrusted their savings to the sycamore traction company, and who are now at the mercy of the malevolent powers that invariably control and manipulate such corporations. i shall not be personal; i have no feelings against any of those men. but i say to you, men and women of montgomery, that when i heard this morning from the lips of an industrious and frugal german mechanic that a certain financier of this town had bought from him a traction bond that represented twenty years of savings--then my blood boiled with righteous indignation. "my friends, a curious situation exists here. why is it--why is it, i repeat, while one of our fellow-citizens pretends to be trying to safeguard by legal means all the local interests involved in that traction company, another person who stands close to him is buying the bonds of laborers and mechanics, widows and orphans, at little more than fifty per cent of their face value? my friends, when you find a corrupt lawyer and a rapacious banker in collusion, what chance have the people against them?" apparently the people had no chance whatever, in the opinion of the intent auditors. the applause at this point was long continued, and waterman, feeling that he had struck the right chord, hurried on. "who are these men who have plundered their own people, thrust their hands into the pockets of their fellow-citizens, and filched from them the savings of years? who are they, i say? my friends, in a community like this, where we are all so closely knit together,--where on the sabbath day we meet in the church porch after rendering thanks unto god for his mercies,--where in the midweek prayer-meeting we renew and strengthen ourselves for the battle of life,--it is a serious matter to stand in a forum of the people before the tabernacle the law has given us for the defense of our liberties, and impugn the motives of our fellows. i shall not--" "name them!" chorused a dozen voices. waterman's histrionic sense responded to the demand. with arm uplifted, he deliberated, turning slowly from side to side. he was a master of the niceties of insinuation. innuendo he had always found more effective than direct statement. he shook his head deprecatingly, reluctant to yield to the clamor for the names of the human vultures he had been arraigning. "name them! tell who they are!" he indulged these cries with a smile of resignation. they had a right to know; but it was left for him, in his superior wisdom, to pass upon their demands. "hit 'em, alec! go for 'em!" yelled a man in the front row. "why," the orator resumed, "why," he asked, "should i name names that are in every mind in this intelligent audience?" there was absolute quiet as they waited for the names, which he had not the slightest intention of giving. "why--" "_coward!_" the carrying power of phil's voice had been deplored from her earliest youth by her aunts. her single word, flung across the heads of the auditors, splashed upon the tense silence like a stone dropped suddenly into a quiet pond. "put him out!" yelled some one who attributed this impiety to the usual obstreperous boy. a number of young fellows in phil's neighborhood, who knew the source of the ejaculation, broke into laughter and jeers. alexander waterman knew that voice; he had seen phil across the room, but had assumed that her presence was due to her vulgar curiosity, on which his wife had waxed wroth these many years. in his cogitations phil was always an unaccountable and irresponsible being: it had not occurred to him that she might resent his veiled charges against her father and amzi. waterman, by reason of his long experience as a stump speaker, knew how to deal with interruptions. he caught up instantly the challenge phil had flung at him. "coward?" he repeated. "i should like to ask you, my fellow-citizens, who is the coward in this crisis? is it i, who face you to-day clothed in my constitutional guaranty of free and untrammeled speech, to speak upon the issues of this grave crisis; or is it the conspirators who meet in dark rooms to plot and plunder?" applause and cheers greeted this reply. men looked at each other and grinned, as much as to say, "alec knows his business." in phil's immediate vicinity a number of young men, lost in admiration of her temerity, and not without chivalrous instincts, jeered the orator's reply. in the middle of the room fred holton, who had gone to the meeting with some of his farmer neighbors that he met in main street, turned at the sound of phil's voice. before waterman, luxuriating in his applause, could resume, fred was on his feet. "as this was called as a meeting of citizens, i have a right to be here. we have listened for nearly an hour to a speech that has made nothing any clearer--that has, in fact, gone all round the pump without finding the handle. it's time we knew what it is the speaker wants done; it's time he came to the point and named these men who have robbed their friends and neighbors. let's have the names right now before we go any further." "who's that talking? put him out!" the meeting was in disorder, and a dozen men were trying to talk. waterman, smiling patiently, rapped with the official gavel that judge walters wielded when counsel, in the heat of argument, transcended the bounds of propriety. "it's fred holton," bellowed some one. waterman smiled in quiet scorn. he had recognized fred holton and was ready with his answer. one of his friends who had pushed through the crowd whispered in his ear. "my friends," he began, in the indulgent tone of a grieved parent, "the gentleman who spoke a moment ago was quite right in remarking that this is a meeting of citizens. no one denies his right to speak or to interrupt other speakers if such be his idea of courtesy. but he will pardon me for suggesting that it is remarkable that he of all men should interrupt our friendly conference here and demand that names be mentioned, when, prompted by a sense of delicacy, i have refrained from mentioning his own name in this unpleasant connection. it's a name that has been identified far too closely with the affairs of this town. i should like to know how a member of the holton family dare come to this meeting, when the suspension of one of our chief industries and the embarrassments of the sycamore traction company are directly attributable to the family of which this young gentleman is a member. and while we sit here in conference, there are grave rumors afloat that we are threatened with even more serious difficulties. within a few minutes word has reached me that a run is in progress upon certain of our banks." (there was a commotion throughout the room, and those near the doors were already pushing toward the street.) "i beg of you, be not hasty; the hour calls for wise counsel--" the shuffling of feet and overturning of chairs deadened the remainder of his speech. phil escaped quickly from the court-house, and seeing the throng in main street began a detour to reach montgomery's bank. fred caught up with her and begged her to go home. "there's going to be a row, phil, and you'd better keep out of the way." "if there's a row, that silly waterman is responsible," phil replied. "i'm going to the bank to see amy." people were flocking to main street from all directions, and finding that she persisted in going on, fred kept close beside her. "he'll scold you if you do; you'd better go home," fred urged as they reached franklin street, a block south of main, and saw the packed streets at the first national corner. they debated a moment; then phil was seized with an idea. "fred, run over to the college and bring all the boys you can find at mill's field. bring them up main street singing, and send a flying wedge through the mob;--that will smash it. beat it, before the boys hear the row and mix in!" fred was off for the athletic field before she had finished speaking, and phil sought the side door of montgomery's bank. the throng at the intersection of franklin street and main faced the first national. when the court-house clock boomed three the clerks inside made an effort to close the doors, and this had provoked a sharp encounter with the waiting depositors on the bank steps. the crowd yelled as it surged in sympathy with the effort to hold the doors open. some one threw a stone that struck the window in the middle of "national" in the sign, and this caused an outbreak of derisive cheers. an intoxicated man on the steps turned round with difficulty and waved his hat. "come on, boys; we'll bust the safe and find out whether they've got any money or not." some of those who had gained entrance to the bank came out by the side door, and this served to divert attention to franklin street for a moment. there were cries that a woman who had received her money had been robbed, and this increased the uproar. when amzi took a last survey from his bank steps at three o'clock, some one yelled, "hello, amzi!" a piece of brick flung with an aim worthy of a nobler cause whizzed past his head and struck the door-frame with a sharp thwack and blur of dust. amzi looked down at the missile with pained surprise and kicked it aside. his clerks besought him to come in out of harm's way; and yet no man in montgomery had established a better right than he to stand exactly where he stood and view contemporaneous history in the making. howls and cat-calls followed the casting of the brick. amzi lifted his hand to stay the tumult, but in his seersucker coat and straw hat his appearance was calculated to provoke merriment. "shoot the hat! where's your earmuffs?" they jeered. he could not make himself heard, and even if his voice had been equal to the occasion no one was in humor to listen to him. bankers were unpopular in montgomery that afternoon. no one had ever believed before that amzi was capable of taking unfair advantage of his fellow-men; and yet waterman's hearers were circulating the report in main street that amzi had been buying sycamore bonds at an infamously low price. he flourished his cigar toward the first national, and then pointed it at his own door, but this bit of pantomime only renewed the mirth of the assemblage. it seemed to be the impression that he was trying to advertise his bank, in the fashion of a "demonstrator" in a shop-window. the disorder increased. some one yelled:-- "what are you paying for sycamore bonds?" this was followed by an ominous turning and shifting. amzi withdrew, closed and locked the bank doors, and showed his scorn of his calumniators by reversing with deliberation the tin card so that it announced "bank shut." amzi, his dignity ruffled by the reception accorded him, had retired to his private room when a familiar knock sounded on the franklin street door and he turned the latch to admit phil. "you--! what you doing down here? what right have you to be running the streets on a day like this?" he blurted, his eyes bulging wrathfully. "oh, chuck it, amy! this is the best show we've had since the calliope blew up and killed the elephant in the circus when i was seven years old. i've been to the meeting. the honorable alec delivered a noble oration; he told them that everybody, including you and daddy, is crooked; he's the only honest man. it was the supreme and ultimate lim_ite_!" "want to burn me in effigy? call me a horned plutocrat?" "oh, he didn't mention you, or daddy either, by name; just hinted that you were both trying to rob the sycamore bondholders." amzi put his feet on a chair, settled his hat comfortably on the back of his head, and chewed his cigar meditatively. "thunder! you'd better keep away from indignation meetings where alec's going to speak. you're likely to get shot." "not i, sir. i called him a coward, right there in the meeting. a most unladylike proceeding; indeed, it was, amy. "when rose the maid upon a chair, some called her false: none named her fair: nathless she saw nor sneer nor frown, but 'c-o-w-a-r-d' flung her challenge down." amzi ignored her couplets--phil's impromptu verses always embarrassed him--and demanded the particulars. he chuckled as she described the meeting. he cross-examined her to be sure that she omitted nothing. her report of his brother-in-law's tirade gave him the greatest delight. as they talked, they heard plainly the commotion in the streets. "i like the way you take things," said phil. "the town's gone crazy, and there's a mob in front of your little toy bank, but you're not even peevish." "some old schoolmate threw a brick at me awhile ago when i went out for air and that annoyed me," amzi admitted. "if those fellows out there who haven't any money in any bank, and never will have any, would only go home, i'd do something to relieve the pressure. i hanker for a chance to cross the street, but they won't let me. i called the mayor on the telephone and demanded that he send over the fire department and sprinkle 'em, but he said he couldn't unless i'd turn in an alarm--had the nerve to tell me it would be against the city ordinances! what do you think of that, phil? guess the police force is under the bed at home. but i can wait. there's nothing like waiting. take it from me that you'd better trot along to your tea. you're rather cute in that hat. i suppose it burnt a hole in a ten-dollar-bill." "twenty-five, amy." "no wonder there's a panic! go out and show yourself, so they can see what a plutocrat looks like. i guess that would cause 'em to break windows all right." "ungrateful old man! main street will be opened for traffic in a few minutes, thanks to the head under the hat you feign to despise. i sent fred over to the college to bring the boys down to clean things up. they're about due, methinks." "fred in town?" "why ask? it's saturday and he's a farmer." "your thinker thinks, phil. would that i loved prayer-meeting as much as you love trouble! as trustee of madison, i wish you'd left the boys at play. that last washington's birthday row almost broke up the college." phil jumped down from the table suddenly and flung the door open. above the murmur of the restless shuffling crowd rose the sound of singing. * * * * * the sunny afternoon had brought to mill's field budding baseballists and candidates for track teams and a gallery of critics of their performances. fred holton's name was written high in the athletic records of madison, and a few words bawled from the bleachers served to assemble all the students in sight. "there's an ugly mob downtown, boys; and it may do mischief if it hangs together until dark. if we can pry 'em apart, they'll go home and forget it." fifty students immediately formed in line. "no clubs or sticks, boys. we'll march down main street in good order and see what a peaceful demonstration will do. forward! march!" as they crossed the campus at double-quick, students poured out of the library and joined the battalion. others came tumbling out of the fraternity houses in buckeye lane, anxious to join in the lark. before entering main street, fred gave his last orders, which were accepted without question from an alumnus whom they had all learned to know of late as a sympathetic and stimulating visitor to the gym, and the adviser for the thanksgiving football game in which they had scored a victory over the hosts of purdue. two blocks from the bank they re-formed in four lines, extending from curb to curb, and went forward to the strains of "old madison":-- "what shall we do for madison, for madison, for madison? what shall we do for madison, our college and her men?" to the familiar strains of the college song, montgomery had frequently wept not without reason, for the young madisonians had been much given in recent years to ebullitions of college spirit. the timid mayor heard it now, looked out upon the lines of marching students, and pulled down his office blinds to avoid witnessing the inevitable collision between town and gown. as the students approached, women and timorous men began trying to escape. fred signaled to the yell leader, who began beating time, and the street rang with the college cheer. they gave it over and over again; they cheered the college and every bank in town, and between cheers fred moved the lines forward. the mechanics and farmers, who, alarmed for the security of their savings, had formed the nucleus of the crowd, began to disperse before the advance of the students, but the sidewalks filled with those who expected an encounter and wished to view it in safety. merchants closed and barred their doors against possible invasion. the rougher element, that had attached itself to the throng and given it the semblance of a mob, now organized hastily for a counter-demonstration. "smash the college dudes!" bawled a big fellow, throwing himself forward as leader. there was a rush and a sharp struggle. the collegians stood fast. the town phalanx withdrew to franklin street, and, considerably increased, rushed again upon the collegians. a lively fist-fight now engaged the vanguard for a minute, to the delight of the spectators. hard blows were struck on both sides. while this was in progress, fred withdrew the rear ranks of his army, massed them compactly, and led them in a gallant charge through the shattered line of their comrades, against the enemy. the students wavered at the moment of collision; there was sharp tackling and the line broke, closed again, and swept on, beyond franklin street and for half a block further; then effected a quick about-face in readiness for another charge but found the field clear. some one on the packed sidewalk proposed a cheer for the college, and it was given with a will, and the collegians resumed their cheering. a few missiles flung by the vanquished town men rained upon them, but the war was over. fred's lines were flung across the intersecting streets like pickets, and, impressed by their quiet order, the belligerent town men began to mingle peacefully with the lingering crowd on the pavements. mr. amzi montgomery appeared on the steps of his bank, and glanced up and down the street, and at the courthouse clock, like a pigeon emerging from its cote after a shower. phil, having been warned to remain inside, naturally joined him an instant later. amzi was saluted with a cheer in recognition of his dignity as treasurer of madison's board of trustees,--a greeting he acknowledged by puffing his cheeks and guardedly lifting his hat. and all these things pleased main street. an attack on the first national had been averted; the students had made amends for many affronts to municipal dignity; and it was in the air that other and equally interesting incidents would add further to the day's entertainment. the jubilant yell leader, seeing phil beside amzi, decided that she, too, was deserving of attention. "for the girl on the bank steps--all together!" while this rah-rahing was in progress, amzi left the steps and started across the street. now, while amzi montgomery had been seen of all men in all years and at all seasons, standing on the steps of his bank in the old straw hat, with his seersucker coat buttoned tightly round his sturdy figure, he had never before been known to descend into main street in that garb. the crowd immediately began closing in upon him and fred detached a squad of his brawniest men to act as the banker's bodyguard. amzi moved with great serenity towards the first national bank, and appeared to be examining the sunburst the hostile stone had stamped upon the plate-glass window. amzi never hurried, and he appeared to be in no haste now. main street was pleased that he deliberated. the longer the entertainment lasted the better. the door of the first national had been closed with little difficulty during the diversion afforded by the arrival of the college men, but the steps and sidewalk were filled. amzi looked over the crowd musingly, and beckoned to fred. "get me a box to stand on and a piece of soap--laundry soap. i want to--" he waved his cigar toward the window in vague explanation, and fred dived into a grocery and came back with the articles demanded. main street's curiosity had never been so whetted and teased. if it had been any one but amzi; but it was so unmistakably amzi! amzi placed the box under the window and stood upon it. then with characteristic nonchalance he removed the wrapper from the cake of soap, while the crowd surged and shuffled, filling the street again in its anxiety to miss nothing. amzi broke the bar of soap in two, and calmly trimmed half of it to serve as a crayon. as he began to write upon the glass, his guards were hard-pressed to hold back the throng that seemed bent upon pushing the banker through his rival's window. to ease the tension the boys struck up-- "the pirates of the wabash, a jolly crowd are they." amzi wrote slowly, in a large round hand, beginning immediately under the "first national bank" lettering. the faint tracings of the soap were legible only a few yards away and the yell-leader began reading for the benefit of the crowd. and this was amzi's announcement:-- i hereby guarantee all deposits in this bank. interest on sycamore traction bonds will be paid here april . persons from whom i have bought such bonds may redeem same at price i paid for them, without discount. a. montgomery. when he had completed his first sentence, he paused to inspect it. murmurs of astonishment gave way to shouts of approval, and then the street grew silent as the remainder was read word by word. "let her go now, for a. montgo_meree_!" cried the yell-leader, and while necks craned and men jostled and pushed, the students cheered. when amzi had written, "at the price i paid for them," he made a period, and then, after a moment's reflection, drew out his handkerchief and erased it to add--"without discount." he threw away the soap and began to retrace his steps, but the whole town seemed now to have massed itself in the intersecting streets. the nearest students flung themselves together as an escort, and amid cheers amzi returned to his own bank, where phil opened the door and demanded to know what he had been doing to be cheered as only a football hero is cheered when his name is read at commencement. "thunder!" said amzi. "i just wanted to take the gas out of alec's speech. what are those fools doing now?" phil, fred, and amzi, with several of the students who had acted as the banker's bodyguard, gathered at the front window. amzi's announcement that the sycamore interest would be paid had brought kirkwood into the minds of many who knew of his efforts to save the company. his name shouted here and there in the street directed attention to his office windows. as a former member of the faculty of madison, kirkwood appeared usually on the platform at commencement, and now that he was mentioned the students improvised a cheer for him that kirkwood's building flung back at montgomery's bank. the demonstration continued with increased volume, until finally kirkwood opened a window and looked down. a shout rose as he appeared. the tears sprang to phil's eyes as she saw her father's tall figure, his stoop accentuated as he bent under the window. he had really achieved at last! she only vaguely grasped the import of what amzi had told her in a few abrupt sentences after his return to the bank, but her heart beat fast at the thought that her father shared in the day's honors. he had been of real service to his fellow-townsmen and they were now demanding a speech. he bowed and vanished; but when the cheering was renewed and long continued, he came back, and when silence fell upon the crowd (phil wondered if they, too, felt the pathos in him that had always touched her, and which just then brought the tears to her eyes!) he spoke slowly and clearly. "my friends, this is the best town and its people are the best and kindest people in the world. if i have done anything to win your praise i am glad. this community is bound to prosper, for it is founded, not upon industry and thrift alone, but upon faith and honor and helpfulness; and these, my good friends, are the things that endure forever." "i couldn't hear that," said amzi to phil, as her father disappeared into his office amid the loudest cheers of the day, "but i reckon tom said about the right thing." "i'm sure he did," replied phil, drying her eyes, "and it's all true, too!" chapter xxiv the forsaken garden it's pleasant, on the whole, to do something worth doing; to make grass grow where it has never grown before; to put the last touch to a canoe-paddle of exactly the right weight and balance; to bring to something approximating one's ideal of a sound sentence the last stubborn, maddening clutter of words in a manuscript that has grown from a pen-scratch on the back of an envelope into a potential book. and tom kirkwood was not without his sense of satisfaction. he had without litigation straightened the sycamore company's financial tangles. its physical deficiencies were being remedied and its service brought to standard. he had never in his life felt so conscious of his powers. he was out of debt--having paid back two thousand dollars amzi had loaned him in the fall, after phil had raised the red flag of danger in their affairs. the load was off his back; men spoke to him in the street with a new cordiality; the "evening star," in an excess of emotion following the taking-over of the first national bank by amzi and all the moving incidents connected with the drama of main street's greatest day,--the "evening star" had without the slightest provocation, declared that the honorable thomas kirkwood was just the man for governor. the desbrosses trust & guaranty company had not only paid him handsomely, but was entrusting him with the rehabilitation of a traction company in illinois that was not earning dividends. he came back to montgomery to try some cases at the april term of court and sent his trunk to the morton house. "it isn't square, daddy," said phil, breaking in upon him at his office on the day of his arrival. "we were to open the house again when you had finished at indianapolis. and here you are, not even telling me you were coming." the office was dingier and dustier than ever. she abused him for not at least giving her a chance to clean it against his coming. "i have to be off again in a week; it didn't seem worth while to put you to the trouble of opening the house just for that," he replied evasively. his own affairs again occupied his mind, and the sight of phil gave a keen edge to his curiosity as to her life at amzi's. "your new suit is certainly some clothes, and a glimpse of that four-in-hand makes the world a nobler and better place to live in! if the indianapolis boulevards can do that for you, it's too bad i didn't know it long ago. i have an idea"--and she paused pensively in the act of dusting a chair--"i'm a good deal worried by the idea that you ought to be mussed!" he pleaded mockingly for mercy, calling attention to her inconsistency in admiring his raiment while at the same time threatening it with destruction. "you seem to have been to the dressmaker yourself. how's your bank account, phil? i suppose your uncle will have to be more careful about overdrafts now that he has a national bank." "oh, i'm not broke. and"--suddenly serious--"i must tell you something, daddy. i've been waiting for a chance to ask you if you cared; it didn't seem right not to ask you; and, of course, if you mind, i _won't_." he smiled at her earnestness, her unusual indirection. she was immensely grown up; there were new manifestations of her otherwiseness. he noted little sophisticated tricks of manner that reminded him vaguely of some one else. "amy says it's all right for me to do it, but that i must ask you; and mamma says that, too." her preluding roused apprehensions. what might not have happened in these weeks that phil had spent with lois? he observed his daughter with a new intentness. she drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and touched it lightly, with an un-phil-like gesture to her nose; and an instant later, with an almost imperceptible movement of her head, resettled her hat. she had acquired--quite unconsciously he did not question--a new air. she was his old phil, but the portrait had been retouched here and there, and was reminiscent in unaccountable ways of some one else very like and very different. "yes, phil, come out with it," he said, finding her eyes upon him in a wide, unseeing gaze--and that, too, he now remembered. she had taken on, as young girls do, the superficial graces and innocent affectations of an older person. such perfectly natural and pardonable imitation is induced by admiration; and lois had been a woman of fascinations in old times! he had no reason for believing that she had changed; and it had been clear to him that first day of lois's return that she had laid strong hold upon phil's imagination. "mamma wants to give me some money: she has already done some nice things for me. she bought this hat and suit; but she wants to do more." kirkwood frowned. lois had no right to come back and steal phil away from him. he was at once jealous, suspicious. he, too, had assumed that lois's return had not been voluntary; that she had come back of necessity and flung herself upon amzi's charity. it would be quite like her to try to tempt phil with a handful of trinkets. "it isn't likely that she has much to give you; but before you accept anything of importance you should be sure that it's a proper gift for her to offer, that she can afford to do it." "there doesn't seem to be any question about that, daddy. what she wants to do is to give me a whole lot of money--enough to make me really rich. she wants to put one hundred thousand dollars in a trusteeship for me." there was consternation in his quick glance. nothing in his knowledge of lois justified a belief that she would ever, by any proper and reputable means, command any such sum. "you must be mistaken, phil. you must have got the figures wrong. it's more likely a thousand. you know mathematics was never a strong point with you!" "it's this way, you see, daddy. she made a lot of money--in lucky investments--mines, real estate, and things like that. she told me a little about it; as though it were a great joke. but she is very clever; she did it all by herself--and no one knows it, except just amy; and she told me i might tell you, so you'd understand. she even said to say to you--" and phil paused, knitting her brows. to be repeating as from a stranger a message from her mother to her father was a fresh phase of the unreal situation created by her mother's return. "she said to tell you she came by it honestly; that it wasn't tainted money!" and phil laughed nervously, not knowing how her father would take this. he seemed depressed, in the old familiar fashion; and she could not know the reason of it, or that the magnitude of his former wife's resources and her wish to divide with her daughter rallied all manner of suspicions round his jealousy. "she said that either amy could manage it for me, or that if you liked she would be perfectly willing to turn it over to you. she was very kind about it, daddy; really she was." "i'm not questioning that, phil. it's a little staggering, that's all." "but, of course," she ran on eagerly, "it wouldn't make any difference between you and me. i know you have done everything for me. please don't ever think i forget that, daddy. and if you have any feeling about it, please say no. i don't want money, just to be having it. we've always agreed that money isn't the main thing in life." "it's rather necessary, though, as we've found by experience," he replied, with a rueful smile. "i've done pretty badly, phil; but things are brighter. i'm able now to begin putting some money away for you myself, and i shall do it, of course, just the same. but as to your mother's offer, you must accept it; it's a large sum, far more than i could ever command. it makes you independent; it changes the future for you, puts things within your reach that have been clear out of the question. and it's very generous on her part to tell you to refer the matter to me. i assume," he added, "that she's keeping enough for herself; there might be some difficulty later on if she didn't do that." "oh," said phil, with an unconscious note of pride that did not escape him, "she has plenty; she's richer, i suppose, than almost anybody around here. she didn't ask me not to tell you anything--she's not like that--so you may as well know that she gave amy a lot of money to help him set up the new bank. it's so funny that i can't help laughing. the whole family--one's aunts, i mean--think she came back to sponge off of amy, and they don't know she's going to own almost as much as he does in the new montgomery national. i get to giggling when i see those women strutting by the house with their chins up, but mamma doesn't pay the least attention. i don't believe she thinks about them at all; she's had the house fixed over--pitched a lot of amy's old furniture into the alley--and is having the garden done by a landscape gardener she imported from chicago. and those poor women are fretting themselves to death, thinking it's amy's money she's spending. yesterday she ordered a seven thousand dollar automobile by telegraph,--just like that!--and when it anchors in front of amy's gate there'll be some deaths from heart failure in that neighborhood." kirkwood's sometime sisters-in-law had been three sharp thorns in his side; and phil's joy at the prospect of their discomfiture when they beheld their sister rolling about in an expensive motor was not without justification. lois's prosperity was, however, deeply mystifying. it flashed upon him suddenly that he did not in the least know this lois of whom phil had been speaking: she was certainly not the young woman, scarcely out of her girlhood, who had so shamelessly abandoned him. and over this thought stumbled another: he had never known her! as he reflected, his eyes roamed to a large calendar on the wall over phil's head. this was the th of april, his wedding-day. the date interested him only passively; it had long ago ceased to affect him emotionally. he meant to speak to nan before he left town and endeavor once more to persuade her that lois's return had made no difference. as he swung idly in his chair he sought to analyze his feelings. those little tricks of manner that phil imitated so unconsciously kept recurring and he tried to visualize the lois of the present as she must be;--clever, impulsive in her generosities, heedless, indifferent. in all his conjecturing since christmas he had experienced no longing to have her back; nothing beyond a mild impersonal curiosity as to how time had dealt with her. the success that had attended his labors had strengthened all the fibers of his will; he was the master of himself, a man again. he had demonstrated to his own surprise and satisfaction that he could devise a plan and put it through; that he could bring an iron hand to his dealings with men. and buoyed up by this fresh knowledge he was impatient at the frustration of any of his plans and hopes. lois had shaken down the pillars of his life once; but she could not repeat that injury. he had built himself a new argosy and found a new companion for his voyaging. nan should marry him; if she liked they would remove to indianapolis to escape gossipy tongues; but he had definitely determined that the marriage should not be delayed. he was a free man and he meant to exercise and enjoy his freedom. he had taken soundings where he had gone down on that first venture and touched nowhere any trace of the wreck; the waters of oblivion rippled listlessly over those unmarked shoals. he swung round with an uncomfortable sense that phil had been watching him as she bent forward, her elbow resting on the arm of one of the old office chairs, her hand against her cheek. that had been one of lois's ways and phil's brown eyes were very like lois's! he did not want phil to attribute his long reverie to retrospective regrets or present longings. "well, phil; i've got to go to the court-house to see judge walters. about that money, it's perfectly right for you to accept it; but i think it best that your uncle amzi should have the care of it. it's a considerable responsibility, however, and you must let him know that you appreciate his doing it; and i'll speak to him about it myself. if you're going home you can walk as far as the court-house with me." he had spoken briskly, to emphasize his own indifference to lois and her money. while kirkwood was collecting some papers, phil, after moving restlessly about and glancing down at amzi--he happened just then to be standing on the bank steps talking to an agent of the comptroller's office who had been dispatched from washington to observe the metamorphosis of the first national into the montgomery national,--phil, with an embarrassment that was new to her relations with her father, asked diffidently,-- "shall i say anything to mamma--i mean about the money?" this was not at all what she had meant to say. she had hoped that he would send some message to her mother. it was incredible that the wires should be so utterly broken between them as to make all communication impossible. they were both so much to her liking; in her own heart admiration and love enfolded them both so completely that her spirit chafed at the thought of standing first with one and then with the other on the respective sides of the barricade that had risen between them. her father replied brusquely:-- "no; that's all, i believe, phil." as they walked toward the court-house, lois passed on the opposite sidewalk. it is not against montgomery conventions to nod to friends across main street or even to pause and converse across that thoroughfare if one is so disposed. phil nodded to her mother. she was unable to tell whether her father was conscious that his former wife was so near; he lifted his hat absently, seeing that phil was speaking to some one. "by the way, phil, have you been in the house lately--the old place, i mean? amzi's carpenter tells me the wind has torn off the water-spouts and that the veranda posts have rotted badly." he had so rarely mentioned the long-abandoned house that she was startled. he did not care! this was the most conclusive proof possible that he no longer cared; and the thought of it did not make her happy. clearly love was not, after all, a limitless dominion, without other bounds than those set by the farthest stars, but a narrow, dark, and unstable realm. that these two should dwell in the same town, walk the same street, at the same hour, without any desire to see and speak to each other, was the strangest of phenomena. "drop in to-morrow and have luncheon with me at the hotel. i want to see all of you i can while i'm here," he remarked when they reached the court-house. "very well, daddy." that evening, after he had eaten the hotel supper with a printed brief for company, kirkwood went to the bartletts', but no one answered his summons and he turned away disappointed. thinking they were probably at some neighbor's house he decided to walk about and return later. his idle roaming led him past center church. it was prayer-meeting night, and through the open windows floated a hymn sung waveringly by the small gathering of the faithful. it was here, on just such an april night, that he and lois had sworn to love and cherish each other to the end of their days. he had been profoundly moved that night, standing before the reverend president of the college in the crowded church and repeating his vows after the kindly, lovable old man. and he remembered how, as they left the church, the assembled students had shown their good-will in ringing cheers. but these memories had lost their poignancy. verily, he did not care! finding himself presently before amzi's house, he remembered without emotion that lois was established there. it was an ironic fling of the dice that had brought her back prosperous and presumably happy to lure phil away from him! he walked slowly; the proximity of his recreant wife gave him neither pang nor thrill. he loitered that the test might be the more complete. a man had been walking toward him from the farther side of the montgomery place, and something furtive in his movements caused kirkwood to pause. then, after halting uncertainly and fumbling at the chain that held the kirkwood gate together, the man retraced his steps, and guardedly let himself into the fosdicks' yard. kirkwood listened, and hearing no further sounds dismissed the matter. it now occurred to him to visit his own property, whose decrepitude amzi had brought to his attention, and finding that he had matches and the house key, he lifted the chain from the rickety gate and passed into the garden. kirkwood was preoccupied with the idea of putting the house and lot in order and selling it. now that he was confident that it no longer held any associations for him, he was in haste to be rid of it. he would sell the place and invest the proceeds for phil. he smiled ironically as he remembered the disparity between his own fortunes and those of his former wife. he did not resent her prosperity; he did not understand it; but if it was the way of the gods to visit fortune upon the unrighteous, so much the worse for the gods. a brick walk curved round the house, and as he was about to step from it to the veranda he heard voices that came seemingly from the jutting corner of a wing that had been his library. he had no wish to be found there. very likely the yard was visited frequently by prowlers; and there was a beaten path across the rear which had been for years a short cut between amzi's and his sisters' houses. he was in no mood for a meeting with any intruder who might be there at this hour, and he was about to steal back the way he had come when a man's voice rose suddenly in anger. a woman replied, evidently counseling a lower tone. "here in tom's graveyard is a fitting place to talk over our affairs. you needn't be in such a hurry to go. we may as well fix this thing up now and be done with it. i'm broke; i haven't got a cent, and it's tough, i can tell you. but it's some satisfaction to know that will's broke, too. i took care that he got his, all right. the holtons are all down and out. will's as poor as i am, and my gay nephew charlie's busy dodging the sheriff. not much left for will now but to go out and rustle for life insurance--the common fate of inglorious failure." the woman's voice rose crisp and assured on the tender spring air. "your note said it was something of importance. i can't stay here all night. i haven't any money for you and your family troubles don't interest me. and let me say, once and for all, that i don't propose to have you following me round. this is a big world and there's room in it for both of us." kirkwood could not see them, though he heard perfectly every word that had been spoken, and he could not escape without attracting their attention. "see here, lois, i've just heard a whisper from seattle that you cleaned up a lot of money out there. good joke on me, wasn't it? i thought you were pretty thick with the barkleys, but i didn't know he had let you into his deals. i want my share; if it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have known seattle was on the map. it's only fair; i'll call it fifty thousand and let it go at that." "nothing; absolutely not a penny! i advise you to make yourself scarce. and if you attempt to annoy me while i'm here, i'll do something very unpleasant about it. i agreed to meet you to-night merely to tell you that." kirkwood heard her step on the walk, and drew back. the light of the moon was full upon her. she was bareheaded and wrapped in a long coat. it was thus that he saw her again, in the shadow of the house where together they had kindled their hearth,--in the garden plot whose disorder and ruin were eloquent of her broken faith. she was moving away swiftly, with the light step he remembered. holton gained her side in a long leap. "no, you don't! not by a damned sight, you don't!" kirkwood saw them both clearly in their attitude of antagonism--the wife who had wronged him, the friend who had betrayed him. "you don't shake me so easily. i want my share of the profits. it was a low trick--getting rid of me so you could spend your money on yourself; humiliating me by showing me up as a drunkard in the divorce court. i owe you a good one for that!" "not a cent!" she repeated, lifting her head in mockery of his clumsy attempt to becloud the real issue. her taunting tone maddened him; without warning he gripped her throat roughly. his tightening clasp stifled her cry as she struggled to free herself. kirkwood stood suddenly beside them, caught holton by the collar, and flung him back. holton's arm was up instantly to ward off an expected blow. he turned guardedly, and his arm fell as he recognized kirkwood. "so that's the ticket! it was a trap, was it?" and then his anger mounting, he flung round at lois. "so this is what brought you back! well, it doesn't lower my price any! he can have you and be damned to him, but i double my price!" "this is my property," said kirkwood coldly; "if you don't leave instantly, i'll turn you over to the police." "she's come back to you, has she! well, you needn't be so set up about it. she's anybody's woman for the asking; you ought to have learned that--" kirkwood's stick fell with a sharp swish across his shoulders. "leave these grounds at once or i'll send you to the lockup!" holton looked coweringly from one to the other. the strangeness of the encounter was in the mind of each: that the years had slipped away and that kirkwood was defending her from the man for whom she had abandoned him. an unearthly quiet lay upon the garden. children's voices rose faintly on the silvery april night from the grounds beyond. far away, beyond the station, a locomotive puffed slowly on a steep grade. the noises of the town seemed eerily blurred and distant. "clear out! your business here is finished. and don't come back," said kirkwood firmly. "she asked me to meet her here;--you must have known it; it was a damned vile trick--" holton broke out violently; but kirkwood touched him with the end of his stick, pointed toward the gate, and repeated his order more sharply. holton whirled on his heel, found an opening in the hedge, and left them, the boughs snapping behind him. kirkwood was the first to speak. "he's gone, i think. i'll watch until you get safely back to amzi's." he lifted his hat; his tone was one of dismissal and she turned as though to leave, hesitated and drew a step nearer. "if you don't mind, i'd like to speak to you a moment. i shouldn't have thought of seeking you, of course, but this makes it possible." he made no reply, but waited, leaning on his stick. her foot tapped the walk nervously; as she readjusted the cloak it exhaled the faint scent of orris that reached him as though wafted down some dim aisle of memory. "i want to speak about phil. it was to see phil that i came back. i want you to know that i wouldn't take her away from you if i could. there must be no misunderstanding about this. whatever i am or have been or may be, i am not base enough for that." he was silent for a moment. "that is something that is not in your hands or mine," he answered. "phil is the mistress of her own affairs. i was perfectly willing that she should go to amzi's to be with you; it's for her to decide whether she ever comes back to me." "that is--generous; very generous," she replied, as though, after hesitating before using the word, her second thought confirmed the choice. "and about the money; she told me she spoke to you about that to-day. i appreciate your attitude. i want you to understand that i'm not trying to bribe her. i'm glad of a chance to say that i would do nothing to spoil her loyalty to you. you deserve that; and i have no illusions about myself. if i thought my coming would injure her--or you--in any way, i should go at once and never come back. but i had to see her, and it has all happened fortunately--amzi's kindness, and hers--and your own! phil is so dear--so lovable!" her last words broke in a sob, but she quickly regained her self-control. "i'm glad," he replied, "if you are not disappointed in her. we have been very close--comrades and friends; but she has gone beyond me; and that was inevitable. she's an independent spirit--quite capable of managing her own affairs." "i don't think she will ever go beyond you," lois answered. "she has told me all the story--and i have read a good deal into it that she didn't tell me. and i am very grateful. she didn't have to tell me that you had not embittered her against me; her way of meeting me was reassuring as to that. it was fine of you; it wasn't what i expected or deserved." unconsciously they had begun walking back and forth in the path, and once, as they turned, they looked at each other fixedly for the first time. it was the deliberate frank scrutiny of old acquaintances who seek affirmation of fading memories after long absence. "as to the money, i want to protect her, as far as money can do it, from hardship and need hereafter. i don't want you to think i offer it as restitution--or--penance. i have plenty for myself; i'm giving up nothing in doing it." he tried to phrase carefully his disavowal of any thought that her gift was a penitential act. he confessed that he had been concerned for phil's future; and that so far he had not been able to provide for her in case of his death. this brought him to amzi, whose devotion to phil he praised warmly. they met immediately upon the safe ground of amzi's nobility. then they recurred to phil. presently as they passed the veranda, she sat down on the steps and after a moment he seated himself beside her. they had sat thus, looking out upon the newly planned garden, when the mystery and wonder of phil's coming filled their hearts and minds. "i've thought," she said, bending forward with her arms folded upon her knees, "that phil ought to travel--that i might take her away for a little while." she waited for his assent; but when he was silent, she hurried on to set herself right in this. "but i don't believe that would be best. not with me. trotting around with me over there wouldn't do her any good. it might spoil her point of view, which is--just right--sound and healthy. the child's a genius. she wants to write--of course you know that." he did not know it. jealousy pricked him at this sudden revelation of something in phil that he had not with all his opportunity realized. "she's very clever," he responded tamely. "it's more than that! she has a trunkful of stuff she's written--some of it rubbish; some of it amazingly good." he resented these appraisements of phil's literary experiments. it was disagreeable to hear from phil's mother things which he should have learned for himself. his trained analytical faculties were disturbed; he had regarded the theory of the superior keenness of maternal perception as rather fantastic. phil had never confided her ambitions to him; in fact, it was now clear that she had concealed them, perhaps fearing his criticisms. "she's so droll!"--and lois laughed at some recollection. "she has a delicious humor--her own special flavor. all these people in montgomery are story-book people to her. she's a deep one--that little phil! she has written pages about them--and the drollest of all about those women over there." she indicated with a gesture the domiciles of her sisters. the fact that phil had utilized her aunts as literary material amused lois profoundly. but finding that the burden of the talk lay with her she asked, "what would you think of college for phil? or is it too late?" "she didn't seem a good subject when the time came; and besides," he added bluntly, "i couldn't afford it." "oh, she didn't speak of it regretfully; she didn't complain because you hadn't sent her!" "no, of course not; that wouldn't be like phil. i'm not sure college would be a good thing for her now; she's read prodigiously--away ahead of most girls, ahead of most people! there wouldn't be so much that college could do for her. and if she really has the creative faculty, it's better not to curb or check it. not in her case. she led her class in high school without working at it. whatever she wants to know she will get without tying herself up in a college course." lois nodded. he was an educated man who had himself been a teacher, and his testimony was entitled to respect. she was far more comfortable than he as they continued the discussion. the breadth of her understanding of phil piqued him. in these few weeks lois had learned much about phil that had been a sealed book to him. his position was absurd; it was preposterous for him to be learning about phil from phil's mother, when it was he who had shaped the course of phil's life. he wondered whether lois knew that her disclosures hurt his pride, shattered his vanity. "the dear child seems to be the sole prop of most of the paupers in the bottoms. i went with her to look at one of her families yesterday, and i could see where her spare change has been going. she's set up a piano in the box factory so the girls can amuse themselves at noontime and you may be sure they're all crazy about her. everybody seems to be!" the remembrance of phil's generosities amused her. she mentioned a number of them with murmurous glee and unmistakable admiration. phil had never confided these things to him, and he reflected ruefully that her indulgence in pianos for working-girls probably accounted for deficiencies in her own wardrobe that had not at times escaped his masculine eye. he had mildly wondered what became of the money he gave phil for shoes! it argued an unresponsiveness in his own nature that phil had concealed her adventures as lady bountiful from him--and he had thought she told him everything! he was learning about phil from the last person in the world who had any right to know phil. he had seen in her precociousness, her healthy delight in books, nothing astonishing, and he had known nothing of her scribbling. his irritation grew. he was impatient to escape from this garden that holton had spoken of as kirkwood's graveyard; from this cheerful ghost beside him, with her low, musical voice and her murmurous laughter. his thoughts flew to nan, to whom he now meant to go with his last appeal. it flashed upon him that he might assure his victory over nan's qualms by carrying to her the definite knowledge that there was absolutely no hope, as he fancied nan believed there was, that he and lois might bridge the wide chasm that had separated them for so many years and renew the old tie. if he could go from lois to nan with that news, he believed his case would be invincible. he would make the offer to lois now, on this spot whose associations might be supposed to create an atmosphere of sentiment favorable to its serious consideration. the interview had run into a dead wall. quite imaginably his proximity had begun to bore lois. he idled with his stick, pondering. she rose suddenly. "i must go back; phil won't know what's become of me." "perhaps it would be as well to tell her that we've met," he said. "in fact, i think she should know." "i prefer not," she answered with decision. "it might trouble her; she might think--she thinks of everything!" "lois, there are ways--important ones--in which it would be best for her, make her happier, if we could--try again!" she raised her hand with one of her quick gestures, and it rested for an instant on his arm. as she lifted her face he saw the tears bright in her eyes. "don't say it; don't think of it!" she whispered brokenly. "for phil's sake we ought to do it if we can," he persisted, surprised to find how unmoved he was. "for phil's sake we wouldn't if we could!" their gaze met searchingly. "it would be doing phil a terrible wrong!" "i don't understand; i can't follow that," he answered. and still unmoved, untouched, he saw grief and fear in her eyes, her face twitching with the pain of inner conflict. "no; you don't understand!" she cried softly. "but if you meant it--if we either of us cared any more, don't you see that it wouldn't do! don't you know how unjust--how horribly unjust it would be to her, to--to lead her to think that love could be like that; something to be taken on and put off? it would be an unholy thing! it would be a sacrilege! no one would be deceived by it; and phil would know we both lied!" "but we might work it out some way; with her to help it might not go badly. i would do my best! i promise you that," he said, more sincere than he had meant to be. she was greatly moved and he wondered where emotion might lead her. he was alertly watchful for any quick thrust that might find him off guard. she went on hurriedly. "tom," she said gently, "phil had thought of it; she spoke of it. but nothing worse could happen to her. it would spoil the dear illusions she has about me; and in the end she would think less of you. for you don't mean it; it's only for phil's sake you suggest it." "and for your own sake, too; to protect you from--from just such occurrences as--" his eyes turned away from her to the point in the hedge through which holton had vanished. she shivered as though a cold wind had touched her and drew the cloak closer about her shoulders. "i don't need any one's protection. that poor beast won't bother me. i must say now all i shall ever have to say to you. we won't lie to each other; we need not! there is no real soul in me. if there had been, this house would not have been standing here empty all these years. and yet you see that i haven't changed much; it hasn't really made a great deal of difference in me. i have had my hours of shame, and i have suffered--a little. i believe i am incapable of deep feeling: i was born that way. if i appealed to your mercy now, i should be lying. and for a long time i have lived the truth the best i could. i believe i understand the value of truth and honor, too; i believe i realize the value of such things now. i'm only a little dancing shadow on the big screen; but i mean to do no more mischief; not if i can help it, and i think that at last i have mastered myself. you see," and quite composed she laughed again, "i'm almost a fool, but not quite." he murmured something as she paused, but she did not heed him, nor ask what he had said. he was not so relieved as he had expected to be by her prompt refusal of his offer, whose fine quixotism he felt had been wasted upon her. he was nothing to her; and never could have been; and this rejection was not the less disagreeable because he had expected it. it is difficult to imagine any circumstances in which a man will accept without resentment the idea that he is a negligible figure in a woman's life. the finer his nature the greater his astonishment at finding that she is able to complete her reckoning without including him as a factor in her calculations. and in kirkwood's case the woman had put him in the wrong when all the right was so incontrovertibly on his side. she had taken high ground for her refusal, and he could not immediately accommodate himself to the air of this new altitude, which he had never expected to breathe in her company. her thistledown nature might be the prey of the winds, but even so they might bear her high and far. "i must go on and finish, for there will never be another chance. you deserve the best life can give you. i'm glad to know things have been going well with you; and amzi says it's only the beginning. with all my heart i'm glad. it makes it easier for me--don't you see! and i know about nan bartlett; not from phil, but from mrs. king. i hope you will marry nan; and if my coming has made any difference, don't let that trouble you! in a little while i shall be gone; but phil mustn't know that. and i shall never come back here--you may rely on that; but i hope to have phil come to me now and then. i want to keep in touch with her,--have some part in her life. and you needn't fear that i shan't be--quite a proper person for phil to visit! you will believe that, won't you?" "yes, lois," he said wonderingly; for he was touched by the wistfulness of her plea that he should not fear her influence upon phil. "you wouldn't have come back to phil unless you felt you had a right to; i'm sure of that," he said with warmth. "no; i should not have been base enough for that," she replied, with a little forlorn sigh. "and as for your going away, it must not be on my account. it isn't necessary for you to go." he did not speak of nan; nor did she refer to her again. "i'm glad this has happened this way. i think we understand a little better. good-night, tom!" "good-night, lois!" their hands touched. he saw the flutter of her cloak as she passed round the house, seeking the path to amzi's. the garden was very still when she had gone. chapter xxv phil encounters the sheriff the may number of "journey's end" containing phil's veracious account of the dogs of main street created almost as much of a sensation as the consolidation of the first national with montgomery's bank. the "evening star" did not neglect its duty to indiana literature. a new planet blazed in the hoosier heavens, and it was the business of montgomery's enterprising afternoon daily to note its appearance and speculate upon its course and destiny. the "evening star's" "local" wrote a two-column "story" about phil for the sunday supplement of the indianapolis "advertiser." the fact that miss kirkwood belonged to one of the oldest and most distinguished families in central indiana was not overlooked; but this was merely the prelude to a breezy description of her many adventures, her athletic prowess, her broad democracy. the "evening star's" "local" was under obligations to phil for many quiet news tips; and beyond question he fully balanced the account. the pastor of center church made "the dogs of main street" the text of a sermon on the humane treatment of dumb animals--a sermon that phil heard perforce, as she sat, blushing furiously, beside amzi in the montgomery pew. amzi nearly perished with pride. busy as he was with the remodeling of the old bank, made necessary by the consolidation (he scorned the idea of moving his bank into the holton property!), he found time to stand on the bank steps and invite comments on "phil's latest";--there hadn't been a time since phil was six when her "latest" wasn't a subject of spirited conversation. phil's own happiness was mitigated somewhat by the fact that "journey's end" had lately refused two other manuscripts. still the editor wrote explaining why her stories were not available and urged her to try again. "stick to the local flavor," he said, "and don't read stevenson so much. anybody can write stories about the french revolution; not many are able to catch the character and life of main street." while she pondered this, she resolved to be a poet and sold a jingle to "life." kirkwood wired his congratulations from chicago. he had not fully recovered from the shock of lois's declaration of her belief in phil's genius. reading phil's sketch over a lonely dinner in a chicago hotel, he was pricked anew by the consciousness that he had never fully appreciated phil's qualities. what lois had said made a difference. he would have chuckled over the philesque touches in "the dogs of main street" in any circumstances, but he remembered enough of the commencement essay to value her changes, and to note the mark of the file on certain sentences. the thing had form and something akin to style. while he had been counseling nan bartlett as to "the gray knight," writing that was quite as individual as hers had been done without his guidance under his own roof! in spite of his professional successes, fate still played pranks with him. nan had set herself determinedly against the idea of marrying him, and his assurance that lois had rejected the idea of remarriage, even for phil's sake, had not shaken her resolution. lois's return had dimmed the glow of his second romance. and nan and rose had gone to call on her--an act whose finality was not wasted on kirkwood. the authorship of "the gray knight of picardy" was now generally known, and when the bartletts called on phil's mother the talk ran naturally upon books and writers; and as nan would not talk of herself, phil's ambitions were thoroughly discussed. phil, knowing that the bartletts were coming, had discreetly taken herself off. lois's account of the visit, given before amzi at the dinner-table, lacked all those emotional elements which phil had assumed to be inevitable where a man's former wife describes a call from a woman whom that man has been at the point of marrying. phil had not lost her feeling that the world is a queer place. "they are splendid women, amzi," lois declared. "if you don't marry rose pretty soon, i shall have to take the matter into my own hands." "thunder! rose marry me!" amzi ejaculated. "why not!" lois answered, composedly dropping a lump of sugar into his coffee. "_nan_ can't marry you; i should never have chosen you for nan!" the ice cracked ominously and amzi began talking about the furniture he was buying for the new bank. of course lois knew! phil had no doubts on that point. that astonishing mother of hers had a marvelous gift of penetration. phil's adoration was increasing as the days passed. it was little wonder that following mrs. john newman king's courageous example, people seemed to be in haste to leave cards at amzi's for mrs. holton. the gossip touching lois's return lost its scandalous tinge and became amiable, as her three sisters were painfully aware. the "stand" they had taken in support of their private dignity and virtue and in the interest of public morals had not won the applause they had counted on. people to whom they went for sympathy politely changed the subject when they attempted to explain themselves. mrs. john newman king told the pastor of center church, who had sought her advice as to his own duty, that she hoped he wouldn't make a fool of himself. these were shocking words from a woman who had known abraham lincoln, and who was a greater power in center church than the ruling elders. the presbyterians were just then canvassing the town in the interest of a projected hospital, and the "evening star" printed the subscriptions from day to day. amzi's name led all the rest with one thousand dollars; and immediately below his modest "a. montgomery," "cash" was credited with a like sum. it was whispered that lois montgomery holton was the anonymous contributor. lois's three sisters were appalled by the increasing rumors that their erring sister had come back with money. it was a sinful thing, if true; they vacillated between demanding an inquiry as to the source of the unknown contributor's cash or boldly suing for peace with lois and amzi. and to add to their rage, they knew that neither lois nor amzi cared a picayune whether peace was restored or not. lois's sisters were not the first among humankind to conclude that there is a difference between sin begging bread and sin with cake to throw away. lois's automobile dazzled main street at this juncture. the william holton car, splendid as it had been in its day, was a junk-pile compared to it. the accompanying chauffeur received, it was said, a salary of seventy-five dollars a month. public interest fastened upon this person. a crowd that gathered in front of the old bank to inspect the car on the day that lois and phil brought it home from indianapolis heard mrs. holton address him in a strange tongue. by nightfall every one in montgomery knew that lois had bought the most expensive car in town; that her chauffeur was french, and that she gave him orders in his own language just as though she had spoken it all her life. main street was impressed; all montgomery felt the thrill of these departures from its usual, normal life. lawrence hastings carried home details as to the "make," horse-power and finish of the machine that caused his wife and two sisters-in-law indescribable anguish. still the french chauffeur was a consoling feature; a vulnerable target for their arrows. no woman who valued her reputation would go gallivanting over the country with a foreign chauffeur, when it was the duty of montgomery people to employ worthy college boys to run their machines whenever possible. the sight of phil at the wheel, receiving instructions in the management of the big car on the day after its arrival, did not greatly add to their joy in life. the exposure of phil to the malign influences of a french chauffeur was another of lois's sins that did not pass unremarked. still the stars would not always fight against righteousness; phil would be killed, or she would elope with the frenchman, and amzi would be sorry he had brought lois home and set her up brazenly in the house of her fathers. amzi, rolling home to luncheon in the new car and rolling off again with his cigar at a provoking angle, was not unobserved from behind the shutters of his sisters' houses. in the bank merger he had acquired various slips of paper that bore the names of his sisters and their husbands, aggregating something like seven thousand dollars, which the drawers and indorsers thereof were severally unable to pay. the payment of the april interest and the general bright outlook in sycamore affairs had induced a local sentiment friendly to the company that had already lost waterman one damage suit. fosdick thought he saw a way of making his abandoned brickyard pay if he could only command a little ready cash. hastings had not forgotten phil's suggestion that he transform his theater into a moving-picture house: there were indications that the highbrows were about to make the "reel" respectable in new york, and a few thousand dollars would hitch montgomery to the new "movement" for dramatic uplift. and here was amzi soaring high in the financial heavens, with a sister who gave a thousand dollars to a hospital without even taking credit for her munificence! amzi and lois enjoyed themselves without let or hindrance from their neighboring sisters. packages arrived by express; decorators from indianapolis came and went; furniture was unpacked in the front yard; and a long stone bench and a sundial appeared in amzi's lawn, together with a pool, in the center of which an impudent little god piped joyfully in a cloud of spray. such trifles as these testified to the prevailing cheer of amzi's establishment. the fact that fred holton had turned his farm over to kirkwood was public property now; and people were saying that it was fine of amzi to give fred employment. the way in which the holtons crossed and recrossed the trail of the montgomerys had been the subject of much discussion. but the situation was clearing in so far as the holtons were concerned. william had removed to chicago to begin life anew; and jack had vanished utterly, the day following the collapse of the panic. charles, too, had disappeared. it was believed that kirkwood had recovered enough from samuel's associates in the construction company to balance the deficiencies occasioned by fraudulent construction and that he was not particularly interested in charles's whereabouts. "how about taking a look at the farm?" asked amzi one saturday afternoon. "fred's planting corn and we'll see how the country looks." lois and phil agreed that this was a capital idea and they set off in high spirits. as they approached the farm, jack whittlesey, the sheriff, passed on horseback. "looks bad for somebody," said phil. "what does?" asked amzi. "when jack goes out on his horse, it's a sign somebody's going to jail." "only serving subpoenas, i reckon," said amzi. they espied fred driving a corn-planter across a long level field, and stopped the car. he ran to the fence to talk to them, and they all alighted. it was a warm afternoon and he mopped his face with a big bandanna as he talked to them. he rested his arms on the top rail of the fence, playing with his cap--not the disreputable old coonskin with which phil had become familiar that winter, but the regular madison college cap with a scarlet "m" above the visor. "in the words of the poet," began phil, "where did you get that hat?" "this? oh, the day of the main street rumpus i lost mine and one of the boys lent me his. i meant to get him another, but i haven't been to town since. and besides, i've forgotten his name." "that's george nesbit's cap," phil answered, after eyeing it critically. "i know because it's an old style nobody else wore this year. george lives at the phi gam house, if you care for his address." "i hope you don't know them all as well as that, phil," remarked lois. "she does," chuckled amzi; "she does, indeed." amzi and fred dealt in technicalities. the green of young wheat caught the eye in the distances. these were amzi's acres; the holton farm lay beyond--the land that had been fred's. in february, phil and amzi had driven out one afternoon and had found fred sowing clover seed over the snow-covered wheat in his own field. her imagination took fire at all these processes. "a calendar might be laid out in great squares upon the earth," she had written in her notebook, "and the months would tell their own stories." it was all a great wonder, that man had learned so perfectly how to draw from the mute soil its sweetness and vigor. nothing man did seemed more interesting than this tilling and sowing. she noted how even snow had its use in catching and holding seed against the wind, and watched the sower marking his own progress and regulating the distribution by his tracks. ultimately the clover would give its own life to nourish and strengthen the wheat--these things kindled her fancy. here was poetry in the making, with suns and frosts, rains and snows taking their part in it. and fred felt it too; she knew that. in his shy, guarded way he had spoken of it. but to-day he was not a dreamer but a man of action. "got all the help you want, fred?" amzi was asking. "yes, sir. no troubles. i'm using my old place for a boarding-house for the hands. suppose you won't stay for supper?" he suggested, a little perfunctorily. "just because you're so enthusiastic, we will! but we've brought our own fodder--phil packed the hamper; enough for a couple of regiments. we'll meet you at my house at supper-time and have an indoors picnic." they waited to watch him start the team. phil took the wheel, and as they rolled away lois and amzi exchanged a glance. "you trust him?" she asked, glancing meaningly at phil's back. "thunder!" said amzi; "i don't know about _that_." "it might be worse," lois replied, and her brother looked at her in surprise. "he's a straightforward, manly fellow; seems to have escaped the family curse. it must be this"--lois indicated the fields--"that makes the difference. there's a moral influence in it; and," she added with a smile, "there's always a market for corn." "he's as square a chap as they make 'em, but as for that--" and he nodded towards phil. "it isn't for us to say, brother, but i believe i should trust him; and they seem to understand each other. he's far from stupid, and the kind of man to watch over her and protect her." these utterances greatly astonished amzi. he wondered whether lois's own experiences were responsible for her feeling that phil needed a protector, and her frankly expressed liking for fred in that connection. he was surprised but not displeased though the thought of phil's marrying gave him a distinct shock when considered concretely. he never dissociated it from the remembrance of lois's tragedies. they found amzi's house in order. phil lighted the open fire to take the chill from the living-room, which had been closed since the perrys' departure. amzi ran off in the machine to pay a visit to one of the county commissioners who lived near by: lois with her usual adaptability produced a novel and made herself comfortable on a couch. she was absorbed in her book before phil left the room. her mother's ready detachment never ceased to astonish her. sometimes in the midst of a lively conversation, lois would abruptly take up a book, or turn away humming to look out of the nearest window. her ways had been disconcerting at first, but phil had grown used to them. it argued for the completeness of their understanding that these dismissals were possible. her mother's love of ease and luxury; the pretty knick-knacks she kept about her; her deftness in self-adornment--the little touches she gave to a hat that utterly re-created it--never failed to fascinate phil. having disposed of her mother, or rather, that lady having forgotten her existence, phil climbed the blossomy orchard slope and looked off toward listening hill. how many things had happened since that fall afternoon when she had talked there with fred! life that had seemed simple just then had since shown her its complexities. she watched fred's slow progress with the corn-planter in the field below. glancing again at listening hill road her wandering gaze fell upon a horse and rider. her eye, delighting in the picturesque at all times, was alive to the strong, vigorous lines in which man and horse were drawn against the blue may sky. they gained the crest of the road, and the man turned in his saddle and swept the surrounding fields in a prolonged inspection. she looked away and then sought the figures again, but they had disappeared. a little cloud of dust rose in the hollow toward turkey run. it was undoubtedly big jack whittlesey, the sheriff. the idea of one man hunting another was repugnant to phil to-day, in this bright, wakened world of green fields, cheery bird song and laughing waters. she ran down the hill to escape from the very thought of sheriffs and prisons, and set off for the creek, following the montgomery-holton fence toward the holton barn, whither the music had lured her that night of the change o' the year when she had danced among the corn shocks. the laborers were all off at work and no one was in sight. it was a very respectable-looking barn now that fred had patched its weather-beaten sides and painted it. she flung back the door to revisualize her recollection of the dance. the bang of the sliding door roused a hen to noisy protest, and it sought the open with a wild beating of wings. the hen had emerged from the manger of an unused stall, and in feeling under the corn-trough for eggs, phil touched some alien object. she gave a tug that brought to light a corner of brown leather, found handles, and drew out a suit-case. she was about to thrust it back when "c. h." in small black letters arrested her eye. it was an odd place for the storing of luggage and her curiosity was keenly aroused. she had seen and heard nothing of charles holton since the night he had taken her to the lecture, and barns were not likely camping-places for gentlemen of his fastidious tastes. a step on the planked approach to the barn caused her to thrust the case back under the corn-box. she sprang toward the door, and faced jack whittlesey, who grinned and took off his hat. "'lo, phil!" "'lo, jack!" "stealing eggs, phil?" "the hen deceived me; nothing doing." "passed you on the way out. hardly know your old friends now you've set up a machine, i reckon." "cut that out, jack, and feed it to the larks. you had only ten votes to spare when you were elected and i landed seven of them for you, so don't be gay with me." "i'm not gay; i'm tired. i'm looking for a party." "what's your friend's name?" asked phil, picking up a straw and chewing it. "that would be telling. you haven't seen a man chasing over the country with a brown suit-case, have you?" "nope; nor with a black, pink, or green one. where does the story begin?" "well, not in my county. they send all the hard jobs out to us farmers. suppose there's anybody in this barn?" "there was a hen; but she went off mad when i came in. you'd better go back and pose on listening hill again; you looked rather well there--a lone picket on an alp watching for napoleon's advance. "he saw afar the coming host, but thought the glint of arms, betokened milk-cans in some peasant's cart,"-- phil added, bending forward and shading her eyes with her hand. whittlesey, knowing phil well, laughed his appreciation absently. "he's been dodgin' up and down the creek here for two days, trying to muster nerve enough to hit the trolley and clear out. there's a nice bunch of plunder in his suit-case." "rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief?" phil repeated--touching the buttons on her shirt-waist. "that would be tellin'." "well, don't tell, then. but not mentioning any names that particular person wouldn't be likely to hang around here," suggested phil meditatively. the sheriff eyed her critically. "you know who i mean? sure you ain't seen him?" "no, i haven't, jack," replied phil truthfully. "if you spot a gent with a suit-case, hop for a telephone and call the jail, and mebbe i'll whack the reward." "it doesn't sound like such easy money," phil replied. "charlie and fred ain't so terribly chummy, i guess," remarked the sheriff leadingly. "that's why i thought i'd take a look around here. a fellow as smart as charlie would pick the unlikeliest place to hide in. i'll have a word with fred as i go back. i got a deputy at stop , watching the cars. if charlie's in the neighborhood we'll pinch him all right. so long, phil." whittlesey moved across the barn-lot toward his horse. phil's mind had been working busily. beyond doubt charles holton was lurking in the neighborhood, waiting for a chance to escape. the suit-case pointed to this clearly. it was undeniably her duty to tell the sheriff of her discovery, and it had been on the tip of her tongue to do so half a dozen times during their colloquy at the barn door. whittlesey was an old friend and one of her admirations, and it was only the part of good comradeship to help him. the remembrance of her last meeting with charles still flamed angrily in her heart when she thought of him. there was certainly no reason why she should shield him from the outstretched arm of the law; yet she had first hesitated, then rejected the idea of communicating to the sheriff her knowledge that the plunder with which charles was seeking to escape was hidden in the barn. contemptible as charles was and doubtless deserving of his impending punishment, she would not aid in his apprehension. she did not believe that fred in like circumstances would do so; and there was ethel, their sister, on whom the disgrace of charles's arrest would fall heavily. whittlesey swung himself into his saddle and rode slowly toward the highway. phil returned to the barn, considering whether she should tell fred of her discovery of the suit-case. she stopped short on the threshold, all her senses alert. the rear door of the barn had been opened during her brief absence. she saw across the fields the trees that marked the turkey run defile, and she was confident that this long vista had not been visible when she first entered. she took a step toward the stall where she had found the suit-case, looked round cautiously before bending down to draw it out again, and a pair of eyes met hers, unmistakably charles holton's eyes, fear-struck, as he peered across a farm wagon behind which he had concealed himself. while she had been talking to whittlesey in the barn-lot, he had stolen in by the rear door to be nearer his booty. phil walked to the door and glanced toward listening hill. a quarter of a mile away she saw whittlesey and fred conversing earnestly at the edge of the cornfield. no one else was in sight. the farm hands were scattered over the fields, and were not likely to visit the barn until they brought home their teams. phil, standing in the door, spoke in a low tone. "you can get away, by the back door. the sheriff's talking to fred down the lane; his man's watching stop . go back to the run and follow it to the red covered bridge. keep away from the trolley line; they're watching it. better make for gaston's and take the chicago train there--it comes along a little before five." he was furtively creeping round the wagon while phil spoke. she heard the creaking of the planks and turned to see him tiptoeing toward the stall. his clothing was soiled and crumpled. his bent, slinking figure as he stole toward his booty affected her disagreeably. she took a step toward him. "you can't do that; you can't have that." "it's all the baggage i've got; just a few clothes," he muttered huskily. "i crawled in here last night to sleep. i've got to see fred before i go. i've been waiting two days for a chance to get to him." he watched her with fearful intentness as he continued his cautious advance upon the stall. "you can't have that suit-case," said phil in a sharper tone. "go out by the rear door, and keep close to the fence. there's nobody in those fields, and i'll watch till you get to the creek." "i want my things; i've got to have them," he blurted hoarsely, his hand on the stall-post. "you can't have it. if you don't go at once i'll call the sheriff back. there's nothing in that suit-case you need. quick! whittlesey knows you're around here somewhere, and if it hadn't been for me he'd have searched the barn." "he's a fool. i heard his talk through the cracks, and there's nothing in that case but a suit of clothes, and i've got to have it. it's all i've got in the world." "then you won't miss it much! i'm giving you a chance to get away. if you don't take it and clear out in ten seconds, i'll call whittlesey. he's still talking to fred just a little way down the lane." as she turned to reassure herself of the fact, he made a dive for the suit-case, brought it out and rushed toward the rear door. his foot caught on the edge of a rough plank and he fell headlong, the case flying from his hand. phil pounced upon it, flung it with all her strength into the farthest corner of the barn, pulled him to his feet, and pushed him through the door. she drew it shut, jerked the bar into place, and ran through the front door into the barn-lot. she continued running until she had gained the mound on which the house stood. she reasoned that the fugitive would hardly venture to reënter the barn, as this would bring him into the open lot with a possibility of encountering new foes. she saw him presently stealing along the edge of the field toward the creek, dodging along the stake-and-rider fence and pausing frequently to rest or make sure that he was not followed. she saw whittlesey bid fred good-bye, watched the young farmer return to his corn-planting, and heard his voice as he called cheerily to the horses. charles gained the edge of the ravine, clambered over the fence, and disappeared. then phil sighed deeply and shuddered; the fear in the man's eyes had not been good to see; and yet she had been touched with pity for him. the night he had taunted her about her mother she had taken the measure of his baseness; but she was glad she had helped him to escape. if there was really anything of value in the suit-case, as whittlesey had said, the law might have it and welcome; and she was already wondering just how to dispose of it. if charles followed her instructions, he would strike across country and catch the northbound evening train. his fate was out of her hands, and it was wholly unlikely that he would make any further effort to regain his property now that phil had seen it. she doubted whether he had had any real errand with fred. it was much more probable that chance alone had directed his steps to this neighborhood, and that all he wanted was to beg his brother's protection and aid. now that the excitement of the episode had passed, phil hid the bag in a dark corner of the corn-crib and continued her tramp. * * * * * fred, having gone for a shower and change of raiment, was late to the supper that phil spread in the dining-room of the montgomery farmhouse. he seemed unusually grave when they met at the table, and phil surmised that whittlesey had discussed charles's plight with him fully. amzi had spent an enjoyable afternoon cruising in the neighborhood among his farmer friends, and was in the best of humor. lois, who had taken her ease, reading and napping, declared that she must cultivate a closer acquaintance with farm life. she pronounced it immensely interesting, feigning to ignore the ironical glances exchanged by phil and amzi. she exclaimed in a mockery of rapture over a bowl of scentless wild violets which phil had gathered. they were amazingly fragrant, she said, waving her hand lately splashed with toilet water. "the fraud! she hasn't been out of the house," phil remarked to amzi. "why should i go out and walk over the clods in my best slippers? i don't return to nature; nature returns to me. it's much pleasanter that way." she nibbled a sandwich, elbows on table, and asked if montgomery still indulged itself in picnics, a form of recreation which she associated only with a youthful horror of chigres. "met jack whittlesey again, on my way back," said amzi. "what's he hanging round here for?" fred looked up suddenly, the color deepening in his face. "jack's always looking for somebody," said phil lamely, seeking to turn the talk. "he must dream that he's looking for people. i shouldn't like his job." "he's looking for charlie," said fred, raising his head squarely and speaking directly across the table to amzi. "jack thinks he's hiding about here somewhere." amzi blew out his cheeks to hide his embarrassment. it was not his way to cause pain, and there was a hurt, unhappy look in fred's eyes. and amzi liked fred--liked his simplicity and earnestness, and stubborn pluck, his manly attitude in adversity. "how absurd," murmured lois, regarding critically one of phil's deviled eggs, made, by the way, after rose bartlett's recipe. "i thought that was all a bluff about dragging charlie into the traction business," remarked amzi, who had not thought anything of the kind. "he never surrendered the bonds he got from father," said fred, relieved, now that the matter had been broached, that he could speak of charlie's plight to friendly hearers. "jack said he was trying to get away with them, and there's an indictment against him at indianapolis." "oh, they won't catch him," said lois in her spacious fashion. "they never catch anybody." this was a well-intentioned effort to eliminate charles and his troubles from the conversation; but fred, not heeding, spoke again directly to amzi. "i think it wasn't altogether charlie's fault that he got mixed up in this. the temptation to keep the bonds must have been strong. but he ought to have turned them over. i can't defend his not doing it." amzi was still annoyed by his unfortunate reference to the sheriff. he fumbled in his breast pocket and drew out a brown envelope. "i've got something for you, fred, that ought to cheer you up. charlie's troubles haven't anything to do with you. here's the deed you gave mr. kirkwood for your farm. it's never been recorded, and it stands as though it had never been made. i told tom he had got back enough money to straighten up the sycamore business out of those construction fellows without taking your farm, and here you are. i've been holding it a little while just to see how you would take your troubles. burn it; and now let's forget about charlie." fred stared, frowning, at the deed which amzi tossed across the table. "this isn't right; it isn't square," he began. "be careful how you sign papers. you may not get 'em back the next time. they tried to swindle you out of your share in your father's estate--a clean case on charlie's part, as everybody knows. you needn't worry about charlie. he got a lot of stuff that never figured in his administrator's inventory. the sycamore company's perfectly satisfied with what's been wrung out of the other fellows, and if charlie really has some of those bonds, they belong to you." lois shrugged her shoulders. the subject was distasteful. discussions of disagreeable business affairs were not to her liking; and she was sincerely sorry for fred's discomfiture. "the sheriff's mistaken," remarked phil. "charlie hasn't any of those bonds, and jack won't catch him; not to-day." at an early age phil had learned the dramatic value of downright statements. she helped herself to an olive and waited for amzi to explode. he exploded immediately. "charlie hasn't them! jack won't catch him?" "of course not. i have the bonds and charlie's a long way from here by this time." she recounted her meeting with charles in the holton barn, and when they expressed incredulity, she sprang up and darted from the room. when she reappeared with the suit-case and dumped its contents on the table, amzi, narrowly averting apoplexy, counted the bonds carefully, and made a calculation of the accrued and unpaid interest. "thunder!" he blurted. "now, look here, fred, don't you do anything foolish! we'll stack these up in the bank until kirkwood can pass on this business. he might have them annulled, i suppose; but we'll wait and see." "you wouldn't have fred steal them, amy!" "steal them! thunder! we'll run 'em through the estate and out to fred again. i guess charlie took care of his sister in the original whack; but if he didn't we'll give her a slice." he glared at phil fiercely. "you, phil!" "what's the matter, amy?" "you lied to the sheriff of this county!" "if you talk to me like that i'll most certainly muss you; i will, i will!" "you concealed stolen property! you helped a fugitive to escape from justice! you--you--!" words failing him, he bent over the table, shaking an accusing finger under her nose. "forget it, amy! if i did i glory in my shame. put that in your pipe. incidentally, it occurs to me that it's about time to think of going home." "i don't know what to say to all this," said fred as they rose from the table. he looked from one to the other, the deep feeling showing in his face. "it was fine of you, phil, to help charlie get away; i appreciate that. i want to say again that i think charlie means all right. he's the best-hearted fellow in the world." "well," said lois kindly, "we hope he will find another chance and make good." then after a moment she added: "we most of us need two chances in this world, and some of us three!" "and about the farm, i didn't expect that: i'm not sure it's right to take it back," said fred. "i want to do the square thing." "thunder!" ejaculated amzi; and then, seeing that phil was already engaged in repacking the hamper with the empty dishes he turned upon her with his mock fury and demanded that she give him another pickled peach before the jar was disposed of. "get that article at my house, phil?" phil walked close to him and shouted in his ear as to a deaf man:-- "no, you grand old imbecile! anybody but you would know that they represent the perfection of rose bartlett's art! now, will you be good!" chapter xxvi a call in buckeye lane "going out, mamma?" "rather think so, phil!" replied lois. it was the week after the visit to the farm, and phil, who was now scratching away furiously on a short story, had opened her mother's door late in the afternoon to find that lady contemplating with unusual gravity a frock she had flung across the bed for inspection. "what are you up to, phil?" "up to my chin in ink," replied phil, holding up a forefinger empurpled from the ink she was affecting. she had read in a literary note that one of the most distinguished of contemporaneous women novelists always used purple ink. phil was spreading a good deal of it over legal cap purloined from her father's office. kirkwood was just now in town, and he had called her on the telephone to invite her to supper with him at the morton house, an arrangement which she disclosed to her mother. "your father's home again?" lois asked indifferently. "yes. he has something to do here about those bonds of charlie holton's. it sounded rather complicated; and he wants to see fred, and amy was to call him into town." lois's mind was upon the gown. she compressed her lips as she continued to scrutinize it. it was a gown from paris and a very handsome one. having decided that it suited her purposes, she brought out a hat that matched it and tossed it onto the bed. "how do you think i'd look in those things?" "adorable! shall i order up the machine?" "um, no: i'll walk, i think." "i rather take it that i'm not invited," laughed phil. "bless me, no! i have a call to make that wouldn't interest you." phil walked to the bureau--a new one of mahogany that had been among her mother's recent substitutions for the old walnut with which the house had been filled. the folder of a steamship company lay sprawled open across the neatly arranged toilet articles. phil picked it up idly, and noted certain pencilings that caused her heart to give a sudden bound. she flung round upon her mother with tears in her eyes. "you are not--not thinking of that!" lois walked over to her and kissed her. she took phil's face in her hands, looking into her eyes steadily. "you dear chick, you would care!" "oh, you mustn't! you must _not_!" phil cried. "and you have been thinking of it and not telling me! and just when i thought we understood everything." "i meant to tell you to-day: i really did. it wasn't easy. but i've got to go, phil. i'm not sure that i haven't stayed too long! you know i never meant to stay forever." "then you haven't been happy here! you don't--you don't like _me_!" lois sank into a chair by the window and drew the girl down beside her. phil gripped her mother's hands tight, and stared into her face with tear-filled eyes. "it's as hard for me as it is for you, phil. but we may as well have it out. i've taken passage for the first saturday in june, and it's not far off. some friends are spending the summer in switzerland and i'm going to join them. it was half-understood when i came here." "it's hard; it's unkind," phil whispered. the fact that her mother had planned flight so long ahead did not mitigate the hurt of it. nothing, it seemed, could ever be right in this world! and she had just effected all the difficult readjustments made necessary by her mother's return! she had given herself so unreservedly to this most wonderful of women! lois was touched by her show of feeling. "i'm sorry," she said, stroking phil's brown head. "i have had thoughts of taking you with me. that would be easy enough--" she paused uncertainly, as the clasp of phil's hands tightened. "but, phil, i have no right to do that. it wouldn't be for your happiness in the end; i know that; i'm sure of that." "oh, if you only would! i'll be very good--a lot nicer than you think i am if you will take me." "no!" said lois sharply, but with a slight quaver in her voice that caused hope to stir in phil's breast. "you hadn't any right to come back and make me love you and then run away again! it isn't kind; it isn't just!" "you wouldn't love me much longer if i stayed! you wouldn't love me very long if i carried you off. you've seen the best of me: i've shown you my best box of tricks. i don't wear well, phil; that's the trouble with me." she rose abruptly and drew phil to her feet, with an effort at gayety. "as it is we really love each other a lot, and it would be hazardous for me to stay longer. when i saw the first blossoms in the cherry tree, i knew it was time to go. i used to feel that way when i was a child--as though i just couldn't bear to stay any longer. i remember the days and hours when i used to fight it, away back there when i was a school girl. there must be gypsy blood in me. i can go on being just as you have seen me--lazy and comfortable for a long time, and then the thing becomes intolerable. it's the cause of all my troubles, one of the wobbles in my wobbly character. but now that i know what's the matter--that it isn't just malaria--and that the curse or whatever it is will pass in time, i suppose it isn't a weakness any longer, because i know just what to do for it. how's that, phil, for philosophy!" "oh, you're so dear, so wonderfully dear!" cried phil, touching her mother's cheeks lightly with her hands: "and we have had such good times; and i thought we should go on forever, just chumming; and you have stirred me all up about doing things, working--how am i ever to go on trying without you?" "nothing could keep you from going on and doing things; you will do great things. it's in you. i think maybe it's the wildness in me that has taken this turn in you. you have more brains in a little minute than i ever had: you are amazingly clever and wise. i'm glad it was left for me to discover it; that's one credit i've got on the good book." there was a new sweetness and a wistfulness in her gravity that did not escape phil. phil knew that she could not change her mother's decision. lois was already preening her wings for flight. like a migratory bird she was moved by an irresistible call to other lands and other summers. phil felt the strong columns of her young life totter; but they did not fall, and she knew they would not. it was a sad business, viewed in any light, but life, phil had realized since christmas brought her mother back to her, was not a holiday affair. "i'm only a foolish butterfly down there in the garden," lois was saying. "i can't stop long anywhere. if i did i'd make mischief. trouble!" she threw up her hand and snapped her fingers. "what a lot of trouble i've caused in this world! i'm causing some right now; i know it: and it has worried me a lot. and before i flit i've got to straighten things out a little. don't worry: i'm not going to do anything foolish." she presented her back for phil to unhook her gown; and proceeded to array herself in the paris frock, which she had never worn before. "by the way, phil, i subscribed to a clipping bureau so you could see how far your dog piece traveled, and it's being quoted all over creation. some paper calls it inimitably droll, which i think rather nice. you'll find a bunch of clippings in my second drawer there. be sure and show them to your father, and don't fail to keep him in touch with your work: he can help you once he's aroused to what you can do. by the way, you must boil the slang out of your system. it's charming, but it won't do. first thing you know it will be slipping in to your ink-pot and corrupting your manuscripts. you know better; i don't! as you go on nan bartlett can probably save you a good many bumps: she's a clever woman. i read her book twice, and i can point out everything your father put into that tale. there's not much of him there; only one of his dry jokes now and then. don't imitate anybody; write about things you see and feel. one reason i'm not going to take you away with me is the danger of spoiling your american point of view. two years from now you can go over and have a look; we'll see to that; but meanwhile make yourself into a blotter that soaks up everything. i once met a literary critic who said that the only american literature that's worth anything or is ever going to be worth anything will be dug right out of the soil. i didn't know then that i had a little digger in my own family! no; the other gloves; and get me the pink parasol--the one with the white handle." she was deftly thrusting the pins through her hat before the oval mirror which had been one of her acquisitions. as she drew on the gloves she turned her supple body to make sure of the satisfactory hang of her skirt. her good spirits had returned, and she hummed softly as phil surveyed her. she seemed less indifferent to-day to phil's admiration. phil's spirits rose slowly; it was difficult to mourn in this radiant presence. lois had exercised all her arts in preparing for this mysterious call. she looked astonishingly well!--and amazingly young! dressing had always been to phil one of the nuisances and troubles of life. her aunts had so annoyed her by their fussiness, and their efforts at self-embellishment had so disgusted her that it had been a revelation to find her mother making herself into charming pictures with so few strokes and so blithe an indifference to results. phil watched lois to the gate, delighting in her easy, graceful step; following the pink dot of the parasol as it was lost and found again through the greenery. lois sauntered toward the college and phil turned into the house, speculating as to her destination. her mother's general spontaneousness and inadvertence had led phil to the belief that lois withheld nothing; it was inconsonant with her understanding of lois that there should be any recesses where the sun did not strike upon glittering mirrors in the long corridors down which, in phil's adoration, her mother was forever loitering. students encountered near the campus turned their heads for a second glance at lois, thinking her a new girl in town who had escaped their vigilance. she walked through buckeye lane to the bartletts'; lowered her parasol as she passed under the maples in the yard; bent over the lilacs that overflowed upon the path, and smiled at the drumstick as she took it in hand to announce herself. nan opened the door. if she was surprised to find mrs. holton on her threshold, her manner did not betray the fact. mrs. holton owed her a call--a call which by the social canons was slightly overdue. "i am very glad to see you," said nan cordially. it was cool and pleasant in the little cottage. (houses in montgomery are always pleasant and cool on the warmest days!) lois sank into a seat, her eyes taking in the room at a glance. the flute on the music cabinet and the 'cello beside the piano did not escape her. on the table, where presumably nan performed her literary labors, lay the week's darning. there was no denying the essential domesticity of the atmosphere. lois vaguely remembered that room from the days when professor bartlett was living, and she had been a frequent visitor, delighting in the cookies and raspberry shrub that were the inevitable items of bartlett hospitality when youngsters were about. "i'm sorry rose isn't here; she's spending the day in indianapolis," nan observed. "i knew that. that's why i came to-day," replied lois, smiling. "i wished to see you alone." they exchanged the quick glance called for by this statement. nan nodded. "i shall be leaving very soon," lois remarked, holding her parasol at arm's length and whirling it idly. "i'm sorry to hear that," nan replied. she shook the bracelet down upon her round white arm with her accustomed gesture, rested her elbow on the writing-table, and waited. she had just come in from a walk and was clad in a blue wash waist and dark skirt. she was immediately conscious of the perfections of lois's raiment, noting its points from silk hose and modish pumps to the utmost tip of the feather on the beguiling paris hat. nan's imagination was at work upon the situation: tom kirkwood's former wife had come to call upon her, and wished to see her alone; and tom kirkwood was in love with her, and she would have married him had not this lovely apparition returned to shake her resolution. in the way of people who write she began to view the encounter with unconscious detachment. she was not to remain long in doubt as to the purpose of lois's visit. "i am going abroad for an indefinite stay. i may return, of course, now and then, but just to pass the time of day. montgomery will never be my home. amzi and phil--" a smile, a slight movement of her head, a lifting of the hand completed the sentence. "they are strong ties," nan replied, smiling in return. "i want to tell you how deeply grateful i am to you and your sister, for your kindnesses to dear phil. in these years that i have been gone you and rose have been"--she hesitated--"like mothers and grown-up sisters to her. the result speaks for itself. without you those sisters of mine would have made a fool of her." "oh, phil couldn't have been spoiled!" exclaimed nan. "anybody might be spoiled," lois insisted. "i'm rather a sad example of the spoiled child myself. i speak, you see, from a weight of experience!" the smile continued in lips and eyes. she was tremendously at ease and her ease was disconcerting. "phil has kept us delighted and bewildered. she was born with understanding; there's genius in the child!" said nan, with warmth. "ah! i knew you realized that! tom"--she spoke her discarded husband's name unwaveringly, smiling still--"tom has not quite taken her at full value, though he has been--splendid. amzi has been a dear angel to her,--but even he has never fully taken in the real phil. but here, in this house"--she looked about, as though the more fully to place the room in evidence--"you have taken her into your hearts! and she needed the oversight of women--of women like you and rose. you have been her great stimulus, the wisest of counselors. it seems almost as though i had left her on your doorstep! i am not so dull but that i see it all." nan colored deeply. lois's suggestion, so bluntly put, that she had cast her child upon the bartletts' doorstep aroused uncomfortable memories. after an instant's reflection nan said:-- "phil and her father have been unusually close; i don't believe mr. kirkwood has failed at any point in duty or sympathy. he is immensely proud of her development." "yes. but--he is not a woman! and there's a difference, if i haven't forfeited my right to an opinion on that point!" she skirted the fringes, the dim borders of the past with the lightest step. she fumbled the keys of the closed doors as though they were silver trinkets on a châtelaine. in nan's consciousness they seemed to tinkle and jingle softly in the quiet room. "i thought of taking phil away with me, to see the world,"--nan felt a sudden tightening of the throat--"but i have decided against it. that will come later. in the work she wants to do it is better for her to stay here. if she learns montgomery she will know the world! does that sound a little studied? i am not a maker of phrases--far from it! but she has splendid talents?" she ended questioningly. "phil has the best mind of any girl i ever knew: she takes my breath away!" cried nan. "so! i knew you wouldn't fail me there!" "we all realize it: we expect great things of her," added nan. lois bent toward her with her winning manner. she drew the parasol across her lap and clasped it in both hands. "that is why i am appealing to you; that is what brought me here to see you--alone. i am leaving phil here with you because--because it is so much better for her to be with you than with me! you have done my work for me--oh, we won't discuss that! i know it all. you must credit me with some little understanding before we go further!" just where that "further" was to lead, nan could not guess. she murmured something to the effect that mrs. holton was far too kind. "there is every reason why i should be kind," lois retorted. "and this brings me to a rather more serious matter, and one--one i am not broaching without reason. i want to speak of tom!" she flashed. the smile had left her face; her lovely eyes were very grave. "there is nothing that we need say about mr. kirkwood," said nan, reddening and stirring uneasily. "please do not say that! this is an important moment in your life and mine. and i must speak to you of tom before i go away. we are not children--you and i. you are a woman and a very noble one and--you must let me say it--i have been one of the worst. there's no finer man in the world than tom; i never knew that until i had flung him away. and it's only because of you and phil that he found himself again. i know it all as clearly as though i had been here every day of all these years. you picked up the broken pieces and made a man of him again--you and phil. and you very much more than phil! i've come to tell you that i'm grateful for that. he deserves well of the world. he loves you; he wants to marry you. if i hadn't come back just when i did, you would have married him." she knelt beside nan with lifted face. there were tears in her eyes. "don't you see--don't you understand--that that is the only way i can be happy? i'm not saying this for your sake--and only half for tom's. it's the old selfish me that is asking it," she ended, smiling once more, though with brimming eyes. nan turned her head. "i can never do it! it's not fair for you to speak to me of him." "oh, don't i know that! but i never in my life played fair! i want you to promise me that you won't say no to him! he is started on the way up and on once more: i want you to help him gain the top. he needs you just as phil does! you have already been to him what i never could have been. it is all so easy and so plain! and in no other way can i be right with myself. i shall never trouble you by coming back! phil can come to me sometimes--i'm sure you will not mind that! and i shall find peace that way! for phil's sake you and tom must marry!" "phil loves you so," said nan; "you have no right to leave her; you don't know what you mean to her!" "i'm only a pretty picture in a book! she's too keen; she'd see through me very soon. no! it must be my way," she said, with a little triumphant note. she rose and turned to pick up her parasol. nan watched her wonderingly, for an instant dumb before the plea of this woman, so unlooked-for, so amazing in every aspect. lois touched her handkerchief to her eyes and thrust it into her sleeve. "now that's all over!" she said, smiling. "no; it can't be over that way," returned nan, quite herself again. "for a day i thought i could do it, but i'm grateful that you came back, for your coming made me see what a mistake it would have been. there's no question of his needing me. if i helped him a little to find himself, i shall always be glad, but he has tasted success now, and he will not drop back. and as for phil, it is absurd to pretend that she needs any one. the days of her needs are passed, and she is at the threshold of happy womanhood. i am glad you came when you did, for i see now how near i was to losing some of my old ideals that would have made the rest of my life one long regret." "those scruples are like you--like what i know to be true of you; but you are wrong. i believe that in a little while you will see that you are." "no," continued nan; "i know they are not wrong. i am ashamed of myself that i ever wavered, but now i know i shall never be tempted again. i may seem to be taking myself too seriously"--she smiled in her accession of assurance--"but i have a feeling of greater relief than i dare try to explain. i am provincial and old-fashioned, and there are things i can't bring myself to think of lightly. i suppose the prejudices of my youth cling to me, and i can't dissociate myself from the idea that, inconspicuous as i am in the general scheme of things, i have my responsibility to my neighbors, to society, to the world. i am grateful that i saw the danger in time to save myself. your coming back was well timed; it makes me believe"--she added softly--"that there is more than a fate in these things. i had misgivings from the first; i knew that it was wrong; but not till now have i seen how wrong it was! and i want you to be sure that this is final--that i shall never waver again." "but in a little while, when i am safely out of the way--" "your going or coming can make no difference. i can say in all sincerity that i wish you would stay. i think it would mean much to phil if you should. i hope you will change your decision. you must understand that so far as mr. kirkwood and i are concerned there is no reason whatever for your going." lois drew a line in the rug with the point of her parasol, her head bent in an attitude of reflection. "as for tom and me," she said, meeting nan's eyes after an instant, "it's only right for you to know from me that he has given me another chance. he has offered to try me again! it was for phil's sake. it was generous--it was noble of him! but"--she shrugged her shoulders--"i've caused enough misery. not in a thousand years would i do it!" nan nodded, but made no reply. it was enough that she had established her own position, and nothing that lois could add really mattered. and lois, with her nice sense of values, her feeling for a situation, knew that the interview was at an end. a copy of the may number of "journey's end" lay on a little stand with other magazines. her hand rested upon it a moment, as though she thus referred everything back to phil, but even this evoked nothing further from nan. lois walked to the door, murmuring nothings about the weather, the charm of the flowering yards in the lane. at the door she caught nan's hands, smiled into her eyes, and said, with all her charm of tone and manner:-- "you _will_ kiss me, won't you!" chapter xxvii amzi's perfidy in accommodating himself to the splendors of the enlarged bank room, amzi had not abandoned his old straw hat and seersucker coat, albeit the hat had been decorated with a dab of paint by some impious workman, and the coat would not have been seriously injured by a visit to the laundry. amzi was observing the new façade that had been tacked onto the building, when phil drove up in the machine. this was the afternoon of the d of july. phil and her father were camping for a week in their old haunt in turkey run, and she had motored into town to carry amzi to his farm, where he meant to spend the glorious fourth in the contemplation of the wheat fred had been harvesting. phil had experienced a blow-out on her way to town, a fact to which the state of her camping clothes testified. "thunder!" said amzi; "you look as though you had crawled halfway in." "a naughty nail in a bridge plank was the sinner," she explained. she jumped out and was admiring the alterations, which had eliminated the familiar steps to the old room, when mrs. waterman emerged from a neighboring shop. "you dear phil!" she cried effusively. "i've been wanting to see you for _weeks_!" her aunt caught and held the brown hand phil had drawn from her battered gauntlet. "father and i are out at the run," phil explained. these were the first words she had exchanged with either of her aunts since christmas. she was not particularly interested in what her aunt josephine might have to say, though somewhat curious as to why that lady should be saying anything at all. "i can't talk here," mrs. waterman continued, seeing that amzi lingered in the bank door. "but there are things i want to discuss with you, phil, dear." main street is hot on july afternoons; and phil was impatient to get back to the cool hollows of the run. "oh, any time, aunt josie," she replied hastily. "it's only fair--to myself, and to fanny and to kate, for me to say to you that we never meant--we never had the slightest intention--in regard to your dear mother--" "oh, don't trouble about that!" said phil. "mamma never minded! and please excuse me; amy's waiting." she nodded good-bye, and walked through the bank to the new directors' room where amzi was subjecting himself to the breezes of an electric fan. "indian!" "i haven't mussed you," observed phil, placing her gloves on the new mahogany table, "since you started up the new bank. it's about time we were celebrating." he threw up his arms to ward off the threatened attack, and when he opened his eyes and peered out she was sitting on the table with the demurest of expressions upon her countenance. "false alarm; only i object to your comments on my complexion. i'm some burnt; but as it isn't painful to me, the rest of creation needn't worry." "well, you needn't kick the legs of that table with your sneakers; that table cost money!" "really! woeful extravagance. did you see aunt josephine holding my hand?" "i did," replied amzi. "what's eating josie?" "she seemed to want to kiss and make up. i excused myself owing to the heat of the day." "humph! i'll tell you something, phil, if you'll sit in a chair and be nice." she sat in a chair and was nice. "i was brought up," said amzi, "to believe in heaven. ever hear of the place?" "i have," said phil; "and no thanks to you." he ignored the fling as unworthy of his attention, and continued soberly,-- "i never expected, in all the years i've been attending center church, that i'd ever see anybody on earth that had a pass right through the pearly gates; but i guess i know one woman that's got a ticket, with stop-over privileges, and a seat in the observation car--all stamped and good for any date. that woman, phil, is your mother. that idea's been in my mind a good deal lately and i thought i'd mention it." phil's face assumed an unwonted gravity. her mother's departure, in all the circumstances of her going, had still its poignancy. phil had been brave, but it had cut deep. she did not reply to her uncle's remark, but waited for him to go on. he drew out a cigar, satisfied himself that it was in good condition, and returned it to his pocket. "the day she left, your mother wrote out three checks for five thousand bucks--one for each of your aunts. she told me not to turn them over until she had landed on the other side. thunder! after everything they had done to her and tried to do to her, she did _that_!" he waited characteristically for her to deny the facts he had stated. a look of great tenderness came into phil's face. "said she didn't want any unkind feelings. said it was all right the way they acted. _right!_" he repeated contemptuously. "i've known men--and women--some; but i can't beat that! and the day the cable came saying she'd got to cherbourg, i called 'em down in a bunch and gave 'em the checks. you've noticed that your uncle lawrence has turned his theater into a moving-picture shop with a yellow-haired girl selling tickets at the gate; and your uncle paul has given notice that he's going to start the brickyard again. he's got contracts to keep him going for six months. and your uncle waterman's started in to pay a few of his debts on the installment plan. that's all your mother's money." a wan smile flitted across phil's face. "what you laughing at?" amzi demanded. "nothing," said phil; "only i seem to remember that i once said something to lawr_i_nce about cutting out the drammer and putting on the reel. and paul and i had some talk once about bricks--" she ended meditatively. "your ideas, both of 'em, i bet!" declared amzi furiously. "i thought those fellows never had that much sense all by themselves." "oh, nothing like that!" replied phil. "i just thought i ought to tell you what your mother did. lois didn't say for me not to tell you. i guess she thought i most likely would." "i'm glad you did, amy. everything i know about mamma makes me love her that much more." amzi turned to push the regulator on the fan, and when it had ceased humming he rested his arms on the table and said:-- "seems nan's not going to marry your father, after all?" "no, that's all over," she answered indifferently. "it was fine of your mother to want them to marry." "yes, it was like her. she is wonderful about everything,--thinks of everything and wants everybody to be happy." phil clasped her crossed knees in her hands, and did not meet her uncle's eyes. the ache in her heart that was not to be stilled wholly through many years cried aloud. "nan is a splendid woman and a mighty good friend to all of us. and your father's got a new shove up the ladder, and is doing splendidly. nan did a lot for him!" phil loosened her hands and they fell helplessly to her sides. "oh," she cried, "i don't understand all these things, amy! if mamma hadn't come back, nan and daddy would have married; but i don't see how they could! it's clear beyond me how people see things one way one day and another way the next. what's the matter with all of us anyhow, that right isn't always right? in old times people mostly got married and stayed married, and knew their minds, but nowadays marriage seems so purely incidental. it's got to be almost ree-diculous, amy." "well, phil, i guess we all do the best we can. i guess we can't see very far ahead in this world." and then he smiled grimly. "i guess we never know when we're going to get a puncture. there's got to be patches on the tire before we get home." she gave a little shrug that she had learned from her mother and walked over to him. she clasped his chin in her fingers and tilted his head so that she looked straight through his spectacles into his eyes. "let's stay on the bank; the swimming's dangerous!" "what are you talking about?" he blurted, fearing that a mussing was imminent. "getting married! but you--" she turned his head the better to search his face for telltale signs. "you beautifulest of old sinners, how about rose?" he jerked himself free and pushed away from her with a screeching of the new chair's casters. "thunder!" he gasped. "don't you ever think that!" "sure you're not fooling!" she demanded, amused at the look of horror in his face. he drew out his handkerchief and mopped his face. his manner was that of a man who, having heard bad news, has just been assured of its falsity. "i guess," he said, "if i was fool enough--at my age--rose wouldn't be. i've got along so far, and i guess i can pull through." "then," said phil cheerfully, "we'll pull through together! this marriage business doesn't look good to me!" "thunder!" he looked at her narrowly. "i wish to the lord i could keep _you_." "watch me! you know we're going abroad next summer to see mamma; that's a date. i guess you'll keep me all right enough until you get tired of me, or i break the bank! but why chat we here? let's set the gasoline alight and ho for the well-hoed fields of corn!" * * * * * phil carried a bundle of mail to her father to which he addressed himself after the supper they cooked for themselves in the camp in their old fashion. amzi scorned their invitation to join them, as he frankly confessed his inability to find joy in sitting on a boulder and drinking coffee out of a tin cup. he preferred the comforts of his own farmhouse and fred's society. phil had promised to visit him later, and finding that her father became engrossed immediately in an engineer's report on the illinois traction property, she stole away. she took the familiar ascent slowly, pausing now and then to listen to the murmur and rush of the waters beneath. from the top of the cliff she called down to assure her father of her safety. the dry stubble of the newly cut wheat was rough underfoot as she set off for amzi's. there was much sowing and reaping in the world, she philosophized, and far too much chaff in the garnered grain! life, that might be so simple if every one would only be a little bit reasonable, unfolded itself before her in dim, bewildering vistas. fred had started to meet her, and she saw his stalwart figure against the fading west. "mr. montgomery is getting nervous about you; he said for you to hurry! the fact is that i bored him and he needs you to cheer him up." "which is fishing," phil replied. "i had the dishes to wash. there's a lot to do in a camp." "you'd better not mention the dishwashing; that's what made him cross." "cross! dear old amy cross!" laughed phil. "why, fred, he doesn't know how to spell the word!" they followed a lane beside a cornfield, talking spiritedly. fred paused, lifted his head and filled his lungs with the fresh cool air. it was with a sense of elation that he traversed these fields of his own tilling and sowing and reaping. there was something in his bronzed face that had not been there when phil first knew him. he carried his shoulders straighter and was less timid; he expressed himself with more confidence and was beyond question on very good terms with the world. at every meeting they had somehow seemed to make progress; they really got on famously together now that he was no longer shy in her company and had caught the spirit of her humor. she had wondered frequently whether she was in love with him. her speculations had been purely subjective; she had not been concerned in the least with his attitude toward her. it had occurred to her in other moods that he would be an interesting character in a book and she had even jotted down notes which would have astonished him greatly if he had been vouchsafed a glance at those amazing memoranda. viewed objectively he was an attractive protagonist for a story dealing with the return to the soil of a young man, who, trying city life without success, sought refuge in the fields of his ancestors. the heroine must be a haughty city girl whose scorn should yield slowly to admiration and love. the last chapter of the tale should be called "the harvest." she thought well of the idea, and meant to sketch an outline of it as soon as she finished a short story about the young gentleman who presided over the soda-fountain at struby's, the simple chronicle of whose love affair with the cashier at bernstein's she was just now transcribing for "journey's end." a new incident for that delectable yarn now popped into her head. fred was talking about the corn which had nothing whatever to do with struby's or the cashier at bernstein's. she stopped and whistled as the revelation of new possibilities in her story flashed upon her. "what's the matter, phil?" "nothing," she answered. "i just thought of something!" phil rested her arms on the top rail of the fence and lifted her eyes dreamily to the glowing planet that for the moment reigned alone in the heavens. but her thoughts were in main street, not in jupiter. the inspector on the trolley line--the one with the red mustache, the one who had punched the head of a conductor for disputing the justice of a reprimand for which the inspector had been responsible--he must certainly be brought into the story. she was disgusted with herself that it had never occurred to her before. the adored cashier should enter the drug-store to refresh herself with a chocolate sundae, and the inspector should follow--" "phil," said fred. phil, intent upon her characters, did not respond. she did not know that her face lifted to the bright planet had quickened his pulses, roused a thousand longings in his heart. his hand stole along the rail until it touched hers. in her deep absorption she did not notice it, or pretended that she did not; but when he took a step nearer she drew her hand away gently. the star held her gaze as though it possessed some mesmeric power. a smile was upon her face as the situation at the soda-water counter took form, became a veritable drama in her imagination. she struck her hands together and chirruped. fred stared at her, abashed. his hand lay where it had been, but her warm slim fingers had slipped away! when phil was "thinking" she wholly bewildered him. just as a girl, the loveliest in the world, phil was far enough removed from him; but as a girl who "wrote," who improvised verses, who was caught away as by invisible hands in her fitful dreaming, she deepened his humility. he had often wondered whether he would ever gain courage to touch her hand in just that way; and now that he had dared it had profited him nothing. she had apparently been wholly unmindful of an act that had left him trembling. she hadn't even resented it! "phil, i've been looking forward to seeing you all day. i've been thinking about you--particularly." "that's not so surprising," replied phil, returning to earth a little reluctantly, "when i've been seeing you every evening and it was pretty sure to happen so to-day. let's hurry along or amy will say bitter things to us that he will always regret." "i want to tell you something before we go on," he said, with a gravity that caused her to look at him sharply. "fred holton, you and i are old friends now, and good pals. i hope you're not going to spoil it all." "i love you, phil; i can't help telling you: i have to tell you now." she reached down, picked up a pebble and flung it at the star. assured, by the sound of its fall afar off in the corn, that it had missed jupiter, she gave him her attention. he broke in before she could speak. "i know there are reasons why i shouldn't tell you. i want you to know i have thought about them; i know that there are family reasons why--" she laid her hand gently on his arm. "dear old fred," she began, as a boy might have spoken to a comrade in trouble, "there's nothing about you that isn't altogether fine. the thing you were about to say you don't need to say--ever! if amy didn't know you were one of the best fellows in the world, he wouldn't have got behind you when things were going wrong. he knew all those things that are in your mind and he didn't care, and you may be sure i don't. so that's all right, fred." his hope mounted as she spoke. the hand on his arm thrilled him. the fact that he was a holton did not, then, make any difference, and he had been troubled about that ever since he realized how dear she had grown to him. "you've all been mighty good to me. if it hadn't been for your father and mr. montgomery, i should have lost the farm. i'm better off than i ever expected to be and i owe it all to them. it's a big thing when a fellow's clear down and out to have helping hands like theirs. i don't know how to say these things, but i love you, phil. you don't know what it has meant to know you--how thinking about you makes the day's work easier as i tramp these fields. i know i oughtn't to ask a girl like you to share a farmer's life, but i'll be so good to you, phil! and i mean to go on and win. you've made the world a different place for me, phil. i know what a poor clod i am, but i mean to study and to try and measure up to you." "cut out that last proposition, fred! i'm the harum-scarumest girl on earth and i know it. i'd be a real handicap to you, or any other man. gracious! why didn't you tell me you were going to make love to me and i'd have put on my other suit. i'll never forgive you for this, fred holton; it's taking an unkind advantage!" "i don't believe you think i mean it!" he cried despairingly, as her gaze wandered across the fields to the far horizon. "if i thought you didn't, i should never speak to you again," she declared severely, meeting his eyes. "the corn was glad when he had told his love. the evening star chortled in joy. the cattle on the hills-- "oh, come on, fred, and let's stop foolishing!" "please, phil? if only you cared a little!" he pleaded forlornly. "a little! i care a whole lot about you! i respect you and admire you; and i suppose, to be real frank about it, i love you a little tiny bit. but as for marrying you or anybody else--that's different, oh, very different! you see, fred," she continued, abruptly abandoning her half-chaffing tone, "the ice is too thin; it makes me shudder to think of it! instead of people being settled when they get married, it seems to make them nervous. i'm going to study and work and work and _work_! i want to see what kind of a life i can build up for myself--and then i want to stand off and look at it--a good long look before i allow anybody else to have a share in it. that's all of that, fred." "but, phil." as she started toward the house he stepped quickly in front of her. the shadows deepened round them, and the wind whispered in the corn. the rattle of a wagon descending listening hill reached them faintly and phil lifted her head at the vague, blurred sound. after her brave speech a mood of loneliness swept her heart, and the cheer with which she had lately fortified herself against depression failed to respond to her summons. she had no control over the lives of her mother and father. the one beyond the sea was not more hopelessly remote than the other in his camp by the creek. they and all the others who were near and dear--amzi, even, and nan and rose--seemed strangely beyond her reach. the fields, the woodlands etched darkly against the sky, suddenly became fred's allies. he was of kin to them; he had confessed in their later talks to a simple spiritual faith born of contact with the earth, the study of its secrets, the pondering of its mysteries. with him there would be peace and security. her heart ached with tenderness and longing. the qualities her nature lacked he supplied, and love and faith like his were not lightly to be put aside. fred in the dusk before her took form in her mind as a refuge and hope. he was big and strong and kind; he loved her and it was sweet to be loved by him. he took her hands, that fluttered and became still like two forlorn birds; and then her arms stole round his neck in a tight clasp. "dear fred!" she cried, half-sobbing; "don't you ever leave me!" * * * * * a little later, as they walked hand in hand toward the house, he pointed toward the creek. "you see, phil, about your work, i've thought all that out. i want you to go on with it. i've planned a kind of studio for you over there, in that clump of trees on the edge of the run. i'm going to build a little bungalow, all glass on the creek side, where you can study and write, while i'm off making the corn grow. and in the evenings we'll go out there and sit and talk. i've thought a lot about that." "but, you goose, that won't be helping you any, the way a farmer's wife has to help her husband. i won't be of any use to you, writing pieces for editors to fire back at me." "they won't send them back; and if they do, i'll punch their heads." "and daddy can live with us, can't he--always, fred? where we are will be home for him!" "yes; of course, phil. i've thought about that, too. i've thought about almost everything. and i'm not afraid of life, phil,--not with you. out here in the fields it's different from anywhere else, and easier. those old stars are closer, some way, here in the country. you've got more room to think in, and it isn't a narrow life, but a broad one when you consider it. you've taught me to understand all that, phil! i believe you feel a good deal about it as i do, and the work you want to do ought to be better for being done out here where the corn grows tall. we won't stay here always. we'll go off in the winters and look at the big world, and come back home to study it over. and we'll try to do a little good as we go along." "yes; we mustn't forget that, fred." his simple way of speaking of things that meant much to him had always touched her. her pressure tightened on his hand and he bent and kissed her. "but, fred!" she exclaimed suddenly, as they loitered on, "amy will be awfully cross. we'd planned to go abroad next summer, and he won't forgive me if i get married so i can't." "oh, don't you worry about _him_!" "of course i'll worry about him; why shouldn't i?" she demanded. "because i told him i was going to ask you," fred laughed, "and he said 'thunder' and blew his nose and wished me good luck!" "when did all that happen, if you please, sir?" "last sunday. we talked about you all afternoon." "and he said--oh, the hypocrite!" she cried; and then declared resolutely, "i'm going to muss him! come on, fred; i'll race you to the house!" the end the riverside press cambridge . massachusetts u . s . a a hoosier chronicle by meredith nicholson "it is one of the bravest, sweetest, most optimistic books in which, ever, plain truths of humanity and history have been mingled with the weavings of fiction."--_n. y. world._ "mr. nicholson knows whereof he writes, and the picture of the political and social life of the capital which he gives us in the present volume is vigorous and convincing."--_boston transcript._ "it puts mr. nicholson in the front rank of american novelists who are trying to produce real literature."--_indianapolis star._ "in 'a hoosier chronicle' he has done something much bigger, and given us a work of fiction of a richly human sort, creating real characters and giving us a penetrating study of political life and domestic relations in the commonwealth of indiana."--_the dial._ * * * * * illustrated in color by f. c. yohn. square crown vo. $ . _net._ postage cents * * * * * houghton mifflin company [illustration] boston and new york v. v.'s eyes by henry sydnor harrison "'v. v.'s eyes' is a novel of so elevated a spirit, yet of such strong interest, unartificial, and uncritical, that it is obviously a fulfillment of mr. harrison's intention to 'create real literature.'"--_baltimore news._ "in our judgment it is one of the strongest and at the same time most delicately wrought american novels of recent years."--_the outlook._ "'v. v.'s eyes' is an almost perfect example of idealistic realism. it has the soft heart, the clear vision and the boundless faith in humanity that are typical of our american outlook on life."--_chicago record-herald._ "a delicate and artistic study of striking power and literary quality which may well remain the high-water mark in american fiction for the year.... mr. harrison definitely takes his place as the one among our younger american novelists of whom the most enduring work may be hoped for."--_springfield republican._ * * * * * pictures by r. m. crosby. square crown vo. $ . _net._ postage cents. houghton mifflin company [illustration] boston and new york the promised land by mary antin "as a piece of literature, as a personal memoir, 'the promised land' stands out among the books of years, stirring, human, poignantly alive."--_new york times._ "i consider mary antin's book one of the wonderful books, not of this year or next, but of all the years."--_jacob a. riis_, n. y. 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"the sweet sabbath" chapter xxi. si and shorty were rapidly learning chapter xxii. a night of song preface. "si klegg, of the th ind., and shorty, his partner," were born more than years ago in the brain of john mcelroy, editor of the national tribune, who invented the names and characters, outlined the general plan, and wrote a number of the chapters. subsequently, the editor, having many other important things pressing upon his attention, called in an assistant to help on the work, and this assistant, under the direction and guidance of the editor, wrote some of these chapters. subsequently, without the editor's knowledge or consent, the assistant adopted all the material as his own, and expanded it into a book which had a limited sale and then passed into the usual oblivion of shortlived subscription books. the sketches in this first number are the original ones published in the national tribune in - , revised and enlarged somewhat by the editor. those in the second and all following numbers appeared in the national tribune when the editor, john mcelroy, resumed the story in , years after the first publication, and continued it for the unprecedented period of seven years, with constantly growing interest and popularity. they gave "si klegg" a nation-wide and enduring celebrity. gen. lew wallace, the foremost literary man of his day, pronounced "si klegg" the "great idyll of the war." how true they are to nature every veteran can abundantly testify from his own service. really, only the name of the regiment was invented. there is no doubt that there were several men of the name of josiah klegg in the union army, and who did valiant service for the government. they had experiences akin to, if not identical with, those narrated here, and substantially every man who faithfully and bravely carried a musket in defense of the best government on earth had sometimes, if not often, experiences of with those of si klegg, shorty and the boys are strong reminders. many of the illustrations in this first number are by the late geo. y. coffin, deceased, a talented artist, whose work embellished the national tribune for many years. he was the artist of the national tribune until his lamented and premature death, and all his military work was done by daily consultation, instruction and direction of the editor of the national tribune. the national tribune. this book is respectfully dedicated to the rank and file of the grandest army ever mustered for war. si klegg chapter i. going to war--si klegg's complete equipment and what became of it. after si klegg had finally yielded to his cumulative patriotic impulses and enlisted in the th ind. for three years or until the rebellion was put down, with greater earnestness and solemnity to equip himself for his new career. he was thrifty and provident, and believed in being ready for any emergency. his friends and family coincided with him. the quartermaster provided him with a wardrobe that was serviceable, if not stylish, but there were many things that he felt he would need in addition. "you must certainly have a few pairs of homeknit socks and some changes of underclothes," said his tearfully-solicitous mother. "they won't weigh much, and they'll in all likelihood save you a spell of sickness." "certainly," responded josiah, "i wouldn't think of going away without 'em." into the capacious knapsack went several pounds of substantial knit woolen goods. "you can't get along without a couple of towels and a piece of soap," said his oldest sister, maria, as she stowed those things alongside the socks and underclothes. "si," said ellen, his second sister, "i got this pocket album for my gift to you. it contains all our pictures, and there is a place for another's picture, whose name i suppose i needn't mention," she added archly. si got a little red in the face, but said: "nothing could be nicer, nell. it'll be the greatest comfort in the world to have all your pictures to look at when i'm down in dixie." "here's a 'housewife' i've made for you with my own hands," added annabel, who was some other fellow's sister. she handed him a neatly-stitched little cloth affair. "you see, it has needles, thread, buttons, scissors, a fine-tooth comb, and several other things that you'll need very badly after you've been in camp awhile. and" (she got so near si that she could whisper the rest) "you'll find in a little secret pocket a lock of my hair, which i cut off this morning." "i suppose i'll have a good deal of leisure time while we're in camp," said si to himself and the others; "i believe i'll just put this ray's arithmetic and greene's grammar in." "yes, my young friend," added the rev. boanarg, who had just entered the house, "and as you will be exposed to new and unusual temptations, i thought it would be judicious to put this volume of 'baxter's call to the unconverted' in your knapsack, for it may give you good counsel when you need it sorely." "thankee," said si, stowing away the book. of course, si had to have a hair-brush, blackingbrush, a shaving kit, and some other toilet appliances. [illustration: si decides to enlist ] then it occurred to his thoughtful sister maria that he ought to have a good supply of stationery, including pens, a bottle of ink, and a portfolio on which to write when he was far away from tables and desks. these went in, accompanied by a half-pint bottle of "no. ," which was si's mother's specific for all the ills that flesh is heir to. then, the blanket which the quartermaster had issued seemed very light and insufficient to be all the bed-clothes a man would have when sleeping on the bare ground, and si rolled up one of the warm counterpanes that had helped make the indiana winter nights so comfortable for him. "seems rather heavy," said si as he put his knapsack on; "but i guess i'll get used to it in a little while. they say that soldiers learn to carry surprising loads on their backs. it'll help cure me of being round-shouldered; it'll be better 'n shoulder-braces for holding me up straight." of course, his father couldn't let him go away without giving him something that would contribute to his health and comfort, and at last the old gentleman had a happy thought--he would get the village shoemaker to make si a pair of his best stout boots. they would be ever so much better than the shoes the quartermaster furnished for tramping over the muddy roads and swamps of the south. si fastened these on top of his knapsack until he should need them worse than at present. his old uncle contributed an immense bowie knife, which he thought would be of great use in the sanguinary hand-to-hand conflicts si would have to wage. on the way to the depot si found some of his comrades gathered around an enterprising retail dealer in hardware, who was convincing them that they could serve their country much better, besides adding to their comfort, by buying from him a light hatchet and a small frying-pan, which he offered, in consideration of their being soldiers, to sell them at remarkable low rates. [illustration: off to the war ] si saw at once the great convenience a hatchet and a frying-pan would be, and added them to his kit. an energetic dealer in tinware succeeded in selling him, before he reached the depot, a cunning little coffee-pot and an ingenious combination of knife, fork and spoon which did not weigh more than a pound. when he got in the cars he was chagrined to find that several of his comrades had provided themselves with convenient articles that he had not thought of. he consoled himself that the regiment would stop some time in louisville, when he would have an opportunity of making up his deficiencies. but when the th reached louisville there was no leisure for anything. bragg was then running his celebrated foot-race with buell for the kentucky metropolis, and the th ind. was trotted as rapidly as unused legs could carry it to the works several miles from the center of the city. everybody who was in that campaign remembers how terribly hot and dry everything was. si klegg managed to keep up tolerably near the head of the column until camp was reached, but his shoulders were strained and blisters began to appear on his feet. "that was a mighty tough pull, wasn't it?" he said to his chum as they spread their blankets on the dog-kennel and made some sort of a bed; "but i guess after a day or two we'll get so used to it that we won't mind it." for a few days the th ind. lay in camp, but one day there came an order for the regiment to march to bardstown as rapidly as possible. a battle was imminent. the roads were dusty as ash-heaps, and though the pace was not three miles an hour, the boys' tongues were hanging out before they were out of sight of camp. "i say, captain, don't they never have resting spells in the army?" said si. "not on a forced march," answered the captain, who, having been in the first three months' service, was regarded as a veteran. "push on, boys; they say that they'll want us before night." another hour passed. [illustration: as si looked when he landed at louisville ] "captain, i don't believe you can put a pin-point anywhere on my feet that ain't covered with a blister as big as a hen's egg," groaned si. "it's too bad, i know," answered the officer; "but you must go on. they say morgan's cavalry are in our rear shooting down every straggler they can find." si saw the boys around him lightening their knapsacks. he abominated waste above all things, but there seemed no help for it, and, reaching into that receptacle that bore, down upon his aching shoulders like a glacier on a groundhog, he pulled out and tossed into the fence corner the educational works he had anticipated so much benefit from. the bottle of "no. " followed, and it seemed as if the knapsack was a ton lighter, but it yet weighed more than any stack of hay on the home farm. a cloud of dust whirled up, and out of it appeared a galloping aid. "the general says that the th ind. must push on much faster. the enemy is trying to get to the bridge ahead of them," he shouted as he dashed off in another cloud of dust. a few shots were heard in the rear. "morgan's cavalry are shooting some more stragglers," shouted some one. si was getting desperate. he unrolled the counterpane and slashed it into strips with his bowie. "my mother made that with her own hands," he explained to a comrade, "and if i can't have the good of it no infernal rebel shall. he next slashed the boots up and threw them after the quilt, and then hobbled on to overtake the rest of his company. "there's enough dry-goods and clothing lying along in the fence corners to supply a good-sized town," the lieutenant-colonel reported as he rode over the line of march in rear of the regiment. the next day si's feet felt as if there was a separate and individual jumping toothache in every sinew, muscle, tendon and toe-nail; but that didn't matter. with bragg's infantry ahead and john morgan's cavalry in the rear, the th ind. had to go forward so long as the boys could put one foot before the other. [illustration: si's load begins to get heavy ] the unloading went on even more rapidly than the day before. "my knapsack looks like an elephant had stept on it," si said, as he ruefully regarded it in the evening. "show me one in the regiment that don't," answered his comrade. thenceforward everything seemed to conspire to teach si how vain and superfluous were the things of this world. the first rain-storm soaked his cherished album until it fell to pieces, and his sister's portfolio did the same. he put the photographs in his blouse pocket and got along just as well. when he wanted to write he got paper from the sutler. a mule tramped on his fancy coffee-pot, and he found he could make quite as good coffee in a quart-cup. a wagon-wheel lan over his cherished frying-pan, and he melted an old canteen in two and made a lighter and handier pan out of one-half of it. he broke his bowie-knife prying the lid off a cracker-box. he piled his knapsack with the others one day when the regiment was ordered to strip them off for a charge, and neither he nor his comrades ever saw one of them again. he never attempted to replace it. he learned to roll up an extra pair of socks and a change of underclothing in his blanket, tie the ends of this together and throw it over his shoulder sash fashion. then, with his socks drawn up over the bottoms of his pantaloons, three days' rations in his haversack and rounds in his cartridgebox, he was ready to make his miles a day in any direction he might be sent, and whip anything that he encountered on the road. chapter ii. the deadly bayonet it is used for nearly everything else than for prodding men. in common with every other young man who enlisted to defend the glorious stars and stripes, si klegg, of the th ind., had a profound superstition concerning the bayonet. all the war literature he had ever read abounded in bloodcurdling descriptions of bayonet charges and hand-to-hand conflicts, in which bayonets were repeatedly thrust up to the shanks in the combatants' bodies just as he had put a pitch-fork into a bundle of hay. he had seen pictures of english regiments bristling with bayonets like a porcupine with quills, rushing toward french regiments which looked as prickly as a chestnut-bur, and in his ignorance he supposed that was the way fighting was done. occasionally he would have qualms at the thought of how little his system was suited to have cold steel thrust through it promiscuous-like, but he comforted himself with the supposition that he would probably get used to it in time--"soldiers get used to almost anything, you know." when the th ind. drew its guns at indianapolis he examined all the strange accouterments with interest, but gave most to the triangular bit of steel which writers who have never seen a battle make so important a weapon in deciding contests. it had milk, molasses, or even applejack, for si then was not a member of the independent order of good templars, of which society he is now an honored officer. nothing could be nicer, when he was on picket, to bring buttermilk in from the neighboring farm-house to his chum shorty, who stood post while he was gone. [illustration: si's chum, "shorty" elliott ] later in the service si learned the inestimable value of coffee to the soldier on the march. then he stript the cloth from his canteen, fastened the strand with bits of wire and made a fine coffee-pot of it. in the morning he would half fill it with the splendid coffee ihe government furnished, fill it up with water and hang it from a bush or a stake over the fire, while he went ahead with his other culinary preparations. by the time these were finished he would have at least a quart of magnificent coffee that the cook of the fifth avenue could not surpass, and which would last him until the regiment halted in the afternoon. the bully of the th took it into his thick head one day to try to "run over" si. the latter had just filled his canteen, and the bully found that the momentum of three pints of water swung at arm's length by an angry boy was about equal to a mule's kick. just as he was beginning to properly appreciate his canteen, he learned a sharp lesson, that comes to all of us, as to how much "cussedness" there can be in the simplest things when they happen to go wrong. he went out one day and got a canteen of nice sweet milk, which he and "shorty" elliott heartily enjoyed. he hung the canteen upon the ridge-pole of the tent, and thought no more about it until the next day, when he came in from drill, and found the tent filled with an odor so vile that it made him cough. "why in thunder don't the colonel send out a detail to find and bury that dead mule? it'll pizen the hull camp." he had been in service just long enough to believe that the colonel ought to look out for and attend to everything. "'taint no dead mule," said shorty, whose nose had come close to the source of the odor. "it's this blamed canteen. what on earth have you been putting in it. si?" "ha'int had nothin' in but that sweet milk yesterday." "that's just what's the matter," said the orderly, who, having been in the three-months' service, knew all about war. he had come in to detail si and shorty to help unload quartermaster's stores. "you must always scald 'out your canteens when you've had milk in 'em. don't you remember how careful your mother is to scald her milk pans?" after the company wagon had run over and hopelessly ruined the neat little frying-pan which si had brought from posey county, he was in despair as to how he should fry his meat and cook his "lobscouse." necessity is the mother of invention. he melted in two a canteen he picked up, and found its halves made two deep tin pans, very light and very handy. a split stick made a handle, and he had as good a frying-pan as the one he had lost, and much more convenient, for when done using the handle was thrown away, and the pan slipt into the haversack, where it lay snug and close, instead of clattering about as the frying-pan did when the regiment moved at the double-quick. the other half of the canteen was useful to brown coffee, bake hoe-cake, and serve for toilet purposes. one day on the atlanta campaign the regiment moved up in line to the top of a bald hill. as it rose above the crest it was saluted with a terrific volley, and saw that another crest across the narrow valley was occupied by at least a brigade of rebels. "we'll stay right here, boys," said the plucky little colonel, who had only worn sergeant's stripes when the regiment crossed the ohio river. "we've preempted this bit of real estate, and we'll hold it against the whole southern confederacy. break for that fence there, boys, and every fellow come back with a couple of rails." it seemed as if he hardly ceased speaking when the boys came running back with the rails which they laid down along the crest, and dropped flat behind them, began throwing the gravelly soil over them with their useful half-canteens. in vain the shower of rebel bullets struck and sang about them. not one could penetrate that little ridge of earth and rails, which in an hour grew into a strong rifle-pit against which the whole rebel brigade charged, only to sustain a bloody repulse. the war would have lasted a good deal longer had it not been for the daily help of the ever-useful half-canteen. chapter iii. the old canteen the many and queer uses to which it was at last put. [illustration: the diverse uses of the good old canteen ] when josiah (called "si" for short) klegg, of the th ind., drew his canteen from the quartermaster at louisville, he did not have a very high idea of its present or prospective importance. in the hot summers that he had lived through he had never found himself very far from a well or spring when his thirst cried out to be slacked, and he did not suppose that it was much farther between wells down south. "i don't see the use of carrying two or three pints o' water along all day right past springs and over cricks," he remarked to his chum, as the two were examining the queer, cloth-covered cans. "we've got to take 'em, any way," answered his chum, resignedly, "it's regulations." on his entry into service a boy accepted everything without question when assured that it was "regulations." he would have charged bayonets on a buzz-saw if authoritatively informed that it was required by the mysterious "regulations." the long march the th ind. made after bragg over the dusty turnpikes the first week in october, , taught si the value of a canteen. after that it was rarely allowed to get empty. "what are these grooves along each side for?" he asked, pointing out the little hollows which give the "prod" lightness and strength. "why," answered the orderly, who, having been in the three-months' service, assumed to know more about war than the duke of wellington, "the intention of those is to make a wound the lips of which will close up when the bayonet is pulled out, so that the man'll be certain to die." naturally so diabolical an intention sent cold shivers down si's back. the night before si left for "the front" he had taken his musket and couterments home to show them to his mother and sisters--and the other fellow's sister, whose picture and lock of hair he had safely stowed away. they looked upon the bayonet with a dreadful awe. tears came into maria's eyes as she thought of si roaming about through the south like a bandit plunging that cruel steel into people's bowels. "this is the way it's done," said si, as he charged about the room in an imaginary duel with a rebel, winding up with a terrifying lunge. "die, tur-r-rraitor, gaul durn ye," he exclaimed, for he was really getting excited over the matter, while the girls screamed and jumped upon the chairs, and his good mother almost fainted. the attention that the th ind. had to give to the bayonet drill confirmed si's deep respect for the weapon, and he practiced assiduously all the "lunges," "parries," and "guards" in the manual, in the hope that proficiency so gained would save his own dearly-beloved hide from puncture, and enable him to punch any luckless rebel that he might encounter as full of holes as a fishing net. [illustration: what the bayonet was good for ] the th ind.'s first fight was at perryville, but though it routed the rebel force in front of it, it would have taken a bayonet half-a-mile long to touch the nearest "johnny." si thought it odd that the rebels didn't let him get close enough to them to try his new bayonet, and pitch a dozen or two of them over into the next field. if the truth must be told, the first blood that stained si's bayonet was not that of a fellow-man. si klegg's company was on picket one day, while gen. buell was trying to make up his mind what to do with bragg. rations had been a little short for a week or so. in fact, they had been scarcely sufficient to meet the demands of si's appetite, and his haversack had nothing in it to speak of. strict orders against foraging had been, issued. it was the day of "guarding rebel onion patches." si couldn't quite get it straight in his head why the general should be so mighty particular about a few pigs and chickens and sweet potatoes, for he was really getting hungry, and when a man is in this condition he is not in a fit mood to grapple with fine-spun theories of governmental policy. so when a fat pig came wabbling and grunting toward his post, it was to si like a vision of manna to the children of israel in the wilderness. a wild, uncontrollable desire to taste a fresh spare-rib took possession of him. naturally, his first idea was to send a bullet through the animal, but on second thought he saw that wouldn't do at all. it would "give him away" at once, and, besides, he had found that a single shot on the picket-line would keep buell's entire army in line-of-battle for a whole day. si wrote to his mother that his bright new bayonet was stained with southern blood, and the old lady shuddered at the awful thought. "but," added si, "it was only a pig, and not a man, that i killed!" "i'm so glad!" she exclaimed. [illustration: as maria pictured si using his bayonet ] by the time si had been in the service a year there was less zeal in the enforcement of orders of this kind, and si had become a very skillful and successful forager. he had still been unable to reach with his bayonet the body of a single one of his misguided fellow citizens, but he had stabbed a great many pigs and sheep. in fact, si found his bayonet a most useful auxiliary in his predatory operations. he could not well have gotten along without it. uncle sam generally furnished si with plenty of coffee--roasted and unground--but did not supply him with a coffee mill. si thought at first that the government had forgotten something. he saw that several of the old veterans of ' had coffee mills, but he found on inquiry that they had been obtained by confiscation only. he determined to supply himself at the first opportunity, but in the meantime he was obliged to 'use his bayonet as a substitute, just as all the rest of the soldiers did. we regret to say that si, having thrown away his "baxter's call to the unconverted" in his first march, and having allowed himself to forget the lessons he had learned but a few years before in sunday-school, soon learned to play poker and other sinful games. these, at night, developed another use for the bayonet. in its capacity as a "handy" candlestick it was "equaled by few and excelled by none." the "shank" was always ready to receive the candle, while the point could be thrust into the ground in an instant, and nothing more was necessary. this was perhaps the most general sphere of usefulness found by the bayonet during the war. barrels of candle-grease flowed down the furrowed sides of this weapon for every drop of human blood that dimmed its luster. chapter iv. the awful hardtack the hard and solid staff of military life. "appetite's a queer thing," said si to shorty one day, when both were in a philosophical mood. "it's an awful bother when you haven't it, and it's a great deal worse when you have it, and can't get anything for it." "same as money," returned sage shorty. during the first few months of si klegg's service in the army the one thing that bothered him more than anything else was his appetite. it was a very robust, healthy one that si had, for he had grown up on his father's farm in indiana, and had never known what it was to be hungry without abundant means at hand for appeasing his desires in that direction. his mother's cupboard was never known to be in the condition of old mother hubbard's, described in the nursery rhyme. the kleggs might not have much tapestry and bric-a-brac in their home, but their smoke-house was always full, and mrs. klegg's kitchen could have fed a camp-meeting any time without warning. so it was that when si enlisted his full, rosy face and his roundness of limb showed that he had been well fed, and that nature had made good use of the ample daily supplies that were provided. his digestive organs were kept in perfect condition by constant exercise. after si had put down his name on the roll of co. q of the th ind. he had but a few days to remain at home before his regiment was to start for louisville. during this time his mother and sisters kept him filled up with "goodies" of every sort. in fact, it was the biggest thing in the way of a protracted picnic that si had ever struck. "you must enjoy these things while you can, si," said his mother, "for goodness knows what you'll do when you really git into the army. i've heerd 'em tell awful things about how the poor sogers don't have half enough to eat, and what they do git goes agin' any christian stomach. here, take another piece of this pie. a little while, and it'll be a long time, i reckon, till ye git any more." "don't keer if i do!" said si, for there was scarcely any limit to his capacity. and so during those days and nights the old lady and the girls cooked and cooked, and si ate and ate, until it seemed as if he wouldn't want any more till the war was over. si was full, and as soon as co. q was, it was ordered to camp, and si had to go. they loaded him down with good things enough to last him a week. the pretty annabel--the neighbor's daughter who had solemnly promised si that she wouldn't go with any other fellow while he was away--came around to see si off and brought him a rich fruit cake. "i made that for you," she said. "bully for you!" said si, for he felt that he must begin to talk like a soldier. the first day or two after reaching louisville the th received rations of "soft bread." but that didn't last long. it was only a way they had of letting the fresh soldier down easy. orders came to get ready to pull out after bragg, and then si'a regiment had its first issue of army rations. as the orderly pried open a box of hardtack and began to distribute them to the boys, exclaimed: "them's nice-looking soda crackers. i don't believe the grub is going to be so bad, after all." si had never seen a hardtack before. "better taste one and see how you like it!" said one of buell's ragged indiana veterans, who had come over to see the boys of the th and hear the latest news from "god's country." it happened that this lot was one of extra quality as to hardness. the baker's watch had stopped, or he had gone to sleep, and they had been left in the oven or dry-kiln too long. si took one of them and carried it to his mouth. he first tried on it the bite which made such havoc with a quarter section of custard pie, but his incisors made no more impression upon it than if it had been a shingle. "you have to bear on hard," said the veteran, with a grim smile. "je-ru-sa-lem!" exclaimed si after he had made two or three attempts equally barren of results. then he tried his "back teeth." his molars were in prime order, and his jaw power was sufficient to crack a hickory nut every time. si crowded one corner of the hardtack as far as he could between his "grinders," where he could get a good "purchase" on it, shut his eyes and turned on a full head of steam. his teeth and jaws fairly cracked under the strain, but he couldn't even "phase" it. "if that ain't old pizen!" said si. "it beats anything i ever seen up in the wabash country." but his blood was up, and laying the cracker upon a log, he brought the butt of his gun down upon it like a pile-driver. [illustration: he tries the butt of his gun on it ] "i thought i'd fix ye," he said, as he picked up the fragments, and tried his teeth upon the smaller ones. "have i got to eat such stuff as that?" with a despairing look at his veteran friend. "i'd just as soon be a billy-goat and live on circus-posters, fruit-cans and old hoop-skirts." "you'll get used to it after a while, same's we did. you'll see the time when you'll be mighty glad to get even as hard a tack as that!" si's heart sank almost into his shoes at the prospect, for the taste of his mother's pie and annabel's fruit cake were yet fresh in his mouth. but si was fully bent on being a loyal, obedient soldier, determined to make the best of everything without any more "kicking" than was the inalienable right of every man who wore a uniform. for the first time in his life si went to bed hungry that night. impelled by the gnawings of his appetite he made repeated assaults upon the hardtack, but the result was wholly insufficient to satisfy the longings of his stomach. his supper wasn't anything to speak of. before going to bed he began to exercise his ingenuity on various schemes to reduce the hardtack to a condition in which it would be more gratifying to his taste and better suited to the means with which nature had provided him for disposing of his rations. naturally si thought that soaking in water would have a beneficial effect. so he laid five or six of them in the bottom of a camp-kettle, anchored them down with a stone, and covered them with water. he thought that with the aid of a frying-pan he would get up a breakfast that he could eat, anyway. si felt a little blue as he lay curled up under his blanket with his head pillowed on his knapsack. he thought some about his mother, and sister maria, and pretty annabel, but he thought a good deal more about the beef and potatoes, the pies and the puddings, that were so plentifully spread upon the table at home. it was a long time before he got to sleep. as he lay there, thinking and thinking, there came to his mind some ether uses to which it seemed to him the hardtack might be put, which would be much more consistent with its nature than to palm it off on the soldiers as alleged food. he thought he could now understand why, when he enlisted, they examined his teeth so carefully, as if they were going to buy him for a mule. they said it was necessary to have good teeth in order to bite "cartridges" successfully, but now he knew it was with reference to his ability to eat hardtack. si didn't want to be killed if he could help it. while he was lying there he determined to line one of his shirts with hardtacks, and he would put that on whenever there was going to be a fight. he didn't believe the bullets would go through them. he wanted to do all he could toward paralyzing the rebels, and with such a protection he could be very brave, while his comrades were being mowed down around him. the idea of having such' a shirt struck si as being a brilliant one. then, he thought hardtack would be excellent for half-soling his shoes. he didn't think they would ever wear out. if he ran short of ammunition he could ram pieces of hardtack into his gun and he had no doubt they would do terrible execution in the ranks of the enemy. all these things and many more si thought of until finally he was lost in sleep. then he dreamed that somebody was trying to cram stones down his throat. the company was called out at daylight, and immediately after roll-call si went to look after the hardtacks he had put to soak the night before. he thought he had never felt so hungry in his life. he fished out the hardtack and carefully inspected them, to note the result of the submerging and to figure out the chances on his much-needed breakfast. to any old soldier it would be unnecessary to describe the condition in which si found those hardtacks, and the effect of the soaking. for the information of any who never soaked a hardtack it may be said that si found them transformed, to all appearances, into sole-leather. they were flexible, but as tough as the hide that was "found in the vat when the tanner died." si tried to bite a piece off one of them to see what it was like, but he couldn't get his teeth through it. in sheer desperation he laid it on a log, seized a hatchet, and chopped off a corner. he put it in his mouth and chewed on it a while, but found it as tasteless as cold codfish. si thought he would try the frying-pan. he chopped the hardtacks into bits, put in equal parts of water and grease, sifted over the mixture a little salt and pepper, and then gave it a thorough frying. si's spirits rose during the gradual development of this scheme, as it seemed to offer a good prospect for his morning meal. and when it came to the eating. si found it really good, comparatively speaking, even though it was very much like a dish compounded of the sweepings from around a shoemaker's bench. a good appetite was indispensable to a real enjoyment of this--which the soldiers called by a name that cannot be given here--but si had the appetite, and he ate and was thankful. "i thought i'd get the bulge on them things some way or other," said si, as he drank the last of his coffee and arose from his meal, feeling like a giant refreshed with new wine. for the next two or three months si largely devoted his surplus energies to further experimenting with the hardtack. he applied every conceivable process of cookery he could think of that was possible with the meager outfit at his command in the way of utensils and materials. nearly all of his patient and persevering efforts resulted only in vexation of spirit. he continued to eat hardtack from day to day, in these various forms, but it was only because he had to do it. he didn't hanker after it, but it was a military necessity--hardtack or starvation. it was a hard choice, but si's love of life--and annabel--induced him to choose the hardtack. [illustration: the best way after all ] but for a long-time si's stomach was in a state of chronic rebellion, and on the whole he had a hard time of it getting used to this staple article of army diet. he did not become reconciled to it until after his regiment had rations of flour for a week, when the "cracker-line" had been cut by the guerillas and the supply of that substantial edible was exhausted. si's experience with the flour swept away all his objections to the hardtack. those slapjacks, so fearfully and wonderfully made, and those lumps of dough, mixed with cold water and dried on flat stones before the fire, as hard as cannon balls, played sad havoc with his internal arrangements. for the first time he was obliged to fall into the cadaverous squad at sick-call and wabble up to the doctor's shop, where he was dosed with castor-oil and blue-mass. si was glad enough to see hardtack again. most of the grumbling he did thereafter concerning the hardtack was because he often couldn't get enough. about six months taught si what all the soldiers learned by experience, that the best way to eat the average hardtack was to take it "straight"--just as it came out of the box, without any soaking or frying or stewing. at meal-time he would make a quart or so of coffee, stab the end of a ramrod through three or four slices of sowbelly, and cook them over the coals, allowing some of the drippings to fall upon the hardtack for lubricating purposes, and these constituted his frugal repast. chapter v. fat pork--indispensable body timber for patriotism. it was told in the last chapter how the patriotic impulses of si klegg, of the th ind., reached his stomach and digestive apparatus, and brought them under obedient subjection to hardtack. he didn't have quite so rough an experience with that other staple of army diet, which was in fact the very counterpart of the hardtack, and which took its most popular name from that part of the body of the female swine which is usually nearest the ground. much of si's muscle and brawn was due to the fact that meat was always plenty on his father's farm. when si enlisted he was not entirely free from anxiety on the question of meat, for to his appetite it was not even second in importance to bread. if bread was the "staff of life" meat was life itself to si. it didn't make much difference to him what kind it was, only so it was meat. he didn't suppose uncle sam would keep him supplied with quail on toast and porterhouse steaks all the time, but he did hope he would give him as much as he wanted of something in that line. "you won't get much pork, unless you're a good forager," said one of si's friends he met at louisville, and who had been a year in the service. si thought he might, with practice and a little encouragement, be fairly successful in foraging on his' own hook, but at the same time he said he wouldn't grumble if he could only get plenty of pork. fortunately for him he had not been imbued with the teachings of the hebraic dispensation which declared "unclean" the beast that furnished the great bulk of the animal food for the american defenders of the union. co. q of the th ind. received with the first issue of army rations at louisville a bountiful supply of bacon of prime quality, and si was happy at the prospect. he thought it would always be that way. "i don't see anything the matter with such grub as that!" said si. "looks to me as though we were goin' to live like fighting-cocks." "you're just a little bit brash," said his veteran friend, who had just been through the long, hungry march from huntsville, ala., to louisville. "better eat all you can lay yer hands on now, while ye've got a chance. one o' these days ye'll git into a tight place and ye won't see enough hog's meat in a week to grease a griddle. i've bin there, myself! jest look at me and see what short rations 'll bring you to?" but si thought he wouldn't try to cross a bridge till he got to it, nor lie awake nights worrying over troubles that were yet in the future. si had a philosophical streak in his mental make-up and this, by the way, was a good thing for a soldier to have. "sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," was an excellent rule for him to go by. so si assimilated all the pork that fell to his share, with an extra bit now and then from a comrade whose appetite was less vigorous. he thrived under its fructifying influence, and gave good promise of military activity and usefulness. no scientific processes of cookery were necessary to prepare it for immediate use. a simple boiling or frying or toasting was all that was required. [illustration: the veteran talks to si ] during the few days at louisville fresh beef was issued occasionally. it is true that the animals slain for the soldiers were not always fat and tender, nor did each of them have four hind-quarters. this last fact was the direct cause of a good deal of inflammation in the th ind., as in every other regiment. the boys who got sections of the forward part of the "critter," usually about three-quarters bone, invariably kicked, and fired peppery remarks at those who got the juicy steaks from the rear portion of the animal. then when their turn came for a piece of hind-quarter the other fellows would growl. four-fifths of the boys generally had to content themselves with a skinny rib or a soupshank. si shared the common lot, and did his full quota of grumbling because his "turn" for a slice of steak didn't come every time beef was issued. the pickled pork was comparatively free from this cause of irritation. it was all alike, and was simply "hobson's choice." si remembered the fragrant and delicious fried ham that so often garnished his mother's breakfast table and wondered why there was not the same proportion of hams and sides in the commissary that he remembered in the meathouse on the wabash. he remarked to shorty one day: "i wonder where all this pork comes from?" "it comes from illinoy, i suppose," said shorty. "i notice the barrels are all marked 'chicago'." "must grow funny kind o' hogs out there--a mile long each, i should say. what do you mean?" "why, we've drawn a full mile o' sides from the commissary, and haint struck a ham yit. i'm wonderin' jest how long that hog is!" "well, you are green. you oughter know by this time that there are only enough hams for the officers." now and then a few pigs' shoulders were handed round among the boys, but the large proportion of bone they contained was exasperating, and was the cause of much profanity. sometimes bacon was issued that had really outlived its usefulness, except, perhaps, for the manufacture of soap. improperly "cured," it was strong and rancid, or, occasionally, so near a condition of putrefaction that the stench from it offended the nostrils of the whole camp. some times it was full of "skippers," that tunneled their way through and through it, and grew fat with riotous living. [illustration: drawing rations ] si drew the line at this point. he had an ironplated stomach, but putrid and maggoty meat was too much for it. whenever he got any of this he would trade it off to the darkies for chickens. there is nothing like pork for a southern negro. he wants something that will "stick to his ribs." by a gradual process of development his appetite reached the point when he could eat his fat pork perfectly raw. during a brief halt when on the march he would squat in a fence corner, go down into his haversack for supplies, cut a slice of bacon, lay it on a hardtack, and munch them with a keen relish. [illustration: "all right, boss; dats a go" ] at one of the meetings of the army of the cumberland gen. garfield told a story which may appropriately close this chapter. one day, while the army of the cumberland was beleaguered in chattanooga and the men were almost starving on quarter rations, gen. rosecrans and his staff rode out to inspect the lines. as the brilliant cavalcade dashed by a lank, grizzled soldier growled to a comrade: "it'd be a darned sight better for this army if we had a little more sowbelly and not quite so many brass buttons!" chapter vi. detailed as cook--si finds rice another innocent with a great deal of cussedness in it. it would have been very strange, indeed, if si klegg had not grumbled loudly and frequently about the food that was dished up to him by the company cooks. in the first place, it was as natural for a boy to grumble at the "grub" as it was for him to try to shirk battalion drill or "run the guard." in the next place, the cooking done by the company bean-boiler deserved all the abuse it received, for as a rule the boys who sought places in the hash foundry did so because they were too lazy to drill or do guard duty, and their knowledge of cooking was about like that of the irishman's of music: "can you play the fiddle, pat?" he was asked. "oi don't know, sor-r-r--oi niver tried." si's mother, like most of the well-to-do farmers' wives in indiana, was undoubtedly a good cook, and she trained up her daughters to do honor to her teachings, so that si undoubtedly knew what properly-prepared food was. from the time he was big enough to spank he had fared sumptuously every day. in the gush of patriotic emotions that prompted him to enlist he scarcely thought of this feature of the case. if it entered his mind at all, he felt that he could safely trust all to the goodness of so beneficent a government as that for the preservation of which he had offered himself as a target for the rebels to shoot at. he thought it no more than fair to the brave soldiers that uncle sam should furnish professional cooks for each company, who would serve everything up in the style of a first-class city restaurant. so, after si got down among the boys and found how it really was, it was not long till his inside was a volcano of rebellion that threatened serious results. [illustration: si falls out with his food ] when, therefore, si lifted up his voice and cried aloud, and spared not--when he said that he could get as good coffee as that furnished him by dipping his cup into a tan-vat; when he said that the meat was not good soap-grease, and that the potatoes and beans had not so much taste and nutrition in them as so much pine-shavings, he was probably nearer right than grumblers usually are. "give it to 'em, si," his comrades would say, when he turned up his loud bazoo on the rations question. "they ought to get it ten times worse. when we come out we expected that some of us would get shot by the rebels, but we didn't calculate that we were going to be poisoned in camp by a lot of dirty, lazy potwrastlers." one morning after roll-call the orderly-sergeant came up to si and said: "there's been so much chin-music about this cooking-business that the captain's ordered the cooks to go back to duty, and after this everybody'll have to take his regular turn at cooking. it'll be your turn to-day, and you'll stay in camp and get dinner." when co. q marched out for the forenoon drill. si pulled off his blouse and set down on a convenient log to think out how he should go to work. up to this time he had been quite certain that he knew all about cooking that it was worth while to know. just now none of his knowledge seemed to be in usable shape, and the more he thought about it the less able he seemed to be to decide upon any way of beginning. it had always appeared very easy for his mother and sisters to get dinner, and on more than one occasion he had reminded them how much better times they had staying in the house cooking dinner than he had out in the harvest field keeping up with the reaper. at this moment he would rather have kept up with the fastest reaper in posey county, on the hottest of july days, than to have cooked the coarse dinner which his comrades expected to be ready for them when they returned, tired, hot and hungry, from the morning drill. [illustration: si thinks it over ] he went back to the barracks and inspected the company larder. he found there the same old, coarse, greasy, strong, fat pork, a bushel or so of beans, a few withered potatoes, sugar, coffee, bread, and a box of rice which had been collected from the daily rations because none of the cooks knew how to manage it. the sight of the south carolina staple recalled the delightful rice puddings his mother used to make. his heart grew buoyant. "here's just the thing," he said. "i always was fond of rice, and i know the boys will be delighted with it for a change. i know i can cook it; for all that you've got to do is to put it in a pot with water and boil it till it is done. i've seen mother do that lots o' times. "let's see," he said, pursuing his ruminations. "i think each boy can eat about a cupful, so i'll put one for each of 'em in the kettle." "there's one for abner," he continued, pouring a cupful in for the first name on the company-roll; "one for acklin, one for adams, one for barber, one for brooks," and so on down through the whole well-known list. "it fills the old kettle tol'bly full," he remarked, as he scanned the utensil after depositing the contribution for williams, the last name on the roll; "but i guess she'll stand it. i've heard mother tell the girls that they must always keep the rice covered with water, and stir it well, so that it wouldn't burn; so here goes. won't the boys be astonished when they have a nice mess of rice, as a change from that rusty old side-meat!" he hung the kettle on the fire and stepped out to the edge of the parade-ground to watch the boys drilling. it was the first time he had had the sensation of pleasure of seeing them at this without taking part in it himself, and he began to think that he would not mind if he had to cook most of the time. he suddenly remembered about his rice and hurried back to find it boiling, bulging over the top like a small snowdrift. [illustration: the trouble begins ] "i was afraid that kettle was a little too full," he said to himself, hurrying off for another campkettle, in which he put about a third of the contents of the first. "now they're all right. and it'll cook better and quicker in two than one. great scott! what's the matter? they're both boiling over. there must be something wrong with that rice." pretty soon he had all the company kettles employed, and then all that he could borrow from the other companies. but dip out as much as he would there seemed no abatement in the upheaving of the snowy cereal, and the kettles continued to foam over like so many huge glasses of soda water. he rushed to his bunk and got his gum blanket and heaped upon it a pile as big as a small haycock, but the mass in the kettle seemed larger than it was before this was subtracted. he sweat and dipped, and dipped and sweat; burned his hands into blisters with the hot rice and hotter kettles, kicked over one of the largest kettles in one of his spasmodic rushes to save a portion of the food that was boiling over, and sent its white contents streaming over the ground. his misery came to a climax as he heard the quick step of his hungry comrades returning from drill. "right face; arms a-port; break ranks--march!" commanded the orderly-sergeant, and there was a clatter of tin cups and plates as they came rushing toward him to get their dinner--something to stay their ravenous stomachs. there was a clamor of rage, ridicule, wrath and disappointment as they took in the scene. [illustration: the rice gets the bulge ] "what's the matter here?" demanded the captain, striding back to the company fire. "you young rascal, is this the way you get dinner for your comrades? is this the way you attend to the duty for which you're detailed? waste rations in some fool experiment and scatter good food all over the ground? biler, put on your arms and take klegg to the guard-houae. i'll make you pay for this nonsense, sir, in a way that you won't forget in a hurry, i'll be bound." so poor si marched to the guard-house, where he had to stay for hours, as a punishment for not knowing, until he found out by this experience, that rice would "s-well." the captain wouldn't let him have anything to eat except that scorched and half-cooked stuff cut of the kettles, and si thought he never wanted to see any more rice as long as he lived. [illustration: si makes the acquaintance of the guard house ] in the evening one of the boys took si's blanket to him, thinking he would want it to sleep in. "i tell ye, pard, this is purty derned tough!" said si as he wiped a tear out of the southwest corner of his left eye with the sleeve of his blouse. "i think the cap'n's hard on a feller who didn't mean to do nothin' wrong!" and si looked as if he had lost all his interest in the old flag, and didn't care a pinch of his burnt rice what became of the union. his comrade "allowed" that it was hard, but supposed they, had got to get used to such things. he said he heard the captain say he would let si out the next day. chapter vii. in the awkward squad si has many tribulations learning the manual op arms. when si klegg went into active service with co. q of the th ind. his ideas of drill and tactics were exceedingly vague. he knew that a "drill" was something to make holes with, and as he understood that he had been sent down south to make holes through people, he supposed drilling had something to do with it. he handled his musket very much as he would a hoe. a "platoon" might be something to eat, for all he knew. he had a notion that a "wheel" was something that went around, and he thought a "file" was a screeching thing that his father used once a year to sharpen up the old buck saw. the fact was that si and his companions hardly had a fair shake in this respect, and entered the field at a decided disadvantage. it had been customary for a regiment to be constantly drilled for a month or two in camp in its own state before being sent to the front; but the th was rushed off to kentucky the very day it was mustered in. this was while the cold chills were running up and down the backs of the people in the north on account of the threatened invasion by bragg's army. the regiment pushed after the fleeing rebels, but whenever suell's army halted to take breath, "fall in for drill!" was shouted through its camp three or four times a day. it was liable to be called into action at any moment, and it was deemed indispensable to begin at once the process of making soldiers out of those tender-footed hoosiers, whose zeal and patriotism as yet far exceeded their knowledge of military things. most of the officers of the th were as green as the men, though some of them had seen service in other regiments; so, at first, officers and non-commissioned officers who had been in the field a few months and were considered veterans, and who knew, or thought they knew, all about tactics that was worth knowing, were detailed from the old regiments to put the boys through a course of sprouts in company and squad drill. one morning three or four days after leaving louisville, word was passed around that the regiment would not move that day, and the boys were so glad at the prospect of a day of rest that they wanted to get right up and yell. si was sitting on a log, with his shoes off, rubbing his aching limbs and nursing his blisters, when the orderly came along. "co. q, be ready in minutes to fall in for drill. stir around, you men, and get your traps on. klegg, put on them gunboats, and be lively about it." "orderly," said si, looking as if he hadn't a friend on earth, "just look at them blisters; i can't drill to-day!" "you'll have to or go to the guard-house," was the reply. "you'd better hustle yourself, too!" si couldn't think of anything to say that would do justice to his feelings; and so, with wailing and gnashing of teeth, and a few muttered words that he didn't learn in sunday school, he got ready to take his place in the company. as a general combustion of powder by the armies of buell and bragg was hourly expected, it was thought best for the th to learn first something about shooting. if called suddenly into action it was believed the boys could "git thar," though they had not yet mastered the science of company and battalion evolutions. co. q was divided into squads of eight for exercise in the manual of arms. the man who took si's squad was a grizzled sergeant, who had been "lugging knapsack, box and gun" for a year. he fully realized his important and responsible functions as instructor of these innocent youths, having at the same time a supreme contempt for their ignorance. "attention, squad!" and they all looked at him in a way that meant business. [illustration: "right shoulder shift--arms!" ] "load in nine times--load!" si couldn't quite understand what the "in" meant, but he had always been handy with a shotgun, to the terror of the squirrels and coons up in posey county, and he thought he would show the sergeant how spry he was. so he rammed in a cartridge, put on a cap, held up his musket, and blazed away, and then went to loading again as if his life depended upon his activity. for an instant the sergeant was speechless with amazement. at length his tongue was loosened, and he roared out: "what in the name of general jackson are you doing, you measly idiot! who ordered you to load and fire your piece?" "i--i th--thought you did!" said si, trembling as if he had the wabash ague. "you said for us to load nine times. i thought nine loads would fill 'er chuck full and bust 'er and i didn't see any way but to shute 'em oft as fast as i got 'em in." "no, sir! i gave the command according to hardee, 'load--in--nine--times!' and ef yer hadn't bin in such a hurry you'd 'a' found out what that means. yer'll git along a good deal faster ef you'll go slower. yer ought ter be made ter carry a rail, and a big one, for two hours." si protested that he was sorry, and didn't mean to, and wouldn't do so again, and the drill went on. the master went through all the nine "times" of "handle--cartridge!" "draw--rammer!" etc., each with its two or three "motions." it seemed like nonsense to si. "boss," said he, "i kin get 'er loaded in just half the time ef yer'll let me do it my own way!" "silence!"' thundered the sergeant. "if you speak another word i'll have ye gagged 'n' tied up by the thumbs!" si had always been used to speaking right out when he had anything to say, and had not yet got his "unruly member" under thorough subjection. he saw that it wouldn't do to fool with the drill sergeant, however, and he held his peace. but si kept thinking that if he got into a fight he would ram in the cartridge and fire them out as fast as he could, without bothering his head about the "one time and three motions." [illustration: "fix--bayonets!" ] "order--arms!" commanded the sergeant, after he had explained how it was to be done. si brought his gun down along with the rest like a pile-driver, and it landed squarely on the foot of the man next to him. [illustration: brought his gun down on the man's foot ] "ou-ou-ouch!" remarked the victim of si's inexperience. "didn't do it a'purpose, pard," said si compassionately; "'pon my word i didn't. i'll be more keerful after this." his suffering comrade, in very pointed language, urged upon si the propriety of exercising a little more care. he determined that he would manage to get some other fellow to stand next to si after that. "shoulder--arms!" ordered the sergeant, and the guns came straggling up into position. then, after a few words of instruction, "right shoulder shift--arms!" "don't you know your right shoulder?" said the sergeant, with a good deal of vinegar in his tone, to si, who had his gun on the "larboard" side, as a sailor would say. "beg yer pardon," said si; "i always was lefthanded. i'll learn if yer only gimme a show!" "silence!" again roared the sergeant. "one more word, sir, and i will tie ye up, fer a fact!" the sergeant got his squad down to an "order arms" again, and then, after showing them how, he gave the order, "fix--bayonets!" there was the usual clicking and clattering, during which si dexterously managed to stick his bayonet into the eye of his comrade, whose toes were still aching from the blow of the butt of si's musket. si assured him he was sorry, and that it was all a mistake, but his comrade thought the limit of patience had been passed. so he confidently informed si that as soon as drill was over he was going to "pound the stuffin'" out of him, and there wouldn't be any mistake about it, either. when the hour was up the captain of the company came around to see how the boys were getting along. the upshot of it was that poor si was immediately organized into an "awkward squad" all by himself, and drilled an extra hour. "we'll see, mr. klegg," said the captain, "if you can't learn to handle your arms without mashing the toes and stabbing the eyes out of the rest of the company." chapter viii. on company drill si gets tangled in the mazes of the evolutions. "all in for company drill!" these words struck the unwilling ears of co. q, th ind., the next time buell halted his army to draw a long breath. "wish somebody would shoot that durned orderly," muttered si klegg. "for two cents i'd do it myself." "don't do it, si," admonished shorty, "they'd git another one that'd be just as bad. all orderlies are cusses." si believed it would be a case of justifiable homicide, and, if the truth must be told, this feeling was largely shared by the other members of the company. for more than a week the boys had been tramping over a "macadamized" kentucky pike. feet were plentifully decorated with blisters, legs were stiff and sore, and joints almost refused to perform their functions. it had rained nearly all the previous day, and the disgusted hoosiers of the th went sloshing along, wet to the skin, for dreary miles. with that diabolical care and method that were generally practiced at such times, the generals selected the worst possible locations for the camps. the th was turned into a cornfield, where the men sank over their shoetops in mud, and were ordered to bivouac for the night. the wagons didn't get up at all. how they passed the slowly-dragging hours of that dismal night will not be told at this time. indeed, bare mention is enough to recall the scene to those who have "been there." [illustration: don't care a continental ] in the morning, when the company was ordered out for drill, si klegg was standing before the sputtering fire trying to dry his steaming clothes, every now and then turning around to give the other side a chance. the mercury in his individual thermometer had fallen to a very low point--in fact, it was a cold day for si's patriotism. he had reached that stage, not by any means infrequent among the soldiers, when he "didn't care whether school kept or not." "well, si, i s'pose you love your country this mornin'!" said shorty. he was endeavoring to be cheerful under adverse circumstances. "i ain't quite as certain about it," said si, reflectively, "as i was when i left home, up in posey county. i'm afeared i haven't got enough of it to last me through three years of this sort of thing!" si felt at that moment as though he was of no account for anything, unless it was to be decked with paint and feathers and stood for a sign in front of a cigar store. the rain had ceased, and the colonel of the th felt that he must, like the busy bee, "improve each shining hour" in putting his command into condition for effective service. so he told the adjutant to have the companies marched over to an adjacent pasture for drill. "attention, co. q!" shouted the captain, after the orderly had got the boys limbered up enough to get into ranks. the captain didn't know very much about drilling himself, but he had been reading up "hardee," and thought he could handle the company; but it was a good deal like the blind trying to lead the blind. "right--face!" not quite half the men faced the wrong way, turning to the left instead of the right, which was doing pretty well for a starter. "get around there, klegg, and the rest of you fellows! can't ye ever learn anything." [illustration: "right--face!" ] si was so particularly awkward that the captain put him at the tail-end of the company. then he tried the right face again, and as the boys seemed to get around in fair shape he commanded: "right shoulder shift arms! forward--march!" the company started off; but the captain was not a little surprised, on looking back, to see si marching: off in the opposite direction. he had faced the wrong way again, and, as he didn't see the others, he thought he was all right, and away he went on his own hook, till a shout from the captain told him of his mistake. [illustration: "forward--march!" ] when the captain reached the field which was the drill-ground for the day, he thought he would try a wheel. after a brief lecture to the company on the subject he gave the command for the movement. [illustration: "company--right wheel!" ] it is scarcely necessary to say that the first trial was a sad failure. the line bulged out in the center, and the outer flank, unable to keep up, fell behind, the company assuming nearly the shape of a big letter c. then the boys on the outer end took the double-quick, cutting across the arc of the proper circle, which soon resulted in a hopeless wreck of the whole company. the captain halted the chaotic mass of struggling men, and with the help of the orderly finally succeeded in getting them straightened out and into line again. the men had often seen practiced soldiers going through this most difficult of all tactical movements, and it seemed easy enough; they didn't see why they couldn't do it just as well as the other fellows. they kept at it, and in the course of half an hour had improved so much that they could swing around in some kind of shape without the line breaking to pieces. chapter ix. si gets a letter and writes one to pretty annabel, under difficulties. "company q, tumble up here and git yer mail!" shouted the orderly one afternoon, soon after the th ind. turned into a tobacco patch to bivouac for the night. it had been two weeks since the regiment left louisville, and this was the first mail that had caught up with it. it seemed to the boys as if they had been away from home a year. for a whole fortnight they hadn't heard a word from their mothers, or sisters, or their "girls." si klegg couldn't have felt more lonesome and forsaken if he had been robinson crusoe. in the excitement of distributing the mail everything else was forgotten.. the boys were all getting their suppers, but at the thought of letters from home even hunger had to take a back seat. si left his coffee-pot to tip over into the fire, and his bacon sizzling in the frying-pan, as he elbowed his way into the crowd that huddled around the orderly. "if there ain't more'n one letter for me," said si softly to himself, "i hope it'll be from annabel; but, of course, i'd like to hear from ma and sister marier, too!" the orderly, with a big package of letters in his hand, was calling out the names, and as the boys received their letters they distributed themselves through the camp, squatting about on rails or on the ground, devouring with the greatest avidity the welcome messages from home. the camp looked as if there had been a snowstorm. si waited anxiously to hear his name called as the pile letters rapidly grew smaller, and he began to think he was going to get left. "josiah klegg!" at length shouted the orderly, as he held out two letters. si snatched them from his hand, went off by himself, and sat down on a log. si looked at his letters and saw that one of them was addressed in a pretty hand. he had never received a letter from annabel before, but he "felt it in his bones" that this one was from her. he glanced around to be certain nobody was looking at him, and gently broke the seal, while a ruddy glow overspread his beardless cheeks. but he was secure from observation, as everybody else was similarly intent. "dear si," the letter began. he didn't have to turn over to the bottom of the last page to know what name he would find there. he read those words over and over a dozen times, and they set his nerves tingling clear down to his toe-nails. si forgot his aches and blisters as he read on through those delicious lines. [illustration: it's from annabel ] she wrote how anxious she was to hear from him and how cruel it was of him not to write to her real often; how she lay awake nights thinking about him down among those awful rebels; how she supposed that by this time he must be full of bullet-holes; and didn't he ge' hungry sometimes, and wasn't it about time for him to get a furlough? how it was just too mean for anything that those men down south had to get up a war; how proud she was of si because he had 'listed, and how she watched the newspapers every day to find some thing about him; how she wondered how many rebels he had killed, and if he had captured any batteries yet--she said she didn't quite know what batteries were, but she read a good deal about capturing 'em, and she supposed it was something all the soldiers did; how she hoped he wouldn't forget her, and she'd like to see how he looked, now that he was a real soldier, and her father had sold the old "mooley" cow, and sally perkins was engage to jim johnson, who had stayed at home, and as for herself she wouldn't have anybody but a soldier about the size of si, and 'squire jones's son had been trying to shine up to her and cut si out, but she sent him off with a flea in his ear. "yours till deth, annabel." the fact that there was a word misspelt now and then did not detract in the least from the letter, so pleasing to si. in fact, he was a little lame in orthography himself, so that he had neither the ability nor the disposition to scan annabel's pages with a critic's eye. si was happy, and as he began to cast about for his supper he even viewed with complacence his bacon burned to a crisp and his capsized coffee-pot helplessly melting away in the fire. "well, si, what does she say?" said his friend shorty. "what does who say?" replied si, getting red in the face, and bristling up and trying to assume an air of indifference. "just look here now. si," said shorty, "you can't play that on me. how about that rosy-cheeked girl up in posey county?" it was si's tender spot. he hadn't got used to that sort of thing yet, and he felt that the emotions that made his heart throb like a sawmill were too sacred to be fooled with. impelled by a sudden impulse he smote shorty fairly between the eyes, felling him to the ground. the orderly, who happened to be near, took si by the ear and marched him up to the captain's quarters. "have him carry a rail in front of my tent for an hour!" thundered the captain. "don't let it be a splinter, either; pick out a good, heavy one. and, orderly, detail a guard to keep mr. klegg moving." [illustration: si carries a rail ] of course, it was very mortifying to si, and he would have been almost heartbroken had he not been comforted by the thought that it was all for her! at first he felt as if he would like to take that rail and charge around and destroy the whole regiment; but, on thinking it over, he made up his mind that discretion was the better part of valor. as soon as si's hour was up, and he had eaten supper and "made up" with shorty, he set about answering his letter. when, on his first march, si cleaned out all the surplusage from his knapsack, he had hung on to a pretty portfolio that his sister gave him. this was stocked with postage stamps and writing materials, including an assortment of the envelopes of the period, bearing in gaudy colors national emblems, stirring legends, and harrowing scenes of slaughter, all intended to stimulate the patriotic impulses and make the breast of the soldier a very volcano of martial ardor. when si got out his nice portfolio he found it to be an utter wreck. it had been jammed into a shapeless mass, and, besides this, it had been soaked with rain; paper and envelopes were a pulpy ruin, and the postage stamps were stuck around here and there in the chaos. it was plain that this memento of home had fallen an early victim to the hardships of campaign life, and that its days of usefulness were over. "it's no use; 'tain't any good," said si sorrowfully, as he tossed the debris into the fire, after vainly endeavoring to save from the wreck enough to carry, out his epistolary scheme. then he went to the sutler--or "skinner," as he was better known--and paid cents for a sheet of paper and an envelope, on which were the cheerful words, "it is sweet to die for one's country!" and cents more for a -cent postage stamp. he borrowed a leadpencil, hunted up a piece of crackerbox, and sat down to his work by the flickering light of the fire. si wrote: "deer annie." there he stopped, and while he was scratching his head and thinking what he would say next the orderly came around detailing guards for the night, and directed klegg to get his traps and report at once for duty. [illustration: si writes to "deer annie." ] "it hain't my turn," said si. "there's bill brown, and jake schneider, and pat dooley, and a dozen more--i've been since they have!" but the orderly did not even deign to reply. si remembered the guard-house, and his shoulder still ached from the rail he had carried that evening; so he quietly folded up his paper and took his place with the detail. the next morning the army moved early, and si had no chance to resume his letter. as soon as the regiment halted, after an -mile march, he tackled it again. this time nothing better offered in the way of a writing-desk than a tin plate, which he placed face downward upon his knee. thus provided, si plunged briskly into the job before him, with the following result: "i now take my pen in hand to let you know that i am well, except the doggoned blisters on my feet, and i hope these few lines may find you enjoying the same blessings." si thought this was neat and a good start for his letter. just as he had caught an idea for the next sentence a few scattering shots were heard on the picket-line, and in an instance the camp was in commotion. "tall in!" "be lively, men!" were heard on every hand. si sprang as if he had received a galvanic shock, cramming the letter into his pocket. of course, there wasn't any fight. it was only one of the scares that formed so large a part of that campaign. but it spoiled si's letter-writing for the time. it was nearly a week before he got his letter done. he wrote part of it using for a desk the back of a comrade who was sitting asleep by the fire. he worked at it whenever he could catch a few minutes between the marches and the numerous details for guard, picket, fatigue and other duty. he said to annie: [illustration: an army writing-desk ] "bein' a soljer aint quite what they crack it up to be when they're gittin' a fellow to enlist. it's mity rough, and you'd better believe it. you ought to be glad you're a gurl and don't haf to go. i wish't i was a gurl sometimes. i haven't kild enny rebbles yet. i hain't even seen one except a fiew raskils that was tuk in by the critter soljers, they calls em cavilry. me and all the rest of the boys wants to hav a fite, but it looks like ginral buil was afeared, and we don't git no chance. i axed the ordly couldn't he get me a furlow. the ordly jest laft and says to me, si, says he, yer don't know as much as a mule. the capt'n made me walk up and down for an hour with a big rail on my sholder. "you tell squire joneses boy that he haint got sand enuff to jine the army, and if he don't keep away from you i'll bust his eer when i git home, if i ever do. whattle you do if i shouldn't ever see you agin? but you no this glorus govyment must be pertected, and the bully stars and strips must flote, and your si is goin to help do it. "my pen is poor, my ink is pale, my luv for you shall never fale. "yours, aflfeckshnitly, si klegg." chapter x. si and the doctors he joins the pale procession at sick-call. si klegg was a good specimen of a healthy, robust hoosier lad--for he could scarcely be called' a man yet. since he lay in his cradle and was dosed with paregoric and catnip tea like other babies, he had never seen a sick day, except when he had the mumps on "both sides" at once. he had done all he could to starve the doctors. when the th ind. took the field it had the usual outfit of men who wrote their names sandwiched between a military title in front and "m. d." behind, a big hospital tent, and an apothecary shop on wheels, loaded to the guards with quinine, blue-mass, castor oil, epsom salts, and all other devices to assuage the sufferings of humanity. the boys all started out in good shape, and there had been hardly time for them to get sick much yet. so up to this stage of the regiment's history the doctors had found little to do but issue arnica and salve for lame legs and blistered feet, and strut around in their shiny uniforms. but there came a day when they had all they could attend to. on going into camp one afternoon, the regiment, well in advance, struck a big field of green corn and an orchard of half-ripe apples. of course, the boys sailed in, and natural consequences followed. "now this is something like!" said si, as he squatted on the ground along with shorty and half a dozen messmates. they surrounded a camp-kettle full of steaming ears and half a bushel or so of apples heaped on a poncho. "wish we had some o' mother's butter to grease this corn with," observed si, as he flung a cob into the fire and seized a fresh ear. all agreed that si's head was level on the butter question, but under all the circumstances of the case they were glad enough to have the com without butter. the ears went off with amazing rapidity. every man seemed to be afraid he wouldn't get his share. when the kettle was empty the boys turned themselves loose on the apples, utterly reckless of results. so, they were filled full, and were thankful. when si got up he burst off half the buttons on his clothes. he looked as if he was carrying a bass-drum in front of him. after he began to shrink he had to tie up his clothes with a string until he had a chance to repair damages. but during the next hours he had something else to think of. in fact, it wasn't long till si began to wish he had eaten an ear of corn and an apple or two less. he didn't feel very well. he turned in early, thinking he would go to sleep and be all right in the morning. along in the night he uttered a yell that came near stampeding the company. an enormous colic was raging around in his interior, and si fairly howled with pain. he thought he was going: to die right away. [illustration: laying the foundation ] "shorty," said he, between the gripes, to his comrade, "i'm afeared i'm goin' to peter out. after i'm gone you write to--to--annie and tell her i died for my country like a man. i'd ruther been shot than die with the colic, but i 'spose 'twont make much difference after it's all over!" "i'll do it," replied shorty. "we'll plant you in good shape; and si, we'll gather up the corn-cobs and build a monument over you!" but si wasn't cut off in the bloom of youth by that colic. his eruptive condition frightened shorty, however, and though he was in nearly as bad shape himself, he went up and routed out one of the doctors, who growled a good deal about being disturbed. the debris of the supper scattered about the camp told him what was the matter, and he had no need to make a critical diagnosis of si's case. he gave him a dose of something or other that made the pain let up a little, and si managed to rub along through the night. fortunately for si, and for more than half the members of the regiment, the army did not move next day, and the doctors had a good opportunity to get in their work. at the usual hour in the morning the bugle blew the "sick-call." a regiment of tanned and grizzled veterans from ohio lay next to the th ind., and as si lay there he heard them take up the music: "git yer qui-nine! git yer qui-nine! tumble up you sick and lame and blind; git a-long right smart, you'll be left be-hind." "fall in fer yer ipecac!" shouted the orderly of co. q. si joined the procession and went wabbling up to the "doctor's" shop. he was better than he had been during the night, but still looked a good deal discouraged. it was a regular matinee that day. the surgeon and his assistants were all on hand, as the various squads, colicky and cadaverous, came to a focus in front of the tent. [illustration: a rude awakening ] the doctors worked off the patients at a rapid rate, generally prescribing the same medicine for all, no matter what ailed them. this was the way the army doctors always did, but it happened in this case that they were not far wrong, as the ailments, arising from a common cause, were much the same. si waited till his turn came, and received his rations from the hospital steward. of course, he was excused from duty for the day, and as he speedily recovered his normal condition he really had a good time. [illustration: visits the doctor ] a few days after this the whole regiment was ordered on fatigue duty to repair an old corduroy road. si didn't want to go, and "played off." he told the orderly he wasn't able to work, but the orderly said he would have to shoulder an ax or a shovel, unless he was excused by the doctor. he went up at sick-call and made a wry face, with his hands clasped over his body in the latitude of his waistband. the doctor gave him a lot of blue-mass pills, which si threw into the fire as soon as he got back to his quarters. then he played seven-up all day with shorty, who had learned before si did how to get a day off when he wanted it. si thought it was a great scheme, but he tried it once too often. the doctor "caught on," and said, the next time si went up, that castor oil was what he needed to fetch him around. so he poured out a large dose and made si take it right then and there. the next time fatigue duty was ordered si thought he felt well enough to go along with the boys. chapter xi. the plague op the soldier introduction to "one who sticketh closer than a brother." "hello si; goin' for a soljer, ain't ye?" "you bet!" "wall, you'd better b'lieve its great fun; it's jest a picnic all the time! but, say, si, let's see yer finger-nails!" "i'd like ter know what finger-nails 's got to do with soljerin'!" said si. "the 'cruitin' ossifer 'n' the man 't keeps the doctor shop made me shuck myself, 'n' then they 'xamined my teeth, 'n' thumped me in the ribs, 'n' rubbed down my legs, 'n' looked at my hoofs, same 's if 'i'd bin a hoss they wuz buyin', but they didn't say nothin' 'bout my finger-nails." "you jest do 's i tell ye; let 'em grow, 'n' keep 'em right sharp. ye'll find plenty o' use fer 'em arter a while, 'n' 'twont be long, nuther. i know what i'm talkin' 'bout; i've been thar!" this conversation took place a day or two before si bade farewell to his mother and sister marier and pretty annabel and left the peaceful precincts of posey county to march away with the th ind. for that awful place vaguely designated as "the front!" he had promptly responded to the call, and his name was near the top of the list of company q. [illustration: "let yer nails grow; ye'll need 'em" ] si already had his blue clothes on. by enlisting early he had a good pick of the various garments, and so got a suit that fitted his form--which was plump as an apple-dumpling tolerably well. it was left for the tail-enders of the company to draw trousers that were six inches too long or too short, and blouses that either wouldn't reach around, and left yawning chasms in front, or were so large that they looked as if they were hung on bean-poles. of course, si couldn't be expected to do any more plodding farm work, now that he had "jined" the army. while the company was filling up he spent most of his time on dress parade in the village near by, eliciting admiring smiles from all the girls, and an object of the profoundest awe and wonder to tha small boys. one day si was sitting on the sugar-barrel in the corner grocery, gnawing a "blind robin," and telling how he thought the war wouldn't last long after the th ind. got down there and took a hand and got fairly interested in the game; they would wind it up in short meter. such ardent emotions always seethed and bubbled in the swelling breasts of the new troops when they came down to show the veterans just how to do it. one of the town boys who had been a year in the service, had got a bullet through his arm in a skirmish, and was at home on furlough, came into the store, and then took place the dialog between him and si that opens this chapter. si wondered a good deal what the veteran meant about the finger-nails. he did not even know that there existed in any nature a certain active and industrious insect which, before he had been in the army a great while, would cause his heart to overflow with gratitude to a beneficent providence for providing him with nails on his fingers. when the th left indiana all the boys had, of course, brand-new outfits right from uncle sam's great one-price clothing house. their garments were nice and clean, their faces well washed, and their hair yet showed marks of the comb. at louisville they stuck up their noses, with a lofty consciousness of superiority, at the sight of buell's tanned and ragged tramps, who had just come up on the gallop from tennessee and northern alabama. [illustration: "say, cap, what kind o' bug is this?" ] if the new hoosier regiment had been quartered for a while in long-used barracks, or had pitched its tents in an old camp, si would very soon have learned, in the school of experience, the delightful uses of finger-nails. but the th stayed only a single night in louisville and then joined the procession that started on the chase after the rebel army. it generally camped on new ground, and under these circumstances the insect to which allusion has been made did not begin its work of devastation with that suddenness that usually marked its attack upon soldiers entering the field. but he never failed to "git there" sooner or later, and it was more frequently sooner than later. one afternoon, when a few days out on this march, a regiment of wisconsin veterans bivouacked next to the th ind. the strange antics as they threw off their accouterments attracted si's attention. "look a' thar," he said to shorty. "what 'n name of all the prophets 's them fellers up to?" "seems like they was scratchin' theirselves!" "i s'pose that's on account of the dust 'n' sweat," said si. "it's a mighty sight worse 'n that!" replied shorty, who knew more about these things than si did. "i reckon we'll all be doin' like they are 'fore long." si whistled softly to himself as he watched the wisconsin boys. they were hitching and twisting their shoulders about, evidently enjoying the friction of the clothing upon their skins. there was a general employment of fingers, and often one would be seen getting come other fellow to scratch his back around where he couldn't reach himself. if everybody was too busy to do this for him he would back up to a tree and rub up and down against the bark. life has few pleasures that can equal the sensations of delightful enjoyment produced in those days, when graybacks were plenty, by rubbing against a tree that nicely fitted the hollow of the back, after throwing off one's "traps" at the end of a day's march. directly the wisconsin chaps began to scatter into the woods. si watched them as they got behind the trees and threw off their blouses and shirts. he thought at first that perhaps they were going in swimming, but there was no stream of water at hand large enough to justify this theory in explanation of their nudity. as each man set down, spread his nether garment over his knees and appeared to be intently engaged, with eyes and fingers. si's curiosity was very much excited. "looks 's if they wuz all mendin' up their shirts and sewin' on buttons," said si, "guess it's part o' their regular drill, ain't it, shorty?" shorty laughed at si's ignorant simplicity. he knew what those veterans were doing, and he knew that si would have to come to it, but he didn't want to shock his tender sensibilities by telling him of it. "them fellers ain't sewin' on no buttons. si," he replied; "they're skirmishin'." "skirmishin'!" exclaimed si, opening his eyes very wide. "i haint seen any signs o' rebs 'round here, 'n' there aint any shootin' goin' on, 'nless i've lost my hearin'. durned if 't aint the funniest skirmishin' i ever hearn tell of!" "now, don't ax me nuthin' more 'bout it, si," said shorty. "all i'm goin' to tell ye is that the longer ye live the more ye'll find things out. let's flax 'round 'n' git supper!" a little while after, as si was squatting on the ground holding the frying-pan over the fire, he saw a strange insect vaguely wandering about on the sleeve of his blouse. it seemed to be looking for something, and si became interested as he watched it traveling up and down his arm. he had never seen one like it before, and he thought he would like to know what it was. he would have asked shorty, but his comrade had gone to the spring for water. casting his eye around he saw the captain, who chanced to be sauntering through the camp. the captain of co. q had been the principal of a seminary in posey county, and was looked upon with awe by the simple folk as a man who knew about all that was worth knowing. si thought he might be able to tell him all about the harmless's-looking little stranger. so he put down his frying-pan and stepped up to the captain, holding out his arm and keeping his eye on the insect so that he shouldn't get away. "good evenin', cap.," said si, touching his hat, and addressing him with that familiar disregard of official dignity that characterised the average volunteer, who generally felt that he was just as good as anybody who wore shoulder straps. "good evening, klegg," said the captain, returning the salute. "say, cap, you've been ter collidge 'n' got filled up with book-larnin'; p'raps ye kin tell me what kind o' bug this is. i'm jest a little bit curious to know." and si pointed to the object of his inquiry that was leisurely creeping toward a hole in the elbow of his outer garment. "well, josiah," said the captain, after a brief inspection, "i presume i don't know quite as much as some people think i do; but i guess i can tell you something about that insect. i never had any of them myself, but i've read of them." "never had 'em himself," thought si. "what 'n the world does ha mean?" and si's big eyes opened with wonder and fear at the thought that whatever it was he had "got 'em." "i suppose," continued the captain, "you would like to know the scientific name?" "i reck'n that'll do 's well 's any." "well, sir, that is a pediculus. that's a latin word, but it's his name." "purty big name fer such a leetle bug, ain't it, perfessor?" observed si. "name's big enough for an el'fant er a 'potamus." [illustration: "skirmishing" ] "it may seem so, klegg; but when you get intimately acquainted with him i think you will find that his name isn't any too large for him. there is a good deal more of him than you think." the young soldier's eyes opened still wider. "i was going on to tell you," continued the captain, "that there are several kinds of pediculi--we don't say pediculuses. there is the pediculus capitis--latin again--but it means the kind that lives on the head. i presume when you were a little shaver your mother now and then harrowed your head with a fine-tooth comb?" "ya-as" said si; "she almost took the hide off sometimes, an' made me yell like an injun." "now, klegg, i don't wish to cause you unnecessary alarm, but i will say that the head insect isn't a circumstance to this one on your arm. as you would express it, perhaps, he can't hold a candle to him. this fellow is the pediculus corporis!" "i s'pose that means they eats up corporals!" said si. "i do not think the pediculus corporis confines himself exclusively to corporals, as his name might indicate," said the captain, laughing at si's literal translation and his personal application of the word. "he no doubt likes a juicy and succulent corporal, but i don't believe he is any respecter of persons. that's my opinion, from what i've heard about him. it is likely that i 'will be able to speak more definitely, from experience, after a while. corporis means that he is the kind that pastures on the human body. but there's one thing more about this fellow, some call him pediculus vestimenti; that is because he lives around in the clothing." "but we don't wear no vests," said si, taking a practical view of this new word; "nothin' but blouses, 'n' pants, 'n' shirts." "you are too literal, klegg. that word means any kind of clothes. but i guess i've told you as much about him as you care to know at present. if you want any more information, after two or three weeks, come and see me again. i think by that time you will not find it necessary to ask any more questions." si went back to his cooking, with the pediculus still on his arm. he wanted to show it to shorty. the captain's profound explanation, with its large words, was a little too much for si. he did not yet clearly comprehend the matter, and as he walked thoughtfully to where shorty was "bilin'" the coffee he was trying to get through his head what it all meant. "hello, si," said shorty; "whar ye bin? what d'ye mean, goin' off 'n' leavin' yer sowbelly half done?" "sh-h!" replied si. "ye needn't git yer back up about it. bin talkin' to the cap'n. shorty, look at that 'ere bug!" and si pointed to the object of the captain's lecture on natural history that was still creeping on his arm. shorty slapped his thigh and burst into a loud laugh. "was that what ye went to see the cap'n 'bout?" he asked as soon as he could speak. "why--ya-as," replied si, somewhat surprised at shorty's unseemly levity. "i saw that thing crawlin' round, 'n' i was a-wonderin' what it was, fer i never seen one afore. i knowed cap was a scolard, 'n' a perfesser, 'n' all that 'n' i 'lowed he c'd tell me all about it. so i went 'n' axed him." "what'd he tell ye?" "he told me lots o' big, heathenish words, 'n' said this bug was a ridiculous, or suthin' like that." "'diculus be blowed!" said shorty, "the ole man was a'stuffin' ye. i'll tell ye what that is, si," he added solemnly, "that's a grayback!" "a grayback!" said si. "i've hearn 'em call the johnnies graybacks, but i didn't know 's there was any other kind." "i reck'n 'twont be long, now, till yer catches on ter the meanin' ol what a grayback is. ye'll know all 'bout it purty sudden. this ain't the first one i ever seen." si was impressed, as he had often been before, by shorty's superior wisdom and experience. "see here. si," shorty continued, as his eye suddenly lighted up with a brilliant thought, "i guess i kin make ye understand what a grayback is. what d'ye call that coat ye've got on?" "why, that's a fool question; it's a blouse, of course!" "jesso!" said shorty. "now, knock off the fust letter o' that word, 'n' see what ye got left!" si looked at shorty as if he thought his conundrums were an indication of approaching idiocy. then he said, half to himself: "let's see! blouse--blouse--take off the 'b' 'n' she spells l-o-u-s-e, louse! great scott, shorty, is that a louse?" "that's jest the size of it. si. ye'll have millions of 'em 'fore the war's over 'f they don't hurry up the cakes." si looked as if he would like to dig a hole in the ground, get into it, and have shorty cover him up. "why didn't the cap'n tell me it was that? he said suthin' about ridiculus corporalis, and i thought he was makin' fun o' me. he said these bugs liked to eat fat corporals.' "i reck'n that's so," replied shorty; "but they likes other people jest as well--even a skinny feller like me. they lunches off'n privits, 'n' corp'rils, 'n' kurnals, 'n' gin'rals, all the same. they ain't satisfied with three square meals a day, nuther; they jest eats right along all the time 'tween regular meals. they allus gits hungry in the night, too, and chaws a feller up while he sleeps. they don't give ye no show at all. i rayther think the graybacks likes the ossifers best if they could have their ch'ice, 'cause they's fatter 'n the privits; they gits better grub." si fairly turned pale as he contemplated the picture so graphically portrayed by shorty. the latter's explanation was far more effectual in letting the light in upon si's mind than the scientific disquisition of the "perfesser." he had now a pretty clear idea of what a "grayback" was. whatever he lacked to make his knowledge complete was soon supplied in the regular way. but si was deeply grieved and shocked at what shorty had told him. it was some minutes before he said anything more. "shorty," he said, with a sadness in his tone that would almost have moved a mule to tears, "who'd a-thought rd ever git as low down 's this, to have them all-fired graybacks, 's ye call 'em, crawlin' over me. how'd mother feel if she knew about 'em. she wouldn't sleep a wink fer a month!" "ye'll have to come to it. si. all the soljers does, from the major-gin'rals down to the tail-end of the mule-whackers. ye mind them 'sconsin chaps we was lookin' at a little bit ago?" "yes," said si. "well, graybacks was what ailed 'em. the fellers with their shirts on their knees was killin' 'em off. that's what they calls 'skirmishin'. there's other kinds o' skirmishing besides fitin' rebels! ye'd better git rid of that one on yer arm, if he hasn't got inside already; then there'll be one less of 'em." si found him after a short search, and proposed to get a chip, carry him to the fire and throw him in. "naw!" said shorty in disgust, "that's no way. lemme show yer how!" [illustration: "naw! lemme show ye how!" ] shorty placed one thumb-nail on each side of the insect. there was a quick pressure, a snap like the crack of a percussion cap, and all was over. si shuddered, and wondered if he could ever engage in such a work of slaughter. "d'ye s'pose," he said to shorty, "that there's any more of 'em on me?" and he began to hitch his shoulders about, and to feel a desire to put his fingers to active use. "shouldn't wonder," replied shorty. "mebbe i've got 'em, to. let's go out'n do a little skirmishin' ourselves." "we'd better go off a good ways," said si, "so's the boys won't see us." "you're too nice and pertickler for a soljer. si. they'll all be doin' it, even the cap'n himself, by termorrer or nex' day." they went out back of the camp, where si insisted on getting behind the largest tree he could find. then they sat down and engaged in that exciting chase of the pediculus up and down the seams of their garments, so familiar to all who wore either the blue or the gray. thousands of nice young men who are now preachers and doctors and lawyers and statesmen, felt just as bad about it at first as si did. "shorty," said si, as they slowly walked back to eat their supper, which had been neglected in the excitement of the hour, "before co. q left posey county to jine the rigiment a feller 't was home on furlow told me ter let my finger-nails grow long 'n' sharp. he said i'd need 'em. i didn't know what he meant then, but i b'lieve i do now." chapter xii. a wet night the depravity of an army tent reveals itself. night threw her dark mantle over the camp of the th ind. the details of guard and picket had been made. videts, with sleepless eye and listening ear, kept watch and ward on the outposts, while faithful sentries trod their beats around the great bivouac. all day the army had marched, and was to take the road again at an early hour in the morning. supper had been eaten, and the tired soldiers were gathered around the campfires that gleamed far and near through the darkness. "si," said shorty to his chum as they sat on a log beside the dying embers, "how d'ye like soldierin', as fur as ye've got?" "it's purty hard business," said si, reflectively, "an' i s'pose we haint seen the worst on it yet, either, from what i've hearn tell. pity the men that got up this war can't be made to do all the trampin' 'n' fitin'. an' them fellers up in old injjeanny that come 'round makin' such red-hot speeches to git us boys to 'list, wouldn't it be fun to see 'em humpin' 'long with gun 'n' knapsack, 'n' chawin' hardtack, 'n' stan'in' guard nights, 'n' pourin' water on their blisters, 'n' pickin' graybacks off their shirts, 'n' p'leecin' camp, 'n' washin' their own clothes?" "i think we'd enj'y seein' 'em do all that," said shorty, laughing at the picture si had drawn. "i reckon most of 'em 'd peter out purty quick, and i'd like to hear what sort o' speeches they'd, make then. i tell ye, si, there's a big diff'rence 'tween goin' yerself an' tellin' some other feller to go." "mebbe they'll git to draftin' after a while," observed si, "'n' if they do i hope that'll ketch em!" "wall, we're in fur it, anyway," said shorty. "let's take down the bed 'n' turn in!" it didn't take long to complete the arrangements for the night. they spread their "gum" blankets, or ponchos, on the ground, within the tent, and on these their wool blankets, placed their knapsacks at the head for pillows, and that was all. it was warmer than usual that evening, and they stripped down to their nether garments. "feels good once in a while," said si, "to peel a feller's clothes oft, 'n' sleep in a christian-like way. but, great scott! shorty, ain't this ground lumpy? it's like lying on a big washboard. i scooted all over the country huntin' fer straw to-night. there wasn't but one little stack within a mile of camp. them derned ohio chaps gobbled every smidgin of it. they didn't leave enuff to make a hummin'-bird's nest. the th ind. 'll git even with 'em some day." so si and shorty crept in between the blankets, drew the top one up to their chins, and adjusted their bodily protuberances as best they could to fit the ridges and hollows beneath them. "now, si," said shorty, "don't ye git to fitin' rebels in yer sleep and kick the kiver off, as ye did last night." as they lay there their ears caught the music of the bugles sounding the "tattoo." far and near floated through the clear night air the familiar melody that warned every soldier not on duty to go to bed. next to the th ind. lay a regiment of wild michigan veterans, who struck up, following the strains of the bugles: say, oh dutch'y, will ye fight mit si-gel? zwei glass o' la-ger, yaw! yaw! yaw!!! will yet fight to help de bul-ly ea-gle? schweitzer-ksse und pret-zels, hur-raw! raw! raw! during the night there came one of those sudden storms that seemed to be sent by an inscrutable providence especially to give variety to the soldier's life. [illustration: struck by a cyclone ] a well-developed cyclone struck the camp, and si and shorty were soon awakened by the racket. the wind was blowing and whirling in fierce gusts, wrenching out the tent-pins or snapping the ropes as if they were threads. everywhere was heard the flapping of canvas, and the yells and shouts of the men as they dashed about in the darkness and wild confusion. many of the tents were already prostrate, and their demoralized inmates were crawling out from under the ruin. to crown all the rain began to fall in torrents. the camp was a vast pandemonium. the blackest darkness prevailed, save when the scene was illuminated by flashes of lightning. these were followed by peals of thunder that made the stoutest quake. si sprang up at the first alarm. "git up, here, you fellers!" he shouted. "we'd better go outside and grab the ropes, or the hull shebang 'll go over." there was not a moment to spare. si dashed out into the storm and darkness, followed by his comrades. seizing the ropes, some of which were already loosened, they braced themselves and hung on for dear life, in the drenching rain, their hair and garments streaming in the wind. si's prompt action saved the tent from the general wreck. the fury of the storm was soon past. si and his comrades, after driving the pins and securing the ropes, re-entered the tent, wet and shivering for the mercury had gone down with a tumble, or rather it would have done so had they been supplied with thermometers. but the scanty costume in which si found himself afforded a weather indicator sufficiently accurate for all practical purposes. [illustration: supper under difficulties ] the ground was flooded, and their blankets and garments were fast absorbing the water that flowed around in such an exasperating way. sleep under such conditions was out of the question. si and shorty put on their clothes and tried to make the best of their sorry plight. by this time the rain had nearly ceased. fortunately they had laid in a good stock of fuel the night before, and after a little patient effort they succeeded in getting a fire started. around this the boys hovered, alternately warming their calves and shins. "this is a leetle more'n i bargained fer," said si. then, taking a philosophical view of the case, he added, "but there's one good thing about it, shorty, we'll be all fixed for mornin', an' we won't have to get up when they sound the revel-lee. the buglers kin jest bust theirselves a-blowin' fer all i keer!" in this way the soldiers spent the remainder of the night. before daybreak the blast of a hundred bugles rang out, but there was little need for the reveille. breakfast was soon over, and in the gray dawn of that murky morning the long column went trailing on its way. the weather gave promise of a sloppy day, and the indications were fully verified. a drizzling rain set in, and continued without cessation. the boys put their heads through the holes in their ponchos, from the corners of which the water streamed. with their muskets at a "secure" they sloshed along through the mud, hour after hour. in spite of their "gums" the water found its way in at the back of the neck and trickled down their bodies. their clothes became saturated, and they were altogether about as miserable as it is possible for mortals to be. [illustration: a field shanty ] it seemed to si that the maximum of discomfort had been reached. he had experienced one thing after another during the few weeks since he left home, and he thought each in turn was worse than the last, and about as bad as it could be. but si learned a good deal more before he graduated. all through the long, dreary day the soldiers plodded on. there was little comfort to be derived from the "rest," for the ground was soaked with water. "why didn't we think of it, shorty," said si, "'n' make it part o' the bargain' when we 'listed that we were to have umbrellers. these gum things don't amount to shucks, nohow, to keep the rain off. i sh'd think uncle sam might do that much for us!" "i reckon our clothes 'll be purty well washed by the time we git out o' this mess," said shorty. "feels that way," said si; "but how about the bilin'? a cold bath jest refreshes them pesky little varmints, 'n' makes 'em livelier 'n ever. say, shorty, ye didn't write home anything 'bout our havin' graybacks, did ye?" "no, not yet; but i was thinkin' i'd tell 'em 'bout it one o' these days." "well, shorty, i ain't going to tell my folks; it 'd jest make my mother feel awful to know i was that way. and sister maria, and--" si was thinking aloud, and was going to say "annabel," but he checked himself. that name was not to be mentioned in other ears. but he was afraid she would go back on him if she knew, all about it. it was nearly night when the th ind., dripping and discouraged, filed off into a field of standing corn to pass the night. the men sank to their shoetops in the soft earth. si remarked to shorty that he didn't see why the officers should turn 'em loose in such a place as that. but the longer he lived the more he found out about those things. that was the way they always did. [illustration: it's the morning ] in five minutes after arms were stacked not a cornstalk remained standing in the field. during the afterfnoon the troops had gone over a long stretch of swamp road that was almost impassable for teams. fears were entertained that the wagons of the regiment would not be up that night, and they would not have their tents to shelter them from the storm. in anticipation of such a calamity the boys, gathered in the cornstalks, having a vague idea that they would help out in case of emergency. [illustration: taking the top rail ] then there was a scramble for the fences. recognizing the need of good fuel, an order from the general was filtered through the various headquarters that the men might take the top rails, only, from the fence inclosing tha field. this order was literally interpreted and carried out, each man, successively, taking the "top rail" as he found it. the very speedy result was that the bottom rails became the "top," and then there weren't any. almost in the twinkling of an eye the entire fence disappeared. the drizzle continued through the evening, and by the sputtering fires the soldiers prepared and ate their frugal suppers. word came that, as was feared, the wagons were hopelessly bemired three or four miles back, and the men would have to make such shift as they could. the prospect was dreary and cheerless enough. it was little wonder that many of the young hoosiers felt as if they wanted to quit and go home. but with that wonderful facility for adapting themselves to circumstances that marked the volunteer soldiers, they set about the work of preparing for the night. no one who has not "been there" can imagine how good a degree of comfort--comparatively speaking, of course--it was possible to reach, with such surroundings, by the exercise of a little patience, ingenuity and industry. si and shorty and the others of the "mess" bestirred themselves, and it did not take them more than minutes to build, out of rails and cornstalks, a shelter that was really inviting. they kindled a big fire in front of it, laid some rails within, covered with stalks, and on these spread their blankets. si, who had "bossed" the job, viewed the work with great satisfaction. "i tell ye, that's no slouch of a shanty!" said he. chapter xiii. si "straggled" and the other boys made it mighty lovely for him. one day while buell was chasing bragg, two or three weeks after leaving louisville, the army was pushing forward at a gait that made the cavalry ahead trot half the time to keep out of the way of the infantry. the extraordinary speed that day was due to the fact that there were no rebels in sight. half a dozen ragged troopers with shotguns, a mile away, would have caused the whole army to halt, form line-of-battle, and stay thera the rest of the day. the tanned veterans didn't mind the marching. they stretched their legs and went swinging along with a happy-go-lucky air, always ready for anything that might turn up. but it was rough on the new troops, just from home. it taxed their locomotive powers to the utmost limit. the boys of the th ind. started out bravely. their fresh, clean faces, new uniforms, and shiny accouterments contrasted strongly with those of the weather-beaten soldiers of ' . you could tell a "tenderfoot" as far as you could see him. they trudged along in fair shape for an hour or two. before starting in the morning strict orders had been read to the regiment forbidding straggling, for any reason, under the most terrifying pains and penalties. "them fellers that's been in the service longer 'n we have think they're smart," said si klegg, as he and shorty plodded on, both already a little blown. "well show 'em that we can hoof it jest as fast as they can, and jest as fur in a day!" "seems to me we're git'n over the ground party lively to-day," replied shorty, who was in a grumbling mood. "wonder if the gin'ral thinks we're bosses! i'm a little short o' wind, and these pesky gunboats are scrapin' the bark off'n my feet; but i'll keep up or bust." though e spirit of these young patriots was willing, the flesh was weak. it wasn't long till si began to limp. now and then a groan escaped his lips as a fresh blister "broke." but si clinched his teeth, humped his back to ease his shoulders from the weight of his knapsack, screwed up his courage, and tramped on over the stony pike. he thought the breathing spells were very short and a long way apart. si's knapsack had experienced the universal shrinkage, as told in a previous chapter of our hero's martial career. he still had, however, a good many things that he thought he couldn't spare, but which he found later he could very well get along without. by noon the th began to show signs of going to pieces. the column stretched out longer and longer, like a piece of india-rubber. the ranks looked thin and ragged. lame and foot-sore, with wo-begone faces, their bodies aching in every bone and tendon, and overcome with a weariness that no one can realize unless he has "been there," the men dropped out one by one and threw themselves into the fence-corners to rest. the officers stormed and drew their swords in vain. nature--that is, the nature of a new soldier--could endure no more. the ambulances were filled to their utmost, but these would not hold a twentieth part of the crippled and suffering men. "how're ye gittin' on, shorty?" said si, as he and his comrade still struggled along. "fair to middlin'," replied shorty. "i'm goin' to try and pull through!" "i thought i could," said si, "but i'm 'bout played out! i am, fer a fact! i guess ef i rest a bit i'll be able to ketch up after a while." si didn't know till he found out by experience how hard it was to "ketch up" when a soldier once got behind on the march. si was too fat for a good roadster, but it didn't take a great while to work off his surplus flesh. shorty was tall and slim, mostly bone--one of the sort that always stood the marching best, crept up to the orderly and told him that he would have to stop and puff a while and give his blisters a rest. he'd pull up with co. q in an hour or so. "better not, si" said the orderly; "ye know it's agin orders, and the rear-guard 'll punch ye with their bay'net's if they catch ye stragglin'." but si concluded that if he must die for his country it would be sweeter to do so by having a bayonet inserted in his vitals, and then it would be all over with at once, than to walk himself to death. so he gradually fell back till he reached the tail of the company. watching his opportunity, he left the ranks, crept into a clump of bushes, and lay down, feeling as if he had been run through a grist-mill. soon the rear-guard of the th came along, with fixed bayonets, driving before them like a flock of frightened sheep a motley crowd of limping, groaning men, gathered up by the roadside. si lay very still, hoping to escaoe discovery; but the keen eye of the officer detected the blue heap among the bushes. "bring that man out!" said he sternly to one of the guards. poor si scarcely dare to breathe. he hoped the man would think he was dead, and therefore no longer of any account. but the soldier began to prod him with his bayonet, ordering him to get up and move on. [illustration: "don't stab me." ] "look-a-here, pard," said si, "don't stab me with that thing! i jest can't git along any furder till i blow a little. you please lemme be, an' i'll do as much for you. p'rhaps some time you'll get played out and i'll be on the rear-guard. the cap'n 'll tell me ter fotch ye 'long, an' i'll jest let ye rest, so i will!" this view of the case struck the guard with some force. moved with compassion, he turned away, leaving si to enjoy his rest. [illustration: hydropathic treatment ] si threw aside his traps, took off his shoes and stockings, and bathed his feet with water from his canteen. he ate a couple of hardtack, and in the course of half an hour began to feel more like si klegg. he geared himself up, shouldered his gun, and started to "ketch up." all this time the stream of troops--regiments, brigades and divisions--had flowed on. of course, soldiers who were with their colors had the right of way, and the stragglers were obliged to stumble along as best they could, over the logs and through the bushes at the sides of the roads or skirt along the edges of the fields and woods adjoining. it was this fact added to their exhausted and crippled condition, that made it almost impossible for stragglers to overtake their regiments until they halted for the night. even then it was often midnight before the last of the wayfarers, weary and worn, dragged their aching limbs into camp. si started forward briskly, but soon found it was no easy matter to gain the mile or so that the th ind. was now ahead of him. it was about all he could do to keep up with the fast-moving column and avoid failing still further to the rear. presently the bugles sounded a halt for one of the hourly rests. "now," said si to himself, "i'll have a good chance to git along tor'd the front. the soljers 'll all lie down in the fence corners an' leave the road clear. i'll jest git up an' dust!" the sound of the bugles had scarcely died away when the pike was deserted, and on either side, as far as the eye could reach, the prostrate men that covered the ground mingled in a long fringe of blue. si got up into the road and started along the lane between these lines of recumbent soldiers. his gait was a little shaky, for the blisters on his feet began to give evidence of renewed activity. he trudged pluckily along, limping some in spite of himself, but on the whole making very good headway. pretty soon he struck a veteran regiment from illinois, the members of which were sitting and lying around in all the picturesque and indescribable postures which the old soldiers found gave them the greatest comfort during a "rest." then they commenced--that is, it was great sport for the sucker boys, though si did not readily appreciate the humorous features of the scene. "what rigiment is this?" asked si, timidly. "same old rijiment!" was the answer from half a dozen at once. a single glance told the swarthy veterans that the fresh-looking youth who asked this conundrum belonged to one of the new regiments, and they immediately opened their batteries upon him: "left--left-=left!" "hayfoot--strawfoot! hayfoot--strawfoot!" keeping time with si's somewhat irregular steps. "hello, there, you! change step and you'll march easier!" "look at that 'ere poor feller; the only man left alive of his regiment! great cesar, how they must have suffered! say, what rijiment did you b'long to?" "paymaster's comin', boys, here's a chap with a pay-roll round his neck!" si had put on that morning the last of the paper collars he had brought from home. "you'd better shed that knapsack, or it'll be the death of ye!" "i say, there, how's all the folks to home?" "how d'ye like it as far as you've got, any way?" "git some commissary and pour into them gunboats!" "second relief's come, boys; we can all go home now." "grab a root!" "hep--hep--hep!" "how'd ye leave mary ann?" si had never been under such a fire before. he stood it as long as he could, and 'then he stopped. "halt!" shouted a chorus of voices. "shoulder--arms!" "order--arms!" by this time si's wrath was at the boiling point. casting around him a look of defiance, he exclaimed: "you cowardly blaggards; i can jest lick any two of ye, an' i'll dare ye to come on. if the th ind. was here we'd clean out the hull pack of ye quicker'n ye can say scat!" this is where si made a mistake. he ought to have kept right on and said nothing. but si had to find out all these things by experience, as the rest of the boys did. [illustration: si defies a regiment ] all the members took a hand in the game. they just got right up and yelled, discharging at si a volley of expletives and pointed remarks that drove him to desperation. instinctively he brought up his gun. "load in nine times--load!" shouted a dozen of the illinois tramps. if si's gun had been loaded he would have shot somebody, regardless of consequences. thinking of his bayonet, he jerked it quickly from its scabbard. "fix--bay'net!" yelled the ragged veterans. and he did, though it was more from the promptings of his own hostile feelings than in obedience to the orders. "charge--bay'net!" si had completely lost control of himself in his overpowering rage. with blood in his eye, he came to, a charge, glancing fiercely from one side of the road to the other, uncertain where to begin the assault. instantly there was a loud clicking all along the line. the illinois soldiers, almost to a man, fixed their bayonets. half of them sprang to their feet, and all aimed their shining points at the poor young hoosier patriot, filling the air with shouts of derision. it was plain, even to si in his inflamed state of mind, that the odds against him were too heavy. "unfix--bay'net!" came from half the regiment. si concluded he had better get out of a bad scrape the best way he could. so he took off his bayonet and put it back in its place. he shouted words of defiance to his tormentors, but they could not be heard in the din. "shoulder--arms!" "right--face!" "right shoulder shift--arms!" "forward--march!" these commands came in quick succession from the ranks amidst roars of laughter. si obeyed the orders and started off. "left--left--left!" "hayfoot--strawfoot!" forgetting his blisters. si took the double-quick while the mob swung their caps and howled with delight. si didn't "ketch up" with the ind. until after it had gone into camp. shorty had a quart of hot coffee waiting for him. "shorty," said si as they sat by the fire,--"i'm goin' to drop dead in my tracks before i'll fall out again." "why, what's the matter?" "oh, nothin'; only you jest try it," said si. had it not been for the "fun" the soldiers had in the army to brighten their otherwise dark and cheerless lives, they would all have died. si was a true type of those who had to suffer for the good of others until they learned wisdom in the school of experience. chapter xiv. si and the mules one day's rich experience as company teamster. "i've got to have a man to drive team for a few days," said the orderly of co. q of the th ind. one morning at roll-call. "the teamster's sick and i'm goin' to send him to the hospital to-day." the orderly-sergeant of co. q was a wily fellow. all orderly-sergeants have to be. if they are not naturally, they learn it very quickly, or lose the little diamond on their sleeves, if not all their stripes. the man who undertakes to manage or stalwart, high-spirited young americans through all their moods and tenses, and every kind of weather, has to be as wise as a serpent, though not necessarily as harmless as a dove. therefore, the orderly-sergeant didn't tell the boys what ailed the teamster. the fact was that the heels of the "off=wheeler" caught the teamster in the pit of the stomach and doubled him up so badly that he wouldn't be fit for duty for a week. it was worse than the green-corn colic. "'tisn't every man," continued the orderly, "that's gifted with fust-class talent fur drivin' team. i'd like to find the best man to steer them animals, an' if there's a real sientifick mule-whacker in this comp'ny let him speak up an' i'll detail him right off. it'll be a soft thing fur somebody; them mules are daises." somehow they didn't all speak at once. the company had only had the team two or three weeks, but the boys were not dull of hearing, and ominous sounds had come to them from the rear of the camp at all hours of the night--the maddening "yeehaw-w-w!" of the long-eared brutes, and the frantic ejaculations of the teamster, spiced with oaths that would have sent a shudder through "our army in flanders." [illustration: he let both heels fly ] so they did not apply for the vacant saddle with that alacrity which might have been expected, when so good a chance was offered for a soldier to ride and get his traps carried on a wagon. whenever an infantryman threw away such an opportunity it is safe to assume that there was some good reason for it. but the idea of riding for a few days and letting his blisters get well was too much for si klegg. besides, he thought if there was any one thing he could do better than another it was driving a team. he had been doing it on his father's farm all his life. it is true, he didn't know much about mules, but he imagined they were a good deal like horses. "i'm your man!" spoke up si cheerfully. "all right," said the orderly. "company, right--face! break ranks--march!" "there ain't any trouble about it!" si said to shorty as they walked back to the tent. "i reckon it's easy enough to manage mules if you go at 'em right. it'll be just fun for me to drive team. and say. shorty, i'll carry all your traps on my wagon. that'll be a heap better'n totin' 'em!" si gathered up his outfit and started to enter upon his new sphere of usefulness. "shall i take my gun and bay'net along?" he asked the orderly. "guess you'd better; they might come handy!" replied the orderly, as he thought of the teamster's disastrous encounter with the "off-wheeler." after shorty had eaten his breakfast he thought he would go back to the tent and see how si was getting on. with thoughtful care si had fed his mules before appeasing his own appetite, and shorty found him just waiting for his coffee to cool a bit. "why, them 'ere mules is jist as gentle'n' peaceful-like ez so many kittens. look at 'em, shorty!" and si pointed with a proud and gratified air to where the six "daisies" were standing, three on each side of the wagon-pole, with their noses in the feed-box, quietly munching their matutinal rations, and whisking their paint-brush tails about in evident enjoyment. indeed, to look at those mules one who was ignorant of the peculiar characteristics of the species would not have thought that beneath those meek exteriors there were hearts filled with the raging fires of total depravity. shorty thought how it would be, but he didn't say anything. he was sure that si would find out about it soon enough. the brigade to which the th ind. belonged was to march in the rear of the long procession that day. this was lucky for si, as it gave him an hour or two more than he would otherwise have had to get hitched up. but all the same he thought he would begin early, so as to be on hand with his team in good time. "want any help?" asked shorty. "no," said si; "i can hitch 'em up slick's a whistle. i can't see why so many makes sich a fuss 'bout handlin' mules." shorty lighted his cob pipe and sat down on a stump to watch si. "kinder think there'll be a circus!" he said to himself. si got up from his coffee and hardtack, and addressed himself to the business of the hour. it proved to be just as much as he could attend to. when si poured half a bushel of corn into the feed box it was all very nice, and the animals rubbed their heads against him to give expression to their grateful emotions. but when it came to putting on the harness, that was quite a different thing. the mere touch of a strap was enough to stimulate into baleful activity all the evil passions of mule-nature. "now, pete and jim and susan, we must git ready to pull out!" said si to his charge, in a familiar, soothing tone, preliminary to getting down to business. it was his evident desire to maintain the friendly relations that he thought he had already established. at the first rattle of the harness pete and susan and the rest, moved by a common impulse, laid back their ears and began to bray, their heels at the same time showing symptoms of impatience. "whoa, there--whoa!" exclaimed si, in a conciliatory way, as he advanced with a bridle in his hand toward one of the big wheelers, whose ears were flapping about like the fans of a windmill. si imprudently crept up from the rear. a flank movement would have been better. as soon as he had got fairly within range the mule winked viciously, lowered his head, and let fly both heels. si was a spry boy, and a quick dodge saved him from the fate of his predecessor. one of the heels whizzed past his ear with the speed of a cannon ball, caught his hat, and sent it spinning through the air. shorty, who was whittling up a piece of kentucky twist to recharge his pipe, laughed till he rolled off the stump all in a heap. a few of the other boys had stayed out to see the fun, and were lounging around the outskirts of the corral. "go for 'em, si!" they shouted. si was plucky, and again advanced with more caution. this time he was successful, after a spirited engagement, in getting the bridle on. he thought he would ride him down to the creek for water, and this would give him a chance to get acquainted with him, as it were. he patted the animal's neck, called him pet names, and gently stroked his stubby mane. alas, si didn't know then what an utter waste of material it was to give taffy to an army mule. with a quick spring si vaulted upon the back of the mule. he started off in good shape, waving his hand exultingly to the boys with the air of a general who has just won a great battle. all at once the animal stopped as suddenly as if he had run against a stone wall. he planted his fore feet, throwing his ears back and his head down. there was a simultaneous rear elevation, with the heels at an upward angle of about degrees. si went sprawling among the bushes. this performance was greeted with great enthusiasm by the fast increasing crowd of spectators. [illustration: si went sprawling ] "i oughter have told you that saddle-mule's the worst bucker in the army o' the ohio," said the quartermaster-sergeant, who was among the onlookers. "why, he'd buck off the stripe that runs down his back, if he took it into his measly head. he bucked off a chattel mortgage, and that's the way he come into the army. you can't ride him without using one of aunt jemima's sticking plasters." "much obliged for your information. but i will ride him all the same," said si, whose temper had risen to the exploding point. "i kin ride him if he ties himself in a double bow-knot." si was too much of a farmer boy to give in to anything that walked on four legs. he had hung on to the bridle rein, and after addressing a few impressive words to the obstreperous mule he again leaped upon his back. the mule took a docile turn, his motive having apparently been merely to show si what he could do when he took a notion. the space at command will not permit us to follow si through all the details of "hitching up" that team. he did finally "git thar, eli," after much strategic effort. the mules brayed and kicked a good deal, and si's wrath was fully aroused before he got through. he became convinced that soft words were of no account in such a contest, and he enforced discipline by the judicious use of a big club, together with such appropriate language as he could think of. si hadn't yet learned to swear with that wonderful and appalling proficiency that was so soon acquired by the army teamsters. in the management of mules profanity was considered an invaluable accessory in times of great emergency. at last si climbed into the saddle, as proud as a king. seizing the long, single line running to the "leaders"--by which contrivance the army team was always guided--he shouted "git up, thar, pete! g'lang susan!" and the caravan started. but the unregenerated brutes didn't go far. si was gaily cracking his whip, trying to hit a big blue-bottle fly that was perched on the ear of one of the "swing" mules. as if by a preconcerted plan, the establishment came to a sudden halt and the mules began to rear and kick and plunge around in utter disregard of consequences. it didn't take more than a minute for them to get into a hopeless tangle. they were in all conceivable shapes--heads and tails together, crosswise and "every which way," tied up with the straps of the harness. the air in all directions was full of heels. there was a maddening chorus of discordant braying. in the course of the scrimmage si found himself on the ground. gathering himself up, he gazed in utter amazement at the twisted, writhing mass. at this moment a messenger came from the captain to "hurry up that team," and poor si didn't know what to do. he wished he could only swear like the old mule drivers. he thought it would make him feel better. there was no one to help him out of his dilemma, as the members of the company were all getting ready for the march. a veteran teamster happened along that way, and took in the situation at a glance. he saw that si had bit off more than he could chew, and volunteered his assistance. "here, young feller," said he, "lemme show ye how to take the stiffenin' out o' them ere dod-gasted mules!" seizing the whip at the small end of the stock he began laying on right and left with the butt, taking care to keep out of range of the heels. during these persuasive efforts he was shouting at the top of his voice words that fairly hissed through the air. si thought he could smell the brimstone and see the smoke issuing from the old teamster's mouth and nostrils. this is a section of what that experienced mule driver said, as nearly as we can express it: "_________;;_____________!!!***???!!!! ____???________???!!!!" si thanked the veteran for these timely suggestions in the way of language, and said he would remember them. he had no doubt they would help him out the next time. they finally got the team untied, and si drove over to the company ground. the regiment had been gone some time, a detail having been left to load the wagon. after getting out upon the road the mules plodded along without objection, and si got on famously. but having lost his place in the column in consequence of the delay, he was obliged to fall in rear of the division train, and it was noon before he got well started. along towards evening si struck a section of old corduroy road through a piece of swamp. the passage of the artillery and wagons had left the road in a wretched condition. the logs were lying at all points of the compass, or drifting vaguely about in the mire, while here and there were seas of water and pits of abysmal depth. [illustration: stuck in the mud ] to make the story short, si's mules stumbled and floundered and kicked,--while si laid on with the whip and used some of the words he had learned from the old teamster before starting. at length the wagon became hopelessly stalled. the wheels sank to the hubs, and si yelled and cracked his whip in vain. perhaps if he had had the old teamster there to swear for him he could have pulled through, but as it was he gave it up, dismounted, hunted a dry spot, and sat down to think and wait for something to turn up. just before dark a large detail from co. q, which had been sent back on an exploring expedition for si and his team, reached the spot. after hours of prying and pushing and tugging and yelling they at length got the wagon over the slough, reaching camp about midnight. "orderly," said si, "i believe i'd like to resign my place as mule-driver. it's a nice, soft thing, but i'd jest as lief let s'mother feller have it, so i'll take my gun an' go to hoofin' it agin!" chapter xv. under fire--si has a fight, captures a prisoner and gets promoted. "seems to me it's 'bout time ter be gitt' into a fite!" said si klegg to shorty one night as they sat around the fire after supper, with their shoes and stockings off, comparing the size and number of their respective blisters. neither of them had much of the skin they started out with left on their feet. "i always s'posed," he continued, "that bein' a sojer meant fitin' somebody; and here we are roaming over the country like a lot of tramps. i can't see no good in it, nohow." "don't be in a hurry. si," replied shorty; "i reckon we'll ketch it soon 'nuff. from what i've hearn the old soldiers tell a battle ain't such a funny thing as a feller thinks who don't know anything about it, like you'n me. the boys is always hungry at first for shootin' and bein' shot at, but i've an idee that it sorter takes away their appetite when they gits one square meal of it. they don't hanker after it no more. it's likely we'll git filled full one o' these days. i'm willin' to wait!" "wall," said si, "i sh'd think we might have a little skirmish, anyway. i'd like to have a chance to try my gun and to hear what kind of a noise bullets make. of course, i'd ruther they'd hit some other feller besides me, but i'm ready to take the chances on that. i don't b'lieve i'd be afeard." si was ambitious, and full of the martial ardor that blazed in the breast of every young volunteer. he was really glad when the orderly came around presently and told them that the th ind. would have the advance next day, and co. q would be on the skirmish-line. he told the boys to see that their cartridge-boxes were all full and their guns in good order, as they would be very like to run foul of the rebels. this was just before the battle of perryville. the rebels were very saucy, and there seemed to be a fair prospect that the curiosity of the members of the th ind. to "see the elephant" would be at least measurably gratified. before si went to bed he cleaned up his gun and made sure that it would "go off" whenever he wanted it to. then he and shorty crawled under the blankets, and as they lay "spoon fashion," thinking about what might happen the next day. si said he hoped they would both have "lots of sand." all night si dreamed about awful scenes of slaughter. before morning he had destroyed a large part of the confederate army. it was yet dark when the reveille sounded through the camp. si and shorty kicked off the blankets at first blast of bugle, and were promptly in their places for roll-call. then, almost in a moment, a hundred fires were gleaming, and the soldiers gathered around them to prepare their hasty breakfast. before the sun was up the bugles rang out again upon the morning air. in quick succession came the "general," the "assembly," and "to the colors." the th marched out upon the pike, but soon filed off into a cornfield to take its assigned place in the line, for the advance division was to move in order of battle, brigade front, that day. in obedience to orders, co. q moved briskly out and deployed as skirmishers, covering the regimental front. as the line advanced through field and thicket si klegg's heart was not the only one that thumped against the blouse that covered it. it was not long till a squad of cavalrymen came galloping back, yelling that the rebels were just ahead. the line was halted for a few minutes; while the generals swept the surrounding country with their field glasses and took in the situation. the skirmishers, for fear of accidents, took advantage of such cover as they could find. si and shorty found themselves to leeward of a large stump. "d'ye reckon a bullet 'd go through this 'ere stump?" said si. before shorty could answer something else happened that absorbed their entire attention. for the time they didn't think of anything else. 'boom-m-m-m!' "great scott! d'ye hear that?" said si through his chattering teeth. "yes, and there's somethin' comin' over this way," replied shorty. a shell came screaming and swishing through the air. the young hoosiers curled around the roots of that stump and flattened themselves out like a pair of griddle-cakes. if it was si that the rebel gunners were after, they timed the shell to a second, for it burst with a loud bang just over them. the fragments flew all around, one striking the stump and others tearing up the dirt on every side. [illustration: it burst with a loud "bang." ] to say that for the moment those two soldiers were demoralized would be drawing it very mildly. they showed symptoms of a panic. it seemed as though they would be hopelessly stampeded. their tongues were paralyzed, and they could only look silently into each other's white faces. si was the first to recover himself, although it could hardly be expected that he could get over his scare all at once. "d-d-did it hit ye, sh-shorty?" he said. "n-no, i guess not; b-b-but ain't it aw-awful. si? you look so bad i th-thought you was k-k-killed!" "who's afeard?" said si. "i was only skeered of you. shorty. brace up, now same's i do!" "skirmishers--forward!" was heard along the line. "come on, shorty!" said si, and they plunged bravely ahead. emerging suddenly from a thick wood, they came upon the rebel skirmishers in full view, posted on the opposite side of the field. crack! crack!--zip! zip! "guess there's a bee-tree somewhere around here, from the way the bees are buzzin'," said si. "'taint no bees," replied shorty; "it's a mighty sight worse'n that. them's bullets, si don't ye see the dumed galoots over yonder a-shootin' at us?" si was no coward, and he was determined to show that he wasn't. the shell a little while before had taken the starch out of him for a few minutes, but that was nothing to his discredit. many a seasoned veteran found himself exceedingly limber under such circumstances. "let's give the rascals a dose," said he; "the best we've got in stock!" suiting the action to the word, si crept up to a fence, thrust his gun between the rails, took good aim and fired. [illustration: si takes a crack at a reb ] a bullet from one of the other fellows made the splinters fly from a rail a foot or two from si's head; but he was getting excited now, and he didn't mind it any more than if it had been a paper wad from a pea-shooter. it makes a great difference with a soldier under fire whether he can take a hand in the game himself, or whether he must lie idle and let the enemy "play it alone." "did ye hear him squeal?" said si, as he dropped upon the ground and began to reload with all his might. "i hit that son-of-a-gun, sure. give 'em h--hail columbia, shorty. we'll show 'em that the th ind. is in front to-day!" "forward, men!" shouted the officers. "go right for 'em!" the skirmishers sprang over the fence and swept across the field at a "double-quick" in the face of a sputtering fire that did little damage. none of them reached the other side any sooner than si did. the rebels seemed to have found out that the th boys were coming, for they were already on the run, and some of them had started early. pell-mell through the brush they went, and the blue-blouses after them. "halt, there, or i'll blow ye into the middle o' next week!" yelled si, as he closed up on a ragged specimen of the southern confederacy whose wind had given out. si thought it would be a tall feather in his hat if he could take a prisoner and march him back. [illustration: si captures a johnny ] the "johnny" gave one glance at his pursuer, hesitated, and was lost. he saw that si meant business, and surrendered at discretion. "come 'long with me!" said si, his eyes glistening with pleasure and pride. si marched him back and delivered him to the colonel. "well done, my brave fellow!" said the colonel. "this is a glorious day for the th ind., and you've taken its first prisoner. what's your name my boy?" "josiah klegg, sir!" said si, blushing to the very roots of his hair. "what company do you belong to?" "company q, sir!" and si saluted the officer as nicely as he knew how. "i'll see your captain to-night, mr. klegg, and you shall be rewarded for your good conduct. you may now return to your company." it was the proudest moment of si's life up to date. he stammered out his thanks to the colonel, and then, throwing his gun up to a right shoulder-shift, he started off on a canter to rejoin the skirmishers. that night si klegg was the subject of a short conversation between his captain and the colonel. they agreed that si had behaved very handsomely, and deserved to be promoted. "are there any vacancies in your non-commissioned officers?" asked the colonel. "no," was the reply, "but there ought to be. one of my corporals skulked back to the rear this morning and crawled into a wagon. i think we had better reduce him to the ranks and appoint mr. klegg." "do so at once," said the colonel. next morning when the th was drawn up in line an order was read by the adjutant reducing the skulker and promoting si to the full rank of corporal, with a few words commending the gallantry of the latter. these orders announcing rewards and punishments were supposed to have a salutary effect in stimulating the men to deeds of glory, and as a warning to those who were a little short of "sand." [illustration: corporal si klegg ] the boys of co. q showered their congratulations upon si in the usual way. they made it very lively for him that day. in the evening: si hunted up some white cloth, borrowed a needle and thread, went off back of the tent, rammed his bayonet into the ground, stuck a candle in the socket, and sewed chevrons on the sleeves of his blouse. then he wrote a short letter: "deer annie: i once more take my pen in hand to tell you there's grate news. i'm an ossifer. we had an awful fite yisterdy. i don't know how menny rebbles i kild, but i guess thare was enuff to start a good sized graveyard. i tuk a prizner, too, and the kurnal says to me bully fer you, mister klegg, or sumthin to that effeck. this mornin they made me a corporil, and red it out before the hull rijiment i guess youd been prowd if you could have seen me. to-night the boys is hollerin hurraw fer corporal klegg all over camp. i ain't as big is the ginrals and gum of the other ossifers, but thars no tellin how hi i'll get in three years. "rownd is the ring that haint no end, so is my luv to you my friend. "yours, same as before, "corporal si klegg." chapter xvi. one of the "non-commish" a night's adventures as "corporal of the guard." "corporal klegg, you will go on duty to-night with the camp guard!" said the orderly of co. q one evening, as the th ind. filed off into a piece of woods to bivouac for the night, two or three days after si had been promoted. the chevrons on his arms had raised si several degrees in the estimation not only of himself, but of the other members of the company. his conduct in the skirmish had shown that he had in him the material for a good soldier, and even the orderly began to treat him with that respect due to his new rank as one of the "non-commish." like every other man who put on the army blue and marched away so bold, "with gay and gallant tread," si could not tell whether he was going to amount to anything as a soldier until he had gone through the test of being under fire. there were many men who walked very erect, talked bravely, drilled well, and made a fine appearance on dress parade, before they reached "the front," but who wilted at the "zip" of bullets like tender corn blades nipped by untimely frost. and a good many of them continued in that wilted condition. perhaps they really couldn't help it. an inscrutable providence had seen fit to omit putting any "sand in their gizzards," as the boys expressed it. it must be confessed that si was somewhat unduly elated and puffed up over, his own achievements as a skirmisher and his success in climbing the ladder of military rank and fame. it is true, it wasn't much of a fight they had that day, but si thought it was pretty fair for a starter, and enough to prove to both himself and his comrades that he wouldn't be one of the "coffee coolers" when there was business on hand. si was sorry that his regiment did not get into the fight at perryville. the th ind. belonged to one of the two corps of buell's army that lay under the trees two or three miles away all through that october afternoon, while mccook's gallant men were in a life-and-death struggle against overwhelming odds. it bothered si as much to understand it all as it did , other soldiers that day. si responded with alacrity when he was detailed for guard duty. he had walked a beat once or twice as a common tramp, and had not found it particularly pleasant, especially in stormy weather; but now he was a peg higher, and he thought as corporal he would have a better time. he had already observed that the rude winds of army life were tempered, if not to the shorn lambs, at least to the officers, in a degree proportionate to their rank. the latter had the first pick of everything, and the men took what was left. the officers always got the softest rails to sleep on, the hardtack that was least tunneled through by the worms, the bacon that had the fewest maggots, and the biggest trees in a fight. "forward--march!" shouted the officer in command, when the detachment was ready. si stepped off very proudly, thinking how glad his good old mother and sister marier and pretty annabel would be if they could see him at that moment. he was determined to discharge his official duties "right up to the handle," and make the boys stand around in lively style. when the guard reached the place selected for headquarters the officer drily lectured them in regard to their duties, impressing upon them the necessity of being alert and vigilant. there was only a thin picket-line between them and the enemy. the safety of the army depended upon the faithfulness of those appointed to watch while others slept. he gave them the countersign, "bunker hill," and ordered them under no circumstances to allow any person to pass without giving it, not even the commanding general himself. then the guards were posted, the "beats" laid off and numbered, and as the fast-gathering shadows deepened among the trees the sentinels paced to and fro around the tired army. for an hour or two after the guards were stationed all was quiet along the line. the noise of the great camp was hushed for the night, and no sound broke the stillness of the gloomy forest. the moon rose and peeped timidly through the branches. "corporal of the guard; post no. ." si's quick ear, as he lay curled up at the foot of a tree, caught these words, rapidly repeated by one sentinel after another. it was his first summons. he sprang to his feet, gun in hand, his heart beating at the thought of adventure, and started on the run for "post no. ." "what's up?" he said to the guard, with a perceptible tremor in his voice. "there's one o' the boys tryin' to run the guards!" was the answer. "he's been out foragin', i reckon. he's got a lot o' plunder he wants to git into camp with. see him, out there in the bush?" the forager, for such he proved to be, was nimbly dodging from tree to tree, watching for a chance to cross the line, but the alertness of the' guards had thus far kept him outside. he had tried to bribe one or two of the boys by offering to "whack up" if they would let him pass or give him the countersign, so that he could get in at some other point in the cordon. but the guards were incorruptible. they were "fresh" yet, and had not caught on to the plan of accepting an offered chicken, a section of succulent pig, or a few sweet potatoes, and then walking off to the remote limit of the beat, with eyes to the front, while the forager shot across the line in safety. they learned all about this after a while. the raider tried to parley with si, but si wouldn't have it. raising his gun to a "ready" he ordered the man to come in or he would put a hole through him. the best thing to do under the circumstances was to obey. the forager, who belonged to si's company, crept up to corporal klegg and in a conciliatory tone opened negotiations. "you jest let me pass, and you may have your pick of this stuff," said he, holding up a fowl in one hand and a ham in the other. "it'll be all right, and nobody 'll ever know nothin' 'bout it!" si hesitated; it was human nature. the offer was a tempting one, but he remembered his responsibility to his country, and his stomach appealed in vain. duty came before stewed chicken or roasted sparerib. "can't do it!" said si. "you've got hold of the wrong man this time. i ain't goin' to have nobody monkeyin' 'round while i'm corporal of this 'ere guard. come along with me, and step out lively, too!" si marched the culprit back to headquarters and delivered him up to the officer, who commended si for his fidelity. next day the ground back of the colonel's tent was strewn with feathers, chicken bones, ham rinds, and potato skins, while the unlucky forager who had provided the field officers' mess with such a royal meal was humped around for two hours on "knapsack drill," and condemned to spend hours in the guard-house. an hour later si had another experience. the captain of co. q felt a kindly interest, and not a little pride in him, since the skirmish, and he thought he would take a turn that night and see whether his newly-made corporal was "up to snuff." "post no. ," was si's second call. he responded promptly, and as he approached the guard the latter said: "corporal, here's the cap'n, and he wants to get in! he hain't got the countersign; shall i pass him?" "good evening. corporal!" said the captain, as si came up, at the same time extending his hand. si was thrown completely off his guard. dropping the butt of his gun carelessly to the ground he replied cheerily, "good evening, cap'n," touching his hat by way of salute. then he took the proffered hand, pleased at the captain's mark of kindly recognition. he didn't understand the scheme then. "how are you getting on, mr. klegg?" "first rate!" said si, with the air of one conscious that he had done his duty well. "i capchered a forager a little bit ago and took him to headquarters!" [illustration: one of the "non-com mish." ] "well done, corporal i have no doubt you will honor the good name of the th ind. in general and company q in particular, i got caught outside to night, and i want to get back into camp. of course, you know me and it's all right!" "certainly, sir!" said si, as he stood leaning on his gun and allowed the officer to pass the magic line. "good night, cap'n!" "good night, corporal! by the way," said the captain, retracing his steps, "i notice that you do not carry your gun just right. let me show you how to handle it!" si didn't know what a flagrant offense it was for a soldier on guard to let his gun go out of his hands; nor had he the faintest suspicion that the captain was playing it on him. so he promptly handed his picee to the captain, who immediately brought it down to a "charge," with the bayonet at si's breast. "suppose, now, i was a rebel in disguise," said the captain, "what kind of a fix would you be in?" light began to dawn upon si, and he started back in terror at the thought of the mistake he had made. "of course, i wouldn't let anybody else have it," he stammered; "but i knew you, cap'n!" "that makes no difference to a man on duty. corporal. you hang on to your gun the rest of the night, and if anybody--i don't care if it's gen. buell himself--insists on your giving it to him, let him have two or three inches of the point of your bayonet. don't let anybody pass without the countersign, either! come to my quarters when you are relieved tomorrow." all this illustrates the way the officers had of testing new soldiers and teaching them a thing or two, when, as was frequently the case, they were not yet up to the mark. a trick of extra duty for the hapless novitiate was generally the penance for his simplicity. the cold chills ran up and down si's back as he took his gun and slowly returned to the guard fire. he felt that he had utterly spoiled his good record. "lieutenant," he said to the officer, "i wish you'd please detail a man to kick me for about an hour." the lieutenant wanted to know what the matter was, and si told him all about it, ending with: "so now i s'pose the cap'n 'll yank the stripes off'n my blouse!" the officer quieted his fears by assuring him that there was no cause for alarm. the captain knew that he was trying to do his duty, and what he had done was for si's own good. si sat down by the fire and was thinking it over when there was another call, "corporal of the guard!" he was soon at the point indicated and found two officers on horseback, whom he recognized as the colonel and adjutant of the th ind. si's friend shorty was the guard who had halted them. "now, corporal klegg," said si to himself, laying his finger alongside his nose, "you jist watch out this time. here's big game! shouldn't wonder if them ossifers had bin out skylarkin', and they're tryin' to git in. don't ye let 'em fool ye as the cap'n did!" si was right in his surmise. the colonel and adjutant had been enjoying a good supper at a house half a mile away, and had not the slightest idea what the countersign was. si was determined not to "get left" this time. as he approached, the colonel saw that it was soldier he had commended for his gallantry at the time of the skirmish. "ah, corporal klegg, i'm glad to see you so prompt in your duty. i was sure we had made no mistake when we promoted you. of course, you can see who i am. i'm your colonel, and this is the adjutant. we are, unfortunately, outside without the countersign; but you can just let us through." the colonel's taffy had no effect on si. he just brought himself into a hostile attitude, with his bayonet in fair range of the colonel, as he replied: "colonel, my orders is to pass no livin' man unless he says 'bunker hill.' i'd be glad to do ye a good turn, but there's no use talkin'. i'm goin' to obey orders, and ye can't pass here." [illustration: "not 'less ye say 'bunker hill.'" ] the colonel chuckled softly as he dismounted and came up to si. "it's all right," he said, "of course i know what the countersign is. i was only trying you." "hold on there," said si, "don't come too close. if you've got the countersign, advance and give it. if ye ain't got it, i'll jest call the officer of the guard!" leaning over the point of si's bayonet the colonel gently whispered "bunker hill". "correct!" said si, and bringing his gun to a shoulder, he respectfully saluted the colonel. the latter started to remount, but turned back as he said: "just let me show you how to hold your gun. you don't--" "not if the court knows herself," said si, again menacing the colonel with his bayonet. "that's bin played on me once to-night, and if anybody does it again my name ain't si klegg!" "that's right, corporal," said the colonel as he sprang into the saddle; "but don't tell anybody what the countersign is again! good night!" "good night. colonel," said si, touching his hat. as the officers rode away si began to think he had put his foot in it again. he was confirmed in this opinion by seeing shorty sit down on a log in a paroxysm of laughter. "you give yerself away bad this time!" said shorty, as soon as he could speak. "what did ye tell him the countersign for?" "whew-w-w-w!" observed si, with a prolonged whistle. "shorty," said he, "i wish you'd take a club and see if you can't pound a little sense into me; i don't believe i've got any!" without another word he shouldered his gun and returned to the guard headquarters. "now i'm a goner, sure!" he said to himself. on his way he found a guard sitting by a tree, sound asleep. carefully taking away his gun si awoke him, and frightened him half to death by telling him that he would report him and he would be shot for sleeping on post. si finally said he wouldn't tell on him this time, but he must never do so again, or he would be a dead man. "corporal of the guard!" was heard again, sometime after midnight. "if they try any more measly tricks on me to-night somebody 'll git hurt!" thought si as he walked briskly along the line in response to the call. this time it was a "contraband"--an old negro, who stood shivering with terror as the guard held him at the point of the bayonet. recalling the unlucky adventures of the night. si imagined that it was one of the officers, who had blackened himself like a minstrel, and had come there purposely to "catch him." "ye can't get through unless ye've got the counter sign," said he, decisively; "and i shan't give it to ye, nuther! and ye needn't try to show me how to hold my gun! i can handle it well enough to shoot and punch the bayonet!" "don't know what dat all means, boss," said the frightened negro; "but fer de good lawd's sake don't shove dat t'ing frew me. i've only bin ober to de nex' place to a 'possum roast and i'se jist gwine home. i didn't know dese yer ge-yards was heah!" si didn't propose to take any chances, and so he marched the old contraband back and delivered him to the officer, who kept him till morning and then suffered him to go on his way. once more that night si was called, in addition to his tramps with the "reliefs" and the "grand rounds." it was, perhaps, an hour before daylight, and shorty was the guard who called him. he told si there was something walking around in the woods, and he believed it was a rebel trying to creep up on them. he had challenged two or three times, but got no answer. the moon had gone down, and in the dark woods objects at any distance could not be distinguished. "there, d'ye hear that?" said shorty, as there came a sound of crackling sticks and rustling leaves. "halt!" exclaimed si. "who comes there?" there was no response, and si challenged again with like result. "shorty," said si, "let's fire both together," and crack went their muskets. for a moment there was a great floundering, and then all was still. as soon as it was light, and shorty was relieved, he and si went out to see the result of their fire. to their astonishment they found the prowler cold and stiff in death--they had shot a big gray mule. [illustration: they had shot a mule ] on the whole, it was a busy and interesting night for si. he did not lose his chevrons on account of his mistakes. but he learned something, and the lesson was impressed upon his mind by a few kindly words of caution and advice from the captain of co. q. chapter xvii. foraging on the way si has some varied experiences with southern products. the long chase after bragg from louisville to the mountains of southeastern kentucky was rough on the new troops. it weeded them out very fast, and in every town through which buell's army passed the buildings were turned into hospitals and filled with sick and crippled soldiers, who had found out early that they were not physically able to endure the hardships of an active campaign. at the end of two or three weeks some of the new regiments were as much reduced in numbers as most of those that went out in ' were during their first six months. the th ind. jogged along bravely, but its ranks had suffered the common skage. not less than of its men had fallen by the wayside, and were taking quinine and blue-mass and rubbing arnica on their legs all along the tortuous route. corporal si klegg and his friend shorty proved to be "stayers." full of life and ambition, they were always prompt for duty and ready for a fight or a frolic. no one was more quick than si to offer a suffering comrade the last drop of fresh water in his canteen or give him a lift by carrying his gun a piece. one day the regiment started out for an easy, comfortable day's march. the coast was clear of rebels, and there being no excuse for crowding on the steam, the boys were allowed to take their own gait, while the horses of the officers and cavalry had a chance to recover their wind. it was a warm day late in october. the nights at this time were keen and frosty, but the sun at mid-day still showed much of his summer vigor. perspiration flowed freely down the faces of those wandering hoosiers--faces that were fast assuming the color of half-tanned leather under the influence of sunshine and storm. once an hour there was the customary halt, when the boys would stretch their legs by the roadside, hitching their knapsacks up under their heads. when the allotted time had expired the bugler blew "fall in," the notes of which during the next two years became so familiar to the ears of the th. later in ' , the indiana boys mingled their voices with the rest of sherman's hundred thousand veterans as they sang: "i know you are tired, but still you must go down to atlanta to see the big show." the soldiers were in good spirits. as they marched they fired jests at one another, and laughter rippled along the line. the only thing that troubled them was the emaciated condition of their haversacks, with a corresponding state of affairs in their several stomachs. the commissary department was thoroughly demoralized. the supply train had failed to connect, and rations were almost exhausted. there was no prospect that the aching void would be filled, at least, in the regular way, until they reached a certain place, which would not be until the following day. strict orders against foraging were issued almost daily under the buell dispensation. these were often read impressively to the new troops, who, in their simplicity, "took it all in" as military gospel. [illustration: the th ind. was not without talent in foraging ] the effect was somewhat depressing upon the ardor with which otherwise they would have pursued the panting pig and the fluttering fowl, and reveled in the orchards and potato-fields. a few irrepressible fellows managed to get a choice meal now and then--just enough to show that the th ind. was not without latent talent in this direction, which only needed a little encouragement to become fruitful of results. but these orders against foraging didn't hold the soldiers of the crop of . it was like trying to carry water in a sieve. when rations were short, or if they wanted to vary the rather monotonous bill of fare, they always found a way to make up any existing deficiency. on the day in question a few hints were thrown out which resulted in a tacit understanding that, in view of the actual need of the soldiers, if they got a good chance to pick up something the eyes of the officers would be closed. in fact, the officers were as hungry as the men, and hoped to come in for a "divide." soon after starting in the morning a persimmon tree, well laden with fruit, was seen in a field not far from the road. about fifty men started for it on a run, and in five minutes it was as bare as the barren fig tree. the persimmon has some very marked peculiarities. it is a toothsome fruit when well ripened by frost, but if eaten before it has reached the point of full maturity, the effect upon one's interior is unique and startling. the pungent juices take hold of the mouth and pucker it up in such manner as to make even speech for a time impossible. the tongue seems as if it were tied in a knot. if the juice be swallowed, similar results follow all along its course. but the novice does not often get far enough for that. the boys soon found that the 'simmons, although they looked very tempting, were too green to be eaten with any degree of enjoyment. so they filled their pockets with them to pucker up the regiment. shorty had joined in the scramble, telling si he would bring him a good supply. "ain't them nice?" he said to si, holding out three or four of the greenest ones he could find. "eat 'em; they're jest gorjus! you can't help likin' 'em." si had never seen any persimmons before. they were certainly tempting to the eye, and he thought they were sent as manna was supplied to the children of israel in the wilderness. eagerly seizing them, si tossed one into his mouth and began to chew it with great vigor. the persimmon got in its work at once. it took hold with a mighty grip, wrinkling him up like the skins on scalded milk. after sputtering vigorously a few minutes, while shorty laughed at him. si managed to get his tongue untwisted. "yes," said he, "them things is nice--in a horn! 'twouldn't take many of 'em to make a meal!" a little farther on si's quick eye noticed a row of beehives standing on a bench in the yard of one of the natives. si had a weakness for honey. "shorty," said he, "see them hives over there? how'd ye like to have some honey for supper?" shorty "allowed" that it would be a good thing. si stopped and waited a few minutes until his own regiment got past, thinking his plan would be less liable to interruption. then he leaped over the fence, went up to the hives, and boldly tipped one of them over, hoping he could get out a comb or two, fill up his coffee-kettle, and effect his retreat before the bees really found out what he was up to. but the bees instantly rallied their forces and made a vigorous assault upon the invader. si saw that it would be too hot for him, and without standing upon the order of his going he went at once, in a decidedly panicky state of mind. the bees made the most of their opportunity, using their "business ends" on him with great activity and zeal. they seemed to fully' share the common feeling in the south toward the "yanks." [illustration: si beat a retreat ] a pretty woman, standing on the porch, had watched si's raid from the doorway. as he fell back in utter rout she screamed "sarves ye right!" and then sat down on the doorstep and laughed till she cried. she enjoyed it as much as the bees did. the latter took hold of si in various places, and by the time he had caught up with the regiment one eye was closed, and there was a big lump on his nose, besides several more stings which the bees had judiciously distributed about his person. it was very evident that he had been overmatched and had come out second best in the encounter. corporal klegg presented a picturesque appearance as he reached co. q. the boys fairly yelled with delight. "whar's yer honey?" said shorty. "pears like ye waked up the wrong passenger that time!" si laughed with the rest, rubbed salt on his stings, and plodded on, consoling himself with the thought that his was not the only case in which the merit of earnest effort had gone unrewarded. soon after noon the th came to a large patch of sweet potatoes. si and shorty, as well as a good many of the rest, thought it would be a good place to lay in a supply for supper, as they might not have another so good a chance. from all parts of the column the men, by dozens dashed into the field. in a moment there was a man at every hill, digging away with his bayonet, and chucking the tempting tubers into his haversack. two hours before going into camp the regiment passed a small spring, around which a crowd of soldiers were struggling to fill their canteens. there had been a long stretch without fresh water, and si thought he would supply himself. "gimme your canteen, too, shorty, and i'll fill it!" he said. "here, si, you're a bully boy, take mine!" "mine, too!" "and mine!" said one after another of his comrades. si good naturedly complied and they loaded him down with about canteens. [illustration: si being worked for a "good thing." ] "all right," said si, "i'll be along with 'em full d'reckly!" he had to wait for his turn at the spring, and by the time he had filled all the canteens he was half an hour behind. slinging them around his neck he started on, with just about as big a load as he could carry. si forged ahead, gradually gaining a little, through the tardy movement of the column that generally preceded going into camp. the canteen straps chafed his shoulders, his back ached, and perspiration streamed from every pore. the smoke of the campfires ahead told that the end of the day's march was near. he kept on and finally came up with co. q just as the th was stacking arms on the bank of a clear stream. si threw down his burdens of canteens, himself thoroughly blown and well-nigh exhausted. "purty good load, wasn't it, si?" said shorty. "but what made ye lug all that water in here? when ye saw they was goin' into camp ahead ye might ha' knowed there was plenty o' water. why in blazes didn't ye turn the water out o' them 'ere canteens?" "i'll be hanged if i thought o' that!" said si, while the boys joined in a hearty laugh. at the command "break ranks" there was a general scamper to engage in the work of getting supper and preparing to spend the night with as much comfort as possible. the members of each mess scattered in all directions for water, rails, straw, etc., while some went out to scour the adjacent region for edibles. these exercises the soldiers always entered into with the heartiest gusto, and the scene will be well remembered by all those who marched. si threw off his traps and dropped on the ground to rest a few minutes. he got up presently to scratch around with the rest. as he took hold of his haversack he was surprised at its lightness. when he laid it down it was bulging out with sweet potatoes, and a glance showed him that these were all gone. "dern my buttons!" exclaimed si, as he forgot his weariness, and his eyes flashed fire. "if i am a corporal, i kin jest mash the feller that stole my 'taters, i don't keer if he's ten foot high. won't somebody show 'im to me? there won't be 'nuff of 'im left to hold a fun'ral over?" si pranced around in a high state of inflammation, and it is probable that if he had found the purloiner of his provender there would have been a harder fight than any that occurred between buell and bragg. the boys winked slyly at one another, and all said it was too bad. it was a startling case of turpitude, and si determined to have revenge by getting even with some other fellow, without pausing to consider the questions of moral philosophy involved. "come 'long with me. shorty!" he said to his friend, and they strode away. just outside the camp they came upon two members of some other new regiment coming into camp with a fine pig slung over a pole and two or three chickens in their hands. shorty suggested to si that this was a good chance for him to even up. "halt, there!" shouted si to the foragers. "we're sent out to pick up such fellows as you!" the effect was like a discharge from a masked battery. the men dropped their plunder and fled in wild confusion. "take hold 'o that pole, shorty!" said si, and laying it upon their shoulders they made a triumphant entry into camp. there seemed to be no danger of immediate starvation in the ranks of the th. each man appeared to have supplied himself during the day. on every hand fires gleamed brightly in the gathering twilight, and around them crowded the hungry soldiers, intent upon the simple culinary processes incident to the evening meal. chapter xviii. a sunday off si and shorty get a much-needed wash-up. "you can take it easy to-day, boys, for we ain't goin' to move!" said the orderly of co. q one morning at roll-call. "the orders is for to put the camp in nice shape, and for the men to wash up. we're goin' to have an extra ration of soap this mornin', and you fellows want to stir around lively and fix yerselves as if it was sunday and ye was goin' to meetin'. the fust thing after breakfast all hands 'll turn out and p'leece ther camp." "what in the world does he mean by p'leecin' the camp?" corporal klegg asked shorty, as they stood by the fire making coffee and warming up the fragments of chicken that had been left over from supper the night before. "i didn't c'pose," said si, "that we 'listed to be p'leecemen!" shorty replied that he didn't know, but he reckoned they'd find out soon enough. the th ind. had been on the jump every day since leaving louisville, and this was the first time it had been called on to "police" a camp. as soon as breakfast was over the orderly directed each man to provide himself with a small bundle of sticks, made by putting together a dozen bits of brush or "switches" three or four feet long, such as are used to rural pedagogs to enforce discipline. these, he said, were the implements used in policing camp, which meant brushing the leaves and loose debris outside the grounds. "does corprils have to do that sort o' thing?" asked si. he thought army regulations and camp usage ought to show some consideration for his rank. "what's the use of bein' a corporil," he said to himself, "if it don't give a feller a chance to play off once in a while?" "corporals ain't no better'n anybody else," replied the orderly, "'n' you can jist git some brush and go to work, 'long with the rest!" si was disposed to grumble a little, but he obeyed orders and was soon scratching up the leaves and dust with great zeal. he did not find it a particularly pleasant occupation, but the camp looked so much better when the job was done, that he thought it was not a bad thing, after all. "now, shorty," said si, "let's go down to the creek and do our washin'. my clothes has got to be biled, and i shouldn't wonder if yourn had, too." "yes, that's a fact!" said shorty. they got a big camp-kettle that had been used, and would be again, for making bean-soup, and started for the stream back of the camp. they had no change of clothing with them. some days before, in order to lighten their knapsacks, they had taken out their extra shirts and drawers, tied them in a bundle, and put them on the company wagon, and this was somewhere back in the rear, owing to the confusion of the campaign. "seems to me," observed si, "it ain't hardly a fair shake for uncle sam to make us do our washin'. they ought to confiscate the niggers 'n' set them at it; or i don't see why the guvyment can't furnish a washin' masheen for each comp'ny! 'twouldn't be no more'n the square thing!" [illustration: si was disposed to grumble ] "the wimmen does the washin', ye know, si, up where we live," said shorty, "'n' i don't quite like the notion o' doin' that kind o' workt, but i can't jest see how we're goin' to git out of it. it's got to be done, that's sure!" on the bank of the stream they quickly threw off their clothes for a bath. si cast rueful glances at his nether garments as he laid them on the ground. "hadn't we better pile some rocks on 'em, shorty?" said he. i'm affeared if we don't they'll crawl off into the bush. "guess we had," replied shorty. "i b'lieve mine's started already!" having made sure of them, they plunged into the water. far up and down the stream were hundreds of men, swimming and splashing about. the soldiers availed themselves of every opportunity to enjoy this luxury. having thoroughly performed their ablutions. si and shorty turned their energies toward the clothes, which were in such sore need of soap and hot water. putting their garments into the kettle and filling it with water, they built a fire under it. after half an hour of vigorous boiling they concluded they were "done." plenty of soap, rubbing and rinsing finished the work, and the clothes sure presented a remarkable appearance, particularly the blue trousers. "how're we going to git 'em dry?" asked si, as he wrung out the last of his "wash." "hang 'em on the fence in the sun!" replied shorty. "but what'll we wear while they're dryin'?" "nothin', i reckon!" so they spread out their garments, and then dashed again into the water. after splashing awhile they came out and drew on their half-dried trousers. shorty lighted his pipe as they sat down to wait for the sunshine to do its perfect work. all along the stream were soldiers in similar stages of dishabille. it seemed like the garden of eden. [illustration: showing the old man a trick ] "say, shorty," said si, "'taint very wicked to smoke, is it?" "guess not!" was the reply. "that's the way it 'pears to me, 'n' i've been kinder thinkin' lately that i'd learn how. the soljers all seem to enjoy their smokin' so much. you know. shorty, that i was always a reel good boy--never smoked, nor chawed terbacker, nor cussed, nor done nothin' that was out o' the straight an' narrer way. when i jined the regiment my good old mother says to me: 'now, si,' says she, 'i do hope ye'll 'member what i've always taught ye. i've beam 'em tell that they does dretful things in the army, and i want ye to see if ye can't be as good a boy as ye've been at home.' of course, i told her i would, 'n' i mean, ter stick to it; but i don't b'lieve there's any harm in smokin'. is it hard to learn?" "wall, i dunno; i reck'n ye can't most always tell till ye try. take a whiff, 'nd see how she goes!" and shorty handed him his pipe, which he had just refilled with whittlings of black "navy plug." "derned if i don't try it!" said si, as he took the pipe and began to puff with great energy. he made a few wry faces at first, but shorty told him to stick to it, and he bravely pulled away while the clouds of smoke curled above him. it was not long till the color left his face, his head was in a whirl, and his stomach began to manifest eruptive symptoms. "shorty," he gasped, "i'm awful sick. if smokin' makes a feller feel like this i don't want any more of it in mine." "where's all yer sand ye brag so much about?" said shorty, laughing. "you're mighty poor timber for a soljer if ye can't stand a little pipe o' terbacker like that. you'll get over it purty soon, and it won't bother ye any next time ye try it." si found that he had on hand about as much as he could manage with his dizzy head and the rebellion that was so actively going on at a point a little lower in his physical system. the feeling wore gradually off, however, and by the time he was able to walk their clothes were well dried. they proceeded to "dress up," and then returned to camp. during the afternoon the camp was visited by natives, black and white, from the region round about, with corn "pones," alleged pies, boiled eggs, and truck of various kinds, which they sought to dispose of for a valuable consideration. they struck a bad crowd, however, in a financial sense. the members of the th ind. were not at this time in a condition of opulence. most of them had spent what money they brought from home, and they had not been out long enough yet to receive a visit from the paymaster. the lank men and scrawny women cried their wares vociferously, but with indifferent results. the boys wanted the stuff, but they were "busted," and trade was dull. si looked wistfully at the "pies," and suggested to shorty a joint investment. their purses were nearly empty, but the temptation was too strong to be resisted. "them looks nice," said si. they were the first pies he had seen since leaving home, and his judgment was a little "off." as a matter of fact, it was only by the greatest stretch of courtesy that they could be called pies at all. but the word touched si in a tender spot, and he only thought of such as his mother used to make. si and shorty "pooled in" and bought a pie. impatiently whipping out his pocket knife si tried to cut it in two. it was hard work, for the "crust"--so called--was as tough as the hide of a mule. by their united efforts they at length succeeded in sawing it asunder. it was a fearful and wonderful specimen of culinary effort. it was made of two slabs of sodden, leathery dough, with a very feeble layer of dried apples sandwiched between them. si tried his teeth on the pie, but it was like trying to chew an old boot-leg. "i say, old lady," said he, turning to the female of whom he had bought it, "is these pies pegged or sewed?" "look a hyar, young feller," said the woman, with considerable vinegar in her tone, "p'raps you-uns-all thinks it's right smart to insult we-uns; it shows how yer wuz broughten up. i don't 'low yer ever seed any nicer dog-g-goned pies 'n them is. ye needn't try ter argify 'long 'th me, fur i kin jest knock the spots off'n any woman there is 'round here in cookin'." si saw that it would be profitless to discuss the matter, and concluded to make the best of a bad bargain. but he wouldn't eat the pie. on the whole, the hucksters fared rather badly. the boys confiscated most of the stuff that was brought in, promising to pay next time they came that way. there was a good deal of grumbling, but the trouble always ended in the soldiers getting the plunder. the climax was reached when a putty-faced citizen drove into camp a bony mule tied with straps and ropes and strings to a crazy cart, on which was a barrel of cider, which he "allowed" to sell out to the boys at cents a drink, or a quarter a canteen full. he had a spigot rigged up in one end and an old tin cup, with which he dealt out the seductive beverage to such as would pay. a thirsty crowd gathered around him, but sales were slow, on account of the scarcity of money. si and shorty mingled with the boys, and then drew aside and engaged in a whispered consultation. "that'll be jest bully!" said shorty. "if you can raise an auger somewhere we'll git the bulge on that old chap." [illustration: waiting for their clothes to dry ] si returned after a brief absence, with an auger which he had borrowed from the driver of an ammunition wagon. "now, shorty," said si, "you git the boys to stand around and keep up a racket, and i'll crawl under the cart and bore a hole into that 'ere barrel. then pass in yer canteens and army kettles 'n' we'll show the old man a trick!" shorty quietly broached the scheme to a few of his comrades, who fell in with it at once. gathering around the cart, they cheered and chattered so as to drown any noise si might make while carrying out his plan, and which would "give it away." it was not more than a minute till a gurgling sound was heard, and si began to pass out to the boys the buckets and canteens which they so freely furnished him, filled with the fast-flowing contents of the barrel. it didn't take long to empty it entirely, nor did the citizen discover the state of affairs until the cider no longer ran from the spigot. he had not sold more than a gallon or two, and he was amazed when the liquid ceased to respond. then he resolved himself into an investigating committee, and after a protracted search he discovered the trick that had been played on him. "wall, i'll be gosh-durned!" he exclaimed. "i've hearn tell 'bout yankee tricks, but dog my cats if this 'ere don't beat 'em all! i'd like to cut the gizzard outen the rascal that bored the hole in that bar'l!" "i declare, old pard; that was mean!" said si, who stood looking on, with his hands in his trousers pockets, the very picture of innocence. "i'm jist goin' to flax 'round 'n' help ye find that feller. if i was you i'd pound the stuffin' out of him--when ye cotch him!" chapter xix. a close call corporal klegg has an exciting adventure guarding a forage train. "company q's bin detailed to go out 'n' help guard a forage train to-morrow," said the orderly one evening at roll-call. "you fellers wants to all be up 'n' dressed bright 'n' early, with yer cartridge-boxes full 'n' a day's rations in yer haversacks. be sure yer guns is in good order, fer likely's not we'll have a squirmish afore we git back." the th ind. had been lying in camp for two or three days, and the ambitious heroes who composed that regiment were getting tired of loafing about. nothing chafed the raging patriotism of the new troops like a condition, however brief, of masterly inactivity. they refused to be comforted unless they were on the warpath all the time. their ideal of a soldier's life was to take a rebel battery every morning before breakfast, storm a line of works to give them an appetite for dinner, and spend the afternoon charging with cold steel the serried columns of the foe and wading around through seas of gore. so corporal klegg and shorty and the rest of the boys betook themselves with alacrity to the work of preparation for the duties of the morrow. members of the other companies watched the proceedings with jealous eye. they almost turned green with envy because they were not detailed for the expedition instead of co. q. "say, si," remarked shorty, thoughtfully, "hadn't we better write a letter home? who knows but we'll be as dead as mackerels to-morrer night!" "fiddlesticks!" said si. "what's the use o' havin' a funeral afore there's any corpse! we've bin through one fight 'n' didn't git hurt, 'n' i've made up my mind there's no use gittin' into a stew over a thing that may hap'n 'n' may not. time 'nuff to fret 'bout it when it comes. i recolleck one thing i learned in sunday-school--let's see, it was 's'ficient unto the day is the evil thereof,' or suthin' like that. strikes me that's a good passidge o' scripter fer a soldier to keep pasted in his hat. i ain't goin' ter hang back fer fear a billit 'll hit me, nuther. if we're going to be killed we can't help it, so let's not fret our gizzards out!" and si crammed a handful of hardtack into his haversack. si's cheery view of the case was not without its effect upon shorty. indeed, it cannot be denied that there was a great deal of common sense in his homely, good-natured philosophy. sooner or later every soldier who did not "peter out" came gradually to adopt si's idea as the governing principle of his military career. "shouldn't wonder if you was 'bout right, after all," said shorty, as he sliced up some bacon to have it ready for an early breakfast. "you're better'n medicine, si, to a feller w'at gits the blues sometimes!" the preparations were soon made, and co. q went to bed early. in the morning the orderly came around and stirred the boys up an hour before reveille, as they were ordered to be ready to start at daylight. the primary object of the expedition was forage for the animals, the supply of which had run short. besides this, each man had a secondary purpose, and that was to gather in something on his own hook that would satisfy his longing for a change from the regulation diet. this was always the unwritten part of the order to "go out foraging." daylight was just streaking over the camp when co. q, equipped in light marching order, leaving knapsacks behind, moved out to where the half dozen wagons detailed from the regimental transportation were ready for the start. each regiment in the brigade furnished a company and the same number of wagons. the impatient mules were braying and flapping their ears, as if they understood that they were to be the chief beneficiaries of the raid. "pile in, boys!" said the orderly, and they clambered into the wagons. the guards were permitted to ride until there were symptoms of danger. then the muleteers, bestriding the big "wheelers," cracked their long whips like pistol-snots, addressed to the mules the usual words of exhortation, and the long procession drew out upon the stony pike and took a brisk trot. considerable foraging had already been done in the vicinity, and it was expected the train would have to go out several miles in order to fully accomplish its object. the boys were in fine spirits and enjoyed their morning ride, albeit the jolting of the wagons gave them a thorough shaking up. "i guess they forgot to put any springs in when they built these wagons!" said shorty, as he shifted his position so that he might catch the bumps in a new place for a while. "jest thinkin' that way myself," replied si; "but all the same, it beats travelin' on the hoof all holler!" three or four miles out from camp the train was halted while the officers in command made inquiries of a cadaverous native who was sunning himself on the fence and whose principal occupation seemed to be chewing tobacco and distributing the resultant liquid around in a promiscuous way. "good morning, stranger," said the officer, "have you any corn on your place?" "haint got a dog-goned ear left!" was the surly answer. "some o' you-unses men wuz out here yisterdy 'n' tuk every bit i hed." this may or may not have been true. inquiries of this nature always developed the fact that it was a man's neighbors who had plenty of corn; he never had any himself. "there's ole man scroggs," he continued; "he lives a matter of two miles from hyar. i 'low ye'll git sum if ye go thar. he growed a power o' cawn this yeah; he sold a heap, but i reckon he's got a right smart left." during this time a couple of men had been making a hasty examination of the outbuildings on the place. they reported that they could find nothing in the way of forage. if the man had any corn he had carefully concealed it. the train started on to pay a visit to old man scroggs. "say, old pard," asked si as his wagon drove past, "is there any rebs 'round here?" "there wuz a few confedrit critter-men ridin' 'bout hyar this mawnin';--mebby ye'll run agin 'em 'afore night." "how many o' your boys is among em?" "we'uns is all union." "jest as long as we're 'round, i s'pose!" said si. a mile further on those who were in the lead, rising to the crest of a hill, saw--or thought they saw a few vagrant cavalrymen far ahead. the train was halted and dispositions were made to meet any emergency likely to arise. the men were ordered to "tumble out" of the wagons. the main body was formed in advance. a line of skirmishers was deployed in front and flankers were thrown out on either side. thus protected, the mule drivers again cracked their whips and the procession moved cautiously forward. "now keep yer eyes skinned," said si to shorty as they trailed along through the woods and fields and over fences, on one of the flanks. "if any of them raskils comes dodgin' 'round here let's try 'n' have the first crack at 'em 'n' git the bulge on the rest o' the boys!" keenly alert, with muskets loaded and capped, they crept carefully along, poking their noses into every thicket and peering around every building. it was clear that there would not be anything in the nature of a surprise if the whole line was as well taken care of as the particular point guarded by corporal klegg and his faithful friend shorty. "it's some like huntin' squirrels up in the woods of posey county," said si, as they forced their way through a patch of brambles. "'pears to be rayther more excitin' than huntin' squirrels," said shorty. "ye know squirrels doesn't shute back at a feller as them pesky rebbles does, an' the fun 's all on one side. i reckon ef squirrels c'd shute there wouldn't be so much huntin' of 'em!" it was really a disappointment to si that he found no opportunity to squint along the barrel of his musket in range of a foe. if any of his misguided fellow-citizens were in the neighborhood they considered discretion the better part of valor and kept out of harm's way. in due time the scroggs plantation was reached. a hasty examination showed that there was an abundance of corn on the place to load the wagons, and arrangements for a sudden transfer of the property were quickly made. a third of the force established a cordon of picket-posts around the marauding party, covering all the avenues of approach, with re serves at convenient points. the remainder of the troops stacked arms and entered briskly upon the work of confiscation. [illustration: an assault on the well-filled corn crib ] part of the harvest had already been gathered, and the first assault was made on a well-filled cornhouse--one of a group of dilapidated out-buildings a little way from the dwelling. "old man" scroggs protested with profane vehemence, reinforced by the "old woman" and the entire family of children. we say "entire family," because there could not well have been a more numerous progeny in one household anywhere outside of utah. the head of the family cursed and swore, and his wife and the big girls looked as if they wanted to do the same thing, as they stood wringing their hands, their eyes flashing fire while the small-fry stood around and sobbed with a vague idea that some dire calamity had befallen them. the old kentuckian declared that he was a "union man," and that he would demand of the government full revenge for this outrage. it was noticed that there were no young men around as there should be according to the economy of nature, to preserve the balance of sex in so large a family. the officer in command asked him where all his sons were. "wall, i kaint tell yer 'zactly whar they is," was the reply. "they ain't to hum jest now. i 'low they've got a right to g'way ef they want ter." the officer had been informed that there were several representatives of the scroggs family in the rebel army. the old man's avowal of loyalty was taken for what it was worth. that it was not rated at a high figure was well attested by the appearance of the plantation a few hours later. meanwhile the soldiers kept right along in the duty assigned them. the corn-house was surrounded by wagons, the roof was gently lifted off, and in scarcely more time than it takes to tell the story six or eight of the wagons were heaped with the contents. the mules wagged their tails and brayed in anticipation of the picnic they would have when they got back to camp. then the force moved some distance and attacked a large field of standing corn. the stalks had been "topped," but the ears were yet ungathered. the men started in between the rows and swept through that field like a cyclone, plucking the ears right and left. bags, baskets and boxes were pressed into the service, and as there were not enough of these to go' round many bore the corn to the wagons by armfuls. it did not take more than two or three hours to strip every ear from the field. a visitation of overgrown kansas grasshoppers could not have done a more thorough job. "fo' de lawd, boss," said an old darky who had been roosting on the fence watching the spoilers, "i nebber seed de crap gaddered so quick since i'se bawn. you'uns all is powerful smart, da't shuah!" but where were corporal klegg and his comrade. shorty, while all this was going on? they had been stationed as sentinels near a house, half a mile beyond, on the pike. they were cautioned to keep a sharp lookout, and for a time they obeyed their instructions to the letter. their vigilant eyes swept the surrounding country, and no rebel could have crept up on them without getting a pair of bullets from their ready muskets. they saw no signs of an enemy, and after a while it began to grow monotonous. "shorty," said si, "i don't b'lieve there's any seceshers in these parts, an' there ain't any use'n us both keepin' this thing up. you jest watch out awhile 'n' i'll skin around 'n' see what i kin find." shorty agreed to this, taking it as an order from his superior officer. si threw his gun up to a "right shoulder shift" and started off, after again urging upon his companion the importance of attending strictly to business. si had not gone far till he saw, penned in a corner of the barnyard, a cow with a full udder, from which a frisky young calf was busily engaged in pumping nourishment. a violent feeling of envy toward that calf began immediately to rage in the 'breast of si. he had not had a draft of fresh milk since he had left home, and he felt that a little refreshment of that kind would be particularly gratifying to his interior organism. it would strengthen him and give him new courage to stand up to the rack if they should happen to get into a fight. "i say. shorty," he called, "cum 'ere a minnit, quick!" si's conscience smote him for calling shorty from his duty and leaving the post unguarded, but the temptation was too strong for him to resist, and he yielded to the impulse to take the chances. shorty came on the run, with eyes wide open, thinking his comrade had discovered some rebels hanging around. "look there!" said si, pointing to the maternal scene that has been alluded to. "let's have some o' that. we'll git over the fence 'n' you jest hold the calf while i milk our canteens full. 'twont take more'n a jiffy!" "we ort n't to leave the post, ort we?" suggested shorty. "oh, there ain't no danger," si replied; "an' besides, you can keep lookin' out while you're hangin' on to the calf. i was alters a good milker 'n' i'll fill up these canteens in a couple o' minnits." so they climbed over and leaned their muskets against the fence. shorty seized the calf and held it with a firm grip, in spite of its struggling and bleating. the cow seemed disposed at first to resent the interference, but si's persuasive "so, bossy" proved effectual in calming her fears, and she stood placidly chewing her cud while si, spurred on by a guilty conscience, milked with all his might. [illustration: shorty held the calf ] the canteens were soon filled, and, with out stopping to drink. si and shorty hurried back to their post of duty. all was quiet, and no harm had resulted from their brief absence. "i told ye 'twould be all right," said si. "now, we'll jest empty one o' these canteens--here, take a swig--'n' we'll carry the other to camp. it'll be jest bully to have milk in our coffee agin!" then they betook themselves to duty with redoubled vigilance, to atone for their derelictions. after watching for an hour without seeing anything, si said he would take another little turn around the place. boldly advancing to the house, which was some distance in front of their post, he was met by a girl of about . she was rather pretty, but to si's ardent imagination she was like a vision of surpassing loveliness. she greeted him pleasantly--for si was a comely youth--and, if the truth must be told, he actually forgot for the moment all about his duty. when she said she would get him a good dinner, and invited him into the house to sit while she prepared it, he just went right along. but his conscience began to thump so loudly that after a few minutes he told her he guessed he'd have to go, but would be delighted to return in an hour and partake of her hospitality. "may i bring shorty--he's my pard--'long with me?" he timidly asked. "certainly!" she replied, with a sweet smile; and si went away, his nerves tingling with pleasant emotions to the very tips of his fingers. "shorty," he said, as he came up to "i've struck it this time. over to that house there's the purtiest gal i ever see." "wha-a-a-a-t!" interjected shorty, with a look of astonishment; for he knew something about si and annabel--the girl he left behind him--and he was both surprised and pained at si's treasonable enthusiasm. si easily divined his thoughts, for something of the same nature had already caused his own heart to palpitate in a reproving way. "of--c-c-course--i d-d-don't--mean th-th-that. shorty," he stammered "but she's a nice girl, anyhow, 'n' she's gittin' up a dinner fer me 'n' you. bet ye it'll be a nice lay-out, too!" shorty did not feel quite at ease in his mind about leaving the post again, but si assured him it would be all right. the peculiar circumstances of the case had sadly warped si's judgment. so they went to the house and were cordially greeted by their fair young hostess, who was flying around, putting the finishing touches to the meal she had prepared for them. "jiminy, don't that smell good?" said si to shorty in an undertone, as his sensitive nostrils caught the savory odors that arose from the nicely-spread board. the young soldiers stood their guns on the floor in a corner of the room, preliminary to an assault on the edibles. "ugh!" exclaimed the young woman, with a coquettish shiver, "be them awful things loaded?" "n--no!" said si; "they won't hurt ye if ye don't touch 'em!" si was learning to fib a little, and he wanted to quiet the girl's fears. the boys were soon seated at the table, bountifully supplied with ham, chicken, eggs, bread and butter, honey, and all the accessories of a well-ordered repast. they fell to with an eagerness that was, perhaps, justified by the long time that had elapsed since they had had a "square meal." si thought that never in his life had anything tasted so good. while they were thus engaged, without a thought of impending danger, the girl suddenly opened the door, leading to the dining room. a wild-eyed man--who proved to be her brother--in the uniform of a rebel soldier, dashed in, and, presenting a cocked revolver, demanded their unconditional and immediate surrender. they were in a tight place. but si proved equal to the sudden and appalling emergency. it flashed through his mind in an instant how the girl had "played it" on him. he made up his mind that he would rather be shot than be captured under such circumstances. [illustration: si sprang upon him ] si sprang up, and the rebel, true to his word, fired. si dodged, and the ball only chipped a piece from his left ear. there was not time to get and use his gun. with the quickness of a cat si sprang upon him, and with a blow of his fist laid him sprawling upon the floor. disarming him, he placed the revolver at his head and triumphantly exclaimed: "now, gol durn ye, you're my prisoner. i'd like to blow the top o' yer head off fer spilin' my dinner, but i won't do it this time. but you jist git up 'n' come 'long with me!" with his complete mastery of the situation, si's confidence returned, and shorty, who had been dazed and helpless at first, recovered himself and came to his assistance. but at this instant their ears caught the sound of horses' hoofs galloping down the pike. si's quick perception told him that is was a dash of rebel cavalrymen, and that a few moments later escape would be impossible. "grab yer gun an' git!" he said to shorty, at the same time casting one ferocious glance at the terrified girl, who stood, white and speechless, contemplating the scene. si and shorty dashed out of the house and started for the reserve, at the highest speed of which their legs were capable. on clattered the horses, and a few shots from the carbines of the swift-riding horsemen whistled through the air. six feet at a jump, with thumping hearts and bulging eyes, the fugitives almost flew over the ground, throwing quick glances at their pursuers, and then ahead, in the hope of catching a glimpse of succor. [illustration: "shorty if we--only git--out o' this--" ] "shorty, if we only git out o' this--" but si found he hadn't any wind to spare to finish the sentence. we must leave to the reader's imagination the good resolutions as to his future conduct that were forming in si's mind at this critical juncture. he saw the awful consequences of yielding to the influence of that alluring young woman and her seductive dinner. what he had read about adam and the trouble eve got him into, in pretty much the same way, flashed before him. it was a good time to resolve that he wouldn't do so any more. shorty, long and lank, was swifter on his feet than si. hardtack and bacon had not yet reduced the latter's surplus flesh to a degree that enabled him to run well. shorty kept ahead, but would not desert his comrade, slowing up for an instant now and then to give si, who was straining to the utmost every nerve, and puffing like a locomotive on an upgrade, a chance to keep within supporting distance. the soldiers of the reserve taking the alarm, came out at a double-quick and were fortunately able to cover the retreat of si and shorty. the half dozen cavalrymen, upon the appearance of so large a force, turned their horses and galloped away. "hello, si," said the orderly of co. q, "yer ear's bleedin'. what hurt ye?" "fell down and scratched it on a brier!" said si, as soon as he was able to speak. that night si and shorty sat on a log by the campfire talking over the events of the day. "don't ye never blow on this thing," said si. "it'll be a cold day for us if they'd find it out." "there ain't no danger o' my tellin'," replied shorty. "but, say, ain't that a nice girl out there?" "she's a mean rebel, that's what she is! but that was a smart trick o' her'n, wasn't it?" "come mighty near bein' too smart fer us!" replied shorty. "i don't want no more such close shaves in mine. you 'member the story of the spider and the fly, don't ye? well, she was the spider 'n' we was two poor little fool flies!" "shorty," said si, "i'd a mighty sight ruther be an angel an' have the daisies a-bloomin' over my grave, than to have been tuk a prisoner in that house. but that dinner was good, anyhow--what we got of it!" chapter xx. "the sweet sabbath" how the blessed day of rest was spent in the army. "tomorrow's sunday, ye know," said the orderly of company q one saturday night at roll-call. this was in the nature of news to the boys. but for the announcement very few of them would have known it. the orderly was not distinguished for his piety, and it is not likely that the approach of sunday would have occurred to him if the sergeant-major had not come around with orders from the colonel for a proper observance of the day. the colonel himself would not have thought of it either, if the chaplain had not reminded him of it. everybody wondered how even the chaplain could keep track of the days well enough to know when sunday came--but that was chiefly what he wore shoulder-straps and drew his salary for. it was the general impression that he either carried an almanac in his pocket, or else a stick in which he cut a notch every day with his jack-knife, and in that way managed to know when a new week began. "there'll be guard-mountin' at o'clock," continued the orderly, "regimental inspection at , preachin' at , an' dress-parade at in the evenin'. all of ye wants to tumble out right promptly at revellee an' git yer breakfast, an' then clean up yer guns an' put all yer traps in apple-pie order, 'cause the colonel's goin' to look at 'em. he's got sharp eyes, an' i reck'n he'll be mighty pertickler. if there's anything that ain't jest right he'll see it quicker'n litenin'. ye know we hain't had any inspections yet, an' the cap'n wants us to be the boss company. so ye've got to scratch around lively in the mornin'." "say," said corporal klegg, after the company had broken ranks, "seems to me there wa'n't no use in the orderly tellin' us to 'scratch around,' fer we're doin' that purty much all the time, now that the graybacks is gittin' in their work on us." shorty smiled faintly at what he seemed to consider a rather feeble joke, even for si. the th ind. had now been in the field for many weeks, but it had been continually cantering about the country, and the generals had kept it particularly active on sundays. probably this regiment did not manifest any more than the average degree of enthusiasm and fervor in religious matters, but there were many in its ranks who, at home, had always sat under gospel ministrations, and to tramp on sundays, the same as other days, was, at first, a rude shock to their moral sensibilities. these were yet keen, the edges had not been worn off and blunted and battered by the hard knocks of army life. true, they could scarcely tell when sunday came, but they knew that they kept right along every day. "shorty," said si, after they had curled up under the blanket for the night, "'pears to me it'll seem sort o' nice to keep sunday agin. at the rate we've bin goin' on we'll all be heathens by the time we git home--if we ever do. our chaplain haint had no chance to preachify yet. the boys of comp'ny x, w'at knows him, says he's a staver, 'n' i b'lieve it'll make us all feel better to have him talk to us once. 'twont do us no harm, nohow, i'd like to be home to-morrer 'n' go to church with mother, 'n' sister marier, 'n'--er--i mean the rest of the folks. then i'd jest eat all the afternoon. i ain't goin' ter git homesick, shorty; but a feller can't help feelin' a little streaked once 'n' a while. mebbe it's a good idee fer 'em to keep us on the jump, fer then we don't git no chance to think 'bout it. i don't suppose i'm the only boy 'n the regiment that 'd be glad to git a jest fer to-morrer. i sh'd want ter be back bright 'n' arly to fall in monday mornin', fer i'm goin' to stick to the th through thick 'n' thin, if i don't git knocked out. say, shorty, how d'ye feel, any way?" but shorty was already fast asleep. si spooned up to him and was soon, in his dreams, away up in posey county. the sound of the bugle and drum, at daylight, fell upon unwilling ears, for the soldiers felt the same indisposition to get up early sunday morning that is everywhere one of the characteristics of modern civilization. their beds were hard, but to their weary limbs no couch of down ever gave more welcome rest than did the rough ground on which they lay. but the wild yell of the orderly, "turn out for roll-call!" with the thought of the penalties for non-obedience--which some of them had abundant reason to remember--quickly brought out the laggards. si and shorty were, as usual, among the first to take their places in line. they were pleasantly greeted by the captain, who had come out on the run at the last moment, and wriggled himself into his coat as he strode along the company street. the captain did not very often appear at morning rollcall. but one officer of the company was required to be present, and the captain generally loaded this duty upon the lieutenants "turn about." if he did show up, he would go back to bed and snooze for an hour while the cook was getting breakfast. if one of the men did that he would soon be promenading with a rail on his shoulder or standing on a barrel with a stick or a bayonet tied in his mouth. "i think that's a fust rate notion to mount the guards," said si to shorty as they sat on a rail by the fire making coffee and frying bacon. "it'll be so much better 'n walkin' back 'n' forrard on the beats. wonder 'f they'll give us bosses or mules to ride." "i'd like to know what put that idee into yer head," said shorty. "whydn't the ord'ly say last night there 'd be guard-mountin' at o'clock this mornin'? i s'posed that fer a man to be mounted meant straddlin' a boss or s'mother kind of an animal." "ain't ye never goin' to larn nuthin'," said shorty, with a laugh. "guard-mountin' don't mean fer the men to git on hosses. it's only the name they gives it in the army reggelations. dunno why they calls it that, 'nless it's 'cause the guards has to 'mount' anybody that tries to pass 'thout the countersign. but don't ye fool yerself with thinkin' yer goin' to get to ride. we'll keep pluggin' along afoot, on guard or anywhere else, same's we have all the time." thus rudely was shattered another of si klegg's bright illusions. the whole regiment turned out to witness the ceremony of guard-mounting. it was the first time the exigencies of the campaign had permitted the th ind. to do this in regular style. the adjutant was the most important personage, and stood so straight that he narrowly escaped falling over backward. in order to guard against making a mess of it, he had spent half the night rehearsing the various commands in his tent. thus prepared, he managed to get through it in very fair shape. [illustration: so straight he leaned backwabd ] the next thing on the program for the day was the inspection. the boys had been industriously engaged in cleaning up their muskets and accouterments, and putting their scanty wardrobes in presentable condition. in arranging his knapsack for the colonel's eye, each man carefully laid a clean shirt, if he had one, on the top. the garments that were not clean he either stowed away in the tent or put at the bottom of the knapsack. in this he was actuated by the same principle that prompts the thrifty farmer to put the biggest apples and strawberries at the top of his measure. the clothing of the regiment was already in an advanced stage of demoralization. it was of the "shoddy" sort that a good hard wind would almost blow to pieces. corporal klegg was anxious that not only his person, but all his belongings, should make as good an appearance as possible. he put on the best and cleanest garments he had, and then betook himself to fixing his knapsack so it would pass muster. "them duds is a bad lot," he said to shorty, casting rueful glances at the little heap of soiled and ragged clothes. "purty hard to make a decent show with them things." "wait a minute," said shorty, "an' i'll show ye a little trick." taking his poncho under his arm. shorty went to the rear of the camp, where the mules were feeding, and presently returned with a bunch of hay. "what ye goin' to do with that?" asked si. "you jest do 's i tell ye, and don't ask no questions. cram some o' this hay into yer knapsack 'n' fill 'er up 'n' then put a shirt or suthin', the best ye kin find, on top, 'n' the colonel 'll think she's full o' clothes right from the laundry. i'm goin' to fix mine that way." "shorty, you're a trump!" said si, approvingly. "that 'll be a bully scheme." it required but a few minutes to carry out the plan. the hay was stuffed into the knapsack, and all vagrant spears were carefully tucked in. then a garment, folded so as to conceal its worst features, was nicely spread over the hay, the flaps were closed and buckled, and the young hoosiers were ready for inspection. "s'posen the colonel sh'd take a notion to go pokin' down into them knapsacks," said si; "don't ye think it'd be purty cold weather for us?" "p'r'aps it mout," answered shorty; "but we've got ter take the chances. he's got seven or eight hundred knapsacks to 'nspect, 'n' i don't b'lieve he'll stick his nose down into very many on 'em!" at the appointed time the battalion was formed and the inspection was gone through with in good style. the colonel and the field and staff officers, escorted by the captain of each successive company, moved gradually between the ranks, their swords dangling around and getting mixed up with their legs. the soldiers stood facing inward like so many wooden men, with their open knapsacks lying upon the ground at their feet. the colonel looked sharply right and left, stopped now and then to commend a soldier whose "straps" were in particularly good condition, or to "go for" another whose slouchy appearance betokened untidy habits. if a button was missing, or a shoe untied, his eye was keen to detect it, and a word of reproof was administered to the delinquent. as the colonel started down the line of company q si watched him out of the corners of his eyes with no little anxiety. his heart thumped as he saw him occasionally stoop and fumble over the contents of a knapsack, evidently to test the truth of longfellow's declaration that "things are not what they seem." what if the colonel should go down into the bowels of si's knapsack! si fairly shuddered at the thought. si, being the shortest of the corporals, was at the foot of the company, while shorty, on account of his hight, was well up toward the head. si almost fainted when he saw the colonel stop in front of his "pard" and make an examination of his fatlooking knapsack. military official dignity gave way when the removal of the single garment exposed the stuffing of hay. the officers burst into a laugh at the unexpected revelation, while the boys on either side almost exploded in their enjoyment of shorty's discomfiture. [illustration: si almost panted when the colonel stopped ] "captain," said the colonel, with as much sternness as he could command, "as soon as your company is dismissed detail a guard to take charge of this man. have him take the hay out of his knapsack and fill it with stones--and see that it is filled full. have this man put it on and march him up and down the company street till church-call, and then take him to hear the chaplain. he needs to be preached to. perhaps, between the knapsack-drill and the chaplain, we can straight him out." corporal klegg heard all this, and he wished the ground might open and swallow him. "these stripes is gone this time, sure!" he said to himself, as he looked at the chevrons on his arm. "but there's no use givin' yourself away, si. brace up, 'n' mebbe the colonel 'll skip ye." si had been badly shaken up by the colonel's episode with shorty, but by a great effort he gathered himself together and was at his best, externally, when the colonel reached him, though his thoughts were in a raging condition. his face was clean and rosy, and his general make-up was as good as could be expected under the circumstances. the colonel had always remembered si as the soldier he had promoted to be a corporal for his gallantry in the little skirmish a few days before. as he came up he greeted the corporal with a smile and a nod of recognition. he was evidently pleased at his tidy appearance. he cast a glance at the voluptuous knapsack, and si's heart seemed to sink away down into his shoes. but the fates smiled on si that day. the colonel turned to the captain and told him that corporal klegg was the model soldier of company q. si was the happiest man in the universe at that precise moment. it was not on account of the compliment the colonel had paid him, but because his knapsack had escaped a critical inspection of its contents. the inspection over, company q marched back to its quarters and was dismissed. poor shorty was soon tramping to and fro, under guard, humping his back to ease the load that had been put upon it. si was very sorry for him, and at the same time felt a glow of pleasure at the thought that it was not his own knapsack instead of shorty's that the colonel had examined. he could not help feeling, too, that it was a great joke on shorty to be caught in his own trap. [illustration: shorty was there--with a guard ] shorty took his medicine like a man, marching up and down the row of tents bravely and patiently, unheeding the gibes and jeers of his hard-hearted comrades. the bugle sounded the call for religious services. shorty was not in a frame of mind that fitted him for devout worship. in fact, few in the regiment had greater need of the regenerating influence. he had never been inside of a church but two or three times in his life, and he really felt that to be compelled to go and listen to the chaplain's sermon was the hardest part of the double punishment the colonel had inflicted upon him. the companies were all marched to a wooded knoll just outside the camp. shorty went by himself, save the companionship of the guard, with fixed bayonet. he had been permitted to leave his knapsack behind. he was taken to a point near the chaplain, that he might get the full benefit of the preacher's words. under the spreading trees, whose foliage was brilliant with the hues of autumn, in the mellow sunshine of that october day the men seated themselves upon the ground to hear the gospel preached. the chaplain, in his best uniform, stood and prayed fervently for divine guidance and protection and blessing, while the soldiers listened, with heads reverently bowed. then he gave out the familiar methodist hymn, "am i a soldier of the cross," and all joined in the old tune "balerma," their voices swelling in mighty chorus. as they sang, "are there no foes for me to face?" there came to the minds of many a practical application of the words, in view of the long and fruitless chase after the rebels in which they had been engaged for nearly a month. the chaplain had formerly been an old-fashioned methodist circuit-rider in indiana. he was full of fiery zeal, and portrayed the terrors of eternal punishment so vividly that his hearers could almost feel the heat of the flame and smell the fumes of brimstone that are popularly believed to roll out unceasingly from the mouth of the bottomless pit. it ought to have had a salutary effect upon shorty, but it is greatly to be feared that he steeled his stubborn heart against all that the chaplain said. it was always difficult not to feel that there was something contradictory and anomalous about religious services in the army. grim-visaged, hideous war, and all its attendant circumstances, seemed so utterly at variance with the principles of the bible and the teachings of him who was meek and lowly, that few soldiers had philosophy enough to reconcile them. the soldiers spent the afternoon in reading what few stray books and fugitive, well-worn newspapers there were in camp, mending their clothes, sleeping, and some of them, we are pained to add, in playing eucher, old sledge, and other sinful games. dress parade closed the day that had brought welcome rest to the way-worn soldiers of the th ind.. "shorty," said si, after they had gone to bed that night, "i sh'd be mighty sorry if i'd ha' got up that knapsack trick this mornin', 'cause you got left on it so bad." "there's a good many things," replied shorty, "that's all right when ye don't git ketched. it worked tip top with you, si, 'n' i'm glad of it. but i put ye up to it, 'n' i shouldn't never got over it if the colonel had caught ye, on account of them stripes on yer arm. he'd ha' snatched 'em baldheaded, sure's yer born. you're my pard, 'n' i'm jest as proud of 'em as you be yerself. i'm only a privit,' 'n' they can't rejuce me any lower! besides, i 'low it sarved me right 'n' i don't keer fer the knapsack drill, so i didn't git you into a scrape." chapter xxi. si and shorty were rapidly learning the great military truth that in the army the most likely thing to happen is something entirely unlikely. col. terrence p. mctarnaghan, as his name would indicate, had first opened his eyes where the blue heavens bend over the evergreen sod of ireland. naturally, therefore, he thought himself a born soldier, and this conviction had been confirmed by a year's service as second lieutenant of volunteers in the mexican war, and subsequent connection with the indiana militia. being an irishman, when he went in for anything, and especially soldiering, he went in with all his might. he had associated with regular army officers whenever there was an opportunity, and he looked up to them with the reverence and emulation that an amateur gives to a professional. naturally he shared their idea that an inspection and parade was the summit of military art. consequently, the main thing to make the th ind. the regiment it should be were frequent and rigid inspections. fine weather, two days of idleness, and the prospect that the regiment would remain there some time watching the crossing of the cumberland were enough and more than enough to set the colonel going. the adjutant published the following order: headquarters th indiana, in the field, on the cumberland, nov. , . i. the regiment will be paraded for inspection tomorrow afternoon at o'clock. ii. captains will be expected to parade the full strength of their companies. iii. a half hour before the parade. captains will form their companies in the company streets and inspect every man. iv. the men will be required to have their clothes neatly brushed, blouses buttoned up, clean underclothes, shoes blacked, letters and numbers polished, and arms and accouterments in best condition. they will wear white gloves. v. the man who has his clothes, arms and accouterments in the best order will be selected for the colonel's orderly. by command of attest: col. terrence p. mctarnaghan, colonel. b. b. laughlin, adjutant. when capt. mcgillicuddy marched co. q back to its street, he called attention to the order with a few terse admonitions as to what it meant to every one. "get at this as soon as you break ranks, boys," urged the captain. "you can do a whole lot between now and tattoo. the others will, and you must not let them get ahead of you. no straw in knapsacks this time." company spirit was high, and it would be little short of a calamity to have co. q beaten in anything. there was a rush to the sutler for white gloves, blacking, needles, thread, paper collars, sweet oil and rotten stone for the guns. that genial bird of prey added per cent to his prices, because it was the first business he had done for some weeks; per cent more for keeping open in the evening, another per cent for giving credit till pay day, and still another for good will. the government had just offered some very tempting gold-interest bonds, of which he wanted a swad. "'tain't right to let them green boys have their hull $ a month to waste in foolishness," he said. "some good man should gather it up and make a right use of it." like indiana farmer boys of his class. si klegg was cleanly but not neat. thanks to his mother and sisters, his sunday clothes were always "respectable," and he put on a few extra touches when he expected to meet annabel. he took his first bath for the year in the wabash a week or two after the suckers began to run, and his last just before the water got so cold as to make the fish bite freely. such a thing as a "dandy" was particularly distasteful to him. "shorty," said si, as he watched some of the boys laboring with sandpaper, rotten stone and oil to make the gunbarrels shine like silver, "what's the cense o' bein' so partickler about the outside of a gun? the business part's inside. making them screw heads look like beads don't make it no surer of gitting mr. butternut." "trouble about you folks on the wabash," answered shorty, as he twisted a screw head against some emery paper, "is that you don't pay enough attention to style. style goes a long ways in this vain and wicked world," (and his eyes became as if meditating on worlds he had known which were not so vain and wicked), "and when i see them kokomo persimmon knockers of co. b hustling to put on frills, i'm going to beat 'em if i don't lay up a cent." "same here," said si, falling to work on his gunbarrel. "just as' nice people moved into posey county as squatted in kokomo. gang o' hoss thieves first settled howard county." "recollect that big two fister from kokomo who said he'd knock your head off if you ever throwed that up to him again?" grinned shorty. "you invited him to try it on, an' he said your stripes stopped him. you pulled off your blouse, and you said you had no stripes on your shirt sleeves. but i wouldn't say it again until those co. b fellers try again to buck us out of our place in the ration line. it's too good a slam to waste." tattoo sounded before they had finished their guns and accouterments. these were laid aside to be completed in the full light of day. the next morning work was resumed with industry stimulated by reports of the unusual things being done by the other companies. "this tennessee mud sticks closer'n a $ mortgage to a -acre tract," sighed si, as he stopped beating and brushing his blouse and pantaloons. "or, "'aunt jemima's plaster, "the more you try to pull it off the more it sticks the faster." hummed shorty, with what breath he had left from his violent exercise. so well did they work that by dinner time they felt ready for inspection, careful reconnoissances of the other companies showing them to have no advantages. next to the sutler's for the prescribed white gloves. si' had never worn anything on his hands but warm, woolen mittens knit for him by his mother, but the order said white gloves, and gloves they must have. the accommodating sutler made another stoppage in their month's pay of $ for a pair of cheap, white cotton gloves. by this time the sutler had accumulated enough from the th ind. to secure quite a handful of gold interest-bearing bonds. "well, what do you think of them. si?" said shorty, as he worked his generous hands into a pair of the largest sized gloves and held them up to view. "if they were only painted yaller and had a label on them," said si, "they could be issued for cincinnati canvas covered hams." shorty's retort was checked by hearing the bugle sound the officers' call. the colonel announced to them that owing to the threatening look of the skies the parade and inspection would take place in an hour. there was feverish haste to finish undone things, but when capt. mcgillicuddy looked over his men in the company street, he declared himself proud to stack up co. q against any other in the regiment. gun barrels and bayonets shone like silver, rammers rang clear, and came out without a stain to the captain's white gloves. the band on the parade ground struck up the rollicking "o, ain't i glad to git out of the wilderness, out of the wilderness-out of the wilderness," and capt. mcgillicuddy marched proudly out at the head of broad-shouldered, well-thewed young indianians, fit and fine as any south of the ohio. the guides, holding their muskets butts up, indicated where the line was to form, the trim little adjutant, glorious as the day in a new uniform and full breasted as a pouter-pigeon, was strutting over toward the band, and the towering red-headed colonel, martial from his waving plume to his jangling spurs, stood before his tent in massive dignity, waiting for the color company to come up and receive the precious regimental standard. this scene of orderly pomp and pageantry was rudely disturbed by an aid dashing in on a sweating horse, and calling out to the statuesque commander: "colonel, a train is stalled in the creek about three miles from here, and is threatened with capture by morgan's cavalry. the general presents his compliments, and directs that you take your regiment on the double-quick to the assistance of the train. you v'e not a moment lose." "tare and 'ounds!" swore the colonel in the classic he used when excited, "am i niver to have a dacint inspection? orderly, bring me me harse. stop that band's ijiotic blatting. get into line there, quick as love will let you, you unblessed indiana spalpeans. without doubling; right face! forward, m-a-r-c-h!" col. mctarnaghan, still wearing his parade grandeur, was soon at the head of the column, on that long-striding horse which always set such a hot pace for the regiment; especially over such a rough, gullied road as they were now traveling. still, the progress was not fast enough to suit the impatient colonel, who had an eye to the report he would have to make to the brigadier general, who was a regular. "capt. mcgillicuddy," commanded he, turning in his saddle, "send forward a corporal and five men for an advance guard." "corporal klegg, take five men and go to the front," commanded the captain. "now you b'yes, get ahead as fast as you can. get a move on them durty spalpanes of tamesters. we must get back to camp before this storm strikes us. shove out, now, as if the divil or jahn morgan was after yez." it was awful double-quicking over that rocky, rutty road, but taking shorty and four others. si went on the keen jump to arrive hot and breathless on the banks of the creek. there he found a large bearded man wearing an officer's slouched hat sitting on a log, smoking a black pipe, and gazing calmly on the ruck of wagons piled up behind one stalled in the creek, which all the mules they could hitch to it had failed to pull out. it was the wagon master, and his calmness was that of exhaustion. he had yelled and sworn himself dry, and was collecting another fund of abuse to spout at men and animals. "here, why don't you git a move on them wagons?" said si hotly, for he was angered at the man's apparent indifference. "'tend to your own business and i'll tend to mine," said the wagon master, sullenly, without removing his pipe or looking at si. "look here, i'm a corporal, commanding the advance guard," said si. "i order you!" this seemed to open the fountains of the man's soul. "you order me?" he yelled, "you splay-footed, knock-kneed, chuckled-headed paper-collared, whitegloved sprat from a milk-sick prairie. corporal! i outrank all the corporals from here to christmas of next year." "the gentleman seems to have something on his mind," grinned shorty. "mebbe his dinner didn't set well." "shorty?" inquired si, "how does a wagon master rank? seems to me nobody lower'n a brigadier-general should dare talk to me that way." "dunno," answered shorty, doubtfully. "seems as if i'd heard some of them wagon masters rank as kurnels. he swears like one." "corporal!" shouted the wagon master with infinite scorn. "measly $ -a-month water toter for the camp-guard, order me!" and he went off into a rolling stream of choice "army language." "he must certainly be a kurnel," said shorty. "here," continued the wagon master, "if you don't want them two shoat-brands jerked offen you, jump in and get them wagons acrost. that's what you were sent to do. hump yourself, if you know what's good for you. i've done all i can. now it's your turn." dazed and awed by the man's authoritativeness the boys ran down to the water to see what was the trouble. they found the usual difficulty in southern crossings. the stupid tinkerers with the road had sought to prevent it running down into the stream by laying a log at the edge of the water. this was an enormous one two feet in diameter, with a chuckhole before it, formed by the efforts of the teams to mount the log. the heavily laden ammunition wagon had its hub below the top of the log, whence no amount of mule-power could extricate it. si, with indiana commonsense, saw that the only help was to push the wagon back and lay a pile of poles to make a gradual ascent. he and the rest laid their carefully polished muskets on dry leaves at the side, pulled off their white gloves, and sending two men to hunt thru the wagons for axes to cut the poles. si and shorty roused up the stupid teamsters to unhitch the mules and get them behind the wagon to pull it back. alas for their carefully brushed pantaloons and well-blackened shoes, which did not last a minute in the splashing mud. the wagon master had in the meanwhile laid in a fresh supply of epithets and had a fresh batch to swear at. he stood up on the bank and yelled profane injunctions at the soldiers like a mississippi river mate at a boat landing. they would not work fast enough for him, nor do the right thing. the storm at last burst. november storms in tennessee are like the charge of a pack of wolves upon a herd of buffalo. there are wild, furious rushes, alternating with calmer intervals. the rain came down for a few minutes as if it would beat the face off the earth, and the stream swelled into a muddy torrent. si's paper collar and cuffs at once became pulpy paste, and his boiled shirt a clammy rag. in spite of this his temper rose to the boiling point as he struggled thru the sweeping rush of muddy water to get the other wagons out of the road and the ammunition wagon pulled back a little ways to allow the poles to be piled in front of it. the dashing downpour did not check the wagon master's flow of profanity. he only yelled the louder to make himself heard above the roar. the rain stopped for a few minutes as suddenly as it had begun and col. mctarnaghan came up with all his parade finery drenched and dripping like the feathers of a prize rooster in a rainy barnyard. his irish temper was at the steaming point, and he was in search of something to vent it on. "you blab-mouthed son of a thief," he shouted at the wagon master, "what are you ordering my men around for? they are sent here to order you, not you to order them. shut that ugly potato trap of yours and get down to work, or i'll wear my saber out on you. get down there and put your own shoulders to the wheels, you misbegotten villain. get down there into the water, i tell you. corporal, see that he does his juty!" the wagon master slunk down the hill, where shorty grabbed him by the collar and yanked him over to help push one of the wagons back. the other boys had meanwhile found axes, cut down and trimmed up some pine poles and were piling them into the chuckhole under si's practical guidance. a double team was put on the ammunition wagon, and the rest of co. q came up wet, mad and panting. a rope was found and stretched ahead of the mules, on which the company lined itself, the colonel took his place on the bank and gave the word, and with a mighty effort the wagon was dragged up the hill. some other heavily loaded ammunition wagons followed. the whole regiment was now up, and the bigger part of it lined on the rope so that these wagons came up more easily, even tho the rain resumed its wicked pounding upon the clay soil. wading around thru the whirling water. si had discovered, to his discomfiture, that there was a narrow, crooked reef that had to be kept to. there were deep overturning holes on either side. into one of these si had gone, to come again floundering and spurting muddy water from his mouth. shorty noted the place and took the first opportunity to crowd the wagon master into it. a wagon loaded with crackers and pork missed the reef and went over hopelessly on its side, to the rage of col. mctamaghan. "lave it there; lave it there, ye blithering numbskulls," he yelled, "unhitch those mules and get 'em out. the pork and wagon we can get when the water goes down. if another wagon goes over oi'll rejuce it every mother's son of yez, and tie yez up by the thumbs besides." si and shorty waded around to unhitch the struggling mules, and then, taking poles in hand to steady themselves, took their stations in the stream where they could head the mules right. thru the beating storm and the growing darkness, the wagons were, one by one, laboriously worked over until, as midnight approached, only three or four remained on the other side. chilled to the bone, and almost dropping with fatigue from hours of standing in the deep water running like a mill race. si called al klapp, sib ball and jesse langley to take their poles and act as guides. al klapp had it in for the sutlers. he was a worm that was ready to turn. he had seen some previous service, and had never gone to the paymaster's table but to see the most of his $ a month swept away by the sutler's remorseless hand. he and jesse got the remaining army wagons over all right. the last wagon was a four-horse team belonging to a sutler. the fire of long-watched-for vengeance gleamed in al's eye as he made out its character in the dim light. it reached the center of the stream, when over it went in the rushing current of muddy water. al and jesse busied themselves unhooking the struggling mules. the colonel raged. "lave it there! lave it there!" he yelled after exhausting his plentiful stock of irish expletives. "but we must lave a guard with it. capt. sidney hyde, your company has been doing less than any other. detail a sergeant and men to stand guard here until tomorrow, and put them two thick-headed oudmahouns in the creek on guard with them. make them stand double tricks. "all right. it was worth it," said al klapp, as the sergeant put him on post, with the water running in rivulets from his clothes. "it'll take a whole lot of skinning for the sutlers to get even for the dose i've given one of them." "b'yes, yoi've done just splendid," said the colonel, coming over to where si and shorty were sitting wringing the water and mud from their pantaloons and blouses. "you're hayroes, both of yez. take a wee drap from my canteen. it'll kape yez from catching cold." "no, thankee, kurnel," said si, blushing with delight, and forgetting his fatigue and discomfort, in this condescension and praise from his commanding officer. "i'm a good templar." "sinsible b'y," said the colonel approvingly, and handing his canteen to shorty. "i'm mightily afraid of catching cold," said shorty, reaching eagerly for the canteen, and modestly turning his back on the colonel that he might not see how deep his draft. "should think you were," mused the colonel, hefting the lightened vessel. "bugler, sound the assembly and let's get back to camp." the next day the number of rusty muskets, dilapidated accouterments and quantity of soiled clothes in the camp of the th ind. was only equaled by the number of unutterably weary and disgusted boys. chapter xxii. a night of song home-sickness and its outpouring in music. it was sunday again, and the th ind. still lingered near nashville. for some inscrutible reason known only to the commanding officers the brigade had been for nearly a week in camp on the banks of the swift running cumberland. they had been bright, sunshiny days, the last two of them. much rain in the hill country had swollen the swift waters of the cumberland and they fiercely clamored their devious way to the broad ohio. the gentle roar as the rippling wavelets dashed against the rock bound shores sounded almost surf-life, but to si, who had never heard the salt waves play hide-and-go-seek on the pebbly beach, the cumberland's angry flood sang only songs of home on the wabash. he had seen the wabash raging in flood time and had helped to yank many a head of stock from its engulfing fury. he had seen the ohio, too, when she ran bank full with her arched center carrying the spring floods and hundreds of acres of good soil down to the continent-dividing mississippi, and on out to sea. his strong arms and stout muscles had piloted many a boat-load of boys and girls through the wabash eddies and rapids during the spring rise, and as he stood now, looking over the vast width of this dreary waste of waters, a great wave of home-sickness swept over him. after all, si was only a kid of a boy, like thousands of his comrades.' true, he was past his majority a few months, but his environment from youth to his enlistment had so sheltered him that he was a boy at heart. "the like precurse of fierce events and prologue to the omen coming on" had as yet made small impression upon him. grim visaged war had not frightened him much up to that time. he was to get his regenerating baptism of blood at murfreesboro a few weeks later. just now si klegg was simply a boy grown big, a little over fat, fond of mother's cooking, mother's nice clean feather beds, mother's mothering, if the truth must be told. he had never in his life before been three nights from under the roof of the comfortable old house in which he was born. he had now been wearing the blue uniform of the union a little more than three months, and had not felt mother's work-hardened hands smoothing his rebellious hair or seen her face or heard a prayer like she could make in all that three months. "shucks!" he said fretfully to himself as he looked back at the droning, half asleep brigade camp, and then off to the north, across the boiling yellow flood of waters that tumbled past the rocks far below him. "a feller sure does git tired of doin' nothin'." lusty, young, and bred to an active life, si, while he did not really crave hustle and bustle, was yet wedded to "keeping things moving." he had already forgotten the fierce suffering of his early marching--it seemed three years to him instead of three months back; he had forgotten the graybacks, the wet nights, the foraging expeditions, the extra guard duty and all that. there had been two days of soft autumn sunshine in a camp that was almost ideal. everything was cleaned up, mended up, and the men had washed and barbered themselves into almost dude-like neatness. their heaviest duties had been lazy camp guard duty, which shorty, growing indolent, had declared to be "dumned foolishness," and the only excitement offered came from returning foraging parties. there was no lurking enemy to fear, for the country had been cleared of guerrillas, and in very truth the ease and quietness of the days of inactivity was almost demoralizing the men. there had been no sunday services. the th ind. was sprawled out on the ground in its several hundred attitudes of ease, and those with whom they were brigaded were just as carelessly disposed. as si sauntered aimlessly back to look for shorty, the early twilight began to close in as the sun slid down behind the distant hills. campfires began to glow as belated foragers prepared their suppers, and the gentle hum of voices came pleasantly to the ear, punctuated by laughter, often boisterous, but quite as often just the babbling, cheery laugh of carefree boys. si felt--well, si was just plain homesick for mother and the girls, and one particular girl, whose front name was annabel, and he almost felt as though he didn't care who knew it. the air was redolent with the odor of frying meat. mingled with this were vagrant whiffs of cooking potatoes, onions, chickens, and the fragrance of coffee steaming to blackest strength, all telling tales of skillful and successful foraging, and it all reminded si of home and the odors in his mother's kitchen. si couldn't find shorty, so he hunched down, silent and alone, beside his tent, a prey to the blue devils. it would soon be christmas at home. he could see the great apple bins in the cellar; the pumpkins in the hay in the barn; the turkeys roosting above the woodshed; the yards of encased sausages in the attic; he could even smell the mince meat seasoning in the great stone jar; the honey in the bee cellar; the huge fruit cake in the milk pan in the pantry; since he could remember he seen and smelled all these, with varieties of preserves, "jells," marmalades, and fruit-butters thrown in for good measure at christmas time. he had even contemplated with equanimity all these christmases, the dose of "blue pills" that inevitably followed over-feeding at mother klegg's, and now on his d christmas he might be providing a target for a rebel bullet. suddenly si noticed that the dark had come; the fragrance of tobacco from hundreds of pipes was filling the air, and from away off in the distance the almost indian summer zephyrs were bringing soft rythmic sounds like--surely--yes, he caught it now, it was that mighty soother of tired hearts-- "jesus, lover of my soul, let me to thy bosom fly. while the billows near me roll. while the tempest still is high." si shut his eyes lest the tear drops welling suddenly up fall on his uniform, not stopping to think that in the gloom they could not be seen. miles away the singers seemed to be when si caught the first sounds, but as the long, swinging notes reached out in the darkness, squad after squad, company after company, regiment after regiment took up the grand old hymn until si himself lifted up his not untuneful voice and with the thousands of others was pleading-- "hide me, oh, my savior hide, 'till the storm of life is past; safe into the haven guide. oh, receive my soul at last." and the song rose and swelled out and up toward heaven, and stole away off to the horizon till the whole vast universe seemed filled with the sacred melody. as the last words and their music faded out in space. shorty lunged down beside si. "say, pard," he began banteringly, "you've missed yer callin'. op'ry oughter have been yer trade." "oh, chop off yer chin music for a minute. shorty," broke in si. "in the dark here it seemed most as though i was at home in the little old church with maria and annabel and pap and mother, and us all singing together, and you've busted it--ah! listen!" from not far away a bugler had tuned up and through the fragrant night came piercingly sweet-- "i will sing you a song of that beautiful land--" then near at hand a strong, clear, musical tenor voice took up the second line, "the far away home of the soul," and almost instantly a deep, resonant bass voice boomed in-- "where no storms ever beat on that glittering strand while the years of eternity roll," and soon a hundred voices were making melody of the spheres as they sang philip phillips's beautiful song. "that was wilse hornbeck singin' tenor," said si, as the song ended. "and it was hen withers doin' the bass stunt," returned shorty. "you just oughter hear him do the ornamental on a mule whacker. why, si, he's an artist at cussing. hen withers is. sodom and gomorrah would git jealous of him if he planted himself near 'em, he's that wicked." "well, he can sing all right," grunted si. just then hen withers, in the squad some feet away broke into song again-- "oh, say, can you see by the dawn's early light" it welled up from his throat like the pipe from a church organ, and as mellow as the strains from a french horn. when the refrain rolled out fully , men were singing, yelling and shouting in frenzied fervor-- "and the star spangled banner. in triumph shall wave, o'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave." while hen withers rested on his well-earned laurels, a strong, clear voice, whose owner was probably thinking of home and the shady gloom of the walk through the grove to singing school with his sweetheart, trilled an apostrophe to the queen of light. "roll on, silvery moon, guide the traveler on his way," but he had it pretty much to himself, for not many knew the words, and he trailed off into "i loved a little beauty, bell brandon," then his music died out in the night. it was now the "tenore robusto" who chimed in bells, on a new battle song that held a mile square of camp spellbound: "oh, wrap the flag around me, boys, to die were far more sweet with freedom's starry emblem, boys. to be my winding sheet. in life i loved to see it wave and follow where it led, and now my eyes grow dim, my hands would clasp its last bright shred. oh, i had thought to meet you, boys, on many a well-worn field when to our starry emblem, boys, the trait'rous foe should yield. but now, alas, i am denied my dearest earthly prayer, you'll follow and you'll meet the foe, but i shall not be there." wilse hornback knew by the hush of the camp as the sound of his wonderful voice died on the far horizon that he had his laurels, too, and so he sang on while the mile square of camp went music-mad again as it sang with him-- "we are springing to the call of our brothers gone before, shouting the battle cry of freedom. and we'll fill the vacant ranks with a million freemen more. shouting the battle cry of freedom." chorus: "the union forever! hurrah, boys. hurrah; down with the traitor and up with the star, while we rally 'round the flag, boys, we'll rally once again, shouting the battle cry of freedom. we will welcome to our numbers the loyal, true and brave. shouting the battle cry of freedom, and although they may be poor, not a man shall be a slave. shouting the battle cry of freedom. so we're springing to the call from the east and from the west, shouting the battle cry of freedom, and we'll hurl the rebel crew from the land we love the best, shouting the battle cry of freedom." in the almighty hush that followed the billows of sound, some sweet-voiced fellow started annie laurie, and then sang-- "in the prison cell i sit" with grand chorus accompaniment. then wilse hornback started and hen withers joined in singing the battle hymn-- "mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the lord," and oh, god of battles! how that army of voices took up the refrain-- "glory, glory, hallelujah," and tossed and flung it back and forth from hill to hill and shore to shore till it seemed as though lee and his cohorts must have heard and quailed before the fearful prophecy and arraignment. then the "tenore robusto" and the "basso profundo" opened a regular concert program, more or less sprinkled with magnificent chorus: singing, as it was easy or difficult for the men to recall the words. you must rummage in the closets of memory for most of them! the old oaken bucket; nellie gray; anna lisle; no, ne'er can thy home be mine; tramp, tramp, tramp; we are coming, father abraham; just as i am; by cold siloam's shady rill--how those home-loving sunday school young boys did sing that! it seemed incongruous, but every now and then they dropped into these old hymn tunes, which many a mother had sung her baby to sleep with in those elder and better days. the war songs are all frazzled and torn fragments of memory now, covered with dust and oblivion, but they were great songs in and for their day. no other country ever had so many. laughter and badinage had long since ceased. flat on their backs, gazing up at the stars through the pine and hemlock boughs, the boys lay quietly smoking while the "tenore robusto" assisted by the "basso profundo" and hundreds of others sang "willie, we have missed you," "just before the battle, mother," "brave boys are they," and the "vacant chair." in a little break in the singing. hen withers sang a wonderful song, now almost forgotten. it was new to the boys then, but the bugler had heard it, and as hen's magnificent voice rolled forth its fervid words the bugle caught up the high note theme, and never did the stars sing together more entrancingly than did the "wicked mule whacker" and that bugle-- "lift up your eyes, desponding freemen. fling to the winds your needless fears. he who unfurled our beauteous banner says it shall wave a thousand years." on the glorious chorus a thousand voices took up the refrain in droning fashion that made one think of "the sound of the great amen." "a thousand years, my own columbia! tis the glad day so long foretold! 'tis the glad mom whose early twilight washington saw in times of old." by the time hen had sung all of the seven verses the whole brigade knew the refrain and roared it forth as a defiance to the southern confederacy, which took on physical vigor in the days that came after, when the th ind. went into battle to come off victorious on many a fiercely contested field. then the tenor sang that doleful, woe begone, hope effacing, heart-string-cracking "lorena." some writer has said that it sung the heart right out of the southern confederacy. "the sun's low down the sky, lorena, the snow is on the grass again." as wilse hornbeck let his splendid voice out on the mournful cadences, si felt his very heart strings snap, and even shorty drew his breath hard, while some of the men simply rolled over, and burying their faces in their arms, sobbed audibly. wilse had not counted on losing his own nerve, but found his voice breaking on the melancholy last lines, and bounding to his feet with a petulant, "oh, hang it!" "say, darkies, hab you seen de massa" came dancing up from the jubilating chords of that wonderful human music box, and soon the camp was reeling giddily with the jolly, rollicking, "or massa ran, ha! ha!! the darkies stay, ho! ho!!" then, far in the distance a bugle sounded "lights out," and the songfest was at an end; as bugler after bugler took it up, one by one the campfires blinked out, and squad after squad sank into quiet. "i feel a heap better somehow," remarked si, as he crawled under his blanket. "dogged if i hain't had a sort of uplift, too," muttered shorty, as he wrapped his blanket round his head. in the distance a tenor voice was singing as he kicked out his fire and got ready for bed-- "glory, glory, hallelujah." [updater's note: this etext refers to "autocrat of the breakfast table", by oliver wendell holmes, and "a girl of the limberlost", by gene stratton-porter. both books are in the project gutenberg collection.] moths of the limberlost a book about limberlost cabin by gene stratton-porter to neltje degraff doubleday "all diamonded with panes of quaint device, innumerable of stains, and splendid dyes, as are the tiger moth's deep damask wings." contents chapter i moths of the limberlost chapter ii moths, eggs, caterpillars, winter quarters chapter iii the robin moth chapter iv the yellow emperor chapter v the lady bird chapter vi moths of the moon chapter vii king of the hollyhocks chapter viii hera of the corn chapter ix the sweetheart and the bride chapter x the giant gamin chapter xi the garden fly chapter xii bloody-nose of sunshine hill chapter xiii the modest moth chapter xiv the pride of the lilacs chapter xv the king of the poets chapter i moths of the limberlost to me the limberlost is a word with which to conjure; a spot wherein to revel. the swamp lies in north-eastern indiana, nearly one hundred miles south of the michigan line and ten west of the ohio. in its day it covered a large area. when i arrived; there were miles of unbroken forest, lakes provided with boats for navigation, streams of running water, the roads around the edges corduroy, made by felling and sinking large trees in the muck. then the winter swamp had all the lacy exquisite beauty of such locations when snow and frost draped, while from may until october it was practically tropical jungle. from it i have sent to scientists flowers and vines not then classified and illustrated in our botanies. it was a piece of forethought to work unceasingly at that time, for soon commerce attacked the swamp and began its usual process of devastation. canadian lumbermen came seeking tall straight timber for ship masts and tough heavy trees for beams. grand rapids followed and stripped the forest of hard wood for fine furniture, and through my experience with the lumber men "freckles"' story was written. afterward hoop and stave men and local mills took the best of the soft wood. then a ditch, in reality a canal, was dredged across the north end through, my best territory, and that carried the water to the wabash river until oil men could enter the swamp. from that time the wealth they drew to the surface constantly materialized in macadamized roads, cosy homes, and big farms of unsurpassed richness, suitable for growing onions, celery, sugar beets, corn and potatoes, as repeatedly has been explained in everything i have written of the place. now, the limberlost exists only in ragged spots and patches, but so rich was it in the beginning that there is yet a wealth of work for a lifetime remaining to me in these, and river thickets. i ask no better hunting grounds for birds, moths, and flowers. the fine roads are a convenience, and settled farms a protection, to be taken into consideration, when bewailing its dismantling. it is quite true that "one man's meat is another's poison." when poor limber, lost and starving in the fastnesses of the swamp, gave to it a name, afterward to be on the lips of millions; to him it was deadly poison. to me it has been of unspeakable interest, unceasing work of joyous nature, and meat in full measure, with occasional sweetbreads by way of a treat. primarily, i went to the swamp to study and reproduce the birds. i never thought they could have a rival in my heart. but these fragile night wanderers, these moonflowers of june's darkness, literally "thrust themselves upon me." when my cameras were placed before the home of a pair of birds, the bushes parted to admit light, and clinging to them i found a creature, often having the bird's sweep of wing, of colour pale green with decorations of lavender and yellow or running the gamut from palest tans darkest browns, with markings, of pink or dozens of other irresistible combinations of colour, the feathered folk found a competitor that often outdistanced them in my affections, for i am captivated easily by colour, and beauty of form. at first, these moths made studies of exquisite beauty, i merely stopped a few seconds to reproduce them, before proceeding with my work. soon i found myself filling the waiting time, when birds were slow in coming before the cameras, when clouds obscured the light too much for fast exposures, or on grey days, by searching for moths. then in collecting abandoned nests, cocoons were found on limbs, inside stumps, among leaves when gathering nuts, or queer shining pupae-cases came to light as i lifted wild flowers in the fall. all these were carried to my little conservatory, placed in as natural conditions as possible, and studies were made from the moths that emerged the following spring. i am not sure but that "moths of limberlost cabin" would be the most appropriate title for this book. sometimes, before i had finished with them, they paired, mated, and dotted everything with fertile eggs, from which tiny caterpillars soon would emerge. it became a matter of intense interest to provide their natural foods and raise them. that started me to watching for caterpillars and eggs out of doors, and friends of my work began carrying them to me. repeatedly, i have gone through the entire life process, from mating newly emerged moths, the egg period, caterpillar life, with its complicated moults and changes, the spinning of the cocoons, the miraculous winter sleep, to the spring appearance; and with my cameras recorded each stage of development. then on platinum paper, printed so lightly from these negatives as to give only an exact reproduction of forms, and with water colour medium copied each mark, line and colour gradation in most cases from the living moth at its prime. never was the study of birds so interesting. the illustration of every moth book i ever have seen, that attempted coloured reproduction, proved by the shrivelled bodies and unnatural position of the wings, that it had been painted from objects mounted from weeks to years in private collections or museums. a lifeless moth fades rapidly under the most favourable conditions. a moth at eight days of age, in the last stages of decline, is from four to six distinct shades lighter in colour than at six hours from the cocoon, when it is dry, and ready for flight. as soon as circulation stops, and the life juices evaporate from the wings and body, the colour grows many shades paler. if exposed to light, moths soon fade almost beyond recognition. i make no claim to being an entomologist; i quite agree with the "autocrat of the breakfast table", that "the subject is too vast for any single human intelligence to grasp." if my life depended upon it i could not give the scientific name of every least organ and nerve of a moth, and as for wrestling with the thousands of tiny species of day and night or even attempting all the ramifications of--say the alluringly beautiful catocalae family--life is too short, unless devoted to this purpose alone. but if i frankly confess my limitations, and offer the book to my nature-loving friends merely as an introduction to the most exquisite creation of the swamp; and the outside history, as it were, of the evolution of these creatures from moth to moth again, surely no one can feel defrauded. since the publication of "a girl of the limberlost", i have received hundreds of letters asking me to write of my experiences with the lepidoptera of the swamp. this book professes to be nothing more. because so many enemies prey upon the large night moths in all stages, they are nowhere sufficiently numerous to be pests, or common enough to be given local names, as have the birds. i have been compelled to use their scientific names to assist in identification, and at times i have had to resort to technical terms, because there were no other. frequently i have written of them under the names by which i knew them in childhood, or that we of limberlost cabin have bestowed upon them. there is a wide gulf between a naturalist and a nature lover. a naturalist devotes his life to delving into stiff scientific problems concerning everything in nature from her greatest to her most minute forms. a nature lover works at any occupation and finds recreation in being out of doors and appreciating the common things of life as they appeal to his senses. the naturalist always begins at the beginning and traces family, sub-family, genus and species. he deals in latin and greek terms of resounding and disheartening combinations. at his hands anatomy and markings become lost in a scientific jargon of patagia, jugum, discocellulars, phagocytes, and so on to the end of the volume. for one who would be a naturalist, a rare specimen indeed, there are many volumes on the market. the list of pioneer lepidopterists begins authoritatively with linnaeus and since his time you can make your selection from the works of druce, grote, strecker, boisduval, robinson, smith, butler, fernald, beutenmuller, hicks, rothschild, hampson, stretch, lyman, or any of a dozen others. possessing such an imposing array of names there should be no necessity to add to them. these men have impaled moths and dissected, magnified and located brain, heart and nerves. after finishing the interior they have given to the most minute exterior organ from two to three inches of latin name. from them we learn that it requires a coxa, trochanter, femur, tibia, tarsus, ungues, pulvillus, and anterior, medial and posterior spurs to provide a leg for a moth. i dislike to weaken my argument that more work along these lines is not required, by recording that after all this, no one seems to have located the ears definitely. some believe hearing lies in the antennae. hicks has made an especial study of a fluid filled cavity closed by a membrane that he thinks he has demonstrated to be the seat of hearing. leydig, gerstaecker, and others believe this same organ to be olfactory. perhaps, after all, there is room for only one more doctor of science who will permanently settle this and a few other vexing questions for us. but what of the millions of nature lovers, who each year snatch only a brief time afield, for rest and recreation? what of the masses of men and women whose daily application to the work of life makes vacation study a burden, or whose business has so broken the habit of study that concentration is distasteful if not impossible? these people number in the ratio of a million to one naturalist. they would be delighted to learn the simplest name possible for the creatures they or their friends find afield, and the markings, habits, and characteristics by which they can be identified. they do not care in the least for species and minute detail concerning anatomy, couched in resounding latin and greek terms they cannot possibly remember. i never have seen or heard of any person who on being shown any one of ten of our most beautiful moths, did not consider and promptly pronounce it the most exquisite creation he ever had seen, and evince a lively interest in its history. but when he found it necessary to purchase a text-book, devoid of all human interest or literary possibility, and wade through pages of scientific dissertation, all the time having the feeling that perhaps through his lack of experience his identification was not aright, he usually preferred to remain in ignorance. it is in the belief that all nature lovers, afield for entertainment or instruction, will be thankful for a simplification of any method now existing for becoming acquainted with moths, that this book is written and illustrated. in gathering the material used i think it is quite true that i have lost as many good subjects as i have secured, in my efforts to follow the teachings of scientific writers. my complaint against them is that they neglect essential detail and are not always rightly informed. they confuse one with a flood of scientific terms describing minute anatomical parts and fail to explain the simple yet absolutely essential points over which an amateur has trouble, wheat often only a few words would suffice. for example, any one of half a dozen writers tells us that when a caterpillar finishes eating and is ready to go into winter quarters it crawls rapidly around for a time, empties the intestines, and transformation takes place. why do not some of them explain further that a caterpillar of, say, six inches in length will shrink to three, its skin become loosened, the horns drop limp, and the creature appear dead and disintegrating? because no one mentioned these things, i concluded that the first caterpillar i found in this state was lost to me and threw it away. a few words would have saved the complete history of a beautiful moth, to secure which no second opportunity was presented for five years. several works i consulted united in the simple statement that certain caterpillars pupate in the ground. in packard's "guide", you will find this--"lepidopterous pupae should be...kept moist in mould until the image appears." i followed this direction, even taking the precaution to bake the earth used, because i was very anxious about some rare moths. when they failed to emerge in season i dug them out, only to find that those not moulded had been held fast by the damp, packed earth, and all were ruined. i learned by investigation that pupation takes place in a hole worked out by the caterpillar, so earth must touch these cases only as they lie upon it. the one word 'hole' would have saved all those moths for me. one writer stated that the tongue cases of some pupae turn over and fasten on the back between the wing shields, and others were strangely silent on the subject. so for ten months i kept some cases lying on their backs with the feet up and photographed them in that position. i had to discover for myself that caterpillars that pupate in the ground change to the moth form with the feet and legs folded around the under side of the thorax, the wings wrap over them, and the tongue case bends under and is fastened between the wings. for years i could find nothing on the subject of how a moth from a burrowing caterpillar made its appearance. in two recent works i find the statement that the pupa cases come to the surface before the moths leave them, but how the operation is performed is not described or explained. pupa cases from earth consist of two principal parts: the blunt head and thorax covering, and the ringed abdominal sections. with many feeders there is a long, fragile tongue shield. the head is rounded and immovable of its own volition. the abdominal part is in rings that can be turned and twisted; on the tip are two tiny, needlesharp points, and on each of three rings of the abdominal shield there are in many cases a pair of tiny hooks, very slight projections, yet enough to be of use. some lepidopterists think the pupa works head first to the surface, pushing with the abdomen. to me this seems impossible. the more one forced the blunt head against the earth the closer it would pack, and the delicate tongue shield surely would break. there is no projection on the head that would loosen or lift the earth. one prominent lepidopterist i know, believes the moth emerges underground, and works its way to the surface as it fights to escape a cocoon. i consider this an utter impossibility. remember the earth-encrusted cicada cases you have seen clinging to the trunks of trees, after the insect has reached the surface and abandoned them. think what would happen to the delicate moth head, wings, and downy covering! i am willing to wager all i possess, that no lepidopterist, or any amateur, ever found a freshly emerged moth from an underground case with the faintest trace of soil on its head or feet, or a particle of down missing; as there unquestionably must be, if it forced its way to freedom through the damp spring earth with its mouth and feet. the point was settled for me when, while working in my garden, one came through the surface within a few inches of my fingers, working with the tip of the abdomen. it turned, twisted, dug away the dirt, fastened the abdominal tip, pulled up the head, and then bored with the tip again. later i saw several others emerge in the same way, and then made some experiments that forever convinced me that this is the only manner in which ground pupae possibly could emerge. one writer i had reason to suppose standard authority stated that caterpillars from citheronia regalis eggs emerged in sixteen days. so i boxed some eggs deposited on the eleventh, labelled them due to produce caterpillars on the twenty-seventh and put away the box to be attended on that date. having occasion to move it on the twentyfourth, i peeped in and found half my caterpillars out and starved, proving that they had been hatched at least thirty-six hours or longer; half the others so feeble they soon became inactive, and the remainder survived and pupated. but if the time specified had been allowed to elapse, every caterpillar would have starved. one of the books i read preparatory to doing this work asserts concerning spinners: "most caterpillars make some sort of cocoon or shelter, which may be of pure silk neatly wound, or of silk mixed with hair and all manner of external things--such as pieces of leaf, bark, moss, and lichen, and even grains of earth." i have had caterpillars spin by the hundred, in boxes containing most of these things, have gathered outdoor cocoons by the peck, and microscopically examined dozens of them, and with the exception of leaf, twig, bark, or some other foundation against which it was spun, i never have seen a cocoon with shred, filament, or particle of anything used in its composition that was not drawn from the spinning tube or internal organism of the caterpillar, with the possible exception of a few hairs from the tubercles. i have been told by other workers that they have had captive caterpillars use earth and excrement in their cocoons. this same work, in an article on protective colouration, lays emphasis on the statement that among pupa cases artificially fastened to different objects out of doors, "the elimination was ninety-two per cent on fences where pupae were conspicuous, as against fifty-two per cent among nettles, where they were inconspicuous." this statement is elaborated and commented upon as making a strong point for colourative protection through inconspicuousness. personally, i think the nettles did the work, regardless of colour. i have learned to much experience afield that a patch of nettles or thistles afford splendid protection to any form of life that can survive them. i have seen insects and nesting birds find a safety in their shelter, unknown to their kind that home elsewhere. the test is not fair enough to be worth consideration. if these same pupae had been as conspicuously placed as on the fence, on any edible growth, in the same location as the fence, and then left to the mercy of playing children, grazing stock, field mice, snakes, bats, birds, insects and parasites, the story of what happened to them would have been different. i doubt very seriously if it would have proved the point those lepidopterists started out to make in these conditions, which are the only fair ones under which such an experiment could be made. many people mentioned in connexion with the specimens they brought me have been more than kind in helping to collect the material this volume contains; but its publication scarcely would have been possible to me had it not been for the enthusiasm of one girl who prefers not to be mentioned and the work of a seventeen-year-old boy, raymond miller. he has been my sole helper in many difficult days of field work among the birds, and for the moths his interest reached such a pitch that he spent many hours afield in search of eggs, caterpillars, cocoons, and moths, when my work confined me to the cabin. he has carried to me many of my rarest cocoons, and found in their native haunts several moths needed to complete the book. it is to be hoped that these wonderful days afield have brought their own compensation, for kindness such as his i never can reward adequately. the book proves my indebtedness to the deacon and to molly-cotton. i also owe thanks to bob burdette black, the oldest and warmest friend of my bird work, for many fine moths and cocoons, and to professor r. r. rowley for the laborious task of scientifically criticizing this book and with unparalleled kindness lending a helping hand where an amateur stumbled. chapter ii moths, eggs, caterpillars, winter quarters if you are too fastidious to read this chapter, it will be your permanent loss, for it contains the life history, the evolution of one of the most amazingly complicated and delicately beautiful creatures in existence. there are moths that come into the world, accomplish the functions that perpetuate their kind, and go out, without having taken any nourishment. there are others that feed and live for a season. some fly in the morning, others in the glare of noon, more in the evening, and the most important class of big, exquisitely lovely ones only at night. this explains why so many people never have seen them, and it is a great pity, for the nocturnal, non-feeding moths are birdlike in size, flower-like in rare and complicated colouring, and of downy, silent wing. the moths that fly by day and feed are of the sphinginae group, celeus and carolina, or choerocampinae, which includes the exquisite deilephila lineata, and its cousins; also sphingidae, which cover the clear-winged hemaris diffinis and thysbe. among those that fly at night only and take no food are the members of what is called the attacine group, comprising our largest and commonest moth, cecropia; also its near relative gloveri, smaller than cecropia and of lovely rosy wine-colour; angulifera, the male greyish brown, the female yellowish red; promethea, the male resembling a monster mourning cloak butterfly and the female bearing exquisite red-wine flushings; cynthia, beautiful in shades of olive green, sprinkled with black, crossed by bands of pinkish lilac and bearing crescents partly yellow, the remainder transparent. there are also the deep yellow io, pale blue-green luna, and polyphemus, brown with pink bands of the saturniidae; and light yellow, red-brown and grey regalis, and lavender and yellow imperialis of the ceratocampidae, and their relatives. modest and lovely modesta belongs with the smerinthinae group; and there are others, feeders and non-feeders, forming a list too long to incorporate, for i have not mentioned the catocalae family, the fore-wings of which resemble those of several members of the sphinginae, in colour, and when they take flight, the back ones flash out colours that run the gamut from palest to deepest reds, yellows, and browns, crossed by wide circling bands of black; with these, occasionally the black so predominates that it appears as if the wing were black and the bands of other colour. all of them are so exquisitely beautiful that neither the most exacting descriptions, nor photographs from life, nor water colours faithfully copied from living subjects can do them justice. they must be seen alive, newly emerged, down intact, colours at their most brilliant shadings, to be appreciated fully. with the exception of feeding or refraining from eating, the life processes of all these are very similar. moths are divided into three parts, the head, thorax, and abdomen, with the different organs of each. the head carries the source of sight, scent, and the mouth parts, if the moth feeds, while the location of the ears is not yet settled definitely. some scientists place hearing in the antennae, others in a little organ on each side the base of the abdomen. packard writes: "the eyes are large and globose and vary in the distance apart in different families": but fails to tell what i want to know most: the range and sharpness of their vision. another writer states that the eyes are so incomplete in development that a moth only can distinguish light from darkness and cannot discern your approach at over five feet. this accords with my experience with cecropia, polyphemus, regalis, and imperialis. luna either can see better, hear acutely, or is naturally of more active habit. it is difficult to capture by hand in daytime; and promethea acts as if its vision were even clearer. this may be the case, as it flies earlier in the day than any of the others named, being almost impossible to take by hand unless it is bound to a given spot by sex attraction. unquestionably the day fliers that feed--the sphinginae and choerocampinae groups--have fairly good vision, as also the little "clear-wings" tribe, for they fly straight to the nectar-giving flowers and fruits they like best to feed upon, and it is extra good luck if you capture one by hand or even with a net. it must be remembered that all of them see and go to a bright light at night from long distances. holland writes: "the eyes of moths are often greatly developed," but makes no definite statements as to their range of vision, until he reaches the catocalae family, of which he records: "the hind wings are, however, most brilliantly coloured. in some species they are banded with pink, in others with crimson; still others have markings of yellow, orange, or snowy white on a background of jet black. these colours are distinctive of the species to a greater or less extent. they are only displayed at night. the conclusion is irresistibly forced upon us that the eyes of these creatures are capable of discriminating these colours in the darkness. we cannot do it. no human eye in the blackness of the night can distinguish red from orange or crimson from yellow. the human eye is the greatest of all anatomical marvels, and the most wonderful piece of animal mechanism in the world, but not all of power is lodged within it. there are other allied mechanisms which have the power of responding to certain forms of radiant energy to a degree which it does not possess." this conclusion is not "irresistibly forced" upon me. i do believe, know in fact, that all day-flying, feeding moths have keener sight and longer range of vision than non-feeders; but i do not believe the differing branches of the catocalae group, or moths of any family, locate each other "in the blackness of night," by seeing markings distinctly. i can think of no proof that moths, butterflies or any insects recognize or appreciate colour. male moths mate with females of their kind distinctly different from them in colour, and male butterflies pair with albinos of their species, when these differ widely from the usual colouring. a few moths are also provided with small simple eyes called ocelli; these are placed on top of the head and are so covered with down they cannot be distinguished save by experts. mueller believes that these are for the perception of objects close to a moth while the compound eyes see farther, but he does not prove it. if the moth does not feed, the mouth parts are scarcely developed. if a feeder, it has a long tongue that can be coiled in a cleft in the face between the palpi, which packard thinks were originally the feelers. this tongue is formed of two grooved parts so fastened together as to make a tube through which it takes flower and fruit nectar and the juices of decaying animal matter. what are thought by some to be small organs of touch lie on either side the face, but the exact use of these is yet under discussion, it is wofully difficult to learn some of these things. in my experience the antennae, are the most sensitive, and therefore the most important organs of the head--to me. in the attacine group these stand out like delicately cut tiny fern fronds or feathers, always being broader and more prominent on the male. other families are very similar and again they differ widely. you will find moths having pointed hair-like antennae; others heaviest at the tip in club shape, or they may be of even proportion but flat, or round, or a feathered shaft so fine as to be unnoticed as it lies pressed against the face. some writers say the antennae are the seat of scent, touch, and hearing. i had not thought nature so impoverished in evolving her forms as to overwork one delicate little organ for three distinct purposes. the antennae are situated close where the nose is, in almost every form of life, and i would prefer to believe that they are the organs of scent and feeling. i know a moth suffers most over any injury to them; but one takes flight no quicker or more precipitately at a touch on the antennae than on the head, wing, leg, or abdomen. we are safe in laying down a law that antennae are homologous organs and used for identical purposes on all forms of life carrying them. the short antennae of grasshoppers appear to be organs of scent. the long hair-fine ones of katydids and crickets may be also, but repeatedly i have seen these used to explore the way ahead over leaves and limbs, the insect feeling its path and stepping where a touch assures it there is safe footing. katydids, crickets, and grasshoppers all have antennae, and all of these have ears definitely located; hence their feelers are not for auricular purposes. according to my logic those of the moth cannot be either. i am quite sure that primarily they serve the purpose of a nose, as they are too short in most cases to be of much use as 'feelers,' although that is undoubtedly their secondary office. if this be true, it explains the larger organs ofthe male. the female emerges from winter quarters so weighted with carrying from two to six hundred eggs, that she usually remains and develops where she is. this throws the business of finding her location on the male. he is compelled to take wing and hunt until he discovers her; hence his need of more acute sense of scent and touch. the organ that is used most is the one that develops in the evolution of any form of life. i can well believe that the antennae are most important to a moth, for a broken one means a spoiled study for me. it starts the moth tremulously shivering, aimlessly beating, crazy, in fact, and there is no hope of it posing for a picture. doctor clemens records that cecropia could neither, walk nor fly, but wheeled in a senseless, manner when deprived of its antennae. this makes me sure that they are the seat of highest sensibility, for i have known in one or two cases of chloroformed moths reviving and without struggle or apparent discomfort, depositing eggs in a circle around them, while impaled to a setting board with a pin thrust through the thorax where it of necessity must have passed through or very close the nervous cord and heart. the moth is covered completely with silken down like tiny scales, coloured and marked according to species, and so lightly attached that it adheres to the cocoon on emergence and clings to the fingers at the lightest touch. from the examination of specimens i have taken that had disfigured themselves, it appears that a moth rubbed bare of down would seem as if covered with thinly cut, highly polished horn, fastened together in divisions. this is called 'chitine' by scientists. the thorax bears four wings, and six legs, each having five joints and ending in tiny claws. the wings are many-veined membranous sacs, covered with scales that are coloured according to species and arranged to form characteristic family markings. they are a framework usually of twelve hollow tubes or veins that are so connected with the respiratory organs as to be pneumatic. these tubes support double membranes covered above and below with down. at the bases of the wings lie their nerves. the fore-wings each have a heavy rib running from the base and gradually decreasing to the tip. this is called the costa. its purpose is to bear the brunt of air-pressure in flight. on account of being compelled to fly so much more than the females, the back wings of the males of many species have developed a secondary rib that fits under and supports the front, also causing both to work together with the same impulse to flight. a stiff bunch of bristles serves the same purpose in most females, while some have a lobe extending from the fore-wing. as long as the costa remains unbroken to preserve balance, a moth that has become entangled in bushes or suffered rough treatment from birds can fly with badly damaged wing surfaces. in some species, notably the attacine group and all non-feeding, night-flying moths, the legs are short, closely covered with long down of the most delicate colours of the moth, and sometimes decorated with different shades. luna has beautiful lavender legs, imperialis yellow, and regalis red-brown. the day-flying, feeding group have longer, slenderer legs, covered with shorter down, and carry more elaborate markings. this provision is to enable them to cling firmly to flower or twig while feeding, to help them to lift the body higher, and walk dextrously in searching for food. it is also noticeable that these moths have, for their size, comparatively much longer, slenderer wings than the non-feeders, and they can turn them back and fold them together in the fly position, thus enabling them to force their way into nectar-bearing flowers of trumpet shape. the abdomen is velvet soft to the touch, and divided into rings called segments, these being so joined that this member can be turned and twisted at will. in all cases the last ring contains the sex organs. the large abdomen of the female carries several hundred embryo eggs, and that of the male the seminal fluid. much has been written of moths being able to produce odours that attract the sexes, and that are so objectionable as to protect them from birds, mice, and bats. some believe there are scent glands in a few species under the wing scales. i have critically examined scores of wings as to colour markings, but never noticed or smelled these. on some, tufts of bristlelike hairs can be thrust out, that give a discernible odour; but that this carries any distance or is a large factor in attracting the sexes i do not believe so firmly, after years of practical experience, as i did in the days when i had most of my moth history from books. i have seen this theory confounded so often in practice. in june of , close six o'clock in the evening, i sat on the front veranda of the cabin, in company with my family, and watched three moths sail past us and around the corner, before i remembered that on the screen of the music-room window to the east there was a solitary female promethea moth, that day emerged from a cocoon sent me by professor rowley. i hurried to the room and found five male moths fluttering before the screen or clinging to the wild grape and sweet brier vines covering it. i opened the adjoining window and picked up three of the handsomest with my fingers, placing them inside the screen. then i returned to the veranda. moths kept coming. we began studying the conditions. the female had emerged in the diningroom on the west side of the cabin. on account of the intense heat of the afternoon sun, that side of the building had been tightly closed all day. at four o'clock the moth was placed on the east window, because it was sheltered with vines. how soon the first male found her, i do not know. there was quite a stiff evening breeze blowing from the west, so that any odour from her would have been carried on east. we sat there and watched and counted six more moths, every one of which came down wind from the west, flying high, above the treetops in fact, and from the direction of a little tree-filled plot called studabaker's woods. some of them we could distinguish almost a block away coming straight toward the cabin, and sailing around the eastern corner with the precision of hounds on a hot trail. how they knew, the almighty knows; i do not pretend to; but that there was odour distilled by that one female, practically imperceptible to us (she merely smelled like a moth), yet of such strength as to penetrate screen, vines, and roses and reach her kind a block away, against considerable breeze, i never shall believe. the fact is, that moths smell like other moths of the same species, and within a reasonable radius they undoubtedly attract each other. in the same manner birds carry a birdlike odour, and snakes, frogs, fish, bees, and all animals have a scent peculiar to themselves. no dog mistakes the odour of a cat for that of another dog. a cow does not follow the scent of horses to find other cattle. no moth hunts a dragon-fly, a butterfly, or in my experience, even a moth of another species in its search for a mate. how male moths work the miracles i have seen them accomplish in locating females, i cannot explain. as the result of acts we see them perform, we credit some forms of life with much keener scent than others, and many with having the power more highly developed than people. the only standard by which we can determine the effect that the odour of one insect, bird, or animal has upon another is by the effect it has upon us. that a male moth can smell a female a block away, against the wind, when i can detect only a faint musky odour within a foot of her, i do not credit. primarily the business of moths is to meet, mate, and deposit eggs that will produce more moths. this is all of life with those that do not take food. that they add the completing touch and most beautiful form of life to a few exquisite may and june nights is their extra good fortune, not any part of the affair of living. with moths that feed and live after reproduction, mating and egg placing comes first. in all cases the rule is much, the same. the moths emerge, dry their wings, and reach full development the first day. in freedom, the females being weighted with eggs seldom attempt to fly. they remain where they are, thrust out the egg placer from the last ring of the abdomen and wait. by ten o'clock the males, in such numbers as to amaze a watcher, find them and remain until almost morning. broad antennae, slenderer abdomen, and the claspers used in holding the female in mating, smaller wings and more brilliant markings are the signs by which the male can be told in most cases. in several of the attacine group, notably promethea, the male and female differ widely in markings and colour. among the other non-feeders the difference is slight. the male regalis has the longest, most gracefully curved abdomen and the most prominent claspers of any moth i ever examined; but the antennae are so delicate and closely pressed against the face most of the time as to be concealed until especially examined. i have noticed that among the moths bearing large, outstanding antennae, the claspers are less prominent than with those having small, inconspicuous head parts. a fine pair of antennae, carried forward as by a big, fully developed cecropia, are as ornamental to the moth as splendidly branching antlers are to the head of a deer. the female now begins egg placing. this requires time, as one of these big night moths deposits from three hundred and fifty to over six hundred eggs. these lie in embryonic state in the abdomen of the female. at her maturity they ripen rapidly. when they are ready to deposit, she is forced to place them whether she has mated or not. in case a mate has found her, a small pouch near the end of her abdomen is filled with a fluid that touches each egg in passing and renders it fertile. the eggs differ with species and are placed according to family characteristics. they may be pure white, pearl-coloured, grey, greenish, or yellow. there are round, flat, and oblong eggs. these are placed differently in freedom and captivity. a moth in a natural location glues her eggs, often one at a time, on the under or upper side of leaves. sometimes she dots several in a row, or again makes a number of rows, like a little beaded mat. one authority i have consulted states that "the eggs are always laid by the female in a state of freedom upon the food-plant which is most congenial to the larvae." this has not 'always' been the case in my experience. i have found eggs on stone walls, boards, fences, outbuildings, and on the bark of dead trees and stumps as well as living, even on the ground. this also, has been the case with the women who wrote "caterpillars and their moths", the most invaluable work on the subject ever compiled. a captive moth feels and resents her limitations. i cannot force one to mate even in a large box. i must free her in the conservatory, in a room, or put her on an outside window br door screen. under these conditions one will place her eggs more nearly as in freedom; but this makes them difficult to find and preserve. placed in a box and forced by nature to deposit her eggs, as a rule, she will remain in one spot and heap them up until she is forced to move to make room for more. one big female regalis of the last chapter of this book placed them a thimbleful at a time; but the little caterpillars came rolling out in all directions when due. in my experience, they finish in four or five nights, although i have read of moths having lived and placed eggs for ten, some species being said to have deposited over a thousand. seven days is usually the limit of life for these big night moths with me; they merely grow inactive and sluggish until the very last, when almost invariably they are seized with a muscular attack, in which they beat themselves to rags and fringes, as if resisting the overcoming lethargy. it is because of this that i have been forced to resort to the gasoline bottle a few times when i found it impossible to paint from the living moth; but i do not put one to sleep unless i am compelled. i never have been able to induce a female to mate after confinement had driven her to begin depositing her eggs, not even under the most favourable conditions i could offer, although others record that they have been so fortunate. repeatedly i have experimented with males and females of different species, but with no success. i have not seem a polygamous moth; but have read of experiences with them. sometimes the eggs have a smooth surface, again they may be ridged or like hammered brass or silver. the shells are very thin and break easily. at one side a place can be detected where the fertilizing fluid enters. the coming caterpillar begins to develop at once and emerges in from six to thirty days, with the exception of a few eggs placed in the fall that produce during the following spring. the length of the egg period differs with species and somewhat with the same moths, according to suitable or unfavourable placing, and climatic conditions. do not accept the experience of any one if you have eggs you very much desire to be productive of the caterpillars of rare moths; after six days take a peep every day if you would be on the safe side. with many species the shells are transparent, and for the last few days before emergence the growth of the little caterpillars can be watched through them. when matured they break or eat a hole in their shells and emerge, seeming much too large for the space they occupied. family characteristics show at once. many of them immediately turn and eat their shells as if starving; others are more deliberate. some grace around for a time as if exercising and then return and eat their shells; others walk briskly away and do not dine on shell for the first meal. usually all of them rest close twenty-four hours before beginning on leaves. once they commence feeding in favourable conditions they eat enormously and grow so rapidly they soon become too large for their skins to hold them another instant; so they pause and stop eating for a day or two while new skin forms. then the old is discarded and eaten for a first meal, with the exception of the face covering. at the same time the outer skin is cast the intestinal lining is thrown off, and practically a new caterpillar, often bearing different markings, begins to feed again. these moults occur from four to six times in the development of the caterpillar; at each it emerges larger, brighter, often with other changes of colour, and eats more voraciously as it grows. with me, in handling caterpillars about which i am anxious, their moulting time is critical. i lost many until i learned to clean their boxes thoroughly the instant they stopped eating and leave them alone until they exhibited hunger signs again. they eat greedily of the leaves preferred by each species, doing best when the foliage is washed and drops of water left for them to drink as they would find dew and rain out of doors. professor thomson, of the chair of natural history of the university of aberdeen, makes this statement in his "biology of the seasons", "another feature in the life of caterpillars is their enormous appetite. some of them seem never to stop eating, and a species of polyphemus is said to eat eighty-six thousand times its own weight in a day." i notice doctor thomson does not say that he knows this, but uses the convenient phrase, "it is said." this is an utter impossibility. the skin of no living creature will contain eighty-six thousand times its own weight in a day. i have raised enough caterpillars to know that if one ate three times its own weight in a day it would have performed a skin-stretching feat. long after writing this, but before the manuscript left my hands, i found that the origin of this statement lies in a table compiled by trouvelot, in which he estimates that a polyphemus caterpillar ten days old weighs one half grain, or ten times its original weight; at twenty days three grains, or sixty times its first weight; and so on until at fifty-six days it weighs two hundred and seven grains, or four thousand one hundred and forty times its first weight. to this he adds one half ounce of water and concludes: "so the food taken by a single silkworm in fifty-six days equals in weight eighty-six thousand times the primitive weight of the worm." this is a far cry from eating eighty-six thousand times its own weight in a day and upholds in part my contention in the first chapter, that people attempting to write upon these subjects "are not always rightly informed." when the feeding period is finished in freedom, the caterpillar, if hairless, must be ready to evolve from its interior, the principal part of the winter quarters characteristic of its species while changing to the moth form, and in the case of non-feeders, sustenance for the lifetime of the moth also. similar to the moth, the caterpillar is made up of three parts, head, thorax, and abdomen, with the organs and appendages of each. immediately after moulting the head appears very large, and seems much too heavy for the size of the body. at the end of a feeding period and just previous to another moult the body has grown until the head is almost lost from sight, and it now seems small and insignificant; so that the appearance of a caterpillar depends on whether you examine it before or after moulting. the head is made up of rings or segments, the same as the body, but they are so closely set that it seems to be a flat, round, or pointed formation with discernible rings on the face before casting time. the eyes are of so simple form that they are supposed only to distinguish light from darkness. the complicated mouth is at the lower part of the head. it carries a heavy pair of cutters with which the caterpillar bites off large pieces of leaf, a first pair of grinders with which it macerates the food, and a second pair that join in forming the under lip. there is also the tube that connects with the silk glands and ends in the spinneret. through this tube a fluid is forced that by movements of the head the caterpillar attaches where it will and draws into fine threads that at once harden in silk. this organism is sufficiently developed for use in a newly emerged caterpillar, for it can spin threads by which to drop from leaf to leaf or to guide it back to a starting point. the thorax is covered by the first three rings behind the head, and on it are six legs, two on each segment. the remainder of the caterpillar is abdominal and carries small pro-legs with which to help it cling to twigs and leaves, and the heavy anal props that support the vent. by using these and several of the pro-legs immediately before them, the caterpillar can cling and erect the front part of the body so that it can strike from side to side when disturbed. in the case of caterpillars that have a horn, as celeus, or sets of them as regalis, in this attitude they really appear quite formidable, and often i have seen them drive away small birds, while many people flee shrieking. there are little tubes that carry air to the trachea, as caterpillars have no lungs and can live with a very small amount of air. the skin may be rough, granulated, or soft and fine as silk, and in almost every instance of exquisite colour: bluish green, greenish blue, wonderful yellows and from pale to deep wine red, many species having oblique touches of contrasting colours on the abdominal rings. others are marked with small projections of bright colours from which tufts of hair or bristles may grow. in some, as io, these bristles are charged with an irritating acid that will sting for an hour after coming in contact with the skin, but does no permanent injury. on a few there are what seem to be small pockets of acid that can be ejected with a jerk, and on some a sort of filament that is supposed to distil a disagreeable odour. as the caterpillar only uses these when disturbed, it is safe to presume that they are placed for defence, but as in the case of moths i doubt their efficacy. some lepidopterists have thought the sex of a moth could be regulated by the amount of food given the caterpillar; but with my numerous other doubts i include this. it is all of a piece with any attempt at sex regulation. i regard it as morally certain that sex goes back to the ovary and that the egg produced yields a male or female caterpillar in the beginning. i am becoming convinced that caterpillars recognize sex in each other, basing the theory on the facts that in half a dozen instances i have found cocoons, spun only a few inches apart. one pair brought to me as interwoven. two of these are shown in the following chapter. in all cases a male and female emerged within a few minutes of each other and mated as soon as possible. if a single pair of these cocoons ever had produced two of a kind, it would give rise to doubts. when all of them proved to be male and female that paired, it seems to me to furnish conclusive evidence that the caterpillars knew what they were doing, and spun in the same place for the purpose of appearing together. at maturity, usually near five weeks, the full-fed caterpillar rests a day, empties the intestines, and races around searching for a suitable place to locate winter quarters. with burrowing caterpillars that winter in pupa cases, soft earth or rotting wood is found and entered by working their way with the heads and closing it with the hind parts. at the desired depth they push in all directions with such force that a hollow larger, but shaped as a hen's egg, is worked out; usually this is six or more inches below the surface. so compactly is the earth forced back, that fall rains, winter's alternate freezing and thawing, always a mellowing process, and spring downpours do not break up the big ball, often larger than a quart bowl, that surrounds the case of the pupa. it has been thought by some and recorded, that this ball is held in place by spinning or an acid ejected by the caterpillar. i never have heard of any one else who has had my luck in lifting these earth balls intact, opening, and photographing them and their contents. i have examined them repeatedly and carefully. i can find not the slightest trace of spinning or adhesion other than by force. with one of these balls lifted and divided, we decided what happened underground by detaining a caterpillar on the surface and forcing it to transform before us, for this change is not optional. when the time comes the pupa must evolve. so the caterpillar lies on the earth, gradually growing shorter, the skin appearing dry and the horns drooping. there never is a trace of spinning or acid ejected in the sand buckets. when the change is completed there begins a violent twisting and squirming. the caterpillar skin opens in a straight line just behind the head on the back, and by working with the pointed abdomen the pupa case emerges. the cast skin rapidly darkens, and as i never have found a trace of it in an opened earth ball in the spring, i suppose it disintegrates rapidly, or what is more possible, is eaten by small borers that swarm through the top six inches of the earth's crust. the pupa is thickly coated with a sticky substance that seems to serve the double purpose of facilitating its exit from the caterpillar skin and to dry over it in a glossy waterproof coating. at first the pupa is brownish green and flattened, but as it dries it rapidly darkens in colour and assumes the shape of a perfect specimen. concerning this stage of the evolution of a moth the doctors disagree. the emergence i have watched repeatedly, studied photographically, and recorded in the tabulated records from which i wrote the following life histories. at time to appear i believe the pupa bores its way with the sharp point of the abdomen; at least i have seen celeus, and carolina, regalis and imperialis coming through the surface, abdomen tip first. once free, they press with the feet against the wing shields, burst them away and leave the case at the thorax. each moth i ever have seen emerge has been wet and the empty case damp inside. i have poured three large drops of pinkish liquid the consistency of thin cream from the abdominal rings of a regalis case. undoubtedly this liquid is ejected by the moth to enable it to break loose from and leave the case with its delicate down intact. the furry scales of its covering are so loosely set that any violent struggle with dry down would disfigure the moth. among cecropia and its attacine cousins, also luna, polyphemus, and all other spinners the process is practically the same, save that it is much more elaborate; most of all with cecropia, that spins the largest cocoon i ever have seen, and it varies its work more than any of the others. lengthwise of a slender twig it spins a long, slim cocoon; on a board or wall, roomier and wider at the bottom, and inside hollow trees, and under bridges, big baggy quarters of exquisite reddish tan colours that do not fade as do those exposed to the weather. the typical cocoon of the species is that spun on a fence or outbuilding, not the slender work on the alders or the elaborate quarters of the bridge. on a board the process is to cover the space required with a fine spinning that glues firmly to the wood. then the worker takes a firm grip with the anal props and lateral feet and begins drawing out long threads that start at the top, reach down one side, across the bottom and back to the top again, where each thread is cut and another begun. as long as the caterpillar can be seen through its work, it remains in the same position and throws the head back and around to carry the threads. i never thought of counting these movements while watching a working spinner, but some one who has, estimates that polyphemus, that spins a cocoon not one fourth the size of cecropia, moves the head a quarter of a million times in guiding the silk thread. when a thin webbing is spun and securely attached all around the edges it is pushed out in the middle and gummed all over the inside with a liquid glue that oozes through, coalesces and hardens in a waterproof covering. then a big nest of crinkly silk threads averaging from three to four inches in length are spun, running from the top down one side, up the other, and the cut ends drawn closely together. one writer states that this silk has no commercial value; while packard thinks it has. i attach greater weight to his opinion. next comes the inner case. for this the caterpillar loosens its hold and completely surrounds itself with a small case of compact work. this in turn is saturated with the glue and forms in a thick, tough case, rough on the outside, the top not so solidly spun as the other walls; inside dark brown and worn so smooth it seems as if oiled, from the turning of the caterpillar. in this little chamber close the length and circumference of an average sized woman's two top joints of the first finger, the caterpillar transforms to the pupa stage, crowding its cast skin in a wad at the bottom. at time for emergence the moth bursts the pupa case, which is extremely thin and papery compared with the cases of burrowing species. we know by the wet moth that liquid is ejected, although we cannot see the wet spot on the top of the inner case of cecropia as we can with polyphemus, that does not spin the loose outer case and silk nest. from here on the moths emerge according to species. some work with their mouths and fore feet. some have rough projections on the top of the head, and others little sawlike arrangements at the bases of the wings. in whatever manner they free themselves, all of them are wet when they leave their quarters. sometimes the gathered silk ends comb sufficient down from an emerging cecropia to leave a terra cotta rim around the opening from which it came; but i never saw one lose enough at this time to disfigure it. on very rare occasions a deformed moth appears. i had a cecropia with one wing no larger than my thumb nail, and it never developed. this is caused by the moth sustaining an injury to the wing in emergence. if the membrane is slightly punctured the liquid forced into the wing for its development escapes and there is no enlargement. also, in rare instances, a moth is unable to escape at all and is lost if it is not assisted; but this is precarious business and should not be attempted unless you are positive the moth will die if you do not interfere. the struggle it takes to emerge is a part of the life process of the moth and quickens its circulation and develops its strength for the affairs of life afterward. if the feet have a steady pull to drag forth the body, they will be strong enough to bear its weight while the wings dry and develop. all lepidopterists mention the wet condition of the moths when they emerge. some explain that an acid is ejected to soften the pupa case so that the moth can cut its way out; others go a step farther and state that the acid is from the mouth. i am extremely curious about this. i want to know just what this acid is and where it comes from. i know of no part of the thorax provided with a receptacle for the amount of liquid used to flood a case, dampen a moth, and leave several drops in the shell. as soon as a moth can find a suitable place to cling after it is out, it hangs by the feet and dries the wings and down. long before it is dry if you try to move a moth or cause disturbance, it will eject several copious jets of a spray from the abdomen that appears, smells and tastes precisely like the liquid found in the abandoned case. if protected from the lightest touch it will do the same. it appeals to me that this liquid is abdominal, partly thrown off to assist the moth in emergence; something very like that bath of birth which accompanies and facilitates human entrance into the world. it helps the struggling moth in separating from the case, wets the down so that it will pass the small opening, reduces the large abdomen so that it will escape the exit, and softens the case and silk where the moth is working. with either male or female the increase in size is so rapid that neither could be returned to their cases five minutes after they have left them. it is generally supposed that the spray thrown by a developing moth is for the purpose of attracting others of its kind. i have my doubts. with moths that have been sheltered and not even touched by a breath of wind, this spray is thrown very frequently before the moth is entirely dry, long before it is able to fly and before the ovipositor is thrust out. according to my sense of smell there is very little odour to the spray and what there is would be dissipated hours before night and time for the moths to fly and seek mates. i do not think that the spray thrown so soon after escape from cocoon or case is to attract the sexes, any farther than that much of it in one place on something that it would saturate might leave a general 'mothy' odour. some lepidopterists think this spray a means of defence; if this is true i fail to see why it should be thrown when there is nothing disturbing the moth. many of the spinning moths use leaves for their outer foundation. some appear as if snugly rolled in a leaf and hanging from a twig, but examination will prove that the stem is silk covered to hold the case when the leaf loosens. this is the rule with all promethea cocoons i ever have seen. polyphemus selects a cluster of leaves very frequently thorn, and weaves its cocoon against three, drawing them together and spinning a support the length of the stems, so that when the leaf is ready to fall the cocoon is safely anchored. when the winter winds have beaten the edges from the leaves, the cocoon appears as if it were brown, having three ribs with veins running from them, and of triangular shape. angulifera spins against the leaves but provides no support and so drops to the ground. luna spins a comparatively thin white case, among the leaves under the shelter of logs and stumps. io spins so slightly in confinement that the pupa case and cast skin show through. i never have found a pupa out of doors, but this is a ground caterpillar. sometimes the caterpillar has been stung and bad an egg placed in its skin by a parasite, before pupation. in such case the pupa is destroyed by the developing fly. throughout one winter i was puzzled by the light weight of what appeared to be a good polyphemus cocoon, and at time for emergence amazed by the tearing and scratching inside the cocoon, until what i think was an ophion fly appeared. it was honey yellow, had antennae long as its extremely long body, the abdomen of which was curved and the segments set together so as to appear notched. the wings were transparent and the insect it seems is especially designed to attack polyphemus caterpillars and help check a progress that otherwise might become devastating. among the moths that do not feed, the year of their evolution is divided into about seven days for the life of the moth, from fifteen to thirty for the eggs, from five to six weeks for the caterpillar and the remainder of the time in the pupa stage. the rule differs with feeding moths only in that after mating and egg placing they take food and live several months, often until quite heavy frosts have fallen. one can admire to fullest extent the complicated organism, wondrous colouring, and miraculous life processes in the evolution of a moth, but that is all. their faces express nothing; their attitudes tell no story. there is the marvellous instinct through which the males locate the opposite sex of their species; but one cannot see instinct in the face of any creature; it must develop in acts. there is no part of their lives that makes such pictures of mother-love as birds and animals afford. the male finds a mate and disappears. the female places her eggs and goes out before her caterpillars break their shells. the caterpillar transforms to the moth without its consent, the matter in one upbuilding the other. the entire process is utterly devoid of sentiment, attachment or volition on the part of the creatures involved. they work out a law as inevitable as that which swings suns, moons, and planets in their courses. they are the most fragile and beautiful result of natural law with which i am acquainted. chapter iii the robin moth: cecropia when only a little child, wandering alone among the fruits and flowers of our country garden, on a dead peach limb beside the fence i found it--my first cecropia. i was the friend of every bird, flower, and butterfly. i carried crumbs to the warblers in the sweetbrier; was lifted for surreptitious peeps at the hummingbird nesting in the honeysuckle; sat within a few feet of the robin in the catalpa; bugged the currant bushes for the phoebe that had built for years under the roof of the corn bin; and fed young blackbirds in the hemlock with worms gathered from the cabbages. i knew how to insinuate myself into the private life of each bird that homed on our farm, and they were many, for we valiantly battled for their protection with every kind of intruder. there were wrens in the knot holes, chippies in the fences, thrushes in the brush heaps, bluebirds in the hollow apple trees, cardinals in the bushes, tanagers in the saplings, fly-catchers in the trees, larks in the wheat, bobolinks in the clover, killdeers beside the creeks, swallows in the chimneys, and martins under the barn eaves. my love encompassed all feathered and furred creatures. every day visits were paid flowers i cared for most. i had been taught not to break the garden blooms, and if a very few of the wild ones were taken, i gathered them carefully, and explained to the plants that i wanted them for my mother because she was so ill she could not come to them any more, and only a few touching her lips or lying on her pillow helped her to rest, and made vivid the fields and woods when the pain was severe. my love for the butterflies took on the form of adoration. there was not a delicate, gaudy, winged creature of day that did not make so strong an appeal to my heart as to be almost painful. it seemed to me that the most exquisite thoughts of god for our pleasure were materialized in their beauty. my soul always craved colour, and more brilliancy could be found on one butterfly wing than on many flower faces. i liked to slip along the bloom-bordered walks of that garden and stand spell-bound, watching a black velvet butterfly, which trailed wings painted in white, red, and green, as it clambered over a clump of sweet-williams, and indeed, the flowers appeared plain compared with it! butterflies have changed their habits since then. they fly so high! they are all among the treetops now. they used to flit around the cinnamon pinks, larkspur, ragged-robins and tiger lilies, within easy reach of little fingers, every day. i called them 'flying flowers,' and it was a pretty conceit, for they really were more delicate in texture and brighter in colouring than the garden blooms. having been taught that god created the heavens, earth and all things therein, i understood it to mean a literal creation of each separate thing and creature, as when my father cut down a tree and hewed it into a beam. i would spend hours sitting so immovably among the flowers of our garden that the butterflies would mistake me for a plant and alight on my head and hands, while i strove to conceive the greatness of a being who could devise and colour all those different butterfly wings. i would try to decide whether he created the birds, flowers, or butterflies first; ultimately coming to the conclusion that he put his most exquisite material into the butterflies, and then did the best he could with what remained, on the birds and flowers. in my home there was a cellar window on the south, covered with wire screening, that was my individual property. father placed a box beneath it so that i could reach the sill easily, and there were very few butterflies or insects common to eastern north america a specimen of which had not spent some days on that screen, feasted on leaves and flowers, drunk from saucers of sweetened water, been admired and studied in minutest detail, and then set free to enjoy life as before. with whitman, "i never was possessed with a mania for killing things." i had no idea of what families they were, and i supplied my own names. the monarch was the brown velvet; the viceroy was his cousin; the argynnis was the silver spotted; and the papilio ajax was the ribbon butterfly, in my category. there was some thought of naming ajax, dolly varden; but on close inspection it seemed most to resemble the gayly striped ribbons my sisters wore. i was far afield as to names, but in later years with only a glance at any specimen i could say, "oh, yes! i always have known that. it has buff-coloured legs, clubbed antennae with buff tips, wings of purplish brown velvet with escalloped margins, a deep band of buff lightly traced with black bordering them, and a pronounced point close the apex of the front pair. when it came to books, all they had to teach me were the names. i had captured and studied butterflies, big, little, and with every conceivable variety of marking, until it was seldom one was found whose least peculiarity was not familiar to me as my own face; but what could this be? it clung to the rough bark, slowly opening and closing large wings of grey velvet down, margined with bands made of shades of grey, tan, and black; banded with a broad stripe of red terra cotta colour with an inside margin of white, widest on the back pair. both pairs of wings were decorated with half-moons of white, outlined in black and strongly flushed with terra cotta; the front pair near the outer margin had oval markings of blue-black, shaded with grey, outlined with half circles of white, and secondary circles of black. when the wings were raised i could see a face of terra cotta, with small eyes, a broad band of white across the forehead, and an abdomen of terra cotta banded with snowy white above, and spotted with white beneath. its legs were hairy, and the antennae antlered like small branching ferns. of course i thought it was a butterfly, and for a time was too filled with wonder to move. then creeping close, the next time the wings were raised above its body, with the nerveless touch of a robust child i captured it. i was ten miles from home, but i had spent all my life until the last year on that farm, and i knew and loved every foot of it. to leave it for a city home and the confinement of school almost had broken my heart, but it really was time for me to be having some formal education. it had been the greatest possible treat to be allowed to return to the country for a week, but now my one idea was to go home with my treasure. none of my people had seen a sight like that. if they had, they would have told me. borrowing a two-gallon stone jar from the tenant's wife, i searched the garden for flowers sufficiently rare for lining. nothing so pleased me as some gorgeous deep red peony blooms. never having been allowed to break the flowers when that was my mother's home, i did not think of doing it because she was not there to know. i knelt and gathered all the fallen petals that were fresh, and then spreading my apron on the ground, jarred the plant, not harder than a light wind might, and all that fell in this manner it seemed right to take. the selection was very pleasing, for the yellow glaze of the jar, the rich red of the petals, and the grey velvet of my prize made a picture over which i stood trembling in delight. the moth was promptly christened the half-luna, because my father had taught me that luna was the moon, and the half moons on the wings were its most prominent markings. the tenant's wife wanted me to put it in a pasteboard box, but i stubbornly insisted on having the jar, why, i do not know, but i suppose it was because my father's word was gospel to me, and he had said that the best place to keep my specimens was the cellar window, and i must have thought the jar the nearest equivalent to the cellar. the half-luna did not mind in the least, but went on lazily opening and closing its wings, yet making no attempt to fly. if i had known what it was, or anything of its condition, i would have understood that it had emerged from the cocoon that morning, and never had flown, but was establishing circulation preparatory to taking wing. being only a small, very ignorant girl, the greatest thing i knew for sure was what i loved. tying my sunbonnet over the top of the jar, i stationed myself on the horse block at the front gate. every passing team was hailed with lifted hand, just as i had seen my father do, and in as perfect an imitation of his voice as a scared little girl making her first venture alone in the big world could muster, i asked, "which way, friend?" for several long, hot hours people went to every point of the compass, but at last a bony young farmer, with a fat wife, and a fatter baby, in a big wagon, were going to my city, and they said i might ride. with quaking heart i handed up my jar, and climbed in, covering all those ten miles in the june sunshine, on a board laid across e wagon bed, tightly clasping the two-gallon jar in my aching arms. the farmer's wife was quite concerned about me. she asked if i had butter, and i said, "yes, the kind that flies." i slipped the bonnet enough to let them peep. she did not seem to think much of it, but the farmer laughed until his tanned face was red as an indian's. his wife insisted on me putting down the jar, and offered to set her foot on it so that it would not 'jounce' much, but i did not propose to risk it 'jouncing' at all, and clung to it persistently. then she offered to tie her apron over the top of the jar if i would put my bonnet on my head, but i was afraid to attempt the exchange for fear my butterfly would try to escape, and i might crush it, a thing i almost never had allowed to happen. the farmer's wife stuck her elbow into his ribs, and said, "how's that for the queerest spec'men ye ever see?" the farmer answered, "i never saw nothin' like it before." then she said, "aw pshaw! i didn't mean in the jar!" then they both laughed. i thought they were amused at me, but i had no intention of risking an injury to my half-luna, for there had been one black day on which i had such a terrible experience that it entailed a lifetime of caution. i had captured what i afterward learned was an asterias, that seemed slightly different from any previous specimen, and a yellow swallow-tail, my first papilio turnus. the yellow one was the largest, most beautiful butterfly i ever had seen. i was carrying them, one between each thumb and forefinger, and running with all possible speed to reach the screen before my touch could soil the down on their exquisite wings. i stumbled, and fell, so suddenly, there was no time to release them. the black one sailed away with a ragged wing, and the yellow was crushed into a shapeless mass in my hand. i was accustomed to falling off fences, from trees, and into the creek, and because my mother was an invalid i had learned to doctor my own bruises and uncomplainingly go my way. my reputation was that of a very brave little girl; but when i opened my hand and saw that broken butterfly, and my down-painted fingers, i was never more afraid in my life. i screamed aloud in panic, and ran for my mother with all my might. heartbroken, i could not control my voice to explain as i threw myself on her couch, and before i knew what they were doing, i was surrounded by sisters and the cook with hot water, bandages and camphor. my mother clasped me in her arms, and rocked me on her breast. "there, there, my poor child," she said, "i know it hurts dreadfully!" and to the cook she commanded, "pour on camphor quickly! she is half killed, or she never would come to me like this." i found my voice. "camphor won't do any good," i wailed. "it was the most beautiful butterfly, and i've broken it all to pieces. it must have taken god hours studying how to make it different from all the others, and i know he never will forgive me!" i began sobbing worse than ever. the cook on her knees before me sat on her heels suddenly. "great heavens! she's screechin' about breakin' a butterfly, and not her poor fut, at all!" then i looked down and discovered that i had stubbed my toe in falling, and had left a bloody trail behind me. "of course i am!" i sobbed indignantly. "couldn't i wash off a little blood in the creek, and tie up my toe with a dock leaf and some grass? i've killed the most beautiful butterfly, and i know i won't be forgiven!" i opened my tightly clenched hand and showed it to prove my words. the sight was so terrible to me that i jerked my foot from the cook, and thrust my hand into the water, screaming, "wash it! wash it! wash the velvet from my hand! oh! make it white again!" before the cook bathed and bandaged my foot, she washed and dried my hand; and my mother whispered, "god knows you never meant to do it, and he is sorry as mother is." so my mother and the cook comforted me. the remainder scattered suddenly. it was years before i knew why, and i was a shakespearean student before i caught the point to their frequently calling me 'little lady macbeth!' after such an experience, it was not probable that i would risk crushing a butterfly to tie a bonnet on my head. it probably would be down my back half the time anyway. it usually was. as we neared the city i heard the farmer's wife tell him that he must take me to my home. he said he would not do any such a thing, but she said he must. she explained that she knew me, and it would not be decent to put me down where they were going, and leave me to walk home and carry that heavy jar. so the farmer took me to our gate. i thanked him as politely as i knew how, and kissed his wife and the fat baby in payment for their kindness, for i was very grateful. i was so tired i scarcely could set down the jar and straighten my cramped arms when i had the opportunity. i had expected my family to be delighted over my treasure, but they exhibited an astonishing indifference, and were far more concerned over the state of my blistered face. i would not hear of putting my half-luna on the basement screen as they suggested, but enthroned it in state on the best lace curtains at a parlour window, covered the sill with leaves and flowers, and went to bed happy. the following morning my sisters said a curtain was ruined, and when they removed it to attempt restoration, the general consensus of opinion seemed to be that something was a nuisance, i could not tell whether it was i, or the half-luna. on coming to the parlour a little later, ladened with leaves and flowers, my treasure was gone. the cook was sure it had flown from the door over some one's head, and she said very tersely that it was a burning shame, and if such carelessness as that ever occurred again she would quit her job. such is the confidence of a child that i accepted my loss as an inevitable accident, and tried to be brave to comfort her, although my heart was almost broken. of course they freed my moth. they never would have dared but that the little mother's couch stood all day empty now, and her chair unused beside it. my disappointment was so deep and far-reaching it made me ill then they scolded me, and said i had half killed myself carrying that heavy jar in the hot sunshine, although the pain from which i suffered was neither in my arms nor sunburned face. so i lost my first cecropia, and from that day until a woman grown and much of this material secured, in all my field work among the birds, flowers, and animals, i never had seen another. they had taunted me in museums, and been my envy in private collections, but find one, i could not. when in my field work among the birds, so many moths of other families almost had thrust themselves upon me that i began a collection of reproductions of them, i found little difficulty in securing almost anything else. i could picture sphinx moths in any position i chose, and lunas seemed eager to pose for me. a friend carried to me a beautiful tan-coloured polyphemus with transparent moons like isinglass set in its wings of softest velvet down, and as for butterflies, it was not necessary to go afield for them; they came to me. i could pick a papilio ajax, that some of my friends were years in securing, from the pinks in my garden. a pair of antiopas spent a night, and waited to be pictured in the morning, among the leaves of my passion vine. painted beauties swayed along my flowered walks, and in september a viceroy reigned in state on every chrysanthemum, and a monarch was enthroned on every sunbeam. no luck was too good for me, no butterfly or moth too rare, except forever and always the coveted cecropia, and by this time i had learned to my disgust that it was one of the commonest of all. then one summer, late in june, a small boy, having an earnest, eager little face, came to me tugging a large box. he said he had something for me. he said "they called it a butterfly, but he was sure it never was." he was eminently correct. he had a splendid big cecropia. i was delighted. of course to have found one myself would have filled my cup to overflowing, but to secure a perfect, living specimen was good enough. for the first time my childish loss seemed in a measure compensated. then, i only could study a moth to my satisfaction and set it free; now, i could make reproductions so perfect that every antler of its antennae could be counted with the naked eye, and copy its colours accurately, before giving back its liberty. i asked him whether he wanted money or a picture of it, and as i expected, he said 'money,' so he was paid. an hour later he came back and said he wanted the picture. on being questioned as to his change of heart, he said "mamma told him to say he wanted the picture, and she would give him the money." my sympathy was with her. i wanted the studies i intended to make of that cecropia myself, and i wanted them very badly. i opened the box to examine the moth, and found it so numb with the cold over night, and so worn and helpless, that it could not cling to a leaf or twig. i tried repeatedly, and fearing that it had been subjected to rough treatment, and soon would be lifeless, for these moths live only a short time, i hastily set up a camera focusing on a branch. then i tried posing my specimen. until the third time it fell, but the fourth it clung, and crept down a twig, settling at last in a position that far, surpassed any posing that i could do. i was very pleased, and yet it made a complication. it had gone so far that it might be off the plate and from focus. it seemed so stupid and helpless that i decided to risk a peep at the glass, and hastily removing the plate and changing the shutter, a slight but most essential alteration was made, everything replaced, and the bulb caught up. there was only a breath of sound as i turned, and then i stood horrified, for my cecropia was sailing over a large elm tree in a corner of the orchard, and for a block my gaze followed it skyward, flying like a bird before it vanished in the distance, so quickly had it recovered in fresh air and sunshine. i have undertaken to describe some very difficult things, but i would not attempt to portray my feelings, and three days later there was no change. it was in the height of my season of field work, and i had several extremely interesting series of bird studies on hand, and many miscellaneous subjects. in those days some pictures were secured that i then thought, and yet feel, will live, but nothing mattered to me. there was a standing joke among my friends that i never would be satisfied with my field work until i had made a study of a 'ha-ha bird,' but i doubt if even that specimen would have lifted the gloom of those days. everything was a drag, and frequently i would think over it all in detail, and roundly bless myself for taking a prize so rare, to me at least, into the open. the third day stands lurid in my memory. it was the hottest, most difficult day of all my years of experience afield. the temperature ranged from to in the village, and in quarries open to the east, flat fields, and steaming swamps it certainly could have been no cooler. with set cameras i was working for a shot at a hawk that was feeding on all the young birds and rabbits in the vicinity of its nest. i also wanted a number of studies to fill a commission that was pressing me. subjects for several pictures had been found, and exposures made on them when the weather was so hot that the rubber slide of a plate holder would curl like a horseshoe if not laid on a case, and held flat by a camera while i worked. perspiration dried, and the landscape took on a sombre black velvet hue, with a liberal sprinkling of gold stars. i sank into a stupor going home, and an old farmer aroused me, and disentangled my horse from a thicket of wild briers into which it had strayed. he said most emphatically that if i did not know enough to remain indoors weather like that, my friends should appoint me a 'guardeen.' i reached the village more worn in body and spirit than i ever had been. i felt that i could not endure another degree of heat on the back of my head, and i was much discouraged concerning my work. why not drop it all, and go where there were cool forests and breezes sighing? perhaps my studies were not half so good as i thought! perhaps people would not care for them! for that matter, perhaps the editors and publishers never would give the public an opportunity to see my work at all! i dragged a heavy load up the steps and swung it to the veranda, and there stood almost paralysed. on the top step, where i could not reach the cabin door without seeing it, newly emerged, and slowly exercising a pair of big wings, with every gaudy marking fresh with new life, was the finest cecropia i ever had seen anywhere. recovering myself with a start, i had it under my net that had waited twenty years to cover it! inside the door i dropped the net, and the moth crept on my fingers. what luck! what extra golden luck! i almost felt that god had been sorry for me, and sent it there to encourage me to keep on picturing the beauties and wonders of his creations for people who could not go afield to see for themselves, and to teach those who could to protect helpless, harmless things for their use and beauty. i walked down the hall, and vaguely scanned the solid rows of books and specimens lining the library walls. i scarcely realized the thought that was in my mind, but what i was looking for was not there. the dining-room then, with panelled walls and curtains of tapestry? it was not there! straight to the white and gold music room i went. then a realizing sense came to me. it was brussels lace for which i was searching! on the most delicate, snowiest place possible, on the finest curtain there, i placed my cecropia, and then stepped back and gazed at it with a sort of "touch it over my dead body" sentiment in my heart. an effort was required to arouse myself, to realize that i was not dreaming. to search the fields and woods for twenty years, and then find the specimen i had sought awaiting me at my own door! well might it have been a dream, but that the cecropia, clinging to the meshes of the lace, slowly opening and closing its wings to strengthen them for flight, could be nothing but a delightful reality. a few days later, in the valley of the wood robin, while searching for its nest i found a large cocoon. it was above my head, but afterward i secured it by means of a ladder, and carried it home. shortly there emerged a yet larger cecropia, and luck seemed with me. i could find them everywhere through june, the time of their emergence, later their eggs, and the tiny caterpillars that hatched from them. during the summer i found these caterpillars, in different stages of growth, until fall, when after their last moult and casting of skin, they reached the final period of feeding; some were over four inches in length, a beautiful shade of greenish blue, with red and yellow warty projections--tubercles, according to scientific works. it is easy to find the cocoons these caterpillars spin, because they are the largest woven by any moth, and placed in such a variety of accessible spots. they can be found in orchards, high on branches, and on water sprouts at the base of trees. frequently they are spun on swamp willows, box-elder, maple, or wild cherry. mr. black once found for me the largest cocoon i ever have seen; a pale tan colour with silvery lights, woven against the inside of a hollow log. perhaps the most beautiful of all, a dull red, was found under the flooring of an old bridge crossing a stream in the heart of the swamp, by a girl not unknown to fiction, who brought it to me. in a deserted orchard close the wabash, raymond once found a pair of empty cocoons at the foot of a big apple tree, fastened to the same twigs, and within two inches of each other. but the most wonderful thing of all occurred when wallace hardison, a faithful friend to my work, sawed a board from the roof of his chicken house and carried to me twin cecropia cocoons, spun so closely together they were touching, and slightly interwoven. by the closest examination i could discover slight difference between them. the one on the right was a trifle fuller in the body, wider at the top, a shade lighter in colour, and the inner case seemed heavier. all winter those cocoons occupied the place of state in my collection. every few days i tried them to see if they gave the solid thump indicating healthy pupae, and listened to learn if they were moving. by may they were under constant surveillance. on the fourteenth i was called from home a few hours to attend the funeral of a friend. i think nothing short of a funeral would have taken me, for the moth from a single cocoon had emerged on the eleventh. i hurried home near noon, only to find that i was late, for one was out, and the top of the other cocoon heaving with the movements of the second. the moth that had escaped was a male. it clung to the side of the board, wings limp, its abdomen damp. the opening from which it came was so covered with terra cotta coloured down that i thought at first it must have disfigured itself; but full development proved it could spare that much and yet appear all right. in the fall i had driven a nail through one corner of the board, and tacked it against the south side of the cabin, where i made reproductions of the cocoons. the nail had been left, and now it suggested the same place. a light stroke on the head of the nail, covered with cloth to prevent jarring, fastened the board on a log. never in all my life did i hurry as on that day, and i called my entire family into service. the deacon stood at one elbow, molly-cotton at the other, and the gardener in the rear. there was not a second to be lost, and no time for an unnecessary movement; for in the heat and bright sunshine those moths would emerge and develop with amazing rapidity. molly-cotton held an umbrella over them to prevent this as much as possible; the deacon handed plate holders, and brenner ran errands. working as fast as i could make my fingers fly in setting up the camera, and getting a focus, the second moth's head was out, its front feet struggling to pull up the body; and its antennae beginning to lift, when i was ready for the first snap at half-past eleven. by the time i inserted the slide, turned the plate holder and removed another slide, the first moth to appear had climbed up the board a few steps, and the second was halfway out. its antennae were nearly horizontal now, and from its position i decided that the wings as they lay in the pupa case were folded neither to the back nor to the front, but pressed against the body in a lengthwise crumpled mass, the heavy front rib, or costa, on top. again i changed plates with all speed. by the time i was ready for the third snap the male had reached the top of the board, its wings opened for the first time, and began a queer trembling motion. the second one had emerged and was running into the first, so i held my finger in the line of its advance, and when it climbed on i lowered it to the edge to the board beside the cocoons. it immediately clung to the wood. the big pursy abdomen and smaller antennae, that now turned forward in position, proved this a female. the exposure was made not ten seconds after she cleared the case, and with her back to the lens, so the position and condition of the wings and antennae on emergence can be seen clearly. quickly as possible i changed the plates again; the time that elapsed could not have been over half a minute. the male was trying to creep up the wall, and the increase in the length and expansion of the female's wings could be seen. the colours on both were exquisite, but they grew a trifle less brilliant as the moths became dry. again i turned to the business of plate changing. the heat was intense, and perspiration was streaming from my face. i called to molly-cotton to shield the moths while i made the change. "drat the moths!" cried the deacon. "shade your mother!" being an obedient girl, she shifted the umbrella, and by the time i was ready for business, the male was on the logs and travelling up the side of the cabin. the female was climbing toward the logs also, so that a side view showed her wings already beginning to lift above her back. i had only five snapshot plates in my holders, so i was compelled to stop. it was as well, for surely the record was complete, and i was almost prostrate with excitement and heat. several days later i opened each of the cocoons and made interior studies. the one on the right was split down the left side and turned back to show the bed of spun silk of exquisite colour that covers the inner case. some say this silk has no commercial value, as it is cut in lengths reaching from the top around the inner case and back to the top again; others think it can be used. the one on the left was opened down the front of the outer case, the silk parted and the heavy inner case cut from top to bottom to show the smooth interior wall, the thin pupa case burst by the exit of the moth, and the cast caterpillar skin crowded at the bottom. the pair mated that same night, and the female began laying eggs by noon the following day. she dotted them in lines over the inside of her box, and on leaves placed in it, and at times piled them in a heap instead of placing them as do these moths in freedom. having taken a picture of a full-grown caterpillar of this moth brought to me by mr. andrew idlewine, i now had a complete cecropia history; eggs, full-grown caterpillars, twin cocoons, and the story of the emergence of the moths that wintered in them. i do not suppose mr. hardison thought he was doing anything unusual when he brought me those cocoons, yet by bringing them, he made it possible for me to secure this series of twin cecropia moths, male and female, a thing never before recorded by lepidopterist or photographer so far as i can learn. the cecropia is a moth whose acquaintance nature-loving city people can cultivate. in december of , on a tree, maple i think, near no. north delaware street, indianapolis, i found four cocoons of this moth, and on the next tree, save one, another. then i began watching, and in the coming days i counted them by the hundred through the city. several bushels of these cocoons could have been clipped in indianapolis alone, and there is no reason why any other city that has maple, elm, catalpa, and other shade trees would not have as many; so that any one who would like can find them easily. cecropia cocoons bewilder a beginner by their difference in shape. you cannot determine the sex of the moth by the size of the cocoon. in the case of the twins, the cocoon of the female was the larger; but i have known male and female alike to emerge from large or small. you are fairly sure of selecting a pair if you depend upon weight. the females are heavier than the males, because they emerge with quantities of eggs ready to deposit as soon as they have mated. if any one wants to winter a pair of moths, they are reasonably sure of doing so by selecting the heaviest and lightest cocoons they can find. in the selection of cocoons, hold them to the ear, and with a quick motion reverse them end for end. if there is a dull, solid thump, the moth is alive, and will emerge all right. if this thump is lacking, and there is a rattle like a small seed shaking in a dry pod, it means that the caterpillar has gone into the cocoon with one of the tiny parasites that infest these worms, clinging to it, and the pupa has been eaten by the parasite. in fall and late summer are the best times to find cocoons, as birds tear open many of them in winter; and when weatherbeaten they fade, and do not show the exquisite shadings of silk of those newly spun. when fresh, the colours range from almost white through lightest tans and browns to a genuine red, and there is a silvery effect that is lovely on some of the large, baggy ones, hidden under bridges. out of doors the moths emerge in middle may or june, but they are earlier in the heat of a house. they are the largest of any species, and exquisitely coloured, the shades being strongest on the upper side of the wings. they differ greatly in size, most males having an average wing sweep of five inches, and a female that emerged in my conservatory from a cocoon that i wintered with particular care had a spread of seven inches, the widest of which i have heard; six and three quarters is a large female. the moth, on appearing, seems all head and abdomen, the wings hanging limp and wet from the shoulders. it at once creeps around until a place where it can hang with the wings down is found, and soon there begins a sort of pumping motion of the body. i imagine this is to start circulation, to exercise parts, and force blood into the wings. they begin to expand, to dry, to take on colour with amazing rapidity, and as soon as they are full size and crisp, the moth commences raising and lowering them slowly, as in flight. if a male, he emerges near ten in the forenoon, and flies at dusk in search of a mate. as the females are very heavy with eggs, they usually remain where they are. after mating they begin almost at once to deposit their eggs, and do not take flight until they have finished. the eggs are round, having a flat top that becomes slightly depressed as they dry. they are of pearl colour, with a touch of brown, changing to greyish as the tiny caterpillars develop. their outline can be traced through the shell on which they make their first meal when they emerge. female cecropas average about three hundred and fifty eggs each, that they sometimes place singly, and again string in rows, or in captivity pile in heaps. in freedom they deposit the eggs mostly on leaves, sometimes the under, sometimes the upper, sides or dot them on bark, boards or walls. the percentage of loss of eggs and the young is large, for they are nowhere numerous enough to become a pest, as they certainly would if three hundred caterpillars survived to each female moth. the young feed on apple, willow, maple, box-elder, or wild cherry leaves; and grow through a series of feeding periods and moults, during which they rest for a few days, cast the skin and intestinal lining and then feed for another period. after the females have finished depositing their eggs, they cling to branches, vines or walls a few days, fly aimlessly at night and then pass out without ever having taken food. cecropia has several 'cousins,' promethea, angulifera, gloveri, and cynthia, that vary slightly in marking and more in colour. all are smaller than cecropia. the male of promethea is the darkest moth of the limberlost. the male of angulifera is a brownish grey, the female reddish, with warm tan colours on her wing borders. she is very beautiful. the markings on the wings of both are not half-moon shaped, as cecropia and gloveri, but are oblong, and largest at the point next the apex of the wing. gloveri could not be told from cecropiain half-tone reproduction by any save a scientist, so similar are the markings, but in colour they are vastly different, and more beautiful. the only living gloveri i ever secured was almost done with life, and she was so badly battered i could not think of making a picture of her. the wings are a lovely red wine colour, with warm tan borders, and the crescents are white, with a line of tan and then of black. the abdomen is white striped with wine and black. cynthia has pale olive green shadings on both male and female. these are imported moths brought here about in the hope that they would prove valuable in silk culture. they occur mostly where the ailanthus grows. my heart goes out to cecropia because it is such a noble, birdlike, big fellow, and since it has decided to be rare with me no longer, all that is necessary is to pick it up, either in caterpillar, cocoon, or moth, at any season of the year, in almost any location. the cecropia moth resembles the robin among birds; not alone because he is grey with red markings, but also he haunts the same localities. the robin is the bird of the eaves, the back door, the yard and orchard. cecropia is the moth. my doorstep is not the only one they grace; my friends have found them in like places. cecropia cocoons are attached to fences, chicken-coops, barns, houses, and all through the orchards of old country places, so that their emergence at bloom time adds to may and june one more beauty, and frequently i speak of them as the robin moth. in connexion with cecropia there came to me the most delightful experience of my life. one perfect night during the middle of may, all the world white with tree bloom, touched to radiance with brilliant moonlight; intoxicating with countless blending perfumes, i placed a female cecropia on the screen of my sleeping-room door and retired. the lot on which the cabin stands is sloping, so that, although the front foundations are low, my door is at least five feet above the ground, and opens on a circular porch, from which steps lead down between two apple trees, at that time sheeted in bloom. past midnight i was awakened by soft touches on the screen, faint pullings at the wire. i went to the door and found the porch, orchard, and night-sky alive with cecropias holding high carnival. i had not supposed there were so many in all this world. from every direction they came floating like birds down the moonbeams. i carefully removed the female from the door to a window close beside, and stepped on the porch. no doubt i was permeated with the odour of the moth. as i advanced to the top step, that lay even with the middle branches of the apple trees, the exquisite big creatures came swarming around me. i could feel them on my hair, my shoulders, and see them settling on my gown and outstretched hands. far as i could penetrate the night-sky more were coming. they settled on the bloom-laden branches, on the porch pillars, on me indiscriminately. i stepped inside the door with one on each hand and five clinging to my gown. this experience, i am sure, suggested mrs. comstock's moth hunting in the limberlost. then i went back to the veranda and revelled with the moths until dawn drove them to shelter. one magnificent specimen, birdlike above all the others, i followed across the orchard and yard to a grape arbour, where i picked him from the under side of a leaf after he had settled for the coming day. repeatedly i counted close to a hundred, and then they would so confuse me by flight i could not be sure i was not numbering the same one twice. with eight males, some of them fine large moths, one superb, from which to choose, my female mated with an insistent, frowsy little scrub lacking two feet and having torn and ragged wings. i needed no surer proof that she had very dim vision. chapter iv the yellow emperor: eacles imperialis several years ago, mr. a. eisen, a german, of coldwater, michigan, who devotes his leisure to collecting moths, gave me as pinned specimens a pair of eacles imperialis, and their full life history. any intimate friend of mine can testify that yellow is my favourite colour, with shades of lavender running into purple, second choice. when i found a yellow moth, liberally decorated with lavender, the combination was irresistible. mr. eisen said the mounted specimens were faded; but the living moths were beautiful beyond description. naturally i coveted life. i was very particular to secure the history of the caterpillars and their favourite foods. i learned from mr. eisen that they were all of the same shape and habit, but some of them might be green, with cream-coloured heads and feet, and black face lines, the body covered sparsely with long hairs; or they might be brown, with markings of darker brown and black with white hairs; but they would be at least three inches long when full grown, and would have a queer habit of rearing and drawing leaves to their mouths when feeding. i was told i would find them in august, on leaves of spruce, pine, cherry, birch, alder, sycamore, elm, or maple; that they pupated in the ground; and the moths were common, especially around lights in city parks, and at street crossings. coming from a drive one rare june evening, i found mr. william pettis, a shooter of oil wells, whom i frequently met while at my work, sitting on the veranda in an animated business discussion with the deacon. "i brought you a pair of big moths that i found this morning on some bushes beside the road," said mr. pettis. "i went to give mr. porter a peep to see if he thought you'd want them, and they both got away. he was quicker than i, and caught the larger one, but mine sailed over the top of that tree." he indicated an elm not far away. "did you know them?" i asked the deacon. "no," he answered. "you have none of the kind. they are big as birds and a beautiful yellow." "yellow!" no doubt i was unduly emphatic. "yellow! didn't you know better than to open a box with moths in it outdoors at night?" "it was my fault," interposed mr. pettis. "he told me not to open the box, but i had shown them a dozen times to-day and they never moved. i didn't think about night being their time to fly. i am very sorry." so was i. sorry enough to have cried, but i tried my best to conceal it. anyway, it might be io, and i had that. on going inside to examine the moth, i found a large female eacles imperialis, with not a scale of down misplaced. even by gas light i could see that the yellow of the living moth was a warm canary colour, and the lavender of the mounted specimen closer heliotrope on the living, for there were pinkish tints that had faded from the pinned moth. she was heavy with eggs, and made no attempt to fly, so i closed the box and left her until the lights were out, and then removed the lid. every opening was tightly screened, and as she had mated, i did not think she would fly. i hoped in the freedom of the cabin she would not break her wings, and ruin herself for a study. there was much comfort in the thought that i could secure her likeness; her eggs would be fertile, and i could raise a brood the coming season, in which would be both male and female. when life was over i could add her to my specimen case, for these are of the moths that do not eat, and live only a few days after depositing their eggs. so i went out and explained to mr. pettis what efforts i had made to secure this yellow moth, comforted him for allowing the male to escape by telling him i could raise all i wanted from the eggs of the female, showed him my entire collection, and sent him from the cabin such a friend to my work, that it was he who brought me an oil-coated lark a few days later. on rising early the next morning, i found my moth had deposited some eggs on the dining-room floor, before the conservatory doors, more on the heavy tapestry that covered them, and she was clinging to a velvet curtain at a library window, liberally dotting it with eggs, almost as yellow as her body. i turned a tumbler over those on the floor, pinned folds in the curtains, and as soon as the light was good, set up a camera and focused on a suitable location. she climbed on my finger when it was held before her, and was carried, with no effort to fly, to the place i had selected, though molly-cotton walked close with a spread net, ready for the slightest impulse toward movement. but female moths seldom fly until they have finished egg depositing, and this one was transferred with no trouble to the spot on which i had focused. on the back wall of the cabin, among some wild roses, she was placed on a log, and immediately raised her wings, and started for the shade of the vines. the picture made of her as she walked is beautiful. after i had secured several studies she was returned to the library curtain, where she resumed egg placing. these were not counted, but there, were at least three hundred at a rough guess. i had thought her lovely in gas light, but day brought forth marvels and wonders. when a child, i used to gather cowslips in a bed of lush swale, beside a little creek at the foot of a big hill on our farm. at the summit was an old orchard, and in a brush-heap a brown thrush nested. from a red winter pearmain the singer poured out his own heart in song, and then reproduced the love ecstasy of every other bird of the orchard. that moth's wings were so exactly the warm though delicate yellow of the flowers i loved, that as i looked at it i could feel my bare feet sinking in the damp ooze, smell the fragrance of the buttercups, and hear again the ripple of the water and the mating exultation of the brown thrush. in the name--eacles imperialis--there is no meaning or appropriateness to "eacles"; "imperialis"--of course, translates imperial--which seems most fitting, for the moth is close the size of cecropia, and of truly royal beauty. we called it the yellow emperor. her imperial golden majesty had a wing sweep of six and a quarter inches. from the shoulders spreading in an irregular patch over front and back wings, most on the front, were markings of heliotrope, quite dark in colour: near the costa of the front wings were two almost circular dots of slightly paler heliotrope, the one nearest the edge about half the size of the other. on the back wings, halfway from each edge, and half an inch from the marking at the base, was one round spot of the same colour. beginning at the apex of the front pair, and running to half an inch from the lower edge, was a band of escalloped heliotrope. on the back pair this band began half an inch from the edge and ran straight across, so that at the outer curve of the wing it was an inch higher. the front wing surface and the space above this marking on the back were liberally sprinkled with little oblong touches of heliotrope; but from the curved line to the bases of the back pair, the colouring was pure canary yellow. the top of the head was covered with long, silken hairs of heliotrope, then a band of yellow; the upper abdomen was strongly shaded with heliotrope almost to the extreme tip. the lower sides of the wings were yellow at the base, the spots showing through, but not the bands, and only the faintest touches of the mottling. the thorax and abdomen were yellow, and the legs heliotrope. the antennae were heliotrope, fine, threadlike, and closely pressed to the head. the eyes were smaller than those of cecropia, and very close together. compared with cecropia these moths were very easy to paint. their markings were elaborate, but they could be followed accurately, and the ground work of colour was warm cowslip yellow. the only difficulty was to make the almost threadlike antennae show, and to blend the faint touches of heliotrope on the upper wings with the yellow. the eggs on the floor and curtains were guarded with care. they were dotted around promiscuously, and at first were clear and of amber colour, but as the little caterpillars grew in them, they showed a red line three fourths of the way around the rim, and became slightly depressed in the middle. the young emerged in thirteen days. they were nearly half an inch long, and were yellow with black lines. they began the task of eating until they reached the pupa state, by turning on their shells and devouring all of them to the glue by which they were fastened. they were given their choice of oak, alder, sumac, elm, cherry, and hickory. the majority of them seemed to prefer the hickory. they moulted on the fifth day for the first time, and changed to a brown colour. every five or six days they repeated the process, growing larger and of stronger colour with each moult, and developing a covering of long white hairs. part of these moulted four times, others five. at past six weeks of age they were exactly as mr. eisen had described them to me. those i kept in confinement pupated on a bed of baked gravel, in a tin bucket. it is imperative to bake any earth or sand used for them to kill pests invisible to the eye, that might bore into the pupa cases and destroy the moths. i watched the transformation with intense interest. after the caterpillars had finished eating they travelled in search of a place to burrow for a day or two. then they gave up, and lay quietly on the sand. the colour darkened hourly, the feet and claspers seemed to draw inside, and one morning on going to look there were some greenish brown pupae. they shone as if freshly varnished, as indeed they were, for the substance provided to facilitate the emergence of the pupae from the caterpillar skins dries in a coating, that helps to harden the cases and protect them. these pupae had burst the skins at the thorax, and escaped by working the abdomen until they lay an inch or so from the skins. what a "cast off garment" those skins were! only the frailest outside covering, complete in all parts, and rapidly turning to a dirty brown. the pupae were laid away in a large box having a glass lid. it was filled with baked sand, covered with sphagnum moss, slightly dampened occasionally, and placed where it was cool, but never at actual freezing point. the following spring after the delight of seeing them emerge, they were released, for i secured a male to complete my collection a few days later, and only grew the caterpillars to prove it possible. there was a carnival in the village, and, for three nights the streets were illuminated brightly from end to end, to the height of ferris wheels and diving towers. the lights must have shone against the sky for miles around, for they drew from the limberlost, from the canoper, from rainbow bottom, and the valley of the wood robin, their winged creatures of night. i know emperors appear in these places in my locality, for the caterpillars feed on leaves found there, and enter the ground to pupate; so of course the moth of june begins its life in the same location. mr. pettis found the mated pair he brought to me, on a bush at the edge of a swamp. they also emerge in cities under any tree on which their caterpillars feed. once late in may, in the corner of a lichen-covered, old snake fence beside the wabash on the shimp farm, i made a series of studies of the home life of a pair of ground sparrows. they had chosen for a location a slight depression covered with a rank growth of meadow grass. overhead wild plum and thorn in full bloom lay white-sheeted against the blue sky; red bud spread its purple haze, and at a curve, the breast of the river gleamed white as ever woman's; while underfoot the grass was obscured with masses of wild flowers. an unusually fine cluster of white violets attracted me as i worked around the birds, so on packing at the close of the day i lifted the plant to carry home for my wild flower bed. below a few inches of rotting leaves and black mould i found a lively pupa of the yellow emperor. so these moths emerge and deposit their eggs in the swamps, forests, beside the river and wherever the trees on which they feed grow. when the serious business of life is over, attracted by strong lights, they go with other pleasure seeking company, and grace society by their royal presence. i could have had half a dozen fine imperialis moths during the three nights of the carnival, and fluttering above buildings many more could be seen that did not descend to our reach. raymond had such a busy time capturing moths he missed most of the joys of the carnival, but i truly think he liked the chase better. one he brought me, a female, was so especially large that i took her to the cabin to be measured, and found her to be six and three quarter inches, and of the lightest yellow of any specimen i have seen. her wings were quite ragged. i imagined she had finished laying her eggs, and was nearing the end of life, hence she was not so brilliant as a newly emerged specimen. the moth proved this theory correct by soon going out naturally. choice could be made in all that plethora, and a male and female of most perfect colouring and markings were selected, for my studies of a pair. one male was mounted and a very large female on account of her size. that completed my imperialis records from eggs to caterpillars, pupae and moths. the necessity for a book on this subject; made simple to the understanding, and attractive to the eye of the masses, never was so deeply impressed upon me as in an experience with imperialis. molly-cotton was attending a house-party, and her host had chartered a pavilion at a city park for a summer night dance. at the close of one of the numbers; over the heads of the laughing crowd, there swept toward the light a large yellow moth. with one dexterous sweep the host caught it, and while the dancers crowded around him with exclamations of wonder and delight, he presented it to molly-cotton and asked, "do you know what it is?" she laughingly answered, "yes. but you don't!" "guilty!" he responded. "name it." for one fleeting instant molly-cotton measured the company. there was no one present who was not the graduate of a commissioned high school. there were girls who were students at the castle, smith, vassar, and bryn mawr. the host was a cornell junior, and there were men from harvard and yale. "it is an eacles imperialis io polyphemus cecropia regalis," she said. then in breathless suspense she waited. "shades of homer!" cried the host. "where did you learn it?" "they are flying all through the cabin at home," she replied. "there was a tumbler turned over their eggs on the dining-room floor, and you dared not sit on the right side of the library window seat because of them when i left." "what do you want with their eggs?" asked a girl. "want to hatch their caterpillars, and raise them until they transform into these moths," answered poor molly-cotton, who had been taught to fear so few living things that at the age of four she had carried a garter snake into the house for a playmate. "caterpillars!" the chorus arose to a shriek. "don't they sting you? don't they bite you?" "no, they don't!" replied molly-cotton. "they don't bite anything except leaves; they are fine big fellows; their colouring is exquisite; and they evolve these beautiful moths. i invite all of you to visit us, and see for yourselves how intensely interesting they are." there was a murmur of polite thanks from the girls, but one man measured molly-cotton from the top curl of her head to the tip of her slippers, and answered, "i accept the invitation. when may i come?" he came, and left as great a moth enthusiast as any of us. this incident will be recognized as furnishing the basis on which to build the ballroom scene in "a girl of the limberlost", in which philip and edith quarrel over the capture of a yellow emperor. but what of these students from the great representative colleges of the united states, to whom a jumbled string made from the names, of half a dozen moths answered for one of the commonest of all? chapter v the lady bird: deilephila lineata in that same country garden where my first cecropia was found, deilephila lineata was one of my earliest recollections. this moth flew among the flowers of especial sweetness all day long, just as did the hummingbirds; and i was taught that it was a bird also--the lady bird. the little tan and grey thing hovering in air before the flowers was almost as large as the humming-birds, sipping honey as they did, swift in flight as they; and both my parents thought it a bird. they did not know the humming-birds were feasting on small insects attracted by the sweets, quite as often as on honey, for they never had examined closely. they had been taught, as i was, that this other constant visitor to the flowers was a bird. when a child, a humming-bird nested in a honeysuckle climbing over my mother's bedroom window. my father lifted me, with his handkerchief bound across my nose, on the supposition that the bird was so delicate it would desert its nest and eggs if they were breathed upon, to see the tiny cup of lichens, with a brown finish so fine it resembled the lining of a chestnut burr, and two tiny eggs. i well remember he told me that i now had seen the nest and eggs of the smallest feathered creature except the lady bird, and he never had found its cradle himself. every summer i discovered nests by the dozen, and for several years a systematic search was made for the home of a lady bird. one of the unfailing methods of finding locations was to climb a large bartlett pear tree that stood beside the garden fence, and from an overhanging bough watch where birds flew with bugs and worms they collected. lady birds were spied upon, but when they left our garden they arose high in air, and went straight from sight toward every direction. so locating their nests as those of other birds were found, seemed impossible. then i tried going close the sweetest flowers, those oftenest visited, the petunias, yellow day lilies, and trumpet creepers, and sitting so immovably i was not noticeable while i made a study of the lady birds. my first discovery was that they had no tail. one poised near enough to make sure of that, and i hurried to my father with the startling news. he said it was nothing remarkable; birds frequently lost their tails. he explained how a bird in close quarters has power to relax its muscles, and let its tail go in order to save its body, when under the paw of a cat, or caught in a trap. that was satisfactory, but i thought it must have been a spry cat to get even a paw on the lady bird, for frequently humming-birds could be seen perching, but never one of these. i watched the tail question sharply, and soon learned the cats had been after every lady bird that visited our garden, or any of our neighbours, for not one of them had a tail. when this information was carried my father, he became serious, but finally he said perhaps the tail was very short; those of humming-birds or wrens were, and apparently some water birds had no tail, or at least a very short one. that seemed plausible, but still i watched this small and most interesting bird of all; this bird that no one ever had seen taking a bath, or perching, and whose nest never had been found by a person so familiar with all outdoors as my father. then came a second discovery: it could curl its beak in a little coil when leaving a flower. a few days later i saw distinctly that it had four wings but i could discover no feet. i became a rank doubter, and when these convincing proofs were carried to my father, he also grew dubious. "i always have thought and been taught that it was a bird," he said, "but you see so clearly and report so accurately, you almost convince me it is some large insect possibly of the moth family." when i carried this opinion to my mother and told her, no doubt pompously, that 'very possibly' i had discovered that the lady bird was not a bird at all, she hailed it as high treason, and said, "of course it is a bird!" that forced me to action. the desperate course of capturing one was resolved upon. if only i could, surely its feet, legs, and wings would tell if it were a bird. by the hour i slipped among those bloom-bordered walks between the beds of flaming sweet-williams, buttercups, phlox, tiger and day lilies, job's tears, hollyhocks, petunias, poppies, mignonette, and every dear old-fashioned flower that grows, and followed around the flower-edged beds of lettuce, radishes, and small vegetables, relentlessly trailing lady birds. pass after pass i made at them, but they always dived and escaped me. at last, when i almost had given up the chase, one went nearly from sight in a trumpet creeper. with a sweep the flower was closed behind it, and i ran into the house crying that at last i had caught a lady bird. holding carefully, the trumpet was cut open with a pin, and although the moth must have been slightly pinched, and lacking in down when released, i clung to it until my mother and every doubting member of my family was convinced that this was no bird at all, for it lacked beak, tail, and feathers, while it had six legs and four wings. father was delighted that i had learned something new, all by myself; but i really think it slightly provoked my mother when thereafter i always refused to call it a bird. this certainly was reprehensible. she should have known all the time that it was a moth. the other day a club woman of chicago who never in her life has considered money, who always has had unlimited opportunities for culture both in america and europe, who speaks half a dozen languages, and has the care of but one child, came in her auto mobile to investigate the limberlost. almost her first demand was to see pictures. one bird study i handed her was of a brooding king rail, over a foot tall, with a three-foot wing sweep, and a long curved bill. she cried, "oh! see the dear little hummingbird!" if a woman of unlimited opportunity, in this day of the world, does not know a rail from a humming-bird, what could you expect of my little mother, who spoke only two languages, reared twelve lusty children, and never saw an ocean. so by degrees the lady bird of the garden resolved itself into deilephila lineata. deile--evening; phila--lover; lineata--lined; the lined evening lover. why 'evening' is difficult to understand, for all my life this moth occurs more frequently with me in the fore and early afternoon than in the evening. so i agree with those entomologists who call it the 'white-lined morning-sphinx.' it is lovely in modest garb, delicately lined, but exceedingly rich in colour. it has the long slender wings of the sphingid moths, and in grace and tirelessness of flight resembles celeus, the swallow of the moth family. its head is very small, and its thorax large. the eyes are big, and appear bigger because set in so tiny a head. under its tongue, which is a full inch long, is a small white spot that divides, spreads across each eye, and runs over the back until even with the bases of the front wings. the top of the head and shoulders are olive brown, decorated with one long white line dividing it in the middle, and a shorter on each side. the abdomen is a pale brown, has a straight line running down the middle of the back, made up of small broken squares of very dark brown, touched with a tiny mark of white. down each side of this small line extends a larger one, wider at the top and tapering, and this is composed of squares of blackish brown alternating with white, the brown being twice the size of the white. the sides of the abdomen are flushed with beautiful rosy pink, and beneath it is tan colour. the wings are works of art. the front are a rich olive brown, marked the long way in the middle by a wide band of buff, shading to lighter buff at the base. they are edged from the costa to where they meet the back wings, with a line of almost equal width of darker buff, the lower edge touched with white. beginning at the base, and running an equal distance apart from the costa to this line, are fine markings of white, even and clear as if laid on with a ruler. the surprise comes in the back wings, that show almost entirely when the moth is poised before a flower. these have a small triangle of the rich dark brown, and a band of the same at the lower edge, with a finish of olive, and a fine line of white as a marginal decoration. crossing each back wing is a broad band of lovely pink of deeper shade than the colour on the sides. this pink, combined with the olive, dark browns, and white lining, makes the colour scheme of peculiar richness. its antennae are long, clubbed, and touched with white at the tips. the legs and body are tan colour. the undersides of the wings are the same as the upper, but the markings of brown and buffish pink show through in lighter colour, while the white lining resembles rows of tan ridges beneath. its body is covered with silky hairs, longest on the shoulders, and at the base of the wings. the eggs of the moth are laid on apple, plum, or woodbine leaves, or on grape, currant, gooseberry, chickweed or dock. during may and june around old log cabins in the country, with gardens that contain many of these vines and bushes, and orchards of bloom where the others can be found the lined evening lover deposits her eggs. the caterpillars emerge in about six days. the tiny ovoid eggs are a greenish yellow. the youngsters are pale green, and have small horns. after a month spent in eating, and skin casting, the full-grown caterpillar is over two inches long, and as a rule a light green. there are on each segment black patches, that have a touch of orange, and on that a hint of yellow. the horn increases with the growth of the caterpillar, can be moved at will, and seems as if it were a vicious 'stinger.' but there is no sting, or any other method of self-defence, unless the habit of raising the head and throwing it from side to side could be so considered. with many people, this movement, combined with the sharp horn, is enough, but as is true of most caterpillars, they are perfectly harmless. some moth historians record a mustard yellow caterpillar of this family, and i remember having seen some that answer the description; but all i ever have known to be lineata were green. the pupae are nearly two inches long and are tan coloured. they usually are found in the ground in freedom, or deep under old logs among a mass of leaves spun together. in captivity the caterpillars seem to thrive best on a diet of purslane, and they pupate perfectly on dry sand in boxes. these moths have more complete internal development than those of night, for they feed and live throughout the summer. i photographed a free one feasting on the sweets of petunias in a flower bed at the cabin, on the seventh of october. chapter vi moths of the moon: actias luna one morning there was a tap at my door, and when i opened it i found a tall, slender woman having big, soft brown eyes, and a winning smile. in one hand she held a shoe-box, having many rough perforations. i always have been glad that my eyes softened at the touch of pleading on her face, and a smile sprang in answer to hers before i saw what she carried. for confession must be made that a perforated box is a passport to my good graces any day. the most wonderful things come from those that are brought to my front door. sometimes they contain a belated hummingbird, chilled with the first heavy frost of autumn, or a wounded weasel caught in a trap set for it near a chicken coop, or a family of baby birds whose parents some vandal has killed. again they carry a sick or wounded bird that i am expected to doctor; and butterflies, moths, insects, and caterpillars of every description. "i guess i won't stop," said the woman in answer to my invitation to enter the cabin. "i found this creature on my front porch early this morning, and i sort of wanted to know what it was, for one thing, and i thought you might like to have it, for another." "then of course you will come in, and we will see what it is," i answered, leading the way into the library. there i lifted the lid slightly to take a peep, and then with a cry of joy, opened it wide. that particular shoe-box had brought me an actias luna, newly emerged, and as yet unable to fly. i held down my finger, it climbed on, and was lifted to the light. "ain't it the prettiest thing?" asked the woman, with stars sparkling in her dark eyes. "did you ever see whiter white?" together we studied that moth. clinging to my finger, the living creature was of such delicate beauty as to impoverish my stock of adjectives at the beginning. its big, pursy body was covered with long, furry scales of the purest white imaginable. the wings were of an exquisite light green colour; the front pair having a heavy costa of light purple that reached across the back of the head: the back pair ended in long artistic 'trailers,' faintly edged with light yellow. the front wing had an oval transparent mark close the costa, attached to it with a purple line, and the back had circles of the same. these decorations were bordered with lines of white, black, and red. at the bases of the wings were long, snowy silken hairs; the legs were purple, and the antennae resembled small, tan-coloured ferns. that is the best i can do at description. a living moth must be seen to form a realizing sense of its shape and delicacy of colour. luna is our only large moth having trailers, and these are much longer in proportion to size and of more graceful curves than our trailed butterflies. the moth's wings were fully expanded, and it was beginning to exercise, so a camera was set up hastily, and several pictures of it secured. the woman helped me through the entire process, and in talking with her, i learned that she was mrs. mccollum, from a village a mile and a half north of ours; that when she reached home she would have walked three miles to make the trip; and all her neighbours had advised her not to come, but she "had a feeling that she would like to." "are you sorry?" i asked. "am i sorry!" she cried. "why i never had a better time in my life, and i can teach the children what you have told me. i'll bring you everything i can get my fingers on that you can use, and send for you when i find bird nests." mrs. mccollum has kept that promise faithfully. again and again she trudged those three miles, bringing me small specimens of many species or to let me know that she had found a nest. a big oak tree in mrs. mccollum's yard explained the presence of a luna there, as the caterpillars of this specie greatly prefer these leaves. because the oak is of such slow growth it is seldom planted around residences for ornamental purposes; but is to be found most frequently in the forest. for this reason luna as a rule is a moth of the deep wood, and so is seldom seen close a residence, making people believe it quite rare. as a matter of fact, it is as numerous where the trees its caterpillars frequent are to be found, as any other moth in its natural location. because it is of the forest, the brightest light there is to attract it is the glare of the moon as it is reflected on the face of a murky pool, or on the breast of the stream rippling its way through impassable thickets. there must be a self-satisfied smile on the face of the man in the moon, in whose honour these delicate creatures are named, when on fragile wing they hover above his mirrored reflection; for of all the beauties of a june night in the forest, these moths are most truly his. in august of the same year, while driving on a corduroy road in michigan, i espied a luna moth on the trunk of a walnut tree close the road. the cold damp location must account for this late emergence; for subsequent events proved that others of the family were as slow in appearing. a storm of protest arose, when i stopped the carriage and started to enter the swamp. the remaining occupants put in their time telling blood-curdling experiences with 'massaugers,' that infested those marshes; and while i bent grasses and cattails to make the best footing as i worked my way toward the moth, i could hear a mixed chorus "brought up thirteen in the dredge at the cement factory the other day," "killed nine in a hayfield below the cemetery," "saw a buster crossing the road before me, and my horse almost plunged into the swamp," "died of a bite from one that struck him while fixing a loose board in his front walk." i am dreadfully afraid of snakes, and when it seemed i could not force myself to take another step, and i was clinging to a button bush while the water arose above my low shoes, the moth lowered its wings flat against the bark. from the size of the abdomen i could see that it was a female heavily weighted with eggs. possibly she had mated the previous night, and if i could secure her, luna life history would be mine. so i set my teeth and advanced. my shoes were spoiled, and my skirts bedraggled, but i captured the moth and saw no indication of snakes. soon after she was placed in a big pasteboard box and began dotting eggs in straight lines over the interior. they were white but changed colour as the caterpillars approached time to hatch. the little yellow-green creatures, nearly a quarter of an inch long, with a black line across the head, emerged in about sixteen days, and fed with most satisfaction on oak, but they would take hickory, walnut or willow leaves also. when the weather is cold the young develop slower, and i have had the egg period stretched to three weeks at times. every few days the young caterpillars cast their skins and emerged in brighter colour and larger in size. it is usually supposed they mature in four moults, and many of them do, but some cast a fifth skin before transforming. when between seven and eight weeks of age, they were three inches long, and of strong blue-green colour. most of them had tubercles of yellow, tipped with blue, and some had red. they spun a leaf-cover cocoon, much the size and shape of that of polyphemus, but whiter, very thin, with no inner case, and against some solid surface whenever possible. fearing i might not handle them rightly, and lose some when ready to spin, i put half on our walnut tree so they could weave their cocoons according to characteristics. they are fine, large, gaudy caterpillars. the handsomest one i ever saw i found among some gifts offered by molly-cotton for the celebration of my birthday. it had finished feeding, soon pupated in a sand pail and the following spring a big female emerged that attracted several males and they posed on a walnut trunk for beautiful studies. once under the oak trees of a summer resort, miss katherine howell, of philadelphia, intercepted a luna caterpillar in the preliminary race before pupation and brought it to me. we offered young oak leaves, but they were refused, so it went before the camera. behind the hotel i found an empty hominy can in which it soon began spinning, but it seemed to be difficult to fasten the threads to the tin, so a piece of board was cut and firmly wedged inside. the caterpillar clung to this and in the darkness of the can spun the largest and handsomest luna winter quarters of all my experience. luna hunters can secure material from which to learn this exquisite creature of night, by searching for the moths on the trunks of oak, walnut, hickory, birch or willow, during the month of june. the moths emerge on the ground, and climb these trees to unfold and harden their wings. the females usually remain where they are, and the males are attracted to them. if undisturbed they do not fly until after mating and egg depositing are accomplished. the males take wing as soon as dusk of the first night arrives, after their wings are matured. they usually find the females by ten o'clock or midnight, and remain with them until morning. i have found mated pairs as late as ten o'clock in the forenoon. the moths do not eat, and after the affairs of life are accomplished, they remain in the densest shade they can find for a few days, and fly at night, ending their life period in from three days to a week. few of these gaudily painted ones have the chance to die naturally, for both birds and squirrels prey upon them, tearing away the delicate wings, and feasting on the big pulpy bodies. white eggs on the upper side of leaves of the trees mentioned are a sign of luna caterpillars in deep woods, and full-grown larvae can be found on these trees in august. by breaking off a twig on which they are feeding, carrying them carefully, placing them in a box where they cannot be preyed upon by flies and parasites, and keeping a liberal supply of fresh damp leaves, they will finish the feeding days, and weave their cocoons. or the cocoons frequently can be found already spun among the leaves, by nutting parties later in the fall. there is small question if luna pupae be alive, for on touching the cocoons they squirm and twist so vigorously that they can be heard plainly. there is so little difference in the size of male and female lunas, that i am not sure of telling them apart in the cocoon, as i am certain i can cecropia. cocoon gathering in the fall is one of the most delightful occupations imaginable. when flowers are gone; when birds have migrated; when brilliant foliage piles knee deep underfoot; during those last few days of summer, zest can be added to a ramble by a search for cocoons. carrying them home with extreme care not to jar or dent them, they are placed in the conservatory among the flowers. they hang from cacti spines and over thorns on the big century plant and lemon tree. when sprinkling, the hose is turned on them, as they would take the rain outside. usually they are placed in the coolest spots, where ventilation is good. there is no harm whatever in taking them _if the work is carefully and judiciously done_. with you they are safe. outside they have precarious chance for existence, for they are constantly sought by hungry squirrels and field mice, while the sharp eyes and sharper beaks of jays, and crows, are for ever searching for them. the only danger is in keeping them too warm, and so causing their emergence before they can be placed out safely at night, after you have made yourself acquainted with luna history. if they are kept cool enough that they do not emerge until may or june, then you have one of the most exquisite treats nature has in store for you, in watching the damp spot spread on the top of the cocoon where an acid is ejected that cuts and softens the tough fibre, and allows the moth to come pushing through in the full glory of its gorgeous birth. nowhere in nature can you find such delicate and daintily shaded markings or colours so brilliant and fresh as on the wings of these creatures of night. after you have learned the markings and colours, and secured pictures if you desire, and they begin to exhibit a restlessness, as soon as it is dusk, release them. they are as well prepared for all life has for them as if they had emerged in the woods. the chances are that they are surer of life at your hands than they would have been if left afield, provided you keep them cool enough that they do not emerge too soon. if you want to photograph them, do it when the wings are fully developed, but before they have flown. they need not be handled; their wings are unbroken; their down covering in place to the last scale; their colours never so brilliant; their markings the plainest they ever will be; their big pursy bodies full of life; and they will climb with perfect confidence on any stick, twig, or limb held before them. reproductions of them are even more beautiful than those of birds. by all means photograph them out of doors on a twig or leaf that their caterpillars will eat. moths strengthen and dry very quickly outside in the warm crisp air of may or june, so it is necessary to have some one beside you with a spread net covering them, in case they want to fly before you are ready to make an exposure. in painting this moth the colours always should be copied from a living specimen as soon as it is dry. no other moth of my acquaintance fades so rapidly. repeatedly i am asked which i think the most beautiful of these big night moths. i do not know. all of them are indescribably attractive. whether a pale green moth with purple markings is lovelier than a light yellow moth with heliotrope decorations; or a tan and brown one with pink lines, is a difficult thing to determine. when their descriptions are mastered, and the colour combinations understood, i fancy each person will find the one bearing most of his favourite colour the loveliest. it may be that on account of its artistically cut and coloured trailers, luna has a touch of grace above any. chapter vii king of the hollyhocks: protoparce celeus protoparce celeus was the companion of deilephila lineata in the country garden where i first studied nature. why i was taught that lineata was a bird, and celeus a moth, it is difficult to understand, for they appear very similar when poising before flowers. they visit the same blooms, and vary but little in size. the distinction that must have made the difference was that while lineata kept company with the hummingbirds and fed all day, celeus came forth at dusk, and flew in the evening and at night. but that did not conclusively prove it a moth, for nighthawks and whip-poor-wills did the same; yet unquestionably they were birds. anyway, i always knew celeus was a moth, and that every big, green caterpillar killed on the tomato vines meant one less of its kind among the flowers. i never saw one of these moths close a tomato or potato vine, a jimson weed or ground cherry, but all my life i have seen their eggs on these plants, first of a pale green closely resembling the under side of the leaves, and if they had been laid some time, a yellow colour. the eggs are not dotted along in lines, or closely placed, but are deposited singly, or by twos, at least very sparsely. the little caterpillars emerge in about a week, and then comes the process of eating until they grow into the large, green tomato or tobacco worms that all of us have seen. when hatched the caterpillars are green, and have grey caudal horns similar to lineata. after eating for four or five days, they cast their skins. this process is repeated three or four times, when the full-grown caterpillars are over four inches long, exactly the colour of a green tomato, with pale blue and yellow markings of beautiful shades, the horns blue-black; and appearing sharp enough to inflict a severe wound. like all sphinx caterpillars celeus is perfectly harmless; but this horn, in connexion with the habit the creatures have of clinging to the vines with the back feet, raising the head and striking from side to side, makes people very sure they can bite or sting, or inflict some serious hurt. so very vigorous are they in self-defence when disturbed, that robins and cuckoos are the only birds i ever have seen brave enough to pick them until the caterpillars loosen their hold and drop to the ground, where they are eaten with evident relish. one cuckoo of my experience that nested in an old orchard, adjoining a potato patch, frequently went there caterpillar-hunting, and played havoc with one wherever found. the shy, deep wood habits of the cuckoo prevent it from coming close houses and into gardens, but robins will take these big caterpillars from tomato vines. however, they go about it rather gingerly, and the work of reducing one to non-resistance does not seem to be at all coveted. most people exhibit symptoms of convulsions at sight of one. yet it is a matter of education. i have seen women kiss and fondle cats and dogs, one snap from which would result in disfiguration or horrible death, and seem not to be able to get enough of them. but they were quite equal to a genuine faint if contact were suggested with a perfectly harmless caterpillar, a creature lacking all means of defence, save this demonstration of throwing the head. when full-fed the caterpillars enter the earth to pupate, and on the fifteenth of october, , only the day before i began this chapter, the deacon, in digging worms for a fishing trip to the river, found a pupa case a yard from the tomato vines, and six inches below the surface. he came to my desk, carrying on a spade a ball of damp earth larger than a quart bowl. with all care we broke this as nearly in halves as possible and found in the centre a firm, oval hole, the size and shape of a hen's egg, and in the opening a fine fresh pupa case. it was a beautiful red-brown in colour, long and slenderer than a number of others in my box of sand, and had a long tongue case turned under and fastened to the pupa between the wing shields. the sides of the abdomen were pitted; the shape of the head, and the eyes showed through the case, the wing shields were plainly indicated, and the abdominal shield was in round sections so that the pupa could twist from side to sid when touched, proving that the developing moth inside was very much alive and in fine condition. there were no traces of the cast skin. the caterpillar had been so strong and had pushed so hard against the surrounding earth that the direction from which it had entered was lost. the soil was packed and crowded firmly for such a distance that this large ball was forced together. trembling with eagerness i hurriedly set up a camera. this phase of moth life often has been described, but i never before heard of any one having been able to reproduce it, so my luck was glorious. a careful study of this ball of earth, the opening in which the case lies, and the pupa, with its blunt head and elaborate tongue shield, will convince any one that when ready to emerge these moths must bore the six inches to the surface with the point of the abdomen, and there burst the case, cling to the first twig and develop and harden the wings. the abdominal point is sharp, surprisingly strong, and the rings of the segments enable it to turn in all directions, while the earth is mellow and moist with spring rains. to force a way head first would be impossible on account of the delicate tongue shield, and for the moth to emerge underground and dig to the surface without displacing a feather of down, either before or after wing expansion, is unthinkable. yet i always had been in doubt as to precisely how the exit of a pupa case moth took place, until i actually saw the earth move and the sharp abdominal point appear while working in my garden. living pupae can be had in the fall, by turning a few shovels of soil close vegetables in any country garden. in the mellow mould, among cabbages and tomato vines, around old log cabins close the limberlost swamp, they are numerous, and the emerging moths haunt the sweet old-fashioned flowers. the moth named celeus, after a king of eleusis, certainly has kingly qualities to justify the appellation. the colouring is all grey, black, brown, white and yellow, and the combinations are most artistic. it is a relative of lineata. it flies and feeds by day, has nearly the same length of life, and is much the same in shape. the head is small and sharp, eyes very much larger than lineata, and tongue nearly four inches in length. the antennae are not clubbed, but long and hairlike. it has the broad shoulders, the long wings, and the same shape of abdomen. the wings, front and back, are so mottled, lined, and touched with grey, black, brown and white, as to be almost past definite description. the back wings have the black and white markings more clearly defined. the head meets the thorax with a black band. the back is covered with long, grey down, and joins the abdomen, with a band of black about a quarter of an inch wide, and then a white one of equal width. the abdomen is the gaudiest part of the moth. in general it is a soft grey. it is crossed by five narrow white lines the length of the abdomen, and a narrow black one down the middle. along each side runs a band of white. on this are placed four large yellow spots each circled by a band of black that joins the black band of the spot next to it. the legs and under side of the abdomen and wings are a light grey-tan, with the wing markings showing faintly, and the abdomen below is decorated with two small black dots. my first celeus, a very large and beautiful one, was brought to me by mr. wallace hardison, who has been an interested helper with this book. the moth had a wing sweep of fully five and a half inches, and its markings were unusually bright and strong. no other celeus quite so big and beautiful ever has come to my notice. from four and a half to five inches is the average size. there was something the matter with this moth. not a scale of down seemed to be missing, but it was torpid and would not fly. possibly it had been stung by some parasite before taking flight at all, for it was very fresh. i just had returned from a trip north, and there were some large pieces of birch bark lying on the table on which the moth had been placed. it climbed on one of these, and clung there, so i set up the bark, and made a time exposure. it felt so badly it did not even close them when i took a brush and spread its wings full width. soon after it became motionless. i had begun photographing moths recently; it was one of my very first, and no thought of using it for natural history purposes occurred at the time. i merely made what i considered a beautiful likeness, and this was so appreciated whenever shown, that i went further and painted it in water colours. since moth pictures have accumulated, and moth history has engrossed me with its intense interest, i have been very careful in making studies to give each one its proper environment when placing it before my camera. of all the flowers in our garden, celeus prefers the hollyhocks. at least it comes to them oftenest and remains at them longest. but it moves continually and flies so late that a picture of it has been a task. after years of fruitless effort, i made one passable snapshot early in july, while the light was sufficiently strong that a printable picture could be had by intensifying the plate, and one good time exposure as a celeus, with half-folded wings, clambered over a hollyhock, possibly hunting a spot on which to deposit an egg or two. the hollyhock painting of this chapter is from this study. the flowers were easy but it required a second trial to do justice to the complicated markings of the moth. this evening lover and strong flyer, with its swallow-like sweep of wing, comes into the colour schemes of nature with the otter, that at rare times thrusts a sleek grey head from the river, with the grey-brown cotton-tails that bound across the stubble, and the coots that herald dawn in the marshes. exactly the shades, and almost the markings of its wings can be found on very old rail fences. this lint shows lighter colour, and even grey when used in the house building of wasps and orioles, but i know places in the country where i could carve an almost perfectly shaded celeus wing from a weather-beaten old snake fence rail. celeus visits many flowers, almost all of the trumpet-shaped ones, in fact, but if i were an artist i scarcely would think it right to paint a hollyhock without putting king celeus somewhere in the picture, poised on his throne of air before a perfect bloom as he feasts on pollen and honey. the holly-hock is a kingly flower, with its regally lifted heads of bright bloom, and that the king of moths should show his preference for it seems eminently fitting, so we of the cabin named him king of the hollyhocks. chapter viii hera of the corn: hyperchira io at the same time he gave me the eacles imperialis moths, mr. eisen presented me with a pair of hyperchiria io. they were nicely mounted on the black velvet lining of a large case in my room, but i did not care for them in the least. a picture i would use could not be made from dead, dried specimens, and history learned from books is not worth knowing, in comparison with going afield and threshing it out for yourself in your own way. because the io was yellow, i wanted it--more than several specimens i had not found as yet, for yellow, be it on the face of a flower, on the breast of a bird, or in the gold of sunshine, always warms the depths of my heart. one night in june, sitting with a party of friends in the library, a shadow seemed to sweep across a large window in front. i glanced up, and arose with a cry that must have made those present doubt my sanity. a perfect and beautiful io was walking leisurely across the glass. "a moth!" i cried. "i have none like it! deacon, get the net!" i caught a hat from the couch, and ran to the veranda. the deacon followed with the net. "i was afraid to wait," i explained. "please bring a piece of pasteboard, the size of this brim." i held the hat while the deacon brought the board. then with trembling care we slipped it under, and carefully carried the moth into the conservatory. first we turned on the light, and made sure that every ventilator was closed; then we released the io for the night. in the morning we found a female clinging to a shelf, dotting it with little top-shaped eggs. i was delighted, for i thought this meant the complete history of a beautiful moth. so exquisite was the living, breathing creature, she put to shame the form and colouring of the mounted specimens. no wonder i had not cared for them! her fore-wings were a strong purplish brown in general effect, but on close examination one found the purplish tinge a commingling of every delicate tint of lavender and heliotrope imaginable. they were crossed by escalloped bands of greyish white, and flecked with touches of the same, seeming as if they had been placed with a brush. the back wings were a strong yellow. each had, for its size, an immense black eye-spot, with a blue pupil covering three-fourths of it, crossed by a perfect comma of white, the heads toward the front wings and the curves bending outward. each eye-spot was in a yellow field, strongly circled with a sharp black line; then a quarter of an inch band of yellow; next a heliotrope circle of equal width; yellow again twice as wide; then a faint heliotrope line; and last a very narrow edging of white. both wings joined the body under a covering of long, silky, purple-brown hairs. she was very busy with egg depositing, and climbed to the twig held before her without offering to fly. the camera was carried to the open, set up and focused on a favourable spot, while molly-cotton walked beside me holding a net over the moth in case she took flight in outer air. the twig was placed where she would be in the deepest shade possible while i worked rapidly with the camera. by this time experience had taught me that these creatures of moonlight and darkness dislike the open glare of day, and if placed in sunlight will take flight in search of shade more quickly than they will move if touched. so until my io settled where i wanted her with the wings open, she was kept in the shadow. only when i grasped the bulb and stood ready to snap, was the covering lifted, and for the smallest fraction of a second the full light fell on her; then darkness again. in three days it began to be apparent there was something wrong with the eggs. in four it was evident, and by five i was not expecting the little caterpillars to emerge, and they did not. the moth had not mated and the eggs were not fertile. then i saw my mistake. instead of shutting the female in the conservatory at night, i should have tied a soft cotton string firmly around her body, and fastened it to some of the vines on the veranda. beyond all doubt, before morning, a male of her kind would have been attracted to her. one learns almost as much by his mistakes as he profits by his successes in this world. writing of this piece of stupidity, at a time in my work with moths when a little thought would have taught me better, reminds me of an experience i had with a caterpillar, the first one i ever carried home and tried to feed. i had an order to fill for some swamp pictures, and was working almost waist deep in a pool in the limberlost, when on a wild grape-vine swinging close to my face, i noticed a big caterpillar placidly eating his way around a grape leaf. the caterpillar was over four inches long, had no horn, and was of a clear red wine colour, that was beautiful in the sunlight. i never before had seen a moth caterpillar that was red and i decided it must be rare. as there was a wild grapevine growing over the east side of the cabin, and another on the windmill, food of the right kind would be plentiful, so i instantly decided to take the caterpillar home. it was of the specimens that i consider have almost 'thrust themselves upon me.' when the pictures were finished and my camera carried from the swamp, i returned with the clippers and cut off vine and caterpillar, to carry with me. on arrival i placed it in a large box with sand on the bottom, and every few hours took out the wilted leaves, put in fresh ones, and sprinkled them to insure crispness, and to give a touch of moisture to the atmosphere in the box, that would make it seem more like the swamp. my specimen was readily identified as philampelus pandorus, of which i had no moth, so i took extra care of it in the hope of a new picture in the spring. it had a little flat head that could be drawn inside the body like a turtle, and on the sides were oblique touches of salmon. something that appeared to be a place for a horn could be seen, and a yellow tubercle was surrounded by a black line. it ate for three days, and then began racing so frantically around the box, i thought confinement must be harmful, so i gave it the freedom of the cabin, warning all my family to 'look well to their footsteps.' it stopped travelling after a day or two at a screen covering the music-room window, and there i found it one morning lying still, a shrivelled, shrunken thing; only half the former length, so it was carefully picked up, and thrown away! of course the caterpillar was in the process of changing into the pupa, and if i had known enough to lay it on the sand in my box, and wait a few days, without doubt a fine pupa would have emerged from that shrunken skin, from which, in the spring, i could have secured an exquisite moth, with shades of olive green, flushed with pink. the thought of it makes me want to hide my head. it was six years before i found a living moth, or saw another caterpillar of that species. a few days later, while watching with a camera focused on the nest of a blackbird in mrs. corson's woods east of town, raymond, who was assisting me, crept to my side and asked if it would do any harm for him to go specimen hunting. the long waits with set cameras were extremely tedious to the restless spirits of the boy, and the birds were quite tame, the light was under a cloud, and the woods were so deep that after he had gone a few rods he was from sight, and under cover; besides it was great hunting ground, so i gladly told him to go. the place was almost 'virgin,' much of it impassable and fully half of it was under water that lay in deep, murky pools throughout summer. in the heat of late june everything was steaming; insect life of all kinds was swarming; not far away i could hear sounds of trouble between the crow and hawk tribes; and overhead a pair of black vultures, whose young lay in a big stump in the interior, were searching for signs of food. if ever there was a likely place for specimens it was here; raymond was an expert at locating them, and fearless to foolhardiness. he had been gone only a short time when i heard a cry, and i knew it must mean something, in his opinion, of more importance than blackbirds. i answered "coming," and hastily winding the long hose, i started in the direction raymond had taken, calling occasionally to make sure i was going the right way. when i found him, the boy was standing beside a stout weed, hat in hand, intently watching something. as i leaned forward i saw that it was a hyperchiria io that just had emerged from the cocoon, and as yet was resting with wings untried. it differed so widely from my moth of a few days before, i knew it must be a male. this was only three-fourths as large as mine, but infinitely surpassed it in beauty. its front wings were orange-yellow, flushed with red-purple at the base, and had a small irregular brown spot near the costa. contrary to all precedent, the under side of these wings were the most beautiful, and bore the decorations that, in all previous experience with moths, had been on the upper surface, faintly showing on the under. for instance, this irregular brown marking on the upper side proved to be a good-sized black spot with with white dot in the middle on the under; and there was a curved line of red-purple from the apex of the wing sloping to the lower edge, nearly half an inch from the margin. the space from this line to the base of the wing was covered with red-purple down. the back wings were similar to the female's, only of stronger colour, and more distinct markings; the eye-spot and lining appeared as if they had been tinted with strong fresh paint, while the edges of the wings lying beside the abdomen had the long, silken hairs of a pure, beautiful red their entire length: a few rods away men were ploughing in the adjoining corn field, and i remembered that the caterpillar of this moth liked to feed on corn blades, and last summer undoubtedly lived in that very field. when i studied io history in my moth books, i learned these caterpillars ate willow, wild cherry, hickory, plum, oak, sassafras, ash, and poplar. the caterpillar was green, more like the spiny butterfly caterpillars than any moth one i know. it had brown and white bands, brown patches, and was covered with tufts of stiff upstanding spines that pierced like sharp needles. this was not because the caterpillar tried to hurt you, but because the spines were on it, and so arranged that if pressed against, an acid secretion sprang from their base. this spread over the flesh the spines touched, stinging for an hour like smartweed, or nettles. when i identified this caterpillar in my books, it came to me that i had known and experienced its touch. but it did not forcibly impress me until that instant that i knew it best of all, and that it was my childhood enemy of the corn. its habit was to feed on the young blades, and cling to them with all its might. if i was playing indian among the rows, or hunting an ear with especially long, fine 'silk' for a make-believe doll, or helping the cook select ears of jersey sweet to boil for dinner, and accidentally brushed one of these caterpillars with cheek or hand, i felt its burning sting long afterward. so i disliked those caterpillars. for i always had played among the corn. untold miles i have ridden the plough horses across the spring fields, where mellow mould rolled black from the shining shares, and the perfumed air made me feel so near flying that all i seemed to need was a high start to be able to sail with the sentinel blackbird, that perched on the big oak, and with one sharp 't'check!' warned his feeding flock, surely and truly, whether a passing man carried a gun or a hoe. then came the planting, when bare feet loved the cool earth, and trotted over other untold miles, while little fingers carefully counted out seven grains from the store carried in my apron skirt, as i chanted: "one for the blackbird, one for the crow; one for the cutworm and four to grow." then father covered them to the right depth, and stamped each hill with the flat of the hoe, while we talked of golden corn bread, and slices of mush, fried to a crisp brown that cook would make in the fall. we had to plant enough more to feed all the horses, cattle, pigs, turkeys, geese, and chickens, during the long winter, even if the sun grew uncomfortably warm, and the dinner bell was slow about ringing. then there were the indian days in the field, when a fallen eagle feather stuck in a braid, and some pokeberry juice on the face, transformed me into the indian big foot, and i fled down green aisles of the corn before the wrath of the mighty adam poe. at times big foot grew tired fleeing, and said so in remarkably distinct english, and then to keep the game going, my sister ada, who played adam poe, had to turn and do the fleeing or be tomahawked with a stick. when the milk was in the ears, they were delicious steamed over salted water, or better yet roasted before coals at the front of the cooking stove, and eaten with butter and salt, if you have missed the flavour of it in that form, really you never have known corn! next came the cutting days. these were after all the caterpillars had climbed down, and travelled across the fence to spin their cocoons among the leaves of the woods; as if some instinct warned them that they would be ploughed up too early to emerge, if they remained in the field. the boys bent four hills, lashed the tassels together for a foundation, and then with one sweep of their knives, they cut a hill at a time, and stacked it in large shocks, that lined the field like rows of sentinels, guarding the gold of pumpkin and squash lying all around. while the shocks were drying, the squirrels, crows, and quail took possession, and fattened their sides against snow time. then the gathering days of october--they were the best days of all! like a bloom-outlined vegetable bed, the goldenrod and ironwort, in gaudy border, filled the fence corners of the big fields. a misty haze hung in the air, because the indians were burning the prairies to round up game for winter. the cawing of the crows, the chatter of blackbirds, and the piping bob-whites, sounded so close and so natural out there, while the crowing cocks of the barnyard seemed miles away and slightly unreal. grown up and important, i sat on a board laid across the wagon bed, and guided the team of matched greys between the rows of shocks, and around the 'pie-timber' as my brother leander called the pumpkins while father and the boys opened the shocks and husked the ears. how the squirrels scampered to the woods and to the business of storing away the hickory nuts that we could hear rattling down every frosty morning! we hurried with the corn; because as soon as the last shock was in, we might take the horses, wagon, and our dinner, and go all day to the woods, where we gathered our winter store of nuts. leander would take a gun along, and shoot one of those saucy squirrels for the little sick mother. last came the november night, when the cold had shut us in. then selected ears that had been dried in the garret were brought down, white for 'rivel' and to roll things in to fry, and yellow for corn bread and mush. a tub full of each was shelled, and sacked to carry to the mill the following day. i sat on the floor while father and the boys worked, listening to their talk, as i built corncob castles so high they toppled from their many stories. sometimes father made cornstock fiddles that would play a real tune. oh! the pity of it that every little child cannot grow, live, learn and love among the corn. for the caterpillars never stopped the fun, even the years when they were most numerous. the eggs laid by my female never hatched, so i do not know this caterpillar in its early stages from experience, but i had enough experience with it in my early stages, that i do not care if i never raise one. no doubt it attains maturity by the same series of moults as the others, and its life history is quite similar. the full-fed caterpillars spin among the leaves on the ground, and with their spines in mind, i would much prefer finding a cocoon, and producing a moth from that stage of its evolution. the following season i had the good fortune to secure a male and female io at the same time and by persistence induced them to pose for me on an apple branch. there was no trouble in securing the male as i desired him, with wings folded showing the spots, lining and flushing of colour. but the female was a perverse little body and though i tried patiently and repeatedly she would not lower her wings full width. she climbed around with them three-fourths spread, producing the most beautiful effect of life, but failing to display her striking markings. this is the one disadvantage in photographing moths from life. you secure lifelike effects but sometimes you are forced to sacrifice their wonderful decorations. chapter ix the sweetheart and the bride: catocala amatyix--catocala neogama there are no moths so common with us as these, for throughout their season, at any time one is wanted, it is sure to be found either on the sweetbrier clambering over the back wall, among the morning-glories on one side, the wistaria and wild grape on the other, or in the shade of the wild clematis in front. on very sunny days, they leave the shelter of the vines, and rest on the logs of the cabin close the roof of the verandas. clinging there they appear like large grey flies, for they are of peculiar shape, and the front wings completely cover the back when in repose. a third or a half of the back wings show as they are lifted to balance the the moths when walking over vines and uncertain footing. they are quite conspicuous on our cabin, because it is built of the red cedar of wisconsin; were it of the timber used by our grandfathers, these moths with folded wings would be almost indistinguishable from their surroundings. few moths can boast greater beauty. the largest specimen of the 'sweetheart' that homes with us would measure three and one half inches if it would spread its wings full width as do the moths of other species. no moth is more difficult to describe, because of the delicate blending of so many intangible shades. the front wings are a pale, brownish grey, with irregular markings of tan, and dark splotches outlined with fine deep brown lines. the edges are fluted and escalloped, each raised place being touched with a small spot of tan, and above it a narrow escalloped line of brown. the back wings are bright red, crossed by a circular band of brownish black, three-fourths of an inch from the base, a secondary wider band of the same, and edged with pale yellow. there is no greater surprise in store for a student of moths than to locate a first catocala amatrix, and see the softly blended grey front wings suddenly lift, and the vivid red of the back ones flash out. the under sides of the front wings are a warm creamy tan, crossed by wide bands of dark brown and grey-brown, ending in a delicate grey mist at the edges. the back wings are the same tan shade, with red next the abdomen, and crossed by brown bands of deeper shade than the fore-wings. the shoulders are covered with long silky hair like the front wings. this is so delicate that it becomes detached at the slightest touch of vine or leaf. the abdomen is slightly lighter in colour on top, and a creamy tan beneath. the legs are grey, and the feet to the first joint tan, crossed by faint lines of brown. the head is small, with big prominent eyes that see better by day than most night moths; for catocala takes precipitate flight at the merest shadow. the antennae are long, delicate and threadlike, and must be broken very easily in the flight of the moth. it is nothing unusual to see them with one antenna shorter than the other, half, or entirely gone; and a perfect specimen with both antennae, and all the haif on its shoulders, is rare. they have a long tongue that uncoils like lineata, and celeus, so they are feeders, but not of day, for they never take flight until evening, except when disturbed. the male is smaller than the female, his fore-wings deeply flushed with darker colour and the back brighter red with more black in the bands. neogama, another member of this family, is a degree smaller than amatrix, but of the same shape. the fore-wings are covered with broken lines of different colours, the groundwork grey, with gold flushings, the lines and dots of the border very like the sweetheart's. the back wings are pure gold, almost reddish, with dark brownish black bands, and yellow borders. the top of the abdomen is a grey-gold colour. underneath, the markings are nearly the same as amatrix, but a gold flush suffuses the moth. there are numbers of these catocala moths running the colour scheme of-yellow, from pale chrome to umber. many shade from light pink through the reds to a dark blood colour. then there is a smaller number having brown back wings and with others they are white. the only way i know to photograph them is to focus on some favourable spot, mark the place your plate covers in length and width, and then do your best to coax your subjects in range. if they can be persuaded to walk, they will open their wings to a greater or less degree. a reproduction would do them no sort of justice unless the markings of the back wings show. it is on account of the gorgeous colourings of these that scientists call the species 'afterwings.' one would suppose that with so many specimens of this beautiful species living with us and swarming the swamp close by, i would be prepared to give their complete life history; but i know less concerning them than any other moths common with us, and all the scientific works i can buy afford little help. professional lepidopterists dismiss them with few words. one would-be authority disposes of the species with half a dozen lines. you can find at least a hundred catocala reproduced from museum specimens and their habitat given, in the holland "moth book", but i fail to learn what i most desire to know: what these moths feed on; how late they live; how their eggs appear; where they are deposited; which is their caterpillar; what does it eat; and where and how does it pupate. packard, in his "guide to the study of insects", offers in substance this much help upon the subject: "the genus is beautiful, the species numerous, of large size, often three-inch expansion, and in repose form a flat roof. the larva is elongate, slender, flattened beneath and spotted with black, attenuated at each end, with fleshy filaments on the sides above the legs, while the head is flattened and rather forked above. it feeds on trees and rests attached to the trunks. the pupa is covered with a bluish efflorescence, enclosed in a slight cocoon of silk, spun amongst leaves or bark." this will tend to bear out my contention that scientific works are not the help they should be to the nature lover. heaven save me from starting to locate catocala moths, eggs, caterpillars or pupae on the strength of this information. i might find moths by accident; nothing on the subject of eggs; neither colour of body, characteristics nor food, to help identify caterpillars; for the statement, 'it feeds on trees,' cannot be considered exactly illuminating when we remember the world full of trees on which caterpillars are feeding; and should one search for cocoon encased pupae among the leaves and bark of tree-tops or earth? the most reliable information i have had, concerning these moths of which i know least, comes from professor rowley. he is the only lepidopterist of four to whom i applied, who could tell me any of the things i am interested in knowing. he writes in substance: "the bride and sweetheart are common northern species, as are most of the other members of the group. the amatrix, with its red wings, is called the sweetheart because amor means love, and red is love's own colour. the caterpillar feeds on willow. the catocala of the yellow "after-wings" is commonly called the bride, because neogama, its scientific name, means recently wedded. its caterpillar feeds on walnut leaves. "if you will examine the under side of the body of a catocala moth you will find near the junction of the thorax and abdomen on either side, large open organs reminding one of the ears of a grasshopper, which are on the sides of the first abdominal segment. examine the bodies of sphinges and other moths for these same openings. they appear to be ears. catocala moths feed on juices, and live most of the summer season. numbers of them have been found sipping sap at a tree freshly cut and you know we take them at night with bait. "new orleans sugar and cider or sugar and stale beer are the usual baits. this 'concoction'is put on the bodies of trees with a brush, between eight and ten o'clock at night. during good catocala years, great numbers of these moths may be taken as they feed at the sweet syrup. so it is proved that their food is sap, honeydew, and other sugary liquids. mr. george dodge assures me that he has taken catocala abbreviatella at milk-weed blooms about eight o'clock of early july evenings. other species also feed on flowers." you will observe that in his remarks about the "open organs on the side of the abdominal segment," professor rowley may have settled the 'ear' question. i am going to keep sharp watch for these organs, hereafter. i am led to wonder if one could close them in some way and detect any difference in the moth's sense of hearing after having done so. all of us are enthusiasts about these moths with their modest fore-wings and the gaudy brilliance of the wonderful 'after-wings,' that are so bright as to give common name to the species. we are studying them constantly and hope soon to learn all we care to know of any moths, for our experience with them is quite limited when compared with other visitors from the swamp. but think of the poetry of adding to the long list of birds, animals and insects that temporarily reside with us, a sweetheart and a bride! chapter x the giant gamin: telea polyphemus time cannot be used to tell of making the acquaintance of this moth until how well worth knowing it is has been explained. that it is a big birdlike fellow, with a six inch sweep of wing, is indicated by the fact that it is named in honour of the giant polyphemus. telea means 'the end,' and as scientists fail to explain the appropriateness of this, i am at liberty to indulge a theory of my own. nature made this handsome moth last, and as it was the end, surpassed herself as a finishing touch on creatures that are, no doubt, her frailest and most exquisite creation. polyphemus is rich in shadings of many subdued colours, that so blend and contrast as to give it no superior in the family of short-lived lovers of moonlight. its front wings are a complicated study of many colours, for some of which it would be difficult to find a name. really, it is the one moth that must be seen and studied in minutest detail to gain an idea of its beauty. the nearest i can come to the general groundwork of the wing is a rich brown-yellow. the costa is grey, this colour spreading in a widening line from the base of the wing to more than a quarter of an inch at the tip, and closely peppered with black. at the base, the wing is covered with silky yellow-brown hairs. as if to outline the extent of these, comes a line of pinkish white, and then one of rich golden brown, shading into the prevailing colour. close the middle of the length of the wing, and half an inch from the costa, is a transparent spot like isinglass, so clear that fine print can be read through it. this spot is outlined with a canary yellow band, and that with a narrow, but sharp circle of black. then comes a cloudlike rift of golden brown, drifting from the costa across the wing, but, growing fainter until it merges with the general colour near the abdomen. then half an inch of the yellow-brown colour is peppered with black, similar to the costa; this grows darker until it terminates in a quarter of an inch wide band of almost grey-black crossing the wing. next this comes a narrower band of pinkish white. the edge begins with a quarter of an inch band of clear yellow-brown, and widens as the wing curves until it is half an inch at the point. it is the lightest colour of rotten apple. the only thing i ever have seen in nature exactly similar was the palest shade of 'mother' found in barrels of vinegar. a very light liver colour comes close it. on the extreme tip is a velvety oval, half black and half pale pink. the back wings are the merest trifle stronger in this yellow-brown colour, and with the exception of the brown rift are the same in marking, only that all colour, similar to the brown, is a shade deeper. the 'piece de resistance' of the back wing, is the eyespot. the transparent oval is a little smaller. the canary band is wider, and of stronger colour. the black band around the lower half is yet wider, and of long velvety hairs. it extends in an oval above the transparent spot fully half an inch, then shades through peacock blue, and grey to the hairlike black line enclosing the spot. the under sides of the wings are pure tan, clouded and lined with shades of rich brown. the transparent spots are outlined with canary, and show a faint line drawn across the middle the long way. the face is a tiny brown patch with small eyes, for the size of the moth, and large brown antennae, shaped like those of cecropia. the grey band of the costa crosses the top of the head. the shoulders are covered with pinkish, yellow-brown hair. the top and sides of the abdomen are a lighter shade of the same. the under side of the abdomen is darker brown, and the legs brown with very dark brown feet. these descriptions do the harmonizing colours of the moth no sort of justice, but are the best i can offer. in some lights it is a rich yellow-brown, and again a pink flush pervades body and wings. my first experience with a living polyphemis (i know telea is shorter, but it is not suitable, while a giant among moths it is, so that name is best) occurred several years ago. a man brought me a living polyphemus battered to rags and fringes, antennae broken and three feet missing. he had found a woman trying to beat the clinging creature loose from a door screen, with a towel, before the wings were hardened for flight, and he rescued the remains. there was nothing to say; some people are not happy unless they are killing helpless, harmless creatures; and there was nothing to do. the moth was useless for a study, while its broken antennae set it crazy, and it shook and trembled continually, going out without depositing any eggs. one thing i did get was complete identification, and another, to attribute the experience to mrs. comstock in "a girl of the limberlost", when i wished to make her do something particularly disagreeable. in learning a moth i study its eggs, caterpillars, and cocoons, so that fall raymond and i began searching for polyphemus. i found our first cocoon hanging by a few threads of silk, from a willow twig overhanging a stream in the limberlost. a queer little cocoon it was. the body was tan colour, and thickly covered with a white sprinkling like lime. a small thorn tree close the cabin yielded raymond two more; but these were darker in colour, and each was spun inside three thorn leaves so firmly that it appeared triangular in shape. the winds had blown the cocoons against the limbs and worn away the projecting edges of the leaves, but the midribs and veins showed plainly. in all we had half a dozen of these cocoons gathered from different parts of the swamp, and we found them dangling from a twig of willow or hawthorn, by a small piece of spinning. during the winter these occupied the place of state in the conservatory, and were watched every day. they were kept in the coolest spot, but where the sun reached them at times. always in watering the flowers, the hose was turned on them, because they would have been in the rain if they had been left out of doors, and conditions should be kept as natural as possible. close time for emergence i became very uneasy, because the conservatory was warm; so i moved them to my sleeping room, the coolest in the cabin, where a fireplace, two big windows and an outside door, always open, provide natural atmospheric conditions, and where i would be sure to see them every day. i hung the twigs over a twine stretched from my dresser to the window-sill. one day in may, when the trees were in full bloom, i was working on a tulip bed under an apple tree in the garden, when molly-cotton said to me, "how did you get that cocoon in your room wet?" "i did not water any of the cocoons," i answered. "i have done no sprinkling today. if they are wet, it has come from the inside." molly-cotton dropped her trowel. "one of them was damp on the top before lunch," she cried. "i just now thought of it. the moths are coming!" she started on a run and i followed, but stopped to wash my hands, so she reached them first, and her shout told the news. "hurry!" she cried. "hurry! one is out, and another is just struggling through!" quickly as i could i stood beside her. one polyphemus female, a giant indeed, was clinging to a twig with her feet, and from her shoulders depended her wings, wet, and wrinkled as they had been cramped in the pupa case. even then she had expanded in body until it seemed impossible that she had emerged from the opening of the vacant cocoon. the second one had its front feet and head out, and was struggling frantically to free its shoulders. a fresh wet spot on the top of another cocoon, where the moth had ejected the acid with which it is provided to soften the spinning, was heaving with the pushing head of the third. molly-cotton was in sympathy with the imprisoned moths. "why don't you get something sharp, and split the cocoons so they can get out?" she demanded. "just look at them struggle! they will kill themselves!" then i explained to her that if we wanted big, perfect moths we must not touch them. that the evolution of species was complete to the minutest detail. the providence that supplied the acid, required that the moths make the fight necessary to emerge alone, in order to strengthen them so they would be able to walk and cling with their feet, while the wings drooped and dried properly. that if i cut a case, and took out a moth with no effort on its part, it would be too weak to walk, or bear its weight, and so would fall to the floor. then because of not being in the right position, the wings would harden half spread, or have broken membranes and never develop fully. so instead of doing a kindness i really would work ruination. "oh, i see!" cried the wondering girl, and her eyes were large enough to have seen anything, while her brain was racing. if you want to awaken a child and teach it to think, give object lessons such as these, in natural history and study with it, so that every miraculous point is grasped when reached. we left the emerging moths long enough to set up a camera outside, and focus on old tree. then we hurried back, almost praying that the second moth would be a male, and dry soon enough that the two could be pictured together, before the first one would be strong enough to fly. the following three hours were spent with them, and every minute enjoyed to the fullest. the first to emerge was dry, and pumping her wings to strengthen them for flight; the second was in condition to pose, but a disappointment, for it was another female. the third was out, and by its smaller size, brighter markings and broad antennae we knew it was a male. his 'antlers' were much wider than those of the first two, and where their markings were pink, his were so vivid as to be almost red, and he was very furry. he had, in fact, almost twice as much long hair as the others, so he undoubtedly was a male, but he was not sufficiently advanced to pose with the females, and i was in doubt as to the wisest course to pursue. "hurry him up!" suggested molly-cotton. "tie a string across the window and hang him in the sunshine. i'll bring a fan, and stir the air gently." this plan seemed feasible, and when the twine was ready, i lifted his twig to place it in the new location. the instant i touched his resting-place and lifted its weight from the twine both females began ejecting a creamy liquid. they ruined the frescoing behind them, as my first cecropia soiled the lace curtain when i was smaller than molly-cotton at that time. we tacked a paper against the wall to prevent further damage. a point to remember in moth culture, is to be ready for this occurrence before they emerge, if you do not want stained frescoing, floors, and hangings. in the sunshine and fresh air the male began to dry rapidly, and no doubt he understood the presence of his kind, for he was much more active than the females. he climbed the twig, walked the twine body pendent, and was so energetic that we thought we dared not trust him out of doors; but when at every effort to walk or fly he only attempted to reach the females, we concluded that he would not take wing if at liberty. by this time he was fully developed, and so perfect he would serve for a study. i polished the lenses, focused anew on the tree, marked the limits of exposure, inserted a plate, and had everything ready. then i brought out the female, molly-cotton walking beside me hovering her with a net. the moth climbed from the twig to the tree, and clung there, her wings spread flat, at times setting them quivering in a fluttering motion, or raising them. while molly-cotton guarded her i returned for the male, and found him with wings so hardened that could raise them above his back, and lower them full width. i wanted my study to dignify the term, so i planned it to show the under wings of one moth, the upper of the other. then the smaller antennae and large abdomen of the female were of interest. i also thought it would be best to secure the male with wings widespread if possible, because his colour was stronger, his markings more pronounced. so i helped the female on a small branch facing the trunk of the tree, and she rested with raised wings as i fervently hoped she would. the male i placed on the trunk, and with wide wings he immediately started toward the female, while she advanced in his direction. this showed his large antennae and all markings and points especially note worthy; being good composition as well, for it centred interest; but there was one objection. it gave the male the conspicuous place and made him appear the larger because of his nearness to the lens and his wing spread; while as a matter of fact, the female had almost an inch more sweep than he, and was bigger at every point save the antennae. the light was full and strong, the lens the best money could buy, the plate seven by nine inches. by this time long practice had made me rather expert in using my cameras. when the advancing pair were fully inside my circle of focus, i made the first exposure. then i told molly-cotton to keep them as nearly as possible where they were, while i took one breathless peep at the ground glass. talk about exciting work! no better focus could be had on them, so i shoved in another plate with all speed, and made a second exposure, which was no better than the first. had there been time, i would have made a third to be sure, for plates are no object when a study is at all worth while. as a rule each succeeding effort enables you to make some small change for the better, and you must figure on always having enough to lose one through a defective plate or ill luck in development, and yet end with a picture that will serve your purpose. then we closed the ventilators and released the moths in the conservatory. the female i placed on a lemon tree in a shady spot, and the male at the extreme far side to see how soon he would find her. we had supposed it would be dark, but they were well acquainted by dusk. the next morning she was dotting eggs over the plants. the other cocoons produced mostly female living moths, save one that was lost in emergence. i tried to help when it was too late; but cutting open the cocoon afterward proved the moth defective. the wings on one side were only about half size, and on the other little patches no larger than my thumb nail. the body was shrunken and weakly. at this time, as i remember, cecropia eggs were the largest i had seen, but these were larger; the same shape and of a white colour with a brown band. the moth dotted them on the under and upper sides of leaves, on sashes and flower pots, tubs and buckets. they turned brown as the days passed. the little caterpillars that emerged from them were reddish brown, and a quarter of an inch long. i could not see my way to release a small army of two or three hundred of these among my plants, so when they emerged i held a leaf before fifty, that seemed liveliest, and transferred them to a big box. the remainder i placed with less ceremony, over mulberry, elm, maple, wild cherry, grape, rose, apple, and pear, around the cabin, and gave the ones kept in confinement the same diet. the leaves given them always were dipped in water to keep them fresh longer, and furnish moisture for the feeders. they grew by a series of moults, like all the others i had raised or seen, and were full size in forty-eight days, but travelled a day or two before beginning the pupa stage of their existence. the caterpillars were big fellows; the segments deeply cut; the bodies yellow-green, with a few sparse scattering hairs, and on the edge of each segment, from a triple row of dots arose a tiny, sharp spine. each side had series of black touches and the head could be drawn inside the thorax. they were the largest in circumference of any i had raised, but only a little over three inches long. i arranged both leaves and twigs in the boxes, but they spun among the leaves, and not dangling from twigs, as all the cocoons i had found outdoors were placed previous to that time. since, i have found them spun lengthwise of twigs in a brush heap. the cocoons of these i had raised were whiter than those of the free caterpillars, and did not have the leaves fastened on the outside, but were woven in a nest of leaves, fastened together by threads. polyphemus moths are night flyers, and do not feed. i have tried to tell how beautiful they are, with indifferent success, and they are common with me. since i learned them, find their cocoons easiest to discover. through the fall and winter, when riding on trains, i see them dangling from wayside thorn bushes. once, while taking a walk with raymond in late november, he located one on a thorn tree in a field beside the road, but he has the eyes of an indian. these are the moths that city people can cultivate, for in indianapolis, in early december, i saw fully one half as many polyphemus cocoons on the trees as there were cecropia, and i could have gathered a bushel of them. they have emerged in perfection for me always, with one exception. personally, i have found more polyphemus than cecropia. these moths are the gamins of their family, and love the streets and lights at night. under an arc light at wabash, indiana, i once picked up as beautiful a specimen of polyphemus as i ever saw, and the following day a friend told me that several had been captured the night before in the heart of town. chapter xi the garden fly: protoparce carolina protoparce carolina is a 'cousin' of celeus, and so nearly its double that the caterpillars and moths must be seen together to be differentiated by amateurs; while it is doubtful if skilled scientists can always identify the pupa cases with certainty. carolina is more common in the south, but it is frequent throughout the north. its caterpillars eat the same food as celeus, and are the same size. they are a dull green, while celeus is shining, and during the succession of moults, they show slight variations in colour. they pupate in a hole in the ground. the moths on close examination show quite a difference from celeus. they are darker in colour. the fore-wings lack the effect of being laid off in lines. the colour is a mottling of almost black, darkest grey, lighter grey, brown, and white. the back wings are crossed by wavy bands of brownish grey, black, and tan colour, and the yellow markings on the abdomen are larger. in repose, these moths fold the front wings over the back like large flies. in fact, in the south they are called the 'tobacco fly'; and we of the north should add the 'tomato and potato fly.' because i thought such a picture would be of interest, i reproduced a pair---the male as he clung to a piece of pasteboard in the 'fly' attitude. celeus and carolina caterpillars come the nearest being pests of those of any large moths, because they feed on tomato, potato, and tobacco, but they also eat jimson weed, ground cherry, and several vines that are of no use to average folk. the carolina moths come from their pupa cases as featherweights step into the sparring. they feed partially by day, and their big eyes surely see more than those of most other moths, that seem small and deepset in comparison. their legs are long, and not so hairy as is the rule. they have none of the blind, aimless, helpless appearance of moths that do not feed. they exercise violently in the pupa cases before they burst the shields, and when they emerge their eyes glow and dilate. they step with firmness and assurance, as if they knew where they wanted to go, and how to arrive. they are of direct swift flight, and much experience and dexterity are required to take them on wing. both my carolina moths emerged in late afternoon, about four o'clock, near the time their kind take flight to hunt for food. the light was poor in the cabin, so i set up my camera and focused on a sweetbrier climbing over the back door. the newly emerged moth was travelling briskly in that first exercise it takes, while i arranged my camera; so by the time i was ready, it had reached the place to rest quietly until its wings developed. carolina climbed on my finger with all assurance, walked briskly from it to the roses, and clung there firmly. the wet wings dropped into position, and the sun dried them rapidly. i fell in love with my subject. he stepped around so jauntily in comparison with most moths. the picture he made while clinging to the roses during the first exposure was lovely. his slender, trim legs seemed to have three long joints, and two short in the feet. in his sidewise position toward the lens, the abdomen showed silver-white beneath, silvery grey on the sides, and large patches of orange surrounded by black, with touches of white on top. his wings were folded together on his back as they drooped, showing only the under sides, and on these the markings were more clearly defined than on top. in the sunlight the fore pair were a warm tan grey, exquisitely lined and shaded. they were a little more than half covered by the back pair, that folded over them. these were a darker grey, with tan and almost black shadings, and crossed by sharply zig-zagging lines of black. the grey legs were banded by lines of white. the first pair clung to the stamens of the rose, the second to the petals, and the third stretched out and rested on a leaf. there were beautiful markings of very dark colour and white on the thorax, head, shoulders, and back wings next the body. the big eyes, quite the largest of any moth i remember, reminded me of owl eyes in the light. the antennae, dark, grey-brown on top, and white on the under side, turned back and drooped beside the costa, no doubt in the position they occupied in the pupa case. the location was so warm, and the moth dried so rapidly, that by the time two good studies were made of him in this position, he felt able to step to some leaves, and with no warning whatever, reversed his wings to the 'fly' position, so that only the top side of the front pair showed. the colour was very rich and beautiful, but so broken in small patches and lines, as to be difficult to describe. with the reversal of the wings the antennae flared a little higher, and the exercise of the sucking tube began. the moth would expose the whole length of the tube in a coil, which it would make larger and contract by turns, at times drawing it from sight. when it was uncoiled the farthest, a cleft in the face where it fitted could be seen. the next day my second carolina case produced a beautiful female. the history of her emergence was exactly similar to that of the male. her head, shoulders, and abdomen seemed nearly twice the size of his, while her wings but a trifle, if any larger. as these moths are feeders, and live for weeks, i presume when the female has deposited her eggs, the abdomen contracts, and loses its weight so that she does not require the large wings of the females that only deposit their eggs and die. they are very heavy, and if forced to flight must have big wings to support them. i was so interested in this that i slightly chloroformed the female, and made a study of the pair. the male was fully alive and alert, but they had not mated, and he would not take wing. he clung in his natural position, so that he resembled a big fly, on the smooth side of the sheet of corrugated paper on which i placed the female. his wings folded over each other. the abdomen and the antennae were invisible, because they were laid flat on the costa of each wing. the female clung to the board, in any position in which she was placed. her tongue readily uncoiled, showing its extreme length, and curled around a pin. with a camel'shair brush i gently spread her wings to show how near they were the size of the male's, and how much larger her body was. her fore-wings were a trifle lighter in colour than the male's, and not so broken with small markings. the back wings were very similar. her antennae stood straight out from the head on each side, of their own volition and differed from the male's. it has been my observation that in repose these moths fold the antennae as shown by the male. the position of the female was unnatural. in flight, or when feeding, the antennae are raised, and used as a guide in finding food flowers. a moth with broken antennae seems dazed and helpless, and in great distress. i have learned by experience in handling moths, that when i induce one to climb upon bark, branch, or flower for a study, they seldom place their wings as i want them. often it takes long and patient coaxing, and they are sensitive to touch. if i try to force a fore-wing with my fingers to secure a wider sweep, so that the markings of the back wings show, the moths resent it by closing them closer than before, climbing to a different location or often taking flight. but if i use a fine camel's-hair brush, that lacks the pulsation of circulation, and gently stroke the wing, and sides of the abdomen, the moths seems to like the sensation and grow sleepy or hypnotized. by using the brush i never fail to get wing extension that will show markings, and at the same time the feet and body are in a natural position. after all is said there is to say, and done there is to do, the final summing up and judgment of any work on natural history will depend upon whether it is true to nature. it is for this reason i often have waited for days and searched over untold miles to find the right location, even the exact leaf, twig or branch on which a subject should be placed. i plead guilty to the use of an anesthetic in this chapter only to show the tongue extension of carolina, because it is the extremest with which i am acquainted; and to coaxing wide wing sweep with the camel'shair brush; otherwise either the fact that my subjects are too close emergence ever to have taken flight, or sex attraction alone holds them. if you do not discover love running through every line of this text and see it shining from the face of each study and painting, you do not read aright and your eyes need attention. again and again to the protests of my family, i have made answer-- "to work we love we rise betimes, and go to it with delight." from the middle of may to the end of june of the year i was most occupied with this book, my room was filled with cocoons and pupa cases. the encased moths i had reason to believe were on the point of appearing lay on a chair beside my bed or a tray close my pillow. that month i did not average two hours of sleep in a night, and had less in the daytime. i not only arose 'betimes,' but at any time i heard a scratching and tugging moth working to enter the world, and when its head was out, i was up and ready with note-book and camera. day helped the matter but slightly, for any moth emerging in the night had to be provided a location, and pictured before ten o'clock or it was not safe to take it outside. then i had literally 'to fly' to develop the plate, make my print and secure exact colour reproduction while the moth was fresh. for this is a point to remember in photographing a moth. a free living moth never raises its wings higher than a straight line from the bases crossing the top of the thorax. it requires expert and adept coaxing to get them horizontal with their bases. if you do, you show all markings required; and preserve natural values, quite the most important things to be considered. i made a discovery with carolina. moths having digestive organs and that are feeders are susceptible to anaesthetics in a far higher degree than those that do not feed. many scientific workers confess to having poured full strength chloroform directly on nonfeeders, mounted them as pinned specimens and later found them living; so that sensitive lepidopterists have abandoned its use for the cyanide or gasoline jar. i intended to give only a whiff of chloroform to this moth, just enough that she would allow her tongue to remain uncoiled until i could snap its fullest extent, but i could not revive her. the same amount would have had no effect whatever on a non-feeder. chapter xii bloody-nose of sunshine hill: hemaris thysbe john brown lives a mile north of our village, in the little hamlet of ceylon. like his illustrious predecessor of the same name he is willing to do something for other people. mr. brown owns a large farm, that for a long distance borders the wabash river where it is at its best, and always the cameras and i have the freedom of his premises. on the east side of the village, about half its length, swings a big gate, that opens into a long country lane. it leads between fields of wheat and corn to a stretch of woods pasture, lying on a hillside, that ends at the river. this covers many acres, most of the trees have been cut; the land rises gradually to a crest, that is crowned by a straggling old snake fence, velvety black in places, grey with lint in others, and liberally decorated its entire length with lichens, in every shade of grey and green. its corners are filled with wild flowers, ferns, gooseberries, raspberries, black and red haw, papaw, wild grapevines, and trees of all varieties. across the fence a sumac covered embankment falls precipitately to the wabash, where it sweeps around a great curve at horseshoe bend. the bed is stone and gravel, the water flows shallow and pure in the sunlight, and mallows and willows fringe the banks. beside this stretch of river most of one summer was spent, because there were two broods of cardinals, whose acquaintance i was cultivating, raised in those sumacs. the place was very secluded, as the water was not deep enough for fishing or swimming. on days when the cardinals were contrary, or to do the birds justice, when they had experiences with an owl the previous night, or with a hawk in the morning, and were restless or unduly excited, much grist for my camera could be found on the river banks. these were the most beautiful anywhere in my locality. the hum of busy life was incessant. from the top twig of the giant sycamore in rainbow bottom, the father of the cardinal flock hourly challenged all creation to contest his right to one particular sumac. the cardinals were the attraction there; across the fence where the hill sloped the length of the pasture to the lane, lures were many and imperative. despite a few large trees, compelling right to life by their majesty, that hillside was open pasture, where the sunshine streamed all day long. wild roses clambered over stumps of fallen monarchs, and scrub oak sheltered resting sheep. as it swept to the crest, the hillside was thickly dotted with mullein, its pale yellow-green leaves spreading over the grass, and its spiral of canary-coloured bloom stiffly upstanding. there were thistles, the big, rank, richly growing, kind, that browsing cattle and sheep circled widely. very beautiful were these frosted thistles, with their large, widespreading base leaves, each spine needle-tipped, their uplifted heads of delicate purple bloom, and their floating globes of silken down, with a seed in their hearts. no wonder artists have painted them, decorators conventionalized them; even potters could not pass by their artistic merit, for i remembered that in a china closet at home there were belleck cups moulded in the shape of a thistle head. experience had taught me how the appreciate this plant. there was a chewink in the stanley woods, that brought off a brood of four, under the safe shelter of a rank thistle leaf, in the midst of trampling herds of cattle driven wild by flies. there was a ground sparrow near the hale sand pit, covered by a base leaf of another thistle, and beneath a third on bob's lease, i had made a study of an exquisite nest. protection from the rank leaves was not all the birds sought of these plants, for goldfinches were darting around inviting all creation to "see me?" as they gathered the silken down for nest lining. over the sweetly perfumed purple heads, the humming-birds held high carnival on sunshine hillside all the day. the honey and bumble bees fled at the birds' approach, but what were these others, numerous everywhere, that clung to the blooms, greedily thrusting their red noses between the petals, and giving place to nothing else? for days as i passed among them, i thought them huge bees. the bright colouring of their golden olive-green, and red-wine striped bodies had attracted me in passing. then one of them approached a thistle head opposite me in such a way its antennae and the long tongue it thrust into the bloom could be seen. that proved it was not a bee, and punishment did not await any one who touched it. there were so many that with one sweep of the net two were captured. they were examined to my satisfaction and astonishment. they were moths! truly moths, feeding in the brilliant sunshine all the day; bearing a degree of light and heat i never had known any other moth to endure. talk about exquisite creatures! these little day moths, not much larger than the largest bumble bees, had some of their gaudiest competitors of moonlight and darkness outdone. the head was small and pointed, with big eyes, a long tongue, clubbed antennae, and a blood-red nose. the thorax above was covered with long, silky, olive-green hair; the top of the abdomen had half an inch band of warm tan colour, then a quarter of an inch band of velvety red wine, then a band nearer the olive of the shoulders. the males had claspers covered with small red-wine feathers tan tipped. the thorax was cream-coloured below and the under side of the abdomen red wine crossed with cream-coloured lines at each segment. the front wings had the usual long, silky hairs. they were of olive-green shading into red, at the base, the costa was red, and an escalloped band of red bordered them. the intervening space was transparent like thinnest isinglass, and crossed with fine red veins. the back wings were the same, only the hairs at the base were lighter red, and the band at the edge deeper in colour. the head of the male seemed sharper, the shoulders stronger olive, the wings more pointed at the apex, where the female's were a little rounded. the top of the abdomen had the middle band of such strong red that it threw the same colour over the bands above and below it; giving to the whole moth a strong red appearance when on wing. they, were so fascinating the birds were forgotten, and the hillside hunted for them until a pair were secured to carry home for identification, before the whistle of the cardinal from rainbow bottom rang so sharply that i remembered this was the day i had hoped to secure his likeness; and here i was allowing a little red-nosed moth so to thrust itself upon my attention, that my cameras were not even set up and focused on the sumac. this tiny sunshine moth, hemaris thysbe, was easy of identification, and its whole life history before me on the hillside. i was too busy with the birds to raise many caterpillars, so reference to several books taught me that they all agreed on the main points of hemaris history. hemaris means 'bloody nose.' 'bloody nose' on account of the red first noticed on the face, though some writers called them 'clear wings,' because of the transparent spaces on the wings. certainly 'clear wings' is a most appropriate and poetic name for this moth. fastidious people will undoubtedly prefer it for common usage. for myself, i always think of the delicate, gaudy little creature, greedily thrusting its blood-red nose into the purple thistle blooms; so to my thought it returns as 'bloody nose.' the pairs mate early after emerging, and lay about two hundred small eggs to the female, from which the caterpillars soon hatch, and begin their succession of moults. one writer gave black haw and snowball as their favourite foods, and the length of the caterpillar when full grown nearly two inches. they are either a light brown with yellow markings, or green with yellow; all of them have white granules on the body, and a blue-black horn with a yellow base. they spin among the leaves on the ground, and the pupa, while small, is shaped like regalis, except that it has a sharper point at each end, and more prominent wing shields. it has no raised tongue case, although it belongs to the family of 'long tongues.' on learning all i could acquire by experience with these moths, and what the books had to teach, i became their warm admirer. one sunny morning climbing the hill on the way to the cardinals, with fresh plates in my cameras, and high hopes in my heart, i passed an unsually large fine thistle, with half a dozen thysbe moths fluttering over it as if nearly crazed with fragrance, or honey they were sipping. "come here! come here! come here!" intoned the cardinal, from the sycamore of rainbow bottom. "just you wait a second, old fellow!" i heard myself answering. scarcely realizing what i was doing, the tripod was set up, the best camera taken out, and focused on that thistle head. the moths paid no attention to bees, butterflies, or humming-birds visiting the thistle, but this was too formidable, and by the time the choicest heads were in focus, all the little red fellows had darted to another plant. if the camera was moved there, they would change again, so i sat in the shade of a clump of papaws to wait and see if they would not grow accustomed to it. they kept me longer than i had expected, and the chances are i would have answered the cardinal's call, and gone to the river, had it not been for the interest found in watching a beautiful grey squirrel that homed in an ivy-covered stump in the pasture. he seemed to have much business on the fence at the hilltop, and raced back and forth to it repeatedly. he carried something, i could not always tell what, but at times it was green haws. once he came with no food, and at such a headlong run that he almost turned somersaults as he scampered up the tree. for a long time he was quiet, then he cautiously peeped out. after a while he ventured to the ground, raced to a dead stump, and sitting on it, barked and scolded with all his might. then he darted home again. when he had repeated this performance several times, the idea became apparent. there was some danger to be defied in rainbow bottom, but not a sound must be made from his home. the bark of a dog hurried me to the fence in time to see some hunters passing in the bottom, but i thanked mercy they were on the opposite side of the river and it was not probable they would wade, so my birds would not be disturbed. when the squirrel felt that he must bark and chatter, or burst with tense emotions, he discreetly left his mate and nest. i did some serious thinking on the 'instinct' question. he might choose a hollow log for his home by instinct, or eat certain foods because hunger urged him, but could instinct teach him not to make a sound where his young family lay? without a doubt, for this same reason, the cardinal sang from every tree and bush around horseshoe bend, save the sumac where his mate hovered their young. the matter presented itself in this way. the squirrel has feet, and he runs with them. he has teeth, and he eats with them. he has lungs, and he breathes with them. every organ of his interior has its purpose, and is used to fulfil it. his big, prominent eyes come from long residence in dark hollows. his bushy tail helps him in long jumps from tree to tree. every part of his anatomy is created, designed and used to serve some purpose, save only his brain, the most complex and complicated part of him. its only use and purpose is to form one small 'tidbit' for the palate of the epicure! like sir francis, who preached a sermon to the birds, i found me delivering myself of a lecture to the squirrels, birds, and moths of sunshine hill. the final summing up was, that the squirrel used his feet, teeth, eyes and tail; that could be seen easily, and by his actions it could be seen just as clearly that he used his brain also. there was not a thysbe in front of the lens, so picking up a long cudgel i always carry afield, and going quietly to surrounding thistles, i jarred them lightly with it, and began rounding up the hemaris family in the direction of the camera. the trick was a complete success. soon i had an exposure on two. after they had faced the camera once, and experienced no injury, like the birds, they accepted it as part of the landscape. the work was so fascinating, and the pictures on the ground glass so worth while, that before i realized what i was doing, half a dozen large plates were gone, and for this reason, work with the cardinals that day ended at noon. this is why i feel that at times in bird work the moths literally 'thrust themselves' upon me. chapter xiii the modest moth: triptogon modesta of course this moth was named modesta because of modest colouring. it reminds me of a dove, being one of my prime favourites. on wing it is suggestive of polyphemus, but its colours are lighter and softer. great beauty that polyphemus is, modesta equals it. modesta belongs to the genus triptogon, species modesta--hence the common name, the modest moth. i am told that in the east this moth is of stronger colouring than in the central and western states. i do not know about the centre and west, but i do know that only as far east as indiana, modesta is of more delicate colouring than it is described by scientists of new york and pennsylvania; and, of course, as in almost every case, the female is not so strongly coloured as the male. i can class the modest moth and its caterpillar among those i know, but my acquaintance with it is more limited than with almost any other. my first introduction came when i found a caterpillar of striking appearance on water sprouts growing around a poplar stump in a stretch of trees beside the wabash. i carried it home with a supply of the leaves for diet, but as a matter of luck, it had finished eating, and was ready to pupate. i write of this as good luck, because the poplar tree is almost extinct in my location. i know of only one in the fields, those beside the river, and a few used for ornamental shade trees. they are so scarce i would have had trouble to provide the caterpillar with natural food; so i was glad that it was ready to pupate when found. any one can identify this caterpillar easily, as it is most peculiar. there is a purplish pink cast on the head and mouth of the full-grown caterpillar, and purplish red around the props. the body is a very light blue-green, faintly tinged with white, and yellow in places. on the sides are white obliques, or white, shaded with pink, and at the base of these, a small oval marking. there is a small short horn on the head. but the distinguishing mark is a mass of little white granules, scattered all over the caterpillar. it is so peppered with these, that failure to identify it is impossible. these caterpillars pupate in the ground. i knew that, but this was before i had learned that the caterpillar worked out a hole in the ground, and the pupa case only touched the earth upon which it lay. so when my modesta caterpillar ceased crawling, lay quietly, turned dark, shrank one half in length, and finally burst the dead skin, and emerged in a shining dark brown pupa case two inches long, i got in my work. i did well. a spade full of garden soil was thoroughly sifted, baked in the oven to kill parasites and insects, cooled, and put in a box, and the pupa case buried in it. every time it rained, i opened the box, and moistened the earth. two months after time for emergence, i dug out the pupa case to find it white with mould. i had no idea what the trouble was, for i had done much work over that case, and the whole winter tended it solicitously. it was one of my earliest attempts, and i never have found another caterpillar, or any eggs, though i often search the poplars for them. however, something better happened. i say better, because i think if they will make honest confession, all people who have gathered eggs and raised caterpillars from them in confinement, by feeding cut leaves, will admit that the pupa cases they get, and the moths they produce are only about half size. the big fine cases and cocoons are the ones you find made by caterpillars in freedom, or by those that have passed at least the fourth or fifth moult out of doors. so it was a better thing for my illustration, and for my painting, when in june of this year, raymond, in crossing town from a ball game, found a large, perfect modesta female. he secured her in his hat, and hurried to me. raymond's hat has had many wonderful things in it besides his head, and his pockets are always lumpy with boxes. although perfect, she had mated, deposited her eggs, and was declining. all she wanted was to be left alone, and she would sit with wings widespread wherever placed. i was in the orchard, treating myself to some rare big musky red raspberries that are my especial property, when raymond came with her. he set her on a shoot before me, and guarded her while i arranged a camera. she was the most complacent subject i ever handled outdoors, and did not make even an attempt to fly. raymond was supposed to be watching while i worked, but our confidence in her was so great, that i paid all my attention to polishing my lenses, and getting good light, while raymond gathered berries with one hand, and promiscuously waved the net over the bushes with the other. during the first exposure, modesta was allowed to place and poise herself as seemed natural. for a second, i used the brush on her gently, and coaxed her wings into spreading a little wider than was natural. these positions gave every evidence of being pleasing and yet i was not satisfied. there was something else in the back of my head that kept obtruding itself as i walked to the cabin, with the beautiful moth clinging to my fingers. i did not feel quite happy about her, so she was placed in a large box, lined with corrugated paper, to wait a while until the mist in my brain cleared, and my nebulous disturbance evolved an idea. it came slowly. i had a caterpillar long ago, and had investigated the history of this moth. i asked raymond where he found her and he said, "coming from the game." now i questioned him about the kind of a tree, and he promptly answered, "on one of those poplars behind the schoolhouse." that was the clue. instantly i recognized it. a poplar limb was what i wanted. its fine, glossy leaf, flattened stem, and smooth upright twigs made a setting, appropriate, above all others, for the modest moth. i explained the situation to the deacon, and he had brenner drive with him to the hirschy farm, and help secure a limb from one of the very few lombardy poplars of this region. they drove very fast, and i had to trouble to induce modesta to clamber over a poplar twig, and settle. then by gently stroking, an unusual wing sweep was secured, because there is a wonderful purple-pink and a peculiar blue on the back wings. it has been my experience that the longer a moth of these big short-lived subjects remains out of doors, the paler its colours become, and most of them fade rapidly when mounted, if not kept in the dark. so my modesta may have been slightly faded, but she could have been several shades paler and yet appeared most beautiful to me. her head, shoulders, and abdomen were a lovely dove grey; that soft tan grey, with a warm shade, almost suggestive of pink. i suppose the reason i thought of this was because at the time two pairs of doves, one on a heap of driftwood overhanging the river, and the other in an apple tree in the aspy orchard a few rods away, were giving me much trouble, and i had dove grey on my mind. this same dove grey coloured the basic third of the fore-wings. then they were crossed with a band only a little less in width, of rich cinnamon brown. there was a narrow wavy line of lighter brown, and the remaining third of the wing was paler, but with darker shadings. these four distinct colour divisions were exquisitely blended, and on the darkest band, near the costa, was a tiny white half moon. the under sides of the fore-wings were a delicate brownish grey, with heavy flushings of a purplish pink, a most beautiful colour. the back wings were dove colour near the abdomen, more of a mouse colour around the edges, and beginning strongly at the base, and spreading in lighter shade over the wing, was the same purplish pink of the front under-wing, only much stronger. near the abdomen, a little below half the length, and adjoining the grey; each wing had a mark difficult to describe in shape, and of rich blue colour. the antennae stood up stoutly, and were of dove grey on one side, and white on the other. the thorax, legs, and under side of the abdomen were more of the mouse grey in colour. over the whole moth in strong light, there was an almost intangible flushing of palest purplish pink. it may have shaded through the fore-wing from beneath, and over the back wing from above. at any rate, it was there, and so lovely and delicate was the whole colour scheme, it made me feel that i would give much to see a newly emerged male of this species. in my childhood my mother called this colour aniline red. i once asked a chicago importer if he believed that oriental rug weavers sometimes use these big night moths as colour guides in their weaving. he said he had heard this, and gave me the freedom of his rarest rugs. of course the designs woven into these rugs have a history, and a meaning for those who understand. there were three, almost priceless, one of which i am quite sure copied its greys, terra cotta, and black shades from cecropia. there was another, a rug of pure silk, that never could have touched a floor, or been trusted outside a case, had it been my property, that beyond all question took its exquisite combinations of browns and tans with pink lines, and peacock blue designs from polyphemus. a third could have been copied from no moth save modesta, for it was dove grey, mouse grey, and cinnamon brown, with the purplish pink of the back wings, and exactly the blue of their decorations. had this rug been woven of silk, as the brown one, that moment would have taught me why people sometimes steal when they cannot afford to buy. examination of the stock of any importer of high grade rugs will convince one who knows moths, that many of our commonest or their near relatives native to the orient are really used as models for colour combinations in rug weaving. the herat frequently has moths in its border. the modest moth has a wing sweep in large females of from five and one-half to six inches. in my territory they are very rare, only a few caterpillars and one moth have fallen to me. this can be accounted for by the fact that the favourite food tree of the caterpillar is so scarce, for some reason having become almost extinct, except in a few cases where they are used for shade. the eggs are a greyish green, and have the pearly appearance of almost all moth eggs. on account of white granules, the caterpillar cannot fail to be identified. the moths in their beautiful soft colouring are well worth search and study. they are as exquisitely shaded as any, and of a richness difficult to describe. chapter xiv the pride of the lilacs: attacus promethea so far as the arrangement ofthe subjects of this book in family groupings is concerned, any chapter might come first or last. it is frankly announced as the book of the nature lover, and as such is put together in the form that appears to me easiest to comprehend and most satisfying to examine. i decided that it would be sufficient to explain the whole situation to the satisfaction of any one, if i began the book with a detailed history of moth, egg, caterpillar, and cocoon and then gave complete portrayal of each stage in the evolution of one cocoon and one pupa case moth. i began with cecropia, the commonest of all and one of the most beautiful for the spinners, and ended with regalis, of earth--and the rarest. the luck i had in securing regalis in such complete form seems to me the greatest that ever happened to any, worker in this field, and it reads more like a fairy tale than sober every-day fact, copiously illustrated with studies from life. at its finish i said, "now i am done. this book is completed." soon afterward, raymond walked in with a bunch of lilac twigs in his hand from which depended three rolled leaves securely bound to their twigs by silk spinning. "i don't remember that we ever found any like these," he said. 'would you be interested in them?' would i? instantly i knew this book was not finished. as i held the firm, heavy, leaf-rolled cocoons in my hand, i could see the last chapter sliding over from fourteen to fifteen to make place for promethea, the loveliest of the attacine group, a cousin of cecropia. often i had seen the pictured cocoon, in its neat little, tight little leaf-covered shelter, and the mounted moths of scientific collections and museums; i knew their beautiful forms and remembered the reddish tinge flushing the almost black coat of the male and the red wine and clay-coloured female with her elaborate marks, spots, and lines. right there the book stopped at leaf-fall early in november to await the outcome of those three cocoons. if they would yield a pair in the spring, and if that pair would emerge close enough together to mate and produce fertile eggs, then by fall of the coming year i would have a complete life history. that was a long wait, thickly punctuated with 'ifs.' then the twig was carried to my room and stood in a vase of intricate workmanship and rare colouring. every few days i examined those cocoons and tested them by weight. i was sure they were perfect. that spring i had been working all day and often at night, so i welcomed an opportunity to spend a few days at a lake where i would meet many friends; boating and fishing were fine, while the surrounding country was one uninterrupted panorama of exquisite land and water pictures. i packed and started so hastily i forgot my precious cocoons. two weeks later on my return, before i entered the cabin, i walked round it to see if my flowers had been properly watered and tended. it was not later than three in the afternoon but i saw at least a dozen wonderful big moths, dusky and luring, fluttering eagerly over the wild roses covering a south window of the deacon's room adjoining mine on the west. instantly i knew what that meant. i hurried to the room and found a female promothea at the top of the screen covering a window that the caretaker had slightly lowered. i caught up a net and ran to bring a step-ladder. the back foundation is several feet high and that threw the tops of the windows close under the eaves. i mounted to the last step and balancing made a sweep to capture a moth. they could see me and scattered in all directions. i waited until they were beginning to return, when from the thicket of leaves emerged a deep rose-flushed little moth that sailed away, with every black one in pursuit. i almost fell from the ladder. i went inside, only to learn that what i feared was true. the wind had loosened the screen in my absence, and the moth had passed through a crack, so narrow it seemed impossible for it to escape. only those interested as i was, and who have had similar experience, know how to sympathize. i had thought a crowbar would be required to open one of those screens! with sinking heart i hurried to my room. joy! there was yet hope! the escaped moth was the only one that had emerged. the first thing was to fasten the screen, the next to live with the remaining cocoons. the following morning another, female appeared, and a little later a male. the cocoons were long, slender, closely leaf-wrapped and hung from stout spinning longer than the average leaf stem. the outside leaf covering easily could be peeled away as the spinning did not seem to adhere except at the edges. there was a thin waterproof coating as with cecropia, then a little loose spinning that showed most at top and bottom, the leaf wrapping being so closely drawn that it was plastered against the body of the heavy inner case around the middle until it adhered. the inner case was smooth and dark inside and the broken pupa case nearly black. the male and female differed more widely in colour and markings than any moths with which i had worked. at a glance, the male reminded me of a monster mourning cloak butterfly. the front wings from the base extending over half the surface were a dark brownish black, outlined with a narrow escalloped line of clay colour of light shade. the black colour from here lightened as it neared the margin. at the apex it changed to a reddish brown tinge that surrounded the typical eye-spot of all the attacus group for almost three-fourths of its circumference. the bottom of the eye was blackish blue, shading abruptly to pale blue at the top. the straggle m of white was in its place at the extreme tip, on the usual rose madder field. from there a broad clay-coloured band edged the wing and joined the dark colour in escallops. through the middle of it in an irregular wavy line was traced an almost hair-fine marking of strong brown. the back wings were darker than the darkest part of the fore-wings and this colour covered them to the margin, lightening very slightly. a clay-coloured band bordered the edge, touched with irregular splashes of dark brown, a little below them a slightly heavier line than that on the fore-wing, which seemed to follow the outline of the decorations. underneath, the wings were exquisitely marked, flushed, and shaded almost past description in delicate and nearly intangible reddish browns, rose madder on grey, pink-tinged brown and clay colour. on the fore-wings the field from base to first line was reddish brown with a faint tinge of tan beside the costa. from this to the clay-coloured border my descriptive powers fail. you could see almost any shade for which you looked. there were greyish places flushed with scales of red and white so closely set that the result was frosty pink. then the background would change to brown with the same over-decoration. the bottom of the eye-spot was dark only about one-fourth the way, the remaining three-fourths, tan colour outlined at the top with pale blue and black in fine lines. the white m showed through on a reddish background, as did the brown line of the clay border. the back wings widespread were even lovelier. beginning about the eighth of an inch from the top was a whitish line tracing a marking that when taken as a whole on both outspread wings, on some, slightly resembled a sugar maple leaf, and on others, the perfect profile of a face. there was a small oblong figure of pinkish white where the eye would fall, and the field of each space was brownish red velvet. from this to the clay-coloured band with its paler brown markings and lines, the pink and white scales sprinkled the brown ground; most of the pink, around the marking, more of the white, in the middle of the space; so few of either, that it appeared to be brown where the clay border joined. the antennae were shaped as all of the attacus group, but larger in proportion to size, for my biggest promethea measured only four and a quarter from tip to tip, and for his inches carried larger antlers than any cecropia i ever saw of this measurement, those of the male being very much larger than the female. in colour they were similar to the darkest part of the wings, as were the back of the head, thorax and abdomen. the hair on the back of the thorax was very long. the face wore a pink flush over brown, the eyes bright brown, the under thorax covered with long pinkish brown hairs, and the legs the same. a white stripe ran down each side of the abdomen, touched with a dot of brownish red wine colour on the rings. the under part was pinkish wine crossed with a narrow white line at each segment. the claspers were prominent and sharp. the finishing touch of the exquisite creation lay in the fact that in motion, in strong light the red wine shadings of the under side cast an intangible, elusive, rosy flush over the dark back of the moth that was the mast delicate and loveliest colour effect i ever have seen on marking of flower, bird, or animal. for the first time in all my experience with moths the female was less than the male. even the eggs of this mated pair carried a pinkish white shade and were stained with brown. they were ovoid in shape and dotted the screen door in rows. the tiny caterpillars were out eleven days later and proved to be of the kind that march independently from their shells without stopping to feed on them. of every food offered, the youngsters seemed to prefer lilac leaves; i remembered that they had passed the winter wrapped in these, dangling from their twigs, and that the under wings of the male and much of the female bore a flushing of colour that was lilac, for what else is red wine veiled with white? so i promptly christened them, 'the pride of the lilacs.' they were said to eat ash, apple pear, willow, plum, cherry, poplar and many other leaves, but mine liked lilac, and there was a supply in reach of the door, so they undoubtedly were lilac caterpillars, for they had nothing else to eat. the little fellows were pronouncedly yellow. the black head with a grey stripe joined the thorax with a yellow band. the body was yellow with black rings, the anal parts black, the legs pale greyish yellow. they made their first moult on the tenth day and when ready to eat again they were stronger yellow than before, with many touches of black. they moulted four times, each producing slight changes until the third, when the body took on a greenish tinge, delicate and frosty in appearance. the heads were yellow with touches of black, and the anal shield even stronger yellow, with black. at the last moult there came a touch of red on the thorax, and of deep blue on the latter part of the body. in spinning they gummed over the upper surface of a leaf and, covering it with silk, drew it together so that nothing could be seen of the work inside. they began spinning some on the forty-second, some on the forty-third day, when about three inches in length and plump to bursting. i think at a puncture in the skin they would have spurted like a fountain. they began spinning at night and were from sight before i went to them the following morning. so i hunted a box and packed them away with utmost care. i selected a box in which some mounted moths had been sent me by a friend in louisiana, and when i went to examine my cocoons toward spring, to my horror i found the contents of the box chopped to pieces and totally destroyed. pestiferous little 'clothes' moths must have infested the box, for there were none elsewhere in the cabin. for a while this appeared to be too bad luck; but when luck turns squarely against you, that is the time to test the essence and quality of the word 'friend.' so i sat me down and wrote to my friend, professor rowley, of missouri, and told him i wanted promethea for the completion of this book; that i had an opportunity to make studies of them and my plate was light-struck, and house-moths had eaten my cocoons. could he do anything? to be sure he could. i am very certain he sent me two dozen 'perfectly good' cocoons. from the abundance of males that have come to seek females of this species at the cabin, ample proof seems furnished that they are a very common limberlost product; but i never have found, even when searching for them, or had brought to me a cocoon of this variety, save the three on one little branch found by raymond, when he did not know what they were. because of the length of spinning which these caterpillars use to attach their cocoons, they dangle freely in the wind, and this gives them especial freedom from attack. chapter xv the king of the poets: citheronia regalis to the impetuosity of youth i owe my first acquaintance with the rarest moth of the limberlost; "not common anywhere," say scientific authorities. molly-cotton and i were driving to portland-town, ten miles south of our home. as customary, i was watching fields, woods, fence corners and roadside in search of subjects; for many beautiful cocoons and caterpillars, much to be desired, have been located while driving over the country on business or pleasure. with the magnificent independence of the young, molly-cotton would have scouted the idea that she was searching for moths also, but i smiled inwardly as i noticed her check the horse several times and scan a wayside bush, or stretch of snake fence. we were approaching the limits of town, and had found nothing; a slow rain was falling, and the shimmer on bushes and fences made it difficult to see objects plainly. several times i had asked her to stop the horse, or drive close the fields when i was sure of a moth or caterpillar, though it was very late, being close the end of august; but we found only a dry leaf, or some combination that had deceived me. just on the outskirts of portland, beside a grassy ditch and at the edge of a cornfield, grew a cluster of wild tiger lilies. the water in the ditch had kept them in flower long past their bloomtime. on one of the stems there seemed to be a movement. "wait a minute!" i cried, and molly-cotton checked the horse, but did not stop, while i leaned forward and scanned the lilies carefully. what i thought i saw move appeared to be a dry lily bloom of an orange-red colour, that had fallen and lodged on the grasses against a stalk. "it's only a dead lily," i said; "drive on." "is there a moth that colour?" asked molly-cotton. "yes," i replied. "there is an orange-brown species, but it is rare. i never have seen a living one." so we passed the lilies. a very peculiar thing is that when one grows intensely interested in a subject, and works over it, a sort of instinct, an extra sense as it were, is acquired. three rods away, i became certain i had seen something move, so strongly the conviction swept over me that we had passed a moth. still, it was raining, and the ditch was wet and deep. "i am sorry we did not stop," i said, half to myself, "i can't help feeling that was a moth." there is where youth, in all its impetuosity, helped me. if the girl had asked, "shall i go back?" in all probability i would have answered, "no, i must have been mistaken. drive on!" instead, molly-cotton, who had straightened herself, and touched up her horse for a brisk entrance into town, said, "well, we will just settle that 'feeling' right here!" at a trot, she deftly cut a curve in the broad road and drove back. she drew close the edge of the ditch as we approached the lilies. as the horse stopped, what i had taken for a fallen lily bloom, suddenly opened to over five inches of gorgeous red-brown, canary-spotted wing sweep, and then closed again. "it is a moth!" we gasped, with one breath. molly-cotton cramped the wheel on my side of the carriage and started to step down. then she dropped back to the seat. "i am afraid," she said. "i don't want you to wade that ditch in the rain, but you never have had a red one, and if i bungle and let it escape, i never will forgive myself." she swung the horse to the other side, and i climbed down. gathering my skirts, i crossed the ditch as best i could, and reached the lily bed, but i was trembling until my knees wavered. i stepped between the lilies and the cornfield, leaned over breathlessly, and waited in the pelting rain, until the moth again raised its wings above its back. then with a sweep learned in childhood, i had it. while crossing the ditch, i noticed there were numbers of heavy yellow paper bags lying where people had thrown them when emptied of bananas and biscuits, on leaving town. they were too wet to be safe, but to carry the moth in my fingers would spoil it for a study, so i caught up and drained a big bag; carefully set my treasure inside, and handed it to molly-cotton. if you consider the word 'treasure' too strong to fit the case, offer me your biggest diamond, ruby, or emerald, in recompense for the privilege of striking this chapter, with its accompanying illustration, from my book, and learn what the answer will be. when i entered the carriage and dried my face and hands, we peeped, marvelled, and exclaimed in wonder, for this was the most gorgeous moth of our collections. we hastened to portland, where we secured a large box at a store. in order that it might not be dark and set the moth beating in flight, we copiously punctured it with as large holes as we dared, and bound the lid securely. on the way home we searched the lilies and roadside for a mile, but could find no trace of another moth. indeed, it seemed a miracle that we had found this one late in august, for the time of their emergence is supposed to be from middle may to the end of june. professor rowley assures me that in rare instances a moth will emerge from a case or cocoon two seasons old, and finding this one, and the luna, prove it is well for nature students to be watchful from may until october. because these things happened to me in person, i made bold to introduce the capture of a late moth into the experience of edith carr in the last chapter of "a girl of the limberlost." i am pointing out some of these occurrences as i come to them, in order that you may see how closely i keep to life and truth, even in books exploited as fiction. there may be such incidents that are pure imagination incorporated; but as i write i can recall no instance similar to this, in any book of mine, that is not personal experience, or that did not happen to other people within my knowledge, or was not told me by some one whose word i consider unquestionable; allowing very little material indeed, on the last provision. there is one other possibility to account for the moth at this time. beyond all question the gorgeous creature is of tropical origin. it has made its way north from south or central america. it occurs more frequently in florida and georgia than with us, and there it is known to have been double brooded; so standing on the records of professional lepidopterists, that gives rise to grounds for the possibility that in some of our long, almost tropical indiana summers, regalis may be double brooded with us. at any rate, many people saw the living moth in my possession on this date. in fact, i am prepared to furnish abundant proof of every statement contained in this chapter; while at the same time admitting that it reads like the veriest fairy tale 'ever thought or wondered.' the storm had passed and the light was fine, so we posed the moth before the camera several times. it was nervous business, for he was becoming restless, and every instant i expected him to fly, but of course we kept him guarded. there was no hope of a female that late date, so the next step was to copy his colours and markings as exactly as possible. he was the gaudiest moth of my experience, and his name seemed to suit rarely well. citheroma--a greek poet, and regalis--regal. he was truly royal and enough to inspire poetry in a man of any nation. his face-was orange-brown, of so bright a shade that any one at a glance would have called it red. his eyes were small for his size, and his antennae long, fine, and pressed against the face so closely it had to be carefully scrutinized to see them. a band of bright canary-yellow arched above them, his thorax was covered above with long silky, orange-brown hairs, and striped lengthwise with the same yellow. his abdomen was the longest and slenderest i had seen, elegantly curved like a vase, and reaching a quarter of an inch beyond the back wings, which is unusual. it was thickly covered with long hair, and faintly lined at the segments with yellow. the claspers were very sharp, prominent brown hooks. his sides were dotted with alternating red and orangebrown spots, and his thorax beneath, yellow. the under side of the abdomen was yellow, strongly shaded with orange-brown. his legs and feet were the same. his fore-wings were a silvery lead colour, each vein covered with a stripe of orange-brown three times its width. the costa began in lead colour, and at half its extent shaded into orange-brown. each front wing had six yellow spots, and a seventh faintly showing. half an inch from the apex of the wings, and against the costa, lay the first and second spots, oblong in shape, and wide enough to cover the space between veins. the third was a tiny dot next the second. the hint of one crossed the next vein, and the other three formed a triangle; one lay at the costa about three-quarters of an inch from the base, the second at the same distance from the base at the back edge of the wing, and the third formed the apex, and fell in the middle, on the fifth space between veins, counting from either edge. these were almost perfectly round. the back wings were very hairy, of a deep orange-brown at the base, shading to lighter tones of the same colour at the edge, and faintly clouded in two patches with yellow. underneath the fore-wings were yellow at the base, and lead colour the remainder of their length. the veins had the orange-red outlining, and the two large yellow dots at the costa showed through as well as the small one beside them. then came another little yellow dot of the same size, that did not show on the upper side, and then four larger round spots between each vein. two of them showed in the triangle on the upper side full size, and the two between could be seen in the merest speck, if looked for very closely. the back wings underneath were yellow three-fourths of their length, then next the abdomen began a quarter of an inch wide band of orange-brown, that crossed the wing to the third vein from the outer edge, and there shaded into lead colour, and covered the space to the margin. the remainder of the wing below this band was a lighter shade of yellow than above it. from tip to tip he measured five and a half inches, and from head to point of abdomen a little over two. while i was talking regalis, and delighted over finding so late in the season the only one i lacked to complete my studies of every important species, arthur fensler brought me a large regalis caterpillar, full fed, and in the last stages of the two days of exercise that every caterpillar seems to take before going into the pupa state. it was late in the evening, so i put the big fellow in a covered bucket of soft earth from the garden, planning to take his picture the coming day. before morning he had burrowed into the earth from sight, and was pupating, so there was great risk in disturbing him. i was afraid there were insects in the earth that would harm him, as care had not been taken to bake it, as should have been done. a day later willis glendenning brought me another regalis caterpillar. i made two pictures of it, although transformation to the pupa stage was so far advanced that it was only half length, and had a shrivelled appearance like the one i once threw away. i was disgusted with the picture at the time, but now i feel that it is very important in the history of transformation from caterpillar to pupa, and i am glad to have it. two days later, andrew idlewine, a friend to my work, came to the deacon with a box. he said that he thought maybe i would like to take a picture of the fellow inside, and if i did, he wanted a copy; and he wished he knew what the name of it was. he had found it on a butternut tree, and used great care in taking it lest it 'horn' him. he was horrified when the deacon picked it up, and demonstrated how harmless it was. this is difficult to believe, but it was a third regalis and came into my possession at night again. my only consolation was that it was feeding, and would not pupate until i could make a picture. this one was six inches from tip to tip, the largest caterpillar i ever saw; a beautiful blue-green colour, with legs of tan marked with black, each segment having four small sharp horns on top, and on the sides an oblique dash of pale blue. the head bore ten horns. four of these were large, an inch in length, coloured tan at the base, black at the tip. the foremost pair of this formidable array turned front over the face, all the others back, and the outside six of the ten were not quite the length of the largest ones. the first caterpillar had measured five inches, and the next one three, but it was transforming. whether the others were males and this a female, or whether it was only that it had grown under favourable conditions, i could not tell. it was differently marked on the sides, and in every way larger, and brighter than the others, and had not finished feeding. knowing that it was called the 'horned hickory devil' at times, hickory and walnut leaves were placed in its box, and it evinced a decided preference for the hickory. as long as it ate and seemed a trifle larger it was fed. the day it walked over fresh leaves and began the preliminary travel, it was placed on some hickory sprouts around an old stump, and exposures made on it, or rather on the places it had been, for it was extremely restless and difficult to handle. two plates were spoiled for me by my subject walking out of focus as i snapped, but twice it was caught broadside in good position. while i was working with this caterpillar, there came one of my clearest cases of things that 'thrust themselves upon me.' i would have preferred to concentrate all my attention on the caterpillar, for it was worth while; but in the midst of my work a katydid deliberately walked down the stump, and stopped squarely before the lens to wash her face and make her toilet. she was on the side of the stump, and so clearly outlined by the lens that i could see her long wavering antennae on the ground glass, and of course she took two plates before she resumed her travels. i long had wanted a katydid for an illustration. i got that one merely by using what was before me. all i did was to swing the lens about six inches, and shift the focus slightly, to secure two good exposures of her in fine positions. my caterpillar almost escaped while i worked, for it had put in the time climbing to the ground, and was a yard away hurrying across the grass at a lively pace. two days later it stopped travelling, and pupated on the top of the now hardened earth in the bucket that contained the other two. it was the largest of the pupae when it emerged, a big shining greenish brown thing flattened and seeming as if it had been varnished. on the thin pupa case the wing shields and outlines of the head and different parts of the body could be seen. then a pan of sand was baked, and a box with a glass cover was filled. i laid the pupa on top of the sand, and then dug up the first one, as i was afraid of the earth in which it lay. the case was sound, and in fine condition. all of these pupae lived and seemed perfect. narrow antennae and abdominal formation marked the big one a female, while broader antlers and the clearly outlined 'claspers' proved the smaller ones males. a little sphagnum moss, that was dampened slightly every few days, was kept around them. the one that entered the ground had pushed the earth from it on all, sides at a depth of three inches, and hollowed an oval space the size of a medium hen egg, in which the pupa lay, but there was no trace of its cast skin. those that pupated on the ground had left their skins at the thorax, and lay two inches from them. the horns came off with the skin, and the lining of the segments and the covering of the feet showed. at first the cast skins were green, but they soon turned a dirty grey, and the horns blackened. so from having no personal experience at all with our rarest moth, inside a few days of latter august and early september, weeks after hope had been abandoned for the season, i found myself with several as fine studies of the male as i could make, one of an immense caterpillar at maturity, one half-transformed to the moth, and three fine pupa cases. besides, i had every reason to hope that in the spring i could secure eggs and a likeness of a female to complete my illustration. call this luck, fairy magic, what you will, i admit it sounds too good to be true; but it is. all winter these three fine regalis pupa cases were watched solicitously, as well as my twin cecropias, some polyphemus, and several ground cocoons so spun on limbs and among debris that it was not easy to decide whether they were polyphemus or luna. when spring came, and the cecropias emerged at the same time, i took heart, for i admit i was praying for a pair of regalis moths from those pupa cases in order that a female, a history of their emergence, and their eggs, might be added to the completion of this chapter. in the beginning it was my plan to use the caterpillars, and give the entire history of one spinning, and one burrowing moth. my cecropia records were complete; i could add the twin series for good measure for the cocoon moth; now if only a pair would come from these pupa cases, i would have what i wanted to compile the history of a ground moth. until the emergence of the cecropias, my cocoons and pupa cases were kept on my dresser. now i moved the box to a chair beside my bed. that was a lucky thought, for the first moth appeared at midnight, from mr. idlewine's case. she pushed the wing shields away with her feet, and passed through the opening. she was three and one-half inches long, with a big pursy abdomen, and wings the size of my thumbnail. i was anxious for a picture of her all damp and undeveloped, beside the broken pupa case; but i was so fearful of spoiling my series i dared not touch, or try to reproduce her. the head and wings only seemed damp, but the abdomen was quite wet, and the case contained a quantity of liquid, undoubtedly ejected for the purpose of facilitating exit. when you next examine a pupa, study the closeness with which the case fits antennae, eyes, feet, wings, head, thorax, and abdominal rings and you will see that it would be impossible for the moth to separate from the case and leave it with down intact, if it were dry. immediately the moth began racing around energetically, and flapping those tiny wings until the sound awakened the deacon in the adjoining room. after a few minutes of exercise, it seemed in danger of injuring the other cases, so it was transferred to the dresser, where it climbed to the lid of a trinket case, and clinging with the feet, the wings hanging, development began. there was no noticeable change in the head and shoulders, save that the down grew fluffier as it dried. the abdomen seemed to draw up, and became more compact. no one can comprehend the story of the wings unless they have seen them develop. at twelve o'clock and five minutes, they measured two-thirds of an inch from the base of the costa to the tip. at twelve fifteen they were an inch and a quarter. at half-past twelve they were two inches. at twelve forty-five they were two and a half; and at one o'clock they were three inches. at complete expansion this moth measured six and a half inches strong (sic!), and this full sweep was developed in one hour and ten minutes. to see those large brilliantly-coloured wings droop, widen, and develop their markings, seemed little short of a miracle. the history of the following days is painful. i not only wanted a series of this moth as i wanted nothing else concerning the book, but with the riches of three fine pupa cases of it on hand, i had promised professor rowley eggs from which to obtain its history for himself. i had taxed mr. rowley's time and patience as an expert lepidopterist, to read my text, and examine my illustration; and i hoped in a small way to repay his kindness by sending him a box of fertile regalis eggs. the other pupa cases were healthful and lively, but the moths would not emerge. i coaxed them in the warmth of closed palms--i even laid them on dampened moss in the sun in the hope of softening the cases, and driving the moths out with the heat, but to no avail. they would not come forth. i had made my studies of the big moth, when she was fully developed; but to my despair, she was depositing worthless eggs over the inside of my screen door. four days later, the egg-laying period over, the female, stupid and almost gone, a fine male emerged, and the following day another. i placed some of the sand from the bottom of the box on a brush tray, and put these two cases on it, and set a focused camera in readiness, so that i got a side view of a moth just as it emerged, and one facing front when about ready to cling for wing expansion. the history of their appearance, was similar to that of the female, only they were smaller, and of much brighter. colour. the next morning i wrote professor rowley of my regrets at being unable to send the eggs as i had hoped. at noon i came home from half a day in the fields, to find raymond sitting on the cabin steps with a big box. that box contained a perfect pair of mated regalis moths. this was positively the last appearance of the fairies. raymond had seen these moths clinging to the under side of a rail while riding. he at once dismounted, coaxed them on a twig, and covering them with his hat, he weighted the brim with stones. then he rode to the nearest farm-house for a box, and brought the pair safely to me. several beautiful studies of them were made, into one of which i also introduced my last moth to emerge, in order to show the males in two different positions. the date was june tenth. the next day the female began egg placing. a large box was lined with corrugated paper, so that she could find easy footing, and after she had deposited many eggs on this, fearing some element in it might not be healthful for them, i substituted hickory leaves. then the happy time began. soon there were heaps of pearly pale yellow eggs piled in pyramids on the leaves, and i made a study of them. then i gently lifted a leaf, carried it outdoors and, in full light, reproduced the female in the position in which she deposited her eggs, even in the act of placing them. of course, molly-cotton stood beside with a net in one hand to guard, and an umbrella in the other to shade the moth, except at the instant of exposure; but she made no movement indicative of flight. i made every study of interest of which i could think. then i packed and mailed professor rowley about two hundred fine fertile eggs, with all scientific data. i only kept about one dozen, as i could think of nothing more to record of this moth except the fact that i had raised its caterpillar. as i explained in the first chapter, from information found in a work on moths supposed to be scientific and accurate, i depended on these caterpillars to emerge in sixteen days. the season was unusually rainy and unfavourable for field work, and i had a large contract on hand for outdoor stuff. i was so extremely busy, i was glad to box the eggs, and put them out of mind until the twenty-seventh. by the merest chance i handled the box on the twentyfourth, and found six caterpillars starved to death, two more feeble, and four that seemed lively. one of these was bitten by some insect that clung to a leaf placed in their box for food, in spite of the fact that all leaves were carefully washed. one died from causes unknown. one stuck in pupation, and moulded in its skin. three went through the succession of moults and feeding periods in fine shape, and the first week in september transformed into shiny pupa cases, not one of which was nearly as large as that of the caterpillar brought to me by mr. idlewine. i fed these caterpillars on black walnut leaves, as they ate them in preference to hickory. i am slightly troubled about this moth. in packard's "guide to the study of moths", he writes: "citheronia regalis expands five to six inches, and its fore-wings are olive coloured, spotted with yellow and veined with broad red lines, while the hind wings are orange-red, spotted with olive, green, and yellow." he describes two other species. citheronia mexicana, a tropical moth that has drifted as far north as mexico. it is quite similar to regalis, "having more orange and less red," but it is not recorded as having been found within a thousand miles of my locality. a third small species, citheronia sepulcralis, expands only a little over three inches, is purple-brown with yellow spots; and is a rare atlantic coast species having been found once in massachusetts, oftener in georgia, never west of pennsylvania. this eliminates them as possible limberlost species. professor rowley raised this moth from the eggs i sent him. the trouble is this: packard describes the fore-wings as 'olive,' the hind as 'olive, and green.' holland makes no reference to colour, but on plate x, figure three, page eighty-seven, he reproduces regalis with fore-wings of olive-green, the remainder of the colour as i describe and paint, only lighter. in all the regalis moths i have handled, raised, studied minutely, painted, and photographed, there never has been tinge or shade of green. not the slightest trace of it! each moth, male and female, has had a basic colour of pure lead or steel grey. white tinged with the proper proportions of black and blue gives the only colour that will exactly match it. i have visited my specimen case since writing the preceding. i find there the bodies of four regalis moths, saved after their decline. one is four years old, one three, the others two, all have been exposed to daylight for that length of time. the yellows are slightly faded, the reds very much degraded, the greys a half lighter than when fresh; but showing to-day a pure, clear grey. what troubles me is whether regalis of the limberlost is grey, where others are green; or whether i am colour blind or these men. referring to other writers, i am growing 'leery' of the word 'authority'; half of what was written fifty years ago along almost any line you can mention, to-day stands disproved; all of us are merely seekers after the truth: so referring to other writers, i find the women of massachusetts; who wrote "caterpillars and their moths", and who in all probability have raised more different caterpillars for the purpose of securing life history than any other workers of our country, possibly of any, state that the front wings of regalis have "stripes of lead colour between the veins of the wings," and "three or four lead-coloured stripes" on the back wings. the remainder of my description and colouring also agrees with theirs. if these men worked from museum or private collections, there is a possibility that chemicals used to kill, preserve, and protect the specimens from pests may have degraded the colours, and changed the grey to green. but to accept this as the explanation of the variance upsets all their colour values, so it must not be considered. this proves that there must be a regalis that at times has olive-green stripes where mine are grey; but i never have seen one. i think people need not fear planting trees on their premises that will be favourites with caterpillars, in the hope of luring exquisite te moths to become common with them. i have put out eggs, and released caterpillars near the cabin, literally by the thousand, and never have been able to see the results by a single defoliated branch. wrens, warblers, flycatchers, every small bird of the trees are exploring bark and scanning upper and under leaf surfaces for eggs and tiny caterpillars, and if they escape these, dozens of larger birds are waiting for the half-grown caterpillars, for in almost all instances these lack enough of the hairy coat of moss butterfly larvae to form any protection. every season i watch my walnut trees to free them from the abominable 'tent' caterpillars; with the single exception of halesidota caryae, i never have had enough caterpillars of any species attack my foliage to be noticeable; and these in only one instance. if you care for moths you need not fear to encourage them; the birds will keep them within proper limits. if only one person enjoys this book one-tenth as much as i have loved the work of making it, then i am fully repaid. by the library of congress, manuscript division [tr: ***] = transcriber note [hw: ***] = handwritten note [illustration: old slave, peter dunn] slave narratives a folk history of slavery in the united states from interviews with former slaves typewritten records prepared by the federal writers' project - assembled by the library of congress project work projects administration for the district of columbia sponsored by the library of congress illustrated with photographs washington volume v indiana narratives prepared by the federal writers' project of the works progress administration for the state of indiana informants arnold, george w. [tr: with professor w.s. best and samuel bell] ash, thomas, and crane, mary barber, rosa blakeley, mittie boone, carl bowman, julia boyce, angie boysaw, edna bracey, callie [tr: daughter of louise terrell] buckner, dr. george washington burns, george taylor butler, belle [tr: daughter of chaney mayer] carter, joseph william cave, ellen cheatam, harriet childress, james colbert, sarah cooper, frank [tr: son of mandy cooper] edmunds, rev. h.h. eubanks, john [tr: and family] fields, john w. fortman, george [tr: and other interested citizens] gibson, john henry guwn, betty [tr: reported by mrs. hattie cash, daughter] hockaday, mrs. howard, robert hume, matthew jackson, henrietta johnson, lizzie jones, betty jones, nathan lennox, adeline rose lewis, thomas locke, sarah h. [tr: daughter of wm. a. and priscilla taylor] mckinley, robert miller, richard moorman, rev. henry clay morgan, america morrison, george mosely, joseph [tr: also reported as moseley in text of interview] patterson, amy elizabeth preston, mrs. quinn, william m. richardson, candus robinson, joe rogers, rosaline rollins, parthena rudd, john samuels, amanda elizabeth simms, jack slaughter, billy smith, mr. and mrs. alex stone, barney suggs, adah isabelle sutton, katie thompson, george wamble (womble), rev. watson, samuel whallen, nancy whitted, anderson woodson, alex illustrations mary crane [tr: not in original index] john w. fields anderson whitted [tr: federal writer anna pritchett annotated her interviews by marking each paragraph to indicate whether the information was obtained from the respondent (a) or was a comment by the interviewer (b). since the information was presented in sequence, it is presented here without these markings, with the interviewer's remarks set apart by the topic heading 'interviewer's comment'.] [tr: information listed separately as references, such as informant names and addresses, has been incorporated into the interview headers. in some cases, information has been rearranged for readability. names in brackets were drawn from text of interviews.] ex-slave stories district no. vanderburgh county lauana creel an unhappy experience [george w. arnold] this is written from an interview with each of the following: george w. arnold, professor w.s. best of the lincoln high school and samuel bell, all of evansville, indiana. george w. arnold was born april , , in bedford county, tennessee. he was the property of oliver p. arnold, who owned a large farm or plantation in bedford county. his mother was a native of rome, georgia, where she remained until twelve years of age, when she was sold at auction. oliver arnold bought her, and he also purchased her three brothers and one uncle. the four negroes were taken along with other slaves from georgia to tennessee where they were put to work on the arnold plantation. on this plantation george w. arnold was born and the child was allowed to live in a cabin with his relatives and declares that he never heard one of them speak an unkind word about master oliver arnold or any member of his family. "happiness and contentment and a reasonable amount of food and clothes seemed to be all we needed," said the now white-haired man. only a limited memory of civil war days is retained by the old man but the few events recalled are vividly described by him. "mother, my young brother, my sister and i were walking along one day. i don't remember where we had started but we passed under the fort at wartrace. a battle was in progress and a large cannon was fired above us and we watched the huge ball sail through the air and saw the smoke of the cannon pass over our heads. we poor children were almost scared to death but our mother held us close to her and tried to comfort us. the next morning, after, we were safely at home ... we were proud we had seen that much of the great battle and our mother told us the war was to give us freedom." "did your family rejoice when they were set free?" was the natural question to ask uncle george. "i cannot say that they were happy, as it broke up a lot of real friendships and scattered many families. mother had a great many pretty quilts and a lot of bedding. after the negroes were set free, mars. arnold told us we could all go and make ourselves homes, so we started out, each of the grown persons loaded with great bundles of bedding, clothing and personal belongings. we walked all the way to wartrace to try to find a home and some way to make a living." george w. arnold remembers seeing many soldiers going to the pike road on their way to murfreesboro. "long lines of tired men passed through guy's gap on their way to murfreesboro," said he. "older people said that they were sent out to pick up the dead from the battle fields after the bloody battle of stone's river that had lately been fought at murfreesboro. they took their comrades to bury them at the union cemetery near the town of murfreesboro." "wartrace was a very nice place to make our home. it was located on the nashville and chattanooga and st. louis railroad, just fifty-one miles from nashville not many miles from our old home. mother found work and we got along very well but as soon as we children were old enough to work, she went back to her old home in georgia where a few years later she died. i believe she lived to be seventy-five or seventy six years of age, but i never saw her after she went back to georgia." "my first work was done on a farm (there are many fine farms in tennessee) and although farm labor was not very profitable we were always fed wherever we worked and got some wages. then i got a job on the railroad. our car was side tracked at a place called silver springs," said uncle george, "and right at that place came trouble that took the happiness out of my life forever." here the story teller paused to collect his thoughts and conquer the nervous twitching of his lips. "it was like this: three of us boys worked together. we were like three brothers, always sharing our fortunes with each other. we should never have done it, but we had made a habit of sending to nashville after each payday and having a keg of holland rum sent in by freight. this liquor was handed out among our friends and sometimes we drank too much and were unfit for work for a day or two. our boss was a big strong irishman, red haired and friendly. he always got drunk with us and all would become sober enough to soon return to our tasks." "the time i'm telling you about, we had all been invited to a candy pulling in town and could hardly wait till time to go, as all the young people of the valley would be there to pull candy, talk, play games and eat the goodies served to us. the accursed keg of holland rum had been brought in that morning and my chum john sims had been drinking too much. about that time our boss came up and said, 'john, it is time for you to get the supper ready!' john was our cook and our meals were served on the caboose where we lived wherever we were side tracked." "all the time johny was preparing the food he was drinking the rum. when we went in he had many drinks inside of him and a quart bottle filled to take to the candy pull. 'hurry up boys and let's finish up and go' he said impatiently. 'don't take him' said the other boy, 'dont you see he is drunk?' so i put my arms about his shoulders and tried to tell him he had better sleep a while before we started. the poor boy was a breed. his mother was almost white and his father was a thoroughbred indian and the son had a most aggravating temper. he made me no answer but running his hand into his pocket, he drew out his knife and with one thrust, cut a deep gash in my neck. a terrible fight followed. i remember being knocked over and my head stricking something. i reached out my hand and discovered it was the ax. with this awful weapon i struck my friend, my more than brother. the thud of the ax brought me to my senses as our blood mingled. we were both almost mortally wounded. the boss came in and tried to do something for our relief but john said, 'oh, george? what an awful thing we have done? we have never said a cross word to each other and now, look at us both.'" "i watched poor john walk away, darkness was falling but early in the morning my boss and i followed a trail of blood down by the side of the tracks. from there he had turned into the woods. we could follow him no further. we went to all the nearby towns and villages but we found no person who had ever seen him. we supposed he had died in the woods and watched for the buzzards, thinking thay would lead us to his body but he was never seen again." "for two years i never sat down to look inside a book nor to eat my food that john sims was not beside me. he haunted my pillow and went beside me night and day. his blood was on my hands, his presence haunted me beyond endurance. what could i do? how could i escape this awful presence? an old friend told me to put water between myself and the place where the awful scene occurred. so, i quit working on the railroad and started working on the river. people believed at that time that the ghost of a person you had wronged would not cross water to haunt you." life on the river was diverting. things were constantly happening and george arnold put aside some of his unhappiness by engaging in river activities. "my first job on the river was as a roust-about on the bolliver h cook a stern wheel packet which carried freight and passengers from nashville, tennessee to evansville, indiana. i worked a round trip on her and then went from nashville to cairo, illinois on the b.s. rhea. i soon decided to go to cairo and take a place on the eldarado, a st. louis and cincinnati packet which crused from cairo to cincinnati. on that boat i worked as a roust-about for nearly three years." "what did the roust-about have to do?" asked a neighbor lad who had come into the room. "the roust-about is no better than the mate that rules him. if the mate is kindly disposed the roust-about has an easy enough life. the negroes had only a few years of freedom and resented cruelty. if the mate became too mean, a regular fight would follow and perhaps several roust-abouts would be hurt before it was finished." uncle george said that food was always plentiful on the boats. passengers and freight were crowded together on the decks. at night there would be singing and dancing and fiddle music. "we roust-abouts would get together and shoot craps, dance or play cards until the call came to shuffle freight, then we would all get busy and the mate's voice giving orders could be heard for a long distance." "in spite of these few pleasures, the life of a roust-about is the life of a dog. i do not recall any unkindnesses of slavery days. i was too young to realize what it was all about, but it could never have equalled the cruelty shown the laborer on the river boats by cruel mates and overseers." another superstition advanced itself in the story of a boat, told by uncle george arnold. the story follows: "when i was a roust-about on the gold dust we were sailing out from new orleans and as soon as we got well out on the broad stream the rats commenced jumping over board. 'see these rats' said an old river man, 'this boat will never make a return trip!'" "at every port some of our crew left the boat but the mate and the captain said they were all fools and begged us to stay. so a few of us stayed to do the necessary work but the rats kept leaving as fast as they could." "when the boat was nearing hickman, kentucky, we smelled fire, and by the time we were in the harbor passengers were being held to keep them from jumping overboard. then the captain told us boys to jump into the water and save ourselves. two of us launched a bale of cotton overboard and jumped onto it. as we paddled away we had to often go under to put out the fires as our clothing would blaze up under the flying brands that fell upon our bodies." "the burning boat was docked at hickman. the passengers were put ashore but none of the freight was saved, and from a nearby willow thicket my matey and i watched the gold dust burn to the water's edge." "always heed the warnings of nature," said uncle george, "if you see rats leaving a ship or a house prepare for a fire." george w. arnold said that evansville was quite a nice place and a steamboat port even in the early days of his boating experiences and he decided to make his home here. he located in the town in . "the court house was located at third and main streets. street cars were mule drawn and people thought it great fun to ride them." he recalls the first shovel full of dirt being lifted when the new courthouse was being erected, and when it was finished two white men finishing the slate roof, fell to their death in the court house yard. george w. arnold procured a job as porter in a wholesale feed store on may , . john hubbard and company did business at the place, at this place he worked thirty seven years. f.w. griese, former mayor of evansville has often befriended the negro man and is ready to speak a kindly word in his praise. but the face of john sims still presents itself when george arnold is alone. "never do anything to hurt any other person," says he, "the hurt always comes back to you." george arnold was married to an evansville woman, but two years ago he became a widower when death claimed his mate. he is now lonely, but were it not for a keg of holland gin his old age would be spent in peace and happiness. "beware of strong drink," said uncle george, "it causes trouble." emery turner district # lawrence county bedford, indiana reminiscences of two ex-slaves thomas ash, mitchell, ind. mrs. mary crane, warren st., mitchell, ind. [thomas ash] i have no way of knowing exactly how old i am, as the old bible containing a record of my birth was destroyed by fire, many years ago, but i believe i am about eighty-one years old. if so, i must have been born sometime during the year, , four years before the outbreak of the war between the states. my mother was a slave on the plantation, or farm of charles ash, in anderson county, kentucky, and it was there that i grew up. i remember playing with ol' massa's (as he was called) boys, charley, jim and bill. i also have an unpleasant memory of having seen other slaves on the place, tied up to the whipping post and flogged for disobeying some order although i have no recollection of ever having been whipped myself as i was only a boy. i can also remember how the grown-up negroes on the place left to join the union army as soon as they learned of lincoln's proclamation making them free men. ed. note--mr. ash was sick when interviewed and was not able to do much talking. he had no picture of himself but agreed to pose for one later on. [tr: no photograph found.] [mrs. mary crane] [illustration: mrs. mary crane] i was born on the farm of wattie williams, in and am eighty-two years old. i came to mitchell, indiana, about fifty years ago with my husband, who is now dead and four children and have lived here ever since. i was only a girl, about five or six years old when the civil war broke out but i can remember very well, happenings of that time. my mother was owned by wattie williams, who had a large farm, located in larue county, kentucky. my father was a slave on the farm of a mr. duret, nearby. in those days, slave owners, whenever one of their daughters would get married, would give her and her husband a slave as a wedding present, usually allowing the girl to pick the one she wished to accompany her to her new home. when mr. duret's eldest daughter married zeke samples, she choose my father to accompany them to their home. zeke samples proved to be a man who loved his toddies far better than his bride and before long he was "broke". everything he had or owned, including my father, was to be sold at auction to pay off his debts. in those days, there were men who made a business of buying up negroes at auction sales and shipping them down to new orleans to be sold to owners of cotton and sugar cane plantations, just as men today, buy and ship cattle. these men were called "nigger-traders" and they would ship whole boat loads at a time, buying them up, two or three here, two or three there, and holding them in a jail until they had a boat load. this practice gave rise to the expression, "sold down the river." my father was to be sold at auction, along with all of the rest of zeke samples' property. bob cowherd, a neighbor of matt duret's owned my grandfather, and the old man, my grandfather, begged col. bob to buy my father from zeke samples to keep him from being "sold down the river." col. bob offered what he thought was a fair price for my father and a "nigger-trader" raised his bid " [tr: $ ?]. col. said he couldn't afford to pay that much and father was about to be sold to the "nigger-trader" when his father told col. bob that he had $ saved up and that if he would buy my father from samples and keep the "nigger-trader" from getting him he would give him the money. col. bob cowherd took my grandfather's $ and offered to meet the traders offer and so my father was sold to him. the negroes in and around where i was raised were not treated badly, as a rule, by their masters. there was one slave owner, a mr. heady, who lived nearby, who treated his slave worse than any of the other owners but i never heard of anything so awfully bad, happening to his "niggers". he had one boy who used to come over to our place and i can remember hearing massa williams call to my grandmother, to cook "christine, give heady's doc something to eat. he looks hungry." massa williams always said "heady's doc" when speaking of him or any other slave, saying to call him, for instance, doc heady would sound as if he were mr. heady's own son and he said that wouldn't sound right. when president lincoln issued his proclamation, freeing the negroes, i remember that my father and most all of the other younger slave men left the farms to join the union army. we had hard times then for awhile and had lots of work to do. i don't remember just when i first regarded myself as "free" as many of the negroes didn't understand just what it was all about. ed. note: mrs. crane will also pose for a picture. submitted by: william webb tuttle district no. muncie, indiana slaves in delaware county rosa barber south jefferson muncie, indiana rosa barber was born in slavery on the fox ellison plantation at north carden[tr:?], in north carolina, in the year . she was four [hw: ?] years old when freed, but had not reached the age to be of value as a slave. her memory is confined to that short childhood there and her experiences of those days and immediately after the civil war must be taken from stories related to her by her parents in after years, and these are dimly retained. her maiden name was rosa fox ellison, taken as was the custom, from the slave-holder who held her as a chattel. her parents took her away from the plantation when they were freed and lived in different localities, supported by the father who was now paid american wages. her parents died while she was quite young and she married fox ellison, an ex-slave of the fox ellison plantation. his name was taken from the same master as was hers. she and her husband lived together forty-three years, until his death. nine children were born to them of which only one survives. after this ex-slave husband died rosa ellison married a second time, but this second husband died some years ago and she now remains a widow at the age of seventy-six years. she recalls that the master of the fox ellison plantation was spoken of as practicing no extreme discipline on his slaves. slaves, as a prevailing business policy of the holder, were not allowed to look into a book, or any printed matter, and rosa had no pictures or printed charts given her. she had to play with her rag dolls, or a ball of yarn, if there happened to be enough of old string to make one. any toy or plaything was allowed that did not point toward book-knowledge. nursery rhymes and folk-lore stories were censured severely and had to be confined to events that conveyed no uplift, culture or propaganda, or that conveyed no knowledge, directly or indirectly. especially did they bar the mental polishing of the three r's. they could not prevent the vocalizing of music in the fields and the slaves found consolation there in pouring out their souls in unison with the songs of the birds. federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett kentucky avenue, indianapolis, indiana folklore mrs. mittie blakeley--ex-slave columbia avenue, indianapolis, indiana mrs. blakeley was born, in oxford, missouri, in . her mother died when mittie was a baby, and she was taken into the "big house" and brought up with the white children. she was always treated very kindly. her duties were the light chores, which had to be well done, or she was chided, the same as the white children would have been. every evening the children had to collect the eggs. the child, who brought in the most eggs, would get a ginger cake. mittie most always got the cake. her older brothers and sisters were treated very rough, whipped often and hard. she said she hated to think, much less talk about their awful treatment. when she was old enough, she would have to spin the wool for her mistress, who wove the cloth to make the family clothes. she also learned to knit, and after supper would knit until bedtime. she remembers once an old woman slave had displeased her master about something. he had a pit dug, and boards placed over the hole. the woman was made to lie on the boards, face down, and she was beaten until the blood gushed from her body; she was left there and bled to death. she also remembers how the slaves would go to some cabin at night for their dances; if one went without a pass, which often they did, they would be beaten severely. the slaves could hear the overseers, riding toward the cabin. those, who had come without a pass, would take the boards up from the floor, get under the cabin floor, and stay there until the overseers had gone. interviewer's comment mrs. blakeley is very serious and said she felt so sorry for those, who were treated so such worse than any human would treat a beast. she lives in a very comfortable clean house, and said she was doing "very well." submitted january , indianapolis, indiana submitted by: robert c. irvin district no. noblesville, ind. slaves in madison county carl boone anderson, indiana this is a story of slavery, told by carl boone about his father, his mother and himself. carl is the last of eighteen children born to mrs. stephen boone, in marion county, kentucky, sept. , . he now resides with his children at west th street, anderson, madison county, indiana. at the ripe old age of eighty-seven, he still has a keen memory and is able to do a hard day's work. carl boone was born a free man, fifteen years before the close of the civil war, his father having gained his freedom from slavery in . he is a religious man, having missed church service only twice in twenty years. he was treated well during the time of slavery in the southland, but remembers well, the wrongs done to slaves on neighboring plantations, and in this story he relates some of the horrors which happened at that time. like his father, he is also the father of eighteen children, sixteen of whom are still living. he is grandfather of thirty-seven and great grandfather of one child. his father was born in the slave state of maryland, in , and died in . his mother was born in marion county, kentucky, in , and died in , at the age of one hundred and fifteen years. this story, word by word, is related by carl boone as follows: "my name is carl boone, son of stephen and rachel boone, born in marion county, kentucky, in . i am father of eighteen children sixteen are still living and i am grandfather of thirty-seven and great grandfather of one child. i came with my wife, now deceased, to indiana, in , and now reside at west th street in anderson, indiana. i was born a free man, fifteen years before the close of the civil war. all the colored folk on plantations and farms around our plantation were slaves and most of them were terribly mistreated by their masters. after coming to indiana, i farmed for a few years, then moved to anderson. i became connected with the colored catholic church and have tried to live a christian life. i have only missed church service twice in twenty years. i lost my dear wife thirteen years ago and i now live with my son. my father, stephen boone, was born in maryland, in . he was bought by a nigger buyer while a boy and was sold to miley boone in marion county, kentucky. father was what they used to call "a picked slave," was a good worker and was never mistreated by his master. he married my mother in , and they had eighteen children. master miley boone gave father and mother their freedom in , and gave them forty acres of land to tend as their own. he paid father for all the work he did for him after that, and was always very kind to them. my mother was born in slavery, in marion county, kentucky, in . she was treated very mean until she married my father in . with him she gained her freedom in . i was the last born of her eighteen children. she was a good woman and joined church after coming to indiana and died in , living to be one hundred and fifteen years old. i have heard my mother tell of a girl slave who worked in the kitchen of my mother's master. the girl was told to cook twelve eggs for breakfast. when the eggs were served, it was discovered there were eleven eggs on the table and after being questioned, she admitted that she had eaten one. for this, she was beaten mercilessly, which was a common sight on that plantation. the most terrible treatment of any slave, is told by my father in a story of a slave on a neighboring plantation, owned by daniel thompson. "after committing a small wrong, master thompson became angry, tied his slave to a whipping post and beat him terribly. mrs. thompson begged him to quit whipping, saying, 'you might kill him,' and the master replied that he aimed to kill him. he then tied the slave behind a horse and dragged him over a fifty acre field until the slave was dead. as a punishment for this terrible deed, master thompson was compelled to witness the execution of his own son, one year later. the story is as follows: a neighbor to mr. thompson, a slave owner by name of kay van cleve, had been having some trouble with one of his young male slaves, and had promised the slave a whipping. the slave was a powerful man and mr. van cleve was afraid to undertake the job of whipping him alone. he called for help from his neighbors, daniel thompson and his son donald. the slave, while the thompsons were coming, concealed himself in a horse-stall in the barn and hid a large knife in the manger. after the arrival of the thompsons, they and mr. van cleve entered the stall in the barn. together, the three white men made a grab for the slave, when the slave suddenly made a lunge at the elder mr. thompson with the knife, but missed him and stabbed donald thompson. the slave was overpowered and tied, but too late, young donald was dead. the slave was tried for murder and sentenced to be hanged. at the time of the hanging, the first and second ropes used broke when the trap was sprung. for a while the executioner considered freeing the slave because of his second failure to hang him, but the law said, "he shall hang by the neck until dead," and the third attempt was successful." federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett kentucky avenue, indianapolis, indiana folklore mrs. julia bowman--ex-slave north west street, indianapolis, indiana mrs. bowman was born in woodford county, kentucky in . her master, joel w. twyman was kind and generous to all of his slaves, and he had many of them. the twyman slaves were always spoken of, as the twyman "kinfolks." all slaves worked hard on the large farm, as every kind of vegetation was raised. they were given some of everything that grew on the farm, therefore there was no stealing to get food. the master had his own slaves, and the mistress had her own slaves, and all were treated very kindly. mrs. bowman was taken into the twyman "big house," at the age of six, to help the mistress in any way she could. she stayed in the house until slavery was abolished. after freedom, the old master was taken very sick and some of the former slaves were sent for, as he wanted some of his "kinfolks" around him when he died. interviewer's comment mrs. bowman was given the twyman family bible where her birth is recorded with the rest of the twyman family. she shows it with pride. mrs. bowman said she never knew want in slave times, as she has known it in these times of depression. submitted january , indianapolis, indiana wm. r. mays dist johnson co. angie boyce born in slavery, mar. , on the breeding plantation, adair co. ky. mrs. angie boyce here makes mention of facts as outlined to her by her mother, mrs. margaret king, deceased. mrs. angie boyce was born in slavery, mar. , , on the breeding plantation, adair county, kentucky. her parents were henry and margaret king who belonged to james breeding, a methodist minister who was kind to all his slaves and no remembrance of his having ever struck one of them. it is said that the slaves were in constant dread of the rebel soldiers and when they would hear of their coming they would hide the baby "angie" and cover her over with leaves. the mother of angie was married twice; the name of her first husband was stines and that of her second husband was henry king. it was henry king who bought his and his wife's freedom. he sent his wife and baby angie to indiana, but upon their arrival they were arrested and returned to kentucky. they were placed in the louisville jail and lodged in the same cell with large brutal and drunken irish woman. the jail was so infested with bugs and fleas that the baby angie cryed all night. the white woman crazed with drink became enraged at the cries of the child and threatened to "bash its brains out against the wall if it did not stop crying". the mother, mrs. king was forced to stay awake all night to keep the white woman from carrying out her threat. the next morning the negro mother was tried in court and when she produced her free papers she was asked why she did not show these papers to the arresting officers. she replied that she was afraid that they would steal them from her. she was exonerated from all charges and sent back to indiana with her baby. mrs. angie boyce now resides at w. madison st., franklin, ind. special assignment walter r. harris district # clay county life story of ex-slave mrs. edna boysaw mrs. boysaw has been a citizen of this community about sixty-five years. she resides on a small farm, two miles east of brazil on what is known as the pinkley street road. this has been her home for the past forty years. her youngest son and the son of one of her daughters lives with her. she is still very active, doing her housework and other chores about the farm. she is very intelligent and according to statements made by other citizens has always been a respected citizen in the community, as also has her entire family. she is the mother of twelve children. mrs. boysaw has always been an active church worker, spending much time in missionary work for the colored people. her work was so outstanding that she has been often called upon to speak, not only in the colored churches, but also in white churches, where she was always well received. many of the most prominent people of the community number mrs. boysaw as one of their friends and her home is visited almost daily by citizens in all walks of life. her many acts of kindness towards her neighbors and friends have endeared her to the people of brazil, and because of her long residence in the community, she is looked upon as one of the pioneers. mrs. boysaw's husband has been dead for thirty-five years. her children are located in various cities throughout the country. she has a daughter who is a talented singer, and has appeared on programs with her daughter in many churches. she is not certain about her age, but according to her memory of events, she is about eighty-seven. her story as told to the writer follows: "when the civil war ended, i was living near richmond, virginia. i am not sure just how old i was, but i was a big, flat-footed woman, and had worked as a slave on a plantation. my master was a good one, but many of them were not. in a way, we were happy and contented, working from sun up to sun down. but when lincoln freed us, we rejoiced, yet we knew we had to seek employment now and make our own way. wages were low. you worked from morning until night for a dollar, but we did not complain. about a mr. masten, who was a coal operator, came to richmond seeking laborers for his mines in clay county. he told us that men could make four to five dollars a day working in the mines, going to work at seven and quitting at : each day. that sounded like a paradise to our men folks. big money and you could get rich in little time. but he did not tell all, because he wanted the men folk to come with him to indiana. three or four hundred came with mr. masten. they were brought in box cars. mr. masten paid their transportation, but was to keep it out of their wages. my husband was in that bunch, and the women folk stayed behind until their men could earn enough for their transportation to indiana." "when they arrived about four miles east of brazil, or what was known as harmony, the train was stopped and a crowd of white miners ordered them not to come any nearer brazil. then the trouble began. our men did not know of the labor trouble, as they were not told of that part. here they were fifteen hundred miles from home, no money. it was terrible. many walked back to virginia. some went on foot to illinois. mr. masten took some of them south of brazil about three miles, where he had a number of company houses, and they tried to work in his mine there. but many were shot at from the bushes and killed. guards were placed about the mine by the owner, but still there was trouble all the time. the men did not make what mr. masten told them they could make, yet they had to stay for they had no place to go. after about six months, my husband who had been working in that mine, fell into the shaft and was injured. he was unable to work for over a year. i came with my two children to take care of him. we had only a little furniture, slept in what was called box beds. i walked to brazil each morning and worked at whatever i could get to do. often did three washings a day and then walked home each evening, a distance of two miles, and got a dollar a day. "many of the white folks i worked for were well to do and often i would ask the mistress for small amounts of food which they would throw out if left over from a meal. they did not know what a hard time we were having, but they told me to take home any of such food that i cared to. i was sure glad to get it, for it helped to feed our family. often the white folks would give me other articles which i appreciated. i managed in this way to get the children enough to eat and later when my husband was able to work, we got along very well, and were thankful. after the strike was settled, things were better. my husband was not afraid to go out after dark. but the coal operators did not treat the colored folks very good. we had to trade at the company store and often pay a big price for it. but i worked hard and am still alive today, while all the others are gone, who lived around here about that time. there has sure been a change in the country. the country was almost a wilderness, and where my home is today, there were very few roads, just what we called a pig path through the woods. we used lots of corn meal, cooked beans and raised all the food we could during them days. but we had many white friends and sure was thankful for them. here i am, and still thankful for the many friends i have." federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett kentucky avenue, indianapolis, indiana folklore mrs. callie bracey--daughter [of louise terrell] blake street mrs. callie bracey's mother, louise terrell, was bought, when a child, by andy ramblet, a farmer, near jackson, miss. she had to work very hard in the fields from early morning until as late in the evening, as they could possibly see. no matter how hard she had worked all day after coming in from the field, she would have to cook for the next day, packing the lunch buckets for the field hands. it made no difference how tired she was, when the horn was blown at a.m., she had to go into the field for another day of hard work. the women had to split rails all day long, just like the men. once she got so cold, her feet seemed to be frozen; when they warmed a little, they had swollen so, she could not wear her shoes. she had to wrap her foot in burlap, so she would be able to go into the field the next day. the ramblets were known for their good butter. they always had more than they could use. the master wanted the slaves to have some, but the mistress wanted to sell it, she did not believe in giving good butter to slaves and always let it get strong before she would let them have any. no slaves from neighboring farms were allowed on the ramblet farm, they would get whipped off as mr. ramblet did not want anyone to put ideas in his slave's heads. on special occasions, the older slaves were allowed to go to the church of their master, they had to sit in the back of the church, and take no part in the service. louise was given two dresses a year; her old dress from last year, she wore as an underskirt. she never had a hat, always wore a rag tied over her head. interviewer's comment mrs. bracey is a widow and has a grandchild living with her. she feels she is doing very well, her parents had so little, and she does own her own home. submitted december , indianapolis, indiana ex-slave stories district # vanderburgh county lauana creel a slave, ambassador and city doctor [dr. george washington buckner] this paper was prepared after several interviews had been obtained with the subject of this sketch. dr. george washingtin [tr: washington] buckner, tall, lean, whitehaired, genial and alert, answered the call of his door bell. although anxious to oblige the writer and willing to grant an interview, the life of a city doctor is filled with anxious solicitation for others and he is always expecting a summons to the bedside of a patient or a professional interview has been slated. dr. buckner is no exception and our interviews were often disturbed by the jingle of the door bell or a telephone call. dr. buckner's conversation lead in ever widening circles, away from the topic under discussion when the events of his own life were discussed, but he is a fluent speaker and a student of psychology. psychology as that philosophy relates to the mental and bodily tendencies of the african race has long since become one of the major subjects with which this unusual man struggles. "why is the negro?" is one of his deepest concerns. dr. buckner's first recollections center within a slave cabin in kentucky. the cabin was the home of his step-father, his invalid mother and several children. the cabin was of the crudest construction, its only windows being merely holes in the cabin wall with crude bark shutters arranged to keep out snow and rain. the furnishings of this home consisted of a wood bedstead upon which a rough straw bed and patchwork quilts provided meager comforts for the invalid mother. a straw bed that could be pushed under the bed-stead through the day was pulled into the middle of the cabin at night and the wearied children were put to bed by the impatient step-father. the parents were slaves and served a master not wealthy enough to provide adaquately for their comforts. the mother had become invalidate through the task of bearing children each year and being deprived of medical and surgical attention. the master, mr. buckner, along with several of his relatives had purchased a large tract of land in green county, kentucky and by a custom or tradition as dr. buckner remembers; land owners that owned no slaves were considered "po' white trash" and were scarcely recognized as citizens within the state of kentucky. another tradition prevailed, that slave children should be presented to the master's young sons and daughters and become their special property even in childhood. adherring to that tradition the child, george washington buckner became the slave of young "mars" dickie buckner, and although the two children were nearly the same age the little mulatto boy was obedient to the wishes of the little master. indeed, the slave child cared for the caucasian boy's clothing, polished his boots, put away his toys and was his playmate and companion as well as his slave. sickness and suffering and even death visits alike the just and the unjust, and the loving sympathetic slave boy witnessed the suffering and death of his little white friend. then grief took possession of the little slave, he could not bear the sight of little dick's toys nor books not [tr: nor?] clothing. he recalls one harrowing experience after the death of little dick buckner. george's grandmother was a housekeeper and kitchen maid for the white family. she was in the kitchen one late afternoon preparing the evening meal. the master had taken his family for a visit in the neighborhood and the mulatto child sat on the veranda and recalled pleasanter days. a sudden desire seized him to look into the bed room where little mars dickie had lain in the bed. the evening shadows had fallen, exagerated by the influence of trees, and vines, and when he placed his pale face near the window pane he thought it was the face of little dickie looking out at him. his nerves gave away and he ran around the house screaming to his grandmother that he had seen dickie's ghost. the old colored woman was sympathetic, dried his tears, then with tears coursing down her own cheeks she went about her duties. george firmly believed he had seen a ghost and never really convinced himself against the idea until he had reached the years of manhood. he remembers how the story reached the ears of the other slaves and they were terrorized at the suggestion of a ghost being in the master's home. "that is the way superstitions always started" said the doctor, "some nervous persons received a wrong impression and there were always others ready to embrace the error." dr. buckner remembers that when a young daughter of his master married, his sister was given to her for a bridal gift and went away from her own mother to live in the young mistress' new home. "it always filled us with sorrow when we were separated either by circumstances of marriage or death. although we were not properly housed, properly nourished nor properly clothed we loved each other and loved our cabin homes and were unhappy when compelled to part." "there are many beautiful spots near the green river and our home was situated near greensburgh, the county seat of dreen [tr: green?] county." the area occupied by mr. buckner and his relatives is located near the river and the meanderings of the stream almost formed a peninsula covered with rich soil. buckner's hill relieved the landscape and clear springs bubled through crevices affording much water for household use and near those springs white and negro children met to enjoy themselves. "forty years after i left greensburg i went back to visit the springs and try to meet my old friends. the friends had passed away, only a few merchants and salespeople remembered my ancestors." a story told by dr. buckner relates an evening at the beginning of the civil war. "i had heard my parents talk of the war but it did not seem real to me until one night when mother came to the pallet where we slept and called to us to 'get up and tell our uncles good-bye.' then four startled little children arose. mother was standing in the room with a candle or a sort of torch made from grease drippings and old pieces of cloth, (these rude candles were in common use and afforded but poor light) and there stood her four brothers, jacob, john, bill, and isaac all with the light of adventure shining upon their mulatto countenances. they were starting away to fight for their liberties and we were greatly impressed." dr. buckner stated that officials thought jacob entirely too aged to enter the service as he had a few scattered white hairs but he remembers he was brawny and unafraid. isaac was too young but the other two uncles were accepted. one never returned because he was killed in battle but one fought throughout the war and was never wounded. he remembers how the white men were indignant because the negroes were allowed to enlist and how mars stanton buckner was forced to hide out in the woods for many months because he had met slave frank buckner and had tried to kill him. frank returned to greensburg, forgave his master and procurred a paper stating that he was at fault, after which stanton returned to active service. "yes, the road has been long. memory brings back those days and the love of my mother is still real to me, god bless her!" relating to the value of an education dr. buckner hopes every caucassian and afro-american youth and maiden will strive to attain great heights. his first efforts to procure knowledge consisted of reciting a.b.s.s [tr: a.b.c.s?] from the mcguffy's [hw: ?] blue backed speller with his unlettered sister for a teacher. in later years he attended a school conducted by the freemen's association. he bought a grammar from a white school boy and studied it at home. when sixteen years of age he was employed to teach negro children and grieves to recall how limited his ability was bound to have been. "when a father considers sending his son or daughter to school, today, he orders catalogues, consults his friends and considers the location and surroundings and the advice of those who have patronized the different schools. he finally decides upon the school that promises the boy or girl the most attractive and comfortable surroundings. when i taught the african children i boarded with an old man whose cabin was filled with his own family. i climbed a ladder leading from the cabin into a dark uncomfortable loft where a comfort and a straw bed were my only conveniences." leaving greensburg the young mulatto made his way to indianapolis where he became acquainted with the first educated negro he had ever met. the negro was robert bruce bagby, then principal of the only school for negroes in indianapolis. "the same old building is standing there today that housed bagby's institution then," he declares. dr. buckner recalls that when he left bagby's school he was so low financially he had to procure a position in a private residence as house boy. this position was followed by many jobs of serving tables at hotels and eating houses, of any and all kinds. while engaged in that work he met colonel albert johnson and his lovely wife, both natives of arkansas and he remembers their congratulations when they learned that he was striving for an education. they advised his entering an educational institution at terre haute. his desire had been to enter that institution of normal training but felt doubtful of succeeding in the advanced courses taught because his advantages had been so limited, but mrs. johnson told him that "god gives his talents to the different species and he would love and protect the negro boy." after studying several years at the terre haute state normal george w. buckner felt assured that he was reasonably prepared to teach the negro youths and accepted the professorship of schools at vincennes, washington and other indiana villages. "i was interested in the young people and anxious for their advancement but the suffering endured by my invalid mother, who had passed into the great beyond, and the memory of little master dickie's lingering illness and untimely death would not desert my consciousness. i determined to take up the study of medical practice and surgery which i did." dr. buckner graduated from the indiana electic medical college in . his services were needed at indianapolis so he practiced medicine in that city for a year, then located at evansville where he has enjoyed an ever increasing popularity on account of his sympathetic attitude among his people. "when i came to evansville," says dr. buckner, "there were seventy white physicians practicing in the area, they are now among the departed. their task was streneous, roads were almost impossible to travel and those brave men soon sacrificed their lives for the good of suffering humanity." dr. buckner described several of the old doctors as "striding [tr: illegible handwritten word above 'striding'] a horse and setting out through all kinds of weather." dr. buckner is a veritable encyclopedia of negro lore. he stops at many points during an interview to relate stories he has gleaned here and there. he has forgotten where he first heard this one or that one but it helps to illustrate a point. one he heard near the end of the war follows, and although it has recently been retold it holds the interest of the listener. "andrew jackson owned an old negro slave, who stayed on at the old home when his beloved master went into politics, became an american soldier and statesman and finally the th president of the united states. the good slave still remained through the several years of the quiet uneventful last years of his master and witnessed his death, which occurred at his home near nashville, tennessee. after the master had been placed under the sod, uncle sammy was seen each day visiting jackson's grave. "do you think president jackson is in heaven?" an acquaintance asked uncle sammy. "if-n he wanted to go dar, he dar now," said the old man. "if-n mars andy wanted to do any thing all hell couldn't keep him from doin' it." dr. buckner believes each negro is confident that he will take himself with all his peculiarities to the land of promise. each physical feature and habitual idiosyncrasy will abide in his redeemed personality. old joe will be there in person with the wrinkle crossing the bridge of his nose and little stephen will wear his wool pulled back from his eyes and each will recognize his fellow man. "what fools we all are," declared dr. buckner. asked his views concerning the different books embraced in the holy bible, dr. buckner, who is a student of the bible said, "i believe almost every story in the bible is an allegory, composed to illustrate some fundemental truth that could otherwise never have been clearly presented only through the medium of an allegory." "the most treacherous impulse of the human nature and the one to be most dreaded is jealousy." with these words the aged negro doctor launched into the expression of his political views. "i'm a democrat." he then explained how he voted for the man but had confidence that his chosen party possesses ability in choosing proper candidates. he is an ardent follower of franklin d. roosevelt and speaks of woodrow wilson with bated breath. through the influence of john w. boehne, sr., and the friendly advice of other influential citizens of evansville dr. buckner was appointed minister to liberia, on woodrow wilson's cabinet, in the year . dr. buckner appreciated the confidence of his friends in appointing him and cherishes the experineces gained while abroad. he noted the expressions of gratitude toward cabinet members by the citizens of that african coast. one albino youth brought an offering of luscious mangoes and desired to see the minister from the united states of america. some natives presented palm oils. "the natives have been made to understand that the united states has given aid to liberia in a financial way and the customs-service of the republic is temporarily administered headed by an american." "a thoroughly civilized negro state does not exist in liberia nor do i believe in any part of west africa. superstition is the interpretation of their religion, their political views are a hodgepodge of unconnected ideas. strength over rules knowledge and jealousy crowds out almost all hope of sympathetic achievement and adjustment." dr. buckner recounted incidents where jealousy was apparent in the behavior of men and women of higher civilizations than the african natives. while voyaging to spain on board a spanish vessel, he witnessed a very refined, polite jewish woman being reduced to tears by the taunts of a spanish officer, on account of her nationality. "jealousy," he said, "protrudes itself into politics, religion and prevents educational achievement." during a political campaign i was compelled to pay a robust negro man to follow me about my professional visits and my social evenings with my friends and family, to prevent meeting physical violence to myself or family when political factions were virtually at war within the area of evansville. the influence of political captains had brought about the dreadful condition and ignorant negroes responded to their political graft, without realizing who had befriended them in need." "the negro youths are especially subject to propoganda of the four-flusher for their home influence is, to say the least, negative. their opportunities limited, their education neglected and they are easily aroused by the meddling influence of the vote-getter and the traitor. i would to god that their eyes might be opened to the light." dr. buckner's influence is mostly exhibited in the sick room, where his presence is introduced in the effort to relieve pain. the gradual rise from slavery to prominence, the many trials encountered along the road has ripened the always sympathetic nature of dr. buckner into a responsive suffer among a suffering people. he has hope that proper influences and sympathetic advice will mould the plastic character of the afro-american youths of the united states into proper citizens and that their immortal souls inherit the promised reward of the redeemed through grace. "receivers of emancipation from slavery and enjoyers of emancipation from sin through the sacrifice of abraham lincoln and jesus christ; why should not the negroes be exalted and happy?" are the words of dr. buckner. note: g.w. buckner was born december st, . the negroes in kentucky expressed it, "in fox huntin' time" one brother was born in "simmon time", one in "sweet tater time," and another in "plantin' time." --negro lore. ex-slave stories district # vanderburgh county lauana creel the life story of george taylor burns [hw: personal interview] ox-carts and flat boats, and pioneer surroundings; crowds of men and women crowding to the rails of river steamboats; gay ladies in holiday attire and gentleman in tall hats, low cut vests and silk mufflers; for the excursion boats carried the gentry of every area. a little negro boy clung to the ragged skirts of a slave mother, both were engrossed in watching the great wheels that ploughed the mississippi river into foaming billows. many boats stopped at gregery's landing, missouri to stow away wood, for many engines were fired with wood in the early days. the burns brothers operated a wood yard at the landing and the work of cutting, hewing and piling wood for the commerce was performed by slaves of the burns plantation. george taylor burns was five years of age and helped his mother all day as she toiled in the wood yards. "the colder the weather, the more hard work we had to do," declares uncle george. george taylor burns, the child of missouri slave parents, recalls the scenes enacted at the burns' wood yards so long ago. he is a resident of evansville, indiana and his snow white hair and beard bear testimony that his days have been already long upon the earth. uncle george remembers the time when his infant hands reached in vain for his mother, the kind and gentle lucy burns: remembers a long cold winter of snow and ice when boats were tied up to their moorings. old master died that winter and many slaves were sold by the heirs, among them was lucy burns. little george clung to his mother but strong hands tore away his clasp. then he watched her cross a distant hill, chained to a long line of departing slaves. george never saw his parents again and although the memory of his mother is vivid he scarcely remembers his father's face. he said, "father was black but my mother was a bright mulatto." nothing impressed the little boy with such unforgettable imagery as the cold which descended upon greogery's landing one winter. motherless, hungry, desolate and unloved, he often cried himself to sleep at night while each day he was compelled to carry wood. one morning he failed to come when the horn was sounded to call the slaves to breakfast. "old missus went to the negro quarters to see what was wrong" and "she was horrified when she found i was frozen to the bed." she carried the small bundle of suffering humanity to the kitchen of her home and placed him near the big oven. when the warmth thawed the frozen child the toes fell from his feet. "old missus told me i would never be strong enough to do hard work, and she had the neighborhood shoemaker fashion shoes too short for any body's feet but mine," said uncle george. uncle george doesn't remember why he left missouri but the sister of greene taylor brought him to troy, indiana. here she learned that she could not own a slave within the state of indiana so she indentured the child to a flat boat captain to wash dishes and wait on the crew of workers. george was so small of stature that the captain had a low table and stool made that he might work in comfort. george's mistress received $ , [tr: $ . ?] per month for the service of the boy for several years. from working on the flat boats george became accustomed to the river and soon received employment as a cabin boy on a steam boat and from that time through out the most active days of his life george taylor burns was a steam-boat man. in fact he declares, "i know steamboats from wood box to stern wheel." "the life of a riverman is a good life and interesting things happen on the river," says uncle george. uncle george has been imprisoned in the big jail at new orleans. he has seen his fellow slaves beaten into insensibility while chained to the whipping post in congo square at new orleans. he was badly treated while a slave but he has witnessed even more cruel treatment administered to his fellow slaves. among other exciting occurrences remembered by the old negro man when he recalls early river adventures is one in which a flat boat sunk near new orleans. after clinging for many hours to the drifting wreckage he was rescued, half dead from exhaustion. in memory, george taylor burns stands in the slave mart at new orleans and hears the auctioneers' hammer, for he was sold like a beast of burden by greene taylor, brother of his mistress. greene taylor, however, had to refund the money and return the slave to his mistress when his crippled feet were discovered. "greene taylor was like many other people i have known. he was always ready to make life unhappy for a negro." uncle george, although possessing an unusual amount of intelligence and ability to learn, has a very limited education. "the negroes were not allowed an education," he relates. "it was dangerous for any person to be caught teaching a negro and several negroes were put to death because they could read." uncle george recalls a few superstitions entertained by the rivermen. "it was bad luck for a white cat to come aboard the boat." "horse shoes were carried for good luck." "if rats left the boat the crew was uneasy, for fear of a wreck." uncle george has very little faith in any superstition but remembers some of the crews had. among other boats on which this old river man was employed are "the atlantic" on which he was cabin boy. the "big gray eagle" on which he assisted in many ways. he worked where boats were being constructed while he lived at new albany. many soldiers were returned to their homes by means of flat boats and steam boats when the civil war had ended and many recruits were sent by water during the war. just after peace was declared george met elizabeth slye, a young slave girl who had just been set free. "liza would come to see her mother who was working on a boat." "people used to come down to the landings to see boats come in," said uncle george. george and liza were free, they married and made new albany their home, until when they came to evansville. uncle george said the eclipse was a beautiful boat, he remembers the lettering in gold and the bright lights and polished rails of the longest steam boat ever built in the west. measuring feet in length and uncle george declares, "for speed she just up and hustled." "louisville was one of the busiest towns in the ohio valley," says uncle george, but he remembers new orleans as the market place where almost all the surplus products were marketed. uncle george has many friends along the water-front towns. he admires the felker family of tell city, indiana. he is proud of his own race and rejoices in their opportunities. he remembers his fear of the ku klux, his horror of the patrol and other clans united to make life dangerous for newly emancipated negroes. george taylor burns draws no old age pension. he owns a building located at canal and evans streets that houses a number of negro families. he is glad to say his credit is good in every market in the city. although lamed by rheumatic pains and hobbling on feet toeless from his young childhood he has led a useful life. "don't forget i knew pilot tom ballard, and aaron ballard on the big eagle in ," warns uncle george. "we negroes carried passes so we could save our skins if we were caught off the boats but we had plenty of good food on the boats." uncle george said the roustabouts sang gay songs while loading boats with heavy freight and provisions but on account of his crippled feet he could not be a roustabout. federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett kentucky avenue folklore mrs. belle butler--daughter [of chaney mayer] north capitol avenue interviewer's comment belle butler, the daughter of chaney mayer, tells of the hardships her mother endured during her days of slavery. interview chaney was owned by jesse coffer, "a mean old devil." he would whip his slaves for the slightest misdemeanor, and many times for nothing at all--just enjoyed seeing them suffer. many a time jesse would whip a slave, throw him down, and gouge his eyes out. such a cruel act! chaney's sister was also a slave on the coffer plantation. one day their master decided to whip them both. after whipping them very hard, he started to throw them down, to go after their eyes. chaney grabbed one of his hands, her sister grabbed his other hand, each girl bit a finger entirely off of each hand of their master. this, of course, hurt him so very bad he had to stop their punishment and never attempted to whip them again. he told them he would surely put them in his pocket (sell them) if they ever dared to try *anthing like that again in life. not so long after their fight, chaney was given to a daughter of their master, and her sister was given to another daughter and taken to passaic county, n.c. on the next farm to the coffer farm, the overseers would tie the slaves to the joists by their thumbs, whip them unmercifully, then salt their backs to make them very sore. when a slave slowed down on his corn hoeing, no matter if he were sick, or just very tired, he would get many lashes and a salted back. one woman left the plantation without a pass. the overseer caught her and whipped her to death. no slave was ever allowed to look at a book, for fear he might learn to read. one day the old mistress caught a slave boy with a book, she cursed him and asked him what he meant, and what he thought he could do with a book. she said he looked like a black dog with a breast pin on, and forbade him to ever look into a book again. all slaves on the coffer plantation were treated in a most inhuman manner, scarcely having enough to eat, unless they would steal it, running the risk of being caught and receiving a severe beating for the theft. interviewer's comment mrs. butler lives with her daughters, has worked very hard in "her days." she has had to give up almost everything in the last few years, because her eyesight has failed. however, she is very cheerful and enjoys telling the "tales" her mother would tell her. submitted december , indianapolis, indiana ex-slave stories th district vandenburgh county lauana creel slave story joseph william carter this information was gained through an interview with joseph william carter and several of his daughters. the data was cheerfully given to the writer. joseph william carter has lived a long and, he declares, a happy life, although he was born and reared in bondage. his pleasing personality has always made his lot an easy one and his yoke seemed easy to wear. joseph william carter was born prior to the year . his mother, malvina gardner was a slave in the home of mr. gardner until a man named d.b. smith saw her and noticing the physical perfection of the child at once purchased her from her master. malvina was agrieved at being compelled to leave her old home, and her lovely young mistress. puss gardner was fond of the little mullato girl and had taught her to be a useful member of the gardner family; however, she was sold to mr. smith and was compelled to accompany him to his home. both the gardner and smith families lived near gallatin, tennessee, in sumner county. the smith plantation was situated on the cumberland river and commanded a beautiful view of river and valley acres but malvina was very unhappy. she did not enjoy the smith family and longed for her old friends back in the gardner home. one night the little girl gathered together her few personal belongings and started back to her old home. afraid to travel the highway the child followed a path she knew through the forest; but alas, she found the way long and beset with perils. a number of uncivil indians were encamped on the side of the cumberland mountains and a number of the young braves were out hunting that night. their stealthy approach was heard by the little fugitive girl but too late for her to make an escape. an indian called "buck" captured her and by all the laws of the tribe was his own property. she lived for almost a year in the teepe with buck and during that time learned much about indian habits. when malvina was missed from her new home, mr. smith went to the gardner plantation to report his loss, not finding her there a wide search was made for her but the indians kept her thoroughly concealed. miss puss, however, kept up the search. she knew the indians were encamped on the mountain and believed she would find the girl with them. the indians finally broke camp and the members of the gardner home watched them start on their journey and miss puss soon discovered malvina among the other maidens in the procession. the men of the gardner plantation, white and black, overtook the indians and demanded the girl be given up to them. the indians reluctantly gave her to them. miss puss gardner took her back and mr. gardner paid mr. smith the original purchase price and malvina was once more installed in her old home. malvina gardner was not yet twelve years of age when she was captured by the indians and was scarcely thirteen years of age when she became the mother of joseph william, son of the uncivil indian, "buck". the child was born in the gardner home and mother and child remained there. the mother was a good slave and loved the members of the gardner family and her son and she were loved by them in return. puss gardner married a mr. mooney and mr. gardner allowed her to take joseph william to her home. the mooney estate was situated up on the carthridge road and some of joseph william's most vivid memories of slavery and the curse of bondage embrace his life's span with the mooneys. one story that the aged man relates is of an encounter with an eagle and follows: "george irish, a white boy near my own age, was the son of the miller. his father operated a sawmill on bledsoe creek near where it empties into the coumberland river. george and i often went fishing together and had a good dog called hector. hector was as good a coon dog as there was to be found in that part of the country. that day we boys climbed up on the mill shed to watch the swans in bledsoe creek and we soon noticed a great big fish hawk catching the goslings. it made us mad and we decided to kill the hawk. i went back to the house and got an old flint lock rifle mars. mooney had let me carry when we went hunting. when i got back where george was, the big bird was still busy catching goslings. the first shot i fired broke its wing and i decided i would catch it and take it home with me. the bird put up a terrible fight, cutting me with its bill and talons. hector came running and tried to help me but the bird cut him until his howls brought help from the field. mr. jacob greene was passing along and came to us. he tore me away from the bird but i could not walk and the blood was running from my body in dozens of places. poor old hector, was crippled and bleeding for the bird was a big eagle and would have killed both of us if help had not come." the old negro man still shows signs of his encounter with the eagle. he said it was captured and lived about four months in captivity but its wing never healed. the body of the eagle was stuffed with wheat bran, by greene harris, and placed in the court yard in sumner county. "the civil war changed things at the mooney plantation," said the old man. "before the war mr. mooney never had been cruel to me. i was mistress puss's property and she would never have allowed me to be abused, but some of the other slaves endured the most cruel treatment and were worked nearly to death." uncle joe's memory of slavery embraces the whole story of bondage and the helpless position held by strong bodied men and women of a hardy race, overpowered by the narrow ideals of slave owners and cruel overseerers. "when i was a little bitsy child and still lived with mr. gardner," said the old man, "i saw many of the slaves beaten to death. master gardner didn't do any of the whippin' but every few months he sent to mississippi for negro rulers to come to the plantation and whip all the negroes that had not obeyed the overseers. a big barrel lay near the barn and that was always the whippin place." uncle joe remembers two or three professional slave whippers and recalls the death of two of the mississippi whippers. he relates the story as follows: "mars gardner had one of the finest black smiths that i ever saw. his arms were strong, his muscles stood out on his breast and shoulders and his legs were never tired. he stood there and shoed horses and repaired tools day after day and there was no work ever made him tired." the old negro man so vividly described the noble blacksmith that he almost appeared in person, as the story advanced. "i don't know what he had done to rile up mars gardner, but all of us knew that the blacksmith was going to be flogged. when the whippers from mississippi got to the plantation. the blacksmith worked on day and night. all day he was shoein horses and all the spare time he had he was makin a knife. when the whippers got there all of us were brought out to watch the whippin but the blacksmith, jim gardner did not wait to feel the lash, he jumped right into the bunch of overseers and negro whippers and knifed two whippers and one overseer to death; then stuck the sharp knife into his arm and bled to death." suicide seemed the only hope for this man of strength. he could not humble himself to the brutal ordeal of being beaten by the slave whippers. "when the war started, we kept hearing about the soldiers and finally they set up their camp in the forest near us. the corn was ready to bring into the barn and the soldiers told mr. mooney to let the slaves gather it and put it into the barns. some of the soldiers helped gather and crib the corn. i wanted to help but miss puss was afraid they would press me into service and made me hide in the cellar. there was a big keg of apple cider in the cellar and every day miss puss handed down a big plate of fresh ginger snaps right out of the oven, so i was well fixed." the old man remembers that after the corn was in the crib the soldiers turned in their horses to eat what had fallen to the ground. before the soldiers became encamped at the mooney plantation they had camped upon a hill and some skirmishing had occurred. uncle joe remembers the skirmish and seeing cannon balls come over the fields. the cannon balls were chained together and the slave children would run after the missils. sometimes the chains would cut down trees as the balls rolled through the forest. "do you believe in witchcraft?" was asked while interviewing the aged negro. "no" was the answer. "i had a cousin that was a full blooded indian and a voodoo doctor. he got me to help him with his voodoo work. a lot of people both white and black sent for the indian when they were sick. i told him i would do the best i could, if it would help sick people to get well. a woman was sick with rhumatism and he was going to see her. he sent me into the woods to dig up poke roots to boil. he then took the brew to the house where the sick woman lived. had her to put both feet in a tub filled with warm water, into which he had placed the poke root brew. he told the woman she had lizards in her body and he was going to bring them out of her. he covered the woman with a heavy blanket and made her sit for a long time, possibly an hour, with her feet in the tub of poke root brew and water. he had me slip a good many lizards into the tub and when the woman removed her feet, there were the lizards. she was soon well and believed the lizards had come out of her legs. i was disgusted and would not practice with my cousin again." "so you didn't fight in the civil war," was asked uncle joe. "of course i did, when i got old enough i entered the service and barbacued meat until the war closed." barbacueing had been uncle joe's specialty during slavery days and he followed the same profession during his service with the federal army. he was freed by the emancuapation proclamation, and soon met and married sadie scott, former slave of mr. scott, a tennessee planter. sadie only lived a short time after her marriage. he later married amy doolins. her father was named carmuel. he was a blacksmith and after he was free, the countrymen were after him to take his life. he was shot nine times and finally killed himself to prevent meeting death at the hands of the clansmen. joseph william carter is a cripple. in he fell and broke his right thigh-bone and since that time he has walked with a crutch. he stays up quite a lot and is always glad to welcome visitors. he possesses a noble character and is admired by his friends and neighbors. tall, straight, lean of body, his nose is aquiline; these physical characteristics he inherited from his indian ancesters. his gentle nature, wit, and good humor are characteristics handed to him by his mother and fostered by the gentle rearing of his southern mistress. when uncle joe carter celebrated the dth aniversary of his birth a large cake was presented to him, decorated with candles. the party was attended by children and grandchildren, friends and neighbors. "what is your political viewpoint?" was asked the old man. "my politics is my love for my country". "i vote for the man, not the party." uncle joe's religion is the religion of decency and virtue. "i don't want to be hard in my judgement," said he, "but i wish the whole world would be decent. when i was a young man, women wore more clothes in bed than they now wear on the street." "papa has always been a lover of horses but he does not care for automobiles nor aeroplanes," said a daughter of uncle joe. uncle joe has seven daughters, he says they have always been obedient and attentive to their parents. their mother passed away seven years ago. the sons and daughters of uncle joe remember their grand-mother and recall stories recounted by her of her captivity among the indians. "papa had no gray hairs until after mama died. his hair turned gray from grief at her loss," said mrs. della smith, one of his daughters. uncle joe's smile reveals a set of unusually sound teeth from which only one tooth is missing. like all fathers and grandfathers, uncle joe recounts the cute deeds and funny sayings of the little children he has been associated with: how his own children with feather bedecked crowns enacted the capture of their grandmother and often played "voo-doo doctor." uncle joe stresses the value of work, not the enforced labor of the slave but the cheerful toil of free people. he is glad that his sons and daughters are industrious citizens and is proud they maintain clean homes for their families. he is happy because his children have never known bondage, and he respects the laws of his country and appreciates the interest that the citizens of evansville have always showed in the negro race. after uncle joe became a young man he met many indians from the tribe that had held his mother captive. through them he learned much about his father which his mother had never told him. though he was a gardner slave and would have been joseph gardner, he took the name of carter from a step father and is known as joseph carter. grace monroe dist. jefferson county slave story ohio county ex-slave, mrs. ellen cave, relates her experiences assistant editor of "the rising sun recorder" furnished the following story which had appeared in the paper, march , . mrs. cave was in slavery for twelve years before she was freed by the emancipation proclamation. when she gave her story to aubrey robinson she was living in a temporary garage home back of the rising sun courthouse having lost everything in the flood. mrs. cave was born on a plantation in taylor county kentucky. she was the property of a man who did not live up to the popular idea of a southern gentleman, whose slaves refused to leave them, even after their freedom was declared. when she was a year old her mother was sold to someone in louisana and she did not see her again until , when they were re-united in carrolton, kentucky. her father died when she was a baby. mrs. cave told of seeing wagon loads of slaves sold down the river. she, herself was put on the block several times but never actually sold, although she would have preferred being sold rather than the continuation of the ordeal of the block. her master was a "mean man" who drank heavily, he had twenty slaves that he fed now and then, and gave her her freedom after the war only when she would remain silent about it no longer. he was a southern sympathiser but joined the union army where he became a captain and was in charge of a union commissary. finally he was suspected and charged with mustering supplies to the rebels. he was imprisoned for some time, then courtmartialed and sentenced to die. he escaped by bribing his negro guard. mrs. cave said that her master's father had many young women slaves and sold his own half-breed children down the river to louisiana plantations where the work was so severe that the slaves soon died. while in slavery, mrs. cave worked as a maid in the house until she grew older when she was forced to do all kinds of outdoor labor. she remembered sawing logs in the snow all day. in the summer she pitched hay or any other man's work in the field. she was trained to carry three buckets of water at the same time, two in her hands and one on her head and said she could still do it. on this plantation the chief article of food for the slaves was bran-bread, although the master's children were kind and often slipped them out meat or other food. mrs. cave remembered seeing general woolford and general morgan of the southern forces when they made friendly visits to the plantation. she saw general grant twice during the war. she saw soldiers drilling near the plantation. later she was caught and whipped by night riders, or "pat-a-rollers", as she tried to slip out to negro religious meetings. mrs. cave was driven from her plantation two years after the war and came to carrollton [tr: earlier, carrolton] kentucky, where she found her mother and soon married james cave, a former slave on a plantation near hers in taylor county. mrs. cave had thirteen children. for many years mrs. cave has lived on a farm about two and one half mi. south of rising sun. everything she had was washed away in the flood and she lived in the court house garage until her home could be rebuilt. federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett kentucky avenue folklore mrs. harriet cheatam--ex-slave darnell street interviewer's comment incidents in the life of mrs. cheatam as she told them to me. interview "i was born, in , in gallatin, tennessee, years ago this coming ( ) christmas day." "our master, martin henley, a farmer, was hard on us slaves, but we were happy in spite of our lack." "when i was a child, i didn't have it as hard as some of the children in the quarters. i always stayed in the "big house," slept on the floor, right near the fireplace, with one quilt for my bed and one quilt to cover me. then when i growed up, i was in the quarters." "after the civil war, i went to ohio to cook for general payne. we had a nice life in the general's house." "i remember one night, way back before the civil war, we wanted a goose. i went out to steal one as that was the only way we slaves would have one. i crept very quiet-like, put my hand in where they was and grabbed, and what do you suppose i had? a great big pole cat. well, i dropped him quick, went back, took off all my clothes, dug a hole, and buried them. the next night i went to the right place, grabbed me a nice big goose, held his neck and feet so he couldn't holler, put him under my arm, and ran with him, and did we eat?" "we often had prayer meeting out in the quarters, and to keep the folks in the "big house" from hearing us, we would take pots, turn them down, put something under them, that let the sound go in the pots, put them in a row by the door, then our voices would not go out, and we could sing and pray to our heart's content." "at thanksgiving time we would have pound cake. that was fine. we would take our hands and beat and beat our cake dough, put the dough in a skillet, cover it with the lid and put it in the fireplace. (the covered skillet would act our ovens of today.) it would take all day to bake, but it sure would be good; not like the cakes you have today." "when we cooked our regular meals, we would put our food in pots, slide them on an iron rod that hooked into the fireplace. (they were called pot hooks.) the pots hung right over the open fire and would boil until the food was done." "we often made ash cake. (that is made of biscuit dough.) when the dough was ready, we swept a clean place on the floor of the fireplace, smoothed the dough out with our hands, took some ashes, put them on top of the dough, then put some hot coals on top of the ashes, and just left it. when it was done, we brushed off the coals, took out the bread, brushed off the ashes, child, that was bread." "when we roasted a chicken, we got it all nice and clean, stuffed him with dressing, greased him all over good, put a cabbage leaf on the floor of the fireplace, put the chicken on the cabbage leaf, then covered him good with another cabbage leaf, and put hot coals all over and around him, and left him to roast. that is the best way to cook chicken." mrs. cheatam lives with a daughter, mrs. jones. she is a very small old lady, pleasant to talk with, has a very happy disposition. her eyes, as she said, "have gotten very dim," and she can't piece her quilts anymore. that was the way she spent her spare time. interviewer's comment she has beautiful white hair and is very proud of it. submitted december , indianapolis, indiana ex-slave stories district # vanderburgh county lauana creel james childress' story s.e. fifth street, evansville, indiana from an interview with james childress and from john bell both living at s.e. fifth street, evansville, indiana. known as uncle jimmy by the many children that cluster about the aged man never tiring of his stories of "when i was chile." "when i was a chile my daddy and mamma was slaves and i was a slave," so begins many recounted tales of the long ago. born at nashville, tennessee in the year , uncle jimmie remembers the civil war with the exciting events as related to his own family and the family of james childress, his master. he remembers sorrow expressed in parting tears when "uncle johnie and uncle bob started to war." he recalls happy days when the beautiful valley of the cumberland was abloom with wild flowers and fertile acres were carpeted with blue grass. "a beautiful view could always be enjoyed from the hillsides and there were many pretty homes belonging to the rich citizens. slaves kept the lawns smooth and tended the flowers for miles around nashville, when i was a child," said uncle jimmie. uncle jimmie childress has no knowledge of his master's having practiced cruelty towards any slave. "we was all well fed, well clothed and lived in good cabins. i never got a cross word from mars john in my life," he declared. "when the slaves got their freedom they rejoiced staying up many nights to sing, dance and enjoy themselves, although they still depended on old mars john for food and bed, they felt too excited to work in the fields or care for the stock. they hated to leave their homes but mr. childress told them to go out and make homes for themselves." "mother got work as a housekeeper and kept us all together. uncle bob got home from the war and we lived well enough. i have lived at evansville since , have worked for a good many men and john bell will tell you i have had only friends in the city of evansville." uncle jimmie recalls how the slaves always prayed to god for freedom and the negro preachers always preached about the day when the slaves would be no longer slaves but free and happy. "my people loved god, they sang sacred songs, 'swing low sweet charriot' was one of the best songs they knew". here uncle jimmie sang a stanza of the song and said it related to god's setting the negroes free. "the negroes at mr. childress' place were allowed to learn as much as they could. several of the young men could read and write. our master was a good man and did no harm to anybody." james childress is a black man, small of stature, with crisp wooly dark hair. he is glad he is not mulatto but a thorough blooded negro. federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett kentucky avenue folklore mrs. sarah colbert--ex-slave north capitol avenue, indianapolis, indiana mrs. sarah carpenter colbert was born in allen county, kentucky in . she was owned by leige carpenter, a farmer. her father, isaac carpenter was the grandson of his master, leige carpenter, who was very kind to him. isaac worked on the farm until the old master's death. he was then sold to jim mcfarland in frankfort kentucky. jim's wife was very mean to the slaves, whipped them regularly every morning to start the day right. one morning after a severe beating, isaac met an old slave, who asked him why he let his mistress beat him so much. isaac laughed and asked him what he could do about it. the old man told him if he would bite her foot, the next time she knocked him down, she would stop beating him and perhaps sell him. the next morning he was getting his regular beating, he willingly fell to the floor, grabbed his mistress' foot, bit her very hard. she tried very hard to pull away from him, he held on still biting, she ran around in the room, isaac still holding on. finally, she stopped beating him and never attempted to strike him again. the next week he was put on the block, being a very good worker and a very strong man, the bids were high. his young master, leige jr., outbid everyone and bought him for $ . . his young mistress was very mean to him. he went again to his old friend for advice. this time he told him to get some yellow dust, sprinkle it around in his mistress' room and if possible, got some in her shoes. this he did and in a short time he was sold again to johnson carpenter in the same county. he was not really treated any better there. by this time he was very tired of being mistreated. he remembered his old master telling him to never let anyone be mean to him. he ran away to his old mistress, told her of his many hardships, and told her what the old master had told him, so she sent him back. at the next sale she bought him, and he lived there until slavery was abolished. her grandfather, bat carpenter, was an ambitious slave; he dug ore and bought his freedom, then bought his wife by paying $ . a year to her master for her. she continued to work on the farm of her own master for a very small wage. bat's wife, matilda, lived on the farm not far from him, he was allowed to visit her every sunday. one sunday, it looked like rain, his master told him to gather in the oats, he refused to do this and was beaten with a raw hide. he was so angry, he went to one of the witch-crafters for a charm so he could fix his old master. the witch doctor told him to get five new nails, as there were five members in his master's family, walk to the barn, then walk backwards a few steps, pound one nail in the ground, giving each nail the name of each member of the family, starting with the master, then the mistress, and so on through the family. each time one nail was pounded down in the ground, walk backwards and nail the next one in until all were pounded deep in the ground. he did as instructed and was never beaten again. jane garmen was the village witch. she disturbed the slaves with her cat. always at milking time the cat would appear, and at night would go from one cabin to another, putting out the grease lamps with his paw. no matter how they tried to kill the cat, it just could not be done. an old witch doctor told them to melt a dime, form a bullet with the silver, and shoot the cat. he said a lead bullet would never kill a bewitched animal. the silver bullet fixed the cat. jane also bewitched the chickens. they were dying so fast anything they did seemed useless. finally a big fire was built and the dead chickens thrown into the fire, that burned the charm, and no more chickens died. interviewer's comment mrs. colbert lives with her daughter in a very comfortable home. she seems very happy and was glad to talk of her early days. how she would laugh when telling of the experiences of her family. she has reared a large family of her own, and feels very proud of them. submitted december , indianapolis, indiana wm. r. mays dist. johnson county, ind. july , slavery days of mandy cooper of lincoln county, kentucky frank cooper ott st., franklin, ind. frank cooper, an aged colored man of franklin, relates some very interesting conditions that existed in slavery days as handed down to him by his mother. mandy cooper, the mother of frank cooper, was years old when she died; she was owned by three different families: the good's, the burton's, and the cooper's, all of lincoln co. kentucky. "well, ah reckon ah am one of the oldest colored men hereabouts," confessed aged frank cooper. "what did you all want to see me about?" my mission being stated, he related one of the strangest categories alluding to his mother's slave life that i have ever heard. "one day while mah mammy was washing her back my sistah noticed ugly disfiguring scars on it. inquiring about them, we found, much to our amazement, that they were mammy's relics of the now gone, if not forgotten, slave days. "this was her first reference to her "misery days" that she had evah made in my presence. of course we all thought she was tellin' us a big story and we made fun of her. with eyes flashin', she stopped bathing, dried her back and reached for the smelly ole black whip that hung behind the kitchen door. biddin' us to strip down to our waists, my little mammy with the boney bent-ovah back, struck each of us as hard as evah she could with that black-snake whip, each stroke of the whip drew blood from our backs. "now", she said to us, "you have a taste of slavery days." with three of her children now having tasted of some of her "misery days" she was in the mood to tell us more of her sufferings; still indelibly impressed in my mind. [tr: illegible handwritten note here.] 'my ole back is bent ovah from the quick-tempered blows feld by the red-headed miss burton. 'at dinner time one day when the churnin' wasn't finished for the noonday meal', she said with an angry look that must have been reborn in mah mammy's eyes--eyes that were dimmed by years and hard livin', 'three white women beat me from anger because they had no butter for their biscuits and cornbread. miss burton used a heavy board while the missus used a whip. while i was on my knees beggin' them to quit, miss burton hit the small of mah back with the heavy board. ah knew no more until kind mr. hamilton, who was staying with the white folks, brought me inside the cabin and brought me around with the camphor bottle. ah'll always thank him--god bless him--he picked me up where they had left me like a dog to die in the blazin' noonday sun. 'after mah back was broken it was doubted whether ah would evah be able to work again or not. ah was placed on the auction block to be bidded for so mah owner could see if ah was worth anything or not. one man bid $ after puttin' two dirty fingahs in my mouth to see my teeth. ah bit him and his face showed angah. he then wanted to own me so he could punish me. 'thinkin' his bid of $ was official he unstrapped his buggy whip to beat me, but my mastah saved me. my master declared the bid unofficial. 'at this auction my sister was sold for $ and was never seen by us again.' "my mother related some experiences she had with the paddy-rollers, later called the "kuklux", these paddy-rollers were a constant dread to the negroes. they would whip the poor darkeys unmercifully without any cause. one night while the negroes were gathering for a big party and dance they got wind of the approaching paddy-rollers in large numbers on horseback. the negro men did not know what to do for protection, they became desperate and decided to gather a quantity of grapevines and tied them fast at a dark place in the road. when the paddy-rollers came thundering down the road bent on deviltry and unaware of the trap set for them, plunged head-on into these strong grapevines and three of their number were killed and a score was badly injured. several horses had to be shot following injuries. "when the news of this happening spread it was many months before the paddy-rollers were again heard of." albert strope, field worker federal writers' project st. joseph county--district # mishawaka, indiana ex-slave rev. h.h. edmunds west hickory street elkhart, indiana rev. h.h. edmunds has resided at west hickory street in elkhart for the past ten years. born in lynchburg, virginia, in , he lived there for several years. later he was taken to mississippi by his master, and finally to nashville, tennessee, where he lived until his removal to elkhart. mr. edmunds is very religious, and for many years has served his people as a minister of the gospel. he feels deeply that the religion of today has greatly changed from the "old time religion." in slavery days, the colored people were so subjugated and uneducated that he claims they were especially susceptible to religion, and poured out their religious feelings in the so-called negro spirituals. mr. edmunds is convinced that the superstitions of the colored people and their belief in ghosts and gobblins is due to the fact that their emotions were worked upon by slave drivers to keep them in subjugation. oftentimes white people dressed as ghosts, frightened the colored people into doing many things under protest. the "ghosts" were feared far more than the slave-drivers. the war of the rebellion is not remembered by mr. edmunds, but he clearly remembers the period following the war known as the reconstruction period. the negroes were very happy when they learned they were free as a result of the war. a few took advantage of their freedom immediately, but many, not knowing what else to do, remained with their former masters. some remained on the plantations five years after they were free. gradually they learned to care for themselves, often through instructions received from their former masters, and then they were glad to start out in the world for themselves. of course, there were exceptions, for the slaves who had been abused by cruel masters were only too glad to leave their former homes. the following reminiscense is told by mr. edmunds: "as a boy, i worked in virginia for my master, a mr. farmer[tr:?]. he had two sons who served as bosses on the farm. an elder sister was the head boss. after the war was over, the sister called the colored people together and told them that they were no longer slaves, that they might leave if they wished. "the slaves had been watering cucumbers which had been planted around barrels filled with soil. holes had been bored in the barrels, and when water was poured in the barrels, it gradually seeped out through the holes thus watering the cucumbers. "after the speech, one son told the slaves to resume their work. since i was free, i refused to do so, and as a result, i received a terrible kicking. i mentally resolved to get even some day. years afterward, i went to the home of this man for the express purpose of seeking revenge. however, i was received so kindly, and treated so well, that all thoughts of vengeance vanished. for years after, my former boss and i visited each other in our own homes." mr. edmunds states that the negro people prefer to be referred to as colored people, and deeply resent the name "nigger." archie koritz, field worker federal writers' project lake county--district # gary, indiana ex-slaves john eubanks & family gary, indiana gary's only surviving civil war veteran was born a slave in barren county, kentucky, june , . his father was a mulatto and a free negro. his mother was a slave on the everrett plantation and his grandparents ware full-blooded african negroes. as a child he began work as soon as possible and was put to work hoeing and picking cotton and any other odd jobs that would keep him busy. he was one of a family of several children, and is the sole survivor, a brother living in indianapolis, having died there in . following the custom of the south, when the children of the everrett family grew up, they married and slaves were given them for wedding presents. john was given to a daughter who married a man of the name of eubanks, hence his name, john eubanks. john was one of the more fortunate slaves in that his mistress and master were kind and they were in a state divided on the question of slavery. they favored the north. the rest of the children were given to other members of the everrett family upon their marriage or sold down the river and never saw one another until after the close of the civil war. shortly after the beginning of the civil war, when the north seemed to be losing, someone conceived the idea of forming negro regiments and as an inducement to the slaves, they offered them freedom if they would join the union forces. john's mistress and master told him that if he wished to join the union forces, he had their consent and would not have to run away like other slaves were doing. at the beginning of the war, john was twenty-one years of age. when lincoln freed the slaves by his emancipation proclamation, john was promptly given his freedom by his master and mistress. john decided to join the northern army which was located at bowling green, kentucky, a distance of thirty-five miles from glasgow where john was living. he had to walk the entire thirty-five miles. although he fails to remember all the units that he was attached to, he does remember that it was part of general sherman's army. his regiment started with sherman on his famous march through georgia, but for some reason unknown to john, shortly after the campaign was on its way, his regiment was recalled and sent elsewhere. his regiment was near vicksburg, mississippi, at the time lee surrendered. since lee was a proud southerner and did not want the negroes present when he surrendered, grant probably for this reason as much as any other refused to accept lee's sword. when lee surrendered there was much shouting among the troops and john was one of many put to work loading cannons on boats to be shipped up the river. his company returned on the steamboat "indiana." upon his return to glasgow, [hw: ky.] he saw for the first time in six years, his mother and other members of his family who had returned free. shortly after he returned to glasgow at the close of the civil war, he saw several colored people walking down the highway and was attracted to a young colored girl in the group who was wearing a yellow dress. immediately he said to himself, "if she ain't married there goes my wife." sometime later they met and were married christmas day in . to this union twelve children were born four of whom are living today, two in gary and the others in the south. after his marriage he lived on a farm near glasgow for several years, later moving to louisville, where he worked in a lumber yeard. he came to gary in , two years after the death of his wife. president grant was the first president for whom he cast his vote and he continued to vote until old age prevented him from walking to the polls. although lincoln is one of his favorite heroes, teddy roosevelt tops his list of great men and he never failed to vote for him. in , he was the only one of three surviving memebers of the grand army of the republic in gary and mighty proud of the fact that he was the only one in the parade. in he is the sole survivor. he served in the army as a member of company k of the th, kentucky infantry (negro volunteers). when general morgan, the famous southern raider, crossed the ohio on his raid across southern indiana, john was one of the negro fighters who after heavy fighting, forced morgan to recross the river and retreat back to the south. he also participated in several skirmishes with the cavalry troops commanded by the famous nathan bedfored forrest, and was a member of the negro garrison at fort pillow, on the mississippi which was assaulted and captured. this resulted in a massacre of the negro soldiers. john was in several other fights, but as he says, "never onct got a skinhurt." at the present time, mr. eubanks is residing with his daughter, mrs. bertha sloss and several grandchildren, in gary, indiana. he is badly crippled with rheumatism, has poor eyesight and his memory is failing. otherwise his health is good. most of his teeth are good and they are a source of wonder to his dentist. he is ninety-eight years of age and his wish in life now, is to live to be a hundred. since his brother and mother both died at ninety-eight and his paternal grandfather at one hundred-ten years of age, he has a good chance to realize this ambition. because of his condition most of this interview was had from his grandchildren, who have taken notes in recent years of any incidents that he relates. he is proud that most of his fifty grandchildren are high school graduates and that two are attending the university of chicago. in , he enjoyed a motor trip, when his family took him back to glasgow for a visit. he suffered no ill effects from the trip. archie koritz, field worker mound street, valparaiso, indiana federal writers' project lake county, district # gary, indiana ex-slaves interview with john eubanks, ex-slave john eubanks, gary's only negro civil war survivor has lived to see the ninety-eighth anniversary of his birth and despite his advanced age, recalls with surprising clarity many interesting and sad events of his boyhood days when a slave on the everett plantation. he was born in glasgow, barron county, kentucky, june , , one of seven children of a chattel of the everett family. the old man retains most of his faculties, but bears the mark of his extreme age in an obvious feebleness and failing sight and memory. he is physically large, says he once was a husky, weighing over two hundred pounds, bears no scars or deformities and despite the hardships and deprivations of his youth, presents a kindly and tolerant attitude. "i remembah well, us young uns on the everett plantation," he relates, "i worked since i can remembah, hoein', pickin' cotton and othah chohs 'round the fahm. we didden have much clothes, nevah no undahweah, no shoes, old ovahalls and a tattahed shirt, wintah and summah. come de wintah, it be so cold mah feet weah plumb numb mos' o' de time and manya time--when we git a chanct--we druve the hogs from outin the bogs an' put ouah feet in the wahmed wet mud. they was cracked and the skin on the bottoms and in de toes weah cracked and bleedin' mos' o' time, wit bloody scabs but de summah healed them agin." "does yohall remembah, granpap," his daughter prompted, "yoh mahstah--did he treat you mean?" "no," his tolerant acceptance apparent in his answer, "it weah done thataway. slaves weah whipt and punished and the younguns belonged to the mahstah to work foah him oh to sell. when i weah 'bout six yeahs old, mahstah everett give me to tony eubanks as a weddin' present when he married mahstah's daughtah becky. becky would'n let tony whip her slaves who came from her fathah's plantation. 'they ah my prophty,' she say, 'an' you caint whip dem.' tony whipt his othah slaves but not becky's." "i remembah" he continued, "how they tied de slave 'round a post, wit hands tied togedder 'round the post, then a husky lash his back wid a snakeskin lash 'til hisn back were cut and bloodened, the blood spattered" gesticulating with his unusually large hands, "an' hisn back all cut up. den they'd pouh salt watah on hem. dat dry and hahden and stick to hem. he nevah take it off 'till it heal. sometimes i see marhstah everett hang a slave tip-toe. he tie him up so he stan' tip-toe an' leave him thataway. "i be twenty-one wehn wah broke out. mahstah eubanks say to me, 'yohall don' need to run 'way ifn yohall want to jine up wid de ahmy.' he say, 'deh would be a fine effin slaves run off. yohall don' haf to run off, go right on and i do not pay dat fine.' he say, ''nlist in de ahmy but don' run off.' now i walk thirty-five mile from glasgow to bowling green to dis place--to da 'nlistin' place--from home fouh mile--to glasgow--to bowling green, thirty-five mile. on de road i meet up with two boys, so we go on. dey run 'way from kentucky, and we go together. then some bushwackers come down de road. we's scared and run to the woods and hid. as we run tru de woods, pretty soon we heerd chickens crowing. we fill ouah pockets wit stones. we goin' to kill chickens to eat. pretty soon we heerd a man holler, 'you come 'round outta der'--and i see a white man and come out. he say, 'what yoh all doin' heah?' i turn 'round and say, 'well boys, come on boys,' an' the boys come out. the man say, 'i'm union soldier. what yoh all doin' heah?' i say, 'we goin' to 'nlist in de ahmy.' he say, 'dat's fine' and he say, 'come 'long' he say, 'git right on white man's side'--we go to station. den he say, 'you go right down to de station and give yoh inforhmation. we keep on walkin'. den we come to a white house wit stone steps in front so we go in. an' we got to 'nlistin' place and jine up wit de ahmy. "den we go trainin' in d' camp and we move on. come to a little town ... a little town. we come to bolling green ... den to louiville. we come to a rivah ... a rivah (painfully recalling) d' mississippi. "we weah 'nfantry and petty soon we gits in plenty fights, but not a scratch hit me. we chase dem cavalry. we run dem all night and next mohnin' d' captain he say, 'dey done broke down.' when we rest, he say 'see dey don' trick you.' i say, 'we got all d' ahmy men togedder. we hold dem back 'til help come.' "we don' have no tents. sleep on naked groun' in wet and cold and rain. mos' d' time we's hungry but we win d' war and mahstah eubanks tell us we no moah hisn property, we's free now." the old man can talk only in short sentences and his voice dies to a whisper and soon the strain became evident. he was tired. what he does remember is with surprising clearness especially small details, but with a helpless gesture, he dismisses names and locations. he remembers the exact date of his discharge, march , , which his daughter verified by producing his discharge papers. he remembers the place, vicksburg, the company--k, and the regiment, th. dropping back once more to his childhood he spoke of an incident which his daughter says makes them all cry when he relates it, although they have heard it many times. "mahstah everett whipt me onct and mothah she cried. then mahstah everett say, 'why yoh all cry?--yoh cry i whip anothah of these young uns. she try to stop. he whipt 'nother. he say, 'ifn yoh all don' stop, yoh be whipt too!' and mothah she trien to stop but teahs roll out, so mahstah everett whip her too. "i wanted to visit mothah when i belong to mahst' eubanks, but becky say, 'yoh all best not see youh mothah, or yoh wan' to go all de time' then explaining, 'she wan' me to fohgit mothah, but i nevah could. when i cm back from d' ahmy, i go home to mothah and say 'don' y'know me?' she say, 'no, i don' know you.' i say, 'yoh don' know me?' she say, 'no, ah don' know yoh.' i say, 'i'se john.' den she cry and say how ahd growd and she thought i'se daid dis long time. i done 'splain how the many fights i'se in wit no scratch and she bein' happy." speaking of abraham lincoln's death, he remarked, "sho now, ah remembah dat well. we all feelin' sad and all d'soldiers had wreaths on der guns." upon his return from the army he married a young negress he had seen some time previous at which time he had vowed some day to make her his wife. he was married christmas day, . for a number of years he lived on a farm of his own near glasgow. later he moved with his family to louisville where he worked in a lumber yard. in , two years after the death of his wife, he came to gary, when he retired. he is now living with his daughter, mrs. sloss, harrison boulevard, gary. cecil c. miller dist. # tippecanoe co. interview with mr. john w. fields, ex-slave of civil war period september , [illustration: john w. fields] john w. fields, north twentieth street, lafayette, indiana, now employed as a domestic by judge burnett is a typical example of a fine colored gentleman, who, despite his lowly birth and adverse circumstances, has labored and economized until he has acquired a respected place in his home community. he is the owner of three properties; un-mortgaged, and is a member of the colored baptist church of lafayette. as will later be seen his life has been one of constant effort to better himself spiritually and physically. he is a fine example of a man who has lived a morally and physically clean life. but, as for his life, i will let mr. fields speak for himself: "my name is john w. fields and i'm eighty-nine ( ) years old. i was born march , in owensburg, ky. that's miles below louisville, ky. there was other children besides myself in my family. when i was six years old, all of us children were taken from my parents, because my master died and his estate had to be settled. we slaves were divided by this method. three disinterested persons were chosen to come to the plantation and together they wrote the names of the different heirs on a few slips of paper. these slips were put in a hat and passed among us slaves. each one took a slip and the name on the slip was the new owner. i happened to draw the name of a relative of my master who was a widow. i can't describe the heartbreak and horror of that separation. i was only six years old and it was the last time i ever saw my mother for longer than one night. twelve children taken from my mother in one day. five sisters and two brothers went to charleston, virginia, one brother and one sister went to lexington ky., one sister went to hartford, ky., and one brother and myself stayed in owensburg, ky. my mother was later allowed to visit among us children for one week of each year, so she could only remain a short time at each place. "my life prior to that time was filled with heart-aches and despair. we arose from four to five o'clock in the morning and parents and children were given hard work, lasting until nightfall gaves us our respite. after a meager supper, we generally talked until we grew sleepy, we had to go to bed. some of us would read, if we were lucky enough to know how. "in most of us colored folks was the great desire to able to read and write. we took advantage of every opportunity to educate ourselves. the greater part of the plantation owners were very harsh if we were caught trying to learn or write. it was the law that if a white man was caught trying to educate a negro slave, he was liable to prosecution entailing a fine of fifty dollars and a jail sentence. we were never allowed to go to town and it was not until after i ran away that i knew that they sold anything but slaves, tobacco and wiskey. our ignorance was the greatest hold the south had on us. we knew we could run away, but what then? an offender guilty of this crime was subjected to very harsh punishment. "when my masters estate had been settled, i was to go with the widowed relative to her place, she swung me up on her horse behind her and promised me all manner of sweet things if i would come peacefully. i didn't fully realise what was happening, and before i knew it, i was on my way to my new home. upon arrival her manner changed very much, and she took me down to where there was a bunch of men burning brush. she said, "see those men" i said: yes. well, go help them, she replied. so at the age of six i started my life as an independent slave. from then on my life as a slave was a repetition of hard work, poor quarters and board. we had no beds at that time, we just "bunked" on the floor. i had one blanket and manys the night i sat by the fireplace during the long cold nights in the winter. "my mistress had separated me from all my family but one brother with sweet words, but that pose was dropped after she reached her place. shortly after i had been there, she married a northern man by the name of david hill. at first he was very nice to us, but he gradually acquired a mean and overbearing manner toward us, i remember one incident that i don't like to remember. one of the women slaves had been very sick and she was unable to work just as fast as he thought she ought to. he had driven her all day with no results. that night after completeing our work he called us all together. he made me hold a light, while he whipped her and then made one of the slaves pour salt water on her bleeding back. my innerds turn yet at that sight. "at the beginning of the civil war i was still at this place as a slave. it looked at the first of the war as if the south would win, as most of the big battles were won by the south. this was because we slaves stayed at home and tended the farms and kept their families. "to eliminate this solid support of the south, the emancipation act was passed, freeing all slaves. most of the slaves were so ignorant they did not realize they were free. the planters knew this and as kentucky never seceeded from the union, they would send slaves into kentucky from other states in the south and hire them out to plantations. for these reasons i did not realize that i was free untill . i immediately resolved to run away and join the union army and so my brother and i went to owensburg, ky. and tried to join. my brother was taken, but i was refused as being too young. i [hw: tried] at evansville, terre haute and indianapolis but was unable to get in. i then tried to find work and was finally hired by a man at $ . a month. that was my first independent job. from then on i went from one job to another working as general laborer. "i married at years of age and had four children. my wife has been dead for years and months. mr. miller, always remember that: "the brightest man, the prettiest flower may be cut down, and withered in an hour." "today, i am the only surviving member who helped organize the second baptist church here in lafayette, years ago. i've tried to live according to the way the lord would wish, god bless you." "the clock of life is wound but once. today is yours, tomorrow is not. no one knows when the hands will stop." cecil miller dist. # tipp. co. [tr: tippecanoe co.] negro folklore mr. john fields, ex-slave n. th st. lafayette, indiana [illustration: john w. fields] mr. fields says that all negro slaves were ardent believers in ghosts, supernatual powers, tokens and "signs." the following story illustrates the point. "a turkey gobbler had mysteriously disappeared from one of the neighboring plantations and the local slaves were accused of commeting the fowl to a boiling pot. a slave convicted of theft was punished severly. as all of the slaves denied any knowledge of the turkey's whereabouts, they were instructed to make a search of the entire plantation." "on one part of the place there was a large peach orchard. at the time the trees were full of the green fruit. under one of the trees there was a large cabinet or "safe" as they were called. one of the slaves accidently opened the safe and, behold, there was mr. gobbler peacefully seated on a number of green peaches. "the negro immediately ran back and notified his master of the discovery. the master returned to the orchard with the slave to find that the negro's wild tale was true. a turkey gobbler sitting on a nest of green peaches. a bad omen. "the master had a son who had been seriously injured some time before by a runaway team, and a few days after this unusual occurence with the turkey, the son died. after his death, the word of the turkey's nesting venture and the death of the master's son spread to this four winds, and for some time after this story was related wherever there was a public gathering with the white people or the slave population." all through the south a horseshoe was considered an omen of good luck. rare indeed was the southern home that did not have one nailed over the door. this insured the household and all who entered of plesant prospects while within the home. if while in the home you should perhaps get into a violent argument, never hit the other party with a broom as it was a sure indication of bad luck. if grandad had the rheumatics, he would be sure of relief if he carried a buckeye in his pocket. of all the ten commandments, the one broken most by the negro was: thou shalt not steal this was due mostly to the insufficent food the slaves obtained. most of the planters expected a chicken to suddenly get heavenly aspirations once in a while, but as mr. fields says, "when a beautiful pound hog suddenly tries to kidnap himself, the planter decided to investigate." it occured like this: a pound hog had been fruitless. the planter was certain that the culprit was among his group of slaves, so he decided to personally conduct a quiet investigation. one night shortly after the moon had risen in the sky, two of the negroes were seated at a table in one of the cabins talking of the experiences of the day. a knock sounded on the door. both slaves jumped up and cautiously peeked out of the window. lo there was the master patiently waiting for an answer. the visiting negro decided that the master must not see both of them and he asked the other to conceal him while the master was there. the other slave told him to climb into the attic and be perfectly quiet. when this was done, the tenant of the cabin answered the door. the master strode in and gazed about the cabin. he then turned abruptly to the slave and growled, 'alright, where is that hog you stoled.' 'massa, replied the negro, 'i know nothing about no hog. the master was certain that the slave was lying and told him so in no uncertain terms. the terrified slave said, 'massa, i know nothing of any hog. i never seed him. the good man up above knows i never seed him. he knows every thing and he knows i didn't steal him; the man in the attic by this time was aroused at the misunderstood conversation taking place below him. disregarding all, he raised his voice and yelled, 'he's a liar, massa, he knows just as much about it as i do.' most of the strictly negro folklore has faded into the past. the younger negro generations who have been reared and educated in the north have lost this bearing and assumed the lore of the local white population through their daily contact with the whites. the older negro natives of this section are for the most part employed as domestics and through this channel rapidly assimilated the employers viewpoint in most of his beliefs and conversations. ex-slave stories district vanderburgh county lauana creel indians made slaves among the negroes. interviews with george fortman cor. bellemeade ave. and garvin st. evansville, indiana, and other interested citizens "the story of my life, i will tell to you with sincerest respect to all and love to many, although reviewing the dark trail of my childhood and early youth causes me great pain." so spoke george fortman, an aged man and former slave, although the history of his life reveals that no negro blood runs through his veins. "my story necessarily begins by relating events which occurred in , when hundreds of indians were rounded up like cattle and driven away from the valley of the wabash. it is a well known fact recorded in the histories of indiana that the long journey from the beautiful wabash valley was a horrible experience for the fleeing indians, but i have the tradition as relating to my own family, and from this enforced flight ensued the tragedy of my birth." the aged ex-slave reviews tradition. "my two ancestors, john hawk, a blackhawk indian brave, and racheal, a chackatau maiden had made themselves a home such as only indians know, understand and enjoy. he was a hunter and a fighter but had professed faith in christ through the influence of the missionaries. my greatgrandmother passed the facts on to her children and they have been handed down for four generations. i, in turn, have given the traditions to my children and grandchildren. "no more peaceful home had ever offered itself to the red man than the beautiful valley of the wabash river. giant elms, sycamores and maple trees bordered the stream while the fertile valley was traversed with creeks and rills, furnishing water in abundance for use of the indian campers. "the indians and the white settlers in the valley transacted business with each other and were friendly towards each other, as i have been told by my mother, eliza, and my grandmother, courtney hawk. "the missionaries often called the indian families together for the purpose of teaching them and the indians had been invited, prior to being driven from the valley, to a sort of festival in the woods. they had prepared much food for the occasion. the braves had gone on a long hunt to provide meat and the squaws had prepared much corn and other grain to be used at the feast. all the tribes had been invited to a council and the poor people were happy, not knowing they were being deceived. "the decoy worked, for while the indians were worshiping god the meeting was rudely interrupted by orders of the governor of the state. the governor, whose duty it was to give protection to the poor souls, caused them to be taken captives and driven away at the point of swords and guns. "in vain, my grandmother said, the indians prayed to be let return to their homes. instead of being given their liberty, some several hundred horses and ponies were captured to be used in transporting the indians away from the valley. many of the aged indians and many innocent children died on the long journey and traditional stories speak of that journey as the 'trail of death.'" "after long weeks of flight, when the homes of the indians had been reduced to ashes, the long trail still carried them away from their beautiful valley. my greatgrandfather and his squaw became acquainted with a party of indians that were going to the canebrakes of alabama. the pilgrims were not well fed or well clothed and they were glad to travel towards the south, believing the climate would be favorable to their health. "after a long and dreary journey, the indians reached alabama. rachael had her youngest papoose strapped on to her back while john had cared for the larger child, lucy. sometimes she had walked beside her father but often she had become weary or sleepy and he had carried her many miles of the journey, besides the weight of blankets and food. an older daughter, courtney, also accompanied her parents. "when they neared the cane lands they heard the songs of negro slaves as they toiled in the cane. soon they were in sight of the slave quarters of patent george's plantation. the negroes made the indians welcome and the slave dealer allowed them to occupy the cane house; thus the indians became slaves of patent george. "worn out from his long journey john hawk became too ill to work in the sugar cane. the kindly-disposed negroes helped care for the sick man but he lived only a few months. rachel and her two children remained on the plantation, working with the other slaves. she had nowhere to go. no home to call her own. she had automatically become a slave. her children had become chattel. "so passed a year away, then unhappiness came to the indian mother, for her daughter, courtney, became the mother of young master ford george's child. the parents called the little half-breed "eliza" and were very fond of her. the widow of john hawk became the mother of patent george's son, patent junior. "the tradition of the family states that in spite of these irregular occurrences the people at the george's southern plantation were prosperous, happy, and lived in peace each with the others. patent george wearied of the southern climate and brought his slaves into kentucky where their ability and strength would amass a fortune for the master in the iron ore regions of kentucky. "with the wagon trains of patent and ford george came rachel hawk and her daughters, courtney, lucy and rachel. rachel died on the journey from alabama but the remaining full blooded indians entered kentucky as slaves. "the slave men soon became skilled workers in the hillman rolling mills. mr. trigg was owner of the vast iron works called the "chimneys" in the region, but listed as the hillman, dixon, boyer, kelley and lyons furnaces. for more than a half century these chimneys smoked as the most valuable development in the western area of kentucky. operated in , these furnaces had refined iron ore to supply the united states navy with cannon balls and grape shot, and the iron smelting industry continued until after the close of the civil war. "no slaves were beaten at the george's plantation and old mistress hester lam allowed no slave to be sold. she was a devoted friend to all. "as eliza george, daughter of ford george and courtney hawk, grew into young womanhood the young master ford george went oftener and oftener to social functions. he was admired for his skill with firearms and for his horsemanship. while courtney and his child remained at the plantation ford enjoyed the companship of the beautiful women of the vicinity. at last he brought home the beautiful loraine, his young bride. courtney was stoical as only an indian can be. she showed no hurt but helped mistress hester and mistress loraine with the house work." here george fortman paused to let his blinded eyes look back into the long ago. then he again continued with his story of the dark trail. "mistress loraine became mother of two sons and a daughter and the big white two-story house facing the cumberland river at smith landing, kentucky, became a place of laughter and happy occasions, so my mother told me many times. "suddenly sorrow settled down over the home and the laughter turned into wailing, for ford george's body was found pierced through the heart and the half-breed, eliza, was nowhere to be found. "the young master's body lay in state many days. friends and neighbors came bringing flowers. his mother, bowed with grief, looked on the still face of her son and understood--understood why death had come and why eliza had gone away. "the beautiful home on the cumberland river with its more than acres of productive land was put into the hands of an administrator of estates to be readjusted in the interest of the george heirs. it was only then mistress hester went to aunt lucy and demanded of her to tell where eliza could be found. 'she has gone to alabama, ole mistus', said aunt lucy, 'eliza was scared to stay here.' a party of searchers were sent out to look for eliza. they found her secreted in a cane brake in the low lands of alabama nursing her baby boy at her breast. they took eliza and the baby back to kentucky. i am that baby, that child of unsatisfactory birth." the face of george fortman registered sorrow and pain, it had been hard for him to retell the story of the dark road to strange ears. "my white uncles had told mistress hester that if eliza brought me back they were going to build a fire and put me in it, my birth was so unsatisfactory to all of them, but mistress hester always did what she believed was right and i was brought up by my own mother. "we lived in a cabin at the slave quarters and mother worked in the broom cane. mistress hester named me ford george, in derision, but remained my friend. she was never angry with my mother. she knew a slave had to submit to her master and besides eliza did not know she was master ford george's daughter." the truth had been told at last. the master was both the father of eliza and the father of eliza's son. "mistress hester believed i would be feeble either in mind or body because of my unsatisfactory birth, but i developed as other children did and was well treated by mistress hester, mistress lorainne and her children. "master patent george died and mistress hester married mr. lam, while slaves kept working at the rolling mills and amassing greater wealth for the george families. "five years before the outbreak of the civil war mistress hester called all the slaves together and gave us our freedom. courtney, my grandmother, kept house for mistress lorainne and wanted to stay on, so i too was kept at the george home. there was a sincere friendship as great as the tie of blood between the white family and the slaves. my mother married a negro ex-slave of ford george and bore children for him. her health failed and when mistress puss, the only daughter of mistress lorainne, learned she was ill she persuaded the negro man to sell his property and bring eliza back to live with her." [tr: in following section the name george 'fordman' is used twice.] "why are you called george fordman when your name is ford george?" was the question asked the old man. "then the freedsmen started teaching school in kentucky the census taker called to enlist me as a pupil. 'what do you call this child?' he asked mistress lorainne. 'we call him the little captain because he carried himself like a soldier,' said mistress lorainne. 'he is the son of my husband and a slave woman but we are rearing him.' mistress lorainne told the stranger that i had been named ford george in derision and he suggested she list me in the census as george fordsman, which she did, but she never allowed me to attend the freedmen's school, desiring to keep me with her own children and let me be taught at home. my mother's half brother, patent george allowed his name to be reversed to george patent when he enlisted in the union service at the outbreak of the civil war." some customs prevalent in the earlier days were described by george fordman. "it was customary to conduct a funeral differently than it is conducted now," he said. "i remember i was only six years old when old mistress hester lam passed on to her eternal rest. she was kept out of her grave several days in order to allow time for the relatives, friends and ex-slaves to be notified of her death. "the house and yard were full of grieving friends. finally the lengthy procession started to the graveyard. within the george's parlors there had been bible passages read, prayers offered up and hymns sung, now the casket was placed in a wagon drawn by two horses. the casket was covered with flowers while the family and friends rode in ox carts, horse-drawn wagons, horseback, and with still many on foot they made their way towards the river. "when we reached the river there were many canoes busy putting the people across, besides the ferry boat was in use to ferry vehicles over the stream. the ex-slaves were crying and praying and telling how good granny had been to all of them and explaining how they knew she had gone straight to heaven, because she was so kind--and a christian. there were not nearly enough boats to take the crowd across if they crossed back and forth all day, so my mother, eliza, improvised a boat or 'gunnel', as the craft was called, by placing a wooden soap box on top of a long pole, then she pulled off her shoes and, taking two of us small children in her arms, she paddled with her feet and put us safely across the stream. we crossed directly above iaka, livingston county, three miles below grand river. "at the burying ground a great crowd had assembled from the neighborhood across the river and there were more songs and prayers and much weeping. the casket was let down into the grave without the lid being put on and everybody walked up and looked into the grave at the face of the dead woman. they called it the 'last look' and everybody dropped flowers on mistress hester as they passed by. a man then went down and nailed on the lid and the earth was thrown in with shovels. the ex-slaves filled in the grave, taking turns with the shovel. some of the men had worked at the smelting furnaces so long that their hands were twisted and hardened from contact with the heat. their shoulders were warped and their bodies twisted but they were strong as iron men from their years of toil. when the funeral was over mother put us across the river on the gunnel and we went home, all missing mistress hester. "my cousin worked at princeton, kentucky, making shoes. he had never been notified that he was free by the kind emancipation mrs. hester had given to her slaves, and he came loaded with money to give to his white folks. mistress lorainne told him it was his own money to keep or to use, as he had been a free man several months. "as our people, white and black and indians, sat talking they related how they had been warned of approaching trouble. jack said the dogs had been howling around the place for many nights and that always presaged a death in the family. jack had been compelled to take off his shoes and turn them soles up near the hearth to prevent the howling of the dogs. uncle robert told how he believed some of mistress hester's enemies had planted a shrub near her door and planted it with a curse so that when the shrub bloomed the old woman passed away. then another man told how a friend had been seen carrying a spade into his cousin's cabin and the cousin had said, 'daniel, what foh you brung that weapon into by [tr: my?] cabin? that very spade will dig my grave,' and sure enough the cousin had died and the same spade had been used in digging his grave. "how my childish nature quailed at hearing the superstitions discussed, i cannot explain. i have never believed in witchcraft nor spells, but i remember my indian grandmother predicted a long, cold winter when she noticed the pelts of the coons and other furred creatures were exceedingly heavy. when the breastbones of the fowls were strong and hard to sever with the knife it was a sign of a hard, cold and snowy winter. another superstition was this: 'a green winter, a new graveyard--a white winter, a green graveyard.'" george fortman relates how, when he accompanied two of his cousins into the lowlands--there were very many katy-dids in the trees--their voices formed a nerve-racking orchestra and his cousin told him to tiptoe to the trees and touch each tree with the tips of his fingers. this he did, and for the rest of the day there was quiet in the forest. "more than any other superstition entertained by the slave negroes, the most harmful was the belief on conjurors. one old negro woman boiled a bunch of leaves in an iron pot, boiled it with a curse and scattered the tea therein brewed, and firmly believed she was bringing destruction to her enemies. 'wherever that tea is poured there will be toil and troubles,' said the old woman. "the religion of many slaves was mostly superstition. they feared to break the sabbath, feared to violate any of the commandments, believing that the wrath of god would follow immediately, blasting their lives. "things changed at the george homestead as they change everywhere," said george fortman. "when the civil war broke out many slaves enlisted in hopes of receiving freedom. the george negroes were already free but many thought it their duty to enlist and fight for the emancipation of their fellow slaves. my mother took her family and moved away from the plantation and worked in the broom cane. soon she discovered she could not make enough to rear her children and we were turned over to the court to be bound out. "i was bound out to david varnell in livingston county by order of judge busch and i stayed there until i was fifteen years of age. my sister learned that i was unhappy there and wanted to see my mother, so she influenced james wilson to take me into his home. soon goodhearted jimmy wilson took me to see mother and i went often to see her." sometimes george would become stubborn and hard to control and then mr. wilson administered chastisement. his wife could not bear to have the boy punished. 'don't hit him, jimmie, don't kick him,' would say the good scotch woman, who was childless. 'if he does not obey me i will whip him,' james wilson would answer. so the boy learned the lesson of obedience from the old couple and learned many lessons in thrift through their examples. "in i left the wilson home and began working and trying to save some money. river trade was prosperous and i became a 'roustabout'. the life of the roustabout varied some with the habits of the roustabout and the disposition of the mate. we played cards, shot dice and talked to the girls who always met the boats. the 'whistling coon' was a popular song with the boatmen and one version of 'dixie land'. one song we often sang when near a port was worded 'hear the trumpet sound'-- hear the trumpet sound, stand up and don't sit down, keep steppin' 'round and 'round, come jine this elegant band. if you don't step up and jine the bout, old missus sure will fine it out, she'll chop you in the head wid a golen ax, you never will have to pay da tax, come jine the roust-a-bout band." from roust-a-bout george became a cabin boy, cook, pilot, and held a number of positions on boats, plowing different streams. there was much wild game to be had and the hunting season was always open. he also remembers many wolves, wild turkeys, catamounts and deer in abundance near the grand river. "pet deer loafed around the milking pens and ate the feed from the mangers" said he. george fortman is a professor of faith in christ. he was baptized in concord lake, seven miles from clarksville, tennessee, became a member of the pleasant greene church at callwell, kentucky and later a member of the liberty baptist church at evansville. "i have always kept in touch with my white folks, the george family," said the man, now feeble and blind. "four years ago mistress puss died and i was sent for but was not well enough to make the trip home." too young to fight in the civil war, george was among those who watched the work go on. "i lived at smiths landing and remember the battle at fort donnelson. it was twelve miles away and a long cinder walk reached from the fort for nearly thirty miles. the cinders were brought from the iron ore mills and my mother and i have walked the length of it many times." still reviewing the long, dark trail he continued. "boatloads of soldiers passed smith's landing by day and night and the reports of cannon could be heard when battles were fought. we children collected munnie balls near the fort for a long time after the war." although the george family never sold slaves or separated negro families, george fortman has seen many boats loaded with slaves on the way to slave marts. some of the george negroes were employed as pilots on the boats. he also remembers slave sales where negroes were auctioned by auctioneers, the negroes stripped of clothes to exhibit their physique. "i have always been befriended by three races of people, the caucassian, the african, and the negro," declares george fortman. "i have worked as a farmer, a river man, and been employed by the illinois central railroad company and in every position i have held i have made loyal friends of my fellow workmen." one friend, treasured in the memory of the aged ex-slave is ollie james, who once defended george in court. george fortman has friends at dauson springs, grayson springs, and other kentucky resorts. he has been a citizen of evansville for thirty-five years and has had business connections here for sixty-two years. he janitored for eleven years for the lockyear business college, but his days of usefulness are over. he now occupies a room at bellemeade ave. and garvin st. and his only exercise consists of a stroll over to the lincoln high school. there he enjoys listening to the voices of the pupils as they play about the campus. "they are free", he rejoices. "they can build their own destinies, they did not arrive in this life by births of unsatisfactory circumstances. they have the world before them and my grandsons and granddaughters are among them." federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett kentucky avenue folklore john henry gibson--ex-slave colton street john henry gibson was born a slave, many years ago, in scott county, n.c. his old master, john henry bidding, was a wealthy farmer; he also owned the hotel, or rooming house. when court was in session the "higher ups" would come to this house, and stay until the court affairs were settled. mr. bidding, who was very kind to his slaves, died when john gibson was very young. all slaves and other property passed on to the son, joseph bidding, who in turn was as kind as his father had been. gibson's father belonged to general lee gibson, who was a neighboring farmer. he saw and met miss elizabeth bidding's maid; they liked each other so very much, miss elizabeth bought him from general gibson, and let him have her maid as his wife. the wife lived only a short time, leaving a little boy. after the civil war, a white man, by the name of luster, was comming to ohio, brought john gibson with him. they came to indianapolis, and gibson liked it so well, he decided to remain; mr. luster told him if he ever became dissatisfied to come on to ohio to him, but he remained in indianapolis until , then went back south, married, came back, and made indianapolis his home. interviewer's comment mr. gibson is very old, but does not know his exact age. he fought in the civil war, and said he could not be very young to have done that. his sight is very nearly gone, can only distinguish light and dark. he is very proud of his name, having been named for his old master. submitted january , indianapolis, indiana submitted by: william webb tuttle district no. muncie, indiana negro slaves in delaware county mrs. betty guwn mrs. hattie cash, daughter, residing at east second street muncie, indiana mrs. betty guwn was born march , , as a slave on a tobacco plantation, near canton, kentucky. it was a large plantation whose second largest product was corn. she was married while quite young by the slave method which was a form of union customary between the white masters. if the contracting parties were of different plantations the masters of the two estates bargained and the one sold his rights to the one on whose plantation they would live. her master bought her husband, brought him and set them up a shack. betty was the personal attendant of the mistress. the home was a large colonial mansion and her duties were many and responsible. however, when her house duties were caught up her mistress sent her immediately to the fields. discipline was quite stern there and she was "lined up" with the others on several occasions. her cabin home began to fill up with children, fifteen in all. the ventilation was ample and the husband would shoot a prowling dog from any of the four sides of the room without opening the door. the cracks between the logs would be used by cats who could step in anywhere. the slaves had "meetin'" some nights and her mistress would call her and have her turn a tub against her mansion door to keep out the sound. her master was very wealthy. he owned and managed a cotton farm of two thousand acres down in mississippi, not far from new orleans. once a year he spent three months there gathering and marketing his cotton. when he got ready to go there he would call all his slaves about him and give them a chance to volunteer. they had heard awful tales of the slave auction block at new orleans, and the master would solemnly promise them that they should not be sold if they went down of their own accord. "my mistress called me to her and privately told me that when i was asked that question i should say to him: "i will go". the master had to take much money with him and was afraid of robbers. the day they were to start my mistress took me into a private room and had me remove most of my clothing; she then opened a strong box and took out a great roll of money in bills; these she strapped to me in tight bundles, arranging them around my waist in the circle of my body. she put plenty of dresses over this belt and when she was through i wore a bustle of money clear around my belt. i made a funny "figger" but no one noticed my odd shape because i was a slave and no one expected a slave to "know better". we always got through safely and i went down with my mistress every year. of course my husband stayed at home to see after the family, and took them to the fields when too young to work under the task master, or over-seer. three months was a long time to be separated." "when the civil war came on there was great excitement among we slaves. we were watched sharply, especially soldier timber for either army. my husband ran away early and helped grant to take fort donaldson. he said he would free himself, which he did; but when we were finally set free all our family prepared to leave. the master begged us to stay and offered us five pounds of meal and two pounds of pork jowl each week if we would stay and work. we all went to burgard, kentucky, to live. at that time i was about years old. my husband has been dead a long time and i live with my children. if the "good lord" spares me until next march the th, i will be years old. i walk all about lively without crutches and eye-glasses and i have never been sick until this year when a tooth gave me trouble; but i had it pulled." archie koritz, field worker federal writers' project porter county--district # valparaiso, indiana ex-slaves mrs. hockaday madison street gary, indiana mrs. hockaday is the daughter of an ex-slave and like so many others does not care to discuss the dark side of slavery and the cruel treatment that some of them received. after the civil war the slaves who for the most part were unskilled and ignorant, found it very difficult to adjust themselves to their new life as free persons. formerly, they lived on the land of their masters and although compelled to work long hours, their food and lodging were provided for them. after their emancipation, this life was changed. they were free and had to think for themselves and make a living. times for the negro then was much the same as during the depression. several of the slaves started out to secure jobs, but all found it difficult to adjust themselves to the new life and difficult to secure employment. many came back to their old owners and many were afraid to leave and continued on much as before. the north set up stores or relief stations where the negro who was unable to secure employment could obtain food and shelter. mrs. hockaday says it was the same as conditions have been the last few years. about all the negro was skilled at was servant work and when they came north, they encountered the same difficulties as several of the colored folks who, driven by the terrible living conditions in the south four years ago, came to gary. arriving here they believed they were capable of servant work. however they were not accustomed to modern appliances and found it very difficult to adjust themselves. it was the same after the emancipation. many owners were kind and religious and had schools for their slaves, where they could learn to read and write. these slaves were more successful in securing employment. although the negro loved the bible most of all books, and were mostly methodists and baptists, their different religious beliefs is caused by the slave owners having churches for the slaves. whatever church the master belonged to, the slaves belonged to, and continued in the same church after the war. since slaves took the name of their owners, children in the same family would have different names. mr. hockaday's father and his brothers and sisters all had different names. on the plantation they were called "jones' jim," "brown's jones," etc. many on being freed left their old homes and adopted any name that they took a fancy to. one slave that mrs. hockaday remembers took the name of green johnson and says he often remarked that he surely was green to adopt such a name. his grandson in gary is an exact double for clark gable, except he is brown, and gable is white. many slave owners gave their slaves small tracts of land which they could tend after working hours. anything raised belonged to them and they could even sell the products and the money was theirs. many slaves were able to save enough from these tracts to purchase their freedom long before the emancipation. another condition that confronted the negro in the north was that they were not understood like they were by the southern people. in the south they were trusted and considered trustworthy by their owners. even during the civil war, they were trusted with the family jewels, silver, etc., when the northern army came marching by, whereas in the north, even though they freed the slaves, they would not trust them. for that reason, many of the slaves did not like the northern people and remained or returned to the southern plantations. the slave owners thought that slavery was right and nothing was wrong about selling and buying human beings if they were colored, much as a person would purchase a horse or automobile today. the owners who whipped their slaves usually stripped them to the waist and lashed them with a long leather whip, commonly called a blacksnake. mrs. hockaday is a large, pleasant, middle-aged woman and does not like to discuss the cruel side of slavery and only recalls in a general way what she had heard old slaves discuss. federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett kentucky avenue folklore robert howard--ex-slave boulevard place robert howard, an ex-slave, was born in , in clara county, kentucky. his master, chelton howard, was very kind to him. the mother, with her five children, lived on the howard farm in peace and harmony. his father, beverly howard, was owned by bill anderson, who kept a saloon on the river front. beverly was "hired out" in the house of bill anderson. he was allowed to go to the howard farm every saturday night to visit with his wife and children. this visit was always looked forward to with great joy, as they were devoted to the father. the howard family was sold only once, being owned first by dr. page in henry county, kentucky. the family was not separated; the entire family was bought and kept together until slavery was abolished. interviewer's comment mr. howard seems to be a very kind old man, lives in the house for aged colored people (the alpha home). he has no relatives, except a brother. he seems well satisfied living in the home. submitted january , indianapolis, indiana grace monroe dist. jefferson county slave story mr. matthew hume, a former slave mr. hume had many interesting experiences to tell concerning the part slavery had played in his family. on the whole they were fortunate in having a good master who would not keep an overseer who whipped his "blacks". his father, luke hume, lived in trimble county kentucky and was allowed to raise for himself one acre of tobacco, one acre of corn, garden stuff, chickens and have the milk and butter from one cow. he was advised to save his money by the overseer, but always drank it up. on this plantation all the slaves were free from saturday noon until monday morning and on christmas and the fourth of july. a majority of them would go to bedford or milton and drink, gamble and fight. on the neighboring farm the slaves were treated cruelly. mr. hume had a brother-in-law, steve lewis, who carried marks on his back. for years he had a sore that would not heal where his master had struck him with a blacksnake whip. three good overseers were jake mack and mr. crafton, mr. daniel payne was the owner who asked his people to report any mistreatment to him. he expected obedience however. when mr. hume was a small boy he was placed in the fields to hoe. he also wanted a new implement. he was so small he was unable to keep near enough to the men and boys to hear what they were talking about, he remembered bringing up the rear one day, when he saw a large rock he carefully covered it with dirt, then came down hard on it breaking his hoe. he missed a whipping and received a new tool to replace the old one, after this he could keep near enough to hear what the other workers were talking about. another of his duties was to go for the cattle, he had to walk around the road about a mile, but was permitted to come back through the fields about a quarter of a mile. one afternoon his mistress told him to bring a load of wood when he came in. in the summer it was the custom to have the children carry the wood from the fields. when he came up he saw his mistress was angry this peeved him, so that he stalked into the hall and slammed his wood into the box. about this time his mistress shoved him into a small closet and locked the door. he made such a howl that he brought his mother and father to the rescue and was soon released from his prison. as soon as the children were old enough they were placed in the fields to prepare the ground for setting tobacco plants. this was a very complicated procedure. the ground was made into hills, each requiring about four feet of soil. the child had to get all the clods broken fine. then place his foot in the center and leave his track. the plants were to be set out in the center and woe to the youngster who had failed to pulverize his hill. after one plowing the tobacco was hand tended. it was long green and divided into two grades. it was pressed by being placed in large hogsheads and weighted down. on one occasion they were told their tobacco was so eaten up that the worms were sitting on the fence waiting for the leaves to grow but nevertheless in some manner his master hid the defects and received the best price paid in the community. the mistress on a neighboring plantation was a devout catholic, and had all the children come each sunday after-noon to study the catechism and repeat the lord's prayer. she was not very successful in training them in the catholic faith as when they grew up most of them were either baptists or methodists. mr. hume said she did a lot of good in leading them to christ but he did not learn much of the catechism as he only attended for the treat. after the service they always had candy or a cup of sugar. on the preston place there was a big strapping negro of eighteen whom the overseer attempted to whip receiving the worst of it. he then went to mr. hume's owner and asked for help but was told he would have to seek elsewhere for help. finally some one was found to assist. smith was tied to a tree and severely beaten, then they were afraid to untie him, when the overseer finally ventured up and loosened the ropes, smith kicked him as hard as he could and ran to the payne estate refusing to return. he was a good helper here where he received kind treatment. a bad overseer was discharged once by mr. payne because of his cruelty to mr. luke hume. the corncrib was a tiny affair where a man had to climb out one leg at a time, one morning just as mr. hume's father was climbing out with his feed, he was struck over the head with a large club, the next morning he broke the scoop off an iron shovel and fastened the iron handle to his body. this time he swung himself from the door of the crib and seeing the overseer hiding to strik him he threw his bar, which made a wound on the man's head which did not knock him out. as soon as mr. payne heard of the disturbance the overseer was discharged and mr. mack placed in charge of the slaves. one way of exacting obedience was to threaten to send offenders south to work in the fields. the slaves around lexington, kentucky, came out ahead on one occasion. the collector was shrader. he had the slaves handcuffed to a large leg chain and forced on a flat boat. there were so many that the boat was grounded, so some of the slaves were released to push the boat off. among the "blacks" was one who could read and write. before shrader could chain them up again, he was seized and chained, taken to below memphis tennessee and forced to work in the cotton fields until he was able to get word from richmond identifying him. in the meantime the educated negro issued freedom papers to his companions. many of them came back to lexington, kentucky where they were employed. mr. hume thought the emancipation proclamation was the greatest work that abraham lincoln ever did. the colored people on his plantation did not learn of it until the following august. then mr. payne and his sons offered to let them live on their ground with conditions similar to our renting system, giving a share of the crop. they remained here until jan. , when they crossed the ohio at madison. they had a cow which had been given them before the emancipation proclamation was issued but this was taken away from them. so they came to ind. homeless, friendless and penniless. mr. hume and his aged wife have been married years and resided in the same community for years where they are highly respected by all their neighbors. he could not understand the attitude of his race who preferred to remain in slavery receiving only food and shelter, rather than to be free citizens where they could have the right to develop their individualism. virginia tulley district # fort wayne, indiana ex-slave of allen county [mrs. henrietta jackson] references: a. ft. wayne news sentinel november , b. personal interview [tr: there are no 'a' and 'b' annotations in the interview.] mrs. henrietta jackson, fort wayne resident, is distinguished for two reasons; she is a centennarian and an ex-slave. residing with her daughter, mrs. jackson is very active and helps her daughter, who operates a restaurant, do some of the lighter work. at the time i called, an august afternoon of over degrees temperature, mrs. jackson was busy sweeping the floor. a little, rather stooped, shrunken body, mrs. jackson gets around slowly but without the aid of a cane or support of any kind. she wears a long dark cotton dress with a bandana on her head with is now quite gray. her skin is walnut brown her eyes peering brightly through the wrinkles. she is intelligent, alert, cordial, very much interested in all that goes on about her. just how old mrs. jackson is, she herself doesn't know, but she thinks she is about years old. she looks much younger. her youngest child is and she had nine, two of whom were twins. born a slave in virginia, record of her birth was kept by the master. she cannot remember her father as he was soon sold after mrs. jackson's death [tr: birth?]. when still a child she was taken from her mother and sold. she remembers the auction block and that she brought a good price as she was strong and healthy. her new master, tom robinson, treated her well and never beat her. at first she was a plough hand, working in the cotton fields, but then she was taken into the house to be a maid. while there the civil war broke out. mrs. jackson remembers the excitement and the coming and going. gradually the family lost its wealth, the home was broken up. everything was destroyed by the armies. then came freedom for the slaves. but mrs. jackson stayed on with the master for awhile. after leaving she went to alabama where she obtained work in a laundry "ironing white folks' collars and cuffs." then she got married and in she came to live with her daughter in fort wayne. her husband, levy jackson, has been dead years. of her children, only two are left. mrs. jackson is sometimes very lonesome for her old home in "alabamy", where her friends lived, but for the most part, she is happy and contented. federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett kentucky avenue folklore mrs. lizzie johnson north senate avenue, apt. mrs. johnson's father, arthur locklear, was born in wilmington, n.c. in . he lived in the south and endured many hardships until . he was very fortunate in having a white man befriend him in many ways. this man taught him to read and write. many nights after a hard days work, he would lie on the floor in front of the fireplace, trying to study by the light from the blazing wood, so he might improve his reading and writing. he married very young, and as his family increased, he became ambitious for them. knowing their future would be very dark if they remained south. he then started a movement to come north. there were about twenty-six or twenty-eight men and women, who had the same thoughts about their children, banded together, and in they started for somewhere, north. the people selected, had to be loyal to the cause of their children's future lives, morally clean, truthful, and hard-working. some had oxen, some had carts. they pooled all of their scant belongings, and started on their long hard journey. the women and children rode in the ox-carts, the men walked. they would travel a few days, then stop on the roadside to rest. the women would wash their few clothes, cook enough food to last a few days more, then they would start out again. they were six weeks making the trip. some settled in madison, indiana. two brothers and their families went on to ohio, and the rest came to indianapolis. john scott, one of their number was a hod carrier. he earned $ . a day, knowing that would not accumulate fast enough, he was strong and thrifty. after he had worked hard all day, he would spend his evenings putting new bottoms in chairs, and knitting gloves for anyone who wanted that kind of work. in the summer he made a garden, sold his vegetables. he worked very hard, day and night, and was able to save some money. he could not read or write, but he taught his children the value of truthfulness, cleanliness of mind and body, loyalty, and thrift. the father and his sons all worked together and bought some ground, built a little house where the family lived many years. before old mr. scott died, he had saved enough money to give each son $ . . his bank was tin cans hidden around in his house. will scott, the artist, is a grandson of this john scott. the thing these early settlers wanted most, was for their children to learn to read and write. so many of them had been caught trying to learn to write, and had had their thumbs mashed, so they would not be able to hold a pencil. interviewer's comment mrs. johnson is a very interesting old woman and remembers so well the things her parents told her. she deplores the "loose living," as she calls it of this generation. she is very deliberate, but seems very sure of the story of her early life. submitted december , indianapolis, indiana ex-slave stories district no. . vanderburgh county lauana creel the story of betty jones oak street, evansville, ind. from an interview with elizabeth jones at oak street, evansville, ind. "yes honey, i was a slave, i was born at henderson, kentucky and my mother was born there. we belonged to old mars john alvis. our home was on alvis's hill and a long plank walk had been built from the bank of the ohio river to the alvis home. we all liked the long plank walk and the big house on top of the hill was a pretty place." betty jones said her master was a rich man and had made his money by raising and selling slaves. she only recalls two house servants were mulatoes. all the other slaves were black as they could be. betty alvis lived with her parents in a cabin near her master's home on the hill. she recalls no unkind treatment. "our only sorrow was when a crowd of our slave friends would be sold off, then the mothers, brothers, sisters, and friends always cried a lot and we children would grieve to see the grief of our parents." the mother of betty was a slave of john alvis and married a slave of her master. the family lived at the slave quarters and were never parted. "mother kept us all together until we got set free after the war," declares betty. many of the alvis negroes decided to make their homes at henderson, kentucky. "it was a nice town and work was plentiful." betty alvis was brought to evansville by her parents. the climate did not agree with the mother so she went to princeton, kentucky to live with her married daughter and died there. betty alvis married john r. jones, a native of tennessee, a former slave of john jones, a tennessee planter. he died twelve years ago. betty jones recalls when evansville was a small town. she remembers when the street cars were mule drawn and people rode on them for pleasure. "when boats came in at evansville, all the girls used to go down to the bank, wearing pretty ruffled dresses and every body would wave to the boat men and stay down at the river's edge until the boat was out of sight." betty jones remembers when the new court house was started and how glad the men of the city were to erect the nice building. she recalls when the old frame buildings used for church services were razed and new structures were erected in which to worship god. she does not believe in evil spirits, ghosts nor charms as do many former slaves, but she remembers hearing her friends express superstitions concerning black cats. it was also a belief that to build a new kitchen onto your old home was always followed by the death of a member of the immediate family and if a bird flew into a window it had come to bring a call to the far away land and some member of the family would die. betty jones was not scared when the recent flood came to within a block of her door. she had lived through a flood while living at lawrence station at marion county, indiana. "we was all marooned in our homes for two weeks and all the food we had was brought to our door by boats. white river was flooded then and our home was in the white river flats." "what god wills must happen to us, and we do not save ourselves by trying to run away. just as well stay and face it as to try to get away." the old negro woman is cared for by her unmarried daughter since her husband's death. the old woman is lonely and was happy to recieve a caller. she is alone much of the time as her daughter is compelled to do house work to provide for her mother and herself. "of course i'm a christian," said the aged negress. "i'm a religious woman and hope to meet my friends in heaven." "i would like to go back to henderson, kentucky once more, for i have not been there for more than twenty years. i'd live to walk the old plank walk again up to mr. alvis' home but i'm afraid i'll never get to go. it costs too much." so desire remains with the aged and memories remain to comfort the feeble. federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett kentucky avenue folklore nathan jones--ex-slave blake street nathan jones was born in gibson county, tennessee in , the son of caroline powell, one of parker crimm's slaves. master crimm was very abusive and cruel to his slaves. he would beat them for any little offense. he took pleasure in taking little children from their mothers and selling them, sending them as far away as possible. nathan's stepfather, willis jones, was a very strong man, a very good worker, and knew just enough to be resentful of his master's cruel treatment, decided to run away, living in the woods for days. his master sent out searchers for him, who always came in without him. the day of the sale, willis made his appearance and was the first slave to be put on the block. his new master, a mr. jones of tipton, tennessee, was very kind to him. he said it was a real pleasure to work for mr. jones as he had such a kind heart and respected his slaves. nathan remembers seeing slaves, both men and women, with their hands and feet staked to the ground, their faces down, giving them no chance to resist the overseers, whipped with cow hides until the blood gushed from their backs. "a very cruel way to treat human beings." nathan married very young, worked very hard, started buying a small orchard, but was "figgered" out of it, and lost all he had put into it. he then went to missouri, stayed there until the death of his wife. he then came to indiana, bringing his six children with him. forty-five years ago he married the second time; to that union were four children. he is very proud of his ten children and one stepchild. his children have all been very helpful to him until times "got bad" with them, and could barely exist themselves. interviewer's comment mr. and mrs. jones room with a family by the name of james; they have a comfortable, clean room and are content. they are both members of the free will baptist church; get the old age pension, and "do very well." submitted december , indianapolis, indiana albert strope, field worker federal writers' project st. joseph county--district # mishawaka, indiana adeline rose lennox--ex-slave south sixth street, elkhart, indiana adeline rose lennox was born of slave parents at middle--sometimes known as paris--tennessee, october , . she lived with her parents in slave quarters on the plantation of a mr. rose for whom her parents worked. these quarters were log houses, a distance from the master's mansion. at the age of seven years, adeline was taken from her parents to work at the home of a son of mr. rose who had recently been married. she remembers well being taken away, for she said she cried, but her new mistress said she was going to have a new home so she had to go with her. at the age of fourteen years she did the work of a man in the field, driving a team, plowing, harrowing and seeding. "we all thought a great deal of mr. rose," said mrs. lennox, "for he was good to us." she said that they were well fed, having plenty of corn, peas, beans, and pork to eat, more pork then than now. as adeline rose, the subject of this sketch was married to mr. steward, after she was given her freedom at the close of the civil war. at this time she was living with her parents who stayed with mr. rose for about five years after the war. to the steward family was born one son, johnny. mr. steward died early in life, and his widow married a second time, this time [hw: to] one george lennox whose name she now bears. johnny married young and died young, leaving her alone in the world with the exception of her daughter-in-law. after her second husband's death, she remained near middle, tennessee, until , when she removed to elkhart to spend the remainder of her life living with her daughter-in-law, who had remarried and is now living at south sixth street, elkhart, indiana. in the neighborhood she is known only as "granny." while i was having this interview, a colored lady passed and this conversation followed: "good morning granny, how are you this morning?" "only tolerable, thank you," replied granny. the health of mrs. lennox has been failing for the past three years but she gets around quite well for a lady who will be eight-eight years old the twenty-fifth day of this october. she gets an old age pension of about thirteen dollars per month. a peculiar thing about mrs. lennox's life is that she says that she never knew that she was a slave until she was set free. her mistress then told her that she was free and could go back to her father's home which she did rather reluctantly. mrs. lennox smokes, enjoys corn bread and boiled potatoes as food, but does not enjoy automobiles as "they are too bumpy and they gather too much air," she says. "i do not eat sweets," she remarks "my one ambition in life is to live so that i may claim heaven as my home when i die." there is a newspaper picture in the office along with an article published by the elkhart truth. this is being sent to indianapolis today. submitted by: estella r. dodson district # monroe county bloomington, ind. october , interview with thomas lewis, colored north summit street, bloomington, ind. i was born in spencer county, kentucky, in . i was born a slave. there was slavery all around on all the adjoining places. i was seven years old when i was set free. my father was killed in the northern army. my mother, step-father and my mother's four living children came to indiana when i was twelve years old. my grandfather was set free and given a little place of about sixteen acres. a gang of white men went to my grandmother's place and ordered the colored people out to work. the colored people had worked before for white men, on shares. when the wheat was all in and the corn laid by, the white farmers would tell the colored people to get out, and would give them nothing. the colored people did not want to work that way, and refused. this was the cause of the raids by white farmers. my mother recognized one of the men in the gang and reported him to the standing soldiers in louisville. he was caught and made to tell who the others were until they had men. all were fined and none allowed to leave until all the fines were paid. so the rich ones had to pay for the poor ones. many of them left because all were made responsible if such an event ever occurred again. our family left because we did not want to work that way. i was hired out to a family for $ a year. i was sent for. my mother put herself under the protection of the police until we could get away. we came in a wagon from our home to louisville. i was anxious to see louisville, and thought it was very wonderful. i wanted to stay there, but we came on across the ohio river on a ferry boat and stayed all night in new albany. next morning the wagon returned home and we came to bloomington on the train. it took us from o'clock until three in the evening to get here. there were big slabs of wood on the sides of the track to hold the rails together. strips of iron were bolted to the rails on the inside to brace them apart. there were no wires at the joints of the rails to carry electricity, as we have now, for there was no electricity in those days. i have lived in bloomington ever since i came here. i met a family named dorsett after i came here. they came from jefferson county, kentucky. two of their daughters had been sold before the war. after the war, when the black people were free, the daughters heard some way that their people were in bloomington. it was a happy time when they met their parents. once when i was a little boy, i was sitting on the fence while my mother plowed to get the field ready to put in wheat. the white man who owned her was plowing too. some yankee soldiers on horses came along. one rode up to the fence and when my mother came to the end of the furrow, he said to her, "lady, could you tell me where jim downs' still house is?" my mother started to answer, but the man who owned her told her to move on. the soldiers told him to keep quiet, or they would make him sorry. after he went away, my mother told the soldiers where the house was. the reason her master did not want her to tell where the house was, was that some of his rebel friends were hiding there. spies had reported them to the yankee soldiers. they went to the house and captured the rebels. next soldiers came walking. i had no cap. one soldier asked me why i did not wear a cap. i said i had no cap. the soldier said, "you tell your mistress i said to buy you a cap or i'll come back and kill the whole family." they bought me a cap, the first one i ever had. the soldiers passed for three days and a half. they were getting ready for a battle. the battle was close. we could hear the cannon. after it was over, a white man went to the battle field. he said that for a mile and a half one could walk on dead men and dead horses. my mother wanted to go and see it, but they wouldn't let her, for it was too awful. i don't know what town we were near. the only town i know about had only about four or five houses and a mill. i think the name was fairfield. that may not be the name, and the town may not be there any more. once they sent my mother there in the forenoon. she saw a flash, and something hit a big barn. the timbers flew every way, and i suppose killed men and horses that were in the barn. there were rebels hidden in the barn and in the houses, and a yankee spy had found out where they were. they bombed the barn and surrounded the town. no one was able to leave. the yankees came and captured the rebels. i had a cousin named jerry. just a little while before the barn was struck a white man asked jerry how he would like to be free. jerry said that he would like it all right. the white men took him into the barn and were going to put him over a barrel and beat him half to death. just as they were about ready to beat him, the bomb struck the barn and jerry escaped. the man who owned us said for us to say that we were well enough off, and did not care to be free, just to avoid beatings. there was no such thing as being good to slaves. many people were better than others, but a slave belonged to his master and there was no way to get out of it. a strong man was hard to make work. he would fight so that the white men trying to hold him would be breathless. then there was nothing to do but kill him. if a slave resisted, and his master killed him, it was the same as self-defense today. if a cruel master whipped a slave to death, it put the fear into the other slaves. the brother of the man who owned my mother had many black people. he was too mean to live, but he made it. once he was threshing wheat with a 'ground-hog' threshing machine, run by horse power. he called to a woman slave. she did not hear him because of the noise of the machine, and did not answer. he leaped off the machine to whip her. he caught his foot in some cogs and injured it so that it had to be taken off. they tell me that today there is a place where there is a high fence. if someone gets near, he can hear the cries of the spirits of black people who were beaten to death. it is kept secret so that people won't find it out. such places are always fenced to keep them secret. once a man was out with a friend, hunting. the dog chased something back of a high fence. one man started to go in. the other said, "what are you going to do?" the other one said, "i want to see what the dog chased back in there." his friend told him, "you'd better stay out of there. that place is haunted by spirits of black people who were beaten to death." federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett kentucky avenue folklore mrs. sarah h. locke--daughter [of wm. a. and priscilla taylor] mrs. locke, the daughter of wm. a. and priscilla taylor, was born in woodford county, kentucky in . she went over her early days with great interest. jacob keephart, her master, was very kind to his slaves, would never sell them to "nigger traders." his family was very large, so they bought and sold their slaves within the families and neighbors. mrs. locke's father, brothers, and grandmother belonged to the same master in henry county, kentucky. her mother and the two sisters belonged to another branch of the keephart family, about seven miles away. her father came to see her mother on wednesday and saturday nights. they would have big dinners on these nights in their cabin. her father cradled all the grain for the neighborhood. he was a very high tempered man and would do no work when angry; therefore, every effort was made to keep him in a good humor when the work was heavy. her mother died when the children were very young. sarah was given to the keephart daughter as a wedding present and taken to her new home. she was always treated like the others in the family. after the abolition of slavery, mr keephart gave wm. a horse and rations to last for six months, so the children would not starve. charles and lydia french, fellow workers with the taylors, went to cincinnatti and in sent for the mrs. locke and her sister, so they could go to school, as there were no schools in kentucky then. the girls stayed one year with the french family; that is the longest time they ever went to school. after that, they would go to school for three months at different times. mrs. locke reads and writes very well. the master worked right along with the slaves, shearing the sheep. the women milk ten or twelve cows and knit a whole sock in one day. they also wove the material for their dresses; it was called "linsey." she remembers one night the slaves were having a dance in one of the cabins, a band of ku kluxers came, took all firearms they could find, but no one was hurt, all wondered why, however, it did not take long for them to find out why. another night when the kluxers were riding, the slaves recognised the voice of their young master. that was the reason why the keephart slaves were never molested. christmas was a jolly time for the keephart slaves. they would have a whole week to celebrate, eating, dancing, and making merry. "free born niggers" were not allowed to associate with the slaves, as they were supposed to have no sense, and would contaminate the slaves. interviewer's comment mrs. locke is an intelligent old lady, has been a good dressmaker, and served for a great number of the "first families" of indianapolis. she has been married twice; her first husband died shortly after their marriage, and she was a widow for twenty-five years before she took her second "venture." she gets the old age pension and is very happy. submitted december , indianapolis, indiana federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett kentucky avenue, indianapolis, indiana folklore robert mckinley--ex-slave columbia avenue, indianapolis, indiana robert mckinley was born in stanley county, n.c., in , a slave of arnold parker. his master was a very cruel man, but was always kind to him, because he had given him (bob) as a present to his favorite daughter, jane alice, and she would never permit anyone to mistreat bob. miss jane alice was very fond of little bob, and taught him to read and write. his master owned a large farm, but jane alice would not let little bob work on the farm. instead, he helped his master in the blacksmith shop. his master always prepared himself to whip his slaves by drinking a large glass of whiskey to give him strength to beat his slaves. robert remembers seeing his master beat his mother until she would fall to the ground, and he was helpless to protect her. he would just have to stand and watch. he has seen slaves tied to trees and beaten until the master could beat no longer; then he would salt and pepper their backs. once when the confederate soldiers came to their farm, robert told them where the liquor was kept and where the stock had been hidden. for this the soldiers gave him a handful of money, but it did him no good for his master took it away from him. the mckinley family, of course, were parkers and after the civil war, they took the name of their father who was a slave of john mckinley. a neighbor farmer, jesse hayden, was very kind to his slaves, gave them anything they wanted to eat, because he said they had worked hard, and made it possible for him to have all he had, and it was part theirs. the parker slaves were not allowed to associate with the hayden slaves. they were known as the "rich niggers, who could eat meat without stealing it." when the "nigger traders" came to the parker farm, the old mistress would take meat skins and grease the mouths of the slave children to make it appear she had given them meat to eat. interviewer's comment mr. mckinley is an "herb doctor" and lives very poorly in a dirty little house; he was very glad to tell of his early life. he thinks people live too fast these days, and don't remember there is a stopping place. submitted january , indianapolis, indiana federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett kentucky avenue folklore richard miller--an old soldier north west street richard miller was born january , in danville, kentucky. his mother was an english subject, born in bombay, india and was brought into america by a group of people who did not want to be under the english government. they landed in canada, came on to detroit, stayed there a short time, then went to danville, kentucky. there she married a slave named miller. they were the parents of five children. after slavery was abolished, they bought a little farm a few miles from danville, kentucky. the mother was very ambitious for her children, and sent them to the country school. one day, when the children came home from school, their mother was gone; they knew not where. it was learned, she was sending her children to school, and that was not wanted. she was taken to texas, and nothing, was heard from her until . she wrote her brother she was comming to see them, and try to find her children, if any of them were left. the boy, richard, was in the army. he was so anxious to see his mother, to see what she would look like. the last time he saw her, she was washing clothes at the branch, and was wearing a blue cotton dress. all he could remember about her was her beautiful black hair, and the cotton dress. when he saw her, he didnot recognize her, but she told him of things he could remember that had happened, and that made him think she was his mother. richard was told who had taken the mother from the children, went to the man, shot and killed him; nothing was done to him for his deed. he remembers a slave by the name of brown, in texas, who was chained hand and feet to a woodpile, oil thrown over him, and the wood, then fire set to the wood, and he was burned to death. after the fire smoldered down, the white women and children took his ashes for souvenirs. when slavery was abolished, a group of them started down to the far south, to buy farms, to try for themselves, got as far as madison county, kentucky and were told if they went any farther south, they would be made slaves again, not knowing if that was the truth or not, they stayed there, and worked on the madison county farms for a very small wage. this separated families, and they never heard from each other ever again. these separations are the cause of so many of the slave race not being able to trace families back for generations, as do the white families. george band was a very powerful slave, always ready to fight, never losing a fight, always able to defend himself until one night a band of ku kluxers came to his house, took his wife, hung her to a tree, hacked her to death with knives. then went to the house, got george, took him to see what they had done to his wife. he asked them to let him go back to the house to get something to wrap his wife in, thinking he was sincere in his request, they allowed him to go. instead of getting a wrapping for his wife, he got his winchester rifle, shot and killed fourteen of the kluxers. the county was never bothered with the klan again. however, george left immediately for the north. the first monday of the month was sale day. the slaves were chained together and sent down in miss., often separating mothers from children, husbands from wives, never to hear of each other again. interviewer's comment mr. miller lives with his family in a very comfortable home. he has only one eye, wears a patch over the bad one. he does not like to talk of his early life as he said it was such a "nightmare" to him; however he answered all questions very pleasantly. submitted december , indianapolis, indiana william r. mays district johnson county henry clay moorman born in slavery in kentucky w. king st., franklin, ind. henry clay moorman has resided in franklin years, he was born oct. , in slavery on the moorman plantation in breckenridge county, kentucky. mr. moorman relates his own personal experiences as well as those handed down from his mother. he was a boy about years old when freedom was declared. his father's name was dorah moorman who was a cooper by trade, and had a wife and seven children. they belonged to james moorman, who owned about slaves, he was kind to his slaves and never whipped any of them. these slaves loved their master and was as loyal to him as his own family. mr. moorman says that when a boy he did small jobs around the plantation such as tobacco planting and going to the mill. one day he was placed upon a horse with a sack of grain containing about two bushels, after the sack of grain was balanced upon the back of the horse he was started to the mill which was a distance of about five miles, when about half the distance of the journey the sack of grain became unbalanced and fell from the horse being too small to lift the sack of grain he could only cry over the misfortune. there he was, powerless to do any thing about it. after about two hours there was a white man riding by and seeing the predicament he was in kindly lifted the sack up on the horse and after ascertaining his master's name bade him to continue to the mill. it was the custom at the mill that each await their turn, and do their own grinding. after the miller had taken his toll, he returned to his master and told of his experience. thereafter precautions were taken so he would not again have the same experience. the slave owners had so poisoned the minds of the slaves, they were in constant fear of the soldiers. one day when the slaves were alone at the plantation they sighted the union soldiers approaching, they all went to the woods and hid in the bushes. the smaller children were covered with leaves. there they remained all night, as the soldiers (about in number) camped all night in the horse lot. these soldiers were very orderly; however, they appropriated for their own use all the food they could find. the slave owners would hide all their silverware and other articles of worth under the mattresses that were in the negro cabins for safe keeping. there were three white children in the master's family. wickliff, the oldest boy and bob was the second child in age. the younger child, a girl, was named sally and was about the same age as the subject of this article. both children, being babies about the same age, the black mother served as a wet nurse for the white child, sometimes both the black child and the white child were upon the black mammies lap which frequently was the cause of battles between the two babies. some of the white mistresses acted as midwife for the black mothers. there were two graveyards on the plantation, one for the white folks and one for the blacks. there is no knowledge of any deaths among the white folks during the time he lived on the plantation. one of this black boys' sisters married just before slavery was abolished. he remembers this wedding. in connection with the marriages of the slaves in slavery days, it is recalled that slaves seldom married among themselves on the same plantation but instead the unions were made by some negro boy from some other plantation courting a negro girl on a distant plantation. as was the custom in slavery days the black boy would have to get the consent of three people before he was allowed to enter upon wedlock; first, he would get the consent of the negro girls' mother, then he would get the consent of his own master as well as the black girl's master. this required time and diplomacy. when all had given their consent the marriage would take place usually on saturday night, when a great time was had with slaves coming from other plantations with a generous supply of fried chicken, hams, cakes and pies a great feast and a good time generally with music and dancing. the new husband had to return to his own master after the wedding but it was understood by all that the new husband could visit his wife every saturday night and stay until monday morning. he would return every monday to his master and work as usual indefinitely unless by chance one or the other of the two masters would buy the husband or wife, in such event they would live together as man and wife. unless this purchase did occur it was the rule in slavery days that any children born to the slave wife would be the property of the girl's master. when the required consent could not be had from all parties concerned it sometimes caused friction and instances have occured when attempts at elopement was made causing no end of trouble. this condition was very rare, as in most all cases of this kind the masters were quite willing for this marriage and would encourage the young couple. it is remembered that there were no illegitimate children born on the moorman plantation. the slaves would have their parties and dances. slaves would gather from various plantations and these parties would sometimes last all night. it was customary for the slaves to get passes from their masters permitting them to attend, but sometimes passes were not given for reasons. in line with these parties it is remembered that there existed at that time what was known as the paddle-rollers, these so called paddy-rollers was made up of a bunch of white boys who would sneak up on these defenseless negroes unawares late in the night and demand that all show their passes. those that could not show passes were whipped, both the negro boys and girls alike. the loyalty of these poor black boys was shown when they would volunteer to take an extra flogging to protect their girl friends. the paddy-rollers were a mean bunch of white boys who reviled in this shameful practice. after slavery was abolished, this colored slave family remained on the same plantation for one year. they left the plantation via cloverport by boat for evansville, ind., where they remained until the subject of this sketch removed to franklin, ind. in where he took pastorate with the african methodist episcopal church where he served for years. he is now a retired minister residing at w. king st. federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett kentucky avenue folklore mrs. america morgan--ex-slave camp street america morgan was born in a log house, daubed with dirt, in ballard county, kentucky, in , the daughter of manda and jordon rudd. she remembers very clearly the happenings of her early life. her mother, manda rudd, was owned by clark rudd, and the "devil has sure got him." her father was owned by mr. willingham, who was very kind to his slaves. jordon became a rudd, because he was married to manda on the rudd plantation. there were six children in the family, and all went well until the death of the mother; clark rudd whipped her to death when america was five years old. six little children were left motherless to face a "frowning world." america was given to her master's daughter, miss meda, to wait on her, as her personal property. she lived with her for one year, then was sold for $ . to mr. and mrs. utterback stayed with them until the end of the civil war. the new mistress was not so kind. miss meda, who knew her reputation, told her if she abused america, she would come for her, and she would loose the $ . she had paid for her. therefore, america was treated very kindly. aunt catherine, who looked after all the children on the plantation, was very unruly, no one could whip her. once america was sent for two men to come and tie aunt catherine. she fought so hard, it was as much as the men could do to tie her. they tied her hands, then hung her to the joist and lashed her with a cow hide. it "was awful to hear her screams." in her father came and took her into paduca, kentucky, "a land of freedom." when thirteen years old, america did not know a from b, then "glory to god," a mr. greeleaf, a white man, from the north, came down to kentucky and opened a school for negro children. that was america's first chance to learn. he was very kind and very sympathetic. she went to school for a very short while. her father was very poor, had nothing at all to give his children. america's mistress would not give her any of her clothes. "all she had in this world, was what she had on her back." then she was "hired out" for $ . a week. the white people for whom she worked were very kind to her and would try to teach her when her work was done. she was given an old fashioned spelling book and a first reader. she was then "taught much and began to know life." she was sent regularly to church and sunday school. that was when she began to "wake up" to her duty as a free girl. the rev. d.w. dupee was her sunday school teacher, from him she learned much she had never known before. at seventeen years of age, she married and "faced a frowning world right." she had a good husband and ten children, three of whom are living today, one son and two daughters. she remembers one slave, who had been given five hundred lashes on his back, thrown in his cabin to die. he laid on the floor all night, at dawn he came to himself, and there were blood hounds licking his back. when the overseers lashed a slave to death, they would turn the bloodhounds out to smell the blood, so they would know "nigger blood," that would help trace runaway slaves. aunt jane stringer was given five hundred lashes and thrown in her cabin. the next morning when the overseer came, he kicked her and told her to get up, and wanted to know if she was going to sleep there all day. when she did not answer him, he rolled her over and the poor woman was dead, leaving several motherless children. when the slaves were preparing to run away, they would put hot pepper on their feet; this would cause the hounds to be thrown off their trail. aunt margaret ran off, but the hounds traced her to a tree; she stayed up in the tree for two days and would not come down until they promised not to whip her any more, and they kept their promise. old mistress' mother was sick a long time, and little america had to keep the flies off of her by waving a paper fly brush over her bed. she was so mean, america was afraid to go too near the bed for fear she might try to grab her and shake her. after she died, she haunted america. anytime she would go into the room, she could hear her knocking on the wall with her cane. some nights they would hear her walking up and down the stairs for long periods at a time. aunt catherine ran off, because "ole missie" haunted her so bad. the old master came back after his death and would ride his favorite horse, old pomp, all night long, once every week. when the boy would go in to feed the horses, old pomp would have his ears hanging down, and he would be "just worn out," after his night ride. interviewer's comment america believes firmly in haunts, and said she had lived in several haunted houses since coming up north. mrs. morgan lives with her baby boy and his wife. she is rather inteligent, reads and writes, and tries to do all she can to help those who are less fortunate than she. submitted december , indianapolis, indiana iris cook district floyd county story of george morrison east th st., new albany, ind. observation of the writer (this old negro, known as "uncle george" by the neighbors, is very particular about propriety. he allows no woman in his house unless accompanied by a man. he says "it jest a'nt the proper thing to do", but he came to a neighbors for a little talk.) "i was bawn in union county, kentucky, near morganfield. my master was mr. ray, he made me call him mr. ray, wouldent let me call him master. he said i was his little free negro." when asked if there were many slaves on mr. ray's farm, he said, "yes'm, they was seven cabin of us. i was the oldes' child in our family. mr. ray said "he didn't want me in the tobacco", so i stayed at the house and waited on the women folk and went after the cows when i was big enough. i carried my stick over my shoulder for i wus afraid of snakes." "mr. ray was always very good to me, he liked to play with me, cause i was so full of tricks an' so mischuvus. he give me a pair of boots with brass toes. i shined them up ever day, til you could see your face in 'em." "there wuz two ladies at the house, the missus and her daughter, who was old enough to keep company when i was a little boy. they used to have me to drive 'em to church. i'd drive the horses. they'd say, 'george, you come in here to church.' but i always slipped off with the other boys who was standing around outside waitin' for they folks, and played marbles." "yes, ma'am, the war sho did affect my fambly. my father, he fought for the north. he got shot in his side, but it finally got all right. he saved his money and came north after the war and got a good job. but, i saw them fellows from the south take my uncle. they put his clothes on him right in the yard and took him with them to fight. and even the white folks, they all cried. but he came back, he wasnt hurt but he wasent happy in his mind like my pappy was." "yes ma'am, i would rather live in the north. the south's all right but someways i just don't feel down there like i does up here." "no ma'am, i was never married. i don't believe in getting married unless you got plenty of money. so many married folks dont do nuthin but fuss and fight. even my father and mother always spatted and i never liked that and so i says to myself what do i want to get married for. i'm happier just living by myself." "yes ma'am. i remember when people used to take wagon loads of corn to the market in louisville, and they would bring back home lots of groceries and things. a colored man told me he had come north to the market in louisville with his master, and was working hard unloading the corn when a white man walks up to him, shows him some money and asks him if he wanted to be free? he said he stopped right then and went with the man, who hid him in his wagon under the provisions and they crossed the ohio river right on the ferry. that's the way lots of 'em got across here." "did i ever hear of any ghosts. yes ma'am i have. i hear noises and i seed something once that i never could figger out. i was goin't thru the woods one day, and come up sudden in a clear patch of ground. there sat a little boy on a stump, all by his-self, there in the woods. i asks him who he wuz & wuz he lost, and he never answered me. jest sat there, lookin at me. all of a sudden he ups and runs, and i took out after him. he run behind a big tree, and when i got up to where i last seed him, he wuz gone. and there sits a great big brown man twice as big as me, on another stump. he never seys a word, jest looks at me. and then i got away from there, yes ma'am i really did." "a man i knew saw a ghost once and he hit at it. he always said he wasn't afraid of no ghost, but that ghost hit him, and hit him so hard it knocked his face to one side and the last time i saw him it was still that way. no ma'am, i don't really believe in ghosts, but you know how it is, i lives by myself and i don't like to talk about them for you never can tell what they might do. "lady you ought to hear me rattle bones, when i was young. i caint do it much now for my wrists are too stiff. when they played turkey in the straw how we all used to dance and cut up. we'ed cut the pigeon wing, and buck the wind [hw: wing?], and all. but i got rewmaytism in my feet now and ant much good any more, but i sure has done lots of things and had lots of fun in my time." federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett kentucky avenue, indianapolis, indiana folklore joseph mosley, ex-slave boulevard place [tr: also reported as moseley in text of interview.] joseph mosley, one of twelve children, was born march , , fourteen miles from hopkinsville, kentucky. his master, tim mosley, was a slave trader. he was supposed to have bought and sold , slaves. he would go from one state to another buying slaves, bringing in as many as or slaves at one time. the slaves would be handcuffed to a chain, each chain would link slaves. the slaves would walk from virginia to kentucky, and some from mississippi to virginia. in front of the chained slaves would be an overseer on horseback with a gun and dogs. in back of the chained slaves would be another overseer on horseback with a gun and dogs. they would see that no slave escaped. joseph's father was the shoemaker for all the farm hands and all adult workers. he would start in september making shoes for the year. first the shoes for the folks in the house, then the workers. no slave child ever wore shoes, summer or winter. the father, mother, and all the children were slaves in the same family, but not in the same house. some with the daughters, some with the sons, and so on. no one brother or sister would be allowed to visit with the others. after the death of tim moseley, little joseph was given to a daughter. he was seven years old; he had to pick up chips, tend the cows, and do small jobs around the house; he wore no clothing except a shirt. little joseph did not see his mother after he was taken to the home of the daughter until he was set free at the age of . the master was very unkind to the slaves; they sometimes would have nothing to eat, and would eat from the garbage. on christmas morning joseph was told he could go see his mother; he did not know he was free, and couldn't understand why he was given the first suit of clothes he had ever owned, and a pair of shoes. he dressed in his new finery and was started out on his six mile journey to his mother. he was so proud of his new shoes; after he had gotten out of sight, he stopped and took his shoes off as he did not want them dirty before his mother had seen them, and walked the rest of the way in his bare feet. after their freedom, the family came to indiana. the mother died here, in indianapolis, at the age of . interviewer's comment mr. moseley, who has been in indianapolis for years, has been paralyzed for the last four years. he and a daughter room with a mrs. turner. he has a very nice clean room; a very pleasant old man was very glad to talk of his past life. he gets a pension of $ . a month, and said it was not easy to get along on that little amount, and wondered if the government was ever going to increase his pension. submitted december , indianapolis, indiana ex-slave stories district # vanderburgh county lauana creel memories of slavery and the life story of amy elizabeth patterson the slave mart, separation from a dearly beloved mother and little sisters are among the earliest memories recalled by amy elizabeth patterson, a resident of evansville, indiana. amy elizabeth, now known as "grandmother patterson" resides with her daughter lula b. morton at linwood avenue near cherry street. her birth occurred july , at cadiz, trigg county, kentucky. her mother was louisa street, slave of john street, a merchant of cadez. [tr: likely cadiz] "john street was never unkind to his slaves" is the testimony of grandmother patterson, as she recalls and relates stories of the long ago. "our sorrow began when slave traders, came to cadiz and bought such slaves as he took a fancy to and separated us from our families!" john street ran a sort of agency where he collected slaves and yearly sold them to dealers in human flesh. those he did not sell he hired out to other families. some were hired or indentured to farmers, some to stock raisers, some to merchants and some to captains of boats and the hire of all these slaves went into the coffers of john street, yearly increasing his wealth. louisa street, mother of amy elizabeth patterson, was house maid at the street home and her first born daughter was fair with gold brown hair and amber eyes. mr. and mrs. street always promised louisa they would never sell her as they did not want to part with the child, so louisa was given a small cabin near the master's house. the mistress had a child near the age of the little mulatto and louisa was wet nurse for both children as well as maid to mrs. street. two years after the birth of amy elizabeth, louisa became mother of twin daughters, fannie and martha street, then john street decided to sell all his slaves as he contemplated moving into another territory. the slaves were auctioned to the highest bidder and louisa and the twins were bought by a man living near cadiz but mr. street refused to sell amy elizabeth. she showed promise of growing into an excellent house-maid and seamstress and was already a splendid playmate and nurse to the little street boy and girl. so louisa lost her child but such grief was shown by both mother and child that the mother was unable to perform her tasks and the child cried continually. then mr. street consented to sell the little girl to the mother's new master. louisa street became mother of seventeen children. three were almost white. amy elizabeth was the daughter of john street and half sister of his children by his lawful wife. mrs. street knew the facts and respected louisa and her child and, says grandmother patterson, "that was the greatest crime ever visited on the united states. it was worse than the cruelty of the overseers, worse than hunger, for many slaves were well fed and well cared for; but when a father can sell his own child, humiliate his own daughter by auctioning her on the slave block, what good could be expected where such practices were allowed?" grandmother patterson remembers superstitions of slavery days and how many slaves were afraid of ghosts and evil spirits but she never believed in supernatural appearances until three years ago when she received a message, through a medium, from the spirit land; now she is a firm believer, not in ghosts and evil visitations, but in true communication with the departed ones who still love and long to protect those who remain on earth. several years ago a young grandson of the old woman was drowned. the little boy was stokes morton, a very popular child rating high averages in school studies and beloved by his teachers and friends. the mother, lulu b. morton and the grandmother both gave up to grief, in fact they both have declined in health and were unable to carry on their regular duties. grandmother patterson began suffering from a dental ailment and was compelled to visit a dental surgeon. the dental surgeon suggested that she visit a medium and seek some comforting message from the child. she at once visited a medium and received a message. "stokes answered me. in fact he was waiting to communicate with us. he said 'grandmother! you and mother must stop staying at the cemetary and grieving for me. send the flowers to your sick friends and put in more time with the other children. i am happy here, i am in a beautiful field, the sky is blue and the field is full of beautiful white lambs that play with me.'" the message comforted the aged woman. she began occupying her time with other members of the family and again began to visit with her neighbors. she felt a call two years later and again consulted the medium. that time she received a message from the child, his father and a little girl that had died in infancy. grandmother patterson said she would not recall the ones who had gone on to the land of promise. she is a christian and a believer in the word of god. grandmother patterson, in spite of her years of life (fifteen of which were passed in slavery) is useful in her daughter's home. her children and grand children are fond of her as indeed they well may be. she is a refined woman, gracious to every person she encounters. she is hoping for better opportunities for her race. she admonishes the younger relatives to live in the fear and love of the lord that no evil days overtake them. "yes, slavery was a curse to this nation" she declares, "a curse which still shows itself in hundreds of homes where mulatto faces are evidence of a heinous sin and proof that there has been a time when american fathers sold their children at the slave marts of america." she is glad the curse has been erased even if by the bloodshed of heroes. g. monroe dist. jefferson county slave story mrs. preston's story mrs. preston is an old lady, years old, very charming and hospitable she lives on north elm street, madison, indiana. her first recollections of slavery were of sleeping on the foot of her mistress' bed, where she could get up during the night to "feed" the fire with chips she had gathered before dark or to get a drink or anything else her mistress might want in the night. her 'marse brown', resided in frankfort having taken his best horses and hogs, and leaving his family in the care of an overseer on a farm. he was afraid the union soldiers would kill him, but thought his wife would be safe. this opinion proved to be true. the overseer called the slaves to work at four o'clock, and they worked until six in the evening. when mrs. preston was a little older part of her work was to drive about a dozen cows to and from the stable. many a time she warmed her bare feet in the cattle bedding. she said they did not always go barefooted but their shoes were old or their feet wrapped in rags. her next promotion was to work in the fields hauling shocks of corn on a balky mule which was subject to bucking and throwing its rider over its head. she was aided by a little boy on another mule. there were men to tie the shocks and place them on the mule. she remembered seeing union and confederate soldiers shooting across a river near her home. her uncle fought two years, and returned safely at the end of the war. she did not feel that her master and mistress had mistreated their slaves. at the close of the war, her father was given a house, land, team and enough to start farming for himself. several years later the ku klux klan gave them a ten days notice to leave, one of the masked band interceded for them by pointing out that they were quiet and peacable, and a man with a crop and ten children couldn't possibly leave on so short a notice so the time was extended another ten days, when they took what the klan paid them and came north. they remained in the north until they had to buy their groceries "a little piece of this and a little piece of that, like they do now", when her father returned to kentucky. mrs. preston remained in indiana. her father was burned out, the family escaping to the woods in their night clothes, later befriended by a white neighbor. now they appealed to their former owner who built them a new house, provided necessities and guards for a few weeks until they were safe from the ku klux klan. mrs. preston said she was the mother of ten children, but now lives alone since the death of her husband three years ago. her white neighbors say her house is so clean, one could almost eat off the floor. federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county harry jackson william m. quinn (ex-slave) bright street, indianapolis, ind. william m. quinn, bright street, was a slave up to ten years of age--"when the soldiers come back home, and the war was over, and we wasn't slaves anymore". mr. quinn was born in hardin county, kentucky, on a farm belonging to steve stone. he and a brother and his mother were slaves of "old master stone", but his father was owned by another man, mr. quinn, who had an adjoining farm. when they were all freed, they took the surname of quinn. mr. quinn said that they were what was called "gift slaves". they were never to be sold from the stone farm and were given to stone's daughter as a gift with that understanding. he said that his "old master paid him and his brother ten cents a day for cutting down corn and shucking it." it was very unusual for a slave to receive any money whatsoever for working. he said that his master had a son about his age, and the son and he and his brother worked around the farm together, and "master stone" gave all three of them ten cents a day when they worked. sometimes they wouldn't, they would play instead. and whenever "master stone" would catch them playing when they ought to have been at work, he would whip them--"and that meant his own boy would get a licking too." "old master stone was a good man to all us colored folks, we loved him. he wasn't one of those mean devils that was always beating up his slaves like some of the rest of them." he had a colored overseer and one day this overseer ran off and hid for two days "cause he whipped one of old mas' stone's slaves and he heard that mas' stone was mad and he didn't like it." "we didn't know that we were slaves, hardly. well, my brother and i didn't know anyhow 'cause we were too young to know, but we knew that we had been when we got older." "after emancipation we stayed at the stone family for some time, 'cause they were good to us and we had no place to go." mr. quinn meant by emancipation that his master freed his slaves, and, as he said, "emancipated them a year before lincoln did." mr. quinn said that his father was not freed when his mother and he and his brother were freed, because his father's master "didn't think the north would win the war." stone's slaves fared well and ate good food and "his own children didn't treat us like we were slaves." he said some of the slaves on surrounding plantations and farms had it "awful hard and bad." some times slaves would run away during the night, and he said that "we would give them something to eat." he said his mother did the cooking for the stone family and that she was good to runaway slaves. submitted september , indianapolis, indiana federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county harry jackson ex slave story mrs. candus richardson [hw: personal interview] mrs. candus richardson, of boulevard place, was years of age when the civil war was over. she was borned a slave on jim scott's plantation on the "homer chitter river" in franklin county, mississippi. scott was the heir of "old jake scott". "old jim scott" had about fifty slaves, who raised crops, cotton, tobacco, and hogs. candus cooked for scott and his wife, miss elizabeth. they were both cruel, according to mrs. richardson. she said that at one time her master struck her over the head with the butt end of a cowhide, that made a hole in her head, the scar of which she still carries. he struck her down because he caught her giving a hungry slave something to eat at the back door of the "big house". the "big house" was scott's house. scott beat her husband a lot of times because he caught him praying. but "beatings didn't stop my husband from praying. he just kept on praying. he'd steal off to the woods and pray, but he prayed so loud that anybody close around could hear, 'cause he had such a loud voice. i prayed too, but i always prayed to myself." one time, jim scott beat her husband so unmerciful for praying that his shirt was as red from blood stain "as if you'd paint it with, a brush". her husband was very religious, and she claimed that it was his prayers and "a whole lot of other slaves' that cause you young folks to be free today". they didn't have any bible on the scott plantation she said, for it meant a beating or "a killing if you'd be caught with one". but there were a lot of good slaves and they knew how to pray and some of the white folks loved to hear than pray too, "'cause there was no put-on about it. that's why we folks know how to sing and pray, 'cause we have gone through so much, but the lord is with us, the lord's with us, he is". mrs. richardson said that the slaves, that worked in the master's house, ate the same food that the master and his family ate, but those out on the plantation didn't fare so well; they ate fat meats and parts of the hog that the folks at the "big house" didn't eat. all the slaves had to call scott and his wife "master and miss elizabeth", or they would get punished if they didn't. whenever the slaves would leave the plantation, they ware supposed to have a permit from scott, and if they were caught out by the "padyrollers", they would whip them if they did not have a note from their master. when the slaves went to church, they went to a baptist church that the scotts belonged to and sat in the rear of the church. the sermon was never preached to the slaves. "they never preached the lord to us," mrs. richardson said, "they would just tell us to not steal, don't steal from your master". a week's ration of food was given each slave, but if he ate it up before the week, he had to eat salt pork until the next rations. he couldn't eat much of it, because it was too salty to eat any quanity of it. "we had to make our own clothes out of a cloth like you use, called canvass". "we walked to church with our shoes on our arms to keep from wearing them out". they walked six miles to reach the church, and had to wade across a stream of water. the women were carried across on the men's backs. they did all of this to hear the minister tell them "don't steal from your master". they didn't have an overseer to whip the slaves on the scott plantation, scott did the whipping himself. mrs. richardson said he knocked her down once just before she gave birth to a daughter, all because she didn't pick cotton as fast as he thought she should have. her husband went to the war to be "what you call a valet for master jim's son, sam". after the war, he "came to me and my daughter". "then in july, we could tell by the crops and other things grown, old master jim told us everyone we was free, and that was almost a year after the other slaves on the other plantations around were freed". she said scott, in freeing (?) then said that "he didn't have to give us any thing to eat and that he didn't have to give us a place to stay, but we could stay and work for him and he would pay us. but we left that night and walked for miles through the rain to my husban's brother and then told them that they all were free. then we all came up to kentucky in a wagon and lived there. then i came up north when my husband died". mrs. richardson says that she is "so happy to know that i have lived to see the day when you young people can serve god without slipping around to serve him like we old folks had to do". "you see that pencil that you have in your hand there, why, that would cost me my life 'if old mas' jim would see me with a pencil in my hand. but i lived to see both him and miss elizabeth die a hard death. they both hated to die, although they belonged to church. thank god for his mercy! thank god!" "my mother prayed for me and i am praying for you young folks". mrs. richardson, despite her years of age, can walk a distance of a mile and a half to her church. submitted august , indianapolis, indiana federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett kentucky avenue folklore joe robinson--ex-slave cornell avenue joe robinson was born in mason county, kentucky in . his master, gus hargill, was very kind to him and all his slaves. he owned a large farm and raised every kind of vegetation. he always gave his slaves plenty to eat. they never had to steal food. he said his slaves had worked hard to permit him to have plenty, therefore they should have their share. joe, his mother, a brother, and a sister were all on the same plantation. they were never sold, lived with the same master until they were set free. joe's father was owned by rube black, who was very cruel to his slaves, beat them severely for the least offense. one day he tried to beat joe's father, who was a large strong man; he resisted his master and tried to kill him. after that he never tried to whip him again. however, at the first opportunity, rube sold him. the robinson family learned the father had been sold to someone down in louisiana. they never heard from, or of him, again. interviewer's comment mr. robinson lives with his wife; he receives a pension, which he said was barely enough for them to live on, and hoped it would be increased. he attends one of the w.p.a. classes, trying to learn to read and write. they have two children who live in chicago. submitted january , indianapolis, indiana federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett, kentucky avenue, indianapolis, indiana folklore mrs. rosaline rogers--ex-slave-- years old north capitol avenue, indianapolis, indiana mrs. rogers was born in south carolina, in , a slave of dr. rice rogers, "mas. rogers," we called him, was the youngest son of a family of eleven children. he was so very mean. mrs. rogers was sold and taken to tennessee at the age of eleven for $ . to a man by the name of carter. soon after her arrival at the carter plantation, she was resold to a man by the name of belby moore with whom she lived until the beginning of the civil war. men and women were herded into a single cabin, no matter how many there were. she remembers a time when there were twenty slaves in a small cabin. there were holes between the logs of the cabin, large enough for dogs and cats to crawl through. the only means of heat, being a wood fireplace, which, of course, was used for cooking their food. the slaves' food was corn cakes, side pork, and beans; seldom any sweets except molasses. the slaves were given a pair of shoes at christmas time and if they were worn out before summer, they were forced to go barefoot. her second master would not buy shoes for his slaves. when they had to plow, their feet would crack and bleed from walking on the hard clods, and if one complained, they would be whipped; therefore, very few complaints were made. the slaves were allowed to go to their master's church, and allowed to sit in the seven back benches; should those benches be filled, they were not allowed to sit in any other benches. the wealthy slave owner never allowed his slaves to pay any attention to the poor "white folks," as he knew they had been free all their lives and should be slave owners themselves. the poor whites were hired by those who didnot believe in slavery, or could not afford slaves. at the beginning of the civil war, i had a family of fourteen children. at the close of the war, i was given my choice of staying on the same plantation, working on shares, or taking my family away, letting them out for their food and clothes. i decided to stay on that way; i could have my children with me. they were not allowed to go to school, they were taught only to work. slave mothers were allowed to stay in bed only two or three days after childbirth; then were forced to go into the fields to work, as if nothing had happened. the saddest moment of my life was when i was sold away from my family. i often wonder what happened to them, i haven't seen or heard from them since. i only hope god was as good to them as he has been to me. "i am years old; my birth is recorded in the slave book. i have good health, fairly good eyesight, and a good memory, all of which i say is because of my love for god." interviewer's comment mrs. rogers is certainly a very old woman, very pleasant, and seems very fond of her granddaughters, with whom she lives. submitted december , indianapolis, indiana federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett kentucky avenue folklore mrs. parthena rollins camp street (rear) mrs. parthena rollins was born in scott county, kentucky, in , a slave of ed duvalle, who was always very kind to all of his slaves, never whipping any of the adults, but often whipped the children to correct them, never beating them. they all had to work, but never overwork, and always had plenty to eat. she remembers so many slaves, who were not as fortunate as they were. once when the "nigger traders" came through, there was a girl, the mother of a young baby; the traders wanted the girl, but would not buy her because she had the child. her owner took her away, took the baby from her, and beat it to death right before the mother's eyes, then brought the girl back to the sale without the baby, and she was bought immediately. her new master was so pleased to get such a strong girl who could work so well and so fast. the thoughts of the cruel way of putting her baby to death preyed on her mind to such an extent, she developed epilepsy. this angered her new master, and he sent her back to her old master, and forced him to refund the money he had paid for her. another slave had displeased his master for some reason, he was taken to the barn and killed, and was buried right in the barn. no one knew of this until they were set free, as the slaves who knew about it were afraid to tell for fear of the same fate befalling on them. parthena also remembers slaves being beaten until their backs were blistered. the overseers would then open the blisters and sprinkle salt and pepper in the open blisters, so their backs would smart and hurt all the more. many times, slaves would be beaten to death, thrown into sink holes, and left for the buzzards to swarm and feast on their bodies. so many of the slaves she knew were half fed and half clothed, and treated so cruelly, that it "would make your hair stand on ends." interviewer's comment mrs. rollins is in poor health all broken up with "rheumatiz." she lives with a daughter and grandson, and said she could hardly talk of the happenings of the early days, because of the awful things her folks had to go through submitted december , anatolia, indiana ex-slave stories district # vanderburgh county lauana creel told by john rudd, an ex-slave "yes, i was a slave," said john rudd, "and i'll say this to the whole world, slavery was the worst curse ever visited on the people of the united states." john rudd is a negro, dark and swarthy as to complexion but his nose is straight and aqualine, for his mother-was half indian. the memory of his mother, liza rudd, is sacred to john rudd today and her many disadvantages are still a source of grief to the old man of years. john rudd was born on christmas day in the home of benjamin simms, at springfield, kentucky. the mother of the young child was house maid for mistress simms and uncle john remembers that mother and child received only the kindliest consideration from all members of the simms family. while john was yet a small boy benjamin simms died and the simms slaves were auctioned to the highest bidders. "if'n you wants to know what unhappiness means," said uncle john rudd, "jess'n you stand on the slave block and hear the auctioneer's voice selling you away from the folks you love." uncle john explained how mothers and fathers were often separated from their dearly loved children, at the auction block, but john and his younger brother thomas were fortunate and were bought by the same master along with liza rudd, their mother. an elder brother, henry, was separated from his mother and brothers and became the property of george snyder and was thereafter known as henry snyder. when liza rudd and her two little sons left the slave block they were the property of henry moore who lived a few miles away from springfield. uncle john declares that unhappiness met them at the threshold of the moore's estate. liza was given the position of cook, housemaid and plough-hand while her little boys were made to hoe, carry wood and care for the small children of the moore family. john had only been at the moore home a few months when he witnessed several slaves being badly beaten. henry moore kept a white overseer and several white men were employed to whip slaves. a large barrel stood near the slave quarters and the little boy discovered that the barrel was a whipping post. the slaves would be strapped across the side of the barrel and two strong men would wield the "cat of nine tails" until blood flowed from gashed flesh, and the cries and prayers of the unfortunate culprits availed them nothing until the strength of the floggers became exhausted. one day, when several negroes had just recovered from an unusual amount of chastisement, the little negro, john rudd, was playing in the front yard of the moore's house when he heard a soft voice calling him. he knew the voice belonged to shell moore, one of his best friends at the moore estate. shell had been among those severely beaten and little john had been grieving over his misfortunes. "shell had been in the habbit of whittling out whistles for me and pettin' of me," said the now aged negro. "i went to see what he wanted wif me and he said 'goodby johnnie, you'll never see shellie alive after today.'" shell made his way toward the cornfield but the little negro boy, watching him go, did not realize what situation confronted him. that night the master announced that shell had run away again and the slaves were started searching fields and woods but shell's body was found three days later by rhoder mcquirk, dangling from a rafter of moore's corn crib where the unhappy negro had hanged himself with a leather halter. shell was a splendid worker and was well worth a thousand dollars. if he had been fairly treated he would have been happy and glad to repay kindness by toil. "mars henry would have been better to all of us, only mistress jane was always rilin' him up," declared john rudd as he sat in his rocking chair under a shade tree. "jane moore, was the daughter of old thomas rakin, one of the meanest men, where slaves were concerned, and she had learnt the slave drivin' business from her daddy." uncle john related a story concerning his mother as follows: "mama had been workin' in the cornfield all day 'till time to cook supper. she was jes' standin' in the smoke house that was built back of the big kitchen when mistress walks in. she had a long whip hid under her apron and began whippin mama across the shoulders, 'thout tellin' her why. mama wheeled around from whar she was slicin' ham and started runnin' after old missus jane. ole missus run so fas' mama couldn't catch up wif her so she throwed the butcher knife and stuck it in the wall up to the hilt." "i was scared. i was fraid when marse henry come in i believed he would have mama whipped to death." "whar jane?" said mars henry. "she up stairs with the door locked," said mama. then she tole old mars henry the truth about how mistress jane whip her and show him the marks of the whip. she showed him the butcher knife stickin' in the wall. "get yer clothes together," said marse henry. john then had to be parted from his mother. henry rudd [tr: 'moore' written above in brackets.] believed that the negroes were going to be set free. war had been declared and his desire was to send liza far into the southern states where the price of a good negro was higher than in kentucky. when he reached louisville he was offered a good price for her service and hired her out to cook at a hotel. john grieved over the loss of his mother but afterwards learned she had been well treated at louisville. john rudd continued to work for henry moore until the civil war ended. then henry snyder came to the moore home and demanded his brothers to be given into his charge. henry snyder had enlisted in the federal army and had fought throughout the war. he had entered or leased seven acres of good land seven miles below owensboro, kentucky, and on those good acres of davies county farm land the mother and her three sons were reunited. john rudd had never seen a river until he made the trip to owensboro with his brother henry. the trip was made on the big gray eagle and uncle john declares "i was sure thrilled to get that boat ride." he relates many incidents of run-away negroes. remembers his fear of the ku klucks, and remembers seeing seven ex-slaves hanging from one tree near the top of grimes-hill, just after the close of the war. when john grew to young manhood he worked on farms in davis county near owensboro for several years, then procured the job of portering for john sporree, a hotel keeper at owensboro, and in this position john worked for fifteen years. while at owensboro he met the trains and boats. he recalls the boats; morning star, and guiding star; both excursion boats that carried gay men and women on pleasure trips up and down the ohio river. uncle john married teena queen his beloved first wife, at owensboro. to this union was born one son but he has not been to see his father nor has he heard from him for thirty years, and his father believes him to have died. the second wife was minnie dixon who still lives with uncle john at evansville. when asked what his political ideas were, uncle john said his politics is his love for his government. he draws an old age compensation of dollars a month. uncle john had some trouble proving his age but met the situation by having a friend write to the catholic church authorities at springfield. mrs. simms had taken the position of god mother to the baby and his birth and christening had been recorded in the church records. he is a devout catholic and believes that religion and freedom are the two richest blessings ever given to mankind. uncle john worked as janitor at the boehne tuberculosis hospital for eight years. while working there he received a fall which crippled him. he walks by the aid of a cane but is able to visit with his friends and do a small amount of work in his home. federal writers' project of the w.p.a. district # marion county anna pritchett kentucky avenue, indianapolis, indiana folklore amanda elizabeth samuels park avenue lizzie was a child in the home of grandma and grandpa mcmurry. they were farmers in robinson county, tennessee. her mother, a slave hand, worked on the farm until her young master, robert mcmurry was married. she was then sold to rev. carter plaster and taken to logan county, kentucky. the child, lizzie was given to young robert. she lived in the house to help the young mistress who was not so kind to her. lizzie was forced to eat chicken heads, fish heads, pig tails, and parsnips. the child disliked this very much, and was very unhappy with her young mistress, because in robert's father's home all slave children were treated just like his own children. they had plenty of good substantial food, and were protected in every way. the old master felt they were the hands of the next generation and if they were strong and healthy, they would bring in a larger amount of money when sold. lizzie's hardships did not last long as they were set free soon after young robert's marriage. he took her in a wagon to keysburg, kentucky to be with her mother. lizzie learned this song from the soldiers. old saul crawford is dead, and the last word is said. they were fond of looking back till they heard the bushes crack and sent them to their happy home in cannan. some wears worsted some wears lawn what they gonna do when that's all gone. interviewer's comment mrs. samuels is an amusing little woman, she must be about years old, but holds to the age of . had she given her right age, the people for whom she works would have helped her to get her pension. they are amused, yet provoked because lizzie wants to be younger than she really is. submitted december , indianapolis, indiana g. monroe dist. jefferson county slave story mr. jack simms' story personal interview mr. simms was born and raised on mill creek kentucky, and now lives in madison indiana on poplar street diagonally north west of the hospital. he was so young he did no remember very much about how the slaves were treated, but seemed to regret very much that he had been denied the privilege of an education. mr. simms remembers seeing the lines of soldiers on the campbellsburg road, but referred to the war as the "revolution war". this was a very interesting old man, when we first called, his daughter invited us into the house, but her father wanted to talk outside where he "spit better". when his daughter conveyed this information mr. simms' immediately decided that we could come in as we "wouldn't be there long anyhow". after we gained entrance, the daughter remarked that her father was very young at the time of the war, whereupon he answered very testily "if you are going to tell it, go ahead. or am i going to tell it?" beulah van meter district clark county billy slaughter watt st. jeffersonville billy slaughter was born sept. , , on the lincoln farm near hodgenville, ky. the slaughters who now live between the dixie highway and hodgenville on the right of the road driving toward hodgenville about four miles off the state highway are the descendants of the old slave's master. this old slave was sold once and was given away once before he was given his freedom. the spring on the lincoln farm that falls from a cliff was a place associated with indian cruelty. it was here in the pool of water below the cliff that the indians would throw babies of the settlers. if the little children could swim or the settlers could rescue them they escaped, otherwise they were drowned. the indians would gather around the scene of the tragedy and rejoice in their fashion. the old slave when he was a baby was thrown in this pool but was rescued by white people. he remembers having seen several indians but not many. the most interesting subject that billy slaughter discussed was the civil war. this was ordinarily believed to be fought over slavery, but it really was not, according to his interpretation, which is unusual for an old slave to state. the real reason was that the south withdrew from the union and elected jefferson davis president of the confederacy. in his own dialect he narrated these events accurately. the southerners or democrats were called "rebels" and "secess" and the republicans were called "abolitionists." another point of interest was john brown and harpers ferry. when harper's ferry was fired upon, that was firing upon the united states. it was here and through john brown's raid that war was virtually declared. the old negro explained that brown was an abolitionist, and was captured here and later killed. while the old slave had the utmost respect for the federal government he regarded john brown as a martyr for the cause of freedom and included him among the heroes he worshipped. among his prized possessions is an old book written about john brown's raid. the old slave's real hero was abraham lincoln. he plans another pilgrimage to the lincoln farm to look again at the cabin in which his emancipator was born. he asked me if i read history very much. i assured him that i read it to some extent. after that he asked me if i recalled reading about lincoln during the civil war walking the white house floor one night and a negro named douglas remained in his presence. in the beginning of the war the negroes who enlisted in the union army were given freedom, also the wives, and the children who were not married. another problem that was facing the north at this time was that the men who were taken from the farm and factory to the army could not be replaced by the slaves and production continued in the north as was being done in the south. not all negroes who wanted to join the union forces were able to do so because of the strict watchfulness of their masters. the slaves were made to fight in the southern army whether they wanted to or not. this lessened the number of free negroes in the northern army. as a result lincoln decided to free all negroes. that was the decision he made the night he walked the white house floor. this was the old darkey's story of the conditions that brought about the emancipation proclamation. freeing the negroes was brought about during the civil war but it was not the reason that the war was fought, was the unusual opinion of this negro. "uncle billy's" father joined the union army at the taylor barracks, near louisville, ky., which was the camp taylor during the world war. uncle billy's father and mother and their children who were not married were given freedom. the old slave has kept the papers that were drawn up for this act. the old darkey explained that the negro soldiers never fought in any decisive battles. there must always be someone to clean and polish the harness, care for the horses, dig ditches, and construct parapets. this slave's father was at memphis during the battle there. the slaughter family migrated to jeffersonville in ' . billy was then seven years old. at that time there was only one depot here--a freight and passenger depot at court and wall streets. what is now known as eleventh st. was then a hickory grove--a paradise for squirrel hunters. on the ridge beginning at th and mechanic sts. were persimmon trees. this was a splendid hunting haven for the negroes for their favorite wild animal--the o'possum. the ridge is known today as 'possum ridge. the section east of st. anthony's cemetery was covered in woods. since there were a number of beechnuts, pigeons frequented this place and were sought here. one could catch them faster than he could shoot them. at this time there were two shipyards in jeffersonville--barmore's and howard's. barmore's shipyard location was first the location of a big meat-packing company. the old darkey called it a "pork house". the old slave had seen several boats launched from these yards. great crowds would gather for this event. after the hull was completed in the docks the boat was ready to launch. the blocks that served as props were knocked down one at a time. one man would knock down each prop. there were several men employed in this work on the appointed day of the launching of the boat. the boat would be christened with a bottle of champagne on its way to the river. "uncle billy" worked on a steamboat in his earlier days. this boat traveled from louisville to new orleans. people traveled on the river for there were few railroads. the first work the old darkey did was to clean the decks. later he cleaned up inside the boat, mopped up the floors and made the berths. the next job he held was ladies' cabin man. later he took care of the quarters where the officials of the boat slept. the darkey also worked as a second pantry man. this work consisted of waiting on the tables in the dining room. the men's clothes had to be spotless. sometimes it would become necessary for him to change his shirt three times a day. the meats on the menu would include pigeon, duck, turkey, chicken, quail, beef, pork, and mutton. vegetables of the season were served, as well as desserts. it was nothing unusual for a half dollar to be left under a plate as a tip for the waiter. those who worked in the cabins never set a price for a shoe shine. fifteen cents was the lowest they ever received. during a yellow fever epidemic before a quarantine could be declared a boatload of three hundred people left louisville at night to go to memphis, tenn. during the same time this boat went to new orleans where yellow fever was raging. the captain warned them of it. in two narrow streets the old darkey recalled how he had seen the people fall over dead. these streets were crowded and there were no sidewalks, only room for a wagon. here the victims would be sitting in the doorways, apparently asleep, only to fall over dead. when the boat returned, one of the crew was stricken with this disease. uncle billy nursed him until they reached his home at cairo, ill. no one else took the yellow fever and this man recovered. another job "uncle billy" held was helping to make the brick used in the u.s. quarter master depot. colonel james keigwin operated a brick kiln in what is now a colored settlement between th and th and watt and spring sts. the clay was obtained from this field. it was his task to off-bare the brick after they were taken from the molds, and to place them in the eyes to be burned. wood was used as fuel. "uncle billy" reads his bible quite often. he sometimes wonders why he is still left here--all of his friends are gone; all his brothers and sisters are gone. but this he believes is the solution--that there must be someone left to tell about old times. "the bible," he quotes, "says that two shall be working in the field together and one shall be taken and the other left. i am the one who is left," he concludes. henrietta karwowski, field worker federal writers' project st. joseph county--district # south bend, indiana ex-slaves mr. and mrs. alex smith north lake street south bend, indiana mr. and mrs. alex smith, an eighty-three year old negro couple were slaves in kentucky near paris, tennessee, as children. they now reside at north lake street, on the western limits of south bend. this couple lives in a little shack patched up with tar paper, tin, and wood. mrs. elizabeth smith, the talkative member or the family is a small woman, very wrinkled, with a stocking cap pulled over her gray hair. she wore a dress made of three different print materials; sleeves of one kind, collar of another and body of a third. her front teeth were discolored, brown stubs, which suggested that she chews tobacco. mr. alex smith, the husband is tall, though probably he was a well built man at one time. he gets around by means of a cane. mrs. smith said that he is not at all well, and he was in the hospital for six weeks last winter. the wife, elizabeth or betty, as her husband calls her, was a slave on the peter stubblefield plantation in kentucky, the nearest town being paris, tennessee, while mr. smith was a slave on the robert stubblefield plantation nearby. although only a child of five, mr. smith remembers the civil war, especially the marching of thousands of soldiers, and the horse-drawn artillery wagons. the stubblefields freed their slaves the first winter after the war. on the peter stubblefield plantation the slaves were treated very well and had plenty to eat, while on the robert stubblefield plantation mr smith went hungry many times, and said, "often, i would see a dog with a bit of bread, and i would have been willing to take it from him if i had not been afraid the dog would bite me." mrs. smith was named after elizabeth stubblefield, a relative of peter stubblefield. as a child of five years or less, elizabeth had to spin "long reels five cuts a day," pick seed from cotton, and cockle burrs from wool, and perform the duties of a house girl. unlike the chores of elizabeth, mr. smith had to chop wood, carry water, chop weeds, care for cows, pick bugs from tobacco plants. this little boy had to go barefoot both summer and winter, and remembers the cracking of ice under his bare feet. the day the mistress and master came and told the slaves they were free to go any place they desired, mrs. smith's mother told her later that she was glad to be free but she had no place to go or any money to go with. many of the slaves would not leave and she never witnessed such crying as went on. later mrs. smith was paid for working. she worked in the fields for "wittels" and clothes. a few years later she nursed children for twenty-five cents a week and "wittels," but after a time she received fifty cents a week, board and two dresses. she married mr. smith at the age of twenty. mr smith's father rented a farm and mr. smith has been a farmer all his life. the smith couple have been married sixty-four years. mrs. smith says, "and never a cross word exchanged. mr. smith and i had no children." the room the writer was invited into was a combination bed-room and living room with a large heating stove in the centre of the small room. a bed on one side, a few chairs about the room. the floor was covered with an old patched rug. the only other room beside this room was a very small kitchen. the whole home was shabby and poor. the only means of support the family has is a government old age pension which amounts to about fourteen dollars a month. their little shack is situated in the center of a large lot around which a very nice vegetable garden is planted. the property belongs to mr. harry brazy, and the old couple does not pay rent or taxes and they may stay there as long as they live, "which is good enough for us," says mrs. smith. as the writer was leaving mrs. smith said, "i like to talk and meet people. come again." robert c. irvin noblesville, ind. district # ex-slave, life story of barney stone, former slave, hamilton co. this is the life story of barney stone, a highly respected colored gentleman of noblesville, hamilton county seat. mr. stone is near nintey-one years old, is in sound physical condition and still has a remarkable memory. he was a slave in the state of kentucky for more than sixteen years and a soldier in the union army for nearly two years. he educated himself and taught school to colored children four years following the civil war. he studied in , and has been a preacher in the colored baptist faith for sixty nine years, having been instrumental in the building of seven churches in that time. mr. stone joined the k. of p. lodge, the i.o.o.f. and masonic lodge and is still a member of the latter. this fine old colored man has always worked hard for the uplift and advancement of the colored race and has accomplished much in this effort in the states of tennessee, kentucky and indiana. he, together with his preaching of the gospel, and his lecturing, has followed farming. he now has a field of sweet corn and a fine, large garden, which he plowed, planted and tended himself and not a weed can be found in either. he is the only ex-slave now living in hamilton county, the others all deceased, and is one of three living members of hamilton county g.a.r. the other two members being white. mr. stone has given to the writer "my life's story", which he desires to call it, and in this story he pictures to the reader, "sixteen years of hell as a slave on a plantation," a story which will convince the reader that, even though much blood was shed in our civil war, the war was a godsend to the american nation. this story is told just as given by mr. stone. my life's story "my name is barney stone, i was born in slavery, may , , in spencer county, kentucky. i was a slave on the plantation of lemuel stone (all slaves bore the last name of their master) for nearly seventeen years and was considered a leader among the young slaves on our plantation. my mammy was mother to ten children, all slaves, and my pappy, buck grant, was a buck slave on the plantation of john grant, his mastah; my pappy was used much as a male cow is used on the stock farm and was hired out to other plantation owners for that purpose and was regarded as a valuable slave. his mastah permitted him to visit my mother each week-end on our plantation. my mastah was a hard man when he was angry, drinking or not feeling well, then at times he was kind to us. i was compelled to pick cotton and do other work when i was a very small boy. mastah would never sell me because i was regarded as the best young slave on the plantation. different from many other slaves, i was kept on the plantation from the day i was born until the day i ran away. slaves were sold in two ways, sometimes at private sale to a man who went about the southland buying slaves until he has many in his possession, then he would have a big auction sale and would re-sell them to the highest bidder, much in the same manner as our live-stock are sold now in auction sales. professional slave buyers in those days were called "nigger buyers". he came to the plantation with a doctor. he would point out two or three slaves which looked good to him and which could be spared by the owner, and would have the doctor examine the slave's heart. if the doctor pronounced the slave as sound, then the nigger buyer would make an offer to the owner and if the amount was satisfactory, the slave was sold. some large plantation owners, having a large number of slaves, would hold a public auction and dispose of some of them, then he would attend another sale and buy new slaves, this was done sometimes to get better slaves and sometimes to make money on the sale of them. many times, as i have said before, our treatment on our plantation was horrible. when i was just a small boy, i witnessed my sister sold and taken away. one day one of horses came into the barn and mastah noticed that she was caripped. he flew into a rage and thought i had hurt the horse, either that, or that i knew who did it. i told him that i did not do it and he demanded that i tell him who did it, if i didn't. i did not know and when i told him so, he secured a whip tied me to a post and whipped me until i was covered with blood. i begged him, "mastah, mastah, please don't whip me, i do not know who did it." he then took out his pocket knife and i would have been killed if missus (his dear wife) had not make him quit. she untied me and cared for me. many has been the time, i have seen my mammy beaten mercilessly and for no good reason. one day, not long before the out-break of the civil war, a nigger buyer came and i witnessed my dear mammy and my one year old baby brother, sold. i seen er taken away, never to see her again until i found her twenty-seven years later at clarksburg, tennessee. my baby brother was with her, but i did not know him until mammy told me who he was, he had grown into a large man. that was a happy meeting. after those experiences of "sixteen long years in hell, as a slave", i was very bitter against the white man, until after i ran away and joined the union army. at the out-break of the civil war and when the northern army was marching into the southland, hundreds of male slaves were shot down by the rebels, rather than see them join with the yankees. one day when i learned that the northern troops were very close to our plantation, i ran away and hid in a culvert, but was found and i would have been shot had the yankee troops not scattered them and that saved me. i joined that union army and served one year, eight months and twenty-two days, and fought with them in the battle of fort wagnor, and also in the battle of milikin's bend. when i went into the army, i could not read or write. the white soldiers took an interest in me and taught me to write and read, and when the war was over i could write a very good letter. i taught what little i knew to colored children after the war. i studied day and night for the next three years at the home of a lawyer, educating myself and in , i started preaching the gospel of jesus christ and have continued to do so for sixty-nine years. in that time i have been instrumental in the building of seven churches in kentucky, tennessee and indiana. i did this good work through gratefulness to god for my deliverance and my salvation. during my life, i have joined the k. of p. lodge, and i.o.o.f and masonic lodge. i have preached for the up-life and advancement of the colored races. i have accomplished much good in this life and have raised a family of eight children. i love and am loyal to my country and have received great compensation from my government for my services. i am in good health and still able to work, and i am thankful to my god and my country." stories from ex-slaves th district vanderburgh county lauana creel s. barker avenue, evansville, indiana escape from bondage of adah isabelle suggs among the interesting stories connected with former slaves one of the most outstanding ones is the life story of adah isabelle suggs, indeed her escape from slavery planned and executed by her anxious mother, harriott mcclain, bears the earmarks of fiction, but the truth of all related occurences has been established by the aged negro woman and her daughter mrs. harriott holloway, both citizens of evansville, indiana. born in slavery before january the twenty-second, the child adah mcclain was the property of colonel jackson mcclain and louisa, his wife. according to the customary practice of raising slave children, adah was left at the negro quarters of the mcclain plantation, a large estate located in henderson county, three and one half miles from the village of henderson, kentucky. there she was cared for by her mother. she retains many impressions gained in early childhood of the slave quarters; she remembers the slaves singing and dancing together after the day of toil. their voices were strong and their songs were sweet. "master was good to his slaves and never beat them" were her words concerning her master. when adah was not yet five years of age the mistress, louisa mcclain, made a trip to the slave quarters to review conditions of the negroes. it was there she discovered that one little girl there had been developing ideas and ideals; the mother had taught the little one to knit tiny stockings, using wheat straws for knitting needles. mrs. mcclain at once took charge of the child taking her from her mother's care and establishing her room at the residence of the mcclain family. today the aged negro woman recalls the words of praise and encouragement accorded her accomplishments, for the child was apt, active, responsive to influence and soon learned to fetch any needed volume from the library shelves of the mcclain home. she was contented and happy but the mother knew that much unhappiness was in store for her young daughter if she remained as she was situated. a custom prevailed throughout the southern states that the first born of each slave maiden should be the son or daughter of her master and the girls were forced into maternity at puberty. the mothers naturally resisted this terrible practice and harriott was determined to prevent her child being victimized. one planned escape was thwarted; when the girl was about twelve years of age the mother tried to take her to a place of safety but they were overtaken on the road to the ferry where they hoped to be put across the ohio river. they were carried back to the plantation and the mother was mildly punished and imprisoned in an upstair room. the little girl knew her mother was imprisoned and often climbed up to a window where the two could talk together. one night the mother received directions through a dream in which her escape was planned. she told the child about the dream and instructed her to carry out orders that they might escape together. the girl brought a large knife from mrs. mcclain's pantry and by the aid of that tool the lock was pried from the prison door and the mother made her way into the open world about midnight. a large tobacco barn became her refuge where she waited for her child. the girl had some trouble making her escape; she had become a useful and necessary member of her mistress' household and her services were hourly in demand. the daughter "young missus" annie mcclain was afflicted from birth having a cleft palate and later developing heart dropsy which made regular surgery imperative. the negro girl had learned to care for the young white woman and could draw the bandages for the surgeon whey "young missus" underwent surgical treatment. the memory of one trip to louisville is vivid in the mind of the old negress today for she was taken to the city and the party stopped at the gault house and [tr: line not completed] "it was a grand place," she declares, as she describes the surroundings; the handsome draperies and the winding stairway and other artistic objects seen at the grand hotel. the child loved her young mistress and the young mistress desired the good slave should be always near her; so, patient waiting was required by the negro mother before her daughter finally reached their rendezvous. under cover of night the two fugitives traveled the three miles to henderson, there they secreted themselves under the house of mrs. margaret bentley until darkness fell over the world to cover their retreat. imagine the frightened negroes stealthily creeping through the woods in constant fear of being recaptured. federal soldiers put them across the river at henderson and from that point they cautiously advanced toward evansville. the husband of harriott, milton mcclain and her son jerome were volunteers in a negro regiment. the operation of the federal statute providing for the enlistment of slaves made enlisted negroes free as well as their wives and children, so, by that statute harriott mcclain and her daughter should have been given their freedom. when the refugees arrived in evansville they were befriended by free negroes of the area. harriott obtained a position as maid with the parvine family, "miss hallie and miss genevieve parvine were real good folks," declares the aged negro adah when repeating her story. after working for the misses parvine for about two years, the negro mother had saved enough money to place her child in "pay school" there she learned rapidly. adah mcclain was married to thomas suggs january , . thomas was a slave of bill mcclain and it is believed he adopted the name suggs because a mr. suggs had befriended him in time of trouble. of this fact neither the wife nor daughter have positive proof. the father has departed this life but adah suggs lives on with her memories. varied experiences have attended her way. wifehood and devotion; motherhood and care she has known for she has given fifteen children to the world. among them were one set of twins, daughters and triplets, two sons and a daughter. she is a beloved mother to those of her children who remain near her and says she is happy in her belief in god and christ and hopes for a glorious hereafter where she can serve the lord jesus christ and praise him eternally. what greater hope can be given to the mortal than the hope cherished by adah isabelle suggs? folklore district # vanderburgh county lauana creel "a tradition from pre-civil war days" katie sutton, aged ex-slave oak street, evansville, ind. "white folks 'jes naturally different from darkies," said aunt katie sutton, ex-slave, as she tightened her bonnet strings under her wrinkled chin. "we's different in color, in talk and in ligion and beliefs. we's different in every way and can never be spected to think oe [tr: or?] to live alike." "when i was a little gal i lived with my mother in an old log cabin. my mammy was good to me but she had to spend so much of her time at humoring the white babies and taking care of them that she hardly ever got to even sing her own babies to sleep." "ole missus and young missus told the little slave children that the stork brought the white babies to their mothers but that the slave children were all hatched out from buzzards eggs and we believed it was true." "yes, maam, i believes in evil spirits and that there are many folks that can put spells on you, and if'n you dont believe it you had better be careful for there are folks right here in this town that have the power to bewitch you and then you will never be happy again." aunt katie declared that the seventh son of a seventh son, or the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter possesses the power to heal diseases and that a child born after the death of its father possesses a strange and unknown power. while aunt katie was talking, a neighbor came in to borrow a shovel from her. "no, no, indeed i never lends anything to nobody," she declared. after the new neighbor left, aunt katie said, "she jes erbout wanted dat shovel so she could 'hax' me. a woman borrowed a poker from my mammy and hexed mammy by bending the poker and mammy got all twisted up wid rhumatis 'twill her uncle straightened de poker and den mammy got as straight as anybody." "no, maam, nobody wginter take anything of mine out'n this house." aunt katie sutton's voice was thin and her tune uncertain but she remembered some of the songs she heard in slavery days. one was a lullaby sung by her mother and the song is given on separate pages of this artical. three years ago aunt katie was called away on her last journey although she had always emmerced the back and front steps of her cottage with chamber lye daily to keep away evil spirits death crept in and demanded the price each of us must pay and katie answered the call. aunt katie sprinkled salt in the foot prints of departing guests "dat's so dey kain leave no illwill behind em and can never come agin 'thout an invitation," she explained. she said she one time planted a tree with a curse and that her worst enemy died that same year. "evil spirits creeps around all night long and evil people's always able to hex you, so, you had best be careful how you talks to strangers. always spit on a coin before you gives it to a begger and dont pass too close to a hunchbacked person unless you can rub the hump or you will have bad luck as sure as anything." aunt katie declared a rabbit's foot only brought good luck if the rabbit had been killed by a cross eyed negro in a country grave yard in the dark of the moon and she said that she believed one of that description could be found only once in a lifetime or possibly a hundred years. "a slave mammy's lullaby." sung by katie sutton, ex-slave of evansville, indiana. "a snow white stork flew down from the sky. rock a bye, my baby bye, to take a baby gal so fair, to young missus, waitin there; when all was quiet as a mouse, in ole massa's big fine house. refrain: dat little gal was borned rich and free, she's de sap from out a sugah tree; but you are jes as sweet to me; my little colored chile, jes lay yo head upon my bres; an res, and res, and res, an res, my little colored chile. to a cabin in a woodland drear, you've come by a mammy's heart to cheer; in this ole slave's cabin, your hands my heart strings grabbin; jes lay your head upon my bres, jes snuggle close an res an res; my little colored chile. repeat refrain. yo daddy ploughs ole massa's corn, yo mammy does the cooking; she'll give dinner to her hungry chile, when nobody is a lookin; don't be ashamed, my chile, i beg, case you was hatched from a buzzard's egg; my little colored chile." repeat refrain. dist. no. johnson co. william r. mays aug. , slavery days of george thompson my name is george thompson, i was born in monroe county, kentucky near the cumberland river oct. , , on the manfred furgeson plantation, who owned about slaves. mister furgerson [tr: before, furgeson] was a preacher and had three daughters and was kind to his slaves. i was quite a small boy when our family, which included an older sister, was sold to ed. thompson in medcalf co. kentucky, who owned about other slaves, and as was the custom then we was given the name of our new master, "thompson". i was hardly twelve years old when slavery was abolished, yet i can remember at this late date most of the happenings as they existed at that time. i was so young and unexperienced when freed i remained on the thompson plantation for four years after the war and worked for my board and clothes as coach boy and any other odd jobs around the plantation. i have no education, i can neither read nor write, as a slave i was not allowed to have books. on sundays i would go into the woods and gather ginseng which i would sell to the doctors for from ¢ to ¢ a pound and with this money i would buy a book that was called the blue back speller. our master would not allow us to have any books and when we were lucky enough to own a book we would have to keep it hid, for if our master would find us with a book he would whip us and take the book from us. after receiving three severe whippings i gave up and never again tried for any learning, and to this day i can neither read nor write. slaves were never allowed off of their plantation without a written pass, and if caught away from their plantation without a pass by the pady-rollers or gorillars (who were a band of ruffians) they wore whipped. as there were no oil lamps or candles, another black boy and myself were stationed at the dining table to hold grease lamps for the white folks to see to eat. and we would use brushes to shoo away the flies. in i left the plantation to go on my own. i landed in heart county, ky. and went to work for mr. george parish in the tobacco fields at $ . per year and two suits of clothes; after working two years for mr. parish i left. i drifted from place to place in alabama and mississippi, working first at one place and then another, and finally drifted into franklin in and went to work on the fred murry farm on hurricane road for years. i afterwards worked for ashy furgerson, a house mover. i have lived at my present address, north young st. since coming to franklin. (can furnish photograph if wanted) [tr: no photograph found.] archie koritz, field worker federal writers' project porter county--district # valparaiso, indiana ex-slaves rev. wamble [tr: above in handwriting is 'womble'] madison street gary, indiana rev. wamble was born a slave in monroe county, mississippi, in . the westbrook family owned many slaves in charge of over-seers who managed the farm, on which there were usually two hundred or more slaves. one of the westbrook daughters married a mr. wamble, a wagon-maker. the westbrook family gave the newly-weds two slaves, as did the wamble family. one of the two slaves coming from the westbrook family was rev. wamble's grandfather. it seems that the slaves took the name of their master, hence rev. wamble's grandfather was named wamble. families owning only a few slaves and in moderate circumstances usually treated their slaves kindly since like a farmer with only a few horses, it was to their best interest to see that their slaves were well provided for. the slaves were valuable, and there was no funds to buy others, whereas the large slave owners were wealthy and one slave more or less made little difference. the reverend's father and his brothers were children of original african slaves and were of the same age as the wamble boys and grew up together. the reverend's grandfather was manager of the farm and the three wamble boys worked under him the same as the slaves. mr. wamble never permitted any of his slaves to be whipped, nor were they mistreated. mr. westbrook was a deacon in the methodist church and had two slave over-seers to manage the farm and the slaves. he was very severe with his slaves and none were ever permitted to leave the farm. if they did leave the farm and were found outside, they were arrested and whipped. then westbrook was notified and one of the over-seers would come and take the slave home where he would again be whipped. the slave was tied to a cedar tree or post and lashed with a snake whip. rev. wamble's mother was a deerbrook [hw: westbrook] slave and when the reverend was two years of age, his mother died from a miscarriage caused by a whipping. when the women slaves were in an advanced stage of pregnancy they were made to lie face down in a specially dug depression in the ground and were whipped. otherwise they were treated like the men. their arms were tied around a cedar tree or post, and they were lashed. since the reverend appeared to be a promising slave, both the westbrooks and the wambles wanted him, much like one would want a valuable colt today. since the reverend's grandmother was a westbrook and the wambles treated the slaves much better, she wanted him to become a wamble. she hid the child in a shed, what would probably be a poor dog-house today, and fed the child during the night time. during this period of his life the reverend remembers what happened to one of the westbrook slaves who had run away. one evening he came to the wamble home and asked for some supper. wamble took the slave into his home and after feeding him, placed a log chain which was hanging above the fire-place, around the slave's waist, left him to sleep on a bench in front of the fire-place. the next morning after the slave was given breakfast by the wambles, westbrook, his son and over-seer appeared. rev. wamble in his hide-out remembers being awakened by the sound of the slave being whipped and the moaning of the slave. after the whipping, the slave was turned loose. after he had gone about a mile through the bottom-land toward the river, westbrook turned his hounds loose on the slave's tracks. the hounds treed the slave before he had gone another mile, much like a dog would tree a cat. the westbrooks pulled the slave down from the tree and the dogs slashed his foot. the slave was then whipped and long ropes placed around him. he was driven back to the wamble place with whips where he was once again whipped. they [tr: then?] they drove him two miles to the westbrook place where he was whipped once more. whatever became of the slave, whether he died or recovered, is unknown. one unusual feature of this story is that westbrook who permitted his slaves to be whipped, was a church deacon, whereas wamble, who never attended church, never whipped or mistreated his slaves. the reverend states that in the community where he resided the slaves were well treated except for the whippings they received. they were well-fed, and if injured or sick, were attended by a doctor on the same principal that a person would care for an injured horse or sick cow. the slaves were valuable, and it was to the best interest of the owner to see that they were able to work. in case of slaves having children, the children became the property of the mother's owner. if the south had won the war, wamble would have been a westbrook since his mother was a westbrook slave, and if it lost, he would go to live with his father and take the name of his father, a wamble slave. so until the war was over he was hid out much like a small child would bring a stray dog home and hide it somewhere for fear that if his parents discovered it, it would be taken away. the living quarters of the slaves were made of logs covered with mud, and the roof was covered with coarse boards upon which dirt about a foot in depth was placed. there were no floors except dirt or the bare ground. the furniture consisted of a small stove and the beds were two boards extending from two walls, the extending ends resting on a peg driven into the ground. this would make a one-legged bed. the two boards were covered across ways with more boards and the slaves slept on these boards or upon the dirt floor. there were no blankets provided for them. for food the slaves received plenty of meat, potatoes, and whatever could be raised. if the master had plenty to eat, so did the slaves, but if food was not plentiful for the master, the slaves had less to eat. only one of the three wamble boys joined the southern army. until the war was over, the other two boys who refused to go to war hid out in the surrounding woods and hills. the only time the reverend's father left the farm was to attend his master billy, when he was in a hospital recovering from wounds received in battle. wamble was a wagon-maker, and he made two or three wagons which usually took about six months. then he hitched teams to them and went north to missouri, kansas and arkansas and kept going until he had sold the wagons and teams, keeping one wagon and team, with which to return home. some times the master would be gone for a period of nine to twelve months. during his absence the reverend's grandfather was in charge of the farm. the grandmother of rev. wamble was a full-blooded african negro, brought to this country as a slave at seventeen years of age. she was a very large and strong woman and was often hired out to do a man's work. slaves were forbidden to have papers in their possession and since they were forbidden to read papers, hardly any slaves could read or write. there never was any occasion or need to do these things. it was not known that the reverend's grandmother could read and write until after the civil war. the reverend remembers his grandmother bringing an old newspaper to his hide-out during the civil war, late at night, after the wamble family had retired, and making a candle from fried meat grease and a cord string, which made a very tiny light. she placed some old blankets over the walls so that no light could be seen through the cracks in the hut. she would then place the paper as near as possible to the light, without burning it, and read the paper. it was never discovered where or how she learned to read and write. if a young, good-looking, husky negro was trustworthy, the family would make him the driver of the family carriage. they would dress him in the best clothes obtainable and with a silk-finished beaver skin hat. the driver sat on a seat on the top and towards the front of the carriage. he was compelled to stay on this seat when waiting for any of the family that he might be driving, regardless of the weather or the length of time that he had to wait. the mail was carried in the same kind of vehicle with negro drivers. in each town there was a certain rack at which this mail carriage would stop in each village or wherever the designated stop was made. upon nearing the rack and coming to a stop, the driver would blow a bugle call which could be heard for miles around, and people hearing this bugle would come and get their mail. the reverend remembers that several of these drivers froze to death during the cold weather, and that in the winter, many times the horses on the mail carriage upon coming to this rack would stop, and the driver would be sitting frozen to death in his seat. men would take him down, carefully saving the silk beaver-skin hat for some other driver. since the slaves had no votes, they had no interest in politics when they became free and knew nothing about political conditions other than that after the civil war they were free and had a vote. as a boy the reverend remembers seeing the white and black soldiers marching on election day. the politicians would always tell the negroes what was good for them and making it appear that it was for their best interest, and they should vote for him, always giving them the desert first and making them think that they were on the level no matter what the meal might be or what hardships they were causing the negro to suffer. on one instance after the negroes were forbidden to vote they marched in a body to the polls and demanded a democratic ballot and were then permitted to vote. rev. wamble was twenty-seven years of age before he saw and read his first newspaper. he lived with the wambles for twenty years after the war, when his father then in partnership with another man, purchased forty acres of land. he attended his first school for a period of two months only in . in the government built a school on his father's farm and it was taught by a missionary. the school term was for a period of three months each year. the reverend attended this school for seven years. in he married the first time. his first wife died in memphis, tennessee, in . by this marriage there were four children. on february , , the reverend with his two surviving children all entered school at a college in little rock, arkansas. one of his daughters died in the third year of her school year, but the other graduated from the normal school and was a teacher for several years. at the present time she is married to a minister in louisiana and is the mother of ten children and is a nurse. the three oldest children have degrees and the others are expected to do the same. the reverend married his second wife in . she died in . by this marriage nine children were born. the reverend has been in the ministry for thirty-seven years. seeing the need of making more money, two of his sons came to gary, indiana, to work in . now both are working in the post-office. two years later he came to gary for the same reason and after working two years in the coke plant, was laid off due to the depression. the youngest daughter of the reverend by his second marriage graduated from a college in pine bluff, arkansas, and is now teaching in new york city. although the reverend is advanced in years, he is quite active and healthy. he says he has a small pension and is just waiting until it is time to pass on to the next world. he has six children and seventeen grandchildren living. as the reverend remembered the south, none of the white people worked at manual labor, but usually sat under a shade tree. they were usually clerks, bookkeepers or tradesmen. ex-slave stories th district vanderburgh county lauana creel s. barker avenue, evansville, indiana the biography of a child born in slavery samuel watson [hw: personal interview] samuel watson, a citizen of evansville, indiana, was born in webster county, kentucky, february , . his master's home was located two and one half miles from clay, kentucky on craborchard creek. "uncle sammy" as the negro children living near his home on south east fifth street call the old man, possesses an unusually clear memory. in fact he remembers seeing the soldiers and hearing the report of cannon while he was yet an infant. one story told by the old negro relates how; "old missus" saved "old massa's horses". the story follows: the mistress accompanied by a number of slaves was walking out one morning and all were startled by the sound of hurrying horses. soon many mounted soldiers could be seen coming over a hill in the distance. the child samuel was later told that the soldiers were making their way to fort donelson and were pressing horses into service. they were also enlisting negroes into service whenever possible. old master, thomas watson, owned many good able-bodied slaves and many splendid horses. the mistress realised the danger of loss and opening the "big gate" that separated the corral from the forest lands, mrs. watson ran into the midst of the horses shouting and frailing them. the frightened horses ran into the forest off the highway and toward the river. when the soldiers stopped at the watson plantation they found only a few old work horses standing under a tree and not desiring these they want on their way. the little negro boy ran and hid himself in the corner made by a great outside chimney, where he was found later, by his frightened mother. uncle samuel remembers that the horses came home the following afternoon, none missing. uncle samuel remembers when the war ended and the slaves were emancipated. "some were happy! and some were sad!" many dreaded leaving their old homes and their masters' families. uncle samuel's mother and three children were told that they were free people and the master asked the mother to take her little ones and go away. she complied and took her family to the plantation of jourdain james, hoping to work and keep her family together. wages received for her work failed to support the mother and children so she left the employ of mr. james and worked from place to place until her children became half starved and without clothing. the older children, remembering better and happier days, ran away from their mother and went back to their old master. thomas watson went to dixon, kentucky and had an article of indenture drawn up binding both thomas and laurah to his service for a long number of years. little samuel only remained with his mother who took him to the home of william allen price. mr. price's plantation was situated in webster county, kentucky about half-way between providence and clay on craborchard creek. mr. price had the little boy indentured to his service for a period of eighteen years. there the boy lived and worked on the plantation. he said he had a good home among good people. his master gave him five real whippings within a period of fourteen years but uncle samuel believes he deserved every lash administered. uncle samuel loved his master's family, he speaks of miss lena, miss lula, master jefferson and master john and believes they are still alive. their present home is at cebra, kentucky. it was the custom for a slave indentured to a master to be given a fair education, a good horse, bridle, saddle and a suit of clothes for his years of toil, but mr. price did not believe the boy deserved the pay and refused to pay him. a lawyer friend sued in behalf of the negro and received a judgement of $ . (one hundred and fifteen dollars). eighteen dollars repaid the lawyer for his service and samuel started out with $ . and his freedom. evansville became the home of samuel watson in . the trip was made by train to henderson then on transfer boat along the ohio to evansville. the young negro man was impressed by the boat and crew and said he loved the town from the first glimpse. dr. bacon, a prominent citizen living at chandler avenue and second street, employed samuel as coachman. his next service was as house-man for levi igleheart, upper second street. mr. igleheart grew to trust samuel and gave him many privileges allowing him to care for horses and to manage business for the family. samuel was married in . his wife was born in evansville and knew nothing of slavery by birth or indenture. uncle samuel was given a job at the trinity church, corner of third and chestnut streets. mr. igleheart recommended him for the position. he received $ . per month for his services for a period of six years. mr. mcneely employed him for several years as janitor for lodges and secret orders. the old negro was also a paper hanger and wall cleaner and did well untill the panic seized him as it did others. uncle samuel was entitled to an old age pension which he recieved from until but january th, something went wrong and the money was with held. then uncle samuel was sent to the poor house. still he was not unhappy and did what he could to make others happy. in he again applied and received the pension. $ . per month is paid for his upkeep, his only labor consists of tending a little garden and doing light chores. he lives with william crosby on s.e. fifth street. iris l cook district # floyd county slave story story of nancy whallen pearl st. new albany, ind. nancy whallen is now about years of age. she doesn't know exactly. she was about year of age when freedom was declared. nancy was born and raised in hart county near hardinsburg, kentucky. she is very hard to talk to as her memory is failing and she can not hear very well. the little negro girl lived the usual life of a rural negro in civil war time and afterwards. she remembers the "sojers" coming thru the place and asking for food. some of them camped on the farm and talked to her and teased her. she tells about one big nigger called "scott" on the place who could outwork all the others. he would hang his hat and shirt on a tree limb and work all day long in the blazing sun on the hottest day. the colored folk, used to have revivals, out in the woods. they would sometimes build a sort of brush shelter with leaves for a roof and service a would be held here. preachin' and shouting' sometimes lasted all day sundays. colored folks came from miles around when they possibly could get away. these affairs were usually held away from the "white folks" who seldom if ever saw these gatherings. observation of the writer. the old woman remembers the big eclipse of the sun or the "day of dark" as she called it. the chickens all went to roost and the darkies all thought the end of the world had come. the cattle lowed and everyone was scared to death. she lived down in kentucky after the war until she was quite a young woman and then came to indiana where she has lived ever since. she lives now with her daughter in new albany. special assignment emily hobson dist. # parke county interview with anderson whitted, colored ex-slave, of rockville, indiana [illustration: anderson whitted] mr. whitted will be years old next month october . he was born in orange county, north carolina. his mother took care of the white children so her nine children were very well treated. the master was a doctor. the family were hickory quakers and did not believe in mistreating their slaves, always providing them with plenty to eat, and clothing to wear to church on sunday. despite a law that prohibited books to negroes, his family had a bible, and an elementary spelling book. mr. whitted's father belonged to his master's half-brother and lived fourteen miles away. he was allowed a horse to go see them every two weeks. the father could read, and spell very well so would teach them on his visits. mr. whitted learned to read the bible first, then in later years has learned to read other things. it was the custom for the master to search the negro huts, but mr. whitted's master never did. the doctor often took mr. whitted's grandmother with him to help care for the sick. when the war broke out the master's son joined the southern forces. the son was wounded. the doctor and mr. whitted's grandmother went for the boy. on the way home the doctor died but the grandmother got the boy home and nursed him back to health. life for the negroes was different after the son began running the place, he was not good to them. mr. whitted was then years old, and the older brother was the overseer. the negroes had been allowed a share of the crop but the new master refused them anything to live on. in that region the wheat was harvested the middle of june. there was a big crop that year but the entire family was turned out before the harvest, with nothing. mr. whitted left his older brother with his mother and the children sitting by the road, while he ran the miles for his father to find out what to do. the father borrowed two teams and wagons, rented a house in the edge of town, and moved the family in. the slaves were freed about that time, and for the first time in their lives they were free, and the entire family together. the father went to the governor for food. the government was allowing hard tack and pickled beef for the negroes. they received their allotment, and were well satisfied with hard tack because they were free. in telling about the pickled beef he says he never has seen any beef since that looked like it; he believed that it was horse meat. the father started working in a mill in . he was soon bringing home food stuff from there, and in time they had a crop on their little place. the older brother worked in the mornings and went to a quaker normal school in the afternoon. pres. harrison gave him an appointment in the revenue department, then as he grew older he was transferred to the post office department. he was retired on a pension at the age of . he is still living in washington, d.c., and is now years old. during the war mr. whitted ran away, going miles to the camp of the northern soldiers where he stayed two weeks. they gave him a horse to ride, and sent him gathering fuel through the woods for them. those were the happiest days he had ever known--his first freedom. mr. whitted was never sold, but he often saw processions go past after a sale, the wagon loaded with provisions first, then the slaves tied together following. they often took the babies away from their mothers, and sold them. some old woman, too old to work, would then care for the little ones until they were old enough to work. at six years old they were put to work thinning corn, worming the tobacco, and pulling weeds. at seven they were taught to use a hoe. at they were full hands, working along with the older men. in april mr. whitted left orange county, it was so very rough it was hard to make a living. he just started out in search of a better place, leaving his wife and seven children there. in november he sent for them, he was working at the brick yards in rockville. they were finishing the court house. he was so anxious to make a living he often did as much as two men. one child was born here. his wife died soon after coming to rockville. he stayed single for three years, but found he could not care for his family and married again. his second wife died a number of years ago. he now spends the winters with his three living daughters, and during the summer months, a daughter comes to rockville to enjoy his home. mr. whitted's uncle belonged to a mean master. the slaves worked hard all day, then were chained together at night. the uncle ran away in the early part of the war, and after two years broke through the lines, and joined the northern army, going back after emancipation. iris cook dist floyd co. slave story the story of alex woodson e. th st. new albany, ind. observation of writer alex woodson is an old light skinned darkey, he looks to be between and , it is hard to tell his age, and colored folks hardly ever do know their correct age. i visited him in his little cottage and had a long talk with him and his wife (his second). "planted the fust one." they run a little grocery in the front room of the cottage. but the stock was sadly run down. together with the little store and his "pinshun" (old age pension) these old folks manage to get along. alex woodson was born at woodsonville, in hart county, kentucky, just across green river from munfordville. he was a good sized boy, possibly years or more when "freedom wuz declared". his master was "old marse" sterrett who had about a acre place and whose son in law tom williams ran a store on this place. when williams married sterretts daughter he was given uncle alex and his mother and brother as a present. williams was then known as "young master." when war come old master gave his (woodson's) mother a big roll of bills, "greenbacks as big as yo' arm", to keep for him, and was forced to leave the neighborhood. after the war the old darkey returned the money to him intact. uncle alex remembers his mother taking him and other children and running down the river bank and hiding in the woods all night when the soldiers came. they were morgan's men and took all available cattle and horses in the vicinity and beat the woods looking for yankee soldiers. uncle alex said he saw morgan at a distance on his big horse and he "wuz shore a mighty fine looker." sometimes the yankee soldiers would come riding along and they "took things too". when the war was over old master came back home and the negroes continued to live on at the place as usual, except for a few that wanted to go north. old master lived in a great big house with all his family and the negroes lived in another good sized house or quarters, all together. there were a few cabins. "barbecues! my we shore used to have 'em, yes ma'am, we did! folks would come for miles around. would roast whole hawgs and cows, and folks would sing, and eat and drink whiskey. the white folks had 'em but we helped and had fun too. sometimes we would have one ourselves." "used to have rail splittin's and wood choppins. the men woud work all day, and get a pile of wood as big as a house. at noon they'd stop and eat a big meal that the women folks had fixed up for em. them wuz some times, i've spent to many a one." "i remember we used to go to revivals sometimes, down near horse ave. everybody got religion and we shore had some times. we don't have them kind of times any more. i remember i went back down to one of those revivals years afterwards. most of the folks i used to know was dead or gone. the preacher made me set up front with him, and he asked me to preach to the folks. but i sez that "no, god hadn't made me that away and i wouldn't do it." i've saw abraham lincoln's cabin many a time, when i was young. it set up on a high hill, and i've been to the spring under the hill lots of times. the house was on the old national road then. i hear they've fixed it all up now. i haven't been there for years. after the war when i grewed up i married, and settled on the old place. i remember the only time i got beat in a horse trade. a sneakin' nigger from down near horse cave sold me a mule. that mule was jest natcherly no count. he would lay right down in the plow. one day after i had worked with him and tried to get him to work right, i got mad. i says to my wife, belle, i'm goin' to get rid of that mule if i have to trade him for a cat. an' i led him off. when i came back i had another mule and $ to boot. this mule she wuz shore skinny but when i fattened her up you wouldn't have known her." "finally i left the old place and we come north to indiana. we settled here and i've been here for years abourt. i worked in the old rolling mill. and i've been an officer in the baptist church at rd and main for years." "do i believe in ghosts" (here his second wife gave a sniff) well ma'am i don't believe in ghosts but i do in spirits. (another disgusted sniff from the second wife) i remember one time jest after my first wife died i was a sittin right in that chair your sittin in now. the front door opened and in come a big old grey mule, and i didn't have no grey mule. in she come just as easy like, put one foot down slow, and then the other, and then the other i says 'mule git out here, you is goin through that floor, sure as youre born. get out that door.' mule looked at me sad-like and then just disappeared. and in its place was my first wife, in the clothes she was buried in. she come up to me and i put my arms around her, but i couldn't feel nothin' (another sniff from the second wife) and i says, "babe, what you want?" then she started to git littler and littler and lower and finally went right away through the floor. it was her spirit thats what it was. ("rats" says the second wife.) "another time she came to me by three knocks and made me git up and sleep on another bed where it was better sleepin'." "i like to go back down in kentucky on visits as the folks there wont take a thing for bed and vittles. here they are so selfish wont even gave a drink of water away." "yes'm the flood got us. me and my wife here, we whet away and stayed two months. was feet in this house, and if it ever gets in here agin, we're goin down in kentucky and never comin' back no more." the old man and his wife bowed me out the front door and asked me to come back again and we'ed talk some more about old times. sophie may's little folks' books. _any volume sold separately_. +dotty dimple series+.--six volumes, illustrated. per volume, cents. dotty dimple at her grandmother's. dotty dimple at home. dotty dimple out west. dotty dimple at play. dotty dimple at school. dotty dimple's flyaway. +flaxie frizzle stories+.--six volumes. illustrated. per volume, cents. flaxie frizzle. little pitchers. flaxie's kittyleen. doctor papa. the twin cousins. flaxie growing up. +little prudy stories+.--six volumes. handsomely illustrated. per volume, cents. little prudy. little prudy's sister susy. little prudy's captain horace. little prudy's story book. little prudy's cousin grace. little prudy's dotty dimple. +little prudy's flyaway series+.--six volumes. illustrated. per volume, cents. little folks astray. little grandmother. prudy keeping house. little grandfather. aunt madge's story. miss thistledown. * * * * * +lee and shepard, publishers+, boston. [illustration: title page] _dotty dimple stories_. dotty dimple out west. by sophie may, author of "little prudy stories." +illustrated+. boston lee and shepard publishers milk street entered according to act of congress, in the year , by lee and shepard, in the office of the librarian of congress, at washington. to _dotty dimple's little friends_, gussie tappan and sarah longsley. contents. chapter page i. starting, ii. the captain's son, iii. a baby in a blue cloak, iv. "pigeon pie postponed," v. the major's joke, vi. new faces, vii. waking up out west, viii. going nutting, ix. in the woods, x. surprises, xi. sniggling for eels, xii. "a post-office letter," dotty dimple out west. chapter i. starting. one beautiful morning in october the sun came up rejoicing. dotty dimple watched it from the window with feelings of peculiar pleasure. "i should think that old sun would wear out and grow rough round the edges. why not? last week it was ever so dull; now it is bright. i shouldn't wonder if the angels up there have to scour it once in a while." you perceive that dotty's ideas of astronomy were anything but correct. she supposed the solar orb was composed of a very peculiar kind of gold, which could be rubbed as easily as norah's tin pans, though so intensely hot that one's fingers would, most likely, be scorched in the operation. on this particular morning she felt an unusual interest in the state of the weather. it had been decided that she should go west with her father, and this was the day set for departure. "i am happy up to my throat:" so she said to prudy. and now all this happiness was to be buttoned up in a cunning little casaque, with new gaiters at the feet, and a hat and rosette at the top. forty pounds or so of perfect delight going down to the depot in a carriage. "don't you wish you could go, zip parlin? i'd like to hear you bark in the cars; and i'd like to hear _you_ talk, prudy, too!" as dotty spoke, the faintest possible shadow flickered across her radiant face; but it was only for a moment. she could not have quite everything she wanted, because she could not have prudy; but then they were to take a basket of cold boiled eggs, sandwiches, and pies; and over these viands, with a napkin between, were two picture-books and a small spy-glass. there was a trunk with a sunshade in it, and some pretty dresses; among them the favorite white delaine, no longer stained with marmalade. there were presents in the trunk for grace, horace, and katie, which were to take them by surprise. and more and better than all, miss dotty had in her own pocket a little porte-monnaie, containing fifty cents in scrip, with full permission to spend it all on the way. she also had a letter from susy to be read at boston, and one from prudy to be read at albany. yes, there was everything to be thankful for, and nothing to regret. she was quite well by this time. the rich, warm color had come back to her cheeks. she did not need the journey for the sake of her health; her papa was to take her because he chose to give her the same pleasure he had once given prudy. it was susy's private opinion that it was rightfully her turn this time, instead of dotty's; but she was quite patient, and willing to wait. it was a long journey for such a little child; and mrs. parlin almost regretted that the promise had been made; but the young traveller would only be gone three or four weeks, and in her aunt's family was not likely to be homesick. it was a very slow morning to dotty. "seems to me," said she, vibrating between the parlor and the kitchen like a discontented little pendulum,--"seems to me it was a great deal later than this yesterday!" she had eaten as many mouthfuls of breakfast as she possibly could in her excited condition, had kissed everybody good by twice over, and now thought it was time to be starting. just as her patience was wearing to a thread the hack arrived, looking as black and glossy as if some one had been all this time polishing it for the occasion. dotty disdained the help of the driver, and stepped into the carriage as eagerly as jack climbed the bean-stalk. she flirted her clean dress against the wheel, but did not observe it. she was as happy as jack when he reached the giant's house; happier too, for she had mounted to a castle in the air; and everybody knows a castle in the air is gayer than all the gold houses that ever grew on the top of a stalk. to the eye of the world she seemed to be sitting on a drab cushion, behind a gray horse; but no, she was really several thousand feet in the air, floating on a cloud. her father smiled as he stepped leisurely into the hack; and he could not forbear kissing the little face which sparkled with such anticipation. "it is a real satisfaction," thought he, "to be able to make a child so happy." the group at the door looked after them wistfully. "be a good child," said mrs. parlin, waving her handkerchief, "and do just as papa tells you, my dear." "remember the three hugs to gracie, and six to flyaway," cried prudy; "and don't let anybody see my letter." dotty threw kisses with such vigor that, if they had been anything else but air, somebody would have been hit. the hack ride did not last long. it was like the preface to a story-book; and dotty did not think much about it after she had come to the story,--that is to say, to the cars. her father found a pleasant seat on the shady side, hung the basket in a rack, opened a window; and very soon the iron horse, which fed on fire, rushed, snorting and shrieking, away from the depot. dotty felt as if she had a pair of wings on her shoulders, or a pair of seven-league boots on her feet; at any rate, she was whirling through space without any will of her own. the trees nodded in a kindly way, and the grass in the fields seemed to say, as it waved, "good by, dotty, dear! good by! you'll have a splendid time out west! out west! out west!" it was not at all like going to willowbrook. it seemed as if these boston cars had a motion peculiar to themselves. it was a very small event just to take an afternoon's ride to grandpa parlin's; but when it came to whizzing out to indiana, why, that was another affair! it wasn't every little girl who could be trusted so far without her mother. "if i was _some_ children," thought dotty, "i shouldn't know how to part my hair in the middle. then my papa wouldn't dare to take me; for _he_ can't part my hair any mor'n a cat!" dotty smiled loftily as she looked at her father reading a newspaper. he was only a man; and though intelligent enough to manage the trunks, and proceed in a straight line to indiana, still he was incapable of understanding when a young lady's hat was put on straight, and had once made the rosette come behind! in view of these short-comings of her parent and her own adroitness at the toilet, dotty came to the conclusion that she was not, strictly speaking, under any one's charge, but was taking care of herself. "i wonder," thought she, "how many people there are in this car that know i'm going out west!" she sat up very primly, and looked around. the faces were nearly all new to her. "that woman in the next seat, how homely her little girl is, with freckles all over her face! perhaps her mother wishes she was as white as i am. why, who is that pretty little girl close to my father?" dotty was looking straight forward, and had accidentally caught a peep at her own face in the mirror. "why, it's me! how nice i look!" smiling and nodding at the pleasant picture. "sit up like a lady, dotty, and you'll look very polite, and very _style_ too." florence eastman said so much about "style" that miss dimple had adopted the word, though she was never know to use it correctly. i am sorry to say there was a deal of foolish vanity in the child's heart. thoughtless people had so often spoken to her of her beauty, that she was inclined to dwell upon the theme secretly, and to admire her bright eyes in the glass. "yes, i do look very _style_," she decided, after another self-satisfied nod. "now i'd just like to know who that boy is, older'n i am, not half so pretty. i don't believe but somebody's been sitting down on his hat. what has he got in his lap? is it a kitten? white as snow. i wish it wasn't so far off. he's giving it something to eat. how its ears shake! papa, papa, what's that boy got in his lap?" "what boy?" "the one next to that big man. see his ears shake! he's putting something in his mouth." "in whose mouth?" mr. parlin looked across the aisle. "that 'big man' is my old friend captain lally," said he quite pleased; and in a moment he was shaking hands with him. presently the captain and his son adolphus changed places with the woman and the freckled girl, and made themselves neighbors to the parlins. the two seats were turned _vis-a-vis_, the gentlemen occupying one, the children the other. now dotty discovered what it was that adolphus had in his lap; it was a spanish rabbit; and if you never saw one, little reader, you have no idea how beautiful an animal can be. if there is any gem so soft and sparkling as his liquid indian-red eyes, with the sunshine quivering in them as in dewdrops, then i should like to see that gem, and have it set in the finest gold, and send it to the most beautiful woman in the world to wear for a ring. this rabbit was white as a snowball, with ears as pink as blush roses, and a mouth that was always in motion, whether adolphus put lumps of sugar in it or not. dotty went into raptures. she forgot her "style" hat, and her new dignity, and had no greater ambition than to hold the lovely white ball in her arms. adolphus allowed her to do so. he was very kind to answer all her questions, and always in the most sensible manner. if dotty had been a little older, she would have seen that the captain's son was a remarkably intelligent boy, in spite of his smashed hat. after everything had been said that could possibly be thought of, in regard to rabbits and their ways, dotty looked again, and very critically, at adolphus. his collar was wrinkled, his necktie one-sided, he wore no gloves, and, on the whole, was not dressed ad well as dotty, who had started from home that very morning, clean and fresh. he was every day as old as susy; but miss dimple, as a traveller bound on a long journey, felt herself older and wiser still, and began to talk accordingly. smoothing down the skirt of her dress with her neatly-gloved hands, she remarked:-- chapter ii. the captain's son. "is your name dollyphus?" "yes, adolphus lally." "well, my name is alice. nobody calls me by it but my papa and my grandmas. dotty dimple is my short name. there are a pair of dimples dotted into my cheek; don't, you see? that's what it's for. i was born so. my _other_ sisters haven't any at all." adolphus smiled quietly; he had seen dimples before. "you didn't ever know till just now there was any such girl as _me_, i s'pose." "no, i never did." "i live in the city of portland," pursued dotty, with a grand air, "and my papa and mamma, and two sisters, and a quaker grandma (only you must say 'friend') with a white handkerchief on. have you any grandma like that?" "no, my grandmother is dead." "why, there's two of mine alive, and one grandpa. just as nice! they don't scold. they let you do everything. i wouldn't _not_ have grandmothers and fathers for anything! but _you_ can't help it. did you ever have your house burnt up?" "no, indeed." "well, ours did; the chambers, and the cellar, and the windows and doors. we hadn't any place to stay. my sister susy! you ought to heard her cry! i lost the beautifulest tea-set; but i didn't say much about it." "where do you live now?" "o, there was a man let us have another house. it isn't so handsome as our house was; for the man can't make things so nice as my father can. we live in it now. can you play the piano?" "no, not at all." "don't you, honestly; why, i do. susy's given me five lessons. you have to sit up as straight as a pin, and count your fingers, one, two, three, four. x is your thumb." dotty believed she was imparting valuable information. she felt great pleasure in having found a travelling companion to whom she could make herself useful. "i'm going to tell you something. did you ever go to indiana?" "no." "didn't you? they call it out west. i'm going there. yes, i started to-day. the people are called hoojers. they don't spect me, but i'm going. did you ever hear of a girl that travelled out west?" "o, yes; ever so many." "i mean a girl as little as me, 'thout anybody but my papa; and he don't know how to part my hair in the middle. i have to take all the care of myself." dotty had been trying all the while to call forth some exclamation of awe, or at least surprise. she was sure adolphus would be impressed now. "all the whole care of myself," repeated she. "my papa has one of the _highest_ 'pinions of me; and he says i'm as good as a lady when i try. were you ever in the cars before, dollyphus?" "o, yes," was the demure reply, "a great many times. i've been round the world." dotty started suddenly, dropping her porte-monnaie on the floor. "round the world! the whole round world?" gasped she, feeling as insignificant as a "catharine wheel," which, having "gone up like a rocket," has come down "like a stick." "you didn't say round the _whole_ world?" repeated she, looking very flat indeed. "o, yes, in my father's ship." his "father's ship." dotty's look of superiority was quenched entirely. even her jaunty hat seemed to humble itself, and her haughty head sink with it. adolphus stooped and restored the porte-monnaie, which, in her surprise, she had quite forgotten. "does your father keep a ship?" asked she, reverently. "yes; and mother often makes voyages with him. once they took me; and that was the time i went round the world. we were gone two years." "weren't you afraid?" "no, i'm never afraid where my father is." "just a little afraid, i mean, when you found the ship was going tip-side up?" "tip-side up?" said adolphus. "i don't understand you." "why, when you got to the other side of the world, then of course the ship turned right over, you know. didn't you want to catch hold of something, for fear you'd fall into the sky?" adolphus laughed; he could not very well help it; but, observing the mortification expressed in his companion's face, he sobered himself instantly, and replied,-- "no, dotty; the world is round, but you wouldn't know it by the looks of it. wherever i've been, the land seems flat, except the hills, and so does the water, all but the waves." as the captain's son said this, he looked pityingly at his little companion, wondering how she happened to be so silly as to suppose a ship ever went "tip-side up." but he was mistaken if he considered dotty a simpleton. the child had never gone to school. her parents believed there would be time enough yet for her to learn a great many things; and her ignorance had never distressed them half so much as her faults of temper. "did you ever go as far as boston before?" pursued adolphus, rather grandly, in his turn. "no, i never," replied dotty, meekly; "but prudy has." "so i presume you haven't been in spain? it was there i bought my beautiful rabbit. were you ever in the straits of malacca?" continued he, roguishly. "no--o. i didn't know i was." "indeed? nor in the bay of palermo? the italians call it the golden shell." "i don't _s'pose_ i ever," replied dotty, with a faint effort to keep up appearances; "but i went to _quoddy_ bay once!" "so you haven't seen the _loory_? it is a beautiful bird, and talks better than a parrot. i have one at home." "o, have you?" said dotty, in a tone of the deepest respect. "yes; then there is the _mina_, a brown bird, larger than a crow; converses quite fluently. you have heard of a mina, i dare say." dotty shook her head in despair. she was so overwhelmed by this time, that, if adolphus had told of going with captain lally to the moon in a balloon, she would not have been greatly surprised. a humorous smile played around the boy's mouth. observing his little companion's extreme simplicity, he was tempted to invent some marvellous stories for the sake of seeing her eyes shine. "i can explain it to her afterwards," said he to his conscience. "did you ever hear of the great dipper, dotty?" "i don't know's i did. no." "you don't say so! never heard of the great dipper! your sister prudy has, i'm sure. it is tied to the north pole, and you can dip water with it." "is it big?" "no, not very. about the size of a tub." "a dipper as big as a tub?" repeated dotty, slowly. "yes, with the longest kind of handle." "i couldn't lift it?" "no, i should judge not." "who tied it to the north pole?" "i don't know. columbus, perhaps. you remember he discovered the world?" dotty brightened. "o, yes, i've heard about that! susy read it in a book." "well, i'll tell you how it was. there had been a world, you see; but people had lost the run of it, and didn't know where it was, after the flood. and then columbus went in a ship and discovered it." "he did?" dotty looked keenly at the captain's son. he was certainly in earnest; but there was something about it she did not exactly understand. "why, if there wasn't any world all the time, where did _c'lumbus_ come from?" faltered she, at last. "it is not generally known," replied adolphus, taking off his hat, and hiding his face in it. dolly sat for some time lost in thought. "o, i forgot to say," resumed adolphus, "the north pole isn't driven in so hard as it ought to be. it is so cold up there that the frost 'heaves' it. you know what 'heaves' means? the ground freezes and then thaws, and that loosens the pole. somebody has to pound it down, and that makes the noise we call thunder." dotty said nothing to this; but her youthful face expressed surprise, largely mingled with doubt. "you have heard of the _axes_ of the earth? that is what they pound the pole with. queer--isn't it? but not so queer to me as the red sea." adolphus paused, expecting to be questioned; but dotty maintained a discreet silence. "the water is a very bright red, i know; but i never _could_ believe that story about the giant's having the nose-bleed, and coloring the whole sea with blood. did you ever hear of that?" "no, i never," replied dotty, gravely. "you needn't tell it, dollyphus. i'm too tired to talk." adolphus felt rather piqued as the little girl turned away her head and steadily gazed out of the window at the trees and houses flying by. it appeared very much as if she suspected he had been making sport of her. "she isn't a perfect ignoramus, after all." he thought; "that last lie was a little too big." after this he sat for some time watching his little companion, anxious for an opportunity to assure her that these absurd stories had been spun out of his own brain. but dotty never once turned her face towards him. she was thinking,-- "p'rhaps he's a good boy; p'rhaps he's a naughty boy: but i shan't believe him till i ask my father." at portsmouth, captain lally and son left the cars, much to dotty's relief, though they did carry away the beautiful spanish rabbit; and it seemed to the child as if a piece of her heart went with it. "is my little girl tired?" said mr. parlin, putting an arm around dotty. "no, papa, only i'm thinking. the north pole is top of the world--isn' it? as much as five hundred miles off?" "a great deal farther than that, my dear." "there, i thought so! and we couldn't hear 'em pound it down with an axe--could we? that isn't what makes thunder? o, what a boy!" mr. parlin laughed heartily. "did adolphus tell you such a story as that?" "yes, sir, he did," cried dotty, indignantly, "and said there was a dipper to it, with a handle on, as large as a tub. and a man tied it that came from i-don't-know-where, and found this world. i know _that_ wasn't true, for he didn't say anything about adam and eve. what an awful boy!" "what did you say to adolphus?" said mr. parlin, still laughing. "hadn't you been putting on airs? and wasn't that the reason he made sport of you?" "i don't know what 'airs' are, papa." "perhaps you told him, for instance, that you were travelling out west, and asked him if _he_ ever went so far as that." "perhaps i did," stammered dotty. "and it is very likely you made the remark that you had the whole care of yourself, and know how to part your hair in the middle. i did not listen; but it is possible you told him you could play on the piano." dotty looked quite ashamed. "this is what we call 'putting on airs.' adolphus was at first rather quiet and unpretending. didn't you think he might be a little stupid? and didn't you wish to give him the idea that you yourself were something of a fine lady?" how very strange it was to dotty that her father could read the secret thoughts which she herself could hardly have told! she felt supremely wretched, and crept into his bosom to hide her blushing face. "i didn't say adolphus did right to tease you," said mr. parlin, gently. he thought the little girl's lesson had been quite severe enough; for, after all, she had done nothing very wrong: she had only been a little foolish. "upon my word, chincapin," said he, "we haven't opened that basket yet! what do you say to a lunch, with the boston journal for a table-cloth? and here comes a boy with some apples." in two minutes dotty had buried her chagrin in a sandwich. and all the while the cars were racketing along towards boston. chapter iii. a baby in a blue cloak. dotty had begun to smile again, and was talking pleasantly with her father, when there was a sudden rocking of the cars, or, as prudy had called it, a "car-quake." dotty would have been greatly alarmed if she had not looked up in her father's face and seen that it was perfectly tranquil. they had run over a cow. this little accident gave a new turn to the child's thoughts. she gazed at the conductor with some distrust. if he did not take care of the cars, what made him wear that printed hat-band? she supposed that in some mysterious way he drove or guided the furious iron horse; and when she saw him sitting at ease, conversing with the passengers, she was not satisfied; she thought he was neglecting his duty. "i s'pose," mused she, finishing the final crumb of her sandwich,--"i s'pose there are two kinds of conductors in cars, same as in thunder. one is a _non_, and the other isn't. i'm afraid this man is a _non_; if he is, he will conduct us all to pieces." still her fear was not very active; it did not prevent her having a good time. she saw that her father was comfortable, and this fact reassured her somewhat. if they were going to meet with a dreadful accident, wouldn't he be likely to know it? she began to look about her for something diverting. at no great distance was a little baby in a blue cloak. not a very attractive baby, but a great deal better than none. "papa, there's more room on the seat by that lady's bandbox. mayn't i ask to take care of her baby?" "yes, dear, if she is willing." dotty danced down the aisle, thinking as she went,-- "my father lets me do every single thing. if we had mamma with us, _sometimes_ she'd say, no." the tired woman greeted miss dimple cordially. she was not only willing, but very well pleased to have the uneasy baby taken out of her arms. dotty drew off her gloves, and laid the little one's head tenderly against her cheek. baby looked wonderingly into the bright eyes bending above him, reached up a chubby hand, caught dotty's hat, and twitched it towards the left ear. "sweetest cherub!" said the fond mother, as if the child had done a good deed, "take off your hat, little girl. i'll hang it in the rack." dotty was glad to obey. but baby was just as well satisfied with his new friend's hair as he had been with the hat. it was capable of being pulled; and that is a quality which delights the heart of infancy. dotty bore the pain heroically, till she bethought herself of appearances; for, being among so many people, she did not wish to look like a gypsy. she smoothed back her tangled locks as well as she could, and tried every art of fascination to attract the baby's attention to something else. "you are a pretty little girl, and a nice little girl," said the gratified mother. "you have a wonderful faculty for 'tending babies. now, do you think, darling, you could take care of him a few minutes alone, and let me try to get a nap? i am very tired, for i got up this morning before sunrise, and had baking to do." "o, yes'm," replied dotty, overflowing with good nature; "you can go to sleep just as well as not. baby likes me--don't you, baby? and we'll play pat-a-cake all so nice!" "it isn't every day i see such a handsome, obliging little dear," remarked the oily-tongued woman, as she folded up a green and yellow plaid shawl, and put it on the arm of the seat for a pillow. "i should like to know what your name is; and some time, perhaps, i can tell your mother how kind you were to my baby." "my name is alice parlin," replied our enraptured heroine, "and i live in portland. i'm going out west, where the hoojers live. i--" dotty stopped herself just in time to avoid "putting on airs." "h--m! i _thought_ i had seen you before. well, your mother is proud of you; i know she is," remarked the new acquaintance, settling herself for a nap. dotty looked at her as she lay curled in an ungraceful heap, with her eyes closed. it was a hard, disagreeable face. dotty did not know why it was unpleasing. she only compared it with the child's usual standard, and thought, "she is not so handsome as my mamma," and went on making great eyes at the baby. she was not aware that the person she was obliging was mrs. lovejoy, an old neighbor of the parlins, who had once been very angry with susy, saying sarcastic words to her, which even now susy could not recall without a quiver of pain. for some time dotty danced the lumpish baby up and down, sustained in her tedious task by remembering the honeyed compliments its mother had given her. "i should think they _would_ be proud of me at home; but nobody ever said so before. o, dear, what a homely baby! little bits of eyes, like huckleberries. 'twill have to wear a head-dress when it grows up, for it hasn't any hair. i'm glad it isn't my brother, for then i should have to hold him the whole time, and he weighs more'n i do." dotty sighed heavily. "that woman's gone to sleep. she'll dream it's night, and p'rhaps she won't wake up till we get to boston. hush-a-by, baby, your cradle is green! o, dear, my arms'll ache off." a boy approached with a basket of pop-corn and other refreshments. dotty remembered that she had in her pocket the means to purchase very many such luxuries. but how was she to find the way to her pocket? baby required both hands, and undivided attention. dotty looked at the boy imploringly. he snapped his fingers at her little charge, and passed on. she looked around for her father. he was at the other end of the car, talking politics with a group of gentlemen. "please stop," said she, faintly, and the boy came to her elbow again. "i want some of that pop-corn so much!" was the plaintive request. "i could buy it if you'd hold this baby till i put my hand in my pocket." the youth laughed, but, for the sake of "making a trade," set down his basket and took the "infant terrible." there was an instant attack upon his hair, which was so long and straggling as to prove an easy prey to the enemy. [illustration: dotty in the cars. page .] "hurry, you!" said he to dotty, with juvenile impatience. "i can't stand any more of this nonsense." dotty did hurry; but before she received the baby again he had been well shaken, and his temper was aroused; he objected to being punished for such a harmless amusement as uprooting a little hair. there was one thing certain: if his eyes were small, his lungs were large enough, and perfectly sound. startled by his lusty cries, his mamma opened one of her eyes, but immediately closed it again when she saw that dotty was bending all the powers of her mind to the effort of soothing "the cherub." "i do wish my dear mamma _was_ travelling with us," thought the perplexed little girl. "she wouldn't 'low me to hold this naughty, naughty baby forever 'n' ever! because, you know, she never'd go off to the other end of the car and talk pol'tics." the little girl chirruped, cooed, and sang; all in vain. she danced the baby "up, up, up, and down, down, downy," till its blue cloak was twisted like a shaving. still it cried, and its unnatural mother refused to hear. "i never'll hold another baby as long's i live. when ladies come to our house, i'll look and see if they've brought one, and if they have i'll always run up stairs and hide." as a last resort, she gave the little screamer some pop-corn. why not? it refused to be comforted with other devices. how should she know that it was unable to chew, and was in the habit of swallowing buttons, beads, and other small articles whole? baby clutched at the puffy white kernels, and crowed. it knew now, for the first time, what it had been crying for. there was a moment of peace, during which master freddie pushed a handful of corn as far as the trap-door which opened into his throat. then there was a struggle, a gasp, a throwing up of the little hands; the trap-door had opened, but the corn had not dropped through; there was not space enough. in other words, freddy was choking. the young nurse was so frightened that she almost let the small sufferer slip out of her arms. she screamed so shrilly that half a dozen people started from their seats to see what was the matter. of course the sleepy woman was awake in a moment. all she said, as she took the child out of dotty's arms, was this:-- "you good-for-nothing, careless little thing! don't you know any better than to choke my baby?" as dotty really supposed the little one's last hour had come, and she herself had been its murderess, her distress and terror are not to be told. she paced the aisle, wringing her hands, while mrs. lovejoy put her finger down freddie's throat and patted his back. in a very short time the mischief was undone; the child caught its breath, and blinked its little watery eyes, while its face faded from deep magenta to its usual color of dough. dotty was immensely relieved. "bess its 'ittle heart," cried mrs. lovejoy, pressing it close to her travelling-cape, while several of the passengers looked on, quite interested in the scene. "did the naughty, wicked girlie try to choke its muzzer's precious baby? we'll w'ip her; so we will! she shan't come near my lovey-dovey with her snarly hair." mrs. lovejoy's remarks pricked like a nosegay of thistles. they were not only sharp in themselves, but they were uttered with such evident displeasure that every word stung. dotty was creeping away with her head down, her "snarly hair" veiling her sorrowful eyes, when she remembered her hat, and meekly asked mrs. lovejoy to restore it. "take it," was the ungracious reply, "and don't you ever offer to hold another baby till you have a little common sense." dotty walked away with her fingers in her mouth, more angry than grieved, and conscious that all eyes were upon her. "i didn't mean to scold you, child," called the woman after her; "only you might have killed my baby, and i think you're big enough to know better." this last sentence, spoken more gently, was intended to heal all wounds; but it had no such effect. dotty was sure everybody had heard it, and was more ashamed than ever. she had never before met with any one so ill bred as mrs. lovejoy. she supposed her own conduct had been almost criminal, whereas mrs. lovejoy was really much more at fault than herself. a woman who has no tenderness for a well-meaning little girl, no forgiveness for her thoughtless mistakes, can never be regarded as a lady. thus, for the second time that day, dotty had met with misfortune. her father knew nothing of what had occurred, and she had not much to say when he offered a penny for her thoughts. "i oughtn't to have given that baby any corn," said she, briefly; "but he didn't choke long." "where are your gloves, child?" dotty looked in her pocket, and shook her head. "you must have left them in the seat you were in. you'd better go after them, my daughter, and then come back and brush your hair." "o, papa, i'd rather go to indiana with my hands naked. that woman doesn't like me." mr. parlin gave a glance at the wretched little face, and went for the gloves himself. they were not to be found, though mrs. lovejoy was very polite indeed to assist in the search. they had probably fallen out of the window. "don't take it to heart, my little alice," said mr. parlin, who was very sorry to see so many shadows on his young daughter's face so early in the day. "we'll buy a new pair in boston. we will think of something pleasant. let us see: when are you going to read your first letter?" "o, susy said the very last thing before i got to boston. you'll tell me when it's the very last thing? i'm so glad susy wrote it! for now i can be 'expecting it all the rest of the way." chapter iv. "pigeon pie postponed." this is susy's letter, which lay in mr. parlin's pocket-book, and which he gave his impatient little daughter fifteen minutes before the cars stopped:-- "my dear little sister: this is for you to read when you have almost got to boston; and it is a story, because i know you will be tired. "once there was a wolf--i've forgotten what his name was. at the same time there were some men, and they were monks. monks have their heads shaved. they found this wolf. they didn't see why he wouldn't make as good a monk as anybody. they tied him and then they wanted him to say his prayers, patter, patter, all in latin. "he opened his mouth, and then they thought it was coming; but what do you think? all he said was, 'lamb! lamb!' and he looked where the woods were. "so they couldn't make a monk of him, because he wanted to eat lambs, and he wouldn't say his prayers. "mother read that to me out of a blue book. "good by, darling. from "sister susy." "what do you think of that?" said mr. parlin, as he finished reading the letter aloud. "it is so queer, papa. i don't think those monkeys were very bright." "monks, my child." "o, i thought you said monkeys." "no, monks are men--catholics." "well, if they were men, i should think they'd know a wolf couldn't say his prayers. but i s'pose it isn't true." "no, indeed. it is a fable, written to show that it is of no use to expect people to do things which they have not the power to do. the wolf could catch lambs, but he could not learn his letters. so my little alice can dress dollies, but she does not know how to take care of babies." "o, papa, i didn't choke him _very_ much." "i was only telling you i do not think you at all to blame. little girls like you are not expected to have judgment like grown women. if you only do the best you know how, it is all that should be required of you." dotty's face emerged from the cloud. she looked away down the aisle at mrs. lovejoy, who was patting the uninteresting baby to sleep. "well," thought she, her self-esteem reviving, "i wish that woman only could know i wasn't to blame! i don't believe _she_ could have take care of that baby when she was six years old." "here we are at boston," said mr. parlin. "is your hat tied on? keep close to me, and don't be afraid of the crowd." dotty was not in the least afraid. she was not like prudy, who, on the same journey, had clung tremblingly to her father at every change of cars. in dotty's case there was more danger of her being reckless than too timid. they went to a hotel. mr. parlin's business would detain him an hour or two, he said; after that he would take his little daughter to walk on the common; and next morning, bright and early, they would proceed on their journey. it was the first time dotty had ever dined at a public house. a bill of fare was something entirely new to her. she wondered how it happened that the boston printers knew what the people in that hotel were about to have for dinner. mr. parlin looked with amusement at the demure little lady beside him. not a sign of curiosity did she betray, except to gaze around her with keen eyes, which saw everything, even to the pattern of the napkins. some time she would have questions to ask, but not now. "and what would you like for dinner, alice?" mr. parlin said this as they were sipping their soup. dotty glanced at the small table before them, which offered scarcely anything but salt-cellars and castors, and then at the paper her father held in his hand. she was about to reply that she would wait till the table was ready; but as there was one man seated opposite her, and another standing at the back of her chair, she merely said,-- "i don't know, papa." "a-la-mode beef; fricasseed chicken; calcutta curry," read her mischievous father from the bill, as fast as he could read; "macaroni; salsify; flummery; sirup of cream. you see it is hard to make a choice, dear. escaloped oysters; pigeon pie postponed." "i'll take some of that, papa," broke in dotty. "what, dear?" "some of the pigeon pie 'sponed," answered dotty, in a low voice, determined to come to a decision of some sort. it was not likely to make much difference what she should choose, when everything was alike wonderful and strange. "pigeon pie postponed," said mr. parlin to the man at the back of dotty's chair; "turkey with oysters for me." the polite waiter smiled so broadly that he showed two long rows of white teeth. it could not be dotty who amused him. her conduct was all that is prim and proper. she sat beside her papa as motionless as a waxen baby, her eyes rolling right and left, as if they were jerked by a secret wire. it certainly could not have been dotty. then what was it the man saw which was funny? "only one pigeon pie in the house, sir," said he, trying to look very solemn, "and if the young lady will be pleased to wait, i'll bring it to her in a few minutes. no such dish on any of the other bills of fare. a rarity for this special day, sir. anything else, miss, while you wait?" mr. parlin looked rather surprised. there had been no good reason given for not bringing the pie at once; however, he merely asked dotty to choose again; and this time she chose "tomato steak," at a venture. there were two gentlemen at the opposite side of the table, and one of them watched dotty with interest. "her mother has taken great pains with her," he thought; "she handles her knife and fork very well. where have i seen that child before?" while he was still calling to mind the faces of various little girls of his acquaintance, and trying to remember which face belonged to dotty, the waiter arrived with the "pigeon pie postponed." he had chosen the time when most of the people had finished their first course, and the clinking of dishes was not quite so hurried as it had been a little while before. the table at which mr. parlin sat was nearly in the centre of the room. as the waiter approached with the pie, the same amused look passed over his face once more. he set the dish upon the table near mr. parlin, who proceeded to cut a piece for miss dimple. as the knife went into the pie, the crust seemed to move; and lo, "when the pie was opened," out flew a pigeon alive and well! the bird at first hopped about the table in a frightened way, a little blind and dizzy from being shut up in such a dark prison; but a few breaths of fresh air revived him, and he flew merrily around the room, to the surprise and amusement of the guests. it was a minute or two before any of them understood what it meant. then they began to laugh and say they knew why the pie was "postponed:" it was because the pigeon was not willing to be eaten alive. it passed as a capital joke; but i doubt if dotty dimple appreciated it. she looked at the hollow crust, and then at the purple-crested dove, and thought a hotel dinner was even more peculiar than she had supposed. did they have "live pies" every day? how did they bake them without even scorching the pigeons? but she busied herself with her nuts and raisins, and asked no questions. at four o'clock she went with, her father to see the public gardens and other places of interest, and to buy a pair of new gloves. on the common they met one of the gentlemen who had sat opposite them at dinner. he bowed as they were passing, and said, with a smile,-- "can this be my little friend, miss prudy parlin?" "it is her younger sister, alice," replied her father. "and i am major benjamin lazelle, of st. louis," said the gentleman. after this introduction, the three walked along in company, and seemed to feel like old acquaintances; for major lazelle had once escorted mrs. clifford on a journey to maine, and since that time had been well known to the clifford family. mr. parlin was glad to learn that he would start for st. louis on the next day, and travel with himself and daughter nearly as far as they went. major lazelle was also well pleased, and began at once to make friends with miss dimple. the little girl had recovered from her trials of the morning, and was so delighted with all she saw that she "couldn't walk on two feet." she preferred to hop, skip, and jump. "o, papa, papa, what _are_ those little dears, just the color of my kid gloves?" "those are deer, my child." "are they? i _said_ they were dears--didn't i? if they were _my_ dears, i'd keep them in a parlor, and let them lie on a silk quilt with a velvet pillow--wouldn't you?" "this little girl reminds me strikingly of my old friend prudy," said major lazelle, taking her hand. "when i saw her across the table i thought, 'ah, now, there is a sweet little child who makes me remember something pleasant.' after a while i knew what that pleasant thing was--it was little prudy." dotty looked up at major lazelle with a smile. "she came to see me when i was in a hospital in indiana. at that time i was blind." "blind, sir?" "yes; but i see quite well now. afterwards i met your sister on the street in portland, and she spoke to me. i was very weak and miserable, for i had just been ill of a fever; but the sight of her bright face made me feel strong again." dotty's fingers closed around major lazelle's with a firmer clasp. if he liked prudy, then she should certainly like him. "shall i tell you of some verses i repeated to myself when i looked at your dear little sister?" "yes, sir, if you please." "'why, a stranger, when he sees her in the street even, smileth stilly, just as you would at a lily. "'and if any painter drew her, he would paint her unaware, with the halo round her hair.' "i dare say you do not understand poetry very well, miss alice?" "no, sir. i s'pose i should if i knew what the words meant." "very likely. is your sister prudy well? and how do you two contrive to amuse yourselves all the day long?" "yes, sir, she's well; and we don't amuse ourselves at all." "indeed! but you play, i presume." "yes, sir, we do." "i feel sure you are just such another dear little girl as prudy is, and it gives me pleasure to know you." dotty dropped her head. she was glad her father was too far off to hear this remark. "just such another dear little girl as prudy is!" alas! dotty knew better than that. she was not sure she ought not to tell major lazelle he had made a great mistake. but while she was pondering upon it, they met a blind man, a lame man, and a party of school-girls; and she had so much use for her eyes that she did not speak again for five minutes. chapter v. the major's joke. while dotty was dressing next morning, she fell to thinking again of her own importance as a young lady travelling _almost_ all alone by herself; and then it occurred to her that jennie vance, the judge's daughter, had never been any farther than boston. "when she comes to portland next winter to see her aunties that live there, then i'll talk to her all about my travelling out west. but i needn't tell her how that baby choked, nor how that naughty dollyphus made fun of me. no, indeed!" as she spoke she was pouring water into the wash-bowl; but her indignation towards mrs. lovejoy and "dollyphus" made her hand unsteady; the pitcher came suddenly against the edge of the bowl, whereupon its nose and part of its body flew off into space. dotty held the handle, and looked at the ruins in astonishment. "did _i_ do that?" she had no time to spend in lamentation. "i don't want to let my papa know what i've done," thought she, giving the last hasty touches to her toilet: "he'll have to go and pay the man that keeps house; and then i'm afraid he'll think, if his little girl keeps choking folks and breaking things, i ought to stay at home." but dotty was too well grounded in the "white truth" to hesitate long. she could not hide the accident and be happy. when she mentioned it to her father, he did not say, as some fathers might have done,-- "you careless child! your sister _prudy_ didn't break a pitcher or lose a pair of gloves all the way to indiana." he and mrs. parlin were both afraid that, if they spoke in this manner, their children might infer that carelessness is just as sinful as falsehood and ill temper; they wished them to know there is a vast difference. so mr. parlin only said,-- "broken the pitcher? i'm sorry; but you did right to tell me. give me your hand, and let us go to breakfast." major lazelle was at table. he patted dotty's head, and said she looked like "a sweet-pea on tiptoe for a flight." he seemed very fond of quoting poetry; and nothing could have been more pleasing to dotty, who loved to hear high-sounding words, even if they did soar above her head. the party of three started in due time on their journey. it was very much the same thing it had been yesterday; boys with tea-kettles of ice-water, boys with baskets of fruit and lozenges, and boys with newspapers. there was a long train of cars, and every car was crowded. "o, papa," sighed dotty, after she had tried to count the passengers, and had been obliged to give it up because there were so many stepping off at every station, and so many more stepping in. "o, papa, where are all these people going to?" and in the afternoon she repeated the question, adding,-- "i shouldn't think there'd be anybody left in any of the houses." by the time they reached albany, she had seen so much of the world that she felt fairly worn out, and her head hummed like a hive of bees. "i didn't know, papa,--i never knew,--there were so many folks!" the next letter dotty had to read was from prudy. it was merely a poem copied very carefully. you may skip it if you like; but the major said it was exquisite, and i think the major must have been a good judge, for i have the same opinion myself! "little dandelion. "gay little dandelion lights up the meads, swings on her slender foot, telleth her beads; lists to the robin's note poured from above; wise little dandelion cares not for love. "cold lie the daisy banks, clad but in green, where in the mays agone bright hues were seen; wild pinks are slumbering, violets delay; true little dandelion greeteth the may. "brave little dandelion! fast falls the snow, bending the daffodil's haughty head low. under that fleecy tent, careless of cold, blithe little dandelion counteth her gold. "meek little dandelion groweth more fair, till dies the amber dew out of her hair. high rides the thirsty sun, fiercely and high; faint little dandelion closeth her eye. "pale little dandelion in her white shroud, heareth the angel breeze call from the cloud. fairy plumes fluttering make no delay; little winged dandelion soareth away." this night was spent at albany; and, as the evening closed with a little adventure i will tell you about it; and that will be all that it is necessary to relate of dotty's journey. mr. parlin, major lazelle, and our heroine were sitting, after their late tea, in a private parlor. it was time dotty was asleep but, while she was waiting for her papa, major lazelle held her on his knee. mr. parlin was writing letters, and did not listen to the conversation going on between his little daughter and her friend. they commenced by talking about zip. dotty said he knew as much as a boy. "i did think once he was my brother. and now i'm glad i didn't have a real brother; for if he _had_ been, p'rhaps he'd have burned up our house with a cracker." "so you think little girls are nicer than little boys?" "o, yes, sir; don't you?" dotty spoke as if there could be no doubt about it. "i like good little girls," said major lazelle, "such as can ride a whole day in the cars without growing cross." this compliment gratified dotty. she felt that she deserved it, for she had kept her temper admirably ever since she left home. "i am sure you will grow up, one of these days, to be a very good woman," continued major lazelle, looking with an admiring smile at the graceful little girl seated on his knee. "you tell me you have never been at school. i hope you do not mean to frolic all your life? what were little girls made for, do you think?" dotty reflected a moment. "what are little girls made for, sir? why, they are made to play, 'cause they can't play when they grow to be ladies." the major laughed. "pretty well said! you're rather too shrewd for such an 'old mustache' as i. so little girls are made to play? then suppose we two have a game. let us play chip-chop." dotty was becoming sleepy, but aroused herself, and patted her little soft hands as hard as she could, tossing them hither and thither, sometimes hitting her companion's thumb, sometimes his little finger. major lazelle laughed, and then she laughed too; for when he tried to strike her hands, he said it was like aiming at a pair of rose-leaves fluttering in the air. the chip-chop was a complete failure; but it had set them both in great glee. if truth be told, they became excessively rude. "now, sir," said dotty, as they ran across the room, playing a game of romps, "if you do catch me again, i'll--o, dear, i don't know what i'll do!" mr. parlin looked up from his letter a little annoyed, for the floor was shaking so that he could scarcely write. "do not be rude, my daughter," said he, though he knew very well the major was really the one to be chided. but his warning came a minute too late. major lazelle had caught dotty, and she had thrown up both hands to clutch at his hair. she meant to give it one desperate pulling; she did not care if she hurt him a little; she even hoped he might cry out and beg her to stop. but the oddest thing happened. if she had gone to bed at the usual time, and fallen asleep, then this would have been her dream. but no, she _supposed_ she was awake; and what now? as she seizes two locks of major lazelle's hair, one in each hand, and pulled them both as if she meant to draw them out by the roots, out they came! yes, entirely out! and more than that, all the rest of the man's hair came too! his head was left as smooth as an apple. _you_ see at once how it was. he wore a wig, and just for play had slyly unfastened it, and allowed miss dotty to pull it off. the perfect despair on her little face amused him vastly; but he did not smile; he looked very severe. "see what you have done!" said he, rubbing his bald head as if it were just ready to bleed. "see what you have done to me, you cruel girl!" major lazelle's entire head of hair lay at her feet as brown and wavy as ever it was. dotty looked at it with horror. the idea of scalping a man! for a whole minute she lost the power of speech. then she gasped out,-- "o, dear! dear! dear! i didn't know your hair was so tender!" the major had been crowding his handkerchief into his mouth; but at this he could no longer restrain himself, nor could mr. parlin help joining in the laugh. [illustration: the major's joke. page .] the little girl was more bewildered than ever. she put her hand to her own head, to make sure it was safe, for it felt as airy as a dandelion top. then major lazelle explained to her in a few words what a wig is, and how it is fastened to the head. dotty understood it all in a moment, but was too much chagrined to make any reply. "i am several years younger than your papa, my dear; so you think it strange to see me bald; but i have had two dreadful fevers, and they have run away with every bit of my hair." dotty would not even look up to see major lazelle replace his wig. her dignity had been wounded. "come, sit on my knee, pussy, and let me tell you some more about it." "no, i thank you, sir," replied she, walking the floor with the air of an injured princess. "no, i thank you, sir." "how, now, little one? you don't mean to be angry with me for a little joke?" "no, i thank you." and that was all dotty would say. she was wise enough to know she was too angry to speak. "ah, ha! temper, i see!" thought major lazelle; "i did not suspect it from that quarter." if the young gentleman had only known how hard the little girl was struggling just then to control herself, he would have liked her better than ever. her father chided her next morning for taking a joke so seriously. dotty replied with a deep sigh,-- "papa, that major 'sposes i'm only five years old! that's what dollyphus s'posed! i don't like it, papa, when i can travel so well; and how'd _i_ know what a wig was, well; you and mamma never had any?" but dotty smiled as benevolently as she could when she met the major again. he was a little afraid of her, however. he did not enjoy playing with her as he had enjoyed it before. he now felt obliged to be on his guard, lest she should take offence. the rest of her journey--though dotty did not know it--was not quite so delightful as it might have been if she had only laughed with good humor when the lively major let her pull his hair out by the roots. but the cars went "singing through the forest, and rattling over ridges," till it was time to part from the pleasant man with a wig. then they went on, "shooting under arches, rambling over bridges," till dotty and her papa had come to their journey's end. we will say it was the town of quinn. chapter vi. new faces. the cliffords lived a little way out of town. mr. parlin took a carriage at the depot, and he and dotty had a very pleasant drive to "aunt 'ria's." the little girl was rather travel-stained. her gloves were somewhat ragged at the tips, from her habit of twitching them so much; and they were also badly soiled with fruit and candy. her hair was as smooth as hands could make it; but alas for the "style" hat which had left portland in triumph! it had reached indiana in disgrace. its tipsy appearance was due to getting stepped on, and being caught in showers. dotty's neat travelling dress was defaced by six large grease spots. where they had come from dotty could not conjecture, unless "that sick lady with a bottle had spilled some of her cod-oil on it out of a spoon." the child had intended to astonish her relatives by her tidy array; but, after all her pains, she had arrived out west in a very sorry plight. "now, which side must i look for the house, papa?" "at your right hand, my dear. the first thing you will see is the conservatory, and then a stone house." "my right hand," thought dotty; "that's east; but which is my right hand?" she always knew after she had thought a moment. it was the one which did not have the "shapest thumb;" that is, the _misshapen_ one she had pounded once by mistake, instead of an oilnut. "o, yes, papa! see the flowers! the flowers! and only to think they don't know who's coming! p'rhaps they're drinking tea, or gone visiting, or something." the cliffords were not at tea. grace and cassy were reading "our boys and girls" in the summer-house, with their heads close together; horace was in the woods fishing; mr. clifford at his office; his wife in her chamber, ruffling a pink cambric frock for wee katie, rocking as she sewed. as for katie, she was marching about the grounds under an old umbrella. it was only the skeleton of an umbrella--dry bones, wires, and a crooked handle. through the open sides the little one was plainly to be seen; and mr. parlin thought she looked like that flower we have in our gardens, which peeps out from a host of little tendrils, and is called the "lady in the bower." hearing a carriage coming, the "lady in the bower" rushed to the gate, flourishing the black bones of the umbrella directly in the horse's face. "dotty has camed! she has camed!" shouted the little creature, dropping the umbrella, falling over it, springing up again, and running with flying feet to spread the news. nobody believed dotty had "camed;" it seemed an improbable story; but grace and cassy had heard the wheels, and they ran through the avenue into the house to make sure it was nobody but one of the neighbors. "why, indeed, and indeed, it _is_ dotty; and if here isn't uncle edward too!" cried grace, tossing back her curls, and dancing down the front steps. "ma, ma, here is uncle edward parlin!" "i sawed um first! i sawed um first!" screamed little flyaway, thrusting the point of the umbrella between dotty's feet, and throwing her over. "can i believe my eyes!" said mrs. clifford's voice from the head of the stairs; and down she rushed, with open arms, to greet her guests. then there was so much kissing, and so much talking, that nobody exactly knew what anybody else said; and katie added to the confusion by fluttering in and out, and every now and then breaking into a musical laugh, which the mocking-bird, not to be outdone, caught up and echoed. it was a merry, merry meeting. "you dee papa bringed you--didn't him, dotty?" said katie, flying at her cousin with the feather duster, as soon as grace had taken away the umbrella, and pointing her remarks with the end of the handle. "you's uncle eddard's baby--that's what is it." "o, you darling flyaway!" said dotty, "if you _wouldn't_ stick that handle right _into_ my eyes!" "i's going to give you sumpin!" returned katie, putting her hand in her pocket, and producing a very soft orange, which had been used for a football. "it's a ollinge. _you_ can eat um, 'cause i gived um to you." "thank you, o, thank you. flyaway: how glad i am to see you! you look just the same, and no different." "o, no, i'm is growin' homely," replied the baby, cheerfully, "velly homely; hollis said so." by the time dotty's crushed hat was off, and she had made herself ready for tea, trying to hide three of the six grease-spots with her hands, horace appeared with a little birch switch across his shoulder, strung with fish. the fish were few and small; but horace was just as tired, he said, as if he had caught a whale. he did not say he was glad to see his young cousin; but joy shone all over his face. "we'll have times--won't we, little topknot?" said he, taking katie up between his fingers, as if she had been a pinch of snuff. "is you _found_ of ollinges, dotty?" asked flyaway, with an anxious glance at the yellow fruit in dotty's hand, still untasted. after tea the orange lay on the lounge. "i's goin' to give you a ollinge," said katie, presenting it again, as if it were a new one. but after she had given it away three times, she thought her duty was done. "if you please um," said she, coaxingly, "i dess _i'll_ eat a slice o' that ollinge." so she had the whole. "dotty, have you seen phebe?" asked horace. "no; where does she live?" "o, out in the kitchen. prudy saw her when she was here, ever so long ago. she hasn't faded any since." "o, now i remember, she's a niggro, as black as a _sip_." "yes; come out and see her. she's famous for making candy. she learned that of barby." "who is barby?" "the dutch girl we had before katinka came." dotty went into the kitchen with horace to watch the candy-making. this was a favorite method with him of entertaining visitors. [illustration: making molasses candy.--page .] phebe dolan was a young colored girl, who had a very desirable home at mrs. clifford's, but who always persisted in going about the house in a dejected manner, as if some one had treated her unkindly. for all that, she was very happy; and under her solemn face was a deal of quiet fun. katinka dinkelspiel was a good-natured german girl, with a face as round as a full moon, and eyes as expressive as two blots of blue paint. she wore her fair hair rolled in front on each side into a puff like a capital o. dotty looked at her in surprise. she was very unlike norah, who wore bright ribbons on her head. and katinka talked broken english, stirring up her words in such a way that the sentences were like chinese puzzles; they needed to be taken apart and put together differently. "please to make the door too," she said to horace; and it was half a minute before dotty understood that she was asking him to shut it. "this is my cousin dotty dimple, girls; the handsomest of the family; but not the best one--are you, though?" at the same time giving miss dimple a chair. "how d'ye, miss?" said phebe, mournfully. katinka said nothing, but patted the letter o on the right side of her head. "o, phib, my mother says if you are not too tired, you may make some candy; she said so, candidly." horace was just old enough to delight in puns. now, this was a pleasant message to phebe; she would have been glad to keep her fingers in molasses half the time. still it seemed to dotty, as she saw the rolling of the black eyes, that phebe was quite discouraged. "i s'pose she doesn't like candy," thought she; "i heard of a girl once that didn't." rolling her sad eyes again and again, phebe went to draw the molasses, and soon had it boiling on the stove. "there," said horace, rubbing his hands, "i told dotty if anybody knew how to make candy 'twas phebe dolan. give us the nut-cracker, and i'll have the pecans ready in no time." this time phebe's eyes twinkled. as soon as the molasses would pour from the spoon in just the right way, with little films like spiders' webs floating from it, then phebe said it was done, and horace called grace and cassy. phebe stirred in some soda with an air of solemnity, then poured half the contents of the kettle into a buttered platter, and the other half into a second platter lined with pecan-meats. then she took the whole out of doors to cool. "i'll tell you what i'm thinking about," said dotty, as the girl left the room;--"what has she got on her head?" "why, hair, to be sure," replied grace. "wool, i should call it," corrected horace. "because i didn't know," faltered dotty,--"i didn't know but 'twas a wig." "what made you think 'twas a wig, dotty?" "o, there was a man wore one in the cars; it looked just like anybody's hair, only he tied it on with a button. he knew you and horace." "me and horace? who could it have been?" "he's the major; his name is lazelle." "o, i remember him," said grace and horace together. "does he wear a wig? he isn't old at all." "he _calls_ himself 'an old mustache,'" returned dotty, "for he said so to me. he wears one of those _hair-lips_, and a wig." "and he's as blind as a post?" "o, no, he can see things now. i liked him, for he gave me all the apples and peaches i could eat." "i reckon it did him good to go to the war," exclaimed horace, "for i remember, when i was a little fellow, how he boxed my ears!" "he has suffered a great deal since then," said the gentle cassy, thoughtfully. "you know people generally grow better by suffering." "dotty dear, you can't keep your eyes open," said grace, after the candy had been pulled. "i don't believe it will make _you_ any better to suffer. i'm going to put you to bed." "and here i am," thought dotty, as she laid her tired head on the pillow, "out west, under a sketo bar. got here safe. i ought to have thanked god a little harder in my prayer." chapter vii. waking up out west. dotty was wakened next morning by a variety of sounds. the mocking-bird, the canary, the hens, and horace's guinea pig were astir, and wished their little world to be aware of it. flyaway was dressed and running about, making herself generally useful. before the tired young traveller knew where she was, a little hand was busy at the door knob, and a baby voice called out,-- "dottee, dottee, is you waked up?" "o, now i know where i am! this is aunt 'ria's house, and that little snip of a flyaway is trying to get in. o, dear, dear, how far off i am! prudy parlin, i wonder if you're thinking about me?" "dottee! dottee!" called the small voice again. "o, i s'pose that baby'll stand at the door all day." but just then the knob turned, and in rushed flyaway out of breath. "good-morning, miss topknot," said dotty, addressing her by one of the dove-names horace was so fond of using. "o, i's pitty well," replied flyaway, dancing across the room. "i didn't sleep any till las' night. i d'eamed awtul d'eams; so i kep' awake, and wouldn't go to sleep." and into bed climbed the little one, laying her head, with its tangled floss, right across dotty's face. "dear me!" sighed dotty, rubbing the floss out of her eyes. "such hair! i should think _you_ wore a wig! i'm sleepy; can't you let me be?" "you mus' wake up, dottee! _i_ love to wake up; i can do it velly easy." dotty, losing her patience, moved forward, pushing katie towards the edge of the bed. "o, ho! what a little bedstick! i'll yole out!" "i wish you would, flyaway clifford!" no sooner said than done. off rolled flyaway, but alighted on her feet. "o, my shole," cried she, scrambling in again; "i fell down backboards. o, ho!" such good nature was not to be resisted. sleepy dotty waked up and smiled in spite of herself; and next minute her persecutor was skipping down stairs. "glad she's gone. now i'll put on my pretty morning dress; aunt 'ria hung it up in the closet. i'm going to be a little lady all the time i'm out west, and not jump off of things and tear my clothes." then dotty's mind strayed to a very different subject. "it is so queer god is in this country just the same as he is in the state of maine! i said my prayers to him before i started, and there he was and heard; and now he's here and hears too; i don't see how. you can't think without he sees your thoughts." dotty, brushing her hair, looked in the glass so intently that she did not observe her aunt maria, who had quietly entered the room. mrs. clifford was a wise woman, but she could not look into her niece's heart. she thought dotty was admiring her own beauty in the mirror, whereas the child was not thinking of it at all. what mr. beecher once said of little folks is very true:-- "ah, well, there is a world of things in children's minds that grown-up people do not understand, though they too once were young." mrs. clifford went up to dotty and kissed her. then the little girl was startled from her musings, and passing down stairs with her hand in mrs. clifford's, thought she should be perfectly happy if dear prudy were only on the other side of her. everything she saw that was new or strange she had to stop and admire, thinking it was an article that could only belong out west. "o, auntie, what is this queer little thing with doors?" "grace's cabinet, dear." "her _cabijen_," exclaimed flyaway, darting in from the next room. "good morning, dotty dimple," said horace: "did my guinea pig wake you? i lost him out. what a noise he made! i wish he was in guinea, where he came from." dotty had never seen a guinea pig. it was another curiosity, which promised to be more remarkable than phebe or katinka. she began to think coming west was like having one long play-day. even the dining-room was a novelty, with the swinging fan suspended over the table to keep off flies. "i have been wondering," said mrs. clifford, as she urned the coffee, "how we shall amuse our little dotty while she is here." "fishing," suggested horace. "nutting," said grace. "_prudy_ went to a _wedding_ when she was in indiana," remarked dotty, in a low voice. "we will try to get up a wedding then," said horace; "but they are a little out of fashion now." "we have been thinking," observed mrs. clifford, "of a nutting excursion for to-day. how would you like it, edward?" "very much," replied mr. parlin. "i can spend but one day with you, and i would as lief spend it nutting as in any other way." "only one day, uncle edward!" cried grace and horace. "only one day, papa!" stammered dotty, feeling like a little kitten who _did_ have her paw on a mouse, but sees the mouse disappear down a hole. "o, i shall leave you, my daughter. you will stay here a week or two, and meet me in indianapolis." dotty was able to eat once more. "father, what are we to do for horses to go nutting with?" spoke up horace. "robin raked this part of town yesterday with a fine-tooth comb, and couldn't find anything but an old clothes' horse, and that was past travelling." "my son!" mr. clifford's face said very plainly,-- "not so flippant, my child!" but the only remark he made was to the effect that there were doubtless horses to be found in the city at the stables. "what about the infant, mamma?" said grace. "is she to be one of the party?" when katie was present she was sometimes mysteriously mentioned as "the infant." it was quite an undertaking to allow her to go; but mrs. clifford had yielded the point an hour or two before, out of regard to horace's feelings. she knew the nutting party would be spoiled for him if his beloved little topknot were left out. "is i goin'?" asked she, when she heard the joyful news. "yes, i'm _are_ goin' to get some horse." "no, some pecans, you little brown-brimmer." katie had a dim suspicion that she owed this pleasure to her brother's influence. "hollis," said she, eagerly,--"hollis, you may have the red part o' my apple." this sounded like the very fulness of generosity, but was a hollow mockery; for by the "red part" she only meant the skin. mr. clifford had one horse, and while robin sherwood was going to the city for another, mrs. clifford made ready the lunch. happy dotty walked about, twirling a lock of her front hair, and watched katinka cleaning the already nice paint, spilling here and there "little drops of water, little grains of sand." she also observed the solemn yet dextrous manner in which phebe washed the breakfast dishes, and looked on with peculiar interest as aunt maria filled the basket. first there were custards to be baked in little cups and freckled with nutmeg, to please uncle edward. then there was a quantity of eggs to be boiled hard. as mrs. clifford dropped these one by one into a kettle of water, katie ran to the back door, and cried out to the noisy hens,-- "stop cacklerin', chickie; we've got 'em." then, fearing she had not made herself understood, she added,-- "we've found your _aigs_, chickie; they was ror, but we's goin' to bake 'em." dotty was impressed with the beauty of the picnic basket and the delicacy of the food. everything she saw was rose-colored to-day. "o, aunt 'ria, i should think you'd like to live out west! such splendid fruit cake!" "i saw fibby and my mamma make that," said flyaway, "out o' cindamon and little clovers." "clovers in cake?" "not red and white clovers; them little bitter kinds you know," added the child, with a wry face. there were four for each carriage. dotty rode with her father, mrs. clifford, and katie. little flyaway looked at the hired phaeton with contempt. "it hasn't any cap on, like my papa's," said she; but she was prevailed upon to ride in it because her mamma did. horace went with his father and the "cup and saucer," as he called grace and cassy. he was in a state of irritation because his idolized topknot was in the other carriage. "you can't separate that cup and saucer," growled he to himself. "they'll sit and talk privacy, i suppose; and i might have had brown-brimmer if it hadn't been for cassy." chapter viii. going nutting. as they drove along "the plank road," farther and farther away from the city, dotty saw more clearly than ever the wide difference between indiana and maine. "why, papa," said she, "did you ever breathe such a dust? it seems like snuff." "it makes us almost as invisible as the 'tarn cap' we read of in german fairy tales," said mrs. clifford, tucking her brown veil under her chin. she and mr. parlin both encouraged dotty to talk; for they liked to hear her exclamations of wonder at things which to them seemed common-place enough. "what did you call this road, aunt 'ria? didn't you say it was made of boards? i don't see any boards." "the planks were put down so long ago, dotty, that they are overlaid with earth." "but what did they put them down for?" "you musser ask so many kestions, dotty," said flyaway, severely; "you say 'what' too many times." "the planks were laid down, dotty, on account of the depth of the mud." "mud, aunt 'ria?" "yes, dear, dusty as it is now, at some seasons of the year the roads are so muddy that you might lose off your overshoes if it were not for the large beams which bridge over the crossings." "that reminds me," said mr. parlin, "of the man who was seen sinking in the mud, and, when some one offered to help him out, he replied, cheerfully, 'o, i shall get through; i have a horse under me.'" "why, was the horse 'way down out of sight, papa?" "where was the hossy, uncle eddard?" "it was only a story, children. if the man said there was a horse under him, it was a figure of speech, which we call hyperbole; he only meant to state in a funny way that the mud was excessively deep." "is it right to tell hyperblees, papa? because jennie vance tells them a great deal. i didn't know the name of them before." "no, alice, it is not right to tell untrue things expecting to be believed--of course not." "well, _she_ isn't believed. nobody s'poses her mamma made a bushel of currant wine last summer, unless it's a baby, that doesn't know any better." "_i_ knows better. i'se a goorl, and can walk," said little katie, bridling. "i didn't say you _were_ a baby, you precious flyaway! who's cunning?" "_i'm_ is," replied the child, settling back upon the seat with a sigh of relief. she was very sensitive on the point of age, and, like dotty, could not abide the idea of being thought young. "how far are we going?" asked mr. parlin. "i do not know exactly," replied mrs. clifford; "but i will tell you how far mr. skeels, one of our oldest natives, calls it. he says 'he reckons it is three screeches.'" "how far is a 'screech,' pray?" "the distance a human voice can be heard, i presume." "let us try it," said dotty dimple; and she instantly set up a scream so loud that the birds in the trees took to their wings in alarm. katie chimed in with a succession of little shrieks about as powerful as the peep of a little chicken. "i have heard that they once measured distances by 'shoots,'" said mrs. clifford, laughing; "but i hope it will not be necessary to illustrate _them_ by firing a gun." they next passed on old and weatherworn graveyard. "this," said mrs. clifford, "was once known, in the choice language of the backwoodsmen, as a 'briar-patch;' and when people died, it was said they 'winked out.'" "'winked out,' aunt 'ria? how dreadful!" "wing tout," echoed katie; "how defful!" "o, what beautiful, beautiful grass we're riding by, auntie! when the wind blows it, it _winks_ so softly! why, it looks like a green river running ever so fast." "that is a sort of prairie land, dear, and very rich. look on the other side of the road, and tell me what you think of those trees." "o, aunt 'ria, i couldn't climb up there, nor a boy either! it would take a pretty spry squirrel--wouldn't it, though?" "a pitty sp'y squirrel, i fink," remarked katie, who did not consider any of dotty's sentences complete until she herself had added a finishing touch. "they are larger than our trees, alice." "o, yes, papa. they look as if they grew, and grew, and forgot to stop." "velly long trees, tenny rate," said katie, throwing up her arms in imitation of branches, and jumping so high that her mother was obliged to take her in her lap in order to keep her in the carriage. "and, o, papa, it is so smooth between the trees, we can peep like a spy-glass, right through! why, it seems like a church." "_i_ don't see um," said katie, stretching her neck and looking in vain for a church. "'the groves were god's first temples,'" repeated mr. parlin, reverently. "these trees have no undergrowth of shrubs, like our new england trees." "but, o, look! look, papa! what is that long green _dangle_, dripping down from up high? no, swinging up from down low?' "yes, what is um, uncle eddard?" "that is a mistletoe-vine embracing a hickory tree. it is called a 'tree-thief,' because it steals its food from the tree it grows upon." "why, papa, i shouldn't think 'twas a thief, for the tree knows it. a thief comes in the night, when there doesn't anybody know it. _i_ should think 'twas a _beggar_." "_i_ fink so too," said flyaway, straining her eyes to look at she knew not what. "i fink um ought to ask _pease_." "all this tract of country where we are riding now," said mrs. clifford, "was overflowed last spring by the river. it is called 'bottom land,' and is extremely rich." "i never thought the hoojers had a very clean, blue, pretty river," said dotty, thoughtfully; "it looks some like a mud-puddle. perhaps it carried off too much of this dirt." "muddy-puddil," replied katie, "full of dirt." as they rode they passed houses whose chimneys were inhospitably left out of doors. "why, look, auntie," said dotty; "theres a house turned wrong side out!" these buildings had no cellars, but were propped upon logs, leaving room for the air to pass under the floor, and for other things to pass under, such as cats, dogs, and chickens. "why, where _do_ the people go to when they want to go down cellar?" asked dotty, in a maze. near one of these houses she was seized with an irresistible thirst. mr. parlin gave the reins to mrs. clifford, and stepped out of the carriage, then helped dotty and katie to alight. they found a sharp-nosed woman cooking corn-dodgers for a family of nine children. whether it was their breakfast or dinner hour, it was hard to tell. when mr. parlin asked for water, the woman wiped her forehead with her apron, and replied, "o, yes, stranger," and one of the little girls, whose face was stained with something besides the kisses of the sun, brought some water from the spring in a gourd. "well, dotty dimple," said mrs. clifford, when they were all on their way again, "what did you see in the house?" "o, i saw a woman with a whittled nose, and a box of flowers in the window." "and children," said katie; "four, five hunnerd chillen." "the box was labelled 'assorted lozenges,'" said mr. parlin; "but i observed that it contained a black imperial rose; so the occupants have an eye for beauty, after all. i presume they cannot trust their flowers out of doors on account of the pigs." "they brought me water in a squash-shell," cried dotty; "it _is_ so funny out west!" "_i_ dinked in a skosh-shell, too; and i fink it's _velly_ funny out west!" said little echo. they were riding behind the other carriage, and at some distance, in order to avoid the dust from its wheels. "henry has stopped," said mrs. clifford. "we have reached 'small's enlargement,' and cannot comfortably ride any farther. the lot next to this is ours, and it is there we are going for the pecans." dotty could hardly wait to be lifted out, so eager was she to walk on the "small enlargement." she spoke of it afterwards as an "ensmallment;" and the confusion of ideas was very natural. it was the place where grace and the "princess of the ruby seal" had gone, some years before, to have their fortunes told. it was a wild picturesque region, overgrown with tulip trees, judas trees, and scrub oaks. chapter ix. in the woods. the party walked leisurely along till they came to a log church, which mr. parlin paused to admire. it was in harmony, he said, with the roughness of the landscape. "i should like to attend service here by moonlight; i think it would be very sweet and solemn in such a lonely place. there would be no sound outside; and as you looked through the open door, you would only see a few quiet trees listening to the words of praise." "the evenings here must seem like something holy," said mrs. clifford, "'the nun-like evenings, telling dew-beads as they go.'" "o, my shole!" cried katie, dancing before the church door, and clapping her hands; "that's the bear's house, the _bear's_ house! little boy went in there, drank some of the old bear's podge, so _sour_ he couldn't drink it." here she looked disgusted, but added with a honeyed smile, "then bimeby drank some o' _little_ bear's podge, and '_twas_ so sweet he drank it aw--all up!" everybody laughed, it was so absurd to think of looking for bears and porridge in a building where people met to worship. dotty had just been saying to herself, "how strange that god is in this mizzable house out west, just as if it was in portland!" but katie had rudely broken in upon her meditations. "o, what a flyaway!" said she; "you don't do any good." "yes, i does." "well, what?" "o, i tell 'tories." "is that all?" "i p'ay with little goorls; and then i p'ay some more; and i wash de dishes. i'll tell _you_ a 'tory," added she, balancing herself on a stump, and making wild gestures with her arms, somewhat as she had seen horace do. "'woe to de dotties and sons 'o men, woe to 'em all when i yoam again!'" one wee forefinger pointed up to the sky; the right hand, doubled to a threatening little fist, was shaken at dotty, while the young orator's face was so wrinkled with scowls that dotty laughed outright. "do speak that again," she said. "you are the cunningest baby!" '"woe to de dotties--!' no, i can't tell it 'thout i have sumpin to stan' on!" sighed miss flyaway, falling off the stump directly against dotty. "i believe you've broken me," cried dotty; for, though katie was small, her weight pressed heavily. "well, fibby's broke sumpin too," replied she, calmly. "what does lamps wear?" "i s'pose you mean chimneys." "yes, fibby has did it; she's broke a chimley." "look up here, little ruffleneck; you're an honor to the state," said brother horace, proudly. "you don't find such a 'cute child as this in yankee land, dotty dimple." "you musn't call me a yankee," said dotty, who never liked horace's tone when he used the word. "i'm not a yankee; i'm a 'publican!" "hurrah for you!" shouted horace, swinging his hat; "hurrah for miss parlin number three!" "dear, dear! what have i said now? i don't want him to hurrah for me," thought dotty. horace returned to his manners. "she's such a firebrand that i like to make her eyes flash; but we must be polite to visitors; so here goes." "cousin dotty," said he aloud, dropping his mocking tones, and speaking very respectfully, "if you are a true republican, i honor you as such, and i'll never call you a yankee again." "well, i _am_ a 'publican to the white bone!" what dotty meant by the "white bone" was rather uncertain, it being one of those little figures of speech which will not bear criticism. "then you believe in universal suffering?" "o, yes," answered dotty, quickly. "and the black walnut bureau?" dotty hesitated. "if the 'publicans do, and my father does." "o, yes; everybody believes in the black walnut bureau--that ever saw one." dotty glanced at horace stealthily; but his face was so serious that she was sure he could not be making sport of her. they were walking a little in advance of the others, horace dragging flyaway, who was intent upon digging her little heels into the ground. "this place is sometimes called goblin valley," said the boy. "a goblin means a sort of ghost; but nobody but simpletons believe in such things," added he, quickly, for he was too high-minded to wish to frighten his little cousin. "o, i'm not at all afraid of such things," said dotty quietly; "i've got all over it. i know what ghosts are now; they are pumpkins." "excuse my smiling," said horace, laughing uproariously. "you may laugh, cousin horace, but i've seen them. they have a candle inside; and that's why my father brought me out west, because the doctor said it frightened me so. why, they had to pour water over me and drown me almost to death, or i'd have died!" "i wonder!" "yes, 'twas johnny eastman; but his mamma gave me a beautiful little tea-set, with _golder_ rims than the one that was burnt up; and johnny and percy both felt dreadfully." "wanted the tea-set themselves--did they?" "o, no; _they_ never play tea. that isn't why they feel dreadfully; it's because, if they ever frighten me again, the mayor'll have them put in the _penitential_, and they know it." "they were mean fellows; that's a fact," said horace, with genuine indignation. "i used to be full of mischief when i was small; but i never frightened a little girl in my life; and no boy would do it that thinks anything of himself." dotty looked up admiringly at the youth of twelve years, liking him all the better for his chivalry, as any of you little girls would have done. "boy-cousins are not always alike," said she, as if the idea was quite new; "some are good, and some are naugh--" the word was cut in two by a scream. a large and very handsome snake was gliding gracefully across her path. the like of it for size and brilliancy, she had never seen before. "o, how boo-ful!" cried katie, darting after it. horace held her back. dotty trembled violently. "kill it," she screamed; "throw stones at it; take me away! take me away!" "poh, dotty; nothing but an innocent snake; he's more afraid of you than you are of him." "you told him take you away two times," exclaimed katie, "and he didn't, and he didn't." "i never knew you had such awful things out west," said dotty shuddering. "and i don't think _now_ there's _any_ difference in boy-cousins! they never take you away, nor do anything you ask 'em to--so there!" "why, dotty, he was hurrying as fast as he could to get out of our sight; there was no need of taking you away." "she needn't be 'fraid," observed flyaway, soothingly; "if i had a sidders, i could ha' cutted him in two." by this time the rest of the party had arrived. grace and cassy walked together very confidentially under the same umbrella which had sheltered them years ago--a black one marked with white paint, "stolen from h.s. clifford." "bold thieves" horace called them; but they deigned no notice of his remark. "i'll get an answer," murmured horace, repeating aloud,-- "'hey for the apple and ho for the pear, but give me the girl with the red hair.'" at this grace turned around sharply, and shook her bare head, which gleamed in the sun like burnt gold. "panoria swan has red hair," said she,--"fire-red; but mine is auburn." "o, i only wanted to make you speak, grace; that will do." "here we are at the woods," said mr. clifford. he had once owned a neighboring lot, and his pecan trees had been fenced around to protect them from the impertinent swine; but now the party were going into the heart of the forest. the pecan trees were tall, somewhat like maples, with the nuts growing on them in shucks, after the manner of walnuts. these shucks, if left till the coming of frost, would have opened of themselves, and scattered the nuts to the ground; but our friends preferred to gather a few bushels before they were perfectly ripened, rather than lose them altogether. as the easiest method, mr. clifford said they might as well fell a tree, for he had a right to do so. he had brought an axe in his carriage; and mr. parlin, whose good right arm had never been injured in the war, soon brought a noble tree to the ground. then there was a scrambling to see which should break off the most shucks. dotty sat down on a log, half afraid there might be a snake lurking under it, and picked with all her might. [illustration: going nutting.--page .] "we don't have any pecans at deering's oaks," she thought, "and nothing but shells at the islands. i only wish prudy was here. prudy would think i had a little temper at horace just now; i wonder if he did. i will show him i am sorry; for he _is_ a good boy, and a great deal more 'style' and polite than percy." "what makes our little darling look so dismal?" said cassy, taking a seat beside dotty dimple. "o, i was thinking a great _many_ things! i'm so far off, cassy! when i think of that, i want to scream right out. prudy's at home, and i'm here! i don't want to be so far off". "but only think, dear, how much you will have to tell when you get home; and in such a little while too." dotty was instantly consoled, for a crowd of recollections rushed into her mind of wonderful events which had occurred since she parted from prudy. the "far off" feeling left her as she thought of the stories she should have to tell to admiring listeners one of these days. when it was time for dinner, mrs. clifford spread a table-cloth on the ground, and covered it with the nice food she had brought. it was a delightful entertainment. flyaway was so nearly wild with the new experience of eating in the woods, among the toads and squirrels, that she required constant watching to keep her within bounds. she wanted to run after all the little creeping things she saw, and give them part of her dinner. horace gladly assumed the care of her. he did not mean that his mother should regret having brought little topknot. chapter x. surprises. after a very happy day in the woods, the cliffords started for home with as many nuts as they could carry. dotty said she had had a nice time; but for some reason she could not go to sleep that night. there was a burning sensation in her right side, and she had a horrible fancy that a snake had bitten her. she could not endure the thought of lying and listening to the strokes of the clock. "i'll go find my father," thought she, with that "far-off" feeling at her heart again. but which way to go? she had not yet learned the plan of the house, but had no doubt she could find her father's room. she pattered about the chambers with her little bare feet, and at last waked horace by overturning a chair near his bed. "why, who is there? and what's wanted?" "it's me, and i want my father." by this time aunt maria, hearing a noise, had come in with a light. "are you sick, dear child?" "no, auntie; i don't know what's the matter; i 'spect it's the blues. i had 'em you know, when the beer came to an end--i mean the world--i mean that night polly whiting called me up." horace used all his self-control to keep from laughing. "well, cousin dotty, you do look blue, i declare; as blue as the skimmiest milk of the cheatiest milkman. mother, isn't there something in the medicine chest that is good for the blues?" "they are in my side--i mean _it_," said dotty, dismally. "i'm afraid it's a--snake?" mrs. clifford took the afflicted child in her arms, and began to question her with regard to the exact spot where she felt the "blues," assuring her that some relief might be afforded if the nature of the trouble could only be discovered. "o, ho," cried horace, suddenly; "i know what it is; it's a jigger." upon reflection, it was decided that horace might be right. a little creature called the _chègre_, had perhaps made its way out of some decayed log and crept in under dotty's skin, causing all this heat and irritation. there was a small, hard swelling on her side, which appeared to move. her father asked her if she was willing to have him cut it out with his penknife. dotty hesitated; her nerves quivered at sight of the sharp blade. "but that cruel little _chègre_ is drinking your blood, my daughter. the more he drinks, the larger he will grow, and the harder it will be to cut him out." "that's so," said horace. "i could preach, with jigger for a text. ahem! he is like sin--the more you let him stay, the more you'll wish you hadn't. come, dotty, be brave, and out with him!" "you can talk to _me_," said dotty, bitterly; "but if it was _your_ side that had a _jiggle_ in, perhaps you'd feel as bad's i do." horace was prepared for this. "but i've had them cut out twice, miss. being a boy, i could bear it!" this settled the question. "girls are just as brave as boys," said dotty; and submitted to the knife without a murmur. the next day she was regarded as something of an invalid. she had lost so much sleep that she did not rise until her father was far away on his journey. aunt maria gave her a late breakfast, which was also to serve for an early dinner. it was an oyster-stew; and dotty enjoyed eating it in mrs. clifford's room on the lounge. katie sat beside her, watching every mouthful, and begging for it the moment it entered the spoon. "don't tease so," said dotty; "your poor cousin is sick; you don't want to take away her soup?" "yes, i does," replied katie, coolly; "i likes it myself," opening her mouth for more. dotty gave her an oyster. the next moment something grated against katie's teeth, and she picked out the hard substance with her fingers. mrs. clifford happened to see it. "that is a pearl," said she. "a pearl, auntie? why, isn't that something precious? mamma has pearls in a ring." "i will show it to your uncle," replied mrs. clifford, turning it over in her hand; "but i think it is a true pearl, only a little discolored by the heat it has undergone in being cooked." "o, i'll have a ring made of it! what funny oysters you do have out west!" "the pyurl is mine," said katie; "i finded it in my toof." "no, it's mine, darling, for 'twas in my stew." "well, tenny rate, i want um," said katie, dancing around the sofa, "_if_ you pees um." "o, no; little bits of girlies don't need it--do they, auntie?" "i hope," said mrs. clifford, smiling, "it will not cost either of you any of those 'falling pearls which men call tears.' it isn't worth crying about." katie was easily persuaded to give it up. "you may keep um if you'll let me have two poun's of gold; _two_ poun's to make me a ying." dotty could not promise the gold; but said katie should have the next pickled lime she bought with her money; and this answered quite as well. just as dotty was going to her room to put away the choice pearl in a box which stood in her trunk, there was a loud noise. phebe, coming up stairs with a pail of water in each hand, had stumbled and fallen. the water was pouring down in a cataract, and after it rattled the pails mrs. clifford ran to the rescue. phebe was looking aghast, making a wild gesture with one hand, and rubbing her nose with the other. "you didn't fall on your _nose_, phebe?" "yes, ma'am," sobbed the poor girl; "and i believe it's broke; i heard it crack!" mrs. clifford might have upbraided phebe for carrying two buckets up stairs at once, contrary to orders; but she did nothing of the sort; she kindly sent for the surgeon, who set the two fragments of nose together as well as he could. "never mind it, child," remarked he, facetiously, to the disconsolate phebe; "you have only been beautifying your countenance. hereafter you will not be taken for one of the flat-nosed race." the young african saw no amusement in the joke, and left the room with her handkerchief at her eyes. "doctor," said mrs. clifford, "how could you speak so to that poor child? she has just as much regard for her personal appearance as you and i have for ours. you never use such language to one of my family; and please remember i would not have the feelings of my servants unnecessarily wounded any sooner than those of my children." "i stand rebuked, my dear madam," replied the family physician, respectfully. "i wish there were more such women as mrs. clifford," mused he, as he drove home; "she lives up to the golden rule; and if there's any better prescription than the golden rule for making a lady, i haven't seen it yet; that's all." it was one of those days when strange things seem ready to happen, one after another. dotty, whose little head was rather unsettled by seeing and hearing so many new things, had an impression that such events as these were always occurring out west, and that they would never have happened anywhere else. _chègres_ in logs, pearls in oysters; and now somebody had fallen up stairs and broken her nose. in maine who ever heard the like? dotty twirled her hair, in a state of wonder as to what would come next. it came before bedtime. she and grace had been marching about the dining-room, singing martial songs. they went into the darkened parlor, still promenading, grace's arm about her little cousin's waist. suddenly grace stopped, and whispered,-- "what's that?" dotty listened. it was a groan. it must proceed from a human throat; but there was no one in the room but their two selves. "i think there is _something_ in the hall," whispered grace; "i must go tell papa." mr. clifford immediately took a lamp, and went to investigate the mystery. dotty insisted upon going too, though she hardly knew why, except that the prospect of some unknown horror fascinated her. she clung to the skirt of her uncle's coat, though he would have preferred not to be hindered. no one else, not even horace, cared to follow. as they entered the parlor there was the same sound from the hall, even more unearthly than ever. dotty had entire faith in her uncle, and was not at all alarmed till they passed through the parlor doorway, and she saw the finger-prints of blood on the panels. then she did tremble, and she had half a mind to draw back; but curiosity was stronger than fear. what _could_ it be that walked into people's houses _out west_, and groaned so in their front halls? she must see the whole thing for herself, and be prepared to describe it to prudy. she soon knew what it meant. there was a poor intoxicated man lying on the mat. seeing the door open, he had staggered in while the family were at tea. in some way he had hurt his hand, and stained the door with blood. so there was nothing at all mysterious or supernatural in the affair, when it was once explained. the poor creature was too helpless to be sent into the street; and mr. clifford and katinka carried him into the stable, and laid him upon a bed of sweet hay. "i'm glad not to be a hoojer," said dotty, with a severe look at her cousin horace. "you don't ever see such bad men in the state of maine. the whiskey is locked up; and i don't know as there _is_ any whiskey." "down east is a great place, dotty! don't i wish i was a yankee--i mean a 'publican?" "but you can't be, horace," returned little dotty, looking up at him with deep pity in her bright eyes; "you weren't born there. you're a hoojer, and you'll have to _stay_ a hoojer." chapter xi. sniggling for eels. next day mr. clifford said he would take all the children, except miss flyaway, to see a coal mine. it was nothing new to horace, who was in the habit of exploring his native town as critically as a regularly employed surveyor. you could hardly show him anything which he had not already seen and examined carefully, from a steamboat to a dish of "sour-krout." grace and cassy were by no means as learned, and had never ventured under ground. they feared, yet longed, to make the experiment. as for dotty, she knew jennie vance's ring had been found in a mine. she had a vague notion that strange, half-human creatures were at work in the bowels of the earth, hunting for similar bits of jewelry. she had a secret hope that, if she went down there, she might herself see something shining in a dark corner; and what if it should be a piece of yellow gold, just suitable to be made into a ring to contain the oyster pearl! how surprised jennie vance would be to see such a precious treasure on her little friend's finger! "she didn't find her ring herself, and it isn't a pearl. but i shan't give mine away, and shan't promise to, and then tell that i never. that's a _hyper'blee_!" dotty had found a new name for white lies. "it is so nice," said grace, as they started from the door, "to have a little cousin visiting us! for it makes us think of going to a great many places where we never went before." "then i'm glad there _is_ a little cousin, and _very_ glad it's me." "they like to have me here," she thought, "almost as much as if i was prudy." horace enjoyed the distinction of walking with the handsome miss dimple. when they met one of the boys of his acquaintance, he found an opportunity to whisper in his ear,-- "this is our little cousin from down east. isn't she a beauty? she can climb a tree as well as you can." dotty heard the whisper, and unconsciously tossed her head a little. she could not but conclude that she was becoming a personage of some consequence. "i'm a beauty; and now i'm growing pleasant, too. i don't have any temper, and haven't had any for a great while." dotty did not reflect that there had been no occasion for anger. if one cannot be amiable when one is visiting, and is treated with every possible attention, then one must be ill-natured indeed! dotty deceived herself. the lion was still there; he was curled up, and out of sight in his den. they passed several lager-beer saloons and candy shops; saw dutchmen smoking meerschaums under broad awnings; and heard them talking in the guttural german language, as if--so dotty thought--they had something in their throats which they could not swallow. after walking a long distance on a level road, and seeing nothing which looked like a hill, they came to the coal mines. such a dirty spot! there were men standing about with faces as black as night, and out of the blackness gleamed the whites of their eyes like bits of white paper surrounded by pools of ink. dotty stood still and gazed. "horace," she whispered, "my conscience tells me they are niggroes." "then, dear, your conscience has made a mistake; they are white men when they are clean." mr. clifford went up to one of the men, and asked if himself and the little people, might have an inside view of the mine. the man smiled a black and white smile, which dotty thought was horrible, and said,-- "o, yes, sir; come on." there was a large platform lying over the top like a trap-door, and through this platform was drawn a large rope. grace and cassy both screamed as they stood upon the planks, and caught mr. clifford by the arms. dotty was not afraid; she liked the excitement. the men said it was as safe as going down cellar, and she believed them. but she was not exactly prepared for the strange, wild, dizzy sensation in her head when they began to sink down, down into the earth. it was delightful. "it seemed like being swung very high in the air," she said, "only it was just as _different_, too, as it could be." the men had live torches in their caps, which startled the dark mine with gleams of light and strange black shadows. "i don't feel as if i was in this world," cried dotty, with a sensation of awe, and catching grace by the arm to make sure she was near some one who had warm flesh and blood. after this emotion had passed, she went around by herself, and explored the mine carefully, telling no one what she was seeking. there was the blackest of coal and the darkest of earth in abundance; but dotty dimple did not find a gold ring, nor anything which looked more like it than two blind mules. these poor animals lived in the mines, and hauled coal. they had once possessed as good eyes as mules need ask for; but, living where there was nothing but darkness to be seen, and no sunlight to see it by, pray what did they need of eyesight? "cassy," said grace, "don't you remember, when we were children, we used to say we meant some time to live together and keep house? suppose we try it here. we might have gas-light, you know, and all our food could be brought down on a dumb waiter." "yes," said cassy, who was very fond of sleep; "and we needn't ever get up in the morning." "no skeetos," suggested dotty. "men have lived in the earth sometimes," said horace. "there was st. dunstan; his cell was hardly large enough to stand in--was it, father? and sometimes he stood in water all night, and sang psalms." "what was that for, uncle edward?" "he was trying to please god." "but uncle, i don't believe god liked it." "the man was, no doubt, insane, dear. but his perseverance in doing what he thought right was something grand. now suppose, children, we ascend and see what is going on atop of the earth." "i'm glad we didn't always have to stay in that black hole," said dotty, catching her breath as they were drawn up. then the thought occurred to her that the one who had made the sunlight and the soft green earth was kinder than she had ever supposed. "well," said cousin horace, "now we've done the mine; and this evening, dotty, you and i will go and sniggle for eels." dotty dared not tell any one that she had expected to find gold, and had been disappointed. her first act, after reaching aunt 'ria's was to look in the little box for her precious pearl. it was gone! no doubt flyaway had taken it. dotty mourned over her own carelessness in leaving her treasure where the roguish little one could reach it. instead of finding gold, she had lost something she supposed was more precious than gold. but she bore up as bravely as possible, and said to mrs. clifford,-- "you needn't punish the baby, aunt 'ria; she didn't know she was stealing." dotty had never seen an eel. like a coal mine, a pearl, a guinea pig, a drunken man, and a _chègre_, she supposed an eel was peculiar to the climate, and could be found nowhere but out west. as it had been described as being "really a fish, but looking more like a snake," she did not expect to be very much charmed with its personal appearance. she wished to catch one, or see one caught, because it would be something to tell prudy. there was no moon, and the night was cloudy. "my son, be sure you take good care of your cousin," said mrs. clifford, the last thing. "so funny!" dotty thought. "they don't seem to think there's anybody else in this world but just _me_!" horace carried with him some light wood, and, when they reached the river bank, kindled a bright fire. "we'll make things look friendly and pleasant," said he; "and by and by mr. eel will walk along to the fire, and ask if we entertain travellers. 'if so,' says he, 'you may count me in.'" "how dried up the river looks!" said dotty. "that is because the draymen have taken so much water out of it, little cousin. haven't you seen them going by with barrels?" "i shouldn't think the mayor'd 'low them to do it, horace; for some time there won't be any river left." "it's too bad to impose upon you," said horace, laughing; "i was only joking." dotty drew herself up with so much dignity that she nearly fell backward into the fire. good-natured horace repented him of his trifling. "look down in the water, dotty, and see if there is anything there that looks like an eel?" dotty did not move. "don't go to being vexed, chickie; you're as bright as anybody, after all." dotty smiled again. "there," said horace, "now we'll begin not to talk. we'll not say a word, and next thing we know, we'll catch that eel." but he was mistaken. they knew several other things before they knew they had caught an eel. horace knew it was growing late, and dotty knew it made her sleepy to sit without speaking. "enough of this," cried horace, breaking the spell of silence at last. "you may talk now as much as you please. i've had my line out two hours. they say 'in mud eel is;' but i don't believe it." "nor i either." but at that very moment an eel bit. horace drew him in with great satisfaction. dotty gave a little start of disgust, but had the presence of mind not to scream at sight of the ugly creature, because she had heard horace say girls always did scream at eels. "he will know now i _am_ as bright as anybody; as bright as a boy." they started for home, well pleased with their evening's work. "did you notice," asked dotty, "how i acted? i never screamed at that eel once." "you're a lady, dotty. i don't know but you might be trusted to go trouting. i never dared take prudy, she is troubled so with palpitation of the tongue." a proud moment this for dotty. more discreet than sister prudy. praise could no farther go! an agreeable surprise awaited her at aunt maria's. "please accept with my love," said grace, giving her a tiny box. dotty opened the box, and found, enveloped in rose-colored cotton, a beautiful gold ring, dotted with a pearl. "i was the thief, cousin dotty. i hope you will excuse the liberty i took in going to your trunk." "so it is my own oyster pearl," cried dotty. "o, i never was so glad in my life." chapter xii. "a post office letter." the "far-off" feeling rather increased upon dotty. it seemed to her that she had never before reflected upon the immense distance which lay between her and home. the house might burn up before ever she got back. prudy might have a lung fever, and mamma the "typo." it was possible for zip to choke with a bone, and for a thousand other dreadful things to happen. and if dotty were needed ever so much, she could not reach home without travelling all those miles. then, what if one of the conductors should prove to be a "_non,_" and she should never reach home at all, but, instead of that, should be found lying in little pieces under a railroad bridge? sister prudy had never troubled her head with such fancies. the dear god would attend to her, she knew. he cared just as much about her one little self as if she had been the whole united states. but dotty did not understand how this could be. "i wish i hadn't come out west at all," thought she. "they're going to take me up to indi'nap'lis; and there i'll have to stay, p'raps a week; for my father always has such long business! dear, dear! and i don't know but everybody's dead!" just as she had drawn a curtain of gloom over her bright little face, and had buried both her dimples under it, and all her smiles, uncle henry came home from his office, looking very roguish. "well, little miss, and what do you suppose i've brought you from up town? put on your thinking-cap, and tell me." "bananas? papaws? 'simmons? lemons? dear me, what is it? is it to eat or wear? and have you got it in your pocket?" uncle henry, who had had his hand behind him, now held it out with a letter in it--a letter in a white envelope, directed, in clear, elegant writing, to "miss alice b. parlin, care of h.s. clifford, esq., quinn, indiana." there could be no mistake about it; the letter was intended for dotty dimple, and had travelled all the way by mail. but then that title, miss, before the name! it was more than probable that the people all along the road had supposed it was intended for a young lady! [illustration: dotty's first post-office letter. _page _.] when the wonderful thing was given her, her "first post-office letter," she clapped her hands for joy. "miss? miss?" repeated she, as horace re-read the direction; for she was not learned in the mysteries of writing, and could not read it for herself. "o, yes. _miss_, certainly! if it was to me, it would be mr." "_master_, you mean," corrected grace. "no, horace, you are not mr. yet!" said dotty, confidently; "you've never been married." the next thing in order was the reading of the letter. dotty tore it open with a trembling hand. i should like to see another letter that would make a child so happy as that one did! it was written by three different people, and all to the same little girl. not a line to uncle henry or aunt maria, or horace or grace. all to dotty's self, as if she were a personage of the first importance. mamma began it. how charming to see "my dear little daughter," traced so carefully in printed capitals! then it was such a satisfaction to be informed, in the sweetest language, that this same "dear little daughter" was sadly missed. dotty was so glad to be missed! there was a present waiting for her at home. mrs. parlin was not willing to say what it was; but it had been sent by aunt madge from the city of new york, and must be something fine. there were two whole pages of the clear, fair writing, signed at the close, "your affectionate mother, mary l. parlin." just as if dotty didn't know what mother's name was! then susy followed with a short account of zip, and how he had stuck himself full of burs. (he wasn't choked yet, thought dotty; and that was a comfort.) then a longer account of the children's picnic at deering's oaks. dotty sighed, and felt that fate had been rather cruel in depriving her of that picnic. "but i have had something better than that," said she, brightening; "i've walked on an ensmallment, and i have picked pecans." but the best was to come. it was from prudy. "my dear little darling sister: i want to see you more than tongue can tell. norah let susy bake some biscuits last night, because there wasn't anybody at home but mother, and grandma, and susy, and norah, and me. but they were as tough as _sew leather_. susy forgot the creamor tartar, and soda, and salt. she wasn't to blame. "i'm so lonesome i can't wait to see my darling sister. "now i have some news to tell:-- "mother is going to be married! "you will think that is funny; but she is going to be married to the same husband she was before. "it will be a crystal wedding, because it is fifteen years. "she invites you and father to come home to it; she couldn't have it without father. "you are going to be the bridesmaid! how queer! mamma didn't think, the first time she was married, that ever it would be _you_ that would be her bridesmaid! "from your dear, dear "prudy." "p.s. there will be wedding cake." "p.s. no. . johnny eastman is going to be _bridegroom_, to stand up, if he doesn't do anything naughty before. p.p." the look of "mouldy melancholy" disappeared from dotty's face entirely. "a wedding! a _crystal_ wedding! what can that be? i didn't know my father and mother would ever be married any more. aunt 'ria, were you and uncle henry ever married any more?" "this is a sort of make-believe wedding," replied mrs. clifford; "that is all. and since you are to be bridesmaid, dotty, i wonder if i cannot find a pair of white slippers for you. i remember grace had a pair some years ago, which she has never worn." [illustration: the white slippers.--page .] the slippers were produced, and fitted perfectly. dotty danced about, embraced her auntie, made a great many wild speeches, and finally found herself in her uncle's lap, kissing him and laughing aloud. "i suppose now," said mr. clifford, "we cannot keep you much longer and i am sorry, for it is very pleasant to have our little cousin here to talk with us." "i don't wan't um go 'way, i don't want um go 'way," spoke up little katie. "but i _must_ go to meet my papa," returned dotty, with a business air. "i have to be at home to get ready for the wedding." it was very pleasant to know people liked her to stay. she ran into the kitchen, and said to katinka,-- "o, katinka, my papa and mamma are going to be married again! do you know i've got to start day after to-morrow?" "so?" replied katinka, not very much impressed. "i'm going to a party. i must up stairs go, and make my hairs and shut my dress. gute nacht." "i'm only going to stay one more day; aren't you sorry?" said dotty to broken-nosed phebe, who came in from the pantry with a long face. "why, i reckoned you was going _to-morrow_," was phebe's cool reply, rolling the whites of her eyes to hide a twinkle of fun. she knew dotty expected her to say, "i am sorry;" but, though she really was sorry, she would not confess it just then, because she was an inveterate tease. dotty felt a little chilled. she could not look into the future and see the tomato pincushion phebe was to give her, with the assurance that "she liked her a heap; she was a right smart child, and not a bit stuck up." the day ended with dotty's dear, dear letter under her pillow. she was going to be very happy by and by; but just now she thought she was so homesick that she should never go to sleep. she longed to see prudy, and hear her say, "o, you darling sister!" then that wedding! those white slippers! how they did all miss her at home! such dear friends as she had, and such beautiful things as were going to happen! "but they are so good to me here! i've behaved so well they love me dearly. if i go home, i can't stay here and have good times. i should be happy if i was at my mother's house and out west too! every time i'm glad, then there's something else to make me sorry." so, between a smile and a tear, dotty dimple passed into the beautiful land of dreams; and the moon shone on a little face with a frown between the eyes and a dimple dancing in each cheek. what happened to her on her way home and afterward will be told in the story of dotty dimple at play. [illustration: sophie may's "little folks" books.] "the authoress of the little prudy stories would be elected aunty-laureate if the children had an opportunity, for the wonderful books she writes for their amusement. she is the dickens of the nursery, and we do not hesitate to say develops the rarest sort of genius in the specialty of depicting smart little children."--_hartford post_. _lee and shepard, publishers, boston_. copyright, , by lee & shepard. * * * * * [illustration: portrait of sophie may (rebecca sophia clarke)] the children will not be left without healthful entertainment and kindly instruction so long as sophie may (miss rebecca s. clarke) lives and wields her graceful pen in their behalf. miss clarke has made a close and loving study of childhood, and she is almost idolized by the crowd of 'nephews and nieces' who claim her as aunt. nothing to us can ever be quite so delightfully charming as were the 'dotty dimple' and the 'little prudy' books to our youthful imaginations, but we have no doubt the little folks of to-day will find the story of 'flaxie frizzle' and her young friends just as fascinating. there is a sprightliness about all of miss clarke's books that attracts the young, and their purity, their absolute _cleanliness_, renders them invaluable in the eyes of parents and all who are interested in the welfare of children."--_morning star_. "genius comes in with 'little prudy.' compared with her, all other book-children are cold creations of literature; she alone is the real thing. all the quaintness of children, its originality, its tenderness and its teasing, is infinite uncommon drollery, the serious earnestness of its fun, the fun of its seriousness, the naturalness of its plays, and the delicious oddity of its progress, all these united for dear little prudy to embody them."--_north american review_. specimen cut to "little prudy's flyaway series." [illustration: prudy keeping house.] "'my, what a fascinating creature,' said the man in the moon, making an eye-glass with his thumb and fore-finger, and gazing at the lady boarder. 'are you a widow woman?'" * * * * * little grandmother. "grandmother parlen when a little girl is the subject. of course that was ever so long ago, when there were no lucifer matches, and steel and tinder were used to light fires; when soda and saleratus had never been heard of, but people made their pearl ash by soaking burnt crackers in water; when the dressmaker and the tailor and the shoemaker went from house to house twice a year to make the dresses and coats of the family."--_transcript_. * * * * * little grandfather. "the story of grandfather parlen's little boy life, of the days of knee breeches and cocked hats, full of odd incidents, queer and quaint sayings, and the customs of 'ye olden time.' these stories of sophie may's are so charmingly written that older folks may well amuse themselves by reading them. the same warm sympathy with childhood, the earnest naturalness, the novel charm of the preceding volumes will be found in this."--_christian messenger_. * * * * * miss thistledown. "one of the queerest of the prudy family. read the chapter heads and you will see just how much fun there must be in it. 'fly's heart,' 'taking a nap,' 'going to the fair,' 'the dimple dot,' 'the hole in the home,' 'the little bachelor,' 'fly's bluebeard,' 'playing mamma,' 'butter spots,' 'polly's secret,' 'the snow man,' 'the owl and the humming-bird,' 'tales of hunting deer,' and 'the parlen patchwork.'" * * * * * illustration to "little prudy's flyaway series" [illustration: little grandmother.] "she played in the old garret, with dr. moses to attend her dolls when they were sick." * * * * * [illustration: six volumes: per volume, cents.] flaxie frizzle. twin cousins. doctor papa. flaxie's kittyleen. little pitchers. flaxie growing up. * * * * * illustration to "flaxie frizzle series." [illustration] "the next day it rained so hard 'the water couldn't catch its breath' but the little pitchers were eager to go to school." * * * * * flaxie frizzle. "flaxie frizzle is the successor of the dotty dimple, little prudy, flyaway, and the other charming child creations of that inimitable writer for children, sophie may. there never was a healthy, fun-loving child born into this world that, at one stage of another of its growth, wouldn't be entertained with sophie may's books. for that matter, it is not safe for older folks to look into them, unless they intend to read them through. flaxie frizzle will be found as bright and pleasant reading as the others."--_boston journal_. * * * * * flaxie's doctor papa "sophie may understands children. her books are not books about them merely. she seems to know precisely how they feel, and she sets them before us, living and breathing in her pages. flaxie frizzle is a darling, and her sisters, brothers, and cousins are just the sort of little folks with whom careful mothers would like their boys and girls to associate. the story is a bright, breezy, wholesome narrative, and it is full of mirth and gayety, while its moral teaching is excellent."--_sunday school times_. * * * * * flaxie's little pitchers "little flaxie will secure a warm place in the hearts of all at once. here is her little picture. her name was mary gray, but they called her flaxie frizzle, because she had light curly hair that frizzled; and she had a curly nose,--that is, her nose curled up at the end a wee bit, just enough to make it look cunning. her cheeks were rosy red, 'and she was so fat that when mr. snow, the postmaster, saw her, he said, "how d'ye do, mother bunch?"'"--_boston home journal_. * * * * * specimen of cut to "flaxie frizzle series." [illustration] "by and by the colts came to the kitchen window, which was open, and put in their noses to ask for something to eat. flaxie gave them pieces of bread." * * * * * flaxie's twin cousins. "another of those sweet, natural child-stories in which the heroine does and says just such things as actual, live, flesh children do, is the one before us. and what is still better, each incident points a moral. the illustrations are a great addition to the delight of the youthful reader. it is just such beautiful books as this which bring to our minds, in severe contrast, the youth's literature of our early days--the good little boy who died young and the bad little boy who went fishing on sunday and died in prison, etc., etc., to the end of the threadbare, improbable chapter."--_rural new yorker_. * * * * * flaxie's kittyleen. "kittyleen--one of the flaxie frizzle series--is a genuinely helpful as well as delightfully entertaining story: the nine-year-old flaxie is worried, beloved, and disciplined by a bewitching three-year-old tormenter, whose accomplished mother allows her to prey upon the neighbors. 'everybody felt the care of mrs. garland's children. there were six of them, and their mother was always painting china. she did it beautifully, with graceful vines trailing over it, and golden butterflies ready to alight on sprays of lovely flowers. sometimes the neighbors thought it would be a fine thing if she would keep her little ones at home rather more; but, if she had done that, she could not have painted china.'"--_chicago tribune_. * * * * * flaxie growing up. "no more charming stories for the little ones were ever written than those comprised in the three series which have for several years past been from time to time added to juvenile literature by sophie may. they have received the unqualified praise of many of the most practical scholars of new england for their charming simplicity and purity of sentiment. the delightful story shows the gradual improvement of dear little flaxie's character under the various disciplines of child-life and the sweet influence of a good and happy home. the illustrations are charming pictures."--_home journal_. * * * * * illustration to "flaxie growing up." [illustration] "laughing was the very mainspring of life at camp comfort; but the girls had never laughed yet as they did now, to see buttons in full swing preparing to cook a pie." * * * * * penn shirley's stories for the little ones miss penn shirley is a very graceful interpreter of child-life. she thoroughly understands how to reach out to the tender chord of the little one's feelings, and to interest her in the noble life of her young companions. her stories are full of bright lessons, but they do not take on the character of moralizing sermons. her keen observation and ready sympathy teach her how to deal with the little ones in helping them to understand the lessons of life. her stories are simple and unaffected.--_boston herald_. the little miss weezy series three volumes illustrated boxed, each cents little miss weezy one of the freshest and most delightful, because the most natural of the stories of the year for children, is "little miss weezy," by penn shirley. it relates the oddities, the mischief, the adventures, and the misadventures of a tiny two-year-old maiden, full of life and spirit, and capable of the most unexpected freaks and pranks. the book is full of humor, and is written with a delicate sympathy with the feelings of children, which will make it pleasing to children and parents alike. really good child literature is not over-plenty, despite the multitude of books that come daily from the press; and it is pleasing to welcome a new author whose first volume, like this one of penn shirley, adds promise of future good work to actual present merit.--_boston courier_. * * * * * specimen illustration from "little miss weezy." [illustration] copyright, , by lee & shepard. * * * * * little miss weezy's brother this is a good story for young children, bringing in the same characters as "little miss weezy" of last year, and continuing the history of a very natural and wide-awake family of children. the doings and the various "scrapes" of kirke, the brother, form a prominent feature of the books, and are such as we may see any day in the school or home life of a well-cared-for and good-intentioned little boy. there are several quite pleasing full-page illustrations.--_the dial_. we should like to see the person who thinks it "easy enough to write for children," attempt a book like the "miss weezy" stories. excepting sophie may's childish classics, we don't know of anything published as bright as the sayings and doings of the little louise and her friends. their pranks and capers are no more like dotty dimple's than those of one bright child are like another's, but they are just as "cute" as those of the little folks that play in your yard or around your neighbor's doorsteps.--_journal of education_. * * * * * little miss weezy's sister "it is one of the best of the series, and will please every child who reads it. it is brought out just at the holiday time, and is brimful of good things. every character in it is true to nature and the doings of a bright lot of children, in which miss mary rowe figures conspicuously, will entertain grown folks as well as little ones." it is a thoroughly clever and delightful story of child life, gracefully told, and charming in its blending of humor and pathos. the children in the book are real children, and the pretty plot through which they move is fully in harmony with the characters. the young ones will find it a storehouse of pleasant things pleasantly related, and a book that will appeal at once to their sentiments and sympathies.--_boston gazette_. a book that will hold the place of honor on the nursery bookshelf until it falls to pieces from such handling is "little miss weezy's sister," a simple, yet absorbing story of children who are interesting because they are so real. it is doing scant justice to say for the author, penn shirley, that the annals of child-life have seldom been traced with more loving care.--_boston times_. * * * * * specimen illustration from "little miss weezy's sister." [illustration] copyright, , by lee and shepard. * * * * * sophie may's complete works. [illustration of books mentioned] drone's honey. a novel. $ . . _the quinnebasset series_. volumes. illustrated. per vol. $ . . the doctor's daughter. our helen. the asbury twins. quinnebasset girls. janet; a poor heiress. * * * * * _little prudy stories_. volumes. illustrated. per vol. cts. little prudy. little prudy's cousin grace. little prudy's sister susie. little prudy's story book. little prudy's captain horace. little prudy's dotty dimple. * * * * * _dotty dimple series_. volumes. illustrated. per vol. cts. dotty dimple at her grandmother's. dotty dimple at home. dotty dimple out west. dotty dimple at play. dotty dimple at school. dotty dimple's flyaway. * * * * * _little prudy flyaway series_ volumes. illustrated. per vol. cts. little folks astray. aunt madge's story. little grandfather. prudy keeping house. little grandmother. miss thistledown. * * * * * _flaxie frizzle stories_ volumes. illustrated. per vol. cts. flaxie frizzle. little pitchers. flaxie's kittyleen. doctor papa. twin cousins. flaxie growing up. * * * * * lee and shepard, publishers, boston. the hoosier schoolmaster a story of backwoods life in indiana revised with an introduction and notes on the district by the author, edward eggleston with character sketches by f. opper and other illustrations by w.e.b. starkweather grosset & dunlap publishers new york as a pebble cast upon a great cairn, this edition is inscribed to the memory of james russell lowell, whose cordial encouragement to my early studies of american dialect is gratefully remembered. the author. preface to the library edition. being the history of a story. "the hoosier school-master" was written and printed in the autumn of . it is therefore now about twenty-one years old, and the publishers propose to mark its coming of age by issuing a library edition. i avail myself of the occasion to make some needed revisions, and to preface the new edition with an account of the origin and adventures of the book. if i should seem to betray unbecoming pride in speaking of a story that has passed into several languages and maintained an undiminished popularity for more than a score of years, i count on receiving the indulgence commonly granted to paternal vanity when celebrating the majority of a first-born. with all its faults on its head, this little tale has become a classic, in the bookseller's sense at least; and a public that has shown so constant a partiality for it has a right to feel some curiosity regarding its history. i persuade myself that additional extenuation for this biography of a book is to be found in the relation which "the hoosier school-master" happens to bear to the most significant movement in american literature in our generation. it is the file-leader of the procession of american dialect novels. before the appearance of this story, the new england folk-speech had long been employed for various literary purposes, it is true; and after its use by lowell, it had acquired a standing that made it the classic _lingua rustica_ of the united states. even hoosiers and southerners when put into print, as they sometimes were in rude burlesque stories, usually talked about "huskin' bees" and "apple-parin' bees" and used many other expressions foreign to their vernacular. american literature hardly touched the speech and life of the people outside of new england; in other words, it was provincial in the narrow sense. i can hardly suppose that "the hoosier school-master" bore any causative relation to that broader provincial movement in our literature which now includes such remarkable productions as the writings of mr. cable, mr. harris, mr. page, miss murfree, mr. richard malcom johnson, mr. howe, mr. garland, some of mrs. burnett's stories and others quite worthy of inclusion in this list. the taking up of life in this regional way has made our literature really national by the only process possible. the federal nation has at length manifested a consciousness of the continental diversity of its forms of life. the "great american novel," for which prophetic critics yearned so fondly twenty years ago, is appearing in sections. i may claim for this book the distinction, such as it is, of being the first of the dialect stories that depict a life quite beyond new england influence. some of mr. bret harte's brief and powerful tales had already foreshadowed this movement toward a larger rendering of our life. but the romantic character of mr. harte's delightful stories and the absence of anything that can justly be called dialect in them mark them as rather forerunners than beginners of the prevailing school. for some years after the appearance of the present novel, my own stories had to themselves the field of provincial realism (if, indeed, there be any such thing as realism) before there came the succession of fine productions which have made the last fourteen years notable. though it had often occurred to me to write something in the dialect now known as hoosier--the folk-speech of the southern part of ohio, indiana, and illinois of forty years ago--i had postponed the attempt indefinitely, probably because the only literary use that had been made of the allied speech of the southwest had been in the books of the primitive humorists of that region. i found it hard to dissociate in my own mind the dialect from the somewhat coarse boisterousness which seemed inseparable from it in the works of these rollicking writers. it chanced that in taine's lectures on "art in the netherlands," or rather mr. john durand's translation of them, fell into my hands as a book for editorial review. these discourses are little else than an elucidation of the thesis that the artist of originality will work courageously with the materials he finds in his own environment. in taine's view, all life has matter for the artist, if only he have eyes to see. many years previous to the time of which i am now speaking, while i was yet a young man, i had projected a lecture on the hoosier folk-speech, and had even printed during the war a little political skit in that dialect in a st. paul paper. so far as i know, nothing else had ever been printed in the hoosier. under the spur of taine's argument, i now proceeded to write a short story wholly in the dialect spoken in my childhood by rustics on the north side of the ohio river. this tale i called "the hoosier school-master." it consisted almost entirely of an autobiographical narration in dialect by mirandy means of the incidents that form the groundwork of the present story. i was the newly installed editor of a weekly journal, _hearth and home_, and i sent this little story in a new dialect to my printer. it chanced that one of the proprietors of the paper saw a part of it in proof. he urged me to take it back and make a longer story out of the materials, and he expressed great confidence in the success of such a story. yielding to his suggestion, i began to write this novel from week to week as it appeared in the paper, and thus found myself involved in the career of a novelist, which had up to that time formed no part of my plan of life. in my inexperience i worked at a white-heat, completing the book in ten weeks. long before these weeks of eager toil were over, it was a question among my friends whether the novel might not write _finis_ to me before i should see the end of it. the sole purpose i had in view at first was the resuscitation of the dead-and-alive newspaper of which i had ventured to take charge. one of the firm of publishers thought much less favorably of my story than his partner did. i was called into the private office and informed with some severity that my characters were too rough to be presentable in a paper so refined as ours. i confess they did seem somewhat too robust for a sheet so anæmic as _hearth and home_ had been in the months just preceding. but when, the very next week after this protest was made, the circulation of the paper increased some thousands at a bound, my employer's critical estimate of the work underwent a rapid change--a change based on what seemed to him better than merely literary considerations. by the time the story closed, at the end of fourteen instalments, the subscription list had multiplied itself four or five fold. it is only fair to admit, however, that the original multiplicand had been rather small. papers in canada and in some of the other english colonies transferred the novel bodily to their columns, and many of the american country papers helped themselves to it quite freely. it had run some weeks of its course before it occurred to any one that it might profitably be reprinted in book form. the publishers were loath to risk much in the venture. the newspaper type was rejustified to make a book page, and barely two thousand copies were printed for a first edition. i remember expressing the opinion that the number was too large. "the hoosier school-master" was pirated with the utmost promptitude by the messrs. routledge, in england, for that was in the barbarous days before international copyright, when english publishers complained of the unscrupulousness of american reprinters, while they themselves pounced upon every line of american production that promised some shillings of profit. "the hoosier school-master" was brought out in england in a cheap, sensational form. the edition of ten thousand has long been out of print. for this large edition and for the editions issued in the british colonies and in continental europe i have never received a penny. a great many men have made money out of the book, but my own returns have been comparatively small. for its use in serial form i received nothing beyond my salary as editor. on the copyright edition i have received the moderate royalty allowed to young authors at the outset of their work. the sale of the american edition in the first twenty years amounted to seventy thousand copies. the peculiarity of this sale is its steadiness. after twenty years, "the hoosier school-master" is selling at the average rate of more than three thousand copies per annum. during the last half-dozen years the popularity of the book has apparently increased, and its twentieth year closed with a sale of twenty-one hundred in six months. only those who are familiar with the book trade and who know how brief is the life of the average novel will understand how exceptional is this long-continued popularity. some of the newspaper reviewers of twenty years ago were a little puzzled to know what to make of a book in so questionable a shape, for the american dialect novel was then a new-comer. but nothing could have given a beginner more genuine pleasure than the cordial commendation of the leading professional critic of the time, the late mr. george ripley, who wrote an extended review of this book for the _tribune_. the monthly magazines all spoke of "the hoosier school-master" in terms as favorable as it deserved. i cannot pretend that i was content with these notices at the time, for i had the sensitiveness of a beginner. but on looking at the reviews in the magazines of that day, i am amused to find that the faults pointed out in the work of my prentice hand are just those that i should be disposed to complain of now, if it were any part of my business to tell the reader wherein i might have done better. _the nation_, then in its youth, honored "the hoosier school-master" by giving it two pages, mostly in discussion of its dialect, but dispensing paradoxical praise and censure in that condescending way with which we are all familiar enough. according to its critic, the author had understood and described the old western life, but he had done it "quite sketchily, to be sure." yet it was done "with essential truth and some effectiveness." the critic, however instantly stands on the other foot again and adds that the book "is not a captivating one." but he makes amends in the very next sentence by an allusion to "the faithfulness of its transcript of the life it depicts," and then instantly balances the account on the adverse side of the ledger by assuring the reader that "it has no interest of passion or mental power." but even this fatal conclusion is diluted by a dependent clause. "possibly," says the reviewer, "the good feeling of the intertwined love story may conciliate the good-will of some of the malcontent." one could hardly carry further the fine art of oscillating between moderate commendation and parenthetical damnation--an art that lends a factitious air of judicial impartiality and mental equipoise. beyond question, _the nation_ is one of the ablest weekly papers in the world; the admirable scholarship of its articles and reviews in departments of special knowledge might well be a subject of pride to any american. but its inadequate reviews of current fiction add nothing to its value, and its habitual tone of condescending depreciation in treating imaginative literature of indigenous origin is one of the strongest discouragements to literary production. the main value of good criticism lies in its readiness and penetration in discovering and applauding merit not before recognized, or imperfectly recognized. this is a conspicuous trait of sainte-beuve, the greatest of all newspaper critics. he knew how to be severe upon occasion, but he saw talent in advance of the public and dispensed encouragement heartily, so that he made himself almost a foster-father to the literature of his generation in france. but there is a class of anonymous reviewers in england and america who seem to hold a traditional theory that the function of a critic toward new-born talent is analogous to that of pharaoh toward the infant jewish population[ ]. during the first year after its publication "the hoosier school-master" was translated into french and published in a condensed form in the _revue des deux mondes_. the translator was the writer who signs the name m. th. bentzon, and who is well known to be madame blanc. this french version afterward appeared in book form in the same volume with one of mr. thomas bailey aldrich's stories and some other stories of mine. in this latter shape i have never seen it. the title given to the story by madame blanc was "le maître d'École de flat creek." it may be imagined that the translator found it no easy task to get equivalents in french for expressions in a dialect new and strange. "i'll be dog-on'd" appears in french as "devil take me" ("_diable m'emporte_"), which is not bad; the devil being rather a jolly sort of fellow, in french. "the church of the best licks" seems rather unrenderable, and i do not see how the translator could have found a better phrase for it than "_l'eglise des raclées_" though "_raclées_" does not convey the double sense of "licks." "_jim epelait vite comme l'eclair_" is not a good rendering of "jim spelled like lightning," since it is not the celerity of the spelling that is the main consideration. "_concours d'epellation_" is probably the best equivalent for "spelling-school," but it seems something more stately in its french dress. when bud says, with reference to hannah, "i never took no shine that air way," the phrase is rather too idiomatic for the french tongue, and it becomes "i haven't run after that hare" ("_je n'ai pas chassé ce lièvre-la_"). perhaps the most sadly amusing thing in the translation is the way the meaning of the nickname shocky is missed in an explanatory foot-note. it is, according to the translator, an abbreviation or corruption of the english word "shocking," which expresses the shocking ugliness of the child--"_qui exprime la laideur choquante de l'enfant_." a german version of "the hoosier school-master" was made about the time of the appearance of the french translation, but of this i have never seen a copy. i know of it only from the statement made to me by a german professor, that he had read it in german before he knew any english. what are the equivalents in high german for "right smart" and "dog-on" i cannot imagine. several years after the publication of "the hoosier school-master" it occurred to mr. h. hansen, of kjöge, in denmark, to render it into danish. among the danes the book enjoyed a popularity as great, perhaps, as it has had at home. the circulation warranted mr. hansen and his publisher in bringing out several other novels of mine. the danish translator was the only person concerned in the various foreign editions of this book who had the courtesy to ask the author's leave. under the old conditions in regard to international copyright, an author came to be regarded as one not entitled even to common civilities in the matter of reprinting his works--he was to be plundered without politeness. as i look at the row of my books in the unfamiliar danish, i am reminded of that new england mother who, on recovering her children carried away by the canadian indians, found it impossible to communicate with a daughter who spoke only french and a son who knew nothing but the speech of his savage captors. mr. hansen was thoughtful enough to send me the reviews of my books in the danish newspapers; and he had the double kindness to translate these into english and to leave out all but those that were likely to be agreeable to my vanity. of these i remember but a single sentence, and that because it was expressed with felicity. the reviewer said of the fun in "the hoosier school-master:" "this is humor laughing to keep from bursting into tears." a year or two before the appearance of "the hoosier school-master," a newspaper article of mine touching upon american dialect interested mr. lowell, and he urged me to "look for the foreign influence" that has affected the speech of the ohio river country. my reverence for him as the master in such studies did not prevent me from feeling that the suggestion was a little absurd. but at a later period i became aware that north irishmen used many of the pronunciations and idioms that distinctly characterized the language of old-fashioned people on the ohio. many ulster men say "wair" for were and "air" for are, for example. connecting this with the existence of a considerable element of scotch-irish names in the ohio river region, i could not doubt that here was one of the keys the master had bidden me look for. while pursuing at a later period a series of investigations into the culture-history of the american people in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, i became much interested in the emigration to america from the north of ireland, a movement that waxed and waned as the great irish-linen industry of the last century declined or prospered. the first american home of these irish was pennsylvania. a portion of them were steady-going, psalm-singing, money-getting people, who in course of time made themselves felt in the commerce, politics, and intellectual life of the nation. there was also a dare-devil element, descended perhaps from those rude borderers who were deported to ireland more for the sake of the peace of north britain than for the benefit of ireland. in this rougher class there was perhaps a larger dash of the celtic fire that came from the wild irish women whom the first scotch settlers in ulster made the mothers of their progeny. arrived in the wilds of pennsylvania, these irishmen built rude cabins, planted little patches of corn and potatoes, and distilled a whiskey that was never suffered to grow mellow. the forest was congenial to men who spent much the larger part of their time in boisterous sport of one sort or another. the manufacture of the rifle was early brought to lancaster, in pennsylvania, direct from the land of its invention by swiss emigrants, and in the adventurous scotch-irishman of the pennsylvania frontier the rifle found its fellow. irish settlers became hunters of wild beasts, explorers, pioneers, and warriors against the indians, upon whom they avenged their wrongs with relentless ferocity. both the irish race and the intermingled pennsylvania dutch were prolific, and the up-country of pennsylvania soon overflowed. emigration was held in check to the westward for a while by the cruel massacres of the french and indian wars, and one river of population poured itself southward into the fertile valleys of the virginia mountain country; another and larger flood swept still farther to the south along the eastern borders of the appalachian range until it reached the uplands of carolina. when the militia of one county in south carolina was mustered during the revolution, it was found that every one of the thirty-five hundred men enrolled were natives of pennsylvania. these were mainly sons of north irishmen, and from the carolina irish sprang calhoun, the most aggressive statesman that has appeared in america, and jackson, the most brilliant military genius in the whole course of our history. before the close of the revolution this adventurous race had begun to break over the passes of the alleghanies into the dark and bloody ground of kentucky and tennessee. soon afterward a multitude of pennsylvanians of all stocks--the scotch-irish and those germans, swiss, and hollanders who are commonly classed together as the pennsylvania dutch, as well as a large number of people of english descent--began to migrate down the ohio valley. along with them came professional men and people of more or less culture, chiefly from eastern virginia and maryland. there came also into indiana and illinois, from the border states and from as far south as north carolina and tennessee, a body of "poor whites." these semi-nomadic people, descendants of the colonial bond-servants, formed, in the second quarter of the nineteenth century, the lowest rank of hoosiers. but as early as there was a considerable exodus of these to missouri. from pike county, in that state, they wended their way to california, to appear in mr. bret harte's stories as "pikes." the movement of this class out of indiana went on with augmented volume in the fifties. the emigrants of this period mostly sought the states lying just west of the mississippi, and the poorer sort made the trip in little one-horse wagons of the sorriest description, laden mainly with white-headed children and followed by the yellow curs that are the one luxury indispensable to a family of this class. to this migration and to a liberal provision for popular education indiana owes a great improvement in the average intelligence of her people. as early as , i believe, the state had come to rank with some of the new england states in the matter of literacy. the folk-speech of the ohio river country has many features in common with that of the eastern middle states, while it received but little from the dignified eighteenth-century english of eastern virginia. there are distinct traces of the north-irish in the idioms and in the peculiar pronunciations. one finds also here and there a word from the "pennsylvania dutch," such as "waumus" for a loose jacket, from the german _wamms_, a doublet, and "smearcase" for cottage cheese, from the german _schmierkäse_. the only french word left by the old _voyageurs_, so far as i now remember, is "cordelle," to tow a boat by a rope carried along the shore. substantially the same folk-speech exists wherever the pennsylvania migration formed the main element of the primitive settlement. i have heard the same dialect in the south carolina uplands that one gets from a posey county hoosier, or rather that one used to get in the old days before the vandal school-master had reduced the vulgar tongue to the monotonous propriety of what we call good english. in drawing some of the subordinate characters in this tale a little too baldly from the model, i fell into an error common to inexperienced writers. it is amusing to observe that these portrait characters seem the least substantial of all the figures in the book. dr. small is a rather unrealistic villain, but i knew him well and respected him in my boyish heart for a most exemplary christian of good family at the very time that, according to testimony afterward given, he was diversifying his pursuits as a practising physician by leading a gang of burglars. more than one person has been pointed out as the original of bud means, and i believe there are one or two men each of whom flatters himself that he posed for the figure of the first disciple of the church of the best licks. bud is made up of elements found in some of his race, but not in any one man. not dreaming that the story would reach beyond the small circulation of _hearth and home_, i used the names of people in switzerland and decatur counties, in indiana, almost without being aware of it. i have heard that a young man bearing the surname given to one of the rudest families in this book had to suffer many gibes while a student at an indiana college. i here do public penance for my culpable indiscretion. "jeems phillips," name and all, is a real person whom at the time of writing this story i had not seen since i was a lad of nine and he a man of nearly forty. he was a mere memory to me, and was put into the book with some slighting remarks which the real jeems did not deserve. i did not know that he was living, and it did not seem likely that the story would have vitality enough to travel all the way to indiana. but the portion referring to phillips was transferred to the county paper circulating among jeems' neighbors. for once the good-natured man was, as they say in hoosier, "mad," and he threatened to thrash the editor. "do you think he means you?" demanded the editor. "to be sure he does," said the champion speller. "can you spell?" "i can spell down any master that ever came to our district," he replied. as time passed on, phillips found himself a lion. strangers desired an introduction to him as a notability, and invited the champion to dissipate with them at the soda fountain in the village drug store. it became a matter of pride with him that he was the most famous speller in the world. two years ago, while visiting the town of my nativity, i met upon the street the aged jeems phillips, whom i had not seen for more than forty years. i would go far to hear him "spell down" a complacent school-master once more. the publication of this book gave rise to an amusing revival of the spelling-school as a means of public entertainment, not in rustic regions alone, but in towns also. the furor extended to the great cities of new york and london, and reached at last to farthest australia, spreading to every region in which english is spelled or spoken. but the effect of the chapter on the spelling-school was temporary and superficial; the only organization that came from the spelling-school mania, so far as i know, was an association of proof-readers in london to discuss mooted points. the sketch of the church of the best licks, however, seems to have made a deep and enduring impression upon individuals and to have left some organized results. i myself endeavored to realize it, and for five years i was the pastor of a church in brooklyn, organized on a basis almost as simple as that in the flat creek school-house. the name i rendered into respectable english, and the church of the best licks became the church of christian endeavor. it was highly successful in doing that which a church ought to do, and its methods of work have been widely copied. after my work as a minister had been definitely closed, the name and the underlying thought of this church were borrowed for a young people's society; and thus the little story of good endeavor in indiana seems to have left a permanent mark on the ecclesiastical organization of the time. if any one, judging by the length of this preface, should conclude that i hold my little book in undue esteem, let him know that i owe it more than one grudge. it is said that thomas campbell, twenty years after the appearance of his best-known poem, was one day introduced as "the author of 'the pleasures of hope.'" "confound 'the pleasures of hope,'" he protested; "can't i write anything else?" so, however much i may prefer my later work, more carefully wrought in respect of thought, structure, and style, this initial novel, the favorite of the larger public, has become inseparably associated with my name. often i have mentally applied campbell's imprecation on "the pleasures of hope" to this story. i could not write in this vein now if i would, and twenty-one years have made so many changes in me that i dare not make any but minor changes in this novel. the author of "the hoosier school-master" is distinctly not i; i am but his heir and executor; and since he is a more popular writer than i, why should i meddle with his work? i have, however, ventured to make some necessary revision of the diction, and have added notes, mostly with reference to the dialect. a second grudge against this story is that somehow its readers persist in believing it to be a bit of my own life. americans are credulous believers in that miracle of the imagination whom no one has ever seen in the flesh--the self-made man. some readers of "the hoosier school-master" have settled it for a certainty that the author sprang from the rustic class he has described. one lady even wrote to inquire whether my childhood were not represented in shocky, the little lad out of the poor-house. a biographical sketch of me in italian goes so far as to state that among the hard resorts by which i made a living in my early life was the teaching of a sunday-school in chicago. no one knows so well as i the faults of immaturity and inexperience that characterize this book. but perhaps after all the public is right in so often preferring an author's first book. there is what emerson would have called a "central spontaneity" about the work of a young man that may give more delight to the reader than all the precision of thought and perfection of style for which we strive as life advances. joshua's rock on lake george, . footnotes: [footnote : since writing the passage in the text, i have met with the following in _the speaker_, of london: "everybody knows that when an important work is published in history, philosophy, or any branch of science, the editor of a respectable paper employs an expert to review it; . . . indeed, the more abstruse the subject of the book, the more careful and intelligent you will find the review. . . . it is equally well known that works of fiction and books of verse are not treated with anything like the same care. . . . a good poem, play, or novel is at least as fine an achievement as a good history; yet the history gets the benefit of an expert's judgment and two columns of thoughtful pimse or censure, while the poem, play, or novel is treated to ten skittish lines by the hack who happens to be within nearest call when the book comes in."] part of the preface to the first edition. i may as well confess, what it would be affectation to conceal, that i am more than pleased with the generous reception accorded to this story as a serial in the columns of _hearth and home_. it has been in my mind since i was a hoosier boy to do something toward describing life in the back-country districts of the western states. it used to be a matter of no little jealousy with us, i remember, that the manners, customs, thoughts, and feelings of new england country people filled so large a place in books, while our life, not less interesting, not less romantic, and certainly not less filled with humorous and grotesque material, had no place in literature. it was as though we were shut out of good society. and, with the single exception of alice gary, perhaps, our western writers did not dare speak of the west otherwise than as the unreal world to which cooper's lively imagination had given birth. i had some anxiety lest western readers should take offence at my selecting what must always seem an exceptional phase of life to those who have grown up in the more refined regions of the west. but nowhere has the school-master been received more kindly than in his own country and among his own people. some of those who have spoken generous words of the school-master and his friends have suggested that the story is an autobiography. but it is not, save in the sense in which every work of art is an autobiography: in that it is the result of the experience and observation of the writer. readers will therefore bear in mind that not ralph nor bud nor brother sodom nor dr. small represents the writer, nor do i appear, as talleyrand said of madame de staël, "disguised as a woman," in the person of hannah or mirandy. some of the incidents have been drawn from life; none of them, i believe, from my own. i should like to be considered a member of the church of the best licks, however. it has been in my mind to append some remarks, philological and otherwise, upon the dialect, but professor lowell's admirable and erudite preface to the biglow papers must be the despair of every one who aspires to write on americanisms. to mr. lowell belongs the distinction of being the only one of our most eminent authors and the only one of our most eminent scholars who has given careful attention to american dialects. but while i have not ventured to discuss the provincialisms of the indiana backwoods, i have been careful to preserve the true _usus loquendi_ of each locution. brooklyn, december, . contents. chapter i page a private lesson from a bulldog . . . chapter ii. a spell coming. . . . . . . . . . . . chapter iii. mirandy, hank, and shocky . . . . . . chapter iv. spelling down the master. . . . . . . chapter v. the walk home . . . . . . . . . . . . chapter vi. a night at pete jones's . . . . . . . chapter vii ominous remarks of mr. jones. . . . . chapter viii. the struggle in the dark. . . . . . . chapter ix. has god forgotten shocky? . . . . . . chapter x. the devil of silence. . . . . . . . . chapter xi. miss martha hawkins . . . . . . . . . chapter xii. the hardshell preacher. . . . . . . . chapter xiii. a struggle for the mastery. . . . . . chapter xiv. a crisis with bud . . . . . . . . . . chapter xv. the church of the best licks. . . . . chapter xvi. the church militant . . . . . . . . . chapter xvii. a council of war. . . . . . . . . . . chapter xviii. odds and ends . . . . . . . . . . . . chapter xix. face to face. . . . . . . . . . . . . chapter xx. god remembers shocky. . . . . . . . . chapter xxi. miss nancy sawyer . . . . . . . . . . chapter xxii. pancakes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . chapter xxiii. a charitable institution. . . . . . . chapter xxiv the good samaritan. . . . . . . . . . chapter xxv. bud wooing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . chapter xxvi. a letter and its consequences . . . . chapter xxvii. a loss and a gain . . . . . . . . . . chapter xxviii. the flight. . . . . . . . . . . . . . chapter xxix. the trial . . . . . . . . . . . . . . chapter xxx. "brother sodom" . . . . . . . . . . . chapter xxxi. the trial concluded . . . . . . . . . chapter xxxii. after the battle. . . . . . . . . . . chapter xxxiii. into the light. . . . . . . . . . . . chapter xxxiv. "how it came out" . . . . . . . . . . the hoosier school-master. chapter i a private lesson from a bulldog. "want to be a school-master, do you? you? well, what would _you_ do in flat crick deestrick, _i'd_ like to know? why, the boys have driv off the last two, and licked the one afore them like blazes. you might teach a summer school, when nothin' but children come. but i 'low it takes a right smart _man_ to be school-master in flat crick in the winter. they'd pitch you out of doors, sonny, neck and heels, afore christmas." the young man, who had walked ten miles to get the school in this district, and who had been mentally reviewing his learning at every step he took, trembling lest the committee should find that he did not know enough, was not a little taken aback at this greeting from "old jack means," who was the first trustee that he lighted on. the impression made by these ominous remarks was emphasized by the glances which he received from jack means's two sons. the older one eyed him from the top of his brawny shoulders with that amiable look which a big dog turns on a little one before shaking him. ralph hartsook had never thought of being measured by the standard of muscle. this notion of beating education into young savages in spite of themselves dashed his ardor. he had walked right to where jack means was at work shaving shingles in his own front yard. while mr. means was making the speech which we have set down above, and punctuating it with expectorations, a large brindle bulldog had been sniffing at ralph's heels, and a girl in a new linsey-woolsey dress, standing by the door, had nearly giggled her head off at the delightful prospect of seeing a new school-teacher eaten up by the ferocious brute. the disheartening words of the old man, the immense muscles of the young man who was to be his rebellious pupil, the jaws of the ugly bulldog, and the heartless giggle of the girl, gave ralph a delightful sense of having precipitated himself into a den of wild beasts. faint with weariness and discouragement, and shivering with fear, he sat down on a wheelbarrow. "you, bull!" said the old man to the dog, which was showing more and more a disposition to make a meal of the incipient pedagogue, "you, bull! git aout[ ], you pup!" the dog walked sullenly off, but not until he had given ralph a look full of promise of what he meant to do when he got a good chance. ralph wished himself back in the village of lewisburg, whence he had come. "you see," continued mr. means, spitting in a meditative sort of a way, "you see, we a'n't none of your saft sort in these diggings. it takes a _man_ to boss this deestrick. howsumdever, ef you think you kin trust your hide in flat crick school-house i ha'n't got no 'bjection. but ef you git licked, don't come on us. flat crick don't pay no 'nsurance, you bet! any other trustees? wal, yes. but as i pay the most taxes, t'others jist let me run the thing. you can begin right off a monday. they a'n't been no other applications. you see, it takes grit to apply for this school. the last master had a black eye for a month. but, as i wuz sayin', you can jist roll up and wade in. i 'low you've got spunk, maybe, and that goes for a heap sight more'n sinnoo with boys. walk in, and stay over sunday with me. you'll hev' to board roun', and i guess you better begin here." ralph did not go in, but sat out on the wheelbarrow, watching the old man shave shingles, while the boys split the blocks and chopped wood. bull smelled of the new-comer again in an ugly way, and got a good kick from the older son for his pains. but out of one of his red eyes the dog warned the young school-master that _he_ should yet suffer for all kicks received on his account. "ef bull once takes a holt, heaven and yarth can't make him let go," said the older son to ralph, by way of comfort. it was well for ralph that he began to "board roun'" by stopping at mr. means's. ralph felt that flat creek was what he needed. he had lived a bookish life; but here was his lesson in the art of managing people, for he who can manage the untamed and strapping youths of a winter school in hoopole county has gone far toward learning one of the hardest of lessons. and in ralph's time, things were worse than they are now. the older son of mr. means was called bud means. what his real name was, ralph could not find out, for in many of these families the nickname of "bud" given to the oldest boy, and that of "sis," which is the birth-right of the oldest girl, completely bury the proper christian name. ralph saw his first strategic point, which was to capture bud means. after supper, the boys began to get ready for something. bull stuck up his ears in a dignified way, and the three or four yellow curs who were bull's satellites yelped delightedly and discordantly. "bill," said bud means to his brother, "ax the master ef he'd like to hunt coons. i'd like to take the starch out uv the stuck-up feller." "'nough said[ ]," was bill's reply. "you durn't[ ] do it," said bud. "i don't take no sech a dare[ ]," returned bill, and walked down to the gate, by which ralph stood watching the stars come out, and half wishing he had never seen flat creek. "i say, mister," began bill, "mister, they's a coon what's been a eatin' our chickens lately, and we're goin' to try to ketch[ ] the varmint. you wouldn't like to take a coon hunt nor nothin', would you?" "why, yes," said ralph, "there's nothing i should like better, if i could only be sure bull wouldn't mistake me for the coon." and so, as a matter of policy, ralph dragged his tired legs eight or ten miles, on hill and in hollow, after bud, and bill, and bull, and the coon. but the raccoon[ ] climbed a tree. the boys got into a quarrel about whose business it was to have brought the axe, and who was to blame that the tree could not be felled. now, if there was anything ralph's muscles were good for, it was climbing. so, asking bud to give him a start, he soon reached the limb above the one on which the raccoon was. ralph did not know how ugly a customer a raccoon can be, and so got credit for more courage than he had. with much peril to his legs from the raccoon's teeth, he succeeded in shaking the poor creature off among the yelping brutes and yelling boys. ralph could not help sympathizing with the hunted animal, which sold its life as dearly as possible, giving the dogs many a scratch and bite. it seemed to him that he was like the raccoon, precipitated into the midst of a party of dogs who would rejoice in worrying _his_ life out, as bull and his crowd were destroying the poor raccoon. when bull at last seized the raccoon and put an end to it, ralph could not but admire the decided way in which he did it, calling to mind bud's comment, "ef bull once takes a holt, heaven and yarth[ ] can't make him let go." but as they walked home, bud carrying the raccoon by the tail, ralph felt that his hunt had not been in vain. he fancied that even red-eyed bull, walking uncomfortably close to his heels, respected him more since he had climbed that tree. "purty peart kind of a master," remarked the old man to bud, after ralph had gone to bed. "guess you better be a little easy on him. hey?" but bud deigned no reply. perhaps because he knew that ralph heard the conversation through the thin partition. ralph woke delighted to find it raining. he did not want to hunt or fish on sunday, and this steady rain would enable him to make friends with bud. i do not know how he got started, but after breakfast he began to tell stories. out of all the books he had ever read he told story after story. and "old man means," and "old _miss_ means," and bud means, and bill means, and sis means listened with great eyes while he told of sinbad's adventures, of the old man of the sea, of robinson crusoe, of captain gulliver's experiences in liliput, and of baron munchausen's exploits. ralph had caught his fish. the hungry minds of these backwoods people were refreshed with the new life that came to their imaginations in these stories. for there was but one book in the means library, and that, a well-thumbed copy of "captain riley's narrative," had long since lost all freshness. "i'll be dog-on'd[ ]," said bill, emphatically, "ef i hadn't 'ruther hear the master tell them whoppin' yarns than to go to a circus the best day i ever seed!" bill could pay no higher compliment. what ralph wanted was to make a friend of bud. it's a nice thing to have the seventy-four-gun ship on your own side, and the more hartsook admired the knotted muscles of bud means the more he desired to attach him to himself. so, whenever he struck out a peculiarly brilliant passage, he anxiously watched bud's eye. but the young philistine kept his own counsel. he listened, but said nothing, and the eyes under his shaggy brows gave no sign. ralph could not tell whether those eyes were deep and inscrutable or only stolid. perhaps a little of both. when monday morning came, ralph was nervous. he walked to school with bud. "i guess you're a little skeered by what the old man said, a'n't you?" ralph was about to deny it, but on reflection concluded that it was best to speak the truth. he said that mr. means's description of the school had made him feel a little down-hearted. "what will you do with the tough boys? you a'n't no match for 'em." and ralph felt bud's eyes not only measuring his muscles, but scrutinizing his countenance. he only answered: "i don't know." "what would you do with me, for instance?" and bud stretched himself up as if to shake out the reserve power coiled up in his great muscles. "i sha'n't have any trouble with you." "why, i'm the wust chap of all. i thrashed the last master, myself." and again the eyes of bud means looked out sharply from his shadowing brows to see the effect of this speech on the slender young man. "you won't thrash me, though," said ralph. "pshaw! i 'low i could whip you in an inch of your life with my left hand, and never half try," said young means, with a threatening sneer. "i know that as well as you do." "well, a'n't you afraid of me, then?" and again he looked sidewise at ralph. "not a bit," said ralph, wondering at his own courage. they walked on in silence a minute. bud was turning the matter over. "why a'n't you afraid of me?" he said presently. "because you and i are going to be friends." "and what about t'others?" "i am not afraid of all the other boys put together." "you a'n't! the mischief! how's that?" "well, i'm not afraid of them because you and i are going to be friends, and you can whip all of them together. you'll do the fighting and i'll do the teaching." the diplomatic bud only chuckled a little at this; whether he assented to the alliance or not ralph could not tell. when ralph looked round on the faces of the scholars--the little faces full of mischief and curiosity, the big faces full of an expression which was not further removed than second-cousin from contempt--when when young hartsook looked into these faces, his heart palpitated with stage-fright. there is no audience so hard to face as one of school-children, as many a man has found to his cost. perhaps it is that no conventional restraint can keep down their laughter when you do or say anything ridiculous. hartsook's first day was hurried and unsatisfactory. he was not of himself, and consequently not master of anybody else. when evening came, there were symptoms of insubordination through the whole school. poor ralph was sick at heart. he felt that if there had ever been the shadow of an alliance between himself and bud, it was all "off" now. it seemed to hartsook that even bull had lost his respect for the teacher. half that night the young man lay awake. at last comfort came to him. a reminiscence of the death of the raccoon flashed on him like a vision. he remembered that quiet and annihilating bite which bull gave. he remembered bud's certificate, that "ef bull once takes a holt, heaven and yarth can't make him let go." he thought that what flat creek needed was a bulldog. he would be a bulldog, quiet, but invincible. he would take hold in such a way that nothing should make him let go. and then he went to sleep. in the morning ralph got out of bed slowly. he put his clothes on slowly. he pulled on his boots in a bulldog mood. he tried to move as he thought bull would move if he were a man. he ate with deliberation, and looked everybody in the eyes with a manner that made bud watch him curiously. he found himself continually comparing himself with bull. he found bull possessing a strange fascination for him. he walked to school alone, the rest having gone on before. he entered the school-room preserving a cool and dogged manner. he saw in the eyes of the boys that there was mischief brewing. he did not dare sit down in his chair for fear of a pin. everybody looked solemn. ralph lifted the lid of his desk. "bow-wow! wow-wow!" it was the voice of an imprisoned puppy, and the school giggled and then roared. then everything was quiet. the scholars expected an outburst of wrath from the teacher. for they had come to regard the whole world as divided into two classes, the teacher on the one side representing lawful authority, and the pupils on the other in a state of chronic rebellion. to play a trick on the master was an evidence of spirit; to "lick" the master was to be the crowned hero of flat creek district. such a hero was bud means; and bill, who had less muscle, saw a chance to distinguish himself on a teacher of slender frame. hence the puppy in the desk. ralph hartsook grew red in the face when he saw the puppy. but the cool, repressed, bulldog mood in which he had kept himself saved him. he lifted the dog into his arms and stroked him until the laughter subsided. then, in a solemn and set way, he began: "i am sorry," and he looked round the room with a steady, hard eye--everybody felt that there was a conflict coming--"i am sorry that any scholar in this school could be so mean"--the word was uttered with a sharp emphasis, and all the big boys felt sure that there would be a fight with bill means, and perhaps with bud--"could be so _mean_--as to--shut up his _brother_ in such a place as that!" there was a long, derisive laugh. the wit was indifferent, but by one stroke ralph had carried the whole school to his side. by the significant glances of the boys, hartsook detected the perpetrator of the joke, and with the hard and dogged look in his eyes, with just such a look as bull would give a puppy, but with the utmost suavity in his voice, he said: "william means, will you be so good as to put this dog out of doors?" footnotes: [footnote : _aout_ is not the common form of _out_, as it is in certain rustic new england regions. the vowel is here drawn in this way for imperative emphasis, and it occurs as a consequence of drawling speech.] [footnote : "_'nough said_" is more than enough said for the french translator, who takes it apparently for a sort of barbarous negative and renders it, "i don't like to speak to him." i need hardly explain to any american reader that _enough said_ implies the ending of all discussion by the acceptance of the proposition or challenge.] [footnote : _durn't, daren't, dasent, dursent_, and _don't dast_ are forms of this variable negative heard in the folk-speech of various parts of the country. the tenses of this verb seem to have got hopelessly mixed long ago, even in literary use, and the speech of the people reflects the historic confusion.] [footnote : _to take a dare_ is an expression used in senses diametrically opposed. its common sense is that of the text. the man who refuses to accept a challenge is said to take a dare, and there is some implication of cowardice in the imputation. on the other hand, one who accepts a challenge is said also to take the dare.] [footnote : most bad english was once good english. _ketch_ was used by writers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries for _catch_. a new hampshire magistrate in the seventeenth century spells it _caitch_, and probably pronounced it in that way. _ketch_, a boat, was sometimes spelled _catch_ by the first american colonists, and the far-fetched derivation of the word from the turkish may be one of the fancies of etymologists.] [footnote : the derivation of _raccoon_ from the french _raton_, to which mr. skeat gives currency, still holds its place in some of our standard dictionaries. if american lexicographers would only read the literature of american settlement they would know that mr. skeat's citation of a translation of buffon is nearly two centuries too late. as early as captain john smith gives _aroughcune_ as the aboriginal virginia word, and more than one new england writer used _rackoon_ a few years later.] [footnote : this prefixed _y_ is a mark of a very illiterate or antique form of the dialect. i have known _piece yarthen_ used for "a piece of earthen" [ware], the preposition getting lost in the sound of the _y_. i leave it to etymologists to determine its relation to that ancient prefix that differentiates _earn_ in one sense from _yearn_. but the article before a vowel may account for it if we consider it a corruption. "the earth" pronounced in a drawling way will produce _the yearth_. in the new york documents is a letter from one barnard hodges, a settler in delaware in the days of governor andros, whose spelling indicates a free use of the parasitic _y_. he writes "yunless," "yeunder" (under), "yunderstanding," "yeundertake," and "yeouffeis" (office).] [footnote : like many of the ear-marks of this dialect, the verb "dog-on" came from scotland, presumably by the way of the north of ireland. a correspondent of _the nation_ calls attention to the use of "dagon" as scotch dialect in barrie's "little minister," a recent book. on examining that story, i find that the word has precisely the sense of our hoosier "dog-on," which is to be pronounced broadly as a hoosier pronounces dog--"daug-on." if mr. barrie gives his _a_ the broad sound, his "dagon" is nearly identical with "dog-on." here are some detached sentences from "the little minister:" "beattie spoke for more than himself when he said: 'dagon that manse! i never gie a swear but there it is glowering at me.'" "'dagon religion,' rob retorted fiercely; 't spoils a' thing.'" "there was some angry muttering from the crowd, and young charles yuill exclaimed, 'dagon you, would you lord it ower us on week-days as well as on sabbaths?'" "'have you on your sabbath shoon or have you no on your sabbath shoon?' 'guid care you took i should ha'e the dagont things on!' retorted the farmer." it will be seen that "dagont," as used above, is the scotch form of "dog-oned." but mr. barrie uses the same form apparently for "dog-on it" in the following passage: "ay, there was ruth when she was na wanted, but ezra, dagont, it looked as if ezra had jumped clean out o' the bible!" strangely enough, this word as a verb is not to be found in jamieson's dictionary of the scottish dialect, but jamieson gives "dugon" as a noun. it is given in the supplement to jamieson, however, as "dogon," but still as a noun, with an ancient plural _dogonis_. it is explained as "a term of contempt." the example cited by jamieson is hogg's "winter tales," i. , and is as follows: "what wad my father say if i were to marry a man that loot himsel' be thrashed by tommy potts, a great supple wi' a back nae stiffer than a willy brand? . . . when one comes to close quarters wi' him he's but a dugon." halliwell and wright give _dogon_ as a noun, and mark it anglo-norman, but they apparently know it only from jamieson and the supplement to jamieson, where _dogguin_ is cited from cotgrave as meaning "a filthie old curre," and _doguin_ from roquefort, defined by "brutal, currish" [hargneux]. a word with the same orthography, _doguin_, is still used in french for puppy. it is of course a question whether the noun _dogon_ and its french antecedents are connected with the american verb _dog-on_. it is easy to conceive that such an epithet as _dogon_ might get itself mixed up with the word dog, and so become an imprecation. for instance, a servant in the family of a friend of mine in indiana, wishing to resign her place before the return of some daughters of the house whom she had never seen, announced that she was going to leave "before them dog-on girls got home." here the word might have been the old epithet, or an abbreviated participle. _dogged_ is apparently a corruption of dog-on in the phrase "i'll be dogged." i prefer _dog-on_ to _dogone_, because in the dialect the sense of setting a dog on is frequently present to the speaker, though far enough away from the primitive sense of the word; perhaps.] chapter ii. a spell coming. there was a moment of utter stillness; but the magnetism of ralph's eye was too much for bill means. the request was so polite, the master's look was so innocent and yet so determined. bill often wondered afterward that he had not "fit" rather than obeyed the request. but somehow he put the dog out. he was partly surprised, partly inveighed, partly awed into doing just what he had not intended to do. in the week that followed, bill had to fight half a dozen boys for calling him "puppy means." bill said he wished he'd licked the master on the spot. 'twould 'a' saved five fights out of the six. and all that day and the next, the bulldog in the master's eye was a terror to evil-doers. at the close of school on the second day bud was heard to give it as his opinion that "the master wouldn't be much in a tussle, but he had a heap of thunder and lightning in him." did he inflict corporal punishment? inquires some philanthropic friend. would you inflict corporal punishment if you were tiger-trainer in van amburgh's happy family? but poor ralph could never satisfy his constituency in this regard. "don't believe he'll do," was mr. pete jones's comment to mr. means. "don't thrash enough. boys won't l'arn 'less you thrash 'em, says i. leastways, mine won't. lay it on good is what i says to a master. lay it on good. don't do no harm. lickin' and l'arnin' goes together. no lickin', no l'arnin', says i. lickin' and l'arnin,' lickin' and larnin', is the good ole way." and mr. jones, like some wiser people, was the more pleased with his formula that it had an alliterative sound. nevertheless, ralph was master from this time until the spelling-school came. if only it had not been for that spelling-school! many and many a time after the night of the fatal spelling-school ralph used to say, "if only it had not been for that spelling-school!" there had to be a spelling-school. not only for the sake of my story, which would not have been worth the telling if the spelling-school had not taken place, but because flat creek district had to have a spelling-school. it is the only public literary exercise known in hoopole county. it takes the place of lyceum lecture and debating club. sis means, or, as she wished now to be called, mirandy means, expressed herself most positively in favor of it. she said that she 'lowed the folks in that district couldn't in no wise do without it. but it was rather to its social than to its intellectual benefits that she referred. for all the spelling-schools ever seen could not enable her to stand anywhere but at the foot of the class. there is one branch diligently taught in a backwoods school. the public mind seems impressed with the difficulties of english orthography, and there is a solemn conviction that the chief end of man is to learn to spell. "'know webster's elementary' came down from heaven," would be the backwoods version of the 'greek saying but that, unfortunately for the greeks, their fame has not reached so far. it often happens that the pupil does not know the meaning of a single word in the lesson. this is of no consequence. what do you want to know the meaning of a word for? words were made to be spelled, and men were probably created that they might spell them. hence the necessity for sending a pupil through the spelling-book five times before you allow him to begin to read, or indeed to do anything else. hence the necessity for those long spelling-classes at the close of each forenoon and afternoon session of the school, to stand at the head of which is the cherished ambition of every scholar. hence, too, the necessity for devoting the whole of the afternoon session of each friday to a "spelling-match." in fact, spelling is the "national game" in hoopole county. baseball and croquet matches are as unknown as olympian chariot-races. spelling and shucking[ ] are the only public competitions. so the fatal spelling-school had to be appointed for the wednesday of the second week of the session, just when ralph felt himself master of the situation. not that he was without his annoyances. one of ralph's troubles in the week before the spelling-school was that he was loved. the other that he was hated. and while the time between the appointing of the spelling tournament and the actual occurrence of that remarkable event is engaged in elapsing, let me narrate two incidents that made it for ralph a trying time. footnotes: [footnote : in naming the several parts of the indian corn and the dishes made from it, the english language was put to many shifts. such words as _tassel_ and _silk_ were poetically applied to the blossoms; _stalk_, _blade_, and _ear_ were borrowed from other sorts of corn, and the indian tongues were forced to pay tribute to name the dishes borrowed from the savages. from them we have _hominy_, _pone_, _supawn_, and _succotash_. for other nouns words were borrowed from english provincial dialects. _shuck_ is one of these. on the northern belt, shucks are the outer covering of nuts; in the middle and southern regions the word is applied to what in new england is called the husks of the corn. _shuck_, however, is much more widely used than _husk_ in colloquial speech--the farmers in more than half of the united states are hardly acquainted with the word _husk_ as applied to the envelope of the ear. _husk_, in the middle states, and in some parts of the south and west, means the bran of the cornmeal, as notably in davy crockett's verse: "she sifted the meal, she gimme the hus'; she baked the bread, she gimme the crus'; she b'iled the meat, she gimme the bone; she gimme a kick and sent me home." in parts of virginia, before the war, the word _husk_ or _hus'_ meant the cob or spike of the corn. "i smack you over wid a cawn-hus'" is a threat i have often heard one negro boy make to another. _cob_ is provincial english for ear, and i have known "a cob of corn" used in canada for an ear of indian corn. while writing this note "a cob of indian corn "--meaning an ear--appears in the report of an address by a distinguished man at a recent meeting of the royal geographical society. a lady tells me that she met, in the book of an english traveller, the remarkable statement that "the americans are very fond of the young grain called cob." these indian-corn words have reached an accepted meaning after a competition. to _shell_ corn, among the earliest settlers of virginia, meant to take it out of the envelope, which was presumably called the shell. the analogy is with the shelling of pulse.] chapter iii. mirandy, hank, and shocky. mirandy had nothing but contempt for the new master until he developed the bulldog in his character. mirandy fell in love with the bulldog. like many other girls of her class, she was greatly enamored with the "subjection of women," and she stood ready to fall in love with any man strong enough to be her master. much has been said of the strong-minded woman. i offer this psychological remark as a contribution to the natural history of the weak-minded woman. it was at the close of that very second day on which ralph had achieved his first victory over the school, and in which mirandy had been seized with her desperate passion for him, that she told him about it. not in words. we do not allow _that_ in the most civilized countries, and still less would it be tolerated in hoopole county. but mirandy told the master the fact that she was in love with him, though no word passed her lips. she walked by him from school. she cast at him what are commonly called sheep's-eyes. ralph thought them more like calf's eyes. she changed the whole tone of her voice. she whined ordinarily. now she whimpered. and so by ogling him, by blushing at him, by tittering at him, by giggling at him, by snickering at him, by simpering at him, by making herself tenfold more a fool even than nature had made her, she managed to convey to the dismayed soul of the young teacher the frightful intelligence that he was loved by the richest, the ugliest, the silliest, the coarsest, and the most entirely contemptible girl in flat creek district. ralph sat by the fire the next morning trying to read a few minutes before school-time, while the boys were doing the chores and the bound girl was milking the cows, with no one in the room but the old woman. she was generally as silent as bud, but now she seemed for some unaccountable reason disposed to talk. she had sat down on the broad hearth to have her usual morning smoke; the poplar table, adorned by no cloth, stood in the middle of the floor; the unwashed blue teacups sat in the unwashed blue saucers; the unwashed blue plates kept company with the begrimed blue pitcher. the dirty skillets by the fire were kept in countenance by the dirtier pots, and the ashes were drifted and strewn over the hearth-stones in a most picturesque way. "you see," said the old woman, knocking the residuum from her cob pipe, and chafing some dry leaf between her withered hands preparatory to filling it again, "you see, mr. hartsook, my ole man's purty well along in the world. he's got a right smart lot of this world's plunder[ ], one way and another." and while she stuffed the tobacco into her pipe ralph wondered why she should mention it to him. "you see, we moved in here nigh upon twenty-five years ago. 'twas when my jack, him as died afore bud was born, was a baby. bud'll be twenty-one the fif' of next june." here mrs. means stopped to rake a live coal out of the fire with her skinny finger, and then to carry it in her skinny palm to the bowl--or to the _hole_--of her cob pipe. when she got the smoke a-going, she proceeded: "you see, this yere bottom land was all congress land[ ] in them there days, and it sold for a dollar and a quarter, and i says to my ole man, 'jack,' says i, 'jack, do you git a plenty while you're a-gittin'. git a plenty while you're a-gittin',' says i, 'fer 'twon't never be no cheaper'n 'tis now,' and it ha'n't been; i knowed 'twouldn't," and mrs. means took the pipe from her mouth to indulge in a good chuckle at the thought of her financial shrewdness. "'git a plenty while you're a-gittin' says i. i could see, you know, they was a powerful sight of money in congress land. that's what made me say, 'git a plenty while you're a-gittin'.' and jack, he's wuth lots and gobs of money, all made out of congress land. jack didn't git rich by hard work. bless you, no! not him. that a'n't his way. hard work a'n't, you know. 'twas that air six hundred dollars he got along of me, all salted down into flat crick bottoms at a dollar and a quarter a' acre, and 'twas my sayin' 'git a plenty while you're a gittin'' as done it." and here the old ogre laughed, or grinned horribly, at ralph, showing her few straggling, discolored teeth. then she got up and knocked the ashes out of her pipe, and laid the pipe away and walked round in front of ralph. after adjusting the chunks[ ] so that the fire would burn, she turned her yellow face toward ralph, and scanning him closely came out with the climax of her speech in the remark: "you see as how, mr. hartsook, the man what gits my mirandy'll do well. flat crick land's wuth nigt upon a hundred a' acre." this gentle hint came near knocking ralph down. had flat creek land been worth a hundred times a hundred dollars an acre, and had he owned five hundred times means's five hundred acres, he would have given it all just at that moment to have annihilated the whole tribe of meanses. except bud. bud was a giant, but a good-natured one. he thought he would except bud from the general destruction. as for the rest, he mentally pictured to himself the pleasure of attending their funerals. there was one thought, however, between him and despair. he felt confident that the cordiality, the intensity, and the persistency of his dislike of sis means were such that he should never inherit a foot of the flat creek bottoms. but what about bud? what if he joined the conspiracy to marry him to this weak-eyed, weak-headed wood-nymph, or backwoods nymph? if ralph felt it a misfortune to be loved by mirandy means, he found himself almost equally unfortunate in having incurred the hatred of the meanest boy in school. "hank" banta, low-browed, smirky, and crafty, was the first sufferer by ralph's determination to use corporal punishment, and so henry banta, who was a compound of deceit and resentment, never lost an opportunity to annoy the young school-master, who was obliged to live perpetually on his guard against his tricks. one morning, as ralph walked toward the school-house, he met little shocky. what the boy's first name or last name was the teacher did not know. he had given his name as shocky, and all the teacher knew was that he was commonly called shocky, that he was an orphan, that he lived with a family named pearson over in rocky hollow, and that he was the most faithful and affectionate child in the school. on this morning that i speak of, ralph had walked toward the school early to avoid the company of mirandy. but not caring to sustain his dignity longer than was necessary, he loitered along the road, admiring the trunks of the maples, and picking up a beech-nut now and then. just as he was about to go on toward the school, he caught sight of little shocky running swiftly toward him, but looking from side to side, as if afraid of being seen. [illustration: betsy short] "well, shocky, what is it?" and ralph put his hand kindly on the great bushy head of white hair from which came shocky's nickname. shocky had to pant a minute. "why, mr. hartsook," he gasped, scratching his head, "they's a pond down under the school-house," and here shocky's breath gave out entirely for a minute. "yes, shocky, i know that. what about it? the trustees haven't come to fill it up, have they?" "oh! no, sir; but hank banta, you know--" and shocky took another breathing spell, standing as dose to ralph as he could, for poor shocky got all his sunshine from the master's presence. "has henry fallen in and got a ducking, shocky?" "oh! no, sir; he wants to git you in, you see." "well, i won't go in, though, shocky." "but, you see, he's been and gone and pulled back the board that you have to step on to git ahind your desk; he's been and gone and pulled back the board so as you can't help a-tippin' it up, and a-sowsin' right in ef you step there." "and so you came to tell me." there was a huskiness in ralph's voice. he had, then, one friend in flat creek district--poor little shocky. he put his arm around shocky just a moment, and then told him to hasten across to the other road, so as to come back to the school-house in a direction at right angles to the master's approach. but the caution was not needed. shocky had taken care to leave in that way, and was altogether too cunning to be seen coming down the road with mr. hartsook. but after he got over the fence to go through the "sugar camp" (or sugar _orchard_, as they say at the east), he stopped and turned back once or twice, just to catch one more smile from ralph. and then he hied away through the tall trees, a very happy boy, kicking and ploughing the brown leaves before him in his perfect delight, saying over and over again: "how he looked at me! how he did look!" and when ralph came up to the school-house door, there was shocky sauntering along from the other direction, throwing bits of limestone at fence rails, and smiling still clear down to his shoes at thought of the master's kind words. "what a quare boy shocky is!" remarked betsey short, with a giggle. "he just likes to wander round alone. i see him a-comin' out of the sugar camp just now. he's been in there half an hour." and betsey giggled again; for betsey short could giggle on slighter provocation than any other girl on flat creek. when ralph hartsook, with the quiet, dogged tread that he was cultivating, walked into the school-room, he took great care not to seem to see the trap set for him; but he carelessly stepped over the board that had been so nicely adjusted. the boys who were hank's confidants in the plot were very busy over their slates, and took pains not to show their disappointment. the morning session wore on without incident. ralph several times caught two people looking at him. one was mirandy. her weak and watery eyes stole loving glances over the top of her spelling-book, which she would not study. her looks made ralph's spirits sink to forty below zero, and congeal. but on one of the backless little benches that sat in the middle of the school-room was little shocky, who also cast many love glances at the young master; glances as grateful to his heart as mirandy's ogling--he was tempted to call it ogring--was hateful. "look at shocky," giggled betsey short, behind her slate. "he looks as if he was a-goin' to eat the master up, body and soul." and so the forenoon wore on as usual, and those who laid the trap had forgotten it, themselves. the morning session was drawing to a close. the fire in the great old fire-place had burnt low. the flames, which seemed to shocky to be angels, had disappeared, and now the bright coals, which had played the part of men and women and houses in shocky's fancy, had taken on a white and downy covering of ashes, and the great half-burnt back-log lay there smouldering like a giant asleep in a snow-drift. shocky longed to wake him up. as for henry banta, he was too much bothered to get the answer to a "sum" he was doing, to remember anything about his trap. in fact, he had quite forgotten that half an hour ago in the all-absorbing employment of drawing ugly pictures on his slate and coaxing betsey short to giggle by showing them slyly across the school-room. once or twice ralph had been attracted to betsey's extraordinary fits of giggling, and had come so near to catching hank that the boy thought it best not to run any further risk of the beech switches, four or five feet long, laid up behind the master in sight of the school as a prophylactic. hence his application just now to his "sum" in long division, and hence his puzzled look, for, idler that he was, his "sums" did not solve themselves easily. as usual in such cases, he came up in front of the master's desk to have the difficulty explained. he had to wait a minute until ralph got through with showing betsey short, who had been seized with a studying fit, and who could hardly give any attention to the teacher's explanations, she did want to giggle so much! not at anything in particular, but just at things in general. while ralph was "doing" betsey's "sum" for her, he was solving a much more difficult question. a plan had flashed upon him, but the punishment seemed a severe one. he gave it up once or twice, but he remembered how turbulent the flat creek elements were; and had he not inly resolved to be as unrelenting as a bulldog? he fortified himself by recalling again the oft-remembered remark of bud, "ef bull wunst takes a holt, heaven and yarth can't make him let go." and so he resolved to give hank and the whole school one good lesson. "just step round behind me, henry, and you can see how i do this," said ralph. hank was entirely off his guard, and, with his eyes fixed upon the slate on the teacher's desk, he sidled round upon the broad loose board misplaced by his own hand, and in an instant the other end of the board rose up in the middle of the school-room, almost striking shocky in the face, while henry banta went down into the ice-cold water beneath the school-house. "why, henry!" cried ralph, jumping to his feet with well-feigned surprise. "how _did_ this happen?" him by the fire. betsey short giggled. shocky was so tickled that he could hardly keep his seat. the boys who were in the plot looked very serious indeed. ralph made some remarks by way of improving the occasion. he spoke strongly of the utter meanness of the one who could play so heartless a trick on a schoolmate. he said that it was as much thieving to get your fun at the expense of another as to steal his money. and while he talked, all eyes were turned on hank--all except the eyes of mirandy means. they looked simperingly at ralph. all the rest looked at hank. the fire had made his face very red. shocky noticed that. betsey short noticed it, and giggled. the master wound up with an appropriate quotation from scripture. he said that the person who displaced that board had better not be encouraged by the success--he said _success_ with a curious emphasis--of the present experiment to attempt another trick of the kind. for it was set down in the bible that if a man dug a pit for the feet of another he would be very likely to fall in it himself. which made all the pupils look solemn, except betsey short, who giggled. and shocky wanted to. and mirandy cast an expiring look at ralph. and if the teacher was not love-sick, he certainly was sick of mirandy's love. [illustration: hank banta's improved plunge bath] when school was "let out," ralph gave hank every caution that he could about taking cold, and even lent him his overcoat, very much against hank's will. for hank had obstinately refused to go home before the school was dismissed. then the master walked out in a quiet and subdued way to spend the noon recess in the woods, while shocky watched his retreating footsteps with loving admiration. and the pupils not in the secret canvassed the question of who moved the board. bill means said he'd bet hank did it, which set betsey short off in an uncontrollable giggle. and shocky listened innocently. but that night bud said slyly: "thunder and lightning! what a manager you _air_, mr. hartsook!" to which ralph returned no reply except a friendly smile. muscle paid tribute to brains that time. but ralph had no time for exultation; for just here came the spelling-school. footnotes: [footnote : this word _plunder_ is probably from pennsylvania, as it is exactly equivalent to the german word _plunder_, in the sense of household effects, the original meaning of the word in german. any kind of baggage may be called _plunder_, but the most accepted sense is household goods. it is quite seriously used. i have seen bills of lading on the western waters certifying that a.b. had shipped " lot of plunder;" that is, household goods. it is here used figuratively for goods in general.] [footnote : _congress land_ was the old designation for land owned by the government. under the confederation, the congress was the government, and the forms of speech seem to have long retained the notion that what belonged to the united states was the property of congress.] [footnote : the commonest use of the word _chunk_ in the old days was for the ends of the sticks of cord-wood burned in the great fireplaces. as the sticks burned in two, the chunks fell down or rolled back on the wall side of the andirons. by putting the chunks together, a new fire was set a-going without fresh wood. this use of the word is illustrated in a folk-rhyme or nursery jingle of the country which has neither sense nor elegance to recommend it: "old mother hunk she got drunk and fell in the fire and kicked up a chunk." ] chapter iv. spelling down the master. "i 'low," said mrs. means, as she stuffed the tobacco into her cob pipe after supper on that eventful wednesday evening: "i 'low they'll app'int the squire to gin out the words to-night. they mos' always do, you see, kase he's the peartest[ ] _ole_ man in this deestrick; and i 'low some of the young fellers would have to git up and dust ef they would keep up to him. and he uses sech remarkable smart words. he speaks so polite, too. but laws! don't i remember when he was poarer nor job's turkey? twenty year ago, when he come to these 'ere diggings, that air squire hawkins was a poar yankee school-master, that said 'pail' instid of bucket, and that called a cow a 'caow,' and that couldn't tell to save his gizzard what we meant by '_low_[ ] and by _right smart_[ ]. but he's larnt our ways now, an' he's jest as civilized as the rest of us. you would-n know he'd ever been a yankee. he didn't stay poar long. not he. he jest married a right rich girl! he! he!" and the old woman grinned at ralph, and then at mirandy, and then at the rest, until ralph shuddered. nothing was so frightful to him as to be fawned on by this grinning ogre, whose few lonesome, blackish teeth seemed ready to devour him. "he didn't stay poar, you bet a hoss!" and with this the coal was deposited on the pipe, and the lips began to crack like parchment as each puff of smoke escaped. "he married rich, you see," and here another significant look at the young master, and another fond look at mirandy, as she puffed away reflectively. "his wife hadn't no book-larnin'. she'd been through the spellin'-book wunst, and had got as fur as 'asperity' on it a second time. but she couldn't read a word when she was married, and never could. she warn't overly smart. she hadn't hardly got the sense the law allows. but schools was skase in them air days, and, besides, book-larnin' don't do no good to a woman. makes her stuck up. i never knowed but one gal in my life as had ciphered into fractions, and she was so dog-on stuck up that she turned up her nose one night at a apple-peelin' bekase i tuck a sheet off the bed to splice out the table-cloth, which was rather short. and the sheet was mos' clean too. had-n been slep on more'n wunst or twicet. but i was goin' fer to say that when squire hawkins married virginny gray he got a heap o' money, or, what's the same thing mostly, a heap o' good land. and that's better'n book-larnin', says i. ef a gal had gone clean through all eddication, and got to the rule of three itself, that would-n buy a feather-bed. squire hawkins jest put eddication agin the gal's farm, and traded even, an' ef ary one of 'em got swindled, i never heerd no complaints." and here she looked at ralph in triumph, her hard face splintering into the hideous semblance of a smile. and mirandy cast a blushing, gushing, all-imploring, and all-confiding look on the young master. "i say, ole woman," broke in old jack, "i say, wot is all this 'ere spoutin' about the square fer?" and old jack, having bit off an ounce of "pigtail," returned the plug to his pocket. as for ralph, he fell into a sort of terror. he had a guilty feeling that this speech of the old lady's had somehow committed him beyond recall to mirandy. he did not see visions of breach-of-promise suits. but he trembled at the thought of an avenging big brother. "hanner, you kin come along, too, ef you're a mind, when you git the dishes washed," said mrs. means to the bound girl, as she shut and latched the back door. the means family had built a new house in front of the old one, as a sort of advertisement of bettered circumstances, an eruption of shoddy feeling; but when the new building was completed, they found themselves unable to occupy it for anything else than a lumber room, and so, except a parlor which mirandy had made an effort to furnish a little (in hope of the blissful time when somebody should "set up" with her of evenings), the new building was almost unoccupied, and the family went in and out through the back door, which, indeed, was the front door also, for, according to a curious custom, the "front" of the house was placed toward the south, though the "big road" (hoosier for _highway_) ran along the north-west side, or, rather, past the north-west corner of it. when the old woman had spoken thus to hannah and had latched the door, she muttered, "that gal don't never show no gratitude fer favors;" to which bud rejoined that he didn't think she had no great sight to be pertickler thankful fer. to which mrs. means made no reply, thinking it best, perhaps, not to wake up her dutiful son on so interesting a theme as her treatment of hannah. ralph felt glad that he was this evening to go to another boarding place. he should not hear the rest of the controversy. ralph walked to the school-house with bill. they were friends again. for when hank banta's ducking and his dogged obstinacy in sitting in his wet clothes had brought on a serious fever, ralph had called together the big boys, and had said: "we must take care of one another, boys. who will volunteer to take turns sitting up with henry?" he put his own name down, and all the rest followed. "william means and myself will sit up to-night," said ralph. and poor bill had been from that moment the teacher's friend. he was chosen to be ralph's companion. he was puppy means no longer! hank could not be conquered by kindness, and the teacher was made to feel the bitterness of his resentment long after. but bill means was for the time entirely placated, and he and ralph went to spelling-school together. every family furnished a candle. there were yellow dips and white dips, burning, smoking, and flaring. there was laughing, and talking, and giggling, and simpering, and ogling, and flirting, and courting. what a full-dress party is to fifth avenue, a spelling-school is to hoopole county. it is an occasion which is metaphorically inscribed with this legend: "choose your partners." spelling is only a blind in hoopole county, as is dancing on fifth avenue. but as there are some in society who love dancing for its own sake, so in flat creek district there were those who loved spelling for its own sake, and who, smelling the battle from afar, had come to try their skill in this tournament, hoping to freshen the laurels they had won in their school-days. "i 'low," said mr. means, speaking as the principal school trustee, "i 'low our friend the square is jest the man to boss this 'ere consarn to-night. ef nobody objects, i'll app'int him. come, square, don't be bashful. walk up to the trough, fodder or no fodder, as the man said to his donkey." there was a general giggle at this, and many of the young swains took occasion to nudge the girls alongside them, ostensibly for the purpose of making them see the joke, but really for the pure pleasure of nudging. the greeks figured cupid as naked, probably because he wears so many disguises that they could not select a costume for him. the squire came to the front. ralph made an inventory of the agglomeration which bore the name of squire hawkins, as follows: . a swallow-tail coat of indefinite age, worn only on state occasions^ when its owner was called to figure in his public capacity. either the squire had grown too large or the coat too small. . a pair of black gloves, the most phenomenal, abnormal, and unexpected apparition conceivable in flat creek district, where the preachers wore no coats in the summer, and where a black glove was never seen except on the hands of the squire. . a wig of that dirty, waxen color so common to wigs. this one showed a continual inclination to slip off the owner's smooth, bald pate, and the squire had frequently to adjust it. as his hair had been red, the wig did not accord with his face, and the hair ungrayed was doubly discordant with a countenance shrivelled by age. . a semicircular row of whiskers hedging the edge of the jaw and chin. these were dyed a frightful dead-black, such a color as belonged to no natural hair or beard that ever existed. at the roots there was a quarter of an inch of white, giving the whiskers the appearance of having been stuck on. . a pair of spectacles "with tortoise-shell rim." wont to slip off. . a glass eye, purchased of a peddler, and differing in color from its natural mate, perpetually getting out of focus by turning in or out. . a set of false teeth, badly fitted, and given to bobbing up and down. . the squire proper, to whom these patches were loosely attached. it is an old story that a boy wrote home to his father begging him to come west, because "mighty mean men get into office out here." but ralph concluded that some yankees had taught school in hoopole county who would not have held a high place in the educational institutions of massachusetts. hawkins had some new england idioms, but they were well overlaid by a western pronunciation. "ladies and gentlemen," he began, shoving up his spectacles, and sucking his lips over his white teeth to keep them in place, "ladies and gentlemen, young men and maidens, raley i'm obleeged to mr. means fer this honor," and the squire took both hands and turned the top of his head round half an inch. then he adjusted his spectacles. whether he was obliged to mr. means for the honor of being compared to a donkey was not clear. "i feel in the inmost compartments of my animal spirits a most happifying sense of the success and futility of all my endeavors to sarve the people of flat creek deestrick, and the people of tomkins township, in my weak way and manner." this burst of eloquence was delivered with a constrained air and an apparent sense of a danger that he, squire hawkins, might fall to pieces in his weak way and manner, and of the success and futility of all attempts at reconstruction. for by this time the ghastly pupil of the left eye, which was black, was looking away round to the left, while the little blue one on the right twinkled cheerfully toward the front. the front teeth would drop down so that the squire's mouth was kept nearly closed, and his words whistled through. "i feel as if i could be grandiloquent on this interesting occasion," twisting his scalp round, "but raley i must forego any such exertions. it is spelling you want. spelling is the corner-stone, the grand, underlying subterfuge, of a good eddication. i put the spellin'-book prepared by the great daniel webster alongside the bible. i do, raley. i think i may put it ahead of the bible. for if it wurn't fer spellin'-books and sich occasions as these, where would the bible be? i should like to know. the man who got up, who compounded this work of inextricable valoo was a benufactor to the whole human race or any other." here the spectacles fell off. the squire replaced them in some confusion, gave the top of his head another twist, and felt of his glass eye, while poor shocky stared in wonder, and betsey short rolled from side to side in the effort to suppress her giggle. mrs. means and the other old ladies looked the applause they could not speak. "i app'int larkin lanham and jeems buchanan fer captings," said the squire. and the two young men thus named took a stick and tossed it from hand to hand to decide which should have the "first choice." one tossed the stick to the other, who held it fast just where he happened to catch it. then the first placed his hand above the second, and so the hands were alternately changed to the top. the one who held the stick last without room for the other to take hold had gained the lot. this was tried three times. as larkin held the stick twice out of three times, he had the choice. he hesitated a moment. everybody looked toward tall jim phillips. but larkin was fond of a venture on unknown seas, and so he said, "i take the master," while a buzz of surprise ran round the room, and the captain of the other side, as if afraid his opponent would withdraw the choice, retorted quickly, and with a little smack of exultation and defiance in his voice, "and _i_ take jeems phillips." and soon all present, except a few of the old folks, found themselves ranged in opposing hosts, the poor spellers lagging in, with what grace they could, at the foot of the two divisions. the squire opened his spelling-book and began to give out the words to the two captains, who stood up and spelled against each other. it was not long until larkin spelled "really" with one _l_, and had to sit down in confusion, while a murmur of satisfaction ran through the ranks of the opposing forces. his own side bit their lips. the slender figure of the young teacher took the place of the fallen leader, and the excitement made the house very quiet. ralph dreaded the loss of prestige he would suffer if he should be easily spelled down. and at the moment of rising he saw in the darkest corner the figure of a well-dressed young man sitting in the shadow. why should his evil genius haunt him? but by a strong effort he turned his attention away from dr. small, and listened carefully to the words which the squire did not pronounce very distinctly, spelling them with extreme deliberation. this gave him an air of hesitation which disappointed those on his own side. they wanted him to spell with a dashing assurance. but he did not begin a word until he had mentally felt his way through it. after ten minutes of spelling hard words jeems buchanan, the captain on the other side, spelled "atrocious" with an _s_ instead of a _c_, and subsided, his first choice, jeems phillips, coming up against the teacher. this brought the excitement to fever-heat. for though ralph was chosen first, it was entirely on trust, and most of the company were disappointed. the champion who now stood up against the school-master was a famous speller. jim phillips was a tall, lank, stoop-shouldered fellow who had never distinguished himself in any other pursuit than spelling. except in this one art of spelling he was of no account. he could not catch well or bat well in ball. he could not throw well enough to make his mark in that famous west ern game of bull-pen. he did not succeed well in any study but that of webster's elementary. but in that he was--to use the usual flat creek locution--in that he was "a boss." this genius for spelling is in some people a sixth sense, a matter of intuition. some spellers are born, and not made, and their facility reminds one of the mathematical prodigies that crop out every now and then to bewilder the world. bud means, foreseeing that ralph would be pitted against jim phillips, had warned his friend that jim could "spell like thunder and lightning," and that it "took a powerful smart speller" to beat him, for he knew "a heap of spelling-book." to have "spelled down the master" is next thing to having whipped the biggest bully in hoopole county, and jim had "spelled down" the last three masters. he divided the hero-worship of the district with bud means. for half an hour the squire gave out hard words. what a blessed thing our crooked orthography is! without it there could be no spelling-schools. as ralph discovered his opponent's mettle he became more and more cautious. he was now satisfied that jim would eventually beat him. the fellow evidently knew more about the spelling-book than old noah webster himself. as he stood there, with his dull face and long sharp nose, his hands behind his back, and his voice spelling infallibly, it seemed to hartsook that his superiority must lie in his nose. ralph's cautiousness answered a double purpose; it enabled him to tread surely, and it was mistaken by jim for weakness. phillips was now confident that he should carry off the scalp of the fourth school-master before the evening was over. he spelled eagerly, confidently, brilliantly. stoop-shouldered as he was, he began to straighten up. in the minds of all the company the odds were in his favor. he saw this, and became ambitious to distinguish himself by spelling without giving the matter any thought. ralph always believed that he would have been speedily defeated by phillips had it not been for two thoughts which braced him. the sinister shadow of young dr. small sitting in the dark corner by the water-bucket nerved him. a victory over phillips was a defeat to one who wished only ill to the young school-master. the other thought that kept his pluck alive was the recollection of bull. he approached a word as bull approached the raccoon. he did not take hold until he was sure of his game. when he took hold, it was with a quiet assurance of success. as ralph spelled in this dogged way for half an hour the hardest words the squire could find, the excitement steadily rose in all parts of the house, and ralph's friends even ventured to whisper that "maybe jim had cotched his match, after all!" but phillips never doubted of his success. "theodolite," said the squire. "t-h-e, the o-d, od, theod, o, theodo, l-y-t-e, theodolite," spelled the champion. "next," said the squire, nearly losing his teeth in his excitement. ralph spelled the word slowly and correctly, and the conquered champion sat down in confusion. the excitement was so great for some minutes that the spelling was suspended. everybody in the house had shown sympathy with one or the other of the combatants, except the silent shadow in the corner. it had not moved during the contest, and did not show any interest now in the result. "gewhilliky crickets! thunder and lightning! licked him all to smash!" said bud, rubbing his hands on his knees, "that beats my time all holler!" and betsey short giggled until her tuck-comb fell out, though she was on the defeated side. shocky got up and danced with pleasure. but one suffocating look from the aqueous eyes of mirandy destroyed the last spark of ralph's pleasure in his triumph, and sent that awful below-zero feeling all through him. "he's powerful smart, is the master," said old jack to mr. pete jones. "he'll beat the whole kit and tuck of 'em afore he's through. i know'd he was smart. that's the reason i tuck him," proceeded mr. means. "yaas, but he don't lick enough. not nigh," answered pete jones. "no lickin', no larnin', says i." it was now not so hard. the other spellers on the opposite side went down quickly under the hard words which the squire gave out. the master had mowed down all but a few, his opponents had given up the battle, and all had lost their keen interest in a contest to which there could be but one conclusion, for there were only the poor spellers left. but ralph hartsook ran against a stump where he was least expecting it. it was the squire's custom, when one of the smaller scholars or poorer spellers rose to spell against the master, to give out eight or ten easy words, that they might have some breathing-spell before being slaughtered, and then to give a poser or two which soon settled them. he let them run a little, as a cat does a doomed mouse. there was now but one person left on the opposite side, and, as she rose in her blue calico dress, ralph recognized hannah, the bound girl at old jack means's. she had not attended school in the district, and had never spelled in spelling-school before, and was chosen last as an uncertain quantity. the squire began with easy words of two syllables, from that page of webster, so well known to all who ever thumbed it, as "baker," from the word that stands at the top of the page. she spelled these words in an absent and uninterested manner. as everybody knew that she would have to go down as soon as this preliminary skirmishing was over, everybody began to get ready to go home, and already there was the buzz of preparation. young men were timidly asking girls if "they could see them safe home," which was the approved formula, and were trembling in mortal fear of "the mitten." presently the squire, thinking it time to close the contest, pulled his scalp forward, adjusted his glass eye, which had been examining his nose long enough, and turned over the leaves of the book to the great words at the place known to spellers as "incomprehensibility," and began to give out those "words of eight syllables with the accent on the sixth." listless scholars now turned round, and ceased to whisper, in order to be in at the master's final triumph. but to their surprise "ole miss meanses' white nigger," as some of them called her in allusion to her slavish life, spelled these great words with as perfect ease as the master. still not doubting the result, the squire turned from place to place and selected all the hard words he could find. the school became utterly quiet, the excitement was too great for the ordinary buzz. would "meanses' hanner" beat the master? beat the master that had laid out jim phillips? everybody's sympathy was now turned to hannah. ralph noticed that even shocky had deserted him, and that his face grew brilliant every time hannah spelled a word. in fact, ralph deserted himself. as he saw the fine, timid face of the girl so long oppressed flush and shine with interest; as he looked at the rather low but broad and intelligent brow and the fresh, white complexion and saw the rich, womanly nature coming to the surface under the influence of applause and sympathy--he did not want to beat. if he had not felt that a victory given would insult her, he would have missed intentionally. the bulldog, the stern, relentless setting of the will, had gone, he knew not whither. and there had come in its place, as he looked in that face, a something which he did not understand. you did not, gentle reader, the first time it came to you. the squire was puzzled. he had given out all the hard words in the book. he again pulled the top of his head forward. then he wiped his spectacles and put them on. then out of the depths of his pocket he fished up a list of words just coming into use in those days--words not in the spelling-book. he regarded the paper attentively with his blue right eye. his black left eye meanwhile fixed itself in such a stare on mirandy means that she shuddered and hid her eyes in her red silk handkerchief. "daguerreotype," sniffed the squire. it was ralph's turn. "d-a-u, dau--" "next." and hannah spelled it right. such a buzz followed that betsey short's giggle could not be heard, but shocky shouted: "hanner beat! my hanner spelled down the master!" and ralph went over and congratulated her. and dr. small sat perfectly still in the corner. and then the squire called them to order, and said: "as our friend hanner thomson is the only one left on her side, she will have to spell against nearly all on t'other side. i shall therefore take the liberty of procrastinating the completion of this interesting and exacting contest until to-morrow evening. i hope our friend hanner may again carry off the cypress crown of glory. there is nothing better for us than healthful and kindly simulation." dr. small, who knew the road to practice, escorted mirandy, and bud went home with somebody else. the others of the means family hurried on, while hannah, the champion, stayed behind a minute to speak to shocky. perhaps it was because ralph saw that hannah must go alone that he suddenly remembered having left something which was of no consequence, and resolved to go round by mr. means's and get it. footnotes: [footnote : _peart_ or peert is only another form of the old word _pert_--probably an older form. bartlett cites an example of _peart_ as far back as sir philip sidney; and halliwell finds it in various english dialects. davies, afterward president of princeton college, describes dr. lardner, in , as "a little pert old gent." i do not know that dr. daries pronounced his _pert_ as though it were _peart_, but he uses it in the sense it has in the text, viz., bright-witted, intelligent. the general sense of _peart_ is lively, either in body or mind.] [footnote : mr. lowell suggested to me in that this word _'low_ has no kinship with _allow_, but is an independent word for which he gave a low latin original of similar sound. i have not been able to trace any such word, but mr. lowell had so much linguistic knowledge of the out-of-the-way sort that it may be worth while to record his impression. bartlett is wrong in defining this word, as he is usually in his attempts to explain dialect outside of new england. it does not mean "to declare, assert, maintain," etc. it is nearly the equivalent of _guess_ in the northern and middle states, and of _reckon_ in the south. it agrees precisely with the new england _calk'late_. like all the rest of these words it may have a strong sense by irony. when a man says, "i 'low that is a purty peart sort of a hoss," he understates for the sake of emphasis. it is rarely or never _allow_, but simply _'low_. in common with _calk'late_, it has sometimes a sense of purpose or expectation, as when a man says, "i 'low to go to town to-morry."] [footnote : no phrase of the hoosier and south-western dialect is such a stumbling-block to the outsider as _right smart_. the writer from the north or east will generally use it wrongly. mrs. stowe says, "i sold right smart of eggs," but the hoosier woman as i knew her would have said "a right smart lot of eggs" or "a right smart of eggs," using the article and understanding the noun. a farmer omitting the preposition boasts of having "raised right smart corn" this year. no expression could have a more vague sense than this. in the early settlement of minnesota it was a custom of the land officers to require a residence of about ten days on "a claim" in order to the establishment of a pre-emption right. one of the receivers at a land office under buchanan's administration was a german of much intelligence who was very sensitive regarding his knowledge of english. "how long has the claimant lived on his claim?" he demanded of a hoosier witness. "oh, a right smart while," was the reply. the receiver had not the faintest notion of the meaning of the answer, but fearing to betray his ignorance of english he allowed the land to be entered, though the claimant had spent but about two hours in residing on his quarter-section.] chapter v. the walk home. you expect me to describe that walk. you have had enough of the jack meanses and the squire hawkinses, and the pete joneses, and the rest. you wish me to tell you now of this true-hearted girl and her lover; of how the silvery moonbeams came down in a shower--to use whittier's favorite metaphor--through the maple boughs, flecking the frozen ground with light and shadow. you would have me tell of the evening star, not yet gone down, which shed its benediction on them. but i shall do no such thing. for the moon was not shining, neither did the stars give their light. the tall, black trunks of the maples swayed and shook in the wind, which moaned through their leafless boughs. novelists always make lovers walk in the moonlight. but if love is not, as the cynics believe, all moonshine, it can at least make its own light. moonlight is never so little needed or heeded, never so much of an impertinence, as in a love-scene. it was at the bottom of the first hollow beyond the school-house that ralph overtook the timid girl walking swiftly through the dark. he did not ask permission to walk with her. love does not go by words, and there are times when conventionality is impossible. there are people who understand one another at once. when one soul meets another, it is not by pass-word, nor by hailing sign, nor by mysterious grip that they recognize. the subtlest freemasonry in the world is this freemasonry of the spirit. ralph and hannah knew and trusted. ralph had admired and wondered at the quiet drudge. but it was when, in the unaccustomed sunshine of praise, she spread her wings a little, that he loved her. he had seen her awake. you, miss amelia, wish me to repeat all their love-talk. i am afraid you'd find it dull. love can pipe through any kind of a reed. ralph talked love to hannah when he spoke of the weather, of the crops, of the spelling-school. weather, crops, and spelling-school--these were what his words would say if reported. but below all these commonplaces there vibrated something else. one can make love a great deal better when one doesn't speak of love. words are so poor! tones and modulations are better. it is an old story that whitefield could make an audience weep by his way of pronouncing the word mesopotamia. a lover can sound the whole gamut of his affection in saying good-morning. the solemnest engagements ever made have been without the intervention of speech. and you, my gradgrind friend, you think me sentimental. two young fools they were, walking so slowly though the night was sharp, dallying under the trees, and dreaming of a heaven they could not have realized if all their wishes had been granted. of course they were fools! either they were fools to be so happy, or else some other people are fools not to be. after all, dear gradgrind, let them be. there's no harm in it. they'll get trouble enough before morning. let them enjoy the evening. i am not sure but these lovers whom we write down fools are the only wise people after all. is it not wise to be happy? let them alone. for the first time in three years, for the first time since she had crossed the threshold of "old jack means" and come under the domination of mrs. old jack means, hannah talked cheerfully, almost gayly. it was something to have a companion to talk to. it was something to be the victor even in a spelling-match, and to be applauded even by flat creek. and so, chatting earnestly about the most uninteresting themes, ralph courteously helped hannah over the fence, and they took the usual short-cut through the "blue-grass pasture." there came up a little shower, hardly more than a sprinkle, but then it was so nice to have a shower just as they reached the box-elder tree by the spring! it was so thoughtful in ralph to suggest that the shade of a box-elder is dense, and that hannah might take cold! and it was so easy for hannah to yield to the suggestion! just as though she had not milked the cows in the open lot in the worst storms of the last three years! and just as though the house were not within a stone's-throw! doubtless it was not prudent to stop here. but let us deal gently with them. who would not stay in an earthy paradise ten minutes longer, even though it did make purgatory the hotter afterward? and so hannah stayed. "tell me your circumstances," said ralph, at last. "i am sure i can help you in something." "no, no! you cannot," and hannah's face was clouded. "no one can help me. only time and god. i must go, mr. hartsook." and they walked on to the front gate in silence and in some constraint. but still in happiness. as they came to the gate, dr. small pushed past them in his cool, deliberate way, and mounted his horse. ralph bade hannah good-night, having entirely forgotten the errand which had been his excuse to himself for coming out of his way. he hastened to his new home, the house of mr. pete jones, the same who believed in the inseparableness of "lickin' and larnin'." "you're a purty gal, a'n't you? you're a purty gal, a'n't you? _you_ air! yes, you _air_" and mrs. means seemed so impressed with hannah's prettiness that she choked on it, and could get no further. "a purty gal! you! yes! you air a mighty purty gal!" and the old woman's voice rose till it could have been heard half a mile. "to be a-santerin' along the big road after ten o'clock with the master! who knows whether he's a fit man fer anybody to go with? arter all i've been and gone and done fer you! that's the way you pay me! disgrace me! yes, i say disgrace me! you're a mean, deceitful thing. stuck up bekase you spelt the master down. ketch _me_ lettin' you got to spellin'-school to-morry night! ketch me! yes, ketch me, i say!" "looky here, marm," said bud, "it seems to me you're a-makin' a blamed furss about nothin'. don't yell so's they'll hear you three or four mile. you'll have everybody 'tween here and clifty waked up." for mrs. means had become so excited over the idea of being caught allowing hannah to go to spelling-school that she had raised her last "ketch me!" to a perfect whoop. "that's the way i'm treated," whimpered the old woman, who knew how to take the "injured innocence" dodge as well as anybody. "that's the way i'm treated. you allers take sides with that air hussy agin your own flesh and blood. you don't keer how much trouble i have. not you. not a dog-on'd bit. i may be disgraced by that air ongrateful critter, and you set right here in my own house and sass me about it. a purty fellow you air! an' me a-delvin' and a-drudgin' fer you all my born days. a purty son, a'n't you?" bud did not say another word. he sat in the chimney-corner and whistled "dandy jim from caroline." his diversion had produced the effect he sought: for while his tender-hearted mother poured her broadside into his iron-clad feelings, hannah had slipped up the stairs to her garret bedroom, and when mrs. means turned from the callous bud to finish her assault upon the sensitive girl, she could only gnash her teeth in disappointment. stung by the insults to which she could not grow insensible, hannah lay awake until the memory of that walk through the darkness came into her soul like a benediction. the harsh voice of the scold died out, and the gentle and courteous voice of hartsook filled her soul. she recalled piece by piece the whole conversation--all the commonplace remarks about the weather; all the insignificant remarks about the crops; all the unimportant words about the spelling-school. not for the sake of the remarks. not for the sake of the weather. not for the sake of the crops. not for the sake of the spelling-school. but for the sake of the undertone. and then she traveled back over the three years of her bondage and forward over the three years to come, and fed her heart on the dim hope of rebuilding in some form the home that had been so happy. and she prayed, with more faith than ever before, for deliverance. for love brings faith. somewhere on in the sleepless night she stood at the window. the moon was shining now, and there was the path through the pasture, and there was the fence, and there was the box-elder. she sat there a long time. then she saw someone come over the fence and walk to the tree, and then on toward pete jones's. who could it be? she thought she recognized the figure. but she was chilled and shivering, and she crept back again into bed, and dreamed not of the uncertain days to come, but of the blessed days that were past--of a father and a mother and a brother in a happy home. but somehow the school-master was there too. chapter vi. a night at pete jones's. when ralph got to pete jones's he found that sinister-looking individual in the act of kicking one of his many dogs out of the house. "come in, stranger, come in. you'll find this 'ere house full of brats, but i guess you kin kick your way around among 'em. take a cheer. here, git out! go to thunder with you!" and with these mild imperatives he boxed one of his boys over in one direction and one of his girls over in the other. "i believe in trainin' up children to mind when they're spoke to," he said to ralph apologetically. but it seemed to the teacher that he wanted them to mind just a little before they were spoken to. "p'raps you'd like a bed. well, jest climb up the ladder on the outside of the house. takes up a thunderin' sight of room to have a stairs inside, and we ha'n't got no room to spare. you'll find a bed in the furdest corner. my pete's already got half of it, and you can take t'other half. ef pete goes to takin' his half in the middle, and tryin' to make you take yourn on both sides, jest kick him." in this comfortless bed "in the furdest corner," ralph found sleep out of the question. pete took three-fourths of the bed, and hannah took all of his thoughts. so he lay, and looked out through the cracks in the "clapboards" (as they call rough shingles in the old west) at the stars. for the clouds had now broken away. and he lay thus recounting to himself, as a miser counts the pieces that compose his hoard, every step of that road from the time he had overtaken hannah in the hollow to the fence. then he imagined again the pleasure of helping her over, and then he retraced the ground to the box-elder tree at the spring, and repeated to himself the conversation until he came to the part in which she said that only time and god could help her. what did she mean? what was the hidden part of her life? what was the connection between her and shocky? hours wore on, and still the mind of ralph hartsook went back and traveled the same road, over the fence, past the box-elder, up to the inexplicable part of the conversation, and stood bewildered with the same puzzling questions about the bound girl's life. at last he got up, drew on his clothes, and sat down on the top of the ladder, looking down over the blue-grass pasture which lay on the border between the land of jones and the land of means. the earth was white with moonlight. he could not sleep. why not walk? it might enable him to sleep. and once determined on walking, he did not hesitate a moment as to the direction in which he should walk. the blue-grass pasture (was it not like unto the garden of eden?) lay right before him. that box-elder stood just in sight. to spring over the fence and take the path down the hill and over the brook was as quickly done as decided upon. to stand again under the box-elder, to climb again over the farther fence, and to walk down the road toward the school-house was so easy and so delightful that it was done without thought. for ralph was an eager man--when he saw no wrong in anything that proposed itself, he was wont to follow his impulse without deliberation. and this keeping company with the stars, and the memory of a delightful walk, were so much better than the commonplace flat creek life that he threw himself into his night excursion with enthusiasm. at last he stood in the little hollow where he had joined hannah. it was the very spot at which shocky, too, had met him a few mornings before. he leaned against the fence and tried again to solve the puzzle of hannah's troubles. for that she had troubles he did not doubt. neither did he doubt that he could help her if he could discover what they were. but he had no clue. in the midst of this meditations he heard the thud of horses' hoofs coming down the road. until that moment he had not felt his own loneliness. he shrank back into the fence-corner. the horsemen were galloping. there were three of them, and there was one figure that seemed familiar to ralph. but he could not tell who it was. neither could he remember having seen the horse, which was a sorrel with a white left forefoot and a white nose. the men noticed him and reined up a little. why he should have been startled by the presence of these men he could not tell, but an indefinable dread seized him. they galloped on, and he stood still shivering with a nervous fear. the cold seemed to have got into his bones. he remembered that the region lying on flat creek and clifty creek had the reputation of being infested with thieves, who practiced horse-stealing and house-breaking. for ever since the day when murrell's confederate bands were paralyzed by the death of their leader, there have still existed gangs of desperadoes in parts of southern indiana and illinois, and in iowa, missouri, kentucky, and the southwest. it is out of these materials that border ruffianism has grown, and the nine members of the reno band who were hanged two or three years ago by lynch law[ ], were remains of the bad blood that came into the west in the days of daniel boone. shall i not say that these bands of desperadoes still found among the "poor whitey, dirt-eater" class are the outcroppings of the bad blood sent from england in convict-ships? ought an old country to sow the fertile soil of a colony with such noxious seed? before ralph was able to move, he heard the hoofs of another horse striking upon the hard ground in an easy pace. the rider was dr. small. he checked his horse in a cool way, and stood still a few seconds while he scrutinized ralph. then he rode on, keeping the same easy gait as before, ralph had a superstitious horror of henry small. and, shuddering with cold, he crept like a thief over the fence, past the tree, through the pasture, back to pete jones's, never once thinking of the eyes that looked out of the window at means's. climbing the ladder, he got into bed, and shook as with the ague. he tried to reason himself out of the foolish terror that possessed him, but he could not. half an hour later he heard a latch raised. were the robbers breaking into the house below? he heard a soft tread upon the floor. should he rise and give the alarm? something restrained him. he reflected that a robber would be sure to stumble over some of the "brats." so he lay still and finally slumbered, only awakening when the place in which he slept was full of the smoke of frying grease from the room below. at breakfast pete jones scowled. he was evidently angry about something. he treated ralph with a rudeness not to be overlooked, as if he intended to bring on a quarrel. hartsook kept cool, and wished he could drive from his mind all memory of the past night. why should men on horseback have any significance to him? he was trying to regard things in this way, and from a general desire to keep on good terms with his host he went to the stable to offer his services in helping to feed the stock. "don't want no saft-handed help!" was all he got in return for his well-meant offer. but just as he turned to leave the stable he saw what made him tremble again. there was the same sorrel horse with a white left forefoot and a white nose. to shake off his nervousness, ralph started to school before the time. but, plague upon plagues! mirandy means, who had seen him leave pete jones's, started just in time to join him where he came into the big road. ralph was not in a good humor after his wakeful night, and to be thus dogged by mirandy did not help the matter. so he found himself speaking crabbedly to the daughter of the leading trustee, in spite of himself. "hanner's got a bad cold this mornin' from bein' out last night, and she can't come to spellin'-school to-night," began mirandy, in her most simpering voice. ralph had forgotten that there was to be another spelling-school. it seemed to him an age since the orthographical conflict of the past night. this remark of mirandy's fell upon his ear like an echo from the distant past. he had lived a lifetime since, and was not sure that he was the same man who was spelling for dear life against jim phillips twelve hours before. but he was sorry to hear that hannah had a cold. it seemed to him, in his depressed state, that he was to blame for it. in fact, it seemed to him that he was to blame for a good many things. he seemed to have been committing sins in spite of himself. broken nerves and sleepless nights often result in a morbid conscience. and what business had he to wander over this very road at two o'clock in the morning, and to see three galloping horsemen, one of them on a horse with a white left forefoot and a white nose? what business had he watching dr. small as he went home from the bedside of a dying patient near daylight in the morning? and because he felt guilty he felt cross with mirandy, and to her remark about hannah he only replied that "hannah was a smart girl." "yes," said mirandy, "bud thinks so." "does he?" said ralph. "i should say so. what's him and her been a-courtin' fer for a year ef he didn't think she was smart? marm don't like it; but ef bud and her does, and they seem to, i don't see as it's marm's lookout." when one is wretched, there is a pleasure in being entirely wretched. ralph felt that he must have committed some unknown crime, and that some nemesis was following him. was hannah deceitful? at least, if she were not, he felt sure that he could supplant bud. but what right had he to supplant bud? "did you hear the news?" cried shocky, running out to meet him. "the dutchman's house was robbed last night." ralph thought of the three men on horseback, and to save his life he could not help associating dr. small with them. and then he remembered the sorrel horse with the left forefoot and muzzle white, and he recalled the sound he had heard as of the lifting of a latch. and it really seemed to him that in knowing what he did he was in some sense guilty of the robbery. footnotes: [footnote : written in .] chapter vii. ominous remarks of mr. jones. the school-master's mind was like ancient gaul--divided into three parts. with one part he mechanically performed his school duties. with another he asked himself, what shall i do about the robbery? and with the third he debated about bud and hannah. for bud was not present, and it was clear that he was angry, and there was a storm brewing. in fact, it seemed to ralph that there was a storm brewing all round the sky. for pete jones was evidently angry at the thought of having been watched, and it was fair to suppose that dr. small was not in any better humor than usual. and so, between bud's jealousy and revenge and the suspicion and resentment of the men engaged in the robbery at "the dutchman's" (as the only german in the whole region was called), ralph's excited nerves had cause for tremor. at one moment he would resolve to have hannah at all costs. in the next his conscience would question the rightfulness of the conclusion. then he would make up his mind to tell all he knew about the robbery. but if he told his suspicions about small, nobody would believe him. and if he told about pete jones, he really could tell only enough to bring vengeance upon himself. and how could he explain his own walk through the pasture and down the road? what business had he being out of bed at two o'clock in the morning? the circumstantial evidence was quite as strong against him as against the man on the horse with the white left forefoot and the white nose. suspicion might fasten on himself. and then what would be the effect on his prospects? on the people at lewisburg? on hannah? it is astonishing how much instruction and comfort there is in a bulldog. this slender school-master, who had been all his life repressing the animal and developing the finer nature, now found a need of just what the bulldog had. and so, with the thought of how his friend the dog would fight in a desperate strait, he determined to take hold of his difficulties as bull took hold of the raccoon. moral questions he postponed for careful decision. but for the present he set his teeth together in a desperate, bulldog fashion, and he set his feet down slowly, positively, bulldoggedly. after a wretched supper at pete jones's he found himself at the spelling-school, which, owing to the absence of hannah, and the excitement about the burglary, was a dull affair. half the evening was spent in talking in little knots. pete jones had taken the afflicted "dutchman" under his own particular supervision. "i s'pose," said pete, "that them air fellers what robbed your house must a come down from jinkins run. they're the blamedest set up there i ever see." "ya-as," said schroeder, "put how did yinkins vellers know dat i sell te medder to te shquire, hey? how tid yinkins know anyting 'bout the shquire's bayin' me dree huntert in te hard gash--hey?" "some scoundrels down in these 'ere parts is a-layin' in with jinkins run, i'll bet a hoss," said pete. ralph wondered whether he'd bet the one with the white left forefoot and the white nose. "now," said pete, "ef i could find the feller that's a-helpin' them scoundrels rob us folks, i'd help stretch him to the neardest tree." "so vood i," said schroeder. "i'd shtretch him dill he baid me my dree huntert tollars pack, so i vood." and betsey short, who had found the whole affair very funny, was transported with a fit of tittering at poor schroeder's english. ralph, fearing that his silence would excite suspicion, tried to talk. but he could not tell what he knew, and all that he said sounded so hollow and hypocritical that it made him feel guilty. and so he shut his mouth, and meditated profitably on the subject of bull dogs. and when later he overheard the garrulous jones declare that he'd bet a hoss he could p'int out somebody as know'd a blamed sight more'n they keerd to tell, he made up his mind that if it came to p'inting out he should try to be even with jones. chapter viii. the struggle in the dark it was a long, lonesome, fearful night that the school-master passed, lying with nerves on edge and eyes wide open in that comfortless bed in the "furdest corner" of the loft of pete jones's house, shivering with cold, while the light snow that was falling sifted in upon the ragged patch-work quilt that covered him. nerves broken by sleeplessness imagine many things, and for the first hour ralph felt sure that pete would cut his throat before morning. and you, friend callow, who have blunted your palate by swallowing the cayenne pepper of the penny-dreadfuls, you wish me to make this night exciting by a hand-to-hand contest between ralph and a robber. you would like it better if there were a trap-door. there's nothing so convenient as a trap-door, unless it be a subterranean passage. and you'd like something of that sort just here. it's so pleasant to have one's hair stand on end, you know, when one is safe from danger to one's self. but if you want each individual hair to bristle with such a "struggle in the dark," you can buy trap-doors and subterranean passages dirt cheap at the next news-stand. but it was, indeed, a real and terrible "struggle in the dark" that ralph fought out at pete jones's. when he had vanquished his fears of personal violence by reminding himself that it would be folly for jones to commit murder in his own house, the question of bud and hannah took the uppermost place in his thoughts. and as the image of hannah spelling against the master came up to him, as the memory of the walk, the talk, the box-elder tree, and all the rest took possession of him, it seemed to ralph that his very life depended upon his securing her love. he would shut his teeth like the jaws of a bulldog, and all bud's muscles should not prevail over his resolution and his stratagems. it was easy to persuade himself that this was right. hannah ought not to throw herself away on bud means. men of some culture always play their conceit off against their consciences. to a man of literary habits it usually seems to be a great boon that he confers on a woman when he gives her his love. reasoning thus, ralph had fixed his resolution, and if the night had been shorter, or sleep possible, the color of his life might have been changed. but some time along in the tedious hours came the memory of his childhood, the words of his mother, the old bible stories, the aspiration after nobility of spirit, the solemn resolutions to be true to his conscience. these angels of the memory came flocking back before the animal, the bull-doggedness, had "set," as workers in plaster say. he remembered the story of david and nathan, and it seemed to him that he, with all his abilities and ambitions and prospects, was about to rob bud of the one ewe-lamb, the only thing he had to rejoice in in his life. in getting hannah, he would make himself unworthy of hannah. and then there came to him a vision of the supreme value of a true character; how it was better than success, better than to be loved, better than heaven. and how near he had been to missing it! and how certain he was, when these thoughts should fade, to miss it! he was as one fighting for a great prize who feels his strength failing and is sure of defeat. this was the real, awful "struggle in the dark." a human soul fighting with heaven in sight, but certain of slipping inevitably into hell! it was the same old battle. the image of god fought with the image of the devil. it was the same fight that paul described so dramatically when he represented the spirit as contending with the flesh. paul also called this dreadful something the old adam, and i suppose darwin would call it the remains of the wild beast. but call it what you will, it is the battle that every well-endowed soul must fight at some point. and to ralph it seemed that the final victory of the evil, the old adam, the flesh, the wild beast, the devil, was certain. for, was not the pure, unconscious face of hannah on the devil's side? and so the battle had just as well be given up at once, for it must be lost in the end. but to ralph, lying there in the still darkness, with his conscience as wide awake as if it were the day of doom, there seemed something so terrible in this overflow of the better nature which he knew to be inevitable as soon as the voice of conscience became blunted, that he looked about for help. he did not at first think of god; but there came into his thoughts the memory of a travel-worn galilean peasant, hungry, sleepy, weary, tempted, tried, like other men, but having a strange, divine victory in him by which everything evil was vanquished at his coming. he remembered how he had reached out a hand to every helpless one, how he was the helper of every weak one. and out of the depths of his soul he cried to the helper, and found comfort. not victory, but, what is better, strength. and so, without a thought of the niceties of theological distinctions, without dreaming that it was the beginning of a religious experience, he found what he needed, help. and the helper gave his beloved sleep. chapter ix. has god forgotten shocky? "pap wants to know ef you would spend to-morry and sunday at our house?" said one of squire hawkins's girls, on the very next evening, which was friday. the old squire was thoughtful enough to remember that ralph would not find it very pleasant "boarding out" all the time he was entitled to spend at pete jones's. for in view of the fact that mr. pete jones sent seven children to the school, the "master" in flat creek district was bound to spend two weeks in that comfortable place, sleeping in a preoccupied bed, in the "furdest corner," with insufficient cover, under an insufficient roof, and eating floating islands of salt pork fished out of oceans of hot lard. ralph was not slow to accept the relief offered by the hospitable justice of the peace, whose principal business seemed to be the adjustment of the pieces of which he was composed. and as shocky traveled the same road, ralph took advantage of the opportunity to talk with him. the master could not dismiss hannah wholly from his mind. he would at least read the mystery of her life, if shocky could be prevailed on to furnish the clue. "poor old tree!" said shocky, pointing to a crooked and gnarled elm standing by itself in the middle of a field. for when the elm, naturally the most graceful of trees, once gets a "bad set," it can grow to be the most deformed. this solitary tree had not a single straight limb. "why do you say 'poor old tree'?" asked ralph. "'cause it's lonesome. all its old friends is dead and chopped down, and there's their stumps a-standin' jes like grave-stones. it _must_ be lonesome. some folks says it don't feel, but i think it does. everything seems to think and feel. see it nodding its head to them other trees in the woods? and a-wantin' to shake hands! but it can't move. i think that tree must a growed in the night." "why, shocky?" "'cause it's so crooked," and shocky laughed at his own conceit; "must a growed when they was no light so as it could see how to grow." and then they walked on in silence a minute. presently shocky began looking up into ralph's eyes to get a smile. "i guess that tree feels just like me. don't you?" "why, how do you feel?" "kind o' bad and lonesome, and like as if i wanted to die, you know. felt that way ever sence they put my father into the graveyard, and sent my mother to the poor-house and hanner to ole miss means's. what kind of a place is a poor-house? is it a poorer place than means's? i wish i was dead and one of them clouds was a-carryin' me and hanner and mother up to where father's gone, you know! i wonder if god forgets all about poor folks when their father dies and their mother gits into the poor-house? do you think he does? seems so to me. maybe god lost track of my father when he come away from england and crossed over the sea. don't nobody on flat creek keer fer god, and i guess god don't keer fer flat creek. but i would, though, ef he'd git my mother out of the poor-house and git hanner away from means's, and let me kiss my mother every night, you know, and sleep on my hanner's arm, jes like i used to afore father died, you see." ralph wanted to speak, but he couldn't. and so shocky, with his eyes looking straight ahead, and as if forgetting ralph's presence, told over the thoughts that he had often talked over to the fence-rails and the trees. "it was real good in mr. pearson to take me, wasn't it? else i'd a been bound out tell i was twenty-one, maybe, to some mean man like ole means. and i a'n't but seven. and it would take me fourteen years to git twenty-one, and i never could live with my mother again after hanner gets done her time. 'cause, you see, hanner'll be through in three more year, and i'll be ten and able to work, and we'll git a little place about as big as granny sanders's, and--" ralph did not hear another word of what shocky said that afternoon. for there, right before them, was granny sanders's log-cabin, with its row of lofty sunflower stalks, now dead and dry, in front, with its rain-water barrel by the side of the low door, and its ash-barrel by the fence. in this cabin lived alone the old and shriveled hag whose hideousness gave her a reputation for almost supernatural knowledge. she was at once doctress and newspaper. she collected and disseminated medicinal herbs and personal gossip. she was in every regard indispensable to the intellectual life of the neighborhood. in the matter of her medical skill we cannot express an opinion, for her "yarbs" are not to be found in the pharmacopoeia of science. what took ralph's breath was to find dr. small's fine, faultless horse standing at the door. what did henry small want to visit this old quack for? chapter x. the devil of silence. ralph had reason to fear small, who was a native of the same village of lewisburg, and some five years the elder. some facts in the doctor's life had come into ralph's possession in such a way as to confirm life-long suspicion without giving him power to expose small, who was firmly intrenched in the good graces of the people of the county-seat village of lewisburg, where he had grown up, and of the little cross-roads village of clifty, where his "shingle" now hung. small was no ordinary villain. he was a genius. your ordinary hypocrite talks cant. small talked nothing. he was the coolest, the steadiest, the most silent, the most promising boy ever born in lewisburg. he made no pretensions. he set up no claims. he uttered no professions. he went right on and lived a life above reproach. your vulgar hypocrite makes long prayers in prayer-meeting. small did nothing of the sort. he sat still in prayer-meeting, and listened to the elders as a modest young man should. your commonplace hypocrite boasts. small never alluded to himself, and thus a consummate egotist got credit for modesty. it is but an indifferent trick for a hypocrite to make temperance speeches. dr. small did not even belong to a temperance society. but he could never be persuaded to drink even so much as a cup of tea. there was something sublime in the quiet voice with which he would say, "cold water, if you please," to a lady tempting him with smoking coffee on a cold morning. there was no exultation, no sense of merit in the act. everything was done in a modest and matter-of-course way beautiful to behold. and his face was a neutral tint. neither face nor voice expressed anything. only a keen reader of character might have asked whether all there was in that eye could live contented with this cool, austere, self-contained life; whether there would not be somewhere a volcanic eruption. but if there was any sea of molten lava beneath, the world did not discover it. wild boys were sick of having small held up to them as the most immaculate of men[ ]. ralph had failed to get two schools for which he had applied, and had attributed both failures to certain shrugs of dr. small. and now, when he found small at the house of granny sanders, the center of intelligence as well as of ignorance for the neighborhood, he trembled. not that small would say anything. he never said anything. he damned people by a silence worse than words. granny sanders was not a little flattered by the visit. "why, doctor, howdy, howdy! come in, take a cheer. i am glad to see you. i 'lowed you'd come. old dr. flounder used to say he larnt lots o' things of me. but most of the doctors sence hez been kinder stuck up, you know. but i know'd you fer a man of intelligence." meantime, small, by his grave silence and attention, had almost smothered the old hag with flattery. "many's the case i've cured with yarbs and things. nigh upon twenty year ago they was a man lived over on wild cat run as had a breakin'-out on his side. 'twas the left side, jes below the waist. doctor couldn't do nothin'. 'twas doctor peacham. he never would have nothin' to do with 'ole woman's cures.' well, the man was goin' to die. everybody seed that. and they come a-drivin' away over here all the way from the wild cat. think of that air! i never was so flustered. but as soon as i laid eyes on that air man, i says, says i, that air man, says i, has got the shingles, says i. i know'd the minute i seed it. and if they'd gone clean around, nothing could a saved him. i says, says i, git me a black cat. so i jist killed a black cat, and let the blood run all over the swellin'. i tell you, doctor, they's nothin' like it. that man was well in a month." [illustration: mrs. means] "did you use the blood warm?" asked small, with a solemnity most edifying. these were almost the only words he had uttered since he entered the cabin. "laws, yes; i jest let it run right out of the cat's tail onto the breakin'-out. and fer airesipelus, i don't know nothin' so good as the blood of a black hen." "how old?" asked the doctor. "there you showed yer science, doctor! they's no power in a pullet. the older the black hen the better. and you know the cure fer rheumatiz?" and here the old woman got down a bottle of grease. "that's ile from a black dog. ef it's rendered right, it'll knock the hind sights off of any rheumatiz you ever see. but it must be rendered in the dark of the moon. else a black dog's ile a'n't worth no more nor a white one's." and all this time small was smelling of the uncorked bottle, taking a little on his finger and feeling of it, and thus feeling his way to the heart--drier than her herbs--of the old witch. and then he went round the cabin gravely, lifting each separate bunch of dried yarbs from its nail, smelling of it, and then, by making an interrogation-point of his silent face, he managed to get a lecture from her on each article in her _materia medica_> with the most marvelous stories illustrative of their virtues. when the granny had got her fill of his silent flattery, he was ready to carry forward his main purpose. there was something weird about this silent man's ability to turn the conversation as he chose to have it go. sitting by the granny's tea-table, nibbling corn-bread while he drank his glass of water, having declined even her sassafras, he ceased to stimulate her medical talk and opened the vein of gossip. once started, granny sanders was sure to allude to the robbery. and once on the robbery the doctor's course was clear. "i 'low somebody not fur away is in this 'ere business!" not by a word, nor even by a nod, but by some motion of the eyelids, perhaps, small indicated that he agreed with her. "who d'ye s'pose 'tis?" but dr. small was not in the habit of supposing. he moved his head in a quiet way, just the least perceptible bit, but so that the old creature understood that he could give light if he wanted to. "i dunno anybody that's been 'bout here long as could be suspected." another motion of the eyelids indicated small's agreement with this remark. "they a'n't nobody come in here lately 'ceppin' the master." small looked vacantly at the wall. "but i low he's allers bore a tip-top character." the doctor was too busy looking at his corn-bread to answer this remark even by a look. "but i think these oversmart young men'll bear looking arter, _i_ do." dr. small raised his eyes and let them _shine_ an assent. that was all. "shouldn't wonder ef our master was overly fond of gals." doctor looks down at his plate. "had plenty of sweethearts afore he walked home with hanner thomson t'other night, i'll bet." did dr. small shrug his shoulder? granny thought she detected a faint motion of the sort, but she could not be sure. "and i think as how that a feller what trifles with gals' hearts and then runs off ten miles, maybe a'n't no better'n he had orter be. that's what i says, says i." to this general remark dr. small assented in his invisible--shall i say _intangible_?--way. "i allers think, maybe, that some folks has found it best to leave home and go away. you can't never tell. but when people is a-bein' robbed it's well to lookout. hey?" "i think so," said small quietly, and, having taken his hat and bowed a solemn and respectful adieu, he departed. he had not spoken twenty words, but he had satisfied the news-monger of flat creek that ralph was a bad character at home and worthy of suspicion of burglary. footnotes: [footnote : the original from which this character was drawn is here described accurately. the author now knows that such people are not to be put into books. they are not realistic enough.] chapter xi miss martha hawkins. "it's very good for the health to dig in the elements. i was quite emaciated last year at the east, and the doctor told me to dig in the elements. i got me a florial hoe and dug, and it's been most excellent for me[ ]." time, the saturday following the friday on which ralph kept shocky company as far as the "forks" near granny sanders's house. scene, the squire's garden. ralph helping that worthy magistrate perform sundry little jobs such as a warm winter day suggests to the farmer. miss martha hawkins, the squire's niece, and his housekeeper in his present bereaved condition, leaning over the palings--pickets she called them--of the garden fence, talking to the master. miss hawkins was recently from massachusetts. how many people there are in the most cultivated communities whose education is partial! "it's very common for school-master to dig in the elements at the east," proceeded miss martha. like many other people born in the celestial empires (of which there are three--china, virginia, massachusetts), miss martha was not averse to reminding outside barbarians of her good fortune in this regard. it did her good to speak of the east. now ralph was amused with miss martha. she really had a good deal of intelligence despite her affectation, and conversation with her was both interesting and diverting. it helped him to forget hannah, and bud, and the robbery, and all the rest, and she was so delighted to find somebody to make an impression on that she had come out to talk while ralph was at work. but just at this moment the school-master was not so much interested in her interesting remarks, nor so much amused by her amusing remarks, as he should have been. he saw a man coming down the road riding one horse and leading another, and he recognized the horses at a distance. it must be bud who was riding means's bay mare and leading bud's roan colt. bud had been to mill, and as the man who owned the horse-mill kept but one old blind horse himself, it was necessary that bud should take two. it required three horses to run the mill; the old blind one could have ground the grist, but the two others had to overcome the friction of the clumsy machine. but it was not about the horse-mill that ralph was thinking nor about the two horses. since that wednesday evening on which he escorted hannah home from the spelling-school he had not seen bud means. if he had any lingering doubts of the truth of what mirandy had said, they had been dissipated by the absence of bud from school. "when i was to bosting--" miss martha was _to_ boston only once in her life, but as her visit to that sacred city was the most important occurrence of her life, she did not hesitate to air her reminiscences of it frequently. "when i was to bosting," she was just saying, when, following the indication of ralph's eyes, she saw bud coming up the hill near squire hawkins's house. bud looked red and sulky, and to ralph's and miss martha hawkins's polite recognitions he returned only a surly nod. they both saw that he was angry. ralph was able to guess the meaning of his wrath. toward evening ralph strolled through the squire's cornfield toward the woods. the memory of the walk with hannah was heavy upon the heart of the young master, and there was comfort in the very miserableness of the cornstalks with their disheveled blades hanging like tattered banners and rattling discordantly in the rising wind. wandering without purpose, ralph followed the rows of stalks first one way and then the other in a zigzag line, turning a right angle every minute or two. at last he came out in a woods mostly of beech, and he pleased his melancholy fancy by kicking the dry and silky leaves before him in billows, while the soughing of the wind through the long, vibrant boughs and slender twigs of the beech forest seemed to put the world into the wailing minor key of his own despair. what a fascination there is in a path come upon suddenly without a knowledge of its termination! here was one running in easy, irregular curves through the wood, now turning gently to the right in order to avoid a stump, now swaying suddenly to the left to gain an easier descent at a steep place, and now turning wantonly to the one side or the other, as if from very caprice in the man who by idle steps unconsciously marked the line of the foot-path at first. ralph could not resist the impulse--who could?--to follow the path and find out its destination, and following it he came presently into a lonesome hollow, where a brook gurgled among the heaps of bare limestone rocks that filled its bed. following the path still, he came upon a queer little cabin built of round logs, in the midst of a small garden-patch inclosed by a brush fence. the stick chimney, daubed with clay and topped with a barrel open at both ends, made this a typical cabin. [illustration: captain pearson] it flashed upon ralph that this place must be rocky hollow, and that this was the house of old john pearson, the one-legged basket-maker, and his rheumatic wife--the house that hospitably sheltered shocky. following his impulse, he knocked and was admitted, and was not a little surprised to find miss martha hawkins there before him. "you here, miss hawkins?" he said when he had returned shocky's greeting and shaken hands with the old couple. "bless you, yes," said the old lady. "that blessed gyirl"--the old lady called her a girl by a sort of figure of speech perhaps--"that blessed gyirl's the kindest creetur you ever saw--comes here every day, most, to cheer a body up with somethin' or nuther." miss martha blushed, and said "she came because rocky hollow looked so much like a place she used to know at the east. mr. and mrs. pearson were the kindest people. they reminded her of people she knew at the east. when she was to bosting--" here the old basket-maker lifted his head from his work, and said: "pshaw! that talk about kyindness" (he was a kentuckian and said _kyindness_) "is all humbug. i wonder so smart a woman as you don't know better. you come nearder to bein kyind than anybody i know; but, laws a me! we're all selfish akordin' to my tell." "you wasn't selfish when you set up with my father most every night for two weeks," said shocky as he handed the old man a splint. "yes, i was, too!" this in a tone that made ralph tremble. "your father was a miserable britisher. i'd fit red-coats, in the war of eighteen-twelve, and lost my leg by one of 'em stickin' his dog-on'd bagonet right through it, that night at lundy's lane; but my messmate killed him though which is a satisfaction to think on. and i didn't like your father 'cause he was a britisher. but ef he'd a died right here in this free country, 'though nobody to give him a drink of water, blamed ef i wouldn't a been ashamed to set on the platform at a fourth of july barbecue, and to hold up my wooden leg fer to make the boys cheer! that was the selfishest thing i ever done. we're all selfish akordin' to my tell." "you wasn't selfish when you took me that night, you know," and shocky's face beamed with gratitude. "yes, i war, too, you little sass-box! what did i take you fer? hey? bekase i didn't like pete jones nor bill jones. they're thieves, dog-on 'em!" ralph shivered a little. the horse with the white forefoot and white nose galloped before his eyes again. "they're a set of thieves. that's what they air." "please, mr. pearson, be careful. you'll get into trouble, you know, by talking that way," said miss hawkins. "you're just like a man that i knew at the east." "why, do you think an old soldier like me, hobbling on a wooden leg, is afraid of them thieves? didn't i face the britishers? didn't i come home late last wednesday night? i rather guess i must a took a little too much at welch's grocery, and laid down in the middle of the street to rest. the boys thought 'twas funny to crate[ ] me. i woke up kind o' cold, 'bout one in the mornin.' 'bout two o'clock i come up means's hill, and didn't i see pete jones, and them others that robbed the dutchman, and somebody, i dunno who, a-crossin' the blue-grass paster _towards_ jones's?" (ralph shivered.) "don't shake your finger at me, old woman. tongue is all i've got to fight with now; but i'll fight them thieves tell the sea goes dry, i will. shocky, gim me a splint." "but you wasn't selfish when you tuck me. shocky stuck to his point most positively. "yes, i was, you little tow-headed fool! i didn't take you kase i was good, not a bit of it. i hated bill jones what keeps the poor-house, and i knowed him and pete would get you bound to some of their click, and i didn't want no more thieves raised; so when your mother hobbled, with you a-leadin' her, poor blind thing! all the way over here on that winter night, and said, 'mr. pearson, you're all the friend i've got, and i want you to save my boy,' why, you see i was selfish as ever i could be in takin' of you. your mother's cryin' sot me a-cryin' too. we're all selfish in everything, akordin' to my tell. blamed ef we ha'n't, miss hawkins, only sometimes i'd think you was real benev'lent ef i didn't know we war all selfish." footnotes: [footnote : absurd as this speech seems, it is a literal transcript of words spoken in the author's presence by a woman who, like miss hawkins, was born in massachusetts.] [footnote : when the first edition of this book appeared, the critic who analyzed the dialect in _the nation_ confessed that he did not know what to "crate" meant. it was a custom in the days of early indiana barbarism for the youngsters of a village, on spying a sleeping drunkard, to hunt up a "queensware crate"--one of the cages of round withes in which crockery was shipped. this was turned upside down over the inebriate, and loaded with logs or any other heavy articles that would make escape difficult when the poor wretch should come to himself. it was a sort of rude punishment for inebriety, and it afforded a frog-killing delight to those who executed justice.] chapter xii. the hardshell preacher. "they's preachin' down to bethel meetin'-house to-day," said the squire at breakfast. twenty years in the west could not cure squire hawkins of saying "to" for "at." "i rather guess as how the old man bosaw will give pertickeler fits to our folks to-day." for squire hawkins, having been expelled from the "hardshell" church of which mr. bosaw was pastor, for the grave offense of joining a temperance society, had become a member of the "reformers," the very respectable people who now call themselves "disciples," but whom the profane will persist in calling "campbellites." they had a church in the village of clifty, three miles away. i know that explanations are always abominable to story readers, as they are to story writers, but as so many of my readers have never had the inestimable privilege of sitting under the gospel as it is ministered in enlightened neighborhoods like flat creek, i find myself under the necessity--need-cessity the rev. mr. bosaw would call it--of rising to explain. some people think the "hardshells" a myth, and some sensitive baptist people at the east resent all allusion to them. but the "hardshell baptists," or, as they are otherwise called, the "whisky baptists," and the "forty-gallon baptists," exist in all the old western and south-western states. they call themselves "anti-means baptists" from their antinomian tenets. their confession of faith is a caricature of calvinism, and is expressed by their preachers about as follows: "ef you're elected, you'll be saved; ef you a'n't, you'll be damned. god'll take keer of his elect. it's a sin to run sunday-schools, or temp'rince s'cieties, or to send missionaries. you let god's business alone. what is to be will be, and you can't hender it." this writer has attended a sunday-school, the superintendent of which was solemnly arraigned and expelled from the hardshell church for "meddling with god's business" by holding a sunday-school. of course the hardshells are prodigiously illiterate, and often vicious. some of their preachers are notorious drunkards. they sing their sermons out sometimes for three hours at a stretch[ ]. ralph found that he was to ride the "clay-bank mare," the only one of the horses that would "carry double," and that consequently he would have to take miss hawkins behind him. if it had been hannah instead, ralph might not have objected to this "young lochinvar" mode of riding with a lady on "the croup," but martha hawkins was another affair. he had only this consolation; his keeping the company of miss hawkins might serve to disarm the resentment of bud. at all events, he had no choice. what designs the squire had in this arrangement he could not tell; but the clay-bank mare carried him to meeting on that december morning, with martha hawkins behind. and as miss hawkins was not used to this mode of locomotion, she was in a state of delightful fright every time the horse sank to the knees in the soft, yellow flat creek clay. "we don't go to church so at the east," she said. "the mud isn't so deep at the east. when i was to bosting--" but ralph never heard what happened when she was to bosting, for just as she said bosting the mare put her foot into a deep hole molded by the foot of the squire's horse, and already full of muddy water. as the mare's foot went twelve inches down into this track, the muddy water spurted higher than miss hawkins's head, and mottled her dress with golden spots of clay. she gave a little shriek, and declared that she had never "seen it so at the east." the journey seemed a little long to ralph, who found that the subjects upon which he and miss hawkins could converse were few; but miss martha was determined to keep things going, and once, when the conversation had died out entirely, she made a desperate effort to renew it by remarking, as they met a man on horseback, "that horse switches his tail just as they do at the east. when i was to bosting i saw horses switch their tails just that way." what surprised ralph was to see that flat creek went to meeting. everybody was there--the meanses, the joneses, the bantas, and all the rest. everybody on flat creek seemed to be there, except the old wooden-legged basket-maker. his family was represented by shocky, who had come, doubtless, to get a glimpse of hannah, not to hear mr. bosaw preach. in fact, few were thinking of the religious service. they went to church as a common resort to hear the news, and to find out what was the current sensation. on this particular morning there seemed to be some unusual excitement. ralph perceived it as he rode up. an excited crowd, even though it be at a church-door on sunday morning, can not conceal its agitation. ralph deposited miss hawkins on the stile, and then got down himself, and paid her the closest attention to the door. this attention was for bud's benefit. but bud only stood with his hands in his pockets, scowling worse than ever. ralph did not go in at the door. it was not the flat creek custom. the men gossiped outside, while the women chatted within. whatever may have been the cause of the excitement, ralph could not get at it. when he entered a little knot of people they became embarrassed, the group dissolved, and its component parts joined other companies. what had the current of conversation to do with him? he overheard pete jones saying that the blamed old wooden leg was in it anyhow. he'd been seen goin' home at two in the mornin'. and he could name somebody else ef he choosed. but it was best to clean out one at a time. and just then there was a murmur: "meetin's took up." and the masculine element filled the empty half of the "hewed-log" church. when ralph saw hannah looking utterly dejected, his heart smote him, and the great struggle set in again. had it not been for the thought of the other battle, and the comforting presence of the helper, i fear bud's interests would have fared badly. but ralph, with the spirit of a martyr, resolved to wait until he knew what the result of bud's suit should be, and whether, indeed, the young goliath had prior claims, as he evidently thought he had. he turned hopefully to the sermon, determined to pick up any crumbs of comfort that might fall from mr. bosaw's meager table. in reporting a single specimen passage of mr. bosaw's sermon, i shall not take the liberty which thucydides and other ancient historians did, of making the sermon and putting it into the hero's mouth, but shall give that which can be vouched for. "you see, my respective hearers," he began--but alas! i can never picture to you the rich red nose, the see sawing gestures, the nasal resonance, the sniffle, the melancholy minor key, and all that. "my respective hearers-ah, you see-ah as how-ah as my tex'-ah says that the ox-ah knoweth his owner-ah, and-ah the ass-ah his master's crib-ah. a-h-h! now, my respective hearers-ah, they're a mighty sight of resemblance-ah atwext men-ah and oxen-ah" [ralph could not help reflecting that there was a mighty sight of resemblance between some men and asses. but the preacher did not see this analogy. it lay too close to him], "bekase-ah, you see, men-ah is mighty like oxen-ah. fer they's a tremengious defference-ah atwixt defferent oxen-ah, jest as thar is atwext defferent men-ah; fer the ox knoweth-ah his owner-ah, and the ass-ah, his master's crib-ah. now, my respective hearers-ah" [the preacher's voice here grew mellow, and the succeeding sentences were in the most pathetic and lugubrious tones], "you all know-ah that your humble speaker-ah has got-ah jest the best yoke of steers-ah in this township-ah." [here betsey short shook the floor with a suppressed titter.] "they a'n't no sech steers as them air two of mine-ah in this whole kedentry-ah. them crack oxen over at clifty-ah ha'n't a patchin' to mine-ah. fer the ox knoweth his owner-ah and the ass-ah his master's crib-ah. "now, my respective hearers-ah, they's a right smart sight of defference-ah atwext them air two oxen-ah, jest like they is atwext defferent men-ah. fer-ah" [here the speaker grew earnest, and sawed the air, from this to the close, in a most frightful way], "fer-ah, you see-ah, when i go out-ah in the mornin'-ah to yoke-ah up-ah them air steers-ah, and i says-ah, 'wo, berry-ah! _wo, berry-ah!_ wo, berry-ah', why berry-ah jest stands stock still-ah and don't hardly breathe-ah while i put on the yoke-ah, and put in the bow-ah, and put in the key-ah, fer, my brethering-ah and sistering-ah, the ox knoweth his owner-ah, and the ass-ah his master's crib-ah. hal-le-lu-ger-ah! "but-ah, my hearers-ah, but-ah when i stand at t'other eend of the yoke-ah, and say, 'come, buck-ah! _come, buck-ah!_ come, buck-ah! come, buck-ah!' why what do you think-ah? buck-ah, that ornery ole buck-ah, 'stid of comin' right along-ah and puttin' his neck under-ah, acts jest like some men-ah what is fools-ah. buck-ah jest kinder sorter stands off-ah, and kinder sorter puts his head down-ah this 'ere way-ah, and kinder looks mad-ah, and says, boo-_oo_-oo-oo-ah!" alas! hartsook found no spiritual edification there, and he was in no mood to be amused. and so, while the sermon drew on through two dreary hours, he forgot the preacher in noticing a bright green lizard which, having taken up its winter quarters behind the tin candlestick that hung just back of the preacher's head, had been deceived by the genial warmth coming from the great box-stove, and now ran out two or three feet from his shelter, looking down upon the red-nosed preacher in a most confidential and amusing manner. sometimes he would retreat behind the candlestick, which was not twelve inches from the preacher's head, and then rush out again. at each reappearance betsey short would stuff her handkerchief into her mouth and shake in a most distressing way. shocky wondered what the lizard was winking at the preacher about. and miss martha thought that it reminded her of a lizard that she see at the east, the time she was to bosting, in a jar of alcohol in the natural history rooms. the squire was not disappointed in his anticipation that mr. bosaw would attack his denomination with some fury. in fact, the old preacher outdid himself in his violent indignation at "these people that follow campbell-ah, that thinks-ah that obejience-ah will save 'em-ah and that belongs-ah to temp'rince societies-ah and sunday-schools-ah, and them air things-ah, that's not ortherized in the bible-ah, but comes of the devil-ah, and takes folks as belongs to 'em to hell-ah." as they came out the door ralph rallied enough to remark: "he did attack your people, squire." "oh, yes," said the squire. "didn't you see the sarpent inspirin' him?" but the long, long hours were ended and ralph got on the clay-bank mare and rode up alongside the stile whence miss martha mounted. and as he went away with a heavy heart, he overheard pete jones call out to somebody: "we'll tend to his case & christmas." christmas was two days off. and miss martha remarked with much trepidation that poor pearson would have to leave. she'd always been afraid that would be the end of it. it reminded her of something she heard at the east, the time she was down to bosting. footnotes: [footnote : even the anti-means baptists have suffered from the dire spirit of the age. they are to-day a very respectable body of people calling themselves "primitive baptists." perhaps the description in the text never applied to the whole denomination, but only to the hardshells of certain localities. some of these intensely conservative churches, i have reason to believe, were always composed of reputable people. but what is said above is not in the least exaggerated as a description of many of the churches in indiana and illinois. their opposition to the temperance reformation was both theoretical and practical. a rather able minister of the denomination whom i knew as a boy used to lie in besotted drunkenness by the roadside. i am sorry to confess that he once represented the county in the state legislature. the piece of a sermon given in this chapter was heard near cairo, illinois, in the days before the war. most of the preachers were illiterate farmers. i have heard one of them hold forth two hours at a stretch. but even in that day there were men among the hardshells whose ability and character commanded respect. this was true, especially in kentucky, where able men like the two dudleys held to the antinomian wing of their denomination. but the hardshells are perceptibly less hard than they were. you may march at the rear of the column among hunkers and hardshells if you will, but you are obliged to march. those who will not go voluntarily, the time-spirit, walking behind, prods onward with a goad.] chapter xiii. a struggle for the mastery the school had closed on monday evening as usual. the boys had been talking in knots all day. nothing but the bulldog in the slender, resolute young master had kept down the rising storm. a teacher who has lost moral support at home, can not long govern a school. ralph had effectually lost his popularity in the district, and the worst of it was that he could not divine from just what quarter the ill wind came, except that he felt sure of small's agency in it somewhere. even hannah had slighted him, when he called at means's on monday morning to draw the pittance of pay that was due him. he had expected a petition for a holiday on christmas day. such holidays are deducted from the teacher's time, and it is customary for the boys to "turn out" the teacher who refuses to grant them, by barring him out of the school-house on christmas and new year's morning. ralph had intended to grant a holiday if it should be asked, but it was not asked. hank banta was the ringleader in the disaffection, and he had managed to draw the surly bud, who was present this morning, into it. it is but fair to say that bud was in favor of making a request before resorting to extreme measures, but he was overruled. he gave it as his solemn opinion that the master was mighty peart, and they would be beat anyhow some way, but he would lick the master fer two cents ef he warn't so slim that he'd feel like he was fighting a baby. and all that day things looked black. ralph's countenance was cold and hard as stone, and shocky trembled where he sat. betsey short tittered rather more than usual. a riot or a murder would have seemed amusing to her. school was dismissed, and ralph, instead of returning to the squire's, set out for the village of clifty, a few miles away. no one knew what he went for, and some suggested that he had "sloped." but bud said "he warn't that air kind. he was one of them air sort as died in their tracks, was mr. hartsook. they'd find him on the ground nex' morning, and he lowed the master war made of that air sort of stuff as would burn the dog-on'd ole school-house to ashes, or blow it into splinters, but what he'd beat. howsumdever he'd said he was a-goin' to help, and help he would; but all the sinno in golier wouldn't be no account again the cute they was in the head of the master." but bud, discouraged as he was with the fear of ralph's "cute," went like a martyr to the stake and took his place with the rest in the school-house at nine o'clock at night. it may have been ralph's intention to preoccupy the school-house, for at ten o'clock hank banta was set shaking from head to foot at seeing a face that looked like the master's at the window. he waked up bud and told him about it. "well, what are you a-tremblin' about, you coward?" growled bud. "he won't shoot you; but he'll beat you at this game, i'll bet a hoss, and me, too, and make us both as 'shamed of ourselves as dogs with tin-kittles to their tails. you don't know the master, though he did duck you. but he'll larn you a good lesson this time, and me too, like as not." and bud soon snored again, but hank shook with fear every time he looked at the blackness outside the windows. he was sure he heard foot-falls. he would have given anything to have been at home. when morning came, the pupils began to gather early. a few boys who were likely to prove of service in the coming siege were admitted through the window, and then everything was made fast, and a "snack" was eaten. "how do you 'low he'll get in?" said hank, trying to hide his fear. "how do i 'low?" said bud. "i don't 'low nothin' about it. you might as well ax me where i 'low the nex' shootin' star is a-goin' to drap. mr. hartsook's mighty onsartin. but he'll git in, though, and tan your hide fer you, you see ef he don't. _ef_ he don't blow up the school-house with gunpowder!" this last was thrown in by way of alleviating the fears of the cowardly hank, for whom bud had a great contempt. the time for school had almost come. the boys inside were demoralized by waiting. they began to hope that the master had "sloped." they dreaded to see him coming. "i don't believe he'll come," said hank, with a cold shiver. "it's past school-time." "yes, he will come, too," said bud. "and he 'lows to come in here mighty quick. i don't know how. but he'll be a-standin' at that air desk when it's nine o'clock. i'll bet a thousand dollars on that. _ef_ he don't take it into his head to blow us up!" hank was now white. some of the parents came along, accidentally of course, and stopped to see the fun, sure that bud would thrash the master if he tried to break in. small, on the way to see a patient perhaps, reined up in front of the door. still no ralph. it was just five minutes before nine. a rumor now gained currency that he had been seen going to clifty the evening before, and that he had not come back, though in fact ralph had come back, and had slept at squire hawkins's. "there's the master," cried betsey short, who stood out in the road shivering and giggling alternately. for ralph at that moment emerged from the sugar-camp by the school-house, carrying a board. "ho! ho!" laughed hank, "he thinks he'll smoke us out. i guess he'll find us ready." the boys had let the fire burn down, and there was now nothing but hot hickory coals on the hearth. "i tell you he'll come in. he didn't go to clifty fer nothing" said bud, who sat still on one of the benches which leaned against the door. "i don't know how, but they's lots of ways of killing a cat besides chokin' her with butter. he'll come in--_ef_ he don't blow us all sky-high!" ralph's voice was now heard, demanding that the door be opened. "let's open her," said hank, turning livid with fear at the firm, confident tone of the master. bud straightened himself up. "hank, you're a coward. i've got a mind to kick you. you got me into this blamed mess, and now you want to craw-fish. you jest tech one of these 'ere fastenings, and i'll lay you out flat of your back afore you can say jack robinson." the teacher was climbing to the roof with the board in hand. "that air won't win," laughed pete jones outside. he saw that there was no smoke. even bud began to hope that ralph would fail for once. the master was now on the ridge-pole of the school-house. he took a paper from his pocket, and deliberately poured the contents down the chimney. mr. pete jones shouted "gunpowder!" and set off down the road to be out of the way of the explosion. dr. small remembered, probably, that his patient might die while he sat here, and started on. but ralph emptied the paper, and laid the board over the chimney. what a row there was inside! the benches that were braced against the door were thrown down, and hank banta rushed out, rubbing his eyes, coughing frantically, and sure that he had been blown up. all the rest followed, bud bringing up the rear sulkily, but coughing and sneezing for dear life. such a smell of sulphur as came from that school-house! betsey had to lean against the fence to giggle. [illustration: fire and brimstone] as soon as all were out, ralph threw the board off the chimney, leaped to the ground, entered the school-house, and opened the windows. the school soon followed him, and all was still. "would he thrash?" this was the important question in hank banta's mind. and the rest looked for a battle with bud. "it is just nine o'clock," said ralph, consulting his watch, "and i'm glad to see you all here promptly. i should have given you a holiday if you had asked me like gentlemen yesterday. on the whole, i think i shall give you a holiday, anyhow. the school is dismissed." and hank felt foolish. and bud secretly resolved to thrash hank or the master, he didn't care which. and mirandy looked the love she could not utter. and betsey giggled. chapter xiv. a crisis with bud. ralph sat still at his desk. the school had gone. all at once he became conscious that shocky sat yet in his accustomed place upon the hard, backless bench. "why, shocky, haven't you gone yet?" "no--sir--i was waitin' to see if you warn't a-goin', too--i--" "well?" "i thought it would make me feel as if god warn't quite so fur away to talk to you. it did the other day." the master rose and put his hand on shocky's head. was it the brotherhood in affliction that made shocky's words choke him so? or, was it the weird thoughts that he expressed? or, was it the recollection that shocky was hannah's brother? hannah so far, far away from him now! at any rate, shocky, looking up for the smile on which he fed, saw the relaxing of the master's face, that had been as hard as stone, and felt just one hot tear on his hand. "p'r'aps god's forgot you, too," said shocky in a sort of half soliloquy. "better get away from flat creek. you see god forgets everybody down here. 'cause 'most everybody forgets god, 'cept mr. bosaw, and i 'low god don't no ways keer to be remembered by sich as him. leastways i wouldn't if i was god, you know. i wonder what becomes of folks when god forgets 'em?" and shocky, seeing that the master had resumed his seat and was looking absently into the fire, moved slowly out the door. "shocky!" called the master. the little poet came back and stood before him. "shocky, you mustn't think god has forgotten you. god brings things out right at last." but ralph's own faith was weak, and his words sounded hollow and hypocritical to himself. would god indeed bring things out right? he sat musing a good while, trying to convince himself of the truth of what he had just been saying to shocky--that god would indeed bring things out right at last. would it all come out right if bud married hannah? would it all come out right if he were driven from flat creek with a dark suspicion upon his character? did god concern himself with these things? was there any god? it was the same old struggle between doubt and faith. and when ralph looked up, shocky had departed. in the next hour ralph fought the old battle of armageddon. i shall not describe it. you will fight it in your own way. no two alike. the important thing is the end. if you come out as he did, with the doubt gone and the trust in god victorious, it matters little just what shape the battle may take. since jacob became israel there have never been two such struggles alike, save in that they all end either in victory or in defeat. it was after twelve o'clock on that christmas day when ralph put his head out the door of the school-house and called out: "bud, i'd like to see you." bud did not care to see the master, for he had inly resolved to "thrash him" and have done with him. but he couldn't back out, certainly not in sight of the others who were passing along the road with him. "i don't want the rest of you," said ralph in a decided way, as he saw that hank and one or two others were resolved to come also. "thought maybe you'd want somebody to see far play," said hank as he went off sheepishly. "if i did, you would be the last one i should ask," said ralph. "there's no unfair play in bud, and there is in you." and he shut the door. "now, looky here, mr. ralph hartsook," said bud. "you don't come no gum games over me with your saft sodder and all that. i've made up my mind. you've got to promise to leave these 'ere digging, or i've got to thrash you." "you'll have to thrash me, then," said ralph, turning a little pale, but remembering the bulldog. "but you'll tell me what it's all about, won't you?" "you know well enough. folks says you know more 'bout the robbery at the dutchman's than you orter. but i don't believe them. fer them as says it is liars and thieves theirselves. 'ta'n't fer none of that. and i shan't tell you what it _is_ fer. so now, if you won't travel, why, take off your coat and git ready fer a thrashing." the master took off his coat and showed his slender arms. bud laid his off, and showed the physique of a prize-fighter. "you a'n't a-goin to fight _me_?" said bud. "not unless you make me." "why i could chaw you all up." "i know that." "well, you're the grittiest feller i ever did see, and ef you'd jest kep off of my ground i wouldn't a touched you. but i a'n't a-goin' to be cut out by no feller a livin' 'thout thrashin' him in an inch of his life. you see i wanted to git out of this flat crick way. we're a low-lived set here in flat crick. and i says to myself, i'll try to be somethin' more nor pete jones, and dad, and these other triflin', good-fer-nothin' ones 'bout here. and when you come i says, there's one as'll help me. and what do you do with yor book-larnin' and town manners but start right out to git away the gal that i'd picked out, when i'd picked her out kase i thought, not bein' flat crick born herself, she might help a feller to do better! now i won't let nobody cut me out without givin' 'em the best thrashin' it's in these 'ere arms to give." "but i haven't tried to cut you out." "you can't fool _me_." "bud, listen to me, and then thrash me if you will. i went with that girl once. when i found you had some claims, i gave her up. not because i was afraid of you, for i would rather have taken the worst thrashing you can give me than give her up. but i haven't spoken to her since the night of the first spelling-school." "you lie!" said bud, doubling his fists. ralph grew red. "you was a-waitin' on her last sunday right afore my eyes, and a-tryin' to ketch my attention too. so when you're ready say so." "bud, there is some misunderstanding." hartsook spoke slowly and felt bewildered. "i tell you that i did not speak to hannah last sunday, and you know i didn't." "hanner!" bud's eyes grew large. "hanner!" here he gasped for breath, and looked around, "hanner!" he couldn't get any further than the name at first. "why, plague take it, who said hanner?" "mirandy said you were courting hannah," said ralph, feeling round in a vague way to get his ideas together. "mirandy! thunder! you believed mirandy! well! now, looky here, mr. hartsook, ef you was to say that my sister lied, i'd lick you till yer hide wouldn't hold shucks. but _i_ say, a-twix you and me and the gate-post, don't you never believe nothing that mirandy means says. her and marm has set theirselves like fools to git you. hanner! well, she's a mighty nice gal, but you're welcome to _her_. i never tuck no shine that air way. but i was out of school last thursday and friday a-shucking corn to take to mill a-saturday. and when i come past the squire's and seed you talking to a gal as is a gal, you know"--here bud hesitated and looked foolish--"i felt hoppin' mad." bud put on his coat. ralph put on his coat. then they shook hands and bud went out. ralph sat looking into the fire. there was no conscientious difficulty now in the way of his claiming hannah. the dry forestick lying on the rude stone andirons burst into a blaze. the smoldering hope in the heart of ralph hartsook did the same. he could have hannah if he could win her. but there came slowly back the recollection of his lost standing in flat creek. there was circumstantial evidence against him. it was evident that hannah believed something of this. what other stones small might have put in circulation he did not know. would small try to win hannah's love to throw it away again, as he had done with others? at least he would not spare any pains to turn the heart of the bound girl against ralph. the bright flame on the forestick, which ralph had been watching, flickered and burned low. chapter xv. the church of the best licks. just as the flame on the forestick, which ralph had watched so intensely, flickered and burned low, and just as ralph with a heavy but not quite hopeless heart rose to leave, the latch lifted and bud re-entered. "i wanted to say something," he stammered, "but you know it's hard to say it. i ha'n't no book-larnin to speak of, and some things is hard to say when a man ha'n't got book-words to say 'em with. and they's some things a man can't hardly ever say anyhow to anybody." here bud stopped. but ralph spoke in such a matter-of-course way in reply that he felt encouraged to go on. "you gin up hanner kase you thought she belonged to me. that's more'n i'd a done by a long shot. now, arter i left here jest now, i says to myself, a man what can gin up his gal on account of sech a feeling fer the rights of a flat cricker like me, why, dog-on it, says i, sech a man is the man as can help me do better. i don't know whether you're a hardshell or a saftshell, or a methodist, or a campbellite, or a new light, or a united brother, or a millerite, or what-not. but i says, the man what can do the clean thing by a ugly feller like me, and stick to it, when i was jest ready to eat him up, is a kind of a man to tie to." here bud stopped in fright at his own volubility, for he had run his words off like a piece learned by heart, as though afraid that if he stopped he would not have courage to go on. ralph said that he did not belong to any church, and he was afraid he couldn't do bud much good. but his tone was full of sympathy, and, what is better than sympathy, a yearning for sympathy. "you see," said bud, "i wanted to git out of this low-lived, flat crick way of livin'. we're a hard set down here, mr. hartsook. and i'm gittin' to be one of the hardest of 'em. but i never could git no good out of bosaw with his whisky and meanness. and i went to the mount tabor church concert. i heard a man discussin' baptism, and regeneration, and so on. that didn't seem no cure for me, i went to a revival over at clifty. well, 'twarn't no use. first night they was a man that spoke about jesus christ in sech a way that i wanted to foller him everywhere. but i didn't feel fit. next night i come back with my mind made up that i'd try jesus christ, and see ef he'd have me. but laws! they was a big man that night that preached hell. not that i don't believe they's a hell. they's plenty not a thousand miles away as deserves it, and i don't know as i'm too good for it myself. but he pitched it at us, and stuck it in our faces in sech a way that i got mad. and i says, well, ef god sends me to hell he can't make me holler 'nough nohow. you see my dander was up. and when my dander's up, i wouldn't gin up fer the devil his-self. the preacher was so insultin' with his way of doin' it. he seemed to be kind of glad that we was to be damned, and he preached somethin' like some folks swears. it didn't sound a bit like the christ the little man preached about the night afore. so what does me and a lot of fellers do but slip out and cut off the big preacher's stirrups, and hang 'em on to the rider of the fence, and then set his hoss loose! and from that day, sometimes i did, and sometimes i didn't, want to be better. and to-day it seemed to me that you must know somethin' as would help me." nothing is worse than a religious experience kept ready to be exposed to the gaze of everybody, whether the time is appropriate or not. but never was a religious experience more appropriate than the account which ralph gave to bud of his struggle in the dark. the confession of his weakness and wicked selfishness was a great comfort to bud. "do you think that jesus christ would--would--well, do you think he'd help a poor, unlarnt flat cricker like me?" "i think he was a sort of a flat creeker himself," said ralph, slowly and very earnestly. "you don't say?" said bud, almost getting off his seat. "why, you see the town he lived in was a rough place. it was called nazareth, which meant 'bush-town.'" "you don't say?" "and he was called a nazarene, which was about the same as 'backwoodsman.'" and ralph read the different passages which he had studied at sunday-school, illustrating the condescension of jesus, the stories of the publicans, the harlots, the poor, who came to him. and he read about nathanael, who lived only six miles away, saying, 'can any good thing come out of nazareth?'" "jus' what clifty folks says about flat crick," broke in bud. "do you think i could begin without being baptized?" he added presently. "why not? let's begin now to do the best we can, by his help." "you mean, then, that i'm to begin now to put in my best licks for jesus christ, and that he'll help me?" this shocked ralph's veneration a little. but it was the sincere utterance of an earnest soul. it may not have been an orthodox start, but it was the one start for bud. and there be those who have repeated with the finest æsthetic appreciation the old english liturgies who have never known religious aspiration so sincere as that of this ignorant young hercules, whose best confession was that he meant hereafter "to put in his best licks for jesus christ." and there be those who can define repentance and faith to the turning of a hair who never made so genuine a start for the kingdom of heaven as bud means did. ralph said yes, that he thought that was just it. at least, he guessed if there was something more, the man that was putting in his best licks would be sure to find it out. "do you think he'd help a feller? seems to me it would be number one to have god help you. not to help you fight other folks, but to help you when it comes to fighting the devil inside. but you see i don't belong to no church" "well, let's you and me have one right off. two people that help one another to serve god make a church." i am afraid this ecclesiastical theory will not be considered orthodox. it was ralph's, and i write it down at the risk of bringing him into condemnation. but other people before the days of bud and ralph have discussed church organization when they should have been doing christian work. for both of them had forgotten the danger that hung over the old basket-maker, until shocky burst into the school-house, weeping. indeed, the poor, nervous little frame was ready to go into convulsions. "miss hawkins--" bud started at mention of the name. "miss hawkins has just been over to say that a crowd is going to tar and feather mr. pearson to-night. and--" here shocky wept again. "and he won't run, but he's took up the old flintlock, and he'll die in his tracks." chapter xvi. the church militant. bud was doubly enlisted on the side of john pearson, the basket-maker. in the first place, he knew that this persecution of the unpopular old man was only a blind to save somebody else; that they were thieves who cried, "stop thief!" and he felt consequently that this was a chance to put his newly-formed resolutions into practice. the old testament religious life, which consists in fighting the lord's enemies, suited bud's temper and education. it might lead to something better. it was the best possible to him, now. but i am afraid i shall have to acknowledge that there was a second motive that moved bud to this championship. the good heart of martha hawkins having espoused the cause of the basket-maker, the heart of bud means could not help feeling warmly on the same side. blessed is that man in whose life the driving of duty and the drawing of love impel the same way! but why speak of the driving of duty? for already bud was learning the better lesson of serving god for the love of god. the old basket-maker was the most unpopular man in flat creek district. he had two great vices. he would go to clifty and have a "spree" once in three months. and he would tell the truth in a most unscrupulous manner. a man given to plain speaking was quite as objectionable in flat creek as he would have been in france under the empire, the commune, or the republic, and almost as objectionable as he would be in any refined community in america. people who live in glass houses have a horror of people who throw stones. and the old basket-maker, having no friends, was a good scape-goat. in driving him off, pete jones would get rid of a dangerous neighbor and divert attention from himself. the immediate crime of the basket-maker was that he had happened to see too much. "mr. hartsook," said bud, when they got out into the road, "you'd better go straight home to the squire's. bekase ef this lightnin' strikes a second time it'll strike awful closte to you. you hadn't better be seen with us. which way did you come, shocky?" "why, i tried to come down the holler, but i met jones right by the big road, and he sweared at me and said he'd kill me ef i didn't go back and stay. and so i went back to the house and then slipped out through the graveyard. you see i was bound to come ef i got skinned. for mr. pearson's, stuck to me and i mean to stick to him, you see." bud led shocky through the graveyard. but when they reached the forest path from the graveyard he thought that perhaps it was not best to "show his hand," as he expressed it, too soon. "now, shocky," he said, "do you run ahead and tell the ole man that i want to see him right off down by the spring-in-rock. i'll keep closte behind you, and ef anybody offers to trouble you, do you let off a yell and i'll be thar in no time." when ralph left the school-house he felt mean. there were bud and shocky gone on an errand of mercy, and he, the truant member of the church of the best licks, was not with them. the more he thought of it the more he seemed to be a coward, and the more he despised himself; so, yielding as usual to the first brave impulse, he leaped nimbly over the fence and started briskly through the forest in a direction intersecting the path on which were bud and shocky. he came in sight just in time to see the first conflict of the church in the wilderness with her foes. for shocky's little feet went more swiftly on their eager errand than bud had anticipated. he got farther out of bud's reach than the latter intended he should, and he did not discover pete jones until pete, with his hog-drover's whip, was right upon him. shocky tried to halloo for bud, but he was like one in a nightmare. the yell died into a whisper which could not have been heard ten feet. i shall not repeat mr. jones's words. they were frightfully profane. but he did not stop at words. he swept his whip round and gave little shocky one terrible cut. then the voice was released, and the piercing cry of pain brought bud down the path flying. "you good-for-nothing scoundrel," growled bud, "you're a coward and a thief to be a-beatin' a little creetur like him!" and with that bud walked up on jones, who prudently changed position in such a way as to get the upper side of the hill. "well, i'll gin you the upper side, but come on," cried bud, "ef you a'n't afeared to fight somebody besides a poor little sickly baby or a crippled soldier. come on!" [illustration: bud means comes to the rescue of shocky.] pete was no insignificant antagonist. he had been a great fighter, and his well-seasoned arms were like iron. he had not the splendid set of bud, but he had more skill and experience in the rude tournament of fists to which the backwoods is so much given. now, being out of sight of witnesses and sure that he could lie about the fight afterward, he did not scruple to take advantages which would have disgraced him forever if he had taken them in a public fight on election day or at a muster. he took the uphill side, and he clubbed his whip-stalk, striking bud with all his force with the heavy end, which, coward-like, he had loaded with lead. bud threw up his strong left arm and parried the blow, which, however, was so fierce that it fractured one of the bones of the arm. throwing away his whip pete rushed upon bud furiously, intending to overpower him, but bud slipped quickly to one side and let jones pass down the hill, and as jones came up again means dealt him one crushing blow that sent him full length upon the ground. nothing but the leaves saved him from a most terrible fall. jones sprang to his feet more angry than ever at being whipped by one whom he regarded as a boy, and drew a long dirk-knife. but he was blind with rage, and bud dodged the knife, and this time gave pete a blow on the nose which marred the homeliness of that feature and doubled the fellow up against a tree ten feet away. ralph came in sight in time to see the beginning of the fight, and he arrived on the ground just as pete jones went down under the well-dealt blow from the only remaining fist of bud means. while ralph examined bud's disabled left arm pete picked himself up slowly, and, muttering that he felt "consid'able shuck up like," crawled away like a whipped puppy. to every one whom he met, pete, whose intellect seemed to have weakened in sympathy with his frame, remarked feebly that he was consid'able shuck up like, and vouchsafed no other explanation. even to his wife he only said that he felt purty consid'able shuck up like, and that the boys would have to get on to-night without him. there are some scoundrels whose very malignity is shaken out of them for the time being by a thorough drubbing. "i'm afraid you're going to have trouble with your arm, bud," said ralph tenderly. "never mind; i put in my best licks fer _him_ that air time, mr. hartsook." ralph shivered a little at thought of this, but if it was right to knock jones down at all, why might not bud do it "heartily as unto the lord?" gideon did not feel any more honest pleasure in chastising the midianites than did bud in sending pete jones away purty consid'able shuck up like. chapter xvii. a council of war. shocky, whose feet had flown as soon as he saw the final fall of pete jones, told the whole story to the wondering and admiring ears of miss hawkins, who unhappily could not remember anything at the east just like it; to the frightened ears of the rheumatic old lady who felt sure her ole man's talk and stubbornness would be the ruin of him, and to the indignant ears of the old soldier who was hobbling up and down, sentinel-wise, in front of his cabin, standing guard over himself. "no, i won't leave," he said to ralph and bud. "you see i jest won't. what would gin'ral winfield scott say ef he knew that one of them as fit at lundy's lane backed out, retreated, run fer fear of a passel of thieves? no, sir; me and the old flintlock will live and die together. i'll put a thunderin' charge of buckshot into the first one of them scoundrels as comes up the holler. it'll be another lundy's lane. and you, mr. hartsook, may send scott word that ole pearson, as fit at lundy's lane under him, died a-fightin' thieves on rocky branch, in hoopole kyounty, state of injeanny." and the old man hobbled faster and faster, taxing his wooden leg to the very utmost, as if his victory depended on the vehemence with which he walked his beat. mrs. pearson sat wringing her hands and looking appealingly at martha hawkins, who stood in the door, in despair, looking appealingly at bud. bud was stupefied by the old man's stubbornness and his own pain, and in his turn appealed mutely to the master, in whose resources he had boundless confidence. ralph, seeing that all depended on him, was taxing his wits to think of some way to get round pearson's stubbornness. shocky hung to the old man's coat and pulled away at him with many entreating words, but the venerable, bare-headed sentinel strode up and down furiously, with his flintlock on his shoulder and his basket-knife in his belt. just at this point somebody could be seen indistinctly through the bushes coming up the hollow. "halt!" cried the old hero. "who goes there?" "it's me, mr. pearson. don't shoot me, please." it was the voice of hannah thomson. hearing that the whole neighborhood was rising against the benefactor of shocky and of her family, she had slipped away from the eyes of her mistress, and run with breathless haste to give warning in the cabin on rocky branch. seeing ralph, she blushed, and went into the cabin. "well," said ralph, "the enemy is not coming yet. let us hold a council of war." this thought came to ralph like an inspiration. it pleased the old man's whim, and he sat down on the door-step. "now, i suppose," said ralph, "that general winfield scott always looked into things a little before he went into a fight. didn't he?" "_to_ be sure," assented the old man. "well," said ralph. "what is the condition of the enemy? i suppose the whole neighborhood's against us." "_to_ be sure," said the old man. the rest were silent, but all felt the statement to be about true. "next," said ralph, "i suppose general winfield scott would always inquire into the condition of his own troops. now let us see. captain pearson has bud, who is the right wing, badly crippled by having his arm broken in the first battle." (miss hawkins looked pale.) "_to_ be sure," said the old man. "and i am the left wing, pretty good at giving advice, but very slender in a fight." "_to_ be sure," said the old man. "and shocky and miss martha and hannah good aids, but nothing in a battle." "_to_ be sure," said the basket-maker, a little doubtfully. "now let's look at the arms and accouterments, i think you call them. well, this old musket has been loaded--" "this ten year," said the old lady. "and the lock is so rusty that you could not cock it when you wanted to take aim at hannah." the old man looked foolish, and muttered "_to_ be sure." "and there isn't another round of ammunition in the house." the old man was silent. "now let us look at the incumbrances. here's the old lady and shocky. if you fight, the enemy will be pleased. it will give them a chance to kill you. and then the old lady will die and they will do with shocky as they please." "_to_ be sure," said the old man reflectively. "now," said ralph, "general winfield scott, under such circumstances, would retreat in good order. then, when he could muster his forces rightly, he would drive the enemy from his ground." "to be sure," said the old man. "what ort i to do?" "have you any friends?" "well, yes; ther's my brother over in jackson kyounty. i mout go there." "well," said bud, "do you just go down to spring-in-rock and stay there. them folks won't be here tell midnight. i'll come fer you at nine with my roan colt, and i'll set you down over on the big road on buckeye run. then you can git on the mail-wagon that passes there about five o'clock in the mornin', and go over to jackson county and keep shady till we want you to face the enemy and to swear agin some folks. and then well send fer you." "to be sure," said the old man in a broken voice. "i reckon general winfield scott wouldn't disapprove of such a maneuver as that thar." miss martha beamed on bud to his evident delight, for he carried his painful arm part of the way home with her. ralph noticed that hannah looked at _him_ with a look full of contending emotions. he read admiration, gratitude, and doubt in the expression of her face, as she turned toward home. "well, good-by, ole woman," said pearson, as he took up his little handkerchief full of things and started for his hiding-place; "good-by. i didn't never think i'd desart you, and ef the old flintlock hadn't a been rusty, i'd a staid and died right here by the ole cabin. but i reckon 'ta'n't best to be brash[ ]." and shocky looked after him, as he hobbled away over the stones, more than ever convinced that god had forgotten all about things on flat creek. he gravely expressed his opinion to the master the next day. footnotes: [footnote : the elaborate etymological treatment of this word in its various forms in our best dictionary is a fine illustration of the fact that something more than scholarship is needed for penetrating the mysteries of current folk-speech. _brash_--often _bresh_--in the sense of refuse boughs of trees, is only another form of _brush_; the two are used as one word by the people. _brash_ in the sense of brittle has no conscious connection with the noun in popular usage, but it is accounted by the people the same word as _brash_ in the sense of rash or impetuous. the suggestion in the century dictionary that the words spelled _brash_ are of modern formation violates the soundest canon of antiquarian research, which is that a word phrase or custom widely diffused among plain or rustic people is of necessity of ancient origin. now _brash_, the adjective, exists in both senses in two or three of the most widely separated dialects of the united states, and hence must have come from england. indeed, it appears in wright's dictionary of provincial english in precisely the sense it has in the text.] chapter xviii. odds and ends. the spring-in-rock, or, as it was sometimes, by a curious perversion, called, the "rock-in-spring," was a spring running out of a cave-like fissure in a high limestone cliff. here the old man sheltered himself on that dreary christmas evening, until bud brought his roan colt to the top of the cliff above, and he and ralph helped the old man up the cliff and into the saddle. ralph went back to bed, but bud, who was only too eager to put in his best licks, walked by the side of old john pearson the six miles over to buckeye run, and at last, after eleven o'clock, he deposited him in a hollow sycamore by the road, there to wait the coming of the mail-wagon that would carry him into jackson county. "good-by," said the basket-maker, as bud mounted the colt to return. "ef i'm wanted jest send me word, and i'll make a forrard movement any time. i don't like this 'ere thing of running off in the night-time. but i reckon general winfield scott would a ordered a retreat ef he'd a been in my shoes. i'm lots obleeged to you. akordin' to my tell, we're all of us selfish in everything; but i'll be dog-on'd ef i don't believe you and one or two more is exceptions." whether it was that the fact that pete jones had got consid'able shuck up demoralized his followers, or whether it was that the old man's flight was suspected, the mob did not turn out in very great force, and the tarring was postponed indefinitely, for by the time they came together it became known somehow that the man with a wooden leg had outrun them all. but the escape of one devoted victim did not mollify the feelings of the people toward the next one. by the time bud returned his arm was very painful, and the next day he went under dr. small's treatment to reduce the fracture. whatever suspicions bud might have of pete jones, he was not afflicted with ralph's dread of the silent young doctor. and if there was anything small admired it was physical strength and courage. small wanted bud on his side, and least of all did he want him to be ralph's champion. so that the silent, cool, and skillful doctor went to work to make an impression on bud means. other influences were at work upon him also. mrs. means volleyed and thundered in her usual style about his "takin' up with a one-legged thief, and runnin' arter that master that was a mighty suspicious kind of a customer, akordin' to her tell. she'd allers said so. ef she'd a been consulted he wouldn't a been hired. he warn't fit company fer nobody." and old jack means 'lowed bud must want to have _their_ barns burnt like some other folkses had been. fer his part, he had sense enough to know they was some people as it wouldn't do to set a body's self agin. and as fer him, he didn't butt his brains out agin a buckeye-tree. not when he was sober. and so they managed, during bud's confinement to the house, to keep him well supplied with all the ordinary discomforts of life. but one visit from martha hawkins, ten words of kindly inquiry from her, and the remark that his broken arm reminded her of something she had seen at the east and something somebody said the time she was to bosting, were enough to repay the champion a thousand fold for all that he suffered. indeed, that visit, and the recollection of ralph's saying that jesus christ was a sort of a flat creeker himself, were manna in the wilderness to bud. poor shocky was sick. the excitement had been too much for him, and though his fever was very slight it was enough to produce just a little delirium. either ralph or miss martha was generally at the cabin. "they're coming," said shocky to ralph, "they're coming. pete jones is a-going to bind me out for a hundred years. i wish hanner would hold me so's he couldn't. god's forgot all about us here in flat creek, and there's nobody to help it." and he shivered at every sudden sound. he was never free from this delirious fright except when the master held him tight in his arms. he staggered around the floor, the very shadow of shocky, and was so terrified by the approach of darkness that ralph staid in the cabin on wednesday night and miss hawkins staid on thursday night. on friday, bud sent a note to ralph, askin him to come and see him. "you see, mr. hartsook, i ha'n't forgot what was said about puttin' in our best licks for jesus christ. i've been a-trying to read some about him while i set here. and i read where he said somethin about doing fer the least of his brethren being as the same like as if it was done fer jesus christ his-self. now there's shocky. i reckon, p'r'aps, as anybody is a little brother of jesus christ, it is that shocky. pete jones and his brother bill is determined to have him back there to-morry. bekase you see, pete's one of the county commissioners and to-morry's the day that they bind out. he wants to bind out that boy jes' to spite ole pearson and you and me. you see, the ole woman's been helped by the neighbors, and he'll claim shocky to be a pauper, and they a'n't no human soul here as dares to do a thing con_tra_ry to pete. couldn't you git him over to lewisburg? i'll lend you my roan colt." ralph thought a minute. he dared not take shocky to the uncle's where he found his only home. but there was miss nancy sawyer, the old maid who was everybody's blessing. he could ask her to keep him. and, at any rate, he would save shocky somehow. as he went out in the dusk, he met hannah in the lane. chapter xix. face to face. in the lane, in the dark, under the shadow of the barn, ralph met hannah carrying her bucket of milk (they have no pails in indiana)[ ]. he could see only the white foam on the milk, and hannah's white face. perhaps it was well that he could not see how white hannah's face was at that moment when a sudden trembling made her set down the heavy bucket. at first neither spoke. the recollection of all the joy of that walk together in the night came upon them both. and a great sense of loss made the night seem supernaturally dark to ralph. nor was it any lighter in the hopeless heart of the bound girl. the presence of ralph did not now, as before, make the darkness of her life light. "hannah--" said ralph presently, and stopped. for he could not finish the sentence. with a rush there came upon him a consciousness of the suspicions that filled hannah's mind. and with it there came a feeling of guilt. he saw himself from her stand-point, and felt a remorse almost as keen as it could have been had he been a criminal. and this sudden and morbid sense of his guilt as it appeared to hannah paralyzed him. but when hannah lifted her bucket with her hand, and the world with her heavy heart, and essayed to pass him, ralph rallied and said: "_you_ don't believe all these lies that are told about me." "i don't believe anything, mr. hartsook; that is, i don't want to believe anything against you. and i wouldn't mind anything they say if it wasn't for two things"--here she stammered and looked down. "if it wasn't for what?" said ralph with a spice of indignant denial in his voice. hannah hesitated, but ralph pressed the question with eagerness. "i saw you cross that blue-grass pasture the night--the night that you walked home with me." she would have said the night of the robbery, but her heart smote her, and she adopted the more kindly form of the sentence. ralph would have explained, but how? "i did cross the pasture," he began, "but--" just here it occurred to ralph that there was no reason for his night excursion across the pasture. hannah again took up her bucket, but he said: "tell me what else you have against me." "i haven't anything against you. only i am poor and friendless, and you oughtn't to make my life any heavier. they say that you have paid attention to a great many girls. i don't know why you should want to trifle with me." ralph answered her this time. he spoke low. he spoke as though he were speaking to god. "if any man says that i ever trifled with any woman, he lies. i have never loved but one, and you know who that is. and god knows." "i don't know what to say, mr. hartsook." hannah's voice was broken. these solemn words of love were like a river in the desert, and she was like a wanderer dying of thirst. "i don't know, mr. hartsook. if i was alone, it wouldn't matter. but i've got my blind mother and my poor shocky to look after. and i don't want to make mistakes. and the world is so full of lies i don't know what to believe. somehow i can't help believing what you say. you seem to speak so true. but--" "but what?" said ralph. "but you know how i saw you just as kind to martha hawkins on sunday as--as--" "han--ner!" it was the melodious voice of the angry mrs. means, and hannah lifted her pail and disappeared. standing in the shadow of his own despair, ralph felt how dark a night could be when it had no promise of morning. and dr. small, who had been stabling his horse just inside the barn, came out and moved quietly into the house just as though he had not listened intently to every word of the conversation. as ralph walked away he tried to comfort himself by calling to his aid the bulldog in his character. but somehow it did not do him any good. for what is a bulldog but a stoic philosopher? stoicism has its value, but ralph had come to a place where stoicism was of no account. the memory of the helper, of his sorrow, his brave and victorious endurance, came when stoicism failed. happiness might go out of life, but in the light of christ's life happiness seemed but a small element anyhow. the love of woman might be denied him, but there still remained what was infinitely more precious and holy, the love of god. there still remained the possibility of heroic living. working, suffering, and enduring still remained. and he who can work for god and endure for god, surely has yet the best of life left. and, like the knights who could find the holy grail only in losing themselves, hartsook, in throwing his happiness out of the count, found the purest happiness, a sense of the victory of the soul over the tribulations of life. the man who knows this victory scarcely needs the encouragement of the hope of future happiness. there is a real heaven in bravely lifting the load of one's own sorrow and work. and it was a good thing for ralph that the danger hanging over shocky made immediate action necessary. footnotes: [footnote : the total absence of the word _pail_ not only from the dialect, but even from cultivated speech in the southern and border states until very recently, is a fact i leave to be explained on further investigation. the word is an old one and a good one, but i fancy that its use in england could not have been generally diffused in the seventeenth century. so a hoosier or a kentuckian never _pared_ an apple, but _peeled_ it. much light might be thrown on the origin and history of our dialects by investigating their deficiencies.] chapter xx. god remembers shocky. at four o'clock the next morning, in the midst of a driving snow, ralph went timidly up the lane toward the homely castle of the meanses. he went timidly, for he was afraid of bull. but he found bud waiting for him, with the roan colt bridled and saddled. the roan colt was really a large three-year-old, full of the finest sort of animal life, and having, as bud declared, "a mighty sight of hoss sense fer his age." he seemed to understand at once that there was something extraordinary on hand when he was brought out of his comfortable quarters at four in the morning in the midst of a snow-storm. bud was sure that the roan colt felt his responsibility. in the days that followed, ralph often had occasion to remember this interview with bud, who had risked much in bringing his fractured arm out into the cold, damp air. jonathan never clave to david more earnestly than did bud this december morning to ralph. "you see, mr. hartsook," said bud, "i wish i was well myself. it's hard to set still. but it's a-doing me a heap of good. i'm like a boy at school. and i'm a-findin' out that doing one's best licks fer others ain't all they is of it, though it's a good part. i feel like as if i must git him, you know, to do lots for me. they's always some sums too hard fer a feller, and he has to ax the master to do 'em, you know. but see, the roan's a-stomping round. he wants to be off. do you know i think that hoss knows something's up? i think he puts in his best licks fer me a good deal better than i do fer him." ralph pressed bud's right hand. bud rubbed his face against the colt's nose and said: "put in your best licks, old fellow." and the colt whinnied. how a horse must want to speak! for bud was right. men are gods to horses, and they serve their deities with a faithfulness that shames us. then ralph sprang into the saddle, and the roan, as if wishing to show bud his willingness, broke into a swinging gallop, and was soon lost to the sight of his master in the darkness and the snow. when bud could no more hear the sound of the roan's footsteps he returned to the house, to lie awake picturing to himself the journey of ralph with shocky and the roan colt. it was a great comfort to bud that the roan, which was almost a part of himself, represented him in this ride. and he knew the roan well enough to feel sure that he would do credit to his master. "he'll put in his best licks," bud whispered to himself many a time before daybreak. the ground was but little frozen, and the snow made the roads more slippery than ever. but the rough-shod roan handled his feet dexterously and with a playful and somewhat self-righteous air, as though he said: "didn't i do it handsomely that time?" down slippery hills, through deep mud-holes covered with a slender film of ice he trod with perfect assurance. and then up over the rough stones of rocky hollow, where there was no road at all, he picked his way through the darkness and snow. ralph could not tell where he was at last, but gave the reins to the roan, who did his duty bravely, and not without a little flourish, to show that he had yet plenty of spare power. a feeble candle-ray, making the dense snow-fall visible, marked for ralph the site of the basket-maker's cabin. miss martha had been admitted to the secret, and had joined in the conspiracy heartily, without being able to recall anything of the kind having occurred at the east, and not remembering having seen or heard of anything of the sort the time she was to bosting. she had shocky all ready, having used some of her own capes and shawls to make him warm. miss martha came out to meet ralph when she heard the feet of the roan before the door. "o mr. hartsook! is that you? what a storm. this is jest the way it snows at the east. shocky's all ready. he didn't know a thing about it tell i waked him this morning. ever since that he's been saying that god hasn't forgot, after all. it's made me cry more'n once." and shocky kissed mrs. pearson, and told her that when he got away from flat creek he'd tell god all about it, and god would bring mr. pearson back again. and then martha hawkins lifted the frail little form, bundled in shawls, in her arms, and brought him out into the storm; and before she handed him up he embraced her, and said: "o miss hawkins! god ha'n't forgot me, after all. tell hanner that he ha'n't forgot. i'm going to ask him to git her away from means's and mother out of the poor-house. i'll ask him just as soon as i get to lewisburg." ralph lifted the trembling form into his arms, and the little fellow only looked up in the face of the master and said: "you see, mr. hartsook, i thought god had forgot. but he ha'n't." and the words of the little boy comforted the master also. god had not forgotten him, either! from the moment that ralph took shocky into his arms, the conduct of the roan colt underwent an entire revolution. before that he had gone over a bad place with a rush, as though he were ambitious of distinguishing himself by his brilliant execution. now he trod none the less surely, but he trod tenderly. the neck was no longer arched. he set himself to his work as steadily as though he were twenty years old. for miles he traveled on in a long, swinging walk, putting his feet down carefully and firmly. and ralph found the spirit of the colt entering into himself. he cut the snow-storm with his face, and felt a sense of triumph over all his difficulties. the bulldog's jaws had been his teacher, and now the steady, strong, and conscientious legs of the roan inspired him. shocky had not spoken. he lay listening to the pattering music of the horse's feet, doubtless framing the footsteps of the roan colt into an anthem of praise to the god who had not forgot. but as the dawn came on, making the snow whiter, he raised himself and said half-aloud, as he watched the flakes chasing one another in whirling eddies, that the snow seemed to be having a good time of it. then he leaned down again on the master's bosom, full of a still joy, and only roused himself from his happy reverie to ask what that big, ugly-looking house was. "see, mr. hartsook, how big it is, and how little and ugly the windows is! and the boards is peeling off all over it, and the hogs is right in the front yard. it don't look just like a house. it looks dreadful. what is it?" ralph had dreaded this question. he did not answer it, but asked shocky to change his position a little, and then he quickened the pace of the horse. but shocky was a poet, and a poet understands silence more quickly than he does speech. the little fellow shivered as the truth came to him. "is that the poor-house?" he said, catching his breath. "is my mother in that place? _won't_ you take me in there, so as i can just kiss her once? 'cause she can't see much, you know. and one kiss from me will make her feel so good. and i'll tell her that god ha'n't forgot." he had raised up and caught hold of ralph's coat. ralph had great difficulty in quieting him. he told him that if he went in there bill jones might claim that he was a runaway and belonged there. and poor shocky only shivered and said he was cold. a minute later, ralph found that he was shaking with a chill, and a horrible dread came over him. what if shocky should die? it was only a minute's work to get down, take the warm horse-blanket from under the saddle, and wrap it about the boy, then to strip off his own overcoat and add that to it. it was now daylight, and finding, after he had mounted, that shocky continued to shiver, he put the roan to his best speed for the rest of the way, trotting up and down the slippery hills, and galloping away on the level ground. how bravely the roan laid himself to his work, making the fence-corners fly past in a long procession! but poor little shocky was too cold to notice them, and ralph shuddered lest shocky should never be warm again, and spoke to the roan, and the roan stretched out his head, and dropped one ear back to hear the first word of command, and stretched the other forward to listen for danger, and then flew with a splendid speed down the road, past the patches of blackberry briars, past the elderberry bushes, past the familiar red-haw tree in the fence-corner, over the bridge without regard to the threat of a five-dollar fine, and at last up the long lane into the village, where the smoke from the chimneys was caught and whirled round with the snow. chapter xxi. miss nancy sawyer. in a little old cottage in lewisburg, on one of the streets which was never traveled except by a solitary cow seeking pasture or a countryman bringing wood to some one of the half-dozen families living in it, and which in summer was decked with a profusion of the yellow and white blossoms of the dog-fennel--in this unfrequented street, so generously and unnecessarily broad, lived miss nancy sawyer and her younger sister semantha. miss nancy was a providence, one of those old maids that are benedictions to the whole town; one of those in whom the mother-love, wanting the natural objects on which to spend itself, overflows all bounds and lavishes itself on every needy thing, and grows richer and more abundant with the spending, a fountain of inexhaustible blessing. there is no nobler life possible to any one than to an unmarried woman. the more shame that some choose a selfish one, and thus turn to gall all the affection with which they are endowed. miss nancy sawyer had been ralph's sunday-school teacher, and it was precious little, so far as information went, that he learned from her; for she never could conceive of jerusalem as a place in any essential regard very different from lewisburg, where she had spent her life. but ralph learned from her what most sunday-school teachers fail to teach, the great lesson of christianity, by the side of which all antiquities and geographies and chronologies and exegetics and other niceties are as nothing. and now he turned the head of the roan toward the cottage of miss nancy sawyer as naturally as the roan would have gone to his own stall in the stable at home. the snow had gradually ceased to fall, and was eddying round the house, when ralph dismounted from his foaming horse, and, carrying the still form of shocky as reverently as though it had been something heavenly, knocked at miss nancy sawyer's door. with natural feminine instinct that lady started back when she saw hartsook, for she had just built a fire in the stove, and she now stood at the door with unwashed face and uncombed hair. "why, ralph hartsook, where did you drop down from--and what have you got?" "i came from flat creek this morning, and i brought you a little angel who has got out of heaven, and needs some of your motherly care." shocky was brought in. the chill shook him now by fits only, for a fever had spotted his cheeks already. "who are you?" said miss nancy, as she unwrapped him. "i'm shocky, a little boy as god forgot, and then thought of again." chapter xxii. pancakes. half an hour later, ralph, having seen miss nancy sawyer's machinery of warm baths and simple remedies safely in operation, and having seen the roan colt comfortably stabled, and rewarded for his faithfulness by a bountiful supply of the best hay and the promise of oats when he was cool--half an hour later ralph was doing the most ample, satisfactory, and amazing justice to his aunt matilda's hot buckwheat-cakes and warm coffee. and after his life in flat creek, aunt matilda's house did look like paradise. how white the table-cloth, how bright the coffee-pot, how clean the wood-work, how glistening the brass door-knobs, how spotless everything that came under the sovereign sway of mrs. matilda white! for in every indiana village as large as lewisburg, there are generally a half-dozen women who are admitted to be the best housekeepers. all others are only imitators. and the strife is between these for the pre-eminence. it is at least safe to say that no other in lewisburg stood so high as an enemy to dirt, and as a "rat, roach, and mouse exterminator," as did mrs. matilda white, the wife of ralph's maternal uncle, robert white, esq., a lawyer in successful practice. of course no member of mrs. white's family ever stayed at home longer than was necessary. her husband found his office--which he kept in as bad a state as possible in order to maintain an equilibrium in his life--much more comfortable than the stiffly clean house at home. from the time that ralph had come to live as a chore-boy at his uncle's, he had ever crossed the threshold of aunt matilda's temple of cleanliness with a horrible sense of awe. and walter johnson, her son by a former marriage, had--poor, weak-willed fellow!--been driven into bad company and bad habits by the wretchedness of extreme civilization. and yet he showed the hereditary trait, for all the genius which mrs. white consecrated to the glorious work of making her house too neat to be habitable, her son walter gave to tying exquisite knots in his colored cravats and combing his oiled locks so as to look like a dandy barber. and she had no other children. the kind providence that watches over the destiny of children takes care that very few of them are lodged in these terribly clean houses. but walter was not at the table, and ralph had so much anxiety lest his absence should be significant of evil, that he did not venture to inquire after him as he sat there between mr. and mrs. white disposing of aunt matilda's cakes with an appetite only justified by his long morning's ride and the excellence of the brown cakes, the golden honey, and the coffee, enriched, as aunt matilda's always was, with the most generous cream. aunt matilda was so absorbed in telling of the doings of the dorcas society that she entirely forgot to be surprised at the early hour of ralph's arrival. when she had described the number of the garments finished to be sent to the five points mission, or the home for the friendless, or the south sea islands, i forget which, ralph thought he saw his chance, while aunt matilda was in a benevolent mood, to broach a plan he had been revolving for some time. but when he looked at aunt matilda's immaculate--horribly immaculate--housekeeping, his heart failed him, and he would have said nothing had she not inadvertently opened the door herself. "how did you get here so early, ralph?" and aunt matilda's face was shadowed with a coming rebuke. "by early rising," said ralph. but, seeing the gathering frown on his aunt's brow, he hastened to tell the story of shocky as well as he could. mrs. white did not give way to any impulse toward sympathy until she learned that shocky was safely housed with miss nancy sawyer. "yes, sister sawyer has no family cares," she said by way of smoothing her slightly ruffled complacency, "she has no family cares, and she can do those things. sometimes i think she lets people impose on her and keep her away from the means of grace, and i spoke to our new preacher about it the last time he was here, and asked him to speak to sister sawyer about staying away from the ordinances to wait on everybody, but he is a queer man, and he only said that he supposed sister sawyer neglected the inferior ordinances that she might attend to higher ones. but i don't see any sense in a minister of the gospel calling prayer-meeting a lower ordinance than feeding catnip-tea to mrs. brown's last baby. but hasn't this little boy--shocking, or what do you call him?--got any mother?" "yes," said ralph, "and that was just what i was going to say." and he proceeded to tell how anxious shocky was to see his half-blind mother, and actually ventured to wind up his remarks by suggesting that shocky's mother be invited to stay over sunday in aunt matilda's house. "bless my stars!" said that astounded saint, "fetch a pauper here? what crazy notions you have got! fetch her here out of the poor-house? why, she wouldn't be fit to sleep in my--" here aunt matilda choked. the bare thought of having a pauper in her billowy beds, whose snowy whiteness was frightful to any ordinary mortal, the bare thought of the contagion of the poor-house taking possession of one of her beds, smothered her. "and then you know sore eyes are very catching." ralph boiled a little. "aunt matilda, do you think dorcas was afraid of sore eyes?" it was a center shot, and the lawyer-uncle, lawyerlike, enjoyed a good hit. and he enjoyed a good hit at his wife best of all, for he never ventured on one himself. but aunt matilda felt that a direct reply was impossible. she was not a lawyer but a woman, and so dodged the question by making a counter-charge. "it seems to me, ralph, that you have picked up some very low associates. and you go around at night, i am told. you get over here by daylight, and i hear that you have made common cause with a lame soldier who acts as a spy for thieves, and that your running about of night is likely to get you into trouble." ralph was hit this time. "i suppose," he said, "that you've been listening to some of henry small's lies." "why, ralph, how you talk! the worst sign of all is that you abuse such a young man as dr. small, the most exemplary christian young man in the county. and he is a great friend of yours, for when he was here last week he did not say a word against you, but looked so sorry when your being in trouble was mentioned. didn't he, mr. white?" mr. white, as in duty bound, said yes, but he said yes in a cool, lawyerlike way, which showed that he did not take quite so much stock in dr. small as his wife did. this was a comfort to ralph, who sat picturing to himself the silent flattery which dr. small's eyes paid to his aunt matilda, and the quiet expression of pain that would flit across his face when ralph's name was mentioned. and never until that moment had hartsook understood how masterful small's artifices were. he had managed to elevate himself in mrs. white's estimation and to destroy ralph at the same time, and had managed to do both by a contraction of the eyebrows! but the silence was growing painful and ralph thought to break it and turn the current of talk from himself by asking after mrs. white's son. "where is walter?" "oh! walter's doing well. he went down to clifty three weeks ago to study medicine with henry small. he seems so fond of the doctor, and the doctor is such an excellent man, you know, and i have strong hopes that wallie will be led to see the error of his ways by his association with henry. i suppose he would have gone to see you but for the unfavorable reports that he heard. i hope, ralph, you too will make the friendship of dr. small. and for the sake of your poor, dead mother"--here aunt matilda endeavored to show some emotion--"for the sake of your poor dead mother--" but ralph heard no more. the buckwheat-cakes had lost their flavor. he remembered that the colt had not yet had his oats, and so, in the very midst of aunt matilda's affecting allusion to his mother, like a stiff-necked reprobate that he was, ralph hartsook rose abruptly from the table, put on his hat, and went out toward the stable. "i declare," said mrs. white, descending suddenly from her high moral stand-point, "i declare that boy has stepped right on the threshold of the back-door," and she stuffed her white handkerchief into her pocket, and took down the floor-cloth to wipe off the imperceptible blemish left by ralph's boot-heels. and mr. white followed his nephew to the stable to request that he would be a little careful what he did about anybody in the poor-house, as any trouble with the joneses might defeat mr. white's nomination to the judgeship of the court of common pleas. chapter xxiii. a charitable institution. when ralph got back to miss nancy sawyer's, shocky was sitting up in bed talking to miss nancy and miss semantha. his cheeks were a little flushed with fever and the excitement of telling his story; theirs were wet with tears. "ralph," whispered miss nancy, as she drew him into the kitchen, "i want you to get a buggy or a sleigh, and go right over to the poor-house and fetch that boy's mother over here. it'll do me more good than any sermon i ever heard to see that boy in his mother's arms to-morrow. we can keep the old lady over sunday." ralph was delighted, so delighted that he came near kissing good miss nancy sawyer, whose plain face was glorified by her generosity. but he did not go to the poor-house immediately. he waited until he saw bill jones, the superintendent of the poor-house, and pete jones, the county commissioner, who was still somewhat shuck up, ride up to the court-house. then he drove out of the village, and presently hitched his horse to the poor-house fence, and took a survey of the outside. forty hogs, nearly ready for slaughter, wallowed in a pen in front of the forlorn and dilapidated house; for though the commissioners allowed a claim for repairs at every meeting, the repairs were never made, and it would not do to scrutinize mr. jones's bills too closely, unless you gave up all hope of renomination to office. one curious effect of political aspirations in hoopole county, was to shut the eyes that they could not see, to close the ears that they could not hear, and to destroy the sense of smell. but ralph, not being a politician, smelled the hog-pen without and the stench within, and saw everywhere the transparent fraud, and heard the echo of jones's cruelty. a weak-eyed girl admitted him, and as he did not wish to make his business known at once, he affected a sort of idle interest in the place, and asked to be allowed to look round. the weak-eyed girl watched him. he found that all the women with children, twenty persons in all, were obliged to sleep in one room, which, owing to the hill-slope, was partly under ground, and which had but half a window for light, and no ventilation, except the chance draft from the door. jones had declared that the women with children must stay there--"he warn't goin' to have brats a-runnin' over the whole house." here were vicious women and good women, with their children, crowded like chickens in a coop for market. and there were, as usual in such places, helpless, idiotic women with illegitimate children. of course this room was the scene of perpetual quarreling and occasional fighting. in the quarters devoted to the insane, people slightly demented and raving maniacs were in the same rooms, while there were also those utter wrecks which sat in heaps on the floor, mumbling and muttering unintelligible words, the whole current of their thoughts hopelessly muddled, turning around upon itself in eddies never ending. "that air woman," said the weak-eyed girl, "used to holler a heap when she was brought in here. but pap knows how to subjue 'em. he slapped her in the mouth every time she hollered. she don't make no furss now, but jist sets down that way all day, and keeps a-whisperin'." ralph understood it. when she came in she was the victim of mania; but she had been beaten into hopeless idiocy. indeed this state of incurable imbecility seemed the end toward which all traveled. shut in these bare rooms, with no treatment, no exercise, no variety, and meager food, cases of slight derangement soon grew into chronic lunacy. one young woman, called phil, a sweet-faced person, apparently a farmer's wife, came up to ralph and looked at him kindly, playing with the buttons on his coat in a childlike simplicity. her blue-drilling dress was sewed all over with patches of white, representing ornamental buttons. the womanly instinct toward adornment had in her taken this childish turn. "don't you think they ought to let me go home?" she said with a sweetness and a wistful, longing, home-sick look, that touched ralph to the heart. he looked at her, and then at the muttering crones, and he could see no hope of any better fate for her. she followed him round the barn-like rooms, returning every now and then to her question. "don't you think i might go home now?" the weak-eyed girl had been called away for a moment, and ralph stood looking into a cell, where there was a man with a gay red plume in his hat and a strip of red flannel about his waist. he strutted up and down like a drill-sergeant. "i am general andrew jackson," he began. "people don't believe it, but i am. i had my head shot off at bueny visty, and the new one that growed on isn't nigh so good as the old one; it's tater on one side[ ]. that's why they take advantage of me to shut me up. but i know some things. my head is tater on one side, but it's all right on t'other. and when i know a thing in the left side of my head, i know it. lean down here. let me tell you something out of the left side. not out of the tater side, mind ye. i wouldn't a told you if he hadn't locked me up fer nothing. _bill jones is a thief_! he sells the bodies of the dead paupers, and then sells the empty coffins back to the county agin. but that a'n't all--" just then the weak-eyed girl came back, and, as ralph moved away, general jackson called out: "that a'n't all. i'll tell the rest another time. and that a'n't out of the tater side, you can depend on that. that's out of the left side. sound as a nut on that side!" but ralph began to wonder where he should find hannah's mother. "don't go in there," cried the weak-eyed girl, as ralph was opening a door. "ole mowley's in there, and she'll cuss you." "oh! well, if that's all, her curses won't hurt," said hartsook, pushing open the door. but the volley of blasphemy and vile language that he received made him stagger. the old hag paced the floor, abusing everybody that came in her way. and by the window, in the same room, feeling the light that struggled through the dusty glass upon her face, sat a sorrowful, intelligent englishwoman. ralph noticed at once that she was english, and in a few moments he discovered that her sight was defective. could it be that hannah's mother was the room-mate of this loathsome creature, whose profanity and obscenity did not intermit for a moment? happily the weak-eyed girl had not dared to brave the curses of mowley. ralph stepped forward to the woman by the window, and greeted her. "is this mrs. thomson?" "that is my name, sir," she said, turning her face toward ralph, who could not but remark the contrast between the thorough refinement of her manner and her coarse, scant, unshaped pauper-frock of blue drilling. "i saw your daughter yesterday." "did you see my boy?" there was a tremulousness in her voice and an agitation in her manner which disclosed the emotion she strove in vain to conceal. for only the day before bill jones had informed her that shocky would be bound out on saturday, and that she would find that goin' agin him warn't a payin' business, so much as some others he mout mention. ralph told her about shocky's safety. _i_ shall not write down the conversation here. critics would say that it was an overwrought scene. as if all the world were as cold as they! all i can tell is that this refined woman had all she could do to control herself in her eagerness to get out of her prison-house, away from the blasphemies of mowley, away from the insults of jones, away from the sights and sounds and smells of the place, and, above all, her eagerness to fly to the little shocky-head from whom she had been banished for two years. it seemed to her that she could gladly die now, if she could die with that flaxen head upon her bosom. and so, in spite of the opposition of bill jones's son, who threatened her with every sort of evil if she left, ralph wrapped mrs. thomson's blue drilling in nancy sawyer's shawl, and bore the feeble woman off to lewisburg. and as they drove away, a sad, childlike voice cried from the gratings of the upper window, "good-by! good-by!" ralph turned and saw that it was phil, poor phil, for whom there was no deliverance[ ]. and all the way back ralph pronounced mental maledictions on the dorcas society, not for sending garments to the five points or the south sea islands, whichever it was, but for being so blind to the sorrow and poverty within its reach. he did not know, for he had not read the reports of the boards of state charities, that nearly all alms-houses are very much like this, and that the state of new york is not better in this regard than indiana. and he did not know that it is true in almost all other counties, as it was in his own, that "christian" people do not think enough of christ to look for him in these lazar-houses. and while ralph denounced the dorcas society, the eager, hungry heart of the mother ran, flew toward the little white-headed boy. no, i can not do it; i can not tell you about that meeting. i am sure that miss nancy sawyer's tea tasted exceedingly good to the pauper, who had known nothing but cold water for years, and that the bread and butter were delicious to a palate that had eaten poor-house soup for dinner, and coarse poor-house bread and vile molasses for supper, and that without change for three years. but i can not tell you how it seemed that evening to miss nancy sawyer, as the poor english lady sat in speechless ecstacy, rocking in the old splint-bottomed rocking-chair in the fire-light, while she pressed to her bosom with all the might of her enfeebled arms, the form of the little shocky, who half-sobbed and half-sang, over and over again, "god ha'n't forgot us, mother; god ha'n't forgot us." footnotes: [footnote : some time after this book appeared dr. brown-séquard announced his theory of the dual brain. a writer in an english magazine called attention to the fact that the discovery had been anticipated by an imaginative writer, and cited the passage in the text as proving that the author of "the hoosier school-master" had outrun dr. brown-séquard in perceiving the duality of the brain. it is a matter for surprise that an author, even an "imaginative" one, should have made so great a discovery without suspecting its meaning until it was explained by some one else.] [footnote : the reader may be interested to know that "phil" was drawn from the life, as was old mowley and in part "general jackson" also. between and , i visited many jails and poor-houses with philanthropic purpose, publishing the results of my examination in some cases in _the chicago tribune_. some of the abuses pointed out were reformed, others linger till this day, i believe.] chapter xxiv. the good samaritan. the methodist church to which mrs. matilda white and miss nancy sawyer belonged was the leading one in lewisburg, as it was in most county-seat villages in indiana. if i may be permitted to express my candid and charitable opinion of the difference between the two women, i shall have to use the old quaker locution, and say that miss sawyer was a methodist and likewise a christian; mrs. white was a methodist, but i fear she was not likewise. as to the first part of this assertion, there was no room to doubt miss nancy's piety. she could get happy in class-meeting (for who had a better right?), and could witness a good experience in the quarterly love-feast. but it is not upon these grounds that i base my opinion of miss nancy. do not even the pharisees the same? she never dreamed that she had any right to speak of "christian perfection" (which, as mrs. partington said of total depravity, is an excellent doctrine if it is lived up to); but when a woman's heart is full of devout affections and good purposes, when her head devises liberal and christlike things, when her hands are always open to the poor and always busy with acts of love and self-denial, and when her feet are ever eager to run upon errands of mercy, why, if there be anything worthy of being called christian perfection in this world of imperfection, i do not know why such an one does not possess it. what need of analyzing her experiences _in vacuo_ to find out the state of her soul? how miss nancy managed to live on her slender income and be so generous was a perpetual source of perplexity to the gossips of lewisburg. and now that she declared that mrs. thomson and shocky should not return to the poor-house there was a general outcry from the whole committee of intermeddlers that she would bring herself to the poor-house before she died. but nancy sawyer was the richest woman in lewisburg, though nobody knew it, and though she herself did not once suspect it. how miss nancy and the preacher conspired together, and how they managed to bring mrs. thomson's case up at the time of the "sacramental service" in the afternoon of that sunday in lewisburg, and how the preacher made a touching statement of it just before the regular "collection for the poor" was taken, and how the warm-hearted methodists put in dollars instead of dimes while the presiding elder read those passages about zaccheus and other liberal people, and how the congregation sang "he dies, the friend of sinners dies" more lustily than ever, after having performed this christian act--how all this happened i can not take up the reader's time to tell. but i can assure him that the nearly blind english woman did not room with blasphemous old mowley any more, and that the blue-drilling pauper frock gave way to something better, and that grave little shocky even danced with delight, and declared that god hadn't forgot, though he'd thought that he had. and mrs. matilda white remarked that it was a shame that the collection for the poor at a methodist sacramental service should be given to a woman who was a member of the church of england, and like as not never soundly converted! and shocky slept in his mother's arms and prayed god not to forget hannah, while shocky's mother knit stockings for the store day and night, and day and night she prayed and hoped. chapter xxv. bud wooing. the sunday that ralph spent in lewisburg, the sunday that shocky spent in an earthly paradise, the sunday that mrs. thomson spent with shocky instead of old mowley, the sunday that miss nancy thought was "just like heaven," was also an eventful sunday with bud means. he had long adored miss martha in his secret heart, but, like many other giants, while brave enough to face and fight dragons, he was a coward in the presence of the woman that he loved. let us honor him for it. the man who loves a woman truly, reverences her profoundly and feels abashed in her presence. the man who is never abashed in the presence of womanhood, the man who tells his love without a tremor, is a shallow egotist. bud's nature was not fine. but it was deep, true, and manly. to him martha hawkins was the chief of women. what was he that he should aspire to possess her? and yet on that sunday, with his crippled arm carefully bound up, with his cleanest shirt, and with his heavy boots freshly oiled with the fat of the raccoon, he started hopefully through fields white with snow to the house of squire hawkins. when he started his spirits were high, but they descended exactly in proportion to his proximity to the object of his love. he thought himself not dressed well enough he wished his shoulders were not so square, and his arms not so stout. he wished that he had book-larnin' enough to court in nice, big words. and so, by recounting his own deficiencies, he succeeded in making himself feel weak, and awkward, and generally good-for-nothing, by the time he walked up between the rows of dead hollyhocks to the squire's front door, to tap at which took all his remaining strength. miss martha received her perspiring lover most graciously, but this only convinced bud more than ever that she was a superior being. if she had slighted him a bit, so as to awaken his combativeness, his bashfulness might have disappeared. it was in vain that martha inquired about his arm and complimented his courage. bud could only think of his big feet, his clumsy hands, and his slow tongue. he answered in monosyllables, using his red silk handkerchief diligently. "is your arm improving?" asked miss hawkins. "yes, i think it is," said bud, hastily crossing his right leg over his left, and trying to get his fists out of sight. "have you heard from mr. pearson?" "no, i ha'n't," answered bud, removing his right foot to the floor again, because it looked so big, and trying to push his left hand into his pocket. "beautiful sunshine, isn't it?" said martha. "yes, 'tis," answered bud, sticking his right foot up on the rung of the chair and putting his right hand behind him. "this snow looks like the snow we have at the east," said martha. "it snowed that way the time i was to bosting." "did it?" said bud, not thinking of the snow at all nor of boston, but thinking how much better he would have appeared had he left his arms and legs at home. "i suppose mr. hartsook rode your horse to lewisburg?" "yes, he did;" and bud hung both hands at his side. "you were very kind." this set bud's heart a-going so that he could not say anything, but he looked eloquently at miss hawkins, drew both feet under the chair, and rammed his hands into his pockets. then, suddenly remembering how awkward he must look, he immediately pulled his hands out again, and crossed his legs. there was a silence of a few minutes, during which bud made up his mind to do the most desperate thing he could think of--to declare his love and take the consequences. "you see, miss hawkins," he began, forgetting boots and fists in his agony, "i thought as how i'd come over here to-day, and"--but here his heart failed him utterly--"and--see--you." "i'm glad to see you, mr. means." "and i thought i'd tell you"--martha was sure it was coming now, for bud was in dead earnest--"and i thought i'd just like to tell you, ef i only know'd jest how to tell it right"--here bud got frightened, and did not dare close the sentence as he had intended--"i thought as how you might like to know--or ruther i wanted to tell you--that--the--that i--that we--all of us--think--that--i--that we are going to have a spellin'-school a chewsday night." "i'm real glad to hear it," said the bland but disappointed martha. "we used to have spelling-schools at the east." but miss martha could not remember that they had them "to bosting." hard as it is for a bashful man to talk, it is still more difficult for him to close the conversation. most men like to leave a favorable impression, and a bashful man is always waiting with the forlorn hope that some favorable turn in the talk may let him out without absolute discomfiture. and so bud stayed a long time, and how he ever did get away he never could tell. chapter xxvi. a letter and its consequences. "squar haukins "this is too lett u no that u beter be keerful hoo yoo an yore familly tacks cides with fer peepl wont stan it too hev the men wat's sportin the wuns wat's robin us, sported bi yor fokes kepin kumpne with 'em, u been a ossifer ov the lau, yor ha wil bern as qick as to an yor barn tu, so tak kere. no mor ad pressnt." this letter accomplished its purpose. the squire's spectacles slipped off several times while he read it. his wig had to be adjusted. if he had been threatened personally he would not have minded it so much. but the hay stacks were dearer to him than the apple of his glass eye. the barn was more precious than his wig. and those who hoped to touch bud in a tender place through this letter knew the squire's weakness far better than they knew the spelling-book. to see his new red barn with its large "mormon" hay-press inside, and the mounted indian on the vane, consumed, was too much for the hawkins heart to stand. evidently the danger was on the side of his niece. but how should he influence martha to give up bud? martha did not value the hay-stacks half so highly as she did her lover. martha did not think the new red barn, with the great mormon press inside and the galloping indian on the vane, worth half so much as a moral principle or a kind-hearted action. martha, bless her! would have sacrificed anything rather than forsake the poor. but squire hawkins's lips shut tight over his false teeth in a way that suggested astringent purse-strings, and squire hawkins could not sleep at night if the new red barn, with the galloping indian on the vane, were in danger. martha must be reached somehow. so, with many adjustings of that most adjustable wig? with many turnings of that reversible glass eye? the squire managed to frighten martha by the intimation that he had been threatened, and to make her understand, what it cost her much to understand, that she must turn the cold shoulder to chivalrous, awkward bud, whom she loved most tenderly, partly, perhaps, because he did not remind her of anybody she had ever known at the east. tuesday evening was the fatal time. spelling-school was the fatal occasion. bud was the victim. pete jones had his revenge. for bud had been all the evening trying to muster courage enough to offer himself as martha's escort. he was not encouraged by the fact that he had spelled even worse than usual, while martha had distinguished herself by holding her ground against jeems phillips for half an hour. but he screwed his courage to the sticking place, not by quoting to himself the adage, "faint heart never won fair lady," which, indeed, he had never heard, but by reminding himself that "ef you don't resk notin' you'll never git nothin'." so, when the spelling-school had adjourned, he sidled up to her, and, looking dreadfully solemn and a little foolish, he said: "kin i see you safe home?" and she, with a feeling that her uncle's life was in danger, and that his salvation depended upon her resolution--she, with a feeling that she was pronouncing sentence of death on her own great hope, answered huskily: "no, i thank you." if she had only known that it was the red barn with the indian on top that was in danger, she would probably have let the galloping brave take care of himself. it seemed to bud, as he walked home mortified, disgraced, disappointed, hopeless, that all the world had gone down in a whirlpool of despair. "might a knowed it," he said to himself. "of course, a smart gal like martha a'n't agoin' to take a big, blunderin' fool that can't spell in two syllables. what's the use of tryin'? a flat cricker is a flat cricker. you can't make nothin' else of him, no more nor you can make a chiny hog into a berkshire." chapter xxvii. a loss and a gain. dr. small, silent, attentive, assiduous dr. small, set himself to work to bind up the wounded heart of bud means, even as he had bound up his broken arm. the flattery of his fine eyes, which looked at bud's muscles so admiringly, which gave attention to his lightest remark, was not lost on the young flat creek hercules. outwardly at least pete jones showed no inclination to revenge himself on bud. was it respect for muscle, or was it the influence of small? at any rate, the concentrated extract of the resentment of pete jones and his clique was now ready to empty itself upon the head of hartsook. and ralph found himself in his dire extremity without even the support of bud, whose good resolutions seemed to give way all at once. there have been many men of culture and more favorable surroundings who have thrown themselves away with less provocation. as it was, bud quit school, avoided ralph, and seemed more than ever under the influence of dr. small, besides becoming the intimate of walter johnson, small's student and mrs. matilda white's son. they made a strange pair--bud with his firm jaw and silent, cautious manner, and walter johnson with his weak chin, his nice neck-ties, and general dandy appearance. to be thus deserted in his darkest hour by his only friend was the bitterest ingredient in ralph's cup. in vain he sought an interview. bud always eluded him. while by all the faces about him ralph learned that the storm was getting nearer and nearer to himself. it might delay. if it had been pete jones alone, it might blow over. but ralph felt sure that the relentless hand of dr. small was present in all his troubles. and he had only to look into small's eye to know how inextinguishable was a malignity that burned so steadily and so quietly. but there is no cup of unmixed bitterness. with an innocent man there is no night so dark that some star does not shine. ralph had one strong sheet-anchor. on his return from lewisburg on monday bud had handed him a note, written on common blue foolscap, in round, old-fashioned hand. it ran: "dear sir: anybody who can do so good a thing as you did for our shocky, can not be bad. i hope you will forgive me. all the appearances in the world, and all that anybody says, can not make me think you anything else but a good man. i hope god will reward you. you must not answer this, and you hadn't better see me again, or think any more of what you spoke about the other night. i shall be a slave for three years more, and then i must work for my mother and shocky; but i felt so bad to think that i had spoken so hard to you, that i could not help writing this. respectfully, "hannah thomson. "to mr. r. hartsook, esq." ralph read it over and over. what else he did with it i shall not tell. you want to know whether he kissed it, and put it into his bosom. many a man as intelligent and manly as hartsook has done quite as foolish a thing as that. you have been a little silly perhaps--if it is silly--and you have acted in a sentimental sort of a way over such things. but it would never do for me to tell you what ralph did. whether he put the letter into his bosom or not, he put the words into his heart, and, metaphorically speaking, he shook that little blue billet, written on coarse foolscap paper--he shook that little letter full of confidence, in the face and eyes of all the calamities that haunted him. if hannah believed in him, the whole world might distrust him. when hannah was in one scale and the whole world in the other, of what account was the world? justice may be blind, but all the pictures of blind cupids in the world can not make love blind. and it was well that ralph weighed things in this way. for the time was come in which he needed all the courage the blue billet could give him. chapter xxviii. the flight. about ten days after ralph's return to flat creek things came to a crisis. the master was rather relieved at first to have the crisis come. he had been holding juvenile flat creek under his feet by sheer force of will. and such an exercise of "psychic power" is very exhausting. in racing on the ohio the engineer sometimes sends the largest of the firemen to hold the safety valve down, and this he does by hanging himself to the lever by his hands. ralph felt that he had been holding the safety-valve down, and that he was so weary of the operation that an explosion would be a real relief. he was a little tired of having everybody look on him as a thief. it was a little irksome to know that new bolts were put on the doors of the houses in which he had staid. and now that shocky was gone, and bud had turned against him, and aunt matilda suspected him, and even poor, weak, exquisite walter johnson would not associate with him, he felt himself an outlaw indeed. he would have gone away to texas or the new gold fields in california had it not been for one thing. that letter on blue foolscap paper kept a little warmth in his heart. his course from school on the evening that something happened lay through the sugar-camp. among the dark trunks of the maples, solemn and lofty pillars, he debated the case. to stay, or to flee? the worn nerves could not keep their present tension much longer. it was just by the brook, or, as they say in indiana, the "branch[ ]," that something happened which brought him to a sudden decision. ralph never afterward could forget that brook. it was a swift-running little stream, that did not babble blatantly over the stones. it ran through a thicket of willows, through the sugar-camp, and out into means's pasture. ralph had just passed through the thicket, had just crossed the brook on the half-decayed log that spanned it, when, as he emerged from the water-willows on the other side, he started with a sudden shock. for there was hannah, with a white, white face, holding out a little note folded like an old-fashioned thumb-paper. "go quick!" she stammered as she slipped it into ralph's hand, inadvertently touching his fingers with her own--a touch that went tingling through the school-master's nerves. but she had hardly said the words until she was gone down the brookside path and over into the pasture. a few minutes afterward she drove the cows up into the lot and meekly took her scolding from mrs. means for being gone sech an awful long time, like a lazy, good-fer-nothin piece of goods that she was. ralph opened the thumb-paper note, written on a page torn from an old copy-book, in bud's "hand-write" and running: "mr. heartsook "deer sur: "i put in my best licks, taint no use. run fer yore life. a plans on foot to tar an fether or wuss to-night. go rite off. things is awful juberous[ ]. "bud." the first question with ralph was whether he could depend on bud. but he soon made up his mind that treachery of any sort was not one of his traits. he had mourned over the destruction of bud's good resolutions by martha hawkins's refusal, and being a disinterested party he could have comforted bud by explaining martha's "mitten." but he felt sure that bud was not treacherous. it was a relief, then, as he stood there to know that the false truce was over, and worst had come to worst. his first impulse was to stay and fight. but his nerves were not strong enough to execute so foolhardy a resolution. he seemed to see a man behind every maple-trunk. darkness was fast coming on, and he knew that his absence from supper at his boarding-place could not fail to excite suspicion. there was no time to be lost. so he started. once run from a danger, and panic is apt to ensue. the forest; the stalk-fields, the dark hollows through which he passed, seemed to be peopled with terrors. he knew small and jones well enough to know that every avenue of escape would be carefully picketed. so there was nothing to do but to take the shortest path to the old trysting place, the spring-in-rock. here he sat and shook with terror. angry with himself, he inly denounced himself for a coward. but the effect was really a physical one. the chill and panic now were the reaction from the previous strain. for when the sound of his pursuers' voices broke upon his ears early in the evening, ralph shook no more; the warm blood set back again toward the extremities, and his self-control returned when he needed it. he gathered some stones about him, as the only weapons of defense at hand. the mob was on the cliff above. but he thought that he heard footsteps in the bed of the creek below. if this were so, there could be no doubt that his hiding-place was suspected. "o hank!" shouted bud from the top of the cliff to some one in the creek below, "be sure to look at the spring-in-rock--i think he's there." this hint was not lost on ralph, who speedily changed his quarters by climbing up to a secluded, shelf-like ledge above the spring. he was none too soon, for pete jones and hank banta were soon looking all around the spring for him, while he held a twenty-pound stone over their heads ready to drop upon them in case they should think of looking on the ledge above. when the crowd were gone ralph knew that one road was open to him. he could follow down the creek to clifty, and thence he might escape. but, traveling down to clifty, he debated whether it was best to escape. to flee was to confess his guilt, to make himself an outlaw, to put an insurmountable barrier between himself and hannah, whose terror-stricken and anxious face as she stood by the brook-willows haunted him now, and was an involuntary witness to her love. long before he reached clifty his mind was made up not to flee another mile. he knocked at the door of squire underwood. but squire underwood was also a doctor, and had been called away. he knocked at the door of squire doolittle. but squire doolittle had gone to lewisburg. he was about to give up all hope of being able to surrender himself to the law when he met squire hawkins, who had come over to clifty to avoid responsibility for the ill-deeds of his neighbors which he was powerless to prevent. "is that you, mr. hartsook?" "yes, and i want you to arrest me and try me here in clifty." footnotes: [footnote : i have already mentioned the absence of _pail_ and _pare_ from the ancient hoosier folk-speech. _brook_ is likewise absent. the illiterate indiana countryman before the civil war, let us say, had no pails, pared no apples, husked no corn, crossed no brooks. the same is true, i believe, of the south generally. as the first settlers on the southern coast entered the land by the rivers, each smaller stream was regarded as a branch of the larger one. a small stream was therefore called a _branch_. the word brook was probably lost in the first generation. but a small stream is often called a _run_ in the middle and southern belt. halliwell gives _rundel_ as used with the same signification in england, and he gives _ryn_ in the same sense from an old manuscript.] [footnote : _juberous_ is in none of the vocabularies that i have seen. i once treated this word in print as an undoubted corruption of _dubious_, and when used subjectively it apparently feels the influence of dubious, as where one says: "i feel mighty juberous about it." but it is much oftener applied as in the text to the object of fear, as "the bridge looks kind o' juberous." halliwell gives the verb _juberd_ and defines it as "to jeopard or endanger." it is clearly a dialect form of _jeopard_, and i make no doubt that _juberous_ is a dialect variation of _jeopardous_, occasionally used as a form of _dubious_.] chapter xxix. the trial. the "prosecuting attorney" (for so the state's attorney is called in indiana) had been sent for the night before. ralph refused all legal help. it was not wise to reject counsel, but all his blood was up, and he declared that he would not be cleared by legal quibbles. if his innocence were not made evident to everybody, he would rather not be acquitted on a preliminary examination. he would go over to the circuit court and have the matter sifted to the bottom. but he would have been pleased had his uncle offered his counsel, though he would have declined it. he would have felt better to have had a letter from home somewhat different from the one he received from his aunt matilda by the hand of the prosecuting attorney. it was not very encouraging or very sympathetic, though it was very characteristic. "dear ralph: "this is what i have always been afraid of. i warned you faithfully the last time i saw you. my skirts are clear of your blood, i can not consent for your uncle to appear as your counsel or to go your bail. you know how much it would injure him in the county, and he has no right to suffer for your evil acts. o my dear nephew! for the sake of your poor, dead mother--" we never shall know what the rest of that letter was. whenever aunt matilda got to ralph's poor, dead mother in her conversation ralph ran out of the house. and now that his poor, dead mother was again made to do service in his aunt's pious rhetoric, he landed the letter on the hot coals before him, and watched it vanish into smoke with a grim satisfaction. ralph was a little afraid of a mob. but clifty was better than flat creek, and squire hawkins, with all his faults, loved justice, and had a profound respect for the majesty of the law, and a profound respect for his own majesty when sitting as a court representing the law. whatever maneuvers he might resort to in business affairs in order to avoid a conflict with his lawless neighbors, he was courageous and inflexible on the bench. the squire was the better part of him. with the co-operation of the constable, he had organized a _posse_ of men who could be depended on to enforce the law against a mob. by the time the trial opened in the large school-house in clifty at eleven o'clock, all the surrounding country had emptied its population into clifty, and all flat creek was on hand ready to testify to something. those who knew the least appeared to know the most, and were prodigal of their significant winks and nods. mrs. means had always suspected him. she seed some mighty suspicious things about him from the word go. she'd allers had her doubts whether he was jist the thing, and ef her ole man had axed her, liker-n not he never'd a been hired. she'd seed things with her own livin' eyes that beat all she ever seed in all her born days. and pete jones said he'd allers knowed ther warn't no good in sech a feller. couldn't stay abed when he got there. and granny sanders said, law's sakes! nobody'd ever a found him out ef it hadn't been fer her. didn't she go all over the neighborhood a-warnin' people? fer her part, she seed straight through that piece of goods. he was fond of the gals, too! nothing was so great a crime in her eyes as to be fond of the gals. the constable paid unwitting tribute to william the conquerer by crying squire hawkins's court open with an oyez! or, as he said, "o yes!" and the squire asked squire underwood, who came in at that minute, to sit with him. from the start, it was evident to ralph that the prosecuting attorney had been thoroughly posted by small, though, looking at that worthy's face, one would have thought him the most disinterested and philosophical spectator in the court-room. bronson, the prosecutor, was a young man, and this was his first case since his election. he was very ambitious to distinguish himself, very anxious to have flat creek influence on his side in politics; and, consequently, he was very determined to send ralph hartsook to state prison, justly or unjustly, by fair means or foul. to his professional eyes this was not a question of right and wrong, not a question of life or death to such a man as ralph. it was george h. bronson's opportunity to distinguish himself. and so, with many knowing and confident nods and hints, and with much deference to the two squires, he opened the case, affecting great indignation at ralph's wickedness, and uttering delphic hints about striped pants and shaven head, and the grating of prison-doors at jeffersonville. "and, now, if the court please, i am about to call a witness whose testimony is very important indeed. mrs. sarah jane means will please step forward and be sworn." this mrs. means did with alacrity. she had met the prosecutor, and impressed him with her dark hints. she was sworn. "now, mrs. means, have the goodness to tell us what you know of the robbery at the house of peter schroeder, and the part defendant had in it." "well, you see, i allers suspected that air young man--" here squire underwood stopped her, and told her that she must not tell her suspicions, but facts. "well, it's facts i am a-going to tell," she sniffed indignantly. "it's facts that i mean to tell." here her voice rose to a keen pitch, and she began to abuse the defendant. again and again the court insisted that she must tell what there was suspicious about the school-master. at last she got it out. "well, fer one thing, what kind of gals did he go with? hey? why, with my bound gal, hanner, a-loafin' along through the blue-grass paster at ten o'clock, and keepin' that gal that's got no protector but me out that a-way, and destroyin' her character by his company, that a'n't fit fer nobody." here bronson saw that he had caught a tartar. he said he had no more questions to ask of mrs. means, and that, unless the defendant wished to cross-question her, she could stand aside. ralph said he would like to ask her one question. "did i ever go with your daughter miranda?" "no, you didn't," answered the witness, with a tone and a toss of the head that let the cat out, and set the court-room in a giggle. bronson saw that he was gaining nothing, and now resolved to follow the line which small had indicated. pete jones was called, and swore point-blank that he heard ralph go out of the house soon after he went to bed, and that he heard him return at two in the morning. this testimony was given without hesitation, and made a great impression against ralph in the minds of the justices. mrs. jones, a poor, brow-beaten woman, came on the stand in a frightened way, and swore to the same lies as her husband. ralph cross-questioned her, but her part had been well learned. there, seemed now little hope for ralph. but just at this moment who should stride into the school-house but pearson, the one-legged old soldier basket-maker? he had crept home the night before, "to see ef the ole woman didn't want somethin'," and hearing of ralph's arrest, he concluded that the time for him to make "a forrard movement" had come, and so he determined to face the foe. "looky here, squar," he said, wiping the perspiration from his brow, "looky here. i jes want to say that i kin tell as much about this case as anybody." "let us hear it, then," said bronson, who thought he would nail ralph now for certain. so, with many allusions to the time he fit at lundy's lane, and some indignant remarks about the pack of thieves that driv him off, and a passing tribute to miss martha hawkins, and sundry other digressions, in which he had to be checked, the old man told how he'd drunk whisky at welch's store that night, and how welch's whisky was all-fired mean, and how it allers went straight to his head, and how he had got a leetle too much, and how he had felt kyinder gin aout by the time he got to the blacksmith's shop, and how he had laid down to rest, and how as he s'posed the boys had crated him, and how he thought it war all-fired mean to crate a old soldier what fit the britishers, and lost his leg by one of the blamed critters a-punchin' his bagonet[ ] through it; and how when he woke up it was all-fired cold, and how he rolled off the crate and went on to_wurds_ home, and how when he got up to the top of means's hill he met pete jones and bill jones, and a slim sort of a young man, a-ridin'; and how he know'd the joneses by ther hosses, and some more things of that kyind about 'em; but he didn't know the slim young man, tho' he tho't he might tell him ef he seed him agin kase he was dressed up so slick and town-like. but blamed ef he didn't think it hard that a passel o thieves sech as the joneses should try to put ther mean things on to a man like the master, that was so kyind to him and to shocky, tho', fer that matter, blamed ef he didn't think we was all selfish, akordin' to his tell. had seed somebody that night a-crossin' over the blue-grass paster. didn't know who in thunder 'twas, but it was somebody a-makin' straight fer pete jones's. hadn't seed nobody else, 'ceptin' dr. small, a short ways behind the joneses. hannah was now brought on the stand. she was greatly agitated, and answered with much reluctance. lived at mr. means's. was eighteen years of age in october. had been bound to mrs. means three years ago. had walked home with mr. hartsook that evening, and, happening to look out of the window toward morning, she saw some one cross the pasture. did not know who it was. thought it was mr. hartsook. here mr. bronson (evidently prompted by a suggestion that came from what small had overheard when he listened in the barn) asked her if mr. hartsook had ever said anything to her about the matter afterward. after some hesitation, hannah said that he had said that he crossed the pasture. of his own accord? no, she spoke of it first. had mr. hartsook offered any explanations? no, he hadn't. had he ever paid her any attention afterward? no. ralph declined to cross-question hannah. to him she never seemed so fair as when telling the truth so sublimely. bronson now informed the court that this little trick of having the old soldier happen in, in the flick of time, wouldn't save the prisoner at the bar from the just punishment which an outraged law visited upon such crimes as his. he regretted that his duty as a public prosecutor caused it to fall to his lot to marshal the evidence that was to blight the prospects and blast the character, and annihilate for ever, so able and promising a young man, but that the law knew no difference between the educated and the uneducated, and that for his part he thought hartsook a most dangerous foe to the peace of society. the evidence already given fastened suspicion upon him. the prisoner had not yet been able to break its force at all. the prisoner had not even dared to try to explain to a young lady the reason for his being out at night. he would now conclude by giving the last touch to the dark evidence that would sink the once fair name of ralph hartsook in a hundred fathoms of infamy. he would ask that henry banta be called. hank came forward sheepishly, and was sworn. lived about a hundred yards from the house that was robbed. he seen ole man pearson and the master and one other feller that he didn't know come away from there together about one o'clock. he heerd the horses kickin', and went out to the stable to see about them. he seed two men come out of schroeder's back door and meet one man standing at the gate. when they got closter he knowed pearson by his wooden leg and the master by his hat. on cross-examination he was a little confused when asked why he hadn't told of it before, but said that he was afraid to say much, bekase the folks was a-talkin' about hanging the master, and he didn't want no lynchin'. the prosecution here rested, bronson maintaining that there was enough evidence to justify ralph's committal to await trial. but the court thought that as the defendant had no counsel and offered no rebutting testimony, it would be only fair to hear what the prisoner had to say in his own defense. all this while poor ralph was looking about the room for bud. bud's actions had of late been strangely contradictory. but had he turned coward and deserted his friend? why else did he avoid the session of the court? after asking himself such questions as these, ralph would wonder at his own folly. what could bud do if he were there? there was no human power that could prevent the victim of so vile a conspiracy as this, lodging in that worst of state prisons at jeffersonville, a place too bad for criminals. but when there is no human power to help, how naturally does the human mind look for some divine intervention on the side of right! and ralph's faith in providence looked in the direction of bud. but since no bud came, he shut down the valves and rose to his feet, proudly, defiantly, fiercely calm. "it's of no use for me to say anything. peter jones has sworn to a deliberate falsehood, and he knows it. he has made his wife perjure her poor soul that she dare not call her own." here pete's fists clenched, but ralph in his present humor did not care for mobs. the spirit of the bulldog had complete possession of him. "it is of no use for me to tell you that henry banta has sworn to a lie, partly to revenge himself on me for punishments i have given him, and partly, perhaps, for money. the real thieves are in this court-room. i could put my finger on them." "_to_ be sure," responded the old basket-maker. ralph looked at pete jones, then at small. the fiercely calm look attracted the attention of the people. he knew that this look would probably cost him his life before the next morning. but he did not care for life. "the testimony of miss hannah thomson is every word true, i believe that of mr. pearson to be true. the rest is false. but i can not prove it. i know the men i have to deal with. i shall not escape with state prison. they will not spare my life. but the people of clifty will one day find out who are the thieves." ralph then proceeded to tell how he had left pete jones's, mr. jones's bed being uncomfortable; how he had walked through the pasture; how he had seen three men on horseback: how he had noticed the sorrel with the white left forefoot and white nose; how he had seen dr. small; how, after his return, he had heard some one enter the house, and how he had recognized the horse the next morning. "there," said ralph desperately, leveling his finger at pete, "there is a man who will yet see the inside of a penitentiary, i shall not live to see it, but the rest of you will." pete quailed. ralph's speech could not of course break the force of the testimony against him. but it had its effect, and it had effect enough to alarm bronson, who rose and said: "i should like to ask the prisoner at the bar one question." "ask me a dozen," said hartsook, looking more like a king than a criminal. "well, then, mr. hartsook. you need not answer unless you choose; but what prompted you to take the direction you did in your walk on that evening?" this shot brought ralph down. to answer this question truly would attach to friendless hannah thomson some of the disgrace that now belonged to him. "i decline to answer," said ralph. "of course, i do not want the prisoner to criminate himself," said bronson significantly. during this last passage bud had come in, but, to ralph's disappointment he remained near the door, talking to walter johnson, who had come with him. the magistrates put their heads together to fix the amount of bail, and, as they differed, talked for some minutes. small now for the first time thought best to make a move in his own proper person. he could hardly have been afraid of ralph's acquittal. he may have been a little anxious at the manner in which he had been mentioned, and at the significant look of ralph, and he probably meant to excite indignation enough against the school-master to break the force of his speech, and secure the lynching of the prisoner, chiefly by people outside his gang. he rose and asked the court in gentlest tones to hear him. he had no personal interest in this trial, except his interest in the welfare of his old schoolmate, mr. hartsook. he was grieved and disappointed to find the evidence against him so damaging and he would not for the world add a feather to it, if it were not that his own name had been twice alluded to by the defendant, and by his friend, and perhaps his confederate, john pearson. he was prepared to swear that he was not over in flat creek the night of the robbery later than ten o'clock, and while the statements of the two persons alluded to, whether maliciously intended or not, could not implicate him at all, he thought perhaps this lack of veracity in their statements might be of weight in determining some other points. he therefore suggested--he could only suggest, as he was not a party to the case in any way--that his student, mr. walter johnson, be called to testify as to his--dr. small's--exact whereabouts on the night in question. they were together in his office until two, when he went to the tavern and went to bed. squire hawkins, having adjusted his teeth, his wig, and his glass eye, thanked dr. small for a suggestion so valuable, and thought best to put john pearson under arrest before proceeding further. mr. pearson was therefore arrested, and was heard to mutter something about a "passel of thieves," when the court warned him to be quiet. walter johnson was then called. but before giving his testimony, i must crave the reader's patience while i go back to some things which happened nearly a week before and which will serve to make it intelligible. footnotes: [footnote : this form, _bagonet_, is not in the vocabularies, but it was spoken as i have written it. the century dictionary gives _bagnet_, and halliwell and wright both give _baginet_ with the _g_ soft apparently, though neither the one nor the other is very explicit in distinguishing transcriptions from old authors from phonetic spellings of dialect forms. i fancy that this _bagonet_ is impossible as a corruption of _bayonet_, and that it points to some other derivation of that word than the doubtful one from _bayonne_.] chapter xxx. "brother sodom." in order to explain walter johnson's testimony and his state of mind, i must carry the reader back nearly a week. the scene was dr. small's office. bud and walter johnson had been having some confidential conversation that evening, and bud had got more out of his companion than that exquisite but weak young man had intended. he looked round in a frightened way. "you see," said walter, "if small knew i had told you that, i'd get a bullet some night from somebody. but when you're initiated it'll be all right. sometimes i wish i was out of it. but, you know, small's this kind of a man. he sees through you. he can look through a door"--and there he shivered, and his voice broke down into a whisper. but bud was perfectly cool, and doubtless it was the strong coolness of bud that made walter, who shuddered at a shadow, come to him for sympathy and unbosom himself of one of his guilty secrets. "let's go and hear brother sodom preach to-night," said bud. "no, i don't like to." "he don't scare you?" there was just a touch of ridicule in bud's voice. he knew walter, and he had not counted amiss when he used this little goad to prick a skin so sensitive. "brother sodom" was the nickname given by scoffers to the preacher--mr. soden--whose manner of preaching had so aroused bud's combativeness, and whose saddle-stirrups bud had helped to amputate. for reasons of his own, bud thought best to subject young johnson to the heat of mr. soden's furnace. peter cartwright boasts that, on a certain occasion, he "shook his brimstone wallet" over the people. mr. soden could never preach without his brimstone wallet. there are those of refinement so attenuated that they will not admit that fear can have any place in religion. but a religion without fear could never have evangelized or civilized the west, which at one time bade fair to become a perdition as bad as any that brother sodom ever depicted. and against these on the one side, and the brother sodoms on the other, i shall interrupt my story to put this chapter under shelter of that wise remark of the great dr. adam clark, who says "the fear of god is the beginning of wisdom, the terror of god confounds the soul;" and that other saying of his: "with the _fear_ of god the love of god is ever consistent; but where the _terror_ of the lord reigns, there can neither be _fear, faith_, nor _love_; nay, nor _hope_ either." and yet i am not sure that even the brother sodoms were made in vain. on this evening mr. soden was as terrible as usual. bud heard him without flinching. small, who sat farther forward, listened with pious approval. mr. soden, out of distorted figures pieced together from different passages of scripture, built a hell, not quite, miltonic, nor yet dantean, but as miltonic and dantean as his unrefined imagination could make it. as he rose toward his climax of hideous description, walter johnson trembled from head to foot and sat close to bud. then, as burly mr. soden, with great gusto, depicted materialistic tortures that startled the nerves of everybody except bud, walter wanted to leave, but bud would not let him. for some reason he wished to keep his companion in the crucible as long as possible. "young man!" cried mr. soden, and the explosive voice seemed to come from the hell that he had created--"young man! you who have followed the counsel of evil companions"--here he paused and looked about, as if trying to find the man he wanted, while walter crept up close to bud and shaded his face--"i mean you who have chosen evil pursuits and who can not get free from bad habits and associations that are dragging you down to hell! you are standing on the very crumbling brink of hell to-night. the smell of the brimstone is on your garments; the hot breath of hell is in your face! the devils are waiting for you! delay and you are damned! you may die before daylight! you may never get out that door! the awful angel of death is just ready to strike you down!" here some shrieked with terror, others sobbed, and brother sodom looked with approval on the storm he had awakened. the very harshness of his tone, his lofty egotism of manner, that which had roused all bud's combativeness, shook poor walter as a wind would shake a reed. in the midst of the general excitement he seized his hat and hastened out the door. bud followed, while soden shot his lightnings after them, declaring that "young men who ran away from the truth would dwell in torments forever." bud had not counted amiss when he thought that mr. soden's preaching would be likely to arouse so mean-spirited a fellow as walter. so vivid was the impression that johnson begged bud to return to the office with him. he felt sick, and was afraid that he should die before morning. he insisted that bud should stay with him all night. to this means readily consented, and by morning he had heard all that the frightened walter had to tell. and now let us return to the trial, where ralph sits waiting the testimony of walter johnson, which is to prove his statement false. chapter xxxi. the trial concluded. i do not know how much interest the "gentle reader" may feel in bud. but i venture to hope that there are some buddhists among my readers who will wish the contradictoriness of his actions explained. the first dash of disappointment had well-nigh upset him. and when a man concludes to throw overboard his good resolutions, he always seeks to avoid the witness of those resolutions. hence bud, after that distressful tuesday evening on which miss martha had given him "the sack," wished to see ralph less than any one else. and yet when he came to suspect small's villainy, his whole nature revolted at it. but having broken with ralph, he thought it best to maintain an attitude of apparent hostility, that he might act as a detective, and, perhaps, save his friend from the mischief that threatened him. as soon as he heard of ralph's arrest he determined to make walter johnson tell his own secret in court, because he knew that it would be best for ralph that walter should tell it. bud's telling at second-hand would not be conclusive. and he sincerely desired to save walter from prison. for walter johnson was the victim of dr. small, or of dr. small and such novels as "the pirate's bride," "claude duval," "the wild rover of the west indies," and the cheap biographies of such men as murrell. small found him with his imagination inflamed by the history of such heroes, and opened to him the path to glory for which he longed. the whole morning after ralph's arrest bud was working on walter's conscience and his fears. the poor fellow, unable to act for himself, was torn asunder between the old ascendency of small and the new ascendency of bud means. bud finally frightened him, by the fear of the penitentiary, into going to the place of trial. but once inside the door, and once in sight of small, who was more to him than god, or, rather, more to him than the devil--for the devil was walter's god, or, perhaps, i should say, walter's god was a devil--once in sight of small, he refused to move an inch farther. and bud, after all his perseverance, was about to give up in sheer despair. fortunately, just at that moment small's desire to relieve himself from the taint of suspicion and to crush ralph as completely as possible, made him overshoot the mark by asking that walter be called to the stand, as we have before recounted. he knew that he had no tool so supple as the cowardly walter. in the very language of the request, he had given walter an intimation of what he wanted him to swear to. walter listened to small's words as to his doom. he felt that he should die of indecision. the perdition of a man of his stamp is to have to make up his mind. such men generally fall back on some one more positive, and take all their resolutions ready-made. but here walter must decide for himself. for the constable was already calling his name; the court, the spectators, and, most of all, dr. small, were waiting for him. he moved forward mechanically through the dense crowd, bud following part of the way to whisper, "tell the truth or go to penitentiary." walter shook and shivered at this. the witness with difficulty held up his hand long enough to be sworn. "please tell the court," said bronson, "whether you know anything of the whereabouts of dr. small on the night of the robbery at peter schroeder's." small had detected walter's agitation, and, taking alarm, had edged his way around so as to stand full in walter's sight, and there, with keen, magnetic eye on the weak orbs of the young man, he was able to assume his old position, and sway the fellow absolutely. "on the night of the robbery"--walter's voice was weak, but he seemed to be reading his answer out of small's eyes--"on the night of the robbery dr. small came home before--" here the witness stopped and shook and shivered again. for bud, detecting the effect of small's gaze, had pushed his great hulk in front of small, and had fastened his eyes on walter with a look that said, "tell the truth or go to penitentiary." "i can't, i can't. o god! what shall i do?" the witness exclaimed, answering the look of bud. for it seemed to him that bud had spoken. to the people and the court this agitation was inexplicable. squire hawkins's wig got awry, his glass eye turned in toward his nose, and he had great difficulty in keeping his teeth from falling out. the excitement became painfully intense. ralph was on his feet, looking at the witness, and feeling that somehow bud and dr. small--his good angel and his demon--were playing an awful game, or which he was the stake. the crowd swayed to and fro, but remained utterly silent, waiting to hear the least whisper from the witness, who stood trembling a moment with his hands over his face, and then fainted. the fainting of a person in a crowd is a signal for everybody else to make fools of themselves. there was a rush toward the fainting man, there was a cry for water. everybody asked everybody else to open the window, and everybody wished everybody else to stand back and give him air. but nobody opened the window, and nobody stood back. the only perfectly cool man in the room was small. with a quiet air of professional authority he pushed forward and felt the patient's pulse, remarking to the court that he thought it was a sudden attack of fever with delirium. when walter revived, dr. small would have removed him, but ralph insisted that his testimony should be heard. under pretense of watching his patient, small kept close to him. and walter began the same old story about dr. small's having arrived at the office before eleven o'clock, when bud came up behind the doctor and fastened his eyes on the witness with the same significant look, and walter, with visions of the penitentiary before him halted, stammered, and seemed about to faint again. "if the court please," said bronson, "this witness is evidently intimidated by that stout young man," pointing to bud. "i have seen him twice interrupt witness's testimony by casting threatening looks at him, i trust the court will have him removed from the court-room." after a few moments' consultation, during which squire hawkins held his wig in place with one hand and alternately adjusted his eye and his spectacles with the other, the magistrates, who were utterly bewildered by the turn things were taking, decided that it could do no harm, and that it was best to try the experiment of removing bud. perhaps johnson would then be able to get through with his testimony. the constable therefore asked bud if he would please leave the room. bud cast one last look at the witness and walked out like a captive bear. ralph stood watching the receding form of bud. the emergency had made him as cool as small ever was. bud stopped at the door, where he was completely out of sight of the witness, concealed by the excited spectators, who stood on the benches to see what was going on in front. "the witness will please proceed," said bronson. "if the court please"--it was ralph who spoke--"i believe i have as much at stake in this trial as any one. that witness is evidently intimidated. but not by mr. means. i ask that dr. small be removed out of sight of the witness." "a most extraordinary request, truly." this was what small's bland countenance said; he did not open his lips. "it's no more than fair," said squire hawkins, adjusting his wig, "that the witness be relieved of everything that anybody might think affects his veracity in this matter." dr. small, giving walter one friendly, appealing look, moved back by the door, and stood alongside bud, as meek, quiet, and disinterested as any man in the house. "the witness will now proceed with his testimony." this time it was squire hawkins who spoke. bronson had been attacked with a suspicion that this witness was not just what he wanted, and had relapsed into silence. walter's struggle was by no means ended by the disappearance of small and bud. there came the recollection of his mother's stern face--a face which had never been a motive toward the right, but only a goad to deception. what would she say if he should confess? just as he had recovered himself, and was about to repeat the old lie which had twice died upon his lips at the sight of bud's look, he caught sight of another face, which made him tremble again. it was the lofty and terrible countenance of mr. soden. one might have thought, from the expression it wore, that the seven last vials were in his hands, the seven apocalyptic trumpets waiting for his lips, and the seven thunders sitting upon his eyebrows. the moment that walter saw him he smelled the brimstone on his own garments, he felt himself upon the crumbling brink of the precipice, with perdition below him. now i am sure that "brother sodoms" were not made wholly in vain. there are plenty of mean-spirited men like walter johnson, whose feeble consciences need all the support they can get from the fear of perdition, and who are incapable of any other conception of it than a coarse and materialistic ones let us set it down to the credit of brother sodom, with his stiff stock, his thunderous face, and his awful walk, that his influence over walter was on the side of truth. "please proceed," said squire hawkins to walter. the squire's wig lay on one side, he had forgotten to adjust his eye, and he leaned forward, tremulous with interest. "well, then," said walter, looking not at the court nor at bronson nor at the prisoner, but furtively at mr. soden--"well, then, if i must"--and mr. soden's awful face seemed to answer that he surely must--"well, then, i hope you won't send me to prison"--this to squire hawkins, whose face reassured him--"but, oh! i don't see how i can!" but one look at mr. soden assured him that he could and that he must, and so, with an agony painful to the spectators, he told the story in driblets. how, while yet in lewisburg, he had been made a member of a gang of which small was chief; how they concealed from him the names of all the band except six, of whom the joneses and small were three. here there was a scuffle at the door. the court demanded silence. "dr. small's trying to git out, plague take him," said bud, who stood with his back planted against the door. "i'd like the court to send and git his trunk afore he has a chance to burn up all the papers that's in it." "constable, you will arrest dr. small, peter jones, and william jones. send two deputies to bring small's trunk into court," said squire underwood. the prosecuting attorney was silent. walter then told of the robbery at schroeder's, told where he and small had whittled the fence while the joneses entered the house, and confirmed ralph's story by telling how they had seen ralph in a fence-corner, and how they had met the basket-maker on the hill. "_to_ be sure," said the old man, who had not ventured to hold up his head, after he was arrested, until walter began his testimony. walter felt inclined to stop, but he could not do it, for there stood mr. soden, looking to him like a messenger from the skies, or the bottomless pit, sent to extort the last word from his guilty soul he felt that he was making a clean breast of it--at the risk of perdition, with the penitentiary thrown in, if he faltered. and so he told the whole thing as though it had been the day of doom, and by the time he was through, small's trunk was in court. here a new hubbub took place at the door. it was none other than the crazy pauper, tom bifield, who personated general andrew jackson in the poor-house. he had caught some inkling of the trial, and had escaped in bill jones's absence. his red plume was flying, and in his tattered and filthy garb he was indeed a picturesque figure. "squar," said he, elbowing his way through the crowd, "i kin tell you sornethin'. i'm gineral andrew jackson. lost my head at bueny visty. this head growed on. it a'n't good fer much. one side's tater. but t'other's sound as a nut. now, i kind give you information." bronson, with the quick perceptions of a politician, had begun to see which way future winds would probably blow. "if the court please," he said, "this man is not wholly sane, but we might get valuable information out of him. i suggest that his testimony be taken for what it is worth." "no, you don't swar me," broke in the lunatic. "not if i knows myself. you see, when a feller's got one side of his head tater, he's mighty onsartain like. you don't swar me, fer i can't tell what minute the tater side'll begin to talk. i'm talkin' out of the lef' side now, and i'm all right. but you don't swar me. but ef you'll send some of your constables out to the barn at the pore-house and look under the hay-mow in the north-east corner, you'll find some things maybe as has been a-missin' fer some time. and that a'n't out of the tater side, nuther." meantime bud did not rest. hearing the nature of the testimony given by hank banta before he entered, he attacked hank and vowed he'd send him to prison if he didn't make a clean breast. hank was a thorough coward, and, now that his friends were prisoners, was ready enough to tell the truth if he could be protected from prosecution. seeing the disposition of the prosecuting attorney, bud got from him a promise that he would do what he could to protect hank. that worthy then took the stand, confessed his lie, and even told the inducement which mr. pete jones had offered him to perjure himself. "_to_ be sure," said pearson. squire hawkins, turning his right eye upon him, while the left looked at the ceiling, said: "be careful, mr. pearson, or i shall have to punish you for contempt." "why, squar, i didn't know 'twas any sin to hev a healthy contemp' fer sech a thief as jones!" the squire looked at mr. pearson severely, and the latter, feeling that he had committed some offense without knowing it, subsided into silence. bronson now had a keen sense of the direction of the gale. "if the court please," said he, "i have tried to do my duty in this case. it was my duty to prosecute mr. hartsook, however much i might feel assured that he was innocent, and that he would be able to prove his innocence. i now enter a _nolle_ in his case and that of john pearson, and i ask that this court adjourn until to-morrow, in order to give me time to examine the evidence in the case of the other parties under arrest. i am proud to think that my efforts have been the means of sifting the matter to the bottom, of freeing mr. hartsook from suspicion, and of detecting the real criminals." "ugh!" said mr. pearson, who conceived a great dislike to bronson. "the court," said squire hawkins, "congratulates mr. hartsook on his triumphant acquittal. he is discharged from the bar of this court, and from the bar of public sentiment, without a suspicion of guilt. constable, discharge ralph hartsook and john pearson." old jack means, who had always had a warm side for the master, now proposed three cheers for mr. hartsook, and they were given with a will by the people who would have hanged him an hour before. mrs. means gave it as her opinion that "jack means allers wuz a fool!" "this court," said dr. underwood, "has one other duty to perform before adjourning for the day. recall hannah thomson." "i jist started her on ahead to git supper and milk the cows," said mrs. means. "a'n't a-goin' to have her loafin' here all day." "constable, recall her. this court can not adjourn until she returns!" hannah had gone but a little way, and was soon in the presence of the court, trembling for fear of some new calamity. "hannah thomson"--it was squire underwood who spoke--"hannah thomson, this court wishes to ask you one or two questions." "yes, sir," but her voice died to a whisper. "how old did you say you were? "eighteen, sir, last october." "can you prove your age?" "yes, sir--by my mother." "for how long are you bound to mr. means?" "till i'm twenty-one." "this court feels in duty bound to inform you that, according to the laws of indiana, a woman is of age at eighteen, and as no indenture could be made binding after you had reached your majority, you are the victim of a deception. you are free, and if it can be proven that you have been defrauded by a willful deception, a suit for damages will lie." "ugh!" said mrs. means. "you're a purty court, a'n't you, dr. underwood?" "be careful, mrs. means, or i shall have to fine you for contempt of court." but the people, who were in the cheering humor, cheered hannah and the justices, and then cheered ralph again. granny sanders shook hands with him, and allers knowed he'd come out right. it allers 'peared like as if dr. small warn't jist the sort to tie to, you know. and old john pearson went home, after drinking two or three glasses of welch's whisky, keeping time to an imaginary triumphal march, and feeling prouder than he had ever felt since he fit the britishers under scott at lundy's lane. he told his wife that the master had jist knocked the hind-sights offen that air young lawyer from lewisburg. walter was held to bail that he might appear as a witness, and ralph might have sent his aunt a roland for an oliver. but he only sent a note to his uncle, asking him to go walter's bail. if he had been resentful, he could not have wished for a more complete revenge than the day had brought. chapter xxxii. after the battle. nothing can be more demoralizing in the long run than lynch law. and yet lynch law often originates in a burst of generous indignation which is not willing to suffer a bold oppressor to escape by means of corrupt and cowardly courts. it is oftener born of fear. both motives powerfully agitated the people of the region round about clifty as night drew on after ralph's acquittal. they were justly indignant that ralph had been made the victim of such a conspiracy, and they were frightened at the unseen danger to the community from such a band as that of small's. it was certain that they did not know the full extent of the danger as yet. and what small might do with a jury, or what pete jones might do with a sheriff, was a question. i must not detain the reader to tell how the mob rose. nobody knows how such things come about. their origin is as inexplicable as that of an earthquake. but, at any rate, a rope was twice put round small's neck during that night, and both times small was saved only by the nerve and address of ralph, who had learned how unjust mob law may be. as for small, he neither trembled when they were ready to hang him, nor looked relieved when he was saved, nor showed the slightest flush of penitence or gratitude. he bore himself in a quiet, gentlemanly way throughout, like the admirable villain that he was. he waived a preliminary examination the next day; his father went his bail, and he forfeited bail and disappeared from the county and from the horizon of my story. two reports concerning small have been in circulation--one that he was running a faro-bank in san francisco, the other that he was curing consumption in new york by some quack process. if this latter were true, it would leave it an open question whether ralph did well to save him from the gallows. pete jones and bill, as usually happens to the rougher villains, went to prison, and when their terms had expired moved to pike county, missouri. but it is about hannah that you wish to hear, and that i wish to tell. she went straight from the court room to flat creek, climbed to her chamber, packed in a handkerchief all her earthly goods, consisting chiefly of a few family relics, and turned her back on the house of means forever. at the gate she met the old woman, who shook her fist in the girl's face and gave her a parting benediction in the words: "you mis'able, ongrateful critter you, go 'long. i'm glad to be shed of you!" at the barn she met bud, and he told her good-by with a little huskiness in his voice, while a tear glistened in her eyes. bud had been a friend in need, and such a friend one does not leave without a pang. "where are you going? can i--" "no, no!" and with that she hastened on, afraid that bud would offer to hitch up the roan colt. and she did not want to add to his domestic unhappiness by compromising him in that way. it was dusk and was raining when she left. the hours were long, the road was lonely, and after the revelations of that day it did not seem wholly safe. but from the moment that she found herself free, her heart had been ready to break with an impatient homesickness. what though there might be robbers in the woods? what though there were ten rough miles to travel? what though the rain was in her face? what though she had not tasted food since the morning of that exciting day? flat creek and bondage were behind; freedom, mother, shocky, and home were before her, and her feet grew lighter with the thought. and if she needed any other joy, it was to know that the master was clear. and he would come? and so she traversed the weary distance, and so she inquired and found the house, the beautiful, homely old house of beautiful, homely old nancy sawyer, and knocked, and was admitted, and fell down, faint and weary, at her blind mother's feet, and laid her tired head in her mother's lap and wept and wept like a child, and said, "o mother! i'm free! i'm free!" while the mother's tears baptized her face, and the mother's trembling fingers combed out her tresses. and shocky stood by her and cried: "i knowed god wouldn't forget you, hanner!" hannah was ready now to do anything by which she could support her mother and shocky. she was strong, and inured to toil. she was willing and cheerful, and she would gladly have gone to service if by that means she could have supported the family. and, for that matter her mother was already able nearly to support herself by her knitting. but hannah had been carefully educated when young, and at that moment the old public schools were being organized into a graded school, and the good minister, who shall be nameless, because he is, perhaps, still living in indiana, and who in methodist parlance was called "the preacher-in-charge of lewisburg station"--this good minister and miss nancy sawyer got hannah a place as teacher in the primary department. and then a little house with four rooms was rented, and a little, a very little furniture was put into it, and the old sweet home was established again. the father was gone, never to come back again. but the rest were here. and somehow hannah kept waiting for somebody else to come. chapter xxxiii. into the light. for two weeks longer ralph taught at the flat creek school-house. he was everybody's hero. and he was bud's idol. he did what he could to get bud and martha together, and though bud always "saw her safe home" after this, and called on her every sunday evening, yet, to save his life, he could not forget his big fists and his big feet long enough to say what he most wanted to say, and what martha most wanted him to say. at the end of two weeks ralph found himself exceedingly weary of flat creek, and exceedingly glad to hear from mr. means that the school-money had "gin out." it gave him a good excuse to return to lewisburg, where his heart and his treasure were. a certain sense of delicacy had kept him from writing to hannah just yet. when he got to lewisburg he had good news. his uncle, ashamed of his previous neglect, and perhaps with an eye to his nephew's growing popularity, had got him the charge of the grammar department in the new graded school in the village. so he quietly arranged to board at a boarding-house. his aunt could not have him about, of which fact he was very glad. she could not but feel, she said, that he might have taken better care of walter than he did, when they were only four miles apart. he did not hasten to call on hannah. why should he? he sent her a message, of no consequence in itself, by nancy sawyer. then he took possession of his school; and then, on the evening of the first day of school, he went, as he had appointed to himself, to see hannah thomson. and she, with some sweet presentiment, had got things ready by fixing up the scantily-furnished room as well as she could. and miss nancy sawyer, who had seen ralph that afternoon, had guessed that he was going to see hannah. it's wonderful how much enjoyment a generous heart can get out of the happiness of others. is not that what he meant when he said of such as miss sawyer that they should have a hundred-fold in this life for all their sacrifices? did not miss nancy enjoy a hundred weddings and have the love of five hundred children? and so miss nancy just happened over at mrs. thomson's humble home, and, just in the most matter-of-course way, asked that lady and shocky to come over to her house. shocky wanted hannah to come too. but hannah blushed a little, and said that she would rather not. and when she was left alone, hannah fixed her hair two or three times, and swept the hearth, and moved the chairs first one way and then another, and did a good many other needless things. needless: for a lover, if he be a lover, does not see furniture or dress. and then she sat down by the fire, and tried to sew, and tried to look unconcerned, and tried to feel unconcerned, and tried not to expect anybody, and tried to make her heart keep still. and tried in vain. for a gentle rap at the door sent her pulse up twenty beats a minute and made her face burn. and hartsook was for the first time, abashed in the presence of hannah. for the oppressed girl had, in two weeks, blossomed out into the full-blown woman. and ralph sat down by the fire, and talked of his school and her school, and everything else but what he wanted to talk about. and then the conversation drifted back to flat creek, and to the walk through the pasture, and to the box-elder tree, and to the painful talk in the lane. and hannah begged to be forgiven, and ralph laughed at the idea that she had done anything wrong. and she praised his goodness to shocky, and he drew her little note out of--but i agreed not tell you where he kept it. and then she blushed, and he told how the note had sustained him, and how her white face kept up his courage in his flight down the bed of clifty creek. and he sat a little nearer, to show her the note that he had carried in his bosom--i have told it! and--but i must not proceed. a love-scene, ever so beautiful in itself, will not bear telling. and so i shall leave a little gap just here, which you may fill up as you please. . . . somehow, they never knew how, they got to talking about the future instead of the past, after that, and to planning their two lives as one life. and . . . and when miss nancy and mrs. thomson returned later in the evening, ralph was standing by the mantel-piece, but shocky noticed that his chair was close to hannah's. and good miss nancy sawyer looked in hannah's face and was happy. chapter xxxiv. "how it came out" we are all children in reading stories. we want more than all else to know how it all came out at the end, and, if our taste is not perverted, we like it to come out well. for my part, ever since i began to write this story, i have been anxious to know how it was going to come out. well, there were very few invited. it took place at ten in the morning. the "preacher-in-charge" came, of course. miss nancy sawyer was there. but ralph's uncle was away, and aunt matilda had a sore throat and couldn't come. perhaps the memory of the fact that she had refused mrs. thomson, the pauper, a bed for two nights, affected her throat. but miss nancy and her sister were there, and the preacher. and that was all, besides the family, and bud and martha. of course bud and martha came. and driving martha to a wedding in a "jumper" was the one opportunity bud needed. his hands were busy, his big boots were out of sight, and it was so easy to slip from ralph's love affair to his own, that bud somehow, in pulling martha hawkins's shawl about her, stammered out half a proposal, which martha, generous soul, took for the whole ceremony, and accepted. and bud was so happy that ralph guessed from his face and voice that the agony was over, and bud was betrothed at last to the "gal as was a gal." and after ralph and hannah were married--there was no trip, ralph only changed his boarding-place and became head of the house at mrs. thomson's thereafter--after it was all over, bud came to mr. hartsook, and, snickering just a little, said as how as him and martha had fixed it all up, and now they wanted to ax his advice; and martha proud but blushing, came up and nodded assent. bud said as how as he hadn't got no book-larnin' nor nothin', and as how as he wanted to be somethin', and put in his best licks fer him, you know'. and that marthy, she was of the same way of thinkin', and that was a blessin'. and the squire was a-goin' to marry agin', and marthy would ruther vacate. and his mother and mirandy was sech as he wouldn't take no wife to. and he thought as how mr. hartsook might think of some way or some place where he and marthy mout make a livin' fer the present, and put in their best licks fer him, you know. ralph thought a moment. he was about to make an allusion to hercules and the augean stables, but he remembered that bud would not understand it, though it might remind martha of something she had seen at the east, the time she was to bosting. "bud, my dear friend," said ralph, "it looks a little hard to ask you to take a new wife"--here bud looked admiringly at martha--"to the poor-house. but i don't know anywhere where you can do so much good for christ as by taking charge of that place, and i can get the appointment for you. the new commissioners want just such a man." "what d'ye say, marthy?" said bud. "why, somebody ought to do for the poor, and i should like to do it." and so hercules cleaned the augean stables. and so my humble, homely hoosier story of twenty years ago[ ] draws to a close, and not without regret i take leave of ralph and hannah; and shocky, and bud, and martha, and miss nancy, and of my readers. * * * * * p.s.--a copy of the lewisburg _jeffersonian_ came into my hands to-day, and i see by its columns that ralph hartsook is principal of the lewisburg academy. it took me some time, however, to make out that the sheriff of the county, mr. israel w. means, was none other than my old friend bud, of the church of the best licks. i was almost as much puzzled over his name as i was when i saw an article in a city paper, by prof. w.j. thomson, on poor-houses. i should not have recognized the writer as shocky, had i not known that shocky has given his spare time to making outcasts feel that god has not forgot. footnotes: [footnote : written in .] the end none laddie a true blue story by gene stratton porter to leander elliot stratton "the way to be happy is to be good" contents chapter i. little sister ii. our angel boy iii. mr. pryor's door iv. the last day in eden v. the first day of school vi. the wedding gown vii. when sally married peter viii. the shropshire and the crusader ix. "even so" x. laddie takes the plunge xi. keeping christmas our way xii. the horn of the hunter xiii. the garden of the lord xiv. the crest of eastbrooke xv. laddie, the princess, and the pie xvi. the homing pigeon xvii. in faith believing xviii. the pryor mystery laddie characters laddie, who loved and asked no questions. the princess, from the house of mystery. leon, our angel child. little sister, who tells what happened. mr. and mrs. stanton, who faced life shoulder to shoulder. sally and peter, who married each other. elizabeth, shelley, may and other stanton children. mr. and mrs. pryor, father and mother of the princess. robert paget, a chicago lawyer. mrs. freshett, who offered her life for her friend. candace, the cook. miss amelia, the school mistress. interested relatives, friends, and neighbours. chapter i little sister "and could another child-world be my share, i'd be a little sister there." "have i got a little sister anywhere in this house?" inquired laddie at the door, in his most coaxing voice. "yes sir," i answered, dropping the trousers i was making for hezekiah, my pet bluejay, and running as fast as i could. there was no telling what minute may might take it into her head that she was a little sister and reach him first. maybe he wanted me to do something for him, and i loved to wait on laddie. "ask mother if you may go with me a while." "mother doesn't care where i am, if i come when the supper bell rings." "all right!" said laddie. he led the way around the house, sat on the front step and took me between his knees. "oh, is it going to be a secret?" i cried. secrets with laddie were the greatest joy in life. he was so big and so handsome. he was so much nicer than any one else in our family, or among our friends, that to share his secrets, run his errands, and love him blindly was the greatest happiness. sometimes i disobeyed father and mother; i minded laddie like his right hand. "the biggest secret yet," he said gravely. "tell quick!" i begged, holding my ear to his lips. "not so fast!" said laddie. "not so fast! i have doubts about this. i don't know that i should send you. possibly you can't find the way. you may be afraid. above all, there is never to be a whisper. not to any one! do you understand?" "what's the matter?" i asked. "something serious," said laddie. "you see, i expected to have an hour or two for myself this afternoon, so i made an engagement to spend the time with a fairy princess in our big woods. father and i broke the reaper taking it from the shed just now and you know how he is about fairies." i did know how he was about fairies. he hadn't a particle of patience with them. a princess would be the queen's daughter. my father's people were english, and i had heard enough talk to understand that. i was almost wild with excitement. "tell me the secret, hurry!" i cried. "it's just this," he said. "it took me a long time to coax the princess into our big woods. i had to fix a throne for her to sit on; spread a magic carpet for her feet, and build a wall to screen her. now, what is she going to think if i'm not there to welcome her when she comes? she promised to show me how to make sunshine on dark days." "tell father and he can have leon help him." "but it is a secret with the princess, and it's hers as much as mine. if i tell, she may not like it, and then she won't make me her prince and send me on her errands." "then you don't dare tell a breath," i said. "will you go in my place, and carry her a letter to explain why i'm not coming, little sister?" "of course!" i said stoutly, and then my heart turned right over; for i never had been in our big woods alone, and neither mother nor father wanted me to go. passing gypsies sometimes laid down the fence and went there to camp. father thought all the wolves and wildcats were gone, he hadn't seen any in years, but every once in a while some one said they had, and he was not quite sure yet. and that wasn't the beginning of it. paddy ryan had come back from the war wrong in his head. he wore his old army overcoat summer and winter, slept on the ground, and ate whatever he could find. once laddie and leon, hunting squirrels to make broth for mother on one of her bad days, saw him in our big woods and he was eating snakes. if i found pat ryan eating a snake, it would frighten me so i would stand still and let him eat me, if he wanted to, and perhaps he wasn't too crazy to see how plump i was. i seemed to see swarthy, dark faces, big, sleek cats dropping from limbs, and paddy ryan's matted gray hair, the flying rags of the old blue coat, and a snake in his hands. laddie was slipping the letter into my apron pocket. my knees threatened to let me down. "must i lift the leaves and hunt for her, or will she come to me?" i wavered. "that's the biggest secret of all," said laddie. "since the princess entered them, our woods are enchanted, and there is no telling what wonderful things may happen any minute. one of them is this: whenever the princess comes there, she grows in size until she is as big as, say our sally, and she fills all the place with glory, until you are so blinded you scarcely can see her face." "what is she like, laddie?" i questioned, so filled with awe and interest, that fear was forgotten. "she is taller than sally," said laddie. "her face is oval, and her cheeks are bright. her eyes are big moonlit pools of darkness, and silken curls fall over her shoulders. one hair is strong enough for a lifeline that will draw a drowning man ashore, or strangle an unhappy one. but you will not see her. i'm purposely sending you early, so you can do what you are told and come back to me before she even reaches the woods." "what am i to do, laddie?" "you must put one hand in your apron pocket and take the letter in it, and as long as you hold it tight, nothing in the world can hurt you. go out our lane to the big woods, climb the gate and walk straight back the wagon road to the water. when you reach that, you must turn to your right and go toward hoods' until you come to the pawpaw thicket. go around that, look ahead, and you'll see the biggest beech tree you ever saw. you know a beech, don't you?" "of course i do," i said indignantly. "father taught me beech with the other trees." "well then," said laddie, "straight before you will be a purple beech, and under it is the throne of the princess, the magic carpet, and the walls i made. among the beech roots there is a stone hidden with moss. roll the stone back and there will be a piece of bark. lift that, lay the letter in the box you'll find, and scamper to me like flying. i'll be at the barn with father." "is that all?" "not quite," said laddie. "it's possible that the fairy queen may have set the princess spinning silk for the caterpillars to weave their little houses with this winter; and if she has, she may have left a letter there to tell me. if there is one, put it in your pocket, hold it close every step of the way, and you'll be safe coming home as you were going. but you mustn't let a soul see it; you must slip it into my pocket when i'm not looking. if you let any one see, then the magic will be spoiled, and the fairy won't come again." "no one shall see," i promised. "i knew you could be trusted," said laddie, kissing and hugging me hard. "now go! if anything gets after you that such a big girl as you really wouldn't be ashamed to be afraid of, climb on a fence and call. i'll be listening, and i'll come flying. now i must hurry. father will think it's going to take me the remainder of the day to find the bolts he wants." we went down the front walk between the rows of hollyhocks and tasselled lady-slippers, out the gate, and followed the road. laddie held one of my hands tight, and in the other i gripped the letter in my pocket. so long as laddie could see me, and the lane lay between open fields, i wasn't afraid. i was thinking so deeply about our woods being enchanted, and a tiny fairy growing big as our sally, because she was in them, that i stepped out bravely. every few days i followed the lane as far back as the big gate. this stood where four fields cornered, and opened into the road leading to the woods. beyond it, i had walked on sunday afternoons with father while he taught me all the flowers, vines, and bushes he knew, only he didn't know some of the prettiest ones; i had to have books for them, and i was studying to learn enough that i could find out. or i had ridden on the wagon with laddie and leon when they went to bring wood for the cookstove, outoven, and big fireplace. but to walk! to go all alone! not that i didn't walk by myself over every other foot of the acres and acres of beautiful land my father owned; but plowed fields, grassy meadows, wood pasture, and the orchard were different. i played in them without a thought of fear. the only things to be careful about were a little, shiny, slender snake, with a head as bright as mother's copper kettle, and a big thick one with patterns on its back like those in laddie's geometry books, and a whole rattlebox on its tail; not to eat any berry or fruit i didn't know without first asking father; and always to be sure to measure how deep the water was before i waded in alone. but our big woods! leon said the wildcats would get me there. i sat in our catalpa and watched the gypsies drive past every summer. mother hated them as hard as ever she could hate any one, because once they had stolen some fine shirts, with linen bosoms, that she had made by hand for father, and was bleaching on the grass. if gypsies should be in our west woods to-day and steal me, she would hate them worse than ever; because my mother loved me now, even if she didn't want me when i was born. but you could excuse her for that. she had already bathed, spanked, sewed for, and reared eleven babies so big and strong not one of them ever even threatened to die. when you thought of that, you could see she wouldn't be likely to implore the almighty to send her another, just to make her family even numbers. i never felt much hurt at her, but some of the others i never have forgiven and maybe i never will. as long as there had been eleven babies, they should have been so accustomed to children that they needn't all of them have objected to me, all except laddie, of course. that was the reason i loved him so and tried to do every single thing he wanted me to, just the way he liked it done. that was why i was facing the only spot on our land where i was in the slightest afraid; because he asked me to. if he had told me to dance a jig on the ridgepole of our barn, i would have tried it. so i clasped the note, set my teeth, and climbed over the gate. i walked fast and kept my eyes straight before me. if i looked on either side, sure as life i would see something i never had before, and be down digging up a strange flower, chasing a butterfly, or watching a bird. besides, if i didn't look in the fence corners that i passed, maybe i wouldn't see anything to scare me. i was going along finely, and feeling better every minute as i went down the bank of an old creek that had gone dry, and started up the other side toward the sugar camp not far from the big woods. the bed was full of weeds and as i passed through, away! went something among them. beside the camp shed there was corded wood, and the first thing i knew, i was on top of it. the next, my hand was on the note in my pocket. my heart jumped until i could see my apron move, and my throat went all stiff and dry. i gripped the note and waited. father believed god would take care of him. i was only a little girl and needed help much more than a man; maybe god would take care of me. there was nothing wrong in carrying a letter to the fairy princess. i thought perhaps it would help if i should kneel on the top of the woodpile and ask god to not let anything get me. the more i thought about it, the less i felt like doing it, though, because really you have no business to ask god to take care of you, unless you know you are doing right. this was right, but in my heart i also knew that if laddie had asked me, i would be shivering on top of that cordwood on a hot august day, when it was wrong. on the whole, i thought it would be more honest to leave god out of it, and take the risk myself. that made me think of the crusaders, and the little gold trinket in father's chest till. there were four shells on it and each one stood for a trip on foot or horseback to the holy city when you had to fight almost every step of the way. those shells meant that my father's people had gone four times, so he said; that, although it was away far back, still each of us had a tiny share of the blood of the crusaders in our veins, and that it would make us brave and strong, and whenever we were afraid, if we would think of them, we never could do a cowardly thing or let any one else do one before us. he said any one with crusader blood had to be brave as richard the lion-hearted. thinking about that helped ever so much, so i gripped the note and turned to take one last look at the house before i made a dash for the gate that led into the big woods. beyond our land lay the farm of jacob hood, and mrs. hood always teased me because laddie had gone racing after her when i was born. she was in the middle of monday's washing, and the bluing settled in the rinse water and stained her white clothes in streaks it took months to bleach out. i always liked sarah hood for coming and dressing me, though, because our sally, who was big enough to have done it, was upstairs crying and wouldn't come down. i liked laddie too, because he was the only one of our family who went to my mother and kissed her, said he was glad, and offered to help her. maybe the reason he went was because he had an awful scare, but anyway he went, and that was enough for me. you see it was this way: no one wanted me; as there had been eleven of us, every one felt that was enough. may was six years old and in school, and my mother thought there never would be any more babies. she had given away the cradle and divided the baby clothes among my big married sisters and brothers, and was having a fine time and enjoying herself the most she ever had in her life. the land was paid for long ago; the house she had planned, builded as she wanted it; she had a big team of matched grays and a carriage with side lamps and patent leather trimmings; and sometimes there was money in the bank. i do not know that there was very much, but any at all was a marvel, considering how many of us there were to feed, clothe, and send to college. mother was forty-six and father was fifty; so they felt young enough yet to have a fine time and enjoy life, and just when things were going best, i announced that i was halfway over my journey to earth. you can't blame my mother so much. she must have been tired of babies and disliked to go back and begin all over after resting six years. and you mustn't be too hard on my father if he was not just overjoyed. he felt sure the cook would leave, and she did. he knew sally would object to a baby, when she wanted to begin having beaus, so he and mother talked it over and sent her away for a long visit to ohio with father's people, and never told her. they intended to leave her there until i was over the colic, at least. they knew the big married brothers and sisters would object, and they did. they said it would be embarrassing for their children to be the nieces and nephews of an aunt or uncle younger than themselves. they said it so often and so emphatically that father was provoked and mother cried. shelley didn't like it because she was going to school in groveville, where lucy, one of our married sisters, lived, and she was afraid i would make so much work she would have to give up her books and friends and remain at home. there never was a baby born who was any less wanted than i was. i knew as much about it as any one else, because from the day i could understand, all of them, father, mother, shelley, sarah hood, every one who knew, took turns telling me how badly i was not wanted, how much trouble i made, and how laddie was the only one who loved me at first. because of that i was on the cordwood trying to find courage to go farther. over and over laddie had told me himself. he had been to visit our big sister elizabeth over sunday and about eight o'clock monday morning he came riding down the road, and saw the most dreadful thing. there was not a curl of smoke from the chimneys, not a tablecloth or pillowslip on the line, not a blind raised. laddie said his heart went--just like mine did when the something jumped in the creek bed, no doubt. then he laid on the whip and rode. he flung the rein over the hitching post, leaped the fence and reached the back door. the young green girl, who was all father could get when the cook left, was crying. so were shelley and little may, although she said afterward she had a boil on her heel and there was no one to poultice it. laddie leaned against the door casing, and it is easy enough to understand what he thought. he told me he had to try twice before he could speak, and then he could only ask: "what's the matter?" probably may never thought she would have the chance, but the others were so busy crying harder, now that they had an audience, that she was first to tell him: "we have got a little sister." "great day!" cried laddie. "you made me think we had a funeral! where is mother, and where is my little sister?" he went bolting right into mother's room and kissed her like the gladdest boy alive; because he was only a boy then, and he told her how happy he was that she was safe, and then he asked for me. he said i was the only living creature in that house who was not shedding tears, and i didn't begin for about six months afterward. in fact, not until shelley taught me by pinching me if she had to rock the cradle; then i would cry so hard mother would have to take me. he said he didn't believe i'd ever have learned by myself. he took a pillow from the bed, fixed it in the rocking chair and laid me on it. when he found that father was hitching the horses to send leon for doctor fenner, laddie rode back after sarah hood and spoiled her washing. it may be that the interest he always took in me had its beginning in all of them scaring him with their weeping; even sally, whom father had to telegraph to come home, was upstairs crying, and she was almost a woman. it may be that all the tears they shed over not wanting me so scared laddie that he went farther in his welcome than he ever would have thought of going if he hadn't done it for joy when he learned his mother was safe. i don't care about the reason. it is enough for me that from the hour of my birth laddie named me little sister, seldom called me anything else, and cared for me all he possibly could to rest mother. he took me to the fields with him in the morning and brought me back on the horse before him at noon. he could plow with me riding the horse, drive a reaper with me on his knees, and hoe corn while i slept on his coat in a fence corner. the winters he was away at college left me lonely, and when he came back for a vacation i was too happy for words. maybe it was wrong to love him most. i knew my mother cared for and wanted me now. and all my secrets were not with laddie. i had one with father that i was never to tell so long as he lived, but it was about the one he loved best, next after mother. perhaps i should never tell it, but i wouldn't be surprised if the family knew. i followed laddie like a faithful dog, when i was not gripping his waving hair and riding in triumph on his shoulders. he never had to go so fast he couldn't take me on his back. he never was in too big a hurry to be kind. he always had patience to explain every shell, leaf, bird, and flower i asked about. i was just as much his when pretty young girls were around, and the house full of company, as when we were alone. that was the reason i was shivering on the cordwood, gripping his letter and thinking of all these things in order to force myself to go farther. i was excited about the fairies too. i often had close chances of seeing them, but i always just missed. now here was laddie writing letters and expecting answers; our big woods enchanted, a magic carpet and the queen's daughter becoming our size so she could speak with him. no doubt the queen had her grow big as shelley, when she sent her on an errand to tell laddie about how to make sunshine; because she was afraid if she went her real size he would accidentally step on her, he was so dreadfully big. or maybe her voice was so fine he could not hear what she said. he had told me i was to hurry, and i had gone as fast as i could until something jumped; since, i had been settled on that cordwood like robinson crusoe on his desert island. i had to get down some time; i might as well start. i gripped the letter, slid to the ground, and ran toward the big gate straight before me. i climbed it, clutched the note again, and ran blindly down the road through the forest toward the creek. i could hurry there. on either side of it i could not have run ten steps at a time. the big trees reached so high above me it seemed as if they would push through the floor of heaven. i tried to shut my ears and run so fast i couldn't hear a sound, and so going, i soon came to the creek bank. there i turned to my right and went slower, watching for the pawpaw thicket. on leaving the road i thought i would have to crawl over logs and make my way; but there seemed to be kind of a path not very plain, but travelled enough to follow. it led straight to the thicket. at the edge i stopped to look for the beech. it could be reached in one breathless dash, but there seemed to be a green enclosure, so i walked around until i found an entrance. once there i was so amazed i stood and stared. i was half indignant too. laddie hadn't done a thing but make an exact copy of my playhouse under the biggest maiden's-blush in our orchard. he used the immense beech for one corner, where i had the apple tree. his magic carpet was woolly-dog moss, and all the magic about it, was that on the damp woods floor, in the deep shade, the moss had taken root and was growing as if it always had been there. he had been able to cut and stick much larger willow sprouts for his walls than i could, and in the wet black mould they didn't look as if they ever had wilted. they were so fresh and green, no doubt they had taken root and were growing. where i had a low bench under my tree, he had used a log; but he had hewed the top flat, and made a moss cover. in each corner he had set a fern as high as my head. on either side of the entrance he had planted a cluster of cardinal flower that was in full bloom, and around the walls in a few places thrifty bunches of oswego tea and foxfire, that i would have walked miles to secure for my wild garden under the bartlett pear tree. it was so beautiful it took my breath away. "if the queen's daughter doesn't like this," i said softly, "she'll have to go to heaven before she finds anything better, for there can't be another place on earth so pretty." it was wonderful how the sound of my own voice gave me courage, even if it did seem a little strange. so i hurried to the beech, knelt and slipped the letter in the box, and put back the bark and stone. laddie had said that nothing could hurt me while i had the letter, so my protection was gone as soon as it left my hands. there was nothing but my feet to save me now. i thanked goodness i was a fine runner, and started for the pawpaw thicket. once there, i paused only one minute to see whether the way to the stream was clear, and while standing tense and gazing, i heard something. for an instant it was every bit as bad as at the dry creek. then i realized that this was a soft voice singing, and i forgot everything else in a glow of delight. the princess was coming! never in all my life was i so surprised, and astonished, and bewildered. she was even larger than our sally; her dress was pale green, like i thought a fairy's should be; her eyes were deep and dark as laddie had said, her hair hung from a part in the middle of her forehead over her shoulders, and if she had been in the sun, it would have gleamed like a blackbird's wing. she was just as laddie said she would be; she was so much more beautiful than you would suppose any woman could be, i stood there dumbly staring. i wouldn't have asked for any one more perfectly beautiful or more like laddie had said the princess would be; but she was no more the daughter of the fairy queen than i was. she was not any more of a princess. if father ever would tell all about the little bauble he kept in the till of his big chest, maybe she was not as near! she was no one on earth but one of those new english people who had moved on the land that cornered with ours on the northwest. she had ridden over the roads, and been at our meeting house. there could be no mistake. and neither father nor mother would want her on our place. they didn't like her family at all. mother called them the neighbourhood mystery, and father spoke of them as the infidels. they had dropped from nowhere, mother said, bought that splendid big farm, moved on and shut out every one. before any one knew people were shut out, mother, dressed in her finest, with laddie driving, went in the carriage, all shining, to make friends with them. this very girl opened the door and said that her mother was "indisposed," and could not see callers. "in-dis-posed!" that's a good word that fills your mouth, but our mother didn't like having it used to her. she said the "saucy chit" was insulting. then the man came, and he said he was very sorry, but his wife would see no one. he did invite mother in, but she wouldn't go. she told us she could see past him into the house and there was such finery as never in all her days had she laid eyes on. she said he was mannerly as could be, but he had the coldest, severest face she ever saw. they had two men and a woman servant, and no one could coax a word from them, about why those people acted as they did. they said 'orse, and 'ouse, and hengland. they talked so funny you couldn't have understood them anyway. they never plowed or put in a crop. they made everything into a meadow and had more horses, cattle, and sheep than a county fair, and everything you ever knew with feathers, even peacocks. we could hear them scream whenever it was going to rain. father said they sounded heathenish. i rather liked them. the man had stacks of money or they couldn't have lived the way they did. he came to our house twice on business: once to see about road laws, and again about tax rates. father was mightily pleased at first, because mr. pryor seemed to have books, and to know everything, and father thought it would be fine to be neighbours. but the minute mr. pryor finished business he began to argue that every single thing father and mother believed was wrong. he said right out in plain english that god was a myth. father told him pretty quickly that no man could say that in his house; so he left suddenly and had not been back since, and father didn't want him ever to come again. then their neighbours often saw the woman around the house and garden. she looked and acted quite as well as any one, so probably she was not half so sick as my mother, who had nursed three of us through typhoid fever, and then had it herself when she was all tired out. she wouldn't let a soul know she had a pain until she dropped over and couldn't take another step, and father or laddie carried her to bed. but she went everywhere, saw all her friends, and did more good from her bed than any other woman in our neighbourhood could on her feet. so we thought mighty little of those pryor people. every one said the girl was pretty. then her clothes drove the other women crazy. some of our neighbourhood came from far down east, like my mother. our people back a little were from over the sea, and they knew how things should be, to be right. many of the others were from kentucky and virginia, and they were well dressed, proud, handsome women; none better looking anywhere. they followed the fashions and spent much time and money on their clothes. when it was quarterly meeting or the bishop dedicated the church or they went to town on court days, you should have seen them--until pryors came. then something new happened, and not a woman in our neighbourhood liked it. pamela pryor didn't follow the fashions. she set them. if every other woman made long tight sleeves to their wrists, she let hers flow to the elbow and filled them with silk lining, ruffled with lace. if they wore high neckbands, she had none, and used a flat lace collar. if they cut their waists straight around and gathered their skirts on six yards full, she ran hers down to a little point front and back, that made her look slenderer, and put only half as much goods in her skirt. maybe laddie rode as well as she could; he couldn't manage a horse any better, and aside from him there wasn't a man we knew who would have tried to ride some of the animals she did. if she ever worked a stroke, no one knew it. all day long she sat in the parlour, the very best one, every day; or on benches under the trees with embroidery frames or books, some of them fearful, big, difficult looking ones, or rode over the country. she rode in sunshine and she rode in storm, until you would think she couldn't see her way through her tangled black hair. she rode through snow and in pouring rain, when she could have stayed out of it, if she had wanted to. she didn't seem to be afraid of anything on earth or in heaven. every one thought she was like her father and didn't believe there was any god; so when she came among us at church or any public gathering, as she sometimes did, people were in no hurry to be friendly, while she looked straight ahead and never spoke until she was spoken to, and then she was precise and cold, i tell you. men took off their hats, got out of the road when she came pounding along, and stared after her like "be-addled mummies," my mother said. but that was all she, or any one else, could say. the young fellows were wild about her, and if they tried to sidle up to her in the hope that they might lead her horse or get to hold her foot when she mounted, they always saw when they reached her, that she wasn't there. but she was here! i had seen her only a few times, but this was the pryor girl, just as sure as i would have known if it had been sally. what dazed me was that she answered in every particular the description laddie had given me of the queen's daughter. and worst of all, from the day she first came among us, moving so proud and cold, blabbing old hannah dover said she carried herself like a princess--as if hannah dover knew how a princess carried herself!--every living soul, my father even, had called her the princess. at first it was because she was like they thought a princess would be, but later they did it in meanness, to make fun. after they knew her name, they were used to calling her the princess, so they kept it up, but some of them were secretly proud of her; because she could look, and do, and be what they would have given anything to, and knew they couldn't to save them. i was never in such a fix in all my life. she looked more as laddie had said the princess would than you would have thought any woman could, but she was pamela pryor, nevertheless. every one called her the princess, but she couldn't make reality out of that. she just couldn't be the fairy queen's daughter; so the letter couldn't possibly be for her. she had no business in our woods; you could see that they had plenty of their own. she went straight to the door of the willow room and walked in as if she belonged there. what if she found the hollow and took laddie's letter! fast as i could slip over the leaves, i went back. she was on the moss carpet, on her knees, and the letter was in her fingers. it's a good thing to have your manners soundly thrashed into you. you've got to be scared stiff before you forget them. i wasn't so afraid of her as i would have been if i had known she was the princess, and have laddies letter, she should not. what had the kind of girl she was, from a home like hers, to teach any one from our house about making sunshine? i was at the willow wall by that time peering through, so i just parted it a little and said: "please put back that letter where you got it. it isn't for you." she knelt on the mosses, the letter in her hand, and her face, as she turned to me, was rather startled; but when she saw me she laughed, and said in the sweetest voice i ever heard: "are you so very sure of that?" "well i ought to be," i said. "i put it there." "might i inquire for whom you put it there?" "no ma'am! that's a secret." you should have seen the light flame in her eyes, the red deepen on her cheeks, and the little curl of laughter that curved her lips. "how interesting!" she cried. "i wonder now if you are not little sister." "i am to laddie and our folks," i said. "you are a stranger." all the dancing lights went from her face. she looked as if she were going to cry unless she hurried up and swallowed it down hard and fast. "that is quite true," she said. "i am a stranger. do you know that being a stranger is the hardest thing that can happen to any one in all this world?" "then why don't you open your doors, invite your neighbours in, go to see them, and stop your father from saying such dreadful things?" "they are not my doors," she said, "and could you keep your father from saying anything he chooses?" i stood and blinked at her. of course i wouldn't even dare try that. "i'm so sorry," was all i could think to say. i couldn't ask her to come to our house. i knew no one wanted her. but if i couldn't speak for the others, surely i might for myself. i let go the willows and went to the door. the princess arose and sat on the seat laddie had made for the queen's daughter. it was an awful pity to tell her she shouldn't sit there, for i had my doubts if the real, true princess would be half as lovely when she came--if she ever did. some way the princess, who was not a princess, appeared so real, i couldn't keep from becoming confused and forgetting that she was only just pamela pryor. already the lovely lights had gone from her face until it made me so sad i wanted to cry, and i was no easy cry-baby either. if i couldn't offer friendship for my family i would for myself. "you may call me little sister, if you like," i said. "i won't be a stranger." "why how lovely!" cried the princess. you should have seen the dancing lights fly back to her eyes. probably you won't believe this, but the first thing i knew i was beside her on the throne, her arm was around me, and it's the gospel truth that she hugged me tight. i just had sense enough to reach over and pick laddie's letter from her fingers, and then i was on her side. i don't know what she did to me, but all at once i knew that she was dreadfully lonely; that she hated being a stranger; that she was sorry enough to cry because their house was one of mystery, and that she would open the door if she could. "i like you," i said, reaching up to touch her curls. i never had seen her that i did not want to. they were like i thought they would be. father and laddie and some of us had wavy hair, but hers was crisp--and it clung to your fingers, and wrapped around them and seemed to tug at your heart like it does when a baby grips you. i drew away my hand, and the hair stretched out until it was long as any of ours, and then curled up again, and you could see that no tins had stabbed into her head to make those curls. i began trying to single out one hair. "what are you doing?" she asked. "i want to know if only one hair is strong enough to draw a drowning man from the water or strangle an unhappy one," i said. "believe me, no!" cried the princess. "it would take all i have, woven into a rope, to do that." "laddie knows curls that just one hair of them is strong enough," i boasted. "i wonder now!" said the princess. "i think he must have been making poetry or telling fairy tales." "he was telling the truth," i assured her. "father doesn't believe in fairies, and mother laughs, but laddie and i know. do you believe in fairies?" "of course i do!" she said. "then you know that this could be an enchanted wood?" "i have found it so," said the princess. "and maybe this is a magic carpet?" "it surely is a magic carpet." "and you might be the daughter of the queen? your eyes are 'moonlit pools of darkness.' if only your hair were stronger, and you knew about making sunshine!" "maybe it is stronger than i think. it never has been tested. perhaps i do know about making sunshine. possibly i am as true as the wood and the carpet." i drew away and stared at her. the longer i looked the more uncertain i became. maybe her mother was the queen. perhaps that was the mystery. it might be the reason she didn't want the people to see her. maybe she was so busy making sunshine for the princess to bring to laddie that she had no time to sew carpet rags, and to go to quiltings, and funerals, and make visits. it was hard to know what to think. "i wish you'd tell me plain out if you are the queen's daughter," i said. "it's most important. you can't have this letter unless i know. it's the very first time laddie ever trusted me with a letter, and i just can't give it to the wrong person." "then why don't you leave it where he told you?" "but you have gone and found the place. you started to take it once; you would again, soon as i left." "look me straight in the eyes, little sister," said the princess softly. "am i like a person who would take anything that didn't belong to her?" "no!" i said instantly. "how do you think i happened to come to this place?" "maybe our woods are prettier than yours." "how do you think i knew where the letter was?" i shook my head. "if i show you some others exactly like the one you have there, then will you believe that is for me?" "yes," i answered. i believed it anyway. it just seemed so, the better you knew her. the princess slipped her hand among the folds of the trailing pale green skirt, and from a hidden pocket drew other letters exactly like the one i held. she opened one and ran her finger along the top line and i read, "to the princess," and then she pointed to the ending and it was merely signed, "laddie," but all the words written between were his writing. slowly i handed her the letter. "you don't want me to have it?" she asked. "yes," i said. "i want you to have it if laddie wrote it for you--but mother and father won't, not at all." "what makes you think so?" she asked gently. "don't you know what people say about you?" "some of it, perhaps." "well?" "do you think it is true?" "not that you're stuck up, and hateful and proud, not that you don't want to be neighbourly with other people, no, i don't think that. but your father said in our home that there was no god, and you wouldn't let my mother in when she put on her best dress and went in the carriage, and wanted to be friends. i have to believe that." "yes, you can't help believing that," said the princess. "then can't you see why you'll be likely to show laddie the way to find trouble, instead of sunshine?" "i can see," said the princess. "oh princess, you won't do it, will you?" i cried. "don't you think such a big man as laddie can take care of himself?" she asked, and the dancing lights that had begun to fade came back. "over there," she pointed through our woods toward the southwest, "lives a man you know. what do his neighbours call him?" "stiff-necked johnny," i answered promptly. "and the man who lives next him?" "pinch-fist williams." her finger veered to another neighbour's. "the girls of that house?" "giggle-head smithsons." "what about the man who lives over there?" "he beats his wife." "and the house beyond?" "mother whispers about them. i don't know." "and the woman on the hill?" "she doesn't do anything but gussip and make every one trouble." "exactly!" said the princess. "yet most of these people come to your house, and your family goes to theirs. do you suppose people they know nothing about are so much worse than these others?" "if your father will take it back about god, and your mother will let people in--my mother and father both wanted to be friends, you know." "that i can't possibly do," she said, "but maybe i could change their feelings toward me." "do it!" i cried. "oh, i'd just love you to do it! i wish you would come to our house and be friends. sally is pretty as you are, only a different way, and i know she'd like you, and so would shelley. if laddie writes you letters and comes here about sunshine, of course he'd be delighted if mother knew you; because she loves him best of any of us. she depends on him most as much as father." "then will you keep the secret until i have time to try--say until this time next year?" "i'll keep it just as long as laddie wants me to." "good!" said the princess. "no wonder laddie thinks you the finest little sister any one ever had." "does laddie think that?" i asked "he does indeed!" said the princess. "then i'm not afraid to go home," i said. "and i'll bring his letter the next time he can't come." "were you scared this time?" i told her about that something in the dry bed, the wolves, wildcats, paddy ryan, and the gypsies. "you little goosie," said the princess. "i am afraid that brother leon of yours is the biggest rogue loose in this part of the country. didn't it ever occur to you that people named wolfe live over there, and they call that crowd next us 'wildcats,' because they just went on some land and took it, and began living there without any more permission than real wildcats ask to enter the woods? do you suppose i would be here, and everywhere else i want to go, if there were any danger? did anything really harm you coming?" "you're harmed when you're scared until you can't breathe," i said. "anyway, nothing could get me coming, because i held the letter tight in my hand, like laddie said. if you'd write me one to take back, i'd be safe going home." "i see," said the princess. "but i've no pencil, and no paper, unless i use the back of one of laddie's letters, and that wouldn't be polite." "you can make new fashions," i said, "but you don't know much about the woods, do you? i could fix fifty ways to send a message to laddie." "how would you?" asked the princess. running to the pawpaw bushes i pulled some big tender leaves. then i took the bark from the box and laid a leaf on it. "press with one of your rings," i said, "and print what you want to say. i write to the fairies every day that way, only i use an old knife handle." she tried. she spoiled two or three by bearing down so hard she cut the leaves. she didn't even know enough to write on the frosty side, until she was told. but pretty soon she got along so well she printed all over two big ones. then i took a stick and punched little holes and stuck a piece of foxfire bloom through. "what makes you do that?" she asked. "that's the stamp," i explained. "but it's my letter, and i didn't put it there." "has to be there or the fairies won't like it," i said. "well then, let it go," said the princess. i put back the bark and replaced the stone, gathered up the scattered leaves, and put the two with writing on between fresh ones. "now i must run," i said, "or laddie will think the gypsies have got me sure." "i'll go with you past the dry creek," she offered. "you better not," i said. "i'd love to have you, but it would be best for you to change their opinion, before father or mother sees you on their land." "perhaps it would," said the princess. "i'll wait here until you reach the fence and then you call and i'll know you are in the open and feel comfortable." "i am most all over being afraid now," i told her. just to show her, i walked to the creek, climbed the gate and went down the lane. almost to the road i began wondering what i could do with the letter, when looking ahead i saw laddie coming. "i was just starting to find you. you've been an age, child," he said. i held up the letter. "no one is looking," i said, "and this won't go in your pocket." you should have seen his face. "where did you get it?" he asked. i told him all about it. i told him everything--about the hair that maybe was stronger than she thought, and that she was going to change father's and mother's opinions, and that i put the red flower on, but she left it; and when i was done laddie almost hugged the life out of me. i never did see him so happy. "if you be very, very careful never to breathe a whisper, i'll take you with me some day," he promised. chapter ii our angel boy "i had a brother once--a gracious boy, full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, of sweet and quiet joy,--there was the look of heaven upon his face." it was supper time when we reached home, and bobby was at the front gate to meet me. he always hunted me all over the place when the big bell in the yard rang at meal time, because if he crowed nicely when he was told, he was allowed to stand on the back of my chair and every little while i held up my plate and shared bites with him. i have seen many white bantams, but never another like bobby. my big brothers bought him for me in fort wayne, and sent him in a box, alone on the cars. father and i drove to groveville to meet him. the minute father pried off the lid, bobby hopped on the edge of the box and crowed--the biggest crow you ever heard from such a mite of a body; he wasn't in the least afraid of us and we were pleased about it. you scarcely could see his beady black eyes for his bushy topknot, his wing tips touched the ground, his tail had two beautiful plumy feathers much longer than the others, his feet were covered with feathers, and his knee tufts dragged. he was the sauciest, spunkiest little fellow, and white as muslin. we went to supper together, but no one asked where i had been, and because i was so bursting full of importance, i talked only to bobby, in order to be safe. after supper i finished hezekiah's trousers, and may cut his coat for me. school would begin in september and our clothes were being made, so i used the scraps to dress him. his suit was done by the next forenoon, and father never laughed harder than when hezekiah hopped down the walk to meet him dressed in pink trousers and coat. the coat had flowing sleeves like the princess wore, so hezekiah could fly, and he seemed to like them. his suit was such a success i began a sunbonnet, and when that was tied on him, the folks almost had spasms. they said he wouldn't like being dressed; that he would fly away to punish me, but he did no such thing. he stayed around the house and was tame as ever. when i became tired sewing that afternoon, i went down the lane leading to our meadow, where leon was killing thistles with a grubbing hoe. i thought he would be glad to see me, and he was. every one had been busy in the house, so i went to the cellar the outside way and ate all i wanted from the cupboard. then i spread two big slices of bread the best i could with my fingers, putting apple butter on one, and mashed potatoes on the other. leon leaned on the hoe and watched me coming. he was a hungry boy, and lonesome too, but he couldn't be forced to say so. "laddie is at work in the barn," he said. "i'm going to play in the creek," i answered. crossing our meadow there was a stream that had grassy banks, big trees, willows, bushes and vines for shade, a solid pebbly bed; it was all turns and bends so that the water hurried until it bubbled and sang as it went; in it lived tiny fish coloured brightly as flowers, beside it ran killdeer, plover and solemn blue herons almost as tall as i was came from the river to fish; for a place to play on an august afternoon, it couldn't be beaten. the sheep had been put in the lower pasture; so the cross old shropshire ram was not there to bother us. "come to the shade," i said to leon, and when we were comfortably seated under a big maple weighted down with trailing grapevines, i offered the bread. leon took a piece in each hand and began to eat as if he were starving. laddie would have kissed me and said: "what a fine treat! thank you, little sister." leon was different. he ate so greedily you had to know he was glad to get it, but he wouldn't say so, not if he never got any more. when you knew him, you understood he wouldn't forget it, and he'd be certain to do something nice for you before the day was over to pay back. we sat there talking about everything we saw, and at last leon said with a grin: "shelley isn't getting much grape sap is she?" "i didn't know she wanted grape sap." "she read about it in a paper. it said to cut the vine of a wild grape, catch the drippings and moisten your hair. this would make it glossy and grow faster." "what on earth does shelley want with more hair than she has?" "oh, she has heard it bragged on so much she thinks people would say more if she could improve it." i looked and there was the vine, dry as could be, and a milk crock beneath it. "didn't the silly know she had to cut the vine in the spring when the sap was running?" "bear witness, o vine! that she did not," said leon, "and speak, ye voiceless pottery, and testify that she expected to find you overflowing." "too bad that she's going to be disappointed." "she isn't! she's going to find ample liquid to bathe her streaming tresses. keep quiet and watch me." he picked up the crock, carried it to the creek and dipped it full of water. "that's too much," i objected. "she'll know she never got a crock full from a dry vine." "she'll think the vine bled itself dry for her sake." "she isn't that silly." "well then, how silly is she?" asked leon, spilling out half. "about so?" "not so bad as that. less yet!" "anything to please the ladies," said leon, pouring out more. then we sat and giggled a while. "what are you going to do now?" asked leon. "play in the creek," i answered. "all right! i'll work near you." he rolled his trousers above his knees and took the hoe, but he was in the water most of the time. we had to climb on the bank when we came to the deep curve, under the stump of the old oak that father cut because pete billings would climb it and yowl like a wildcat on cold winter nights. pete was wrong in his head like paddy ryan, only worse. as we passed we heard the faintest sounds, so we lay and looked, and there in the dark place under the roots, where the water was deepest, huddled some of the cunningest little downy wild ducks you ever saw. we looked at each other and never said a word. leon chased them out with the hoe and they swam down stream faster than old ones. i stood in the shallow water behind them and kept them from going back to the deep place, while leon worked to catch them. every time he got one he brought it to me, and i made a bag of my apron front to put them in. the supper bell rang before we caught all of them. we were dripping wet with creek water and perspiration, but we had the ducks, every one of them, and proudly started home. i'll wager leon was sorry he didn't wear aprons so he could carry them. he did keep the last one in his hands, and held its little fluffy body against his cheeks every few minutes. "couldn't anything be prettier than a young duck." "except a little guinea," i said. "that's so!" said leon. "they are most as pretty as quail. i guess all young things that have down are about as cunning as they can be. i don't believe i know which i like best, myself." "baby killdeers." "i mean tame. things we raise." "i'll take guineas." "i'll say white turkeys. they seem so innocent. nothing of ours is pretty as these." "but these are wild." "so they are," said leon. "twelve of them. won't mother be pleased?" she was not in the least. she said we were a sight to behold; that she was ashamed to be the mother of two children who didn't know tame ducks from wild ones. she remembered instantly that amanda deam had set a speckled dorking hen on mallard duck eggs, where she got the eggs, and what she paid for them. she said the ducks had found the creek that flowed beside deams' barnyard before it entered our land, and they had swum away from the hen, and both the hen and amanda would be frantic. she put the ducks into a basket and said to take them back soon as ever we got our suppers, and we must hurry because we had to bathe and learn our texts for sunday-school in the morning. we went through the orchard, down the hill and across the meadow until we came to the creek. by that time we were tired of the basket. it was one father had woven himself of shaved and soaked hickory strips, and it was heavy. the sight of water suggested the proper place for ducks, anyway. we talked it over and decided that they would be much more comfortable swimming than in the basket, and it was more fun to wade than to walk, so we went above the deep place, i stood in the creek to keep them from going down, and leon poured them on the water. pigs couldn't have acted more contrary. those ducks liked us. they wouldn't go to deams'. they just fought to swim back to us. anyway, we had the worst time you ever saw. leon cut long switches to herd them with, and both of us waded and tried to drive them, but they would dart under embankments and roots, and dive and hide. before we reached the deams' i wished that we had carried them as mother told us, for we had lost three, and if we stopped to hunt them, more would hide. by the time we drove them under the floodgate crossing the creek between our land and the deams' four were gone. leon left me on the gate with both switches to keep them from going back and he ran to call mrs. deam. she had red hair and a hot temper, and we were not very anxious to see her, but we had to do it. while leon was gone i was thinking pretty fast and i knew exactly how things would happen. first time mother saw mrs. deam she would ask her if the ducks were all right, and she would tell that four were gone. mother would ask how many she had, and she would say twelve, then mother would remember that she started us with twelve in the basket--oh what's the use! something had to be done. it had to be done quickly too, for i could hear amanda deam, her boy sammy and leon coming across the barnyard. i looked around in despair, but when things are the very worst, there is almost always some way out. on the dry straw worked between and pushing against the panels of the floodgate, not far from me, i saw a big black water snake. i took one good look at it: no coppery head, no geometry patterns, no rattlebox, so i knew it wasn't poisonous and wouldn't bite until it was hurt, and if it did, all you had to do was to suck the place, and it wouldn't amount to more than two little pricks as if pins had stuck you; but a big snake was a good excuse. i rolled from the floodgate among the ducks, and cried, "snake!" they scattered everywhere. the snake lazily uncoiled and slid across the straw so slowly that--thank goodness! amanda deam got a fair look at it. she immediately began to jump up and down and scream. leon grabbed a stick and came running to the water. i cried so he had to help me out first. "don't let her count them!" i whispered. leon gave me one swift look and all the mischief in his blue eyes peeped out. he was the funniest boy you ever knew, anyway. mostly he looked scowly and abused. he had a grievance against everybody and everything. he said none of us liked him, and we imposed on him. father said that if he tanned leon's jacket for anything, and set him down to think it over, he would pout a while, then he would look thoughtful, suddenly his face would light up and he would go away sparkling; and you could depend upon it he would do the same thing over, or something worse, inside an hour. when he wanted to, he could smile the most winning smile, and he could coax you into anything. mother said she dreaded to have to borrow a dime from him, if a peddler caught her without change, because she knew she'd be kept paying it back for the next six months. right now he was the busiest kind of a boy. "where is it? let me get a good lick at it! don't scare the ducks!" he would cry, and chase them from one bank to the other, while amanda danced and fought imaginary snakes. for a woman who had seen as many as she must have in her life, it was too funny. i don't think i could laugh harder, or leon and sammy. we enjoyed ourselves so much that at last she began to be angry. she quit dancing, and commenced hunting ducks, for sure. she held her skirts high, poked along the banks, jumped the creek and didn't always get clear across. her hair shook down, she lost a sidecomb, and she couldn't find half the ducks. "you younguns pack right out of here," she said. "me and sammy can get them better ourselves, and if we don't find all of them, we'll know where they are." "we haven't got any of your ducks," i said angrily, but leon smiled his most angelic smile, and it seemed as if he were going to cry. "of course, if you want to accuse mother of stealing your ducks, you can," he said plaintively, "but i should think you'd be ashamed to do it, after all the trouble we took to catch them before they swam to the river, where you never would have found one of them. come on, little sister, let's go home." he started and i followed. as soon as we got around the bend we sat on the bank, hung our feet in the water, leaned against each other and laughed. we just laughed ourselves almost sick. when amanda's face got fire red, and her hair came down, and she jumped and didn't go quite over, she looked a perfect fright. "will she ever find all of them?" i asked at last. "of course," said leon. "she will comb the grass and strain the water until she gets every one." "hoo-hoo!" i looked at leon. he was so intently watching an old turkey buzzard hanging in the air, he never heard the call that meant it was time for us to be home and cleaning up for sunday. it was difficult to hurry, for after we had been soaped and scoured, we had to sit on the back steps and commit to memory verses from the bible. at last we waded toward home. two of the ducks we had lost swam before us all the way, so we knew they were alive, and all they needed was finding. "if she hadn't accused mother of stealing her old ducks, i'd catch those and carry them back to her," said leon. "but since she thinks we are so mean, i'll just let her and little sammy find them." then we heard their voices as they came down the creek, so leon reached me his hand and we scampered across the water and meadow, never stopping until we sat on the top rail of our back orchard fence. there we heard another call, but that was only two. we sat there, rested and looked at the green apples above our heads, wishing they were ripe, and talking about the ducks. we could see mrs. deam and sammy coming down the creek, one on each side. we slid from the fence and ran into a queer hollow that was cut into the hill between the never-fail and the baldwin apple trees. that hollow was overgrown with weeds, and full of trimmings from trees, stumps, everything that no one wanted any place else in the orchard. it was the only unkept spot on our land, and i always wondered why father didn't clean it out and make it look respectable. i said so to leon as we crouched there watching down the hill where mrs. deam and sammy hunted ducks with not such very grand success. they seemed to have so many they couldn't decide whether to go back or go on, so they must have found most of them. "you know i've always had my suspicions about this place," said leon. "there is somewhere on our land that people can be hidden for a long time. i can remember well enough before the war ever so long, and while it was going worst, we would find the wagon covered with more mud in the morning than had been on it at night; and the horses would be splashed and tired. once i was awake in the night and heard voices. it made me want a drink, so i went downstairs for it, and ran right into the biggest, blackest man who ever grew. if father and mother hadn't been there i'd have been scared into fits. next morning he was gone and there wasn't a whisper. father said i'd had bad dreams. that night the horses made another mysterious trip. now where did they keep the black man all that day?" "what did they have a black man for?" "they were helping him run away from slavery to be free in canada. it was all right. i'd have done the same thing. they helped a lot. father was a friend of the governor. there were letters from him, and there was some good reason why father stayed at home, when he was crazy about the war. i think this farm was what they called an underground station. what i want to know is where the station was." "maybe it's here. let's hunt," i said. "if the black men were here some time, they would have to be fed, and this is not far from the house." so we took long sticks and began poking into the weeds. then we moved the brush, and sure as you live, we found an old door with a big stone against it. i looked at leon and he looked at me. "hoo-hoo!" came mother's voice, and that was the third call. "hum! must be for us," said leon. "we better go as soon as we get a little dryer." he slid down the bank on one side, and i on the other, and we pushed at the stone. i thought we never would get it rolled away so we could open the door a crack, but when we did what we saw was most surprising. there was a little room, dreadfully small, but a room. there was straw scattered over the floor, very deep on one side, where an old blanket showed that it had been a bed. across the end there was a shelf. on it was a candlestick, with a half-burned candle in it, a pie pan with some mouldy crumbs, crusts, bones in it, and a tin can. leon picked up the can and looked in. i could see too. it had been used for water or coffee, as the plate had for food, once, but now it was stuffed full of money. i saw leon pull some out and then shove it back, and he came to the door white as could be, shut it behind him and began to push at the stone. when we got it in place we put the brush over it, and fixed everything like it had been. at last leon said: "that's the time we got into something not intended for us, and if father finds it out, we are in for a good thrashing. are you just a blubbering baby, or are you big enough to keep still?" "i am old enough that i could have gone to school two years ago, and i won't tell!" i said stoutly. "all right! come on then," said leon. "i don't know but mother has been calling us." we started up the orchard path at the fourth call. "hoo-hoo!" answered leon in a sick little voice to make it sound far away. must have made mother think we were on deams' hill. then we went on side by side. "say leon, you found the station, didn't you?" "don't talk about it!" snapped leon. i changed the subject "whose money do you suppose that is?" "oh crackey! you can depend on a girl to see everything," groaned leon. "do you think you'll be able to stand the switching that job will bring you, without getting sick in bed?" now i never had been sick in bed, and from what i had seen of other people who were, i never wanted to be. the idea of being switched until it made me sick was too much for me. i shut my mouth tight and i never opened it about the station place. as we reached the maiden's-blush apple tree came another call, and it sounded pretty cross, i can tell you. leon reached his hand. "now, it's time to run. let me do the talking." we were out of breath when we reached the back door. there stood the tub on the kitchen floor, the boiler on the stove, soap, towels, and clean clothing on chairs. leon had his turn at having his ears washed first, because he could bathe himself while mother did my hair. "was mrs. deam glad to get her ducks back?" she asked as she fine-combed leon. "aw, you never can tell whether she's glad about anything or not," growled leon. "you'd have thought from the way she acted, that we'd been trying to steal her ducks. she said if she missed any she'd know where to find them." "well as i live!" cried mother. "why i wouldn't have believed that of amanda deam. you told her you thought they were wild, of course." "i didn't have a chance to tell her anything. the minute the ducks struck the water they started right back down stream, and there was a big snake, and we had an awful time. we got wet trying to head them back, and then we didn't find all of them." "they are like little eels. you should have helped amanda." "well, you called so cross we thought you would come after us, so we had to run." "one never knows," sighed mother. "i thought you were loitering. of course if i had known you were having trouble with the ducks! i think you had better go back and help them." "didn't i do enough to take them home? can't sammy deam catch ducks as fast as i can?" "i suppose so," said mother. "and i must get your bathing out of the way of supper. you use the tub while i do little sister's hair." i almost hated sunday, because of what had to be done to my hair on saturday, to get ready for it. all week it hung in two long braids that were brushed and arranged each morning. but on saturday it had to be combed with a fine comb, oiled and rolled around strips of tin until sunday morning. mother did everything thoroughly. she raked that fine comb over our scalps until she almost raised the blood. she hadn't time to fool with tangles, and we had so much hair she didn't know what to do with all of it, anyway. when she was busy talking she reached around too far and combed across our foreheads or raked the tip of an ear. but on sunday morning we forgot all that, when we walked down the aisle with shining curls hanging below our waists. mother was using the fine comb, when she looked up, and there stood mrs. freshett. we could see at a glance that she was out of breath. "have i beat them?" she cried. "whom are you trying to beat?" asked mother as she told may to set a chair for mrs. freshett and bring her a drink. "the grave-kiver men," she said. "i wanted to get to you first." "well, you have," said mother. "rest a while and then tell me." but mrs. freshett was so excited she couldn't rest. "i thought they were coming straight on down," she said, "but they must have turned off at the cross roads. i want to do what's right by my children here or there," panted mrs. freshett, "and these men seemed to think the contrivance they was sellin' perfectly grand, an' like to be an aid to the soul's salvation. nice as it seemed, an' convincin' as they talked, i couldn't get the consent of my mind to order, until i knowed if you was goin' to kiver your dead with the contraption. none of the rest of the neighbours seem over friendly to me, an' i've told josiah many's the time, that i didn't care a rap if they wa'n't, so long as i had you. says i, 'josiah, to my way of thinkin', she is top crust in this neighbourhood, and i'm on the safe side apin' her ways clost as possible.'" "i'll gladly help you all i can," said my mother. "thanky!" said mrs. freshett. "i knowed you would. josiah he says to me, 'don't you be apin' nobody.' 'josiah,' says i, 'it takes a pretty smart woman in this world to realize what she doesn't know. now i know what i know, well enough, but all i know is like to keep me an' my children in a log cabin an' on log cabin ways to the end of our time. you ain't even got the remains of the cabin you started in for a cow shed.' says i, 'josiah, miss stanton knows how to get out of a cabin an' into a grand big palace, fit fur a queen woman. she's a ridin' in a shinin' kerridge, 'stid of a spring wagon. she goes abroad dressed so's you men all stand starin' like cabbage heads. all hern go to church, an' sunday-school, an' college, an' come out on the top of the heap. she does jest what i'd like to if i knowed how. an' she ain't come-uppety one morsel.' if i was to strike acrost fields to them stuck-up pryors, i'd get the door slammed in my face if 'twas the missus, a sneer if 'twas the man, an' at best a nod cold as an iceberg if 'twas the girl. them as want to call her kind 'princess,' and encourage her in being more stuck up 'an she was born to be, can, but to my mind a princess is a person who thinks of some one besides herself once in a while." "i don't find the pryors easy to become acquainted with," said mother. "i have never met the woman; i know the man very slightly; he has been here on business once or twice, but the girl seems as if she would be nice, if one knew her." "well, i wouldn't have s'posed she was your kind," said mrs. freshett. "if she is, i won't open my head against her any more. anyway, it was the grave-kivers i come about." "just what is it, mrs. freshett?" asked mother. "it's two men sellin' a patent iron kiver for to protect the graves of your dead from the sun an' the rain." "who wants the graves of their dead protected from the sun and the rain?" demanded my mother sharply. "i said to josiah, 'i don't know how she'll feel about it, but i can't do more than ask.'" "do they carry a sample? what is it like?" "jest the len'th an' width of a grave. they got from baby to six-footer sizes. they are cast iron like the bottom of a cook stove on the under side, but atop they are polished so they shine somethin' beautiful. you can get them in a solid piece, or with a hole in the centre about the size of a milk crock to set flowers through. they come ten to the grave, an' they are mighty stylish lookin' things. i have been savin' all i could skimp from butter, an' eggs, to get samantha a organ; but says i to her: 'you are gettin' all i can do for you every day; there lays your poor brother 'at ain't had a finger lifted for him since he was took so sudden he was gone before i knowed he was goin'.' i never can get over henry bein' took the way he was, so i says: 'if this would be a nice thing to have for henry's grave, and the neighbours are goin' to have them for theirn, looks to me like some of the organ money will have to go, an' we'll make it up later.' i don't 'low for henry to be slighted bekase he rid himself to death trying to make a president out of his pa's gin'ral." "you never told me how you lost your son," said mother, feeling so badly she wiped one of my eyes full of oil. "law now, didn't i?" inquired mrs. freshett. "well mebby that is bekase i ain't had a chance to tell you much of anythin', your bein' always so busy like, an' me not wantin' to wear out my welcome. it was like this: all endurin' the war henry an' me did the best we could without pa at home, but by the time it was over, henry was most a man. seemed as if when he got home, his pa was all tired out and glad to set down an' rest, but henry was afire to be up an' goin'. his pa filled him so full o' grant, it was runnin' out of his ears. come the second run the gin'ral made, peered like henry set out to 'lect him all by hisself. he wore every horse on the place out, ridin' to rallies. sometimes he was gone three days at a stretch. he'd git one place an' hear of a rally on ten miles or so furder, an' blest if he didn't ride plum acrost the state 'fore he got through with one trip. he set out in july, and he rid right straight through to november, nigh onto every day of his life. he got white, an' thin, an' narvous, from loss of sleep an' lack of food, an' his pa got restless, said henry was takin' the 'lection more serious 'an he ever took the war. last few days before votin' was cold an' raw an' henry rid constant. 'lection day he couldn't vote, for he lacked a year of bein' o' age, an' he rid in with a hard chill, an' white as a ghost, an' he says: 'ma,' says he, 'i've 'lected grant, but i'm all tuckered out. put me to bed an' kiver me warm.'" i forgot the sting in my eyes watching mrs. freshett. she was the largest woman i knew, and strong as most men. her hair was black and glisteny, her eyes black, her cheeks red, her skin a clear, even dark tint. she was handsome, she was honest, and she was in earnest over everything. there was something about her, or her family, that had to be told in whispers, and some of the neighbours would have nothing to do with her. but mother said mrs. freshett was doing the very best she knew, and for the sake of that, and of her children, anyone who wouldn't help her was not a christian, and not to be a christian was the very worst thing that could happen to you. i stared at her steadily. she talked straight along, so rapidly you scarcely could keep up with the words; you couldn't if you wanted to think about them any between. there was not a quiver in her voice, but from her eyes there rolled, steadily, the biggest, roundest tears i ever saw. they ran down her cheeks, formed a stream in the first groove of her double chin, overflowed it, and dripped drop, drop, a drop at a time, on the breast of her stiffly starched calico dress, and from there shot to her knees. "'twa'n't no time at all 'til he was chokin' an' burnin' red with fever, an' his pa and me, stout as we be, couldn't hold him down nor keep him kivered. he was speechifyin' to beat anythin' you ever heard. his pa said he was repeatin' what he'd heard said by every big stump speaker from greeley to logan. when he got so hoarse we couldn't tell what he said any more, he jest mouthed it, an' at last he dropped back and laid like he was pinned to the sheets, an' i thought he was restin', but 'twa'n't an hour 'til he was gone." suddenly mrs. freshett lifted her apron, covered her face and sobbed until her broad shoulders shook. "oh you poor soul!" said my mother. "i'm so sorry for you!" "i never knowed he was a-goin' until he was gone," she said. "he was the only one of mine i ever lost, an' i thought it would jest lay me out. i couldn't 'a' stood it at all if i hadn't 'a' knowed he was saved. i well know my henry went straight to heaven. why miss stanton, he riz right up in bed at the last, and clear and strong he jest yelled it: 'hurrah fur grant!'" my mother's fingers tightened in my hair until i thought she would pull out a lot, and i could feel her knees stiffen. leon just whooped. mother sprang up and ran to the door. "leon!" she cried. then there was a slam. "what in the world is the matter?" she asked. "stepped out of the tub right on the soap, and it threw me down," explained leon. "for mercy sake, be careful!" said my mother, and shut the door. it wasn't a minute before the knob turned and it opened again a little. i never saw mother's face look so queer, but at last she said softly: "you were thinking of the grave cover for him?" "yes, but i wanted to ask you before i bound myself. i heard you lost two when the scarlet fever was ragin' an' i'm goin' to do jest what you do. if you have kivers, i will. if you don't like them when you see how bright and shiny they are, i won't get any either." "i can tell you without seeing them, mrs. freshett," said my mother, wrapping a strand of hair around the tin so tight i slipped up my fingers to feel whether my neck wasn't like a buck-eye hull looks, and it was. "i don't want any cover for the graves of my dead but grass and flowers, and sky and clouds. i like the rain to fall on them, and the sun to shine, so that the grass and flowers will grow. if you are satisfied that the soul of henry is safe in heaven, that is all that is necessary. laying a slab of iron on top of earth six feet above his body will make no difference to him. if he is singing with the angels, by all means save your money for the organ." "i don't know about the singin', but i'd stake my last red cent he's still hollerin' fur grant. i was kind o' took with the idea; the things was so shiny and scilloped at the edges, peered like it was payin' considerable respect to the dead to kiver them that-a-way." "what good would it do?" asked mother. "the sun shining on the iron would make it so hot it would burn any flower you tried to plant in the opening; the water couldn't reach the roots, and all that fell on the slab would run off and make it that much wetter at the edges. the iron would soon rust and grow dreadfully ugly lying under winter snow. there is nothing at all in it, save a method to work on the feelings of the living, and get them to pay their money for something that wouldn't affect their dead a particle." "'twould be a poor idea for me," said mrs. freshett. "i said to the men that i wanted to honour henry all i could, but with my bulk, i'd hev all i could do, come jedgment day, to bust my box, an' heave up the clods, without havin' to hist up a piece of iron an' klim from under it." mother stiffened and leon slipped again. he could have more accidents than any boy i ever knew. but it was only a few minutes until he came to mother and gave her a bible to mark the verses he had to learn to recite at sunday-school next day. mother couldn't take the time when she had company, so she asked if he weren't big enough to pick out ten proper verses and learn them by himself, and he said of course he was. he took his bible and he and may and i sat on the back steps and studied our verses. he and may were so big they had ten; but i had only two, and mine were not very long. leon giggled half the time he was studying. i haven't found anything so very funny in the bible. every few minutes he would whisper to himself: "that's a good one!" he took the book and heard may do hers until she had them perfectly, then he went and sat on the back fence with his book and studied as i never before had seen him. mrs. freshett stayed so long mother had no time to hear him, but he told her he had them all learned so he could repeat them without a mistake. next morning mother was busy, so she had no time then. father, shelley, and i rode on the front seat, mother, may, and sally on the back, while the boys started early and walked. when we reached the top of the hill, the road was lined with carriages, wagons, spring wagons, and saddle horses. father found a place for our team and we went down the walk between the hitching rack and the cemetery fence. mother opened the gate and knelt beside two small graves covered with grass, shaded by yellow rose bushes, and marked with little white stones. she laid some flowers on each and wiped the dust from the carved letters with her handkerchief. the little sisters who had scarlet fever and whooping cough lay there. mother was still a minute and then she said softly: "'the lord has given and the lord has taken away. blessed be the name of the lord.'" she was very pale when she came to us, but her eyes were bright and she smiled as she put her arms around as many of us as she could reach. "what a beautiful horse!" said sally. "look at that saddle and bridle! the pryor girl is here." "why should she come?" asked shelley. "to show her fine clothes and queen it over us!" "children, children!" said mother. "'judge not!' this is a house of worship. the lord may be drawing her in his own way. it is for us to help him by being kind and making her welcome." at the church door we parted and sat with our teachers, but for the first time as i went down the aisle i was not thinking of my linen dress, my patent leather slippers, and my pretty curls. it suddenly seemed cheap to me to twist my hair when it was straight as a shingle, and cut my head on tin. if the lord had wanted me to have curls, my hair would have been like sally's. seemed to me hers tried to see into what big soft curls it could roll. may said ours was so straight it bent back the other way. anyway, i made up my mind to talk it over with father and always wear braids after that, if i could get him to coax mother to let me. our church was quite new and it was beautiful. all the casings were oiled wood, and the walls had just a little yellow in the last skin coating used to make them smooth, so they were a creamy colour, and the blinds were yellow. the windows were wide open and the wind drifted through, while the birds sang as much as they ever do in august, among the trees and bushes of the cemetery. every one had planted so many flowers of all kinds on the graves you could scent sweet odours. often a big, black-striped, brown butterfly came sailing in through one of the windows, followed the draft across the room, and out of another. i was thinking something funny: it was about what the princess had said of other people, and whether hers were worse. i looked at my father sitting in calm dignity in his sunday suit and thought him quite as fine and handsome as mother did. every sabbath he wore the same suit, he sat in the same spot, he worshipped the lord in his calm, earnest way. the ministers changed, but father was as much a part of the service as the bible on the desk or the communion table. i wondered if people said things about him, and if they did, what they were. i never had heard. twisting in my seat, one by one i studied the faces on the men's side, and then the women. it was a mighty good-looking crowd. some had finer clothes than others--that is always the way--but as a rule every one was clean, neat, and good to see. from some you scarcely could turn away. there was widow fall. she was french, from virginia, and she talked like little tinkly notes of music. i just loved to hear her, and she walked like high-up royalty. her dress was always black, with white bands at the neck and sleeves, black rustly silk, and her eyes and hair were like the dress. there was a little red on her cheeks and lips, and her face was always grave until she saw you directly before her, and then she smiled the sweetest smile. maybe sarah hood was not pretty, but there was something about her lean face and shining eyes that made you look twice before you were sure of it, and by that time you had got so used to her, you liked her better as she was, and wouldn't have changed her for anything. mrs. fritz had a pretty face and dresses and manners, and so did hannah dover, only she talked too much. so i studied them and remembered what the princess had said, and i wondered if she heard some one say that peter justice beat his wife, or if she showed it in her face and manner. she reminded me of a scared cowslip that had been cut and laid in the sun an hour. i don't know as that expresses it. perhaps a flower couldn't look scared, but it could be wilted and faded. i wondered if she ever had bright hair, laughing eyes, and red in her lips and cheeks. she must have been pretty if she had. at last i reached my mother. there was nothing scared or faded about her, and she was dreadfully sick too, once in a while since she had the fever. she was a little bit of a woman, coloured like a wild rose petal, face and body--a piece of pink porcelain dutch, father said. she had brown eyes, hair like silk, and she always had three best dresses. there was one of alpaca or woollen, of black, gray or brown, and two silks. always there was a fine rustly black one with a bonnet and mantle to match, and then a softer, finer one of either gold brown, like her hair, or dainty gray, like a dove's wing. when these grew too old for fine use, she wore them to sunday-school and had a fresh one for best. there was a new gray in her closet at home, so she put on the old brown to-day, and she was lovely in it. usually the minister didn't come for church services until sunday-school was half over, so the superintendent read a chapter, daddy debs prayed, and all of us stood up and sang: "ring out the joy bells." then the superintendent read the lesson over as impressively as he could. the secretary made his report, we sang another song, gathered the pennies, and each teacher took a class and talked over the lesson a few minutes. then we repeated the verses we had committed to memory to our teachers; the member of each class who had learned the nicest texts, and knew them best, was selected to recite before the school. beginning with the littlest people, we came to the big folks. each one recited two texts until they reached the class above mine. we walked to the front, stood inside the altar, made a little bow, and the superintendent kept score. i could see that mother appeared worried when leon's name was called for his class, for she hadn't heard him, and she was afraid he would forget. among the funny things about leon was this: while you had to drive other boys of his age to recite, you almost had to hold him to keep him from it. father said he was born for a politician or a preacher, if he would be good, and grow into the right kind of a man to do such responsible work. "i forgot several last sabbath, so i have thirteen to-day," he said politely. of course no one expected anything like that. you never knew what might happen when leon did anything. he must have been about sixteen. he was a slender lad, having almost sandy hair, like his english grandfather. he wore a white ruffled shirt with a broad collar, and cuffs turning back over his black jacket, and his trousers fitted his slight legs closely. the wind whipped his soft black tie a little and ruffled the light hair where it was longest and wavy above his forehead. such a perfect picture of innocence you never saw. there was one part of him that couldn't be described any better than the way mr. rienzi told about his brother in his "address to the romans," in mcguffey's sixth. "the look of heaven on his face" stayed most of the time; again, there was a dealish twinkle that sparkled and flashed while he was thinking up something mischievous to do. when he was fighting angry, and going to thrash absalom saunders or die trying, he was plain white and his eyes were like steel. mother called him "weiscope," half the time. i can only spell the way that sounds, but it means "white-head," and she always used that name when she loved him most. "the look of heaven" was strong on his face now. "one," said the recording secretary. "jesus wept," answered leon promptly. there was not a sound in the church. you could almost hear the butterflies pass. father looked down and laid his lower lip in folds with his fingers, like he did sometimes when it wouldn't behave to suit him. "two," said the secretary after just a breath of pause. leon looked over the congregation easily and then fastened his eyes on abram saunders, the father of absalom, and said reprovingly: "give not sleep to thine eyes nor slumber to thine eyelids." abram straightened up suddenly and blinked in astonishment, while father held fast to his lip. "three," called the secretary hurriedly. leon shifted his gaze to betsy alton, who hadn't spoken to her next door neighbour in five years. "hatred stirreth up strife," he told her softly, "but love covereth all sins." things were so quiet it seemed as if the air would snap. "four." the mild blue eyes travelled back to the men's side and settled on isaac thomas, a man too lazy to plow and sow land his father had left him. they were not so mild, and the voice was touched with command: "go to the ant, thou sluggard, consider her ways and be wise." still that silence. "five," said the secretary hurriedly, as if he wished it were over. back came the eyes to the women's side and past all question looked straight at hannah dover. "as a jewel of gold in a swine's snout, so is a fair woman without discretion." "six," said the secretary and looked appealingly at father, whose face was filled with dismay. again leon's eyes crossed the aisle and he looked directly at the man whom everybody in the community called "stiff-necked johnny." i think he was rather proud of it, he worked so hard to keep them doing it. "lift not up your horn on high: speak not with a stiff neck," leon commanded him. toward the door some one tittered. "seven," called the secretary hastily. leon glanced around the room. "but how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity," he announced in delighted tones as if he had found it out by himself. "eight," called the secretary with something like a breath of relief. our angel boy never had looked so angelic, and he was beaming on the princess. "thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee," he told her. laddie would thrash him for that. instantly after, "nine," he recited straight at laddie: "i made a covenant with mine eyes; why then should i think upon a maid?" more than one giggled that time. "ten!" came almost sharply. leon looked scared for the first time. he actually seemed to shiver. maybe he realized at last that it was a pretty serious thing he was doing. when he spoke he said these words in the most surprised voice you ever heard: "i was almost in all evil in the midst of the congregation and assembly." "eleven." perhaps these words are in the bible. they are not there to read the way leon repeated them, for he put a short pause after the first name, and he glanced toward our father: "jesus christ, the same, yesterday, and to-day, and forever!" sure as you live my mother's shoulders shook. "twelve." suddenly leon seemed to be forsaken. he surely shrank in size and appeared abused. "when my father and my mother forsake me, then the lord will take me up," he announced, and looked as happy over the ending as he had seemed forlorn at the beginning. "thirteen." "the lord is on my side; i will not fear; what can man do unto me?" inquired leon of every one in the church. then he soberly made a bow and walked to his seat. father's voice broke that silence. "let us kneel in prayer," he said. he took a step forward, knelt, laid his hands on the altar, closed his eyes and turned his face upward. "our heavenly father, we come before thee in a trying situation," he said. "thy word of truth has been spoken to us by a thoughtless boy, whether in a spirit of helpfulness or of jest, thou knowest. since we are reasoning creatures, it little matters in what form thy truth comes to us; the essential thing is that we soften our hearts for its entrance, and grow in grace by its application. tears of compassion such as our dear saviour wept are in our eyes this morning as we plead with thee to help us to apply these words to the betterment of this community." then father began to pray. if the lord had been standing six feet in front of him, and his life had depended on what he said, he could have prayed no harder. goodness knows how fathers remember. he began at "jesus wept" and told about this sinful world and why he wept over it; then one at a time he took those other twelve verses and hammered them down where they belonged much harder than leon ever could by merely looking at people. after that he prayed all around each one so fervently that those who had been hit the very worst cried aloud and said: "amen!" you wouldn't think any one could do a thing like that; but i heard and saw my father do it. when he arose the tears were running down his cheeks, and before him stood leon. he was white as could be, but he spoke out loudly and clearly. "please forgive me, sir; i didn't intend to hurt your feelings. please every one forgive me. i didn't mean to offend any one. it happened through hunting short verses. all the short ones seemed to be like that, and they made me think----" he got no farther. father must have been afraid of what he might say next. he threw his arms around leon's shoulders, drew him to the seat, and with the tears still rolling, he laughed as happily as you ever heard, and he cried: "'sweeping through the gates!' all join in!" you never heard such singing in your life. that was another wonderful thing. my father didn't know the notes. he couldn't sing; he said so himself. neither could half the people there, yet all of them were singing at the tops of their voices, and i don't believe the angels in heaven could make grander music. my father was leading: "these, these are they, who in the conflict dire----" you could tell emanuel ripley had been in the war from the way he roared: "boldly have stood amidst the hottest fire----" the widow fall soared above all of them on the next line; her man was there, and maybe she was lonely and would have been glad to go to him: "jesus now says, 'come up higher----'" then my little mother: "washed in the blood of the lamb----" like thunder all of them rolled into the chorus: "sweepin, through the gates to the new jerusalem----" you wouldn't have been left out of that company for anything in all this world, and nothing else ever could make you want to go so badly as to hear every one sing, straight from the heart, a grand old song like that. it is no right way to have to sit and keep still, and pay other people money to sing about heaven to you. no matter if you can't sing by note, if your heart and soul are full, until they are running over, so that you are forced to sing as those people did, whether you can or not, you are sure to be straight on the way to the gates. before three lines were finished my father was keeping time like a choirmaster, his face all beaming with shining light; mother was rocking on her toes like a wood robin on a twig at twilight, and at the end of the chorus she cried "glory!" right out loud, and turned and started down the aisle, shaking hands with every one, singing as she went. when she reached betsy alton she held her hand and led her down the aisle straight toward rachel brown. when rachel saw them coming she hurried to meet them, and they shook hands and were glad to make up as any two people you ever saw. it must have been perfectly dreadful to see a woman every day for five years, and not to give her a pie, when you felt sure yours were better than she could make, or loan her a new pattern, or tell her first who had a baby, or was married, or dead, or anything like that. it was no wonder they felt glad. mother came on, and as she passed me the verses were all finished and every one began talking and moving. johnny dover forgot his neck and shook hands too, and father pronounced the benediction. he always had to when the minister wasn't there, because he was ordained himself, and you didn't dare pronounce the benediction unless you were. every one began talking again, and wondering if the minister wouldn't come soon, and some one went out to see. there was mother standing only a few feet from the princess, and i thought of something. i had seen it done often enough, but i never had tried it myself, yet i wanted to so badly, there was no time to think how scared i would be. i took mother's hand and led her a few steps farther and said: "mother, this is my friend, pamela pryor." i believe i did it fairly well. mother must have been surprised, but she put out her hand. "i didn't know miss pryor and you were acquainted." "it's only been a little while," i told her. "i met her when i was on some business with the fairies. they know everything and they told me her father was busy"--i thought she wouldn't want me to tell that he was plain cross, where every one could hear, so i said "busy" for politeness--"and her mother not very strong, and that she was a good girl, and dreadfully lonesome. can't you do something, mother?" "well, i should think so!" said mother, for her heart was soft as rose leaves. maybe you won't believe this, but it's quite true. my mother took the princess' arm and led her to sally and shelley, and introduced her to all the girls. by the time the minister came and mother went back to her seat, she had forgotten all about the "indisposed" word she disliked, and as you live! she invited the princess to go home with us to dinner. she stood tall and straight, her eyes very bright, and her cheeks a little redder than usual, as she shook hands and said a few pleasant words that were like from a book, they fitted and were so right. when mother asked her to dinner she said: "thank you kindly. i should be glad to go, but my people expect me at home and they would be uneasy. perhaps you would allow me to ride over some week day and become acquainted?" mother said she would be happy to have her, and shelley said so too, but sally was none too cordial. she had dark curls and pink cheeks herself, and every one had said she was the prettiest girl in the county before shelley began to blossom out and show what she was going to be. sally never minded that, but when the princess came she was a little taller, and her hair was a trifle longer, and heavier, and blacker, and her eyes were a little larger and darker, and where sally had pink skin and red lips, the princess was dark as olive, and her lips and cheeks were like red velvet. anyway, the princess had said she would come over; mother and shelley had been decent to her, and sally hadn't been exactly insulting. it would be a little more than you could expect for her to be wild about the princess. i believe she was pleased over having been invited to dinner, and as she was a stranger she couldn't know that mother had what we called the "invitation habit." i have seen her ask from fifteen to twenty in one trip down the aisle on sunday morning. she wanted them to come too; the more who came, the better she liked it. if the hitching rack and barnyard were full on sunday she just beamed. if the sermon pleased her, she invited more. that morning she was feeling so good she asked seventeen; and as she only had dressed six chickens--third table, backs and ham, for me as usual; but when the prospects were as now, i always managed to coax a few gizzards from candace; she didn't dare give me livers--they were counted. almost everyone in the church was the happiest that morning they had been in years. when the preacher came, he breathed it from the air, and it worked on him so he preached the best sermon he ever had, and never knew that leon made him do it. maybe after all it's a good thing to tell people about their meanness and give them a stirring up once in a while. chapter iii mr. pryor's door "grief will be joy if on its edge fall soft that holiest ray, joy will be grief if no faint pledge be there of heavenly day." "have sally and peter said anything about getting married yet?" asked my big sister lucy of mother. lucy was home on a visit. she was bathing her baby and mother was sewing. "not a word!" "are they engaged?" "sally hasn't mentioned it." "well, can't you find out?" "how could i?" asked mother. "why, watch them a little and see how they act when they are together. if he kisses her when he leaves, of course they are engaged." "it would be best to wait until sally tells me," laughed mother. i heard this from the back steps. neither mother nor lucy knew i was there. i went in to see if they would let me take the baby. of course they wouldn't! mother took it herself. she was rocking, and softly singing my dutch song that i loved best; i can't spell it, but it sounds like this: "trus, trus, trill; der power rid der fill, fill sphring aveck, plodschlicter power in der dreck." once i asked mother to sing it in english, and she couldn't because it didn't rhyme that way and the words wouldn't fit the notes; it was just, "trot, trot, trot, a boy rode a colt. the colt sprang aside; down went the boy in the dirt." "aw, don't sing my song to that little red, pug-nosed bald-head!" i said. really, it was a very nice baby; i only said that because i wanted to hold it, and mother wouldn't give it up. i tried to coax may to the dam snake hunting, but she couldn't go, so i had to amuse myself. i had a doll, but i never played with it except when i was dressed up on sunday. anyway, what's the use of a doll when there's a live baby in the house? i didn't care much for my playhouse since i had seen one so much finer that laddie had made for the princess. of course i knew moss wouldn't take root in our orchard as it did in the woods, neither would willow cuttings or the red flowers. finally, i decided to go hunting. i went into the garden and gathered every ripe touch-me-not pod i could find, and all the portulaca. then i stripped the tiger lilies of each little black ball at the bases of the leaves, and took all the four o'clock seed there was. then i got my biggest alder popgun and started up the road toward sarah hood's. i was going along singing a little verse; it wasn't dutch either; the old baby could have that if it wanted it. soon as i got from sight of the house i made a powderhorn of a curled leaf, loaded my gun with portulaca powder, rammed in a tiger lily bullet, laid the weapon across my shoulder, and stepped high and lightly as laddie does when he's in the big woods hunting for squirrel. it must have been my own singing--i am rather good at hearing things, but i never noticed a sound that time, until a voice like a rusty saw said: "good morning, nimrod!" i sprang from the soft dust and landed among the dog fennel of a fence corner, in a flying leap. then i looked. it was the princess' father, tall, and gray, and grim, riding a big black horse that seemed as if it had been curried with the fine comb and brushed with the grease rag. "good morning!" i said when i could speak. "am i correct in the surmise that you are on the chase with a popgun?" he asked politely. "yes sir," i answered, getting my breath the best i could. it came easier after i noticed he didn't seem to be angry about anything. "where is your hunting ground, and what game are you after?" he asked gravely. "you can see the great african jungle over there. i am going to hunt for lions and tigers." you always must answer politely any one who speaks to you; and you get soundly thrashed, at least at our house, if you don't be politest of all to an older person especially with white hair. father is extremely particular about white hair. it is a "crown of glory," when it is found in the way of the lord. mahlon pryor had enough crown of glory for three men, but maybe his wasn't exactly glory, because he wasn't in the way of the lord. he was in a way of his own. he must have had much confidence in himself. at our house we would rather trust in the lord. i only told him about the lions and tigers because he asked me, and that was the way i played. but you should have heard him laugh. you wouldn't have supposed to see him that he could. "umph!" he said at last. "i am a little curious about your ammunition. just how to you bring down your prey?" "i use portulaca powder and tiger lily bullets on the tigers, and four o'clocks on the lions," i said. you could have heard him a mile, dried up as he was. "i used to wear a red coat and ride to the hounds fox hunting," he said. "it's great sport. won't you take me with you to the jungle?" i didn't want him in the least, but if any one older asks right out to go with you, what can you do? i am going to tell several things you won't believe, and this is one of them: he got off his horse, tied it to the fence, and climbed over after me. he went on asking questions and of course i had to tell him. most of what he wanted to know, his people should have taught him before he was ten years old, but father says they do things differently in england. "there doesn't seem to be many trees in the jungle." "well, there's one, and it's about the most important on our land," i told him. "father wouldn't cut it down for a farm. you see that little dark bag nearly as big as your fist, swinging out there on that limb? well, every spring one of these birds, yellow as orange peel, with velvet black wings, weaves a nest like that, and over on that big branch, high up, one just as bright red as the other is yellow, and the same black wings, builds a cradle for his babies. father says a red bird and a yellow one keeping house in the same tree is the biggest thing that ever happened in our family. they come every year and that is their tree. i believe father would shoot any one who drove them away." "your father is a gunner also?" he asked, and i thought he was laughing to himself. "he's enough of a gunner to bring mother in a wagon from pennsylvania all the way here, and he kept wolves, bears, indians, and gypsies from her, and shot things for food. yes sir, my father can shoot if he wants to, better than any of our family except laddie." "and does laddie shoot well?" "laddie does everything well," i answered proudly. "he won't try to do anything at all, until he practises so he can do it well." "score one for laddie," he said in a queer voice. "are you in a hurry about the lions and tigers?" "not at all," he answered. "well, here i always stop and let governor oglesby go swimming," i said. mr. mahlon pryor sat on the bank of our little creek, took off his hat and shook back his hair as if the wind felt good on his forehead. i fished dick oglesby from the ammunition in my apron pocket, and held him toward the cross old man, and he wasn't cross at all. it's funny how you come to get such wrong ideas about people. "my big married sister who lives in westchester sent him to me last christmas," i explained. "i have another doll, great big, with a scotch plaid dress made from pieces of mine, but i only play with her on sunday when i dare not do much else. i like dick the best because he fits my apron pocket. father wanted me to change his name and call him oliver p. morton, after a friend of his, but i told him this doll had to be called by the name he came with, and if he wanted me to have one named for his friend, to get it, and i'd play with it." "what did he do?" "he didn't want one named morton that much." mr. pryor took dick oglesby in his fingers and looked at his curly black hair and blue eyes, his chubby outstretched arms, like a baby when it wants you to take it, and his plump little feet and the white shirt with red stripes all a piece of him as he was made, and said: "the honourable governor of our sister state seems a little weighty; i am at a loss to understand how he swims." "it's a new way," i said. "he just stands still and the water swims around him. it's very easy for him." then i carried dick to the water, waded in and stood him against a stone. something funny happened instantly. it always did. i found it out one day when i got some apple butter on the governor giving him a bite of my bread, and put him in the wash bowl to soak. he was two and a half inches tall; but the minute you stood him in water he went down to about half that height and spread out to twice his size around. you should have heard mr. pryor. "if you will lie on the bank and watch you'll have more to laugh at than that," i promised. he lay down and never paid the least attention to his clothes. pretty soon a little chub fish came swimming around to make friends with governor oglesby, and then a shiner and some more chub. they nibbled at his hands and toes, and then went flashing away, and from under the stone came backing a big crayfish and seized the governor by the leg and started dragging him, so i had to jump in and stop it. i took a shot at the crayfish with the tiger ammunition and then loaded for lions. we went on until the marsh became a thicket of cattails, bulrushes, willow bushes, and blue flags; then i found a path where the lions left the jungle, hid mr. pryor and told him he must be very still or they wouldn't come. at last i heard one. i touched mr. pryor's sleeve to warn him to keep his eyes on the trail. pretty soon the lion came in sight. really it was only a little gray rabbit hopping along, but when it was opposite us, i pinged it in the side, it jumped up and turned a somersault with surprise, and squealed a funny little squeal,--well, i wondered if mr. pryor's people didn't hear him, and think he had gone crazy as paddy ryan. i never did hear any one laugh so. i thought if he enjoyed it like that, i'd let him shoot one. i do may sometimes; so we went to another place i knew where there was a tiger's den, and i loaded with tiger lily bullets, gave him the gun and showed him where to aim. after we had waited a long time out came a muskrat, and started for the river. i looked to see why mr. pryor didn't shoot, and there he was gazing at it as if a snake had charmed him; his hands shaking a little, his cheeks almost red, his eyes very bright. "shoot!" i whispered. "it won't stay all day!" he forgot how to push the ramrod like i showed him, so he reached out and tried to hit it with the gun. "don't do that!" i said. "but it's getting away! it's getting away!" he cried. "well, what if it is?" i asked, half provoked. "do you suppose i really would hurt a poor little muskrat? maybe it has six hungry babies in its home." "oh that way," he said, but he kept looking at it, so he made me think if i hadn't been there, he would have thrown a stone or hit it with a stick. it is perfectly wonderful about how some men can't get along without killing things, such little bits of helpless creatures too. i thought he'd better be got from the jungle, so i invited him to see the place at the foot of the hill below our orchard where some men thought they had discovered gold before the war. they had been to california in ' , and although they didn't come home with millions, or anything else except sick and tired, they thought they had learned enough about gold to know it when they saw it. i told him about it and he was interested and anxious to see the place. if there had been a shovel, i am quite sure he would have gone to digging. he kept poking around with his boot toe, and he said maybe the yokels didn't look good. he said our meadow was a beautiful place, and when he praised the creek i told him about the wild ducks, and he laughed again. he didn't seem to be the same man when we went back to the road. i pulled some sweet marsh grass and gave his horse bites, so mr. pryor asked if i liked animals. i said i loved horses, laddie's best of all. he asked about it and i told him. "hasn't your father but one thoroughbred?" "father hasn't any," i said. "flos really belongs to laddie, and we are mighty glad he has her." "you should have one soon, yourself," he said. "well, if the rest of them will hurry up and marry off, so the expenses won't be so heavy, maybe i can." "how many of you are there?" he asked. "only twelve," i said. he looked down the road at our house. "do you mean to tell me you have twelve children there?" he inquired. "oh no!" i answered. "some of the big boys have gone into business in the cities around, and some of the girls are married. mother says she has only to show her girls in the cities to have them snapped up like hot cakes." "i fancy that is the truth," he said. "i've passed the one who rides the little black pony and she is a picture. a fine, healthy, sensible-appearing young woman!" "i don't think she's as pretty as your girl," i said. "perhaps i don't either," he replied, smiling at me. then he mounted his horse. "i don't remember that i ever have passed that house," he said, "without hearing some one singing. does it go on all the time?" "yes, unless mother is sick." "and what is it all about?" "oh just joy! gladness that we are alive, that we have things to do that we like, and praising the lord." "umph!" said mr. pryor. "it's just letting out what our hearts are full of," i told him. "don't you know that song: "'tis the old time religion and you cannot keep it still?'" he shook his head. "it's an awful nice song," i explained. "after it sings about all the other things religion is good for, there is one line that says: 'it's good for those in trouble.'" i looked at him straight and hard, but he only turned white and seemed sick. "so?" said mr. pryor. "well, thank you for the most interesting morning i've had this side england. i should be delighted if you would come and hunt lions in my woods with me some time." "oh, do you open the door to children?" "certainly we open the door to children," he said, and as i live, he looked so sad i couldn't help thinking he was sorry to close it against any one. a mystery is the dreadfulest thing. "then if children don't matter, maybe i can come lion-hunting some time with the princess, after she has made the visit at our house she said she would." "indeed! i hadn't been informed that my daughter contemplated visiting your house," he said. "when was it arranged?" "my mother invited her last sunday." i didn't like the way he said: "o-o-o-h!" some way it seemed insulting to my mother. "she did it to please me," i said. "there was a fairy princess told me the other day that your girl felt like a stranger, and that to be a stranger was the hardest thing in all the world. she sat a little way from the others, and she looked so lonely. i pulled my mother's sleeve and led her to your girl and made them shake hands, and then mother had to ask her to come to dinner with us. she always invites every one she meets coming down the aisle; she couldn't help asking your girl, too. she said she was expected at home, but she'd come some day and get acquainted. she needn't if you object. my mother only asked her because she thought she was lonely, and maybe she wanted to come." he sat there staring straight ahead and he seemed to grow whiter, and older, and colder every minute. "possibly she is lonely," he said at last. "this isn't much like the life she left. perhaps she does feel herself a stranger. it was very kind of your mother to invite her. if she wants to come, i shall make no objections." "no, but my father will," i said. he straightened up as if something had hit him. "why will he object?" "on account of what you said about god at our house," i told him. "and then, too, father's people were from england, and he says real englishmen have their doors wide open, and welcome people who offer friendliness." mr. pryor hit his horse an awful blow. it reared and went racing up the road until i thought it was running away. i could see i had made him angry enough to burst. mother always tells me not to repeat things; but i'm not smart enough to know what to say, so i don't see what is left but to tell what mother, or father, or laddie says when grown people ask me questions. i went home, but every one was too busy even to look at me, so i took bobby under my arm, hunted father, and told him all about the morning. i wondered what he would think. i never found out. he wouldn't say anything, so bobby and i went across the lane, and climbed the gate into the orchard to see if hezekiah were there and wanted to fight. he hadn't time to fight bobby because he was busy chasing every wild jay from our orchard. by the time he got that done, he was tired, so he came hopping along on branches above us as bobby and i went down the west fence beside the lane. if i had been compelled to choose the side of our orchard i liked best, i don't know which i would have selected. the west side--that is, the one behind the dooryard--was running over with interesting things. two gates opened into it, one from near each corner of the yard. between these there was quite a wide level space, where mother fed the big chickens and kept the hens in coops with little ones. she had to have them close enough that the big hawks were afraid to come to earth, or they would take more chickens than they could pay for, by cleaning rabbits, snakes, and mice from the fields. then came a double row of prize peach trees; rare fruit that mother canned to take to county fairs. one bore big, white freestones, and around the seed they were pink as a rose. one was a white cling, and one was yellow. there was a yellow freestone as big as a young sun, and as golden, and the queerest of all was a cling purple as a beet. sometimes father read about the hairs of the head being numbered, because we were so precious in the sight of the almighty. mother was just as particular with her purple tree; every peach on it was counted, and if we found one on the ground, we had to carry it to her, because it might be sound enough to can or spice for a fair, or she had promised the seed to some one halfway across the state. at each end of the peach row was an enormous big pear tree; not far from one the chicken house stood on the path to the barn, and beside the other the smoke house with the dog kennel a yard away. father said there was a distinct relationship between a smoke house and a dog kennel, and bulldogs were best. just at present we were out of bulldogs, but jones, jenkins and co. could make as much noise as any dog you ever heard. on the left grew the plum trees all the way to the south fence, and i think there was one of every kind in the fruit catalogues. father spent hours pruning, grafting, and fertilizing them. he said they required twice as much work as peaches. around the other sides of the orchard were two rows of peach trees of every variety; but one cling on the north was just a little the best of any, and we might eat all we wanted from any tree we liked, after father tested them and said: "peaches are ripe!" in the middle were the apple; selected trees, planted, trimmed, and cultivated like human beings. the apples were so big and fine they were picked by hand, wrapped in paper, packed in barrels, and all we could not use at home went to j. b. white in fort wayne for the biggest fruit house in the state. my! but father was proud! he always packed especially fine ones for mr. white's family. he said he liked him, because he was a real sandy scotchman, who knew when an apple was right, and wasn't afraid to say so. on the south side of the orchard there was the earliest june apple tree. the apples were small, bright red with yellow stripes, crisp, juicy and sweet enough to be just right. the tree was very large, and so heavy it leaned far to the northeast. this sounds like make-believe, but it's gospel truth. almost two feet from the ground there was a big round growth, the size of a hash bowl. the tree must have been hurt when very small and the place enlarged with the trunk. now it made a grand step. if you understood that no one could keep from running the last few rods from the tree, then figured on the help to be had from this step, you could see how we went up it like squirrels. all the bark on the south side was worn away and the trunk was smooth and shiny. the birds loved to nest among the branches, and under the peach tree in the fence corner opposite was a big bed of my mother's favourite wild flowers, blue-eyed marys. they had dainty stems from six to eight inches high and delicate heads of bloom made up of little flowers, two petals up, blue, two turning down, white. perhaps you don't know about anything prettier than that. there were maiden-hair ferns among them too! and the biggest lichens you ever saw on the fence, while in the hollow of a rotten rail a little chippy bird always built a hair nest. she got the hairs at our barn, for most of them were gray from our carriage horses, ned and jo. all down that side of the orchard the fence corners were filled with long grass and wild flowers, a few alder bushes left to furnish berries for the birds, and wild roses for us, to keep their beauty impressed on us, father said. the east end ran along the brow of a hill so steep we coasted down it on the big meat board all winter. the board was six inches thick, two and a half feet wide, and six long. father said slipping over ice and snow gave it the good scouring it needed, and it was thick enough to last all our lives, so we might play with it as we pleased. at least seven of us could go skimming down that hill and halfway across the meadow on it. in the very place we slid across, in summer lay the cowslip bed. the world is full of beautiful spots, but i doubt if any of them ever were prettier than that. father called it swale. we didn't sink deep, but all summer there was water standing there. the grass was long and very sweet, there were ferns and a few calamus flowers, and there must have been an acre of cowslips--cowslips with big-veined, heartshaped, green leaves, and large pale gold flowers. i used to sit on the top rail of that orchard fence and look down at them, and try to figure out what god was thinking when he created them, and i wished that i might have been where i could watch his face as he worked. halfway across the east side was a gully where leon and i found the underground station, and from any place along the north you looked, you saw the little creek and the marsh. at the same time the cowslips were most golden, the marsh was blue with flags, pink with smart weed, white and yellow with dodder, yellow with marsh buttercups having ragged frosty leaves, while the yellow and the red birds flashed above it, the red crying, "chip," "chip," in short, sharp notes, the yellow spilling music all over the marsh while on wing. it would take a whole book to describe the butterflies; once in a while you scared up a big, wonderful moth, large as a sparrow; and the orchard was alive with doves, thrushes, catbirds, bluebirds, vireos, and orioles. when you climbed the fence, or a tree, and kept quiet, and heard the music and studied the pictures, it made you feel as if you had to put it into words. i often had meeting all by myself, unless bobby and hezekiah were along, and i tried to tell god what i thought about things. probably he was so busy making more birds and flowers for other worlds, he never heard me; but i didn't say anything disrespectful at all, so it made no difference if he did listen. it just seemed as if i must tell what i thought, and i felt better, not so full and restless after i had finished. all of us were alike about that. at that minute i knew mother was humming, as she did a dozen times a day: "i think when i read that sweet story of old, when jesus was here among men how he called little children as lambs to his fold, i should like to have been with him then." lucy would be rocking her baby and singing, "hush, my dear, lie still and slumber." candace's favourite she made up about her man who had been killed in the war, when they had been married only six weeks, which hadn't given her time to grow tired of him if he hadn't been "all her fancy painted." she arranged the words like "ben battle was a soldier bold," and she sang them to suit herself, and cried every single minute: "they wrapped him in his uniform, they laid him in the tomb, my aching heart i thought 'twould break, but such was my sad doom." candace just loved that song. she sang it all the time. leon said our pie always tasted salty from her tears, and he'd take a bite and smile at her sweetly and say: "how uniform you get your pie, candace!" may's favourite was "joy bells." father would be whispering over to himself the speech he was preparing to make at the next prayer-meeting. we never could learn his speeches, because he read and studied so much it kept his head so full, he made a new one every time. you could hear laddie's deep bass booming the "bedouin love song" for a mile; this minute it came rolling across the corn: "open the door of thy heart, and open thy chamber door, and my kisses shall teach thy lips the love that shall fade no more till the sun grows cold, and the stars are old, and the leaves of the judgment book unfold!" i don't know how the princess stood it. if he had been singing that song where i could hear it and i had known it was about me, as she must have known he meant her, i couldn't have kept my arms from around his neck. over in the barn leon was singing: "a life on the ocean wave, a home on the rolling deep, where codfish waggle their tails 'mid tadpoles two feet deep." the minute he finished, he would begin reciting "marco bozzaris," and you could be sure that he would reach the last line only to commence on the speech of "logan, chief of the mingoes," or any one of the fifty others. he could make your hair stand a little straighter than any one else; the best teachers we ever had, or even laddie, couldn't make you shivery and creepy as he could. because all of us kept going like that every day, people couldn't pass without hearing, so that was what mr. pryor meant. i had a pulpit in the southeast corner of the orchard. i liked that place best of all because from it you could see two sides at once. the very first little, old log cabin that had been on our land, the one my father and mother moved into, had stood in that corner. it was all gone now; but a flowerbed of tiny, purple iris, not so tall as the grass, spread there, and some striped grass in the shadiest places, and among the flowers a lark brooded every spring. in the fence corner mother's big white turkey hen always nested. to protect her from rain and too hot sun, father had slipped some boards between the rails about three feet from the ground. after the turkey left, that was my pulpit. i stood there and used the top of the fence for my railing. the little flags and all the orchard and birds were behind me; on one hand was the broad, grassy meadow with the creek running so swiftly, i could hear it, and the breath of the cowslips came up the hill. straight in front was the lane running down from the barn, crossing the creek and spreading into the woods pasture, where the water ran wider and yet swifter, big forest trees grew, and bushes of berries, pawpaws, willow, everything ever found in an indiana thicket; grass under foot, and many wild flowers and ferns wherever the cattle and horses didn't trample them, and bigger, wilder birds, many having names i didn't know. on the left, across the lane, was a large cornfield, with trees here and there, and down the valley i could see the big creek coming from the west, the big hill with the church on top, and always the white gravestones around it. always too there was the sky overhead, often with clouds banked until you felt if you only could reach them, you could climb straight to the gates that father was so fond of singing about sweeping through. mostly there was a big hawk or a turkey buzzard hanging among them, just to show us that we were not so much, and that we couldn't shoot them, unless they chose to come down and give us a chance. i set bobby and hezekiah on the fence and stood between them. "we will open service this morning by singing the thirty-fifth hymn," i said. "sister dover, will you pitch the tune?" then i made my voice high and squeally like hers and sang: "come ye that love the lord, and let your joys be known, join in a song of sweet accord, and thus surround the throne." i sang all of it and then said: "brother hastings, will you lead us in prayer?" then i knelt down, and prayed brother hastings' prayer. i could have repeated any one of a dozen of the prayers the men of our church prayed, but i liked brother hastings' best, because it had the biggest words in it. i loved words that filled your mouth, and sounded as if you were used to books. it began sort of sing-songy and measured in stops, like a poetry piece: "our heavenly father: we come before thee this morning, humble worms of the dust, imploring thy blessing. we beseech thee to forgive our transgressions, heal our backsliding, and love us freely." sometimes from there on it changed a little, but it always began and ended exactly the same way. father said brother hastings was powerful in prayer, but he did wish he'd leave out the "worms of the dust." he said we were not "worms of the dust"; we were reasoning, progressive, inventive men and women. he said a worm would never be anything except a worm, but we could study and improve ourselves, help others, make great machines, paint pictures, write books, and go to an extent that must almost amaze the almighty himself. he said that if brother hastings had done more plowing in his time, and had a little closer acquaintance with worms, he wouldn't be so ready to call himself and every one else a worm. now if you are talking about cutworms or fishworms, father is right. but there is that place where--"charles his heel had raised, upon the humble worm to tread," and the worm lifted up its voice and spake thus to charles: "i know i'm now among the things uncomely to your sight, but, by and by, on splendid wings, you'll see me high and bright." now i'll bet a cent that is the kind of worm brother hastings said we were. i must speak to father about it. i don't want him to be mistaken; and i really think he is about worms. of course he knows the kind that have wings and fly. brother hastings mixed him up by saying "worms of the dust" when he should have said worms of the leaves. those that go into little round cases in earth or spin cocoons on trees always live on leaves, and many of them rear the head, having large horns, and wave it in a manner far from humble. so father and brother hastings were both partly right, and partly wrong. when the prayer came to a close, where every one always said "amen," i punched bobby and whispered, "crow, bobby, crow!" and he stood up and brought it out strong, like he always did when i told him. i had to stop the service to feed him a little wheat, to pay him for crowing; but as no one was there except us, that didn't matter. then hezekiah crowded over for some, so i had to pretend i was mrs. daniels feeding her children caraway cake, like she always did in meeting. if i had been the mother of children who couldn't have gone without things to eat in church i'd have kept them at home. mrs. daniels always had the carpet greasy with cake crumbs wherever she sat, and mother didn't think the lord liked a dirty church any more than we would have wanted a mussy house. when i had bobby and hezekiah settled i took my text from my head, because i didn't know the meeting feeling was coming on me when i started, and i had brought no bible along. "blessed are all men, but most blessed are they who hold their tempers." i had to stroke bobby a little and pat hezekiah once in a while, to keep them from flying down and fighting, but mostly i could give my attention to my sermon. "we have only to look around us this morning to see that all men are blessed," i said. "the sky is big enough to cover every one. if the sun gets too hot, there are trees for shade or the clouds come up for a while. if the earth becomes too dry, it always rains before it is everlastingly too late. there are birds enough to sing for every one, butterflies enough to go around, and so many flowers we can't always keep the cattle and horses from tramping down and even devouring beautiful ones, like daniel thought the lions would devour him--but they didn't. wouldn't it be a good idea, o lord, for you to shut the cows' mouths and save the cowslips also; they may not be worth as much as a man, but they are lots better looking, and they make fine greens. it doesn't seem right for cows to eat flowers; but maybe it is as right for them as it is for us. the best way would be for our cattle to do like that piece about the cow in the meadow exactly the same as ours: "'and through it ran a little brook, where oft the cows would drink, and then lie down among the flowers, that grew upon the brink.' "you notice, o lord, the cows did not eat the flowers in this instance; they merely rested among them, and goodness knows, that's enough for any cow. they had better done like the next verse, where it says: "'they like to lie beneath the trees, all shaded by the boughs, whene'er the noontide heat came on: sure, they were happy cows!' "now, o lord, this plainly teaches that if cows are happy, men should be much more so, for like the cows, they have all thou canst do for them, and all they can do for themselves, besides. so every man is blessed, because thy bounty has provided all these things for him, without money and without price. if some men are not so blessed as others, it is their own fault, and not yours. you made the earth, and all that is therein, and you made the men. of course you had to make men different, so each woman can tell which one belongs to her; but i believe it would have been a good idea while you were at it, if you would have made all of them enough alike that they would all work. perhaps it isn't polite of me to ask more of you than you saw fit to do; and then, again, it may be that there are some things impossible, even to you. if there is anything at all, seems as if making isaac thomas work would be it. father says that man would rather starve and see his wife and children hungry than to take off his coat, roll up his sleeves, and plow corn; so it was good enough for him when leon said, 'go to the ant, thou sluggard,' right at him. so, of course, isaac is not so blessed as some men, because he won't work, and thus he never knows whether he's going to have a big dinner on sunday, until after some one asks him, because he looks so empty. mother thinks it isn't fair to feed isaac and send him home with his stomach full, while mandy and the babies are sick and hungry. but isaac is some blessed, because he has religion and gets real happy, and sings, and shouts, and he's going to heaven when he dies. he must wish he'd go soon, especially in winter. "there are men who do not have even this blessing, and to make things worse, o lord, they get mad as fire and hit their horses, and look like all possessed. the words of my text this morning apply especially to a man who has all the blessings thou hast showered and flowered upon men who work, or whose people worked and left them so much money they don't need to, and yet a sadder face i never saw, or a crosser one. he looks like he was going to hit people, and he does hit his horse an awful crack. it's no way to hit a horse, not even if it balks, because it can't hit back, and it's a cowardly thing to do. if you rub their ears and talk to them, they come quicker, o our heavenly father, and if you hit them just because you are mad, it's a bigger sin yet. "no man is nearly so blessed as he might be who goes around looking killed with grief when he should cheer up, no matter what ails him; and who shuts up his door and says his wife is sick when she isn't, and who scowls at every one, when he can be real pleasant if he likes, as some in divine presence can testify. so we are going to beseech thee, o lord, to lay thy mighty hand upon the man who got mad this beautiful morning and make him feel thy might, until he will know for himself and not another, that you are not a myth. teach him to have a pleasant countenance, an open door, and to hold his temper. help him to come over to our house and be friendly with all his neighbours, and get all the blessings you have provided for every one; but please don't make him have any more trouble than he has now, for if you do, you'll surely kill him. have patience with him, and have mercy on him, o lord! let us pray." that time i prayed myself. i looked into the sky just as straight and as far as i could see, and if i had any influence at all, i used it then. right out loud, i just begged the lord to get after mr. pryor and make him behave like other people, and let the princess come to our house, and for him to come too; because i liked him heaps when he was lion hunting, and i wanted to go with him again the worst way. i had seen him sail right over the fences on his big black horse, and when he did it in england, wearing a red coat, and the dogs flew over thick around him, it must have looked grand, but it was mighty hard on the fox. i do hope it got away. anyway, i prayed as hard as i could, and every time i said the strongest thing i knew, i punched bobby to crow, and he never came out stronger. then i was sister dover and started: "oh come let us gather at the fountain, the fountain that never goes dry." just as i was going to pronounce the benediction like father, i heard something, so i looked around, and there went he and dr. fenner. they were going toward the house, and yet, they hadn't passed me. i was not scared, because i knew no one was sick. dr. fenner always stopped when he passed, if he had a minute, and if he hadn't, mother sent some one to the gate with buttermilk and slices of bread and butter, and jelly an inch thick. when a meal was almost cooked she heaped some on a plate and he ate as he drove and left the plate next time he passed. often he was so dead tired, he was asleep in his buggy, and his old gray horse always stopped at our gate. i ended with "amen," because i wanted to know if they had been listening; so i climbed the fence, ran down the lane behind the bushes, and hid a minute. sure enough they had! i suppose i had been so in earnest i hadn't heard a sound, but it's a wonder hezekiah hadn't told me. he was always seeing something to make danger signals about. he never let me run on a snake, or a hawk get one of the chickens, or paddy ryan come too close. i only wanted to know if they had gone and listened, and then i intended to run straight back to bobby and hezekiah; but they stopped under the greening apple tree, and what they said was so interesting i waited longer than i should, because it's about the worst thing you can do to listen when older people don't know. they were talking about me. "i can't account for her," said father. "i can!" said dr. fenner. "she is the only child i ever have had in my practice who managed to reach earth as all children should. during the impressionable stage, no one expected her, so there was no time spent in worrying, fretting, and discontent. i don't mean that these things were customary with ruth. no woman ever accepted motherhood in a more beautiful spirit; but if she would have protested at any time, it would have been then. instead, she lived happily, naturally, and enjoyed herself as she never had before. she was in the fields, the woods, and the garden constantly, which accounts for this child's outdoor tendencies. then you must remember that both of you were at top notch intellectually, and physically, fully matured. she had the benefit of ripened minds, and at a time when every faculty recently had been stirred by the excitement and suffering of the war. oh, you can account for her easily enough, but i don't know what on earth you are going to do with her. you'll have to go careful, paul. i warn you she will not be like the others." "we realize that. mother says she doubts if she can ever teach her to sew and become a housewife." "she isn't cut out for a seamstress or a housewife, paul. tell ruth not to try to force those things on her. turn her loose out of doors; give her good books, and leave her alone. you won't be disappointed in the woman who evolves." right there i realized what i was doing, and i turned and ran for the pulpit with all my might. i could always repeat things, but i couldn't see much sense to the first part of that; the last was as plain as the nose on your face. dr. fenner said they mustn't force me to sew, and do housework; and mother didn't mind the almighty any better than she did the doctor. there was nothing in this world i disliked so much as being kept indoors, and made to hem cap and apron strings so particularly that i had to count the number of threads between every stitch, and in each stitch, so that i got all of them just exactly even. i liked carpet rags a little better, because i didn't have to be so particular about stitches, and i always picked out all the bright, pretty colours. mother said she could follow my work all over the floor by the bright spots. perhaps if i were not to be kept in the house i wouldn't have to sew any more. that made me so happy i wondered if i couldn't stretch out my arms and wave them and fly. i sat on the pulpit wishing i had feathers. it made me pretty blue to have to stay on the ground all the time, when i wanted to be sailing up among the clouds with the turkey buzzards. it called to my mind that place in mcguffey's fifth where it says: "sweet bird, thy bower is ever green, thy sky is ever clear; thou hast no sorrow in thy song, no winter in thy year." of course, i never heard a turkey buzzard sing. laddie said they couldn't; but that didn't prove it. he said half the members of our church couldn't sing, but they did; and when all of them were going at the tops of their voices, it was just grand. so maybe the turkey buzzard could sing if it wanted to; seemed as if it should, if isaac thomas could; and anyway, it was the next verse i was thinking most about: "oh, could i fly, i'd fly with thee! we'd make with joyful wing, our annual visit o'er the globe, companions of the spring." that was so exciting i thought i'd just try it, so i stood on the top rail, spread my arms, waved them, and started. i was bumped in fifty places when i rolled into the cowslip bed at the foot of the steep hill, for stones stuck out all over the side of it, and i felt pretty mean as i climbed back to the pulpit. the only consolation i had was what dr. fenner had said. that would be the greatest possible help in managing father or mother. i was undecided about whether i would go to school, or not. must be perfectly dreadful to dress like for church, and sit still in a stuffy little room, and do your "abs," and "bes," and "bis," and "bos," all day long. i could spell quite well without looking at a schoolhouse, and read too. i was wondering if i ever would go at all, when i thought of something else. dr. fenner had said to give me plenty of good books. i was wild for some that were already promised me. well, what would they amount to if i couldn't understand them when i got them? that seemed to make it sure i would be compelled to go to school until i learned enough to understand what the books contained about birds, flowers, and moths, anyway; and perhaps there would be some having fairies in them. of course those would be interesting. i never hated doing anything so badly, in all my life, but i could see, with no one to tell me, that i had put it off as long as i dared. i would just have to start school when leon and may went in september. tilly baher, who lived across the swamp near sarah hood, had gone two winters already, and she was only a year older, and not half my size. i stood on the pulpit and looked a long time in every direction, into the sky the longest of all. it was settled. i must go; i might as well start and have it over. i couldn't look anywhere, right there at home, and not see more things i didn't know about than i did. when mother showed me in the city, i wouldn't be snapped up like hot cakes; i'd be a blockhead no one would have. it made me so vexed to think i had to go, i set hezekiah on my shoulder, took bobby under my arm, and went to the house. on the way, i made up my mind that i would ask again, very politely, to hold the little baby, and if the rest of them went and pigged it up straight along, i'd pinch it, if i got a chance. chapter iv the last day in eden "'tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, and coming events cast their shadows before." of course the baby was asleep and couldn't be touched; but there was some excitement, anyway. father had come from town with a letter from the new school teacher, that said she would expect him to meet her at the station next saturday. mother thought she might as well get the room ready and let her stay at our house, because we were most convenient, and it would be the best place for her. she said that every time, and the teacher always stayed with us. really it was because father and mother wanted the teacher where they could know as much as possible about what was going on. sally didn't like having her at all; she said with the wedding coming, the teacher would be a nuisance. shelley had finished our school, and the groveville high school, and instead of attending college she was going to chicago to study music. she was so anxious over her dresses and getting started, she didn't seem to think much about what was going to happen to us at home; so she didn't care if miss amelia stayed at our house. may said it would be best to have the teacher with us, because she could help us with our lessons at home, and we could get ahead of the others. may already had decided that she would be at the head of her class when she finished school, and every time you wanted her and couldn't find her, if you would look across the foot of mother's bed, may would be there with a spelling book. once she had spelled down our school, when laddie was not there. father had met peter dover in town, and he had said that he was coming to see sally, because he had something of especial importance to tell her. "did he say what it was?" asked sally. "only what i have told you," replied father. sally wanted to take the broom and sweep the parlour. "it's clean as a ribbon," said mother. "if you go in there, you'll wake the baby," said lucy. "will it kill it if i do?" asked sally. "no, but it will make it cross as fire, so it will cry all the time peter is here," said lucy. "i'll be surprised if it doesn't scream every minute anyway," said sally. "i hope it will," said lucy. "that will make peter think a while before he comes so often." that made sally so angry she couldn't speak, so she went out and began killing chickens. i helped her catch them. they were so used to me they would come right to my feet when i shelled corn. "i'm going to kill three," said sally. "i'm going to be sure we have enough, but don't you tell until their heads are off." while she was working on them mother came out and asked how many she had, so sally said three. mother counted us and said that wasn't enough; there would have to be four at least. after she was gone sally looked at me and said: "well, for land's sake!" it was so funny she had to laugh, and by the time i caught the fourth one, and began helping pick them, she was over being provoked and we had lots of fun. the minute i saw peter dover he made me think of something. i rode his horse to the barn with leon leading it. there we saw laddie. "guess what!" i cried. "never could!" laughed laddie, giving peter dover's horse a slap as it passed him on the way to a stall. "four chickens, ham, biscuit, and cake!" i announced. "is it a barbecue?" asked laddie. "no, the extra one is for the baby," said leon. "squally little runt, i call it." "it's a nice baby!" said laddie. "what do you know about it?" demanded leon. "well, considering that i started with you, and have brought up two others since, i am schooled in all there is to know," said laddie. "guess what else!" i cried. "more?" said laddie. "out with it! don't kill me with suspense." "father is going to town saturday to meet the new teacher and she will stay at our house as usual." leon yelled and fell back in a manger, while laddie held harness oil to his nose. "more!" cried leon, grabbing the bottle. "are you sure?" asked laddie of me earnestly. "it's decided. mother said so," i told him. "name of a black cat, why?" demanded laddie. "mother said we were most convenient for the teacher." "aren't there enough of us?" asked leon, straightening up sniffing harness oil as if his life depended on it. "any unprejudiced person would probably say so to look in," said laddie. "i'll bet she'll be sixty and a cat," said leon. "won't i have fun with her?" "maybe so, maybe not!" said laddie. "you can't always tell, for sure. remember your alamo! you were going to have fun with the teacher last year, but she had it with you." leon threw the oil bottle at him. laddie caught it and set it on the shelf. "i don't understand," said leon. "i do," said laddie dryly. "this is one reason." he hit peter dover's horse another slap. "maybe yes," said leon. "shelley to music school, two." "yes," said leon. "peter dovers are the greatest expense, and peter won't happen but once. shelley will have at least two years in school before it is her turn, and you come next, anyway." "shut up!" cried laddie. "thanky! your orders shall be obeyed gladly." he laid down the pitchfork, went outside, closed the door, and latched it. laddie called to him, but he ran to the house. when laddie and i finished our work, and his, and wanted to go, we had to climb the stairs and leave through the front door on the embankment. "the monkey!" said laddie, but he didn't get mad; he just laughed. the minute i stepped into the house and saw the parlour door closed, i thought of that "something" again. i walked past it, but couldn't hear anything. of course mother wanted to know; and she would be very thankful to me if i could tell her. i went out the front door, and thought deeply on the situation. the windows were wide open, but i was far below them and i could only hear a sort of murmur. why can't people speak up loud and plain, anyway? of course they would sit on the big haircloth sofa. didn't leon call it the "sparking bench"? the hemlock tree would be best. i climbed quieter than a cat, for they break bark and make an awful scratching with their claws sometimes; my bare feet were soundless. up and up i went, slowly, for it was dreadfully rough. they were not on the sofa. i could see plainly through the needles. then i saw the spruce would have been better, for they were standing in front of the parlour door and peter had one hand on the knob. his other arm was around my sister sally. breathlessly i leaned as far as i could, and watched. "father said he'd give me the money to buy a half interest, and furnish a house nicely, if you said 'yes,' sally," said peter. sally leaned back all pinksome and blushful, and while she laughed at him she "carelessly tossed off a curl that played on her delicate brow." exactly like mary dow in mcguffey's third. "well, what did i say?" she asked. "come to think of it, you didn't say anything." sally's face was all afire with dancing lights, and she laughed the gayest little laugh. "are you so very sure of that, peter?" she said. "i'm not sure of anything," said peter, "except that i am so happy i could fly." "try it, fool!" i said to myself, deep in my throat. sally laughed again, and peter took his other hand from the door and put that arm around sally too, and he drew her to him and kissed her, the longest, hardest kiss i ever saw. i let go and rolled, tumbled, slid, and scratched down the hemlock tree, dropped from the last branch to the ground, and scampered around the house. i reached the dining-room door when every one was gathering for supper. "mother!" i cried. "mother! yes! they're engaged! he's kissing her, mother! yes, lucy, they're engaged!" i rushed in to tell all of them what they would be glad to know, and if there didn't stand peter and sally! how they ever got through that door, and across the sitting-room before me, i don't understand. sally made a dive at me, and i was so astonished i forgot to run, so she caught me. she started for the wood house with me, and mother followed. sally turned at the door and she was the whitest of anything you ever saw. "this is my affair," she said. "i'll attend to this young lady." "very well," said mother, and as i live she turned and left me to my sad fate, as it says in a story book we have. i wish when people are going to punish me, they'd take a switch and strike respectably, like mother does. this thing of having some one get all over me, and not having an idea where i'm going to be hit, is the worst punishment that i ever had. i'd been down the hill and up the hemlock that day, anyway. i'd always been told sally didn't want me. she proved it right then. finally she quit, because she was too tired to strike again, so i crept among the shavings on the work bench and went to sleep. i thought they would like to know, and that i was going to please them. anyway, they found out, for by the time sally got back peter had told them about the store, and the furnished house, and asked father for sally right before all of them, which father said was pretty brave; but peter knew it was all right or he couldn't have come like he'd been doing. after that, you couldn't hear anything at our house but wedding. sally's share of linen and bedding was all finished long ago. father took her to fort wayne on the cars to buy her wedding, travelling, and working dresses, and her hat, cloak, and linen, like you have when you marry. it was strange that sally didn't want mother to go, but she said the trip would tire her too much. mother said it was because sally could coax more dresses from father. anyway, mother told him to set a limit and stick to it. she said she knew he hadn't done it as she got the first glimpse of sally's face when they came back, but the child looked so beautiful and happy she hadn't the heart to spoil her pleasure. the next day a sewing woman came; and all of them were shut up in the sitting-room, while the sewing machine just whizzed on the working dresses. sally said the wedding dress had to be made by hand. she kept the room locked, and every new thing that they made was laid away on the bed in the parlour bedroom, and none of us had a peep until everything was finished. it was awfully exciting, but i wouldn't pretend i cared, because i was huffy at her. i told her i wouldn't kiss her goodbye, and i'd be glad when she was gone. sally said the school-ma'am simply had to go to winters', or some place else, but mother said possibly a stranger would have some ideas, and know some new styles, so sally then thought maybe they had better try it a few days, and she could have her place and be company when she and shelley left. shelley was rather silent and blue, and before long i found her crying, because mother had told her she couldn't start for chicago until after the wedding, and that would make her miss six weeks at the start. next day word was sent around that school was to begin the coming monday; so saturday afternoon the people who had children large enough to go sent the biggest of them to clean the schoolhouse. may, leon, and i went to do our share. just when there were about a bushel of nut shells, and withered apple cores, and inky paper on the floor, the blackboard half cleaned, and ashes trailed deep between the stove and the window billy wilson was throwing them from, some one shouted: "there comes mr. stanton with her." all of us dropped everything and ran to the south windows. i tell you i was proud of our big white team as it came prancing down the hill, and the gleaming patent leather trimmings, and the brass side lamps shining in the sun. father sat very straight, driving rather fast, as if he would as lief get it over with, and instead of riding on the back seat, where mother always sat, the teacher was in front beside him, and she seemed to be talking constantly. we looked at each other and groaned when father stopped at the hitching post and got out. if we had tried to see what a dreadful muss we could make, things could have looked no worse. i think father told her to wait in the carriage, but we heard her cry: "oh mr. stanton, let me see the dear children i'm to teach, and where i'm to work." hopped is the word. she hopped from the carriage and came hopping after father. she was as tall as a clothes prop and scarcely as fat. there were gray hairs coming on her temples. her face was sallow and wrinkled, and she had faded, pale-blue eyes. her dress was like my mother had worn several years before, in style, and of stiff gray stuff. she made me feel that no one wanted her at home, and probably that was the reason she had come so far away. every one stood dumb. mother always went to meet people and may was old enough to know it. she went, but she looked exactly as she does when the wafer bursts and the quinine gets in her mouth, and she doesn't dare spit it out, because it costs five dollars a bottle, and it's going to do her good. father introduced may and some of the older children, and may helped him with the others, and then he told us to "dig in and work like troopers," and he would take miss pollard on home. "oh do let me remain and help the dear children!" she cried. "we can finish!" we answered in full chorus. "how lovely of you!" she chirped. chirp makes you think of a bird; and in speech and manner miss amelia pollard was the most birdlike of any human being i ever have seen. she hopped from the step to the walk, turned to us, her head on one side, playfulness in the air around her, and shook her finger at us. "be extremely particular that you leave things immaculate at the consummation of your labour," she said. "'remember that cleanliness is next to godliness!'" "two terms of that!" gasped leon, sinking on the stove hearth. "behold job mourning as close the ashes as he can." billy wilson had the top lid off, so he reached down and got a big handful of ashes and sifted them over leon. but it's no fun to do anything like that to him; he only sank in a more dejected heap, and moaned: "send for bildad and zophar to comfort me, and more ashes, please." "why does the little feathered dear touch earth at all? why doesn't she fly?" demanded silas shaw. "i'm going to get a hundred wads ready for monday," said jimmy hood. "we can shoot them when we please." "bet ten cents you can't hit her," said billy wilson. "there ain't enough of her for a decent mark." "let's quit and go home," proposed leon. "this will look worse than it does now by monday night." then every one began talking at once. suddenly may seized the poker and began pounding on the top of the stove for order. "we must clean this up," she said. "we might as well finish. maybe you'll shoot wads and do what you please, and maybe you won't. her eyes went around like a cat that smells mice. if she can spell the language she uses, she is the best we've ever had." that made us blink, and i never forgot it. many times afterward while listening to people talk, i wondered if they could spell the words they used. "well, come on, then!" said leon. he seized the broom and handed it to billy wilson, quoting as he did so, "work, work, my boy, be not afraid"; and he told silas shaw as he gave him the mop, to "look labour boldly in the face!" but he never did a thing himself, except to keep every one laughing. so we cleaned up as well as we could, and leon strutted like bobby, because he locked the door and carried the key. when we reached home i was sorry i hadn't gone with father, so i could have seen mother, sally, candace, and laddie when first they met the new teacher. the shock showed yet! miss amelia had taken off her smothery woollen dress and put on a black calico, but it wasn't any more cheerful. she didn't know what to do, and you could see plainly that no one knew what to do with her, so they united in sending me to show her the place. i asked her what she would like most to see, and she said everything was so charming she couldn't decide. i thought if she had no more choice than that, one place would do as well as another, so i started for the orchard. quick as we got there, i knew what to do. i led her straight to our best cling peach tree, told her to climb on the fence so she could reach easily, and eat all she chose. we didn't dare shake the tree, because the pigs ran on the other side of the fence, and they chanked up every peach that fell there. those peaches were too good to feed even father's finest berkshires. by the time miss amelia had eaten nine or ten, she was so happy to think she was there, she quit tilting her head and using big words. of course she couldn't know how i loved to hear them, and maybe she thought i wouldn't know what they meant, and that they would be wasted on me. if she had understood how much spelling and defining i'd heard in my life, i guess she might have talked up as big as she could, and still i'd have got most of it. when she reached the place where she ate more slowly, she began to talk. she must have asked me most a hundred questions. what all our names were, how old we were, if our girls had lots of beaus, and if there were many men in the neighbourhood, and dozens of things my mother never asked any one. she always inquired if people were well, if their crops were growing, how much fruit they had, and how near their quilts were finished. i told her all about sally and the wedding, because no one cared who knew it, after i had been pounded to mince-meat for telling. she asked if shelley had any beaus, and i said there wasn't any one who came like peter, but every man in the neighbourhood wanted to be her beau. then she asked about laddie, and i was taking no risks, so i said: "i only see him at home. i don't know where he goes when he's away. you'll have to ask him." "oh, i never would dare," she said. "but he must. he is so handsome! the girls would just compel him to go to see them." "not if he didn't want to go," i said. "you must never, never tell him i said so, but i do think he is the handsomest man i ever saw." "so do i," i said, "and it wouldn't make any difference if i told him." "then do you mean you're going to tell him my foolish remark?" she giggled. "no use," i said. "he knows it now. every time he parts his hair he sees how good looking he is. he doesn't care. he says the only thing that counts with a man is to be big, strong, manly, and well educated." "is he well educated?" "yes, i think so, as far as he's gone," i answered. "of course he will go on being educated every day of his life, same as father. he says it is all rot about 'finishing' your education. you never do. you learn more important things each day, and by the time you are old enough to die, you have almost enough sense to know how to live comfortably. pity, isn't it?" "yes," said miss amelia, "it's an awful pity, but it's the truth. is your mother being educated too?" "whole family," i said. "we learn all the time, mother most of any, because father always looks out for her. you see, it takes so much of her time to manage the house, and sew, and knit, and darn, that she can't study so much as the others; so father reads all the books to her, and tells her about everything he finds out, and so do all of us. just ask her if you think she doesn't know things." "i wouldn't know what to ask," said miss amelia. "ask how long it took to make this world, who invented printing, where english was first spoken, why greeley changed his politics, how to make bluebell perfumery, cut out a dress, or cure a baby of worms. just ask her!" miss amelia threw a peach stone through a fence crack and hit a pig. it was a pretty neat shot. "i don't need ask any of that," she said scornfully. "i know all of it now." "all right! what is best for worms?" i asked. "jayne's vermifuge," said miss amelia. "wrong!" i cried. "that's a patent medicine. tea made from male fern root is best, because there's no morphine in it!" the supper bell rang and i was glad of it. peaches are not very filling after all, for i couldn't see but that miss amelia ate as much as any of us. for a few minutes every one was slow in speaking, then mother asked about cleaning the schoolhouse, laddie had something to explain to father about corn mould, sally and the dressmaker talked about pipings--not a bird--a new way to fold goods to make trimmings, and soon everything was going on the same as if the new teacher were not there. i noticed that she kept her head straight, and was not nearly so glib-tongued and birdlike before mother and sally as she had been at the schoolhouse. maybe that was why father told mother that night that the new teacher would bear acquaintance. sunday was like every other sabbath, except that i felt so sad all day i could have cried, but i was not going to do it. seemed as if i never could put on shoes, and so many clothes monday morning, quite like church, and be shut in a room for hours, to try to learn what was in books, when the world was running over with things to find out where you could have your feet in water, leaves in your hair, and little living creatures in your hands. in the afternoon miss amelia asked laddie to take her for a walk to see the creek, and the barn, and he couldn't escape. i suppose our barn was exactly like hundreds of others. it was built against an embankment so that on one side you could drive right on the threshing floor with big loads of grain. on the sunny side in the lower part were the sheep pens, cattle stalls, and horse mangers. it was always half bursting with overflowing grain bins and haylofts in the fall; the swallows twittered under the roof until time to go south for winter, as they sailed from the ventilators to their nests plastered against the rafters or eaves. the big swinging doors front and back could be opened to let the wind blow through in a strong draft. from the east doors you could see for miles across the country. i said our barn was like others, but it was not. there was not another like it in the whole world. father, the boys, and the hired men always kept it cleaned and in proper shape every day. the upper floor was as neat as some women's houses. it was swept, the sun shone in, the winds drifted through, the odours of drying hay and grain were heavy, and from the top of the natural little hill against which it stood you could see for miles in all directions. the barn was our great playhouse on sundays. it was clean there, we were where we could be called when wanted, and we liked to climb the ladders to the top of the haymows, walk the beams to the granaries, and jump to the hay. one day may came down on a snake that had been brought in with a load. i can hear her yell now, and it made her so frantic she's been killing them ever since. it was only a harmless little garter snake, but she was so surprised. miss amelia held her head very much on one side all the time she walked with laddie, and she was so birdlike leon slipped him a brick and told him to have her hold it to keep her down. seemed as if she might fly any minute. she thought our barn was the nicest she ever had seen and the cleanest. when laddie opened the doors on the east side, and she could see the big, red, yellow, and green apples thick as leaves on the trees in the orchard, the lane, the woods pasture, and the meadow with scattering trees, two running springs, and the meeting of the creeks, she said it was the loveliest sight she ever saw--i mean beheld. laddie liked that, so he told her about the beautiful town, and the lake, and the wabash river, that our creek emptied into, and how people came from other states and big cities and stayed all summer to fish, row, swim, and have good times. she asked him to take her to the meadow, but he excused himself, because he had an engagement. so she stood in the door, and watched him saddle flos and start to the house to dress in his riding clothes. after that she didn't care a thing about the meadow, so we went back. our house looked as if we had a party. we were all dressed in our best, and every one was out in the yard, garden, or orchard. peter and sally were under the big pearmain apple tree at the foot of the orchard, shelley and a half dozen beaus were everywhere. may had her spelling book in one hand and was in my big catalpa talking to billy stevens, who was going to be her beau as soon as mother said she was old enough. father was reading a wonderful new book to mother and some of the neighbours. leon was perfectly happy because no one wanted him, so he could tease all of them by saying things they didn't like to hear. when laddie came out and mounted, leon asked him where he was going, and laddie said he hadn't fully decided: he might ride to elizabeth's, and not come back until monday morning. "you think you're pretty slick," said leon. "but if we could see north to the cross road we could watch you turn west, and go past pryors to show yourself off, or try to find the princess on the road walking or riding. i know something i'm saving to tell next time you get smart, mr. laddie." laddie seemed annoyed and no one was quicker to see it than leon. instantly he jumped on the horse block, pulled down his face long as he could, stretched his hands toward laddie, and making his voice all wavery and tremulous, he began reciting from "lochiel's warning," in tones of agonizing pleading: "laddie, laddie, beware of the day! for, dark and despairing, my sight, i may seal, but man cannot cover what god would reveal; 'tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, and coming events cast their shadows before." that scared me. i begged leon to tell, but he wouldn't say a word more. he went and talked to miss amelia as friendly as you please, and asked her to take a walk in the orchard and get some peaches, and she went flying. he got her all she could carry and guided her to peter and sally, introduced her to peter, and then slipped away and left her. then he and sally couldn't talk about their wedding, and peter couldn't squeeze her hand, and she couldn't fix his tie, and it was awful. shelley and her boys almost laughed themselves sick over it, and then she cried, "to the rescue!" and started, so they followed. they captured miss amelia and brought her back, and left her with father and the wonderful book, but i'm sure she liked the orchard better. i took grace greenwood under my arm, hezekiah on my shoulder, and with bobby at my heels went away. i didn't want my hair pulled, or to be teased that day. there was such a hardness around my heart, and such a lump in my throat, that i didn't care what happened to me one minute, and the next i knew i'd slap any one who teased me, if i were sent to bed for it. as i went down the lane peter called to me to come and see him, but i knew exactly how he looked, and didn't propose to make up. there was not any sense in sally clawing me all over, when i only tried to help mother and lucy find out what they wanted to know so badly. i went down the hill, crossed the creek on the stepping-stones, and followed the cowpath into the woods pasture. it ran beside the creek bank through the spice thicket and blackberry patches, under pawpaw groves, and beneath giant oaks and elms. just where the creek turned at the open pasture, below the church and cemetery, right at the deep bend, stood the biggest white oak father owned. it was about a tree exactly like this that an englishman wrote a beautiful poem in mcguffey's sixth, that begins: "a song to the oak, the brave old oak, who hath ruled in the greenwood long; here's health and renown to his broad green crown, and his fifty arms so strong." i knew it was the same, because i counted the arms time and again, and there were exactly fifty. there was a pawpaw and spice hedge around three sides of this one, and water on the other. wild grapes climbed from the bushes to the lower branches and trailed back to earth again. here, i had two secrets i didn't propose to tell. one was that in the crotch of some tiptop branches the biggest chicken hawks you ever saw had their nest, and if they took too many chickens father said they'd have to be frightened a little with a gun. i can't begin to tell how i loved those hawks. they did the one thing i wanted to most, and never could. when i saw them serenely soar above the lowest of the soft fleecy september clouds, i was wild with envy. i would have gone without chicken myself rather than have seen one of those splendid big brown birds dropped from the skies. i was so careful to shield them, that i selected this for my especial retreat when i wanted most to be alone, and i carefully gathered up any offal from the nest that might point out their location, and threw it into the water where it ran the swiftest. i parted the vines and crept where the roots of the big oak stretched like bony fingers over the water, that was slowly eating under it and baring its roots. i sat on them above the water and thought. i had decided the day before about my going to school, and the day before that, and many, many times before that, and here i was having to settle it all over again. doubled on the sak roots, a troubled little soul, i settled it once more. no books or teachers were needed to tell me about flowing water and fish, how hawks raised their broods and kept house, about the softly cooing doves of the spice thickets, the cuckoos slipping snakelike in and out of the wild crab-apple bushes, or the brown thrush's weird call from the thorn bush. i knew what they said and did, but their names, where they came from, where they went when the wind blew and the snow fell--how was i going to find out that? worse yet were the flowers, butterflies, and moths; they were mysteries past learning alone, and while the names i made up for them were pretty and suitable, i knew in all reason they wouldn't be the same in the books. i had to go, but no one will ever know what it cost. when the supper bell rang, i sat still. i'd have to wait until at least two tables had been served, anyway, so i sat there and nursed my misery, looked and listened, and by and by i felt better. i couldn't see or hear a thing that was standing still. father said even the rocks grew larger year by year. the trees were getting bigger, the birds were busy, and the creek was in a dreadful hurry to reach the river. it was like that poetry piece that says: "when a playful brook, you gambolled," (mostly that gambolled word is said about lambs) "and the sunshine o'er you smiled, on your banks did children loiter, looking for the spring flowers wild?" the creek was more in earnest and working harder at pushing steadily ahead without ever stopping than anything else; and like the poetry piece again, it really did "seem to smile upon us as it quickly passed us by." i had to quit playing, and go to work some time; it made me sorry to think how behind i was, because i had not started two years before, when i should. but that couldn't be helped now. all there was left was to go this time, for sure. i got up heavily and slowly as an old person, and then slipped out and ran down the path to the meadow, because i could hear leon whistle as he came to bring the cows. by fast running i could start them home for him: rose, brindle, bess, and pidy, sukey and muley; they had eaten all day, but they still snatched bites as they went toward the gate. i wanted to surprise leon and i did. "getting good, ain't you?" he asked. "what do you want?" "nothing!" i said. "i just heard you coming and i thought i'd help you." "where were you?" "playing." "you don't look as if you'd been having much fun." "i don't expect ever to have any, after i begin school." "oh!" said leon. "it is kind of tough the first day or two, but you'll soon get over it. you should have behaved yourself, and gone when they started you two years ago." "think i don't know it?" leon stopped and looked at me sharply. "i'll help you nights, if you want me to," he offered. "can i ever learn?" i asked, almost ready to cry. "of course you can," said leon. "you're smart as the others, i suppose. the sevens and nines of the multiplication table are the stickers, but you ought to do them if other girls can. you needn't feel bad because you are behind a little to start on; you are just that much better prepared to work, and you can soon overtake them. you know a lot none of the rest of us do, and some day it will come your turn to show off. cheer up, you'll be all right." men are such a comfort. i pressed closer for more. "do you suppose i will?" i asked. "of course," said leon. "any minute the woods, or birds, or flowers are mentioned your time will come; and all of us will hear you read and help nights. i'd just as soon as not." that was the most surprising thing. he never offered to help me before. he never acted as if he cared what became of me. maybe it was because laddie always had taken such good care of me, leon had no chance. he seemed willing enough now. i looked at him closely. "you'll find out i'll learn things if i try," i boasted. "and you will find out i don't tell secrets either." "i've been waiting for you to pipe up about----" "well, i haven't piped, have i?" "not yet." "i am not going to either." "i almost believe you. a girl you could trust would be a funny thing to see." "tell me what you know about laddie, and see if i'm funny." "you'd telltale sure as life!" "well, if you know it, he knows it anyway." "he doesn't know what i know." "well, be careful and don't worry mother. you know how she is since the fever, and father says all of us must think of her. if it's anything that would bother her, don't tell before her." "say, looky here," said leon, turning on me sharply, "is all this sudden consideration for mother or are you legging for laddie?" "for both," i answered stoutly. "mostly for laddie, just the same. you can't fool me, missy. i won't tell you one word." "you needn't!" i answered, "i don't care!" "yes you do," he said. "you'd give anything to find out what i know, and then run to laddie with it, but you can't fool me. i'm too smart for you." "all right," i said. "you go and tell anything on laddie, and i'll watch you, and first trick i catch you at, i'll do some telling myself, smarty." "that's a game more than one can play at," said leon. "go ahead!" chapter v the first day of school "birds in their little nests agree. and why can't we?" "b-i-r-d-s, birds, i-n, in, t-h-e-i-r, their, l-i-t-t-l-e, little, n-e-s-t-s, nests, a-g-r-e-e, agree." my feet burned in my new shoes, but most of my body was chilling as i stood beside miss amelia on the platform, before the whole school, and followed the point of her pencil, while, a letter at a time, i spelled aloud my first sentence. nothing ever had happened to me as bad as that. i was not used to so much clothing. it was like taking a colt from the woods pasture and putting it into harness for the first time. that lovely september morning i followed leon and may down the dusty road, my heart sick with dread. may was so much smaller that i could have picked her up and carried her. she was a gentle, loving little thing, until some one went too far, and then they got what they deserved, all at once and right away. many of the pupils were waiting before the church. leon climbed the steps, made a deep bow, waved toward the school building across the way, and what he intended to say was, "still sits the schoolhouse by the road," but he was a little excited and the s's doubled his tongue, so that we heard: "shill stits the schoolhouse by the road." we just yelled and i forgot a little about myself. when miss amelia came to the door and rang the bell, may must have remembered something of how her first day felt, for as we reached the steps she waited for me, took me in with her, and found me a seat. if she had not, i'm quite sure i'd have run away and fought until they left me in freedom, as i had two years before. all forenoon i had shivered in my seat, while classes were arranged, and the elder pupils were started on their work; then miss amelia called me to her on the platform and tried to find out how much schooling i had. i was ashamed that i knew so little, but there was no sense in her making me spell after a pencil, like a baby. i'd never seen the book she picked up. i could read the line she pointed to, and i told her so, but she said to spell the words; so i thought she had to be obeyed, for one poetry piece i know says: "quickly speed your steps to school and there mind your teacher's rule." i can see miss amelia to-day. her pale face was lined deeper than ever, her drab hair was dragged back tighter. she wore a black calico dress with white huckleberries, and a white calico apron figured in large black apples, each having a stem and two leaves. in dress she was a fruitful person. she had been a surprise to all of us. chipper as a sparrow, she had hopped, and chattered, and darted here and there, until the hour of opening. then in the stress of arranging classes and getting started, all her birdlike ways slipped from her. stern and bony she stood before us, and with a cold light in her pale eyes, she began business in a manner that made johnny hood forget all about his paper wads, and leon commenced studying like a good boy, and never even tried to have fun with her. every one was so surprised you could notice it, except may, and she looked, "i told you so!" even in the back. she had a way of doing that very thing as i never saw any one else. from the set of her head, how she carried her shoulders, the stiffness of her spine, and her manner of walking, if you knew her well, you could tell what she thought, the same as if you saw her face. i followed that pencil point and in a husky voice repeated the letters. i could see tillie baher laughing at me from behind her geography, and every one else had stopped what they were doing to watch and listen, so i forgot to be thankful that i even knew my a b c's. i spelled through the sentence, pronounced the words and repeated them without much thought as to the meaning; at that moment it didn't occur to me that she had chosen the lesson because father had told her how i made friends with the birds. the night before he had been putting me through memory tests, and i had recited poem after poem, even long ones in the sixth reader, and never made one mistake when the piece was about birds. at our house, we heard next day's lessons for all ages gone over every night so often, that we couldn't help knowing them by heart, if we had any brains at all, and i just loved to get the big folk's readers and learn the bird pieces. father had been telling her about it, so for that reason she thought she would start me on the birds, but i'm sure she made me spell after a pencil point, like a baby, on purpose to shame me, because i was two years behind the others who were near my age. as i repeated the line miss amelia thought she saw her chance. she sprang to her feet, tripped a few steps toward the centre of the platform, and cried: "classes, attention! our youngest pupil has just completed her first sentence. this sentence contains a thought. it is a wonderfully beautiful thought. a thought that suggests a great moral lesson for each of us. 'birrrds--in their little nests--agreeee.'" never have i heard cooing sweetness to equal the melting tones in which miss amelia drawled those words. then she continued, after a good long pause in order to give us time to allow the "thought" to sink in: "there is a lesson in this for all of us. we are here in our schoolroom, like little birds in their nest. now how charming it would be if all of us would follow the example of the birds, and at our work, and in our play, agreeee--be kind, loving, and considerate of each other. let us all remember always this wonderful truth: 'birrrrds--in their little nests--agreeeee!'" in three steps i laid hold of her apron. only last night leon had said it would come, yet whoever would have thought that i'd get a chance like this, so soon. "ho but they don't!" i cried. "they fight like anything! every day they make the feathers fly!" in a backward stroke miss amelia's fingers, big and bony, struck my cheek a blow that nearly upset me. a red wave crossed her face, and her eyes snapped. i never had been so surprised in all my life. i was only going to tell her the truth. what she had said was altogether false. ever since i could remember i had watched courting male birds fight all over the farm. after a couple had paired, and were nest building, the father always drove every other bird from his location. in building i had seen him pecked for trying to place a twig. i had seen that happen again for merely offering food to the mother, if she didn't happen to be hungry, or for trying to make love to her when she was brooding. if a young bird failed to get the bite it wanted, it sometimes grabbed one of its nestmates by the bill, or the eye even, and tried to swallow it whole. always the oldest and strongest climbed on top of the youngest and fooled his mammy into feeding him most by having his head highest, his mouth widest, and begging loudest. there could be no mistake. i was so amazed i forgot the blow, as i stared at the fool woman. "i don't see why you slap me!" i cried. "it's the truth! lots of times old birds pull out bunches of feathers fighting, and young ones in the nests bite each other until they squeal." miss amelia caught my shoulders and shook me as hard as she could; and she proved to be stronger than you ever would have thought to look at her. "take your seat!" she cried. "you are a rude, untrained child!" "they do fight!" i insisted, as i held my head high and walked to my desk. leon laughed out loud, and that made everyone else. miss amelia had so much to do for a few minutes that she forgot me, and i know now why leon started it, at least partly. he said afterward it was the funniest sight he ever saw. my cheek smarted and burned. i could scarcely keep from feeling to learn whether it were swelling, but i wouldn't have shed a tear or raised my hand for anything you could offer. recess was coming and i didn't know what to do. if i went to the playground, all of them would tease me; and if i sat at my desk miss amelia would have another chance at me. that was too much to risk, so i followed the others outdoors, and oh joy! there came laddie down the road. he set me on one of the posts of the hitching rack before the church, and with my arms around his neck, i sobbed out the whole story. "she didn't understand," said laddie quietly. "you stay here until i come back. i'll go explain to her about the birds. perhaps she hasn't watched them as closely as you have." recess was over before he returned. he had wet his handkerchief at the water bucket, and now he bathed my face and eyes, straightened my hair with his pocket comb, and began unlacing my shoes. "what are you going to do?" i asked. "i must wear them. all the girls do. only the boys are barefoot." "you are excused," answered laddie. "three-fourths of the day is enough to begin on. miss amelia says you may come with me." "where are you going?" laddie was stripping off my stockings as he looked into my eyes, and smiled a peculiar little smile. "oh laddie!" i cried. "will you take me? honest!" he laughed again and then he rubbed my feet. "poor abused feet," he said. "sometimes i wish shoes had never been invented." "they feel pretty good when there's ice." "so they do!" said laddie. he swung me to the ground, and we crossed the road, climbed the fence, and in a minute our redbird swamp shut the schoolhouse and cross old miss amelia from sight. then we turned and started straight toward our big woods. i could scarcely keep on the ground. "how are the others getting along?" asked laddie. "she's cross as two sticks," i told him. "johnny hood hasn't shot one paper wad, and leon hadn't done a thing until he laughed about the birds, and i guess he did that to make her forget me." "good!" cried laddie. "i didn't suppose the boy thought that far." "oh, you never can tell by looking at him, how far leon is thinking," i said. "that's so, too," said laddie. "are your feet comfortable now?" "yes, but laddie, isn't my face marked?" "i'm afraid it is a little," said laddie. "we'll bathe it again at the creek. we must get it fixed so mother won't notice." "what will the princess think?" "that you fell, perhaps," said laddie. "do the tears show?" "not at all. we washed them all away." "did i do wrong, laddie?" "yes, i think you did." "but it wasn't true, what she said." "that's not the point." we had reached the fence of the big woods. he lifted me to the top rail and explained, while i combed his waving hair with my fingers. "she didn't strike you because what you said was not so, for it was. she knew instantly you were right, if she knows anything at all about outdoors. this is what made her angry: it is her first day. she wanted to make a good impression on her pupils, to arouse their interest, and awaken their respect. when you spoke, all of them knew you were right, and she was wrong; that made her ridiculous. can't you see how it made her look and feel?" "i didn't notice how she looked, but from the way she hit me, you could tell she felt bad enough." "she surely did," said laddie, kissing my cheek softly. "poor little woman! what a world of things you have to learn!" "shouldn't i have told her how mistaken she was?" "if you had gone to her alone, at recess or noon, or to-night, probably she would have thanked you. then she could have corrected herself at some convenient time and kept her dignity." "must i ask her pardon?" "what you should do, is to put yourself in miss amelia's place and try to understand how she felt. then if you think you wouldn't have liked any one to do to you what you did to her, you'll know." i hugged laddie tight and thought fast--there was no need to think long to see how it was. "i got to tell her i was wrong," i said. "now let's go to the enchanted wood and see if we can find the queen's daughter." "all right!" said laddie. he leaped the fence, swung me over, and started toward the pawpaw thicket. he didn't do much going around. he crashed through and over; and soon he began whistling the loveliest little dancy tune. it made your head whirl, and your toes tingle, and you knew it was singing that way in his heart, and he was just letting out the music. that was why it made you want to dance and whirl; it was so alive. but that wasn't the way in an enchanted wood. i pulled his hand. "laddie!" i cautioned, "keep in the path! you'll step on the fairies and crush a whole band with one foot. no wonder the queen makes her daughter grow big when she sends her to you. if you make so much noise, some one will hear you, then this won't be a secret any more." laddie laughed, but he stepped carefully in the path after that, and he said: "there are times, little sister, when i don't care whether this secret is secret another minute or not. secrets don't agree with me. i'm too big, and broad, and too much of a man, to go creeping through the woods with a secret. i prefer to print it on a banner and ride up the road waving it." "like,--'a youth who bore mid snow and ice, a banner with a strange device,'" i said. "that would be 'a banner with a strange device,'" laughest laddie. "but, yes--something like!" "have you told the princess?" "i have!" laddie fairly shouted it. "docs she like secrets?" "no more than i do!" "then why----?" "there you go!" said laddie. "zeus, but the woman is beginning to measle out all over you! you know as well as any one that there's something wrong at her house. i don't know what it is; i can't even make a sensible guess as yet, but it's worse than the neighbours think. it's a thing that has driven a family from their home country, under a name that i have doubts about being theirs, and sent them across an ocean, 'strangers in a strange land,' as it says in the bible. it's something that keeps a cultured gentleman and scholar raging up and down the roads and over the country like a madman. it shuts a white-faced, lovely, little woman from her neighbours, but i have passed her walking the road at night with both hands pressed against her heart. sometimes it tries the princess past endurance and control; and it has her so worn and tired struggling with it that she is willing to carry another secret, rather than try to find strength to do anything that would make more trouble for her father and mother." "would it trouble them for her to know you, laddie?" "so long as they don't and won't become acquainted with me, or any one, of course it would." "can't you force them to know you?" "that i can!" said laddie. "but you see, i only met the princess a short time ago, and there would be no use in raising trouble, unless she will make me her knight!" "but hasn't she, laddie?" "not in the very littlest least," said laddie. "for all i know, she is merely using me to help pass a lonely hour. you see, people reared in england have ideas of class, that two or three generations spent here wash out. the princess and her family are of the unwashed british. father's people have been here long enough to judge a man on his own merits." "you mean the princess' family would think you're not good enough to be her knight?" "exactly!" "and we know that our family thinks they are infidels, and wicked people; and that if she would have you, mother would be sick in bed over it. oh laddie!" "precisely!" "what are you going to do?" "that i must find out." "when it will make so much trouble, why not forget her, and go on like you did before she came? then, all of us were happy. now, it makes me shiver to think what will happen." "me too," said laddie. "but look here, little sister, right in my face. will you ever forget the princess?" "never!" "then how can you ask me to?" "i didn't mean forget her, exactly. i meant not come here and do things that will make every one unhappy." "one minute, chick-a-biddy," said laddie. sometimes he called me that, when he loved me the very most of all. i don't believe any one except me ever heard him do it. "let me ask you this: does our father love our mother?" "love her?" i cried. "why he just loves her to death! he turns so white, and he suffers so, when her pain is the worst. love her? and she him? why, don't you remember the other day when he tipped her head against him and kissed her throat as he left the table; that he asked her if she 'loved him yet,' and she said right before all of us, 'why paul, i love you, until i scarcely can keep my fingers off you!' laddie, is it like that with you and the princess?" "it is with me," said laddie. "not with the princess! now, can i forget her? can i keep away from even the chance to pass her on the road?" "no," i said. "no, you can't, laddie. but can you ever make her love you?" "it takes time to find that out," said laddie. "i have got to try; so you be a woman and keep my secret a little while longer, until i find a way out, but don't bother your head about it!" "i can't help bothering my head, laddie. can't you make her understand that god is not a myth?" "i'm none too sure what i believe myself," said laddie. "not that there is no god--i don't mean that--but i surely don't believe all father's teachings." "if you believe god, do other little things matter, laddie?" "i think not," said laddie, "else heaven would be all methodists. as for the princess, all she has heard in her life has been against there being a god. now, she is learning something on the other side. after a while she can judge for herself. it is for us, who profess to be a christian family, to prove to her why we believe in god, and what he does for us." "well, she would think he could do a good deal, if she knew how mother hated asking her to come to our house; and yet she did it, beautifully too, just to give her a chance to see that very thing. but i almost made her do it. i don't believe she ever would alone, laddie, or at least not for a long time yet." "i saw that, and understood it perfectly," said laddie. "thank you, little sister." he picked me up and hugged me tight. "if i could only make you see!" "but laddie, i do! i'm not a baby! i know how people love and make homes for themselves, like sally and peter are going to. if it is with you about the princess as it is with father and mother, why i do know." "all right! here we are!" said laddie. he parted the willows and we stepped on the magic carpet, and that minute the magic worked. i forgot every awful, solemn, troublous thing we had been talking about, and looked around while laddie knelt and hunted for a letter, and there was none. that meant the princess was coming, so we sat on the throne to wait. we hadn't remembered to bathe my cheek, we had been so busy when we passed the water, and i doubt if we were thinking much then. we just waited. the willow walls waved gently, the moss carpet was spotted with little gold patches of sunlight, in the shade a few of the red flowers still bloomed, and big, lazy bumblebees hummed around them, or a hummingbird stood on air before them. a sort of golden throbbing filled the woods, and my heart began to leap, why, i don't know; but i'm sure laddie's did too, for i looked at him and his eyes were shining as i never had seen them before, while his cheeks were a little red, and he was breathing like when you've been running; then suddenly his body grew tense against mine, and that meant she was coming. like that first day, she came slowly through the woods, stopping here and there to touch the trunk of a tree, put back a branch, or bend over a flower face. brown as the wood floor was her dress, and cardinal flowers blazed on her breast, and the same colour showed on her cheeks and lips. her eyes were like laddie's for brightness, and she was breathing the same way. i thought sure there was going to be something to remember a lifetime--i was so excited i couldn't stand still. before it could happen laddie went and said it was a "beautiful day," and she said "it didn't show in the woods, but the pastures needed rain." then she kissed me. well if i ever! i sank on the throne and sat there. they went on talking like that, until it was too dull to bear, so i slipped out and wandered away to see what i could find. when i grew tired and went back, laddie was sitting on the magic carpet with his back against the beech, and the princess was on the throne reading from a little book, reading such interesting things that i decided to listen. after a while she came to this: "thou are mated with a clown, and the grossness of his nature, will have weight to bear thee down." laddie threw back his head, and how he laughed! the princess put down the book and looked at him so surprised. "are you reading that to me because you think it appropriate?" asked laddie. "i am reading it because it is conceded to be one of the most beautiful poems ever written," said the princess. "you knew when you began that you would come to those lines." "i never even thought of such a thing." "but you knew that is how your father would regard any relationship, friendly or deeper, with me!" "i cannot possibly be held responsible for what my father thinks." "it is natural that you should think alike." "not necessarily! you told me recently that you didn't agree with your father on many subjects." "kindly answer me this," said laddie: "do you feel that i'm a 'clown' because i'm not schooled to the point on all questions of good manners? do you find me gross because i plow and sow?" "you surprise me," said the princess. "my consenting to know and to spend a friendly hour with you here is sufficient answer. i have not found the slightest fault with your manners. i have seen no suspicion of 'grossness' about you." "will you tell me, frankly, exactly what you do think of me?" "surely! i think you are a clean, decent man, who occasionally kindly consents to put a touch of human interest into an hour, for a very lonely girl. what has happened, laddie? this is not like you." laddie sat straight and studied the beech branches. father said beech trees didn't amount to much; but i first learned all about them from that one, and what it taught me made me almost worship them always. there were the big trunk with great rough spreading roots, the bark in little ridges in places, smooth purple gray between, big lichens for ornament, the low flat branches, the waxy, wavy-edged leaves, with clear veins, and the delicious nuts in their little brown burrs. the princess and i both stared at the branches and waited while a little breath of air stirred the leaves, the sunshine flickered, and a cricket sang a sort of lonesome song. laddie leaned against the tree again, and he was thinking so hard, to look at him made me begin to repeat to myself the beech part of that beautiful churchyard poem our big folks recite: "there, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, that wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, his listless length at noontide he would stretch, and pore upon the brook that babbles by." only he was studying so deeply you could almost feel what was in his mind, and it was not about the brook at all, even if one ran close. soon he began talking. "not so bad!" he said. "you might think worse. i admit the cleanliness, i strive for decency, i delight in being humanely interesting, even for an hour; you might think worse, much worse! you might consider me a 'clown.' 'a country clod.' rather a lowdown, common thing, a 'clod,' don't you think? and a 'clown'! and 'gross' on top of that!" "what can you mean?" asked the princess. "since you don't seem to share the estimate of me, i believe i'll tell you," said laddie. "the other day i was driving from the gravel pit with a very heavy load. the road was wide and level on either side. a man came toward me on horseback. now the law of the road is to give half to a vehicle similar to the one you are driving, but to keep all of it when you are heavily loaded, if you are passing people afoot or horseback. the man took half the road, and kept it until the nose of his horse touched one of the team i was driving. i stopped and said: 'good morning, sir! do you wish to speak with me?' he called angrily: 'get out of my way, you clod!' 'sorry sir, but i can't,' i said. 'the law gives me this road when i am heavily loaded, and you are on foot or horseback.'" "what did he do?" asked the princess. and from the way she looked i just knew she guessed the man was the same one i thought of. "he raised his whip to strike my horse," said laddie. "ah, surely!" said the princess. "always an arm raised to strike. and you, man? what did you do?" she cried eagerly. "i stood on my load, suddenly," said laddie, "and i called: 'hold one minute!'" "and he?" breathed the princess. "something made him pause with his arm still raised. i said to him: 'you must not strike my horse. it never has been struck, and it can't defend itself. if you want to come a few steps farther and tackle me, come ahead! i can take it or return it, as i choose.'" "go on!" said the princess. "that's all," said laddie, "or at least almost all." "did he strike?" "he did not. he stared at me a second, and then he rode around me; but he was making forceful remarks as he passed about 'country clods,' and there was an interesting one about a 'gross clown.' what you read made me think of it, that is all." the princess stared into the beech branches for a time and then she said: "i will ask your pardon for him. he always had a domineering temper, and trouble he had lately has almost driven him mad; he is scarcely responsible at times. i hesitate about making him angry." "i think perhaps," said laddie, "i would have done myself credit if i had recognized that, and given him the road, when he made a point of claiming it." "indeed no!" cried the princess. "to be beaten at the game he started was exactly what he needed. if you had turned from his way, he would have considered you a clod all his life. since you made him go around, it may possibly dawn on him that you are a man. you did the very best thing." then she began to laugh, and how she did laugh. "i would give my allowance for a quarter to have seen it," she cried. "i must hurry home and tell mother." "does your mother know about me?" he demanded. "does she know that you come here?" the princess arose and stood very tall and straight. "you may beg my pardon or cease to know me," she said. "whatever led you to suppose that i would know or meet you without my mother's knowledge?" then she started toward the entrance. "one minute!" cried laddie. a leap carried him to her side. he caught her hands and held them tight, and looked straight into her eyes. then he kissed her hands over and over. i thought from the look on her face he might have kissed her cheek if he had dared risk it; but he didn't seem to notice. then she stooped and kissed me, and turned toward home, while laddie and i crossed the woods to the west road, and went back past the schoolhouse. i was so tired laddie tied the strings together and hung my shoes across his shoulders and took me by the arm the last mile. all of them were at home when we got there, and miss amelia came to the gate to meet us. she was mealy-mouthed and good as pie, not at all as i had supposed she would be. i wonder what laddie said to her. but then he always could manage things for every one. that set me to wondering if by any possible means he could fix them for himself. i climbed to the catalpa to think, and the more i thought, the more i feared he couldn't; but still mother always says one never can tell until they try, and i knew he would try with every ounce of brain and muscle in him. i sat there until the supper bell rang, and then i washed and reached the table last. the very first thing, mother asked how i bruised my face, and before i could think what to tell her, leon said just as careless like: "oh she must have run against something hard, playing tag at recess." laddie began talking about peter coming that night, and every one forgot me, but pretty soon i slipped a glance at miss amelia, and saw that her face was redder than mine. chapter vi the wedding gown "the gay belles of fashion may boast of excelling in waltz or cotillon, at whist or quadrille; and seek admiration by vauntingly telling of drawing and painting, and musical skill; but give me the fair one, in country or city, whose home and its duties are dear to her heart, who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty, while plying the needle with exquisite art: the bright little needle, the swift-flying needle, the needle directed by beauty and art." the next morning miss amelia finished the chapter--that made two for our family. father always read one before breakfast--no wonder i knew the bible quite well--then we sang a song, and she made a stiff, little prayer. i had my doubts about her prayers; she was on no such terms with the lord as my father. he got right at him and talked like a doctor, and you felt he had some influence, and there was at least a possibility that he might get what he asked for; but miss amelia prayed as if the lord were ten million miles away, and she would be surprised to pieces if she got anything she wanted. when she asked the almighty to make us good, obedient children, there was not a word she said that showed she trusted either the lord or us, or thought there was anything between us and heaven that might make us good because we wanted to be. you couldn't keep your eyes from the big gad and ruler on her desk; she often fingered them as she prayed, and you knew from her stiff, little, sawed-out petition that her faith was in implements, and she'd hit you a crack the minute she was the least angry, same as she had me the day before. i didn't feel any too good toward her, but when the blood of the crusaders was in the veins, right must be done even if it took a struggle. i had to live up to those little gold shells on the trinket. father said they knew i was coming down the line, so they put on a bird for me; but i told him i would be worthy of the shells too. this took about as hard a fight for me as any crusade would for a big, trained soldier. i had been wrong, laddie had made me see that. so i held up my hand, and miss amelia saw me as she picked up ray's arithmetic. "what is it?" i held to the desk to brace myself, and tried twice before i could raise my voice so that she heard. "please, miss amelia," i said, "i was wrong about the birds yesterday. not that they don't fight--they do! but i was wrong to contradict you before every one, and on your first day, and if you'll only excuse me, the next time you make a mistake, i'll tell you after school or at recess." the room was so still you could hear the others breathing. miss amelia picked up the ruler and started toward me. possibly i raised my hands. that would be no crusader way, but you might do it before you had time to think, when the ruler was big and your head was the only place that would be hit. the last glimpse i had of her in the midst of all my trouble made me think of sabethany perkins. sabethany died, and they buried her at the foot of the hill in our graveyard before i could remember. but her people thought heaps of her, and spent much money on the biggest tombstone in the cemetery, and planted pinies and purple phlox on her, and went every sunday to visit her. when they moved away, they missed her so, they decided to come back and take her along. the men were at work, and leon and i went to see what was going on. they told us, and said we had better go away, because possibly things might happen that children would sleep better not to see. strange how a thing like that makes you bound you will see. we went and sat on the fence and waited. soon they reached sabethany, but they could not seem to get her out. they tried, and tried, and at last they sent for more men. it took nine of them to bring her to the surface. what little wood was left, they laid back to see what made her so fearfully heavy, and there she was turned to solid stone. they couldn't chip a piece off her with the shovel. mother always said, "for goodness sake, don't let your mouth hang open," and as a rule we kept ours shut; but you should have seen leon's when he saw sabethany wouldn't chip off, and no doubt mine was as bad. "when gabriel blows his trumpet, and the dead arise and come forth, what on earth will they do with sabethany?" i gasped. "why, she couldn't fly to heaven with wings a mile wide, and what use could they make of her if she got there?" "i can't see a thing she'd be good for except a hitching post," said leon, "and i guess they don't let horses in. let's go home." he acted sick and i felt that way; so we went, but the last glimpse of sabethany remained with me. as my head went down that day, i saw that miss amelia looked exactly like her. you would have needed a pick-ax or a crowbar to flake off even a tiny speck of her. when i had waited for my head to be cracked, until i had time to remember that a crusader didn't dodge and hide, i looked up, and there she stood with the ruler lifted; but now she had turned just the shade of the wattles on our fightingest turkey gobbler. "won't you please forgive me?" i never knew i had said it until i heard it, and then the only way to be sure was because no one else would have been likely to speak at that time. miss amelia's arm dropped and she glared at me. i wondered whether i ever would understand grown people; i doubted if they understood themselves, for after turning to stone in a second--father said it had taken sabethany seven years--and changing to gobbler red, miss amelia suddenly began to laugh. to laugh, of all things! and then, of course, every one else just yelled. i was so mortified i dropped my head again and began to cry as i never would if she'd hit me. "don't feel badly!" said miss amelia. "certainly, i'll forgive you. i see you had no intention of giving offense, so none is taken. get out your book and study hard on another lesson." that was surprising. i supposed i'd have to do the same one over, but i might take a new one. i was either getting along fast, or miss amelia had her fill of birds. i wiped my eyes as straight in front of me as i could slip up my handkerchief, and began studying the first lesson in my reader: "pretty bee, pray tell me why, thus from flower to flower you fly, culling sweets the livelong day, never leaving off to play?" that was a poetry piece, and it was quite cheery, although it was all strung together like prose, but you couldn't fool me on poetry; i knew it every time. as i studied i felt better, and when miss amelia came to hear me she was good as gold. she asked if i liked honey, and i started to tell her about the queen bee, but she had no time to listen, so she said i should wait until after school. then we both forgot it, for when we reached home, the princess' horse was hitched to our rack, and i fairly ran in, i was so anxious to know what was happening. i was just perfectly amazed at grown people! after all the things our folks had said! you'd have supposed that laddie would have been locked in the barn; father reading the thirty second psalm to the princess, and mother on her knees asking god to open her eyes like saul's when he tried to kick against the pricks, and make her to see, as he did, that god was not a myth, well, there was no one in the sitting-room or the parlour, but there were voices farther on; so i slipped in. i really had to slip, for there was no other place they could be except the parlour bedroom, and sally's wedding things were locked up there, and we were not to see until everything was finished, like i told you. well, this was what i saw: our bedroom had been a porch once, and when we had been crowded on account of all of us coming, father enclosed it and made a room. but he never had taken out the window in the wall. so all i had to do when i wanted to know how fast the dresses were being made, was to shove up the window above my bed, push back the blind, and look in. i didn't care what she had. i just wanted to get ahead of her and see before she was ready, to pay her for beating me. i knew what she had, and i meant to tell her, and walk away with my nose in the air when she offered to show me; but this was different. i was wild to see what was going on because the princess was there. the room was small, and the big cherry four-poster was very large, and all of them were talking, so no one paid the slightest attention to me. mother sat in the big rocking chair, with sally on one of its arms, leaning against her shoulder. shelley and may and the sewing woman were crowded between the wall and the footboard, and the others lined against the wall. the bed was heaped in a tumble of everything a woman ever wore. seemed to me there was more stuff there than all the rest of us had, put together. the working dresses and aprons had been made on the machine, but there were heaps and stacks of hand-made underclothes. i could see the lovely chemise mother embroidered lying on top of a pile of bedding, and over and over sally had said that every stitch in the wedding gown must be taken by hand. the princess stood beside the bed. a funny little tight hat like a man's and a riding whip lay on a chair close by. i couldn't see what she wore--her usual riding clothes probably--for she had a nip in each shoulder of a dress she was holding to her chin and looking down at. after all, i hadn't seen everything! never before or since have i seen a lovelier dress than that. it was what always had been wrapped in the sheet on the foot of the bed and i hadn't got a peep at it. the pale green silk with tiny pink moss roses in it, that i had been thinking was the wedding dress, looked about right to wash the dishes in, compared with this. this was a wedding dress. you didn't need any one to tell you. the princess had as much red as i ever had seen in her cheeks, her eyes were bright, and she was half-laughing and half-crying. "oh you lucky, lucky girl!" she was saying. "what a perfectly beautiful bride you will be! never have i seen a more wonderful dress! where did you get the material?" now we had been trained always to wait for mother to answer a visitor as she thought suitable, or at least to speak one at a time and not interrupt; but about six of those grown people told the princess all at the same time how our oldest sister elizabeth was married to a merchant who had a store at westchester and how he got the dress in new york, and gave it to sally for her wedding present, or she never could have had it. the princess lifted it and set it down softly. "oh look!" she cried. "look! it will stand alone!" there it stood! silk stiff enough to stand by itself, made into a little round waist, cut with a round neck and sleeves elbow length and flowing almost to where sally's knees would come. it was a pale pearl-gray silk crossed in bars four inches square, made up of a dim yellow line almost as wide as a wheat straw, with a thread of black on each side of it, and all over, very wide apart, were little faint splashes of black as if they had been lightly painted on. the skirt was so wide it almost filled the room. every inch of that dress was lined with soft, white silk. there was exquisite lace made into a flat collar around the neck, and ruffled from sight up the inside of the wide sleeves. that was the beginning. the finish was something you never saw anything like before. it was a trimming made of white and yellow beads. there was a little heading of white beads sewed into a pattern, then a lacy fringe that was pale yellow beads, white inside, each an inch long, that dangled, and every bead ended with three tiny white ones. that went around the neck, the outside of the sleeves, and in a pattern like a big letter v all the way around the skirt. and there it stood--alone! the princess, graceful as a bird and glowing like fire, danced around it, and touched it, and lifted the sleeves, and made the bead fringe swing, and laughed, and talked every second. sally, and mother, and all of them had smiled such wide smiles for so long, their faces looked almost as set as sabethany's, but of course far different. being dead was one thing, getting ready for a wedding another. and it looked too as if god might be a myth, for all they cared, so long as the princess could make the wedding dress stand alone, and talk a blue streak of things that pleased them. it was not put on either, for there stood the dress, shimmering like the inside of a pearl-lined shell, white as a lily, and the tinkly gold fringe. no one could have said enough about it, so no matter what the princess said, it had to be all right. she kept straight on showing all of them how lovely it was, exactly as if they hadn't seen it before, and she had to make them understand about it, as if she felt afraid they might have missed some elegant touch she had seen. "do look how the lace falls when i raise this sleeve! oh how will you wear this and think of a man enough to say the right words in the right place?" mother laughed, and so did all of them. "do please show me the rest," begged the princess. "i know there are slippers and a bonnet!" sally just oozed pride. she untied the strings and pushed the prettiest striped bag from a lovely pink bandbox and took out a dear little gray bonnet with white ribbons, and the yellow bead fringe, and a bunch of white roses with a few green leaves. these she touched softly, "i'm not quite sure about the leaves," she said. the princess had the bonnet, turning and tilting it. "perfect!" she cried. "quite perfect! you need that touch of colour, and it blends with everything. how i envy you! oh why doesn't some one ask me, so i can have things like these? i think your brother is a genius. i'm going to ride to westchester tomorrow and give him an order to fill for me the next time he goes to the city. no one shows me such fabrics when i go, and aunt beatrice sends nothing from london i like nearly so well. oh! oh!" she was on her knees now, lifting the skirt to set under little white satin slippers with gold buckles, and white bead buttons. when she had them arranged to suit her, she sat on the floor and kept straight on saying the things my mother and sisters seemed crazy to hear. when sally showed her the long white silk mitts that went with the bonnet, the princess cried: "oh do ride home with me and let me give you a handkerchief aunt beatrice sent me, to carry in your hand!" then her face flushed and she added without giving sally time to say what she would do: "or i can bring it the next time i come past. it belongs with these things and i have no use for it. may i?" "please do! i'll use it for the thing i borrow." "but i mean it to be a gift," said the princess. "it was made to go with these lace mitts and satin slippers. you must take it!" "thank you very much," said sally. "if you really want me to have it, of course i'd love to." "i'll bring it to-morrow," promised the princess. "and i wish you'd let me try a way i know to dress hair for a wedding. yours is so beautiful." "you're kind, i'm sure," said sally. "i had intended to wear it as i always do, so i would appear perfectly natural to the folks; but if you know a more becoming way, i could begin it now, and they would be familiar with it by that time." "i shan't touch it," said the princess, studying sally's face. "your idea is right. you don't want to commence any new, unfamiliar style that would make you seem different, just at a time when every one should see how lovely you are, as you always have been. but don't forget to wear something blue, and something borrowed for luck, and oh do please put on one of my garters!" "well for mercy sake!" cried my mother. "why?" "so some one will propose to me before the year is out," laughed the princess. "i think it must be the most fun of all, to make beautiful things for your very own home, and lovely dresses, and be surrounded by friends all eager to help you, and to arrange a house and live with a man you love well enough to marry, and fix for little people who might come----" "you know perfectly there isn't a single man in the county who wouldn't propose to you, if you'd let him come within a mile of you," said shelley. "when the right man comes i'll go half the mile to meet him? you may be sure of that; won't i, mrs. stanton?" the princess turned to mother. "i have known girls who went even farther," said my mother rather dryly. "i draw the line at half," laughed the princess. "now i must go; i have been so long my people will be wondering what i'm doing." standing in the middle of the room she put on her hat, picked up her whip and gloves, and led the way to the hitching rack, while all of us followed. at the gate stood laddie as he had come from the field. his old hat was on the back of his head, his face flushed, his collar loosened so that his strong white neck showed, and his sleeves were rolled to the elbow, as they had been all summer, and his arms were burned almost to blisters. when he heard us coming he opened the gate, went to the rack, untied the princess' horse and led it beside the mounting block. as she came toward him, he took off his hat and pitched it over the fence on the grass. "miss pryor, allow me to make you acquainted with my son," said mother. i felt as if i would blow up. i couldn't keep my eyes from turning toward the princess. gee! i could have saved my feelings. she made mother the prettiest little courtsey i ever set eyes on, and then turned and made a deeper one to laddie. "i met your son in one of the village stores some time ago," she said. "back her one step farther, please!" laddie backed the horse, and quicker than you could see how it was done, she flashed up the steps and sat the saddle; but as she leaned over the horse's neck to take the rein from laddie, he got one level look straight in the eyes that i was sure none of the others saw, because they were not watching for it, and i was. laddie bowed from the waist, and put the reins in her fingers all in one movement. he caught the glance she gave him too; i could almost feel it like a band passing between them. then she called a laughing good-bye to all of us at once, and showed us how to ride right, as she flashed toward the little hill. that was riding, you may believe, and mother sighed as she watched her. "if i were a girl again," she said, "i would ride as well as that, or i'd never mount a horse." "she's been trained from her cradle, and her father deals in horses. half the battle in riding is a thoroughbred," said laddie. "no such horse as that ever stepped these roads before." "and no such girl ever travelled them," said my mother, folding her hands one over the other on top of a post of the hitching rack. "i must say i don't know how this is coming out, and it troubles me." "why, what's up?" asked laddie, covering her hands with his and looking her in the eyes. "just this," said my mother. "she's more beautiful of face and form than god ought to allow any woman to be, in mercy to the men who will be forced to meet her. her speech is highly cultured. her manners are perfect, and that is a big and unusual thing in a girl of her age. every word she said, every move she made to-day, was exactly as i would have been proud to hear, and to see a daughter of mine speak and move. if i had only myself to consider, i would make her my friend, because i'm seasoned in the ways of the world, and she could influence me only as i chose to allow her. with you youngsters it is different. you'll find her captivating, and you may let her ways sway you without even knowing it. all these outward things are not essential; they are pleasing, i grant, but they have nothing to do with the one big, elemental fact that a godless life is not even half a life. i never yet have known any man or woman who attempted it who did not waste life's grandest opportunities, and then come crawling and defeated to the foot of the cross in the end, asking god's mercy where none was deserved or earned. it seems to me a craven way. i know all about the forgiveness on the cross! i know god is big enough and merciful enough to accept even death-bed repentance, but what is that to compare with laying out your course and running it a lifetime without swerving? i detest and distrust this infidel business. i want no child of mine under its influence, or in contact with it." "but when your time comes, if you said just those things to hers and won her, what a triumph, little mother!" "'if!'" answered mother. "that's always the trouble! one can't be sure! 'if' i knew i could accomplish that, i would get on my knees and wrestle with the lord for the salvation of the soul of a girl like that, not to mention her poor, housebound mother, and that man with the unhappiest face i ever have seen, her father. it's worth trying, but suppose i try and fail, and at the same time find that in bringing her among us she has influenced some of mine to the loss of their immortal souls then, what will i have done?" "mother," said laddie; "mother, have you such a poor opinion of the things you and father have taught us, and the lives you've lived before us, that you're really afraid of a slip of a girl, almost a stranger?" "the most attractive girl i ever have seen, and mighty willing to be no longer a stranger, lad." "well, i can't promise for the others," said laddie, "but for myself i will give you my word of honour that i won't be influenced the breadth of one hair by her, in a doctrinal way." "humph!" said my mother. "and it is for you i fear. if a young man is given the slightest encouragement by a girl like that, even his god can't always hold him; and you never have made a confession of faith, laddie. it is you she will be most likely to captivate." "if you think i have any chance, i'll go straight over and ask her father for her this very evening," said laddie, and even mother laughed; then all of us started to the house, for it was almost supper time. i got ready and thought i'd take one more peep at the dress before sally pinned it in the sheet again, and when i went back, there all huddled in a bunch before it stood miss amelia, the tears running down her cheeks. "did sally say you might come here?" i asked. "no," said miss amelia, "but i've been so crazy to see i just slipped in to take a peep when i noticed the open door. i'll go this minute. please don't tell her." i didn't say what i would do, but i didn't intend to. "what are you crying about?" i inquired. "ah, i too have known love," sobbed miss amelia. "once i made a wedding dress, and expected to be a happy bride." "well, wasn't you?" i asked, and knew at once it was a silly question, for of course she would not be a miss, if she had not missed marrying. "he died!" sobbed miss amelia. if he could have seen her then, i believe he'd have been glad of it; but maybe he looked as bony and dejected as she did before he went; and he may have turned to stone afterward, as sometimes happens. right then i heard sally coming, so i grabbed miss amelia and dragged her under the fourposter, where i always hid when caught doing something i shouldn't. but sally had so much stuff she couldn't keep all of it on the bed, and when she stooped and lifted the ruffle to shove a box under, she pushed it right against us, and knelt to look, and there we were. "well upon my soul!" she cried, and sat flat on the floor, holding the ruffle, peering in. "miss amelia! and in tears! whatever is the trouble?" miss amelia's face was redder than any crying ever made it, and i saw she wanted to kill me for getting her into such a fix, and if she became too angry probably she'd take it out on me in school the next day, so i thought i'd better keep her at work shedding tears. "'he died!'" i told sally as pathetically as ever i could. sally dropped the ruffle instantly, but i saw her knees shake against the floor. after a while she lifted the curtain and offered miss amelia her hand. "i was leaving my dress to show you before putting it away," she said. i didn't believe it; but that was what she said. maybe it was an impulse. mother always said sally was a creature of impulse. when she took off her flannel petticoat and gave it to poor little half-frozen annie hasty, that was a good impulse, but it sent sally to bed for a week. and when she threw a shovel of coals on bill ramsdell's dog, because bill was a shiftless lout, and the dog was so starved it all the time came over and sucked our eggs, that was a bad impulse, because it didn't do bill a particle of good, and it hurt the dog, which would have been glad to suck eggs at home, no doubt, if bill hadn't been too worthless to keep hens. that was a good impulse she had then, for she asked miss amelia to help her straighten the room, and of course that meant to fold and put away wedding things. any woman would have been wild to do that. then she told miss amelia that she was going to ask father to dismiss school for half a day, and allow her to see the wedding, and she asked her if she would help serve the breakfast. miss amelia wiped her eyes, and soon laughed and was just beaming. i would have been willing to bet my three cents for lead pencils the next time the huckster came, that sally never thought of wanting her until that minute; and then she arranged for her to wait on table to keep her from trying to eat with the wedding party, because miss amelia had no pretty clothes for one thing, and for another, you shouldn't act as if you were hungry out in company, and she ate every meal as if she were breaking a forty days' fast. i wondered what her folks cooked at home. after supper peter came, and the instant i saw him i thought of something, and it was such a teasing thought i followed around and watched him harder every minute. at last he noticed me, and put his arms around me. "well, what is it, little sister?" he asked. i did wish he would quit that. no one really had a right to call me that, except laddie. maybe i had to put up with peter doing it when i was his sister by law, but before, the old name the preacher baptized on me was good enough for peter. i was thinking about that so hard, i didn't answer, and he asked again. "i have seen sally's wedding dress," i told him. "but that's no reason why you should stare at me." "that's just exactly the reason," i answered. "i was trying to see what in the world there is about you to be worth a dress like that." peter laughed and laughed. at last he said that he was not really worth even a calico dress; and he was so little worthy of sally that he would button her shoes, if she would let him. he got that mixed. the buttons were on her slippers: her shoes laced. but it showed a humble spirit in peter. not that i care for humble spirits. i am sure the crusaders didn't have them. i don't believe laddie would lace even the princess' shoes, at least not to make a steady business of it. but maybe peter and sally had an agreement to help each other. she was always fixing his tie, and straightening his hair. maybe that was an impulse, though, and mother said sally would get over being so impulsive when she cut her eye teeth. chapter vii when sally married peter "mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, be it ever so humble there's no place like home! a charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere." when they began arranging the house for the wedding, it could be seen that they had been expecting it, and getting ready for a long time. from all the closets, shelves and chests poured heaps of new things. first, the walls were cleaned and some of them freshly papered, then the windows were all washed long before regular housecleaning time, the floors were scrubbed and new carpet put down. mother had some window blinds that winfield had brought her from new york in the spring, and she had laid them away; no one knew why, then. we all knew now. when mother was ready to put them up, father had a busy day and couldn't help her, and she was really provoked. she almost cried about it, when leon rode in bringing the mail, and said hannah dover had some exactly like ours at her windows, that her son had sent from illinois. father felt badly enough then, for he always did everything he could to help mother to be first with everything; but so she wouldn't blame him, he said crosslike that if she had let him put them up when they came, as he wanted to, she'd have been six months ahead. when they finally got ready to hang the blinds no one knew how they went. they were a beautiful shiny green, plain on one side, and on the other there was a silver border across the bottom and one pink rose as big as a pie plate. mother had neglected to ask winfield on which side the rose belonged. father said from the way the roll ran, it went inside. mother said they were rolled that way to protect the roses, and that didn't prove anything. laddie said he would jump on a horse and ride round the section, and see how hannah dover had hers, and exactly opposite would be right. everyone laughed, but no one thought he meant it. mother had father hold one against the window, and she stepped outside to see if she could tell from there. when she came in she said the flower looked mighty pretty, and she guessed that was the way, so father started hanging them. he had only two up when laddie came racing down the big hill bareback, calling for him to stop. "i tell you that's not right, mother!" he said as he hurried in. "but i went outside and father held one, and it looked real pretty," said mother. "one! yes!" said laddie. "but have you stopped to consider how two rows across the house are going to look? nine big pink roses, with the sun shining on them! anything funnier than dovers' front i never saw. and look here!" laddie picked up a blind. "see this plain back? it's double coated like a glaze. that is so the sun shining through glass won't fade it. the flowers would be gone in a week. they belong inside, mother, sure as you live." "then when the blinds are rolled to the middle sash in the daytime no one can see them," wailed mother, who was wild about pink roses. "but at night, when they are down, you can put the curtains back enough to let the roses show, and think how pretty they will look then." "laddie is right!" said father, climbing on the barrel to take down the ones he had fixed. "what do you think, girls?" asked mother. "i think the princess is coming down the little hill," said shelley. "hurry, father! take them down before she sees! i'm sure they're wrong." father got one all right, but tore the corner of the other. mother scolded him dreadfully cross, and he was so flustered he forgot about being on the barrel, so he stepped back the same as on the floor, and fell crashing. he might have broken some of his bones, if laddie hadn't seen and caught him. "if you are sure the flowers go inside, fix one before she comes!" cried mother. father stepped too close the edge of the chair, and by that time he didn't know how to hang anything, so laddie climbed up and had one nailed before the princess stopped. she came to bring sally the handkerchief, and it was the loveliest one any of us ever had seen. there was a little patch in the middle about four inches square, and around it a wide ruffle of dainty lace. it was made to carry in a hand covered with white lace mitts, when you were wearing a wedding gown of silver silk, lined with white. of course it wouldn't have been the slightest use for a funeral or with a cold in your head. and it had come from across the sea! from the minute she took it by a pinch in the middle, sally carried her head so much higher than she ever had before, that you could notice the difference. laddie went straight on nailing up the blinds, and every one he fixed he let down full length so the princess could see the roses were inside; he was so sure he was right. after she had talked a few minutes she noticed the blinds going up. laddie, in a front window, waved to her from the barrel. she laughed and answered with her whip, and then she laughed again. "do you know," she said, "there is the funniest thing at dovers'. i rode past on the way to groveville this morning and they have some blinds like those you are putting up." "indeed?" inquired my mother. "winfield sent us these from new york in the spring, but i thought the hot summer sun would fade them, so i saved them until the fall cleaning. the wedding coming on makes us a little early but----" "well, they may not be exactly the same," said the princess. "i only saw from the highway." she meant road; there were many things she said differently. "have yours big pink roses and silver scrolls inside?" "yes," said mother. the princess bubbled until it made you think one of those yellow oriole birds had perched on her saddle. "that poor woman has gone and put hers up wrong side out. the effect of all those big pink roses on her white house front is most amusing. it looks as if the house were covered with a particularly gaudy piece of comfort calico. only fancy!" she laughed again and rode away. mother came in just gasping. "well, for all his mercies, large and small, the lord be praised!" she cried piously, as she dropped into the big rocking chair. "that is what i consider escaping by the skin of your teeth!" then father and laddie laughed, and said they thought so too. when the blinds were up, the outside looked well, and you should have seen the inside! the woodwork was enamelled white, and the wall paper was striped in white and silver. every so far on the silver there was a little pink moss rose having green leaves. the carpet was plum red and green in wide stripes, and the lace curtains were freshly washed, snowy, and touched the floor. the big rocker, the straight-backed chairs, and the sofa were beautiful red mahogany wood, and the seats shining haircloth. if no one happened to be looking, you could sit on a sofa arm, stick your feet out and shoot off like riding down a haystack; the landing was much better. on the sofa you bounced two feet high the first time; one, the second; and a little way the third. on the haystack, maybe you hit a soft spot, and maybe you struck a rock. sometimes if you got smart, and tried a new place, and your feet caught in a tangle of weeds and stuck, you came up straight, pitched over, and landed on your head. then if you struck a rock, you were still, quite a while. i was once. but you never dared let mother see you--on the sofa, i mean; she didn't care about the haystack. there were pictures in oval black frames having fancy edges, and a whatnot where all our christmas and birthday gifts, almost too dainty to handle, were kept. you fairly held your breath when you looked at the nest of spun green glass, with the white dove in it, that george washington mitchell gave to shelley. of course a dove's nest was never deep, and round, and green, and the bird didn't have red eyes and a black bill. i thought whoever could blow glass as beautifully as that, might just as easy have made it right while he was at it; but anyway, it was pretty. there were pitchers, mugs, and vases, almost too delicate to touch, and the cloth-covered box with braids of hair coiled in wreaths from the heads of the little fever and whooping cough sisters. laddie asked sally if she and peter were going to have the ceremony performed while they sat on the sofa. seemed the right place. they had done all their courting there, even on hot summer days; but i supposed that was because sally didn't want to be seen fixing peter's tie until she was ready. she made no bones about it then. she fixed it whenever she pleased; likewise he held her hand. shelley said that was disgusting, and you wouldn't catch her. leon said he bet a dollar he would; and i said if he knew he'd get beaten as i did, i bet two dollars he wouldn't tell what he saw. the mantel was white, with vases of the lovely grasses that grew beside the stream at the foot of the big hill. mother gathered the fanciest every fall, dried them, and dipped them in melted alum coloured with copperas, aniline, and indigo. then she took bunches of the colours that went together best and made bouquets for the big vases. they were pretty in the daytime, but at night you could watch them sparkle and shimmer forever. i always thought the sitting-room was nicer than the parlour. the woodwork was white enamel there too, but the bureau and chairs were just cherry and not too precious to use. they were every bit as pretty. the mantel was much larger. i could stand up in the fireplace, and it took two men to put on an everyday log, four the christmas one. on each side were the book shelves above, and the linen closets below. the mantel set between these, and mother always used the biggest, most gorgeous bouquets there, because she had so much room. the hearth was a slab of stone that came far into the room. we could sit on it and crack nuts, roast apples, chestnuts, and warm our cider, then sweep all the muss we made into the fire. the wall paper was white and pale pink in stripes, and on the pink were little handled baskets filled with tiny flowers of different colours. we sewed the rags for the carpet ourselves, and it was the prettiest thing. one stripe was wide, all gray, brown, and dull colours, and the other was pink. there were green blinds and lace curtains here also, and nice braided rugs that all of us worked on of winter evenings. everything got spicker and spanner each day. mother said there was no use in putting down a carpet in a dining-room where you constantly fed a host, and the boys didn't clean their feet as carefully as they should in winter; but there were useful rags where they belonged, and in our bedroom opening from it also. the dining-room wall paper had a broad stripe of rich cream with pink cabbage roses scattered over it and a narrow pink stripe, while the woodwork was something perfectly marvellous. i didn't know what kind of wood it was, but a man who could turn his hand to anything, painted it. first, he put on a pale yellow coat and let it dry. then he added wood brown, and while it was wet, with a coarse toothed comb, a rag, and his fingers, he imitated the grain, the even wood, and knotholes of dressed lumber, until many a time i found myself staring steadily at a knot to see if a worm wouldn't really come working out. you have to see a thing like that to understand how wonderful it is. you couldn't see why they washed the bedding, and took the feathers from the pillows and steamed them in mosquito netting bags and dried them in the shade, when sally's was to be a morning wedding, but they did. i even had to take a bucket and gather from around the walls all the little heaps of rocks and shells that uncle abraham had sent mother from california, take them out and wash and wipe them, and stack them back, with the fanciest ones on top. he sent her a ring made of gold he dug himself. she always kept the ring in a bottle in her bureau, and she meant to wear it at the wedding, with her new silk dress. i had a new dress too. i don't know how they got everything done. all of them worked, until the last few days they were perfect cross patches. when they couldn't find another thing indoors to scour, they began on the yard, orchard, barn and road. mother even had leon stack the wood pile straighter. she said when corded wood leaned at an angle, it made people seem shiftless; and she never passed a place where it looked that way that her fingers didn't just itch to get at it. he had to pull every ragweed on each side of the road as far as our land reached, and lay every rail straight in the fences. father had to take spikes and our biggest maul and go to the bridges at the foot of the big and the little hill, and see that every plank was fast, so none of them would rattle when important guests drove across. she said she just simply wouldn't have them in such a condition that judge pettis couldn't hear himself think when he crossed; for you could tell from his looks that it was very important that none of the things he thought should be lost. there wasn't a single spot about the place inside or out that wasn't gone over; and to lots of it you never would have known anything had been done if you hadn't seen, because the place was always in proper shape anyway; but father said mother acted just like that, even when her sons were married at other people's houses; and if she kept on getting worse, every girl she married off, by the time she reached me, we'd all be scoured threadbare and she'd be on the verge of the grave. may and i weeded the flowerbeds, picked all the ripe seed, and pulled up and burned all the stalks that were done blooming. father and laddie went over the garden carefully; they scraped the walks and even shook the palings to see if one were going to come loose right at the last minute, when every one would be so flustrated there would be no time to fix it. then they began to talk about arrangements for the ceremony, whether we should have our regular minister, or presiding elder lemon, and what people they were going to invite. just when we had planned to ask every one, have the wedding in the church, and the breakfast at the house, and all drive in a joyous procession to groveville to give them a good send-off in walked sally. she had been visiting peter's people, and we planned a lot while she was away. "what's going on here?" she asked, standing in the doorway, dangling her bonnet by the ties. she never looked prettier. her hair had blown out in little curls around her face from riding, her cheeks were so pink, and her eyes so bright. "we were talking about having the ceremony in the church, so every one can be comfortably seated, and see and hear well," answered mother. sally straightened up and began jerking the roses on her bonnet far too roughly for artificial flowers. perhaps i surprised you with that artificial word, but i can spell and define it; it's easy divided into syllables. goodness knows, i have seen enough flowers made from the hair of the dead, wax, and paper, where you get the shape, but the colour never is right. these of sally's were much too bright, but they were better than the ones made at our house. hers were of cloth and bought at a store. you couldn't tell why, but sally jerked her roses; i wished she wouldn't, because i very well knew they would be used to trim my hat the next summer, and she said: "well, people don't have to be comfortable during a wedding ceremony; they can stand up if i can, and as for seeing and hearing, i'm asking a good many that i don't intend to have see or hear either one!" "my soul!" cried mother, and she dropped her hands and her mouth fell open, like she always told us we never should let ours, while she stared at sally. "i don't care!" said sally, straightening taller yet; her eyes began to shine and her lips to quiver, as if she would cry in a minute; "i don't care----!" "which means, my child, that you do care, very much," said father. "suppose you cease such reckless talk, and explain to us exactly what it is that you do want." sally gave her bonnet an awful jerk. those roses would look like sin before my turn to wear them came, and she said: "well then, i do care! i care with all my might! the church is all right, of course; but i want to be married in my very own home! every one can think whatever they please about their home, and so can i, and what i think is, that this is the nicest and the prettiest place in all the world, and i belong here----" father lifted his head, his face began to shine, and his eyes to grow teary; while mother started toward sally. she put out her hand and held mother from her at arm's length, and she turned and looked behind her through the sitting-room and parlour, and then at us, and she talked so fast you never could have understood what she said if you hadn't known all of it anyway, and thought exactly the same thing yourself. "i have just loved this house ever since it was built," she said, "and i've had as good times here as any girl ever had. if any one thinks i'm so very anxious to leave it, and you, and mother, and all the others, why it's a big mistake. seems as if a girl is expected to marry and go to a home of her own; it's drummed into her and things fixed for her from the day of her birth; and of course i do like peter, but no home in the world, not even the one he provides for me, will ever be any dearer to me than my own home; and as i've always lived in it, i want to be married in it, and i want to stay here until the very last second----" "you shall, my child, you shall!" sobbed mother. "and as for having a crowd of men that father is planning to ask, staring at me, because he changes harvest help and wood chopping with them, or being criticised and clawed over by some women simply because they'll be angry if they don't get the chance, i just won't--so there! not if i have to stand the minister against the wall, and turn our backs to every one. i think----" "that will do!" said father, wiping his eyes. "that will do, sally! your mother and i have got a pretty clear understanding of how you feel, now. don't excite yourself! your wedding shan't be used to pay off our scores. you may ask exactly whom you please, want, and feel quite comfortable to have around you----" then sally fell on mother's neck and every one cried a while; then we wiped up, leon gave sally his slate, and she came and sat beside the table and began to make out a list of those she really wanted to invite. first she put down all of our family, even many away in ohio, and all of peter's, and then his friends, and hers. once in the list of girls she stopped and said: "if i take that beautiful imported handkerchief from pamela pryor, i have just got to invite her." "and she will outdress and outshine you at your own wedding," put in shelley. "let her, if she can!" said sally calmly. "she'll have to hump herself if she beats that dress of mine; and as for looks, i know lots of people who think gray eyes, pink cheeks, and brown curls far daintier and prettier than red cheeks and black eyes and curls. if she really is better looking than i am, it isn't her fault; god made her that way, and he wouldn't like us to punish her for it; and it would, because any one can see she wants to be friends; don't you think, mother?"--mother nodded--"and besides, i think she's better looking than i am, myself!" sally said that, and wrote down the princess' name in big letters, and no one cheeped. then she began on our neighbourhood, thinking out loud and writing what she thought. so all of us were as still, and held our breath in softly and waited, and sally said slow and musing like, "of course we couldn't have anything at this house without sarah hood. she dressed most of us when we were born, nursed us when we were sick, helped with threshing, company, and parties, and she's just splendid anyway; we better ask all the hoods"; so she wrote them down. "and it will be lonely for widow willis and the girls to see every one else here--we must have them; and of course deams--amanda is always such splendid help; and the widow fall is so perfectly lovely, we want her for decorative purposes; and we could scarcely leave out shaws; they always have all of us everything they do; and dr. fenner of course; and we'll want flo and agnes kuntz to wait on table, so their folks might as well come too----" so she went on taking up each family we knew, and telling what they had done for us, or what we had done for them; and she found some good reason for inviting them, and pretty soon father settled back in his chair and never took his eyes from sally's shining head as she bent over the slate, and then he began pulling his lower lip, like when it won't behave, and his eyes danced exactly as i've seen leon's. i never had noticed that before. sally went straight on and at last she came to freshetts. "i am going to have all of them, too," she said. "the children are good children, and it will help them along to see how things are done when they are right; and i don't care what any one says, i like mrs. freshett. i'll ask her to help work, and that will keep her from talking, and give the other women a chance to see that she's clean, and human, and would be a good neighbour if they'd be friendly. if we ask her, then the others will." when she finished--as you live--there wasn't a soul she had left out except bill ramsdell, who starved his dog until it sucked our eggs, and isaac thomas, who was so lazy he wouldn't work enough to keep his wife and children dressed so they ever could go anywhere, but he always went, even with rags flying, and got his stomach full just by talking about how he loved the lord. to save me i couldn't see isaac thomas without beginning to myself: "'tis the voice of the sluggard; i hear him complain, you have waked me too soon, i must slumber again. i passed by his garden, i saw the wild brier, the thorn, and the thistle, grow broader and higher; the clothes that hang on him are turning to rags; and his money he wastes, till he starves or he begs." that described isaac to the last tatter, only he couldn't waste money; he never had any. once i asked father what he thought isaac would do with it, if by some unforeseen working of divine providence, he got ten dollars. father said he could tell me exactly, because isaac once sold some timber and had a hundred all at once. he went straight to town and bought mandy a red silk dress and a brass breastpin, when she had no shoes. he got the children an organ, when they were hungry; and himself a plug hat. mandy and the children cried because he forgot candy and oranges until the last cent was gone. father said the only time isaac ever worked since he knew him was when he saw how the hat looked with his rags. he actually helped the men fell the trees until he got enough to buy a suit, the remains of which he still wore on sunday. i asked father why he didn't wear the hat too, and father said the loss of that hat was a blow, from which isaac never had recovered. once at camp-meeting he laid it aside to pray his longest, most impressive prayer, and an affectionate cow strayed up and licked the nap all off before isaac finished, so he never could wear it again. sally said: "i'll be switched if i'll have that disgusting creature around stuffing himself on my wedding day; but if you're not in bed, when it's all over, mother, i do wish you'd send mandy and the children a basket." mother promised, and father sat and looked on and pulled his lower lip until his ears almost wiggled. then sally said she wanted laddie and shelley to stand at the parlour door and keep it tight shut, and seat every one in the sitting-room except a special list she had made out to send in there. she wanted all our family and peter's, and only a few very close friends, but it was enough to fill the room. she said when she and peter came downstairs every one could see how they looked when they crossed the sitting-room, and for all the difference the door would make, it could be left open then; she would be walled in by people she wanted around her, and the others could have the fun of being there, seeing what they could, and getting all they wanted to eat. father and mother said that was all right, only to say nothing about the plan to shut the door; but when the time came just to close it and everything would be satisfactory. then sally took the slate upstairs to copy the list with ink, so every one went about something, while mother crossed to father and he took her on his lap, and they looked at each other the longest and the hardest, and neither of them said a word. after a while they cried and laughed, and cried some more, and it was about as sensible as what a flock of geese say when they are let out of the barn and start for the meadow in the morning. then father, all laughy and criey, said: "thank god! oh, thank god, the girl loves the home we have made for her!" just said it over and over, and mother kept putting in: "it pays, paul! it pays!" next day sally put on her riding habit and fixed herself as pretty as ever she could, and went around to have a last little visit with every one, and invited them herself, and then she wrote letters to people away. elizabeth and lucy came home, and every one began to work. father and mother went to the village in the carriage and brought home the bed full of things to eat, and all we had was added, and mother began to pack butter, and save eggs for cakes, and the day before, i thought there wouldn't be a chicken left on the place. they killed and killed, and sarah hood, amanda deam, and mrs. freshett picked and picked. "i'll bet a dollar we get something this time besides ribs and neck," said leon. "how do you suppose thigh and breast would taste?" "i was always crazy to try the tail," i said. "much chance you got," sniggered leon. "'member the time that father asked the presiding elder, 'brother lemon, what piece of the fowl do you prefer?' and he up and said: 'i'm partial to the rump, brother stanton.' there sat father bound he wouldn't give him mother's piece, so he pretended he couldn't find it, and forked all over the platter and then gave him the ribs and the thigh. gee, how mother scolded him after the preacher had gone! you notice father hasn't asked that since. now, he always says: 'do you prefer light or dark meat?' much chance you have of ever tasting a tail, if father won't even give one to the presiding elder!" "but as many as they are killing----" "oh this time," said leon with a flourish, "this time we are going to have livers, and breast, and thighs, and tails, if you are beholden to tail." "i'd like to know how we are?" "well, since you have proved that you can keep your mouth shut, for a little while, anyway, i'm going to take you in on this," said leon. "you keep your eyes on me. when the wedding gets going good, you watch me, and slip out. that's all! i'll be fixed to do the rest. but mind this, get out when i do." "all right," i promised. they must have wakened about four o'clock on the wedding day; it wasn't really light when i got up. i had some breakfast in my night dress, and then i was all fixed up in my new clothes, and made to sit on a chair, and never move for fear i would soil my dress, for no one had time to do me over, and there was only one dress anyway. there was so much to see you could keep interested just watching, and i was as anxious to look nice before the boys and girls, and the big people, as any one. every mantel and table and bureau was covered with flowers, and you could have smelled the kitchen a mile away, i know. the dining table was set for the wedding party, our father and mother, and peter's, and the others had to wait. you couldn't have laid the flat of your hand on that table anywhere, it was so covered with things to eat. miss amelia, in a dress none of us ever had seen before, a real nice white dress, pranced around it and smirked at every one, and waved the peacock feather brush to keep the flies from the jelly, preserves, jam, butter, and things that were not cooked. for hours mrs. freshett had stood in the kitchen on one side of the stove frying chicken and heaping it in baking pans in the oven, and amanda deam on the other, frying ham, while sarah hood cooked other things, and made a wash boiler of coffee. everything was ready by the time it should have been. i had watched them until i was tired, when sally came through the room where i was, and she said i might come along upstairs and see her dressed. when we reached the door i wondered where she would put me, but she pushed clothing together on a bed, and helped me up, and that was great fun. she had been bathed and had on her beautiful new linen underclothing that mother punched full of holes and embroidered in flowers and vines, and shelley was brushing her hair when some one called out: "the princess is coming!" i jumped for the window, and all of them, even sally, crowded behind. well, talk about carriages! no one ever had seen that one before. it was a carriage. and such horses! the funny "'orse, 'ouse" man who made the pryor garden was driving. he stopped at the gate, got out and opened a door, and the princess' father stepped down, tall and straight, all in shiny black. he turned around and held out his hand, bowing double, and the princess laid her hand in his and stepped out too. he walked with her to the gate, made another bow, kissed her hand, and stepped back, and she came down the walk alone. he got in the carriage, the man closed the door, and they drove away. sally must have arranged before that the princess was to come early, for she came straight upstairs. she wore a soft white silk dress with big faded pink roses in it, and her hair was fastened at each ear with a bunch of little pink roses. she was lovely, but she didn't "outdress or outshine" sally one bit, and she never even glanced at the mirror to see how she looked; she began helping with sally's hair, and to dress her. when bess kuntz prinked so long she made every one disgusted, the princess said: "oh save your trouble. no one will look at you when there's a bride in the house." there was a roll almost as thick as your arm of garters that all the other girls wanted sally to wear for them so they would get a chance to marry that year, and agnes kuntz's was so large it went twice around, and they just laughed about it. they put a blue ribbon on sally's stays for luck, and she borrowed peter's sister mary's comb to hold her back hair. they had the most fun, and when she was all ready except her dress they went away, and sally stood in the middle of the room trembling a little. outside you could hear carriage wheels rolling, the beat of horses' hoofs, and voices crying greetings. "there was a sound of revelry," by day. mother came in hurriedly. she wore her new brown silk, with a lace collar pinned at the throat with the pin that had a brown goldstone setting in it, and her precious ring was on her finger. she was dainty and pretty enough to have been a bride herself. she turned sally around slowly, touching her hair a little and her skirts; then she went to the closet, took out the wedding dress, put the skirt over sally's head, and she came up through the whiteness, pink and glowing. she slipped her arms into the sleeves, and mother fastened it, shook out the skirt, saw that the bead fringe hung right, and the lace collar lay flat, then she took sally in her arms, held her tight and said: "god bless you, dear, and keep you always. amen." then she stepped to the door, and peter, all shining and new, came in. he hugged sally and kissed her like it didn't make the least difference whether she had on calico or a wedding dress, and he just stared, and stared at her, and never said a word, so at last she asked: "well peter, do you like my dress?" and the idiot said: "why sally, i hadn't even seen it!" then both of them laughed, and the presiding elder came. i never liked to look at him very well because something had happened, and he had only one eye. i always wondered if he had "plucked it out" because it had "offended" him; but if you could forget his eye, and just listen to his voice, it was like the sweetest music. he married those two people right there in the bedroom, all but about three words at the end. i heard and saw every bit of it. then sally said it was time for me to go to mother, but she followed me into the boys' room and shut the door. then she knelt in her beautiful silver dress, and put her arms around me and said: "honest, little sister, aren't you going to kiss me goodbye?" "oh i can if you want me to," i said, but i didn't look at her; i looked out of the window. she laughed a breathless little catchy sort of laugh and said: "that's exactly what i do want." "you didn't even want me, to begin with," i reminded her. "there isn't a doubt but whoever told you that, could have been in better business," said sally, angry-like. "i was much younger then, and there were many things i didn't understand, and it wasn't you i didn't want; it was just no baby at all. i wouldn't have wanted a boy, or any other girl a bit more. i foolishly thought we had children enough in this house. i see now very plainly that we didn't, for this family never could get along without you, and i'm sorry i ever thought so, and i'd give anything if i hadn't struck you and----" "oh be still, and go on and get married!" i said. i could just feel a regular beller coming in my throat. "i was only fooling to pay you up. i meant all the time to kiss you good-bye when the others did. i'll nearly die being lonesome when you're gone----" then i ran for downstairs, and when i reached the door, where the steps went into the sitting-room, i stopped, scared at all the people. it was like camp-meeting. you could see the yard full through the windows. just as i was thinking i'd go back to the boys' room, and from there into the garret, and down the back stairway, laddie went and saw me. he came over, led me to the parlour door, put me inside, and there mother took my hand and held me tight, and i couldn't see leon anywhere. i was caught, but they didn't have him. mother never hung on as she did that day. i tried and tried to pull away, and she held tight. it was only a minute until the door opened, people crowded back, and the presiding elder, followed by sally and peter, came into the room, and they began being married all over again. if it hadn't grown so solemn my mother sprung a tear, i never would have made it. she just had to let me go to sop her face, because tears are salty, and they would turn her new brown silk front yellow. the minute my hand was free, i slipped between the people and looked at the parlour door. it was wedged full and more standing on chairs behind them. no one could get out there. i thought i would fail leon sure, and then i remembered the parlour bedroom. i got through that door easy as anything, and it was no trick at all to slip behind the blind, raise the window, and drop into mother's room from the sill. from there i reached the back dining-room door easy enough, went around to the kitchen, and called leon softly. he opened the door at once and i slipped in. he had just got there. we looked all around and couldn't see where to begin at first. there was enough cooked food there to load two wagons. an old pillow-case that had dried sage in it was lying across a chair and leon picked it up and poured the sage into the wood-box, and handed the case to me. he went over and knelt before the oven, while i followed and held open the case. leon rolled his eyes to the ceiling and said so exactly like father when he is serving company that not one of us could have told the difference: "which part of the fowl do you prefer, brother lemon?" it was so funny it made me snigger, but i straightened up and answered as well as i could: "i'm especially fond of the rump, brother stanton." leon stirred the heap and piled four or five tails in the case. i thought that was all i could manage before they would spoil, so i said: "do you prefer light or dark meat, sister abigail?" "i wish to choose breast," said leon, simpering just like that silly abigail webster. he put in six breasts. then we found them hidden away back in the oven in a pie pan, for the bride's table, i bet, and we took two livers apiece; we didn't dare take more for fear they had been counted. then he threw in whatever he came to that was a first choice big piece, until i was really scared, and begged him to stop; but he repeated what the fox said in the story of the "quarrelsome cocks"--"poco was very good, but i have not had enough yet," so he piled in pieces until i ran away with the pillow-case; then he slid in a whole plateful of bread, another of cake, and put the plates in a tub of dishes under the table. then we took some of everything that wasn't too runny. just then the silence broke in the front part of the house, and we scooted from the back door, closing it behind us, ran to the wood house and climbed the ladder to the loft over the front part. there we were safe as could be, we could see to the road, hear almost everything said in the kitchen, and "eat our bites in peace," like peter justice told the presiding elder at the church trial that he wanted his wife to, the time he slapped her. before very long, they began calling us, and called, and called. we hadn't an idea what they wanted, so we ate away. we heard them first while i was holding over a back to let leon taste kidney, and it made him blink when he got it good. "well my soul!" he said. "no wonder father didn't want to feed that to another man when mother isn't very well, and likes it! no wonder!" then he gave me a big bite of breast. it was sort of dry and tasteless; i didn't like it. "why, i think neck or back beats that all to pieces!" i said in surprise. "fact is, they do!" said leon. "i guess the people who 'wish to choose breast,' do it to get the biggest piece." i never had thought of it before, but of course that would be the reason. "allow me, sister stanton," said leon, holding out a piece of thigh. that was really chicken! then we went over the backs and picked out all the kidneys, and ate the little crusty places, and all the cake we could swallow; then leon fixed up the bag the best he could, and set it inside an old cracked churn and put on the lid. he said that would do almost as well as the cellar, and the food would keep until to-morrow. i wanted to slip down and put it in the underground station; but leon said father must be spending a lot of money right now, and he might go there to get some, so that wouldn't be safe. then he cleaned my face, and i told him when he got his right, and we slipped from the back door, crossed the lawton blackberry patch, and went to the house from the orchard. leon took an apple and broke it in two, and we went in eating as if we were starving. when father asked us where in this world we had been, leon told him we thought it would be so awful long before the fourth or fifth table, and we hadn't had much breakfast, and we were so hungry we went and hunted something to eat. "if you'd only held your horses a minute," said father; "they were calling you to take places at the bride's table." well for land's sake! our mouths dropped open until it's a wonder the cake and chicken didn't show, and we never said a word. there didn't seem to be anything to say, for leon loved to be with grown folks, and to have eaten at the bride's table would have been the biggest thing that ever happened to me. at last, when i could speak, i asked who had taken our places, and bless your heart if it wasn't that mealy-faced little sister of peter's, and one of the aunts from ohio. they had finished, and sally was upstairs putting on her travelling dress, while the guests were eating, when i heard laddie ask the princess to ride with him and sally's other friends, who were going to escort her to the depot. "you'll want all your horses. what could i ride?" "if i find you a good horse and saddle will you go?" "i will. i think it would be fine sport." laddie turned and went from sight that minute. the princess laughed and kept on making friends with every one, helping wait on people, thinking of nice things to do, and just as the carriage was at the gate for father and mother, and sally and peter, and every one else was untying their horses to ride in the procession to the village, from where i was standing on the mounting block i saw something coming down the little hill. i took one look, ran to the princess, and almost dragged her. up raced laddie, his face bright, his eyes snapping with fun. he rode flos, was leading the princess' horse maud, and carrying a big bundle under his arm. he leaped from the saddle and fastened both horses. "gracious heaven! what have you done?" gasped the princess. "brought your mount," said laddie, quite as if he were used to going to pryors' after the sausage grinder or the grain sacks. but the princess was pale and trembling. she stepped so close she touched him, and he immediately got a little closer. you couldn't get ahead of laddie, and he didn't seem to care who saw, and neither did she. "tell me exactly what occurred," she said, just as father does when he means to whale us completely. "i rapped at the front door," said laddie. "and who opened it?" cried the princess. "your father!" "my father?" "yes, your father!" said laddie. "and because i was in such a hurry, i didn't wait for him to speak. i said: 'good morning, mr. pryor. i'm one of the stanton boys, and i came for miss pryor's mount and habit. all the young people who are on horseback are going to ride an escort to the village, around my sister's bridal carriage, and miss pryor thinks she would enjoy going. please excuse such haste, but we only this minute made the plan, and the train won't wait.'" "and he?" "he said: 'surely! hold one minute.' i stood on the step and waited, and i could hear him give the order to some one to get your riding habit quickly, and then he blew a shrill whistle, and your horse was at the gate the fastest of anything i ever saw." "did he do or say----" "nothing about 'clods, and clowns, and grossness!' every other word he spoke was when i said, 'thank you, and good morning,' and was turning away. he asked: 'did miss pryor say whether she preferred to ride home, or shall i escort her in the carriage?'" "'she did not,' i answered. 'the plan was so sudden she had no time to think that far. but since she will have her horse and habit, why not allow my father to escort her?' so you see, i'm going to take you home," exulted laddie. "but you told him your father," said the princess. "and thereby created the urgent necessity," said laddie with a flourish, "for speaking to him again, and telling him that my father had visitors from ohio, and couldn't leave them. we will get all the fun from the day that we can; but before dusk, too early for them to have any cause for cavil, 'the gross country clod' is going to take you home!" one at a time, laddie pounded those last words into the hitching post, with his doubled fist. "suppose he sets the dogs on you! you know he keeps two dreadful ones." laddie just roared. he leaned closer. "beaucheous lady," he said, "i have fed those same dogs and rubbed their ears so many nights lately, he'll get the surprise of his life if he tries that." the princess drew away and stared at laddie the funniest. "on my life!" she said at last. "well for a country clod----!" then she turned with the habit bundle, and ran into the house. father and mother came from the front door arm in arm and walked to the carriage, and sally and peter followed. my, but they looked fine! the princess had gone to the garden and gathered flowers and lined all the children in rows down each side of the walk. they were loaded with blooms to throw at sally; but when she came out, in her beautiful gray poplin travelling dress, trimmed in brown ribbon, the same shade as her curls, her face all pink, her eyes shining, and the ties of her little brown bonnet waving to her waist, she was so perfectly beautiful, every single child watched her open mouthed, gripped its flowers, and forgot to throw them at all. and this you scarcely will believe after what she had said the day she made her list, and when all of us knew her heart was all torn up, sally just swept along smiling at every one and calling "good-bye" to those who had no way to ride to the village, as if leaving didn't amount to much. at the carriage, a little white, but still smiling, she turned and took one long look at everything, and then she got in and called for me, right out loud before every one, so i got to hold up my head as high as it would go, and step in too, and ride all the way to groveville between her and peter, and instead of holding his hand, she held mine, just gripped it tight. she gripped so hard she squeezed all the soreness at her from my heart, and when she kissed me good-bye the very last of all, i whispered in her ear that i wouldn't ever be angry any more, and i wasn't, because after she had explained i saw how it had been. it wasn't me she didn't want; it was just no baby. after our carriage came peter's people, then one father borrowed for the ohio relatives, then the other children, and all the neighbours followed, and when we reached the high hill where you turn beside the woods, i saw father gather up the lines and brace himself, for ned and jo were what he called "mettlesome." "then came a burst of thunder sound," as it says in "casablanca," and the horseback riders came sweeping around us, laddie and the princess leading. these two rode ahead of us, and the others lined three deep on either side, and the next carriage dropped back and let them close in behind, so sally and peter were "in the midst thereof." instead of throwing old shoes, as always had been done, the princess coaxed them to throw rice and roses, and every other flower pulled from the bouquets at home, and from the gardens we had passed. every one was out watching us go by, and when william justus rode beside the fences crying, "flowers for the bride! give us flowers for the bride!" some of the women were so excited they pulled things up by the roots and gave him armloads, and he rode ahead and supplied laddie and the princess, and they kept scattering them in the road until every foot of the way to groveville was covered with flowers, "the fair young flowers that lately sprang and stood." he even made side-cuts into swampy places and gathered armloads of those perfectly lovely, fringy blue gentians, caught up, and filled the carriage and scattered them in a wicked way, because you should only take a few of those rare, late flowers that only grow from seed. sally looked just as if she had come into her own and was made for it; i never did see her look so pretty, but peter sweated and acted awful silly. father had a time with the team. ned and jo became excited and just ranted. they simply danced. laddie had braided their manes and tails, and they waved like silken floss in the sunshine, and the carriage was freshly washed and the patent leather and brass shone, and we rode flower-covered. ahead, laddie and the princess fairly tried themselves. she hadn't put on her hat or habit after all. when laddie told her they were going to lead, she said: "very well! then i shall go as i am. the dress makes no difference. it's the first time i've had a chance to spoil one since i left england." when the other girls saw what she was going to do, nearly every one of them left off their hats and riding skirts. every family had saddle horses those days, and when the riders came racing up they looked like flying flowers, they were all laughing, bloom ladened, singing and calling jokes. ahead, laddie and the princess just plain showed off. her horse came from england with them, and laddie said it had arab blood in it, like the one in the fourth reader poem, "fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed," and the princess loved her horse more than that man did his. she said she'd starve before she'd sell it, and if her family were starving, she'd go to work and earn food for them, and keep her horse. laddie's was a kentucky thoroughbred he'd saved money for years to buy; and he took a young one and trained it himself, almost like a circus horse. both of them could ride; so that day they did. they ran those horses neck and neck, right up the hill approaching groveville, until they were almost from sight, then they whirled and came sweeping back fast as the wind. the princess' eyes were like dead coals, and her black curls streamed, the thin silk dress wrapped tight around her and waved back like a gossamer web such as spiders spin in october. laddie's hair was blowing, his cheeks and eyes were bright, and with one eye on the princess--she didn't need it--and one on the road, he cut curves, turned, wheeled, and raced, and as he rode, so did she. "will they break their foolish necks?" wailed mother. "they are the handsomest couple i ever have seen in my life!" said father. "yes, and you two watch out, or you'll strike trouble right there," said sally, leaning forward. i gave her an awful nudge. it made me so happy i could have screamed to see them flying away together like that. "well, if that girl represents trouble," said father, "god knows it never before came in such charming guise." "you can trust a man to forget his god and his immortal soul if a sufficiently beautiful woman comes along," said my mother dryly, and all of them laughed. she didn't mean that to be funny, though. you could always tell by the set of her lips and the light in her eyes. just this side of groveville we passed a man on horseback. he took off his hat and drew his horse to one side when laddie and the princess rode toward him. he had a big roll of papers under his arm, to show that he had been for his mail. but i knew, so did laddie and the princess, that he had been compelled to saddle and ride like mad, to reach town and come that far back in time to watch us pass; for it was the princess' father, and watch was exactly what he was doing; he wanted to see for himself. laddie and the princess rode straight at him, neck and neck, and then both of them made their horses drop on their knees and they waved a salute, and then they were up and away. of course father and mother saw, so mother bowed, and father waved his whip as we passed. he sat there like he'd turned the same on horseback as sabethany had in her coffin; but he had to see almost a mile of us driving our best horses and carriages, wearing our wedding garments and fine raiment, and all that "cavalcade," father called it, of young, reckless riders. you'd have thought if there were a hint of a smile in his whole being it would have shown when sally leaned from the carriage to let him see that her face and clothes were as good as need be and smiled a lovely smile on him, and threw him a rose. he did leave his hat off and bow low, and then shelley, always the very dickens for daring, rode right up to him and laughed in his face, and she leaned and thrust a flower into his bony hands; you would have thought he would have been simply forced to smile then, but he looked far more as if he would tumble over and roll from the saddle. my heart ached for a man in trouble like that. i asked the lord to preserve us from secrets we couldn't tell the neighbours! at the station there wasn't a thing those young people didn't do. they tied flowers and ribbons all over sally's satchel and trunk. they sowed rice as if it were seeding time in a wheatfield. they formed a circle around sally and peter and as mushy as ever they could they sang, "as sure as the grass grows around the stump, you are my darling sugar lump," while they danced. they just smiled all the time no matter what was done to them. some of it made me angry, but i suppose to be pleasant was the right way. sally was strong on always doing the right thing, so she just laughed, and so did all of us. going home it was wilder yet, for all of them raced and showed how they could ride. at the house people were hungry again, so the table was set and they ate up every scrap in sight, and leon and i ate with them that time and saved ours. then one by one the carriages, spring wagons, and horseback riders went away, all the people saying sally was the loveliest bride, and hers had been the prettiest wedding they'd ever seen, and the most good things to eat, and laddie and the princess went with them. when the last one was gone, and only the relatives from ohio were left, mother pitched on the bed, gripped her hands and cried as if she'd go to pieces, and father cried too, and all of us, even mrs. freshett, who stayed to wash up the dishes. she was so tickled to be there, and see, and help, that mother had hard work to keep her from washing the linen that same night. she did finish the last dish, scrub the kitchen floor, black the stove, and pack all the borrowed china in tubs, ready to be taken home, and things like that. mother said it was a burning shame for any neighbourhood to let a woman get so starved out and lonesome she'd act that way. she said enough was enough, and when mrs. freshett had cooked all day, and washed dishes until the last skillet was in place, she had done as much as any neighbour ought to do, and the other things she went on and did were a rebuke to us. i felt sore, weepy, and tired out. it made me sick to think of the sage bag in the cracked churn, so i climbed my very own catalpa tree in the corner, watched up the road for laddie, and thought things over. if i ever get married i want a dress, and a wedding exactly like that, but i would like a man quite different from peter; like laddie would suit me better. when he rode under the tree, i dropped from a limb into his arms, and went with him to the barn. he asked me what was going on at the house, and i told him about mrs. freshett being a rebuke to us; and laddie said she was, and he didn't believe one word against her. when i told him mother was in bed crying like anything, he said: "i knew that had to come when she kept up so bravely at the station. thank the lord, she showed her breeding by holding in until she got where she had a right to cry if she pleased." then i whispered for fear leon might be around: "did he set the dogs on you?" "he did not," said laddie, laughing softly. "did he call you names again?" "he did!" said laddie, "but i started it. you see, when we got there, thomas was raking the grass and he came to take the princess' horse. her father was reading on a bench under a tree. i helped her down, and walked with her to the door and said good-bye, and thanked her for the pleasure she had added to the day for us, loudly enough that he could hear; then i went over to him and said: 'good evening, mr. pryor. if my father knew anything about it, he would very much regret that company from ohio detained him and compelled me to escort your daughter home. he would greatly have enjoyed the privilege, but i honestly believe that i appreciated it far more than he could.'" "oh laddie, what did he say?" "he arose and glared at me, and choked on it, and he tried several times, until i thought the clods were going to fly again, but at last he just spluttered: 'you blathering rascal, you!' that was such a compliment compared with what i thought he was going to say that i had to laugh. he tried, but he couldn't keep from smiling himself, and then i said: 'please think it over, mr. pryor, and if you find that miss pryor has had an agreeable, entertaining day, won't you give your consent for her to come among us again? won't you allow me to come here, if it can be arranged in such a way that i intrude on no one?'" "oh laddie!" "he exploded in a kind of a snarl that meant, i'll see you in the bad place first. so i said to him: 'thank you very much for to-day, anyway. i'm sure miss pryor has enjoyed this day, and it has been the happiest of my life--one to be remembered always. of course i won't come here if i am unwelcome, but i am in honour bound to tell you that i intend to meet your daughter elsewhere, whenever i possibly can. i thought it would be a better way for you to know and have us where you could see what was going on, if you chose, than for us to meet without your knowledge." "oh laddie," i wailed, "now you've gone and ruined everything!" "not so bad as that, little sister," laughed laddie. "not half so bad! he exploded in another growl, and he shook his walking stick at me, and he said--guess what he said." "that he would kill you," i panted, clinging to him. "right!" said laddie. "you have it exactly. he said: 'young man, i'll brain you with my walking stick if ever i meet you anywhere with my daughter, when you have not come to her home and taken her with my permission.'" "what!" i stammered. "what! oh laddie, say it over! does it mean----?" "it means," said laddie, squeezing me until i was near losing my breath, "it means, little sister, that i shall march to his door and ask him squarely, and if it is anywhere the princess wants to go, i shall take her." "like, 'see the conquering hero comes?'" "exactly!" laughed laddie. "what will mother say?" "she hasn't made up her mind yet," answered laddie. "do you mean----?" i gasped again. "of course!" said laddie. "i wasn't going to let a girl get far ahead of me. the minute i knew she had told her mother, i told mine the very first chance." "mother knows that you feel about the princess as father does about her?" "mother knows," answered laddie, "and so does father. i told both of them." both of them knew! and it hadn't made enough difference that any one living right with them every day could have told it. time and work will be needed to understand grown people. chapter viii the shropshire and the crusader "for, among the rich and gay, fine, and grand, and decked in laces, none appear more glad then they, with happier hearts, or happier faces." every one told mother for a week before the wedding that she would be sick when it was over, and sure enough she was. she had been on her feet too much, and had so many things to think about, and there had been such a dreadful amount of work for her and candace, even after all the neighbours helped, that she was sick in bed and we couldn't find a thing she could eat, until she was almost wild with hunger and father seemed as if he couldn't possibly bear it a day longer. after candace had tried everything she could think of, i went up and talked it over with sarah hood, and she came down, pretending she happened in, and she tried thickened milk, toast and mulled buttermilk; she kept trying for two days before she gave up. candace thought of new things, and mrs. freshett came and made all the sick dishes she knew, but mother couldn't even taste them; so we were pretty blue, and we nearly starved ourselves, for how could we sit and eat everything you could mention, and mother lying there, almost crying with hunger? saturday morning i was hanging around her room hoping maybe she could think of some least little thing i could do for her, even if no more than to bring a glass of water, or a late rose to lay on her pillow; it would be better than not being able to do anything at all. after a while she opened her eyes and looked at me, and i scarcely knew her. she smiled the bravest she could and said: "sorry for mother, dear?" i nodded. i couldn't say much, and she tried harder than ever to be cheerful and asked: "what are you planning to do to-day?" "if you can't think of one thing i can do for you, guess i'll go fishing," i said. her eyes grew brighter and she seemed half interested. "why, little sister," she said, "if you can catch some of those fish like you do sometimes, i believe i could eat one of them." i never had such a be-hanged time getting started. i slipped from the room, and never told a soul even where i was going. i fell over the shovel and couldn't find anything quick enough but my pocket to put the worms in, and i forgot my stringer. at last, when i raced down the hill to the creek and climbed over the water of the deep place, on the roots of the pete billings yowling tree, i had only six worms, my apple sucker pole, my cotton cord line, and bent pin hook. i put the first worm on carefully, and if ever i prayed! sometimes it was hard to understand about this praying business. my mother was the best and most beautiful woman who ever lived. she was clean, and good, and always helped "the poor and needy who cluster round your door," like it says in the poetry piece, and there never could have been a reason why god would want a woman to suffer herself, when she went flying on horseback even dark nights through rain or snow, to doctor other people's pain, and when she gave away things like she did--why, i've seen her take a big piece of meat from the barrel, and a sack of meal, and heaps of apples and potatoes to carry to mandy thomas--when she gave away food by the wagonload at a time, god couldn't have wanted her to be hungry, and yet she was that very minute almost crying for food; and i prayed, oh how i did pray! and a sneaking old back-ended crayfish took my very first worm. i just looked at the sky and said: "well, when it's for a sick woman, can't you do any better than that?" i suppose i shouldn't have said it, but if it had been your mother, how would you have felt? i pinched the next worm in two, so if a crayfish took that, it wouldn't get but half. i lay down across the roots and pulled my bonnet far over my face and tried to see to the bottom. i read in school the other day: "and by those little rings on the water i know the fishes are merrily swimming below." there were no rings on the water, but after a while i saw some fish darting around, only they didn't seem to be hungry; for they would come right up and nibble a tiny bit at my worm, but they wouldn't swallow it. then one did, so i jerked with all my might, jerked so hard the fish and worm both flew off, and i had only the hook left. i put on the other half and tried again. i prayed straight along, but the tears would come that time, and the prayer was no powerful effort like brother hastings would have made; it was little torn up pieces mostly: "o lord, please do make only one fish bite!" at last one did bite good, so i swung carefully that time, and landed it on the grass, but it was so little and it hit a stone and was killed. i had no stringer to put it back in the water to keep cool, and the sun was hot that day, like times in the fall. stretched on the roots, with it shining on my back, and striking the water and coming up from below, i dripped with heat and excitement. i threw that one away, put on another worm, and a big turtle took it, the hook, and broke my line, and almost pulled me in. i wouldn't have let go if it had, for i just had to have a fish. there was no help from the lord in that, so i quit praying, only what i said when i didn't know it. father said man was born a praying animal, and no matter how wicked he was, if he had an accident, or saw he had just got to die, he cried aloud to the lord for help and mercy before he knew what he was doing. i could hear the roosters in the barnyard, the turkey gobbler, and the old ganders screamed once in a while, and sometimes a bird sang a skimpy little fall song; nothing like spring, except the killdeers and larks; they were always good to hear--and then the dinner bell rang. i wished i had been where i couldn't have heard that, because i didn't intend going home until i had a fish that would do for mother if i stayed until night. if the best one in the family had to starve, we might as well all go together; but i wouldn't have known how hungry i was, if the bell hadn't rung and told me the others were eating. so i bent another pin and tried again. i lost the next worm without knowing how, and then i turned baby and cried right out loud. i was so thirsty, the salty tears running down my cheeks tasted good, and doing something besides fishing sort of rested me; so i looked around and up at the sky, wiped my face on the skirt of my sunbonnet, and put on another worm. i had only one more left, and i began to wonder if i could wade in and catch a fish by hand; i did teeny ones sometimes, but i knew the water there was far above my head, for i had measured it often with the pole; it wouldn't do to try that; instead of helping mother any, a funeral would kill her, too, so i fell back on the crusaders, and tried again. strange how thinking about them helped. i pretended i was fighting my way to the holy city, and this was the jordan just where it met the sea, and i had to catch enough fish to last me during the pilgrimage west or i'd never reach jerusalem to bring home a shell for the stanton crest. i pretended so hard, that i got braver and stronger, and asked the lord more like there was some chance of being heard. all at once there was a jerk that almost pulled me in, so i jerked too, and a big fish flew over my head and hit the bank behind me with a thump. of course by a big fish i don't mean a red horse so long as my arm, like the boys bring from the river; i mean the biggest fish i ever caught with a pin in our creek. it looked like the whale that swallowed jonah, as it went over my head. i laid the pole across the roots, jumped up and turned, and i had to grab the stump to keep from falling in the water and dying. there lay the fish, the biggest one i ever had seen, but it was flopping wildly, and it wasn't a foot from a hole in the grass where a muskrat had burrowed through. if it gave one flop that way, it would slide down the hole straight back into the water; and between me and the fish stood our cross old shropshire ram. i always looked to see if the sheep were in the meadow before i went to the creek, but that morning i had been so crazy to get something for mother to eat, i never once thought of them--and there it stood! that ram hadn't been cross at first, and father said it never would be if treated right, and not teased, and if it were, there would be trouble for all of us. i was having more than my share that minute, and it bothered me a lot almost every day. i never dared enter a field any more if it were there, and now it was stamping up and down the bank, shaking its head, and trying to get me; with one flop the fish went almost in the hole, and the next a little away from it. everything put together, i thought i couldn't stand it. i never wanted anything as i wanted that fish, and i never hated anything as i hated that sheep. it wasn't the sheep's fault either; leon teased it on purpose, just to see it chase polly martin; but that was more her doings than his. she was a widow and she crossed our front meadow going to her sister's. she had two boys big as laddie, and three girls, and father said they lived like "the lilies of the field; they toiled not, neither did they spin." they never looked really hungry or freezing, but they never plowed, or planted, they had no cattle or pigs or chickens, only a little corn for meal, and some cabbage, and wild things they shot for meat, and coons to trade the skins for more powder and lead--bet they ate the coons--never any new clothes, never clean, they or their house. once when father and mother were driving past, they saw polly at the well and they stopped for politeness sake to ask how she was, like they always did with every one. polly had a tin cup of water and was sopping at her neck with a carpet rag, and when mother asked, "how are you, mrs. martin?" she answered: "oh i ain't very well this spring; i gest i got the go-backs!" mother said polly looked as if she'd been born with the "go-backs," and had given them to all her children, her home, garden, fields, and even the fences. we hadn't a particle of patience with such people. when you are lazy like that it is very probable that you'll live to see the day when your children will peep through the fence cracks and cry for bread. i have seen those martin children come mighty near doing it when the rest of us opened our dinner baskets at school; and if mother hadn't always put in enough so that we could divide, i bet they would. if polly martin had walked up as if she were alive, and had been washed and neat, and going somewhere to do some one good, leon never would have dreamed of such a thing as training the shropshire to bunt her. she was so long and skinny, always wore a ragged shawl over her head, a floppy old dress that the wind whipped out behind, and when she came to the creek, she sat astride the foot log, and hunched along with her hands; that tickled the boys so, leon began teasing the sheep on purpose to make it get her. but inasmuch as she saw fit to go abroad looking so funny, that any one could see she'd be a perfect circus if she were chased, i didn't feel that it was leon's fault. if, like the little busy bee, she had "improved each shining hour," he never would have done it. seems to me, she brought the trouble on her own head. first, leon ran at the shropshire and then jumped aside; but soon it grew so strong and quick he couldn't manage that, so he put his hat on a stick and poked it back and forth through a fence crack, and that made the ram raving mad. at last it would butt the fence until it would knock itself down, and if he dangled the hat again, get right up and do it over. father never caught leon, so he couldn't understand what made the sheep so dreadfully cross, because he had thought it was quite peaceable when he bought it. the first time it got after polly, she threw her shawl over its head, pulled up her skirts, and leon said she hit just eleven high places crossing an eighty-acre field; she came to the house crying, and father had to go after her shawl, and mother gave her a roll of butter and a cherry pie to comfort her. the shropshire never really got polly, but any one could easily see what it would do to me if i dared step around that stump, and it was dancing and panting to begin. if whoever wrote that "gentle sheep, pray tell me why," piece ever had seen a sheep acting like that, it wouldn't have been in the books; at least i think it wouldn't, but one can't be sure. he proved that he didn't know much about anything outdoors or he wouldn't have said that sheep were "eating grass and daisies white, from the morning till the night," when daisies are bitter as gall. flop! went the fish, and its tail touched the edge of the hole. then i turned around and picked up the pole. i put my sunbonnet over the big end of it, and poked it at the ram, and drew it back as leon did his hat. one more jump and mother's fish would be gone. i stood on the roots and waved my bonnet. the sheep lowered its head and came at it with a rush. i drew back the pole, and the sheep's forefeet slid over the edge, and it braced and began to work to keep from going in. the fish gave a big flop and went down the hole. then i turned crusader and began to fight, and i didn't care if i were whipped black and blue, i meant to finish that old black-faced shropshire. i set the pole on the back of its neck and pushed with all my might, and i got it in, too. my, but it made a splash! it wasn't much good at swimming either, and it had no chance, for i stood on the roots and pushed it down, and hit it over the nose with all my might, and i didn't care how far it came on the cars, or how much money it cost, it never would chase me, and make me lose my fish again. i didn't hear him until he splashed under the roots and then i was so mad i didn't see that it was laddie; i only knew that it was someone who was going to help out that miserable ram, so i struck with all my might, the sheep when i could hit it, if not, the man. "you little demon, stop!" cried laddie. i got in a good one right on the ram's nose. then laddie dropped the sheep and twisted the fish pole from my fingers, and i pushed him as hard as i could, but he was too strong. he lifted the sheep, pulled it to the bank, and rolled it, worked its jaws, and squeezed water from it, and worked and worked. "i guess you've killed it!" he said at last. "goody!" i shouted. "goody! oh but i am glad it's dead!" "what on earth has turned you to a fiend?" asked laddie, beginning work on the sheep again. "that ram!" i said. "ever since leon made it cross so it would chase polly martin, it's got me oftener than her. i can't go anywhere for it, and to-day it made me lose a big fish, and mother is waiting. she thought maybe she could eat some." then i roared; bet i sounded like bashan's bull. "dear lord!" said laddie dropping the sheep and taking me in his wet arms. "tell me, biddy! tell me how it is." then i forgot i was a crusader, and told him all about it as well as i could for choking, and when i finished he bathed my hot face, and helped me from the roots. then he went and looked down the hole i showed him and he cried out quicklike, and threw himself on the grass, and in a second up came the fish. some one had rolled a big stone in the hole, so the fish was all right, not even dead yet, and laddie said it was the biggest one he ever had seen taken from the creek. then he said if i'd forgive him and all our family, for spoiling the kind of a life i had a perfect right to lead, and if i'd run to the house and get a big bottle from the medicine case quick, he would see to it that some place was fixed for that sheep where it would never bother me again. so i took the fish and ran as fast as i could, but i sent may back with the bottle, and did the scaling myself. no one at our house could do it better, for laddie taught me the right way long ago, when i was small, and i'd done it hundreds of times. then i went to candace and she put a little bit of butter and a speck of lard in a skillet, and cooked the fish brown. she made a slice of toast and boiled a cup of water and carried it to the door; then she went in and set the table beside the bed, and i took in the tray, and didn't spill a drop. mother never said a word; she just reached out and broke off a tiny speck and nibbled it, and it stayed; she tried a little bigger piece, and another, and she said: "take out the bones, candace!" she ate every scrap of that fish like the hungriest traveller who ever came to our door, and the toast, and drank the hot water. then she went into a long sleep and all of us walked tiptoe, and when she waked up she was better, and in a few days she could sit in her chair again, and she began getting shelley ready to go to music school. i have to tell you the rest, too. laddie made the ram come alive, and father sold it the next day for more than he paid for it. he said he hoped i'd forgive him for not having seen how it had been bothering me, and that he never would have had it on the place a day if he'd known. the next time he went to town he bought me a truly little cane rod, a real fishing line, several hooks, and a red bobber too lovely to put into the water. i thought i was a great person from the fuss all of them made over me, until i noticed laddie shrug his shoulders, and reach back and rub one, and then i remembered. i went flying, and thank goodness! he held out his arms. "oh laddie! i never did it!" i cried. "i never, never did! i couldn't! laddie, i love you best of any one; you know i do!" "of course you didn't!" said laddie. "my little sister wasn't anywhere around when that happened. that was a poor little girl i never saw before, and she was in such trouble she didn't know what she was doing. and i hope i'll never see her again," he ended, twisting his shoulder. but he kissed me and made it all right, and really i didn't do that; i just simply couldn't have struck laddie. marrying off sally was little worse than getting shelley ready for school. she had to have three suits of everything, and a new dress of each kind, and three hats; her trunk wouldn't hold all there was to put in it; and father said he never could pay the bills. he had promised her to go, and he didn't know what in this world to do; because he never had borrowed money in his life, and he couldn't begin; for if he died suddenly, that would leave mother in debt, and they might take the land from her. that meant he'd spent what he had in the bank on sally's wedding, and all that was in the underground station, or maybe the station money wasn't his. just when he was awfully bothered, mother said to never mind, she believed she could fix it. she sent all of us into the orchard to pick the fine apples that didn't keep well, and father made three trips to town to sell them. she had big jars of lard she wouldn't need before butchering time came again, and she sold dried apples, peaches, and raspberries from last year. she got lots of money for barrels of feathers she'd saved to improve her feather beds and pillows; she said she would see to that later. father was so tickled to get the money to help him out that he said he'd get her a pair of those wonderful new blue geese like pryors had, that every one stopped to look at. when there was not quite enough yet, from somewhere mother brought out money that she'd saved for a long time, from butter and eggs, and chickens, and turkeys, and fruit and lard, and things that belonged to her. father hated to use it the worst way, but she said she'd saved it for an emergency, and now seemed to be the time. she said if the child really had talent, she should be about developing it, and while there would be many who would have far finer things than shelley, still she meant her to have enough that she wouldn't be the worst looking one, and so ashamed she couldn't keep her mind on her work. father said, with her face it didn't make any difference what she wore, and mother said that was just like a man; it made all the difference in the world what a girl wore. father said maybe it did to the girl, and other women; what he meant was that it made none to a man. mother said the chief aim and end of a girl's life was not wrapped up in a man; and father said maybe not with some girls, but it would be with shelley: she was too pretty to escape. i do wonder if i'm going to be too pretty to escape, when i put on long dresses. sometimes i look in the glass to see if it's coming, but i don't suppose it's any use. mother says you can't tell a thing at the growing age about how a girl is going to look at eighteen. when everything was almost ready, leon came in one day and said: "shelley, what about improving your hair? have you tried your wild grape sap yet?" shelley said: "why, goodness me! we've been so busy getting sally married, and my clothes made, i forgot all about that. have you noticed the crock in passing? is there anything in it?" "it was about half full, once when i went by," said leon. "i haven't seen it lately." "do please be a dear and look, when you go after the cows this evening," said shelley. "if there's anything in it, bring it up." "do it yourself for want of me, the boy replied quite manfully," quoted leon from "the little lord and the farmer." he was always teasing. "i think you're mean as dirt if you don t bring it," said shelley. leon grinned and you should have heard the nasty, teasing way he said more of that same piece: "anger and pride are both unwise, vinegar never catches flies----" i wondered she didn't slap him. you could see she wanted to. "i can get it myself," she said angrily. "what will you give me to bring it?" asked leon, who never missed a chance to make a bargain. "my grateful thanks. are they not a proper reward?" asked shelley. "thanks your foot!" said leon. "will you bring something pretty from chicago for susie fall's christmas present?" every one laughed, but leon never cared. he liked susie best of any of the girls, and he wanted every one to know it. he went straight to her whenever he had a chance, and he'd already told her mother to keep all the other boys away, because he meant to marry her when he grew up, and widow fall said that was fair enough, and she'd save her for him. so shelley said she would get him something for susie, and leon brought the crock. shelley looked at it sort of dubious-like, tipped it, and stared at the dirt settled in the bottom, and then stuck in her finger and tasted it. she looked at leon with a queer grin and said: "smarty, smarty, think you're smart!" she threw the creek water into the swill bucket. no one said a word, but leon looked much sillier than she did. after he was gone i asked her if she would bring him a christmas present for susie now, and she said she ought to bring him a pretty glass bottle labelled perfume, with hartshorn in it, and she would, if she thought he'd smell it first. shelley felt badly about leaving mother when she wasn't very well; but mother said it was all right, she had candace to keep house and may and me, and father, and all of us to take care of her, and it would be best for shelley to go now and work hard as she could, while she had the chance. so one afternoon father took her trunk to the depot and bought the tickets and got the checks, and the next day laddie drove to groveville with father and shelley, and she was gone. right at the last, she didn't seem to want to leave so badly, but all of them said she must. peter's cousin, who had gone last year, was to meet her, and have a room ready where she boarded if she could, and if she couldn't right away, then the first one who left, shelley was to have the place, so they'd be together. there were eight of us left, counting candace and miss amelia, and you wouldn't think a house with eight people living in it would be empty, but ours was. everything seemed to wilt. the roses on the window blinds didn't look so bright as they had; mother said the only way she could get along was to keep right on working. she helped candace all she could, but she couldn't be on her feet very much, so she sat all day long and peeled peaches to dry, showed candace how to jelly, preserve, and spice them, and peeled apples for butter and to dry, quantities more than we could use, but she said she always could sell such things, and with the bunch of us to educate yet, we'd need the money. when it grew cold enough to shut the doors, and have fire at night, first thing after supper all of us helped clear the table, then we took our slates and books and learned our lessons for the next day, and then father lined us against the wall, all in a row from laddie down, and he pronounced words--easy ones that divided into syllables nicely, for me, harder for may, and so up until i might sit down. for laddie, may and leon he used the geography, the bible, roland's history, the christian advocate, and the agriculturist. my, but he had them so they could spell! after that, as memory tests, all of us recited our reading lesson for the next day, especially the poetry pieces. i knew most of them, from hearing the big folks repeat them so often and practise the proper way to read them. i could do "rienzi's address to the romans," "casablanca," "gray's elegy," or "mark antony's speech," but best of all, i liked "lines to a water-fowl." when he was tired, if it were not bedtime yet, all of us, boys too, sewed rags for carpet and rugs. laddie braided corn husks for the kitchen and outside door mats, and they were pretty, and "very useful too," like the dog that got his head patted in mcguffey's second. then they picked the apples. these had to be picked by hand, wrapped in soft paper, packed in barrels, and shipped to fort wayne. where they couldn't reach by hand, they stood on barrels or ladders, and used a long handled picker, so as not to bruise the fruit. laddie helped with everything through the day, worked at his books at night, and whenever he stepped outside he looked in the direction of pryors'. he climbed to the topmost limbs of the trees with a big basket, picked it full and let it down with a long piece of clothesline. i loved to be in the orchard when they were working; there were plenty of summer apples to eat yet; it was fun to watch the men, and sometimes i could be useful by handing baskets or heaping up apples to be buried for us. one night father read about a man who had been hanged for killing another man, and they cut him down too soon, so he came alive, and they had to hang him over; and father got all worked up about it. he said the man had suffered death the first time to "all intents and purposes," so that fulfilled the requirements of the law, and they were wrong when they hanged him again. laddie said it was a piece of bungling sure enough, but the law said a man must be "hanged by his neck until he was dead," and if he weren't dead, why, it was plain he hadn't fulfilled the requirements of the law, so they were forced to hang him again. father said that law was wrong; the man never should have been hanged in the first place. they talked and argued until we were all excited about it, and the next evening after school leon and i were helping pick apples, and when father and laddie went to the barn with a load we sat down to rest and we thought about what they said. "gee, that was tough on the man!" said leon, "but i guess the law is all right. of course he wouldn't want to die, and twice over at that, but i don't suppose the man he killed liked to die either. i think if you take a life, it's all right to give your own to pay for it." "leon," i said, "some time when you are fighting absalom saunders or lou wicks, just awful, if you hit them too hard on some tender spot and kill them, would you want to die to pay for it?" "i wouldn't want to, but i guess i'd have to," said leon. "that's the law, and it's as good a way to make it as any. but i'm not going to kill any one. i've studied my physiology hard to find all the spots that will kill. i never hit them behind the ear, or in the pit of the stomach; i just black their eyes, bloody their snoots, and swat them on the chin to finish off with." "well, suppose they don't study their physiologies like you do, and hit you in the wrong place, and kill you, would you want them hanged by the neck until they were dead, to pay for it?" "i don't think i'd want anything if i were dead," he said. "i wonder how it feels to die. now that man knew. i'd like to be hanged enough to find out how it goes, and then come back, and brag about it. i don't think it hurts much; i believe i'll try it." so leon took the rope laddie lowered the baskets with, and threw it over a big limb. then he rolled up a barrel and stood on it and put my sunbonnet on with the crown over his face, for a black cap, and made the rope into a slip noose over his head, and told me to stand back by the apple tree and hold the rope tight, until he said he was hanged enough. then he stepped from the barrel. it jerked me toward him about a yard, as he came down smash! on his feet. i held with all my might, but he was too heavy--and falling that way. so he went to trying to fix some other plan, and i told him the sensible thing to do would be for him to hang me, because he'd be strong enough to hold me and i could tell him how it felt just as well. so we fixed me up like we had him, and when leon got the rope stretched, he wrapped it twice around the apple tree so it wouldn't jerk him as it had me, and when he said "ready," i stepped from the barrel. the last thing i heard was leon telling me to say when i was hanged enough. i was so heavy, the rope stretched, and i went down until it almost tore off my head, and i couldn't get a single breath, so of course i didn't tell him, and i couldn't get on the barrel, and my tongue went out, and my chest swelled up, and my ears roared, and i kicked and struggled, and all the time i could hear leon laughing, and shouting to keep it up, that i was dying fine; only he didn't know that i really was, and at last i didn't feel or know anything more. when i came to, i was lying on the grass, while father was pumping my arms, and laddie was pouring creek water on my face from his hat, and leon was running around in circles, clear crazy. i heard father tell him he'd give him a scutching he'd remember to the day of his death; but inasmuch as i had told leon to do it, i had to grab father and hold to him tight as i could, until i got breath enough to explain how it happened. even then i wasn't sure what he was going to do. after all that, when i tried to tell leon how it felt, he just cried like a baby, and he wouldn't listen to a word, even when he'd wanted to know so badly. he said if i hadn't come back, he'd have gone to the barn and used the swing rope on himself, so it was a good thing i did, for one funeral would have cost enough, when we needed money so badly, not to mention how mother would have felt to have two of us go at once, like she had before. and anyway, it didn't amount to so awful much. it was pretty bad at first, but it didn't last long, and the next day my neck was only a little blue and stiff, and in three days it was all over, only a rough place where the rope grained the skin as i went down; but i never got to tell leon how it felt; i just couldn't talk him into hearing, and it was quite interesting too; but still i easily saw why the man in the paper would object to dying twice, to pay for killing another man once. when the apples were picked and the cabbage, beets, turnips, and potatoes were buried, some corn dried in the garret for new meal, pumpkins put in the cellar, the field corn all husked, and the butchering done, father said the work was in such fine shape, with laddie to help, and there was so much more corn than he needed for us, and the price was so high, and the turkeys did so well, and everything, that he could pay back what mother helped him, and have quite a sum over. it was thanksgiving by that time, and all of winfield's, lucy's, sally and peter, and our boys came home. we had a big time, all but shelley; it was too expensive for her to come so far for one day, but mother sent her a box with a whole turkey for herself and her friends; and cake, popcorn, nuts, and just everything that wasn't too drippy. shelley wrote such lovely letters that mother saved them and after we had eaten as much dinner as we could, she read them before we left the table. i had heard most of them, but i liked to listen again, because they sounded so happy. you could hear shelley laugh on every page. she told about how peter's cousin was waiting when the train stopped. they couldn't room together right away, but they were going to the first chance they had. shelley felt badly because they were so far apart, but she was in a nice place, where she could go with other girls of the school until she learned the way. she told about her room and the woman she boarded with and what she had to eat; she wrote mother not to worry about clothes, because most of the others were from the country, or small towns, and getting ready to teach, and lots of them didn't have nearly as many or as pretty dresses as she did. she told about the big building, the classes, the professors, and of going to public recitals where some of the pupils who knew enough played; and she was working her fingers almost to the bone, so she could next year. she told of people she met, and how one of the teachers took a number of girls in his class to see a great picture gallery. she wrote pages about a young chicago lawyer she met there, and only a few lines about the pictures, so father said as that was the best collection of art work in chicago, it was easy enough to see that shelley had been far more impressed with the man than she had been with the pictures. mother said she didn't see how he could say a thing like that about the child. of course she couldn't tell in a letter about hundreds of pictures, but it was easy enough to tell all about a man. father got sort of spunky at that, and he said it was mighty little that mattered most, that could be told about a chicago lawyer; and mother had better caution shelley to think more about her work, and write less of the man. mother said that would stop the child's confidences completely and she'd think all the time about the man, and never mention him again, so she wouldn't know what was going on. she said she was glad shelley had found pleasing, refined friends, and she'd encourage her all she could in cultivating them; but of course she'd caution her to be careful, and she'd tell her what the danger was, and after that shelley wrote and wrote. mother didn't always read the letters to us, but she answered every one she got that same night. sometimes she pushed the pen so she jabbed the paper, and often she smiled or laughed softly. i liked thanksgiving. we always had a house full of company, and they didn't stay until we were tired of them, as they did at christmas, and there was as much to eat; the only difference was that there were no presents. it wasn't nearly so much work to fix for one day as it was for a week; so it wasn't so hard on mother and candace, and father didn't have to spend much money. we were wearing all our clothes from last fall that we could, and our coats from last winter to help out, but we didn't care. we had a lot of fun, and we wanted sally and shelley to have fine dresses, because they were in big cities where they needed them, and in due season, no doubt, we would have much more than they, because, as may figured it, there would be only a few of us by that time, so we could have more to spend. that looked sensible, and i thought it would be that way, too. we were talking it over coming from school one evening, and when we had settled it, we began to play "dip and fade." that was a game we made up from being at church, and fall and spring were the only times we could play it, because then the rains filled all the ditches beside the road where the dirt was plowed up to make the bed higher, and we had to have the water to dip in and fade over. we played it like that, because it was as near as we could come to working out a song isaac thomas sang every time he got happy. he had a lot of children at home, and more who had died, from being half-fed and frozen, mother thought; and he was always talking about meeting the "pore innocents" in heaven, and singing that one song. every time he made exactly the same speech in meeting. it began like reciting poetry, only it didn't rhyme, but it sort of cut off in lines, and isaac waved back and forth on his feet, and half sung it, and the rags waved too, but you just couldn't feel any thrills of earnestness about what he said, because he needed washing, and to go to work and get him some clothes and food to fill out his frame. he only looked funny, and made you want to laugh. it took emanuel ripley to raise your hair. i don't know why men like my father, and the minister, and john dover stood it; they talked over asking isaac to keep quiet numbers of times, but the minister said there were people like that in every church, they always came among the lord's anointed, and it was better to pluck out your right eye than to offend one of them, and he was doubtful about doing it. so we children all knew that the grown people scarcely could stand isaac's speech, and prayer, and song, and that they were afraid to tell him plain out that he did more harm than good. every meeting about the third man up was isaac, and we had to watch him wave, and rant, and go sing-songy: "oh brethering and sistering--ah, it delights my heart--ah to gather with you, in this holy house of worship--ah. in his sacred word--ah, the lord--ah tells us, that we are all his childring--ah. and now, lemme exhort you to-night--ah, as one that loves you--ah, to choose that good part, that mary chose--ah, that the worrrr-uld kin neither give ner take away--ah." that went on until he was hoarse, then he prayed, and arose and sang his song. other men spoke where they stood. isaac always walked to the altar, faced the people, and he was tired out when he finished, but so proud of himself, so happy, and he felt so sure that his efforts were worth a warm bed, sausage, pancakes, maple syrup, and coffee for breakfast, that it was mighty seldom he failed to fool some one else into thinking so too, and if he could, he wouldn't have to walk four miles home on cold nights, with no overcoat. in summer, mostly, they let him go. isaac always was fattest in winter, especially during revivals, but at any time mother said he looked like a sheep's carcass after the buzzards had picked it. it could be seen that he was perfectly strong, and could have fed and clothed himself, and mandy and the children, quite as well as our father did us, if he had wanted to work, for we had the biggest family of the neighbourhood. so we children made fun of him and we had to hold our mouths shut when he got up all tired and teary-like, and began to quaver: "many dear childurn we know dew stan' un toon ther harps in the better lan', ther little hans frum each soundin' string, bring music sweet, wile the anguls sing, bring music sweet, wile the anguls sing,-- we shell meet them agin on that shore, we shell meet them agin on that shore, with fairer face, un angel grace, each loved un ull welcome us ther. "they uster mourn when the childurn died, un said goo-bye at the river side, they dipped ther feet in the glidin' stream, un faded away, like a loveli dream, un faded away like a loveli dream." then the chorus again, and then isaac dropped on the front seat exhausted, and stayed there until some good-hearted woman, mostly my mother, felt so sorry about his shiftlessness she asked him to go home with us and warmed and fed him, and put him in the traveller's bed to sleep. the way we played it was this: we stood together at the edge of a roadside puddle and sang the first verse and the chorus exactly as isaac did. then i sang the second verse, and may was one of the "many dear childurn," and as i came to the lines she dipped her feet in the "glidin' stream," and for "fading away," she jumped across. now may was a careful little soul, and always watched what she was doing, so she walked up a short way, chose a good place, and when i sang the line, she was almost birdlike, she dipped and faded so gracefully. then we laughed like dunces, and then may began to sway and swing, and drone through her nose for me, and i was so excited i never looked. i just dipped and faded on the spot. i faded all right too, for i couldn't jump nearly across, and when i landed in pure clay that had been covered with water for three weeks, i went down to my knees in mud, to my waist in water, and lost my balance and fell backward. a man passing on horseback pried me out with a rail and helped me home. of course he didn't know how i happened to fall in, and i was too chilled to talk. i noticed may only said i fell, so i went to bed scorched inside with red pepper tea, and never told a word about dipping and fading. leon whispered and said he bet it was the last time i would play that, so as soon as my coat and dress were washed and dried, and i could go back to school, i did it again, just to show him i was no cowardy-calf; but i had learned from may to choose a puddle i could manage before i faded. chapter ix "even so" "all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them." our big girls and boys always made a dreadful fuss and said we would catch every disease you could mention, but mother and father were set about it, just like the big rocks in the hills. they said they, themselves, once had been at the mercy of the people, and they knew how it felt. mother said when they were coming here in a wagon, and she had ridden until she had to walk to rest her feet, and held a big baby until her arms became so tired she drove while father took it, and when at last they saw a house and stopped, she said if the woman hadn't invited her in, and let her cook on the stove, given her milk and eggs, and furnished her a bed to sleep in once in a while, she couldn't have reached here at all; and she never had been refused once. then she always quoted: "all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them." father said there were men who made a business of splitting hairs, and of finding different meanings in almost everything in the bible. i would like to have seen any one split hairs about that, or it made to mean something else. of all the things in the bible that you had to do because it said to, whether you liked it or not, that was the one you struck oftenest in life and it took the hardest pull to obey. it was just the hatefulest text of any, and made you squirm most. there was no possible way to get around it. it meant, that if you liked a splinter new slate, and a sharp pencil all covered with gold paper, to make pictures and write your lessons, when clarissa polk sat next you and sang so low the teacher couldn't hear until she put herself to sleep on it, "i wisht i had a slate! i wisht i had a slate! i wisht i had a slate! oh i wisht i had a slate!"--it meant that you just had to wash up yours and stop making pictures yourself, and pass it over; you even had to smile when you offered it, if you did it right. i seldom got through it as the lord would, for any one who loaned clarissa a slate knew that it would come back with greasy, sweaty finger marks on it you almost had to dig a hole to wash off, and your pencil would be wet. and if there were the least flaw of crystal in the pencil, she found it, and bore down so hard that what she wrote never would come off. the lord always seemed bigger and more majestic to me, than at any other time, when i remembered that he could have known all that, and yet smiled as he loaned clarissa his slate. and that old bible thing meant, too, that if you would like it if you were travelling a long way, say to california to hunt gold, or even just to indiana, to find a farm fit to live on--it meant that if you were tired, hungry, and sore, and would want to be taken in and fed and rested, you had to let in other people when they reached your house. father and mother had been through it themselves, and they must have been tired as could be, before they reached sarah hood's and she took them in, and rested and fed them, even when they were only a short way from the top of the little hill, where next morning they looked down and stopped the wagon, until they chose the place to build their house. sarah hood came along, and helped mother all day, so by night she was settled in the old cabin that was on the land, and ready to go to work making money to build a new one, and then a big house, and fix the farm all beautiful like it was then. they knew so well how it felt, that they kept one bed in the boys' room, and any man who came at dusk got his supper, to sleep there, and his breakfast, and there never was anything to pay. the girls always scolded dreadfully about the extra washing, but mother said she slept on sheets when she came out, and some one washed them. one time sally said: "mother, have you ever figured out how many hundred sheets you've washed since, to pay for that?" mother said: "no, but i just hope it will make a stack high enough for me to climb from into heaven." sally said: "the talk at the church always led me to think that you flew to heaven." mother answered: "so i get there, i don't mind if i creep." then sally knew it was time to stop. we always knew. and we stopped, too! we had heard that "all things" quotation, until the first two words were as much as mother ever needed repeat of it any more, and we had cooked, washed for, and waited on people travelling, until leon got so when he saw any one coming--of course we knew all the neighbours, and their horses and wagons and carriages--he always said: "here comes another 'even so!'" he said we had done "even so" to people until it was about our share, but mother said our share was going to last until the lord said, "well done, good and faithful servant," and took us home. she had much more about the stranger at the gate and entertaining angels unawares; why, she knew every single thing in the bible that meant it was her duty to feed and give a bed to any one, no matter how dirty or miserable looking he was! so when leon came in one evening at dusk and said, "there's another 'even so' coming down the little hill!" all of us knew that we'd have company for the night, and we had. i didn't like that man, but some of the others seemed to find him amusing. maybe it was because i had nothing to do but sit and watch him, and so i saw more of him than the ones who came and went all the time. as long as there was any one in the room, he complained dreadfully about his sore foot, and then cheered up and talked, and he could tell interesting things. he was young, but he must have been most everywhere and seen everything. he was very brave and could stand off three men who were going to take from him the money he was carrying to buy a piece of land in illinois. the minute the grown folks left the room to milk, do the night feeding, and begin supper, he twisted in his chair and looked at every door, and went and stood at the back dining-room window, where he could see the barn and what was out there, and coming back he took a peep into father's and mother's room, and although he limped dreadfully when he came, he walked like any one when he went over and picked up father's gun and looked to see if it were loaded, and seemed mighty glad when he found it wasn't. father said he could load in a flash when it was necessary, but he was dubious about a loaded gun in a house full of children. not one of us ever touched it, until the boys were big enough to have permission, like laddie and leon had. he said a gun was such a great "moral persuader," that the sight of one was mostly all that was needed, and nobody could tell by looking at it whether it was loaded or not. this man could, for he examined the lock and smiled in a pleased way over it, and he never limped a step going back to his chair. he kept on complaining, until father told him before bedtime that he had better rest a day or two, and mother said that would be a good idea. he talked so much we couldn't do our lessons or spell very well, but it was friday and we'd have another chance saturday, so it didn't make so much difference. father said the traveller must be tired and sleepy and leon should take a light and show him to bed. he stayed so long father went to the foot of the stairway, and asked him why he didn't come down and he said he was in bed too. the next morning he was sleepy at breakfast and laddie said it was no wonder, because leon and the traveller were talking when he went upstairs. the man turned to father and said: "that's a mighty smart boy, mr. stanton." father frowned and said: "praise to the face is open disgrace. i hope he will be smart enough not to disgrace us, anyway." the traveller said he was sure he would be, and we could see that he had taken a liking to leon, for he went with him to the barn to help do the morning feeding. they stayed so long mother sent me to call them, and when i got there, the man was telling leon how foolish it was for boys to live on a farm; how they never would amount to anything unless they went to cities, and about all the fun there was there, and how nice it was to travel, even along the roads, because every one fed you, and gave you a good bed. he forgot that walking had made his foot lame, and i couldn't see, to save me, why he was going to spend his money to buy a farm, if he thought a town the only place where it was fit to live. he stayed all saturday, and father said sunday was no suitable time to start on a journey again, and the man's foot was bad when father was around, so it would be better to wait until monday. the traveller tagged leon and told him what a fine fellow he was, how smart he was, and to prove it, leon boasted about everything he knew, and showed the man all over the farm. i even saw them pass the station in the orchard, and heard leon brag how father had been an agent for the governor; but of course he didn't really show him the place, and probably it would have made no difference if he had, for all the money must have been spent on sally's wedding. of course father might have put some there he had got since, or that money might never have been his at all, but it seemed as if it would be, because it was on his land. sunday evening all of us attended church, but the traveller was too tired, so when leon said he'd stay with him, father thought it was all right. i could see no one wanted to leave the man alone in the house. he said they'd go to bed early, and we came in quite late. the lamp was turned low, the door unlocked, and everything in place. laddie went to bed without a candle, and said he'd undress and slip in easy so as not to waken them. in the morning when he got up the traveller's bed hadn't been slept in, and neither had leon's. the gun was gone, and father stared at mother, and mother stared at laddie, and he turned and ran straight toward the station, and in a minute he was back, whiter than a plate. he just said: "all gone!" father and mother both sat down suddenly and hard. then laddie ran to the barn and came back and said none of the horses had been taken. soon they went into the parlour and shut the door, and when they came out father staggered and mother looked exactly like sabethany. laddie ran to the barn, saddled flos and rode away. father wanted to ring an alarm on the dinner bell, like he had a call arranged to get all the neighbours there quickly if we had sickness or trouble, and mother said: "paul, you shall not! he's so young! we've got to keep this as long as we can, and maybe the lord will help us find him, and we can give him another chance." father started to say something, and mother held up her hand and just said, "paul!" and he sank back in the chair and kept still. mother always had spoken of him as "the head of the family," and here he wasn't at all! he minded her quickly as i would. when miss amelia came downstairs they let her start to school and never told her a word, but mother said may and i were not to go. so i slipped out and ran through the orchard to look at the station, and sure enough! the stone was rolled back, the door open and the can lying on the floor. i slid down and picked it up, and there was one sheet of paper money left in it stuck to the sides. it was all plain as a pikestaff. leon must have thought the money had been spent, and showed the traveller the station, just to brag, and he guessed there might be something there, and had gone while we were at church and taken it. he had all night the start of us, and he might have a horse waiting somewhere, and be almost to illinois by this time, and if the money belonged to father, there would be no christmas; and if it happened to be the money the county gave him to pay the men who worked the roads every fall, and miss amelia, or collections from the church, he'd have to pay it back, even if it put him in debt; and if he died, they might take the land, like he said; and where on earth was leon? knew what he'd done and hiding, i bet! he needed the thrashing he would get that time, and i started out to hunt him and have it over with, so mother wouldn't be uneasy about him yet; and then i remembered laddie had said leon hadn't been in bed all night. he was gone too! maybe he wanted to try life in a city, where the traveller had said everything was so grand; but he must have known that he'd kill his mother if he went, and while he didn't kiss her so often, and talk so much as some of us, i never could see that he didn't run quite as fast to get her a chair or save her a step. he was so slim and light he could race for the doctor faster than laddie or father, either one. of course he loved his mother, just as all of us did; he never, never could go away and not let her know about it. if he had gone, that watchful-eyed man, who was lame only part of the time, had taken the gun and made him go. i thought i might as well save the money he'd overlooked, so i gripped it tight in my hand, and put it in my apron pocket, the same as i had laddie's note to the princess, and started to the barn, on the chance that leon might be hiding. i knew precious well i would, if i were in his place. so i hunted the granaries, the haymow, the stalls, then i stood on the threshing floor and cried: "leon! if you're hiding come quick! mother will be sick with worrying and father will be so glad to see you, he won't do anything much. do please hurry!" then i listened, and all i could hear was a rat gnawing at a corner of the granary under the hay. might as well have saved its teeth, it would strike a strip of tin when it got through, but of course it couldn't know that. then i went to every hole around the haystack, where the cattle had eaten; none were deep yet, like they would be later in the season, and all the way i begged of leon to come out. once a rooster screamed, flew in my face and scared me good, but no leon; so i tried the corn crib, the implement shed, and the wood house, climbing the ladder with the money still gripped in one hand. then i slipped in the front door, up the stairs, and searched the garret, even away back where i didn't like to very well. at last i went to the dining-room, and i don't think either father or mother had moved, while sabethany turned to stone looked good compared with them. seemed as if it would have been better if they'd cried, or scolded, or anything but just sit there as they did, when you could see by their moving once in a while that they were alive. in the kitchen candace and may finished the morning work, and both of them cried steadily. i slipped to may, "whose money was it?" i whispered. "father's, or the county's, or the church's?" "all three," said may. "the traveller took it." "how would he find it? none of us knew there was such a place before." "laddie seemed to know!" "oh laddie! father trusts him about everything." "they don't think he told?" "of course not, silly. it's leon who is gone!" "leon may have told about the station!" i cried. "he didn't touch the money. he never touched it!" then i went straight to father. keeping a secret was one thing; seeing the only father you had look like that, was another. i held out the money. "there's one piece old even so didn't get, anyway," i said. "found it on the floor of the station, where it was stuck to the can. and i thought leon must be hiding for fear he'd be whipped for telling, but i've hunted where we usually hide, and promised him everything under the sun if he'd come out; but he didn't, so i guess that traveller man must have used the gun to make him go along." father sat and stared at me. he never offered to touch the money, not even when i held it against his hand. so i saw that money wasn't the trouble, else he'd have looked quick enough to see how much i had. they were thinking about leon being gone, at least father was. mother called me to her and asked: "you knew about the station?" i nodded. "when?" "on the way back from taking amanda deam her ducks this summer." "leon was with you?" "he found it." "what were you doing?" "sitting on the fence eating apples. we were wondering why that ravine place wasn't cleaned up, when everywhere else was, and then leon said there might be a reason. he told about having seen a black man, and that he was hidden some place, and we hunted there and found it. we rolled back the stone, and opened the door, and leon went in, and both of us saw a can full of money." "go on." "we didn't touch it, mother! truly we didn't! leon said we'd found something not intended for children, and we'd be whipped sick if we ever went near or told, and we never did, not even once, unless leon wanted to boast to the traveller man, but if he showed him the place, he thought sure the money had all been spent on the wedding and sending shelley away." father's arms shot out, and his head pitched on the table. mother got up and began to walk the floor, and never went near or even touched him. i couldn't bear it. i went and pulled his arm and put the bill under his hand. "leon didn't take your money! he didn't! he didn't! i just know he didn't! he does tricks because they are so funny, or he thinks they'll be, but he doesn't steal! he doesn't touch a single thing that is not his, only melons, or chicken out of the skillet, or bread from the cellar; but not money and things. i take gizzards and bread myself, but i don't steal, and leon or none of us do! oh father, we don't! not one of us do! don't you remember about 'thou shalt not,' and the crusaders? leon's the best fighter of any of us. i'm not sure that he couldn't even whip laddie, if he got mad enough! maybe he can't whip the traveller if he has the gun, but, father, leon simply couldn't take the money. laddie will stay home and work, and all of us. we can help get it back. we can sell a lot of things. laddie will sell flos before he'll see you suffer so; and all of us will give up christmas, and we'll work! we'll work as hard as ever we can, and maybe you could spare the little piece joe risdell wants to build his cabin on. we can manage about the money, father, indeed we can. but you don't dare think leon took it! he never did! why, he's yours! yours and mother's!" father lifted his head and reached out his arms. "you blessing!" he said. "you blessing from the lord!" then he gave me a cold, stiff kiss on the forehead, went to mother, took her arm, and said: "come, mommy, let's go and tell the lord about it, and then we'll try to make some plan. perhaps laddie will be back with word soon." but he almost had to carry her. then we could hear him praying, and he was so anxious, and he made it so earnest it sounded exactly like the lord was in our room and father was talking right to his face. i tried to think, and this is what i thought: as father left the room, he looked exactly as i had seen mr. pryor more than once, and my mother had both hands gripped over her heart, and she said we must not let any one know. now if something could happen to us to make my father look like the princess' and my mother hold her heart with both hands, and if no one were to know about it like they had said, how were we any different from pryors? we might be of the lord's anointed, but we could get into the same kind of trouble the infidels could, and have secrets ourselves, or at least it seemed as if it might be very nearly the same, when it made father and mother look and act the way they did. i wondered if we'd have to leave our lovely, lovely home, cross a sea and be strangers in a strange land, as laddie said; and if people would talk about us, and make us feel that being a stranger was the loneliest, hardest thing in all the world. well, if mysteries are like this, and we have to live with one days and years, the lord have mercy on us! then i saw the money lying on the table, so i took it and put it in the bible. then i went out and climbed the catalpa tree to watch for laddie. soon i saw a funny thing, such as i never before had seen. coming across the fields, straight toward our house, sailing over the fences like a bird, came the princess on one of her horses. its legs stretched out so far its body almost touched the ground, and it lifted up and swept over the rails. she took our meadow fence lengthwiselike, and at the hitching rack she threw the bridle over the post, dismounted, and then i saw she had been riding astride, like a man. i ran before her and opened the sitting-room door, but no one was there, so i went on to the dining-room. father had come in, and mother was sitting in her chair. both of them looked at the princess and never said a word. she stopped inside the dining-room door and spoke breathlessly, as if she as well as the horse had raced. "i hope i'm not intruding," she said, "but a man north of us told our thomas in the village that robbers had taken quite a large sum of hidden money you held for the county, and church, and of your own, and your gun, and got away while you were at church last night. is it true?" "practically," said my father. then my mother motioned toward a chair. "you are kind to come," she said. "won't you be seated?" the princess stepped to the chair, but she gripped the back in both hands and stood straight, breathing fast, her eyes shining with excitement, her lips and cheeks red, so lovely you just had to look, and look. "no," she said. "i'll tell you why i came, and then if there is nothing i can do here, and no errand i can ride for you, i'll go. mother has heart trouble, the worst in all the world, the kind no doctor can ever hope to cure, and sometimes, mostly at night, she is driven to have outside air. last night she was unusually ill, and i heard her leave the house, after i'd gone to my room. i watched from my window and saw her take a seat on a bench under the nearest tree. i was moving around and often i looked to see if she were still there. then the dogs began to rave, and i hurried down. they used to run free, but lately, on account of her going out, father has been forced to tie them at night. they were straining at their chains, and barking dreadfully. i met her at the door, but she would only say some one passed and gave her a fright. when thomas came in and told what he had heard, she said instantly that she had seen the man. "she said he was about the size of thomas, that he came from your direction, that he ran when our dogs barked, but he kept beside the fences, and climbed over where there were trees. he crossed our barnyard and went toward the northwest. mother saw him distinctly as he reached the road, and she said he was not a large man, he stooped when he ran, and she thought he moved like a slinking, city thief. she is sure he's the man who took your money; she says he acted exactly as if he were trying to escape pursuit; but i was to be sure to tell you that he didn't carry a gun. if your gun is gone, there must have been two, and the other man took that and went a different way. did two men stop here?" "no," said father. "only one." the princess looked at him thoughtfully. "do you think, mr. stanton," she said, "that the man who took the money would burden himself with a gun? isn't a rifle heavy for one in flight to carry?" "it is," said father. "your mother saw nothing of two men?" "only one, and she knows he didn't carry a gun. except the man you took in, no stranger has been noticed around here lately?" "no one. we are quite careful. even the gun was not loaded as it stood; whoever took it carried the ammunition also, but he couldn't fire until he loaded." father turned to the corner where the gun always stood and then he stooped and picked up two little white squares from the floor. they were bits of unbleached muslin in which he wrapped the bullets he made. "the rifle was loaded before starting, and in a hurry," he said, as he held up the squares of muslin. then he scratched a match, bent, and ran it back and forth over the floor, and at one place there was a flash, and the flame went around in funny little fizzes as it caught a grain of powder here and there. "you see the measure was overrun." "wouldn't the man naturally think the gun was loaded, and take it as it stood?" "that would be a reasonable conclusion," said father. "but he looked!" i cried. "that first night when you and the boys went to the barn, and the girls were getting supper, he looked at the gun, and he liked it when he saw it wasn't loaded. he smiled. and he didn't limp a mite when i was the only one in the room. he and leon knew it wasn't loaded, and i guess he didn't load it, for he liked having it empty so well." "ummmm!" said father. "what it would save in this world if a child only knew when to talk and when to keep still. little sister, the next time you see a stranger examine my gun when i'm not in the room, suppose you take father out alone and whisper to him about it." "yes, sir," i said. the way i wished i had told that at the right time made me dizzy, but then there were several good switchings i'd had for telling things, besides what sally did to me about her and peter. i would have enjoyed knowing how one could be sure. hereafter, it will be all right about the gun, anyway. "could i take my horse and carry a message anywhere for you? are both your sons riding to tell the neighbours?" father hesitated, but it seemed as if he stopped to think, so i just told her: "laddie is riding. leon didn't take a horse." father said there was nothing she could do, so she took my hand and we started for the gate. "i do hope they will find him, and get back the money, and give him what he deserves!" she cried. "yes, father and mother are praying that they'll find him," i said. "it doesn't seem to make the least difference to them about the money. father didn't even look at a big paper piece i found where it was hidden. but they are anxious about the man. mother says he is so young, we just must find him, and keep this a secret, and give him another chance. you won't tell, will you?" the princess stood still on our walk, and then of all things! if she didn't begin to go sabethany-like. the colour left her cheeks and lips and she shivered and shook and never said one word. i caught her arm. "say, what ails you?" i cried. "you haven't gone and got heart trouble too, have you?" she stood there trembling, and then, wheeling suddenly, ran back into the house, and went to my mother. on her knees, the princess buried her face in mother's breast and said: "oh mrs. stanton! oh, if i only could help you!" she began to cry as if something inside her had broken, and she'd shake to pieces. mother stared above her head at father, with her eyebrows raised high, and he waved his hand toward me. mother turned to me, but already she had put her arms around the princess, and was trying to hold her together. "what did you tell her that made her come back?" she asked sternlike. "you forgot to explain that the man was so young, and you wanted to keep it a secret and give him another chance," i said. "i just asked her not to tell." mother looked at father and all the colour went from her face, and she began to shake. he stared at her, then he opened her door and lifted the princess with one arm, and mother with the other, and helped them into mother's room, stepped back and closed the door. after a while it opened and they came out together, with both mother's arms around the princess, and she had cried until she staggered. mother lifted her face and kissed her, when they reached the door and said: "tell your mother i understand enough to sympathize. carry her my love. i do wish she would give herself the comfort of asking god to help her." "she does! oh, i'm sure she does!" said the princess. "it's father who has lost all judgment and reason." father went with her to the gate, and this time she needed help to mount her horse, and she left it to choose its way and go where it pleased on the road. when father came in he looked at mother, and she said: "i haven't the details, but she understands too well. the pryor mystery isn't much of a mystery any more. god help their poor souls, and save us from suffering like that!" she said so little and meant so much, i couldn't figure out exactly what she did mean, but father seemed to understand. "i've often wondered," he said, but he didn't say what he wondered, and he hurried to the barn and saddled our best horse and came in and began getting ready to ride, and we knew he would go northwest. i went back to the catalpa tree and wondered myself; but it was too much for me to straighten out: just why my mother wanting to give the traveller man another chance would make the princess feel like that. if she had known my mother as i did, she'd have known that she always wanted to give every man a second chance, no matter whether he was young or old. then i saw laddie coming down the big hill beside the church, but he was riding so fast i thought he wouldn't want to bother with me, so i slid from the tree, and ran to tell mother. she went to the door and watched as he rode up, but you could see by his face he had not heard of them. "nothing, but i have some men out. i am going east now," he said. "i wish, father, you would rub flos down, blanket her, and if you can, walk her slowly an hour while she cools off. i am afraid i've ruined her. how much had you there?" "i haven't stopped to figure," said father. "i think i'd better take the horse i have ready and go on one of the northwest roads. the pryor girl was here a few moments ago, and her mother saw a man cross their place about the right time last evening. he ran and acted suspiciously when the dogs barked. but he was alone and he didn't have a gun." "was she sure?" "positive." "then it couldn't have been our man, but i'll ride in that direction and start a search. they would keep to the woods, i think! you'd better stay with mother. i'll ask jacob hood to take your place." so laddie rode away again without even going into the house, and mother said to father: "what can he be saying to people, that the neighbours don't come?" father answered: "i don't know, but if any one can save the situation, laddie will." mother went to bed, while father sat beside her reading aloud little scraps from the bible, and they took turns praying. from the way they talked to the lord, you could plainly see that they were reminding him of all the promises he had made to take care of people, comfort those in trouble, and heal the broken-hearted. one thing was so curious, i asked may if she noticed, and she had. when they had made such a fuss about money only a short while before, and worked so hard to get our share together, and when they would have to pay back all that belonged to the county and church, neither of them ever even mentioned money then. every minute i expected father to ask where i'd put the piece i found, and when he opened right at it, in the bible, he turned on past, exactly as if it were an obituary, or a piece of sally's wedding dress, or baby hair from some of our heads. he went on hunting places where the lord said sure and strong that he'd help people who loved him. when either of them prayed, they asked the lord to help those near them who were in trouble, as often and earnestly as they begged him to help them. there were no people near us who were in trouble that we knew of, excepting pryors. hard as father and mother worked, you'd have thought the lord wouldn't have minded if they asked only once to get the money back, or if they forgot the neighbours, but they did neither one. may said because they were big like that was why all of us loved them so. i would almost freeze in the catalpa, but as i could see far in all directions there, i went back, and watched the roads, and when i remembered what laddie had said, i kept an eye on the fields too. at almost dusk, and frozen so stiff i could scarcely hang to the limb, i heard the bulldogs at pryors' begin to rave. they kept on steadily, and i thought gypsies must be passing. then from the woods came a queer party that started across the cornfield toward the big meadow in front of the house, and i thought they were hunters. i stood in the tree and watched until they climbed the meadow fence, and by that time i could see plainly. the traveller man got over first, then leon and the dogs, and then mr. pryor handed leon the gun, leaped over, and took it. i looked again, and then fell from the tree and almost bursted. as soon as i could get up, and breathe, i ran to the front door, screaming: "father! father! come open the big gate. leon's got him, but he's so tired mr. pryor is carrying the gun, and helping him walk!" just like one, all of us ran; father crossed the road, and opened the gate. the traveller man wouldn't look up, he just slouched along. but leon's chin was up and his head high. he was scratched, torn, and dirty. he was wheezing every breath most from his knees, and mr. pryor half carried him and the gun. when they met us, leon reached in his trousers pocket and drew out a big roll of money that he held toward father. "my fault!" he gasped. "but i got it back for you." then he fell over and father caught him in his arms and carried him into the house, and laid him on the couch in the dining-room. mr. pryor got down and gathered up the money from the road. he followed into the house and set the gun in the corner. "don't be frightened," he said to mother. "the boy has walked all night, and all day, with no sleep or food, and the gun was a heavy load for him. i gathered from what he said, when the dogs let us know they were coming, that this hound took your money. your dog barked and awakened the boy and he loaded the gun and followed. the fellow had a good start and he didn't get him until near daybreak. it's been a stiff pull for the youngster and he seems to feel it was his fault that this cowardly cur you sheltered learned where you kept your money. if that is true, i hope you won't be hard on him!" father was unfastening leon's neckband, mother was rubbing his hands, candace was taking off his shoes, and may was spilling water father had called for, all over the carpet, she shook so. when leon drew a deep breath and his head rolled on the pillow, father looked at mr. pryor. i don't think he heard all of it, but he caught the last words. "'hard on him! hard on him!'" he said, the tears rolling down his cheeks. "'this my son, who was lost, is found!'" "oh!" shouted mr. pryor, slamming the money on the table. "poor drivel to fit the circumstances. if i stood in your boots, sir, i would rise up in the mighty strength of my pride and pull out foundation stones until i shook the nation! i never envied mortal man as i envy you to-day!" candace cried out: "oh look, his poor feet! they are blistered and bleeding!" mother moved down a little, gathered them in her arms, and began kissing them. father wet leon's lips and arose. he held out his hand, and mr. pryor took it. "i will pray god," he said, "that it may happen 'even so' to you." leon opened his eyes and caught only the last words. "you had better look out for the 'even so's,' father," he said. and father had to laugh, but mr. pryor went out, and slammed the door, until i looked to see if it had cracked from top to bottom; but we didn't care if it had, we were so happy over having leon back. i went and picked up the money and carried it to father to put away, and that time he took it. but even then he didn't stop to see if he had all of it. "you see!" i said, "i told you----" "you did indeed!" said father. "and you almost saved our reason. there are times when things we have come to feel we can't live without, so press us, that money seems of the greatest importance. this is our lesson. hereafter, i and all my family, who have been through this, will know that money is not even worth thinking about when the life and honour of one you love hangs in the balance. when he can understand, your brother shall know of the wondrous faith his little sister had in him." "maybe he won't like what you and mother thought. maybe we better not tell him. i can keep secrets real well. i have several big ones i've never told, and i didn't say a word about the station when leon said i shouldn't." "after this there will be no money kept on the place," said father. "it's saving time at too great cost. all we have goes into the bank, and some of us will cheerfully ride for what we want, when we need it. as for not telling leon, that is as your mother decides. for myself, i believe i'd feel better to make a clean breast of it." mother heard, for she sobbed as she bathed leon's feet, and when his eyes came open so they'd stay a little while, he kept looking at her so funny, between sips of hot milk. "don't cry, mammy!" he said. "i'm all right. sorry such a rumpus! let him fool me. be smart as the next fellow, after this! know how glad you are to get the money!" mother sat back on her heels and roared as i do when i step in a bumblebee's nest, and they get me. leon was growing better every minute, and he stared at her, and then his dealish, funny old grin began to twist his lips and he cried: "oh golly! you thought _i_ helped take it and went with him, didn't you?" "oh my son, my son!" wailed mother until she made me think of absalom under the oak. "well, i be ding-busted!" said leon, sort of slow and wondering-like, and father never opened his head to tell him that was no way to talk. mother cried more than ever, and between sobs she tried to explain that i heard what the traveller man had said about how bad it was to live in the country; and how leon was now at an age where she'd known boys to get wrong ideas, and how things looked, and in the middle of it he raised on his elbow and took her in his arms and said: "well of all the geese! and i 'spose father was in it too! but since it's the first time, and since it is you----! go to bed now, and let me sleep---- but see that you don't ever let this happen again." then he kissed her over and over and clung to her tight and at last dropped back and groaned: "my reputation, o my reputation! i've lost my reputation!" she had to laugh while the tears were still running, and father and laddie looked at each other and shouted. i guess they thought leon was about right after that. laddie went and bent over him and took his hand. "don't be in quite such a hurry, old man," he said. "before you wink out i have got to tell you how proud i am of having a brother who is a real crusader. the lord knows this took nerve! you're great, boy, simply great!" leon grabbed laddie's hand with both of his and held tight and laughed. you could see the big tears squeeze out, although he fought to wink them back. he held to laddie and said low-like, only for him to hear: "it's all right if you stay by a while, old man." he began to talk slowly. "it was a long time before i caught up, and then i had to hide, and follow until day, and he wasn't so very easy to handle. once i thought he had me sure! it was an awful load, but if it hadn't been for the good old gun, i'd never have got him. when we mixed up, i had fine luck getting that chin punch on him; good thing i worked it out so slick on absalom saunders, and while old even so was groggy i got the money away from him, took the gun, and stood back some distance, before he came out of it. once we had it settled who walked ahead, and who carried the money and gun, we got along better, but i had to keep an eye on him every minute. to come through the woods was the shortest, but i'm tired out, and so is he. getting close i most felt sorry for him, he was so forlorn, and so scared about what would be done to him. he stopped and pulled out another roll, and offered me all of it, if i'd let him go. i didn't know whether it was really his, or part of father's, so i told him he could just drop it until i found out. made him sweat blood, but i had the gun, and he had to mind. i was master then. so there may be more in the roll i gave father than even so took. father can figure up and keep what belongs to him. even so had gone away past flannigans' before i tackled him, and i was sleepy, cold, and hungry; you'd have thought there'd have been a man out hunting, or passing on the road, but not a soul did we see 'til pryors'! say, the old man was bully! he helped me so, i almost thought i belonged to him! my! he's fine, when you know him! after he came on the job, you bet old even so walked up. say, where is he? have you fed him?" laddie looked at father, who was listening, and we all rushed to the door, but it must have been an hour, and even so hadn't waited. father said it was a great pity, because a man like that shouldn't be left to prey on the community; but mother said she didn't want to be mixed up with a trial, or to be responsible for taking the liberty of a fellow creature, and father said that was exactly like a woman. leon went to sleep, but none of us thought of going to bed; we just stood around and looked at him, and smiled over him, and cried about him, until you would have thought he had been shipped to us in a glass case, and cost, maybe, a hundred dollars. father got out his books and figured up his own and the road money, and miss amelia's, and the church's. laddie didn't want her around, so he stopped at the schoolhouse and told her to stay at justices' that night, we'd need all our rooms; but she didn't like being sent away when there was such excitement, but every one minded laddie when he said so for sure. when father had everything counted there was more than his, quite a lot of it, stolen from other people who sheltered the traveller no doubt, father said. we thought he wouldn't be likely to come back for it, and father said he was at loss what to do with it, but laddie said he wasn't--it was leon's--he had earned it; so father said he would try to find out if anything else had been stolen, and he'd keep it a year, and then if no one claimed it, he would put it on interest until leon decided what he wanted to do with it. when you watched leon sleep you could tell a lot more about what had happened to him than he could. he moaned, and muttered constantly, and panted, and felt around for the gun, and breathed like he was running again, and fought until laddie had to hold him on the couch, and finally awakened him. but it did no good; he went right off to sleep again, and it happened all over. then father began getting his crusader blood up, although he always said he was a man of peace. but it was a lucky thing even so got away; for after father had watched leon a while, he said if that man had been on the premises, his fingers itched so to get at him, he was positive he'd have vented a little righteous indignation on him that would have cost him within an inch of his life. and he'd have done it too! he was like that. it took a lot, and it was slow coming, but when he became angry enough, and felt justified in it, why you'd be much safer to be some one else than the man who provoked him. after ten o'clock the dog barked, some one tapped, and father went; he always would open the door; you couldn't make him pretend he was asleep, or not at home when he was, and there stood mr. pryor. he said they could see the lights and they were afraid the boy was ill, and could any of them help. father said there was nothing they could do; leon was asleep. then mr. pryor said: "if he is off sound, so it won't disturb him, i would like to see him again." father told him leon was restless, but so exhausted a railroad train wouldn't waken him, so mr. pryor came in and went to the couch. he took off his hat, like you do beside a grave, while his face slowly grew whiter than his hair, and that would be snow-white; then he turned at last and stumbled toward the door. laddie held it for him, but he didn't seem to remember he was there. he muttered over and over: "why? why? in the name of god, why?" laddie followed to the gate to help him on his horse, because he thought he was almost out of his head, but he had walked across the fields, so laddie kept far behind and watched until he saw him go safely inside his own door. i think father and laddie sat beside leon all night. the others went to sleep. a little after daybreak, just as laddie was starting to feed, there was an awful clamour, and here came a lot of neighbours with even so. mr. freshett had found him asleep in a cattle hole in the straw stack, and searched him, and he had more money, and that made mr. freshett sure; and as he was very strong, and had been for years a soldier, and really loved to fight, he marched poor even so back to our house. every few rods they met more men out searching who came with them, until there were so many, our front yard and the road were crowded. of all the sights you ever saw, even so looked the worst. you could see that he'd drop over at much more. those men kept crying they were going to hang him; but mother went out and talked to them, and said they mustn't kill a man for taking only money. she told them how little it was worth compared with other things; she had candace bring even so a cup of hot coffee, lots of bread, and sausage from the skillet, and she said it was our money, and our lad, and we wanted nothing done about it. the men didn't like it, but the traveller did. he grabbed and gobbled like a beast at the hot food and cried, and mother said she forgave him, and to let him go. then mr. freshett looked awful disappointed, and he came up to father, with his back toward mother, and asked: "that's your say too, mr. stanton?" father grinned sort of rueful-like, but he said to give even so his money and let him go. he told all about getting ours back, and having had him at the house once before. he brought the money leon took from him, but the men said no doubt he had stolen that, and leon had earned it bringing him back, so the traveller shouldn't have it. they took him away on a horse and said they'd let him go, but that they'd escort him from the county. father told mr. freshett that he was a little suspicious of them, and he would hold him responsible for the man's life. mr. freshett said that he'd give his word that the man would be safe; they only wanted to make sure he wouldn't come back, and that he'd be careful in the future how he abused hospitality, so they went, and all of us were glad of it. i don't know what mr. freshett calls safe, for they took even so to groveville and locked him up until night. then they led him to the railroad, and made him crawl back and forth through an old engine beside the track, until he was blacker than any negro ever born; and then they had him swallow a big dose of croton oil for his health. that was the only kind thing they did, for afterward they started him down the track and told him to run, and all of them shot at his feet as he went. hannah freshett told me at school the next day. her father said even so just howled, and flew up in the air, and ducked, and dodged and ran like he'd never walked a step, or was a bit tired. we made a game of it, and after that one of the boys was even so, and the others were the mob, and the one who could howl nicest, jump highest, and go fastest, could be "it" oftenest. leon grew all right faster than you would think. he went to school day after next, and the boys were sick with envy. they asked and asked, but leon wouldn't tell much. he didn't seem to like to talk about it, and he wouldn't play the game or even watch us. he talked a blue streak about the money. father was going to write to every sheriff of the counties along the way the man said he had come, and if he could find no one before spring who had been robbed, he said leon might do what he liked with the money. i used to pretend it was coming to me, and each day i thought of a new way to spend it. leon was so sure he'd get it he marched right over and asked mr. pryor about a nice young thoroughbred horse, from his stables, and when he came back he could get a coltlike one so very cheap that father and laddie looked at each other and gasped, and never said a word. they figured up, and if leon got the money, he could have the horse, and save some for college, and from the start he never changed a mite about those two things he wanted to do with it. he had the horse picked out and went to the field to feed and pet it and make it gentle, so he could ride bareback, and mother said he would be almost sick if the owner of the money turned up. pulling his boots one night, father said so too, and that the thoughts of it worried him. he said mr. pryor had shaded his price so that if the money had to go, he would be tempted to see if we couldn't manage it ourselves. i don't know how shading the price of a horse would make her feel better, but it did, and maybe leon is going to get it. chapter x laddie takes the plunge "this is the state of man: to-day he puts forth the tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms, and bears his blushing honors thick upon him; the third day comes a frost, a killing frost, and, when he thinks, good, easy man, full surely his greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, and then he falls, as i do." "watch me take the plunge!" said laddie. "'mad frenzy fires him now,'" quoted leon. it was sunday after dinner. we had been to church and sunday-school in the forenoon, and we had a houseful of company for dinner. all of them remained to spend the afternoon, because in our home it was perfectly lovely. we had a big dinner with everything good to start on, and then we talked and visited and told all the news. the women exchanged new recipes for cooking, advised each other about how to get more work done with less worry, to doctor their sick folks, and to make their dresses. at last, when every thing was talked over, and there began to be a quiet time, father would reach across the table, pick up a paper and read all the interesting things that had happened in the country during the past week; the jokes too, and they made people think of funny stories to tell, and we just laughed. in the agriculturist there were new ways to farm easier, to make land bear more crops; so he divided that with the neighbours, also how to make gardens, and prune trees. before he finished, he always managed to work in a lot about being honest, kind, and loving god. he and mother felt so good over leon, and by this time they were beginning to see that they were mighty glad about the money too. it wouldn't have been so easy to work, and earn, and pay back all that for our school, roads, and the church; and every day you could see plainer how happy they felt that they didn't have to do it. because they were so glad about these things, they invited every one they met that day; but we knew saturday mother felt that probably she would ask a crowd, from the chickens, pie, and cake she got ready. when the reading part was over, and the women were beginning to look at the clock, and you knew they felt they should go home, and didn't want to, laddie arose and said that, and leon piped up like he always does and made every one laugh. of course they looked at laddie, and no one knew what he meant, so all the women and a few of the men asked him. "watch me, i said," laughed laddie as he left the room. soon mrs. dover, sitting beside the front window, cried: "here he is at the gate!" he was on his horse, but he hitched it and went around the house and up the back way. before long the stair door of the sitting-room opened, and there he stood. we stared at him. of course he was bathed, and in clean clothing to start with, but he had washed and brushed some more, until he shone. his cheeks were as smooth and as clear pink as any girl's, his eyes blue-gray and big, with long lashes and heavy brows. his hair was bright brown and wavy, and he was so big and broad. he never had been sick a day in his life, and he didn't look as if he ever would be. and clothes do make a difference. he would have had exactly the same hair, face, and body, wearing a hickory shirt and denim trousers; but he wouldn't have looked as he did in the clothes he wore at college, when it was sunday there, or he was invited to a party at the president's. i don't see how any man could possibly be handsomer or look finer. his shirt, collar, and cuffs were snow-white, like everything had to be before mother got through with it; his big loose tie almost reached his shoulders; and our men could do a thing no other man in the neighbourhood did: they could appear easier in the finest suit they could put on than in their working clothes. mother used to say one thing she dreaded about sunday was the evident tortures of the poor men squirming in boots she knew pinched them, coats too tight, and collars too high. she said they acted like half-broken colts fretting over restriction. always she said to father and the boys when they went to buy their new clothes: "now, don't join the harness fighters! get your clothing big enough to set your bodies with comfort and ease." i suppose those other men would have looked like ours if their mothers had told them. you can always see that a man needs a woman to help him out awful bad. of course laddie knew he was handsome; he had to know all of them were looking at him curiously, but he stood there buttoning his glove and laughing to himself until sarah hood asked: "now what are you up to?" he took a step toward her, ran one hand under her lanternjawed chin, pulled her head against his side and turned up her face. "sarah," he said, "'member the day we spoiled the washing?" every one laughed. they had made jokes about it until our friends knew what they meant. "what are you going to spoil now?" asked sarah. "the egyptians! the 'furriners.' i'm going right after them!" "well, you could be in better business," said sarah hood sharply. laddie laughed and squeezed her chin, and hugged her head against him. "listen to that, now!" he cried. "my best friend going back on me. sarah, i thought you, of all people, would wish me luck." "i do!" she said instantly. "and that's the very reason i don't want you mixed up with that mysterious, offish, stuck-up mess." "bless your dear heart!" said laddie, giving her a harder squeeze than ever. "you got that all wrong, sarah. you'll live to see the day, very shortly, when you'll change every word of it." "i haven't done anything but get surer about it every day for two years, anyway," said sarah hood. "exactly!" said laddie, "but wait until i have taken the plunge! let me tell you how the pryor family strikes me. i think he is a high-tempered, domineering man, proud as lucifer! for some cause, just or not, he is ruining his life and that of his family because he so firmly believes it just; he is hiding here from his home country, his relatives, and friends. i think she is, barring you and mother, the handsomest woman of her age i ever saw----" all of them laughed, because sarah hood was nearly as homely as a woman could grow, and maybe other people didn't find our mother so lovely as we thought her. i once heard one of her best friends say she was "distinctly plain." i didn't see how she could; but she said that. "--and the most pitiful," laddie went on. "sarah, what do you suppose sends a frail little woman pacing the yard, and up and down the road, sometimes in storm and rain, gripping both hands over her heart?" "i suppose it's some shameful thing i don't want you mixed up with!" said sarah hood promptly, and people just shouted. "sarah," said laddie, "i've seen her closely, watched her move, and studied her expression. there's not one grain of possibility that you, or mother, or mrs. fall, or any woman here, could be any closer connected with shame. shame there is," said laddie, "and what a word! how it stings, burns, withers, and causes heart trouble and hiding; but shame in connection with that woman, more than shame thrust upon her, which might come to any of us, at any time, shame that is her error, in the life of a woman having a face like hers, sarah, i am ashamed of you! your only excuse is that you haven't persisted as i have until you got to see for yourself." "i am not much on persistence in the face of a locked door, a cast-iron man with a big cane, and two raving bulldogs," said mrs. hood. "wait, young man! just wait until he sets them on you." laddie's head went back and how he laughed. "hist! a word with you, sarah!" he said. "'member i have a sort of knack with animals. i never yet have failed with one i undertook to win. now those bulldogs of pryors' are as mild as kittens with a man who knows the right word. reason i know, sarah, i've said the word to them, separately and collectively, and it worked. there is a contrast, sarah, between what i say and do to those dogs, and the kicks and curses they get from their owner. i'll wager you two to one that if you can get mr. pryor to go into a 'sic-ing' contest with me, i can have his own dogs at his throat, when he can't make them do more than to lick my hands." they laughed as if that were funny. "well, i didn't know about this," said sarah. "how long have you lived at pryors'?" you couldn't have heard what laddie said if he'd spoken; so he waited until he could be heard, and it never worried him a speck. he only stood and laughed too; then, "long enough," he said, "to know that all of us are making a big and cruel mistake in taking them at their word, and leaving them penned up there weltering in misery. what we should do, is to go over there, one at a time, or in a body, and batter at the door of their hearts, until we break down the wall of pride they have built around them, ease their pain, and bring them with us socially, if they are going to live among us. you people who talk loudly and often about loving god, and 'doing unto others,' should have gone long ago, for jesus' sake; i'm going for the sake of a girl, with a face as sweet, and a heart as pure, as any accepted angel at the foot of the throne. mother, i want a cup of peach jelly, and some of that exceptionally fine cake you served at dinner, to take to our sick neighbour." mother left the room. "father, i want permission to cut and carry a generous chestnut branch, burred, and full fruited, to the young woman. there is none save ours in this part of the country, and she may never have seen any, and be interested. and i want that article about foot disease in horses, for mr. pryor. i'll bring it back when he finishes." father folded the paper and handed it to laddie, who slipped it in his pocket. "take the finest branch you can select," father said, and i almost fell over. he had carried those trees from ohio, before i had been born, and mother said for years he wrapped them in her shawl in winter and held an umbrella over them in summer, and father always went red and grinned when she told it. he was wild about trees, and bushes, so he made up his mind he'd have chestnuts. he planted them one place, and if they didn't like it, he dug them up and set them another where he thought they could have what they needed and hadn't got the last place. finally, he put them, on the fourth move, on a little sandy ridge across the road from the wood yard, and that was the spot. they shot up, branched, spread, and one was a male and two were females, so the pollen flew, the burrs filled right, and we had a bag of chestnuts to send each child away from home, every christmas. the brown leaves and burrs were so lovely, mother cut one of the finest branches she could select and hung it above the steel engraving of "lincoln freeing the slaves," in the boys' room, and nothing in the house was looked at oftener, or thought prettier. that must have been what was in the back of laddie's head when he wanted a branch for the princess. mother came in with the cake and jelly in a little fancy basket, and laddie said: "thank you! now every one wish me luck! i'm going to ride to pryors', knock at the door, and present these offerings with my compliments. if i'm invited in, i'm going to make the effort of my life at driving the entering wedge toward social intercourse between pryors and their neighbours. if i'm not, i'll be back in thirty minutes and tell you what happened to me. if they refuse my gifts, you shall have the jelly, sarah; i'll give mrs. fall the olive branch, bring back the paper, and eat the cake to console my wounded spirits." of course every one laughed; they couldn't help it. i watched father and he laughed hardest of the men, but mother was more stiff-lipped about it; she couldn't help a little, though. and i noticed some of those women acted as if they had lost something. maybe it was a chance to gossip about laddie, for he hadn't left them a thing to guess at, and mother says the reason gossip is so dreadful is because it is always guesswork. well, that was all fair and plain. he had told those people, our very best friends, what he thought about everything, the way they acted included. he was carrying something to each member of the pryor family, and he'd left a way to return joking and unashamed, if they wouldn't let him in. he had fixed things so no one had anything to guess at, and it would look much worse for the pryors than it would for him, if he did come back. i wondered if he had been born that smart, or if he learned it in college. if he did, no wonder leon was bound to go. come to think of it, though, mother said laddie was always like that. she said he never bit her when he nursed; he never mauled her as if she couldn't be hurt when he was little, he never tore his clothes and made extra work as he grew, and never in his life gave her an hour's uneasiness. but i guess she couldn't have said that about uneasiness lately, for she couldn't keep from looking troubled as all of us followed to the gate to see him start. how they joked, and tried to tease him! but they couldn't get a breath ahead. he shot back answers as fast as they could ask questions, while he cut the branch and untied the horse. he gave the limb and basket to mother to hold, kissed her good-bye, and me too, before he mounted. with my arms around his neck--i never missed a chance to try to squeeze into him how i loved him--i whispered: "laddie, is it a secret any more?" he threw back his head and laughed the happiest. "not the ghost of a secret!" he said. "but you let me do the talking, until i tell you." then he went on right out loud: "i'm riding up the road waving the banner of peace. if i suffer repulse, the same thing has happened to better men before, so i'll get a different banner and try again." laddie mounted, swept a circle in the road, dropped flos on her knees in a bow, and waved the branch. leon began to sing at the top of his voice, "nothing but leaves, nothing but leaves," while laddie went flashing up the road. the women went back to the house; the men stood around the gate, watched him from sight, talked about his horse, how he rode, and made wagers that he'd get shut out, like every one did, but they said if that happened he wouldn't come back. father was annoyed. "you heard laddie say he'd return immediately if they wouldn't let him in," he said. "he's a man of his word. he will either enter or come home at once." it was pitch dark and we had supper before some of them left; they never stayed so late. after we came from church, father read the chapter and we were ready for bed; still laddie hadn't come back. and father liked it! he just plain liked it! he chuckled behind the advocate until you could see it shake; but mother had very little to say, and her lips closed tight. at bedtime he said to mother: "well, they don't seem in a hurry about sending the boy back." "did you really think he would be sent back?" asked mother. "not ordinarily," said father, "no! if he had no brain, no wit, no culture, on an animal basis, a woman would look twice before she'd send him away; but with such fanatics as pryors, one can't always tell what will happen." "in a case like this, one can be reasonably certain," said mother. "you don't know what social position they occupied at home. their earmarks are all good. we've no such notions here as they have." "thank god for so much, at any rate," said mother. "how old england would rise up and exult if she had a man in line with laddie's body, blood and brain, to set on her throne. this talk about class and social position makes me sick. men are men, and laddie is as much above the customary timber found in kings and princes, physically and mentally, as the sky is above the earth. talk me no talk about class! if i catch it coming from any of mine, save you, i will beat it out of them. he has admitted he's in love with the girl; the real question is, whether she's fit to be his wife." "i should say she appears so," said father. "drat appearances!" cried mother. "when it's a question of lifetime misery, and the soul's salvation of my son, if things go wrong, i've no time for appearances. i want to know!" he might have known he would make her angry when he laughed. she punched the pillow, and wouldn't say another word; so i went to sleep, and didn't miss anything that time. next morning at breakfast laddie was beaming, and father hardly waited to ask the blessing before he inquired: "well, how did you make it, son?" laddie laughed and answered: "altogether, it might have been much worse." that was all he would say until miss amelia started to school, then he took me on his lap and talked as he buttoned my coat. "thomas met me at the gate," he said, "and held my horse while i went to the door. one of their women opened it, and i inquired for mr. pryor. she said he was in the field looking at the horses, so i asked for miss pryor. she came in a minute, so i gave her the branch, told her about it, and offered the jelly and cake for her mother. the princess invited me to enter. i told her i couldn't without her father's permission, so i went to the field to see him. the dogs were with him and he had the surprise of his life when his man-eaters rolled at my feet, and licked my hands." "what did he say?" chuckled father. "told thomas they'd been overfed and didn't amount to a brass farthing; to take them to the woods and shoot them. thomas said he'd see to it the very first thing in the morning, and then mr. pryor told him he would shoot him if he did." "charming man to work for," said mother. "then i told him i'd been at the house to carry a little gift to his wife and daughter, and to inquire if i might visit an hour, and as he was not there, i had come to the field to ask him. then i looked him in the eye and said: 'may i?' "'i'll warrant the women asked you to come in,' he said. "'miss pryor was so kind,' i answered, 'but i enter no man's house without his permission. may i talk with your daughter an hour, and your wife, if she cares to see me?' "'it makes no earthly difference to me,' he said, which was not gracious, but might have been worse, so i thanked him, and went back to the house. when i knocked the second time, the princess came, and i told her the word was that it made 'no difference to her father' if i came in, so she opened the door widely, took my hat and offered me a seat. then she went to the next room and said: 'mother, father has given mr. stanton permission to pay us a call. do you feel able to meet him?' she came at once, offering her hand and saying: 'i have already met mr. stanton so often, really, we should have the privilege of speaking.'" "what did she mean by that?" asked mother. "she meant that i have haunted the road passing their place for two years, and she'd seen me so frequently that she came to recognize me." "umph!" said mother. "laddie tell on!" i begged. "well, i sharpened all the wits i had and went to work. i never tried so hard in my life to be entertaining. of course i had to feel my way. i'd no idea what would interest a delicate, high-bred lady"--mother sniffed again--"so i had to search and probe, and go by guess until i saw a shade of interest, then i worked in more of the same. it was easy enough to talk to the princess--all young folks have a lot in common, we could get along on fifty topics; it was different with the housebound mother. i did my best, and after a while mr. pryor came in. i asked him if any of his horses had been attacked with the trouble some of the neighbours were having, and told him what it was. he had the grace to thank me. he said he would tell thomas not to tie his horse at the public hitching rack when he went to town, and once he got started, he was wild to talk with a man, and i'd no chance to say a word to the women. he was interested in our colleges, state, and national laws, in land development, and everything that all live men are. when a maid announced dinner i apologized for having stayed so long, and excused myself, because i had been so interested, but mrs. pryor merely said: 'i'm waiting to be offered your arm.' "well, you should have seen me drop my hat and step up. i did my best, and while i talked to him a little, i made it most to the women. any one could see they were starved for company, so i took the job of entertaining them. i told some college jokes, funny things that had happened in the neighbourhood, and everything of interest i could think up. i know we were at the table for two hours with things coming and going on silver platters." mother sat straight suddenly. "just what did they have to eat, and how did they serve it?" she asked. "couldn't tell if i were to be shot for it, mummy," said laddie. "forgive me! next time i'll take notes for you. this first plunge, i had to use all my brains, not to be a bore to them; and to handle food and cutlery as the women did. it's quite a process, but as they were served first, i could do right by waiting. i never was where things were done quite so elaborately before." "and they didn't know they would have company until you went to the table?" "well, they must have thought likely, there was a place for me." "umph!" said mother. "fine idea! then any one who drops in can be served, and see that they are not a mite of trouble. candace, always an extra place after this!" father just shouted. "i thought you'd get something out of it!" he said. "happy to have justified your faith!" replied mother calmly. "go on, son!" "that's all!" said laddie. "we left the table and talked an hour more. the women asked me to come again; he didn't say anything on that subject; but when he ordered my horse, he asked the princess if she would enjoy a little exercise, and she said she would, so he told thomas to bring their horses, and we rode around the section, the princess and i ahead, mr. pryor following. where the road was good and the light fine enough that there was no danger of laming a horse, we dropped back, one on either side of him, so we could talk. mrs. pryor ate the cake and said it was fine; and the 'conserve,' she called it, delicious as she ever had tasted. she said all our fruits here had much more flavour than at home; she thought it was the dryer climate and more sunshine. she sent her grateful thanks, and she wants your recipe before next preserving time." mother just beamed. my! but she did love to have the things she cooked, bragged on. "possibly she'd like my strawberries?" she said. "there isn't a doubt about it," said laddie. "i've yet to see the first person who doesn't." "is that all?" asked mother. "i can think of nothing more at this minute," answered laddie. "if anything comes to my mind later, i won't forget to tell you. oh yes, there was one thing: you couldn't keep mr. pryor from talking about leon. he must have taken a great fancy to him. he talked until he worried the princess, and she tried to keep him away from the subject, but his mind seemed to run on it constantly. when we were riding she talked quite as much as he, and it will hustle us to think what the little scamp did, any bigger than they do. of course, father, you understood the price mr. pryor made on one of his very finest colts was a joke. there's a strain of arab in the father--he showed me the record--and the mother is bluegrass. there you get gentleness and endurance combined with speed and nerve. i'd trade flos for that colt as it stands to-day. there's nothing better on earth in the way of horse. his offer is practically giving it away. i know, with the records to prove its pedigree, what that colt would bring him in any city market." "i don't like it," said mother. "i want leon to have a horse, but a boy in a first experience, and reckless as he is, doesn't need a horse like that, for one thing, and what is more important, i refuse to be put under any obligations to pryors." "that's the reason mr. pryor asked anything at all for the horse. it is my opinion that he would be greatly pleased to give it to leon, if he could do what he liked." "well, that's precisely the thing he can't do in this family," said mother sternly. "what do you think, father?" asked laddie. "i think amen! to that proposition," said father; "but i would have to take time to thresh it out completely. it appeals to me that leon is old enough to recognize the value of the animal; and that the care of it would develop and strengthen his character. it would be a responsibility that would steady him. you could teach him to tend and break it." "break it!" cried laddie. "break it! why father, he's riding it bareback all over the pryor meadow now, and jumping it over logs. whenever he leaves, it follows him to the fence, and the princess says almost any hour of the day you look out you can see it pacing up and down watching this way and whinnying for him to come." "and your best judgment is----?" laddie laughed as he tied my hood strings. "well i don't feel about the pryors as the rest of you do," he said. "if the money isn't claimed inside the time you specified, i would let leon and mr. pryor make their own bargain. the boy won't know for years that it is practically a gift, and it would please mr. pryor immensely. now run, or you'll be late!" i had to go, so i didn't know how they settled it, but if they wouldn't let leon have that horse, it was downright mean. what if we were under obligations to mr. pryor? we were to sarah hood, and half the people we knew, and what was more, we liked to be. when i came from school that night father had been to town. he had an ax and was opening a big crate, containing two of the largest, bluest geese you ever saw. laddie said being boxed that way and seeing them so close made them look so big; really, they were no finer than pryors', where he had got the address of the place that sold them. mother was so pleased. she said she had needed a new strain, for a long time, to improve her feathers; now she would have pillows worth while, in a few years. they put them in the barn where our geese stayed over night, and how they did scream. that is, one of them did; the other acted queerly and father said to laddie that he was afraid the trip was hard on it. laddie said it might have been hurt, and mother was worried too. before she had them an hour, she had sold all our ganders; spring had come, she had saved the blue goose eggs, set them under a hen, raised the goslings with the little chickens, never lost one, picked them and made a new pair of pillows too fine for any one less important than a bishop, or a judge, or dr. fenner to sleep on. then she began saving for a featherbed. and still the goose didn't act as spry or feel as good as the gander. he stuck up his head, screamed, spread his wings and waved them, and the butts looked so big and hard, i was not right certain whether it would be safe to tease him or not. the first person who came to see them was sarah hood, and she left with the promise of a pair as soon as mother could raise them. father said the only reason mother didn't divide her hair with sarah hood was because it was fast, and she couldn't. mother said gracious goodness! she'd be glad to get rid of some of it if she could, and of course sarah should have first chance at it. hadn't she kept her over night so she could see her new home when she was rested, and didn't she come with her, and help her get settled, and had she ever failed when we had a baby, or sickness, or trouble, or thrashers, or a party? of course she'd gladly divide, even the hair of her head, with sarah hood. and father said, "yes, he guessed she would, and come to think of it, he'd just as soon spare sarah part of his," and then they both laughed, when it was nothing so very funny that i could see. the next caller the geese had was mrs. freshett. my! she thought they were big and fine. mother promised her a couple of eggs to set under a hen. father said she was gradually coming down the scale of her feelings, and before two weeks she'd give isaac thomas, at least, a quill for a pen. almost no one wrote with them any more, but often father made a few, and showed us how to use them. he said they were gone with candles, sand boxes, and snuff. mother said she had no use for snuff, but candles were not gone, she'd make and use them to the day of her death, as they were the nicest light ever invented to carry from room to room, or when you only wanted to sit and think. father said there was really no good pen except the quill you sharpened yourself; and while he often used steel ones like we children had at school to write to the brothers and sisters away, and his family, he always kept a few choice quills in the till of his chest, and when he wrote a deed, or any valuable paper, where there was a deal with money, he used them. he said it lent the dignity of a past day to an important occasion. after mother and mrs. freshett had talked over every single thing about the geese, and that they were like pryors' had been settled, mrs. freshett said: "since he told about it before all of us, and started out the way he did, would it be amiss to ask how laddie got on at pryors'?" "just the way i thought he would," said mother. "he stayed until all of us were in bed, and i'd never have known when he came in, if it were not a habit of his always to come to my door to see if i'm sleeping. sometimes i'm wakeful, and if he pommels my pillow good, brings me a drink, and rubs my head a few strokes with his strong, cool hands, i can settle down and have a good night's rest. i was awake when he came, or i'd never have known. it was almost midnight; but they sat two hours at the table, and then all of them rode." "not the missus?" "oh no! she's not strong enough. she really has incurable heart trouble, the worst kind there is; her daughter told me so." "then they better look out," said mrs. freshett. "she is likely to keel over at a breath." "they must know it. that's why she keeps so quiet." "and they had him to supper?" "it was a dinner served at night. yes. he took mrs. pryor in on his arm, and it was like a grand party, just as they fixed for themselves, alone. waiters, and silver trays, and things carried in and out in courses." "my land! well, i s'pose he had enough schoolin' to get him through it all right!" my mother's face grew red. she never left any one in doubt as to what she meant. father said that "was the dutch of it." and mother always answered that if any one living could put things plainer than the english, she would like to hear them do it. "he certainly had," said mother, "or they wouldn't have invited him to come again. and all mine, mrs. freshett, knew how to sit properly at the table, and manage a knife, fork and napkin, before they ever took a meal away from home." "no 'fence," laughed mrs. freshett. "i meant that maybe his years of college schoolin' had give him ways more like theirs than most of us have. for all the money it takes to send a boy to college, he ought to get somethin' out of it more than jest fillin' his head with figgers, an' stars, an' oratin'; an' most always you can see that he does." "it is contact with cultivated people," said mother. "you are always influenced by it, without knowing it often." "maybe you are, bein' so fine yourself," said mrs. freshett. "an' me too, i never get among my betters that i don't carry home a lot i put right into daily use, an' nobody knows it plainer. i come here expectin' to learn things that help me, an' when i go home i know i have." "why, thank you," said mother. "i'm sure that is a very nice compliment, and i wish i really could feel that it is well deserved." "oh i guess you do!" said mrs. freshett laughing. "i often noticed you makin' a special effort to teach puddin' heads like me somethin', an' i always thank you for it. there's a world in right teachin'. i never had any. so all i can pick up an' hammer into mine is a gain for me an' them. if my henry had lived, an' come out anything like that boy o' yourn an' the show he made last sunday, i'd do well if i didn't swell up an' bust with pride. an' the little tow-haired strip, takin' the gun an' startin' out alone after a robber, even if he wa'n't much of a man, that was downright spunky. if my boys will come out anywhere near like yourn, i'll be glad." "i don't know how my boys will come out," said mother. "but i work, pray, hope, and hang to them; that's all i know to do." "well, if they don't come out right, they ought to be bumped!" said mrs. freshett. "after all the chances they've had! i don' know jest how freshett was brung up, but i'd no chance at all. my folks--well, i guess the less said--little pitchers, you know! i can't see as i was to blame. i was the youngest, an' i knew things was wrong. i fought to go to school, an' pap let me enough that i saw how other people lived. come night i'd go to the garret, an' bar the trapdoor; but there would be times when i couldn't help seein' what was goin' on. how'd you like chances such as that for a girl of yourn?" "dreadful!" said mother. "mrs. freshett, please do be careful!" "sure!" laughed mrs. freshett. "i was jest goin' to tell you about me an' josiah. he come to our house one night, a stranger off the road. he said he was sick, an' tired, an' could he have a bed. mother said, 'no, for him to move on.' he tried an' he couldn't. they was somethin' about him--well, you know how them things go! i wa'n't only sixteen, but i felt so sorry for him, all fever burned and mumblin', i helped pap put him to bed, an' doctored him all i could. come mornin' he was a sick man. pap went for the county doctor, an' he took jest one look an' says: 'small pox! all of ye git!' "i was bound i wouldn't go, but pap made me, an' the doctor said he'd send a man who'd had it; so i started, but i felt so bad, come a chanct when they got to groveville, i slipped out an' went back. the man hadn't come, so i set to work the best i knowed. 'fore long josiah was a little better an' he asked who i was, an' where my folks went, an' i told him, an' he asked why i came back an' i didn't know what to say, so i jest hung my head an' couldn't face him. after a while he says, 'all right! i guess i got this sized up. if you'll stay an' nuss me through, i'll be well enough to pull you out, by the time you get it, an' soon as you're able we'll splice, if you say so.' "'marry me, you mean?' says i. they wa'n't ever any talk about marryin' at our house. 'sure!' says he. 'you're a mighty likely lookin' girl! i'll do fair by ye.' an' he always has, too! but i didn't feel right to let him go it blind, so i jest up and says. 'you wouldn't if you knowed my folks!' 'you look as decent as i do,' says he; 'i'll chance it!' then i tole him i was as good as i was born, an' he believed me, an' he always has, an' i was too! so i nussed him, but i didn't make the job of it he did. you 'member he is pitted considerable. he was so strong i jest couldn't keep him from disfigerin' himself, but he tied me. i begged to be loose, an' he wouldn't listen, so i got a clean face, only three little scars, an' they ain't deep to speak of. he says he looks like a piece of side meat, but say! they ain't nothin' the matter with his looks to me! "the nuss man never did come, but the county doctor passed things in the winder, till i was over the worst, an' josiah sent for a preacher an' he married us through the winder--i got the writin's to show, all framed an' proper. josiah said he'd see i got all they was in it long that line, anyway. when i was well, hanged if he didn't perdooce a wad from his clothes before they burnt 'em, an' he got us new things to wear, an' a horse, an' wagon, an' we driv away here where we thought we could start right, an' after we had the land, an' built the cabin, an' jest as happy as heart could wish, long come a man i'd made mad once, an' he tole everythin' up and down. josiah was good about it. he offered to sell the land, an' pull up an' go furder. 'what's the use?' says i. 'hundreds know it. we can't go so far it won't be like to follow us; le's stay here an' fight it.' 'all right,' says josiah, but time an' ag'in he has offered to go, if i couldn't make it. 'hang on a little longer,' says i, every time he knew i was snubbed an' slighted. i never tole what he didn't notice. i tried church, when my children began to git a size i wanted 'em to have right teachin', an' you come an' welcomed me an' you been my friend, an' now the others is comin' over at last, an' visitin' me, an' they ain't a thing more i want in life." "i am so glad!" said mother. "oh my dear, i am so glad!" "goin' right home an' tell that to josiah," said mrs. freshett, jumping up laughing and crying like, "an' mebby i'll jest spread wings and fly! i never was so happy in all my life as i was sunday, when you ast me before all of them, so cordial like, an' says i to josiah, 'we'll go an' try it once,' an' we come an' nobody turned a cold shoulder on us, an' i wa'n't wearin' specks to see if they did, for i never knowed him so happy in all his days. orter heard him whistle goin' home, an' he's tryin' all them things he learned, on our place, an' you can see it looks a heap better a'ready, an' now he's talkin' about buildin' in the spring. i knowed he had money, but he never mentioned buildin' before, an' i always thought it was bekase he 'sposed likely we'd have to move on, some time. 'pears now as if we can settle, an' live like other folks, after all these years. i knowed ye didn't want me to talk, but i had to tell you! when you ast us to the weddin', and others began comin' round, says i to josiah, 'won't she be glad to know that my skirts is clear, an' i did as well as i could?' an' he says, 'that she will! an' more am i,' says he. 'i mighty proud of you,' says he. proud! think of that! miss stanton, i'd jest wade fire and blood for you!" "oh my dear!" said mother. "what a dreadful thing to say!" "gimme the chanct, an' watch if i don't," said mrs. freshett. "now, josiah is proud i stuck it out! now, i can have a house! now, my children can have all the show we can raise to give 'em! i'm done cringin' an' dodgin'! i've always done my best; henceforth i mean to hold up my head an' say so. i sure can't be held for what was done 'fore i was on earth, or since neither. you've given me my show, i'm goin' to take it, but if you want to know what's in my heart about you, gimme any kind of a chanct to prove, an' see if i don't pony right up to it!" mother laughed until the tears rolled, she couldn't help it. she took mrs. freshett in her arms and hugged her tight, and kissed her mighty near like she does sarah hood. mrs. freshett threw her arms around mother, and looked over her shoulder, and said to me, "sis, when you grow up, always take a chanct on welcomin' the stranger, like your maw does, an' heaven's bound to be your home! my, but your maw is a woman to be proud of!" she said, hugging mother and patting her on the back. "all of us are proud of her!" i boasted. "i doubt if you are proud enough!" cried mrs. freshett. "i have my doubts! i don't see how people livin' with her, an' seein' her every day, are in a shape to know jest what she can do for a person in the place i was in. i have my doubts!" that night when i went home from school mother was worrying over the blue goose. when we went to feed, she told leon that she was afraid it was weak, and not getting enough to eat when it fed with the others. she said after the work was finished, to take it out alone, and give it all it would eat; so when the horses were tended, the cows milked, everything watered, and the barn ready to close for the night, laddie took the milk to the house, while leon and i caught the blue goose, carried her to the well, and began to shell corn. she was starved to death, almost. she ate a whole ear in no time and looked for more, so leon sent me after another. by the time that was most gone she began to eat slower, and stick her bill in the air to help the grains slip down, so i told leon i thought she had enough. "no such thing!" said leon. "you distinctly heard mother tell me to give her 'all she would eat.' she's eating, isn't she? go bring another ear!" so she was, but i was doubtful about more. leon said i better mind or he would tell mother, so i got it. she didn't begin on it with any enthusiasm. she stuck her bill higher, stretched her neck longer, and she looked so funny when she did it, that we just shrieked. then leon reached over, took her by the bill, and stripped her neck to help her swallow, and as soon as he let go, she began to eat again. "you see!" said leon, "she's been starved. she can't get enough. i must help her!" so he did help her every little bit. by that time we were interested in seeing how much she could hold; and she looked so funny that leon sent me for more corn; but i told him i thought what she needed now was water, so we held her to the trough, and she tried to drink, but she couldn't swallow much. we set her down beside the corn, and she went to eating again. "go it, old mill-hopper!" cried leon. right then there was an awful commotion in the barn, and from the squealing we knew one of the horses was loose, and fighting the others. we ran to fix them, and had a time to get jo back into his stall, and tied. before we had everything safe, the supper bell rang, and i bet leon a penny i could reach the house while he shut the door and got there. we forgot every single thing about the goose. at supper mother asked leon if he fed the goose all she would eat, and i looked at him guilty-like, for i remembered we hadn't put her back. he frowned at me cross as a bear, and i knew that meant he had remembered, and would slip back and put her inside when he finished his supper, so i didn't say anything. "i didn't feed her all she would eat!" said leon. "if i had, she'd be at it yet. she was starved sure enough! you never saw anything like the corn she downed." "well i declare!" said mother. "now after this, take her out alone, for a few days, and give her as much as she wants." "all right!" chuckled leon, because it was a lot of fun to see her run her bill around, and gobble up the corn, and stick up her head. the next day was saturday, so after breakfast i went with leon to drive the sheep and geese to the creek to water; the trough was so high it was only for the horses and cattle; when we let out the geese, the blue one wasn't there. "oh leon, did you forget to come back and put her in?" "yes i did!" he said. "i meant to when i looked at you to keep still, and i started to do it, but sammy deam whistled, so i went down in the orchard to see what he wanted, and we got to planning how to get up a fox chase, and i stayed until father called for night, and then i ran and forgot all about the blame old goose." "oh leon! where is she? what will mother say? 'spose a fox got her!" "it wouldn't help me any if it had, after i was to blame for leaving her outside. blast a girl! if you ever amounted to anything, you could have put her in while i fixed the horses. at least you could have told me to." i stood there dumblike and stared at him. he has got the awfulest way of telling the truth when he is scared or provoked. of course i should have thought of the goose when he was having such a hard fight with the horses. if i'd been like he was, i'd have told him that he was older, mother told him to do it, and it wasn't my fault; but in my heart i knew he did have his hands full, and if you're your brother's keeper, you ought to help your brother remember. so i stood gawking, while leon slowly turned whiter and whiter. "we might as well see if we can find her," he said at last, so slow and hopeless like it made my heart ache. so he started around the straw stack one way, and i the other, looking into all the holes, and before i had gone far i had a glimpse of her, and it scared me so i screamed, for her head was down, and she didn't look right. leon came running and pulled her out. the swelled corn rolled in a little trail after her, and the pigs ran up and began to eat it. pigs are named righter than anything else i know. "busted!" cried leon in tones of awe; about the worst awe you ever heard, and the worst bust you ever saw. from bill to breast she was wide open, and the hominy spilling. we just stood staring at her, and then leon began to kick the pigs; because it would be no use to kick the goose; she would never know. then he took her up, carried her into the barn, and put her on the floor where the other geese had stayed all night. we stood and looked at her some more, as if looking and hoping would make her get up and be alive again. but there's nothing in all this world so useless as wishing dead things would come alive; we had to do something. "what are you going to tell mother?" "shut up!" said leon. "i'm trying to think." "i'll say it was as much my fault as yours. i'll go with you. i'll take half whatever they do to you." "little fool!" said leon. "what good would that do me?" "do you know what they cost? could you get another with some of your horse money?" i saw it coming and dodged again, before i remembered the crusaders. "all right!" i said. "if that's the way you are going to act, smarty, i'll lay all the blame on you; i won't help you a bit, and i don't care if you are whipped until the blood runs." then i went out of the barn and slammed the door. for a minute i felt better; but it was a short time. i said that to be mean, but i did care. i cared dreadfully; i was partly to blame, and i knew it. coming around the barn, i met laddie, and he saw in a flash i was in trouble, so he stopped and asked: "what now, chicken?" "come into the barn where no one will hear us," i said. so we went around the outside, entered at the door on the embankment, and he sat in the wheelbarrow on the threshing floor while i told him. i thought i felt badly enough, but after i saw laddie, it grew worse, for i remembered we were short of money that fall, that the goose was a fine, expensive one, and how proud mother was of her, and how she'd be grieved, and that was trouble for sure. "run along and play!" said laddie, "and don't tell any one else if you can help it. i'll hide the goose, and see if i can get another in time to take the place of this one, so mother won't be worried." i walked to the house slowly, but i was afraid to enter. when you are all choked up, people are sure to see it, and ask fool questions. so i went around to the gate and stood there looking up and down the road, and over the meadow toward the big woods; and all at once, in one of those high, regular bugle calls, like they mostly scream in spring, one of pryors' ganders split the echoes for a mile; maybe farther. i was across the road and slinking down inside the meadow fence before i knew it. there was no thought or plan. i started for pryors' and went straight ahead, only i kept out of line with our kitchen windows. i tramped through the slush, ice, and crossed fields where i was afraid of horses; but when i got to the top of the pryor backyard fence, i stuck there, for the bulldogs were loose, and came raving at me. i was going to be eaten alive, for i didn't know the word laddie did; and those dogs climbed a fence like a person; i saw them the time leon brought back even so. i was thinking what a pity it was, after every one had grown accustomed to me, and had begun loving me, that i should be wasted for dog feed, when mr. pryor came to the door, and called them; they didn't mind, so he came to the fence, and crossest you ever heard, every bit as bad as the dogs, he cried: "whose brat are you, and what are you doing here?" i meant to tell him; but you must have a minute after a thing like that. "god of my life!" he fairly frothed. "what did anybody send a dumb child here for?" "dumb child!" i didn't care if mr. pryor did wear a crown of glory. it wasn't going to do him one particle of good, unless he was found in the way of the lord. "dumb child!" i was no more dumb than he was, until his bulldogs scared me so my heart got all tangled up with my stomach, my lungs, and my liver. that made me mad, and there was nothing that would help me to loosen up and talk fast, like losing my temper. i wondered what kind of a father he had. if he'd been stood against the wall and made to recite, "speak gently," as often as all of us, perhaps he'd have remembered the verse that says: "speak gently to the little child; its love be sure to gain; teach it in accents soft and mild; it may not long remain." i should think not, if it had any chance at all to get away! i was so angry by that time i meant to tell him what i thought. polite or not polite, i'd take a switching if i had to, but i wasn't going to stand that. "you haven't got any god in your life," i reminded him, "and no one sent me here. i came to see the princess, because i'm in awful trouble and i hoped maybe she could fix up a way to help me." "ye gods!" he cried. he would stick to calling on god, whether he believed in him or not. "if it isn't nimrod! i didn't recognize you in all that bundling." probably he didn't know it, but nimrod was from the bible too! by bundling, he meant my hood and coat. he helped me from the fence, sent the bulldogs rolling--sure enough he did kick them, and they didn't like it either--took my hand and led me straight into the house, and the princess was there, and a woman who was her mother no doubt, and he said: "pamela, here is our little neighbour, and she says she's in trouble, and she thinks you may be of some assistance to her. of course you will be glad if you can." "surely!" said the princess, and she introduced me to her mother, so i bowed the best i knew, and took off my wet mitten, dirty with climbing fences, to shake hands with her. she was so gracious and lovely i forgot what i went after. the princess brought a cloth and wiped the wet from my shoes and stockings, and asked me if i wouldn't like a cup of hot tea to keep me from taking a chill. "i've been much wetter than this," i told her, "and i never have taken a chill, and anyway my throat's too full of trouble to drink." "why, you poor child!" said the princess. "tell me quickly! is your mother ill again?" "not now, but she's going to be as soon as she finds out," i said, and then i told them. they all listened without a sound until i got where leon helped the goose eat, and from that on mr. pryor laughed until you could easily see that he had very little feeling for suffering humanity. it was funny enough when we fed her, but now that she was bursted wide open there was nothing amusing about it; and to roar when a visitor plainly told you she was in awful trouble, didn't seem very good manners to me. the princess and her mother never even smiled; and before i had told nearly all of it, thomas was called to hitch the princess' driving cart, and she took me to their barnyard to choose the goose that looked most like mother's, and all of them seemed like hers, so we took the first one thomas could catch, put it into a bag in the back of the cart, and then we got in and started for our barn. as we reached the road, i said to her: "you'd better go past dovers', for if we come down our little hill they will see us sure; it's baking day." "all right!" said the princess, so we went the long way round the section, but goodness me! when she drove no way was far. when we were opposite our barn she stopped, hitched her horse to the fence, and we climbed over, and slipping behind the barn, carried the goose around to the pen and put it in with ours. she said she wanted the broken one, because her father would enjoy seeing it. i didn't see how he could! we were ready to slip out, when our geese began to run at the new one, hiss and scream, and make such a racket that laddie and leon both caught us. they looked at the goose, at me, the princess, and each other, and neither said a word. she looked back a little bit, and then she laughed as hard as she could. leon grew red, and he grinned ashamed-like, so she laughed worse than ever. laddie spoke to me: "you went to mr. pryor's and asked for that goose?" "she did not!" said the princess before i could answer. "she never asked for anything. she was making a friendly morning call and in the course of her visit she told about the pathetic end of the goose that was expected to lay the golden egg--i mean stuff the bishop's pillow--and as we have a large flock of blue geese, father gave her one, and he had the best time he's had in years doing it. i wouldn't have had him miss the fun he got from it for any money. he laughed like home again. now i must slip away before any one sees me, and spoils our secret. leon, lad, you can go to the house and tell your little mother that the feeding stopped every pain her goose had, and hereafter it looks to you as if she'd be all right." "miss pryor," said leon, "did you care about what i said at you in church that day?" "'thou art all fair, my love. there is no spot in thee.' well, it was a little pointed, but since you ask a plain question, i have survived it." "i'm awfully sorry," said leon. "of course i never would, if i'd known you could be this nice." the princess looked at laddie and almost gasped, and then both of them laughed. leon saw that he had told her he was sorry he said she was "fair, and no spot in her." "oh i don't mean that!" he said. "what i do mean is that i thank you awful much for the goose, and helping me out like such a brick of a good fellow, and what i wish is, that i was as old as laddie, and he'd hump himself if he got to be your beau." the princess almost ran. laddie and i followed to the road, where he unhitched the horse and helped her in. then he stood stroking its neck, as he held the bridle. "i don't know what to say!" said laddie. "in such case, i would counsel silence," advised the princess. "i hope you understand how i thank you." "i fail to see what for. father gave the goose to little sister. her thanks and leon's are more than enough for him. we had great sport." "i insist on adding mine. deep and fervent!" "you take everything so serious. can't you see the fun of this?" "no," said laddie. "but if you can, i am glad, and i'm thankful for anything that gives me a glimpse of you." "bye, little sister," said the princess, and when she loosened the lines the mud flew a rod high. chapter xi keeping christmas our way "i remember, i remember how my childhood fleeted by,-- the mirth of its december, and the warmth of its july." when dusk closed in it would be christmas eve. all day i had three points--a chair beside the kitchen table, a lookout melted through the frost on the front window, and the big sitting-room fireplace. all the perfumes of araby floated from our kitchen that day. there was that delicious smell of baking flour from big snowy loaves of bread, light biscuit, golden coffee cake, and cinnamon rolls dripping a waxy mixture of sugar, butter, and spice, much better than the finest butterscotch ever brought from the city. there was the tempting odour of boiling ham and baking pies. the air was filled with the smell of more herbs and spices than i knew the names of, that went into mincemeat, fruit cake, plum pudding, and pies. there was a teasing fragrance in the spiced vinegar heating for pickles, a reminder of winesap and rambo in the boiling cider, while the newly opened bottles of grape juice filled the house with the tang of concord and muscadine. it seemed to me i never got nicely fixed where i could take a sly dip in the cake dough or snipe a fat raisin from the mincemeat but candace would say: "don't you suppose the backlog is halfway down the lane?" then i hurried to the front window, where i could see through my melted outlook on the frosted pane, across the west eighty to the woods, where father and laddie were getting out the christmas backlog. it was too bitterly cold to keep me there while they worked, but laddie said that if i would watch, and come to meet them, he would take me up, and i might ride home among the christmas greens on the log. so i flattened my nose against the pane and danced and fidgeted until those odours teased me back to the kitchen; and no more did i get nicely located beside a jar of pudding sauce than candace would object to the place i had hung her stocking. it was my task, my delightful all-day task, to hang the stockings. father had made me a peg for each one, and i had ten feet of mantel front along which to arrange them. but it was no small job to do this to every one's satisfaction. no matter what happened to any one else, candace had to be pleased: for did not she so manage that most fowls served on mother's table went gizzardless to the carving? she knew and acknowledged the great importance of trying cookies, pies, and cake while they were hot. she was forever overworked and tired, yet she always found time to make gingerbread women with currant buttons on their frocks, and pudgy doughnut men with clove eyes and cigars of cinnamon. if my own stocking lay on the hearth, candace's had to go in a place that satisfied her--that was one sure thing. besides, i had to make up to her for what leon did, because she was crying into the corner of her apron about that. he slipped in and stole her stocking, hung it over the broomstick, and marched around the breakfast table singing to the tune of-- "ha, ha, ha, who wouldn't go-- up on the housetop click, click, click? down through the chimney, with good saint nick----" words he made up himself. he walked just fast enough that she couldn't catch him, and sang as he went: "ha, ha, ha, good saint nick, come and look at this stocking, quick! if you undertake its length to fill, you'll have to bust a ten-dollar bill. who does it belong to? candace swartz. bring extra candy,--seven quarts----" she got so angry she just roared, so father made leon stop it, but i couldn't help laughing myself. then we had to pet her all day, so she'd cheer up, and not salt the christmas dinner with her tears. i never saw such a monkey as leon! i trotted out to comfort her, and snipped bites, until i wore a triangle on the carpet between the kitchen and the mantel, the mantel and the window, and the window and the kitchen, while every hour things grew more exciting. there never had been such a flurry at our house since i could remember; for to-morrow would be christmas and bring home all the children, and a house full of guests. my big brother, jerry, who was a lawyer in the city, was coming with his family, and so were frank, elizabeth, and lucy with theirs, and of course sally and peter--i wondered if she would still be fixing his tie--and shelley came yesterday, blushing like a rose, and she laughed if you pointed your finger at her. something had happened to her in chicago. i wasn't so sure as i had been about a city being such a dreadful place of noise, bad air, and wicked people. nothing had hurt shelley. she had grown so much that you could see she was larger. her hair and face--all of shelley just shone. her eyes danced, she talked and laughed all the time, and she hugged every one who passed her. she never loved us so before. leon said she must have been homesick and coming back had given her a spell. i did hope it would be a bad one, and last forever. i would have liked for all our family to have had a spell if it would have made them act and look like shelley. the princess was not a speck lovelier, and she didn't act any nicer. if i could have painted, i'd have made a picture of shelley with a circle of light above her head like the one of the boy jesus where he talked with the wise men in the temple. i asked father if he noticed how much prettier and nicer she was, and he said he did. then i asked him if he thought now, that a city was such a bad place to live in, and he said where she was had nothing to do with it, the same thing would happen here, or anywhere, when life's greatest experience came to a girl. that was all he would say, but figuring it out was easy. the greatest experience that happened to our girls was when they married, like sally, so it meant that shelley had gone and fallen in love with that lawyer man, and she liked sitting on the sofa with him, and no doubt she fixed his ties. but if any one thought i would tell anything i saw when he came they were badly mistaken. all of us rushed around like we were crazy. if father and mother hadn't held steady and kept us down, we might have raised the roof. we were all so glad about getting leon and the money back; mother hadn't been sick since the fish cured her; the new blue goose was so like the one that had burst, even father never noticed any difference; all the children were either home or coming, and after we had our gifts and the biggest dinner we ever had, christmas night all of us would go to the schoolhouse to see our school try to spell down three others to whom they had sent saucy invitations to come and be beaten. mother sat in the dining-room beside the kitchen door, so that she could watch the baking, brewing, pickling, and spicing. it took four men to handle the backlog, which i noticed father pronounced every year "just a little the finest we ever had," and laddie strung the house with bittersweet, evergreens, and the most beautiful sprays of myrtle that he raked from under the snow. father drove to town in the sleigh, and the list of things to be purchased mother gave him as a reminder was almost a yard long. the minute they finished the outdoor work laddie and leon began bringing in baskets of apples, golden bellflowers, green pippins, white winter pearmains, rhode island greenings, and striped rambos all covered with hoarfrost, yet not frozen, and so full of juice you had to bite into them carefully or they dripped and offended mother. these they washed and carried to the cellar ready for use. then they cracked big dishes of nuts; and popped corn that popped with the most resounding pops in all my experience--popped a tubful, and laddie melted maple sugar and poured over it and made big balls of fluff and sweetness. he took a pan and filled it with grains, selected one at a time, the very largest and whitest, and made an especial ball, in the middle of which he put a lovely pink candy heart on which was printed in red letters: "how can this heart be mine, yet yours, unless our hearts are one?" he wouldn't let any of them see it except me, and he only let me because he knew i'd be delighted. it was almost dusk when father came through the kitchen loaded with bundles and found candace and the girls still cooking. we were so excited we could scarcely be gathered around the supper table, and mother said we chattered until she couldn't hear herself think. after a while laddie laid down his fork and looked at our father. "have you any objection to my using the sleigh to-morrow night?" he asked. father looked at mother. "had you planned to use it, mother?" mother said: "no. if i go, i'll ride in the big sled with all of us. it is such a little way, and the roads are like glass." so father said politely, as he always spoke to us: "then it will give me great pleasure for you to take it, my son." that made leon bang his fork loudly as he dared and squirm in his chair, for well he knew that if he had asked, the answer would have been different. if laddie took the sleigh he would harness carefully, drive fast, but reasonably, blanket his horse, come home at the right time, and put everything exactly where he found it. but leon would pitch the harness on some way, race every step, never think of his steaming horse, come home when there was no one so wild as he left to play pranks with, and scatter the harness everywhere. he knew our father would love to trust him the same as he did laddie. he wouldn't always prove himself trustworthy, but he envied laddie. "you think you'll take the princess to the spelling bee, don't you?" he sneered. "i mean to ask her," replied laddie. "maybe you think she'll ride in our old homemade, hickory cheesebox, when she can sail all over the country like a bird in a velvet-lined cutter with a real buffalo robe." there was a quick catch in mother's breath and i felt her hand on my chair tremble. father's lips tightened and a frown settled on his face, while laddie fairly jumped. he went white to the lips, and one hand dropped on the table, palm up, the fingers closing and unclosing, while his eyes turned first to mother, and then to father, in dumb appeal. we all knew that he was suffering. no one spoke, and leon having shot his arrow straight home, saw as people so often do in this world that the damage of unkind words could not easily be repaired; so he grew red in the face and squirmed uncomfortably. at last laddie drew a deep, quivering breath. "i never thought of that," he said. "she has seemed happy to go with me several times when i asked her, but of course she might not care to ride in ours, when she has such a fine sleigh of her own." father's voice fairly boomed down the length of the table. "your mother always has found our sleigh suitable," he said. the fact was, father was rarely proud of it. he had selected the hickory in our woods, cut it and hauled it to the mill, cured the lumber, and used all his spare time for two winters making it. with the exception of having the runners turned at a factory and iron-bound at a smithy, he had completed it alone with great care, even to staining it a beautiful cherry colour, and fitting white sheepskins into the bed. we had all watched him and been so proud of it, and now leon was sneering at it. he might just as well have undertaken to laugh at father's wedding suit or to make fun of "clark's commentaries." laddie appealed to mother: "do you think i'd better not ask her?" he spoke with an effort. "laddie, that is the first time i ever heard you propose to do any one an injustice," she said. "i don't see how," said laddie. "it isn't giving the princess any chance at all," replied mother "you've just said that she has seemed pleased to accompany you before, now you are proposing to cut her out of what promises to be the most delightful evening of the winter, without even giving her the chance to say whether she'd go with you or not. has she ever made you feel that anything you offered her or wanted to do for her was not good enough?" "never!" exclaimed laddie fervently. "until she does, then, do you think it would be quite manly and honourable to make decisions for her? you say you never thought of anything except a pleasant time with her; possibly she feels the same. unless she changes, i would scarcely let a boy's foolish tongue disturb her pleasure. moreover, as to the matter of wealth, your father may be as rich as hers; but they have one, we have many. if what we spend on all our brood could be confined to one child, we could easily duplicate all her luxuries, and i think she has the good sense to realize the fact as quickly as any one. i've no doubt she would gladly exchange half she has for the companionship of a sister or a brother in her lonely life." laddie turned to father, and father's smile was happy again. mother was little but she was mighty. with only a few words she had made leon feel how unkind and foolish he had been, quieted laddie's alarm, and soothed the hurt father's pride had felt in that he had not been able to furnish her with so fine a turnout as pryors had. next morning when the excitement of gifts and greetings was over, and laddie's morning work was all finished, he took a beautiful volume of poems and his popcorn ball and started across the fields due west; all of us knew that he was going to call on and offer them to the princess, and ask to take her to the spelling bee. i suppose laddie thought he was taking that trip alone, but really he was surrounded. i watched him from the window, and my heart went with him. presently father went and sat beside mother's chair, and stroking her hand, whispered softly: "please don't worry, little mother. it will be all right. your boy will come home happy." "i hope so," she answered, "but i can't help feeling dreadfully nervous. if things go wrong with laddie, it will spoil the day." "i have much faith in the princess' good common sense," replied father, "and considering what it means to laddie, it would hurt me sore to lose it." mother sat still, but her lips moved so that i knew she was making soft little whispered prayers for her best loved son. but laddie, plowing through the drift, never dreamed that all of us were with him. he was always better looking than any other man i ever had seen, but when, two hours later, he stamped into the kitchen he was so much handsomer than usual, that i knew from the flush on his cheek and the light in his eye, that the princess had been kind, and by the package in his hand, that she had made him a present. he really had two, a beautiful book and a necktie. i wondered to my soul if she gave him that, so she could fix it! i didn't believe she had begun on his ties at that time; but of course when he loved her as he did, he wished she would. it was the very jolliest christmas we ever had, but the day seemed long. when night came we were in a precious bustle. the wagon bed on bobs, filled with hay and covers, drawn by ned and jo, was brought up for the family, and the sleigh made spick-and-span and drawn by laddie's thoroughbred, stood beside it. laddie had filled the kitchen oven with bricks and hung up a comfort at four o'clock to keep the princess warm. because he had to drive out of the way to bring her, laddie wanted to start early; and when he came down dressed in his college clothes, and looking the manliest of men, some of the folks thought it funny to see him carefully rake his hot bricks from the oven, and pin them in an old red breakfast shawl. i thought it was fine, and i whispered to mother: "do you suppose that if laddie ever marries the princess he will be good to her as he is to you?" mother nodded with tear-dimmed eyes, but shelley said: "i'll wager a strong young girl like the princess will laugh at you for babying over her." "why?" inquired laddie. "it is a long drive and a bitter night, and if you fancy the princess will laugh at anything i do, when i am doing the best i know for her comfort, you are mistaken. at least, that is the impression she gave me this morning." i saw the swift glance mother shot at father, and father laid down his paper and said, while he pretended his glasses needed polishing: "now there is the right sort of a girl for you. no foolishness about her, when she has every chance. hurrah for the princess!" it was easy to see that she wasn't going to have nearly so hard a time changing father's opinion as she would mother's. it was not nearly a year yet, and here he was changed already. laddie said good-bye to mother--he never forgot--gathered up his comfort and bricks, and started for pryors' downright happy. we went to the schoolhouse a little later, all of us scoured, curled, starched, and wearing our very best clothes. my! but it was fine. there were many lights in the room and it was hung with greens. there was a crowd even though it was early. on miss amelia's table was a volume of history that was the prize, and every one was looking and acting the very best he knew how, although there were cases where they didn't know so very much. our shelley was the handsomest girl there, until the princess came, and then they both were. shelley wore one of her city frocks and a quilted red silk hood that was one of her christmas gifts, and she looked just like a handsome doll. she made every male creature in that room feel that she was pining for him alone. may had a gay plaid frock and curls nearly a yard long, and so had i, but both our frocks and curls were homemade; mother would have them once in a while; father and i couldn't stop her. but there was not a soul there who didn't have some sort of gift to rejoice over, and laughter and shouts of "merry christmas!" filled the room. it was growing late and there was some talk of choosers, when the door opened and in a rush of frosty air the princess and laddie entered. every one stopped short and stared. there was good reason. the princess looked as if she had accidentally stepped from a frame. she was always lovely and beautifully dressed, but to-night she was prettier and finer than ever before. you could fairly hear their teeth click as some of the most envious of those girls caught sight of her, for she was wearing a new hat!--a black velvet store hat, fitting closely over her crown, with a rim of twisted velvet, a scarlet bird's wing, and a big silver buckle. her dress was of scarlet cloth cut in forms, and it fitted as if she had been melted and poured into it. it was edged around the throat, wrists, and skirt with narrow bands of fur, and she wore a loose, long, silk-lined coat of the same material, and worst of all, furs--furs such as we had heard wealthy and stylish city ladies were wearing. a golden brown cape that reached to her elbows, with ends falling to the knees, finished in the tails of some animal, and for her hands a muff as big as a nail keg. now, there was not a girl in that room, except the princess, an she had those clothes, who wouldn't have flirted like a peacock, almost bursting with pride; but because the princess had them, and they didn't, they sat stolid and sullen, and cast glances at each other as if they were saying: "the stuck-up thing!" "thinks she's smart, don't she?" many of them should have gone to meet her and made her welcome, for she was not of our district and really their guest. shelley did go, but i noticed she didn't hurry. the choosers began at once, and laddie was the first person called for our side, and the princess for the visitors'. every one in the room was chosen on one side or the other; even my name was called, but i only sat still and shook my head, for i very well knew that no one except father would remember to pronounce easy ones for me, and besides i was so bitterly disappointed i could scarcely have stood up. they had put me in a seat near the fire; the spellers lined either wall, and a goodly number that refused to spell occupied the middle seats. i couldn't get a glimpse of laddie or the home folks, or worst of all, of my idolized princess. i never could bear to find a fault with laddie, but i sadly reflected that he might as well have left me at home, if i were to be buried where i could neither hear nor see a thing. i was just wishing it was summer so i could steal out to the cemetery, and have a good visit with the butterflies that always swarmed around georgiana jane titcomb's grave at the corner of the church. i never knew georgiana jane, but her people must have been very fond of her, for her grave was scarlet with geraniums, and pink with roses from earliest spring until frost, and the bright colours attracted swarms of butterflies. i had learned that if i stuck a few blossoms in my hair, rubbed some sweet smelling ones over my hands, and knelt and kept so quiet that i fitted into the landscape, the butterflies would think me a flower too, and alight on my hair, dress, and my hands, even. god never made anything more beautiful than those butterflies, with their wings of brightly painted velvet down, their bright eyes, their curious antennae, and their queer, tickly feet. laddie had promised me a book telling all about every kind there was, the first time he went to a city, so i was wishing i had it, and was among my pet beauties with it, when i discovered him bending over me. he took my arm, and marching back to his place, helped me to the deep window seat beside him, where with my head on a level, and within a foot of his, i could see everything in the whole room. i don't know why i ever spent any time pining for the beauties of georgiana jane titcomb's grave, even with its handsome headstone on which was carved a lamb standing on three feet and holding a banner over its shoulder with the fourth, and the geraniums, roses, and the weeping willow that grew over it, thrown in. i might have trusted laddie. he never had forgotten me; until he did, i should have kept unwavering faith. now, i had the best place of any one in the room, and i smoothed my new plaid frock and shook my handmade curls just as near like shelley as ever i could. but it seems that most of the ointment in this world has a fly in it, like in the bible, for fine as my location was, i soon knew that i should ask laddie to put me down, because the window behind me didn't fit its frame, and the night was bitter. before half an hour i was stiff with cold; but i doubt if i would have given up that location if i had known i would freeze, because this was the most fun i had ever seen. miss amelia began with mcguffey's spelling book, and whenever some poor unfortunate made a bad break the crowd roared with laughter. peter justice stood up to spell and before three rounds he was nodding on his feet, so she pronounced "sleepy" to him. some one nudged pete and he waked up and spelled it, s-l-e, sle, p-e, pe, and because he really was so sleepy it made every one laugh. james whittaker spelled compromise with a k, and isaac thomas spelled soap, s-o-a-p-e, and it was all the funnier that he couldn't spell it, for from his looks you could tell that he had no acquaintance with it in any shape. then miss amelia gave out "marriage" to the spooniest young man in the district, and "stepfather" to a man who was courting a widow with nine children; and "coquette" to our shelley, who had been making sheep's eyes at johnny myers, so it took her by surprise and she joined the majority, which by that time occupied seats. there was much laughing and clapping of hands for a time, but when miss amelia had let them have their fun and thinned the lines to half a dozen on each side who could really spell, she began business, and pronounced the hardest words she could find in the book, and the spellers caught them up and rattled them off like machines. "incompatibility," she gave out, and before the sound of her voice died away the princess was spelling: "i-n, in, c-o-m, com, in com, p-a-t, pat, incompat, i, incompati, b-i-l, bil, incompatibil, i, incompatibili, t-y, ty, incompatibility." then laddie spelled "incomprehensibility," and they finished up the "bilities" and the "alities" with a rush and changed mcguffey's for webster, with five on laddie's side and three on the princess', and when they quit with it, the princess was alone, and laddie and our little may facing her. from that on you could call it real spelling. they spelled from the grammars, hyperbole, synecdoche, and epizeuxis. they spelled from the physiology, chlorophyll, coccyx, arytenoid, and the names of the bones and nerves, and all the hard words inside you. they tried the diseases and spelled jaundice, neurasthenia, and tongue-tied. they tried all the occupations and professions, and went through the stores and spelled all sorts of hardware, china and dry goods. each side kept cheering its own and urging them to do their best, and every few minutes some man in the back of the house said something that was too funny. when miss amelia pronounced "bombazine" to laddie our side cried, "careful, laddie, careful! you're out of your element!" and when she gave "swivel-tree" to the princess, her side whispered, "go easy! do you know what it is? make her define it." they branched over the country. may met her jonah on the mountains. katahdin was too much for her, and laddie and the princess were left to fight it out alone. i didn't think laddie liked it. i'm sure he never expected it to turn out that way. he must have been certain he could beat her, for after he finished english there were two or three other languages he knew, and every one in the district felt that he could win, and expected him to do it. it was an awful place to put him in, i could see that. he stood a little more erect than usual, with his eyes toward the princess, and when his side kept crying, "keep the prize, laddie! hold up the glory of the district!" he ground out the words as if he had a spite at them for not being so hard that he would have an excuse for going down. the princess was poised lightly on her feet, her thick curls, just touching her shoulders, shining in the light; her eyes like stars, her perfect, dark oval face flushed a rich red, and her deep bosom rising and falling with excitement. many times in later years i have tried to remember when the princess was loveliest of all, and that night always stands first. i was thinking fast. laddie was a big man. men were strong on purpose so they could bear things. he loved the princess so, and he didn't know whether she loved him or not; and every marriageable man in three counties was just aching for the chance to court her, and i didn't feel that he dared risk hurting her feelings. laddie said, to be the man who conquered the princess and to whom she lifted her lips for a first kiss was worth life itself. i made up my mind that night that he knew just exactly what he was talking about. i thought so too. and i seemed to understand why laddie--laddie in his youth, strength, and manly beauty, laddie, who boasted that there was not a nerve in his body--trembled before the princess. it looked as if she had set herself against him and was working for the honours, and if she wanted them, i didn't feel that he should chance beating her, and then, too, it was beginning to be plain that it was none too sure he could. laddie didn't seem to be the only one who had been well drilled in spelling. i held my jaws set a minute, so that i could speak without laddie knowing how i was shivering, and then i whispered: "except her eyes are softer, she looks just like a cardinal." laddie nodded emphatically and moving a step nearer laid his elbow across my knees. heavens, how they spelled! they finished all the words i ever heard and spelled like lightning through a lot of others the meaning of which i couldn't imagine. father never gave them out at home. they spelled epiphany, gaberdine, ichthyology, gewgaw, kaleidoscope, and troubadour. then laddie spelled one word two different ways; and the princess went him one better, for she spelled another three. they spelled from the bible, nebuchadnezzar, potiphar, peleg, belshazzar, abimelech, and a host of others i never heard the minister preach about. then they did the most dreadful thing of all. "broom," pronounced the teacher, and i began mentally, b-r-o-o-m, but laddie spelled "b-r-o-u-g-h-a-m," and i stared at him in a daze. a second later miss amelia gave out "beecham" to the princess, and again i tried it, b-e-e-c-h, but the princess was spelling "b-e-a-u-c-h-a-m-p," and i almost fell from the window. they kept that up until i was nearly crazy with nervousness; i forgot i was half frozen. i pulled laddie's sleeve and whispered in his ear: "do you think she'll cry if you beat her?" i was half crying myself, the strain had been awful. i was torn between these dearest loves of mine. "seen me have any chance to beat her?" retorted laddie. miss amelia seemed to have used most of her books, and at last picked up an old geography and began giving out points around the coast, while laddie and the princess took turns snatching the words from her mouth and spelling them. father often did that, so laddie was safe there. they were just going it when miss amelia pronounced, "terra del fuego," to the princess. "t-e-r-r-a, terra, d-e-l, del, f-i-e-u-g-o," spelled the princess, and sat down suddenly in the midst of a mighty groan from her side, swelled by a wail from one little home district deserter. "next!" called miss amelia. "t-e-r-r-a, terra, d-e-l, del, f-e-u-g-o," spelled laddie. "wrong!" wailed miss amelia, and our side breathed one big groan in concert, and i lifted up my voice in that also. then every one laughed and pretended they didn't care, and the princess came over and shook hands with laddie, and laddie said to miss amelia: "just let me take that book a minute until i see how the thing really does go." it was well done and satisfied the crowd, which clapped and cheered; but as i had heard him spell it many, many times for father, he didn't fool me. laddie and the princess drew slips for the book and it fell to her. he was so pleased he kissed me as he lifted me down and never noticed i was so stiff i could scarcely stand--and i did fall twice going to the sleigh. my bed was warm and my room was warm, but i chilled the night through and until the next afternoon, when i grew so faint and sleepy i crept to miss amelia's desk, half dead with fright--it was my first trip to ask an excuse--and begged: "oh teacher, i'm so sick. please let me go home." i think one glance must have satisfied her that it was true, for she said very kindly that i might, and she would send leon along to take care of me. but my troubles were only half over when i had her consent. it was very probable i would be called a baby and sent back when i reached home, so i refused company and started alone. it seemed a mile past the cemetery. i was so tired i stopped, and leaning against the fence, peeped through at the white stones and the whiter mounds they covered, and wondered how my mother would feel if she were compelled to lay me beside the two little whooping cough and fever sisters already sleeping there. i decided that it would be so very dreadful, that the tears began to roll down my cheeks and freeze before they fell. down the big hill slowly i went. how bare it looked then! only leafless trees and dried seed pods rattling on the bushes, the sand frozen, and not a rush to be seen for the thick blanket of snow. a few rods above the bridge was a footpath, smooth and well worn, that led down to the creek, beaten by the feet of children who raced it every day and took a running slide across the ice. i struck into the path as always; but i was too stiff to run, for i tried. i walked on the ice, and being almost worn out, sat on the bridge and fell to watching the water bubbling under the glassy crust. i was so dull a horse's feet struck the bridge before i heard the bells--for i had bells in my ears that day--and when i looked up it was the princess--the princess in her red dress and furs, with a silk hood instead of her hat, her sleigh like a picture, with a buffalo robe, that it was whispered about the country, cost over a hundred dollars, and her thoroughbred mare maud dancing and prancing. "bless me! is it you, little sister?" she asked. "shall i give you a ride home?" before i could scarcely realize she was there, i was beside her and she was tucking the fine warm robe over me. i lifted a pair of dull eyes to her face. "oh princess, i am so glad you came," i said. "i don't think i could have gone another step if i had frozen on the bridge." the princess bent to look in my face. "why, you poor child!" she exclaimed, "you're white as death! where are you ill?" i leaned on her shoulder, though ordinarily i would not have offered to touch her first, and murmured: "i am not ill, outdoors, only dull, sleepy, and freezing with the cold." "it was that window!" she exclaimed. "i thought of it, but i trusted laddie." that roused me a little. "oh princess," i cried, "you mustn't blame laddie! i knew it was too cold, but i wouldn't tell him, because if he put me down i couldn't see you, and we thought, but for your eyes being softer, you looked just like a cardinal." the princess hugged me close and laughed merrily. "you darling!" she cried. then she shook me up sharply: "don't you dare go to sleep!" she said. "i must take you home first." once there she quieted my mother's alarm, put me to bed, drove three miles for dr. fenner and had me started nicely on the road to a month of lung fever, before she left. in my delirium i spelled volumes; and the miracle of it was i never missed a word until i came to "terra del fuego," and there i covered my lips and stoutly insisted that it was the princess' secret. to keep me from that danger sleep on the road, she shook me up and asked about the spelling bee. i thought it was the grandest thing i had ever seen in my life, and i told her so. she gathered me close and whispered: "tell me something, little sister, please." the minx! she knew i thought that a far finer title than hers. "would laddie care?" i questioned. "not in the least!" "well then, i will." "can laddie spell 'terra del fuego?'" she whispered. i nodded. "are you sure?" "i have heard him do it over and over for father." the princess forgot i was so sick, forgot her horse, forgot everything. she threw her head back and her hands up, until her horse stopped in answer to the loosened line, and she laughed and laughed. she laughed until peal on peal re-echoed from our big woods clear across the west eighty. she laughed until her ringing notes set my slow pulses on fire, and started my numbed brain in one last effort. i stood up and took her lovely face between my palms, turning it until i could see whether the thought that had come to me showed in her eyes, and it did. "oh you darling, splendid princess!" i cried. "you missed it on purpose to let laddie beat! you can spell it too!" chapter xii the horn of the hunter "the dusky night rides down the sky, and ushers in the morn: the hounds all join in glorious cry, the huntsman winds his horn." leon said our house reminded him of the mourners' bench before any one had "come through." he said it was so deadly with sally and shelley away, that he had a big notion to marry susie fall and bring her over to liven things up a little. mother said she thought that would be a good idea, and leon started in the direction of falls', but he only went as far as deams'. when he came back he had a great story to tell about dogs chasing their sheep, and foxes taking their geese. father said sheep were only safe behind securely closed doors, especially in winter, and geese also. leon said every one hadn't as big a barn as ours, and father said there was nothing to prevent any man from building the sized barn he needed to shelter his creatures in safety and comfort, if he wanted to dig in and earn the money to put it up. there was no answer to that, and mr. leon didn't try to make any. mostly, he said something to keep on talking, but sometimes he saw when he had better quit. i was having a good time, myself. of course when the fever was the worst, and when i never had been sick before, it was pretty bad, but as soon as i could breathe all right, there was no pain to speak of, and every one was so good to me. i could have bobby on the footboard of my bed as long as i wanted him, and he would crow whenever i told him to. i kept grace greenwood beside me, and spoiled her dress making her take some of each dose of medicine i did, but shelley wrote that she was saving goods and she would make her another as soon as she came home. i made mother put red flannel on grace's chest and around her neck, until i could hardly find her mouth when she had to take her medicine, but she swallowed it down all right, or she got her nose held, until she did. she was not nearly so sick as i was, though. we both grew better together, and, when dr. fenner brought me candy, she had her share. when i began to get well it was lovely. such toast, chicken broth, and squirrels, as mother always had. i even got the chicken liver, oranges, and all of them gave me everything they had that i wanted--i must almost have died to make them act like that! laddie and father would take me up wrapped in blankets and hold me to rest my back. father would rock me and sing about "young johnny," just as he had when i was little. we always laughed at it, we knew it was a fool song, but we liked it. the tune was smooth and sleepy-like and the words went: "one day young johnny, he did go, way down in the meadow for to mow. li-tu-di-nan-incty, tu-di-nan-incty, noddy o! he scarce had mowed twice round the field, when a pesky sarpent bit him on the heel, li-tu-di-nan-incty, tu-di-nan-incty, noddy o! he threw the scythe upon the ground, an' shut his eyes, and looked all round, li-tu-di-nan-incty, tu-di-nan-incty, noddy o! he took the sarpent in his hand, and then ran home to molly bland, li-tu-di-nan-incty, tu-di-nan-incty, noddy o! o molly dear, and don't you see, this pesky sarpent that bit me? li-tu-di-nan-incty, tu-di-nan-incty, noddy o! o johnny dear, why did you go, way down in the meadow fot to mow? li-tu-di-nan-incty, tu-di-nan-incty, noddy o! o molly dear, i thought you knowed 'twas daddy's grass, and it must be mowed, li-tu-di-nan-incty, tu-di-n an-incty, noddy o! now all young men a warning take, and don't get bit by a rattlesnake. li-tu-di-nan-incty, tu-di-nan-incty, noddy o!" all of them told me stories, read to me, and frank, one of my big gone-away brothers, sent me the prettiest little book. it had a green cover with gold on the back, and it was full of stories and poems, not so very hard, because i could read every one of them, with help on a few words. the piece i liked best was poetry. if it hadn't been for that, i'm afraid, i was having such a good time, i'd have lain there until i forgot how to walk, with all of them trying to see who could be nicest to me. the ones who really could, were laddie and the princess, except mother. laddie lifted me most carefully, the princess told the best stories, but after all, if the burning and choking grew so bad i could scarcely stand it, mother could lay her hand on my head and say, "poor child," in a way that made me work to keep on breathing. maybe i only thought i loved laddie best. i guess if i had been forced to take my choice when i had the fever, i'd have stuck pretty tight to mother. even dr. fenner said if i pulled through she'd have to make me. i might have been lying there yet, if it hadn't been for the book frank sent me, with the poetry piece in it. it began: "somewhere on a sunny bank, buttercups are bright, somewhere 'mid the frozen grass, peeps the daisy white." i read that so often i could repeat it quite as well with the book shut as open, and every time i read it, i wanted outdoors worse. in one place it ran: "welcome, yellow buttercups, welcome daisies white, ye are in my spirit visioned a delight. coming in the springtime of sunny hours to tell, speaking to our hearts of him who doeth all things well." that piece helped me out of bed, and the blue gander screaming opened the door. it was funny about it too. i don't know why it worked on me that way; it just kept singing in my heart all day, and i could shut my eyes and go to sleep seeing buttercups in a gold sheet all over our big hill, although there never was a single one there; and meadows full of daisies, which were things father said were a pest he couldn't tolerate, because they spread so, and he grubbed up every one he found. yet that piece filled our meadow until i imagined i could roll on daisies. they might be a pest to farmers, but sheets of them were pretty good if you were burning with fever. between the buttercups and the daisies i left the bed with a light head and wobbly legs. of course i wasn't an idiot. i knew when i looked from our south window exactly what was to be seen. the person who wrote that piece was the idiot. it sang and sounded pretty, and it pulled you up and pushed you out, but really it was a fool thing, as i very well knew. i couldn't imagine daisies peeping through frozen grass. any baby should have known they bloomed in july. skunk cabbage always came first, and hepatica. if i had looked from any of our windows and seen daisies and buttercups in march, i'd have fallen over with the shock. i knew there would be frozen brown earth, last year's dead leaves, caved-in apple and potato holes, the cabbage row almost gone, puddles of water and mud everywhere, and i would hear geese scream and hens sing. and yet that poem kept pulling and pulling, and i was happy as a queen--i wondered if they were for sure; mother had doubts--the day i was wrapped in shawls and might sit an hour in the sun on the top board of the back fence, where i could see the barn, orchard, the creek and the meadow, as you never could in summer because of the leaves. i wasn't looking for buttercups and daisies either. i mighty well knew there wouldn't be any. but the sun was there. a little taste of willow, oak and maple was in the air. you could see the buds growing fat too, and you could smell them. if you opened your eyes and looked in any direction you could see blue sky, big, ragged white clouds, bare trees, muddy earth with grassy patches, and white spots on the shady sides where unmelted snow made the icy feel in the air, even when the sun shone. you couldn't hear yourself think for the clatter of the turkeys, ganders, roosters, hens, and everything that had a voice. i was so crazy with it i could scarcely hang to the fence; i wanted to get down and scrape my wings like the gobbler, and scream louder than the gander, and crow oftener than the rooster. there was everything all ice and mud. they would have frozen, if they hadn't been put in a house at night, and starved, if they hadn't been fed; they were not at the place where they could hunt and scratch, and not pay any attention to feeding time, because of being so bursting full. they had no nests and babies to rejoice over. but there they were! and so was i! buttercups and daisies be-hanged! ice and mud really! but if you breathed that air, and shut your eyes, north, you could see blue flags, scarlet lilies, buttercups, cattails and redbirds sailing over them; east, there would be apple bloom and soft grass, cowslips, and bubbling water, robins, thrushes, and bluebirds; and south, waving corn with wild rose and alder borders, and sparrows, and larks on every fence rider. right there i got that daisy thing figured out. it wasn't that there were or ever would be daisies and buttercups among the frozen grass; but it was forever and always that when this feel came into the air, you knew they were coming. that was what ailed the gander and the gobbler. they hadn't a thing to be thankful for yet, but something inside them was swelling and pushing because of what was coming. i felt exactly as they did, because i wanted to act the same way, but i'd been sick enough to know that i'd better be thankful for the chance to sit on the fence, and think about buttercups and daisies. really, one old brown and purple skunk cabbage with a half-frozen bee buzzing over it, or a few forlorn little spring beauties, would have set me wild, and when a lark really did go over, away up high, and a dove began to coo in the orchard, if laddie hadn't come for me, i would have fallen from the fence. i simply had to get well and quickly too, for the wonderful time was beginning. it was all very well to lie in bed when there was nothing else to do, and every one would pet me and give me things; but here was maple syrup time right at the door, and the sugar camp most fun alive; here was all the neighbourhood crazy mad at the foxes, and planning a great chase covering a circuit of miles before the ground thawed; here was easter and all the children coming, except shelley--again, it would cost too much for only one day--and with everything beginning to hum, i found out there would be more amusement outdoors than inside. that was how i came to study out the daisy piece. there was nothing in the silly, untrue lines: the pull and tug was in what they made you think of. i was still so weak i had to take a nap every day, so i wasn't sleepy as early at night, and i heard father and mother talk over a lot of things before they went to bed. after they mentioned it, i remembered that we hadn't received nearly so many letters from shelley lately, and mother seldom found time to read them aloud during the day and forgot, or her eyes were tired, at night. "are you worrying about shelley?" asked father one night. "yes, i am," answered mother. "what do you think is the trouble?" "i'm afraid things are not coming out with mr. paget as she hoped." "if they don't, she is going to be unhappy?" "that's putting it mildly." "well, i was doubtful in the beginning." "now hold on," said mother. "so was i; but what are you going to do? i can't go through the world with my girls, and meet men for them. i trained them just as carefully as possible before i started them out; that was all i could do. shelley knows when a man appears clean, decent and likable. she knows when his calling is respectable. she knows when his speech is proper, his manners correct, and his ways attractive. she found this man all of these things, and she liked him accordingly. at christmas she told me about it freely." "have you any idea how far the thing has gone?" "she said then that she had seen him twice a week for two months. he seemed very fond of her. he had told her he cared more for her than any girl he ever had met, and he had asked her to come here this summer and pay us a visit, so she wanted to know if he might." "of course you told her yes." "certainly i told her yes. i wish now we'd saved money and you'd gone to visit her and met him when she first wrote of him. you could have found out who and what he was, and with your experience you might have pointed out signs that would have helped her to see, before it was too late." "what do you think is the trouble?" "i wish i knew! she simply is failing to mention him in her letters; all the joy of living has dropped from them, she merely writes about her work; and now she is beginning to complain of homesickness and to say that she doesn't know how to endure the city any longer. there's something wrong." "had i better go now?" "too late!" said mother, and i could hear her throat go wrong and the choke come into her voice. "she is deeply in love with him; he hasn't found in her what he desires; probably he is not coming any more; what could you do?" "i could go and see if there is anything i could do?" "she may not want you. i'll write her to-morrow and suggest that you or laddie pay her a visit and learn what she thinks." "all right," said father. he kissed her and went to sleep, but mother was awake yet, and she got up and stood looking down at the church and the two little white gravestones she could see from her window, until i thought she would freeze, and she did nearly, for her hands were cold and the tears falling when she examined my covers, and felt my face and hands before she went to bed. my, but the mother of a family like ours is never short of a lot of things to think of! i had a new one myself. now what do you suppose there was about that man? of course after having lived all her life with father and laddie, shelley would know how a man should look, and act to be right; and this one must have been right to make her bloom out in winter the way other things do in spring; and now what could be wrong? maybe city girls were prettier than shelley. but all women were made alike on the outside, and that was as far as you could see. you couldn't find out whether they had pure blood, true hearts, or clean souls. no girl could be so very much prettier than shelley; they simply were not made that way. she knew how to behave; she had it beaten into her, like all of us. and she knew her books, what our schools could teach her, and groveville, and lucy, who had city chances for years, and there never was a day at our house when books and papers were not read and discussed, and your spelling was hammered into you standing in rows against the wall, and memory tests--what on earth could be the matter with shelley that a man who could make her look and act as she did at christmas, would now make her unhappy? sometimes i wanted to be grown up dreadfully, and again, times like that, i wished my bed could stay in mother's room, and i could creep behind father's paper and go to sleep between his coat and vest, and have him warm my feet in his hands forever. this world was too much for me. i never worked and worried in all my life as i had over laddie and the princess, and laddie said i, myself, never would know how i had helped him. of course nothing was settled; he had to try to make her love him by teaching her how lovable he was. we knew, because we always had known him, but she was a stranger and had to learn. it was mighty fine for him that he could force his way past the dogs, thomas, the other men, her half-crazy father, and through the locked door, and go there to try to make her see, on sunday nights, and week days, every single chance he could invent, and he could think up more reasons for going to pryors' than mother could for putting out an extra wash. now just as i got settled a little about him, and we could see they really wanted him there, at least the princess and her mother did, and mr. pryor must have been fairly decent or laddie never would have gone; and the princess came to our house to bring me things to eat, and ask how mother was, and once to learn how she embroidered sally's wedding chemise, and social things like that; and when father acted as if he liked her so much he hadn't a word to say, and mother seemed to begin to feel as if laddie and the princess could be trusted to fix it up about god; and the old mystery didn't matter after all; why, here shelley popped up with another mystery, and it belonged to us. but whatever ailed that man i couldn't possibly think. it had got to be him, for shelley was so all right at christmas, it made her look that pretty we hardly knew her. i was thinking about her until i scarcely could study my lessons, so i could recite to laddie at night, and not fall so far behind at school. miss amelia offered to hear me, but i just begged laddie, and father could see that he taught me fifty things in a lesson that you could tell to look at miss amelia, she never knew. why, he couldn't hear me read: "we charged upon a flock of geese, and put them all to flight except one sturdy gander that thought to show us fight,"-- without teaching me that the oldest picture in all the world was made of a row of geese, some of which were kinds we then had--the earth didn't seem so old when you thought of that--and how a flock of geese once wakened an army and saved a city, and how far wild geese could fly without alighting in migration, and everything you could think of about geese, only he didn't know why eating the same grass made feathers on geese and wool on sheep. anyway, miss amelia never told you a word but what was in the book, and how to read and spell it. may said that father was very much disappointed in her, and he was never going to hire another teacher until he met and talked with her, no matter what kind of letters she could send. he was not going to help her get a summer school, and o my soul! i hope no one does, for if they do, i have to go, and i'd rather die than go to school in the summer. leon came in about that time with more fox stories. been in jacob hood's chicken house and taken his best dorking rooster, and father said it was time to do something. he never said a word so long as they took deams', except they should have barn room for their geese, but when anything was the matter at hoods' father and mother started doing something the instant they heard of it. so father and laddie rode around the neighbourhood and talked it over, and the next night they had a meeting at our schoolhouse; men for miles came, and they planned a regular old-fashioned foxchase, and every one was wild about it. laddie told it at pryors' and the princess wanted to go; she asked to go with him, and if you please, mr. pryor wanted to go too, and their thomas. they attended the meeting to tell how people chase foxes in england, where they seem to hunt them most of the time. father said: "thank god for even a foxchase, if it will bring mr. pryor among his neighbours and help him to act sensibly." they are going away fifteen miles or farther, and form a big circle of men from all directions, some walking in a line, and others riding to bring back any foxes that escape, and with dogs, and guns, they are going to rout out every one they can find, and kill them so they won't take the geese, little pigs, lambs, and hoods' dorking rooster. laddie had a horn that mr. pryor gave him when he told him this country was showing signs of becoming civilized at last; but leon grinned and said he'd beat that. then when you wanted him, he was in the wood house loft at work, but father said he couldn't get into mischief there. he should have seen that churn when it was full of wedding breakfast! we ate for a week afterward, until things were all moulded, and we didn't dare anymore. one night i begged so hard and promised so faithfully he trusted me; he did often, after i didn't tell about the station; and i went to the loft with him, and watched him work an hour. he had a hollow limb about six inches through and fourteen long. he had cut and burned it to a mere shell, and then he had scraped it with glass inside and out, until it shone like polished horn. he had shaved the wool from a piece of sheepskin, soaked, stretched, and dried it, and then fitted it over one end of the drumlike thing he had made, and tacked and bound it in a little groove at the edge. he put the skin on damp so he could stretch it tight. then he punched a tiny hole in the middle, and pulled through it, down inside the drum, a sheepskin thong rolled in resin, with a knot big enough to hold it, and not tear the head. then he took it under his arm and we slipped across the orchard below the station, and went into the hollow and tried it. it worked! i almost fell dead with the first frightful sound. it just bellowed and roared. in only a little while he found different ways to make it sound by his manner of working the tongue. a long, steady, even pull got that kind of a roar. a short, quick one made it bark. a pull half the length of the thong, a pause, and another pull, made it sound like a bark and a yelp. to pull hard and quick, made it go louder, and soft and easy made it whine. before he had tried it ten minutes he could do fifty things with it that would almost scare the livers out of those nasty old foxes that were taking every one's geese, dorking roosters, and even baby lambs and pigs. of course people couldn't stand that; something had to be done! even in the bible it says, "beware of the little foxes that spoil the vines," and geese, especially blue ones, dorking roosters, lambs, and pigs were much more valuable than mere vines; so leon made that awful thing to scare the foxes from their holes that's in the bible too, about the holes i mean, not the scaring. i wanted leon to slip to the back door and make the dumb-bell--that's what he called it; if i had been naming it i would have called it the thunder-bell--go; but he wouldn't. he said he didn't propose to work as he had, and then have some one find out, and fix one like it. he said he wouldn't let it make a sound until the night before the chase, and then he'd raise the dead. i don't know about the dead; but it was true of the living. father went a foot above his chair and cried: "whoo-pee!" all of us, even i, when i was waiting for it, screamed as if paddy ryan raved at the door. then leon came in and showed us, and every one wanted to work the dumb-bell, even mother. leon marched around and showed off; he looked "see the conquering hero comes," all over. i never felt worse about being made into a girl than i did that night. i couldn't sleep for excitement, and mother said i might as well, for it would be at least one o'clock before they would round-up in our meadow below the barn. all the neighbours were to shut up their stock, tie their dogs, or lead them with chains, if they took them, so when the foxes were surrounded, they could catch them alive, and save their skins. i wondered how some of those chasing people, even laddie, leon, and father--think of that! father was going too--i wondered how they would have liked to have had something as much bigger than they were, as they were bigger than the foxes, chase them with awful noises, guns and dogs, and catch them alive--to save their skins. no wonder i couldn't sleep! i guess the foxes wouldn't either, if they had known what was coming. maybe hereafter the mean old things would eat rabbits and weasels, and leave the dorking roosters alone. may, candace, and miss amelia were going to deams' to wait, and when the round-up formed a solid line, they planned to stand outside, and see the sport. if they had been the foxes, maybe they wouldn't have thought it was so funny; but of course, people just couldn't have even their pigs and lambs taken. we had to have wool to spin yarn for our stockings, weave our blankets and coverlids, and our sunday winter dresses of white flannel with narrow black crossbars were from the backs of our own sheep, and we had to have ham to fry with eggs, and boil for sunday night suppers, and bacon to cook the greens with--of course it was all right. before it was near daylight i heard laddie making the kitchen fire, so father got right up, leon came down, and all of them went to the barn to do the feeding. i wanted to get up too, but mother said i should stay in bed until the house was warm, because if i took more cold i'd be sick again. at breakfast may asked father about when they should start for deams' to be ahead of the chase, and he said by ten o'clock at least; because a fox driven mad by pursuit, dogs, and noise, was a very dangerous thing, and a bite might make hy----the same thing as a mad dog. he said our back barn door opening from the threshing floor would afford a fine view of the meet, but candace, may, and miss amelia wanted to be closer. i might go with them if they would take good care of me, and they promised to; but when the time came to start, there was such a queer feeling inside me, i thought maybe it was more fever, and with mother would be the best place for me, so i said i wanted to watch from the barn. father thought that was a capital idea, because i would be on the east side, where there would be no sun and wind, and it would be perfectly safe; also, i really could see what was going on better from that height than on the ground. the sun was going to shine, but it hadn't peeped above deams' strawstack when father on his best saddle horse, and laddie on flos, rode away, their eyes shining, their faces red, their blood pounding so it made their voices sound excited and different. leon was to go on foot. father said he would ride a horse to death. he just grinned and never made a word of complaint. seemed funny for him. "i was over having a little confidential chat with my horse, last night," he said, "and next year we'll be in the chase, and we'll show you how to take fences, and cut curves; just you wait!" "leon, don't build so on that horse," wailed mother. "i'm sure that money was stolen like ours, and the owner will claim it! i feel it in my bones!" "aw, shucks!" said leon. "that money is mine. he won't either!" when they started, father took leon behind him to ride as far as the county line. he said he would go slowly, and it wouldn't hurt the horse, but leon slipped off at hoods', and said he'd go with their boys, so father let him, because light as leon was, both of them were quite a load for one horse. laddie went to ride with the princess. we could see people moving around in pryors' barnyard when our men started. candace washed, miss amelia wiped the dishes, may swept, and all of them made the beds, and then they went to deams', while i stayed with mother. when she thought it was time, she bundled me up warmly, and i went to the barn. father had the east doors standing open for me, so i could sit in the sun, hang my feet against the warm boards, and see every inch of our meadow where the meet was to be. i was really too warm there, and had to take off the scarf, untie my hood, and unbutton my coat. it was a trifle muddy, but the frost had not left the ground yet, the sparrows were singing fit to burst, so were the hens. i didn't care much for the music of the hen, but i could see she meant well. she liked her nest quite as much as the red velvet bird with black wings, or the bubbly yellow one, and as for baby chickens, from the first peep they beat a little naked, blind, wobbly tree bird, so any hen had a right to sing for joy because she was going to be the mother of a large family of them. a hen had something was going to be the mother of a large family of them. a hen had something to sing about all right, and so had we, when we thought of poached eggs and fried chicken. when i remembered them, i saw that it was no wonder the useful hen warbled so proudlike; but that was all nonsense, for i don't suppose a hen ever tasted poached eggs, and surely she wouldn't be happy over the prospect of being fried. maybe one reason she sang was because she didn't know what was coming; i hardly think she'd be so tuneful if she did. sometimes the geese, shut in the barn, raised an awful clatter, and the horses and cattle complained about being kept from the sunshine and fresh air. you couldn't blame them. it was a lovely day, and the big upper door the pleasantest place. i didn't care if the fox hunters never came, there was so much to see, hear, and smell. everything was busy making signs of spring, and one could become tired of ice and snow after a while, and so hungry for summer that those first days which were just hints of what was coming were almost better than the real thing when it arrived. bud perfume was stronger than last week, many doves and bluebirds were calling, and three days more of such sunshine would make cross-country riding too muddy to be pleasant. i sat there thinking; grown people never know how much children do think, they have so much time, and so many bothersome things to study out. i heard it behind me, a long, wailing, bellowing roar, and my hood raised right up with my hair. i was in the middle of the threshing floor in a second, in another at the little west door, cut into the big one, opening it a tiny crack to take a peep, and see how close they were. i could see nothing, but i heard a roar of dreadful sound steadily closing in a circle around me. no doubt the mean old foxes wished then they had let the dorking roosters alone. closer it came and more dreadful. never again did i want to hear such sounds coming at me; even when i knew what was making them. and then away off, beyond pryors', and hoods', and dovers', i could see a line of tiny specks coming toward me, and racing flying things that must have been people on horses riding back and forth to give the foxes no chance to find a hiding place. no chance! laddie and the princess, mr. pryor and father, and all of them were after the bad old foxes; and they were going to get them; because they'd have no chance--not with a solid line of men with raving dogs surrounding them, and people on horseback racing after them, no! the foxes would wish now that they had left the pigs and lambs alone. in that awful roaring din, they would wish, oh how they would wish, they were birds and could fly! fly back to their holes like the bible said they had, where maybe they liked to live, and no doubt they had little foxes there, that would starve when their mammies were caught alive, to save their skins. to save their skins! i could hear myself breathe, and feel my teeth click, and my knees knock together. and then! oh dear! there they came across our cornfield. two of them! and they could fly, almost. at least you could scarcely see that they touched the ground. the mean old things were paying up for the pigs and lambs now. through the fence, across the road, straight toward me they came. almost red backs, nearly white beneath, long flying tails, beautiful pointed ears, and long tongues, fire red, hanging from their open mouths; their sleek sides pulsing, and that awful din coming through the woods behind them. one second, the first paused to glance toward either side, and threw back its head to listen. what it saw, and heard, showed it. i guess then it was sorry it ever took people's ham, and their greens, and their blankets; and it could see and hear that it had no chance--to save its skin. "oh lord! dear lord! help me!" i prayed. it had to be me, there was no one else. i never had opened the big doors; i thought it took a man, but when i pushed with all my might--and maybe if the hairs of our heads were numbered, and the sparrows counted, there would be a little mercy for the foxes--i asked for help; maybe i got it. the doors went back, and i climbed up the ladder to the haymow a few steps and clung there, praying with all my might: "make them come in! dear lord, make them come in! give them a chance! help them to save their skins, o lord!" with a whizz and a flash one went past me, skimmed the cider press, and rushed across the hay; then the other. i fell to the floor and the next thing i knew the doors were shut, and i was back at my place. i just went down in a heap and leaned against the wall and shook, and then i laughed and said: "thank you, lord! thank you for helping with the door! and the foxes! the beautiful little red and white foxes! they've got their chance! they'll save their skins! they'll get back to their holes and their babies! praise the lord!" i knew when i heard that come out, that it was exactly like my father said it when amos hurd was redeemed. i never knew father to say it so impressively before, because amos had been so bad, people really were afraid of him, and father said if once he got started right, he would go at it just as hard as he had gone at wrongdoing. i suppose i shouldn't have said it about a fox, when there were the dorkings, and ham, and white wool dresses, and all that, but honestly, i couldn't remember that i cared particularly whether amos hurd was redeemed or not; he was always lovely to children; while i never in all my life had wanted anything worse than i wanted those foxes to save their skins. i could hear them pant like run out dogs; and i could hear myself, and i hadn't been driven from my home and babies, maybe--and chased miles and miles, either. then i just shook. they came pounding, roaring and braying right around the barn, and down the lane. the little door flew open and a strange man stuck in his head. "shut that door!" i screamed. "you'll let them in on me, and they bite! they're poison! they'll kill me!" i hadn't even thought of it before. "see any foxes?" cried the man. "two crossed our barnyard headed that way!" i cried back, pointing east. "shut the door!" the man closed it and ran calling as he went: "it's all right! they crossed the barnyard. we've got them!" i began to dance and beat my hands, and then i stopped and held my breath. they were passing, and the noise was dreadful. they struck the sides of the barn, poked around the strawstack, and something made me look up, and at the edge of the hay stood a fox ready to spring. if it did, it would go from the door, right into the midst thereof. nothing but my red hood sailing straight at it, and a yell i have, drove it back. no one hit the barn again, the line closed up, and went on at a run now, they were so anxious to meet and see what they had. then came the beat of hoofs and i saw that all the riders had dropped back, and were behind the line of people on foot. i watched laddie as he flew past waving to me, and i grabbed my scarf to wave at him. the princess flashed by so swiftly i couldn't see how she looked, and then i heard a voice i knew cry: "ep! ep! over lad!" and i almost fell dead where i stood. mr. pryor sailed right over the barnyard fence into the cornfield, ripping that dumb-bell as he went, and neck and neck, even with him, on one of his finest horses, was our leon. his feet were in the stirrups, he had the reins tight, he almost stood as he arose, his face was crimson, his head bare, his white hair flying, the grandest sight you ever saw. at the top of my voice i screamed after them, "ep! ep! over lad!" and then remembered and looked to see if i had to chase back the foxes, but they didn't mind only me, after what they had been through. then i sat down suddenly again. well! what would father think of that! leon kill a horse of ours indeed! there he was on one of mr. pryor's, worth as much as six of father's no doubt, flying over fences, and the creek was coming, and the bank was steep behind the barn. i was up again straining to see. "ep! ep! over!" rang the cry. there they went! laddie and the princess too. i'll never spend another cent on paper dolls, candy, raisins, or oranges. i'll give all i have to help leon buy his horse; then i'm going to begin saving for mine. the line closed up, a solid wall of men with sticks, clubs and guns; the dogs ranged outside, and those on horseback stopped where they could see best; and inside, raced back and forth, and round and round, living creatures. i couldn't count they moved so, but even at that distance i could see that some were poor little cotton tails. the scared things! a whack over the head, a backward toss, and the dogs were mouthing them. the long tailed, sleek, gracefully moving ones, they were foxes, the foxes driven from their holes, and nothing on earth could save their skins for them now; those men meant to have them. i pulled the doors shut suddenly. i was so sick i could scarcely stand. i had to work, but at last i pushed the west doors open again. i don't think the lord helped me any that time, for i knew what it took--before, they just went. or maybe he did help me quite as much, but i had harder work to do my share, because i felt so dizzy and ill. anyway, they opened. then i climbed the upright ladder to the top beam, walked it to the granary, and there i danced, pounded and yelled so that the foxes jumped from the hay, leaped lightly to the threshing floor, and stood looking and listening. i gave them time to hear where the dreadful racket was, and then i jumped to the hay and threw the pitchfork at them. it came down smash! and both of them sprang from the door. when i got down the ladder and where i could see, they were so rested they were hiking across the cornfield like they never had raced a step before; and as the clamour went up behind me, that probably meant the first fox had lost its beautiful red and white skin, they reached our woods in safety. the doors went shut easier, and i started to the house crying like any blubbering baby; but when mother turned from the east window, and i noticed her face, i forgot the foxes. "you saw leon!" i cried. "that i did!" she exulted, rocking on her toes the same as she does at the meeting house when she is going to cry, "glory!" any minute. "that i did! ah! the brave little chap! ah! the fine fellow!" her cheeks were the loveliest pink, and her eyes blazed. i scarcely knew her. "what will father say?" "if his father isn't every particle as proud of him as i am this day, i've a big disappointment coming," she answered. "if mr. pryor chose to let him take that fine horse, and taught him how to ride it, father should be glad." "if he'd gone into the creek, you wouldn't feel so fine." "ah! but he didn't! he didn't! he stuck to the saddle and sailed over in one grand, long sweep! it was fine! i hope--to my soul, i hope his father saw it!" "he did!" i said. "he did! he was about halfway down the lane. he was where he could see fine." "you didn't notice----?" "i was watching if leon went under. what if he had, mother?" "they'd have taken him out, and brought him to me, and i'd have worked with all the strength and skill god has given me, and if it were possible to us, he would be saved, and if it were not, it would be a proud moment for a woman to offer a boy like that to the god who gave him. one would have nothing to be ashamed of!" "could you do it, like you are now, and not cry, mother?" i asked wonderingly. "patience no!" said she. "before long you will find out, child, that the fountain head of tears and laughter lies in the same spot, deep in a woman's heart. men were made for big things! they must brave the wild animals, the indians, fight the battles, ride the races, till the fields, build the homes. in the making of a new country men must have the thing in their souls that carried leon across the creek. if he had checked that horse and gone to the ford, i would have fallen where i stood!" "father crossed the ford!" "true! but that's different. he never had a chance at a horse like that! he never had time for fancy practice, and his nose would have been between the pages of a book if he had. but remember this! your father's hand has never faltered, and his aim has never failed. all of us are here, safe and comfortable, through him. it was your father who led us across the wilderness, and fended from us the wildcat, wolf, and indian. he built this house, cleared this land, and gave to all of us the thing we love. get this in your head straight. your father rode a plow horse; he never tried flourishes in riding; but no man can stick in the saddle longer, ride harder, and face any danger with calmer front. if you think this is anything, you should have seen his face the day he stood between me and a band of indians, we had every reason to think, i had angered to the fighting point." "tell me! please tell me!" i begged. all of us had been brought up on that story, but we were crazy to hear it, and mother loved to tell it, so she dropped on a chair and began: "we were alone in a cabin in the backwoods of ohio. elizabeth was only nine months old, and father always said a mite the prettiest of any baby we ever had. many of the others have looked quite as well to me, but she was the first, and he was so proud of her he always wanted me to wait in the wagon until he hitched the horses, so he would get to take and to carry her himself. well, she was in the cradle, cooing and laughing, and i had my work all done, and cabin shining. i was heating a big poker red-hot, and burning holes into the four corners of a board so father could put legs in it to make me a bench. a greasy old squaw came to the door with her papoose on her back. she wanted to trade berries for bread. there were berries everywhere for the picking; i had more dried than i could use in two years. we planted only a little patch of wheat and father had to ride three days to carry to mill what he could take on a horse. i baked in an outoven and when it was done, a loaf of white bread was by far the most precious thing we had to eat. sometimes i was caught, and forced to let it go. often i baked during the night and hid the bread in the wheat at the barn. there was none in the cabin that day and i said so. she didn't believe me. she set her papoose on the floor beside the fireplace, and went to the cupboard. there wasn't a crumb there except cornbread, and she didn't want that. she said: 'brod! brod!' "she learned that from the germans in the settlement. i shook my head. then she pulled out a big steel hunting knife, such as the whites traded to the indians so they would have no trouble in scalping us neatly, and walked to the cradle. she took that knife loosely between her thumb and second finger and holding it directly above my baby's face, she swung it lightly back and forth and demanded: 'brod! brod!' "if the knife fell, it would go straight through my baby's head, and elizabeth was reaching her little hands and laughing. there was only one thing to do, and i did it. i caught that red-hot poker from the fire, and stuck it so close her baby's face, that the papoose drew back and whimpered. i scarcely saw how she snatched it up and left. when your father came, i told him, and we didn't know what to do. we knew she would come back and bring her band. if we were not there, they would burn the cabin, ruin our crops, kill our stock, take everything we had, and we couldn't travel so far, or so fast, that on their ponies they couldn't overtake us. we endangered any one with whom we sought refuge, so we gripped hands, knelt down and told the lord all about it, and we felt the answer was to stay. father cleaned the gun, and hours and hours we waited. "about ten o'clock the next day they came, forty braves in war paint and feathers. i counted until i was too sick to see, then i took the baby in my arms and climbed to the loft, with our big steel knife in one hand. if your father fell, i was to use it, first on elizabeth, then on myself. the indians stopped at the woodyard, and the chief of the band came to the door, alone. your father met him with his gun in reach, and for a whole eternity they stood searching each other's eyes. i was at the trapdoor where i could see both of them. "to the depths of my soul i enjoyed seeing leon take the fence and creek: but what was that, child, to compare with the timber that stood your father like a stone wall between me and forty half-naked, paint besmeared, maddened indians? don't let any showing the men of to-day can make set you to thinking that father isn't a king among men. not once, but again and again in earlier days, he fended danger from me like that. i can shut my eyes and see his waving hair, his white brow, his steel blue eyes, his unfaltering hand. i don't remember that i had time or even thought to pray. i gripped the baby, and the knife, and waited for the thing i must do if an arrow or a shot sailed past the chief and felled father. they stood second after second, like two wooden men, and then slowly and deliberately the chief lighted his big pipe, drew a few puffs and handed it to father. he set down his gun, took the pipe and quite as slowly and deliberately he looked at the waiting band, at the chief, and then raised it to his lips. "'white squaw brave! heap much brave!' said the chief. "'in the strength of the lord. amen!' said father. "then he reached his hand and the chief took it, so i came down the ladder and stood beside father, as the indians began to file in the front door and out the back. as they passed, every man of them made the peace sign and piled in a heap, venison, fish, and game, while each squaw played with the baby and gave me a gift of beads, a metal trinket, or a blanket she had woven. after that they came often, and brought gifts, and if prowling gypsies were pilfering, i could look to see a big indian loom up and seat himself at my fireside until any danger was past. i really got so i liked and depended on them, and father left me in their care when he went to mill, and i was safe as with him. you have heard the story over and over, but to-day is the time to impress on you that an exhibition like this is the veriest child's play compared with what i have seen your father do repeatedly!" "but it was you, the chief said was brave!" mother laughed. "i had to be, baby," she said. "mother had no choice. there's only one way to deal with an indian. i had lived among them all my life, and i knew what must be done." "i think both of you were brave," i said, "you, the bravest!" "quite the contrary," laughed mother. "i shall have to confess that what i did happened so quickly i'd no time to think. i only realized the coal red iron was menacing the papoose when it drew back and whimpered. father had all night to face what was coming to him, and it was not one to one, but one to forty, with as many more squaws, as good fighters as the braves, to back them. it was a terror but i never have been sorry we went through it together. i have rested so securely in your father ever since." "and he is as safe in you," i insisted. "as you will," said mother. "this world must have her women quite as much as her men. it is shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart, business." the clamour in the meadow arose above our voices and brought us back to the foxes. "there goes another!" i said, the tears beginning to roll again. "it is heathenish business," said mother. "i don't blame you! if people were not too shiftless to care for their stuff, the foxes wouldn't take their chickens and geese. they never get ours!" "hoods aren't shiftless!" i sobbed. "there are always exceptions," said mother, "and they are the exception in this case." the door flew open and leon ran in. he was white with excitement, and trembling. "mother, come and see me take a fence on pryor's rocket!" he cried. mother had him in her arms. "you little whiffet!" she said. "you little tow-haired whiffet!" both of them were laughing and crying at the same time, and so was i. "i saw you take one fence and the creek, weiscope!" she said, holding him tight, and stroking his hair. "that will do for to-day. ride the horse home slowly, rub it down if they will allow you, and be sure to remember your manners when you leave. to trust such a child as you with so valuable a horse, and for mr. pryor to personally ride with you and help you, i think that was a big thing for a man like him to do." "but, mother, he's been showing me for weeks, or i couldn't have done it to-day. it was our secret to surprise you. when i get my horse, i'll be able to ride a little, as well as mr. laddie." "leon, don't," said mother, gripping him tighter. "you must bear in mind, word about that money may come any day." "aw, it won't either," said leon, pulling away. "and say, mother, that dumb-bell was like country boys make in england. he helped me hunt the wood and showed me, and i couldn't ride and manage it, so he had it all day, and you should have heard him make it rip. say, mother, take my word, he was some pumpkins in england. i bet he ordered the queen around, when he was there!" "no doubt!" laughed mother, kissing him and pushing him from the door. some people are never satisfied. after that splendid riding and the perfect day, father, leon, and laddie came home blaming every one, and finding fault, and trying to explain how it happened, that the people from the east side claimed two foxes, and there was only one left for the west side, when they had seen and knew they had driven three for miles. they said they lost them in our big woods. i didn't care one speck. i would as lief wear a calico dress, and let the little foxes have their mammies to feed them; and i was willing to bet all my money that we would have as much ham, and as many greens next summer as we ever had. and if the foxes took hoods' dorkings again, let them build a coop with safe foundations. the way was to use stone and heap up dirt around it in the fall, to be perfectly sure, and make it warmer. we took care of our chickens because we had to have them. all the year we needed them, but most especially for easter. mother said that was ordained chicken time. turkeys for thanksgiving, sucking pigs for christmas, chickens for easter, goose, she couldn't abide. she thought it was too strong. she said the egg was a symbol of life; of awakening, of birth, and the chickens came from the eggs, first ones about easter, so that proved it was chicken time. i am going to quit praying about little things i can manage myself. father said no prayer would bring an answer unless you took hold and pulled with all your being for what you wanted. i had been intending for days to ask the lord to help me find where leon hid his easter eggs. it had been the law at our house from the very first, that for the last month before easter, aside from what mother had to have for the house, all of us might gather every egg we could find and keep them until easter. if we could locate the hiding place of any one else, we might take all theirs. the day before easter they were brought in, mother put aside what she required, and the one who had the most got to sell all of them and take the money. sometimes there were two washtubs full, and what they brought was worth having, for sure. so we watched all year for safe places, and when the time came we almost ran after the hens with a basket. because laddie and leon were bigger they could outrun us, and lots of hens laid in the barn, so there the boys always had first chance. often during the month we would find and take each other's eggs a dozen times. we divided them, and hid part in different places, so that if either were found there would still be some left. laddie had his in the hopper of the cider press right on the threshing floor, and as he was sure to get more than i had anyway, i usually put mine with his. may had hers some place, and where leon had his, none of us could find or imagine. i almost lay awake of nights trying to think, and every time i thought of a new place, the next day i would look, and they wouldn't be there. three days before easter, mother began to cook and get the big dinner ready, and she ran short of eggs. she told me to go to the barn and tell the boys that each of them must send her a dozen as quickly as they could. of course that was fair, if she made both give up the same number. so i went to the barn. the lane was muddy, and as i had been sick, i wore my rubbers that spring. i thought to keep out of the deep mud, where horses and cattle trampled, i'd go up the front embankment, and enter the little door. my feet made no sound, and it so happened that the door didn't either, and as i started to open it. i saw leon disappearing down the stairway, with a big sack on his back. i thought it was corn for the horses, and followed him, but he went to the cow stable door and started toward the lane, and then i thought it was for the pigs, so i called laddie and told him about the eggs. he said he'd give me two dozen of his, and leon could pay him back. we went together to get them, and there was only one there. wasn't that exactly like leon? leave one for the nest egg! if he were dying and saw a joke or a trick, he'd stop to play it before he finished, if he possibly could. if he had no time at all, then he'd go with his eyes twinkling over the thoughts of the fun it would have been if he possibly could have managed it. of course when we saw that one lonely egg in the cider hopper, just exactly like the "last rose of summer, left to pine on the stem," i thought of the sack leon carried, and knew what had been in it. we hurried out and tried to find him, but he was swallowed up. you couldn't see him or hear a sound of him anywhere. mother was as cross as she ever gets. right there she made a new rule, and it was that two dozen eggs must be brought to the house each day, whether any were hidden or not. she had to stop baking until she got eggs. she said a few times she had used a goose egg in custard. i could fix that. i knew where one of our gray geese had a nest, and if she'd cook any goose egg, it would be a gray one. of course i had sense enough not to take a blue one. so i slipped from the east door, crossed the yard and orchard corner, climbed the fence and went down the lane. there was the creek up and tearing. it was half over the meadow, and the floodgate between the pasture and the lane rocked with the rush of water; still, i believed i could make it. so i got on the fence and with my feet on the third rail, and holding by the top one, i walked sidewise, and so going reached the floodgate. it was pretty wobbly, but i thought i could cross on the run. i knew i could if i dared jump at the other end; but there the water was over the third rail, and that meant above my head. it was right at that time of spring when you felt so good you thought you could do most anything, except fly--i tried that once--so i went on. the air was cold for all the sun shone, the smell of catkin pollen, bursting buds, and the odour of earth steaming in the sun, was in every breath; the blackbirds were calling, and the doves; the ganders looked longingly at the sky and screamed a call to every passing wild flock, and deams' rooster wanted to fight all creation, if you judged by the boasting he was doing from their barnyard gate. he made me think of eggs, so i set my jaws, looked straight ahead, and scooted across the floodgate to the post that held it and the rails of the meadow fence. i made it too, and then the fence was easy, only i had to double quite short, because the water was over the third rail there, but at last it was all gone, and i went to the fence corner and there was the goose on the nest, laying an egg. she had built on a little high place, among puddles, wild rose bushes, and thorns, and the old thing wouldn't get off. she just sat there and stuck out her head and hissed and hissed. i never noticed before that geese were so big and so aggravating. i wasn't going to give up, after that floodgate, so i hunted a big stick, set it against her wing, pushed her off and grabbed three eggs and ran. when i got to the fence, i was in a pickle for sure. i didn't know what in the world to do with the eggs. at last i unbuttoned my coat, put them in my apron front, gathered it up, and holding it between my teeth, started back. i had to double more than ever on account of the eggs, and when i reached the floodgate it rocked like a branch in the wind; but i had to get back, so i rested and listened to the larks a while. that was a good plan. they were calling for mates, and what they said was so perfectly lovely, you couldn't think of anything else; and the less you thought about how that gate rocked, and how deep and swift the water ran, the better for you. at last one lark went almost from sight and he rang, twisted and trilled his call, until my heart swelled so big it hurt. i crossed on the jump with no time to think at all. that was a fine plan, for i made it, but i hit the post so hard i broke the middle egg. i was going to throw it away, but there was so much starch in my apron it held like a dish, and it had been clean that morning, now the egg soiled it anyway, so i ran and got home all right. mother was so pleased about the eggs she changed the apron and never said a word, except to brag on me. she said she couldn't keep house without me, and i guess that was a fact. i came in handy a lot of times. but at dinner when she scolded the boys about the eggs, and told them i brought the goose eggs for her custard, else there would have been no pie, father broke loose, and i thought he was going to whip me sure. he told mother all about the water and the gate, and how i had to cross, and he said, 'it was a dispensation of providence that we didn't have a funeral instead of celebrating easter,' so i said: "well, if you think i came so near drowning myself, when you rejoice because christ is risen from the dead, you can be glad i am too, and that will make it all the better." the boys laughed, but father said it was no laughing matter. i think that speech saved me from going on the threshing floor, for he took me on his lap when i thought i'd have to go, and told me never, never to do anything like that again, and then he hugged me until i almost broke. gracious! he should have seen us going to school some days. why, we even walked the top rail when it was the only one above water, and we could cross the bridge if we wanted to. at least when laddie or miss amelia was not around, we did. leon was so bursting full he scarcely could eat, and laddie looked pretty glum when he had to admit he had no eggs; so laddie had to hand over the whole two dozen. leon didn't mind that, but he said if he must, then all of us should stay in the dining-room until he brought them, because of course he couldn't walk straight and get them in broad daylight with us watching, and not show where they were. father said that was fair, so leon went out and before so very long he came back with the eggs. i thought until my skull almost cracked, about where he could have gone, and i was almost to the place where the thing seemed serious enough that i'd ask the lord to help me find laddie's eggs, when mother sent me to the garret for red onion skins. she had an hour to rest, and she was going to spend it fixing decorations for our eggs. of course there were always red and black aniline ones, and yellow and blue, but none of us ever like them half so well as those mother coloured, herself. she took the dark red skins and cut boys, girls, dogs, cats, stars, flowers, butterflies, fish, and everything imaginable, and wet the skins a little and laid them on very white eggs that had been soaked in alum water to cut the grease, and then wrapped light yellow skins over, and then darker ones, and at last layer after layer of cloth, and wet that, and roasted them an hour in hot ashes and then let them cool and dry, before unwrapping. when she took them out, rubbed on a little grease and polished them--there they were! they would have our names, flowers, birds, animals, all in pale yellow, deep rich brown, almost red, and perfectly beautiful colours, while you could hunt and hunt before you found everything on one egg. and sometimes the onion skins slipped, and made things of themselves that she never put on. i was coming from the bin with an apron full of skins and i almost fell over. i couldn't breathe for a long time. i danced on my toes, and held my mouth to keep from screaming. on the garret floor before me lay a little piece of wet mud, and the faintest outline of a boot, a boot about leon's size. that was all i needed to know. as soon as i could hold steady, i took the skins to mother, slipped back and hunted good; and of course i had to find them--grainsacks half full of them--carried in the front door in the evening, and up the front stairs, where no one went until bedtime, unless there were company. away back under the eaves, across the joists, behind the old clothing waiting to be ripped, coloured and torn for carpet rangs and rugs, mr. leon had almost every egg that had been laid on the place for a month. now he'd see what he'd get for taking laddie's! then i stopped short. what i thought most made me sick, but i didn't propose to lie in bed again for a year at least, for it had its bad parts as well as its good; so i went straight and whispered to laddie. he never looked pleased at all, so i knew i had been right. he kissed me, and thanked me, and then said slowly: "it's mighty good of you, little sister, but you see it wouldn't be fair. he found mine himself, so he had a right to take them. but i don't dare touch his, when you tell me where they are. i never in a month of sundays would have looked for them in the house. i was going to search the wood house and smoke house this afternoon. i can't take them. but thank you just as much." then i went to father and he laughed. how he did laugh! "laddie is right!" he said at last. "he didn't find them, and he mustn't take them. but you may! they're yours! that front door scheme of leon's was fairly well, but it wasn't quite good enough. if he'd cleaned his feet as he should, before he crossed mother's carpet and climbed the stairs, he'd have made it all right. 'his tracks betrayed him,' as tracks do all of us, if we are careless enough to leave any. the eggs are yours, and to-night is the time to produce them. where do you want to hide them?" well of all things! and after i had stumbled on them without pestering the lord, either! just as slick as anything! mine! i never ever thought of it. but when i did think, i liked it. the more i thought, the funnier it grew. "under mother's bed," i whispered. "but i never can get them. they're in wheat sacks, and full so high, and they'll have to be handled like eggs." "i'll do the carrying," laughed father. "come show me!" so we took all those eggs, and put them under mother's bed. of course she and candace saw us, but they didn't hunt eggs and they'd never tell. if ever i thought i'd burst wide open! about dusk i saw leon coming from the barn carrying his hat at his side--more eggs--so i ran like a streak and locked the front door, and then slipped back in the dining-room and almost screamed, when i could hear him trying it, and he couldn't get in. after a while he came in, fussed around, and finally went into the sitting-room, and the key turned and he went upstairs. i knew i wouldn't dare look at him when he came down, so i got a reader and began on a piece i just love: "a nightingale made a mistake; she sang a few notes out of tune: her heart was ready to break, and she hid away from the moon." when i did get a peep, gracious but he was black! maybe it wasn't going to be so much fun after all. but he had the money last year, and the year before, and if he'd cleaned his feet well--i was not hunting his eggs, when i found them. "his tracks betrayed him," as father said. i was thankful supper was ready just then, and while it was going on mother said: "as soon as you finish, all bring in your eggs. i want to wrap the ones to colour to-night, and bury them in the fireplace so they will colour, dry, and be ready to open in the morning." no one said a word, but neither laddie nor leon looked very happy, and i took awful bites to keep my face straight. when all of us finished may brought a lot from the bran barrel in the smoke house, but laddie and leon only sat there and looked silly; it really was funny. "i must have more eggs than this?" said mother. "where are they to come from?" father nodded to me and i said: "from under your bed!" "oh, it was you! and i never once caught you snooping!" cried leon. "easy son!" said father. "that will do. you lost through your own carelessness. you left wet mud on the garret floor, and she saw it when mother sent her for the onion skins. you robbed laddie of his last egg this morning; be a good loser yourself!" "well, anyway, you didn't get 'em," said leon to laddie. "and she only found them by accident!" then we had a big time counting all those eggs, and such another heap as there was to sell, after mother filled baskets to cook with and colour. when the table was cleared, laddie and leon made tallow pencils from a candle and wrote all sorts of things over eggs that had been prepared to colour. then mother boiled them in copperas water, and aniline, and all the dyes she had, and the boys polished them, and they stood in shining black, red, blue and yellow heaps. the onion ones would be done in the morning. leon had a goose egg and mother let him keep it, so he wrote and wrote on it, until laddie said it would be all writing, and no colour, and he boiled it in red, after mother finished, and polished it himself. it came out real pretty with roses on it and lots of words he wouldn't let any of us read; but of course it was for susie fall. next morning he slipped it to her at church. when we got home, all of us were there except shelley, and we had a big dinner and a fine time and laddie stayed until after supper, before he went to pryors'. "how is he making it?" asked sally. "you could see she was making it all right; she never looked lovelier, and mother said peter was letting her spend away too much money on her clothes. she told him so, but peter just laughed and said business was good, and he could afford it, and she was a fine advertisement for his store when she was dressed well." "all i know is," said mother, "that he goes there every whipstitch, and the women, at least, seem glad to have him. he says mr. pryor treats him decently, and that is more than he does his own family and servants. he and the girl and her mother are divided about something. she treats her father respectfully, but she's in sympathy with mother." "laddie can't find out what the trouble is?" "i don't think that he tries." "maybe he'd feel better not to know," said peter. "possibly!" said mother. "nonsense!" said father. "you seem to be reconciled," said elizabeth. "that girl would reconcile a man to anything," said father. "not to the loss of his soul, i hope," said mother stiffly. "souls are not so easy to lose," said father. "besides, i am counting on laddie saving hers." chapter xiii the garden of the lord "with what content and merriment, their days are spent, whose minds are bent to follow the useful plow." that spring i decided if school didn't stop pretty soon, i'd run away again, and i didn't in the least care what they did to me. a country road was all right and it was good enough, if it had been heaped up, leveled and plenty of gravel put on; and of course our road would be fine, because father was one of the commissioners, and as long as he filled that office, every road in the county would be just as fine as the law would allow him to make it. i have even heard him tell mother that he "stretched it a leetle mite," when he was forced to by people who couldn't seem to be made to understand what was required to upbuild a nation. he said our language was founded on the alphabet, and to master it you had to begin with "a". and he said the nation was like that; it was based on townships, and when a township was clean, had good roads, bridges, schoolhouses, and churches, a county was in fine shape, and when each county was in order, the state was right, and when the state was prosperous, the nation could rejoice in its strength. he said atlas in the geography book, carrying the world on his back, was only a symbol, but it was a good one. he said when the county elected him to fill an important office, it used his shoulder as a prop for the nation, so it became his business to stand firmly, and use every ounce of strength and brains he had, first of all to make his own possessions a model, then his township, his county, and his state, and if every one worked together doing that, no nation on earth had our amount of territory and such fine weather, so none of them could beat us. our road was like the barn floor, where you drove: on each side was a wide grassy strip, and not a weed the length of our land. all the rails in the fences were laid straight, the gates were solid, sound, and swung firmly on their beams, our fence corners were full of alders, wild roses, sumac, blackberry vines, masses of wild flowers beneath them, and a bird for every bush. some of the neighbours thought that to drive two rails every so often, lay up the fences straight, and grub out the shrubs was the way, but father said they were vastly mistaken. he said that was such a shortsighted proceeding, he would be ashamed to indulge in it. you did get more land, but if you left no place for the birds, the worms and insects devoured your crops, and you didn't raise half so much as if you furnished the birds shelter and food. so he left mulberries in the fields and fence corners and wild cherries, raspberries, grapes, and every little scrub apple tree from seeds sown by johnny appleseed when he crossed our land. mother said those apples were so hard a crane couldn't dent them, but she never watched the birds in winter when the snow was beginning to come and other things were covered up. they swarmed over those trees until spring, for the tiny sour apples stuck just like oak leaves waiting for next year's crop to push them off. she never noticed us, either. after a few frosts, we could almost get tipsy on those apples; there was not a tree in our orchard that had the spicy, teasing tang of johnny appleseed's apples. then too, the limbs could be sawed off and rambo and maiden's-blush grafted on, if you wanted to; father did on some of them, so there would be good apples lying beside the road for passers-by, and they needn't steal to get them. you could graft red haws on them too, and grow great big, little haw-apples, that were the prettiest things you ever saw, and the best to eat. father said if it didn't spoil the looks of the road, he wouldn't care how many of his neighbours straightened their fences. if they did, the birds would come to him, and the more he had, the fewer bugs and worms he would be troubled with, so he would be sure of big crops, and sound fruit. he said he would much rather have a few good apples picked by robins or jays, than untouched trees, loaded with wormy falling ones he could neither use nor sell. he always patted my head and liked every line of it when i recited, sort of tearful-like and pathetic: "don't kill the birds! the happy birds, that bless the field and grove; so innocent to look upon, they claim our warmest love." the roads crossing our land were all right, and most of the others near us; and a road is wonderful, if it is taking you to the woods or a creek or meadow; but when it is walking you straight to a stuffy little schoolhouse where you must stand up to see from a window, where a teacher is cross as fire, like miss amelia, and where you eternally hear things you can't see, there comes a time about the middle of april when you had quite as soon die as to go to school any longer; and what you learn there doesn't amount to a hill of beans compared with what you can find out for yourself outdoors. schoolhouses are made wrong. if they must be, they should be built in a woods pasture beside a stream, where you could wade, swim, and be comfortable in summer, and slide and skate in winter. the windows should be cut to the floor, and stand wide open, so the birds and butterflies could pass through. you ought to learn your geography by climbing a hill, walking through a valley, wading creeks, making islands in them, and promontories, capes, and peninsulas along the bank. you should do your arithmetic sitting under trees adding hickory-nuts, subtracting walnuts, multiplying butternuts, and dividing hazelnuts. you could use apples for fractions, and tin cups for liquid measure. you could spell everything in sight and this would teach you the words that are really used in the world. every single one of us could spell incompatibility, but i never heard father, or the judge, or even the bishop, put it in a speech. if you simply can't have school that way, then you should be shut in black cells, deep under the ground, where you couldn't see, or hear a sound, and then if they'd give you a book and candle and miss amelia, and her right-hand man, mister ruler, why you might learn something. this way, if you sat and watched the windows you could see a bird cross our woods pasture to the redbird swamp every few minutes; once in a while one of my big hawks took your breath as he swept, soared, sailed, and circled, watching the ground below for rabbits, snakes, or chickens. the skinny old blue herons crossing from the wabash to hunt frogs in the cowslip swale in our meadow, sailed so slow and so low, that you could see their sharp bills stuck out in front, their uneven, ragged looking feathers, and their long legs trailing out behind. i bet if polly martin wore a blue calico dress so short her spindle-shanks showed, and flew across our farm, you couldn't tell her from a heron. there were so many songs you couldn't decide which was which to save you; it was just a pouring jumble of robins, larks, doves, blackbirds, sparrows, everything that came that early; the red and the yellow birds had not come yet, or the catbirds or thrushes. you could hear the thumping wings of the roosters in sills' barnyard nearest the schoolhouse, and couldn't tell which was whipping, so you had to sit there and wonder; and worst of all you must stand miss amelia calmly telling you to pay attention to your books or you would be kept in, and all the time you were forced to bear torments, while you watched her walk from window to window to see every speck of the fight. one day they had thumped and fought for half an hour; she had looked from every window in the room, and at last there was an awful whacking, and then silence. it grew so exciting i raised my hand, and almost before she nodded permission, "which whipped?" i asked. miss amelia turned red as a beet. gee, but she was mad! "i did!" she said. "or at least i will. you may remain for it after school is dismissed." now if you are going to be switched, they never do it until they are just so angry anyway, and then they always make it as hard as they dare not to stripe you, so it isn't much difference how provoked they are, it will be the same old thrashing, and it's sure to sting for an hour at least, so you might as well be beaten for a little more as hardly anything at all. at that instant from the fence not far from my window came a triumphant crow that fairly ripped across the room. "oh, it was the dorking!" i said. "no wonder you followed clear around the room to see him thrash a shanghai three times his size! i bet a dollar it was great!" usually, i wouldn't have put up more than five cents, but at that time i had over six dollars from my easter eggs, and no girl of my age at our school ever had half that much. miss amelia started toward me, and i braced my feet so she'd get a good jolt herself, when she went to shake me; she never struck us over the head since laddie talked to her that first day; but john hood's foot was in the aisle. i thought maybe i'd have him for my beau when we grew up, because i bet he knew she was coming, and stuck out his foot on purpose; anyway, she pitched, and had to catch a desk to keep off the floor, and that made her so mad at him, that she forgot me, while he got his scolding; so when my turn came at last, she had cooled down enough that she only marched past to her desk, saying i was to remain after school. i had to be careful after that to be mighty good to may and leon. when school was out they sat on the steps before the door and waited. miss amelia fussed around and there they sat. then her face grew more gobblerish than usual, and she went out and told them to go home. plain as anything i heard may say it: "she's been awful sick, you know, and mother wouldn't allow it." and then leon piped up: "you did watch the roosters, all the time they fought, and of course all of us wanted to see just as badly as you did." she told them if they didn't go right home she'd bring them back and whip them too; so they had to start, and leave me to my sad fate. i was afraid they had made it sadder, instead of helping me; she was so provoked when she came in she was crying, and over nothing but the plain truth too; if we had storied on her, she'd have had some cause to beller. she arranged her table, cleaned the board, emptied the water bucket, and closed the windows. then she told me i was a rude, untrained child. i was rude, i suppose, but goodness knows, i wasn't untrained; that was hard on father and mother; i had a big notion to tell them; and then, she never whipped me at all. she said if i wanted her to love me, i mustn't be a saucy, impudent girl, and i should go straight home and think it over. i went, but i was so dazed at her thinking i wanted her to love me, that i hardly heard may and leon calling; when i did i went to the cemetery fence and there they lay in the long grass waiting. "if you cried, we were coming back and pitch into her," said leon. there was a pointer. next time, first cut she gave me, i decided to scream bloody murder. but that would be no crusader way. there was one thing though. no crusader ever sat and heard a perfectly lovely fight going on, and never even wondered which whipped. may and leon stepped one on each side, took a hand, and we ran like indians, and slid down the hill between the bushes, climbed the fence, crossed the pasture back of the church, and went to the creek. there we sat on a log, i told them, and we just laughed. i didn't know what i could do to pay them, for they saved me sure as fate that time. i wished we lived in the woods the way it was when father and mother were married and moved to ohio. the nearest neighbours were nine miles, and there wasn't a dollar for school funds, so of course the children didn't have to go, and what their fathers and mothers taught them was all they knew. that would not have helped me much though, for we never had one single teacher who knew anything to compare with what father and mother did, and we never had one who was forever reading books, papers, and learning more things that help, to teach other people. i wished father had time to take our school. it would have been some fun to go to him, because i just knew he would use the woods for the room, and teach us things it would do some good to know about. i began debating whether it was a big enough thing to bother the lord with: this being penned up in the schoolhouse droning over spelling and numbers, when you could smell tree bloom, flower bloom, dozens of birds were nesting, and everything was beginning to hum with life. i couldn't think for that piece about "spring" going over in my head: "i am coming, i am coming: hark! the little bee is humming: see! the lark is soaring high, in the bright and sunny sky; all the birds are on the wing: little maiden, now is spring." i made up my mind that it was of enough importance to call for the biggest prayer i could think of and that i would go up in the barn to the top window, stand on a beam, and turn my face to the east, where jesus used to be, and i'd wrestle with the lord for freedom, as jacob wrestled with the angel on the banks of the jabbok in the land of ammon. i was just getting up steam to pray as hard as ever i could; for days i'd been thinking of it, and i was nearly to the point where one more killdeer crying across the sky would have sent me headlong from the schoolhouse anywhere that my feet were on earth, and the air didn't smell of fried potatoes, kraut, sweat, and dogs, like it did whenever you sat beside clarissa polk. when i went to supper one night; father had been to groveville, and he was busy over his papers. after he finished the blessing, he seemed worried, at last he said the funds were all out, and the county would make no appropriation so school would have to close next week. well that beats me! i had faith in that prayer i was going to make, and here the very thing i intended to ask for happened before i prayed. i decided i would save the prayer until the next time i couldn't stand anything another minute, and then i would try it with all my might, and see if it really did any good. after supper i went out the back door, spread my arms wide, and ran down the orchard to the fence in great bounds, the fastest i ever went in my life. i climbed my pulpit in the corner and tried to see how much air my lungs would hold without bursting, while i waved my arms and shouted at the top of my voice: "praise ye the lord! praised be his holy name!" "ker-awk!" cried an old blue heron among the cowslips below me. i had almost scared it to death, and it arose on flapping wings and paid me back by frightening me so i screamed as i dodged its shadow. "what is all this?" asked father behind me. "come up and take a seat, and i'll try to tell you," i said. so he stepped on my pulpit and sat on the top rail, while i stood between his knees, put my arms around his neck, took off his hat and loosened his hair so the wind could wave it, and make his head feel cool and good. his hair curled a little and it was black and fine. his cheeks were pink and his eyes the brightest blue, with long lashes, and heavier brows than any other man i ever have seen. he was the best looking--always so clean and fresh, and you never had to be afraid of him, unless you had been a bad, sinful child. if you were all right, you would walk into his arms, play with his hair, kiss him all you pleased, and there wasn't a thing on earth you couldn't tell him, excepting a secret you had promised to keep. so i explained all this, and more too. about how i wanted to hunt for the flowers, to see which bloomed first, and watch in what order the birds came, and now it was a splendid time to locate nests, because there were no leaves, so i could see easily, and how glad mother would be to know where the blue goose nested, and her white turkey hen; because she wanted her geese all blue, and the turkeys all white, as fast as she could manage. every little thing that troubled me or that i wanted, i told him. he sat there and he couldn't have listened with more interest or been quieter if i had been a bishop, which is the biggest thing that ever happened at our house; his name was ninde and he came from chicago to dedicate our church when it was new. so father listened and thought and held his arms around me, and-- "and you think the lord was at the bottom of the thing that makes you happy?" "well, you always go to him about what concerns you, and you say, 'praise the lord,' when things go to please you." "i do indeed!" said father. "but i had thought of this running short of school funds as a calamity. if i had been praying about it, i would have asked him to show me a way to raise money to continue until middle may at least." "oh father!" i just crumpled up in his arms and began to cry; to save me i couldn't help it. he held me tight. at last he said: "i think you are a little overstrained this spring. maybe you were sicker than we knew, or are growing too fast. don't worry any more about school. possibly father can fix it." next morning when i wakened, my everyday clothes lay across the foot of the bed, so i called mother and asked if i should put them on; she took me in her arms, and said father thought i had better be in the open, and i needn't go to school any more that spring. i told her i thought i could bear it a few more days, now it was going to be over so soon; but she said i might stay at home, father and laddie would hear me at night, and i could take my books anywhere i pleased and study when i chose, if i had my spelling and reading learned at evening. now, say the lord doesn't help those who call on him in faith believing! think of being allowed to learn your lessons on the top of the granary, where you could look out of a window above the treetops, lie in the cool wind, and watch swallows and martins. think of studying in the pulpit when the creek ran high, and the wild birds sang so sweetly you seemed to hear them for the first time in all your life, and hens, guineas, and turkeys made prime music in the orchard. you could see the buds swell, and the little blue flags push through the grass, where mrs. mayer had her flowerbed, and the cowslips greening under the water of the swale at the foot of the hill, while there might be a fairy under any leaf. i was so full, so swelled up and excited, that when i got ready to pick up a book, i could learn a lesson in a few minutes, tell all about it, spell every word, and read it back, front, and sideways. i never learned lessons so quick and so easy in all my life; father, laddie, and every one of them had to say so. one night, father said to laddie: "this child is furnishing evidence that our school system is wrong, and our methods of teaching far from right." "or is it merely proof that she is different," said laddie, "and you can't run her through the same groove you could the rest of us?" "a little of both," said father, "but most that the system is wrong. we are not going at children in a way to gain and hold their interest, and make them love their work. there must be a better way of teaching, and we should find different teachers. you'll have to try the school next year yourself, laddie." "i have a little plan about a piece of land i am hoping to take before then," answered laddie. "it's time for me to try my wings at making a living, and land is my choice. i have fully decided. i stick to the soil!" "amen!" cried father. "you please me mightily. i hate to see sons of mine thriving on law, literally making their living out of the fruit of other men's discord. i dislike seeing them sharpen their wits in trade, buying at the lowest limit, extorting the highest. i don't want their horizons limited by city blocks, their feet on pavements, everything under the sun in their heads that concerns a scheme to make money; not room for an hour's thought or study in a whole day, about the really vital things of life. after all, land and its products are the basis of everything; the city couldn't exist a day unless we feed and clothe it. in the things that i consider important, you are a king among men, with your feet on soil you own." "so i figure it," said laddie. "and you are the best educated man i have reared," said father. "take this other thought with you: on land, the failure of the bank does not break you. the fire another man's carelessness starts, does not wipe out your business or home. you are not in easy reach of contagion. any time you want to branch out, your mother and i will stand back of you." "thank you!" said laddie. "you backed none of the others. they would resent it. i'll make the best start i can myself, and as they did, stand alone." father looked at him and smiled slowly. "you are right, as always," he said. "i hadn't thought so far. it would make trouble. at any rate, let me inspect and help you select your land." "that of course!" said laddie. i suspect it's not a very nice thing for me to tell, but all of us were tickled silly the day miss amelia packed her trunk and left for sure. mother said she never tried harder in all her days, but miss amelia was the most distinctly unlovable person she ever had met. she sympathized with us so, she never said a word when leon sang: "believe me, if all those endearing young charms, which i gaze on so fondly to-day, were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, like fairy-gifts fading away, thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, let thy loveliness fade as it will, and around the dear ruin each wish of my heart would entwine itself verdantly still--" while miss amelia drove from sight up the groveville road. as he sang leon stretched out his arms after her vanishing form. "i hope," he said, "that you caught that touching reference to 'the dear ruin,' and could anything be expressed more beautifully and poetically than that 'verdantly still?'" i feel sorry for a snake. i like hoptoads, owls, and shitepokes. i envy a buzzard the way it can fly, and polecats are beautiful; but i never could get up any sort of feeling at all for miss amelia, whether she was birdlike or her true self. so no one was any gladder than i when she was gone. after that, spring came pushing until you felt shoved. our family needed me then. if they never had known it before, they found out there was none too many of us. every day i had to watch the blue goose, and bring in her egg before it was chilled, carrying it carefully so it would not be jarred. i had to hunt the turkey nests and gather their eggs so they would be right for setting. there had to be straw carried from the stack for new nests, eggs marked, and hens set by the dozen. garden time came, so leaves had to be raked from the beds and from the dooryard. no one was busier than i; but every little while i ran away, and spent some time all by myself in the pulpit, under the hawk oak, or on the roof. coming from church that sunday, when we reached the top of the big hill, mother touched father's arm. "stop a minute," she said, and he checked the horses, while we sat there and wondered why, as she looked and looked all over the farm, then, "now drive to the top of the little hill and turn, and stop exactly on the place from which we first viewed this land together," she said. "you know the spot, don't you?" "you may well believe i know it," said father. "i can hit it to the inch. you see, children," he went on, "your mother and i arranged before the words were said over us"--he always put it that way--i never in my life heard him say, "when we were married"; he read so many books he talked exactly like a book--"that we would be partners in everything, as long as we lived. when we decided the ohio land was not quite what we wanted, she sent me farther west to prospect, while she stayed at home and kept the baby. when i reached this land, found it for sale, and within my means, i bought it, and started home happy. before i'd gone a mile, i turned to look back, and saw that it was hilly, mostly woods, and there was no computing the amount of work it would require to make it what i could see in it; so i began to think maybe she wouldn't like it, and to wish i had brought her, before i closed the deal. by the time i returned home, packed up, and travelled this far on the way back with her, there was considerable tension in my feelings--considerable tension," repeated father as he turned the horses and began driving carefully, measuring the distance from hoods' and the bridge. at last he stopped, backed a step, and said: "there, mommy, did i hit the spot?" "you did!" said mother, stepping from the carriage and walking up beside him. she raised one hand and laid it on the lamp near him. he shifted the lines, picked up her hand, and held it tight. mother stood there looking, just silently looking. may jabbed me in the side, leaned over and whispered: "could we but stand where moses stood, and view the landscape o'er, not our little creek, nor dinner getting cold, could fright us from that shore." i couldn't help giggling, but i knew that was no proper time, so i hid my head in her lap and smothered the sound the best i could; but they were so busy soft-soddering each other they didn't pay a bit of attention to us. it was may now, all the leaves were fresh and dustless, everything that flowered at that time was weighted with bloom, bees hummed past, butterflies sailed through the carriage, while birds at the tops of their voices, all of them, every kind there was, sang fit to split; friendly, unafraid bluebirds darted around us, and talked a blue streak from every fence rider. made you almost crazy to know what they said. the little creek flowed at our feet across the road, through the blue-flag swamp, where the red and the yellow birds lived. you could see the sun flash on the water where it emptied into the stream that crossed deams', and flowed through our pasture; and away beyond the big hill arose, with the new church on top, the graveyard around it, the big creek flashing at its base. in the valley between lay our fields, meadows, the big red barn, the white house with the yard filled with trees and flowering shrubs, beyond it the garden, all made up, neat and growing; and back of it the orchard in full bloom. mother looked and looked. suddenly she raised her face to father. "paul," she said, "that first day, did you ever dream it could be made to look like this?" "no!" said father. "i never did! i saw houses, barns, and cleared fields; i hoped for comfort and prosperity, but i didn't know any place could grow to be so beautiful, and there is something about it, even on a rainy november day, there is something that catches me in the breast, on the top of either of these hills, until it almost stifles me. what is it, ruth?" "the home feeling!" said mother. "it is in my heart so big this morning i am filled with worship. just filled with the spirit of worship." she was rocking on her toes like she does when she becomes too happy at the meeting house to be quiet any longer, and cries, "glory!" right out loud. she pointed to the orchard, an immense orchard of big apple trees in full bloom, with two rows of peach trees around the sides. it looked like a great, soft, pinkish white blanket, with a deep pink border, spread lightly on the green earth. "we planted that way because we thought it was best; how could we know how it would look in bloom time? it seems as if you came to these hilltops and figured on the picture you would make before you cleared, or fenced a field." "that's exactly what i did," said father. "many's the hour, all told, that i have stopped my horse on one of these hilltops and studied how to make the place beautiful, as well as productive. that was a task you set me, my girl. you always considered beauty as well as use about the house and garden, and wherever you worked. i had to hold my part in line." "you have made it all a garden," said mother. "you have made it a garden growing under the smile of the master; a very garden of the lord, father." father drew up her hand and held it tight against his heart. "your praise is sweet, my girl, sweet!" he said. "i have tried, god knows i have tried, to make it first comfortable, then beautiful, for all of us. to the depths of my soul i thank him for this hour. i am glad, oh i am so glad you like your home, ruth! i couldn't endure it if you complained, found fault and wished you lived elsewhere." "why, father!" said my mother in the most surprised voice. "why, father, it would kill me to leave here. this is ours. we have made it by and through the strength of the lord and our love for each other. all my days i want to live here, and when i die, i want to lie beside my blessed babies and you, paul, down by the church we gave the land for, and worked so hard to build. i love it, oh i love it! see how clean and white the dark evergreens make the house look! see how the big chestnuts fit in and point out the yellow road. i wish we had a row the length of it!" "they wouldn't grow," said father. "you mind the time i had finding the place those wanted to set their feet?" "i do indeed!" said mother, drawing her hand and his with it where she could rub her cheek against it. "now we'll go home and have our dinner and a good rest. i'm a happy woman this day, father, a happy, happy woman. if only one thing didn't worry me----" "must there always be a 'fly in the ointment,' mother?" she looked at him with a smile that was like a hug and kiss, and she said: "i have found it so, father, and i have been happy in spite of it. where one has such wide interests, at some point there is always a pull, but in his own day, in his own way, the lord is going to make everything right." "'thy faith hath made thee whole,'" quoted father. then she stepped into the carriage, and he waited a second, quite long enough to let her see that he was perfectly willing to sit there all day if she wanted him to, and then he slowly and carefully drove home, as he always did when she was in the carriage. times when he had us children out alone, he went until you couldn't see the spokes in the wheels. he just loved to "speed up" once in a while on a piece of fine road to let us know how going fast felt. mother sat there trembling a little, smiling, misty-eyed. i was thinking, for i knew what the "fly in the ointment" was. she had a letter from shelley yesterday, and she said there wasn't a reason on earth why father or laddie should spend money to come to chicago, she would soon be home, she was counting the hours, and she never wanted to leave again. in the start she didn't want to go at all, unless she could stay three years, at the very least. of course it was that dreadful man, who had made her so beautiful and happy, and then taken away all the joy; how could a man do it? it was the hardest thing to understand. next morning mother was feeling fine, the world was lovely, miss amelia was gone, may was home to help, so she began housecleaning by washing all the curtains. she had been in the kitchen to show candace how. i had all my work done, and was making friends with a robin brooding in my very own catalpa tree, when mr. pryor rode up, tied his horse, and started toward the gate. i knew he and father had quarrelled; that is, father had told him he couldn't say "god was a myth" in this house, and he'd gone home mad as hops; so i knew it would be something mighty important that was bringing him back. i slid from the tree, ran and opened the gate, and led the way up the walk. i opened the front door and asked him in, and then i did the wrong thing. i should have taken his hat, told him to be seated, and said i would see if i could find father; i knew what to do, and how to do it, but because of that about god, i was so excited i made a mistake. i never took his hat, or offered him a chair; i just bolted into the dining-room, looking for father or mother, and left the door wide open, so he thought that wasn't the place to sit, because i didn't give him a chair, and he followed me. the instant i saw mother's face, i knew what i had done. the dining-room was no place for particular company like him, and bringing him in that way didn't give her time to smooth her hair, pull shut her dress band at the neck, put on her collar, and shiny goldstone pin, her white apron, and rub her little flannel rag, with rice flour on it, on her nose to take away the shine. i had made a mess of it. there she came right in the door, just as she was from the tub. her hair was damp and crinkled around her face, her neckband had been close in stooping, so she had unfastened it, and tucked it back in a little v-shaped place to give her room and air. her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright, her lips red as a girl's, and her neck was soft and white. the v-shaped place showed a little spot like baby skin, right where her neck went into her chest. sure as father kissed her lips, he always tipped back her head, bent lower and kissed that spot too. i had seen hundreds of them go there, and i had tried it myself, lots of times, and it was the sweetest place. seeing what i had done, i stopped breathless. you have to beat most everything you teach a child right into it properly to keep it from making such a botch of things as that. i hardly dared to peep at mother, but when i did, she took my breath worse than the mistake i had made. caught, she stood her ground. she never paused a second. straight to him she went, holding out her hand, and i could see that it was red and warm from pressing the lace in the hot suds. a something flashed over her, that made her more beautiful than she was in her silk dress going to town to help lucy give a party, and her voice was sweet as the bubbling warbler on the garden fence when he was trying to coax a mate into the privet bush to nest. mother asked him to be seated, so he took one of the chairs nearest him, and sat holding his hat in one hand, his whip in the other. mother drew a chair beside the dining table, dropped her hands on each other, and looking in his eyes, she smiled at him. i tell the same thing over about people's looks, but i haven't told of this smile of mother's; because i never saw exactly how it was, or what it would do to people, until that morning. then as i watched her--for how she felt decided what would happen to me, after mr. pryor was gone i saw something i never had noticed until that minute. she could laugh all over her face, before her lips parted until her teeth showed. she was doing it now. with a wide smile running from cheek to cheek, pushing up a big dimple at each end, her lips barely touching, her eyes dancing, she sat looking at him. "this is the most blessed season for warming up the heart," she said. "if you want the half of my kingdom, ask quickly. i'm in the mood to bestow it." how she laughed! he just had to loosen up a little, and smile back, even though it looked pretty stiff. "well, i'll not tax you so far," he said. "i only want mr. stanton." "but he is the whole of the kingdom, and the king to boot!" she laughed, dimpled, and flamed redder. mr. pryor stared at her wonderingly. you could even see the wonder, like it was something you could take hold of. i suppose he wondered what could make a woman so happy, like that. "lucky man!" he said. "all of us are not so fortunate." "then it must be you don't covet the place or the title," said mother more soberly. "any woman will crown the man she marries, if he will allow her. paul went farther. he compelled it." "i wonder how!" said mr. pryor, his eyes steadily watching mother's face. "by never failing in a million little things, that taken as a whole, make up one mighty big thing, on which he stands like the rock of ages." "yet they tell me that you are the mother of twelve children," he said, as if he marvelled at something. "yes!" cried mother, and the word broke right through a bubbling laugh. "am i not fortunate above most women? we had the grief to lose two little daughters at the ages of eight and nine, all the others i have, and i rejoice in them." she reached out, laid a hand on me, drew me to her, and lightly touched my arm, sending my spirits sky-high. she wasn't going to do a thing to me, not even scold! mr. pryor stared at her like jacob hood does at laddie when he begins rolling greek before him, so i guess what mother said must have been greek to mr. pryor. "i came to see mr. stanton," he said suddenly, and crosslike as if he didn't believe a word she said, and had decided she was too foolish to bother with any longer; but he kept on staring. he couldn't quit that, no matter how cross he was. the funniest thing came into my mind. i wondered what on earth he'd have done if she'd gone over, sat on his lap, put her arms around his neck, took his face between her hands and kissed his forehead, eyes, lips, and tousled his hair, like she does father and our boys. i'll bet all i got, he'd have turned to stonier stone than sabethany. you could see that no one ever served him like that in all his old, cold, hard, cross, mysterious, shut-in life. i was crazy to ask, "say, did anybody ever kiss you?" but i had such a close escape bringing him in wrong, i thought it would be wise not to take any risks so soon after. it was enough to stand beside mother, and hear every word they said. what was more, she wanted me, because she kept her hand on mine, or touched my apron every little while. "i'm so sorry!" she said. "he was called to town on business. the county commissioners are sitting to-day." "they are deciding about the groveville bridge, and pike?" "yes. he is working so hard for them." "the devil you say! i beg pardon! but it was about that i came. i'm three miles from there, and i'm taxed over sixty pounds for it." "but you cross the bridge every time you go to town, and travel the road. groveville is quite a resort on account of the water and lovely country. paul is very anxious to have the work completed before the summer boarders come from surrounding cities. we are even farther from it than you; but it will cost us as much." "are you insane?" cried mr. pryor, not at all politely; but you could see that mother was bound she wouldn't become provoked about anything, for she never stopped a steady beam on him. "spend all that money for strangers to lazy around on a few weeks and then go!" "but a good bridge and fine road will add to their pleasure, and when they leave, the improvements remain. they will benefit us and our children through all the years to come." "talk about 'the land of the free'!" cried mr. pryor. "this is a tax-ridden nation. it's a beastly outrage! ever since i came, it's been nothing but notice of one assessment after another. i won't pay it! i won't endure it. i'll move!" mother let go of me, gripped her hands pretty tight together on the table, and she began to talk. "as for freedom--no man ever was, or is, or will be free," she said, quite as forcibly as he could speak. "you probably knew when you came here that you would find a land tax-ridden from a great civil war of years' duration, and from newness of vast territory to be opened up and improved. you certainly studied the situation." "'studied the situation'!" his whip beat across his knee. "'studied the situation'! my leaving england was--er--the result of intolerable conditions there--in the nature of flight from things not to be endured. i had only a vague idea of the states." "if england is intolerable, and the united states an outrage, i don't know where in this world you'll go," said mother softly. mr. pryor stared at her sharply. "madame is pleased to be facetious," he said sneeringly. mother's hands parted, and one of them stretched across the table toward him. "forgive me!" she cried. "that was unkind. i know you are in dreadful trouble. i'd give--i'd almost give this right hand to comfort you. i'd do nearly anything to make you feel that you need bear no burden alone; that we'd love to help support you." "i believe you would," he said slowly, his eyes watching her again. "i believe you would. i wonder why!" "all men are brothers, in the broader sense," said mother, "and if you'll forgive me, your face bears marks of suffering almost amounting to torture." she stretched out the other hand. "you couldn't possibly let us help you?" slowly he shook his head. "think again!" urged mother. "a trouble shared is half over to start with. you lay a part of it on your neighbours, and your neighbours in this case would be glad, glad indeed, to see you care-free and happy as all men should be." "we'll not discuss it," he said. "you can't possibly imagine the root of my trouble." "i shan't try!" said mother. "but let me tell you this: i don't care if you have betrayed your country, blasphemed your god, or killed your own child! so long, as you're a living man, daily a picture of suffering before me, you're a burden on my heart. you're a load on my shoulders, without your consent. i have implored god, i shall never cease to implore him, until your brow clears, your head is lifted, and your heart is at rest. you can't prevent me! this hour i shall go to my closet and beg him to have mercy on your poor soul, and when his time comes, he will. you can't help yourself, or you would have done so, long ago. you must accept aid! this must end, or there will be tragedy in your house." "madame, there has been!" said mr. pryor, shaking as he sat. "i recognize that," said mother. "the question is whether what has passed is not enough." "you simply cannot understand!" he said. "mr. pryor," she said, "you're in the position of a man doubly bereft. you are without a country, and without a god. your face tells every passer-by how you are enjoying that kind of life. forgive me, if i speak plainly. i admire some things about you so much, i am venturing positive unkindness to try to make you see that in shutting out your neighbours you will surely make them think more, and worse things, than are true. i haven't a doubt in my mind but that your trouble is not one half so dreadful as you imagine while brooding over it. we will pass that. let me tell you how we feel about this road matter. you see we did our courting in pennsylvania, married and tried ohio, and then came on here. we took this land when it was mostly woods. i could point you to the exact spot where we stopped; we visited it yesterday, looked down the hill and selected the place where we would set this house, when we could afford to build it. we moved into the cabin that was on the land first, later built a larger one, and finally this home as we had planned it. every fruit tree, bush, vine, and flower we planted. here our children have been born, lived, loved, and left us; some for the graveyard down yonder, some for homes of their own. always we have planned and striven to transform this into the dearest, the most beautiful spot on earth. in making our home the best we can, in improving our township, county, and state, we are doing our share toward upbuilding this nation." she began at the a b c's, and gave it to him straight: the whole thing, just as we saw it; and he listened, as if he were a prisoner, and she a judge telling him what he must do to gain his freedom. she put in the birds to keep away the worms, the trees to break the wind, the creeks to save the moisture. she whanged him, and she banged him, up one side, and down the other. she didn't stop to be mincy. she shot things at him like a man talking to another man who had plenty of sense but not a particle of reason. she gave him the reason. she told him exactly why, and how, and where, and also just what he must do to feel right toward his neighbours, his family, and his god. no preacher ever talked half so well. yea verily, she was as interesting as the bishop himself, and far pleasanter to look at. when she ran short of breath, and out of words, she reached both hands toward him again. "oh do please think of these things!" she begged. "do try to believe that i am a sensible person, and know what i am talking about." "madame," said mr. pryor, "there's no doubt in my mind but you are the most wonderful woman i ever have met. surely i believe you! surely i know your plan of life is the true, the only right way. it is one degree added to my humiliation that the ban i am under keeps me from friendly intercourse with so great a lady." "'lady'?" said my mother, her eyes widening. "'lady'? now it is you who are amused." "i don't understand!" he said. "certainly you are a lady, a very great lady." "goodness, gracious me!" cried my mother, laughing until her dimples would have held water. "that's the first time in all my life i was ever accused of such a thing." "again, i do not comprehend," said mr. pryor, as if vexed about all he would endure. mother laughed on, and as she did so she drew back her hands and studied them. then she looked at him again, one pink dimple flashing here and there, all over her face. "well, to begin at the root of the matter," she said, "that is an enormous big word that you are using lightly. any one in petticoats is not a lady--by no means! a lady must be born of unsullied blood for at least three generations, on each side of her house. think for a minute about where you are going to fulfil that condition. then she must be gentle by nature, and rearing. she must know all there is to learn from books, have wide experience to cover all emergencies, she must be steeped in social graces, and diplomatic by nature. she must rise unruffled to any emergency, never wound, never offend, always help and heal, she must be perfect in deportment, virtue, wifehood and motherhood. she must be graceful, pleasing and beautiful. she must have much leisure to perfect herself in learning, graces and arts----" "madame, you draw an impossible picture!" cried mr. pryor. "i draw the picture of the only woman on earth truly entitled to be called a lady. you use a good word lightly. i have told you what it takes to make a lady--now look at me!" how she laughed! mr. pryor looked, but he didn't laugh. "more than ever you convince me that you are a lady, indeed," he said. mother wiped her eyes. "my dear man!" she cried, "i'm the daughter of a dutch miller, who lived on a pennsylvania mountain stream. there never was a school anywhere near us, and father and mother only taught us to work. paul stanton took a grist there, and saw me. he married me, and brought me here. he taught me to read and write. i learned my lessons with my elder children. he has always kept school in our house, every night of his life. our children supposed it was for them; i knew it was quite as much for me. while i sat at knitting or sewing, i spelled over the words he gave out. i know nothing of my ancestors, save that they came from the lowlands of holland, down where there were cities, schools, and business. they were well educated, but they would not take the trouble to teach their children. as i have spoken to you, my husband taught me. all i know i learn from him, from what he reads aloud, and places he takes me. i exist in a twenty-mile radius, but through him, i know all lands, principalities and kingdoms, peoples and customs. i need never be ashamed to go, or afraid to speak, anywhere." "indeed not!" cried mr. pryor. "but when you think on the essentials of a real lady--and then picture me patching, with a first reader propped before me; facing indians, gypsies, wild animals--and they used to be bad enough--why, i mind one time in ohio when our first baby was only able to stand beside a chair, and through the rough puncheon floor a copperhead stuck up its gleam of bronzy gold, and shot its darting tongue within a foot of her bare leg. by all accounts, a lady would have reached for her smelling salts and gracefully fainted away; in fact, a lady never would have been in such a place at all. it was my job to throw the first thing i could lay my hands on so straight and true that i would break that snake's neck, and send its deadly fangs away from my baby. i did it with paul's plane, and neatly too! then i had to put the baby on the bed and tear up every piece of the floor to see that the snake had not a mate in hiding there, for copperheads at that season were going pairs. once i was driven to face a big squaw, and threatened the life of her baby with a red-hot poker while she menaced mine with a hunting knife. there is not one cold, rough, hard experience of pioneer life that i have not endured. shoulder to shoulder, and heart to heart, i've stood beside my man, and done what had to be done, to build this home, rear our children, save our property. many's the night i have shivered in a barn doctoring sick cattle and horses we could ill afford to lose. time and again i have hung on and brought things out alive, after the men gave up and quit. a lady? how funny!" "the amusement is all on your part, madame." "so it seems!" said mother. "but you see, i know so well how ridiculous it is. when i think of the life a woman must lead in order to be truly a lady, when i review the life i have been forced to live to do my share in making this home, and rearing these children, the contrast is too great. i thank god for any part i have been able to take. had i life to live over, i see now where i could do more; but neighbour, believe me, my highest aspiration is to be a clean, thrifty housekeeper, a bountiful cook, a faithful wife, a sympathetic mother. that is life work for any woman, and to be a good woman is the greatest thing on earth. never mind about the ladies; if you can honestly say of me, she is a good woman, you have paid me the highest possible tribute." "i have nothing to change, in the face of your argument," said mr. pryor. "our loved queen on her throne is no finer lady." that time mother didn't laugh. she looked straight at him a minute and then she said: "well, for an englishman, as i know them, you have said the last word. higher praise there is none. but believe me, i make no such claim. to be a good wife and mother is the end toward which i aspire. to hold the respect and love of my husband is the greatest object of my life." "then you have succeeded. you stand a monument to wifehood; your children prove your idea of motherhood," said mr. pryor. "how in this world have you managed it? the members of your family whom i have seen are fine, interesting men and women, educated above the average. it is not idle curiosity. i am deeply interested in knowing how such an end came to be accomplished here on this farm. i wish you would tell me just how you have gone about schooling your children." "by educating ourselves before their coming, and with them afterward. self-control, study, work, joy of life, satisfaction with what we have had, never-ending strife to go higher, and to do better--dr. fenner laughs when i talk of these things. he says he can take a little naked hottentot from the jungle, and educate it to the same degree that i can one of mine. i don't know; but if these things do not help before birth, at least they do not hinder; and afterward, you are in the groove in which you want your children to run. with all our twelve there never has been one who at nine months of age did not stop crying if its father lifted his finger, or tapped his foot and told it to. from the start we have rigorously guarded our speech and actions before them. from the first tiny baby my husband has taught all of them to read, write and cipher some, before they went to school at all. he is always watching, observing, studying: the earth, the stars, growing things; he never comes to a meal but he has seen something that he has or will study out for all of us. there never has been one day in our home on which he did not read a new interesting article from book or paper; work out a big problem, or discuss some phase of politics, religion, or war. sometimes there has been a little of all of it in one day, always reading, spelling, and memory exercises at night. he has a sister who twice in her life has repeated the bible as a test before a committee. he, himself, can go through the new testament and all of the old save the books of the generations. he always says he considers it a waste of gray matter to learn them. he has been a schoolmaster, his home his schoolroom, his children, wife and helpers his pupils; the common things of life as he meets them every day, the books from which we learn. "i was ignorant at first of bookish subjects, but in his atmosphere, if one were no student, and didn't even try to keep up, or forge ahead, they would absorb much through association. almost always he has been on the school board and selected the teachers; we have made a point of keeping them here, at great inconvenience to ourselves, in order to know as much of them as possible, and to help and guide them in their work. when the children could learn no more here, for most of them we have managed the high school of groveville, especially after our daughter moved there, and for each of them we have added at least two years of college, music school, or whatever the peculiar bent of the child seemed to demand. "before any daughter has left our home for one of her own, she has been taught all i know of cleanliness about a house, cookery, sewing, tending the sick, bathing and dressing the new born. she has to bake bread, pie, cake, and cook any meat or vegetable we have. she has had her bolt of muslin to make as she chose for her bedding, and linen for her underclothing. the quilts she pieced and the blankets she wove have been hers. all of them have been as well provided for as we could afford. they can knit, darn, patch, tuck, hem, and embroider, set a hen and plant a garden. i go on a vacation and leave each of them to keep house for her father a month, before she enters a home of her own. they are strong, healthy girls; i hope all of them are making a good showing at being useful women, and i know they are happy, so far at least." "wonderful!" said mr. pryor. "father takes the boys in hand and they must graduate in a straight furrow, an even fence, planting and tending crops, trimming and grafting trees, caring for stock, and handling plane, auger and chisel. each one must select his wood, cure, fashion, and fit his own ax with a handle, grind and swing it properly, as well as cradle, scythe and sickle. they must be able to select good seed grain, boil sap, and cure meat. they must know animals, their diseases and treatment, and when they have mastered all he can teach them, and done each thing properly, they may go for their term at college, and make their choice of a profession. as yet i'm sorry to say but one of them has come back to the land." "you mean laddie?" "yes." "he has decided to be a farmer?" "he is determined to make the soil yield his living." "i am sorry--sorry indeed to hear it," said mr. pryor. "he has brain and education to make a brilliant figure at law or statesmanship; he would do well in trade." "what makes you think he would not do well on land?" "wasted!" cried mr. pryor. "he would be wasted!" "hold a bit!" said mother, her face flushing as it did when she was very provoked. "my husband is, and always has been, on land. he is far from being wasted. he is a power in this community. he has sons in cities in law and in trade. not one of them has the friends, and the influence on his time, that his father has. any day he says the word, he can stand in legislative halls, and take any part he chooses in politics. he prefers his home and family, and the work he does here, but let me tell you, no son of his ever had his influence or opportunity, or ever will have." "all this is news to me," said mr. pryor. "you didn't expect us to come over, force our way in and tell you?" it was his turn to blush and he did. "laddie has been at our house often," he said. "he might have mentioned----" mother laughed. she was the gayest that morning. "he 'might,' but he never would. neither would i if you hadn't seemed to think that the men who do the things mr. stanton refuses to do are the ones worth while." "he could accomplish much in legislative halls." "he figures in the large. he thinks that to be a commissioner, travel his county and make all of it the best possible, to stand in primaries and choose only worthy men for all offices, is doing a much bigger work than to take one place for himself, and strive only for that. besides, he really loves his land, his house, and family. he says no man has a right to bring twelve children into the world and not see personally to rearing and educating them. he thinks the farm and the children too much for me, and he's sure he is doing the biggest thing for the community at large, to go on as he does." "perhaps so," said mr. pryor slowly. "he should know best. perhaps he is." "i make no doubt!" said mother, lifting her head proudly. "and as laddie feels and has fitted himself, i look to see him go head and shoulders above any other son i have. trade is not the only way to accumulate. law is not the only path to the legislature. comfort, independence, and freedom, such as we know here, is not found in any city i ever have visited. we think we have the best of life, and we are content on land. we have not accumulated much money; we have spent thousands; we have had a big family for which to provide, and on account of the newness of the country, taxes always have been heavy. but we make no complaint. we are satisfied. we could have branched off into fifty different things after we had a fair start here. we didn't, because we preferred life as we worked it out for ourselves. paul says when he leaves the city, and his horses' hoofs strike the road between our fields, he always lifts his head higher, squares his shoulders, and feels a man among men. to own land, and to love it, is a wonderful thing, mr. pryor." she made me think of something. ever since i had added to my quill and arrow money, the great big lot at easter, father had shared his chest till with me. the chest stood in our room, and in it lay his wedding suit, his every sunday clothes, his best hat with a red silk handkerchief in the crown, a bundle of precious newspapers he was saving on account of rare things in them he wanted for reference, and in the till was the wallet of ready money he kept in the house for unexpected expense, his deeds, insurance papers, all his particular private papers, the bunches of lead pencils, slate pencils, and the box of pens from which he supplied us for school. since i had grown so rich, he had gone partners with me, and i might lift the lid, open the till and take out my little purse that may bought from the huckster for my last birthday. i wasn't to touch a thing, save my own, and i never did; but i knew precious well what was there. if mr. pryor thought my father didn't amount to much because he lived on land; if it made him think more of him, to know that he could be in the legislature if he chose, maybe he'd think still more---- i lifted the papers, picked it up carefully, and slipping back quietly, i laid it on mr. pryor's knee. he picked it up and held it a minute, until he finished what he was saying to mother, and then he looked at it. then he looked long and hard. then he straightened up and looked again. "god bless my soul!" he cried. you see when he was so astonished he didn't know what he was saying, he called on god, just as father says every one does. i took a side look at mother. her face was a little extra flushed, but she was still smiling; so i knew she wasn't angry with me, though of course she wouldn't have shown the thing herself. she and father never did, except as each of us grew big enough to be taught about the crusaders. father said he didn't care the snap of his finger about it, except as it stood for hardihood and bravery. but mr. pryor cared! he cared more than he could say. he stared, and stared, and over and over he wonderingly repeated: "god bless my soul!" "where did you get the crest of the earl of eastbrooke, the master of stanton house?" he demanded. "stanton house!" he repeated. "why--why, the name! it's scarcely possible, but----" "but there it is!" laughed mother. "a mere bauble for show and amounting to nothing on earth save as it stands a mark for brave men who have striven to conquer." "surgere tento!" read mr. pryor, from the little shield. "four shells! madame, i know men who would give their lives to own this, and to have been born with the right to wear it. it came to your husband in straight line?" "yes," said mother, "but generations back. he never wore it. he never would. he only saves it for the children." "it goes to your eldest son?" "by rights, i suppose it should," said mother. "but father mentioned it the other night. he said none of his boys had gone as he tried to influence them, unless laddie does now in choosing land for his future, and if he does, his father is inclined to leave it to him, and i agree. at our death it goes to laddie i am quite sure." "well, i hope--i hope," said mr. pryor, "that the young man has the wit to understand what this would mean to him in england." "his wit is just about level with his father's," said mother. "he never has been in england, and most probably he never will be. i don't think it means a rap more to laddie than it does to my husband. laddie is so busy developing the manhood born in him, he has no time to chase the rainbow of reflected glory, and no belief in its stability if he walked in its light. the child of my family to whom that trinket really means something is little sister, here. when leon came in with the thief, i thought he should have it; but after all, she is the staunchest little crusader i have." mr. pryor looked me over with much interest. "yes, yes! no doubt!" he said. "but the male line! this priceless treasure should descend to one of the male line! to one whose name will remain stanton! to laddie would be best, no doubt! no doubt at all!" "we will think about it," said mother serenely as mr. pryor arose to go. he apologized for staying so long, and mother said it hadn't been long, and asked him the nicest ever to come again. she walked in the sunlight with him and pointed out the chestnuts. she asked what he thought of a line of trees to shade the road, and they discussed whether the pleasure they would give in summer would pay for the dampness they would hold in winter. they wandered around the yard and into the garden. she sent me to bring a knife, trowel, and paper, so when he started for home, he was carrying a load of cuttings, and roots to plant. when father came from town that evening, at the first sight of him, she went straight into his arms, her face beaming; she had been like a sun all that day. some of it must have been joy carried over from yesterday. "praise god, the wedge is in!" she cried. father held her tight, stroked her hair, and began smiling without having the least idea why, but he very well knew that whatever pleased her like that was going to be good news for him also. "what has happened, mother?" he asked. "mr. pryor came over about the road and bridge tax, and oh paul! i've said every word to him i've been bursting to say from the very start. every single word, paul!" "how did he take it?" "time will tell. anyway, he heard it, all of it, and he went back carrying a load of things to plant. only think of that! once he begins planting, and watching things grow, the home feeling is bound to come. i tell you, paul, the wedge is in! oh i'm so happy!" chapter xiv the crest of eastbrooke "sow;--and look onward, upward, where the starry light appears,-- where, in spite of coward's doubting, or your own heart's trembling fears, you shall reap in joy the harvest you have sown to-day in tears." "any objections to my beginning to break ground on the west eighty to-day?" asked laddie of father at breakfast monday morning. "i had thought we would commence on the east forty, when planning the work." "so had i," said laddie. "but since i thought that, a very particular reason has developed for my beginning to plow the west eighty at once, and there is a charming little ditty i feel strongly impelled to whistle every step of the way." father looked at him sharply, and so, i think, did all of us. and because we loved him deeply, we saw that his face was a trifle pale for him; his clear eyes troubled, in spite of his laughing way. he knew we were studying him too, but he wouldn't have said anything that would make us look and question if he had minded our doing it. that was exactly like laddie. he meant it when he said he hated a secret. he said there was no place on earth for a man to look for sympathy and love if he couldn't find it in his own family; and he never had been so happy since i had been big enough to notice his moods as he had been since all of us knew about the princess. he didn't wait for father to ask why he'd changed his mind about the place to begin. "you see," he said, "a very charming friend of mine expressed herself strongly last night about the degrading influence of farming, especially that branch of agriculture which evolves itself in a furrow; hence it is my none too happy work to plow the west eighty where she can't look our way without seeing me; and i have got to whistle my favourite 'toon' where she must stop her ears if she doesn't hear; and then it will be my painful task, i fear, to endeavour to convince her that i am still clean, decent, and not degraded." "oh laddie!" cried mother. "abominable foolishness!" roared father like he does roar once in about two years. "isn't it now?" asked laddie sweetly. "i don't know what has got into her head. she has seen me plowing fifty times since their land has joined ours, and she never objected before." "i can tell you blessed well!" said mother. "she didn't care two hoots how much my son plowed, but it makes a difference when it comes to her lover." "maw, you speak amazing reckless," said laddie, "if i thought there was anything in that feature of the case, i'd attempt a highland fling on the ridgepole of our barn." "be serious!" said father sternly. "this is no laughing matter." "that's precisely why i am laughing," said laddie. "would it help me any to sit down and weep? i trow not! i have thought most of the silent watches--by the way they are far from silent in may--and as i read my title clear, it's my job to plow the west eighty immejit." father tried to look stern, but he just had to laugh. "all right then, plow it!" he said. "what did she say?" asked mother. "phew!" laddie threw up both hands. "she must have been bottled some time on the subject. the ferment was a spill of considerable magnitude. the flood rather overwhelmed me, because it was so unexpected. i had been taking for granted that she accepted my circumstances and surroundings as she did me. but no, kind friends, far otherwise! she said last night, in the clearest english i ever heard spoken impromptu, that i was a man suitable for her friend, but i would have to change my occupation before i could be received on more than a friendly footing." "'on more than a friendly footing'?" repeated mother. "you have her exact words," said laddie. "kindly pass the ham." "what did you say?" "nothing! i am going to plow the answer. please don't object to my beginning this morning." "you try yourself all winter to get as far as you have, and then upset the bowl like this?" cried mother. "softly, mummy, softly!" said laddie. "what am i to do? i've definitely decided on my work. i see land and life, as you and father taught me, in range and in perspective far more than you've got from it. you had a first hand wrestle. the land i covet has been greatly improved already. i can do what i choose with it, making no more strenuous effort than plowing; and i am proud to say that i love to plow. i like my feet in the soil. i want my head in the spring air. i can become almost tipsy on the odours that fill my nostrils. music evolved by the almighty is plenty good enough for me. i'm proud of a spanking big team, under the control of a touch or a word. i enjoy farming, and i am going to be a farmer. plowing is one of the most pleasing parts of the job. sowing the seed beats it a little, from an artistic standpoint, either is preferable to haying, threshing, or corn cutting: all are parts of my work, so i'm going to begin. mother, i hope you don't mind if i take your grays. i'll be very careful; but the picture i present to my girl to-day is going to go hard with her at best, so i'd like to make it level best." he arose, went around and knelt beside mother. he took her, chair and all, in his arms: "best of mothers! on my breast lean thy head, and sink to rest." she quoted. mother laughed. "mammy," he asked bending toward her, "am i clean?" "you goose!" she said, putting her arms around him and holding him tight. "gander love," said laddie, turning up his face for a kiss. "honest mother, you have been through nigh unto forty years of it, tell me, can a man be a farmer and keep neat enough not to be repulsive to a refined woman?" "your father is the answer," said mother. "all of you know how perfectly repulsive he is and always has been to me." "'repulsive,"' said father. "that's an ugly word!" "there are a whole lot of unpleasant things that peep around corners occasionally," said laddie. "but whoever of you dear people it was that showed mr. pryor the crest of eastbrooke, brought out this particular dragon for me to slay." "tut, tut! now what does that mean?" said father. "have we had a little exhibition of that especial brand of pride that goes before a fall?" "we have! and i take the tumble," said laddie. "watch me start! 'jack fell down and broke his crown.' question--will 'jill come tumbling after?'" my heart stopped and i was shaking in my bare feet, because i wore no shoes to shake in. oh my soul! no matter how laddie jested i knew he was almost killed; the harder he made fun, the worse he was hurt. i opened my mouth to say i did it, i had to, but leon began to talk. "well, i think she's smart!" he cried. "if she was going to give you the mitten, why didn't she do it long ago?" "she had to find out first whether there were a possibility of her wanting to keep it," said laddie. "you're sure you are all signed, sealed, and delivered on this plowing business, are you?" asked leon. "dead sure!" said laddie. "all right, if you like it!" said leon. "none for me after college! but say, you can be a farmer and not plow, you know. you go trim the trees, and work at cleaner, more gentlemanly jobs. i'll plow that field. i'd just as soon as not. i plowed last year and you said i did well, didn't you, father?" "yes, on the potato patch," said father. "a cornfield is a different thing. i fear you are too light." "oh but that was a year ago!" cried leon. he pushed back his chair and went to father. "just feel my biceps now! most like steel!" he boasted. "a fellow can grow a lot in a year, and all the riding i've been doing, and all the exercise i've had. cert' i can plow that meadow." "you're all right, shaver," said laddie. "i'll not forget your offer; but in this case it wouldn't help. either the princess takes her medicine or i take mine. i'm going to live on land: i'm going to plow in plain sight of the pryor house this week, if i have to hire to jacob hood to get the chance. may i plow, and may i take the grays, father?" "yes!" said father roundly. "then here goes!" said laddie. "you needn't fret, mother. i'll not overheat them. i must give a concert simultaneous with this plowing performance, and i'm particular about the music, so i can't go too fast. also, i'll wrap the harness." "goodness knows i'm not thinking about the horses," said mother. "no, but if they turned up next sunday, wind-broken, and with nice large patches of hair rubbed from their sides, you would be! if you were me, would you whistle, or vocalize to start on?" mother burst right out crying and laid her face all tear-wet against him. laddie kissed her, and wiped away the tears, teased her, and soon as he could he bolted from the east door; but i was closest, so i saw plainly that his eyes were wet too. my soul and body! and i had done it! i might as well get it over. "i showed mr. pryor the trinket," i said. "how did you come to do that?" asked father sternly. "when he was talking with mother. he told her laddie would be 'wasted' farming----" "wasted?" "that's what he said. mother told him you had always farmed and you were a 'power in this community.' she told him about what you did, because you wanted to, and what you could do if you chose, about holding office, you know, and that seemed to make him think heaps more of you, so i thought it would be a good thing for him to know about the crusaders too, and i ran and got the crest. i thought it would help----" "and so it will," said mother. "they constantly make the best showing they can, we might as well, too. the trouble is they got more than they expected. they thought they could look down on us, and patronize us, if they came near at all; when they found we were quite as well educated as they, had as much land, could hold prominent offices if we chose, and had the right to that bauble, they veered to the other extreme. now they seem to demand that we quit work----" "move to the city, 'sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,'" suggested father. "exactly!" said mother. "they'll have to find out we are running our own business; but i'm sorry it fell to laddie to show them. you could have done it better. it will come out all right. the princess is not going to lose a man like laddie on account of how he makes his money." "don't be too confident," said father. "with people of their stripe, how much money a man can earn, and at what occupation, constitute the whole of life." she wasn't too confident. yesterday she had been so happy she almost flew. to-day she kept things going, and sang a lot, but nearly every time you looked at her you could see her lips draw tight, a frown cross her forehead, and her head shake. pretty soon we heard a racket on the road, so we went out. there was laddie with the matched team of carriage horses and a plow. now, in dreadfully busy times, father let ned and jo work a little, but not very much. they were not plow horses; they were roadsters. they liked to prance, and bow their necks and dance to the carriage. it shamed them to be hitched to a plow. they drooped their heads and slunk along like dogs caught sucking eggs. but they were a sight on the landscape. they were lean and slender and yet round too, matched dapple gray on flank and side, with long snow-white manes and tails. no wonder mother didn't want them to work. laddie had reached through the garden fence and hooked a bunch of red tulips and yellow daffodils. the red was at jo's ear, and the yellow at ned's, and they did look fine. so did he! big, strong, clean, a red flower in his floppy straw hat band; and after he drove through the gate, he began a shrill, fifelike whistle you could have heard a half mile: "see the merry farmer boy, tramp the meadows through, swing his hoe in careless joy, while dashing off the dew. bobolink in maple high, trills a note of glee, farmer boy in gay reply now whistles cheerily." the chorus was all whistle, and it was written for folks who could. it went up until it almost split the echoes, and laddie could easily sail a measure above the notes. he did it too. as for me, i kept from sight. for a week laddie whistled and plowed. he wore that tune threadbare, and got an almost continuous pucker on his lips. leon said if he didn't stop whistling, and sing more, the girls would think he was doing a prunes and prisms stunt. so after that he sang the words, and whistled the chorus. but he made no excuse to go, and he didn't go, to pryors'. when sunday came, he went to westchester to see elizabeth, and stayed until monday morning. not once that week did the princess ride past our house, or her father either. by noon monday laddie was back in the field, and i had all i could bear. he was neither whistling nor singing so much now, because he was away at the south end, where he couldn't be seen or heard at pryors'. he almost scoured the skin from him, and he wore his gloves more carefully than usual. if he soiled his clothing in the least, and it looked as if he would make more than his share of work, he washed the extra pieces at night. tuesday morning i hurried with all my might, and then i ran to the field where he was. i climbed on the fence, sat there until he came up, and then i gave him some cookies. he stopped the horses, climbed beside me and ate them. then he put his arms around me and hugged me tight. "laddie, do you know i did it?" i wailed. "did you now?" said laddie. "no, i didn't know for sure, but i had suspicions. you always have had such a fondness for that particular piece of tinware." "but laddie, it means so much!" "doesn't it?" said laddie. "a few days ago no one could have convinced me that it meant anything at all to me, or ever could. just look at me now!" "don't joke, laddie! something must be done." "well, ain't i doing it?" asked laddie. "look at all these acres and acres of jim-dandy plowing!" "don't!" i begged. "why don't you go over there?" "no use, chicken," said laddie. "you see her exact stipulation was that i must change my occupation before i came again." "what does she want you to do?" "law, i think. unfortunately, i showed her a letter from jerry asking me to enter his office this fall." "hadn't you better do it, laddie?" "how would you like to be shut in little, stuffy rooms, and set to droning over books and papers every hour of the day, all your life, and to spend the best of your brain and bodily strength straightening out other men's quarrels?" "oh laddie, you just couldn't!" i cried. "precisely!" said laddie. "i just couldn't, and i just won't!" "what can you do?" "i might compromise on stock," he said. "i could follow the same occupation as her father, and with better success. neither he nor his men get the best results from horses. they don't understand them, especially the breeds they are attempting to handle. most arab horsemen are tent dwellers. they travel from one oasis to another with their stock. at night their herds are gathered around them as children. as children they love them, pet them, feed them. each is named for a divinity, a planet or a famous ruler, and the understanding between master and beast is perfect. honestly, little sister, i think you have got to believe in the god of israel, in order to say the right word to an arabian horse; and i know you must believe in the god of love. a beast of that breed, jerked, kicked, and scolded is a fine horse ruined. if i owned half the stock mr. pryor has over there, i could put it in such shape for market that i could get twice from it what his men will." "are thomas and james rough with the horses?" "'like master, like man,'" quoted laddie. "they are! they are foolish with the kentucky strain, and fools with the arab; and yet, that combination beats the world. but i must get on with the p.c. job." he slid from the fence, took a drink from his water jug, and pulled a handful of grass for each horse. as he stood feeding them, i almost fell from the top rail. "laddie!" i whispered. "look! mr. pryor is halfway across the field on ranger." "so?" said laddie. "now i wonder----" "shall i go?" "no indeed!" said laddie. "stay right where you are. it can't be anything of much importance." at first it didn't seem to be. they talked about the weather, the soil, the team. laddie scooped a handful of black earth, and holding it out, told mr. pryor all about how good it was, and why, and he seemed interested. then they talked about everything; until if he had been jacob hood, he would have gone away. but just at the time when i expected him to start, he looked at laddie straight and hard. "i missed you sabbath evening," he said. then i looked at him. he had changed, some way. he seemed more human, more like our folks, less cold and stern. "i sincerely hope it was unanimous," said laddie. mr. pryor had to laugh. "it was a majority, at any rate." laddie stared dazed. you see that was kind of a joke. an easy one, because i caught it; but we were not accustomed to expecting a jest from mr. pryor. not one of us dreamed there was a joke between his hat crown and his boot soles. then laddie laughed; but he sobered quickly. "i'm mighty sorry if mrs. pryor missed me," he said. "i thought of her. i have grown to be her devoted slave, and i hoped she liked me." "you put it mildly," said mr. pryor. "since you didn't come when she expected you, we've had the worst time with her that we have had since we reached this da--ah--er--um--this country." "could you make any suggestion?" asked laddie. "i could! i would suggest that you act like the sensible fellow i know you to be, and come as usual, at your accustomed times." "but i'm forbidden, man!" cried laddie. ugh! such awful things as mr. pryor said. "forbidden!" he cried. "is a man's roof his own, or is it not? while i live, i propose to be the head of my family. i invite you! i ask you! mrs. pryor and i want you! what more is necessary?" "two things," said laddie, just as serenely. "that miss pryor wants me, and that i want to come." "d'ye mean to tell me that you don't want to come, eh? after the fight you put up to force your way in!" laddie studied the sky, a whimsy smile on his lips. "now wasn't that a good fight?" he inquired. "i'm mighty proud of it! but not now, or ever, do i wish to enter your house again, if miss pryor doesn't want, and welcome me." then he went over, took mr. pryor's horse by the head, and began working with its bridle. it didn't set right some way, and mr. pryor had jerked, spurred, and mauled, until there was a big space tramped to mortar. laddie slid his fingers beneath the leather, eased it a little, and ran his hands over the fretful creature's head. it just stopped, stood still, pushed its nose under his arm, and pressed against his side. mr. pryor arose in one stirrup, swung around and alighted. he looped an arm through the bridle rein, and with both hands gripped his whipstock. "how the devil do you do it?" he asked, as if he were provoked. "first, the bridle was uncomfortable; next, you surely know, mr. pryor, that a man can transfer his mental state to his mount." laddie pointed to the churned up earth. "that represents your mental state; this"--he slid his hand down the neck of the horse--"portrays mine." mr. pryor's face reddened, but laddie was laughing so heartily he joined in sort of sickly-like. "oh i doubt if you are so damnably calm!" he cried. "i'm calm enough, so far as that goes," said laddie. "i'm not denying that i've got about all the heartache i can conveniently carry." "do you mind telling me how far this affair has gone?" "wouldn't a right-minded man give the woman in the case the first chance to answer that question? i greatly prefer that you ask miss pryor." if ever i felt sorry for any one, i did then for mr. pryor. he stood there gripping the whip with both hands and he looked exactly as if the may wind might break him into a thousand tiny pieces, and every one of them would be glass. "um--er----" he said at last. "you're right, of course, but unfortunately, pamela and her mother did not agree with my motives, or my course in coming to this country; and while there is no outward demonstration er--um--other than mrs. pryor's seclusion; yet, er--um!--i am forced to the belief that i'm not in their confidence." "i see!" said laddie. "and of course you love your daughter as any man would love so beautiful a child, and when she is all he has----" i thought the break was coming right there, but mr. pryor clenched his whip and put it off; still, any one watching with half an eye could see that it was only put off, and not for long at that,--"it has been my idea, mr. pryor, that the proper course for me was to see if i could earn any standing with your daughter. if i could, and she gave me permission, then i intended coming to you the instant i knew how she felt. but in such a case as this, i don't think i shall find the slightest hesitation in telling you anything you want to know, that i am able." "you don't know how you stand with her?" laddie took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. his feet were planted widely apart, and his face was sober enough for any funeral now. at last he spoke. "i've been trying to figure that out," he said slowly. "i believe the situation is as open to you as it is to me. she was a desperately lonely, homesick girl, when she caught my eye and heart; and i placed myself on her horizon. in her case the women were slow in offering friendship, because, on account of mrs. pryor's seclusion, none was felt to be wanted; then miss pryor was different in dress and manner. i found a way to let her see that i wanted to be friends, and she accepted my friendship, and at the same time allowed it go only so far. on a few rare occasions, i've met her alone, and we've talked out various phases of life together; but most of our intercourse has taken place in your home, and in your presence. you probably have seen her meet and entertain her friends frequently. i should think you would be more nearly able to gauge my standing with her than i am." "you haven't told her that you love her?" "haven't i though?" cried laddie. "man alive! what do you think i'm made of? putty? told her? i've told her a thousand times. i've said it, and sung it and whistled it, and looked it, and lived it. i've written it, and ridden it, and this week i've plowed it! your daughter knows as she knows nothing else, in all this world, that she has only to give me one glance, one word, one gesture of invitation, to find me before her six feet of the worst demoralized beefsteak a woman ever undertook to handle. told her? ye gods! i should say i've told her!" if any of pryors had been outdoors they certainly could have heard mr. pryor. how he laughed! he shook until he tottered. laddie took his arm and led him to the fence. he lifted a broad top rail, pushed it between two others across a corner and made a nice comfortable seat for him. after a while mr. pryor wiped his eyes. laddie stood watching him with a slow grin on his face. "and she hasn't given the signal you are waiting for?" he asked at last. laddie slowly shook his head. "nary the ghost of a signal!" he said. "now we come to sunday before last. i only intimated, vaguely, that a hint of where i stood would be a comfort--and played jonah. the whale swallowed me at a gulp, and for all my inches, never batted an eye. you see, a few days before i showed her a letter from my brother jerry, because i thought it might interest her. there was something in it to which i had paid little or no attention, about my going to the city and beginning work in his law office; to cap that, evidently you had mentioned before her our prize piece of family tinware. there was a culmination like a thunder clap in a january sky. she said everything that was on her mind about a man of my size and ability doing the work i am, and then she said i must change my occupation before i came again." "and for answer you've split the echoes with some shrill, abominable air, and plowed, before her very eyes, for a week!" then laddie laughed. "do you know," he said; "that's a good one on me! it never occurred to me that she would not be familiar with that air, and understand its application. do you mean to crush me further by telling me that all my perfectly lovely vocalizing and whistling was lost?" "it was a dem irritating, challenging sort of thing," said mr. pryor. "i listened to it by the hour, myself, trying to make out exactly what it did mean. it seemed to combine defiance with pleading, and through and over all ran a note of glee that was really quite charming." "you have quoted a part of it, literally," said laddie. "'a note of glee'--the cry of a glad heart, at peace with all the world, busy with congenial work." "i shouldn't have thought you'd have been so particularly joyful." "oh, the joy was in the music," said laddie. "that was a whistle to keep up my courage. the joy was in the song, not in me! last week was black enough for me to satisfy the most exacting pessimist." "i wish you might have seen the figure you cut! that fine team, flower bedecked, and the continuous concert!" "but i did!" cried laddie. "we have mirrors. that song can't be beaten. i know this team is all right, and i'm not dwarfed or disfigured. that was the pageant of summer passing in review. it represented the tilling of the soil; the sowing of seed, garnering to come later. you buy corn and wheat, don't you? they are vastly necessary. much more so than the settling of quarrels that never should have taken place. do you think your daughter found the spectacle at all moving?" "damn you, sir, what i should do, is to lay this whip across your shoulders!" cried mr. pryor. but if you will believe it, he was laughing again. "i prefer that you don't," said laddie, "or on ranger either. see how he likes being gentled." then he straightened and drew a deep breath. "mr. pryor," he said, "as man to man, i have got this to say to you--and you may use your own discretion about repeating it to your daughter: i can offer her six feet of as sound manhood as you can find on god's footstool. i never in my whole life have had enough impure blood in my body to make even one tiny eruption on my skin. i never have been ill a day in my life. i never have touched a woman save as i lifted and cared for my mother, and hers, or my sisters. as to my family and education she can judge for herself. i offer her the first and only love of my heart. she objects to farming, because she says it is dirty, offensive work. there are parts of it that are dirty. thank god, it only soils the body, and that can be washed. to delve and to dive into, and to study and to brood over the bigger half of the law business of any city is to steep your brain in, and smirch your soul with, such dirt as i would die before i'd make an occupation of touching. will you kindly tell her that word for word, and that i asked you to?" mr. pryor was standing before i saw him rise. he said those awful words again, but between them he cried: "you're right! it's the truth! it's the eternal truth!" "it is the truth," said laddie. "i've only to visit the offices, and examine the business of those of my family living by law, to know that it's the truth. of course there's another side! there are times when there are great opportunities to do good; i recognize that. to some these may seem to overbalance that to which i object. if they do, all right. i am merely deciding for myself. once and for all, for me it is land. it is born in me to love it, to handle it easily, to get the best results from stock. i am going to take the merriweather place adjoining ours on the west, and yours on the south. i intend to lease it for ten years, with purchase privilege at the end, so that if i make of it what i plan, my work will not be lost to me. i had thought to fix up the place and begin farming. if miss pryor has any use whatever for me, and prefers stock, that is all right with me. i'll go into the same business she finds suitable for you. i can start in a small way and develop. i can afford a maid for her from the beginning, but i couldn't clothe her as she has been accustomed to being dressed, for some time. i would do my best, however. i know what store my mother sets by being well gowned. and as a husband, i can offer your daughter as loving consideration as woman ever received at the hands of man. provided by some miracle i could win her consent, would you even consider me, and such an arrangement?" "frankly sir," said mr. pryor, "i have reached the place where i would be----" whenever you come to a long black line like that, it means that he just roared a lot of words father never said, and never will--"glad to! to tell the truth, the thing you choose to jestingly refer to as 'tinware'--i hope later to convince of the indelicacy of such allusion--would place you in england on a social level above any we ever occupied, or could hope to. your education equals ours. you are a physical specimen to be reckoned with, and i believe what you say of yourself. there's something so clean and manly about you, it amounts to confirmation. a woman should set her own valuation on that; and the height of it should correspond with her knowledge of the world." "thank you!" said laddie. "you are more than kind! more than generous!" "as to the arrangements you could make for pamela," said mr. pryor, "she's all we have. everything goes to her, ultimately. she has her stipulated allowance now; whether in my house or yours, it would go with her. surely you wouldn't be so callous as to object to our giving her anything that would please us!" "why should i?" asked laddie. "that's only natural on your part. your child is your child; no matter where or what it is, you expect to exercise a certain amount of loving care over it. my father and mother constantly send things to their children absent from home, and they take much pleasure in doing it. that is between you and your daughter, of course. i shouldn't think of interfering. but in the meantime, unless miss pryor has been converted to the beauties of plowing through my continuous performance of over a week, i stand now exactly where i did before, so far as she is concerned. if you and mrs. pryor have no objection to me, if you feel that you could think of me, or find for me any least part of a son's place in your hearts, i believe i should know how to appreciate it, and how to go to work to make myself worthy of it." mr. pryor sat down so suddenly, the rail almost broke. i thought the truth was, that he had heart trouble, himself. he stopped up, choked on things, flopped around, and turned so white. i suppose he thought it was womanish, and a sign of weakness, and so he didn't tell, but i bet anything that he had it--bad! "i'll try to make the little fool see!" he said. "gently, gently! you won't help me any in that mood," said laddie. "the chances are that miss pryor repeated what she heard from you long ago, and what she knows you think and feel, unless you've changed recently." "that's the amount of it!" cried mr. pryor. "all my life i've had a lot of beastly notions in my head about rank, and class, and here they don't amount to a damn! there's no place for them. things are different. your mother, a grand, good woman, opened my eyes to many things recently, and i get her viewpoint--clearly, and i agree with her, and with you, sir!--i agree with you!" "i am more than glad," said laddie. "you certainly make a friend at court. thank you very much!" "and you will come----?" "the instant miss pryor gives me the slightest sign that i am wanted, and will be welcomed by her, i'll come like a dakota blizzard! flos can hump herself on time for once." "but you won't come until she does?" "man alive! i can't!" cried laddie. "your daughter said positively exactly what she meant. it was unexpected and it hit me so hard i didn't try to argue. i simply took her at her word, her very explicit word." "fool!" cried mr. pryor. "the last thing on earth any woman ever wants or expects is for a man to take her at her word." "what?" cried laddie. "she had what she said in her mind of course, but what she wanted was to be argued out of it! she wanted to be convinced!" "i think not! she was entirely too convincing herself," said laddie. "it's my guess that she has thought matters over, and that her mind is made up; but i would take it as a mighty big favour if you would put that little piece of special pleading squarely up to her. will you?" "yes," said mr. pryor, "i will. i'll keep cool and do my best, but i am so unfortunate in my temper. i could manage slaves better than women. this time i'll be calm, and reason things out with her, or i'll blow out my brains." "don't you dare!" laughed laddie. "you and i are going to get much pleasure, comfort and profit from this world, now that we have come to an understanding." mr. pryor arose and held out his hand. laddie grasped it tight, and they stood there looking straight at each other, while a lark on the fence post close by cried, "spring o' ye-ar!" at them, over and over, but they never paid the least attention. "you see," said mr. pryor, "i've been thinking things over deeply, deeply! ever since talking with your mother. i've cut myself off from going back to england, by sacrificing much of my property in hasty departure, if by any possibility i should ever want to return, and there is none, not the slightest! there's no danger of any one crossing the sea, and penetrating to this particular spot so far inland; we won't be molested! and lately--lately, despite the rawness, and the newness, there is something about the land that takes hold, after all. i should dislike leaving now! i found in watching some roots your mother gave me, that i wanted them to grow, that i very much hoped they would develop, and beautify our place with flowers, as yours is. i find myself watching them, watching them daily, and oftener, and there seems to be a sort of home feeling creeping around my heart. i wish pamela would listen to reason! i wish she would marry you soon! i wish there would be little children. nothing else on earth would come so close to comforting my wife, and me also. nothing! go ahead, lad, plow away! i'll put your special pleading up to the girl." he clasped laddie's hand, mounted and rode back to the gate he had entered when he came. laddie sat on the rail, so i climbed down beside him. he put his arm around me. "do i feel any better?" he asked dubiously. "of course you do!" i said stoutly. "you feel whole heaps, and stacks, and piles better. you haven't got him to fight any more, or mrs. pryor. it's now only to convince the princess about how it's all right to plow." "small matter, that!" said laddie. "and easy! just as simple and easy!" "have you asked the fairies to help you?" "aye, aye, sir," said laddie. "also the winds, the flowers, the birds and the bees! i have asked everything on earth to help me except you, little sister. i wonder if i have been making a mistake there?" "are you mad at me, laddie?" "'cause for why?" "about the old crest thing!" "forget it!" laughed laddie. "i have. and anyway, in the long run, i must be honest enough to admit that it may have helped. it seems to have had its influence with mr. pryor, no doubt it worked the same on mrs. pryor, and it may be that it was because she had so much more to bank on than she ever expected, that the princess felt emboldened to make her demand. it may be, you can't tell! anyway, it's very evident that it did no real harm. and forget my jesting, chicken. a man can't always cry because there are tears in his heart. i think quite as much of that crest as you do. in the sum of human events, it is a big thing. no one admires a crusader more than i. no one likes a good fight better. no crusader ever put up a stiffer battle than i have in the past week while working in these fields. every inch of them is battlefield, every furrow a separate conflict. gaze upon the scene of my waterloo! when june covers it with green, it will wave over the resting place of my slain heart!" "oh laddie!" i sobbed. "there you go again! how can you?" "whoo-pee!" cried laddie. "that's the question! how can i? got to, little sister! there's no other way." "no," i was forced to admit, "there isn't. what are we going to do now?" "life-saver, we'll now go to dinner," said laddie. "nothing except the partnership implied in 'we' sustains me now. you'll find a way to help me out, won't you, little sister?" "of course i will!" i promised, without ever stopping a minute to think what kind of a job that was going to be. did you ever wish with all your might that something would happen, and wait for it, expect it, and long for it, and nothing did, until it grew so bad, it seemed as if you had to go on another minute you couldn't bear it? now i thought when mr. pryor talked to her, maybe she'd send for laddie that very same night; but send nothing! she didn't even ride on our road any more. of course her father had made a botch of it! bet i could have told her laddie's message straighter than he did. i could think it over, and see exactly how he'd do. he'd talk nicely about one minute, and the first word she said, that he didn't like, he'd be ranting, and using unsuitable words. just as like as not he told her that he'd lay his whip across her shoulders, like he had laddie. any one could see that as long as she was his daughter, she might be slightly handy with whips herself; at least she wouldn't be likely to stand still and tell him to go ahead and beat her. sunday laddie went to lucy's. he said he was having a family reunion on the installment plan. of course we laughed, but none of us missed the long look he sent toward pryors' as he mounted to start in the opposite direction. everything went on. i didn't see how it could, but it did. it even got worse, for another letter came from shelley that made matters concerning her no brighter, and while none of us talked about laddie, all of us knew mighty well how we felt; and what was much worse, how he felt. father and mother had quit worrying about god; especially father. he seemed to think that god and laddie could be trusted to take care of the princess, and i don't know exactly what mother thought. no doubt she saw she couldn't help herself, and so she decided it was useless to struggle. the plowing on the west side was almost finished, and some of the seed was in. laddie went straight ahead flower-trimmed and whistling until his face must have ached as badly as his heart. in spite of how hard he tried to laugh, and keep going, all of us could see that he fairly had to stick up his head and stretch his neck like the blue goose, to make the bites go down. and you couldn't help seeing the roundness and the colour go from his face, a little more every day. my! but being in love, when you couldn't have the one you loved, was the worst of all. i wore myself almost as thin as laddie, hunting a fairy to ask if she'd help me to make the princess let laddie go on and plow, when he was so crazy about it. i prayed beside my bed every night, until the lord must have grown so tired he quit listening to me, for i talked right up as impressively as i knew how, and it didn't do the least bit of good. i hadn't tried the one big prayer toward the east yet; but i was just about to the place where i intended to do it soon. chapter xv laddie, the princess, and the pie "o whistle, and i'll come to you, my lad." candace was baking the very first batch of rhubarb pies for the season and the odour was so tempting i couldn't keep away from the kitchen door. now candace was a splendid cook about chicken gizzards--the liver was always mother's--doughnuts and tarts, but i never really did believe she would cut into a fresh rhubarb pie, even for me. as i reached for the generous big piece i thought of laddie poor laddie, plowing away at his crusader fight, and not a hint of victory. no one in the family liked rhubarb pie better than he did. i knew there was no use to ask for a plate. "wait--oh wait!" i cried. i ran to the woodshed, pulled a shining new shingle from a bale stacked there, and held it for candace. then i slipped around the house softly. i didn't want to run any one's errands that morning. i laid the pie on the horseblock and climbed the catalpa carefully, so as not to frighten my robins. they were part father's too, because robins were his favourite birds; he said their song through and after rain was the sweetest music on earth, and mostly he was right; so they were not all my robins, but they were most mine after him; and i owned the tree. i hunted the biggest leaf i could see, and wiped it clean on my apron, although it was early for much dust. it covered the pie nicely, because it was the proper shape, and i held the stem with one hand to keep it in place. if i had made that morning myself i couldn't have done better. it was sunny, spring air, but it was that cool, spicy kind that keeps you stopping every few minutes to see just how full you can suck your lungs without bursting. it seemed to wash right through and through and make you all over. the longer you breathed it the clearer your head became, and the better you felt, until you would be possessed to try and see if you really couldn't fly. i tried that last summer, and knocked myself into jelly. you'd think once would have been enough, but there i was going down the road with laddie's pie, and wanting with all my heart to try again. sometimes i raced, but i was a little afraid the pie would shoot from the shingle and it was like pulling eye teeth to go fast that morning. i loved the soft warm dust, that was working up on the road. spat! spat! i brought down my bare feet, already scratched and turning brown, and laughed to myself at the velvety feel of it. there were little puddles yet, where may and i had "dipped and faded" last fall, and it was fun to wade them. the roadsides were covered with meadow grass and clover that had slipped through the fence. on slender green blades, in spot after spot, twinkled the delicate bloom of blue-eyed grass. never in all this world was our big creek lovelier. it went slipping, and whispering, and lipping, and lapping over the stones, tugging at the rushes and grasses as it washed their feet; everything beside it was in masses of bloom, a blackbird was gleaming and preening on every stone, as it plumed after its bath. oh there's no use to try--it was just spring when it couldn't possibly be any better. but even spring couldn't hold me very long that morning, for you see my heart was almost sick about laddie; and if he couldn't have the girl he wanted, at least i could do my best to comfort him with the pie. i was going along being very careful the more i thought about how he would like it, so i was not watching the road so far ahead as i usually did. i always kept a lookout for paddy ryan, gypsies, or whitmore's bull. when i came to an unusually level place, and took a long glance ahead, my heart turned right over and stopped still, and i looked long enough to be sure, and then right out loud some one said, "i'll do something!" and as usual, i was the only one there. for days i'd been in a ferment, like the vinegar barrel when the cider boils, or the yeast jar when it sets too close to the stove. to have laddie and the princess separated was dreadful, and knowing him as i did, i knew he never really would get over it. i had tried to help once, and what i had done started things going wrong; no wonder i was slow about deciding what to try next. that i was going to do something, i made up my mind the instant laddie said he was not mad at me; that i was his partner, and asked me to help; but exactly what would do any good, took careful thought. here was my chance coming right at me. she was far up the road, riding maud like racing. i began to breathe after a while, like you always do, no matter how you are worked up, and with my brain whirling, i went slowly toward her. how would i manage to stop her? or what could i say that would help laddie? i was shaking, and that's the truth; but through and over it all, i was watching her too. i only wish you might have seen her that morning. of course the morning was part of it. a morning like that would make a fence post better looking. half a mile away you could see she was tipsy with spring as i was, or the song sparrows, or the crazy babbling old bobolinks on the stakes and riders. she made such a bright splash against the pink fence row, with her dark hair, flushed cheeks, and red lips, she took my breath. father said she was the loveliest girl in three counties, and laddie stretched that to the whole world. as she came closer, smash! through me went the thought that she looked precisely as shelley had at christmas time; and shelley had been that way because she was in love with the paget man. now if the princess was gleaming and flashing like that, for the same reason, there wasn't any one for her to love so far as i knew, except laddie. then smash! came another thought. she had to love him! she couldn't help herself. she had all winter, all last summer, and no one but themselves knew how long before that, and where was there any other man like laddie? of course she loved him! who so deserving of love? who else had his dancing eyes of deep tender blue, cheeks so pink, teeth so white, such waving chestnut hair, and his height and breadth? there was no other man who could ride, swim, leap, and wrestle as he could. none who could sing the notes, do the queer sums with letters having little figures at the corners in the college books, read latin as fast as english, and even the greek bible. of course she loved him! every one did! others might plod and meander, laddie walked the tired, old road that went out of sight over the hill, with as prideful a step as any king; his laugh was as merry as the song of the gladdest thrush, while his touch was so gentle that when mother was in dreadful pain i sometimes thought she would a little rather have him hold her than father. now, he was in this fearful trouble, the colour was going from his face, his laugh was a little strained, and the heartache almost more than he could endure--and there she came! i stepped squarely in the middle of the road so she would have to stop or ride over me, and when she was close, i stood quite still. i was watching with my eyes, heart, and brain, and i couldn't see that she was provoked, as she drew rein and cried: "good morning, little queer person!" i had supposed she would say little sister, she had for ages, just like laddie, but she must have thought it was queer for me to stop her that way, so she changed. i was in for it. i had her now, so i smiled the very sweetest smile that i could think up in such a hurry, and said, "good morning," the very politest i ever did in all my life. then i didn't know what to do next, but she helped me out. "what have you there?" she asked. "it's a piece of the very first rhubarb pie for this spring, and i'm carrying it to laddie," i said, as i lifted the catalpa leaf and let her peep, just to show her how pie looked when it was right. i bet she never saw a nicer piece. the princess slid her hand down maud's neck to quiet her prancing, and leaned in the saddle, her face full of interest. i couldn't see a trace of anything to discourage me; her being on our road again looked favourable. she seemed to think quite as much of that pie as i did. she was the finest little thoroughbred. she understood so well, i was sorry i couldn't give it to her. it made her mouth water all right, for she drew a deep breath that sort of quivered; but it was no use, she didn't get that pie. "i think it looks delicious," she said. "are you carrying it for candace?" "no! she gave it to me. it's my very own." "and you're doing without it yourself to carry it to laddie, i'll be bound!" cried the princess. "i'd much rather," i said. "do you love laddie so dearly?" she asked. my heart was full of him right then; i forgot all about when i had the fever, and as i never had been taught to lie, i told her what i thought was the truth, and i guess it was: "best of any one in all this world!" the princess looked across the field, where she must have seen him finishing the plowing, and thought that over, and i waited, sure in my mind, for some reason, that she would not go for a little while longer. "i have been wanting to see you," she said at last. "in fact i think i came this way hoping i'd meet you. do you know the words to a tune that goes like this?" then she began to whistle "the merry farmer boy." i wish you might have heard the flourishes she put to it. "of course i do," i answered. "all of us were brought up on it." "well, i have some slight curiosity to learn what they are," she said. "would you kindly repeat them for me?" "yes," i said. "this is the first verse: "'see the merry farmer boy tramp the meadows through, swing his hoe in careless joy while dashing off the dew. bobolink in maple high----' "of course you can see for yourself that they're not. there isn't a single one of them higher than a fence post. the person who wrote the piece had to put it that way so high would rhyme with reply, which is coming in the next line." "i see!" said the princess. "'bobolink in maple high, trills a note of glee farmer boy a gay reply now whistles cheerily.' "then you whistle the chorus like you did it." "you do indeed!" said the princess. "proceed!" "'then the farmer boy at noon, rests beneath the shade, listening to the ceaseless tune that's thrilling through the glade. long and loud the harvest fly winds his bugle round, long, and loud, and shrill, and high, he whistles back the sound.'" "he does! he does indeed! i haven't a doubt about that!" cried the princess. "'long, and loud, and shrill, and high,' he whistles over and over the sound, until it becomes maddening. is that all of that melodious, entrancing production?" "no, evening comes yet. the last verse goes this way: "'when the busy day's employ, ends at dewy eve, then the happy farmer boy, doth haste his work to leave, trudging down the quiet lane, climbing o'er the hill, whistling back the changeless wail, of plaintive whip-poor-will,'-- and then you do the chorus again, and if you know how well enough you whistle in, 'whip-poor-will,' 'til the birds will answer you. laddie often makes them." "my life!" cried the princess. "was that he doing those bird cries? why, i hunted, and hunted, and so did father. we'd never seen a whip-poor-will. just fancy us!" "if you'd only looked at laddie," i said. "my patience!" cried the princess. "looked at him! there was no place to look without seeing him. and that ear-splitting thing will ring in my head forever, i know." "did he whistle it too high to suit you, princess?" "he was perfectly welcome to whistle as he chose," she said, "and also to plow with the carriage horses, and to bedeck them and himself with the modest, shrinking red tulip and yellow daffodil." now any one knows that tulips and daffodils are not modest and shrinking. if any flowers just blaze and scream colour clear across a garden, they do. she was provoked, you could see that. "well, he only did it to please you," i said. "he didn't care anything about it. he never plowed that way before. but you said he mustn't plow at all, and he just had to plow, there was no escaping that, so he made it as fine and happy as possible to show you how nicely it could be done." "greatly obliged, i'm sure!" cried the princess. "he showed me! he certainly did! and so he feels that there's 'no escaping' plowing, does he?" then i knew where i was. i'd have given every cent of mine in father's chest till, if mother had been in my place. once, for a second, i thought i'd ask the princess to go with me to the house, and let mother tell her how it was; but if she wouldn't go, and rode away, i felt i couldn't endure it, and anyway, she had said she was looking for me; so i gripped the shingle, dug in my toes and went at her just as nearly like mother talked to her father as i could remember, and i'd been put through memory tests, and descriptive tests, nearly every night of my life, so i had most of it as straight as a string. "well, you see, he can't escape it," i said. "he'd do anything in all this world for you that he possibly could; but there are some things no man can do." "i didn't suppose there was anything you thought laddie couldn't do," she said. "a little time back, i didn't," i answered. "but since he took the carriage horses, trimmed up in flowers, and sang and whistled so bravely, day after day, when his heart was full of tears, why i learned that there was something he just couldn't do; not to save his life, or his love, or even to save you." "and of course you don't mind telling me what that is?" coaxed the princess in her most wheedling tones. "not at all! he told our family, and i heard him tell your father. the thing he can't do, not even to win you, is to be shut up in a little office, in a city, where things roar, and smell, and nothing is like this----" i pointed out the orchard, hill, and meadow, so she looked where i showed her--looked a long time. "no, a city wouldn't be like this," she said slowly. "and that isn't even the beginning," i said. "maybe he could bear that, men have been put in prison and lived through years and years of it, perhaps laddie could too; i doubt it! but anyway the worst of it is that he just couldn't, not even to save you, spend all the rest of his life trying to settle other people's old fusses. he despises a fuss. not one of us ever in our lives have been able to make him quarrel, even one word. he simply won't. and if he possibly could be made to by any one on earth, leon would have done it long ago, for he can start a fuss with the side of a barn. but he can't make laddie fuss, and nobody can. he never would at school, or anywhere. once in a while if a man gets so overbearing that laddie simply can't stand it, he says: 'now, you'll take your medicine!' then he pulls off his coat, and carefully, choosing the right spots, he just pounds the breath out of that man, but he never stops smiling, and when he helps him up he always says: 'sorry! hope you'll excuse me, but you would have it.' that's what he said about you, that you had to take your medicine----" i made a mistake there. that made her too mad for any use. "oh," she cried, "i do? i'll jolly well show the gentleman!" "oh, you needn't take the trouble," i cried. "he's showing you!" she just blazed like she'd break into flame. any one could fuss with her all right; but that was the last thing on earth i wanted to do. "you see he already knows about you," i explained as fast as i could talk, for i was getting into an awful mess. "you see he knows that you want him to be a lawyer, and that he must quit plowing before he can be more than friends with you. that's what he's plowing for! if it wasn't for that, probably he wouldn't; be plowing at all. he asked father to let him, and he borrowed mother's horses, and he hooked the flowers through the fence. every night when he comes home, he kneels beside mother and asks her if he is 'repulsive,' and she takes him in her arms and the tears roll down her cheeks and she says: 'father has farmed all his life, and you know how repulsive he is.'" i ventured an upward peep. i was doing better. her temper seemed to be cooling, but her face was a jumble. i couldn't find any one thing on it that would help me, so i just stumbled ahead guessing at what to say. "he didn't want to do it. he perfectly hated it. those fields were his waterloo. every furrow was a fight, but he was forced to show you." "exactly what was he trying to show me?" "i can think of three things he told me," i answered. "that plowing could be so managed as not to disfigure the landscape----" "the dunce!" she said. "that he could plow or do dirtier work, and not be repulsive----" "the idiot!" she said. "that if he came over there, and plowed right under your nose, when you'd told him he mustn't, or he couldn't be more than friends; and when you knew that he'd much rather die and be laid beside the little sisters up there in the cemetery than to not be more than friends, why, you'd see, if he did that, he couldn't help it, that he just must. that he was forced----" "the soldier!" she said. "oh princess, he didn't want to!" i cried. "he tells me secrets he doesn't any one else, unless you. he told me how he hated it; but he just had to do it." "do you know why?" "of course! it's the way he's made! father is like that! he has chances to live in cities, make big business deals, and go to the legislature at indianapolis; i've seen his letters from his friend oliver p. morton, our governor, you know; they're in his chest till now; but father can't do it, because he is made so he stays at home and works for us, and this farm, and township, and county where he belongs. he says if all men will do that the millennium will come to-morrow. i 'spose you know what the millennium is?" "i do!" said the princess. "but i don't know what your father and his friend oliver p. morton have to do with laddie." "why, everything on earth! laddie is father's son, you see, and he is made like father. none of our other boys is. not one of them loves land. leon is going away as quick as ever he finishes college; but the more you educate laddie, the better he likes to make things grow, the more he loves to make the world beautiful, to be kind to every one, to gentle animals--why, the biggest fight he ever had, the man he whipped 'til he most couldn't bring him back again, was one who kicked his horse in the stomach. gee, i thought he'd killed him! laddie did too for a while, but he only said the man deserved it." "and so he did!" cried the princess angrily. "how beastly!" "that's one reason laddie sticks so close to land. he says he doesn't meet nearly so many two-legged beasts in the country. almost every time he goes to town he either gets into a fight or he sees something that makes him fighting mad. princess, you think this beautiful, don't you?" i just pointed anywhere. all the world was in it that morning. you couldn't look right or left and not see lovely places, hear music, and smell flowers. "yes! it is altogether wonderful!" she said. "would you like to live among this all your life, and have your plans made to fix you a place even nicer, and then be forced to leave it and go to a little room in the city, and make all the money you earned off of how much other men fight over business, and land and such perfectly awful things, that they always have to be whispered when jerry tells about them? would you?" "you little dunce!" she cried. "i know i'm a fool. i know i'm not telling you a single thing i should! maybe i'm hurting laddie far more than i'm helping him, and if i am, i wish i would die before i see him; but oh! princess, i'm trying with all my might to make you understand how he feels. he wants to do every least thing you'd like him to. he will, almost any thing else in the world, he would this--he would in a minute, but he just can't. all of us know he can't! if you'd lived with him since he was little and always had known him, you wouldn't ask him to; you wouldn't want him to! you don't know what you're doing! mother says you don't! you'll kill him if you send him to the city to live, you just will! you are doing it now! he's getting thinner and whiter every day. don't! oh please don't do it!" the princess was looking at the world. she was gazing at it so dazed-like she seemed to be surprised at what she saw. she acted as if she'd never really seen it before. she looked and she looked. she even turned her horse a full circle to see all of it, and she went around slowly. i stepped from one foot to the other and sweat; but i kept quiet and let her look. at last when she came around, she glanced down at me, and she was all melted, and lovely as any one you ever saw, exactly like shelley at christmas, and she said: "i don't think i ever saw the world before. i don't know that i'm so crazy about a city myself, and i perfectly hate lawyers. come to thing of it, a lawyer helped work ruin in our family, and i never have believed, i never will believe----" she stopped talking and began looking again. i gave her all the time she needed. i was just straining to be wise, for mother says it takes the very wisest person there is to know when to talk, and when to keep still. as i figured it, now was the time not to say another word until she made up her mind about what i had told her already. if pryors didn't know what we thought of them by that time, it wasn't mother's fault or mine. as she studied things over she kept on looking. what she saw seemed to be doing her a world of good. her face showed it every second plainer and plainer. pretty soon it began to look like she was going to come through as amos hurd did when he was redeemed. then, before my very eyes, it happened! i don't know how i ever held on to the pie or kept from shouting, "praise the lord!" as father does at the meeting house when he is happiest. then she leaned toward me all wavery, and shining eyed, and bloomful, and said: "did you ever hurt laddie's feelings, and make him angry and sad?" "i'm sure i never did," i answered. "but suppose you had! what would you do?" "do? why, i'd go to him on the run, and i'd tell him i never intended to hurt his feelings, and how sorry i was, and i'd give him the very best kiss i could." the princess stroked maud's neck a long time and thought while she studied our farm, theirs beyond it, and at the last, the far field where laddie was plowing. she thought, and thought, and afraid to cheep, i stood gripping the shingle and waited. finally she said: "the last time laddie was at our house, i said to him those things he repeated to you. he went away at once, hurt and disappointed. now, if you like, along with your precious pie, you may carry him this message from me. you may tell him that i said i am sorry!" i could have cried "glory!" and danced and shouted there in the road, but i didn't. it was no time to lose my head. that was all so fine and splendid, as far as it went, but it didn't quite cover the case. i never could have done it for myself; but for laddie i would venture anything, so i looked her in the eyes, straight as a dart, and said: "he'd want the kiss too, princess!" you could see her stiffen in the saddle and her fingers grip the reins, but i kept on staring right into her eyes. "i could come up, you know," i offered. a dull red flamed in her cheeks and her lips closed tight. one second she sat very still, then a dancing light leaped sparkling into her eyes; a flock of dimples chased each other around her lips like swallows circling their homing place at twilight. "what about that wonderful pie?" she asked me. i ran to the nearest fence corner, and laid the shingle on the gnarled roots of a johnny appleseed apple tree. then i set one foot on the arch of the princess' instep and held up my hands. one second i thought she would not lift me, the next i was on her level and her lips met mine in a touch like velvet woven from threads of flame. then with a turn of her stout little wrist, she dropped me, and a streak went up our road. nothing so amazing and so important ever had happened to me. it was an occasion that demanded something unusual. to cry, "praise the lord!" was only to repeat an hourly phrase at our house; this demanded something out of the ordinary, so i said just exactly as father did the day the brown mare balked with the last load of seed clover, when a big storm was breaking--"jupiter ammon!" when i had calmed down so i could, i climbed the fence, and reached through a crack for the pie. as i followed the cool, damp furrow, and laddie's whistle, clear as the lark's above the wheat, thrilled me, i was almost insane with joy. just joy! pure joy! oh what a good world it was!--most of the time! most of the time! of course, there were paget men in it. but anyway, this couldn't be beaten. i had a message for laddie from the princess that would send him to the seventh heaven, wherever that was; no one at our house spent any time thinking farther than the first one. i had her kiss, that i didn't know what would do to him, and i also had a big piece of juicy rhubarb pie not yet entirely cold. if that didn't wipe out the trouble i had made showing the old crest thing, nothing ever could. i knew even then, that men were pretty hard to satisfy, but i was quite certain that laddie would be satisfied that morning. as i hurried along i wondered whether it would be better to give him my gift first, or the princess'. i decided that joy would keep, while the pie was cold enough, with all the time i had stopped; and if i told him about her first, maybe he wouldn't touch it at all, and it wasn't so easy as it looked to carry it to him and never even once stick in my finger for the tiniest lick--joy would keep; but i was going to feed him; so with shining face, i offered the pie and stood back to see just how happy i could get. "mother send it?" asked laddie. people were curious that morning, as if i had a habit of stealing pie. i only took pieces of cut ones from the cellar when mother didn't care. so i explained again that candace gave it to me, and i was free to bring it. "oh i see!" said laddie. after nearly two weeks of work, the grays had sobered down enough to stand without tying; so he wound the lines around the plow handle, sat on the beam, and laid aside his hat, having a fresh flower in the band. once he started a thing, he just simply wouldn't give up. he unbuttoned his neckband until i could see his throat where it was white like a woman's, took out his knife and ate that pie. of course we knew better than to use a knife at the table, but there was no other way in the field. he ate that pie, slowly and deliberately, and between bites he talked. i watched him with a wide grin, wondering what in this world he would say, in a minute. i don't think i ever had quite such a good time in all my life before, and i never expect to again. he was saying: "talk about nectar and ambrosia! talk about the feasts of lucullus! talk about food for the gods!" i put on his hat, sat on the ground in front of him, and was the happiest girl in the world, of that i am quite sure. when the last morsel was finished, laddie looked at me steadily. "i wonder," he said, "i wonder if there's another man in the world who is blest with quite such a loving, unselfish little sister as mine?" then he answered himself: "no! by all the gods, ant half-gods, i swear it--no!" it was grand as a fourth of july oration or the most exciting part when the bishop dedicated our church. i couldn't hold in another second, i could hear my heart beat. "oh laddie!" i shouted, jumping up, "that pie is only the beginning of the good things i have brought you. i have a message, and a gift besides, laddie!" "a message and a gift?" laddie repeated. "what! more?" "truly i have a message and a gift for you," i cried, "and laddie--they are from the princess!" his eyes raised to mine now, and slowly he turned sabethany-like. "from the princess!" he exclaimed. "a message and a gift for me, little sister? you never would let leon put you up to serve me a trick?" that hurt. he should have known i wouldn't, and besides, "leon feels just as badly about this as any of us," i said. "have you forgotten he offered to plow, and let you do the clean, easy work?" "forgive me! i'm overanxious," said laddie, his arms reaching for me. "go on and tell carefully, and if you truly love me, don't make a mistake!" crowding close, my arms around his neck, his crisp hair against my lips, i whispered my story softly, for this was such a fine and splendid secret, that not even the shining blackbirds, and the pert robins in the furrows were going to get to hear a word of it. before i had finished laddie was breathing as flos does when he races her the limit. he sat motionless for a long time, while over his face slowly crept a beauty that surpassed that of apollo in his greek book. "and her gift?" it was only a breath. "she helped me up, and she sent you this," i answered. then i set my lips on his, and held them there a second, trying my level best to give him her very kiss, but of course i could only try. "oh, laddie," i cried. "her eyes were like when stars shine down in our well! her cheeks were like mother's damask roses! she smelled like flowers, and when her lips touched mine little stickers went all over me!" then laddie's arms closed around me and i thought sure every bone in my body was going to be broken; when he finished there wasn't a trace of that kiss left for me. remembering it would be all i'd ever have. it made me see what would have happened to the princess if she had been there; and it was an awful pity for her to miss it, because he'd sober down a lot before he reached her, but i was sure as shooting that he wouldn't be so crazy as to kiss her hands again. peter wasn't a patching to him! that night laddie rode to pryors'. when he brought flos to the gate you could see the shadow of your face on her shining flank; her mane and tail were like ravelled silk, her hoofs bright as polished horn, and her muzzle was clean as a ribbon. i broke one of those rank green sprouts from the snowball bush and brushed away the flies, so she wouldn't fret, stamp, and throw dust on herself. then laddie came, fresh from a tubbing, starched linen, dressed in his new riding suit, and wearing top hat and gauntlets. he looked the very handsomest i ever had seen him; and at the same time, he seemed trembling with tenderness, and bursting with power. goodness sake! i bet the princess took one good look and "came down" like davy crockett's coon. mother was on his arm and she walked clear to the gate with him. "laddie, are you sure enough to go?" i heard her ask him whisper-like. "sure as death!" laddie answered. mother looked, and she had to see how it was with him; no doubt she saw more than i did from having been through it herself, so she smiled kind of a half-sad, half-glad smile. then she turned to her damask rose bush, the one lucy brought her from the city, and that she was so precious about, that none of us dared touch it, and she searched all over it and carefully selected the most perfect rose. when she borrowed laddie's knife and cut the stem as long as my arm, i knew exactly how great and solemn the occasion was; for always before about six inches had been her limit. she held it toward him, smiling bravely and beautifully, but the tears were running straight down her cheeks. "take it to her," she said. "i think, my son, it is very like." laddie took her in his arms and wiped away the tears; he told her everything would come out all right about god, and the mystery, even. then he picked me clear off the ground, and he tried to see how near he could come to cracking every bone in my body without really doing it, and he kissed me over and over. it hadn't been so easy, but i guess you'll admit that paid. then he rode away with the damask rose waving over his heart. mother and i stood beside the hitching rack and looked after him, with our arms tight around each other while we tried to see which one could bawl the hardest. chapter xvi the homing pigeon "a millstone and the human heart, are ever driven round, and if they've nothing else to grind, they must themselves be ground." it seemed to me that my mother was the person who really could have been excused for having heart trouble. the more i watched her, the more i wondered that she didn't. there was her own life, the one she and father led, where everything went exactly as she wanted it to; and if there had been only themselves to think of, no people on earth could have lived happier, unless the pain she sometimes suffered made them trouble, and i don't think it would, for neither of them were to blame for that. they couldn't help it. they just had it to stand, and fight the stiffest they could to cure it, and mother always said she was better; every single time any one asked, she was better. i hoped soon it would all be gone. then they could have been happy for sure, if some of us hadn't popped up and kept them in hot water all the time. i can't tell you about laddie when he came back from pryors'. he tore down the house, then tore it up, and then threw around the pieces, and none of us cared. every one was just laughing, shouting, and every bit as pleased as he was, while i was the queen bee. laddie said so, himself, and if he didn't know, no one did. pryors had been lovely to him. when mother asked him how he made it, he answered: "i rode over, picked up the princess and helped myself. after i finished, i remembered the little unnecessary formality of asking her to marry me; and she said right out loud that she would. when i had time for them, i reached father and mother pryor, and maybe it doesn't show, but somewhere on my person i carry their blessing, genially and heartily given, i am proud to state. now, i'm only needing yours, to make me a king among men." they gave it quite as willingly, i am sure, although you could see mother scringe when laddie said "father and mother pryor." i knew why. she adored laddie, like the bible says you must adore the almighty. from a tiny baby laddie had taken care of her. he used to go back, take her hand, and try to help her over rough places while he still wore dresses. straight on, he had been like that; always seeing when there was too much work and trying to shield her; always knowing when a pain was coming and fighting to head it off; always remembering the things the others forgot, going to her last at night, and his face against hers on her pillow the first in the morning, to learn how she was before he left the house. if you were the mother of a man like that, how would you like to hear him call some one else mother, and have the word slip from his tongue so slick you could see he didn't even realize that he had used it? the answer would be, if you were honest, that you wouldn't have liked it any more than she did. she knew he had to go. she wanted him to be happy. she was as sure of the man he was going to be as she was sure of the mercy of god. that is the strongest way i know to tell it. she was unshakably sure of the mercy of god, but i wasn't. there were times when it seemed as if he couldn't hear the most powerful prayer you could pray, and when instead of mercy, you seemed to get the last torment that could be piled on. take right now. laddie was happy, and all of us were, in a way; and in another we were almost stiff with misery. i dreaded his leaving us so, i would slip to the hawk oak and cry myself sick, more than once; whether any of the others were that big babies i don't know; but anyway, they were not his little sister. i was. i always had been. i always would be, for that matter; but there was going to be a mighty big difference. i had the poor comfort that i'd done the thing myself. maybe if it hadn't been for stopping the princess when i took him that pie, they never would have made up, and she might have gone across the sea and stayed there. maybe she'd go yet, as mysteriously as she had come, and take him along. sometimes i almost wished i hadn't tried to help him; but of course i didn't really. then, too, i had sense enough to know that loving each other as they did, they wouldn't live on that close together for years and years, and not find a way to make up for themselves, like they had at the start. i liked laddie saying i had made his happiness for him; but i wasn't such a fool that i didn't know he could have made it for himself just as well, and no doubt better. so everything was all right with laddie; and what happened to us, the day he rode away for the last time, when he went to stay--what happened to us, then, was our affair. we had to take it, but every one of us dreaded it, while mother didn't know how to bear it, and neither did i. once i said to her: "mother, when laddie goes we'll just have to make it up to each other the best we can, won't we?" "oh my soul, child!" she cried, staring at me so surprised-like. "why, how unspeakably selfish i have been! no little lost sheep ever ran this farm so desolate as you will be without your brother. forgive me baby, and come here!" gee, but we did cry it out together! the god she believed in has wiped away her tears long ago; this minute i can scarcely see the paper for mine. if you could call anything happiness, that was mixed with feeling like that, why, then, we were happy about laddie. but from things i heard father and mother say, i knew they could have borne his going away, and felt a trifle better than they did. i was quite sure they had stopped thinking that he was going to lose his soul, but they couldn't help feeling so long as that old mystery hung over pryors that he might get into trouble through it. father said if it hadn't been for mr. pryor's stubborn and perverted notions about god, he would like the man immensely, and love to be friends; and if laddie married into the family we would have to be as friendly as we could anyway. he said he had such a high opinion of mr. pryor's integrity that he didn't believe he'd encourage laddie to enter his family if it would involve the boy in serious trouble. mother didn't know. anyway, the thing was done, and by fall, no doubt, laddie would leave us. just when we were trying to keep a stiff upper lip before him, and whistling as hard as ever he had, to brace our courage, a letter came for mother from the head of the music school shelley attended, saying she was no longer fit for work, so she was being sent home at once, and they would advise us to consult a specialist immediately. mother sat and stared at father, and father went to hitch the horses to drive to groveville. there's only one other day of my life that stands out as clearly as that. the house was clean as we could make it. i finished feeding early, and had most of the time to myself. i went down to the big hill, and followed the top of it to our woods. then i turned around, and started toward the road, just idling. if i saw a lovely spot i sat down and watched all around me to see if a fairy really would go slipping past, or lie asleep under a leaf. i peeked and peered softly, going from spot to spot, watching everything. sometimes i hung over the water, and studied tiny little fish with red, yellow, and blue on them, bright as flowers. the dragonflies would alight right on me, and some wore bright blue markings and some blood red. there was a blue beetle, a beautiful green fly, and how the blue wasps did flip, flirt and glint in the light. so did the blackbirds and the redwings. that embankment was left especially to shade the water, and to feed the birds. every foot of it was covered with alders, wild cherry, hazelbush, mulberries, everything having a berry or nut. there were several scrub apple trees, many red haws, the wild strawberries spread in big beds in places, and some of them were colouring. wild flowers grew everywhere, great beds were blue with calamus, and the birds flocked in companies to drive away the water blacksnakes that often found nests, and liked eggs and bird babies. when i came to the road at last, the sun was around so the big oak on the top of the hill threw its shadow across the bridge, and i lay along one edge and watched the creek bottom, or else i sat up so the water flowed over my feet, and looked at the embankment and the sky. in a way, it was the most peculiar day of my life. i had plenty to think of, but i never thought at all. i only lived. i sat watching the world go past through a sort of golden haze the sun made. when a pair of kingbirds and three crows chased one of my hawks pell-mell across the sky, i looked on and didn't give a cent what happened. when a big blacksnake darted its head through sweet grass and cattails, and caught a frog that had climbed on a mossy stone in the shade to dine on flies, i let it go. any other time i would have hunted a stick and made the snake let loose. to-day i just sat there and let things happen as they did. at last i wandered up the road, climbed the back garden fence, and sat on the board at the edge of a flowerbed, and to-day, i could tell to the last butterfly about that garden: what was in bloom, how far things had grown, and what happened. bobby flew under the bartlett pear tree and crowed for me, but i never called him. i sat there and lived on, and mostly watched the bees tumble over the bluebells. they were almost ready to be cut to put in the buttered tumblers for perfume, like mother made for us. then i went into the house and looked at grace greenwood, but i didn't take her along. mother came past and gave me a piece of stiff yellow brocaded silk as lovely as i ever had seen, enough for a dress skirt; and a hand-embroidered chemise sleeve that only needed a band and a button to make a petticoat for a queen doll, but i laid them away and wandered into the orchard. i dragged my bare feet through the warm grass, and finally sat under the beet red peach tree. if ever i seemed sort of lost and sorry for myself, that was a good place to go; it was so easy to feel abused there because you didn't dare touch those peaches. fluffy baby chickens were running around, but i didn't care; there was more than a bird for every tree, bluebirds especially; they just loved us and came early and stayed late, and grew so friendly they nested all over the wood house, smoke house, and any place we fixed for them, and in every hollow apple limb. bobby came again, but i didn't pay any attention to him. then i heard the carriage cross the bridge. i knew when it was father, every single time his team touched the first plank. so i ran like an indian, and shinned up a cedar tree, scratching myself until i bled. away up i stood on a limb, held to the tree and waited. father drove to the gate, and mother came out, with may, candace, and leon following. when shelley touched the ground and straightened, any other tree except a spruce having limbs to hold me up, i would have fallen from it. she looked exactly as if she had turned to tombstone with eyes and hair alive. she stopped a second to brush a little kiss across mother's lips, to the others she said without even glancing at them: "oh do let me lie down a minute! the motion of that train made me sick." well, i should say it did! i quit living, and began thinking in a hooray, and so did every one else at our house. once i had been sick and queened it over them for a while, now all of us strained ourselves trying to wait on shelley; but she wouldn't have it. she only said she was tired to death, to let her rest, and she turned her face to the wall and lay there. once she said she never wanted to see a city again so long as she lived. when mother told her about laddie and the princess to try to interest her, she never said a word; i doubted if she even listened. father and mother looked at each other, when they thought no one would see, and their eyes sent big, anxious questions flashing back and forth. i made up my mind i'd keep awake that night and hear what they said, if i had to take pins to bed with me and stick myself. once mother said to shelley that she was going to send for dr. fenner, and she answered: "all right, if you need him. don't you dare for me! i'll not see him. all i want is a little peace and rest." the idea! not one of us ever had spoken to mother like that before in all our born days. i held my breath to see what she would do, but she didn't seem to have heard it, or to notice how rude it had been. well, that told about as plain as anything what we had on our hands. i wandered around and now there was no trouble about thinking things. they came in such a jumble i could get no sense from them; but one big black thought came over, and over, and over, and wouldn't be put away. it just stood, stayed, forced you, and made you look it in the face. if shelley weren't stopped quickly she was going up on the hill with the little fever and whooping cough sisters. there it was! you could try to think other things, to play, to work, to talk it down in the pulpit, to sing it out in a tree, to slide down the haystack away from it--there it stayed! and every glimpse you had of shelley made it surer. there was no trouble about keeping awake that night; i couldn't sleep. i stood at the window and looked down the big hill through the soft white moonlight, and thought about it, and then i thought of mother. i guess now you see what kind of things mothers have to face. all day she had gone around doing her work, every few minutes suggesting some new thing for one of us to try, or trying it herself; all day she had talked and laughed, and when sarah hood came she told her she thought shelley must be bilious, that she had travelled all night and was sleeping: but she would be up the first place she went, and then they talked all over creation and mrs. hood went home and never remembered that she hadn't seen shelley. she worked mrs. freshett off the same way, but you could see she was almost too tired to do it, so by night she was nearly as white as shelley, yet keeping things going. when the house was still, she came into the room, and stood at the window as i had, until father entered, then she turned, and i could see they were staring at each other in the moonlight, as they had all day. "she's sick?" asked father, at last. "heartsick!" said mother bitterly. "we'd better have doc come?" "she says she isn't sick, and she won't see him." "she will if i put my foot down." "best not, paul! she'll feel better soon. she's so young! she must get over it." they were silent for a long time and then father asked in a harsh whisper: "ruth, can she possibly have brought us to shame?" "god forbid!" cried mother. "let us pray." then those two people knelt on each side of that bed, and i could hear half the words they muttered, until i was wild enough to scream. i wished with all my heart that i hadn't listened. i had always known it was no nice way. i must have gone to sleep after a while, but when i woke up i was still thinking about it, and to save me, i couldn't quit. all day, wherever i went, that question of father's kept going over in my head. i thought about it until i was almost crazy, and i just couldn't see where anything about shame came in. she was only mistaken. she thought he loved her, and he didn't. she never could have been so bloomy, so filled with song, laughter, and lovely like she was, if she hadn't truly believed with all her heart that he loved her. of course it would almost finish her to give him up, when she felt like that; and maybe she did wrong to let herself care so much, before she was sure about him; but that would only be foolish, there wouldn't be even a shadow of shame about it. besides, laddie had done exactly the same thing. he loved the princess until it nearly killed him when he thought he had to give her up, and he loved her as hard as ever he could, when he hadn't an idea whether she would love him back, even a tiny speck; and the person who wasn't foolish, and never would be, was laddie. the more i thought, the worse i got worked up, and i couldn't see how shelley was to blame for anything at all. love just came to her, like it came to laddie. she would hardly have knelt down and beseeched the lord to make her fall in love with a man she scarcely knew, and when she couldn't be sure what he was going to do about it--not the lord, the man, i mean. you could see for yourself she wouldn't do that. i finished my work, and then i tried to do things for her, and she wouldn't let me. mother told me to ask her to make grace greenwood the dress she had promised when i was so sick; so i took the scotch plaid to her and reminded her, and she pushed me away and said: "some time!" i even got grace, and showed shelley the spills on her dress, and how badly she needed a new one, but she never looked, she said: "oh bother! my head aches. do let me be!" mother was listening. i could see her standing outside the door. she motioned to me to come away, so i went to her and she was white as shelley. she was sick too, she couldn't say a word for a minute, but after a while she kissed me, i could feel the quivers in her lips, and she said stifflike: "never mind, she'll be better soon, then she will! run play now!" sometimes i wandered around looking at things and living dully. i didn't try to study out anything, but i must have watched closer than i knew, for every single thing i saw then, over that whole farm, i can shut my eyes and see to-day; everything, from the old hawk tilting his tail to steer him in soaring, to a snake catching field mice in the grass, lichens on the fence, flowers, butterflies, every single thing. mostly i sat to watch something that promised to become interesting, and before i knew it, i was back on the shame question. that's the most dreadful word in the dictionary. there's something about it that makes your face burn, only to have it in your mind. laddie said he never had met any man who knew the origin of more words than father. he could even tell every clip what nationality a man was from his name. hundreds of time i have heard him say to stranger people, "from your name you'd be of scotch extraction," or irish, or whatever it was, and every time the person he was talking with would say, "yes." some day away out in the field, alone, i thought i would ask him what people first used the word "shame," and just exactly what it did mean, and what the things were that you could do that would make the people who loved you until they would die for you, ashamed of you. thinking about that and planning out what it was that i wanted to know, gave me another idea. why not ask her? she was the only one who knew what she had done away there in the city, alone among strangers; i wasn't sure whether all the music a girl could learn was worth letting her take the chances she would have to in a big city. from the way laddie and father hated them, they were a poor place for men, and they must have been much worse for girls. shelley knew, why not ask her? maybe i could coax her to tell me, and it would make my life much easier to know; and only think what was going on in father's and mother's heads and hearts, when i felt that way, and didn't even know what there was to be ashamed about. she wouldn't any more than slap me; and sick as she was, i made up my mind not to get angry at her, or ever to tell, if she did. i'd rather have her hit me when she was so sick than to have sally beat me until she couldn't strike another lick, just because she was angry. but i forgave her that, and i was never going to think of it again--only i did. mother kept sending leon to the post-office, and she met him at the gate half the time herself and fairly snatched the letters from his hands. hum! she couldn't pull the wool over my eyes. i knew she hoped somehow, some way, there would be a big fat one with paget, legal adviser, or whatever a chicago lawyer puts on his envelopes. jerry's just say: "attorney at law." no letter ever came that had paget in the corner, or anything happened that did shelley any good. far otherwise! just before supper leon came from groveville one evening, and all of us could see at a glance that he had been crying like a baby. he had wiped up, and was trying to hold in, but he was killed, next. i nearly said, "well, for heaven's sake, another!" when i saw him. he slammed down a big, long envelope, having printing on it, before father, and glared at it as if he wanted to tear it to smithereens, and he said: "if you want to know why it looks like that, i buried it under a stone once; but i had to go back, and then i threw it as far as i could send it, into ditton's gully, but after a while i hunted it up again!" then he keeled over on the couch mother keeps for her in the dining-room, and sobbed until he looked like he'd come apart. of course all of us knew exactly what that letter was from the way he acted. mother had told him, time and again, not to set his heart so; father had, too and laddie, and every one of us, but that little half-arab, half-kentucky mare was the worst temptation a man who loved horses could possibly have; and while father and mother stopped at good work horses, and matched roadsters for the carriage, they managed to prize and tend them so that every one of us had been born horse-crazy, and we had been allowed to ride, care for, and taught to love horses all our lives. treat a horse ugly, and we'd have gone on the thrashing floor ourselves. father laid the letter face down, his hand on it, and shook his head. "this is too bad!" he said. "it's a burning shame, but the money, the exact amount, was taken from a farmer in medina county, ohio, by a traveller he sheltered a few days, because he complained of a bad foot. the description of the man who robbed us is perfect. the money was from the sale of some prize cattle. it will have to be returned." "just let me see the letter a minute," said laddie. he read it over thoughtfully. he was long enough about it to have gone over it three times; then he looked at leon, and his forehead creased in a deep frown. the tears slid down mother's cheeks, but she didn't know it, or else she'd have wiped them away. she was never mussy about the least little thing. "father!" she said. "father----!" that was as far as she could go. "the man must have his money," said father, "but we'll look into this----" he pushed back the plates and tablecloth, and cleared his end of the table. mother never budged to stack the plates, or straighten the cloth so it wouldn't be wrinkled. then father brought his big account book from the black walnut chest in our room, some little books, and papers, sharpened a pencil and began going up and down the columns and picking out figures here and there that he set on a piece of paper. i never had seen him look either old or tired before; but he did then. mother noticed it too, for her lips tightened, she lifted her head, wiped her eyes, and pretended that she felt better. laddie said something about doing the feeding, and slipped out. just then shelley came into the room, stopped, and looked questioningly at us. her eyes opened wide, and she stared hard at leon. "why what ails him?" she asked mother. "you remember what i wrote you about a man who robbed us, and the money leon was to have, provided no owner was found in a reasonable time; and the horse the boy had planned to buy, and how he had been going to pryors'--oh, i think he's slipped over there once a day, and often three times, all this spring! mr. pryor encouraged him, let him take his older horses to practise on, even went out and taught him cross-country riding himself----" "i remember!" said shelley. leon sobbed out loud. shelley crossed the room swiftly, dropped beside him and whispered something in his ear. quick as a shot his arm reached out and went around her. she hid her head deep in the pillow beside him, and they went to pieces together. clear to pieces! pretty soon father had to take off his glasses and wipe them so he could see the figures. mother took one long look at him, a short one at leon and shelley, then she arose, her voice as even and smooth, and she said: "while you figure, father, i'll see about supper. i have tried to plan an extra good one this evening." she left the room. now, i guess you know about all i can tell you of mother! i can't see that there's a thing left. that was the kind of soldier she was. talk about crusaders, and a good fight! all the blood of battle in our family wasn't on father's side, not by any means! the dutch could fight too! father's pencil scraped a little, a bee that had slipped in buzzed over the apple butter, while the clock ticked as if it used a hammer. it was so loud one wanted to pitch it from the window. may and i sat still as mice when the cat is near. candace couldn't keep away from the kitchen door to save her, and where mother went i hadn't an idea, but she wasn't getting an extra good supper. shelley and leon were quieter now. may nudged me, and i saw that his arm around her was gripping her tight, while her hand on his head was patting him and fingering his hair. ca-lumph! ca-lumph! came the funniest sound right on the stone walk leading to the east door, then a shrill whicker that made father drop his pencil. leon was on his feet, shelley beside him, while at the door stood laddie grinning as if his face would split, and with her forefeet on the step and her nose in the room, stood the prettiest, the very prettiest horse i ever saw. she was sticking her nose toward leon, whinnying softly, as she lifted one foot, and if laddie hadn't backed her, she would have walked right into the dining-room. "come on, weiscope, she's yours!" said laddie. "take her to the barn, and put her in one of the cow stalls, until we fix a place for her." leon crossed the room, but he never touched the horse. he threw his arms around laddie's neck. "son! son! haven't you let your feelings run away with you? what does this mean?" asked father sternly. "there's nothing remarkable in a big six-footer like me buying a horse," said laddie. "i expect to purchase a number soon, and without a cent to pay, in the bargain. i contracted to give five hundred dollars for this mare. she is worth more; but that should be satisfactory all around. i am going to earn it by putting five of mr. pryor's fancy, pedigreed horses in shape for market, taking them personally, and selling them to men fit to own and handle real horses. i get one hundred each, and my expenses for the job. i'll have as much fun doing it as i ever had at anything. it suits me far better than plowing, even." mother entered the room at a sweep, and pushed leon aside. "oh you man of my heart!" she cried. "you man after my own heart!" laddie bent and kissed her, holding her tight as he looked over her head at father. "it's all right, of course?" he said. "i never have known of anything quite so altogether right," said father. "thank you, lad, and god bless you!" he took laddie's hand, and almost lifted him from the floor, then he wiped his glasses, gathered up his books with a big, deep breath of relief, and went into his room. if the others had looked to see why he was gone so long, they would have seen him on his knees beside his bed thanking god, as usual. leon couldn't have come closer than when he said, "the same yesterday, to-day, and forever," about father. leon had his arms around the neck of his horse now, and he was kissing her, patting her, and explaining to shelley just why no other horse was like her. he was pouring out a jumble all about the oasis of the desert, the tent dwellers, quoting lines from "the arab to his horse," bluegrass, and gentleness combined with spirit, while shelley had its head between her hands, stroking it and saying, "yes," to every word leon told her. then he said: "just hop on her back from that top step and ride her to the barn, if you want to see the motion she has." shelley said: "has a woman ever been on her back? won't she shy at my skirts?" "no," explained leon. "i've been training her with a horse blanket pinned around me, so susie could ride her! she'll be all right." so shelley mounted, and the horse turned her head, and tried to rub against her, as she walked away, tame as a sheep. i wondered if she could be too gentle. if she went "like the wind," as leon said, it didn't show then. i was almost crazy to go along, and maybe leon would let me ride a little while; but i had a question that it would help me to know the answer and i wanted to ask father before i forgot; so i waited until he came out. when he sat down, smiled at me and said, "well, is the girl happy for brother?" i knew it was a good time, and i could ask anything i chose, so i sat on his knee and said: "father, when you pray for anything that it's all perfectly right for you to have, does god come down from heaven and do it himself, or does he send a man like laddie to do it for him?" father hugged me tight, smiling the happiest. "why, you have the whole thing right there in a nutshell, little sister," he said. "you see it's like this: the book tells us most distinctly that 'god is love.' now it was love that sent laddie to bind himself for a long, tedious job, to give leon his horse, wasn't it?" "of course!" i said. "he wouldn't have been likely to do it if he hated him. it was love, of course!" "then it was god," said father, "because 'god is love.' they are one and the same thing." then he kissed me, and that was settled. so i wondered when you longed for anything so hard you really felt it was worth bothering god about, whether the quickest way to get it was to ask him for it, or to try to put a lot of love into the heart of some person who could do what you wanted. i decided it all went back to god though, for most of the time probably we wouldn't know who the right one was to try to awaken love in. i was mighty sure none of us ever dreamed laddie could walk over to pryors', and come back with that horse, in a way perfectly satisfactory to every one, slick as an eel. you should have seen leon following around after laddie, trying to do things for him, taking on his work to give him more time with the horses, getting up early to finish his own stunts, so he could go over to pryors' and help. mother said it had done more to make a man of him than anything that ever happened. it helped shelley, too. something seemed to break in her, when she cried so with leon, because he was in trouble. then he was so crazy to show off his horse he had shelley ride up and down the lane, while he ran along and led, so she got a lot of exercise, and it made her good and hungry. if you don't think by this time that my mother was the beatenest woman alive, i'll prove it to you. when the supper bell rang there was strawberry preserves instead of the apple butter, biscuit, fried chicken, and mashed potatoes. she must have slapped those chickens into the skillet before they knew their heads were off. when shelley came to the table, for the first time since she'd been home, had pink in her cheeks, and talked some, and ate too, mother forgot her own supper. she fumbled over her plate, but scarcely touched even the livers, and those delicious little kidneys in the tailpiece like leon and i had at sally's wedding. when we finished, and it was time for her to give the signal to arise, no one had asked to be excused, she said: "let us have a word with the most high." then she bowed her head, so all of us did too. "o lord, we praise thee for all thy tender mercies, and all thy loving kindness. amen!" of course father always asked the blessing to begin with, and mostly it was the same one, and that was all at meal time, but this was a little extra that mother couldn't even wait until night to tell the almighty, she was so pleased with him. maybe i haven't told everything about her, after all. father must have thought that was lovely of her; he surely felt as happy as she did, to see shelley better, for he hugged and kissed her over and over, finishing at her neck like he always did, and then i be hanged, if he didn't hug and kiss every last one of us--tight, even the boys. shelley he held long and close, and patted her a little when he let her go. it made me wonder if the rest of us didn't get ours, so he'd have a chance at her without her noticing it. one thing was perfectly clear. if shame came to us, they were going to love her, and stick tight to her right straight through it. now that everything was cleared up so, shelley seemed a little more like herself every day, although it was bad enough yet; i thought i might as well hurry up the end a little, and stop the trouble completely, so i began watching for a chance to ask her. but i wanted to get her away off alone, so no one would see if she slapped me. i didn't know how long i'd have to wait. i tried coaxing her to the orchard to see a bluebird's nest, but she asked if bluebirds were building any different that year, and i had to admit they were not. then i tried the blue-eyed mary bed, but she said she supposed it was still under the cling peach tree, and the flower, two white petals up, two blue down, and so it was. just as i was beginning to think i'd have to take that to the lord in prayer, i got my chance by accident. may and candace were forever going snake hunting. you would think any one with common sense would leave them alone and be glad of the chance, but no indeed! they went nearly every day as soon as the noon work was finished, and stayed until time to get supper. they did have heaps of fun and wild excitement. may was gentle, and tender with everything else on earth; so i 'spose she had a right to bruise the serpent with her heel--really she used sticks and stones--if she wanted to. i asked her how she could, and she said there was a place in the bible that told how a snake coaxed eve to eat an apple, that the lord had told her she mustn't touch; and so she got us into most of the trouble there was in the world. may said it was all the fault of the snake to begin with, and she meant to pay up every one she could find, because she had none of the apple, and lots of the trouble. candace cried so much because frederick swartz had been laid in the tomb, that mother was pleased to have her cheer up, even enough to go snake hunting. that afternoon mehitabel heasty had come to visit may, so she went along, and i followed. they poked around the driftwood at the floodgate behind the barn, and were giving up the place. candace had crossed the creek and was coming back, and may had started, when she saw a tiny little one and chased it. we didn't know then that it was a good thing to have snakes to eat moles, field mice, and other pests that bother your crops; the bible had no mercy on them at all, so we were not saving our snakes; and anyway we had more than we needed, while some of them were too big to be safe to keep, and a few poison as could be. may began to bruise the serpent, when out of the driftwood where they hadn't found anything came its mammy, a great big blacksnake, maddest you ever saw, with its pappy right after her, mad as ever too. candace screamed at may to look behind her, but may was busy with the snake and didn't look quick enough, so the old mammy struck right in her back. she just caught in the hem of may's skirt, and her teeth stuck in the goods--you know how a snake's teeth turn back--so she couldn't let go. may took one look and raced down the bank to the crossing, through the water, and toward us, with the snake dragging and twisting, and trying her best to get away. may was screaming at every jump for candace, and mehitabel was flying up and down crying: "oh there's snakes in my shoes! there's snakes in my shoes!" that was a fair sample of how much sense a heasty ever had. it took all mehitabel's shoes could do to hold her feet, for after one went barefoot all week, and never put on shoes except on sunday or for a visit, the feet became so spread out, shoes had all they could do to manage them, and then mostly they pinched until they made one squirm. but she jumped and said that, while may ran and screamed, and candace gripped her big hickory stick and told may to stand still. then she bruised that serpent with her whole foot, for she stood on it, and swatted it until she broke its neck. then she turned ready for the other one, but when it saw what happened to its mate, it decided to go back. even snakes, it doesn't seem right to break up families like that; so by the time candace got the mammy killed, loose from may's hem, and stretched out with the back up, so she wouldn't make it rain, when candace wasn't sure that father wanted rain, i had enough. i went down the creek until i was below the orchard, then i crossed, passed the cowslip bed, climbed the hill and fence, and stopped to think what i would do first; and there only a few feet away was shelley. she was sitting in the shade, her knees drawn up, her hands clasped around them, staring straight before her across the meadow at nothing in particular, that i could see. she jumped as if i had been a snake when she saw me, then she said, "oh, is it you?" like she was half glad of it. my chance had come. i went to her, sat close beside her and tried snuggling up a little. it worked. she put her arm around me, drew me tight, rubbed her cheek against my head and we sat there. i was wondering how in the world i could ask her, and not get slapped. i was growing most too big for that slapping business, anyway. we sat there; i was looking across the meadow as she did, only i was watching everything that went on, so when i saw a grosbeak fly from the wild grape where shelley had put the crock for sap, it made me think of her hair. she used to like to have me play with it so well, she'd give me pennies if i did. i got up, and began pulling out her pins carefully. i knew i was getting a start because right away she put up her hand to help me. "i can get them," i said just as flannel-mouthed as ever i could, like all of us talked to her now, so i got every one and never pulled a mite. when i reached over her shoulder to drop them in her lap, being so close i kissed her cheek. then i shook down her hair, spread it out, lifted it, parted it, and held up strands to let the air on her scalp. she shivered and said: "mercy child, how good that does feel! my head has ached lately until it's a wonder there's a hair left on it." so i was pleasing her. i never did handle hair so carefully. i tried every single thing it feels good to you to have done with your hair, rubbed her head gently, and to cheer her up i told her about may and the snake, and what fool mehitabel had said, and she couldn't help laughing; so i had her feeling about as good as she could, for the way she actually felt, but still i didn't really get ahead. come right to the place to do it, that was no very easy question to ask a person, when you wouldn't hurt their feelings for anything; i was beginning to wonder if i would lose my chance, when all at once a way i could manage popped into my mind. "shelley," i said, "they told you about laddie and the princess, didn't they?" i knew they had, but i had to make a beginning some way. "yes," she said. "i'm glad of it! i think she's pretty as a picture, and nice as she looks. laddie may have to hump himself to support her, but if he can't get her as fine clothes as she has, her folks can help him. they seem to have plenty, and she's their only child." "they're going to. i heard mr. pryor ask laddie if he'd be so unkind as to object to them having the pleasure of giving her things." "well, the greenhorn didn't say he would!" "no. he didn't want to put his nose to the grindstone quite that close. he said it was between them." "i should think so!" "shelley, there's a question i've been wanting to ask some one for quite a while." "what?" "why, this! you know, laddie was in love with the princess, like you are when you want to marry folks, for a long, long time, before he could be sure whether she loved him back." "yes." "well, now, 'spose she never had loved him, would he have had anything to be ashamed of?" "i can't see that he would. some one must start a courtship, or there would be no marrying, and it's conceded to be the place of the man. no. he might be disappointed, or dreadfully hurt, but there would be no shame about it." "well, then, suppose she loved him, and wanted to marry him, and he hadn't loved her, or wanted her, would she have had anything to be ashamed of?" "i don't think so! if she was attracted by him, and thought she would like him, she would have a right to go to a certain extent, to find out if he cared for her, and if he didn't, why, she'd just have to give him up. but any sensible girl waits for a man to make the advances, and plenty of them, before she allows herself even to dream of loving him, or at least, i would." now i was getting somewhere! "of course you would!" i said. "that would be the way mother would, wouldn't it?" "surely!" "if that paget man you used to write about had seemed to be just what you liked, you'd have waited to know if he wanted you, before you loved him, wouldn't you?" "i certainly would!" answered shelley. "or at least, i'd have waited until i thought sure as death, i knew. it seems that sometimes you can be fooled about those things." "but if you thought sure you knew, and then found out you had been mistaken, you wouldn't have anything to be ashamed of, would you?" "not-on-your-life-i-wouldn't!" cried shelley, hammering each word into her right knee with her doubled fist. "what are you driving at, blatherskite? what have you got into your head?" "oh just studying about things," i said, which was exactly the truth. "sally getting married last fall, and laddie going to this, just started me to wondering." fooled her, too! "oh well, there's no harm done," she said. "the sooner you get these matters straightened out, the better able you will be to take care of yourself. if you ever go to a city, you'll find out that a girl needs considerable care taken of her." "you could look out for yourself, shelley?" "well, i don't know as i made such a glorious fist of it," she said, "but at least, as you say, i've nothing to be ashamed of!" i almost hugged her head off. "of course you haven't!" i cried. "of course you wouldn't have!" i just kissed her over and over for joy; i was so glad my heart hurt for father and mother. shame had not come to them! "now, i guess i'll run to the house and get a comb," i told her. "go on," said shelley. "i know you are tired." "i'm not in the least," i said. "don't you remember i always use a comb when i fuss with your hair?" "it is better," said shelley. "go get one." as i got up to start i took a last look at her, and there was something in her face that i couldn't bear. i knelt beside her, and put both arms around her neck. "shelley, it's a secret," i said in a breathless half whisper. "it's a great, big secret, but i'm going to tell you. twice now i've had a powerful prayer all ready to try. it's the kind where you go to the barn, all alone, stand on that top beam below the highest window and look toward the east. you keep perfectly still, and just think with all your might, and you look away over where jesus used to be, and when the right feeling comes, you pray that prayer as if he stood before you, and it will come true. i know it will come true. the reason i know is because twice now i've been almost ready to try it, and what i intended to ask for happened before i had time; so i've saved that prayer; but shelley, shall i pray it about the paget man, for you?" she gripped me, and she shook until she was all twisted up; you could hear her teeth click, she chilled so. the tears just gushed, and she pulled me up close and whispered right in my ear: "yes!" it was only pretend about the comb; what i really wanted was to get to father and mother quick. i knew he was at the barn and he was going to be too happy for words in a minute. but as i went up the lane, i wasn't sure whether i'd rather pray about that paget man or bruise him with my heel like a serpent. the only way i could fix it was to remember if shelley loved him so, he must be mighty nice. father was in the wagon shovelling corn from it to a platform where it would be handy to feed the pigs, so i ran and called him, and put one foot on a hub and raised my hands. he pulled me up and when he saw how important it was, he sat on the edge of the bed, so i told him: "father, you haven't got a thing in the world to be ashamed of about shelley." "praise the lord!" said father like i knew he would, but you should have seen his face. "tell me about it!" i told him and he said: "well, i don't know but this is the gladdest hour of my life. go straight and repeat to your mother exactly what you've said to me. take her away all alone, and then forget about it, you little blessing." "father, have you got too many children?" "no!" he said. "i wish i had a dozen more, if they'd be like you." when i went up the lane i was so puffed up with importance i felt too dignified to run. i strutted like our biggest turkey gobbler. the only reason you couldn't hear my wings scrape, was because through mistake they grew on the turkey. if i'd had them, i would have dragged them sure, and cried "ge-hobble-hobble!" at every step. i took mother away alone and told her, and she asked many more questions than father, but she was even gladder than he. she almost hugged the breath out of me. sometimes i get things right, anyway! then i took the comb and ran back to shelley. "i thought you'd forgotten me," she said. she had wiped up and was looking better. if ever i combed carefully i did then. just when i had all the tangles out, there came mother. she had not walked that far in a long time. i thought maybe she could comfort shelley, so i laid the comb in her lap and went to see how the snake hunters were coming on. it must be all right, when the bible says so, but the african jungle will do for me, and a popgun is not going to scatter families. i never felt so strongly about breaking home ties in my life as i did then. there was nothing worse. it was not where i wanted to be, so i thought i'd go back to the barn, and hang around father, hoping maybe he'd brag on me some more. going up the lane i saw a wagon passing with the biggest box i ever had seen, and i ran to the gate to watch where it went. it stopped at our house and frank came toward me as i hurried up the road. "where are the folks?" he asked, without paying the least attention to my asking him over and over what was in the box. "may and candace are killing every snake in the driftwood behind the barn, shelley and mother are down in the orchard, and father and the boys are hauling corn." "go tell the boys to come quickly and keep quiet," he said. "but don't let any one else know i'm here." that was so exciting i almost fell over my feet running, and all three of them came quite as fast. i stood back and watched, and i just danced a steady hop from one foot to the other while those men got the big box off the wagon and opened it. on the side i spelled piano, so of course it was for shelley. it was so heavy it took all six of them, father and the three boys, the driver and another very stylish looking man to carry it. they put it in the parlour, screwed a leg on each corner, and a queer harp in the middle, then they lifted it up and set it on its feet, under the whatnot, and it seemed as if it filled half the room. then frank spread a beauteous wine coloured cover all embroidered in pink roses with green leaves over it, and the stylish man opened a lid, sat down and spread out his hands. frank said: "soft pedal! mighty soft!" so he smothered it down, and tried only enough to find that it had not been hurt coming, and then he went away on the wagon. father and the boys gathered up every scrap, swept the walk, and put all the things they had used back where they got them, like we always did. then frank took a card from his pocket and tied it to the music rack, and it read: "for shelley, from her brothers in fact, and in law." to a corner of the cover he pinned another card that read: "from peter." "what is that?" asked father. "that's from peter," said frank. "peter is great on finishing touches. he had to outdo the rest of us that much or bust. fact is, none of us thought of a cover except him." "how about this?" asked father, staring at it as if it were an animal that would bite. "well," said frank, "it was apparent that practising her fingers to the bone wouldn't do shelley much good unless she could keep it up in summer, and you and mother always have done so much for the rest of us, and now mother isn't so strong and the expenses go on the same with these youngsters; we know you were figuring on it, but we beat you. put yours in the bank, and try the feel of a surplus once more. haven't had much lately, have you, father?" "well, not to speak of," said father. "now let's shut everything up, ring the bell to call them, and get shelley in here and surprise her." "she's not very well," said father. "mother thinks she worked too hard." "she's all right now, father," i said. "she is getting pink again and rounder, and this will fix her grand." wouldn't it though! there wasn't one anywhere, short of the city. even the princess had none. father hunted up a song book, opened it and set it on the rack. then all of us went out. "we'll write to the boys, mother and i, and shelley also," said father. "i can't express myself just now. this is a fine thing for all of you to do." frank seemed to think so too, and looked rather puffed up, until leon began telling about his horse. when frank found out that laddie, who had not yet branched out for himself, had given leon much more than any one of them had shelley, he looked a little disappointed. he explained how the piano cost eight hundred dollars, but by paying cash all at once, the man took seven hundred and fifty, so it only cost them one hundred and fifty a piece, and none of them felt it at all. "sometimes the clouds loom up pretty black, and mother and i scarcely know how to go on, save for the help of the lord, but we certainly are blest with good children, children we can be proud of. your mother will like that instrument as well as shelley, son," said father. frank went out and rang the bell, tolled it, and made a big noise like he always did when he came unexpectedly, and then sat on the back fence until he saw them coming, and went to meet them. he walked between mother and shelley, with an arm around each one. if he thought shelley looked badly, he didn't mention it. what he did say was that he was starved, and to fly around and get supper. i thought i'd burst. they began to cook, and the boys went to feed and see leon's horse, and then we had supper. i just sat and stared at frank and grinned. i couldn't eat. "do finish your supper," said mother. "i never saw anything take your appetite like seeing your brother. you'll be wanting a piece before bedtime." i didn't say a word, because i was afraid to, but i kept looking at leon and he smiled back, and we had great fun. secrets are lovely. mother couldn't have eaten a bite if she'd known about that great shining thing, all full of wonderful sound, standing in our parlour. when the last slow person had finished, father said: "shelley, won't you step into the front room and bring me that book i borrowed from frank on 'taxation.' i want to talk over a few points." all of us heard her little breathless cry, and mother said, "there!" as if she'd been listening for something, and she beat all of us to the door. then she cried out too, and such a time as we did have. at last after all of us had grown sensible enough to behave, shelley sat on the stool, spread her fingers over the keys and played at the place father had selected, and all of us sang as hard as we could: "be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;" and there was no place like ours, of that i'm quite sure. chapter xvii in faith believing "nor could the bright green world around a joy to her impart, for still she missed the eyes that made the summer of her heart." soon as she had the piano, shelley needed only the paget man to make her happy as a girl could be; and having faith in that prayer, i decided to try it right away. so i got laddie to promise surely that he'd wake me when he got up the next morning. i laid my clothes out all ready; he merely touched my foot, and i came to, slipped out with him, and he helped me dress. we went to the barn when the morning was all gray. "what the dickens have you got in your head now, chicken?" he asked. "is it business with the fairies?" "no, this is with the most high," i said solemnly, like father. "go away and leave me alone." "well of all the queer chickens!" he said, but he kissed me and went. i climbed the stairs to the threshing floor, then the ladder to the mow, walked a beam to the wall, there followed one to the east end, and another to the little, high-up ventilator window. there i stood looking at the top of the world. a gray mist was rising like steam from the earth, there was a curious colour in the east, stripes of orange and flames of red, where the sun was coming. i folded my hands on the sill, faced the sky, and stood staring. just stood, and stood, never moving a muscle. by and by i began to think how much we loved shelley, how happy she had been at christmas the way she was now, and how much all of us would give in money, or time, or love, to make her sparkling, bubbling, happy again; so i thought and thought, gazing at the sky, which every second became a grander sight. little cold chills began going up my back, and soon i was talking to the lord exactly as if he stood before me on the reddest ray that topped our apple trees. i don't know all i said. that's funny, for i usually remember to the last word; but this time it was so important, i wanted it so badly, and i was so in earnest that words poured in a stream. i began by reminding him that he knew everything, and so he'd understand if what i asked was for the best. then i told him how it looked to us, who knew only a part; and then i went at him and implored and beseeched, if it would be best for shelley, and would make her happy, to send her the paget man, and to be quick about it. when i had said the last word that came to me, and begged all i thought becoming--i don't think with his face, that jesus wants us to grovel to him, at least he looks too dignified to do it himself--i just stood there, still staring. i didn't expect to see a burning bush, or a pillar of fire, or a cloud of flame, or even to hear a small, still voice; but i watched, so i wouldn't miss it if there should be anything different in that sunrise from any other i ever had seen, and there was not. not one thing! it was so beautiful, and i was so in earnest my heart hurt; but that was like any other sunrise on a fine july morning. there wasn't the least sign that jesus had heard me, and would send the man; yet before i knew it, i was amazed to find the feeling creeping over me that he was coming. if i had held the letter in my hand saying he would arrive on the noon train, i couldn't have grown surer. why, i even looked down the first time i moved, to see if i had it; but i was certain anyway. so i looked steadily toward the east once more and said, "thank you, with all my heart, lord jesus," then i slowly made my way down and back to the house. shelley was at the orchard gate, waiting; so i knew they had missed me, and laddie had told them where i was and not to call. she had the strangest look on her face, as she asked: "where have you been?" i looked straight and hard at her and said, "it's all right, shelley. he's going to come soon"; but i didn't think it was a thing to mouth over, so i twisted away from her, and ran to the kitchen to see if breakfast had all been eaten. i left shelley standing there with her eyes wide, also her mouth. she looked about as intelligent as mehitabel heasty, and it wouldn't have surprised me if she had begun to jump up and down and say there were snakes in her shoes. no doubt you have heard of people having been knocked silly; i knew she was, and so she had a perfect right to look that way, until she could remember what she was doing, and come back to herself. maybe it took her longer, because mother wasn't there, to remind her about her mouth, and i didn't propose to mention it. at breakfast, mother said father was going to drive frank home in the carriage, and if i would like, i might go along. i would have to sit on the back seat alone, going; but coming home i could ride beside and visit with father. i loved that, for you could see more from the front seat, and father would stop to explain every single thing. he always gave me the money and let me pay the toll. he would get me a drink at the spring, let me wade a few minutes at enyard's riffles, where their creek, with the loveliest gravel bed, ran beside the road; and he always raced like wildfire at the narrows, where for a mile the railroad ran along the turnpike. we took frank to his office, stopped a little while to visit lucy, and give her the butter and cream mother sent, went to the store to see peter, and then to the post-office. from there we could see that the veranda of the hotel across the street was filled with gayly dressed people, and father said that the summer boarders from big cities around must be pouring in fast. when he came out with the mail he said he better ask if the landlord did not want some of mother's corn and milk fed spring chickens, because last year he had paid her more than the grocer. so he drove across the street, stopped at the curb, and left me to hold the team. maybe you think i wasn't proud! i've told you about ned and jo, with their sharp ears, dappled sides, and silky tails, and the carriage almost new, with leather seats, patent leather trimmings, and side lamps, so shiny you could see yourself in the brass. we never drove into the barn with one speck of mud or dust on it. that was how particular mother was. i watched the team carefully; i had to if i didn't want my neck broken; but i also kept an eye on that veranda. you could see at a glance that those were stylish women. now my mother liked to be in fashion as well as any one could; so i knew she'd be mightily pleased if i could tell her a new place to set her comb, a different way to fasten her collar, or about an unusual pattern for a frock. i got my drink at the spring, father offered to stop at the riffle, but i was enjoying the ride so much, and i could always wade at home, although our creek was not so beautiful as enyard's, but for common wading it would do; we went through the narrows, like two shakes of a sheep's tail, then we settled down to a slow trot, and were having the loveliest visit possible, when in the bundle on my lap, i saw the end of something that interested me. mr. agnew always made our mail into a roll with the advocate and the agriculturist on the outside, and because every one was so anxious about their letters, and some of them meant so much, i felt grown and important while holding the package. i was gripping it tight when i noticed the end of one letter much wider and fatter than any i ever had seen, so when father was not looking i began pushing it a little at one end, and pulling it at the other, to work it up, until i could read the address. i got it out so far i thought every minute he'd notice, and tell me not to do that, but i could only see stanton. all of us were stanton, so it might be for me, for that matter. jerry might be sending me pictures, or a book, he did sometimes, but there was an exciting thing about it. besides being fatter than it looked right at the end, it was plastered with stamps--lots of them, enough to have brought it clear around the world. i pushed that end back, pulled out the other, and took one good look. i almost fell from the carriage. i grabbed father's arm and cried: "stop! stop this team quick. stop them and see if i can read." "are you crazy, child?" asked father, but he checked the horses. "no, but you are going to be in a minute," i said. "look at that!" i yanked the letter from the bundle, and held it over. i thought i could read, but i was too scared to be sure. i thought it said in big, strong, upstanding letters, miss shelley stanton, groveville, indiana. and in the upper corner, blackburn, yeats and paget, counsellors of law, to state st., chicago. i put my finger on the paget, and looked into father's face. i was no fool after all. he was not a bit surer that he could read than i was, from the dazed way he stared. "you see!" i said. "it says paget!" he said, like he would come nearer believing; it if he heard himself pronounce the word. "i thought it said 'paget,'" i gasped, "but i wanted to know if you thought so too." "yes, it's paget plain enough," said father, but he acted like there was every possibility that it might change to jones any minute. "it says 'paget,' plain as print." "father!" i cried, clutching his arm, "father, see how fat it is! there must be pages and pages! father, it wouldn't take all that to tell her he didn't like her, and he never wanted to see her again. would it, father?" "it doesn't seem probable," said father. "father don't you think it means there's been some big mistake, and it takes so much to tell how it can be fixed?" "it seems reasonable." i gripped him tighter, and maybe shook him a little. "father!" i cried. "father, doesn't it just look hurry, all over? can't you speed up a little? they have all day to cool off. oh father, won't you speed a little?" "that i will!" said father. "get a tight hold, and pray god it is good word we carry." "but i prayed the one big prayer to get this," i said. "it wouldn't be sent if it wasn't good. the thing to do now is to thank the lord for 'all his loving kindnesses,' like mother said." "drive father! make them go!" at first he only touched them up; i couldn't see that we were getting home so fast; but in a minute a cornfield passed like a streak, a piece of woods flew by a dark blur, a bridge never had time to rattle, and we began to rock from side to side a little. then i gripped the top supports with one hand, the mail with the other, and hung on for dear life. i took one good look at father. his feet were on the brace, his face was clear, even white, his eyes steely, and he never moved a muscle. when jo thought it was funny, that he was loose in the pasture, and kicked up a little behind, father gave him a sharp cut with the whip and said: "steady boy! get along there!" sometimes he said, "aye, aye! easy!" but he never stopped a mite. we whizzed past the church and cemetery, and scarcely touched the big hill. people ran to their doors, even to the yards, and i was sure they thought we were having a runaway, but we were not. father began to stop at the lane gate, he pulled all the way past the garden, and it was as much as he could do to get them slowed down so that i could jump out by the time we reached the hitching rack. he tied them, and followed me into the house instead of going to the barn. i ran ahead calling: "shelley! where is shelley?" "what in this world has happened, child?" asked mother, catching my arm. "her letter has come! her paget letter! the one you looked for until you gave up. it's come at last! oh, where is she?" "be calmer, child, you'll frighten her," said mother. may snatched the letter from my fingers and began to read all that was on it aloud. i burst out crying. "make her give that back!" i sobbed to father. "it's mine! i found it. father, make her let me take it!" "give it to her!" said father. "i rather feel that it is her right to deliver it." may passed it back, but she looked so disappointed, that by how she felt i knew how much i wanted to take it myself; so i reached my hand to her and said: "you can come along! we'll both take it! oh where is she?" "she went down in the orchard," said mother. "i think probably she's gone back where she was the other day." gee, but we ran! and there she was! as we came up, she heard us and turned. "shelley!" i cried. "here's your letter! everything is all right! he's coming, shelley! look quick, and see when! mother will want to begin baking right away!" shelley looked at me, and said coolly: "paddy ryan! what's the matter?" "your letter!" i cried, shoving it right against her hands. "your letter from robert! from the paget man, you know! i told you he was coming! hurry, and see when!" she took it, and sat there staring at it, so much like father, that it made me think of him, so i saw that she was going to have to come around to it as we did, and that one couldn't hurry her. she just had to take her time to sense it. "shall i open it for you?" i asked, merely to make her see that it was time she was doing it herself. blest if she didn't reach it toward me!--sort of woodenlike. i stuck my finger under the flap, gave it a rip across and emptied what was inside into her lap. bet there were six or seven letters in queer yellow envelopes i never before had seen any like, and on them was the name, robert paget, while in one corner it said, "returned dead letter"; also there was a loose folded white sheet. she sat staring at the heap, touching one, another, and repeating "robert paget?" as she picked each up in turn. "what do you suppose it means?" she asked may. may examined them. "you must read the loose sheet," she advised. "no doubt that will explain." but shelley never touched it. she handled those letters and stared at them. father and mother came through the orchard and stood together behind us, so father knelt down at last, reached across shelley's shoulder, picked one up and looked at it. "have you good word, dear?" asked mother of shelley. "why, i don't understand at all," said shelley. "just look at all these queer letters, addressed to mr. paget. why should they be sent to me? i mustn't open them. they're not mine. there must be some mistake." "these are dead letters," said father. "they've been written to you, couldn't be delivered, and so were sent to the dead letter office at washington, which returned them to the writer, and unopened he has forwarded them once more to you. you've heard of dead letters, haven't you?" "i suppose so," said shelley. "i don't remember just now; but there couldn't be a better name. they've come mighty near killing me." "if you'd only read that note!" urged may, putting it right into her fingers. shelley still sat there. "i'm afraid of it," she said exactly like i'd have spoken if there had been a big rattlesnake coming right at me, when i'd nothing at hand to bruise it. laddie and leon came from the barn. they had heard me calling, seen may and me run, and then father and mother coming down, so they walked over. "what's up?" asked leon. "has uncle levi's will been discovered, and does mother get his mexican mines?" "what have you got, shelley?" asked laddie, kneeling beside her, and picking up one of the yellow letters. "i hardly know," said shelley. "i brought her a big letter with all those little ones and a note in it, and they are from the paget man," i explained to him. "but she won't even read the note, and see what he writes. she says she's afraid." "poor child! no wonder!" said laddie, sitting beside her and putting his arm around her. "suppose i read it for you. may i?" "yes," said shelley. "you read it. read it out loud. i don't care." she leaned against him, while he unfolded the white sheet. "umph!" he said. "this does look bad for you. it begins: 'my own darling girl.'" "let me see!" cried shelley, suddenly straightening, and reaching her hand. laddie held the page toward her, but she only looked, she didn't offer to touch it. "'my own darling girl:'" repeated laddie tenderly, making it mean just all he possibly could, because he felt so dreadfully sorry for her--"'on my return to chicago, from the trip to england i have so often told you i intended to make some time soon----'" "did he?" asked mother. "yes," answered shelley. "he couldn't talk about much else. it was his first case. it was for a friend of his who had been robbed of everything in the world; honour, relatives, home, and money. if robert won it, he got all that back for his friend and enough for himself--that he could--a home of his own, you know! read on, laddie!" "'i was horrified to find on my desk every letter i had written you during my absence returned to me from the dead letter office, as you see.'" "good gracious!" cried mother, picking up one and clutching it tight as if she meant to see that it didn't get away again. "go on!" cried shelley. "'i am enclosing some of them as they came back to me, in proof of my statement. i drove at once to your boarding place and found you had not been there for weeks, and your landlady was distinctly crabbed. then i went to the college, only to find that you had fallen ill and gone to your home. that threw me into torments, and all that keeps me from taking the first train is the thought that perhaps you refused to accept these letters, for some reason. shelley, you did not, did you? there is some mistake somewhere, is there not----'" "one would be led to think so," said father sternly. "seems as if he might have managed some way----" "don't you blame him!" cried shelley. "can't you see it's all my fault? he'd been coming regularly, and the other girls envied me; then he just disappeared, and there was no word or anything, and they laughed and whispered until i couldn't endure it; so i moved in with peter's cousin, as i wrote you; but that left mrs. fleet with an empty room in the middle of the term, and it made her hopping mad. i bet anything she wouldn't give the postman my new address, to pay me back. i left it, of course. but if i'd been half a woman, and had the confidence i should have had in myself and in him---- oh how i've suffered, and punished all of you----!" "never you mind about that," said mother, stroking shelley's hair. "likely there isn't much in chicago to give a girl who never had been away from her family before, 'confidence' in herself or any one else. as for him--just disappearing like that, without a word or even a line---- go on laddie!" "'surely, you knew that i was only waiting the outcome of this trip to tell you how dearly i love you. surely, you encouraged me in thinking you cared for me a little, shelley. only a little will do to begin with----'" "you see, i did have something to go on!" cried shelley, wiping her eyes and straightening up. "'no doubt you misunderstood and resented my going without coming to explain, and bid you good-bye in person, but shelley, _i_ simply dared not. you see, it was this way: i got a cable about the case i was always talking of, and the only man who could give the testimony i must have was dying!'" "for land's sake! the poor boy!" cried mother, patting shelley's shoulder. "'an hour's delay might mean the loss of everything in the world to me, even you. for if i lost any time, and the man escaped me, there was no hope of winning my case, and everything, even you, as i said before, depended on him----'" "good lord! i mean land!" cried leon. "'if i could catch the train in an hour, i could take a boat at new york, and go straight through with no loss of time. so i wrote you a note that probably said more than i would have ventured in person, and paid a boy to deliver it.'" "kept the money and tore up the note, i bet!" said may. "'i wrote on the train, but found after sailing that i had rushed so i had failed to post it in new york. i kept on writing every day on the boat, and mailed you six at liverpool. all the time i have written frequently; there are many more here that this envelope will not hold, that i shall save until i hear from you.'" "well, well!" said father. "'shelley, i beat death, reached my man, got the testimony i had to have, and won my case.'" "glory!" cried mother. "praise the lord!" "'then i scoured england, and part of the continent, hunting some interested parties; and when i was so long finding them, and still no word came from you, i decided to come back and get you, if you would come with me, and go on with the work together.'" "listen to that! more weddings!" cried leon. he dropped on his knees before shelley. "will you marry me, my pretty maid?" he begged. "young man, if you cut any capers right now, i'll cuff your ears!" cried father. "this is no proper time for your foolishness!" "'shelley, i beg that you will believe me, and if you care for me in the very least, telegraph if i may come. quick! i'm half insane to see you. i have many things to tell you, first of all how dear you are to me. please telegraph. robert.'" "saddle a horse, leon!" father cried as he unstrapped his wallet. "laddie, take down her message." "can you put it into ten words?" asked laddie. "mother, what would you say?" questioned shelley. leon held up his fingers and curled down one with each word. "say, 'dear robert. well and happy. come when you get ready.'" "but then i won't know when he's coming," objected shelley. "you don't need to," said leon. "you can take it for granted from that epistolary effusion that he won't let the grass grow under his feet while coming here. that's a bully message! it sounds as if you weren't crazy over him, and it's a big compliment to mother. looks as if she didn't have to know when people are coming--like she's ready all the time." "write it out and let me see," said shelley. so laddie wrote it, and she looked at it a long time, it seemed to me, at last she said: "i don't like that 'get.' it doesn't sound right. wouldn't 'are' be better?" "come when you are ready," repeated laddie. "yes, that's better. 'get' sounds rather saucy." "why not put it, 'come when you choose?'" suggested mother. "that will leave a word to spare, so it won't look as if you had counted them and used exactly ten on purpose, and it doesn't sound as if you expected him to make long preparations, like the other. that will leave it with him to start whenever he likes." "yes! yes!" cried shelley. "that's much better! say, 'come when you choose!'" "right!" said laddie as he wrote it. "now i'll take this!" "oh no you won't!" cried leon. "father told me to saddle my horse. she's got enough speed in her to beat yours a mile. i take that! didn't you say for me to saddle, father?" "such important business, i think i better," said laddie, and leon began to cry. "i think you should both go," said shelley. "it is so important, and if one goes to make a mistake, maybe the other will notice it." "yes, that's the best way," said mother. "yes, both go," said father. it was like one streak when they went up the big hill. father shook his head. "poor judgment--that," he said. "never run a horse up hill!" "but they're in such a hurry," shelley reminded him. "so they are," said father. "in this case i might have broken the rule myself. now come all of you, and let the child get at her mail." "but i want you to stay," said shelley. "i'm so addle-pated this morning. i need my family to help me." "of course you do, child," said mother. "families were made to cling together, and stand by each other in every circumstance of life--joy or sorrow. of course you need your family." may began sorting the letters by dates so shelley could start on the one that had been written first. father ran his knife across the top of each, and cut all the envelopes, and shelley took out the first and read it; that was the train one. in it he told her about sending the boy with the note again, and explained more about how it was so very important for him to hurry, because the only man who could help him was so sick. we talked it over, and all of us thought the boy had kept the money and torn up the note. father said the way would have been to send the note and pay the boy when he came back; but shelley said mr. paget would have been gone before the boy got back, so father saw that wouldn't have been the way, in such a case. next she read one written on the boat. he told more about sending the boy; how he loved her, what it would mean to both of them if he got the evidence he wanted and won his first case; and how much it would bring his friend. the next one told it all over again, and more. in that he wrote a little about the ocean, the people on board the ship, and he gave shelley the name of the place where he was going and begged her to write to him. he told her if the ship he was on passed another, they were going to stop and send back the mail. he begged her to write often, and to say she forgave him for starting away without seeing her, as he had been forced to. the next one was the same thing over, only a little more yet. in the last he had reached england, the important man was still living, but he was almost gone, and mr. paget took two good witnesses, all the evidence he had, and went to see him; and the man saw it was no use, so he made a statement, and robert had it all written out, signed and witnessed. for the real straight sense there was in that letter, i could have done as well myself. it was a wild jumble, because robert was so crazy over having the evidence that would win his case; and he told shelley that now he was perfectly free to love her all she would allow him. he said he had to stay a while longer to find his friend's people so they would get back their share of the money, but it was not going to be easy to locate them. you wouldn't think the world so big, but maybe it seemed smaller to me because as far as i could see from the top of our house, was all i knew about it. after shelley had read the letters, and the note again, father heaved a big sigh that seemed to come clear from his boot soles and he said: "well shelley, it looks to me as if you had found a man. seems to me that's a mighty important case for a young lawyer to be trusted with, in a first effort." "yes, but it was for robert's best friend, and only think, he has won!" "i don't see how he could have done better if he'd been old as methuselah, and wise as solomon," boasted mother. "but he hasn't found the people who must have back their money," said may. "he will have to go to england again. and he wants to take you, shelley. my! you'll get to sail on a big steamer, cross the atlantic ocean, and see london. maybe you'll even get a peep at the queen!" shelley was busy making a little heap of her letters; when the top one slid off i reached over and put it back for her. she looked straight at me, and smiled the most wonderful and the most beautiful smile i ever saw on any one's face, so i said to her: "you see! i told you he was coming!" "i can't understand it!" said shelley. "you know i told you." "of course i do! but what made you think so?" "that was the answer. just that he was coming." "what are you two talking about?" asked mother. shelley looked at me, and waited for me to tell mother as much as i wanted to, of what had happened. but i didn't think things like that were to be talked about before every one, so i just said: "oh nothing! only, i told shelley this very morning that the paget man was coming soon, and that everything was going to be all right." "you did? well of all the world! i can't see why." "oh something told me! i just felt that way." "more of that fairy nonsense?" asked father sharply. "no. i didn't get that from the fairies." "well, never mind!" said shelley, rising, because she saw that i had told all i wanted to. "little sister did tell me this morning that he was coming, that everything would be made right, and it's the queerest thing, but instantly i believed her. didn't i sing all morning, mother? the first note since robert didn't come when i expected him in chicago, weeks ago." "yes," said mother. "that's a wonderfully strange thing. i can't see what made you think so." "anyway, i did!" i said. "now let's go have dinner. i'm starving." i caught may's hand, and ran to get away from them. father and mother walked one on each side of shelley, while with both hands she held her letters before her. when we reached the house we just talked about them all the time. pretty soon the boys were back, and then they told about sending the telegram. leon vowed he gave the operator a dime extra to start that message with a shove, so it would go faster. "it will go all right," said laddie, "and how it will go won't be a circumstance to the way he'll come. if there's anything we ought to do, before he gets here, we should hustle. chicago isn't a thousand miles away. that message can reach him by two o'clock, it's probable he has got ready while he was waiting, so he will start on the first train our way. he could reach groveville on the ten, to-morrow. we better meet it." "yes, we'll meet it," said mother. "is the carriage perfectly clean?" father said: "it must be gone over. our general manager here ordered me to speed up, and we drove a little coming from town." mother went to planning what else should be done. "don't do anything!" cried shelley. "the house is all right. there's no need to work and worry into a sweat. he won't notice or care how things look." "i miss my guess if he doesn't notice and care very much indeed," said mother emphatically. "men are not blind. no one need think they don't see when things are not as they should be, just because they're not cattish enough to let you know it, like a woman always does. shelley, wouldn't you like to ride over and spend the afternoon with the princess?" "nope!" said shelley. "it's her turn to come to see me. besides, you don't get me out of the way like that. i know what you'll do here, and i intend to help." "do you need one of the boys at the house?" asked father, and if you'll believe it, both of them wanted to stay. father said he must have one to help wash the carriage and do a little fixing around the barn; so he took leon, but he didn't like to go. he said: "i don't see what all this fuss is about, anyway. probably he'll be another peter." shelley looked at him: "oh mr. paget isn't nearly so large as peter," she said, "and his hair is whiter than yours, while his eyes are not so blue." "saints preserve us!" cried leon. "come on, father, let's only dust the carriage! he's not worth washing it for." "is he like that?" asked mother anxiously. "wait and see!" said shelley. "looks don't make a man. he has proved what he can do." then all of us went to work. before night we were hunting over the yard, and beside the road, to see if we could find anything to pick up. six chickens were in the cellar, father was to bring meat and a long list of groceries from town in the morning. he was to start early, get them before train time, put them under the back seat, and take them out after he drove into the lane, when he came back. that made a little more trouble for father, but there was not the slightest necessity for making mr. paget feel that he had ridden in a delivery wagon. next morning i wakened laughing softly, because some one was fussing with my hair, patting my face, and kissing me, so i put up my arms and pulled that loving person down on my pillow, and gave back little half-asleep kisses, and slept on; but it was shelley, and she gently shook me and began repeating that fool old thing i have been waked up with half the mornings of my life: "get up, little sister, the morning is bright, the birds are all singing to welcome the light, get up; for when all things are merry and glad, good children should never be lazy and sad; for god gives us daylight, dear sister, that we may rejoice like the lark and work like the bee." usually i'd have gone on sleeping, but shelley was so sweet and lovely, and she kissed me so hard, that i remembered it was going to be a most exciting day, so i came to quick as snap and jumped right up, for i didn't want to miss a single thing that might happen. the carriage was shining when it came to the gate, so was father. i thought there was going to be a vacant seat beside him, and i asked if i might go along. he said: "yes, if mother says so." he always would stick that in. so i ran to ask her, and she didn't care, if shelley made no objections. i was just starting to find her, when here she came, all shining too, but laddie was with her. i hadn't known that he was going, and i was so disappointed i couldn't help crying. "what's the matter?" asked shelley. "father and mother both said i might go, if you didn't care." "why, i'm dreadfully sorry," said shelley, "but i have several things i want laddie to do for me." laddie stooped down to kiss me good-bye and he said: "don't cry, little sister. the way to be happy is to be good." then they drove to groveville, and we had to wait. but there was so much to do, it made us fly to get all of it finished. so mother sent leon after mrs. freshett to help in the kitchen, while candace wore her white dress, and waited on the table. mother cut flowers for the dining table, and all through the house. she left the blinds down to keep the rooms cool, chilled buttermilk to drink, and if she didn't think of every single, least little thing, i couldn't see what it was. then all of us put on our best dresses. mother looked as glad and sweet as any girl, when she sat to rest a little while. i didn't dare climb the catalpa in my white dress, so i watched from the horse block, and when i saw the grays come over the top of the hill, i ran to tell. as mother went to the gate, she told may and me to walk behind, to stay back until we were spoken to, and then to keep our heads level, and remember our manners. i don't know where leon went. he said he lost all interest when he found there was to be another weak-eyed towhead in the family, and i guess he was in earnest about it, because he wasn't even curious enough to be at the gate when mr. paget came. father stopped with a flourish, laddie hurried around and helped shelley, and then mr. paget stepped down. goodness, gracious, sakes alive! little? towhead? he was taller than laddie. his hair was most as black as ink, and wavy. his eyes were big and dark; he was broad and strong and there was the cleanest, freshest look about him. he put his arm spang around shelley, right there in the road, and mother said: "hold there! not so fast, young man! i haven't given my consent to that." he laughed, and he said: "yes, but you'ah going to!" and he put his other arm around mother, so may and i crowded up, and we had a family reunion right between the day lilies and the snowball bush. we went into the house, and he liked us, his room, and everything went exactly right. he was crazy about the cold buttermilk, and while he was drinking it leon walked into the dining-room, because he thought of course mr. paget and shelley would be on the davenport in the parlour. when he saw robert he said lowlike to shelley: "didn't mr. paget come? who's that?" shelley looked so funny for a minute, then she remembered what she had told him and she just laughed as she said: "mr. paget, this is my brother." robert went to shake hands, and leon said right to his teeth: "well a divil of a towhead you are!" "towhead?" said robert, bewildered-like. "shelley said you were a little bit of a man, with watery blue eyes, and whiter hair than mine." "oh i say!" cried robert. "she must have been stringin' you!" leon just whooped; because while mr. paget didn't talk like the 'orse, 'ouse people, he made you think of them in the way he said things, and the sound of his voice. then we had dinner, and i don't remember that we ever had quite such a feast before. mother had put on every single flourish she knew. she used her very best dishes, and linen, and no cook anywhere could beat candace alone; now she had mrs. freshett to help her, and mother also. if she tried to show mr. paget, she did it! no visitor was there except him, but we must have been at the table two hours talking, and eating from one dish after another. candace liked to wear her white dress, and carry things around, and they certainly were good. and talk! father, laddie, and robert talked over all creation. every once in a while when mother saw an opening, she put in her paddle, and no one could be quicker, when she watched sharp and was trying to make a good impression. shelley was very quiet; she scarcely spoke or touched that delicious food. once the paget man turned to her, looking at her so fondlike, as he picked up one of her sauce dishes and her spoon and wanted to feed her. and he said: "heah child, eat your dinnah! you have nawthing to be fussed ovah! i mean to propose to you, and your parents befowr night. that is what i am heah for." every one laughed so, shelley never got the bite; but after that she perked up more and ate a little by herself. at last father couldn't stand it any longer, so he began asking robert about his trip to england, and the case he had won. when the table was cleared for dessert, mr. paget asked mother to have candace to bring his satchel. he opened it and spread papers all over, so that father and laddie could see the evidence, while he told them how it was. it seemed there was a law in england, all of us knew about it, because father often had explained it. this law said that a man who had lots of money and land must leave almost all of it to his eldest son; and the younger ones must go into law, the army, be clergymen, or enter trade and earn a living, while the eldest kept up the home place. then he left it to his eldest son, and his other boys had to work for a living. it kept the big estates together; but my! it was hard on the younger sons, and no one seemed even to think about the daughters. i never heard them mentioned. now there was a very rich man; he had only two sons, and each of them married, and had one son. the younger son died, and sent his boy for his elder brother to take care of. he pretended to be good, but for sure, he was bad as ever he could be. he knew that if his cousin were out of the way, all that land and money would be his when his uncle died. so he went to work and he tried for years, and a lawyer man who had no conscience at all, helped him. at last when they had done everything they could think of, they took a lot of money and put it in the pocket of the son they wanted to ruin; then when his father missed the money, and the house was filled with policemen, detectives, and neighbours, the bad man said he'd feel more comfortable to have the family searched too, merely as a formality, so he stepped out and was gone over, and when the son's turn came, there was the money on him! that made him a public disgrace to his family, and a criminal who couldn't inherit the estate, and his father went raving mad and tried to kill him, so he had to run away. at first he didn't care what he did, so he came over here. robert said that man was his best friend, and as men went, he was a decent fellow, so he cheered him up all he could, and went to work with all his might to prove he was innocent, and to get back his family, and his money for him. when robert had enough evidence that he was almost ready to start to england, his man got a cable from an old friend of his father's, who always had believed in him, and it said that the bad man was dying--to come quick. so robert went all of a sudden, like the dead letters told about. now, he described how he reached there, took the old friend of the father of his friend with him, and other witnesses, and all the evidence he had, and went to see the sick man. when robert showed him what he could prove, the bad man said it was no use, he had to die in a few days, so he might as well go with a clean conscience, and he told about everything he had done. robert had it all written out, signed and sworn to. he told about all of it, and then he said to father: "have i made it clear to you?" leon was so excited he forgot all the manners he ever had, for he popped up before father could open his head, and cried: "clear as mud! i got that son business so plain in my mind, i'd know the party of the first part, from the party of the second part, if i met him promenading on the stone wall of china!" father and laddie knew so much law they asked dozens of questions; but that robert man wasn't a smidgin behind, for every clip he had the answer ready, and then he could go on and tell much more than he had been asked. he said as a case, it was a pretty thing to work on; but it was much more than a case to him, because he always had known that his friend was not guilty; that he was separated from his family, suffering terribly under the disgrace, and they must be also. he had worked for life for his friend, because the whole thing meant so much to both of them. he said he must go back soon and finish up a little more that he should have done while he was there, if it hadn't been that he received no word from shelley. "when i didn't heah from heh for so long, and wrote so many letters, and had no reply, i thought possibly some gay 'young lochinvah had come out from the west,' and taken my sweet 'eart," he said, "and while i had my armour on, i made up my mind that i'd give him a fight too. i didn't propose to lose shelley, if it were in my powah to win heh. i hadn't been able to say to heh exactly what i desiahed, on account of getting a start alone in this country; but if i won this case, i would have ample means. when i secuahed the requiahed evidence, i couldn't wait to finish, so i came straight ovah, to make sure of heh." he arose and handed the satchel to father. "i notice you have a very good looking gun convenient," he said. "would you put these papahs where you consider them safe until i'm ready to return? our home, our living, and the honah of a man are there, and we are mighty particular about that bag, are we not, shelley?" "well i should think we are!" cried shelley. "for goodness sake, father, hang to it! is the man still living? could you get that evidence over again?" "he was alive when i left, but the doctors said ten days would be his limit, so he may be gone befowr this." father picked up the satchel, set it on his knees, and stroked it as if it were alive. "well! well!" he said. "now would any one think such a little thing could contain so much?" shelley leaned toward robert. "your friend!" she cried, "your friend! what did he say to you? what did he do?" "well, for a time he was wildly happy ovah having the stain removed from his honah, and knowing that he would have his family and faw'tn back; but there is an extremely sad feature to his case that is not yet settled, so he must keep his head level until we work that out. now about that hoss you wanted to show me----" he turned to leon. mother gave the signal, and we left the table. father carried the satchel to his chest, made room for it, locked it in and put the key in his pocket. then our men started to the barn to show the arab-kentucky horse. mr. paget went to shelley and took her in his arms exactly like peter did sally before the parlour door that time when i got into trouble, and he looked at mother and laughed as he said: "i hope you will excuse me, but i've been having a very nawsty, anxious time, and i cawn't conform to the rules for a few days, until i become accustomed to the fawct that shelley is not lost to me. it was beastly when i reached chicago, had back all my letters, and found she had gone home ill. i've much suffering to recompense. i'll atone for a small portion immediately." he lifted shelley right off the floor--that's how big and strong he was--he hugged her tight, and kissed her forehead, cheeks, and eyes. "when i've gone through the fahmality of asking your parents for you, and they have said a gracious 'yes,' i'll put the fust one on your lips," he said, setting her down carefully. "in the meantime, you be fixing your mouth to say, 'yes,' also, when i propose to you, because it's coming befowr you sleep." shelley was like a peach blossom. she reached up and touched his cheek, while she looked at mother all smiling, and sparkling, as she said: "you see!" mother smiled back. "i do, indeed!" she answered. leon pulled mr. paget's sleeve. "aw quit lally-gaggin' and come see a real horse," he said. robert put his other arm around leon, drew him to his side and hugged him as if he were a girl. "i'm so glad shelley has a lawge family," he said. "big families are jolly. i'm so proud of all the brothers i'm going to have. i was the only boy at home." "you haven't told us about your family," said mother. "no," said robert, "but i intend to. i have a family! one of the finest on uth. we'll talk about them after this hoss is inspected." he let shelley go and walked away, his arm still around leon. shelley ran to mother and both of them sobbed out loud. "now you see how it was!" she said. "you poor child!" cried mother. "indeed i do see how it was. you've been a brave girl. a good, brave girl! father and i are mighty proud of you!" "oh mother! i thought you were ashamed of me!" sobbed shelley. "oh my child!" said mother quavery-like. "oh my child! you surely see that none of us could understand, as we do now." she patted shelley, and told her to run upstairs and lie down for a while, because she was afraid she would be sick. "we mustn't have a pale, tired girl right now," said mother. "well!" said shelley, but she just stood there holding mother. "well?" said mother gripping her. "you see!" said shelley. "child," said mother, "i do see! i see six feet of as handsome manhood as i ever have seen anywhere. his manner is perfect, and i find his speech most attractive. i am delighted with him. i do see indeed! your father is quite as proud and pleased as i am. now go to bed." shelley held up her lips, and then went. i ran to the barn, where the men were standing in the shade, while leon led his horse up and down before them, told about its pedigree, its record, how he came to have it. the paget man stood there looking and listening gravely, as he studied the horse. at last he went over her, and gee! but he knew horse! then laddie brought out flos and they talked all about her, and then went into the barn. father opened the east doors to show how much land he had, which were his lines; and while the world didn't look quite so pretty as it had in may, still it was good enough. then they went into the orchard, sat under the trees and began talking about business conditions. that was so dry i went back to the house. and maybe i didn't strike something interesting there! as i came up the orchard path to a back yard gate, i saw a carriage at the hitching rack in front of the house, so i took a peep and almost fell over. it was the one the princess had come to sally's wedding in; so i knew she was in the house visiting shelley. i went to the parlour and there i had another shock; for lo and behold! in our big rocking chair, and looking as well as any one, so far as you could see--of course you can't see heart trouble, though--sat mrs. pryor. the princess and mother were there, all of them talking, laughing and having the best time, while on the davenport enjoying himself as much as any one, was mr. pryor. they talked about everything, and it was easy to see that the pryor door was open so far as we were concerned, anyway. mrs. pryor was just as nice and friendly as she could be, and so was he. shelley sat beside him, and he pinched her cheek and said: "something seems to make you especially brilliant today, young woman!" shelley flushed redder, laughed, and glanced at mother, so she said: "shelley is having a plain old-fashioned case of beau. she met a young man in chicago last fall and he's here now to ask our consent. all of us are quite charmed with him. that's why she's so happy." then the princess sprang up and kissed shelley, so did mrs. pryor, while such a chatter you never heard. no one could repeat what they said, for as many as three talked at the same time. "oh do let's have a double wedding!" cried the princess when the excitement was over a little. "i think it would be great fun; do let's! when are you planning for?" "nothing is settled yet," said shelley. "we've had no time to talk!" "mercy!" cried the princess. "go make your arrangements quickly! hurry up, then come over, and we'll plan for the same time. it will be splendid! don't you think that would be fine, mrs. stanton?" "i can't see any objections to it," said mother. "where is your young man? i'm crazy to see him," cried the princess. "if you have gone and found a better looking one than mine, i'll never speak to you again." "she hasn't!" cried mrs. pryor calmly, like that settled it. i like her. "they're not made!" "i am not so sure of that," said shelley proudly. "mother, isn't my man quite as good looking, and as nice in every way, as laddie?" "fully as handsome, and so far as can be seen in such a short time, quite as fine," said mother. i was perfectly amazed at her; as if any man could be! "i don't believe it, i won't stand it, and i shan't go home until i have seen for myself!" cried the princess, laughing, and yet it sounded as if she were half-provoked, and i knew i was. the paget man was all right, but i wasn't going to lose my head over him. laddie was the finest, of course! "well, he's somewhere on the place with our men, this minute," said shelley, "but you stay for supper, and meet him." "when you haven't your arrangements made yet! you surely are unselfish! of course i won't do that, but i'd love to have one little peep, then you bring him and come over to-morrow, so all of us can become acquainted, and indeed, i'm really in earnest about a double wedding." "go see where the men are," said shelley to me. i went to the back door, and their heads were bobbing far down in the orchard. "they're under the greening apple tree," i reported. "if you will excuse us," said shelley to mr. and mrs. pryor, "we'll walk down a few minutes and prove that i'm right." "don't stay," said mrs. pryor. "this trip is so unusual for me that i'm quite tired. for a first venture, in such a long time, i think i've done well. but now i'm beginning to feel i should go home." "go straight along," said the princess. "i'll walk across the fields, or thomas can come back after me." so mr. and mrs. pryor went away, while the princess, shelley, may, and i walked through the orchard toward the men. they were standing on the top of the hill looking over the meadow, and talking with such interest they didn't hear us or turn until shelley said: "mr. paget, i want to present you to laddie's betrothed--miss pamela pryor." he swung around, finishing what he was saying as he turned, the princess took a swift step toward him, then, at the same time, both of them changed to solid tombstone, and stood staring, and so did all of us, while no one made a sound. at last the paget man drew a deep, quivery breath and sort of shook himself as he gazed at her. "why, pam!" he cried. "darling pam, cawn it possibly be you?" if you ever heard the scream of a rabbit when the knives of a reaper cut it to death, why that's exactly the way she cried out. she covered her eyes with her hands. he drew back and smiled, the red rushed into his face, and he began to be alive again. laddie went to the princess and took her hands. "what does this mean?" he begged. she pulled away from him, and went to the paget man slowly, her big eyes wild and strained. "robert!" she cried. "robert! how did you get here? were you hunting us?" "all ovah england, yes," he said. "not heah! i came heah to see shelley. but you? how do you happen to be in this country?" "we've lived on adjoining land for two years!" "you moved heah! to escape the pity of our friends?" "father moved! mother and i had no means, and no refuge. we were forced. we never believed it! oh robert, we never--not for a minute! oh robert, say you never did it!" "try our chawming cousin emmet your next guess!" "that devil! oh that devil!" she cried out that hurt way again, so he took her tight in his arms; but sure as ever laddie was my brother, he was hers, so that was all right. when they were together you wondered why in this world you hadn't thought of it the instant you saw him alone. they were like as two peas. they talked exactly the same, only he sounded much more so, probably from having just been in england for weeks, while in two years she had grown a little as we were. we gazed at them, open-mouthed, like as not, and no one said a word. at last mr. paget looked over the princess' shoulder at father and said: "i can explain this, mr. stanton, in a very few wuds. i am my friend. the case was my own. the evidence i secuahed was for myself. this is my only sisteh. heh people are mine----" "the relationship is apparent," said father. "there is a striking likeness between you and your sister, and i can discern traces of your parents in your face, speech and manner." "if you know my father," said robert, "then you undehstand what happened to me when i was found with his money on my pehson, in the presence of our best friends and the police. he went raving insane on the instant, and he would have killed me if he hadn't been prevented; he tried to; has he changed any since, pam?" the princess was clinging to him with both hands, staring at him, wonder, joy, and fear all on her lovely face. "worse!" she cried. "he's much worse! the longer he broods, the more mother grieves, the bitterer he becomes. mr. stanton, he is always armed. he'll shoot on sight. oh what shall we do?" "miss pamela," said leon, "did your man thomas know your brother in england?" "all his life." "well, then, we'd better be doing something quick. he tied the horses and was walking up and down the road while he waited, and he saw us plainly when we crossed the wood yard a while ago. he followed us and stared so, i couldn't help noticing him." "jove!" cried robert. "i must have seen him in the village this morning. a man reminded me of him, then i remembered how like people of his type are, and concluded i was mistaken. mr. stanton, you have agreed that the evidence i hold is sufficient. pam cawn tell you that while i don't deny being full of tricks as a boy, they weh not dirty, not low, and while father always taking emmet's paht against me drove me to recklessness sometimes, i nevah did anything underhand or disgraceful. she knows what provocation i had, and exactly what happened. let heh tell you!" "i don't feel that i require any further information," said father. "you see, i happen to be fairly well acquainted with mr. pryor." "pryor?" "he made us use that name here," explained the princess. "well, his name is paget!" said robert angrily. laddie told me long ago he didn't believe it was pryor. "then, if you are acquainted with my father, what would you counsel? unless i'm prepahed to furnish the central figyah of interest in a funeral, i dare not meet him, until he has seen this evidence, had time to digest it, and calm himself." shelley caught him by the arm. no wonder! she hadn't been proposed to, or even had a kiss on her lips. she pulled him. "you come straight to the house," she said. "thomas may tell your father he thought he saw you." that was about as serious as anything could be, but nothing ever stopped leon. he sidled away from father, repeating in a low voice: "'for sore dismayed, through storm and shade his child he did discover; one lovely hand she stretched for aid, and one was round her lover--'" shelley just looked daggers at him, but she was too anxious to waste any time. "would thomas tell your father?" she asked the princess. "the instant he saw him alone, yes. he wouldn't before mother." "hold one minute!" cried father. "we must think of our mother, just a little. shelley, you and the girls run up and explain how this is. better all of you go to the house, except mr. paget. he'll be safe here as anywhere. mr. pryor will stop there, if he comes. so it would be best for you to keep out of sight, robert, until i have had a little talk with him." "i'll stay here," i offered. "we'll talk until you get mr. pryor cooled off. he can be awful ragesome when he's excited, and it doesn't take much to start him." "you're right about that!" agreed robert. so we sat under the greening and were having a fine visit while the others went to break the news gently to mother that the pryor mystery had gone up higher than gilderoy's kite. my! but she'd be glad! it would save her many a powerful prayer. i was telling robert all about the time his father visited us, and what my mother said to him, and he said: "she'd be the one to talk with him now. possibly he'd listen to her, until he got it through his head that his own son is not a common thief." "maybe he'll have to be held, like taking quinine, and made to listen," i said. "that would be easy, if he were not a walking ahsenal," said robert. "you have small chance to reason with a half-crazy man while he is handling a pistol." he meant revolver. "but he'll shoot!" i cried. "the princess said he'd shoot!" "so he will!" said robert. "shoot first, then find out how things are, and kill himself and every one else with remorse, afterward. he is made that way." "then he doesn't dare see you until he finds out how mistaken he has been," i said, for i was growing to like robert better every minute longer i knew him. besides, there was the princess, looking like him as possible, and loving him of course, like i did laddie, maybe. and if anything could cure mrs. pryor's heart trouble, having her son back would, because that was what made it in the first place, and even before them, there was shelley to be thought of, and cared for. chapter xviii the pryor mystery "and now old dodson, turning pale, yields to his fate--so ends my tale." it didn't take me long to see why shelley liked robert paget. he was one of the very most likeable persons i ever had seen. we were sitting under the apple tree, growing better friends every minute, when we heard a smash, so we looked up, and it was the sound made by ranger as mr. pryor landed from taking our meadow fence. he had ridden through the pasture, and was coming down the creek bank. he was a spectacle to behold. a mile away you could see that thomas had told him he had seen robert, and where he was. father had been mistaken in thinking mr. pryor would go to the house. he had lost his hat, his white hair was flying, his horse was in a lather, and he seemed to be talking to himself. robert took one good look. "ye gods!" he cried. "there he comes now, a chattering madman!" "the station," i panted. "up that ravine! roll back the stone and pull the door shut after you. quick!" he never could have been inside, before mr. pryor's horse was raving along the embankment beside the fence. "where is he?" he cried. "thomas saw him here!" i didn't think his horse could take the fence at the top of the hill, but it looked as if he intended trying to make it, and i had to stop him if i could. "saw who?" i asked with clicking teeth. "a tall, slender man, with a handsome face, and the heart of a devil." "yes, there was a man here like that in the face. i didn't see his heart," i said. "which way?" raved mr. pryor. "which way? is he at your house?" then i saw that he had the reins in his left hand, and a big revolver in his right. so there was no mistake about whether he'd really shoot. but that gun provoked me. people have no business to be careless with those things. they're dangerous! "he didn't do what you think he did," i cried, "and he can prove he didn't, if you'll stop cavorting, and listen to reason." mr. pryor leaned over the fence, dark purple like a beet now. "you tell me where he is, or i'll choke it out of you," he said. i guess he meant it. i took one long look at his lean, clawlike fingers, and put both hands around my neck. "he knew thomas saw him. he went that way," i said, waving off toward the north. "hah! striking for petticoats, as usual!" he cried, and away he went in the direction of his house. then i flew for the station. "come from there, quick!" i cried. "i've sent him back to his house, but when he finds you're not there, he will come here again. hurry, and i'll put you in the woodshed loft. he'd never think of looking there." he came out and we started toward the house, going pretty fast. almost to the back gate we met shelley. "does mother know?" i asked. "i just told her," she said. "father," i cried, going in the back dining-room door. "mr. pryor was down in the meadow on ranger. thomas did see robert, and his father is hunting him with a gun. we saw him coming, so i hid robert in the station and sent mr. pryor back home--i guess i told him a lie, father, or at least part of one, i said he went 'that way,' and he did, but not so far as i made his father think; so he started back home, but when he gets there and doesn't find robert he'll come here again, madder than ever. oh father, he'll come again, and he's crazy, father! clear, raving crazy! i know he'll come again!" "yes," said father calmly. "i think it very probable that he will come again." then he started around shutting and latching windows, closing and locking the doors, and he carefully loaded his gun, and leaned it against the front casing. then he put on his glasses, and began examining the papers they had brought out again. robert stood beside him, and explained and showed him. "you see with me out of the way, the english law would give everything to my cousin," he said, and he explained it all over again. "and to think how he always posed for a perfect saint!" cried the princess. "oh i hope the devil knows how to make him pay for what all of us have suffered!" "child! child!" cried mother. "i can't help it!" said the princess. "let me tell you, mr. stanton." then she told everything all over again, but it was even more interesting than the way robert explained it, because what she said was about how it had been with her and her mother. "it made father what he is," she said. "he would have killed robert, if our friends hadn't helped him away. he will now, if he isn't stopped. i tell you he will! he sold everything he could legally control, for what any one chose to give him, and fled here stricken in pride, heartbroken, insane with anger, the creature you know. in a minute he'll be back again. oh what are we going to do?" father was laying out the papers that he wanted to use very carefully. "these constitute all the proof any court would require," he said to robert. "if he returns, all of you keep from sight. this is my house; i'll manage who comes here, in my own way." "but you must be allowed to take no risk!" cried robert. "i cawn't consent to youah facing danger for me." "there will be no risk," said father. "there is no reason why he should want to injure me. as the master of this house, i am accustomed to being obeyed. if he comes, step into the parlour there, until i call you." he was busy with the papers when he saw mr. pryor coming. i wondered if he would jump the yard fence and ride down mother's flowers, but he left his horse at the hitching rack, and pounded on the front door. "did any of you notice whether he was displaying a revolver?" asked father. "yes father! yes!" i cried. "and he's shaking so i'm afraid he'll make it go, when he doesn't intend to." father picked up and levelled his rifle on the front door. "leon," he said, "you're pretty agile. open this door, keep yourself behind it, and step around in the parlour. the rest of you get out, and stay out of range." those nearest hurried into the parlour. candace, may, and i crouched in the front stairway, but things were so exciting we just had to keep the door open a tiny crack so we could see plain as anything. there had been nothing for mrs. freshett to do all afternoon, so she had gone over to visit an hour with amanda deam. now mr. pryor probably thought father would meet him with the bible in his hand, and read a passage about loving your neighbour as yourself. i'll bet anything you can mention that he never expected to find himself looking straight down the barrel of a shining big rifle when that door swung open. it surprised him so, he staggered, and his arm wavered. if he had shot and hit anything then, it would have been an accident. "got you over the heart," said father, in precisely the same voice he always said, "this is a fine day we are having." "now why are you coming here in such a shape?" this was a little cross. "i'm not the man to cringe before you!" this was quite boastful. "you'll get bullet for bullet, if you attempt to invade my house with a gun." this pinged as if father shot words instead of bullets. "i want my daughter to come home," said mr. pryor. "and if you're sheltering the thief she is trying to hide, yield him up, if you would save yourself." "well, i'm not anxious about dying, with the family i have on my hands, neighbour," said father, his rifle holding without a waver, "but unless you put away that weapon, and listen to reason, you cannot enter my house. calm yourself, man, and hear what there is to be said! examine the proof, that is here waiting to be offered to you." "once and but once, send them out, or i'll enter over you!" cried mr. pryor. "sorry," said father, "but if only a muscle of your trigger finger moves, you fall before i do. i've the best range, and the most suitable implement for the work." "implement for the work!" well, what do you think of father? any one who could not see, to have heard him, would have thought he was talking about a hoe. we saw a shadow before we knew what made it; then, a little at a time, wonderingly, her jolly face a bewildered daze, her mouth slowly opening, mrs. freshett, half-bent and peering, stooped under mr. pryor's arm and looked in our door. she had come back to help get supper, and because the kitchen was locked, she had gone around the house to see if she could get in at the front. what she saw closed her mouth, and straightened her back. "why, you two old fools!" she cried. "if ye ain't drawed a bead on each other!" none of us saw her do it. we only knew after it was over what must have happened. she had said she'd risk her life for mother. she never stopped an instant when her chance came. she must have turned, and thrown her big body against mr. pryor. he was tired, old, and shaking with anger. they went down together, she gripping his right wrist with both hands, and she was strong as most men. father set the gun beside the door, and bent over them. a minute more and he handed the revolver to leon, and helped mrs. freshett to her feet. mr. pryor lay all twisted on the walk, his face was working, and what he said was a stiff jabber no one could understand. he had broken into the pieces we often feared he would. robert and laddie came running to help father carry him in, and lay him on the couch. "i hope, miss stanton," said mrs. freshett, "that i wa'n't too rough with him. he was so shaky-like, i was 'feered that thing would go off without his really makin' it, and of course i couldn't see none of yourn threatened with a deadly weepon, 'thout buttin' in and doin' the best i could." mother put her arms around her as far as they would reach. she would have had to take her a side at a time to really hug all of her, and she said: "mrs. freshett, you are an instrument in the hands of the lord this day. undoubtedly you have kept us from a fearful tragedy; possibly you have saved my husband for me. none of us ever can thank you enough." "loosen his collar and give him air," said mrs. freshett pushing mother away. "i think likely he has bust a blood vessel." father sent leon flying to bring dr. fenner. laddie took the carriage and he and robert went after mrs. pryor, while father, mother, mrs. freshett, the princess, may, and i, every last one, worked over mr. pryor. we poured hot stuff down his throat, put warm things around him, and rubbed him until the sweat ran on us, trying to get his knotted muscles straightened out. when dr. fenner came he said we were doing all he could; maybe mr. pryor would come to and be all right, and maybe his left side would be helpless forever; it was a stroke. seemed to me having mrs. freshett come against you like that, could be called a good deal more than a stroke, but i couldn't think of the right word then. and after all, perhaps stroke was enough. he couldn't have been much worse off if the barn had fallen on him. i didn't think there was quite so much of mrs. freshett; but then she was scared, and angry; and he was about ready to burst, all by himself, if no one had touched him. he had much better have stayed at home and listened to what was to be said, reasonably, like father would; and then if he really had to shoot, he would have been in some kind of condition to take aim. after a long hard fight we got him limber, straightened out, and warm, it didn't rip so when he breathed, then they put him in the parlour on the big davenport. leon said if the sparkin' bench didn't bring him to, nothing would. laddie sat beside him and mother kept peeping. she wouldn't let dr. fenner go, because she said mr. pryor just must come out of it right, and have a few years of peace and happiness. mrs. pryor came back with laddie and robert. he carried her in, put her in the big rocking chair again, and he sat beside her, stroking and kissing her, while she held him with both hands. you could see now why his mother couldn't sleep, walked the road, and held her hands over her heart. she was a brave woman, and she had done well to keep alive and going in any shape at all. you see we knew. there had been only the few hours when it seemed possible that one of our boys had taken father's money and was gone. i well remembered what happened to our mother then. and if she had been disgraced before every one, dragged from her home away across a big sea to live among strangers, and not known where her boy was for years, i'm not a bit sure that she'd have done better than mrs. pryor. yes, she would too; come to think it out--she'd have kept on believing the lord had something to do with it, and that he'd fix it some way; and i know she and father would have held hands no matter what happened or where they went. i guess the biggest thing the matter with pryors was that they didn't know how to go about loving each other right; maybe it was because they didn't love god, so they couldn't know exactly what proper love was; because god is love, like father said. mrs. pryor didn't want to see mr. pryor--i can't get used to calling them paget--and she didn't ask anything about him. i guess she was pretty mad at him. she never had liked the emmet cousin, and she'd had nothing but trouble with him all the time he had been in her family, and then that awful disgrace, that she always thought was all him, but she couldn't prove it, and she had no money. that's a very bad thing. a woman should always have some money. she works as hard as any one, and usually she has more that worries her, so it's only fair for her to have part of what the work and worry bring. mother always has money. why, she has so much, she can help father out when he is pushed with bills, as she did last fall, to start shelley to music school. it's no way to be forced to live with a man, just to get a home, food, and clothing. i don't believe mother ever would do it in all this world. but then mother has worked all her life, and so if father doesn't do as she wants him to, she'd know exactly how to go about taking care of herself. after all mrs. pryor didn't need to sit back on her dignity and look so abused. he couldn't knock her down, and drag her clear here. why didn't she say right out, in the beginning, that her son couldn't be a thief, that she knew it, and she'd stay at home and wait for him to come back? she could have put a piece in the paper saying she knew her boy was all right, and for him to come back, so they could go to work and prove it. i bet if she'd had one tenth of the ginger mother has, she'd have stopped the whole fuss in the start. i looked at her almost steadily, trying to figure out just what mother would have done in her place. maybe i'm mistaken about exactly how she would have set to work, but this i know: she'd have stuck to the lord; she'd have loved father, so dearly, he just couldn't have wanted her to do things that hurt her until it gave her heart trouble; and she never, never would have given up one of us, and sat holding her heart for months, refusing to see or to speak to any one, while she waited for some one else to do something. mother never waits. she always thinks a minute, if she's in doubt she asks father; if he can't decide, both of them ask god; and then you ought to see things begin to fly. the more i watched mrs. pryor, the more i began to think she was a lady; and just about when i was sure that was what ailed her, i heard father say: "perhaps the lady would like a cup of tea." i had a big notion to tell her to come on, and i would show her where the cannister was, but i thought i better not. i wanted to, though. she'd have felt much better if she had got up and worked like the rest of us. with all the excitement, and everything happening at once, you'd have thought mother would be flat on her back, but flat nothing! everything was picked up and slid back, fast as it was torn down; she found time to flannel her nose and brush her hair, her collar was straight, and the goldstone pin shone in the light, while her starched white apron fluttered as she went through the doors. she said a few words to candace and mrs. freshett, may took out a linen cloth and began to set places for all the grown people, so i knew there'd be strawberry preserves and fried ham, but in all that, would you ever have thought that she'd find a second to make biscuit, and tea cakes herself? plain as preaching i heard her say to mrs. freshett: "i do hope and pray that mr. pryor will come out of it right, so we can take him home, and teach him to behave himself; but if he's gone this minute, i intend to have another decent meal for shelley to offer her young man; and i don't care if i show mrs. pryor that we're not hungry over here, if we do lack servants to carry in food on silver platters." "that i jest would!" said mrs. freshett. "even if he turns up his toes, 'tain't your funeral, thank the lord! an' looky here, i'd jest as soon set things in a bake pan an' pass 'em for you, myself. i'll do it, if you say the word." mother bit her lip, and fought her face to keep it straight, as she said confidential-like: "no, i'm not going to toady to her. i only want her to see that a meal really consists of food after all; i don't mind putting my best foot foremost, but i won't ape her." "huccome they to fuss like this, peaceable as mr. stanton be, an' what's shelley's beau to them?" "i should think you could tell by looking at pryors," said mother. "he's their mystery, and also their son. shelley met him in chicago, he came here to see her, and ran right into them. i'll tell you about it before you go. now, i must keep these applications hot, for i've set my head on pulling mr. pryor out so that he can speak, and have a few decent years of life yet." "but why did the old devil--ex-cuse me, i mean the old gentleman, want to shoot your man?" "he didn't! i'll tell you all about it after they're gone." "i bet you don't get shet of them the night," said mrs. freshett. "all right!" said mother. "whatever dr. fenner thinks. i won't have mr. pryor moved until it can't hurt him, if he stays a week. i blame her quite as much as i do him; from what i know. if a woman is going to live with a man, there are times when she's got to put her foot down--flat--most unmercifully flat!" "ain't she though!" said mrs. freshett; then she and mother just laughed. there! what did i tell you? i feel as good as if father had patted me on the head and bragged on me a lot. i thought mother wouldn't think that mr. pryor was all to blame, and she didn't. i figured that out by myself, too. every minute mr. pryor grew better. he breathed easier, and mother tilted on her toes and waved her hands, when he moved his feet, threw back his head, lifted his hand to it, and acted like he was almost over it, and still in shape to manage himself. she hurried to tell mrs. pryor, and i know mother didn't like it when she never even said she was glad, or went to see for herself. laddie and the princess watched him, while every one else went to supper. laddie picked up mrs. pryor's chair, carried her to the dining-room, and set her in my place beside father. he placed dr. fenner next her, and left robert to sit with shelley. i don't think mrs. pryor quite liked that, but no one asked her. i watched and listened until everything seemed to be going right there, and then i slipped into the parlour, where laddie and the princess were caring for mr. pryor. with one hand laddie held hers, the other grasped mr. pryor's wrist. laddie never took his eyes from that white, drawn face, except to smile at her, and squeeze her hand every little while. at last mr. pryor turned over and sighed, pretty soon he opened his eyes, and looked at laddie, then at the princess, and it was nothing new to see them, so he smiled and dozed again. after a while he opened them wider, then he saw the piano--that was an eye-opener for any one--and the strange room, so he asked, most as plain as he ever talked, why he was at our house again, and then he began to remember. he struggled to sit up and the colour came into his face. so laddie let go the princess, and held him down while he said: "mr. pryor, answer me this. do you want to spend the remainder of your life in an invalid's chair, or would you like to walk abroad and sit a horse again?" he glared at laddie, but he heard how things were plainly enough. laddie held him, while he explained what a fight we had to unlock his muscles, and start him going again, and how, if we hadn't loved him, and wanted him so, and had left him untouched until the doctor came, very likely he'd have been paralyzed all the rest of his life, if he hadn't died; and he said he wished he had, and he didn't thank any one for saving him. "oh yes you do!" said laddie, the same as he'd have talked to leon. "you can't stuff me on that, and you needn't try. being dead is a cold, clammy proposition, that all of us put off as long as we can. you know you want to see pamela in her own home. you know you are interested in how i come out with those horses. you know you want the little people you spoke of, around you. you know the pain and suspense you have borne have almost driven you insane, and it was because you cared so deeply. now lie still, and keep quiet! all of us are tired and there's no sense in making us go through this again, besides the risk of crippling yourself that you run. right here in this house are the papers to prove that your nephew took your money, and hid it in your son's clothing, as he already had done a hundred lesser things, before, purposely to estrange you. hold steady! you must hear this! the sooner you know it, the better you'll feel. you remember, don't you, that before your nephew entered your home, you idolized your son. you thought the things he did were amusing. a boy is a boy, and if he's alive, he's very apt to be lively. mother could tell you a few pranks that leon has put us through; but they're only a boy's foolishness, they are not unusual or unforgivable. i've gone over the evidence your son brings, with extreme care, so has father. both of us are quite familiar with common law. he has every proof you can possibly desire. you can't get around it, even if your heart wasn't worn out with rebellion, and you were not crazy to have the loving sympathy of your family again." "i don't believe a word of it!" "you have got to! i tell you it is proof, man! the documents are in this house now." "he forged them, or stole them, as he took the money!" laddie just laughed. "how you do long, and fight, to be convinced!" he said. "i don't blame you! when anything means this much, of course you must be sure. but you'll know your nephew's signature; also your lawyer's. you'll know letters from old friends who are above question. sandy mcsheel has written you that he was with robert through all of it, and he gives you his word that everything is all right. you will believe him, won't you?" big tears began to squeeze from under mr. pryor's lids, until laddie and the princess each tried to see how much of him they could hold to keep him together-like. "tell me!" he said at last, so they took turns explaining everything plain as day, and soon he listened without being held. when they had told him everything they could think of, he asked: "did robert kill emmet?" "i am very happy to be able to tell you that he did not. it would have been painful, and not helped a bad matter a particle. your nephew had dissipated until he was only a skeleton just breathing his last. it's probable that his fear of death helped your son out, so that he got the evidence he wanted easier than he hoped to in the beginning. i don't mean that he is dead now; but he is passing slowly, and loathsomely. robert thinks word that he has gone will come any hour. think how pleasant it will be to have your son! think how happy your home will be now! think how you will love to see sandy, and all your old friends! think how glad you'll be to go home, and take charge of your estate!" "think!" cried mr. pryor, pushing laddie away and sitting up: "think how i shall enjoy wringing the last drop of blood from that craven's body with these old hands!" what a sight he did look to be sure! sick, half-crazy, on the very verge of the grave himself, and wanting to kill a poor man already dying. aren't some people too curious? laddie carefully laid him down, straightened him out and held him again. mother always said he was "patient as job," and that day it proved to be a good thing. "you're determined to keep yourself well supplied with trouble," laughed laddie. i don't believe any one else would have dared. "now to an unbiased observer, it would seem that you'd be ready to let well enough alone. you have your son back, you have him fully exonerated, you have much of your property, you are now ready for freedom, life, and love, with the best of us; you have also two weddings on your hands in the near future. why in the name of sense are you anxious for more?" "i should have thought that sandy mcsheel, if he's a real friend of mine----" "sandy tells you all about it in the letter he has sent. he went with robert fully intending to do that very thing for you, but the poor creature was too loathsome. the sight of him made sandy sick. he writes you that when he saw the horrible spectacle, all he could think of was to secure the evidence needed and get away." suddenly the princess arose and knelt beside the davenport. she put her arms around her father's neck and drew his wrinkled, white old face up against her lovely one. "daddy! dear old daddy!" she cried. "i've had such a hard spot in my heart against you for so long. oh do let's forget everything, and begin all over again; begin away back where we were before emmet ever came. oh daddy, do let's forget, and begin all over new, like other people!" he held her tight a minute, then his lips began whispering against her ear. finally he said: "take yourselves off, and send robert here. i want my son. oh i want my boy!" it was a long time before robert came from the parlour; when he did, it was only to get his mother and take her back with him; then it was a still longer time before the door opened; but when it did, it was perfectly sure that they were all friends again. then leon went to tell thomas, and he came with the big carriage. white and shaking, mr. pryor was lifted into it and they went home together, taking shelley with them to stay that night; so no doubt she was proposed to and got her kiss before she slept. that fall there were two weddings at our church at the same time. sally's had been fine; but it wasn't worth mentioning beside laddie and the princess, and robert and shelley. you should have seen my mother! she rocked like a kingbird on the top twig of the winesap, which was the tallest tree in our orchard, and for once there wasn't a single fly in her ointment, not one, she said so herself, and so did father. as we watched the big ve-hi-ackle, as leon called it, creep slowly down the little hill, it made me think of that pathetic poem, "the three warnings," in mcguffey's sixth. i guess i gave mr. pryor the first, that time he got so angry he hit his horse until it almost ran away. mother delivered the second when she curry-combed him about the taxes, and mrs. freshett finished the job. the last two lines read as if they had been especially written about him: "and now old dodson, turning pale, yields to his fate--so ends my tale." version by al haines. a daughter of the land by gene stratton-porter contents chapter i. the wings of morning ii. an embryo mind reader iii. peregrinations iv. a question of contracts v. the prodigal daughter vi. kate's private pupil vii. helping nancy ellen and robert to establish a home viii. the history of a leghorn hat ix. a sunbonnet girl x. john jardine's courtship xi. a business proposition xii. two letters xiii. the bride xiv. starting married life xv. a new idea xvi. the work of the sun xvii. the banner hand xviii. kate takes the bit in her teeth xix. "as a man soweth" xx. "for a good girl" xxi. life's boomerang xxii. somewhat of polly xxiii. kate's heavenly time xxiv. polly tries her wings xxv. one more for kate xxvi. the winged victory xxvii. blue ribbon corn xxviii. the eleventh hour to gene stratton ii a daughter of the land chapter i the wings of morning "take the wings of morning." kate bates followed the narrow footpath rounding the corner of the small country church, as the old minister raised his voice slowly and impressively to repeat the command he had selected for his text. fearing that her head would be level with the windows, she bent and walked swiftly past the church; but the words went with her, iterating and reiterating themselves in her brain. once she paused to glance back toward the church, wondering what the minister would say in expounding that text. she had a fleeting thought of slipping in, taking the back seat and listening to the sermon. the remembrance that she had not dressed for church deterred her; then her face twisted grimly as she again turned to the path, for it occurred to her that she had nothing else to wear if she had started to attend church instead of going to see her brother. as usual, she had left her bed at four o'clock; for seven hours she had cooked, washed dishes, made beds, swept, dusted, milked, churned, following the usual routine of a big family in the country. then she had gone upstairs, dressed in clean gingham and confronted her mother. "i think i have done my share for to-day," she said. "suppose you call on our lady school-mistress for help with dinner. i'm going to adam's." mrs. bates lifted her gaunt form to very close six feet of height, looking narrowly at her daughter. "well, what the nation are you going to adam's at this time a-sunday for?" she demanded. "oh, i have a curiosity to learn if there is one of the eighteen members of this family who gives a cent what becomes of me!" answered kate, her eyes meeting and looking clearly into her mother's. "you are not letting yourself think he would 'give a cent' to send you to that fool normal-thing, are you?" "i am not! but it wasn't a 'fool thing' when mary and nancy ellen, and the older girls wanted to go. you even let mary go to college two years." "mary had exceptional ability," said mrs. bates. "i wonder how she convinced you of it. none of the rest of us can discover it," said kate. "what you need is a good strapping, miss." "i know it; but considering the facts that i am larger than you, and was eighteen in september, i shouldn't advise you to attempt it. what is the difference whether i was born in ' or ' ? give me the chance you gave mary, and i'll prove to you that i can do anything she has done, without having 'exceptional ability!'" "the difference is that i am past sixty now. i was stout as an ox when mary wanted to go to school. it is your duty and your job to stay here and do this work." "to pay for having been born last? not a bit more than if i had been born first. any girl in the family owes you as much for life as i do; it is up to the others to pay back in service, after they are of age, if it is to me. i have done my share. if father were not the richest farmer in the county, and one of the richest men, it would be different. he can afford to hire help for you, quite as well as he can for himself." "hire help! who would i get to do the work here?" "you'd have to double your assistants. you could not hire two women who would come here and do so much work as i do in a day. that is why i decline to give up teaching, and stay here to slave at your option, for gingham dresses and cowhide shoes, of your selection. if i were a boy, i'd work three years more and then i would be given two hundred acres of land, have a house and barn built for me, and a start of stock given me, as every boy in this family has had at twenty-one." "a man is a man! he founds a family, he runs the government! it is a different matter," said mrs. bates. "it surely is; in this family. but i think, even with us, a man would have rather a difficult proposition on his hands to found a family without a woman; or to run the government either." "all right! go on to adam and see what you get." "i'll have the satisfaction of knowing that nancy ellen gets dinner, anyway," said kate as she passed through the door and followed the long path to the gate, from there walking beside the road in the direction of her brother's home. there were many horses in the pasture and single and double buggies in the barn; but it never occurred to kate that she might ride: it was sunday and the horses were resting. so she followed the path beside the fences, rounded the corner of the church and went on her way with the text from which the pastor was preaching, hammering in her brain. she became so absorbed in thought that she scarcely saw the footpath she followed, while june flowered, and perfumed, and sang all around her. she was so intent upon the words she had heard that her feet unconsciously followed a well-defined branch from the main path leading into the woods, from the bridge, where she sat on a log, and for the unnumbered time, reviewed her problem. she had worked ever since she could remember. never in her life had she gotten to school before noon on monday, because of the large washings. after the other work was finished she had spent nights and mornings ironing, when she longed to study, seldom finishing before saturday. summer brought an endless round of harvesting, canning, drying; winter brought butchering, heaps of sewing, and postponed summer work. school began late in the fall and closed early in spring, with teachers often inefficient; yet because she was a close student and kept her books where she could take a peep and memorize and think as she washed dishes and cooked, she had thoroughly mastered all the country school near her home could teach her. with six weeks of a summer normal course she would be as well prepared to teach as any of her sisters were, with the exception of mary, who had been able to convince her parents that she possessed two college years' worth of "ability." kate laid no claim to "ability," herself; but she knew she was as strong as most men, had an ordinary brain that could be trained, and while she was far from beautiful she was equally as far from being ugly, for her skin was smooth and pink, her eyes large and blue-gray, her teeth even and white. she missed beauty because her cheekbones were high, her mouth large, her nose barely escaping a pug; but she had a real "crown of glory" in her hair, which was silken fine, long and heavy, of sunshine-gold in colour, curling naturally around her face and neck. given pure blood to paint such a skin with varying emotions, enough wind to ravel out a few locks of such hair, the proportions of a venus and perfect health, any girl could rest very well assured of being looked at twice, if not oftener. kate sat on a log, a most unusual occurrence for her, for she was familiar only with bare, hot houses, furnished with meagre necessities; reeking stables, barnyards and vegetable gardens. she knew less of the woods than the average city girl; but there was a soothing wind, a sweet perfume, a calming silence that quieted her tense mood and enabled her to think clearly; so the review went on over years of work and petty economies, amounting to one grand aggregate that gave to each of seven sons house, stock, and land at twenty-one; and to each of nine daughters a bolt of muslin and a fairly decent dress when she married, as the seven older ones did speedily, for they were fine, large, upstanding girls, some having real beauty, all exceptionally well-trained economists and workers. because her mother had the younger daughters to help in the absence of the elder, each girl had been allowed the time and money to prepare herself to teach a country school; all of them had taught until they married. nancy ellen, the beauty of the family, the girl next older than kate, had taken the home school for the second winter. going to school to nancy ellen had been the greatest trial of kate's life, until the possibility of not going to normal had confronted her. nancy ellen was almost as large as kate, quite as pink, her features assembled in a manner that made all the difference, her jet-black hair as curly as kate's, her eyes big and dark, her lips red. as for looking at kate twice, no one ever looked at her at all if nancy ellen happened to be walking beside her. kate bore that without protest; it would have wounded her pride to rebel openly; she did nancy ellen's share of the work to allow her to study and have her normal course; she remained at home plainly clothed to loan nancy ellen her best dress when she attended normal; but when she found that she was doomed to finish her last year at school under nancy ellen, to work double so that her sister might go to school early and remain late, coming home tired and with lessons to prepare for the morrow, some of the spontaneity left kate's efforts. she had a worse grievance when nancy ellen hung several new dresses and a wrapper on her side of the closet after her first pay-day, and furnished her end of the bureau with a white hair brush and a brass box filled with pink powder, with a swan's-down puff for its application. for three months kate had waited and hoped that at least "thank you" would be vouchsafed her; when it failed for that length of time she did two things: she studied so diligently that her father called her into the barn and told her that if before the school, she asked nancy ellen another question she could not answer, he would use the buggy whip on her to within an inch of her life. the buggy whip always had been a familiar implement to kate, so she stopped asking slippery questions, worked harder than ever, and spent her spare time planning what she would hang in the closet and put on her end of the bureau when she had finished her normal course, and was teaching her first term of school. now she had learned all that nancy ellen could teach her, and much that nancy ellen never knew: it was time for kate to be starting away to school. because it was so self-evident that she should have what the others had had, she said nothing about it until the time came; then she found her father determined that she should remain at home to do the housework, for no compensation other than her board and such clothes as she always had worn, her mother wholly in accord with him, and marvel of all, nancy ellen quite enthusiastic on the subject. her father always had driven himself and his family like slaves, while her mother had ably seconded his efforts. money from the sale of chickens, turkeys, butter, eggs, and garden truck that other women of the neighbourhood used for extra clothing for themselves and their daughters and to prettify their homes, mrs. bates handed to her husband to increase the amount necessary to purchase the two hundred acres of land for each son when he came of age. the youngest son had farmed his land with comfortable profit and started a bank account, while his parents and two sisters were still saving and working to finish the last payment. kate thought with bitterness that if this final payment had been made possibly there would have been money to spare for her; but with that thought came the knowledge that her father had numerous investments on which he could have realized and made the payments had he not preferred that they should be a burden on his family. "take the wings of morning," repeated kate, with all the emphasis the old minister had used. "hummm! i wonder what kind of wings. those of a peewee would scarcely do for me; i'd need the wings of an eagle to get me anywhere, and anyway it wasn't the wings of a bird i was to take, it was the wings of morning. i wonder what the wings of morning are, and how i go about taking them. god knows where my wings come in; by the ache in my feet i seem to have walked, mostly. oh, what are the wings of morning?" kate stared straight before her, sitting absorbed and motionless. close in front of her a little white moth fluttered over the twigs and grasses. a kingbird sailed into view and perched on a brush-heap preparatory to darting after the moth. while the bird measured the distance and waited for the moth to rise above the entangling grasses, with a sweep and a snap a smaller bird, very similar in shape and colouring, flashed down, catching the moth and flying high among the branches of a big tree. "aha! you missed your opportunity!" said kate to the kingbird. she sat straighter suddenly. "opportunity," she repeated. "here is where i am threatened with missing mine. opportunity! i wonder now if that might not be another name for 'the wings of morning.' morning is winging its way past me, the question is: do i sit still and let it pass, or do i take its wings and fly away?" kate brooded on that awhile, then her thought formulated into words again. "it isn't as if mother were sick or poor, she is perfectly well and stronger than nine women out of ten of her age; father can afford to hire all the help she needs; there is nothing cruel or unkind in leaving her; and as for nancy ellen, why does the fact that i am a few years younger than she, make me her servant? why do i cook for her, and make her bed, and wash her clothes, while she earns money to spend on herself? and she is doing everything in her power to keep me at it, because she likes what she is doing and what it brings her, and she doesn't give a tinker whether i like what i am doing or not; or whether i get anything i want out of it or not; or whether i miss getting off to normal on time or not. she is blame selfish, that's what she is, so she won't like the jolt she's going to get; but it will benefit her soul, her soul that her pretty face keeps her from developing, so i shall give her a little valuable assistance. mother will be furious and father will have the buggy whip convenient; but i am going! i don't know how, or when, but i am going. "who has a thirst for knowledge, in helicon may slake it, if he has still, the roman will, to find a way, or make it." kate arose tall and straight and addressed the surrounding woods. "now you just watch me 'find a way or make it,'" she said. "i am 'taking the wings of morning,' observe my flight! see me cut curves and circles and sail and soar around all the other bates girls the lord ever made, one named nancy ellen in particular. it must be far past noon, and i've much to do to get ready. i fly!" kate walked back to the highway, but instead of going on she turned toward home. when she reached the gate she saw nancy ellen, dressed her prettiest, sitting beneath a cherry tree reading a book, in very plain view from the road. as kate came up the path: "hello!" said nancy ellen. "wasn't adam at home?" "i don't know," answered kate. "i was not there." "you weren't? why, where were you?" asked nancy ellen. "oh, i just took a walk!" answered kate. "right at dinner time on sunday? well, i'll be switched!" cried nancy ellen. "pity you weren't oftener, when you most needed it," said kate, passing up the walk and entering the door. her mother asked the same questions so kate answered them. "well, i am glad you came home," said mrs. bates. "there was no use tagging to adam with a sorry story, when your father said flatly that you couldn't go." "but i must go!" urged kate. "i have as good a right to my chance as the others. if you put your foot down and say so, mother, father will let me go. why shouldn't i have the same chance as nancy ellen? please mother, let me go!" "you stay right where you are. there is an awful summer's work before us," said mrs. bates. "there always is," answered kate. "but now is just my chance while you have nancy ellen here to help you." "she has some special studying to do, and you very well know that she has to attend the county institute, and take the summer course of training for teachers." "so do i," said kate, stubbornly. "you really will not help me, mother?" "i've said my say! your place is here! here you stay!" answered her mother. "all right," said kate, "i'll cross you off the docket of my hopes, and try father." "well, i warn you, you had better not! he has been nagged until his patience is lost," said mrs. bates. kate closed her lips and started in search of her father. she found him leaning on the pig pen watching pigs grow into money, one of his most favoured occupations. he scowled at her, drawing his huge frame to full height. "i don't want to hear a word you have to say," he said. "you are the youngest, and your place is in the kitchen helping your mother. we have got the last installment to pay on hiram's land this summer. march back to the house and busy yourself with something useful!" kate looked at him, from his big-boned, weather-beaten face, to his heavy shoes, then turned without a word and went back toward the house. she went around it to the cherry tree and with no preliminaries said to her sister: "nancy ellen, i want you to lend me enough money to fix my clothes a little and pay my way to normal this summer. i can pay it all back this winter. i'll pay every cent with interest, before i spend any on anything else." "why, you must be crazy!" said nancy ellen. "would i be any crazier than you, when you wanted to go?" asked kate. "but you were here to help mother," said nancy ellen. "and you are here to help her now," persisted kate. "but i've got to fix up my clothes for the county institute," said nancy ellen, "i'll be gone most of the summer." "i have just as much right to go as you had," said kate. "father and mother both say you shall not go," answered her sister. "i suppose there is no use to remind you that i did all in my power to help you to your chance." "you did no more than you should have done," said nancy ellen. "and this is no more than you should do for me, in the circumstances," said kate. "you very well know i can't! father and mother would turn me out of the house," said nancy ellen. "i'd be only too glad if they would turn me out," said kate. "you can let me have the money if you like. mother wouldn't do anything but talk; and father would not strike you, or make you go, he always favours you." "he does nothing of the sort! i can't, and i won't, so there!" cried nancy ellen. "'won't,' is the real answer, 'so there,'" said kate. she went into the cellar and ate some cold food from the cupboard and drank a cup of milk. then she went to her room and looked over all of her scanty stock of clothing, laying in a heap the pieces that needed mending. she took the clothes basket to the wash room, which was the front of the woodhouse, in summer; built a fire, heated water, and while making it appear that she was putting the clothes to soak, as usual, she washed everything she had that was fit to use, hanging the pieces to dry in the building. "watch me fly!" muttered kate. "i don't seem to be cutting those curves so very fast; but i'm moving. i believe now, having exhausted all home resources, that adam is my next objective. he is the only one in the family who ever paid the slightest attention to me, maybe he cares a trifle what becomes of me, but oh, how i dread agatha! however, watch me take wing! if adam fails me i have six remaining prospects among my loving brothers, and if none of them has any feeling for me or faith in me there yet remain my seven dear brothers-in-law, before i appeal to the tender mercies of the neighbours; but how i dread agatha! yet i fly!" chapter ii an embryo mind reader kate was far from physical flight as she pounded the indignation of her soul into the path with her substantial feet. baffled and angry, she kept reviewing the situation as she went swiftly on her way, regardless of dust and heat. she could see no justice in being forced into a position that promised to end in further humiliation and defeat of her hopes. if she only could find adam at the stable, as she passed, and talk with him alone! secretly, she well knew that the chief source of her dread of meeting her sister-in-law was that to her agatha was so funny that ridiculing her had been regarded as perfectly legitimate pastime. for agatha was funny; but she had no idea of it, and could no more avoid it than a bee could avoid being buzzy, so the manner in which her sisters-in-law imitated her and laughed at her, none too secretly, was far from kind. while she never guessed what was going on, she realized the antagonism in their attitude and stoutly resented it. adam was his father's favourite son, a stalwart, fine-appearing, big man, silent, honest, and forceful; the son most after the desires of the father's heart, yet adam was the one son of the seven who had ignored his father's law that all of his boys were to marry strong, healthy young women, poor women, working women. each of the others at coming of age had contracted this prescribed marriage as speedily as possible, first asking father bates, the girl afterward. if father bates disapproved, the girl was never asked at all. and the reason for this docility on the part of these big, matured men, lay wholly in the methods of father bates. he gave those two hundred acres of land to each of them on coming of age, and the same sum to each for the building of a house and barn and the purchase of stock; gave it to them in words, and with the fullest assurance that it was theirs to improve, to live on, to add to. each of them had seen and handled his deed, each had to admit he never had known his father to tell a lie or deviate the least from fairness in a deal of any kind, each had been compelled to go in the way indicated by his father for years; but not a man of them held his own deed. these precious bits of paper remained locked in the big wooden chest beside the father's bed, while the land stood on the records in his name; the taxes they paid him each year he, himself, carried to the county clerk; so that he was the largest landholder in the county and one of the very richest men. it must have been extreme unction to his soul to enter the county office and ask for the assessment on those "little parcels of land of mine." men treated him very deferentially, and so did his sons. those documents carefully locked away had the effect of obtaining ever-ready help to harvest his hay and wheat whenever he desired, to make his least wish quickly deferred to, to give him authority and the power for which he lived and worked earlier, later, and harder than any other man of his day and locality. adam was like him as possible up to the time he married, yet adam was the only one of his sons who disobeyed him; but there was a redeeming feature. adam married a slender tall slip of a woman, four years his senior, who had been teaching in the hartley schools when he began courting her. she was a prim, fussy woman, born of a prim father and a fussy mother, so what was to be expected? her face was narrow and set, her body and her movements almost rigid, her hair, always parted, lifted from each side and tied on the crown, fell in stiff little curls, the back part hanging free. her speech, as precise as her movements, was formed into set habit through long study of the dictionary. she was born antagonistic to whatever existed, no matter what it was. so surely as every other woman agreed on a dress, a recipe, a house, anything whatever, so surely agatha thought out and followed a different method, the disconcerting thing about her being that she usually finished any undertaking with less exertion, ahead of time, and having saved considerable money. she could have written a fine book of synonyms, for as certainly as any one said anything in her presence that she had occasion to repeat, she changed the wording to six-syllabled mouthfuls, delivered with ponderous circumlocution. she subscribed to papers and magazines, which she read and remembered. and she danced! when other women thought even a waltz immoral and shocking; perfectly stiff, her curls exactly in place, agatha could be seen, and frequently was seen, waltzing on the front porch in the arms of, and to a tune whistled by young adam, whose full name was adam alcibiades bates. in his younger days, when discipline had been required, kate once had heard her say to the little fellow: "adam alcibiades ascend these steps and proceed immediately to your maternal ancestor." kate thought of this with a dry smile as she plodded on toward agatha's home hoping she could see her brother at the barn, but she knew that most probably she would "ascend the steps and proceed to the maternal ancestor," of adam bates d. then she would be forced to explain her visit and combat both adam and his wife; for agatha was not a nonentity like her collection of healthful, hard-working sisters-in-law. agatha worked if she chose, and she did not work if she did not choose. mostly she worked and worked harder than any one ever thought. she had a habit of keeping her house always immaculate, finishing her cleaning very early and then reading in a conspicuous spot on the veranda when other women were busy with their most tiresome tasks. such was agatha, whom kate dreaded meeting, with every reason, for agatha, despite curls, bony structure, language, and dance, was the most powerful factor in the whole bates family with her father-in-law; and all because when he purchased the original two hundred acres for adam, and made the first allowance for buildings and stock, agatha slipped the money from adam's fingers in some inexplainable way, and spent it all for stock; because forsooth! agatha was an only child, and her prim father endowed her, she said so herself, with three hundred acres of land, better in location and more fertile than that given to adam, land having on it a roomy and comfortable brick house, completely furnished, a large barn and also stock; so that her place could be used to live on and farm, while adam's could be given over to grazing herds of cattle which he bought cheaply, fattened and sold at the top of the market. if each had brought such a farm into the family with her, father bates could have endured six more prim, angular, becurled daughters-in-law, very well indeed, for land was his one and only god. his respect for agatha was markedly very high, for in addition to her farm he secretly admired her independence of thought and action, and was amazed by the fact that she was about her work when several of the blooming girls he had selected for wives for his sons were confined to the sofa with a pain, while not one of them schemed, planned, connived with her husband and piled up the money as agatha did, therefore she stood at the head of the women of the bates family; while she was considered to have worked miracles in the heart of adam bates, for with his exception no man of the family ever had been seen to touch a woman, either publicly or privately, to offer the slightest form of endearment, assistance or courtesy. "women are to work and to bear children," said the elder bates. "put them at the first job when they are born, and at the second at eighteen, and keep them hard at it." at their rate of progression several of the bates sons and daughters would produce families that, with a couple of pairs of twins, would equal the sixteen of the elder bates; but not so agatha. she had one son of fifteen and one daughter of ten, and she said that was all she intended to have, certainly it was all she did have; but she further aggravated matters by announcing that she had had them because she wanted them; at such times as she intended to; and that she had the boy first and five years the older, so that he could look after his sister when they went into company. also she walked up and sat upon adam's lap whenever she chose, ruffled his hair, pulled his ears, and kissed him squarely on the mouth, with every appearance of having help, while the dance on the front porch with her son or daughter was of daily occurrence. and anything funnier than agatha, prim and angular with never a hair out of place, stiffly hopping "money musk" and "turkey in the straw," or the "blue danube" waltz, anything funnier than that, never happened. but the two adams, jr. and d, watched with reverent and adoring eyes, for she was mother, and no one else on earth rested so high in their respect as the inflexible woman they lived with. that she was different from all the other women of her time and location was hard on the other women. had they been exactly right, they would have been exactly like her. so kate, thinking all these things over, her own problem acutely "advanced and proceeded." she advanced past the closed barn, and stock in the pasture, past the garden flaming june, past the dooryard, up the steps, down the hall, into the screened back porch dining room and "proceeded" to take a chair, while the family finished the sunday night supper, at which they were seated. kate was not hungry and she did not wish to trouble her sister-in-law to set another place, so she took the remaining chair, against the wall, behind agatha, facing adam, d, across the table, and with adam jr., in profile at the head, and little susan at the foot. then she waited her chance. being tired and aggressive she did not wait long. "i might as well tell you why i came," she said bluntly. "father won't give me money to go to normal, as he has all the others. he says i have got to stay at home and help mother." "well, mother is getting so old she needs help," said adam, jr., as he continued his supper. "of course she is," said kate. "we all know that. but what is the matter with nancy ellen helping her, while i take my turn at normal? there wasn't a thing i could do last summer to help her off that i didn't do, even to lending her my best dress and staying at home for six sundays because i had nothing else fit to wear where i'd be seen." no one said a word. kate continued: "then father secured our home school for her and i had to spend the winter going to school to her, when you very well know that i always studied harder, and was ahead of her, even after she'd been to normal. and i got up early and worked late, and cooked, and washed, and waited on her, while she got her lessons and reports ready, and fixed up her nice new clothes, and now she won't touch the work, and she is doing all she can to help father keep me from going." "i never knew father to need much help on anything he made up his mind to," said adam. kate sat very tense. she looked steadily at her brother, but he looked quite as steadily at his plate. the back of her sister-in-law was fully as expressive as her face. her head was very erect, her shoulders stiff and still, not a curl moved as she poured adam's tea and susan's milk. only adam, d, looked at kate with companionable eyes, as if he might feel a slight degree of interest or sympathy, so she found herself explaining directly to him. "things are blame unfair in our family, anyway!" she said, bitterly. "you have got to be born a boy to have any chance worth while; if you are a girl it is mighty small, and if you are the youngest, by any mischance, you have none at all. i don't want to harp things over; but i wish you would explain to me why having been born a few years after nancy ellen makes me her slave, and cuts me out of my chance to teach, and to have some freedom and clothes. they might as well have told hiram he was not to have any land and stay at home and help father because he was the youngest boy; it would have been quite as fair; but nothing like that happens to the boys of this family, it is always the girls who get left. i have worked for years, knowing every cent i saved and earned above barely enough to cover me, would go to help pay for hiram's land and house and stock; but he wouldn't turn a hand to help me, neither will any of the rest of you." "then what are you here for?" asked adam. "because i am going to give you, and every other brother and sister i have, the chance to refuse to loan me enough to buy a few clothes and pay my way to normal, so i can pass the examinations, and teach this fall. and when you have all refused, i am going to the neighbours, until i find someone who will loan me the money i need. a hundred dollars would be plenty. i could pay it back with two months' teaching, with any interest you say." kate paused, short of breath, her eyes blazing, her cheeks red. adam went steadily on with his supper. agatha appeared stiffer and more uncompromising in the back than before, which kate had not thought possible. but the same dull red on the girl's cheeks had begun to burn on the face of young adam. suddenly he broke into a clear laugh. "oh, ma, you're too funny!" he cried. "i can read your face like a book. i bet you ten dollars i can tell you just word for word what you are going to say. i dare you let me! you know i can!" still laughing, his eyes dancing, a picture to see, he stretched his arm across the table toward her, and his mother adored him, however she strove to conceal the fact from him. "ten dollars!" she scoffed. "when did we become so wealthy? i'll give you one dollar if you tell me exactly what i was going to say." the boy glanced at his father. "oh this is too easy!" he cried. "it's like robbing the baby's bank!" and then to his mother: "you were just opening your lips to say: 'give it to her! if you don't, i will!' and you are even a little bit more of a brick than usual to do it. it's a darned shame the way all of them impose on kate." there was a complete change in agatha's back. adam, jr., laid down his fork and stared at his wife in deep amazement. adam, d, stretched his hand farther toward his mother. "give me that dollar!" he cajoled. "well, i am not concealing it in the sleeve of my garments," she said. "if i have one, it is reposing in my purse, in juxtaposition to the other articles that belong there, and if you receive it, it will be bestowed upon you when i deem the occasion suitable." young adam's fist came down with a smash. "i get the dollar!" he triumphed. "i told you so! i knew she was going to say it! ain't i a dandy mind reader though? but it is bully for you, father, because of course, if mother wouldn't let kate have it, you'd have to; but if you did it might make trouble with your paternal land-grabber, and endanger your precious deed that you hope to get in the sweet by-and-by. but if mother loans the money, grandfather can't say a word, because it is her very own, and didn't cost him anything, and he always agrees with her anyway! hurrah for hurrah, kate! nancy ellen may wash her own petticoat in the morning, while i take you to the train. you'll let me, father? you did let me go to hartley alone, once. i'll be careful! i won't let a thing happen. i'll come straight home. and oh, my dollar, you and me; i'll put you in the bank and let you grow to three!" "you may go," said his father, promptly. "you shall proceed according to your aunt katherine's instructions," said his mother, at the same time. "katie, get your carpet-sack! when do we start?" demanded young adam. "morning will be all right with me, you blessed youngun," said kate, "but i don't own a telescope or anything to put what little i have in, and nancy ellen never would spare hers; she will want to go to county institute before i get back." "you may have mine," said agatha. "you are perfectly welcome to take it wherever your peregrinations lead you, and return it when you please. i shall proceed to my chamber and formulate your check immediately. you are also welcome to my best hat and cape, and any of my clothing or personal adornments you can use to advantage." "oh, agatha, i wish you were as big as a house, like me," said kate, joyfully. "i couldn't possibly crowd into anything you wear, but it would almost tickle me to death to have nancy ellen know you let me take your things, when she won't even offer me a dud of her old stuff; i never remotely hoped for any of the new." "you shall have my cape and hat, anyway. the cape is new and very fashionable. come upstairs and try the hat," said agatha. the cape was new and fashionable as agatha had said; it would not fasten at the neck, but there would be no necessity that it should during july and august, while it would improve any dress it was worn with on a cool evening. the hat kate could not possibly use with her large, broad face and mass of hair, but she was almost as pleased with the offer as if the hat had been most becoming. then agatha brought out her telescope, in which kate laid the cape while agatha wrote her a check for one hundred and twenty dollars, and told her where and how to cash it. the extra twenty was to buy a pair of new walking shoes, some hose, and a hat, before she went to her train. when they went downstairs adam, jr., had a horse hitched and adam, d, drove her to her home, where, at the foot of the garden, they took one long survey of the landscape and hid the telescope behind the privet bush. then adam drove away quietly, kate entered the dooryard from the garden, and soon afterward went to the wash room and hastily ironed her clothing. nancy ellen had gone to visit a neighbour girl, so kate risked her remaining until after church in the evening. she hurried to their room and mended all her own clothing she had laid out. then she deliberately went over nancy ellen's and helped herself to a pair of pretty nightdresses, such as she had never owned, a white embroidered petticoat, the second best white dress, and a most becoming sailor hat. these she made into a parcel and carried to the wash room, brought in the telescope and packed it, hiding it under a workbench and covering it with shavings. after that she went to her room and wrote a note, and then slept deeply until the morning call. she arose at once and went to the wash room but instead of washing the family clothing, she took a bath in the largest tub, and washed her hair to a state resembling spun gold. during breakfast she kept sharp watch down the road. when she saw adam, d, coming she stuck her note under the hook on which she had seen her father hang his hat all her life, and carrying the telescope in the clothes basket covered with a rumpled sheet, she passed across the yard and handed it over the fence to adam, climbed that same fence, and they started toward hartley. kate put the sailor hat on her head, and sat very straight, an anxious line crossing her forehead. she was running away, and if discovered, there was the barest chance that her father might follow, and make a most disagreeable scene, before the train pulled out. he had gone to a far field to plow corn and kate fervently hoped he would plow until noon, which he did. nancy ellen washed the dishes, and went into the front room to study, while mrs. bates put on her sunbonnet and began hoeing the potatoes. not one of the family noticed that monday's wash was not on the clothes line as usual. kate and adam drove as fast as they dared, and on reaching town, cashed the check, decided that nancy ellen's hat would serve, thus saving the price of a new one for emergencies that might arise, bought the shoes, and went to the depot, where they had an anxious hour to wait. "i expect grandpa will be pretty mad," said adam. "i am sure there is not the slightest chance but that he will be," said kate. "dare you go back home when school is over?" he asked. "probably not," she answered. "what will you do?" he questioned. "when i investigated sister nancy ellen's bureau i found a list of the school supervisors of the county, so i am going to put in my spare time writing them about my qualifications to teach their schools this winter. all the other girls did well and taught first-class schools, i shall also. i am not a bit afraid but that i may take my choice of several. when i finish it will be only a few days until school begins, so i can go hunt my boarding place and stay there." "mother would let you stay at our house," said adam. "yes, i think she would, after yesterday; but i don't want to make trouble that might extend to father and your father. i had better keep away." "yes, i guess you had," said adam. "if grandfather rows, he raises a racket. but maybe he won't!" "maybe! wouldn't you like to see what happens when mother come in from the potatoes and nancy ellen comes out from the living room, and father comes to dinner, all about the same time?" adam laughed appreciatively. "wouldn't i just!" he cried. "kate, you like my mother, don't you?" "i certainly do! she has been splendid. i never dreamed of such a thing as getting the money from her." "i didn't either," said adam, "until--i became a mind reader." kate looked straight into his eyes. "how about that, adam?" she asked. adam chuckled. "she didn't intend to say a word. she was going to let the bateses fight it out among themselves. her mouth was shut so tight it didn't look as if she could open it if she wanted to. i thought it would be better for you to borrow the money from her, so father wouldn't get into a mess, and i knew how fine she was, so i just suggested it to her. that's all!" "adam, you're a dandy!" cried kate. "i am having a whole buggy load of fun, and you ought to go," said he. "it's all right! don't you worry! i'll take care of you." "why, thank you, adam!" said kate. "that is the first time any one ever offered to take care of me in my life. with me it always has been pretty much of a 'go-it-alone' proposition." "what of nancy ellen's did you take?" he asked. "why didn't you get some gloves? your hands are so red and work-worn. mother's never look that way." "your mother never has done the rough field work i do, and i haven't taken time to be careful. they do look badly. i wish i had taken a pair of the lady's gloves; but i doubt if she would have survived that. i understand that one of the unpardonable sins is putting on gloves belonging to any one else." then the train came and kate climbed aboard with adam's parting injunction in her ears: "sit beside an open window on this side!" so she looked for and found the window and as she seated herself she saw adam on the outside and leaned to speak to him again. just as the train started he thrust his hand inside, dropped his dollar on her lap, and in a tense whisper commanded her: "get yourself some gloves!" then he ran. kate picked up the dollar, while her eyes dimmed with tears. "why, the fine youngster!" she said. "the jim-dandy fine youngster!" adam could not remember when he ever had been so happy as he was driving home. he found his mother singing, his father in a genial mood, so he concluded that the greatest thing in the world to make a whole family happy was to do something kind for someone else. but he reflected that there would be far from a happy family at his grandfather's; and he was right. grandmother bates came in from her hoeing at eleven o'clock tired and hungry, expecting to find the wash dry and dinner almost ready. there was no wash and no odour of food. she went to the wood-shed and stared unbelievingly at the cold stove, the tubs of soaking clothes. she turned and went into the kitchen, where she saw no signs of kate or of dinner, then she lifted up her voice and shouted: "nancy ellen!" nancy ellen came in a hurry. "why, mother, what is the matter?" she cried. "matter, yourself!" exclaimed mrs. bates. "look in the wash room! why aren't the clothes on the line? where is that good-for-nothing kate?" nancy ellen went to the wash room and looked. she came back pale and amazed. "maybe she is sick," she ventured. "she never has been; but she might be! maybe she has lain down." "on monday morning! and the wash not out! you simpleton!" cried mrs. bates. nancy ellen hurried upstairs and came back with bulging eyes. "every scrap of her clothing is gone, and half of mine!" "she's gone to that fool normal-thing! where did she get the money?" cried mrs. bates. "i don't know!" said nancy ellen. "she asked me yesterday, but of course i told her that so long as you and father decided she was not to go, i couldn't possibly lend her the money." "did you look if she had taken it?" nancy ellen straightened. "mother! i didn't need do that!" "you said she took your clothes," said mrs. bates. "i had hers this time last year. she'll bring back clothes." "not here, she won't! father will see that she never darkens these doors again. this is the first time in his life that a child of his has disobeyed him." "except adam, when he married agatha; and he strutted like a fighting cock about that." "well, he won't 'strut' about this, and you won't either, even if you are showing signs of standing up for her. go at that wash, while i get dinner." dinner was on the table when adam bates hung his hat on its hook and saw the note for him. he took it down and read: father: i have gone to normal. i borrowed the money of a woman who was willing to trust me to pay it back as soon as i earned it. not nancy ellen, of course. she would not even loan me a pocket handkerchief, though you remember i stayed at home six weeks last summer to let her take what she wanted of mine. mother: i think you can get sally whistler to help you as cheaply as any one and that she will do very well. nancy ellen: i have taken your second best hat and a few of your things, but not half so many as i loaned you. i hope it makes you mad enough to burst. i hope you get as mad and stay as mad as i have been most of this year while you taught me things you didn't know yourself; and i cooked and washed for you so you could wear fine clothes and play the lady. kate adam bates read that note to himself, stretching every inch of his six feet six, his face a dull red, his eyes glaring. then he turned to his wife and daughter. "is kate gone? without proper clothing and on borrowed money," he demanded. "i don't know," said mrs. bates. "i was hoeing potatoes all forenoon." "listen to this," he thundered. then he slowly read the note aloud. but someway the spoken words did not have the same effect as when he read them mentally in the first shock of anger. when he heard his own voice read off the line, "i hope it makes you mad enough to burst," there was a catch and a queer gurgle in his throat. mrs. bates gazed at him anxiously. was he so surprised and angry he was choking? might it be a stroke? it was! it was a master stroke. he got no farther than "taught me things you didn't know yourself," when he lowered the sheet, threw back his head and laughed as none of his family ever had seen him laugh in his life; laughed and laughed until his frame was shaken and the tears rolled. finally he looked at the dazed nancy ellen. "get sally whistler, nothing!" he said. "you hustle your stumps and do for your mother what kate did while you were away last summer. and if you have any common decency send your sister as many of your best things as you had of hers, at least. do you hear me?" chapter iii peregrinations "peregrinations," laughed kate, turning to the window to hide her face. "oh, agatha, you are a dear, but you are too funny! even a fourth of july orator would not have used that word. i never heard it before in all of my life outside spelling-school." then she looked at the dollar she was gripping and ceased to laugh. "the dear lad," she whispered. "he did the whole thing. she was going to let us 'fight it out'; i could tell by her back, and adam wouldn't have helped me a cent, quite as much because he didn't want to as because father wouldn't have liked it. fancy the little chap knowing he can wheedle his mother into anything, and exactly how to go about it! i won't spend a penny on myself until she is paid, and then i'll make her a present of something nice, just to let her and nancy ellen see that i appreciate being helped to my chance, for i had reached that point where i would have walked to school and worked in somebody's kitchen, before i'd have missed my opportunity. i could have done it; but this will be far pleasanter and give me a much better showing." then kate began watching the people in the car with eager curiosity, for she had been on a train only twice before in her life. she decided that she was in a company of young people and some even of middle age, going to normal. she also noticed that most of them were looking at her with probably the same interest she found in them. then at one of the stations a girl asked to sit with her and explained that she was going to normal, so kate said she was also. the girl seemed to have several acquaintances on the car, for she left her seat to speak with them and when the train stopped at a very pleasant city and the car began to empty itself, on the platform kate was introduced by this girl to several young women and men near her age. a party of four, going to board close the school, with a woman they knew about, invited kate to go with them and because she was strange and shaken by her experiences she agreed. all of them piled their luggage on a wagon to be delivered, so kate let hers go also. then they walked down a long shady street, and entered a dainty and comfortable residence, a place that seemed to kate to be the home of people of wealth. she was assigned a room with another girl, such a pleasant girl; but a vague uneasiness had begun to make itself felt, so before she unpacked she went back to the sitting room and learned that the price of board was eight dollars a week. forty-eight dollars for six weeks! she would not have enough for books and tuition. besides, nancy ellen had boarded with a family on butler street whose charge was only five-fifty. kate was eager to stay where these very agreeable young people did, she imagined herself going to classes with them and having association that to her would be a great treat, but she never would dare ask for more money. she thought swiftly a minute, and then made her first mistake. instead of going to the other girls and frankly confessing that she could not afford the prices they were paying, she watched her chance, picked up her telescope and hurried down the street, walking swiftly until she was out of sight of the house. then she began inquiring her way to butler street and after a long, hot walk, found the place. the rooms and board were very poor, but kate felt that she could endure whatever nancy ellen had, so she unpacked, and went to the normal school to register and learn what she would need. on coming from the building she saw that she would be forced to pass close by the group of girls she had deserted and this was made doubly difficult because she could see that they were talking about her. then she understood how foolish she had been and as she was struggling to summon courage to explain to them she caught these words plainly: "who is going to ask her for it?" "i am," said the girl who had sat beside kate on the train. "i don't propose to pay it myself!" then she came directly to kate and said briefly: "fifty cents, please!" "for what?" stammered kate. "your luggage. you changed your boarding place in such a hurry you forgot to settle, and as i made the arrangement, i had to pay it." "do please excuse me," said kate. "i was so bewildered, i forgot." "certainly!" said the girl and kate dropped the money into the extended hand and hurried past, her face scorched red with shame, for one of them had said: "that's a good one! i wouldn't have thought it of her." kate went back to her hot, stuffy room and tried to study, but she succeeded only in being miserable, for she realized that she had lost her second chance to have either companions or friends, by not saying the few words of explanation that would have righted her in the opinion of those she would meet each day for six weeks. it was not a good beginning, while the end was what might have been expected. a young man from her neighbourhood spoke to her and the girls seeing, asked him about kate, learning thereby that her father was worth more money than all of theirs put together. some of them had accepted the explanation that kate was "bewildered" and had acted hastily; but when the young man finished bates history, they merely thought her mean, and left her severely to herself, so her only recourse was to study so diligently, and recite so perfectly that none of them could equal her, and this she did. in acute discomfort and with a sore heart, kate passed her first six weeks away from home. she wrote to each man on the list of school directors she had taken from nancy ellen's desk. some answered that they had their teachers already engaged, others made no reply. one bright spot was the receipt of a letter from nancy ellen saying she was sending her best dress, to be very careful of it, and if kate would let her know the day she would be home she would meet her at the station. kate sent her thanks, wore the dress to two lectures, and wrote the letter telling when she would return. as the time drew nearer she became sickeningly anxious about a school. what if she failed in securing one? what if she could not pay back agatha's money? what if she had taken "the wings of morning," and fallen in her flight? in desperation she went to the superintendent of the normal and told him her trouble. he wrote her a fine letter of recommendation and she sent it to one of the men from whom she had not heard, the director of a school in the village of walden, seven miles east of hartley, being seventeen miles from her home, thus seeming to kate a desirable location, also she knew the village to be pretty and the school one that paid well. then she finished her work the best she could, and disappointed and anxious, entered the train for home. when the engine whistled at the bridge outside hartley kate arose, lifted her telescope from the rack overhead, and made her way to the door, so that she was the first person to leave the car when it stopped. as she stepped to the platform she had a distinct shock, for her father reached for the telescope, while his greeting and his face were decidedly friendly, for him. as they walked down the street kate was trying wildly to think of the best thing to say when he asked if she had a school. but he did not ask. then she saw in the pocket of his light summer coat a packet of letters folded inside a newspaper, and there was one long, official-looking envelope that stood above the others far enough that she could see "miss k--" of the address. instantly she decided that it was her answer from the school director of walden and she was tremblingly eager to see it. she thought an instant and then asked: "have you been to the post office?" "yes, i got the mail," he answered. "will you please see if there are any letters for me?" she asked. "when we get home," he said. "i am in a hurry now. here's a list of things ma wants, and don't be all day about getting them." kate's lips closed to a thin line and her eyes began to grow steel coloured and big. she dragged back a step and looked at the loosely swaying pocket again. she thought intently a second. as they passed several people on the walk she stepped back of her father and gently raised the letter enough to see that the address was to her. instantly she lifted it from the others, slipped it up her dress sleeve, and again took her place beside her father until they reached the store where her mother did her shopping. then he waited outside while kate hurried in, and ripping open the letter, found a contract ready for her to sign for the walden school. the salary was twenty dollars a month more than nancy ellen had received for their country school the previous winter and the term four months longer. kate was so delighted she could have shouted. instead she went with all speed to the stationery counter and bought an envelope to fit the contract, which she signed, and writing a hasty note of thanks she mailed the letter in the store mail box, then began her mother's purchases. this took so much time that her father came into the store before she had finished, demanding that she hurry, so in feverish haste she bought what was wanted and followed to the buggy. on the road home she began to study her father; she could see that he was well pleased over something but she had no idea what could have happened; she had expected anything from verbal wrath to the buggy whip, so she was surprised, but so happy over having secured such a good school, at higher wages than nancy ellen's, that she spent most of her time thinking of herself and planning as to when she would go to walden, where she would stay, how she would teach, and oh, bliss unspeakable, what she would do with so much money; for two month's pay would more than wipe out her indebtedness to agatha, and by getting the very cheapest board she could endure, after that she would have over three fourths of her money to spend each month for books and clothes. she was intently engaged with her side of the closet and her end of the bureau, when she had her first glimpse of home; even preoccupied as she was, she saw a difference. several loose pickets in the fence had been nailed in place. the lilac beside the door and the cabbage roses had been trimmed, so that they did not drag over the walk, while the yard had been gone over with a lawn-mower. kate turned to her father. "well, for land's sake!" she said. "i wanted a lawn-mower all last summer, and you wouldn't buy it for me. i wonder why you got it the minute i was gone." "i got it because nancy ellen especially wanted it, and she has been a mighty good girl all summer," he said. "if that is the case, then she should be rewarded with the privilege of running a lawn-mower," said kate. her father looked at her sharply; but her face was so pleasant he decided she did not intend to be saucy, so he said: "no doubt she will be willing to let you help her all you want to." "not the ghost of a doubt about that," laughed kate, "and i always wanted to try running one, too. they look so nice in pictures, and how one improves a place! i hardly know this is home. now if we only had a fresh coat of white paint we could line up with the neighbours." "i have been thinking about that," said mr. bates, and kate glanced at him, doubting her hearing. he noticed her surprise and added in explanation: "paint every so often saves a building. it's good economy." "then let's economize immediately," said kate. "and on the barn, too. it is even more weather-beaten than the house." "i'll see about it the next time i go to town," said mr. bates; so kate entered the house prepared for anything and wondering what it all meant for wherever she looked everything was shining the brightest that scrubbing and scouring could make it shine, the best of everything was out and in use; not that it was much, but it made a noticeable difference. her mother greeted her pleasantly, with a new tone of voice, while nancy ellen was transformed. kate noticed that, immediately. she always had been a pretty girl, now she was beautiful, radiantly beautiful, with a new shining beauty that dazzled kate as she looked at her. no one offered any explanation while kate could see none. at last she asked: "what on earth has happened? i don't understand." "of course you don't," laughed nancy ellen. "you thought you ran the whole place and did everything yourself, so i thought i'd just show you how things look when i run them." "you are a top-notcher," said kate. "figuratively and literally, i offer you the palm. let the good work go on! i highly approve; but i don't see how you found time to do all this and go to institute." "i didn't go to institute," said nancy ellen. "you didn't! but you must!" cried kate. "oh must i? well, since you have decided to run your affairs as you please, in spite of all of us, just suppose you let me run mine the same way. only, i rather enjoy having father and mother approve of what i do." kate climbed the stairs with this to digest as she went; so while she put away her clothing she thought things over, but saw no light. she would go to adam's to return the telescope to-morrow, possibly he could tell her. as she hung her dresses in the closet and returned nancy ellen's to their places she was still more amazed, for there hung three pretty new wash dresses, one of a rosy pink that would make nancy ellen appear very lovely. what was the reason, kate wondered. the bates family never did anything unless there was some purpose in it, what was the purpose in this? and nancy ellen had not gone to institute. she evidently had worked constantly and hard, yet she was in much sweeter frame of mind than usual. she must have spent almost all she had saved from her school on new clothes. kate could not solve the problem, so she decided to watch and wait. she also waited for someone to say something about her plans, but no one said a word, so after waiting all evening kate decided that they would ask before they learned anything from her. she took her place as usual, and the work went on as if she had not been away; but she was happy, even in her bewilderment. if her father noticed the absence of the letter she had slipped from his pocket he said nothing about it as he drew the paper and letters forth and laid them on the table. kate had a few bad minutes while this was going on, she was sure he hesitated an instant and looked closely at the letters he sorted; but when he said nothing, she breathed deeply in relief and went on being joyous. it seemed to her that never had the family been in such a good-natured state since adam had married agatha and her three hundred acres with house, furniture, and stock. she went on in ignorance of what had happened until after sunday dinner the following day. then she had planned to visit agatha and adam. it was very probable that it was because she was dressing for this visit that nancy ellen decided on kate's enlightenment, for she could not have helped seeing that her sister was almost stunned at times. kate gave her a fine opening. as she stood brushing her wealth of gold with full-length sweeps of her arm, she was at an angle that brought her facing the mirror before which nancy ellen sat training waves and pinning up loose braids. her hair was beautiful and she slowly smiled at her image as she tried different effects of wave, loose curl, braids high piled or flat. across her bed lay a dress that was a reproduction of one that she had worn for three years, but a glorified reproduction. the original dress had been nancy ellen's first departure from the brown and gray gingham which her mother always had purchased because it would wear well, and when from constant washing it faded to an exact dirt colour it had the advantage of providing a background that did not show the dirt. nancy ellen had earned the money for a new dress by raising turkeys, so when the turkeys went to town to be sold, for the first time in her life nancy ellen went along to select the dress. no one told her what kind of dress to get, because no one imagined that she would dare buy any startling variation from what always had been provided for her. but nancy ellen had stood facing a narrow mirror when she reached the gingham counter and the clerk, taking one look at her fresh, beautiful face with its sharp contrasts of black eyes and hair, rose-tinted skin that refused to tan, and red cheeks and lips, began shaking out delicate blues, pale pinks, golden yellows. he called them chambray; insisted that they wore for ever, and were fadeless, which was practically the truth. on the day that dress was like to burst its waist seams, it was the same warm rosy pink that transformed nancy ellen from the disfiguration of dirt-brown to apple and peach bloom, wild roses and swamp mallow, a girl quite as pretty as a girl ever grows, and much prettier than any girl ever has any business to be. the instant nancy ellen held the chambray under her chin and in an oblique glance saw the face of the clerk, the material was hers no matter what the cost, which does not refer to the price, by any means. knowing that the dress would be an innovation that would set her mother storming and fill kate with envy, which would probably culminate in the demand that the goods be returned and exchanged for dirt-brown, when she reached home nancy ellen climbed from the wagon and told her father that she was going on to adam's to have agatha cut out her dress so that she could begin to sew on it that night. such commendable industry met his hearty approval, so he told her to go and he would see that kate did her share of the work. wise nancy ellen came home and sat her down to sew on her gorgeous frock, while the storm she had feared raged in all its fury; but the goods was cut, and could not be returned. yet, through it, a miracle happened: nancy ellen so appreciated herself in pink that the extreme care she used with that dress saved it from half the trips of a dirt-brown one to the wash board and the ironing table; while, marvel of marvels, it did not shrink, it did not fade, also it wore like buckskin. the result was that before the season had passed kate was allowed to purchase a pale blue, which improved her appearance quite as much in proportion as pink had nancy ellen's; neither did the blue fade nor shrink nor require so much washing, for the same reason. three years the pink dress had been nancy ellen's piece de resistance; now she had a new one, much the same, yet conspicuously different. this was a daring rose colour, full and wide, peeping white embroidery trimming, and big pearl buttons, really a beautiful dress, made in a becoming manner. kate looked at it in cheerful envy. never mind! the coming summer she would have a blue that would make that pink look silly. from the dress she turned to nancy ellen, barely in time to see her bend her head and smirk, broadly, smilingly, approvingly, at her reflection in the glass. "for mercy sake, what is the matter with you?" demanded kate, ripping a strand of hair in sudden irritation. "oh, something lovely!" answered her sister, knowing that this was her chance to impart the glad tidings herself; if she lost it, agatha would get the thrill of kate's surprise. so nancy ellen opened her drawer and slowly produced and set upon her bureau a cabinet photograph of a remarkably strong-featured, handsome young man. then she turned to kate and smiled a slow, challenging smile. kate walked over and picked up the picture, studying it intently but in growing amazement. "who is he?" she asked finally. "my man!" answered nancy ellen, possessively, triumphantly. kate stared at her. "honest to god?" she cried in wonderment. "honest!" said nancy ellen. "where on earth did you find him?" demanded kate. "picked him out of the blackberry patch," said nancy ellen. "those darn blackberries are always late," said kate, throwing the picture back on the bureau. "ain't that just my luck! you wouldn't touch the raspberries. i had to pick them every one myself. but the minute i turn my back, you go pick a man like that, out of the blackberry patch. i bet a cow you wore your pink chambray, and carried grandmother's old blue bowl." "certainly," said nancy ellen, "and my pink sun-bonnet. i think maybe the bonnet started it." kate sat down limply on the first chair and studied the toes of her shoes. at last she roused and looked at nancy ellen, waiting in smiling complaisance as she returned the picture to her end of the bureau. "well, why don't you go ahead?" cried kate in a thick, rasping voice. "empty yourself! who is he? where did he come from? why was he in our blackberry patch? has he really been to see you, and is he courting you in earnest?--but of course he is! there's the lilac bush, the lawn-mower, the house to be painted, and a humdinger dress. is he a millionaire? for heaven's sake tell me--" "give me some chance! i did meet him in the blackberry patch. he's a nephew of henry lang and his name is robert gray. he has just finished a medical course and he came here to rest and look at hartley for a location, because lang thinks it would be such a good one. and since we met he has decided to take an office in hartley, and he has money to furnish it, and to buy and furnish a nice house." "great jehoshaphat!" cried kate. "and i bet he's got wings, too! i do have the rottenest luck!" "you act for all the world as if it were a foregone conclusion that if you had been here, you'd have won him!" nancy ellen glanced in the mirror and smiled, while kate saw the smile. she picked up her comb and drew herself to full height. "if anything ever was a 'foregone conclusion,'" she said, "it is a 'foregone conclusion' that if i had been here, i'd have picked the blackberries, and so i'd have had the first chance at him, at least." "much good it would have done you!" cried nancy ellen. "wait until he comes, and you see him!" "you may do your mushing in private," said kate. "i don't need a demonstration to convince me. he looks from the picture like a man who would be as soft as a frosted pawpaw." nancy ellen's face flamed crimson. "you hateful spite-cat!" she cried. then she picked up the picture and laid it face down in her drawer, while two big tears ran down her cheeks. kate saw those also. instantly she relented. "you big silly goose!" she said. "can't you tell when any one is teasing? i think i never saw a finer face than the one in that picture. i'm jealous because i never left home a day before in all my life, and the minute i do, here you go and have such luck. are you really sure of him, nancy ellen?" "well, he asked father and mother, and i've been to visit his folks, and he told them; and i've been with him to hartley hunting a house; and i'm not to teach this winter, so i can have all my time to make my clothes and bedding. father likes him fine, so he is going to give me money to get all i need. he offered to, himself." kate finished her braid, pulled the combings from the comb and slowly wrapped the end of her hair as she digested these convincing facts. she swung the heavy braid around her head, placed a few pins, then crossed to her sister and laid a shaking hand on her shoulder. her face was working strongly. "nancy ellen, i didn't mean one ugly word i said. you gave me an awful surprise, and that was just my bald, ugly bates way of taking it. i think you are one of the most beautiful women i ever have seen, alive or pictured. i have always thought you would make a fine marriage, and i am sure you will. i haven't a doubt that robert gray is all you think him, and i am as glad for you as i can be. you can keep house in hartley for two with scarcely any work at all, and you can have all the pretty clothes you want, and time to wear them. doctors always get rich if they are good ones, and he is sure to be a good one, once he gets a start. if only we weren't so beastly healthy there are enough bates and langs to support you for the first year. and i'll help you sew, and do all i can for you. now wipe up and look your handsomest!" nancy ellen arose and put her arms around kate's neck, a stunningly unusual proceeding. "thank you," she said. "that is big and fine of you. but i always have shirked and put my work on you; i guess now i'll quit, and do my sewing myself." then she slipped the pink dress over her head and stood slowly fastening it as kate started to leave the room. seeing her go: "i wish you would wait and meet robert," she said. "i have told him about what a nice sister i have." "i think i'll go on to adam's now," said kate. "i don't want to wait until they go some place, and i miss them. i'll do better to meet your man after i become more accustomed to bare facts, anyway. by the way, is he as tall as you?" "yes," said nancy ellen, laughing. "he is an inch and a half taller. why?" "oh, i hate seeing a woman taller than her husband and i've always wondered where we'd find men to reach our shoulders. but if they can be picked at random from the berry patch--" so kate went on her way laughing, lifting her white skirts high from the late august dust. she took a short cut through the woods and at a small stream, with sure foot, crossed the log to within a few steps of the opposite bank. there she stopped, for a young man rounded the bushes and set a foot on the same log; then he and kate looked straight into each other's eyes. kate saw a clean-shaven, forceful young face, with strong lines and good colouring, clear gray eyes, sandy brown hair, even, hard, white teeth, and broad shoulders a little above her own. the man saw kate, dressed in her best and looking her best. slowly she extended her hand. "i bet a picayune you are my new brother, robert," she said. the young man gripped her hand firmly, held it, and kept on looking in rather a stunned manner at kate. "well, aren't you?" she asked, trying to withdraw the hand. "i never, never would have believed it," he said. "believed what?" asked kate, leaving the hand where it was. "that there could be two in the same family," said he. "but i'm as different from nancy ellen as night from day," said kate, "besides, woe is me, i didn't wear a pink dress and pick you from the berry patch in a blue bowl." then the man released her hand and laughed. "you wouldn't have had the slightest trouble, if you had been there," he said. "except that i should have inverted my bowl," said kate, calmly. "i am looking for a millionaire, riding a milk-white steed, and he must be much taller than you and have black hair and eyes. good-bye, brother! i will see you this evening." then kate went down the path to deliver the telescope, render her thanks, make her promise of speedy payment, and for the first time tell her good news about her school. she found that she was very happy as she went and quite convinced that her first flight would prove entirely successful. chapter iv a question of contracts "hello, folks!" cried kate, waving her hand to the occupants of the veranda as she went up the walk. "glad to find you at home." "that is where you will always find me unless i am forced away on business," said her brother as they shook hands. agatha was pleased with this, and stiff as steel, she bent the length of her body toward kate and gave her a tight-lipped little peck on the cheek. "i came over, as soon as i could," said kate as she took the chair her brother offered, "to thank you for the big thing you did for me, agatha, when you lent me that money. if i had known where i was going, or the help it would be to me, i should have gone if i'd had to walk and work for my board. why, i feel so sure of myself! i've learned so much that i'm like the girl fresh from boarding school: 'the only wonder is that one small head can contain it all.' thank you over and over and i've got a good school, so i can pay you back the very first month, i think. if there are things i must have, i can pay part the first month and the remainder the second. i am eager for pay-day. i can't even picture the bliss of having that much money in my fingers, all my own, to do with as i please. won't it be grand?" in the same breath said agatha: "procure yourself some clothes!" said adam: "start a bank account!" said kate: "right you are! i shall do both." "even our little susan has a bank account," said adam, jr., proudly. "which is no reflection whatever on me," laughed kate. "susan did not have the same father and mother i had. i'd like to see a girl of my branch of the bates family start a bank account at ten." "no, i guess she wouldn't," admitted adam, dryly. "but have you heard that nancy ellen has started?" cried kate. "only think! a lawn-mower! the house and barn to be painted! all the dinge possible to remove scoured away, inside! she must have worn her fingers almost to the bone! and really, agatha, have you seen the man? he's as big as adam, and just fine looking. i'm simply consumed with envy." "miss medira, dora, ann, cast her net, and catched a man!" recited susan from the top step, at which they all laughed. "no, i have not had the pleasure of casting my optics upon the individual of nancy ellen's choice," said agatha primly, "but miss amelia lang tells me he is a very distinguished person, of quite superior education in a medical way. i shall call him if i ever have the misfortune to fall ill again. i hope you will tell nancy ellen that we shall be very pleased to have her bring him to see us some evening, and if she will let me know a short time ahead i shall take great pleasure in compounding a cake and freezing custard." "of course i shall tell her, and she will feel a trifle more stuck up than she does now, if that is possible," laughed kate in deep amusement. she surely was feeling fine. everything had come out so splendidly. that was what came of having a little spirit and standing up for your rights. also she was bubbling inside while agatha talked. kate wondered how adam survived it every day. she glanced at him to see if she could detect any marks of shattered nerves, then laughed outright. adam was the finest physical specimen of a man she knew. he was good looking also, and spoke as well as the average, better in fact, for from the day of their marriage, agatha sat on his lap each night and said these words: "my beloved, to-day i noted an error in your speech. it would put a former teacher to much embarrassment to have this occur in public. in the future will you not try to remember that you should say, 'have gone,' instead of 'have went?'" as she talked agatha rumpled adam's hair, pulled off his string tie, upon which she insisted, even when he was plowing; laid her hard little face against his, and held him tight with her frail arms, so that adam being part human as well as part bates, held her closely also and said these words: "you bet your sweet life i will!" and what is more he did. he followed a furrow the next day, softly muttering over to himself: "langs have gone to town. i have gone to work. the birds have gone to building nests." so adam seldom said: "have went," or made any other error in speech that agatha had once corrected. as kate watched him leaning back in his chair, vital, a study in well-being, the supremest kind of satisfaction on his face, she noted the flash that lighted his eye when agatha offered to "freeze a custard." how like agatha! any other woman kate knew would have said, "make ice cream." agatha explained to them that when they beat up eggs, added milk, sugar, and corn-starch it was custard. when they used pure cream, sweetened and frozen, it was iced cream. personally, she preferred the custard, but she did not propose to call it custard cream. it was not correct. why persist in misstatements and inaccuracies when one knew better? so agatha said iced cream when she meant it, and frozen custard, when custard it was, but every other woman in the neighbourhood, had she acted as she felt, would have slapped agatha's face when she said it: this both adam and kate well knew, so it made kate laugh despite the fact that she would not have offended agatha purposely. "i think--i think," said agatha, "that nancy ellen has much upon which to congratulate herself. more education would not injure her, but she has enough that if she will allow her ambition to rule her and study in private and spend her spare time communing with the best writers, she can make an exceedingly fair intellectual showing, while she surely is a handsome woman. with a good home and such a fine young professional man as she has had the good fortune to attract, she should immediately put herself at the head of society in hartley and become its leader to a much higher moral and intellectual plane than it now occupies." "bet she has a good time," said young adam. "he's awful nice." "son," said agatha, "'awful,' means full of awe. a cyclone, a cloudburst, a great conflagration are awful things. by no stretch of the imagination could they be called nice." "but, ma, if a cyclone blew away your worst enemy wouldn't it be nice?" adam, jr., and kate laughed. not the trace of a smile crossed agatha's pale face. "the words do not belong in contiguity," she said. "they are diametrically opposite in meaning. please do not allow my ears to be offended by hearing you place them in propinquity again." "i'll try not to, ma," said young adam; then agatha smiled on him approvingly. "when did you meet mr. gray, katherine?" she asked. "on the foot-log crossing the creek beside lang's line fence. near the spot nancy ellen first met him i imagine." "how did you recognize him?" "nancy ellen had just been showing me his picture and telling me about him. great day, but she's in love with him!" "and so he is with her, if lang's conclusions from his behaviour can be depended upon. they inform me that he can be induced to converse on no other subject. the whole arrangement appeals to me as distinctly admirable." "and you should see the lilac bush and the cabbage roses," said kate. "and the strangest thing is father. he is peaceable as a lamb. she is not to teach, but to spend the winter sewing on her clothes and bedding, and father told her he would give her the necessary money. she said so. and i suspect he will. he always favoured her because she was so pretty, and she can come closer to wheedling him than any of the rest of us excepting you, agatha." "it is an innovation, surely!" "mother is nearly as bad. father furnishing money for clothes and painting the barn is no more remarkable than mother letting her turn the house inside out. if it had been i, father would have told me to teach my school this winter, buy my own clothes and linen with the money i had earned, and do my sewing next summer. but i am not jealous. it is because she is handsome, and the man fine-looking and with such good prospects." "there you have it!" said adam emphatically. "if it were you, marrying jim lang, to live on lang's west forty, you would pay your own way. but if it were you marrying a fine-looking young doctor, who will soon be a power in hartley, no doubt, it would tickle father's vanity until he would do the same for you." "i doubt it!" said kate. "i can't see the vanity in father." "you can't?" said adam, jr., bitterly. "maybe not! you have not been with him in the treasurer's office when he calls for 'the tax on those little parcels of land of mine.' he looks every inch of six feet six then, and swells like a toad. to hear him you would think sixteen hundred and fifty acres of the cream of this county could be tied in a bandanna and carried on a walking stick, he is so casual about it. and those men fly around like buttons on a barn door to wait on him and it's 'mister bates this' and 'mister bates that,' until it turns my stomach. vanity! he rolls in it! he eats it! he risks losing our land for us that some of us have slaved over for twenty years, to feed that especial vein of his vanity. where should we be if he let anything happen to those deeds?" "how refreshing!" cried kate. "i love to hear you grouching! i hear nothing else from the women of the bates family, but i didn't even know the men had a grouch. are peter, and john, and hiram, and the other boys sore, too?" "i should say they are! but they are too diplomatic to say so. they are afraid to cheep. i just open my head and say right out loud in meeting that since i've turned in the taxes and insurance for all these years and improved my land more than fifty per cent., i'd like to own it, and pay my taxes myself, like a man." "i'd like to have some land under any conditions," said kate, "but probably i never shall. and i bet you never get a flipper on that deed until father has crossed over jordan, which with his health and strength won't be for twenty-five years yet at least. he's performing a miracle that will make the other girls rave, when he gives nancy ellen money to buy her outfit; but they won't dare let him hear a whisper of it. they'll take it all out on mother, and she'll be afraid to tell him." "afraid? mother afraid of him? not on your life. she is hand in glove with him. she thinks as he does, and helps him in everything he undertakes." "that's so, too. come to think of it, she isn't a particle afraid of him. she agrees with him perfectly. it would be interesting to hear them having a private conversation. they never talk a word before us. but they always agree, and they heartily agree on nancy ellen's man, that is plainly to be seen." "it will make a very difficult winter for you, katherine," said agatha. "when nancy ellen becomes interested in dresses and table linen and bedding she will want to sew all the time, and leave the cooking and dishes for you as well as your schoolwork." kate turned toward agatha in surprise. "but i won't be there! i told you i had taken a school." "you taken a school!" shouted adam. "why, didn't they tell you that father has signed up for the home school for you?" "good heavens!" said kate. "what will be to pay now?" "did you contract for another school?" cried adam. "i surely did," said kate slowly. "i signed an agreement to teach the village school in walden. it's a brick building with a janitor to sweep and watch fires, only a few blocks to walk, and it pays twenty dollars a month more than the home school where you can wade snow three miles, build your own fires, and freeze all day in a little frame building at that. i teach the school i have taken." "and throw our school out of a teacher? father could be sued, and probably will be," said adam. "and throw the housework nancy ellen expected you to do on her," said agatha, at the same time. "i see," said kate. "well, if he is sued, he will have to settle. he wouldn't help me a penny to go to school, i am of age, the debt is my own, and i don't owe it to him. he's had all my work has been worth all my life, and i've surely paid my way. i shall teach the school i have signed for." "you will get into a pretty kettle of fish!" said adam. "agatha, will you sell me your telescope for what you paid for it, and get yourself a new one the next time you go to hartley? it is only a few days until time to go to my school, it opens sooner than in the country, and closes later. the term is four months longer, so i earn that much more. i haven't gotten a telescope yet. you can add it to my first payment." "you may take it," said agatha, "but hadn't you better reconsider, katherine? things are progressing so nicely, and this will upset everything for nancy ellen." "that taking the home school will upset everything for me, doesn't seem to count. it is late, late to find teachers, and i can be held responsible if i break the contract i have made. father can stand the racket better than i can. when he wouldn't consent to my going, he had no business to make plans for me. i had to make my own plans and go in spite of him; he might have known i'd do all in my power to get a school. besides, i don't want the home school, or the home work piled on me. my hands look like a human being's for the first time in my life; then i need all my time outside of school to study and map out lessons. i am going to try for a room in the hartley schools next year, or the next after that, surely. they sha'n't change my plans and boss me, i am going to be free to work, and study, and help myself, like other teachers." "a grand row this will be," commented young adam. "and as usual kate will be right, while all of them will be trying to use her to their advantage. ma has done her share. now it is your turn, pa. ain't you going to go over and help her?" "what could i do?" demanded his father. "the mischief is done now." "well, if you can't do anything to help, you can let me have the buggy to drive her to walden, if they turn her out." "'forcibly invite her to proceed to her destination,' you mean, son," said agatha. "yes, ma, that is exactly what i mean," said young adam. "do i get the buggy?" "yes, you may take my private conveyance. but do nothing to publish the fact. there is no need to incur antagonism if it can be avoided." "kate, i'll be driving past the privet bush about nine in the morning. if you need me, hang a white rag on it, and i'll stop at the corner of the orchard." "i shall probably be standing in the road waiting for you," said kate. "oh, i hope not," said agatha. "looks remarkably like it to me," said kate. then she picked up the telescope, said good-bye to each of them, and in acute misery started back to her home. this time she followed the footpath beside the highway. she was so busy with her indignant thought that she forgot to protect her skirts from the dust of wayside weeds, while in her excitement she walked so fast her face was red and perspiring when she approached the church. "oh, dear, i don't know about it," said kate to the small, silent building. "i am trying to follow your advice, but it seems to me that life is very difficult, any way you go at it. if it isn't one thing, it is another. an hour ago i was the happiest i have ever been in my life; only look at me now! any one who wants 'the wings of morning' may have them for all of me. it seems definitely settled that i walk, carry a load, and fight for the chance to do even that." a big tear rolled down either side of kate's nose and her face twisted in self-pity for an instant. but when she came in sight of home her shoulders squared, the blue-gray of her eyes deepened to steel, and her lips set in a line that was an exact counterpart of her father's when he had made up his mind and was ready to drive his family, with their consent or without it. as she passed the vegetable garden--there was no time or room for flowers in a bates garden--kate, looking ahead, could see nancy ellen and robert gray beneath the cherry trees. she hoped nancy ellen would see that she was tired and dusty, and should have time to brush and make herself more presentable to meet a stranger, and so nancy ellen did; for which reason she immediately arose and came to the gate, followed by her suitor whom she at once introduced. kate was in no mood for words; one glance at her proved to robert gray that she was tired and dusty, that there were tear marks dried on her face. they hastily shook hands, but neither mentioned the previous meeting. excusing herself kate went into the house saying she would soon return. nancy ellen glanced at robert, and saw the look of concern on his face. "i believe she has been crying," she said. "and if she has, it's something new, for i never saw a tear on her face before in my life." "truly?" he questioned in amazement. "why, of course! the bates family are not weepers." "so i have heard," said the man, rather dryly. nancy ellen resented his tone. "would you like us better if we were?" "i couldn't like you better than i do, but because of what i have heard and seen, it naturally makes me wonder what could have happened that has made her cry." "we are rather outspoken, and not at all secretive," said nancy ellen, carelessly, "you will soon know." kate followed the walk around the house and entered at the side door, finding her father and mother in the dining room reading the weekly papers. her mother glanced up as she entered. "what did you bring agatha's telescope back with you for?" she instantly demanded. for a second kate hesitated. it had to come, she might as well get it over. possibly it would be easier with them alone than if nancy ellen were present. "it is mine," she said. "it represents my first purchase on my own hook and line." "you are not very choicy to begin on second-hand stuff. nancy ellen would have had a new one." "no doubt!" said kate. "but this will do for me." her father lowered his paper and asked harshly: "what did you buy that thing for?" kate gripped the handle and braced herself. "to pack my clothes in when i go to my school next week," she said simply. "what?" he shouted. "what?" cried her mother. "i don't know why you seem surprised," said kate. "surely you knew i went to normal to prepare myself to teach. did you think i couldn't find a school?" "now look here, young woman," shouted adam bates, "you are done taking the bit in your teeth. nancy ellen is not going to teach this winter. i have taken the home school for you; you will teach it. that is settled. i have signed the contract. it must be fulfilled." "then nancy ellen will have to fulfill it," said kate. "i also have signed a contract that must be fulfilled. i am of age, and you had no authority from me to sign a contract for me." for an instant kate thought there was danger that the purple rush of blood to her father's head might kill him. he opened his mouth, but no distinct words came. her face paled with fright, but she was of his blood, so she faced him quietly. her mother was quicker of wit, and sharper of tongue. "where did you get a school? why didn't you wait until you got home?" she demanded. "i am going to teach the village school in walden," said kate. "it is a brick building, has a janitor, i can board reasonably, near my work, and i get twenty dollars more a month than our school pays, while the term is four months longer." "well, it is a pity about that; but it makes no difference," said her mother. "our home school has got to be taught as pa contracted, and nancy ellen has got to have her chance." "what about my chance?" asked kate evenly. "not one of the girls, even exceptional ability, ever had as good a school or as high wages to start on. if i do well there this winter, i am sure i can get in the hartley graded schools next fall." "don't you dare nickname your sister," cried mrs. bates, shrilly. "you stop your impudence and mind your father." "ma, you leave this to me," said adam bates, thickly. then he glared at kate as he arose, stretching himself to full height. "you've signed a contract for a school?" he demanded. "i have," said kate. "why didn't you wait until you got home and talked it over with us?" he questioned. "i went to you to talk over the subject to going," said kate. "you would not even allow me to speak. how was i to know that you would have the slightest interest in what school i took, or where." "when did you sign this contract?" he continued. "yesterday afternoon, in hartley," said kate. "aha! then i did miss a letter from my pocket. when did you get to be a thief?" he demanded. "oh, father!" cried kate. "it was my letter. i could see my name on the envelope. i asked you for it, before i took it." "from behind my back, like the sneak-thief you are. you are not fit to teach in a school where half the scholars are the children of your brothers and sisters, and you are not fit to live with honest people. pack your things and be off!" "now? this afternoon?" asked kate. "this minute!" he cried. "all right. you will be surprised at how quickly i can go," said kate. she set down the telescope and gathered a straw sunshade and an apron from the hooks at the end of the room, opened the dish cupboard, and took out a mug decorated with the pinkest of wild roses and the reddest and fattest of robins, bearing the inscription in gold, "for a good girl" on a banner in its beak. kate smiled at it grimly as she took the telescope and ran upstairs. it was the work of only a few minutes to gather her books and clothing and pack the big telescope, then she went down the front stairs and left the house by the front door carrying in her hand everything she possessed on earth. as she went down the walk nancy ellen sprang up and ran to her while robert gray followed. "you'll have to talk to me on the road," said kate. "i am forbidden the house which also means the grounds, i suppose." she walked across the road, set the telescope on the grass under a big elm tree, and sat down beside it. "i find i am rather tired," she said. "will you share the sofa with me?" nancy ellen lifted her pink skirt and sat beside kate. robert gray stood looking down at them. "what in the world is the matter?" asked nancy ellen. "you know, of course, that father signed a contract for me to teach the home school this winter," explained kate. "well, i am of age, and he had no authority from me, so his contract isn't legal. none of you would lift a finger to help me get away to normal, how was i to know that you would take any interest in finding me a school while i was gone? i thought it was all up to me, so i applied for the school in walden, got it, and signed the contract to teach it. it is a better school, at higher wages. i thought you would teach here--i can't break my contract. father is furious and has ordered me out of the house. so there you are, or rather here i am." "well, it isn't much of a joke," said nancy ellen, thinking intently. what she might have said had they been alone, kate always wondered. what she did say while her betrothed looked at her with indignant eyes was possibly another matter. it proved to be merely: "oh, kate, i am so sorry!" "so am i," said kate. "if i had known what your plans were, of course i should gladly have helped you out. if only you had written me and told me." "i wanted to surprise you," said nancy ellen. "you have," said kate. "enough to last a lifetime. i don't see how you figured. you knew how late it was. you knew it would be nip and tuck if i got a school at all." "of course we did! we thought you couldn't possibly get one, this late, so we fixed up the scheme to let you have my school, and let me sew on my linen this winter. we thought you would be as pleased as we were." "i am too sorry for words," said kate. "if i had known your plan, i would have followed it, even though i gave up a better school at a higher salary. but i didn't know. i thought i had to paddle my own canoe, so i made my own plans. now i must live up to them, because my contract is legal, while father's is not. i would have taught the school for you, in the circumstances, but since i can't, so far as i am concerned, the arrangement i have made is much better. the thing that really hurts the worst, aside from disappointing you, is that father says i was not honest in what i did." "but what did you do?" cried nancy ellen. so kate told them exactly what she had done. "of course you had a right to your own letter, when you could see the address on it, and it was where you could pick it up," said robert gray. kate lifted dull eyes to his face. "thank you for so much grace, at any rate," she said. "i don't blame you a bit," said nancy ellen. "in the same place i'd have taken it myself." "you wouldn't have had to," said kate. "i'm too abrupt--too much like the gentleman himself. you would have asked him in a way that would have secured you the letter with no trouble." nancy ellen highly appreciated these words of praise before her lover. she arose immediately. "maybe i could do something with him now," she said. "i'll go and see." "you shall do nothing of the kind," said kate. "i am as much bates as he is. i won't be taunted afterward that he turned me out and that i sent you to him to plead for me." "i'll tell him you didn't want me to come, that i came of my own accord," offered nancy ellen. "and he won't believe you," said kate. "would you consent for me to go?" asked robert gray. "certainly not! i can look out for myself." "what shall you do?" asked nancy ellen anxiously. "that is getting slightly ahead of me," said kate. "if i had been diplomatic i could have evaded this until morning. adam, d, is to be over then, prepared to take me anywhere i want to go. what i have to face now is a way to spend the night without letting the neighbours know that i am turned out. how can i manage that?" nancy ellen and robert each began making suggestions, but kate preferred to solve her own problems. "i think," she said, "that i shall hide the telescope under the privet bush, there isn't going to be rain to-night; and then i will go down to hiram's and stay all night and watch for adam when he passes in the morning. hiram always grumbles because we don't come oftener." "then we will go with you," said nancy ellen. "it will be a pleasant evening walk, and we can keep you company and pacify my twin brother at the same time." so they all walked to the adjoining farm on the south and when nancy ellen and robert were ready to start back, kate said she was tired and she believed she would stay until morning, which was agreeable to hiram and his wife, a girlhood friend of kate's. as nancy ellen and robert walked back toward home: "how is this going to come out?" he asked, anxiously. "it will come out all right," said nancy ellen, serenely. "kate hasn't a particle of tact. she is father himself, all over again. it will come out this way: he will tell me that kate has gone back on him and i shall have to teach the school, and i will say that is the only solution and the best thing to do. then i shall talk all evening about how provoking it is, and how i hate to change my plans, and say i am afraid i shall lose you if i have to put off our wedding to teach the school, and things like that," nancy ellen turned a flushed sparkling face to robert, smiling quizzically, "and to-morrow i shall go early to see serena woodruff, who is a fine scholar and a good teacher, but missed her school in the spring by being so sick she was afraid to contract for it. she is all right now, and she will be delighted to have the school, and when i know she will take it then i shall just happen to think of her in a day or two and i'll suggest her, after i've wailed a lot more; and father will go to see her of his own accord, and it will all be settled as easy as falling off a chunk, only i shall not get on so fast with my sewing, because of having to help mother; but i shall do my best, and everything will be all right." the spot was secluded. robert gray stopped to tell nancy ellen what a wonderful girl she was. he said he was rather afraid of such diplomacy. he foresaw clearly that he was going to be a managed man. nancy ellen told him of course he was, all men were, the thing was not to let them know it. then they laughed and listened to a wood robin singing out his little heart in an evening song that was almost as melodious as his spring performances had been. chapter v the prodigal daughter early in the morning kate set her young nephew on the gate-post to watch for his cousin, and he was to have a penny for calling at his approach. when his lusty shout came, kate said good-bye to her sister-in-law, paid the penny, kissed the baby, and was standing in the road when adam stopped. he looked at her inquiringly. "well, it happened," she said. "he turned me out instanter, with no remarks about when i might return, if ever, while mother cordially seconded the motion. it's a good thing, adam, that you offered to take care of me, because i see clearly that you are going to have it to do." "of course i will," said adam promptly. "and of course i can. do you want to go to hartley for anything? because if you don't, we can cut across from the next road and get to walden in about fifteen miles, while it's seventeen by hartley; but if you want to go we can, for i needn't hurry. i've got a box of lunch and a feed for my horse in the back of the buggy. mother said i was to stay with you until i saw you settled in your room, if you had to go; and if you do, she is angry with grandpa, and she is going to give him a portion of her mentality the very first time she comes in contact with him. she said so." "yes, i can almost hear her," said kate, struggling to choke down a rising laugh. "she will never know how i appreciate what she has done for me, but i think talking to father will not do any good. home hasn't been so overly pleasant. it's been a small, dark, cramped house, dingy and hot, when it might have been big, airy, and comfortable, well furnished and pretty as father's means would allow, and as all the neighbours always criticize him for not having it; it's meant hard work and plenty of it ever since i was set to scouring the tinware with rushes at the mature age of four, but it's been home, all the home i have had, and it hurts more than i can tell you to be ordered out of it as i was, but if i do well and make a big success, maybe he will let me come back for christmas, or next summer's vacation." "if he won't, ma said you could come to our house," said adam. "that's kind of her, but i couldn't do it," said kate. "she said you could," persisted the boy. "but if i did it, and father got as mad as he was last night and tore up your father's deed, then where would i be?" asked kate. "you'd be a sixteenth of two hundred acres better off than you are now," said adam. "possibly," laughed kate, "but i wouldn't want to become a land shark that way. look down the road." "who is it?" asked adam. "nancy ellen, with my telescope," answered kate. "i am to go, all right." "all right, then we will go," said the boy, angrily. "but it is a blame shame and there is no sense to it, as good a girl as you have been, and the way you have worked. mother said at breakfast there was neither sense nor justice in the way grandpa always has acted and she said she would wager all she was worth that he would live to regret it. she said it wasn't natural, and when people undertook to controvert--ain't that a peach? bet there isn't a woman in ten miles using that word except ma--nature they always hurt themselves worse than they hurt their victims. and i bet he does, too, and i, for one, don't care. i hope he does get a good jolt, just to pay him up for being so mean." "don't, adam, don't!" cautioned kate. "i mean it!" cried the boy. "i know you do. that's the awful thing about it," said kate. "i am afraid every girl he has feels the same way, and from what your father said yesterday, even the sons he favours don't feel any too good toward him." "you just bet they don't! they are every one as sore as boiled owls. pa said so, and he knows, for they all talk it over every time they meet. he said they didn't feel like men, they felt like a lot of 'spanked school-boys.'" "they needn't worry," said kate. "every deed is made out. father reads them over whenever it rains. they'll all get their land when he dies. it is only his way." "yes, and this is only his way, too, and it's a dern poor way," said adam. "pa isn't going to do this way at all. mother said he could go and live on his land, and she'd stay home with susan and me, if he tried it. and when i am a man i am going to do just like pa and ma because they are the rightest people i know, only i am not going to save quite so close as pa, and if i died for it, i never could converse or dance like ma." "i should hope not!" said kate, and then added hastily, "it's all right for a lady, but it would seem rather sissy for a man, i believe." "yes, i guess it would, but it is language let me tell you, when ma cuts loose," said adam. "hello, nancy ellen," said kate as adam stopped the buggy. "put my telescope in the back with the horse feed. since you have it, i don't need ask whether i am the prodigal daughter or not. i see clearly i am." nancy ellen was worried, until she was pale. "kate," she said, "i never have seen father so angry in all my life. i thought last night that in a day or two i could switch the school over to serena woodruff, and go on with my plans, but father said at breakfast if the bates name was to stand for anything approaching honour, a bates would teach that school this winter or he'd know the reason why. and you know how easy it is to change him. oh, kate, won't you see if that walden trustee can't possibly find another teacher, and let you off? i know robert will be disappointed, for he's rented his office and bought a house and he said last night to get ready as soon after christmas as i could. oh, kate, won't you see if you can't possibly get that man to hire another teacher?" "why, nancy ellen--" said kate. nancy ellen, with a twitching face, looked at kate. "if robert has to wait months, there in hartley, handsome as he is, and he has to be nice to everybody to get practice, and you know how those hartley girls are--" "yes, nancy ellen, i know," said kate. "i'll see what i can do. is it understood that if i give up the school and come back and take ours, father will let me come home?" "yes, oh, yes!" cried nancy ellen. "well, nothing goes on guess-work. i'll hear him say it, myself," said kate. she climbed from the buggy. nancy ellen caught her arm. "don't go in there! don't you go there," she cried. "he'll throw the first thing he can pick up at you. mother says he hasn't been asleep all night." "pooh!" said kate. "how childish! i want to hear him say that, and he'll scarcely kill me." she walked swiftly to the side door. "father," she said, "nancy ellen is afraid she will lose robert gray if she has to put off her marriage for months--" kate stepped back quickly as a chair crashed against the door facing. she again came into view and continued--"so she asked me if i would get out of my school and come back if i could"--kate dodged another chair; when she appeared again--"to save the furniture, of which we have none too much, i'll just step inside," she said. when her father started toward her, she started around the dining table, talking as fast as she could, he lunging after her like a furious bull. "she asked me to come back and teach the school--to keep her from putting off her wedding--because she is afraid to-- if i can break my contract there--may i come back and help her out here?" the pace was going more swiftly each round, it was punctuated at that instant by a heavy meat platter aimed at kate's head. she saw it picked up and swayed so it missed. "i guess that is answer enough for me," she panted, racing on. "a lovely father you are--no wonder your daughters are dishonest through fear of you--no wonder your wife has no mind of her own--no wonder your sons hate you and wish you would die--so they could have their deeds and be like men--instead of 'spanked school-boys' as they feel now--no wonder the whole posse of us hate you." directly opposite the door kate caught the table and drew it with her to bar the opening. as it crashed against the casing half the dishes flew to the floor in a heap. when adam bates pulled it from his path he stepped in a dish of fried potatoes and fell heavily. kate reached the road, climbed in the buggy, and said the nancy ellen: "you'd better hide! cut a bundle of stuff and send it to me by adam and i'll sew my fingers to the bone for you every night. now drive like sin, adam!" as adam bates came lurching down the walk in fury the buggy dashed past and kate had not even time to turn her head to see what happened. "take the first turn," she said to adam. "i've done an awful thing." "what did you do?" cried the boy. "asked him as nicely as i could; but he threw a chair at me. something funny happened to me, and i wasn't afraid of him at all. i dodged it, and finished what i was saying, and another chair came, so the two bates went at it." "oh, kate, what did you do?" cried adam. "went inside and ran around the dining table while i told him what all his sons and daughters think of him. 'spanked school-boys' and all--" "did you tell him my father said that?" he demanded. "no. i had more sense left than that," said kate. "i only said all his boys felt like that. then i pulled the table after me to block the door, and smashed half the dishes and he slipped in the fried potatoes and went down with a crash--" "bloody murder!" cried young adam, aghast. "me, too!" said kate. "i'll never step in that house again while he lives. i've spilled the beans, now." "that you have," said adam, slacking his horse to glance back. "he is standing in the middle of the road shaking his fist after you." "can you see nancy ellen?" asked kate. "no. she must have climbed the garden fence and hidden behind the privet bush." "well, she better make it a good long hide, until he has had plenty of time to cool off. he'd have killed me if he had caught me, after he fell--and wasted all those potatoes already cooked----" kate laughed a dry hysterical laugh, but the boy sat white-faced and awed. "never mind," said kate, seeing how frightened he was. "when he has had plenty of time he'll cool off; but he'll never get over it. i hope he doesn't beat mother, because i was born." "oh, drat such a man!" said young adam. "i hope something worse that this happens to him. if ever i see father begin to be the least bit like him as he grows older i shall----" "well, what shall you do?" asked kate, as he paused. "tell ma!" cried young adam, emphatically. kate leaned her face in her hands and laughed. when she could speak she said: "do you know, adam, i think that would be the very best thing you could do." "why, of course!" said adam. they drove swiftly and reached walden before ten o'clock. there they inquired their way to the home of the trustee, but kate said nothing about giving up the school. she merely made a few inquiries, asked for the key of the schoolhouse, and about boarding places. she was directed to four among which she might choose. "where would you advise me to go?" she asked the trustee. "well, now, folks differ," said he. "all those folks is neighbours of mine and some might like one, and some might like another, best. i could say this: i think means would be the cheapest, knowls the dearest, but the last teacher was a good one, an' she seemed well satisfied with the widder holt." "i see," said kate, smiling. then she and young adam investigated the schoolhouse and found it far better than any either of them had ever been inside. it promised every comfort and convenience, compared with schools to which they had been accustomed, so they returned the keys, inquired about the cleaning of the building, and started out to find a boarding place. first they went to the cheapest, but it could be seen at a glance that it was too cheap, so they eliminated that. then they went to the most expensive, but it was obvious from the house and grounds that board there would be more than kate would want to pay. "i'd like to save my digestion, and have a place in which to study, where i won't freeze," said kate, "but i want to board as cheaply as i can. this morning changes my plans materially. i shall want to go to school next summer part of the time, but the part i do not, i shall have to pay my way, so i mustn't spend money as i thought i would. not one of you will dare be caught doing a thing for me. to make you safe i'll stay away, but it will cost me money that i'd hoped to have for clothes like other girls." "it's too bad," said adam, "but i'll stick to you, and so will ma." "of course you will, you dear boy," said kate. "now let's try our third place; it is not far from here." soon they found the house, but kate stopped short on sight of it. "adam, there has been little in life to make me particular," she said, "but i draw the line at that house. i would go crazy in a house painted bright red with brown and blue decoration. it should be prohibited by law. let us hunt up the widder holt and see how her taste in colour runs." "the joke is on you," said adam, when they had found the house. it was near the school, on a wide shady street across which big maples locked branches. there was a large lot filled with old fruit trees and long grass, with a garden at the back. the house was old and low, having a small porch in front, but if it ever had seen paint, it did not show it at that time. it was a warm linty gray, the shingles of the old roof almost moss-covered. "the joke is on me," said kate. "i shall have no quarrel with the paint here, and will you look at that?" adam looked where kate pointed across the street, and nodded. "that ought to be put in a gold frame," he said. "i think so, too," said kate. "i shouldn't be a bit surprised if i stay where i can see it." they were talking of a deep gully facing the house and running to a levee where the street crossed. a stream ran down it, dipped under a culvert, turned sharply, and ran away to a distant river, spanning which they could see the bridge. tall old forest trees lined the banks, shrubs and bushes grew in a thicket. there were swaying, clambering vines and a babel of bird notes over the seed and berry bearing bushes. "let's go inside, and if we agree, then we will get some water and feed the horse and eat our lunch over there," said kate. "just the thing!" said young adam. "come and we will proceed to the residence of mrs. holt and investigate her possibilities. how do you like that?" "that is fine," said kate gravely. "it is," said adam, promptly, "because it is ma. and whatever is ma, is right." "good for you!" cried kate. "i am going to break a bates record and kiss you good-bye, when you go. i probably shan't have another in years. come on." they walked up the grassy wooden walk, stepped on the tiny, vine-covered porch, and lifted and dropped a rusty old iron knocker. almost at once the door opened, to reveal a woman of respectable appearance, a trifle past middle age. she made kate think of dried sage because she had a dried-out look and her complexion, hair, and eyes were all that colour. she was neat and clean while the hall into which she invited them was clean and had a wholesome odour. kate explained her errand. mrs. holt breathed a sigh of relief. "well, thank goodness i was before-handed," she said. "the teacher stayed here last year and she was satisfied, so i ast the trustee to mention me to the new teacher. nobody was expecting you until the last of the week, but i says to myself, 'always take time by the fetlock, samantha, always be ready'; so last week i put in scouring my spare room to beat the nation, and it's all ready so's you can walk right in." "thank you," said kate, rather resenting the assumption that she was to have no option in the matter. "i have four places on my list where they want the teacher, so i thought i would look at each of them and then decide." "my, ain't we choicey!" said mrs. holt in sneering tones. then she changed instantly, and in suave commendation went on: "that's exactly right. that's the very thing fer you to do. after you have seen what walden has to offer, then a pretty young thing like you can make up your mind where you will have the most quiet fer your work, the best room, and be best fed. one of the greatest advantages here fer a teacher is that she can be quiet, an' not have her room rummaged. every place else that takes boarders there's a lot of children; here there is only me and my son, and he is grown, and will be off to his medical work next week fer the year, so all your working time here, you'd be alone with me. this is the room." "that surely would be a great advantage, because i have much studying to do," said kate as they entered the room. with one glance, she liked it. it was a large room with low ceiling, quaintly papered in very old creamy paper, scattered with delicately cut green leaves, but so carefully had the room been kept, that it was still clean. there were four large windows to let in light and air, freshly washed white curtains hanging over the deep green shades. the floor was carpeted with a freshly washed rag carpet stretched over straw, the bed was invitingly clean and looked comfortable, there was a wash stand with bowl and pitcher, soap and towels, a small table with a lamp, a straight-backed chair and a rocking chair. mrs. holt opened a large closet having hooks for dresses at one end and shelves at the other. on the top of these there were a comfort and a pair of heavy blankets. "your winter covers," said mrs. holt, indicating these, "and there is a good stove i take out in summer to make more room, and set up as soon as it gets cold, and that is a wood box." she pointed out a shoe box covered with paper similar to that on the walls. kate examined the room carefully, the bed, the closet, and tried the chairs. behind the girl, mrs. holt, with compressed lips, forgetting adam's presence, watched in evident disapproval. "i want to see the stove," said kate. "it is out in the woodhouse. it hasn't been cleaned up for the winter yet." "then it won't be far away. let's look at it." almost wholly lacking experience, kate was proceeding by instinct in exactly the same way her father would have taken through experience. mrs. holt hesitated, then turned: "oh, very well," she said, leading the way down the hall, through the dining room, which was older in furnishing and much more worn, but still clean and wholesome, as were the small kitchen and back porch. from it there was only a step to the woodhouse, where on a little platform across one end sat two small stoves for burning wood, one so small as to be tiny. kate walked to the larger, lifted the top, looked inside, tried the dampers and drafts and turning said: "that is very small. it will require more wood than a larger one." mrs. holt indicated dry wood corded to the roof. "we git all our wood from the thicket across the way. that little strip an' this lot is all we have left of father's farm. we kept this to live on, and sold the rest for town lots, all except that gully, which we couldn't give away. but i must say i like the trees and birds better than mebby i'd like people who might live there; we always git our wood from it, and the shade an' running water make it the coolest place in town." "yes, i suppose they do," said kate. she took one long look at everything as they returned to the hall. "the trustee told me your terms are four dollars and fifty cents a week, furnishing food and wood," she said, "and that you allowed the last teacher to do her own washing on saturday, for nothing. is that right?" the thin lips drew more tightly. mrs. holt looked at kate from head to foot in close scrutiny. "i couldn't make enough to pay the extra work at that," she said. "i ought to have a dollar more, to really come out even. i'll have to say five-fifty this fall." "if that is the case, good-bye," said kate. "thank you very much for showing me. five-fifty is what i paid at normal, it is more than i can afford in a village like this." she turned away, followed by adam. they crossed the street, watered the horse at the stream, placed his food conveniently for him, and taking their lunch box, seated themselves on a grassy place on the bank and began eating. "wasn't that a pretty nice room?" asked adam. "didn't you kind of hate to give it up?" "i haven't the slightest intention of giving it up," answered kate. "that woman is a skin-flint and i don't propose to let her beat me. no doubt she was glad to get four-fifty last fall. she's only trying to see if she can wring me for a dollar more. if i have to board all next summer, i shall have to watch every penny, or i'll not come out even, let alone saving anything. i'll wager you a nickel that before we leave, she comes over here and offers me the room at the same price she got last winter." "i hope you are right," said adam. "how do you like her?" "got a grouch, nasty temper, mean disposition; clean house, good room, good cook--maybe; lives just on the edge of comfort by daily skimping," summarized kate. "if she comes, are you going to try it?" asked adam. "yes, i think i shall. it is nearest my purse and requirements and if the former teacher stayed there, it will seem all right for me; but she isn't going to put that little stove in my room. it wouldn't heat the closet. how did you like her?" "not much!" said adam, promptly. "if glaring at your back could have killed you, you would have fallen dead when you examined the closet, and bedding, and stove. she honeyed up when she had to, but she was mad as hops. i nearly bursted right out when she talked about 'taking time by the fetlock.' i wanted to tell her she looked like she had, and almost got the life kicked out of her doing it, but i thought i'd better not." kate laughed. "yes, i noticed," she said, "but i dared not look at you. i was afraid you'd laugh. isn't this a fine lunch?" "bet your life it is," said adam. "ma never puts up any other kind." "i wish someone admired me as much as you do your mother, adam," said kate. "well, you be as nice as ma, and somebody is sure to," said he. "but i never could," said kate. "oh, yes, you could," said adam, "if you would only set yourself to do it and try with all your might to be like her. look, quick! that must be her 'medical course' man!" kate glanced across the way and saw a man she thought to be about thirty years of age. he did not resemble his mother in any particular, if he was the son of mrs. holt. he was above the average man in height, having broad, rather stooping shoulders, dark hair and eyes. he stopped at the gate and stood a few seconds looking at them, so they could not very well study him closely, then he went up the walk with loose, easy stride and entered the house. "yes, that is her son," said kate. "that is exactly the way a man enters a house that belongs to him." "that isn't the way i am going to enter my house," said adam. "now what shall we do?" "rest half an hour while they talk it over, and then get ready to go very deliberately. if she doesn't come across, literally and figuratively, we hunt another boarding place." "i half believe she will come," said adam. "she is watching us; i can see her pull back the blind of her room to peep." "keep looking ahead. don't let her think you see her. let's go up the creek and investigate this ravine. isn't it a lovely place?" "yes. i'm glad you got it," said adam, "that is, if she come across. i will think of you as having it to look at in summer; and this winter--my, what rabbit hunting there will be, and how pretty it will look!" so they went wandering up the ravine, sometimes on one bank, sometimes crossing stepping-stones or logs to the other, looking, talking, until a full hour had passed when they returned to the buggy. adam began changing the halter for the bridle while kate shook out the lap robe. "nickel, please," whispered kate. adam glanced across the street to see mrs. holt coming. she approached them and with no preliminaries said: "i have been telling my son about you an' he hates so bad to go away and leave me alone for the winter, that he says to take you at the same as the last teacher, even if i do lose money on it." "oh, you wouldn't do that, mrs. holt," said kate, carelessly. "of course it is for you to decide. i like the room, and if the board was right for the other teacher it will be for me. if you want me to stay, i'll bring my things over and take the room at once. if not, i'll look farther." "come right over," said mrs. holt, cordially. "i am anxious to git on the job of mothering such a sweet young lady. what will you have for your supper?" "whatever you are having," said kate. "i am not accustomed to ordering my meals. adam, come and help me unpack." in half an hour kate had her dresses on the hooks, her underclothing on the shelves, her books on the table, her pencils and pen in the robin cup, and was saying goodbye to adam, and telling him what to tell his father, mother, and nancy ellen--if he could get a stolen interview with her on the way home. he also promised to write kate what happened about the home school and everything in which she would be interested. then she went back to her room, sat in the comfortable rocking chair, and with nothing in the world she was obliged to do immediately, she stared at the opposite wall and day by day reviewed the summer. she sat so long and stared at the wall so intently that gradually it dissolved and shaped into the deep green ravine across the way, which sank into soothing darkness and the slowly lightened until a peep of gold came over the tree tops; and then, a red sun crept up having a big wonderful widespread wing on each side of it. kate's head fell with a jerk which awakened her, so she arose, removed her dress, washed and brushed her hair, put on a fresh dress and taking a book, she crossed the street and sat on the bank of the stream again, which she watched instead of reading, as she had intended. chapter vi kate's private pupil at first kate merely sat in a pleasant place and allowed her nerves to settle, after the short nap she had enjoyed in the rocking chair. it was such a novel experience for her to sit idle, that despite the attractions of growing things, running water, and singing birds, she soon veered to thoughts of what she would be doing if she were at home, and that brought her to the fact that she was forbidden her father's house; so if she might not go there, she was homeless. as she had known her father for nearly nineteen years, for she had a birth anniversary coming in a few days, she felt positive that he never would voluntarily see her again, while with his constitution, he would live for years. she might as well face the fact that she was homeless; and prepare to pay her way all the year round. she wondered why she felt so forlorn and what made the dull ache in her throat. she remembered telling nancy ellen before going away to normal that she wished her father would drive her from home. now that was accomplished. she was away from home, in a place where there was not one familiar face, object, or plan of life, but she did not wish for it at all. she devoutly wished that she were back at home even if she were preparing supper, in order that nancy ellen might hem towels. she wondered what they were saying: her mind was crystal clear as to what they were doing. she wondered if nancy ellen would send adam, d, with a parcel of cut-out sewing for her to work on. she resolved to sew quickly and with stitches of machine-like evenness, if it came. she wondered if nancy ellen would be compelled to put off her wedding and teach the home school in order that it might be taught by a bates, as her father had demanded. she wondered if nancy ellen was forced to this uncongenial task, whether it would sour the wonderful sweetness developed by her courtship, and make her so provoked that she would not write or have anything to do with her. they were nearly the same age; they had shared rooms, and, until recently, beds, and whatever life brought them; now kate lifted her head and ran her hand against her throat to ease the ache gathering there more intensely every minute. with eyes that did not see, she sat staring at the sheer walls of the ravine as it ran toward the east, where the water came tumbling and leaping down over stones and shale bed. when at last she arose she had learned one lesson, not in the history she carried. no matter what its disadvantages are, having a home of any kind is vastly preferable to having none. and the casualness of people so driven by the demands of living and money making that they do not take time even to be slightly courteous and kind, no matter how objectionable it may be, still that, even that, is better than their active displeasure. so she sat brooding and going over and over the summer, arguing her side of the case, honestly trying to see theirs, until she was mentally exhausted and still had accomplished nothing further than arriving at the conclusion that if nancy ellen was forced to postpone her wedding she would turn against her and influence robert gray in the same feeling. then kate thought of him. she capitalized him in her thought, for after nineteen years of bates men robert gray would seem a deified creature to their women. she reviewed the scene at the crossing log, while her face flushed with pleasure. if she had remained at home and had gone after the blackberries, as it was sure as fate that she would have done, then she would have met him first, and he would have courted her instead of nancy ellen. suddenly kate shook herself savagely and sat straight. "why, you big fool!" she said. "nancy ellen went to the berry patch in a pink dress, wearing a sunbonnet to match, and carrying a blue bowl. think of the picture she made! but if i had gone, i'd have been in a ragged old dirt-coloured gingham, father's boots, and his old straw hat jammed down to my ears; i'd have been hot and in a surly temper, rebelling because i had the berries to pick. he would have taken one look at me, jumped the fence, and run to lang's for dear life. better cut that idea right out!" so kate "cut that idea out" at once, but the operation was painful, because when one turns mental surgeon and operates on the ugly spots in one's disposition, there is no anaesthetic, nor is the work done with skilful hands, so the wounds are numerous and leave ugly scars; but kate was ruthless. she resolved never to think of that brook scene again. in life, as she had lived it, she would not have profited by having been first at the berry patch. yet she had a right to think of robert gray's face, grave in concern for her, his offers to help, the influence he would have in her favour with nancy ellen. of course if he was forced to postpone his wedding he would not be pleased; but it was impossible that the fears which were tormenting nancy ellen would materialize into action on his part. no sane man loved a woman as beautiful as her sister and cast her aside because of a few months' enforced waiting, the cause of which he so very well knew; but it would make both of them unhappy and change their beautiful plans, after he even had found and purchased the house. still nancy ellen said that her father was making it a point of honour that a bates should teach the school, because he had signed the contract for kate to take the place nancy ellen had intended to fill, and then changed her plans. he had sworn that a bates should teach the school. well, hiram had taken the county examination, as all pupils of the past ten years had when they finished the country schools. it was a test required to prove whether they had done their work well. hiram held a certificate for a year, given him by the county superintendent, when he passed the examinations. he had never used it. he could teach; he was nancy ellen's twin. school did not begin until the first of november. he could hire help with his corn if he could not finish alone. he could arise earlier than usual and do his feeding and milking; he could clean the stables, haul wood on saturday and sunday, if he must, for the bates family looked on sunday more as a day of rest for the horses and physical man than as one of religious observances. they always worked if there was anything to be gained by it. six months being the term, he would be free by the first of may; surely the money would be an attraction, while nancy ellen could coach him on any new methods she had learned at normal. kate sprang to her feet, ran across the street, and entering the hall, hurried to her room. she found mrs. holt there in the act of closing her closet door. kate looked at her with astonished eyes. "i was just telling my son," mrs. holt said rather breathlessly, "that i would take a peep and see if i had forgot to put your extra covers on the shelf." kate threw her book on the bed and walked to the table. she had experienced her share of battle for the day. "no children to rummage," passed through her brain. it was the final week of hot, dry august weather, while a point had been made of calling her attention to the extra cover when the room had been shown her. she might have said these things, but why say them? the shamed face of the woman convicted her of "rummaging," as she had termed it. without a word kate sat down beside the table, drew her writing material before her, and began addressing an envelope to her brother hiram. mrs. holt left the room, disliking kate more than if she had said what the woman knew she thought. kate wrote briefly, convincingly, covering every objection and every advantage she could conceive, and then she added the strongest plea she could make. what hiram would do, she had no idea. as with all bates men, land was his god, but it required money to improve it. he would feel timid about making a first attempt to teach after he was married and a father of a child, but nancy ellen's marriage would furnish plausible excuse; all of the family had done their school work as perfectly as all work they undertook; he could teach if he wanted to; would he want to? if he did, at least, she would be sure of the continued friendship of her sister and robert gray. suddenly kate understood what that meant to her as she had not realized before. she was making long strides toward understanding herself, which is the most important feature of any life. she sent a line of pleading to her sister-in-law, a word of love to the baby, and finishing her letter, started to post it, as she remembered the office was only a few steps down the street. in the hall it occurred to her that she was the "teacher" now, and so should be an example. possibly the women of walden did not run bareheaded down the street on errands. she laid the letter on a small shelf of an old hatrack, and stepped back to her room to put on her hat. her return was so immediate that mrs. holt had the letter in her fingers when kate came back, and was reading the address so intently, that with extended hand, the girl said in cold tones: "my letter, please!" before the woman realized she was there. their eyes met in a level look. mrs. holt's mouth opened in ready excuse, but this time kate's temper overcame her better judgment. "can you read it clearly, without your glasses?" she asked politely. "i wouldn't for the world have you make a mistake as to whom my letter is addressed. it goes to my brother hiram bates, youngest son of adam bates, bates corners, hartley, indiana." "i was going to give it to my son, so that he could take it to the office," said mrs. holt. "and i am going to take it myself, as i know your son is down town and i want it to go over on the evening hack, so it will be sure to go out early in the morning." surprise overcame mrs. holt's discomfiture. "land sakes!" she cried. "bates is such a common name it didn't mean a thing to me. be you a daughter of adam bates, the land king, of bates corners?" "i be," said kate tersely. "well, i never! all them hundreds of acres of land an' money in the bank an' mortgages on half his neighbours. whut the nation! an' no more of better clo's an' you got! an' teachin' school! i never heard of the like in all my days!" "if you have bates history down so fine, you should know that every girl of the entire bates family has taught from the time she finished school until she married. also we never buy more clothing than we need, or of the kind not suitable for our work. this may explain why we own some land and have a few cents in the bank. my letter, please." kate turned and went down the street, a dull red tingeing her face. "i could hate that woman cordially without half trying," she said. the house was filled with the odour of cooking food when she returned and soon she was called to supper. as she went to the chair indicated for her, a step was heard in the hall. kate remained standing and when a young man entered the room mrs. holt at once introduced her son, george. he did not take the trouble to step around the table and shake hands, but muttered a gruff "howdy do?" and seating himself, at once picked up the nearest dish and began filling his plate. his mother would have had matters otherwise. "why, george," she chided. "what's your hurry? why don't you brush up and wait on miss bates first?" "oh, if she is going to be one of the family," he said, "she will have to learn to get on without much polly-foxing. grub is to eat. we can all reach at a table of this size." kate looked at george holt with a searching glance. surely he was almost thirty, of average height, appeared strong, and as if he might have a forceful brain; but he was loosely jointed and there was a trace of domineering selfishness on his face that was repulsive to her. "i could hate that man cordially, without half trying," she thought to herself, smiling faintly at the thought. the sharp eyes of mrs. holt detected the smile. she probably would have noticed it, if kate had merely thought of smiling. "why do you smile, my dear?" she asked in melting tone. "oh, i was feeling so at home," answered kate, suavely. "father and the boys hold exactly those opinions and practise them in precisely the same way; only if i were to think about it at all, i should think that a man within a year of finishing a medical course would begin exercising politeness with every woman he meets. i believe a doctor depends on women to be most of his patients, and women don't like a rude doctor." "rot!" said george holt. "miss bates is exactly right," said his mother. "ain't i been tellin' you the whole endurin' time that you'd never get a call unless you practised manners as well as medicine? ain't i, now?" "yes, you have," he said, angrily. "but if you think all of a sudden that manners are so essential, why didn't you hammer some into me when you had the whip hand and could do what you pleased? you didn't find any fault with my manners, then." "how of all the world was i to know that you'd grow up and go in for doctorin'? i s'pos'd then you'd take the farm an' run it like your pa did, stead of forcin' me to sell it off by inches to live, an' then you wastin' half the money." "go it, mother," said george holt, rudely. "tell all you know, and then piece out with anything you can think of that you don't." mrs. holt's face flushed crimson. she looked at kate and said vindictively: "if you want any comfort in life, never marry and bring a son inter the world. you kin humour him, and cook for him, an work your hands to the bone fur him, and sell your land, and spend all you can raise educatin' him for half a dozen things, an' him never stickin to none or payin' back a cent, but sass in your old age--" "go it, mother, you're doing fine!" said george. "if you keep on miss bates will want to change her boarding place before morning." "it will not be wholly your mother's fault, if i do," said kate. "i would suggest that if we can't speak civilly, we eat our supper in silence. this is very good food; i could enjoy it, if i had a chance." she helped herself to another soda biscuit and a second piece of fried chicken and calmly began eating them. "that's a good idy!" said mrs. holt. "then why don't you practice it?" said her son. thereupon began a childish battle for the last word. kate calmly arose, picked up her plate, walked from the room, down the hall, and entering her own room, closed the door quietly. "you fool! you great big dunderheaded fool!" cried mrs. holt. "now you have done it, for the thousandth time. she will start out in less than no time to find some place else to stay, an' who could blame her? don't you know who she is? ain't you sense in your head? if there was ever a girl you ort to go after, and go quick an' hard, there she is!" "what? that big beef! what for?" asked george. "you idjit! you idjit! don't you sense that she's a daughter of adam bates? him they call the land king. ain't you sense ner reason? drive her from the house, will you? an' me relyin' on sendin' you half her board money to help you out? you fool!" "why under the heavens didn't you tell me? how could i know? no danger but the bowl is upset, and it's all your fault. she should be worth ten thousand, maybe twenty!" "i never knew till jist before supper. i got it frum a letter she wrote to her brother. i'd no chanct to tell you. course i meant to, first chanct i had; but you go to work an upset everything before i get a chanct. you never did amount to anything, an' you never will." "oh, well, now stop that. i didn't know. i thought she was just common truck. i'll fix it up with her right after supper. now shut up." "you can't do it! it's gone too far. she'll leave the house inside fifteen minutes," said mrs. holt. "well, i'll just show you," he boasted. george holt pushed back his plate, wiped his mouth, brushed his teeth at the washing place on the back porch, and sauntered around the house to seat himself on the front porch steps. kate saw him there and remained in her room. when he had waited an hour he arose and tapped on her door. kate opened it. "miss bates," he said. "i have been doing penance an hour. i am very sorry i was such a boor. i was in earnest when i said i didn't get the gad when i needed it. i had a big disappointment to-day, and i came in sore and cross. i am ashamed of myself, but you will never see me that way again. i know i will make a failure of my profession if i don't be more polite than mother ever taught me to be. won't you let me be your scholar, too? please do come over to the ravine where it is cool and give me my first lesson. i need you dreadfully." kate was desperately in need of human companionship in that instant, herself, someone who could speak, and sin, and suffer, and repent. as she looked straight in the face of the man before her she saw, not him being rude and quarrelling pettily with his mother, but herself racing around the dining table pursued by her father raving like an insane man. who was she to judge or to refuse help when it was asked? she went with him; and mrs. holt, listening and peering from the side of the window blind of her room across the hall, watched them cross the road and sit beside each other on the bank of the ravine in what seemed polite and amicable conversation. so she heaved a deep sigh of relief and went to wash the dishes and plan breakfast. "better feed her up pretty well 'til she gits the habit of staying here and mebby the rest who take boarders will be full," she said to herself. "time enough to go at skimpin' when she's settled, and busy, an' i get the whip hand." but in planning to get the "whip hand" mrs. holt reckoned without kate. she had been under the whip hand all her life. her dash to freedom had not been accomplished without both mental and physical hurt. she was doing nothing but going over her past life minutely, and as she realized more fully with each review how barren and unlovely it had been, all the strength and fresh young pride in her arose in imperative demand for something better in the future. she listened with interest to what george holt said to her. all her life she had been driven by a man of inflexible will, his very soul inoculated with greed for possessions which would give him power; his body endowed with unfailing strength to meet the demands he made on it, and his heart wholly lacking in sentiment; but she did not propose to start her new life by speaking of her family to strangers. george holt's experiences had been those of a son spoiled by a weak woman, one day petted, the next bribed, the next nagged, again left to his own devices for days, with strong inherited tendencies to be fought, tendencies to what he did not say. looking at his heavy jaw and swarthy face, kate supplied "temper" and "not much inclination to work." he had asked her to teach him, she would begin by setting him an example in the dignity of self-control; then she would make him work. how she would make that big, strong man work! as she sat there on the bank of the ravine, with a background of delicately leafed bushes and the light of the setting sun on her face and her hair, george holt studied her closely, mentally and physically, and would have given all he possessed if he had not been so hasty. he saw that she had a good brain and courage to follow her convictions, while on closer study he decided that she was moulded on the finest physical lines of any woman he ever had seen, also his study of medicine taught him to recognize glowing health, and to set a right estimate on it. truly he was sorry, to the bottom of his soul, but he did not believe in being too humble. he said as much in apology as he felt forced, and then set himself the task of calling out and parading the level best he could think up concerning himself, or life in general. he had tried farming, teaching, merchandise, and law before he had decided his vocation was medicine. on account of robert gray, kate was much interested in this, but when she asked what college he was attending, he said he was going to a school in chicago that was preparing to revolutionize the world of medicine. then he started on a hobby that he had ridden for months, paying for the privilege, so kate learned with surprise and no small dismay that in a few months a man could take a course in medicine that would enable him "to cure any ill to which the human flesh is heir," as he expressed it, without knowing anything of surgery, or drugs, or using either. kate was amazed and said so at once. she disconcertingly inquired what he would do with patients who had sustained fractured skulls, developed cancers, or been exposed to smallpox. but the man before her proposed to deal with none of those disagreeable things, or their like. he was going to make fame and fortune in the world by treating mental and muscular troubles. he was going to be a zonoletic doctor. he turned teacher and spelled it for her, because she never had heard the word. kate looked at george holt long and with intense interest, while her mind was busy with new thoughts. on her pillow that night she decided that if she were a man, driven by a desire to heal the suffering of the world, she would be the man who took the long exhaustive course of training that enabled him to deal with accidents, contagions, and germ developments. he looked at her with keen appreciation of her physical freshness and mental strength, and manoeuvred patiently toward the point where he would dare ask blankly how many there were in her family, and on exactly how many acres her father paid tax. he decided it would not do for at least a week yet; possibly he could raise the subject casually with someone down town who would know, so that he need never ask her at all. whatever the answer might be, it was definitely settled in his own mind that kate was the best chance he had ever had, or probably ever would have. he mapped out his campaign. this week, before he must go, he would be her pupil and her slave. the holiday week he would be her lover. in the spring he would propose, and in the fall he would marry her, and live on the income from her land ever afterward. it was a glowing prospect; so glowing that he seriously considered stopping school at once so that her could be at the courting part of his campaign three times a day and every evening. he was afraid to leave for fear people of the village would tell the truth about him. he again studied kate carefully and decided that during the week that was coming, by deft and energetic work he could so win her approval that he could make her think that she knew him better than outsiders did. so the siege began. kate had decided to try making him work, to see if he would, or was accustomed to it. he was sufficiently accustomed to it that he could do whatever she suggested with facility that indicated practice, and there was no question of his willingness. he urged her to make suggestions as to what else he could do, after he had made all the needed repairs about the house and premises. kate was enjoying herself immensely, before the week was over. she had another row of wood corded to the shed roof, in case the winter should be severe. she had the stove she thought would warm her room polished and set up while he was there to do it. she had the back porch mended and the loose board in the front walk replaced. she borrowed buckets and cloths and impressed george holt for the cleaning of the school building which she superintended. before the week was over she had every child of school age who came to the building to see what was going on, scouring out desks, blacking stoves, raking the yard, even cleaning the street before the building. across the street from his home george sawed the dead wood from the trees and then, with three days to spare, kate turned her attention to the ravine. she thought that probably she could teach better there in the spring than in the school building. she and george talked it over. he raised all the objections he could think of that the townspeople would, while entirely agreeing with her himself, but it was of no use. she over-ruled the proxy objections he so kindly offered her, so he was obliged to drag his tired body up the trees on both banks for several hundred yards and drop the dead wood. kate marshalled a corps of boys who would be her older pupils and they dragged out the dry branches, saved all that were suitable for firewood, and made bonfires from the remainder. they raked the tin cans and town refuse of years from the water and banks and induced the village delivery man to haul the stuff to the river bridge and dump it in the deepest place in the stream. they cleaned the creek bank to the water's edge and built rustic seats down the sides. they even rolled boulders to the bed and set them where the water would show their markings and beat itself to foam against them. mrs. holt looked on in breathless amazement and privately expressed to her son her opinion of him in terse and vigorous language. he answered laconically: "has a fish got much to say about what happens to it after you get it out of the water?" "no!" snapped mrs. holt, "and neither have you, if you kill yourself to get it." "do i look killed?" inquired her son. "no. you look the most like a real man i ever saw you," she conceded. "and kate bates won't need glasses for forty years yet," he said as he went back to his work in the ravine. kate was in the middle of the creek helping plant a big stone. he stood a second watching her as she told the boys surrounding her how best to help her, then he turned away, a dull red burning his cheek. "i'll have her if i die for it," he muttered, "but i hope to heaven she doesn't think i am going to work like this for her every day of my life." as the villagers sauntered past and watched the work of the new teacher, many of them thought of things at home they could do that would improve their premises greatly, and a few went home and began work of like nature. that made their neighbours' places look so unkempt that they were forced to trim, and rake, and mend in turn, so by the time the school began, the whole village was busy in a crusade that extended to streets and alleys, while the new teacher was the most popular person who had ever been there. without having heard of such a thing, kate had started civic improvement. george holt leaned against a tree trunk and looked down at her as he rested. "do you suppose there is such a thing as ever making anything out of this?" he asked. "a perfectly lovely public park for the village, yes; money, selling it for anything, no! it's too narrow a strip, cut too deeply with the water, the banks too steep. commercially, i can't see that it is worth ten cents." "cheering! it is the only thing on earth that truly and wholly belongs to me. the road divided the land. father willed everything on the south side to mother, so she would have the house, and the land on this side was mine. i sold off all i could to jasper linn to add to his farm, but he would only buy to within about twenty rods of the ravine. the land was too rocky and poor. so about half a mile of this comprises my earthly possessions." "do you keep up the taxes?" she asked. "no. i've never paid them," he said carelessly. "then don't be too sure it is yours," she said. "someone may have paid them and taken the land. you had better look it up." "what for?" he demanded. "it is beautiful. it is the shadiest, coolest place in town. having it here doubles the value of your mother's house across the street. in some way, some day, it might turn out to be worth something." "i can't see how," he said. "some of the trees may become valuable when lumber gets scarcer, as it will when the land grows older. maybe a stone quarry could be opened up, if the stone runs back as far as you say. a lot of things might make it valuable. if i were you i would go to hartley, quietly, to-morrow, and examine the records, and if there are back taxes i'd pay them." "i'll look it up, anyway," he agreed. "you surely have made another place of it. it will be wonderful by spring." "i can think of many uses for it," said kate. "here comes your mother to see how we are getting along." instead, she came to hand kate a letter she had brought from the post office while doing her marketing. kate took the letter, saw at a glance that it was from nancy ellen, and excusing herself, she went to one of the seats they had made, and turning her face so that it could not be seen, she read: dear kate: you can prepare yourself for the surprise of your life. two bates men have done something for one of their women. i hope you will survive the shock; it almost finished me and mother is still speechless. i won't try to prepare you. i could not. here it is. father raged for three days and we got out of his way like scared rabbits. i saw i had to teach, so i said i would, but i had not told robert, because i couldn't bear to. then up came hiram and offered to take the school for me. father said no, i couldn't get out of it that way. hiram said i had not seen him or sent him any word, and i could prove by mother i hadn't been away from the house, so father believed him. he said he wanted the money to add two acres to his land from the simms place; that would let his stock down to water on the far side of his land where it would be a great convenience and give him a better arrangement of fields so he could make more money. you know father. he shut up like a clam and only said: "do what you please. if a bates teaches the school it makes my word good." so hiram is going to teach for me. he is brushing up a little nights and i am helping him on "theory," and i am wild with joy, and so is robert. i shall have plenty of time to do all my sewing and we shall be married at, or after, christmas. robert says to tell you to come to see him if you ever come to hartley. he is there in his office now and it is lonesome, but i am busy and the time will soon pass. i might as well tell you that father said right after you left that you should never enter his house again, and mother and i should not speak your name before him. i do hope he gets over it before the wedding. write me how you like your school, and where you board. maybe robert and i can slip off and drive over to see you some day. but that would make father so mad if he found out that he would not give me the money he promised; so we had better not, but you come to see us as soon as we get in our home. love from both, nancy ellen. kate read the joyful letter slowly. it contained all she hoped for. she had not postponed nancy ellen's wedding. that was all she asked. she had known she would not be forgiven so soon, there was slight hope she ever would. her only chance, thought kate, lay in marrying a farmer having about a thousand acres of land. if she could do that, her father would let her come home again sometime. she read the letter slowly over, then tearing it in long strips she cross tore them and sifted the handful of small bits on the water, where they started a dashing journey toward the river. mrs. holt, narrowly watching her, turned with snaky gleaming eyes to her son and whispered: "a-ha! miss smart alec has a secret!" chapter vii helping nancy ellen and robert to establish a home the remainder of the time before leaving, george holt spent in the very strongest mental and physical effort to show kate how much of a man he was. he succeeded in what he hoped he might do. he so influenced her in his favour that during the coming year whenever any one showed signs of criticising him, kate stopped them by commendation, based upon what she supposed to be knowledge of him. with the schoolhouse and grounds cleaned as they never had been before, the parents and pupils naturally expected new methods. during the week spent in becoming acquainted with the teacher, the parents heartily endorsed her, while the pupils liked her cordially. it could be seen at a glance that she could pick up the brawniest of them, and drop him from the window, if she chose. the days at the stream had taught them her physical strength, while at the same time they had glimpses of her mental processes. the boys learned many things: that they must not lie or take anything which did not belong to them; that they must be considerate and manly, if they were to be her friends; yet not one word had been said on any of these subjects. as she spoke to them, they answered her, and soon spoke in the same way to each other. she was very careful about each statement she made, often adducing convenient proof, so they saw that she was always right, and never exaggerated. the first hour of this made the boys think, the second they imitated, the third they instantly obeyed. she started in to interest and educate these children; she sent them home to investigate more subjects the first day than they had ever carried home in any previous month. boys suddenly began asking their fathers about business; girls questioned their mothers about marketing and housekeeping. the week of christmas vacation was going to be the hardest; everyone expected the teacher to go home for the holidays. many of them knew that her sister was marrying the new doctor of hartley. when kate was wondering how she could possibly conceal the rupture with her family, robert gray drove into walden and found her at the schoolhouse. she was so delighted to see him that she made no attempt to conceal her joy. he had driven her way for exercise and to pay her a call. when he realized from her greeting how she had felt the separation from her family, he had an idea that he at once propounded: "kate, i have come to ask a favour of you," he said. "granted!" laughed kate. "whatever can it be?" "just this! i want you to pack a few clothes, drive to hartley with me and do what you can to straighten out the house, so there won't be such confusion when nancy ellen gets there." kate stared at him in a happy daze. "oh, you blessed robert gray! what a heavenly idea!" she cried. "of course it wouldn't be possible for me to fix nancy ellen's house the way she would, but i could put everything where it belonged, i could arrange well enough, and i could have a supper ready, so that you could come straight home." "then you will do it?" he asked. "do it?" cried kate. "do it! why, i would be willing to pay you for the chance to do it. how do you think i'm to explain my not going home for the holidays, and to my sister's wedding, and retain my self-respect before my patrons?" "i didn't think of it in that way," he said. "i'm crazy," said kate. "take me quickly! how far along are you?" "house cleaned, blinds up, stoves all in, coal and wood, cellar stocked, carpets down, and furniture all there, but not unwrapped or in place. dishes delivered but not washed; cooking utensils there, but not cleaned." "enough said," laughed kate. "you go marry nancy ellen. i shall have the house warm, arranged so you can live in it, and the first meal ready when you come. does nancy ellen know you are here?" "no. i have enough country practice that i need a horse; i'm trying this one. i think of you often so i thought i'd drive out. how are you making it, kate?" "just fine, so far as the school goes. i don't particularly like the woman i board with. her son is some better, yes, he is much better. and robert, what is a zonoletic doctor?" "a poor fool, too lazy to be a real doctor, with no conscience about taking people's money for nothing," he said. "as bad as that?" asked kate. "worse! why?" he said. "oh, i only wondered," said kate. "now i am ready, here; but i must run to the house where i board a minute. it's only a step. you watch where i go, and drive down." she entered the house quietly and going back to the kitchen she said: "the folks have come for me, mrs. holt. i don't know exactly when i shall be back, but in plenty of time to start school. if george goes before i return, tell him 'merry christmas,' for me." "he'll be most disappointed to death," said mrs. holt. "i don't see why he should," said kate, calmly. "you never have had the teacher here at christmas." "we never had a teacher that i wanted before," said mrs. holt; while kate turned to avoid seeing the woman's face as she perjured herself. "you're like one of the family, george is crazy about you. he wrote me to be sure to keep you. couldn't you possibly stay over sunday?" "no, i couldn't," said kate. "who came after you?" asked mrs. holt. "dr. gray," answered kate. "that new doctor at hartley? why, be you an' him friends?" mrs. holt had followed down the hall, eagerly waiting in the doorway. kate glanced at her and felt sudden pity. the woman was warped. everything in her life had gone wrong. possibly she could not avoid being the disagreeable person she was. kate smiled at her. "worse than that," she said. "we be relations in a few days. he's going to marry my sister nancy ellen next tuesday." kate understood the indistinct gurgle she heard to be approving, so she added: "he came after me early so i could go to hartley and help get their new house ready for them to live in after the ceremony." "did your father give them the house?" asked mrs. holt eagerly. "no. dr. gray bought his home," said kate. "how nice! what did your father give them?" kate's patience was exhausted. "you'll have to wait until i come back," she said. "i haven't the gift of telling about things before they have happened." then she picked up her telescope and saying "good-bye," left the house. as they drove toward hartley: "i'm anxious to see your house," said kate. "did you find one in a good neighbourhood?" "the very best, i think," said the doctor. "that is all one could offer nancy ellen." "i'm so glad for her! and i'm glad for you, too! she'll make you a beautiful wife in every way. she's a good cook, she knows how to economize, and she's too pretty for words, if she is my sister." "i heartily agree with you," said the doctor. "but i notice you put the cook first and the beauty last." "you will, too, before you get through with it," answered kate. "here we are!" said he, soon after they entered hartley. "i'll drive around the block, so you can form an idea of the location." kate admired every house in the block, the streets and trees, the one house robert gray had selected in every particular. they went inside and built fires, had lunch together at the hotel, and then kate rolled up her sleeves and with a few yards of cheese-cloth for a duster, began unwrapping furniture and standing it in the room where it belonged. robert moved the heavy pieces, then he left to call on a patient and spend the evening with nancy ellen. so kate spent several happy days setting nancy ellen's new home in order. from basement to garret she had it immaculate and shining. no bates girl, not even agatha, ever had gone into a home having so many comforts and conveniences. kate felt lonely the day she knew her home was overcrowded with all their big family; she sat very still thinking of them during the hour of the ceremony; she began preparing supper almost immediately, because robert had promised her that he would not eat any more of the wedding feast than he could help, and he would bring nancy ellen as soon afterward as possible. kate saw them drive to the gate and come up the walk together. as they entered the door nancy ellen was saying: "why, how does the house come to be all lighted up? seems to me i smell things to eat. well, if the table isn't all set!" there was a pause and then nancy ellen's clear voice called: "kate! kate! where are you? nobody else would be this nice to me. you dear girl, where are you?" "i'll get to stay until i go back to school!" was kate's mental comment as she ran to clasp nancy ellen in her arms, while they laughed and very nearly cried together, so that the doctor felt it incumbent upon him to hug both of them. shortly afterward he said: "there is a fine show in town to-night, and i have three tickets. let's all go." "let's eat before we go," said nancy ellen, "i haven't had time to eat a square meal for a week and things smell deliciously." they finished their supper leisurely, stacked the dishes and went to the theatre, where they saw a fair performance of a good play, which was to both of the girls a great treat. when they returned home, kate left nancy ellen and robert to gloat over the carpets they had selected, as they appeared on their floors, to arrange the furniture and re-examine their wedding gifts; while she slipped into the kitchen and began washing the dishes and planning what she would have for breakfast. but soon they came to her and nancy ellen insisted on wiping the dishes, while robert carried them to the cupboard. afterward, they sat before their fireplace and talked over events since the sisters' separation. nancy ellen told about getting ready for her wedding, life at home, the school, the news of the family; the kate drew a perfect picture of the walden school, her boarding place, mrs. holt, the ravine, the town and the people, with the exception of george holt--him she never mentioned. after robert had gone to his office the following morning, kate said to nancy ellen: "now i wish you would be perfectly frank with me--" "as if i could be anything else!" laughed the bride. "all right, then," said kate. "what i want is this: that these days shall always come back to you in memory as nearly perfect as possible. now if my being here helps ever so little, i like to stay, and i'll be glad to cook and wash dishes, while you fix your house to suit you. but if you'd rather be alone, i'll go back to walden and be satisfied and happy with the fine treat this has been. i can look everyone in the face now, talk about the wedding, and feel all right." nancy ellen said slowly: "i shan't spare you until barely time to reach your school monday morning. and i'm not keeping you to work for me, either! we'll do everything together, and then we'll plan how to make the house pretty, and go see robert in his office, and go shopping. i'll never forgive you if you go." "why, nancy ellen--!" said kate, then fled to the kitchen too happy to speak further. none of them ever forgot that week. it was such a happy time that all of them dreaded its end; but when it came they parted cheerfully, and each went back to work, the better for the happy reunion. kate did not return to walden until monday; then she found mrs. holt in an evil temper. kate could not understand it. she had no means of knowing that for a week george had nagged his mother unceasingly because kate was gone on his return, and would not be back until after time for him to go again. the only way for him to see her during the week he had planned to come out openly as her lover, was to try to find her at her home, or at her sister's. he did not feel that it would help him to go where he never had been asked. his only recourse was to miss a few days of school and do extra work to make it up; but he detested nothing in life as he detested work, so the world's happy week had been to them one of constant sparring and unhappiness, for which mrs. holt blamed kate. her son had returned expecting to court kate bates strenuously; his disappointment was not lightened by his mother's constant nagging. monday forenoon she went to market, and came in gasping. "land sakes!" she cried as she panted down the hall. "i've got a good one on that impident huzzy now!" "you better keep your mouth shut, and not gossip about her," he said. "everyone likes her!" "no, they don't, for i hate her worse 'n snakes! if it wa'n't for her money i'd fix her so's 'at she'd never marry you in kingdom come." george holt clenched his big fist. "just you try it!" he threatened. "just you try that!" "you'll live to see the day you'd thank me if i did. she ain't been home. mind you, she ain't been home! she never seen her sister married at all! tilly nepple has a sister, living near the bates, who worked in the kitchen. she's visitin' at tilly's now. miss high-and-mighty never seen her sister married at all! an' it looked mighty queer, her comin' here a week ahead of time, in the fall. looks like she'd done somepin she don't dare go home. no wonder she tears every scrap of mail she gets to ribbons an' burns it. i told you she had a secret! if ever you'd listen to me." "why, you're crazy!" he exclaimed. "i did listen to you. what you told me was that i should go after her with all my might. so i did it. now you come with this. shut it up! don't let her get wind of it for the world!" "and tilly nepple's sister says old land king bates never give his daughter a cent, an' he never gives none of his girls a cent. it's up to the men they marry to take keer of them. the old skin-flint! what you want to do is to go long to your schoolin', if you reely are going to make somepin of yourself at last, an' let that big strap of a girl be, do--" "now, stop!" shouted george holt. "scenting another scandal, are you? don't you dare mar kate bates' standing, or her reputation in this town, or we'll have a time like we never had before. if old bates doesn't give his girls anything when they marry, they'll get more when he dies. and so far as money is concerned, this has gone past money with me. i'm going to marry kate bates, as soon as ever i can, and i've got to the place where i'd marry her if she hadn't a cent. if i can't take care of her, she can take care of me. i am crazy about her, an' i'm going to have her; so you keep still, an' do all you can to help me, or you'll regret it." "it's you that will regret it!" she said. "stop your nagging, i tell you, or i'll come at you in a way you won't like," he cried. "you do that every day you're here," said mrs. holt, starting to the kitchen to begin dinner. kate appeared in half an hour, fresh and rosy, also prepared; for one of her little pupils had said: "tilly nepple's sister say you wasn't at your sister's wedding at all. did you cry 'cause you couldn't go?" instantly kate comprehended what must be town gossip, so she gave the child a happy solution of the question bothering her, and went to her boarding house forewarned. she greeted both mrs. holt and her son cordially, then sat down to dinner, in the best of spirits. the instant her chance came, mrs. holt said: "now tell us all about the lovely wedding." "but i wasn't managing the wedding," said kate cheerfully. "i was on the infare job. mother and nancy ellen put the wedding through. you know our house isn't very large, and close relatives fill it to bursting. i've seen the same kind of wedding about every eighteen months all my life. i had a new job this time, and one i liked better." she turned to george: "of course your mother told you that dr. gray came after me. he came to ask me as an especial favour to go to his new house in hartley, and do what i could to arrange it, and to have a supper ready. i was glad. i'd seen six weddings that i can remember, all exactly alike--there's nothing to them; but brushing those new carpets, unwrapping nice furniture and placing it, washing pretty new dishes, untying the loveliest gifts and arranging them--that was something new in a bates wedding. oh, but i had a splendid time!" george holt looked at his mother in too great disgust to conceal his feelings. "another gilt-edged scandal gone sky high," he said. then he turned to kate. "one of the women who worked in your mother's kitchen is visiting here, and she started a great hullabaloo because you were not at the wedding. you probably haven't got a leg left to stand on. i suspect the old cats of walden have chewed them both off, and all the while you were happy, and doing the thing any girl would much rather have done. lord, i hate this eternal picking! how did you come back, kate?" "dr. gray brought me." "i should think it would have made talk, your staying there with him," commented mrs. holt. "fortunately, the people of hartley seem reasonably busy attending their own affairs," said kate. "doctor gray had been boarding at the hotel all fall, so he just went on living there until after the wedding." george glared at his mother, but she avoided his eyes, and laughing in a silly, half-confused manner she said: "how much money did your father give the bride?" "i can't tell you, in even dollars and cents," said kate. "nancy ellen didn't say." kate saw the movement of george's foot under the table, and knew that he was trying to make his mother stop asking questions; so she began talking to him about his work. as soon as the meal was finished he walked with her to school, visiting until the session began. he remained three days, and before he left he told kate he loved her, and asked her to be his wife. she looked at him in surprise and said: "why, i never thought of such a thing! how long have you been thinking about it?" "since the first instant i saw you!" he declared with fervour. "hum! matter of months," said kate. "well, when i have had that much time, i will tell you what i think about it." chapter viii the history of a leghorn hat kate finished her school in the spring, then went for a visit with nancy ellen and robert, before george holt returned. she was thankful to leave walden without having seen him, for she had decided, without giving the matter much thought, that he was not the man she wanted to marry. in her heart she regretted having previously contracted for the walden school another winter because she felt certain that with the influence of dr. gray, she could now secure a position in hartley that would enable her either to live with, or to be near, her sister. with this thought in mind, she tried to make the acquaintance of teachers in the school who lived in hartley and she soon became rather intimate with one of them. it was while visiting with this teacher that kate spoke of attending normal again in an effort to prepare herself still better for the work of the coming year. her new friend advised against it. she said the course would be only the same thing over again, with so little change or advancement, that the trip was not worth the time and money it would cost. she proposed that kate go to lake chautauqua and take the teachers' course, where all spare time could be put in attending lectures, and concerts, and studying the recently devised methods of education. kate went from her to nancy ellen and robert, determined at heart to go. she was pleased when they strongly advised her to, and offered to help her get ready. aside from having paid agatha, and for her board, kate had spent almost nothing on herself. she figured the probable expenses of the trip for a month, what it would cost her to live until school began again, if she were forced to go to walden, and then spent all her remaining funds on the prettiest clothing she had ever owned. each of the sisters knew how to buy carefully; then the added advantage of being able to cut and make their own clothes, made money go twice as far as where a dressmaker had to be employed. when everything they had planned was purchased, neatly made, and packed in a trunk, into which nancy ellen slipped some of her prettiest belongings, kate made a trip to a milliner's shop to purchase her first real hat. she had decided on a big, wide-brimmed leghorn, far from cheap. while she was trying the effect of flowers and ribbon on it, the wily milliner slipped up and with the hat on kate's golden crown, looped in front a bow of wide black velvet ribbon and drooped over the brim a long, exquisitely curling ostrich plume. kate had one good view of herself, before she turned her back on the temptation. "you look lovely in that," said the milliner. "don't you like it?" "i certainly do," said kate. "i look the best in that hat, with the black velvet and the plume, i ever did, but there's no use to look twice, i can't afford it." "oh, but it is very reasonable! we haven't a finer hat in the store, nor a better plume," said the milliner. she slowly waved it in all its glory before kate's beauty-hungry eyes. kate turned so she could not see it. "please excuse one question. are you teaching in walden this winter?" asked the milliner. "yes," said kate. "i have signed the contract for that school." "then charge the hat and pay for it in september. i'd rather wait for my money than see you fail to spend the summer under that plume. it really is lovely against your gold hair." "'get thee behind me, satan,'" quoted kate. "no. i never had anything charged, and never expect to. please have the black velvet put on and let me try it with the bows set and sewed." "all right," said the milliner, "but i'm sorry." she was so sorry that she carried the plume to the work room, and when she walked up behind kate, who sat waiting before the mirror, and carefully set the hat on her head, at exactly the right angle, the long plume crept down one side and drooped across the girl's shoulder. "i will reduce it a dollar more," she said, "and send the bill to you at walden the last week of september." kate moved her head from side to side, lifted and dropped her chin. then she turned to the milliner. "you should be killed!" she said. the woman reached for a hat box. "no, i shouldn't!" she said. "waiting that long, i'll not make much on the hat, but i'll make a good friend who will come again, and bring her friends. what is your name, please?" kate took one look at herself--smooth pink cheeks, gray eyes, gold hair, the sweeping wide brim, the trailing plume. "miss katherine eleanor bates," she said. "bates corners, hartley, indiana. please call my carriage?" the milliner laughed heartily. "that's the spirit of ' ," she commended. "i'd be willing to wager something worth while that this very hat brings you the carriage before fall, if you show yourself in it in the right place. it's a perfectly stunning hat. shall i send it, or will you wear it?" kate looked in the mirror again. "you may put a fresh blue band on the sailor i was wearing, and send that to dr. gray's when it is finished," she said. "and put in a fancy bow, for my throat, of the same velvet as the hat, please. i'll surely pay you the last week of september. and if you can think up an equally becoming hat for winter----" "you just bet i can, young lady," said the milliner to herself as kate walked down the street. from afar, kate saw nancy ellen on the veranda, so she walked slowly to let the effect sink in, but it seemed to make no impression until she looked up at nancy ellen's very feet and said: "well, how do you like it?" "good gracious!" cried nancy ellen. "i thought i was having a stylish caller. i didn't know you! why, i never saw you walk that way before." "you wouldn't expect me to plod along as if i were plowing, with a thing like this on my head, would you?" "i wouldn't expect you to have a thing like that on your head; but since you have, i don't mind telling you that you are stunning in it," said nancy ellen. "better and better!" laughed kate, sitting down on the step. "the milliner said it was a stunning hat." "the goose!" said nancy ellen. "you become that hat, kate, quite as much as the hat becomes you." the following day, dressed in a linen suit of natural colour, with the black bow at her throat, the new hat in a bandbox, and the renewed sailor on her head, kate waved her farewells to nancy ellen and robert on the platform, then walked straight to the dressing room of the car, and changed the hats. nancy ellen had told her this was not the thing to do. she should travel in a plain untrimmed hat, and when the dust and heat of her journey were past, she should bathe, put on fresh clothing, and wear such a fancy hat only with her best frocks, in the afternoon. kate need not have been told that. right instincts and bates economy would have taught her the same thing, but she had a perverse streak in her nature. she had seen herself in the hat. the milliner, who knew enough of the world and human nature to know how to sell kate the hat, when she never intended to buy it, and knew she should not in the way she did, had said that before fall it would bring her a carriage, which put into bald terms meant a rich husband. now kate liked her school and she gave it her full attention; she had done, and still intended to keep on doing, first-class work in the future; but her school, or anything pertaining to it, was not worth mentioning beside nancy ellen's home, and the deep understanding and strong feeling that showed so plainly between her and robert gray. kate expected to marry by the time she was twenty or soon after; all bates girls had, most of them had married very well indeed. she frankly envied nancy ellen, while it never occurred to her that any one would criticise her for saying so. only one thing could happen to her that would surpass what had come to her sister. if only she could have a man like robert gray, and have him on a piece of land of their own. kate was a girl, but no man of the bates tribe ever was more deeply bitten by the lust for land. she was the true daughter of her father, in more than one way. if that very expensive hat was going to produce the man why not let it begin to work from the very start? if her man was somewhere, only waiting to see her, and the hat would help him to speedy recognition, why miss a change? she thought over the year, and while she deplored the estrangement from home, she knew that if she had to go back to one year ago, giving up the present and what it had brought and promised to bring, for a reconciliation with her father, she would not voluntarily return to the old driving, nagging, overwork, and skimping, missing every real comfort of life to buy land, in which she never would have any part. "you get your knocks 'taking the wings of morning,'" thought kate to herself, "but after all it is the only thing to do. nancy ellen says sally whistler is pleasing mother very well, why should i miss my chance and ruin my temper to stay at home and do the work done by a woman who can do nothing else?" kate moved her head slightly to feel if the big, beautiful hat that sat her braids so lightly was still there. "go to work, you beauty," thought kate. "do something better for me than george holt. i'll have him to fall back on if i can't do better; but i think i can. yes, i'm very sure i can! if you do your part, you lovely plume, i know i can!" toward noon the train ran into a violent summer storm. the sky grew black, the lightning flashed, the wind raved, the rain fell in gusts. the storm was at its height when kate quit watching it and arose, preoccupied with her first trip to a dining car, thinking about how little food she could order and yet avoid a hunger headache. the twisting whirlwind struck her face as she stepped from the day coach to go to the dining car. she threw back her head and sucked her lungs full of the pure, rain-chilled air. she was accustomed to being out in storms, she liked them. one second she paused to watch the gale sweeping the fields, the next a twitch at her hair caused her to throw up her hands and clutch wildly at nothing. she sprang to the step railing and leaned out in time to see her wonderful hat whirl against the corner of the car, hold there an instant with the pressure of the wind, then slide down, draw under, and drop across the rail, where passing wheels ground it to pulp. kate stood very still a second, then she reached up and tried to pat the disordered strands of hair into place. she turned and went back into the day coach, opened the bandbox, and put on the sailor. she resumed her old occupation of thinking things over. all the joy had vanished from the day and the trip. looking forward, it had seemed all right to defy custom and nancy ellen's advice, and do as she pleased. looking backward, she saw that she had made a fool of herself in the estimation of everyone in the car by not wearing the sailor, which was suitable for her journey, and would have made no such mark for a whirling wind. she found travelling even easier than any one had told her. each station was announced. when she alighted, there were conveyances to take her and her luggage to a hotel, patronized almost exclusively by teachers, near the schools and lecture halls. large front suites and rooms were out of the question for kate, but luckily a tiny corner room at the back of the building was empty and when kate specified how long she would remain, she secured it at a less figure than she had expected to pay. she began by almost starving herself at supper in order to save enough money to replace her hat with whatever she could find that would serve passably, and be cheap enough. that far she proceeded stoically; but when night settled and she stood in her dressing jacket brushing her hair, something gave way. kate dropped on her bed and cried into her pillow, as she never had cried before about anything. it was not all about the hat. while she was at it, she shed a few tears about every cruel thing that had happened to her since she could remember that she had borne tearlessly at the time. it was a deluge that left her breathless and exhausted. when she finally sat up, she found the room so close, she gently opened her door and peeped into the hall. there was a door opening on an outside veranda, running across the end of the building and the length of the front. as she looked from her door and listened intently, she heard the sound of a woman's voice in choking, stifled sobs, in the room having a door directly across the narrow hall from hers. "my lord! there's two of us!" said kate. she leaned closer, listening again, but when she heard a short groan mingled with the sobs, she immediately tapped on the door. instantly the sobs ceased and the room became still. kate put her lips to the crack and said in her off-hand way: "it's only a school-marm, rooming next you. if you're ill, could i get anything for you?" "will you please come in?" asked a muffled voice. kate turned the knob, and stepping inside, closed the door after her. she could dimly see her way to the dresser, where she found matches and lighted the gas. on the bed lay in a tumbled heap a tiny, elderly, dresden-china doll-woman. she was fully dressed, even to her wrap, bonnet, and gloves; one hand clutched her side, the other held a handkerchief to her lips. kate stood an instant under the light, studying the situation. the dark eyes in the narrow face looked appealingly at her. the woman tried to speak, but gasped for breath. kate saw that she had heart trouble. "the remedy! where is it?" she cried. the woman pointed to a purse on the dresser. kate opened it, took out a small bottle, and read the directions. in a second, she was holding a glass to the woman's lips; soon she was better. she looked at kate eagerly. "oh, please don't leave me," she gasped. "of course not!" said kate instantly. "i'll stay as long as you want me." she bent over the bed and gently drew the gloves from the frail hands. she untied and slipped off the bonnet. she hunted keys in the purse, opened a travelling bag, and found what she required. then slowly and carefully, she undressed the woman, helped her into a night robe, and stooping she lifted her into a chair until she opened the bed. after giving her time to rest, kate pulled down the white wavy hair and brushed it for the night. as she worked, she said a word of encouragement now and again; when she had done all she could see to do, she asked if there was more. the woman suddenly clung to her hand and began to sob wildly. kate knelt beside the bed, stroked the white hair, patted the shoulder she could reach, and talked very much as she would have to a little girl. "please don't cry," she begged. "it must be your heart; you'll surely make it worse." "i'm trying," said the woman, "but i've been scared sick. i most certainly would have died if you hadn't come to me and found the medicine. oh, that dreadful susette! how could she?" the clothing kate had removed from the woman had been of finest cloth and silk. her hands wore wonderful rings. a heavy purse was in her bag. everything she had was the finest that money could buy, while she seemed as if a rough wind never had touched her. she appeared so frail that kate feared to let her sleep without knowing where to locate her friends. "she should be punished for leaving you alone among strangers," said kate indignantly. "if i only could learn to mind john," sighed the little woman. "he never liked susette. but she was the very best maid i ever had. she was like a loving daughter, until all at once, on the train, among strangers, she flared out at me, and simply raved. oh, it was dreadful!" "and knowing you were subject to these attacks, she did the thing that would precipitate one, and then left you alone among strangers. how wicked! how cruel!" said kate in tense indignation. "john didn't want me to come. but i used to be a teacher, and i came here when this place was mostly woods, with my dear husband. then after he died, through the long years of poverty and struggle, i would read of the place and the wonderful meetings, but i could never afford to come. then when john began to work and made good so fast i was dizzy half the time with his successes, i didn't think about the place. but lately, since i've had everything else i could think of, something possessed me to come back here, and take a suite among the women and men who are teaching our young people so wonderfully; and to sail on the lake, and hear the lectures, and dream my youth over again. i think that was it most of all, to dream my youth over again, to try to relive the past." "there now, you have told me all about it," said kate, stroking the white forehead in an effort to produce drowsiness, "close your eyes and go to sleep." "i haven't even begun to tell you," said the woman perversely. "if i talked all night i couldn't tell you about john. how big he is, and how brave he is, and how smart he is, and how he is the equal of any business man in chicago, and soon, if he keeps on, he will be worth as much as some of them--more than any one of his age, who has had a lot of help instead of having his way to make alone, and a sick old mother to support besides. no, i couldn't tell you in a week half about john, and he didn't want me to come. if i would come, then he wanted me to wait a few days until he finished a deal so he could bring me, but the minute i thought of it i was determined to come; you know how you get." "i know how badly you want to do a thing you have set your heart on," admitted kate. "i had gone places with susette in perfect comfort. i think the trouble was that she tried from the first to attract john. about the time we started, he let her see plainly that all he wanted of her was to take care of me; she was pretty and smart, so it made her furious. she was pampered in everything, as no maid i ever had before. john is young yet, and i think he is very handsome, and he wouldn't pay any attention to her. you see when other boys were going to school and getting acquainted with girls by association, even when he was a little bit of a fellow in knee breeches, i had to let him sell papers, and then he got into a shop, and he invented a little thing, and then a bigger, and bigger yet, and then he went into stocks and things, and he doesn't know anything about girls, only about sick old women like me. he never saw what susette was up to. you do believe that i wasn't ugly to her, don't you?" "you couldn't be ugly if you tried," said kate. the woman suddenly began to sob again, this time slowly, as if her forces were almost spent. she looked to kate for the sympathy she craved and for the first time really saw her closely. "why, you dear girl," she cried. "your face is all tear stained. you've been crying, yourself." "roaring in a pillow," admitted kate. "but my dear, forgive me! i was so upset with that dreadful woman. forgive me for not having seen that you, too, are in trouble. won't you please tell me?" "of course," said kate. "i lost my new hat." "but, my dear! crying over a hat? when it is so easy to get another? how foolish!" said the woman. "yes, but you didn't see the hat," said kate. "and it will be far from easy to get another, with this one not paid for yet. i'm only one season removed from sunbonnets, so i never should have bought it at all." the woman moved in bed, and taking one of kate's long, crinkly braids, she drew the wealth of gold through her fingers repeatedly. "tell me about your hat," she said. so to humour this fragile woman, and to keep from thinking of her own trouble, kate told the story of her leghorn hat and ostrich plume, and many things besides, for she was not her usual terse self with her new friend who had to be soothed to forgetfulness. kate ended: "i was all wrong to buy such a hat in the first place. i couldn't afford it; it was foolish vanity. i'm not really good-looking; i shouldn't have flattered myself that i was. losing it before it was paid for was just good for me. never again will i be so foolish." "why, my dear, don't say such things or think them," chided the little woman. "you had as good a right to a becoming hat as any girl. now let me ask you one question, and then i'll try to sleep. you said you were a teacher. did you come here to attend the summer school for teachers?" "yes," said kate. "would it make any great difference to you if you missed a few days?" she asked. "not the least," said kate. "well, then, you won't be offended, will you, if i ask you to remain with me and take care of me until john comes? i could send him a message to-night that i am alone, and bring him by this time to-morrow; but i know he has business that will cause him to lose money should he leave, and i was so wilful about coming, i dread to prove him right so conclusively the very first day. that door opens into a room reserved for susette, if only you'd take it, and leave the door unclosed to-night, and if only you would stay with me until john comes i could well afford to pay you enough to lengthen your stay as long as you'd like; and it makes me so happy to be with such a fresh young creature. will you stay with me, my dear?" "i certainly will," said kate heartily. "if you'll only tell me what i should do; i'm not accustomed to rich ladies, you know." "i'm not myself," said the little woman, "but i do seem to take to being waited upon with the most remarkable facility!" chapter ix a sunbonnet girl with the first faint light of morning, kate slipped to the door to find her charge still sleeping soundly. it was eight o'clock when she heard a movement in the adjoining room and went again to the door. this time the woman was awake and smilingly waved to kate as she called: "good morning! come right in. i was wondering if you were regretting your hasty bargain." "not a bit of it!" laughed kate. "i am here waiting to be told what to do first. i forgot to tell you my name last night. it is kate bates. i'm from bates corners, hartley, indiana." the woman held out her hand. "i'm so very glad to meet you, miss bates," she said. "my name is mariette jardine. my home is in chicago." they shook hands, smiling at each other, and then kate said: "now, mrs. jardine, what shall i do for you first?" "i will be dressed, i think, and then you may bring up the manager until i have an understanding with him, and give him a message i want sent, and an order for our breakfast. i wonder if it wouldn't be nice to have it served on the corner of the veranda in front of our rooms, under the shade of that big tree." "i think that would be famous," said kate. they ate together under the spreading branches of a giant maple tree, where they could see into the nest of an oriole that brooded in a long purse of gray lint and white cotton cord. they could almost reach out and touch it. the breakfast was good, nicely served by a neat maid, evidently doing something so out of the ordinary that she was rather stunned; but she was a young person of some self-possession, for when she removed the tray, mrs. jardine thanked her and gave her a coin that brought a smiling: "thank you very much. if you want your dinner served here and will ask for jennie weeks, i'd like to wait on you again." "thank you," said mrs. jardine, "i shall remember that. i don't like changing waiters each meal. it gives them no chance to learn what i want or how i want it." then she and kate slowly walked the length of the veranda several times, while she pointed out parts of the grounds they could see that remained as she had known them formerly, and what were improvements. when mrs. jardine was tired, they returned to the room and she lay on the bed while they talked of many things; talked of things with which kate was familiar, and some concerning which she unhesitatingly asked questions until she felt informed. mrs. jardine was so dainty, so delicate, yet so full of life, so well informed, so keen mentally, that as she talked she kept kate chuckling most of the time. she talked of her home life, her travels, her friends, her son. she talked of politics, religion, and education; then she talked of her son again. she talked of social conditions, civic improvement, and woman's rights, then she came back to her son, until kate saw that he was the real interest in the world to her. the mental picture she drew of him was peculiar. one minute mrs. jardine spoke of him as a man among men, pushing, fighting, forcing matters to work to his will, so kate imagined him tall, broad, and brawny, indefatigable in his undertakings; the next, his mother was telling of such thoughtfulness, such kindness, such loving care that kate's mental picture shifted to a neat, exacting little man, purely effeminate as men ever can be; but whatever she thought, some right instinct prevented her from making a comment or asking a question. once she sat looking far across the beautiful lake with such an expression on her face that mrs. jardine said to her: "what are you thinking of, my dear?" kate said smilingly: "oh, i was thinking of what a wonderful school i shall teach this winter." "tell me what you mean," said mrs. jardine. "why, with even a month of this, i shall have riches stored for every day of the year," said kate. "none of my pupils ever saw a lake, that i know of. i shall tell them of this with its shining water, its rocky, shady, sandy shore lines; of the rowboats and steam-boats, and the people from all over the country. before i go back, i can tell them of wonderful lectures, concerts, educational demonstrations here. i shall get much from the experiences of other teachers. i shall delight my pupils with just you." "in what way?" asked mrs. jardine. "oh, i shall tell them of a dainty little woman who know everything. from you i shall teach my girls to be simple, wholesome, tender, and kind; to take the gifts of god thankfully, reverently, yet with self-respect. from you i can tell them what really fine fabrics are, and about laces, and linens. when the subjects arise, as they always do in teaching, i shall describe each ring you wear, each comb and pin, even the handkerchiefs you carry, and the bags you travel with. to teach means to educate, and it is a big task; but it is almost painfully interesting. each girl of my school shall go into life a gentler, daintier woman, more careful of her person and speech because of my having met you. isn't that a fine thought?" "why, you darling!" cried mrs. jardine. "life is always having lovely things in store for me. yesterday i thought susette's leaving me as she did was the most cruel thing that ever happened to me. to-day i get from it this lovely experience. if you are straight from sunbonnets, as you told me last night, where did you get these advanced ideas?" "if sunbonnets could speak, many of them would tell of surprising heads they have covered," laughed kate. "life deals with women much the same as with men. if we go back to where we start, history can prove to you that there are ten sunbonnets to one leghorn hat, in the high places of the world." "not to entertain me, but because i am interested, my dear, will you tell me about your particular sunbonnet?" asked mrs. jardine. kate sat staring across the blue lake with wide eyes, a queer smile twisting her lips. at last she said slowly: "well, then, my sunbonnet is in my trunk. i'm not so far away from it but that it still travels with me. it's blue chambray, made from pieces left from my first pretty dress. it is ruffled, and has white stitching. i made it myself. the head that it fits is another matter. i didn't make that, or its environment, or what was taught it, until it was of age, and had worked out its legal time of service to pay for having been a head at all. but my head is now free, in my own possession, ready to go as fast and far on the path of life as it develops the brains to carry it. you'd smile if i should tell you what i'd ask of life, if i could have what i want." "i scarcely think so. please tell me." "you'll be shocked," warned kate. "just so it isn't enough to set my heart rocking again," said mrs. jardine. "we'll stop before that," laughed kate. "then if you will have it, i want of life by the time i am twenty a man of my stature, dark eyes and hair, because i am so light. i want him to be honest, forceful, hard working, with a few drops of the milk of human kindness in his heart, and the same ambitions i have." "and what are your ambitions?" asked mrs. jardine. "to own, and to cultivate, and to bring to the highest state of efficiency at least two hundred acres of land, with convenient and attractive buildings and pedigreed stock, and to mother at least twelve perfect physical and mental boys and girls." "oh, my soul!" cried mrs. jardine, falling back in her chair, her mouth agape. "my dear, you don't mean that? you only said that to shock me." "but why should i wish to shock you? i sincerely mean it," persisted kate. "you amazing creature! i never heard a girl talk like that before," said mrs. jardine. "but you can't look straight ahead of you any direction you turn without seeing a girl working for dear life to attract the man she wants; if she can't secure him, some other man; and in lieu of him, any man at all, in preference to none. life shows us woman on the age-old quest every day, everywhere we go; why be so secretive about it? why not say honestly what we want, and take it if we can get it? at any rate, that is the most important thing inside my sunbonnet. i knew you'd be shocked." "but i am not shocked at what you say, i agree with you. what i am shocked at is your ideals. i thought you'd want to educate yourself to such superiority over common woman that you could take the platform, and backed by your splendid physique, work for suffrage or lecture to educate the masses." "i think more could be accomplished with selected specimens, by being steadily on the job, than by giving an hour to masses. i'm not much interested in masses. they are too abstract for me; i prefer one stern reality. and as for woman's rights, if anybody gives this woman the right to do anything more than she already has the right to do, there'll surely be a scandal." mrs. jardine lay back in her chair laughing. "you are the most refreshing person i have met in all my travels. then to put it baldly, you want of life a man, a farm, and a family." "you comprehend me beautifully," said kate. "all my life i've worked like a towhead to help earn two hundred acres of land for someone else. i think there's nothing i want so much as two hundred acres of land for myself. i'd undertake to do almost anything with it, if i had it. i know i could, if i had the shoulder-to-shoulder, real man. you notice it will take considerable of a man to touch shoulders with me; i'm a head taller than most of them." mrs. jardine looked at her speculatively. "ummm!" she murmured. kate laughed. "for eighteen years i have been under marching orders," said kate. "over a year ago i was advised by a minister to 'take the wings of morning' so i took wing. i started on one grand flight and fell ker-smash in short order. life since has been a series of battering my wings until i have almost decided to buy some especially heavy boots, and walk the remainder of the way. as a concrete example, i started out yesterday morning wearing a hat that several very reliable parties assured me would so assist me to flight that i might at least have a carriage. where, oh, where are my hat and my carriage now? the carriage, non est! the hat--i am humbly hoping some little country girl, who has lived a life as barren as mine, will find the remains and retrieve the velvet bow for a hair-ribbon. as for the man that leghorn hat was supposed to symbolize, he won't even look my way when i appear in my bobby little sailor. he's as badly crushed out of existence as my beautiful hat." "you never should have been wearing such a hat to travel in, my dear," murmured mrs. jardine. "certainly not!" said kate. "i knew it. my sister told me that. common sense told me that! but what has that got to do with the fact that i was wearing the hat? i guess i have you there!" "far from it!" said mrs. jardine. "if you're going to start out in life, calmly ignoring the advice of those who love you, and the dictates of common sense, the result will be that soon the wheels of life will be grinding you, instead of a train making bag-rags of your hat." "hummm!" said kate. "there is food for reflection there. but wasn't it plain logic, that if the hat was to bring the man, it should be worn where at any minute he might see it?" "but my dear, my dear! if such a man as a woman like you should have, had seen you wearing that hat in the morning, on a railway train, he would merely have thought you prideful and extravagant. you would have been far more attractive to any man i know in your blue sunbonnet." "i surely have learned that lesson," said kate. "hereafter, sailors or sunbonnets for me in the morning. now what may i do to add to your comfort?" "leave me for an hour until i take a nap, and then we'll have lunch and go to a lecture. i can go to-day, perfectly well, after an hour's rest." so kate went for a very interesting walk around the grounds. when she returned mrs. jardine was still sleeping so she wrote nancy ellen, telling all about her adventure, but not a word about losing her hat. then she had a talk with jennie weeks whom she found lingering in the hall near her door. when at last that nap was over, a new woman seemed to have developed. mrs. jardine was so refreshed and interested the remainder of the day that it was easier than before for kate to see how shocked and ill she had been. as she helped dress her for lunch, kate said to mrs. jardine: "i met the manager as i was going to post a letter to my sister, so i asked him always to send you the same waiter. he said he would, and i'd like you to pay particular attention to her appearance, and the way she does her work." "why?" asked mrs. jardine. "i met her in the hall as i came back from posting my letter, so we 'visited' a little, as the country folks say. she has taught one winter of country school, a small school in an out county. she's here waiting table two hours three times a day, to pay for her room and board. in the meantime, she attends all the sessions and studies as much as she can; but she's very poor material for a teacher. i pity her pupils. she's a little thing, bright enough in her way, but she has not much initiative, not strong enough for the work, and she has not enough spunk. she'll never lead the minds of school children anywhere that will greatly benefit them." "and your deduction is--" "that she would make you a kind, careful, obedient maid, who is capable enough to be taught to wash your hair and manicure you with deftness, and who would serve you for respect as well as hire. i think it would be a fine arrangement for you and good for her." "this surely is kind of you," said mrs. jardine. "i'll keep strict watch of jennie weeks. if i could find a really capable maid here and not have to wire john to bring one, i'd be so glad. it does so go against the grain to prove to a man that he has a right to be more conceited than he is naturally." as they ate lunch kate said to mrs. jardine: "i noticed one thing this morning that is going to be balm to my soul. i passed many teachers and summer resorters going to the lecture halls and coming from them, and half of them were bareheaded, so my state will not be remarkable, until i can get another hat." "'god moves in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform,'" laughingly quoted mrs. jardine. "you thought losing that precious hat was a calamity; but if you hadn't lost it, you probably would have slept soundly while i died across the hall. my life is worth the price of a whole millinery shop to me; i think you value the friendship we are developing; i foresee i shall get a maid who will not disgrace my in public; you will have a full summer here; now truly, isn't all this worth many hats?" "of course! it's like a fairy tale," said kate. "still, you didn't see the hat!" "but you described it in a truly graphic manner," said mrs. jardine. "when i am the snowiest of great-grandmothers, i shall still be telling small people about the outcome of my first attempt at vanity," laughed kate. the third morning dawned in great beauty, a "misty, moisty morning," mrs. jardine called it. the sun tried to shine but could not quite pierce the intervening clouds, so on every side could be seen exquisite pictures painted in delicate pastel colours. kate, fresh and rosy, wearing a blue chambray dress, was a picture well worth seeing. mrs. jardine kept watching her so closely that kate asked at last: "have you made up your mind, yet?" "no, and i am afraid i never shall," answered mrs. jardine. "you are rather an astonishing creature. you're so big, so vital; you absorb knowledge like a sponge takes water--" "and for the same purpose," laughed kate. "that it may be used for the benefit of others. tell me some more about me. i find me such an interesting subject." "no doubt!" admitted mrs. jardine. "not a doubt about that! we are all more interested in ourselves than in any one else in this world, until love comes; then we soon learn to a love man more than life, and when a child comes we learn another love, so clear, so high, so purifying, that we become of no moment at all, and live only for those we love." "you speak for yourself, and a class of women like you," answered kate gravely. "i'm very well acquainted with many women who have married and borne children, and who are possibly more selfish than before. the great experience never touched them at all." there was a tap at the door. kate opened it and delivered to mrs. jardine a box so big that it almost blocked the doorway. mrs. jardine lifted from the box a big leghorn hat of weave so white and fine it almost seemed like woven cloth instead of braid. there was a bow in front, but the bow was nested in and tied through a web of flowered gold lace. one velvet end was slightly long and concealed a wire which lifted one side of the brim a trifle, beneath which was fastened a smashing big, pale-pink velvet rose. there was an ostrich plume even longer than the other, broader, blacker, as wonderful a feather as ever dropped from the plumage of a lordly bird. mrs. jardine shook the hat in such a way as to set the feather lifting and waving after the confinement of the box. with slender, sure fingers she set the bow and lace as they should be, and touched the petals of the rose. she inspected the hat closely, shook it again, and held it toward kate. "a very small price to pay for the breath of life, which i was rapidly losing," she said. "do me the favour to accept it as casually as i offer it. did i understand your description anywhere near right? is this your hat?" "thank you," said kate. "it is just 'the speaking image' of my hat, but it's a glorified, sublimated, celestial image. what i described was merely a hat. this is what i think i have lately heard nancy ellen mention as a 'creation.' wheuuuuuu!" she went to the mirror, arranged her hair, set the hat on her head, and turned. "gracious heaven!" said mrs. jardine. "my dear, i understand now why you wore that hat on your journey." "i wore that hat," said kate, "as an ascension stalk wears its crown of white lilies, as a bobolink wears its snowy courting crest, as a bride wears her veil; but please take this from me to-night, lest i sleep in it!" that night mrs. jardine felt tired enough to propose resting in her room, with jennie weeks where she could be called; so for the first time kate left her, and, donning her best white dress and the hat, attended a concert. at its close she walked back to the hotel with some of the other teachers stopping there, talked a few minutes in the hall, went to the office desk for mail, and slowly ascended the stairs, thinking intently. what she thought was: "if i am not mistaken, my hat did a small bit of execution to-night." she stepped to her room to lock the door and stopped a few minutes to arrange the clothing she had discarded when she dressed hurriedly before going to the concert, then, the letters in her hand, she opened mrs. jardine's door. a few minutes before, there had been a tap on that same door. "come in," said mrs. jardine, expecting kate or jennie weeks. she slowly lifted her eyes and faced a tall, slender man standing there. "john jardine, what in the world are you doing here?" she demanded after the manner of mothers, "and what in this world has happened to you?" "does it show on me like that?" he stammered. "was your train in a wreck? are you in trouble?" she asked. "something shows plainly enough, but i don't understand what it is." "are you all right, mother?" he advanced a step, looking intently at her. "of course i'm all right! you can see that for yourself. the question is, what's the matter with you?" "if you will have it, there is something the matter. since i saw you last i have seen a woman i want to marry, that's all; unless i add that i want her so badly that i haven't much sense left. now you have it!" "no, i don't have it, and i won't have it! what designing creature has been trying to intrigue you now?" she demanded. "not any one. she didn't see me, even. i saw her. i've been following her for nearly two hours instead of coming straight to you, as i always have. so you see where i am. i expect you won't forgive me, but since i'm here, you must know that i could only come on the evening train." he crossed the room, knelt beside the chair, and took it and its contents in his arms. "are you going to scold me?" he asked. "i am," she said. "i am going to take you out and push you into the deepest part of the lake. i'm so disappointed. why, john, for the first time in my life i've selected a girl for you, the very most suitable girl i ever saw, and i hoped and hoped for three days that when you came you'd like her. of course i wasn't so rash as to say a word to her! but i've thought myself into a state where i'm going to be sick with disappointment." "but wait, mother, wait until i can manage to meet the girl i've seen. wait until i have a chance to show her to you!" he begged. "i suppose i shall be forced," she said. "i've always dreaded it, now here it comes. oh, why couldn't it have been kate? why did she go to that silly concert? if only i'd kept her here, and we'd walked down to the station. i'd half a mind to!" then the door opened, and kate stepped into the room. she stood still, looking at them. john jardine stood up, looking at her. his mother sat staring at them in turn. kate recovered first. "please excuse me," she said. she laid the letters on a small table and turned to go. john caught his mother's hand closer, when he found himself holding it. "if you know the young lady, mother," he said, "why don't you introduce us?" "oh, i was so bewildered by your coming," she said. "kate, dear, let me present my son." kate crossed the room, and looking straight into each other's eyes they shook hands and found chairs. "how was your concert, my dear?" asked mrs. jardine. "i don't think it was very good," said kate. "not at all up to my expectations. how did you like it, mr. jardine?" "was that a concert?" he asked. "it was supposed to be," said kate. "thank you for the information," he said. "i didn't see it, i didn't hear it, i don't know where i was." "this is most astonishing," said kate. mrs. jardine looked at her son, her eyes two big imperative question marks. he nodded slightly. "my soul!" she cried, then lay back in her chair half-laughing, half-crying, until kate feared she might have another attack of heart trouble. chapter x john jardine's courtship the following morning they breakfasted together under the branches of the big maple tree in a beautiful world. mrs. jardine was so happy she could only taste a bite now and then, when urged to. kate was trying to keep her head level, and be natural. john jardine wanted to think of everything, and succeeded fairly well. it seemed to kate that he could invent more ways to spend money, and spend it with freer hand, than any man she ever had heard of, but she had to confess that the men she had heard about were concerned with keeping their money, not scattering it. "did you hear unusual sounds when john came to bid me good-night?" asked mrs. jardine of kate. "yes," laughed kate, "i did. and i'm sure i made a fairly accurate guess as to the cause." "what did you think?" asked mrs. jardine. "i thought mr. jardine had missed susette, and you'd had to tell him," said kate. "you're quite right. it's a good thing she went on and lost herself in new york. i'm not at all sure that he doesn't contemplate starting out to find her yet." "let susette go!" said kate. "we're interested in forgetting her. there's a little country school-teacher here, who wants to take her place, and it will be the very thing for your mother and for her, too. she's the one serving us; notice her in particular." "if she's a teacher, how does she come to be serving us?" he asked. "i'm a teacher; how do i come to be dining with you?" said kate. "this is such a queer world, when you go adventuring in it. jennie had a small school in an out county, a widowed mother and a big family to help support; so she figured that the only way she could come here to try to prepare herself for a better school was to work for her room and board. she serves the table two hours, three times a day, and studies between times. she tells me that almost every waiter in the dining hall is a teacher. please watch her movements and manner and see if you think her suitable. goodness knows she isn't intended for a teacher." "i like her very much," said john jardine. "i'll engage her as soon as we finish." kate smiled, but when she saw the ease and dexterity with which he ended jennie weeks' work as a waiter and installed her as his mother's maid, making the least detail all right with his mother, with jennie, with the manager, she realized that there had been nothing for her to smile about. jennie was delighted, and began her new undertaking earnestly, with sincere desire to please. kate helped her all she could, while mrs. jardine developed a fund of patience commensurate with the need of it. she would have endured more inconvenience than resulted from jennie's inexperienced hands because of the realization that her son and the girl she had so quickly learned to admire were on the lake, rambling the woods, or hearing lectures together. when she asked him how long he could remain, he said as long as she did. when she explained that she was enjoying herself thoroughly and had no idea how long she would want to stay, he said that was all right; he had only had one vacation in his life; it was time he was having another. when she marvelled at this he said: "now, look here, mother, let's get this business straight, right at the start. i told you when i came i'd seen the woman i wanted. if you want me to go back to business, the way to do it is to help me win her." "but i don't want you 'to go back to business'; i want you to have a long vacation, and learn all you can from the educational advantages here." "it's too late for me to learn more than i get every day by knocking around and meeting people. i've tried books two or three times, and i've given them up; i can't do it. i've waited too long, i've no way to get down to it, i can't remember to save my soul." "but you can remember anything on earth about a business deal," she urged. "of course i can. i was born with a business head. it was remember, or starve, and see you starve. if i'd had the books at the time they would have helped; now it's too late, and i'll never try it again, that's settled. much as i want to marry miss bates, she'll have to take me or leave me as i am. i can't make myself over for her or for you. i would if i could, but that's one of the things i can't do, and i admit it. if i'm not good enough for her as i am, she'll have the chance to tell me so the very first minute i think it's proper to ask her." "john, you are good enough for the best woman on earth. there never was a better lad, it isn't that, and you know it. i am so anxious that i can scarcely wait; but you must wait. you must give her time and go slowly, and you must be careful, oh, so very careful! she's a teacher and a student; she came here to study." "i'll fix that. i can rush things so that there'll be no time to study." "you'll make a mistake if you try it. you'd far better let her go her own way and only appear when she has time for you," she advised. "that's a fine idea!" he cried. "a lot of ice i'd cut, sitting back waiting for a signal to run after a girl, like a poodle. the way to do is the same as with any business deal. see what you want, overcome anything in your way, and get it. i'd go crazy hanging around like that. you've always told me i couldn't do the things in business i said i would; and i've always proved to you that i could, by doing them. now watch me do this." "you know i'll do anything to help you, john. you know how proud i am of you, how i love you! i realize now that i've talked volumes to kate about you. i've told her everything from the time you were a little boy and i slaved for you, until now, when you slave for me." "including how many terms i'd gone to school?" "yes, i even told her that," she said. "well, what did she seem to think about it?" he asked. "i don't know what she thought, she didn't say anything. there was nothing to say. it was a bare-handed fight with the wolf in those days. i'm sure i made her understand that," she said. "well, i'll undertake to make her understand this," he said. "are you sure that jennie weeks is taking good care of you?" "jennie is well enough and is growing better each day, now be off to your courting, but if you love me, remember, and be careful," she said. "remember--one particular thing--you mean?" he asked. she nodded, her lips closed. "you bet i will!" he said. "all there is of me goes into this. isn't she a wonder, mother?" mrs. jardine looked closely at the big man who was all the world to her, so like her in mentality, so like his father with his dark hair and eyes and big, well-rounded frame; looked at him with the eyes of love, then as he left her to seek the girl she had learned to love, she shut her eyes and frankly and earnestly asked the lord to help her son to marry kate bates. one morning as kate helped mrs. jardine into her coat and gloves, preparing for one of their delightful morning drives, she said to her: "mrs. jardine, may i ask you a real question?" "of course you may," said mrs. jardine, "and i shall give you a 'real' answer if it lies in my power." "you'll be shocked," warned kate. "shock away," laughed mrs. jardine. "by now i flatter myself that i am so accustomed to you that you will have to try yourself to shock me." "it's only this," said kate: "if you were a perfect stranger, standing back and looking on, not acquainted with any of the parties, merely seeing things as they happen each day, would it be your honest opinion--would you say that i am being courted?" mrs. jardine laughed until she was weak. when she could talk, she said: "yes, my dear, under the conditions, and in the circumstances you mention, i would cheerfully go on oath and testify that you are being courted more openly, more vigorously, and as tenderly as i ever have seen woman courted in all my life. i always thought that john's father was a master hand at courting, but john has him beaten in many ways. yes, my dear, you certainly are being courted assiduously." "now, then, on that basis," said kate, "just one more question and we'll proceed with our drive. from the same standpoint: would you say from your observation and experience that the mother of the man had any insurmountable objection to the proceedings?" mrs. jardine laughed again. finally she said: "no, my dear. it's my firm conviction that the mother of the man in the case would be so delighted if you should love and marry her son that she would probably have a final attack of heart trouble and pass away from sheer joy." "thank you," said kate. "i wasn't perfectly sure, having had no experience whatever, and i didn't want to make a mistake." that drive was wonderful, over beautiful country roads, through dells, and across streams and hills. they stopped where they pleased, gathering flowers and early apples, visiting with people they met, lunching wherever they happened to be. "if it weren't for wishing to hear john a. logan to-night," said kate, "i'd move that we drive on all day. i certainly am having the grandest time." she sat with her sailor hat filled with early harvest apples, a big bunch of canadian anemones in her belt, a little stream at her feet, july drowsy fullness all around her, congenial companions; taking the "wings of morning" paid, after all. "why do you want to hear him so much?" asked john. kate looked up at him in wonder. "don't you want to see and hear him?" she asked. he hesitated, a thoughtful expression on his face. finally he said: "i can't say that i do. will you tell me why i should?" "you should because he was one of the men who did much to preserve our union, he may tell us interesting things about the war. where were you when it was the proper time for you to be studying the speech of logan's ancestor in mcguffey's fourth?" "that must have been the year i figured out the improved coupling pin in the c. n. w. shops, wouldn't you think, mother?" "somewhere near, my dear," she said. so they drove back as happily as they had set out, made themselves fresh, and while awaiting the lecture hour, kate again wrote to robert and nancy ellen, telling plainly and simply all that had occurred. she even wrote "john jardine's mother is of the opinion that he is courting me. i am so lacking in experience myself that i scarcely dare venture an opinion, but it has at times appealed to me that if he isn't really, he certainly must be going through the motions." nancy ellen wrote: i have read over what you say about john jardine several times. then i had robert write bradstreet's and look him up. he is rated so high that if he hasn't a million right now, he soon will have. you be careful, and do your level best. are your clothes good enough? shall i send more of my things? you know i'll do anything to help you. oh, yes, that george holt from your boarding place was here the other day hunting you. he seemed determined to know where you were and when you would be back, and asked for your address. i didn't think you had any time for him and i couldn't endure him or his foolish talk about a new medical theory; so i said you'd no time for writing and were going about so much i had no idea if you'd get a letter if he sent one, and i didn't give him what he wanted. he'll probably try general delivery, but you can drop it in the lake. i want you to be sure to change your boarding place this winter, if you teach; but i haven't an idea you will. hadn't you better bring matters to a close if you can, and let the director know? love from us both, nancy ellen. kate sat very still, holding this letter in her hand, when john jardine came up and sat beside her. she looked at him closely. he was quite as good looking as his mother thought him, in a brawny masculine way; but kate was not seeking the last word in mental or physical refinement. she was rather brawny herself, and perfectly aware of the fact. she wanted intensely to learn all she could, she disliked the idea that any woman should have more stored in her head than she, but she had no time to study minute social graces and customs. she wanted to be kind, to be polite, but she told mrs. jardine flatly the "she didn't give a flip about being overly nice," which was the exact truth. that required subtleties beyond kate's depth, for she was at times alarmingly casual. so she held her letter and thought about john jardine. as she thought, she decided that she did not know whether she was in love with him or not; she thought she was. she liked being with him, she liked all he did for her, she would miss him if he went away, she would be proud to be his wife, but she did wish that he were interested in land, instead of inventions and stocks and bonds. stocks and bonds were almost as evanescent as rainbows to kate. land was something she could understand and handle. maybe she could interest him in land; if she could, that would be ideal. what a place his wealth would buy and fit up. she wondered as she studied john jardine, what was in his head; if he truly intended to ask her to be his wife, and since reading nancy ellen's letter, when? she should let the trustee know if she were not going to teach the school again; but someway, she rather wanted to teach the school. when she started anything she did not know how to stop until she finished. she had so much she wanted to teach her pupils the coming winter. suddenly john asked: "kate, if you could have anything you wanted, what would you have?" "two hundred acres of land," she said. "how easy!" laughed john, rising to find a seat for his mother who was approaching them. "what do you think of that, mother? a girl who wants two hundred acres of land more than anything else in the world." "what is better?" asked mrs. jardine. "i never heard you say anything about land before." "certainly not," said his mother, "and i'm not saying anything about it now, for myself; but i can see why it means so much to kate, why it's her natural element." "well, i can't," he said. "i meet many men in business who started on land, and most of them were mighty glad to get away from it. what's the attraction?" kate waved her hand toward the distance. "oh, merely sky, and land, and water, and trees, and birds, and flowers, and fruit, and crops, and a few other things scarcely worth mentioning," she said, lightly. "i'm not in the mood to talk bushels, seed, and fertilization just now; but i understand them, they are in my blood. i think possibly the reason i want two hundred acres of land for myself is because i've been hard on the job of getting them for other people ever since i began to work, at about the age of four." "but if you want land personally, why didn't you work to get it for yourself?" asked john jardine. "because i happened to be the omega of my father's system," answered kate. mrs. jardine looked at her interestedly. she had never mentioned her home or parents before. the older woman did not intend to ask a word, but if kate was going to talk, she did not want to miss one. kate evidently was going to talk, for she continued: "you see my father is land mad, and son crazy. he thinks a boy of all the importance in the world; a girl of none whatever. he has the biggest family of any one we know. from birth each girl is worked like a man, or a slave, from four in the morning until nine at night. each boy is worked exactly the same way; the difference lies in the fact that the girls get plain food and plainer clothes out of it; the boys each get two hundred acres of land, buildings and stock, that the girls have been worked to the limit to help pay for; they get nothing personally, worth mentioning. i think i have two hundred acres of land on the brain, and i think this is the explanation of it. it's a pre-natal influence at our house; while we nurse, eat, sleep, and above all, work it, afterward." she paused and looked toward john jardine calmly: "i think," she said, "that there's not a task ever performed on a farm that i haven't had my share in. i have plowed, hoed, seeded, driven reapers and bound wheat, pitched hay and hauled manure, chopped wood and sheared sheep, and boiled sap; if you can mention anything else, go ahead, i bet a dollar i've done it." "well, what do you think of that?" he muttered, looking at her wonderingly. "if you ask me, and want the answer in plain words, i think it's a shame!" said kate. "if it were one hundred acres of land, and the girls had as much, and were as willing to work it as the boys are, well and good. but to drive us like cattle, and turn all we earn into land for the boys, is another matter. i rebelled last summer, borrowed the money and went to normal and taught last winter. i'm going to teach again this winter; but last summer and this are the first of my life that i haven't been in the harvest fields, at this time. women in the harvest fields of land king bates are common as men, and wagons, and horses, but not nearly so much considered. the women always walk on sunday, to save the horses, and often on week days." "mother has it hammered into me that it isn't polite to ask questions," said john, "but i'd like to ask one." "go ahead," said kate. "ask fifty! what do i care?" "how many boys are there in your family?" "there are seven," said kate, "and if you want to use them as a basis for a land estimate add two hundred and fifty for the home place. sixteen hundred and fifty is what father pays tax on, besides the numerous mortgages and investments. he's the richest man in the county we live in; at least he pays the most taxes." mother and son looked at each other in silence. they had been thinking her so poor that she would be bewildered by what they had to offer. but if two hundred acres of land were her desire, there was a possibility that she was a women who was not asking either ease or luxury of life, and would refuse it if it were proffered. "i hope you will take me home with you, and let me see all that land, and how it is handled," said john jardine. "i don't own an acre. i never even have thought of it, but there is no reason why i, or any member of my family shouldn't have all the land they want. mother, do you feel a wild desire for two hundred acres of land? same kind of a desire that took you to come here?" "no, i don't," said mrs. jardine. "all i know about land is that i know it when i see it, and i know if i think it's pretty; but i can see why kate feels that she would like that amount for herself, after having helped earn all those farms for her brothers. if it's land she wants, i hope she speedily gets all she desires in whatever location she wants it; and then i hope she lets me come to visit her and watch her do as she likes with it." "surely," said kate, "you are invited right now; as soon as i ever get the land, i'll give you another invitation. and of course you may go home with me, mr. jardine, and i'll show you each of what father calls 'those little parcels of land of mine.' but the one he lives on we shall have to gaze at from afar, because i'm a prodigal daughter. when i would leave home in spite of him for the gay and riotous life of a school-marm, he ordered me to take all my possessions with me, which i did in one small telescope. i was not to enter his house again while he lived. i was glad to go, he was glad to have me, while i don't think either of us has changed our mind since. teaching school isn't exactly gay, but i'll fill my tummy with quite a lot of symbolical husks before he'll kill the fatted calf for me. they'll be glad to see you at my brother adam's, and my sister, nancy ellen, would greatly enjoy meeting you. surely you may go home with me, if you'd like." "i can think of only one thing i'd like better," he said. "we've been such good friends here and had such a good time, it would be the thing i'd like best to take you home with us, and show you where and how we live. mother, did you ever invite kate to visit us?" "i have, often, and she has said that she would," replied mrs. jardine. "i think it would be nice for her to go from here with us; and then you can take her home whenever she fails to find us interesting. how would that suit you for a plan, my dear?" "i think that would be a perfect ending to a perfect summer," said kate. "i can't see an objection in any way. thank you very much." "then we'll call that settled," said john jardine. chapter xi a business proposition mid-august saw them on their way to chicago. kate had taken care of mrs. jardine a few days while jennie weeks went home to see her mother and arrange for her new work. she had no intention of going back to school teaching. she preferred to brush mrs. jardine's hair, button her shoes, write her letters, and read to her. in a month, jennie had grown so deft at her work and made herself so appreciated, that she was practically indispensable to the elderly woman, and therefore the greatest comfort to john. immediately he saw that his mother was properly cared for, sympathetically and even lovingly, he made it his business to smooth jennie's path in every way possible. in turn she studied him, and in many ways made herself useful to him. often she looked at him with large and speculative eyes as he sat reading letters, or papers, or smoking. the world was all right with kate when they crossed the sand dunes as they neared the city. she was sorry about the situation in her home, but she smiled sardonically as she thought how soon her father would forget his anger when he heard about the city home and the kind of farm she could have, merely by consenting to take it. she was that sure of john jardine; yet he had not asked her to marry him. he had seemed on the verge of it a dozen times, and then had paused as if better judgment told him it would be wise to wait a little longer. now kate had concluded that there was a definite thing he might be waiting for, since that talk about land. she thought possibly she understood what it was. he was a business man; he knew nothing else; he said so frankly. he wanted to show her his home, his business, his city, his friends, and then he required--he had almost put it into words--that he be shown her home and her people. kate not only acquiesced, she approved. she wanted to know as much of a man she married as nancy ellen had known, and robert had taken her to his home and told his people she was his betrothed wife before he married her. kate's eyes were wide open and her brain busy, as they entered a finely appointed carriage and she heard john say: "rather sultry. home down the lake shore, george." she wished their driver had not been named "george," but after all it made no difference. there could not be a commoner name than john, and she knew of but one that she liked better. for the ensuing three days she lived in a lake shore home of wealth. she watched closely not to trip in the heavy rugs and carpets. she looked at wonderful paintings and long shelves of books. she never had touched such china, or tasted such food or seen so good service. she understood why john had opposed his mother's undertaking the trip without him, for everyone in the house seemed busy serving the little woman. jennie weeks was frankly enchanted. "my sakes!" she said to kate. "if i'm not grateful to you for getting me into a place like this. i wouldn't give it up for all the school-teaching in the world. i'm going to snuggle right in here, and make myself so useful i won't have to leave until i die. i hope you won't turn me out when to come to take charge." "don't you think you're presuming?" said kate. jennie drew back with a swift apology, but there was a flash in the little eyes and a spiteful look on the small face as she withdrew. then kate was shown each of john's wonderful inventions. to her they seemed almost miracles, because they were so obvious, so simple, yet brought such astounding returns. she saw offices and heard the explanation of big business; but did not comprehend, farther than that when an invention was completed, the piling up of money began. before the week's visit was over, kate was trying to fit herself and her aims and objects of life into the surroundings, with no success whatever. she felt housed in, cribbed, confined, frustrated. when she realized that she was becoming plainly cross, she began keen self-analysis and soon admitted to herself that she did not belong there. kate watched with keen eyes. repeatedly she tried to imagine herself in such surroundings for life, a life sentence, she expressed it, for soon she understood that it would be to her, a prison. the only way she could imagine herself enduring it at all was to think of the promised farm, and when she began to think of that on jardine terms, she saw that it would mean to sit down and tell someone else what she wanted done. there would be no battle to fight. her mind kept harking back to the day when she had said to john that she hoped there would be a lake on the land she owned, and he had answered casually: "if there isn't a lake, make one!" kate thought that over repeatedly. "make one!" make a lake? it would have seemed no more magical to her if he had said, "make a cloud," "make a star," or "make a rainbow." "what on earth would i do with myself, with my time, with my life?" pondered kate. she said "good-bye" to mrs. jardine and jennie weeks, and started home with john, still pondering. when the train pulled into hartley, nancy ellen and robert were on the platform to meet them. from that time, kate was on solid ground. she was reckoning in terms she could comprehend. all her former assurance and energy came back to her. she almost wished the visit were over, and that she were on the way to walton to clean the school-house. she was eager to roll her sleeves and beat a tub of soapy clothes to foam, and boil them snowy white. she had a desire she could scarcely control to sweep, and dust, and cook. she had been out of the environment she thought she disliked and found when she returned to it after a wider change than she could have imagined, that she did not dislike it at all. it was her element, her work, what she knew. she could attempt it with sure foot, capable hand, and certain knowledge. sunday morning she said to nancy ellen as they washed the breakfast dishes, while the men smoked on the veranda: "nancy ellen, i don't believe i was ever cut out for a rich woman! if i have got a chance, i wish you had it, and i had this. this just suits my style to a t." "tell me about it," said nancy ellen. kate told all she could remember. "you don't mean to say you didn't like it?" cried nancy ellen. "i didn't say anything," said kate, "but if i were saying exactly what i feel, you'd know i despise it all." "why, kate barnes!" cried the horrified nancy ellen, "whatever do you mean?" "i haven't thought enough to put it to you clearly," said kate, "but someway the city repels me. facilities for manufacturing something start a city. it begins with the men who do the work, and the men who profit from that work, living in the same coop. it expands, and goes on, and grows, on that basis. it's the laborer, living on his hire, and the manufacturer living on the laborer's productions, coming in daily contact. the contrast is too great, the space is too small. somebody is going to get the life crowded out of him at every turn, and it isn't always the work hand in the factory. the money kings eat each other for breakfast every day. as for work, we always thought we worked. you should take a peep into the shops and factories i've seen this week. work? why, we don't know what work is, and we waste enough food every day to keep a workman's family, and we're dressed liked queens, in comparison with them right now." "do you mean to say if he asks you--?" it was a small explosion. "i mean to say if he asks me, 'buy me that two hundred acres of land where i want it, build me the house and barns i want, and guarantee that i may live there as i please, and i'll marry you to-morrow.' if it's chicago--never! i haven't stolen, murdered, or betrayed, who should i be imprisoned?" "why, you hopeless anarchist!" said nancy ellen, "i am going to tell john jardine on you." "do!" urged kate. "sound him on the land question. it's our only hope of a common foundation. have you send agatha word that we will be out this afternoon?" "i have," said nancy ellen. "and i don't doubt that now, even now, she is in the kitchen--how would she put it?" "'compounding a cake,'" said kate, "while adam is in the cellar 'freezing a custard.' adam, d, will be raking the yard afresh and susan will be sweeping the walks steadily from now until they sight us coming down the road. what you bet agatha asked john his intentions? i almost wish she would," she added. "he has some, but there is a string to them in some way, and i can't just make out where, or why it is." "not even a guess?" asked nancy ellen. "not even a guess, with any sense to it. i've thought it was coming repeatedly; but i've got a stubborn bates streak, and i won't lift a finger to help him. he'll speak up, loud and plain, or there will be no 'connubial bliss' for us, as agatha says. i think he has ideas about other things than freight train gear. according to his programme we must have so much time to become acquainted, i must see his home and people, he must see mine. if there's more after that, i'm not informed. like as not there is. it may come after we get back to-night, i can't say." "have you told him--?" asked nancy ellen. "not the details, but the essentials. he knows that i can't go home. it came up one day in talking about land. i guess they had thought before, that my people were poor as church mice. i happened to mention how much land i had helped earn for my brothers, and they seemed so interested i finished the job. well, after they had heard about the land king, it made a noticeable difference in their treatment of me. not that they weren't always fine, but it made, i scarcely know how to put it, it was so intangible--but it was a difference, an added respect. you bet money is a power! i can see why father hangs on to those deeds, when i get out in the world. they are his compensation for his years of hard work, the material evidence that he has succeeded in what he undertook. he'd show them to john jardine with the same feeling john showed me improved car couplers, brakes, and air cushions. they stand for successes that win the deference of men. out in the little bit of world i've seen, i notice that men fight, bleed, and die for even a tiny fraction of deference. aren't they funny? what would i care--?" "well, i'd care a lot!" said nancy ellen. kate surveyed her slowly. "yes, i guess you would." they finished the dishes and went to church, because robert was accustomed to going. they made a remarkable group. then they went to the hotel for dinner, so that the girls would not have to prepare it, and then in a double carriage robert had secured for the occasion, they drove to bates corners and as kate said, "viewed the landscape o'er." those eight pieces of land, none under two hundred acres, some slightly over, all in the very highest state of cultivation, with modern houses, barns, outbuildings, and fine stock grazing in the pastures, made an impressive picture. it was probably the first time that any of the bates girls had seen it all at once, and looked on it merely as a spectacle. they stopped at adam's last, and while robert was busy with the team and john had alighted to help him, nancy ellen, revealing tight lips and unnaturally red cheeks, leaned back to kate. "this is about as mean a trick, and as big a shame as i've ever seen," she said, hotly. "you know i was brought up with this, and i never looked at it with the eyes of a stranger before. if ever i get my fingers on those deeds, i'll make short work of them!" "and a good job, too!" assented kate, instantly. "look out! there comes adam." "i'd just as soon tell him so as not!" whispered nancy ellen. "which would result in the deeds being recorded to-morrow and spoiling our trip to-day, and what good would it do you?" said kate. "none, of course! nothing ever does a bates girl any good, unless she gets out and does it for herself," retorted nancy ellen spitefully. "there, there," said robert as he came to help nancy ellen protect her skirts in alighting. "i was afraid this trip would breed discontent." "what's the trouble?" asked john, as he performed the same service for kate. "oh, the girls are grouching a little because they helped earn all this, and are to be left out of it," explained robert in a low voice. "let's get each one of them a farm that will lay any of these completely in the shade," suggested john. "all right for you, if you can do it," said robert, laughing, "but i've gone my limit for the present. besides, if you gave each of them two hundred acres of the kingdom of heaven, it wouldn't stop them from feeling that they had been defrauded of their birthright here." "how would you feel if you was served the same way?" asked john, and even as she shook hands with adam, and introduced john jardine, kate found herself wishing that he had said "were." as the girls had predicted, the place was immaculate, the yard shady and cool from the shelter of many big trees, the house comfortable, convenient, the best of everything in sight. agatha and susan were in new white dresses, while adam jr. and d wore tan and white striped seersucker coats, and white duck trousers. it was not difficult to feel a glow of pride in the place and people. adam made them cordially welcome. "you undoubtedly are blessed with good fortune," said agatha. "won't you please enlighten us concerning your travels, katherine?" so kate told them everything she could think of that she thought would interest and amuse them, even outlining for agatha speeches she had heard made by dr. vincent, chaplain mccabe, jehu dewitt miller, a number of famous politicians, teachers, and ministers. then all of them talked about everything. adam took john and robert to look over the farm, whereupon kate handed over her hat for agatha to finger and try on. "and how long will it be, my dear," said agatha to kate, "before you enter connubial bliss?" "my goodness! i'm glad you asked me that while the men are at the barn," said kate. "mr. jardine hasn't said a word about it himself, so please be careful what you say before him." agatha looked at kate in wonder. "you amaze me," she said. "why, he regards you as if he would devour you. he hasn't proposed for your hand, you say? surely you're not giving him proper encouragement!" "she isn't giving him any, further than allowing him to be around," said nancy ellen. "do enlighten me!" cried the surprised agatha. "how astonishing! why, kate, my dear, there is a just and proper amount of encouragement that must be given any self-respecting youth, before he makes his declarations. you surely know that." "no, i do not know it!" said kate. "i thought it was a man's place to speak up loud and plain and say what he had to propose." "oh, dear!" wailed agatha, wringing her thin hands, her face a mirror of distress. "oh, dear, i very much fear you will lose him. why, katherine, after a man has been to see you a certain number of times, and evidenced enough interest in you, my dear, there are a thousand strictly womanly ways in which you can lend his enterprise a little, only a faint amount of encouragement, just enough to allow him to recognize that he is not--not--er--repulsive to you." "but how many times must he come, and how much interest must he evince?" asked kate. "i can scarcely name an exact number," said agatha. "that is personal. you must decide for yourself what is the psychological moment at which he is to be taken. have you even signified to him that you--that you--that you could be induced, even to contemplate marriage?" "oh, yes," said kate, heartily. "i told his mother that it was the height of my ambition to marry by the time i'm twenty. i told her i wanted a man as tall as i am, two hundred acres of land, and at least twelve babies." agatha collapsed suddenly. she turned her shocked face toward nancy ellen. "great day of rest!" she cried. "no wonder the man doesn't propose!" when the men returned from their stroll, agatha and susan served them with delicious frozen custard and angel's food cake. then they resumed their drive, passing hiram's place last. at the corner robert hesitated and turned to ask: "shall we go ahead, kate?" "certainly," said kate. "i want mr. jardine to see where i was born and spent my time of legal servitude. i suppose we daren't stop. i doubt if mother would want to see me, and i haven't the slightest doubt that father would not; but he has no jurisdiction over the road. it's the shortest way--and besides, i want to see the lilac bush and the cabbage roses." as they approached the place nancy ellen turned. "father's standing at the gate. what shall we do?" "there's nothing you can do, but drive straight ahead and you and robert speak to him," said kate. "go fast, robert." he touched the team and at fair speed they whirled past the white house, at the gate of which, stiffly erect, stood a brawny man of six feet six, his face ruddy and healthy in appearance. he was dressed as he prepared himself to take a trip to pay his taxes, or to go to court. he stood squarely erect, with stern, forbidding face, looking directly at them. robert spoke to him, and nancy ellen leaned forward and waved, calling "father," that she might be sure he knew her, but he gave not the slightest sign of recognition. they carried away a distinct picture of him, at his best physically and in appearance; at his worst mentally. "there you have it!" said kate, bitterly. "i'd be safe in wagering a thousand dollars, if i had it, that agatha or the children told, at hiram's or to mother's girl, that we were coming. they knew we would pass about this time. mother was at the side door watching, and father was in his sunday best, waiting to show us what would happen if we stopped, and that he never changes his mind. it didn't happen by accident that he was standing there dressed that way. what do you think, nancy ellen?" "that he was watching for us!" said nancy ellen. "but why do you suppose that he did it?" asked kate. "he thought that if he were not standing guard there, we might stop in the road and at least call mother out. he wanted to be seen, and seen at his best; but as always, in command, showing his authority." "don't mind," said john jardine. "it's easy to understand the situation." "thank you," said kate. "i hope you'll tell your mother that. i can't bear her to think that the trouble is wholly my fault." "no danger of that," he said. "mother thinks there's nobody in all the world like you, and so do i." nancy ellen kicked robert's shin, to let him know that she heard. kate was very depressed for a time, but she soon recovered and they spent a final happy evening together. when john had parted from robert and nancy ellen, with the arrangement that he was to come again the following saturday evening and spend sunday with them, he asked kate to walk a short distance with him. he seemed to be debating some proposition in his mind, that he did not know how to approach. finally he stopped abruptly and said: "kate, mother told me that she told you how i grew up. we have been together most of every day for six weeks. i have no idea how a man used to women goes at what i want, so i can only do what i think is right, and best, and above all honest, and fair. i'd be the happiest i've ever been, to do anything on earth i've got the money to do, for you. there's a question i'm going to ask you the next time i come. you can think over all you know of me, and of mother, and of what we have, and are, and be ready to tell me how you feel about everything next sunday. there's one question i want to ask you before i go. in case we can plan for a life together next sunday, what about my mother?" "whatever pleases her best, of course," said kate. "any arrangement that you feel will make her happy, will be all right with me; in the event we agree on other things." he laughed, shortly. "this sounds cold-blooded and business-like," he said. "but mother's been all the world to me, until i met you. i must be sure about her, and one other thing. i'll write you about that this week. if that is all right with you, you can get ready for a deluge. i've held in as long as i can. kate, will you kiss me good-bye?" "that's against the rules," said kate. "that's getting the cart before the horse." "i know it," he said. "but haven't i been an example for six weeks? only one. please?" they were back at dr. gray's gate, standing in the deep shelter of a big maple. kate said: "i'll make a bargain with you. i'll kiss you to-night, and if we come to an agreement next sunday night, you shall kiss me. is that all right?" the reply was so indistinct kate was not sure of it; but she took his face between her hands and gave him exactly the same kind of kiss she would have given adam, d. she hesitated an instant, then gave him a second. "you may take that to your mother," she said, and fled up the walk. chapter xii two letters nancy ellen and robert were sitting on the side porch, not seeming in the least sleepy, when kate entered the house. as she stepped out to them, she found them laughing mysteriously. "take this chair, kate," said nancy ellen. "come on, robert, let's go stand under the maple tree and let her see whether she can see us." "if you're going to rehearse any momentous moment of your existence," said kate, "i shouldn't think of even being on the porch. i shall keep discreetly in the house, even going at once to bed. good-night! pleasant dreams!" "now we've made her angry," said robert. "i think there was 'a little touch of asperity,' as agatha would say, in that," said nancy ellen, "but kate has a good heart. she'll get over it before morning." "would agatha use such a common word as 'little'?" asked robert. "indeed, no!" said nancy ellen. "she would say 'infinitesimal.' but all the same he kissed her." "if she didn't step up and kiss him, never again shall i trust my eyes!" said the doctor. "hush!" cautioned nancy ellen. "she's provoked now; if she hears that, she'll never forgive us." kate did not need even a hint to start her talking in the morning. the day was fine, a snappy tinge of autumn in the air, her head and heart were full. nancy ellen would understand and sympathize; of course kate told her all there was to tell. "and even at that," said nancy ellen, "he hasn't just come out right square and said 'kate, will you marry me?' as i understand it." "same here," laughed kate. "he said he had to be sure about his mother, and there was 'one other thing' he'd write me about this week, and he'd come again next sunday; then if things were all right with me--the deluge!" "and what is 'the other thing?'" asked nancy ellen. "there he has me guessing. we had six, long, lovely weeks of daily association at the lake, i've seen his home, and his inventions, and as much of his business as is visible to the eye of a woman who doesn't know a tinker about business. his mother has told me minutely of his life, every day since he was born, i think. she insists that he never paid the slightest attention to a girl before, and he says the same, so there can't be any hidden ugly feature to mar my joy. he is thoughtful, quick, kind, a self-made business man. he looks well enough, he acts like a gentleman, he seldom makes a mistake in speech--" "he doesn't say enough to make any mistakes. i haven't yet heard him talk freely, give an opinion, or discuss a question," said nancy ellen. "neither have i," said kate. "he's very silent, thinking out more inventions, maybe. the worst thing about him is a kind of hard-headed self-assurance. he got it fighting for his mother from boyhood. he knew she would freeze and starve if he didn't take care of her; he had to do it. he soon found he could. it took money to do what he had to do. he got the money. then he began performing miracles with it. he lifted his mother out of poverty, he dressed her 'in purple and fine linen,' he housed her in the same kind of home other rich men of the lake shore drive live in, and gave her the same kind of service. as most men do, when things begin to come their way, he lived for making money alone. he was so keen on the chase he wouldn't stop to educate and culture himself; he drove headlong on, and on, piling up more, far more than any one man should be allowed to have; so you can see that it isn't strange that he thinks there's nothing on earth that money can't do. you can see that sticking out all over him. at the hotel, on boats, on the trains, anywhere we went, he pushed straight for the most conspicuous place, the most desirable thing, the most expensive. i almost prayed sometimes that in some way he would strike one single thing that he couldn't make come his way with money; but he never did. no. i haven't an idea what he has in his mind yet, but he's going to write me about it this week, and if i agree to whatever it is, he is coming sunday; then he has threatened me with a 'deluge,' whatever he means by that." "he means providing another teacher for walden, taking you to chicago shopping for a wonderful trousseau, marrying you in his lake shore palace, no doubt." "well, if that's what he means by a 'deluge,'" said kate, "he'll find the flood coming his way. he'll strike the first thing he can't do with money. i shall teach my school this winter as i agreed to. i shall marry him in the clothes i buy with what i earn. i shall marry him quietly, here, or at adam's, or before a justice of the peace, if neither of you wants me. he can't pick me up, and carry me away, and dress me, and marry me, as if i were a pauper." "you're right about it," said nancy ellen. "i don't know how we came to be so different. i should do at once any way he suggested to get such a fine-looking man and that much money. that it would be a humiliation to me all my after life, i wouldn't think about until the humiliation began, and then i'd have no way to protect myself. you're right! but i'd get out of teaching this winter if i could. i'd love to have you here." "but i must teach to the earn money for my outfit. i'll have to go back to school in the same old sailor." "don't you care," laughed nancy ellen. "we know a secret!" "that we do!" agreed kate. wednesday kate noticed nancy ellen watching for the boy robert had promised to send with the mail as soon as it was distributed, because she was, herself. twice thursday, kate hoped in vain that the suspense would be over. it had to end friday, if john were coming saturday night. she began to resent the length of time he was waiting. it was like him to wait until the last minute, and then depend on money to carry him through. "he is giving me a long time to think things over," kate said to nancy ellen when there was no letter in the afternoon mail thursday. "it may have been lost or delayed," said nancy ellen. "it will come to-morrow, surely." both of them saw the boy turn in at the gate friday morning. each saw that he carried more than one letter. nancy ellen was on her feet and nearer to the door; she stepped to it, and took the letters, giving them a hasty glance as she handed them to kate. "two," she said tersely. "one, with the address written in the clear, bold hand of a gentleman, and one, the straggle of a country clod-hopper." kate smiled as she took the letters: "i'll wager my hat, which is my most precious possession," she said, "that the one with the beautifully written address comes from the 'clod-hopper,' and the 'straggle' from the 'gentleman.'" she glanced at the stamping and addresses and smiled again: "so it proves," she said. "while i'm about it, i'll see what the 'clod-hopper' has to say, and then i shall be free to give my whole attention to the 'gentleman.'" "oh, kate, how can you!" cried nancy ellen. "way i'm made, i 'spect," said kate. "anyway, that's the way this is going to be done." she dropped the big square letter in her lap and ran her finger under the flap of the long, thin, beautifully addressed envelope, and drew forth several quite as perfectly written sheets. she read them slowly and deliberately, sometimes turning back a page and going over a part of it again. when she finished, she glanced at nancy ellen while slowly folding the sheets. "just for half a cent i'd ask you to read this," she said. "i certainly shan't pay anything for the privilege, but i'll read it, if you want me to," offered nancy ellen. "all right, go ahead," said kate. "it might possibly teach you that you can't always judge a man by appearance, or hastily; though just why george holt looks more like a 'clod-hopper' than adam, or hiram, or andrew, it passes me to tell." she handed nancy ellen the letter and slowly ripped open the flap of the heavy white envelope. she drew forth the sheet and sat an instant with it in her fingers, watching the expression of nancy ellen's face, while she read the most restrained yet impassioned plea that a man of george holt's nature and opportunities could devise to make to a woman after having spent several months in the construction of it. it was a masterly letter, perfectly composed, spelled, and written; for among his other fields of endeavour, george holt had taught several terms of country school, and taught them with much success; so that he might have become a fine instructor, had it been in his blood to stick to anything long enough to make it succeed. after a page as she turned the second sheet nancy ellen glanced at kate, and saw that she had not opened the creased page in her hands. she flamed with sudden irritation. "you do beat the band!" she cried. "you've watched for two days and been provoked because that letter didn't come. now you've got it, there you sit like a mummy and let your mind be so filled with this idiotic drivel that you're not ever reading john jardine's letter that is to tell you what both of us are crazy to know." "if you were in any mood to be fair and honest, you'd admit that you never read a finer letter than that," said kate. "as for this, i never was so afraid in all my life. look at that!" she threw the envelope in nancy ellen's lap. "that is the very first line of john jardine's writing i have ever seen," she said. "do you see anything about it to encourage me to go farther?" "you goose!" cried the exasperated nancy ellen. "i suppose he transacts so much business he scarcely ever puts pen to paper. what's the difference how he writes? look at what he is and what he does! go on and read his letter." kate arose and walked to the window, turning her back to nancy ellen, who sat staring at her, while she read john jardine's letter. once nancy ellen saw kate throw up her head and twist her neck as if she were choking; then she heard a great gulping sob down in her throat; finally kate turned and stared at her with dazed, incredulous eyes. slowly she dropped the letter, deliberately set her foot on it, and leaving the room, climbed the stairs. nancy ellen threw george holt's letter aside and snatched up john jardine's. she read: my derest kate: i am a day late with this becos as i told you i have no schooling and in writing a letter is where i prove it, so i never write them, but it was not fare to you for you not to know what kind of a letter i would write if i did write one, so here it is very bad no dout but the best i can possably do which has got nothing at all to do with my pashion for you and the aughful time i will have till i here from you. if you can stand for this telagraf me and i will come first train and we will forget this and i will never write another letter. with derest love from mother, and from me all the love of my hart. forever yours only, john jardine. the writing would have been a discredit to a ten-year-old schoolboy. nancy ellen threw the letter back on the floor; with a stiffly extended finger, she poked it into the position in which she thought she had found it, and slowly stepped back. "great god!" she said amazedly. "what does the man mean? where does that dainty and wonderful little mother come in? she must be a regular parasite, to take such ease and comfort for herself out of him, and not see that he had time and chance to do better than that for himself. kate will never endure it, never in the world! and by the luck of the very devil, there comes that school-proof thing in the same mail, from that abominable george holt, and kate reads it first. it's too bad! i can't believe it! what did his mother mean?" suddenly nancy ellen began to cry bitterly; between sobs she could hear kate as she walked from closet and bureau to her trunk which she was packing. the lid slammed heavily and a few minutes later kate entered the room dressed for the street. "why are you weeping?" she asked casually. her eyes were flaming, her cheeks scarlet, and her lips twitching. nancy ellen sat up and looked at her. she pointed to the letter: "i read that," she said. "well, what do i care?" said kate. "if he has no more respect for me than to write me such an insult as that, why should i have the respect for him to protect him in it? publish it in the paper if you want to." "kate, what are you going to do?" demanded nancy ellen. "three things," said kate, slowly putting on her long silk gloves. "first, i'm going to telegraph john jardine that i never shall see him again, if i can possibly avoid it. second, i'm going to send a drayman to get my trunk and take it to walden. third, i'm going to start out and walk miles, i don't know or care where; but in the end, i'm going to walden to clean the schoolhouse and get ready for my winter term of school." "oh, kate, you are such a fine teacher! teach him! don't be so hurried! take more time to think. you will break his heart," pleaded nancy ellen. kate threw out both hands, palms down. "p-a-s-h, a-u-g-h, h-a-r-t, d-o-u-t, d-e-r-e," she slowly spelled out the letters. "what about my heart and my pride? think i can respect that, or ask my children to respect it? but thank you and robert, and come after me as often as you can, as a mercy to me. if john persists in coming, to try to buy me, as he thinks he can buy anything he wants, you needn't let him come to walden; for probably i won't be there until i have to, and i won't see him, or his mother, so he needn't try to bring her in. say good-bye to robert for me." she walked from the house, head erect, shoulders squared, and so down the street from sight. in half an hour a truckman came for her trunk, so nancy ellen made everything kate had missed into a bundle to send with it. when she came to the letters, she hesitated. "i guess she didn't want them," she said. "i'll just keep them awhile and if she doesn't ask about them, the next time she comes, i'll burn them. robert must go after her every friday evening, and we'll keep her until monday, and do all we can to cheer her; and this very day he must find out all there is to know about that george holt. that is the finest letter i ever read; she does kind of stand up for him; and in the reaction, impulsive as she is and self-confident--of course she wouldn't, but you never can tell what kind of fool a girl will make of herself, in some cases." kate walked swiftly, finished two of the errands she set out to do, then her feet carried her three miles from hartley on the walden road, before she knew where she was, so she proceeded to the village. mrs. holt was not at home, but the house was standing open. kate found her room cleaned, shining, and filled with flowers. she paid the drayman, opened her trunk, and put away her dresses, laying out all the things which needed washing; then she bathed, put on heavy shoes, and old skirt and waist, and crossing the road sat in a secluded place in the ravine and looked stupidly at the water. she noticed that everything was as she had left it in the spring, with many fresher improvements, made, no doubt, to please her. she closed her eyes, leaned against a big tree, and slow, cold and hot shudders alternated in shaking her frame. she did not open her eyes when she heard a step and her name called. she knew without taking the trouble to look that george had come home, found her luggage in her room, and was hunting for her. she heard him come closer and knew when he seated himself that he was watching her, but she did not care enough even to move. finally she shifted her position to rest herself, opened her eyes, and looked at him without a word. he returned her gaze steadily, smiling gravely. she had never seen him looking so well. he had put in the summer grooming himself, he had kept up the house and garden, and spent all his spare time on the ravine, and farming on the shares with his mother's sister who lived three miles east of them. at last she roused herself and again looked at him. "i had your letter this morning," she said. "i was wondering about that," he replied. "yes, i got it just before i started," said kate. "are you surprised to see me?" "no," he answered. "after last year, we figured you might come the last of this week or the first of next, so we got your room ready monday." "thank you," said kate. "it's very clean and nice." "i hope soon to be able to offer you such a room and home as you should have," he said. "i haven't opened my office yet. it was late and hot when i got home in june and mother was fussing about this winter--that she had no garden and didn't do her share at aunt ollie's, so i have farmed most of the summer, and lived on hope; but i'll start in and make things fly this fall, and by spring i'll be sailing around with a horse and carriage like the best of them. you bet i am going to make things hum, so i can offer you anything you want." "you haven't opened an office yet?" she asked for the sake of saying something, and because a practical thing would naturally suggest itself to her. "i haven't had a breath of time," he said in candid disclaimer. "why don't you ask me what's the matter?" "didn't figure that it was any of my business in the first place," he said, "and i have a pretty fair idea, in the second." "but how could you have?" she asked in surprise. "when your sister wouldn't give me your address, she hinted that you had all the masculine attention you cared for; then tilly nepple visited town again last week and she had been sick and called dr. gray. she asked him about you, and he told what i fine time you had at chautauqua and chicago, with the rich new friends you'd made. i was watching for you about this time, and i just happened to be at the station in hartley last saturday when you got off the train with your fine gentleman, so i stayed over with some friends of mine, and i saw you several times sunday. i saw that i'd practically no chance with you at all; but i made up my mind i'd stick until i saw you marry him, so i wrote just as i would if i hadn't known there was another man in existence." "that was a very fine letter," said kate. "it is a very fine, deep, sincere love that i am offering you," said george holt. "of course i could see prosperity sticking out all over that city chap, but it didn't bother me much, because i knew that you, of all women, would judge a man on his worth. a rising young professional man is not to be sneered at, at least until he makes his start and proves what he can do. i couldn't get an early start, because i've always had to work, just as you've seen me last summer and this, so i couldn't educate myself so fast, but i've gone as fast and far as i could." kate winced. this was getting on places that hurt and to matters she well understood, but she was the soul of candour. "you did very well to educate yourself as you have, with no help at all," she said. "i've done my best in the past, i'm going to do marvels in the future, and whatever i do, it is all for you and yours for the taking," he said grandiosely. "thank you," said kate. "but are you making that offer when you can't help seeing that i'm in deep trouble?" "a thousand times over," he said. "all i want to know about your trouble is whether there is anything a man of my size and strength can do to help you." "not a thing," said kate, "in the direction of slaying a gay deceiver, if that's what you mean. the extent of my familiarities with john jardine consists in voluntarily kissing him twice last sunday night for the first and last time, once for himself, and once for his mother, whom i have since ceased to respect." george holt was watching her with eyes lynx-sharp, but kate never saw it. when she mentioned her farewell of sunday night, a queer smile swept over his face and instantly disappeared. "i should thing any girl might be permitted that much, in saying a final good-bye to a man who had shown her a fine time for weeks," he commented casually. "but i didn't know i was saying good-bye," explained kate. "i expected him back in a week, and that i would then arrange to marry him. that was the agreement we made then." as she began to speak, george holt's face flashed triumph at having led her on; at what she said it fell perceptibly, but he instantly controlled it and said casually: "in any event, it was your own business." "it was," said kate. "i had given no man the slightest encouragement, i was perfectly free. john jardine was courting me openly in the presence of his mother and any one who happened to be around. i intended to marry him. i liked him as much as any man need be liked. i don't know whether it was the same feeling nancy ellen had for robert gray or not, but it was a whole lot of feeling of some kind. i was satisfied with it, and he would have been. i meant to be a good wife to him and a good daughter to his mother, and i could have done much good in the world and extracted untold pleasure from the money he would have put in my power to handle. all was going 'merry as a marriage bell,' and then this morning came my waterloo, in the same post with your letter." "do you know what you are doing?" cried george holt, roughly, losing self-control with hope. "you are proving to me, and admitting to yourself, that you never loved that man at all. you were flattered, and tempted with position and riches, but your heart was not his, or you would be mighty sure of it, don't you forget that!" "i am not interested in analyzing exactly what i felt for him," said kate. "it made small difference then; it makes none at all now. i would have married him gladly, and i would have been to him all a good wife is to any man; then in a few seconds i turned squarely against him, and lost my respect for him. you couldn't marry me to him if he were the last and only man on earth; but it hurt terribly, let me tell you that!" george holt suddenly arose and went to kate. he sat down close beside her and leaned toward her. "there isn't the least danger of my trying to marry you to him," he said, "because i am going to marry you myself at the very first opportunity. why not now? why not have a simple ceremony somewhere at once, and go away until school begins, and forget him, having a good time by ourselves? come on, kate, let's do it! we can go stay with aunt ollie, and if he comes trying to force himself on you, he'll get what he deserves. he'll learn that there is something on earth he can't buy with his money." "but i don't love you," said kate. "neither did you love him," retorted george holt. "i can prove it by what you say. neither did you love him, but you were going to marry him, and use all his wonderful power of position and wealth, and trust to association to bring love. you can try that with me. as for wealth, who cares? we are young and strong, and we have a fine chance in the world. you go on and teach this year, and i'll get such a start that by next year you can be riding around in your carriage, proud as pompey." "of course we could make it all right, as to a living," said kate. "big and strong as we are, but--" then the torrent broke. at the first hint that she would consider his proposal george holt drew her to him and talked volumes of impassioned love to her. he gave her no chance to say anything; he said all there was to say himself; he urged that jardine would come, and she should not be there. he begged, he pleaded, he reasoned. night found kate sitting on the back porch at aunt ollie's with a confused memory of having stood beside the little stream with her hand in george holt's while she assented to the questions of a justice of the peace, in the presence of the school director and mrs. holt. she knew that immediately thereafter they had walked away along a hot, dusty country road; she had tried to eat something that tasted like salted ashes. she could hear george's ringing laugh of exultation breaking out afresh every few minutes; in sudden irritation at the latest guffaw she clearly remembered one thing: in her dazed and bewildered state she had forgotten to tell him that she was a prodigal daughter. chapter xiii the bride only one memory in the ten days that followed before her school began ever stood out clearly and distinctly with kate. that was the morning of the day after she married george holt. she saw nancy ellen and robert at the gate so she went out to speak with them. nancy ellen was driving, she held the lines and the whip in her hands. kate in dull apathy wondered why they seemed so deeply agitated. both of them stared at her as if she might be a maniac. "is this thing in the morning paper true?" cried nancy ellen in a high, shrill voice that made kate start in wonder. she did not take the trouble to evade by asking "what thing?" she merely made assent with her head. "you are married to that--that--" nancy ellen choked until she could not say what. "it's time to stop, since i am married to him," said kate, gravely. "you rushed in and married him without giving robert time to find out and tell you what everybody knows about him?" demanded nancy ellen. "i married him for what i knew about him myself," said kate. "we shall do very well." "do well!" cried nancy. "do well! you'll be hungry and in rags the rest of your life!" "don't, nancy ellen, don't!" plead robert. "this is kate's affair, wait until you hear what she has to say before you go further." "i don't care what she has to say!" cried nancy ellen. "i'm saying my say right now. this is a disgrace to the whole bates family. we may not be much, but there isn't a lazy, gambling, drunken loafer among us, and there won't be so far as i'm concerned." she glared at kate who gazed at her in wonder. "you really married this lout?" she demanded. "i told you i was married," said kate, patiently, for she saw that nancy ellen was irresponsible with anger. "you're going to live with him, you're going to stay in walden to live?" she cried. "that is my plan at present," said kate. "well, see that you stay there," said nancy ellen. "you can't bring that--that creature to my house, and if you're going to be his wife, you needn't come yourself. that's all i've got to say to you, you shameless, crazy--" "nancy ellen, you shall not!" cried robert gray, deftly slipping the lines from her fingers, and starting the horse full speed. kate saw nancy ellen's head fall forward, and her hands lifted to cover her face. she heard the deep, tearing sob that shook her, and then they were gone. she did not know what to do, so she stood still in the hot sunshine, trying to think; but her brain refused to act at her will. when the heat became oppressive, she turned back to the shade of a tree, sat down, and leaned against it. there she got two things clear after a time. she had married george holt, there was nothing to do but make the best of it. but nancy ellen had said that if she lived with him she should not come to her home. very well. she had to live with him, since she had consented to marry him, so she was cut off from robert and nancy ellen. she was now a prodigal, indeed. and those things nancy ellen had said--she was wild with anger. she had been misinformed. those things could not be true. "shouldn't you be in here helping aunt ollie?" asked george's voice from the front step where he seated himself with his pipe. "yes, in a minute," said kate, rising. "did you see who came?" "no. i was out doing the morning work. who was it?" he asked. "nancy ellen and robert," she answered. he laughed hilariously: "brought them in a hurry, didn't we? why didn't they come in?" "they came to tell me," said kate, slowly, "that if i had married you yesterday, as i did, that they felt so disgraced that i wasn't to come to their home again." "'disgraced?'" he cried, his colour rising. "well, what's the matter with me?" "not the things they said, i fervently hope." "well, they have some assurance to come out here and talk about me, and you've got as much to listen, and then come and tell me about it," he cried. "it was over in a minute," said kate. "i'd no idea what they were going to say. they said it, and went. oh, i can't spare nancy ellen, she's all i had!" kate sank down on the step and covered her face. george took one long look at her, arose, and walked out of hearing. he went into the garden and watched from behind a honeysuckle bush until he saw her finally lift her head and wipe her eyes; then he sauntered back, and sat down on the step beside her. "that's right," he said. "cry it out, and get it over. it was pretty mean of them to come out here and insult you, and tell any lie they could think up, and then drive away and leave you; but don't mind, they'll soon get over it. nobody ever keeps up a fuss over a wedding long." "nancy ellen never told a lie in her life," said kate. "she has too much self-respect. what she said she thought was true. my only chance is that somebody has told her a lie. you know best if they did." "of course they did," he broke in, glibly. "haven't you lived in the same house with me long enough to know me better than any one else does?" "you can live in the same house with people and know less about them than any one else, for that matter," said kate, "but that's neither here nor there. we're in this together, we got to get on the job and pull, and make a success out of it that will make all of them proud to be our friends. that's the only thing left for me. as i know the bates, once they make up their minds, they never change. with nancy ellen and father both down on me, i'm a prodigal for sure." "what?" he cried, loudly. "what? is your father in this, too? did he send you word you couldn't come home, either? this is a hell of a mess! speak up!" kate closed her lips, looked at him with deep scorn, and walked around the corner of the house. for a second he looked after her threateningly, then he sprang to his feet, and ran to her, catching her in his arms. "forgive me, dearest," he cried. "that took the wind out of my sails until i was a brute. you'd no business to say a thing like that. of course we can't have the old land king down on us. we've got to have our share of that land and money to buy us a fine home in hartley, and fix me up the kind of an office i should have. we'll borrow a rig and drive over to-morrow and fix things solid with the old folks. you bet i'm a star-spangled old persuader, look what i did with you--" "you stop!" cried kate, breaking from his hold. "you will drive me crazy! you're talking as if you married me expecting land and money from it. i haven't been home in a year, and my father would deliberately kill me if i went within his reach." "well, score one for little old scratchin', pickin', mammy!" he cried. "she said you had a secret!" kate stood very still, looking at him so intently that a sense of shame must have stirred in his breast. "look here, kate," he said, roughly. "mother did say you had a secret, and she hinted at christmas that the reason you didn't go home was because your folks were at outs with you, and you can ask her if i didn't tell her to shut up and leave you alone, that i was in love with you, and i'd marry you and we'd get along all right, even if you were barred from home, and didn't get a penny. i just dare you to ask her." "it's no matter," said kate, wearily. "i'd rather take your word." "all right, you take it, for that's the truth," he said. "but what was the rumpus? how did you come to have a racket with your old man?" "over my wanting to teach," said kate. then she explained in detail. "pother! don't you fret about that!" said george. "i'm taking care of you now, and i'll see that you soon get home and to grays', too; that's all buncombe. as for your share of your father's estate, you watch me get it! you are his child, and there is law!" "there's law that allows him to deed his land to his sons before he dies, and that is exactly what he has done," said kate. "the devil, you say!" shouted george holt, stepping back to stare at her. "you tell that at the insane asylum or the feeble minded home! i've seen the records! i know to the acre how much land stands in your father's name. don't try to work that on me, my lady." "i am not trying to work anything on you," said kate, dully, wondering to herself why she listened, why she went on with it. "i'm merely telling you. in father's big chest at the head of his bed at home lies a deed for two hundred acres of land for each of his seven sons, all signed and ready to deliver. he keeps the land in his name on record to bring him distinction and feed his vanity. he makes the boys pay the taxes, and ko-tow, and help with his work; he keeps them under control; but the land is theirs; none of the girls get a penny's worth of it!" george holt cleared his face with an effort. "well, we are no worse off than the rest of them, then," he said, trying to speak naturally and cheerfully. "but don't you ever believe it! little old georgie will sleep with this in his night cap awhile, and it's a problem he will solve if he works himself to death on it." "but that is father's affair," said kate. "you had best turn your efforts, and lie awake nights thinking how to make enough money to buy some land for us, yourself." "certainly! certainly! i see myself doing it!" laughed george holt. "and now, knowing how you feel, and feeling none to good myself, we are going to take a few days off and go upstream, fishing. i'll take a pack of comforts to sleep on, and the tackle and some food, and we will forget the whole bunch and go have a good time. there's a place, not so far away, where i have camped beside a spring since i was a little shaver, and it's quiet and cool. go get what you can't possibly exist without, nothing more." "but we must dig the potatoes," protested kate. "let them wait until we get back; it's a trifle early, anyway," he said. "stop objecting and get ready! i'll tell aunt ollie. we're chums. whatever i do is always all right with her. come on! this is our wedding trip. not much like the one you had planned, no doubt, but one of some kind." so they slipped beneath the tangle of vines and bushes, and, following the stream of the ravine, they walked until mid-afternoon, when they reached a spot that was very lovely, a clear, clean spring, grassy bank, a sheltered cave-in floored with clean sand, warm and golden. from the depths of the cave george brought an old frying pan and coffee pot. he spread a comfort on the sand of the cave for a bed, produced coffee, steak, bread, butter, and fruit from his load, and told kate to make herself comfortable while he got dinner. they each tried to make allowances for, and to be as decent as possible with, the other, with the result that before they knew it, they were having a good time; at least, they were keeping the irritating things they thought to themselves, and saying only the pleasant ones. after a week, which george enjoyed to the fullest extent, while kate made the best of everything, they put away the coffee pot and frying pan, folded the comforts, and went back to aunt ollie's for dinner; then to walden in the afternoon. because mrs. holt knew they would be there that day she had the house clean and the best supper she could prepare ready for them. she was in a quandary as to how to begin with kate. she heartily hated her. she had been sure the girl had a secret, now she knew it; for if she did not attend the wedding of her sister, if she had not been at home all summer, if her father and mother never mentioned her name or made any answer to any one who did, there was a reason, and a good reason. of course a man as rich as adam bates could do no wrong; whatever the trouble was, kate was at fault, she had done some terrible thing. "hidin' in the bushes!" spat mrs. holt. "hidin' in the bushes! marry a man who didn't know he was goin' to be married an hour before, unbeknownst to her folks, an' wouldn't even come in the house, an' have a few of the neighbours in. nice doin's for the school-ma'am! nice prospect for george." mrs. holt hissed like a copperhead, which was a harmless little creature compared with her, as she scraped, and slashed, and dismembered the chicken she was preparing to fry. she had not been able, even by running into each store in the village, and the post office, to find one person who would say a word against kate. the girl had laid her foundations too well. the one thing people could and did say was: "how could she marry george holt?" the worst of them could not very well say it to his mother. they said it frequently to each other and then supplied the true answers. "look how he spruced up after she came!" "look how he worked!" "look how he ran after and waited on her!" "look how nice he has been all summer!" plenty was being said in walden, but not one word of it was for the itching ears of mrs. holt. they had told her how splendid kate was, how they loved her, how glad they were that she was to have the school again, how fortunate her son was, how proud she should be, until she was almost bursting with repressed venom. she met them at the gate, after their week's camping. they were feeling in splendid health, the best spirits possible in the circumstances, but appearing dirty and disreputable. they were both laughing as they approached the gate. "purty lookin' bride you be!" mrs. holt spat at kate. "yes, aren't i?" laughed kate. "but you just give me a tub of hot soapsuds and an hour, and you won't know me. how are you? things look as if you were expecting us." "hump!" said mrs. holt. kate laughed and went into the house. george stepped in front of his mother. "now you look here," he said. "i know every nasty thing your mind has conjured up that you'd like to say, and have other folks say, about kate. and i know as well as if you were honest enough to tell me, that you haven't been able to root out one living soul who would say a single word against her. swallow your secret! swallow your suspicions! swallow your venom, and forget all of them. kate is as fine a woman as god ever made, and anybody who has common sense knows it. she can just make me, if she wants to, and she will; she's coming on fine, much faster and better than i hoped for. now you drop this! stop it! do you hear?" he passed her and hurried up the walk. in an hour, both george and kate had bathed and dressed in their very best. kate put on her prettiest white dress and george his graduation suit. then together they walked to the post office for their mail, which george had ordered held, before they left. carrying the bundle, they entered several stores on trifling errands, and then went home. they stopped and spoke to everyone. kate kissed all her little pupils she met, and told them to come to see her, and to be ready to help clean the schoolhouse in the morning. word flew over town swiftly. the teacher was back, wearing the loveliest dress, and nicer than ever, and she had invited folks to come to see her. kate and george had scarcely finished their supper, when the first pair of shy little girls came for their kisses and to bring "teacher" a bunch of flowers and a pretty pocket handkerchief from each. they came in flocks, each with flowers, most with a towel or some small remembrance; then the elders began to come, merchants with comforts, blankets, and towels, hardware men with frying pans, flat irons, and tinware. by ten o'clock almost everyone in walden had carried kate some small gift, wished her joy all the more earnestly, because they felt the chances of her ever having it were so small, and had gone their way, leaving her feeling better than she had thought possible. she slipped into her room alone and read two letters, one a few typewritten lines from john jardine, saying he had been at hartley, also at walden, and having found her married and gone, there was nothing for him to do but wish that the man she married had it in his heart to guard her life and happiness as he would have done. he would never cease to love her, and if at any time in her life there was anything he could do for her, would she please let him know. kate dropped the letter on her dresser, with a purpose, and let it lie there. the other was from robert. he said he was very sorry, but he could do nothing with nancy ellen at present. he hoped she would change later. if there was ever anything he could do, to let him know. kate locked that letter in her trunk. she wondered as she did so why both of them seemed to think she would need them in the future. she felt perfectly able to take care of herself. monday morning george carried kate's books to school for her, saw that she was started on her work in good shape, then went home, put on his old clothes, and began the fall work at aunt ollie's. kate, wearing her prettiest blue dress, forgot even the dull ache in her heart, as she threw herself into the business of educating those young people. she worked as she never had before. she seemed to have developed fresh patience, new perception, keener penetration; she made the dullest of them see her points, and interested the most inattentive. she went home to dinner feeling better. she decided to keep on teaching a few years until george was well started in his practice; if he ever got started. he was very slow in action it seemed to her, compared with his enthusiasm when he talked. chapter xiv starting married life for two weeks kate threw herself into the business of teaching with all her power. she succeeded in so interesting herself and her pupils that she was convinced she had done a wise thing. marriage did not interfere with her teaching; she felt capable and independent so long as she had her salary. george was working and working diligently, to prepare for winter, whenever she was present or could see results. with her first month's salary she would buy herself a warm coat, a wool suit, an extra skirt for school, and some waists. if there was enough left, she would have another real hat. then for the remainder of the year she would spend only for the barest necessities and save to help toward a home something like nancy ellen's. whenever she thought of nancy ellen and robert there was a choking sensation in her throat, a dull ache where she had been taught her heart was located. for two weeks everything went as well as kate hoped: then mrs. holt began to show the results of having been partially bottled up, for the first time in her life. she was careful to keep to generalities which she could claim meant nothing, if anything she said was taken up by either george or kate. george was too lazy to quarrel unless he was personally angered; kate thought best to ignore anything that did not come in the nature of a direct attack. so long as mrs. holt could not understand how some folks could see their way to live off of other folks, or why a girl who had a chance to marry a fortune would make herself a burden to a poor man, kate made the mistake of ignoring her. thus emboldened she soon became personal. it seemed as if she spent her spare time and mental force thinking up suggestive, sarcastic things to say, where kate could not help hearing them. she paid no attention unless the attack was too mean and premeditated; but to her surprise she found that every ugly, malicious word the old woman said lodged in her brain and arose to confront her at the most inopportune times--in the middle of a recitation or when she roused enough to turn over in her bed at night. the more vigorously she threw herself into her school work, the more she realized a queer lassitude, creeping over her. she kept squaring her shoulders, lifting her chin, and brushing imaginary cobwebs from before her face. the final friday evening of the month, she stopped at the post office and carried away with her the bill for her leghorn hat, mailed with nicely conceived estimate as to when her first check would be due. kate visited the trustee, and smiled grimly as she slipped the amount in an envelope and gave it to the hack driver to carry to hartley on his trip the following day. she had intended all fall to go with him and select a winter headpiece that would be no discredit to her summer choice, but a sort of numbness was in her bones; so she decided to wait until the coming week before going. she declined george's pressing invitation to go along to aunt ollie's and help load and bring home a part of his share of their summer's crops, on the ground that she had some work to prepare for the coming week. then kate went to her room feeling faint and heavy. she lay there most of the day, becoming sorrier for herself, and heavier every passing hour. by morning she was violently ill; when she tried to leave her bed, dizzy and faint. all day she could not stand. toward evening, she appealed to george either to do something for her himself, or to send for the village doctor. he asked her a few questions and then, laughing coarsely, told her that a doctor would do her no good, and that it was very probable that she would feel far worse before she felt better. kate stared at him in dumb wonder. "but my school!" she cried. "my school! i must be able to go to school in the morning. could that spring water have been infected with typhus? i've never been sick like this before." "i should hope not!" said george. and then he told her bluntly what caused her trouble. kate had been white to begin with, now she slowly turned greenish as she gazed at him with incredulous eyes. then she sprang to her feet. "but i can't be ill!" she cried. "i can't! there is my school! i've got to teach! oh, what shall i do?" george had a very clear conception of what she could do, but he did not intend to suggest it to her. she could think of it, and propose it herself. she could not think of anything at that minute, because she fainted, and fell half on the bed, half in his arms as he sprang to her. he laid her down, and stood a second smiling triumphantly at her unheeding face. "easy snap for you this winter, georgie, my boy!" he muttered. "i don't see people falling over each other to get to you for professional services, and it's hard work anyway. zonoletics are away above the head of these country ignoramuses; blue mass and quinine are about their limit." he took his time to bathe kate's face. presently she sat up, then fell on the pillow again. "better not try that!" warned george. "you'll hurt yourself, and you can't make it. you're out of the game; you might as well get used to it." "i won't be out of the game!" cried kate. "i can't be! what will become of my school? oh, george, could you possibly teach for me, only for a few days, until i get my stomach settled?" "why, i'd like to help you," he said, "but you see how it is with me. i've got my fall work finished up, and i'm getting ready to open my office next week. i'm going to rent that nice front room over the post office." "but, george, you must," said kate. "you've taught several terms. you've a license. you can take it until this passes. if you have waited from june to october to open your office, you can wait a few more days. suppose you open the office and patients don't come, or we haven't the school; what would we live on? what would i buy things with, and pay doctor bills?" "why didn't you think of that before you got married? what was your rush, anyway? i can't figure it to save my soul," he said. "george, the school can't go," she cried. "if what you say is true, and i suspect it is, i must have money to see me through." "then set your wits to work and fix things up with your father," he said casually. kate arose tall and straight, standing unwaveringly as she looked at him in blazing contempt. "so?" she said. "this is the kind of man you are? i'm not so helpless as you think me. i have a refuge. i know where to find it. you'll teach my school until i'm able to take it myself, if the trustee and patrons will allow you, or i'll sever my relations with you as quickly as i formed them. you have no practice; i have grave doubts if you can get any; this is our only chance for the money we must have this winter. go ask the trustee to come here until i can make arrangements with him." then she wavered and rolled on the bed again. george stood looking at her between narrowed eyelids. "tactics i use with mother don't go with you, old girl," he said to himself. "thing of fire and tow, stubborn as an ox; won't be pushed a hair's breadth; old bates over again--alike as two peas. but i'll break you, damn you, i'll break you; only, i want that school. lots easier than kneading somebody's old stiff muscles, while the money is sure. oh, i go after the trustee, all right!" he revived kate, and telling her to keep quiet, and not excite herself, he explained that it was a terrible sacrifice to him to put off opening his office any longer; she must forgive him for losing self-control when he thought of it; but for her dear sake he would teach until she was better--possibly she would be all right in a few days, and then she could take her work again. because she so devoutly hoped it, kate made that arrangement with the trustee. monday, she lay half starved, yet gagging and ill, while george went to teach her school. as she contemplated that, she grew sicker than she had been before. when she suddenly marshalled all the facts she knew of him, she stoutly refused to think of what nancy ellen had said; when she reviewed his character and disposition, and thought of him taking charge of the minds of her pupils, kate suddenly felt she must not allow that to happen, she must not! then came another thought, even more personal and terrible, a thought so disconcerting she mercifully lost consciousness again. she sent for the village doctor, and found no consolation from her talk with him. she was out of the school; that was settled. no harpy ever went to its meat with one half the zest mrs. holt found in the situation. with kate so ill she could not stand on her feet half the time, so ill she could not reply, with no spirit left to appeal to george, what more could be asked? mrs. holt could add to every grievance she formerly had, that of a sick woman in the house for her to wait on. she could even make vile insinuations to kate, prostrate and helpless, that she would not have dared otherwise. she could prepare food that with a touch of salt or sugar where it was not supposed to be, would have sickened a well person. one day george came in from school and saw a bowl of broth sitting on a chair beside kate's bed. "can't you drink it?" he asked. "do, if you possibly can," he urged. "you'll get so weak you'll be helpless." "i just can't," said kate. "things have such a sickening, sweetish taste, or they are bitter, or sour; not a thing is as it used to be. i simply can't!" a curious look crept over george's face. he picked up the bowl and tasted the contents. instantly his face went black; he started toward the kitchen. kate heard part of what happened, but she never lifted her head. after a while he came back with more broth and a plate of delicate toast. "try this," he said. "i made it myself." kate ate ravenously. "that's good!" she cried. "i'll tell you what i'm going to do," he said. "i'm going to take you out to aunt ollie's for a week after school to-night. want to go?" "yes! oh, yes!" cried kate. "all right," he said. "i know where i can borrow a rig for an hour. get ready if you are well enough, if you are not, i'll help you after school." that week with aunt ollie remained a bright spot in kate's memory. the october days were beginning to be crisp and cool. food was different. she could sleep, she could eat many things aunt ollie knew to prepare especially; soon she could walk and be outdoors. she was so much better she wrote george a note, asking him to walk out and bring her sewing basket, and some goods she listed, and in the afternoons the two women cut and sewed quaint, enticing little garments. george found kate so much better when he came that he proposed she remain another week. then for the first time he talked to her about her theory of government and teaching, until she realized that the school director had told him he was dissatisfied with him--so george was trying to learn her ways. appalled at what might happen if he lost the school, kate made notes, talked at length, begged him to do his best, and to come at once if anything went wrong. he did come, and brought the school books so she went over the lessons with him, and made marginal notes of things suggested to her mind by the text, for him to discuss and elucidate. the next time he came, he was in such good spirits she knew his work had been praised, so after that they went over the lessons together each evening. thinking of what would help him also helped fill her day. he took her home, greatly improved, in much better spirits, to her room, cleaned and ready for winter, with all of her things possible to use in place, so that it was much changed, prettier, and more convenient. as they drove in she said of him: "george, what about it? did your mother purposely fix my food so i could not eat it?" "oh, i wouldn't say that," he said. "you know neither of you is violently attached to the other. she'll be more careful after this, i'm sure she will." "why, have you been sick?" asked kate as soon as she saw mrs. holt. she seemed so nervous and appeared so badly kate was sorry for her; but she could not help noticing how she kept watch on her son. she seemed to keep the width of the room and a piece of furniture between them, while her cooking was so different that it was not in the least necessary for george to fix things for kate himself, as he had suggested. everything was so improved, kate felt better. she began to sew, to read, to sit for long periods in profound thought, then to take walks that brought back her strength and colour. so through the winter and toward the approach of spring they lived in greater comfort. with kate's help, george was doing so well with the school that he was frequently complimented by the parents. that he was trying to do good work and win the approval of both pupils and parents was evident to kate. once he said to her that he wondered if it would be a good thing for him to put in an application for the school the coming winter. kate stared at him in surprise: "but your profession," she objected. "you should be in your office and having enough practice to support us by then." "yes, i should!" he said. "but this is a new thing, and you know how these clodhoppers are." "if i came as near living in the country, and worked at farming as much as you do, that's the last thing i would call any human being," said kate. "i certainly do know how they are, and what i know convinces me that you need not look to them for any patients." "you seem to think i won't have any from any source," he said hotly. "i confess myself dubious," said kate. "you certainly are, or you wouldn't be talking of teaching." "well, i'll just show you!" he cried. "i'm waiting," said kate. "but as we must live in the meantime, and it will be so long before i can earn anything again, and so much expense, possibly it would be a good idea to have the school to fall back on, if you shouldn't have the patients you hope for this summer. i think you have done well with the school. do your level best until the term closes, and you may have a chance." laughing scornfully, he repeated his old boast: "i'll just show you!" "go ahead," said kate. "and while you are at it, be generous. show me plenty. but in the meantime, save every penny you can, so you'll be ready to pay the doctor's bills and furnish your office." "i love you advice; it's so batesy," he said. "i have money saved for both contingencies you mention, but i'll tell you what i think, and about this i'm the one who knows. i've told you repeatedly winter is my best time. i've lost the winter trying to help you out; and i've little chance until winter comes again. it takes cold weather to make folks feel what ails their muscles, and my treatment is mostly muscular. to save so we can get a real start, wouldn't it be a good idea for you to put part of your things in my room, take what you must have, and fix mother's bedroom for you, let her move her bed into her living room, and spare me all you can of your things to fix up your room for my office this summer. that would save rent, it's only a few steps from downtown, and when i wasn't busy with patients, i could be handy to the garden, and to help you." "if your mother is willing, i'll do my share," said kate, "although the room's cramped, and where i'll put the small party when he comes i don't know, but i'll manage someway. the big objection to it is that it will make it look to people as if it were a makeshift, instead of starting a real business." "real," was the wrong word. it was the red rag that started george raging, until to save her self-respect, kate left the room. later in the day he announced that his mother was willing, she would clean the living room and move in that day. how kate hated the tiny room with its one exterior wall, only one small window, its scratched woodwork, and soiled paper, she could not say. she felt physically ill when she thought of it, and when she thought of the heat of the coming summer, she wondered what she would do; but all she could do was to acquiesce. she made a trip downtown and bought a quart of white paint and a few rolls of dainty, fresh paper. she made herself ill with turpentine odours in giving the woodwork three coats, and fell from a table almost killing herself while papering the ceiling. there was no room for her trunk; the closet would not hold half her clothes; her only easy chair was crowded out; she was sheared of personal comfort at a clip, just at a time when every comfort should have been hers. george ordered an operating table, on which to massage his patients, a few other necessities, and in high spirits, went about fixing up his office and finishing his school. he spent hours in the woodshed with the remainder of kate's white paint, making a sign to hang in front of the house. he was so pathetically anxious for a patient, after he had put his table in place, hung up his sign, and paid for an announcement in the county paper and the little walden sheet, that kate was sorry for him. on a hot july morning mrs. holt was sweeping the front porch when a forlorn specimen of humanity came shuffling up the front walk and asked to see dr. holt. mrs. holt took him into the office and ran to the garden to tell george his first patient had come. his face had been flushed from pulling weeds, but it paled perceptibly as he started to the back porch to wash his hands. "do you know who it is, mother?" he asked. "it's that old peter mines," she said, "an' he looks fit to drop." "peter mines!" said george. "he's had about fifty things the matter with him for about fifty years." "then you're a made man if you can even make him think he feels enough better so's he'll go round talking about it," said mrs. holt, shrewdly. george stood with his hands dripping water an instant, thinking deeply. "well said for once, old lady," he agreed. "you are just exactly right." he hurried to his room, and put on his coat. "a patient that will be a big boom for me," he boasted to kate as he went down the hall. mrs. holt stood listening at the hall door. kate walked around the dining room, trying to occupy herself. presently cringing groans began to come from the room, mingling with george's deep voice explaining, and trying to encourage the man. then came a wild shriek and then silence. kate hurried out to the back walk and began pacing up and down in the sunshine. she did not know it, but she was praying. a minute later george's pallid face appeared at the back door: "you come in here quick and help me," he demanded. "what's the matter?" asked kate. "he's fainted. his heart, i think. he's got everything that ever ailed a man!" he said. "oh, george, you shouldn't have touched him," said kate. "can't you see it will make me, if i can help him! even mother could see that," he cried. "but if his heart is bad, the risk of massaging him is awful," said kate as she hurried after george. kate looked at the man on the table, ran her hand over the heart region, and lifted terrified eyes to george. "do you think--?" he stammered. "sure of it!" she said, "but we can try. bring your camphor bottle, and some water," she cried to mrs. holt. for a few minutes, they worked frantically. then kate stepped back. "i'm scared, and i don't care who knows it," she said. "i'm going after dr. james." "no, you are not!" cried george. "you just hold yourself. i'll have him out in a minute. begin at his feet and rub the blood up to his heart." "they are swollen to a puff, he's got no circulation," said kate. "oh, george, how could you ever hope to do anything for a man in this shape, with muscular treatment?" "you keep still and rub, for god's sake," he cried, frantically. "can't you see that i am ruined if he dies on this table?" "no, i can't," said kate. "everybody would know that he was practically dying when he came here. nobody will blame you, only, you never should have touched him! george, i am going after dr. james." "well, go then," he said wildly. kate started. mrs. holt blocked the doorway. "you just stop, missy!" she cried. "you're away too smart, trying to get folks in here, and ruin my george's chances. you just stay where you are till i think what to do, to put the best face on this!" "he may not be really gone! the doctor might save him!" cried kate. mrs. holt looked long at the man. "he's deader 'an a doornail," she said. "you stay where you are!" kate picked her up by the shoulders, set her to one side, ran from the room and down the street as fast as possible. she found the doctor in his office with two patients. she had no time to think or temporize. "get your case and come to our house quick, doctor," she cried. "an old man they call peter mines came to see george, and his heart has failed. please hurry!" "heart, eh?" said the doctor. "well, wait a minute. no use to go about a bad heart without digitalis." he got up and put on his hat, told the men he would be back soon, and went to the nearest drug store. kate followed. the men who had been in the office came also. "doctor, hurry!" she panted. "i'm so frightened." "you go to some of the neighbours, and stay away from there," he said. "hurry!" begged kate. "oh, do hurry!" she was beside him as they sped down the street, and at his shoulder as they entered the room. with one glance she lurched against the casing and then she plunged down the hall, entered her room, closed the door behind her, and threw herself on the bed. she had only a glance, but in that glance she had seen peter mines sitting fully clothed, his hat on his head, his stick in his hands, in her easy chair; the operating table folded and standing against the wall; mrs. holt holding the camphor bottle to peter's nose, while george had one hand over peter's heart, the other steadying his head. the doctor swung the table in place, and with george's help laid peter on it, then began tearing open his clothes. as they worked the two men followed into the house to see if they could do anything and excited neighbours began to gather. george and his mother explained how peter had exhausted himself walking two miles from the country that hot morning, how he had entered the office, tottering with fatigue, and had fallen in the chair in a fainting condition. everything was plausible until a neighbour woman, eager to be the centre of attention for a second, cried: "yes, we all see him come more'n an hour ago; and when he begin to let out the yells we says to each other, 'there! george has got his first patient, sure!' an' we all kind of waited to see if he'd come out better." the doctor looked at her sharply: "more than an hour ago?" he said. "you heard cries?" "yes, more'n a good hour ago. yes, we all heard him yell, jist once, good and loud!" she said. the doctor turned to george. before he could speak his mother intervened. "that was our kate done the yellin'," she said. "she was scart crazy from the start. he jest come in, and set in the chair and he's been there ever since." "you didn't give him any treatment, holt?" asked the doctor. again mrs. holt answered: "never touched him! hadn't even got time to get his table open. wa'n't nothing he could 'a' done for him anyway. peter was good as gone when he got here. his fool folks never ought 'a' let him out this hot day, sick as he was." the doctor looked at george, at his mother, long at peter. "he surely was too sick to walk that far in this heat," he said. "but to make sure, i'll look him over. george, you help me. clear the room of all but these two men." he began minutely examining peter's heart region. then he rolled him over and started to compress his lungs. long white streaks marked the puffy red of the swollen, dropsical flesh. the doctor examined the length of the body, and looked straight into george holt's eyes. "no use," he said. "bill, go to the 'phone in my office, and tell coroner smith to get here from hartley as soon as he can. all that's left to do here is to obey the law, and have a funeral. better some of the rest of you go tell his folks. i've done all i can do. it's up to the coroner now. the rest of you go home, and keep still till he comes." when he and george were left alone he said tersely: "of course you and your mother are lying. you had this man stripped, he did cry out, and he did die from the pain of the treatment you tried to give him, in his condition. by the way, where's your wife? this is a bad thing for her right now. come, let's find her and see what state she is in." together they left the room and entered kate's door. as soon as the doctor was busy with her, george slipped back into the closed room, rolled peter on his back and covered him, in the hope that the blood would settle until it would efface the marks of his work before the coroner arrived. by that time the doctor was too busy to care much what happened to peter mines; he was a poor old soul better off as he was. across kate's unconscious body he said to george holt: "i'm going to let the coroner make what he pleases out of this, solely for your wife's sake. but two things: take down that shingle. take it down now, and never put it up again if you want me to keep still. i'll give you what you paid for that table. it's a good one. get him out as soon as you can. set him in another room. i've got to have mrs. holt where i can work. and send sarah nepple here to help me. move fast! this is going to be a close call. and the other thing: i've heard you put in an application for our school this winter. withdraw it! now move!" so they set peter in the living room, cleaned kate's room quickly, and moved in her bed. by the time the coroner arrived, the doctor was too busy to care what happened. on oath he said a few words that he hoped would make life easier for kate, and at the same time pass muster for truth; told the coroner what witnesses to call; and gave an opinion as to peter's condition. he also added that he was sure peter's family would be very glad he was to suffer no more, and then he went back to kate who was suffering entirely too much for safety. then began a long vigil that ended at midnight with kate barely alive and sarah nepple, the walden mid-wife, trying to divide a scanty wardrobe between a pair of lusty twins. chapter xv a new idea kate slowly came back to consciousness. she was conscious of her body, sore from head to foot, with plenty of pain in definite spots. her first clear thought was that she was such a big woman; it seemed to her that she filled the room, when she was one bruised ache from head to heels. then she became conscious of a moving bundle on the bed beside her, and laid her hand on it to reassure herself. the size and shape of the bundle were not reassuring. "oh, lord!" groaned kate. "haven't you any mercy at all? it was your advice i followed when i took wing and started out in life." a big sob arose in her throat, while at the same time she began to laugh weakly. dr. james heard her from the hall and entered hastily. at the sight of him, kate's eyes filled with terrified remembrance. her glance swept the room, and rested on her rocking chair. "take that out of here!" she cried. "take it out, split it into kindling wood, and burn it." "all right," said dr. james calmly. "i'll guarantee that you never see it again. is there anything else you want?" "you--you didn't--?" the doctor shook his head. "very sorry," he said, "but there wasn't a thing could be done." "where is he?" she asked in a whisper. "his people took him home immediately after the coroner's inquest, which found that he died from heart failure, brought on by his long walk in the heat." kate stared at him with a face pitiful to behold. "you let him think that?" she whispered again. "i did," said the old doctor. "i thought, and still think, that for the sake of you and yours," he waved toward the bundle, "it was the only course to pursue." "thank you," said kate. "you're very kind. but don't you think that i and mine are going to take a lot of shielding? the next man may not be so kindly disposed. besides, is it right? is it honest?" "it is for you," said the doctor. "you had nothing to do with it. if you had, things would not have gone as they did. as for me, i feel perfectly comfortable about it in my conscience, which is my best guide. all i had to do was to let them tell their story. i perjured myself only to the extent of testifying that you knew nothing about it. the coroner could well believe that. george and his mother could easily manage the remainder." kate waved toward the bundle: "am i supposed to welcome and love them?" "a poet might expect you to," said the doctor. "in the circumstances, i do not. i shall feel that you have done your whole duty if you will try to nurse them when the time comes. you must have a long rest, and they must grow some before you'll discover what they mean to you. there's always as much chance that they'll resemble your people as that they will not. the boy will have dark hair and eyes i think, but he looks exactly like you. the girl is more holt." "where is george?" she asked. "he was completely upset," said the doctor. "i suggested that he go somewhere to rest up a few days, so he took his tackle and went fishing, and to the farm." "shouldn't he have stayed and faced it?" asked kate. "there was nothing for him to face, except himself, kate," said the doctor. kate shook her head. she looked ghastly ill. "doctor," she said, "couldn't you have let me die?" "and left your son and your little daughter to them?" he asked. "no, kate, i couldn't have let you die; because you've your work in the world under your hand right now." he said that because when he said "left your son and your little daughter to them," kate had reached over and laid her hand possessively, defensively, on the little, squirming bundle, which was all dr. james asked of her. presently she looked the doctor straight in the face. "exactly what do you know?" she asked. "everything," said the doctor. "and you?" "everything," said kate. there was a long silence. then kate spoke slowly: "that george didn't know that he shouldn't have touched that man, proves him completely incompetent," she said. "that he did, and didn't have the courage to face the results, proves him lacking in principle. he's not fit for either work to which he aspires." "you are talking too much," said the doctor. "nurse nepple is in charge here, and aunt ollie. george's mother went to the farm to cook for him. you're in the hands of two fine women, who will make you comfortable. you have escaped lasting disgrace with your skirts clear, now rest and be thankful." "i can't rest until i know one thing," said kate. "you're not going to allow george to kill any one else?" "no," said the doctor. "i regretted telling him very much; but i had to tell him that could not happen." "and about the school?" she asked. "i half thought he might get it." "he won't!" said the doctor. "i'm in a position to know that. now try to take some rest." kate waved toward the babies: "will you please take them away until they need me?" she asked. "of course," said the doctor. "but don't you want to see them, kate? there isn't a mark or blemish on either of them. the boy weighs seven pounds and the girl six; they seem as perfect as children can be." "you needn't worry about that," said kate. "twins are a bates habit. my mother had three pairs, always a boy and a girl, always big and sound as any children; mine will be all right, too." the doctor started to turn back the blanket. kate turned her head away: "don't you think i have had about enough at present?" she asked. "i'd stake my life that as a little further piece of my punishment, the girl looks exactly like mrs. holt." "by jove," said the doctor, "i couldn't just think who it was." he carried the babies from the room, lowered the blinds, and kate tried to sleep, and did sleep, because she was so exhausted she could not keep awake. later in the evening aunt ollie slipped in, and said george was in the woodhouse, almost crying himself to death, and begging to see her. "you tell him i'm too sick to be seen for at least a week," said kate. "but, my dear, he's so broken up; he feels so badly," begged aunt ollie. "so do i," said kate. "i feel entirely too badly to be worried over seeing him. i must take the babies now." "i do wish you would!" persisted aunt ollie. "well, i won't," said kate. "i don't care if i never see him again. he knows why he is crying; ask him." "i'll wager they ain't a word of truth in that tale they're telling," she said. kate looked straight at her: "well, for their sakes and my sake, and the babies' sake, don't talk about it." "you poor thing!" said aunt ollie, "i'll do anything in the world to help you. if ever you need me, just call on me. i'll go start him back in a hurry." he came every night, but kate steadily refused, until she felt able to sit up in a chair, to see him, or his mother when she came to see the babies. she had recovered rapidly, was over the painful part of nursing the babies, and had a long talk with aunt ollie, before she consented to see george. at times she thought she never could see him again; at others, she realized her helplessness. she had her babies to nurse for a year; there was nothing she could think of she knew to do, that she could do, and take proper care of two children. she was tied "hand and foot," as aunt ollie said. and yet it was aunt ollie who solved her problem for her. sitting beside the bed one day she said to kate: "my dear, do you know that i'm having a mighty good time? i guess i was lonesomer than i thought out there all alone so much, and the work was nigh to breaking me during the long, cold winter. i got a big notion to propose somepin' to you that might be a comfort to all of us." "propose away," said kate. "i'm at my wit's end." "well, what would you think of you and george taking the land, working it on the shares, and letting me have this room, an' live in walden, awhile?" kate sat straight up in bed: "oh, aunt ollie! would you?" she cried. "would you? that would be a mercy to me; it would give george every chance to go straight, if there is a straight impulse in him." "yes, i will," said aunt ollie, "and you needn't feel that i am getting the little end of the bargain, either. the only unpleasant thing about it will be my sister, and i'll undertake to manage her. i read a lot, an' i can always come to see you when mortal sperrits will bear her no more. she'll be no such trial to me, as she is to you." "you're an angel," said kate. "you've given me hope where i had not a glimmer. if i have george out there alone, away from his mother, i can bring out all the good there is in him, and we can get some results out of life, or i can assure myself that it is impossible, so that i can quit with a clear conscience. i do thank you." "all right, then, i'll go out and begin packing my things, and see about moving this afternoon. i'll leave my stoves, and beds, and tables, and chairs for you; you can use your wedding things, and be downright comfortable. i'll like living in town a spell real well." so once more kate saw hope a beckoning star in the distance, and ruffled the wings of the spirit preparatory to another flight: only a short, humble flight this time, close earth; but still as full of promise as life seemed to hold in any direction for her. she greeted george casually, and as if nothing had happened, when she was ready to see him. "you're at the place where words are not of the slightest use to me," she said. "i'm giving you one, and a final chance to act. this seems all that is open to us. go to work like a man, and we will see what we can make of our last chance." kate was so glad when she sat in the carriage that was to take her from the house and the woman she abominated that she could scarcely behave properly. she clasped adam tightly in her arms, and felt truly his mother. she reached over and tucked the blanket closer over polly, but she did not carry her, because she resembled her grandmother, while adam was a bates. george drove carefully. he was on behaviour too good to last, but fortunately both women with him knew him well enough not to expect that it would. when they came in sight of the house, kate could see that the grass beside the road had been cut, the trees trimmed, and oh, joy, the house freshly painted a soft, creamy white she liked, with a green roof. aunt ollie explained that she furnished the paint and george did the work. he had swung oblong clothes baskets from the ceiling of a big, cheery, old-fashioned bedroom for a cradle for each baby, and established himself in a small back room adjoining the kitchen. kate said nothing about the arrangement, because she supposed it had been made to give her more room, and that george might sleep in peace, while she wrestled with two tiny babies. there was no doubt about the wrestling. the babies seemed of nervous temperament, sleeping in short naps and lightly. kate was on her feet from the time she reached her new home, working when she should not have worked; so that the result developed cross babies, each attacked with the colic, which raged every night from six o'clock until twelve and after, both frequently shrieking at the same time. george did his share by going to town for a bottle of soothing syrup, which kate promptly threw in the creek. once he took adam and began walking the floor with him, extending his activities as far as the kitchen. in a few minutes he had the little fellow sound asleep and he did not waken until morning; then he seemed to droop and feel listless. when he took the baby the second time and made the same trip to the kitchen, kate laid polly on her bed and silently followed. she saw george lay the baby on the table, draw a flask from his pocket, pour a spoon partly full, filling it the remainder of the way from the teakettle. as he was putting the spoon to the baby's lips, kate stepped beside him and taking it, she tasted the contents. then she threw the spoon into the dishpan standing near and picked up the baby. "i knew it!" she said. "only i didn't know what. he acted like a drugged baby all last night and to-day. since when did you begin carrying that stuff around with you, and feeding it to tiny babies?" "it's a good thing. dr. james recommended it. he said it was harmful to let them strain themselves crying, and very hard on you. you could save yourself a lot," he urged. "i need saving all right," said kate, "but i haven't a picture of myself saving myself by drugging a pair of tiny babies." he slipped the bottle back in his pocket. kate stood looking at him so long and so intently, he flushed and set the flask on a shelf in the pantry. "it may come in handy some day when some of us have a cold," he said. kate did her best, but she was so weakened by nursing both of the babies, by loss of sleep, and overwork in the house, that she was no help whatever to george in getting in the fall crops and preparing for spring. she had lost none of her ambition, but there was a limit to her capacity. in the spring the babies were big and lusty, eating her up, and crying with hunger, until she was forced to resort to artificial feeding in part, which did not agree with either of them. as a saving of time and trouble she decided to nurse one and feed the other. it was without thought on her part, almost by chance, yet the chance was that she nursed adam and fed polly. then the babies began teething, so that she was rushed to find time to prepare three regular meals a day, and as for the garden and poultry she had planned, george did what he pleased about them, which was little, if anything. he would raise so much to keep from being hungry, he would grow so many roots, and so much cabbage for winter, he would tend enough corn for a team and to fatten pork; right there he stopped and went fishing, while the flask was in evidence on the pantry shelf only two days. kate talked crop rotation, new seed, fertilization, until she was weary; george heartily agreed with her, but put nothing of it all into practice. "as soon as the babies are old enough to be taken out," she said, "things will be better. i just can't do justice to them and my work, too. three pairs! my poor mother! and she's alive yet! i marvel at it." so they lived, and had enough to eat, and were clothed, but not one step did they advance toward kate's ideals of progression, economy, accumulation. george always had a little money, more than she could see how he got from the farming. there were a few calves and pigs to sell occasionally; she thought possibly he saved his share from them. for four years, kate struggled valiantly to keep pace with what her mother always had done, and had required of her at home; but she learned long before she quit struggling that farming with george was hopeless. so at last she became so discouraged she began to drift into his way of doing merely what would sustain them, and then reading, fishing, or sleeping the remainder of the time. she began teaching her children while very small, and daily they had their lessons after dinner, while their father slept. kate thought often of what was happening to her; she hated it, she fought it; but with george holt for a partner she could not escape it. she lay awake nights, planning ways to make a start toward prosperity; she propounded her ideas at breakfast. to save time in getting him early to work she began feeding the horses as soon as she was up, so that george could go to work immediately after breakfast; but she soon found she might as well save her strength. he would not start to harness until he had smoked, mostly three quarters of an hour. that his neighbours laughed at him and got ahead of him bothered him not at all. all they said and all kate said, went, as he expressed it, "in at one ear, out at the other." one day in going around the house kate was suddenly confronted by a thing she might have seen for three years, but had not noticed. leading from the path of bare, hard-beaten earth that ran around the house through the grass, was a small forking path not so wide and well defined, yet a path, leading to george's window. she stood staring at it a long time with a thoughtful expression on her face. that night she did not go to bed when she went to her room. instead she slipped out into the night and sitting under a sheltering bush she watched that window. it was only a short time until george crawled from it, went stealthily to the barn, and a few minutes later she saw him riding barebacked on one of the horses he had bridled, down the footpath beside the stream toward town. she got up and crossing the barnyard shut the gate after him, and closed the barn door. she went back to the house and closed his window and lighting a lamp set it on his dresser in front of his small clock. his door was open in the morning when she passed it on her way to the kitchen, so she got breakfast instead of feeding the horses. he came in slowly, furtively watching her. she worked as usual, saying no unpleasant word. at length he could endure it no longer. "kate," he said, "i broke a bolt in the plow yesterday, and i never thought of it until just as i was getting into bed, so to save time i rode in to walden and got another last night. ain't i a great old economist, though?" "you are a great something," she said. "'economist' would scarcely be my name for it. really, george, can't you do better than that?" "better than what?" he demanded. "better than telling such palpable lies," she said. "better than crawling out windows instead of using your doors like a man; better than being the most shiftless farmer of your neighbourhood in the daytime, because you have spend most of your nights, god and probably all walden know how. the flask and ready money i never could understand give me an inkling." "anything else?" he asked, sneeringly. "nothing at present," said kate placidly. "i probably could find plenty, if i spent even one night in walden when you thought i was asleep." "go if you like," he said. "if you think i'm going to stay here, working like a dog all day, year in and year out, to support a daughter of the richest man in the county and her kids, you fool yourself. if you want more than you got, call on your rich folks for it. if you want to go to town, either night or day, go for all i care. do what you damn please; that's what i am going to do in the future and i'm glad you know it. i'm tired climbing through windows and slinking like a dog. i'll come and go like other men after this." "i don't know what other men you are referring to," said kate. "you have a monopoly of your kind in this neighbourhood; there is none other like you. you crawl and slink as 'to the manner born.'" "don't you go too far," he menaced with an ugly leer. "keep that for your mother," laughed kate. "you need never try a threat with me. i am stronger than you are, and you may depend upon it i shall see that my strength never fails me again. i know now that you are all nancy ellen said you were." "well, if you married me knowing it, what are you going to do about it?" he sneered. "i didn't know it then. i thought i knew you. i thought she had been misinformed," said kate, in self-defence. "well," he said insultingly, "if you hadn't been in such a big hurry, you could soon have found out all you wanted to know. i took advantage of it, but i never did understand your rush." "you never will," said kate. then she arose and went to see if the children had wakened. all day she was thinking so deeply she would stumble over the chairs in her preoccupation. george noticed it, and it frightened him. after supper he came and sat on the porch beside her. "kate," he said, "as usual you are 'making mountains out of mole hills.' it doesn't damn a fellow forever to ride or walk, i almost always walk, into town in the evening, to see the papers and have a little visit with the boys. work all day in a field is mighty lonesome; a man has got the have a little change. i don't deny a glass of beer once in awhile, or a game of cards with the boys occasionally; but if you have lived with me over five years here, and never suspected it before, it can't be so desperately bad, can it? come now, be fair!" "it's no difference whether i am fair or unfair," kate said, wearily. "it explains why you simply will not brace up, and be a real man, and do a man's work in the world, and achieve a man's success." "who can get anywhere, splitting everything in halves?" he demanded. "the most successful men in this neighbourhood got their start exactly that way," she said. "ah, well, farming ain't my job, anyway," he said. "i always did hate it. i always will. if i could have a little capital to start with, i know a trick that would suit you, and make us independent in no time." kate said no word, and seeing she was not going to, he continued: "i've thought about this till i've got it all down fine, and it's a great scheme; you'll admit that, even angry as you are. it is this: get enough together to build a saw mill on my strip of ravine. a little damming would make a free water power worth a fortune. i could hire a good man to run the saw and do the work, and i could take a horse and ride, or drive around among the farmers i know, and buy up timber cheaper than most men could get it. i could just skin the eyes out of them." "did it ever occur to you that you could do better by being honest?" asked kate, wearily. "aw, well, smarty! you know i didn't mean that literally!" he scoffed. "you know i only meant i could talk, and jolly, and buy at bed-rock prices; i know where to get the timber, and the two best mill men in the country; we are near the railroad; it's the dandiest scheme that ever struck walden. what do you think about it?" "i think if adam had it he'd be rich from it in ten years," she said, quietly. "then you do think it's a bully idea," he cried. "you would try it if we had a chance?" "i might," said kate. "you know," he cried, jumping up in excitement, "i've never mentioned this to a soul, but i've got it all thought out. would you go to see your brother adam, and see if you could get him to take an interest for young adam? he could manage the money himself." "i wouldn't go to a relative of mine for a cent, even if the children were starving," said kate. "get, and keep, that clear in your head." "but you think there is something in it?" he persisted. "i know there is," said kate with finality. "in the hands of the right man, and with the capital to start." "kate, you can be the meanest," he said. "i didn't intend to be, in this particular instance," she said. "but honestly, george, what have i ever seen of you in the way of financial success in the past that would give me hope for the future?" "i know it," he said, "but i've never struck exactly the right thing. this is what i could make a success of, and i would make a good big one, you bet! kate, i'll not go to town another night. i'll stop all that." he drew the flask from his pocket and smashed it against the closest tree. "and i'll stop all there ever was of that, even to a glass of beer on a hot day; if you say so, if you'll stand by me this once more, if i fail this time, i'll never ask you again; honest, i won't." "if i had money, i'd try it, keeping the building in my own name and keeping the books myself; but i've none, and no way to get any, as you know," she said. "i can see what could be done, but i'm helpless." "i'm not!" said george. "i've got it all worked out. you see i was doing something useful with my head, if i wasn't always plowing as fast as you thought i should. if you'll back me, if you'll keep books, if you'll handle the money until she is paid back, i know aunt ollie will sell enough of this land to build the mill and buy the machinery. she could keep the house, and orchard, and barn, and a big enough piece, say forty acres, to live on and keep all of us in grub. she and mother could move out here--she said the other day she was tired of town and getting homesick--and we could go to town to put the children in school, and be on the job. i won't ever ask you and mother to live together again. kate, will you go in with me? will you talk to aunt ollie? will you let me show you, and explain, and prove to you?" "i won't be a party to anything that would even remotely threaten to lose aunt ollie's money for her," she said. "she's got nobody on earth but me. it's all mine in the end. why not let me have this wonderful chance with it? kate, will you?" he begged. "i'll think about it," she conceded. "if i can study out a sure, honourable way. i'll promise to think. now go out there, and hunt the last scrap of that glass; the children may cut their feet in the morning." then kate went in to bed. if she had looked from her window, she might have seen george scratching matches and picking pieces of glass from the grass. when he came to the bottom of the bottle with upstanding, jagged edges, containing a few drops, he glanced at her room, saw that she was undressing in the dark, and lifting it, he poured the liquid on his tongue to the last drop that would fall. chapter xvi the work of the sun before kate awakened the following morning george was out feeding the horses, cattle, and chickens, doing the milking, and working like the proverbial beaver. by the time breakfast was ready, he had convinced himself that he was a very exemplary man, while he expected kate to be convinced also. he stood ready and willing to forgive her for every mean deceit and secret sin he ever had committed, or had it in his heart to commit in the future. all the world was rosy with him, he was flying with the wings of hope straight toward a wonderful achievement that would bring pleasure and riches, first to george holt, then to his wife and children, then to the old aunt he really cared more for than any one else. incidentally, his mother might have some share, while he would bring such prosperity and activity to the village that all walden would forget every bad thing it had ever thought or known of him, and delight to pay him honour. kate might have guessed all this when she saw the pails full of milk on the table, and heard george whistling "hail the conquering hero comes," as he turned the cows into the pasture; but she had not slept well. most of the night she had lain staring at the ceiling, her brain busy with calculations, computations, most of all with personal values. she dared not be a party to anything that would lose aunt ollie her land; that was settled; but if she went into the venture herself, if she kept the deeds in aunt ollie's name, the bank account in hers, drew all the checks, kept the books, would it be safe? could george buy timber as he thought; could she, herself, if he failed? the children were old enough to be in school now, she could have much of the day, she could soon train polly and adam to do even more than sweep and run errands; the scheme could be materialized in the bates way, without a doubt; but could it be done in a bates way, hampered and impeded by george holt? was the plan feasible, after all? she entered into the rosy cloud enveloping the kitchen without ever catching the faintest gleam of its hue. george came to her the instant he saw her and tried to put his arm around her. kate drew back and looked at him intently. "aw, come on now, kate," he said. "leave out the heroics and be human. i'll do exactly as you say about everything if you will help me wheedle aunt ollie into letting me have the money." kate stepped back and put out her hands defensively: "a rare bargain," she said, "and one eminently worthy of you. you'll do what i say, if i'll do what you say, without the slightest reference as to whether it impoverishes a woman who has always helped and befriended you. you make me sick!" "what's biting you now?" he demanded, sullenly. kate stood tall and straight before and above him "if you have a good plan, if you can prove that it will work, what is the necessity for 'wheedling' anybody? why not state what you propose in plain, unequivocal terms, and let the dear, old soul, who has done so much for us already, decide what she will do?" "that's what i meant! that's all i meant!" he cried. "in that case, 'wheedle' is a queer word to use." "i believe you'd throw up the whole thing; i believe you'd let the chance to be a rich woman slip through your fingers, if it all depended on your saying only one word you thought wasn't quite straight," he cried, half in assertion, half in question. "i honour you in that belief," said kate. "i most certainly would." "then you turn the whole thing down? you won't have anything to do with it?" he cried, plunging into stoop-shouldered, mouth-sagging despair. "oh, i didn't say that!" said kate. "give me time! let me think! i've got to know that there isn't a snare in it, from the title of the land to the grade of the creek bed. have you investigated that? is your ravine long enough and wide enough to dam it high enough at our outlet to get your power, and yet not back water on the road, and the farmers above you? won't it freeze in winter? and can you get strong enough power from water to run a large saw? i doubt it!" "oh, gee! i never thought about that!" he cried. "and if it would work, did you figure the cost of a dam into your estimate of the building and machinery?" he snapped his fingers in impatience. "by heck!" he cried, "i forgot that, too! but that wouldn't cost much. look what we did in that ravine just for fun. why, we could build that dam ourselves!" "yes, strong enough for conditions in september, but what about the january freshet?" she said. "croak! croak! you blame old raven," cried george. "and have you thought," continued kate, "that there is no room on the bank toward town to set your mill, and it wouldn't be allowed there, if there were?" "you bet i have!" he said defiantly. "i'm no such slouch as you think me. i've even stepped off the location!" "then," said kate, "will you build a bridge across the ravine to reach it, or will you buy a strip from linn and build a road?" george collapsed with a groan. "that's the trouble with you," said kate. "you always build your castle with not even sand for a foundation. the most nebulous of rosy clouds serve you as perfectly as granite blocks. before you go glimmering again, double your estimate to cover a dam and a bridge, and a lot of incidentals that no one ever seems able to include in a building contract. and whatever you do, keep a still head until we get these things figured, and have some sane idea of what the venture would cost." "how long will it take?" he said sullenly. "i haven't an idea. i'd have to go the hartley and examine the records and be sure that there was no flaw in the deeds to the land; but the first thing is to get a surveyor and know for sure if you have a water-power that will work and not infringe on your neighbours. a thing like this can't be done in a few minutes' persuasive conversation. it will take weeks." it really seemed as if it would take months. kate went to walden that afternoon, set the children playing in the ravine while she sketched it, made the best estimate she could of its fall, and approved the curve on the opposite bank which george thought could be cleared for a building site and lumber yard. then she added a location for a dam and a bridge site, and went home to figure and think. the further she went in these processes the more hopeless the project seemed. she soon learned that there must be an engine with a boiler to run the saw. the dam could be used only to make a pond to furnish the water needed; but at that it would be cheaper than to dig a cistern or well. she would not even suggest to aunt ollie to sell any of the home forty. the sale of the remainder at the most hopeful price she dared estimate would not bring half the money needed, and it would come in long-time payments. lumber, bricks, machinery, could not be had on time of any length, while wages were cash every saturday night. "it simply can't be done," said kate, and stopped thinking about it, so far as george knew. he was at once plunged into morose moping; he became sullen and indifferent about the work, ugly with kate and the children, until she was driven almost frantic, and projects nearly as vague as some of george's began to float through her head. one saturday morning kate had risen early and finished cleaning up her house, baking, and scrubbing porches. she had taken a bath to freshen and cool herself and was standing before her dresser, tucking the last pins in her hair, when she heard a heavy step on the porch and a loud knock on the screen door. she stood at an angle where she could peep; she looked as she reached for her dress. what she saw carried her to the door forgetful of the dress. adam, jr., stood there, white and shaken, steadying himself against the casing. "adam!" cried kate. "is mother--?" he shook his head. "father--?" she panted. he nodded, seeming unable to speak. kate's eyes darkened and widened. she gave adam another glance and opened the door. "come in," she said. "when did it happen? how did he get hurt?" in that moment she recalled that she had left her father in perfect health, she had been gone more than seven years. in that time he could not fail to illness; how he had been hurt was her first thought. as she asked the question, she stepped into her room and snatched up her second best summer dress, waiting for adam to speak as she slipped into it. but speaking seemed to be a very difficult thing for adam. he was slow in starting and words dragged and came singly: "yesterday--tired--big dinner--awful hot--sunstroke--" "he's gone?" she cried. adam nodded in that queer way again. "why did you come? does mother want me?" the questions leaped from kate's lips; her eyes implored him. adam was too stricken to heed his sister's unspoken plea. "course," he said. "all there--your place--i want you. only one in the family--not stark mad!" kate straightened tensely and looked at him again. "all right," she said. "i can throw a few things in my telescope, write the children a note to take to their father in the field, and we can stop in walden and send aunt ollie out to cook for them; i can go as well as not, for as long as mother wants me." "hurry!" said adam. in her room kate stood still a second, her eyes narrow, her underlip sucked in, her heart almost stopped. then she said aloud: "father's sons have wished he would die too long for his death to strike even the most tolerant of them like that. something dreadful has happened. i wonder to my soul--!" she waited until they were past hartley and then she asked suddenly: "adam, what is the matter?" then adam spoke: "i am one of a pack of seven poor fools, and every other girl in the family has gone raving mad, so i thought i'd come after you, and see if you had sense, or reason, or justice, left in you." "what do you want of me?" she asked dazedly. "i want you to be fair, to be honest, to do as you'd be done by. you came to me when you were in trouble," he reminded her. kate could not prevent the short laugh that sprang to her lips, nor what she said: "and you would not lift a finger; young adam made his mother help me. why don't you go to george for what you want?" adam lost all self-control and swore sulphurously. "i thought you'd be different," he said, "but i see you are going to be just like the rest of the--!" "stop that!" said kate. "you're talking about my sisters--and yours. stop this wild talk, and tell me exactly what is the matter." "i'm telling nothing," said adam. "you can find out what is the matter and go it with the rest of them, when you get there. mother said this morning she wished you were there, because you'd be the only sane one in the family, so i thought i'd bring you; but i wish now i hadn't done it, for it stands to reason that you will join the pack, and run as fast as the rest of the wolves." "from a prairie fire, or to a carcass?" asked kate. "i told you, you could find out when you got there. i'm not going to have them saying i influenced you, or bribed you," he said. "do you really think that they think you could, adam?" asked kate, wonderingly. "i have said all i'm going to say," said adam, and then he began driving his horse inhumanely fast, for the heat was deep, slow, and burning. "adam, is there any such hurry?" asked kate. "you know you are abusing your horse dreadfully." adam immediately jerked the horse with all his might, and slashed the length of its body with two long stripes that rapidly raised in high welts, so kate saw that he was past reasoning with and said no other word. she tried to think who would be at home, how they would treat her, the prodigal, who had not been there in seven years; and suddenly it occurred to kate that, if she had known all she now knew in her youth, and had the same decision to make again as when she knew nothing, she would have taken wing, just as she had. she had made failures, she had hurt herself, mind and body, but her honour, her self-respect were intact. suddenly she sat straight. she was glad that she had taken a bath, worn a reasonably decent dress, and had a better one in the back of the buggy. she would cut the gordian knot with a vengeance. she would not wait to see how they treated her, she would treat them! as for adam's state, there was only one surmise she could make, and that seemed so incredible, she decided to wait until her mother told her all about whatever the trouble was. as they came in sight of the house, queer feelings took possession of kate. she struggled to think kindly of her father; she tried to feel pangs of grief over his passing. she was too forthright and had too good memory to succeed. home had been so unbearable that she had taken desperate measures to escape it, but as the white house with its tree and shrub filled yard could be seen more plainly, kate suddenly was filled with the strongest possessive feeling she ever had known. it was home. it was her home. her place was there, even as adam had said. she felt a sudden revulsion against herself that she had stayed away seven years; she should have taken her chances and at least gone to see her mother. she leaned from the buggy and watched for the first glimpse of the tall, gaunt, dark woman, who had brought their big brood into the world and stood squarely with her husband, against every one of them, in each thing he proposed. now he was gone. no doubt he had carried out his intentions. no doubt she was standing by him as always. kate gathered her skirts, but adam passed the house, driving furiously as ever, and he only slackened speed when he was forced to at the turn from the road to the lane. he stopped the buggy in the barnyard, got out, and began unharnessing the horse. kate sat still and watched him until he led it away, then she stepped down and started across the barnyard, down the lane leading to the dooryard. as she closed the yard gate and rounded a widely spreading snowball bush, her heart was pounding wildly. what was coming? how would the other boys act, if adam, the best balanced man of them all, was behaving as he was? how would her mother greet her? with the thought, kate realized that she was so homesick for her mother that she would do or give anything in the world to see her. then there was a dragging step, a short, sharp breath, and wheeling, kate stood facing her mother. she had come from the potato patch back of the orchard, carrying a pail of potatoes in each hand. her face was haggard, her eyes bloodshot, her hair falling in dark tags, her cheeks red with exertion. they stood facing each other. at the first glimpse kate cried, "oh, mother," and sprang toward her. then she stopped, while her heart again failed her, for from the astonishment on her mother's face, kate saw instantly that she was surprised, and had neither sent for nor expected her. she was nauseatingly disappointed. adam had said she was wanted, had been sent for. kate's face was twitching, her lips quivering, but she did not hesitate more than an instant. "i see you were not expecting me," she said. "i'm sorry. adam came after me. i wouldn't have come if he hadn't said you sent for me." kate paused a minute hopefully. her mother looked at her steadily. "i'm sorry," kate repeated. "i don't know why he said that." by that time the pain in her heart was so fierce she caught her breath sharply, and pressed her hand hard against her side. her mother stooped, set down the buckets, and taking off her sunbonnet, wiped the sweat from her lined face with the curtain. "well, i do," she said tersely. "why?" demanded kate. "to see if he could use you to serve his own interests, of course," answered her mother. "he lied good and hard when he said i sent for you; i didn't. i probably wouldn't a-had the sense to do it. but since you are here, i don't mind telling you that i never was so glad to see any one in all my born days." mrs. bates drew herself full height, set her lips, stiffened her jaw, and again used the bonnet skirt on her face and neck. kate picked up the potatoes, to hide the big tears that gushed from her eyes, and leading the way toward the house she said: "come over here in the shade. why should you be out digging potatoes?" "oh, they's enough here, and willing enough," said mrs. bates. "slipped off to get away from them. it was the quietest and the peacefullest out there, kate. i'd most liked to stay all day, but it's getting on to dinner time, and i'm short of potatoes." "never mind the potatoes," said kate. "let the folks serve themselves if they are hungry." she went to the side of the smoke house, picked up a bench turned up there, and carrying it to the shady side of a widely spreading privet bush, she placed it where it would be best screened from both house and barn. then setting the potatoes in the shade, she went to her mother, put her arm around her, and drew her to the seat. she took her handkerchief and wiped her face, smoothed back her straggled hair, and pulling out a pin, fastened the coil better. "now rest a bit," she said, "and then tell me why you are glad to see me, and exactly what you'd like me to do here. mind, i've been away seven years, and adam told me not a word, except that father was gone." "humph! all missed the mark again," commented mrs. bates dryly. "they all said he'd gone to fill you up, and get you on his side." "mother, what is the trouble?" asked kate. "take your time and tell me what has happened, and what you want, not what adam wants." mrs. bates relaxed her body a trifle, but gripped her hands tightly together in her lap. "well, it was quick work," she said. "it all came yesterday afternoon just like being hit by lightning. pa hadn't failed a particle that any one could see. ate a big dinner of ham an' boiled dumplings, an' him an' hiram was in the west field. it was scorchin' hot an' first hiram saw, pa was down. sam langley was passin' an' helped get him in, an' took our horse an' ran for robert. he was in the country but sam brought another doctor real quick, an' he seemed to fetch pa out of it in good shape, so we thought he'd be all right, mebby by morning, though the doctor said he'd have to hole up a day or two. he went away, promisin' to send robert back, and hiram went home to feed. i set by pa fanning him an' putting cloths on his head. all at once he began to chill. "we thought it was only the way a-body was with sunstroke, and past pilin' on blankets, we didn't pay much attention. he said he was all right, so i went to milk. before i left i gave him a drink, an' he asked me to feel in his pants pocket an' get the key an' hand him the deed box, till he'd see if everything was right. said he guessed he'd had a close call. you know how he was. i got him the box and went to do the evening work. i hurried fast as i could. coming back, clear acrost the yard i smelt burning wool, an' i dropped the milk an' ran. i dunno no more about just what happened 'an you do. the house was full of smoke. pa was on the floor, most to the sitting-room door, his head and hair and hands awfully burned, his shirt burned off, laying face down, and clear gone. the minute i seen the way he laid, i knew he was gone. the bed was pourin' smoke and one little blaze about six inches high was shootin' up to the top. i got that out, and then i saw most of the fire was smothered between the blankets where he'd thrown them back to get out of the bed. i dunno why he fooled with the lamp. it always stood on the little table in his reach, but it was light enough to read fine print. all i can figure is that the light was going out of his eyes, an' he thought it was gettin' dark, so he tried to light the lamp to see the deeds. he was fingerin' them when i left, but he didn't say he couldn't see them. the lamp was just on the bare edge of the table, the wick way up an' blackened, the chimney smashed on the floor, the bed afire." "those deeds are burned?" gasped kate. "all of them? are they all gone?" "every last one," said mrs. bates. "well, if one is gone, thank god they all are," said kate. her mother turned swiftly and caught her arm. "say that again!" she cried eagerly. "maybe i'm wrong about it, but it's what i think," said kate. "if the boys are crazy over all of them being gone, they'd do murder if part had theirs, and the others had not." mrs. bates doubled over on kate's shoulder suddenly and struggled with an inward spasm. "you poor thing," said kate. "this is dreadful. all of us know how you loved him, how you worked together. can you think of anything i can do? is there any special thing the matter?" "i'm afraid!" whispered mrs. bates. "oh, katie, i'm so afraid. you know how set he was, you know how he worked himself and all of us--he had to know what he was doing, when he fought the fire till the shirt burned off him"--her voice dropped to a harsh whisper--"what do you s'pose he's doing now?" any form of religious belief was a subject that never had been touched upon or talked of in the bates family. money was their god, work their religion; kate looked at her mother curiously. "you mean you believe in after life?" she asked. "why, i suppose there must be something," she said. "i think so myself," said kate. "i always have. i think there is a god, and that father is facing him now, and finding out for the first time in his experience that he is very small potatoes, and what he planned and slaved for amounted to nothing, in the scheme of the universe. i can't imagine father being subdued by anything on earth, but it appeals to me that he will cut a pathetic figure before the throne of an almighty god." a slow grin twisted mrs. bates' lips. "well, wherever he went," she said, "i guess he found out pretty quick that he was some place at last where he couldn't be boss." "i'm very sure he has," said kate, "and i am equally sure the discipline will be good for him. but his sons! his precious sons! what are they doing?" "taking it according to their bent," said mrs. bates. "adam is insane, hiram is crying." "have you had a lawyer?" asked kate. "what for? we all know the law on this subject better than we know our a, b, c's." "did your deed for this place go, too?" asked kate. "yes," said mrs. bates, "but mine was recorded, none of the others were. i get a third, and the rest will be cut up and divided, share and share alike, among all of you, equally. i think it's going to kill adam and ruin andrew." "it won't do either. but this is awful. i can see how the boys feel, and really, mother, this is no more fair to them than things always have been for the girls. by the way, what are they doing?" "same as the boys, acting out their natures. mary is openly rejoicing. so is nancy ellen. hannah and bertha at least can see the boys' side. the others say one thing before the boys and another among themselves. in the end the girls will have their shares and nobody can blame them. i don't myself, but i think pa will rise from his grave when those farms are torn up." "don't worry," said kate. "he will have learned by now that graves are merely incidental, and that he has no option on real estate where he is. leave him to his harp, and tell me what you want done." "i want you to see that it was all accidental. i want you to take care of me. i want you should think out the fair thing for all of us to do. i want you to keep sane and cool-headed and shame the others into behaving themselves. and i want you to smash down hard on their everlasting, 'why didn't you do this?' and 'why didn't you do that?' i reckon i've been told five hundred times a-ready that i shouldn't a-give him the deeds. josie say it, an' then she sings it. not give them to him! how could i help giving them to him? he'd a-got up and got them himself if i hadn't--" "you have cut out something of a job for me," said kate, "but i'll do my best. anyway, i can take care of you. come on into the house now, and let me clean you up, and then i'll talk the rest of them into reason, if you stand back of me, and let them see i'm acting for you." "you go ahead," said mrs. bates. "i'll back whatever you say. but keep them off of me! keep them off of me!" after kate had bathed her mother, helped her into fresh clothes, and brushed her hair, she coaxed her to lie down, and by diplomatic talk and stroking her head, finally soothed her to sleep. then she went down and announced the fact, asked them all to be quiet, and began making her way from group to group in an effort to restore mental balance and sanity. after kate had invited all of them to go home and stay until time for the funeral sunday morning, and all of them had emphatically declined, and eagerly had gone on straining the situation to the breaking point, kate gave up and began setting the table. when any of them tried to talk or argue with her she said conclusively: "i shall not say one word about this until monday. then we will talk things over, and find where we stand, and what mother wants. this would be much easier for all of us, if you'd all go home and calm down, and plan out what you think would be the fair and just thing to do." before evening kate was back exactly where she left off, for when mrs. bates came downstairs, her nerves quieted by her long sleep, she asked kate what would be best about each question that arose, while kate answered as nearly for all of them as her judgment and common sense dictated; but she gave the answer in her own way, and she paved the way by making a short, sharp speech when the first person said in her hearing that "mother never should have given him the deeds." not one of them said that again, while at kate's suggestion, mentally and on scraps of paper, every single one of them figured that one third of sixteen hundred and fifty was five hundred and fifty; subtracted from sixteen hundred and fifty this left one thousand one hundred, which, divided by sixteen, gave sixty-eight and three fourths. this result gave josie the hysterics, strong and capable though she was; made hiram violently ill, so that he resorted to garden palings for a support; while agatha used her influence suddenly, and took adam, jr., home. as she came to kate to say that they were going, agatha was white as possible, her thin lips compressed, a red spot burning on either cheek. "adam and i shall take our departure now, katherine," she said, standing very stiffly, her head held higher than kate ever had thought it could be lifted. kate put her arm around her sister-in-law and gave her a hearty hug: "tell adam i'll do what i think is fair and just; and use all the influence i have to get the others to do the same," she said. "fruitless!" said agatha. "fruitless! reason and justice have departed from this abode. i shall hasten my pace, and take adam where my influence is paramount. the state of affairs here is deplorable, perfectly deplorable! i shall not be missed, and i shall leave my male offspring to take the place of his poor, defrauded father." adam, d, was now a tall, handsome young man of twenty-two, quite as fond of kate as ever. he wiped the dishes, and when the evening work was finished, they talked with mrs. bates until they knew her every wish. the children had planned for a funeral from the church, because it was large enough to seat the family and friends in comfort; but when they mentioned this to mrs. bates, she delivered an ultimatum on the instant: "you'll do no such thing!" she cried. "pa never went to that church living; i'll not sanction his being carried there feet first, when he's helpless. and we'll not scandalize the neighbours by fighting over money on sunday, either. you'll all come monday morning, if you want anything to say about this. if you don't, i'll put through the business in short order. i'm sick to my soul of the whole thing. i'll wash my hands of it as quick as possible." so the families all went to their homes; kate helped her mother to bed; and then she and adam, d, tried to plan what would be best for the morrow; afterward they sat down and figured until almost dawn. "there's no faintest possibility of pleasing everyone," said kate. "the level best we can do is to devise some scheme whereby everyone will come as nearly being satisfied as possible." "can aunt josie and aunt mary keep from fighting across the grave?" asked adam. "only heaven knows," said kate. chapter xvii the banner hand sunday morning kate arose early and had the house clean and everything ready when the first carriage load drove into the barnyard. as she helped her mother to dress, mrs. bates again evidenced a rebellious spirit. nancy ellen had slipped upstairs and sewed fine white ruching in the neck and sleeves of her mother's best dress, her only dress, in fact, aside from the calicoes she worked in. kate combed her mother's hair and drew it in loose waves across her temples. as she produced the dress, mrs. bates drew back. "what did you stick them gew-gaws onto my dress for?" she demanded. "i didn't," said kate. "oh, it was nancy ellen! well, i don't see why she wanted to make a laughing stock of me," said mrs. bates. "she didn't!" said kate. "everyone is wearing ruching now; she wanted her mother to have what the best of them have." "humph!" said mrs. bates. "well, i reckon i can stand it until noon, but it's going to be a hot dose." "haven't you a thin black dress, mother?" asked kate. "no," said mrs. bates, "i haven't; but you can make a pretty safe bet that i will have one before i start anywhere again in such weather as this." "that's the proper spirit," said kate. "there comes andrew. let me put your bonnet on." she set the fine black bonnet nancy ellen had bought on mrs. bates' head at the proper angle and tied the long, wide silk ribbon beneath her chin. mrs. bates sat in martyr-like resignation. kate was pleased with her mother's appearance. "look in the mirror," she said. "see what a handsome lady you are." "i ain't seen in a looking-glass since i don't know when," said mrs. bates. "why should i begin now? chances are 'at you have rigged me up until i'll set the neighbours laughing, or else to saying that i didn't wait until the breath was out of pa's body to begin primping." "nonsense, mother," said kate. "nobody will say or think anything. everyone will recognize nancy ellen's fine spencerian hand in that bonnet and ruching. now for your veil!" mrs. bates arose from her chair, and stepped back. "there, there, katie!" she said. "you've gone far enough. i'll be sweat to a lather in this dress; i'll wear the head-riggin', because i've go to, or set the neighbours talkin' how mean pa was not to let me have a bonnet; and between the two i'd rather they'd take it out on me than on him." she steadied herself by the chair back and looked kate in the eyes. "pa was always the banner hand to boss everything," she said. "he was so big and strong, and so all-fired sure he was right, i never contraried him in the start, so before i knowed it, i was waiting for him to say what to do, and then agreeing with him, even when i knowed he was wrong. so goin' we got along fine, but it give me an awful smothered feeling at times." kate stood looking at her mother intently, her brain racing, for she was thinking to herself: "good lord! she means that to preserve the appearance of self-respect she systematically agreed with him, whether she thought he was right or wrong; because she was not able to hold her own against him. nearly fifty years of life like that!" kate tossed the heavy black crepe veil back on the bed. "mother," she said, "here alone, and between us, if i promise never to tell a living soul, will you tell me the truth about that deed business?" mrs. bates seemed so agitated kate added: "i mean how it started. if you thought it was right and a fair thing to do." "yes, i'll tell you that," said mrs. bates. "it was not fair, and i saw it; i saw it good and plenty. there was no use to fight him; that would only a-drove him to record them, but i was sick of it, an' i told him so." kate was pinning her hat. "i have planned for you to walk with adam," she said. "well, you can just change that plan, so far as i am concerned," said mrs. bates with finality. "i ain't a-goin' with adam. somebody had told him about the deeds before he got here. he came in ravin', and he talked to me something terrible. he was the first to say i shouldn't a-give pa the box. not give it to him! an' he went farther than that, till i just rose up an' called him down proper; but i ain't feelin' good at him, an' i ain't goin' with him. i am goin' with you. i want somebody with me that understands me, and feels a little for me, an' i want the neighbours to see that the minute i'm boss, such a fine girl as you has her rightful place in her home. i'll go with you, or i'll sit down on this chair, and sit here." "but you didn't send for me," said kate. "no, i hadn't quite got round to it yet; but i was coming. i'd told all of them that you were the only one in the lot who had any sense; and i'd said i wished you were here, and as i see it, i'd a-sent for you yesterday afternoon about three o'clock. i was coming to it fast. i didn't feel just like standing up for myself; but i'd took about all fault-finding it was in me to bear. just about three o'clock i'd a-sent for you, katie, sure as god made little apples." "all right then," said kate, "but if you don't tell them, they'll always say i took the lead." "well, they got to say something," said mrs. bates. "most of 'em would die if they had to keep their mouths shut awhile; but i'll tell them fast enough." then she led the way downstairs. there were enough members of the immediate family to pack the front rooms of the house, the neighbours filled the dining room and dooryard. the church choir sang a hymn in front of the house, the minister stood on the front steps and read a chapter, and told where mr. bates had been born, married, the size of his family and possessions, said he was a good father, an honest neighbour, and very sensibly left his future with his god. then the choir sang again and all started to their conveyances. as the breaking up began outside, mrs. bates arose and stepped to the foot of the casket. she steadied herself by it and said: "some time back, i promised pa that if he went before i did, at this time in his funeral ceremony i would set his black tin box on the foot of his coffin and unlock before all of you, and in the order in which they lay, beginning with adam, jr., hand each of you boys the deed pa had made you for the land you live on. you all know what happened. none of you know just how. it wouldn't bring the deeds back if you did. they're gone. but i want you boys to follow your father to his grave with nothing in your hearts against him. he was all for the men. i don't ever want to hear any of you criticize him about this, or me, either. he did his best to make you upstanding men in your community, his one failing being that he liked being an upstanding man himself so well that he carried it too far; but his intentions was the best. as for me, i'd no idea how sick he was, and nobody else did. i minded him just like all the rest of you always did; the boys especially. from the church i want all of you to go home until to-morrow morning, and then i want my sons and daughters by birth only, to come here, and we'll talk things over, quietly, quietly, mind you; and decide what to do. katie, will you come with me?" it was not quite a tearless funeral. some of the daughters-in-law wept from nervous excitement; and some of the little children cried with fear, but there were no tears from the wife of adam bates, or his sons and daughters. and when he was left to the mercies of time, all of them followed mrs. bates' orders, except nancy ellen and robert, who stopped to help kate with the dinner. kate slipped into her second dress and went to work. mrs. bates untied her bonnet strings and unfastened her dress neck as they started home. she unbuttoned her waist going up the back walk and pulled it off at the door. "well, if i ever put that thing on in july again," she said, "you can use my head for a knock-maul. nancy ellen, can't you stop at a store as you come out in the morning and get the goods, and you girls run me up a dress that is nice enough to go out in, and not so hot it starts me burning before my time?" "of course i can," said nancy ellen. "about what do you want to pay, mother?" "whatever it takes to get a decent and a cool dress; cool, mind you," said mrs. bates, "an' any colour but black." "why, mother!" cried nancy ellen "it must be black!" "no," said mrs. bates. "pa kept me in black all my life on the supposition it showed the dirt the least. there's nothing in that. it shows dirt worse 'an white. i got my fill of black. you can get a nice cool gray, if you want me to wear it." "well, i never!" said nancy ellen. "what will the neighbours say?" "what do i care?" asked mrs. bates. "they've talked about me all my life, i'd be kinda lonesome if they's to quit." dinner over, kate proposed that her mother should lie down while they washed the dishes. "i would like a little rest," said mrs. bates. "i guess i'll go upstairs." "you'll do nothing of the kind," said kate. "it's dreadfully hot up there. go in the spare room, where it is cool; we'll keep quiet. i am going to stay tuesday until i move you in there, anyway. it's smaller, but it's big enough for one, and you'll feel much better there." "oh, katie, i'm so glad you thought of that," cried mrs. bates. "i been thinking and thinking about it, and it just seems as if i can't ever steel myself to go into that room to sleep again. i'll never enter that door that i don't see--" "you'll never enter it again as your room," said kate. "i'll fix you up before i go; and sally whistler told me last evening she would come and make her home with you if you wanted her. you like sally, don't you?" "yes, i like her fine," said mrs. bates. quietly as possible the girls washed the dishes, pulled down the blinds, closed the front door, and slipped down in the orchard with robert to talk things over. nancy ellen was stiffly reserved with kate, but she would speak when she was spoken to, which was so much better than silence that kate was happy over it. robert was himself. kate thought she had never liked him so well. he seemed to grow even kinder and more considerate as the years passed. nancy ellen was prettier than kate ever had seen her, but there was a line of discontent around her mouth, and she spoke pettishly on slight provocation, or none at all. now she was openly, brazenly, brutally, frank in her rejoicing. she thought it was the best "joke" that ever happened to the boys; and she said so repeatedly. kate found her lips closing more tightly and a slight feeling of revulsion growing in her heart. surely in nancy ellen's lovely home, cared for and shielded in every way, she had no such need of money as kate had herself. she was delighted when nancy ellen said she was sleepy, and was going to the living-room lounge for a nap. then kate produced her sheet of figures. she and robert talked the situation over and carefully figured on how an adjustment, fair to all, could be made, until they were called to supper. after supper nancy ellen and robert went home, while kate and her mother sat on the back porch and talked until kate had a clear understanding and a definite plan in her mind, which was that much improvement over wearing herself out in bitter revilings, or selfish rejoicing over her brothers' misfortune. her mother listened to all she had to say, asked a question occasionally, objected to some things, and suggested others. they arose when they had covered every contingency they could think of and went upstairs to bed, even though the downstairs was cooler. as she undressed, mrs. bates said slowly: "now in the morning, i'll speak my piece first; and i'll say it pretty plain. i got the whip-hand here for once in my life. they can't rave and fight here, and insult me again, as they did friday night and saturday till you got here an' shut 'em up. i won't stand it, that's flat! i'll tell 'em so, and that you speak for me, because you can figure faster and express yourself plainer; but insist that there be no fussing, an' i'll back you. i don't know just what life has been doing to you, katie, but lord! it has made a fine woman of you." kate set her lips in an even line and said nothing, but her heart was the gladdest it had been in years. her mother continued: "seems like nancy ellen had all the chance. most folks thought she was a lot the purtiest to start with, though i can't say that i ever saw so much difference. she's had leisure an' pettin', and her husband has made a mint o' money; she's gone all over the country with him, and the more chance she has, the narrower she grows, and the more discontenteder. one thing, she is awful disappointed about havin' no children. i pity her about that." "is it because she's a twin?" asked kate. "i'm afraid so," said mrs. bates. "you can't tell much about those things, they just seem to happen. robert and nancy ellen feel awful bad about it. still, she might do for others what she would for her own. the lord knows there are enough mighty nice children in the world who need mothering. i want to see your children, katie. are they nice little folks, straight and good looking?" "the boy is," said kate. "the girl is good, with the exception of being the most stubborn child i've ever seen. she looks so much like a woman it almost sickens me to think of that i have to drive myself to do her justice." "what a pity!" said mrs. bates, slowly. "oh, they are healthy, happy youngsters," said kate. "they get as much as we ever did, and don't expect any more. i have yet to see a demonstrative bates." "humph!" said mrs. bates. "well, you ought to been here friday night, and i thought adam came precious near it saturday." "demonstrating power, or anger, yes," said kate. "i meant affection. and isn't it the queerest thing how people are made? of all the boys, adam is the one who has had the most softening influences, and who has made the most money, and yet he's acting the worst of all. it really seems as if failure and hardship make more of a human being of folks than success." "you're right," said mrs. bates. "look at nancy ellen and adam. sometimes i think adam has been pretty much galled with agatha and her money all these years; and it just drives him crazy to think of having still less than she has. have you got your figures all set down, to back you up, katie?" "yes," said kate. "i've gone all over it with robert, and he thinks it's the best and only thing that can be done. now go to sleep." each knew that the other was awake most of the night, but very few words passed between them. they were up early, dressed, and waiting when the first carriage stopped at the gate. kate told her mother to stay where she would not be worried until she was needed, and went down herself to meet her brothers and sisters in the big living room. when the last one arrived, she called her mother. mrs. bates came down looking hollow-eyed, haggard, and grim, as none of her children ever before had seen her. she walked directly to the little table at the end of the room, and while still standing she said: "now i've got a few words to say, and then i'll turn this over to a younger head an' one better at figures than mine. i've said my say as to pa, yesterday. now i'll say this, for myself. i got my start, minding pa, and agreeing with him, young; but you needn't any of you throw it in my teeth now, that i did. there is only one woman among you, and no man who ever disobeyed him. katie stood up to him once, and got seven years from home to punish her and me. he wasn't right then, and i knew it, as i'd often known it before, and pretty often since; but no woman god ever made could have lived with adam bates as his wife and contraried him. i didn't mind him any quicker or any oftener than the rest of you; keep that pretty clear in your heads, and don't one of you dare open your mouth again to tell me, as you did saturday, what i should a-done, and what i shouldn't. i've had the law of this explained to me; you all know it for that matter. by the law, i get this place and one third of all the other land and money. i don't know just what money there is at the bank or in notes and mortgages, but a sixteenth of it after my third is taken out ain't going to make or break any of you. i've told katie what i'm willing to do on my part and she will explain it, and then tell you about a plan she has fixed up. as for me, you can take it or leave it. if you take it, well and good; if you don't, the law will be set in motion to-day, and it will take its course to the end. it all depends on you. "now two things more. at the start, what pa wanted to do seemed to me right, and i agreed with him and worked with him. but when my girls began to grow up and i saw how they felt, and how they struggled and worked, and how the women you boys married went ahead of my own girls, and had finer homes, an' carriages, and easier times, i got pretty sick of it, and i told pa so more'n once. he just raved whenever i did, an' he always carried his keys in his pocket. i never touched his chest key in my life, till i handed him his deed box friday afternoon. but i agree with my girls. it's fair and right, since things have come out as they have, that they should have their shares. i would, too. "the other thing is just this: i'm tired to death of the whole business. i want peace and rest and i want it quick. friday and saturday i was so scared and so knocked out i s'pose i'd 'a' took it if one of the sucking babies had riz up and commenced to tell me what i should a-done, and what i shouldn't. i'm through with that. you will all keep civil tongues in your heads this morning, or i'll get up and go upstairs, an' lock myself in a room till you're gone, an' if i go, it will mean that the law takes its course; and if it does, there will be three hundred acres less land to divide. you've had pa on your hands all your lives, now you will go civil, and you will go easy, or you will get a taste of ma. i take no more talk from anybody. katie, go ahead with your figures." kate spread her sheet on the table and glanced around the room: "the milton county records show sixteen hundred and fifty acres standing in father's name," she said. "of these, mother is heir to five hundred and fifty acres, leaving one thousand one hundred acres to be divided among sixteen of us, which give sixty-eight and three-fourths acres to each. this land is the finest that proper fertilization and careful handling can make. even the poorest is the cream of the country as compared with the surrounding farms. as a basis of estimate i have taken one hundred dollars an acre as a fair selling figure. some is worth more, some less, but that is a good average. this would make the share of each of us in cash that could easily be realized, six thousand eight hundred and seventy-five dollars. whatever else is in mortgages, notes, and money can be collected as it is due, deposited in some bank, and when it is all in, divided equally among us, after deducting mother's third. now this is the law, and those are the figures, but i shall venture to say that none of us feel right about it, or ever will." an emphatic murmur of approval ran among the boys, mary and nancy ellen stoutly declared that they did. "oh, no, you don't!" said kate. "if god made any woman of you so that she feels right and clean in her conscience about this deal, he made her wrong, and that is a thing that has not yet been proven of god. as i see it, here is the boys' side: from childhood they were told, bribed, and urged to miss holidays, work all week, and often on sunday, to push and slave on the promise of this land at twenty-one. they all got the land and money to stock it and build homes. they were told it was theirs, required to pay the taxes on it, and also to labour at any time and without wages for father. not one of the boys but has done several hundred dollars' worth of work on father's farm for nothing, to keep him satisfied and to insure getting his deed. all these years, each man has paid his taxes, put thousands in improvements, in rebuilding homes and barns, fertilizing, and developing his land. each one of these farms is worth nearly twice what it was the day it was received. that the boys should lose all this is no cause for rejoicing on the part of any true woman; as a fact, no true woman would allow such a thing to happen--" "speak for yourself!" cried several of the girls at once. "now right here is where we come to a perfect understanding," said kate. "i did say that for myself, but in the main what i say, i say for mother. now you will not one of you interrupt me again, or this meeting closes, and each of you stands to lose more than two thousand dollars, which is worth being civil for, for quite a while. no more of that! i say any woman should be ashamed to take advantage of her brother through an accident; and rob him of years of work and money he was perfectly justified in thinking was his. i, for one, refuse to do it, and i want and need money probably more than any of you. to tear up these farms, to take more than half from the boys, is too much. on the other hand, for the girls to help earn the land, to go with no inheritance at all, is even more unfair. now in order to arrive at a compromise that will leave each boy his farm, and give each girl the nearest possible to a fair amount, figuring in what the boys have spent in taxes and work for father, and what each girl has lost by not having her money to handle all these years, it is necessary to split the difference between the time adam, the eldest, has had his inheritance, and hiram, the youngest, came into possession, which by taking from and adding to, gives a fair average of fifteen years. now mother proposes if we will enter into an agreement this morning with no words and no wrangling, to settle on this basis: she will relinquish her third of all other land, and keep only this home farm. she even will allow the fifty lying across the road to be sold and the money put into a general fund for the share of the girls. she will turn into this fund all money from notes and mortgages, and the sale of all stock, implements, etc., here, except what she wants to keep for her use, and the sum of three thousand dollars in cash, to provide against old age. this releases quite a sum of money, and three hundred and fifty acres of land, which she gives to the boys to start this fund as her recompense for their work and loss through a scheme in which she had a share in the start. she does this only on the understanding that the boys form a pool, and in some way take from what they have saved, sell timber or cattle, or borrow enough money to add to this sufficient to pay to each girl six thousand dollars in cash, in three months. now get out your pencils and figure. start with the original number of acres at fifty dollars an acre which is what it cost father on an average. balance against each other what the boys have lost in tax and work, and the girls have lost in not having their money to handle, and cross it off. then figure, not on a basis of what the boys have made this land worth, but on what it cost father's estate to buy, build on, and stock each farm. strike the fifteen-year average on prices and profits. figure that the girls get all their money practically immediately, to pay for the time they have been out of it; while each boy assumes an equal share of the indebtedness required to finish out the six thousand, after mother has turned in what she is willing to, if this is settled here and now." "then i understand," said mary, "that if we take under the law, each of us is entitled to sixty-eight and three quarter acres; and if we take under mother's proposition we are entitled to eighty-seven and a half acres." "no, no, e. a.," said kate, the old nickname for "exceptional ability" slipping out before she thought. "no, no! not so! you take sixty-eight and three quarters under the law. mother's proposition is made only to the boys, and only on condition that they settle here and now; because she feels responsible to them for her share in rearing them and starting them out as she did. by accepting her proposition you lose eight hundred and seventy-five dollars, approximately. the boys lose on the same basis, figuring at fifty dollars and acre, six thousand five hundred and sixty-two dollars and fifty cents, plus their work and taxes, and minus what mother will turn in, which will be about, let me see--it will take a pool of fifty-four thousand dollars to pay each of us six thousand. if mother raises thirty-five thousand, plus sale money and notes, it will leave about nineteen thousand for the boys, which will divide up at nearly two thousand five hundred for them to lose, as against less than a thousand for us. that should be enough to square matters with any right-minded woman, even in our positions. it will give us that much cash in hand, it will leave the boys, some of the younger ones, in debt for years, if they hold their land. what more do you want?" "i want the last cent that is coming to me," said mary. "i thought you would," said kate. "yet you have the best home, and the most money, of any of the girls living on farms. i settle under this proposition, because it is fair and just, and what mother wants done. if she feels that this is defrauding the girls any, she can arrange to leave what she has to us at her death, which would more than square matters in our favour--" "you hold on there, katie," said mrs. bates. "you're going too fast! i'll get what's coming to me, and hang on to it awhile, before i decide which way the cat jumps. i reckon you'll all admit that in mothering the sixteen of you, doing my share indoors and out, and living with pa for all these years, i've earned it. i'll not tie myself up in any way. i'll do just what i please with mine. figure in all i've told you to; for the rest--let be!" "i beg your pardon," said kate. "you're right, of course. i'll sign this, and i shall expect every sister i have to do the same, quickly and cheerfully, as the best way out of a bad business that has hurt all of us for years, and then i shall expect the boys to follow like men. it's the fairest, decentest thing we can do, let's get it over." kate picked up the pen, handed it to her mother, signed afterward herself, and then carried it to each of her sisters, leaving nancy ellen and mary until last. all of them signed up to nancy ellen. she hesitated, and she whispered to kate: "did robert--?" kate nodded. nancy ellen thought deeply a minute and then said slowly: "i guess it is the quickest and best we can do." so she signed. mary hesitated longer, but finally added her name. kate passed on to the boys, beginning with adam. slowly he wrote his name, and as he handed back the paper he said: "thank you, kate, i believe it's the sanest thing we can do. i can make it easier than the younger boys." "then help them," said kate tersely, passing on. each boy signed in turn, all of them pleased with the chance. it was so much better than they had hoped, that it was a great relief, which most of them admitted; so they followed adam's example in thanking kate, for all of them knew that in her brain had originated the scheme, which seemed to make the best of their troubles. then they sat closer and talked things over calmly and dispassionately. it was agreed that adam and his mother should drive to hartley the following afternoon and arrange for him to take out papers of administration for her, and start the adjustment of affairs. they all went home thinking more of each other, and kate especially, than ever before. mrs. bates got dinner while kate and nancy ellen went to work on the cool gray dress, so that it would be ready for the next afternoon. while her mother was away kate cleaned the spare bedroom and moved her mother's possessions into it. she made it as convenient and comfortable and as pretty as she could, but the house was bare to austerity, so that her attempt at prettifying was rather a failure. then she opened the closed room and cleaned it, after studying it most carefully as it stood. the longer she worked, the stronger became a conviction that was slowly working its way into her brain. when she could do no more she packed her telescope, installed sally whistler in her father's room, and rode to hartley with a neighbour. from there she took the wednesday hack for walden. chapter xviii kate takes the bit in her teeth the hackman was obliging, for after delivering the mail and some parcels, he took kate to her home. while she waited for him, she walked the ravine bank planning about the mill which was now so sure that she might almost begin work. surely she might as soon as she finished figuring, for she had visited the court house in hartley and found that george's deeds were legal, and in proper shape. her mind was filled with plans which this time must succeed. as she approached the house she could see the children playing in the yard. it was the first time she ever had been away from them; she wondered if they had missed her. she was amazed to find that they were very decidedly disappointed to see her; but a few pertinent questions developed the reason. their grandmother had come with her sister; she had spent her time teaching them that their mother was cold, and hard, and abused them, by not treating them as other children were treated. so far as kate could see they had broken every rule she had ever laid down for them: eaten until their stomachs were out of order, and played in their better clothing, until it never would be nice again, while polly shouted at her approach: "give me the oranges and candy. i want to divide them." "silly," said kate. "this is too soon. i've no money yet, it will be a long time before i get any; but you shall each have an orange, some candy, and new clothing when i do. now run see what big fish you can catch." satisfied, the children obeyed and ran to the creek. aunt ollie, worried and angered, told adam to tell his father that mother was home and for him to come and take her and grandmother to walden at once. she had not been able to keep mrs. holt from one steady round of mischief; but she argued that her sister could do less, with her on guard, than alone, so she had stayed and done her best; but she knew how kate would be annoyed, so she believed the best course was to leave as quickly as possible. kate walked into the house, spoke to both women, and went to her room to change her clothing. before she had finished, she heard george's voice in the house demanding: "where's our millionaire lady? i want a look at her." kate was very tired, slowly relaxing from intense nerve strain, she was holding herself in check about the children. she took a tighter grip, and vowed she would not give mrs. holt the satisfaction of seeing her disturbed and provoked, if she killed herself in the effort at self-control. she stepped toward the door. "here," she called in a clear voice, the tone of which brought george swiftly. "what was he worth, anyway?" he shouted. "oh, millions and millions," said kate, sweetly, "at least i think so. it was scarcely a time to discuss finances, in the face of that horrible accident." george laughed. "oh, you're a good one!" he cried. "think you can keep a thing like that still? the cats, and the dogs, and the chickens of the whole county know about the deeds the old land king had made for his sons; and how he got left on it. served him right, too! we could here andrew swear, and see adam beat his horse, clear over here! that's right! go ahead! put on airs! tell us something we don't know, will you? maybe you think i wasn't hanging pretty close around that neighbourhood, myself!" "spying?" cried kate. "looking for timber," he sneered. "and never in all my life have i seen anything to beat it. sixteen hundred and fifty acres of the best land in the world. your share of land and money together will be every cent of twelve thousand. oh, i guess i know what you've got up your sleeve, my lady. come on, shell out! let's all go celebrate. what did you bring the children?" kate was rapidly losing patience in spite of her resolves. "myself," she said. "from their appearance and actions, goodness knows they needed me. i have been to my father's funeral, george; not to a circus." "humph!" said george. "and home for the first time in seven years. you needn't tell me it wasn't the biggest picnic you ever had! and say, about those deeds burning up--wasn't that too grand?" "even if my father burned with them?" she asked. "george, you make me completely disgusted." "big hypocrite!" he scoffed. "you know you're tickled silly. why, you will get ten times as much as you would if those deeds hadn't burned. i know what that estate amounts to. i know what that land is worth. i'll see that you get your share to the last penny that can be wrung out of it. you bet i will! things are coming our way at last. now we can build the mill, and do everything we planned. i don't know as we will build a mill. with your fifteen thousand we could start a store in hartley, and do bigger things." "the thing for you to do right now is to hitch up and take aunt ollie and your mother home," said kate. "i'll talk to you after supper and tell you all there is to know. i'm dusty and tired now." "well, you needn't try to fix up any shenanigan for me," he said. "i know to within five hundred dollars of what your share of that estate is worth, and i'll see that you get it." "no one has even remotely suggested that i shouldn't have my share of that estate," said kate. while he was gone, kate thought intently as she went about her work. she saw exactly what her position was, and what she had to do. their talk would be disagreeable, but the matter had to gone into and gotten over. she let george talk as he would while she finished supper and they ate. when he went for his evening work, she helped the children scale their fish for breakfast and as they worked she talked to them, sanely, sensibly, explaining what she could, avoiding what she could not. she put them to bed, her heart almost sickened at what they had been taught and told. kate was in no very propitious mood for her interview with george. as she sat on the front porch waiting for him, she was wishing with all her heart that she was back home with the children, to remain forever. that, of course, was out of the question, but she wished it. she had been so glad to be with her mother again, to be of service, to hear a word of approval now and then. she must be worthy of her mother's opinion, she thought, just as george stepped on the porch, sat on the top step, leaned against a pillar, and said: "now go on, tell me all about it." kate thought intently a second. instead of beginning with leaving friday morning: "i was at the court house in hartley this morning," she said. "you needn't have done that," he scoffed. "i spent most of the day there monday. you bet folks shelled out the books when i told them who i was, and what i was after. i must say you folks have some little reason to be high and mighty. you sure have got the dough. no wonder the old man hung on to his deeds himself. he wasn't so far from a king, all right, all right." "you mean you left your work monday, and went to the court house in hartley and told who you were, and spent the day nosing into my father's affairs, before his sons had done anything, or you had any idea what was to be done?" she demanded. "oh, you needn't get so high and mighty," he said. "i propose to know just where i am, about this. i propose to have just what is coming to me--to you, to the last penny, and no bates man will manage the affair, either." suddenly kate leaned forward. "i foresee that you've fixed yourself up for a big disappointment," she said. "my mother and her eldest son will settle my father's estate; and when it is settled i shall have exactly what the other girls have. then if i still think it is wise, i shall at once go to work building the mill. everything must be shaved to the last cent, must be done with the closest economy, i must come out of this with enough left to provide us a comfortable home." "do that from the first profits of the mill," he suggested. "i'm no good at 'counting chickens before they're hatched,'" said kate. "besides, the first profits from the mill, as you very well know, if you would ever stop to think, must go to pay for logs to work on, and there must always be a good balance for that purpose. no. i reserve enough from my money to fix the home i want; but i shall wait to do it until the mill is working, so i can give all my attention to it, while you are out looking up timber." "of course i can do all of it perfectly well," he said. "and it's a man's business. you'll make me look like fifty cents if you get out among men and go to doing a thing no woman in this part of the country ever did. why, it will look like you didn't trust me!" "i can't help how it will look," said kate. "this is my last and only dollar; if i lose it, i am out for life; i shall take no risk. i've no confidence in your business ability, and you know it. it need not hurt your pride a particle to say that we are partners; that i'm going to build the mill, while you're going to bring in the timber. it's the only way i shall touch the proposition. i will give you two hundred dollars for the deed and abstract of the ravine. i'll give your mother eight hundred for the lot and house, which is two hundred more than it is worth. i'll lay away enough to rebuild and refurnish it, and with the remainder i'll build the dam, bridge, and mill, just as quickly as it can be done. as soon as i get my money, we'll buy timber for the mill and get it sawed and dried this winter. we can be all done and running by next june." "kate, how are you going to get all that land sold, and the money in hand to divide up that quickly? i don't think it ever can be done. land is always sold on time, you know," he said. kate drew a deep breath. "this land isn't going to be sold," she said. "most of the boys have owned their farms long enough to have enabled them to buy other land, and put money in the bank. they're going to form a pool, and put in enough money to pay the girls the share they have agreed to take; even if they have to borrow it, as some of the younger ones will; but the older ones will help them; so the girls are to have their money in cash, in three months. i was mighty glad of the arrangement for my part, because we can begin at once on our plans for the mill." "and how much do the girls get?" he asked darkly. "can't say just yet," said kate. "the notes and mortgages have to be gone over, and the thing figured out; it will take some time. mother and adam began yesterday; we shall know in a few weeks." "sounds to me like a cold-blooded bates steal," he cried. "who figured out what was a fair share for the girls; who planned that arrangement? why didn't you insist on the thing going through court; the land belong sold, and equal divisions of all the proceeds?" "now if you'll agree not to say a word until i finish, i'll show you the figures," said kate. "i'll tell you what the plan is, and why it was made, and i'll tell you further that it is already recorded, and in action. there are no minor heirs. we could make an agreement and record it. there was no will. mother will administer. it's all settled. wait until i get the figures." then slowly and clearly she went over the situation, explaining everything in detail. when she finished he sat staring at her with a snarling face. "you signed that?" he demanded. "you signed that! you threw away at least half you might have had! you let those lazy scoundrels of brothers of yours hoodwink you, and pull the wool over your eyes like that? are you mad? are you stark, staring mad?" "no, i'm quite sane," said kate. "it is you who are mad. you know my figures, don't you? those were the only ones used yesterday. the whole scheme was mine, with help from mother to the extent of her giving up everything except the home farm." "you crazy fool!" he cried, springing up. "now stop," said kate. "stop right there! i've done what i think is right, and fair, and just, and i'm happy with the results. act decently, i'll stay and build the mill. say one, only one more of the nasty, insulting things in your head, and i'll go in there and wake up the children and we will leave now and on foot." confronted with kate and her ultimatum, george arose and walked down to the road; he began pacing back and forth in the moonlight, struggling to regain command of himself. he had no money. he had no prospect of any until aunt ollie died and left him her farm. he was, as he expressed it, "up against it" there. now he was "up against it" with kate. what she decided upon and proposed to do was all he could do. she might shave prices, and cut, and skimp, and haggle to buy material, and put up her building at the least possible expense. she might sit over books and figure herself blind. he would be driving over the country, visiting with the farmers, booming himself for a fat county office maybe, eating big dinners, and being a jolly good fellow generally. naturally as breathing, there came to him a scheme whereby he could buy at the very lowest figure he could extract; then he would raise the price to kate enough to make him a comfortable income besides his share of the business. he had not walked the road long until his anger was all gone. he began planning the kind of horse he would have to drive, the buggy he would want, and a box in it to carry a hatchet, a square, measures, an auger, other tools he would need, and by jove! it would be a dandy idea to carry a bottle of the real thing. many a farmer, for a good cigar and a few swallows of the right thing, would warm up and sign such a contract as could be got in no other manner; while he would need it on cold days himself. george stopped in the moonlight to slap his leg and laugh over the happy thought. "by george, georgie, my boy," he said, "most days will be cold, won't they?" he had no word to say to kate of his change of feeling in the matter. he did not want to miss the chance of twitting her at every opportunity he could invent with having thrown away half her inheritance; but he was glad the whole thing was settled so quickly and easily. he was now busy planning how he would spend the money kate agreed to pay him for the ravine; but that was another rosy cloud she soon changed in colour, for she told him if he was going to be a partner he could put in what money he had, as his time was no more valuable than she could make hers teaching school again--in other words, he could buy his horse and buggy with the price she paid for the location, so he was forced to agree. he was forced to do a great many things in the following months that he hated; but he had to do them or be left out of the proposition altogether. mrs. bates and adam administered the bates estate promptly and efficiently. the girls had their money on time, the boys adjusted themselves as their circumstances admitted. mrs. bates had to make so many trips to town, before the last paper was signed, and the last transfer was made, that she felt she could not go any farther, so she did not. nancy ellen had reached the point where she would stop and talk a few minutes to kate, if she met her on the streets of hartley, as she frequently did now; but she would not ask her to come home with her, because she would not bring herself in contact with george holt. the day kate went to hartley to receive and deposit her check, and start her bank account, her mother asked her if she had any plan as to what she would do with her money. kate told her in detail. mrs. bates listened with grim face: "you better leave it in the bank," she said, "and use the interest to help you live, or put it in good farm mortgages, where you can easily get ten per cent." kate explained again and told how she was doing all the buying, how she would pay all bills, and keep the books. it was no use. mrs. bates sternly insisted that she should do no such thing. in some way she would be defrauded. in some way she would lose the money. what she was proposing was a man's work. kate had most of her contracts signed and much material ordered, she could not stop. sadly she saw her mother turn from her, declaring as she went that kate would lose every cent she had, and when she did she need not come hanging around her. she had been warned. if she lost, she could take the consequences. for an instant kate felt that she could not endure it then she sprang after her mother. "oh, but i won't lose!" she cried. "i'm keeping my money in my own hands. i'm spending it myself. please, mother, come and see the location, and let me show you everything." "too late now," said mrs. bates grimly, "the thing is done. the time to have told me was before you made any contracts. you're always taking the bit in your teeth and going ahead. well, go! but remember, 'as you make your bed, so you can lie.'" "all right," said kate, trying to force a laugh. "don't you worry. next time you get into a tight place and want to borrow a few hundreds, come to me." mrs. bates laughed derisively. kate turned away with a faint sickness in her heart and when half an hour later she met nancy ellen, fresh from an interview with her mother, she felt no better--far worse, in fact--for nancy ellen certainly could say what was in her mind with free and forceful directness. with deft tongue and nimble brain, she embroidered all mrs. bates had said, and prophesied more evil luck in three minutes than her mother could have thought of in a year. kate left them with no promise of seeing either of them again, except by accident, her heart and brain filled with misgivings. "must i always have 'a fly in my ointment'?" she wailed to herself. "i thought this morning this would be the happiest day of my life. i felt as if i were flying. ye gods, but wings were never meant for me. every time i take them, down i come kerflop, mostly in a 'gulf of dark despair,' as the hymn book says. anyway, i'll keep my promise and give the youngsters a treat." so she bought each of them an orange, some candy, and goods for a new sunday outfit and comfortable school clothing. then she took the hack for walden, feeling in a degree as she had the day she married george holt. as she passed the ravine and again studied the location her spirits arose. it was a good scheme. it would work. she would work it. she would sell from the yards to walden and the surrounding country. she would see the dealers in hartley and talk the business over, so she would know she was not being cheated in freight rates when she came to shipping. she stopped at mrs. holt's, laid a deed before her for her signature, and offered her a check for eight hundred for the holt house and lot, which mrs. holt eagerly accepted. they arranged to move immediately, as the children were missing school. she had a deed with her for the ravine, which george signed in walden, and both documents were acknowledged; but she would not give him the money until he had the horse and buggy he was to use, at the gate, in the spring. he wanted to start out buying at once, but that was going too far in the future for kate. while the stream was low, and the banks firm, kate built her dam, so that it would be ready for spring, put in the abutments, and built the bridge. it was not a large dam, and not a big bridge, but both were solid, well constructed, and would serve every purpose. then kate set men hauling stone for the corner foundations. she hoped to work up such a trade and buy so much and so wisely in the summer that she could run all winter, so she was building a real mill in the bates way, which way included letting the foundations freeze and settle over winter. that really was an interesting and a comfortable winter. kate and george both watched the children's studies at night, worked their plans finer in the daytime, and lived as cheaply and carefully as they could. everything was going well. george was doing his best to promote the mill plan, to keep kate satisfied at home, to steal out after she slept, and keep himself satisfied in appetite, and some ready money in his pockets, won at games of chance, at which he was an expert, and at cards, which he handled like a master. chapter xix "as a man soweth" at the earliest possible moment in the spring, the building of the mill began. it was scarcely well under way when the work was stopped by a week of heavy rains. the water filled the ravine to dangerous height and the roaring of the dam could be heard all over town. george talked of it incessantly. he said it was the sweetest music his ears had ever heard. kate had to confess that she like the sound herself, but she was fearful over saying much on the subject because she was so very anxious about the stability of the dam. there was a day or two of fine weather; then the rains began again. kate said she had all the music she desired; she proposed to be safe; so she went and opened the sluiceway to reduce the pressure on the dam. the result was almost immediate. the water gushed through, lowering the current and lessening the fall. george grumbled all day, threatening half a dozen times to shut the sluice; but kate and the carpenter were against him, so he waited until he came slipping home after midnight, his brain in a muddle from drink, smoke, and cards. as he neared the dam, he decided that the reason he felt so badly was because he had missed hearing it all day, but he would have it to go to sleep by. so he crossed the bridge and shut the sluice gate. even as he was doing it the thunder pealed; lightning flashed, and high heaven gave him warning that he was doing a dangerous thing; but all his life he had done what he pleased; there was no probability that he would change then. he needed the roar of the dam to quiet his nerves. the same roar that put him to sleep, awakened kate. she lay wondering at it and fearing. she raised her window to listen. the rain was falling in torrents, while the roar was awful, so much worse than it had been when she fell asleep, that she had a suspicion of what might have caused it. she went to george's room and shook him awake. "listen to the dam!" she cried. "it will go, as sure as fate. george, did you, oh, did you, close the sluice-gate when you came home?" he was half asleep, and too defiant from drink to take his usual course. "sure!" he said. "sweesish mushich ever hearsh. push me shleep." he fell back on the pillow and went on sleeping. kate tried again to waken him, but he struck at her savagely. she ran to her room, hurried into a few clothes, and getting the lantern, started toward the bridge. at the gate she stepped into water. as far as she could see above the dam the street was covered. she waded to the bridge, which was under at each end but still bare in the middle, where it was slightly higher. kate crossed it and started down the yard toward the dam. the earth was softer there, and she mired in places almost to her knees. at the dam, the water was tearing around each end in a mad race, carrying earth and everything before it. the mill side was lower than the street. the current was so broad and deep she could not see where the sluice was. she hesitated a second to try to locate it from the mill behind her; and in that instant there was a crack and a roar, a mighty rush that swept her from her feet and washed away the lantern. nothing saved her but the trees on the bank. she struck one, clung to it, pulled herself higher, and in the blackness gripped the tree, while she heard the dam going gradually after the first break. there was no use to scream, no one could have heard her. the storm raved on; kate clung to her tree, with each flash of lightning trying to see the dam. at last she saw that it was not all gone. she was not much concerned about herself. she knew the tree would hold. eagerly she strained her eyes toward the dam. she could feel the water dropping lower, while the roar subsided to a wild rush, and with flashes of lightning she could see what she thought was at least half of the dam holding firm. by that time kate began to chill. she wrapped her arms around the tree, and pressing her cheek against the rough bark, she cried as hard as she could and did not care. god would not hear; the neighbours could not. she shook and cried until she was worn out. by that time the water was only a muddy flow around her ankles; if she had a light she could wade back to the bridge and reach home. but if she missed the bridge and went into the ravine, the current would be too strong for her. she held with one arm and tried to wipe her face with the other hand. "what a fool to cry!" she said. "as if there were any more water needed here!" then she saw a light in the house, and the figures of the children, carrying it from room to room, so she knew that one of them had awakened for a drink, or with the storm, and they had missed her. then she could see them at the front door, adam's sturdy feet planted widely apart, bracing him, as he held up the lamp which flickered in the wind. then she could hear his voice shouting: "mother!" instantly kate answered. then she was sorry she had, for both of them began to scream wildly. there was a second of that, then even the children realized its futility. "she is out there in the water, we got to get her," said adam. "we got to do it!" he started with the light held high. the wind blew it out. they had to go back to relight it. kate knew they would burn their fingers, and she prayed they would not set the house on fire. when the light showed again, at the top of her lungs she screamed: "adam, set the broom on fire and carry it to the end of the bridge; the water isn't deep enough to hurt you." she tried twice, then she saw him give polly the lamp, and run down the hall. he came back in an instant with the broom. polly held the lamp high, adam went down the walk to the gate and started up the sidewalk. "he's using his head," said kate to the tree. "he's going to wait until he reaches the bridge to start his light, so it will last longer. that is bates, anyway. thank god!" adam scratched several matches before he got the broom well ignited, then he held it high, and by its light found the end of the bridge. kate called to him to stop and plunging and splashing through mud and water, she reached the bridge before the broom burned out. there she clung to the railing she had insisted upon, and felt her way across to the boy. his thin cotton night shirt was plastered to his sturdy little body. as she touched him kate lifted him in her arms, and almost hugged the life from him. "you big man!" she said. "you could help mother! good for you!" "is the dam gone?" he asked. "part of it," said kate, sliding her feet before her, as she waded toward polly in the doorway. "did father shut the sluice-gate, to hear the roar?" kate hesitated. the shivering body in her arms felt so small to her. "i 'spect he did," said adam. "all day he was fussing after you stopped the roar." then he added casually: "the old fool ought-a known better. i 'spect he was drunk again!" "oh, adam!" cried kate, setting him on the porch. "oh, adam! what makes you say that?" "oh, all of them at school say that," scoffed adam. "everybody knows it but you, don't they, polly?" "sure!" said polly. "most every night; but don't you mind, mother, adam and i will take care of you." kate fell on her knees and gathered both of them in a crushing hug for an instant; then she helped them into to dry nightgowns and to bed. as she covered them she stooped and kissed each of them before she went to warm and put on dry clothes, and dry her hair. it was almost dawn when she walked to george holt's door and looked in at him lying stretched in deep sleep. "you may thank your god for your children," she said. "if it hadn't been for them, i know what i would have done to you." then she went to her room and lay down to rest until dawn. she was up at the usual time and had breakfast ready for the children. as they were starting to school george came into the room. "mother," said polly, "there is a lot of folks over around the dam. what shall we tell them?" kate's heart stopped. she had heard that question before. "tell them the truth," said adam scornfully, before kate could answer. "tell them that mother opened the sluiceway to save the dam and father shut it to hear it roar, and it busted!" "shall i, mother?" asked polly. a slow whiteness spread over george's face; he stared down the hall to look. "tell them exactly what you please," said kate, "only you watch yourself like a hawk. if you tell one word not the way it was, or in any way different from what happened, i'll punish you severely." "may i tell them i held the lamp while adam got you out of the water?" asked polly. "that would be true, you know." george turned to listen, his face still whiter. "yes, that would be true," said kate, "but if you tell them that, the first thing they will ask will be 'where was your father?' what will you say then?" "why, we'll say that he was so drunk we couldn't wake him up," said polly conclusively. "we pulled him, an' we shook him, an' we yelled at him. didn't we, adam?" "i was not drunk!" shouted george. "oh, yes, you were," said adam. "you smelled all sour, like it does at the saloon door!" george made a rush at adam. the boy spread his feet and put up his hands, but never flinched or moved. kate looking on felt something in her heart that never had been there before. she caught george's arm, as he reached the child. "you go on to school, little folks," she said. "and for mother's sake try not to talk at all. if people question you, tell them to ask mother. i'd be so proud of you, if you would do that." "i will, if you'll hold me and kiss me again like you did last night when you got out of the water," said polly. "it is a bargain," said kate. "how about you, adam?" "i will for that, too," said adam, "but i'd like awful well to tell how fast the water went, and how it poured and roared, while i held the light, and you got across. gee, if was awful, mother! so black, and so crashy, and so deep. i'd like to tell!" "but you won't if i ask you not to?" queried kate. "i will not," said adam. kate went down on her knees again, she held out her arms and both youngsters rushed to her. after they were gone, she and george holt looked at each other an instant, then kate turned to her work. he followed: "kate--" he began. "no use!" said kate. "if you go out and look at the highest water mark, you can easily imagine what i had to face last night when i had to cross the bridge to open the sluice-gate, or the bridge would have gone, too. if the children had not wakened with the storm, and hunted me, i'd have had to stay over there until morning, if i could have clung to the tree that long. first they rescued me; and then they rescued you, if you only but knew it. by using part of the money i had saved for the house, i can rebuild the dam; but i am done with you. we're partners no longer. not with business, money, or in any other way, will i ever trust you again. sit down there and eat your breakfast, and then leave my sight." instead george put on his old clothing, crossed the bridge, and worked all day with all his might trying to gather building material out of the water, save debris from the dam, to clear the village street. at noon he came over and got a drink, and a piece of bread. at night he worked until he could see no longer, and then ate some food from the cupboard and went to bed. he was up and at work before daybreak in the morning, and for two weeks he kept this up, until he had done much to repair the work of the storm. the dam he almost rebuilt himself, as soon as the water lowered to normal again. kate knew what he was trying to do, and knew also that in a month he had the village pitying him, and blaming her because he was working himself to death, and she was allowing it. she doggedly went on with her work; the contracts were made; she was forced to. as the work neared completion, her faith in the enterprise grew. she studied by the hour everything she could find pertaining to the business. when the machinery began to arrive, george frequently spoke about having timber ready to begin work on, but he never really believed the thing which did happen, would happen, until the first load of logs slowly crossed the bridge and began unloading in the yards. a few questions elicited from the driver the reply that he had sold the timber to young adam bates of bates corners, who was out buying right and left and paying cash on condition the seller did his own delivering. george saw the scheme, and that it was good. also the logs were good, while the price was less than he hoped to pay for such timber. his soul was filled with bitterness. the mill was his scheme. he had planned it all. those thieving bates had stolen his plan, and his location, and his home, and practically separated him from his wife and children. it was his mill, and all he was getting from it was to work with all his might, and not a decent word from morning until night. that day instead of working as before, he sat in the shade most of the time, and that night instead of going to bed he went down town. when the mill was almost finished kate employed two men who lived in walden, but had been working in the hartley mills for years. they were honest men of much experience. kate made the better of them foreman, and consulted with him in every step of completing the mill, and setting up the machinery. she watched everything with sharp eyes, often making suggestions that were useful about the placing of different parts as a woman would arrange them. some of these the men laughed at, some they were more than glad to accept. when the engine was set up, the big saw in place, george went to kate. "see here!" he said roughly. "i know i was wrong about the sluice-gate. i was a fool to shut it with the water that high, but i've learned my lesson; i'll never touch it again; i've worked like a dog for weeks to pay for it; now where do i come in? what's my job, how much is my share of the money, and when do i get it?" "the trouble with you, george, is that you have to learn a new lesson about every thing you attempt. you can't carry a lesson about one thing in your mind, and apply it to the next thing that comes up. i know you have worked, and i know why. it is fair that you should have something, but i can't say what, just now. having to rebuild the dam, and with a number of incidentals that have come up, in spite of the best figuring i could do, i have been forced to use my money saved for rebuilding the house; and even with that, i am coming out a hundred or two short. i'm strapped; and until money begins to come in i have none myself. the first must go toward paying the men's wages, the next for timber. if jim milton can find work for you, go to work at the mill, and when we get started i'll pay you what is fair and just, you may depend on that. if he hasn't work for you, you'll have to find a job at something else." "do you mean that?" he asked wonderingly. "i mean it," said kate. "after stealing my plan, and getting my land for nothing, you'd throw me out entirely?" he demanded. "you entreated me to put all i had into your plan, you told me repeatedly the ravine was worth nothing, you were not even keeping up the taxes on it until i came and urged you to, the dam is used merely for water, the engine furnishes the real power, and if you are thrown out, you have thrown yourself out. you have had every chance." "you are going to keep your nephew on the buying job?" he asked "i am," said kate. "you can have no job that will give you a chance to involve me financially." "then give me milton's place. it's so easy a baby could do it, and the wages you have promised him are scandalous," said george. kate laughed. "oh, george," she said, "you can't mean that! of all your hare-brained ideas, that you could operate that saw, is the wildest. oh course you could start the engine, and set the saw running--i could myself; but to regulate its speed, to control it with judgment, you could no more do it than polly. as for wages, milton is working for less than he got in hartley, because he can be at home, and save his hack fare, as you know." george went over to jim milton, and after doing all he could see to do and ordering milton to do several things he thought might be done, he said casually: "of course i am boss around this shack, but this is new to me. you fellows will have to tell me what to do until i get my bearings. as soon as we get to running, i'll be yard-master, and manage the selling and shipping. i'm good at figures, and that would be the best place for me." "you'll have to settle with mrs. holt about that," said jim milton. "of course," said george. "isn't she a wonder? with my help, we'll soon wipe the hartley mills off the map, and be selling till grand rapids will get her eye peeled. with you to run the machinery, me to manage the sales, and her to keep the books, we got a combination to beat the world." "in the meantime," said jim milton dryly, "you might take that scoop shovel and clean the shavings and blocks off this floor. leave me some before the engine to start the first fire, and shovel the rest into that bin there where it's handy. it isn't safe to start with so much loose, dry stuff lying around." george went to work with the scoop shovel, but he watched every movement jim milton made about the engine and machinery. often he dropped the shovel and stood studying things out for himself, and asking questions. not being sure of his position, jim milton answered him patiently, and showed him all he wanted to know; but he constantly cautioned him not to touch anything, or try to start the machinery himself, as he might lose control of the gauge and break the saw, or let the power run away with him. george scoffed at the idea of danger and laughed at the simplicity of the engine and machinery. there was little for him to do. he hated to be seen cleaning up the debris; men who stopped in passing kept telling what a fine fellow young bates was, what good timber he was sending in. several of them told george frankly they thought that was to be his job. he was so ashamed of that, he began instant improvisation. "that was the way we first planned things," he said boastfully, "but when it came to working out our plans, we found i would be needed here till i learned the business, and then i'm going on the road. i am going to be the salesman. to travel, dress well, eat well, flirt with the pretty girls, and take big lumber orders will just about suit little old georgie." "wonder you remembered to put the orders in at all," said jim milton dryly. george glared at him. "well, just remember whom you take orders from," he said, pompously. "i take them from mrs. holt, and nobody else," said milton, with equal assurance. "and i've yet to hear her say the first word about this wonderful travelling proposition. she thinks she will do well to fill home orders and ship to a couple of factories she already has contracts with. sure you didn't dream that travelling proposition, george?" at that instant george wished he could slay jim milton. all day he brooded and grew sullen and ugly. by noon he quit working and went down town. by suppertime he went home to prove to his wife that he was all right. she happened to be coming across from the mill, where she had helped milton lay the first fire under the boiler ready to touch off, and had seen the first log on the set carriage. it had been agreed that she was to come over at opening time in the morning and start the machinery. she was a proud and eager woman when she crossed the bridge and started down the street toward the gate. from the opposite direction came george, so unsteady that he was running into tree boxes, then lifting his hat and apologizing to them for his awkwardness. kate saw at a glance that he might fall any instant. her only thought was to help him from the street, to where children would not see him. she went to him and taking his arm started down the walk with him. he took off his hat to her also, and walked with wavering dignity, setting his steps as if his legs were not long enough to reach the walk, so that each step ended with a decided thump. kate could see the neighbours watching at their windows, and her own children playing on the roof of the woodshed. when the children saw their parents, they both stopped playing to stare at them. then suddenly, shrill and high, arose adam's childish voice: "father came home the other night, tried to blow out the 'lectric light, blew and blew with all his might, and the blow almost killed mother." polly joined him, and they sang and shrilled, and shrieked it; they jumped up and down and laughed and repeated it again and again. kate guided george to his room and gave him a shove that landed him on his bed. then to hush the children she called them to supper. they stopped suddenly, as soon as they entered the kitchen door, and sat, sorry and ashamed while she went around, her face white, her lips closed, preparing their food. george was asleep. the children ate alone, as she could take no food. later she cleaned the kitchen, put the children to bed, and sat on the front porch looking at the mill, wondering, hoping, planning, praying unconsciously. when she went to bed at ten o'clock george was still asleep. he awakened shortly after, burning with heat and thirst. he arose and slipped to the back porch for a drink. water was such an aggravation, he crossed the yard, went out the back gate, and down the alley. when he came back up the street, he was pompously, maliciously, dangerously drunk. either less or more would have been better. when he came in sight of the mill, standing new and shining in the moonlight, he was a lord of creation, ready to work creation to his will. he would go over and see if things were all right. but he did not cross the bridge, he went down the side street, and entered the yard at the back. the doors were closed and locked, but there was as yet no latch on the sliding windows above the work bench. he could push them open from the ground. he leaned a board against the side of the mill, set his foot on it, and pulled himself up, so that he could climb on the bench. that much achieved, he looked around him. after a time his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, so that he could see his way plainly. muddled half-thoughts began to filter through his brain. he remembered he was abused. he was out of it. he remembered that he was not the buyer for the mill. he remembered how the men had laughed when he had said that he was to be the salesman. he remembered that milton had said that he was not to touch the machinery. he at once slid from the bench and went to the boiler. he opened the door of the fire-box and saw the kindling laid ready to light, to get up steam. he looked at the big log on the set carriage. they had planned to start with a splurge in the morning. kate was to open the throttle that started the machinery. he decided to show them that they were not so smart. he would give them a good surprise by sawing the log. that would be a joke on them to brag about the remainder of his life. he took matches from his pocket and started the fire. it seemed to his fevered imagination that it burned far too slowly. he shoved in more kindling, shavings, ends left from siding. this smothered his fire, so he made trip after trip to the tinder box, piling in armloads of dry, inflammable stuff. then suddenly the flames leaped up. he slammed shut the door and started toward the saw. he could not make it work. he jammed and pulled everything he could reach. soon he realized the heat was becoming intense, and turned to the boiler to see that the fire-box was red hot almost all over, white hot in places. "my god!" he muttered. "too hot! got to cool that down." then he saw the tank and the dangling hose, and remembered that he had not filled the boiler. taking down the hose, he opened the watercock, stuck in the nozzle, and turned on the water full force. windows were broken across the street. parts of the fire-box, boiler, and fire flew everywhere. the walls blew out, the roof lifted and came down, the fire raged among the new, dry timbers of the mill. when her windows blew in, kate was thrown from her bed to the floor. she lay stunned a second, then dragged herself up to look across the street. there was nothing where the low white expanse of roof had spread an hour before, while a red glare was creeping everywhere over the ground. she ran to george's room and found it empty. she ran to the kitchen, calling him, and found the back door standing open. she rushed back to her room and began trying to put on her dress over her nightrobe. she could not control her shaking fingers, while at each step she cut her feet on broken glass. she reached the front door as the children came screaming with fright. in turning to warn them about the glass, she stumbled on the top step, pitched forward headlong, then lay still. the neighbours carried her back to her bed, called the doctor, and then saved all the logs in the yard they could. the following day, when the fire had burned itself out, the undertaker hunted assiduously, but nothing could be found to justify a funeral. chapter xx "for a good girl" for a week, kate lay so dazed she did not care whether she lived or died; then she slowly crept back to life, realizing that whether she cared or not, she must live. she was too young, too strong, to quit because she was soul sick; she had to go on. she had life to face for herself and her children. she wondered dully about her people, but as none of the neighbours who had taken care of her said anything concerning them, she realized that they had not been there. at first she was almost glad. they were forthright people. they would have had something to say; they would have said it tersely and to the point. adam, d, had wound up her affairs speedily by selling the logs he had bought for her to the hartley mills, paying what she owed, and depositing the remainder in the hartley bank to her credit; but that remainder was less than one hundred dollars. that winter was a long, dreadful nightmare to kate. had it not been for aunt ollie, they would have been hungry some of the time; they were cold most of it. for weeks kate thought of sending for her mother, or going to her; then as not even a line came from any of her family, she realized that they resented her losing that much bates money so bitterly that they wished to have nothing to do with her. often she sat for hours staring straight before her, trying to straighten out the tangle she had made of her life. as if she had not suffered enough in the reality of living, she now lived over in day and night dreams, hour by hour, her time with george holt, and gained nothing thereby. all winter kate brooded, barely managing to keep alive, and the children in school. as spring opened, she shook herself, arose, and went to work. it was not planned, systematic, effective, bates work. piecemeal she did anything she saw needed the doing. the children helped to make garden and clean the yard. then all of them went out to aunt ollie's and made a contract to plant and raise potatoes and vegetables on shares. they passed a neglected garden on the way, and learning that the woman of the house was ill, kate stopped and offered to tend it for enough cords of windfall wood to pay her a fair price, this to be delivered in mid-summer. with food and fire assured, kate ripped up some of george's clothing, washed, pressed, turned, and made adam warm clothes for school. she even achieved a dress for polly by making a front and back from a pair of her father's trouser legs, and setting in side pieces, a yoke and sleeves from one of her old skirts. george's underclothing she cut down for both of the children; then drew another check for taxes and second-hand books. while she was in hartley in the fall paying taxes, she stopped at a dry goods store for thread, and heard a customer asking for knitted mittens, which were not in stock. after he had gone, she arranged with the merchant for a supply of yarn which she carried home and began to knit into mittens such as had been called for. she used every minute of leisure during the day, she worked hours into the night, and soon small sums began coming her way. when she had a supply of teamster's heavy mittens, she began on fancy coloured ones for babies and children, sometimes crocheting, sometimes using needles. soon she started both children on the rougher work with her. they were glad to help for they had a lively remembrance of one winter of cold and hunger, with no christmas. that there were many things she might have done that would have made more money with less exertion kate never seemed to realize. she did the obvious thing. her brain power seemed to be on a level with that of adam and polly. when the children began to carry home christmas talk, kate opened her mouth to say the things that had been said to her as a child; then tightly closed it. she began getting up earlier, sitting up later, knitting feverishly. luckily the merchant could sell all she could furnish. as the time drew nearer, she gathered from the talk of the children what was the deepest desire of their hearts. one day a heavy wind driving ice-coated trees in the back yard broke quite a large limb from a cherry tree. kate dragged it into the woodhouse to make firewood. she leaned it against the wall to wait until the ice melted, and as it stood there in its silvery coat, she thought how like a small tree the branch was shaped, and how pretty it looked. after the children had gone to school the next day she shaped it with the hatchet and saw, and fastened it in a small box. this she carried to her bedroom and locked the door. she had not much idea what she was going to do, but she kept thinking. soon she found enough time to wrap every branch carefully with the red tissue paper her red knitting wool came in, and to cover the box smoothly. then she thought of the country christmas trees she had seen decorated with popcorn and cranberries. she popped the corn at night and the following day made a trip up the ravine, where she gathered all the bittersweet berries, swamp holly, and wild rose seed heads she could find. she strung the corn on fine cotton cord putting a rose seed pod between each grain, then used the bittersweet berries to terminate the blunt ends of the branches, and climb up the trunk. by the time she had finished this she was really interested. she achieved a gold star for the top from a box lid and a piece of gilt paper polly had carried home from school. with yarn ends and mosquito netting, she whipped up a few little mittens, stockings, and bags. she cracked nuts from their fall store and melting a little sugar stirred in the kernels until they were covered with a sweet, white glaze. then she made some hard candy, and some fancy cookies with a few sticks of striped candy cut in circles and dotted on the top. she polished red, yellow, and green apples and set them under the tree. when she made her final trip to hartley before christmas the spirit of the day was in the air. she breathed so much of it that she paid a dollar and a half for a stout sled and ten cents for a dozen little red candles, five each for two oranges, and fifteen each for two pretty little books, then after long hesitation added a doll for polly. she felt that she should not have done this, and said so, to herself; but knew if she had it to do over, she would do the same thing again. she shook her shoulders and took the first step toward regaining her old self-confidence. "pshaw! big and strong as i am, and adam getting such a great boy, we can make it," she said. then she hurried to the hack and was driven home barely in time to rush her bundles into her room before school was out. she could scarcely wait until the children were in bed to open the parcels. the doll had to be dressed, but kate was interested in christmas by that time, and so contemplated the spider-waisted image with real affection. she never had owned a doll herself. she let the knitting go that night, and cut up an old waist to make white under-clothing with touches of lace, and a pretty dress. then kate went to her room, tied the doll in a safe place on the tree, put on the books, and set the candles with pins. as she worked she kept biting her lips, but when it was all finished she thought it was lovely, and so it was. as she set the sled in front of the tree she said: "there, little folks, i wonder what you will think of that! it's the best i can do. i've a nice chicken to roast; now if only, if only mother or nancy ellen would come, or write a line, or merely send one word by tilly nepple." suddenly kate lay down on the bed, buried her face in the pillow while her shoulders jerked and shook in dry sobs for a long time. at last she arose, went to the kitchen, bathed her face, and banked the fires. "i suppose it is the bates way," she said, "but it's a cold, hard proposition. i know what's the matter with all of them. they are afraid to come near me, or show the slightest friendliness, for fear i'll ask them to help support us. they needn't worry, we can take care of ourselves." she set her tree on the living room table, arranged everything to the best advantage, laid a fire in the stove, and went to sleep christmas eve, feeling more like herself than she had since the explosion. christmas morning she had the house warm and the tree ready to light while the children dressed. she slipped away their every-day clothing and laid out their best instead. she could hear them talking as they dressed, and knew the change of clothing had filled them with hope. she hastily lighted the tree, and was setting the table as they entered the dining room. "merry christmas, little people," she cried in a voice they had not heard in a long time. they both rushed to her and kate's heart stood still as they each hugged her tight, kissed her, and offered a tiny packet. from the size and feeling of these, she realized that they were giving her the candy they had received the day before at school. surprises were coming thick and fast with kate. that one shook her to her foundations. they loved candy. they had so little! they had nothing else to give. she held them an instant so tightly they were surprised at her, then she told them to lay the packages on the living room table until after breakfast. polly opened the door, and screamed. adam ran, and then both of them stood silently before the brave little tree, flaming red, touched with white, its gold star shining. they looked at it, and then at each other, while kate, watching at an angle across the dining room, distinctly heard polly say in an awed tone: "adam, hadn't we better pray?" kate lifted herself full height, and drew a deep breath. "well, i guess i manage a little christmas after this," she said, "and maybe a fourth of july, and a birthday, and a few other things. i needn't be such a coward. i believe i can make it." from that hour she began trying to think of something she could do that would bring returns more nearly commensurate with the time and strength she was spending. she felt tied to walden because she owned the house, and could rely on working on shares with aunt ollie for winter food; but there was nothing she could do there and take care of the children that would bring more than the most meagre living. still they were living, each year more comfortably; the children were growing bigger and stronger; soon they could help at something, if only she could think what. the time flew, each day a repetition of yesterday's dogged, soul-tiring grind, until some days kate was close to despair. each day the house grew shabbier; things wore out and could not be replaced; poverty showed itself more plainly. so three more years of life in walden passed, setting their indelible mark on kate. time and again she almost broke the spell that bound her, but she never quite reached the place where her thought cleared, her heart regained its courage, her soul dared take wing, and try another flight. when she thought of it, "i don't so much mind the falling," said kate to herself; "but i do seem to select the hardest spots to light on." kate sat on the back steps, the sun shone, her nearest neighbour was spading an onion bed. she knew that presently she would get out the rake and spade and begin another year's work; but at that minute she felt too hopeless to move. adam came and sat on the step beside her. she looked at him and was surprised at his size and apparent strength. someway he gave her hope. he was a good boy, he had never done a mean, sneaking thing that she knew of. he was natural, normal, mischievous; but he had not an underhand inclination that she could discover. he would make a fine-looking, big man, quite as fine as any of the bates men; even adam, d, was no handsomer than the fourth adam would be. hope arose in her with the cool air of spring on her cheek and its wine in her nostrils. then out of the clear sky she said it: "adam, how long are we going to stay in the beggar class?" adam jumped, and turned surprised eyes toward her. kate was forced to justify herself. "of course we give aunt ollie half we raise," she said, "but anybody would do that. we work hard, and we live little if any better than jasons, who have the county trustee in three times a winter. i'm big and strong, you're almost a man, why don't we do something? why don't we have some decent clothes, some money for out work and"--kate spoke at random--"a horse and carriage?" "a horse and carriage?" repeated adam, staring at her. "why not?" said kate, casually. "but how?" cried the amazed boy. "why, earn the money, and buy it!" said kate, impatiently. "i'm about fed up on earning cabbage, and potatoes, and skirmishing for wood. i'd prefer to have a dollar in my pocket, and buy what we need. can't you use your brain and help me figure out a way to earn some money?" "i meant to pretty soon now, but i thought i had to go to school a few years yet," he said. "of course you do," said kate. "i must earn the money, but can't you help me think how?" "sure," said adam, sitting straight and seeming thoughtful, "but give me a little time. what would you--could you, do?" "i taught before i was married," said kate; "but methods of teaching change so i'd have to have a normal term to qualify for even this school. i could put you and polly with aunt ollie this summer; but i wouldn't, not if we must freeze and starve together--" "because of grandma?" asked the boy. kate nodded. "i borrowed money to go once, and i could again; but i have been away from teaching so long, and i don't know what to do with you children. the thing i would like would be to find a piece of land somewhere, with a house, any kind of one on it, and take it to rent. land is about all i really know. working for money would be of some interest. i am so dead tired working for potatoes. sometimes i see them flying around in the air at night." "do you know of any place you would like?" asked adam. "no, i don't," said kate, "but i am going to begin asking and i'm going to keep my eyes open. i heard yesterday that dr. james intends to build a new house. this house is nothing, but the lot is in the prettiest place in town. let's sell it to him, and take the money, and buy us some new furniture and a cow, and a team, and wagon, and a buggy, and go on a piece of land, and live like other people. seems to me i'll die if i have to work for potatoes any longer. i'm heart sick of them. don't say a word to anybody, but oh, adam, think! think hard! can't you just help me think?" "you are sure you want land?" asked the boy. "it is all i know," said kate. "how do you feel about it?" "i want horses, and cows, and pigs--lots of pigs--and sheep, and lots of white hens," said adam, promptly. "get the spade and spade the onion bed until i think," said kate. "and that reminds me, we didn't divide the sets last fall. somebody will have to go after them." "i'll go," said adam, "but it's awful early. it'll snow again. let me go after school friday and stay over night. i'd like to go and stay over night with aunt ollie. grandma can't say anything to me that i'll listen to. you keep polly, and let me go alone. sure i can." "all right," said kate. "spade the bed, and let it warm a day. it will be good for it. but don't tell polly you're going, or she'll want to go along." until friday night, kate and adam went around in such a daze of deep thought that they stumbled, and ran against each other; then came back to their affairs suddenly, looking at each other and smiling understandingly. after one of these encounters kate said to the boy: "you may not arrive at anything, adam, but i certainly can't complain that you are not thinking." adam grinned: "i'm not so sure that i haven't got it," he said. "tell me quick and let me think, too" said kate. "but i can't tell you yet," said adam. "i have to find out something first." friday evening he wanted to put off his trip until saturday morning, so kate agreed. she was surprised when he bathed and put on his clean shirt and trousers, but said not a word. she had made some study of child psychology, she thought making the trip alone was of so much importance to adam that he was dressing for the occasion. she foresaw extra washing, yet she said nothing to stop the lad. she waved good-bye to him, thinking how sturdy and good looking he was, as he ran out of the front door. kate was beginning to be worried when adam had not returned toward dusk sunday evening, and polly was cross and fretful. finally they saw him coming down the ravine bank, carrying his small bundle of sets. kate felt a glow of relief; polly ran to meet him. kate watched as they met and saw adam take polly's hand. "if only they looked as much alike as some twins do, i'd be thankful," said kate. adam delivered the sets, said aunt ollie and grandma were all right, that it was an awful long walk, and he was tired. kate noticed that his feet were dust covered, but his clothes were so clean she said to him: "you didn't fish much." "i didn't fish any," said adam, "not like i always fish," he added. "had any time to think?" asked kate. "you just bet i did," said the boy. "i didn't waste a minute." "neither did i," said kate. "i know exactly what the prettiest lot in town can be sold for." "good!" cried adam. "fine!" monday kate wanted to get up early and stick the sets, but adam insisted that aunt ollie said the sign would not be right until wednesday. if they were stuck on monday or tuesday, they would all grow to top. "my goodness! i knew that," said kate. "i am thinking so hard i'm losing what little sense i had; but anyway, mere thinking is doing me a world of good. i am beginning to feel a kind of rising joy inside, and i can't imagine anything else that makes it." adam went to school, laughing. kate did the washing and ironing, and worked in the garden getting beds ready. tuesday she was at the same occupation, when about ten o'clock she dropped her spade and straightened, a flash of perfect amazement crossing her face. she stood immovable save for swaying forward in an attitude of tense listening. "hoo! hoo!" kate ran across the yard and as she turned the corner of the house she saw a one-horse spring wagon standing before the gate, while a stiff, gaunt figure sat bolt upright on the seat, holding the lines. kate was at the wheel looking up with a face of delighted amazement. "why, mother!" she cried. "why, mother!" "go fetch a chair and help me down," said mrs. bates, "this seat is getting tarnation hard." kate ran after a chair, and helped her mother to alight. mrs. bates promptly took the chair, on the sidewalk. "just drop the thills," she said. "lead him back and slip on the halter. it's there with his feed." kate followed instructions, her heart beating wildly. several times she ventured a quick glance at her mother. how she had aged! how lined and thin she was! but oh, how blessed good it was to see her! mrs. bates arose and they walked into the house, where she looked keenly around, while her sharp eyes seemed to appraise everything as she sat down and removed her bonnet. "go fetch me a drink," she said, "and take the horse one and then i'll tell you why i came." "i don't care why you came," said kate, "but oh, mother, thank god you are here!" "now, now, don't get het up!" cautioned mrs. bates. "water, i said." kate hurried to obey orders; then she sank on a chair and looked at her mother. mrs. bates wiped her face and settled in the chair comfortably. "they's no use to waste words," she said. "katie, you're the only one in the family that has any sense, and sometimes you ain't got enough so's you could notice it without a magnifyin' glass; but even so, you're ahead of the rest of them. katie, i'm sick an' tired of the neppleses and the whistlers and being bossed by the whole endurin' bates tribe; sick and tired of it, so i just came after you." "came after me?" repeated kate stupidly. "yes, parrot, 'came after you,'" said mrs. bates. "i told you, you'd no great amount of sense. i'm speakin' plain, ain't i? i don't see much here to hold you. i want you should throw a few traps, whatever you are beholden to, in the wagon--that's why i brought it--and come on home and take care of me the rest of my time. it won't be so long; i won't interfere much, nor be much bother. i've kep' the place in order, but i'm about fashed. i won't admit it to the rest of them; but i don't seem to mind telling you, katie, that i am almost winded. will you come?" "of course i will," said kate, a tide of effulgent joy surging up in her heart until it almost choked her. "of course i will, mother, but my children, won't they worry you?" "never having had a child about, i s'pect likely they may," said mrs. bates, dryly. "why, you little fool! i think likely it's the children i am pinin' for most, though i couldn't a-stood it much longer without you. will you get ready and come with me to-day?" "yes," said kate, "if i can make it. there's very little here i care for; i can have the second-hand man give me what he will for the rest; and i can get a good price for the lot to-day, if i say so. dr. james wants it to build on. i'll go and do the very best i can, and when you don't want me any longer, adam will be bigger and we can look out for ourselves. yes, i'll get ready at once if you want me to." "not much of a haggler, are you, katie?" said mrs. bates. "why don't you ask what rooms you're to have, and what i'll pay you, and how much work you'll have to do, and if you take charge of the farm, and how we share up?" kate laughed: "mother," she said, "i have been going to school here, with the master of life for a teacher; and i've learned so many things that really count, that i know now none of the things you mention are essential. you may keep the answers to all those questions; i don't care a cent about any of them. if you want me, and want the children, all those things will settle themselves as we come to them. i didn't use to understand you; but we got well enough acquainted at father's funeral, and i do, now. whatever you do will be fair, just, and right. i'll obey you, as i shall expect adam and polly to." "well, for lands sakes, katie," said mrs. bates. "life must a-been weltin' it to you good and proper. i never expected to see you as meek as moses. that holt man wasn't big enough to beat you, was he?" "the ways in which he 'beat' me no bates would understand. i had eight years of them, and i don't understand them yet; but i am so cooked with them, that i shall be wild with joy if you truly mean for me to pack up and come home with you for awhile." "oh, lordy, katie!" said mrs. bates. "this whipped out, take-anything-anyway style ain't becomin' to a big, fine, upstanding woman like you. hold up your head, child! hold up your head, and say what you want, an' how you want it!" "honestly, mother, i don't want a thing on earth but to go home with you and do as you say for the next ten years," said kate. "stiffen up!" cried mrs. bates. "stiffen up!" "don't be no broken reed, katie! i don't want you dependin' on me; i came to see if you would let me lean on you the rest of the way. i wa'n't figuring that there was anything on this earth that could get you down; so's i was calculatin' you'd be the very one to hold me up. since you seem to be feeling unaccountably weak in the knees, let's see if we can brace them a little. livin' with pa so long must kind of given me a tendency toward nussin' a deed. i've got one here i had executed two years ago, and i was a coming with it along about now, when 'a little bird tole me' to come to-day, so here i am. take that, katie." mrs. bates pulled a long sealed envelope from the front of her dress and tossed it in kate's lap. "mother, what is this?" asked kate in a hushed voice. "well, if you'd rather use your ears than your eyes, it's all the same to me," said mrs. bates. "the boys always had a mortal itchin' to get their fingers on the papers in the case. i can't say i don't like the difference; and i've give you every chance, too, an you wouldn't demand, you wouldn't specify. well, i'll just specify myself. i'm dead tired of the neighbours taking care of me, and all of the children stoppin' every time they pass, each one orderin' or insinuatin' according to their lights, as to what i should do. i've always had a purty clear idea of what i wanted to do myself. over forty years, i sided with pa, to keep the peace; now i reckon i'm free to do as i like. that's my side. you can tell me yours, now." kate shook her head: "i have nothing to say." "jest as well," said mrs. bates. "re-hashing don't do any good. come back, and come to-day; but stiffen up. that paper you are holding is a warrantee deed to the home two hundred to you and your children after you. you take possession to-day. there's money in the bank to paper, an' paint, and make any little changes you'd like, such as cutting doors or windows different places, floorin' the kitchen new, or the like. take it an' welcome. i got more 'an enough to last me all my days; all i ask of you is my room, my food, and your company. take the farm, and do what you pretty please with it." "but, mother!" cried kate. "the rest of them! they'd tear me limb for limb. i don't dare take this." "oh, don't you?" asked mrs. bates. "well, i still stand for quite a bit at bates corners, and i say you will take that farm, and run it as you like. it is mine, i give it to you. we all know it wasn't your fault you lost your money, though it was a dose it took some of us a good long time to swallow. you are the only one out of your share; you settled things fine for the rest of them; and they all know it, and feel it. you'll never know what you did for me the way you put me through pa's funeral; now if you'll just shut up, and stick that deed somewhere it won't burn, and come home an' plant me as successfully as you did pa, you'll have earned all you'll get, an' something coming. now set us out a bite to eat, and let's be off." kate slowly arose and handed back the deed. "i'll be flying around so lively i might lose that," she said, "you put it where you had it, till we get to hartley, and then i'll get a place in the bank vault for it. i can't quite take this in, just yet, but you know i'll do my best for you, mother!" "tain't likely i'd be here else," said mrs. bates, "and tea, katie. a cup of good strong hot tea would fix me up about proper, right now." kate went to the kitchen and began setting everything she had to eat on the table. as she worked polly came flying in the door crying: "mother, who has come?" so kate stepped toward the living room to show the child to her grandmother and as she advanced she saw a queer thing. adam was sitting on his grandmother's lap. her arms were tight around him, her face buried in his crisp hair, and he was patting her shoulder and telling her he would take care of her, while her voice said distinctly: "of course you will, birdie!" then the lad and the old woman laid their heads together and laughed almost hysterically. "well, if that isn't quick work!" said kate to herself. then she presented polly, who followed adam's lead in hugging the stranger first and looking at her afterward. god bless all little children. then adam ran to tell the second-hand man to come at one o'clock and dr. james that he might have the keys at three. they ate hurriedly. kate set out what she wished to save; the children carried things to the wagon; she packed while they ran after their books, and at three o'clock all of them climbed into the spring wagon, and started to bates corners. kate was the last one in. as she climbed on the seat beside her mother and took the lines, she handed mrs. bates a small china mug to hold for her. it was decorated with a very fat robin and on a banner floating from its beak was inscribed: "for a good girl." chapter xxi life's boomerang as they drove into hartley, mrs. bates drew forth the deed. "you are right about the bank being a safe place for this," she said. "i've had it round the house for two years, and it's a fair nervous thing to do. i wish i'd a-had sense to put it there and come after you the day i made it. but there's no use crying over spilt milk, nor fussin' with the grease spot it makes; salt it down safely now, and when you get it done, beings as this setting is fairly comfortable, take time to run into harding's and pick up some sunday-school clothes for the children that will tally up with the rest of their relations'; an' get yourself a cheap frock or two that will spruce you up a bit till you have time to decide what you really want." kate passed the lines to her mother, and climbed from the wagon. she returned with her confidence partly restored and a new look on her face. her mother handed her two dimes. "i can wait five minutes longer," she said. "now get two nice oranges and a dime's worth of candy." kate took the money and obeyed orders. she handed the packages to her mother as she climbed into the wagon and again took the lines, heading the horse toward the old, familiar road. her mother twisted around on the seat and gave each of the children an orange and a stick of candy. "there!" she said. "go on and spoil yourselves past redemption." kate laughed. "but, mother," she said, "you never did that for us." "which ain't saying i never wanted to," said mrs. bates, sourly. "you're a child only once in this world; it's a little too rough to strip childhood of everything. i ain't so certain bates ways are right, that for the rest of my time i'm goin' to fly in the face of all creation to prove it. if god lets me live a few years more, i want the faces around me a little less discontenteder than those i've been used to. if god almighty spares me long enough, i lay out to make sure that adam and polly will squeeze out a tear or two for granny when she is laid away." "i think you are right, mother," said kate. "it didn't cost anything, but we had a real pretty christmas tree this year, and i believe we can do better next time. i want the children to love you, but don't buy them." "well, i'd hardly call an orange and a stick of candy traffickin' in affection," said mrs. bates. "they'll survive it without underminin' their principles, i'll be bound, or yours either. katie, let's make a beginning to-day. let's work what is right, and healthy, a fair part of the day, and then each day, and sunday especially, let's play and rest, just as hard as we work. it's been all work and no play till we've been mighty 'dull boys' at our house; i'm free to say that i hanker for a change before i die." "don't speak so often of dying," said kate. "you're all right. you've been too much alone. you'll feel like yourself as soon as you get rested." "i guess i been thinking about it too much," said mrs. bates. "i ain't been so well as i might, an' not being used to it, it worries me some. i got to buck up. the one thing i can't do is to die; but i'm most tired enough to do it right now. i'll be glad when we get home." kate drove carefully, but as fast as she dared with her load. as they neared bates corners, the way became more familiar each mile. kate forgot the children, forgot her mother, forgot ten years of disappointment and failure, and began a struggle to realize what was happening to her now. the lines slipped down, the horse walked slowly, the first thing she knew, big hot tears splashed on her hand. she gathered up the lines, drew a deep breath, and glanced at her mother, meeting her eye fairly. kate tried to smile, but her lips were quivering. "glad, katie?" asked mrs. bates. kate nodded. "me, too!" said mrs. bates. they passed the orchard. "there's the house, there, polly!" cried adam. "why, adam, how did you know the place?" asked kate, turning. adam hesitated a second. "ain't you told us times a-plenty about the house and the lilac, and the snowball bush--" "yes, and the cabbage roses," added polly. "so i have," said kate. "mostly last winter when we were knitting. yes, this will be home for all the rest of our lives. isn't it grand? how will we ever thank grandmother? how will we ever be good enough to pay her?" both children thought this a hint, so with one accord they arose and fell on mrs. bates' back, and began to pay at once in coin of childhood. "there, there," said kate, drawing them away as she stopped the horse at the gate. "there, there, you will choke grandmother." mrs. bates pushed kate's arm down. "mind your own business, will you?" she said. "i ain't so feeble that i can't speak for myself awhile yet." in a daze kate climbed down, and ran to bring a chair to help her mother. the children were boisterously half eating mrs. bates up; she had both of them in her arms, with every outward evidence of enjoying the performance immensely. that was a very busy evening, for the wagon was to be unpacked; all of them were hungry, while the stock was to be fed, and the milking done. mrs. bates and polly attempted supper; kate and adam went to the barn; but they worked very hurriedly, for kate could see how feeble her mother had grown. when at last the children were bathed and in bed, kate and her mother sat on the little front porch to smell spring a few minutes before going to rest. kate reached over and took her mother's hand. "there's no word i know in any language big enough to thank you for this, mother," she said. "the best i can do is make each day as nearly a perfect expression of what i feel as possible." mrs. bates drew away her hand and used it to wipe her eyes; but she said with her usual terse perversity: "my, kate! you're most as wordy as agatha. i'm no glibtonguer, but i bet you ten dollars it will hustle you some to be any gladder than i am." kate laughed and gave up the thanks question. "to-morrow we must get some onions in," she said. "have you made any plans about the farm work for this year yet?" "no," said mrs. bates. "i was going to leave that till i decided whether i'd come after you this spring or wait until next. since i decided to come now, i'll just leave your farm to you. handle it as you please." "mother, what will the other children say?" implored kate. "humph! you are about as well acquainted with them as i am. take a shot at it yourself. if it will avoid a fuss, we might just say you had to come to stay with me, and run the farm for me, and let them get used to your being here, and bossing things by degrees; like the man that cut his dog's tail off an inch at a time, so it wouldn't hurt so bad." "but by inches, or 'at one fell swoop,' it's going to hurt," said kate. "sometimes it seems to me," said mrs. bates, "that the more we get hurt in this world the decenter it makes us. all the boys were hurt enough when pa went, but every man of them has been a bigger, better man since. instead of competing as they always did, adam and andrew and the older, beforehandeder ones, took hold and helped the younger as you told them to, and it's done the whole family a world of good. one thing is funny. to hear mary talk now, you'd think she engineered that plan herself. the boys are all thankful, and so are the girls. i leave it to you. tell them or let them guess it by degrees, it's all one to me." "tell me about nancy ellen and robert," said kate. "robert stands head in hartley. he gets bigger and broader every year. he is better looking than a man has any business to be; and i hear the hartley ladies give him plenty of encouragement in being stuck on himself, but i think he is true to nancy ellen, and his heart is all in his work. no children. that's a burning shame! both of them feel it. in a way, and strictly between you and me, nancy ellen is a disappointment to me, an' i doubt if she ain't been a mite of a one to him. he had a right to expect a good deal of nancy ellen. she had such a good brain, and good body, and purty face. i may miss my guess, but it always strikes me that she falls short of what he expected of her. he's coined money, but she hasn't spent it in the ways he would. likely i shouldn't say it, but he strikes me as being just a leetle mite too good for her." "oh, mother!" said kate. "now you lookey here," said mrs. bates. "suppose you was a man of robert's brains, and education, and professional ability, and you made heaps of money, and no children came, and you had to see all you earned, and stood for, and did in a community spent on the selfishness of one woman. how big would you feel? what end is that for the ambition and life work of a real man? how would you like it?" "i never thought of such a thing," said kate. "well, mark my word, you will think of it when you see their home, and her clothes, and see them together," said mrs. bates. "she still loves pretty clothing so well?" asked kate. "she is the best-dressed woman in the county, and the best looking," said mrs. bates, "and that's all there is to her. i'm free to say with her chances, i'm ashamed of what she has, and hasn't made of herself. i'd rather stand in your shoes, than hers, this minute, katie." "does she know i'm here?" asked kate. "yes. i stopped and told her on my way out, this morning," said mrs. bates. "i asked them to come out for sunday dinner, and they are coming." "did you deliver the invitation by force?" asked kate. "now, none of your meddling," said mrs. bates. "i got what i went after, and that was all i wanted. i've told her an' told her to come to see you during the last three years, an' i know she wanted to come; but she just had that stubborn bates streak in her that wouldn't let her change, once her mind was made up. it did give us a purty severe jolt, kate, havin' all that good bates money burn up." "i scarcely think it jolted any of you more than it did me," said kate dryly. "no, i reckon it didn't," said mrs. bates. "but they's no use hauling ourselves over the coals to go into that. it's past. you went out to face life bravely enough and it throwed you a boomerang that cut a circle and brought you back where you started from. our arrangements for the future are all made. now it's up to us to live so that we get the most out of life for us an' the children. those are mighty nice children of yours, kate. i take to that boy something amazin', and the girl is the nicest little old lady i've seen in many a day. i think we will like knittin' and sewin' together, to the top of our bent." "my, but i'm glad you like them, mother," said kate. "they are all i've got to show for ten years of my life." "not by a long shot, katie," said mrs. bates. "life has made a real woman of you. i kept watchin' you to-day comin' over; an' i was prouder 'an jehu of you. it's a debatable question whether you have thrown away your time and your money. i say you've got something to show for it that i wish to god the rest of my children had. i want you should brace your back, and stiffen your neck, and make things hum here. get a carpenter first. fix the house the way it will be most convenient and comfortable. then paint and paper, and get what new things you like, in reason--of course, in reason--and then i want you should get all of us clothes so's there ain't a noticeable difference between us and the others when we come together here or elsewhere. put in a telephone; they're mighty handy, and if you can scrape up a place--i washed in nancy ellen's tub a few weeks ago. i never was wet all over at once before in my life, and i'm just itching to try it again. i say, let's have it, if it knocks a fair-sized hole in a five-hundred-dollar bill. an' if we had the telephone right now, we could call up folks an' order what we want without ever budgin' out of our tracks. go up ahead, katie, i'll back you in anything you can think of. it won't hurt my feelings a mite if you can think of one or two things the rest of them haven't got yet. can't you think of something that will lay the rest of them clear in the shade? i just wish you could. now, i'm going to bed." kate went with her mother, opened her bed, pulled out the pins, and brushed her hair, drew the thin cover over her, and blew out the light. then she went past the bed on her way to the door, and stooping, she kissed her mother for the first time since she could remember. then she lighted a lamp, hunted a big sheet of wrapping paper, and sitting down beside the living room table, she drew a rough sketch of the house. for hours she pored over it, and when at last she went to bed, on the reverse of the sheet she had a drawing that was quite a different affair; yet it was the same house with very few and easily made changes that a good contractor could accomplish in a short time. in the morning, she showed these ideas to her mother who approved all of them, but still showed disappointment visibly. "that's nothing but all the rest of them have," she said. "i thought you could think up some frills that would be new, and different." "well," said kate, "would you want to go to the expense of setting up a furnace in the cellar? it would make the whole house toasty warm; it would keep the bathroom from freezing in cold weather; and make a better way to heat the water." "now you're shouting!" cried mrs. bates. "that's it! but keep still. don't you tell a soul about it, but go on and do it, katie. wade right in! what else can you think of?" "a brain specialist for you," said kate. "i think myself this is enough for a start; but if you insist on more, there's a gas line passing us out there on the road; we could hitch on for a very reasonable sum, and do away with lamps and cooking with wood." "goody for you! that's it!" cried mrs. bates. "that's the very thing! now brush up your hair your prettiest, and put on your new blue dress, and take the buggy, and you and adam go see how much of this can be started to-day. me and polly will keep house." in a month all of these changes had been made, and were in running order; the painting was finished, new furniture in place, a fair start made on the garden, while a strong, young, hired man was not far behind hiram with his plowing. kate was so tired she almost staggered; but she was so happy she arose each morning refreshed, and accomplished work enough for three average women before the day was over. she suggested to her mother that she use her money from the sale of the walden home to pay for what furniture she had bought, and then none of the others could feel that they were entitled to any share in it, at any time. mrs. bates thought that a good idea, so much ill will was saved among the children. they all stopped in passing; some of them had sharp words to say, which kate instantly answered in such a way that this was seldom tried twice. in two months the place was fresh, clean, convenient, and in good taste. all of them had sufficient suitable clothing, while the farm work had not been neglected enough to hurt the value of the crops. in the division of labour, adam and the hired man took the barn and field work, mrs. bates and polly the house, while kate threw all her splendid strength wherever it was most needed. if a horse was sick, she went to the barn and doctored it. if the hay was going to get wet, she pitched hay. if the men had not time for the garden she attended it, and hoed the potatoes. for a change, everything went right. mrs. bates was happier than she ever had been before, taking the greatest interest in the children. they had lived for three years in such a manner that they would never forget it. they were old enough to appreciate what changes had come to them, and to be very keen about their new home and life. kate threw herself into the dream of her heart with all the zest of her being. always she had loved and wanted land. now she had it. she knew how to handle it. she could make it pay as well as any bates man, for she had man strength, and all her life she had heard men discuss, and helped men apply man methods. there was a strong strain of her father's spirit of driving in kate's blood; but her mother was so tired of it that whenever kate had gone just so far the older woman had merely to caution: "now, now, katie!" to make kate realized what she was doing and take a slower pace. all of them were well, happy, and working hard; but they also played at proper times, and in convenient places. kate and her mother went with the children when they fished in the meadow brook, or hunted wild flowers in the woods for polly's bed in the shade of the pear tree beside the garden. there were flowers in the garden now, as well as vegetables. there was no work done on sunday. the children always went to sunday-school and the full term of the district school at bates corners. they were respected, they were prosperous, they were finding a joy in life they never before had known, while life had taught them how to appreciate its good things as they achieved them. the first christmas mrs. bates and kate made a christmas tree from a small savine in the dooryard that stood where kate wanted to set a flowering shrub she had found in the woods. guided by the former year, and with a few dollars they decided to spend, these women made a real christmas tree, with gifts and ornaments, over which mrs. bates was much more excited than the children. indeed, such is the perversity of children that kate's eyes widened and her mouth sagged when she heard adam say in a half-whisper to polly: "this is mighty pretty, but gee, polly, there'll never be another tree as pretty as ours last year!" while polly answered: "i was just thinking about it, adam. wasn't it the grandest thing?" the next christmas mrs. bates advanced to a tree that reached the ceiling, with many candles, real ornaments, and an orange, a stocking of candy and nuts, and a doll for each girl, and a knife for each boy of her grandchildren, all of whom she invited for dinner. adam, d, sat at the head of the table, mrs. bates at the foot. the tiniest tots that could be trusted without their parents ranged on the dictionary and the bible, of which the bates family possessed a fat edition for birth records; no one had ever used it for any other purpose, until it served to lift hiram's baby, milly, on a level with her roast turkey and cranberry jelly. for a year before her party mrs. bates planned for it. the tree was beautiful, the gifts amazing, the dinner, as kate cooked and served it, a revelation, with its big centre basket of red, yellow, and green apples, oranges, bananas, grapes, and flowers. none of them ever had seen a table like that. then when dinner was over, kate sat before the fire and in her clear voice, with fine inflections, she read from the big book the story of the guiding star and the little child in the manger. then she told stories, and they played games until four o'clock; and then adam rolled all of the children into the big wagon bed mounted on the sled runners, and took them home. then he came back and finished the day. mrs. bates could scarcely be persuaded to go to bed. when at last kate went to put out her mother's light, and see that her feet were warm and her covers tucked, she found her crying. "why, mother!" exclaimed kate in frank dismay. "wasn't everything all right?" "i'm just so endurin' mad," sobbed mrs. bates, "that i could a-most scream and throw things. here i am, closer the end of my string than anybody knows. likely i'll not see another christmas. i've lived the most of my life, and never knowed there was a time like that on earth to be had. there wasn't expense to it we couldn't easy have stood, always. now, at the end of my tether, i go and do this for my grandchildren. 'tween their little shining faces and me, there kept coming all day the little, sad, disappointed faces of you and nancy ellen, and mary, and hannah, and adam, and andrew, and hiram and all the others. ever since he went i've thought the one thing i couldn't do was to die and face adam bates, but to-day i ain't felt so scared of him. seems to me he has got about as much to account for as i have." kate stood breathlessly still, looking at her mother. mrs. bates wiped her eyes. "i ain't so mortal certain," she said, "that i don't open up on him and take the first word. i think likely i been defrauded out of more that really counts in this world, than he has. ain't that little roly-poly of hannah's too sweet? seems like i'll hardly quit feeling her little sticky hands and her little hot mouth on my face when i die; and as she went out she whispered in my ear: 'do it again, grandma, oh, please do it again!' an it's more'n likely i'll not get the chance, no matter how willing i am. kate, i am going to leave you what of my money is left--i haven't spent so much--and while you live here, i wish each year you would have this same kind of a party and pay for it out of that money, and call it 'grandmother's party.' will you?" "i surely will," said kate. "and hadn't i better have all of them, and put some little thing from you on the tree for them? you know how hiram always was wild for cuff buttons, and mary could talk by the hour about a handkerchief with lace on it, and andrew never yet has got that copy of 'aesop's fables,' he always wanted. shall i?" "yes," said mrs. bates. "oh, yes, and when you do it, katie, if they don't chain me pretty close in on the other side, i think likely i'll be sticking around as near as i can get to you." kate slipped a hot brick rolled in flannel to the cold old feet, and turning out the light she sat beside the bed and stroked the tired head until easy breathing told her that her mother was sound asleep. then she went back to the fireplace and sitting in the red glow she told adam, d, part of what her mother had said. long after he was gone, she sat gazing into the slowly graying coals, her mind busy with what she had not told. that spring was difficult for kate. day after day she saw her mother growing older, feebler, and frailer. and as the body failed, up flamed the wings of the spirit, carrying her on and on, each day keeping her alive, when kate did not see how it could be done. with all the force she could gather, each day mrs. bates struggled to keep going, denied that she felt badly, drove herself to try to help about the house and garden. kate warned the remainder of the family what they might expect at any hour; but when they began coming in oftener, bringing little gifts and being unusually kind, mrs. bates endured a few of the visits in silence, then she turned to kate and said after her latest callers: "i wonder what in the name of all possessed ails the folks? are they just itching to start my funeral? can't they stay away until you send them word that the breath's out of my body?" "mother, you shock me," said kate. "they come because they love you. they try to tell you so with the little things they bring. most people would think they were neglected, if their children did not come to see them when they were not so well." "not so well!" cried mrs. bates. "folly! i am as well as i ever was. they needn't come snooping around, trying to make me think i'm not. if they'd a-done it all their lives, well and good; it's no time for them to begin being cotton-mouthed now." "mother," said kate gently, "haven't you changed, yourself, about things like christmas, for example? maybe your children are changing, too. maybe they feel that they have missed something they'd like to have from you, and give back to you, before it's too late. just maybe," said kate. mrs. bates sat bolt upright still, but her flashing eyes softened. "i hadn't just thought of that," she said. "i think it's more than likely. well, if it's that way, i s'pose i've got to button up my lip and stand it; but it's about more than i can go, when i know that the first time i lose my grip i'll land smash up against adam bates and my settlement with him." "mother," said kate still more gently, "i thought we had it settled at the time father went that each of you would be accountable to god, not to each other. i am a wanderer in darkness myself, when it come to talking about god, but this i know, he is somewhere and he is redeeming love. if father has been in the light of his love all these years, he must have changed more, far more than you have. he'll understand now how wrong he was to force ways on you he knew you didn't think right; he'll have more to account to you for than you ever will to him; and remember this only, neither of you is accountable, save to your god." mrs. bates arose and walked to the door, drawn to full height, her head very erect. the world was at bloom-time. the evening air was heavily sweet with lilacs, and the widely branching, old apple trees of the dooryard with loaded with flowers. she stepped outside. kate followed. her mother went down the steps and down the walk to the gate. kate kept beside her, in reach, yet not touching her. at the gate she gripped the pickets to steady herself as she stared long and unflinchingly at the red setting sun dropping behind a white wall of bloom. then she slowly turned, life's greatest tragedy lining her face, her breath coming in short gasps. she spread her hands at each side, as if to balance herself, her passing soul in her eyes, and looked at kate. "katherine eleanor," she said slowly and distinctly, "i'm going now. i can't fight it off any longer. i confess myself. i burned those deeds. every one of them. pa got himself afire, but he'd thrown them out of it. it was my chance. i took it. are you going to tell them?" kate was standing as tall and straight as her mother, her hands extended the same, but not touching her. "no," she said. "you were an instrument in the hands of god to right a great wrong. no! i shall never tell a soul while i live. in a minute god himself will tell you that you did what he willed you should." "well, we will see about that right now," said mrs. bates, lifting her face to the sky. "into thy hands, o lord, into thy hands!" then she closed her eyes and ceased to breathe. kate took her into her arms and carried her to her bed. chapter xxii somewhat of polly if the spirit of mrs. bates hovered among the bloom-whitened apple trees as her mortal remains were carried past the lilacs and cabbage rose bushes, through a rain of drifting petals, she must have been convinced that time had wrought one great change in the hearts of her children. they had all learned to weep; while if the tears they shed were a criterion of their feelings for her, surely her soul must have been satisfied. they laid her away with simple ceremony and then all of them went to their homes, except nancy ellen and robert, who stopped in passing to learn if there was anything they could do for kate. she was grieving too deeply for many words; none of them would ever understand the deep bond of sympathy and companionship that had grown to exist between her and her mother. she stopped at the front porch and sat down, feeling unable to enter the house with nancy ellen, who was deeply concerned over the lack of taste displayed in agatha's new spring hat. when kate could endure it no longer she interrupted: "why didn't all of them come?" "what for?" asked nancy ellen. "they had a right to know what mother had done," said kate in a low voice. "but what was the use?" asked nancy ellen. "adam had been managing the administrator business for mother and paying her taxes with his, of course when she made a deed to you, and had it recorded, they told him. all of us knew it for two years before she went after you. and the new furniture was bought with your money, so it's yours; what was there to have a meeting about?" "mother didn't understand that you children knew," said kate. "sometimes i thought there were a lot of things mother didn't understand," said nancy ellen, "and sometimes i thought she understood so much more than any of the rest of us, that all of us would have had a big surprise if we could have seen her brain." "yes, i believe we would," said kate. "do you mind telling me how the boys and girls feel about this?" nancy ellen laughed shortly. "well, the boys feel that you negotiated such a fine settlement of father's affairs for them, that they owe this to you. the girls were pretty sore at first, and some of them are nursing their wrath yet; but there wasn't a thing on earth they could do. all of them were perfectly willing that you should have something--after the fire--of course, most of them thought mother went too far." "i think so myself," said kate. "but she never came near me, or wrote me, or sent me even one word, until the day she came after me. i had nothing to do with it--" "all of us know that, kate," said nancy ellen. "you needn't worry. we're all used to it, and we're all at the place where we have nothing to say." to escape grieving for her mother, kate worked that summer as never before. adam was growing big enough and strong enough to be a real help. he was interested in all they did, always after the reason, and trying to think of a better way. kate secured the best agricultural paper for him and they read it nights together. they kept an account book, and set down all they spent, and balanced against it all they earned, putting the difference, which was often more than they hoped for, in the bank. so the years ran. as the children grew older, polly discovered that the nicest boy in school lived across the road half a mile north of them; while adam, after a real struggle in his loyal twin soul, aided by the fact that henry peters usually had divided his apples with polly before adam reached her, discovered that milly york, across the road, half a mile south, liked his apples best, and was as nice a girl as polly ever dared to be. in a dazed way, kate learned these things from their after-school and sunday talk, saw that they nearly reached her shoulder, and realized that they were sixteen. so quickly the time goes, when people are busy, happy, and working together. at least kate and adam were happy, for they were always working together. by tacit agreement, they left polly the easy housework, and went themselves to the fields to wrestle with the rugged work of a farm. they thought they were shielding polly, teaching her a woman's real work, and being kind to her. polly thought they were together because they liked to be; doing the farm work because it suited them better; while she had known from babyhood that for some reason her mother did not care for her as she did for adam. she thought at first that it was because adam was a boy. later, when she noticed her mother watching her every time she started to speak, and interrupting with the never-failing caution: "now be careful! think before you speak! are you sure?" she wondered why this should happen to her always, to adam never. she asked adam about it, but adam did not know. it never occurred to polly to ask her mother, while kate was so uneasy it never occurred to her that the child would notice or what she would think. the first time polly deviated slightly from the truth, she and kate had a very terrible time. kate felt fully justified; the child astonished and abused. polly arrived at the solution of her problem slowly. as she grew older, she saw that her mother, who always was charitable to everyone else, was repelled by her grandmother, while she loved aunt ollie. older still, polly realized that she was a reproduction of her grandmother. she had only to look at her to see this; her mother did not like her grandmother, maybe mother did not like her as well as adam, because she resembled her grandmother. by the time she was sixteen, polly had arrived at a solution that satisfied her as to why her mother liked adam better, and always left her alone in the house to endless cooking, dishwashing, sweeping, dusting, washing, and ironing, while she hoed potatoes, pitched hay, or sheared sheep. polly thought the nicer way would have been to do the housework together and then go to the fields together; but she was a good soul, so she worked alone and brooded in silence, and watched up the road for a glimpse of henry peters, who liked to hear her talk, and to whom it mattered not a mite that her hair was lustreless, her eyes steel coloured, and her nose like that of a woman he never had seen. in her way, polly admired her mother, loved her, and worked until she was almost dropping for kate's scant, infrequent words of praise. so polly had to be content in the kitchen. one day, having finished her work two hours before dinnertime, she sauntered to the front gate. how strange that henry peters should be at the end of the field joining their land. when he waved, she waved back. when he climbed the fence she opened the gate. they met halfway, under the bloomful shade of a red haw. henry wondered who two men he had seen leaving the holt gate were, and what they wanted, but he was too polite to ask. he merely hoped they did not annoy her. oh, no, they were only some men to see mother about some business, but it was most kind of him to let her know he was looking out for her. she got so lonely; mother never would let her go to the field with her. of course not! the field was no place for such a pretty girl; there was enough work in the house for her. his sister should not work in the field, if he had a sister, and polly should not work there, if she belonged to him; no-sir-ee! polly looked at henry with shining, young girl eyes, and when he said she was pretty, her blue-gray eyes softened, her cheeks pinked up, the sun put light in her hair nature had failed to, and lo and behold, the marvel was wrought--plain little polly became a thing of beauty. she knew it instantly, because she saw herself in henry peters' eyes. and henry was so amazed when this wonderful transformation took place in little polly, right there under the red haw tree, that his own eyes grew big and tender, his cheeks flooded with red blood, his heart shook him, and he drew to full height, and became possessed of an overwhelming desire to dance before polly, and sing to her. he grew so splendid, polly caught her breath, and then she smiled on him a very wondering smile, over the great discovery; and henry grew so bewildered he forgot either to dance or sing as a preliminary. he merely, just merely, reached out and gathered polly in his arms, and held her against him, and stared down at her wonderful beauty opening right out under his eyes. "little beautiful!" said henry peters in a hushed, choking voice, "little beautiful!" polly looked up at him. she was every bit as beautiful as he thought her, while he was so beautiful to polly that she gasped for breath. how did he happen to look as he did, right under the red haw, in broad daylight? he had been hers, of course, ever since, shy and fearful, she had first entered bates corners school, and found courage in his broad, encouraging smile. now she smiled on him, the smile of possession that was in her heart. henry instantly knew she always had belonged to him, so he grasped her closer, and bent his head. when henry went back to the plow, and polly ran down the road, with the joy of the world surging in her heart and brain, she knew that she was going to have to account to her tired, busy mother for being half an hour late with dinner; and he knew he was going to have to explain to an equally tired father why he was four furrows short of where he should be. he came to book first, and told the truth. he had seen some men go to the holts'. polly was his little chum; and she was always alone all summer, so he just walked that way to be sure she was safe. his father looked at him quizzically. "so that's the way the wind blows!" he said. "well, i don't know where you could find a nicer little girl or a better worker. i'd always hoped you'd take to milly york; but polly is better; she can work three of milly down. awful plain, though!" this sacrilege came while henry's lips were tingling with their first kiss, and his heart was drunken with the red wine of innocent young love. "why, dad, you're crazy!" he cried. "there isn't another girl in the whole world as pretty and sweet as polly. milly york? she can't hold a candle to polly! besides, she's been adam's as long as polly has been mine!" "god bless my soul!" cried mr. peters. "how these youngsters to run away with us. and are you the most beautiful young man at bates corners, henry?" "i'm beautiful enough that polly will put her arms around my neck and kiss me, anyway," blurted henry. "so you and ma can get ready for a wedding as soon as polly says the word. i'm ready, right now." "so am i," said mr. peters, "and from the way ma complains about the work i and you boys make her, i don't think she will object to a little help. polly is a good, steady worker." polly ran, but she simply could not light the fire, set the table, and get things cooked on time, while everything she touched seemed to spill or slip. she could not think what, or how, to do the usual for the very good reason that henry peters was a prince, and a knight, and a lover, and a sweetheart, and her man; she had just agreed to all this with her soul, less than an hour ago under the red haw. no wonder she was late, no wonder she spilled and smeared; and red of face she blundered and bungled, for the first time in her life. then in came kate. she must lose no time, the corn must be finished before it rained. she must hurry--for the first time dinner was late, while polly was messing like a perfect little fool. kate stepped in and began to right things with practised hand. disaster came when she saw polly, at the well, take an instant from bringing in the water, to wave in the direction of the peters farm. as she entered the door, kate swept her with a glance. "have to upset the bowl, as usual?" she said, scathingly. "just as i think you're going to make something of yourself, and be of some use, you begin mooning in the direction of that big, gangling hank peters. don't you ever let me see you do it again. you are too young to start that kind of foolishness. i bet a cow he was hanging around here, and made you late with dinner." "he was not! he didn't either!" cried polly, then stopped in dismay, her cheeks burning. she gulped and went on bravely: "that is, he wasn't here, and he didn't make me late, any more than i kept him from his work. he always watches when there are tramps and peddlers on the road, because he knows i'm alone. i knew he would be watching two men who stopped to see you, so i just went as far as the haw tree to tell him i was all right, and we got to talking--" if only kate had been looking at polly then! but she was putting the apple butter and cream on the table. as she did so, she thought possibly it was a good idea to have henry peters seeing that tramps did not frighten polly, so she missed dawn on the face of her child, and instead of what might have been, she said: "well, i must say that is neighbourly of him; but don't you dare let him get any foolish notions in his head. i think aunt nancy ellen will let you stay at her house after this, and go to the hartley high school in winter, so you can come out of that much better prepared to teach than i ever was. i had a surprise planned for you to-night, but now i don't know whether you deserve it or not. i'll have to think." kate did not think at all. after the manner of parents, she said that, but her head was full of something she thought vastly more important just then; of course polly should have her share in it. left alone to wash the dishes and cook supper while her mother went to town, it was polly, who did the thinking. she thought entirely too much, thought bitterly, thought disappointedly, and finally thought resentfully, and then alas, polly thought deceitfully. her mother had said: "never let me see you." very well, she would be extremely careful that she was not seen; but before she slept she rather thought she would find a way to let henry know how she was being abused, and about that plan to send her away all the long winter to school. she rather thought henry would have something to say about how his "little beautiful" was being treated. here polly looked long and searchingly in the mirror to see if by any chance henry was mistaken, and she discovered he was. she stared in amazement at the pink-cheeked, shining eyed girl she saw mirrored. she pulled her hair looser around the temples, and drew her lips over her teeth. surely henry was mistaken. "little beautiful" was too moderate. she would see that he said "perfectly lovely," the next time, and he did. chapter xxiii kate's heavenly time one evening kate and polly went to the front porch to rest until bedtime and found a shining big new trunk sitting there, with kate's initials on the end, her name on the check tag, and a key in the lock. they unbuckled the straps, turned the key, and lifted the lid. that trunk contained underclothing, hose, shoes, two hats, a travelling dress with half a dozen extra waists, and an afternoon and an evening dress, all selected with especial reference to kate's colouring, and made one size larger than nancy ellen wore, which fitted kate perfectly. there were gloves, a parasol, and a note which read: dear kate: here are some clothes. i am going to go north a week after harvest. you can be spared then as well as not. come on! let's run away and have one good time all by ourselves. it is my treat from start to finish. the children can manage the farm perfectly well. any one of her cousins will stay with polly, if she will be lonely. cut loose and come on, kate. i am going. of course robert couldn't be pried away from his precious patients; we will have to go alone; but we do not care. we like it. shall we start about the tenth, on the night train, which will be cooler? nancy ellen. "we shall!" said kate emphatically, when she finished the note. "i haven't cut loose and had a good time since i was married; not for eighteen years. if the children are not big enough to take care of themselves, they never will be. i can go as well as not." she handed the note to polly, while she shook out dresses and gloated over the contents of the trunk. "of course you shall go!" shouted polly as she finished the note, but even as she said it she glanced obliquely up the road and waved a hand behind her mother's back. "sure you shall go!" cried adam, when he finished the note, and sat beside the trunk seeing all the pretty things over again. "you just bet you shall go. polly and i can keep house, fine! we don't need any cousins hanging around. i'll help polly with her work, and then we'll lock the house and she can come out with me. sure you go! we'll do all right." then he glanced obliquely down the road, where a slim little figure in white moved under the cherry trees of the york front yard, aimlessly knocking croquet balls here and there. it was two weeks until time to go, but kate began taking care of herself at once, solely because she did not want nancy ellen to be ashamed of her. she rolled her sleeves down to meet her gloves and used a sunbonnet instead of a sunshade. she washed and brushed her hair with care she had not used in years. by the time the tenth of july came, she was in very presentable condition, while the contents of the trunk did the remainder. as she was getting ready to go, she said to polly: "now do your best while i'm away, and i am sure i can arrange with nancy ellen about school this winter. when i get back, the very first thing i shall do will be to go to hartley and buy some stuff to begin on your clothes. you shall have as nice dresses as the other girls, too. nancy ellen will know exactly what to get you." but she never caught a glimpse of polly's flushed, dissatisfied face or the tightening of her lips that would have suggested to her, had she seen them, that miss polly felt perfectly capable of selecting the clothing she was to wear herself. adam took his mother's trunk to the station in the afternoon. in the evening she held polly on her knee, while they drove to dr. gray's. kate thought the children would want to wait and see them take the train, but adam said that would make them very late getting home, they had better leave that to uncle robert and go back soon; so very soon they were duly kissed and unduly cautioned; then started back down a side street that would not even take them through the heart of the town. kate looked after them approvingly: "pretty good youngsters," she said. "i told them to go and get some ice cream; but you see they are saving the money and heading straight home." she turned to robert. "can anything happen to them?" she asked, in evident anxiety. "rest in peace, kate," laughed the doctor. "you surely know that those youngsters are going to be eighteen in a few weeks. you've reared them carefully. nothing can, or will, happen to them, that would not happen right under your nose if you were at home. they will go from now on according to their inclinations." kate looked at him sharply: "what do you mean by that?" she demanded. he laughed: "nothing serious," he said. "polly is half bates, so she will marry in a year or two, while adam is all bates, so he will remain steady as the rock of ages, and strictly on the job. go have your good time, and if i possibly can, i'll come after you." "you'll do nothing of the kind," said nancy ellen, with finality. "you wouldn't leave your patients, and you couldn't leave dear mrs. southey." "if you feel that way about it, why do you leave me?" he asked. "to show the little fool i'm not afraid of her, for one thing," said nancy ellen with her head high. she was very beautiful in her smart travelling dress, while her eyes flashed as she spoke. the doctor looked at her approvingly. "good!" he cried. "i like a plucky woman! go to have a good time, nancy ellen; but don't go for that. i do wish you would believe that there isn't a thing the matter with the little woman, she's--" "i can go even farther than that," said nancy ellen, dryly. "i know 'there isn't a thing the matter with the little woman,' except that she wants you to look as if you were running after her. i'd be safe in wagering a thousand dollars that when she hears i'm gone, she will send for you before to-morrow evening." "you may also wager this," he said. "if she does, i shall be very sorry, but i'm on my way to the country on an emergency call. nancy ellen, i wish you wouldn't!" "wouldn't go north, or wouldn't see what every other living soul in hartley sees?" she asked curtly. then she stepped inside to put on her hat and gloves. kate looked at the doctor in dismay. "oh, robert!" she said. "i give you my word of honour, kate," he said. "if nancy ellen only would be reasonable, the woman would see shortly that my wife is all the world to me. i never have been, and never shall be, untrue to her. does that satisfy you?" "of course," said kate. "i'll do all in my power to talk nancy ellen out of that, on this trip. oh, if she only had children to occupy her time!" "that's the whole trouble in a nutshell," said the doctor; "but you know there isn't a scarcity of children in the world. never a day passes but i see half a dozen who need me, sorely. but with nancy ellen, no child will do unless she mothers it, and unfortunately, none comes to her." "too bad!" said kate. "i'm so sorry!" "cheer her up, if you can," said the doctor. an hour later they were speeding north, nancy ellen moody and distraught, kate as frankly delighted as any child. the spring work was over; the crops were fine; adam would surely have the premium wheat to take to the county fair in september; he would work unceasingly for his chance with corn; he and polly would be all right; she could see polly waiting in the stable yard while adam unharnessed and turned out the horse. kate kept watching nancy ellen's discontented face. at last she said: "cheer up, child! there isn't a word of truth in it!" "i know it," said nancy ellen. "then why take the way of all the world to start, and keep people talking?" asked kate. "i'm not doing a thing on earth but attending strictly to my own business," said nancy ellen. "that's exactly the trouble," said kate. "you're not. you let the little heifer have things all her own way. if it were my man, and i loved him as you do robert gray, you can stake your life i should be doing something, several things, in fact." "this is interesting," said nancy ellen. "for example--?" kate had not given such a matter a thought. she looked from the window a minute, her lips firmly compressed. then she spoke slowly: "well, for one thing, i should become that woman's bosom companion. about seven times a week i should uncover her most aggravating weakness all unintentionally before the man in the case, at the same time keeping myself, strictly myself. i should keep steadily on doing and being what he first fell in love with. lastly, since eighteen years have brought you no fulfillment of the desire of your heart, i should give it up, and content myself and delight him by taking into my heart and home a couple of the most attractive tiny babies i could find. two are scarcely more trouble than one; you can have all the help you will accept; the children would never know the difference, if you took them as babies, and soon you wouldn't either; while robert would be delighted. if i were you, i'd give myself something to work for besides myself, and i'd give him so much to think about at home, that charming young grass widows could go to grass!" "i believe you would," said nancy ellen, wonderingly. "i believe you would!" "you're might right, i would," said kate. "if i were married to a man like robert gray, i'd fight tooth and nail before i'd let him fall below his high ideals. it's as much your job to keep him up, as it is his to keep himself. if god didn't make him a father, i would, and i'd keep him busy on the job, if i had to adopt sixteen." nancy ellen laughed, as they went to their berths. the next morning they awakened in cool michigan country and went speeding north among evergreen forests and clear lakes mirroring the pointed forest tops and blue sky, past slashing, splashing streams, in which they could almost see the speckled trout darting over the beds of white sand. by late afternoon they had reached their destination and were in their rooms, bathed, dressed, and ready for the dinner hour. in the evening they went walking, coming back to the hotel tired and happy. after several days they began talking to people and making friends, going out in fishing and boating parties in the morning, driving or boating in the afternoon, and attending concerts or dances at night. kate did not dance, but she loved to see nancy ellen when she had a sufficiently tall, graceful partner; while, as she watched the young people and thought how innocent and happy they seemed, she asked her sister if they could not possibly arrange for adam and polly to go to hartley a night or two a week that winter, and join the dancing class. nancy ellen was frankly delighted, so kate cautiously skirted the school question in such a manner that she soon had nancy ellen asking if it could not be arranged. when that was decided, nancy ellen went to dance, while kate stood on the veranda watching her. the lights from the window fell strongly on kate. she was wearing her evening dress of smoky gray, soft fabric, over shining silk, with knots of dull blue velvet and gold lace here and there. she had dressed her hair carefully; she appeared what she was, a splendid specimen of healthy, vigorous, clean womanhood. "pardon me, mrs. holt," said a voice at her elbow, "but there's only one head in this world like yours, so this, of course, must be you." kate's heart leaped and stood still. she turned slowly, then held out her hand, smiling at john jardine, but saying not a word. he took her hand, and as he gripped it tightly he studied her frankly. "thank god for this!" he said, fervently. "for years i've dreamed of you and hungered for the sight of your face; but you cut me off squarely, so i dared not intrude on you--only the lord knows how delighted i am to see you here, looking like this." kate smiled again. "come away," he begged. "come out of this. come walk a little way with me, and tell me who you are, and how you are, and all the things i think of every day of my life, and now i must know. it's brigandage! come, or i shall carry you!" "pooh! you couldn't!" laughed kate. "of course i'll come! and i don't own a secret. ask anything you want to know. how good it is to see you! your mother--?" "at rest, years ago," he said. "she never forgave me for what i did, in the way i did it. she said it would bring disaster, and she was right. i thought it was not fair and honest not to let you know the worst. i thought i was too old, and too busy, and too flourishing, to repair neglected years at that date, but believe me, kate, you waked me up. try the hardest one you know, and if i can't spell it, i'll pay a thousand to your pet charity." kate laughed spontaneously. "are you in earnest?" she asked. "i am incomprehensibly, immeasurably in earnest," he said, guiding her down a narrow path to a shrub-enclosed, railed-in platform, built on the steep side of a high hill, where they faced the moon-whitened waves, rolling softly in a dancing procession across the face of the great inland sea. here he found a seat. "i've nothing to tell," he said. "i lost mother, so i went on without her. i learned to spell, and a great many other things, and i'm still making money. i never forget you for a day; i never have loved and never shall love any other woman. that's all about me, in a nutshell; now go on and tell me a volume, tell me all night, about you. heavens, woman, i wish you could see yourself, in that dress with the moon on your hair. kate, you are the superbest thing! i always shall be mad about you. oh, if only you could have had a little patience with me. i thought i couldn't learn, but of course i could. but, proceed! i mustn't let myself go." kate leaned back and looked a long time at the shining white waves and the deep blue sky, then she turned to john jardine, and began to talk. she told him simply a few of the most presentable details of her life: how she had lost her money, then had been given her mother's farm, about the children, and how she now lived. he listened with deep interest, often interrupting to ask a question, and when she ceased talking he said half under his breath: "and you're now free! oh, the wonder of it! you're now, free!" kate had that night to think about the remainder of her life. she always sincerely hoped that the moonlight did not bewitch her into leading the man beside her into saying things he seemed to take delight in saying. she had no idea what time it was; in fact, she did not care even what nancy ellen thought or whether she would worry. the night was wonderful; john jardine had now made a man of himself worthy of all consideration; being made love to by him was enchanting. she had been occupied with the stern business of daily bread for so long that to be again clothed as other women and frankly adored by such a man as john jardine was soul satisfying. what did she care who worried or what time it was? "but i'm keeping you here until you will be wet with these mists," john jardine cried at last. "forgive me, kate, i never did have any sense where you were concerned! i'll take you back now, but you must promise me to meet me here in the morning, say at ten o'clock. i'll take you back now, if you'll agree to that." "there's no reason why i shouldn't," said kate. "and you're free, free!" he repeated. the veranda, halls, and ballroom were deserted when they returned to the hotel. as kate entered her room, nancy ellen sat up in bed and stared at her sleepily, but she was laughing in high good humour. she drew her watch from under her pillow and looked at it. "goodness gracious, miss!" she cried. "do you know it's almost three o'clock?" "i don't care in the least," said kate, "if it's four or five. i've had a perfectly heavenly time. don't talk to me. i'll put out the light and be quiet as soon as i get my dress off. i think likely i've ruined it." "what's the difference?" demanded nancy ellen, largely. "you can ruin half a dozen a day now, if you want to." "what do you mean?" asked kate. "'mean?'" laughed nancy ellen. "i mean that i saw john jardine or his ghost come up to you on the veranda, looking as if he'd eat you alive, and carry you away about nine o'clock, and you've been gone six hours and come back having had a 'perfectly heavenly time.' what should i mean! go up head, kate! you have earned your right to a good time. it isn't everybody who gets a second chance in this world. tell me one thing, and i'll go to sleep in peace and leave you to moon the remainder of the night, if you like. did he say he still loved you?" "still and yet," laughed kate. "as i remember, his exact words were that he 'never had loved and never would love any other woman.' now are you satisfied?" nancy ellen sprang from the bed and ran to kate, gathering her in her strong arms. she hugged and kissed her ecstatically. "good! good! oh, you darling!" she cried. "there'll be nothing in the world you can't have! i just know he had gone on making money; he was crazy about you. oh, kate, this is too good! how did i ever think of coming here, and why didn't i think of it seven years ago? kate, you must promise me you'll marry him, before i let you go." "i'll promise to think about it," said kate, trying to free herself, for despite the circumstances and the hour, her mind flew back to a thousand times when only one kind word from nancy ellen would have saved her endless pain. it was endless, for it was burning in her heart that instant. at the prospect of wealth, position, and power, nancy ellen could smother her with caresses; but poverty, pain, and disgrace she had endured alone. "i shan't let you go till you promise," threatened nancy ellen. "when are you to see him again?" "ten, this morning," said kate. "you better let me get to bed, or i'll look a sight." "then promise," said nancy ellen. kate laid firm hands on the encircling arms. "now, look here," she said, shortly, "it's about time to stop this nonsense. there's nothing i can promise you. i must have time to think. i've got not only myself, but the children to think for. and i've only got till ten o'clock, so i better get at it." kate's tone made nancy ellen step back. "kate, you haven't still got that letter in your mind, have you?" she demanded. "no!" laughed kate, "i haven't! he offered me a thousand dollars if i could pronounce him a word he couldn't spell; and it's perfectly evident he's studied until he is exactly like anybody else. no, it's not that!" "then what is it? simpleton, there was nothing else!" cried nancy ellen. "not so much at that time; but this is nearly twenty years later, and i have the fate of my children in my hands. i wish you'd go to bed and let me think!" said kate. "yes, and the longer you think the crazier you will act," cried nancy ellen. "i know you! you better promise me now, and stick to it." for answer kate turned off the light; but she did not go to bed. she sat beside the window and she was still sitting there when dawn crept across the lake and began to lighten the room. then she stretched herself beside nancy ellen, who roused and looked at her. "you just coming to bed?" she cried in wonder. "at least you can't complain that i didn't think," said kate, but nancy ellen found no comfort in what she said, or the way she said it. in fact, she arose when kate did, feeling distinctly sulky. as they returned to their room from breakfast, kate laid out her hat and gloves and began to get ready to keep her appointment. nancy ellen could endure the suspense no longer. "kate," she said in her gentlest tones, "if you have no mercy on yourself, have some on your children. you've no right, positively no right, to take such a chance away from them." "chance for what?" asked kate tersely. "education, travel, leisure, every opportunity in the world," enumerated nancy ellen. kate was handling her gloves, her forehead wrinkled, her eyes narrowed in concentration. "that is one side of it," she said. "the other is that neither my children nor i have in our blood, breeding, or mental cosmos, the background that it takes to make one happy with money in unlimited quantities. so far as i'm concerned personally, i'm happier this minute as i am, than john jardine's money ever could make me. i had a fierce struggle with that question long ago; since i have had nearly eight years of life i love, that is good for my soul, the struggle to leave it would be greater now. polly would be happier and get more from life as the wife of big gangling henry peters, than she would as a millionaire's daughter. she'd be very suitable in a farmhouse parlour; she'd be a ridiculous little figure at a ball. as for adam, he'd turn this down quick and hard." "just you try him!" cried nancy ellen. "for one thing, he won't be here at ten o'clock," said kate, "and for another, since it involves my becoming the wife of john jardine, it isn't for adam to decide. this decision is strictly my own. i merely mention the children, because if i married him, it would have an inevitable influence on their lives, an influence that i don't in the least covet either for them or for myself. nancy ellen, can't you remotely conceive of such a thing as one human being in the world who is satisfied that he has his share, and who believes to the depths of his soul that no man should be allowed to amass, and to use for his personal indulgence, the amount of money that john jardine does?" "yes, i can," cried nancy ellen, "when i see you, and the way you act! you have chance after chance, but you seem to think that life requires of you a steady job of holding your nose to the grindstone. it was rather stubby to begin with, go on and grind it clear off your face, if you like." "all right," said kate. "then i'll tell you definitely that i have no particular desire to marry anybody; i like my life immensely as i'm living it. i'm free, independent, and my children are in the element to which they were born, and where they can live naturally, and spend their lives helping in the great work of feeding, clothing, and housing their fellow men. i've no desire to leave my job or take them from theirs, to start a lazy, shiftless life of self-indulgence. i don't meddle much with the bible, but i have a profound belief in it, and a large respect for it, as the greatest book in the world, and it says: 'by the sweat of his brow shall man earn his bread,' or words to that effect. i was born a sweater, i shall just go on sweating until i die; i refuse to begin perspiring at my time of life." "you big fool!" cried nancy ellen. "look out! you're 'in danger of hell fire,' when you call me that!" warned kate. "fire away!" cried nancy ellen, with tears in her eyes and voice. "when i think what you've gone through--" kate stared at her fixedly. "what do you know about what i've gone though?" she demanded in a cold, even voice. "personally, i think you're not qualified to mention that subject; you better let it rest. whatever it has been, it's been of such a nature that i have come out of it knowing when i have my share and when i'm well off, for me. if john jardine wants to marry me, and will sell all he has, and come and work on the farm with me, i'll consider marrying him. to leave my life and what i love to go to chicago with him, i do not feel called on, or inclined to do. no, i'll not marry him, and in about fifteen minutes i'll tell him so." "and go on making a mess of your life such as you did for years," said nancy ellen, drying her red eyes. "at least it was my life," said kate. "i didn't mess things for any one else." "except your children," said nancy ellen. "as you will," said kate, rising. "i'll not marry john jardine; and the sooner i tell him so and get it over, the better. good-bye. i'll be back in half an hour." kate walked slowly to the observation platform, where she had been the previous evening with john jardine; and leaning on the railing, she stood looking out over the water, and down the steep declivity, thinking how best she could word what she had to say. she was so absorbed she did not hear steps behind her or turn until a sharp voice said: "you needn't wait any longer. he's not coming!" kate turned and glanced at the speaker, and then around to make sure she was the person being addressed. she could see no one else. the woman was small, light haired, her face enamelled, dressed beyond all reason, and in a manner wholly out of place for morning at a summer resort in michigan. "if you are speaking to me, will you kindly tell me to whom you refer, and give me the message you bring?" said kate. "i refer to mr. john jardine, mrs. holt," said the little woman and then kate saw that she was shaking, and gripping her hands for self-control. "very well," said kate. "it will save me an unpleasant task if he doesn't come. thank you," and she turned back to the water. "you certainly didn't find anything unpleasant about being with him half last night," said the little woman. kate turned again, and looked narrowly at the speaker. then she laughed heartily. "well done, jennie!" she cried. "why, you are such a fashionable lady, such a dolly varden, i never saw who you were. how do you do? won't you sit down and have a chat? it's just dawning on me that very possibly, from your dress and manner, i should have called you mrs. jardine." "didn't he tell you?" cried jennie. "he did not," said kate. "your name was not mentioned. he said no word about being married." "we have been married since a few weeks after mrs. jardine died. i taught him the things you turned him down for not knowing; i have studied him, and waited on him, and borne his children, and this is my reward. what are you going to do?" "go back to the hotel, when i finish with this view," said kate. "i find it almost as attractive by day as it was by night." "brazen!" cried mrs. jardine. "choose your words carefully," said kate. "i was here first; since you have delivered your message, suppose you go and leave me to my view." "not till i get ready," said mrs. jardine. "perhaps it will help you to know that i was not twenty feet from you at any time last night; and that i stood where i could have touched you, while my husband made love to you for hours." "so?" said kate. "i'm not at all surprised. that's exactly what i should have expected of you. but doesn't it clarify the situation any, at least for me, when i tell you that mr. jardine gave me no faintest hint that he was married? if you heard all we said, you surely remember that you were not mentioned?" mrs. jardine sat down suddenly and gripped her little hands. kate studied her intently. she wondered what she would look like when her hair was being washed; at this thought she smiled broadly. that made the other woman frantic. "you can well laugh at me," she said. "i made the banner fool of the ages of myself when i schemed to marry him. i knew he loved you. he told me so. he told me, just as he told you last night, that he never had loved any other woman and he never would. i thought he didn't know himself as i knew him. he was so grand to his mother, i thought if i taught him, and helped him back to self-respect, and gave him children, he must, and would love me. well, i was mistaken. he does not, and never will. every day he thinks of you; not a night but he speaks your name. he thinks all things can be done with money--" "so do you, jennie," interrupted kate. "well, i'll show you that this can't!" "didn't you hear him exulting because you are now free?" cried jennie. "he thinks he will give me a home, the children, a big income; then secure his freedom and marry you." "oh, don't talk such rot!" cried kate. "john jardine thinks no such thing. he wouldn't insult me by thinking i thought such a thing. that thought belongs where it sprang from, right in your little cramped, blonde brain, jennie." "you wouldn't? are you sure you wouldn't?" cried jennie, leaning forward with hands clutched closely. "i should say not!" said kate. "the last thing on earth i want is some other woman's husband. now look here, jennie, i'll tell you the plain truth. i thought last night that john jardine was as free as i was; or i shouldn't have been here with him. i thought he was asking me again to marry him, and i was not asleep last night, thinking it over. i came here to tell him that i would not. does that satisfy you?" "satisfy?" cried jennie. "i hope no other woman lives in the kind of hell i do." "it's always the way," said kate, "when people will insist on getting out of their class. you would have gotten ten times more from life as the wife of a village merchant, or a farmer, than you have as the wife of a rich man. since you're married to him, and there are children, there's nothing for you to do but finish your job as best you can. rest your head easy about me. i wouldn't touch john jardine married to you; i wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole, divorced from you. get that clear in your head, and do please go!" kate turned again to the water, but when she was sure jennie was far away she sat down suddenly and asked of the lake: "well, wouldn't that freeze you?" chapter xxiv polly tries her wings finally kate wandered back to the hotel and went to their room to learn if nancy ellen was there. she was and seemed very much perturbed. the first thing she did was to hand kate a big white envelope, which she opened and found to be a few lines from john jardine, explaining that he had been unexpectedly called away on some very important business. he reiterated his delight in having seen her, and hoped for the same pleasure at no very distant date. kate read it and tossed it on the dresser. as she did so, she saw a telegram, lying opened among nancy ellen's toilet articles, and thought with pleasure that robert was coming. she glanced at her sister for confirmation, and saw that she was staring from the window as if she were in doubt about something. kate thought probably she was still upset about john jardine, and that might as well be gotten over, so she said: "that note was not delivered promptly. it is from john jardine. i should have had it before i left. he was called away on important business and wrote to let me know he would not be able to keep his appointment; but without his knowledge, he had a representative on the spot." nancy ellen seemed interested so kate proceeded: "you couldn't guess in a thousand years. i'll have to tell you spang! it was his wife." "his wife!" cried nancy ellen. "but you said--" "so i did," said kate. "and so he did. since the wife loomed on the horizon, i remembered that he said no word to me of marriage; he merely said he always had loved me and always would--" "merely?" scoffed nancy ellen. "merely!" "just 'merely,'" said kate. "he didn't lay a finger on me; he didn't ask me to marry him; he just merely met me after a long separation, and told me that he still loved me." "the brute!" said nancy ellen. "he should be killed." "i can't see it," said kate. "he did nothing ungentlemanly. if we jumped to wrong conclusions that was not his fault. i doubt if he remembered or thought at all of his marriage. it wouldn't be much to forget. i am fresh from an interview with his wife. she's an old acquaintance of mine. i once secured her for his mother's maid. you've heard me speak of her." "impossible! john jardine would not do that!" cried nancy ellen. "there's a family to prove it," said kate. "jennie admits that she studied him, taught him, made herself indispensable to him, and a few weeks after his mother's passing, married him, after he had told her he did not love her and never could. i feel sorry for him." "sure! poor defrauded creature!" said nancy ellen. "what about her?" "nothing, so far as i can see," said kate. "by her own account she was responsible. she should have kept in her own class." "all right. that settles jennie!" said nancy ellen. "i saw you notice the telegram from robert--now go on and settle me!" "is he coming?" asked kate. "no, he's not coming," said nancy ellen. "has he eloped with the widder?" asked kate flippantly. "he merely telegraphs that he thinks it would be wise for us to come home on the first train," said nancy ellen. "for all i can make of that, the elopement might quite as well be in your family as mine." kate held out her hand, nancy ellen laid the message in it. kate studied it carefully; then she raised steady eyes to her sister's face. "do you know what i should do about this?" she asked. "catch the first train, of course," she said. "far be it from me," said kate. "i should at once telegraph him that his message was not clear, to kindly particularize. we've only got settled. we're having a fine time; especially right now. why should we pack up and go home? i can't think of any possibility that could arise that would make it necessary for him to send for us. can you?" "i can think of two things," said nancy ellen. "i can think of a very pretty, confiding, little cat of a woman, who is desperately infatuated with my husband; and i can think of two children fathered by george holt, who might possibly, just possibly, have enough of his blood in their veins to be like him, given opportunity. alone for a week, there is barely a faint possibility that you might be needed. alone for the same week, there is the faintest possibility that robert is in a situation where i could help him." kate drew a deep breath. "isn't life the most amusing thing?" she asked. "i had almost forgotten my wings. i guess we'd better take them, and fly straight home." she arose and called the office to learn about trains, and then began packing her trunk. as she folded her dresses and stuffed them in rather carelessly she said: "i don't know why i got it into my head that i could go away and have a few days of a good time without something happening at home." "but you are not sure anything has happened at home. this call may be for me," said nancy ellen. "it may, but this is july," said kate. "i've been thinking hard and fast. it's probable i can put my finger on the spot." nancy ellen paused and standing erect she looked questioningly at kate. "the weak link in my chain at the present minute is polly," said kate. "i didn't pay much attention at the time, because there wasn't enough of it really to attract attention; but since i think, i can recall signs of growing discontent in polly, lately. she fussed about the work, and resented being left in the house while i went to the fields, and she had begun looking up the road to peters' so much that her head was slightly turned toward the north most of the time. with me away--" "what do you think?" demanded nancy ellen. "think very likely she has decided that she'll sacrifice her chance for more schooling and to teach, for the sake of marrying a big, green country boy named hank peters," said kate. "thereby keeping in her own class," suggested nancy ellen. kate laughed shortly. "exactly!" she said. "i didn't aspire to anything different for her from what she has had; but i wanted her to have more education, and wait until she was older. marriage is too hard work for a girl to begin at less than eighteen. if it is polly, and she has gone away with hank peters, they've no place to go but his home; and if ever she thought i worked her too hard, she'll find out she has played most of her life, when she begins taking orders from mrs. amanda peters. you know her! she never can keep a girl more than a week, and she's always wanting one. if polly has tackled that job, god help her." "cheer up! we're in that delightful state of uncertainty where polly may be blacking the cook stove, like a dutiful daughter; while robert has decided that he'd like a divorce," said nancy ellen. "nancy ellen, there's nothing in that, so far as robert is concerned. he told me so the evening we came away," said kate. nancy ellen banged down a trunk lid and said: "well, i am getting to the place where i don't much care whether there is or there is not." "what a whopper!" laughed kate. "but cheer up. this is my trouble. i feel it in my bones. wish i knew for sure. if she's eloped, and it's all over with, we might as well stay and finish our visit. if she's married, i can't unmarry her, and i wouldn't if i could." "how are you going to apply your philosophy to yourself?" asked nancy ellen. "by letting time and polly take their course," said kate. "this is a place where parents are of no account whatever. they stand back until it's time to clean up the wreck, and then they get theirs--usually theirs, and several of someone's else, in the bargain." as the train stopped at hartley, kate sat where she could see robert on the platform. it was only a fleeting glance, but she thought she had never seen him look so wholesome, so vital, so much a man to be desired. "no wonder a woman lacking in fine scruples would covet him," thought kate. to nancy ellen she said hastily: "the trouble's mine. robert's on the platform." "where?" demanded nancy ellen, peering from the window. kate smiled as she walked from the car and confronted robert. "get it over quickly," she said. "it's polly?" he nodded. "did she remember to call on the squire?" she asked. "oh, yes," said robert. "it was at peters', and they had the whole neighbourhood in." kate swayed slightly, then lifted her head, her eyes blazing. she had come, feeling not altogether guiltless, and quite prepared to overlook a youthful elopement. the insult of having her only daughter given a wedding at the home of the groom, about which the whole neighbourhood would be laughing at her, was a different matter. slowly the high colour faded from kate's face, as she stepped back. "excuse me, nancy ellen," she said. "i didn't mean to deprive you of the chance of even speaking to robert. i knew this was for me; i was over-anxious to learn what choice morsel life had in store for me now. it's one that will be bitter on my tongue to the day of my death." "oh, kate, i as so sorry that if this had to happen, it happened in just that way," said nancy ellen, "but don't mind. they're only foolish kids!" "who? mr. and mrs. peters, and the neighbours, who attended the wedding! foolish kids? oh, no!" said kate. "where's adam?" "i told him i'd bring you out," said robert. "why didn't he send for you, or do something?" demanded kate. "i'm afraid the facts are that polly lied to him," said robert. "she told him that peters were having a party, and mrs. peters wanted her to come early and help her with the supper. they had the magistrate out from town and had the ceremony an hour before adam got there. when he arrived, and found out what had happened, he told polly and the peters family exactly his opinion of them; and then he went home and turned on all the lights, and sat where he could be seen on the porch all evening, as a protest in evidence of his disapproval, i take it." slowly the colour began to creep back into kate's face. "the good boy!" she said, in commendation. "he called me at once, and we talked it over and i sent you the telegram; but as he said, it was done; there was no use trying to undo it. one thing will be a comfort to you. all of your family, and almost all of your friends, left as soon as adam spoke his piece, and they found it was a wedding and not a party to which they'd been invited. it was a shabby trick of peters." kate assented. "it was because i felt instinctively that mrs. peters had it in her to do tricks like that, that i never would have anything to do with her," said kate, "more than to be passing civil. this is how she gets her revenge, and her hired girl, for no wages, i'll be bound! it's a shabby trick. i'm glad adam saved me the trouble of telling her so." robert took nancy ellen home, and then drove to bates corners with kate. "in a few days now i hope we can see each other oftener," he said, on the way. "i got a car yesterday, and it doesn't seem so complicated. any intelligent person can learn to drive in a short time. i like it so much, and i knew i'd have such constant use for it that--now this is a secret--i ordered another for nancy ellen, so she can drive about town, and run out here as she chooses. will she be pleased?" "she'll be overjoyed! that was dear of you, robert. only one thing in world would please her more," said kate. "what's that?" asked robert. kate looked him in the eye, and smiled. "oh," he said. "but there is nothing in it!" "except talk, that worries and humiliates nancy ellen," said kate. "kate," he said suddenly, "if you were in my shoes, what would you do?" "the next time i got a phone call, or a note from mrs. southey, and she was having one of those terrible headaches, i should say: 'i'm dreadfully sorry, mrs. southey, but a breath of talk that might be unpleasant for you, and for my wife, has come to my ear, so i know you'll think it wiser to call dr. mills, who can serve you better than i. in a great rush this afternoon. good-bye!' that is what i should do, robert, and i should do it quickly, and emphatically. then i should interest nancy ellen in her car for a time, and then i should keep my eyes open, and the first time i found in my practice a sound baby with a clean bill of health, and no encumbrances, i should have it dressed attractively, and bestow it on nancy ellen as casually as i did the car. and in the meantime, love her plenty, robert. you can never know how she feels about this; and it's in no way her fault. she couldn't possibly have known; while you would have married her just the same if you had known. isn't that so?" "it's quite so. kate, i think your head is level, and i'll follow your advice to the letter. now you have 'healed my lame leg,' as the dog said in mcguffey's third, what can i do for this poor dog?" "nothing," said kate. "i've got to hold still, and take it. life will do the doing. i don't want to croak, but remember my word, it will do plenty." "we'll come often," he said as he turned to go back. kate slowly walked up the path, dreading to meet adam. he evidently had been watching for her, for he came around the corner of the house, took her arm, and they walked up the steps and into the living room together. she looked at him; he looked at her. at last he said: "i'm afraid that a good deal of this is my fault, mother." "how so?" asked kate, tersely. "i guess i betrayed your trust in me," said adam, heavily. "of course i did all my work and attended to things; but in the evening after work was over, the very first evening on the way home we stopped to talk to henry at the gate, and he got in and came on down. we could see milly at their gate, and i wanted her, i wanted her so much, mother; and it was going to be lonesome, so all of us went on there, and she came up here and we sat on the porch, and then i took her home and that left henry and polly together. the next night henry took us to town for a treat, and we were all together, and the next night milly asked us all there, and so it went. it was all as open and innocent as it could be; only henry and polly were in awful earnest and she was bound she wouldn't be sent to town to school--" "why didn't she tell me so? she never objected a word, to me," said kate. "well, mother, you are so big, and polly was so little, and she was used to minding--" "yes, this looks like it," said kate. "well, go on!" "that's all," said adam. "it was only that instead of staying at home and attending to our own affairs we were somewhere every night, or milly and henry were here. that is where i was to blame. i'm afraid you'll never forgive me, mother; but i didn't take good care of sister. i left her to henry peters, while i tried to see how nice i could be to milly. i didn't know what polly and henry were planning; honest, i didn't, mother. i would have told uncle robert and sent for you if i had. i thought when i went there it was to be our little crowd like it was at york's. i was furious when i found they were married. i told mr. and mrs. peters what they were, right before the company, and then i came straight home and all the family, and york's, and most of the others, came straight away. only a few stayed to the supper. i was so angry with polly i just pushed her away, and didn't even say good-night to her. the little silly fool! mother, if she had told you, you would have let her stay at home this winter and got her clothing, and let her be married here, when she was old enough, wouldn't you?" "certainly!" said kate. "all the world knows that. bates all marry; and they all marry young. don't blame yourself, adam. if polly had it in her system to do this, and she did, or she wouldn't have done it, the thing would have happened when i was here, and right under my nose. it was a scheme all planned and ready before i left. i know that now. let it go! there's nothing we can do, until things begin to go wrong, as they always do in this kind of wedding; then we shall get our call. in the meantime, you mustn't push your sister away. she may need you sooner than you'd think; and will you just please have enough confidence in my common sense and love for you, to come to me, first, when you feel that there's a girl who is indispensable to your future, adam?" "yes, i will," said adam. "and it won't be long, and the girl will be milly york." "all right," said kate, gravely, "whenever the time comes, let me know about it. now see if you can find me something to eat till i lay off my hat and wash. it was a long, hot ride, and i'm tired. since there's nothing i can do, i wish i had stayed where i was. no, i don't, either! i see joy coming over the hill for nancy ellen." "why is joy coming to nancy ellen?" asked the boy, pausing an instant before he started to the kitchen. "oh, because she's had such a very tough, uncomfortable time with life," said kate, "that in the very nature of things joy should come her way." the boy stood mystified until the expression on his face so amused kate that she began laughing, then he understood. "that's why it's coming," said kate; "and, here's how it's coming. she is going to get rid of a bothersome worry that's troubling her head--and she's going to have a very splendid gift, but it's a deep secret." "then you'll have to whisper it," said adam, going to her and holding a convenient ear. kate rested her hands on his shoulder a minute, as she leaned on him, her face buried in his crisp black hair. then she whispered the secret. "crickey, isn't that grand!" cried the boy, backing away to stare at her. "yes, it is so grand i'm going to try it ourselves," said kate. "we've a pretty snug balance in the bank, and i think it would be great fun evenings or when we want to go to town in a hurry and the horses are tired." adam was slowly moving toward the kitchen, his face more of a study than before. "mother," he said as he reached the door, "i be hanged if i know how to take you! i thought you'd just raise cain over what polly has done; but you act so sane and sensible; someway it doesn't seem so bad as it did, and i feel more sorry for polly than like going back on her. and are you truly in earnest about a car?" "i'm going to think very seriously about it this winter, and i feel almost sure it will come true by early spring," said kate. "but who said anything about 'going back on polly?'" "oh, mrs. york and all the neighbours said that you'd never forgive her, and that she'd never darken your door again, and things like that until i was almost crazy," answered adam. kate smiled grimly. "adam," she said, "i had seven years of that 'darken you door' business, myself. it's a mighty cold, hard proposition. it's a wonder the neighbours didn't remember that. maybe they did, and thought i was so much of a bates leopard that i couldn't change my spots. if they are watching me, they will find that i am not spotted; i'm sorry and humiliated over what polly has done; but i'm not going to gnash my teeth, and tear my hair, and wail in public, or in private. i'm trying to keep my real mean spot so deep it can't be seen. if ever i get my chance, adam, you watch me pay back mrs. peters. that is the size and location of my spot; but it's far deeper than my skin. now go on and find me food, man, food!" adam sat close while kate ate her supper, then he helped her unpack her trunk and hang away her dresses, and then they sat on the porch talking for a long time. when at last they arose to go to bed kate said: "adam, about polly: first time you see her, if she asks, tell her she left home of her own free will and accord, and in her own way, which, by the way, happens to be a holt way; but you needn't mention that. i think by this time she has learned or soon she will learn that; and whenever she wants to come back and face me, to come right ahead. i can stand it if she can. can you get that straight?" adam said he could. he got that straight and so much else that by the time he finished, polly realized that both he and her mother had left her in the house to try to shield her; that if she had told what she wanted in a straightforward manner she might have had a wedding outfit prepared and been married from her home at a proper time and in a proper way, and without putting her mother to shame before the community. polly was very much ashamed of herself by the time adam finished. she could not find it in her heart to blame henry; she knew he was no more to blame than she was; but she did store up a grievance against mr. and mrs. peters. they were older and had had experience with the world; they might have told polly what she should do instead of having done everything in their power to make her do what she had done, bribing, coaxing, urging, all in the direction of her inclinations. at heart polly was big enough to admit that she had followed her inclinations without thinking at all what the result would be. adam never would have done what she had. adam would have thought of his mother and his name and his honour. poor little polly had to admit that honour with her had always been a matter of, "now remember," "be careful," and like caution on the lips of her mother. the more polly thought, the worse she felt. the worse she felt, the more the whole peters family tried to comfort her. she was violently homesick in a few days; but adam had said she was to come when she "could face her mother," and polly suddenly found that she would rather undertake to run ten miles than to face her mother, so she began a process of hiding from her. if she sat on the porch, and saw her mother coming, she ran in the house. she would go to no public place where she might meet her. for a few weeks she lived a life of working for mrs. peters from dawn to dark, under the stimulus of what a sweet girl she was, how splendidly she did things, how fortunate henry was, interspersed with continual kissing, patting, and petting, all very new and unusual to polly. by that time she was so very ill, she could not lift her head from the pillow half the day, but it was to the credit of the badly disappointed peters family that they kept up the petting. when polly grew better, she had no desire to go anywhere; she worked to make up for the trouble she had been during her illness, to sew every spare moment, and to do her full share of the day's work in the house of an excessively nice woman, whose work never was done, and most hopeless thing of all, never would be. mrs. peters' head was full of things that she meant to do three years in the future. every night found polly so tired she staggered to bed early as possible; every morning found her confronting the same round, which from the nature of her condition every morning was more difficult for her. kate and adam followed their usual routine with only the alterations required by the absence of polly. kate now prepared breakfast while adam did the feeding and milking; washed the dishes and made the beds while he hitched up; then went to the field with him. on rainy days he swept and she dusted; always they talked over and planned everything they did, in the house or afield; always they schemed, contrived, economized, and worked to attain the shortest, easiest end to any result they strove for. they were growing in physical force, they were efficient, they attended their own affairs strictly. their work was always done on time, their place in order, their deposits at the bank frequent. as the cold days came they missed polly, but scarcely ever mentioned her. they had more books and read and studied together, while every few evenings adam picked up his hat and disappeared, but soon he and milly came in together. then they all read, popped corn, made taffy, knitted, often kate was called away by some sewing or upstairs work she wanted to do, so that the youngsters had plenty of time alone to revel in the wonder of life's greatest secret. to kate's ears came the word that polly would be a mother in the spring, that the peters family were delighted and anxious for the child to be a girl, as they found six males sufficient for one family. polly was looking well, feeling fine, was a famous little worker, and seldom sat on a chair because some member of the peters family usually held her. "i should think she would get sick of all that mushing," said adam when he repeated these things. "she's not like us," said kate. "she'll take all she can get, and call for more. she's a long time coming; but i'm glad she's well and happy." "buncombe!" said adam. "she isn't so very well. she's white as putty, and there are great big, dark hollows under her eyes, and she's always panting for breath like she had been running. nearly every time i pass there i see her out scrubbing the porches, or feeding the chickens, or washing windows, or something. you bet mrs. peters has got a fine hired girl now, and she's smiling all over about it." "she really has something to smile about," said kate. to polly's ears went the word that adam and her mother were having a fine time together, always together; and that they had milly york up three times a week to spend the evening; and that milly said that it passed her to see why polly ran away from mrs. holt. she was the grandest woman alive, and if she had any running to do in her neighbourhood, she would run to her, and not from her. whereupon polly closed her lips firmly and looked black, but not before she had said: "well, if mother had done just one night a week of that entertaining for henry and me, we wouldn't have run from her, either." polly said nothing until april, then kate answered the telephone one day and a few seconds later was ringing for adam as if she would pull down the bell. he came running and soon was on his way to peters' with the single buggy, with instructions to drive slowly and carefully and on no account to let polly slip getting out. the peters family had all gone to bury an aunt in the neighbourhood, leaving polly alone for the day; and polly at once called up her mother, and said she was dying to see her, and if she couldn't come home for the day, she would die soon, and be glad of it. kate knew the visit should not have been made at that time and in that way; but she knew that polly was under a dangerous nervous strain; she herself would not go to peters' in mrs. peters' absence; she did not know what else to do. as she waited for polly she thought of many things she would say; when she saw her, she took her in her arms and almost carried her into the house, and she said nothing at all, save how glad she was to see her, and she did nothing at all, except to try with all her might to comfort and please her, for to kate, polly did not seem like a strong, healthy girl approaching maternity. she appeared like a very sick woman, who sorely needed attention, while a few questions made her so sure of it that she at once called robert. he gave both of them all the comfort he could, but what he told nancy ellen was: "polly has had no attention whatever. she wants me, and i'll have to go; but it's a case i'd like to side-step. i'll do all i can, but the time is short." "oh, lord!" said nancy ellen. "is it one more for kate?" "yes," said robert, "i am very much afraid it's 'one more for kate.'" chapter xxv one more for kate polly and kate had a long day together, while adam was about the house much of the time. both of them said and did everything they could think of to cheer and comfort polly, whose spirits seemed most variable. one minute she would be laughing and planning for the summer gaily, the next she would be gloomy and depressed, and declaring she never would live through the birth of her baby. if she had appeared well, this would not have worried kate; but she looked even sicker than she seemed to feel. she was thin while her hands were hot and tremulous. as the afternoon went on and time to go came nearer, she grew more and more despondent, until kate proposed watching when the peters family came home, calling them up, and telling them that polly was there, would remain all night, and that henry should come down. polly flatly vetoed the proposition, but she seemed to feel much better after it had been made. she was like herself again for a short time, and then she turned to kate and said suddenly: "mother, if i don't get over this, will you take my baby?" kate looked at polly intently. what she saw stopped the ready answer that was on her lips. she stood thinking deeply. at last she said gently: "why, polly, would you want to trust a tiny baby with a woman you ran away from yourself?" "mother, i haven't asked you to forgive me for the light i put you in before the neighbours," said polly, "because i knew you couldn't honestly do it, and wouldn't lie to say you did. i don't know what made me do that. i was tired staying alone at the house so much, i was wild about henry, i was bound i wouldn't leave him and go away to school. i just thought it would settle everything easily and quickly. i never once thought of how it would make you look and feel. honestly i didn't, mother. you believe me, don't you?" "yes, i believe you," said kate. "it was an awful thing for me to do," said polly. "i was foolish and crazy, and i suppose i shouldn't say it, but i certainly did have a lot of encouragement from the peters family. they all seemed to think it would be a great joke, that it wouldn't make any difference, and all that, so i just did it. i knew i shouldn't have done it; but, mother, you'll never know the fight i've had all my life to keep from telling stories and sneaking. i hated your everlasting: 'now be careful,' but when i hated it most, i needed it worst; and i knew it, when i grew older. if only you had been here to say, 'now be careful,' just once, i never would have done it; but of course i couldn't have you to keep me straight all my life. all i can say is that i'd give my life and never whimper, if i could be back home as i was this time last year, and have a chance to do things your way. but that is past, and i can't change it. what i came for to-day, and what i want to know now is, if i go, will you take my baby?" "polly, you know the peters family wouldn't let me have it," said kate. "if it's a boy, they wouldn't want it," said polly. "neither would you, for that matter. if it's a girl, they'll fight for it; but it won't do them any good. all i want to know is, will you take it?" "of course i would, polly," said kate. "since i have your word, i'll feel better," said polly. "and mother, you needn't be afraid of it. it will be all right. i have thought about it so much i have it all figured out. it's going to be a girl, and it's going to be exactly like you, and its name is going to be katherine eleanor. i have thought about you every hour i was awake since i have been gone; so the baby will have to be exactly like you. there won't be the taint of grandmother in it that there is in me. you needn't be afraid. i quit sneaking forever when adam told me what i had done to you. i have gone straight as a dart, mother, every single minute since, mother; truly i have!" kate sat down suddenly, an awful sickness in her heart. "why, you poor child you!" she said. "oh, i've been all right," said polly. "i've been almost petted and loved to death; but mother, there never should be the amount of work attached to living that there is in that house. it's never ending, it's intolerable. mrs. peters just goes until she drops, and then instead of sleeping, she lies awake planning some hard, foolish, unnecessary thing to do next. maybe she can stand it herself, but i'm tired out. i'm going to sit down, and not budge to do another stroke until after the baby comes, and then i am going to coax henry to rent a piece of land, and move to ourselves." kate took heart. "that will be fine!" she cried. "that will be the very thing. i'll ask the boys to keep their eyes open for any chance for you." "you needn't take any bother about it," said polly, "because that isn't what is going to happen. all i want to be sure of now is that you and adam will take my baby. i'll see to the rest." "how will you see to it, polly?" asked kate, gently. "well, it's already seen to, for matter of that," said polly conclusively. "i've known for quite a while that i was sick; but i couldn't make them do anything but kiss me, and laugh at me, until i am so ill that i know better how i feel than anybody else. i got tired being laughed at, and put off about everything, so one day in hartley, while mother peters was shopping, i just went in to the lawyer grandmother always went to, and told him all about what i wanted. he has the papers made out all right and proper; so when i send for uncle robert, i am going to send for him, too, and soon as the baby comes i'll put in its name and sign it, and make henry, and then if i have to go, you won't have a bit of trouble." kate gazed at polly in dumb amazement. she was speechless for a time, then to break the strain she said: "my soul! did you really, polly? i guess there is more bates in you than i had thought!" "oh, there's some bates in me," said polly. "there's enough to make me live until i sign that paper, and make henry peters sign it, and send mr. thomlins to you with it and the baby. i can do that, because i'm going to!" ten days later she did exactly what she had said she would. then she turned her face to the wall and went into a convulsion out of which she never came. while the peters family refused kate's plea to lay polly beside her grandmother, and laid her in their family lot, kate, moaning dumbly, sat clasping a tiny red girl in her arms. adam drove to hartley to deposit one more paper, the most precious of all, in the safety deposit box. kate and adam mourned too deeply to talk about it. they went about their daily rounds silently, each busy with regrets and self investigations. they watched each other carefully, were kinder than they ever had been to everyone they came in contact with; the baby they frankly adored. kate had reared her own children with small misgivings, quite casually, in fact; but her heart was torn to the depths about this baby. life never would be even what it had been before polly left them, for into her going there entered an element of self-reproach and continual self-condemnation. adam felt that if he had been less occupied with milly york and had taken proper care of his sister, he would not have lost her. kate had less time for recrimination, because she had the baby. "look for a good man to help you this summer, adam," she said. "the baby is full of poison which can be eliminated only slowly. if i don't get it out before teething, i'll lose her, and then we never shall hear the last from the peters family." adam consigned the peters family to a location he thought suitable for them on the instant. he spoke with unusual bitterness, because he had heard that the peters family were telling that polly had grieved herself to death, while his mother had engineered a scheme whereby she had stolen the baby. occasionally a word drifted to kate here and there, until she realized much of what they were saying. at first she grieved too deeply to pay any attention, but as the summer went on and the baby flourished and grew fine and strong, and she had time in the garden, she began to feel better; grief began to wear away, as it always does. by midsummer the baby was in short clothes, sitting in a high chair, which if miss baby only had known it, was a throne before which knelt her two adoring subjects. polly had said the baby would be like kate. its hair and colouring were like hers, but it had the brown eyes of its father, and enough of his facial lines to tone down the too generous bates features. when the baby was five months old it was too pretty for adequate description. one baby has no business with perfect features, a mop of curly, yellow silk hair, and big brown eyes. one of the questions kate and adam discussed most frequently was where they would send her to college, while one they did not discuss was how sick her stomach teeth would make her. they merely lived in mortal dread of that. "convulsion," was a word that held a terror for kate above any other in the medical books. the baby had a good, formal name, but no one ever used it. adam, on first lifting the blanket, had fancied the child resembled its mother and had called her "little poll." the name clung to her. kate could not call such a tiny morsel either kate or katherine; she liked "little poll," better. the baby had three regular visitors. one was her father. he was not fond of kate; little poll suited him. he expressed his feeling by bringing gifts of toys, candy, and unsuitable clothes. kate kept these things in evidence when she saw him coming and swept them from sight when he went; for she had the good sense not to antagonize him. nancy ellen came almost every day, proudly driving her new car, and with the light of a new joy on her face. she never said anything to kate, but kate knew what had happened. nancy ellen came to see the baby. she brought it lovely and delicate little shoes, embroidered dresses and hoods, cloaks and blankets. one day as she sat holding it she said to kate: "isn't the baby a dreadful bother to you? you're not getting half your usual work done." "no, i'm doing unusual work," said kate, lightly. "adam is hiring a man who does my work very well in the fields; there isn't money that would hire me to let any one else take my job indoors, right now." a slow red crept into nancy ellen's cheeks. she had meant to be diplomatic, but diplomacy never worked well with kate. as nancy ellen often said, kate understood a sledge-hammer better. nancy ellen used the hammer. her face flushed, her arms closed tightly. "give me this baby," she demanded. kate looked at her in helpless amazement. "give it to me," repeated nancy ellen. "she's a gift to me," said kate, slowly. "one the peters family are searching heaven and earth to find an excuse to take from me. i hear they've been to a lawyer twice, already. i wouldn't give her up to save my soul alive, for myself; for you, if i would let you have her, they would not leave you in possession a day." "are they really trying to get her?" asked nancy ellen, slowly loosening her grip. "they are," said kate. "they sent a lawyer to get a copy of the papers, to see if they could pick a flaw in them." "can they?" cried nancy ellen. "god knows!" said kate, slowly. "i hope not. mr. thomlins is the best lawyer in hartley; he says not. he says henry put his neck in the noose when he signed the papers. the only chance i can see for him would be to plead undue influence. when you look at her, you can't blame him for wanting her. i've two hopes. one that his mother will not want the extra work; the other that the next girl he selects will not want the baby. if i can keep them going a few months more with a teething scare, i hope they will get over wanting her." "if they do, then may we have her?" asked nancy ellen. kate threw out her hands. "take my eyes, or my hands, or my feet," she said; "but leave me my heart." nancy ellen went soon after, and did not come again for several days. then she began coming as usual, so that the baby soon knew her and laughed in high glee when she appeared. dr. gray often stopped in passing to see her; if he was in great haste, he hallooed at the gate to ask if she was all right. kate was thankful for this, more than thankful for the telephone and car that would bring him in fifteen minutes day or night, if he were needed. but he was not needed. little poll throve and grew fat and rosy; for she ate measured food, slept by the clock, in a sanitary bed, and was a bathed, splendidly cared for baby. when kate's family and friends laughed, she paid not the slightest heed. "laugh away," she said. "i've got something to fight with this baby; i don't propose for the battle to come and find the chances against me, because i'm unprepared." with scrupulous care kate watched over the child, always putting her first, the house and land afterward. one day she looked up the road and saw henry peters coming. she had been expecting nancy ellen. she had finished bathing the baby and making her especially attractive in a dainty lace ruffled dress with blue ribbons and blue shoes that her sister had brought on her latest trip. little poll was a wonderful picture, for her eyes were always growing bigger, her cheeks pinker, her skin fairer, her hair longer and more softly curling. at first thought kate had been inclined to snatch off the dress and change to one of the cheap, ready-made ginghams henry brought, but the baby was so lovely as she was, she had not the heart to spoil the picture, while nancy ellen might come any minute. so she began putting things in place while little poll sat crowing and trying to pick up a sunbeam that fell across her tray. her father came to the door and stood looking at her. suddenly he dropped in a chair, covered his face with his hands and began to cry, in deep, shuddering sobs. kate stood still in wonderment. as last she seated herself before him and said gently: "won't you tell me about it, henry?" henry struggled for self-control. he looked at the baby longingly. finally he said: "it's pretty tough to give up a baby like that, mrs. holt. she's my little girl. i wish god had struck my right hand with palsy, when i went to sign those papers." "oh, no, you don't, henry," said kate, suavely. "you wouldn't like to live the rest of your life a cripple. and is it any worse for me to have your girl in spite of the real desires and dictates of your heart, than it was for you to have mine? and you didn't take the intelligent care of my girl that i'm taking of yours, either. a doctor and a little right treatment at the proper time would have saved polly to rear her own baby; but there's no use to go into that. i was waiting for polly to come home of her own accord, as she left it; and while i waited, a poison crept into her system that took her. i never shall feel right about it; neither shall you--" "no, i should say i won't!" said henry emphatically. "i never thought of anything being the matter with polly that wouldn't be all over when the baby came--" "i know you didn't, henry," said kate. "i know how much you would have done, and how gladly, if you had known. there is no use going into that, we are both very much to blame; we must take our punishment. now what is this i hear about your having been to see lawyers and trying to find a way to set aside the adoption papers you signed? let's have a talk, and see what we can arrive at. tell me all about it." so henry told kate how he had loved polly, how he felt guilty of her death, how he longed for and wanted her baby, how he had signed the paper which polly put before him so unexpectedly, to humour her, because she was very ill; but he had not dreamed that she could die; how he did not feel that he should be bound by that signature now. kate listened with the deepest sympathy, assenting to most he said until he was silent. then she sat thinking a long time. at last she said: "henry, if you and polly had waited until i came home, and told me what you wanted and how you felt, i should have gotten her ready, and given you a customary wedding, and helped you to start a life that i think would have saved her to you, and to me. that is past, but the fact remains. you are hurt over giving up the baby as you have; i'm hurt over losing my daughter as i did; we are about even on the past, don't you think?" "i suppose we are," he said, heavily. "that being agreed," said kate, "let us look to the future. you want the baby now, i can guess how much, by how much i want her, myself. i know your point of view; there are two others, one is mine, and the other is the baby's. i feel that it is only right and just that i should have this little girl to replace the one you took from me, in a way far from complimentary to me. i feel that she is mine, because polly told me the day she came to see me how sick she had been, how she had begged for a doctor, and been kissed and told there was nothing the matter with her, when she knew she was very ill. she gave the baby to me, and at that time she had been to see a lawyer, and had her papers all made out except the signatures and dates. mr. thomlins can tell you that; and you know that up to that time i had not seen polly, or had any communication with her. she simply was unnerved at the thought of trusting her baby to the care she had had." kate was hitting hard and straight from the shoulder. the baby, busy with her sunbeam, jabbered unnoticed. "when polly died as she did," continued kate, "i knew that her baby would be full of the same poison that killed her; and that it must be eliminated before it came time to cut her worst teeth, so i undertook the work, and sleeping or waking, i have been at it ever since. now, henry, is there any one at your house who would have figured this out, and taken the time, pains, and done work that i have? is there?" "mother raised six of us." he said defensively. "but she didn't die of diathesis giving birth to the first of you," said kate. "you were all big, strong boys with a perfectly sound birthright. and your mother is now a much older, wearier woman than she was then, and her hands are far too full every day, as it is. if she knew how to handle the baby as i have, and was willing to add the work to her daily round, would you be willing to have her? i have three times her strength, while i consider that i've the first right. then there is the baby's side of the question. i have had her through the worst, hardest part of babyhood; she is accustomed to a fixed routine that you surely will concede agrees with her; she would miss me, and she would not thrive as she does with me, for her food and her hours would not be regular, while you, and your father, and the boys would tire her to death handling her. that is the start. the finish would be that she would grow up, if she survived, to take the place polly took at your house, while you would marry some other girl, as you will before a year from now. i'm dreadfully sorry to say these things to you, henry, but you know they are the truth. if you're going to try to take the baby, i'm going to fight you to the last dollar i can raise, and the last foot of land i own. that's all. look at the baby; think it over; and let me know what you'll do as soon as you can. i'm not asking mercy at your hands, but i do feel that i have suffered about my share." "you needn't suffer any longer," said henry, drying his eyes. "all you say is true; just as what i said was true; but i might as well tell you, and let one of us be happy. i saw my third lawyer yesterday, and he said the papers were unbreakable unless i could prove that the child was neglected, and not growing right, or not having proper care. look at her! i might do some things! i did do a thing as mean as to persuade a girl to marry me without her mother's knowledge, and ruined her life thereby, but god knows i couldn't go on the witness stand and swear that that baby is not properly cared for! mother's job is big enough; and while it doesn't seem possible now, very likely i shall marry again, as other men do; and in that event, little poll would be happier with you. i give her up. i think i came this morning to say that i was defeated; and to tell you that i'd give up if i saw that you would fight. keep the baby, and be as happy as you can. you shan't be worried any more about her. polly shall have this thing as she desired and planned it. good-bye." when he had gone kate knelt on the floor, laid her head on the chair tray, and putting her arms around the baby she laughed and cried at the same time, while miss baby pulled her hair, patted her face, and plastered it with wet, uncertain kisses. then kate tied a little bonnet on the baby's head and taking her in her arms, she went to the field to tell adam. it seemed to kate that she could see responsibility slipping from his shoulders, could see him grow taller as he listened. the breath of relief he drew was long and deep. "fine!" he cried. "fine! i haven't told you half i knew. i've been worried until i couldn't sleep." kate went back to the house so glad she did not realize she was touching earth at all. she fed the baby and laid her down for her morning nap, and then went out in the garden; but she was too restless to work. she walked bareheaded in the sun and was glad as she never before in her life had known how to be glad. the first thing kate knew she was standing at the gate looking up at the noonday sky and from the depths of her heart she was crying aloud: "praise ye the lord, oh my soul. let all that is within me praise his holy name!" for the remainder of the day kate was unblushingly insane. she started to do a hundred things and abandoned all of them to go out and look up at the sky and to cry repeatedly: "praise the lord!" if she had been asked to explain why she did this, kate could have answered, and would have answered: "because i feel like it!" she had been taught no religion as a child, she had practised no formal mode of worship as a woman. she had been straight, honest, and virtuous. she had faced life and done with small question the work that she thought fell to her hand. she had accepted joy, sorrow, shame, all in the same stoic way. always she had felt that there was a mighty force in the universe that could as well be called god as any other name; it mattered not about the name; it was a real force, and it was there. that day kate exulted. she carried the baby down to the brook in the afternoon and almost shouted; she sang until she could have been heard a mile. she kept straight on praising the lord, because expression was imperative, and that was the form of expression that seemed to come naturally to her. without giving a thought as to how, or why, she followed her impulses and praised the lord. the happier she grew, the more clearly she saw how uneasy and frightened she had been. when nancy ellen came, she took only one glance at kate's glorified face and asked: "what in this world has happened to you?" kate answered in all seriousness: "my lord has 'shut the lions' mouths,' and they are not going to harm me." nancy ellen regarded her closely. "i hope you aren't running a temperature," she said. "i'll take a shot at random. you have found out that the peters family can't take little poll." kate laughed joyously. "better than that, sister mine!" she cried. "i have convinced henry that he doesn't want her himself as much as he wants me to have her, and he can speedily convert his family. he will do nothing more! he will leave me in peace with her." "thank god!" said nancy ellen. "there you go, too!" cried kate. "that's the very first thought that came to me, only i said, 'praise the lord,' which is exactly the same thing; and nancy ellen, since robert has been trying to praise the lord for twenty years, and both of us do praise him when our time comes, wouldn't it be a good idea to open up our heads and say so, not only to ourselves and to the lord, but to the neighbours? i'm afraid she won't understand much of it, but i think i shall find the place and read to little poll about abraham and isaac to-night, and probably about hagar and ishmael to-morrow night, and it wouldn't surprise me a mite to hear myself saying 'praise the lord,' right out loud, any time, any place. let's gather a great big bouquet of our loveliest flowers, and go tell mother and polly about it." without a word nancy ellen turned toward the garden. they gathered the flowers and getting in nancy ellen's car drove the short distance to the church where nancy ellen played with the baby in the shade of a big tree while kate arranged her flowers. then she sat down and they talked over their lives from childhood. "nancy ellen, won't you stay to supper with us?" asked kate. "yes," said nancy ellen, rising, "i haven't had such a good time in years. i'm as glad for you as i'd be if i had such a child assured me, myself." "you can't bring yourself--?" began kate. "yes, i think so," said nancy ellen. "getting things for little poll has broken me up so, i told robert how i felt, and he's watching in his practice, and he's written several letters of inquiry to friends in chicago. any day now i may have my work cut out for me." "praise the lord again!" cried kate. "i see where you will be happier than you ever have been. real life is just beginning for you." then they went home and prepared a good supper and had such a fine time they were exalted in heart and spirit. when nancy ellen started home, kate took the baby and climbed in the car with her, explaining that they would go a short way and walk back. she went only as far as the peters gate; then she bravely walked up to the porch, where mr. peters and some of the boys sat, and said casually: "i just thought i'd bring little poll up to get acquainted with her folks. isn't she a dear?" an hour later, as she walked back in the moonlight, henry beside her carrying the baby, he said to her: "this is a mighty big thing, and a kind thing for you to do, mrs. holt. mother has been saying scandalous things about you." "i know," said kate. "but never mind! she won't any more." the remainder of the week she passed in the same uplifted mental state. she carried the baby in her arms and walked all over the farm, going often to the cemetery with fresh flowers. sunday morning, when the work was all done, the baby dressed her prettiest, kate slipped into one of her fresh white dresses and gathering a big bunch of flowers started again to whisper above the graves of her mother and polly the story of her gladness, and to freshen the flowers, so that the people coming from church would see that her family were remembered. when she had finished she arose, took up the baby, and started to return across the cemetery, going behind the church, taking the path she had travelled the day she followed the minister's admonition to "take the wings of morning." she thought of that. she stood very still, thinking deeply. "i took them," she said. "i've tried flight after flight; and i've fallen, and risen, and fallen, and got up and tried again, but never until now have i felt that i could really 'fly to the uttermost parts of the earth.' there is a rising power in me that should benefit more than myself. i guess i'll just join in." she walked into the church as the last word of the song the congregation were singing was finished, and the minister was opening his lips to say: "let us pray." straight down the aisle came kate, her bare, gold head crowned with a flash of light at each window she passed. she paused at the altar, directly facing the minister. "baby and i would like the privilege of praising the lord with you," she said simply, "and we would like to do our share in keeping up this church and congregation to his honour and glory. there's some water. can't you baptize us now?" the minister turned to the pitcher, which always stood on his desk, filled his palm, and asked: "what is the baby's name?" "katherine eleanor peters," said kate. "katherine eleanor, i baptize thee," said the minister, and he laid his hand on the soft curls of the baby. she scattered the flowers she was holding over the altar as she reached to spat her hands in the water on her head and laughed aloud. "what is your name?" asked the minister. "katherine eleanor holt," said kate. again the minister repeated the formula, and then he raised both hands and said: "let us pray." chapter xxvi the winged victory kate turned and placing the baby on the front seat, she knelt and put her arms around the little thing, but her lips only repeated the words: "praise the lord for this precious baby!" her heart was filled with high resolve. she would rear the baby with such care. she would be more careful with adam. she would make heroic effort to help him to clean, unashamed manhood. she would be a better sister to all her family. she would be friendlier, and have more patience with the neighbours. she would join in whatever effort the church was making to hold and increase its membership among the young people, and to raise funds to keep up the organization. all the time her mind was busy thinking out these fine resolves, her lips were thanking the lord for little poll. kate arose with the benediction, picked up the baby, and started down the aisle among the people she had known all her life. on every side strong hands stretched out to greet and welcome her. a daughter of adam bates was something new as a church member. they all knew how she could work, and what she could give if she chose; while that she had stood at the altar and been baptized, meant that something not customary with the bates family was taking place in her heart. so they welcomed her, and praised the beauty and sweetness of the baby until kate went out into the sunshine, her face glowing. slowly she walked home and as she reached the veranda, adam took the baby. "been to the cemetery?" he asked. kate nodded and dropped into a chair. "that's too far to walk and carry this great big woman," he said, snuggling his face in the baby's neck, while she patted his cheeks and pulled his hair. "why didn't you tell me you wanted to go, and let me get out the car?" kate looked at him speculatively. "adam," she said, "when i started out, i meant only to take some flowers to mother and polly. as i came around the corner of the church to take the footpath, they were singing 'rejoice in the lord!' i went inside and joined. i'm going to church as often as i can after this, and i'm going to help with the work of running it." "well, i like that!" cried adam, indignantly. "why didn't you let me go with you?" kate sat staring down the road. she was shocked speechless. again she had followed an impulse, without thinking of any one besides herself. usually she could talk, but in that instant she had nothing to say. then a carriage drew into the line of her vision, stopped at york's gate, and mr. york alighted and swung to the ground a slim girlish figure and then helped his wife. kate had a sudden inspiration. "but you would want to wait a little and join with milly, wouldn't you?" she asked. "uncle robert always has been a church member. i think it's a fine stand for a man to take." "maybe that would be better," he said. "i didn't think of milly. i only thought i'd like to have been with you and little poll." "i'm sure milly will be joining very soon, and that she'll want you with her," said kate. she was a very substantial woman, but for the remainder of that day she felt that she was moving with winged feet. she sang, she laughed, she was unspeakably happy. she kept saying over and over: "and a little child shall lead them." then she would catch little poll, almost crushing her in her strong arms. it never occurred to kate that she had done an unprecedented thing. she had done as her heart dictated. she did not know that she put the minister into a most uncomfortable position, when he followed her request to baptize her and the child. she had never thought of probations, and examinations, and catechisms. she had read the bible, as was the custom, every morning before her school. in that book, when a man wanted to follow jesus, he followed; jesus accepted him; and that was all there was to it, with kate. the middle of the week nancy ellen came flying up the walk on winged feet, herself. she carried photographs of several small children, one of them a girl so like little poll that she might have been the original of the picture. "they just came," said nancy ellen rather breathlessly. "i was wild for that little darling at once. i had robert telegraph them to hold her until we could get there. we're going to start on the evening train and if her blood seems good, and her ancestors respectable, and she looks like that picture, we're going to bring her back with us. oh, kate, i can scarcely wait to get my fingers on her. i'm hungry for a baby all of my own." kate studied the picture. "she's charming!" she said. "oh, nancy ellen, this world is getting entirely too good to be true." nancy ellen looked at kate and smiled peculiarly. "i knew you were crazy," she said, "but i never dreamed of you going such lengths. mrs. whistler told robert, when she called him in about her side, tuesday. i can't imagine a bates joining church." "if that is joining church, it's the easiest thing in the world," said kate. "we just loved doing it, didn't we, little poll? adam and milly are going to come in soon, i'm almost sure. at least he is willing. i don't know what it is that i am to do, but i suppose they will give me my work soon." "you bet they'll give you work soon, and enough," said nancy ellen, laughing. "but you won't mind. you'll just put it through, as you do things out here. kate, you are making this place look fine. i used to say i'd rather die than come back here to live, but lately it has been growing so attractive, i've been here about half my time, and wished i were the other half." kate slipped her arm around nancy ellen as they walked to the gate. "you know," said nancy ellen, "the more i study you, the less i know about you. usually it's sickness, and sorrow, and losing their friends that bring people to the consolations of the church. you bore those things like a stoic. when they are all over, and you are comfortable and happy, just the joy of being sure of little poll has transformed you. kate, you make me think of the 'winged victory,' this afternoon. if i get this darling little girl, will she make me big, and splendid, and fine, like you?" kate suddenly drew nancy ellen to her and kissed her a long, hard kiss on the lips. "nancy ellen," she said, "you are 'big, and splendid, and fine,' or you never would be going to chicago after this little motherless child. you haven't said a word, but i know from the joy of you and robert during the past months that mrs. southey isn't troubling you any more; and i'm sure enough to put it into words that when you get your little child, she will lead you straight where mine as led me. good-bye and good luck to you, and remember me to robert." nancy ellen stood intently studying the picture she held in her hand. then she looked at kate, smiling with misty eyes: "i think, kate, i'm very close, if i am not really where you are this minute," she said. then she started her car; but she looked back, waving and smiling until the car swerved so that kate called after her: "do drive carefully, nancy ellen!" kate went slowly up the walk. she stopped several times to examine the shrubs and bushes closely, to wish for rain for the flowers. she sat on the porch a few minutes talking to little poll, then she went inside to answer the phone. "kate?" cried a sharp voice. "yes," said kate, recognizing a neighbour, living a few miles down the road. "did nancy ellen just leave your house?" came a breathless query. "yes," said kate again. "i just saw a car that looked like hers slip in the fresh sand at the river levee, and it went down, and two or three times over." "o god!" said kate. then after an instant: "ring the dinner bell for your men to get her out. i'll phone robert, and come as soon as i can get there." kate called dr. gray's office. she said to the girl: "tell the doctor that mrs. howe thinks she saw nancy ellen's car go down the river levee, and two or three times over. have him bring what he might need to howe's, and hurry. rush him!" then she ran to her bell and rang so frantically that adam came running. kate was at the little garage they had built, and had the door open. she told him what she had heard, ran to get the baby, and met him at the gate. on the way she said, "you take the baby when we get there, and if i'm needed, take her back and get milly and her mother to come stay with you. you know where her things are, and how to feed her. don't you dare let them change any way i do. baby knows milly; she will be good for her and for you. you'll be careful?" "of course, mother," said adam. he called her attention to the road. "look at those tracks," he said. "was she sick? she might have been drunk, from them." "no," said kate, "she wasn't sick. she was drunk, drunken with joy. she had a picture of the most beautiful little baby girl. they were to start to chicago after her to-night. i suspect she was driving with the picture in one hand. oh, my god, have mercy!" they had come to deep grooves in loose gravel, then the cut in the embankment, then they could see the wrecked car standing on the engine and lying against a big tree, near the water, while two men and a woman were carrying a limp form across the meadow toward the house. as their car stopped, kate kissed the baby mechanically, handed her to adam, and ran into the house where she dragged a couch to the middle of the first room she entered, found a pillow, and brought a bucket of water and a towel from the kitchen. they carried nancy ellen in and laid her down. kate began unfastening clothing and trying to get the broken body in shape for the doctor to work upon; but she spread the towel over what had been a face of unusual beauty. robert came in a few minutes, then all of them worked under his directions until he suddenly sank to the floor, burying his face in nancy ellen's breast; then they knew. kate gathered her sister's feet in her arms and hid her face beside them. the neighbours silently began taking away things that had been used, while mrs. howe chose her whitest sheet, and laid it on a chair near robert. two days later they laid nancy ellen beside her mother. then they began trying to face the problem of life without her. robert said nothing. he seemed too stunned to think. kate wanted to tell him of her final visit with nancy ellen, but she could not at that time. robert's aged mother came to him, and said she could remain as long as he wanted her, so that was a comfort to kate, who took time to pity him, even in her blackest hour. she had some very black ones. she could have wailed, and lamented, and relinquished all she had gained, but she did not. she merely went on with life, as she always had lived it, to the best of her ability when she was so numbed with grief she scarcely knew what she was doing. she kept herself driven about the house, and when she could find no more to do, took little poll in her arms and went out in the fields to adam, where she found the baby a safe place, and then cut and husked corn as usual. every sabbath, and often during the week, her feet carried her to the cemetery, where she sat in the deep grass and looked at those three long mounds and tried to understand life; deeper still, to fathom death. she and her mother had agreed that there was "something." now kate tried as never before to understand what, and where, and why, that "something" was. many days she would sit for an hour at a time, thinking, and at last she arrived at fixed convictions that settled matters forever with her. one day after she had arranged the fall roses she had grown, and some roadside asters she had gathered in passing, she sat in deep thought, when a car stopped on the road. kate looked up to see robert coming across the churchyard with his arms full of greenhouse roses. he carried a big bunch of deep red for her mother, white for polly, and a large sheaf of warm pink for nancy ellen. kate knelt up and taking her flowers, she moved them lower, and silently helped robert place those he had brought. then she sat where she had been, and looked at him. finally he asked: "still hunting the 'why,' kate?" "'why' doesn't so much matter," said kate, "as 'where.' i'm enough of a fatalist to believe that mother is here because she was old and worn out. polly had a clear case of uric poison, while i'd stake my life nancy ellen was gloating over the picture she carried when she ran into that loose sand. in each of their cases i am satisfied as to 'why,' as well as about father. the thing that holds me, and fascinates me, and that i have such a time being sure of, is 'where.'" robert glanced upward and asked: "isn't there room enough up there, kate?" "too much!" said kate. "and what is the soul, and how can it bridge the vortex lying between us and other worlds, that man never can, because of the lack of air to breathe, and support him?" "i don't know," said robert; "and in spite of the fact that i do know what a man cannot do, i still believe in the immortality of the soul." "oh, yes," said kate. "if there is any such thing in science as a self-evident fact, that is one. that is provable." robert looked at her eager face. "how would you go about proving it, kate?" he asked. "why, this way," said kate, leaning to straighten and arrange the delicate velvet petalled roses with her sure, work-abused fingers. "take the history of the world from as near dawn as we have any record, and trace it from the igloo of the northernmost esquimo, around the globe, and down to the ice of the southern pole again, and in blackest africa, farthest, wildest borneo, you will never discover one single tribe of creatures, upright and belonging to the race of man, who did not come into the world with four primal instincts. they all reproduce themselves, they all make something intended for music, they all express a feeling in their hearts by the exercise we call dance, they all believe in the after life of the soul. this belief is as much a part of any man, ever born in any location, as his hands and his feet. whether he believes his soul enters a cat and works back to man again after long transmigration, or goes to a happy hunting ground as our indians, makes no difference with the fact that he enters this world with belief in after life of some kind. we see material evidence in increase that man is not defeated in his desire to reproduce himself; we have advanced to something better than tom-toms and pow-wows for music and dance; these desires are fulfilled before us, now tell me why the very strongest of all, the most deeply rooted, the belief in after life, should come to nothing. why should the others be real, and that a dream?" "i don't think it is," said robert. "it's my biggest self-evident fact," said kate, conclusively. "i never heard any one else say these things, but i think them, and they are provable. i always believed there was something; but since i saw mother go, i know there is. she stood in full evening light, i looked straight in her face, and robert, you know i'm no creature of fancies and delusions, i tell you i saw her soul pass. i saw the life go from her and go on, and on. i saw her body stand erect, long enough for me to reach her, and pick her up, after its passing. that i know." "i shouldn't think of questioning it, kate," said robert. "but don't you think you are rather limiting man, when you narrow him to four primal instincts?" "oh, i don't know," said kate. "air to breathe and food to sustain are presupposed. man learns to fight in self-defense, and to acquire what he covets. he learns to covet by seeing stronger men, in better locations, surpass his achievements, so if he is strong enough he goes and robs them by force. he learns the desire for the chase in food hunting; i think four are plenty to start with." "probably you are right," said the doctor, rising. "i must go now. shall i take you home?" kate glanced at the sun and shook her head. "i can stay half an hour longer. i don't mind the walk. i need exercise to keep me in condition. good-bye!" as he started his car he glanced back. she was leaning over the flowers absorbed in their beauty. kate sat looking straight before her until time to help with the evening work, and prepare supper, then she arose. she stood looking down a long time; finally she picked up a fine specimen of each of the roses and slowly dropped them on her father's grave. "there! you may have that many," she said. "you look a little too lonely, lying here beside the others with not a single one, but if you could speak, i wonder whether you would say, 'thank you!' or 'take the damn weeds off me!'" chapter xxvii blue ribbon corn never in her life had kate worked harder than she did that fall; but she retained her splendid health. everything was sheltered and housed, their implements under cover, their stock in good condition, their store-room filled, and their fruits and vegetables buried in hills and long rows in the garden. adam had a first wheat premium at the county fair and a second on corn, concerning which he felt abused. he thought his corn scored the highest number of points, but that the award was given another man because of adam's having had first on wheat. in her heart kate agreed with him; but she tried to satisfy him with the blue ribbon on wheat and keep him interested sufficiently to try for the first on corn the coming year. she began making suggestions for the possible improvement of his corn. adam was not easily propitiated. "mother," he said, "you know as well as you know you're alive, that if i had failed on wheat, or had second, i would have been given first on my corn; my corn was the best in every way, but they thought i would swell up and burst if i had two blue ribbons. that was what ailed the judges. what encouragement is that to try again? i might grow even finer corn in the coming year than i did this, and be given no award at all, because i had two this year. it would amount to exactly the same thing." "we'll get some more books, and see if we can study up any new wrinkles, this winter," said kate. "now cheer up, and go tell milly about it. maybe she can console you, if i can't." "nothing but justice will console me," said adam. "i'm not complaining about losing the prize; i'm fighting mad because my corn, my beautiful corn, that grew and grew, and held its head so high, and waved its banners of triumph to me with every breeze, didn't get its fair show. what encouragement is there for it to try better the coming year? the crows might as well have had it, or the cutworms; while all my work is for nothing." "you're making a big mistake," said kate. "if your corn was the finest, it was, and the judges knew it, and you know it, and very likely the man who has the first prize, knows it. you have a clean conscience, and you know what you know. they surely can't feel right about it, or enjoy what they know. you have had the experience, you have the corn for seed; with these things to back you, clear a small strip of new land beside the woods this winter, and try what that will do for you." adam looked at her with wide eyes. "by jing, mother, you are a dandy!" he said. "you just bet i'll try that next year, but don't you tell a soul; there are more than you who will let a strip be cleared, in an effort to grow blue ribbon corn. how did you come to think of it?" "your saying all your work had been for nothing, made me think of it," she answered. "let them give another man the prize, when they know your corn is the best. it's their way of keeping a larger number of people interested and avoiding the appearance of partiality; this contest was too close; next year, you grow such corn, that the corn will force the decision in spite of the judges. do you see?" "i see," said adam. "i'll try again." after that life went on as usual. the annual christmas party was the loveliest of all, because kate gave it loving thought, and because all of their hearts were especially touched. as spring came on again, kate and adam studied over their work, planning many changes for the better, but each time they talked, when everything else was arranged, they came back to corn. more than once, each of them dreamed corn that winter while asleep, they frankly talked of it many times a day. location, soil, fertilizers, seed, cultivation--they even studied the almanacs for a general forecast of the weather. these things brought them very close together. also it was admitted between them, that little poll "grappled them with hooks of steel." they never lacked subjects for conversation. poll always came first, corn next, and during the winter there began to be discussion of plans for adam and milly. should milly come with them, or should they build a small house on the end of the farm nearest her mother? adam did not care, so he married milly speedily. kate could not make up her mind. milly had the inclination of a bird for a personal and private nest of her own. so spring came to them. august brought the anniversary of nancy ellen's death, which again saddened all of them. then came cooler september weather, and the usual rush of preparation for winter. kate was everywhere and enjoying her work immensely. on sturdy, tumbly legs little poll trotted after her or rode in state on her shoulder, when distances were too far. if kate took her to the fields, as she did every day, she carried along the half of an old pink and white quilt, which she spread in a shaded place and filled the baby's lap with acorns, wild flowers, small brightly coloured stones, shells, and whatever she could pick up for playthings. poll amused herself with these until the heat and air made her sleepy, then she laid herself down and slept for an hour or two. once she had trouble with stomach teeth that brought dr. gray racing, and left kate white and limp with fear. everything else had gone finely and among helping adam, working in her home, caring for the baby, doing whatever she could see that she thought would be of benefit to the community, and what was assigned her by church committees, kate had a busy life. she had earned, in a degree, the leadership she exercised in her first days in walden. everyone liked her; but no one ever ventured to ask her for an opinion unless they truly wanted it. adam came from a run to hartley for groceries one evening in late september, with a look of concern that kate noticed on his face. he was very silent during supper and when they were on the porch as usual, he still sat as if thinking deeply. kate knew that he would tell her what he was thinking about when he was ready but she was not in the least prepared for what he said. "mother, how do you feel about uncle robert marrying again?" he asked suddenly. kate was too surprised to answer. she looked at him in amazement. instead of answering, she asked him a question: "what makes you ask that?" "you know how that mrs. southey pursued him one summer. well, she's back in hartley, staying at the hotel right across from his office; she's dressed to beat the band, she's pretty as a picture; her car stands out in front all day, and to get to ride in it, and take meals with her, all the women are running after her. i hear she has even had robert's old mother out for a drive. what do you think of that?" "think she's in love with him, of course, and trying to marry him, and that she will very probably succeed. if she has located where she is right under his eye, and lets him know that she wants him very much, he'll, no doubt, marry her." "but what do you think about it?" asked adam. "i've had no time to think," said kate. "at first blush, i'd say that i shall hate it, as badly as i could possibly hate anything that was none of my immediate business. nancy ellen loved him so. i never shall forget that day she first told me about him, and how loving him brought out her beauty, and made her shine and glow as if from an inner light. i was always with her most, and i loved her more than all the other girls put together. i know that southey woman tried to take him from her one summer not long ago, and that he gave her to understand that she could not, so she went away. if she's back, it means only one thing, and i think probably she'll succeed; but you can be sure it will make me squirm properly." "i thought you wouldn't like it," he said emphatically. "now understand me, adam," said kate. "i'm no fool. i didn't expect robert to be more than human. he has no children, and he'd like a child above anything else on earth. i've known that for years, ever since it became apparent that none was coming to nancy ellen. i hadn't given the matter a thought, but if i had been thinking, i would have thought that as soon as was proper, he would select a strong, healthy young woman, and make her his wife. i know his mother is homesick, and wants to go back to her daughters and their children, which is natural. i haven't an objection in the world to him marrying a proper woman, at a proper time and place; but oh, dear lord, i do dread and despise to see that little southey cat come back and catch him, because she knows how." "did you ever see her, mother?" "no, i never," said kate, "and i hope i never shall. i know what nancy ellen felt, because she told me all about it that time we were up north. i'm trying with all my might to have a christian spirit. i swallowed mrs. peters, and never blinked, that anybody saw; but i don't, i truly don't know from where i could muster grace to treat a woman decently, who tried to do to my sister, what i know mrs. southey tried to do to nancy ellen. she planned to break up my sister's home; that i know. now that nancy ellen is gone, i feel to-night as if i just couldn't endure to see mrs. southey marry robert." "bet she does it!" said adam. "did you see her?" asked kate. "see her!" cried adam. "i saw her half a dozen times in an hour. she's in the heart of the town, nothing to do but dress and motor. never saw such a peach of a car. i couldn't help looking at it. gee, i wish i could get you one like that!" "what did you think of her looks?" asked kate. "might pretty!" said adam, promptly. "small, but not tiny; plump, but not fat; pink, light curls, big baby blue eyes and a sort of hesitating way about her, as if she were anxious to do the right thing, but feared she might not, and wished somebody would take care of her." kate threw out her hands with a rough exclamation. "i get the picture!" she said. "it's a dead centre shot. that gets a man, every time. no man cares a picayune about a woman who can take care of herself, and help him with his job if he has a ghost of a chance at a little pink and white clinger, who will suck the life and talent out of him, like the parasite she is, while she makes him believe he is on the job, taking care of her. you can rest assured it will be settled before christmas." kate had been right in her theories concerning the growing of blue ribbon corn. at the county fair in late september adam exhibited such heavy ears of evenly grained white and yellow corn that the blue ribbon he carried home was not an award of the judges; it was a concession to the just demands of the exhibit. then they began husking their annual crop. it had been one of the country's best years for corn. the long, even, golden ears they were stripping the husks from and stacking in heaps over the field might profitably have been used for seed by any farmer. they had divided the field in halves and adam was husking one side, kate the other. she had a big shock open and kneeling beside it she was busy stripping open the husks, and heaping up the yellow ears. behind her the shocks stood like rows of stationed sentinels; above, the crisp october sunshine warmed the air to a delightful degree; around the field, the fence rows were filled with purple and rose coloured asters, and everywhere goldenrod, yellower than the corn, was hanging in heavy heads of pollen-spraying bloom. on her old pink quilt little poll, sound asleep, was lifted from the shade of one shock to another, while kate worked across her share of the field. as she worked she kept looking at the child. she frankly adored her, but she kept her reason and held to rigid rules in feeding, bathing, and dressing. poll minded even a gesture or a nod. above, the flocking larks pierced the air with silver notes, on the fence-rows the gathering robins called to each other; high in the air the old black vulture that homed in a hollow log in kate's woods, looked down on the spots of colour made by the pink quilt, the gold corn, the blue of kate's dress, and her yellow head. an artist would have paused long, over the rich colour, the grouping and perspective of that picture, while the hazy fall atmosphere softened and blended the whole. kate, herself, never had appeared or felt better. she worked rapidly, often glancing across the field to see if she was even with, or slightly in advance of adam. she said it would never do to let the boy get "heady," so she made a point of keeping even with him, and caring for little poll, "for good measure." she was smiling as she watched him working like a machine as he ripped open husks, gave the ear a twist, tossed it aside, and reached for the next. kate was doing the same thing, quite as automatically. she was beginning to find the afternoon sun almost hot on her bare head, so she turned until it fell on her back. her face was flushed to coral pink, and framed in a loose border of her beautiful hair. she was smiling at the thought of how adam was working to get ahead of her, smiling because little poll looked such a picture of healthy loveliness, smiling because she was so well, she felt super-abundant health rising like a stimulating tide in her body, smiling because the corn was the finest she ever had seen in a commonly cultivated field, smiling because she and adam were of one accord about everything, smiling because the day was very beautiful, because her heart was at peace, her conscience clear. she heard a car stop at her gate, saw a man alight and start across the yard toward the field, and knew that her visitor had seen her, and was coming to her. kate went on husking corn and when the man swung over the fence of the field she saw that he was robert, and instantly thought of mrs. southey, so she ceased to smile. "i've got a big notion to tell him what i think of him," she said to herself, even as she looked up to greet him. instantly she saw that he had come for something. "what is it?" she asked. "agatha," he said. "she's been having some severe heart attacks lately, and she just gave me a real scare." instantly kate forgot everything, except agatha, whom she cordially liked, and robert, who appeared older, more tired, and worried than she ever had seen him. she thought agatha had "given him a real scare," and she decided that it scarcely would have been bad enough to put lines in his face she never had noticed before, dark circles under his eyes, a look of weariness in his bearing. she doubted as she looked at him if he were really courting mrs. southey. even as she thought of these things she was asking: "she's better now?" "yes, easier, but she suffered terribly. adam was upset completely. adam, d, and susan and their families are away from home and won't be back for a few days unless i send for them. they went to ohio to visit some friends. i stopped to ask if it would be possible for you to go down this evening and sleep there, so that if there did happen to be a recurrence, adam wouldn't be alone." "of course," said kate, glancing at the baby. "i'll go right away!" "no need for that," he said, "if you'll arrange to stay with adam to-night, as a precaution. you needn't go till bed-time. i'm going back after supper to put them in shape for the night. i'm almost sure she'll be all right now; but you know how frightened we can get about those we love." "yes, i know," said kate, quietly, going straight on ripping open ear after ear of corn. presently she wondered why he did not go. she looked up at him and met his eyes. he was studying her intently. kate was vividly conscious in an instant of her bare wind-teased head, her husking gloves; she was not at all sure that her face was clean. she smiled at him, and picking up the sunbonnet lying beside her, she wiped her face with the skirt. "if this sun hits too long on the same spot, it grows warm," she told him. "kate, i do wish you wouldn't!" he exclaimed abruptly. kate was too forthright for sparring. "why not?" she asked. "for one thing, you are doing a man's work," he said. "for another, i hate to see you burn the loveliest hair i ever saw on the head of a woman, and coarsen your fine skin." kate looked down at the ear of corn she held in her hands, and considered an instant. "there hasn't any man been around asking to relieve me of this work," she said. "i got my start in life doing a man's work, and i'm frank to say that i'd far rather do it any day, than what is usually considered a woman's. as for my looks, i never set a price on them or let them interfere with business, robert." "no, i know you don't," he said. "but it's a pity to spoil you." "i don't know what's the matter with you," said kate, patiently. she bent her head toward him. "feel," she said, "and see if my hair isn't soft and fine. i always cover it in really burning sun; this autumn haze is good for it. my complexion is exactly as smooth and even now, as it was the day i first met you on the footlog over twenty years ago. there's one good thing about the bates women. they wear well. none of us yet have ever faded, and frazzled out. have you got many hartley women, doing what you call women's work, to compare with me physically, robert?" "you know the answer to that," he said. "so i do!" said kate. "i see some of them occasionally, when business calls me that way. now, robert, i'm so well, i feel like running a footrace the first thing when i wake up every morning. i'm making money, i'm starting my boy in a safe, useful life; have you many year and a half babies in your practice that can beat little poll? i'm as happy as it's humanly possible for me to be without mother, and polly, and nancy ellen. mother used always to say that when death struck a family it seldom stopped until it took three. that was my experience, and saving adam and little poll, it took my three dearest; but the separation isn't going to be so very long. if i were you i wouldn't worry about me, robert. there are many women in the world willing to pay for your consideration; save it for them." "kate, i'm sorry i said anything," he said hastily. "i wouldn't offend you purposely, you know." kate looked at him in surprise. "but i'm not offended," she said, snapping an ear and reaching for another. "i am merely telling you! don't give me a thought! i'm all right! if you'll save me an hour the next time little poll has a tooth coming through, you'll have completely earned my gratitude. tell agatha i'll come as soon as i finish my evening work." that was clearly a dismissal, for kate glancing across the field toward adam, saw that he had advanced to a new shock, so she began husking faster than before. chapter xxviii the eleventh hour robert said good-bye and started back toward his car. kate looked after him as he reached the fence. a surge of pity for him swept up in her heart. he seemed far from happy, and he surely was very tired. impulsive as always, she lifted her clear voice and called: "robert!" he paused with his foot on a rail of the fence, and turned toward her. "have you had any dinner?" she asked. he seemed to be considering. "come to think of it, i don't believe i have," he said. "i thought you looked neglected," said kate. "sonny across the field is starting a shock ahead of me; i can't come, but go to the kitchen--the door is unlocked--you'll find fried chicken and some preserves and pickles in the pantry; the bread box is right there, and the milk and butter are in the spring house." he gave kate one long look. "thank you," he said and leaped the fence. he stopped on the front walk and stood a minute, then he turned and went around the house. she laughed aloud. she was sending him to chicken perfectly cooked, barely cold, melon preserves, pickled cucumbers, and bread like that which had for years taken a county fair prize each fall; butter yellow as the goldenrod lining the fences, and cream stiff enough to stand alone. also, he would find neither germ nor mould in her pantry and spring house, while it would be a new experience for him to let him wait on himself. kate husked away in high good humour, but she quit an hour early to be on time to go to agatha. she explained this to adam, when she told him that he would have to milk alone, while she bathed and dressed herself and got supper. when she began to dress, kate examined her hair minutely, and combed it with unusual care. if robert was at agatha's when she got there, she would let him see that her hair was not sunburned and ruined. to match the hair dressing, she reached back in her closet and took down her second best white dress. she was hoping that agatha would be well enough to have a short visit. kate worked so steadily that she seldom saw any of her brothers and sisters during the summer. in winter she spent a day with each of them, if she could possibly manage. anyway, agatha would like to see her appearing well, so she put on the plain snowy linen, and carefully pinning a big apron over it, she went to the kitchen. they always had a full dinner at noon and worked until dusk. her bath had made her later than she intended to be. dusk was deepening, evening chill was beginning to creep into the air. she closed the door, fed little poll and rolled her into bed; set the potatoes boiling, and began mixing the biscuit. she had them just ready to roll when steam lifted the lid of the potato pot; with the soft dough in her hand she took a step to right it. while it was in her fingers, she peered into the pot. she did not look up on the instant the door opened, because she thought it would be adam. when she glanced toward the door, she saw robert standing looking at her. he had stepped inside, closed the door, and with his hand on the knob was waiting for her to see him. "oh! hello!" said kate. "i thought it was adam. have you been to agatha's yet?" "yes. she is very much better," he said. "i only stopped to tell you that her mother happened to come out for the night, and they'll not need you." "i'm surely glad she is better," said kate, "but i'm rather disappointed. i've been swimming, and i'm all ready to go." she set the pot lid in place accurately and gave her left hand a deft turn to save the dough from dripping. she glanced from it to robert, expecting to see him open the door and disappear. instead he stood looking at her intently. suddenly he said: "kate, will you marry me?" kate mechanically saved the dough again, as she looked at the pot an instant, then she said casually: "sure! it would be splendid to have a doctor right in the house when little poll cuts her double teeth." "thank you!" said robert, tersely. "no doubt that would be a privilege, but i decline to marry you in order to see little poll safely through teething. good-night!" he stepped outside and closed the door very completely, and somewhat pronouncedly. kate stood straight an instant, then realized biscuit dough was slowly creeping down her wrist. with a quick fling, she shot the mass into the scrap bucket and sinking on the chair she sat on to peel vegetables, she lifted her apron, laid her head on her knees, and gave a big gulping sob or two. then she began to cry silently. a minute later the door opened again. that time it had to be adam, but kate did not care what he saw or what he thought. she cried on in perfect abandon. then steps crossed the room, someone knelt beside her, put an arm around her and said: "kate, why are you crying?" kate lifted her head suddenly, and applied her apron skirt. "none of your business," she said to robert's face, six inches from hers. "are you so anxious as all this about little poll's teeth?" he asked. "oh, drat little poll's teeth!" cried kate, the tears rolling uninterruptedly. "then why did you say that to me?" he demanded. "well, you said you 'only stopped to tell me that i needn't go to agatha's,'" she explained. "i had to say something, to get even with you!" "oh," said robert, and took possession. kate put her arms around his neck, drew his head against hers, and knew a minute of complete joy. when adam entered the house his mother was very busy. she was mixing more biscuit dough, she was laughing like a girl of sixteen, she snatched out one of their finest tablecloths, and put on many extra dishes for supper, while uncle robert, looking like a different man, was helping her. he was actually stirring the gravy, and getting the water, and setting up chairs. and he was under high tension, too. he was saying things of no moment, as if they were profound wisdom, and laughing hilariously at things that were scarcely worth a smile. adam looked on, and marvelled and all the while his irritation grew. at last he saw a glance of understanding pass between them. he could endure it no longer. "oh, you might as well say what you think," he burst forth. "you forgot to pull down the blinds." both the brazen creatures laughed as if that were a fine joke. they immediately threw off all reserve. by the time the meal was finished, adam was struggling to keep from saying the meanest things he could think of. also, he had to go to milly, with nothing very definite to tell. but when he came back, his mother was waiting for him. she said at once: "adam, i'm very sorry the blind was up to-night. i wanted to talk to you, and tell you myself, that the first real love for a man that i have ever known, is in my heart to-night." "why, mother!" said adam. "it's true," said kate, quietly. "you see adam, the first time i ever saw robert gray, i knew, and he knew, that he had made a mistake in engaging himself to nancy ellen; but the thing was done, she was happy, we simply realized that we would have done better together, and let it go at that. but all these years i have known that i could have made him a wife who would have come closer to his ideals than my sister, and she should have had the man who wanted to marry me. they would have had a wonderful time together." "and where did my father come in?" asked adam, quietly. "he took advantage of my blackest hour," said kate. "i married him when i positively didn't care what happened to me. the man i could have loved was married to my sister, the man i could have married and lived with in comfort to both of us was out of the question; it was in the bates blood to marry about the time i did; i had seen only the very best of your father, and he was an attractive lover, not bad looking, not embarrassed with one single scruple--it's the way of the world. i took it. i paid for it. only god knows how dearly i paid; but adam, if you love me, stand by me now. let me have this eleventh hour happiness, with no alloy. anything i feel for your uncle robert has nothing in the world to do with my being your mother; with you being my son. kiss me, and tell me you're glad, adam." adam rose up and put his arms around his mother. all his resentment was gone. he was happy as he could be for his mother, and happier than he ever before had been for himself. the following afternoon, kate took the car and went to see agatha instead of husking corn. she dressed with care and arrived about three o'clock, leading poll in whitest white, with cheeks still rosy from her afternoon nap. agatha was sitting up and delighted to see them. she said they were the first of the family who had come to visit her, and she thought they had come because she was thinking of them. then she told kate about her illness. she said it dated from father bates stroke, and the dreadful days immediately following, when adam had completely lost self-control, and she had not been able to influence him. "i think it broke my heart," she said simply. then they talked the family over, and at last agatha said: "kate, what is this i hear about robert? have you been informed that mrs. southey is back in hartley, and that she is working every possible chance and using multifarious blandishments on him?" kate laughed heartily and suddenly. she never had heard "blandishments" used in common conversation. as she struggled to regain self-possession agatha spoke again. "it's no laughing matter," she said. "the report has every ear-mark of verisimilitude. the bates family has a way of feeling deeply. we all loved nancy ellen. we all suffered severely and lost something that never could be replaced when she went. of course all of us realized that robert would enter the bonds of matrimony again; none of us would have objected, even if he remarried soon; but all of us do object to his marrying a woman who would have broken nancy ellen's heart if she could; and yesterday i took advantage of my illness, and told him so. then i asked him why a man of his standing and ability in this community didn't frustrate that unprincipled creature's vermiculations toward him, by marrying you, at once." slowly kate sank down in her chair. her face whitened and then grew greenish. she breathed with difficulty. "oh, agatha!" was all she could say. "i do not regret it," said agatha. "if he is going to ruin himself, he is not going to do it without knowing that the bates family highly disapprove of his course." "but why drag me in?" said kate, almost too shocked to speak at all. "maybe he loves mrs. southey. she has let him see how she feels about him; possibly he feels the same about her." "he does, if he weds her," said agatha, conclusively. "anything any one could say or do would have no effect, if he had centred his affections upon her, of that you may be very sure." "may i?" asked kate, dully. "indeed, you may!" said agatha. "the male of the species, when he is a man of robert's attainments and calibre, can be swerved from pursuit of the female he covets, by nothing save extinction." "you mean," said kate with an effort, "that if robert asked a woman to marry him, it would mean that he loved her." "indubitably!" cried agatha. kate laughed until she felt a little better, but she went home in a mood far different from that in which she started. then she had been very happy, and she had intended to tell agatha about her happiness, the very first of all. now she was far from happy. possibly--a thousand things, the most possible, that robert had responded to agatha's suggestion, and stopped and asked her that abrupt question, from an impulse as sudden and inexplicable as had possessed her when she married george holt. kate fervently wished she had gone to the cornfield as usual that afternoon. "that's the way it goes," she said angrily, as she threw off her better dress and put on her every-day gingham to prepare supper. "that's the way it goes! stay in your element, and go on with your work, and you're all right. leave your job and go trapesing over the country, wasting your time, and you get a heartache to pay you. i might as well give up the idea that i'm ever to be happy, like anybody else. every time i think happiness is coming my way, along comes something that knocks it higher than gilderoy's kite. hang the luck!" she saw robert pass while she was washing the dishes, and knew he was going to agatha's, and would stop when he came back. she finished her work, put little poll to bed, and made herself as attractive as she knew how in her prettiest blue dress. all the time she debated whether she would say anything to him about what agatha had said or not. she decided she would wait awhile, and watch how he acted. she thought she could soon tell. so when robert came, she was as nearly herself as possible, but when he began to talk about being married soon, the most she would say was that she would begin to think about it at christmas, and tell him by spring. robert was bitterly disappointed. he was very lonely; he needed better housekeeping than his aged mother was capable of, to keep him up to a high mark in his work. neither of them was young any longer; he could see no reason why they should not be married at once. of the reason in kate's mind, he had not a glimmering. but kate had her way. she would not even talk of a time, or express an opinion as to whether she would remain on the farm, or live in nancy ellen's house, or sell it and build whatever she wanted for herself. robert went away baffled, and disappointed over some intangible thing he could not understand. for six weeks kate tortured herself, and kept robert from being happy. then one morning agatha stopped to visit with her, while adam drove on to town. after they had exhausted farming, little poll's charms, and the neighbours, agatha looked at kate and said: "katherine, what is this i hear about robert coming here every day, now? it appeals to me that he must have followed my advice." "of course he never would have thought of coming, if you hadn't told him so," said kate dryly. "now there you are in error," said the literal agatha, as she smoothed down little poll's skirts and twisted her ringlets into formal corkscrews. "right there, you are in error, my dear. the reason i told robert to marry you was because he said to me, when he suggested going after you to stay the night with me, that he had seen you in the field when he passed, and that you were the most glorious specimen of womanhood that he ever had seen. he said you were the one to stay with me, in case there should be any trouble, because your head was always level, and your heart was big as a barrel." "yes, that's the reason i can't always have it with me," said kate, looking glorified instead of glorious. "agatha, it just happens to mean very much to me. will you just kindly begin at the beginning, and tell me every single word robert said to you, and you said to him, that day?" "why, i have informed you explicitly," said agatha, using her handkerchief on the toe of poll's blue shoe. "he mentioned going after you, and said what i told you, and i told him to go. he praised you so highly that when i spoke to him about the southey woman i remembered it, so i suggested to him, as he seemed to think so well of you. it just that minute flashed into my mind; but he made me think of it, calling you 'glorious,' and 'level headed,' and 'big hearted.' heavens! katherine eleanor, what more could you ask?" "i guess that should be enough," said kate. "one certainly would presume so," said agatha. then adam came, and handed kate her mail as she stood beside his car talking to him a minute, while agatha settled herself. as kate closed the gate behind her, she saw a big, square white envelope among the newspapers, advertisements, and letters. she slipped it out and looked at it intently. then she ran her finger under the flap and read the contents. she stood studying the few lines it contained, frowning deeply. "doesn't it beat the band?" she asked of the surrounding atmosphere. she went up the walk, entered the living room, slipped the letter under the lid of the big family bible, and walking to the telephone she called dr. gray's office. he answered the call in person. "robert, this is kate," she said. "would you have any deeply rooted objections to marrying me at six o'clock this evening?" "well, i should say not!" boomed robert's voice, the "not" coming so forcibly kate dodged. "have you got the information necessary for a license?" she asked. "yes," he answered. "then bring one, and your minister, and come at six," she said. "and oh, yes, robert, will it be all right with you if i stay here and keep house for adam until he and milly can be married and move in? then i'll come to your house just as it is. i don't mind coming to nancy ellen's home, as i would another woman's." "surely!" he cried. "any arrangement you make will satisfy me." "all right, i'll expect you with the document and the minister at six, then," said kate, and hung up the receiver. then she took it down again and calling milly, asked her to bring her best white dress, and come up right away, and help her get ready to entertain a few people that evening. then she called her sister hannah, and asked her if she thought that in the event she, kate, wished that evening at six o'clock to marry a very fine man, and had no preparations whatever made, her family would help her out to the extent of providing the supper. she wanted all of them, and all the children, but the arrangement had come up suddenly, and she could not possibly prepare a supper herself, for such a big family, in the length of time she had. hannah said she was perfectly sure everyone of them would drop everything, and be tickled to pieces to bring the supper, and to come, and they would have a grand time. what did kate want? oh, she wanted bread, and chicken for meat, maybe some potato chips, and angel's food cake, and a big freezer or two of agatha's best ice cream, and she thought possibly more butter, and coffee, than she had on hand. she had plenty of sugar, and cream, and pickles and jelly. she would have the tables all set as she did for christmas. then kate rang for adam and put a broom in his hand as he entered the back door. she met milly with a pail of hot water and cloths to wash the glass. she went to her room and got out her best afternoon dress of dull blue with gold lace and a pink velvet rose. she shook it out and studied it. she had worn it twice on the trip north. none of them save adam ever had seen it. she put it on, and looked at it critically. then she called milly and they changed the neck and sleeves a little, took a yard of width from the skirt, and behold! it became a "creation," in the very height of style. then kate opened her trunk, and got out the petticoat, hose, and low shoes to match it, and laid them on her bed. then they set the table, laid a fire ready to strike in the cook stove, saw that the gas was all right, set out the big coffee boiler, and skimmed a crock full of cream. by four o'clock, they could think of nothing else to do. then kate bathed and went to her room to dress. adam and milly were busy making themselves fine. little poll sat in her prettiest dress, watching her beloved "tate," until adam came and took her. he had been instructed to send robert and the minister to his mother's room as soon as they came. kate was trying to look her best, yet making haste, so that she would be ready on time. she had made no arrangements except to spread a white goatskin where she and robert would stand at the end of the big living room near her door. before she was fully dressed she began to hear young voices and knew that her people were coming. when she was ready kate looked at herself and muttered: "i'll give robert and all of them a good surprise. this is a real dress, thanks to nancy ellen. the poor girl! it's scarcely fair to her to marry her man in a dress she gave me; but i'd stake my life she'd rather i'd have him than any other woman." it was an evening of surprises. at six, adam lighted a big log, festooned with leaves and berries so that the flames roared and crackled up the chimney. the early arrivals were the young people who had hung the mantel, gas fixtures, curtain poles and draped the doors with long sprays of bittersweet, northern holly, and great branches of red spice berries, dogwood with its red leaves and berries, and scarlet and yellow oak leaves. the elders followed and piled the table with heaps of food, then trailed red vines between dishes. in a quandary as to what to wear, without knowing what was expected of him further than saying "i will," at the proper moment, robert ended by slipping into kate's room, dressed in white flannel. the ceremony was over at ten minutes after six. kate was lovely, robert was handsome, everyone was happy, the supper was a banquet. the bates family went home, adam disappeared with milly, while little poll went to sleep. left to themselves, robert took kate in his arms and tried to tell her how much he loved her, but felt he expressed himself poorly. as she stood before him, he said: "and now, dear, tell me what changed you, and why we are married to-night instead of at christmas, or in the spring." "oh, yes," said kate, "i almost forgot! why, i wanted you to answer a letter for me." "lucid!" said robert. he seated himself beside the table. "bring on the ink and stationary, and let me get it over." kate obeyed, and with the writing material, laid down the letter she had that morning received from john jardine, telling her that his wife had died suddenly, and that as soon as he had laid her away, he was coming to exact a definite promise from her as to the future; and that he would move heaven and earth before he would again be disappointed. robert read the letter and laid it down, his face slowing flushing scarlet. "you called me out here, and married me expressly to answer this?" he demanded. "of course!" said kate. "i thought if you could tell him that his letter came the day i married you, it would stop his coming, and not be such a disappointment to him." robert pushed the letter from him violently, and arose "by----!" he checked himself and stared at her. "kate, you don't mean that!" he cried. "tell me, you don't mean that!" "why, sure i do," said kate. "it gave me a fine excuse. i was so homesick for you, and tired waiting to begin life with you. agatha told me about her telling you the day she was ill, to marry me; and the reason i wouldn't was because i thought maybe you asked me so offhandlike, because she told you to, and you didn't really love me. then this morning she was here, and we were talking, and she got round it again, and then she told me all you said, and i saw you did love me, and that you would have asked me if she hadn't said anything, and i wanted you so badly. robert, ever since that day we met on the footlog, i've know that you were the only man i'd every really want to marry. robert, i've never come anywhere near loving anybody else. the minute agatha told me this morning, i began to think how i could take back what i'd been saying, how i could change, and right then adam handed me that letter, and it gave me a fine way out, and so i called you. sure, i married you to answer that, robert; now go and do it." "all right," he said. "in a minute." then he walked to her and took her in his arms again, but kate could not understand why he was laughing until he shook when he kissed her. alice of old vincennes by maurice thompson preface to m. placide valcour m. d., ph d., ll. d. my dear dr. valcour: you gave me the inspiration which made this story haunt me until i wrote it. gaspard roussillon's letter, a mildewed relic of the year , which you so kindly permitted me to copy, as far as it remained legible, was the point from which my imagination, accompanied by my curiosity, set out upon a long and delightful quest. you laughed at me when i became enthusiastic regarding the possible historical importance at that ancient find, alas! fragmentary epistle; but the old saying about the beatitude of him whose cachinations are latest comes handy to me just now, and i must remind you that "i told you so." true enough, it was history pure and simple that i had in mind while enjoying the large hospitality of your gulf-side home. gaspard roussillon's letter then appealed to my greed for materials which would help along the making of my little book "the story of louisiana." later, however, as my frequent calls upon you for both documents and suggestions have informed you, i fell to strumming a different guitar. and now to you i dedicate this historical romance of old vincennes, as a very appropriate, however slight, recognition of your scholarly attainments, your distinguished career in a noble profession, and your descent from one of the earliest french families (if not the very earliest) long resident at that strange little post on the wabash, now one of the most beautiful cities between the greet river and the ocean. following, with ever tantalized expectancy, the broken and breezy hints in the roussillon letter, i pursued a will-o'-the-wisp, here, there, yonder, until by slowly arriving increments i gathered up a large amount of valuable facts, which when i came to compare them with the history of clark's conquest of the wabash valley, fitted amazingly well into certain spaces heretofore left open in that important yet sadly imperfect record. you will find that i was not so wrong in suspecting that emile jazon, mentioned in the roussillon letter, was a brother of jean jazon and a famous scout in the time of boone and clark. he was, therefore, a kinsman of yours on the maternal side, and i congratulate you. another thing may please you, the success which attended my long and patient research with a view to clearing up the connection between alice roussillon's romantic life, as brokenly sketched in m. roussillon's letter, and the capture of vincennes by colonel george rogers clark. accept, then, this book, which to those who care only for history will seem but an idle romance, while to the lovers of romance it may look strangely like the mustiest history. in my mind, and in yours i hope, it will always be connected with a breezy summer-house on a headland of the louisiana gulf coast, the rustling of palmetto leaves, the fine flash of roses, a tumult of mocking-bird voices, the soft lilt of creole patois, and the endless dash and roar of a fragrant sea over which the gulls and pelicans never ceased their flight, and beside which you smoked while i dreamed. maurice thompson. july, . contents i. under the cherry tree ii. a letter from afar iii. the rape of the demijohn iv. the first mayor of vincennes v. father gibault vi. a fencing bout vii. the mayor's party viii. the dilemma of captain helm ix. the honors of war x. m. roussillon entertains colonel hamilton xi. a sword and a horse pistol xii. manon lescaut, and a rapier-thrust xiii. a meeting in the wilderness xiv. a prisoner of love xv. virtue in a locket xvi. father beret's old battle xvii. a march through cold water xviii. a duel by moonlight xix. the attack xx. alice's flag xxi. some transactions in scalps xxii. clark advises alice xxiii. and so it ended alice of old vincennes chapter i under the cherry tree up to the days of indiana's early statehood, probably as late as , there stood, in what is now the beautiful little city of vincennes on the wabash, the decaying remnant of an old and curiously gnarled cherry tree, known as the roussillon tree, le cerisier de monsieur roussillon, as the french inhabitants called it, which as long as it lived bore fruit remarkable for richness of flavor and peculiar dark ruby depth of color. the exact spot where this noble old seedling from la belle france flourished, declined, and died cannot be certainly pointed out; for in the rapid and happy growth of vincennes many land-marks once notable, among them le cerisier de monsieur roussillon, have been destroyed and the spots where they stood, once familiar to every eye in old vincennes, are now lost in the pleasant confusion of the new town. the security of certain land titles may have largely depended upon the disappearance of old, fixed objects here and there. early records were loosely kept, indeed, scarcely kept at all; many were destroyed by designing land speculators, while those most carefully preserved often failed to give even a shadowy trace of the actual boundaries of the estates held thereby; so that the position of a house or tree not infrequently settled an important question of property rights left open by a primitive deed. at all events the roussillon cherry tree disappeared long ago, nobody living knows how, and with it also vanished, quite as mysteriously, all traces of the once important roussillon estate. not a record of the name even can be found, it is said, in church or county books. the old, twisted, gum-embossed cherry tree survived every other distinguishing feature of what was once the most picturesque and romantic place in vincennes. just north of it stood, in the early french days, a low, rambling cabin surrounded by rude verandas overgrown with grapevines. this was the roussillon place, the most pretentious home in all the wabash country. its owner was gaspard roussillon, a successful trader with the indians. he was rich, for the time and the place, influential to a degree, a man of some education, who had brought with him to the wilderness a bundle of books and a taste for reading. from faded letters and dimly remembered talk of those who once clung fondly to the legends and traditions of old vincennes, it is drawn that the roussillon cherry tree stood not very far away from the present site of the catholic church, on a slight swell of ground overlooking a wide marshy flat and the silver current of the wabash. if the tree grew there, then there too stood the roussillon house with its cosy log rooms, its clay-daubed chimneys and its grapevine-mantled verandas, while some distance away and nearer the river the rude fort with its huddled officers' quarters seemed to fling out over the wild landscape, through its squinting and lopsided port-holes, a gaze of stubborn defiance. not far off was the little log church, where one good father beret, or as named by the indians, who all loved him, father blackrobe, performed the services of his sacred calling; and scattered all around were the cabins of traders, soldiers and woodsmen forming a queer little town, the like of which cannot now be seen anywhere on the earth. it is not known just when vincennes was first founded; but most historians make the probable date very early in the eighteenth century, somewhere between and . in the roussillon cherry tree was thought by a distinguished botanical letter-writer to be at least fifty years old, which would make the date of its planting about . certainly as shown by the time-stained family records upon which this story of ours is based, it was a flourishing and wide-topped tree in early summer of , its branches loaded to drooping with luscious fruit. so low did the dark red clusters hang at one point that a tall young girl standing on the ground easily reached the best ones and made her lips purple with their juice while she ate them. that was long ago, measured by what has come to pass on the gentle swell of rich country from which vincennes overlooks the wabash. the new town flourishes notably and its appearance marks the latest limit of progress. electric cars in its streets, electric lights in its beautiful homes, the roar of railway trains coming and going in all directions, bicycles whirling hither and thither, the most fashionable styles of equipages, from brougham to pony-phaeton, make the days of flint-lock guns and buckskin trousers seem ages down the past; and yet we are looking back over but a little more than a hundred and twenty years to see alice roussillon standing under the cherry tree and holding high a tempting cluster of fruit, while a very short, hump-backed youth looks up with longing eyes and vainly reaches for it. the tableau is not merely rustic, it is primitive. "jump!" the girl is saying in french, "jump, jean; jump high!" yes, that was very long ago, in the days when women lightly braved what the strongest men would shrink from now. alice roussillon was tall, lithe, strongly knit, with an almost perfect figure, judging by what the master sculptors carved for the form of venus, and her face was comely and winning, if not absolutely beautiful; but the time and the place were vigorously indicated by her dress, which was of coarse stuff and simply designed. plainly she was a child of the american wilderness, a daughter of old vincennes on the wabash in the time that tried men's souls. "jump, jean!" she cried, her face laughing with a show of cheek-dimples, an arching of finely sketched brows and the twinkling of large blue-gray eyes. "jump high and get them!" while she waved her sun-browned hand holding the cherries aloft, the breeze blowing fresh from the southwest tossed her hair so that some loose strands shone like rimpled flames. the sturdy little hunchback did leap with surprising activity; but the treacherous brown hand went higher, so high that the combined altitude of his jump and the reach of his unnaturally long arms was overcome. again and again he sprang vainly into the air comically, like a long-legged, squat-bodied frog. "and you brag of your agility and strength, jean," she laughingly remarked; "but you can't take cherries when they are offered to you. what a clumsy bungler you are." "i can climb and get some," he said with a hideously happy grin, and immediately embraced the bole of the tree, up which he began scrambling almost as fast as a squirrel. when he had mounted high enough to be extending a hand for a hold on a crotch, alice grasped his leg near the foot and pulled him down, despite his clinging and struggling, until his hands clawed in the soft earth at the tree's root, while she held his captive leg almost vertically erect. it was a show of great strength; but alice looked quite unconscious of it, laughing merrily, the dimples deepening in her plump cheeks, her forearm, now bared to the elbow, gleaming white and shapely while its muscles rippled on account of the jerking and kicking of jean. all the time she was holding the cherries high in her other hand, shaking them by the twig to which their slender stems attached them, and saying in a sweetly tantalizing tone: "what makes you climb downward after cherries. jean? what a foolish fellow you are, indeed, trying to grabble cherries out of the ground, as you do potatoes! i'm sure i didn't suppose that you knew so little as that." her french was colloquial, but quite good, showing here and there what we often notice in the speech of those who have been educated in isolated places far from that babel of polite energies which we call the world; something that may be described as a bookish cast appearing oddly in the midst of phrasing distinctly rustic and local,--a peculiarity not easy to transfer from one language to another. jean the hunchback was a muscular little deformity and a wonder of good nature. his head looked unnaturally large, nestling grotesquely between the points of his lifted and distorted shoulders, like a shaggy black animal in the fork of a broken tree. he was bellicose in his amiable way and never knew just when to acknowledge defeat. how long he might have kept up the hopeless struggle with the girl's invincible grip would be hard to guess. his release was caused by the approach of a third person, who wore the robe of a catholic priest and the countenance of a man who had lived and suffered a long time without much loss of physical strength and endurance. this was pere beret, grizzly, short, compact, his face deeply lined, his mouth decidedly aslant on account of some lost teeth, and his eyes set deep under gray, shaggy brows. looking at him when his features were in repose a first impression might not have been favorable; but seeing him smile or hearing him speak changed everything. his voice was sweetness itself and his smile won you on the instant. something like a pervading sorrow always seemed to be close behind his eyes and under his speech; yet he was a genial, sometimes almost jolly, man, very prone to join in the lighter amusements of his people. "children, children, my children," he called out as he approached along a little pathway leading up from the direction of the church, "what are you doing now? bah there, alice, will you pull jean's leg off?" at first they did not hear him, they were so nearly deafened by their own vocal discords. "why are you standing on your head with your feet so high in air, jean?" he added. "it's not a polite attitude in the presence of a young lady. are you a pig, that you poke your nose in the dirt?" alice now turned her bright head and gave pere beret a look of frank welcome, which at the same time shot a beam of willful self-assertion. "my daughter, are you trying to help jean up the tree feet foremost?" the priest added, standing where he had halted just outside of the straggling yard fence. he had his hands on his hips and was quietly chuckling at the scene before him, as one who, although old, sympathized with the natural and harmless sportiveness of young people and would as lief as not join in a prank or two. "you see what i'm doing, father beret," said alice, "i am preventing a great damage to you. you will maybe lose a good many cherry pies and dumplings if i let jean go. he was climbing the tree to pilfer the fruit; so i pulled him down, you understand." "ta, ta!" exclaimed the good man, shaking his gray head; "we must reason with the child. let go his leg, daughter, i will vouch for him; eh, jean?" alice released the hunchback, then laughed gayly and tossed the cluster of cherries into his hand, whereupon he began munching them voraciously and talking at the same time. "i knew i could get them," he boasted; "and see, i have them now." he hopped around, looking like a species of ill-formed monkey. pere beret came and leaned on the low fence close to alice. she was almost as tall as he. "the sun scorches to-day," he said, beginning to mop his furrowed face with a red-flowered cotton handkerchief; "and from the look of the sky yonder," pointing southward, "it is going to bring on a storm. how is madame roussillon to-day?" "she is complaining as she usually does when she feels extremely well," said alice; "that's why i had to take her place at the oven and bake pies. i got hot and came out to catch a bit of this breeze. oh, but you needn't smile and look greedy, pere beret, the pies are not for your teeth!" "my daughter, i am not a glutton, i hope; i had meat not two hours since--some broiled young squirrels with cress, sent me by rene de ronville. he never forgets his old father." "oh, i never forget you either, mon pere; i thought of you to-day every time i spread a crust and filled it with cherries; and when i took out a pie all brown and hot, the red juice bubbling out of it so good smelling and tempting, do you know what i said to myself?" "how could i know, my child?" "well, i thought this: 'not a single bite of that pie does father beret get.'" "why so, daughter?" "because you said it was bad of me to read novels and told mother roussillon to hide them from me. i've had any amount of trouble about it." "ta, ta! read the good books that i gave you. they will soon kill the taste for these silly romances." "i tried," said alice; "i tried very hard, and it's no use; your books are dull and stupidly heavy. what do i care about something that a queer lot of saints did hundreds of years ago in times of plague and famine? saints must have been poky people, and it is poky people who care to read about them, i think. i like reading about brave, heroic men and beautiful women, and war and love." pere beret looked away with a curious expression in his face, his eyes half closed. "and i'll tell you now, father beret," alice went on after a pause, "no more claret and pies do you get until i can have my own sort of books back again to read as i please." she stamped her moccasin-shod foot with decided energy. the good priest broke into a hearty laugh, and taking off his cap of grass-straw mechanically scratched his bald head. he looked at the tall, strong girl before him for a moment or two, and it would have been hard for the best physiognomist to decide just how much of approval and how much of disapproval that look really signified. although, as father beret had said, the sun's heat was violent, causing that gentle soul to pass his bundled handkerchief with a wiping circular motion over his bald and bedewed pate, the wind was momently freshening, while up from behind the trees on the horizon beyond the river, a cloud was rising blue-black, tumbled, and grim against the sky. "well," said the priest, evidently trying hard to exchange his laugh for a look of regretful resignation, "you will have your own way, my child, and--" "then you will have pies galore and no end of claret!" she interrupted, at the same time stepping to the withe-tied and peg-latched gate of the yard and opening it. "come in, you dear, good father, before the rain shall begin, and sit with me on the gallery" (the creole word for veranda) "till the storm is over." father beret seemed not loath to enter, albeit he offered a weak protest against delaying some task he had in hand. alice reached forth and pulled him in, then reclosed the queer little gate and pegged it. she caressingly passed her arm through his and looked into his weather-stained old face with childlike affection. there was not a photographer's camera to be had in those days; but what if a tourist with one in hand could have been there to take a snapshot at the priest and the maiden as they walked arm in arm to that squat little veranda! the picture to-day would be worth its weight in a first-water diamond. it would include the cabin, the cherry-tree, a glimpse of the raw, wild background and a sharp portrait-group of pere beret, alice, and jean the hunchback. to compare it with a photograph of the same spot now would give a perfect impression of the historic atmosphere, color and conditions which cannot be set in words. but we must not belittle the power of verbal description. what if a thoroughly trained newspaper reporter had been given the freedom of old vincennes on the wabash during the first week of june, , and we now had his printed story! what a supplement to the photographer's pictures! well, we have neither photographs nor graphic report; yet there they are before us, the gowned and straw-capped priest, the fresh-faced, coarsely-clad and vigorous girl, the grotesque little hunchback, all just as real as life itself. each of us can see them, even with closed eyes. led by that wonderful guide, imagination, we step back a century and more to look over a scene at once strangely attractive and unspeakably forlorn. what was it that drew people away from the old countries, from the cities, the villages and the vineyards of beautiful france, for example, to dwell in the wilderness, amid wild beasts and wilder savage indians, with a rude cabin for a home and the exposures and hardships of pioneer life for their daily experience? men like gaspard roussillon are of a distinct stamp. take him as he was. born in france, on the banks of the rhone near avignon, he came as a youth to canada, whence he drifted on the tide of adventure this way and that, until at last he found himself, with a wife, at post vincennes, that lonely picket of religion and trade, which was to become the center of civilizing energy for the great northwestern territory. m. roussillon had no children of his own; so his kind heart opened freely to two fatherless and motherless waifs. these were alice, now called alice roussillon, and the hunchback, jean. the former was twelve years old, when he adopted her, a child of protestant parents, while jean had been taken, when a mere babe, after his parents had been killed and scalped by indians. madame roussillon, a professed invalid, whose appetite never failed and whose motherly kindness expressed itself most often through strains of monotonous falsetto scolding, was a woman of little education and no refinement; while her husband clung tenaciously to his love of books, especially to the romances most in vogue when he took leave of france. m. roussillon had been, in a way, alice's teacher, though not greatly inclined to abet father beret in his kindly efforts to make a catholic of the girl, and most treacherously disposed toward the good priest in the matter of his well-meant attempts to prevent her from reading and re-reading the aforesaid romances. but for many weeks past gaspard roussillon had been absent from home, looking after his trading schemes with the indians; and pere beret acting on the suggestion of the proverb about the absent cat and the playing mouse, had formed an alliance offensive and defensive with madame roussillon, in which it was strictly stipulated that all novels and romances were to be forcibly taken and securely hidden away from mademoiselle alice; which, to the best of madame roussillon's ability, had accordingly been done. now, while the wind strengthened and the softly booming summer shower came on apace, the heavy cloud lifting as it advanced and showing under it the dark gray sheet of the rain, pere beret and alice sat under the clapboard roof behind the vines of the veranda and discussed, what was generally uppermost in the priest's mind upon such occasions, the good of alice's immortal soul,--a subject not absorbingly interesting to her at any time. it was a standing grief to the good old priest, this strange perversity of the girl in the matter of religious duty, as he saw it. true she had a faithful guardian in gaspard roussillon; but, much as he had done to aid the church's work in general, for he was always vigorous and liberal, he could not be looked upon as a very good catholic; and of course his influence was not effective in the right direction. but then pere beret saw no reason why, in due time and with patient work, aided by madame roussillon and notwithstanding gaspard's treachery, he might not safely lead alice, whom he loved as a dear child, into the arms of the holy church, to serve which faithfully, at all hazards and in all places, was his highest aim. "ah, my child," he was saying, "you are a sweet, good girl, after all, much better than you make yourself out to be. your duty will control you; you do it nobly at last, my child." "true enough, father beret, true enough!" she responded, laughing, "your perception is most excellent, which i will prove to you immediately." she rose while speaking and went into the house. "i'll return in a minute or two," she called back from a region which pere beret well knew was that of the pantry; "don't get impatient and go away!" pere beret laughed softly at the preposterous suggestion that he would even dream of going out in the rain, which was now roaring heavily on the loose board roof, and miss a cut of cherry pie--a cherry pie of alice's making! and the roussillon claret, too, was always excellent. "ah, child," he thought, "your old father is not going away." she presently returned, bearing on a wooden tray a ruby-stained pie and a short, stout bottle flanked by two glasses. "of course i'm better than i sometimes appear to be," she said, almost humbly, but with mischief still in her voice and eyes, "and i shall get to be very good when i have grown old. the sweetness of my present nature is in this pie." she set the tray on a three-legged stool which she pushed close to him. "there now," she said, "let the rain come, you'll be happy, rain or shine, while the pie and wine last, i'll be bound." pere beret fell to eating right heartily, meantime handing jean a liberal piece of the luscious pie. "it is good, my daughter, very good, indeed," the priest remarked with his mouth full. "madame roussillon has not neglected your culinary education." alice filled a glass for him. it was bordeaux and very fragrant. the bouquet reminded him of his sunny boyhood in france, of his journey up to paris and of his careless, joy-brimmed youth in the gay city. how far away, how misty, yet how thrillingly sweet it all was! he sat with half closed eyes awhile, sipping and dreaming. the rain lasted nearly two hours; but the sun was out again when pere beret took leave of his young friend. they had been having another good-natured quarrel over the novels, and madame roussillon had come out on the veranda to join in. "i've hidden every book of them," said madame, a stout and swarthy woman whose pearl-white teeth were her only mark of beauty. her voice indicated great stubbornness. "good, good, you have done your very duty, madame," said pere beret, with immense approval in his charming voice. "but, father, you said awhile ago that i should have my own way about this," alice spoke up with spirit; "and on the strength of that remark of yours i gave you the pie and wine. you've eaten my pie and swigged the wine, and now--" pere beret put on his straw cap, adjusting it carefully over the shining dome out of which had come so many thoughts of wisdom, kindness and human sympathy. this done, he gently laid a hand on alice's bright crown of hair and said: "bless you, my child. i will pray to the prince of peace for you as long as i live, and i will never cease to beg the holy virgin to intercede for you and lead you to the holy church." he turned and went away; but when he was no farther than the gate, alice called out: "o father beret, i forgot to show you something!" she ran forth to him and added in a low tone: "you know that madame roussillon has hidden all the novels from me." she was fumbling to get something out of the loose front of her dress. "well, just take a glance at this, will you?" and she showed him a little leather bound volume, much cracked along the hinges of the back. it was manon lescaut, that dreadful romance by the famous abbe prevost. pere beret frowned and went his way shaking his head; but before he reached his little hut near the church he was laughing in spite of himself. "she's not so bad, not so bad," he thought aloud, "it's only her young, independent spirit taking the bit for a wild run. in her sweet soul she is as good as she is pure." chapter ii a letter from afar although father beret was for many years a missionary on the wabash, most of the time at vincennes, the fact that no mention of him can be found in the records is not stranger than many other things connected with the old town's history. he was, like nearly all the men of his calling in that day, a self-effacing and modest hero, apparently quite unaware that he deserved attention. he and father gibault, whose name is so beautifully and nobly connected with the stirring achievements of colonel george rogers clark, were close friends and often companions. probably father gibault himself, whose fame will never fade, would have been to-day as obscure as father beret, but for the opportunity given him by clark to fix his name in the list of heroic patriots who assisted in winning the great northwest from the english. vincennes, even in the earliest days of its history, somehow kept up communication and, considering the circumstances, close relations with new orleans. it was much nearer detroit; but the louisiana colony stood next to france in the imagination and longing of priests, voyageurs, coureurs de bois and reckless adventurers who had latin blood in their veins. father beret first came to vincennes from new orleans, the voyage up the mississippi, ohio, and wabash, in a pirogue, lasting through a whole summer and far into the autumn. since his arrival the post had experienced many vicissitudes, and at the time in which our story opens the british government claimed right of dominion over the great territory drained by the wabash, and, indeed, over a large, indefinitely outlined part of the north american continent lying above mexico; a claim just then being vigorously questioned, flintlock in hand, by the anglo-american colonies. of course the handful of french people at vincennes, so far away from every center of information, and wholly occupied with their trading, trapping and missionary work, were late finding out that war existed between england and her colonies. nor did it really matter much with them, one way or another. they felt secure in their lonely situation, and so went on selling their trinkets, weapons, domestic implements, blankets and intoxicating liquors to the indians, whom they held bound to them with a power never possessed by any other white dwellers in the wilderness. father beret was probably subordinate to father gibault. at all events the latter appears to have had nominal charge of vincennes, and it can scarcely be doubted that he left father beret on the wabash, while he went to live and labor for a time at kaskaskia beyond the plains of illinois. it is a curious fact that religion and the power of rum and brandy worked together successfully for a long time in giving the french posts almost absolute influence over the wild and savage men by whom they were always surrounded. the good priests deprecated the traffic in liquors and tried hard to control it, but soldiers of fortune and reckless traders were in the majority, their interests taking precedence of all spiritual demands and carrying everything along. what could the brave missionaries do but make the very best of a perilous situation? in those days wine was drunk by almost everybody, its use at table and as an article of incidental refreshment and social pleasure being practically universal; wherefore the steps of reform in the matter of intemperance were but rudimentary and in all places beset by well-nigh insurmountable difficulties. in fact the exigencies of frontier life demanded, perhaps, the very stimulus which, when over indulged in, caused so much evil. malaria loaded the air, and the most efficacious drugs now at command were then undiscovered or could not be had. intoxicants were the only popular specific. men drank to prevent contracting ague, drank again, between rigors, to cure it, and yet again to brace themselves during convalescence. but if the effect of rum as a beverage had strong allurement for the white man, it made an absolute slave of the indian, who never hesitated for a moment to undertake any task, no matter how hard, bear any privation, even the most terrible, or brave any danger, although it might demand reckless desperation, if in in the end a well filled bottle or jug appeared as his reward. of course the traders did not overlook such a source of power. alcoholic liquor became their implement of almost magical work in controlling the lives, labors, and resources of the indians. the priests with their captivating story of the cross had a large influence in softening savage natures and averting many an awful danger; but when everything else failed, rum always came to the rescue of a threatened french post. we need not wonder, then, when we are told that father beret made no sign of distress or disapproval upon being informed of the arrival of a boat loaded with rum, brandy or gin. it was rene de ronville who brought the news, the same rene already mentioned as having given the priest a plate of squirrels. he was sitting on the doorsill of father beret's hut, when the old man reached it after his visit at the roussillon home, and held in his hand a letter which he appeared proud to deliver. "a batteau and seven men, with a cargo of liquor, came during the rain," he said, rising and taking off his curious cap, which, made of an animal's skin, had a tail jauntily dangling from its crown-tip; "and here is a letter for you, father. the batteau is from new orleans. eight men started with it; but one went ashore to hunt and was killed by an indian." father beret took the letter without apparent interest and said: "thank you, my son, sit down again; the door-log is not wetter than the stools inside; i will sit by you." the wind had driven a flood of rain into the cabin through the open door, and water twinkled in puddles here and there on the floor's puncheons. they sat down side by side, father beret fingering the letter in an absent-minded way. "there'll be a jolly time of it to-night," rene de ronville remarked, "a roaring time." "why do you say that, my son?" the priest demanded. "the wine and the liquor," was the reply; "much drinking will be done. the men have all been dry here for some time, you know, and are as thirsty as sand. they are making ready to enjoy themselves down at the river house." "ah, the poor souls!" sighed father beret, speaking as one whose thoughts were wandering far away. "why don't you read your letter, father?" rene added. the priest started, turned the soiled square of paper over in his hand, then thrust it inside his robe. "it can wait," he said. then, changing his voice; "the squirrels you gave me were excellent, my son. it was good of you to think of me," he added, laying his hand on rene's arm. "oh, i'm glad if i have pleased you, father beret, for you are so kind to me always, and to everybody. when i killed the squirrels i said to myself: 'these are young, juicy and tender, father beret must have these,' so i brought them along." the young man rose to go; for he was somehow impressed that father beret must wish opportunity to read his letter, and would prefer to be left alone with it. but the priest pulled him down again. "stay a while," he said, "i have not had a talk with you for some time." rene looked a trifle uneasy. "you will not drink any to-night, my son," father beret added. "you must not; do you hear?" the young man's eyes and mouth at once began to have a sullen expression; evidently he was not pleased and felt rebellious; but it was hard for him to resist father beret, whom he loved, as did every soul in the post. the priest's voice was sweet and gentle, yet positive to a degree. rene did not say a word. "promise me that you will not taste liquor this night," father beret went on, grasping the young man's arm more firmly; "promise me, my son, promise me." still rene was silent. the men did not look at each other, but gazed away across the country beyond the wabash to where a glory from the western sun flamed on the upper rim of a great cloud fragment creeping along the horizon. warm as the day had been, a delicious coolness now began to temper the air; for the wind had shifted into the northwest. a meadowlark sang dreamingly in the wild grass of the low lands hard by, over which two or three prairie hawks hovered with wings that beat rapidly. "eh bien, i must go," said rene presently, getting to his feet nimbly and evading father beret's hand which would have held him. "not to the river house, my son?" said the priest appealingly. "no, not there; i have another letter; one for m'sieu' roussillon; it came by the boat too. i go to give it to madame roussillon." rene de ronville was a dark, weather-stained young fellow, neither tall nor short, wearing buckskin moccasins, trousers and tunic. his eyes were dark brown, keen, quick-moving, set well under heavy brows. a razor had probably never touched his face, and his thin, curly beard crinkled over his strongly turned cheeks and chin, while his moustaches sprang out quite fiercely above his full-lipped, almost sensual mouth. he looked wiry and active, a man not to be lightly reckoned with in a trial of bodily strength and will power. father beret's face and voice changed on the instant. he laughed dryly and said, with a sly gleam in his eyes: "you could spend the evening pleasantly with madame roussillon and jean. jean, you know, is a very amusing fellow." rene brought forth the letter of which he had spoken and held it up before father beret's face. "maybe you think i haven't any letter for m'sieu' roussillon," he blurted; "and maybe you are quite certain that i am not going to the house to take the letter." "monsieur roussillon is absent, you know," father beret suggested. "but cherry pies are just as good while he's gone as when he's at home, and i happen to know that there are some particularly delicious ones in the pantry of madame roussillon. mademoiselle alice gave me a juicy sample; but then i dare say you do not care to have your pie served by her hand. it would interfere with your appetite; eh, my son?" rene turned short about wagging his head and laughing, and so with his back to the priest he strode away along the wet path leading to the roussillon place. father beret gazed after him, his face relaxing to a serious expression in which a trace of sadness and gloom spread like an elusive twilight. he took out his letter, but did not glance at it, simply holding it tightly gripped in his sinewy right hand. then his old eyes stared vacantly, as eyes do when their sight is cast back many, many years into the past. the missive was from beyond the sea--he knew the handwriting--a waft of the flowers of avignon seemed to rise out of it, as if by the pressure of his grasp. a stoop-shouldered, burly man went by, leading a pair of goats, a kid following. he was making haste excitedly, keeping the goats at a lively trot. "bon jour, pere beret," he flung out breezily, and walked rapidly on. "ah, ah; his mind is busy with the newly arrived cargo," thought the old priest, returning the salutation; "his throat aches for the liquor,--the poor man." then he read again the letter's superscription and made a faltering move, as if to break the seal. his hands trembled violently, his face looked gray and drawn. "come on, you brutes," cried the receding man, jerking the thongs of skin by which he led the goats. father beret rose and turned into his damp little hut, where the light was dim on the crucifix hanging opposite the door against the clay-daubed wall. it was a bare, unsightly, clammy room; a rude bed on one side, a shelf for table and two or three wooden stools constituting the furniture, while the uneven puncheons of the floor wabbled and clattered under the priest's feet. an unopened letter is always a mysterious thing. we who receive three or four mails every day, scan each little paper square with a speculative eye. most of us know what sweet uncertainty hangs on the opening of envelopes whose contents may be almost anything except something important, and what a vague yet delicious thrill comes with the snip of the paper knife; but if we be in a foreign land and long years absent from home, then is a letter subtly powerful to move us, even more before it is opened than after it is read. it had been many years since a letter from home had come to father beret. the last, before the one now in his hand, had made him ill of nostalgia, fairly shaking his iron determination never to quit for a moment his life work as a missionary. ever since that day he had found it harder to meet the many and stern demands of a most difficult and exacting duty. now the mere touch of the paper in his hand gave him a sense of returning weakness, dissatisfaction, and longing. the home of his boyhood, the rushing of the rhone, a seat in a shady nook of the garden, madeline, his sister, prattling beside him, and his mother singing somewhere about the house--it all came back and went over him and through him, making his heart sink strangely, while another voice, the sweetest ever heard--but she was ineffable and her memory a forbidden fragrance. father beret tottered across the forlorn little room and knelt before the crucifix holding his clasped hands high, the letter pressed between them. his lips moved in prayer, but made no sound; his whole frame shook violently. it would be unpardonable desecration to enter the chamber of father beret's soul and look upon his sacred and secret trouble; nor must we even speculate as to its particulars. the good old man writhed and wrestled before the cross for a long time, until at last he seemed to receive the calmness and strength he prayed for so fervently; then he rose, tore the letter into pieces so small that not a word remained whole, and squeezed them so firmly together that they were compressed into a tiny, solid ball, which he let fall through a crack between the floor puncheons. after waiting twenty years for that letter, hungry as his heart was, he did not even open it when at last it arrived. he would never know what message it bore. the link between him and the old sweet days was broken forever. now with god's help he could do his work to the end. he went and stood in his doorway, leaning against the side. was it a mere coincidence that the meadowlark flew up just then from its grass-tuft, and came to the roof's comb overhead, where it lit with a light yet audible stroke of its feet and began fluting its tender, lonesome-sounding strain? if father beret heard it he gave no sign of recognition; very likely he was thinking about the cargo of liquor and how he could best counteract its baleful influence. he looked toward the "river house," as the inhabitants had named a large shanty, which stood on a bluff of the wabash not far from where the road-bridge at present crosses, and saw men gathering there. meantime rene de ronville had delivered madame roussillon's letter with due promptness. of course such a service demanded pie and claret. what still better pleased him, alice chose to be more amiable than was usually her custom when he called. they sat together in the main room of the house where m. roussillon kept his books, his curiosities of indian manufacture collected here and there, and his surplus firearms, swords, pistols, and knives, ranged not unpleasingly around the walls. of course, along with the letter, rene bore the news, so interesting to himself, of the boat's tempting cargo just discharged at the river house. alice understood her friend's danger--felt it in the intense enthusiasm of his voice and manner. she had once seen the men carousing on a similar occasion when she was but a child, and the impression then made still remained in her memory. instinctively she resolved to hold rene by one means or another away from the river house if possible. so she managed to keep him occupied eating pie, sipping watered claret and chatting until night came on and madame roussillon brought in a lamp. then he hurriedly snatched his cap from the floor beside him and got up to go. "come and look at my handiwork," alice quickly said; "my shelf of pies, i mean." she led him to the pantry, where a dozen or more of the cherry pates were ranged in order. "i made every one of them this morning and baked them; had them all out of the oven before the rain came up. don't you think me a wonder of cleverness and industry? father beret was polite enough to flatter me; but you--you just eat what you want and say nothing! you are not polite, monsieur rene de ronville." "i've been showing you what i thought of your goodies," said rene; "eating's better than talking, you know; so i'll just take one more," and he helped himself. "isn't that compliment enough?" "a few such would make me another hot day's work," she replied, laughing. "pretty talk would be cheaper and more satisfactory in the long run. even the flour in these pates i ground with my own hand in an indian mortar. that was hard work too." by this time rene had forgotten the river house and the liquor. with softening eyes he gazed at alice's rounded cheeks and sheeny hair over which the light from the curious earthen lamp she bore in her hand flickered most effectively. he loved her madly; but his fear of her was more powerful than his love. she gave him no opportunity to speak what he felt, having ever ready a quick, bright change of mood and manner when she saw him plucking up courage to address her in a sentimental way. their relations had long been somewhat familiar, which was but natural, considering their youth and the circumstances of their daily life; but alice somehow had kept a certain distance open between them, so that very warm friendship could not suddenly resolve itself into a troublesome passion on rene's part. we need not attempt to analyze a young girl's feeling and motives in such a case; what she does and what she thinks are mysteries even to her own understanding. the influence most potent in shaping the rudimentary character of alice tarleton (called roussillon) had been only such as a lonely frontier post could generate. her associations with men and women had, with few exceptions, been unprofitable in an educational way, while her reading in m. roussillon's little library could not have given her any practical knowledge of manners and life. she was fond of rene de ronville, and it would have been quite in accordance with the law of ordinary human forces, indeed almost the inevitable thing, for her to love and marry him in the fullness of time; but her imagination was outgrowing her surroundings. books had given her a world of romance wherein she moved at will, meeting a class of people far different from those who actually shared her experiences. her day-dreams and her night-dreams partook much more of what she had read and imagined than of what she had seen and heard in the raw little world around her. her affection for rene was interfered with by her large admiration for the heroic, masterful and magnetic knights who charged through the romances of the roussillon collection. for although rene was unquestionably brave and more than passably handsome, he had no armor, no war-horse, no shining lance and embossed shield--the difference, indeed, was great. those who love to contend against the fatal drift of our age toward over-education could find in alice tarleton, foster daughter of gaspard roussillon, a primitive example, an elementary case in point. what could her book education do but set up stumbling blocks in the path of happiness? she was learning to prefer the ideal to the real. her soul was developing itself as best it could for the enjoyment of conditions and things absolutely foreign to the possibilities of her lot in life. perhaps it was the light and heat of imagination, shining out through alice's face, which gave her beauty such a fascinating power. rene saw it and felt its electrical stroke send a sweet shiver through his heart, while he stood before her. "you are very beautiful to-night alice," he presently said, with a suddenness which took even her alertness by surprise. a flush rose to his dark face and immediately gave way to a grayish pallor. his heart came near stopping on the instant, he was so shocked by his own daring; but he laid a hand on her hair, stroking it softly. just a moment she was at a loss, looking a trifle embarrassed, then with a merry laugh she stepped aside and said: "that sounds better, monsieur rene de ronville much better; you will be as polite as father beret after a little more training." she slipped past him while speaking and made her way back again to the main room, whence she called to him: "come here, i've something to show you." he obeyed, a sheepish trace on his countenance betraying his self-consciousness. when he came near alice she was taking from its buckhorn hook on the wall a rapier, one of a beautiful pair hanging side by side. "papa roussillon gave me these," she said with great animation. "he bought them of an indian who had kept them a long time; where he came across them he would not tell; but look how beautiful! did you ever see anything so fine?" guard and hilt were of silver; the blade, although somewhat corroded, still showed the fine wavy lines of damascus steel and traces of delicate engraving, while in the end of the hilt was set a large oval turquoise. "a very queer present to give a girl," said rene; "what can you do with them?" a captivating flash of playfulness came into her face and she sprang backward, giving the sword a semicircular turn with her wrist. the blade sent forth a keen hiss as it cut the air close, very close to rene's nose. he jerked his head and flung up his hand. she laughed merrily, standing beautifully poised before him, the rapier's point slightly elevated. her short skirt left her feet and ankles free to show their graceful proportions and the perfect pose in which they held her supple body. "you see what i can do with the colechemarde, eh, monsieur rene de ronville!" she exclaimed, giving him a smile which fairly blinded him. "notice how very near to your neck i can thrust and yet not touch it. now!" she darted the keen point under his chin and drew it away so quickly that the stroke was like a glint of sunlight. "what do you think of that as a nice and accurate piece of skill?" she again resumed her pose, the right foot advanced, the left arm well back, her lissome, finely developed body leaning slightly forward. rene's hands were up before his face in a defensive position, palms outward. just then a chorus of men's voices sounded in the distance. the river house was beginning its carousal with a song. alice let fall her sword's point and listened. rene looked about for his cap. "i must be going," he said. another and louder swish of the rapier made him pirouette and dodge again with great energy. "don't," he cried, "that's dangerous; you'll put out my eyes; i never saw such a girl!" she laughed at him and kept on whipping the air dangerously near his eyes, until she had driven him backward as far as he could squeeze himself into a comer of the room. madame roussillon came to the door from the kitchen and stood looking in and laughing, with her hands on her hips. by this time the rapier was making a criss-cross pattern of flashing lines close to the young man's head while alice, in the enjoyment of her exercise, seemed to concentrate all the glowing rays of her beauty in her face, her eyes dancing merrily. "quit, now, alice," he begged, half in fun and half in abject fear; "please quit--i surrender!" she thrust to the wall on either side of him, then springing lightly backward a pace, stood at guard. her thick yellow hair had fallen over her neck and shoulders in a loose wavy mass, out of which her face beamed with a bewitching effect upon her captive. rene, glad enough to have a cessation of his peril, stood laughing dryly; but the singing down at the river house was swelling louder and he made another movement to go. "you surrendered, you remember," cried alice, renewing the sword-play; "sit down on the chair there and make yourself comfortable. you are not going down yonder to-night; you are going to stay here and talk with me and mother roussillon; we are lonesome and you are good company." a shot rang out keen and clear; there was a sudden tumult that broke up the distant singing; and presently more firing at varying intervals cut the night air from the direction of the river. jean, the hunchback, came in to say that there was a row of some sort; he had seen men running across the common as if in pursuit of a fugitive; but the moonlight was so dim that he could not be sure what it all meant. rene picked up his cap and bolted out of the house. chapter iii the rape of the demijohn the row down at the river house was more noise than fight, so far as results seemed to indicate. it was all about a small dame jeanne of fine brandy, which an indian by the name of long-hair had seized and run off with at the height of the carousal. he must have been soberer than his pursuers, or naturally fleeter; for not one of them could catch him, or even keep long in sight of him. some pistols were emptied while the race was on, and two or three of the men swore roundly to having seen long-hair jump sidewise and stagger, as if one of the shots had taken effect. but, although the moon was shining, he someway disappeared, they could not understand just how, far down beside the river below the fort and the church. it was not a very uncommon thing for an indian to steal what he wanted, and in most cases light punishment followed conviction; but it was felt to be a capital offense for an indian or anybody else to rape a demijohn of fine brandy, especially one sent as a present, by a friend in new orleans, to lieutenant governor abbott, who had until recently been the commandant of the post. every man at the river house recognized and resented the enormity of long-hair's crime and each was, for the moment, ready to be his judge and his executioner. he had broken at once every rule of frontier etiquette and every bond of sympathy. nor was long-hair ignorant of the danger involved in his daring enterprise. he had beforehand carefully and stolidly weighed all the conditions, and true to his indian nature, had concluded that a little wicker covered bottle of brandy was well worth the risk of his life. so he had put himself in condition for a great race by slipping out and getting rid of his weapons and all surplus weight of clothes. this incident brought the drinking bout at the river house to a sudden end; but nothing further came of it that night, and no record of it would be found in these pages, but for the fact that long-hair afterwards became an important character in the stirring historical drama which had old vincennes for its center of energy. rene de ronville probably felt himself in bad luck when he arrived at the river house just too late to share in the liquor or to join in chasing the bold thief. he listened with interest, however, to the story of long-hair's capture of the commandant's demijohn and could not refrain from saying that if he had been present there would have been a quite different result. "i would have shot him before he got to that door," he said, drawing his heavy flint-lock pistol and going through the motions of one aiming quickly and firing. indeed, so vigorously in earnest was he with the pantomime, that he actually did fire, unintentionally of course,--the ball burying itself in the door-jamb. he was laughed at by those present for being more excited than they who witnessed the whole thing. one of them, a leathery-faced and grizzled old sinner, leered at him contemptuously and said in queer french, with a curious accent caught from long use of backwoods english: "listen how the boy brags! ye might think, to hear rene talk, that he actually amounted to a big pile." this personage was known to every soul in vincennes as oncle jazon, and when oncle jazon spoke the whole town felt bound to listen. "an' how well he shoots, too," he added with an intolerable wink; "aimed at the door and hit the post. certainly long-hair would have been in great danger! o yes, he'd 'ave killed long-hair at the first shot, wouldn't he though!" oncle jazon had the air of a large man, but the stature of a small one; in fact he was shriveled bodily to a degree which suggested comparison with a sun-dried wisp of hickory bark; and when he chuckled, as he was now doing, his mouth puckered itself until it looked like a scar on his face. from cap to moccasins he had every mark significant of a desperate character; and yet there was about him something that instantly commanded the confidence of rough men,--the look of self-sufficiency and superior capability always to be found in connection with immense will power. his sixty years of exposure, hardship, and danger seemed to have but toughened his physique and strengthened his vitality. out of his small hazel eyes gleamed a light as keen as ice. "all right, oncle jazon," said rene laughing and blowing the smoke out of his pistol; "'twas you all the same who let long-hair trot off with the governor's brandy, not i. if you could have hit even a door-post it might have been better." oncle jazon took off his cap and looked down into it in a way he had when about to say something final. "ventrebleu! i did not shoot at long-hair at all," he said, speaking slowly, "because the scoundrel was unarmed. he didn't have on even a knife, and he was havin' enough to do dodgin' the bullets that the rest of 'em were plumpin' at 'im without any compliments from me to bother 'im more." "well," rene replied, turning away with a laugh, "if i'd been scalped by the indians, as you have, i don't think there would be any particular reason why i should wait for an indian thief to go and arm himself before i accepted him as a target." oncle jazon lifted a hand involuntarily and rubbed his scalpless crown; then he chuckled with a grotesque grimace as if the recollection of having his head skinned were the funniest thing imaginable. "when you've killed as many of 'em as oncle jazon has," remarked a bystander to rene, "you'll not be so hungry for blood, maybe." "especially after ye've took fifty-nine scalps to pay for yer one," added oncle jazon, replacing his cap over the hairless area of his crown. the men who had been chasing long-hair, presently came straggling back with their stories--each had a distinct one--of how the fugitive escaped. they were wild looking fellows, most of them somewhat intoxicated, all profusely liberal with their stock of picturesque profanity. they represented the roughest element of the well-nigh lawless post. "i'm positive that he's wounded," said one. "jacques and i shot at him together, so that our pistols sounded just as if only one had been fired--bang! that way--and he leaped sideways for all the world like a bird with a broken leg. i thought he'd fall; but ve! he ran faster'n ever, and all at once he was gone; just disappeared." "well, to-morrow we'll get him," said another. "you and i and jacques, we'll take up his trail, the thief, and follow him till we find him. he can't get off so easy." "i don't know so well about that," said another; "it's long-hair, you must remember, and long-hair is no common buck that just anybody can find asleep. you know what long-hair is. nobody's ever got even with 'im yet. that's so, ain't it? just ask oncle jazon, if you don't believe it!" the next morning long-hair was tracked to the edge. he had been wounded, but whether seriously or not could only be conjectured. a sprinkle of blood, here and there quite a dash of it, reddened the grass and clumps of weeds he had run through, and ended close to the water into which it looked as if he had plunged with a view to baffling pursuit. indeed pursuit was baffled. no further trace could be found, by which to follow the cunning fugitive. some of the men consoled themselves by saying, without believing, that long-hair was probably lying drowned at the bottom of the river. "pas du tout," observed oncle jazon, his short pipe askew far over in the corner of his mouth, "not a bit of it is that indian drowned. he's jes' as live as a fat cat this minute, and as drunk as the devil. he'll get some o' yer scalps yet after he's guzzled all that brandy and slep' a week." it finally transpired that oncle jazon was partly right and partly wrong. long-hair was alive, even as a fat cat, perhaps; but not drunk, for in trying to swim with the rotund little dame jeanne under his arm he lost hold of it and it went to the bottom of the wabash, where it may be lying at this moment patiently waiting for some one to fish it out of its bed deep in the sand and mud, and break the ancient wax from its neck! rene de ronville, after the chase of long-hair had been given over, went to tell father beret what had happened, and finding the priest's hut empty turned into the path leading to the roussillon place, which was at the head of a narrow street laid out in a direction at right angles to the river's course. he passed two or three diminutive cabins, all as much alike as bee-hives. each had its squat veranda and thatched or clapboarded roof held in place by weight-poles ranged in roughly parallel rows, and each had the face of the wall under its veranda neatly daubed with a grayish stucco made of mud and lime. you may see such houses today in some remote parts of the creole country of louisiana. as rene passed along he spoke with a gay french freedom to the dames and lasses who chanced to be visible. his air would be regarded as violently brigandish in our day; we might even go so far as to think his whole appearance comical. his jaunty cap with a tail that wagged as he walked, his short trousers and leggins of buckskin, and his loose shirt-like tunic, drawn in at the waist with a broad belt, gave his strong figure just the dash of wildness suited to the armament with which it was weighted. a heavy gun lay in the hollow of his shoulder under which hung an otter-skin bullet-pouch with its clear powder-horn and white bone charger. in his belt were two huge flint-lock pistols and a long case-knife. "bon jour, ma'm'selle adrienne," he cheerily called, waving his free hand in greeting to a small, dark lass standing on the step of a veranda and indolently swinging a broom. "comment allez-vous auj ourd'hui?" "j'm'porte tres bien, merci, mo'sieu rene," was the quick response; "et vous?" "oh, i'm as lively as a cricket." "going a hunting?" "no, just up here a little way--just on business--up to mo'sieu roussillon's for a moment." "yes," the girl responded in a tone indicative of something very like spleen, "yes, undoubtedly, mo'sieu de ronville; your business there seems quite pressing of late. i have noticed your industrious application to that business." "ta-ta, little one," he wheedled, lowering his voice; "you mustn't go to making bug-bears out of nothing." "bug-bears!" she retorted, "you go on about your business and i'll attend to mine," and she flirted into the house. rene laughed under his breath, standing a moment as if expecting her to come out again; but she did not, and he resumed his walk singing softly-- "elle a les joues vermeilles, vermeilles, ma belle, ma belle petite." but ten to one he was not thinking of madamoiselle adrienne bourcier. his mind, however, must have been absorbingly occupied; for in the straight, open way he met father beret and did not see him until he came near bumping against the old man, who stepped aside with astonishing agility and said-- "dieu vous benisse, mon fils; but what is your great hurry--where can you be going in such happy haste?" rene did not stop to parley with the priest. he flung some phrase of pleasant greeting back over his shoulder as he trudged on, his heart beginning a tattoo against his ribs when the roussillon place came in sight, and he took hold of his mustache to pull it, as some men must do in moments of nervousness and bashfulness. if sounds ever have color, the humming in his ears was of a rosy hue; if thoughts ever exhale fragrance, his brain overflowed with the sweets of violet and heliotrope. he had in mind what he was going to say when alice and he should be alone together. it was a pretty speech, he thought; indeed a very thrilling little speech, by the way it stirred his own nerve-centers as he conned it over. madame roussillon met him at the door in not a very good humor. "is mademoiselle alice here?" he ventured to demand. "alice? no, she's not here; she's never here just when i want her most. v'la le picbois et la grive--see the woodpecker and the robin--eating the cherries, eating every one of them, and that girl running off somewhere instead of staying here and picking them," she railed in answer to the young man's polite inquiry. "i haven't seen her these four hours, neither her nor that rascally hunchback, jean. they're up to some mischief, i'll be bound!" madame roussillon puffed audibly between phrases; but she suddenly became very mild when relieved of her tirade. "mais entrez," she added in a pleasant tone, "come in and tell me the news." rene's disappointment rushed into his face, but he managed to laugh it aside. "father beret has just been telling me," said madame roussillon, "that our friend long-hair made some trouble last night. how about it?" rene told her what he knew and added that long-hair would probably never be seen again. "he was shot, no doubt of it," he went on, "and is now being nibbled by fish and turtles. we tracked him by his blood to where he jumped into the wabash. he never came out." strangely enough it happened that, at the very time of this chat between madame roussillon and rene alice was bandaging long-hair's wounded leg with strips of her apron. it was under some willows which overhung the bank of a narrow and shallow lagoon or slough, which in those days extended a mile or two back into the country on the farther side of the river. alice and jean went over in a pirogue to see if the water lilies, haunting a pond there, were yet beginning to bloom. they landed at a convenient spot some distance up the little lagoon, made the boat fast by dragging its prow high ashore, and were on the point of setting out across a neck of wet, grassy land to the pond, when a deep grunt, not unlike that of a self-satisfied pig, attracted them to the willows, where they discovered long-hair, badly wounded, weltering in some black mud. his hiding-place was cunningly chosen, save that the mire troubled him, letting him down by slow degrees, and threatening to engulf him bodily; and he was now too weak to extricate himself. he lifted his head and glared. his face was grimy, his hair matted with mud. alice, although brave enough and quite accustomed to startling experiences, uttered a cry when she saw those snaky eyes glistening so savagely amid the shadows. but jean was quick to recognize long-hair; he had often seen him about town, a figure not to be forgotten. "they've been hunting him everywhere," he said in a half whisper to alice, clutching the skirt of her dress. "it's long-hair, the indian who stole the brandy; i know him." alice recoiled a pace or two. "let's go back and tell 'em," jean added, still whispering, "they want to kill him; oncle jazon said so. come on!" he gave her dress a jerk; but she did not move any farther back; she was looking at the blood oozing from a wound in the indian's leg. "he is shot, he is hurt, jean, we must help him," she presently said, recovering her self-control, yet still pale. "we must get him out of that bad place." jean caught alice's merciful spirit with sympathetic readiness, and showed immediate willingness to aid her. it was a difficult thing to do; but there was a will and of course a way. they had knives with which they cut willows to make a standing place on the mud. while they were doing this they spoke friendly words to long-hair, who understood french a little, and at last they got hold of his arms, tugged, rested, tugged again, and finally managed to help him to a dry place, still under the willows, where he could lie more at ease. jean carried water in his cap with which they washed the wound and the stolid savage face. then alice tore up her cotton apron, in which she had hoped to bear home a load of lilies, and with the strips bound the wound very neatly. it took a long time, during which the indian remained silent and apparently quite indifferent. long-hair was a man of superior physique, tall, straight, with the muscles of a vulcan; and while he lay stretched on the ground half clad and motionless, he would have been a grand model for an heroic figure in bronze. yet from every lineament there came a strange repelling influence, like that from a snake. alice felt almost unbearable disgust while doing her merciful task; but she bravely persevered until it was finished. it was now late in the afternoon, and the sun would be setting before they could reach home. "we must hurry back, jean," alice said, turning to depart. "it will be all we can do to reach the other side in daylight. i'm thinking that they'll be out hunting for us too, if we don't move right lively. come." she gave the indian another glance when she had taken but a step. he grunted and held up something in his hand--something that shone with a dull yellow light. it was a small, oval, gold locket which she had always worn in her bosom. she sprang and snatched it from his palm. "thank you," she exclaimed, smiling gratefully. "i am so glad you found it." the chain by which the locket had hung was broken, doubtless by some movement while dragging long-hair out of the mud, and the lid had sprung open, exposing a miniature portrait of alice, painted when she was a little child, probably not two years old. it was a sweet baby face, archly bright, almost surrounded with a fluff of golden hair. the neck and the upper line of the plump shoulders, with a trace of richly delicate lace and a string of pearls, gave somehow a suggestion of patrician daintiness. long-hair looked keenly into alice's eyes, when she stooped to take the locket from his hand, but said nothing. she and jean now hurried away, and, so vigorously did they paddle the pirogue, that the sky was yet red in the west when they reached home and duly received their expected scolding from madame roussillon. alice sealed jean's lips as to their adventure; for she had made up her mind to save long-hair if possible, and she felt sure that the only way to do it would be to trust no one but father beret. it turned out that long-hair's wound was neither a broken bone nor a cut artery. the flesh of his leg, midway between the hip and the knee, was pierced; the bullet had bored a neat hole clean through. father beret took the case in hand, and with no little surgical skill proceeded to set the big indian upon his feet again. the affair had to be cleverly managed. food, medicines and clothing were surreptitiously borne across the river; a bed of grass was kept fresh under long-hair's back; his wound was regularly dressed; and finally his weapons--a tomahawk, a knife, a strong bow and a quiver of arrows--which he had hidden on the night of his bold theft, were brought to him. "now go and sin no more," said good father beret; but he well knew that his words were mere puffs of articulate wind in the ear of the grim and silent savage, who limped away with an air of stately dignity into the wilderness. a load fell from alice's mind when father beret informed her of long-hair's recovery and departure. day and night the dread lest some of the men should find out his hiding-place and kill him had depressed and worried her. and now, when it was all over, there still hovered like an elusive shadow in her consciousness a vague haunting impression of the incident's immense significance as an influence in her life. to feel that she had saved a man from death was a new sensation of itself; but the man and the circumstances were picturesque; they invited imagination; they furnished an atmosphere of romance dear to all young and healthy natures, and somehow stirred her soul with a strange appeal. long-hair's imperturbable calmness, his stolid, immobile countenance, the mysterious reptilian gleam of his shifty black eyes, and the soulless expression always lurking in them, kept a fascinating hold on the girl's memory. they blended curiously with the impressions left by the romances she had read in m. roussillon's mildewed books. long-hair was not a young man; but it would have been impossible to guess near his age. his form and face simply showed long experience and immeasurable vigor. alice remembered with a shuddering sensation the look he gave her when she took the locket from his hand. it was of but a second's duration, yet it seemed to search every nook of her being with its subtle power. romancers have made much of their indian heroes, picturing them as models of manly beauty and nobility; but all fiction must be taken with liberal pinches of salt. the plain truth is that dark savages of the pure blood often do possess the magnetism of perfect physical development and unfathomable mental strangeness; but real beauty they never have. their innate repulsiveness is so great that, like the snake's charm, it may fascinate; yet an indescribable, haunting disgust goes with it. and, after all, if alice had been asked to tell just how she felt toward the indian she had labored so hard to save, she would promptly have said: "i loathe him as i do a toad!" nor would father beret, put to the same test, have made a substantially different confession. his work, to do which his life went as fuel to fire, was training the souls of indians for the reception of divine grace; but experience had not changed his first impression of savage character. when he traveled in the wilderness he carried the word and the cross; but he was also armed with a gun and two good pistols, not to mention a dangerous knife. the rumor prevailed that father beret could drive a nail at sixty yards with his rifle, and at twenty snuff a candle with either one of his pistols. chapter iv the first mayor of vincennes governor abbott probably never so much as heard of the dame jeanne of french brandy sent to him by his creole friend in new orleans. he had been gone from vincennes several months when the batteau arrived, having been recalled to detroit by the british authorities; and he never returned. meantime the little post with its quaint cabins and its dilapidated block-house, called fort sackville, lay sunning drowsily by the river in a blissful state of helplessness from the military point of view. there was no garrison; the two or three pieces of artillery, abandoned and exposed, gathered rust and cobwebs, while the pickets of the stockade, decaying and loosened in the ground by winter freezes and summer rains, leaned in all directions, a picture of decay and inefficiency. the inhabitants of the town, numbering about six hundred, lived very much as pleased them, without any regular municipal government, each family its own tribe, each man a law unto himself; yet for mutual protection, they all kept in touch and had certain common rights which were religiously respected and defended faithfully. a large pasturing ground was fenced in where the goats and little black cows of the villagers browsed as one herd, while the patches of wheat, corn and vegetables were not inclosed at all. a few of the thriftier and more important citizens, however, had separate estates of some magnitude, surrounding their residences, kept up with care and, if the time and place be taken into account, with considerable show of taste. monsieur gaspard roussillon was looked upon as the aristocrat par excellence of vincennes, notwithstanding the fact that his name bore no suggestion of noble or titled ancestry. he was rich and in a measure educated; moreover the successful man's patent of leadership, a commanding figure and a suave manner, came always to his assistance when a crisis presented itself. he traded shrewdly, much to his own profit, but invariably with the excellent result that the man, white or indian, with whom he did business felt himself especially favored in the transaction. by the exercise of firmness, prudence, vast assumption, florid eloquence and a kindly liberality he had greatly endeared himself to the people; so that in the absence of a military commander he came naturally to be regarded as the chief of the town, mo'sieu' le maire. he returned from his extended trading expedition about the middle of july, bringing, as was his invariable rule, a gift for alice. this time it was a small, thin disc of white flint, with a hole in the center through which a beaded cord of sinew was looped. the edge of the disc was beautifully notched and the whole surface polished so that it shone like glass, while the beads, made of very small segments of porcupine quills, were variously dyed, making a curiously gaudy show of bright colors. "there now, ma cherie, is something worth fifty times its weight in gold," said m. roussillon when he presented the necklace to his foster daughter with pardonable self-satisfaction. "it is a sacred charm-string given me by an old heathen who would sell his soul for a pint of cheap rum. he solemnly informed me that whoever wore it could not by any possibility be killed by an enemy." alice kissed m. roussillon. "it's so curious and beautiful," she said, holding it up and drawing the variegated string through her fingers. then, with her mischievous laugh, she added; "and i'm glad it is so powerful against one's enemy; i'll wear it whenever i go where adrienne bourcier is, see if i don't!" "is she your enemy? what's up between you and la petite adrienne, eh?" m. roussillon lightly demanded. "you were always the best of good friends, i thought. what's happened?" "oh, we are good friends," said alice, quickly, "very good friends, indeed; i was but chaffing." "good friends, but enemies; that's how it is with women. who's the young man that's caused the coolness? i could guess, maybe!" he laughed and winked knowingly. "may i be so bold as to name him at a venture?" "yes, if you'll be sure to mention monsieur rene de ronville," she gayly answered. "who but he could work adrienne up into a perfect green mist of jealousy?" "he would need an accomplice, i should imagine; a young lady of some beauty and a good deal of heartlessness." "like whom, for example?" and she tossed her bright head. "not me, i am sure." "poh! like every pretty maiden in the whole world, ma petite coquette; they're all alike as peas, cruel as blue jays and as sweet as apple-blossoms." he stroked her hair clumsily with his large hand, as a heavy and roughly fond man is apt to do, adding in an almost serious tone: "but my little girl is better than most of them, not a foolish mischief-maker, i hope." alice was putting her head through the string of beads and letting the translucent white disc fall into her bosom. "it's time to change the subject," she said; "tell me what you have seen while away. i wish i could go far off and see things. have you been to detroit, quebec, montreal?" "yes, i've been to all, a long, hard journey, but reasonably profitable. you shall have a goodly dot when you get married, my child." "and did you attend any parties and balls?" she inquired quickly, ignoring his concluding remark. "tell me about them. how do the fine ladies dress, and do they wear their hair high with great big combs? do they have long skirts and--" "hold up, you double-tongued chatterbox!" he interrupted; "i can't answer forty questions at once. yes, i danced till my legs ached with women old and girls young; but how could i remember how they were dressed and what their style of coiffure was? i know that silk rustled and there was a perfume of eau de cologne and mignonette and my heart expanded and blazed while i whirled like a top with a sweet lady in my arms." "yes, you must have cut a ravishing figure!" interpolated madame roussillon with emphatic disapproval, her eyes snapping. "a bull in a lace shop. how delighted the ladies must have been!" "never saw such blushing faces and burning glances--such fluttering breasts, such--" "big braggart," madame roussillon broke in contemptuously, "it's a piastre to a sou that you stood gawping in through a window while gentlemen and ladies did the dancing. i can imagine how you looked--i can!" and with this she took her prodigious bulk at a waddling gait out of the room. "i remember how you danced even when you were not clumsy as a pig on ice!" she shrieked back over her shoulder. "parbleu! true enough, my dear," he called after her, "i should think you could--you mind how we used trip it together. you were the prettiest dancer them all, and the young fellows all went to the swords about you!" "but tell me more," alice insisted; "i want to know about what you saw in the great towns--in the fine houses--how the ladies looked, how they acted--what they said--the dresses they wore--how--" "ciel! you will split my ears, child; can't you fill my pipe and bring it to me with a coal on it? then i'll try to tell you what i can," he cried, assuming a humorously resigned air. "perhaps if i smoke i can remember everything." alice gladly ran to do what he asked. meantime jean was out on the gallery blowing a flute that m. roussillon had brought him from quebec. the pipe well filled and lighted apparently did have the effect to steady and encourage m. roussillon's memory; or if not his memory, then his imagination, which was of that fervid and liberal sort common to natives of the midi, and which has been exquisitely depicted by the late alphonse daudet in tartarin and bompard. he leaned far back in a strong chair, with his massive legs stretched at full length, and gazed at the roof-poles while he talked. he sympathized fully, in his crude way, with alice's lively curiosity, and his affection for her made him anxious to appease her longing after news from the great outside world. if the sheer truth must come out, however, he knew precious little about that world, especially the polite part of it in which thrived those femininities so dear to the heart of an isolated and imaginative girl. still, as he, too, lived in arcadia, there was no great effort involved when he undertook to blow a dreamer's flute. in the first place he had not been in quebec or montreal during his absence from home. most of the time he had spent disposing of pelts and furs at detroit and in extending his trading relations with other posts; but what mattered a trifling want of facts when his meridional fancy once began to warm up? a smattering of social knowledge gained at first hand in his youthful days in france while he was a student whose parents fondly expected him to conquer the world, came to his aid, and besides he had saturated himself all his life with poetry and romance. scudery, scarron, prevost, madame la fayette and calprenede were the chief sources of his information touching the life and manners, morals and gayeties of people who, as he supposed, stirred the surface of that resplendent and far-off ocean called society. nothing suited him better than to smoke a pipe and talk about what he had seen and done; and the less he had really seen and done the more he had to tell. his broad, almost over-virile, kindly and contented face beamed with the warmth of wholly imaginary recollections while he recounted with minute circumstantiality to the delighted alice his gallant adventures in the crowded and brilliant ball-rooms of the french-canadian towns. the rolling burr of his bass voice, deep and resonant, gave force to the improvised descriptions. madame roussillon heard the heavy booming and presently came softly back into the door from the kitchen to listen. she leaned against the facing in an attitude of ponderous attention, a hand, on her bulging hip. she could not suppress her unbounded admiration of her liege lord's manly physique, and jealous to fierceness as she was of his experiences so eloquently and picturesquely related, her woman's nature took fire with enjoyment of the scenes described. this is the mission of the poet and the romancer--to sponge out of existence, for a time, the stiff, refractory, and unlovely realities and give in their place a scene of ideal mobility and charm. the two women reveled in gaspard roussillon's revelations. they saw the brilliant companies, the luxurious surroundings, heard the rustle of brocade and the fine flutter of laces, the hum of sweet voices, breathed in the wafts of costly perfumeries, looked on while the dancers whirled and flickered in the confusion of lights; and over all and through all poured and vibrated such ravishing music as only the southern imagination could have conjured up out of nothing. alice was absolutely charmed. she sat on a low wooden stool and gazed into gaspard roussillon's face with dilating eyes in which burned that rich and radiant something we call a passionate soul. she drank in his flamboyant stream of words with a thirst which nothing but experience could ever quench. he felt her silent applause and the admiring involuntary absorption that possessed his wife; the consciousness of his elementary magnetism augmented the flow of his fine descriptions, and he went on and on, until the arrival of father beret put an end to it all. the priest, hearing of m. roussillon's return, had come to inquire about some friends living at detroit. he took luncheon with the family, enjoying the downright refreshing collation of broiled birds, onions, meal-cakes and claret, ending with a dish of blackberries and cream. m. roussillon seized the first opportunity to resume his successful romancing, and presently in the midst of the meal began to tell father beret about what he had seen in quebec. "by the way," he said, with expansive casualness in his voice, "i called upon your old-time friend and co-adjutor, father sebastien, while up there. a noble old man. he sent you a thousand good messages. was mightily delighted when i told him how happy and hale you have always been here. ah, you should have seen his dear old eyes full of loving tears. he would walk a hundred miles to see you, he said, but never expected to in this world. blessings, blessings upon dear father beret, was what he murmured in my ear when we were parting. he says that he will never leave quebec until he goes to his home above--ah!" the way in which m. roussillon closed his little speech, his large eyes upturned, his huge hands clasped in front of him, was very effective. "i am under many obligations, my son," said father beret, "for what you tell me. it was good of you to remember my dear old friend and go to him for his loving messages to me. i am very, very thankful. help me to another drop of wine, please." now the extraordinary feature of the situation was that father beret had known positively for nearly five years that father sebastien was dead and buried. "ah, yes," m. roussillon continued, pouring the claret with one hand and making a pious gesture with the other; "the dear old man loves you and prays for you; his voice quavers whenever he speaks of you." "doubtless he made his old joke to you about the birth-mark on my shoulder," said father beret after a moment of apparently thoughtful silence. "he may have said something about it in a playful way, eh?" "true, true, why yes, he surely mentioned the same," assented m. roussillon, his face assuming an expression of confused memory; "it was something sly and humorous, i mind; but it just escapes my recollection. a right jolly old boy is father sebastien; indeed very amusing at times." "at times, yes," said father beret, who had no birth-mark on his shoulder, and had never had one there, or on any other part of his person. "how strange!" alice remarked, "i, too, have a mark on my shoulder--a pink spot, just like a small, five-petaled flower. we must be of kin to each other, father beret." the priest laughed. "if our marks are alike, that would be some evidence of kinship," he said. "but what shape is yours, father?" "i've never seen it," he responded. "never seen it! why?" "well, it's absolutely invisible," and he chuckled heartily, meantime glancing shrewdly at m. roussillon out of the tail of his eye. "it's on the back part of his shoulder," quickly spoke up m. roussillon, "and you know priests never use looking-glasses. the mark is quite invisible therefore, so far as father beret is concerned!" "you never told me of your birth-mark before, my daughter," said father beret, turning to alice with sudden interest. "it may some day be good fortune to you." "why so, father?" "if your family name is really tarleton, as you suppose from the inscription on your locket, the birth-mark, being of such singular shape, would probably identify you. it is said that these marks run regularly in families. with the miniature and the distinguishing birth-mark you have enough to make a strong case should you once find the right tarleton family." "you talk as they write in novels," said alice. "i've read about just such things in them. wouldn't it be grand if i should turn out to be some great personage in disguise!" the mention of novels reminded father beret of that terrible book, manon lescaut, which he last saw in alice's possession, and he could not refrain from mentioning it in a voice that shuddered. "rest easy, father beret," said alice; "that is one novel i have found wholly distasteful to me. i tried to read it, but could not do it, i flung it aside in utter disgust. you and mother roussillon are welcome to hide it deep as a well, for all i care. i don't enjoy reading about low, vile people and hopeless unfortunates; i like sweet and lovely heroines and strong, high-souled, brave heroes." "read about the blessed saints, then, my daughter; you will find in them the true heroes and heroines of this world," said father beret. m. roussillon changed the subject, for he always somehow dreaded to have the good priest fall into the strain of argument he was about to begin. a stray sheep, no matter how refractory, feels a touch of longing when it hears the shepherd's voice. m. roussillon was a catholic, but a straying one, who avoided the confessional and often forgot mass. still, with all his reckless independence, and with all his outward show of large and breezy self-sufficiency, he was not altogether free from the hold that the church had laid upon him in childhood and youth. moreover, he was fond of father beret and had done a great deal for the little church of st. xavier and the mission it represented; but he distinctly desired to be let alone while he pursued his own course; and he had promised the dying woman who gave alice to him that the child should be left as she was, a protestant, without undue influence to change her from the faith of her parents. this promise he had kept with stubborn persistence and he meant to keep it as long as he lived. perhaps the very fact that his innermost conscience smote him with vague yet telling blows at times for this departure from the strict religion of his fathers, may have intensified his resistance of the influence constantly exerted upon alice by father beret and madame roussillon, to bring her gently but surely to the church. perverseness is a force to be reckoned with in all original characters. a few weeks had passed after m. roussillon's return, when that big-hearted man took it into his head to celebrate his successful trading ventures with a moonlight dance given without reserve to all the inhabitants of vincennes. it was certainly a democratic function that he contemplated, and motley to a most picturesque extent. rene de ronville called upon alice a day or two previous to the occasion and duly engaged her as his partenaire; but she insisted upon having the engagement guarded in her behalf by a condition so obviously fanciful that he accepted it without argument. "if my wandering knight should arrive during the dance, you promise to stand aside and give place to him," she stipulated. "you promise that? you see i'm expecting him all the time. i dreamed last night that he came on a great bay horse and, stooping, whirled me up behind the saddle, and away we went!" there was a childish, half bantering air in her look; but her voice sounded earnest and serious, notwithstanding its delicious timbre of suppressed playfulness. "you promise me?" she insisted. "oh, i promise to slink away into a corner and chew my thumb, the moment he comes," rene eagerly assented. "of course i'm taking a great risk, i know; for lords and barons and knights are very apt to appear suddenly in a place like this." "you may banter and make light if you want to," she said, pouting admirably. "i don't care. all the same the laugh will jump to the other corner of your mouth, see if it doesn't. they say that what a person dreams about and wishes for and waits for and believes in, will come true sooner or later." "if that's so," said rene, "you and i will get married; for i've dreamed it every night of the year, wished for it, waited for it and believed in it, and--" it was a madly sudden rush. he made it on an impulse quite irresistible, as hypnotized persons are said to do in response to the suggestion of the hypnotist, and his heart was choking his throat before he could end his speech. alice interrupted him with a hearty burst of laughter. "a very pretty twist you give to my words, i must declare," she said; "but not new by any means. little adrienne bourcier could tell you that. she says that you have vowed to her over and over that you dream about her, and wish for her, and wait for her, precisely as you have just said to me." rene's brown face flushed to the temples, partly with anger, partly with the shock of mingled surprise and fear. he was guilty, and the guilt showed in his eyes and paralyzed his tongue, so that he sat there before alice with his under jaw sagging ludicrously. "don't you rather think, monsieur rene de ronville," she presently added in a calmly advisory tone, "that you had better quit trying to say such foolish things to me, and just be my very good friend? if you don't, i do, which comes to the same thing. what's more, i won't be your partenaire at the dance unless you promise me on your word of honor that you will dance two dances with adrienne to every one that you have with me. do you promise?" he dared not oppose her outwardly, although in his heart resistance amounted to furious revolt and riot. "i promise anything you ask me to," he said resignedly, almost sullenly; "anything for you." "well, i ask nothing whatever on my own account," alice quickly replied; "but i do tell you firmly that you shall not maltreat little adrienne bourcier and remain a friend of mine. she loves you, rene de ronville, and you have told her that you love her. if you are a man worthy of respect you will not desert her. don't you think i am right?" like a singed and crippled moth vainly trying to rise once again to the alluring yet deadly flame, rene de ronville essayed to break out of his embarrassment and resume equal footing with the girl so suddenly become his commanding superior; but the effort disclosed to him as well as to her that he had fallen to rise no more. in his abject defeat he accepted the terms dictated by alice and was glad when she adroitly changed her manner and tone in going on to discuss the approaching dance. "now let me make one request of you," he demanded after a while. "it's a small favor; may i ask it?" "yes, but i don't grant it in advance." "i want you to wear, for my sake, the buff gown which they say was your grandmother's." "no, i won't wear it." "but why, alice?" "none of the other girls have anything like such a dress; it would not be right for me to put it on and make them all feel that i had taken the advantage of them, just because i could; that's why." "but then none of them is beautiful and educated like you," he said; "you'll outshine them anyway." "save your compliments for poor pretty little adrienne," she firmly responded, "i positively do not wish to hear them. i have agreed to be your partenaire at this dance of papa roussillon's, but it is understood between us that adrienne is your sweet-heart. i am not, and i'm not going to be, either. so for your sake and adrienne's, as well as out of consideration for the rest of the girls who have no fine dresses, i am not going to wear the buff brocade gown that belonged to papa roussillon's mother long ago. i shall dress just as the rest do." it is safe to say that rene de ronville went home with a troublesome bee in his bonnet. he was not a bad-hearted fellow. many a right good young man, before him and since, has loved an adrienne and been dazzled by an alice. a violet is sweet, but a rose is the garden's queen. the poor youthful frontiersman ought to have been stronger; but he was not, and what have we to say? as for alice, since having a confidential talk with adrienne bourcier recently, she had come to realize what m. roussillon meant when he said; "but my little girl is better than most of them, not a foolish mischief-maker, i hope." she saw through the situation with a quick understanding of what adrienne might suffer should rene prove permanently fickle. the thought of it aroused all her natural honesty and serious nobleness of character, which lay deep under the almost hoydenish levity usually observable in her manner. crude as her sense of life's larger significance was, and meager as had been her experience in the things which count for most in the sum of a young girl's existence under fair circumstances, she grasped intuitively the gist of it all. the dance did not come off; it had to be postponed indefinitely on account of a grave change in the political relations of the little post. a day or two before the time set for that function a rumor ran through the town that something of importance was about to happen. father gibault, at the head of a small party, had arrived from kaskaskia, far away on the mississippi, with the news that france and the american colonies had made common cause against the english in the great war of which the people of vincennes neither knew the cause nor cared a straw about the outcome. it was oncle jazon who came to the roussillon place to tell m. roussillon that he was wanted at the river house. alice met him at the door. "come in, oncle jazon," she cheerily said, "you are getting to be a stranger at our house lately. come in; what news do you bring? take off your cap and rest your hair, oncle jazon." the scalpless old fighter chuckled raucously and bowed to the best of his ability. he not only took off his queer cap, but looked into it with a startled gaze, as if he expected something infinitely dangerous to jump out and seize his nose. "a thousand thanks, ma'm'selle," he presently said, "will ye please tell mo'sieu' roussillon that i would wish to see 'im?" "yes, oncle jazon; but first be seated, and let me offer you just a drop of eau de vie; some that papa roussillon brought back with him from quebec. he says it's old and fine." she poured him a full glass, then setting the bottle on a little stand, went to find m. roussillon. while she was absent oncle jazon improved his opportunity to the fullest extent. at least three additional glasses of the brandy went the way of the first. he grinned atrociously and smacked his corrugated lips; but when gaspard roussillon came in, the old man was sitting at some distance from the bottle and glass gazing indifferently out across the veranda. he told his story curtly. father gibault, he said, had sent him to ask m. roussillon to come to the river house, as he had news of great importance to communicate. "ah, well, oncle jazon, we'll have a nip of brandy together before we go," said the host. "why, yes, jes' one agin' the broilin' weather," assented oncle jazon; "i don't mind jes' one." "a very rich friend of mine in quebec gave me this brandy, oncle jazon," said m. roussillon, pouring the liquor with a grand flourish; "and i thought of you as soon as i got it. now, says i to myself, if any man knows good brandy when he tastes it, it's oncle jazon, and i'll give him a good chance at this bottle just the first of all my friends." "it surely is delicious," said oncle jazon, "very delicious." he spoke french with a curious accent, having spent long years with english-speaking frontiersmen in the carolinas and kentucky, so that their lingo had become his own. as they walked side by side down the way to the river house they looked like typical extremes of rough, sun-burned and weather-tanned manhood; oncle jazon a wizened, diminutive scrap, wrinkled and odd in every respect; gaspard roussillon towering six feet two, wide shouldered, massive, lumbering, muscular, a giant with long curling hair and a superb beard. they did not know that they were going down to help dedicate the great northwest to freedom. chapter v father gibault great movements in the affairs of men are like tides of the seas which reach and affect the remotest and quietest nooks and inlets, imparting a thrill and a swell of the general motion. father gibault brought the wave of the american revolution to vincennes. he was a simple missionary; but he was, besides, a man of great worldly knowledge and personal force. colonel george rogers clark made father gibault's acquaintance at kaskaskia, when the fort and its garrison surrendered to his command, and, quickly discerning the fine qualities of the priest's character, sent him to the post on the wabash to win over its people to the cause of freedom and independence. nor was the task assumed a hard one, as father gibault probably well knew before he undertook it. a few of the leading men of vincennes, presided over by gaspard roussillon, held a consultation at the river house, and it was agreed that a mass meeting should be called bringing all of the inhabitants together in the church for the purpose of considering the course to be taken under the circumstances made known by father gibault. oncle jazon constituted himself an executive committee of one to stir up a noise for the occasion. it was a great day for vincennes. the volatile temperament of the french frontiersmen bubbled over with enthusiasm at the first hint of something new, and revolutionary in which they might be expected to take part. without knowing in the least what it was that father gibault and oncle jazon wanted of them, they were all in favor of it at a venture. rene de ronville, being an active and intelligent young man, was sent about through the town to let everybody know of the meeting. in passing he stepped into the cabin of father beret, who was sitting on the loose puncheon floor, with his back turned toward the entrance and so absorbed in trying to put together a great number of small paper fragments that he did not hear or look up. "are you not going to the meeting, father?" rene bluntly demanded. in the hurry that was on him he did not remember to be formally polite, as was his habit. the old priest looked up with a startled face. at the same time he swept the fragments of paper together and clutched them hard in his right hand. "yes, yes, my son--yes i am going, but the time has not yet come for it, has it?" he stammered. "is it late?" he sprang to his feet and appeared confused, as if caught in doing something very improper. rene wondered at this unusual behavior, but merely said: "i beg pardon, father beret, i did not mean to disturb you," and went his way. father beret stood for some minutes as if dazed, then squeezed the paper fragments into a tight ball, just as they were when he took them from under the floor some time before rene came in, and put it in his pocket. a little later he was kneeling, as we have seen him once before, in silent yet fervent prayer, his clasped hands lifted toward the crucifix on the wall. "jesus, give me strength to hold on and do my work," he murmured beseechingly, "and oh, free thy poor servant from bitter temptation." father gibault had come prepared to use his eloquence upon the excitable creoles, and with considerable cunning he addressed a motley audience at the church, telling them that an american force had taken kaskaskia and would henceforth hold it; that france had joined hands with the americans against the british, and that it was the duty of all frenchmen to help uphold the cause of freedom and independence. "i come," said he, "directly from colonel george rogers clark, a noble and brave officer of the american army, who told me the news that i have brought to you. he sent me here to say to you that if you will give allegiance to his government you shall be protected against all enemies and have the full freedom of citizens. i think you should do this without a moment's hesitation, as i and my people at kaskaskia have already done. but perhaps you would like to have a word from your distinguished fellow-citizen, monsieur gaspard roussillon. speak to your friends, my son, they will be glad to take counsel of your wisdom." there was a stir and a craning of necks. m. roussillon presently appeared near the little chancel, his great form towering majestically. he bowed and waved his hand with the air of one who accepts distinction as a matter of course; then he took his big silver watch and looked at it. he was the only man in vincennes who owned a watch, and so the incident was impressive. father gibault looked pleased, and already a murmur of applause went through the audience. m. roussillon stroked the bulging crystal of the time-piece with a circular motion of his thumb and bowed again, clearing his throat resonantly, his face growing purplish above his beard. "good friends," he said, "what france does all high-class frenchmen applaud." he paused for a shout of approbation, and was not disappointed. "the other name for france is glory," he added, "and all true frenchmen love both names. i am a true frenchman!" and he struck his breast a resounding blow with the hand that still held the watch. a huge horn button on his buckskin jerkin came in contact with the crystal, and there was a smash, followed by a scattered tinkling of glass fragments. all vincennes stood breathless, contemplating the irreparable accident. m. roussillon had lost the effect of a great period in his speech, but he was quick. lifting the watch to his ear, he listened a moment with superb dignity, then slowly elevating his head and spreading his free hand over his heart he said: "the faithful time-piece still tells off the seconds, and the loyal heart of its owner still throbs with patriotism." oncle jazon, who stood in front of the speaker, swung his shapeless cap as high as he could and yelled like a savage. then the crowd went wild for a time. "vive la france! a bas l' angleterre!" everybody shouted at the top of his voice. "what france does we all do," continued m. roussillon, when the noise subsided. "france has clasped hands with george washington and his brave compatriots; so do we." "vive zhorzh vasinton!" shrieked oncle jazon in a piercing treble, tiptoeing and shaking his cap recklessly under m. roussillon's nose. the orator winced and jerked his head back, but nobody saw it, save perhaps father gibault, who laughed heartily. great sayings come suddenly, unannounced and unexpected. they have the mysterious force of prophetic accident combined with happy economy of phrasing. the southern blood in m. roussillon's veins was effervescing upon his brain; his tongue had caught the fine freedom and abandon of inspired oratory. he towered and glowed; words fell melodiously from his lips; his gestures were compelling, his visage magnetic. in conclusion he said: "frenchmen, america is the garden-spot of the world and will one day rule it, as did rome of old. where freedom makes her home, there is the centre of power!" it was in a little log church on the verge of a hummock overlooking a marshy wild meadow. westward for two thousand miles stretched the unbroken prairies, woods, mountains, deserts reaching to the pacific; southward for a thousand miles rolled the green billows of the wilderness to the warm gulf shore; northward to the pole and eastward to the thin fringe of settlements beyond the mountains, all was houseless solitude. if the reader should go to vincennes to-day and walk southward along second street to its intersection with church street, the spot then under foot would be probably very near where m. roussillon stood while uttering his great sentence. mind you, the present writer does not pretend to know the exact site of old saint xavier church. if it could be fixed beyond doubt the spot should have an imperishable monument of indiana stone. when m, roussillon ceased speaking the audience again exhausted its vocal resources; and then father gibault called upon each man to come forward and solemnly pledge his loyalty to the american cause. not one of them hesitated. meantime a woman was doing her part in the transformation of post vincennes from a french-english picket to a full-fledged american fort and town. madame godere, finding out what was about to happen, fell to work making a flag in imitation of that under which george washington was fighting. alice chanced to be in the godere home at the time and joined enthusiastically in the sewing. it was an exciting task. their fingers trembled while they worked, and the thread, heavily coated with beeswax, squeaked as they drew it through the cloth. "we shall not be in time," said madame godere; "i know we shall not. everything hinders me. my thread breaks or gets tangled and my needle's so rusty i can hardly stick it through the cloth. o dear!" alice encouraged her with both words and work, and they had almost finished when rene came with a staff which he had brought from the fort. "mon dieu, but we have had a great meeting!" he cried. he was perspiring with excitement and fast walking; leaning on the staff he mopped his face with a blue handkerchief. "we heard much shouting and noise," said madame godere, "m. roussillon's voice rose loud above the rest. he roared like a lion." "ah, he was speaking to us; he was very eloquent," rene replied. "but now they are waiting at the fort for the new flag. i have come for it." "it is ready," said madame godere. with flying fingers alice sewed it to the staff. "voici!" she cried, "vive la republique americaine!" she lifted the staff and let the flag droop over her from head to foot. "give it to me," said rene, holding forth a hand for it, "and i'll run to the fort with it." "no," said alice, her face suddenly lighting up with resolve. "no, i am going to take it myself," and without a moment's delay off she went. rene was so caught by surprise that he stood gazing after her until she passed behind a house, where the way turned, the shining flag rippling around her, and her moccasins twinkling as she ran. at the blockhouse, awaiting the moment when the symbol of freedom should rise like a star over old vincennes the crowd had picturesquely broken into scattered groups. alice entered through a rent in the stockade, as that happened to be a shorter route than through the gate, and appeared suddenly almost in their midst. it was a happy surprise, a pretty and catching spectacular apparition of a sort to be thoroughly appreciated by the lively french fancy of the audience. the caught the girl's spirit, or it caught them, and they made haste to be noisy. "v'la! v'la! l'p'tite alice et la bannlere de zhorzh vasinton! (look, look, little alice and george washington's flag!)" shouted oncle jazon. he put his wiry little legs through a sort of pas de zephyr and winked at himself with concentrated approval. all the men danced around and yelled till they were hoarse. by this time rene had reached alice's side; but she did not see him; she ran into the blockhouse and climbed up a rude ladder-way; then she appeared on the roof, still accompanied by rene, and planted the staff in a crack of the slabs, where it stood bravely up, the colors floating free. she looked down and saw m. roussillon, father gibault and father beret grouped in the centre of the area. they were waving their hands aloft at her, while a bedlam of voices sent up applause which went through her blood like strong wine. she smiled radiantly, and a sweet flush glowed in her cheeks. no one of all that wild crowd could ever forget the picture sketched so boldly at that moment when, after planting the staff, alice stepped back a space and stood strong and beautiful against the soft blue sky. she glanced down first, then looked up, her arms folded across her bosom. it was a pose as unconsciously taken as that of a bird, and the grace of it went straight to the hearts of those below. she turned about to descend, and for the first time saw that rene had followed her. his face was beaming. "what a girl you are!" he exclaimed, in a tone of exultant admiration. "never was there another like you!" alice walked quickly past him without speaking; for down in the space where some women were huddled aside from the crowd, looking on, she had seen little adrienne bourcier. she made haste to descend. now that her impulsively chosen enterprise was completed her boldness deserted her and she slipped out through a dilapidated postern opposite the crowd. on her right was the river, while southward before her lay a great flat plain, beyond which rose some hillocks covered with forest. the sun blazed between masses of slowly drifting clouds that trailed creeping fantastic shadows across the marshy waste. alice walked along under cover of the slight landswell which then, more plainly marked than it is now, formed the contour line of hummock upon which the fort and village stood. a watery swale grown full of tall aquatic weeds meandered parallel with the bluff, so to call it, and there was a soft melancholy whispering of wind among the long blades and stems. she passed the church and father beret's hut and continued for some distance in the direction of that pretty knoll upon which the cemetery is at present so tastefully kept. she felt shy now, as if to run away and hide would be a great relief. indeed, so relaxed were her nerves that a slight movement in the grass and cat-tail flags near by startled her painfully, making her jump like a fawn. "little friend not be 'fraid," said a guttural voice in broken french. "little friend not make noise." at a glance she recognized long-hair, the indian, rising out of the matted marsh growth. it was a hideous vision of embodied cunning, soullessness and murderous cruelty. "not tell white man you see me?" he grunted interrogatively, stepping close to her. he looked so wicked that she recoiled and lifted her hands defensively. she trembled from head to foot, and her voice failed her; but she made a negative sign and smiled at him, turning as white as her tanned face could become. in his left hand he held his bow, while in his right he half lifted a murderous looking tomahawk. "what new flag mean?" he demanded, waving the bow's end toward the fort and bending his head down close to hers. "who yonder?" "the great american father has taken us under his protection," she explained. "we are big-knives now." it almost choked her to speak. "ugh! heap damn fools," he said with a dark scowl. "little friend much damn fool." he straightened up his tall form and stood leering at her for some seconds, then added: "little friend get killed, scalped, maybe." the indescribable nobility of animal largeness, symmetry and strength showed in his form and attitude, but the expression of his countenance was absolutely repulsive--cold, hard, beastly. he did not speak again, but turned quickly, and stooping low, disappeared like a great brownish red serpent in the high grass, which scarcely stirred as he moved through it. somehow that day made itself strangely memorable to alice. she had been accustomed to stirring scenes and sudden changes of conditions; but this was the first time that she had ever joined actively in a public movement of importance. then, too, long-hair's picturesque and rudely dramatic reappearance affected her imagination with an indescribable force. moreover, the pathetic situation in the love affair between rene and adrienne had taken hold of her conscience with a disturbing grip. but the shadowy sense of impending events, of which she could form no idea, was behind it all. she had not heard of brandywine, or bunker hill, or lexington, or concord; but something like a waft of their significance had blown through her mind. a great change was coming into her idyllic life. she was indistinctly aware of it, as we sometimes are of an approaching storm, while yet the sky is sweetly blue and serene. when she reached home the house was full of people to whom m. roussillon, in the gayest of moods, was dispensing wine and brandy. "vive zhorzh vasinton!" shouted oncle jazon as soon as he saw her. and then they all talked at once, saying flattering things about her. madame roussillon tried to scold as usual; but the lively chattering of the guests drowned her voice. "i suppose the american commander will send a garrison here," some one said to father gibault, "and repair the fort." "probably," the priest replied, "in a very few weeks. meantime we will garrison it ourselves." "and we will have m. roussillon for commander," spoke up rene de ronville, who was standing by. "a good suggestion," assented father gibault; "let us organize at once." immediately the word was passed that there would be a meeting at the fort that evening for the purpose of choosing a garrison and a commander. everybody went promptly at the hour set. m. roussillon was elected captain by acclamation, with rene de ronville as his lieutenant. it was observed that oncle jazon had resumed his dignity, and that he looked into his cap several times without speaking. meantime certain citizens, who had been in close relations with governor abbott during his stay, quietly slipped out of town, manned a batteau and went up the river, probably to ouiatenon first and then to detroit. doubtless they suspected that things might soon grow too warm for their comfort. it was thus that vincennes and fort sackville first acknowledged the american government and hoisted the flag which, as long as it floated over the blockhouse, was lightly and lovingly called by everyone la banniere d'alice roussillon. father gibault returned to fort kaskaskia and a little later captain leonard helm, a jovial man, but past the prime of life, arrived at vincennes with a commission from col. clark authorizing him to supersede m. roussillon as commander, and to act as indian agent for the american government in the department of the wabash. he was welcomed by the villagers, and at once made himself very pleasing to them by adapting himself to their ways and entering heartily into their social activities. m. roussillon was absent when captain helm and his party came. rene de ronville, nominally in command of the fort, but actually enjoying some excellent grouse shooting with a bell-mouthed old fowling piece on a distant prairie, could not be present to deliver up the post; and as there was no garrison just then visible, helm took possession, without any formalities. "i think, lieutenant, that you'd better look around through the village and see if you can scare up this captain what's-his-name," said the new commander to a stalwart young officer who had come with him. "i can't think of these french names without getting my brain in a twist. do you happen to recollect the captain's name, lieutenant?" "yes, sir; gaspard roussillon it reads in colonel clark's order; but i am told that he's away on a trading tour," said the young man. "you may be told anything by these hair-tongued parlyvoos," helm remarked. "it won't hurt, anyway, to find out where he lives and make a formal call, just for appearance sake, and to enquire about his health. i wish you would try it, sir, and let me know the result." the lieutenant felt that this was a peremptory order and turned about to obey promptly. "and i say, beverley, come back sober, if you possibly can," helm added in his most genial tone, thinking it a great piece of humor to suggest sobriety to a man whose marked difference from men generally, of that time, was his total abstinence from intoxicating drinks. lieutenant fitzhugh beverley was a virginian of virginians. his family had long been prominent in colonial affairs and boasted a record of great achievements both in peace and in war. he was the only son of his parents and heir to a fine estate consisting of lands and slaves; but, like many another of the restless young cavaliers of the old dominion, he had come in search of adventure over into kentucky, along the path blazed by daniel boone; and when clark organized his little army, the young man's patriotic and chivalrous nature leaped at the opportunity to serve his country under so gallant a commander. beverley was not a mere youth, although yet somewhat under thirty. educated abroad and naturally of a thoughtful and studious turn, he had enriched his mind far beyond the usual limit among young americans of the very best class in that time; and so he appeared older than he really was: an effect helped out by his large and powerful form and grave dignity of bearing. clark, who found him useful in emergencies, cool, intrepid, daring to a fault and possessed of excellent judgement, sent him with helm, hoping that he would offset with his orderly attention to details the somewhat go-as-you-please disposition of that excellent officer. beverley set out in search of the french commander's house, impressed with no particular respect for him or his office. somehow americans of anglo-saxon blood were slow to recognize any good qualities whatever in the latin creoles of the west and south. it seemed to them that the frenchman and the spaniard were much too apt to equalize themselves socially and matrimonially with indians and negroes. the very fact that for a century, while anglo-americans had been in constant bloody warfare with savages, frenchmen had managed to keep on easy and highly profitable trading terms with them, tended to confirm the worst implication. "eat frogs and save your scalp," was a bit of contemptuous frontier humor indicative of what sober judgement held in reserve on the subject. intent upon his formal mission, lieutenant beverley stalked boldly into the inclosure at roussillon place and was met on the gallery by madame roussillon in one of her worst moods. she glared at him with her hands on her hips, her mouth set irritably aslant upward, her eyebrows gathered into a dark knot over her nose. it would be hard to imagine a more forbidding countenance; and for supplementary effect out popped hunchback jean to stand behind her, with his big head lying back in the hollow of his shoulders and his long chin elevated, while he gawped intently up into beverley's face. "bon jour, madame," said the lieutenant, lifting his hat and speaking with a pleasant accent. "would it be agreeable to captain roussillon for me to see him a moment?" despite beverley's cleverness in using the french language, he had a decided brusqueness of manner and a curt turn of voice not in the least gallic. true, the soft virginian intonation marked every word, and his obeisance was as low as if madame roussillon had been a queen; but the light french grace was wholly lacking. "what do you want of my husband?" madame roussillon demanded. "nothing unpleasant, i assure you, madame," said beverley. "well, he's not at home, mo'sieu; he's up the river for a few days." she relaxed her stare, untied her eyebrows, and even let fall her hands from her shelf-like hips. "thank you, madame," said beverley, bowing again, "i am sorry not to have seen him." as he was turning to go a shimmer of brown hair streaked with gold struck upon his vision from just within the door. he paused, as if in response to a military command, while a pair of gray eyes met his with a flash. the cabin room was ill lighted; but the crepuscular dimness did not seem to hinder his sight. beyond the girl's figure, a pair of slender swords hung crossed aslant on the wall opposite the low door. beverley had seen, in the old world galleries, pictures in which the shadowy and somewhat uncertain background thus forced into strongest projection the main figure, yet without clearly defining it. the rough frame of the doorway gave just the rustic setting suited to alice's costume, the most striking part of which was a grayish short gown ending just above her fringed buckskin moccasins. around her head she had bound a blue kerchief, a wide corner of which lay over her crown like a loose cap. her bright hair hung free upon her shoulders in tumbled half curls. as a picture, the figure and its entourage might have been artistically effective; but as beverley saw it in actual life the first impression was rather embarrassing. somehow he felt almost irresistibly invited to laugh, though he had never been much given to risibility. the blending, or rather the juxtaposition, of extremes--a face, a form immediately witching, and a costume odd to grotesquery--had made an assault upon his comprehension at once so sudden and so direct that his dignity came near being disastrously broken up. a splendidly beautiful child comically clad would have made much the same half delightful, half displeasing impression. beverley could not stare at the girl, and no sooner had he turned his back upon her than the picture in his mind changed like a scene in a kaleidoscope. he now saw a tall, finely developed figure and a face delicately oval, with a low, wide forehead, arched brows, a straight, slightly tip-tilted nose, a mouth sweet and full, dimpled cheeks, and a strong chin set above a faultless throat. his imagination, in casting off its first impression, was inclined to exaggerate alice's beauty and to dwell upon its picturesqueness. he smiled as he walked back to the fort, and even found himself whistling gayly a snatch from a rollicking fiddle-tune that he had heard when a boy. chapter vi a fencing bout a few days after helm's arrival, m. roussillon returned to vincennes, and if he was sorely touched in his amour propre by seeing his suddenly acquired military rank and title drop away, he did not let it be known to his fellow citizens. he promptly called upon the new commander and made acquaintance with lieutenant fitzhugh beverley, who just then was superintending the work of cleaning up an old cannon in the fort and mending some breaks in the stockade. helm formed a great liking for the big frenchman, whose breezy freedom of manner and expansive good humor struck him favorably from the beginning. m. roussillon's ability to speak english with considerable ease helped the friendship along, no doubt; at all events their first interview ended with a hearty show of good fellowship, and as time passed they became almost inseparable companions during m. roussillon's periods of rest from his trading excursions among the indians. they played cards and brewed hot drinks over which they told marvelous stories, the latest one invariably surpassing all its predecessors. helm had an eye to business, and turned m. roussillon's knowledge of the indians to valuable account, so that he soon had very pleasant relations with most of the tribes within reach of his agents. this gave a feeling of great security to the people of vincennes. they pursued their narrow agricultural activities with excellent results and redoubled those social gayeties which, even in hut and cabin under all the adverse conditions of extreme frontier life, were dear to the volatile and genial french temperament. lieutenant beverley found much to interest him in the quaint town; but the piece de resistance was oncle jazon, who proved to be both fascinating and unmanageable; a hard nut to crack, yet possessing a kernel absolutely original in flavor. beverley visited him one evening in his hut--it might better be called den--a curiously built thing, with walls of vertical poles set in a quadrangular trench dug in the ground, and roofed with grass. inside and out it was plastered with clay, and the floor of dried mud was as smooth and hard as concrete paving. in one end there was a wide fireplace grimy with soot, in the other a mere peep-hole for a window: a wooden bench, a bed of skins and two or three stools were barely visible in the gloom. in the doorway oncle jazon sat whittling a slender billet of hickory into a ramrod for his long flint-lock american rifle. "maybe ye know simon kenton," said the old man, after he and beverley had conversed for a while, "seeing that you are from kentucky--eh?" "yes, i do know him well; he's a warm personal friend of mine," said beverley with quick interest, for it surprised him that oncle jazon should know anything about kenton. "do you know him, monsieur jazon?" oncle jazon winked conceitedly and sighted along his rudimentary ramrod to see if it was straight; then puckering his lips, as if on the point of whistling, made an affirmative noise quite impossible to spell. "well, i'm glad you are acquainted with kenton," said beverley. "where did you and he come together?" oncle jazon chuckled reminiscently and scratched the skinless, cicatrized spot where his scalp had once flourished. "oh, several places," he answered. "ye see thet hair a hangin' there on the wall?" he pointed at a dry wisp dangling under a peg in a log barely visible by the bad light. "well, thet's my scalp, he! he! he!" he snickered as if the fact were a most enjoyable joke. "simon kenton can tell ye about thet little affair! the indians thought i was dead, and they took my hair; but i wasn't dead; i was just a givin' 'em a 'possum act. when they was gone i got up from where i was a layin' and trotted off. my head was sore and ventrebleu! but i was mad, he! he! he!" all this time he spoke in french, and the english but poorly paraphrases his odd turns of expression. his grimaces and grunts cannot even be hinted. it was a long story, as beverley received it, told scrappily, but with certain rude art. in the end oncle jazon said with unctuous self-satisfaction: "accidents will happen. i got my chance at that damned indian who skinned my head, and i jes took a bead on 'im with my old rifle. i can't shoot much, never could, but i happened to hit 'im square in the lef' eye, what i shot at, and it was a hundred yards. down he tumbles, and i runs to 'im and finds my same old scalp a hangin' to his belt. well, i lifted off his hair with my knife, and untied mine from the belt, and then i had both scalps, he! he! he! you ask simon kenton when ye see 'im. he was along at the same time, and they made 'im run the ga'ntlet and pretty nigh beat the life out o' 'im. ventrebleu!" beverley now recollected hearing kenton tell the same grim story by a camp-fire in the hills of kentucky. somehow it had caught a new spirit in the french rendering, which linked it with the old tales of adventure that he had read in his boyhood, and it suddenly endeared oncle jazon to him. the rough old scrap of a man and the powerful youth chatted together until sundown, smoking their pipes, each feeling for what was best in the other, half aware that in the future they would be tested together in the fire of wild adventure. every man is more or less a prophet at certain points in his life. twilight and moonlight were blending softly when beverley, on his way back to the fort, departing from a direct course, went along the river's side southward to have a few moments of reflective strolling within reach of the water's pleasant murmur and the town's indefinite evening stir. rich sweetness, the gift of early autumn, was on the air blowing softly out of a lilac west and singing in the willow fringe that hung here and there over the bank. on the farther side of the river's wide flow, swollen by recent heavy rains, beverley saw a pirogue, in one end of which a dark figure swayed to the strokes of a paddle. the slender and shallow little craft was bobbing on the choppy waves and taking a zig-zag course among floating logs and masses of lighter driftwood, while making slow but certain headway toward the hither bank. beverley took a bit of punk and a flint and steel from his pocket, relit his pipe and stood watching the skilful boatman conduct his somewhat dangerous voyage diagonally against the rolling current. it was a shifting, hide-and-seek scene, its features appearing and disappearing with the action of the waves and the doubtful light reflected from fading clouds and sky. now and again the man stood up in his skittish pirogue, balancing himself with care, to use a short pole in shoving driftwood out of his way; and more than once he looked to beverley as if he had plunged head-long into the dark water. the spot, as nearly as it can be fixed, was about two hundred yards below where the public road-bridge at present spans the wabash. the bluff was then far different from what it is now, steeper and higher, with less silt and sand between it and the water's edge. indeed, swollen as the current was, a man could stand on the top of the bank and easily leap into the deep water. at a point near the middle of the river a great mass of drift-logs and sand had long ago formed a barrier which split the stream so that one current came heavily shoreward on the side next the town and swashed with its muddy foam, making a swirl and eddy just below where beverley stood. the pirogue rounded the upper angle of this obstruction, not without difficulty to its crew of one, and swung into the rapid shoreward rush, as was evidently planned for by the steersman, who now paddled against the tide with all his might to keep from being borne too far down stream for a safe landing place. beverley stood at ease idly and half dreamily looking on, when suddenly something caused a catastrophe, which for a moment he did not comprehend. in fact the man in the pirogue came to grief, as a man in a pirogue is very apt to do, and fairly somersaulted overboard into the water. nothing serious would have threatened (for the man could swim like an otter) had not a floating, half submerged log thrust up some short, stiff stumps of boughs, upon the points of which the man struck heavily and was not only hurt, but had his clothes impaled securely by one of the ugly spears, so that he hung in a helpless position, while the water's motion alternately lifted and submerged him, his arms beating about wildly. when beverley heard a strangling cry for help, he pulled himself promptly together, flung off his coat, as if by a single motion, and leaped down the bank into the water. he was a swimmer whose strokes counted for all that prodigious strength and excellent training could afford; he rushed through the water with long sweeps, making a semicircle, rounding against the current, so as to swing down upon the drowning man. less than a half-hour later a rumor by some means spread throughout the town that father beret and lieutenant beverley were drowned in the wabash. but when a crowd gathered to verify the terrible news it turned out to be untrue. gaspard roussillon had once more distinguished himself by an exhibition of heroic nerve and muscle. "ventrebleu! quel homme!" exclaimed oncle jazon, when told that m. roussillon had come up the bank of the wabash with lieutenant beverley under one arm and father beret under the other, both men apparently dead. "bring them to my house immediately," m. roussillon ordered, as soon as they were restored to consciousness; and he shook himself, as a big wet animal sometimes does, covering everybody near him with muddy water. then he led the way with melodramatic strides. in justice to historical accuracy there must be a trifling reform of what appeared on the face of things to be grandly true. gaspard roussillon actually dragged father beret and lieutenant beverley one at a time out of the eddy water and up the steep river bank. that was truly a great feat; but the hero never explained. when men arrived he was standing between the collapsed forms, panting and dripping. doubtless he looked just as if he had dropped them from under his arms, and why shouldn't he have the benefit of a great implication? "i've saved them both," he roared; from which, of course, the ready creole imagination inferred the extreme of possible heroic performance. "bring them to my house immediately," and it was accordingly done. the procession, headed by m. roussillon, moved noisily, for the french tongue must shake off what comes to it on the thrill of every exciting moment. the only silent frenchman is the dead one. father beret was not only well-nigh drowned, but seriously hurt. he lay for a week on a bed in m. roussillon's house before he could sit up. alice hung over him night and day, scarcely sleeping or eating until he was past all danger. as for beverley, he shook off all the effects of his struggle in a little while. next day he was out, as well and strong as ever, busy with the affairs of his office. nor was he less happy on account of what the little adventure had cast into his experience. it is good to feel that one has done an unselfish deed, and no young man's heart repels the freshness of what comes to him when a beautiful girl first enters his life. naturally enough alice had some thoughts of beverley while she was so attentively caring for father beret. she had never before seen a man like him, nor had she read of one. compared with rene de ronville, the best youth of her acquaintance, he was in every way superior; this was too evident for analysis; but referred to the romantic standard taken out of the novels she had read, he somehow failed; and yet he loomed bravely in her vision, not exactly a knight of the class she had most admired, still unquestionably a hero of large proportions. beverley stepped in for a few minutes every day to see father beret, involuntarily lengthening his visit by a sliding ratio as he became better acquainted. he began to enjoy the priest's conversation, with its sly worldly wisdom cropping up through fervid religious sentiments and quaint humor. alice must have interested him more than he was fully aware of; for his eyes followed her, as she came and went, with a curious criticism of her half-savage costume and her springy, dryad-like suppleness, which reminded him of the shyest and gracefulest wild birds; and yet a touch of refinement, the subtlest and best, showed in all her ways. he studied her, as he would have studied a strange, showy and originally fragrant flower, or a bird of oddly attractive plumage. while she said little to him or to anyone else in his presence, he became aware of the willfulness and joyous lightness which played on her nature's changeable surface. he wondered at her influence over father beret, whom she controlled apparently without effort. but in due time he began to feel a deeper character, a broader intelligence, behind her superficial sauvagerie; and he found that she really had no mean smattering of books in the lighter vein. a little thing happened which further opened his eyes and increased the interest that her beauty and elementary charm of style aroused in him gradually, apace with their advancing acquaintanceship. father beret had got well and returned to his hut and his round of spiritual duties; but beverley came to roussillon place every day all the same. for a wonder madame roussillon liked him, and at most times held the scolding side of her tongue when he was present. jean, too, made friendly advances whenever opportunity afforded. of course alice gave him just the frank cordiality of hospitable welcome demanded by frontier conditions. she scarcely knew whether she liked him or not; but he had a treasury of information from which he was enriching her with liberal carelessness day by day. the hungriest part of her mind was being sumptuously banqueted at his expense. mere intellectual greediness drew her to him. naturally they soon threw off such troubling formalities as at first rose between them, and began to disclose to each other their true characteristics. alice found in beverley a large target for the missiles of her clever and tantalizing perversity. he in turn practiced a native dignity and an acquired superiority of manner to excellent effect. it was a meeting of greek with greek in a new arcadia. to him here was diana, strong, strange, simple, even crude almost to naturalness, yet admirably pure in spirit and imbued with highest womanly aspirations. to her beverley represented the great outside area of life. he came to her from wonderland, beyond the wide circle of houseless woods and prairies. he represented gorgeous cities, teeming parks of fashion, boulevards, salons, halls of social splendor, the theater, the world of woman's dreams. now, there is an antagonism, vague yet powerful, generated between natures thus cast together from the opposite poles of experience and education: an antagonism practically equivalent to the most vigorous attraction. what one knows the other is but half aware of; neither knowledge nor ignorance being mutual, there is a scintillation of exchange, from opposing vantage grounds, followed by harmless snaps of thunder. culture and refinement take on airs--it is the deepest artificial instinct of enlightenment to pose--in the presence of naturalness; and there is a certain style of ignorance which attitudinizes before the gate of knowledge. the return to nature has always been the dream of the conventionalized soul, while the simple arcadian is forever longing for the maddening honey of sophistication. innate jealousies strike together like flint and steel dashing off sparks by which nearly everything that life can warm its core withal is kindled and kept burning. what i envy in my friend i store for my best use. i thrust and parry, not to kill, but to learn my adversary's superior feints and guards. and this hint of sword play leads back to what so greatly surprised and puzzled beverley one day when he chanced to be examining the pair of colechemardes on the wall. he took one down, and handling it with the indescribable facility possible to none save a practical swordsman, remarked: "there's a world of fascination in these things; i like nothing better than a bout at fencing. does your father practice the art?" "i have no father, no mother," she quickly said; "but good papa roussillon does like a little exercise with the colechemarde." "well, i'm glad to hear it, i shall ask to teach him a trick or two," beverley responded in the lightest mood. "when will he return from the woods?" "i can't tell you; he's very irregular in such matters," she said. then, with a smile half banter and half challenge, she added; "if you are really dying for some exercise, you shall not have to wait for him to come home, i assure you, monsieur beverley." "oh, it's monsieur de ronville, perhaps, that you will offer up as a victim to my skill and address," he slyly returned; for he was suspecting that a love affair in some stage of progress lay between her and rene. she blushed violently, but quickly overcoming a combined rush of surprise and anger, added with an emphasis as charming as it was unexpected. "i myself am, perhaps, swordsman enough to satisfy the impudence and vanity of monsieur beverley, lieutenant in the american army." "pardon me, mademoiselle; forgive me, i beg of you," he exclaimed, earnestly modulating his voice to sincerest beseechment; "i really did not mean to be impudent, nor--" her vivacity cleared with a merry laugh. "no apologies, i command you," she interposed. "we will have them after i have taught you a fencing lesson." from a shelf she drew down a pair of foils and presenting the hilts, bade him take his choice. "there isn't any difference between them that i know of," she said, and then added archly; "but you will feel better at last, when all is over and the sting of defeat tingles through you, if you are conscious of having used every sensible precaution." he looked straight into her eyes, trying to catch what was in her mind, but there was a bewildering glamour playing across those gray, opal-tinted wells of mystery, from which he could draw only a mischievous smile-glint, direct, daring, irresistible. "well," he said, taking one of the foils, "what do you really mean? is it a challenge without room for honorable retreat?" "the time for parley is past," she replied, "follow me to the battle-ground." she led the way to a pleasant little court in the rear of the cabin's yard, a space between two wings and a vine-covered trellis, beyond which lay a well kept vineyard and vegetable garden. here she turned about and faced him, poising her foil with a fine grace. "are you ready?" she inquired. he tried again to force a way into the depths of her eyes with his; but he might as well have attacked the sun; so he stood in a confusion of not very well defined feelings, undecided, hesitating, half expecting that there would be some laughable turn to end the affair. "are you afraid, monsieur beverley?" she demanded after a short waiting in silence. he laughed now and whipped the air with his foil. "you certainly are not in earnest?" he said interrogatively. "do you really mean that you want to fence with me?" "if you think because i'm only a girl you can easily beat me, try it," she tauntingly replied making a level thrust toward his breast. quick as a flash he parried, and then a merry clinking and twinkling of steel blades kept time to their swift movements. instantly, by the sure sense which is half sight, half feeling--the sense that guides the expert fencer's hand and wrist--beverley knew that he had probably more than his match, and in ten seconds his attack was met by a time thrust in opposition which touched him sharply. alice sprang far back, lowered her point and laughed. "je vous salue, monsieur beverley!" she cried, with childlike show of delight. "did you feel the button?" "yes, i felt it," he said with frank acknowledgment in his voice, "it was cleverly done. now give me a chance to redeem myself." he began more carefully and found that she, too, was on her best mettle; but it was a short bout, as before. alice seemed to give him an easy opening and he accepted it with a thrust; then something happened that he did not understand. the point of his foil was somehow caught under his opponent's hilt-guard while her blade seemed to twist around his; at the same time there was a wring and a jerk, the like of which he had never before felt, and he was disarmed, his wrist and fingers aching with the wrench they had received. of course the thing was not new; he had been disarmed before; but her trick of doing it was quite a mystery to him, altogether different from any that he had ever seen. "vous me pardonnerez, monsieur," she mockingly exclaimed, picking up his weapon and offering the hilt to him. "here is your sword!" "keep it," he said, folding his arms and trying to look unconcerned, "you have captured it fairly. i am at your mercy; be kind to me." madame roussillon and jean, the hunchback, hearing the racket of the foils had come out to see and were standing agape. "you ought to be ashamed, alice," said the dame in scolding approval of what she had done; "girls do not fence with gentlemen." "this girl does," said alice. "and with extreme disaster to this gentleman," said beverley, laughing in a tone of discomfiture and resignation. "ah, mo'sieu', there's nothing but disaster where she goes," complained madame roussillon, "she is a destroyer of everything. only yesterday she dropped my pink bowl and broke it, the only one i had." "and just to think," said beverley, "what would have been the condition of my heart had we been using rapiers instead of leather-buttoned foils! she would have spitted it through the very center." "like enough," replied the dame indifferently. "she wouldn't wince, either,--not she." alice ran into the house with the foils and beverley followed. "we must try it over again some day soon," he said; "i find that you can show me a few points. where did you learn to fence so admirably? is monsieur roussillon your master?" "indeed he isn't," she quickly replied, "he is but a bungling swordsman. my master--but i am not at liberty to tell you who has taught me the little i know." "well, whoever he is i should be glad to have lessons from him." "but you'll never get them." "why?" "because." "a woman's ultimatum." "as good as a man's!" she bridled prettily; "and sometimes better--at the foils for example. vous--comprenez, n'est ce pas?" he laughed heartily. "yes, your point reaches me," he said, "but sperat et in saeva victus gladiatur arena, as the old latin poet wisely remarks." the quotation was meant to tease her. "yes, montaigne translated that or something in his book," she commented with prompt erudition. "i understand it." beverley looked amazed. "what do you know about montaigne?" he demanded with a blunt brevity amounting to something like gruffness. "sh', monsieur, not too loud," she softly protested, looking around to see that neither madame roussillon nor jean had followed them into the main room. "it is not permitted that i read that old book; but they do not hide it from me, because they think i can't make out its dreadful spelling." she smiled so that her cheeks drew their dimples deep into the delicately tinted pink-and-brown, where wind and sun and wholesome exercise had set the seal of absolute health, and took from a niche in the logs of the wall a stained and dog-eared volume. he looked, and it was, indeed, the old saint and sinner, montaigne. involuntarily he ran his eyes over the girl from head to foot, comparing her show of knowledge with the outward badges of abject rusticity, and even wildness, with which she was covered. "well," he said, "you are a mystery." "you think it surprising that i can read a book! frankly i can't understand half of this one. i read it because--well just because they want me to read about nothing but sickly old saints and woe-begone penitents. i like something lively. what do i care for all that uninteresting religious stuff?" "montaigne is decidedly lively in spots," beverley remarked. "i shouldn't think a girl--i shouldn't think you'd particularly enjoy his humors." "i don't care for the book at all," she said, flushing quickly, "only i seem to learn about the world from it. sometimes it seems as if it lifted me up high above all this wild, lonely and tiresome country, so that i can see far off where things are different and beautiful. it is the same with the novels; and they don't permit me to read them either; but all the same i do." when beverley, taking his leave, passed through the gate at roussillon place, he met rene de ronville going in. it was a notable coincidence that each young man felt something troublesome rise in his throat as he looked into the other's eyes. a week of dreamy autumn weather came on, during which beverley managed to be with alice a great deal, mostly sitting on the roussillon gallery, where the fading vine leaves made fairy whispering, and where the tempered breeze blew deliciously cool from over the distant multi-colored woods. the men of vincennes were gathering their indian corn early to dry it on the cob for grating into winter meal. many women made wine from the native grapes and from the sweeter and richer fruit of imported vines. madame roussillon and alice stained their hands a deep purple during the pressing season, and beverley found himself engaged in helping them handle the juicy crop, while around the overflowing earthen pots the wild bees, wasps and hornets hummed with an incessant, jarring monotony. jean, the hunchback, gathered ample stores of hickory nuts, walnuts, hazel-nuts and pin-oak acorns. indeed, the whole population of the village made a great spurt of industry just before the falling of winter; and presently, when every preparation had been completed for the dreaded cold season, m. roussillon carried out his long-cherished plan, and gave a great party at the river house. after the most successful trading experience of all his life he felt irrepressibly liberal. "let's have one more roaring good time," he said, "that's what life is for." chapter vii the mayor's party beverley was so surprised and confused in his mind by the ease with which he had been mastered at swordplay by a mere girl, that he felt as if just coming out of a dream. in fact the whole affair seemed unreal, yet so vivid and impressive in all its main features, that he could not emerge from it and look it calmly over from without. his experience with women had not prepared him for a ready understanding and acceptance of a girl like alice. while he was fully aware of her beauty, freshness, vivacity and grace, this amazonian strength of hers, this boldness of spirit, this curious mixture of frontier crudeness and a certain adumbration--so to call it--of patrician sensibilities and aspirations, affected him both pleasantly and unpleasantly. he did not sympathize promptly with her semi-barbaric costume; she seemed not gently feminine, as compared with the girls of virginia and maryland. he resented her muscular development and her independent disposition. she was far from coarseness, however, and, indeed, a trace of subtle refinement, although not conventional, imbued her whole character. but why was he thinking so critically about her? had his selfishness received an incurable shock from the button of her foil? a healthy young man of the right sort is apt to be jealous of his physical prowess--touch him there and he will turn the world over to right himself in, his own admiration and yours. but to be beaten on his highest ground of virility by a dimple-faced maiden just leaving her teens could not offer beverley any open way to recoupment of damages. he tried to shake her out of his mind, as a bit of pretty and troublesome rubbish, what time he pursued his not very exacting military duties. but the more he shook the tighter she clung, and the oftener he went to see her. helm was a good officer in many respects, and his patriotism was of the best; but he liked jolly company, a glass of something strong and a large share of ease. detroit lay many miles northeastward across the wilderness, and the english, he thought, would scarcely come so far to attack his little post, especially now that most of the indians in the intervening country had declared in favor of the americans. recently, too, the weather had been favoring him by changing from wet to dry, so that the upper wabash and its tributaries were falling low and would soon be very difficult to navigate with large batteaux. very little was done to repair the stockade and dilapidated remnant of a blockhouse. there were no sufficient barracks, a mere shed in one angle serving for quarters, and the old cannon could not have been used to any effect in case of attack. as for the garrison, it was a nominal quantity, made up mostly of men who preferred hunting and fishing to the merest pretense of military duty. gaspard roussillon assumed to know everything about indian affairs and the condition of the english at detroit. his optimistic eloquence lulled helm to a very pleasant sense of security. beverley was not so easy to satisfy; but his suggestions regarding military discipline and a vigorous prosecution of repairs to the blockhouse and stockade were treated with dilatory geniality by his superior officer. the soft wonder of a perfect indian summer glorified land, river and sky. why not dream and bask? why not drink exhilarating toddies? meantime the entertainment to be given by gaspard roussillon occupied everybody's imagination to an unusual extent. rene de ronville, remembering but not heeding the doubtful success of his former attempt, went long beforehand to claim alice as his partenaire; but she flatly refused him, once more reminding him of his obligations to little adrienne bourcier. he would not be convinced. "you are bound to me," he said, "you promised before, you know, and the party was but put off. i hold you to it; you are my partenaire, and i am yours, you can't deny that." "no you are not my partenaire," she firmly said; then added lightly, "feu mon partenaire, you are dead and buried as my partner at that dance." he glowered in silence for a few moments, then said: "it is lieutenant beverley, i suppose." she gave him a quick contemptuous look, but turned it instantly into one of her tantalising smiles. "do you imagine that?" she demanded. "imagine it! i know it," he said with a hot flush. "have i no sense?" "precious little," she replied with a merry laugh. "you think so." "go to father beret, tell him everything, and then ask him what he thinks," she said in a calm, even tone, her face growing serious. there was an awkward silence. she had touched rene's vulnerable spot; he was nothing if not a devout catholic, and his conscience rooted itself in what good father beret had taught him. the church, no matter by what name it goes, catholic or protestant, has a saving hold on the deepest inner being of its adherents. no grip is so hard to shake off as that of early religious convictions. the still, small voice coming down from the times "when shepherds watched their flocks by night," in old judea, passes through the priest, the minister, the preacher; it echoes in cathedral, church, open-air meeting; it gently and mysteriously imparts to human life the distinctive quality which is the exponent of christian civilization. upon the receptive nature of children it makes an impress that forever afterward exhales a fragrance and irradiates a glory for the saving of the nations. father beret was the humble, self-effacing, never-tiring agent of good in his community. he preached in a tender sing-song voice the sweet monotonies of his creed and the sublime truths of christ's code. he was indeed the spiritual father of his people. no wonder rene's scowling expression changed to one of abject self-concern when the priest's name was suddenly connected with his mood. the confessional loomed up before the eyes of his conscience, and his knees smote together, spiritually if not physically. "now," said alice, brusquely, but with sweet and gentle firmness, "go to your fiancee, go to pretty and good adrienne, and ask her to be your partenaire. refresh your conscience with a noble draught of duty and make that dear little girl overflow with joy. go, rene de ronville." in making over what she said into english, the translation turns out to be but a sonorous paraphrase. her french was of that mixed creole sort, a blending of linguistic elegance and patois, impossible to imitate. like herself it was beautiful, crude, fascinating, and something in it impressed itself as unimpeachable, despite the broken and incongruous diction. rene felt his soul cowering, even slinking; but he fairly maintained a good face, and went away without saying another word. "ciel, ciel, how beautiful she is!" he thought, as he walked along the narrow street in the dreamy sunshine. "but she is not for me, not for me." he shook himself and tried to be cheerful. in fact he hummed a creole ditty, something about "la belle jeanette, qu' a brise mon coeur." days passed, and at last the time of the great event arrived. it was a frosty night, clear, sparkling with stars, a keen breath cutting down from the northwest. m. roussillon, madame roussillon, alice and lieutenant beverley went together to the river house, whither they had been preceded by almost the entire population of vincennes. some fires had been built outside; the crowd proving too great for the building's capacity, as there had to be ample space for the dancers. merry groups hovered around the flaming logs, while within the house a fiddle sang its simple and ravishing tunes. everybody talked and laughed; it was a lively racket of clashing voices and rhythmical feet. you would have been surprised to find that oncle jazon was the fiddler; but there he sat, perched on a high stool in one corner of the large room, sawing away as if for dear life, his head wagging, his elbow leaping back and forth, while his scalpless crown shone like the side of a peeled onion and his puckered mouth wagged grotesquely from side to side keeping time to his tuneful scraping. when the roussillon party arrived it attracted condensed attention. its importance, naturally of the greatest in the assembled popular mind, was enhanced--as mathematicians would say, to the nth power--by the gown of alice. it was resplendent indeed in the simple, unaccustomed eyes upon which it flashed with a buff silken glory. matrons stared at it; maidens gazed with fascinated and jealous vision; men young and old let their eyes take full liberty. it was as if a queen, arrayed in a robe of state, had entered that dingy log edifice, an apparition of dazzling and awe-inspiring beauty. oncle jazon caught sight of her, and snapped his tune short off. the dancers swung together and stopped in confusion. but she, fortified by a woman's strongest bulwark, the sense of resplendency, appeared quite unconscious of herself. little adrienne, hanging in blissful delight upon rene's strong arm, felt the stir of excitement and wondered what was the matter, being too short to see over the heads of those around her. "what is it? what is it?" she cried, tiptoeing and tugging at her companion's sleeve. "tell me, rene, tell me, i say." rene was gazing in dumb admiration into which there swept a powerful anger, like a breath of flame. he recollected how alice had refused to wear that dress when he had asked her, and now she had it on. moreover, there she stood beside lieutenant beverley, holding his arm, looking up into his face, smiling, speaking to him. "i think you might tell me what has happened," said adrienne, pouting and still plucking at his arm. "i can't see a thing, and you won't tell me." "oh, it's nothing," he presently answered, rather fretfully. then he stooped, lowered his voice and added; "it's mademoiselle roussillon all dressed up like a bride or something. she's got on a buff silk dress that mo'sieu' roussillon's mother had in france." "how beautiful she must look!" cried the girl. "i wish i could see her." rene put a hand on each side of her slender waist and lifted her high, so that her pretty head rose above the crowding people. alice chanced to turn her face that way just then and saw the unconventional performance. her eyes met those of adrienne and she gave a nod of smiling recognition. it was a rose beaming upon a gilliflower. m. roussillon naturally understood that all this stir and crowding to see was but another demonstration of his personal popularity. he bowed and waved a vast hand. but the master of ceremonies called loudly for the dancers to take their places. oncle jazon attacked his fiddle again with startling energy. those who were not to dance formed a compact double line around the wall, the shorter ones in front, the taller in the rear. and what a scene it was! but no person present regarded it as in any way strange or especially picturesque, save as to the gown of alice, which was now floating and whirling in time to oncle jazon's mad music. the people outside the house cheerfully awaited their turn to go in while an equal number went forth to chat and sing around the fires. beverley was in a young man's seventh heaven. the angels formed a choir circling around his heart, and their song brimmed his universe from horizon to horizon. when he called at roussillon place, and alice appeared so beautifully and becomingly robed, it was another memorable surprise. she flashed a new and subtly stimulating light upon him. the old gown, rich in subdued splendor of lace and brocade, was ornamented at the throat with a heavy band of pearls, just above which could be seen a trace of the gold chain that supported her portrait locket. there, too, with a not unbecoming gleam of barbaric colors, shone the string of porcupine beads to which the indian charmstone hidden in her bosom was attached. it all harmonized with the time, the place, the atmosphere. anywhere else it would have been preposterous as a decorative presentment, but here, in this little nook where the coureurs de bois, the half-breeds, the traders and the missionaries had founded a centre of assembly, it was the best possible expression in the life so formed at hap-hazard, and so controlled by the coarsest and narrowest influences. to fitzhugh beverley, of beverley hall, the picture conveyed immediately a sweet and pervading influence. alice looked superbly tall, stately and self-possessed in her transforming costume, a woman of full stature, her countenance gravely demure yet reserving near the surface the playful dimples and mischievous smiles so characteristic of her more usual manner. a sudden mood of the varium et mutabile semper femina had led her to wear the dress, and the mood still illuminated her. beverley stood before her frankly looking and admiring. the underglow in her cheeks deepened and spread over her perfect throat; her eyes met his a second, then shyly avoided him. he hardly could have been sure which was master, her serenity or her girlish delight in being attractively dressed; but there could be no doubt as to her self-possession; for, saving the pretty blush under his almost rude gaze of admiration, she bore herself as firmly as any fine lady he remembered. they walked together to the river house, she daintily holding up her skirts, under the insistent verbal direction of madame roussillon, and at the same time keeping a light, strangely satisfying touch on his arm. when they entered the room there was no way for beverley to escape full consciousness of the excitement they aroused; but m. roussillon's assumption broke the force of what would have otherwise been extremely embarrassing. "it is encouraging, very encouraging," murmured the big man to beverley in the midst of the staring and scrambling and craning of necks, "to have my people admire and love me so; it goes to the middle of my heart." and again he bowed and waved his hand with an all-including gesture, while he swept his eyes over the crowd. alice and beverley were soon in the whirl of the dance, forgetful of everything but an exhilaration stirred to its utmost by oncle jazon's music. a side remark here may be of interest to those readers who enjoy the dream that on some fortunate day they will invade a lonely nook, where amid dust and cobwebs, neglected because unrecognized, reposes a masterpiece of stradivari or some other great fiddle-maker. oncle jazon knew nothing whatever about old violins. he was a natural musician, that was all, and flung himself upon his fiddle with the same passionate abandon that characterizes a healthy boy's assault when a plum pudding is at his mercy. but his fiddle was a carlo bergonzi; and now let the search be renewed, for the precious instrument was certainly still in vincennes as late as , and there is a vague tradition that governor whitcomb played on it not long before he died. the mark by which it may be identified is the single word "jazon" cut in the back of its neck by oncle jazon himself. when their dance was ended alice and beverley followed the others of their set out into the open air while a fresh stream of eager dancers poured in. beverley insisted upon wrapping alice in her mantle of unlined beaver skin against the searching winter breath. they did not go to the fire, but walked back and forth, chatting until their turn to dance should come again, pausing frequently to exchange pleasantries with some of the people. curiously enough both of them had forgotten the fact that other young men would be sure to ask alice for a dance, and that more than one pretty creole lass was rightfully expecting a giddy turn with the stalwart and handsome lieutenant beverley. rene de ronville before long broke rudely into their selfish dream and led alice into the house. this reminded beverley of his social duty, wherefore seeing little adrienne bourcier he made a rush and secured her at a swoop from the midst of a scrambling circle of mutually hindered young men. "allons, ma petite!" he cried, quite in the gay tone of the occasion, and swung her lightly along with him. it was like an eagle dancing with a linnet, or a giant with a fairy, when the big lieutenant led out la petite adrienne, as everybody called her. the honor of beverley's attention sat unappreciated on adrienne's mind, for all her thoughts went with her eyes toward rene and alice. nor was beverley so absorbed in his partner's behalf that he ever for a moment willingly lost sight of the floating buff gown, the shining brown hair and the beautiful face, which formed, indeed, the center of attraction for all eyes. father beret was present, sharing heartily in the merriment of his flock. voices greeted him on all sides with intonations of tender respect. the rudest man there was loyal to the kind-hearted priest, and would as soon have thought of shooting him as of giving him any but the most reverent attention. it is to be noted, however, that their understanding of reverence included great freedom and levity not especially ecclesiastical in its nature. father beret understood the conditions around him and had the genius to know what not to hear, what not to see; but he never failed when a good word or a fatherly touch with his hand seemed worth trying on a sheep that appeared to be straying dangerously far from the fold. upon an occasion like this dance at the river house, he was no less the faithful priest because of his genial sympathy with the happiness of the young people who looked to him for spiritual guidance. it was some time before beverley could again secure alice for a dance, and he found it annoying him atrociously to see her smile sweetly on some buckskin-clad lout who looked like an indian and danced like a parisian. he did not greatly enjoy most of his partners; they could not appeal to any side of his nature just then. not that he at all times stood too much on his aristocratic traditions, or lacked the virile traits common to vigorous and worldly-minded men; but the contrast between alice and the other girls present was somehow an absolute bar to a democratic freedom of the sort demanded by the occasion. he met father beret and passed a few pleasant words with him. "they have honored your flag, my son, i am glad to see," the priest said, pointing with a smile to where, in one corner, the banner that bore alice's name was effectively draped. beverley had not noticed it before, and when he presently got possession of alice he asked her to tell him the story of how she planted it on the fort, although he had heard it to the last detail from father beret just a moment ago. they stood together under its folds while she naively sketched the scene for him, even down to her picturesquely disagreeable interview with long-hair, mention of whom led up to the story of the indian's race with the stolen dame jeanne of brandy under his arm on that memorable night, and the subsequent services performed for him by father beret and her, after she and jean had found him in the mud beyond the river. the dancing went on at a furious pace while they stood there. now and again a youth came to claim her, but she said she was tired and begged to rest awhile, smiling so graciously upon each one that his rebuff thrilled him as if it had been the most flattering gift of tender partiality, while at the same time he suspected that it was all for beverley. helm in his most jovial mood was circulating freely among those who formed the periphery of the dancing-area; he even ventured a few clumsy capers in a cotillion with madame godere for partner. she danced well; but he, as someone remarked, stumbled all over himself. there was but one thing to mar the evening's pleasure: some of the men drank too much and grew boisterous. a quarrel ended in a noisy but harmless fight near one of the fires. m. roussillon rushed to the spot, seized the combatants, tousled them playfully, as if they had been children, rubbed their heads together, laughed stormily and so restored the equilibrium of temper. it was late when fathers and mothers in the company began to suggest adjournment. oncle jazon's elbow was tired and the enthusiasm generated by his unrecognized bergonzi became fitful, while the relaxing crowd rapidly encroached upon the space set apart for the dancers. in the open lamps suspended here and there the oil was running low, and the rag wicks sputtered and winked with their yellow flames. "well," said m. roussillon, coming to where alice and beverley stood insulated and isolated by their great delight in each other's company, "it's time to go home." beverley looked at his watch; it was a quarter to three! alice also looked at the watch, and saw engraved and enameled on its massive case the beverley crest, but she did not know what it meant. there was something of the sort in the back of her locket, she remembered with satisfaction. just then there was a peculiar stir in the flagging crowd. someone had arrived, a coureur de bois from the north. where was the commandant? the coureur had something important for him. beverley heard a remark in a startled voice about the english getting ready for a descent upon the wabash valley. this broke the charm which thralled him and sent through his nerves the bracing shock that only a soldier can feel when a hint of coming battle reaches him. alice saw the flash in his face. "where is captain helm? i must see him immediately. excuse me," he said, abruptly turning away and looking over the heads of the people; "yonder he is, i must go to him." the coureur de bois, adolphe dutremble by name, was just from the head waters of the wabash. he was speaking to helm when beverley came up. m. roussillon followed close upon the lieutenant's heels, as eager as he to know what the message amounted to; but helm took the coureur aside, motioning beverley to join them. m. roussillon included himself in the conference. after all it was but the gossip of savages that dutremble communicated; still the purport was startling in the extreme. governor hamilton, so the story ran, had been organizing a large force; he was probably now on his way to the portage of the wabash with a flotilla of batteaux, some companies of disciplined soldiers, artillery and a strong body of indians. helm listened attentively to dutremble's lively sketch, then cross-questioned him with laconic directness. "send mr. jazon to me," he said to m. roussillon, as if speaking to a servant. the master frenchman went promptly, recognizing captain helm's right to command, and sympathizing with his unpleasant military predicament if the news should prove true. oncle jazon came in a minute, his fiddle and bow clamped under his arm, to receive a verbal commission, which sent him with some scouts of his own choosing forthwith to the wabash portage, or far enough to ascertain what the english commander was doing. after the conference beverley made haste to join alice; but he found that she had gone home. "one hell of a fix we'll be in if hamilton comes down here with a good force," said helm. beverley felt like retorting that a little forethought, zeal and preparation might have lessened the prospective gloom. he had been troubled all the time about helm's utter lack of military precaution. true, there was very little material out of which that optimistic officer could have formed a body of resistance against the army probably at hamilton's command; but beverley was young, energetic, bellicose, and to him everything seemed possible; he believed in vigilance, discipline, activity, dash; he had a great faith in the efficacy of enthusiasm. "we must organize these frenchmen," he said; "they will make good fighters if we can once get them to act as a body. there's no time to be lost; but we have time enough in which to do a great deal before hamilton can arrive, if we go at it in earnest." "your theory is excellent, lieutenant, but the practice of it won't be worth a damn," helm replied with perfect good nature. "i'd like to see you organize these parly-voos. there ain't a dozen of 'em that wouldn't accept the english with open arms. i know 'em. they're good hearted, polite and all that; they'll hurrah for the flag; that's easy enough; but put 'em to the test and they'll join in with the strongest side, see if they don't. of course there are a few exceptions. there's jazon, he's all right, and i have faith in bosseron, and legrace, and young ronville." "roussillon--" beverley began. "is much of a blow-hard," helm interrupted with a laugh. "barks loud, but his biting disposition is probably not vicious." "he and father beret control the whole population at all events," said beverley. "yes, and such a population!" while joining in captain helm's laugh at the expense of vincennes, beverley took leave to indulge a mental reservation in favor of alice. he could not bear to class her with the crowd of noisy, thoughtless, mercurial beings whom he heard still singing gay snatches and calling to one another from distance to distance, as they strolled homeward in groups and pairs. nor could the impending danger of an enforced surrender to the english and indians drive from his mind her beautiful image, while he lay for the rest of the night between sleeping and waking on his primitive bed, alternately hearing over again her every phrase and laugh, and striving to formulate some definite plan for defending the town and fort. his heart was full of her. she had surprised his nature and filled it, as with a wonderful, haunting song. his youth, his imagination, all that was fresh and spontaneously gentle and natural in him, was flooded with the magnetic splendor of her beauty. and yet, in his pride (and it was not a false pride, but rather a noble regard for his birthright) he vaguely realized how far she was from him, how impossible. chapter viii the dilemma of captain helm oncle jazon, feeling like a fish returned to the water after a long and torturing captivity in the open air, plunged into the forest with anticipations of lively adventure and made his way toward the wea plains. it was his purpose to get a boat at the village of ouiatenon and pull thence up the wabash until he could find out what the english were doing. he chose for his companions on this dangerous expedition two expert coureurs de bois, dutremble and jacques bailoup. fifty miles up the river they fell in with some friendly indians, well known to them all, who were returning from the portage. the savages informed them that there were no signs of an english advance in that quarter. some of them had been as far as the st. joseph river and to within a short distance of detroit without seeing a white man or hearing of any suspicious movements on the part of hamilton. so back came oncle jazon with his pleasing report, much disappointed that he had not been able to stir up some sort of trouble. it was helm's turn to laugh. "what did i tell you?" he cried, in a jolly mood, slapping beverley on the shoulder. "i knew mighty well that it was all a big story with nothing in it. what on earth would the english be thinking about to march an army away off down here only to capture a rotten stockade and a lot of gabbling parly-voos?" beverley, while he did not feel quite as confident as his chief, was not sorry that things looked a little brighter than he had feared they would turn out to be. secretly, and without acknowledging it to himself, he was delighted with the life he was living. the arcadian atmosphere of vincennes clothed him in its mists and dreams. no matter what way the weather blew its breath, cold or warm, cloudy or fair, rain or snow, the peace in his soul changed not. his nature seemed to hold all of its sterner and fiercer traits in abeyance while he domiciled himself absolutely within his narrow and monotonous environment. since the dance at the river house a new content, like a soft and diffused sweetness, had crept through his blood with a vague, tingling sense of joy. he began to like walking about rather aimlessly in the town's narrow streets, with the mud-daubed cabins on either hand. this simple life under low, thatched roofs had a charm. when a door was opened he could see a fire of logs on the ample hearth shooting its yellow tongues up the sooty chimney-throat. soft creole voices murmured and sang, or jangled their petty domestic discords. women in scant petticoats, leggings and moccasins swept snow from the squat verandas, or fed the pigs in little sties behind the cabins. everybody cried cheerily: "bon jour, monsieur, comment allez-vous?" as he went by, always accompanying the verbal salute with a graceful wave of the hand. when he walked early in the morning a waft of broiling game and browning corn scones was abroad. pots and kettles occupied the hearths with glowing coals heaped around and under. shaggy dogs whined at the doors until the mensal remnants were tossed out to them in the front yard. but it was always a glimpse of alice that must count for everything in beverley's reckonings, albeit he would have strenuously denied it. true he went to roussillon place almost every day, it being a fixed part of his well ordered habit, and had a talk with her. sometimes, when dame roussillon was very busy and so quite off her guard, they read together in a novel, or in certain parts of the odd volume of montaigne. this was done more for the sweetness of disobedience than to enjoy the already familiar pages. now and again they repeated their fencing bout; but never with the result which followed the first. beverley soon mastered alice's tricks and showed her that, after all, masculine muscle is not to be discounted at its own game by even the most wonderful womanly strength and suppleness. she struggled bravely to hold her vantage ground once gained so easily, but the inevitable was not to be avoided. at last, one howling winter day, he disarmed her by the very trick that she had shown him. that ended the play and they ran shivering into the house. "ah," she cried, "it isn't fair. you are so much bigger than i; you have so much longer arms; so much more weight and power. it all counts against me! you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" she was rosy with the exhilarating exercise and the biting of the frosty breeze. her beauty gave forth a new ray. deep in her heart she was pleased to have him master her so superbly; but as the days passed she never said so, never gave over trying to make him feel the touch of her foil. she did not know that her eyes were getting through his guard, that her dimples were stabbing his heart to its middle. "you have other advantages," he replied, "which far overbalance my greater stature and stronger muscles." then after a pause he added: "after all a girl must be a girl." something in his face, something in her heart, startled her so that she made a quick little move like that of a restless bird. "you are beautiful and that makes my eyes and my hand uncertain," he went on. "were i fencing with a man there would be no glamour." he spoke in english, which he did not often do in conversation with her. it was a sign that he was somewhat wrought upon. she followed his rapid words with difficulty; but she caught from them a new note of feeling. he saw a little pale flare shoot across her face and thought she was angry. "you should not use your dimples to distract my vision," he quickly added, with a light laugh. "it would be no worse for me to throw my hat in your face!" his attempt at levity was obviously weak; she looked straight into his eyes, with the steady gaze of a simple, earnest nature shocked by a current quite strange to it. she did not understand him, and she did. her fine intuition gathered swiftly together a hundred shreds of impression received from him during their recent growing intimacy. he was a patrician, as she vaguely made him out, a man of wealth, whose family was great. he belonged among people of gentle birth and high attainments. she magnified him so that he was diffused in her imagination, as difficult to comprehend as a mist in the morning air--and as beautiful. "you make fun of me," she said, very deliberately, letting her eyes droop; then she looked up again suddenly and continued, with a certain naive expression of disappointment gathering in her face. "i have been too free with you. father beret told me not to forget my dignity when in your company. he told me you might misunderstand me. i don't care; i shall not fence with you again." she laughed, but there was no joyous freedom in the sound. "why, alice--my dear miss roussillon, you do me a wrong; i beg a thousand pardons if i've hurt you," he cried, stepping nearer to her, "and i can never forgive myself. you have somehow misunderstood me, i know you have!" on his part it was exaggerating a mere contact of mutual feelings into a dangerous collision. he was as much self-deceived as was she, and he made more noise about it. "it is you who have misunderstood me," she replied, smiling brightly now, but with just a faint, pitiful touch of regret, or self-blame lingering in her voice. "father beret said you would. i did not believe him; but--" "and you shall not believe him," said beverley. "i have not misunderstood you. there has been nothing. you have treated me kindly and with beautiful friendliness. you have not done or said a thing that father beret or anybody else could criticise. and if i have said or done the least thing to trouble you i repudiate it--i did not mean it. now you believe me, don't you, miss roussillon?" he seemed to be falling into the habit of speaking to her in english. she understood it somewhat imperfectly, especially when in an earnest moment he rushed his words together as if they had been soldiers he was leading at the charge-step against an enemy. his manner convinced her, even though his diction fell short. "then we'll talk about something else," she said, laughing naturally now, and retreating to a chair by the hearthside. "i want you to tell me all about yourself and your family, your home and everything." she seated herself with an air of conscious aplomb and motioned him to take a distant stool. there was a great heap of dry logs in the fireplace, with pointed flames shooting out of its crevices and leaping into the gloomy, cave-like throat of the flue. outside a wind passed heavily across the roof and bellowed in the chimney-top. beverley drew the stool near alice, who, with a charred stick, used as a poker, was thrusting at the glowing crevices and sending showers of sparks aloft. "why, there wouldn't be much to tell," he said, glad to feel secure again. "our home is a big old mansion named beverley hall on a hill among trees, and half surrounded with slave cabins. it overlooks the plantation in the valley where a little river goes wandering on its way." he was speaking french and she followed him easily now, her eyes beginning to fling out again their natural sunny beams of interest. "i was born there twenty-six years ago and haven't done much of anything since. you see before you, mademoiselle, a very undistinguished young man, who has signally failed to accomplish the dream of his boyhood, which was to be a great artist like raphael or angelo. instead of being famous i am but a poor lieutenant in the forces of virginia." "you have a mother, father, brothers and sisters?" she interrogated. she did not understand his allusion to the great artists of whom she knew nothing. she had never before heard of them. she leaned the poker against the chimney jamb and turned her face toward him. "mother, father, and one sister," he said, "no brothers. we were a happy little group. but my sister married and lives in baltimore. i am here. father and mother are alone in the old house. sometimes i am terribly homesick." he was silent a moment, then added: "but you are selfish, you make me do all the telling. now i want you to give me a little of your story, mademoiselle, beginning as i did, at the first." "but i can't," she replied with childlike frankness, "for i don't know where i was born, nor my parents' names, nor who i am. you see how different it is with me. i am called alice roussillon, but i suppose that my name is alice tarleton; it is not certain, however. there is very little to help out the theory. here is all the proof there is. i don't know that it is worth anything." she took off her locket and handed it to him. he handled it rather indifferently, for he was just then studying the fine lines of her face. but in a moment he was interested. "tarleton, tarleton," he repeated. then he turned the little disc of gold over and saw the enameled drawing on the back,--a crest clearly outlined. he started. the crest was quite familiar. "where did you get this?" he demanded in english, and with such blunt suddenness that she was startled. "where did it come from?" "i have always had it." "always? it's the tarleton crest. do you belong to that family?" "indeed i do not know. papa roussillon says he thinks i do." "well, this is strange and interesting," said beverley, rather to himself than addressing her. he looked from the miniature to the crest and back to the miniature again, then at alice. "i tell you this is strange," he repeated with emphasis. "it is exceedingly strange." her cheeks flushed quickly under their soft brown and her eyes flashed with excitement. "yes, i know." her voice fluttered; her hands were clasped in her lap. she leaned toward him eagerly. "it is strange. i've thought about it a great deal." "alice tarleton; that is right; alice is a name of the family. lady alice tarleton was the mother of the first sir garnett tarleton who came over in the time of yardley. it's a great family. one of the oldest and best in virginia." he looked at her now with a gaze of concentrated interest, under which her eyes fell. "why, this is romantic!" he exclaimed, "absolutely romantic. and you don't know how you came by this locket? you don't know who was your father, your mother?" "i do not know anything." "and what does monsieur roussillon know?" "just as little." "but how came he to be taking you and caring for you? he must know how he got you, where he got you, of whom he got you? surely he knows--" "oh, i know all that. i was twelve years old when papa roussillon took me, eight years ago. i had been having a hard life, and but for him i must have died. i was a captive among the indians. he took me and has cared for me and taught me. he has been very, very good to me. i love him dearly." "and don't you remember anything at all about when, where, how the indians got you?" "no." she shook her head and seemed to be trying to recollect something. "no, i just can't remember; and yet there has always been something like a dream in my mind, which i could not quite get hold of. i know that i am not a catholic. i vaguely remember a sweet woman who taught me to pray like this: 'our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.'" and alice went on through the beautiful and perfect prayer, which she repeated in english with infinite sweetness and solemnity, her eyes uplifted, her hands clasped before her. beverley could have sworn that she was a shining saint, and that he saw an aureole. "i know," she continued, "that sometime, somewhere, to a very dear person i promised that i never, never, never would pray any prayer but that. and i remember almost nothing else about that other life, which is far off back yonder in the past, i don't know where,--sweet, peaceful, shadowy; a dream that i have all but lost from my mind." beverley's sympathy was deeply moved. he sat for some minutes looking at her without speaking. she, too, was pensive and silent, while the fire sputtered and sang, the great logs slowly melting, the flames tossing wisps of smoke into the chimney still booming to the wind. "i know, too, that i am not french," she presently resumed, "but i don't know just how i know it. my first words must have been english, for i have always dreamed of talking in that language, and my dimmest half recollections of the old days are of a large, white house, and a soft-voiced black woman, who sang to me in that language the very sweetest songs in the world." it must be borne in mind that all this was told by alice in her creole french, half bookish, half patois, of which no translation can give any fair impression. beverley listened, as one who hears a clever reader intoning a strange and captivating poem. he was charmed. his imagination welcomed the story and furnished it with all that it lacked of picturesque completeness. in those days it was no uncommon thing for a white child to be found among the indians with not a trace left by which to restore it to its people. he had often heard of such a case. but here was alice right before him, the most beautiful girl that he had ever seen, telling him the strangest story of all. to his mind it was clear that she belonged to the tarleton family of virginia. youth always concludes a matter at once. he knew some of the tarletons; but it was a widely scattered family, its members living in almost every colony in america. the crest he recognized at a glance by the dragon on the helmet with three stars. it was not for a woman to bear; but doubtless it had been enameled on the locket merely as a family mark, as was often done in america. "the black woman was your nurse, your mammy," he said. "i know by that and by your prayer in english, as well as by your locket, that you are of a good old family." like most southerners, he had strong faith in genealogy, and he held at his tongue's tip the names of all the old families. the carters, the blairs, the fitzhughs, the hansons, the randolphs, the lees, the ludwells, the joneses, the beverleys, the tarletons--a whole catalogue of them stretched back in his memory. he knew the coat of arms displayed by each house. he could repeat their legends. "i wish you could tell me more," he went on. "can't you recollect anything further about your early childhood, your first impressions--the house, the woman who taught you to pray, the old black mammy? any little thing might be of priceless value as evidence." alice shrugged her shoulders after the creole fashion with something of her habitual levity of manner, and laughed. his earnestness seemed disproportioned to the subject, as she fancied he must view it, although to her it had always been something to dream over. it was impossible for her to realize, as he did, the importance of details in solving a problem like that involved in her past history. nor could she feel the pathos and almost tragic fascination with which her story had touched him. "there is absolutely nothing more to tell," she said. "all my life i have tried to remember more, but it's impossible; i can't get any further back or call up another thing. there's no use trying. it's all like a dream--probably it is one. i do have such dreams. in my sleep i can lift myself into the air, just as easy, and fly back to the same big white house that i seem to remember. when you told me about your home it was like something that i had often seen before. i shall be dreaming about it next!" beverley cross-questioned her from every possible point of view; he was fascinated with the mystery; but she gave him nothing out of which the least further light could be drawn. a half-breed woman, it seemed, had been her indian foster-mother; a silent, grave, watchful guardian from whom not a hint of disclosure ever fell. she was, moreover, a christian woman, had received her conversion from an english-speaking protestant missionary. she prayed with alice, thus keeping in the child's mind a perfect memory of the lord's prayer. "well," said beverley at last, "you are more of a mystery to me, the longer i know you." "then i must grow every day more distasteful to you." "no, i love mystery." he went away feeling a new web of interest binding him to this inscrutable maiden whose life seemed to him at once so full of idyllic happiness and so enshrouded in tantalizing doubt. at the first opportunity he frankly questioned m. roussillon, with no helpful result. the big frenchman told the same meager story. the woman was dying in the time of a great epidemic, which killed most of her tribe. she gave alice to m. roussillon, but told him not a word about her ancestry or previous life. that was all. a wise old man, when he finds himself in a blind alley, no sooner touches the terminal wall than he faces about and goes back the way he came. under like circumstances a young man must needs try to batter the wall down with his head. beverley endeavored to break through the web of mystery by sheer force. it seemed to him that a vigorous attempt could not fail to succeed; but, like the fly in the spider's lines, he became more hopelessly bound at every move he made. moreover against his will he was realizing that he could no longer deceive himself about alice. he loved her, and the love was mastering him body and soul. such a confession carries with it into an honest masculine heart a sense of contending responsibilities. in beverley's case the clash was profoundly disturbing. and now he clutched the thought that alice was not a mere child of the woods, but a daughter of an old family of cavaliers! with coat buttoned close against the driving wind, he strode toward the fort in one of those melodramatic moods to which youth in all climes and times is subject. it was like a slap in the face when captain helm met him at the stockade gate and said: "well, sir, you are good at hiding." "hiding! what do you mean, captain helm?" he demanded, not in the mildest tone. "i mean, sir, that i've been hunting you for an hour and more, over the whole of this damned town. the english and indians are upon us, and there's no time for fooling. where are all the men?" beverley comprehended the situation in a second. helm's face was congested with excitement. some scouts had come in with the news that governor hamilton, at the head of five or six hundred soldiers and indians, was only three or four miles up the river. "where are all the men?" helm repeated. "buffalo hunting, most of them," said beverley. "what in hell are they off hunting buffaloes for?" raged the excited captain. "you might go to hell and see," beverley suggested, and they both laughed in sheer masculine contempt of a predicament too grave for anything but grim mirth. what could they do? even oncle jazon and rene de ronville were off with the hunters. helm sent for m. roussillon in the desperate hope that he could suggest something; but he lost his head and hustled off to hide his money and valuables. indeed the french people all felt that, so far as they were concerned, the chief thing was to save what they had. they well knew that it mattered little which of the two masters held over them--they must shift for themselves. in their hearts they were true to france and america; but france and america could not now protect them against hamilton; therefore it would be like suicide to magnify patriotism or any other sentiment objectionable to the english. so they acted upon m. roussillon's advice and offered no resistance when the new army approached. "my poor people are not disloyal to your flag and your cause," said good father beret next morning to captain helm, "but they are powerless. winter is upon us. what would you have us do? this rickety fort is not available for defense; the men are nearly all far away on the plains. isn't it the part of prudence and common sense to make the best of a desperate situation? should we resist, the british and their savage allies would destroy the town and commit outrages too horrible to think about. in this case diplomacy promises much more than a hopeless fight against an overwhelming force." "i'll fight 'em," helm ground out between his teeth, "if i have to do it single-handed and alone! i'll fight 'em till hell freezes over!" father beret smiled grimly, as if he, too, would enjoy a lively skirmish on the ice of tophet, and said: "i admire your courage, my son. fighting is perfectly proper upon fair occasion. but think of the poor women and children. these old eyes of mine have seen some terrible things done by enraged savages. men can die fighting; but their poor wives and daughters--ah, i have seen, i have seen!" beverley felt a pang of terror shoot through his heart as father beret's simple words made him think of alice in connection with an indian massacre. "of course, of course it's horrible to think of," said helm; "but my duty is clear, and that flag," he pointed to where la banniere d'alice roussillon was almost blowing away in the cold wind, "that flag shall not come down save in full honor." his speech sounded preposterously boastful and hollow; but he was manfully in earnest; every word came from his brave heart. father beret's grim smile returned, lighting up his strongly marked face with the strangest expression imaginable. "we will get all the women inside the fort," helm began to say. "where the indians will find them ready penned up and at their mercy," quickly interpolated the priest "that will not do." "well, then, what can be done?" beverley demanded, turning with a fierce stare upon father beret. "don't stand there objecting to everything, with not a suggestion of your own to offer." "i know what is best for my people," the old man replied softly, still smiling, "i have advised them to stay inside their houses and take no part in the military event. it is the only hope of averting an indiscriminate massacre, and things worse." the curt phrase, "things worse," went like a bullet-stroke through beverley's heart. it flashed an awful picture upon his vision. father beret saw his face whiten and his lips set themselves to resist a great emotion. "do not be angry with me, my son," he said, laying a hand on the young man's arm. "i may be wrong, but i act upon long and convincing experience." "experience or no experience," helm exclaimed with an oath, "this fort must be manned and defended. i am commanding here!" "yes, i recognize your authority," responded the priest in a firm yet deferential tone, "and i heartily wish you had a garrison; but where is your command, captain helm?" then it was that the doughty captain let loose the accumulated profanity with which he had been for some time well-nigh bursting. he tiptoed in order to curse with extremest violence. his gestures were threatening. he shook his fists at father beret, without really meaning offence. "where is my garrison, you ask! yes, and i can tell you. it's where you might expect a gang of dad blasted jabbering french good-for-nothings to be, off high-gannicking around shooting buffaloes instead of staying here and defending their wives, children, homes and country, damn their everlasting souls! the few i have in the fort will sneak off, i suppose." "the french gave you this post on easy terms, captain," blandly retorted father beret. "yes, and they'll hand it over to hamilton, you think, on the same basis," cried helm, "but i'll show you! i'll show you, mr. priest!" "pardon me, captain, the french are loyal to you and to the flag yonder. they have sworn it. time will prove it. but in the present desperate dilemma we must choose the safer horn." saying this father beret turned about and went his way. he was chuckling heartily as he passed out of the gate. "he is right," said beverley after a few moments of reflection, during which he was wholly occupied with alice, whose terrified face in his anticipation appealed to him from the midst of howling savages, smoking cabins and mangled victims of lust and massacre. his imagination painted the scene with a merciless realism that chilled his blood. all the sweet romance fell away from vincennes. "well, sir, right or wrong, your, duty is to obey orders," said helm with brutal severity. "we had better not quarrel, captain," beverley replied. "i have not signified any unwillingness to obey your commands. give them, and you will have no cause to grumble." "forgive me, old fellow," cried the impulsive commander. "i know you are true as steel. i s'pose i'm wound up too tight to be polite. but the time is come to do something. here we are with but five or six men--" he was interrupted by the arrival of two more half-breed scouts. only three miles away was a large flotilla of boats and canoes with cannon, a force of indians on land and the british flag flying,--that was the report. "they are moving rapidly," said the spokesman, "and will be here very soon. they are at least six hundred strong, all well armed." "push that gun to the gate, and load it to the muzzle, lieutenant beverley," helm ordered with admirable firmness, the purple flush in his face giving way to a grayish pallor. "we are going to die right here, or have the honors of war." beverley obeyed without a word. he even loaded two guns instead of one--charging each so heavily that the last wad looked as if ready to leap from the grimy mouth. helm had already begun, on receiving the first report, a hasty letter to colonel clark at kaskaskia. he now added a few words and at the last moment sent it out by a trusted man, who was promptly captured by hamilton's advance guard. the missive, evidently written in installments during the slow approach of the british, is still in the canadian archives, and runs thus: "dear sir--at this time there is an army within three miles of this place; i heard of their coming several days beforehand. i sent spies to find the certainty--the spies being taken prisoner i never got intelligence till they got within three miles of town. as i had called the militia and had all assurances of their integrity i ordered at the firing of a cannon every man to appear, but i saw but few. captain buseron behaved much to his honor and credit, but i doubt the conduct of a certain gent. excuse haste, as the army is in sight. my determination is to defend the garrison, (sic) though i have but twenty-one men but what has left me. i refer you to mr. wmes (sic) for the rest. the army is within three hundred yards of the village. you must think how i feel; not four men that i really depend upon; but am determined to act brave--think of my condition. i know it is out of my power to defend the town, as not one of the militia will take arms, though before sight of the army no braver men. there is a flag at a small distance, i must conclude. "your humble servant, "leo'd helm. must stop." "to colonel clark." having completed this task, the letter shows under what a nervous strain, helm turned to his lieutenant and said: "fire a swivel with a blank charge. we'll give these weak-kneed parly-voos one more call to duty. of course not a frog-eater of them all will come. but i said that a gun should be the signal. possibly they didn't hear the first one, the damned, deaf, cowardly hounds!" beverley wheeled forth the swivel and rammed a charge of powder home. but when he fired it, the effect was far from what it should have been. instead of calling in a fresh body of militia, it actually drove out the few who up to that moment had remained as a garrison; so that captain helm and his lieutenant found themselves quite alone in the fort, while out before the gate, deployed in fine open order, a strong line of british soldiers approached with sturdy steps, led by a tall, erect, ruddy-faced young officer. chapter ix the honors of war gaspard roussillon was thoroughly acquainted with savage warfare, and he knew all the pacific means so successfully and so long used by french missionaries and traders to control savage character; but the emergency now upon him was startling. it confused him. the fact that he had taken a solemn oath of allegiance to the american government could have been pushed aside lightly enough upon pressing occasion, but he knew that certain confidential agents left in vincennes by governor abbott had, upon the arrival of helm, gone to detroit, and of course they had carried thither a full report of all that happened in the church of st. xavier, when father gibault called the people together, and at the fort, when the british flag was hauled down and la banniere d'alice roussillon run up in its place. his expansive imagination did full credit to itself in exaggerating the importance of his part in handing the post over to the rebels. and what would hamilton think of this? would he consider it treason? the question certainly bore a tragic suggestion. m. roussillon lacked everything of being a coward, and treachery had no rightful place in his nature. he was, however, so in the habit of fighting windmills and making mountains of molehills that he could not at first glance see any sudden presentment with a normal vision. he had no love for englishmen and he did like americans, but he naturally thought that helm's talk of fighting hamilton was, as his own would have been in a like case, talk and nothing more. the fort could not hold out an hour, he well knew. then what? ah, he but too well realized the result. resistance would inflame the english soldiers and madden the indians. there would be a massacre, and the belts of savages would sag with bloody scalps. he shrugged his shoulders and felt a chill creep up his back. the first thing m. roussillon did was to see father beret and take counsel of him; then he hurried home to dig a great pit under his kitchen floor in which he buried many bales of fur and all his most valuable things. he worked like a giant beaver all night long. meantime father beret went about over the town quietly notifying the inhabitants to remain in their houses until after the fort should surrender, which he was sure would happen the next day. "you will be perfectly safe, my children," he said to them. "no harm can come to you if you follow my directions." relying implicitly upon him, they scrupulously obeyed in every particular. he did not think it necessary to call at roussillon place, having already given m. roussillon the best advice he could command. just at the earliest break of day, while yet the gloom of night scarcely felt the sun's approach, a huge figure made haste along the narrow streets in the northern part of the town. if any person had been looking out through the little holes, called windows, in those silent and rayless huts, it would have been easy to recognize m. roussillon by his stature and his gait, dimly outlined as he was. a thought, which seemed to him an inspiration of genius, had taken possession of him and was leading him, as if by the nose, straight away to hamilton's lines. he was freighted with eloquence for the ear of that commander, and as he strode along facing the crisp morning air he was rehearsing under his breath, emphasizing his periods in tragic whispers with sweeping gestures and liberal facial contortions. so absorbed was he in his oratorical soliloquy that he forgot due military precaution and ran plump into the face of a savage picket guard who, without respect for the great m. roussillon's dignity, sprang up before him, grunted cavernously, flourished a tomahawk and spoke in excellent and exceedingly guttural indian: "wah, surrender!" it is probable that no man ever complied with a modest request in a more docile spirit than did m. roussillon upon that occasion. in fact his promptness must have been admirable, for the savage grunted approval and straightway conducted him to hamilton's headquarters on a batteau in the river. the british commander, a hale man of sandy complexion and probably under middle age, was in no very pleasant humor. some of his orders had been misunderstood by the chief of his indian allies, so that a premature exposure of his approach had been made to the enemy. "well, sir, who are you?" he gruffly demanded, when m. roussillon loomed before him. "i am gaspard roussillon, the mayor of vincennes," was the lofty reply. "i have come to announce to you officially that my people greet you loyally and that my town is freely at your command." he felt as important as if his statements had been true. "humph, that's it, is it? well, mr. mayor, you have my congratulations, but i should prefer seeing the military commander and accepting his surrender. what account can you give me of the american forces, their numbers and condition?" m. roussillon winced, inwardly at least, under hamilton's very undeferential air and style of address. it piqued him cruelly to be treated as a person without the slightest claim to respect. he somehow forgot the rolling and rhythmical eloquence prepared for the occasion. "the american commander naturally would not confide in me, monsieur le gouverneur, not at all; we are not very friendly; he ousted me from office, he offended me--" he was coughing and stammering. "oh, the devil! what do i care? answer my question, sir," hamilton gruffly interrupted. "tell me the number of american troops at the fort, sir." "i don't know exactly. i have not had admittance to the fort. i might be deceived as to numbers; but they're strong, i believe, monsieur le gouverneur, at least they make a great show and much noise." hamilton eyed the huge bulk before him for a moment, then turning to a subaltern said: "place this fellow under guard and see that he doesn't get away. send word immediately to captain farnsworth that i wish to see him at once." the interview thereupon closed abruptly. hamilton's emissaries had given him a detailed account of m. roussillon's share in submitting vincennes to rebel dominion, and he was not in the least inclined toward treating him graciously. "i would suggest to you, monsieur le gouverneur, that my official position demands--" m. roussillon began; but he was fastened upon by two guards, who roughly hustled him aft and bound him so rigidly that he could scarcely move finger or toe. hamilton smiled coldly and turned to give some orders to a stalwart, ruddy young officer who in a canoe had just rowed alongside the batteau. "captain farnsworth," he said, acknowledging the military salute, "you will take fifty men and make everything ready for a reconnaissance in the direction of the fort. we will move down the river immediately and choose a place to land. move lively, we have no time to lose." in the meantime beverley slipped away from the fort and made a hurried call upon alice at roussillon place. there was not much they could say to each other during the few moments at command. alice showed very little excitement; her past experience had fortified her against the alarms of frontier life; but she understood and perfectly appreciated the situation. "what are you going to do?" beverley demanded in sheer despair. he was not able to see any gleam of hope out of the blackness which had fallen around him and into his soul. "what shall you do?" he repeated. "take the chances of war," she said, smiling gravely. "it will all come out well, no doubt." "i hope so, but--but i fear not." his face was gray with trouble. "helm is determined to fight, and that means--" "good!" she interrupted with spirit. "i am so glad of that. i wish i could go to help him! if i were a man i'd love to fight! i think it's just delightful." "but it is reckless bravado; it is worse than foolishness," said beverley, not feeling her mood. "what can two or three men do against an army?" "fight and die like men," she replied, her whole countenance lighting up. "be heroic!" "we will do that, of course; we--i do not fear death; but you--you--" his voice choked him. a gun shot rang out clear in the distance, and he did not finish speaking. "that's probably the beginning," he added in a moment, extending both hands to her. "good bye. i must hurry to the fort. good bye." she drew a quick breath and turned so white that her look struck him like a sudden and hard blow. he stood for a second, his arms at full reach, then: "my god, alice, i cannot, cannot leave you!" he cried, his voice again breaking huskily. she made a little movement, as if to take hold of his hands: but in an instant she stepped back a pace and said: "don't fear about me. i can take care of myself. i'm all right. you'd better return to the fort as quickly as you can. it is your country, your flag, not me, that you must think of now." she folded her arms and stood boldly erect. never before, in all his life, had he felt such a rebuke. he gave her a straight, strong look in the eyes. "you are right, alice." he cried, and rushed from the house to the fort. she held her rigid attitude for a little while after she heard him shut the front gate of the yard so forcibly that it broke in pieces, then she flung her arms wide, as if to clasp something, and ran to the door; but beverley was out of sight. she turned and dropped into a chair. jean came to her out of the next room. his queer little face was pale and pinched; but his jaw was set with the expression of one who has known danger and can meet it somehow. "are they going to scalp us?" he half whispered presently, with a shuddering lift of his distorted shoulders. her face was buried in her hands and she did not answer. childlike he turned from one question to another inconsequently. "where did papa roussillon go to?" he next inquired. "is he going to fight?" she shook her head. "they'll tear down the fort, won't they?" if she heard him she did not make any sign. "they'll kill the captain and lieutenant and get the fine flag that you set so high on the fort, won't they, alice?" she lifted her head and gave the cowering hunchback such a stare that he shut his eyes and put up a hand, as if afraid of her. then she impulsively took his little misshapen form in her arms and hugged it passionately. her bright hair fell all over him, almost hiding him. madame roussillon was lying on a bed in an adjoining room moaning diligently, at intervals handling her rosary and repeating a prayer. the whole town was silent outside. "why don't you go get the pretty flag down and hide it before they come?" jean murmured from within the silken meshes of alice's hair. in his small mind the gaudy banner was the most beautiful of all things. every day since it was set up he had gone to gaze at it as it fluttered against the sky. the men had frequently said in his presence that the enemy would take it down if they captured the fort. alice heard his inquisitive voice; but it seemed to come from far off; his words were a part of the strange, wild swirl in her bosom. beverley's look, as he turned and left her, now shook every chord of her being. he had gone to his death at her command. how strong and true and brave he was! in her imagination she saw the flag above him, saw him die like a panther at bay, saw the gay rag snatched down and torn to shreds by savage hands. it was the tragedy of a single moment, enacted in a flashlight of anticipation. she released jean so suddenly that he fell to the floor. she remembered what she had said to beverley on the night of the dance when they were standing under the flag. "you made it and set it up," he lightly remarked; "you must see that no enemy ever gets possession of it, especially the english." "i'll take it down and hide it when there's danger of that," she said in the same spirit. and now she stood there looking at jean, without seeing him, and repeated the words under her breath. "i'll take it down and hide it. they shan't have it." madame roussillon began to call from the other room in a loud, complaining voice; but alice gave no heed to her querulous demands. "stay here, jean, and take care of mama roussillon," she presently said to the hunchback. "i am going out; i'll be back soon; don't you dare leave the house while i'm gone; do you hear?" she did not wait for his answer; but snatching a hood-like fur cap from a peg on the wall, she put it on and hastily left the house. down at the fort helm and beverley were making ready to resist hamilton's attack, which they knew would not be long deferred. the two heavily charged cannon were planted so as to cover the space in front of the gate, and some loaded muskets were ranged near by ready for use. "we'll give them one hell of a blast," growled the captain, "before they overpower us." beverley made no response in words; but he was preparing a bit of tinder on the end of a stick with which to fire the cannon. not far away a little heap of logs was burning in the fort's area. the british officer, already mentioned as at the head of the line advancing diagonally from the river's bank, halted his men at a distance of three hundred yards from the fort, and seemed to be taking a deliberately careful survey of what was before him. "let 'em come a little nearer, lieutenant," said helm, his jaw setting itself like a lion's. "when we shoot we want to hit." he stooped and squinted along his gun. "when they get to that weedy spot out yonder," he added, "just opposite the little rise in the river bank, we'll turn loose on 'em." beverley had arranged his primitive match to suit his fancy, and for probably the twentieth time looked critically to the powder in the beveled touch-hole of his old cannon. he and helm were facing the enemy, with their backs to the main area of the stockade, when a well known voice attracted their attention to the rear. "any room for a feller o' my size in this here crowded place?" it demanded in a cracked but cheerful tenor. "i'm kind o' outen breath a runnin' to git here." they turned about. it was oncle jazon with his long rifle on his shoulder and wearing a very important air. he spoke in english, using the backwoods lingo with the ease of long practice. "as i's a comin' in f'om a huntin' i tuck notice 'at somepin' was up. i see a lot o' boats on the river an' some fellers wi' guns a scootin' around, so i jes' slipped by 'em all an' come in the back way. they's plenty of 'em, i tell you what! i can't shoot much, but i tuck one chance at a buck indian out yander and jes' happened to hit 'im in the lef' eye. he was one of the gang 'at scalped me down yander in kaintuck." the greasy old sinner looked as if he had not been washed since he was born. he glanced about with furtive, shifty eyes, grimaced and winked, after the manner of an animal just waking from a lazy nap. "where's the rest o' the fighters?" he demanded quizzically, lolling out his tongue and peeping past helm so as to get a glimpse of the english line. "where's yer garrison? have they all gone to breakfas'?" the last question set helm off again cursing and swearing in the most melodramatic rage. oncle jazon turned to beverley and said in rapid french: "surely the man's not going to fight those fellows yonder?" beverley nodded rather gloomily. "well," added the old man, fingering his rifle's stock and taking another glance through the gate, "i can't shoot wo'th a cent, bein' sort o' nervous like; but i'll stan' by ye awhile, jes' for luck. i might accidentally hit one of 'em." when a man is truly brave himself there is nothing that touches him like an exhibition of absolutely unselfish gameness in another. a rush of admiration for oncle jazon made beverley feel like hugging him. meantime the young british officer showed a flag of truce, and, with a file of men, separated himself from the line, now stationary, and approached the stockade. at a hundred yards he halted the file and came on alone, waving the white clout. he boldly advanced to within easy speaking distance and shouted: "i demand the surrender of this fort." "well, you'll not get it, young man," roared helm, his profanity well mixed in with the words, "not while there's a man of us left!" "ye'd better use sof' soap on 'im, cap'n," said oncle jazon in english, "cussin' won't do no good." while he spoke he rubbed the doughty captain's arm and then patted it gently. helm, who was not half as excited as he pretended to be, knew that oncle jazon's remark was the very essence of wisdom; but he was not yet ready for the diplomatic language which the old trooper called "soft soap." "are you the british commander?" he demanded. "no," said the officer, "but i speak for him." "not to me by a damned sight, sir. tell your commander that i will hear what he has to say from his own mouth. no understrapper will be recognized by me." that ended the conference. the young officer, evidently indignant, strode back to his line, and an hour later hamilton himself demanded the unconditional surrender of the fort and garrison. "fight for it," helm stormed forth. "we are soldiers." hamilton held a confab with his officers, while his forces, under cover of the town's cabins, were deploying so as to form a half circle about the stockade. some artillery appeared and was planted directly opposite the gate, not three hundred yards distant. one blast of that battery would, as helm well knew, level a large part of the stockade. "s'posin' i hev' a cannon, too, seein' it's the fashion," said oncle jazon. "i can't shoot much, but i might skeer 'em. this little one'll do me." he set his rifle against the wall and with beverley's help rolled one of the swivels alongside the guns already in position. in a few minutes hamilton returned under the white flag and shouted: "upon what terms will you surrender?" "all the honors of war," helm firmly replied. "it's that or fight, and i don't care a damn which!" hamilton half turned away, as if done with the parley, then facing the fort again, said: "very well, sir, haul down your flag." helm was dumfounded at this prompt acceptance of his terms. indeed the incident is unique in history. as hamilton spoke he very naturally glanced up to where la banniere d'alice roussillon waved brilliantly. someone stood beside it on the dilapidated roof of the old blockhouse, and was already taking it from its place. his aid, captain farnsworth, saw this, and the vision made his heart draw in a strong, hot flood it was a girl in short skirts and moccasins, with a fur hood on her head, her face, thrillingly beautiful, set around with fluffs of wind-blown brown-gold hair. farnsworth was too young to be critical and too old to let his eyes deceive him. every detail of the fine sketch, with its steel-blue background of sky, flashed into his mind, sharp-cut as a cameo. involuntarily he took off his hat. alice had come in by way of the postern. she mounted to the roof unobserved, and made her way to the flag, just at the moment when helm, glad at heart to accept the easiest way out of a tight place, asked oncle jazon to lower it. beverley was thinking of alice, and when he looked up he could scarcely realize that he saw her; but the whole situation was plain the instant she snatched the staff from its place; for he, too, recollected what she had said at the river house. the memory and the present scene blended perfectly during the fleeting instant that she was visible. he saw that alice was smiling somewhat as in her most mischievous moods, and when she jerked the staff from its fastening she lifted it high and waved it once, twice, thrice defiantly toward the british lines, then fled down the ragged roof-slope with it and disappeared. the vision remained in beverley's eyes forever afterward. the english troops, thinking that the flag was taken down in token of surrender, broke into a wild tumult of shouting. oncle jazon intuitively understood just what alice was doing, for he knew her nature and could read her face. his blood effervesced in an instant. "vive zhorzh vasinton! vive la banniere d'alice roussillon!" he screamed, waving his disreputable cap round his scalpless head. "hurrah for george washington! hurrah for alice roussillon's flag!" it was all over soon. helm surrendered himself and beverley with full honors. as for oncle jazon, he disappeared at the critical moment. it was not just to his mind to be a prisoner of war, especially under existing conditions; for hamilton's indian allies had some old warpath scores to settle with him dating back to the days when he and simon kenton were comrades in kentucky. when alice snatched the banner and descended with it to the ground, she ran swiftly out through the postern, as she had once before done, and sped along under cover of the low bluff or swell, which, terrace-like, bounded the flat "bottom" lands southward of the stockade. she kept on until she reached a point opposite father beret's hut, to which she then ran, the flag streaming bravely behind her in the wind, her heart beating time to her steps. it was plainly a great surprise to father beret, who looked up from his prayer when she rushed in, making a startling clatter, the loose puncheons shaking together under her reckless feet. "oh, father, here it is! hide it, hide it, quick!" she thrust the flag toward him. "they shall not have it! they shall never have it!" he opened wide his shrewd, kindly eyes; but did not fairly comprehend her meaning. she was panting, half laughing, half crying. her hair, wildly disheveled, hung in glorious masses over her shoulders. her face beamed triumphantly. "they are taking the fort," she breathlessly added, again urging the flag upon him, "they're going in, but i got this and ran away with it. hide it, father, hide it, quick, quick, before they come!" the daring light in her eyes, the witching play of her dimples, the madcap air intensified by her attitude and the excitement of the violent exercise just ended--something compounded of all these and more--affected the good priest strangely. involuntarily he crossed himself, as if against a dangerous charm. "mon dieu, father beret," she exclaimed with impatience, "haven't you a grain of sense left? take this flag and hide it, i tell you! don't stay there gazing and blinking. here, quick! they saw me take it, they may be following me. hurry, hide it somewhere!" he comprehended now, rising from his knees with a queer smile broadening on his face. she put the banner into his hands and gave him a gentle push. "hide it, i tell you, hide it, you dear old goose!" without sneaking he turned the staff over and over in his hand, until the flag was closely wrapped around it, then stooping he lifted a puncheon and with it covered the gay roll from sight. alice caught him in her arms and kissed him vigorously on the cheek. her warm lips made the spot tingle. "don't you dare to let any person have it! it's the flag of george washington." she gave him a strong squeeze. he pushed her from him with both hands and hastily crossed himself; but his eyes were laughing. "you ought to have seen me; i waved the flag at them--at the english--and one young officer took off his hat to me! oh, father beret, it was like what is in a novel. they'll get the fort, but not the banner! not the banner! i've saved it, i've saved it!" her enthusiasm gave a splendor to her countenance, heightening its riches of color and somehow adding to its natural girlish expression an audacious sweetness. the triumphant success of her undertaking lent the dignity of conscious power to her look, a dignity which always sits well upon a young and somewhat immaturely beautiful face. father beret could not resist her fervid eloquence, and he could not run away from her or stop up his ears while she went on. so he had to laugh when she said: "oh, if you had seen it all you would have enjoyed it. there was oncle jazon squatting behind the little swivel, and there were captain helm and lieutenant beverley holding their burning sticks over the big cannon ready to shoot--all of them so intent that they didn't see me--and yonder came the english officer and his army against the three. when they got close to the gate the officer called out: 'surrender!' and then captain helm yelled back: 'damned if i do! come another step and i'll blow you all to hell in a second!' i was mightily in hopes that they'd come on; i wanted to see a cannon ball hit that english commander right in the face; he looked so arrogant." father beret shook his head and tried to look disapproving and solemn. meantime down at the fort hamilton was demanding the flag. he had seen alice take it down, and supposed that it was lowered officially and would be turned over to him. now he wanted to handle it as the best token of his bloodless but important victory. "i didn't order the flag down until after i had accepted your terms," said helm, "and when my man started to obey, we saw a young lady snatch it and run away with it." "who was the girl?" "i do not inform on women," said helm. hamilton smiled grimly, with a vexed look in his eyes, then turned to captain farnsworth and ordered him to bring up m. roussillon, who, when he appeared, still had his hands tied together. "tell me the name of the young woman who carried away the flag from the fort. you saw her, you know every soul in this town. who was it, sir?" it was a hard question for m. roussillon to answer. although his humiliating captivity had somewhat cowed him, still his love for alice made it impossible for him to give the information demanded by hamilton. he choked and stammered, but finally managed to say: "i assure you that i don't know--i didn't look--i didn't see--it was too far off for me to--i was some-what excited--i--" "take him away. keep him securely bound," said hamilton. "confine him. we'll see how long it will take to refresh his mind. we'll puncture the big windbag." while this curt scene was passing, the flag of great britain rose over the fort to the lusty cheering of the victorious soldiers. hamilton treated helm and beverley with extreme courtesy. he was a soldier, gruff, unscrupulous and cruel to a degree; but he could not help admiring the daring behavior of these two officers who had wrung from him the best terms of surrender. he gave them full liberty, on parole of honor not to attempt escape or to aid in any way an enemy against him while they were prisoners. nor was it long before helm's genial and sociable disposition won the englishman's respect and confidence to such an extent that the two became almost inseparable companions, playing cards, brewing toddies, telling stories, and even shooting deer in the woods together, as if they had always been the best of friends. hamilton did not permit his savage allies to enter the town, and he immediately required the french inhabitants to swear allegiance to great britain, which they did with apparent heartiness, all save m. roussillon, who was kept in close confinement and bound like a felon, chafing lugubriously and wearing the air of a martyr. his prison was a little log pen in one corner of the stockade, much open to the weather, its gaping cracks giving him a dreary view of the frozen landscape through which the wabash flowed in a broad steel-gray current. helm, who really liked him, tried in vain to procure his release; but hamilton was inexorable on account of what he regarded as duplicity in m. roussillon's conduct. "no, i'll let him reflect," he said; "there's nothing like a little tyranny to break up a bad case of self-importance. he'll soon find out that he has over-rated himself!" chapter x m. roussillon entertains colonel hamilton a day or two after the arrival of hamilton the absent garrison of buffalo hunters straggled back to vincennes and were duly sworn to demean themselves as lawful subjects of great britain. rene de ronville was among the first to take the oath, and it promptly followed that hamilton ordered him pressed into service as a wood-chopper and log-hauler during the erection of a new blockhouse, large barracks and the making of some extensive repairs of the stockade. nothing could have been more humiliating to the proud young frenchman. every day he had to report bright and early to a burly irish corporal and be ordered about, as if he had been a slave, cursed at, threatened and forced to work until his hands were blistered and his muscles sore. the bitterest part of it all was that he had to trudge past both roussillon place and the bourcier cabin with the eyes of alice and adrienne upon him. hamilton did not forget m. roussillon in this connection. the giant orator soon found himself face to face with a greater trial even than rene's. he was calmly told by the english commander that he could choose between death and telling who it was that stole the flag. "i'll have you shot, sir, to-morrow morning if you prevaricate about this thing any longer," said hamilton, with a right deadly strain in his voice. "you told me that you knew every man, woman and child in vincennes at sight. i know that you saw that girl take the flag--lying does not serve your turn. i give you until this evening to tell me who she is; if you fail, you die at sunrise to-morrow." in fact, it may be that hamilton did not really purpose to carry out this blood-thirsty threat; most probably he relied upon m. roussillon's imagination to torture him successfully; but the effect, as time proved, could not be accurately foreseen. captain farnsworth had energy enough for a dozen ordinary men. before he had been in vincennes twelve hours he had seen every nook and corner of its surface. nor was his activity due altogether to military ardor, although he never let pass an opportunity to serve the best interests of his commander; all the while his mind was on the strikingly beautiful girl whose saucy countenance had so dazzled him from the roof-top of the fort, what time she wrenched away the rebel flag. "i'll find her, high or low," he thought, "for i never could fail to recognize that face. she's a trump." it was not in alice's nature to hide from the english. they had held the town and fort before helm came, and she had not found them troublesome under abbott. she did not know that m. roussillon was a prisoner, the family taking it for granted that he had gone away to avoid the english. nor was she aware that hamilton felt so keenly the disappearance of the flag. what she did know, and it gladdened her greatly, was that beverley had been well treated by his captor. with this in her heart she went about roussillon place singing merry snatches of creole songs; and when at the gate, which still hung lop-sided on account of beverley's force in shutting it, she came unexpectedly face to face with captain farnsworth, there was no great surprise on her part. he lifted his hat and bowed very politely; but a bold smile broke over his somewhat ruddy face. he spoke in french, but in a drawling tone and with a bad accent: "how do you do, mademoiselle; i am right glad to see you again." alice drew back a pace or two. she was quick to understand his allusion, and she shrank from him, fearing that he was going to inquire about the flag. "don't be afraid," he laughed. "i am not so dangerous. i never did hurt a girl in all my life. in fact, i am fond of them when they're nice." "i am not in the least afraid," she replied, assuming an air of absolute dismissal, "and you don't look a bit ferocious, monsieur. you may pass on, if you please." he flushed and bit his lip, probably to keep back some hasty retort, and thought rapidly for a moment. she looked straight at him with eyes that stirred and dazzled him. he was handsome in a coarse way, like a fine young animal, well groomed, well fed, magnetic, forceful; but his boldness, being of a sort to which she had not been accustomed, disturbed her vaguely and strangely. "suppose that i don't pass on?" he presently ventured, with just a suspicion of insolence in his attitude, but laughing until he showed teeth of remarkable beauty and whiteness. "suppose that i should wish to have a little chat with you, mademoiselle?" "i have been told that there are men in the world who think themselves handsome, and clever, and brilliant, when in fact they are but conceited simpletons," she remarked, rather indifferently, muffling herself in her fur wrap. "you certainly would be a fairly good hitching-post for our horses if you never moved." then she laughed out of the depth of her hood, a perfectly merry laugh, but not in the least flattering to captain farnsworth's vanity. he felt the scorn that it conveyed. his face grew redder, while a flash from hers made him wish that he had been more gracious in his deportment. here, to his surprise, was not a mere creole girl of the wild frontier. her superiority struck him with the force of a captivating revelation, under the light of which he blinked and winced. she laid a shapely hand on the broken gate and pushed it open. "i beg your pardon, mademoiselle;" his manner softened as he spoke; "i beg your pardon; but i came to speak to you about the flag--the flag you took away from the fort." she had been half expecting this; but she was quite unprepared, and in spite of all she could do showed embarrassment. "i have come to get the flag; if you will kindly bring it to me, or tell me where it is i--" she quickly found words to interrupt him with, and at the same time by a great effort pulled herself together. "you have come to the wrong place," she flung in. "i assure you that i haven't the flag." "you took it down, mademoiselle." "oh, did i?" "with bewitching grace you did, mademoiselle. i saw and admired. will you fetch it, please?" "indeed i won't." the finality in her voice belied her face, which beamed without a ray of stubbornness or perversity. he did not know how to interpret her; but he felt that he had begun wrong. he half regretted that he had begun at all. "more depends upon returning that flag than you are probably aware of," he presently said in a more serious tone. "in fact, the life of one of your townsmen, and a person of some importance here i believe, will surely be saved by it. you'd better consider, mademoiselle. you wouldn't like to cause the death of a man." she did not fairly grasp the purport of his words; yet the change in his manner, and the fact that he turned from french to english in making the statement, aroused a sudden feeling of dread or dark apprehension in her breast. the first distinct thought was of beverley--that some deadly danger threatened him. "who is it?" she frankly demanded. "it's the mayor, the big man of your town, monsieur roussillon, i think he calls himself. he's got himself into a tight place. he'll be shot to-morrow morning if that flag is not produced. governor hamilton has so ordered, and what he orders is done." "you jest, monsieur." "i assure you that i speak the plain truth." "you will probably catch monsieur roussillon before you shoot him." she tossed her head. "he is already a prisoner in the fort." alice turned pale. "monsieur, is this true?" her voice had lost its happy tone. "are you telling me that to--" "you can verify it, mademoiselle, by calling upon the commander at the fort. i am sorry that you doubt my veracity. if you will go with me i will show you m. roussillon a tightly bound prisoner." jean had crept out of the gate and was standing just behind alice with his feet wide apart, his long chin elevated, his head resting far back between his upthrust shoulders, his hands in his pockets, his uncanny eyes gazing steadily at farnsworth. he looked like a deformed frog ready to jump. alice unmistakably saw truth in the captain's countenance and felt it in his voice. the reality came to her with unhindered effect. m. roussillon's life depended upon the return of the flag. she put her hands together and for a moment covered her eyes with them. "i will go now, mademoiselle," said farnsworth; "but i hope you will be in great haste about returning the flag." he stood looking at her. he was profoundly touched and felt that to say more would be too brutal even for his coarse nature; so he simply lifted his hat and went away. jean took hold of alice's dress as she turned to go back into the house. "is he going to take the flag? can he find it? what does he want with it? what did you do with the flag, alice?" he whined, in his peculiar, quavering voice. "where is it?" her skirt dragged him along as she walked. "where did you put it, alice?" "father beret hid it under his floor," she answered, involuntarily, and almost unconsciously. "i shall have to take it back and give it up." "no--no--i wouldn't," he quavered, dancing across the veranda as she quickened her pace and fairly spun him along. "i wouldn't let 'em have it at all." alice's mind was working with lightning speed. her imagination took strong grip on the situation so briefly and effectively sketched by captain farnsworth. her decision formed itself quickly. "stay here, jean. i am going to the fort. don't tell mama roussillon a thing. be a good boy." she was gone before jean could say a word. she meant to face hamilton at once and be sure what danger menaced m. roussillon. of course, the flag must be given up if that would save her foster father any pain; and if his life were in question there could not be too great haste on her part. she ran directly to the stockade gate and breathlessly informed a sentinel that she must see governor hamilton, into whose presence she was soon led. captain farnsworth had preceded her but a minute or two, and was present when she entered the miserable shed room where the commander was having another talk with m. roussillon. the meeting was a tableau which would have been comical but for the pressure of its tragic possibilities. hamilton, stern and sententious, stood frowning upon m. roussillon, who sat upon the ground, his feet and hands tightly bound, a colossal statue of injured innocence. alice, as soon as she saw m. roussillon, uttered a cry of sympathetic endearment and flung herself toward him with open arms. she could not reach around his great shoulders; but she did her best to include the whole bulk. "papa! papa roussillon!" she chirruped between the kisses that she showered upon his weather-beaten face. hamilton and farnsworth regarded the scene with curious and surprised interest. m. roussillon began speaking rapidly; but being a frenchman he could not get on well with his tongue while his hands were tied. he could shrug his shoulders; that helped him some. "i am to be shot, ma petite," he pathetically growled in his deep bass voice; "shot like a dog at sunrise to-morrow." alice kissed m. roussillon's rough cheek once more and sprang to her feet facing hamilton. "you are not such a fiend and brute as to kill papa roussillon," she cried. "why do you want to injure my poor, good papa?" "i believe you are the young lady that stole the flag?" hamilton remarked, smiling contemptuously. she looked at him with a swift flash of indignation as he uttered these words. "i am not a thief. i could not steal what was my own. i helped to make that flag. it was named after me. i took it because it was mine. you understand me, monsieur." "tell where it is and your father's life will be spared." she glanced at m. roussillon. "no, alice," said he, with a pathetically futile effort to make a fine gesture, "don't do it. i am brave enough to die. you would not have me act the coward." no onlooker would have even remotely suspected the fact that m. roussillon had chanced to overhear a conversation between hamilton and farnsworth, in which hamilton stated that he really did not intend to hurt m. roussillon in any event; he merely purposed to humiliate the "big wind-bag!" "ah, no; let me die bravely for honor's sake--i fear death far less than dishonor! they can shoot me, my little one, but they cannot break my proud spirit." he tried to strike his breast over his heart. "perhaps it would be just as well to let him be shot," said hamilton gruffly, and with dry indifference. "i don't fancy that he's of much value to the community at best. he'll make a good target for a squad, and we need an example." "do you mean it?--you ugly english brute--would you murder him?" she stamped her foot. "not if i get that flag between now and sundown. otherwise i shall certainly have him shot. it is all in your hands, mademoiselle. you can tell me where the flag is." hamilton smiled again with exquisite cruelty. farnsworth stood by gazing upon alice in open admiration. her presence had power in it, to which he was very susceptible. "you look like a low, dishonorable, soulless tyrant," she said to hamilton, "and if you get my flag, how shall i know that you will keep your promise and let papa roussillon go free?" "i am sorry to say that you will have to trust me, unless you'll take captain farnsworth for security. the captain is a gentleman, i assure you. will you stand good for my veracity and sincerity, captain farnsworth?" the young man smiled and bowed. alice felt the irony; and her perfectly frank nature preferred to trust rather than distrust the sincerity of others. she looked at farnsworth, who smiled encouragingly. "the flag is under father beret's floor," she said. "under the church floor?" "no, under the floor of his house." "where is his house?" she gave full directions how to reach it. "untie the prisoner," hamilton ordered, and it was quickly done. "monsieur roussillon, i congratulate you upon your narrow escape. go to the priest's house, monsieur, and bring me that flag. it would be well, i assure you, not to be very long about it. captain farnsworth, you will send a guard with monsieur roussillon, a guard of honor, fitting his official dignity, a corporal and two men. the honorable mayor of this important city should not go alone upon so important an errand. he must have his attendants." "permit me to go myself and get it," said alice, "i can do it quickly. may i, please, monsieur?" hamilton looked sharply at her. "why, certainly, mademoiselle, certainly. captain farnsworth, you will escort the young lady." "it is not necessary, monsieur." "oh, yes, it is necessary, my dear young lady, very necessary; so let's not have further words. i'll try to entertain his honor, the mayor, while you go and get the flag. i feel sure, mademoiselle, that you'll return with it in a few minutes. but you must not go alone." alice set forth immediately, and farnsworth, try as hard as he would, could never reach her side, so swift was her gait. when they arrived at father beret's cabin, she turned and said with imperious severity: "don't you come in; you stay out here: i'll get it in a minute." farnsworth obeyed her command. the door was wide open, but father beret was not inside; he had gone to see a sick child in the outskirts of the village. alice looked about and hesitated. she knew the very puncheon that covered the flag; but she shrank from lifting it. there seemed nothing else to do, however; so, after some trouble with herself, she knelt upon the floor and turned the heavy slab over with a great thump. the flag did not appear. she peeped under the other puncheons. it was not there. the only thing visible was a little ball of paper fragments not larger than an egg. farnsworth heard her utter a low cry of surprise or dismay, and was on the point of going in when father beret, coming around the corner of the cabin, confronted him. the meeting was so sudden and unexpected that both men recoiled slightly, and then, with a mutual stare, saluted. "i came with a young lady to get the flag," said farnsworth. "she is inside. i hope there is no serious intrusion. she says the flag is hidden under your floor." father beret said nothing, but frowning as if much annoyed, stepped through the doorway to alice's side, and stooping where she knelt, laid a hand on her shoulder as she glanced up and recognized him. "what are you doing, my child?" "oh, father, where is the flag?" it was all that she could say. "where is the flag?" "why, isn't it there?" "no, you see it isn't there! where is it?" the priest stood as if dumfounded, gazing into the vacant space uncovered by the puncheon. "is it gone? has some one taken it away?" they turned up all the floor to no avail. la banniere d'alice roussillon had disappeared, and captain farnsworth went forthwith to report the fact to his commander. when he reached the shed at the angle of the fort he found governor hamilton sitting stupid and dazed on the ground. one jaw was inflamed and swollen and an eye was half closed and bloodshot. he turned his head with a painful, irregular motion and his chin sagged. farnsworth sprang to him and lifted him to his feet; but he could scarcely stand. he licked his lips clumsily. "what is the matter? what hurt you?" the governor rubbed his forehead trying to recollect. "he struck me," he presently said with difficulty. "he hit me with his fist where--where is he?" "who?" "that big french idiot--that roussillon--go after him, take him, shoot him--quick! i have been stunned; i don't know how long he's been gone. give the alarm--do something!" hamilton, as he gathered his wits together, began to foam with rage, and his passion gave his bruised and swollen face a terrible look. the story was short, and may be quickly told. m. roussillon had taken advantage of the first moment when he and hamilton were left alone. one herculean buffet, a swinging smash of his enormous fist on the point of the governors jaw, and then he walked out of the fort unchallenged, doubtless on account of his lordly and masterful air. "ziff!" he exclaimed, shaking himself and lifting his shoulders, when he had passed beyond hearing of the sentinel at the gate, "ziff! i can punch a good stiff stroke yet, monsieur le gouverneur. ah, ziff!" and he blew like a porpoise. every effort was promptly made to recapture m. roussillon; but his disappearance was absolute; even the reward offered for his scalp by hamilton only gave the indians great trouble--they could not find the man. such a beginning of his administration of affairs at vincennes did not put hamilton into a good humor. he was overbearing and irascible at best, and under the irritation of small but exceedingly unpleasant experiences he made life well-nigh unendurable to those upon whom his dislike chanced to fall. beverley quickly felt that it was going to be very difficult for him and hamilton to get along agreeably. with helm it was quite different; smoking, drinking, playing cards, telling good stories--in a word, rude and not unfrequently boisterous conviviality drew him and the commandant together. under captain farnsworth's immediate supervision the fort was soon in excellent repair and a large blockhouse and comfortable quarters for the men were built. every day added to the strength of the works and to the importance of the post as a strategic position for the advance guard of the british army. hamilton was ambitious to prove himself conspicuously valuable to his country. he was dreaming vast dreams and laying large plans. the indians were soon anxious to gain his favor; and to bind them securely to him he offered liberal pay in rum and firearms, blankets, trinkets and ammunition for the scalps of rebels. he kept this as secret as possible from his prisoners; but beverley soon suspected that a "traffic in hair," as the terrible business had been named, was going on. savages came in from far away with scalps yet scarcely dry dangling at their belts. it made the young virginian's blood chill in his heart, and he regretted that he had given hamilton his parole of honor not to attempt to escape. among the indians occasionally reporting to hamilton with their ghastly but valuable trophies was long-hair, who slipped into the fort and out again rather warily, not having much confidence in those frenchmen who had once upon a time given him a memorable run for his life. winter shut down, not cold, but damp, changeable, raw. the work on the fort was nearly completed, and rene de ronville would have soon been relieved of his servile and exasperating employment under the irish corporal; but just at the point of time when only a few days' work remained for him, he became furious, on account of an insulting remark, and struck the corporal over the head with a handspike. this happened in a wood some miles from town, where he was loading logs upon a sled. there chanced to be no third person present when the deed was done, and some hours passed before they found the officer quite cold and stiff beside the sled. his head was crushed to a pulp. hamilton, now thoroughly exasperated, began to look upon the french inhabitants of vincennes as all like m. roussillon and rene, but waiting for an opportunity to strike him unawares. he increased his military vigilance, ordered the town patrolled day and night, and forbade public gatherings of the citizens, while at the same time he forced them to furnish him a large amount of provisions. when little adrienne bourcier heard of renews terrible act, followed by his successful escape to the woods, and of the tempting reward offered by hamilton for his scalp, she ran to roussillon place well-nigh crazed with excitement. she had always depended upon alice for advice, encouragement and comfort in her troubles; but in the present case there was not much that her friend could do to cheer her. with m. roussillon and rene both fugitives, tracked by wily savages, a price on their heads, while every day added new dangers to the french inhabitants of vincennes, no rosy view could possibly be taken of the situation. alice did her best, however, to strengthen her little friend's faith in a happy outcome. she quoted what she considered unimpeachable authority to support her optimistic argument. "lieutenant beverley says that the americans will be sure to drive hamilton out of vincennes, or capture him. probably they are not so very far away now, and rene may join them and come back to help punish these brutal englishmen. don't you wish he would, adrienne? wouldn't it be romantic?" "he's armed, i know that," said adrienne, brightening a little, "and he's brave, alice, brave as can be. he came right back into town the other night and got his gun and pistols. he was at our house, too, and, oh!--" she burst out crying again. "o alice! it breaks my heart to think that the indians will kill him. do you think they will kill him, alice?" "he'll come nearer killing them," said alice confidently, with her strong, warm arms around the tiny lass; "he's a good woodsman, a fine shot--he's not so easy to kill, my dear. if he and papa roussillon should get together by chance they would be a match for all the indians in the country. anyway, i feel that it's much better for them to take their chances in the woods than to be in the hands of governor hamilton. if i were a man i'd do just as papa roussillon and rene did; i'd break the bigoted head of every englishman that mistreated me, i'll do it, girl as i am, if they annoy me, see if i don't!" she was thinking of captain farnsworth, who had been from the first untiring in his efforts to gain something more than a passing acquaintance. as yet he had not made himself unbearable; but alice's fine intuition led her to the conclusion that she must guard against him from the outset. adrienne's simple heart could not grasp the romantic criterion with which alice was wont to measure action. her mind was single, impulsive, narrow and direct in all its movements. she loved, hated, desired, caressed, repulsed, not for any assignable reason more solid or more luminous than "because." she adored rene and wanted him near her. he was a hero in her imagination, no matter what he did. little difference was it to her whether he hauled logs for the english or smoked his pipe in idleness by the winter fire--what could it matter which flag he served under, so that he was true to her? or whom he served if she could always have him coming to see her and calling her his little pet? he might crush an irish corporal's head every day, if he would but stroke her hair and say: "my sweet little one." "why couldn't he be quiet and do as your man, lieutenant beverley, did?" she cried in a sudden change of mood, the tears streaming down her cheeks. "lieutenant beverley surrendered and took the consequences. he didn't kill somebody and run off to be hunted like a bear. no wonder you're happy, alice; i'd be happy, too, if rene were here and came to spend half of every day with me. i--" "why, what a silly girl you are!" alice exclaimed, her face reddening prettily. "how foolishly you prattle! i'm sure i don't trouble myself about lieutenant beverley--what put such absurd nonsense into your head, adrienne?" "because, that's what, and you know it's so, too. you love him just as much as i love rene, and that's just all the love in the world, and you needn't deny it, alice roussillon!" alice laughed and hugged the wee, brown-faced mite of a girl until she almost smothered her. it was growing dusk when adrienne left roussillon place to go home. the wind cut icily across the commons and moaned as it whirled around the cabins and cattle-sheds. she ran briskly, muffled in a wrap, partly through fear and partly to keep warm, and had gone two-thirds of her way when she was brought to an abrupt stop by the arms of a man. she screamed sharply, and father beret, who was coming out of a cabin not far away, heard and knew the voice. "ho-ho, my little lady!" cried adrienne's captor in a breezy, jocund tone, "you wouldn't run over a fellow, would you?" the words were french, but the voice was that of captain farnsworth, who laughed while he spoke. "you jump like a rabbit, my darling! why, what a lively little chick of a girl it is!" adrienne screamed and struggled recklessly. "now don't rouse up the town," coaxed the captain. he was just drunk enough to be quite a fool, yet sufficiently sober to imagine himself the most proper person in the world. "i don't mean you any harm, mademoiselle; i'll just see you safe home, you know; 'scort you to your residence; come on, now--that's a good girl." father beret hurried to the spot, and when in the deepening gloom he saw adrienne flinging herself violently this way and that, helplessly trying to escape from the clasp of a man, he did to perfection what a priest is supposed to be the least fitted to do. indeed, considering his age and leaving his vocation out of the reckoning, his performance was amazing. it is not certain that the blow dealt upon governor hamilton's jaw by m. roussillon was a stiffer one than that sent straight from the priest's shoulder right into the short ribs of captain farnsworth, who there-upon released a mighty grunt and doubled himself up. adrienne recognized her assailant at the first and used his name freely during the struggle. when father beret appeared she cried out to him-- "oh, father--father beret! help me! help me!" when farnsworth recovered from the breath-expelling shock of the jab in his side and got himself once more in a vertical position, both girl and priest were gone. he looked this way and that, rapidly becoming sober, and beginning to wonder how the thing could have happened so easily. his ribs felt as if they had been hit with a heavy hammer. "by jove!" he muttered all to himself, "the old prayer-singing heathen! by jove!" and with this very brilliant and relevant observation he rubbed his sore side and went his way to the fort. chapter xi a sword and a horse pistol we hear much about the "days that tried men's souls"; but what about the souls of women in those same days? sitting in the liberal geniality of the nineteenth century's sunset glow, we insist upon having our grumble at the times and the manners of our generation; but if we had to exchange places, periods and experiences with the people who lived in america through the last quarter of the eighteenth century, there would be good ground for despairing ululations. and if our men could not bear it, if it would try their souls too poignantly, let us imagine the effect upon our women. no, let us not imagine it; but rather let us give full credit to the heroic souls of the mothers and the maidens who did actually bear up in the center of that terrible struggle and unflinchingly help win for us not only freedom, but the vast empire which at this moment is at once the master of the world and the model toward which all the nations of the earth are slowly but surely tending. if alice was an extraordinary girl, she was not aware of it; nor had she ever understood that her life was being shaped by extraordinary conditions. of course it could not but be plain to her that she knew more and felt more than the girls of her narrow acquaintance; that her accomplishments were greater; that she nursed splendid dreams of which they could have no proper comprehension, but until now she had never even dimly realized that she was probably capable of being something more than a mere creole lass, the foster daughter of gaspard roussillon, trader in pelts and furs. even her most romantic visions had never taken the form of personal desire, or ambition in its most nebulous stage; they had simply pleased her fresh and natural fancy and served to gild the hardness and crudeness of her life,--that was all. her experiences had been almost too terrible for belief, viewed at our distance from them; she had passed through scenes of incredible horror and suffering, but her nature had not been chilled, stunted or hardened. in body and in temper her development had been sound and beautiful. it was even thus that our great-grandmothers triumphed over adversity, hardship, indescribable danger. we cannot say that the strong, lithe, happy-hearted alice of old vincennes was the only one of her kind. few of us who have inherited the faded portraits of our revolutionary forbears can doubt that beauty, wit and great lovableness flourished in the cabins of pioneers all the way from the edisto to the licking, from the connecticut to the wabash. beverley's advent could not fail to mean a great deal in the life of a girl like alice; a new era, as it were, would naturally begin for her the moment that his personal influence touched her imagination; but it is well not to measure her too strictly by the standard of our present taste and the specialized forms of our social and moral code. she was a true child of the wilderness, a girl who grew, as the wild prairie rose grew, not on account of innumerable exigencies, accidents and hardships, but in spite of them. she had blushed unseen, and had wasted divine sweets upon a more than desert air. but when beverley came near her, at first carelessly droning his masculine monotonies, as the wandering bee to the lonely and lovely rose, and presently striking her soul as with the wings of love, there fell a change into her heart of hearts, and lo! her haunting and elusive dreams began to condense and take on forms that startled her with their wonderful splendor and beauty. these she saw all the time, sleeping or waking; they made bright summer of the frozen stream and snapping gale, the snowdrifts and the sleet. in her brave young heart, swelled the ineffable song--the music never yet caught by syrinx or flute or violin, the words no tongue can speak. ah, here may be the secret of that vigorous, brave, sweet life of our pioneer maids, wives, and mothers. it was love that gave those tender hearts the iron strength and heroic persistence at which the world must forever wonder. and do we appreciate those women? let the old world boast its crowned kings, its mailed knights, its ladies of the court and castle; but we of the new world, we of the powerful west, let us brim our cups with the wine of undying devotion, and drink to the memory of the women of the revolution,--to the humble but good and marvelously brave and faithful women like those of old vincennes. but if alice was being radically influenced by beverley, he in turn found a new light suffusing his nature, and he was not unaware that it came out of her eyes, her face, her smiles, her voice, her soul. it was the old, well-known, inexplicable, mutual magnetism, which from the first has been the same on the highest mountain-top and in the lowest valley. the queen and the milkmaid, the king and the hind may come together only to find the king walking off with the lowly beauty and her fragrant pail, while away stalks the lusty rustic, to be lord and master of the queen. love is love, and it thrives in all climes, under all conditions. there is an inevitable and curious protest that comes up unbidden between lovers; it takes many forms in accordance with particular circumstances. it is the demand for equality and perfection. love itself is without degrees--it is perfect--but when shall it see the perfect object? it does see it, and it does not see it, in every beloved being. beverley found his mind turning, as on a pivot, round and round upon the thought that alice might be impossible to him. the mystery of her life seemed to force her below the line of his aristocratic vision, so that he could not fairly consider her, and yet with all his heart he loved her. alice, on the other hand, had her bookish ideal to reckon with, despite the fact that she daily dashed it contemptuously down. she was different from adrienne bourcier, who bewailed the absence of her un-tamable lover; she wished that beverley had not, as she somehow viewed it, weakly surrendered to hamilton. his apparently complacent acceptance of idle captivity did not comport with her dream of knighthood and heroism. she had been all the time half expecting him to do something that would stamp him a hero. counter protests of this sort are never sufficiently vigorous to take a fall out of love; they merely serve to worry his temper by lightly hindering his feet. and it is surprising how love does delight himself with being entangled. both beverley and alice day by day felt the cord tightening which drew their hearts together--each acknowledged it secretly, but strove not to evince it openly. meantime both were as happy and as restlessly dissatisfied as love and uncertainty could make them. amid the activities in which hamilton was engaged--his dealings with the indians and the work of reconstructing the fort--he found time to worry his temper about the purloined flag. like every other man in the world, he was superstitious, and it had come into his head that to insure himself and his plans against disaster, he must have the banner of his captives as a badge of his victory. it was a small matter; but it magnified itself as he dwelt upon it. he suspected that alice had deceived him. he sharply questioned father beret, only to be half convinced that the good priest told the truth when he said that he knew nothing whatever on the subject beyond the fact that the banner had mysteriously disappeared from under his floor. captain farnsworth scarcely sympathized with his chief about the flag, but he was nothing if not anxious to gain hamilton's highest confidence. his military zeal knew no bounds, and he never let pass even the slightest opportunity to show it. hence his persistent search for a clue to the missing banner. he was no respecter of persons. he frankly suspected both alice and father beret of lying. he would himself have lied under the existing circumstances, and he considered himself as truthful and trustworthy as priest or maiden. "i'll get that flag for you," he said to hamilton, "if i have to put every man, woman and child in this town on the rack. it lies, i think, between miss roussillon and the priest, although both insistently deny it. i've thought it over in every way, and i can't see how they can both be ignorant of where it is, or at least who got it." hamilton, since being treated to that wonderful blow on the jaw, was apt to fall into a spasm of anger whenever the name roussillon was spoken in his hearing. involuntarily he would put his hand to his cheek, and grimace reminiscently. "if it's that girl, make her tell," he savagely commanded. "let's have no trifling about it. if it's the priest, then make him tell, or tie him up by the thumbs. get that flag, or show some good reason for your failure. i'm not going to be baffled." the captain's adventure with father beret came just in time to make it count against that courageous and bellicose missionary in more ways than one. farnsworth did not tell hamilton or any other person about what the priest had done to him, but nursed his sore ribs and his wrath, waiting patiently for the revenge that he meant soon to take. alice heard from adrienne the story of farnsworth's conduct and his humiliating discomfiture at the hands of father beret. she was both indignant and delighted, sympathizing with adrienne and glorying in the priest's vigorous pugilistic achievement. "well," she remarked, with one of her infectious trills of laughter, "so far the french have the best of it, anyway! papa roussillon knocked the governor's cheek nearly off, then rene cracked the irish corporal's head, and now father beret has taught captain farnsworth a lesson in fisticuffs that he'll not soon forget! if the good work can only go on a little longer we shall see every english soldier in vincennes wearing the mark of a frenchman's blow." then her mood suddenly changed from smiling lightness to almost fierce gravity, and she added: "adrienne bourcier, if captain farnsworth ever offers to treat me as he did you, mark my words, i'll kill him--kill him, indeed i will! you ought to see me!" "but he won't dare touch you," said adrienne, looking at her friend with round, admiring eyes. "he knows very well that you are not little and timid like me. he'd be afraid of you." "i wish he would try it. how i would love to shoot him into pieces, the hateful wretch! i wish he would." the french inhabitants all, or nearly all, felt as alice did; but at present they were helpless and dared not say or do anything against the english. nor was this feeling confined to the creoles of vincennes; it had spread to most of the points where trading posts existed. hamilton found this out too late to mend some of his mistakes; but he set himself on the alert and organized scouting bodies of indians under white officers to keep him informed as to the american movements in kentucky and along the ohio. one of these bands brought in as captive colonel francis vigo, of st. louis, a spaniard by birth, an american by adoption, a patriot to the core, who had large influence over both indians and creoles in the illinois country. colonel vigo was not long held a prisoner. hamilton dared not exasperate the creoles beyond their endurance, for he knew that the savages would closely sympathize with their friends of long standing, and this might lead to revolt and coalition against him,--a very dangerous possibility. indeed, at least one of the great indian chieftains had already frankly informed him that he and his tribe were loyal to the americans. here was a dilemma requiring consummate diplomacy. hamilton saw it, but he was not of a diplomatic temper or character. with the indians he used a demoralizing system of bribery, while toward the whites he was too often gruff, imperious, repellant. helm understood the whole situation and was quick to take advantage of it. his personal relations with hamilton were easy and familiar, so that he did not hesitate to give advice upon all occasions. here his jovial disposition helped him. "you'd better let vigo return to st. louis," he said. they had a bowl of something hot steaming between them. "i know him. he's harmless if you don't rub him too hard the wrong way. he'll go back, if you treat him well, and tell clark how strong you are here and how foolish it would be to think of attacking you. clark has but a handful of men, poorly supplied and tired with long, hard marches. if you'll think a moment you cannot fail to understand that you'd better be friends with this man vigo. he and father gibault and this old priest here, beret, carry these frenchmen in their pockets. i'm not on your side, understand, i'm an american, and i'd blow the whole of you to kingdom come in a minute, if i could; but common sense is common sense all the same. there's no good to you and no harm to clark in mistreating, or even holding this prisoner. what harm can he do you by going back to clark and telling him the whole truth? clark knew everything long before vigo reached here. old jazon, my best scout, left here the day you took possession, and you may bet he got to kaskaskia in short order. he never fails. but he'll tell clark to stay where he is, and vigo can do no more." what effect helm's bold and apparently artless talk had upon hamilton's mind is not recorded; but the meager historical facts at command show that vigo was released and permitted to return under promise that he would give no information to the enemy on his way to kaskaskia. doubtless this bit of careless diplomacy on the governor's part did have a somewhat soothing effect upon a large class of frenchmen at vincennes; but farnsworth quickly neutralized it to a serious extent by a foolish act while slightly under the influence of liquor. he met father beret near roussillon place, and feeling his ribs squirm at sight of the priest, he accosted him insolently, demanding information as to the whereabouts of the missing flag. a priest may be good and true--father beret certainly was--and yet have the strongest characteristics of a worldly man. this thing of being bullied day after day, as had recently been the rule, generated nothing to aid in removing a refractory desire from the priest's heart--the worldly desire to repeat with great increment of force the punch against famsworth's lower ribs. "i order you, sir, to produce that rebel flag," said farnsworth. "you will obey forthwith or take the consequences. i am no longer in the humor to be trifled with. do you understand?" "i might be forced to obey you, if i could," said the priest, drawing his robe about him; "but, as i have often told you, my son, i do not know where the flag is or who took it. i do not even suspect any person of taking it. all that i know about it is the simple fact that it is gone." father beret's manner and voice were very mild, but there must have been a hint of sturdy defiance somewhere in them. at all events farnsworth was exasperated and fell into a white rage. perhaps it was the liquor he had been drinking that made him suddenly desperate. "you canting old fool!" he cried, "don't lie to me any longer; i won't have it. don't stand there grinning at me. get that flag, or i'll make you." "what is impossible, my son, is possible to god alone. apud homines hoc impossible est, apud deum autem omnia possibilia sunt." "none of your jesuit latin or logic to me--i am not here to argue, but to command. get that flag. be in a hurry about it, sir." he whipped out his sword, and in his half drunken eyes there gathered the dull film of murderous passion. "put up your weapon, captain; you will not attack an unarmed priest. you are a soldier, and will not dare strike an old, defenceless man." "but i will strike a black-robed and black-hearted french rebel. get that flag, you grinning fool!" the two men stood facing each other. father beret's eyes did not stir from their direct, fearless gaze. what farnsworth had called a grin was a peculiar smile, not of merriment, a grayish flicker and a slight backward wrinkling of the cheeks. the old man's arms were loosely crossed upon his sturdy breast. "strike if you must," he said very gently, very firmly. "i never yet have seen the man that could make me afraid." his speech was slightly sing-song in tone, as it would have been during a prayer or a blessing. "get the flag then!" raged farnsworth, in whose veins the heat of liquor was aided by an unreasoning choler. "i cannot," said father beret. "then take the consequences!" farnsworth lifted his sword, not to thrust, but to strike with its flat side, and down it flashed with a noisy whack. father beret flung out an arm and deftly turned the blow aside. it was done so easily that farnsworth sprang back glaring and surprised. "you old fool!" he cried, leveling his weapon for a direct lunge. "you devilish hypocrite!" it was then that father beret turned deadly pale and swiftly crossed himself. his face looked as if he saw something startling just beyond his adversary. possibly this sudden change of expression caused farnsworth to hesitate for a mere point of time. then there was the swish of a woman's skirts; a light step pattered on the frozen ground, and alice sprang between the men, facing farnsworth. as she did this something small and yellow,--the locket at her throat,--fell and rolled under her feet. nobody saw it. in her hand she held an immense horse pistol, which she leveled in the captain's face, its flaring, bugle-shaped muzzle gaping not a yard from his nose. the heavy tube was as steady as if in a vise. "drop that sword!" that was all she said; but her finger was pressing the trigger, and the flint in the backward slanting hammer was ready to click against the steel. the leaden slugs were on the point of leaping forth. "drop that sword!" the repetition seemed to close the opportunity for delay. farnsworth was on his guard in a twinkling. he set his jaw and uttered an ugly oath; then quick as lightning he struck sidewise at the pistol with his blade. it was a move which might have taken a less alert person than alice unawares; but her training in sword-play was ready in her wrist and hand. an involuntary turn, the slightest imaginable, set the heavy barrel of her weapon strongly against the blow, partly stopping it, and then the gaping muzzle spat its load of balls and slugs with a bellow that awoke the drowsy old village. farnsworth staggered backward, letting fall his sword. there was a rent in the clothing of his left shoulder. he reeled; the blood spun out; but he did not fall, although he grew white. alice stood gazing at him with a look on her face he would never forget. it was a look that changed by wonderful swift gradations from terrible hate to something like sweet pity. the instant she saw him hurt and bleeding, his countenance relaxing and pale, her heart failed her. she took a step toward him, her hand opened, and with a thud the heavy old pistol fell upon the ground beside her. father beret sprang nimbly to sustain farnsworth, snatching up the pistol as he passed around alice. "you are hurt, my son," he gently said, "let me help you." he passed his arm firmly under that of farnsworth, seeing that the captain was unsteady on his feet. "lean upon me. come with me, alice, my child, i will take him into the house." alice picked up the captain's sword and led the way. it was all done so quickly that farnsworth, in his half dazed condition, scarcely realized what was going on until he found himself on a couch in the roussillon home, his wound (a jagged furrow plowed out by slugs that the sword's blade had first intercepted) neatly dressed and bandaged, while alice and the priest hovered over him busy with their careful ministrations. hamilton and helm were, as usual, playing cards at the former's quarters when a guard announced that mademoiselle roussillon wished an audience with the governor. "bring the girl in," said hamilton, throwing down his cards and scowling darkly. "now you'd better be wise as a serpent and gentle as a dove," remarked helm. "there is something up, and that gun-shot we heard awhile ago may have a good deal to do with it. at any rate, you'll find kindness your best card to play with alice roussillon just at the present stage of the game." of course they knew nothing of what had happened to farnsworth; but they had been discussing the strained relations between the garrison and the french inhabitants when the roar of alice's big-mouthed pistol startled them. helm was slyly beating about to try to make hamilton lose sight of the danger from clark's direction. to do this he artfully magnified the insidious work that might be done by the french and their indian friends should they be driven to desperation by oppressive or exasperating action on the part of the english. hamilton felt the dangerous uncertainty upon which the situation rested; but, like many another vigorously self-reliant man, he could not subordinate his passions to the dictates of policy. when alice was conducted into his presence he instantly swelled with anger. it was her father who had struck him and escaped, it was she who had carried off the rebel flag at the moment of victory. "well, miss, to what do i owe the honor of this visit?" he demanded with a supercilious air, bending a card between his thumb and finger on the rude table. she stood before him tall and straight, well bundled in furs. she was not pale; her blood was too rich and brilliant for that; but despite a half-smile and the inextinguishable dimples, there was a touch of something appealingly pathetic in the lines of her mouth. she did not waver or hesitate, however, but spoke promptly and distinctly. "i have come, monsieur, to tell you that i have hurt captain farnsworth. he was about to kill father beret, and i shot him. he is in our house and well cared for. i don't think his wound is bad. and--" here she hesitated at last and let her gaze fall,--"so here i am." then she lifted her eyes again and made an inimitable french gesture with her shoulders and arms. "you will do as you please, monsieur, i am at your mercy." hamilton was astounded. helm sat staring phlegmatically. meantime beverley entered the room and stopped hat in hand behind alice. he was flushed and evidently excited; in fact, he had heard of the trouble with farnsworth, and seeing alice enter the floor of hamilton's quarters he followed her in, his heart stirred by no slight emotion. he met the governor's glare and parried it with one of equal haughtiness. the veins on his forehead swelled and turned dark. he was in a mood to do whatever desperate act should suggest itself. when hamilton fairly comprehended the message so graphically presented by alice, he rose from his seat by the fire. "what's this you tell me?" he blurted. "you say you've shot captain farnsworth?" "oui, monsieur." he stared a moment, then his features beamed with hate. "and i'll have you shot for it, miss, as sure as you stand there in your silly impudence ogling me so brazenly!" he leaned toward her as he spoke and sent with the words a shock of coarse, passionate energy from which she recoiled as if expecting a blow to follow it. an irresistible impulse swept beverley to alice's side, and his attitude was that of a protector. helm sprang up. a lieutenant came in and respectfully, but with evident over-haste, reported that captain farnsworth had been shot and was at roussillon place in care of the surgeon. "take this girl into custody. confine her and put a strong guard over her." in giving the order hamilton jerked his thumb contemptuously toward alice, and at the same time gave beverley a look of supreme defiance and hatred. when helm began to speak he turned fiercely upon him and stopped him with: "none of your advice, sir. i have had all i want of it. keep your place or i'll make you." then to beverley: "retire, sir. when i wish to see you i'll send for you. at present you are not needed here." the english lieutenant saluted his commander, bowed respectfully to alice and said: "come with me, miss, please." helm and beverley exchanged a look of helpless and enquiring rage. it was as if they had said: "what can we do? must we bear it?" certainly they could do nothing. any interference on their part would be sure to increase alice's danger, and at the same time add to the weight of their own humiliation. alice silently followed the officer out of the room. she did not even glance toward beverley, who moved as if to interfere and was promptly motioned back by the guard. his better judgement returning held him from a rash and futile act, until hamilton spoke again, saying loudly as alice passed through the door: "i'll see who's master of this town if i have to shoot every french hoyden in it!" "women and children may well fear you, colonel hamilton," said beverley. "that young lady is your superior." "you say that to me, sir!" "it is the best i could possibly say of you." "i will send you along with the wench if you do not guard your language. a prisoner on parole has no license to be a blackguard." "i return you my parole, sir, i shall no longer regard it as binding," said beverley, by a great effort, holding back a blow; "i will not keep faith with a scoundrel who does not know how to be decent in the presence of a young girl. you had better have me arrested and confined. i will escape at the first opportunity and bring a force here to reckon with you for your villainy. and if you dare hurt alice roussillon i will have you hanged like a dog!" hamilton looked at him scornfully, smiling as one who feels safe in his authority and means to have his own way with his victim. naturally he regarded beverley's words as the merest vaporings of a helpless and exasperated young man. he saw very clearly that love was having a hand in the affair, and he chuckled inwardly, thinking what a fool beverley was. "i thought i ordered you to leave this room," he said with an air and tone of lofty superiority, "and i certainly mean to be obeyed. go, sir, and if you attempt to escape, or in any way break your parole, i'll have you shot." "i have already broken it. from this moment i shall not regard it. you have heard my statement. i shall not repeat it. govern yourself accordingly." with these words beverley turned and strode out of the house, quite beside himself, his whole frame quivering. hamilton laughed derisively, then looked at helm and said: "helm, i like you; i don't wish to be unkind to you; but positively you must quit breaking in upon my affairs with your ready-made advice. i've given you and lieutenant beverley too much latitude, perhaps. if that young fool don't look sharp he'll get himself into a beastly lot of trouble. you'd better give him a talk. he's in a way to need it just now." "i think so myself," said helm, glad to get back upon fair footing with the irascible governor. "i'll wait until he cools off somewhat, and then i can manage him. leave him to me." "well, come walk with me to see what has really happened to farnsworth. he's probably not much hurt, and deserves what he's got. that girl has turned his head. i think i understand the whole affair. a little love, a little wine, some foolishness, and the wench shot him." helm genially assented; but they were delayed for some time by an officer who came in to consult with hamilton on some pressing indian affairs. when they reached roussillon place they met beverley coming out; but he did not look at them. he was scarcely aware of them. a little way outside the gate, on going in, he had picked up alice's locket and broken chain, which he mechanically put into his pocket. it was all like a dream to him, and yet he had a clear purpose. he was going away from vincennes, or at least he would try, and woe be to hamilton on his coming back. it was so easy for an excited young mind to plan great things and to expect success under apparently impossible conditions. beverley gave jean a note for alice; it was this that took him to roussillon place; and no sooner fell the night than he shouldered a gun furnished him by madame godere, and guided by the woodsman's fine craft, stole away southward, thinking to swim the icy wabash some miles below, and then strike across the plains of illinois to kaskaskia. it was a desperate undertaking; but in those days desperate undertakings were rather the rule than the exception. moreover, love was the leader and beverley the blind follower. nothing could daunt him or turn him back, until he found an army to lead against hamilton. it seems but a romantic burst of indignation, as we look back at it, hopelessly foolish, with no possible end but death in the wilderness. still there was a method in love's madness, and beverley, with his superb physique, his knowledge of the wilderness and his indomitable self-reliance, was by no means without his fighting chance for success. chapter xii manon lescaut. and a rapier-thrust beverley's absence was not noticed by hamilton until late on the following day, and even then he scouted helm's suggestion that the young man was possibly carrying out his threat to disregard his parole. "he would be quite justified in doing it; you know that very well," said helm with a laugh, "and he's just the man to undertake what is impossible. of course, however, he'll get scalped for his trouble, and that will cost you something, i'm happy to say." "it's a matter of small importance," hamilton replied; "but i'll wager you the next toddy that he's not at the present moment a half-mile from this spot. he may be a fool, i readily grant that he is, but even a fool is not going to set out alone in this kind of weather to go to where your rebel friends are probably toasting their shins by a fire of green logs and half starving over yonder on the mississippi." "joking aside, you are doubtless right. beverley is hot-headed, and if he could he'd get even with you devilish quick; but he hasn't left vincennes, i think. miss roussillon would keep him here if the place were on fire!" hamilton laughed dryly. he had thought just what helm was saying. beverley's attentions to alice had not escaped his notice. "speaking of that girl," he remarked after a moment's silence, "what am i do to do with her? there's no place to keep her, and farnsworth insists that she wasn't to blame." he chuckled again and added: "it's true as gospel. he's in love with her, too. seems to be glad she shot him. says he's ashamed of himself for ever suspecting her of anything but being a genuine angel. why, he's got as flabby as a rabbit and mumbles like a fool!" "same as you or i at his age," said helm, taking a chew of tobacco. "she is a pretty thing. beverley don't know his foot from his shoulder-blade when she's anywhere near him. boys are boys. i'm a sort of a boy myself." "if she'd give up that flag he'd let her go," said hamilton. "i hate like the devil to confine her; it looks brutal, and makes me feel like a tyrant." "have you ever happened to notice the obvious fact, governor hamilton, that alice roussillon and father beret are not all the french in vincennes?" "what do you mean?" "i mean that i don't for a moment believe that either the girl or the priest knows a thing about where that flag is. they are both as truthful and honorable as people ever get to be. i know them. somebody else got that flag from under the priest's floor. you may depend upon that. if miss roussillon knew where it is she'd say so, and then dare you to make her tell where it's hidden." "oh, the whole devilish town is rotten with treason; that's very clear. there's not a loyal soul in it outside of my forces." "thank you for not including me among the loyalists." "humph, i spoke of these french people; they pretend to be true; but i believe they are all traitors." "you can manage them if you try. a little jolly kindness goes a long way with 'em. _i_ had no trouble while _i_ held the town." hamilton bit his lip and was silent. helm was exasperatingly good tempered, and his jocularity was irresistible. while he was yet speaking a guard came up followed by jean, the hunchback, and saluting said to hamilton: "the lad wants to see the young lady, sir." hamilton gazed quizzically at jean, who planted himself in his habitual attitude before him and stared up into his face with the grotesque expression which seems to be characteristic of hunchbacks and unfledged birds--the look of an embodied and hideous joke. "well, sir, what will you have?" the governor demanded. "i want to see alice, if you please." "what for?" "i want to give her a book to read." "ah, indeed. where is it? let me see it." jean took from the breast of his loose jerkin a small volume, dog-eared and mildewed, and handed it to hamilton. meantime he stood first on one foot, then the other, gnawing his thumb-nail and blinking rapidly. "well, helm, just look here!" "what?" "manon lescaut." "and what's that?" "haven't you ever read it?" "read what?" "this novel--manon lescaut." "never read a novel in my life. never expect to." hamilton laughed freely at helm's expense, then turned to jean and gave him back the book. it would have been quite military, had he taken the precaution to examine between the pages for something hidden there, but he did not. "go, give it to her," he said, "and tell her i send my compliments, with great admiration of her taste in literature." he motioned the soldier to show jean to alice. "it's a beastly french story," he added, addressing helm; "immoral enough to make a pirate blush. that's the sort of girl mademoiselle roussillon is!" "i don't care what kind of a book she reads," blurted helm, "she's a fine, pure, good girl. everybody likes her. she's the good angel of this miserable frog-hole of a town. you'd like her yourself, if you'd straighten up and quit burning tow in your brain all the time. you're always so furious about something that you never have a chance to be just to yourself, or pleasant to anybody else." hamilton turned fiercely on helm, but a glimpse of the captain's broad good-humored face heartily smiling, dispelled his anger. there was no ground upon which to maintain a quarrel with a person so persistently genial and so absurdly frank. and in fact hamilton was not half so bad as his choleric manifestations seemed to make him out. besides, helm knew just how far to go, just when to stop. "if i had got furious at you every time there was overwhelming provocation for it," hamilton said, "you'd have been long since hanged or shot. i fancy that i have shown angelic forbearance. i've given you somewhat more than a prisoner's freedom." "so you have, so you have," assented helm. "i've often been surprised at your generous partiality in my case. let's have some hot water with something else in it, what do you say? i won't give you any more advice for five minutes by your watch." "but i want some advice at once." "what about?" "that girl." "turn her loose. that's easy and reputable." "i'll have to, i presume; but she ought to be punished." "if you'll think less about punishment, revenge and getting even with everybody and everything, you'll soon begin to prosper." hamilton winced, but smiled as one quite sure of himself. jean followed the soldier to a rickety log pen on the farther side of the stockade, where he found the prisoner restlessly moving about like a bird in a rustic cage. it had no comforts, that gloomy little room. there was no fireplace, the roof leaked, and the only furniture consisted of a bench to sit on and a pile of skins for bed. alice looked charmingly forlorn peeping out of the wraps in which she was bundled against the cold, her hair fluffed and rimpled in shining disorder around her face. the guard let jean in and closed the door, himself staying outside. alice was as glad to see the poor lad as if they had been parted for a year. she hugged him and kissed his drawn little face. "you dear, good jean!" she murmured, "you did not forget me." "i brought you something," he whispered, producing the book. alice snatched it, looked at it, and then at jean. "why, what did you bring this for? you silly jean! i didn't want this. i don't like this book at all. it's hateful. i despise it. take it back." "there's something in it for you, a paper with writing on it; lieutenant beverley wrote it on there. it's shut up between the leaves about the middle." "sh-s-sh! not so loud, the guard'll hear you," alice breathlessly whispered, her whole manner changing instantly. she was trembling, and the color had been whisked from her face, as the flame from a candle in a sudden draught. she found the note and read it a dozen times without a pause, her eyes leaping along the lines back and forth with pathetic eagerness and concentration. presently she sat down on the bench and covered her face with her hands. a tremor first, then a convulsive sobbing, shook her collapsed form. jean regarded her with a drolly sympathetic grimace, elevating his long chin and letting his head settle back between his shoulders. "oh, jean, jean!" she cried at last, looking up and reaching out her arms; "o jean, he is gone, gone, gone!" jean stepped closer to her while she sobbed again like a little child. she pulled him to her and held him tightly against her breast while she once more read the note through blinding tears. the words were few, but to her they bore the message of desolation and despair. a great, haunting, hollow voice in her heart repeated them until they echoed from vague distance to distance. it was written with a bit of lead on the half of a mildewed fly-leaf torn from the book: "dear alice: "i am going away. when you read this, think of me as hurrying through the wilderness to reach our army and bring it here. be brave, as you always have been; be good, as you cannot help being; wait and watch for me; love me, as i love you. i will come. do not doubt it, i will come, and i will crush hamilton and his command. courage, alice dear; courage, and wait for me. "faithfully ever, "beverley." she kissed the paper with passionate fervor, pouring her tears upon it in april showers between which the light of her eyes played almost fiercely, so poignant was her sense of a despair which bordered upon desperation. "gone, gone!" it was all she could think or say. "gone, gone." jean took the offending novel back home with him, hidden under his jerkin; but beverley's note lay upon alice's heart, a sweet comfort and a crushing weight, when an hour later hamilton sent for her and she was taken before him. her face was stained with tears and she looked pitifully distressed and disheveled; yet despite all this her beauty asserted itself with subtle force. hamilton felt ashamed looking at her, but put on sternness and spoke without apparent sympathy: "miss roussillon, you came near committing a great crime. as it is, you have done badly enough; but i wish not to be unreasonably severe. i hope you are sorry for your act, and feel like doing better hereafter." she was trembling, but her eyes looked steadily straight into his. they were eyes of baby innocence, yet they irradiated a strong womanly spirit just touched with the old perverse, mischievous light which she could neither banish nor control. when she did not make reply, hamilton continued: "you may go home now, and i shall expect to have no more trouble on your account." he made a gesture indicative of dismissal; then, as she turned from him, he added, somewhat raising his voice: "and further, miss roussillon, that flag you took from here must positively be returned. see that it is done." she lifted her head high and walked away, not deigning to give him a word. "humph! what do you think now of your fine young lady?" he demanded, turning to helm with a sneering curl of his mouth. "she gives thanks copiously for a kindness, don't you think?" "poor girl, she was scared nearly out of her life," said helm. "she got away from you, like a wounded bird from a snare. i never saw a face more pitiful than hers." "much pity she needs, and greatly like a wounded bird she acts, i must say; but good riddance if she'll keep her place hereafter. i despise myself when i have to be hard with a woman, especially a pretty one. that girl's a saucy and fascinating minx, and as dangerous as twenty men. i'll keep a watch on her movements from this on, and if she gets into mischief again i'll transport her to detroit, or give her away to the indians, she must stop her high-handed foolishness." helm saw that hamilton was talking mere wind, vox et praeterea nihil, and he furthermore felt that his babbling signified no harm to alice; but hamilton surprised him presently by saying: "i have just learned that lieutenant beverley is actually gone. did you know of his departure?" "what are you saying, sir?" helm jumped to his feet, not angry, but excited. "keep cool, you need not answer if you prefer silence or evasion. you may want to go yourself soon." helm burst out laughing, but quickly growing serious said: "has beverley been such a driveling fool as that? are you in earnest?" "he killed two of my scouts, wounded another, and crossed the wabash in their canoe. he is going straight towards kaskaskia." "the idiot! hurrah for him! if you catch your hare you may roast him, but catch him first, governor!" "you'll joke out of the other corner of your mouth, captain helm, if i find out that you gave him aid or countenance in breaking his parole." "aid or countenance! i never saw him after he walked out of this room. you gave him a devil of a sight more aid and countenance than i did. what are you talking about! broke his parole! he did no such thing. he returned it to you fairly, as you well know. he told you he was going." "well, i've sent twenty of my swiftest indians after him to bring him back. i'll let you see him shot. that ought to please you." "they'll never get him, governor. i'll bet high on him against your twenty scalp-lifters any day. fitzhugh beverley is the best indian fighter, daniel boone and simon kenton excepted, in the american colonies." on her way home alice met father beret, who turned and walked beside her. he was so overjoyed at her release that he could scarcely speak; but held her hand and stroked it gently while she told him her story. it was beginning to rain, a steady, cold shower, when they reached the house, and for many days and nights thereafter the downfall continued almost incessantly. "dear child," said father beret, stopping at the gate and looking beseechingly into alice's face, "you must stay at home now--stay in the house--it will be horribly dangerous for you to pass about in the village after your--after what has happened." "do not fear, father, i will be careful. aren't you coming in? i'll find you a cake and a glass of wine." "no, child, not now." "then good-bye, good-bye," she said, turning from him to run into the house. "come soon, i shall be so lonesome." on the veranda she suddenly stopped, running her fingers about her neck and into her bosom. "oh, father, father beret, i've lost my locket!" she cried. "see if i dropped it there." she went back to the gate, searching the ground with her eyes. of course she did not find the locket. it was miles and miles away close to the heart of her lover. if she could but have known this, it would have comforted her. beverley had intended to leave it with jean, but in his haste and excitement he forgot; writing the note distracted his attention; and so he bore alice's picture on his breast and in his heart while pursuing his long and perilous journey. four of hamilton's scouts came upon beverley twenty miles south of vincennes, but having the advantage of them, he killed two almost immediately, and after a running fight, the other two attempted escape in a canoe on the wabash. here, firing from a bluff, he wounded a third. both then plunged head-foremost into the water, and by keeping below the surface, got away. the adventure gave beverley new spirit and self-reliance; he felt that he could accomplish anything necessary to his undertaking. in the captured pirogue he crossed the river, and, to make his trail hard to find, sent the little craft adrift down the current. then alone, in the dead of winter, he took his bearings and struck across the dreary, houseless plain toward st. louis. as soon as hamilton's discomfited scouts reported to him, he sent long-hair with twenty picked savages, armed and supplied for continuous and rapid marching, in pursuit of beverley. there was a large reward for bringing him in alive, a smaller one for his scalp. when alice heard of all this, her buoyant and happy nature seemed entirely to desert her for a time. she was proud to find out that beverley had shown himself brave and capable; it touched her love of heroism; but she knew too much about indian warfare to hope that he could hold his own against long-hair, the wiliest and boldest of scalp-hunters, and twenty of the most experienced braves in hamilton's forces. he would almost certainly be killed and scalped, or captured and brought back to be shot or hanged in vincennes. the thought chilled and curdled her blood. both helm and father beret tried to encourage and comfort her by representing the probabilities in the fairest light. "it's like hunting for a needle in a haystack, going out to find a man in that wilderness," said helm with optimistic cheerfulness; "and besides beverley is no easy dose for twenty red niggers to take. i've seen him tried at worse odds than that, and he got out with a whole skin, too. don't you fret about him, miss roussillon." little help came to her from attempts of this sort. she might brighten up for a while, but the dark dread, and the terrible gnawing at her heart, the sinking and despairing in her soul, could not be cured. what added immeasurably to her distress was the attention of farnsworth, whose wound troubled him but a short time. he seemed to have had a revelation and a change of spirit since the unfortunate rencounter and the subsequent nursing at alice's hands. he was grave, earnest, kindly, evidently striving to play a gentle and honorable part. she could feel that he carried a load of regret, that he wanted to pay a full price in good for the evil that he had done; his sturdy english heart was righting itself nobly, yet she but half understood him, until his actions and words began to betray his love; and then she hated him unreasonably. realizing this, farnsworth bore himself more like a faithful dog than in the manner hitherto habitual to him. he simply shadowed alice and would not be rebuffed. there can be nothing more painful to a finely sympathetic nature than regret for having done a kindness. alice experienced this to the fullest degree. she had nursed farnsworth but a little while, yet it was a while of sweet influence. her tender woman nature felt the blessedness of doing good to her enemy lying helpless in her house and hurt by her own hand. but now she hated the man, and with all her soul she was sorry that she had been kind to him; for out of her kindness he had drawn the spell of a love under which he lived a new life, and all for her. yet deep down in her consciousness the pity and the pathos of the thing hovered gloomily and would not be driven out. the rain in mid-winter gave every prospect a sad, cold, sodden gray appearance. the ground was soaked, little rills ran in the narrow streets, the small streams became great rivers, the wabash overflowed its banks and made a sea of all the lowlands on either side. it was hard on the poor dwellers in the thatched and mostly floorless cabins, for the grass roofs gradually let the water through and puddles formed on the ground inside. fuel was distant and had to be hauled in the pouring rain; provisions were scarce and hunting almost impossible. many people, especially children, were taken ill with colds and fever. alice found some relief from her trouble in going from cabin to cabin and waiting upon the sufferers; but even here farnsworth could not be got rid of; he followed her night and day. never was a good soldier, for he was that from head to foot, more lovelorn and love-docile. the maiden had completely subdued the man. about this time, deep in a rainy and pitch-black night, gaspard roussillon came home. he tapped on the door again and again. alice heard, but she hesitated to speak or move. was she growing cowardly? her heart beat like a drum. there was but one person in all the world that she could think of--it was not m. roussillon. ah, no, she had well-nigh forgotten her gigantic foster father. "it is i, ma cherie, it is gaspard, my love, open the door," came in a booming half-whisper from without. "alice, jean, it is your papa roussillon, my dears. let me in." alice was at the door in a minute, unbarring it. m. roussillon entered, armed to the teeth, the water dribbling from his buckskin clothes. "pouf!" he exclaimed, "my throat is like dust." his thoughts were diving into the stores under the floor. "i am famished. dear children, dear little ones! they are glad to see papa! where is your mama?" he had alice in his arms and jean clung to his legs. madame roussillon, to be sure of no mistake, lighted a lamp with a brand that smoldered on the hearth and held it up, then, satisfied as to her husband's identity, set it on a shelf and flung herself into the affectionate group with clumsy abandon, making a great noise. "oh, my dear gaspard!" she cried as she lunged forward. "gaspard, gaspard!" her voice fairly lifted the roof; her great weight, hurled with such force, overturned everybody, and all of them tumbled in a heap, the rotund and solid dame sitting on top. "ouf! not so impetuous, my dear," puffed m. roussillon, freeing himself from her unpleasant pressure and scrambling to his feet. "really you must have fared well in my absence, madame, you are much heavier." he laughed and lifted her up as if she had been a child, kissing her resonantly. his gun had fallen with a great clatter. he took it from the floor and examined it to see if it had been injured, then set it in a corner. "i am afraid we have been making too much noise," said alice, speaking very low. "there is a patrol guard every night now. if they should hear you--" "shh!" whispered m. roussillon, "we will be very still. alice, is there something to eat and a drop of wine handy? i have come many miles; i am tired, hungry, thirsty,--ziff!" alice brought some cold roast venison, a loaf, and a bottle of claret. these she set before him on a little table. "ah, this is comfort," he said after he had gulped a full cup. "have you all been well?" then he began to tell where he had been, what he had seen, and the many things he had done. a frenchman must babble while he eats and drinks. a little wine makes him eloquent. he talks with his hands, shoulders, eyes. madame roussillon, alice and jean, wrapped in furs, huddled around him to hear. he was very entertaining, and they forgot the patrol until a noise startled them. it was the low of a cow. they laughed and the master of the house softened his voice. m. roussillon had been the guest of a great indian chieftain, who was called the "gate of the wabash," because he controlled the river. the chief was an old acquaintance and treated him well. "but i wanted to see you all," gaspard said. "i was afraid something might have happened to you. so i came back just to peep in. i can't stay, of course; hamilton would kill me as if i were a wolf. i can remain but an hour and then slip out of town again before daylight conies. the rain and darkness are my friends." he had seen simon kenton, who said he had been in the neighborhood of vincennes acting as a scout and spy for clark. presently and quite casually he added: "and i saw lieutenant beverley, too. i suppose you know that he has escaped from hamilton, and--" here a big mouthful of venison interfered. alice leaned toward him white and breathless, her heart standing still. then the door, which had been left unbarred, was flung open and, along with a great rush of wind and rain, the patrol guard, five in number, sprang in. m. roussillon reached his gun with one hand, with the other swung a tremendous blow as he leaped against the intruders. madame roussillon blew out the light. no cave in the depth of earth was ever darker than that room. the patrolmen could not see one another or know what to do; but m. roussillon laid about him with the strength of a giant. his blows sounded as if they smashed bones. men fell heavily thumping on the floor where he rushed along. some one fired a pistol and by its flash they all saw him; but instantly the darkness closed again, and before they could get their bearings he was out and gone, his great hulking form making its way easily over familiar ground where his would-be captors could have proceeded but slowly, even with a light to guide them. there was furious cursing among the patrolmen as they tumbled about in the room, the unhurt ones trampling their prostrate companions and striking wildly at each other in their blindness and confusion. at last one of them bethought him to open a dark lantern with which the night guards were furnished. its flame was fluttering and gave forth a pale red light that danced weirdly on the floors and walls. alice had snatched down one of her rapiers when the guards first entered. they now saw her facing them with her slender blade leveled, her back to the wall, her eyes shining dangerously. madame roussillon had fled into the adjoining room. jean had also disappeared. the officer, a subaltern, in charge of the guard, seeing alice, and not quickly able to make out that it was a woman thus defying him, crossed swords with her. there was small space for action; moreover the officer being not in the least a swordsman, played awkwardly, and quick as a flash his point was down. the rapier entered just below his thread with a dull chucking stab. he leaped backward, feeling at the same time a pair of arms clasp his legs. it was jean, and the lieutenant, thus unexpectedly tangled, fell to the floor, breaking but not extinguishing the guard's lantern as he went down. the little remaining oil spread and flamed up brilliantly, as if eager for conflagration, sputtering along the uneven boards. "kill that devil!" cried the lieutenant, in a strangling voice, while trying to regain his feet. "shoot! bayonet!" in his pain, rage and haste, he inadvertently set his hand in the midst of the blazing oil, which clung to the flesh with a seething grip. "hell!" he screamed, "fire, fire!" two or three bayonets were leveled upon alice. some one kicked jean clean across the room, and he lay there curled up in his hairy night-wrap looking like an enormous porcupine. at this point a new performer came upon the stage, a dark-robed thing, so active that its outlines changed elusively, giving it no recognizable features. it might have been the devil himself, or some terrible unknown wild animal clad somewhat to resemble a man, so far as the startled guards could make out. it clawed right and left, hurled one of them against the wall, dashed another through the door into madame roussillon's room, where the good woman was wailing at the top of her voice, and felled a third with a stroke like that of a bear's paw. consternation was at high tide when farnsworth, who always slept with an ear open, reached roussillon place and quickly quieted things. he was troubled beyond expression when he found out the true state of the affair, for there was nothing that he could do but arrest alice and take her to hamilton. it made his heart sink. he would have thought little of ordering a file of soldiers to shoot a man under the same conditions; but to subject her again to the governor's stern cruelty--how could he do it? this time there would be no hope for her. alice stood before him flushed, disheveled, defiant, sword in hand, beautiful and terrible as an angel. the black figure, man or devil, had disappeared as strangely as it had come. the sub-lieutenant was having his slight wound bandaged. men were raging and cursing under their breath, rubbing their bruised heads and limbs. "alice--mademoiselle roussillon, i am so sorry for this," said captain farnsworth. "it is painful, terrible--" he could not go on, but stood before her unmanned. in the feeble light his face was wan and his hurt shoulder, still in bandages, drooped perceptibly. "i surrender to you," she presently said in french, extending the hilt of her rapier to him. "i had to defend myself when attacked by your lieutenant there. if an officer finds it necessary to set upon a girl with his sword, may not the girl guard her life if she can?" she was short of breath, so that her voice palpitated with a touching plangency that shook the man's heart. farnsworth accepted the sword; he could do nothing less. his duty admitted of no doubtful consideration; yet he hesitated, feeling around in his mind for a phrase with which to evade the inevitable. "it will be safer for you at the fort, mademoiselle; let me take you there." chapter xiii a meeting in the wilderness beverley set out on his mid-winter journey to kaskaskia with a tempest in his heart, and it was, perhaps, the storm's energy that gave him the courage to face undaunted and undoubting what his experience must have told him lay in his path. he was young and strong; that meant a great deal; he had taken the desperate chances of indian warfare many times before this, and the danger counted as nothing, save that it offered the possibility of preventing him from doing the one thing in life he now cared to do. what meant suffering to him, if he could but rescue alice? and what were life should he fail to rescue her? the old, old song hummed in his heart, every phrase of it distinct above the tumult of the storm. could cold and hunger, swollen streams, ravenous wild beasts and scalp-hunting savages baffle him? no, there is no barrier that can hinder love. he said this over and over to himself after his rencounter with the four indian scouts on the wabash. he repeated it with every heart-beat until he fell in with some friendly red men, who took him to their camp, where to his great surprise he met m. roussillon. it was his song when again he strode off toward the west on his lonely way. we need not follow him step by step; the monotony of the woods and prairies, the cold rains, alternating with northerly winds and blinding snow, the constant watchfulness necessary to guard against a meeting with hostile savages, the tiresome tramping, wading and swimming, the hunger, the broken and wretched sleep in frozen and scant wraps,--why detail it all? there was but one beautiful thing about it--the beauty of alice as she seemed to walk beside him and hover near him in his dreams. he did not know that long-hair and his band were fast on his track; but the knowledge could not have urged him to greater haste. he strained every muscle to its utmost, kept every nerve to the highest tension. yonder towards the west was help for alice; that was all he cared for. but if long-hair was pursuing him with relentless greed for the reward offered by hamilton, there were friendly footsteps still nearer behind him; and one day at high noon, while he was bending over a little fire, broiling some liberal cuts of venison, a finger tapped him on the shoulder. he sprang up and grappled oncle jazon; at the same time, standing near by, he saw simon kenton, his old-time kentucky friend. the pungled features of one and the fine, rugged face of the other swam as in a mist before beverley's eyes. kenton was laughing quietly, his strong, upright form shaking to the force of his pleasure. he was in the early prime of a vigorous life, not handsome, but strikingly attractive by reason of a certain glow in his face and a kindly flash in his deep-set eyes. "well, well, my boy!" he exclaimed, laying his left hand on beverley's shoulder, while in the other he held a long, heavy rifle. "i'm glad to see ye, glad to see ye." "thought we was injuns, eh?" said oncle jazon. "an' ef we had 'a' been we'd 'a' been shore o' your scalp!" the wizzened old creole cackled gleefully. "and where are ye goin'?" demanded kenton. "ye're making what lacks a heap o' bein' a bee-line for some place or other." beverley was dazed and vacant-minded; things seemed wavering and dim. he pushed the two men from him and gazed at them without speaking. their presence and voices did not convince him. "yer meat's a burnin'," said oncle jazon, stooping to turn it on the smouldering coals. "ye must be hungry. cookin' enough for a regiment." kenton shook beverley with rough familiarity, as if to rouse his faculties. "what's the matter? fitz, my lad, don't ye know si kenton? it's not so long since we were like brothers, and now ye don't speak to me! ye've not forgot me, fitz!" "mebby he don't like ye as well as ye thought he did," drawled oncle jazon. "i hev known o' fellers a bein' mistaken jes' thet way." beverley got his wits together as best he could, taking in the situation by such degrees as seemed at the time unduly slow, but which were really mere momentary falterings. "why, kenton! jazon!" he presently exclaimed, a cordial gladness blending with his surprise. "how did you get here? where did you come from?" he looked from one to the other back and forth with a wondering smile breaking over his bronzed and determined face. "we've been hot on yer trail for thirty hours," said kenton. "roussillon put us on it back yonder. but what are ye up to? where are ye goin'?" "i'm going to clark at kaskaskia to bring him yonder." he waved his hand eastward. "i am going to take vincennes and kill hamilton." "well, ye're taking a mighty queer course, my boy, if ye ever expect to find kaskaskia. ye're already twenty miles too far south." "carryin' his gun on the same shoulder all the time," said oncle jazon, "has made 'im kind o' swing in a curve like. 'tain't good luck no how to carry yer gun on yer lef' shoulder. when you do it meks yer take a longer step with yer right foot than ye do with yer lef' an' ye can't walk a straight line to save yer liver. ventreblue! la venaison brule encore! look at that dasted meat burnin' agin!" he jumped back to the fire to turn the scorching cuts. beverley wrung kenton's hand and looked into his eyes, as a man does when an old friend comes suddenly out of the past, so to say, and brings the freshness and comfort of a strong, true soul to brace him in his hour of greatest need. "of all men in the world, simon kenton, you were the least expected; but how glad i am! how thankful! now i know i shall succeed. we are going to capture vincennes, kenton, are we not? we shall, sha'n't we, jazon? nothing, nothing can prevent us, can it?" kenton heartily returned the pressure of the young man's hand, while oncle jazon looked up quizzically and said: "we're a tol'ble 'spectable lot to prevent; but then we might git pervented. i've seed better men an' us purty consid'ble pervented lots o' times in my life." in speaking the colloquial dialect of the american backwoodsmen, oncle jazon, despite years of practice among them, gave to it a creole lisp and some turns of pronunciation not to be indicated by any form of spelling. it added to his talk a peculiar soft drollery. when he spoke french it was mostly that of the coureurs de bois, a patois which still lingers in out-of-the-way nooks of louisiana. "for my part," said kenton, "i am with ye, old boy, in anything ye want to do. but now ye've got to tell me everything. i see that ye're keeping something back. what is it?" he glanced sidewise slyly at oncle jazon. beverley was frank to a fault; but somehow his heart tried to keep alice all to itself. he hesitated; then-- "i broke my parole with governor hamilton," he said. "he forced me to do it. i feel altogether justified. i told him beforehand that i should certainly leave vincennes and go get a force to capture and kill him; and i'll do it, simon kenton, i'll do it!" "i see, i see," kenton assented, "but what was the row about? what did he do to excite ye--to make ye feel justified in breakin' over yer parole in that high-handed way? fitz, i know ye too well to be fooled by ye--you've got somethin' in mind that ye don't want to tell. well, then don't tell it. oncle jazon and i will go it blind, won't we, jazon?" "blind as two moles," said the old man; "but as for thet secret," he added, winking both eyes at once, "i don't know as it's so mighty hard to guess. it's always safe to 'magine a woman in the case. it's mostly women 'at sends men a trottin' off 'bout nothin', sort o' crazy like." beverley looked guilty and oncle jazon continued: "they's a poo'ty gal at vincennes, an' i see the young man a steppin' into her house about fifteen times a day 'fore i lef' the place. mebbe she's tuck up wi' one o' them english officers. gals is slippery an' onsartin'." "jazon!" cried beverley, "stop that instantly, or i'll wring your old neck." his anger was real and he meant what he said. he clenched his hands and glowered. oncle jazon, who was still squatting by the little fire, tumbled over backwards, as if beverley had kicked him; and there he lay on the ground with his slender legs quivering akimbo in the air, while he laughed in a strained treble that sounded like the whining of a screech-owl. the old scamp did not know all the facts in beverley's case, nor did he even suspect what had happened; but he was aware of the young man's tender feeling for alice, and he did shrewdly conjecture that she was a factor in the problem. the rude jest at her expense did not seem to his withered and toughened taste in the least out of the way. indeed it was a delectable bit of humor from oncle jazon's point of view. "don't get mad at the old man," said kenton, plucking beverley aside. "he's yer friend from his heels to his old scalped crown. let him have his fun." then lowering his voice almost to a whisper he continued: "i was in vincennes for two days and nights spyin' around. madame godere hid me in her house when there was need of it. i know how it is with ye; i got all the gossip about ye and the young lady, as well as all the information about hamilton and his forces that colonel clark wants. i'm goin' to kaskaskia; but i think it quite possible that clark will be on his march to vincennes before we get there; for vigo has taken him full particulars as to the fort and its garrison, and i know that he's determined to capture the whole thing or die tryin'." beverley felt his heart swell and his blood leap strong in his veins at these words. "i saw ye while i was in vincennes," kenton added, "but i never let ye see me. ye were a prisoner, and i had no business with ye while your parole held. i felt that it was best not to tempt ye to give me aid, or to let ye have knowledge of me while i was a spy. i left two days before ye did, and should have been at kaskaskia by this time if i hadn't run across jazon, who detained me. he wanted to go with me, and i waited for him to repair the stock of his old gun. he tinkered at it 'tween meals and showers for half a week at the indian village back yonder before he got it just to suit him. but i tell ye he's wo'th waiting for any length of time, and i was glad to let him have his way." kenton, who was still a young man in his early thirties, respected beverley's reticence on the subject uppermost in his mind. madame godere had told the whole story with flamboyant embellishments; kenton tiad seen alice, and, inspired with the gossip and a surreptitious glimpse of her beauty, he felt perfectly familiar with beverley's condition. he was himself a victim of the tender passion to the extent of being an exile from his virginia home, which he had left on account of dangerously wounding a rival. but he was well touched with the backwoodsman's taste for joke and banter. he and oncle jazon, therefore, knowing the main feature of beverley's predicament, enjoyed making the most of their opportunity in their rude but perfectly generous and kindly way. by indirection and impersonal details, as regarded his feelings toward alice, beverley in due time made his friends understand that his whole ambition was centered in rescuing her. nor did the motive fail to enlist their sympathy to the utmost. if all the world loves a lover, all men having the best virile instinct will fight for a lover's cause. both kenton and oncle jazon were enthusiastic; they wanted nothing better than an opportunity to aid in rescuing any girl who had shown so much patriotism and pluck. but oncle jazon was fond of alice, and beverley's story affected him peculiarly on her account. "they's one question i'm a goin' to put to ye, young man," he said, after he had heard everything and they had talked it all over, "an' i want ye to answer it straight as a bullet f'om yer gun." "of course, jazon, go ahead," said beverley. "i shall be glad to answer." but his mind was far away with the gold-haired maiden in hamilton's prison. he scarcely knew what he was saying. "air ye expectin' to marry alice roussillon?" the three men were at the moment eating the well broiled venison. oncle jazon's puckered lips and chin were dripping with the fragrant grease and juice, which also flowed down his sinewy, claw-like fingers. overhead in the bare tops of the scrub oaks that covered the prairie oasis, the february wind sang a shrill and doleful song. beverley started as if a blow had been aimed at him. oncle jazon's question, indeed, was a blow as unexpected as it was direct and powerful. "i know it's poo'ty p'inted," the old man added after a short pause, "an' ye may think 'at i ain't got no business askin' it; but i have. that leetle gal's a pet o' mine, an' i'm a lookin' after her, an' expectin' to see 'at she's not bothered by nobody who's not goin' to do right by her. marryin' is a mighty good thing, but--" "what do ye know about matrimony, ye old raw-headed bachelor?" demanded kenton, who felt impelled to relieve beverley of the embarrassment of an answer. "ye wouldn't know a wife from a sack o' meal!" "now don't git too peart an' fast, si kenton," cried oncle jazon, glaring truculently at his friend, but at the same time showing a dry smile that seemed to be hopelessly entangled in criss-cross wrinkles. "who told ye i was a bach'lor? not by a big jump. i've been married mighty nigh on to twenty times in my day. mos'ly injuns, o' course; but a squaw's a wife w'en ye marries her, an' i know how it hurts a gal to be dis'p'inted in sich a matter. that's w'y i put the question i did. i'm not goin' to let no man give sorry to that little roussillon gal; an' so ye've got my say. ye seed her raise thet flag on the fort, lieutenant beverley, an' ye seed her take it down an' git away wi' it. you know 'at she deserves nothin' but the best; an' by the holy virgin, she's got to have it, or i'm a goin' to know several reasons why. thet's what made me put the question straight to ye, young man, an' i expects a straight answer." beverley's face paled; but not with anger. he grasped one of oncle jazon's greasy hands and gave it such a squeeze that the old fellow grimaced painfully. "thank you, oncle jazon, thank you!" he said, with a peculiar husky burr in his voice. "alice will never suffer if i can help it. let the subject drop now, my friend, until we have saved her from the hands of hamilton." in the power of his emotion he continued to grip the old man's hand with increasing severity of pressure. "ventrebleu! let go! needn't smash a feller's fingers 'bout it!" screeched oncle jazon. "i can't shoot wo'th a cent, nohow, an' ef ye cripple up my trigger-finger--" kenton had been peeping under the low-hanging scrub-oak boughs while oncle jazon was speaking these last words; and now he suddenly interrupted: "the devil! look yonder!" he growled out in startling tone. "injuns!" it was a sharp snap of the conversation's thread, and at the same time our three friends realized that they had been careless in not keeping a better look-out. they let fall the meat they had not yet finished eating and seized their guns. five or six dark forms were moving toward them across a little point of the prairie that cut into the wood a quarter of a mile distant. "yander's more of 'em," said oncle jazon, as if not in the least concerned, wagging his head in an opposite direction, from which another squad was approaching. that he duly appreciated the situation appeared only in the celerity with which he acted. kenton at once assumed command, and his companions felt his perfect fitness. there was no doubt from the first as to what the indians meant; but even if there had been it would have soon vanished; for in less than three minutes twenty-one savages were swiftly and silently forming a circle inclosing the spot where the three white men, who had covered themselves as best they could with trees, waited in grim steadiness for the worst. quite beyond gunshot range, but near enough for oncle jazon to recognize long-hair as their leader, the indians halted and began making signs to one another all round the line. evidently they dreaded to test the marksmanship of such riflemen as they knew most border men to be. indeed, long-hair had personal knowledge of what might certainly be expected from both kenton and oncle jazon; they were terrible when out for fight; the red warriors from georgia to the great lakes had heard of them; their names smacked of tragedy. nor was beverley without fame among long-hair's followers, who had listened to the story of his fighting qualities, brought to vincennes by the two survivors of the scouting party so cleverly defeated by him. "the liver-colored cowards," said kenton, "are afeared of us in a shootin'-match; they know that a lot of 'em would have to die if they should undertake an open fight with us. it's some sort of a sneakin' game they are studyin' about just now." "i'm a gittin' mos' too ole to shoot wo'th a cent," said oncle jazon, "but i'd give half o' my scalp ef thet long-hair would come clost enough fo' me to git a bead onto his lef' eye. it's tol'ble plain 'at we're gone goslins this time, i'm thinkin'; still it'd be mighty satisfyin' if i could plug out a lef' eye or two 'fore i go." beverley was silent; the words of his companions were heard by him, but not noticed. nothing interested him save the thought of escaping and making his way to clark. to fail meant infinitely more than death, of which he had as small fear as most brave men, and to succeed meant everything that life could offer. so, in the unlimited selfishness of love, he did not take his companions into account. the three stood in a close-set clump of four or five scrub oaks at the highest point of a thinly wooded knoll that sloped down in all directions to the prairie. their view was wide, but in places obstructed by the trees. "men," said kenton, after a thoughtful and watchful silence, "the thing looks kind o' squally for us. i don't see much of a chance to get out of this alive; but we've got to try." he showed by the density of his voice and a certain gray film in his face that he felt the awful gravity of the situation; but he was calm and not a muscle quivered. "they's jes' two chances for us," said oncle jazon, "an' them's as slim as a broom straw. we've got to stan' here an' fight it out, or wait till night an' sneak through atween 'em an' run for it." "i don't see any hope o' sneakin' through the line," observed kenton. "it's not goin' to be dark tonight." "wa-a-l," oncle jazon drawled nonchalantly while he took in a quid of tobacco, "i've been into tighter squeezes 'an this, many a time, an' i got out, too." "likely enough," said kenton, still reflecting while his eyes roamed around the circle of savages. "i fit the skunks in ferginny 'fore you's thought of, si kenton, an' down in car'lina in them hills. if ye think i'm a goin' to be scalped where they ain't no scalp, 'ithout tryin' a few dodges, yer a dad dasteder fool an' i used to think ye was, an' that's makin' a big compliment to ye." "well, we don't have to argy this question, oncle jazon; they're a gittin' ready to run in upon us, and we've got to fight. i say, beverley, are ye ready for fast shootin'? have ye got a plenty of bullets?" "yes, roussillon gave me a hundred. do you think--" he was interrupted by a yell that leaped from savage mouth to mouth all round the circle, and then the charge began. "steady, now," growled kenton, "let's not be in a hurry. wait till they come nigh enough to hit 'em before we shoot." the time was short; for the indians came on at almost race-horse speed. oncle jazon fired first, the long, keen crack of his small-bore rifle splitting the air with a suggestion of vicious energy, and a lithe young warrior, who was outstripping all his fellows, leaped high and fell paralyzed. "can't shoot wo'th a cent," muttered the old man, deftly beginning to reload his gun the while; "but i jes' happened to hit that buck. he'll never git my scalp, thet's sartin an' sure." beverley and kenton each likewise dropped an indian; but the shots did not even check the rush. long-hair had planned to capture his prey, not kill it. every savage had his orders to take the white men alive; hamilton's larger reward depended on this. right on they came, as fast as their nimble legs could carry them, yelling like demons; and they reached the grove before the three white men could reload their guns. then every warrior took cover behind a tree and began scrambling forward from bole to bole, thus approaching rapidly without much exposure. "our 'taters is roasted brown," muttered oncle jazon. he crossed himself. possibly he prayed; but he was priming his old gun the next instant. kenton fired again, making a hurried and ineffectual attempt to stop the nearest warrior, who saved himself by quickly skipping behind a tree. beverley's gun snapped, the flint failing to make fire; but oncle jazon bored a little hole through the head of the indian nearest him; and then the final rush was made from every direction. a struggle ensued, which for desperate energy has probably never been surpassed. like three lions at bay, the white men met the shock, and lion-like they fought in the midst of seventeen stalwart and determined savages. "don't kill them, take them alive; throw them down and hold them!" was long-hair's order loudly shouted in the tongue of his tribe. both kenton and jazon understood every word and knew the significance of such a command from the leader. it naturally came into kenton's mind that hamilton had been informed of his visit to vincennes and had offered a reward for his capture. this being true, death as a spy would be the certain result if he were taken back. he might as well die now. as for beverley, he thought only of alice, yonder as he had left her, a prisoner in hamilton's hands, oncle jazon, if he thought at all, probably considered nothing but present escape, though he prayed audibly to the blessed virgin, even while he lay helpless upon the ground, pinned down by the weight of an enormous indian. he could not move any part of himself, save his lips, and these mechanically put forth the wheezing supplication. beverley and kenton, being young and powerful, were not so easily mastered. for a while, indeed, they appeared to be more than holding their own. they time and time again scattered the entire crowd by the violence of their muscular efforts; and after it had finally closed in upon them in a solid body they swayed and swung it back and forth and round and round until the writhing, savage mass looked as if caught in the vortex of a whirlwind. but such tremendous exertion could not last long. eight to one made too great a difference between the contending parties, and the only possible conclusion of the struggle soon came. seized upon by desperate, clinging, wolf-like assailants, the white men felt their arms, legs and bodies weighted down and their strength fast going. kenton fell next after oncle jazon, and was soon tightly bound with rawhide thongs. he lay on his back panting and utterly exhausted, while beverley still kept up the unequal fight. long-hair sprang in at the last moment to make doubly certain the securing of his most important captive. he flung his long and powerful arms around beverley from behind and made a great effort to throw him upon the ground. the young man, feeling this fresh and vigorous clasp, turned himself about to put forth one more mighty spurt of power. he lifted the stalwart indian bodily and dashed him headlong against the buttressed root of a tree half a rod distant, breaking the smaller bone of his left fore-arm and well-nigh knocking him senseless. it was a fine exhibition of manly strength; but there could be nothing gained by it. a blow on the back of his head the next instant stretched beverley face downward and unconscious on the ground. the savages turned him over and looked satisfied when they found that he was not dead. they bound him with even greater care than they had shown in securing the others, while long-hair stood by stolidly looking on, meantime supporting his broken fore-arm in his hand. "ugh! dog!" he grunted, and gave beverley a kick in the side. then turning a fiendish stare upon oncle jazon he proceeded to deliver against his old, dry ribs three or four like contributions with resounding effect. "polecat! little old greasy woman!" he snarled, "make good fire for warrior to dance by!" kenton also received his full share of the kicks and verbal abuse, after which long-hair gave orders for fires to be built. then he looked to his hurt arm and had the bone set and bandaged, never so much as wincing the while. it was soon apparent that the indians purposed to celebrate their successful enterprise with a feast. they cooked a large amount of buffalo steak; then, each with his hands full of the savory meat, they began to dance around the fires, droning meantime an atrociously repellant chant. "they're a 'spectin' to hev a leetle bit o' fun outen us," muttered oncle jazon to beverley, who lay near him. "i onderstan' what they're up to, dad dast 'em! more'n forty years ago, in ca'lina, they put me an' jim hipes through the ga'ntlet, an' arter thet, in kaintuck, me an' si kenton tuck the run. hi, there, si! where air ye?" "shut yer fool mouth," kenton growled under his breath. "ye'll have that injun a kickin' our lights out of us again." oncle jazon winked at the gray sky and puckered his mouth so that it looked like a nutgall on an old, dry leaf. "what's the diff'ence?" he demanded. "i'd jest as soon be kicked now as arter while; it's got to come anyhow." kenton made no response. the thongs were torturing his arms and legs. beverley was silent, but consciousness had returned, and with it a sense of despair. all three of the prisoners lay face upward quite unable to move, knowing full well that a terrible ordeal awaited them. oncle jazon's grim humor could not be quenched, even by the galling agony of the thongs that buried themselves in the flesh, and the anticipation of torture beside which death would seem a luxury. "yap! long-hair, how's yer arm?" he called jeeringly. "feels pooty good, hay?" long-hair, who was not joining in the dance and song, turned when he heard these taunting words, and mistaking whence they came, went to beverley's side and kicked him again and again. oncle jazon heard the loud blows, and considered the incident a remarkably good joke. "he, he, he!" he snickered, as soon as long-hair walked away again. "i does the talkin' an' somebody else gits the thumpin'! he, he, he! i always was devilish lucky. them kicks was good solid jolts, wasn't they, lieutenant? sounded like they was. he, he, he!" beverley gave no heed to oncle jazon's exasperating pleasantry; but kenton, sorely chafing under the pressure of his bonds, could not refrain from making retort in kind. "i'd give ye one poundin' that ye'd remember, emile jazon, if i could get to ye, ye old twisted-face, peeled-headed, crooked-mouthed, aggravatin' scamp!" he exclaimed, not thinking how high his naturally strong voice was lifted. "i can stand any fool but a damn fool!" long-hair heard the concluding epithet and understood its meaning. moreover, he thought himself the target at which it was so energetically launched. wherefore he promptly turned back and gave kenton a kicking that made his body resound not unlike a drum. and here it was that oncle jazon overreached himself. he was so delighted at kenton's luck that he broke forth giggling and thereby drew against his own ribs a considerable improvement of long-hair's pedal applications. "ventrebleu!" whined the old man, when the indian had gone away again. "holy mary! jee-ru-sa-lem! they's nary bone o' me left 'at's not splintered as fine as toothpickers! s'pose yer satisfied now, ain't ye, si kenton? ef ye ain't i'm shore to satisfy ye the fust time i git a chance at ye, ye blab-mouthed eejit!" before this conversation was ended a rain began to fall, and it rapidly thickened from a desultory shower to a roaring downpour that effectually quenched not only the fires around which the savages were dancing, but the enthusiasm of the dancers as well. during the rest of the afternoon and all night long the fall was incessant, accompanied by a cold, panting, wailing southwest wind. beverley lay on the ground, face upward, the rawhide strings torturing his limbs, the chill of cold water searching his bones. he could see nothing but the dim, strange canopy of flying rain, against which the bare boughs of the scrub oaks were vaguely outlined; he could hear nothing but the cry of the wind and the swash of the water which fell upon him and ran under him, bubbling and gurgling as if fiendishly exultant. the night dragged on through its terrible length, dealing out its indescribable horrors, and at last morning arrived, with a stingy and uncertain gift of light slowly increasing until the dripping trees appeared forlornly gray and brown against clouds now breaking into masses that gave but little rain. beverley lived through the awful trial and even had the hardihood to brighten inwardly with the first flash of sunlight that shot through a cloud-crack on the eastern horizon. he thought of alice, as he had done all night; but now the thought partook somehow of the glow yonder above old vincennes, although he could only see its reflection. there was great stir among the indians. long-hair stalked about scrutinizing the ground. beverley saw him come near time and again with a hideous, inquiring scowl on his face. grunts and laconic exclamations passed from mouth to mouth, and presently the import of it all could not be mistaken. kenton and jazon were gone--had escaped during the night--and the rain had completely obliterated their tracks. the indians were furious. long-hair sent out picked parties of his best scouts with orders to scour the country in all directions, keeping with himself a few of the older warriors. beverley was fed what he would eat of venison, and long-hair made him understand that he would have to suffer some terrible punishment on account of the action of his companions. late in the day the scouts straggled back with the report that no track or sign of the fugitives had been discovered, and immediately a consultation was held. most of the warriors, including all of the young bucks, demanded a torture entertainment as compensation for their exertions and the unexpected loss of their own prisoners; for it had been agreed that beverley belonged exclusively to long-hair, who objected to anything which might deprive him of the great reward offered by hamilton for the prisoner if brought to him alive. in the end it was agreed that beverley should be made to run the gauntlet, provided that no deadly weapons were used upon him during the ordeal. chapter xiv a prisoner of love alice put on her warmest clothes and followed captain farnsworth to the fort, realizing that no pleasant experience awaited her. the wind and rain still prevailed when they were ready to set forth, and, although it was not extremely cold, a searching chill went with every throb that marked the storm's waves. no lights shone in the village houses. overhead a gray gloom covered stars and sky, making the darkness in the watery streets seem densely black. farnsworth offered alice his arm, but she did not accept it. "i know the way better than you do," she said. "come on, and don't be afraid that i am going to run. i shall not play any trick on you." "very well, mademoiselle, as you like. i trust you." he followed her from the house. he was so filled with the bitterness of what he was doing that he carried her sword in his hand all the way to the fort, quite unaware that its point often touched her dress so that she plainly felt it. indeed, she thought he was using that ruffianly and dangerous means of keeping pace with her. he had sent the patrol on its rounds, taking upon himself the responsibility of delivering her to hamilton. she almost ran, urged by the strange excitement that burned in her heart, and he followed somewhat awkwardly, stumbling over the unfamiliar way in the rain and darkness. at every step he was wishing that she would escape from him. coarse as his nature was and distorted by hardening experiences, it was rooted in good english honesty and imbued with a chivalric spirit. when, as happened too often, he fell under the influence of liquor, the bad in him promptly came uppermost; but at all other times his better traits made him a good fellow to meet, genial, polite, generous, and inclined to recognize the finer sentiments of manliness. to march into his commander's presence with alice as his prisoner lacked everything of agreeing with his taste; yet he had not been willing to give her over into the hands of the patrol. if his regard for military obligation had not been exceptionally strong, even for an english soldier, he would have given way to the temptation of taking her to some place of hiding and safety, instead of brutally subjecting her to hamilton's harsh judgment. he anticipated a trying experience for her on account of this new transgression. they hastened along until a lantern in the fort shot a hazy gleam upon them. "stop a moment, mademoiselle," farnsworth called. "i say, miss roussillon, stop a moment, please." alice halted and turned facing him so short and so suddenly that the rapier in his hand pricked through her wraps and slightly scratched her arm. "what do you mean, sir?" she demanded, thinking that he had thrust purposely. "do i deserve this brutality?" "you mistake me, miss roussillon. i cannot be brutal to you now. do not fear me; i only had a word to say." "oh, you deem it very polite and gentle to jab me with your sword, do you? if i had one in my hand you would not dare try such a thing, and you know it very well." he was amazed, not knowing that the sword-point had touched her. he could not see her face, but there was a flash in her voice that startled him with its indignant contempt and resentment. "what are you saying, miss roussillon? i don't understand you. when did i ever--when did i jab you with my sword? i never thought of such a thing." "this moment, sir, you did, and you know you did. my arm is bleeding now." she spoke rapidly in french; but he caught her meaning, and for the first became aware of the rapier in his hand. even then its point was toward her and very near her breast. he lowered it instantly while the truth rushed into his mind. "forgive me," he murmured, his words barely audible in the tumult of wind and rain, but charged with the intensest feeling. "forgive me; i did not know--it was an accident--i could not do such a thing purposely. believe me, believe me, miss roussillon. i did not mean it." she stood facing him, trying to look right into his eyes. a quality in his voice had checked her hot anger. she could only see his dim outlines in the dull gleam from the fort's lantern. he seemed to be forlornly wretched. "i should like to believe you," she presently said, "but i cannot. you english are all, all despicable, mean, vile!" she was remembering the young officer who had assaulted her with his sword in the house a while ago. and (what a strange thing the human brain is!) she at the same time comforted herself with the further thought that beverley would never, never, be guilty of rudeness to a woman. "some time you shall not say that," farnsworth responded. "i asked you to stop a moment that i might beg you to believe how wretchedly sorry i am for what i am doing. but you cannot understand me now. are you really hurt, miss roussillon? i assure you that it was purely accidental." "my hurt is nothing," she said. "i am very glad." "well, then, shall we go on to the fort?" "you may go where you please, mademoiselle." she turned her back upon him and without an answering word walked straight to the lantern that hung by the gate of the stockade, where a sentinel tramped to and fro. a few moments later captain farnsworth presented her to hamilton, who had been called from his bed when the news of the trouble at roussillon place reached the fort. "so you've been raising hell again, have you, miss?" he growled, with an ugly frown darkening his face. "i beg your pardon," said farnsworth, "miss roussillon was not to blame for--" "in your eyes she'd not be to blame, sir, if she burned up the fort and all of us in it," hamilton gruffly interrupted. "miss, what have you been doing? what are you here for? captain farnsworth, you will please state the particulars of the trouble that i have just heard about. and i may as well notify you that i wish to hear no special lover's pleading in this girl's behalf." farnsworth's face whitened with anger; he bit his lip and a shiver ran through his frame; but he had to conquer the passion. in a few words, blunt and direct as musket-balls, he told all the circumstances of what had taken place, making no concealments to favor alice, but boldly blaming the officer of the patrol, lieutenant barlow, for losing his head and attacking a young girl in her own home. "i will hear from barlow," said hamilton, after listening attentively to the story. "but take this girl and confine her. show her no favors. i hold you responsible for her until to-morrow morning. you can retire." there was no room for discussion. farnsworth saluted and turned to alice. "come with me," he gently said. hamilton looked after them as they went out of his room, a curious smile playing around his firmly set lips. "she's the most beautiful vixen that i ever saw," he thought. "she doesn't look to be a french girl, either--decidedly english." he shrugged his shoulders, then laughed dryly. "farnsworth's as crazy as can be, the beggar; in love with her so deep that he can't see out. by jove, she is a beauty! never saw such eyes. and plucky to beat the devil. i'll bet my head barlow'll be daft about her next!" still, notwithstanding the lightness of his inward comments, hamilton regarded the incident as rather serious. he knew that the french inhabitants were secretly his bitter enemies, yet probably willing, if he would humor their peculiar social, domestic and commercial prejudices, to refrain from active hostilities, and even to aid him in furnishing his garrison with a large amount of needed supplies. the danger just now was twofold; his indian allies were deserting him, and a flotilla loaded with provisions and ammunition from detroit had failed to arrive. he might, if the french rose against him and were joined by the indians, have great difficulty defending the fort. it was clear that m. roussillon had more influence with both creoles and savages than any other person save father beret. urgent policy dictated that these two men should somehow be won over. but to do this it would be necessary to treat alice in such a way that her arrest would aid, instead of operating against the desired result,--a thing not easy to manage. hamilton was not a man of fine scruples, but he may have been, probably was, better than our american historians have made him appear. his besetting weakness, which, as a matter of course, he regarded as the highest flower of efficiency, was an uncontrollable temper, a lack of fine human sympathy and an inability to forgive. in his calmest moments, when prudence appealed to him, he would resolve to use diplomatic means; but no sooner was his opinion questioned or his purpose opposed than anger and the thirst for revenge overpowered every gentler consideration. he returned to his bed that night fully resolved upon a pleasant and successful interview with alice next morning. captain farnsworth took his fair prisoner straight-way from hamilton's presence to a small room connected with a considerable structure in a distant angle of the stockade. neither he nor alice spoke on the way. with a huge wooden key he unlocked the door and stepped aside for her to enter. a dim lamp was burning within, its yellowish light flickering over the scant furniture, which consisted of a comfortable bed, a table with some books on it, three chairs, a small looking-glass on the wall, a guitar and some articles of men's clothing hanging here and there. a heap of dull embers smouldered in the fireplace. alice did not falter at the threshold, but promptly entered her prison. "i hope you can be comfortable," said farnsworth in a low tone. "it's the best i can give you." "thank you," was the answer spoken quite as if he had handed her a glass of water or picked up her handkerchief. he held the door a moment, while she stopped, with her back toward him, in the middle of the room; then she heard him close and lock it. the air was almost too warm after her exposure to the biting wind and cold dashes of rain. she cast off her outer wraps and stood by the fireplace. at a glance she comprehended that the place was not the one she had formerly occupied as a prisoner, and that it belonged to a man. a long rifle stood in a corner, a bullet-pouch and powder-horn hanging on a projecting hickory ramrod; a heavy fur top-coat lay across one of the chairs. alice felt her situation bitterly enough; but she was not of the stuff that turns to water at the touch of misfortune. pioneer women took hardships as a matter of course, and met calamity with admirable fortitude. there was no wringing of hands, no frantic wailing, no hollow, despairing groan. while life lasted hope flourished, even in most tragic surroundings; and not unfrequently succor came, at the last verge of destruction, as the fitting reward of unconquerable courage. a girl like alice must be accepted in the spirit of her time and surroundings. she was born amid experiences scarcely credible now, and bred in an area and an atmosphere of incomparable dangers. naturally she accepted conditions of terrible import with a sang froid scarcely possible to a girl of our day. she did not cry, she did not sink down helpless when she found herself once more imprisoned with some uncertain trial before her; but simply knelt and repeated the lord's prayer, then went to bed and slept; even dreamed the dream of a maid's first love. meantime farnsworth, who had given alice his own apartment, took what rest he could on the cold ground under a leaky shed hard by. his wound, not yet altogether healed, was not benefited by the exposure. in due time next morning hamilton ordered alice brought to his office, and when she appeared he was smiling with as near an approach to affability as his disposition would permit. he rose and bowed like a courtier. "i hope you rested well, mademoiselle," he said in his best french. he imagined that the use of her language would be agreeable to begin with. the moment that alice saw him wearing that shallow veneering of pleasantness on his never prepossessing visage, she felt a mood of perversity come over her. she, too, smiled, and he mistook her expression for one of reciprocal amenity. she noticed that her sword was on his table. "i am sorry, monsieur, that i cannot say as much to you," she glibly responded. "if you lay upon a bed of needles the whole night through, your rest was better than you deserved. my own sleep was quite refreshing, thank you." instantly hamilton's choler rose. he tried to suppress it at first; but when he saw alice actually laughing, and farnsworth (who had brought her in) biting his lip furiously to keep from adding an uproarious guffaw, he lost all hold of himself. he unconsciously picked up the rapier and shook it till its blade swished. "i might have known better than to expect decency from a wench of your character," he said. "i hoped to do you a favor; but i see that you are not capable of accepting kindness politely." "i am sure, monsieur, that i have but spoken the truth plainly to you. you would not have me do otherwise, i hope." her voice, absolutely witching in its softness, freshness and suavity, helped the assault of her eyes, while her dimples twinkled and her hair shone. hamilton felt his heart move strangely; but he could not forbear saying in english: "if you are so devilish truthful, miss, you will probably tell me where the flag is that you stole and hid." it was always the missing banner that came to mind when he saw her. "indeed i will do nothing of the sort," she promptly replied. "when you see that flag again you will be a prisoner and i will wave it high over your head." she lifted a hand as she spoke and made the motion of shaking a banner above him. it was exasperation sweetened almost to delight that took hold of the sturdy briton. he liked pluck, especially in a woman; all the more if she was beautiful. yet the very fact that he felt her charm falling upon him set him hard against her, not as hamilton the man, but as hamilton the commander at vincennes. "you think to fling yourself upon me as you have upon captain farnsworth," he said, with an insulting leer and in a tone of prurient innuendo. "i am not susceptible, my dear." this more for farnsworth's benefit than to insult her, albeit he was not in a mood to care. "you are a coward and a liar!" she exclaimed, her face flushing with hot shame. "you stand here," she quickly added, turning fiercely upon farnsworth, "and quietly listen to such words! you, too, are a coward if you do not make him retract! oh, you english are low brutes!" hamilton laughed; but farnsworth looked dark and troubled, his glance going back and forth from alice to his commander, as if another word would cause him to do something terrible. "i rather think i've heard all that i care to hear from you, miss," hamilton presently said. "captain farnsworth, you will see that the prisoner is confined in the proper place, which, i suggest to you, is not your sleeping quarters, sir." "colonel hamilton," said farnsworth in a husky voice, "i slept on the ground under a shed last night in order that miss roussillon might be somewhat comfortable." "humph! well, see that you do not do it again. this girl is guilty of harboring a spy and resisting a lawful attempt of my guards to capture him. confine her in the place prepared for prisoners and see that she stays there until i am ready to fix her punishment." "there is no place fit for a young girl to stay in," farnsworth ventured. "she can have no comfort or--" "take her along, sir; any place is good enough for her so long as she behaves like a--" "very well," farnsworth bluntly interrupted, thus saving alice the stroke of a vile comparison. "come with me, please, miss roussillon." he pulled her toward the door, then dropped the arm he had grasped and murmured an apology. she followed him out, holding her head high. no one looking on would have suspected that a sinking sensation in her heart made it difficult for her to walk, or that her eyes, shining like stars, were so inwardly clouded with distress that she saw her way but dimly. it was a relief to hamilton when helm a few minutes later entered the room with something breezy to say. "what's up now, if i may ask?" the jolly american demanded. "what's this i hear about trouble with the french women? have they begun a revolution?" "that elephant, gaspard roussillon, came back into town last night," said hamilton sulkily. "well, he went out again, didn't he?" "yes, but--" "stepped on somebody's toe first, eh?" "the guard tried to capture him, and that girl of his wounded lieutenant barlow in the neck with a sword. roussillon fought like a tiger and the men swear that the devil himself appeared on the scene to help the frenchman out." "moral: be generous in your dealings with frenchmen and frenchwomen and so get the devil on your side." "i've got the girl a prisoner, and i swear to you that i'll have her shot this time if--" "why not shoot her yourself? you oughtn't to shirk a dirty job like that and force it upon your men." hamilton laughed and elevated his shoulders as if to shake off an annoying load. just then a young officer with a white bandage around his neck entered and saluted. he was a small, soft-haired, blue-eyed man of reckless bearing, with marks of dissipation sharply cut into his face. he saluted, smiling self-consciously. "well, barlow," said hamilton, "the kitten scratched you, did she?" "yes, slightly, and i don't think i've been treated fairly in the matter, sir." "how so?" "i stood the brunt and now captain farnsworth gets the prize." he twisted his mouth in mock expression of maudlin disappointment. "i'm always cheated out of the sweets. i never get anything for gallant conduct on the field." "poor boy! it is a shame. but i say, lieutenant, has roussillon really escaped, or is he hidden somewhere in town? have you been careful?" "oh, it's the indians. they all swear by these frenchmen. you can't get any help from them against a fellow like roussillon. in fact they aid him; he's among them now." "moral again," helm interposed; "keep on the good side of the french!" "that's sensible talk, sir," assented barlow. "bah!" exclaimed hamilton. "you might as well talk of keeping on the good side of the american traitors--a bloody murrain seize the whole race!" "that's what i say," chimed in the lieutenant, with a sly look at helm. "they have been telling me a cock-and-bull story concerning the affair at the roussillon cabin," hamilton said, changing his manner. "what is this about a disguised and wonderful man who rushed in and upset the whole of you. i want no romancing; give me the facts." barlow's dissolute countenance became troubled. "the facts," he said, speaking with serious deliberation, "are not clear. it was like a clap of thunder, the way that man performed. as you say, he did fling the whole squad all of a heap, and it was done that quickly," he snapped his thumb and finger demonstratively with a sharp report; "nobody could understand it." hamilton looked at his subaltern with a smile of unlimited contempt and said: "a pretty officer of his majesty's army, you are, lieutenant barlow! first a slip of a girl shows herself your superior with the sword and wounds you, then a single man wipes up the floor of a house with you and your guard, depriving you at the same time of both vision and memory, so that you cannot even describe your assailant!" "he was dressed like a priest," muttered barlow, evidently frightened at his commander's scathing comment. "that was all there was to see." "a priest! some of the men say the devil. i wonder--" hamilton hesitated and looked at the floor. "this father beret, he is too old for such a thing, isn't he?" "i have thought of him--it was like him--but he is, as you say, very old to be so tremendously strong and active. why, i tell you that men went from his hands against the walls and floor as if shot out of a mortar. it was the strangest and most astounding thing i ever heard of." a little later barlow seized a favorable opportunity and withdrew. the conversation was not to his liking. hamilton sent for father beret and had a long talk with him, but the old man looked so childishly inoffensive in spirit and so collapsed physically that it seemed worse than foolishness to accuse him of the exploit over which the entire garrison was wondering. farnsworth sat by during the interview. he looked the good priest curiously and critically over from head to foot, remembering, but not mentioning, the most unclerical punch in the side received from that energetic right arm now lying so flabbily across the old man's lap. when the talk ended and father beret humbly took his leave, hamilton turned to farnsworth and said: "what do you think of this affair? i have cross-questioned all the men who took part in it, and every one of them says simply priest or devil. i think old beret is both; but plainly he couldn't hurt a chicken, you can see that at a glance." farnsworth smiled, rubbing his side reminiscently; but he shook his head. "i'm sure it's puzzling, indeed." hamilton sat in thoughtful silence for a while, then abruptly changed the subject. "i think, captain, that you had better send out lieutenant barlow and some of the best woodsmen to kill some game. we need fresh venison, and, by george! i'm not going to depend upon these french traitors any longer. i have set my foot down; they've got to do better or take the consequences." he paused for a breath, then added: "that girl has done too much to escape severest punishment. the garrison will be demoralized if this thing goes on without an example of authority rigidly enforced. i am resolved that there shall be a startling and effective public display of my power to punish. she shot you; you seem to be glad of it, but it was a grave offence. she has stabbed barlow; that is another serious crime; but worst of all she aided a spy and resisted arrest. she must be punished." farnsworth knew hamilton's nature, and he now saw that alice was in dreadful danger of death or something even worse. whenever his chief talked of discipline and the need of maintaining his authority, there was little hope of softening his decisions. moreover, the provocation to apply extreme measures really seemed sufficient, regarded from a military point of view, and captain farnsworth was himself, under ordinary circumstances, a disciplinarian of the strictest class. the fascination, however, by which alice held him overbore every other influence, and his devotion to her loosened every other tie and obligation to a most dangerous extent. no sooner had he left headquarters and given barlow his instructions touching the hunting expedition, than his mind began to wander amid visions and schemes by no means consistent with his military obligations. in order to reflect undisturbed he went forth into the dreary, lane-like streets of vincennes and walked aimlessly here and there until he met father beret. farnsworth saluted the old man, and was passing him by, when seeing a sword in his hand, half hidden in the folds of his worn and faded cassock, he turned and addressed him. "why are you armed this morning, father?" he demanded very pleasantly. "who is to suffer now?" "i am not on the war-path, my son," replied the priest. "it is but a rapier that i am going to clean of rust spots that are gathering on its blade." "is it yours, father? let me see it." he held out his hand. "no, not mine." father beret seemed not to notice farnsworth's desire to handle the weapon, and the young man, instead of repeating his words, reached farther, nearly grasping the scabbard. "i cannot let you take it, my son," said father beret "you have its mate, that should satisfy you." "no, colonel hamilton took it," farnsworth quickly replied. "if i could i would gladly return it to its owner. i am not a thief, father, and i am ashamed of--of--what i did when i was drunk." the priest looked sharply into farnsworth's eyes and read there something that reassured him. his long experience had rendered him adept at taking a man's value at a glance. he slightly lifted his face and said: "ah, but the poor little girl! why do you persecute her? she really does not deserve it. she is a noble child. give her back to her home and her people. do not soil and spoil her sweet life." it was the sing-song voice used by father beret in his sermons and prayers; but something went with it indescribably touching. farnsworth felt a lump rise in his throat and his eyes were ready to show tears. "father," he said, with difficulty making his words distinct, "i would not harm miss roussillon to save my own life, and i would do anything--" he paused slightly, then added with passionate force; "i would do anything, no matter what, to save her from the terrible thing that now threatens her." father beret's countenance changed curiously as he gazed at the young man and said: "if you really mean what you say, you can easily save her, my son." "father, by all that is holy, i mean just what i say." "swear not at all, my son, but give me your hand." the two men stood with a tight grip between them and exchanged a long, steady, searching gaze. a drizzling rain had begun to fall again, with a raw wind creeping from the west. "come with me to my house, my son," father beret presently added; and together they went, the priest covering alice's sword from the rain with the folds of his cassock. chapter xv virtue in a locket long-hair stood not upon ceremony in conveying to beverley the information that he was to run the gauntlet, which, otherwise stated, meant that the indians would form themselves in two parallel lines facing each other about six feet apart, and that the prisoner would be expected to run down the length of the space between, thus affording the warriors an opportunity, greatly coveted and relished by their fiendish natures, to beat him cruelly during his flight. this sort of thing was to the indians, indeed, an exquisite amusement, as fascinating to them as the theater is to more enlightened people. no sooner was it agreed upon that the entertainment should again be undertaken than all the younger men began to scurry around getting everything ready for it. their faces glowed with a droll cruelty strange to see, and they further expressed their lively expectations by playful yet curiously solemn antics. the preparations were simple and quickly made. each man armed himself with a stick three feet long and about three-quarters of an inch in diameter. rough weapons they were, cut from boughs of scrub-oak, knotty and tough as horn. long-hair unbound beverley and stripped his clothes from his body down to the waist. then the lines formed, the indians in each row standing about as far apart as the width of the space in which the prisoner was to run. this arrangement gave them free use of their sticks and plenty of room for full swing of their lithe bodies. in removing beverley's clothes long-hair found alice's locket hanging over the young man's heart. he tore it rudely off and grunted, glaring viciously, first at it, then at beverley. he seemed to be mightily wrought upon. "white man damn thief," he growled deep in his throat; "stole from little girl!" he put the locket in his pouch and resumed his stupidly indifferent expression. when everything was ready for the delightful entertainment to begin, long-hair waved his tomahawk three times over beverley's head, and pointing down between the waiting lines said: "ugh, run!" but beverley did not budge. he was standing erect, with his arms, deeply creased where the thongs had sunk, folded across his breast. a rush of thoughts and feelings had taken tumultuous possession of him and he could not move or decide what to do. a mad desire to escape arose in his heart the moment that he saw long-hair take the locket. it was as if alice had cried to him and bidden him make a dash for liberty. "ugh, run!" the order was accompanied with a push of such violence from long-hair's left elbow that beverley plunged and fell, for his limbs, after their long and painful confinement in the raw-hide bonds, were stiff and almost useless. long-hair in no gentle voice bade him get up. the shock of falling seemed to awaken his dormant forces; a sudden resolve leaped into his brain. he saw that the indians had put aside their bows and guns, most of which were leaning against the boles of trees here and yonder. what if he could knock long-hair down and run away? this might possibly be easy, considering the indian's broken arm. his heart jumped at the possibility. but the shrewd savage was alert and saw the thought come into his face. "you try git 'way, kill dead!" he snarled, lifting his tomahawk ready for a stroke. "brains out, damn!" beverley glanced down the waiting and eager lines. swiftly he speculated, wondering what would be his chance for escape were he to break through. but he did not take his own condition into account. "ugh, run!" again the elbow of long-hair's hurt arm pushed him toward the expectant rows of indians, who flourished their clubs and uttered impatient grunts. this time he did not fall; but in trying to run he limped stiffly at first, his legs but slowly and imperfectly regaining their strength and suppleness from the action. just before reaching the lines, however, he stopped short. long-hair, who was close behind him, took hold of his shoulder and led him back to the starting place. the big indian's arm must have given him pain when he thus used it, but he did not wince. "fool--kill dead!" he repeated two or three times, holding his tomahawk on high with threatening motions and frequent repetitions of his one echo from the profanity of civilization. he was beginning to draw his mouth down at the corners, and his eyes were narrowed to mere slits. beverley understood now that he could not longer put off the trial. he must choose between certain death and the torture of the gauntlet, as frontiersmen named this savage ordeal. an old man might have preferred the stroke of the hatchet to such an infliction as the clubs must afford, considering that, even after all the agony, his captivity and suffering would be only a little nearer its end. youth, however, has faith in the turn of fortune's wheel, and faith in itself, no matter how dark the prospect. hope blows her horn just over the horizon, and the strain bids the young heart take courage and beat strong. moreover, men were men, who led the van in those days on the outmost lines of our march to the summit of the world. beverley was not more a hero than any other young, brave, unconquerable patriot of the frontier army. his situation simply tried him a trifle harder than was common. but it must be remembered that he had love with him, and where love is there can be no cowardice, no surrender. long-hair once again pushed him and said "ugh, run!" beverley made a direct dash for the narrow lane between the braced and watchful lines. every warrior lifted his club; every copper face gleamed stolidly, a mask behind which burned a strangely atrocious spirit. the two savages standing at the end nearest beverley struck at him the instant he reached than, but they taken quite by surprise when he checked himself between them and, leaping this way and that, swung out two powerful blows, left and right, stretching one of them flat and sending the other reeling and staggering half a dozen paces backward with the blood streaming from his nose. this done, beverley turned to run away, but his breath was already short and his strength rapidly going. long-hair, who was at his heels, leaped before him when he had gone but a few steps and once more flourished the tomahawk. to struggle was useless, save to insist upon being brained outright, which just then had no part in beverley's considerations. long-hair kicked his victim heavily, uttering laconic curses meanwhile, and led him back again to the starting-point. a genuine sense of humor seems almost entirely lacking in the mind of the american indian. he smiles at things not in the least amusing to us and when he laughs, which is very seldom, the cause of his merriment usually lies in something repellantly cruel and inhuman. when beverley struck his two assailants, hurting them so that one lay half stunned, while the other spun away from his fist with a smashed nose, all the rest of the indians grunted and laughed raucously in high delight. they shook their clubs, danced, pointed at their discomfited fellows and twisted their painted faces into knotted wrinkles, their eyes twinkling with devilish expression of glee quite indescribable. "ugh, damn, run!" said long-half, this time adding a hard kick to the elbow-shove he gave beverley. the young man, who had borne all he could, now turned upon him furiously and struck straight from the shoulder, setting the whole weight of his body into the blow. long-hair stepped out of the way and quick as a flash brought the flat side of his tomahawk with great force against beverley's head. this gave the amusement a sudden and disappointing end, for the prisoner fell limp and senseless to the ground. no more running the gauntlet for him that day. indeed it required protracted application of the best indian skill to revive him so that he could fairly be called a living man. there had been no dangerous concussion, however, and on the following morning camp was broken. beverley, sore, haggard, forlornly disheveled, had his arms bound again and was made to march apace with his nimble enemies, who set out swiftly eastward, their disappointment at having their sport cut short, although bitter enough, not in the least indicated by any facial expression or spiteful act. was it really a strange thing, or was it not, that beverley's mind now busied itself unceasingly with the thought that long-hair had alice's picture in his pouch? one might find room for discussion of a cerebral problem like this; but our history cannot be delayed with analyses and speculations; it must run its direct course unhindered to the end. suffice it to record that, while tramping at long-hair's side and growing more and more desirous of seeing the picture again, beverley began trying to converse with his taciturn captor. he had a considerable smattering of several indian dialects, which he turned upon long-hair to the best of his ability, but apparently without effect. nevertheless he babbled at intervals, always upon the same subject and always endeavoring to influence that huge, stolid, heartless savage in the direction of letting him see again the child face of the miniature. a stone, one of our travel-scarred and mysterious western granite bowlders brought from the far north by the ancient ice, would show as much sympathy as did the face of long-hair. once in a while he gave beverley a soulless glance and said "damn" with utter indifference. nothing, however, could quench or even in the slightest sense allay the lover's desire. he talked of alice and the locket with constantly increasing volubility, saying over and over phrases of endearment in a half-delirious way, not aware that fever was fermenting his blood and heating his brain. probably he would have been very ill but for the tremendous physical exercise forced upon him. the exertion kept him in a profuse perspiration and his robust constitution cast off the malarial poison. meantime he used every word and phrase, every grunt and gesture of indian dialect that he could recall, in the iterated and reiterated attempt to make long-hair understand what he wanted. when night came on again the band camped under some trees beside a swollen stream. there was no rain falling, but almost the entire country lay under a flood of water. fires of logs were soon burning brightly on the comparatively dry bluff chosen by the indians. the weather was chill, but not cold. long-hair took great pains, however, to dry beverley's clothes and see that he had warm wraps and plenty to eat. hamilton's large reward would not be forthcoming should the prisoner die, beverley was good property, well worth careful attention. to be sure his scalp, in the worst event, would command a sufficient honorarium, but not the greatest. beverley thought of all this while the big indian was wrapping him snugly in skins and blankets for the night, and there was no comfort in it, save that possibly if he were returned to hamilton he might see alice again before he died. a fitful wind cried dolefully in the leafless treetops, the stream hard by gave forth a rushing sound, and far away some wolves howled like lost souls. worn out, sore from head to foot, beverley, deep buried in the blankets and skins, soon fell into a profound sleep. the fires slowly crumbled and faded; no sentinel was posted, for the indians did not fear an attack, there being no enemies that they knew of nearer than kaskaskia. the camp slumbered as one man. at about the mid-hour of the night long-hair gently awoke his prisoner by drawing a hand across his face, then whispered in his ear: "damn, still!" beverley tried to rise, uttering a sleepy ejaculation under his breath. "no talk," hissed long-hair. "still!" there was something in his voice that not only swept the last film of sleep out of beverley's brain, but made it perfectly clear to him that a very important bit of craftiness was being performed; just what its nature was, however, he could not surmise. one thing was obvious, long-hair did not wish the other indians to know of the move he was making. deftly he slipped the blankets from around beverley, and cut the thongs at his ankles. "still!" he whispered. "come 'long." under such circumstances a competent mind acts with lightning celerity. beverley now understood that long-hair was stealing him away from the other savages and that the big villain meant to cheat them out of their part of the reward. along with this discovery came a fresh gleam of hope. it would be far easier to escape from one indian than from nearly a score. ah, he would follow long-hair, indeed he would! the needed courage came with the thought, and so with immense labor he crept at the heels of that crawling monster. it was a painful process, for his arms were still fast bound at the wrists with the raw-hide strings; but what was pain to him? he shivered with joy, thinking of what might happen. the voice of the wind overhead and the noisy bubbling of the stream near by were cheerful and cheering sounds to him now. so much can a mere shadow of hope do for a human soul on the verge of despair! already he was planning or trying to plan some way by which he could kill long-hair when they should reach a safe distance from the sleeping camp. but how could the thing be done? a man with his hands tied, though they are in front of him, is in no excellent condition to cope with a free and stalwart savage armed to the teeth. still beverley's spirits rose with every rod of distance that was added to their slow progress. their course was nearly parallel with that of the stream, but slightly converging toward it, and after they had gone about a furlong they reached the bank. here long-hair stopped and, without a word, cut the thongs from beverley's wrists. this was astounding; the young man could scarcely realize it, nor was he ready to act. "swim water," long-hair said in a guttural murmur barely audible. "swim, damn!" again it was necessary for beverley's mind to act swiftly and with prudence. the camp was yet within hailing distance. a false move now would bring the whole pack howling to the rescue. something told him to do as long-hair ordered, so with scarcely a perceptible hesitation he scrambled down the bushy bank and slipped into the water, followed by long-hair, who seized him by one arm when he began to swim, and struck out with him into the boiling and tumbling current. beverley had always thought himself a master swimmer, but long-hair showed him his mistake. the giant indian, with but one hand free to use, fairly rushed through that deadly cold and turbulent water, bearing his prisoner with him despite the wounded arm, as easily as if towing him at the stern of a pirogue. true, his course was down stream for a considerable distance, but even when presently he struck out boldly for the other bank, breasting a current in which few swimmers could have lived, much less made headway, he still swung forward rapidly, splitting the waves and scarcely giving beverley freedom enough so that he could help in the progress. it was a long, cold struggle, and when at last they touched the sloping low bank on the other side, long-hair had fairly to lift his chilled and exhausted prisoner to the top. "ugh, cold," he grunted, beginning to pound and rub beverley's arms, legs and body. "make warm, damn heap!" all this he did with his right hand, holding the tomahawk in his left. it was a strange, bewildering experience out of which the young man could not see in any direction far enough to give him a hint upon which to act. in a few minutes long-hair jerked him to his feet and said: "go." it was just light enough to see that the order had a tomahawk to enforce it withal. long-hair indicated the direction and drove beverley onward as fast as he could. "try run 'way, kill, damn!" he kept repeating, while with his left hand on the young man's shoulder he guided him from behind dexterously through the wood for some distance. then he stopped and grunted, adding his favorite expletive, which he used with not the least knowledge of its meaning. to him the syllable "damn" was but a mouthful of forcible wind. they had just emerged from a thicket into an open space, where the ground was comparatively dry. overhead the stars were shining in great clusters of silver and gold against a dark, cavernous looking sky, here and there overrun with careering black clouds. beverley shivered, not so much with cold as on account of the stress of excitement which amounted to nervous rigor. long-hair faced him and leaned toward him, until his breathing was audible and his massive features were dimly outlined. a dragon of the darkest age could not have been more repulsive. "ugh, friend, damn!" beverley started when these words were followed by a sentence in an indian dialect somewhat familiar to him, a dialect in which he had tried to talk with long-hair during the day's march. the sentence, literally translated, was: "long-hair is friendly now." a blow in the face could not have been so surprising. beverley not only started, but recoiled as if from a sudden and deadly apparition. the step between supreme exhilaration and utter collapse is now and then infinitesimal. there are times, moreover, when an expression on the face of hope makes her look like the twin sister of despair. the moment falling just after long-hair spoke was a century condensed in a breath. "long-hair is friendly now; will white man be friendly?" beverley heard, but the speech seemed to come out of vastness and hollow distance; he could not realize it fairly. he felt as if in a dream, far off somewhere in loneliness, with a big, shadowy form looming before him. he heard the chill wind in the thickets round about, and beyond long-hair rose a wall of giant trees. "ugh, not understand?" the savage presently demanded in his broken english. "yes, yes," said beverley, "i understand." "is the white man friendly now?" long-hair then repeated in his own tongue, with a certain insistence of manner and voice. "yes, friendly." beverley said this absently in a tone of perfunctory dryness. his throat was parched, his head seemed to waver. but he was beginning to comprehend that long-hair, for some inscrutable reason of his own, was desirous of making a friendship between them. the thought was bewildering. long-hair fumbled in his pouch and took out alice's locket, which he handed to beverley. "white man love little girl?" he inquired in a tone that bordered upon tenderness, again speaking in indian. beverley clutched the disk as soon as he saw it gleam in the star-light. "white man going to have little girl for his squaw--eh?" "yes, yes," cried beverley without hearing his own voice. he was trying to open the locket but his hands were numb and trembling. when at last he did open it he could not see the child face within, for now even the star-light was shut off by a scudding black cloud. "little girl saved long-hair's life. long-hair save white warrior for little girl." a dignity which was almost noble accompanied these simple sentences. long-hair stood proudly erect, like a colossal dark statue in the dimness. the great truth dawned upon beverley that here was a characteristic act. he knew that an indian rarely failed to repay a kindness or an injury, stroke for stroke, when opportunity offered. long-hair was a typical indian. that is to say, a type of inhumanity raised to the last power; but under his hideous atrocity of nature lay the indestructible sense of gratitude so fixed and perfect that it did its work almost automatically. it must be said, and it may or may not be to the white man's shame, that beverley did not respond with absolute promptness and sincerity to long-hair's generosity. he had suffered terribly at the hands of this savage. his arms and legs were raw from the biting of the thongs; his body ached from the effect of blows and kicks laid upon him while bound and helpless. perhaps he was not a very emotional man. at all events there was no sudden recognition of the favor he was receiving. and this pleased long-hair, for the taste of the american indian delights in immobility of countenance and reserve of feeling under great strain. "wait here a little while," long-hair presently said, and without lingering for reply, turned away and disappeared in the wood. beverley was free to run if he wished to, and the thought did surge across his mind; but a restraining something, like a hand laid upon him, would not let his limbs move. down deep in his heart a calm voice seemed to be repeating long-hair's indian sentence--"wait here a little while." a few minutes later long-hair returned bearing two guns, beverley's and his own, the latter, a superb weapon given him by hamilton. he afterward explained that he had brought these, with their bullet-pouches and powder-horns, to a place of concealment near by before he awoke beverley. this meant that he had swum the cold river three times since night-fall; once over with the guns and accouterments; once back to camp, then over again with beverley! all this with a broken arm, and to repay alice for her kindness to him. beverley may have been slow, but at last his appreciation was, perhaps, all the more profound. as best he could he expressed it to long-hair, who showed no interest whatever in the statement. instead of responding in indian, he said "damn" without emphasis. it was rather as if he had yawned absently, being bored. delay could not be thought of. long-hair explained briefly that he thought. beverley must go to kaskaskia. he had come across the stream in the direction of vincennes in order to set his warriors at fault. the stream must be recrossed, he said, farther down, and he would help beverley a certain distance on his way, then leave him to shift for himself. he had a meager amount of parched corn and buffalo meat in his pouch, which would stay hunger until they could kill some game. now they must go. the resilience of a youthful and powerful physique offers many a problem to the biologist. vital force seems to find some mysterious reservoir of nourishment hidden away in the nerve-centers. beverley set out upon that seemingly impossible undertaking with renewed energy. it could not have been the ounce of parched corn and bit of jerked venison from which he drew so much strength; but on the other hand, could it have been the miniature of alice, which he felt pressing over his heart once more, that afforded a subtle stimulus to both mind and body? they flung miles behind them before day-dawn, long-hair leading, beverley pressing close at his heels. most of the way led over flat prairies covered with water, and they therefore left no track by which they could be followed. late in the forenoon long-hair killed a deer at the edge of a wood. here they made a fire and cooked a supply which would last them for a day or two, and then on they went again. but we cannot follow them step by step. when long-hair at last took leave of beverley, the occasion had no ceremony. it was an abrupt, unemotional parting. the stalwart indian simply said in his own dialect, pointing westward: "go that way two days. you will find your friends." then, without another look or word, he turned about and stalked eastward at a marvelously rapid gait. in his mind he had a good tale to tell his warrior companions when he should find them again: how beverley escaped that night and how he followed him a long, long chase, only to lose him at last under the very guns of the fort at kaskaskia. but before he reached his band an incident of some importance changed his story to a considerable degree. it chanced that he came upon lieutenant barlow, who, in pursuit of game, had lost his bearings and, far from his companions, was beating around quite bewildered in a watery solitude. long-hair promptly murdered the poor fellow and scalped him with as little compunction as he would have skinned a rabbit; for he had a clever scheme in his head, a very audacious and outrageous scheme, by which he purposed to recoup, to some extent, the damages sustained by letting beverley go. therefore, when he rejoined his somewhat disheartened and demoralized band he showed them the scalp and gave them an eloquent account of how he tore it from beverley's head after a long chase and a bloody hand to hand fight. they listened, believed, and were satisfied. chapter xvi father beret's old battle the room in which alice was now imprisoned formed part of the upper story of a building erected by hamilton in one of the four angles of the stockade. it had no windows and but two oblong port-holes made to accommodate a small swivel, which stood darkly scowling near the middle of the floor. from one of these apertures alice could see the straggling roofs and fences of the dreary little town, while from the other a long reach of watery prairie, almost a lake, lay under view with the rolling, muddy wabash gleaming beyond. there seemed to be no activity of garrison or townspeople. few sounds broke the silence of which the cheerless prison room seemed to be the center. alice felt all her courage and cheerfulness leaving her. she was alone in the midst of enemies. no father or mother, no friend--a young girl at the mercy of soldiers, who could not be expected to regard her with any sympathy beyond that which is accompanied with repulsive leers and hints. day after day her loneliness and helplessness became more agonizing. farnsworth, it is true, did all he could to relieve the strain of her situation; but hamilton had an eye upon what passed and soon interfered. he administered a bitter reprimand, under which his subordinate writhed in speechless anger and resentment. "finally, captain farnsworth," he said in conclusion, "you will distinctly understand that this girl is my prisoner, not yours; that i, not you, will direct how she is to be held and treated, and that hereafter i will suffer no interference on your part. i hope you fully understand me, sir, and will govern yourself accordingly." smarting, or rather smothering, under the outrageous insult of these remarks, farnsworth at first determined to fling his resignation at the governor's feet and then do whatever desperate thing seemed most to his mood. but a soldier's training is apt to call a halt before the worst befalls in such a case. moreover, in the present temptation, farnsworth had a special check and hindrance. he had had a conference with father beret, in which the good priest had played the part of wisdom in slippers, and of gentleness more dove-like than the dove's. a very subtle impression, illuminated with the "hope that withers hope," had come of that interview; and now farnsworth felt its restraint. he therefore saluted hamilton formally and walked away. father beret's paternal love for alice,--we cannot characterize it more nicely than to call it paternal,--was his justification for a certain mild sort of corruption insinuated by him into the heart of farnsworth. he was a crafty priest, but his craft was always used for a good end. unquestionably jesuitic was his mode of circumventing the young man's military scruples by offering him a puff of fair weather with which to sail toward what appeared to be the shore of delight. he saw at a glance that farnsworth's love for alice was a consuming passion in a very ardent yet decidedly weak heart. here was the worldly lever with which father beret hoped to raze alice's prison and free her from the terrible doom with which she was threatened. the first interview was at father beret's cabin, to which, as will be remembered, the priest and farnsworth went after their meeting in the street. it actually came to nothing, save an indirect understanding but half suggested by father beret and never openly sanctioned by captain farnsworth. the talk was insinuating on the part of the former, while the latter slipped evasively from every proposition, as if not able to consider it on account of a curious obtuseness of perception. still, when they separated they shook hands and exchanged a searching look perfectly satisfactory to both. the memory of that interview with the priest was in farnsworth's mind when, boiling with rage, he left hamilton's presence and went forth into the chill february air. he passed out through the postern and along the sodden and queachy aedge of the prairie, involuntarily making his way to father beret's cabin. his indignation was so great that he trembled from head to foot at every step. the door of the place was open and father beret was eating a frugal meal of scones and sour wine (of his own make, he said), which he hospitably begged to share with his visitor. a fire smouldered on the hearth, and a flat stone showed, by the grease smoking over its hot surface, where the cakes had been baked. "come in, my son," said the priest, "and try the fare of a poor old man. it is plain, very plain, but good." he smacked his lips sincerely and fingered another scone. "take some, take some." farnsworth was not tempted. the acid bouquet of the wine filled the room with a smack of vinegar, and the smoke from rank scorching fat and wheat meal did not suggest an agreeable feast. "well, well, if you are not hungry, my son, sit down on the stool there and tell me the news." farnsworth took the low seat without a word, letting his eyes wander over the walls. alice's rapier, the mate to that now worn by hamilton, hung in its curiously engraved scabbard near one corner. the sight of it inflamed farnsworth. "it's an outrage," he broke forth. "governor hamilton sent a man to roussillon place with orders to bring him the scabbard of miss roussillon's sword, and he now wears the beautiful weapon as if he had come by it honestly. damn him!" "my dear, dear son, you must not soil your lips with such language!" father beret let fall the half of a well bitten cake and held up both hands. "i beg your pardon, father; i know i ought to be more careful in your presence; but--but--the beastly, hellish scoundrel--" "bah! doucement, mon fils, doucement." the old man shook his head and his finger while speaking. "easy, my son, easy. you would be a fine target for bullets were your words to reach hamilton's ears. you are not permitted to revile your commander." "yes, i know; but how can a man restrain himself under such abominable conditions?" father beret shrewdly guessed that hamilton had been giving the captain fresh reason for bitter resentment. moreover, he was sure that the moving cause had been alice. so, in order to draw out what he wished to hear, he said very gently: "how is the little prisoner getting along?" farnsworth ground his teeth and swore; but father beret appeared not to hear; he bit deep into a scone, took a liberal sip of the muddy red wine and added: "has she a comfortable place? do you think governor hamilton would let me visit her?" "it is horrible!" farnsworth blurted. "she's penned up as if she were a dangerous beast, the poor girl. and that damned scoundrel--" "son, son!" "oh, it's no use to try, i can't help it, father. the whelp--" "we can converse more safely and intelligently if we avoid profanity, and undue emotion, my son. now, if you will quit swearing, i will, and if you will be calm, so will i." farnsworth felt the sly irony of this absurdly vicarious proposition. father beret smiled with a kindly twinkle in his deep-set eyes. "well, if you don't use profane language, father, there's no telling how much you think in expletives. what is your opinion of a man who tumbles a poor, defenseless girl into prison and then refuses to let her be decently cared for? how do you express yourself about him?" "my son, men often do things of which they ought to be ashamed. i heard of a young officer once who maltreated a little girl that he met at night in the street. what evil he would have done, had not a passing kind-hearted man reminded him of his honor by a friendly punch in the ribs, i dare not surmise." "true, and your sarcasm goes home as hard as your fist did, father. i know that i've been a sad dog all my life. miss roussillon saved you by shooting me, and i love her for it. lay on, father, i deserve more than you can give me." "surely you do, my son, surely you do; but my love for you will not let me give you pain. ah, we priests have to carry all men's loads. our backs are broad, however, very broad, my son." "and your fists devilish heavy, father, devilish heavy." the gentle smile again flickered over the priest's weather-beaten face as he glanced sidewise at farnsworth and said: "sometimes, sometimes, my son, a carnal weapon must break the way for a spiritual one. but we priests rarely have much physical strength; our dependence is upon--" "to be sure; certainly," farnsworth interrupted, rubbing his side, "your dependence is upon the first thing that offers. i've had many a blow; but yours was the solidest that ever jarred thy mortal frame, father beret." the twain began to laugh. there is nothing like a reminiscence to stir up fresh mutual sympathy. "if your intercostals were somewhat sore for a time, on account of a contact with priestly knuckles, doubtless there soon set in a corresponding uneasiness in the region of your conscience. such shocks are often vigorously alterative and tonic--eh, my son?" "you jolted me sober, father, and then i was ashamed of myself. but where does all your tremendous strength lie? you don't look strong." while speaking farnsworth leaned near father beret and grasped his arm. the young man started, for his fingers, instead of closing around a flabby, shrunken old man's limb, spread themselves upon a huge, knotted mass of iron muscles. with a quick movement father beret shook off farnsworth's hand, and said: "i am no samson, my son. non sum qualis eram." then, as if dismissing a light subject for a graver one, he sighed and added; "i suppose there is nothing that can be done for little alice." he called the tall, strong girl "little alice," and so she seemed to him. he could not, without direct effort, think of her as a magnificently maturing woman. she had always been his spoiled pet child, perversely set against the holy church, but dear to him nevertheless. "i came to you to ask that very question, father," said farnsworth. "and what do i know? surely, my son, you see how utterly helpless an old priest is against all you british. and besides--" "father beret," farnsworth huskily interrupted, "is there a place that you know of anywhere in which miss roussillon could be hidden, if--" "my dear son." "but, father, i mean it." "mean what? pardon an old man's slow understanding. what are you talking about, my son?" father beret glanced furtively about, then quickly stepped through the doorway, walked entirely around the house and came in again before farnsworth could respond. once more seated on his stool he added interrogatively: "did you think you heard something moving outside?" "no." "you were saying something when i went out. pardon my interruption." farnsworth gave the priest a searching and not wholly confiding look. "you did not interrupt me, father beret. i was not speaking. why are you so watchful? are you afraid of eavesdroppers?" "you were speaking recklessly. your words were incendiary: ardentia verba. my son, you were suggesting a dangerous thing. your life would scarcely satisfy the law were you convicted of insinuating such treason. what if one of your prowling guards had overheard you? your neck and mine might feel the halter. quod avertat dominus." he crossed himself and in a solemn voice added in english: "may the lord forbid! ah, my son, we priests protect those we love." "and i, who am not fit to tie a priest's shoe, do likewise. father, i love alice roussillon." "love is a holy thing, my son. amare divinum est et humanum." "father beret, can you help me?" "spiritually speaking, my son?" "i mean, can you hide mademoiselle roussillon in some safe place, if i take her out of the prison yonder? that's just what i mean. can you do it?" "your question is a remarkable one. have you thought upon it from all directions, my son? think of your position, your duty as an officer." a shrewd polemical expression beamed from father beret's eyes, and a very expert physiogomist might have suspected duplicity from certain lines about the old man's mouth. "i simply know that i cannot stand by and see alice--mademoiselle roussillon, forced to suffer treatment too beastly for an indian thief. that's the only direction there is for me to look at it from, and you can understand my feelings if you will; you know that very well, father beret. when a man loves a girl, he loves her; that's the whole thing.". the quiet, inscrutable half-smile flickered once more on father beret's face; but he sat silent some time with a sinewy forefinger lying alongside his nose. when at last he spoke it was in a tone of voice indicative of small interest in what he was saying. his words rambled to their goal with the effect of happy accident. "there are places in this neighborhood in which a human being would be as hard to find as the flag that you and governor hamilton have so diligently and unsuccessfully been in quest of for the past month or two. really, my son, this is a mysterious little town." farnsworth's eyes widened and a flush rose in his swarthy cheeks. "damn the flag!" he exclaimed. "let it lie hidden forever; what do i care? i tell you, father beret, that alice roussillon is in extreme danger. governor hamilton means to put some terrible punishment on her. he has a devil's vindictiveness. he showed it to me clearly awhile ago." "you showed something of the same sort to me, once upon a time, my son." "yes, i did, father beret, and i got a load of slugs in my shoulder for it from that brave girl's pistol. she saved your life. now i ask you to help me save hers; or, if not her life, what is infinitely more, her honor." "her honor!" cried father beret, leaping to his feet so suddenly and with such energy that the cabin shook from base to roof. "what do you say, captain farnsworth? what do you mean?" the old man was transformed. his face was terrible to see, with its narrow, burning eyes deep under the shaggy brows, its dark veins writhing snakelike on the temples and forehead, the projected mouth and chin, the hard lines of the jaws, the iron-gray gleam from all the features--he looked like an aged tiger stiffened for a spring. farnsworth was made of right soldierly stuff; but he felt a distinct shiver flit along his back. his past life had not lacked thrilling adventures and strangely varied experiences with desperate men. usually he met sudden emergencies rather calmly, sometimes with phlegmatic indifference. this passionate outburst on the priest's part, however, surprised him and awed him, while it stirred his heart with a profound sympathy unlike anything he had ever felt before. father beret mastered himself in a moment, and passing his hand over his face, as if to brush away the excitement, sat down again on his stool. he appeared to collapse inwardly. "you must excuse the weakness of an old man, my son," he said, in a voice hoarse and shaking. "but tell me what is going to be done with alice. your words--what you said--i did not understand." he rubbed his forehead slowly, as one who has difficulty in trying to collect his thoughts. "i do not know what governor hamilton means to do, father beret. it will be something devilish, however,--something that must not happen," said farnsworth. then he recounted all that hamilton had done and said. he described the dreary and comfortless room in which alice was confined, the miserable fare given her, and how she would be exposed to the leers and low remarks of the soldiers. she had already suffered these things, and now that she could no longer have any protection, what was to become of her? he did not attempt to overstate the case; but presented it with a blunt sincerity which made a powerfully realistic impression. father beret, like most men of strong feeling who have been subjected to long years of trial, hardship, multitudinous dangers and all sorts of temptation, and who have learned the lessons of self-control, had an iron will, and also an abiding distrust of weak men. he saw farnsworth's sincerity; but he had no faith in his constancy, although satisfied that while resentment of hamilton's imperiousness lasted, he would doubtless remain firm in his purpose to aid alice. let that wear off, as in a short time it would, and then what? the old man studied his companion with eyes that slowly resumed their expression of smouldering and almost timid geniality. his priestly experience with desperate men was demanding of him a proper regard for that subtlety of procedure which had so often compassed most difficult ends. he listened in silence to farnsworth's story. when it came to an end he began to offer some but half relevant suggestions in the form of indirect cross-questions, by means of which he gradually drew out a minute description of alice's prison, the best way to reach it, the nature of its door-fastenings, where the key was kept, and everything, indeed, likely to be helpful to one contemplating a jail delivery. farnsworth was inwardly delighted. he felt father beret's cunning approach to the central object and his crafty method of gathering details. the shades of evening thickened in the stuffy cabin room while the conversation went on. father beret presently lifted a puncheon in one corner of the floor and got out a large bottle, which bore a mildewed and faded french label, and with it a small iron cup. there was just light enough left to show a brownish sparkle when, after popping out the cork, he poured a draught in the fresh cup and in his own. "we may think more clearly, my son, if we taste this old liquor. i have kept it a long while to offer upon a proper occasion. the occasion is here." a ravishing bouquet quickly imbued the air. it was itself an intoxication. "the brothers of st. martin distilled this liquor," father beret added, handing the cup to farnsworth, "not for common social drinking, my son, but for times when a man needs extraordinary stimulation. it is said to be surpassingly good, because st. martin blessed the vine." the doughty captain felt a sudden and imperious thirst seize his throat. the liquor flooded his veins before his lips touched the cup. he had been abstaining lately; now his besetting appetite rushed upon him. at one gulp he took in the fiery yet smooth and captivating draught. nor did he notice that father beret, instead of joining him in the potation, merely lifted his cup and set it down again, smacking his lips gusto. there followed a silence, during which the aromatic breath of the bottle increased its dangerous fascination. then father beret again filled farnsworth's cup and said: "ah, the blessed monks, little thought they that their matchless brew would ever be sipped in a poor missionary's hut on the wabash! but, after all, my son, why not here as well as in sunny france? our object justifies any impropriety of time and place." "you are right, father. i drink to our object. yes, i say, to our object." in fact, the drinking preceded his speech, and his tongue already had a loop in it the liquor stole through him, a mist of bewildering and enchanting influence. the third cup broke his sentences into unintelligible fragments; the fourth made his underjaw sag loosely, the fifth and sixth, taken in close succession, tumbled him limp on the floor, where he slept blissfully all night long, snugly covered with some of father beret's bed clothes. "per casum obliquum, et per indirectum," muttered the priest, when he had returned the bottle and cup to their hiding-place." the end justifies the means. sleep well, my son. ah, little alice, little alice, your old father will try--will try!" he fumbled along the wall in the dark until he found the rapier, which he took down; then he went out and sat for some time motionless beside the door, while the clouds thickened overhead. it was late when he arose and glided away shadow-like toward the fort, over which the night hung black, chill and drearily silent. the moon was still some hours high, smothered by the clouds; a fog slowly drifted from the river. meantime hamilton and helm had spent a part of the afternoon and evening, as usual, at cards. helm broke off the game and went to his quarters rather early for him, leaving the governor alone and in a bad temper, because farnsworth, when he had sent for him, could not be found. three times his orderly returned in as many hours with the same report; the captain had not been seen or heard of. naturally this sudden and complete disappearance, immediately after the reprimand, suggested to hamilton an unpleasant possibility. what if farnsworth had deserted him? down deep in his heart he was conscious that the young man had good cause for almost any desperate action. to lose captain farnsworth, however, would be just now a calamity. the indians were drifting over rapidly to the side of the americans, and every day showed that the french could not long be kept quiet. hamilton sat for some time after helm's departure, thinking over what he now feared was a foolish mistake. presently he buckled on alice's rapier, which he had lately been wearing as his own, and went out into the main area of the stockade. a sentinel was tramping to and fro at the gate, where a hazy lantern shone. the night was breathless and silent. hamilton approached the soldier on duty and asked him if he had seen captain farnsworth, and receiving a negative reply, turned about puzzled and thoughtful to walk back and forth in the chill, foggy air. presently a faint yellow light attracted his attention. it shone through a porthole in an upper room of the block-house at the farther angle of the stockade. in fact, alice was reading by a sputtering lamp a book farnsworth had sent her, a volume of ronsard that he had picked up in canada. hamilton made his way in that direction, at first merely curious to know who was burning oil so late; but after a few paces he recognized where the light came from, and instantly suspected that captain farnsworth was there. indeed he felt sure of it. somehow he could not regard alice as other than a saucy hoyden, incapable of womanly virtue. his experience with the worst element of canadian french life and his peculiar cast of mind and character colored his impression of her. he measured her by the women with whom the coureurs de bois and half-breed trappers consorted in detroit and at the posts eastward to quebec. alice, unable to sleep, had sought forgetfulness of her bitter captivity in the old poet's charming lyrics. she sat on the floor, some blankets and furs drawn around her, the book on her lap, the stupidly dull lamp hanging beside her on a part of the swivel. her hair lay loose over her neck and shoulders and shimmered around her face with a cloud-like effect, giving to the features in their repose a setting that intensified their sweetness and sadness. in a very low but distinct voice was reading, with a slightly quavering emotion: "mignonne, allons voir si la rose, que ce matin avoit desclose sa robe de pourpe au soleil." when hamilton, after stealthily mounting the rough stairway which led to her door, peeped in through a space between the slabs and felt a stroke of disappointment, seeing at a glance that farnsworth was not there. he gazed for some time, not without a sense of villainy, while she continued her sweetly monotonous reading. if his heart had been as hard as the iron swivel-balls that lay beside alice, he must still have felt a thrill of something like tender sympathy. she now showed no trace of the vivacious sauciness which had heretofore always marked her features when she was in his presence. a dainty gentleness, touched with melancholy, gave to her face an appealing look all the more powerful on account of its unconscious simplicity of expression. the man felt an impulse pure and noble, which would have borne him back down the ladder and away from the building, had not a stronger one set boldly in the opposite direction. there was a short struggle with the seared remnant of his better nature, and then he tried to open the door; but it was locked. alice heard the slight noise and breaking off her reading turned to look. hamilton made another effort to enter before he recollected that the wooden key, or notched lever, that controlled the cumbrous wooden lock, hung on a peg beside the door. he felt for it along the wall, and soon laid his hand on it. then again he peeped through to see alice, who was now standing upright near the swivel. she had thrown her hair back from her face and neck; the lamp's flickering light seemed suddenly to have magnified her stature and enhanced her beauty. her book lay on the tumbled wraps at her feet, and in either hand she grasped a swivel-shot. hamilton's combative disposition came to the aid of his baser passion when he saw once more a defiant flash from his prisoner's face. it was easy for him to be fascinated by opposition. helm had profited by this trait as much as others had suffered by it; but, in the case of alice, hamilton's mingled resentment and admiration were but a powerful irritant to the coarsest and most dangerous side of his nature. after some fumbling and delay he fitted the key with a steady hand and moved the wooden bolt creaking and jolting from its slot. then flinging the clumsy door wide open, he stepped in. alice started when she recognized the midnight intruder, and a second deeper look into his countenance made her brave heart recoil, while with a sinking sensation her breath almost stopped. it was but a momentary weakness, however, followed by vigorous reaction. "what are you here for, sir?" she demanded. "what do you want?" "i am neither a burglar nor a murderer, mademoiselle," he responded, lifting his hat and bowing, with a smile not in the least reassuring. "you look like both. stop where you are!" "not so loud, my dear miss roussillon; i am not deaf. and besides the garrison needs to sleep." "stop, sir; not another step." she poised herself, leaning slightly backward, and held the iron ball in her right hand ready to throw it at him. he halted, still smiling villainously. "mademoiselle, i assure you that your excitement is quite unnecessary. i am not here to harm you." "you cannot harm me, you cowardly wretch!" "humph! pride goes before a fall, wench," he retorted, taking a half-step backward. then a thought arose in his mind which added a new shade to the repellent darkness of his countenance. "miss roussillon," he said in english and with a changed voice, which seemed to grow harder, each word deliberately emphasized, "i have come to break some bad news to you." "you would scarcely bring me good news, sir, and i am not curious to hear the bad." he was silent for a little while, gazing at her with the sort of admiration from which a true woman draws away appalled. he saw how she loathed him, saw how impossible it was for him to get a line nearer to her by any turn of force or fortune. brave, high-headed, strong as a young leopard, pure and sweet as a rose, she stood before him fearless, even aggressive, showing him by every line of her face and form that she felt her infinite superiority and meant to maintain it. her whole personal expression told him he was defeated; therefore he quickly seized upon a suggestion caught from a transaction with long-hair, who had returned a few hours before from his pursuit of beverley. "it pains me, i assure you, miss roussillon, to tell you what will probably grieve you deeply," he presently added; "but i have not been unaware of your tender interest in lieutenant beverley, and when i had bad news from him, i thought it my duty to inform you." he paused, feeling with a devil's satisfaction the point of his statement go home to the girl's heart. the wind was beginning to blow outside, shaking open the dark clouds and letting gleams of moonlight flicker on the thinning fog. a ghostly ray came through a crack between the logs and lit alice's face with a pathetic wanness. she moved her lips as if speaking, but hamilton heard no sound. "the indian, long-hair, whom i sent upon lieutenant beverley's trail, reported to me this afternoon that his pursuit had been quite successful. he caught his game." alice's voice came to her now. she drew in a quivering breath of relief. "then he is here--he is--you have him a prisoner again?" "a part of him, miss roussillon. enough to be quite sure that there is one traitor who will trouble his king no more. mr. long-hair brought in the lieutenant's scalp." alice received this horrible statement in silence; but her face blanched and she stood as if frozen by the shock. the shifty moon-glimmer and the yellow glow of the lamp showed hamilton to what an extent his devilish cruelty hurt her, and somehow it chilled him as if by reflection; but he could not forego another thrust. "he deserved hanging, and would have got it had he been brought to me alive. so after all, you should be satisfied. he escaped my vengeance and long-hair got his pay. you see i am the chief sufferer." these words, however, fell without effect upon the girl's ears, in which was booming the awful, storm-like roar of her excitement. she did not see her persecutor standing there; her vision, unhindered by walls and distance, went straight away to a place in the wilderness, where all mangled and disfigured beverley lay dead. a low cry broke from her lips; she dropped the heavy swivel-balls; and then, like a bird, swiftly, with a rustling swoop, she went past hamilton and down the stair. for perhaps a full minute the man stood there motionless, stupefied, amazed; and when at length he recovered himself, it was with difficulty that he followed her. everything seemed to hinder him. when he reached the open air, however, he quickly regained his activity of both mind and body, and looked in all directions. the clouds were breaking into parallel masses with streaks of sky between. the moon hanging aslant against the blue peeped forth just in time to show him a flying figure which, even while he looked, reached the postern, opened it and slipped through. with but a breath of hesitation between giving the alarm and following alice silently and alone, he chose the latter. he was a swift runner and light footed. with a few bounds he reached the little gate, which was still oscillating on its hinges, darted through and away, straining every muscle in desperate pursuit, gaining rapidly in the race, which bore eastward along the course twice before chosen by alice in leaving the stockade. chapter xvii. a march through cold water on the fifth day of february, , colonel george rogers clark led an army across the kaskaskia river and camped. this was the first step in his march towards the wabash. an army! do not smile. fewer than two hundred men, it is true, answered the roll-call, when father gibault lifted the cross and blessed them; but every name told off by the company sergeants belonged to a hero, and every voice making response struck a full note in the chorus of freedom's morning song. it was an army, small indeed, but yet an army; even though so rudely equipped that, could we now see it before us, we might wonder of what use it could possibly be in a military way. we should nevertheless hardly expect that a hundred and seventy of our best men, even if furnished with the latest and most deadly engines of destruction, could do what those pioneers cheerfully undertook and gloriously accomplished in the savage wilderness which was to be the great central area of the united states of america. we look back with a shiver of awe at the three hundred spartans for whom simonides composed his matchless epitaph. they wrought and died gloriously; that was greek. the one hundred and seventy men, who, led by the backwoodsman, clark, made conquest of an empire's area for freedom in the west, wrought and lived gloriously; that was american. it is well to bear in mind this distinction by which our civilization separates itself from that of old times. our heroism has always been of life--our heroes have conquered and lived to see the effect of conquest. we have fought all sorts of wars and have never yet felt defeat. washington, jackson, taylor, grant, all lived to enjoy, after successful war, a triumphant peace. "these americans," said a witty frenchman, "are either enormously lucky, or possessed of miraculous vitality. you rarely kill them in battle, and if you wound them their wounds are never mortal. their history is but a chain of impossibilities easily accomplished. their undertakings have been without preparation, their successes in the nature of stupendous accidents." such a statement may appear critically sound from a gallic point of view; but it leaves out the dominant element of american character, namely, heroic efficiency. from the first we have had the courage to undertake, the practical common sense which overcomes the lack of technical training, and the vital force which never flags under the stress of adversity. clark knew, when he set out on his march to vincennes, that he was not indulging a visionary impulse. the enterprise was one that called for all that manhood could endure, but not more. with the genius of a born leader he measured his task by his means. he knew his own courage and fortitude, and understood the best capacity of his men. he had genius; that is, he possessed the secret of extracting from himself and from his followers the last refinement of devotion to purpose. there was a certainty, from first to last, that effort would not flag at any point short of the top-most possible strain. the great star of america was no more than a nebulous splendor on the horizon in . it was a new world forming by the law of youth. the men who bore the burdens of its exacting life were mostly stalwart striplings who, before the down of adolescence fairly sprouted on their chins, could swing the ax, drive a plow, close with a bear or kill an indian. clark was not yet twenty-seven when he made his famous campaign. a tall, brawny youth, whose frontier experience had enriched a native character of the best quality, he marched on foot at the head of his little column, and was first to test every opposing danger. was there a stream to wade or swim? clark enthusiastically shouted, "come on!" and in he plunged. was there a lack of food? "i'm not hungry," he cried. "help yourselves, men!" had some poor soldier lost his blanket? "mine is in my way," said clark. "take it, i'm glad to get rid of it!" his men loved him, and would die rather than fall short of his expectations. the march before them lay over a magnificent plain, mostly prairie, rich as the delta of the nile, but extremely difficult to traverse. the distance, as the route led, was about a hundred and seventy miles. on account of an open and rainy winter all the basins and flat lands were inundated, often presenting leagues of water ranging in depth from a few inches to three of four feet. cold winds blew, sometimes with spits of snow and dashes of sleet, while thin ice formed on the ponds and sluggish streams. by day progress meant wading ankle-deep, knee-deep, breast-deep, with an occasional spurt of swimming. by night the brave fellows had to sleep, if sleep they could, on the cold ground in soaked clothing under water-heavy blankets. they flung the leagues behind them, however, cheerfully stimulating one another by joke and challenge, defying all the bitterness of weather, all the bitings of hunger, all the toil, danger and deprivation of a trackless and houseless wilderness, looking only eastward, following their youthful and intrepid commander to one of the most valuable victories gained by american soldiers during the war of the revolution. colonel clark understood perfectly the strategic importance of vincennes as a post commanding the wabash, and as a base of communication with the many indian tribes north of the ohio and east of the mississippi. francis vigo (may his name never fade!) had brought him a comprehensive and accurate report of hamilton's strength and the condition of the fort and garrison. this information confirmed his belief that it would be possible not only to capture vincennes, but detroit as well. just seven days after the march began, the little army encamped for a night's rest at the edge of a wood; and here, just after nightfall, when the fires were burning merrily and the smell of broiling buffalo steaks burdened the damp air, a wizzened old man suddenly appeared, how or from where nobody had observed he was dirty and in every way disreputable in appearance, looking like an animated mummy, bearing a long rifle on his shoulder, and walking with the somewhat halting activity of a very old, yet vivacious and energetic simian. of course it was oncle jason, "oncle jazon sui generis," as father beret had dubbed him. "well, here i am!" he cried, approaching the fire by which colonel clark and some of his officers were cooking supper, "but ye can't guess in a mile o' who i am to save yer livers and lights." he danced a few stiff steps, which made the water gush out of his tattered moccasins, then doffed his nondescript cap and nodded his scalpless head in salutation to the commander. clark looked inquiringly at him, while the old fellow grimaced and rubbed his shrunken chin. "i smelt yer fat a fryin' somepin like a mile away, an' it set my in'ards to grumblin' for a snack; so i jes thought i'd drap in on ye an' chaw wittles wi' ye." "your looks are decidedly against you," remarked the colonel with a dry smile. he had recognized oncle jazon after a little sharp scrutiny. "i suppose, however, that we can let you gnaw the bones after we've got off the meat." "thank 'ee, thank 'ee, plenty good. a feller 'at's as hongry as i am kin go through a bone like a feesh through water." clark laughed and said: "i don't see any teeth that you have worth mentioning, but your gums may be unusually sharp." "ya-a-s, 'bout as sharp as yer wit, colonel clark, an' sharper'n yer eyes, a long shot. ye don't know me, do ye? take ernother squint at me, an' see'f ye kin 'member a good lookin' man!" "you have somewhat the appearance of an old scamp by the name of jazon that formerly loafed around with a worthless gun on his shoulder, and used to run from every indian he saw down yonder in kentucky." clark held out his hand and added cordially: "how are you, jazon, my old friend, and where upon earth have you come from?" oncle jazon pounced upon the hand and gripped it in his own knotted fingers, gazing delightedly up into clark's bronzed and laughing face. "where'd i come frum? i come frum ever'wheres. fust time i ever got lost in all my born days. fve been a trompin' 'round in the water seems like a week, crazy as a pizened rat, not a knowin' north f'om south, ner my big toe f'om a turnip! who's got some tobacker?" oncle jazon's story, when presently he told it, interested clark deeply. in the first place he was glad to hear that simon kenton had once more escaped from the indians; and the news from beverley, although bad enough, left room for hope. frontiersmen always regarded the chances better than even, so long as there was life. oncle jazon, furthermore, had much to tell about the situation at vincennes, the true feeling of the french inhabitants, the lukewarm friendship of the larger part of the indians for hamilton, and, indeed, everything that clark wished to know regarding the possibilities of success in his arduous undertaking. the old man's advent cheered the whole camp. he soon found acquaintances and friends among the french volunteers from kaskaskia, with whom he exchanged creole gestures and chatter with a vivacity apparently inexhaustible. he and kenton had, with wise judgement, separated on escaping from the indian camp, kenton striking out for kentucky, while oncle jazon went towards kaskaskia. the information that beverley would be shot as soon as he was returned to hamilton, caused colonel clark serious worry of mind. not only the fact that beverley, who had been a charming friend and a most gallant officer, was now in such imminent danger, but the impression (given by oncle jazon's account) that he had broken his parole, was deeply painful to the brave and scrupulously honorable commander. still, friendship rose above regret, and clark resolved to push his little column forward all the more rapidly, hoping to arrive in time to prevent the impending execution. next morning the march was resumed at the break of dawn; but a swollen stream caused some hours of delay, during which beverley himself arrived from the rear, a haggard and weirdly unkempt apparition. he had been for three days following hard on the army's track, which he came to far westward. oncle jazon saw him first in the distance, and his old but educated eyes made no mistake. "yander's that youngster beverley," he exclaimed. "ef it ain't i'm a squaw!" nor did he parley further on the subject; but set off at a rickety trot to meet and assist the fagged and excited young man. clark had given oncle jazon his flask, which contained a few gills of whisky. this was the first thing offered to beverley; who wisely took but a swallow. oncle jazon was so elated that he waved his cap on high, and unconsciously falling into french, yelled in a piercing voice: "vive zhorsh vasinton! vive la banniere d'alice roussillon!" seeing beverley reminded him of alice and the flag. as for beverley, the sentiment braced him, and the beloved name brimmed his heart with sweetness. clark went to meet them as they came in. he hugged the gaunt lieutenant with genuine fervor of joy, while oncle jazon ran around them making a series of grotesque capers. the whole command, hearing oncle jazon's patriotic words, set up a wild shouting on the spur of a general impression that beverley came as a messenger bearing glorious news from washington's army in the east. it was a great relief to clark when he found out that his favorite lieutenant had not broken his parole; but had instead boldly resurrendered himself, declaring the obligation no longer binding, and notifying hamilton of his intention to go away with the purpose of returning and destroying him and his command. clark laughed heartily when this explanation brought out beverley's tender interest in alice; but he sympathized cordially; for he himself knew what love is. although beverley was half starved and still suffering from the kicks and blows given him by long-hair and his warriors, his exhausting run on the trail of clark aad his band had not worked him serious harm. all of the officers and men did their utmost to serve him. he was feasted without stint and furnished with everything that the scant supply of clothing on the pack horses could afford for his comfort. he promptly asked for an assignment to duty in his company and took his place with such high enthusiasm that his companions regarded him with admiring wonder. none of them save clark and oncle jazon suspected that love for a fair-haired girl yonder in vincennes was the secret of his amazing zeal and intrepidity. in one respect clark's expedition was sadly lacking in its equipment for the march. it had absolutely no means of transporting adequate supplies. the pack-horses were not able to carry more than a little extra ammunition, a few articles of clothing, some simple cooking utensils and such tools as were needed in improvising rafts and canoes. consequently, although buffalo and deer were sometimes plentiful, they furnished no lasting supply of meat, because it could not be transported; and as the army neared vincennes wild animals became scarce, so that the men began to suffer from hunger when within but a few days of their journey's end. clark made almost superhuman efforts in urging forward his chilled, water-soaked, foot-sore command; and when hunger added its torture to the already disheartening conditions, his courage and energy seemed to burn stronger and brighter. beverley was always at his side ready to undertake any task, accept any risk; his ardor made his face glow, and he seemed to thrive upon hardships. the two men were a source of inspiration--their followers could not flag and hesitate while under the influence of their example. toward the end of the long march a decided fall of temperature added ice to the water through which our dauntless patriots waded and swam for miles. the wind shifted northwesterly, taking on a searching chill. each gust, indeed, seemed to shoot wintry splinters into the very marrow of the men's bones. the weaker ones began to show the approach of utter exhaustion just at the time when a final spurt of unflinching power was needed. true, they struggled heroically; but nature was nearing the inexorable limit of endurance. without food, which there was no prospect of getting, collapse was sure to come. standing nearly waist-deep in freezing water and looking out upon the muddy, sea-like flood that stretched far away to the channel of the wabash and beyond, clark turned to beverley and said, speaking low, so as not to be overheard by any other of his officers or men: "is it possible, lieutenant beverley, that we are to fail, with vincennes almost in sight of us?" "no, sir, it is not possible," was the firm reply. "nothing must, nothing can stop us. look at that brave child! he sets the heroic example." beverley pointed, as he spoke, at a boy but fourteen years old, who was using his drum as a float to bear him up while he courageously swam beside the men. clark's clouded face cleared once more. "you are right," he said, "come on! we must win or die." "sergeant dewit," he added, turning to an enormously tall and athletic man near by, "take that little drummer and his drum on your shoulder and lead the way. and, sergeant, make him pound that drum like the devil beating tan-bark!" the huge man caught the spirit of his commander's order. in a twinkling he had the boy astride of his neck with the kettle-drum resting on his head, and then the rattling music began. clark followed, pointing onward with his sword. the half frozen and tottering soldiers sent up a shout that went back to where captain bowman was bringing up the rear under orders to shoot every man that straggled or shrank from duty. now came a time when not a mouthful of food was left. a whole day they floundered on, starving, growing fainter at every step, the temperature falling, the ice thickening. they camped on high land; and next morning they heard hamilton's distant sunrise gun boom over the water. "one half-ration for the men," said clark, looking disconsolately in the direction whence the sound had come. "just five mouthfuls apiece, even, and i'll have hamilton and his fort within forty-eight hours." "we will have the provisions, colonel, or i will die trying to get them," beverley responded "depend upon me." they had constructed some canoes in which to transport the weakest of the men. "i will take a dugout and some picked fellows. we will pull to the wood yonder, and there we shall find some kind of game which has been forced to shelter from the high water." it was a cheerful view of a forlorn hope. clark grasped the hand extended by beverley and they looked encouragement into each other's eyes. oncle jazon volunteered to go in the pirogue. he was ready for anything, everything. "i can't shoot wo'th a cent," he whined, as they took their places in the cranky pirogue; "but i might jes' happen to kill a squir'l or a elephant or somepin 'nother." "very well," shouted clark in a loud, cheerful voice, when they had paddled away to a considerable distance, "bring the meat to the woods on the hill yonder," pointing to a distant island-like ridge far beyond the creeping flood. "we'll be there ready to eat it!" he said this for the ears of his men. they heard and answered with a straggling but determined chorus of approval. they crossed the rolling current of the wabash by a tedious process of ferrying, and at last found themselves once more wading in back-water up to their armpits, breaking ice an inch thick as they went. it was the closing struggle to reach the high wooded lands. many of them fell exhausted; but their stronger comrades lifted them, holding their heads above water, and dragged them on. clark, always leading, always inspiring, was first to set foot on dry land. he shouted triumphantly, waved his sword, and then fell to helping the men out of the freezing flood. this accomplished, he ordered fires built; but there was not a soldier of them all whose hands could clasp an ax-handle, so weak and numbed with cold were they. he was not to be baffled, however. if fire could not be had, exercise must serve its purpose. hastily pouring some powder into his hand he dampened it and blacked his face. "victory, men, victory!" he shouted, taking off his hat and beginning to leap and dance. "come on! we'll have a war dance and then a feast, as soon as the meat arrives that i have sent for. dance! you brave lads, dance! victory! victory!" the strong men, understanding their colonel's purpose, took hold of the delicate ones; and the leaping, the capering, the tumult of voices and the stamping of slushy moccasins with which they assaulted that stately forest must have frightened every wild thing thereabout into a deadly rigor, dark's irrepressible energy and optimism worked a veritable charm upon his faithful but almost dying companions in arms. their trust in him made them feel sure that food would soon be forthcoming. the thought afforded a stimulus more potent than wine; it drove them into an ecstasy of frantic motion and shouting which soon warmed them thoroughly. it is said that fortune favors the brave. the larger meaning of the sentence may be given thus: god guards those who deserve his protection. history tells us that just when clark halted his command almost in sight of vincennes--just when hunger was about to prevent the victory so close to his grasp--a party of his scouts brought in the haunch of a buffalo captured from some indians. the scouts were lieutenant beverley and oncle jazon. and with the meat they brought indian kettles in which to cook it. with consummate forethought clark arranged to prevent his men doing themselves injury by bolting their food or eating it half-cooked. broth was first made and served hot; then small bits of well broiled steak were doled out, until by degrees the fine effect of nourishment set in, and all the command felt the fresh courage of healthy reaction. "i ain't no gin'ral, nor corp'ral, nor nothin'," remarked oncle jazon to colonel clark, "but 'f i's you i'd h'ist up every dad dinged ole flag in the rig'ment, w'en i got ready to show myself to 'em, an' i'd make 'em think, over yander at the fort, 'at i had 'bout ninety thousan' men. hit'd skeer that sandy faced gov'nor over there till he'd think his back-bone was a comin' out'n 'im by the roots." clark laughed, but his face showed that the old man's suggestion struck him forcibly and seriously. "we'll see about that presently, oncle jazon. wait till we reach the hill yonder, from which the whole town can observe our manoeuvres, then we'll try it, maybe." once more the men were lined up, the roll-call gone through with satisfactorily, and the question put: "are we ready for another plunge through the mud and water?" the answer came in the affirmative, with a unanimity not to be mistaken. the weakest heart of them all beat to the time of the charge step. again clark and beverley clasped hands and took the lead. when they reached the next high ground they gazed in silence across a slushy prairie plot to where, on a slight elevation, old vincennes and fort sackville lay in full view. beverley stood apart. a rush of sensations affected him so that he shook like one whose strength is gone. his vision was blurred. fort and town swimming in a mist were silent and still. save the british flag twinkling above hamilton's headquarters, nothing indicated that the place was not deserted. and alice? with the sweet name's echo beverley's heart bounded high, then sank fluttering at the recollection that she was either yonder at the mercy of hamilton, or already the victim of an unspeakable cruelty. was it weakness for him to lift his clasped hands heavenward and send up a voiceless prayer? while he stood thus oncle jazon came softly to his side and touched his arm. beverley started. "the nex' thing'll be to shoot the everlastin' gizzards outen 'em, won't it?" the old man inquired. "i'm jes' a eetchin' to git a grip onto that gov'nor. ef i don't scelp 'em i'm a squaw." beverley drew a deep breath and came promptly back from his dream. it was now oncle jazon's turn to assume a reflective, reminiscent mood. he looked about him with an expression of vague half tenderness on his shriveled features. "i's jes' a thinkin' how time do run past a feller," he presently remarked. "twenty-seven years ago i camped right here wi' my wife--ninth one, ef i 'member correct--jes' fresh married to 'r; sort o' honey-moon. 'twus warm an' sunshiny an' nice. she wus a poorty squaw, mighty poorty, an' i wus as happy as a tomtit on a sugar-trough. we b'iled sap yander on them nobs under the maples. it wus glor'us. had some several wives 'fore an' lots of 'm sence; but she wus sweetes' of 'm all. strange how a feller 'members sich things an' feels sort o' lonesome like!" the old man's mouth drooped at the corners and he hitched up his buckskin trousers with a ludicrous suggestion of pathos in every line of his attitude. unconsciously he sidled closer to beverley, remotely feeling that he was giving the young man very effective sympathy, well knowing that alice was the sweet burden of his thoughts. it was thus oncle jazon honestly tried to fortify his friend against what probably lay in store for him. but beverley failed to catch the old man's crude comfort thus flung at him. the analogy was not apparent. oncle jazon probably felt that his kindness had been ineffectual, for he changed his tone and added: "but i s'pose a young feller like ye can't onderstan' w'at it is to love a 'oman an' 'en hev 'er quit ye for 'nother feller, an' him a buck injin. wall, wall, wall, that's the way it do go! of all the livin' things upon top o' this yere globe, the mos' onsartin', crinkety-crankety an' slippery thing is a young 'oman 'at knows she's poorty an' 'at every other man in the known world is blind stavin' crazy in love wi' 'er, same as you are. she'll drop ye like a hot tater 'fore ye know it, an' 'en look at ye jes' pine blank like she never knowed ye afore in her life. it's so, lieutenant, shore's ye'r born. i know, for i've tried the odd number of 'em, an' they're all jes' the same." by this time beverley's ears were deaf to oncle jazon's querulous, whining voice, and his thoughts once more followed his wistful gaze across the watery plain to where the low roofs of the creole town appeared dimly wavering in the twilight of eventide, which was fast fading into night. the scene seemed unsubstantial; he felt a strange lethargy possessing his soul; he could not realize the situation. in trying to imagine alice, she eluded him, so that a sort of cloudy void fell across his vision with the effect of baffling and benumbing it. he made vain efforts to recall her voice, things that she had said to him, her face, her smiles; all he could do was to evoke an elusive, tantalizing, ghostly something which made him shiver inwardly with a haunting fear that it meant the worst, whatever the worst might be. where was she? could she be dead, and this the shadowy message of her fate? darkness fell, and a thin fog began to drift in wan streaks above the water. not a sound, save the suppressed stir of the camp, broke the wide, dreary silence. oncle jazon babbled until satisfied that beverley was unappreciative, or at least unresponsive. "got to hev some terbacker," he remarked, and shambled away in search of it among his friends. a little later clark approached hastily and said: "i have been looking for you. the march has begun. bowman and charleville are moving; come, there's no time to lose." chapter xviii a duel by moonlight when hamilton, after running some distance, saw that he was gaining upon alice and would soon overtake her, it added fresh energy to his limbs. he had quickly realized the foolishness of what he had done in visiting the room of his prisoner at so late an hour in the night. what would his officers and men think? to let alice escape would be extremely embarrassing, and to be seen chasing her would give good ground for ridicule on the part of his entire command. therefore his first thought, after passing through the postern and realizing fully what sort of predicament threatened him, was to recapture her and return her to the prison room in the block-house without attracting attention. this now promised to be an easier task than he had at first feared; for in the moonlight, which on account of the dispersing clouds, was fast growing stronger, he saw her seem to falter and weaken. certainly her flight was checked and took an eccentric turn, as if some obstruction had barred her way. he rushed on, not seeing that, as alice swerved, a man intervened. indeed he was within a few strides of laying his hand on her when he saw her make the strange movement. it was as if, springing suddenly aside, she had become two persons instead of one. but instantly the figures coincided again, and in becoming taller faced about and confronted him. hamilton stopped short in his tracks. the dark figure was about five paces from him. it was not alice, and a sword flashed dimly but unmistakably in a ray of the moon. the motion visible was that of an expert swordsman placing himself firmly on his legs, with his weapon at guard. alice saw the man in her path just in time to avoid running against him. lightly as a flying bird, when it whisks itself in a short semicircle past a tree or a bough, she sprang aside and swung around to the rear of him, where she could continue her course toward the town. but in passing she recognized him. it was father beret, and how grim he looked! the discovery was made in the twinkling of an eye, and its effect was instantaneous, not only checking the force of her flight, but stopping her and turning her about to gaze before she had gone five paces farther. hamilton's nerve held, startled as he was, when he realized that an armed man stood before him. naturally he fell into the error of thinking that he had been running after this fellow all the way from the little gate, where, he supposed, alice had somehow given him the slip. it was a mere flash of brain-light, so to call it, struck out by the surprise of this curious discovery. he felt his bellicose temper leap up furiously at being balked in a way so unexpected and withal so inexplicable. of course he did not stand there reasoning it all out. the rush of impressions came, and at the same time he acted with promptness. changing the rapier, which he held in his right hand, over into his left, he drew a small pistol from the breast of his coat and fired. the report was sharp and loud; but it caused no uneasiness or inquiry in the fort, owing to the fact that indians invariably emptied their guns when coming into the town. hamilton's aim, although hasty, was not bad. the bullet from his weapon cut through father beret's clothes between his left arm and his body, slightly creasing the flesh on a rib. beyond him it struck heavily and audibly. alice fell limp and motionless to the soft wet ground, where cold puddles of water were splintered over with ice. she lay pitifully crumpled, one arm outstretched in the moonlight. father beret heard the bullet hit her, and turned in time to see her stagger backward with a hand convulsively pressed over her heart. her face, slightly upturned as she reeled, gave the moon a pallid target for its strengthening rays. sweet, beautiful, its rigid features flashed for a second and then half turned away from the light and went down. father beret uttered a short, thin cry and moved as if to go to the fallen girl, but just then he saw hamilton's sword pass over again into his right hand, and knew that there was no time for anything but death or fight. the good priest did not shirk what might have made the readiest of soldiers nervous. hamilton was known to be a great swordsman and proud of the distinction. father beret had seen him fence with farnsworth in remarkable form, touching him at will, and in ministering to the men in the fort he had heard them talk of the governor's incomparable skill. a priest is, in perhaps all cases but the last out of a thousand, a man of peace, not to be forced into a fight; but the exceptional one out of the ten hundred it is well not to stir up if you are looking for an easy victim. hamilton was in the habit of considering every antagonist immediately conquerable. his domineering spirit could not, when opposed, reckon with any possibility of disaster. as he sprang toward father beret there was a mutual recognition and, we speak guardedly, something that sounded exactly like an exchange of furious execrations. as for father beret's words, they may have been a mere priestly formula of objurgation. the moon was accommodating. with a beautiful white splendor it entered a space of cloudless sky, where it seemed to slip along the dusky blue surface among the stars, far over in the west. "it's you, is it?" hamilton exclaimed between teeth that almost crushed one another. "you prowling hypocrite of hell!" father beret said something. it was not complimentary, and it sounded sulphurous, if not profane. remember, however, that a priest can scarcely hope to be better than peter, and peter did actually make the simon pure remark when hard pressed. at all events father beret said something with vigorous emphasis, and met hamilton half way. both men, stimulated to the finger-tips by a draught of imperious passion, fairly plunged to the inevitable conflict. ah, if alice could have seen her beautiful weapons cross, if she could have heard the fine, far-reaching clink, clink, clink, while sparks leaped forth, dazzling even in the moonlight; if she could have noted the admirable, nay, the amazing, play, as the men, regaining coolness to some extent, gathered their forces and fell cautiously to the deadly work, it would have been enough to change the cold shimmer of her face to a flash of warm delight. for she would have understood every feint, longe, parry, and seen at a glance how father beret set the pace and led the race at the beginning. she would have understood; for father beret had taught her all she knew about the art of fencing. hamilton quickly felt, and with a sense of its strangeness, the priest's masterly command of his weapon. the surprise called up all his caution and cleverness. before he could adjust himself to such an unexpected condition he came near being spitted outright by a pretty pass under his guard. the narrow escape, while it put him on his best mettle, sent a wave of superstition through his brain. he recalled what barlow had jocularly said about the doings of the devil-priest or priest-devil at roussillon place on that night when the patrol guard attempted to take gaspard roussillon. was this, indeed, father beret, that gentle old man, now before him, or was it an avenging demon from the shades? the thought flitted electrically across his mind, while he deftly parried, feinted, longed, giving his dark antagonist all he could do to meet the play. priest or devil, he thought, he cared not which, he would reach its vitals presently. yet there lingered with him a haunting half-fear, or tenuous awe, which may have aided, rather than hindered his excellent swordsmanship. under foot it was slushy with mud, water and ice, the consistency varying from a somewhat solid crust to puddles that half inundated hamilton's boots and quite overflowed father beret's moccasins. an execrable field for the little matter in hand. they gradually shifted position. now it was the governor, then the priest, who had advantage as to the light. for some time father beret seemed quite the shiftier and surer fighter, but (was it his age telling on him?) he lost perceptibly in suppleness. still hamilton failed to touch him. there was a baffling something in the old man's escape now and again from what ought to have been an inevitable stroke. was it luck? it seemed to hamilton more than that--a sort of uncanny evasion. or was it supreme mastery, the last and subtlest reach of the fencer's craft? youth forced age slowly backward in the struggle, which at times took on spurts so furious that the slender blades, becoming mere glints of acicular steel, split the moonlight back and forth, up and down, so that their meetings, following one another in a well-nigh continuous stroke, sent a jarring noise through the air. father beret lost inch by inch, until the fighting was almost over the body of alice; and now for the first time hamilton became aware of that motionless something with the white, luminous face in profile against the ground; but he did not let even that unsettle his fencing gaze, which followed the sunken and dusky eyes of his adversary. a perspiration suddenly flooded his body, however, and began to drip across his face. his arm was tiring. a doubt crept like a chill into his heart. then the priest appeared to add a cubit to his stature and waver strangely in the soft light. behind him, low against the sky, a wide winged owl shot noiselessly across just above the prairie. the soul of a true priest is double: it is the soul of a saint and the soul of a worldly man. what is most beautiful in this duality is the supreme courage with which the saintly spirit attacks the worldly and so often heroically masters it. in the beginning of the fight father beret let a passion of the earthly body take him by storm. it was well for governor henry hamilton that the priest was so wrought upon as to unsettle his nerves, otherwise there would have been an evil heart impaled midway of father beret's rapier. a little later the saintly spirit began to assert itself, feebly indeed, but surely. then it was that father beret seemed to be losing agility for a while as he backstepped away from hamilton's increasing energy of assault. in his heart the priest was saying: "i will not murder him. i must not do that. he deserves death, but vengeance is not mine. i will disarm him." step by step he retreated, playing erratically to make an opening for a trick he meant to use. it was singularly loose play, a sort of wavering, shifty, incomprehensible show of carelessness, that caused hamilton to entertain a doubt, which was really a fear, as to what was going to happen; for, notwithstanding all this neglect of due precaution on the priest's part, to touch him seemed impossible, miraculously so, and every plan of attack dissolved into futility in the most maddening way. "priest, devil or ghost!" raged hamilton, with a froth gathering around his mouth; "i'll kill you, or--" he made a longe, when his adversary left an opening which appeared absolutely beyond defence. it was a quick, dextrous, vicious thrust. the blade leaped toward father beret's heart with a twinkle like lightning. at that moment, although warily alert and hopeful that his opportunity was at hand, father beret came near losing his life; for as he side-stepped and easily parried hamilton's thrust, which he had invited, thinking to entangle his blade and disarm him, he caught his foot in alice's skirt and stumbled, nearly falling across her. it would have been easy for hamilton to run him through, had he instantly followed up the advantage. but the moonlight on alice's face struck his eyes, and by that indirect ray of vision which is often strangely effective, he recognized her lying there. it was a disconcerting thing for him, but he rallied instantly and sprang aside, taking a new position just in time to face father beret again. a chill crept up his back. the horror which he could not shake off enraged him beyond measure. gathering fresh energy, he renewed the assault with desperate steadiness the highest product of absolutely molten fury. father beret felt the dangerous access of power in his antagonist's arm, and knew that a crisis had arrived. he could not be careless now. here was a swordsman of the best school calling upon him for all the skill and strength and cunning that he could command. again the saintly element was near being thrown aside by the worldly in the old man's breast. alice lying there seemed mutely demanding that he avenge her. a riotous something in his blood clamored for a quick and certain act in this drama by moonlight--a tragic close by a stroke of terrible yet perfectly fitting justice. there was but the space of a breath for the conflict in the priest's heart, yet during that little time he reasoned the case and quoted scripture to himself. "domine, percutimus in gladio?" rang through his mind. "lord, shall we smite with the sword?" hamilton seemed to make answer to this with a dazzling display of skill. the rapiers sang a strange song above the sleeping girl, a lullaby with coruscations of death in every keen note. father beret was thinking of alice. his brain, playing double, calculated with lightning swiftness the chances and movements of that whirlwind rush of fight, while at the same time it swept through a retrospect of all the years since alice came into his life. how he had watched her grow and bloom; how he had taught her, trained her mind and soul and body to high things, loved her with a fatherly passion unbounded, guarded her from the coarse and lawless influences of her surroundings. like the tolling of an infinitely melancholy bell, all this went through his breast and brain, and, blending with a furious current of whatever passions were deadly dangerous in his nature, swept as a storm bearing its awful force into his sword-arm. the englishman was a lion, the priest a gladiator. the stars aloft in the vague, dark, yet splendid, amphitheater were the audience. it was a question. would the thumbs go down or up? life and death held the chances even; but it was at the will of heaven, not of the stars. "hoc habet" must follow the stroke ordered from beyond the astral clusters and the dusky blue. hamilton pressed, nay rushed, the fight with a weight and at a pace which could not last. but father beret withstood him so firmly that he made no farther headway; he even lost some ground a moment later. "you damned jesuit hypocrite!" he snarled; "you lowest of a vile brotherhood of liars!" then he rushed again, making a magnificent show of strength, quickness and accuracy. the sparks hissed and crackled from the rasping and ringing blades. father beret was, in truth, a jesuit, and as such a zealot; but he was not a liar or a hypocrite. being human, he resented an insult. the saintly spirit in him was strong, yet not strong enough to breast the indignation which now dashed against it. for a moment it went down. "liar and scoundrel yourself!" he retorted, hoarsely forcing the words out of his throat. "spawn of a beastly breed!" hamilton saw and felt a change pass over the spirit of the old priest's movements. instantly the sword leaping against his own seemed endowed with subtle cunning and malignant treachery. before this it had been difficult enough to meet the fine play and hold fairly even; now he was startled and confused; but he rose to the emergency with admirable will power and cleverness. "murderer of a poor orphan girl!" father beret added with a hot concentrated accent; "death is too good for you." hamilton felt nearer his grave than ever before in all his wild experience, for somehow doom, shadowy and formless, like the atmosphere of an awful dream, enmisted those words; but he was no weakling to quit at the height of desperate conflict. he was strong, expert, and game to the middle of his heart. "i'll add a traitor jesuit to my list of dead," he panted forth, rising yet again to the extremest tension of his power. as he did this father beret settled himself as you have seen a mighty horse do in the home stretch of a race. both men knew that the moment had arrived for the final act in their impromptu play. it was short, a duel condensed and crowded into fifteen seconds of time, and it was rapid beyond the power of words to describe. a bystander, had there been one, could not have seen what was finally done or how it was done. father beret's sword seemed to be revolving--it was a halo in front of hamilton for a mere point of time. the old priest seemed to crouch and then make a quick motion as if about to leap backward. a wrench and a snip, as of something violently jerked from a fastening, were followed by a semicircular flight of hamilton's rapier over father beret's head to stick in the ground ten feet behind him. the duel was over, and the whole terrible struggle had occupied less than three minutes. with his wrist strained and his fingers almost broken, hamilton stumbled forward and would have impaled himself had not father beret turned the point of his weapon aside as he lowered it. "surrender, or die!" that was a strange order for a priest to make, but there could be no mistaking its authority or the power behind it. hamilton regained his footing and looked dazed, wheezing and puffing like a porpoise, but he clearly understood what was demanded of him. "if you call out i'll run you through," father beret added, seeing him move his lips as if to shout for help. the level rapier now reinforced the words. hamilton let the breath go noiselessly from his mouth and waved his hand in token of enforced submission. "well, what do you want me to do?" he demanded after a short pause. "you seem to have me at your mercy. what are your terms?" father beret hesitated. it was a question difficult to answer. "give me your word as a british officer that you will never again try to harm any person, not an open, armed enemy, in this town." hamilton's gorge rose perversely. he erected himself with lofty reserve and folded his arms. the dignity of a lieutenant governor leaped into him and took control. father beret correctly interpreted what he saw. "my people have borne much," he said, "and the killing of that poor child there will be awfully avenged if i but say the word. besides, i can turn every indian in this wilderness against you in a single day. you are indeed at my mercy, and i will be merciful if you will satisfy my demand." he was trembling with emotion while he spoke and the desire to kill the man before him was making a frightful struggle with his priestly conscience; but conscience had the upper hand. hamilton stood gazing fixedly, pale as a ghost, his thoughts becoming more and more clear and logical. he was in a bad situation. every word that father beret had spoken was true and went home with force. there was no time for parley or subterfuge; the sword looked as if, eager to find his heart, it could not be held back another moment. but the wan, cold face of the girl had more power than the rapier's hungry point. it made an abject coward of him. "i am willing to give you my word," he presently said. "and let me tell you," he went on more rapidly, "i did not shoot at her. she was behind you." "your word as a british officer?" hamilton again stiffened and hesitated, but only for the briefest space, then said: "yes, my word as a british officer." father beret waved his hand with impatience. "go, then, back to your place in the fort and disturb, my people no more. the soul of this poor little girl will haunt you forever. go!" hamilton stood a little while gazing at the face of alice with the horrible wistfulness of remorse. what would he not have given to rub his eyes and find it all a dream? he turned away; a cloud scudded across the moon; here and yonder in the dim town cocks crowed with a lonesome, desultory effect. father beret plucked up the rapier that he had wrenched from hamilton's hand. it suggested something. "hold!" he called out, "give me the scabbard of this sword." hamilton, who was striding vigorously in the direction of the fort, turned about as the priest hastened to him. "give me the scabbard of this rapier; i want it. take it off." the command was not gently voiced. a hoarse, half-whisper winged every word with an imperious threat. hamilton obeyed. his hands were not firm; his fingers fumbled nervously; but he hurried, and father beret soon had the rapier sheathed and secured at his belt beside its mate. a good and true priest is a burden-bearer. his motto is: alter alterius onera portate; bear ye one another's burdens. his soul is enriched with the cast-off sorrows of those whom he relieves. father beret scarcely felt the weight of alice's body when he lifted it from the ground, so heavy was the pressure of his grief. all that her death meant, not only to him, but to every person who knew her, came into his heart as the place of refuge consecrated for the indwelling of pain. he lifted her and bore her as far toward roussillon place as he could; but his strength fell short just in front of the little bourcier cottage, and half dead he staggered across the veranda to the door, where he sank exhausted. after a breathing spell he knocked. the household, fast asleep, did not hear; but he persisted until the door was opened to him and his burden. captain farnsworth unclosed his bloodshot eyes, at about eight o'clock in the morning, quite confused as to his place and surroundings. he looked about drowsily with a sheepish half-knowledge of having been very drunk. a purring in his head and a dull ache reminded him of an abused stomach. he yawned and stretched himself, then sat up, running a hand through his tousled hair. father beret was on his knees before the cross, still as a statue, his clasped hands extended upward. farnsworth's face lighted with recognition, and he smiled rather bitterly. he recalled everything and felt ashamed, humiliated, self-debased. he had outraged even a priest's hospitality with his brutish appetite, and he hated himself for it. disgust nauseated his soul apace with the physical sinking and squirming that grew upon him. "i'm a shabby, worthless dog!" he muttered, with petulant accent; "why don't you kick me out, father?" the priest turned a collapsed and bloodless gray face upon him, smiled in a tired, perfunctory way, crossed himself absently and said: "you have rested well, my son. hard as the bed is, you have done it a compliment in the way of sleeping. you young soldiers understand how to get the most out of things." "you are too generous, father, and i can't appreciate it. i know what i deserve, and you know it, too. tell me what a brute and fool i am; it will do me good. punch me a solid jolt in the ribs, like the one you gave me not long ago." "qui sine peccato est, primus lapidem mittat" said the priest. "let him who is without sin cast the first stone." he had gone to the hearth and was taking from the embers an earthen saucer, or shallow bowl, in which some fragrant broth simmered and steamed. "a man who has slept as long as you have, my son, usually has a somewhat delicate appetite. now, here is a soup, not especially satisfying to the taste of a gourmet like yourself, but possessing the soothing quality that is good for one just aroused from an unusual nap. i offer it, my son, propter stomachum tuum, et frequentes tuas infirmitates (on account of thy stomach, and thine often infirmities). this soup will go to the right spot." while speaking he brought the hot bowl to farnsworth and set it on the bedcover before him, then fetched a big horn spoon. the fragrance of pungent roots and herbs, blent with a savory waft of buffalo meat, greeted the captain's sense, and the anticipation itself cheered his aching throat. it made him feel greedy and in a hurry. the first spoonful, a trifle bitter, was not so pleasant at the beginning, but a moment after he swallowed it a hot prickling set in and seemed to dart through him from extremity to extremity. slowly, as he ate, the taste grew more agreeable, and all the effects of his debauch disappeared. it was like magic; his blood warmed and glowed, as if touched with mysterious fire. "what is this in this soup, father beret, that makes it so searching and refreshing?" he demanded, when the bowl was empty. father beret shook his head and smiled drolly. "that i cannot divulge, my son, owing to a promise i had to make to the aged indian who gave me the secret. it is the elixir of the miamis. only their consecrated medicine men hold the recipe. the stimulation is but temporary." just then someone knocked on the door. father beret opened it to one of hamilton's aides. "your pardon, father, but hearing captain farnsworth's voice i made bold to knock." "what is it, bobby?" farnsworth called out. "nothing, only the governor has been having you looked for in every nook and corner of the fort and town. you'd better report at once, or hell be having us drag the river for your body." "all right, lieutenant, go back and keep mum, that's a dear boy, and i'll shuffle into colonel hamilton's august presence before many minutes." the aide laughed and went his way whistling a merry tune. "now i am sure to get what i deserve, with usury at forty per cent in advance," said farnsworth dryly, shrugging his shoulders with undissembled dread of hamilton's wrath. but the anticipation was not realized. the governor received farnsworth stiffly enough, yet in a way that suggested a suppressed desire to avoid explanations on the captain's part and a reprimand on his own. in fact, hamilton was hoping that something would turn up to shield him from the effect of his terrible midnight adventure, which seemed the darker the more he thought of it. he had a slow, numb conscience, lying deep where it was hard to reach, and when a qualm somehow entered it he endured in secret what most men would have cast off or confessed. he was haunted, if not with remorse, at least by a dread of something most disagreeable in connection with what he had done. alice's white face had impressed itself indelibly on his memory, so that it met his inner vision at every turn. he was afraid to converse with farnsworth lest she should come up for discussion; consequently their interview was curt and formal. it was soon discovered that alice had escaped from the stockade, and some show of search was made for her by hamilton's order, but farnsworth looked to it that the order was not carried out. he thought he saw at once that his chief knew where she was. the mystery perplexed and pained the young man, and caused him to fear all sorts of evil; but there was a chance that alice had found a safe retreat and he knew that nothing but ill could befall her if she were discovered and brought back to the fort. therefore his search for her became his own secret and for his own heart's ease. and doubtless he would have found her; for even handicapped and distorted love like his is lynx-eyed and sure on the track of its object; but a great event intervened and swept away his opportunity. hamilton's uneasiness, which was that of a strong, misguided nature trying to justify itself amid a confusion of unmanageable doubts and misgivings, now vented itself in a resumption of the repairs he had been making at certain points in the fort. these he completed just in time for the coming of clark. chapter xix the attack it has already been mentioned that indians, arriving singly or in squads, to report at hamilton's headquarters, were in the habit of firing their guns before entering the town or the fort, not only as a signal of their approach, but in order to rid their weapons of their charges preliminary to cleaning them before setting out upon another scalp-hunting expedition. a shot, therefore, or even a volley, heard on the outskirts of the village, was not a noticeable incident in the daily and nightly experience of the garrison. still, for some reason, governor hamilton started violently when, just after nightfall, five or six rifles cracked sharply a short distance from the stockade. he and helm with two other officers were in the midst of a game of cards, while a kettle, swinging on a crane in the ample fire-place, sang a shrill promise of hot apple-jack toddy. "by jove!" exclaimed farnsworth, who, although not in the game, was amusing himself with looking on; "you jump like a fine lady! i almost fancied i heard a bullet hit you." "you may all jump while you can," remarked helm. "that's clark, and your time's short--he'll have this fort tumbling on your heads before daylight of to-morrow morning comes." as he spoke he arose from his seat at the card table and went to look after the toddy, which, as an expert, he had under supervision. hamilton frowned. the mention of clark was disturbing. ever since the strange disappearance of lieutenant barlow he had nursed the fear that possibly clark's scouts had captured him and that the american forces might be much nearer than kaskaskia. besides, his nerves were unruly, as they had been ever since the encounter with father beret; and his vision persisted in turning back upon the accusing cold face of alice, lying in the moonlight. one little detail of that scene almost maddened him at times; it was a sheeny, crinkled wisp of warm looking hair looped across the cheek in which he had often seen a saucy dimple dance when alice spoke or smiled. he was bad enough, but not wholly bad, and the thought of having darkened those merry eyes and stilled those sweet dimples tore through him with a cold, rasping pang. "just as soon as this toddy is properly mixed and tempered," said helm, with a magnetic jocosity beaming from his genial face, "i'm going to propose a toast to the banner of alice roussillon, which a whole garrison of british braves has been unable to take!" "if you do i'll blow a hole through you as big as the south door of hell," said hamilton, in a voice fairly shaken to a husky quaver with rage. "you may do a great many insulting things; but not that." helm was in a half stooping attitude with a ladle in one hand, a cup in the other. he had met hamilton's glowering look with a peculiarly innocent smile, as if to say: "what in the world is the matter now? i never felt in a better humor in all my life. can't you take a joke, i wonder?" he did not speak, however, for a rattling volley of musket and rifle shots hit the top of the clay-daubed chimney, sending down into the toddy a shower of soot and dirt. in a wink every man was on his feet and staring. "gentlemen," said helm, with an impressive oath, "that is clark's soldiers, and they will take your fort; but they ought not to have spoiled this apple toddy!" "oh, the devil!" said hamilton, forcibly resuming a calm countenance, "it is only a squad of drunken indians coming in. we'll forego excitement; there's no battle on hand, gentlemen." "i'm glad you think so, governor hamilton," helm responded, "but i should imagine that i ought to know the crack of a kentucky rifle. i've heard one occasionally in my life. besides, i got a whiff of freedom just now." "captain helm is right," observed farnsworth. "that is an attack." another volley, this time nearer and more concentrated, convinced hamilton that he was, indeed, at the opening of a fight. even while he was giving some hurried orders to his officers, a man was wounded at one of the port-holes. then came a series of yells, answered by a ripple of sympathetic french shouting that ran throughout the town. the patrol guards came straggling in, breathless with excitement. they swore to having seen a thousand men marching across the water-covered meadows. hamilton was brave. the approach of danger stirred him like a trumpet-strain. his fighting blood rose to full tide, and he gave his orders with the steadiness and commanding force of a born soldier. the officers hastened to their respective positions. on all sides sounds indicative of rapid preparations for the fight mingled into a confused strain of military energy. men marched to their places; cannon were wheeled into position, and soon enough the firing began in good earnest. late in the afternoon a rumor of clark's approach had gone abroad through the village; but not a french lip breathed it to a friend of the british. the creoles were loyal to the cause of freedom; moreover, they cordially hated hamilton, and their hearts beat high at the prospect of a change in masters at the fort. every cabin had its hidden gun and supply of ammunition, despite the order to disarm issued by hamilton. there was a hustling to bring these forth, which was accompanied with a guarded yet irrepressible chattering, delightfully french and infinitely volatile. "tiens! je vais frotter mon fusil. j'ai vu un singe!" said jaques bourcier to his daughter, the pretty adrienne, who was coming out of the room in which alice lay. "i saw a monkey just now; i must rub up my gun!" he could not be solemn; not he. the thought of an opportunity to get even with hamilton was like wine in his blood. if you had seen those hardy and sinewy frenchmen gliding in the dusk of evening from cottage to cottage, passing the word that the americans had arrived, saying airy things and pinching one another as they met and hurried on, you would have thought something very amusing and wholly jocund was in preparation for the people of vincennes. there was a current belief in the town that gaspard roussillon never missed a good thing and always somehow got the lion's share. he went out with the ebb to return on the flood. nobody was surprised, therefore, when he suddenly appeared in the midst of his friends, armed to the teeth and emotionally warlike to suit the occasion. of course he took charge of everybody and everything. you could have heard him whisper a bowshot away. "taisons!" he hissed, whenever he met an acquaintance. "we will surprise the fort and scalp the whole garrison. aux armes! les americains viennent d'arriver!" at his own house he knocked and called in vain. he shook the door violently; for he was thinking of the stores under the floor, of the grimy bottles, of the fragrant bordeaux--ah, his throat, how it throbbed! but where was madame roussillon? where was alice? "jean! jean!" he cried, forgetting all precaution, "come here, you scamp, and let me in this minute!" a profoundly impressive silence gave him to understand that his home was deserted. "chiff! frightened and gone to stay with madame godere, i suppose--and i so thirsty! bah! hum, hum, apres le vin la bataille, ziff!" he kicked in the door and groped his way to the liquors. while he hastily swigged and smacked he heard the firing begin with a crackling, desultory volley. he laughed jovially, there in the dark, between draughts and deep sighs of enjoyment. "et moi aussi," he murmured, like the vast murmur of the sea, "i want to be in that dance! pardonnez, messieurs. moi, je veux danser, s'il vous plait." and when he had filled himself he plunged out and rushed away, wrought up to the extreme fighting pitch of temper. diable! if he could but come across that lieutenant barlow, how he would smash him and mangle him! in magnifying his prowess with the lens of imagination he swelled and puffed as he lumbered along. the firing sounded as if it were between the fort and the river; but presently when one of hamilton's cannon spoke, m. roussillon saw the yellow spike of flame from its muzzle leap directly toward the church, and he thought it best to make a wide detour to avoid going between the firing lines. once or twice he heard the whine of a stray bullet high overhead. before he had gone very far he met a man hurrying toward the fort. it was captain francis maisonville, one of hamilton's chief scouts, who had been out on a reconnoissance and, cut off from his party by some of clark's forces, was trying to make his way to the main gate of the stockade. m. roussillon knew maisonville as a somewhat desperate character, a leader of indian forays and a trader in human scalps. surely the fellow was legitimate prey. "ziff! diable de gredin!" he snarled, and leaping upon him choked him to the ground, "je vais vous scalper immediatement!" clark's plan of approach showed masterly strategy. lieutenant bailey, with fourteen regulars, made a show of attack on the east, while major bowman led a company through the town, on a line near where main street in vincennes is now located, to a point north of the stockade. charleville, a brave creole, who was at the head of some daring fellows, by a brilliant dash got position under cover of a natural terrace at the edge of the prairie, opposite the fort's southwestern angle. lieutenant beverley, in whom the commander placed highest confidence, was sent to look for a supply of ammunition, and to gather up all the frenchmen in the town who wished to join in the attack. oncle jazon and ten other available men went with him. they all made a great noise when they felt that the place was completely invested. nor can we deny, much as we would like to, the strong desire for vengeance which raised those shouting voices and nerved those steady hearts to do or die in an undertaking which certainly had a desperate look. patriotism of the purest strain those men had, and that alone would have borne them up; but the recollection of smouldering cabin homes in kentucky, of women and children murdered and scalped, of men brave and true burned at the stake, and of all the indescribable outrages of indian warfare incited and rewarded by the commander of the fort yonder, added to patriotism the terrible urge of that dark passion which clamors for blood to quench the fire of wrath. not a few of those wet, half-frozen, emaciated soldiers of freedom had experienced the soul rending shock of returning from a day's hunting in the forest to find home in ashes and loved ones brutally murdered and scalped, or dragged away to unspeakable outrage under circumstances too harrowing for description, the bare thought of which turns our blood cold, even at this distance. now the opportunity had arrived for a stroke of retaliation. the thought was tremendously stimulating. beverley, with the aid of oncle jazon, was able to lead his little company as far as the church before the enemy saw him. here a volley from the nearest angle of the stockade had to be answered, and pretty soon a cannon began to play upon the position. "we kin do better some'rs else," was oncle jazon's laconic remark flung back over his shoulder, as he moved briskly away from the spot just swept by a six-pounder. "come this yer way, lieutenant. i hyer some o' the fellers a talkin' loud jes' beyant legrace's place. they ain't no sort o' sense a tryin' to hit anything a shootin' in the dark nohow." when they reached the thick of the town there was a strange stir in the dusky streets. men were slipping from house to house, arming themselves and joining their neighbors. clark had sent an order earlier in the evening forbidding any street demonstration by the inhabitants; but he might as well have ordered the wind not to blow or the river to stand still. oncle jazon knew every man whose outlines he could see or whose voice he heard. he called each one by name: "here, roger, fall in!--come louis, alphonse, victor, octave--venez ici, here's the american army, come with me!" his rapid french phrases leaped forth as if shot from a pistol, and his shrill voice, familiar to every ear in vincennes, drew the creole militiamen to him, and soon beverley's company had doubled its numbers, while at the same time its enthusiasm and ability to make a noise had increased in a far greater proportion. in accordance with an order from clark they now took position near the northeast corner of the stockade and began firing, although in the darkness there was but little opportunity for marksmanship. oncle jazon had found citizens legrace and bosseron, and through them clark's men were supplied with ammunition, of which they stood greatly in need, their powder having got wet during their long, watery march. by nine o'clock the fort was completely surrounded, and from every direction the riflemen and musketeers were pouring in volley after volley. beverley with his men took the cover of a fence and some houses sixty yards from the stockade. here to their surprise they found themselves below the line of hamilton's cannon, which, being planted on the second floor of the fort, could not be sufficiently depressed to bear upon them. a well directed musket fire, however, fell from the loopholes of the blockhouses, the bullets rattling merrily against the cover behind which the attacking forces lay. beverley was thinking of alice during every moment of all this stir and tumult he feared that she might still be a prisoner in the fort exposed to the very bullets that his men were discharging at every crack and cranny of those loosely constructed buildings. should he ever see her again? would she care for him? what would be the end of all this terrible suspense? those remote forebodings of evils, formless, shadowy, ineffable, which have harried the lover's heart since time began, crowded all pleasant anticipations out of his mind. clark, in passing hurriedly from company to company around the line, stopped for a little while when he found beverley. "have you plenty of ammunition?" was his first inquiry. "a mighty sight more'n we kin see to shoot with," spoke up oncle jazon. "it's a right smart o' dad burn foolishness to be wastin' it on nothin'; seems like to me 'at we'd better set the dasted fort afire an' smoke the skunks out!" "speak when you are spoken to, my man," said the colonel a trifle hotly, and trying by a sharp scrutiny to make him out in the gloom where he crouched. "ventrebleu! i'm not askin' you, colonel clark, nor no other man, when i shill speak. i talks whenever i gits ready, an' i shoots jes' the same way. so ye'd better go on 'bout yer business like a white man! close up yer own whopper jawed mouth, ef ye want anything shet up!" "oho! is that you, jazon? you're so little i didn't know you! certainly, talk your whole damned under jaw off, for all i care," clark replied, assuming a jocose tone. then turning again to beverley: "keep up the firing and the noise; the fort will be ours in the morning." "what's the use of waiting till morning?" beverley demanded with impatience. "we can tear that stockade to pieces with our hands in half an hour." "i don't think so, lieutenant. it is better to play for the sure thing. keep up the racket, and be ready for 'em if they rush out. we must not fail to capture the hair-buyer general." he passed on, with something cheerful to say whenever he found a squad of his devoted men. he knew how to humor and manage those independent and undisciplined yet heroically brave fellows. what to see and hear, what to turn aside as a joke, what to insist upon with inflexible mastery, he knew by the fine instantaneous sense of genius. there were many men of oncle jazon's cast, true as steel, but refractory as flint, who could not be dominated by any person, no matter of what stamp or office. to them an order was an insult; but a suggestion pleased and captured them. strange as it may seem, theirs was the conquering spirit of america--the spirit which has survived every turn of progress and built up the great body of our independence. beverley submitted to clark's plan with what patience he could, and all night long fired shot for shot with the best riflemen in his squad. it was a fatiguing performance, with apparently little result beyond forcing the garrison now and again to close the embrasures, thus periodically silencing the cannon. toward the close of the night a relaxation showed itself in the shouting and firing all round the line. beverley's men, especially the creoles, held out bravely in the matter of noise; but even they flagged at length, their volatility simmering down to desultory bubbling and half sleepy chattering and chaffing. beverley leaned upon a rude fence, and for a time neglected to reload his hot rifle. of course he was thinking of alice,--he really could not think in any other direction; but it gave him a shock and a start when he presently heard her name mentioned by a little frenchman near him on the left. "there'll never be another such a girl in post vincennes as alice roussillon," the fellow said in the soft creole patois, "and to think of her being shot like a dog!" "and by a man who calls himself a governor, too!" said another. "ah, as for myself, i'm in favor of burning him alive when we capture him. that's me!" "et moi aussi," chimed in a third voice. "that poor girl must be avenged. the man who shot her must die. holy virgin, but if gaspard roussillon were only here!" "but he is here; i saw him just after dark. he was in great fighting temper, that terrible man. ouf! but i should not like to be colonel hamilton and fall in the way of that gaspard roussillon!" "morbleu! i should say not. you may leave me out of a chance like that! i shouldn't mind seeing gaspard handle the governor, though. ah, that would be too good! he'd pay him up for shooting mademoiselle alice." beverley could scarcely hold himself erect by the fence; the smoky, foggy landscape swam round him heavy and strange. he uttered a groan, which brought oncle jazon to his side in a hurry. "qu' avez-vous? what's the matter?" the old man demanded with quick sympathy. "hev they hit ye? lieutenant, air ye hurt much?" beverley did not hear the old man's words, did not feel his kindly touch. "alice! alice!" he murmured, "dead, dead!" "ya-as," drawled oncle jazon, "i hearn about it soon as i got inter town. it's a sorry thing, a mighty sorry thing. but mebby i won't do a little somepin' to that--" beverley straightened himself and lifted his gun, forgetting that he had not reloaded it since firing last. he leveled it at the fort and touched the trigger. simultaneously with his movement an embrasure opened and a cannon flashed, its roar flanked on either side by a crackling of british muskets. some bullets struck the fence and flung splinters into oncle jazon's face. a cannon ball knocked a ridge pole from the roof of a house hard by, and sent it whirling through the air. "ventrebleu!--et apres? what the devil next? better knock a feller's eyes out!" the old man cried. "i ain't a doin' nothin' to ye!" he capered around rubbing his leathery face after the manner of a scalded monkey. beverley was struck in the breast by a flattened and spent ball that glanced from a fence-picket. the shock caused him to stagger and drop his gun; but he quickly picked it up and turned to his companion. "are you hurt, oncle jazon?" he inquired. "are you hurt?" "not a bit--jes' skeert mos' into a duck fit. thought a cannon ball had knocked my whole dang face down my throat! nothin' but a handful o' splinters in my poorty count'nance, makin' my head feel like a porc'-pine. but i sort o' thought i heard somepin' give you a diff." "something did hit me," said beverley, laying a hand on his breast, "but i don't think it was a bullet. they seem to be getting our range at last. tell the men to keep well under cover. they must not expose themselves until we are ready to charge." the shock had brought him back to his duty as a leader of his little company, and with the funeral bell of all his life's happiness tolling in his agonized heart he turned afresh to directing the fire upon the block-house. about this time a runner came from clark with an order to cease firing and let a returning party of british scouts under captain lamothe re-enter the fort unharmed. a strange order it seemed to both officers and men; but it was implicitly obeyed. clark's genius here made another fine strategic flash. he knew that unless he let the scouts go back into the stockade they would escape by running away, and might possibly organize an army of indians with which to succor hamilton. but if they were permitted to go inside they could be captured with the rest of the garrison; hence his order. a few minutes passed in dead silence; then captain lamothe and his party marched close by where beverley's squad was lying concealed. it was a difficult task to restrain the creoles, for some of them hated lamothe. oncle jazon squirmed like a snake while they filed past all unaware that an enemy lurked so near. when they reached the fort, ladders were put down for them and they began to clamber over the wall, crowding and pushing one another in wild haste. oncle jazon could hold in no longer. "ya! ya! ya!" he yelled. "look out! the ladder is a fallin' wi' ye!" then all the lurking crowd shouted as one man, and, sure enough, down came a ladder--men and all in a crashing heap. "silence! silence!" beverley commanded; but he could not check the wild jeering and laughing, while the bruised and frightened scouts hastily erected their ladder again, fairly tumbling over one another in their haste to ascend, and so cleared the wall, falling into the stockade to join the garrison. "ventrebleu!" shrieked oncle jazon. "they've gone to bed; but we'll wake 'em up at the crack o' day an' give 'em a breakfas' o' hot lead!" now the fighting was resumed with redoubled spirit and noise, and when morning came, affording sufficient light to bring out the "bead sights" on the kentucky rifles, the matchless marksmen in clark's band forced the british to close the embrasures and entirely cease trying to use their cannon; but the fight with small arms went merrily on until the middle of the forenoon. meantime gaspard roussillon had tied francis maisonville's hands fast and hard with the strap of his bullet-pouch. "now, i'll scalp you," he said in a rumbling tone, terrible to hear. and with his words out came his hunting knife from its sheath. "o have mercy, my dear monsieur roussillon!" cried the panting captive; "have mercy!" "mercy! yes, like your colonel's, that's what you'll get. you stand by that forban, that scelerat, that bandit, and help him. oh, yes, you'll get mercy! yes, the same mercy that he showed to my poor little alice! your scalp, monsieur, if you please! a small matter; it won't hurt much!" "but, for the sake of old friendship, gaspard, for the sake--" "ziff! poor little alice!" "but i swear to you that i--" "tout de meme, monsieur, je vais vous scalper maintenant." in fact he had taken off a part of maisonville's scalp, when a party of soldiers, among whom was maisonville's brother, a brave fellow and loyal to the american cause, were attracted by his cries and came to his rescue. m. roussillon struggled savagely, insisting upon completing his cruel performance; but he was at last overpowered, partly by brute force and partly by the pleading of maisonville's brother, and made to desist. the big man wept with rage when he saw the bleeding prisoner protected. "eh bien! i'll keep what i've got," he roared, "and i'll take the rest of it next time." he shook the tuft of hair at maisonville and glared like a mad bull. two or three other members of lamothe's band were captured about the same time by some of the french militiamen; and clark, when on his round cheering and directing his forces, discovered that these prisoners were being used as shields. some young creoles, gay with drink and the stimulating effect of fight, had bound the poor fellows and were firing from behind them! of course the commander promptly put an end to this cruelty; but they considered it exquisite fun while it lasted. it was in broad daylight, and they knew that the english in the fort could see what they were doing. "it's shameful to treat prisoners in this way," said clark. "i will not permit it. shoot the next man that offers to do such a thing!" one of the creole youths, a handsome, swarthy adonis in buckskin, tossed his shapely head with a debonair smile and said: "to be sure, mon colonel! but what have they been doing to us? we have amused them all winter; it's but fair that they should give us a little fun now." clark shrugged his broad shoulders and passed on. he understood perfectly what the people of vincennes had suffered under hamilton's brutal administration. at nine o'clock an order was passed to cease firing, and a flag of truce was seen going from clark's headquarters to the fort. it was a peremptory demand for unconditional surrender. hamilton refused, and fighting was fiercely resumed from behind rude breastworks meantime erected. every loop-hole and opening of whatever sort was the focus into which the unerring backwoods rifles sent their deadly bullets. men began to fall in the fort, and every moment hamilton expected an assault in force on all sides of the stockade. this, if successful, would mean inevitable massacre. clark had warned him of the terrible consequences of holding out until the worst should come. "for," said he in his note to the governor, "if i am obliged to storm, you may depend upon such treatment as is justly due to a murderer." historians have wondered why hamilton became so excited and acted so strangely after receiving the note. the phrase, "justly due to a murderer," is the key to the mystery. when he read it his heart sank and a terrible fear seized him. "justly due to a murderer!" ah, that calm, white, beautiful girlish face, dead in the moonlight, with the wisp of shining hair across it! "such treatment as is justly due to a murderer!" cold drops of sweat broke out on his forehead and a shiver went through his body. during the truce clark's weary yet still enthusiastic besiegers enjoyed a good breakfast prepared for them by the loyal dames of vincennes. little adrienne bourcier was one of the handmaidens of the occasion. she brought to beverley's squad a basket, almost as large as herself, heaped high with roasted duck and warm wheaten bread, while another girl bore two huge jugs of coffee, fragrant and steaming hot. the men cheered them lustily and complimented them without reserve, so that before their service was over their faces were glowing with delight. and yet adrienne's heart was uneasy, and full of longing to hear something of rene de ronville. surely some one of her friends must know something about him. ah, there was oncle jazon! doubtless he could tell her all that she wanted to know. she lingered, after the food was distributed, and shyly inquired. "hain't seed the scamp," said oncle jazon, only he used the patois most familiar to the girl's ear. "killed an' scelped long ago, i reckon." his mouth was so full that he spoke mumblingly and with utmost difficulty. nor did he glance at adrienne, whose face took on as great pallor as her brown complexion could show. beverley ate but little of the food. he sat apart on a piece of timber that projected from the rough breastwork and gave himself over to infinite misery of spirit, which was trebled when he took alice's locket from his bosom, only to discover that the bullet which struck him had almost entirely destroyed the face of the miniature. he gripped the dinted and twisted case and gazed at it with the stare of a blind man. his heart almost ceased to beat and his breath had the rustling sound we hear when a strong man dies of a sudden wound. somehow the defacement of the portrait was taken by his soul as the final touch of fate, signifying that alice was forever and completely obliterated from his life. he felt a blur pass over his mind. he tried in vain to recall the face and form so dear to him; he tried to imagine her voice; but the whole universe was a vast hollow silence. for a long while he was cold, staring, rigid; then the inevitable collapse came, and he wept as only a strong man can who is hurt to death, yet cannot die. adrienne approached him, thinking to speak to him about rene; but he did not notice her, and she went her way, leaving beside him a liberal supply of food. chapter xx alice's flag governor hamilton received the note sent him by colonel clark and replied to it with curt dignity; but his heart was quaking. as a soldier he was true to the military tradition, and nothing could have induced him to surrender his command with dishonor. "lieutenant-governor hamilton," he wrote to clark, "begs leave to acquaint colonel clark that he and his garrison are not disposed to be awed into any action unworthy of british subjects." "very brave words," said helm, when hamilton read the note to him, "but you'll sing a milder tune before many minutes, or you and your whole garrison will perish in a bloody heap. listen to those wild yells! clark has enough men to eat you all up for breakfast. you'd better be reasonable and prudent. it's not bravery to court massacre." hamilton turned away without a word and sent the message; but helm saw that he was excited, and could be still further wrought up. "you are playing into the hands of your bitterest enemies, the frog-eaters," he went on. "these creoles, over whom you've held a hot poker all winter, are crazy to be turned loose upon you; and you know that they've got good cause to feel like giving you the extreme penalty. they'll give it to you without a flinch if they get the chance. you've done enough." hamilton whirled about and glared ferociously. "helm, what do you mean?" he demanded in a voice as hollow as it was full of desperate passion. the genial captain laughed, as if he had heard a good joke. "you won't catch any fish if you swear, and you look blasphemous," he said with the lightness of humor characteristic of him at all times. "you'd better say a prayer or two. just reflect a moment upon the awful sins you have committed and--" a crash of coalescing volleys from every direction broke off his levity. clark was sending his response to hamilton's lofty note. the guns of freedom rang out a prophecy of triumph, and the hissing bullets clucked sharply as they entered the solid logs of the walls or whisked through an aperture and bowled over a man. the british musketeers returned the fire as best they could, with a courage and a stubborn coolness which helm openly admired, although he could not hide his satisfaction whenever one of them was disabled. "lamothe and his men are refusing to obey orders," said farnsworth a little later, hastily approaching hamilton, his face flushed and a gleam of hot anger in his eyes. "they're in a nasty mood; i can do nothing with them; they have not fired a shot." "mutiny?" hamilton demanded. "not just that. they say they do not wish to fire on their kinsmen and friends. they are all french, you know, and they see their cousins, brothers, uncles and old acquaintances out there in clark's rabble. i can do nothing with them." "shoot the scoundrels, then!" "it will be a toss up which of us will come out on top if we try that. besides, if we begin a fight inside, the americans will make short work of us." "well, what in hell are we to do, then?" "oh, fight, that's all," said farnsworth apathetically turning to a small loop-hole and leveling a field glass through it. "we might make a rush from the gates and stampede them," he presently added. then he uttered an exclamation of great surprise. "there's lieutenant beverley out there," he exclaimed. "you're mistaken, you're excited," hamilton half sneeringly remarked, yet not without a shade of uneasiness in his expression. "you forget, sir." "look for yourself, it's easily settled," and farnsworth proffered the glass. "he's there, to a certainty, sir." "i saw beverley an hour ago," said helm. "i knew all the time that he'd be on hand." it was a white lie. captain helm was as much surprised as his captors at what he heard; but he could not resist the temptation to be annoying. hamilton looked as farnsworth directed, and sure enough, there was the young virginian lieutenant, standing on a barricade, his hat off, cheering his men with a superb show of zeal. not a hair of his head was missing, so far as the glass could be relied upon to show. oncle jazon's quick old eyes saw the gleam of the telescope tube in the loop-hole. "i never could shoot much," he muttered, and then a little bullet sped with absolute accuracy from his disreputable looking rifle and shattered the object-lens, just as hamilton moved to withdraw the glass, uttering an ejaculation of intense excitement. "such devils of marksmen!" said he, and his face was haggard. "that infernal indian lied." "i could have told you all the time that the scalp long-hair brought to you was not beverley's," said helm indifferently. "i recognized lieutenant barlow's hair as soon as i saw it." this was another piece of off-hand romance. helm did not dream that he was accidentally sketching a horrible truth. "barlow's!" exclaimed farnsworth. "yes, barlow's, no mistake--" two more men reeled from a port-hole, the blood spinning far out of their wounds. indeed, through every aperture in the walls the bullets were now humming like mad hornets. "close that port-hole!" stormed hamilton; then turning to farnsworth he added: "we cannot endure this long. shut up every place large enough for a bullet to get through. go all around, give strict orders to all. see that the men do not foolishly expose themselves. those ruffians out there have located every crack." his glimpse of beverley and the sinister remark of helm had completely unmanned him before his men fell. now it rushed upon him that if he would escape the wrath of the maddened creoles and the vengeance of alice's lover, he must quickly throw himself upon the mercy of clark. it was his only hope. he chafed inwardly, but bore himself with stern coolness. he presently sought farnsworth, pulled him aside and suggested that something must be done to prevent an assault and a massacre. the sounds outside seemed to forebode a gathering for a desperate rush, and in his heart he felt all the terrors of awful anticipation. "we are completely at their mercy, that is plain," he said, shrugging his shoulders and gazing at the wounded men writhing in their agony. "what do you suggest?" captain farnsworth was a shrewd officer. he recollected that philip dejean, justice of detroit, was on his way down the wabash from that post, and probably near at hand, with a flotilla of men and supplies. why not ask for a few days of truce? it could do no harm, and if agreed to, might be their salvation. hamilton jumped at the thought, and forthwith drew up a note which he sent out with a white flag. never before in all his military career had he been so comforted by a sudden cessation of fighting. his soul would grovel in spite of him. alice's cold face now had beverley's beside it in his field of inner vision--a double assurance of impending doom, it seemed to him. there was short delay in the arrival of colonel clark's reply, hastily scrawled on a bit of soiled paper. the request for a truce was flatly refused; but the note closed thus: "if mr. hamilton is desirous of a conferance with col. clark he will meet him at the church with captn. helms." the spelling was not very good, and there was a redundancy of capital letters; yet hamilton understood it all; and it was very difficult for him to conceal his haste to attend the proposed conference. but he was afraid to go to the church--the thought chilled him. he could not face father beret, who would probably be there. and what if there should be evidences of the funeral?--what if?--he shuddered and tried to break away from the vision in his tortured brain. he sent a proposition to clark to meet him on the esplanade before the main gate of the fort; but clark declined, insisting upon the church. and thither he at last consented to go. it was an immense brace to his spirit to have helm beside him during that walk, which, although but eighty yards in extent, seemed to him a matter of leagues. on the way he had to pass near the new position taken up by beverley and his men. it was a fine test of nerve, when the lieutenant's eyes met those of the governor. neither man permitted the slightest change of countenance to betray his feelings. in fact, beverley's face was as rigid as marble; he could not have changed it. but with oncle jazon it was a different affair. he had no dignity to preserve, no fine military bearing to sustain, no terrible tug of conscience, no paralyzing grip of despair on his heart. when he saw hamilton going by, bearing himself so superbly, it affected the french volatility in his nature to such an extent that his tongue could not be controlled. "va t'en, bete, forban, meurtrier! skin out f'om here! beast, robber, murderer!" he cried, in his keen screech-owl voice. "i'll git thet scelp o' your'n afore sundown, see 'f i don't! ye onery gal-killer an' ha'r buyer!" the blood in hamilton's veins caught no warmth from these remarks; but he held his head high and passed stolidly on, as if he did not hear a word. helm turned the tail of an eye upon oncle jazon and gave him a droll, quizzical wink of approval. in response the old man with grotesque solemnity drew his buckhorn handled knife, licked its blade and returned it to its sheath,--a bit of pantomime well understood and keenly enjoyed by the onlooking creoles. "putois! coquin!" they jeered, "goujat! poltron!" beverley heard the taunting racket, but did not realize it, which was well enough, for he could not have restrained the bitter effervescence. he stood like a statue, gazing fixedly at the now receding figure, the lofty, cold-faced man in whom centered his hate of hates. clark had requested him to be present at the conference in the church; but he declined, feeling that he could not meet hamilton and restrain himself. now he regretted his refusal, half wishing that--no, he could not assassinate an enemy under a white flag. in his heart he prayed that there would be no surrender, that hamilton would reject every offer. to storm the fort and revel in butchering its garrison seemed the only desirable thing left for him in life. father beret was, indeed, present at the church, as hamilton had dreaded; and the two duelists gave each other a rapier-like eye-thrust. neither spoke, however, and clark immediately demanded a settlement of the matter in hand. he was brusque and imperious to a degree, apparently rather anxious to repel every peaceful advance. it was a laconic interview, crisp as autumn ice and bitter as gallberries. colonel clark had no respect whatever for hamilton, to whom he had applied the imperishable adjective "hair-buyer general." on the other hand governor hamilton, who felt keenly the disgrace of having to equalize himself officially and discuss terms of surrender with a rough backwoodsman, could not conceal his contempt of clark. the five men of history, hamilton, helm, hay, clark and bowman, were not distinguished diplomats. they went at their work rather after the hammer-and-tongs fashion. clark bluntly demanded unconditional surrender. hamilton refused. they argued the matter. helm put in his oar, trying to soften the situation, as was his custom on all occasions, and received from clark a stinging reprimand, with the reminder that he was nothing but a prisoner on parole, and had no voice at all in settling the terms of surrender. "i release him, sir," said hamilton. "he is no longer a prisoner. i am quite willing to have captain helm join freely in our conference." "and i refuse to permit his acceptance of your favor," responded clark. "captain helm, you will return with mr. hamilton to the fort and remain his captive until i free you by force. meantime hold your tongue." father beret, suave looking and quiet, occupied himself at the little altar, apparently altogether indifferent to what was being said; but he lost not a word of the talk. "qui habet aures audiendi, audiat," he inwardly repeated, smiling blandly. "gaudete in illa die, et exultate!" hamilton rose to go; deep lines of worry creased his face; but when the party had passed outside, he suddenly turned upon clark and said: "why do you demand impossible terms of me?" "i will tell you, sir," was the stern answer, in a tone in which there was no mercy or compromise. "i would rather have you refuse. i desire nothing so much as an excuse to wreak full and bloody vengeance on every man in that fort who has engaged in the business of employing savages to scalp brave, patriotic men and defenseless women and children. the cries of the widows and the fatherless on our frontiers require the blood of the indian partisans at my hands. if you choose to risk the massacre of your garrison to save those despicable red-handed partisans, have your pleasure. what you have done you know better than i do. i have a duty to perform. you may be able to soften its nature. i may take it into my head to send for some of our bereaved women to witness my terrible work and see that it is well done, if you insist upon the worst." major hay, who was hamilton's indian agent, now, with some difficulty clearing his throat, spoke up. "pray, sir," said he, "who is it that you call indian partisans?" "sir," replied clark, seeing that his words had gone solidly home, "i take major hay to be one of the principals." this seemed to strike hay with deadly force. clark's report says that he was "pale and trembling, scarcely able to stand," and that "hamilton blushed, and, i observed, was much affected at his behavior. "doubtless, if the doughty american commander had known more about the governor's feelings just then, he would have added that an awful fear, even greater than the indian agent's, did more than anything else to congest the veins in his face." the parties separated without reaching an agreement; but the end had come. the terror in hamilton's soul was doubled by a wild scene enacted under the walls of his fort; a scene which, having no proper place in this story, strong as its historical interest unquestionably is, must be but outlined. a party of indians returning from a scalping expedition in kentucky and along the ohio, was captured on the outskirts of the town by some of clark's men, who proceeded to kill and scalp them within full view of the beleaguered garrison, after which their mangled bodies were flung into the river. if the british commander needed further wine of dread to fill his cup withal, it was furnished by ostentatious marshaling of the american forces for a general assault. his spirit broke completely, so that it looked like a godsend to him when clark finally offered terms of honorable surrender, the consummation of which was to be postponed until the following morning. he accepted promptly, appending to the articles of capitulation the following reasons for his action: "the remoteness from succor; the state and quantity of provisions, etc.; unanimity of officers and men in its expediency; the honorable terms allowed; and, lastly, the confidence in a generous enemy." confidence in a generous enemy! abject fear of the vengeance just wreaked upon his savage emissaries would have been the true statement. beverley read the paper when clark sent for him; but he could not join in the extravagant delight of his fellow officers and their brave men. what did all this victory mean to him? hamilton to be treated as an honorable prisoner of war, permitted to strut forth from the feat with his sword at his side, his head up--the scalp-buyer, the murderer of alice! what was patriotism to the crushed heart of a lover? even if his vision had been able to pierce the future and realize the splendor of anglo-saxon civilization which was to follow that little triumph at vincennes, what pleasure could it have afforded him? alice, alice, only alice; no other thought had influence, save the recurring surge of desire for vengeance upon her murderer. and yet that night beverley slept, and so forgot his despair for many hours, even dreamed a pleasant dream of home, where his childhood was spent, of the stately old house on the breezy hill-top overlooking a sunny plantation, with a little river lapsing and shimmering through it. his mother's dear arms were around him, her loving breath stirred his hair; and his stalwart, gray-headed father sat on the veranda comfortably smoking his pipe, while away in the wide fields the negroes sang at the plow and the hoe. sweeter and sweeter grew the scene, softer the air, tenderer the blending sounds of the water-murmur, leaf-rustle, bird-song, and slave-song, until hand in hand he wandered with alice in greening groves, where the air was trembling with the ecstacy of spring. a young officer awoke him with an order from clark to go on duty at once with captains worthington and williams, who, under colonel clark himself, were to take possession of the fort. mechanically he obeyed. the sun was far up, shining between clouds of a leaden, watery hue, by the time everything was ready for the important ceremony. beside the main gate of the stockade two companies of patriots under bowman and mccarty were drawn up as guards, while the british garrison filed out and was taken in charge. this bit of formality ended, governor hamilton, attended by some of his officers, went back into the fort and the gate was closed. clark now gave orders that preparations be made for hauling down the british flag and hoisting the young banner of liberty in its place, when everything should be ready for a salute of thirteen guns from the captured battery. helm's round face was beaming. plainly it showed that his happiness was supreme. he dared not say anything, however; for clark was now all sternness and formality; it would be dangerous to take any liberties; but he could smile and roll his quid of tobacco from cheek to cheek. hamilton and farnsworth, the latter slightly wounded in the left arm, which was bandaged, stood together somewhat apart from their fellow officers, while preliminary steps for celebrating their defeat and capture were in progress. they looked forlorn enough to have excited deep sympathy under fairer conditions. outside the fort the creoles were beginning a noise of jubilation. the rumor of what was going to be done had passed from mouth to mouth, until every soul in the town knew and thrilled with expectancy. men, women and children came swarming to see the sight, and to hear at close range the crash of the cannon. they shouted, in a scattering way at first, then the tumult grew swiftly to a solid rolling tide that seemed beyond all comparison with the population of vincennes. hamilton heard it, and trembled inwardly, afraid lest the mob should prove too strong for the guard. one leonine voice roared distinctly, high above the noise. it was a sound familiar to all the creoles,--that bellowing shout of gaspard roussillon's. he was roaming around the stockade, having been turned back by the guard when he tried to pass through the main gate. "they shut me out!" he bellowed furiously. "i am gaspard roussillon, and they shut me out, me! ziff! me voici! je vais entrer immediatement, moi!" he attracted but little attention, however; the people and the soldiery were all too excited by the special interest of the occasion, and too busy with making a racket of their own, for any individual, even the great roussillon, to gain their eyes or ears. he in turn scarcely heard the tumult they made, so self-centered were his burning thoughts and feelings. a great occasion in vincennes and he, gaspard roussillon, not recognized as one of the large factors in it! ah, no, never! and he strode along the wall of the stockade, turning the corners and heavily shambling over the inequalities till he reached the postern. it was not fastened, some one having passed through just before him. "ziff!" he ejaculated, stepping into the area and shaking himself after the manner of a dusty mastiff. "c'est moi! gaspard roussillon!" his massive under jaw was set like that of a vise, yet it quivered with rage, a rage which was more fiery condensation of self-approval than anger. outside the shouting, singing and huzzahs gathered strength and volume, until the sound became a hoarse roar. clark was uneasy; he had overheard much of a threatening character during the siege. the creoles were, he knew, justly exasperated, and even his own men had been showing a spirit which might easily be fanned into a dangerous flame of vengeance. he was very anxious to have the formalities of taking possession of the fort over with, so that he could the better control his forces. sending for beverley he assigned him to the duty of hauling down the british flag and running up that of virginia. it was an honor of no doubtful sort, which under different circumstances would have made the lieutenant's heart glow. as it was, he proceeded without any sense of pride or pleasure, moving as a mere machine in performing an act significant beyond any other done west of the mountains, in the great struggle for american independence and the control of american territory. hamilton stood a little way from the foot of the tall flag-pole, his arms folded on his breast, his chin slightly drawn in, his brows contracted, gazing steadily at beverley while he was untying the halyard, which had been wound around the pole's base about three feet above the ground. the american troops in the fort were disposed so as to form three sides of a hollow square, facing inward. oncle jazon, serving as the ornamental extreme of one line, was conspicuous for his outlandish garb and unmilitary bearing. the silence inside the stockade offered a strong contrast to the tremendous roar of voices outside. clark made a signal, and at the tap of a drum, beverley shook the ropes loose and began to lower the british colors. slowly the bright emblem of earth's mightiest nation crept down in token of the fact that a handful of back-woodsmen had won an empire by a splendid stroke of pure heroism. beverley detached the flag, and saluting, handed it to colonel clark. hamilton's breast heaved and his iron jaws tightened their pressure until the lines of his cheeks were deep furrows of pain. father beret, who had just been admitted, quietly took a place at one side near the wall. there was a fine, warm, benignant smile on his old face, yet his powerful shoulders drooped as if weighted down with a heavy load. hamilton was aware when he entered, and instantly the scene of their conflict came into his memory with awful vividness, and he saw alice lying outstretched, stark and, cold, the shining strand of hair fluttering across her pallid cheek. her ghost overshadowed him. just then there was a bird-like movement, a wing-like rustle, and a light figure flitted swiftly across the area. all eyes were turned upon it. hamilton recoiled, as pale as death, half lifting his hands, as if to ward off a deadly blow, and then a gay flag was flung out over his head. he saw before him the girl he had shot; but her beautiful face was not waxen now, nor was it cold or lifeless. the rich red blood was strong under the browned, yet delicate skin, the eyes were bright and brave, the cherry lips, slightly apart, gave a glimpse of pearl white teeth, and the dimples,--those roguish dimples,--twinkled sweetly. colonel clark looked on in amazement, and in spite of himself, in admiration. he did not understand; the sudden incident bewildered him; but his virile nature was instantly and wholly charmed. something like a breath of violets shook the tenderest chords of his heart. alice stood firmly, a statue of triumph, her right arm outstretched, holding the flag high above hamilton's head; and close by her side the little hunchback jean was posed in his most characteristic attitude, gazing at the banner which he himself had stolen and kept hidden for alice's sake, and because he loved it. there was a dead silence for some moments, during which hamilton's face showed that he was ready to collapse; then the keen voice of oncle jazon broke forth: "vive zhorzh vasinton! vim la banniere d'alice roussillon!" he sprang to the middle of the area and flung his old cap high in air, with a shrill war-whoop. "h'ist it! h'ist it! hissez la banniere de mademoiselle alice roussillon! voila, que c'est glorieuse, cette banniere la! h'ist it! h'ist it!" he was dancing with a rickety liveliness, his goatish legs and shriveled body giving him the look of an emaciated satyr. clark had been told by some of his creole officers the story of how alice raised the flag when helm took the fort, and how she snatched it from hamilton's hand, as it were, and would not give it up when he demanded it. the whole situation pretty soon began to explain itself, as he saw what alice was doing. then he heard her say to hamilton, while she slowly swayed the rippling flag back and forth: "i said, as you will remember, monsieur le gouverneur, that when you next should see this flag, i should wave it over your head. well, look, i am waving it! vive la republique! vive george washington! what do you think of it, monsieur le gouverneur?" the poor little hunchback jean took off his cap and tossed it in rhythmical emphasis, keeping time to her words. and now from behind the hollow square came a mighty voice: "c'est moi, gaspard roussillon; me voici, messieurs!" there was a spirit in the air which caught from alice a thrill of romantic energy. the men in the ranks and the officers in front of them felt a wave of irresistible sympathy sweep through their hearts. her picturesque beauty, her fine temper, the fitness of the incident to the occasion, had an instantaneous power which moved all men alike. "raise her flag! run up the young lady's flag!" some one shouted, and then every voice seemed to echo the words. clark was a young man of noble type, in whose veins throbbed the warm chivalrous blood of the cavaliers. a waft of the suddenly prevailing influence bore him also quite off his feet. he turned to beverley and said: "do it! it will have a great effect. it is a good idea; get the young lady's flag and her permission to run it up." before he finished speaking, indeed at the first glance, he saw that beverley, like hamilton, was white as a dead man; and at the same time it came to his memory that his young friend had confided to him during the awful march through the prairie wilderness, a love-story about this very alice roussillon. in the worry and stress of the subsequent struggle, he had forgotten the tender basis upon which beverley had rested his excuse for leaving vincennes. now, it all reappeared in justification of what was going on. it touched the romantic core of his southern nature. "i say, lieutenant beverley," he repeated, "beg the young lady's permission to use her flag upon this glorious occasion; or shall i do it for you?" there were no miracles in those brave days, and the strain of life with its terrible realities braced all men and women to meet sudden explosions of surprise, whether of good or bad effect, with admirable equipoise; but beverley's trial, it must be admitted, was extraordinary; still he braced himself quickly and his whole expression changed when clark moved to go to alice. for he realized now that it was, indeed, alice in flesh and blood, standing there, the center of admiration, filling the air with her fine magnetism and crowning a great triumph with her beauty. he gave her a glad, flashing smile, as if he had just discovered her, and walked straight to her, his hands extended. she was not looking toward him; but she saw him and turned to face him. hers was the advantage; for she had known, for some hours, of his presence in vincennes, and had prepared herself to meet him courageously and with maidenly reserve. there is no safety, however, where love lurks. neither beverley nor alice was as much agitated at hamilton, yet they both forgot, what he remembered, that a hundred grim frontier soldiers were looking on. hamilton had his personal and official dignity to sustain, and he fairly did it, under what a pressure of humiliating and surprising circumstances we can fully comprehend. not so with the two young people, standing as it were in a suddenly bestowed and incomparable happiness, on the verge of a new life, each to the other an unexpected, unhoped-for resurrection from the dead. to them there was no universe save the illimitable expanse of their love. in that moment of meeting, all that they had suffered on account of love was transfused and poured forth,--a glowing libation for love's sake,--a flood before which all barriers broke. father beret was looking on with a strange fire in his eyes, and what he feared would happen, did happen. alice let the flag fall at hamilton's feet, when beverley came near her smiling that great, glad smile, and with a joyous cry leaped into his outstretched arms. jean snatched up the fallen banner and ran to colonel clark with it. two minutes later it was made fast and the halyard began to squeak through the rude pulley at the top of the pole. up, up, climbed the gay little emblem of glory, while the cannon crashed from the embrasures of the blockhouse hard by, and outside the roar of voices redoubled. thirteen guns boomed the salute, though it should have been fourteen,--the additional one for the great northwestern territory, that day annexed to the domain of the young american republic. the flag went up at old vincennes never to come down again, and when it reached its place at the top of the staff, beverley and alice stood side by side looking at it, while the sun broke through the clouds and flashed on its shining folds, and love unabashed glorified the two strong young faces. chapter xxi some transactions in scalps history would be a very orderly affair, could the dry-as-dust historians have their way, and doubtless it would be thrillingly romantic at every turn if the novelists were able to control its current. fortunately neither one nor the other has much influence, and the result, in the long run, is that most novels are shockingly tame, while the large body of history is loaded down with picturesque incidents, which if used in fiction, would be thought absurdly romantic and improbable. were our simple story of old vincennes a mere fiction, we should hesitate to bring in the explosion of a magazine at the fort with a view to sudden confusion and, by that means, distracting attention from our heroine while she betakes herself out of a situation which, although delightful enough for a blessed minute, has quickly become an embarrassment quite unendurable. but we simply adhere to the established facts in history. owing to some carelessness there was, indeed, an explosion of twenty-six six-pound cartridges, which made a mighty roar and struck the newly installed garrison into a heap, so to say, scattering things terribly and wounding six men, among them captains bowman and worthington. after the thunderous crash came a momentary silence, which embraced both the people within the fort and the wild crowd outside. then the rush and noise were indescribable. even clark gave way to excitement, losing command of himself and, of course, of his men. there was a stampede toward the main gate by one wing of the troops in the hollow square. they literally ran over beverley and alice, flinging them apart and jostling them hither and yonder without mercy. of course the turmoil quickly subsided. clark and beverley got hold of themselves and sang out their peremptory orders with excellent effect. it was like oil on raging water; the men obeyed in a straggling way, getting back into ranks as best they could. "ventrebleu!" squeaked oncle jazon, "ef i didn't think the ole world had busted into a million pieces!" he was jumping up and down not three feet from beverley's toes, waving his cap excitedly. "but wasn't i skeert! ya, ya, ya! vive la banniere d'alice roussillon! vive zhorzh vasinton!" hearing alice's name caused beverley to look around. where was she? in the distance he saw father beret hurrying to the spot where some of the men burnt and wounded by the explosion were being stripped and cared for. hamilton still stood like a statue. he appeared to be the only cool person in the fort. "where is alice?--miss roussillon--where did miss roussillon go?" beverley exclaimed, staring around like a lost man. "where is she?" "d'know," said oncle jazon, resuming his habitual expression of droll dignity, "she shot apast me jes' as thet thing busted loose, an' she went like er hummin' bird, skitch!--jes' thet way--an' i didn't see 'r no more. 'cause i was skeert mighty nigh inter seven fits; 'spect that 'splosion blowed her clean away! ventrebleu! never was so plum outen breath an' dead crazy weak o' bein' afeard!" "lieutenant beverley," roared clark in his most commanding tone, "go to the gate and settle things there. that mob outside is trying to break in!" the order was instantly obeyed, but beverley had relapsed. once more his soul groped in darkness, while the whole of his life seemed unreal, a wavering, misty, hollow dream. and yet his military duty was all real enough. he knew just what to do when he reached the gate. "back there at once!" he commanded, not loudly, but with intense force, "back there!" this to the inward surging wedge of excited outsiders. then to the guard. "shoot the first man who crosses the line!" "ziff! me voici! moi! gaspard roussillon. laissez-moi passer, messieurs." a great body hurled itself frantically past beverley and the guard, going out through the gateway against the wall of the crowd, bearing everything before it and shouting: "back, fools! you'll all be killed--the powder is on fire! ziff! run!" wild as a march hare, he bristled with terror and foamed at the mouth. he stampeded the entire mass. there was a wild howl; a rush in the other direction followed, and soon enough the esplanade and all the space back to the barricades and beyond were quite deserted. alice was not aware that a serious accident had happened. naturally she thought the great, rattling, crashing noise of the explosion a mere part of the spectacular show. when the rush followed, separating her and beverley, it was a great relief to her in some way; for a sudden recognition of the boldness of her action in the little scene just ended, came over her and bewildered her. an impulse sent her running away from the spot where, it seemed to her, she had invited public derision. the terrible noises all around her were, she now fancied, but the jeering and hooting of rude men who had seen her unmaidenly forwardness. with a burning face she flew to the postern and slipped out, once more taking the course which had become so familiar to her feet. she did not slacken her speed until she reached the bourcier cabin, where she had made her home since the night when hamilton's pistol ball struck her. the little domicile was quite empty of its household, but alice entered and flung herself into a chair, where she sat quivering and breathless when adrienne, also much excited, came in, preceded by a stream of patois that sparkled continuously. "the fort is blown up!" she cried, gesticulating in every direction at once, her petite figure comically dilated with the importance of her statement. "a hundred men are killed, and the powder is on fire!" she pounced into alice's arms, still talking as fast as her tongue could vibrate, changing from subject to subject without rhyme or reason, her prattle making its way by skips and shies until what was really upper-most in her sweet little heart disclosed itself. "and, o alice! rene has not come yet!" she plunged her dusky face between alice's cheek and shoulder; alice hugged her sympathetically and said: "but rene will come, i know he will, dear." "oh, but do you know it? is it true? who told you? when will he come? where is he? tell me about him!" her head popped up from her friend's neck and she smiled brilliantly through the tears that were still sparkling on her long black lashes. "i didn't mean that i had heard from him, and i don't know where he is; but--but they always come back." "you say that because your man--because lieutenant beverley has returned. it is always so. you have everything to make you happy, while i--i--" again her eyes spilled their shower, and she hid her face in her hands which alice tried in vain to remove. "don't cry, adrienne. you didn't see me crying--" "no, of course not; you didn't have a thing to cry about. lieutenant beverley told you just where he was going and just what--" "but think, adrienne, only think of the awful story they told--that he was killed, that governor hamilton had paid long-hair for killing him and bringing back his scalp--oh dear, just think! and i thought it was true." "well, i'd be willing to think and believe anything in the world, if rene would come back," said adrienne, her face, now uncovered, showing pitiful lines of suffering. "o alice, alice, and he never, never will come!" alice exhausted every device to cheer, encourage and comfort her. adrienne had been so good to her when she lay recovering from the shock of hamilton's pistol bullet, which, although it came near killing her, made no serious wound--only a bruise, in fact. it was one of those fortunate accidents, or providentially ordered interferences, which once in a while save a life. the stone disc worn by alice chanced to lie exactly in the missile's way, and while it was not broken, the ball, already somewhat checked by passing through several folds of father beret's garments, flattened itself upon it with a shock which somehow struck alice senseless. here again, history in the form of an ancient family document (a letter written in by alice herself), gives us the curious brace of incidents, to wit, the breaking of the miniature on beverley's breast by a british musket-ball, and the stopping of hamilton's bullet over alice's heart by the indian charm-stone. "which shows the goodness of god," the letter goes on, "and also seems to sustain the indian legend concerning the stone, that whoever might wear it could not be killed. unquestionable (sic) mr. hamilton's shot, which was aimed at poor, dear old father beret, would have pierced my heart, but for that charm-stone. as for my locket, it did not, as some have reported, save fitzhugh's life when the musket-ball was stopped. the ball was so spent that the blow was only hard enough to spoil temporary (sic) the face of the miniature, which was afterwards restored fairly well by an artist in paris. when it did actually save fitzhugh's life was out on the illinois plain. the savage, long-hair, peace to his memory, worked the miracle of restoring to me--" here a fold in the paper has destroyed a line of the writing. the letter is a sacred family paper, and there is not justification for going farther into its faded and, in some parts, almost obliterated writing. but so much may pass into these pages as a pleasant authentication of what otherwise might be altogether too sweet a double nut for the critic's teeth to crack. while adrienne and alice were still discussing the probability of rene de ronville's return, m. roussillon came to the door. he was in search of madame, his wife, whom he had not yet seen. he gathered the two girls in his mighty arms, tousling them with rough tenderness. alice returned his affectionate embrace and told him where to find madame roussillon, who was with dame godere, probably at her house. "nobody killed," he said, in answer to alice's inquiry about the catastrophe at the fort. "some of 'em hurt and burnt a little. great big scare about nearly nothing. ziff! my children, you should have seen me quiet things. i put out my hands, this way--omme ca--pouf! it was all over. the people went home." his gestures indicated that he had borne back an army with open hands. then he chucked adrienne under the chin with his finger and added in his softest voice: "i saw somebody's lover the other day, over yonder in the indian village. he spoke to me about somebody--eh, ma petite, que voulez-vous dire?" "oh, papa roussillon! we were just talking about rene!" cried alice. "have you seen him?" "i saw you, you little minx, jumping into a man's arms right under the eyes of a whole garrison! bah! i could not believe it was my little alice!" he let go a grand guffaw, which seemed to shake the cabin's walls. alice blushed cherry red. adrienne, too bashful to inquire about rene, was trembling with anxiety. the truth was not in gaspard roussillon, just then; or if it was it stayed in him, for he had not seen rene de ronville. it was his generous desire to please and to appear opulent of knowledge and sympathy that made him speak. he knew what would please adrienne, so why not give her at least a delicious foretaste? surely, when a thing was so cheap, one need not be so parsimonious as to withhold a mere anticipation. he was off before the girls could press him into details, for indeed he had none. "there now, what did i tell you?" cried alice, when the big man was gone. "i told you rene would come. they always come back!" father beret came in a little later. as soon as he saw alice he frowned and began to shake his head; but she only laughed, and imitating his hypocritical scowl, yet fringing it with a twinkle of merry lines and dimples, pointed a taper finger at him and exclaimed: "you bad, bad, man! why did you pretend to me that lieutenant beverley was dead? what sinister ecclesiastical motive prompted you to describe how long-hair scalped him? ah, father--" the priest laid a broad hand over her saucy mouth. "something or other seems to have excited you mightily, ma fille, you are a trifle impulsively inclined to-day." "yes, father beret; yes i know, and i am ashamed. my heart shrinks when i think of what i did; but i was so glad, such a grand joy came all over me when i saw him, so strong and brave and beautiful, coming toward me, smiling that warm, glad smile and holding out his arms--ah, when i saw all that--when i knew for sure that he was not dead--i, why, father--i just had to, i couldn't help it!" father beret laughed in spite of himself, but quickly managed to resume his severe countenance. "ta! ta!" he exclaimed, "it was a bold thing for a little girl to do." "so it was, so it was. but it was also a bold thing for him to do--to come back after he was dead and scalped and look so handsome and grand! i'm ashamed and sorry, father; but--but, i'm afraid i might do it again if--well, i don't care if i did--so there, now!" "but what in the world are you talking about?" interposed adrienne. evidently they were discussing a most interesting matter of which she knew nothing, and that did not suit her feminine curiosity. "tell me." she pulled father beret's sleeve. "tell me, i say!" it is probable that father beret would have pretended to betray alice's source of mingled delight and embarrassment, had not the rest of the bourcier household returned in time to break up the conversation. a little later alice gave adrienne a vividly dramatic account of the whole scene. "ah, mon dieu!" exclaimed the petite brunette, after she had heard the exciting story. "that was just like you, alice. you always do superb things. you were born to do them. you shoot captain farnsworth, you wound lieutenant barlow, you climb onto the fort and set up your flag--you take it down again and run away with it--you get shot and you do not die--you kiss your lover right before a whole garrison! bon dieu! if i could but do all those things!" she clasped her tiny hands before her and added rather dejectedly: "but i couldn't, i couldn't. i couldn't kiss a man in that way!" late in the evening news came to roussillon place, where gaspard roussillon was once more happy in the midst of his little family, that the indian long-hair had just been brought to the fort, and would be shot on the following day. a scouting party captured him as he approached the town, bearing at his belt the fresh scalp of a white man. he would have been killed forthwith, but clark, who wished to avoid a repetition of the savage vengeance meted out to the indians on the previous day, had given strict orders that all prisoners should be brought into the fort, where they were to have a fair trial by court martial. both helm and beverley were at roussillon place, the former sipping wine and chatting with gaspard, the latter, of course, hovering around alice, after the manner of a hungry bee around a particularly sweet and deliciously refractory flower. it was raining slowly, the fine drops coming straight down through the cold, still february air; but the two young people found it pleasant enough for them on the veranda, where they walked back and forth, making fair exchange of the exciting experiences which had befallen them during their long separation. between the lines of these mutual recitals sweet, fresh echoes of the old, old story went from heart to heart, an amoebaean love-bout like that of spring birds calling tenderly back and forth in the blooming maytime woods. both captain helm and m. roussillon were delighted to hear of long-hair's capture and certain fate, but neither of them regarded the news as of sufficient importance to need much comment. they did not think of telling beverley and alice. jean, however, lying awake in his little bed, overheard the conversation, which he repeated to alice next morning with great circumstantiality. having the quick insight bred of frontier experience, alice instantly caught the terrible significance of the dilemma in which she and beverley would be placed by long-hair's situation. moreover, something in her heart arose with irresistible power demanding the final, the absolute human sympathy and gratitude. no matter what deeds long-hair had committed that were evil beyond forgiveness, he had done for her the all-atoning thing. he had saved beverley and sent him back to her. with a start and a chill of dread, she thought: "what if it is already too late!" but her nature could not hesitate. to feel the demand of an exigency was to act. she snatched a wrap from its peg on the wall and ran as fast as she could to the fort. people who met her flying along wondered, staring after her, what could be urging her so that she saw nobody, checked herself for nothing, ran splashing through the puddles in the street, gazing ahead of her, as if pursuing some flying object from which she dared not turn her eyes. and there was, indeed, a call for her utmost power of flight, if she would be of any assistance to long-hair, who even then stood bound to a stake in the fort's area, while a platoon of riflemen, those unerring shots from kentucky and virginia, were ready to make a target of him at a range of but twenty yards. beverley, greatly handicapped by the fact that the fresh scalp of a white man hung at long-hair's belt, had exhausted every possible argument to avert or mitigate the sentence promptly spoken by the court martial of which colonel clark was the ruling spirit. he had succeeded barely to the extent of turning the mode of execution from tomahawking to shooting. all the officers in the fort approved killing the prisoner, and it was difficult for colonel clark to prevent the men from making outrageous assaults upon him, so exasperated were they at sight of the scalp. oncle jazon proved to be one of the most refractory among those who demanded tomahawking and scalping as the only treatment due long-hair. the repulsive savage stood up before them stolid, resolute, defiant, proudly flaunting the badge which testified to his horrible efficiency as an emissary of hamilton's. it had been left in his belt by clark's order, as the best justification of his doom. "l' me hack 'is damned head," oncle jazon pleaded. "i jes' hankers to chop a hole inter it. an' besides i want 'is scelp to hang up wi' mine an' that'n o' the injun what scelped me. he kicked me in the ribs, the stinkin' varmint." beverley pleaded eloquently and well, but even the genial major helm laughed at his sentiment of gratitude to a savage who at best but relented at the last moment, for alice's sake, and concluded not to sell him to hamilton. it is due to the british commander to record here that he most positively and with what appeared to be high sincerity, denied the charge of having offered rewards for the taking of human scalps. he declared that his purposes and practices were humane, and that while he did use the indians as military allies, his orders to them were that they must forego cruel modes of warfare and refrain from savage outrage upon prisoners. certainly the weight of contemporary testimony seems overwhelmingly against him, but we enter his denial. long-hair himself, however, taunted him with accusations of unfaithfulness in carrying out some very inhuman contracts, and to add a terrible sting, volunteered the statement that poor barlow's scalp had served his turn in the place of beverley's. with conditions so hideous to contend against, beverley, of course, had no possible means of succoring the condemned savage. "him a kickin' yer ribs clean inter ye, an' a makin' ye run the ga'ntlet, an' here ye air a tryin' to save 'is life!" whined oncle jazon, "w'y man, i thought ye hed some senterments! dast 'is injin liver, i kin feel them kicks what he guv me till yit. ventrebleu! que diable voulez-vous?" clark simply pushed beverley's pleadings aside as not worth a moment's consideration. he easily felt the fine bit of gratitude at the bottom of it all; but there was too much in the other side of the balance; justice, the discipline and confidence of his little army, and the claim of the women and children on the frontier demanded firmness in dealing with a case like long-hair's. "no, no," he said to beverley, "i would do anything in the world for you, fitz, except to swerve an inch from duty to my country and the defenceless people down yonder in kentucky, i can't do it. there's no use to press the matter further. the die is cast. that brute's got to be killed, and killed dead. look at him--look at that scalp! i'd have him killed if i dropped dead for it the next instant." beverley shuddered. the argument was horribly convincing, and yet, somehow, the desire to save long-hair overbore everything else in his mind. he could not cease his efforts; it seemed to him as if he were pleading for alice herself. captain farnsworth, strange to say, was the only man in the fort who leaned to beverley's side; but he was reticent, doubtless feeling that his position as a british prisoner gave him no right to speak, especially when every lip around him was muttering something about "infamous scalp-buyers and indian partisans," with whom he was prominently counted by the speakers. as clark had said, the die was cast. long-hair, bound to a stake, the scalp still dangling at his side, grimly faced his executioners, who were eager to fire. he appeared to be proud of the fact that he was going to be killed. "one thing i can say of him," helm remarked to beverley; "he's the grandest specimen of the animal--i might say the brute--man that i ever saw, red, white or black. just look at his body and limbs! those muscles are perfectly marvelous." "he saved my life, and i must stand here and see him murdered," the young man replied with intense bitterness. it was all that he could think, all that he could say. he felt inefficient and dejected, almost desperate. clark himself, not willing to cast responsibility upon a subordinate, made ready to give the fatal order. turning to long-hair first, he demanded of him as well as he could in the indian dialect of which he had a smattering, what he had to say at his last moment. the indian straightened his already upright form, and, by a strong bulging of his muscles, snapped the thongs that bound him. evidently he had not tried thus to free himself; it was rather a spasmodic expression of savage dignity and pride. one arm and both his legs still were partially confined by the bonds, but his right hand he lifted, with a gesture of immense self-satisfaction, and pointed at hamilton. "indian brave; white man coward," he said, scowling scornfully. "long-hair tell truth; white man lie, damn!" hamilton's countenance did not change its calm, cold expression. long-hair gazed at him fixedly for a long moment, his eyes flashing most concentrated hate and contempt. then he tore the scalp from his belt and flung it with great force straight toward the captive governor's face. it fell short, but the look that went with it did not, and hamilton recoiled. at that moment alice arrived. her coming was just in time to interrupt clark, who had turned to the waiting platoon with the order of death on his lips. she made no noise, save the fluttering of her skirts, and her loud and rapid panting on account of her long, hard run. she sprang before long-hair and faced the platoon. "you cannot, you shall not kill this man!" she cried in a voice loaded with excitement. "put away those guns!" woman never looked more thrillingly beautiful to man than she did just then to all those rough, stern backwoodsmen. during her flight her hair had fallen down, and it glimmered like soft sunlight around her face. something compelling flashed out of her eyes, an expression between a triumphant smile and a ray of irresistible beseechment. it took colonel clark's breath when he turned and saw her standing there, and heard her words. "this man saved lieutenant beverley's life," she presently added, getting better control of her voice, and sending into it a thrilling timbre; "you shall not harm him--you must not do it!" beverley was astounded when he saw her, the thing was so unexpected, so daring, and done with such high, imperious force; still it was but a realization of what he had imagined she would be upon occasion. he stood gazing at her, as did all the rest, while she faced clark and the platoon of riflemen. to hear his own name pass her quivering lips, in that tone and in that connection, seemed to him a consecration. "would you be more savage than your indian prisoner?" she went on, "less grateful than he for a life saved? i did him a small, a very small, service once, and in memory of that he saved lieutenant beverley's life, because--because--" she faltered for a single breath, then added clearly and with magnetic sweetness--"because lieutenant beverley loved me, and because i loved him. this indian long-hair showed a gratitude that could overcome his strongest passion. you white men should be ashamed to fall below his standard." her words went home. it was as if the beauty of her face, the magnetism of her lissome and symmetrical form, the sweet fire of her eyes and the passionate appeal of her voice gave what she said a new and irresistible force of truth. when she spoke of beverley's love for her, and declared her love for him, there was not a manly heart in all the garrison that did not suddenly beat quicker and feel a strange, sweet waft of tenderness. a mother, somewhere, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a sweetheart, called through that voice of absolute womanhood. "beverley, what can i do?" muttered clark, his bronze face as pale as it could possibly become. "do!" thundered beverley, "do! you cannot murder that man. hamilton is the man you should shoot! he offered large rewards, he inflamed the passions and fed the love of rum and the cupidity of poor wild men like the one standing yonder. yet you take him prisoner and treat him with distinguished consideration. hamilton offered a large sum for me taken alive, a smaller one for my scalp. long-hair saved me. you let hamilton stand yonder in perfect safety while you shoot the indian. shame on you, colonel clark! shame on you, if you do it." alice stood looking at the stalwart commander while beverley was pouring forth his torrent of scathing reference to hamilton, and she quickly saw that clark was moved. the moment was ripe for the finishing stroke. they say it is genius that avails itself of opportunity. beverley knew the fight was won when he saw what followed. alice suddenly left long-hair and ran to colonel clark, who felt her warm, strong arms loop round him for a single point of time never to be effaced from his memory; then he saw her kneeling at his feet, her hands upstretched, her face a glorious prayer, while she pleaded the indian's cause and won it. doubtless, while we all rather feel that clark was weak to be thus swayed by a girl, we cannot quite blame him. alice's flag was over him; he had heard her history from beverley's cunning lips; he actually believed that hamilton was the real culprit, and besides he felt not a little nauseated with executing indians. a good excuse to have an end of it all did not go begging. but long-hair was barely gone over the horizon from the fort, as free and as villainous a savage as ever trod the earth, when a discovery made by oncle jazon caused clark to hate himself for what he had done. the old scout picked up the scalp, which long-hair had flung at hamilton, and examined it with odious curiosity. he had lingered on the spot with no other purpose than to get possession of that ghastly relic. since losing his own scalp the subject of crownlocks had grown upon his mind until its fascination was irresistible. he studied the hair of every person he saw, as a physiognomist studies faces. he held the gruesome thing up before him, scrutinizing it with the expression of a connoisseur who has discovered, on a grimy canvas, the signature of an old master. "sac' bleu!" he presently broke forth. "well i'll be--look'ee yer, george clark! come yer an' look. ye've been sold ag'in. take a squint, ef ye please!" colonel clark, with his hands crossed behind him, his face thoughtfully contracted, was walking slowly to and fro a little way off. he turned about when oncle jazon spoke. "what now, jazon?" "a mighty heap right now, that's what; come yer an' let me show ye. yer a fine sort o' eejit, now ain't ye!" the two men walked toward each other and met. oncle jazon held up the scalp with one hand, pointing at it with the index finger of the other. "this here scalp come off'n rene de ronville's head." "and who is he?" "who's he? ye may well ax thet. he wuz a frenchman. he wuz a fine young feller o' this town. he killed a corp'ral o' hamilton's an' tuck ter the woods a month or two ago. hamilton offered a lot o' money for 'im or 'is scalp, an' long-hair went in fer gittin' it. now ye knows the whole racket. an' ye lets that injun go. an' thet same injun he mighty nigh kicked my ribs inter my stomach!" oncle jazon's feelings were visible and audible; but clark could not resent the contempt of the old man's looks and words. he felt that he deserved far more than he was receiving. nor was oncle jazon wrong. rene de ronville never came back to little adrienne bourcier, although, being kept entirely ignorant of her lover's fate, she waited and dreamed and hoped throughout more than two years, after which there is no further record of her life. clark, beverley and oncle jazon consulted together and agreed among themselves that they would hold profoundly secret the story of the scalp. to have made it public would have exasperated the creoles and set them violently against clark, a thing heavy with disaster for all his future plans. as it was, the release of long-hair caused a great deal of dissatisfaction and mutinous talk. even beverley now felt that the execution ordered by the commander ought to have been sternly carried out. a day or two later, however, the whole dark affair was closed forever by a bit of confidence on the part of oncle jazon when beverley dropped into his hut one evening to have a smoke with him. the rain was over, the sky shone like one vast luminary, with a nearly full moon and a thousand stars reinforcing it. up from the south poured one of those balmy, accidental wind floods, sometimes due in february on the wabash, full of tropical dream-hints, yet edged with a winter chill that smacks of treachery. oncle jazon was unusually talkative; he may have had a deep draught of liquor; at all events beverley had little room for a word. "well, bein' as it's twixt us, as is bosom frien's," the old fellow presently said, "i'll jes' show ye somepin poorty." he pricked the wick of a lamp and took down his bunch of scalps. "i hev been a addin' one more to keep company o' mine an' the tothers." he separated the latest acquisition from the rest of the wisp and added, with a heinous chuckle: "this'n's long-hair's!" and so it was. beverley knocked the ashes from his pipe and rose to go. "wen they kicks yer oncle jazon's ribs," the old man added, "they'd jes' as well lay down an' give up, for he's goin' to salervate 'em." then, after beverley had passed out of the cabin, oncle jazon chirruped after him: "mebbe ye'd better not tell leetle alice. the pore leetle gal hev hed worry 'nough." chapter xxii clark advises alice a few days after the surrender of hamilton, a large boat, the willing, arrived from kaskaskia. it was well manned and heavily armed. clark fitted it out before beginning his march and expected it to be of great assistance to him in the reduction of the fort, but the high waters and the floating driftwood delayed its progress, so that its disappointed crew saw alice's flag floating bright and high when their eyes first looked upon the dull little town from far down the swollen river. there was much rejoicing, however, when they came ashore and were enthusiastically greeted by the garrison and populace. a courier whom they picked up on the ohio came with them. he bore dispatches from governor henry of virginia to clark and a letter for beverley from his father. with them appeared also simon kenton, greatly to the delight of oncle jazon, who had worried much about his friend since their latest fredaine--as he called it--with the indians. meantime an expedition under captain helm had been sent up the river with the purpose of capturing a british flotilla from detroit. gaspard roussillon, immediately after clark's victory, thought he saw a good opening favorable to festivity at the river house, for which he soon began to make some of his most ostentatious preparations. fate, however, as usual in his case, interfered. fate seemed to like pulling the big frenchman's ear now and again, as if to remind him of the fact--which he was apt to forget--that he lacked somewhat of omnipotence. "ziff! je vais donner un banquet a tout le moonde, moi!" he cried, hustling and bustling hither and thither. a scout from up the river announced the approach of philip dejean with his flotilla richly laden, and what little interest may have been gathering in the direction of m. roussillon's festal proposition vanished like the flame of a lamp in a puff of wind when this news reached colonel clark and became known in the town. beverley and alice sat together in the main room of the roussillon cabin--you could scarcely find them separated during those happy days--and alice was singing to the soft tinkle of a guitar, a creole ditty with a merry smack in its scarcely intelligible nonsense. she knew nothing about music beyond what m. roussillon, a jack of all trades, had been able to teach her,--a few simple chords to accompany her songs, picked up at hap-hazard. but her voice, like her face and form, irradiated witchery. it was sweet, firm, deep, with something haunting in it--the tone of a hermit thrush, marvelously pure and clear, carried through a gay strain like the mocking-bird's. of course beverley thought it divine; and when a message came from colonel clark bidding him report for duty at once, he felt an impulse toward mutiny of the rankest sort. he did not dream that a military expedition could be on hand; but upon reaching headquarters, the first thing he heard was: "report to captain helm. you are to go with him up the river and intercept a british force. move lively, helm is waiting for you, probably." there was no time for explanations. evidently clark expected neither questions nor delay. beverley's love of adventure and his patriotic desire to serve his country came to his aid vigorously enough; still, with alice's love-song ringing in his heart, there was a cord pulling him back from duty to the sweetest of all life's joys. helm was already at the landing, where a little fleet of boats was being prepared. a thousand things had to be done in short order. all hands were stimulated to highest exertion with the thought of another fight. swivels were mounted in boats, ammunition and provisions stored abundantly, flags hoisted and oars dipped. never was an expedition of so great importance more swiftly organized and set in motion, nor did one ever have a more prosperous voyage or completer triumph. philip dejean, justice of detroit, with his men, boats and rich cargo, was captured easily, with not a shot fired, nor a drop of blood spilled in doing it. if alice could have known all this before it happened, she would probably have saved herself from the mortification of a rebuke administered very kindly, but not the less thoroughly, by colonel clark. the rumor came to her--a brilliant creole rumor, duly inflated--that an overwhelming british force was descending the river, and that beverley with a few men, not sufficient to base the expedition on a respectable forlorn hope, would be sent to meet them. her nature, as was its wont, flared into high indignation. what right had colonel clark to send her lover away to be killed just at the time when he was all the whole world to her? nothing could be more outrageous. she would not suffer it to be done; not she! colonel clark greeted her pleasantly, when she came somewhat abruptly to him, where he was directing a squad of men at work making some repairs in the picketing of the fort. he did not observe her excitement until she began to speak, and then it was noticeable only, and not very strongly, in her tone. she forgot to speak english, and her french was greek to him. "i am glad to see you, mademoiselle," he said, rather inconsequently, lifting his hat and bowing with rough grace, while he extended his right hand cordially. "you have something to say to me? come with me to my office." she barely touched his fingers. "yes, i have something to say to you. i can tell it here," she said, speaking english now with softest creole accent. "i wanted--i came to--" it was not so easy as she had imagined it would be to utter what she had in mind. clark's steadfast, inscrutable eyes, kindly yet not altogether sympathetic, met her own and beat them down. her voice failed. he offered her his arm and gravely said: "we will go to my office. i see that you have some important communication to make. there are too many ears here." of a sudden she felt like running home. somehow the situation broke upon her with a most embarrassing effect. she did not take clark's arm, and she began to tremble. he appeared unconscious of this, and probably was, for his mind had a fine tangle of great schemes in it just then; but he turned toward his office, and bidding her follow him, walked away in that direction. she was helpless. not the slightest trace of her usual brilliant self-assertion was at her command. saving the squad of men sawing and hacking, digging and hammering, the fort appeared as deserted as her mind. she stood gazing after clark. he did not look back, but strode right on. if she would speak with him, she must follow. it was a surprise to her, for heretofore she had always had her own way, even if she found it necessary to use force. and where was beverley? where was the garrison? colonel clark did not seem to be at all concerned about the approach of the british--and yet those repairs--perhaps he was making ready for a desperate resistance! she did not move until he reached the door of his office where he stopped and stepped aside, as if to let her pass in first; he even lifted his hat, then looked a trifle surprised when he saw that she was not near him, frowned slightly, changed the frown to a smile and said, lifting his voice so that she felt a certain imperative meaning in it: "did i walk too fast for you? i beg your pardon, mademoiselle." he stood waiting for her, as a father waits for a lagging, wilful child. "come, please," he added, "if you have something to say to me; my time just now is precious--i have a great deal to do." she was not of a nature to retreat under fire, and yet the panic in her breast came very near mastering her will. clark saw a look in her face which made him speak again: "i assure you, mademoiselle, that you need not feel embarrassed. you can rely upon me to--" she made a gesture that interrupted him; at the same time she almost ran toward him, gathering in breath, as one does who is about to force out a desperately resisting and riotous thought. the strong, grave man looked at her with a full sense of her fascination, and at the same time he felt a vague wish to get away from her, as if she were about to cast unwelcome responsibility upon him. "where is lieutenant beverley?" she demanded, now close to clark, face to face, and gazing straight into his eyes. "i want to see him." her tone suggested intensest excitement. she was trembling visibly. clark's face changed its expression. he suddenly recalled to mind alice's rapturous public greeting of beverley on the day of the surrender. he was a cavalier, and it did not agree with his sense of high propriety for girls to kiss their lovers out in the open air before a gazing army. true enough, he himself had been hoodwinked by alice's beauty and boldness in the matter of long-hair. he confessed this to himself mentally, which may have strengthened his present disapproval of her personal inquiry about beverley. at all events he thought she ought not to be coming into the stockade on such an errand. "lieutenant beverley is absent acting under my orders he said, with perfect respectfulness, yet in a tone suggesting military finality. he meant to set an indefinite yet effective rebuke in his words. "absent?" she echoed. "gone? you sent him away to be killed! you had no right--you--" "miss roussillon," said clark, becoming almost stern, "you had better go home and stay there; young girls oughtn't to run around hunting men in places like this." his blunt severity of speech was accompanied by a slight frown and a gesture of impatience. alice's face blazed red to the roots of her sunny hair; the color ebbed, giving place to a pallor like death. she began to tremble, and her lips quivered pitifully, but she braced herself and tried to force back the choking sensation in her throat. "you must not misconstrue my words," clark quickly added; "i simply mean that men will not rightly understand you. they will form impressions very harmful to you. even lieutenant beverley might not see you in the right light." "what--what do you mean?" she gasped, shrinking from him, a burning spot reappearing under the dimpled skin of each cheek. "pray, miss, do not get excited. there is nothing to make you cry." he saw tears shining in her eyes. "beverley is not in the slightest danger. all will be well, and he'll come back in a few days. the expedition will be but a pleasure trip. now you go home. lieutenant beverley is amply able to take care of himself. and let me tell you, if you expect a good man to have great confidence in you, stay home and let him hunt you up instead of you hunting him. a man likes that better." it would be impossible to describe alice's feelings, as they just then rose like a whirling storm in her heart. she was humiliated, she was indignant, she was abashed; she wanted to break forth with a tempest of denial, self-vindication, resentment; she wanted to cry with her face hidden in her hands. what she did was to stand helplessly gazing at clark, with two or three bright tears on either cheek, her hands clenched, her eyes flashing. she was going to say some wild thing; but she did not; her voice lodged fast in her throat. she moved her lips, unable to make a sound. two of clark's officers relieved the situation by coming up to get orders about some matter of town government, and alice scarcely knew how she made her way home. every vein in her body was humming like a bee when she entered the house and flung herself into a chair. she heard madame roussillon and father beret chatting in the kitchen, whence came a fragrance of broiling buffalo steak besprinkled with garlic. it was father beret's favorite dish, wherefore his tongue ran freely--almost as freely as that of his hostess, and when he heard alice come in, he called gayly to her through the kitchen door: "come here, ma fille, and lend us old folks your appetite; nous avons une tranche a la bordelaise!" "i am not hungry," she managed to say, "you can eat it without me." the old man's quick ears caught the quaver of trouble in her voice, much as she tried to hide it. a moment later he was standing beside her with his hand on her head. "what is the matter now, little one?" he tenderly demanded. "tell your old father." she began to cry, laying her face in her crossed arms, the tears gushing, her whole frame aquiver, and heaving great sobs. she seemed to shrink like a trodden flower. it touched father beret deeply. he suspected that beverley's departure might be the cause of her trouble; but when presently she told him what had taken place in the fort, he shook his head gravely and frowned. "colonel clark was right, my daughter," he said after a short silence, "and it is time for you to ponder well upon the significance of his words. you can't always be a wilful, headstrong little girl, running everywhere and doing just as you please. you have grown to be a woman in stature--you must be one in fact. you know i told you at first to be careful how you acted with--" "father, dear old father!" she cried, springing from her seat and throwing her arms around his neck. "have i appeared forward and unwomanly? tell me, father, tell me! i did not mean to do anything--" "quietly, my child, don't give way to excitement." he gently put her from him and crossed himself--a habit of his when suddenly perplexed--then added: "you have done no evil; but there are proprieties which a young woman must not overstep. you are impulsive, too impulsive; and it will not do to let a young man see that you--that you--" "father, i understand," she interrupted, and her face grew very pale. madame roussillon came to the door, flushed with stooping over the fire, and announced that the steak was ready. "bring the wine, alice," she added, "a bottle of bordeaux." she stood for a breath of two, her red hands on her hips, looking first at father beret, then at alice. "quarreling again about the romances?" she inquired. "she's been at it again?--she's found 'em again?" "yes," said father beret, with a queer, dry smile, "more romance. yes, she's been at it again! now fetch the bordeaux, little one." the following days were cycles of torture to alice. she groveled in the shadow of a great dread. it seemed to her that beverley could not love her, could not help looking upon her as a poor, wild, foolish girl, unworthy of consideration. she magnified her faults and crudities, she paraded before her inner vision her fecent improprieties, as they had been disclosed to her, until she saw herself a sort of monstrosity at which all mankind was gazing with disgust. life seemed dry and shriveled, a mere jaundiced shadow, while her love for beverley took on a new growth, luxuriant, all-embracing, uncontrollable. the ferment of spirit going on in her breast was the inevitable process of self-recognition which follows the terrible unfolding of the passion-flower, in a nature almost absolutely simple and unsophisticated. vincennes held its breath while waiting for news from helm's expedition. every day had its nimble, yet wholly imaginary account of what had happened, skipping from mouth to mouth, and from cabin to cabin. the french folk ran hither and thither in the persistent rain, industriously improving the dramatic interest of each groundless report. alice's disturbed imagination reveled in the kaleidoscopic terrors conjured up by these swift changes of the form and color of the stories "from the front," all of them more or less tragic. to-day the party is reported as having been surprised and massacred to a man--to-morrow there has been a great fight, many killed, the result in doubt--next day the british are defeated, and so on. the volatile spirit of the creoles fairly surpassed itself in ringing the changes on stirring rumors. alice scarcely left the house during the whole period of excitement and suspense. like a wounded bird, she withdrew herself from the light and noisy chatter of her friends, seeking only solitude and crepuscular nooks in which to suffer silently. jean brought her every picturesque bit of the ghastly gossip, thus heaping coals on the fire of her torture. but she did not grow pale and thin. not a dimple fled from cheek or chin, not a ray of saucy sweetness vanished from her eyes. her riant health was unalterable. indeed, the only change in her was a sudden ripening and mellowing of her beauty, by which its colors, its lines, its subtle undercurrents of expression were spiritualized, as if by some powerful clarifying process. tremendous is the effect of a soul surprised by passion and brought hard up against an opposing force which dashes it back upon itself with a flare and explosion of self-revealment. nor shall we ever be able to foretell just how small a circumstance, just how slight an exigency, will suffice to bring on the great change. the shifting of a smile to the gloom of a frown, the snap of a string on the lute of our imagination, just at the point when a rich melody is culminating; the waving of a hand, a vanishing face--any eclipse of tender, joyous expectation--dashes a nameless sense of despair into the soul. and a young girl's soul--who shall uncover its sacred depths of sensitiveness, or analyze its capacity for suffering under such a stroke? on the fifth day of march, back came the victorious helm, having surrounded and captured seven boats, richly loaded with provisions and goods, and dejean's whole force. then again the little creole town went wild with rejoicing. alice heard the news and the noise; but somehow there was no response in her heart. she dreaded to meet beverley; indeed, she did not expect him to come to her. why should he? m. roussillon, who had volunteered to accompany helm, arrived in a mood of unlimited proportions, so far as expressing self-admiration and abounding delight was concerned. you would have been sure that he had done the whole deed single-handed, and brought the flotilla and captives to town on his back. but oncle jazon for once held his tongue, being too disgusted for words at not having been permitted to fire a single shot. what was the use of going to fight and simply meeting and escorting down the river a lot of non-combatants? there is something inscrutably delightful about a girl's way of thinking one thing and doing another. perversity, thy name is maidenhood; and maidenhood, thy name is delicious inconsequence! when alice heard that beverley had come back, safe, victorious, to be greeted as one of the heroes of an important adventure, she immediately ran to her room frightened and full of vague, shadowy dread, to hide from him, yet feeling sure that he would not come! moreover, she busied herself with the preposterous task of putting on her most attractive gown--the buff brocade which she wore that evening at the river house--how long ago it seemed!--when beverley thought her the queenliest beauty in the world. and she was putting it on so as to look her prettiest while hiding from him! it is a toss-up where happiness will make its nest. the palace, the hut, the great lady's garden, the wild lass's bower,--skip here, alight there,--the secret of it may never be told. and love and beauty find lodgment, by the same inexplicable route, in the same extremes of circumstances. the wind bloweth where it listeth, finding many a matchless flower and many a ravishing fragrance in the wildest nooks of the world. no sooner did beverley land at the little wharf than, rushing to his quarters, he made a hasty exchange of water-soaked apparel for something more comfortable, and then bolted in the direction of roussillon place. now alice knew by the beating of her heart that he was coming. in spite of all she could do, trying to hold on hard and fast to her doubt and gloom, a tide of rich sweetness began to course through her heart and break in splendid expectation from her eyes, as they looked through the little unglazed window toward the fort. nor had she long to wait. he came up the narrow wet street, striding like a tall actor in the height of a melodrama, his powerful figure erect as an indian's, and his face glowing with the joy of a genuine, impatient lover, who is proud of himself because of the image he bears in his heart. when alice flung wide the door (which was before beverley could cross the veranda), she had quite forgotten how she had gowned and bedecked herself; and so, without a trace of self-consciousness, she flashed upon him a full-blown flower--to his eyes the loveliest that ever opened under heaven. gaspard roussillon, still overflowing with the importance of his part in the capture of dejean, came puffing homeward just in time to see a man at the door holding alice a-tiptoe in his arms. "ziff!" he cried, as he pushed open the little front gate of the yard, "en voila assez, vogue la galere!" the two forms disappeared within the house, as if moved by his roaring voice. the letter to beverley from his father was somewhat disturbing. it bore the tidings of his mother's failing health. this made it easier for the young lieutenant to accept from clark the assignment to duty with a party detailed for the purpose of escorting hamilton, farnsworth and several other british officers to williamsburg, virginia. it also gave him a most powerful assistance in persuading alice to marry him at once, so as to go with him on what proved to be a delightful wedding journey through the great wilderness to the old dominion. spring's verdure burst abroad on the sunny hills as they slowly went their way; the mating birds sang in every blooming brake and grove by which they passed, and in their joyous hearts they heard the bubbling of love's eternal fountain. chapter xxiii and so it ended our story must end here, because at this point its current flows away forever from old vincennes; and it was only of the post on the wabash that we set out to make a record. what befell alice and beverley after they went to virginia we could go on to tell; but that would be another story. suffice it to say, they lived happily ever after, or at least somewhat beyond three score and ten, and left behind them a good name and numerous descendants. how alice found out her family in virginia, we are not informed; but after a lapse of some years from the date of her marriage, there appears in one of her letters a reference to an estate inherited from her tarleton ancestors, and her name appears in old records signed in full, alice tarleton beverley. a descendant of hers still treasures the locket, with its broken miniature and battered crest, which won beverley's life from long-hair, the savage. beside it, as carefully guarded, is the indian charm-stone that stopped hamilton's bullet over alice's heart the rapiers have somehow disappeared, and there is a tradition in the tarleton family that they were given by alice to gaspard roussillon, who, after madame roussillon's death in , went to new orleans, where he stayed a year or two before embarking for france, whither he took with him the beautiful pair of colechemardes and jean the hunchback. oncle jazon lived in vincennes many years after the war was over; but he died at natchez, mississippi, when ninety-three years old. he said, with almost his last breath, that he couldn't shoot very well, even in his best days; but that he had, upon various occasions, "jes' kind o' happened to hit a injun in the lef' eye." they used to tell a story, as late as general harrison's stay in vincennes, about how oncle jazon buried his collection of scalps, with great funeral solemnity, as his part of the celebration of peace and independence about the year . good old father beret died suddenly soon after alice's marriage and departure for virginia. he was found lying face downward on the floor of his cabin. near him, on a smooth part of a puncheon, were the mildewed fragments of a letter, which he had been arranging, as if to read its contents. doubtless it was the same letter brought to him by rene de ronville, as recorded in an early chapter of our story. the fragments were gathered up and buried with him. his dust lies under the present church of st. xavier,--the dust of as noble a man and as true a priest as ever sacrificed himself for the good of humanity. in after years simon kenton visited beverley and alice in their virginia home. to his dying day he was fond of describing their happy and hospitable welcome and the luxuries to which they introduced him. they lived in a stately white mansion on a hill overlooking a vast tobacco plantation, where hundreds of negro slaves worked and sang by day and frolicked by night. their oldest child was named fitzhugh gaspard. kenton died in . there remains but one little fact worth recording before we close the book. in the year , on the fourth of july, a certain leading french family of vincennes held a patriotic reunion, during which a little old flag was produced and its story told. some one happily proposed that it be sent to mrs. alice tarleton beverley with a letter of explanation, and in profound recognition of the glorious circumstances which made it the true flag of the great northwest. and so it happened that alice's little banner went to virginia and is still preserved in an old mansion not very far from monticello; but it seems likely that the wabash valley will soon again possess the precious relic. the marriage engagement of miss alice beverley to a young indiana officer, distinguished for his patriotism and military ardor, has been announced at the old beverley homestead on the hill, and the high contracting parties have planned that the wedding ceremony shall take place under the famous little flag, on the anniversary of dark's capture of post vincennes. when the bride shall be brought to her new home on the banks of the wabash, the flag will come with her; but oncle jazon will not be on hand with his falsetto shout: "vive la banniere d'alice roussillon! vive zhorzzh vasinton!" the conquest of canaan by booth tarkington to l.f.t. contents chapter i. enter chorus ii. a rescue iii. old hopes iv. the disaster v. beaver beach vi. "ye'll tak' the high road and i'll tak' the low road" vii. give a dog a bad name viii. a bad penny turns up ix. outer darkness x. the tryst xi. when half-gods go xii. to remain on the field of battle is not always a victory xiii. the watcher and the warden xiv. white roses in a law-office xv. happy fear gives himself up xvi. the two canaans xvii. mr. sheehan's hints xviii. in the heat of the day xix. eskew arp xx. three are enlisted xxi. norbert waits for joe xxii. mr. sheehan speaks xxiii. joe walks across the court-house yard xxiv. martin pike keeps an engagement xxv. the jury comes in xxvi. "ancient of days" the conquest of canaan i enter chorus a dry snow had fallen steadily throughout the still night, so that when a cold, upper wind cleared the sky gloriously in the morning the incongruous indiana town shone in a white harmony--roof, ledge, and earth as evenly covered as by moonlight. there was no thaw; only where the line of factories followed the big bend of the frozen river, their distant chimneys like exclamation points on a blank page, was there a first threat against the supreme whiteness. the wind passed quickly and on high; the shouting of the school-children had ceased at nine o'clock with pitiful suddenness; no sleigh-bells laughed out on the air; and the muffling of the thoroughfares wrought an unaccustomed peace like that of sunday. this was the phenomenon which afforded the opening of the morning debate of the sages in the wide windows of the "national house." only such unfortunates as have so far failed to visit canaan do not know that the "national house" is on the main street side of the court-house square, and has the advantage of being within two minutes' walk of the railroad station, which is in plain sight of the windows--an inestimable benefit to the conversation of the aged men who occupied these windows on this white morning, even as they were wont in summer to hold against all comers the cane-seated chairs on the pavement outside. thence, as trains came and went, they commanded the city gates, and, seeking motives and adding to the stock of history, narrowly observed and examined into all who entered or departed. their habit was not singular. he who would foolishly tax the sages of canaan with a bucolic light-mindedness must first walk in piccadilly in early june, stroll down the corso in rome before ash wednesday, or regard those windows of fifth avenue whose curtains are withdrawn of a winter sunday; for in each of these great streets, wherever the windows, not of trade, are widest, his eyes must behold wise men, like to those of canaan, executing always their same purpose. the difference is in favor of canaan; the "national house" was the club, but the perusal of traveller or passer by was here only the spume blown before a stately ship of thought; and you might hear the sages comparing the koran with the speeches of robert j. ingersoll. in the days of board sidewalks, "mail-time" had meant a precise moment for canaan, and even now, many years after the first postman, it remained somewhat definite to the aged men; for, out of deference to a pleasant, olden custom, and perhaps partly for an excuse to "get down to the hotel" (which was not altogether in favor with the elderly ladies), most of them retained their antique boxes in the post-office, happily in the next building. in this connection it may be written that a subscription clerk in the office of the chicago daily standard, having noted a single subscriber from canaan, was, a fortnight later, pleased to receive, by one mail, nine subscriptions from that promising town. if one brought nine others in a fortnight, thought he, what would nine bring in a month? amazingly, they brought nothing, and the rest was silence. here was a matter of intricate diplomacy never to come within that youth his ken. the morning voyage to the post-office, long mocked as a fable and screen by the families of the sages, had grown so difficult to accomplish for one of them, colonel flitcroft (colonel in the war with mexico), that he had been put to it, indeed, to foot the firing-line against his wife (a lady of celebrated determination and hale-voiced at seventy), and to defend the rental of a box which had sheltered but three missives in four years. desperation is often inspiration; the colonel brilliantly subscribed for the standard, forgetting to give his house address, and it took the others just thirteen days to wring his secret from him. then the standard served for all. mail-time had come to mean that bright hour when they all got their feet on the brass rod which protected the sills of the two big windows, with the steam-radiators sizzling like kettles against the side wall. mr. jonas tabor, who had sold his hardware business magnificently (not magnificently for his nephew, the purchaser) some ten years before, was usually, in spite of the fact that he remained a bachelor at seventy-nine, the last to settle down with the others, though often the first to reach the hotel, which he always entered by a side door, because he did not believe in the treating system. and it was mr. eskew arp, only seventy-five, but already a thoroughly capable cynic, who, almost invariably "opened the argument," and it was he who discovered the sinister intention behind the weather of this particular morning. mr. arp had not begun life so sourly: as a youth he had been proud of his given name, which had come to him through his mother's family, who had made it honorable, but many years of explanations that eskew did not indicate his initials had lowered his opinion of the intelligence and morality of the race. the malevolence of his voice and manner this morning, therefore, when he shook his finger at the town beyond the windows, and exclaimed, with a bitter laugh, "look at it!" was no surprise to his companions. "jest look at it! i tell you the devil is mighty smart. ha, ha! mighty smart!" through custom it was the duty of squire buckalew (justice of the peace in ' ) to be the first to take up mr. arp. the others looked to him for it. therefore, he asked, sharply: "what's the devil got to do with snow?" "everything to do with it, sir," mr. arp retorted. "it's plain as day to anybody with eyes and sense." "then i wish you'd p'int it out," said buckalew, "if you've got either." "by the almighty, squire"--mr. arp turned in his chair with sudden heat--"if i'd lived as long as you--" "you have," interrupted the other, stung. "twelve years ago!" "if i'd lived as long as you," mr. arp repeated, unwincingly, in a louder voice, "and had follered satan's trail as long as you have, and yet couldn't recognize it when i see it, i'd git converted and vote prohibitionist." "_i_ don't see it," interjected uncle joe davey, in his querulous voice. (he was the patriarch of them all.) "_i_ can't find no cloven-hoof-prints in the snow." "all over it, sir!" cried the cynic. "all over it! old satan loves tricks like this. here's a town that's jest one squirmin' mass of lies and envy and vice and wickedness and corruption--" "hold on!" exclaimed colonel flitcroft. "that's a slander upon our hearths and our government. why, when i was in the council--" "it wasn't a bit worse then," mr. arp returned, unreasonably. "jest you look how the devil fools us. he drops down this here virgin mantle on canaan and makes it look as good as you pretend you think it is: as good as the sunday-school room of a country church--though that"--he went off on a tangent, venomously--"is generally only another whited sepulchre, and the superintendent's mighty apt to have a bottle of whiskey hid behind the organ, and--" "look here, eskew," said jonas tabor, "that's got nothin' to do with--" "why ain't it? answer me!" cried mr. arp, continuing, without pause: "why ain't it? can't you wait till i git through? you listen to me, and when i'm ready i'll listen to--" "see here," began the colonel, making himself heard over three others, "i want to ask you--" "no, sir!" mr. arp pounded the floor irascibly with his hickory stick. "don't you ask me anything! how can you tell that i'm not going to answer your question without your asking it, till i've got through? you listen first. i say, here's a town of nearly thirty thousand inhabitants, every last one of 'em--men, women, and children--selfish and cowardly and sinful, if you could see their innermost natures; a town of the ugliest and worst built houses in the world, and governed by a lot of saloon-keepers--though i hope it 'll never git down to where the ministers can run it. and the devil comes along, and in one night--why, all you got to do is look at it! you'd think we needn't ever trouble to make it better. that's what the devil wants us to do--wants us to rest easy about it, and paints it up to look like a heaven of peace and purity and sanctified spirits. snowfall like this would of made lot turn the angel out-of-doors and say that the old home was good enough for him. gomorrah would of looked like a puritan village--though i'll bet my last dollar that there was a lot, and a whole lot, that's never been told about puritan villages. a lot that--" "what never was?" interrupted mr. peter bradbury, whose granddaughter had lately announced her discovery that the bradburys were descended from miles standish. "what wasn't told about puritan villages?" "can't you wait?" mr. arp's accents were those of pain. "haven't i got any right to present my side of the case? ain't we restrained enough to allow of free speech here? how can we ever git anywhere in an argument like this, unless we let one man talk at a time? how--" "go on with your statement," said uncle joe davey, impatiently. mr. arp's grievance was increased. "now listen to you! how many more interruptions are comin'? i'll listen to the other side, but i've got to state mine first, haven't i? if i don't make my point clear, what's the use of the argument? argumentation is only the comparison of two sides of a question, and you have to see what the first side is before you can compare it with the other one, don't you? are you all agreed to that?" "yes, yes," said the colonel. "go ahead. we won't interrupt until you're through." "very well," resumed mr. arp, with a fleeting expression of satisfaction, "as i said before, i wish to--as i said--" he paused, in some confusion. "as i said, argumentation is--that is, i say--" he stopped again, utterly at sea, having talked himself so far out of his course that he was unable to recall either his sailing port or his destination. finally he said, feebly, to save the confession, "well, go on with your side of it." this generosity was for a moment disconcerting; however, the quietest of the party took up the opposition--roger tabor, a very thin, old man with a clean-shaven face, almost as white as his hair, and melancholy, gentle, gray eyes, very unlike those of his brother jonas, which were dark and sharp and button-bright. (it was to roger's son that jonas had so magnificently sold the hardware business.) roger was known in canaan as "the artist"; there had never been another of his profession in the place, and the town knew not the word "painter," except in application to the useful artisan who is subject to lead-poisoning. there was no indication of his profession in the attire of mr. tabor, unless the too apparent age of his black felt hat and a neat patch at the elbow of his shiny, old brown overcoat might have been taken as symbols of the sacrifice to his muse which his life had been. he was not a constant attendant of the conclave, and when he came it was usually to listen; indeed, he spoke so seldom that at the sound of his voice they all turned to him with some surprise. "i suppose," he began, "that eskew means the devil is behind all beautiful things." "ugly ones, too," said mr. arp, with a start of recollection. "and i wish to state--" "not now!" colonel flitcroft turned upon him violently. "you've already stated it." "then, if he is behind the ugly things, too," said roger, "we must take him either way, so let us be glad of the beauty for its own sake. eskew says this is a wicked town. it may be--i don't know. he says it's badly built; perhaps it is; but it doesn't seem to me that it's ugly in itself. i don't know what its real self is, because it wears so many aspects. god keeps painting it all the time, and never shows me twice the same picture; not even two snowfalls are just alike, nor the days that follow them; no more than two misty sunsets are alike--for the color and even the form of the town you call ugly are a matter of the season of the year and of the time of day and of the light and air. the ugly town is like an endless gallery which you can walk through, from year-end to year-end, never seeing the same canvas twice, no matter how much you may want to--and there's the pathos of it. isn't it the same with people with the characters of all of us, just as it is with our faces? no face remains the same for two successive days--" "it don't?" colonel flitcroft interrupted, with an explosive and rueful incredulity. "well, i'd like to--" second thoughts came to him almost immediately, and, as much out of gallantry as through discretion, fearing that he might be taken as thinking of one at home, he relapsed into silence. not so with the others. it was as if a firecracker had been dropped into a sleeping poultry-yard. least of all could mr. arp contain himself. at the top of his voice, necessarily, he agreed with roger that faces changed, not only from day to day, and not only because of light and air and such things, but from hour to hour, and from minute to minute, through the hideous stimulus of hypocrisy. the "argument" grew heated; half a dozen tidy quarrels arose; all the sages went at it fiercely, except roger tabor, who stole quietly away. the aged men were enjoying themselves thoroughly, especially those who quarrelled. naturally, the frail bark of the topic which had been launched was whirled about by too many side-currents to remain long in sight, and soon became derelict, while the intellectual dolphins dove and tumbled in the depths. at the end of twenty minutes mr. arp emerged upon the surface, and in his mouth was this: "tell me, why ain't the church--why ain't the church and the rest of the believers in a future life lookin' for immortality at the other end of life, too? if we're immortal, we always have been; then why don't they ever speculate on what we were before we were born? it's because they're too blame selfish--don't care a flapdoodle about what was, all they want is to go on livin' forever." mr. arp's voice had risen to an acrid triumphancy, when it suddenly faltered, relapsed to a murmur, and then to a stricken silence, as a tall, fat man of overpowering aspect threw open the outer door near by and crossed the lobby to the clerk's desk. an awe fell upon the sages with this advent. they were hushed, and after a movement in their chairs, with a strange effect of huddling, sat disconcerted and attentive, like school-boys at the entrance of the master. the personage had a big, fat, pink face and a heavily undershot jaw, what whitish beard he wore following his double chin somewhat after the manner displayed in the portraits of henry the eighth. his eyes, very bright under puffed upper lids, were intolerant and insultingly penetrating despite their small size. their irritability held a kind of hotness, and yet the personage exuded frost, not of the weather, all about him. you could not imagine man or angel daring to greet this being genially--sooner throw a kiss to mount pilatus! "mr. brown," he said, with ponderous hostility, in a bull bass, to the clerk--the kind of voice which would have made an express train leave the track and go round the other way--"do you hear me?" "oh yes, judge," the clerk replied, swiftly, in tones as unlike those which he used for strange transients as a collector's voice in his ladylove's ear is unlike that which he propels at delinquents. "do you see that snow?" asked the personage, threateningly. "yes, judge." mr. brown essayed a placating smile. "yes, indeed, judge pike." "has your employer, the manager of this hotel, seen that snow?" pursued the personage, with a gesture of unspeakable solemn menace. "yes, sir. i think so. yes, sir." "do you think he fully understands that i am the proprietor of this building?" "certainly, judge, cer--" "you will inform him that i do not intend to be discommoded by his negligence as i pass to my offices. tell him from me that unless he keeps the sidewalks in front of this hotel clear of snow i will cancel his lease. their present condition is outrageous. do you understand me? outrageous! do you hear?" "yes, judge, i do so," answered the clerk, hoarse with respect. "i'll see to it this minute, judge pike." "you had better." the personage turned himself about and began a grim progress towards the door by which he had entered, his eyes fixing themselves angrily upon the conclave at the windows. colonel flitcroft essayed a smile, a faltering one. "fine weather, judge pike," he said, hopefully. there was no response of any kind; the undershot jaw became more intolerant. the personage made his opinion of the group disconcertingly plain, and the old boys understood that he knew them for a worthless lot of senile loafers, as great a nuisance in his building as was the snow without; and much too evident was his unspoken threat to see that the manager cleared them out of there before long. he nodded curtly to the only man of substance among them, jonas tabor, and shut the door behind him with majestic insult. he was canaan's millionaire. he was one of those dynamic creatures who leave the haunting impression of their wills behind them, like the tails of bo-peep's sheep, like the evil dead men have done; he left his intolerant image in the ether for a long time after he had gone, to confront and confound the aged men and hold them in deferential and humiliated silence. each of them was mysteriously lowered in his own estimation, and knew that he had been made to seem futile and foolish in the eyes of his fellows. they were all conscious, too, that the clerk had been acutely receptive of judge pike's reading of them; that he was reviving from his own squelchedness through the later snubbing of the colonel; also that he might further seek to recover his poise by an attack on them for cluttering up the office. naturally, jonas tabor was the first to speak. "judge pike's lookin' mighty well," he said, admiringly. "yes, he is," ventured squire buckalew, with deference; "mighty well." "yes, sir," echoed peter bradbury; "mighty well." "he's a great man," wheezed uncle joe davey; "a great man, judge martin pike; a great man!" "i expect he has considerable on his mind," said the colonel, who had grown very red. "i noticed that he hardly seemed to see us." "yes, sir," mr. bradbury corroborated, with an attempt at an amused laugh. "i noticed it, too. of course a man with all his cares and interests must git absent-minded now and then." "of course he does," said the colonel. "a man with all his responsibilities--" "yes, that's so," came a chorus of the brethren, finding comfort and reassurance as their voices and spirits began to recover from the blight. "there's a party at the judge's to-night," said mr. bradbury--"kind of a ball mamie pike's givin' for the young folks. quite a doin's, i hear." "that's another thing that's ruining canaan," mr. arp declared, morosely. "these entertainments they have nowadays. spend all the money out of town--band from indianapolis, chicken salad and darkey waiters from chicago! and what i want to know is, what's this town goin' to do about the nigger question?" "what about it?" asked mr. davey, belligerently. "what about it?" mr. arp mocked, fiercely. "you better say, 'what about it?'" "well, what?" maintained mr. davey, steadfastly. "i'll bet there ain't any less than four thousand niggers in canaan to-day!" mr. arp hammered the floor with his stick. "every last one of 'em criminals, and more comin' on every train." "no such a thing," said squire buckalew, living up to his bounden duty. "you look down the street. there's the ten-forty-five comin' in now. i'll bet you a straight five-cent peek-a-boo cigar there ain't ary nigger on the whole train, except the sleepin'-car porters." "what kind of a way to argue is that?" demanded mr. arp, hotly. "bettin' ain't proof, is it? besides, that's the through express from the east. i meant trains from the south." "you didn't say so," retorted buckalew, triumphantly. "stick to your bet, eskew, stick to your bet." "my bet!" cried the outraged eskew. "who offered to bet?" "you did," replied the squire, with perfect assurance and sincerity. the others supported him in the heartiest spirit of on-with-the-dance, and war and joy were unconfined. a decrepit hack or two, a couple of old-fashioned surreys, and a few "cut-unders" drove by, bearing the newly arrived and their valises, the hotel omnibus depositing several commercial travellers at the door. a solitary figure came from the station on foot, and when it appeared within fair range of the window, uncle joe davey, who had but hovered on the flanks of the combat, first removed his spectacles and wiped them, as though distrusting the vision they offered him, then, replacing them, scanned anew the approaching figure and uttered a smothered cry. "my lord a'mighty!" he gasped. "what's this? look there!" they looked. a truce came involuntarily, and they sat in paralytic silence as the figure made its stately and sensational progress along main street. not only the aged men were smitten. men shovelling snow from the pavements stopped suddenly in their labors; two women, talking busily on a doorstep, were stilled and remained in frozen attitudes as it passed; a grocer's clerk, crossing the pavement, carrying a heavily laden basket to his delivery wagon, halted half-way as the figure came near, and then, making a pivot of his heels as it went by, behaved towards it as does the magnetic needle to the pole. it was that of a tall gentleman, cheerfully, though somewhat with ennui, enduring his nineteenth winter. his long and slender face he wore smiling, beneath an accurately cut plaster of dark hair cornicing his forehead, a fashion followed by many youths of that year. this perfect bang was shown under a round black hat whose rim was so small as almost not to be there at all; and the head was supported by a waxy-white sea-wall of collar, rising three inches above the blue billows of a puffed cravat, upon which floated a large, hollow pearl. his ulster, sporting a big cape at the shoulders, and a tasselled hood over the cape, was of a rough scotch cloth, patterned in faint, gray-and-white squares the size of baggage-checks, and it was so long that the skirts trailed in the snow. his legs were lost in the accurately creased, voluminous garments that were the tailors' canny reaction from the tight trousers with which the 'eighties had begun: they were, in color, a palish russet, broadly striped with gray, and, in size, surpassed the milder spirit of fashion so far as they permitted a liberal knee action to take place almost without superficial effect. upon his feet glistened long shoes, shaped, save for the heels, like sharp racing-shells; these were partially protected by tan-colored low gaiters with flat, shiny, brown buttons. in one hand the youth swung a bone-handled walking-stick, perhaps an inch and a half in diameter, the other carried a yellow leather banjo-case, upon the outer side of which glittered the embossed-silver initials, "e. b." he was smoking, but walked with his head up, making use, however, of a gait at that time new to canaan, a seeming superbly irresponsible lounge, engendering much motion of the shoulders, producing an effect of carelessness combined with independence--an effect which the innocent have been known to hail as an unconscious one. he looked about him as he came, smilingly, with an expression of princely amusement--as an elderly cabinet minister, say, strolling about a village where he had spent some months in his youth, a hamlet which he had then thought large and imposing, but which, being revisited after years of cosmopolitan glory, appeals to his whimsy and his pity. the youth's glance at the court-house unmistakably said: "ah, i recall that odd little box. i thought it quite large in the days before i became what i am now, and i dare say the good townsfolk still think it an imposing structure!" with everything in sight he deigned to be amused, especially with the old faces in the "national house" windows. to these he waved his stick with airy graciousness. "my soul!" said mr. davey. "it seems to know some of us!" "yes," agreed mr. arp, his voice recovered, "and _i_ know it." "you do?" exclaimed the colonel. "i do, and so do you. it's fanny louden's boy, 'gene, come home for his christmas holidays." "by george! you're right," cried flitcroft; "i recognize him now." "but what's the matter with him?" asked mr. bradbury, eagerly. "has he joined some patent-medicine troupe?" "not a bit," replied eskew. "he went east to college last fall." "do they make the boys wear them clothes?" persisted bradbury. "is it some kind of uniform?" "i don't care what it is," said jonas tabor. "if i was henry louden i wouldn't let him wear 'em around here." "oh, you wouldn't, wouldn't you, jonas?" mr. arp employed the accents of sarcasm. "i'd like to see henry louden try to interfere with 'gene bantry. fanny'd lock the old fool up in the cellar." the lofty vision lurched out of view. "i reckon," said the colonel, leaning forward to see the last of it--"i reckon henry louden's about the saddest case of abused step-father i ever saw." "it's his own fault," said mr. arp--"twice not havin' sense enough not to marry. him with a son of his own, too!" "yes," assented the colonel, "marryin' a widow with a son of her own, and that widow fanny!" "wasn't it just the same with her first husband--bantry?" mr. davey asked, not for information, as he immediately answered himself. "you bet it was! didn't she always rule the roost? yes, she did. she made a god of 'gene from the day he was born. bantry's house was run for him, like louden's is now." "and look," exclaimed mr. arp, with satisfaction, "at the way he's turned out!" "he ain't turned out at all yet; he's too young," said buckalew. "besides, clothes don't make the man." "wasn't he smokin' a cigareet!" cried eskew, triumphantly. this was final. "it's a pity henry louden can't do something for his own son," said mr. bradbury. "why don't he send him away to college?" "fanny won't let him," chuckled mr. arp, malevolently. "takes all their spare change to keep 'gene there in style. i don't blame her. 'gene certainly acts the fool, but that joe louden is the orneriest boy i ever saw in an ornery world-full." "he always was kind of mischeevous," admitted buckalew. "i don't think he's mean, though, and it does seem kind of not just right that joe's father's money--bantry didn't leave anything to speak of--has to go to keepin' 'gene on the fat of the land, with joe gittin' up at half-past four to carry papers, and him goin' on nineteen years old." "it's all he's fit for!" exclaimed eskew. "he's low down, i tell ye. ain't it only last week judge pike caught him shootin' craps with pike's nigger driver and some other nigger hired-men in the alley back of pike's barn." mr. schindlinger, the retired grocer, one of the silent members, corroborated eskew's information. "i heert dot, too," he gave forth, in his fat voice. "he blays dominoes pooty often in der room back off louie farbach's tsaloon. i see him myself. pooty often. blayin' fer a leedle money--mit loafers! loafers!" "pretty outlook for the loudens!" said eskew arp, much pleased. "one boy a plum fool and dressed like it, the other gone to the dogs already!" "what could you expect joe to be?" retorted squire buckalew. "what chance has he ever had? long as i can remember fanny's made him fetch and carry for 'gene. 'gene's had everything--all the fancy clothes, all the pocket-money, and now college!" "you ever hear that boy joe talk politics?" asked uncle joe davey, crossing a cough with a chuckle. "his head's so full of schemes fer running this town, and state, too, it's a wonder it don't bust. henry louden told me he's see joe set around and study by the hour how to save three million dollars for the state in two years." "and the best he can do for himself," added eskew, "is deliverin' the daily tocsin on a second-hand star bicycle and gamblin' with niggers and riff-raff! none of the nice young folks invite him to their doin's any more." "that's because he's got so shabby he's quit goin' with em," said buckalew. "no, it ain't," snapped mr. arp. "it's because he's so low down. he's no more 'n a town outcast. there ain't ary one of the girls 'll have a thing to do with him, except that rip-rarin' tom-boy next door to louden's; and the others don't have much to do with her, neither, i can tell ye. that arie tabor--" colonel flitcroft caught him surreptitiously by the arm. "sh, eskew!" he whispered. "look out what you're sayin'!" "you needn't mind me," jonas tabor spoke up, crisply. "i washed my hands of all responsibility for roger's branch of the family long ago. never was one of 'em had the energy or brains to make a decent livin', beginning with roger; not one worth his salt! i set roger's son up in business, and all the return he ever made me was to go into bankruptcy and take to drink, till he died a sot, like his wife did of shame. i done all i could when i handed him over my store, and i never expect to lift a finger for 'em again. ariel tabor's my grandniece, but she didn't act like it, and you can say anything you like about her, for what i care. the last time i spoke to her was a year and a half ago, and i don't reckon i'll ever trouble to again." "how was that, jonas?" quickly inquired mr. davey, who, being the eldest of the party, was the most curious. "what happened?" "she was out in the street, up on that high bicycle of joe louden's. he was teachin' her to ride, and she was sittin' on it like a man does. i stopped and told her she wasn't respectable. sixteen years old, goin' on seventeen!" "what did she say?" "laughed," said jonas, his voice becoming louder as the recital of his wrongs renewed their sting in his soul. "laughed!" "what did you do?" "i went up to her and told her she wasn't a decent girl, and shook the wheel." mr. tabor illustrated by seizing the lapels of joe davey and shaking him. "i told her if her grandfather had any spunk she'd git an old-fashioned hidin' for behavin' that way. and i shook the wheel again." here mr. tabor, forgetting in the wrath incited by the recollection that he had not to do with an inanimate object, swung the gasping and helpless mr. davey rapidly back and forth in his chair. "i shook it good and hard!" "what did she do then?" asked peter bradbury. "fell off on me," replied jonas, violently. "on purpose!" "i wisht she'd killed ye," said mr. davey, in a choking voice, as, released, he sank back in his chair. "on purpose!" repeated jonas. "and smashed a straw hat i hadn't had three months! all to pieces! so it couldn't be fixed!" "and what then?" pursued bradbury. "she ran," replied jonas, bitterly--"ran! and joe louden--joe louden--" he paused and gulped. "what did he do?" peter leaned forward in his chair eagerly. the narrator of the outrage gulped again, and opened and shut his mouth before responding. "he said if i didn't pay for a broken spoke on his wheel he'd have to sue me!" no one inquired if jonas had paid, and jonas said no more. the recollection of his wrongs, together with the illustrative violence offered to mr. davey, had been too much for him. he sank back, panting, in his chair, his hands fluttering nervously over his heart, and closed his eyes. "i wonder why," ruminated mr. bradbury--"i wonder why 'gene bantry walked up from the deepo. don't seem much like his style. should think he'd of rode up in a hack." "sho!" said uncle joe davey, his breath recovered. "he wanted to walk up past judge pike's, to see if there wasn't a show of mamie's bein' at the window, and give her a chance to look at that college uniform and banjo-box and new walk of his." mr. arp began to show signs of uneasiness. "i'd like mighty well to know," he said, shifting round in his chair, "if there's anybody here that's been able to answer the question i put, yesterday, just before we went home. you all tried to, but i didn't hear anything i could consider anyways near even a fair argument." "who tried to?" asked buckalew, sharply, sitting up straight. "what question?" "what proof can you bring me," began mr. arp, deliberately, "that we folks, modernly, ain't more degenerate than the ancient romans?" ii a rescue main street, already muffled by the snow, added to its quietude a frozen hush where the wonder-bearing youth pursued his course along its white, straight way. none was there in whom impertinence overmastered astonishment, or who recovered from the sight in time to jeer with effect; no "trab's boy" gathered courage to enact in the thoroughfare a scene of mockery and of joy. leaving business at a temporary stand-still behind him, mr. bantry swept his long coat steadily over the snow and soon emerged upon that part of the street where the mart gave way to the home. the comfortable houses stood pleasantly back from the street, with plenty of lawn and shrubbery about them; and often, along the picket-fences, the laden branches of small cedars, bending low with their burden, showered the young man's swinging shoulders glitteringly as he brushed by. and now that expression he wore--the indulgent amusement of a man of the world--began to disintegrate and show signs of change. it became finely grave, as of a high conventionality, lofty, assured, and mannered, as he approached the pike mansion. (the remotest stranger must at once perceive that the canaan papers could not have called it otherwise without pain.) it was a big, smooth-stone-faced house, product of the 'seventies, frowning under an outrageously insistent mansard, capped by a cupola, and staring out of long windows overtopped with "ornamental" slabs. two cast-iron deer, painted death-gray, twins of the same mould, stood on opposite sides of the front walk, their backs towards it and each other, their bodies in profile to the street, their necks bent, however, so that they gazed upon the passer-by--yet gazed without emotion. two large, calm dogs guarded the top of the steps leading to the front-door; they also were twins and of the same interesting metal, though honored beyond the deer by coats of black paint and shellac. it was to be remarked that these dogs were of no distinguishable species or breed, yet they were unmistakably dogs; the dullest must have recognized them as such at a glance, which was, perhaps, enough. it was a hideous house, important-looking, cold, yet harshly aggressive, a house whose exterior provoked a shuddering guess of the brass lambrequins and plush fringes within; a solid house, obviously--nay, blatantly--the residence of the principal citizen, whom it had grown to resemble, as is the impish habit of houses; and it sat in the middle of its flat acre of snowy lawn like a rich, fat man enraged and sitting straight up in bed to swear. and yet there was one charming thing about this ugly house. some workmen were enclosing a large side porch with heavy canvas, evidently for festal purposes. looking out from between two strips of the canvas was the rosy and delicate face of a pretty girl, smiling upon eugene bantry as he passed. it was an obviously pretty face, all the youth and prettiness there for your very first glance; elaborately pretty, like the splendid profusion of hair about and above it--amber-colored hair, upon which so much time had been spent that a circle of large, round curls rose above the mass of it like golden bubbles tipping a coronet. the girl's fingers were pressed thoughtfully against her chin as eugene strode into view; immediately her eyes widened and brightened. he swung along the fence with the handsomest appearance of unconsciousness, until he reached a point nearly opposite her. then he turned his head, as if haphazardly, and met her eyes. at once she threw out her hand towards him, waving him a greeting--a gesture which, as her fingers had been near her lips, was a little like throwing a kiss. he crooked an elbow and with a one-two-three military movement removed his small-brimmed hat, extended it to full arm's-length at the shoulder-level, returned it to his head with life-guard precision. this was also new to canaan. he was letting mamie pike have it all at once. the impression was as large as he could have desired. she remained at the opening in the canvas and watched him until he wagged his shoulders round the next corner and disappeared into a cross street. as for eugene, he was calm with a great calm, and very red. he had not covered a great distance, however, before his gravity was replaced by his former smiling look of the landed gentleman amused by the innocent pastimes of the peasants, though there was no one in sight except a woman sweeping some snow from the front steps of a cottage, and she, not perceiving him, retired in-doors without knowing her loss. he had come to a thinly built part of the town, the perfect quiet of which made the sound he heard as he opened the picket gate of his own home all the more startling. it was a scream--loud, frantic, and terror-stricken. eugene stopped, with the gate half open. out of the winter skeleton of a grape-arbor at one side of the four-square brick house a brown-faced girl of seventeen precipitated herself through the air in the midst of a shower of torn card-board which she threw before her as she leaped. she lit upon her toes and headed for the gate at top speed, pursued by a pale young man whose thin arms strove spasmodically to reach her. scattering snow behind them, hair flying, the pair sped on like two tattered branches before a high wind; for, as they came nearer eugene (of whom, in the tensity of their flight, they took no note), it was to be seen that both were so shabbily dressed as to be almost ragged. there was a brown patch upon the girl's faded skirt at the knee; the shortness of the garment indicating its age to be something over three years, as well as permitting the knowledge to become more general than befitting that her cotton stockings had been clumsily darned in several places. her pursuer was in as evil case; his trousers displayed a tendency to fringedness at pocket and heel; his coat, blowing open as he ran, threw pennants of torn lining to the breeze, and made it too plain that there were but three buttons on his waistcoat. the girl ran beautifully, but a fleeter foot was behind her, and though she dodged and evaded like a creature of the woods, the reaching hand fell upon the loose sleeve of her red blouse, nor fell lightly. she gave a wrench of frenzy; the antique fabric refused the strain; parted at the shoulder seam so thoroughly that the whole sleeve came away--but not to its owner's release, for she had been brought round by the jerk, so that, agile as she had shown herself, the pursuer threw an arm about her neck, before she could twist away, and held her. there was a sharp struggle, as short as it was fierce. neither of these extraordinary wrestlers spoke. they fought. victory hung in the balance for perhaps four seconds; then the girl was thrown heavily upon her back, in such a turmoil of snow that she seemed to be the mere nucleus of a white comet. she struggled to get up, plying knee and elbow with a very anguish of determination; but her opponent held her, pinioned both her wrists with one hand, and with the other rubbed great handfuls of snow into her face, sparing neither mouth nor eyes. "you will!" he cried. "you will tear up my pictures! a dirty trick, and you get washed for it!" half suffocated, choking, gasping, she still fought on, squirming and kicking with such spirit that the pair of them appeared to the beholder like figures of mist writhing in a fountain of snow. more violence was to mar the peace of morning. unexpectedly attacked from the rear, the conqueror was seized by the nape of the neck and one wrist, and jerked to his feet, simultaneously receiving a succession of kicks from his assailant. prompted by an entirely natural curiosity, he essayed to turn his head to see who this might be, but a twist of his forearm and the pressure of strong fingers under his ear constrained him to remain as he was; therefore, abandoning resistance, and, oddly enough, accepting without comment the indication that his captor desired to remain for the moment incognito, he resorted calmly to explanations. "she tore up a picture of mine," he said, receiving the punishment without apparent emotion. "she seemed to think because she'd drawn it herself she had a right to." there was a slight whimsical droop at the corner of his mouth as he spoke, which might have been thought characteristic of him. he was an odd-looking boy, not ill-made, though very thin and not tall. his pallor was clear and even, as though constitutional; the features were delicate, almost childlike, but they were very slightly distorted, through nervous habit, to an expression at once wistful and humorous; one eyebrow was a shade higher than the other, one side of the mouth slightly drawn down; the eyelids twitched a little, habitually; the fine, blue eyes themselves were almost comically reproachful--the look of a puppy who thinks you would not have beaten him if you had known what was in his heart. all of this was in the quality of his voice, too, as he said to his invisible captor, with an air of detachment from any personal feeling: "what peculiar shoes you wear! i don't think i ever felt any so pointed before." the rescuing knight took no thought of offering to help the persecuted damsel to arise; instead, he tightened his grip upon the prisoner's neck until, perforce, water--not tears--started from the latter's eyes. "you miserable little muff," said the conqueror, "what the devil do you mean, making this scene on our front lawn?" "why, it's eugene!" exclaimed the helpless one. "they didn't expect you till to-night. when did you get in?" "just in time to give you a lesson, my buck," replied bantry, grimly. "in good time for that, my playful step-brother." he began to twist the other's wrist--a treatment of bone and ligament in the application of which school-boys and even freshmen are often adept. eugene made the torture acute, and was apparently enjoying the work, when suddenly--without any manner of warning--he received an astounding blow upon the left ear, which half stunned him for the moment, and sent his hat flying and himself reeling, so great was the surprise and shock of it. it was not a slap, not an open-handed push, nothing like it, but a fierce, well-delivered blow from a clinched fist with the shoulder behind it, and it was the girl who had given it. "don't you dare to touch joe!" she cried, passionately. "don't you lay a finger on him." furious and red, he staggered round to look at her. "you wretched little wild-cat, what do you mean by that?" he broke out. "don't you touch joe!" she panted. "don't you--" her breath caught and there was a break in her voice as she faced him. she could not finish the repetition of that cry, "don't you touch joe!" but there was no break in the spirit, that passion of protection which had dealt the blow. both boys looked at her, something aghast. she stood before them, trembling with rage and shivering with cold in the sudden wind which had come up. her hair had fallen and blew across her streaming face in brown witch-wisps; one of the ill-darned stockings had come down and hung about her shoe in folds full of snow; the arm which had lost its sleeve was bare and wet; thin as the arm of a growing boy, it shook convulsively, and was red from shoulder to clinched fist. she was covered with snow. mists of white drift blew across her, mercifully half veiling her. eugene recovered himself. he swung round upon his heel, restored his hat to his head with precision, picked up his stick and touched his banjo-case with it. "carry that into the house," he said, indifferently, to his step-brother. "don't you do it!" said the girl, hotly, between her chattering teeth. eugene turned towards her, wearing the sharp edge of a smile. not removing his eyes from her face, he produced with deliberation a flat silver box from a pocket, took therefrom a cigarette, replaced the box, extracted a smaller silver box from another pocket, shook out of it a fusee, slowly lit the cigarette--this in a splendid silence, which he finally broke to say, languidly, but with particular distinctness: "ariel tabor, go home!" the girl's teeth stopped chattering, her lips remaining parted; she shook the hair out of her eyes and stared at him as if she did not understand, but joe louden, who had picked up the banjo-case obediently, burst into cheerful laughter. "that's it, 'gene," he cried, gayly. "that's the way to talk to her!" "stow it, you young cub," replied eugene, not turning to him. "do you think i'm trying to be amusing?" "i don't know what you mean by 'stow it,'" joe began, "but if--" "i mean," interrupted the other, not relaxing his faintly smiling stare at the girl--"i mean that ariel tabor is to go home. really, we can't have this kind of thing occurring upon our front lawn!" the flush upon her wet cheeks deepened and became dark; even her arm grew redder as she gazed back at him. in his eyes was patent his complete realization of the figure she cut, of this bare arm, of the strewn hair, of the fallen stocking, of the ragged shoulder of her blouse, of her patched short skirt, of the whole dishevelled little figure. he was the master of the house, and he was sending her home as ill-behaved children are sent home by neighbors. the immobile, amused superiority of this proprietor of silver boxes, this wearer of strange and brilliant garments, became slightly intensified as he pointed to the fallen sleeve, a rag of red and snow, lying near her feet. "you might take that with you?" he said, interrogatively. her gaze had not wavered in meeting his, but at this her eyelashes began to wink uncontrollably, her chin to tremble. she bent over the sleeve and picked it up, before joe louden, who had started towards her, could do it for her. then turning, her head still bent so that her face was hidden from both of them, she ran out of the gate. "do go!" joe called after her, vehemently. "go! just to show what a fool you are to think 'gene's in earnest." he would have followed, but his step-brother caught him by the arm. "don't stop her," said eugene. "can't you tell when i am in earnest, you bally muff!" "i know you are," returned the other, in a low voice. "i didn't want her to think so for your sake." "thousands of thanks," said eugene, airily. "you are a wise young judge. she couldn't stay--in that state, could she? i sent her for her own good." "she could have gone in the house and your mother might have loaned her a jacket," returned joe, swallowing. "you had no business to make her go out in the street like that." eugene laughed. "there isn't a soul in sight--and there, she's all right now. she's home." ariel had run along the fence until she came to the next gate, which opened upon a walk leading to a shabby, meandering old house of one story, with a very long, low porch, once painted white, running the full length of the front. ariel sprang upon the porch and disappeared within the house. joe stood looking after her, his eyelashes winking as had hers. "you oughtn't to have treated her that way," he said, huskily. eugene laughed again. "how were you treating her when i came up? you bully her all you want to yourself, but nobody else must say even a fatherly word to her!" "that wasn't bullying," explained joe. "we fight all the time." "mais oui!" assented eugene. "i fancy!" "what?" said the other, blankly. "pick up that banjo-case again and come on," commanded mr. bantry, tartly. "where's the mater?" joe stared at him. "where's what?" "the mater!" was the frowning reply. "oh yes, i know!" said joe, looking at his step-brother curiously. "i've seen it in stories. she's up-stairs. you'll be a surprise. you're wearing lots of clothes, 'gene." "i suppose it will seem so to canaan," returned the other, weariedly. "governor feeling fit?" "i never saw him," joe replied; then caught himself. "oh, i see what you mean! yes, he's all right." they had come into the hall, and eugene was removing the long coat, while his step-brother looked at him thoughtfully. "'gene," asked the latter, in a softened voice, "have you seen mamie pike yet?" "you will find, my young friend," responded mr. bantry, "if you ever go about much outside of canaan, that ladies' names are not supposed to be mentioned indiscriminately." "it's only," said joe, "that i wanted to say that there's a dance at their house to-night. i suppose you'll be going?" "certainly. are you?" both knew that the question was needless; but joe answered, gently: "oh no, of course not." he leaned over and fumbled with one foot as if to fasten a loose shoe-string. "she wouldn't be very likely to ask me." "well, what about it?" "only that--that arie tabor's going." "indeed!" eugene paused on the stairs, which he had begun to ascend. "very interesting." "i thought," continued joe, hopefully, straightening up to look at him, "that maybe you'd dance with her. i don't believe many will ask her--i'm afraid they won't--and if you would, even only once, it would kind of make up for"--he faltered--"for out there," he finished, nodding his head in the direction of the gate. if eugene vouchsafed any reply, it was lost in a loud, shrill cry from above, as a small, intensely nervous-looking woman in blue silk ran half-way down the stairs to meet him and caught him tearfully in her arms. "dear old mater!" said eugene. joe went out of the front-door quickly. iii old hopes the door which ariel had entered opened upon a narrow hall, and down this she ran to her own room, passing, with face averted, the entrance to the broad, low-ceilinged chamber that had served roger tabor as a studio for almost fifty years. he was sitting there now, in a hopeless and disconsolate attitude, with his back towards the double doors, which were open, and had been open since their hinges had begun to give way, when ariel was a child. hearing her step, he called her name, but did not turn; and, receiving no answer, sighed faintly as he heard her own door close upon her. then, as his eyes wandered about the many canvases which leaned against the dingy walls, he sighed again. usually they showed their brown backs, but to-day he had turned them all to face outward. twilight, sunset, moonlight (the court-house in moonlight), dawn, morning, noon (main street at noon), high summer, first spring, red autumn, midwinter, all were there--illimitably detailed, worked to a smoothness like a glaze, and all lovingly done with unthinkable labor. and there were "italian flower-sellers," damsels with careful hair, two figures together, one blonde, the other as brunette as lampblack, the blonde--in pink satin and blue slippers--leaning against a pillar and smiling over the golden coins for which she had exchanged her posies; the brunette seated at her feet, weeping upon an unsold bouquet. there were red-sashed "fisher lads" wading with butterfly-nets on their shoulders; there was a "tying the ribbon on pussy's neck"; there were portraits in oil and petrifactions in crayon, as hard and tight as the purses of those who had refused to accept them, leaving them upon their maker's hands because the likeness had failed. after a time the old man got up, went to his easel near a window, and, sighing again, began patiently to work upon one of these failures--a portrait, in oil, of a savage old lady, which he was doing from a photograph. the expression of the mouth and the shape of the nose had not pleased her descendants and the beneficiaries under the will, and it was upon the images of these features that roger labored. he leaned far forward, with his face close to the canvas, holding his brushes after the spencerian fashion, working steadily through the afternoon, and, when the light grew dimmer, leaning closer to his canvas to see. when it had become almost dark in the room, he lit a student-lamp with a green-glass shade, and, placing it upon a table beside him, continued to paint. ariel's voice interrupted him at last. "it's quitting-time, grandfather," she called, gently, from the doorway behind him. he sank back in his chair, conscious, for the first time, of how tired he had grown. "i suppose so," he said, "though it seemed to me that i was just getting my hand in." his eyes brightened for a moment. "i declare, i believe i've caught it a great deal better. come and look, ariel. doesn't it seem to you that i'm getting it? those pearly shadows in the flesh--" "i'm sure of it. those people ought to be very proud to have it." she came to him quietly, took the palette and brushes from his hands and began to clean them, standing in the shadow behind him. "it's too good for them." "i wonder if it is," he said, slowly, leaning forward and curving his hands about his eyes so as to shut off everything from his view except the canvas. "i wonder if it is!" he repeated. then his hands dropped sadly in his lap, and he sank back again with a patient kind of revulsion. "no, no, it isn't! i always think they're good when i've just finished them. i've been fooled that way all my life. they don't look the same afterwards." "they're always beautiful," she said, softly. "ah, ah!" he sighed. "now, roger!" she cried, with cheerful sharpness, continuing her work. "i know," he said, with a plaintive laugh,--"i know. sometimes i think that all my reward has been in the few minutes i've had just after finishing them. during those few minutes i seem to see in them all that i wanted to put in them; i see it because what i've been trying to express is still so warm in my own eyes that i seem to have got it on the canvas where i wanted it." "but you do," she said. "you do get it there." "no," he murmured, in return. "i never did. i got out some of the old ones when i came in this morning, some that i hadn't looked at for years, and it's the same with them. you can do it much better yourself--your sketches show it." "no, no!" she protested, quickly. "yes, they do; and i wondered if it was only because you were young. but those i did when i was young are almost the same as the ones i paint now. i haven't learned much. there hasn't been any one to show me! and you can't learn from print, never! yet i've grown in what i see--grown so that the world is full of beauty to me that i never dreamed of seeing when i began. but i can't paint it--i can't get it on the canvas. ah, i think i might have known how to, if i hadn't had to teach myself, if i could only have seen how some of the other fellows did their work. if i'd ever saved money to get away from canaan--if i could have gone away from it and come back knowing how to paint it--if i could have got to paris for just one month! paris--for just one month!" "perhaps we will; you can't tell what may happen." it was always her reply to this cry of his. "paris--for just one month!" he repeated, with infinite wistfulness, and then realizing what an old, old cry it was with him, he shook his head, impatiently sniffing out a laugh at himself, rose and went pottering about among the canvases, returning their faces to the wall, and railing at them mutteringly. "whatever took me into it, i don't know. i might have done something useful. but i couldn't bring myself ever to consider doing anything else--i couldn't bear even to think of it! lord forgive me, i even tried to encourage your father to paint. perhaps he might as well, poor boy, as to have put all he'd made into buying jonas out. ah me! there you go, 'flower-girls'! turn your silly faces to the wall and smile and cry there till i'm gone and somebody throws you on a bonfire. i'll never look at you again." he paused, with the canvas half turned. "and yet," he went on, reflectively, "a man promised me thirty-five dollars for that picture once. i painted it to order, but he went away before i finished it, and never answered the letters i wrote him about it. i wish i had the money now--perhaps we could have more than two meals a day." "we don't need more," said ariel, scraping the palette attentively. "it's healthier with only breakfast and supper. i think i'd rather have a new dress than dinner." "i dare say you would," the old man mused. "you're young--you're young. what were you doing all this afternoon, child?" "in my room, trying to make over mamma's wedding-dress for to-night." "to-night?" "mamie pike invited me to a dance at their house." "very well; i'm glad you're going to be gay," he said, not seeing the faintly bitter smile that came to her face. "i don't think i'll be very gay," she answered. "i don't know why i go--nobody ever asks me to dance." "why not?" he asked, with an old man's astonishment. "i don't know. perhaps it's because i don't dress very well." then, as he made a sorrowful gesture, she cut him off before he could speak. "oh, it isn't altogether because we're poor; it's more i don't know how to wear what i've got, the way some girls do. i never cared much and--well, i'm not worrying, roger! and i think i've done a good deal with mamma's dress. it's a very grand dress. i wonder i never thought of wearing it until to-day. i may be"--she laughed and blushed--"i may be the belle of the ball--who knows!" "you'll want me to walk over with you and come for you afterwards, i expect." "only to take me. it may be late when i come away--if a good many should ask me to dance, for once! of course i could come home alone. but joe louden is going to sort of hang around outside, and he'll meet me at the gate and see me safe home." "oh!" he exclaimed, blankly. "isn't it all right?" she asked. "i think i'd better come for you," he answered, gently. "the truth is, i--i think you'd better not be with joe louden a great deal." "why?" "well, he doesn't seem a vicious boy to me, but i'm afraid he's getting rather a bad name, my dear." "he's not getting one," she said, gravely. "he's already got one. he's had a bad name in canaan for a long while. it grew in the first place out of shabbiness and mischief, but it did grow; and if people keep on giving him a bad name the time will come when he'll live up to it. he's not any worse than i am, and i guess my own name isn't too good--for a girl. and yet, so far, there's nothing against him except his bad name." "i'm afraid there is," said roger. "it doesn't look very well for a young man of his age to be doing no better than delivering papers." "it gives him time to study law," she answered, quickly. "if he clerked all day in a store, he couldn't." "i didn't know he was studying now. i thought i'd heard that he was in a lawyer's office for a few weeks last year, and was turned out for setting fire to it with a pipe--" "it was an accident," she interposed. "but some pretty important papers were burned, and after that none of the other lawyers would have him." "he's not in an office," she admitted. "i didn't mean that. but he studies a great deal. he goes to the courts all the time they're in session, and he's bought some books of his own." "well--perhaps," he assented; "but they say he gambles and drinks, and that last week judge pike threatened to have him arrested for throwing dice with some negroes behind the judge's stable." "what of it? i'm about the only nice person in town that will have anything to do with him--and nobody except you thinks i'm very nice!" "ariel! ariel!" "i know all about his gambling with darkies," she continued, excitedly, her voice rising, "and i know that he goes to saloons, and that he's an intimate friend of half the riffraff in town; and i know the reason for it, too, because he's told me. he wants to know them, to understand them; and he says some day they'll make him a power, and then he can help them!" the old man laughed helplessly. "but i can't let him bring you home, my dear." she came to him slowly and laid her hands upon his shoulders. grandfather and granddaughter were nearly of the same height, and she looked squarely into his eyes. "then you must say it is because you want to come for me, not because i mustn't come with joe." "but i think it is a little because you mustn't come with joe," he answered, "especially from the pikes'. don't you see that it mightn't be well for joe himself, if the judge should happen to see him? i understand he warned the boy to keep away from the neighborhood entirely or he would have him locked up for dice-throwing. the judge is a very influential man, you know, and as determined in matters like this as he is irritable." "oh, if you put it on that ground," the girl replied, her eyes softening, "i think you'd better come for me yourself." "very well, i put it on that ground," he returned, smiling upon her. "then i'll send joe word and get supper," she said, kissing him. it was the supper-hour not only for them but everywhere in canaan, and the cold air of the streets bore up and down and around corners the smell of things frying. the dining-room windows of all the houses threw bright patches on the snow of the side-yards; the windows of other rooms, except those of the kitchens, were dark, for the rule of the place was puritanical in thrift, as in all things; and the good housekeepers disputed every record of the meters with unhappy gas-collectors. there was no better housekeeper in town than mrs. louden, nor a thriftier, but hers was one of the few houses in canaan, that evening, which showed bright lights in the front rooms while the family were at supper. it was proof of the agitation caused by the arrival of eugene that she forgot to turn out the gas in her parlor, and in the chamber she called a library, on her way to the evening meal. that might not have been thought a cheerful feast for joe louden. the fatted calf was upon the board, but it had not been provided for the prodigal, who, in this case, was the brother that stayed at home: the fete rewarded the good brother, who had been in strange lands, and the good one had found much honor in his wanderings, as he carelessly let it appear. mrs. louden brightened inexpressibly whenever eugene spoke of himself, and consequently she glowed most of the time. her husband--a heavy, melancholy, silent man with a grizzled beard and no mustache--lowered at joe throughout the meal, but appeared to take a strange comfort in his step-son's elegance and polish. eugene wore new evening clothes and was lustrous to eye and ear. joe escaped as soon as he could, though not before the count of his later sins had been set before eugene in detail, in mass, and in all of their depth, breadth, and thickness. his father spoke but once, after nodding heavily to confirm all points of mrs. louden's recital. "you better use any influence you've got with your brother," he said to eugene, "to make him come to time. i can't do anything with him. if he gets in trouble, he needn't come to me! i'll never help him again. i'm tired of it!" eugene glanced twinklingly at the outcast. "i didn't know he was such a roarer as all that!" he said, lightly, not taking joe as of enough consequence to be treated as a sinner. this encouraged mrs. louden to pathos upon the subject of her shame before other women when joe happened to be mentioned, and the supper was finished with the topic. joe slipped away through the kitchen, sneakingly, and climbed the back fence. in the alley he lit a cheap cigarette, and thrusting his hands into his pockets and shivering violently--for he had no overcoat,--walked away singing to himself, "a spanish cavalier stood in his retreat," his teeth affording an appropriate though involuntary castanet accompaniment. his movements throughout the earlier part of that evening are of uncertain report. it is known that he made a partial payment of forty-five cents at a second-hand book-store for a number of volumes--grindstaff on torts and some others--which he had negotiated on the instalment system; it is also believed that he won twenty-eight cents playing seven-up in the little room behind louie farbach's bar; but these things are of little import compared to the established fact that at eleven o'clock he was one of the ball guests at the pike mansion. he took no active part in the festivities, nor was he one of the dancers: his was, on the contrary, the role of a quiet observer. he lay stretched at full length upon the floor of the enclosed porch (one of the strips of canvas was later found to have been loosened), wedged between the outer railing and a row of palms in green tubs. the position he occupied was somewhat too draughty to have been recommended by a physician, but he commanded, between the leaves of the screening palms, an excellent view of the room nearest the porch. a long window, open, afforded communication between this room, one of those used for dancing, and the dim bower which had been made of the veranda, whither flirtatious couples made their way between the dances. it was not to play eavesdropper upon any of these that the uninvited joe had come. he was not there to listen, and it is possible that, had the curtains of other windows afforded him the chance to behold the dance, he might not have risked the dangers of his present position. he had not the slightest interest in the whispered coquetries that he heard; he watched only to catch now and then, over the shoulders of the dancers, a fitful glimpse of a pretty head that flitted across the window--the amber hair of mamie pike. he shivered in the draughts; and the floor of the porch was cement, painful to elbow and knee, the space where he lay cramped and narrow; but the golden bubbles of her hair, the shimmer of her dainty pink dress, and the fluffy wave of her lace scarf as she crossed and recrossed in a waltz, left him, apparently, in no discontent. he watched with parted lips, his pale cheeks reddening whenever those fair glimpses were his. at last she came out to the veranda with eugene and sat upon a little divan, so close to joe that, daring wildly in the shadow, he reached out a trembling hand and let his fingers rest upon the end of her scarf, which had fallen from her shoulders and touched the floor. she sat with her back to him, as did eugene. "you have changed, i think, since last summer," he heard her say, reflectively. "for the worse, ma cherie?" joe's expression might have been worth seeing when eugene said "ma cherie," for it was known in the louden household that mr. bantry had failed to pass his examination in the french language. "no," she answered. "but you have seen so much and accomplished so much since then. you have become so polished and so--" she paused, and then continued, "but perhaps i'd better not say it; you might be offended." "no. i want you to say it," he returned, confidently, and his confidence was fully justified, for she said: "well, then, i mean that you have become so thoroughly a man of the world. now i've said it! you are offended--aren't you?" "not at all, not at all," replied mr. bantry, preventing by a masterful effort his pleasure from showing in his face. "though i suppose you mean to imply that i'm rather wicked." "oh no," said mamie, with profound admiration, "not exactly wicked." "university life is fast nowadays," eugene admitted. "it's difficult not to be drawn into it!" "and i suppose you look down on poor little canaan now, and everybody in it!" "oh no," he laughed, indulgently. "not at all, not at all! i find it very amusing." "all of it?" "not you," he answered, becoming very grave. "honestly--don't you?" her young voice trembled a little. "honestly--indeed--truly--" eugene leaned very close to her and the words were barely audible. "you know i don't!" "then i'm--glad," she whispered, and joe saw his step-brother touch her hand, but she rose quickly. "there's the music," she cried, happily. "it's a waltz, and it's yours!" joe heard her little high heels tapping gayly towards the window, followed by the heavier tread of eugene, but he did not watch them go. he lay on his back, with the hand that had touched mamie's scarf pressed across his closed eyes. the music of that waltz was of the old-fashioned swingingly sorrowful sort, and it would be hard to say how long it was after that before the boy could hear the air played without a recurrence of the bitterness of that moment. the rhythmical pathos of the violins was in such accord with a faint sound of weeping which he heard near him, presently, that for a little while he believed this sound to be part of the music and part of himself. then it became more distinct, and he raised himself on one elbow to look about. very close to him, sitting upon the divan in the shadow, was a girl wearing a dress of beautiful silk. she was crying softly, her face in her hands. iv the disaster ariel had worked all the afternoon over her mother's wedding-gown, and two hours were required by her toilet for the dance. she curled her hair frizzily, burning it here and there, with a slate-pencil heated over a lamp chimney, and she placed above one ear three or four large artificial roses, taken from an old hat of her mother's, which she had found in a trunk in the store-room. possessing no slippers, she carefully blacked and polished her shoes, which had been clumsily resoled, and fastened into the strings of each small rosettes of red ribbon; after which she practised swinging the train of her skirt until she was proud of her manipulation of it. she had no powder, but found in her grandfather's room a lump of magnesia, that he was in the habit of taking for heart-burn, and passed it over and over her brown face and hands. then a lingering gaze into her small mirror gave her joy at last: she yearned so hard to see herself charming that she did see herself so. admiration came and she told herself that she was more attractive to look at than she had ever been in her life, and that, perhaps, at last she might begin to be sought for like other girls. the little glass showed a sort of prettiness in her thin, unmatured young face; tripping dance-tunes ran through her head, her feet keeping the time,--ah, she did so hope to dance often that night! perhaps--perhaps she might be asked for every number. and so, wrapping an old waterproof cloak about her, she took her grandfather's arm and sallied forth, high hopes in her beating heart. it was in the dressing-room that the change began to come. alone, at home in her own ugly little room, she had thought herself almost beautiful, but here in the brightly lighted chamber crowded with the other girls it was different. there was a big cheval-glass at one end of the room, and she faced it, when her turn came--for the mirror was popular--with a sinking spirit. there was the contrast, like a picture painted and framed. the other girls all wore their hair after the fashion introduced to canaan by mamie pike the week before, on her return from a visit to chicago. none of them had "crimped" and none had bedecked their tresses with artificial flowers. her alterations of the wedding-dress had not been successful; the skirt was too short in front and higher on one side than on the other, showing too plainly the heavy-soled shoes, which had lost most of their polish in the walk through the snow. the ribbon rosettes were fully revealed, and as she glanced at their reflection she heard the words, "look at that train and those rosettes!" whispered behind her, and saw in the mirror two pretty young women turn away with their handkerchiefs over their mouths and retreat hurriedly to an alcove. all the feet in the room except ariel's were in dainty kid or satin slippers of the color of the dresses from which they glimmered out, and only ariel wore a train. she went away from the mirror and pretended to be busy with a hanging thread in her sleeve. she was singularly an alien in the chattering room, although she had been born and lived all her life in the town. perhaps her position among the young ladies may be best defined by the remark, generally current among them, that evening, to the effect that it was "very sweet of mamie to invite her." ariel was not like the others; she was not of them, and never had been. indeed, she did not know them very well. some of them nodded to her and gave her a word of greeting pleasantly; all of them whispered about her with wonder and suppressed amusement; but none talked to her. they were not unkindly, but they were young and eager and excited over their own interests,--which were then in the "gentlemen's dressing-room." each of the other girls had been escorted by a youth of the place, and, one by one, joining these escorts in the hall outside the door, they descended the stairs, until only ariel was left. she came down alone after the first dance had begun, and greeted her young hostess's mother timidly. mrs. pike--a small, frightened-looking woman with a prominent ruby necklace--answered her absently, and hurried away to see that the imported waiters did not steal anything. ariel sat in one of the chairs against the wall and watched the dancers with a smile of eager and benevolent interest. in canaan no parents, no guardians nor aunts, were haled forth o' nights to duenna the junketings of youth; mrs. pike did not reappear, and ariel sat conspicuously alone; there was nothing else for her to do. it was not an easy matter. when the first dance reached an end, mamie pike came to her for a moment with a cheery welcome, and was immediately surrounded by a circle of young men and women, flushed with dancing, shouting as was their wont, laughing inexplicably over words and phrases and unintelligible mono-syllables, as if they all belonged to a secret society and these cries were symbols of things exquisitely humorous, which only they understood. ariel laughed with them more heartily than any other, so that she might seem to be of them and as merry as they were, but almost immediately she found herself outside of the circle, and presently they all whirled away into another dance, and she was left alone again. so she sat, no one coming near her, through several dances, trying to maintain the smile of delighted interest upon her face, though she felt the muscles of her face beginning to ache with their fixedness, her eyes growing hot and glazed. all the other girls were provided with partners for every dance, with several young men left over, these latter lounging hilariously together in the doorways. ariel was careful not to glance towards them, but she could not help hating them. once or twice between the dances she saw miss pike speak appealingly to one of the superfluous, glancing, at the same time, in her own direction, and ariel could see, too, that the appeal proved unsuccessful, until at last mamie approached her, leading norbert flitcroft, partly by the hand, partly by will-power. norbert was an excessively fat boy, and at the present moment looked as patient as the blind. but he asked ariel if she was "engaged for the next dance," and, mamie having flitted away, stood disconsolately beside her, waiting for the music to begin. ariel was grateful for him. "i think you must be very good-natured, mr. flitcroft," she said, with an air of raillery. "no, i'm not," he replied, plaintively. "everybody thinks i am because i'm fat, and they expect me to do things they never dream of asking anybody else to do. i'd like to see 'em even ask 'gene bantry to go and do some of the things they get me to do! a person isn't good-natured just because he's fat," he concluded, morbidly, "but he might as well be!" "oh, i meant good-natured," she returned, with a sprightly laugh, "because you're willing to waltz with me." "oh, well," he returned, sighing, "that's all right." the orchestra flourished into "la paloma"; he put his arm mournfully about her, and taking her right hand with his left, carried her arm out to a rigid right angle, beginning to pump and balance for time. they made three false starts and then got away. ariel danced badly; she hopped and lost the step, but they persevered, bumping against other couples continually. circling breathlessly into the next room, they passed close to a long mirror, in which ariel saw herself, although in a flash, more bitterly contrasted to the others than in the cheval-glass of the dressing-room. the clump of roses was flopping about her neck, her crimped hair looked frowzy, and there was something terribly wrong about her dress. suddenly she felt her train to be ominously grotesque, as a thing following her in a nightmare. a moment later she caught her partner making a burlesque face of suffering over her shoulder, and, turning her head quickly, saw for whose benefit he had constructed it. eugene bantry, flying expertly by with mamie, was bestowing upon mr. flitcroft a condescendingly commiserative wink. the next instant she tripped in her train and fell to the floor at eugene's feet, carrying her partner with her. there was a shout of laughter. the young hostess stopped eugene, who would have gone on, and he had no choice but to stoop to ariel's assistance. "it seems to be a habit of mine," she said, laughing loudly. she did not appear to see the hand he offered, but got to her feet without help and walked quickly away with norbert, who proceeded to live up to the character he had given himself. "perhaps we had better not try it again," she laughed. "well, i should think not," he returned, with the frankest gloom. with the air of conducting her home he took her to the chair against the wall whence he had brought her. there his responsibility for her seemed to cease. "will you excuse me?" he asked, and there was no doubt that he felt that he had been given more than his share that evening, even though he was fat. "yes, indeed." her laughter was continuous. "i should think you would be glad to get rid of me after that. ha, ha, ha! poor mr. flitcroft, you know you are!" it was the deadly truth, and the fat one, saying, "well, if you'll just excuse me now," hurried away with a step which grew lighter as the distance from her increased. arrived at the haven of a far doorway, he mopped his brow and shook his head grimly in response to frequent rallyings. ariel sat through more dances, interminable dances and intermissions, in that same chair, in which, it began to seem, she was to live out the rest of her life. now and then, if she thought people were looking at her as they passed, she broke into a laugh and nodded slightly, as if still amused over her mishap. after a long time she rose, and laughing cheerfully to mr. flitcroft, who was standing in the doorway and replied with a wan smile, stepped out quickly into the hall, where she almost ran into her great-uncle, jonas tabor. he was going towards the big front doors with judge pike, having just come out of the latter's library, down the hall. jonas was breathing heavily and was shockingly pale, though his eyes were very bright. he turned his back upon his grandniece sharply and went out of the door. ariel turned from him quite as abruptly and re-entered the room whence she had come. she laughed again to her fat friend as she passed him, and, still laughing, went towards the fatal chair, when her eyes caught sight of eugene bantry and mamie coming in through the window from the porch. still laughing, she went to the window and looked out; the porch seemed deserted and was faintly illuminated by a few japanese lanterns. she sprang out, dropped upon the divan, and burying her face in her hands, cried heart-brokenly. presently she felt something alive touch her foot, and, her breath catching with alarm, she started to rise. a thin hand, issuing from a shabby sleeve, had stolen out between two of the green tubs and was pressing upon one of her shoes. "'sh!" said joe. "don't make a noise!" his warning was not needed; she had recognized the hand and sleeve instantly. she dropped back with a low sound which would have been hysterical if it had been louder, while he raised himself on his arm until she could see his face dimly, as he peered at her between the palms. "what were you going on about?" he asked, angrily. "nothing," she answered. "i wasn't. you must go away, and quick. it's too dangerous. if the judge found you--" "he won't!" "ah, you'd risk anything to see mamie pike--" "what were you crying about?" he interrupted. "nothing, i tell you!" she repeated, the tears not ceasing to gather in her eyes. "i wasn't." "i want to know what it was," he insisted. "didn't the fools ask you to dance? ah! you needn't tell me. that's it. i've been here for the last three dances and you weren't in sight till you came to the window. well, what do you care about that for?" "i don't!" she answered. "i don't!" then suddenly, without being able to prevent it, she sobbed. "no," he said, gently, "i see you don't. and you let yourself be a fool because there are a lot of fools in there." she gave way, all at once, to a gust of sorrow and bitterness; she bent far over and caught his hand and laid it against her wet cheek. "oh, joe," she whispered, brokenly, "i think we have such hard lives, you and i! it doesn't seem right--while we're so young! why can't we be like the others? why can't we have some of the fun?" he withdrew his hand, with the embarrassment and shame he would have felt had she been a boy. "get out!" he said, feebly. she did not seem to notice, but, still stooping, rested her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands. "i try so hard to have fun, to be like the rest,--and it's always a mistake, always, always, always!" she rocked herself, slightly, from side to side. "i am a fool, it's the truth, or i wouldn't have come to-night. i want to be attractive--i want to be in things. i want to laugh like they do--" "to laugh just to laugh, and not because there's something funny?" "yes, i do, i do! and to know how to dress and to wear my hair--there must be some place where you can learn those things. i've never had any one to show me! ah! grandfather said something like that this afternoon--poor man! we're in the same case. if we only had some one to show us! it all seems so blind, here in canaan, for him and me! i don't say it's not my own fault as much as being poor. i've been a hoyden; i don't feel as if i'd learned how to be a girl yet, joe. it's only lately i've cared, but i'm seventeen, joe, and--and to-day--to-day--i was sent home--and to-night--" she faltered, came to a stop, and her whole body was shaken with sobs. "i hate myself so for crying--for everything!" "i'll tell you something," he whispered, chuckling desperately. "'gene made me unpack his trunk, and i don't believe he's as great a man at college as he is here. i opened one of his books, and some one had written in it, 'prigamaloo bantry, the class try-to-be'! he'd never noticed, and you ought to have heard him go on! you'd have just died, ariel--i almost bust wide open! it was a mean trick in me, but i couldn't help showing it to him." joe's object was obtained. she stopped crying, and, wiping her eyes, smiled faintly. then she became grave. "you're jealous of eugene," she said. he considered this for a moment. "yes," he answered, thoughtfully, "i am. but i wouldn't think about him differently on that account. and i wouldn't talk about him to any one but you." "not even to--" she left the question unfinished. "no," he said, quietly. "of course not." "no? because it wouldn't be any use?" "i don't know. i never have a chance to talk to her, anyway." "of course you don't!" her voice had grown steady. "you say i'm a fool. what are you?" "you needn't worry about me," he began. "i can take care--" "'sh!" she whispered, warningly. the music had stopped, a loud clatter of voices and laughter succeeding it. "what need to be careful," joe assured her, "with all that noise going on?" "you must go away," she said, anxiously. "oh, please, joe!" "not yet; i want--" she coughed loudly. eugene and mamie pike had come to the window, with the evident intention of occupying the veranda, but perceiving ariel engaged with threads in her sleeve, they turned away and disappeared. other couples looked out from time to time, and finding the solitary figure in possession, retreated abruptly to seek stairways and remote corners for the things they were impelled to say. and so ariel held the porch for three dances and three intermissions, occupying a great part of the time with entreaties that her obdurate and reckless companion should go. when, for the fourth time, the music sounded, her agitation had so increased that she was visibly trembling. "i can't stand it, joe," she said, bending over him. "i don't know what would happen if they found you. you've got to go!" "no, i haven't," he chuckled. "they haven't even distributed the supper yet!" "and you take all the chances," she said, slowly, "just to see her pass that window a few times." "what chances?" "of what the judge will do if any one sees you." "nothing; because if any one saw me i'd leave." "please go." "not till--" "'sh!" a colored waiter, smiling graciously, came out upon the porch bearing a tray of salad, hot oysters, and coffee. ariel shook her head. "i don't want any," she murmured. the waiter turned away in pity and was re-entering the window, when a passionate whisper fell upon his ear as well as upon ariel's. "take it!" "ma'am?" said the waiter. "i've changed my mind," she replied, quickly. the waiter, his elation restored, gave of his viands with the superfluous bounty loved by his race when distributing the product of the wealthy. when he had gone, "give me everything that's hot," said joe. "you can keep the salad." "i couldn't eat it or anything else," she answered, thrusting the plate between the palms. for a time there was silence. from within the house came the continuous babble of voices and laughter, the clink of cutlery on china. the young people spent a long time over their supper. by-and-by the waiter returned to the veranda, deposited a plate of colored ices upon ariel's knees with a noble gesture, and departed. "no ice for me," said joe. "won't you please go now?" she entreated! "it wouldn't be good manners," he responded. "they might think i only came for supper--" "hand me back the things. the waiter might come for them any minute." "not yet. i haven't quite finished. i eat with contemplation, ariel, because there's more than the mere food and the warmth of it to consider. there's the pleasure of being entertained by the great martin pike. think what a real kindness i'm doing him, too. i increase his good deeds and his hospitality without his knowing it or being able to help it. don't you see how i boost his standing with the recording angel? if lazarus had behaved the way i do, dives needn't have had those worries that came to him in the after-life." "give me the dish and coffee-cup," she whispered, impatiently. "suppose the waiter came and had to look for them? quick!" "take them, then. you'll see that jealousy hasn't spoiled my appetite--" a bottle-shaped figure appeared in the window and she had no time to take the plate and cup which were being pushed through the palm-leaves. she whispered a syllable of warning, and the dishes were hurriedly withdrawn as norbert flitcroft, wearing a solemn expression of injury, came out upon the veranda. he halted suddenly. "what's that?" he asked, with suspicion. "nothing," answered ariel, sharply. "where?" "behind those palms." "probably your own shadow," she laughed; "or it might have been a draught moving the leaves." he did not seem satisfied, but stared hard at the spot where the dishes had disappeared, meantime edging back cautiously nearer the window. "they want you," he said, after a pause. "some one's come for you." "oh, is grandfather waiting?" she rose, at the same time letting her handkerchief fall. she stooped to pick it up, with her face away from norbert and towards the palms, whispering tremulously, but with passionate urgency, "please go!" "it isn't your grandfather that has come for you," said the fat one, slowly. "it is old eskew arp. something's happened." she looked at him for a moment, beginning to tremble violently, her eyes growing wide with fright. "is my grandfather--is he sick?" "you better go and see. old eskew's waiting in the hall. he'll tell you." she was by him and through the window instantly. norbert did not follow her; he remained for several moments looking earnestly at the palms; then he stepped through the window and beckoned to a youth who was lounging in the doorway across the room. "there's somebody hiding behind those plants," he whispered, when his friend reached him. "go and tell judge pike to send some of the niggers to watch outside the porch, so that he doesn't get away. then tell him to get his revolver and come here." meanwhile ariel had found mr. arp waiting in the hall, talking in a low voice to mrs. pike. "your grandfather's all right," he told the frightened girl, quickly. "he sent me for you, that's all. just hurry and get your things." she was with him again in a moment, and seizing the old man's arm, hurried him down the steps and toward the street almost at a run. "you're not telling me the truth," she said. "you're not telling me the truth!" "nothing has happened to roger," panted mr. arp. "nothing to mind, i mean. here! we're going this way, not that." they had come to the gate, and as she turned to the right he pulled her round sharply to the left. "we're not going to your house." "where are we going?" "we're going to your uncle jonas's." "why?" she cried, in supreme astonishment. "what do you want to take me there for? don't you know that he's stopped speaking to me?" "yes," said the old man, grimly, with something of the look he wore when delivering a clincher at the "national house,"--"he's stopped speaking to everybody." v beaver beach the canaan daily tocsin of the following morning "ventured the assertion" upon its front page that "the scene at the pike mansion was one of unalloyed festivity, music, and mirth; a fairy bower of airy figures wafting here and there to the throb of waltz-strains; a veritable temple of terpsichore, shining forth with a myriad of lights, which, together with the generous profusion of floral decorations and the mingled delights afforded by minds's orchestra of indianapolis and caterer jones of chicago, was in all likelihood never heretofore surpassed in elegance in our city.... only one incident," the tocsin remarked, "marred an otherwise perfect occasion, and out of regard for the culprit's family connections, which are prominent in our social world, we withhold his name. suffice it to say that through the vigilance of mr. norbert flitcroft, grandson of colonel a. a. flitcroft, who proved himself a thorough lecoq (the celebrated french detective), the rascal was seized and recognized. mr. flitcroft, having discovered him in hiding, had a cordon of waiters drawn up around his hiding-place, which was the charmingly decorated side piazza of the pike mansion, and sent for judge pike, who came upon the intruder by surprise. he evaded the judge's indignant grasp, but received a well-merited blow over the head from a poker which the judge had concealed about his person while pretending to approach the hiding-place casually. attracted to the scene by the cries of mr. flitcroft, who, standing behind judge pike, accidentally received a blow from the same weapon, all the guests of the evening sprang to view the scene, only to behold the culprit leap through a crevice between the strips of canvas which enclosed the piazza. he was seized by the colored coachman of the mansion, sam warden, and immediately pounced upon by the cordon of caterer jones's dusky assistants from chicago, who were in ambush outside. unfortunately, after a brief struggle he managed to trip warden, and, the others stumbling upon the prostrate body of the latter, to make his escape in the darkness. "it is not believed by many that his intention was burglary, though what his designs were can only be left to conjecture, as he is far beyond the age when boys perform such actions out of a sense of mischief. he had evidently occupied his hiding-place some time, and an idea of his coolness may be obtained from his having procured and eaten a full meal through an unknown source. judge pike is justly incensed, and swears that he will prosecute him on this and other charges as soon as he can be found. much sympathy is felt for the culprit's family, who feel his shame most keenly, but who, though sorrowing over the occurrence, declare that they have put up with his derelictions long enough, and will do nothing to step between him and the judge's righteous indignation." the pike mansion, "scene of festivity, music, and mirth" (not quite so unalloyed, after all, the stricken flitcroft keeping his room for a week under medical supervision), had not been the only bower of the dance in canaan that evening: another temple of terpsichore had shone forth with lights, though of these there were not quite a myriad. the festivities they illumined obtained no mention in the paper, nor did they who trod the measures in this second temple exhibit any sense of injury because of the tocsin's omission. nay, they were of that class, shy without being bashful, exclusive yet not proud, which shuns publicity with a single-heartedness almost unique in our republic, courting observation neither in the prosecution of their professions nor in the pursuit of happiness. not quite a mile above the northernmost of the factories on the water-front, there projected into the river, near the end of the crescent bend above the town, a long pier, relic of steamboat days, rotting now, and many years fallen from its maritime uses. about midway of its length stood a huge, crazy shed, long ago utilized as a freight storeroom. this had been patched and propped, and a dangerous-looking veranda attached to it, over-hanging the water. above the doorway was placed a sign whereon might be read the words, "beaver beach, mike's place." the shore end of the pier was so ruinous that passage was offered by a single row of planks, which presented an appearance so temporary, as well as insecure, that one might have guessed their office to be something in the nature of a drawbridge. from these a narrow path ran through a marsh, left by the receding river, to a country road of desolate appearance. here there was a rough enclosure, or corral, with some tumble-down sheds which afforded shelter, on the night of joseph louden's disgrace, for a number of shaggy teams attached to those decrepit and musty vehicles known picturesquely and accurately as night-hawks. the presence of such questionable shapes in the corral indicated that the dance was on at beaver beach, mike's place, as surely as the short line of cabs and family carriages on upper main street made it known that gayety was the order of the night at the pike mansion. but among other differences was this, that at the hour when the guests of the latter were leaving, those seeking the hospitalities of beaver beach had just begun to arrive. by three o'clock, however, joy at mike's place had become beyond question unconfined, and the tokens of it were audible for a long distance in all directions. if, however, there is no sound where no ear hears, silence rested upon the country-side until an hour later. then a lonely figure came shivering from the direction of the town, not by the road, but slinking through the snow upon the frozen river. it came slowly, as though very tired, and cautiously, too, often turning its head to look behind. finally it reached the pier, and stopped as if to listen. within the house above, a piano of evil life was being beaten to death for its sins and clamoring its last cries horribly. the old shed rattled in every part with the thud of many heavy feet, and trembled with the shock of noise--an incessant roar of men's voices, punctuated with women's screams. then the riot quieted somewhat; there was a clapping of hands, and a violin began to squeak measures intended to be oriental. the next moment the listener scrambled up one of the rotting piles and stood upon the veranda. a shaft of red light through a broken shutter struck across the figure above the shoulders, revealing a bloody handkerchief clumsily knotted about the head, and, beneath it, the face of joe louden. he went to the broken shutter and looked in. around the blackened walls of the room stood a bleared mob, applausively watching, through a fog of smoke, the contortions of an old woman in a red calico wrapper, who was dancing in the centre of the floor. the fiddler--a rubicund person evidently not suffering from any great depression of spirit through the circumstance of being "out on bail," as he was, to joe's intimate knowledge--sat astride a barrel, resting his instrument upon the foamy tap thereof, and playing somewhat after the manner of a 'cellist; in no wise incommoded by the fact that a tall man (known to a few friends as an expert in the porch-climbing line) was sleeping on his shoulder, while another gentleman (who had prevented many cases of typhoid by removing old plumbing from houses) lay on the floor at the musician's feet and endeavored to assist him by plucking the strings of the fiddle. joe opened the door and went in. all of the merry company (who were able) turned sharply toward the door as it opened; then, recognizing the new-comer, turned again to watch the old woman. one or two nearest the door asked the boy, without great curiosity, what had happened to his head. he merely shook it faintly in reply, and crossed the room to an open hallway beyond. at the end of this he came to a frowzy bedroom, the door of which stood ajar. seated at a deal table, and working by a dim lamp with a broken chimney, a close-cropped, red-bearded, red-haired man in his shirt-sleeves was jabbing gloomily at a column of figures scrawled in a dirty ledger. he looked up as joe appeared in the doorway, and his eyes showed a slight surprise. "i never thought ye had the temper to git somebody to split yer head," said he. "where'd ye collect it?" "nowhere," joe answered, dropping weakly on the bed. "it doesn't amount to anything." "well, i'll take just a look fer myself," said the red-bearded man, rising. "and i've no objection to not knowin' how ye come by it. ye've always been the great one fer keepin' yer mysteries to yerself." he unwound the handkerchief and removed it from joe's head gently. "whee!" he cried, as a long gash was exposed over the forehead. "i hope ye left a mark somewhere to pay a little on the score o' this!" joe chuckled and dropped dizzily back upon the pillow. "there was another who got something like it," he gasped, feebly; "and, oh, mike, i wish you could have heard him going on! perhaps you did--it was only three miles from here." "nothing i'd liked better!" said the other, bringing a basin of clear water from a stand in the corner. "it's a beautiful thing to hear a man holler when he gits a grand one like ye're wearing to-night." he bathed the wound gently, and hurrying from the room, returned immediately with a small jug of vinegar. wetting a rag with this tender fluid, he applied it to joe's head, speaking soothingly the while. "nothing in the world like a bit o' good cider vinegar to keep off the festerin'. it may seem a trifle scratchy fer the moment, but it assassinates the blood-p'ison. there ye go! it's the fine thing fer ye, joe--what are ye squirmin' about?" "i'm only enjoying it," the boy answered, writhing as the vinegar worked into the gash. "don't you mind my laughing to myself." "ye're a good one, joe!" said the other, continuing his ministrations. "i wisht, after all, ye felt like makin' me known to what's the trouble. there's some of us would be glad to take it up fer ye, and--" "no, no; it's all right. i was somewhere i had no business to be, and i got caught." "who caught ye?" "first, some nice white people"--joe smiled his distorted smile--"and then a low-down black man helped me to get away as soon as he saw who it was. he's a friend of mine, and he fell down and tripped up the pursuit." "i always knew ye'd git into large trouble some day." the red-bearded man tore a strip from an old towel and began to bandage the boy's head with an accustomed hand. "yer taste fer excitement has been growin' on ye every minute of the four years i've known ye." "excitement!" echoed joe, painfully blinking at his friend. "do you think i'm hunting excitement?" "be hanged to ye!" said the red-bearded man. "can't i say a teasing word without gittin' called to order fer it? i know ye, my boy, as well as ye know yerself. ye're a queer one. ye're one of the few that must know all sides of the world--and can't content themselves with bein' respectable! ye haven't sunk to 'low life' because ye're low yourself, but ye'll never git a damned one o' the respectable to believe it. there's a few others like ye in the wide world, and i've seen one or two of 'em. i've been all over, steeple-chasin', sailorman, soldier, pedler, and in the po-lice; i've pulled the grand national in paris, and i've been handcuffed in hong-kong; i've seen all the few kinds of women there is on earth and the many kinds of men. yer own kind is the one i've seen the fewest of, but i knew ye belonged to it the first time i laid eyes on ye!" he paused, then continued with conviction: "ye'll come to no good, either, fer yerself, yet no one can say ye haven't the talents. ye've helped many of the boys out of a bad hole with a word of advice around the courts and the jail. who knows but ye'd be a great lawyer if ye kept on?" young people usually like to discuss themselves under any conditions--hence the rewards of palmistry,--but joe's comment on this harangue was not so responsive as might have been expected. "i've got seven dollars," he said, "and i'll leave the clothes i've got on. can you fix me up with something different?" "aha!" cried the red-bearded man. "then ye are in trouble! i thought it 'd come to ye some day! have ye been dinnymitin' martin pike?" "see what you can do," said joe. "i want to wait here until daybreak." "lie down, then," interrupted the other. "and fergit the hullabaloo in the throne-room beyond." "i can easily do that"--joe stretched himself upon the bed,--"i've got so many other things to remember." "i'll have the things fer ye, and i'll let ye know i have no use fer seven dollars," returned the red-bearded man, crossly. "what are ye sniffin' fer?" "i'm thinking of the poor fellow that got the mate to this," said joe, touching the bandage. "i can't help crying when i think they may have used vinegar on his head, too." "git to sleep if ye can!" exclaimed the samaritan, as a hideous burst of noise came from the dance-room, where some one seemed to be breaking a chair upon an acquaintance. "i'll go out and regulate the boys a bit." he turned down the lamp, fumbled in his hip-pocket, and went to the door. "don't forget," joe called after him. "go to sleep," said the red-bearded man, his hand on the door-knob. "that is, go to thinkin', fer ye won't sleep; ye're not the kind. but think easy; i'll have the things fer ye. it's a matter of pride with me that i always knew ye'd come to trouble." vi ye'll tak' the high road and i'll tak' the low road the day broke with a scream of wind out of the prairies and such cloudbursts of snow that joe could see neither bank of the river as he made his way down the big bend of ice. the wind struck so bitterly that now and then he stopped and, panting and gasping, leaned his weight against it. the snow on the ground was caught up and flew like sea spume in a hurricane; it swirled about him, joining the flakes in the air, so that it seemed to be snowing from the ground upward as much as from the sky downward. fierce as it was, hard as it was to fight through, snow from the earth, snow from the sky, joe was grateful for it, feeling that it veiled him, making him safer, though he trusted somewhat the change of costume he had effected at beaver beach. a rough, workman's cap was pulled down over his ears and eyebrows; a knitted comforter was wound about the lower part of his face; under a ragged overcoat he wore blue overalls and rubber boots; and in one of his red-mittened hands he swung a tin dinner-bucket. when he reached the nearest of the factories he heard the exhaust of its engines long before he could see the building, so blinding was the drift. here he struck inland from the river, and, skirting the edges of the town, made his way by unfrequented streets and alleys, bearing in the general direction of upper main street, to find himself at last, almost exhausted, in the alley behind the pike mansion. there he paused, leaning heavily against a board fence and gazing at the vaguely outlined gray plane which was all that could be made of the house through the blizzard. he had often, very often, stood in this same place at night, and there was one window (mrs. pike's) which he had guessed to be mamie's. the storm was so thick that he could not see this window now, but he looked a long time through the thickness at that part of the gray plane where he knew it was. then his lips parted. "good-bye, mamie," he said, softly. "goodbye, mamie." he bent his body against the wind and went on, still keeping to the back ways, until he came to the alley which passed behind his own home, where, however, he paused only for a moment to make a quick survey of the premises. a glance satisfied him; he ran to the next fence, hoisted himself wearily over it, and dropped into roger tabor's back yard. he took shelter from the wind for a moment or two, leaning against the fence, breathing heavily; then he stumbled on across the obliterated paths of a vegetable-garden until he reached the house, and beginning with the kitchen, began to make the circuit of the windows, peering cautiously into each as he went, ready to tap on the pane should he catch a glimpse of ariel, and prepared to run if he stumbled upon her grandfather. but the place seemed empty: he had made his reconnaisance apparently in vain, and was on the point of going away, when he heard the click of the front gate and saw ariel coming towards him, her old water-proof cloak about her head and shoulders, the patched, scant, faded skirt, which he knew so well, blowing about her tumultuously. at the sound of the gate he had crouched close against the side of the house, but she saw him at once. she stopped abruptly, and throwing the water-proof back from her head, looked at him through the driven fog of snow. one of her hands was stretched towards him involuntarily, and it was in that attitude that he long remembered her: standing in the drift which had piled up against the gate almost knee-deep, the shabby skirt and the black water-proof flapping like torn sails, one hand out-stretched like that of a figure in a tableau, her brown face with its thin features mottled with cold and unlovely, her startled eyes fixed on him with a strange, wild tenderness that held something of the laughter of whole companionship in it mingling with a loyalty and championship that was almost ferocious--she looked an undine of the snow. suddenly she ran to him, still keeping her hand out-stretched until it touched his own. "how did you know me?" he said. "know you!" was all the answer she made to that question. "come into the house. i've got some coffee on the stove for you. i've been up and down the street waiting for you ever since it began to get light." "your grandfather won't--" "he's at uncle jonas's; he won't be back till noon. there's no one here." she led him to the front-door, where he stamped and shook himself; he was snow from head to foot. "i'm running away from the good gomorrah," he said, "but i've stopped to look back, and i'm a pretty white pillar." "i know where you stopped to look back," she answered, brushing him heartily with her red hands. "you came in the alley way. it was mamie's window." he did not reply, and the only visible token that he had any consciousness of this clairvoyance of hers was a slight lift of his higher eyebrow. she wasted no time in getting him to the kitchen, where, when she had removed his overcoat, she placed him in a chair, unwound the comforter, and, as carefully as a nurse, lifted the cap from his injured head. when the strip of towel was disclosed she stood quite still for a moment with the cap in her hand; then with a broken little cry she stooped and kissed a lock of his hair, which escaped, discolored, beneath the bandage. "stop that!" he commanded, horribly embarrassed. "oh, joe," she cried, "i knew! i knew it was there--but to see it! and it's my fault for leaving you--i had to go or i wouldn't have--i--" "where'd you hear about it?" he asked, shortly. "i haven't been to bed," she answered. "grandfather and i were up all night at uncle jonas's, and colonel flitcroft came about two o'clock, and he told us." "did he tell you about norbert?" "yes--a great deal." she poured coffee into a cup from a pot on the stove, brought it to him, then placing some thin slices of bread upon a gridiron, began to toast them over the hot coals. "the colonel said that norbert thought he wouldn't get well," she concluded; "and mr. arp said norbert was the kind that never die, and they had quite an argument." "what were you doing at jonas tabor's?" asked joe, drinking his coffee with a brightening eye. "we were sent for," she answered. "what for?" she toasted the bread attentively without replying, and when she decided that it was brown enough, piled it on a warm plate. this she brought to him, and kneeling in front of him, her elbow on his knee, offered for his consideration, looking steadfastly up at his eyes. he began to eat ravenously. "what for?" he repeated. "i didn't suppose jonas would let you come in his house. was he sick?" "joe," she said, quietly, disregarding his questions---"joe, have you got to run away?" "yes, i've got to," he answered. "would you have to go to prison if you stayed?" she asked this with a breathless tensity. "i'm not going to beg father to help me out," he said, determinedly. "he said he wouldn't, and he'll be spared the chance. he won't mind that; nobody will care! nobody! what does anybody care what _i_ do!" "now you're thinking of mamie!" she cried. "i can always tell. whenever you don't talk naturally you're thinking of her!" he poured down the last of the coffee, growing red to the tips of his ears. "ariel," he said, "if i ever come back--" "wait," she interrupted. "would you have to go to prison right away if they caught you?" "oh, it isn't that," he laughed, sadly. "but i'm going to clear out. i'm not going to take any chances. i want to see other parts of the world, other kinds of people. i might have gone, anyhow, soon, even if it hadn't been for last night. don't you ever feel that way?" "you know i do," she said. "i've told you--how often! but, joe, joe,--you haven't any money! you've got to have money to live!" "you needn't worry about that," returned the master of seven dollars, genially. "i've saved enough to take care of me for a long time." "joe, please! i know it isn't so. if you could wait just a little while--only a few weeks,--only a few, joe--" "what for?" "i could let you have all you want. it would be such a beautiful thing for me, joe. oh, i know how you'd feel; you wouldn't even let me give you that dollar i found in the street last year; but this would be only lending it to you, and you could pay me back sometime--" "ariel!" he exclaimed, and, setting his empty cup upon the floor, took her by the shoulders and shook her till the empty plate which had held the toast dropped from her hand and broke into fragments. "you've been reading the arabian nights!" "no, no," she cried, vehemently. "grandfather would give me anything. he'll give me all the money i ask for!" "money!" said joe. "which of us is wandering? money? roger tabor give you money?" "not for a while. a great many things have to be settled first." "what things?" "joe," she asked, earnestly, "do you think it's bad of me not to feel things i ought to feel?" "no." "then i'm glad," she said, and something in the way she spoke made him start with pain, remembering the same words, spoken in the same tone, by another voice, the night before on the veranda. "i'm glad, joe, because i seemed all wrong to myself. uncle jonas died last night, and i haven't been able to get sorry. perhaps it's because i've been so frightened about you, but i think not, for i wasn't sorry even before colonel flitcroft told me about you." "jonas tabor dead!" said joe. "why, i saw him on the street yesterday!" "yes, and i saw him just before i came out on the porch where you were. he was there in the hall; he and judge pike had been having a long talk; they'd been in some speculations together, and it had all turned out well. it's very strange, but they say now that uncle jonas's heart was weak--he was an old man, you know, almost eighty,--and he'd been very anxious about his money. the judge had persuaded him to risk it; and the shock of finding that he'd made a great deal suddenly--" "i've heard he'd had that same shock before," said joe, "when he sold out to your father." "yes, but this was different, grandfather says. he told me it was in one of those big risky businesses that judge pike likes to go into. and last night it was all finished, the strain was over, and uncle jonas started home. his house is only a little way from the pikes', you know; but he dropped down in the snow at his own gate, and some people who were going by saw him fall. he was dead before grandfather got there." "i can't be sorry," said joe, slowly. "neither can i. that's the dreadful part of it! they say he hadn't made a will, that though he was sharper than anybody else in the whole world about any other matter of business, that was the one thing he put off. and we're all the kin he had in the world, grandfather and i. and they say"--her voice sank to a whisper of excitement--"they say he was richer than anybody knew, and that this last business with judge pike, the very thing that killed him--something about grain--made him five times richer than before!" she put her hand on the boy's arm, and he let it remain there. her eyes still sought his with a tremulous appeal. "god bless you, ariel!" he said. "it's going to be a great thing for you." "yes. yes, it is." the tears came suddenly to her eyes. "i was foolish last night, but there had been such a long time of wanting things; and now--and now grandfather and i can go--" "you're going, too!" joe chuckled. "it's heartless, i suppose, but i've settled it! we're going--" "_i_ know," he cried. "you've told me a thousand times what he's said--ten times a thousand. you're going to paris!" "paris! yes, that's it. to paris, where he can see at last how the great ones have painted,--where the others can show him! to paris, where we can study together, where he can learn how to put the pictures he sees upon canvas, and where i--" "go on," joe encouraged her. "i want to hear you say it. you don't mean that you're going to study painting; you mean that you're going to learn how to make such fellows as eugene ask you to dance. go ahead and say it!" "yes--to learn how to dress!" she said. joe was silent for a moment. then he rose and took the ragged overcoat from the back of his chair. "where's that muffler?" he asked. she brought it from where she had placed it to dry, behind the stove. "joe," she said, huskily, "can't you wait till--" "till the estate is settled and you can coax your grandfather to--" "no, no! but you could go with us." "to paris?" "he would take you as his secretary." "aha!" joe's voice rang out gayly as he rose, refreshed by the coffee, toast, and warmth she had given him. "you've been story-reading, ariel, like eugene! 'secretary'!" "please, joe!" "where's my tin dinner-pail?" he found it himself upon the table where he had set it down. "i'm going to earn a dishonest living," he went on. "i have an engagement to take a freight at a water-tank that's a friend of mine, half a mile south of the yards. thank god, i'm going to get away from canaan!" "wait, joe!" she caught at his sleeve. "i want you to--" he had swung out of the room and was already at the front-door. she followed him closely. "good-bye, ariel!" "no, no! wait, joe!" he took her right hand in his own, and gave it a manly shake. "it's all right," he said. he threw open the door and stepped out, but she sought to detain him. "oh, have you got to go?" she cried. "don't you ever worry about me." he bent his head to the storm as he sprang down the steps, and snow-wreaths swirled between them. he disappeared in a white whirlwind. she stood for several minutes shivering in the doorway. then it came to her that she would not know where to write to him. she ran down to the gate and through it. already the blizzard had covered his footprints. vii give a dog a bad name the passing of joseph from canaan was complete. it was an evanishment for which there was neither sackcloth nor surprise; and though there came no news of him it cannot be said that canaan did not hear of him, for surely it could hear itself talk. the death of jonas tabor and young louden's crime and flight incited high doings in the "national house" windows; many days the sages lingered with the broken meats of morals left over from the banquet of gossip. but, after all, it is with the ladies of a community that reputations finally rest, and the matrons of canaan had long ago made joe's exceedingly uncertain. now they made it certain. they did not fail of assistance. the most powerful influence in the town was ponderously corroborative: martin pike, who stood for all that was respectable and financial, who passed the plate o' sundays, who held the fortunes of the town in his left hand, who was trustee for the widow and orphan,--martin pike, patron of all worthy charities, courted by ministers, feared by the wicked and idle, revered by the good,--judge martin pike never referred to the runaway save in the accents of an august doomster. his testimony settled it. in time the precise nature of the fugitive's sins was distorted in report and grew vague; it was recalled that he had done dread things; he became a tradition, a legend, and a warning to the young; a richard in the bush to frighten colts. he was preached at boys caught playing marbles "for keeps": "do you want to grow up like joe louden?" the very name became a darkling threat, and children of the town would have run had one called suddenly, "here comes joe louden!" thus does the evil men do live after them, and the ill-fame of the unrighteous increase when they are sped! very little of joseph's adventures and occupations during the time of his wandering is revealed to us; he always had an unwilling memory for pain and was not afterwards wont to speak of those years which cut the hard lines in his face. the first account of him to reach canaan came as directly to the windows of the "national house" as mr. arp, hastening thither from the station, satchel in hand, could bring it. this was on a september morning, two years after the flight, and eskew, it appears, had been to the state fair and had beheld many things strangely affirming his constant testimony that this unhappy world increaseth in sin; strangest of all, his meeting with our vagrant scalawag of canaan. "not a blamebit of doubt about it," declared eskew to the incredulous conclave. "there was that joe, and nobody else, stuck up in a little box outside a tent at the fair grounds, and sellin' tickets to see the spotted wild boy!" yes, it was joe louden! think you, mr. arp could forget that face, those crooked eyebrows? had eskew tested the recognition? had he spoken with the outcast? had he not! ay, but with such peculiar result that the battle of words among the sages began with a true onset of the regulars; for, according to eskew's narrative, when he had delivered grimly at the boy this charge, "i know you--you're joe louden!" the extraordinary reply had been made promptly and without change of countenance: "positively no free seats!" on this, the house divided, one party maintaining that joe had thus endeavored to evade recognition, the other (to the embitterment of mr. arp) that the reply was a distinct admission of identity and at the same time a refusal to grant any favors on the score of past acquaintanceship. goaded by inquiries, mr. arp, who had little desire to recall such waste of silver, admitted more than he had intended: that he had purchased a ticket and gone in to see the spotted wild boy, halting in his description of this marvel with the unsatisfactory and acrid statement that the wild boy was "simply spotted,"--and the stung query, "i suppose you know what a spot is, squire?" when he came out of the tent he had narrowly examined the ticket-seller,--who seemed unaware of his scrutiny, and, when not engaged with his tickets, applied himself to a dirty law-looking book. it was joseph louden, reasserted eskew, a little taller, a little paler, incredibly shabby and miraculously thin. if there were any doubt left, his forehead was somewhat disfigured by the scar of an old wound--such as might have been caused by a blunt instrument in the nature of a poker. "what's the matter with you?" mr. arp whirled upon uncle joe davey, who was enjoying himself by repeating at intervals the unreasonable words, "couldn't of be'n joe," without any explanation. "why couldn't it?" shouted eskew. "it was! do you think my eyes are as fur gone as yours? i saw him, i tell you! the same ornery joe louden, run away and sellin' tickets for a side-show. he wasn't even the boss of it; the manager was about the meanest-lookin' human i ever saw--and most humans look mighty mean, accordin' to my way of thinkin'! riffraff of the riffraff are his friends now, same as they were here. weeds! and he's a weed, always was and always will be! him and his kind ain't any more than jimpsons; overrun everything if you give 'em a chance. devil-flowers! they have to be hoed out and scattered--even then, like as not, they'll come back next year and ruin your plantin' once more. that boy joe 'll turn up here again some day; you'll see if he don't. he's a seed of trouble and iniquity, and anything of that kind is sure to come back to canaan!" mr. arp stuck to his prediction for several months; then he began to waver and evade. by the end of the second year following its first utterance, he had formed the habit of denying that he had ever made it at all, and, finally having come to believe with all his heart that the prophecy had been deliberately foisted upon him and put in his mouth by squire buckalew, became so sore upon the subject that even the hardiest dared not refer to it in his presence. eskew's story of the ticket-seller was the only news of joe louden that came to canaan during seven years. another citizen of the town encountered the wanderer, however, but under circumstances so susceptible to misconception that, in a moment of illumination, he decided to let the matter rest in a golden silence. this was mr. bantry. having elected an elaborate course in the arts, at the university which was of his possessions, what more natural than that eugene should seek the metropolis for the short easter vacation of his senior year, in order that his perusal of the masters should be uninterrupted? but it was his misfortune to find the metropolitan museum less interesting than some intricate phases of the gayety of new york--phases very difficult to understand without elaborate study and a series of experiments which the discreetly selfish permit others to make for them. briefly, eugene found himself dancing, one night, with a young person in a big hat, at the "straw-cellar," a crowded hall, down very deep in the town and not at all the place for eugene. acute crises are to be expected at the "straw-cellar," and eugene was the only one present who was thoroughly surprised when that of this night arrived, though all of the merrymakers were frightened when they perceived its extent. there is no need to detail the catastrophe. it came suddenly, and the knife did not flash. sick and thinking of himself, eugene stood staring at the figure lying before him upon the reddening floor. a rabble fought with the quick policemen at the doors, and then the lights went out, extinguished by the proprietor, living up to his reputation for always being thoughtful of his patrons. the place had been a nightmare; it became a black impossibility. eugene staggered to one of the open windows, from the sill of which a man had just leaped. "don't jump," said a voice close to his ear. "that fellow broke his leg, i think, and they caught him, anyway, as soon as he struck the pavement. it's a big raid. come this way." a light hand fell upon his arm and he followed its leading, blindly, to find himself pushed through a narrow doorway and down a flight of tricky, wooden steps, at the foot of which, silhouetted against a street light, a tall policeman was on guard. he laid masterful hands on eugene. "'sh, mack!" whispered a cautious voice from the stairway. "that's a friend of mine and not one of those you need. he's only a student and scared to death." "hurry," said the policeman, under his breath, twisting eugene sharply by him into the street; after which he stormed vehemently: "on yer way, both of ye! move on up the street! don't be tryin' to poke yer heads in here! ye'd be more anxious to git out, once ye got in, i tell ye!" a sob of relief came from bantry as he gained the next corner, the slight figure of his conductor at his side. "you'd better not go to places like the 'straw-cellar,'" said the latter, gravely. "i'd been watching you for an hour. you were dancing with the girl who did the cutting." eugene leaned against a wall, faint, one arm across his face. he was too ill to see, or care, who it was that had saved him. "i never saw her before," he babbled, incoherently, "never, never, never! i thought she looked handsome, and asked her if she'd dance with me. then i saw she seemed queer--and wild, and she kept guiding and pushing as we danced until we were near that man--and then she--then it was all done--before--" "yes," said the other; "she's been threatening to do it for a long time. jealous. mighty good sort of a girl, though, in lots of ways. only yesterday i talked with her and almost thought i'd calmed her out of it. but you can't tell with some women. they'll brighten up and talk straight and seem sensible, one minute, and promise to behave, and mean it too, and the next, there they go, making a scene, cutting somebody or killing themselves! you can't count on them. but that's not to the point, exactly, i expect. you'd better keep away from the 'straw-cellar.' if you'd been caught with the rest you'd have had a hard time, and they'd have found out your real name, too, because it's pretty serious on account of your dancing with her when she did it, and the canaan papers would have got hold of it and you wouldn't be invited to judge pike's any more, eugene." eugene dropped his arm from his eyes and stared into the face of his step-brother. "joe louden!" he gasped. "i'll never tell," said joe. "you'd better keep out of all this sort. you don't understand it, and you don't--you don't do it because you care." he smiled wanly, his odd distorted smile of friendliness. "when you go back you might tell father i'm all right. i'm working through a law-school here--and remember me to norbert flitcroft," he finished, with a chuckle. eugene covered his eyes again and groaned. "it's all right," joe assured him. "you're as safe as if it had never happened. and i expect"--he went on, thoughtfully--"i expect, maybe, you'd prefer not to say you'd seen me, when you go back to canaan. well, that's all right. i don't suppose father will be asking after me--exactly." "no, he doesn't," said eugene, still white and shaking. "don't stand talking. i'm sick." "of course," returned joe. "but there's one thing i would like to ask you--" "your father's health is perfect, i believe." "it--it--it was something else," joe stammered, pitifully. "are they all--are they all--all right at--at judge pike's?" "quite!" eugene replied, sharply. "are you going to get me away from here? i'm sick, i tell you!" "this street," said joe, and cheerfully led the way. five minutes later the two had parted, and joe leaned against a cheap restaurant sign-board, drearily staring after the lamps of the gypsy night-cab he had found for his step-brother. eugene had not offered to share the vehicle with him, had not even replied to his good-night. and joe himself had neglected to do something he might well have done: he had not asked eugene for news of ariel tabor. it will not justify him entirely to suppose that he assumed that her grandfather and she had left canaan never to return, and therefore eugene knew nothing of her; no such explanation serves joe for his neglect, for the fair truth is that he had not thought of her. she had been a sort of playmate, before his flight, a friend taken for granted, about whom he had consciously thought little more than he thought about himself--and easily forgotten. not forgotten in the sense that she had passed out of his memory, but forgotten none the less; she had never had a place in his imaginings, and so it befell that when he no longer saw her from day to day, she had gone from his thoughts altogether. viii a bad penny turns up eugene did not inform canaan, nor any inhabitant, of his adventure of "straw-cellar," nor did any hear of his meeting with his step-brother; and after mr. arp's adventure, five years passed into the imperishable before the town heard of the wanderer again, and then it heard at first hand; mr. arp's prophecy fell true, and he took it back to his bosom again, claimed it as his own the morning of its fulfilment. joe louden had come back to canaan. the elder louden was the first to know of his prodigal's return. he was alone in the office of the wooden-butter-dish factory, of which he was the superintendent, when the young man came in unannounced. he was still pale and thin; his eyebrows had the same crook, one corner of his mouth the same droop; he was only an inch or so taller, not enough to be thought a tall man; and yet, for a few moments the father did not recognize his son, but stared at him, inquiring his business. during those few seconds of unrecognition, mr. louden was somewhat favorably impressed with the stranger's appearance. "you don't know me," said joe, smiling cheerfully. "perhaps i've changed in seven years." and he held out his hand. then mr. louden knew; he tilted back in his desk-chair, his mouth falling open. "good god!" he said, not noticing the out-stretched hand. "have you come back?" joe's hand fell. "yes, i've come back to canaan." mr. louden looked at him a long time without replying; finally he remarked: "i see you've still got a scar on your forehead." "oh, i've forgotten all about that," said the other, twisting his hat in his hands. "seven years wipes out a good many grievances and wrongs." "you think so?" mr louden grunted. "i suppose it might wipe out a good deal with some people. how'd you happen to stop off at canaan? on your way somewhere, i suppose." "no, i've come back to stay." mr. louden plainly received this as no pleasant surprise. "what for?" he asked, slowly. "to practise law, father." "what!" "yes," said the young man. "there ought to be an opening here for me. i'm a graduate of as good a law-school as there is in the country--" "you are!" "certainly," said joe, quietly. "i've put myself through, working in the summer--" "working!" mr. louden snorted. "side-shows?" "oh, worse than that, sometimes," returned his son, laughing. "anything i could get. but i've always wanted to come back home and work here." mr. louden leaned forward, a hand on each knee, his brow deeply corrugated. "do you think you'll get much practice in canaan?" "why not? i've had a year in a good office in new york since i left the school, and i think i ought to get along all right." "oh," said mr. louden, briefly. "you do?" "yes. don't you?" "who do you think in canaan would put a case in your hands?" "oh, i don't expect to get anything important at the start. but after a while--" "with your reputation?" the smile which had faded from joe's lips returned to them. "oh, i know they thought i was a harum-scarum sort of boy," he answered lightly, "and that it was a foolish thing to run away for nothing; but you had said i mustn't come to you for help--" "i meant it," said mr. louden. "but that's seven years ago, and i suppose the town's forgotten all about it, and forgotten me, too. so, you see, i can make a fresh start. that's what i came back for." "you've made up your mind to stay here, then?" "yes." "i don't believe," said mr. louden, with marked uneasiness, "that mrs. louden would be willing to let you live with us." "no," said joe, gently. "i didn't expect it." he turned to the window and looked out, averting his face, yet scoring himself with the contempt he had learned to feel for those who pity themselves. his father had not even asked him to sit down. there was a long silence, disturbed only by mr. louden's breathing, which could be heard, heavy and troubled. at last joe turned again, smiling as before. "well, i won't keep you from your work," he said. "i suppose you're pretty busy--" "yes, i am," responded his father, promptly. "but i'll see you again before you go. i want to give you some advice." "i'm not going," said joe. "not going to leave canaan, i mean. where will i find eugene?" "at the tocsin office; he's the assistant editor. judge pike bought the tocsin last year, and he thinks a good deal of eugene. don't forget i said to come to see me again before you go." joe came over to the older man and held out his hand. "shake hands, father," he said. mr. louden looked at him out of small implacable eyes, the steady hostility of which only his wife or the imperious martin pike, his employer, could quell. he shook his head. "i don't see any use in it," he answered. "it wouldn't mean anything. all my life i've been a hard-working man and an abiding man. before you got in trouble you never did anything you ought to; you ran with the lowest people in town, and i and all your folks were ashamed of you. i don't see that we've got a call to be any different now." he swung round to his desk emphatically, on the last word, and joe turned away and went out quietly. but it was a bright morning to which he emerged from the outer doors of the factory, and he made his way towards main street at a lively gait. as he turned the corner opposite the "national house," he walked into mr. eskew arp. the old man drew back angrily. "lord 'a' mercy!" cried joe, heartily. "it's mr. arp! i almost ran you down!" then, as mr. arp made no response, but stood stock-still in the way, staring at him fiercely, "don't you know me, mr. arp?" the young man asked. "i'm joe louden." eskew abruptly thrust his face close to the other's. "no free seats!" he hissed, savagely; and swept across to the hotel to set his world afire. joe looked after the irate, receding figure, and watched it disappear into the main street door of the "national house." as the door closed, he became aware of a mighty shadow upon the pavement, and turning, beheld a fat young man, wearing upon his forehead a scar similar to his own, waddling by with eyes fixed upon him. "how are you, norbert?" joe began. "don't you remember me? i--" he came to a full stop, as the fat one, thrusting out an under lip as his only token of recognition, passed balefully on. joe proceeded slowly until he came to the tocsin building. at the foot of the stairway leading up to the offices he hesitated for a few moments; then he turned away and walked towards the quieter part of main street. most of the people he met took no notice of him, only two or three giving him second glances of half-cognizance, as though he reminded them of some one they could not place, and it was not until he had come near the pike mansion that he saw a full recognition in the eyes of one of the many whom he knew, and who had known him in his boyhood in the town. a lady, turning a corner, looked up carelessly, and then half-stopped within a few feet of him, as if startled. joe's cheeks went a sudden crimson; for it was the lady of his old dreams. seven years had made mamie pike only prettier. she had grown into her young womanhood with an ampleness that had nothing of oversufficiency in it, nor anywhere a threat that some day there might be too much of her. not quite seventeen when he had last seen her, now, at twenty-four, her amber hair elaborately becoming a plump and regular face, all of her old charm came over him once more, and it immediately seemed to him that he saw clearly his real reason for coming back to canaan. she had been the rich-little-girl of his child days, the golden princess playing in the palace-grounds, and in his early boyhood (until he had grown wicked and shabby) he had been sometimes invited to the pike mansion for the games and ice-cream of the daughter of the house, before her dancing days began. he had gone timidly, not daring ever to "call" her in "quaker meeting" or "post-office," but watching her reverently and surreptitiously and continually. she had always seemed to him the one thing of all the world most rare, most mysterious, most unapproachable. she had not offered an apparition less so in those days when he began to come under the suspicion of canaan, when the old people began to look upon him hotly, the young people coldly. his very exclusion wove for him a glamour about her, and she was more than ever his moon, far, lovely, unattainable, and brilliant, never to be reached by his lifted arms, but only by his lifted eyes. nor had his long absence obliterated that light; somewhere in his dreams it always had place, shining, perhaps, with a fainter lustre as the years grew to seven, but never gone altogether. now, at last, that he stood in her very presence again, it sprang to the full flood of its old brilliance--and more! as she came to her half-stop of surprise, startled, he took his courage in two hands, and, lifting his hat, stepped to her side. "you--you remember me?" he stammered. "yes," she answered, a little breathlessly. "ah, that's kind of you!" he cried, and began to walk on with her, unconsciously. "i feel like a returned ghost wandering about--invisible and unrecognized. so few people seem to remember me!" "i think you are wrong. i think you'll find everybody remembers you," she responded, uneasily. "no, i'm afraid not," he began. "i--" "i'm afraid they do!" joe laughed a little. "my father was saying something like that to me a while ago. he meant that they used to think me a great scapegrace here. do you mean that?" "i'd scarcely like to say," she answered, her face growing more troubled; for they were close on the imperial domain. "but it's long ago--and i really didn't do anything so outrageous, it seems to me." he laughed again. "i know your father was angry with me once or twice, especially the night i hid on your porch to watch you--to watch you dance, i mean. but, you see, i've come back to rehabilitate myself, to--" she interrupted him. they were not far from her gate, and she saw her father standing in the yard, directing a painter who was at work on one of the cast-iron deer. the judge was apparently in good spirits, laughing with the workman over some jest between them, but that did not lessen mamie's nervousness. "mr. louden," she said, in as kindly a tone as she could, "i shall have to ask you not to walk with me. my father would not like it." joe stopped with a jerk. "why, i--i thought i'd go in and shake hands with him,--and tell him i--" astonishment that partook of terror and of awe spread itself instantly upon her face. "good gracious!" she cried. "no!" "very well," said joe, humbly. "good-bye." he was too late to get away with any good grace. judge pike had seen them, and, even as joe turned to go, rushed down to the gate, flung it open, and motioned his daughter to enter. this he did with one wide sweep of his arm, and, with another sweep, forbade joe to look upon either moon or sun. it was a magnificent gesture: it excluded the young man from the street, judge pike's street, and from the town, judge pike's town. it swept him from the earth, abolished him, denied him the right to breathe the common air, to be seen of men; and, at once a headsman's stroke and an excommunication, destroyed him, soul and body, thus rebuking the silly providence that had created him, and repairing its mistake by annihilating him. this hurling olympian gesture smote the street; the rails of the car-track sprang and quivered with the shock; it thundered, and, amid the dumfounding uproar of the wrath of a god, the will of the canaanite jove wrote the words in fiery letters upon the ether: "cease to be!" joe did not go in to shake hands with judge pike. he turned the next corner a moment later, and went down the quiet street which led to the house which had been his home. he did not glance at that somewhat grim edifice, but passed it, his eyes averted, and stopped in front of the long, ramshackle cottage next door. the windows were boarded; the picket-fence dropped even to the ground in some sections; the chimneys sagged and curved; the roof of the long porch sprinkled shingles over the unkempt yard with every wind, and seemed about to fall. the place was desolate with long emptiness and decay: it looked like a haunted house; and nailed to the padlocked gate was a sign, half obliterated with the winters it had fronted, "for sale or rent." joe gat him meditatively back to main street and to the tocsin building. this time he did not hesitate, but mounted the stairs and knocked upon the door of the assistant editor. "oh," said eugene. "you've turned up, you?" mr. bantry of the tocsin was not at all the eugene rescued from the "straw-cellar." the present gentleman was more the electric freshman than the frightened adventurer whom joe had encountered in new york. it was to be seen immediately that the assistant editor had nothing undaintily business-like about him, nor was there the litter on his desk which one might have expected. he had the air of a gentleman dilettante who amused himself slightly by spending an hour or two in the room now and then. it was the evolution to the perfect of his freshman manner, and his lively apparel, though somewhat chastened by an older taste, might have been foretold from that which had smitten canaan seven years before. he sat not at the orderly and handsome desk, but lay stretched upon a divan of green leather, smoking a cigar of purest ray and reading sleepily a small verse-looking book in morocco. his occupation, his general air, the furniture of the room, and his title (doubtless equipped with a corresponding salary) might have inspired in an observant cynic the idea that here lay a pet of fortune, whose position had been the fruit of nepotism, or, mayhap, a successful wooing of some daughter, wife, or widow. eugene looked competent for that. "i've come back to stay, 'gene," said joe. bantry had dropped his book and raised himself on an elbow. "exceedingly interesting," he said. "i suppose you'll try to find something to do. i don't think you could get a place here; judge pike owns the tocsin, and i greatly fear he has a prejudice against you." "i expect he has," joe chuckled, somewhat sadly. "but i don't want newspaper work. i'm going to practice law." "by jove! you have courage, my festive prodigal. vraiment!" joe cocked his head to one side with his old look of the friendly puppy. "you always did like to talk that noveletty way, 'gene, didn't you?" he said, impersonally. eugene's color rose. "have you saved up anything to starve on?" he asked, crisply. "oh, i'm not so badly off. i've had a salary in an office for a year, and i had one pretty good day at the races--" "you'd better go back and have another," said his step-brother. "you don't seem to comprehend your standing in canaan." "i'm beginning to." joe turned to the door. "it's funny, too--in a way. well--i won't keep you any longer. i just stopped in to say good-day--" he paused, faltering. "all right, all right," eugene said, briskly. "and, by-the-way, i haven't mentioned that i saw you in new york." "oh, i didn't suppose that you would." "and you needn't say anything about it, i fancy." "i don't think," said joe,--"i don't think that you need be afraid i'll do that. good-bye." "be sure to shut the door, please; it's rather noisy with it open. good-bye." eugene waved his hand and sank back upon the divan. joe went across the street to the "national house." the sages fell as silent as if he had been martin pike. they had just had the pleasure of hearing a telephone monologue by mr. brown, the clerk, to which they listened intently: "yes. this is brown. oh--oh, it's judge pike? yes indeed, judge, yes indeed, i hear you--ha, ha! of course, i understand. yes, judge, i heard he was in town. no, he hasn't been here. not yet, that is, judge. yes, i hear. no, i won't, of course. certainly not. i will, i will. i hear perfectly, i understand. yes, sir. good-bye, judge." joe had begun to write his name in the register. "my trunk is still at the station," he said. "i'll give you my check to send down for it." "excuse me," said the clerk. "we have no rooms." "what!" cried joe, innocently. "why, i never knew more than eight people to stay here at the same time in my life." "we have no rooms," repeated the clerk, curtly. "is there a convention here?" "we have no rooms, i say!" joe looked up into the condensed eyes of mr. brown. "oh," he said, "i see." deathly silence followed him to the door, but, as it closed behind him, he heard the outbreak of the sages like a tidal wave striking a dump-heap of tin cans. two hours later he descended from an evil ark of a cab at the corral attached to beaver beach, and followed the path through the marsh to the crumbling pier. a red-bearded man was seated on a plank by the water edge, fishing. "mike," said joe, "have you got room for me? can you take me in for a few days until i find a place in town where they'll let me stay?" the red-bearded man rose slowly, pushed back his hat, and stared hard at the wanderer; then he uttered a howl of joy and seized the other's hands in his and shook them wildly. "glory be on high!" he shouted. "it's joe louden come back! we never knew how we missed ye till ye'd gone! place fer ye! can i find it? there ain't a imp o' perdition in town, includin' myself, that wouldn't kill me if i couldn't! ye'll have old maggie's room, my own aunt's; ye remember how she used to dance! ha, ha! she's been burnin' below these four years! and we'll have the celebration of yer return this night. there'll be many of 'em will come when they hear ye're back in canaan! praise god, we'll all hope ye're goin' to stay a while!" ix "outer darkness" if any echo of doubt concerning his undesirable conspicuousness sounded faintly in joe's mind, it was silenced eftsoons. canaan had not forgotten him--far from it!--so far that it began pointing him out to strangers on the street the very day of his return. his course of action, likewise that of his friends, permitted him little obscurity, and when the rumors of his finally obtaining lodging at beaver beach, and of the celebration of his installation there, were presently confirmed, he stood in the lime-light indeed, as a mephistopheles upsprung through the trap-door. the welcoming festivities had not been so discreetly conducted as to accord with the general policy of beaver beach. an unfortunate incident caused the arrest of one of the celebrators and the ambulancing to the hospital of another on the homeward way, the ensuing proceedings in court bringing to the whole affair a publicity devoutly unsought for. mr. happy fear (such was the habitual name of the imprisoned gentleman) had to bear a great amount of harsh criticism for injuring a companion within the city limits after daylight, and for failing to observe that three policemen were not too distant from the scene of operations to engage therein. "happy, if ye had it in mind to harm him," said the red-bearded man to mr. fear, upon the latter's return to society, "why didn't ye do it out here at the beach?" "because," returned the indiscreet, "he didn't say what he was goin' to say till we got in town." extraordinary probing on the part of the prosecutor had developed at the trial that the obnoxious speech had referred to the guest of the evening. the assaulted party, one "nashville" cory, was not of canaan, but a bit of drift-wood haply touching shore for the moment at beaver beach; and--strange is this world--he had been introduced to the coterie of mike's place by happy fear himself, who had enjoyed a brief acquaintance with him on a day when both had chanced to travel incognito by the same freight. naturally, happy had felt responsible for the proper behavior of his protege--was, in fact, bound to enforce it; additionally, happy had once been saved from a term of imprisonment (at a time when it would have been more than ordinarily inconvenient) by help and advice from joe, and he was not one to forget. therefore he was grieved to observe that his own guest seemed to be somewhat jealous of the hero of the occasion and disposed to look coldly upon him. the stranger, however, contented himself with innuendo (mere expressions of the face and other manner of things for which one could not squarely lay hands upon him) until such time as he and his sponsor had come to main street in the clear dawn on their way to happy's apartment--a variable abode. it may be that the stranger perceived what happy did not; the three bluecoats in the perspective; at all events, he now put into words of simple strength the unfavorable conception he had formed of joe. the result was mediaevally immediate, and the period of mr. cory's convalescence in the hospital was almost half that of his sponsor's detention in the county jail. it needed nothing to finish joe with the good people of canaan; had it needed anything, the trial of happy fear would have overspilled the necessity. an item of the testimony was that joseph louden had helped to carry one of the ladies present--a miss le roy, who had fainted--to the open air, and had jostled the stranger in passing. after this, the oldest woman in canaan would not have dared to speak to joe on the street (even if she wanted to), unless she happened to be very poor or very wicked. the tocsin printed an adequate account (for there was "a large public interest"), recording in conclusion that mr. louden paid the culprit's fine which was the largest in the power of the presiding judge in his mercy to bestow. editorially, the tocsin leaned to the facetious: "mr. louden has but recently 'returned to our midst.' we fervently hope that the distinguished happy fear will appreciate his patron's superb generosity. we say 'his patron,' but perhaps we err in this. were it not better to figure mr. louden as the lady in distress, mr. fear as the champion in the lists? in the present case, however, contrary to the rules of romance, the champion falls in duress and passes to the dungeon. we merely suggest, en passant, that some of our best citizens might deem it a wonderful and beauteous thing if, in addition to paying the fine, mr. louden could serve for the loyal happy his six months in the bastile!" "en passant," if nothing else, would have revealed to joe, in this imitation of a better trick, the hand of eugene. and, little doubt, he would have agreed with squire buckalew in the squire's answer to the easily expected comment of mr. arp. "sometimes," said eskew, "i think that 'gene bantry is jest a leetle bit spiderier than he is lazy. that's the first thing he's written in the tocsin this month--one of the boys over there told me. he wrote it out of spite against joe; but he'd ought to of done better. if his spite hadn't run away with what mind he's got, he'd of said that both joe louden and that tramp fear ought to of had ten years!" "'gene bantry didn't write that out of spite," answered buckalew. "he only thought he saw a chance to be kind of funny and please judge pike. the judge has always thought joe was a no-account--" "ain't he right?" cried mr. arp. "_i_ don't say he ain't." squire buckalew cast a glance at mr. brown, the clerk, and, perceiving that he was listening, added, "the judge always is right!" "yes, sir!" said colonel flitcroft. "i can't stand up for joe louden to any extent, but i don't think he done wrong," buckalew went on, recovering, "when he paid this man fear's fine." "you don't!" exclaimed mr. arp. "why, haven't you got gumption enough to see--" "look here, eskew," interposed his antagonist. "how many friends have you got that hate to hear folks talk bad about you?" "not a one!" for once eskew's guard was down, and his consistency led him to destruction. "not a one! it ain't in human nature. they're bound to enjoy it!" "got any friends that would fight for you?" eskew walked straight into this hideous trap. "no! there ain't a dozen men ever lived that had! caesar was a popular man, but he didn't have a soul to help him when the crowd lit on him, and i'll bet old mark antony was mighty glad they got him out in the yard before it happened,--he wouldn't have lifted a finger without a gang behind him! why, all peter himself could do was to cut off an ear that wasn't no use to anybody. what are you tryin' to get at?" the squire had him; and paused, and stroked his chin, to make the ruin complete. "then i reckon you'll have to admit," he murmured, "that, while i ain't defendin' joe louden's character, it was kind of proper for him to stand by a feller that wouldn't hear nothin' against him, and fought for him as soon as he did hear it!" eskew arp rose from his chair and left the hotel. it was the only morning in all the days of the conclave when he was the first to leave. squire buckalew looked after the retreating figure, total triumph shining brazenly from his spectacles. "i expect," he explained, modestly, to the others,--"i expect i don't think any more of joe louden than he does, and i'll be glad when canaan sees the last of him for good; but sometimes the temptation to argue with eskew does lead me on to kind of git the better of him." when happy fear had suffered--with a give-and-take simplicity of patience--his allotment of months in durance, and was released and sent into the streets and sunshine once more, he knew that his first duty lay in the direction of a general apology to joe. but the young man was no longer at beaver beach; the red-bearded proprietor dwelt alone there, and, receiving happy with scorn and pity, directed him to retrace his footsteps to the town. "ye must have been in the black hole of incarceration indeed, if ye haven't heard that mr. louden has his law-office on the square, and his livin'-room behind the office. it's in that little brick buildin' straight acrost from the sheriff's door o' the jail--ye've been neighbors this long time! a hard time the boy had, persuadin' any one to rent to him, but by payin' double the price he got a place at last. he's a practisin' lawyer now, praise the lord! and all the boys and girls of our acquaintance go to him with their troubles. ye'll see him with a murder case to try before long, as sure as ye're not worth yer salt! but i expect ye can still call him by his name of joe, all the same!" it was a bleak and meagre little office into which mr. fear ushered himself to offer his amends. the cracked plaster of the walls was bare (save for dust); there were no shelves; the fat brown volumes, most of them fairly new, were piled in regular columns upon a cheap pine table; there was but one window, small-paned and shadeless; an inner door of this sad chamber stood half ajar, permitting the visitor unreserved acquaintance with the domestic economy of the tenant; for it disclosed a second room, smaller than the office, and dependent upon the window of the latter for air and light. behind a canvas camp-cot, dimly visible in the obscurity of the inner apartment, stood a small gas-stove, surmounted by a stew-pan, from which projected the handle of a big tin spoon, so that it needed no ghost from the dead to whisper that joseph louden, attorney-at-law, did his own cooking. indeed, he looked it! upon the threshold of the second room reposed a small, worn, light-brown scrub-brush of a dog, so cosmopolitan in ancestry that his species was almost as undeterminable as the cast-iron dogs of the pike mansion. he greeted mr. fear hospitably, having been so lately an offcast of the streets himself that his adoption had taught him to lose only his old tremors, not his hopefulness. at the same time joe rose quickly from the deal table, where he had been working with one hand in his hair, the other splattering ink from a bad pen. "good for you, happy!" he cried, cheerfully. "i hoped you'd come to see me to-day. i've been thinking about a job for you." "what kind of a job?" asked the visitor, as they shook hands. "i need one bad enough, but you know there ain't nobody in canaan would gimme one, joe." joe pushed him into one of the two chairs which completed the furniture of his office. "yes, there is. i've got an idea--" "first," broke in mr. fear, fingering his shapeless hat and fixing his eyes upon it with embarrassment,--"first lemme say what i come here to say. i--well--" his embarrassment increased and he paused, rubbing the hat between his hands. "about this job," joe began. "we can fix it so--" "no," said happy. "you lemme go on. i didn't mean fer to cause you no trouble when i lit on that loud-mouth, 'nashville'; i never thought they'd git me, or you'd be dragged in. but i jest couldn't stand him no longer. he had me all wore out--all evening long a-hintin' and sniffin' and wearin' that kind of a high-smile 'cause they made so much fuss over you. and then when we got clear in town he come out with it! said you was too quiet to suit him--said he couldn't see nothin' to you! 'well,' i says to myself, 'jest let him go on, jest one more,' i says, 'then he gits it.' and he did. said you tromped on his foot on purpose, said he knowed it,--when the lord-a'mightiest fool on earth knows you never tromped on no one! said you was one of the po'rest young sports he ever see around a place like the beach. you see, he thought you was jest one of them fool 'bloods' that come around raisin' a rumpus, and didn't know you was our friend and belonged out there, the same as me or mike hisself. 'go on,' i says to myself, 'jest one more!' 'he better go home to his mamma,' he says; 'he'll git in trouble if he don't. somebody 'll soak him if he hangs around in my company. _i_ don't like his ways.' then i had to do it. there jest wasn't nothin' left--but i wouldn't of done you no harm by it--" "you didn't do me any harm, happy." "i mean your repitation." "i didn't have one--so nothing in the world could harm it. about your getting some work, now--" "i'll listen," said happy, rather suspiciously. "you see," joe went on, growing red, "i need a sort of janitor here--" "what fer?" mr. fear interrupted, with some shortness. "to look after the place." "you mean these two rooms?" "there's a stairway, too," joe put forth, quickly. "it wouldn't be any sinecure, happy. you'd earn your money; don't be afraid of that!" mr. fear straightened up, his burden of embarrassment gone from him, transferred to the other's shoulders. "there always was a yellow streak in you, joe," he said, firmly. "you're no good as a liar except when you're jokin'. a lot you need a janitor! you had no business to pay my fine; you'd ort of let me worked it out. do you think my eyes ain't good enough to see how much you needed the money, most of all right now when you're tryin' to git started? if i ever take a cent from you, i hope the hand i hold out fer it 'll rot off." "now don't say that, happy." "i don't want a job, nohow!" said mr. fear, going to the door; "i don't want to work. there's plenty ways fer me to git along without that. but i've said what i come here to say, and i'll say one thing more. don't you worry about gittin' law practice. mike says you're goin' to git all you want--and if there ain't no other way, why, a few of us 'll go out and make some fer ye!" these prophecies and promises, over which joe chuckled at first, with his head cocked to one side, grew very soon, to his amazement, to wear a supernatural similarity to actual fulfilment. his friends brought him their own friends, such as had sinned against the laws of canaan, those under the ban of the sheriff, those who had struck in anger, those who had stolen at night, those who owed and could not pay, those who lived by the dice, and to his other titles to notoriety was added that of defender of the poor and wicked. he found his hands full, especially after winning his first important case--on which occasion canaan thought the jury mad, and was indignant with the puzzled judge, who could not see just how it had happened. joe did not stop at that. he kept on winning cases, clearing the innocent and lightening the burdens of the guilty; he became the most dangerous attorney for the defence in canaan; his honorable brethren, accepting the popular view of him, held him in personal contempt but feared him professionally; for he proved that he knew more law than they thought existed; nor could any trick him--failing which, many tempers were lost, but never joe's. his practice was not all criminal, as shown by the peevish outburst of the eminent buckalew (the squire's nephew, esteemed the foremost lawyer in canaan), "before long, there won't be any use trying to foreclose a mortgage or collect a note--unless this shyster gets himself in jail!" the wrath of judge martin pike was august--there was a kind of sublimity in its immenseness--on a day when it befell that the shyster stood betwixt him and money. that was a monstrous task--to stand between these two and separate them, to hold back the hand of martin pike from what it had reached out to grasp. it was in the matter of some tax-titles which the magnate had acquired, and, in court, joe treated the case with such horrifying simplicity that it seemed almost credible that the great man had counted upon the ignorance and besottedness of joe's client--a hard-drinking, disreputable old farmer--to get his land away from him without paying for it. now, as every one knew such a thing to be ludicrously impossible, it was at once noised abroad in canaan that joe had helped to swindle judge pike out of a large sum of money--it was notorious that the shyster could bamboozle court and jury with his tricks; and it was felt that joe louden was getting into very deep waters indeed. this was serious: if the young man did not look out, he might find himself in the penitentiary. the tocsin paragraphed him with a fine regularity after this, usually opening with a walrus-and-the-carpenter gravity: "the time has come when we must speak of a certain matter frankly," or, "at last the time has arrived when the demoralization of the bar caused by a certain criminal lawyer must be dealt with as it is and without gloves." once when joe had saved a half-witted negro from "the extreme penalty" for murder, the tocsin had declared, with great originality: "this is just the kind of thing that causes mobs and justifies them. if we are to continue to permit the worst class of malefactors to escape the consequences of their crimes through the unwholesome dexterities and the shifty manipulations and technicalities of a certain criminal lawyer, the time will come when an outraged citizenry may take the enforcement of the law in its own hands. let us call a spade a spade. if canaan's streets ever echo with the tread of a mob, the fault lies upon the head of joseph louden, who has once more brought about a miscarriage of justice...." joe did not move into a larger office; he remained in the little room with its one window and its fine view of the jail; his clients were nearly all poor, and many of his fees quite literally nominal. tatters and rags came up the narrow stairway to his door--tatters and rags and pitiful fineries: the bleared, the sodden, the flaunting and rouged, the furtive and wary, some in rags, some in tags, and some--the sorriest--in velvet gowns. with these, the distressed, the wrong-doers, the drunken, the dirty, and the very poor, his work lay and his days and nights were spent. ariel had told roger tabor that in time joe might come to be what the town thought him, if it gave him no other chance. only its dinginess and evil surrounded him; no respectable house was open to him; the barrooms--except that of the "national house"--welcomed him gratefully and admiringly. once he went to church, on a pleasant morning when nice girls wear pretty spring dresses; it gave him a thrill of delight to see them, to be near clean, good people once more. inadvertently, he took a seat by his step-mother, who rose with a slight rustle of silk and moved to another pew; and it happened, additionally, that this was the morning that the minister, fired by the tocsin's warnings, had chosen to preach on the subject of joe himself. the outcast returned to his own kind. no lady spoke to him upon the street. mamie pike had passed him with averted eyes since her first meeting with him, but the shunning and snubbing of a young man by a pretty girl have never yet, if done in a certain way, prevented him from continuing to be in love with her. mamie did it in the certain way. joe did not wince, therefore it hurt all the more, for blows from which one cringes lose much of their force. the town dog had been given a bad name, painted solid black from head to heel. he was a storm centre of scandal; the entrance to his dingy stairway was in square view of the "national house," and the result is imaginable. how many of joe's clients, especially those sorriest of the velvet gowns, were conjectured to ascend his stairs for reasons more convivial than legal! yes, he lived with his own kind, and, so far as the rest of canaan was concerned, might as well have worn the scarlet letter on his breast or branded on his forehead. when he went about the streets he was made to feel his condition by the elaborate avoidance, yet furtive attention, of every respectable person he met; and when he came home to his small rooms and shut the door behind him, he was as one who has been hissed and shamed in public and runs to bury his hot face in his pillow. he petted his mongrel extravagantly (well he might!), and would sit with him in his rooms at night, holding long converse with him, the two alone together. the dog was not his only confidant. there came to be another, a more and more frequent partner to their conversations, at last a familiar spirit. this third came from a brown jug which joe kept on a shelf in his bedroom, a vessel too frequently replenished. when the day's work was done he shut himself up, drank alone and drank hard. sometimes when the jug ran low and the night was late he would go out for a walk with his dog, and would awake in his room the next morning not remembering where he had gone or how he had come home. once, after such a lapse of memory, he woke amazed to find himself at beaver beach, whither, he learned from the red-bearded man, happy fear had brought him, having found him wandering dazedly in a field near by. these lapses grew more frequent, until there occurred that which was one of the strange things of his life. it was a june night, a little more than two years after his return to canaan, and the tocsin had that day announced the approaching marriage of eugene bantry and his employer's daughter. joe ate nothing during the day, and went through his work clumsily, visiting the bedroom shelf at intervals. at ten in the evening he went out to have the jug refilled, but from the moment he left his door and the fresh air struck his face, he had no clear knowledge of what he did or of what went on about him until he woke in his bed the next morning. and yet, whatever little part of the soul of him remained, that night, still undulled, not numbed, but alive, was in some strange manner lifted out of its pain towards a strange delight. his body was an automaton, his mind in bondage, yet there was a still, small consciousness in him which knew that in his wandering something incredible and unexpected was happening. what this was he did not know, could not see, though his eyes were open, could not have told himself any more than a baby could tell why it laughs, but it seemed something so beautiful and wonderful that the night became a night of perfume, its breezes bearing the music of harps and violins, while nightingales sang from the maples that bordered the streets of canaan. x the tryst he woke to the light of morning amazed and full of a strange wonder because he did not know what had amazed him. for a little while after his eyes opened, he lay quite motionless; then he lifted his head slightly and shook it with some caution. this had come to be custom. the operation assured him of the worst; the room swam round him, and, with a faint groan, he let his head fall back upon the pillow. but he could not sleep again; pain stung its way through his heart as memory began to come back to him, not of the preceding night--that was all blank,--but realization that the girl of whom he had dreamed so long was to be married. that his dreams had been quite hopeless was no balm to his hurt. a chime of bells sounded from a church steeple across the square, ringing out in assured righteousness, summoning the good people who maintained them to come and sit beneath them or be taken to task; and they fell so dismally upon joe's ear that he bestirred himself and rose, to the delight of his mongrel, who leaped upon him joyfully. an hour later, or thereabout, the pair emerged from the narrow stairway and stood for a moment, blinking in the fair sunshine, apparently undecided which way to go. the church bells were silent; there was no breeze; the air trembled a little with the deep pipings of the organ across the square, and, save for that, the town was very quiet. the paths which crossed the court-house yard were flecked with steady shadow, the strong young foliage of the maples not moving, having the air of observing the sabbath with propriety. there were benches here and there along the walks, and to one of these joe crossed, and sat down. the mongrel, at his master's feet, rolled on his back in morning ecstasy, ceased abruptly to roll and began to scratch his ear with a hind foot intently. a tiny hand stretched to pat his head, and the dog licked it appreciatively. it belonged to a hard-washed young lady of six (in starchy, white frills and new, pink ribbons), who had run ahead of her mother, a belated church-goer; and the mongrel charmed her. "will you give me this dog?" she asked, without any tedious formalities. involuntarily, she departed before receiving a reply. the mother, a red-faced matron whom joe recognized as a sister of mrs. louden's, consequently his step-aunt, swooped at the child with a rush and rustle of silk, and bore her on violently to her duty. when they had gone a little way the matron's voice was heard in sharp reproof; the child, held by one wrist and hurried along on tiptoe, staring back over one shoulder at joe, her eyes wide, and her mouth the shape of the "o" she was ejaculating. the dog looked up with wistful inquiry at his master, who cocked an eyebrow at him in return, wearing much the same expression. the mother and child disappeared within the church doors and left the square to the two. even the hotel showed no signs of life, for the wise men were not allowed to foregather on sundays. the organ had ceased to stir the air and all was in quiet, yet a quiet which, for louden, was not peace. he looked at his watch and, without intending it, spoke the hour aloud: "a quarter past eleven." the sound of his own voice gave him a little shock; he rose without knowing why, and, as he did so, it seemed to him that he heard close to his ear another voice, a woman's, troubled and insistent, but clear and sweet, saying: "remember! across main street bridge at noon!" it was so distinct that he started and looked round. then he laughed. "i'll be seeing circus parades next!" his laughter fled, for, louder than the ringing in his ears, unmistakably came the strains of a far-away brass band which had no existence on land or sea or in the waters under the earth. "here!" he said to the mongrel. "we need a walk, i think. let's you and me move on before the camels turn the corner!" the music followed him to the street, where he turned westward toward the river, and presently, as he walked on, fanning himself with his straw hat, it faded and was gone. but the voice he had heard returned. "remember! across main street bridge at noon!" it said again, close to his ear. this time he did not start. "all right," he answered, wiping his forehead; "if you'll let me alone, i'll be there." at a dingy saloon corner, near the river, a shabby little man greeted him heartily and petted the mongrel. "i'm mighty glad you didn't go, after all, joe," he added, with a brightening face. "go where, happy?" mr. fear looked grave. "don't you rec'lect meetin' me last night?" louden shook his head. "no. did i?" the other's jaw fell and his brow corrugated with self-reproach. "well, if that don't show what a thick-head i am! i thought ye was all right er i'd gone on with ye. nobody c'd 'a' walked straighter ner talked straighter. said ye was goin' to leave canaan fer good and didn't want nobody to know it. said ye was goin' to take the 'leven-o'clock through train fer the west, and told me i couldn't come to the deepo with ye. said ye'd had enough o' canaan, and of everything! i follered ye part way to the deepo, but ye turned and made a motion fer me to go back, and i done it, because ye seemed to be kind of in trouble, and i thought ye'd ruther be by yerself. well, sir, it's one on me!" "not at all," said joe. "i was all right." "was ye?" returned the other. "do remember, do ye?" "almost," joe smiled, faintly. "almost," echoed happy, shaking his head seriously. "i tell ye, joe, ef i was you--" he began slowly, then paused and shook his head again. he seemed on the point of delivering some advice, but evidently perceiving the snobbishness of such a proceeding, or else convinced by his own experience of the futility of it, he swerved to cheerfulness: "i hear the boys is all goin' to work hard fer the primaries. mike says ye got some chances ye don't know about; he swears ye'll be the next mayor of canaan." "nonsense! folly and nonsense, happy! that's the kind of thing i used to think when i was a boy. but now--pshaw!" joe broke off with a tired laugh. "tell them not to waste their time. are you going out to the beach this afternoon?" the little man lowered his eyes moodily. "i'll be near there," he said, scraping his patched shoe up and down the curbstone. "that feller's in town agin." "what fellow?" "'nashville' they call him; ed's the name he give the hospital: cory--him that i soaked the night you come back to canaan. he's after claudine to git his evens with me. he's made a raise somewheres, and plays the spender. and her--well, i reckon she's tired waitin' table at the national house; tired o' me, too. i got a hint that they're goin' out to the beach together this afternoon." joe passed his hand wearily over his aching forehead. "i understand," he said, "and you'd better try to. cory's laying for you, of course. you say he's after your wife? he must have set about it pretty openly if they're going to the beach to-day, for there is always a crowd there on sundays. is it hard for you to see why he's doing it? it's because he wants to make you jealous. what for? so that you'll tackle him again. and why does he want that? because he's ready for you!" the other's eyes suddenly became bloodshot, his nostrils expanding incredibly. "ready, is he? he better be ready. i--" "that's enough!" joe interrupted, swiftly. "we'll have no talk like that. i'll settle this for you, myself. you send word to claudine that i want to see her at my office to-morrow morning, and you--you stay away from the beach to-day. give me your word." mr. fear's expression softened. "all right, joe," he said. "i'll do whatever you tell me to. any of us 'll do that; we sure know who's our friend." "keep out of trouble, happy." joe turned to go and they shook hands. "good day, and--keep out of trouble!" when he had gone, mr. fear's countenance again gloomed ominously, and, shaking his head, he ruminatively entered an adjacent bar through the alley door. the main street bridge was an old-fashioned, wooden, covered one, dust-colored and very narrow, squarely framing the fair, open country beyond; for the town had never crossed the river. joe found the cool shadow in the bridge gracious to his hot brow, and through the slender chinks of the worn flooring he caught bright glimpses of running water. when he came out of the other end he felt enough refreshed to light a cigar. "well, here i am," he said. "across main street bridge--and it must be getting on toward noon!" he spoke almost with the aspect of daring, and immediately stood still, listening. "'remember,"' he ventured to repeat, again daring, "'remember! across main street bridge at noon!'" and again he listened. then he chuckled faintly with relief, for the voice did not return. "thank god, i've got rid of that!" he whispered. "and of the circus band too!" a dust road turned to the right, following the river and shaded by big sycamores on the bank; the mongrel, intensely preoccupied with this road, scampered away, his nose to the ground. "good enough," said the master. "lead on and i'll come after you." but he had not far to follow. the chase led him to a half-hollow log which lay on a low, grass-grown levee above the stream, where the dog's interest in the pursuit became vivid; temporarily, however, for after a few minutes of agitated investigation, he was seized with indifference to the whole world; panted briefly; slept. joe sat upon the log, which was in the shade, and smoked. "'remember!'" he tried it once more. "'across main street bridge at noon!'" safety still; the voice came not. but the sound of his own repetition of the words brought him an eerie tremor; for the mist of a memory came with it; nothing tangible, nothing definite, but something very far away and shadowy, yet just poignant enough to give him a queer feeling that he was really keeping an appointment here. was it with some water-sprite that would rise from the river? was it with a dryad of the sycamores? he knew too well that he might expect strange fancies to get hold of him this morning, and, as this one grew uncannily stronger, he moved his head briskly as if to shake it off. the result surprised him; the fancy remained, but his headache and dizziness had left him. a breeze wandered up the river and touched the leaves and grass to life. sparrows hopped and chirped in the branches, absurdly surprised; without doubt having concluded in the sunday stillness that the world would drowse forever; and the mongrel lifted his head, blinked at them, hopelessly wishing they would alight near him, scratched his ear with the manner of one who has neglected such matters overlong; reversed his position; slept again. the young corn, deep green in the bottomland, moved with a staccato flurry, and the dust ghost of a mad whirling dervish sped up the main road to vanish at the bridge in a climax of lunacy. the stirring air brought a smell of blossoms; the distance took on faint lavender hazes which blended the outlines of the fields, lying like square coverlets upon the long slope of rising ground beyond the bottom-land, and empurpled the blue woodland shadows of the groves. for the first time, it struck joe that it was a beautiful day, and it came to him that a beautiful day was a thing which nothing except death, sickness, or imprisonment could take from him--not even the ban of canaan! unforewarned, music sounded in his ears again; but he did not shrink from it now; this was not the circus band he had heard as he left the square, but a melody like a far-away serenade at night, as of "the horns of elf-land faintly blowing"; and he closed his eyes with the sweetness of it. "go ahead!" he whispered. "do that all you want to. if you'll keep it up like this awhile, i'll follow with 'little brown jug, how i love thee!' it seems to pay, after all!" the welcome strains, however, were but the prelude to a harsher sound which interrupted and annihilated them: the court-house bell clanging out twelve. "all right," said joe. "it's noon and i'm 'across main street bridge.'" he opened his eyes and looked about him whimsically. then he shook his head again. a lady had just emerged from the bridge and was coming toward him. it would be hard to get at joe's first impressions of her. we can find conveyance for only the broadest and heaviest. ancient and modern instances multiply the case of the sleeper who dreams out a long story in accurate color and fine detail, a tale of years, in the opening and shutting of a door. so with joseph, in the brief space of the lady's approach. and with him, as with the sleeper, it must have been--in fact it was, in his recollections, later--a blur of emotion. at first sight of her, perhaps it was pre-eminently the shock of seeing anything so exquisite where he had expected to see nothing at all. for she was exquisite--horrid as have been the uses of the word, its best and truest belong to her; she was that and much more, from the ivory ferrule of the parasol she carried, to the light and slender footprint she left in the dust of the road. joe knew at once that nothing like her had ever before been seen in canaan. he had little knowledge of the millinery arts, and he needed none to see the harmony--harmony like that of the day he had discovered a little while ago. her dress and hat and gloves and parasol showed a pale lavender overtint like that which he had seen overspreading the western slope. (afterward, he discovered that the gloves she wore that day were gray, and that her hat was for the most part white.) the charm of fabric and tint belonging to what she wore was no shame to her, not being of primal importance beyond herself; it was but the expression of her daintiness and the adjunct of it. she was tall, but if joe could have spoken or thought of her as "slender," he would have been capable of calling her lips "red," in which case he would not have been joe, and would have been as far from the truth as her lips were from red, or as her supreme delicateness was from mere slenderness. under the summer hat her very dark hair swept back over her temples with something near trimness in the extent to which it was withheld from being fluffy. it may be that this approach to trimness, which was, after all, only a sort of coquetry with trimness, is the true key to the mystery of the vision of the lady who appeared to joe. let us say that she suppressed everything that went beyond grace; that the hint of floridity was abhorrent to her. "trim" is as clumsy as "slender"; she had escaped from the trimness of girlhood as wholly as she had gone through its coltishness. "exquisite." let us go back to joe's own blurred first thought of her and be content with that! she was to pass him--so he thought--and as she drew nearer, his breath came faster. "remember! across main street bridge at noon!" was this the fay of whom the voice had warned him? with that, there befell him the mystery of last night. he did not remember, but it was as if he lived again, dimly, the highest hour of happiness in a life a thousand years ago; perfume and music, roses, nightingales and plucked harp-strings. yes; something wonderful was happening to him. she had stopped directly in front of him; stopped and stood looking at him with her clear eyes. he did not lift his own to hers; he had long experience of the averted gaze of women; but it was not only that; a great shyness beset him. he had risen and removed his hat, trying (ineffectually) not to clear his throat; his every-day sense urging upon him that she was a stranger in canaan who had lost her way--the preposterousness of any one's losing the way in canaan not just now appealing to his every--day sense. "can i--can i--" he stammered, blushing miserably, meaning to finish with "direct you," or "show you the way." then he looked at her again and saw what seemed to him the strangest sight of his life. the lady's eyes had filled with tears--filled and overfilled. "i'll sit here on the log with you," she said. and her voice was the voice which he had heard saying, "remember! across main street bridge at noon!" "what!" he gasped. "you don't need to dust it!" she went on, tremulously. and even then he did not know who she was. xi when half-gods go there was a silence, for if the dazzled young man could have spoken at all, he could have found nothing to say; and, perhaps, the lady would not trust her own voice just then. his eyes had fallen again; he was too dazed, and, in truth, too panic-stricken, now, to look at her, though if he had been quite sure that she was part of a wonderful dream he might have dared. she was seated beside him, and had handed him her parasol in a little way which seemed to imply that of course he had reached for it, so that it was to be seen how used she was to have all tiny things done for her, though this was not then of his tremulous observing. he did perceive, however, that he was to furl the dainty thing; he pressed the catch, and let down the top timidly, as if fearing to break or tear it; and, as it closed, held near his face, he caught a very faint, sweet, spicy emanation from it like wild roses and cinnamon. he did not know her; but his timidity and a strange little choke in his throat, the sudden fright which had seized upon him, were not caused by embarrassment. he had no thought that she was one he had known but could not, for the moment, recall; there was nothing of the awkwardness of that; no, he was overpowered by the miracle of this meeting. and yet, white with marvelling, he felt it to be so much more touchingly a great happiness than he had ever known that at first it was inexpressibly sad. at last he heard her voice again, shaking a little, as she said: "i am glad you remembered." "remembered what?" he faltered. "then you don't?" she cried. "and yet you came." "came here, do you mean?" "yes--now, at noon." "ah!" he half whispered, unable to speak aloud. "was it you who said--who said, 'remember! across--across--"' "'across main street bridge at noon!'" she finished for him, gently. "yes." he took a deep breath in the wonder of it. "where was it you said that?" he asked, slowly. "was it last night?" "don't you even know that you came to meet me?" "_i_--came to--to meet--you!" she gave a little pitying cry, very near a sob, seeing his utter bewilderment. "it was like the strangest dream in the world," she said. "you were at the station when i came, last night. you don't remember at all?" his eyes downcast, his face burning hotly, he could only shake his head. "yes," she continued. "i thought no one would be there, for i had not written to say what train i should take, but when i stepped down from the platform, you were standing there; though you didn't see me at first, not until i had called your name and ran to you. you said, 'i've come to meet you,' but you said it queerly, i thought. and then you called a carriage for me; but you seemed so strange you couldn't tell how you knew that i was coming, and--and then i--i understood you weren't yourself. you were very quiet, but i knew, i knew! so i made you get into the carriage--and--and--" she faltered to a stop, and with that, shame itself brought him courage; he turned and faced her. she had lifted her handkerchief to her eyes, but at his movement she dropped it, and it was not so much the delicate loveliness of her face that he saw then as the tears upon her cheeks. "ah, poor boy!" she cried. "i knew! i knew!" "you--you took me home?" "you told me where you lived," she answered. "yes, i took you home." "i don't understand," he stammered, huskily. "i don't understand!" she leaned toward him slightly, looking at him with great intentness. "you didn't know me last night," she said. "do you know me now?" for answer he could only stare at her, dumfounded. he lifted an unsteady hand toward her appealingly. but the manner of the lady, as she saw the truth, underwent an april change. she drew back lightly; he was favored with the most delicious, low laugh he had ever heard, and, by some magic whisk which she accomplished, there was no sign of tears about her. "ah! i'm glad you're the same, joe!" she said. "you never would or could pretend very well. i'm glad you're the same, and i'm glad i've changed, though that isn't why you have forgotten me. you've forgotten me because you never thought of me. perhaps i should not have known you if you had changed a great deal--as i have!" he started, leaning back from her. "ah!" she laughed. "that's it! that funny little twist of the head you always had, like a--like a--well, you know i must have told you a thousand times that it was like a nice friendly puppy; so why shouldn't i say so now? and your eyebrows! when you look like that, nobody could ever forget you, joe!" he rose from the log, and the mongrel leaped upon him uproariously, thinking they were to go home, belike to food. the lady laughed again. "don't let him spoil my parasol. and i must warn you now: never, never tread on my skirt! i'm very irritable about such things!" he had taken three or four uncertain backward steps from her. she sat before him, radiant with laughter, the loveliest creature he had ever seen; but between him and this charming vision there swept, through the warm, scented june air, a veil of snow like a driven fog, and, half obscured in the heart of it, a young girl stood, knee-deep in a drift piled against an old picket gate, her black water-proof and shabby skirt flapping in the blizzard like torn sails, one of her hands out-stretched toward him, her startled eyes fixed on his. "and, oh, how like you," said the lady; "how like you and nobody else in the world, joe, to have a yellow dog!" "ariel tabor!" his lips formed the words without sound. "isn't it about time?" she said. "are strange ladies in the habit of descending from trains to take you home?" once, upon a white morning long ago, the sensational progress of a certain youth up main street had stirred canaan. but that day was as nothing to this. mr. bantry had left temporary paralysis in his wake; but in the case of the two young people who passed slowly along the street to-day it was petrifaction, which seemingly threatened in several instances (most notably that of mr. arp) to become permanent. the lower portion of the street, lined with three and four story buildings of brick and stone, rather grim and hot facades under the mid-day sun, afforded little shade to the church-comers, who were working homeward in processional little groups and clumps, none walking fast, though none with the appearance of great leisure, since neither rate of progress would have been esteemed befitting the day. the growth of canaan, steady, though never startling, had left almost all of the churches down-town, and main street the principal avenue of communication between them and the "residence section." so, to-day, the intermittent procession stretched along the new cement side-walks from a little below the square to upper main street, where maples lined the thoroughfare and the mansions of the affluent stood among pleasant lawns and shrubberies. it was late; for this had been a communion sunday, and those far in advance, who had already reached the pretty and shady part of the street, were members of the churches where services had been shortest; though few in the long parade looked as if they had been attending anything very short, and many heads of families were crisp in their replies to the theological inquiries of their offspring. the men imparted largely a gloom to the itinerant concourse, most of them wearing hot, long black coats and having wilted their collars; the ladies relieving this gloom somewhat by the lighter tints of their garments; the spick-and-span little girls relieving it greatly by their white dresses and their faces, the latter bright with the hope of sunday ice-cream; while the boys, experiencing some solace in that they were finally out where a person could at least scratch himself if he had to, yet oppressed by the decorous necessities of the day, marched along, furtively planning, behind imperturbably secretive countenances, various means for the later dispersal of an odious monotony. usually the conversation of this long string of the homeward-bound was not too frivolous or worldly; nay, it properly inclined to discussion of the sermon; that is, praise of the sermon, with here and there a mild "i-didn't-like-his-saying" or so; and its lighter aspects were apt to concern the next "social," or various pleasurable schemes for the raising of funds to help the heathen, the quite worthy poor, or the church. this was the serious and seemly parade, the propriety of whose behavior was to-day almost disintegrated when the lady of the bridge walked up the street in the shadow of a lacy, lavender parasol carried by joseph louden. the congregation of the church across the square, that to which joe's step-aunt had been late, was just debouching, almost in mass, upon main street, when these two went by. it is not quite the truth to say that all except the children came to a dead halt, but it is not very far from it. the air was thick with subdued exclamations and whisperings. here is no mystery. joe was probably the only person of respectable derivation in canaan who had not known for weeks that ariel tabor was on her way home. and the news that she had arrived the night before had been widely disseminated on the way to church, entering church, in church (even so!), and coming out of church. an account of her house in the avenue henri martin, and of her portrait in the salon--a mysterious business to many, and not lacking in grandeur for that!--had occupied two columns in the tocsin, on a day, some months before, when joe had found himself inimically head-lined on the first page, and had dropped the paper without reading further. ariel's name had been in the mouth of canaan for a long time; unfortunately for joe, however, not in the mouth of that canaan which held converse with him. joe had not known her. the women recognized her, infallibly, at first glance; even those who had quite forgotten her. and the women told their men. hence the un-sunday-like demeanor of the procession, for few towns hold it more unseemly to stand and stare at passers-by, especially on the sabbath.--but ariel tabor returned--and walking with--with joe louden! ... a low but increasing murmur followed the two as they proceeded. it ran up the street ahead of them; people turned to look back and paused, so that they had to walk round one or two groups. they had, also, to walk round norbert flitcroft, which was very like walking round a group. he was one of the few (he was waddling home alone) who did not identify miss tabor, and her effect upon him was extraordinary. his mouth opened and he gazed stodgily, his widening eyes like sun-dogs coming out of a fog. he did not recognize her escort; did not see him at all until they had passed, after which mr. flitcroft experienced a few moments of trance; came out of it stricken through and through; felt nervously of his tie; resolutely fell in behind the heeling mongrel and followed, at a distance of some forty paces, determined to learn what household this heavenly visitor honored, and thrilling with the intention to please that same household with his own presence as soon and as often as possible. ariel flushed a little when she perceived the extent of their conspicuousness; but it was not the blush that joe remembered had reddened the tanned skin of old; for her brownness had gone long ago, though it had not left her merely pink and white. this was a delicate rosiness rising from her cheeks to her temples as the earliest dawn rises. if there had been many words left in joe, he would have called it a divine blush; it fascinated him, and if anything could have deepened the glamour about her, it would have been this blush. he did not understand it, but when he saw it he stumbled. those who gaped and stared were for him only blurs in the background; truly, he saw "men as trees walking"; and when it became necessary to step out to the curb in passing some clump of people, it was to him as if ariel and he, enchantedly alone, were working their way through underbrush in the woods. he kept trying to realize that this lady of wonder was ariel tabor, but he could not; he could not connect the shabby ariel, whom he had treated as one boy treats another, with this young woman of the world. he had always been embarrassed, himself, and ashamed of her, when anything she did made him remember that, after all, she was a girl; as, on the day he ran away, when she kissed a lock of his hair escaping from the bandage. with that recollection, even his ears grew red: it did not seem probable that it would ever happen again! the next instant he heard himself calling her "miss tabor." at this she seemed amused. "you ought to have called me that, years ago," she said, "for all you knew me!" "i did know her--you, i mean!" he answered. "i used to know nearly everything you were going to say before you said it. it seems strange now--" "yes," she interrupted. "it does seem strange now!" "somehow," he went on, "i doubt if now i'd know." "somehow," she echoed, with fine gravity, "i doubt it, too." although he had so dim a perception of the staring and whispering which greeted and followed them, ariel, of course, was thoroughly aware of it, though the only sign she gave was the slight blush, which very soon disappeared. that people turned to look at her may have been not altogether a novelty: a girl who had learned to appear unconscious of the continental stare, the following gaze of the boulevards, the frank glasses of the costanza in rome, was not ill equipped to face main street, canaan, even as it was to-day. under the sycamores, before they started, they had not talked a great deal; there had been long silences: almost all her questions concerning the period of his runaway absence; she appeared to know and to understand everything which had happened since his return to the town. he had not, in his turn, reached the point where he would begin to question her; he was too breathless in his consciousness of the marvellous present hour. she had told him of the death of roger tabor, the year before. "poor man," she said, gently, "he lived to see 'how the other fellows did it' at last, and everybody liked him. he was very happy over there." after a little while she had said that it was growing close upon lunch-time; she must be going back. "then--then--good-bye," he replied, ruefully. "why?" "i'm afraid you don't understand. it wouldn't do for you to be seen with me. perhaps, though, you do understand. wasn't that why you asked me to meet you out here beyond the bridge?" in answer she looked at him full and straight for three seconds, then threw back her head and closed her eyes tight with laughter. without a word she took the parasol from him, opened it herself, placed the smooth white coral handle of it in his hand, and lightly took his arm. there was no further demur on the part of the young man. he did not know where she was going; he did not ask. soon after norbert turned to follow them, they came to the shady part of the street, where the town in summer was like a grove. detachments from the procession had already, here and there, turned in at the various gates. nobody, however, appeared to have gone in-doors, except for fans, armed with which immediately to return to rockers upon the shaded verandas. as miss tabor and joe went by, the rocking-chairs stopped; the fans poised, motionless; and perspiring old gentlemen, wiping their necks, paused in arrested attitudes. once ariel smiled politely, not at mr. louden, and inclined her head twice, with the result that the latter, after thinking for a time of how gracefully she did it and how pretty the top of her hat was, became gradually conscious of a meaning in her action: that she had bowed to some one across the street. he lifted his hat, about four minutes late, and discovered mamie pike and eugene, upon the opposite pavement, walking home from church together. joe changed color. there, just over the way, was she who had been, in his first youth, the fairy child, the little princess playing in the palace yard, and always afterward his lady of dreams, his fair unreachable moon! and joe, seeing her to-day, changed color; that was all! he had passed mamie in the street only a week before, and she had seemed all that she had always seemed; to-day an incomprehensible and subtle change had befallen her--a change so mystifying to him that for a moment he almost doubted that she was mamie pike. it came to him with a breath-taking shock that her face lacked a certain vivacity of meaning; that its sweetness was perhaps too placid; that there would have been a deeper goodness in it had there been any hint of daring. astonishing questions assailed him, startled him: could it be true that, after all, there might be some day too much of her? was her amber hair a little too--fluffy? was something the matter with her dress? everything she wore had always seemed so beautiful. where had the exquisiteness of it gone? for there was surely no exquisiteness about it now! it was incredible that any one could so greatly alter in the few days elapsed since he had seen her. strange matters! mamie had never looked prettier. at the sound of ariel's voice he emerged from the profundities of his psychic enigma with a leap. "she is lovelier than ever, isn't she?" "yes, indeed," he answered, blankly. "would you still risk--" she began, smiling, but, apparently thinking better of it, changed her question: "what is the name of your dog, mr. louden? you haven't told me." "oh, he's just a yellow dog," he evaded, unskilfully. "young man!" she said, sharply. "well," he admitted, reluctantly, "i call him speck for short." "and what for long? i want to know his real name." "it's mighty inappropriate, because we're fond of each other," said joe, "but when i picked him up he was so yellow, and so thin, and so creeping, and so scared that i christened him 'respectability.'" she broke into light laughter, stopped short in the midst of it, and became grave. "ah, you've grown bitter," she said, gently. "no, no," he protested. "i told you i liked him." she did not answer. they were now opposite the pike mansion, and to his surprise she turned, indicating the way by a touch upon his sleeve, and crossed the street toward the gate, which mamie and eugene had entered. mamie, after exchanging a word with eugene upon the steps, was already hurrying into the house. ariel paused at the gate, as if waiting for joe to open it. he cocked his head, his higher eyebrow rose, and the distorted smile appeared. "i don't believe we'd better stop here," he said. "the last time i tried it i was expunged from the face of the universe." "don't you know?" she cried. "i'm staying here. judge pike has charge of all my property; he was the administrator, or something." then seeing him chopfallen and aghast, she went on: "of course you don't know! you don't know anything about me. you haven't even asked!" "you're going to live here?" he gasped. "will you come to see me?" she laughed. "will you come this afternoon?" he grew white. "you know i can't," he said. "you came here once. you risked a good deal then, just to see mamie dance by a window. don't you dare a little for an old friend?" "all right," he gulped. "i'll try." mr. bantry had come down to the gate and was holding it open, his eyes fixed upon ariel, within them a rising glow. an impression came to joe afterward that his step-brother had looked very handsome. "possibly you remember me, miss tabor?" said eugene, in a deep and impressive voice, lifting his hat. "we were neighbors, i believe, in the old days." she gave him her hand in a fashion somewhat mannerly, favoring him with a bright, negligent smile. "oh, quite," she answered, turning again to joe as she entered the gate. "then i shall expect you?" "i'll try," said joe. "i'll try." he stumbled away; respectability and he, together, interfering alarmingly with the comfort of mr. flitcroft, who had stopped in the middle of the pavement to stare glassily at ariel. eugene accompanied the latter into the house, and joe, looking back, understood: mamie had sent his step-brother to bring ariel in--and to keep him from following. "this afternoon!" the thought took away his breath, and he became paler. the pike brougham rolled by him, and sam warden, from the box, favored his old friend upon the pavement with a liberal display of the whites of his eyes. the judge, evidently, had been detained after services--without doubt a meeting of the church officials. mrs. pike, blinking and frightened, sat at her husband's side, agreeing feebly with the bull-bass which rumbled out of the open window of the brougham: "i want orthodox preaching in my church, and, by god, madam, i'll have it! that fellow has got to go!" joe took off his hat and wiped his brow. xii to remain on the field of battle is not always a victory mamie, waiting just inside the door as ariel and eugene entered, gave the visitor a pale greeting, and, a moment later, hearing the wheels of the brougham crunch the gravel of the carriage-drive, hurried away, down the broad hall, and disappeared. ariel dropped her parasol upon a marble-topped table near the door, and, removing her gloves, drifted into a room at the left, where a grand piano found shelter beneath crimson plush. after a moment of contemplation, she pushed back the coverlet, and, seating herself upon the plush-covered piano-stool (to match), let her fingers run up and down the key-board once and fall listlessly in her lap, as she gazed with deep interest at three life-sized colored photographs (in carved gilt frames) upon the wall she was facing: judge pike, mamie, and mrs. pike with her rubies. "please don't stop playing, miss tabor," said a voice behind her. she had not observed that eugene had followed her into the room. "very well, if you like," she answered, looking up to smile absently at him. and she began to play a rakish little air which, composed by some rattle-brain at a cafe table, had lately skipped out of the moulin rouge to disport itself over paris. she played it slowly, in the minor, with elfish pathos; while he leaned upon the piano, his eyes fixed upon her fingers, which bore few rings, none, he observed with an unreasonable pleasure, upon the third finger of the left hand. "it's one of those simpler grieg things, isn't it?" he said, sighing gently. "i care for grieg." "would you mind its being chaminade?" she returned, dropping her eyes to cloak the sin. "ah no; i recognize it now," replied eugene. "he appeals to me even more than grieg." at this she glanced quickly up at him, but more quickly down again, and hastened the time emphatically, swinging the little air into the major. "do you play the 'pilgrim's chorus'?" she shook her head. "vous name pas wagner?" inquired eugene, leaning toward her. "oh yes," she answered, bending her head far over, so that her face was concealed from him, except the chin, which, he saw with a thrill of inexplicable emotion, was trembling slightly. there were some small white flowers upon her hat, and these shook too. she stopped playing abruptly, rose from the stool and crossed the room to a large mahogany chair, upholstered in red velvet and of hybrid construction, possessing both rockers and legs. she had moved in a way which prevented him from seeing her face, but he was certain of her agitation, and strangely glad, while curious, tremulous half-thoughts, edged with prophecy, bubbled to the surface of his consciousness. when she turned to him, he was surprised to see that she looked astonishingly happy, almost as if she had been struggling with joy, instead of pain. "this chair," she said, sinking into it, "makes me feel at home." naturally he could not understand. "because," she explained, "i once thought i was going to live in it. it has been reupholstered, but i should know it if i met in anywhere in the world!" "how very odd!" exclaimed eugene, staring. "i settled here in pioneer days," she went on, tapping the arms lightly with her finger-tips. "it was the last dance i went to in canaan." "i fear the town was very provincial at that time," he returned, having completely forgotten the occasion she mentioned, therefore wishing to shift the subject. "i fear you may still find it so. there is not much here that one is in sympathy with, intellectually--few people really of the world." "few people, i suppose you mean," she said, softly, with a look that went deep enough into his eyes, "few people who really understand one?" eugene had seated himself on the sill of an open window close by. "there has been," he answered, with the ghost of a sigh, "no one." she turned her head slightly away from him, apparently occupied with a loose thread in her sleeve. there were no loose threads; it was an old habit of hers which she retained. "i suppose," she murmured, in a voice as low as his had been, "that a man of your sort might find canaan rather lonely and sad." "it has been!" whereupon she made him a laughing little bow. "you are sure you complain of canaan?" "yes!" he exclaimed. "you don't know what it is to live here--" "i think i do. i lived here seventeen years." "oh yes," he began to object, "as a child, but--" "have you any recollection," she interrupted, "of the day before your brother ran away? of coming home for vacation--i think it was your first year in college--and intervening between your brother and me in a snow-fight?" for a moment he was genuinely perplexed; then his face cleared. "certainly," he said: "i found him bullying you and gave him a good punishing for it." "is that all you remember?" "yes," he replied, honestly. "wasn't that all?" "quite!" she smiled, her eyes half closed. "except that i went home immediately afterward." "naturally," said eugene. "my step-brother wasn't very much chevalier sans peur et sans reproche! ah, i should like to polish up my french a little. would you mind my asking you to read a bit with me, some little thing of daudet's if you care for him, in the original? an hour, now and then, perhaps--" mamie appeared in the doorway and eugene rose swiftly. "i have been trying to persuade miss tabor," he explained, with something too much of laughter, "to play again. you heard that little thing of chaminade's--" mamie did not appear to hear him; she entered breathlessly, and there was no color in her cheeks. "ariel," she exclaimed, "i don't want you to think i'm a tale-bearer--" "oh, my dear!" ariel said, with a gesture of deprecation. "no," miss pike went on, all in one breath, "but i'm afraid you will think it, because papa knows and he wants to see you." "what is it that he knows?" "that you were walking with joseph louden!" (this was as if she had said, "that you poisoned your mother.") "i didn't tell him, but when we saw you with him i was troubled, and asked eugene what i'd better do, because eugene always knows what is best." (mr. bantry's expression, despite this tribute, was not happy.) "and he advised me to tell mamma about it and leave it in her hands. but she always tells papa everything--" "certainly; that is understood," said ariel, slowly, turning to smile at eugene. "and she told him this right away," mamie finished. "why shouldn't she, if it is of the slightest interest to him?" the daughter of the house exhibited signs of consternation. "he wants to see you," she repeated, falteringly. "he's in the library." having thus discharged her errand, she hastened to the front-door, which had been left open, and out to the steps, evidently with the intention of removing herself as soon and as far as possible from the vicinity of the library. eugene, visibly perturbed, followed her to the doorway of the room, and paused. "do you know the way?" he inquired, with a note of solemnity. "where?" ariel had not risen. "to the library." "of course," she said, beaming upon him. "i was about to ask you if you wouldn't speak to the judge for me. this is such a comfortable old friend, this chair." "speak to him for you?" repeated the non-plussed eugene. she nodded cheerfully. "if i may trouble you. tell him, certainly, i shall be glad to see him." he threw a piteous glance after mamie, who was now, as he saw, through the open door, out upon the lawn and beyond easy hailing distance. when he turned again to look at ariel he discovered that she had shifted the position of her chair slightly, and was gazing out of the window with every appearance of cheerful meditation. she assumed so unmistakably that he had of course gone on her mission that, dismayed and his soul quaking, he could find neither an alternative nor words to explain to this dazzling lady that not he nor any other could bear such a message to martin pike. eugene went. there was nothing else to do; and he wished with every step that the distance to the portals of the library might have been greater. in whatever guise he delivered the summons, it was perfectly efficacious. a door slammed, a heavy and rapid tread was heard in the hall, and ariel, without otherwise moving, turned her head and offered a brilliant smile of greeting. "it was good of you," she said, as the doorway filled with red, imperial wrath, "to wish to have a little chat with me. i'm anxious, of course, to go over my affairs with you, and last night, after my journey, i was too tired. but now we might begin; not in detail, of course, just yet. that will do for later, when i've learned more about business." the great one had stopped on the threshold. "madam," he began, coldly, "when i say my library, i mean my--" "oh yes," she interrupted, with amiable weariness. "i know. you mean you keep all the papers and books of the estate in there, but i think we'd better put them off for a few days--" "i'm not talking about the estate!" he exclaimed. "what i want to talk to you about is being seen with joseph louden!" "yes," she nodded, brightly. "that's along the line we must take up first." "yes, it is!" he hurled his bull-bass at her. "you knew everything about him and his standing in this community! i know you did, because mrs. pike told me you asked all about him from mamie after you came last night, and, see here, don't you--" "oh, but i knew before that," she laughed. "i had a correspondent in canaan, one who has always taken a great interest in mr. louden. i asked miss pike only to get her own point of view." "i want to tell you, madam," he shouted, coming toward her, "that no member of my household--" "that's another point we must take up to-day. i'm glad you remind me of it," she said, thoughtfully, yet with so magically compelling an intonation that he stopped his shouting in the middle of a word; stopped with an apoplectic splutter. "we must arrange to put the old house in order at once." "we'll arrange nothing of the sort," he responded, after a moment of angry silence. "you're going to stay right here." "ah, i know your hospitality," she bowed, graciously. "but of course i must not tax it too far. and about mr. louden? as i said, i want to speak to you about him." "yes," he intervened, harshly. "so do i, and i'm going to do it quick! you'll find--" again she mysteriously baffled him. "he's a dear old friend of mine, you know, and i have made up my mind that we both need his help, you and i." "what!" "yes," she continued, calmly, "in a business way i mean. i know you have great interests in a hundred directions, all more important than mine; it isn't fair that you should bear the whole burden of my affairs, and i think it will be best to retain mr. louden as my man of business. he could take all the cares of the estate off your shoulders." martin pike spoke no word, but he looked at her strangely; and she watched him with sudden keenness, leaning forward in her chair, her gaze alert but quiet, fixed on the dilating pupils of his eyes. he seemed to become dizzy, and the choleric scarlet which had overspread his broad face and big neck faded splotchily. still keeping her eyes upon him, she went on: "i haven't asked him yet, and so i don't know whether or not he'll consent, but i think it possible that he may come to see me this afternoon, and if he does we can propose it to him together and go over things a little." judge pike recovered his voice. "he'll get a warm welcome," he promised, huskily, "if he sets foot on my premises!" "you mean you prefer i shouldn't receive him here?" she nodded pleasantly. "then certainly i shall not. such things are much better for offices; you are quite right." "you'll not see him at all!" "ah, judge pike," she lifted her hand with gentle deprecation, "don't you understand that we can't quite arrange that? you see, mr. louden is even an older friend of mine than you are, and so i must trust his advice about such things more than yours. of course, if he too should think it better for me not to see him--" the judge advanced toward her. "i'm tired of this," he began, in a loud voice. "i'm--" she moved as if to rise, but he had come very close, leaning above her, one arm out-stretched and at the end of it a heavy forefinger which he was shaking at her, so that it was difficult to get out of her chair without pushing him away--a feat apparently impossible. ariel tabor, in rising, placed her hand upon his out-stretched arm, quite as if he had offered it to assist her; he fell back a step in complete astonishment; she rose quickly, and released his arm. "thank you," she said, beamingly. "it's quite all my fault that you're tired. i've been thoughtless to keep you so long, and you have been standing, too!" she swept lightly and quickly to the door, where she paused, gathering her skirts. "i shall not detain you another instant! and if mr. louden comes, this afternoon, i'll remember. i'll not let him come in, of course. it will be perhaps pleasanter to talk over my proposition as we walk!" there was a very faint, spicy odor like wild roses and cinnamon left in the room where martin pike stood alone, staring whitely at the open doorway. xiii the watcher and the warden there was a custom of canaan, time-worn and seldom honored in the breach, which put ariel, that afternoon, in easy possession of a coign of vantage commanding the front gate. the heavy sunday dinner was finished in silence (on the part of judge pike, deafening) about three o'clock, and, soon after, mamie tossed a number of cushions out upon the stoop between the cast-iron dogs,--sam warden having previously covered the steps with a rug and placed several garden chairs near by on the grass. these simple preparations concluded, eugene sprawled comfortably upon the rug, and mamie seated herself near him, while ariel wandered with apparent aimlessness about the lawn, followed by the gaze of mr. bantry, until miss pike begged her, a little petulantly, to join them. she came, looking about her dreamily, and touching to her lips, now and then, with an absent air, a clover blossom she had found in the longer grass against the fence. she stopped to pat the neck of one of the cast-iron deer, and with grave eyes proffered the clover-top first for inspection, then as food. there were those in the world who, seeing her, might have wondered that the deer did not play galatea and come to life. "no?" she said, aloud, to the steadfast head. "you won't? what a mistake to be made of cast-iron!" she smiled and nodded to a clump of lilac-bushes near a cedar-tree, and to nothing else--so far as eugene and mamie could see,--then walked thoughtfully to the steps. "who in the world were you speaking to?" asked mamie, curiously. "that deer." "but you bowed to some one." "oh, that," ariel lifted her eyebrows,--"that was your father. didn't you see him?" "no." "i believe you can't from here, after all," said ariel, slowly. "he is sitting upon a rustic bench between the bushes and the cedar-tree, quite near the gate. no, you couldn't see him from here; you'd have to go as far as the deer, at least, and even then you might not notice him, unless you looked for him. he has a book--a bible, i think--but i don't think he is reading." "he usually takes a nap on sunday afternoons," said mamie. "i don't think he will, to-day." ariel looked at eugene, who avoided her clear gaze. "he has the air of having settled himself to stay for a long time, perhaps until evening." she had put on her hat after dinner, and mamie now inquired if she would not prefer to remove it, offering to carry it in-doors for her, to ariel's room, to insure its safety. "you look so sort of temporary, wearing it," she urged, "as if you were only here for a little while. it's the loveliest hat i ever saw, and so fragile, too, but i'll take care--" ariel laughed, leaned over, and touched the other's hand lightly. "it isn't that, dear." "what is it, then?" mamie beamed out into a joyful smile. she had felt sure that she could not understand ariel; was, indeed, afraid of her; and she found herself astonishingly pleased to be called "dear," and delighted with the little familiarity of the hand-tap. her feeling toward the visitor (who was, so her father had announced, to become a permanent member of the household) had been, until now, undefined. she had been on her guard, watching for some sign of conscious "superiority" in this lady who had been so long over-seas, not knowing what to make of her; though thrown, by the contents of her trunks, into a wistfulness which would have had something of rapture in it had she been sure that she was going to like ariel. she had gone to the latter's room before church, and had perceived uneasily that it had become, even by the process of unpacking, the prettiest room she had ever seen. mrs. warden, wife of sam, and handmaiden of the mansion, was assisting, alternately faint and vociferous with marvelling. mamie feared that ariel might be a little overpowering. with the word "dear" (that is, of course, with the way it was spoken), and with the touch upon the hand, it was all suddenly settled; she would not understand ariel always--that was clear--but they would like each other. "i am wearing my hat," answered ariel, "because at any moment i may decide to go for a long walk!" "oh, i hope not," said mamie. "there are sure to be people: a few still come, even though i'm an engaged girl. i expect that's just to console me, though," she added, smiling over this worn quip of the betrothed, and shaking her head at eugene, who grew red and coughed. "there'll be plenty to-day, but they won't be here to see me. it's you, ariel, and they'd be terribly disappointed if you weren't here. i shouldn't wonder if the whole town came; it's curious enough about you!" canaan (at least that part of it which mamie meant when she said "the whole town") already offered testimony to her truthfulness. two gentlemen, aged nine and eleven, and clad in white "sailor suits," were at that moment grooving their cheeks between the round pickets of the gate. they had come from the house across the street, evidently stimulated by the conversation at their own recent dinner-table (they wore a few deposits such as are left by chocolate-cake), and the motive of their conduct became obvious when, upon being joined by a person from next door (a starched and frilled person of the opposite sex but sympathetic age), one of them waggled a forefinger through the gate at ariel, and a voice was heard in explanation: "that's her." there was a rustle in the lilac-bushes near the cedar-tree; the three small heads turned simultaneously in that direction; something terrific was evidently seen, and with a horrified "oooh!" the trio skedaddled headlong. they were but the gay vanguard of the life which the street, quite dead through the sunday dinner-hour, presently took on. young couples with their progeny began to appear, returning from the weekly reunion sunday dinner with relatives; young people meditative (until they reached the pike mansion), the wives fanning themselves or shooing the tots-able-to-walk ahead of them, while the husbands, wearing long coats, satin ties, and showing dust upon their blazing shoes, invariably pushed the perambulators. most of these passers-by exchanged greetings with mamie and eugene, and all of them looked hard at ariel as long as it was possible. and now the young men of the town, laboriously arranged as to apparel, began to appear on the street in small squads, making their sunday rounds; the youngest working in phalanxes of threes and fours, those somewhat older inclining to move in pairs; the eldest, such as were now beginning to be considered middle-aged beaux, or (by the extremely youthful) "old bachelors," evidently considered it advantageous to travel alone. of all these, there were few who did not, before evening fell, turn in at the gate of the pike mansion. consciously, shyly or confidently, according to the condition of their souls, they made their way between the cast-iron deer to be presented to the visitor. ariel sat at the top of the steps, and, looking amiably over their heads, talked with such as could get near her. there were many who could not, and mamie, occupying the bench below, was surrounded by the overflow. the difficulty of reaching and maintaining a position near miss tabor was increased by the attitude and behavior of mr. flitcroft, who that day cooled the feeling of friendship which several of his fellow-townsmen had hitherto entertained for him. he had been the first to arrive, coming alone, though that was not his custom, and he established himself at ariel's right, upon the step just below her, so disposing the great body and the ponderous arms and legs the gods had given him, that no one could mount above him to sit beside her, or approach her from that direction within conversational distance. once established, he was not to be dislodged, and the only satisfaction for those in this manner debarred from the society of the beautiful stranger was obtained when they were presented to her and when they took their departure. on these occasions it was necessary by custom for them to shake her hand, a ceremony they accomplished by leaning across mr. flitcroft, which was a long way to lean, and the fat back and shoulders were sore that night because of what had been surreptitiously done to them by revengeful elbows and knees. norbert, not ordinarily talkative, had nothing to say; he seemed to find sufficient occupation in keeping the place he had gained; and from this close vantage he fastened his small eyes immovably upon ariel's profile. eugene, also apparently determined not to move, sat throughout the afternoon at her left, but as he was thin, others, who came and went, were able to approach upon that side and hold speech with her. she was a stranger to these young people, most of whom had grown up together in a nickname intimacy. few of them had more than a very imperfect recollection of her as she was before roger tabor and she had departed out of canaan. she had lived her girlhood only upon their borderland, with no intimates save her grandfather and joe; and she returned to her native town "a revelation and a dream," as young mr. bradbury told his incredulous grandmother that night. the conversation of the gallants consisted, for the greater part, of witticisms at one another's expense, which, though evoked for ariel's benefit (all eyes furtively reverting to her as each shaft was loosed), she found more or less enigmatical. the young men, however, laughed at each other loudly, and seemed content if now and then she smiled. "you must be frightfully ennuied with all this," eugene said to her. "you see how provincial we still are." she did not answer; she had not heard him. the shadows were stretching themselves over the grass, long and attenuated; the sunlight upon the trees and houses was like a thin, rosy pigment; black birds were calling each other home to beech and elm; and ariel's eyes were fixed upon the western distance of the street where gold-dust was beginning to quiver in the air. she did not hear eugene, but she started, a moment later, when the name "joe louden" was pronounced by a young man, the poetic bradbury, on the step below eugene. some one immediately said "'sh!" but she leaned over and addressed mr. bradbury, who, shut out, not only from the group about her, but from the other centring upon miss pike, as well, was holding a private conversation with a friend in like misfortune. "what were you saying of mr. louden?" she asked, smiling down upon the young man. (it was this smile which inspired his description of her as "a revelation and a dream.") "oh, nothing particular," was his embarrassed reply. "i only mentioned i'd heard there was some talk among the--" he paused awkwardly, remembering that ariel had walked with joseph louden in the face of canaan that very day. "that is, i mean to say, there's some talk of his running for mayor." "what?" there was a general exclamation, followed by an uncomfortable moment or two of silence. no one present was unaware of that noon walk, though there was prevalent a pleasing notion that it would not happen again, founded on the idea that ariel, having only arrived the previous evening, had probably met joe on the street by accident, and, remembering him as a playmate of her childhood and uninformed as to his reputation, had, naturally enough, permitted him to walk home with her. mr. flitcroft broke the silence, rushing into words with a derisive laugh: "yes, he's 'talked of' for mayor--by the saloon people and the niggers! i expect the beaver beach crowd would be for him, and if tramps could vote he might--" "what is beaver beach?" asked ariel, not turning. "what is beaver beach?" he repeated, and cast his eyes to the sky, shaking his head awesomely. "it's a place," he said, with abysmal solemnity,--"a place i shouldn't have mentioned in your presence, miss tabor." "what has it to do with mr. louden?" the predestined norbert conceived the present to be a heaven-sent opportunity to enlighten her concerning joe's character, since the pikes appeared to have been derelict in the performance of this kindness. "he goes there!" he proceeded heavily. "he lived there for a while when he first came back from running away, and he's a friend of mike sheehan's that runs it; he's a friend of all the riff-raff that hang around there." "how do you know he goes there?" "why, it was in the paper the day after he came back!" he appealed for corroboration. "wasn't it, eugene?" "no, no!" she persisted. "newspapers are sometimes mistaken, aren't they?" laughing a little, she swept across the bulbous face beside her a swift regard that was like a search-light. "how do you know, mr. flitcroft," she went on very rapidly, raising her voice,--"how do you know that mr. louden is familiar with this place? the newspapers may have been falsely informed; you must admit that? then how do you know? have you ever met any one who has seen him there?" "i've seen him there myself!" the words skipped out of norbert's mouth like so many little devils, the instant he opened it. she had spoken so quickly and with such vehemence, looking him full in the eye, that he had forgotten everything in the world except making the point to which her insistence had led him. mamie looked horrified; there was a sound of smothered laughter, and norbert, overwhelmed by the treachery of his own mouth, sat gasping. "it can't be such a terrific place, then, after all," said ariel, gently, and turning to eugene, "have you ever been there, mr. bantry?" she asked. he changed color, but answered with enough glibness: "no." several of the young men rose; the wretched flitcroft, however, evading mamie's eye--in which there was a distinct hint,--sat where he was until all of them, except eugene, had taken a reluctant departure, one group after another, leaving in the order of their arrival. the rosy pigment which had colored the trees faded; the gold-dust of the western distance danced itself pale and departed; dusk stalked into the town from the east; and still the watcher upon the steps and the warden of the gate (he of the lilac-bushes and the bible) held their places and waited--waited, alas! in vain.... ah! joe, is this the mettle of your daring? did you not say you would "try"? was your courage so frail a vessel that it could not carry you even to the gate yonder? surely you knew that if you had striven so far, there you would have been met! perhaps you foresaw that not one, but two, would meet you at the gate, both the warden and the watcher. what of that? what of that, o faint heart? what was there to fear? listen! the gate clicks. ah, have you come at last? ariel started to her feet, but the bent figure, coming up the walk in the darkness, was that of eskew arp. he bowed gloomily to mamie, and in response to her inquiry if he wished to see her father, answered no; he had come to talk with the granddaughter of his old friend roger tabor. "mr. arp!" called ariel. "i am so very glad!" she ran down to him and gave him her hand. "we'll sit here on the bench, sha'n't we?" mamie had risen, and skirting norbert frostily, touched eugene upon the shoulder as she went up the steps. he understood that he was to follow her in-doors, and, after a deep look at the bench where ariel had seated herself beside mr. arp, he obeyed. norbert was left a lonely ruin between the cold, twin dogs. he had wrought desolation this afternoon, and that sweet verdure, his good name, so long in the planting, so carefully tended, was now a dreary waste; yet he contemplated this not so much as his present aspect of splendid isolation. frozen by the daughter of the house, forgotten by the visitor, whose conversation with mr. arp was carried on in tones so low that he could not understand it, the fat one, though heart-breakingly loath to take himself away, began to comprehend that his hour had struck. he rose, descended the steps to the bench, and seated himself unexpectedly upon the cement walk at ariel's feet. "leg's gone to sleep," he explained, in response to her startled exclamation; but, like a great soul, ignoring the accident of his position as well as the presence of mr. arp, he immediately proceeded: "will you go riding with me to-morrow afternoon?" "aren't you very good-natured, mr. flitcroft?" she asked, with an odd intonation. "i'm imposed on, often enough," he replied, rubbing his leg, "by people who think i am! why?" "it is only that your sitting so abruptly upon the ground reminded me of something that happened long ago, before i left canaan, the last time i met you." "i don't think i knew you before you went away. you haven't said if you'll go riding with me to-morrow. please--" "get up," interrupted mr. arp, acidly. "somebody 'll fall over you if you stay there." such a catastrophe in truth loomed imminent. judge pike was rapidly approaching on his way to the house, bible in hand--far better in hand than was his temper, for it is an enraging thing to wait five hours in ambush for a man who does not come. in the darkness a desecration occurred, and norbert perfected to the last detail whatever had been left incomplete of his own destruction. he began lumberingly to rise, talking at the same time, urging upon ariel the charms of the roadside; wild flowers were in blossom, he said, recounting the benefits she might derive through acceptance of his invitation; and having, thus busily, risen to his knees, became aware that some one was passing near him. this some one mr. flitcroft, absorbed in artful persuasions, may have been betrayed by the darkness to mistake for eugene. reaching out for assistance, he mechanically seized upon the skirts of a coat, which he put to the uses of a rope, coming up hand-over-hand with such noble weight and energy that he brought himself to his feet and the owner of the coat to the ground simultaneously. the latter, hideously astonished, went down with an objurgation so outrageous in venom that mr. arp jumped with the shock. judge pike got to his feet quickly, but not so quickly as the piteous flitcroft betook himself into the deep shadows of the street. only a word, hoarse and horror-stricken, was left quivering on the night breeze by this accursed, whom the gods, intent upon his ruin, had early in the day, at his first sight of ariel, in good truth, made mad: "murder!" "can i help you brush off, judge?" asked eskew, rising painfully. either martin pike was beyond words, or the courtesy proposed by the feeble old fellow (for eskew was now very far along in years, and looked his age) emphasized too bitterly the indignity which had been put upon him: whatever the case, he went his way in-doors, leaving the cynic's offer unacknowledged. eskew sank back upon the bench, with the little rusty sounds, suggestions of creaks and sighs, which accompany the movement of antiques. "i've always thought," he said, "that the judge had spells when he was hard of hearing." oblongs of light abruptly dropped from the windows confronting them, one, falling across the bench, appropriately touching with lemon the acrid, withered face and trembling hands of the veteran. "you are younger than you were nine years ago, mr. arp," said ariel, gayly. "i caught a glimpse of you upon the street, to-day, and i thought so then. now i see that i was right." "me--younger!" he groaned. "no, ma'am! i'm mighty near through with this fool world--and i'd be glad of it, if i didn't expect that if there is another one afterwards, it would be jest as ornery!" she laughed, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knee, and her chin in her hand, so that the shadow of her hat shielded her eyes from the light. "i thought you looked surprised when you saw me to day." "i reckon i did!" he exclaimed. "who wouldn't of been?" "why?" "why?" he repeated, confounded by her simplicity. "why?" "yes," she laughed. "that's what i'm anxious to know." "wasn't the whole town the same way?" he demanded. "did you meet anybody that didn't look surprised?" "but why should they?" "good lord admighty!" he broke out. "ain't you got any lookin'-glasses?" "i think almost all i have are still in the customs warehouse." "then use mamie pike's," responded the old man. "the town never dreamed you were goin' to turn out pretty at all, let alone the way you've turned out pretty! the tocsin had a good deal about your looks and so forth in it once, in a letter from paris, but the folks that remembered you kind of set that down to the way papers talk about anybody with money, and nobody was prepared for it when they saw you. you don't need to drop no curtseys to me." he set his mouth grimly, in response to the bow she made him. "_i_ think female beauty is like all other human furbelows, and as holler as heaven will be if only the good people are let in! but yet i did stop to look at you when you went past me to-day, and i kept on lookin', long as you were in sight. i reckon i always will, when i git the chance, too--only shows what human nature is! but that wasn't all that folks were starin' at to-day. it was your walkin' with joe louden that really finished 'em, and i can say it upset me more than anything i've seen for a good many years." "upset you, mr. arp?" she cried. "i don't quite see." the old man shook his head deploringly. "after what i'd written you about that boy--" "ah," she said, softly, touching his sleeve with her fingers, "i haven't thanked you for that." "you needn't," he returned, sharply. "it was a pleasure. do you remember how easy and quick i promised you?" "i remember that you were very kind." "kind!" he gave forth an acid and chilling laugh. "it was about two months after louden ran away, and before you and roger left canaan, and you asked me to promise to write to you whenever word of that outcast came--" "i didn't put it so, mr. arp." "no, but you'd ought of! you asked me to write you whatever news of him should come, and if he came back to tell you how and when and all about it. and i did it, and kept you sharp on his record ever since he landed here again. do you know why i've done it? do you know why i promised so quick and easy i would do it?" "out of the kindness of your heart, i think." the acid laugh was repeated. "no, ma 'am! you couldn't of guessed colder. i promised, and i kept my promise, because i knew there would never be anything good to tell! and there never was!" "nothing at all?" she insisted, gravely. "never! i leave it to you if i've written one good word of him." "you've written of the treatment he has received here," she began, "and i've been able to see what he has borne--and bears!" "but have i written one word to show that he didn't deserve it all? haven't i told you everything, of his associates, his--" "indeed you have!" "then do you wonder that i was more surprised than most when i saw you walking with him to-day? because i knew you did it in cold blood and knowledge aforethought! other folks thought it was because you hadn't been here long enough to hear his reputation, but i knew!" "tell me," she said, "if you were disappointed when you saw me with him." "yes," he snapped. "i was!" "i thought so. i saw the consternation in your face! you approved, didn't you?" "i don't know what you're talking about!" "yes, you do! i know it bothers you to have me read you between the lines, but for this once you must let me. you are so consistent that you are never disappointed when things turn out badly, or people are wicked or foolish, are you?" "no, certainly not. i expect it." "and you were disappointed in me to-day. therefore, it must be that i was doing something you knew was right and good. you see?" she leaned a little closer to him, smiling angelically. "ah, mr. arp," she cried, "i know your secret: you admire me!" he rose, confused and incoherent, as full of denial as a detected pickpocket. "i don't! me admire? what? it's an ornery world," he protested. "i don't admire any human that ever lived!" "yes, you do," she persisted. "i've just proved it! but that is the least of your secret; the great thing is this: you admire mr. louden!" "i never heard such nonsense," he continued to protest, at the same time moving down the walk toward the gate, leaning heavily on his stick. "nothin' of the kind. there ain't any logic to that kind of an argument, nor no reason!" "you see, i understand you," she called after him. "i'm sorry you go away in the bitterness of being found out." "found out!" his stick ceased for a moment to tap the cement. "pooh!" he ejaculated, uneasily. there was a pause, followed by a malevolent chuckle. "at any rate," he said, with joy in the afterthought, "you'll never go walkin' with him again!" he waited for the answer, which came, after a time, sadly. "perhaps you are right. perhaps i shall not." "ha, i thought so! good-night." "good-night, mr. arp." she turned toward the lighted house. through the windows nearest her she could see mamie, seated in the familiar chair, following with happy and tender eyes the figure of eugene, who was pacing up and down the room. the town was deadly quiet: ariel could hear the sound of footsteps perhaps a block away. she went to the gate and gazed a long time into the empty street, watching the yellow grains of light, sieved through the maples from the arc lights on the corner, moving to and fro in the deep shadow as the lamp swung slightly in the night air. somewhere, not far away, the peace was broken by the screams of a "parlor organ," which honked and wailed in pious agonies (the intention was hymnal), interminably protracting each spasm. presently a woman's voice outdid the organ, a voice which made vivid the picture of the woman who owned it, and the ploughed forehead of her, above the nose-glasses, when the "grace-notes" were proudly given birth. "rescue the perishing" was the startlingly appropriate selection, rendered with inconceivable lingering upon each syllable: "roos-cyoo the poor-oosh-oong!" at unexpected intervals two male voices, evidently belonging to men who had contracted the habit of holding tin in their mouths, joined the lady in a thorough search for the lost chord. that was the last of silence in canaan for an hour or so. the organ was merely inaugural: across the street a piano sounded; firm, emphatic, determined, vocal competition with the instrument here also; "rock of ages" the incentive. another piano presently followed suit, in a neighboring house: "precious jewels." more distant, a second organ was heard; other pianos, other organs, took up other themes; and as a wakeful puppy's barking will go over a village at night, stirring first the nearer dogs to give voice, these in turn stimulating those farther away to join, one passing the excitement on to another, until hounds in farm-yards far beyond the town contribute to the long-distance conversation, even so did "rescue the perishing" enliven the greater part of canaan. it was this that made ariel realize a thing of which hitherto she had not been able to convince herself: that she was actually once more in the town where she had spent her long-ago girlhood; now grown to seem the girlhood of some other person. it was true: her foot was on her native heath and her name was ariel tabor--the very name of the girl who had shared the town's disapproval with joe louden! "rescue the perishing" brought it all back to her; and she listened to these sharply familiar rites of the canaanite sabbath evening with a shiver of pain. she turned from the gate to go into the house, heard eugene's voice at the door, and paused. he was saying good-night to mamie. "and please say 'au revoir' to miss tabor for me," he added, peering out under his hand. "i don't know where she can have gone." "probably she came in and went to her room," said mamie. "don't forget to tell her 'au revoir.'" "i won't, dear. good-night." "good-night." she lifted her face and he kissed her perfunctorily. then he came down the steps and went slowly toward the gate, looking about him into the darkness as if searching for something; but ariel had fled away from the path of light that led from the open door. she skimmed noiselessly across the lawn and paused at the side of the house, leaning against the veranda, where, on a night long past, a boy had hid and a girl had wept. a small creaking sound fell upon her ear, and she made out an ungainly figure approaching, wheeling something of curious shape. "is that you, sam?" she said. mr. warden stopped, close by. "yes'm," he replied. "i'm a-gittin' out de hose to lay de dus' yonnah." he stretched an arm along the cross-bar of the reel, relaxing himself, apparently, for conversation. "y'all done change consid'able, miss airil," he continued, with the directness of one sure of privilege. "you think so, sam?" "yes'm. ev'ybody think so, _i_ reckon. be'n a tai'ble lot o' talkum 'bout you to-day. dun'no' how all dem oth' young ladies goin' take it!" he laughed with immoderate delight, yet, as to the volume of mere sound, discreetly, with an eye to open windows. "you got 'em all beat, miss airil! dey ain' be'n no one 'roun' dis town evah got in a thousum mile o' you! fer looks, an' de way you walk an' ca'y yo'self; an' as fer de clo'es--name o' de good lan', honey, dey ain' nevah see style befo'! my ole woman say you got mo' fixin's in a minute dan de whole res' of 'em got in a yeah. she say when she helpin' you onpack she must 'a' see mo'n a hunerd paihs o' slippahs alone! an' de good man knows i 'membuh w'en you runnin' roun' back-yods an' up de alley rompin' 'ith joe louden, same you's a boy!" "do you ever see mr. louden, nowadays?" she asked. his laugh was repeated with the same discreet violence. "ain' i seen him dis ve'y day, fur up de street at de gate yonnah, stan'in' 'ith you, w'en i drivin' de judge?" "you--you didn't happen to see him anywhere this--this afternoon?" "no'm, i ain' see him." sam's laughter vanished and his lowered voice became serious. "i ain' see him, but i hearn about him." "what did you hear?" "dey be'n consid'able stir on de aidge o' town, i reckon," he answered, gravely, "an' dey be'n havin' some trouble out at de beach--" "beaver beach, do you mean?" "yes'm. dey be'n some shootin' goin' on out dat way." she sprang forward and caught at his arm without speaking. "joe louden all right," he said, reassuringly. "ain' nuffum happen to him! nigh as i kin mek out f'm de talk, dat happy fear gone on de rampage ag'in, an' dey hatta sent fer mist' louden to come in a hurry." xiv white roses in a law-office as upon a world canopied with storm, hung with mourning purple and habited in black, did mr. flitcroft turn his morning face at eight o'clock antemeridian monday, as he hied himself to his daily duty at the washington national bank. yet more than the merely funereal gloomed out from the hillocky area of his countenance. was there not, i'faith, a glow, a vesuvian shimmer, beneath the murk of that darkling eye? was here one, think you, to turn the other cheek? little has he learned of norbert flitcroft who conceives that this fiery spirit was easily to be quenched! look upon the jowl of him, and let him who dares maintain that people--even the very pikes themselves--were to grind beneath their brougham wheels a prostrate norbert and ride on scatheless! in this his own metaphor is nearly touched "i guess not! they don't run over me! martin pike better look out how he tries it!" so mother nature at her kindly tasks, good norbert, uses for her unguent our own perfect inconsistency: and often when we are stabbed deep in the breast she distracts us by thin scratches in other parts, that in the itch of these we may forget the greater hurt till it be healed. thus, the remembrance of last night, when you undisguisedly ran from the wrath of a pike, with a pretty girl looking on (to say nothing of the acrid arp, who will fling the legend on a thousand winds), might well agonize you now, as, in less hasty moments and at a safe distance, you brood upon the piteous figure you cut. on the contrary, behold: you see no blood crimsoning the edges of the horrid gash in your panoply of self-esteem: you but smart and scratch the scratches, forgetting your wound in the hot itch for vengeance. it is an itch which will last (for in such matters your temper shall be steadfast), and let the great goliath in the mean time beware of you! you ran, last night. you ran--of course you ran. why not? you ran to fight another day! a bank clerk sometimes has opportunities. the stricken fat one could not understand how it came about that he had blurted out the damning confession that he had visited beaver beach. when he tried to solve the puzzle, his mind refused the strain, became foggy and the terrors of his position acute. was he, like joe louden, to endure the ban of canaan, and like him stand excommunicate beyond the pale because of martin pike's displeasure? for norbert saw with perfect clearness to-day what the judge had done for joe. now that he stood in danger of a fate identical, this came home to him. how many others, he wondered, would do as mamie had done and write notes such as he had received by the hand of sam warden, late last night? "dear sir." (this from mamie, who, in the canaanitish way, had been wont to address him as "norb"!)--"my father wishes me to state that after your remark yesterday afternoon on the steps which was overheard by my mother who happened to be standing in the hall behind you and your behavior to himself later on--he considers it impossible to allow you to call any more or to speak to any member of his household. "yours respectfully, "mamie pike." erasures and restorations bore witness to a considerable doubt in mamie's mind concerning "yours respectfully," but she had finally let it stand, evidently convinced that the plain signature, without preface, savored of an intimacy denied by the context. "'dear sir'!" repeated norbert, between set teeth. "'impossible to allow you to call any more'!" these and other terms of his dismissal recurred to him during the morning, and ever and anon he looked up from his desk, his lips moving to the tune of those horrid phrases, and stared out at the street. basilisk glaring this, with no christian softness in it, not even when it fell upon his own grandfather, sitting among the sages within easy eye-shot from the big window at norbert's elbow. however, colonel flitcroft was not disturbed by the gaze of his descendant, being, in fact, quite unaware of it. the aged men were having a busy morning. the conclave was not what it had been. [see arp and all his works.] there had come, as the years went by, a few recruits; but faces were missing: the two tabors had gone, and uncle joe davey could no longer lay claim to the patriarchship; he had laid it down with a half-sigh and gone his way. eskew himself was now the oldest of the conscript fathers, the colonel and squire buckalew pressing him closely, with peter bradbury no great time behind. to-day they did not plant their feet upon the brass rail inside the hotel windows, but courted the genial weather out-doors, and, as their summer custom was, tilted back their chairs in the shade of the western wall of the building. "and who could of dreamed," mr. bradbury was saying, with a side-glance of expectancy at eskew, "that jonas tabor would ever turn out to have a niece like that!" mr. arp ceased to fan himself with his wide straw hat and said grimly: "i don't see as jonas has 'turned out'--not in particular! if he's turned at all, lately, i reckon it's in his grave, and i'll bet he has if he had any way of hearin' how much she must of spent for clothes!" "i believe," squire buckalew began, "that young folks' memories are short." "they're lucky!" interjected eskew. "the shorter your memory the less meanness you know." "i meant young folks don't remember as well as older people do," continued the squire. "i don't see what's so remarkable in her comin' back and walkin' up-street with joe louden. she used to go kitin' round with him all the time, before she left here. and yet everybody talks as if they never heard of sech a thing!" "it seems to me," said colonel flitcroft, hesitatingly, "that she did right. i know it sounds kind of a queer thing to say, and i stirred up a good deal of opposition at home, yesterday evening, by sort of mentioning something of the kind. nobody seemed to agree with me, except norbert, and he didn't say much, but--" he was interrupted by an uncontrollable cackle which issued from the mouth of mr. arp. the colonel turned upon him with a frown, inquiring the cause of his mirth. "it put me in mind," mr. arp began promptly, "of something that happened last night." "what was it?" eskew's mouth was open to tell, but he remembered, just in time, that the grandfather of norbert was not the audience properly to be selected for this recital, choked a half-born word, coughed loudly, realizing that he must withhold the story of the felling of martin pike until the colonel had taken his departure, and replied: "nothin' to speak of. go on with your argument." "i've finished," said the colonel. "i only wanted to say that it seems to me a good action for a young lady like that to come back here and stick to her old friend and playmate." "stick to him!" echoed mr. arp. "she walked up main street with him yesterday. do you call that stickin' to him? she's been away a good while; she's forgotten what canaan is. you wait till she sees for herself jest what his standing in this com--" "i agree with eskew for once," interrupted peter bradbury. "i agree because--" "then you better wait," cried eskew, allowing him to proceed no farther, "till you hear what you're agreein' to! i say: you take a young lady like that, pretty and rich and all cultured up, and it stands to reason that she won't--" "no, it don't," exclaimed buckalew, impatiently. "nothing of the sort! i tell you--" eskew rose to his feet and pounded the pavement with his stick. "it stands to reason that she won't stick to a man no other decent woman will speak to, a feller that's been the mark for every stone throwed in the town, ever since he was a boy, an outcast with a reputation as black as a preacher's shoes on sunday! i don't care if he's her oldest friend on earth, she won't stick to him! she walked with him yesterday, but you can mark my words: his goose is cooked!" the old man's voice rose, shrill and high. "it ain't in human nature fer her to do it! you hear what i say: you'll never see her with joe louden again in this livin' world, and she as good as told me so, herself, last night. you can take your oath she's quit him already! don't--" eskew paused abruptly, his eyes widening behind his spectacles; his jaw fell; his stick, raised to hammer the pavement, remained suspended in the air. a sudden color rushed over his face, and he dropped speechless in his chair. the others, after staring at him in momentary alarm, followed the direction of his gaze. just across main street, and in plain view, was the entrance to the stairway which led to joe's office. ariel tabor, all in cool gray, carrying a big bunch of white roses in her white-gloved hands, had just crossed the sidewalk from a carriage and was ascending the dark stairway. a moment later she came down again, empty-handed, got into the carriage, and drove away. "she missed him," said squire buckalew. "i saw him go out half an hour ago. but," he added, and, exercising a self-restraint close upon the saintly, did not even glance toward the heap which was mr. arp, "i notice she left her flowers!" ariel was not the only one who climbed the dingy stairs that day and read the pencilled script upon joe's door: "will not return until evening. j. louden." many others came, all exceedingly unlike the first visitor: some were quick and watchful, dodging into the narrow entrance furtively; some smiled contemptuously as long as they were in view of the street, drooping wanly as they reached the stairs: some were brazen and amused; and some were thin and troubled. not all of them read the message, for not all could read, but all looked curiously through the half-opened door at the many roses which lifted their heads delicately from a water-pitcher on joe's desk to scent that dusty place with their cool breath. most of these clients, after a grunt of disappointment, turned and went away; though there were a few, either unable to read the message or so pressed by anxiety that they disregarded it, who entered the room and sat down to wait for the absentee. [there were plenty of chairs in the office now, bookcases also, and a big steel safe.] but when evening came and the final gray of twilight had vanished from the window-panes, all had gone except one, a woman who sat patiently, her eyes upon the floor, and her hands folded in her lap, until the footsteps of the last of the others to depart had ceased to sound upon the pavement below. then, with a wordless exclamation, she sprang to her feet, pulled the window-shade carefully down to the sill, and, when she had done that, struck a match on the heel of her shoe--a soiled white canvas shoe, not a small one--and applied the flame to a gas jet. the yellow light flared up; and she began to pace the room haggardly. the court-house bell rang nine, and as the tremors following the last stroke pulsed themselves into silence, she heard a footfall on the stairs and immediately relapsed into a chair, folding her hands again in her lap, her expression composing itself to passivity, for the step was very much lighter than joe's. a lady beautifully dressed in white dimity appeared in the doorway. she hesitated at the threshold, not, apparently, because of any timidity (her expression being too thoughtfully assured for that), but almost immediately she came in and seated herself near the desk, acknowledging the other's presence by a slight inclination of the head. this grave courtesy caused a strong, deep flush to spread itself under the rouge which unevenly covered the woman's cheeks, as she bowed elaborately in return. then, furtively, during a protracted silence, she took stock of the new-comer, from the tip of her white suede shoes to the filmy lace and pink roses upon her wide white hat; and the sidelong gaze lingered marvellingly upon the quiet, delicate hands, slender and finely expressive, in their white gloves. her own hands, unlike the lady's, began to fidget confusedly, and, the silence continuing, she coughed several times, to effect the preface required by her sense of fitness, before she felt it proper to observe, with a polite titter: "mr. louden seems to be a good while comin'." "have you been waiting very long?" asked the lady. "ever since six o'clock!" "yes," said the other. "that is very long." "yes, ma'am, it cert'nly is." the ice thus broken, she felt free to use her eyes more directly, and, after a long, frank stare, exclaimed: "why, you must be miss ariel tabor, ain't you?" "yes." ariel touched one of the roses upon joe's desk with her finger-tips. "i am miss tabor." "well, excuse me fer asking; i'm sure it ain't any business of mine," said the other, remembering the manners due one lady from another. "but i thought it must be. i expect," she added, with loud, inconsequent laughter, "there's not many in canaan ain't heard you've come back." she paused, laughed again, nervously, and again, less loudly, to take off the edge of her abruptness: gradually tittering herself down to a pause, to fill which she put forth: "right nice weather we be'n havin'." "yes," said ariel. "it was rainy, first of last week, though. _i_ don't mind rain so much"--this with more laughter,--"i stay in the house when it rains. some people don't know enough to, they say! you've heard that saying, ain't you, miss tabor?" "yes." "well, i tell you," she exclaimed, noisily, "there's plenty ladies and gen'lemen in this town that's like that!" her laughter did not cease; it became louder and shriller. it had been, until now, a mere lubrication of the conversation, helping to make her easier in miss tabor's presence, but as it increased in shrillness, she seemed to be losing control of herself, as if her laughter were getting away with her; she was not far from hysteria, when it stopped with a gasp, and she sat up straight in her chair, white and rigid. "there!" she said, listening intently. "ain't that him?" steps sounded upon the pavement below; paused for a second at the foot of the stairs; there was the snap of a match; then the steps sounded again, retreating. she sank back in her chair limply. "it was only some one stoppin' to light his cigar in the entry. it wasn't joe louden's step, anyway." "you know his step?" ariel's eyes were bent upon the woman wonderingly. "i'd know it to-night," was the answer, delivered with a sharp and painful giggle. "i got plenty reason to!" ariel did not respond. she leaned a little closer to the roses upon the desk, letting them touch her face, and breathing deeply of their fragrance to neutralize a perfume which pervaded the room; an odor as heavy and cheap-sweet as the face of the woman who had saturated her handkerchief with it, a scent which went with her perfectly and made her unhappily definite; suited to her clumsily dyed hair, to her soiled white shoes, to the hot red hat smothered in plumage, to the restless stub-fingered hands, to the fat, plated rings, of which she wore a great quantity, though, surprisingly enough, the large diamonds in her ears were pure, and of a very clear water. it was she who broke the silence once more. "well," she drawled, coughing genteelly at the same time, "better late than never, as the saying is. i wonder who it is gits up all them comical sayings?" apparently she had no genuine desire for light upon this mystery, as she continued, immediately: "i have a gen'leman friend that's always gittin' 'em off. 'well,' he says, 'the best of friends must part,' and, 'thou strikest me to the heart'--all kinds of cracks like that. he's real comical. and yet," she went on in an altered voice, "i don't like him much. i'd be glad if i'd never seen him." the change of tone was so marked that ariel looked at her keenly, to find herself surprised into pitying this strange client of joe's; for tears had sprung to the woman's eyes and slid along the lids, where she tried vainly to restrain them. her face had altered too, like her voice, haggard lines suddenly appearing about the eyes and mouth as if they had just been pencilled there: the truth issuing from beneath her pinchbeck simulations, like a tragic mask revealed by the displacement of a tawdry covering. "i expect you think i'm real foolish," she said, "but i be'n waitin' so awful long--and i got a good deal of worry on my mind till i see mr. louden." "i am sorry," ariel turned from the roses, and faced her and the heavy perfume. "i hope he will come soon." "i hope so," said the other. "it's something to do with me that keeps him away, and the longer he is the more it scares me." she shivered and set her teeth together. "it's kind of hard, waitin'. i cert'nly got my share of troubles." "don't you think that mr. louden will be able to take care of them for you?" "oh, i hope so, miss tabor! if he can't, nobody can." she was crying openly now, wiping her eyes with her musk-soaked handkerchief. "we had to send fer him yesterday afternoon--" "to come to beaver beach, do you mean?" asked ariel, leaning forward. "yes, ma'am. it all begun out there,--least-ways it begun before that with me. it was all my fault. i deserve all that's comin' to me, i guess. i done wrong--i done wrong! i'd oughtn't never to of went out there yesterday." she checked herself sharply, but, after a moment's pause, continued, encouraged by the grave kindliness of the delicate face in the shadow of the wide white hat. "i'd oughtn't to of went," she repeated. "oh, i reckon i'll never, never learn enough to keep out o' trouble, even when i see it comin'! but that gentleman friend of mine--mr. nashville cory's his name--he kind o' coaxed me into it, and he's right comical when he's with ladies, and he's good company--and he says, 'claudine, we'll dance the light fantastic,' he says, and i kind o' wanted something cheerful--i'd be'n workin' steady quite a spell, and it looked like he wanted to show me a good time, so i went, and that's what started it." now that she had begun, she babbled on with her story, at times incoherently; full of excuses, made to herself more than to ariel, pitifully endeavoring to convince herself that the responsibility for the muddle she had made was not hers. "mr. cory told me my husband was drinkin' and wouldn't know about it, and, 'besides,' he says, 'what's the odds?' of course i knowed there was trouble between him and mr. fear--that's my husband--a good while ago, when mr. fear up and laid him out. that was before me and mr. fear got married; i hadn't even be'n to canaan then; i was on the stage. i was on the stage quite a while in chicago before i got acquainted with my husband." "you were on the stage?" ariel exclaimed, involuntarily. "yes, ma'am. livin' pitchers at goldberg's rat'skeller, and amunchoor nights i nearly always done a sketch with a gen'leman friend. that's the way i met mr. fear; he seemed to be real struck with me right away, and soon as i got through my turn he ast me to order whatever i wanted. he's always gen'lemanlike when he ain't had too much, and even then he vurry, vurry seldom acks rough unless he's jealous. that was the trouble yesterday. i never would of gone to the beach if i'd dreamed what was comin'! when we got there i saw mike--that's the gen'leman that runs the beach--lookin' at my company and me kind of anxious, and pretty soon he got me away from mr. cory and told me what's what. seems this cory only wanted me to go with him to make my husband mad, and he'd took good care that mr. fear heard i'd be there with him! and he'd be'n hangin' around me, every time he struck town, jest to make mr. fear mad--the fresh thing! you see he wanted to make my husband start something again, this mr. cory did, and he was fixed for it." "i don't understand," said ariel. "it's this way: if mr. fear attacted mr. cory, why, mr. cory could shoot him down and claim self-defence. you see, it would be easy for mr. cory, because mr fear nearly killed him when they had their first trouble, and that would give mr. cory a good excuse to shoot if mr. fear jest only pushed him. that's the way it is with the law. mr. cory could wipe out their old score and git off scot-free." "surely not!" "yes, ma'am, that's the way it would be. and when mike told me that mr. cory had got me out there jest to provoke my husband i went straight up to him and begun to give him a piece of my mind. i didn't talk loud, because i never was one to make a disturbance and start trouble the way some do; and right while i was talkin' we both see my husband pass the window. mr. cory give a kind of yelling laugh and put his arm round me jest as mr. fear come in the door. and then it all happened so quick that you could hardly tell what was goin' on. mr. fear, we found afterwards, had promised mr. louden that he wouldn't come out there, but he took too much--you could see that by the look of him--and fergot his promise; fergot everything but me and cory, i guess. "he come right up to us, where i was tryin' to git away from cory's arm--it was the left one he had around me, and the other behind his back--and neither of 'em said a word. cory kept on laughin' loud as he could, and mr. fear struck him in the mouth. he's little, but he can hit awful hard, and mr. cory let out a screech, and i see his gun go off--right in mr. fear's face, i thought, but it wasn't; it only scorched him. most of the other gen'lemen had run, but mike made a dive and managed to knock the gun to one side, jest barely in time. then mike and three or four others that come out from behind things separated 'em--both of 'em fightin' to git at each other. they locked mr. cory up in mike's room, and took mr. fear over to where they hitch the horses. then mike sent fer mr. louden to come out to talk to my husband and take care of him--he's the only one can do anything with him when he's like that--but before mr. louden could git there, mr. fear broke loose and run through a corn-field and got away; at least they couldn't find him. and mr. cory jumped through a window and slid down into one of mike's boats, so they'd both gone. when mr. louden come, he only stayed long enough to hear what had happened and started out to find happy--that's my husband. he's bound to keep them apart, but he hasn't found mr. fear yet or he'd be here." ariel had sunk back in her chair. "why should your husband hide?" she asked, in a low voice. "waitin' fer his chance at cory," the woman answered, huskily. "i expect he's afraid the cops are after him, too, on account of the trouble, and he doesn't want to git locked up till he's met cory again. they ain't after him, but he may not know it. they haven't heard of the trouble, i reckon, or they'd of run cory in. he's around town to-day, drinkin' heavy, and i guess he's lookin' fer mr. fear about as hard as mr. louden is." she rose to her feet, lifted her coarse hands, and dropped them despairingly. "oh, i'm scared!" she said. "mr. fear's be'n mighty good to me." a slow and tired footstep was heard upon the stairs, and joe's dog ran into the room droopingly, wagged his tail with no energy, and crept under the desk. mrs. fear wheeled toward the door and stood, rigid, her hands clenched tight, her whole body still, except her breast, which rose and fell with her tumultuous breathing. she could not wait till the laggard step reached the landing. "mr. louden!" she called, suddenly. joe's voice came from the stairway. "it's all right, claudine. it's all fixed up. don't worry." mrs. fear gave a thick cry of relief and sank back in her chair as joe entered the room. he came in shamblingly, with his hand over his eyes as if they were very tired and the light hurt them, so that, for a moment or two, he did not perceive the second visitor. then he let his hand fall, revealing a face very white and worn. "it's all right, claudine," he repeated. "it's all right." he was moving to lay his hat on the desk when his eye caught first the roses, then fell upon ariel, and he stopped stock-still with one arm outstretched, remaining for perhaps ten seconds in that attitude, while she, her lips parted, her eyes lustrous, returned his gaze with a look that was as inscrutable as it was kind. "yes," she said, as if in answer to a question, "i have come here twice to-day." she nodded slightly toward mrs. fear. "i can wait. i am very glad you bring good news." joe turned dazedly toward the other. "claudine," he said, "you've been telling miss tabor." "i cert'nly have!" mrs. fear's expression had cleared and her tone was cheerful. "i don't see no harm in that! i'm sure she's a good friend of yours, mr. louden." joe glanced at ariel with a faint, troubled smile, and turned again to mrs. fear. "i've had a long talk with happy." "i'm awful glad. is he ready to listen to reason? she asked, with a titter. "he's waiting for you." "where?" she rose quickly. "stop," said joe, sharply. "you must be very careful with him--" "don't you s'pose i'm goin' to be?" she interrupted, with a catch in her voice. "don't you s'pose i've had trouble enough?" "no," said joe, deliberately and impersonally, "i don't. unless you keep remembering to be careful all the time, you'll follow the first impulse you have, as you did yesterday, and your excuse will be that you never thought any harm would come of it. he's in a queer mood; but he will forgive you if you ask him--" "well, ain't that what i want to do!" she exclaimed. "i know, i know," he said, dropping into the desk-chair and passing his hand over his eyes with a gesture of infinite weariness. "but you must be very careful. i hunted for him most of the night and all day. he was trying to keep out of my way because he didn't want me to find him until he had met this fellow nashville. happy is a hard man to come at when he doesn't care to be found, and he kept shifting from place to place until i ran him down. then i got him in a corner and told him that you hadn't meant any harm--which is always true of you, poor woman!--and i didn't leave him till he had promised me to forgive you if you would come and ask him. and you must keep him out of cory's way until i can arrange to have him--cory, i mean--sent out of town. will you?" "why, cert'nly," she answered, smiling. "that nashville's the vurry last person i ever want to see again--the fresh thing!" mrs. fear's burden had fallen; her relief was perfect and she beamed vapidly; but joe marked her renewed irresponsibility with an anxious eye. "you mustn't make any mistakes," he said, rising stiffly with fatigue. "not me! _i_ don't take no more chances," she responded, tittering happily. "not after yesterday. my! but it's a load off my shoulders! i do hate it to have gen'lemen quarrelling over me, especially mr. fear. i never did like to start anything; i like to see people laugh and be friendly, and i'm mighty glad it's all blown over. i kind o' thought it would, all along. psho!" she burst into genuine, noisy laughter. "i don't expect either of 'em meant no real harm to each other, after they got cooled off a little! if they'd met to-day, they'd probably both run! now, mr. louden, where's happy?" joe went to the door with her. he waited a moment, perplexed, then his brow cleared and he said in a low voice: "you know the alley beyond vent miller's pool-room? go down the alley till you come to the second gate. go in, and you'll see a basement door opening into a little room under miller's bar. the door won't be locked, and happy's in there waiting for you. but remember--" "oh, don't you worry," she cut him off, loudly. "i know him! inside of an hour i'll have him laughin' over all this. you'll see!" when she had gone, he stood upon the landing looking thoughtfully after her. "perhaps, after all, that is the best mood to let her meet him in," he murmured. then, with a deep breath, he turned. the heavy perfume had gone; the air was clear and sweet, and ariel was pressing her face into the roses again. as he saw how like them she was, he was shaken with a profound and mysterious sigh, like that which moves in the breast of one who listens in the dark to his dearest music. xv happy fear gives himself up "i know how tired you are," said ariel, as he came back into the room. "i shall not keep you long." "ah, please do!" he returned, quickly, beginning to fumble with the shade of a student-lamp at one end of the desk. "let me do that," she said. "sit down." he obeyed at once, and watched her as she lit the lamp, and, stretching upon tiptoe, turned out the gas. "no," she continued, seated again and looking across the desk at him, "i wanted to see you at the first possible opportunity, but what i have to say--" "wait," he interrupted. "let me tell you why i did not come yesterday." "you need not tell me. i know." she glanced at the chair which had been occupied by mrs. fear. "i knew last night that they had sent for you." "you did?" he exclaimed. "ah, i understand. sam warden must have told you." "yes," she said. "it was he; and i have been wondering ever since how he heard of it. he knew last night, but there was nothing in the papers this morning; and until i came here i heard no one else speak of it; yet canaan is not large." joe laughed. "it wouldn't seem strange if you lived with the canaan that i do. sam had been down-town during the afternoon and had met friends; the colored people are a good deal like a freemasonry, you know. a great many knew last night all about what had happened, and had their theories about what might happen to-day in case the two men met. still, you see, those who knew, also knew just what people not to tell. the tocsin is the only newspaper worth the name here; but even if the tocsin had known of the trouble, it wouldn't have been likely to mention it. that's a thing i don't understand." he frowned and rubbed the back of his head. "there's something underneath it. for more than a year the tocsin hasn't spoken of beaver beach. i'd like to know why." "joe," she said, slowly, "tell me something truly. a man said to me yesterday that he found life here insufferable. do you find it so?" "why, no!" he answered, surprised. "do you hate canaan?" "certainly not." "you don't find it dull, provincial, unsympathetic?" he laughed cheerily. "well, there's this," he explained: "i have an advantage over your friend. i see a more interesting side of things probably. the people i live among are pretty thorough cosmopolites in a way, and the life i lead--" "i think i begin to understand a little about the life you lead," she interrupted. "then you don't complain of canaan?" "of course not." she threw him a quick, bright, happy look, then glanced again at the chair in which mrs. fear had sat. "joe," she said, "last night i heard the people singing in the houses, the old sunday-evening way. it 'took me back so'!" "yes, it would. and something else: there's one hymn they sing more than any other; it's canaan's favorite. do you know what it is?" "is it 'rescue the perishing'?" "that's it. 'rescue the perishing'!" he cried, and repeating the words again, gave forth a peal of laughter so hearty that it brought tears to his eyes. "'rescue the perishing'!" at first she did not understand his laughter, but, after a moment, she did, and joined her own to it, though with a certain tremulousness. "it is funny, isn't it?" said joe, wiping the moisture from his eyes. then all trace of mirth left him. "is it really you, sitting here and laughing with me, ariel?" "it seems to be," she answered, in a low voice. "i'm not at all sure." "you didn't think, yesterday afternoon," he began, almost in a whisper,--"you didn't think that i had failed to come because i--" he grew very red, and shifted the sentence awkwardly: "i was afraid you might think that i was--that i didn't come because i might have been the same way again that i was when--when i met you at the station?" "oh no!" she answered, gently. "no. i knew better." "and do you know," he faltered, "that that is all over? that it can never happen again?" "yes, i know it," she returned, quickly. "then you know a little of what i owe you." "no, no," she protested. "yes," he said. "you've made that change in me already. it wasn't hard--it won't be--though it might have been if--if you hadn't come soon." "tell me something," she demanded. "if these people had not sent for you yesterday, would you have come to judge pike's house to see me? you said you would try." she laughed a little, and looked away from him. "i want to know if you would have come." there was a silence, and in spite of her averted glance she knew that he was looking at her steadily. finally, "don't you know?" he said. she shook her head and blushed faintly. "don't you know?" he repeated. she looked up and met his eyes, and thereupon both became very grave. "yes, i do," she answered. "you would have come. when you left me at the gate and went away, you were afraid. but you would have come." "yes,--i'd have come. you are right. i was afraid at first; but i knew," he went on, rapidly, "that you would have come to the gate to meet me." "you understood that?" she cried, her eyes sparkling and her face flushing happily. "yes. i knew that you wouldn't have asked me to come," he said, with a catch in his voice which was half chuckle, half groan, "if you hadn't meant to take care of me! and it came to me that you would know how to do it." she leaned back in her chair, and again they laughed together, but only for a moment, becoming serious and very quiet almost instantly. "i haven't thanked you for the roses," he said. "oh yes, you did. when you first looked at them!" "so i did," he whispered. "i'm glad you saw. to find them here took my breath away--and to find you with them--" "i brought them this morning, you know." "would you have come if you had not understood why i failed yesterday?" "oh yes, i think so," she returned, the fine edge of a smile upon her lips. "for a time last evening, before i heard what had happened, i thought you were too frightened a friend to bother about." he made a little ejaculation, partly joyful, partly sad. "and yet," she went on, "i think that i should have come this morning, after all, even if you had a poorer excuse for your absence, because, you see, i came on business." "you did?" "that's why i've come again. that makes it respectable for me to be here now, doesn't it?--for me to have come out alone after dark without their knowing it? i'm here as your client, joe." "why?" he asked. she did not answer at once, but picked up a pen from beneath her hand on the desk, and turning it, meditatively felt its point with her forefinger before she said slowly, "are most men careful of other people's--well, of other people's money?" "you mean martin pike?" he asked. "yes. i want you to take charge of everything i have for me." he bent a frowning regard upon the lamp-shade. "you ought to look after your own property," he said. "you surely have plenty of time." "you mean--you mean you won't help me?" she returned, with intentional pathos. "ariel!" he laughed, shortly, in answer; then asked, "what makes you think judge pike isn't trustworthy?" "nothing very definite perhaps, unless it was his look when i told him that i meant to ask you to take charge of things for me." "he's been rather hard pressed this year, i think," said joe. "you might be right--if he could have found a way. i hope he hasn't." "i'm afraid," she began, gayly, "that i know very little of my own affairs. he sent me a draft every three months, with receipts and other things to sign and return to him. i haven't the faintest notion of what i own--except the old house and some money from the income that i hadn't used and brought with me. judge pike has all the papers--everything." joe looked troubled. "and roger tabor, did he--" "the dear man!" she shook her head. "he was just the same. to him poor uncle jonas's money seemed to come from heaven through the hands of judge pike--" "and there's a handsome roundabout way!" said joe. "wasn't it!" she agreed, cheerfully. "and he trusted the judge absolutely. i don't, you see." he gave her a thoughtful look and nodded. "no, he isn't a good man," he said, "not even according to his lights; but i doubt if he could have managed to get away with anything of consequence after he became the administrator. he wouldn't have tried it, probably, unless he was more desperately pushed than i think he has been. it would have been too dangerous. suppose you wait a week or so and think it over." "but there's something i want you to do for me immediately, joe." "what's that?" "i want the old house put in order. i'm going to live there." "alone?" "i'm almost twenty-seven, and that's being enough of an old maid for me to risk canaan's thinking me eccentric, isn't it?" "it will think anything you do is all right." "and once," she cried, "it thought everything i did all wrong!" "yes. that's the difference." "you mean it will commend me because i'm thought rich?" "no, no," he said, meditatively, "it isn't that. it's because everybody will be in love with you." "quite everybody!" she asked. "certainly," he replied. "anybody who didn't would be absurd." "ah, joe!" she laughed. "you always were the nicest boy in the world, my dear!" at that he turned toward her with a sudden movement and his lips parted, but not to speak. she had rested one arm upon the desk, and her cheek upon her hand; the pen she had picked up, still absently held in her fingers, touching her lips; and it was given to him to know that he would always keep that pen, though he would never write with it again. the soft lamplight fell across the lower part of her face, leaving her eyes, which were lowered thoughtfully, in the shadow of her hat. the room was blotted out in darkness behind her. like the background of an antique portrait, the office, with its dusty corners and shelves and hideous safe, had vanished, leaving the charming and thoughtful face revealed against an even, spacious brownness. only ariel and the roses and the lamp were clear; and a strange, small pain moved from joe's heart to his throat, as he thought that this ugly office, always before so harsh and grim and lonely--loneliest for him when it had been most crowded,--was now transfigured into something very, very different from an office; that this place where he sat, with a lamp and flowers on a desk between him and a woman who called him "my dear," must be like--like something that people called "home." and then he leaned across the desk toward her, as he said again what he had said a little while before,--and his voice trembled: "ariel, it is you?" she looked at him and smiled. "you'll be here always, won't you? you're not going away from canaan again?" for a moment it seemed that she had not heard him. then her bright glance at him wavered and fell. she rose, turning slightly away from him, but not so far that he could not see the sudden agitation in her face. "ah!" he cried, rising too, "i don't want you to think i don't understand, or that i meant _i_ should ever ask you to stay here! i couldn't mean that; you know i couldn't, don't you? you know i understand that it's all just your beautiful friendliness, don't you?" "it isn't beautiful; it's just me, joe," she said. "it couldn't be any other way." "it's enough that you should be here now," he went on, bravely, his voice steady, though his hand shook. "nothing so wonderful as your staying could ever actually happen. it's just a light coming into a dark room and out again. one day, long ago--i never forgot it--some apple-blossoms blew by me as i passed an orchard; and it's like that, too. but, oh, my dear, when you go you'll leave a fragrance in my heart that will last!" she turned toward him, her face suffused with a rosy light. "you'd rather have died than have said that to me once," she cried. "i'm glad you're weak enough now to confess it!" he sank down again into his chair and his arms fell heavily on the desk. "confess it!" he cried, despairingly. "and you don't deny that you're going away again--so it's true! i wish i hadn't realized it so soon. i think i'd rather have tried to fool myself about it a little longer!" "joe," she cried, in a voice of great pain, "you mustn't feel like that! how do you know i'm going away again? why should i want the old house put in order unless i mean to stay? and if i went, you know that i could never change; you know how i've always cared for you--" "yes," he said, "i do know how. it was always the same and it always will be, won't it?" "i've shown that," she returned, quickly. "yes. you say i know how you've cared for me--and i do. i know how. it's just in one certain way--jonathan and david--" "isn't that a pretty good way, joe?" "never fear that i don't understand!" he got to his feet again and looked at her steadily. "thank you, joe." she wiped sudden tears from her eyes. "don't you be sorry for me," he said. "do you think that 'passing the love of women' isn't enough for me?" "no," she answered, humbly. "i'll have people at work on the old house to-morrow," he began. "and for the--" "i've kept you so long!" she interrupted, helped to a meek sort of gayety by his matter-of-fact tone. "good-night, joe." she gave him her hand. "i don't want you to come with me. it isn't very late and this is canaan." "i want to come with you, however," he said, picking up his hat. "you can't go alone." "but you are so tired, you--" she was interrupted. there were muffled, flying footsteps on the stairs, and a shabby little man ran furtively into the room, shut the door behind him, and set his back against it. his face was mottled like a colored map, thick lines of perspiration shining across the splotches. "joe," he panted, "i've got nashville good, and he's got me good, too;--i got to clear out. he's fixed me good, damn him! but he won't trouble nobody--" joe was across the room like a flying shadow. "quiet!" his voice rang like a shot, and on the instant his hand fell sharply across the speaker's mouth. "in there, happy!" he threw an arm across the little man's shoulders and swung him toward the door of the other room. happy fear looked up from beneath the down-bent brim of his black slouch hat; his eyes followed an imperious gesture toward ariel, gave her a brief, ghastly stare, and stumbled into the inner chamber. "wait!" joe said, cavalierly, to ariel. he went in quickly after mr. fear and closed the door. this was joseph louden, attorney-at-law; and to ariel it was like a new face seen in a flash-light--not at all the face of joe. the sense of his strangeness, his unfamiliarity in this electrical aspect, overcame her. she was possessed by astonishment: did she know him so well, after all? the strange client had burst in, shaken beyond belief with some passion unknown to her, but joe, alert, and masterful beyond denial, had controlled him instantly; had swept him into the other room as with a broom. could it be that joe sometimes did other things in the same sweeping fashion? she heard a match struck in the next room, and the voices of the two men: joe's, then the other's, the latter at first broken and protestive, but soon rising shrilly. she could hear only fragments. once she heard the client cry, almost scream: "by god! joe, i thought claudine had chased him around there to do me!" and, instantly, followed louden's voice: "steady, happy, steady!" the name "claudine" startled her; and although she had had no comprehension of the argot of happy fear, the sense of a mysterious catastrophe oppressed her; she was sure that something horrible had happened. she went to the window; touched the shade, which disappeared upward immediately, and lifted the sash. the front of a square building in the court-house square was bright with lights; and figures were passing in and out of the main street doors. she remembered that this was the jail. "claudine!" the voice of the husband of claudine was like the voice of one lamenting over jerusalem. "steady, happy, steady!" "but, joe, if they git me, what'll she do? she can't hold her job no longer--not after this...." the door opened, and the two men came out, joe with his hand on the other's shoulder. the splotches had gone from happy's face, leaving it an even, deathly white. he did not glance toward ariel; he gazed far beyond all that was about him; and suddenly she was aware of a great tragedy. the little man's chin trembled and he swallowed painfully; nevertheless he bore himself upright and dauntlessly as the two walked slowly to the door, like men taking part in some fateful ceremony. joe stopped upon the landing at the head of the stairs, but happy fear went on, clumping heavily down the steps. "it's all right, happy," said joe. "it's better for you to go alone. don't you worry. i'll see you through. it will be all right." "just as you say, joe," a breaking voice came back from the foot of the steps,--"just as you say!" the lawyer turned from the landing and went rapidly to the window beside ariel. together they watched the shabby little figure cross the street below; and she felt an infinite pathos gathering about it as it paused for a moment, hesitating, underneath the arc-lamp at the corner. they saw the white face lifted as happy fear gave one last look about him; then he set his shoulders sturdily, and steadfastly entered the door of the jail. joe took a deep breath. "now we'll go," he said. "i must be quick." "what was it?" she asked, tremulously, as they reached the street. "can you tell me?" "nothing--just an old story." he had not offered her his arm, but walked on hurriedly, a pace ahead of her, though she came as rapidly as she could. she put her hand rather timidly on his sleeve, and without need of more words from her he understood her insistence. "that was the husband of the woman who told you her story," he said. "perhaps it would shock you less if i tell you now than if you heard it to-morrow, as you will. he's just shot the other man." "killed him!" she gasped. "yes," he answered. "he wanted to run away, but i wouldn't let him. he has my word that i'll clear him, and i made him give himself up." xvi the two canaans when joe left ariel at judge pike's gate she lingered there, her elbows upon the uppermost cross-bar, like a village girl at twilight, watching his thin figure vanish into the heavy shadow of the maples, then emerge momentarily, ghost-gray and rapid, at the lighted crossing down the street, to disappear again under the trees beyond, followed a second later by a brownish streak as the mongrel heeled after him. when they had passed the second corner she could no longer be certain of them, although the street was straight, with flat, draughtsmanlike western directness: both figures and joe's quick footsteps merging with the night. still she did not turn to go; did not alter her position, nor cease to gaze down the dim street. few lights shone; almost all the windows of the houses were darkened, and, save for the summer murmurs, the faint creak of upper branches, and the infinitesimal voices of insects in the grass, there was silence: the pleasant and somnolent hush, swathed in which that part of canaan crosses to the far side of the eleventh hour. but ariel, not soothed by this balm, sought beyond it, to see that unquiet canaan whither her old friend bent his steps and found his labor and his dwelling: that other canaan where peace did not fall comfortably with the coming of night; a place as alien in habit, in thought, and almost in speech as if it had been upon another continent. and yet--so strange is the duality of towns--it lay but a few blocks distant. here, about ariel, as she stood at the gate of the pike mansion, the houses of the good (secure of salvation and daily bread) were closed and quiet, as safely shut and sound asleep as the churches; but deeper in the town there was light and life and merry, evil industry,--screened, but strong to last until morning; there were haunts of haggard merriment in plenty: surreptitious chambers where roulette-wheels swam beneath dizzied eyes; ill-favored bars, reached by devious ways, where quavering voices offered song and were harshly checked; and through the burdened air of this canaan wandered heavy smells of musk like that upon happy fear's wife, who must now be so pale beneath her rouge. and above all this, and for all this, and because of all this, was that one resort to which joe now made his way; that haven whose lights burn all night long, whose doors are never closed, but are open from dawn until dawn--the jail. there, in that desolate refuge, lay happy fear, surrendered sturdily by himself at joe's word. the picture of the little man was clear and fresh in ariel's eyes, and though she had seen him when he was newly come from a thing so terrible that she could not realize it as a fact, she felt only an overwhelming pity for him. she was not even horror-stricken, though she had shuddered. the pathos of the shabby little figure crossing the street toward the lighted doors had touched her. something about him had appealed to her, for he had not seemed wicked; his face was not cruel, though it was desperate. perhaps it was partly his very desperation which had moved her. she had understood joe, when he told her, that this man was his friend; and comprehended his great fear when he said: "i've got to clear him! i promised him." over and over joe had reiterated: "i've got to save him! i've got to!" she had answered gently, "yes, joe," hurrying to keep up with him. "he's a good man," he said. "i've known few better, given his chances. and none of this would have happened except for his old-time friendship for me. it was his loyalty--oh, the rarest and absurdest loyalty!--that made the first trouble between him and the man he shot. i've got to clear him!" "will it be hard?" "they may make it so. i can only see part of it surely. when his wife left the office, she met cory on the street. you saw what a pitiful kind of fool she was, irresponsible and helpless and feather-brained. there are thousands of women like that everywhere--some of them are 'court beauties,' i dare say--and they always mix things up; but they are most dangerous when they're like claudine, because then they live among men of action like cory and fear. cory was artful: he spent the day about town telling people that he had always liked happy; that his ill feeling of yesterday was all gone; he wanted to find him and shake his hand, bury past troubles and be friends. i think he told claudine the same thing when they met, and convinced the tiny brainlet of his sincerity. cory was a man who 'had a way with him,' and i can see claudine flattered at the idea of being peace-maker between 'two such nice gen'lemen as mr. cory and mr. fear.' her commonest asseveration--quite genuine, too--is that she doesn't like to have the gen'lemen making trouble about her! so the poor imbecile led him to where her husband was waiting. all that happy knew of this was in her cry afterwards. he was sitting alone, when cory threw open the door and said, 'i've got you this time, happy!' his pistol was raised but never fired. he waited too long, meaning to establish his case of 'self-defence,' and fear is the quickest man i know. cory fell just inside the door. claudine stumbled upon him as she came running after him, crying out to her husband that she 'never meant no trouble,' that cory had sworn to her that he only wanted to shake hands and 'make up.' other people heard the shot and broke into the room, but they did not try to stop fear; he warned them off and walked out without hindrance, and came to me. i've got to clear him." ariel knew what he meant: she realized the actual thing as it was, and, though possessed by a strange feeling that it must all be medieval and not possibly of to-day, understood that he would have to fight to keep his friend from being killed; that the unhappy creature who had run into the office out of the dark stood in high danger of having his neck broken, unless joe could help him. he made it clear to her that the state would kill happy if it could; that it would be a point of pride with certain deliberate men holding office to take the life of the little man; that if they did secure his death it would be set down to their efficiency, and was even competent as campaign material. "i wish to point out," joe had heard a candidate for re-election vehemently orate, "that in addition to the other successful convictions i have named, i and my assistants have achieved the sending of three men to the gallows during my term of office!" "i can't tell yet," said joe, at parting. "it may be hard. i'm so sorry you saw all this. i--" "oh no!" she cried. "i want to understand!" she was still there, at the gate, her elbows resting upon the cross-bar, when, a long time after joe had gone, there came from the alley behind the big back yard the minor chordings of a quartette of those dark strollers who never seem to go to bed, who play by night and playfully pretend to work by day: "you know my soul is a-full o' them-a-trub-bils, ev-ry mawn! i cain' a-walk withouten i stum-bils! then le'ss go on-- keep walkin' on! these times is sow'owful, an' i am pow'owful sick an' fo'lawn!" she heard a step upon the path behind her, and, turning, saw a white-wrapped figure coming toward her. "mamie?" she called. "hush!" mamie lifted a warning hand. "the windows are open," she whispered. "they might hear you!" "why haven't you gone to bed?" "oh, don't you see?" mamie answered, in deep distress,--"i've been sitting up for you. we all thought you were writing letters in your room, but after papa and mamma had gone to bed i went in to tell you good night, and you weren't there, nor anywhere else; so i knew you must have gone out. i've been sitting by the front window, waiting to let you in, but i went to sleep until a little while ago, when the telephone-bell rang and he got up and answered it. he kept talking a long time; it was something about the tocsin, and i'm afraid there's been a murder down-town. when he went back to bed i fell asleep again, and then those darkies woke me up. how on earth did you expect to get in? don't you know he always locks up the house?" "i could have rung," said ariel. "oh--oh!" gasped miss pike; and, after she had recovered somewhat, asked: "do you mind telling me where you've been? i won't tell him--nor mamma, either. i think, after all, i was wrong yesterday to follow eugene's advice. he meant for the best, but i--" "don't think that. you weren't wrong." ariel put her arm round the other's waist. "i went to talk over some things with mr. louden." "i think," whispered mamie, trembling, "that you are the bravest girl i ever knew--and--and--i could almost believe there's some good in him, since you like him so. i know there is. and i--i think he's had a hard time. i want you to know i won't even tell eugene!" "you can tell everybody in the world," said ariel, and kissed her. xvii mr. sheehan's hints "never," said the tocsin on the morrow, "has this community been stirred to deeper indignation than by the cold-blooded and unmitigated brutality of the deliberate murder committed almost under the very shadow of the court-house cupola last night. the victim was not a man of good repute, it is true, but at the moment of his death he was in the act of performing a noble and generous action which showed that he might have become, if he lived, a good and law-fearing citizen. in brief, he went to forgive his enemy and was stretching forth the hand of fellowship when that enemy shot him down. not half an hour before his death, cory had repeated within the hearing of a dozen men what he had been saying all day, as many can testify: 'i want to find my old friend fear and shake hands with him. i want to tell him that i forgive him and that i am ashamed of whatever has been my part in the trouble between us.' he went with that intention to his death. the wife of the murderer has confessed that this was the substance of what he said to her, and that she was convinced of his peaceful intentions. when they reached the room where her husband was waiting for her, cory entered first. the woman claims now that as they neared the vicinity he hastened forward at a pace which she could not equal. naturally, her testimony on all points favoring her husband is practically worthless. she followed and heard the murdered man speak, though what his words were she declares she does not know, and of course the murderer, after consultation with his lawyer, claims that their nature was threatening. such a statement, in determining the truth, is worse than valueless. it is known and readily proved that fear repeatedly threatened the deceased's life yesterday, and there is no question in the mind of any man, woman, or child, who reads these words, of the cold blooded nature of the crime. the slayer, who had formerly made a murderous attack upon his victim, lately quarrelled with him and uttered threats, as we have stated, upon his life. the dead man came to him with protestations of friendship and was struck down a corpse. it is understood that the defence will in desperation set up the theory of self-defence, based on an unsubstantiated claim that cory entered the room with a drawn pistol. no pistol was found in the room. the weapon with which the deed was accomplished was found upon the person of the murderer when he was seized by the police, one chamber discharged. another revolver was discovered upon the person of the woman, when she was arrested on the scene of the crime. this, upon being strictly interrogated, she said she had picked up from the floor in the confusion, thinking it was her husband's and hoping to conceal it. the chambers were full and undischarged, and we have heard it surmised that the defence means to claim that it was cory's. cory doubtless went on his errand of forgiveness unarmed, and beyond doubt the second weapon belonged to the woman herself, who has an unenviable record. "the point of it all is plainly this: here is an unquestionable murder in the first degree, and the people of this city and county are outraged and incensed that such a crime should have been committed in their law-abiding and respectable community. with whom does the fault lie? on whose head is this murder? not with the authorities, for they do not countenance crime. has it come to the pass that, counting on juggleries of the law, criminals believe that they may kill, maim, burn, and slay as they list without punishment? is this to be another instance of the law's delays and immunity for a hideous crime, compassed by a cunning and cynical trickster of legal technicalities? the people of canaan cry out for a speedy trial, speedy conviction, and speedy punishment of this cold-blooded and murderous monster. if he is not dealt with quickly according to his deserts, the climax is upon us and the limit of canaan's patience has been reached. "one last word, and we shall be glad to have its significance noted: j. louden, esq., has been retained for the defence! the murderer, before being apprehended by the authorities, went straight from the scene of his crime to place his retainer in his attorney's pocket! how long is this to last?" the tocsin was quoted on street corners that morning, in shop and store and office, wherever people talked of the cory murder; and that was everywhere, for the people of canaan and of the country roundabout talked of nothing else. women chattered of it in parlor and kitchen; men gathered in small groups on the street and shook their heads ominously over it; farmers, meeting on the road, halted their teams and loudly damned the little man in the canaan jail; milkmen lingered on back porches over their cans to agree with cooks that it was an awful thing, and that if ever any man deserved hanging, that there fear deserved it--his lawyer along with him! tipsy men hammered bars with fists and beer-glasses, inquiring if there was no rope to be had in the town; and joe louden, returning to his office from the little restaurant where he sometimes ate his breakfast, heard hisses following him along main street. a clerk, a fat-shouldered, blue-aproned, pimple-cheeked youth, stood in the open doors of a grocery, and as he passed, stared him in the face and said "yah!" with supreme disgust. joe stopped. "why?" he asked, mildly. the clerk put two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly in derision. "you'd ort to be run out o' town!" he exclaimed. "i believe," said joe, "that we have never met before." "go on, you shyster!" joe looked at him gravely. "my dear sir," he returned, "you speak to me with the familiarity of an old friend." the clerk did not recover so far as to be capable of repartee until joe had entered his own stairway. then, with a bitter sneer, he seized a bad potato from an open barrel and threw it at the mongrel, who had paused to examine the landscape. the missile failed, and respectability, after bestowing a slightly injured look upon the clerk, followed his master. in the office the red-bearded man sat waiting. not so red-bearded as of yore, however, was mr. sheehan, but grizzled and gray, and, this morning, gray of face, too, as he sat, perspiring and anxious, wiping a troubled brow with a black silk handkerchief. "here's the devil and all to pay at last, joe," he said, uneasily, on the other's entrance. "this is the worst i ever knew; and i hate to say it, but i doubt yer pullin' it off." "i've got to, mike." "i hope on my soul there's a chanst of it! i like the little man, joe." "so do i." "i know ye do, my boy. but here's this tocsin kickin' up the public sentiment; and if there ever was a follerin' sheep on earth, it's that same public sentiment!" "if it weren't for that"--joe flung himself heavily in a chair--"there'd not be so much trouble. it's a clear enough case." "but don't ye see," interrupted sheehan, "the tocsin's tried it and convicted him aforehand? and that if things keep goin' the way they've started to-day, the gran' jury's bound to indict him, and the trial jury to convict him? they wouldn't dare not to! what's more, they'll want to! and they'll rush the trial, summer or no summer, and--" "i know, i know." "i'll tell ye one thing," said the other, wiping his forehead with the black handkerchief, "and that's this, my boy: last night's business has just about put the cap on the beach fer me. i'm sick of it and i'm tired of it! i'm ready to quit, sir!" joe looked at him sharply. "don't you think my old notion of what might be done could be made to pay?" sheehan laughed. "whoo! you and yer hints, joe! how long past have ye come around me with 'em! 'i b'lieve ye c'd make more money, mike'--that's the way ye'd put it,--'if ye altered the beach a bit. make a little country-side restaurant of it,' ye'd say, 'and have good cookin', and keep the boys and girls from raisin' so much hell out there. soon ye'd have other people comin' beside the regular crowd. make a little garden on the shore, and let 'em eat at tables under trees an' grape-arbors--'" "well, why not?" asked joe. "haven't i been tellin' ye i'm thinkin' of it? it's only yer way of hintin' that's funny to me,--yer way of sayin' i'd make more money, because ye're afraid of preachin' at any of us: partly because ye know the little good it 'd be, and partly because ye have humor. well, i'm thinkin' ye'll git yer way. i'm willin' to go into the missionary business with ye!" "mike!" said joe, angrily, but he grew very red and failed to meet the other's eye, "i'm not--" "yes, ye are!" cried sheehan. "yes, sir! it's a thing ye prob'ly haven't had the nerve to say to yerself since a boy, but that's yer notion inside: ye're little better than a missionary! it took me a long while to understand what was drivin' ye, but i do now. and ye've gone the right way about it, because we know ye'll stand fer us when we're in trouble and fight fer us till we git a square deal, as ye're goin' to fight for happy now." joe looked deeply troubled. "never mind," he said, crossly, and with visible embarrassment. "you think you couldn't make more at the beach if you ran it on my plan?" "i'm game to try," said sheehan, slowly. "i'm too old to hold 'em down out there the way i yoosta could, and i'm sick of it--sick of it into the very bones of me!" he wiped his forehead. "where's claudine?" "held as a witness." "i'm not sorry fer her!" said the red-bearded man, emphatically. "women o' that kind are so light-headed it's a wonder they don't float. think of her pickin' up cory's gun from the floor and hidin' it in her clothes! took it fer granted it was happy's, and thought she'd help him by hidin' it! there's a hard point fer ye, joe: to prove the gun belonged to cory. there's nobody about here could swear to it. i couldn't myself, though i forced him to stick it back in his pocket yesterday. he was a wanderer, too; and ye'll have to send a keen one to trace him, i'm thinkin', to find where he got it, so's ye can show it in court." "i'm going myself. i've found out that he came here from denver." "and from where before that?" "i don't know, but i'll keep on travelling till i get what i want." "that's right, my boy," exclaimed the other, heartily, "it may be a long trip, but ye're all the little man has to depend on. did ye notice the tocsin didn't even give him the credit fer givin' himself up?" "yes," said joe. "it's part of their game." "did it strike ye now," mr. sheehan asked, earnestly, leaning forward in his chair,--"did it strike ye that the tocsin was aimin' more to do happy harm because of you than himself?" "yes." joe looked sadly out of the window. "i've thought that over, and it seemed possible that i might do happy more good by giving his case to some other lawyer." "no, sir!" exclaimed the proprietor of beaver beach, loudly. "they've begun their attack; they're bound to keep it up, and they'd manage to turn it to the discredit of both of ye. besides, happy wouldn't have no other lawyer; he'd ruther be hung with you fightin' fer him than be cleared by anybody else. i b'lieve it,--on my soul i do! but look here," he went on, leaning still farther forward; "i want to know if it struck ye that this morning the tocsin attacked ye in a way that was somehow vi'lenter than ever before?" "yes," replied joe, "because it was aimed to strike where it would most count." "it ain't only that," said the other, excitedly. "it ain't only that! i want ye to listen. now see here: the tocsin is pike, and the town is pike--i mean the town ye naturally belonged to. ain't it?" "in a way, i suppose--yes." "in a way!" echoed the other, scornfully. "ye know it is! even as a boy pike disliked ye and hated the kind of a boy ye was. ye wasn't respectable and he was! ye wasn't rich and he was! ye had a grin on yer face when ye'd meet him on the street." the red-bearded man broke off at a gesture from joe and exclaimed sharply: "don't deny it! _i_ know what ye was like! ye wasn't impudent, but ye looked at him as if ye saw through him. now listen and i'll lead ye somewhere! ye run with riffraff, naggers, and even"--mr. sheehan lifted a forefinger solemnly and shook it at his auditor--"and even with the irish! now i ask ye this: ye've had one part of canaan with ye from the start, my part, that is; but the other's against ye; that part's pike, and it's the rulin' part--" "yes, mike," said joe, wearily. "in the spirit of things. i know." "no, sir," cried the other. "that's the trouble: ye don't know. there's more in canaan than ye've understood. listen to this: why was the tocsin's attack harder this morning than ever before? on yer soul didn't it sound so bitter that it sounded desprit? now why? it looked to me as if it had started to ruin ye, this time fer good and all! why? what have ye had to do with martin pike lately? has the old wolf got to injure ye?" mr. sheehan's voice rose and his eyes gleamed under bushy brows. "think," he finished. "what's happened lately to make him bite so hard?" there were some faded roses on the desk, and as joe's haggard eyes fell upon them the answer came. "what makes you think judge pike isn't trustworthy?" he had asked ariel, and her reply had been: "nothing very definite, unless it was his look when i told him that i meant to ask you to take charge of things for me." he got slowly and amazedly to his feet. "you've got it!" he said. "ye see?" cried mike sheehan, slapping his thigh with a big hand. "on my soul i have the penetration! ye don't need to tell me one thing except this: i told ye i'd lead ye somewhere; haven't i kept me word?" "yes," said joe. "but i have the penetration!" exclaimed mr. sheehan. "should i miss my guess if i said that ye think pike may be scared ye'll stumble on his track in some queer performances? should i miss it?" "no," said joe. "you wouldn't miss it." "just one thing more." the red-bearded man rose, mopping the inner band of his straw hat. "in the matter of yer runnin' fer mayor, now--" joe, who had begun to pace up and down the room, made an impatient gesture. "pshaw!" he interrupted; but his friend stopped him with a hand laid on his arm. "don't be treatin' it as clean out of all possibility, joe louden. if ye do, it shows ye haven't sense to know that nobody can say what way the wind's blowin' week after next. all the boys want ye; louie farbach wants ye, and louie has a big say. who is it that doesn't want ye?" "canaan," said joe. "hold up! it's pike's canaan ye mean. if ye git the nomination, ye'd be elected, wouldn't ye?" "i couldn't be nominated." "i ain't claimin' ye'd git martin pike's vote," returned mr. sheehan, sharply, "though i don't say it's impossible. ye've got to beat him, that's all. ye've got to do to him what he's done to you, and what he's tryin' to do now worse than ever before. well--there may be ways to do it; and if he tempts me enough, i may fergit my troth and honor as a noble gentleman and help ye with a word ye'd never guess yerself." "you've hinted at such mysteries before, mike," joe smiled. "i'd be glad to know what you mean, if there's anything in them." "it may come to that," said the other, with some embarrassment. "it may come to that some day, if the old wolf presses me too hard in the matter o' tryin' to git the little man across the street hanged by the neck and yerself mobbed fer helpin' him! but to-day i'll say no more." "very well, mike." joe turned wearily to his desk. "i don't want you to break any promises." mr. sheehan had gone to the door, but he paused on the threshold, and wiped his forehead again. "and i don't want to break any," he said, "but if ever the time should come when i couldn't help it"--he lowered his voice to a hoarse but piercing whisper--"that will be the devourin' angel's day fer martin pike!" xviii in the heat of the day it was a morning of the warmest week of mid-july, and canaan lay inert and helpless beneath a broiling sun. the few people who moved about the streets went languidly, keeping close to the wall on the shady side; the women in thin white fabrics; the men, often coatless, carrying palm-leaf fans, and replacing collars with handkerchiefs. in the court-house yard the maple leaves, gray with blown dust and grown to great breadth, drooped heavily, depressing the long, motionless branches with their weight, so low that the four or five shabby idlers, upon the benches beneath, now and then flicked them sleepily with whittled sprigs. the doors and windows of the stores stood open, displaying limp wares of trade, but few tokens of life; the clerks hanging over dim counters as far as possible from the glare in front, gossiping fragmentarily, usually about the cory murder, and, anon, upon a subject suggested by the sight of an occasional pedestrian passing perspiring by with scrooged eyelids and purpling skin. from street and sidewalk, transparent hot waves swam up and danced themselves into nothing; while from the river bank, a half-mile away, came a sound hotter than even the locust's midsummer rasp: the drone of a planing-mill. a chance boy, lying prone in the grass of the court-house yard, was annoyed by the relentless chant and lifted his head to mock it: "awr-eer-awr-eer! shut up, can't you?" the effort was exhausting: he relapsed and suffered with increasing malice but in silence. abruptly there was a violent outbreak on the "national house" corner, as when a quiet farmhouse is startled by some one's inadvertently bringing down all the tin from a shelf in the pantry. the loafers on the benches turned hopefully, saw what it was, then closed their eyes, and slumped back into their former positions. the outbreak subsided as suddenly as it had arisen: colonel flitcroft pulled mr. arp down into his chair again, and it was all over. greater heat than that of these blazing days could not have kept one of the sages from attending the conclave now. for the battle was on in canaan: and here, upon the national house corner, under the shadow of the west wall, it waxed even keener. perhaps we may find full justification for calling what was happening a battle in so far as we restrict the figure to apply to this one spot; else where, in the canaan of the tocsin, the conflict was too one-sided. the tocsin had indeed tried the case of happy fear in advance, had convicted and condemned, and every day grew more bitter. nor was the urgent vigor of its attack without effect. sleepy as main street seemed in the heat, the town was incensed and roused to a tensity of feeling it had not known since the civil war, when, on occasion, it had set out to hang half a dozen "knights of the golden circle." joe had been hissed on the street many times since the inimical clerk had whistled at him. probably demonstrations of that sort would have continued had he remained in canaan; but for almost a month he had been absent and his office closed, its threshold gray with dust. there were people who believed that he had run away again, this time never to return; among those who held to this opinion being mrs. louden and her sister, joe's step-aunt. upon only one point was everybody agreed: that twelve men could not be found in the county who could be so far persuaded and befuddled by louden that they would dare to allow happy fear to escape. the women of canaan, incensed by the terrible circumstance of the case, as the tocsin colored it--a man shot down in the act of begging his enemy's forgiveness--clamored as loudly as the men: there was only the difference that the latter vociferated for the hanging of happy; their good ladies used the word "punishment." and yet, while the place rang with condemnation of the little man in the jail and his attorney, there were voices, here and there, uplifted on the other side. people existed, it astonishingly appeared, who liked happy fear. these were for the greater part obscure and even darkling in their lives, yet quite demonstrably human beings, able to smile, suffer, leap, run, and to entertain fancies; even to have, according to their degree, a certain rudimentary sense of right and wrong, in spite of which they strongly favored the prisoner's acquittal. precisely on that account, it was argued, an acquittal would outrage canaan and lay it open to untold danger: such people needed a lesson. the tocsin interviewed the town's great ones, printing their opinions of the heinousness of the crime and the character of the defendant's lawyer.... "the hon. p. j. parrott, who so ably represented this county in the legislature some fourteen years ago, could scarcely restrain himself when approached by a reporter as to his sentiments anent the repulsive deed. 'i should like to know how long canaan is going to put up with this sort of business,' were his words. 'i am a law-abiding citizen, and i have served faithfully, and with my full endeavor and ability, to enact the laws and statutes of my state, but there is a point in my patience, i would state, which lawbreakers and their lawyers may not safely pass. of what use are our most solemn enactments, i may even ask of what use is the legislature itself, chosen by the will of the people, if they are to ruthlessly be set aside by criminals and their shifty protectors? the blame should be put upon the lawyers who by tricks enable such rascals to escape the rigors of the carefully enacted laws, the fruits of the solon's labor, more than upon the criminals themselves. in this case, if there is any miscarriage of justice, i will say here and now that in my opinion the people of this county will be sorely tempted; and while i do not believe in lynch-law, yet if that should be the result it is my unalterable conviction that the vigilantes may well turn their attention to the lawyers--or lawyer--who bring about such miscarriage. i am sick of it.'" the tocsin did not print the interview it obtained from louie farbach--the same louie farbach who long ago had owned a beer-saloon with a little room behind the bar, where a shabby boy sometimes played dominoes and "seven-up" with loafers: not quite the same louie farbach, however, in outward circumstance: for he was now the brewer of farbach beer and making canaan famous. his rise had been teutonic and sure; and he contributed one-twentieth of his income to the german orphan asylum and one-tenth to his party's campaign fund. the twentieth saved the orphans from the county, while the tithe gave the county to his party. he occupied a kitchen chair, enjoying the society of some chickens in a wired enclosure behind the new italian villa he had erected in that part of canaan where he would be most uncomfortable, and he looked woodenly at the reporter when the latter put his question. "hef you any aguaintunce off mitster fear?" he inquired, in return, with no expression decipherable either upon his gargantuan face or in his heavily enfolded eyes. "no, sir," replied the reporter, grinning. "i never ran across him." "dot iss a goot t'ing fer you," said mr. farbach, stonily. "he iss not a man peobles bedder try to run across. it iss what gory tried. now gory iss dead." the reporter, slightly puzzled, lit a cigarette. "see here, mr. farbach," he urged, "i only want a word or two about this thing; and you might give me a brief expression concerning that man louden besides: just a hint of what you think of his influence here, you know, and of the kind of sharp work he practises. something like that." "i see," said the brewer, slowly. "happy fear i hef knowt for a goot many years. he iss a goot frient of mine." "what?" "choe louten iss a bedder one," continued mr. farbach, turning again to stare at his chickens. "git owit." "what?" "git owit," repeated the other, without passion, without anger, without any expression whatsoever. "git owit." the reporter's prejudice against the german nation dated from that moment. there were others, here and there, who were less self-contained than the brewer. a farm-hand struck a fellow laborer in the harvest-field for speaking ill of joe; and the unravelling of a strange street fight, one day, disclosed as its cause a like resentment, on the part of a blind broom-maker, engendered by a like offence. the broom-maker's companion, reading the tocsin as the two walked together, had begun the quarrel by remarking that happy fear ought to be hanged once for his own sake and twice more "to show up that shyster louden." warm words followed, leading to extremely material conflict, in which, in spite of his blindness, the broom-maker had so much the best of it that he was removed from the triumphant attitude he had assumed toward the person of his adversary, which was an admirable imitation of the dismounted st. george and the dragon, and conveyed to the jail. keenest investigation failed to reveal anything oblique in the man's record; to the astonishment of canaan, there was nothing against him. he was blind and moderately poor; but a respectable, hard-working artisan, and a pride to the church in which he was what has been called an "active worker." it was discovered that his sensitiveness to his companion's attack on joseph louden arose from the fact that joe had obtained the acquittal of an imbecile sister of the blind man, a two-thirds-witted woman who had been charged with bigamy. the tocsin made what it could of this, and so dexterously that the wrath of canaan was one farther jot increased against the shyster. ay, the town was hot, inside and out. let us consider the forum. was there ever before such a summer for the "national house" corner? how voices first thundered there, then cracked and piped, is not to be rendered in all the tales of the fathers. one who would make vivid the great doings must indeed "dip his brush in earthquake and eclipse"; even then he could but picture the credible, and must despair of this: the silence of eskew arp. not that eskew held his tongue, not that he was chary of speech--no! o tempora, o mores! no! but that he refused the subject in hand, that he eschewed expression upon it and resolutely drove the argument in other directions, that he achieved such superbly un-arplike inconsistency; and with such rich material for his sardonic humors, not at arm's length, not even so far as his finger-tips, but beneath his very palms, he rejected it: this was the impossible fact. eskew--there is no option but to declare--was no longer eskew. it is the truth; since the morning when ariel tabor came down from joe's office, leaving her offering of white roses in that dingy, dusty, shady place, eskew had not been himself. his comrades observed it somewhat in a physical difference, one of those alterations which may come upon men of his years suddenly, like a "sea change": his face was whiter, his walk slower, his voice filed thinner; he creaked louder when he rose or sat. old always, from his boyhood, he had, in the turn of a hand, become aged. but such things come and such things go: after eighty there are ups and downs; people fading away one week, bloom out pleasantly the next, and resiliency is not at all a patent belonging to youth alone. the material change in mr. arp might have been thought little worth remarking. what caused peter bradbury, squire buckalew, and the colonel to shake their heads secretly to one another and wonder if their good old friend's mind had not "begun to go" was something very different. to come straight down to it: he not only abstained from all argument upon the "cory murder" and the case of happy fear, refusing to discuss either in any terms or under any circumstances, but he also declined to speak of ariel tabor or of joseph louden; or of their affairs, singular or plural, masculine, feminine, or neuter, or in any declension. not a word, committal or non-committal. none! and his face, when he was silent, fell into sorrowful and troubled lines. at first they merely marvelled. then squire buckalew dared to tempt him. eskew's faded eyes showed a blue gleam, but he withstood, speaking of babylon to the disparagement of chicago. they sought to lead him into what he evidently would not, employing many devices; but the old man was wily and often carried them far afield by secret ways of his own. this hot morning he had done that thing: they were close upon him, pressing him hard, when he roused that outburst which had stirred the idlers on the benches in the court-house yard. squire buckalew (sidelong at the others but squarely at eskew) had volunteered the information that cory was a reformed priest. stung by the mystery of eskew's silence, the squire's imagination had become magically gymnastic; and if anything under heaven could have lifted the veil, this was the thing. mr. arp's reply may be reverenced. "i consider," he said, deliberately, "that james g. blaine's furrin policy was childish, and, what's more, i never thought much of him!" this outdefied ajax, and every trace of the matter in hand went to the four winds. eskew, like rome, was saved by a cackle, in which he joined, and a few moments later, as the bench loafers saw, was pulled down into his seat by the colonel. the voices of the fathers fell to the pitch of ordinary discourse; the drowsy town was quiet again; the whine of the planing-mill boring its way through the sizzling air to every wakening ear. far away, on a quiet street, it sounded faintly, like the hum of a bee across a creek, and was drowned in the noise of men at work on the old tabor house. it seemed the only busy place in canaan that day: the shade of the big beech-trees which surrounded it affording some shelter from the destroying sun to the dripping laborers who were sawing, hammering, painting, plumbing, papering, and ripping open old and new packing-boxes. there were many changes in the old house pleasantly in keeping with its simple character: airy enlargements now almost completed so that some of the rooms were already finished, and stood, furnished and immaculate, ready for tenancy. in that which had been roger tabor's studio sat ariel, alone. she had caused some chests and cases, stored there, to be opened, and had taken out of them a few of roger's canvases and set them along the wall. tears filled her eyes as she looked at them, seeing the tragedy of labor the old man had expended upon them; but she felt the recompense: hard, tight, literal as they were, he had had his moment of joy in each of them before he saw them coldly and knew the truth. and he had been given his years of paris at last: and had seen "how the other fellows did it." a heavy foot strode through the hall, coming abruptly to a halt in the doorway, and turning, she discovered martin pike, his big henry-the-eighth face flushed more with anger than with the heat. his hat was upon his head, and remained there, nor did he offer any token or word of greeting whatever, but demanded to know when the work upon the house had been begun. "the second morning after my return," she answered. "i want to know," he pursued, "why it was kept secret from me, and i want to know quick." "secret?" she echoed, with a wave of her hand to indicate the noise which the workmen were making. "upon whose authority was it begun?" "mine. who else could give it?" "look here," he said, advancing toward her, "don't you try to fool me! you haven't done all this by yourself. who hired these workmen?" remembering her first interview with him, she rose quickly before he could come near her. "mr. louden made most of the arrangements for me," she replied, quietly, "before he went away. he will take charge of everything when he returns. you haven't forgotten that i told you i intended to place my affairs in his hands?" he had started forward, but at this he stopped and stared at her inarticulately. "you remember?" she said, her hands resting negligently upon the back of the chair. "surely you remember?" she was not in the least afraid of him, but coolly watchful of him. this had been her habit with him since her return. she had seen little of him, except at table, when he was usually grimly laconic, though now and then she would hear him joking heavily with sam warden in the yard, or, with evidently humorous intent, groaning at mamie over eugene's health; but it had not escaped ariel that he was, on his part, watchful of herself, and upon his guard with a wariness in which she was sometimes surprised to believe that she saw an almost haggard apprehension. he did not answer her question, and it seemed to her, as she continued steadily to meet his hot eyes, that he was trying to hold himself under some measure of control; and a vain effort it proved. "you go back to my house!" he burst out, shouting hoarsely. "you get back there! you stay there!" "no," she said, moving between him and the door. "mamie and i are going for a drive." "you go back to my house!" he followed her, waving an arm fiercely at her. "don't you come around here trying to run over me! you talk about your 'affairs'! all you've got on earth is this two-for-a-nickel old shack over your head and a bushel-basket of distillery stock that you can sell by the pound for old paper!" he threw the words in her face, the bull-bass voice seamed and cracked with falsetto. "old paper, old rags, old iron, bottles, old clothes! you talk about your affairs! who are you? rothschild? you haven't got any affairs!" not a look, not a word, not a motion of his escaped her in all the fury of sound and gesture in which he seemed fairly to envelop himself; least of all did that shaking of his--the quivering of jaw and temple, the tumultuous agitation of his hands--evade her watchfulness. "when did you find this out?" she said, very quickly. "after you became administrator?" he struck the back of the chair she had vacated a vicious blow with his open hand. "no, you spendthrift! all there was to your grandfather when you buried him was a basket full of distillery stock, i tell you! old paper! can't you hear me? old paper, old rags--" "you have sent me the same income," she lifted her voice to interrupt; "you have made the same quarterly payments since his death that you made before. if you knew, why did you do that?" he had been shouting at her with the frantic and incredulous exasperation of an intolerant man utterly unused to opposition; his face empurpled, his forehead dripping, and his hands ruthlessly pounding the back of the chair; but this straight question stripped him suddenly of gesture and left him standing limp and still before her, pale splotches beginning to show on his hot cheeks. "if you knew, why did you do it?" she repeated. "you wrote me that my income was from dividends, and i knew and thought nothing about it; but if the stock which came to me was worthless, how could it pay dividends?" "it did not," he answered, huskily. "that distillery stock, i tell you, isn't worth the matches to burn it." "but there has been no difference in my income," she persisted, steadily. "why? can you explain that to me?" "yes, i can," he replied, and it seemed to her that he spoke with a pallid and bitter desperation, like a man driven to the wall. "i can if you think you want to know." "i do." "i sent it." "do you mean from you own--" "i mean it was my own money." she had not taken her eyes from his, which met hers straightly and angrily; and at this she leaned forward, gazing at him with profound scrutiny. "why did you send it?" she asked. "charity," he answered, after palpable hesitation. her eyes widened and she leaned back against the lintel of the door, staring at him incredulously. "charity!" she echoed, in a whisper. perhaps he mistook her amazement at his performance for dismay caused by the sense of her own position, for, as she seemed to weaken before him, the strength of his own habit of dominance came back to him. "charity, madam!" he broke out, shouting intolerably. "charity, d'ye hear? i was a friend of the man that made the money you and your grandfather squandered; i was a friend of jonas tabor, i say! that's why i was willing to support you for a year and over, rather than let a niece of his suffer." "'suffer'!" she cried. "'support'! you sent me a hundred thousand francs!" the white splotches which had mottled martin pike's face disappeared as if they had been suddenly splashed with hot red. "you go back to my house," he said. "what i sent you only shows the extent of my--" "effrontery!" the word rang through the whole house, so loudly and clearly did she strike it, rang in his ears till it stung like a castigation. it was ominous, portentous of justice and of disaster. there was more than doubt of him in it: there was conviction. he fell back from this word; and when he again advanced, ariel had left the house. she had turned the next corner before he came out of the gate; and as he passed his own home on his way down-town, he saw her white dress mingling with his daughter's near the horse-block beside the fire, where the two, with their arms about each other, stood waiting for sam warden and the open summer carriage. judge pike walked on, the white splotches reappearing like a pale rash upon his face. a yellow butterfly zigzagged before him, knee-high, across the sidewalk. he raised his foot and half kicked at it. xix eskew arp as the judge continued his walk down main street, he wished profoundly that the butterfly (which exhibited no annoyance) had been of greater bulk and more approachable; and it was the evil fortune of joe's mongrel to encounter him in the sinister humor of such a wish unfulfilled. respectability dwelt at beaver beach under the care of mr. sheehan until his master should return; and sheehan was kind; but the small dog found the world lonely and time long without joe. he had grown more and more restless, and at last, this hot morning, having managed to evade the eye of all concerned in his keeping, made off unobtrusively, partly by swimming, and reaching the road, cantered into town, his ears erect with anxiety. bent upon reaching the familiar office, he passed the grocery from the doorway of which the pimply cheeked clerk had thrown a bad potato at him a month before. the same clerk had just laid down the tocsin as respectability went by, and, inspired to great deeds in behalf of justice and his native city, he rushed to the door, lavishly seized, this time, a perfectly good potato, and hurled it with a result which ecstasized him, for it took the mongrel fairly aside the head, which it matched in size. the luckless respectability's purpose to reach joe's stairway had been entirely definite, but upon this violence he forgot it momentarily. it is not easy to keep things in mind when one is violently smitten on mouth, nose, cheek, eye, and ear by a missile large enough to strike them simultaneously. yelping and half blinded, he deflected to cross main street. judge pike had elected to cross in the opposite direction, and the two met in the middle of the street. the encounter was miraculously fitted to the judge's need: here was no butterfly, but a solid body, light withal, a wet, muddy, and dusty yellow dog, eminently kickable. the man was heavily built about the legs, and the vigor of what he did may have been additionally inspired by his recognition of the mongrel as joe louden's. the impact of his toe upon the little runner's side was momentous, and the latter rose into the air. the judge hopped, as one hops who, unshod in the night, discovers an unexpected chair. let us be reconciled to his pain and not reproach the gods with it,--for two of his unintending adversary's ribs were cracked. the dog, thus again deflected, retraced his tracks, shrieking distractedly, and, by one of those ironical twists which karma reserves for the tails of the fated, dived for blind safety into the store commanded by the ecstatic and inimical clerk. there were shouts; the sleepy square beginning to wake up: the boy who had mocked the planing-mill got to his feet, calling upon his fellows; the bench loafers strolled to the street; the aged men stirred and rose from their chairs; faces appeared in the open windows of offices; sales ladies and gentlemen came to the doorways of the trading-places; so that when respectability emerged from the grocery he had a notable audience for the scene he enacted with a brass dinner-bell tied to his tail. another potato, flung by the pimpled, uproarious, prodigal clerk, added to the impetus of his flight. a shower of pebbles from the hands of exhilarated boys dented the soft asphalt about him; the hideous clamor of the pursuing bell increased as he turned the next corner, running distractedly. the dead town had come to life, and its inhabitants gladly risked the dangerous heat in the interests of sport, whereby it was a merry chase the little dog led around the block, for thus some destructive instinct drove him; he could not stop with the unappeasable terror clanging at his heels and the increasing crowd yelling in pursuit; but he turned to the left at each corner, and thus came back to pass joe's stairway again, unable to pause there or anywhere, unable to do anything except to continue his hapless flight, poor meteor. round the block he went once more, and still no chance at that empty stairway where, perhaps, he thought, there might be succor and safety. blood was upon his side where martin pike's boot had crashed, foam and blood hung upon his jaws and lolling tongue. he ran desperately, keeping to the middle of the street, and, not howling, set himself despairingly to outstrip the terror. the mob, disdaining the sun superbly, pursued as closely as it could, throwing bricks and rocks at him, striking at him with clubs and sticks. happy fear, playing "tic-tac-toe," right hand against left, in his cell, heard the uproar, made out something of what was happening, and, though unaware that it was a friend whose life was sought, discovered a similarity to his own case, and prayed to his dim gods that the quarry might get away. "mad dog!" they yelled. "mad dog!" and there were some who cried, "joe louden's dog!" that being equally as exciting and explanatory. three times round, and still the little fugitive maintained a lead. a gray-helmeted policeman, a big fellow, had joined the pursuit. he had children at home who might be playing in the street, and the thought of what might happen to them if the mad dog should head that way resolved him to be cool and steady. he was falling behind, so he stopped on the corner, trusting that respectability would come round again. he was right, and the flying brownish thing streaked along main street, passing the beloved stairway for the fourth time. the policeman lifted his revolver, fired twice, missed once, but caught him with the second shot in a forepaw, clipping off a fifth toe, one of the small claws that grow above the foot and are always in trouble. this did not stop him; but the policeman, afraid to risk another shot because of the crowd, waited for him to come again; and many others, seeing the hopeless circuit the mongrel followed, did likewise, armed with bricks and clubs. among them was the pimply clerk, who had been inspired to commandeer a pitchfork from a hardware store. when the fifth round came, respectability's race was run. he turned into main street at a broken speed, limping, parched, voiceless, flecked with blood and foam, snapping feebly at the showering rocks, but still indomitably a little ahead of the hunt. there was no yelp left in him--he was too thoroughly winded for that,--but in his brilliant and despairing eyes shone the agony of a cry louder than the tongue of a dog could utter: "o master! o all the god i know! where are you in my mortal need?" now indeed he had a gauntlet to run; for the street was lined with those who awaited him, while the pursuit grew closer behind. a number of the hardiest stood squarely in his path, and he hesitated for a second, which gave the opportunity for a surer aim, and many missiles struck him. "let him have it now, officer," said eugene bantry, standing with judge pike at the policeman's elbow. "there's your chance." but before the revolver could be discharged, respectability had begun to run again, hobbling on three legs and dodging feebly. a heavy stone struck him on the shoulder and he turned across the street, making for the "national house" corner, where the joyful clerk brandished his pitchfork. going slowly, he almost touched the pimply one as he passed, and the clerk, already rehearsing in his mind the honors which should follow the brave stroke, raised the tines above the little dog's head for the coup de grace. they did not descend, and the daring youth failed of fame as the laurel almost embraced his brows. a hickory walking-stick was thrust between his legs; and he, expecting to strike, received a blow upon the temple sufficient for his present undoing and bedazzlement. he went over backwards, and the pitchfork (not the thing to hold poised on high when one is knocked down) fell with the force he had intended for respectability upon his own shin. a train had pulled into the station, and a tired, travel-worn young man, descending from a sleeper, walked rapidly up the street to learn the occasion of what appeared to be a riot. when he was close enough to understand its nature, he dropped his bag and came on at top speed, shouting loudly to the battered mongrel, who tried with his remaining strength to leap toward him through a cordon of kicking legs, while eugene bantry again called to the policeman to fire. "if he does, damn you, i'll kill him!" joe saw the revolver raised; and then, eugene being in his way, he ran full-tilt into his stepbrother with all his force, sending him to earth, and went on literally over him as he lay prone upon the asphalt, that being the shortest way to respectability. the next instant the mongrel was in his master's arms and weakly licking his hands. but it was eskew arp who had saved the little dog; for it was his stick which had tripped the clerk, and his hand which had struck him down. all his bodily strength had departed in that effort, but he staggered out into the street toward joe. "joe louden!" called the veteran, in a loud voice. "joe louden!" and suddenly reeled. the colonel and squire buckalew were making their way toward him, but joe, holding the dog to his breast with one arm, threw the other about eskew. "it's a town--it's a town"--the old fellow flung himself free from the supporting arm--"it's a town you couldn't even trust a yellow dog to!" he sank back upon joe's shoulder, speechless. an open carriage had driven through the crowd, the colored driver urged by two ladies upon the back seat, and martin pike saw it stop by the group in the middle of the street where joe stood, the wounded dog held to his breast by one arm, the old man, white and half fainting, supported by the other. martin pike saw this and more; he saw ariel tabor and his own daughter leaning from the carriage, the arms of both pityingly extended to joe louden and his two burdens, while the stunned and silly crowd stood round them staring, clouds of dust settling down upon them through the hot air. xx three are enlisted now in that blazing noon canaan looked upon a strange sight: an open carriage whirling through main street behind two galloping bays; upon the back seat a ghostly white old man with closed eyes, supported by two pale ladies, his head upon the shoulder of the taller; while beside the driver, a young man whose coat and hands were bloody, worked over the hurts of an injured dog. sam warden's whip sang across the horses; lather gathered on their flanks, and ariel's voice steadily urged on the pace: "quicker, sam, if you can." for there was little breath left in the body of eskew arp. mamie, almost as white as the old man, was silent; but she had not hesitated in her daring, now that she had been taught to dare; she had not come to be ariel's friend and honest follower for nothing; and it was mamie who had cried to joe to lift eskew into the carriage. "you must come too," she said. "we will need you." and so it came to pass that under the eyes of canaan joe louden rode in judge pike's carriage at the bidding of judge pike's daughter. toward ariel's own house they sped with the stricken octogenarian, for he was "alone in the world," and she would not take him to the cottage where he had lived for many years by himself, a bleak little house, a derelict of the "early days" left stranded far down in the town between a woollen-mill and the water-works. the workmen were beginning their dinners under the big trees, but as sam warden drew in the lathered horses at the gate, they set down their tin buckets hastily and ran to help joe lift the old man out. carefully they bore him into the house and laid him upon a bed in one of the finished rooms. he did not speak or move and the workmen uncovered their heads as they went out, but joe knew that they were mistaken. "it's all right, mr. arp," he said, as ariel knelt by the bed with water and restoratives. "it's all right. don't you worry." then the veteran's lips twitched, and though his eyes remained closed, joe saw that eskew understood, for he gasped, feebly: "pos-i-tive-ly--no--free--seats!" to mrs. louden, sewing at an up-stairs window, the sight of her stepson descending from judge pike's carriage was sufficiently startling, but when she saw mamie pike take respectability from his master's arms and carry him tenderly indoors, while joe and ariel occupied themselves with mr. arp, the good lady sprang to her feet as if she had been stung, regardlessly sending her work-basket and its contents scattering over the floor, and ran down the stairs three steps at a time. at the front door she met her husband, entering for his dinner, and she leaped at him. had he seen? what was it? what had happened? mr. louden rubbed his chin-beard, indulging himself in a pause which was like to prove fatal to his companion, finally vouchsafing the information that the doctor's buggy was just turning the corner; eskew arp had suffered a "stroke," it was said, and, in louden's opinion, was a mighty sick man. his spouse replied in no uncertain terms that she had seen quite that much for herself, urging him to continue, which he did with a deliberation that caused her to recall their wedding-day with a gust of passionate self-reproach. presently he managed to interrupt, reminding her that her dining-room windows commanded as comprehensive a view of the next house as did the front steps, and after a time her housewifely duty so far prevailed over her indignation at the man's unwholesome stolidity that she followed him down the hall to preside over the meal, not, however, to partake largely of it herself. mr. louden had no information of eugene's mishap, nor had mrs. louden any suspicion that all was not well with the young man, and, hearing him enter the front door, she called to him that his dinner was waiting. eugene, however, made no reply and went up-stairs to his own apartment without coming into the dining-room. a small crowd, neighboring children, servants, and negroes, had gathered about ariel's gate, and mrs. louden watched the working-men disperse this assembly, gather up their tools, and depart; then mamie came out of the house, and, bowing sadly to three old men who were entering the gate as she left it, stepped into her carriage and drove away. the new-comers, colonel flitcroft, squire buckalew, and peter bradbury, glanced at the doctor's buggy, shook their heads at one another, and slowly went up to the porch, where joe met them. mrs. louden uttered a sharp exclamation, for the colonel shook hands with her stepson. perhaps flitcroft himself was surprised; he had offered his hand almost unconsciously, and the greeting was embarrassed and perfunctory; but his two companions, each in turn, gravely followed his lead, and joe's set face flushed a little. it was the first time in many years that men of their kind in canaan had offered him this salutation. "he wouldn't let me send for you," he told them. "he said he knew you'd be here soon without that." and he led the way to eskew's bedside. joe and the doctor had undressed the old man, and had put him into night-gear of roger tabor's, taken from an antique chest; it was soft and yellow and much more like color than the face above it, for the white hair on the pillow was not whiter than that. yet there was a strange youthfulness in the eyes of eskew; an eerie, inexplicable, luminous, live look; the thin cheeks seemed fuller than they had been for years; and though the heavier lines of age and sorrow could be seen, they appeared to have been half erased. he lay not in sunshine, but in clear light; the windows were open, the curtains restrained, for he had asked them not to darken the room. the doctor was whispering in a doctor's way to ariel at the end of the room opposite the bed, when the three old fellows came in. none of them spoke immediately, and though all three cleared their throats with what they meant for casual cheerfulness, to indicate that the situation was not at all extraordinary or depressing, it was to be seen that the colonel's chin trembled under his mustache, and his comrades showed similar small and unwilling signs of emotion. eskew spoke first. "well, boys?" he said, and smiled. that seemed to make it more difficult for the others; the three white heads bent silently over the fourth upon the pillow; and ariel saw waveringly, for her eyes suddenly filled, that the colonel laid his unsteady hand upon eskew's, which was outside the coverlet. "it's--it's not," said the old soldier, gently--"it's not on--on both sides, is it, eskew?" mr. arp moved his hand slightly in answer. "it ain't paralysis," he said. "they call it 'shock and exhaustion'; but it's more than that. it's just my time. i've heard the call. we've all been slidin' on thin ice this long time--and it's broke under me--" "eskew, eskew!" remonstrated peter bradbury. "you'd oughtn't to talk that-a-way! you only kind of overdone a little--heat o' the day, too, and--" "peter," interrupted the sick man, with feeble asperity, "did you ever manage to fool me in your life?" "no, eskew." "well, you're not doin' it now!" two tears suddenly loosed themselves from squire buckalew's eyelids, despite his hard endeavor to wink them away, and he turned from the bed too late to conceal what had happened. "there ain't any call to feel bad," said eskew. "it might have happened any time--in the night, maybe--at my house--and all alone--but here's airie tabor brought me to her own home and takin' care of me. i couldn't ask any better way to go, could i?" "i don't know what we'll do," stammered the colonel, "if you--you talk about goin' away from us, eskew. we--we couldn't get along--" "well, sir, i'm almost kind of glad to think," mr. arp murmured, between short struggles for breath, "that it 'll be--quieter--on the--"national house" corner!" a moment later he called the doctor faintly and asked for a restorative. "there," he said, in a stronger voice and with a gleam of satisfaction in the vindication of his belief that he was dying. "i was almost gone then. _i_ know!" he lay panting for a moment, then spoke the name of joe louden. joe came quickly to the bedside. "i want you to shake hands with the colonel and peter and buckalew." "we did," answered the colonel, infinitely surprised and troubled. "we shook hands outside before we came in." "do it again," said eskew. "i want to see you." and joe, making shift to smile, was suddenly blinded, so that he could not see the wrinkled hands extended to him, and was fain to grope for them. "god knows why we didn't all take his hand long ago," said eskew arp. "i didn't because i was stubborn. i hated to admit that the argument was against me. i acknowledge it now before him and before you--and i want the word of it carried!" "it's all right, mr. arp," began joe, tremulously. "you mustn't--" "hark to me"--the old man's voice lifted higher: "if you'd ever whimpered, or give back-talk, or broke out the wrong way, it would of been different. but you never did. i've watched you and i know; and you've just gone your own way alone, with the town against you because you got a bad name as a boy, and once we'd given you that, everything you did or didn't do, we had to give you a blacker one. now it's time some one stood by you! airie tabor 'll do that with all her soul and body. she told me once i thought a good deal of you. she knew! but i want these three old friends of mine to do it, too. i was boys with them and they'll do it, i think. they've even stood up fer you against me, sometimes, but mostly fer the sake of the argument, i reckon; but now they must do it when there's more to stand against than just my talk. they saw it all to-day--the meanest thing i ever knew! i could of stood it all except that!" before they could prevent him he had struggled half upright in bed, lifting a clinched fist at the town beyond the windows. "but, by god! when they got so low down they tried to kill your dog--" he fell back, choking, in joe's arms, and the physician bent over him, but eskew was not gone, and ariel, upon the other side of the room, could hear him whispering again for the restorative. she brought it, and when he had taken it, went quickly out-of-doors to the side yard. she sat upon a workman's bench under the big trees, hidden from the street shrubbery, and breathing deeply of the shaded air, began to cry quietly. through the windows came the quavering voice of the old man, lifted again, insistent, a little querulous, but determined. responses sounded, intermittently, from the colonel, from peter, and from buckalew, and now and then a sorrowful, yet almost humorous, protest from joe; and so she made out that the veteran swore his three comrades to friendship with joseph louden, to lend him their countenance in all matters, to stand by him in weal and woe, to speak only good of him and defend him in the town of canaan. thus did eskew arp on the verge of parting this life render justice. the gate clicked, and ariel saw eugene approaching through the shrubbery. one of his hands was bandaged, a thin strip of court-plaster crossed his forehead from his left eyebrow to his hair, and his thin and agitated face showed several light scratches. "i saw you come out," he said. "i've been waiting to speak to you." "the doctor told us to let him have his way in whatever he might ask." ariel wiped her eyes. "i'm afraid that means--" "i didn't come to talk about eskew arp," interrupted eugene. "i'm not laboring under any anxiety about him. you needn't be afraid; he's too sour to accept his conge so readily." "please lower your voice," she said, rising quickly and moving away from him toward the house; but, as he followed, insisting sharply that he must speak with her, she walked out of ear-shot of the windows, and stopping, turned toward him. "very well," she said. "is it a message from mamie?" at this he faltered and hung fire. "have you been to see her?" she continued. "i am anxious to know if her goodness and bravery caused her any--any discomfort at home." "you may set your mind at rest about that," returned eugene. "i was there when the judge came home to dinner. i suppose you fear he may have been rough with her for taking my step-brother into the carriage. he was not. on the contrary, he spoke very quietly to her, and went on out toward the stables. but i haven't come to you to talk of judge pike, either!" "no," said ariel. "i don't care particularly to hear of him, but of mamie." "nor of her, either!" he broke out. "i want to talk of you!" there was not mistaking him; no possibility of misunderstanding the real passion that shook him, and her startled eyes betrayed her comprehension. "yes, i see you understand," he cried, bitterly. "that's because you've seen others the same way. god help me," he went on, striking his forehead with his open hand, "that young fool of a bradbury told me you refused him only yesterday! he was proud of even rejection from you! and there's norbert--and half a dozen others, perhaps, already, since you've been here." he flung out his arms in ludicrous, savage despair. "and here am i--" "ah yes," she cut him off, "it is of yourself that you want to speak, after all--not of me!" "look here," he vociferated; "are you going to marry that joe louden? i want to know whether you are or not. he gave me this--and this to-day!" he touched his bandaged hand and plastered forehead. "he ran into me--over me--for nothing, when i was not on my guard; struck me down--stamped on me--" she turned upon him, cheeks aflame, eyes sparkling and dry. "mr. bantry," she cried, "he did a good thing! and now i want you to go home. i want you to go home and try if you can discover anything in yourself that is worthy of mamie and of what she showed herself to be this morning! if you can, you will have found something that i could like!" she went rapidly toward the house, and he was senseless enough to follow, babbling: "what do you think i'm made of? you trample on me--as he did! i can't bear everything; i tell you--" but she lifted her hand with such imperious will that he stopped short. then, through the window of the sick-room came clearly the querulous voice: "i tell you it was; i heard him speak just now--out there in the yard, that no-account step-brother of joe's! what if he is a hired hand on the tocsin? he'd better give up his job and quit, than do what he's done to help make the town think hard of joe. and what is he? why, he's worse than cory. when that claudine fear first came here, 'gene bantry was hangin' around her himself. joe knew it and he'd never tell, but i will. i saw 'em buggy-ridin' out near beaver beach and she slapped his face fer him. it ought to be told!" "i didn't know that joe knew--that!" eugene stammered huskily. "it was--it was--a long time ago--" "if you understood joe," she said, in a low voice, "you would know that before these men leave this house, he will have their promise never to tell." his eyes fell miserably, then lifted again; but in her clear and unbearable gaze there shone such a flame of scorn as he could not endure to look upon. for the first time in his life he saw a true light upon himself, and though the vision was darkling, the revelation was complete. "heaven pity you!" she whispered. eugene found himself alone, and stumbled away, his glance not lifted. he passed his own home without looking up, and did not see his mother beckoning frantically from a window. she ran to the door and called him. he did not hear her, but went on toward the tocsin office with his head still bent. xxi norbert waits for joe there was meat for gossip a plenty in canaan that afternoon and evening; there were rumors that ran from kitchen to parlor, and rumors that ran from parlor to kitchen; speculations that detained housewives in talk across front gates; wonderings that held cooks in converse over shadeless back fences in spite of the heat; and canards that brought main street clerks running to the shop doors to stare up and down the sidewalks. out of the confusion of report, the judicious were able by evenfall to extract a fair history of this day of revolution. there remained no doubt that joe louden was in attendance at the death-bed of eskew arp, and somehow it came to be known that colonel flitcroft, squire buckalew, and peter bradbury had shaken hands with joe and declared themselves his friends. there were those (particularly among the relatives of the hoary trio) who expressed the opinion that the colonel and his comrades were too old to be responsible and a commission ought to sit on them; nevertheless, some echoes of eskew's last "argument" to the conclave had sounded in the town and were not wholly without effect. everywhere there was a nipping curiosity to learn how judge pike had "taken" the strange performance of his daughter, and the eager were much disappointed when it was truthfully reported that he had done and said very little. he had merely discharged both sam warden and sam's wife from his service, the mild manner of the dismissal almost unnerving mr. warden, although he was fully prepared for bird-shot; and the couple had found immediate employment in the service of ariel tabor. those who humanly felt the judge's behavior to be a trifle flat and unsensational were recompensed late in the afternoon when it became known that eugene bantry had resigned his position on the tocsin. his reason for severing his connection was dumfounding; he had written a formal letter to the judge and repeated the gist of it to his associates in the office and acquaintances upon the street. he declared that he no longer sympathized with the attitude of the tocsin toward his step-brother, and regretted that he had previously assisted in emphasizing the paper's hostility to joe, particularly in the matter of the approaching murder trial. this being the case, he felt that his effectiveness in the service of the paper had ceased, and he must, in justice to the owner, resign. "well, i'm damned!" was the simple comment of the elder louden when his step-son sought him out at the factory and repeated this statement to him. "so am i, i think," said eugene, wanly. "good-bye. i'm going now to see mother, but i'll be gone before you come home." "gone where?" "just away. i don't know where," eugene answered from the door. "i couldn't live here any longer. i--" "you've been drinking," said mr. louden, inspired. "you'd better not let mamie pike see you." eugene laughed desolately. "i don't mean to. i shall write to her. good-bye," he said, and was gone before mr. louden could restore enough order out of the chaos in his mind to stop him. thus mrs. louden's long wait at the window was tragically rewarded, and she became an unhappy actor in canaan's drama of that day. other ladies attended at other windows, or near their front doors, throughout the afternoon: the families of the three patriarchs awaiting their return, as the time drew on, with something akin to frenzy. mrs. flitcroft (a lady of temper), whose rheumatism confined her to a chair, had her grandson wheel her out upon the porch, and, as the dusk fell and she finally saw her husband coming at a laggard pace, leaning upon his cane, his chin sunk on his breast, she frankly told norbert that although she had lived with that man more than fifty-seven years, she would never be able to understand him. she repeated this with genuine symptoms of hysteria when she discovered that the colonel had not come straight from the tabor house, but had stopped two hours at peter bradbury's to "talk it over." one item of his recital, while sufficiently startling to his wife, had a remarkable effect upon his grandson. this was the information that ariel tabor's fortune no longer existed. "what's that?" cried norbert, starting to his feet. "what are you talking about?" "it's true," said the colonel, deliberately. "she told me so herself. eskew had dropped off into a sort of doze--more like a stupor, perhaps,--and we all went into roger's old studio, except louden and the doctor, and while we were there, talkin', one of pike's clerks came with a basket full of tin boxes and packages of papers and talked to miss tabor at the door and went away. then old peter blundered out and asked her point-blank what it was, and she said it was her estate, almost everything she had, except the house. buckalew, tryin' to make a joke, said he'd be willin' to swap his house and lot for the basket, and she laughed and told him she thought he'd be sorry; that all there was, to speak of, was a pile of distillery stock--" "what?" repeated norbert, incredulously. "yes. it was the truth," said the colonel, solemnly. "i saw it myself: blocks and blocks of stock in that distillery trust that went up higher'n a kite last year. roger had put all of jonas's good money--" "not into that!" shouted norbert, uncontrollably excited. "yes, he did. i tell you i saw it!" "i tell you he didn't. he owned granger gas, worth more to-day than it ever was! pike was roger's attorney-in-fact and bought it for him before the old man died. the check went through my hands. you don't think i'd forget as big a check as that, do you, even if it was more than a year ago? or how it was signed and who made out to? it was martin pike that got caught with distillery stock. he speculated once too often!" "no, you're wrong," persisted the colonel. "i tell you i saw it myself." "then you're blind," returned his grandson, disrespectfully; "you're blind or else--or else--" he paused, open-mouthed, a look of wonder struggling its way to expression upon him, gradually conquering every knobby outpost of his countenance. he struck his fat hands together. "where's joe louden?" he asked, sharply. "i want to see him. did you leave him at miss tabor's?" "he's goin' to sit up with eskew. what do you want of him?" "i should say you better ask that!" mrs. flitcroft began, shrilly. "it's enough, i guess, for one of this family to go runnin' after him and shakin' hands with him and heaven knows what not! norbert flitcroft!" but norbert jumped from the porch, ruthlessly crossed his grandmother's geranium-bed, and, making off at as sharp a pace as his architecture permitted, within ten minutes opened ariel's gate. sam warden came forward to meet him. "don't ring, please, suh," said sam. "dey sot me out heah to tell inquirin' frien's dat po' ole mist' arp mighty low." "i want to see mr. louden," returned norbert. "i want to see him immediately." "i don' reckon he kin come out yit," sam said, in a low tone. "but i kin go in an' ast 'em." he stepped softly within, leaving norbert waiting, and went to the door of the sick-room. the door was open, the room brightly lighted, as eskew had commanded when, a little earlier, he awoke. joe and ariel were alone with him, leaning toward him with such white anxiety that the colored man needed no warning to make him remain silent in the hallway. the veteran was speaking and his voice was very weak, seeming to come from a great distance. "it's mighty funny, but i feel like i used to when i was a little boy. i reckon i'm kind of scared--after all. airie tabor,--are you--here?" "yes, mr. arp." "i thought--so--but i--i don't see very well--lately. i--wanted--to--know--to know--" "yes--to know?" she knelt close beside him. "it's kind of--foolish," he whispered. "i just--wanted to know if you was still here. it--don't seem so lonesome now that i know." she put her arm lightly about him and he smiled and was silent for a time. then he struggled to rise upon his elbow, and they lifted him a little. "it's hard to breathe," gasped the old man. "i'm pretty near--the big road. joe louden--" "yes?" "you'd have been--willing--willing to change places with me--just now--when airie--" joe laid his hand on his, and eskew smiled again. "i thought so! and, joe--" "yes?" "you always--always had the--the best of that joke between us. do you--you suppose they charge admission--up there?" his eyes were lifted. "do you suppose you've got to--to show your good deeds to git in?" the answering whisper was almost as faint as the old man's. "no," panted eskew, "nobody knows. but i hope--i do hope--they'll have some free seats. it's a--mighty poor show--we'll--all have--if they--don't!" he sighed peacefully, his head grew heavier on joe's arm; and the young man set his hand gently upon the unseeing eyes. ariel did not rise from where she knelt, but looked up at him when, a little later, he lifted his hand. "yes," said joe, "you can cry now." xxii mr. sheehan speaks joe helped to carry what was mortal of eskew from ariel's house to its final abiding-place. with him, in that task, were buckalew, bradbury, the colonel, and the grandsons of the two latter, and mrs. louden drew in her skirts grimly as her step-son passed her in the mournful procession through the hall. her eyes were red with weeping (not for eskew), but not so red as those of mamie pike, who stood beside her. on the way to the cemetery, joe and ariel were together in a carriage with buckalew and the minister who had read the service, a dark, pleasant-eyed young man;--and the squire, after being almost overcome during the ceremony, experienced a natural reaction, talking cheerfully throughout the long drive. he recounted many anecdotes of eskew, chuckling over most of them, though filled with wonder by a coincidence which he and flitcroft had discovered; the colonel had recently been made the custodian of his old friend's will, and it had been opened the day before the funeral. eskew had left everything he possessed--with the regret that it was so little--to joe. "but the queer thing about it," said the squire, addressing himself to ariel, "was the date of it, the seventeenth of june. the colonel and i got to talkin' it over, out on his porch, last night, tryin' to rec'lect what was goin' on about then, and we figgered it out that it was the monday after you come back, the very day he got so upset when he saw you goin' up to louden's law-office with your roses." joe looked quickly at ariel. she did not meet his glance, but, turning instead to ladew, the clergyman, began, with a barely perceptible blush, to talk of something he had said in a sermon two weeks ago. the two fell into a thoughtful and amiable discussion, during which there stole into joe's heart a strange and unreasonable pain. the young minister had lived in canaan only a few months, and joe had never seen him until that morning; but he liked the short, honest talk he had made; liked his cadenceless voice and keen, dark face; and, recalling what he had heard martin pike vociferating in his brougham one sunday, perceived that ladew was the fellow who had "got to go" because his sermons did not please the judge. yet ariel remembered for more than a fortnight a passage from one of these sermons. and as joe looked at the manly and intelligent face opposite him, it did not seem strange that she should. he resolutely turned his eyes to the open window and saw that they had entered the cemetery, were near the green knoll where eskew was to lie beside a brother who had died long ago. he let the minister help ariel out, going quickly forward himself with buckalew; and then--after the little while that the restoration of dust to dust mercifully needs--he returned to the carriage only to get his hat. ariel and ladew and the squire were already seated and waiting. "aren't you going to ride home with us?" she asked, surprised. "no," he explained, not looking at her. "i have to talk with norbert flitcroft. i'm going back with him. good-bye." his excuse was the mere truth, his conversation with norbert, in the carriage which they managed to secure to themselves, continuing earnestly until joe spoke to the driver and alighted at a corner, near mr. farbach's italian possessions. "don't forget," he said, as he closed the carriage door, "i've got to have both ends of the string in my hands." "forget!" norbert looked at the cupola of the pike mansion, rising above the maples down the street. "it isn't likely i'll forget!" when joe entered the "louis quinze room" which some decorator, drunk with power, had mingled into the brewer's villa, he found the owner and mr. sheehan, with five other men, engaged in a meritorious attempt to tone down the apartment with smoke. two of the five others were prosperous owners of saloons; two were known to the public (whose notion of what it meant when it used the term was something of the vaguest) as politicians; the fifth was mr. farbach's closest friend, one who (joe had heard) was to be the next chairman of the city committee of the party. they were seated about a table, enveloped in blue clouds, and hushed to a grave and pertinent silence which clarified immediately the circumstance that whatever debate had preceded his arrival, it was now settled. their greeting of him, however, though exceedingly quiet, indicated a certain expectancy, as he accepted the chair which had been left for him at the head of the table. he looked thinner and paler than usual, which is saying a great deal; but presently, finding that the fateful hush which his entrance had broken was immediately resumed, a twinkle came into his eye, one of his eyebrows went up and a corner of his mouth went down. "well, gentlemen?" he said. the smokers continued to smoke and to do nothing else; the exception being mr. sheehan, who, though he spoke not, exhibited tokens of agitation and excitement which he curbed with difficulty; shifting about in his chair, gnawing his cigar, crossing and uncrossing his knees, rubbing and slapping his hands together, clearing his throat with violence, his eyes fixed all the while, as were those of his companions, upon mr. farbach; so that joe was given to perceive that it had been agreed that the brewer should be the spokesman. mr. farbach was deliberate, that was all, which added to the effect of what he finally did say. "choe," he remarked, placidly, "you are der next mayor off canaan." "why do you say that?" asked the young man, sharply. "bickoss us here," he answered, interlocking the tips of his fingers over his waistcoat, that being as near folding his hands as lay within his power,--"bickoss us here shall try to fix it so, und so hef ditcided." joe took a deep breath. "why do you want me?" "dot," replied the brewer, "iss someding i shall tell you." he paused to contemplate his cigar. "we want you bickoss you are der best man fer dot positsion." "louie, you mustn't make a mistake at the beginning," joe said, hurriedly. "i may not be the kind of man you're looking for. if i went in--" he hesitated, stammering. "it seems an ungrateful thing to say, but--but there wouldn't be any slackness--i couldn't be bound to anybody--" "holt up your hosses!" mr. farbach, once in his life, was so ready to reply that he was able to interrupt. "who hef you heert speak off bounding? hef i speakt off favors? dit i say der shoult be slackness in der city gofer'ment? litsen to me, choe." he renewed his contemplation of his cigar, then proceeded: "i hef been t'inkin' it ofer, now a couple years. i hef mate up my mind. if some peobles are gombelt to keep der laws and oders are not, dot's a great atwantitch to der oders. dot iss what iss ruining der gountry und der peobles iss commencement to take notice. efer'veres in oder towns der iss housecleaning; dey are reforming und indieding, und pooty soon dot mofement comes here--shoo-er! if we intent to holt der parsly in power, we shoult be a leetle ahead off dot mofement so, when it shoult be here, we hef a goot 'minadstration to fall beck on. now, dere iss anoder brewery opened und trying to gombete mit me here in canaan. if dot brewery owns der mayor, all der tsaloons buying my bier must shut up at 'leven o'glock und sundays, but der oders keep open. if i own der mayor, i make der same against dot oder brewery. now i am pooty sick off dot ways off bitsness und fighting all times. also," mr. farbach added, with magnificent calmness, "my trade iss larchly owitside off canaan, und it iss bedder dot here der laws shoult be enforced der same fer all. litsen, choe; all us here beliefs der same way. you are square. der whole tsaloon element knows dot, und knows dot all voult be treated der same. mit you it voult be fairness fer each one. foolish peobles hef sait you are a law-tricker, but we know dot you hef only mate der laws brotect as well as bunish. und at such times as dey het been broken, you hef made dem as mertsiful as you coult. you are no tricker. we are willing to help you make it a glean town. odervise der fightin' voult go on until der mofement strikes here und all der granks vake up und we git a fool reformer fer mayor und der town goes to der dogs. if i try to put in a man dot i own, der oder brewery iss goin' to fight like hell, but if i work fer you it will not fight so hart." "but the other people," joe objected, "those outside of what is called the saloon element--do you understand how many of them will be against me?" "it iss der tsaloon element," mr. farbach returned, peacefully, "dot does der fightin'." "and you have considered my standing with that part of canaan which considers itself the most respectable section?" he rose to his feet, standing straight and quiet, facing the table, upon which, it chanced, there lay a copy of the tocsin. "und yet," observed mr. farbach, with mildness, "we got some pooty risbecdable men right here." "except me," broke in mr. sheehan, grimly, "you have." "have you thought of this?" joe leaned forward and touched the paper upon the table. "we hef," replied mr. farbach. "all of us. you shall beat it." there was a strong chorus of confirmation from the others, and joe's eyes flashed. "have you considered," he continued, rapidly, while a warm color began to conquer his pallor,--"have you considered the powerful influence which will be against me, and more against me now, i should tell you, than ever before? that influence, i mean, which is striving so hard to discredit me that lynch-law has been hinted for poor fear if i should clear him! have you thought of that? have you thought--" "have we thought o' martin pike?" exclaimed mr. sheehan, springing to his feet, face aflame and beard bristling. "ay, we've thought o' martin pike, and our thinkin' of him is where he begins to git what's comin' to him! what d'ye stand there pickin' straws fer? what's the matter with ye?" he demanded, angrily, his violence tenfold increased by the long repression he had put upon himself during the brewer's deliberate utterances. "if louie farbach and his crowd says they're fer ye, i guess ye've got a chanst, haven't ye?" "wait," said joe. "i think you underestimate pike's influence--" "underestimate the devil!" shouted mr. sheehan, uncontrollably excited. "you talk about influence! he's been the worst influence this town's ever had--and his tracks covered up in the dark wherever he set his ugly foot down. these men know it, and you know some, but not the worst of it, because none of ye live as deep down in it as i do! ye want to make a clean town of it, ye want to make a little heaven of the beach--" "and in the eyes of judge pike," joe cut him off, "and of all who take their opinions from him, i represent beaver beach!" mike sheehan gave a wild shout. "whooroo! it's come! i knowed it would! the day i couldn't hold my tongue, though i passed my word i would when the coward showed the deed he didn't dare to git recorded! waugh!" he shouted again, with bitter laughter. "ye do! in the eyes o' them as follow martin pike ye stand fer the beach and all its wickedness, do ye? whooroo! it's come! ye're an offence in the eyes o' martin pike and all his kind because ye stand fer the beach, are ye?" "you know it!" joe answered, sharply. "if they could wipe the beach off the map and me with it--" "martin pike would?" shouted mr. sheehan, while the others, open-mouthed, stared at him. "martin pike would?" "i don't need to tell you that," said joe. mr. sheehan's big fist rose high over the table and descended crashing upon it. "it's a damn lie!" he roared. "martin pike owns beaver beach!" xxiii joe walks across the court-house yard from within the glossy old walnut bar that ran from wall to wall, the eyes of the lawyers and reporters wandered often to ariel as she sat in the packed court-room watching louden's fight for the life and liberty of happy fear. she had always three escorts, and though she did not miss a session, and the same three never failed to attend her, no whisper of scandal arose. but not upon them did the glances of the members of the bar and the journalists with tender frequency linger; nor were the younger members of these two professions all who gazed that way. joe had fought out the selection of the jury with the prosecutor at great length and with infinite pains; it was not a young jury, and it stared at her. the "court" wore a gray beard with which a flock of sparrows might have villaged a grove, and yet, in spite of the vital necessity for watchfulness over this fighting case, it once needed to be stirred from a trancelike gaze in miss tabor's direction and aroused to the realization that it was there to sit and not to dream. the august air was warm outside the windows, inviting to the open country, to swimmin'-hole, to orchard reveries, or shaded pool wherein to drop a meditative line; you would have thought no one could willingly coop himself in this hot room for three hours, twice a day, while lawyers wrangled, often unintelligibly, over the life of a dingy little creature like happy fear, yet the struggle to swelter there was almost like a riot, and the bailiffs were busy men. it was a fighting case throughout, fought to a finish on each tiny point as it came up, dragging, in the mere matter of time, interminably, yet the people of canaan (not only those who succeeded in penetrating to the court-room, but the others who hung about the corridors, or outside the building, and the great mass of stay-at-homes who read the story in the tocsin) found each moment of it enthralling enough. the state's attorney, fearful of losing so notorious a case, and not underestimating his opponent, had modestly summoned others to his aid; and the attorney for the defence, single-handed, faced "an array of legal talent such as seldom indeed had hollered at this bar"; faced it good-naturedly, an eyebrow crooked up and his head on one side, most of the time, yet faced it indomitably. he had a certain careless and disarming smile when he lost a point, which carried off the defeat as of only humorous account and not at all part of the serious business in hand; and in his treatment of witnesses, he was plausible, kindly, knowing that in this case he had no intending perjurer to entrap; brought into play the rare and delicate art of which he was a master, employing in his questions subtle suggestions and shadings of tone and manner, and avoiding words of debatable and dangerous meanings;--a fine craft, often attempted by blunderers to their own undoing, but which, practised by joseph louden, made inarticulate witnesses articulate to the precise effects which he desired. this he accomplished as much by the help of the continuous fire of objections from the other side as in spite of them. he was infinitely careful, asking never an ill-advised question for the other side to use to his hurt, and, though exhibiting only a pleasant easiness of manner, was electrically alert. a hundred things had shown ariel that the feeling of the place, influenced by "public sentiment" without, was subtly and profoundly hostile to joe and his client; she read this in the spectators, in the jury, even in the judge; but it seemed to her that day by day the inimical spirit gradually failed, inside the railing, and also in those spectators who, like herself, were enabled by special favor to be present throughout the trial, and that now and then a kindlier sentiment began to be manifested. she was unaware how strongly she contributed to effect this herself, not only through the glow of visible sympathy which radiated from her, but by a particular action. claudine was called by the state, and told as much of her story as the law permitted her to tell, interlarding her replies with fervent protestations (too quick to be prevented) that she "never meant to bring no trouble to mr. fear" and that she "did hate to have gen'lemen starting things on her account." when the defence took this perturbed witness, her interpolations became less frequent, and she described straightforwardly how she had found the pistol on the floor near the prostrate figure of cory, and hidden it in her own dress. the attorneys for the state listened with a somewhat cynical amusement to this portion of her testimony, believing it of no account, uncorroborated, and that if necessary the state could impeach the witness on the ground that it had been indispensable to produce her. she came down weeping from the stand; and, the next witness not being immediately called, the eyes of the jurymen naturally followed her as she passed to her seat, and they saw ariel tabor bow gravely to her across the railing. now, a thousand things not set forth by legislatures, law-men and judges affect a jury, and the slight salutation caused the members of this one to glance at one another; for it seemed to imply that the exquisite lady in white not only knew claudine, but knew that she had spoken the truth. it was after this, that a feeling favorable to the defence now and then noticeably manifested itself in the courtroom. still, when the evidence for the state was all in, the life of happy fear seemed to rest in a balance precarious indeed, and the little man, swallowing pitifully, looked at his attorney with the eyes of a sick dog. then joe gave the prosecutors an illuminating and stunning surprise, and, having offered in evidence the revolver found upon claudine, produced as his first witness a pawnbroker of denver, who identified the weapon as one he had sold to cory, whom he had known very well. the second witness, also a stranger, had been even more intimately acquainted with the dead man, and there began to be an uneasy comprehension of what joe had accomplished during that prolonged absence of his which had so nearly cost the life of the little mongrel, who was at present (most blissful respectability!) a lively convalescent in ariel's back yard. the second witness also identified the revolver, testifying that he had borrowed it from cory in st. louis to settle a question of marksmanship, and that on his returning it to the owner, the latter, then working his way eastward, had confided to him his intention of stopping in canaan for the purpose of exercising its melancholy functions upon a man who had once "done him good" in that city. by the time the witness had reached this point, the prosecutor and his assistants were on their feet, excitedly shouting objections, which were promptly overruled. taken unawares, they fought for time; thunder was loosed, forensic bellowings; everybody lost his temper--except joe; and the examination of the witness proceeded. cory, with that singular inspiration to confide in some one, which is the characteristic and the undoing of his kind, had outlined his plan of operations to the witness with perfect clarity. he would first attempt, so he had declared, to incite an attack upon himself by playing upon the jealousy of his victim, having already made a tentative effort in that direction. failing in this, he would fall back upon one of a dozen schemes (for he was ready in such matters, he bragged), the most likely of which would be to play the peacemaker; he would talk of his good intentions toward his enemy, speaking publicly of him in friendly and gentle ways; then, getting at him secretly, destroy him in such a fashion as to leave open for himself the kind gate of self-defence. in brief, here was the whole tally of what had actually occurred, with the exception of the last account in the sequence which had proved that demise for which cory had not arranged and it fell from the lips of a witness whom the prosecution had no means of impeaching. when he left the stand, unshaken and undiscredited, after a frantic cross-examination, joe, turning to resume his seat, let his hand fall lightly for a second upon his client's shoulder. that was the occasion of a demonstration which indicated a sentiment favorable to the defence (on the part of at least three of the spectators); and it was in the nature of such a hammering of canes upon the bare wooden floor as effectually stopped all other proceedings instantly. the indignant judge fixed the colonel, peter bradbury, and squire buckalew with his glittering eye, yet the hammering continued unabated; and the offenders surely would have been conducted forth in ignominy, had not gallantry prevailed, even in that formal place. the judge, reluctantly realizing that some latitude must be allowed to these aged enthusiasts, since they somehow seemed to belong to miss tabor, made his remarks general, with the time-worn threat to clear the room, whereupon the loyal survivors of eskew relapsed into unabashed silence. it was now, as joe had said, a clear-enough case. only the case itself, however, was clear, for, as he and his friends feared, the verdict might possibly be neither in accordance with the law, the facts, nor the convictions of the jury. eugene's defection had not altered the tone of the tocsin. all day long a crowd of men and boys hung about the corridors of the court-house, about the square and the neighboring streets, and from these rose sombre murmurs, more and more ominous. the public sentiment of a community like canaan can make itself felt inside a court-room; and it was strongly exerted against happy fear. the tocsin had always been a powerful agent; judge pike had increased its strength with a staff which was thoroughly efficient, alert, and always able to strike centre with the paper's readers; and in town and country it had absorbed the circulation of the other local journals, which resisted feebly at times, but in the matter of the cory murder had not dared to do anything except follow the tocsin's lead. the tocsin, having lit the fire, fed it--fed it saltpetre and sulphur--for now martin pike was fighting hard. the farmers and people of the less urban parts of the country were accustomed to found their opinions upon the tocsin. they regarded it as the single immutable rock of journalistic righteousness and wisdom in the world. consequently, stirred by the outbursts of the paper, they came into canaan in great numbers, and though the pressure from the town itself was so strong that only a few of them managed to crowd into the court-room, the others joined their voices to those sombre murmurs outdoors, which increased in loudness as the trial went on. the tocsin, however, was not having everything its own way; the volume of outcry against happy fear and his lawyer had diminished, it was noticed, in "very respectable quarters." the information imparted by mike sheehan to the politicians at mr. farbach's had been slowly seeping through the various social strata of the town, and though at first incredulously rejected, it began to find acceptance; upper main street cooling appreciably in its acceptance of the tocsin as the law and the prophets. there were even a few who dared to wonder in their hearts if there had not been a mistake about joe louden; and although mrs. flitcroft weakened not, the relatives of squire buckalew and of peter bradbury began to hold up their heads a little, after having made home horrible for those gentlemen and reproached them with their conversion as the last word of senile shame. in addition, the colonel's grandson and mr. bradbury's grandson had both mystifyingly lent countenance to joe, consorting with him openly; the former for his own purposes--the latter because he had cunningly discovered that it was a way to miss tabor's regard, which, since her gentle rejection of him, he had grown to believe (good youth!) might be the pleasantest thing that could ever come to him. in short, the question had begun to thrive: was it possible that eskew arp had not been insane, after all? the best of those who gathered ominously about the court-house and its purlieus were the young farmers and field-hands, artisans and clerks; one of the latter being a pimply faced young man (lately from the doctor's hands), who limped, and would limp for the rest of his life, he who, of all men, held the memory of eskew arp in least respect, and was burningly desirous to revenge himself upon the living. the worst were of that mystifying, embryonic, semi-rowdy type, the american voyou, in the production of which canaan and her sister towns everywhere over the country are prolific; the young man, youth, boy perhaps, creature of nameless age, whose clothes are like those of a brakeman out of work, but who is not a brakeman in or out of work; wearing the black, soft hat tilted forward to shelter--as a counter does the contempt of a clerk--that expression which the face does not dare wear quite in the open, asserting the possession of supreme capacity in wit, strength, dexterity, and amours; the dirty handkerchief under the collar; the short black coat always double-breasted; the eyelids sooty; one cheek always bulged; the forehead speckled; the lips cracked; horrible teeth; and the affectation of possessing secret information upon all matters of the universe; above all, the instinct of finding the shortest way to any scene of official interest to the policeman, fireman, or ambulance surgeon,--a singular being, not professionally criminal; tough histrionically rather than really; full of its own argot of brag; hysterical when crossed, timid through great ignorance, and therefore dangerous. it furnishes not the leaders but the mass of mobs; and it springs up at times of crisis from heaven knows where. you might have driven through all the streets of canaan, a week before the trial, and have seen four or five such fellows; but from the day of its beginning the square was full of them, dingy shuttlecocks batted up into view by the tocsin. they kept the air whirring with their noise. the news of that sitting which had caused the squire, flitcroft, and peter bradbury to risk the court's displeasure, was greeted outside with loud and vehement disfavor; and when, at noon, the jurymen were marshalled out to cross the yard to the "national house" for dinner, a large crowd followed and surrounded them, until they reached the doors of the hotel. "don't let lawyer louden bamboozle you!" "hang him!" "tar and feathers fer ye ef ye don't hang him!" these were the mildest threats, and joe louden, watching from an upper window of the court-house, observed with a troubled eye how certain of the jury shrank from the pressure of the throng, how the cheeks of others showed sudden pallor. sometimes "public sentiment" has done evil things to those who have not shared it; and joe knew how rare a thing is a jury which dares to stand square against a town like canaan aroused. the end of that afternoon's session saw another point marked for the defence; joe had put the defendant on the stand, and the little man had proved an excellent witness. during his life he had been many things--many things disreputable; high standards were not brightly illumined for him in the beginning of the night-march which his life had been. he had been a tramp, afterward a petty gambler; but his great motive had finally come to be the intention to do what joe told him to do: that, and to keep claudine as straight as he could. in a measure, these were the two things that had brought him to the pass in which he now stood, his loyalty to joe and his resentment of whatever tampered with claudine's straightness. he was submissive to the consequences: he was still loyal. and now joe asked him to tell "just what happened," and happy obeyed with crystal clearness. throughout the long, tricky cross-examination he continued to tell "just what happened" with a plaintive truthfulness not to be imitated, and throughout it joe guarded him from pitfalls (for lawyers in their search after truth are compelled by the exigencies of their profession to make pitfalls even for the honest), and gave him, by various devices, time to remember, though not to think, and made the words "come right" in his mouth. so that before the sitting was over, a disquieting rumor ran through the waiting crowd in the corridors, across the square, and over the town, that the case was surely going "louden's way." this was also the opinion of a looker-on in canaan--a ferret-faced counsellor of corporations who, called to consultation with the eminent buckalew (nephew of the squire), had afterward spent an hour in his company at the trial. "it's going that young fellow louden's way," said the stranger. "you say he's a shyster, but--" "well," admitted buckalew, with some reluctance, "i don't mean that exactly. i've got an old uncle who seems lately to think he's a great man." "i'll take your uncle's word for it," returned the other, smiling. "i think he'll go pretty far." they had come to the flight of steps which descended to the yard,--and the visitor, looking down upon the angry crowd, added, "if they don't kill him!" joe himself was anxious concerning no such matter. he shook hands with happy at the end of the sitting, bidding him be of good cheer, and, when the little man had marched away, under a strong guard, began to gather and sort his papers at a desk inside the bar. this took him perhaps five minutes, and when he had finished there were only three people left in the room: a clerk, a negro janitor with a broom, and the darky friend who always hopefully accompanies a colored man holding high public office. these two approvingly greeted the young lawyer, the janitor handing him a note from norbert flitcroft, and the friend mechanically "borrowing" a quarter from him as he opened the envelope. "i'll be roun' yo' way to git a box o' se-gahs," laughed the friend, "soon ez de campaign open up good. dey all goin' vote yo' way, down on the levee bank, but dey sho' expecks to git to smoke a little 'fo' leckshun-day! we knows who's ow frien'!" norbert's missive was lengthy and absorbing; joe went on his way, perusing it with profound attention; but as he descended the stairway to the floor below, a loud burst of angry shouting, outside the building, caused him to hasten toward the big front doors which faced main street. the doors opened upon an imposing vestibule, from which a handsome flight of stone steps, protected by a marble balustrade, led to the ground. standing at the top of these steps and leaning over the balustrade, he had a clear view of half the yard. no one was near him; everybody was running in the opposite direction, toward that corner of the yard occupied by the jail, the crowd centring upon an agitated whirlpool of men which moved slowly toward a door in the high wall that enclosed the building; and joe saw that happy fear's guards, conducting the prisoner back to his cell, were being jostled and rushed. the distance they had made was short, but as they reached the door the pressure upon them increased dangerously. clubs rose in the air, hats flew, the whirlpool heaved tumultuously, and the steel door clanged. happy fear was safe inside, but the jostlers were outside--baffled, ugly, and stirred with the passion that changes a crowd into a mob. then some of them caught sight of joe as he stood alone at the top of the steps, and a great shout of rage and exultation arose. for a moment or two he did not see his danger. at the clang of the door, his eyes, caught by the gleam of a wide white hat, had turned toward the street, and he was somewhat fixedly watching mr. ladew extricate ariel (and her aged and indignant escorts) from an overflow of the crowd in which they had been caught. but a voice warned him: the wild piping of a newsboy who had climbed into a tree near by. "joe louden!" he screamed. "look out!" with a muffled roar the crowd surged back from the jail and turned toward the steps. "tar and feather him!" "take him over to the river and throw him in!" "drown him!" "hang him!" then a thing happened which was dramatic enough in its inception, but almost ludicrous in its effect. joe walked quietly down the steps and toward the advancing mob with his head cocked to one side, one eyebrow lifted, and one corner of his mouth drawn down in a faintly distorted smile. he went straight toward the yelling forerunners, with only a small bundle of papers in his hands, and then--while the non-partisan spectators held their breath, expecting the shock of contact--straight on through them. a number of the bulge-cheeked formed the scattering van of these forerunners, charging with hoarse and cruel shrieks of triumph. the first, apparently about to tear joseph louden to pieces, changed countenance at arm's-length, swerved violently, and with the loud cry, "head him off!" dashed on up the stone steps. the man next behind him followed his lead, with the same shout, strategy, and haste; then the others of this advance attack, finding themselves confronting the quiet man, who kept his even pace and showed no intention of turning aside for them, turned suddenly aside for him, and, taking the cue from the first, pursued their way, bellowing: "head him off! head him off!" until there were a dozen and more rowdyish men and youths upon the steps, their eyes blazing with fury, menacing louden's back with frightful gestures across the marble balustrade, as they hysterically bleated the chorus, "head him off!" whether or not joe could have walked through the entire mob as he had walked through these is a matter for speculation; it was believed in canaan that he could. already a gust of mirth began to sweep over the sterner spirits as they paused to marvel no less at the disconcerting advance of the lawyer than at the spectacle presented by the intrepid dare-devils upon the steps; a kind of lane actually opening before the young man as he walked steadily on. and when mr. sheehan, leading half a dozen huge men from the farbach brewery, unceremoniously shouldered a way through the mob to joe's side, reaching him where the press was thickest, it is a question if the services of his detachment were needed. the laughter increased. it became voluminous. homeric salvos shook the air. and never one of the fire-eaters upon the steps lived long enough to live down the hateful cry of that day, "head him off!" which was to become a catch-word on the streets, a taunt more stinging than any devised by deliberate invention, an insult bitterer than the ancestral doubt, a fighting-word, and the great historical joke of canaan, never omitted in after-days when the tale was told how joe louden took that short walk across the court-house yard which made him mayor of canaan. xxiv martin pike keeps an engagement an hour later, martin pike, looking forth from the mansion, saw a man open the gate, and, passing between the unemotional deer, rapidly approach the house. he was a thin young fellow, very well dressed in dark gray, his hair prematurely somewhat silvered, his face prematurely somewhat lined, and his hat covered a scar such as might have been caused by a blow from a blunt instrument in the nature of a poker. he did not reach the door, nor was there necessity for him to ring, for, before he had set foot on the lowest step, the judge had hastened to meet him. not, however, with any fulsomely hospitable intent; his hand and arm were raised to execute one of his olympian gestures, of the kind which had obliterated the young man upon a certain by-gone morning. louden looked up calmly at the big figure towering above him. "it won't do, judge," he said; that was all, but there was a significance in his manner and a certainty in his voice which caused the uplifted hand to drop limply; while the look of apprehension which of late had grown more and more to be martin pike's habitual expression deepened into something close upon mortal anxiety. "have you any business to set foot upon my property?" he demanded. "yes," answered joe. "that's why i came." "what business have you got with me?" "enough to satisfy you, i think. but there's one thing i don't want to do"--joe glanced at the open door--"and that is to talk about it here--for your own sake and because i think miss tabor should be present. i called to ask you to come to her house at eight o'clock to-night." "you did!" martin pike spoke angrily, but not in the bull-bass of yore; and he kept his voice down, glancing about him nervously as though he feared that his wife or mamie might hear. "my accounts with her estate are closed," he said, harshly. "if she wants anything, let her come here." joe shook his head. "no. you must be there at eight o'clock." the judge's choler got the better of his uneasiness. "you're a pretty one to come ordering me around!" he broke out. "you slanderer, do you suppose i haven't heard how you're going about traducing me, undermining my character in this community, spreading scandals that i am the real owner of beaver beach--" "it can easily be proved, judge," joe interrupted, quietly, "though you're wrong: i haven't been telling people. i haven't needed to--even if i'd wished. once a thing like that gets out you can't stop it--ever! that isn't all: to my knowledge you own other property worse than the beach; i know that you own half of the worst dens in the town: profitable investments, too. you bought them very gradually and craftily, only showing the deeds to those in charge--as you did to mike sheehan, and not recording them. sheehan's betrayal of you gave me the key; i know most of the poor creatures who are your tenants, too, you see, and that gave me an advantage because they have some confidence in me. my investigations have been almost as quiet and careful as your purchases." "you damned blackmailer!" the judge bent upon him a fierce, inquiring scrutiny in which, oddly enough, there was a kind of haggard hopefulness. "and out of such stories," he sneered, "you are going to try to make political capital against the tocsin, are you?" "no," said joe. "it was necessary in the interests of my client for me to know pretty thoroughly just what property you own, and i think i do. these pieces i've mentioned are about all you have not mortgaged. you couldn't do that without exposure, and you've kept a controlling interest in the tocsin clear, too--for the sake of its influence, i suppose. now, do you want to hear any more, or will you agree to meet me at miss tabor's this evening?" whatever the look of hopefulness had signified, it fled from pike's face during this speech, but he asked with some show of contempt, "do you think it likely?" "very well," said joe, "if you want me to speak here." and he came a little closer to him. "you bought a big block of granger gas for roger tabor," he began, in a low voice. "before his death you sold everything he had, except the old house, put it all into cash for him, and bought that stock; you signed the check as his attorney-in-fact, and it came back to you through the washington national, where norbert flitcroft handled it. he has a good memory, and when he told me what he knew, i had him to do some tracing; did a little myself, also. judge pike, i must tell you that you stand in danger of the law. you were the custodian of that stock for roger tabor; it was transferred in blank; though i think you meant to be 'legal' at that time, and that was merely for convenience in case roger had wished you to sell it for him. but just after his death you found yourself saddled with distillery stock, which was going bad on your hands. other speculations of yours were failing at the same time; you had to have money--you filed your report as administrator, crediting miss tabor with your own stock which you knew was going to the wall, and transferred hers to yourself. then you sold it because you needed ready money. you used her fortune to save yourself--but you were horribly afraid! no matter how rotten your transactions had been, you had always kept inside the law; and now that you had gone outside of it, you were frightened. you didn't dare come flat out to miss tabor with the statement that her fortune had gone; it had been in your charge all the time and things might look ugly. so you put it off, perhaps from day to day. you didn't dare tell her until you were forced to, and to avoid the confession you sent her the income which was rightfully hers. that was your great weakness." joe had spoken with great rapidity, though keeping his voice low, and he lowered it again, as he continued: "judge pike, what chance have you to be believed in court when you swear that you sent her twenty thousand dollars out of the goodness of your heart? do you think she believed you? it was the very proof to her that you had robbed her. for she knew you! do you want to hear more now? do you think this is a good place for it? do you wish me to go over the details of each step i have taken against you, to land you at the bar where this poor fellow your paper is hounding stands to-day?" the judge essayed to answer, and could not. he lifted his hand uncertainly and dropped it, while a thick dew gathered on his temples. inarticulate sounds came from between his teeth. "you will come?" said joe. martin pike bent his head dazedly; and at that the other turned quickly from him and went away without looking back. ariel was in the studio, half an hour later, when joe was announced by the smiling mr. warden. ladew was with her, though upon the point of taking his leave, and joe marked (with a sinking heart) that the young minister's cheeks were flushed and his eyes very bright. "it was a magnificent thing you did, mr. louden," he said, offering his hand heartily; "i saw it, and it was even finer in one way than it was plucky. it somehow straightened things out with such perfect good nature; it made those people feel that what they were doing was ridiculous." "so it was," said joe. "few, under the circumstances, could have acted as if they thought so! and i hope you'll let me call upon you, mr. louden." "i hope you will," he answered; and then, when the minister had departed, stood looking after him with sad eyes, in which there dwelt obscure meditations. ladew's word of farewell had covered a deep look at ariel, which was not to be mistaken by joseph louden for anything other than what it was: the clergyman's secret was an open one, and joe saw that he was as frank and manly in love as in all other things. "he's a good fellow," he said at last, sighing. "a good man." ariel agreed. "and he said more to me than he did to you." "yes, i think it probable," joe smiled sorrowfully. "about you, i mean." he had time to fear that her look admitted confusion before she proceeded: "he said he had never seen anything so fine as your coming down those steps. ah, he was right! but it was harder for me to watch you, i think, than for you to do it, joe. i was so horribly afraid--and the crowd between us--if we could have got near you--but we couldn't--we--" she faltered, and pressed her hand close upon her eyes. "we?" asked joe, slowly. "you mean you and mr. ladew?" "yes, he was there; but i mean"--her voice ran into a little laugh with a beatific quaver in it--"i mean colonel flitcroft and mr. bradbury and mr. buckalew, too--we were hemmed in together when mr. ladew found us--and, oh, joe, when that cowardly rush started toward you, those three--i've heard wonderful things in paris and naples, cabmen quarrelling and disappointed beggars--but never anything like them to-day--" "you mean they were profane?" "oh, magnificently--and with such inventiveness! all three begged my pardon afterwards. i didn't grant it--i blessed them!" "did they beg mr. ladew's pardon?" "ah, joe!" she reproached him. "he isn't a prig. and he's had to fight some things that you of all men ought to understand. he's only been here a few months, but he told me that judge pike has been against him from the start. it seems that mr. ladew is too liberal in his views. and he told me that if it were not for judge pike's losing influence in the church on account of the beaver beach story, the judge would probably have been able to force him to resign; but now he will stay." "he wishes to stay, doesn't he?" "very much, i think. and, joe," she continued, thoughtfully, "i want you to do something for me. i want you to go to church with me next sunday." "to hear mr. ladew?" "yes. i wouldn't ask except for that." "very well," he consented, with averted eyes. "i'll go." her face was radiant with the smile she gave him. "it will make me very happy," she said. he bent his head and fumbled over some papers he had taken from his pocket. "will you listen to these memoranda? we have a great deal to go over before eight o'clock." judge pike stood for a long while where joe had left him, staring out at the street, apparently. really he saw nothing. undoubtedly an image of blurring foliage, cast-iron, cement, and turf, with sunshine smeared over all, flickered upon the retinas of his eyes; but the brain did not accept the picture from the optic nerve. martin pike was busy with other visions. joe louden had followed him back to his hidden deeds and had read them aloud to him as gabriel would read them on judgment-day. perhaps this was the judgment-day. pike had taken charge of roger tabor's affairs because the commissions as agent were not too inconsiderable to be neglected. to make the task simpler, he had sold, as time went on, the various properties of the estate, gradually converting all of them into cash. then, the opportunity offering, he bought a stock which paid excellent dividends, had it transferred in blank, because if it should prove to roger's advantage to sell it, his agent could do so without any formal delays between paris and canaan. at least, that is what the judge had told himself at the time, though it may be that some lurking whisperer in his soul had hinted that it might be well to preserve the great amount of cash in hand, and roger's stock was practically that. then came the evil days. laboriously, he had built up a name for conservatism which most of the town accepted, but secretly he had always been a gambler: wall street was his goal; to adventure there, as one of the great single-eyed cyclopean man-eaters, his fond ambition; and he had conceived the distillery trust as a means to attain it; but the structure tumbled about his ears; other edifices of his crumbled at the same time; he found himself beset, his solvency endangered, and there was the tabor stock, quite as good as gold; roger had just died, and it was enough to save him.--save? that was a strange way to be remembering it to-day, when fate grinned at him out of a dreadful mask contorted like the face of norbert flitcroft. martin pike knew himself for a fool. what chance had he, though he destroyed the check a thousand times over, to escape the records by which the coil of modern trade duplicates and quadruplicates each slip of scribbled paper? what chance had he against the memories of men? would the man of whom he had bought, forget that the check was signed by roger's agent? had the bank-clerk forgotten? thrice fool, martin pike, to dream that in a town like canaan, norbert or any of his kind could touch an order for so great a sum and forget it! but martin pike had not dreamed that; had dreamed nothing. when failure confronted him his mind refused to consider anything but his vital need at the time, and he had supplied that need. and now he grew busy with the future: he saw first the civil suit for restitution, pressed with the ferocity and cunning of one who intended to satisfy a grudge of years; then, perhaps, a criminal prosecution.... but he would fight it! did they think that such a man was to be overthrown by a breath of air? by a girl, a bank-clerk, and a shyster lawyer? they would find their case difficult to prove in court. he did not believe they could prove it. they would be discredited for the attempt upon him and he would win clear; these beaver beach scandals would die of inertia presently; there would be a lucky trick in wheat, and martin pike would be martin pike once more; reinstated, dictator of church, politics, business; all those things which were the breath of his life restored. he would show this pitiful pack what manner of man they hounded! norbert flitcroft.... the judge put his big hand up to his eyes and rubbed them. curious mechanisms the eyes.... that deer in line with the vision--not a zebra? a zebra after all these years? and yet ... curious, indeed, the eyes! ... a zebra.... who ever heard of a deer with stripes? the big hand rose from the eyes and ran through the hair which he had always worn rather long. it would seem strange to have it cut very short.... did they use clippers, perhaps? ... he started suddenly and realized that his next-door neighbor had passed along the sidewalk with head averted, pretending not to see him. a few weeks ago the man would not have missed the chance of looking in to bow--with proper deference, too! did he know? he could not know this! it must be the beaver beach scandal. it must be. it could not be this--not yet! but it might be. how many knew? louden, norbert, ariel--who else? and again the deer took on the strange zebra look. the judge walked slowly down to the gate; spoke to the man he had employed in sam warden's place, a scotchman who had begun to refresh the lawn with a garden hose; bowed affably in response to the salutation of the elder louden, who was passing, bound homeward from the factory, and returned to the house with thoughtful steps. in the hall he encountered his wife; stopped to speak with her upon various household matters; then entered the library, which was his workroom. he locked the door; tried it, and shook the handle. after satisfying himself of its security, he pulled down the window-shades carefully, and, lighting a gas drop-lamp upon his desk, began to fumble with various documents, which he took from a small safe near by. but his hands were not steady; he dropped the papers, scattering them over the floor, and had great difficulty in picking them up. he perspired heavily: whatever he touched became damp, and he continually mopped his forehead with his sleeve. after a time he gave up the attempt to sort the packets of papers; sank into a chair despairingly, leaving most of them in disorder. a light tap sounded on the door. "martin, it's supper-time." with a great effort he made shift to answer: "yes, i know. you and mamie go ahead. i'm too busy to-night. i don't want anything." a moment before, he had been a pitiful figure, face distraught, hands incoherent, the whole body incoordinate, but if eyes might have rested upon him as he answered his wife they would have seen a strange thing; he sat, apparently steady and collected, his expression cool, his body quiet, poised exactly to the quality of his reply, for the same strange reason that a young girl smiles archly and coquettes to a telephone. "but, martin, you oughtn't to work so hard. you'll break down--" "no fear of that," he replied, cheerfully. "you can leave something on the sideboard for me." after another fluttering remonstrance, she went away, and the room was silent again. his arms rested upon the desk, and his head slowly sank between his elbows. when he lifted it again the clock on the mantel-piece had tinkled once. it was half-past seven. he took a sheet of note-paper from a box before him and began to write, but when he had finished the words, "my dear wife and mamie," his fingers shook so violently that he could go no further. he placed his left hand over the back of his right to steady it, but found the device unavailing: the pen left mere zigzags on the page, and he dropped it. he opened a lower drawer of the desk and took out of it a pistol; rose, went to the door, tried it once more, and again was satisfied of his seclusion. then he took the weapon in both hands, the handle against his fingers, one thumb against the trigger, and, shaking with nausea, lifted it to the level of his eyes. his will betrayed him; he could not contract his thumb upon the trigger, and, with a convulsive shiver, he dropped the revolver upon the desk. he locked the door of the room behind him, crept down the stairs and out of the front-door. he walked shamblingly, when he reached the street, keeping close to the fences as he went on, now and then touching the pickets with his hands like a feeble old man. he had always been prompt; it was one of the things of which he had been proud: in all his life he had never failed to keep a business engagement precisely upon the appointed time, and the court-house bell clanged eight when sam warden opened the door for his old employer to-night. the two young people looked up gravely from the script-laden table before them as martin pike came into the strong lamplight out of the dimness of the hall, where only a taper burned. he shambled a few limp steps into the room and came to a halt. big as he was, his clothes hung upon him loosely, like coverlets upon a collapsed bed; and he seemed but a distorted image of himself, as if (save for the dull and reddened eyes) he had been made of yellowish wax and had been left too long in the sun. abject, hopeless, his attitude a confession of ruin and shame, he stood before his judges in such wretchedness that, in comparison, the figure of happy fear, facing the court-room through his darkest hour, was one to be envied. "well," he said, brokenly, "what are you going to do?" joe louden looked at him with great intentness for several moments. then he rose and came forward. "sit down, judge," he said. "it's all right. don't worry." xxv the jury comes in mrs. flitcroft, at breakfast on the following morning, continued a disquisition which had ceased, the previous night, only because of a provoking human incapacity to exist without sleep. her theme was one which had exclusively occupied her since the passing of eskew, and, her rheumatism having improved so that she could leave her chair, she had become a sort of walking serial; norbert and his grandfather being well assured that, whenever they left the house, the same story was to be continued upon their reappearance. the tocsin had been her great comfort: she was but one helpless woman against two strong men; therefore she sorely needed assistance in her attack upon them, and the invaluable newspaper gave it in generous measure. "yes, young man," she said, as she lifted her first spoonful of oatmeal, "you better read the tocsin!" "i am reading it," responded norbert, who was almost concealed by the paper. "and your grandfather better read it!" she continued, severely. "i already have," said the colonel, promptly. "have you?" "no, but you can be sure i will!" the good lady gave the effect of tossing her head. "and you better take what it says to heart, you and some others. it's a wonder to me that you and buckalew and old peter don't go and hold that happy fear's hand durin' the trial! and as for joe louden, his step-mother's own sister, jane, says to me only yesterday afternoon, 'why, law! mrs. flitcroft,' she says, 'it's a wonder to me,' she says, 'that your husband and those two other old fools don't lay down in the gutter and let that joe louden walk over 'em.'" "did jane quimby say 'those two other old fools'?" inquired the colonel, in a manner which indicated that he might see mr. quimby in regard to the slander. "i can't say as i remember just precisely her exact words," admitted mrs. flitcroft, "but that was the sense of 'em! you've made yourselves the laughin'-stock of the whole town!" "oh, we have?" "and i'd like to know"--her voice became shrill and goading--"i'd like to know what judge pike thinks of you and norbert! i should think you'd be ashamed to have him pass you in the street." "i've quit speaking to him," said norbert, coldly, "ever since i heard he owned beaver beach." "that story ain't proved yet!" returned his grandmother, with much irascibility. "well, it will be; but that's not all." norbert wagged his head. "you may be a little surprised within the next few days." "i've been surprised for the past few!" she replied, with a bitterness which overrode her satisfaction in the effectiveness of the retort. "surprised! i'd like to know who wouldn't be surprised when half the town acts like it's gone crazy. people praisin' that fellow, that nobody in their sober minds and senses never in their lives had a good word for before! why, there was more talk yesterday about his doin's at the court-house--you'd of thought he was phil sheridan! it's 'joe louden' here and 'joe louden' there, and 'joe louden' this and 'joe louden' that, till i'm sick of the name!" "then why don't you quit saying it?" asked the colonel, reasonably. "because it'd ought to be said!" she exclaimed, with great heat. "because he'd ought to be held up to the community to be despised. you let me have that paper a minute," she pursued, vehemently; "you just let me have the tocsin and i'll read you out some things about him that 'll show him in his true light!" "all right," said norbert, suddenly handing her the paper. "go ahead." and after the exchange of a single glance the two gentlemen composed themselves to listen. "ha!" exclaimed mrs. flitcroft. "here it is in head-lines on the first page. 'defence scores again and again. ridiculous behavior of a would-be mob. louden's--'" she paused, removed her spectacles, examined them dubiously, restored them to place, and continued: "'louden's masterly conduct and well-deserved--'" she paused again, incredulous--"'well-deserved triumph--'" "go on," said the colonel, softly. "indeed i will!" the old lady replied. "do you think i don't know sarcasm when i see it? ha, ha!" she laughed with great heartiness. "i reckon i will go on! you listen and try to learn something from it!" she resumed the reading: "'it is generally admitted that after yesterday's sitting of the court, the prosecution in the fear-cory murder trial has not a leg to stand on. louden's fight for his client has been, it must be confessed, of a most splendid and talented order, and the bottom has fallen out of the case for the state, while a verdict of not guilty, it is now conceded, is the general wish of those who have attended and followed the trial. but the most interesting event of the day took place after the session, when some miscreants undertook to mob the attorney for the defence in the court-house yard. he met the attack with a coolness and nerve which have won him a popularity that--'" mrs. flitcroft again faltered. "go on," repeated the colonel. "there's a great deal more." "look at the editorials," suggested norbert. "there's one on the same subject." mrs. flitcroft, her theory of the tocsin's sarcasm somewhat shaken, turned the page. "we confess a mistake" was the rubric above the leader, and she uttered a cry of triumph, for she thought the mistake was what she had just been reading, and that the editorial would apologize for the incomprehensible journalistic error upon the first page. "'the best of us make mistakes, and it is well to have a change of heart sometimes.'" (thus eugene's successor had written, and so mrs. flitcroft read.) "'an open confession is good for the soul. the tocsin has changed its mind in regard to certain matters, and means to say so freely and frankly. after yesterday's events in connection with the murder trial before our public, the evidence being now all presented, for we understand that neither side has more to offer, it is generally conceded that all good citizens are hopeful of a verdict of acquittal; and the tocsin is a good citizen. no good citizen would willingly see an innocent man punished, and that our city is not to be disgraced by such a miscarriage of justice is due to the efforts of the attorney for the defendant, who has gained credit not only by his masterly management of this case, but by his splendid conduct in the face of danger yesterday afternoon. he has distinguished himself so greatly that we frankly assert that our citizens may point with pride to--'" mrs. flitcroft's voice, at the beginning pitched to a high exultation, had gradually lowered in key and dropped down the scale till it disappeared altogether. "it's a wonder to me," the colonel began, "that the tocsin doesn't go and hold joe louden's hand." "i'll read the rest of it for you," said norbert, his heavy face lighting up with cruelty. "let's see--where were you? oh yes--'point with pride'? 'our citizens may point with pride to ...'" let us not linger to observe the unmanly behavior of an aged man and his grandson left alone at the breakfast-table by a defenceless woman. the tocsin's right-about-face undermined others besides mrs. flitcroft that morning, and rejoiced greater (though not better) men than the colonel. mr. farbach and his lieutenants smiled, yet stared, amazed, wondering what had happened. that was a thing which only three people even certainly knew; yet it was very simple. the tocsin was part of the judge's restitution. "the controlling interest in the paper, together with the other property i have listed," joe had said, studying his memoranda under the lamp in roger's old studio, while martin pike listened with his head in his hands, "make up what miss tabor is willing to accept. as i estimate it, their total value is between a third and a half of that of the stock which belonged to her." "but this boy--this flitcroft," said pike, feebly; "he might--" "he will do nothing," interrupted joe. "the case is 'settled out of court,' and even if he were disposed to harass you, he could hardly hope to succeed, since miss tabor declines either to sue or to prosecute." the judge winced at the last word. "yes--yes, i know; but he might--he might--tell." "i think miss tabor's influence will prevent. if it should not--well, you're not in a desperate case by any means; you're involved, but far from stripped; in time you may be as sound as ever. and if norbert tells, there's nothing for you to do but to live it down." a faint smile played upon joe's lips as he lifted his head and looked at the other. "it can be done, i think." it was then that ariel, complaining of the warmth of the evening, thought it possible that joe might find her fan upon the porch, and as he departed, whispered hurriedly: "judge pike, i'm not technically in control of the tocsin, but haven't i the right to control its policy?" "i understand," he muttered. "you mean about louden--about this trial--" "that is why i have taken the paper." "you want all that changed, you mean?" she nodded decisively. "from this instant. before morning." "oh, well, i'll go down there and give the word." he rubbed his eyes wearily with big thumbs. "i'm through fighting. i'm done. besides, what's the use? there's nothing more to fight." "now, judge," joe said, as he came in briskly, "we'll go over the list of that unencumbered property, if you will." this unencumbered property consisted of beaver beach and those other belongings of the judge which he had not dared to mortgage. joe had somehow explained their nature to ariel, and these with the tocsin she had elected to accept in restitution. "you told me once that i ought to look after my own property, and now i will. don't you see?" she cried to joe, eagerly. "it's my work!" she resolutely set aside every other proposition; and this was the quality of mercy which martin pike found that night. there was a great crowd to hear joe's summing-up at the trial, and those who succeeded in getting into the court-room declared that it was worth the struggle. he did not orate, he did not "thunder at the jury," nor did he slyly flatter them; he did not overdo the confidential, nor seem so secure of understanding beforehand what their verdict would be that they felt an instinctive desire to fool him. he talked colloquially but clearly, without appeal to the pathetic and without garnitures, not mentioning sunsets, birds, oceans, homes, the glorious old state, or the happiness of liberty; but he made everybody in the room quite sure that happy fear had fired the shot which killed cory to save his own life. and that, as mr. bradbury remarked to the colonel, was "what joe was there for!" ariel's escort was increased to four that day: mr. ladew sat beside her, and there were times when joe kept his mind entirely to the work in hand only by an effort, but he always succeeded. the sight of the pale and worshipping face of happy fear from the corner of his eye was enough to insure that. and people who could not get near the doors, asking those who could, "what's he doin' now?" were answered by variations of the one formula, "oh, jest walkin' away with it!" once the court-room was disturbed and set in an uproar which even the judge's customary threat failed to subdue. joe had been talking very rapidly, and having turned the point he was making with perfect dexterity, the jury listening eagerly, stopped for a moment to take a swallow of water. a voice rose over the low hum of the crowd in a delirious chuckle: "why don't somebody 'head him off!'" the room instantly rocked with laughter, under cover of which the identity of the sacrilegious chuckler was not discovered, but the voice was the voice of buckalew, who was incredibly surprised to find that he had spoken aloud. the jury were "out," after the case had been given to them, seventeen minutes and thirty seconds by the watch claudine held in her hand. the little man, whose fate was now on the knees of the gods, looked pathetically at the foreman and then at the face of his lawyer and began to shake violently, but not with fright. he had gone to the jail on joe's word, as a good dog goes where his master bids, trustfully; and yet happy had not been able to keep his mind from considering the horrible chances. "don't worry," joe had said. "it's all right. i'll see you through." and he had kept his word. the little man was cleared. it took happy a long time to get through what he had to say to his attorney in the anteroom, and even then, of course, he did not manage to put it in words, for he had "broken down" with sheer gratitude. "why, damn me, joe," he sobbed, "if ever i--if ever you--well, by god! if you ever--" this was the substance of his lingual accomplishment under the circumstances. but claudine threw her arms around poor joe's neck and kissed him. many people were waiting to shake hands with joe and congratulate him. the trio, taking advantage of seats near the rail, had already done that (somewhat uproariously) before he had followed happy, and so had ariel and ladew, both, necessarily, rather hurriedly. but in the corridors he found, when he came out of the anteroom, clients, acquaintances, friends: old friends, new friends, and friends he had never seen before--everybody beaming upon him and wringing his hand, as if they had been sure of it all from the start. "know him?" said one to another. "why, i've knowed him sence he was that high! smart little feller he was, too!" this was a total stranger. "i said, years ago"--thus mr. brown, the "national house" clerk, proving his prophetic vision--"that he'd turn out to be a big man some day." they gathered round him if he stopped for an instant, and crowded after him admiringly when he went on again, making his progress slow. when he finally came out of the big doors into the sunshine, there were as many people in the yard as there had been when he stood in the same place and watched the mob rushing his client's guards. but to-day their temper was different, and as he paused a moment, looking down on the upturned, laughing faces, with a hundred jocular and congratulatory salutations shouted up at him, somebody started a cheer, and it was taken up with thunderous good-will. there followed the interrogation customary in such emergencies, and the anxious inquirer was informed by four or five hundred people simultaneously that joe louden was all right. "head him off!" bellowed mike sheehan, suddenly darting up the steps. the shout increased, and with good reason, for he stepped quickly back within the doors; and, retreating through the building, made good his escape by a basement door. he struck off into a long detour, but though he managed to evade the crowd, he had to stop and shake hands with every third person he met. as he came out upon main street again, he encountered his father. "howdy do, joe?" said this laconic person, and offered his hand. they shook, briefly. "well," he continued, rubbing his beard, "how are ye?" "all right, father, i think." "satisfied with the verdict?" "i'd be pretty hard to please if i weren't," joe laughed. mr. louden rubbed his beard again. "i was there," he said, without emotion. "at the trial, you mean?" "yes." he offered his hand once more, and again they shook. "well, come around and see us," he said. "thank you. i will." "well," said mr. louden, "good-day, joe." "good-day, father." the young man stood looking after him with a curious smile. then he gave a slight start. far up the street he saw two figures, one a lady's, in white, with a wide white hat; the other a man's, wearing recognizably clerical black. they seemed to be walking very slowly. it had been a day of triumph for joe; but in all his life he never slept worse than he did that night. xxvi ancient of days he woke to the chiming of bells, and, as his eyes slowly opened, the sorrowful people of a dream, who seemed to be bending over him, weeping, swam back into the darkness of the night whence they had come, and returned to the imperceptible, leaving their shadows in his heart. slowly he rose, stumbled into the outer room, and released the fluttering shade; but the sunshine, springing like a golden lover through the open window, only dazzled him, and found no answering gladness to greet it, nor joy in the royal day it heralded. and yet, to the newly cleaned boys on their way to midsummer morning sunday-school, the breath of that cool august day was as sweet as stolen apples. no doubt the stir of far, green thickets and the twinkle of silver-slippered creeks shimmered in the longing vision of their minds' eyes; even so, they were merry. but joseph louden, sighing as he descended his narrow stairs, with the bitterness still upon his lips of the frightful coffee he had made, heard the echo of their laughter with wonder. it would be an hour at least before time to start to church, when ariel expected him; he stared absently up the street, then down, and, after that, began slowly to walk in the latter direction, with no very active consciousness, or care, of where he went. he had fallen into a profound reverie, so deep that when he had crossed the bridge and turned into a dusty road which ran along the river-bank, he stopped mechanically beside the trunk of a fallen sycamore, and, lifting his head, for the first time since he had set out, looked about him with a melancholy perplexity, a little surprised to find himself there. for this was the spot where he had first seen the new ariel, and on that fallen sycamore they had sat together. "remember, across main street bridge at noon!" and joe's cheeks burned, as he recalled why he had not understood the clear voice that had haunted him. but that shame had fallen from him; she had changed all that, as she had changed so many things. he sank down in the long grass, with his back against the log, and stared out over the fields of tall corn, shaking in a steady wind all the way to the horizon. "changed so many things?" he said, half aloud. "everything!" ah, yes, she had changed the whole world for joseph louden--at his first sight of her! and now it seemed to him that he was to lose her, but not in the way he had thought. almost from the very first, he had the feeling that nothing so beautiful as that she should stay in canaan could happen to him. he was sure that she was but for the little while, that her coming was like the flying petals of which he had told her. he had lain upon the earth; and she had lifted him up. for a moment he had felt the beatific wings enfolding him with gentle protection, and then saw them lifted to bear the angel beyond his sight. for it was incredible that the gods so loved joe louden that they would make greater gifts to him than this little time with her which they had granted him. "changed so many things?" the bars that had been between him and half of his world were down, shattered, never more to be replaced; and the ban of canaan was lifted. could this have been, save for her? and upon that thought he got to his feet, uttering an exclamation of bitter self-reproach, asking himself angrily what he was doing. he knew how much she gave him, what full measure of her affection! was not that enough?--out upon you, louden! are you to sulk in your tent, dour in the gloom, or to play a man's part, and if she be happy, turn a cheery face upon her joy? and thus this pilgrim recrossed the bridge, emerging to the street with his head up, smiling, and his shoulders thrown back so that none might see the burden he carried. ariel was waiting on the porch for him. she wore the same dress she had worn that sunday of their tryst; that exquisite dress, with the faint lavender overtint, like the tender colors of the beautiful day he made his own. she had not worn it since, and he was far distant when he caught the first flickering glimpse of her through the lower branches of the maples, but he remembered.... and again, as on that day, he heard a far-away, ineffable music, the elf-land horns, sounding the mysterious reveille which had wakened his soul to her coming. she came to the gate to meet him, and gave him her hand in greeting, without a word--or the need of one--from either. then together they set forth over the sun-flecked pavement, the maples swishing above them, heavier branches crooning in the strong breeze, under a sky like a della robbia background. and up against the glorious blue of it, some laughing, invisible god was blowing small, rounded clouds of pure cotton, as children blow thistledown. when he opened her parasol, as they came out into the broad sunshine beyond upper main street, there was the faintest mingling of wild roses and cinnamon loosed on the air. "joe," she said, "i'm very happy!" "that's right," he returned, heartily. "i think you always will be." "but, oh! i wish," she went on, "that mr. arp could have lived to see you come down the court-house steps." "god bless him!" said joe. "i can hear the 'argument'!" "those dear old men have been so loyal to you, joe." "no," he returned; "loyal to eskew." "to you both," she said. "i'm afraid the old circle is broken up; they haven't met on the national house corner since he died. the colonel told me he couldn't bear to go there again." "i don't believe any of them ever will," he returned. "and yet i never pass the place that i don't see eskew in his old chair. i went there last night to commune with him. i couldn't sleep, and i got up, and went over there; they'd left the chairs out; the town was asleep, and it was beautiful moonlight--" "to commune with him? what about?" "you." "why?" she asked, plainly mystified. "i stood in need of good counsel," he answered, cheerfully, "or a friendly word, perhaps, and--as i sat there--after a while it came." "what was it?" "to forget that i was sodden with selfishness; to pretend not to be as full of meanness as i really was! doesn't that seem to be eskew's own voice?" "weren't you happy last night, joe?" "oh, it was all right," he said, quickly. "don't you worry." and at this old speech of his she broke into a little laugh of which he had no comprehension. "mamie came to see me early this morning," she said, after they had walked on in silence for a time. "everything is all right with her again; that is, i think it will be. eugene is coming home. and," she added, thoughtfully, "it will be best for him to have his old place on the tocsin again. she showed me his letter, and i liked it. i think he's been through the fire--" joe's distorted smile appeared. "and has come out gold?" he asked. "no," she laughed; "but nearer it! and i think he'll try to be more worth her caring for. she has always thought that his leaving the tocsin in the way he did was heroic. that was her word for it. and it was the finest thing he ever did." "i can't figure eugene out." joe shook his head. "there's something behind his going away that i don't understand." this was altogether the truth; nor was there ever to come a time when either he or mamie would understand what things had determined the departure of eugene bantry; though mamie never questioned, as joe did, the reasons for it, or doubted those eugene had given her, which were the same he had given her father. for she was content with his return. again the bells across the square rang out their chime. the paths were decorously enlivened with family and neighborhood groups, bound churchward; and the rumble of the organ, playing the people into their pews, shook on the air. and joe knew that he must speak quickly, if he was to say what he had planned to say, before he and ariel went into the church. "ariel?" he tried to compel his voice to a casual cheerfulness, but it would do nothing for him, except betray a desperate embarrassment. she looked at him quickly, and as quickly away. "yes?" "i wanted to say something to you, and i'd better do it now, i think--before i go to church for the first time in two years!" he managed to laugh, though with some ruefulness, and continued stammeringly: "i want to tell you how much i like him--how much i admire him--" "admire whom?" she asked, a little coldly, for she knew. "mr. ladew." "so do i," she answered, looking straight ahead. "that is one reason why i wanted you to come with me to-day." "it isn't only that. i want to tell you--to tell you--" he broke off for a second. "you remember that night in my office before fear came in?" "yes; i remember." "and that i--that something i said troubled you because it--it sounded as if i cared too much for you--" "no; not too much." she still looked straight ahead. they were walking very slowly. "you didn't understand. you'd been in my mind, you see, all those years, so much more than i in yours. i hadn't forgotten you. but to you i was really a stranger--" "no, no!" he cried. "yes, i was," she said, gently but very quickly. "and i--i didn't want you to fall in love with me at first sight. and yet--perhaps i did! but i hadn't thought of things in that way. i had just the same feeling for you that i always had--always! i had never cared so much for any one else, and it seemed to me the most necessary thing in my life to come back to that old companionship-- don't you remember--it used to trouble you so when i would take your hand? i think i loved your being a little rough with me. and once, when i saw how you had been hurt, that day you ran away--" "ariel!" he gasped, helplessly. "have you forgotten?" he gathered himself together with all his will. "i want to prove to you," he said, resolutely, "that the dear kindness of you isn't thrown away on me; i want you to know what i began to say: that it's all right with me; and i think ladew--" he stopped again. "ah! i've seen how much he cares for you--" "have you?" "ariel," he said, "that isn't fair to me, if you trust me. you could not have helped seeing--" "but i have not seen it," she interrupted, with great calmness. after having said this, she finished truthfully: "if he did, i would never let him tell me. i like him too much." "you mean you're not going to--" suddenly she turned to him. "no!" she said, with a depth of anger he had not heard in her voice since that long-ago winter day when she struck eugene bantry with her clenched fist. she swept over him a blinding look of reproach. "how could i?" and there, upon the steps of the church, in the sudden, dazzling vision of her love, fell the burden of him who had made his sorrowful pilgrimage across main street bridge that morning. a manifold rustling followed them as they went down the aisle, and the sibilance of many whisperings; but joe was not conscious of that, as he took his place in ariel's pew beside her. for him there was only the presence of divinity; the church was filled with it. they rose to sing: "ancient of days, who sittest, throned in glory, to thee all knees are bent, all voices pray; thy love has blest the wide world's wondrous story with light and life since eden's dawning day." and then, as they knelt to pray, there were the white heads of the three old friends of eskew arp; and beyond was the silver hair of martin pike, who knelt beside his daughter. joe felt that people should be very kind to the judge. the sun, so eager without, came temperately through the windows, where stood angels and saints in gentle colors, and the face of the young minister in this quiet light was like the faces in the windows.... "not only to confront your enemies," he said; "that is not enough; nor is it that i would have you bluster at them, nor take arms against them; you will not have to do that if, when they come at you, you do not turn one inch aside, but with an assured heart, with good nature, not noisily, and with steadfastness, you keep on your way. if you can do that, i say that they will turn aside for you, and you shall walk straight through them, and only laughter be left of their anger!" there was a stir among the people, and many faces turned toward joe. two years ago he had sat in the same church, when his character and actions had furnished the underlying theme of a sermon, and he had recognized himself without difficulty: to-day he had not the shadow of a dream that the same thing was happening. he thought the people were turning to look at ariel, and he was very far from wondering at that. she saw that he did not understand; she was glad to have it so. she had taken off her gloves, and he was holding them lightly and reverently in his hands, looking down upon them, his thin cheeks a little flushed. and at that, and not knowing the glory that was in his soul, something forlorn in his careful tenderness toward her gloves so touched her that she felt the tears coming to her eyes with a sudden rush. and to prevent them. "not the empty gloves, joe," she whispered. [illustration: "not there, not there, my child!"] the hoosier school-boy by edward eggleston new york charles scribner's sons ------------------------------------------------------------------------ copyright, , by charles scribner's sons copyright, , by frances g. eggleston ------------------------------------------------------------------------ contents chapter page i. the new scholar ii. king milkmaid iii. answering back iv. little christopher columbus v. whiling away time vi. a battle vii. hat-ball and bull-pen viii. the defender ix. pigeon pot-pie x. jack and his mother xi. columbus and his friends xii. greenbank wakes up xiii. professor susan xiv. crowing after victory xv. an attempt to collect xvi. an exploring expedition xvii. housekeeping experiences xviii. ghosts xix. the return home xx. a foot-race for money xxi. the new teacher xxii. chasing the fox xxiii. called to account xxiv. an apology xxv. king's base and a spelling-lesson xxvi. unclaimed top-strings xxvii. the last day of school, and the last chapter of the story ------------------------------------------------------------------------ illustrations "not there, not there, my child!" frontispiece facing page jack amusing the small boys with stories of hunting, fishing, and frontier adventure "cousin sukey," said little columbus, "i want to ask a favor of you" bob holliday carries home his friend ------------------------------------------------------------------------ the hoosier school-boy chapter i the new scholar while the larger boys in the village school of greenbank were having a game of "three old cat" before school-time, there appeared on the playground a strange boy, carrying two books, a slate, and an atlas under his arm. he was evidently from the country, for he wore a suit of brown jeans, or woollen homespun, made up in the natural color of the "black" sheep, as we call it. he shyly sidled up to the school-house door, and looked doubtfully at the boys who were playing, watching the familiar game as though he had never seen it before. the boys who had the "paddles" were standing on three bases, while three others stood each behind a base and tossed the ball around the triangle from one hole or base to another. the new-comer soon perceived that, if one with a paddle, or bat, struck at the ball and missed it, and the ball was caught directly, or "at the first bounce," he gave up his bat to the one who had "caught him out." when the ball was struck, it was called a "tick," and when there was a tick, all the batters were obliged to run one base to the left, and then the ball thrown between a batter and the base to which he was running "crossed him out," and obliged him to give up his "paddle" to the one who threw the ball. "four old cat," "two old cat," and "five old cat" are, as everybody knows, played in the same way, the number of bases or holes increasing with the addition of each pair of players. it is probable that the game was once--some hundreds of years ago, maybe--called "three hole catch," and that the name was gradually corrupted into "three hole cat," as it is still called in the interior states, and then became changed by mistake to "three old cat." it is, no doubt, an early form of our present game of base-ball. it was this game which the new boy watched, trying to get an inkling of how it was played. he stood by the school-house door, and the girls who came in were obliged to pass near him. each of them stopped to scrape her shoes, or rather the girls remembered the foot-scraper because they were curious to see the new-comer. they cast furtive glances at him, noting his new suit of brown clothes, his geography and atlas, his arithmetic, and, last of all, his face. "there's a new scholar," said peter rose, or, as he was called, "pewee" rose, a stout and stocky boy of fourteen, who had just been caught out by another. "i say, greeny, how did you get so brown?" called out will riley, a rather large, loose-jointed fellow. of course, all the boys laughed at this. boys will sometimes laugh at any one suffering torture, whether the victim be a persecuted cat or a persecuted boy. the new boy made no answer, but joanna merwin, who, just at that moment, happened to be scraping her shoes, saw that he grew red in the face with a quick flush of anger. "don't stand there, greeny, or the cows'll eat you up!" called riley, as he came round again to the base nearest to the school-house. why the boys should have been amused at this speech, the new scholar could not tell--the joke was neither new nor witty--only impudent and coarse. but the little boys about the door giggled. "it's a pity something wouldn't eat you, will riley--you are good for nothing but to be mean." this sharp speech came from a rather tall and graceful girl of sixteen, who came up at the time, and who saw the annoyance of the new boy at riley's insulting words. of course the boys laughed again. it was rare sport to hear pretty susan lanham "take down" the impudent riley. "the bees will never eat you for honey, susan," said will. susan met the titter of the playground with a quick flush of temper and a fine look of scorn. "nothing would eat you, will, unless, maybe, a turkey-buzzard, and a very hungry one at that." this sharp retort was uttered with a merry laugh of ridicule, and a graceful toss of the head, as the mischievous girl passed into the school-house. "that settles you, will," said pewee rose. and bob holliday began singing, to a doleful tune: "poor old pidy, she died last friday." just then, the stern face of mr. ball, the master, appeared at the door; he rapped sharply with his ferule, and called: "books, books, books!" the bats were dropped, and the boys and girls began streaming into the school, but some of the boys managed to nudge riley, saying: "poor old creetur, the turkey-buzzards eat her," and such like soft and sweet speeches. riley was vexed and angry, but nobody was afraid of him, for a boy may be both big and mean and yet lack courage. the new boy did not go in at once, but stood silently and faced the inquiring looks of the procession of boys as they filed into the school-room with their faces flushed from the exercise and excitement of the games. "i can thrash him easy," thought pewee rose. "he isn't a fellow to back down easily," said harvey collins to his next neighbor. only good-natured, rough bob holliday stopped and spoke to the new-comer a friendly word. all that he said was "hello!" but how much a boy can put into that word "hello!" bob put his whole heart into it, and there was no boy in the school that had a bigger heart, a bigger hand, or half so big a foot as bob holliday. the village school-house was a long one built of red brick. it had taken the place of the old log institution in which one generation of greenbank children had learned reading, writing, and webster's spelling-book. there were long, continuous writing-tables down the sides of the room, with backless benches, so arranged that when the pupil was writing his face was turned toward the wall--there was a door at each end, and a box stove stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by a rectangle of four backless benches. these benches were for the little fellows who did not write, and for others when the cold should drive them nearer the stove. the very worshipful master sat at the east end of the room, at one side of the door; there was a blackboard--a "newfangled notion" in --at the other side of the door. some of the older scholars, who could afford private desks with lids to them, suitable for concealing smuggled apples and maple-sugar, had places at the other end of the room from the master. this arrangement was convenient for quiet study, for talking on the fingers by signs, for munching apples or gingerbread, and for passing little notes between the boys and girls. when the school had settled a little, the master struck a sharp blow on his desk for silence, and looked fiercely around the room, eager to find a culprit on whom to wreak his ill-humor. mr. ball was one of those old-fashioned teachers who gave the impression that he would rather beat a boy than not, and would even like to eat one, if he could find a good excuse. his eye lit upon the new scholar. "come here," he said, severely, and then he took his seat. the new boy walked timidly up to a place in front of the master's desk. he was not handsome, his face was thin, his eyebrows were prominent, his mouth was rather large and good-humored, and there was that shy twinkle about the corners of his eyes which always marks a fun-loving spirit. but his was a serious, fine-grained face, with marks of suffering in it, and he had the air of having been once a strong fellow; of late, evidently, shaken to pieces by the ague. "where do you live?" demanded mr. ball. "on ferry street." "what do they call you?" this was said with a contemptuous, rasping inflection that irritated the new scholar. his eyes twinkled, partly with annoyance and partly with mischief. "they _call_ me jack, for the most part,"--then catching the titter that came from the girls' side of the room, and frightened by the rising hurricane on the master's face, he added quickly: "my name is john dudley, sir." "don't you try to show your smartness on me, young man. you are a new-comer, and i let you off this time. answer me that way again, and you will remember it as long as you live." and the master glared at him like a savage bull about to toss somebody over a fence. the new boy turned pale, and dropped his head. "how old are you?" "thirteen." "have you ever been to school?" "three months." "three months. do you know how to read?" "yes, sir," with a smile. "can you cipher?" "yes, sir." "in multiplication?" "yes, sir." "long division?" "yes, sir; i've been half through fractions." "you said you'd been to school but three months!" "my father taught me." there was just a touch of pride in his voice as he said this--a sense of something superior about his father. this bit of pride angered the master, who liked to be thought to have a monopoly of all the knowledge in the town. "where have you been living?" "in the indian reserve, of late; i was born in cincinnati." "i didn't ask you where you were born. when i ask you a question, answer that and no more." "yes, sir." there was a touch of something in the tone of this reply that amused the school, and that made the master look up quickly and suspiciously at jack dudley, but the expression on jack's face was as innocent as that of a cat who has just lapped the cream off the milk. chapter ii king milkmaid pewee rose, whose proper name was peter rose, had also the nickname of king pewee. he was about fourteen years old, square built and active, of great strength for his size, and very proud of the fact that no boy in town cared to attack him. he was not bad-tempered, but he loved to be master, and there were a set of flatterers who followed him, like jackals about a lion. as often happens, nature had built for king pewee a very fine body, but had forgotten to give him any mind to speak of. in any kind of chaff or banter, at any sort of talk or play where a good head was worth more than a strong arm and a broad back, king pewee was sure to have the worst of it. a very convenient partnership had therefore grown up between him and will riley. riley had muscle enough, but nature had made him mean-spirited. he had--not exactly wit--but a facility for using his tongue, which he found some difficulty in displaying, through fear of other boys' fists. by forming a friendship with pewee rose, the two managed to keep in fear the greater part of the school. will's rough tongue, together with pewee's rude fists, were enough to bully almost any boy. they let harvey collins alone, because he was older, and, keeping to himself, awed them by his dignity; good-natured bob holliday, also, was big enough to take care of himself. but the rest were all as much afraid of pewee as they were of the master, and as riley managed pewee, it behooved them to be afraid of the prime minister, riley, as well as of king pewee. from the first day that jack dudley entered the school, dressed in brown jeans, will riley marked him for a victim. the air of refinement about his face showed him to be a suitable person for teasing. riley called him "milksop," and "sap-head"; words which seemed to the dull intellect of king pewee exceedingly witty. and as pewee was riley's defender, he felt as proud of these rude nicknames as he would had he invented them and taken out a patent. but riley's greatest stroke of wit came one morning when he caught jack dudley milking the cow. in the village of greenbank, milking a cow was regarded as a woman's work; and foolish men and boys are like savages,--very much ashamed to be found doing a woman's work. fools always think something else more disgraceful than idleness. so, having seen jack milking, riley came to school happy. he had an arrow to shoot that would give great delight to the small boys. "good-morning, milkmaid!" he said to jack dudley, as he entered the school-house before school. "you milk the cow at your house, do you? where's your apron?" "oh-h! milkmaid! milkmaid! that's a good one," chimed in pewee rose and all his set. jack changed color. "well, what if i do milk my mother's cow? i don't milk anybody's cow but ours, do i? do you think i'm ashamed of it? i'd be ashamed not to. i can"--but he stopped a minute and blushed--"i can wash dishes, and make good pancakes, too. now if you want to make fun, why, make fun. i don't care." but he did care, else why should his voice choke in that way? "oh, girl-boy; a pretty girl-boy you are--" but here will riley stopped and stammered. there right in front of him was the smiling face of susan lanham, with a look in it which made him suddenly remember something. susan had heard all the conversation, and now she came around in front of will, while all the other girls clustered about her with a vague expectation of sport. "come, pewee, let's play ball," said will. "ah, you're running away, now; you're afraid of a girl," said susan, with a cutting little laugh, and a toss of her black curls over her shoulder. will had already started for the ball-ground, but at this taunt he turned back, thrust his hands into his pockets, put on a swagger, and stammered: "no, i'm not afraid of a girl, either." "that's about all that he isn't afraid of," said bob holliday. "oh! you're not afraid of a girl?" said susan. "what did you run away for, when you saw me? you know that pewee won't fight a girl. you're afraid of anybody that pewee can't whip." "you've got an awful tongue, susan. we'll call you sassy susan," said will, laughing at his own joke. "oh, it isn't my tongue you're afraid of now. you know i can tell on you. i saw you drive your cow into the stable last week. you were ashamed to milk outside, but you looked all around----" "i didn't do it. how could you see? it was dark," and will giggled foolishly, seeing all at once that he had betrayed himself. "it was nearly dark, but i happened to be where i could see. and as i was coming back, a few minutes after, i saw you come out with a pail of milk, and look around you like a sneak-thief. you saw me and hurried away. you are such a coward that you are ashamed to do a little honest work. milkmaid! girl-boy! coward! and pewee rose lets you lead him around by the nose!" "you'd better be careful what you say, susan," said pewee, threateningly. "you won't touch me. you go about bullying little boys, and calling yourself king pewee, but you can't do a sum in long division, nor in short subtraction, for that matter, and you let fellows like riley make a fool of you. your father's poor, and your mother can't keep a girl, and you ought to be ashamed to let her milk the cows. who milked your cow this morning, pewee?" "i don't know," said the king, looking like the king's fool. "you did it," said susan. "don't deny it. then you come here and call a strange boy a milkmaid!" "well, i didn't milk in the street, anyway, and he did." at this, all laughed aloud, and susan's victory was complete. she only said, with a pretty toss of her head, as she turned away: "king milkmaid!" pewee found the nickname likely to stick. he was obliged to declare on the playground the next day, that he would "thrash" any boy that said anything about milkmaids. after that, he heard no more of it. but one morning he found "king milkmaid" written on the door of his father's cow-stable. some boy who dared not attack pewee, had vented his irritation by writing the hateful words on the stable, and on the fence-corners near the school-house, and even on the blackboard. pewee could not fight with susan lanham, but he made up his mind to punish the new scholar when he should have a chance. he must give somebody a beating. chapter iii answering back it is hard for one boy to make a fight. even your bully does not like to "pitch on" an inoffensive school-mate. you remember �sop's fable of the wolf and the lamb, and what pains the wolf took to pick a quarrel with the lamb. it was a little hard for pewee to fight with a boy who walked quietly to and from the school, without giving anybody cause for offence. but the chief reason why pewee did not attack him with his fists was that both he and riley had found out that jack dudley could help them over a hard place in their lessons better than anybody else. and notwithstanding their continual persecution of jack, they were mean enough to ask his assistance, and he, hoping to bring about peace by good-nature, helped them to get out their geography and arithmetic almost every day. unable to appreciate this, they were both convinced that jack only did it because he was afraid of them, and as they found it rare sport to abuse him, they kept it up. by their influence jack was shut out of the plays. a greenhorn would spoil the game, they said. what did a boy that had lived on wildcat creek, in the indian reserve, know about playing bull-pen, or prisoner's base, or shinny? if he was brought in, they would go out. but the girls, and the small boys, and good-hearted bob holliday liked jack's company very much. yet, jack was a boy, and he often longed to play games with the others. he felt very sure that he could dodge and run in "bull-pen" as well as any of them. he was very tired of riley's continual ridicule, which grew worse as riley saw in him a rival in influence with the smaller boys. "catch will alone sometimes," said bob holliday, "when pewee isn't with him, and then thrash him. he'll back right down if you bristle up to him. if pewee makes a fuss about it, i'll look after pewee. i'm bigger than he is, and he won't fight with me. what do you say?" "i shan't fight unless i have to." "afraid?" asked bob, laughing. "it isn't that. i don't think i'm much afraid, although i don't like to be pounded or to pound anybody. i think i'd rather be whipped than to be made fun of, though. but my father used to say that people who fight generally do so because they are afraid of somebody else, more than they are of the one they fight with." "i believe that's a fact," said bob. "but riley aches for a good thrashing." "i know that, and i feel like giving him one, or taking one myself, and i think i shall fight him before i've done. but father used to say that fists could never settle between right and wrong. they only show which is the stronger, and it is generally the mean one that gets the best of it." "that's as sure as shootin'," said bob. "pewee could use you up. pewee thinks he's the king, but laws! he's only riley's bull-dog. riley is afraid of him, but he manages to keep the dog on his side all the time." "my father used to say," said jack, "that brutes could fight with force, but men ought to use their wits." "you seem to think a good deal of what your father says,--like it was your bible, you know." "my father's dead," replied jack. "oh, that's why. boys don't always pay attention to what their father says when he's alive." "oh, but then my father was--" here jack checked himself, for fear of seeming to boast. "you see," he went on, "my father knew a great deal. he was so busy with his books that he lost 'most all his money, and then we moved to the indian reserve, and there he took the fever and died; and then we came down here, where we owned a house, so that i could go to school." "why don't you give will riley as good as he sends?" said bob, wishing to get away from melancholy subjects. "you have got as good a tongue as his." "i haven't his stock of bad words, though." "you've got a power of fun in you, though,--you keep everybody laughing when you want to, and if you'd only turn the pumps on him once, he'd howl like a yellow dog that's had a quart o' hot suds poured over him out of a neighbor's window. use your wits, like your father said. you've lived in the woods till you're as shy as a flying-squirrel. all you've got to do is to talk up and take it rough and tumble, like the rest of the world. riley can't bear to be laughed at, and you can make him ridiculous as easy as not." the next day, at the noon recess, about the time that jack had finished helping bob holliday to find some places on the map, there came up a little shower, and the boys took refuge in the school-house. they must have some amusement, so riley began his old abuse. "well, greenhorn from the wildcat, where's the black sheep you stole that suit of clothes from?" "i hear him bleat now," said jack,--"about the blackest sheep i have ever seen." "you've heard the truth for once, riley," said bob holliday. riley, who was as vain as a peacock, was very much mortified by the shout of applause with which this little retort of jack's was greeted. it was not a case in which he could call in king pewee. the king, for his part, shut up his fists and looked silly, while jack took courage to keep up the battle. but riley tried again. "i say, wildcat, you think you're smart, but you're a double-distilled idiot, and haven't got brains enough to be sensible of your misery." this kind of outburst on riley's part always brought a laugh from the school. but before the laugh had died down, jack dudley took the word, saying, in a dry and quizzical way: "don't you try to claim kin with me that way, riley. no use; i won't stand it. i don't belong to your family. i'm neither a fool nor a coward." "hurrah!" shouted bob holliday, bringing down first one and then the other of his big feet on the floor. "it's your put-in now, riley." "don't be backward in coming forward, will, as the irish priest said to his people," came from grave harvey collins, who here looked up from his book, thoroughly enjoying the bully's discomfiture. "that's awfully good," said joanna merwin, clasping her hands and giggling with delight. king pewee doubled up his fists and looked at riley to see if he ought to try his sort of wit on jack. if a frog, being pelted to death by cruel boys, should turn and pelt them again, they could not be more surprised than were riley and king pewee at jack's repartees. "you'd better be careful what you say to will riley," said pewee. "i stand by him." but jack's blood was up now, and he was not to be scared. "all the more shame to him," said jack. "look at me, shaken all to pieces with the fever and ague on the wildcat, and look at that great big, bony coward of a riley. i've done him no harm, but he wants to abuse me, and he's afraid of me. he daren't touch me. he has to coax you to stand by him, to protect him from poor little me. he's a great big----" "calf," broke in bob holliday, with a laugh. "you'd better be careful," said pewee to jack, rising to his feet. "i stand by riley." "will you defend him if i hit him?" "yes." "well, then, i won't hit him. but you don't mean that he is to abuse me, while i am not allowed to answer back a word?" "well--" said pewee hesitatingly. "well," said bob holliday hotly, "i say that jack has just as good a right to talk with his tongue as riley. stand by riley if he's hit, pewee; he needs it. but don't you try to shut up jack." and bob got up and put his broad hand on jack's shoulder. nobody had ever seen the big fellow angry before, and the excitement was very great. the girls clapped their hands. "good for you, bob, i say," came from susan lanham, and poor, ungainly bob blushed to his hair to find himself the hero of the girls. "i don't mean to shut up jack," said pewee, looking at bob's size, "but i stand by riley." "well, do your standing sitting down, then," said susan. "i'll get a milking-stool for you, if that'll keep you quiet." it was well that the master came in just then, or pewee would have had to fight somebody or burst. chapter iv little christopher columbus jack's life in school was much more endurable now that he had a friend in bob holliday. bob had spent his time in hard work and in rough surroundings, but he had a gentleman's soul, although his manners and speech were rude. more and more jack found himself drawn to him. harvey collins asked jack to walk down to the river-bank with him at recess. both harvey and bob soon liked jack, who found himself no longer lonely. the girls also sought his advice about their lessons, and the younger boys were inclined to come over to his side. as winter came on, country boys, anxious to learn something about "reading, writing, and ciphering," came into the school. each of these new-comers had to go through a certain amount of teasing from riley and of bullying from pewee. one frosty morning in december there appeared among the new scholars a strange little fellow, with a large head, long straight hair, an emaciated body, and legs that looked like reeds, they were so slender. his clothes were worn and patched, and he had the look of having been frost-bitten. he could not have been more than ten years old, to judge by his size, but there was a look of premature oldness in his face. "come here!" said the master, when he caught sight of him. "what is your name?" and mr. ball took out his book to register the new-comer, with much the same relish that the giant despair showed when he had bagged a fresh pilgrim. "columbus risdale." the new-comer spoke in a shrill, piping voice, as strange as his weird face and withered body. "is that your full name?" asked the master. "no, sir," piped the strange little creature. "give your full name," said mr. ball, sternly. "my name is christopher columbus george washington marquis de lafayette risdale." the poor lad was the victim of that mania which some people have for "naming after" great men. his little shrunken body and high, piping voice made his name seem so incongruous that all the school tittered, and many laughed outright. but the dignified and eccentric little fellow did not observe it. "can you read?" "yes, sir," squeaked the lad, more shrilly than ever. "umph," said the master, with a look of doubt on his face. "in the first reader?" "no, sir; in the fourth reader." even the master could not conceal his look of astonishment at this claim. at that day, the fourth reader class was the highest in the school, and contained only the largest scholars. the school laughed at the bare notion of little christopher columbus reading in the fourth reader, and the little fellow looked around the room, puzzled to guess the cause of the merriment. "we'll try you," said the master, with suspicion. when the fourth-reader class was called, and harvey collins and susie lanham and some others of the nearly grown-up pupils came forward, with jack dudley as quite the youngest of the class, the great-eyed, emaciated little columbus risdale picked himself up on his pipe-stems and took his place at the end of this row. it was too funny for anything! will riley and pewee and other large scholars, who were yet reading in that old mcguffey's third reader, which had a solitary picture of bonaparte crossing the alps, looked with no kindly eyes on this preposterous infant in the class ahead of them. the piece to be read was the poem of mrs. hemans's called "the better land." poems like this one are rather out of fashion nowadays, and people are inclined to laugh a little at mrs. hemans. but thirty years ago her religious and sentimental poetry was greatly esteemed. this one presented no difficulty to the readers. in that day, little or no attention was paid to inflection--the main endeavor being to pronounce the words without hesitation or slip, and to "mind the stops." each one of the class read a stanza ending with a line: "not there, not there, my child!" the poem was exhausted before all had read, so that it was necessary to begin over again in order to give each one his turn. all waited to hear the little columbus read. when it came his turn, the school was as still as death. the master, wishing to test him, told him, with something like a sneer, that he could read three stanzas, or "verses," as mr. ball called them. the little chap squared his toes, threw his head back, and more fluently even than the rest, he read, in his shrill, eager voice, the remaining lines, winding up each stanza in a condescending tone, as he read: "not there, not there, my child!" the effect of this from the hundred-year-old baby was so striking and so ludicrous that everybody was amused, while all were surprised at the excellence of his reading. the master proceeded, however, to whip one or two of the boys for laughing. when recess-time arrived, susan lanham came to jack with a request. "i wish you'd look after little lummy risdale. he's a sort of cousin of my mother's. he is as innocent and helpless as the babes in the wood." "i'll take care of him," said jack. so he took the little fellow walking away from the school-house; will riley and some of the others calling after them: "not there, not there, my child!" but columbus did not lay their taunts to heart. he was soon busy talking to jack about things in the country, and things in town. on their return, riley, crying out: "not there, my child!" threw a snow-ball from a distance of ten feet and struck the poor little christopher columbus george washington lafayette so severe a blow as to throw him off his feet. quick as a flash, jack charged on riley, and sent a snow-ball into his face. an instant later he tripped him with his foot and rolled the big, scared fellow into the snow and washed his face well, leaving half a snow-bank down his back. "what makes you so savage?" whined riley. "i didn't snow-ball you." and riley looked around for pewee, who was on the other side of the school-house, and out of sight of the scuffle. "no, you daren't snow-ball me," said jack, squeezing another ball and throwing it into riley's shirt-front with a certainty of aim that showed that he knew how to play ball. "take that one, too, and if you bother lum risdale again, i'll make you pay for it. take a boy of your size." and with that he moulded yet another ball, but riley retreated to the other side of the school-house. chapter v whiling away time excluded from the plays of the older fellows, jack drew around him a circle of small boys, who were always glad to be amused with the stories of hunting, fishing, and frontier adventure that he had heard from old pioneers on wildcat creek. sometimes he played "tee-tah-toe, three in a row," with the girls, using a slate and pencil in a way well known to all school-children. and he also showed them a better kind of "tee-tah-toe," learned on the wildcat, and which may have been in the first place an indian game, as it is played with grains of indian corn. a piece of board is grooved with a jack-knife in the manner shown in the diagram. [illustration: diagram of tee-tah-toe board.] one player has three red or yellow grains of corn, and the other an equal number of white ones. the player who won the last game has the "go"--that is, he first puts down a grain of corn at any place where the lines intersect, but usually in the middle, as that is the best point. then the other player puts down one, and so on until all are down. after this, the players move alternately along any of the lines, in any direction, to the next intersection, provided it is not already occupied. the one who first succeeds in getting his three grains in a row wins the point, and the board is cleared for a new start. as there are always three vacant points, and as the rows may be formed in any direction along any of the lines, the game gives a chance for more variety of combinations than one would expect from its appearance. [illustration: jack amusing the small boys with stories of hunting, fishing, and frontier adventure.] jack had also an arithmetical puzzle which he had learned from his father, and which many of the readers of this story will know, perhaps. "set down any number, without letting me know what it is," said he to joanna merwin. she set down a number. "now add twelve and multiply by two." "well, that is done," said joanna. "divide by four, subtract half of the number first set down, and your answer will be six." "oh, but how did you know that i put down sixty-four?" said joanna. "i didn't," said jack. "how could you tell the answer, then?" "that's for you to find out." this puzzle excited a great deal of curiosity. to add to the wonder of the scholars, jack gave each time a different number to be added in, and sometimes he varied the multiplying and dividing. harvey collins, who was of a studious turn, puzzled over it a long time, and at last he found it out; but he did not tell the secret. he contented himself with giving out a number to jack and telling his result. to the rest it was quite miraculous, and riley turned green with jealousy when he found the girls and boys refusing to listen to his jokes, but gathering about jack to test his ability to "guess the answer," as they phrased it. riley said he knew how it was done, and he was even foolish enough to try to do it, by watching the slate-pencil, or by sheer guessing, but this only brought him into ridicule. "try me once," said the little c. c. g. w. m. de l. risdale, and jack let columbus set down a figure and carry it through the various processes until he told him the result. lummy grew excited, pushed his thin hands up into his hair, looked at his slate a minute, and then squeaked out: "oh--let me see--yes--no--yes--oh, i see! your answer is just half the amount added in, because you have----" but here jack placed his hand over columbus's mouth. "you can see through a pine door, lummy, but you mustn't let out my secret," he said. but jack had a boy's heart in him, and he longed for some more boy-like amusement. chapter vi a battle one morning, when jack proposed to play a game of ball with the boys, riley and pewee came up and entered the game, and objected. "it isn't interesting to play with greenhorns," said will. "if jack plays, little christopher columbus andsoforth will want to play, too; and then there'll be two babies to teach. i can't be always helping babies. let jack play two-hole cat or anthony-over with the little fellows." to which answer pewee assented, of course. that day at noon riley came to jack, with a most gentle tone and winning manner, and whiningly begged jack to show him how to divide by . "it isn't interesting to show greenhorns," said jack, mimicking riley's tone on the playground that morning. "if i show you, pewee rose will want me to show him; then there'll be two babies to teach. i can't be always helping babies. go and play two-hole cat with the first-reader boys." that afternoon, mr. ball had the satisfaction of using his new beech switches on both riley and pewee, though indeed pewee did not deserve to be punished for not getting his lesson. it was nature's doing that his head, like a goat's, was made for butting and not for thinking. but if he had to take whippings from the master and his father, he made it a rule to get satisfaction out of somebody else. if jack had helped him he wouldn't have missed. if he had not missed his lesson badly, mr. ball would not have whipped him. it would be inconvenient to whip mr. ball in return, but jack would be easy to manage, and as somebody must be whipped, it fell to jack's lot to take it. king pewee did not fall upon his victim at the school-house door; this would have insured him another beating from the master. nor did he attack jack while bob holliday was with him. bob was big and strong--a great fellow of sixteen. but after jack had passed the gate of bob's house, and was walking on toward home alone, pewee came out from behind an alley fence, accompanied by ben berry and will riley. "i'm going to settle with you now," said king pewee, sidling up to jack like an angry bull-dog. it was not a bright prospect for jack, and he cast about him for a chance to escape a brutal encounter with such a bully, and yet avoid actually running away. "well," said jack, "if i must fight, i must. but i suppose you won't let riley and berry help you." "no, i'll fight fair." and pewee threw off his coat, while jack did the same. "you'll quit when i say 'enough,' won't you?" said jack. "yes, i'll fight fair, and hold up when you've got enough." "well, then, for that matter, i've got enough now. i'll take the will for the deed and just say 'enough' before you begin," and he turned to pick up his coat. "no, you don't get off that way," said pewee. "you've got to stand up and see who is the best man, or i'll kick you all the way home." "didn't you ever hear about davy crockett's 'coon?" said jack. "when the 'coon saw him taking aim, it said: 'is that you, crockett? well, don't fire--i'll come down anyway. i know you'll hit anything you shoot at.' now, i'm that 'coon. if it was anybody but you, i'd fight. but as it's you, pewee, i might just as well come down before you begin." pewee was flattered by this way of putting the question. had he been alone, jack would have escaped. but will riley, remembering all he had endured from jack's retorts, said: "oh, give it to him, pewee; he's always making trouble." at which pewee squared himself off, doubled up his fists, and came at the slenderer jack. the latter prepared to meet him, but, after all, it was hard for pewee to beat so good-humored a fellow as jack. the king's heart failed him, and suddenly he backed off, saying: "if you'll agree to help riley and me out with our lessons hereafter, i'll let you off. if you don't, i'll thrash you within an inch of your life." and pewee stood ready to begin. jack wanted to escape the merciless beating that pewee had in store for him. but it was quite impossible for him to submit under a threat. so he answered: "if you and riley will treat me as you ought to, i'll help you when you ask me, as i always have. but even if you pound me into jelly i won't agree to help you, unless you treat me right. i won't be bullied into helping you." "give it to him, pewee," said ben berry; "he's too sassy." pewee was a rather good-natured dog--he had to be set on. he now began to strike at jack. whether he was to be killed or not, jack did not know, but he was resolved not to submit to the bully. yet he could not do much at defence against pewee's hard fists. however, jack was active and had long limbs; he soon saw that he must do something more than stand up to be beaten. so, when king pewee, fighting in the irregular western fashion, and hoping to get a decided advantage at once, rushed upon jack and pulled his head forward, jack stooped lower than his enemy expected, and, thrusting his head between pewee's knees, shoved his legs from under him, and by using all his strength threw pewee over his own back, so that the king's nose and eyes fell into the dust of the village street. "i'll pay you for that," growled pewee, as he recovered himself, now thoroughly infuriated; and with a single blow he sent jack flat on his back, and then proceeded to pound him. jack could do nothing now but shelter his eyes from pewee's blows. joanna merwin had seen the beginning of the battle from her father's house, and feeling sure that jack would be killed, she had run swiftly down the garden walk to the back gate, through which she slipped into the alley; and then she hurried on, as fast as her feet would carry her, to the blacksmith-shop of pewee rose's father. "oh, please, mr. rose, come quick! pewee's just killing a boy in the street." "vitin' ag'in," said mr. rose, who was a pennsylvanian from the limestone country, and spoke english with difficulty. "he ees a leetle ruffen, dat poy. i'll see apout him right avay a'ready, may be." and without waiting to put off his leathern apron, he walked briskly in the direction indicated by joanna. pewee was hammering jack without pity, when suddenly he was caught by the collar and lifted sharply to his feet. "wot you doin' down dare in de dirt wunst a'ready? hey?" said mr. rose, as he shook his son with the full force of his right arm, and cuffed him with his left hand. "didn't i dells you i'd gill you some day if you didn't gwit vitin' mit oder poys, a'ready?" "he commenced it," whimpered pewee. "you dells a pig lie a'ready, i beleefs, peter, and i'll whip you fur lyin' besides wunst more. fellers like _him_," pointing to jack, who was brushing the dust off his clothes,--"fellers like him don't gommence on such a poy as you. you're such anoder viter i never seed." and he shook pewee savagely. "i won't do it no more," begged pewee--"'pon my word and honor i won't." "oh, you don't gits off dat away no more, a'ready. you know what i'll giff you when i git you home, you leedle ruffen. i shows you how to vite, a'ready." and the king disappeared down the street, begging like a spaniel, and vowing that he "wouldn't do it no more." but he got a severe whipping, i fear;--it is doubtful if such beatings ever do any good. the next morning jack appeared at school with a black eye, and pewee had some scratches, so the master whipped them both for fighting. chapter vii hat-ball and bull-pen pewee did not renew the quarrel with jack--perhaps from fear of the rawhide that hung in the blacksmith's shop, or of the master's ox-goad, or of bob holliday's fists, or perhaps from a hope of conciliating jack and getting occasional help in his lessons. jack was still excluded from the favorite game of "bull-pen." i am not sure that he would have been rejected had he asked for admission, but he did not want to risk another refusal. he planned a less direct way of getting into the game. asking his mother for a worn-out stocking, and procuring an old boot-top, he ravelled the stocking, winding the yarn into a ball of medium hardness. then he cut from the boot-top a square of leather large enough for his purpose. this he laid on the kitchen-table, and proceeded to mark off and cut it into the shape of an orange-peel that has been quartered off the orange, leaving the four quarters joined together at the middle. this leather he put to soak over night. the next morning, bright and early, with a big needle and some strong thread he sewed it around his yarn-ball, stretching the wet leather to its utmost, so that when it should contract the ball should be firm and hard, and the leather well moulded to it. such a ball is far better for all play in which the player is to be hit than those sold in the stores nowadays. i have described the manufacture of the old-fashioned home-made ball, because there are some boys, especially in the towns, who have lost the art of making yarn balls. when jack had finished his ball, he let it dry, while he ate his breakfast and did his chores. then he sallied out and found bob holliday, and showed him the result of his work. bob squeezed it, felt its weight, bounced it against a wall, tossed it high in the air, caught it, and then bounced it on the ground. having thus "put it through its paces," he pronounced it an excellent ball,--"a good deal better than ben berry's ball. but what are you going to do with it?" he asked. "play anthony-over? the little boys can play that." i suppose there are boys in these days who do not know what "anthony-over" is. how, indeed, can anybody play anthony-over in a crowded city? the old one-story village school-houses stood generally in an open green. the boys divided into two parties, the one going on one side, and the other on the opposite side of the school-house. the party that had the ball would shout "anthony!" the others responded, "over!" to this, answer was made from the first party, "over she comes!" and the ball was immediately thrown over the school-house. if any of the second party caught it, they rushed, pell-mell, around both ends of the school-house to the other side, and that one of them who held the ball essayed to hit some one of the opposite party before they could exchange sides. if a boy was hit by the ball thus thrown he was counted as captured to the opposite party, and he gave all his efforts to beat his old allies. so the game went on, until all the players of one side were captured by the others. i don't know what anthony means in this game, but no doubt the game is hundreds of years old, and was played in english villages before the first colony came to jamestown. "i'm not going to play anthony-over," said jack. "i'm going to show king pewee a new trick." "you can't get up a game of bull-pen on your own hook, and play the four corners and the ring all by yourself." "no, i don't mean that. i'm going to show the boys how to play hat-ball--a game they used to play on the wildcat." "i see your point. you are going to make pewee ask you to let him in," said bob, and the two boys set out for school together, jack explaining the game to bob. they found one or two boys already there, and when jack showed his new ball and proposed a new game, they fell in with it. the boys stood their hats in a row on the grass. the one with the ball stood over the row of hats, and swung his hand to and fro above them, while the boys stood by him, prepared to run as soon as the ball should drop into a hat. the boy who held the ball, after one or two false motions,--now toward this hat, and now toward that one,--would drop the ball into somebody's hat. somebody would rush to his hat, seize the ball, and throw it at one of the other boys, who were fleeing in all directions. if he hit somebody-else, somebody-else might throw from where the ball lay, or from the hats, at the rest, and so on, until some one missed. the one who missed took up his hat and left the play, and the boy who picked up the ball proceeded to drop it into a hat, and the game went on until all but one were put out. hat-ball is so simple that any number can play at it, and jack's friends found it so full of boisterous fun, that every new-comer wished to set down his hat. and thus, by the time pewee and riley arrived, half the larger boys in the school were in the game, and there were not enough left to make a good game of bull-pen. at noon, the new game drew the attention of the boys again, and riley and pewee tried in vain to coax them away. "oh, i say, come on, fellows!" riley would say. "come--let's play something worth playing." but the boys stayed by the new game and the new ball. neither riley, nor pewee, nor ben berry liked to ask to be let into the game, after what had passed. not one of them had spoken to jack since the battle between him and pewee, and they didn't care to play with jack's ball in a game of his starting. once the other boys had broken away from pewee's domination, they were pleased to feel themselves free. as for pewee and his friends, they climbed up on a fence, and sat like three crows, watching the play of the others. after a while they got down in disgust, and went off, not knowing just what to do. when once they were out of sight, jack winked at bob, who said: "i say, boys, we can play hat-ball at recess when there isn't time for bull-pen. let's have a game of bull-pen now, before school takes up." it was done in a minute. bob holliday and tom taylor "chose up sides," the bases were all ready, and by the time pewee and his aides-de-camp had walked disconsolately to the pond and back, the boys were engaged in a good game of bull-pen. perhaps i ought to say something about the principles of a game so little known over the country at large. i have never seen it played anywhere but in a narrow bit of country on the ohio river, and yet there is no merrier game played with a ball. the ball must not be too hard. there should be four or more corners. the space inside is called the pen, and the party winning the last game always has the corners. the ball is tossed from one corner to another, and when it has gone around once, any boy on a corner may, immediately after catching the ball thrown to him from any of the four corners, throw it at any one in the pen. he must throw while "the ball is hot,"--that is, instantly on catching it. if he fails to hit anybody on the other side, he goes out. if he hits, his side leave the corners and run as they please, for the boy who has been hit may throw from where the ball fell, or from any corner, at any one of the side holding the corners. if one of them is hit, he has the same privilege; but now the men in the pen are allowed to scatter, also. whoever misses is "out," and the play is resumed from the corners until all of one side is out. when but two are left on the corners the ball is smuggled,--that is, one hides the ball in his bosom, and the other pretends that he has it also. the boys in the ring do not know which has it, and the two "run the corners," throwing from any corner. if but one is left on the corners, he is allowed, also, to run from corner to corner. it happened that jack's side lost on the toss-up for corners, and he got into the ring, where his play showed better than it would have done on the corners. as jack was the greenhorn and the last chosen on his side, the players on the corners expected to make light work of him; but he was an adroit dodger, and he put out three of the boys on the corners by his unexpected way of evading a ball. everybody who has ever played this fine old game knows that expertness in dodging is worth quite as much as skill in throwing. pewee was a famous hand with a ball, riley could dodge well, ben berry had a happy knack of dropping flat upon the ground and letting a ball pass over him, bob holliday could run well in a counter charge; but nothing could be more effective than jack dudley's quiet way of stepping forward or backward, bending his lithe body or spreading his legs to let the ball pass, according to the course which it took from the player's hand. king pewee and company came back in time to see jack dodge three balls thrown point-blank at him from a distance of fifteen feet. it was like witchcraft--he seemed to be charmed. every dodge was greeted with a shout, and when once he luckily caught the ball thrown at him, and thus put out the thrower, there was no end of admiration of his playing. it was now evident to all that jack could no longer be excluded from the game, and that, next to pewee himself, he was already the best player on the ground. at recess that afternoon pewee set his hat down in the hat-ball row, and as jack did not object, riley and ben berry did the same. the next day pewee chose jack first in bull-pen, and the game was well played. chapter viii the defender if jack had not about this time undertaken the defence of the little boy in the fourth reader, whose name was large enough to cover the principal points in the history of the new world, he might have had peace, for jack was no longer one of the newest scholars, his courage was respected by pewee, and he kept poor riley in continual fear of his ridicule--making him smart every day. but, just when he might have had a little peace and happiness, he became the defender of christopher columbus george washington marquis de la fayette risdale--little "andsoforth," as riley and the other boys had nicknamed him. the strange, pinched little body of the boy, his eccentric ways, his quickness in learning, and his infantile simplicity had all conspired to win the affection of jack, so that he would have protected him even without the solicitation of susan lanham. but since susan had been jack's own first and fast friend, he felt in honor bound to run all risks in the care of her strange little cousin. i think that columbus's child-like ways might have protected him even from riley and his set, if it had not been that he was related to susan lanham, and under her protection. it was the only chance for riley to revenge himself on susan. she was more than a match for him in wit, and she was not a proper subject for pewee's fists. so with that heartlessness which belongs to the school-boy bully, he resolved to torment the helpless fellow in revenge for susan's sarcasms. one morning, smarting under some recent taunt of susan's, riley caught little columbus almost alone in the school-room. here was a boy who certainly would not be likely to strike back again. his bamboo legs, his spindling arms, his pale face, his contracted chest, all gave the coward a perfect assurance of safety. so, with a rude pretence at play, laughing all the time, he caught the lad by the throat, and in spite of his weird dignity and pleading gentleness, shoved him back against the wall behind the master's empty chair. holding him here a minute in suspense, he began slapping him, first on this side of the face and then on that. the pale cheeks burned red with pain and fright, but columbus did not cry out, though the constantly increasing sharpness of the blows, and the sense of weakness, degradation, and terror, stung him severely. riley thought it funny. like a cat playing with a condemned mouse, the cruel fellow actually enjoyed finding one person weak enough to be afraid of him. columbus twisted about in a vain endeavor to escape from riley's clutches, getting only a sharper cuff for his pains. ben berry, arriving presently, enjoyed the sport, while some of the smaller boys and girls, coming in, looked on the scene of torture in helpless pity. and ever, as more and more of the scholars gathered, columbus felt more and more mortified; the tears were in his great sad eyes, but he made no sound of crying or complaint. jack dudley came in at last, and marched straight up to riley, who let go his hold and backed off. "you mean, cowardly, pitiful villain!" broke out jack, advancing on him. "i didn't do anything to you," whined riley, backing into a corner. "no, but i mean to do something to you. if there's an inch of man in you, come right on and fight with me. you daren't do it." "i don't want any quarrel with you." "no, you quarrel with babies." here all the boys and girls jeered. "you're too hard on a fellow, jack," whined the scared riley, slipping out of the corner and continuing to back down the school-room, while jack kept slowly following him. "you're a great deal bigger than i am," said jack. "why don't you try to corner me? oh, i could just beat the breath out of you, you great, big, good-for-nothing----" here riley pulled the west door open, and jack, at the same moment, struck him. riley half dropped, half fell, through the door-way, scared so badly that he went sprawling on the ground. the boys shouted "coward" and "baby" after him as he sneaked off, but jack went back to comfort columbus and to get control of his temper. for it is not wise, as jack soon reflected, even in a good cause to lose your self-control. "it was good of you to interfere," said susan, when she had come in and learned all about it. "i should have been a brute if i hadn't," said jack, pleased none the less with her praise. "but it doesn't take any courage to back riley out of a school-house. one could get more fight out of a yearling calf. i suppose i've got to take a beating from pewee, though." "go and see him about it, before riley talks to him," suggested susan. and jack saw the prudence of this course. as he left the school-house at a rapid pace, ben berry told riley, who was skulking behind a fence, that jack was afraid of pewee. "pewee," said jack, when he met him starting to school, after having done his "chores," including the milking of his cow,--"pewee, i want to say something to you." jack's tone and manner flattered pewee. one thing that keeps a rowdy a rowdy is the thought that better people despise him. pewee felt in his heart that jack had a contempt for him, and this it was that made him hate jack in turn. but now that the latter sought him in a friendly way, he felt himself lifted up into a dignity hitherto unknown to him. "what is it?" "you are a kind of king among the boys," said jack. pewee grew an inch taller. "they are all afraid of you. now, why don't you make us fellows behave? you ought to protect the little boys from fellows that impose on them. then you'd be a king worth the having. all the boys and girls would like you." "i s'pose may be that's so," said the king. "there's poor little columbus risdale----" "i don't like him," said pewee. "you mean you don't like susan. she _is_ a little sharp with her tongue. but you wouldn't fight with a baby--it isn't like you." "no, sir-ee," said pewee. "you'd rather take a big boy than a little one. now, you ought to make riley let lummy alone." "i'll do that," said pewee. "riley's about a million times bigger than lum." "i went to the school-house this morning," continued jack, "and i found riley choking and beating him. and i thought i'd just speak to you, and see if you can't make him stop it." "i'll do that," said pewee, walking along with great dignity. when ben berry and riley saw pewee coming in company with jack, they were amazed and hung their heads, afraid to say anything even to each other. jack and pewee walked straight up to the fence-corner in which they stood. "i thought i'd see what king pewee would say about your fighting with babies, riley," said jack. "i want you fellows to understand," said pewee, "that i'm not going to have that little lum risdale hurt. if you want to fight, why don't you fight somebody your own size? i don't fight babies myself," and here pewee drew his head up, "and i don't stand by any boy that does." poor riley felt the last support drop from under him. pewee had deserted him, and he was now an orphan, unprotected in an unfriendly world! jack knew that the truce with so vain a fellow as pewee could not last long, but it served its purpose for the time. and when, after school, susan lanham took pains to go and thank pewee for standing up for columbus, pewee felt himself every inch a king, and for the time he was--if not a "reformed prize-fighter," such as one hears of sometimes, at least an improved boy. the trouble with vain people like pewee is, that they have no stability. they bend the way the wind blows, and for the most part the wind blows from the wrong quarter. chapter ix pigeon pot-pie happy boys and girls that go to school nowadays! you have to study harder than the generations before you, it is true; you miss the jolly spelling-schools, and the good old games that were not half so scientific as base-ball, lawn tennis, or lacrosse, but that had ten times more fun and frolic in them; but all this is made up to you by the fact that you escape the tyrannical old master. whatever the faults the teachers of this day may have, they do not generally lacerate the backs of their pupils, as did some of their fore-runners. at the time of which i write, thirty years ago, a better race of school-masters was crowding out the old, but many of the latter class, with their terrible switches and cruel beatings, kept their ground until they died off one by one, and relieved the world of their odious ways. mr. ball wouldn't die to please anybody. he was a bachelor, and had no liking for children, but taught school five or six months in winter to avoid having to work on a farm in the summer. he had taught in greenbank every winter for a quarter of a century, and having never learned to win anybody's affection, had been obliged to teach those who disliked him. this atmosphere of mutual dislike will sour the sweetest temper, and mr. ball's temper had not been strained honey to begin with. year by year he grew more and more severe--he whipped for poor lessons, he whipped for speaking in school, he took down his switch for not speaking loud enough in class, he whipped for coming late to school, he whipped because a scholar made a noise with his feet, and he whipped because he himself had eaten something unwholesome for his breakfast. the brutality of a master produces like qualities in scholars. the boys drew caricatures on the blackboard, put living cats or dead ones into mr. ball's desk, and tried to drive him wild by their many devices. he would walk up and down the school-room seeking a victim, and he had as much pleasure in beating a girl or a little boy as in punishing an overgrown fellow. and yet i cannot say that mr. ball was impartial. there were some pupils that escaped. susan lanham was not punished, because her father, dr. lanham, was a very influential man in the town; and the faults of henry weathervane and his sister were always overlooked after their father became a school trustee. many efforts had been made to put a new master into the school. but mr. ball's brother-in-law was one of the principal merchants in the place, and the old man had had the school so long that it seemed like robbery to deprive him of it. it had come, in some sort, to belong to him. people hated to see him moved. he would die some day, they said, and nobody could deny that, though it often seemed to the boys and girls that he would never die; he was more likely to dry up and blow away. and it was a long time to wait for that. and yet i think greenbank might have had to wait for something like that if there hadn't come a great flight of pigeons just at this time. for whenever susan lanham suggested to her father that he should try to get mr. ball removed and a new teacher appointed, dr. lanham smiled and said "he hated to move against the old man; he's been there so long, you know, and he probably wouldn't live long, anyhow. something ought to be done, perhaps, but he couldn't meddle with him." for older people forgot the beatings they had endured, and remembered the old man only as one of the venerable landmarks of their childhood. and so, by favor of henry weathervane's father, whose children he did not punish, and by favor of other people's neglect and forgetfulness, the greenbank children might have had to face and fear the old ogre down to this day, or until he dried up and blew away, if it hadn't been, as i said, that there came a great flight of pigeons. a flight of pigeons is not uncommon in the ohio river country. audubon, the great naturalist, saw them in his day, and in old colonial times such flights took place in the settlements on the sea-board, and sometimes the starving colonists were able to knock down pigeons with sticks. the mathematician is not yet born who can count the number of pigeons in one of these sky-darkening flocks, which are often many miles in length, and which follow one another for a whole day. the birds, for the most part, fly at a considerable height from the earth, but when they are crossing a wide valley, like that of the ohio river, they drop down to a lower level, and so reach the hills quite close to the ground, and within easy gunshot. when the pigeon flight comes on saturday, it is very convenient for those boys that have guns. if these pigeons had only come on saturday instead of on monday, mr. ball might have taught the greenbank school until to-day,--that is to say, if he hadn't died or quite dried up and blown off meanwhile. for when riley and ben berry saw this flight of pigeons begin on monday morning, they remembered that the geography lesson was a hard one, and so they played "hooky," and, taking their guns with them, hid in the bushes at the top of the hill. then, as the birds struck the hill, and beat their way up over the brow of it, the boys, lying in ambush, had only to fire into the flock without taking aim, and the birds would drop all around them. the discharge of the guns made bob holliday so hungry for pigeon pot-pie, that he, too, ran away from school, at recess, and took his place among the pigeon-slayers in the paw-paw patch on the hill top. tuesday morning, mr. ball came in with darkened brows, and three extra switches. riley, berry, and holliday were called up as soon as school began. they had pigeon pot-pie for dinner, but they also had sore backs for three days, and bob laughingly said that he knew just how a pigeon felt when it was basted. the day after the whipping and the pigeon pot-pie, when the sun shone warm at noon, the fire was allowed to go down in the stove. all were at play in the sunshine, excepting columbus risdale, who sat solitary, like a disconsolate screech-owl, in one corner of the room. riley and ben berry, still smarting from yesterday, entered, and without observing lummy's presence, proceeded to put some gunpowder in the stove, taking pains to surround it with cool ashes, so that it should not explode until the stirring of the fire, as the chill of the afternoon should come on. when they had finished this dangerous transaction, they discovered the presence of columbus in his corner, looking at them with large-eyed wonder and alarm. "if you ever tell a living soul about that, we'll kill you," said ben berry. riley also threatened the scared little rabbit, and both felt safe from detection. an hour after school had resumed its session. columbus, who had sat shivering with terror all the time, wrote on his slate: "will riley and ben b. put something in the stove. said they would kill me if i told on them." this he passed to jack, who sat next to him. jack rubbed it out as soon as he had read it, and wrote: "don't tell anybody." jack could not guess what they had put in. it might be coffee-nuts, which would explode harmlessly; it might be something that would give a bad smell in burning, such as chicken-feathers. if he had thought that it was gunpowder, he would have plucked up courage enough to give the master some warning, though he might have got only a whipping for his pains. while jack was debating what he should do, the master called the fourth-reader class. at the close of the lesson he noticed that columbus was shivering, though indeed it was more from terror than from cold. "go to the stove and stir up the fire, and get warm," he said, sternly. "i'd--i'd rather not," said lum, shaking with fright at the idea. "umph!" said mr. ball, looking hard at the lad, with half a mind to make him go. then he changed his purpose and went to the stove himself, raked forward the coals, and made up the fire. just as he was shutting the stove-door, the explosion came--the ashes flew out all over the master, the stove was thrown down from the bricks on which its four legs rested, the long pipe fell in many pieces on the floor, and the children set up a general howl in all parts of the room. as soon as mr. ball had shaken off the ashes from his coat, he said: "be quiet--there's no more danger. columbus risdale, come here." "he did not do it," spoke up susan lanham. "be quiet, susan. you know all about this," continued the master to poor little columbus, who was so frightened as hardly to be able to stand. after looking at columbus a moment, the master took down a great beech switch. "now, i shall whip you until you tell me who did it. you were afraid to go to the stove. you knew there was powder there. who put it there? that's the question. answer, quick, or i shall make you." the little skin-and-bones trembled between two terrors, and jack, seeing his perplexity, got up and stood by him. "he didn't do it, mr. ball. i know who did it. if columbus should tell you, he would be beaten for telling. the boy who did it is just mean enough to let lummy get the whipping. please let him off." "_you_ know, do you? i shall whip you both. you knew there was gunpowder in the fire, and you gave no warning. i shall whip you both--the severest whipping you ever had, too." and the master put up the switch he had taken down, as not effective enough, and proceeded to take another. "if we had known it was gunpowder," said jack, beginning to tremble, "you would have been warned. but we didn't. we only knew that something had been put in." "if you'll tell all about it, i'll let you off easier; if you don't, i shall give you all the whipping i know how to give." and by way of giving impressiveness to his threat he took a turn about the room, while there was an awful stillness among the terrified scholars. i do not know what was in bob holliday's head, but about this time he managed to open the western door while the master's back was turned. bob's desk was near the door. poor little columbus was ready to die, and jack was afraid that, if the master should beat him as he threatened to do, the child would die outright. luckily, at the second cruel blow, the master broke his switch and turned to get another. seeing the door open, jack whispered to columbus: "run home as fast as you can go." the little fellow needed no second bidding. he tottered on his trembling legs to the door, and was out before mr. ball had detected the motion. when the master saw his prey disappearing out of the door, he ran after him, but it happened curiously enough, in the excitement, that bob holliday, who sat behind the door, rose up, as if to look out, and stumbled against the door, thus pushing it shut, so that by the time mr. ball got his stiff legs outside the door, the frightened child was under such headway that, fearing to have the whole school in rebellion, the teacher gave over the pursuit, and came back prepared to wreak his vengeance on jack. while mr. ball was outside the door, bob holliday called to jack, in a loud whisper, that he had better run, too, or the old master would "skin him alive." but jack had been trained to submit to authority, and to run away now would lose him his winter's schooling, on which he had set great store. he made up his mind to face the punishment as best he could, fleeing only as a last resort if the beating should be unendurable. "now," said the master to jack, "will you tell me who put that gunpowder in the stove? if you don't, i'll take it out of your skin." jack could not bear to tell, especially under a threat. i think that boys are not wholly right in their notion that it is dishonorable to inform on a school-mate, especially in the case of so bad an offence as that of which will and ben were guilty. but, on the other hand, the last thing a master ought to seek is to turn boys into habitual spies and informers on one another. in the present instance, jack ought, perhaps, to have told, for the offence was criminal; but it is hard for a high-spirited lad to yield to a brutal threat. jack caught sight of susan lanham telegraphing from behind the master, by spelling with her fingers: "tell or run." but he could not make up his mind to do either, though bob holliday had again mysteriously opened the western door. the master summoned all his strength and struck him half a dozen blows, that made poor jack writhe. then he walked up and down the room awhile, to give the victim time to consider whether he would tell or not. "run," spelled out susan on her fingers. "the school-house is on fire!" called out bob holliday. some of the coals that had spilled from the capsized stove were burning the floor--not dangerously, but bob wished to make a diversion. he rushed for a pail of water in the corner, and all the rest, aching with suppressed excitement, crowded around the fallen stove, so that it was hard for the master to tell whether there was any fire or not. bob whispered to jack to "cut sticks," but jack only went to his seat. "lay hold, boys, and let's put up the stove," said bob, taking the matter quite out of the master's hands. of course, the stove-pipe would not fit without a great deal of trouble. did ever stove-pipe go together without trouble? somehow, all the joints that bob joined together flew asunder over and over again, though he seemed to work most zealously to get the stove set up. after half an hour of this confusion, the pipe was fixed, and the master, having had time, like the stove, to cool off, and seeing jack bent over his book, concluded to let the matter drop. but there are some matters that, once taken up, are hard to drop. chapter x jack and his mother jack went home that night very sore on his back and in his feelings. he felt humiliated to be beaten like a dog, and even a dog feels degraded in being beaten. he told his mother about it--the tall, dignified, sweet-faced mother, patient in trouble and full of a goodness that did not talk much about goodness. she always took it for granted that _her_ boy would not do anything mean, and thus made a healthy atmosphere for a brave boy to grow in. jack told her of his whipping, with some heat, while he sat at supper. she did not say much then, but after jack's evening chores were all finished, she sat down by the candle where he was trying to get out some sums, and questioned him carefully. "why didn't you tell who did it?" she asked. "because it makes a boy mean to tell, and all the boys would have thought me a sneak." "it is a little hard to face a general opinion like that," she said. "but," said jack, "if i had told, the master would have whipped columbus all the same, and the boys would probably have pounded him, too. i ought to have told beforehand," said jack, after a pause. "but i thought it was only some coffee-nuts that they had put in. the mean fellows, to let columbus take a whipping for them! but the way mr. ball beats us is enough to make a boy mean and cowardly." after a long silence, the mother said: "i think we shall have to give it up, jack." "what, mother?" "the schooling for this winter. i don't want you to go where boys are beaten in that way. in the morning, go and get your books and see what you can do at home." then, after a long pause, in which neither liked to speak, mrs. dudley said: "i want you to be an educated man. you learn quickly; you have a taste for books, and you will be happier if you get knowledge. if i could collect the money that gray owes your father's estate, or even a part of it, i should be able to keep you in school one winter after this. but there seems to be no hope for that." "but gray is a rich man, isn't he?" "yes, he has a good deal of property, but not in his own name. he persuaded your father, who was a kind-hearted and easy-natured man, to release a mortgage, promising to give him some other security the next week. but, meantime, he put his property in such a shape as to cheat all his creditors. i don't think we shall ever get anything." "i am going to be an educated man, anyhow." "but you will have to go to work at something next fall," said the mother. "that will make it harder, but i mean to study a little every day. i wish i could get a chance to spend next winter in school." "we'll see what can be done." and long after jack went to bed that night the mother sat still by the candle with her sewing, trying to think what she could do to help her boy to get on with his studies. jack woke up after eleven o'clock, and saw her light still burning in the sitting-room. "i say, mother," he called out, "don't you sit there worrying about me. we shall come through this all right." some of jack's hopefulness got into the mother's heart, and she took her light and went to bed. weary, and sore, and disappointed, jack did not easily get to sleep himself after his cheerful speech to his mother. he lay awake long, making boy's plans for his future. he would go and collect money by some hook or crook from the rascally gray; he would make a great invention; he would discover a gold mine; he would find some rich cousin who would send him through college; he would----, but just then he grew more wakeful and realized that all his plans had no foundation of probability. chapter xi columbus and his friends when he waked up in the morning, jack remembered that he had not seen columbus risdale go past the door after his cow the evening before, and he was afraid that he might be ill. why had he not thought to go down and drive up the cow himself? it was yet early, and he arose and went down to the little rusty, brown, unpainted house in which the risdales, who were poor people, had their home. just as he pushed open the gate, bob holliday came out of the door, looking tired and sleepy. "hello, bob!" said jack. "how's columbus? is he sick?" "awful sick," said bob. "clean out of his head all night." "have you been here all night?" "yes, i heerd he was sick last night, and i come over and sot up with him." "you good, big-hearted bob!" said jack. "you're the best fellow in the world, i believe." "what a quare feller you air to talk, jack," said bob, choking up. "air you goin' to school to-day?" "no. mother'd rather have me not go any more." "i'm not going any more. i hate old ball. neither's susan lanham going. she's in there," and bob made a motion toward the house with his thumb, and passed out of the gate, while jack knocked at the door. he was admitted by susan. "oh, jack! i'm so glad to see you," she whispered. "columbus has asked for you a good many times during the night. you've stood by him splendidly." jack blushed, but asked how lummy was now. "out of his head most of the time. bob holliday stayed with him all night. what a good fellow bob holliday is!" "i almost hugged him, just now," said jack, and susan couldn't help smiling at this frank confession. jack passed into the next room as stealthily as possible, that he might not disturb his friend, and paused by the door. mrs. risdale sat by the bedside of columbus, who was sleeping uneasily, his curious big head and long, thin hair making a strange picture against the pillow. his face looked more meagre and his eyes more sunken than ever before, but there was a feverish flush on his wan cheeks, and the slender hands moved uneasily on the outside of the blue coverlet, the puny arms were bare to the elbows. mrs. risdale beckoned jack to come forward, and he came and stood at the bed-foot. then columbus opened his large eyes and fixed them on jack for a few seconds. "come, jack, dear old fellow," he whispered. jack came and bent over him with tearful eyes, and the poor little reed-like arms were twined about his neck. "jack," he sobbed, "the master's right over there in the corner all the time, straightening out his long switches. he says he's going to whip me again. but you won't let him, will you, jack, you good old fellow?" "no, he shan't touch you." "let's run away, jack," he said, presently. and so the poor little fellow went on, his great, disordered brain producing feverish images of terror from which he continually besought "dear good old jack" to deliver him. when at last he dropped again into a troubled sleep, jack slipped away and drove up the risdale cow, and then went back to his breakfast. he was a boy whose anger kindled slowly; but the more he thought about it, the more angry he became at the master who had given columbus such a fright as to throw him into a brain fever, and at the "mean, sneaking contemptible villains," as he hotly called them, who wouldn't come forward and confess their trick, rather than to have the poor little lad punished. "i suppose we ought to make some allowances," his mother said, quietly. "that's what you always say, mother. you're always making allowances." after breakfast and chores, jack thought to go again to see his little friend. on issuing from the gate, he saw will riley and ben berry waiting for him at the corner. whether they meant to attack him or not he could not tell, but he felt too angry to care. "i say, jack," said riley, "how did you know who put the powder in the stove? did columbus tell you?" "mind your own business," said jack, in a tone not so polite as it might be. "the less you say about gunpowder, hereafter, the better for you both. why didn't you walk up and tell, and save that little fellow a beating?" "look here, jack," said berry, "don't you tell what you know about it. there's going to be a row. they say that doctor lanham's taken susan, and all the other children, out of school, because the master thrashed lummy, and they say bob holliday's quit, and that you're going to quit, and doctor lanham's gone to work this morning to get the master put out at the end of the term. mr. ball didn't know that columbus was kin to the lanhams, or he'd have let him alone, like he does the lanhams and the weathervanes. there is going to be a big row, and everybody'll want to know who put the powder in the stove. we want you to be quiet about it." "you _do_?" said jack, with a sneer. "_you_ do?" "yes, we do," said riley, coaxingly. "you do? _you_ come to _me_ and ask me to keep it secret, after letting me and that poor little baby take your whipping! you want me to hide what you did, when that poor little columbus lies over there sick abed and like to die, all because you sneaking scoundrels let him be whipped for what you did!" "is he sick?" said riley, in terror. "going to die, i expect," said jack, bitterly. "well," said ben berry, "you be careful what you say about us, or we'll get pewee to get even with you." "oh, that's your game! you think you can scare me, do you?" jack grew more and more angry. seeing a group of school-boys on the other side of the street, he called them over. "look here, boys," said jack, "i took a whipping yesterday to keep from telling on these fellows, and now they have the face to ask me not to tell that they put the powder in the stove, and they promise me a beating from pewee if i do. these are the two boys that let a poor sickly baby take the whipping they ought to have had. they have just as good as killed him, i suppose, and now they come sneaking around here and trying to scare me in keeping still about it. i didn't back down from the master, and i won't from pewee. oh, no! i won't tell anybody. but if any of you boys should happen to guess that will riley and ben berry were the cowards who did that mean trick, i am not going to say they weren't. it wouldn't be of any use to deny it. there are only two boys in school mean enough to play such a contemptible trick as that." riley and berry stood sheepishly silent, but just here pewee came in sight, and seeing the squad of boys gathered around jack, strode over quickly and pushed his sturdy form into the midst. "pewee," said riley, "i think you ought to pound jack. he says you can't back him down." "i didn't," said jack. "i said _you_ couldn't scare me out of telling who tried to blow up the school-house stove, and let other boys take the whipping, by promising me a drubbing from pewee rose. if pewee wants to put himself in as mean a crowd as yours, and be your puppy-dog to fight for you, let him come on. he's a fool if he does, that's all i have to say. the whole town will want to ship you two fellows off before night, and pewee isn't going to fight your battles. what do you think, pewee, of fellows that put powder in a stove where they might blow up a lot of little children? what do you think of two fellows that want me to keep quiet after they let little lum risdale take a whipping for them, and that talk about setting you on to me if i tell?" thus brought face to face with both parties, king pewee only looked foolish and said nothing. jack had worked himself into such a passion that he could not go to risdale's, but returned to his own home, declaring that he was going to tell everybody in town. but when he entered the house and looked into the quiet, self-controlled face of his mother, he began to feel cooler. "let us remember that some allowances are to be made for such boys," was all that she said. "that's what you always say, mother," said jack, impatiently. "i believe you'd make allowances for the old boy himself." "that would depend on his bringing up," smiled mrs. dudley. "some people have bad streaks naturally, and some have been cowed and brutalized by ill-treatment, and some have been spoiled by indulgence." jack felt more calm after a while. he went back to the bedside of columbus, but he couldn't bring himself to make allowances. chapter xii greenbank wakes up if the pigeons had not crossed the valley on monday, nobody would have played truant, and if nobody had played truant on monday, there would not have been occasion to whip three boys on tuesday morning, and if ben berry and riley had escaped a beating on tuesday morning, they would not have thought of putting gunpowder into the stove on wednesday at noon, and if they had omitted that bad joke, columbus would not have got into trouble and run away from school, and if he had escaped the fright and the flight, he might not have had the fever, and the town would not have been waked up, and other things would not have happened. so then, you see, this world of ours is just like the house that jack built: one thing is tied to another and another to that, and that to this, and this to something, and something to something else, and so on to the very end of all things. so it was that the village was thrown into a great excitement as the result of a flock of innocent pigeons going over the heads of some lazy boys. in the first place, susan lanham talked about things. she talked to her aunts, and she talked to her uncles, and, above all, she talked to her father. now susan was the brightest girl in the town, and she had a tongue, as all the world knew, and when she set out to tell people what a brute the old master was, how he had beaten two innocent boys, how bravely jack had carried himself, how frightened little columbus was, and how sick it had made him, and how mean the boys were to put the powder there, and then to let the others take the whipping,--i say, when susan set out to tell all these things, in her eloquent way, to everybody she knew, you might expect a waking up in the sleepy old town. some of the people took susan's side and removed their children from the school, lest they, too, should get a whipping and run home and have brain fever. but many stood up for the old master, mostly because they were people of the sort that never can bear to see anything changed. "the boys ought to have told who put the powder in the stove," they said. "it served them right." "how could the master know that jack and columbus did not do it themselves?" said others. "maybe they did!" "don't tell me!" cried old mrs. horne. "don't tell me! boys can't be managed without whipping, and plenty of it. 'bring up a child and away he goes,' as the bible says. when you hire a master, you want a _master_, says i." "what a tongue that sue lanham has got!" said mr. higbie, mr. ball's brother-in-law. the excitement spread over the whole village. doctor lanham talked about it, and the ministers, and the lawyers, and the loafers in the stores, and the people who came to the post-office for their letters. of course, it broke out furiously in the "maternal association," a meeting of mothers held at the house of one of the ministers. "mr. ball can do every sum in the arithmetic," urged mrs. weathervane. "he's a master hand at figures, they do say," said mother brownson. "yes," said mrs. dudley, "i don't doubt it. jack's back is covered with figures of mr. ball's making. for my part, i should rather have a master that did his figuring on a slate." susan lanham got hold of this retort, and took pains that it should be known all over the village. when greenbank once gets waked up on any question, it never goes to sleep until that particular question is settled. but it doesn't wake up more than once or twice in twenty years. most of the time it is only talking in its sleep. now that greenbank had its eyes open for a little time, it was surprised to see that while the cities along the river had all adopted graded schools,--_de_-graded schools, as they were called by the people opposed to them,--and while even the little villages in the hill country had younger and more enlightened teachers, the county-town of greenbank had made no advance. it employed yet, under the rule of president fillmore, the same hard old stick of a master that had beaten the boys in the log school-house in the days of john quincy adams and andrew jackson. but, now it was awake, greenbank kept its eyes open on the school question. the boys wrote on the fences, in chalk: down with old bawl! and thought the bad spelling of the name a good joke, while men and women began to talk about getting a new master. will riley and ben berry had the hardest time. for the most part they stayed at home during the excitement, only slinking out in the evening. the boys nicknamed them "gunpowder cowards," and wrote the words on the fences. even the loafers about the street asked them whether old ball had given them that whipping yet, and how they liked "powder and ball." chapter xiii professor susan mr. ball did not let go easily. he had been engaged for the term, and he declared that he would go on to the end of the term, if there should be nothing but empty benches. in truth, he and his partisans hoped that the storm would blow over and the old man be allowed to go on teaching and thrashing as heretofore. he had a great advantage in that he had been trained in all the common branches better than most masters, and was regarded as a miracle of skill in arithmetical calculations. he even knew how to survey land. jack was much disappointed to miss his winter's schooling, and there was no probability that he would be able to attend school again. he went on as best he could at home, but he stuck fast on some difficult problems in the middle of the arithmetic. columbus had by this time begun to recover his slender health, and he was even able to walk over to jack's house occasionally. finding jack in despair over some of his "sums," he said: "why don't you ask susan lanham to show you? i believe she would; and she has been clean through the arithmetic, and she is 'most as good as the master himself." "i don't like to," said jack. "she wouldn't want to take the trouble." but the next morning christopher columbus managed to creep over to the lanhams: "cousin sukey," he said, coaxingly, "i wish you'd do something for me. i want to ask a favor of you." [illustration: "cousin sukey," said little columbus, "i want to ask a favor of you."] "what is it, columbus?" said sue. "anything you ask shall be given, to the half of my kingdom!" and she struck an attitude, as isabella of castile, addressing the great columbus, with the dust-brush for a sceptre, and the towel, which she had pinned about her head, for a crown. "you are so funny," he said, with a faint smile. "but i wish you'd be sober a minute." "haven't had but one cup of coffee this morning. but what do you want?" "jack----" "oh, yes, it's always jack with you. but that's right--jack deserves it." "jack can't do his sums, and he won't ask you to help him." "and so he got you to ask?" "no, he didn't. he wouldn't let me, if he knew. he thinks a young lady like you wouldn't want to take the trouble to help him." "do you tell that stupid jack, that if he doesn't want to offend me so that i'll never, never forgive him, he is to bring his slate and pencil over here after supper this evening. and you'll come, too, with your geography. yours truly, susan lanham, professor of mathematics and natural science in the greenbank independent and miscellaneous academy. do you hear?" "all right." and columbus, smiling faintly, went off to tell jack the good news. that evening susan had, besides her own brother and two sisters, two pupils who learned more arithmetic than they would have gotten in the same time from mr. ball, though she did keep them laughing at her drollery. the next evening, little joanna merwin joined the party, and professor susan felt quite proud of her "academy," as she called it. bob holliday caught the infection, and went to studying at home. as he was not so far advanced as jack, he contented himself with asking jack's help when he was in trouble. at length, he had a difficulty that jack could not solve. "why don't you take that to the professor?" asked jack. "i'll ask her to show you." "i dursn't," said bob, with a frightened look. "nonsense!" said jack. that evening, when the lessons were ended, jack said: "professor susan, there was a story in the old first reader we had in the first school that i went to, about a dog who had a lame foot. a doctor cured his foot, and some time after, the patient brought another lame dog to the doctor, and showed by signs that he wanted this other dog cured, too." "that's rather a good dog-story," said susan. "but what made you think of it?" "because i'm that first dog." "you are?" "yes. you've helped me, but there's bob holliday. i've been helping him, but he's got to a place where i don't quite understand the thing myself. now bob wouldn't dare ask you to help him----" "bring him along. how the greenbank academy grows!" laughed susan, turning to her father. bob was afraid of susan at first--his large fingers trembled so much that he had trouble to use his slate-pencil. but by the third evening his shyness had worn off, so that he got on well. one evening, after a week of attendance, he was missing. the next morning he came to jack's house with his face scratched and his eye bruised. "what's the matter?" asked jack. "well, you see, yesterday i was at the school-house at noon, and pewee, egged on by riley, said something he oughtn't to, about susan, and i couldn't stand there and hear that girl made fun of, and so i up and downed him, and made him take it back. i can't go till my face looks better, you know, for i wouldn't want her to know anything about it." but the professor heard all about it from joanna, who had it from one of the school-boys. susan sent columbus to tell bob that she knew all about it, and that he must come back to school. "so you've been fighting, have you?" she said, severely, when bob appeared. the poor fellow was glad she took that tone--if she had thanked him he wouldn't have been able to reply. "yes." "well, don't you do it any more. it's very wrong to fight. it makes boys brutal. a girl with ability enough to teach the greenbank academy can take care of herself, and she doesn't want her scholars to fight." "all right," said bob. "but," he muttered, "i'll thrash him all the same, and more than ever, if he ever says anything like that again." chapter xiv crowing after victory greenbank was awake, and the old master had to go. mr. weathervane stood up for him as long as he thought that the excitement was temporary. but when he found that greenbank really was awake, and not just talking in its sleep, as it did for the most part, he changed sides,--not all at once, but by degrees. at first he softened down a little, "hemmed and hawed," as folks say. he said he did not know but that mr. ball had been hasty, but he meant well. the next day he took another step, and said that the old master meant well, but he was _often_ too hasty in his temper. the next week he let himself down another peg in saying that "maybe" the old man meant well, but he was altogether too hot in his temper for a school-master. a little while later, he found out that mr. ball's way of teaching was quite out of date. before a month had elapsed, he was sure that the old curmudgeon ought to be put out, and thus at last mr. weathervane found himself where he liked to be, in the popular party. and so the old master came to his last day in the brick school-house. whatever feelings he may have had in leaving behind him the scenes of his twenty-five years of labor, he said nothing. he only compressed his lips a little more tightly, scowled as severely as ever, removed his books and pens from his desk, gave a last look at his long beech switches on the wall, turned the key in the door of the school-house, carried it to mr. weathervane, received his pay, and walked slowly home to the house of his brother-in-law, mr. higbie. the boys had resolved to have a demonstration. all their pent-up wrath against the master now found vent, since there was no longer any danger that the old man would have a chance to retaliate. they would serenade him. bob holliday was full of it. harry weathervane was very active. he was going to pound on his mother's bread-pan. every sort of instrument for making a noise was brought into requisition. dinner-bells, tin-pails, conch-shell dinner-horns, tin-horns, and even the village bass-drum, were to be used. would jack go? bob came over to inquire. all the boys were going to celebrate the downfall of a harsh master. he deserved it for beating columbus. so jack resolved to go. but after the boys had departed, jack began to doubt whether he ought to go or not. it did not seem quite right; yet his feelings had become so enlisted in the conflict for the old man's removal, that he had grown to be a bitter partisan, and the recollection of all he had suffered, and of all columbus had endured during his sickness, reconciled jack to the appearance of crowing over a fallen foe, which this burlesque serenade would have. nevertheless, his conscience was not clear on the point, and he concluded to submit the matter to his mother, when she should come home to supper. unfortunately for jack, his mother stayed away to tea, sending jack word that he would have to get his own supper, and that she would come home early in the evening. jack ate his bowl of bread and milk in solitude, trying to make himself believe that his mother would approve of his taking part in the "shiveree" of the old master. but when he had finished his supper, he concluded that if his mother did not come home in time for him to consult her, he would remain at home. he drew up by the light and tried to study, but he longed to be out with the boys. after a while bob holliday and harry weathervane came to the door and importuned jack to come with them. it was lonesome at home; it would be good fun to celebrate the downfall of the old master's cruel rule, so, taking down an old dinner-bell, jack went off to join the rest. he was a little disgusted when he found riley, pewee, and ben berry in the company, but once in the crowd, there was little chance to back out with credit. the boys crept through the back alleys until they came in front of mr. higbie's house, at half past eight o'clock. there was but one light visible, and that was in mr. ball's room. jack dropped behind, a little faint of heart about the expedition. he felt sure in himself that his mother would shake her head if she knew of it. at length, at a signal from bob, the tin pans, big and little, the skillet-lids grinding together, the horns, both conch-shell and tin, and the big bass-drum, set up a hideous clattering, banging, booming, roaring, and racketing. jack rang his dinner-bell rather faintly, and stood back behind all the rest "jack's afraid," said pewee. "why don't you come up to the front, like a man?" jack could not stand a taunt like this, but came forward into the cluster of half-frightened peace-breakers. just then, the door of mr. higbie's house was opened, and some one came out. "it's mr. higbie," said ben berry. "he's going to shoot." "it's bugbee, the watchman, going to arrest us," said pewee. "it's mr. ball himself," said riley, "and he'll whip us all." and he fled, followed pell-mell by the whole crowd, excepting jack, who had a constitutional aversion to running away. he only slunk up close to the fence and so stood still. "hello! who are you?" the voice was not that of mr. higbie, nor that of the old master, nor of the watchman, bugbee. with some difficulty, jack recognized the figure of doctor lanham. "oh, it's jack dudley, is it?" said the doctor, after examining him in the feeble moonlight. "yes," said jack, sheepishly. "you're the one that got that whipping from the old master. i don't wonder you came out to-night." "i do," said jack, "and i would rather now that i had taken another such whipping than to find myself here." "well, well," said the doctor, "boys will be boys." "and fools will be fools, i suppose," said jack. "mr. ball is very ill," continued the doctor. "find the others and tell them they mustn't come here again to-night, or they'll kill him. i wouldn't have had this happen for anything. the old man's just broken down by the strain he has been under. he has deserved it all, but i think you might let him have a little peace now." "so do i," said jack, more ashamed of himself than ever. the doctor went back into the house, and jack dudley and his dinner-bell started off down the street in search of harry weathervane and his tin pan, and bob holliday and his skillet-lids, and ben berry and the bass-drum. "hello, jack!" called out bob from an alley. "you stood your ground the best of all, didn't you?" "i wish i'd stood my ground in the first place against you and harry, and stayed at home." "why, what's the matter? who was it?" by this time the other boys were creeping out of their hiding-places and gathering about jack. "well, it was the doctor," said jack. "mr. ball's very sick and we've 'most killed him; that's all. we're a pack of cowards to go tooting at a poor old man when he's already down, and we ought to be kicked, every one of us. that's the way i feel about it," and jack set out for home, not waiting for any leave-taking with the rest, who, for their part, slunk away in various directions, anxious to get their instruments of noise and torment hidden away out of sight. jack stuck the dinner-bell under the hay in the stable-loft, whence he could smuggle it into the house before his mother should get down-stairs in the morning. then he went into the house. "where have you been?" asked mrs. dudley. "i came home early so that you needn't be lonesome." "bob holliday and harry weathervane came for me, and i found it so lonesome here that i went out with them." "have you got your lessons?" "no, ma'am," said jack, sheepishly. he was evidently not at ease, but his mother said no more. he went off to bed early, and lay awake a good part of the night. the next morning he brought the old dinner-bell and set it down in the very middle of the breakfast-table. then he told his mother all about it. and she agreed with him that he had done a very mean thing. chapter xv an attempt to collect three times a week the scholars of the "greenbank academy" met at the house of dr. lanham to receive instruction from professor susan, for the school trustees could not agree on a new teacher. some of the people wanted one thing, and some another; a lady teacher was advocated and opposed; a young man, an old man, a new-fashioned man, an old-fashioned man, and no teacher at all for the rest of the present year, so as to save money, were projects that found advocates. the division of opinion was so great that the plan of no school at all was carried because no other could be. so susan's class went on for a month, and grew to be quite a little society, and then it came to an end. one evening, when the lessons were finished, professor susan said: "i am sorry to tell you that this is the last lesson i can give." and then they all said "aw-w-w-w-w!" in a melancholy way. "i am going away to school myself," susan went on. "my father thinks i ought to go to mr. niles's school at port william." "i shouldn't think you'd need to go any more," said joanna merwin. "i thought you knew everything." "oh, bless me!" cried susan. in former days the people of the interior--the mississippi valley--which used then to be called "the west," were very desirous of education for their children. but good teachers were scarce. ignorant and pretentious men, incompetent wanderers from new england, who had grown tired of clock-peddling, or tin-peddling, and whose whole stock was assurance, besides impostors of other sorts, would get places as teachers because teachers were scarce and there were no tests of fitness. now and then a retired presbyterian minister from scotland or pennsylvania, or a college graduate from new england, would open a school in some country town. then people who could afford it would send their children from long distances to board near the school, and learn english grammar, arithmetic, and, in some cases, a little latin, or, perhaps, to fit themselves for entrance to some of the sturdy little country colleges already growing up in that region. at port william, in kentucky, there was at this time an old minister, mr. niles, who really knew what he professed to teach, and it was to his school that dr. lanham was now about to send susan; harvey collins and henry weathervane had already entered the school. but for poor boys like jack, and bob holliday, and columbus, who had no money with which to pay board, there seemed no chance. the evening on which susan's class broke up, there was a long and anxious discussion between jack dudley and his mother. "you see, mother, if i could get even two months in mr. niles's school, i could learn some latin, and if i once get my fingers into latin, it is like picking bricks out of a pavement; if i once get a start, i can dig it out myself. i am going to try to find some way to attend that school." but the mother only shook her head. "couldn't we move to port william?" said jack. "how could we? here we have a house of our own, which couldn't easily be rented. there we should have to pay rent, and where is the money to come from?" "can't we collect something from gray?" again mrs. dudley shook her head. but jack resolved to try the hardhearted debtor, himself. it was now four years since jack's father had been persuaded to release a mortgage in order to relieve francis gray from financial distress. gray had promised to give other security, but his promise had proved worthless. since that time he had made lucky speculations and was now a man rather well off, but he kept all his property in his wife's name, as scoundrels and fraudulent debtors usually do. all that jack and his mother had to show for the one thousand dollars with four years' interest due them, was a judgment against francis gray, with the sheriff's return of "no effects" on the back of the writ of execution against the property "of the aforesaid francis gray." for how could you get money out of a man who was nothing in law but an agent for his wife? but jack believed in his powers of persuasion, and in the softness of the human heart. he had never had to do with a man in whom the greed for money had turned the heart to granite. two or three days later jack heard that francis gray, who lived in louisville, had come to greenbank. without consulting his mother, lest she should discourage him, jack went in pursuit of the slippery debtor. he had left town, however, to see his fine farm, three miles away, a farm which belonged in law to mrs. gray, but which belonged of right to francis gray's creditors. jack found mr. gray well-dressed and of plausible manners. it was hard to speak to so fine a gentleman on the subject of money. for a minute, jack felt like backing out. but then he contrasted his mother's pinched circumstances with francis gray's abundance, and a little wholesome anger came to his assistance. he remembered, too, that his cherished projects for getting an education were involved, and he mustered courage to speak. "mr. gray, my name is john dudley." jack thought that there was a sign of annoyance on gray's face at this announcement. "you borrowed a thousand dollars of my father once, i believe." "yes, that is true. your father was a good friend of mine." "he released a mortgage so that you could sell a piece of property when you were in trouble." "yes, your father was a good friend to me. i acknowledge that. i wish i had money enough to pay that debt. it shall be the very first debt paid when i get on my feet again, and i expect to get on my feet, as sure as i live." "but, you see, mr. gray, while my mother is pinched for money, you have plenty." "it's all mrs. gray's money. she has plenty. i haven't anything." "but i want to go to school to port william. my mother is too poor to help me. if you could let me have twenty-five dollars----" "but, you see, i can't. i haven't got twenty-five dollars to my name, that i can control. but by next new year's i mean to pay your mother the whole thousand that i owe her." this speech impressed jack a little, but remembering how often gray had broken such promises, he said: "don't you think it a little hard that you and mrs. gray are well off, while my mother is so poor, all because you won't keep your word given to my father?" "but, you see, i haven't any money, excepting what mrs. gray lets me have," said mr. gray. "she seems to let you have what you want. don't you think, if you coaxed her, she would lend you twenty-five dollars till new year's, to help me go to school one more term?" francis gray was a little stunned by this way of asking it. for a moment, looking at the entreating face of the boy, he began to feel a disposition to relent a little. this was new and strange for him. to pay twenty-five dollars that he was not obliged by any self-interest to pay, would have been an act contrary to all his habits and to all the business maxims in which he had schooled himself. nevertheless, he fingered his papers a minute in an undecided way, and then he said that he couldn't do it. if he began to pay creditors in that way "it would derange his business." "but," urged jack, "think how much my father deranged his business to oblige you, and now you rob me of my own money, and of my chance to get an education." mr. gray was a little ruffled, but he got up and went out of the room. when jack looked out of the window a minute later, gray was riding away down the road without so much as bidding the troublesome jack good-morning. there was nothing for jack to do but to return to town and make the best of it. but all the way back, the tired and discouraged boy felt that his last chance of becoming an educated man had vanished. he told his mother about his attempt on mr. gray's feelings and of his failure. they discussed the matter the whole evening, and could see no chance for jack to get the education he wanted. "i mean to die a-trying," said jack, doggedly, as he went off to bed. chapter xvi an exploring expedition the next day but one, there came a letter to mrs. dudley that increased her perplexity. "your aunt hannah is sick," she said to jack, "and i must go to take care of her. i don't know what to do with you." "i'll go to port william to school," said jack. "see if i don't." "how?" asked his mother. "we don't know a soul on that side of the river. you couldn't make any arrangement." "maybe i can," said jack. "bob holliday used to live on the indiana side, opposite port william. i mean to talk with him." bob was setting onions in one of the onion-patches which abounded about greenbank, and which were, from march to july, the principal sources of pocket-money to the boys. jack thought best to wait until the day's work was finished. then he sat, where greenbank boys were fond of sitting, on the sloping top-board of a broad fence, and told his friend bob of his eager desire to go to port william. "i'd like to go, too," said bob. "this is the last year's schooling i'm to have." "don't you know any house, or any place, where we could keep 'bach' together?" "w'y, yes," said bob; "if you didn't mind rowing across the river every day, i've got a skiff, and there's the old hewed-log house on the indianny side where we used to live. a body might stay as long as he pleased in that house, i guess. judge kane owns it, and he's one of the best-hearted men in the country." "it's eight miles down there," said jack. "only seven if you go by water," said bob. "let's put out to-morry morning early. let's go in the skiff; we can row and cordelle it up the river again, though it is a job." bright and early, the boys started down the river, rowing easily with the strong, steady current of the ohio, holding their way to judge kane's, whose house was over against port william. this judge kane was an intelligent and wealthy farmer, liked by everybody. he was not a lawyer, but had once held the office of "associate judge," and hence the title, which suited his grave demeanor. he looked at the two boys out of his small, gray, kindly eyes, hardly ever speaking a word. he did not immediately answer when they asked permission to occupy the old, unused log-house, but got them to talk about their plans, and watched them closely. then he took them out to see his bees. he showed them his ingenious hives and a bee-house which he had built to keep out the moths by drawing chalk-lines about it, for over these lines the wingless grub of the moth could not crawl. then he showed them a glass hive, in which all the processes of the bees' housekeeping could be observed. after that, he took the boys to the old log-house, and pointed out some holes in the roof that would have to be fixed. and even then he did not give them any answer to their request, but told them to stay to dinner and he would see about it, all of which was rather hard on boyish impatience. they had a good dinner of fried chicken and biscuits and honey, served in the neatest manner by the motherly mrs. kane. then the judge suggested that they ought to see mr. niles about taking them into the school. so his skiff was launched, and he rowed with them across the river, which is here about a mile wide, to port william. here he introduced them to mr. niles, an elderly man, a little bent and a little positive in his tone, as is the habit of teachers, but with true kindness in his manner. the boys had much pleasure at recess time in greeting their old school-mates, harvey collins, henry weathervane, and, above all, susan lanham, whom they called professor. these three took a sincere interest in the plans of bob and jack, and susan spoke a good word for them to mr. niles, who, on his part, offered to give jack latin without charging him anything more than the rates for scholars in the english branches. then they rowed back to judge kane's landing, where he told them they could have the house without rent, and that they could get slabs and other waste at his little sawmill to fix up the cracks. then he made kindly suggestions as to the furniture they should bring--mentioning a lantern, an ax, and various other articles necessary for a camp life. they bade him good-bye at last, and started home, now rowing against the current and now cordelling along the river shore, when they grew tired of rowing. in cordelling, one sits in the skiff and steers, while the other walks on the shore, drawing the boat by a rope over the shoulders. the work of rowing and cordelling was hard, but they carried light and hopeful hearts. jack was sure now that he should overcome all obstacles and get a good education. as for bob, he had no hope higher than that of worrying through vulgar fractions before settling down to hard work. chapter xvii housekeeping experiences mrs. dudley having gone to cincinnati the next day to attend her sister, who was ill, jack was left to make his arrangements for housekeeping with bob. each of the boys took two cups, two saucers, two plates, and two knives and forks. things were likely to get lost or broken, and therefore they provided duplicates. besides, they might have company to dinner some day, and, moreover, they would need the extra dishes to "hold things," as jack expressed it. they took no tumblers, but each was provided with a tin cup. bob remembered the lantern, and jack put in an ax. they did not take much food; they could buy that of farmers or in port william. they got a "gang," or, as they called it, a "trot-line," to lay down in the river for catfish, perch, and shovel-nose sturgeon, for there was no game-law then. bob provided an iron pot to cook the fish in, and jack a frying-pan and tea-kettle. their bedding consisted of an empty tick, to be filled with straw in judge kane's barn, some equally empty pillow-ticks, and a pair of brown sheets and two blankets. but, with one thing and another, the skiff was well loaded. a good many boys stood on the bank as they embarked, and among them was columbus, who had a feeling that his best friends were about to desert him, and who would gladly have been one of the party if he could have afforded the expense. in the little crowd which watched the embarkation was hank rathbone, an old hunter and pioneer, who made several good suggestions about their method of loading the boat. "but where's your stove?" he asked. "stove?" said bob. "we can't take a stove in this thing. there's a big old fire-place in the house that'll do to cook by." "but hot weather's comin' soon," said old hank, "and then you'll want to cook out in the air, i reckon. besides, it takes a power of wood for a fire-place. if one of you will come along with me to the tin-shop, i'll have a stove made for you, of the best paytent-right sort, that'll go into a skiff, and that won't weigh more'n three or four pounds and won't cost but about two bits." jack readily agreed to buy as good a thing as a stove for twenty-five cents, and so he went with hank rathbone to the tin-shop, stopping to get some iron on the way. two half-inch round rods of iron five feet long were cut and sharpened at each end. then the ends were turned down so as to make on each rod two pointed legs of eighteen inches in length, and thus leave two feet of the rod for a horizontal piece. "now," said the old hunter, "you drive about six inches of each leg into the ground, and stand them about a foot apart. now for a top." [illustration: old hank's plan for a stove] for this he had a piece of sheet-iron cut out two feet long and fourteen inches wide, with a round kettle-hole near one end. the edges of the long sides of the sheet-iron were bent down to fit over the rods. "lay that over your rods," said hank, "and you've got a stove two foot long, one foot high, and more than one foot wide, and you can build your fire of chips, instid of logs. you can put your tea-kittle, pot, pipkin, griddle, skillet, _or_ gridiron on to the hole"--the old man eyed it admiringly. "it's good for bilin', fryin', _or_ brilin', and all fer two bits. they ain't many young couples gits set up as cheap as that!" an hour and a half of rowing downstream brought the boys to the old cabin. the life there involved more hard work than they had expected. notwithstanding jack's experience in helping his mother, the baking of corn-bread, and the frying of bacon or fish were difficult tasks, and both the boys had red faces when supper was on the table. but, as time wore on, they became skilful, and though the work was hard, it was done patiently and pretty well. between cooking, and cleaning, and fixing, and getting wood, and rowing to school and back, there was not a great deal of time left for study out of school, but jack made a beginning in latin, and bob perspired quite as freely over the addition of fractions as over the frying-pan. they rarely had recreation, excepting that of taking the fish off their trot-line in the morning, when there were any on it. once or twice they allowed themselves to visit an indian mound or burial-place on the summit of a neighboring hill, where idle boys and other loungers had dug up many bones and thrown them down the declivity. jack, who had thoughts of being a doctor, made an effort to gather a complete indian skeleton, but the dry bones had become too much mixed up. he could not get any three bones to fit together, and his man, as he tried to put him together, was the most miscellaneous creature imaginable,--neither man, woman, nor child. bob was a little afraid to have these human ruins stored under the house, lest he might some night see a ghost with war-paint and tomahawk; but jack, as became a boy of scientific tastes, pooh-poohed all superstitions or sentimental considerations in the matter. he told bob that, if he should ever see the ghost which that framework belonged to, it would be the ghost of the whole shawnee tribe, for there were nearly as many individuals represented as there were bones in the skeleton. the one thing that troubled jack was that he couldn't get rid of the image of columbus as they had seen him when they left greenbank, standing sorrowfully on the river bank. the boys often debated between themselves how they could manage to have him one of their party, but they were both too poor to pay the small tuition fees, though his board would not cost much. they could not see any way of getting over the difficulty, but they talked with susan about it, and susan took hold of the matter in her fashion by writing to her father on the subject. the result of her energetic effort was that one afternoon, as they came out of school, when the little packet-steamer was landing at the wharf, who should come ashore but christopher columbus, in his best but thread-bare clothes, tugging away at an old-fashioned carpet-bag, which was too much for him to carry. bob seized the carpet-bag and almost lifted the dignified little lad himself off his feet in his joyful welcome, while jack, finding nothing else to do, stood still and hurrahed. they soon had the dear little spindle-shanks and his great carpet-bag stowed away in the skiff. as they rowed to the north bank of the river, columbus explained how dr. lanham had undertaken to pay his expenses, if the boys would take him into partnership, but he said he was 'most afraid to come, because he couldn't chop wood, and he wasn't good for much in doing the work. "never mind, honey," said bob. "jack and i don't care whether you work or not. you are worth your keep, any time." "yes," said jack, "we even tried hard yesterday to catch a young owl to make a pet of, but we couldn't get it. you see, we're so lonesome." "i suppose i'll do for a pet owl, won't i?" said little columbus, with a strange and quizzical smile on his meagre face. and as he sat there in the boat, with his big head and large eyes, the name seemed so appropriate that bob and jack both laughed outright. but the pet owl made himself useful in some ways. i am sorry to say that the housekeeping of bob and jack had not always been of the tidiest kind. they were boys, and they were in a hurry. but columbus had the tastes of a girl about a house. he did not do any cooking or chopping to speak of, but he fixed up. he kept the house neat, cleaned the candlestick every morning, and washed the windows now and then, and as spring advanced he brought in handfuls of wild flowers. the boys declared that they had never felt at home in the old house until the pet owl came to be its mistress. he wouldn't let anything be left around out of place, but all the pots, pans, dishes, coats, hats, books, slates, the lantern, the boot-jack, and other slender furniture, were put in order before school time, so that when they got back in the afternoon the place was inviting and home-like. when judge kane and his wife stopped during their sunday-afternoon stroll, to see how the lads got on, mrs. kane praised their housekeeping. "that is all the doings of the pet owl," said bob. "pet owl? have you one?" asked mrs. kane. the boys laughed, and bob explained that columbus was the pet. that evening, the boys had a box of white honey for supper, sent over by mrs. kane, and the next saturday afternoon jack and bob helped judge kane finish planting his corn-field. one unlucky day, columbus discovered jack's box of indian bones under the house, and he turned pale and had a fit of shivering for a long time afterward. it was necessary to move the box into an old stable to quiet his shuddering horror. the next sunday afternoon, the pet owl came in with another fit of terror, shivering as before. "what's the matter now, lummy?" said jack. "have you seen any more indians?" "pewee and his crowd have gone up to the indian mound," said columbus. "well, let 'em go," said bob. "i suppose they know the way, don't they? i should like to see them. i've been so long away from greenbank that even a yellow dog from there would be welcome." chapter xviii ghosts jack and bob had to amuse columbus with stories, to divert his mind from the notion that pewee and his party meant them some harm. the indian burying-ground was not an uncommon place of resort on sundays for loafers and idlers, and now and then parties came from as far as greenbank, to have the pleasure of a ride and the amusement of digging up indian relics from the cemetery on the hill. this hill-top commanded a view of the ohio river for many miles in both directions, and of the kentucky river, which emptied into the ohio just opposite. i do not know whether the people who can find amusement in digging up bones and throwing them down-hill enjoy scenery or not, but i have heard it urged that even some dumb animals, as horses, enjoy a landscape; and i once knew a large dog, in switzerland, who would sit enchanted for a long time on the brink of a mountain cliff, gazing off at the lake below. it is only fair to suppose, therefore, that even these idle diggers in indian mounds had some pleasure in looking from a hill-top; at any rate, they were fond of frequenting this one. pewee, and riley, and ben berry, and two or three others of the same feather, had come down on this sunday to see the indian mound and to find any other sport that might lie in their reach. when they had dug up and thrown away down the steep hill-side enough bones to satisfy their jackal proclivities, they began to cast about them for some more exciting diversion. as there were no water-melon patches nor orchards to be robbed at this season of the year, they decided to have an egg-supper, and then to wait for the moon to rise after midnight before starting to row and cordelle their two boats up the river again to greenbank. the fun of an egg-supper to pewee's party consisted not so much in the eggs as in the manner of getting them. every nest in judge kane's chicken-house was rummaged that night, and mrs. kane found next day that all the nest-eggs were gone, and that one of her young hens was missing also. about dark, little allen mackay, a round-bodied, plump-faced, jolly fellow who lived near the place where the skiffs were landed, and who had spent the afternoon at the indian mound, came to the door of the old log-house. "i wanted to say that you fellows have always done the right thing by me. you've set me acrost oncet or twicet, and you've always been 'clever' to me, and i don't want to see no harm done you. you'd better look out to-night. they's some chaps from greenbank down here, and they're in for a frolic, and somebody's hen-roost'll suffer, i guess; and they don't like you boys, and they talked about routing you out to-night." "thank you," said jack. "let 'em rout," said bob. but the poor little pet owl was all in a cold shudder again. about eleven o'clock, king pewee's party had picked the last bone of mrs. kane's chicken. it was yet an hour and a half before the moon would be up, and there was time for some fun. two boys from the neighborhood, who had joined the party, agreed to furnish dough-faces for them all. nothing more ghastly than masks of dough can well be imagined, and when the boys all put them on, and had turned their coats wrong-side out, they were almost afraid of one another. "now," said riley, "pewee will knock at the door, and when they come with their lantern or candle, we'll all rush in and howl like indians." "how do indians howl?" asked ben berry. "oh, any way--like a dog or a wolf, you know. and then they'll be scared to death, and we'll just pitch their beds, and dishes, and everything else out of the door, and show them how to clean house." riley didn't know that allen mackay and jack dudley, hidden in the bushes, heard this speech, nor that jack, as soon as he had heard the plan, crept away to tell bob at the house what the enemy proposed to do. as the crowd neared the log-house, riley prudently fell to the rear, and pushed pewee to the front. there was just the faintest whitening of the sky from the coming moon, but the large apple-trees in front of the log-house made it very dark, and the dough-face crowd were obliged almost to feel their way as they came into the shadow of these trees. just as riley was exhorting pewee to knock at the door, and the whole party was tittering at the prospect of turning bob, jack, and columbus out of bed and out of doors, they all stopped short and held their breaths. "good gracious! julius caesar! sakes alive!" whispered riley. "what--wh--what is that?" nobody ran. all stood as though frozen in their places. for out from behind the corner of the house came slowly a skeleton head. it was ablaze inside, and the light shone out of all the openings. the thing had no feet, no hands, and no body. it actually floated through the air, and now and then joggled and danced a little. it rose and fell, but still came nearer and nearer to the attacking party of dough-faces, who for their part could not guess that bob holliday had put a lighted candle into an indian's skull, and then tied this ghost's lantern to a wire attached to the end of a fishing-rod, which he operated from behind the house. pewee's party drew close together, and riley whispered hoarsely: "the house is ha'nted." just then the hideous and fiery death's-head made a circuit, and swung, grinning, into riley's face, who could stand no more, but broke into a full run toward the river. at the same instant jack tooted a dinner-horn, judge kane's big dog ran barking out of the log-house, and the enemy were routed like the midianites before gideon. their consternation was greatly increased at finding their boats gone, for allen mackay had towed them into a little creek out of sight, and hidden the oars in an elder thicket. riley and one of the others were so much afraid of the ghosts that "ha'nted" the old house, that they set out straightway for greenbank, on foot. pewee and the others searched everywhere for the boats, and at last sat down and waited for daylight. just as day was breaking, bob holliday came down to the river with a towel, as though for a morning bath. very accidentally, of course, he came upon pewee and his party, all tired out, sitting on the bank in hope that day might throw some light on the fate of their boats. "hello, pewee! you here? what's the matter?" said bob, with feigned surprise. "some thief took our skiffs. we've been looking for them all night, and can't find them." "that's curious," said bob, sitting down and leaning his head on his hand. "where did you get supper last night?" "oh! we brought some with us." "look here, pewee, i'll bet i can find your boats." "how?" "you give me money enough among you to pay for the eggs and the chicken you had for supper, and i'll find out who hid your boats and where the oars are, and it'll all be square." pewee was now sure that the boat had been taken as indemnity for the chicken and the eggs. he made every one of the party contribute something until he had collected what bob thought sufficient to pay for the stolen things, and bob took it and went up and found judge kane, who had just risen, and left the money with him. then he made a circuit to allen mackay's, waked him up, and got the oars, which they put into the boats; and pushing these out of their hiding-place, they rowed them into the river, delivering them to pewee and company, who took them gratefully. jack and columbus had now made their appearance, and as pewee got into his boat, he thought to repay bob's kindness with a little advice. "i say, if i was you fellers, you know, i wouldn't stay in that old cabin a single night." "why?" asked jack. "because," said pewee, "i've heerd tell that it is ha'nted." "ghosts aren't anything when you get used to them," said jack. "we don't mind them at all." "don't you?" said pewee, who was now rowing against the current. "no," said bob, "nor dough-faces, neither." chapter xix the return home as mr. niles's school-term drew to a close, the two boys began to think of their future. "i expect to work with my hands, jack," said bob; "i haven't got a head for books, as you have. but i'd like to know a _leetle_ more before i settle down. i wish i could make enough at something to be able to go to school next winter." "if i only had your strength and size, bob, i'd go to work for somebody as a farmer. but i have more than myself to look after. i must help mother after this term is out. i must get something to do, and then learning will be slow business. they talk about ben franklin studying at night and all that, but it's a little hard on a fellow who hasn't the constitution of a franklin. still, i'm going to have an education, by hook or crook." at this point in the conversation, judge kane came in. as usual, he said little, but he got the boys to talk about their own affairs. "when do you go home?" he asked. "next friday evening, when school is out," said jack. "and what are you going to do?" he asked of bob. "get some work this summer, and then try to get another winter of schooling next year," was the answer. "what kind of work?" "oh, i can farm better than i can do anything else," said bob. "and i like it, too." and then judge kane drew from jack a full account of his affairs, and particularly of the debt due from gray, and of his interview with gray. "if you could get a few hundred dollars, so as to make your mother feel easy for a while, living as she does in her own house, you could go to school next winter." "yes, and then i could get on after that, somehow, by myself, i suppose," said jack. "but the few hundred dollars is as much out of my reach as a million would be, and my father used to say that it was a bad thing to get into the way of figuring on things that we could never reach." the judge sat still, and looked at jack out of his half-closed gray eyes for a minute in silence. "come up to the house with me," he said, rising. jack followed him to the house, where the judge opened his desk and took out a red-backed memorandum-book, and dictated while jack copied in his own handwriting the description of a piece of land on a slip of paper. "if you go over to school, to-morrow, an hour earlier than usual," he said, "call at the county clerk's office, show him your memorandum, and find out in whose name that land stands. it is timber-land five miles back, and worth five hundred dollars. when you get the name of the owner, you will know what to do; if not, you can ask me, but you'd better not mention my name to anybody in this matter." jack thanked mr. kane, but left him feeling puzzled. in fact, the farmer-judge seemed to like to puzzle people, or at least he never told anything more than was necessary. the next morning, the boys were off early to port william. jack wondered if the land might belong to his father, but then he was sure his father never had any land in kentucky. or, was it the property of some dead uncle or cousin, and was he to find a fortune, like the hero of a cheap story? but when the county clerk, whose office it is to register deeds in that county, took the little piece of paper, and after scanning it, took down some great deed-books and mortgage-books, and turned the pages awhile, and then wrote "francis gray, owner, no incumbrance," on the same slip with the description, jack had the key to mr. kane's puzzle. it was now thursday forenoon, and jack was eager on all accounts to get home, especially to see the lawyer in charge of his father's claim against mr. gray. so the next day at noon, as there was nothing left but the closing exercises, the three boys were excused, and bade good-bye to their teacher and school-mates, and rowed back to their own side of the river. they soon had the skiff loaded, for all three were eager to see the folks at greenbank. jack's mother had been at home more than a week, and he was the most impatient of the three. but they could not leave without a good-bye to judge kane and his wife, to which good-bye they added a profusion of bashful boyish thanks for kindness received. the judge walked to the boat-landing with them. jack began to tell him about the land. "don't say anything about it to me, nor to anybody else but your lawyer," said mr. kane; "and do not mention my name. you may say to your lawyer that the land has just changed hands, and the matter must be attended to soon. it won't stand exposed in that way long." when the boys were in the boat ready to start, mr. kane said to bob: "you wouldn't mind working for me this summer at the regular price?" "i'd like to," said bob. "how soon can you come?" "next wednesday evening." "i'll expect you," said the judge, and he turned away up the bank, with a slight nod and a curt "good-bye," while bob said: "what a curious man he is!" "yes, and as good as he's curious," added jack. it was a warm day for rowing, but the boys were both a little homesick. under the shelter of a point where the current was not too strong the two rowed and made fair headway, sometimes encountering an eddy which gave them a lift. but whenever the current set strongly toward their side of the river, and whenever they found it necessary to round a point, one of them would leap out on the pebbly beach and, throwing the boat-rope over his shoulder, set his strength against the stream. the rope, or _cordelle_,--a word that has come down from the first french travellers and traders in the great valley,--was tied to the row-locks. it was necessary for one to steer in the stern while the other played tow-horse, so that each had his turn at rest and at work. after three hours' toil the wharf-boat of the village was in sight, and all sorts of familiar objects gladdened their hearts. they reached the landing, and then, laden with things, they hurriedly cut across the commons to their homes. as soon as jack's first greeting with his mother was over, she told him that she thought she might afford him one more quarter of school. "no," said jack, "you've pinched yourself long enough for me; now it's time i should go to work. if you try to squeeze out another quarter of school for me you'll have to suffer for it. besides, i don't see how you can do it, unless gray comes down, and i think i have now in my pocket something that will make him come down." and jack's face brightened at the thought of the slip of paper in the pocket of his roundabout. without observing the last remark, nor the evident elation of jack's feelings, mrs. dudley proceeded to tell him that she had been offered a hundred and twenty dollars for her claim against gray. "who offered it?" asked jack. "mr. tinkham, gray's agent. maybe gray is buying up his own debts, feeling tired of holding property in somebody else's name." "a hundred and twenty dollars for a thousand! the rascal! i wouldn't take it," broke out jack, impetuously. "that's just the way i feel, jack. i'd rather wait forever, if it wasn't for your education. i can't afford to have you lose that. i'm to give an answer this evening." "we won't do it," said jack. "i've got a memorandum here," and he took the slip of paper from his pocket and unfolded it, "that'll bring more money out of him than that. i'm going to see mr. beal at once." mrs. dudley looked at the paper without understanding just what it was, and, without giving her any further explanation, but only a warning to secrecy, jack made off to the lawyer's office. "where did you get this?" asked mr. beal. "i promised not to mention his name--i mean the name of the one who gave me that. i went to the clerk's office with the description, and the clerk wrote the words: 'francis gray, owner, no incumbrance.'" "i wish i had had it sooner," said the lawyer. "it will be best to have our judgment recorded in that county to-morrow," he continued. "could you go down to port william?" "yes, sir," said jack, a little reluctant to go back. "i could if i must." "i don't think the mail will do," added mr. beal. "this thing came just in time. we should have sold the claim to-night. this land ought to fetch five hundred dollars." mr. tinkham, agent for francis gray, was much disappointed that night when mrs. dudley refused to sell her claim against gray. "you'll never get anything any other way," he said. "perhaps not, but we've concluded to wait," said mrs. dudley. "we can't do much worse if we get nothing at all." after a moment's reflection, mr. tinkham said: "i'll do a little better by _you_, mrs. dudley. i'll give you a hundred and fifty. that's the very best i _can_ do." "i will not sell the claim at present," said mrs. dudley. "it is of no use to offer." it would have been better if mrs. dudley had not spoken so positively. mr. tinkham was set a-thinking. why wouldn't the widow sell? why had she changed her mind since yesterday? why did mr. beal, the lawyer, not appear at the consultation? all these questions the shrewd little tinkham asked himself, and all these questions he asked of francis gray that evening. chapter xx a foot-race for money "they've got wind of something," said mr. tinkham to mr. gray, "or else they are waiting for you to resume payment,--or else the widow's got money from somewhere for her present necessities." "i don't know what hope they can have of getting money out of me," said gray, with a laugh. "i've tangled everything up, so that beal can't find a thing to levy on. i have but one piece of property exposed, and that's not in this state." "where is it?" asked tinkham. "it's in kentucky, five miles back of port william. i took it last week in a trade, and i haven't yet made up my mind what to do with it." "that's the very thing," said tinkham, with his little face drawn to a point,--"the very thing. mrs. dudley's son came home from port william yesterday, where he has been at school. they've heard of that land, i'm afraid; for mrs. dudley is very positive that she will not sell the claim at any price." "i'll make a mortgage to my brother on that land, and send it off from the mail-boat as i go down to-morrow," said gray. "that'll be too late," said tinkham. "beal will have his judgment recorded as soon as the packet gets there. you'd better go by the packet, get off, and see the mortgage recorded yourself, and then take the mail-boat." to this gray agreed, and the next day, when jack went on board the packet "swiftsure," he found mr. francis gray going aboard also. mr. beal had warned jack that he must not let anybody from the packet get to the clerk's office ahead of him,--that the first paper deposited for record would take the land. jack wondered why mr. francis gray was aboard the packet, which went no farther than madison, while mr. gray's home was in louisville. he soon guessed, however, that gray meant to land at port william, and so to head him off. jack looked at mr. gray's form, made plump by good feeding, and felt safe. he couldn't be very dangerous in a foot-race. jack reflected with much hopefulness that no boy in school could catch him in a straight-away run when he was fox. he would certainly leave the somewhat puffy mr. francis gray behind. but in the hour's run down the river, including two landings at minuit's and craig's, jack had time to remember that francis gray was a cunning man and might head him off by some trick or other. a vague fear took possession of him, and he resolved to be first off the boat before any pretext could be invented to stop him. meantime, francis gray had looked at jack's lithe legs with apprehension. "i can never beat that boy," he had reflected. "my running days are over." finding among the deck passengers a young fellow who looked as though he needed money, gray approached him with this question: "do you belong in port william, young man?" "i don't belong nowhere else, i reckon," answered the seedy fellow, with shuffling impudence. "do you know where the county clerk's office is?" asked mr. gray. "yes, and the market-house. i can show you the way to the jail, too, if you want to know; but i s'pose you've been there many a time," laughed the "wharf rat." gray was irritated at this rudeness, but he swallowed his anger. "would you like to make five dollars?" "now you're talkin' interestin'. why didn't you begin at that eend of the subjick? i'd like to make five dollars as well as the next feller, provided it isn't to be made by too much awful hard work." "can you run well?" "if they's money at t'other eend of the race i can run like sixty _fer a spell_. 'tain't my common gait, howsumever." "if you'll take this paper," said gray, "and get it to the county clerk's office before anybody else gets there from this boat, i'll give you five dollars." "honor bright?" asked the chap, taking the paper, drawing a long breath, and looking as though he had discovered a gold mine. "honor bright," answered gray. "you must jump off first of all, for there's a boy aboard that will beat you if he can. no pay if you don't win." "which is the one that'll run ag'in' me?" asked the long-legged fellow. gray described jack, and told the young man to go out forward and he would see him. gray was not willing to be seen with the "wharf-rat," lest suspicions should be awakened in jack dudley's mind. but after the shabby young man had gone forward and looked at jack, he came back with a doubtful air. "that's hoosier jack, as we used to call him," said the shabby young man. "he an' two more used to row a boat acrost the river every day to go to ole niles's school. he's a hard one to beat,--they say he used to lay the whole school out on prisoners' base, and that he could leave 'em all behind on fox." "you think you can't do it, then?" asked gray. "gimme a little start and i reckon i'll fetch it. it's up-hill part of the way and he may lose his wind, for it's a good half-mile. you must make a row with him at the gang-plank, er do somethin' to kinder hold him back. the wind's down stream to-day and the boat's shore to swing in a little aft. i'll jump for it and you keep him back." to this gray assented. as the shabby young fellow had predicted, the boat did swing around in the wind, and have some trouble in bringing her bow to the wharf-boat. the captain stood on the hurricane-deck calling to the pilot to "back her," "stop her," "go ahead on her," "go ahead on yer labberd," and "back on yer stabberd." now, just as the captain was backing the starboard wheel and going ahead on his larboard, so as to bring the boat around right, mr. gray turned on jack. "what are you treading on my toes for, you impudent young rascal?" he broke out. jack colored and was about to reply sharply, when he caught sight of the shabby young fellow, who just then leaped from the gunwale of the boat amidships and barely reached the wharf. jack guessed why gray had tried to irritate him,--he saw that the well-known "wharf-rat" was to be his competitor. but what could he do? the wind held the bow of the boat out, the gang-plank which had been pushed out ready to reach the wharf-boat was still firmly grasped by the deck-hands, and the farther end of it was six feet from the wharf, and much above it. it would be some minutes before any one could leave the boat in the regular way. there was only one chance to defeat the rascally gray. jack concluded to take it. he ran out upon the plank amidst the harsh cries of the deck-hands, who tried to stop him, and the oaths of the mate, who thundered at him, with the stern order of the captain from the upper deck, who called out to him to go back. but, luckily, the steady pulling ahead of the larboard engine, and the backing of the starboard, began just then to bring the boat around, the plank sank down a little under jack's weight, and jack made the leap to the wharf, hearing the confused cries, orders, oaths, and shouts from behind him, as he pushed through the crowd. "stop that thief!" cried francis gray to the people on the wharf-boat, but in vain. jack glided swiftly through the people, and got on shore before anybody could check him. he charged up the hill after the shabby young fellow, who had a decided lead, while some of the men on the wharf-boat pursued them both, uncertain which was the thief. such another pell-mell race port william had never seen. windows flew up and heads went out. small boys joined the pursuing crowd, and dogs barked indiscriminately and uncertainly at the heels of everybody. there were cries of "hurrah for long ben!" and "hurrah for hoosier jack!" some of jack's old school-mates essayed to stop him to find out what it was all about, but he would not relax a muscle, and he had no time to answer any questions. he saw the faces of the people dimly; he heard the crowd crying after him, "stop, thief!" he caught a glimpse of his old teacher, mr. niles, regarding him with curiosity as he darted by; he saw an anxious look in judge kane's face as he passed him on a street corner. but jack held his eyes on long ben, whom he pursued as a dog does a fox. he had steadily gained on the fellow, but ben had too much the start, and, unless he should give out, there would be little chance for jack to overtake him. one thinks quickly in such moments. jack remembered that there were two ways of reaching the county clerk's office. to keep the street around the block was the natural way,--to take an alley through the square was neither longer nor shorter. but by running down the alley he would deprive long ben of the spur of seeing his pursuer, and he might even make him think that jack had given out. jack had played this trick when playing hound and fox, and at any rate he would by this turn shake off the crowd. so into the alley he darted, and the bewildered pursuers kept on crying "stop, thief!" after long ben, whose reputation was none of the best. somebody ahead tried to catch the shabby young fellow, and this forced ben to make a slight curve, which gave jack the advantage, so that just as ben neared the office, jack rounded a corner out of an alley, and entered ahead of him, dashed up to the clerk's desk and deposited the judgment. "for record," he gasped. the next instant the shabby young fellow pushed forward the mortgage. "mine first!" cried long ben. "i'll take yours when i get this entered," said the clerk quietly, as became a public officer. "i got here first," said long ben. but the clerk looked at the clock and entered the date on the back of jack's paper, putting "one o'clock and eighteen minutes" after the date. then he wrote "one o'clock and nineteen minutes" on the paper which long ben handed him. the office was soon crowded with people discussing the result of the race, and a part of them were even now in favor of seizing one or the other of the runners for a theft, which some said had been committed on the packet, and others declared was committed on the wharf-boat. francis gray came in, and could not conceal his chagrin. "i meant to do the fair thing by you," he said to jack, severely, "but now you'll never get a cent out of me." "i'd rather have the law on men like you, than have a thousand of your sort of fair promises," said jack. "i've a mind to strike you," said gray. "the kentucky law is hard on a man who strikes a minor," said judge kane, who had entered at that moment. mr. niles came in to learn what was the matter, and judge kane, after listening quietly to the talk of the people, until the excitement subsided, took jack over to his house, whence the boy trudged home in the late afternoon full of hopefulness. gray's land realized as much as mr. beal expected, and jack studied hard all summer, so as to get as far ahead as possible by the time school should begin in the autumn. chapter xxi the new teacher the new teacher who was employed to take the greenbank school in the autumn was a young man from college. standing behind the desk hitherto occupied by the grim-faced mr. ball, young williams looked very mild by contrast. he was evidently a gentle-spirited man as compared with the old master, and king pewee and his crowd were gratified in noting this fact. they could have their own way with such a master as that! when he called the school to order, there remained a bustle of curiosity and mutual recognition among the children. riley and pewee kept up a little noise by way of defiance. they had heard that the new master did not intend to whip. now he stood quietly behind his desk, and waited a few moments in silence for the whispering group to be still. then he slowly raised and levelled his finger at riley and pewee, but still said nothing. there was something so firm and quiet about his motion--something that said, "i will wait all day, but you must be still"--that the boys could not resist it. by the time they were quiet, two of the girls had got into a titter over something, and the forefinger was aimed at them. the silent man made the pupils understand that he was not to be trifled with. when at length there was quiet, he made every one lay down book or slate and face around toward him. then with his pointing finger, or with a little slap of his hands together, or with a word or two at most, he got the school still again. "i hope we shall be friends," he said, in a voice full of kindliness. "all i want is to----" but at this point riley picked up his slate and book, and turned away. the master snapped his fingers, but riley affected not to hear him. "that young man will put down his slate." the master spoke in a low tone, as one who expected to be obeyed, and the slate was reluctantly put upon the desk. "when i am talking to you, i want you to hear," he went on, very quietly. "i am paid to teach you. one of the things i have to teach you is good manners. you," pointing to riley, "are old enough to know better than to take your slate when your teacher is speaking, but perhaps you have never been taught what are good manners. i'll excuse you this time. now, you all see those switches hanging here behind me. i did not put them there. i do not say that i shall not use them. some boys have to be whipped, i suppose,--like mules,--and when i have tried, i may find that i cannot get on without the switches, but i hope not to have to use them." here riley, encouraged by the master's mildness and irritated by the rebuke he had received, began to make figures on his slate. "bring me that slate," said the teacher. riley was happy that he had succeeded in starting a row. he took his slate and his arithmetic, and shuffled up to the master in a half-indolent, half-insolent way. "why do you take up your work when i tell you not to?" asked the new teacher. "because i didn't want to waste all my morning. i wanted to do my sums." "you are a remarkably industrious youth, i take it." the young master looked riley over, as he said this, from head to foot. the whole school smiled, for there was no lazier boy than this same riley. "i suppose," the teacher continued, "that you are the best scholar in school--the bright and shining light of greenbank." here there was a general titter at riley. "i cannot have you sit away down at the other end of the school-room and hide your excellent example from the rest. stand right up here by me and cipher, that all the school may see how industrious you are." riley grew very red in the face and pretended to "cipher," holding his book in his hand. "now," said the new teacher, "i have but just one rule for this school, and i will write it on the blackboard that all may see it." he took chalk and wrote: do right. "that is all. let us go to our lessons." for the first two hours that riley stood on the floor he pretended to enjoy it. but when recess came and went and mr. williams did not send him to his seat, he began to shift from one foot to the other and from his heels to his toes, and to change his slate from the right hand to the left. his class was called, and after recitation he was sent back to his place. he stood it as best he could until the noon recess, but when, at the beginning of the afternoon session, mr. williams again called his "excellent scholar" and set him up, riley broke down and said: "i think you might let me go now." "are you tired?" asked the cruel mr. williams. "yes, i am," and riley hung his head, while the rest smiled. "and are you ready to do what the good order of the school requires?" "yes, sir." "very well; you can go." the chopfallen riley went back to his seat, convinced that it would not do to rebel against the new teacher, even if he did not use the beech switches. but mr. williams was also quick to detect the willing scholar. he gave jack extra help on his latin after school was out, and jack grew very proud of the teacher's affection for him. chapter xxii chasing the fox all the boys in the river towns thirty years ago--and therefore the boys in greenbank, also--took a great interest in the steam-boats which plied up and down the ohio. each had his favorite boat, and boasted of her speed and excellence. every one of them envied those happy fellows whose lot it was to "run on the river" as cabin-boys. boats were a common topic of conversation--their build, their engines, their speed, their officers, their mishaps, and all the incidents of their history. so it was that from the love of steam-boats, which burned so brightly in the bosom of the boy who lived on the banks of that great and lovely river, there grew up the peculiar game of "boats' names." i think the game was started at louisville or new albany, where the falls interrupt navigation, and where many boats of the upper and lower rivers are assembled. one day, as the warm air of indian summer in this mild climate made itself felt, the boys assembled, on the evergreen "bluegrass," after the snack at the noon recess, to play boats' names. through jack's influence, columbus, who did not like to play with the a b c boys, was allowed to take the handkerchief and give out the first name. all the rest stood up in a row like a spelling-class, while little columbus, standing in front of them, held a knotted handkerchief with which to scourge them when the name should be guessed. the arm which held the handkerchief was so puny that the boys laughed to see the feeble lad stand there in a threatening attitude. "i say, lum, don't hit too hard, now; my back is tender," said bob holliday. "give us an easy one to guess," said riley, coaxingly. columbus, having come from the back country, did not know the names of half a dozen boats, and what he knew about were those which touched daily at the wharf of greenbank. "f----n," he said. "fashion," cried all the boys at once, breaking into unrestrained mirth at the simplicity that gave them the name of captain glenn's little cincinnati and port william packet, which landed daily at the village wharf. columbus now made a dash at the boys, who were obliged to run to the school-house and back whenever a name was guessed, suffering a beating all the way from the handkerchief of the one who had given out the name, though, indeed, the punishment lum was able to give was very slight. it was doubtful who had guessed first, since the whole party had cried "fashion" almost together, but it was settled at last in favor of harry weathervane, who was sure to give out hard names, since he had been to cincinnati recently, and had gone along the levee reading the names of those boats that did business above that city, and so were quite unknown, unless by report, to the boys of greenbank. "a---- a----s," were the three letters which harry gave, and ben berry guessed "archibald ananias," and tom holcroft said it was "amanda amos," and at last all gave it up; whereupon harry told them it was "alvin adams," and proceeded to give out another. "c---- a---- p----x," he said next time. "caps," said riley, mistaking the x for an s; and then bob holliday suggested "hats and caps," and jack wanted to have it "boots and shoes." but johnny meline remembered that he had read of such a name for a ship in his sunday-school lesson of the previous sunday, and he guessed that a steam-boat might bear that same. "i know," said johnny, "it's castor----" "oil," suggested jack. "no--castor and p, x,--pollux--castor and pollux--it's a bible name." "you're not giving us the name of noah's ark, are you?" asked bob. "i say, boys, that isn't fair a bit," growled pewee, in all earnestness. "i don't hardly believe that bible ship's a-going now." things were mixed in pewee's mind, but he had a vague notion that bible times were as much as fifty years ago. while he stood doubting, harry began to whip him with the handkerchief, saying, "i saw her at cincinnati, last week. she runs to maysville and parkersburg, you goose." after many names had been guessed, and each guesser had taken his turn, ben berry had to give out. he had just heard the name of a "lower country" boat, and was sure that it would not be guessed. "c----p----r," he said. "oh, i know," said jack, who had been studying the steam-boat column of an old louisville paper that very morning, "it's the--the--" and he put his hands over his ears, closed his eyes, and danced around, trying to remember, while all the rest stood and laughed at his antics. "now i've got it,--the 'cornplanter'!" and ben berry whipped the boys across the road and back, after which jack took the handkerchief. "oh, say, boys, this is a poor game; let's play fox," bob suggested. "jack's got the handkerchief, let him be the first fox." so jack took a hundred yards' start, and all the boys set out after him. the fox led the hounds across the commons, over the bars, past the "brick pond," as it was called, up the lane into moro's pasture, along the hill-side to the west across dater's fence into betts's pasture; thence over into the large woods pasture of the glade farm. in every successive field some of the hounds had run off to the flank, and by this means every attempt of jack's to turn toward the river, and thus fetch a circuit for home, had been foiled. they had cut him off from turning through moro's orchard or betts's vineyard, and so there was nothing for the fleet-footed fox but to keep steadily to the west and give his pursuers no chance to make a cut-off on him. but every now and then he made a feint of turning, which threw the others out of a straight track. once in the woods pasture, jack found himself out of breath, having run steadily for a rough mile and a half, part of it up-hill. he was yet forty yards ahead of bob holliday and riley, who led the hounds. dashing into a narrow path through the underbrush, jack ran into a little clump of bushes and hid behind a large black-walnut log. riley and holliday came within six feet of him, some of the others passed to the south of him and some to the north, but all failed to discover his lurking-place. soon jack could hear them beating about the bushes beyond him. this was his time. having recovered his wind, he crept out southward until he came to the foot of the hill, and entered glade's lane, heading straight for the river across the wide plain. pewee, who had perched himself on a fence to rest, caught sight of jack first, and soon the whole pack were in full cry after him, down the long, narrow, elder-bordered lane. bob holliday and riley, the fleetest of foot, climbed over the high stake-and-rider fence into betts's corn-field, and cut off a diagonal to prevent jack's getting back toward the school-house. seeing this movement, jack, who already had made an extraordinary run, crossed the fence himself, and tried to make a cut-off in spite of them; but riley already had got in ahead of him, and jack, seeing the boys close behind and before him, turned north again toward the hill, got back into the lane, which was now deserted, and climbed into glade's meadow on the west side of the lane. he now had a chance to fetch a sweep around toward the river again, though the whole troop of boys were between him and the school-house. fairly headed off on the east, he made a straight run south for the river shore, striking into a deep gully, from which he came out panting upon the beach, where he had just time to hide himself in a hollow sycamore, hoping that the boys would get to the westward and give him a chance to run up the river shore for the school-house. but one cannot play the same trick twice. some of the boys stationed themselves so as to intercept jack's retreat toward the school-house, while the rest searched for him, beating up and down the gully, and up and down the beach, until they neared the hollow sycamore. jack made a sharp dash to get through them, but was headed off and caught by pewee. just as jack was caught, and pewee was about to start homeward as fox, the boys caught sight of two steam-boats racing down the river. the whole party was soon perched on a fallen sycamore, watching first the "swiftsure" and then the "ben franklin," while the black smoke poured from their chimneys. so fascinated were they with this exciting contest that they stayed half an hour waiting to see which should beat. at length, as the boats passed out of sight, with the "swiftsure" leading her competitor, it suddenly occurred to jack that it must be later than the school-hour. the boys looked aghast at one another a moment on hearing him mention this; then they glanced at the sun, already declining in the sky, and set out for school, trotting swiftly in spite of their fatigue. what would the master say? pewee said he didn't care,--it wasn't old ball, and they wouldn't get a whipping, anyway. but jack thought that it was too bad to lose the confidence of mr. williams. chapter xxiii called to account successful hounds, having caught their fox, ought to have come home in triumph; but, instead of that, they came home like dogs that had been killing sheep, their heads hanging down in a guilty and self-betraying way. jack walked into the school-house first. it was an hour and a half past the time for the beginning of school. he tried to look unconcerned as he went to his seat. there stood the teacher, with his face very calm but very pale, and jack felt his heart sink. one by one the laggards filed into the school-room, while the awe-stricken girls on the opposite benches, and the little a b c boys, watched the guilty sinners take their places, prepared to meet their fate. riley came in with a half-insolent smile on his face, as if to say: "i don't care." pewee was sullen and bull-doggish. ben berry looked the sneaking fellow he was, and harry weathervane tried to remember that his father was a school-trustee. bob holliday couldn't help laughing in a foolish way. columbus had fallen out of the race before he got to the "brick-pond," and so had returned in time to be punctual when school resumed its session. during all the time that the boys, heated with their exercise and blushing with shame, were filing in, mr. williams stood with set face and regarded them. he was very much excited, and so i suppose did not dare to reprove them just then. he called the classes and heard them in rapid succession, until it was time for the spelling-class, which comprised all but the very youngest pupils. on this day, instead of calling the spelling-class, he said, evidently with great effort to control himself: "the girls will keep their seats. the boys will take their places in the spelling-class." riley's lower jaw fell--he was sure that the master meant to flog them all. he was glad he was not at the head of the class. ben berry could hardly drag his feet to his place, and poor jack was filled with confusion. when the boys were all in place, the master walked up and down the line and scrutinized them, while riley cast furtive glances at the dusty old beech switches on the wall, wondering which one the master would use, and pewee was trying to guess whether mr. williams's arm was strong, and whether he "would make a fellow take off his coat" or not. "columbus," said the teacher, "you can take your seat." riley shook in his shoes, thinking that this certainly meant a whipping. he began to frame excuses in his mind, by which to try to lighten his punishment. but the master did not take down his switches. he only talked. but such a talk! he told the boys how worthless a man was who could not be trusted, and how he had hoped for a school full of boys that could be relied on. he thought there were some boys, at least--and this remark struck jack to the heart--that there were some boys in the school who would rather be treated as gentlemen than beaten with ox-goads. but he was now disappointed. all of them seemed equally willing to take advantage of his desire to avoid whipping them; and all of them had shown themselves _unfit to be trusted_. here he paused long enough to let the full weight of his censure enter their minds. then he began on a new tack. he had hoped that he might have their friendship. he had thought that they cared a little for his good opinion. but now they had betrayed him. all the town was looking to see whether he would succeed in conducting his school without whipping. a good many would be glad to see him fail. today they would be saying all over greenbank that the new teacher couldn't manage his school. then he told the boys that while they were sitting on the trunk of the fallen sycamore looking at the steam-boat race, one of the trustees, mr. weathervane, had driven past and had seen them there. he had stopped to complain to the master. "now," said the master, "i have found how little you care for me." this was very sharp talk, and it made the boys angry. particularly did jack resent any intimation that he was not to be trusted. but the new master was excited and naturally spoke severely. nor did he give the boys a chance to explain at that time. "you have been out of school," he said, "one hour and thirty-one minutes. that is about equal to six fifteen-minute recesses--to the morning and afternoon recesses for three days. i shall have to keep you in at those six recesses to make up the time, and in addition, as a punishment, i shall keep you in school half an hour after the usual time of dismission, for three days." here jack made a motion to speak. "no," said the master, "i will not hear a word, now. go home and think it over. to-morrow i mean to ask each one of you to explain his conduct." with this, he dismissed the school, and the boys went out as angry as a hive of bees that have been disturbed. each one made his speech. jack thought it "mean that the master should say they were not fit to be trusted. he wouldn't have stayed out if he'd known it was school-time." bob holliday said "the young master was a blisterer," and then he laughed good-naturedly. harry weathervane was angry, and so were all the rest. at length it was agreed that they didn't want to be cross-questioned about it, and that it was better that somebody should write something that should give mr. williams a piece of their mind, and show him how hard he was on boys that didn't mean any harm, but only forgot themselves. and jack was selected to do the writing. jack made up his mind that the paper he would write should be "a scorcher." chapter xxiv an apology of course, there was a great deal of talk in the village. the i-told-you-so people were quite delighted. old mother horn "always knew that boys couldn't be managed without switching. didn't the bible or somebody say: 'just as the twig is bent the boy's inclined?' and if you don't bend your twig, what'll become of your boy?" the loafers and loungers and gad-abouts and gossips talked a great deal about the failure of the new plan. they were sure that mr. ball would be back in that school-house before the term was out, unless williams should whip a good deal more than he promised to. the boys would just drive him out. jack told his mother, with a grieved face, how harsh the new master had been, and how he had even said they were _not fit to be trusted_. "that's a very harsh word," said mrs. dudley, "but let us make some allowances. mr. williams is on trial before the town, and he finds himself nearly ruined by the thoughtlessness of the boys. he had to wait an hour and a half, with half of the school gone. think how much he must have suffered in that time. and then, to have to take a rebuke from mr. weathervane besides, must have stung him to the quick." "yes, that's so," said jack, "but then he had no business to take it for granted that we did it on purpose." and jack went about his chores, trying to think of some way of writing to the master an address which should be severe, but not too severe. he planned many things but gave them up. he lay awake in the night thinking about it, and, at last, when he had cooled off, he came to the conclusion that, as the boys had been the first offenders, they should take the first step toward a reconciliation. but whether he could persuade the angry boys to see it in that light, he did not know. when morning came, he wrote a very short paper, somewhat in this fashion: mr. williams: dear sir: we are very sorry for what we did yesterday, and for the trouble we have given you. we are willing to take the punishment, for we think we deserve it; but we hope you will not think that we did it on purpose, for we did not, and we don't like to have you think so. respectfully submitted. jack carried this in the first place to his faithful friend, bob holliday, who read it. "oh, you've come down, have you?" said bob. "i thought we ought to," said jack. "we _did_ give him a great deal of trouble, and if it had been mr. ball, he would have whipped us half to death." "we shouldn't have forgot and gone away at that time if old ball had been the master," said bob. "that's just it," said jack; "that's the very reason why we ought to apologize." "all right," said bob, "i'll sign her," and he wrote "robert m. holliday" in big letters at the top of the column intended for the names. jack put his name under bob's. but when they got to the school-house it was not so easy to persuade the rest. at length, however, johnny meline signed it, and then harry weathervane, and then the rest, one after another, with some grumbling, wrote their names. all subscribed to it excepting pewee and ben berry and riley. they declared they never would sign it. they didn't want to be kept in at recess and after school like convicts. they didn't deserve it. "jack is a soft-headed fool," riley said, "to draw up such a thing as that. i'm not afraid of the master. i'm not going to knuckle down to him, either." of course, pewee, as a faithful echo, said just what riley said, and ben berry said what riley and pewee said; so that the three were quite unanimous. "well," said jack, "then we'll have to hand in our petition without the signatures of the triplets." "don't you call me a triplet," said pewee; "i've got as much sense as any of you. you're a soft-headed triplet yourself!" even riley had to join in the laugh that followed this blundering sally of pewee. when the master came in, he seemed very much troubled. he had heard what had been said about the affair in the town. the address which jack had written was lying on his desk. he took it up and read it, and immediately a look of pleasure and relief took the place of the worried look he had brought to school with him. "boys," he said, "i have received your petition, and i shall answer it by and by." the hour for recess came and passed. the girls and the very little boys were allowed their recess, but nothing was said to the larger boys about their going out. pewee and riley were defiant. at length, when the school was about to break up for noon, the master put his pen, ink, and other little articles in the desk, and the school grew hushed with expectancy. "this apology," said mr. williams, "which i see is in john dudley's handwriting, and which bears the signature of all but three of those who were guilty of the offence yesterday, is a very manly apology, and quite increases my respect for those who have signed it. i have suffered much from your carelessness of yesterday, but this apology, showing, as it does, the manliness of my boys, has given me more pleasure than the offence gave me pain. i ought to make an apology to you. i blamed you too severely yesterday in accusing you of running away intentionally. i take all that back." here he paused a moment, and looked over the petition carefully. "william riley, i don't see your name here. why is that?" "because i didn't put it there." pewee and ben berry both laughed at this wit. "why didn't you put it there?" "because i didn't want to." "have you any explanation to give of your conduct yesterday?" "no, sir; only that i think it's mean to keep us in because we forgot ourselves." "peter rose, have you anything to say?" "just the same as will riley said." "and you, benjamin?" "oh, i don't care much," said ben berry. "jack was fox, and i ran after him, and if he hadn't run all over creation and part of columbia, i shouldn't have been late. it isn't any fault of mine. i think jack ought to do the staying in." "you are about as old a boy as jack," said the master. "i suppose jack might say that if you and the others hadn't chased him, he wouldn't have run 'all over creation,' as you put it. you and the rest were all guilty of a piece of gross thoughtlessness. all excepting you three have apologized in the most manly way. i therefore remove the punishment from all the others entirely hereafter, deeming that the loss of this morning's recess is punishment enough for boys who can be so manly in their acknowledgments. peter rose, william riley, and benjamin berry will remain in school at both recesses and for a half-hour after school every day for three days--not only for having forgotten their duty, but for having refused to make acknowledgment or apology." going home that evening, half an hour after all the others had been dismissed, the triplets put all their griefs together, and resolved to be avenged on mr. williams at the first convenient opportunity. chapter xxv king's base and a spelling-lesson as the three who usually gave the most trouble on the playground, as well as in school, were now in detention at every recess, the boys enjoyed greatly their play during these three days. it was at this time that they began to play that favorite game of greenbank, which seems to be unknown almost everywhere else. it is called "king's base," and is full of all manner of complex happenings, sudden surprises, and amusing results. each of the boys selected a base or goal. a row of sidewalk trees were favorite bases. there were just as many bases as boys. some boy would venture out from his base. then another would pursue him; a third would chase the two, and so it would go, the one who left his base latest having the right to catch. just as johnny meline was about to lay hold on jack, sam crashaw, having just left _his_ base, gave chase to johnny, and just as sam thought he had a good chance to catch johnny, up came jack, fresh from having touched his base, and nabbed sam. when one has caught another, he has a right to return to his base with his prisoner, unmolested. the prisoner now becomes an active champion of the new base, and so the game goes on until all the bases are broken up but one. very often the last boy on a base succeeds in breaking up a strong one, and, indeed, there is no end to the curious results attained in the play. jack had never got on in his studies as at this time. mr. williams took every opportunity to show his liking for his young friend, and jack's quickened ambition soon put him at the head of his classes. it was a rule that the one who stood at the head of the great spelling-class on friday evenings should go to the foot on monday, and so work his way up again. there was a great strife between sarah weathervane and jack to see which should go to the foot the oftenest during the term, and so win a little prize that mr. williams had offered to the best speller in the school. as neither of them ever missed a word in the lesson, they held the head each alternate friday evening. in this way the contest bade fair to be a tie. but sarah meant to win the prize by fair means or foul. one friday morning before school-time, the boys and girls were talking about the relative merits of the two spellers, joanna maintaining that sarah was the better, and others that jack could spell better than sarah. "oh!" said sarah weathervane, "jack is the best speller in school. i study till my head aches to get my lesson, but it is all the same to jack whether he studies or not. he has a natural gift for spelling, and he spends nearly all his time on arithmetic and latin." this speech pleased jack very much. he had stood at the head of the class all the week, and spelling did seem to him the easiest thing in the world. that afternoon he hardly looked at his lesson. it was so nice to think he could beat sarah weathervane with his left hand, so to speak. when the great spelling-class was called, he spelled the words given to him, as usual, and sarah saw no chance to get the coveted opportunity to stand at the head, go down, and spell her way up again. but the very last word given to jack was _sacrilege_, and, not having studied the lesson, he spelled it with _e_ in the second syllable and _i_ in the last. sarah gave the letters correctly, and when jack saw the smile of triumph on her face, he guessed why she had flattered him that morning. hereafter he would not depend on his natural genius for spelling. a natural genius for working is the best gift. chapter xxvi unclaimed top-strings with a sinking heart, jack often called to mind that this was his last term at school. the little money that his father had left was not enough to warrant his continuing; he must now do something for his own support. he resolved, therefore, to make the most of his time under mr. williams. when pewee, riley, and ben berry got through with their punishment, they sought some way of revenging themselves on the master for punishing them, and on jack for doing better than they had done, and thus escaping punishment. it was a sore thing with them that jack had led all the school his way, so that, instead of the whole herd following king pewee and prime minister riley into rebellion, they now "knuckled down to the master," as riley called it, under the lead of jack, and they even dared to laugh slyly at the inseparable "triplets." the first aim of pewee and company was to get the better of the master. they boasted to jack and bob that they would fix mr. williams some time, and gave out to the other boys that they knew where the master spent his evenings, and they knew how to fix him. when jack heard of this, he understood it. the teacher had a habit of spending an evening, now and then, at dr. lanham's, and the boys no doubt intended to play a prank on him in going or coming. there being now no moonlight, the village streets were very dark, and there was every opportunity for a trick. riley's father's house stood next on the street to dr. lanham's; the lots were divided by an alley. this gave the triplets a good chance to carry out their designs. but bob holliday and jack, good friends to the teacher, thought that it would be fun to watch the conspirators and defeat them. so, when they saw mr. williams going to dr. lanham's, they stationed themselves in the dark alley on the side of the street opposite to riley's and took observations. mr. williams had a habit of leaving dr. lanham's at exactly nine o'clock, and so, just before nine, the three came out of riley's yard, and proceeded in the darkness to the fence of lanham's dooryard. getting the trunk of one of the large shade-trees between him and the plotters, jack crept up close enough to guess what they were doing and to overhear their conversation. then he came back to bob. "they are tying a string across the sidewalk on lanham's side of the alley, i believe," whispered jack, "so as to throw mr. williams head foremost into that mud-hole at the mouth of the alley." by this time, the three boys had finished their arrangements and retreated through the gate into the porch of the riley house, whence they might keep a lookout for the catastrophe. "i'm going to cut that string where it goes around the tree," said bob, and he crouched low on the ground, got the trunk of the tree between him and the riley house, and crept slowly across the street. "i'll capture the string," said jack, walking off to the next cross-street, then running around the block until he came to the back gate of lanham's yard, which he entered, running up the walk to the back door. his knock was answered by mrs. lanham. "why, jack, what's the matter?" she asked, seeing him at the kitchen door, breathless. "i want to see susan, please," he said, "and tell mr. williams not to go yet a minute." "here's a mystery," said mrs. lanham, returning to the sitting-room, where the teacher was just rising to say good-night. "here's jack dudley, at the back door, out of breath, asking for susan, and wishing mr. williams not to leave the house yet." susan ran to the back door. "susan," said jack, "the triplets have tied a string from the corner of your fence to the locust-tree, and they're watching from riley's porch to see mr. williams fall into the mud-hole. bob is cutting the string at the tree, and i want you to go down along the fence and untie it and bring it in. they will not suspect you if they see you." "i don't care if they do," said susan, and she glided out to the cross-fence which ran along the alley, followed it to the front and untied the string, fetching it back with her. when she got back to the kitchen door she heard jack closing the alley gate. he had run off to join bob, leaving the string in susan's hands. dr. lanham and the master had a good laugh over the captured string, which was made of pewee's and riley's top-strings, tied together. the triplets did not see susan go to the fence. they were too intent on what was to happen to mr. williams. when, at length, he came along safely through the darkness, they were bewildered. "you didn't tie that string well in the middle," growled pewee at riley. "yes, i did," said riley. "he must have stepped over." "step over a string a foot high, when he didn't know it was there?" said pewee. "let's go and get the string," said ben berry. so out of the gate they sallied, and quickly reached the place where the string ought to have been. "i can't find this end," whispered pewee by the fence. "the string's gone!" broke out riley, after feeling up and down the tree for some half a minute. what could have become of it? they had been so near the sidewalk all the time that no one could have passed without their seeing him. the next day, at noon-time, when susan lanham brought out her lunch, it was tied with pewee's new top-string,--the best one in the school. "that's a very nice string," said susan. "it's just like pewee's top-string," cried harry weathervane. "is it yours, pewee?" said susan, in her sweetest tones. "no," said the king, with his head down; "mine's at home." "i found this one, last night," said susan. and all the school knew that she was tormenting pewee, although they could not guess how she had got his top-string. after a while, she made a dive into her pocket, and brought out another string. "oh," cried johnny meline, "where did you get that?" "i found it." "that's will riley's top-string," said johnny. "it was mine. he cheated me out of it by trading an old top that wouldn't spin." "that's the way you get your top-strings, is it, will? is this yours?" asked the tormenting susan. "no, it isn't." "of course it isn't yours. you don't tie top-strings across the sidewalk at night. you're a gentleman, you are! come, johnny, this string doesn't belong to anybody; i'll trade with you for that old top that will gave you for a good string. i want something to remember honest will riley by." johnny gladly pocketed the string, and susan carried off the shabby top, to the great amusement of the school, who now began to understand how she had come by the two top-strings. chapter xxvii the last day of school, and the last chapter of the story it was the last day of the spring term of school. with jack this meant the end of his opportunity for going to school. what he should learn hereafter he must learn by himself. the money was nearly out, and he must go to work. the last day of school meant also the expiration of the master's authority. whatever evil was done after school-hours on the last day was none of his business. all who had grudges carried them forward to that day, for thus they could revenge themselves without being called to account by the master the next day. the last day of school had no to-morrow to be afraid of. hence, pewee and his friends proposed to square accounts on the last day of school with jack dudley, whom they hated for being the best scholar, and for having outwitted them more than once. it was on the first day of june that the school ended, and mr. williams bade his pupils good-bye. the warm sun had by this time brought the waters of the ohio to a temperature that made bathing pleasant, and when the school closed, all the boys, delighted with liberty, rushed to the river for a good swim together. in that genial climate one can remain in the water for hours at a time, and boys become swimmers at an early age. just below the village a raft was moored, and from this the youthful swimmers were soon diving into the deep water like frogs. every boy who could perform any feat of agility displayed it. one would turn a somersault in the water, and then dive from one side of the raft to another, one could float, and another swim on his back, while a third was learning to tread water. some were fond of diving toes downward, others took headers. "the little fellows" who could not swim kept on the inside of the great raft and paddled about with the aid of slabs used for floats. jack, who had lived for years on the banks of the wildcat, could swim and dive like a musquash. mr. williams, the teacher, felt lonesome at saying good-bye to his school; and to keep the boys company as long as possible, he strolled down to the bank and sat on the grass watching the bathers below him, plunging and paddling in all the spontaneous happiness of young life. riley and pewee--conspirators to the last--had their plans arranged. when jack should get his clothes on, they intended to pitch him off the raft for a good wetting, and thus gratify their long-hoarded jealousy, and get an offset to the standing joke about dough-faces and ghosts which the town had at their expense. ben berry, who was their confidant, thought this a capital plan. when at length jack had enjoyed the water enough, he came out and was about to begin dressing. pewee and riley were close at hand, already dressed, and prepared to give jack a farewell ducking. but just at that moment there came from the other end of the raft, and from the spectators on the bank, a wild, confused cry, and all turned to hearken. harry weathervane's younger brother, whose name was andrew jackson, and who could not swim, in dressing, had stepped too far backward and gone off the raft. he uttered a despairing and terrified scream, struck out wildly and blindly, and went down. all up and down the raft and up and down the bank there went up a cry: "andy is drowning!" while everybody looked for somebody else to save him. the school-master was sitting on the bank, and saw the accident. he quickly slipped off his boots, but then he stopped, for jack had already started on a splendid run down that long raft. the confused and terrified boys made a path for him quickly, as he came on at more than the tremendous speed he had always shown in games. he did not stop to leap, but ran full tilt off the raft, falling upon the drowning boy and carrying him completely under water with him. nobody breathed during the two seconds that jack, under water, struggled to get a good hold on andy and to keep andy from disabling him by his blind grappling of jack's limbs. when at length jack's head came above water, there was an audible sigh of relief from all the on-lookers. but the danger was not over. "let go of my arms, andy!" cried jack. "you'll drown us both if you hold on that way. if you don't let go i'll strike you." jack knew that it was sometimes necessary to stun a drowning person before you could save him, where he persisted in clutching his deliverer. but poor frightened andy let go of jack's arms at last. jack was already exhausted with swimming, and he had great difficulty in dragging the little fellow to the raft, where will riley and pewee rose pulled him out of the water. but now, while all were giving attention to the rescued andy, there occurred with jack one of those events which people call a cramp. i do not know what to call it, but it is not a cramp. it is a kind of collapse--a sudden exhaustion that may come to the best of swimmers. the heart insists on resting, the consciousness grows dim, the will-power flags, and the strong swimmer sinks. nobody was regarding jack, who first found himself unable to make even an effort to climb on the raft; then his hold on its edge relaxed, and he slowly sank out of sight. pewee saw his sinking condition first, and cried out, as did riley and all the rest, doing nothing to save jack, but running up and down the raft in a vain search for a rope or a pole. the school-master, having seen that andy was brought out little worse for his fright and the water he had swallowed, was about to put on his boots when this new alarm attracted his attention to jack dudley. instantly he threw off his coat and was bounding down the steep bank, along the plank to the raft, and then along the raft to where jack had sunk entirely out of sight. mr. williams leaped head first into the water and made what the boys afterward called a splendid dive. once under water he opened his eyes and looked about for jack. at last he came up, drawing after him the unconscious and apparently lifeless form of jack, who was taken from the water by the boys. the teacher despatched two boys to bring dr. lanham, while he set himself to restore consciousness by producing artificial breathing. it was some time after dr. lanham's arrival that jack fully regained his consciousness, when he was carried home by the strong arms of bob holliday, will riley, and pewee, in turn. [illustration: bob holliday carries home his friend.] and here i must do the last two boys the justice to say that they called to inquire after jack every day during the illness that followed, and the old animosity to jack was never afterward revived by pewee and his friends. on the evening after this accident and these rescues, dr. lanham said to mrs. lanham and susan and mr. williams, who happened to be there again, that a boy was wanted in the new drug-store in the village, to learn the business, and to sleep in the back room, so as to attend night-calls. dr. lanham did not know why this jack dudley wouldn't be just the boy. susan, for her part, was very sure he would be; and mr. williams agreed with susan, as, indeed, he generally did. dr. lanham thought that jack might be allowed to attend school in the daytime in the winter season, and if the boy had as good stuff in him as he seemed to have, there was no reason why he shouldn't come to something some day. "come to something!" said susan. "come to something! why, he'll make one of the best doctors in the country yet." and again mr. williams entirely agreed with susan, jack dudley was sure to go up to the head of the class. jack got the place, and i doubt not fulfilled the hope of his friends. i know this, at least, that when a year or so later his good friend and teacher, mr. williams, was married to his good and stanch friend, susan lanham, jack's was one of the happiest faces at the wedding. none [frontispiece: the carnival of canoes] rosalind at red gate _by_ meredith nicholson with illustrations by arthur i. keller new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright the bobbs-merrill company november to my mother _rosalind: i thought thy heart had been wounded with the claws of a lion._ _orlando: wounded it is, but with the eyes of a lady._ as you like it. "_then dame liones said unto sir gareth, sir, i will lend you a ring; but i would pray you as ye love me heartily let me have it again when the tournament is done, for that ring increaseth my beauty much more than it is of itself. and the virtue of my ring is that that is green it will turn to red, and that is red it will turn in likeness to green, and that is blue it will turn to likeness of white, and that is white, it will turn in likeness to blue, and so it will do of all manner of colours._" morte d'arthur. contents chapter i a telegram from paul stoddard ii confidences iii i meet mr. reginald gillespie iv i explore tippecanoe creek v a fight on a house-boat vi a sunday's mixed affairs vii a broken oar viii a lady of shadows and starlight ix the lights on st. agatha's pier x the flutter of a handkerchief xi the carnival of canoes xii the melancholy of mr. gillespie xiii the gate of dreams xiv battle orchard xv i undertake a commission xvi an odd affair at red gate xvii how the night ended xviii the lady of the white butterflies xix helen takes me to task xx the touch of dishonor xxi a blue cloak and a scarlet xxii mr. gillespie's diversions xxiii the rocket signal xxiv "with my hands" xxv daybreak illustrations the carnival of canoes . . . . . . _frontispiece_ "we must take no risks whatever, helen." three white butterflies fluttered about her head. "where's your father, rosalind?" rosalind at red gate chapter i a telegram from paul stoddard up, up, my heart! up, up, my heart, this day was made for thee! for soon the hawthorn spray shall part, and thou a face shalt see that comes, o heart, o foolish heart, this way to gladden thee. --_h. c. bunner_. stoddard's telegram was brought to me on the glenarm pier at four o'clock tuesday afternoon, the fifth of june. i am thus explicit, for all the matters hereinafter described turn upon the receipt of stoddard's message, which was, to be sure, harmless enough in itself, but, like many other scraps of paper that blow about the world, the forerunner of confusion and trouble. my friend, mr. john glenarm, had gone abroad for the summer with his family and had turned over to me his house at annandale that i might enjoy its seclusion and comfort while writing my book on _russian rivers_. if john glenarm had not taken his family abroad with him when he went to turkey to give the sultan's engineers lessons in bridge building; if i had not accepted his kind offer of the house at annandale for the summer; and if paul stoddard had not sent me that telegram, i should never have written this narrative. but such was the predestined way of it. i rose from the boat i was caulking, and, with the waves from the receding steamer slapping the pier, read this message: stamford, conn., june . meet miss patricia holbrook annandale station, five twenty chicago express and conduct her to st. agatha's school, where she is expected. she will explain difficulties. i have assured her of your sympathy and aid. will join you later if necessary. imperative engagements call me elsewhere. stoddard. to say that i was angry when i read this message is to belittle the truth. i read and re-read it with growing heat. i had accepted glenarm's offer of the house at annandale because it promised peace, and now i was ordered by telegraph to meet a strange person of whom i had never heard, listen to her story, and tender my sympathy and aid. i glanced at my watch. it was already after four. "delayed in transmission" was stamped across the telegraph form--i learned later that it had lain half the day in annandale, new york--so that i was now face to face with the situation, and without opportunity to fling his orders back to stoddard if i wanted to. nor did i even know stamford from stamboul, and i am not yet clear in my mind--being an irishman with rather vague notions of american geography--whether connecticut is north or south of massachusetts. "ijima!" i called my japanese boy from the boat-house, and he appeared, paint-brush in hand. "order the double trap, and tell them to hurry." i reflected, as i picked up my coat and walked toward the house, that if any one but paul stoddard had sent me such a message i should most certainly have ignored it; but i knew him as a man who did not make demands or impose obligations lightly. as the founder and superior of the protestant religious order of the brothers of bethlehem he was, i knew, an exceedingly busy man. his religious house was in the virginia mountains; but he spent much time in quiet, humble service in city slums, in lumber-camps, in the mines of pennsylvania; and occasionally he appeared like a prophet from the wilderness in some great church of new york, and preached with a marvelous eloquence to wondering throngs. the trap swung into the arched driveway and i bade the coachman make haste to the annandale station. the handsome bays were soon trotting swiftly toward the village, while i drew on my gloves and considered the situation. a certain miss holbrook, of whose existence i had been utterly ignorant an hour before, was about to arrive at annandale. a clergyman, whom i had not seen for two years, had telegraphed me from a town in connecticut to meet this person, conduct her to st. agatha's school--just closed for the summer, as i knew--and to volunteer my services in difficulties that were darkly indicated in a telegram of forty-five words. the sender of the message i knew to be a serious character, and a gentleman of distinguished social connections. the name of the lady signified nothing except that she was unmarried; and as stoddard's acquaintance was among all sorts and conditions of men i could assume nothing more than that the unknown had appealed to him as a priest and that he had sent her to lake annandale to shake off the burdens of the world in the conventual air of st. agatha's. high-born italian ladies, i knew, often retired to remote convents in the italian hills for meditation or penance. miss holbrook's age i placed conservatively at twenty-nine; for no better reason, perhaps, than that i am thirty-two. the blue arch of june does not encourage difficulties, doubts or presentiments; and with the wild rose abloom along the fences and with robins tossing their song across the highway i ceased to growl and found curiosity getting the better of my temper. expectancy, after all, is the cheerfullest tonic of life, and when the time comes when i can see the whole of a day's programme from my breakfast-table i shall be ready for man's last adventure. i smoothed my gloves and fumbled my tie as the bays trotted briskly along the lake shore. the chicago express whistled for annandale just as we gained the edge of the village. it paused a grudging moment and was gone before we reached the station. i jumped out and ran through the waiting-room to the platform, where the agent was gathering up the mail-bags, while an assistant loaded a truck with trunks. i glanced about, and the moment was an important one in my life. standing quite alone beside several pieces of hand-baggage was a lady--unmistakably a lady--leaning lightly upon an umbrella, and holding under her arm a magazine. she was clad in brown, from bonnet to shoes; the umbrella and magazine cover were of like tint, and even the suitcase nearest her struck the same note of color. there was no doubt whatever as to her identity; i did not hesitate a moment; the lady in brown was miss holbrook, and she was an old lady, a dear, bewitching old lady, and as i stepped toward her, her eyes brightened--they, too, were brown!--and she put out her brown-gloved hand with a gesture so frank and cordial that i was won at once. "mr. donovan--mr. laurance donovan--i am sure of it!" "miss holbrook--i am equally confident!" i said. "i am sorry to be late, but father stoddard's message was delayed." "you are kind to respond at all," she said, her wonderful eyes upon me; "but father stoddard said you would not fail me." "he is a man of great faith! but i have a trap waiting. we can talk more comfortably at st. agatha's." "yes; we are to go to the school. father stoddard kindly arranged it. it is quite secluded, he assured me." "you will not be disappointed, miss holbrook, if seclusion is what you seek." i picked up the brown bag and turned away, but she waited and glanced about. her "we" had puzzled me; perhaps she had brought a maid, and i followed her glance toward the window of the telegraph office. "oh, helen; my niece, helen holbrook, is with me. i wished to wire some instructions to my housekeeper at home. father stoddard may not have explained--that it is partly on helen's account that i am coming here." "no; he explained nothing--merely gave me my instructions," i laughed. "he gives orders in a most militant fashion." in a moment i had been presented to the niece, and had noted that she was considerably above her aunt's height; that she was dark, with eyes that seemed quite black in certain lights, and that she bowed, as her aunt presented me, without offering her hand, and murmured my name in a voice musical, deep and full, and agreeable to hear. she took their checks from her purse, and i called the porter and arranged for the transfer of their luggage to st. agatha's. we were soon in the trap with the bays carrying us at a lively clip along the lake road. it was all perfectly new to them and they expressed their delight in the freshness of the young foliage; the billowing fields of ripening wheat, the wild rose, blackberry and elderberry filling the angles of the stake-and-rider fences, and the flashing waters of the lake that carried the eye to distant wooded shores. i turned in my seat by the driver to answer their questions. "there's a summer resort somewhere on the lake; how far is that from the school?" asked the girl. "that's port annandale. it's two or three miles from st. agatha's," i replied. "on this side and all the way to the school there are farms. the lake looks like an oval pond as we see it here, but there are several long arms that creep off into the woods, and there's another lake of considerable size to the north. port annandale lies yonder." "of course we shall see nothing of it," said the younger miss holbrook with finality. i sought in vain for any resemblance between the two women; they were utterly unlike. the little brown lady was interested and responsive enough; she turned toward her niece with undisguised affection as we talked, but i caught several times a look of unhappiness in her face, and the brow that time had not touched gathered in lines of anxiety and care. the girl's manner toward her aunt was wholly kind and sympathetic. "i'm sure it will be delightful here, aunt pat. wild roses and blue water! i'm quite in love with the pretty lake already." this was my first introduction to the diminutive of patricia, and it seemed very fitting, and as delightful as the dear little woman herself. she must have caught my smile as the niece so addressed her for the first time and she smiled back at me in her charming fashion. "you are an irishman, mr. donovan, and pat must sound natural." "oh, all who love aunt patricia call her aunt pat!" exclaimed the girl. "then miss holbrook undoubtedly hears it often," said i, and was at once sorry for my bit of blarney, for the tears shone suddenly in the dear brown eyes, and the niece recurred to the summer landscape as a topic, and talked of the glenarm place, whose stone wall we were now passing, until we drove into the grounds of st. agatha's and up to the main entrance of the school, where a sister in the brown garb of her order stood waiting. i first introduced myself to sister margaret, who was in charge, and then presented the two ladies who were to be her guests. it was disclosed that sister theresa, the head of the school, had wired instructions from york harbor, where she was spending the summer, touching miss holbrook's reception, and her own rooms were at the disposal of the guests. st. agatha's is, as all who are attentive to such matters know, a famous girls' school founded by sister theresa, and one felt its quality in the appointments of the pretty, cool parlor where we were received. sister margaret said just the right thing to every one, and i was glad to find her so capable a person, fully able to care for these exiles without aid from my side of the wall. she was a tall, fair young woman, with a cheerful countenance, and her merry eyes seemed always to be laughing at one from the depths of her brown hood. pleasantly hospitable, she rang for a maid. "helen, if you will see our things disposed of i will detain mr. donovan a few minutes," said miss holbrook. "or i can come again in an hour--i am your near neighbor," i remarked, thinking she might wish to rest from her journey. "i am quite ready," she replied, and i bowed to helen holbrook and to sister margaret, who went out, followed by the maid. miss pat--you will pardon me if i begin at once to call her by this name, but it fits her so capitally, it is so much a part of her, that i can not resist--miss pat put off her bonnet without fuss, placed it on the table and sat down in a window-seat whence the nearer shore of the lake was visible across the strip of smooth lawn. "father stoddard thought it best that i should explain the necessity that brings us here," she began; "but the place is so quiet that it seems absurd to think that our troubles could follow us." i bowed. the idea of this little woman's being driven into exile by any sort of trouble seemed preposterous. she drew off her gloves and leaned back comfortably against the bright pillows of the window-seat. "watch the hands of the guest in the tent," runs the arabian proverb. miss pat's hands seemed to steal appealingly out of her snowy cuffs; there was no age in them. the breeding showed there as truly as in her eyes and face. on the third finger of her left hand she wore a singularly fine emerald, set in an oddly carved ring of roman gold. "will you please close the door?" she said, and when i came back to the window she began at once. "if is not pleasant, as you must understand, to explain to a stranger an intimate and painful family trouble. but father stoddard advised me to be quite frank with you." "that is the best way, if there is a possibility that i may be of service," i said in the gentlest tone i could command. "but tell me no more than you wish. i am wholly at your service without explanations." "it is in reference to my brother; he has caused me a great deal of trouble. when my father died nearly ten years ago--he lived to a great age--he left a considerable estate, a large fortune. a part of it was divided at once among my two brothers and myself. the remainder, amounting to one million dollars, was left to me, with the stipulation that i was to make a further division between my brothers at the end of ten years, or at my discretion. i was older than my brothers, much older, and my father left me with this responsibility, not knowing what it would lead to. henry and arthur succeeded to my father's business, the banking firm of holbrook brothers, in new york. the bank continued to prosper for a time; then it collapsed suddenly. the debts were all paid, but arthur disappeared--there were unpleasant rumors--" she paused a moment, and looked out of the window toward the lake, and i saw her clasped hands tighten; but she went on bravely. "that was seven years ago. since then henry has insisted on the final division of the property. my father had a high sense of honor and he stipulated that if either of his sons should be guilty of any dishonorable act he should forfeit his half of the million dollars. henry insists that arthur has forfeited his rights and that the amount withheld should be paid to him now; but his conduct has been such that i feel i should serve him ill to pay him so large a sum of money. moreover, i owe something to his daughter--to helen. owing to her father's reckless life i have had her make her home with me for several years. she is a noble girl, and very beautiful--you must have seen, mr. donovan, that she is an unusually beautiful girl." "yes," i assented. "and better than that," she said with feeling, "she is a very lovely character." i nodded, touched to see how completely helen holbrook filled and satisfied her aunt's life. miss pat continued her story. "my brother first sought to frighten me into a settlement by menacing my own peace; and now he includes helen in his animosity. my house at stamford was set on fire a month ago; then thieves entered it and i was obliged to leave. we arranged to go abroad, but when we got to the steamer we found henry waiting with a threat to follow us if i did not accede to his demands. it was father stoddard who suggested this place, and we came by a circuitous route, pausing here and there to see whether we were followed. we were in the adirondacks for a week, then we went into canada, crossed the lake to cleveland and finally came on here. you can imagine how distressing--how wretched all this has been." "yes; it is a sad story, miss holbrook. but you are not likely to be molested here. you have a lake on one side, a high wall shuts off the road, and i beg you to accept me as your near neighbor and protector. the servants at mr. glenarm's house have been with him for several years and are undoubtedly trustworthy. it is not likely that your brother will find you here, but if he should--we will deal with that situation when the time comes!" "you are very reassuring; no doubt we shall not need to call on you. and i hope you understand," she continued anxiously, "that it is not to keep the money that i wish to avoid my brother; that if it were wise to make this further division at this time and it were for his good, i should be glad to give him all--every penny of it." "pardon me, but the other brother--he has not made similar demands--you do not fear him?" i inquired with some hesitation. "to--no!" and a tremulous smile played about her lips. "poor arthur! he must be dead. he ran away after the bank failure and i have never heard from him since. he and henry were very unlike, and i always felt more closely attached to arthur. he was not brilliant, like henry; he was gentle and quiet in his ways, and father was often impatient with him. henry has been very bitter toward arthur and has appealed to me on the score of arthur's ill-doing. it took all his own fortune, he says, to save arthur and the family name from dishonor." she was remarkably composed throughout this recital, and i marveled at her more and more. now, after a moment's silence, she turned to me with a smile. "we have been annoyed in another way. it is so ridiculous that i hesitate to tell you of it--" "pray do not--you need tell me nothing more, miss holbrook." "it is best for you to know. my niece has been annoyed the past year by the attentions of a young man whom she greatly dislikes and whose persistence distresses her very much indeed." "well, he can hardly find her here; and if he should--" miss holbrook folded her arms upon her knees and smiled, bending toward me. the loveliness of her hair, which she wore parted and brushed back at the temples, struck me for the first time. the brown--i was sure it had been brown!--had yielded to white--there was no gray about it; it was the soft white of summer clouds. "oh!" she exclaimed; "he isn't a violent person, mr. donovan. he's silly, absurd, idiotic! you need fear no violence from him." "and of course your niece is not interested--he's not a fellow to appeal to her imagination." "that is quite true; and then in our present unhappy circumstances, with her father hanging over her like a menace, marriage is far from her thoughts. she feels that even if she were attached to a man and wished to marry, she could not. i wish she did not feel so; i should be glad to see her married and settled in her own home. these difficulties can not last always; but while they continue we are practically exiles. helen has taken it all splendidly, and her loyalty to me is beyond anything i could ask. it's a very dreadful thing, as you can understand, for brother and sister and father and child to be arrayed against one another." i wished to guide the talk into cheerfuller channels before leaving. miss pat seemed amused by the thought of the unwelcome suitor, and i determined to leave her with some word in reference to him. "if a strange knight in quest of a lady comes riding through the wood, how shall i know him? what valorous words are written on his shield, and does he carry a lance or a suit-case?" "he is the knight of the sorrowful countenance," said miss holbrook in my own key, as she rose. "you would know him anywhere by his clothes and the remarkable language he uses. he is not to be taken very seriously--that's the trouble with him! but i have been afraid that he and my brother might join hands in the pursuit of us." "but the sorrowful knight would not advance his interests by that--he could only injure his cause!" i exclaimed. "oh, he has no subtlety; he's a very foolish person; he blunders at windmills with quixotic ardor. you understand, of course, that our troubles are not known widely. we used to be a family of some dignity,"--and miss patricia drew herself up a trifle and looked me straight in the eyes--"and i hope still for happier years." "won't you please say good night to miss holbrook for me?" i said, my hand on the door. and then an odd thing happened. i was about to take my departure through the front hall when i remembered a short cut to the glenarm gate from the rear of the school. i walked the length of the parlor to a door that would, i knew, give ready exit to the open. i bowed to miss pat, who stood erect, serene, adorable, in the room that was now touched with the first shadows of waning day, and her slight figure was so eloquent of pathos, her smile so brave, that i bowed again, with a reverence i already felt for her. then as i flung the door open and stepped into the hall i heard the soft swish of skirts, a light furtive step, and caught a glimpse--or could have sworn i did--of white. there was only one sister in the house, and a few servants; it seemed incredible that they could be eavesdropping upon this guest of the house. i crossed a narrow hall, found the rear door, and passed out into the park. something prompted me to turn when i had taken a dozen steps toward the glenarm gate. the vines on the gray stone buildings were cool to the eye with their green that hung like a tapestry from eaves to earth. and suddenly, as though she came out of the ivied wall itself, helen holbrook appeared on the little balcony opening from one of the first-floor rooms, rested the tips of her fingers on the green vine-clasped rail, and, seeing me, bowed and smiled. she was gowned in white, with a scarlet ribbon at her throat, and the green wall vividly accented and heightened her outline. i stood, staring like a fool for what seemed a century of heart-beats as she flashed forth there, out of what seemed a sheer depth of masonry; then she turned her head slightly, as though in disdain of me, and looked off toward the lake. i had uncovered at sight of her, and found, when i gained the broad hall at glenarm house, that i still carried my hat. an hour later, as i dined in solitary state, that white figure was still present before me; and i could not help wondering, though the thought angered me, whether that graceful head had been bent against the closed door of the parlor at st. agatha's, and (if such were the fact) why helen holbrook, who clearly enjoyed the full confidence of her aunt, should have stooped to such a trick to learn what miss patricia said to me. chapter ii confidences when spring grows old, and sleepy winds set from the south with odors sweet, i see my love in green, cool groves, speed down dusk aisles on shining feet. she throws a kiss and bids me run, in whispers sweet as roses' breath; i know i can not win the race, and at the end i know is death. o race of love! we all have run thy happy course through groves of spring, and cared not, when at last we lost, for life, or death, or anything! --_atalanta: maurice thompson_. miss patricia received me the following afternoon on the lawn at st. agatha's where, in a cool angle of the buildings, a maid was laying the cloth on a small table. "it is good of you to come. helen will be here presently. she went for a walk on the shore." "you must both of you make free of the glenarm preserve. don't consider the wall over there a barricade; it's merely to add to the picturesqueness of the landscape." miss patricia was quite rested from her journey, and expressed her pleasure in the beauty and peace of the place in frank and cordial terms. and to-day i suspected, what later i fully believed, that she affected certain old-fashioned ways in a purely whimsical spirit. her heart was young enough, but she liked to play at being old! sister theresa's own apartments had been placed at her disposal, and the house, miss patricia declared, was delightfully cool. "i could ask nothing better than this. sister margaret is most kind in every way. helen and i have had a peaceful twenty-four hours--the first in two years--and i feel that at last we have found safe harborage." "best assured of it, miss holbrook! the summer colony is away off there and you need see nothing of it; it is quite out of sight and sound. you have seen annandale--the sleepiest of american villages, with a curio shop and a candy and soda-fountain place and a picture post-card booth which the young ladies of st. agatha's patronize extensively when they are here. the summer residents are just beginning to arrive on their shore, but they will not molest you. if they try to land over here we'll train our guns on them and blow them out of the water. as your neighbor beyond the iron gate of glenarm i beg that you will look upon me as your man-at-arms. my sword, madam, i lay at your feet." "sheathe it, sir laurance; nor draw it save in honorable cause," she returned on the instant, and then she was grave again. "sister margaret is most kind in every way; she seems wholly discreet, and has assured me of her interest and sympathy," said miss patricia, as though she wished me to confirm her own impression. "there's no manner of doubt of it. she is sister theresa's assistant. it is inconceivable that she could possibly interfere in your affairs. i believe you are perfectly safe here in every way, miss holbrook. if at the end of a week your brother has made no sign, we shall be reasonably certain that he has lost the trail." "i believe that is true; and i thank you very much." i had come prepared to be disillusioned, to find her charm gone, but her small figure had even an added distinction; her ways, her manner an added grace. i found myself resisting the temptation to call her quaint, as implying too much; yet i felt that in some olden time, on some noble estate in england, or, better, in some storied colonial mansion in virginia, she must have had her home in years long gone, living on with no increase of age to this present. she was her own law, i judged, in the matter of fashion. i observed later a certain uniformity in the cut of her gowns, as though, at some period, she had found a type wholly comfortable and to her liking and thereafter had clung to it. she suggested peace and gentleness and a beautiful patience; and i strove to say amusing things, that i might enjoy her rare luminous smile and catch her eyes when she gave me her direct gaze in the quick, challenging way that marked her as a woman of position and experience, who had been more given to command than to obey. "did you think i was never coming, aunt pat? that shore-path calls for more strenuous effort than i imagined, and i had to change my gown again." helen holbrook advanced quickly and stood by her aunt's chair, nodding to me smilingly, and while we exchanged the commonplaces of the day, she caught up miss pat's hand and held it a moment caressingly. the maid now brought the tea. miss pat poured it and the talk went forward cheerily. the girl was in white, and at the end of a curved bench, with a variety of colored cushions about her and the bright sward and tranquil lake beyond, she made a picture wholly agreeable to my eyes. her hair was dead black, and i saw for the first time that its smooth line on her brow was broken by one of those curious, rare little points called widow's peak. they are not common, nor, to be sure, are they important; yet it seemed somehow to add interest to her graceful pretty head. it was quite clear in a moment that helen was bent on treating me rather more amiably than on the day before, while at the same time showing her aunt every deference. i was relieved to find them both able to pitch their talk in a light key. the thought of sitting daily and drearily discussing their troubles with two exiled women had given me a dark moment at the station the day before; but we were now having tea in the cheerfullest fashion in the world; and, as for their difficulties, i had no idea whatever that they would be molested so long as they remained quietly at annandale. miss pat and her niece were not the hysterical sort; both apparently enjoyed sound health, and they were not the kind of women who see ghosts in every alcove and go to bed to escape the lightning. "oh, mr. donovan," said helen holbrook, as i put down her cup, "there are some letters i should like to write and i wish you would tell me whether it is safe to have letters come for us to annandale; or would it be better to send nothing from here at all? it does seem odd to have to ask such a question--" and she concluded in a tone of distress and looked at me appealingly. "we must take no risks whatever, helen," remarked miss pat decisively. [illustration: "we must take no risks whatever, helen."] "does no one know where you are?" i inquired of miss patricia. "my lawyer, in new york, has the name of this place, sealed; and he put it away in a safety box and promised not to open it unless something of very great importance happened." "it is best to take no chances," i said; "so i should answer your question in the negative, miss holbrook. in the course of a few weeks everything may seem much clearer; and in the meantime it will be wiser not to communicate with the outer world." "they deliver mail through the country here, don't they?" asked helen. "it must be a great luxury for the farmers to have the post-office at their very doors." "yes, but the school and mr. glenarm always send for their own mail to annandale." "our mail is all going to my lawyer," said miss pat, "and it must wait until we can have it sent to us without danger." "certainly, aunt pat," replied helen readily. "i didn't mean to give mr. donovan the impression that my correspondence was enormous; but it is odd to be shut up in this way and not to be able to do as one likes in such little matters." the wind blew in keenly from the lake as the sun declined and helen went unasked and brought an india shawl and put it about miss pat's shoulders. the girl's thoughtfulness for her aunt's comfort pleased me, and i found myself liking her better. it was time for me to leave and i picked up my hat and stick. as i started away i was aware that helen holbrook detained me without in the least appearing to do so, following a few steps to gain, as she said, a certain view of the lake that was particularly charming. "there is nothing rugged in this landscape, but it is delightful in its very tranquillity," she said, as we loitered on, the shimmering lake before us, the wood behind ablaze with the splendor of the sun. she spoke of the beauty of the beeches, which are of noble girth in this region, and paused to indicate a group of them whose smooth trunks were like massive pillars. as we looked back i saw that miss pat had gone into the house, driven no doubt by the persistency of the west wind that crisped the lake. helen's manner changed abruptly, and she said: "if any difficulty should arise here, if my poor father should find out where we are, i trust that you may be able to save my aunt anxiety and pain. that is what i wished to say to you, mr. donovan." "certainly," i replied, meeting her eyes, and noting a quiver of the lips that was eloquent of deep feeling and loyalty. she continued beside me, her head erect as though by a supreme effort of self-control, and with i knew not what emotions shaking her heart. she continued silent as we marched on and i felt that there was the least defiance in her air; then she drew a handkerchief from her sleeve, touched it lightly to her eyes, and smiled. "i had not thought of quite following you home! here is glenarm gate--and there lie your battlements and towers." "rather they belong to my old friend, john glenarm. in his goodness of heart he gave me the use of the place for the summer; and as generosity with another's property is very easy, i hereby tender you our fleet--canoes, boats, steam launch--and the stable, which contains a variety of traps and a good riding-horse or two. they are all at your service. i hope that you and your aunt will not fail to avail yourselves of each and all. do you ride? i was specially charged to give the horses exercise." "thank you very much," she said. "when we are well settled, and feel more secure, we shall be glad to call on you. father stoddard certainly served us well in sending us to you, mr. donovan." in a moment she spoke again, quite slowly, and with, i thought, a very pretty embarrassment. "aunt pat may have spoken of another difficulty--a mere annoyance, really," and she smiled at me gravely. "oh, yes; of the youngster who has been troubling you. your father and he have, of course, no connection." "no; decidedly not. but he is a very offensive person, mr. donovan. it would be a matter of great distress to me if he should pursue us to this place." "it is inconceivable that a gentleman--if he is a gentleman--should follow you merely for the purpose of annoying you. i have heard that young ladies usually know how to get rid of importunate suitors." "i have heard that they have that reputation," she laughed back. "but mr. gillespie--" "that's the name, is it? your aunt did not mention it." "yes; he lives quite near us at stamford. aunt pat disliked his father before him, and now that he is dead she visits her displeasure on the son; but she is quite right about it. he is a singularly unattractive and uninteresting person, and i trust that he will not find us." "that is quite unlikely. you will do well to forget all about him--forget all your troubles and enjoy the beauty of these june days." we had reached glenarm gate, and st. agatha's was now hidden by the foliage along the winding path. i was annoyed to realize how much i enjoyed this idling. i felt my pulse quicken when our eyes met. her dark oval face was beautiful with the loveliness of noble italian women i had seen on great occasions in rome. i had not known that hair could be so black, and it was fine and soft; the widow's peak was as sharply defined on her smooth forehead as though done with crayon. dark women should always wear white, i reflected, as she paused and lifted her head to listen to the chime in the tower of the little gothic chapel--a miniature affair that stood by the wall--a chime that flung its melody on the soft summer air like a handful of rose-leaves. she picked up a twig and broke it in her fingers; and looking down i saw that she wore on her left hand an emerald ring identical with the one worn by her aunt. it was so like that i should have believed it the same, had i not noted miss pat's ring but a few minutes before. helen threw away the bits of twig when we came to the wall, and, as i swung the gate open, paused mockingly with clasped hands and peered inside. "i must go back," she said. then, her manner changing, she dropped her hands at her side and faced me. "you will warn me, mr. donovan, of the first approach of trouble. i wish to save my aunt in every way possible--she means so much to me; she has made life easy for me where it would have been hard." "there will be no trouble, miss holbrook. you are as safe as though you were hidden in a cave in the apennines; but i shall give you warning at the first sign of danger." "my father is--is quite relentless," she murmured, averting her eyes. i turned to retrace the path with her; but she forbade me and was gone swiftly--a flash of white through the trees--before i could parley with her. i stared after her as long as i could hear her light tread in the path. and when she had vanished a feeling of loneliness possessed me and the country quiet mocked me with its peace. i clanged the glenarm gates together sharply and went in to dinner; but i pondered long as i smoked on the star-hung terrace. through the wood directly before me i saw lights flash from the small craft of the lake, and the sharp tum-tum of a naphtha launch rang upon the summer night. insects made a blur of sound in the dark and the chant of the katydids rose and fell monotonously. i flung away a half-smoked cigar and lighted my pipe. there was no disguising the truth that the coming of the holbrooks had got on my nerves--at least that was my phrase for it. now that i thought of it, they were impudent intruders and paul stoddard had gone too far in turning them over to me. there was nothing in their story, anyhow; it was preposterous, and i resolved to let them severely alone. but even as these thoughts ran through my mind i turned toward st. agatha's, whose lights were visible through the trees, and i knew that there was nothing honest in my impatience. helen holbrook's eyes were upon me and her voice called from the dark; and when the clock chimed nine in the tower beyond the wall memory brought back the graceful turn of her dark head, the firm curve of her throat as she had listened to the mellow fling of the bells. and here, for the better instruction of those friends who amuse themselves with the idea that i am unusually susceptible, as they say, to the charms of woman, i beg my reader's indulgence while i state, quite honestly, the flimsy basis of this charge. once, in my twentieth year, while i was still an undergraduate at trinity, dublin, i went to the killarney lakes for a week's end. my host--a fellow student--had taken me home to see his horses; but it was not his stable, but his blue-eyed sister, that captivated my fancy. i had not known that anything could be so beautiful as she was, and i feel and shall always feel that it was greatly to my credit that i fell madly in love with her. our affair was fast and furious, and lamentably detrimental to my standing at trinity. i wrote some pretty bad verses in her praise, and i am not in the least ashamed of that weakness, or that the best florist in ireland prospered at the expense of my tailor and laundress. it lasted a year, and to say that it was like a beautiful dream is merely to betray my poor command of language. the end, too, was fitting enough, and not without its compensations: i kissed her one night--she will not, i am sure, begrudge me the confession; it was a moonlight night in may; and thereafter within two months she married a belfast brewer's son who could not have rhymed eyes with skies to save his malted soul. embittered by this experience i kept out of trouble for two years, and my next affair was with a widow, two years my senior, whom i met at a house in scotland where i was staying for the shooting. she was a bit mournful, and lavender became her well. i forgot the grouse after my first day, and gave myself up to consoling her. she had, as no other woman i have known has had, a genius--it was nothing less--for graceful attitudes. to surprise her before an open fire, her prettily curved chin resting on her pink little palm, her eyes bright with lurking tears, and to see her lips twitch with the effort to restrain a sob when one came suddenly upon her--but the picture is not for my clumsy hand! i have never known whether she suffered me to make love to her merely as a distraction, or whether she was briefly amused by my ardor and entertained by the new phrases of adoration i contrived for her. i loved her quite sincerely; i am glad to have experienced the tumult she stirred in me--glad that the folding of her little hands upon her knees, as she bent toward the lighted hearth in that old scotch manor, and her low, murmuring, mournful voice, made my heart jump. i told her--and recall it without shame--that her eyes were adorable islands aswim in brimming seas, and that her hands were fluttering white doves of peace. i found that i could maintain that sort of thing without much trouble for an hour at a time. i did not know it was the last good-by when i packed my bags and gun-cases and left one frosty morning. i regret nothing, but am glad it all happened just so. her marriage to a clergyman in the establishment--a duke's second son in holy orders who enjoyed considerable reputation as a cricketer--followed quickly, and i have never seen her since. i was in love with that girl for at least a month. it did me no harm, and i think she liked it herself. i next went down before the slang of an american girl with teasing eyes and amazing skill at tennis, whom i met at oxford when she was a student in lady margaret. her name was iris and she was possessed by the spirit of mischief. if you know aught of the english, you know that the average peaches-and-cream english girl is not, to put it squarely, exciting. iris understood this perfectly and delighted in doing things no girl had ever done before in that venerable town. she lived at home--her family had taken a house out beyond magdalen; and she went to and from the classic halls of lady margaret in a dog-cart, sometimes with a groom, sometimes without. when alone she dashed through the high at a gait which caused sedate matrons to stare and sober-minded fellows of the university to swear, and admiring undergraduates to chuckle with delight. i had gone to oxford to consult a certain book in the bodleian--a day's business only; but it fell about that in the post-office, where i had gone on an errand, i came upon iris struggling for a cable-blank, and found one for her. as she stood at the receiving counter, impatiently waiting to file her message, she remarked, for the benefit, i believed, of a gaitered bishop at her elbow: "how perfectly rotten this place is!"--and winked at me. she was seventeen, and i was old enough to know better, but we had some talk, and the next day she bowed to me in front of st. mary's and, the day after, picked me up out near keble and drove me all over town, and past lady margaret, and dropped me quite boldly at the door of the mitre. shameful! it was; but at the end of a week i knew all her family, including her father, who was bored to death, and her mother, who had thought it a fine thing to move from zanesville, ohio, to live in a noble old academic center like oxford--that was what too much home-study and literary club had done for her. iris kept the cables hot with orders for clothes, caramels and shoes, while i lingered and hung upon her lightest slang and encouraged her in the idea that education in her case was a sinful waste of time; and i comforted her father for the loss of his native buckwheat cakes and consoled her mother, who found that seven of the perfect english servants of the story-books did less than the three she had maintained at zanesville. i lingered in oxford two months, and helped them get out of town when iris was dropped from college for telling the principal that the zanesville high school had lady margaret over the ropes for general educational efficiency, and that, moreover, she would not go to the established church because the litany bored her. whereupon--their dependence on me having steadily increased--i got them out of oxford and over to dresden, and iris and i became engaged. then i went to ireland on a matter of business, made an incendiary speech in galway, smashed a couple of policemen and landed in jail. before my father, with, i fear, some reluctance, bailed me out, iris had eloped with a lieutenant in the german army and her family had gone sadly back to zanesville. this is the truth, and the whole truth, and i plead guilty to every count of the indictment. thereafter my pulses cooled and i sought the peace of jungles; and the eyes of woman charmed me no more. when i landed at annandale and opened my portfolio to write _russian rivers_ my last affair was half a dozen years behind me. sobered by these reflections, i left the terrace shortly after eleven and walked through the strip of wood that lay between the house and the lake to the glenarm pier; and at once matters took a turn that put the love of woman quite out of the reckoning. chapter iii i meet mr. reginald gillespie there was a man in our town, and he was wondrous wise, he jump'd into a bramble-bush, and scratch'd out both his eyes; but when he saw his eyes were out, with all his might and main he jump'd into another bush, and scratch'd them in again. --_old ballad_. as i neared the boat-house i saw a dark figure sprawled on the veranda and my japanese boy spoke to me softly. the moon was at full and i drew up in the shadow of the house and waited. ijima had been with me for several years and was a boy of unusual intelligence. he spoke both english and french admirably, was deft of hand and wise of mind, and i was greatly attached to him. his courage, fidelity and discretion i had tested more than once. he lay quite still on the pier, gazing out upon the lake, and i knew that something unusual had attracted his attention. he spoke to me in a moment, but without turning his head. "a man has been rowing up and down the shore for an hour. when he came in close here i asked him what he wanted and he rowed away without answering. he is now off there by the school." "probably a summer boarder from across the lake." "hardly, sir. he came from the direction of the village and acts queerly." i flung myself down on the pier and crawled out to where ijima lay. every pier on the lake had its distinctive lights; the glenarm sea-mark was--and remains--red, white and green. we lay by the post that bore the three lanterns, and watched the slow movement of a rowboat along the margin of the school grounds. the boat was about a thousand yards from us in a straight line, though farther by the shore; but the moonlight threw the oarsman and his craft into sharp relief against the overhanging bank. st. agatha's maintains a boathouse for the use of students, and the pier lights--red, white and red--lay beyond the boatman, and he seemed to be drawing slowly toward them. the fussy little steamers that run the errands of the cottagers had made their last rounds and sought their berths for the night, and the lake lay still in the white bath of light. "drop one of the canoes into the water," i said; and i watched the prowling boatman while ijima crept back to the boat-house. the canoe was launched silently and the boy drove it out to me with a few light strokes. i took the paddle, and we crept close along the shore toward the st. agatha light, my eyes intent on the boat, which was now drawing in to the school pier. the prowler was feeling his way carefully, as though the region were unfamiliar; but he now landed at the pier and tied his boat. i hung back in the shadows until he had disappeared up the bank, then paddled to the pier, told ijima to wait, and set off through the wood-path toward st. agatha's. where the wood gave way to the broad lawn that stretched up to the school buildings i caught sight of my quarry. he was strolling along under the beeches to the right of me, and i paused about a hundred feet behind him to watch events. he was a young fellow, not above average height, but compactly built, and stood with his hands thrust boyishly in his pockets, gazing about with frank interest in his surroundings. he was bareheaded and coatless, and his shirt-sleeves were rolled to the elbow. he walked slowly along the edge of the wood, looking off toward the school buildings, and while his manner was furtive there was, too, an air of unconcern about him and i heard him whistling softly to himself. he now withdrew into the wood and started off with the apparent intention of gaining a view of st. agatha's from the front, and i followed. he seemed harmless enough; he might be a curious pilgrim from the summer resort; but i was just now the guardian of st. agatha's and i intended to learn the stranger's business before i had done with him. he swung well around toward the driveway, threading the flower garden, but hanging always close under the trees, and the mournful whistle would have guided me had not the moon made his every movement perfectly clear. he reached the driveway leading in from the annandale road without having disclosed any purpose other than that of viewing the vine-clad walls with a tourist's idle interest. the situation had begun to bore me, when the school gardener came running out of the shrubbery, and instantly the young man took to his heels. "stop! stop!" yelled the gardener. the mysterious young man plunged into the wood and was off like the wind. "after him, andy! after him!" i yelled to the scotchman. i shouted my own name to reassure him and we both went thumping through the beeches. the stranger would undoubtedly seek to get back to his boat, i reasoned, but he was now headed for the outer wall, and as the wood was free of underbrush he was sprinting away from us at a lively gait. whoever the young gentleman was, he had no intention of being caught; he darted in and out among the trees with astounding lightness, and i saw in a moment that he was slowly turning away to the right. "run for the gate!" i called to the gardener, who was about twenty feet away from me, blowing hard. i prepared to gain on the turn if the young fellow dashed for the lake; and he now led me a pretty chase through the flower garden. he ran with head up and elbows close at his sides, and his light boat shoes made scarcely any sound. he turned once and looked back and, finding that i was alone, began amusing himself with feints and dodges, for no other purpose, i fancied, than to perplex or wind me. there was a little summer-house mid-way of the garden, and he led me round this till my head swam. by this time i had grown pretty angry, for a foot-race in a school garden struck me with disgust as a childish enterprise, and i bent with new spirit and drove him away from his giddy circling about the summer-house and beyond the only gate by which he could regain the wood and meadow that lay between the garden and his boat. he turned his head from side to side uneasily, slackening his pace to study the bounds of the garden, and i felt myself gaining. ahead of us lay a white picket fence that set off the vegetable garden and marked the lawful bounds of the school. there was no gate and i felt that here the chase must end, and i rejoiced to find myself so near the runner that i heard the quick, soft patter of his shoes on the walk. in a moment i was quite sure that i should have him by the collar, and i had every intention of dealing severely with him for the hard chase he had given me. but he kept on, the white line of fence clearly outlined beyond him; and then when my hand was almost upon him he rose at the fence, as though sprung from the earth itself, and hung a moment sheer above the sharp line of the fence pickets, his whole figure held almost horizontal, in the fashion of trained high-jumpers, for what seemed an infinite time, as though by some witchery of the moonlight. i plunged into the fence with a force that knocked the wind out of me and as i clung panting to the pickets the runner dropped with a crash into the midst of a glass vegetable frame on the farther side. he turned his head, grinned at me sheepishly through the pickets, and gave a kick that set the glass to tinkling. then he held up his hands in sign of surrender and i saw that they were cut and bleeding. we were both badly blown, and while we regained our wind we stared at each other. he was the first to speak. "kicked, bit or stung!" he muttered dolefully; "that saddest of all words, 'stung!' it's as clear as moonlight that i'm badly mussed, not to say cut." "may i trouble you not to kick out any more of that glass? the gardener will be here in a minute and fish you out." "lawsy, what is it? an aquarium, that you fish for me?" he chuckled softly, but sat perfectly quiet, finding, it seemed, a certain humor in his situation. the gardener came running up and swore in broad scots at the destruction of the frame. we got over the fence and released our captive, who talked to himself in doleful undertones as we hauled him to his feet amid a renewed clink of glass. "gently, gentlemen; behold the night-blooming cereus! not all the court-plaster in the universe can glue me together again." he gazed ruefully at his slashed arms, and rubbed his legs. "the next time i seek the garden at dewy eve i'll wear my tin suit." "there won't be any next time for you. what did you run for?" "trying to lower my record--it's a mania with me. and as one good question deserves another, may i ask why you didn't tell me there was a glass-works beyond that fence? it wasn't sportsmanlike to hide a murderous hazard like that. but i cleared those pickets with a yard to spare, and broke my record." "you broke about seven yards of glass," i replied. "it may sober you to know that you are under arrest. the watchman here has a constable's license." "he also has hair that suggests the common garden or boiled carrot. the tint is not to my liking; yet it is not for me to be captious where the lord has hardened his heart." "what is your name?" i demanded. "gillespie. r. gillespie. the 'r' will indicate to you the depth of my humility: i make it a life work to hide the fact that i was baptized reginald." "i've been expecting you, mr. gillespie, and now i want you to come over to my house and give an account of yourself. i will take charge of this man, andy. i promise that he shan't set foot here again. and, andy, you need mention this affair to no one." "very good, sir." he touched his hat respectfully. "i have business with this person. say nothing to the ladies at st. agatha's about him." he saluted and departed; and with gillespie walking beside me i started for the boat-landing. he had wrapped a handkerchief about one arm and i gave him my own for the other. his right arm was bleeding freely below the elbow and i tied it up for him. "that jump deserved better luck," i volunteered, as he accepted my aid in silence. "i'm proud to have you like it. will you kindly tell me who the devil you are?" "my name is donovan." "i don't wholly care for it," he observed mournfully. "think it over and see if you can't do better. i'm not sure that i'm going to grow fond of you. what's your business with me, anyhow?" "my business, mr. gillespie, is to see that you leave this lake by the first and fastest train." "is it possible?" he drawled mockingly. "more than that," i replied in his own key; "it is decidedly probable." "meanwhile, it would be diverting to know where you're taking me. i thought the other chap was the constable." "i'm taking you to the house of a friend where i'm visiting. i'm going to row you in your boat. it's only a short distance; and when we get there i shall have something to say to you." he made no reply, but got into the boat without ado. he found a light flannel coat and i flung it over his shoulders and pulled for glenarm pier, telling the japanese boy to follow with the canoe. i turned over in my mind the few items of information that i had gained from miss pat and her niece touching the young man who was now my prisoner, and found that i knew little enough about him. he was the unwelcome and annoying suitor of miss helen holbrook, and i had caught him prowling about st. agatha's in a manner that was indefensible. he sat huddled in the stern, nursing his swathed arms on his knees and whistling dolefully. the lake was a broad pool of silver. save for the soft splash of ijima's paddle behind me and the slight wash of water on the near shore, silence possessed the world. gillespie looked about with some curiosity, but said nothing, and when i drove the boat to the glenarm landing he crawled out and followed me through the wood without a word. i flashed on the lights in the library and after a short inspection of his wounds we went to my room and found sponges, plasters and ointments in the family medicine chest and cared for his injuries. "there's no honor in tumbling into a greenhouse, but such is r. gillespie's luck. my shins look like scarlet fever, and without sound legs a man's better dead." "your legs seem to have got you into trouble; don't mourn the loss of them!" and i twisted a bandage under his left knee-cap where the glass had cut savagely. "it's my poor wits, if we must fix the blame. it's an awful thing, sir, to be born with weak intellectuals. as man's legs carry him on orders from his head, there lies the seat of the difficulty. a weak mind, obedient legs, and there you go, plump into the bosom of a blooming asparagus bed, and the enemy lays violent hands on you. if you put any more of that sting-y pudding on that cut i shall undoubtedly hit you, mr. donovan. ah, thank you, thank you so much!" as i finished with the vaseline he lay back on the couch and sighed deeply and i rose and sent ijima away with the basin and towels. "will you drink? there are twelve kinds of whisky--" "my dear mr. donovan, the thought of strong drink saddens me. such poor wits as mine are not helped by alcoholic stimulants. i was drunk once--beautifully, marvelously, nobly drunk, so that antiquity came up to date with the thud of a motor-car hitting an orphan asylum; and i saw julius caesar driving a chariot up fifth avenue and cromwell poised on one foot on the shorter spire of st. patrick's cathedral. are you aware, my dear sir, that one of those spires is shorter than the other?" "i certainly am not," i replied bluntly, wondering what species of madman i had on my hands. "it's a fact, confided to me by a prominent engineer of new york, who has studied those spires daily since they were put up. he told me that when he had surrounded five high-balls the north spire was higher; but that the sixth tumblerful always raised the south spire about eleven feet above it. now, wouldn't that doddle you?" "it would, mr. gillespie; but may i ask you to cut out this rot--" "my dear mr. donovan, it's indelicate of you to speak of cutting anything--and me with my legs. but i'm at your service. you have tended my grievous wounds like a gentleman and now do you wish me to unfold my past, present and future?" "i want you to get out of this and be quick about it. your biography doesn't amuse me; i caught you prowling disgracefully about st. agatha's. two ladies are domiciled there who came here to escape your annoying attentions. those ladies were put in my charge by an old friend, and i don't propose to stand any nonsense from you, mr. gillespie. you seem to be at least half sane--" reginald gillespie raised himself on the couch and grinned joyously. "thank you--thank you for that word! that's just twice as high as anybody ever rated me before." "i was trying to be generous," i said. "there's a point at which i begin to be bored, and when that's reached i'm likely to grow quarrelsome. are there any moments of the day or night when you are less a fool than others?" "well, donovan, i've often speculated about that, and my conclusion is that my mind is at its best when i'm asleep and enjoying a nightmare. i find the welsh rabbit most stimulating to my thought voltage. then i am, you may say, detached from myself; another mind not my own is building towers and palaces, and spiders as large as the far-famed though extinct ichthyosaurus are waltzing on the moon. then, i have sometimes thought, my intellectual parts are most intelligently employed." "i may well believe you," i declared with asperity. "now i hope i can pound it into you in some way that your presence in this neighborhood is offensive--to me--personally." he stared at the ceiling, silent, imperturbable. "and i'm going to give you safe conduct through the lines--or if necessary i'll buy your ticket and start you for new york. and if there's an atom of honor in you, you'll go peaceably and not publish the fact that you know the whereabouts of these ladies." he reflected gravely for a moment. "i think," he said, "that on the whole that's a fair proposition. but you seem to have the impression that i wish to annoy these ladies." "you don't for a moment imagine that you are likely to entertain them, do you? you haven't got the idea that you are necessary to their happiness, have you?" he raised himself on his elbow with some difficulty; flinched as he tried to make himself comfortable and began: "the trouble with miss pat is--" "there is no trouble with miss pat," i snapped. "the trouble between miss pat and me is the same old trouble of the buttons," he remarked dolorously. "buttons, you idiot?" "quite so. buttons, just plain every-day buttons; buttons for buttoning purposes. now i shall be grateful to you if you will refrain from saying "'button, button, who's got the button?'" the fellow was undoubtedly mad. i looked about for a weapon; but he went on gravely. "what does the name gillespie mean? of what is it the sign and symbol wherever man hides his nakedness? button, button, who'll buy my buttons? it can't be possible that you never heard of the gillespie buttons? where have you lived, my dear sir?" "will you please stop talking rot and explain what you want here?" i demanded with growing heat. "that, my dear sir, is exactly what i'm doing. i'm a suitor for the hand of miss patricia's niece. miss patricia scorns me; she says i'm a mere child of the philistine rich and declines an alliance without thanks, if you must know the truth. and it's all on account of the fact, shameful enough i admit, that my father died and left me a large and prosperous button factory." "why don't you give the infernal thing away--sell it out to a trust--" "ah! ah!"--and he raised himself again and pointed a bandaged hand at me. "i see that you are a man of penetration! you have a keen notion of business! you anticipate me! i did sell the infernal thing to a trust, but there was no shaking it! they made me president of the combination, and i control more buttons than any other living man! my dear sir, i dictate the button prices of the world. i can tell you to a nicety how many buttons are swallowed annually by the babies of the universe. but i hope, sir, that i use my power wisely and without oppressing the people." gillespie lay on his back, wrapped in my dressing-gown, his knees raised, his bandaged arms folded across his chest. since bringing him into the house i had studied him carefully and, i must confess, with increasing mystification. he was splendidly put up, the best-muscled man i had ever seen who was not a professional athlete. his forearms and clean-shaven face were brown from prolonged tanning by the sun, but otherwise his skin was the pink and white of a healthy baby. his short light hair was combed smoothly away from a broad forehead; his blue eyes were perfectly steady--they even invited and held scrutiny; when he was not speaking he closed his lips tightly. he appeared in nowise annoyed by his predicament; the house itself seemed to have no interest for him, and he accepted my ministrations in murmurs of well-bred gratitude. i half believed the fellow to be amusing himself at my expense; but he met my eyes calmly. if i had not caught a lunatic i had certainly captured an odd specimen of humanity. he was the picture of wholesome living and sound health; but he talked like a fool. the idea of a young woman like helen holbrook giving two thoughts to a silly youngster like this was preposterous, and my heart hardened against him. "you are flippant, mr. gillespie, and my errand with you is serious. there are places in this house where i could lock you up and you would never see your button factory again. you seem to have had some education--" "the word does me great honor, donovan. they chucked me from yale in my junior year. why, you may ask? well, it happened this way: you know rooney, the bellefontaine cyclone? he struck new haven with a vaudeville outfit, giving boxing exhibitions, poking the bag and that sort of fake. at every town they invited the local sports to dig up their brightest amateur middle-weight and put him against the cyclone for five rounds. i brushed my hair the wrong way for a disguise and went against him." "and got smashed for your trouble, i hope," i interrupted. "no. the boys in the gallery cheered so that they fussed him, and he thought i was fruit. we shook hands, and he turned his head to snarl at the applause, and, seeing an opening, i smashed him a hot clip in the chin, and he tumbled backward and broke the ring rope. i vaulted the orchestra and bolted, and when the boys finally found me i was over near waterbury under a barn. eli wouldn't stand for it, and back i went to the button factory; and here i am, sir, by the grace of god, an ignorant man." he lay blinking as though saddened by his recollections, and i turned away and paced the floor. when i glanced at him again he was still staring soberly at the wall. "how did you find your way here, gillespie?" i demanded. "i suppose i ought to explain that," he replied. i waited while he reflected for a moment. he seemed to be quite serious, and his brows wrinkled as he pondered. "i guessed it about half; and for the rest, i followed the heaven-kissing stack of trunks." he glanced at me quickly, as though anxious to see how i received his words. "have you seen anything of henry holbrook in your travels? be careful now; i want the truth." "i certainly have not. i hope you don't think--" gillespie hesitated. "it's not a matter for thinking or guessing; i've got to know." "on my honor i have not seen him, and i have no idea where he is." i had thrown myself into a chair beside the couch and lighted my pipe. my captive troubled me. it seemed odd that he had found the abiding-place of the two women; and if he had succeeded so quickly, why might not henry holbrook have equal luck? "you probably know this troublesome brother well," i ventured. "yes; as well as a man of my age can know an older man. my father's place at stamford adjoined the holbrook estate. henry and arthur holbrook married sisters; both women died long ago, i believe; but the brothers had a business row and went to smash. arthur embezzled, forged, and so on, and took to the altitudinous timber, and henry has been busy ever since trying to pluck his sister. he's wild on the subject of his wrongs--ruined by his own brother, deprived of his inheritance by his sister and abandoned by his only child. there wasn't much to arthur holbrook; henry was the genius, but after the bank went to the bad he sought the consolations of rum. he and henry married the hartridge twins who were the reigning baltimore belles in the early eighties--so runneth the chronicle. but i gossip, my dear sir; i gossip, which is against my principles. even the humble button king of strawberry hill must draw the line." when ijima brought in a plate of sandwiches he took one gingerly in his swathed hand, regarded it with cool inquiry, and as he munched it, remarked upon sandwiches in general as though they were botanical specimens that were usually discussed and analyzed in a scientific spirit. "the sandwich," he began, "not unhappily expresses one of the saddest traits of our american life. i need hardly refer to our deplorable national habit of hiding our shame under a blithe and misleading exterior. now this article, provided by your generous hospitality for a poor prisoner of war, contains a bit of the breast of some fowl, presumably chicken--we will concede that it is chicken--taken from rather too near the bone to be wholly palatable. chicken sandwiches in some parts of the world are rather coarsely marked, for purposes of identification, with pin-feathers. you may covet no nobler fame than that of creator of the flying sandwich of annandale. yet the feathered sandwich, though more picturesque, points rather too directly to the strutting lords of the barn-yard. a sandwich that is decorated like a fall bonnet, that suggests, we will say, the milliner's window--or the plumed knights of sounding war--" with a little sigh, a slow relaxation of muscles, mr. gillespie slept. i locked the doors, put out the lights, and tumbled into my own bed as the chapel clock chimed two. in the disturbed affairs of the night the blinds had not been drawn, and i woke at six to find the room flooded with light and my prisoner gone. the doors were locked as i had left them. mr. gillespie had departed by the window, dropping from a little balcony to the terrace beneath. i rang for ijima and sent him to the pier; and before i had finished shaving, the boy was back, and reported gillespie's boat still at the pier, but one of the canoes missing. it was clear that in the sorry plight of his arms gillespie had preferred paddling to rowing. beneath my watch on the writing-table i found a sheet of note-paper on which was scrawled: dear old man--i am having one of those nightmares i mentioned in our delightful conversation. i feel that i am about to walk in my sleep. as my flannels are a trifle bluggy, pardon loss of your dressing-gown. yours, r. g. p. s.--i am willing to pay for the glass and medical attendance; but i want a rebate for that third sandwich. it really tickled too harshly as it went down. very likely this accounts for my somnambulism. g. when i had dressed and had my coffee i locked my old portfolio and tossed it into the bottom of my trunk. something told me that for a while, at least, i should have other occupation than contributing to the literature of russian geography. chapter iv i explore tippecanoe creek the woodland silence, one time stirred by the soft pathos of some passing bird, is not the same it was before. the spot where once, unseen, a flower has held its fragile chalice to the shower, is different for evermore. unheard, unseen a spell has been! --_thomas bailey aldrich_. my first care was to find the gardener of st. agatha's and renew his pledge of silence of the night before; and then i sought the ladies, to make sure that they had not been disturbed by my collision with gillespie. miss pat and helen were in sister theresa's pretty sitting-room, through whose windows the morning wind blew fresh and cool. miss pat was sewing--her dear hands, i found, were always busy--while helen read to her. "this is a day for the open! you must certainly venture forth!" i began cheerily. "you see, father stoddard chose well; this is the most peaceful place on the map. let us begin with a drive at six, when the sun is low; or maybe you would prefer a little run in the launch." they exchanged glances. "i think it would be all right, aunt pat," said helen. "perhaps we should wait another day. we must take no chances; the relief of being free is too blessed to throw away. i really slept through the night--i can't tell you what a boon that is!" "why, sister margaret had to call us both at eight!" exclaimed helen. "that is almost too wonderful for belief." she sat in a low, deep, wicker chair, with her arms folded upon her book. she wore a short blue skirt and white waist, with a red scarf knotted at her throat and a ribbon of like color in her hair. "oh, the nights here are tranquillity itself! now, as to the drive--" "let us wait another day, mr. donovan. i feel that we must make assurance doubly sure," said miss pat; and this, of course, was final. it was clear that the capture of gillespie had not disturbed the slumber of st. agatha's. my conscience pricked me a trifle at leaving them so ignorantly contented; but gillespie's appearance was hardly a menace, and though i had pledged myself to warn helen holbrook at the first sign of trouble, i determined to deal with him on my own account. he was only an infatuated fool, and i was capable, i hoped, of disposing of his case without taking any one into my confidence. but first it was my urgent business to find him. i got out the launch and crossed the lake to the summer colony and began my search by asking for gillespie at the casino, but found that his name was unknown. i lounged about until lunch-time, visited the golf course that lay on a bit of upland beyond the cottages and watched the players until satisfied that gillespie was not among them, then i went home for luncheon. a man with bandaged arms, and clad in a dressing-gown, can not go far without attracting attention; and i was not in the least discouraged by my fruitless search. i have spent a considerable part of my life in the engaging occupation of looking for men who were hard to find, and as i smoked my cigar on the shady terrace and waited for ijima to replenish the launch's tank, i felt confident that before night i should have an understanding with gillespie if he were still in the neighborhood of annandale. the midday was warm, but i cooled my eyes on the deep shadows of the wood, through which at intervals i saw white sails flash on the lake. all bird-song was hushed, but a woodpecker on a dead sycamore hammered away for dear life. the bobbing of his red head must have exercised some hypnotic spell, for i slept a few minutes, and dreamed that the woodpecker had bored a hole in my forehead. when i roused it was with a start that sent my pipe clattering to the stone terrace floor. a man who has ever camped or hunted or been hunted--and i have known all three experiences--always scrutinizes the horizons when he wakes, and i found myself staring into the wood. as my eyes sought remembered landmarks here and there, i saw a man dressed as a common sailor skulking toward the boat-house several hundred yards away. he was evidently following the school wall to escape observation, and i rose and stepped closer to the balustrade to watch his movements. in a moment he came out into a little open space wherein stood a stone tower where water was stored for the house, and he paused here and gazed about him curiously. i picked up a field-glass from a little table near by and caught sight of a swarthy foreign face under a soft felt hat. he passed the tower and walked on toward the lake, and i dropped over the balustrade and followed him. the japanese boy was still at work on the launch, and, hearing a step on the pier planking, he glanced up, then rose and asked the stranger his business. the man shook his head. "if you have business it must be at the house; the road is in the other direction," and ijima pointed to the wood, but the stranger remained stubbornly on the edge of the pier. i now stepped out of the wood and walked down to the pier. "what do you want here?" i demanded sharply. the man touched his hat, smiled, and shook his head. the broad hand he lifted in salute was that of a laborer, and its brown back was tattooed. he belonged, i judged, to one of the dark mediterranean races, and i tried him in italian. "these are private grounds; you will do well to leave here very quickly," i said. i saw his eyes light as i spoke the words slowly and distinctly, but he waited until i had finished, then shook his head. i was sure he had understood, but as i addressed him again, ordering him from the premises, he continued to shake his head and grin foolishly. then i pointed toward the road. "go; and it will be best for you not to come here again!" i said, and, after saluting, he walked slowly away into the wood, with a sort of dogged insolence in his slightly swaying gait. at a nod from me ijima stole after him while i waited, and in a few minutes the boy came back and reported that the man had passed the house and left the grounds by the carriage entrance, turning toward annandale. with my mind on gillespie i put off in the launch, determined to study the lake geography. a mile from the pier i looked back and saw, rising above the green wood, the gray lines of glenarm house; and farther west the miniature tower of the little chapel of st. agatha's thrust itself through the trees. to the east lay annandale village; to the northwest the summer colony of port annandale. i swung the boat toward the unknown north of this pretty lake, watching meanwhile its social marine--if i may use such a term--with new interest. several smart sail-boats lounged before the wind--more ambitious craft than i imagined these waters boasted; the lake "tramps" on their ceaseless errands to and from the village whistled noisily; we passed a boy and girl in a canoe--a thing so pretty and graceful and so clean-cut in its workmanship that i turned to look after it. the girl was lazily plying the paddle; the boy, supported by a wealth of gay cushions, was thrumming a guitar. they glared at me resentfully as their cockle-shell wobbled in the wash of the launch. "that's a better canoe than we own, ijima. i should like to pick up one as good." "there are others like it on the lake. hartridge is the maker. his shop is over there somewhere," and ijima waved his hand toward the north. "a boy told me at the annandale dock that those canoes are famous all over this country." "then we must certainly have one. we could have used one of those things in russia." the shores grew narrower and more irregular as we proceeded, and we saw only at rare intervals any signs of life. a heavy forest lay at either hand, broken now and then by rough meadows. just beyond a sharp curve a new vista opened before us, and i was astonished to see a small wooded island ahead of us. beyond it lay the second lake, linked to the main body of annandale by a narrow strait. "i did not know there was anything so good on the lake, ijima. i wonder what they call this?" he reached into a locker and drew out a tin tube. "this is a map, sir. i think they call this battle orchard." "that's not bad, either. i don't see the orchard or the battle, but no doubt they have both been here." i was more and more pleased. i gave him the wheel and took the map, which proved to be a careful chart of the lake, made, i judged, by my friend glenarm for his own amusement. we passed slowly around the island, which was not more than twenty acres in extent, with an abrupt bank on the east and a low pebbly shore on the west, and a body of heavy timber rising darkly in the center. the shore of the mainland sloped upward here in the tender green of young corn. i have, i hope, a soul for landscape, and the soft bubble of water, the lush reeds in the shallows, the rapidly moving panorama of field and forest, the glimpses of wild flowers, and the arched blue above, were restful to mind and heart. it seemed shameful that the whole world was not afloat; then, as i reflected that another boat in these tranquil waters would be an impertinence that i should resent, i was aware that i had been thinking of helen holbrook all the while; and the thought of this irritated me so that i criticized ijima most unjustly for running the launch close to a boulder that rose like a miniature gibraltar near the shadowy shore we were skirting. we gained the ultimate line of the lower lake, and followed the shore in search of its outlet, pleasingly set down on the map as tippecanoe creek, which ran off and joined somewhere a river of like name. "we'll cruise here a bit and see if we can find the creek," i said, filling my pipe. tippecanoe! its etymology is not in books, but goes back to the first star that ever saw itself in running water; its cadence is that of a boat gliding over ripples; its syllables flow as liquidly as a woodland spring lingering in delight over shining pebbles. the canoe alone, of all things fashioned to carry man, has a soul--and it is a soul at once obedient and perverse. and now that i had discovered the name tippecanoe, it seemed to murmur itself from the little waves we sent singing into the reeds. my delight in it was so great, it rang in my head so insistently, that i should have missed the creek with the golden name if ijima had not called my attention to its gathering current, that now drew us, like a tide. the lake's waters ran away, like a truant child, through a woody cleft, and in a moment we were as clean quit of the lake as though it did not exist. after a few rods the creek began to twist and turn as though with the intention of making the voyager earn his way. in the narrow channel the beat of our engine rang from the shores rebukingly, and soon, as a punishment for disturbing the peace of the little stream, we grounded on a sand-bar. "this seems to be the head of navigation, ijima. i believe this creek was made for canoes, not battleships." between us we got the launch off, and i landed on a convenient log and crawled up the bank to observe the country. i followed a stake-and-rider fence half hidden in vines of various sorts, and tramped along the bank, with the creek still singing its tortuous way below at my right hand. it was late, and long shadows now fell across the world; but every new turn in the creek tempted me, and the sharp scratch of brambles did not deter me from going on. soon the rail fence gave way to barbed wire; the path broadened and the underbrush was neatly cut away. within lay a small vegetable garden, carefully tilled; and farther on i saw a dark green cottage almost shut in by beeches. the path dipped sharply down and away from the cottage, and a moment later i had lost sight of it; but below, at the edge of the creek, stood a long house-boat with an extended platform or deck on the waterside. i can still feel, as i recall the day and hour, the utter peace of the scene when first i came upon that secluded spot: the melodious flow of the creek beneath; the flutter of homing wings; even the hum of insects in the sweet, thymy air. then a step farther and i came to a gate which opened on a flight of steps that led to the house beneath; and through the intervening tangle i saw a man sprawled at ease in a steamer chair on the deck, his arms under his head. as i watched him he sighed and turned restlessly, and i caught a glimpse of close-trimmed beard and short, thin, slightly gray hair. the place was clearly the summer home of a city man in search of quiet, and i was turning away, when suddenly a woman's voice rang out clearly from the bank. "hello the house-boat!" "yes; i'm here!" answered the man below. "come on, father; i've been looking for you everywhere," called the voice again. "oh, it's too bad you've been waiting," he answered. "of course i've been waiting!" she flung back, and he jumped up and ran toward her. then down the steps flashed helen holbrook in white. she paused at the gate an instant before continuing her descent to the creek, bending her head as she sought the remaining steps. her dark hair and clear profile trembled a moment in the summer dusk; then she ran past me and disappeared below. "daddy, you dear old fraud, i thought you were coming to meet me on the ridge!" i turned and groped my way along the darkening path. my heart was thumping wildly and my forehead was wet with perspiration. ijima stood on the bank lighting his lantern, and i flung myself into the launch and bade him run for home. we were soon crossing the lake. i lay back on the cushions and gazed up at the bright roof of stars. before i reached glenarm the shock of finding helen holbrook in friendly communication with her father had passed, and i sat down to dinner at nine o'clock with a sound appetite. chapter v a fight on a house-boat the best composition and temperature is, to have openness in fame and opinion, secrecy in habit, dissimulation in seasonable use, and a power to feign, if there be no remedy.--_francis bacon_. at ten o'clock i called for a horse and rode out into the night, turning into the country with the intention of following the lake-road to the region i had explored in the launch a few hours before. all was dark at st. agatha's as i passed. no doubt helen holbrook had returned in due course from her visit to her father and, after accounting plausibly to her aunt for her absence, was sleeping the sleep of the just. now that i thought of the matter in all its bearings, i accused myself for not having gone directly to st. agatha's from the lonely house on tippecanoe creek and waited for her there, demanding an explanation of her perfidy. she was treating miss pat infamously: that was plain; and yet in my heart i was excusing and defending her. a family row about money was ugly at best; and an unfortunate--even criminal--father may still have some claim on his child. then, as against such reasoning, the vision of miss pat rose before me--and i felt whatever chivalry there is in me arouse with a rattle of spears. paul stoddard, in committing that dear old gentlewoman to my care, had not asked me to fall in love with her niece; so, impatient to be thus swayed between two inclinations, i chirruped to the horse and galloped swiftly over the silent white road. i had learned from the glenarm stable-boys that it was several miles overland to the tippecanoe. a sabbath quiet lay upon the world, and i seemed to be the only person abroad. i rode at a sharp pace through the cool air, rushing by heavy woodlands and broad fields, with an occasional farm-house rising somberly in the moonlight. the road turned gradually, following the line of the lake which now flashed out and then was lost again behind the forest. there is nothing like a gallop to shake the nonsense out of a man, and my spirits rose as the miles sped by. the village of tippecanoe lay off somewhere in this direction, as guide-posts several times gave warning; and my study of the map on the launch had given me a good idea of the whole region. what i sought was the front entrance of the green cottage above the house-boat by the creek, and when, far beyond port annandale, the road turned abruptly away from the lake, i took my bearings and dismounted and tied my horse in a strip of unfenced woodland. the whole region was very lonely, and now that the beat of hoofs no longer rang in my ears the quiet was oppressive. i struck through the wood and found the creek, and the path beside it. the little stream was still murmuring its own name musically, with perhaps a softer note in deference to the night; and following the path carefully i came in a few minutes to the steps that linked the cottage with the house-boat at the creek's edge. it was just there that i had seen helen holbrook, and i stood quite still recalling this, and making sure that she had come down those steps in that quiet out-of-the-way corner of the world, to keep tryst with her father. the story-and-a-half cottage was covered with vines and close-wrapped in shrubbery. i followed a garden walk that wound among bits of lawn and flower-beds until i came to a tall cedar hedge that cut the place off from the road. a semicircle of taller pines within shut the cottage off completely from the highway. i crawled through the cedars and walked along slowly to the gate, near which a post supported a signboard. i struck a match and read: red gate r. hartridge, canoe-maker, tippecanoe, indiana. this, then, was the home of the canoe-maker mentioned by ijima. i found his name repeated on the rural delivery mail-box affixed to the sign-post. henry holbrook was probably a boarder at the house--it required no great deductive powers to fathom that. i stole back through the hedge and down to the house-boat. the moon was coming up over the eastern wood, and the stars were beautifully clear. i walked the length of the platform, which was provided with a railing on the waterside, with growing curiosity. several canoes, carefully covered with tarpaulins, lay about the deck, and chairs were drawn up close to the long, low house in shipshape fashion. if this house-boat was the canoe-maker's shop he had chosen a secluded and picturesque spot for it. as i leaned against the rail studying the lines of the house, i heard suddenly the creak of an oar-lock in the stream behind, and then low voices talking. the deep night silence was so profound that any sound was doubly emphasized, and i peered out upon the water, at once alert and interested. i saw a dark shadow in the creek as the boat drew nearer, and heard words spoken sharply as though in command. i drew back against the house and waited. possibly the canoe-maker had been abroad, or more likely henry holbrook had gone forth upon some mischief, and my mind flew at once to the two women at st. agatha's, one of whom at least was still under my protection. the boat approached furtively, and i heard now very distinctly words spoken in italian: "have a care; climb up with the rope and i'll follow." then the boat touched the platform lightly and a second later a man climbed nimbly up the side. his companion followed, and they tied their boat to the railing. they paused now to reconnoiter--so close to me that i could have touched them with my hands--and engaged in a colloquy. the taller man gave directions, the other replying in monosyllables to show that he understood. "go to the side porch of the cottage, and knock. when the man comes to the door tell him that you are the chauffeur from an automobile that has broken down in the road, and that you want help for a woman who has been hurt." "yes, sir." "then--you know the rest." "the knife--it shall be done." i have made it the rule of my life, against much painful experience and the admonitions of many philosophers, to act first and reason afterwards. and here it was a case of two to one. the men began stealing across the deck toward the steps that led up to the cottage, and with rather more zeal than judgment i took a step after them, and clumsily kicked over a chair that fell clattering wildly. both men leaped toward the rail at the sound, and i flattened myself against the house to await developments. the silence was again complete. "a chair blew over," remarked one of the voices. "there is no wind," replied the other, the one i recognized as belonging to the leader. "see what you can find--and have a care!" the speaker went to the rail and began fumbling with the rope. the other, i realized, was slipping quite noiselessly along the smooth planking toward me, his bent body faintly silhouetted in the moonlight. i knew that i could hardly be distinguishable from the long line of the house, and i had the additional advantage of knowing their strength, while i was still an unknown quantity to them. the men would assume that i was either hartridge, the boat-maker, or henry holbrook, one of whom they had come to kill, and there is, as every one knows, little honor in being the victim of mistaken identity. i heard the man's hand scratching along the wall as he advanced cautiously; there was no doubt but that he would discover me in another moment; so i resolved to take the initiative and give battle. my finger-tips touched the back of one of the folded camp-chairs that rested against the house, and i slowly clasped it. i saw the leader still standing by the rail, the rope in his hand. his accomplice was so close that i could hear his quick breathing, and something in his dimly outlined crouching figure was familiar. then it flashed over me that he was the dark sailor i had ordered from glenarm that afternoon. he was now within arm's length of me and i jumped out, swung the chair high and brought it down with a crash on his head. the force of the blow carried me forward and jerked the chair out of my grasp; and down we went with a mighty thump. i felt the italian's body slip and twist lithely under me as i tried to clasp his arms. he struggled fiercely to free himself, and i felt the point of a knife prick my left wrist sharply as i sought to hold his right arm to the deck. his muscles were like iron, and i had no wish to let him clasp me in his short thick arms; nor did the idea of being struck with a knife cheer me greatly in that first moment of the fight. my main business was to keep free of the knife. he was slowly lifting me on his knees, while i gripped his arm with both hands. the other man had dropped into the boat and was watching us across the rail. "make haste, giuseppe!" he called impatiently, and i laughed a little, either at his confidence in the outcome or at his care for his own security; and my courage rose to find that i had only one to reckon with. i bent grimly to the task of holding the italian's right arm to the deck, with my left hand on his shoulder and my right fastened to his wrist, he meanwhile choking me very prettily with his free hand. his knees were slowly raising me and crowding me higher on his chest and the big rough hand on my throat tightened. i suddenly slipped my left hand down to where my right gripped his wrist and wrenched it sharply. his fingers relaxed, and when i repeated the twist the knife rattled on the deck. i broke away and leaped for the rail with some idea of jumping into the creek and swimming for it; and then the man in the boat let go twice with a revolver, the echoing explosions roaring over the still creek with the sound of saluting battleships. "hold on to that man--hold him!" he shouted from below. i heard the italian scraping about on the deck for his knife as i dodged round the house. i missed the steps in the dark and scrambled for them wildly, found them and was dashing for the path before the last echo of the shot had died away down the little valley. i was satisfied to let things stand as they were, and leave henry holbrook and the canoe-maker to defend their own lives and property. then, when i was about midway of the steps, a man plunged down from the garden and had me by the collar and on my back before i knew what had happened. there was an instant's silence in which i heard angry voices from the house-boat. my new assailant listened, too, and i felt his grasp on me tighten, though i was well winded and tame enough. i heard the boat strike the platform sharply as the second man jumped into it; then for an instant silence again held the valley. my captor seemed to dismiss the retreating boat, and poking a pistol into my ribs gave me his attention. "climb up these steps, and do as i tell you. if you run, i will shoot you like a dog." "there's a mistake--" i began chokingly, for the italian had almost strangled me and my lungs were as empty as a spent bellows. "that will do. climb!" he stuck the revolver into my back and up i went and through the garden toward the cottage. a door opening on the veranda was slightly ajar, and i was thrust forward none too gently into a lighted room. my captor and i studied each other attentively for half a minute. he was beyond question the man whom helen holbrook had sought at the house-boat in the summer dusk. who hartridge was did not matter; it was evident that holbrook was quite at home in the canoe-maker's house, and that he had no intention of calling any one else into our affairs. he had undoubtedly heard the revolver shots below and rushed from the cottage to investigate; and, meeting me in full flight, he had naturally taken it for granted that i was involved in some designs on himself. as he leaned against a table by the door his grave blue eyes scrutinized me with mingled indignation and interest. he wore white duck trousers turned up over tan shoes, and a gray outing shirt with a blue scarf knotted under its soft collar. i seemed to puzzle him, and his gaze swept me from head to foot several times before he spoke. then his eyes flashed angrily and he took a step toward me. "who in the devil are you and what do you want?" "my name is donovan, and i don't want anything except to get home." "where do you come from at this hour of the night?" "i am spending the summer at mr. glenarm's place near annandale." "that's rather unlikely; mr. glenarm is abroad. what were you doing down there on the creek?" "i wasn't doing anything until two men came along to kill you and i mixed up with them and got badly mussed for my trouble." he eyed me with a new interest. "they came to kill me, did they? you tell a good story, mr. donovan." "quite so. i was standing on the deck of the houseboat or whatever it is--" "where you had no business to be--" "granted. i had no business to be there; but i was there and came near getting killed for my impertinence, as i have told you. those fellows rowed up from the direction of the lake. one of them told the other to call you to your door on the pretense of summoning aid for a broken motor-car off there in the road. then he was to stab you. the assassin was an italian. his employer spoke to him in that tongue. i happen to be acquainted with it." "you are a very accomplished person," he observed dryly. he walked up to me and felt my pockets. "who fired that pistol?" "the man in charge of the expedition. the italian was trying to knife me on the deck, and i broke away from him and ran. his employer had gone back to the boat for safety and he took a crack at me as i ran across the platform. it's not the fault of either that i'm not quite out of business." an inner door back of me creaked slightly. my captor swung round at the sound. "o rosalind! it's all right. a gentleman here lost his way and i'm giving him his bearings." the door closed gently, and i heard the sound of steps retreating through, the cottage. i noted the anxious look in holbrook's face as he waited for the sounds to cease; then he addressed me again. "mr. donovan, this is a quiet neighborhood, and i am a peaceable man, whose worldly goods could tempt no one. there were undoubtedly others besides yourself down there at the creek, for one man couldn't have made all that row; but as you are the one i caught i must deal with you. but you have protested too much; the idea of italian bandits on tippecanoe creek is creditable to your imagination, but it doesn't appeal to my common sense. i don't know about your being a guest at glenarm house--even that is flimsy. a guest in the absence of the host is just a little too fanciful. i'm strongly disposed to take you to the calaboose at tippecanoe village." having been in jail several times in different parts of the world i was not anxious to add to my experiences in that direction. moreover, i had come to this lonely house on the tippecanoe to gain information touching the movements of henry holbrook, and i did not relish the idea of being thrown into a country jail by him. i resolved to meet the situation boldly. "you seem to accept my word reluctantly, even after i have saved you from being struck down at your own door. now i will be frank with you. i had a purpose in coming here--" he stepped back and folded his arms. "yes, i thought so." he looked about uneasily, before his eyes met mine. his hands beat nervously on his sleeves as he waited, and i resolved to bring matters to an issue by speaking his name. "_i know who you are, mr. holbrooke._" his hands went into his pockets again, and he stepped back and laughed. "you are a remarkably bad guesser, mr. donovan. if you had visited me by daylight instead of coming like a thief at midnight, you would have saved yourself much trouble. my name is displayed over the outer gate. i am robert hartridge, a canoe-maker." he spoke the name carelessly, his manner and tone implying that there could be no debating the subject. i was prepared for evasion but not for this cool denial of his identity. "but this afternoon, mr. holbrook, i chanced to follow the creek to this point and i saw--" "you probably saw that house-boat down there, that is my shop. as i tell you, i am a maker of canoes. they have, i hope, some reputation--honest hand-work; and my output is limited. i shall be deeply chagrined if you have never heard of the hartridge canoe." he shook his head in mock grief, walked to a cabarette and took up a pipe and filled it. he was carrying off the situation well; but his coolness angered me. "mr. hartridge, i am sorry that i must believe that heretofore you have been known as holbrook. the fact was clenched for me this afternoon, quite late, as i stood in the path below here. i heard quite distinctly a young woman call you father." "so? then you're an eavesdropper as well as a trespasser!"--and the man laughed. "we will admit that i am both," i flared angrily. "you are considerate, mr. donovan!" "the young woman who called you father and whom you answered from the deck of the house-boat is a person i know." "the devil!" he calmly puffed his pipe, holding the bowl in his fingers, his idle hand thrust into his trousers pocket. "it was miss helen holbrook that i saw here, mr. hartridge." he started, then recovered himself and peered into the pipe bowl for a second; then looked at me with an amused smile on his face. "you certainly have a wonderful imagination. the person you saw, if you saw any one on your visit to these premises to-day, was my daughter, rosalind hartridge. where do you think you knew her, mr. donovan?" "i saw her this morning, at st. agatha's school. i not only saw her, but i talked with her, and i am neither deaf nor blind." he pursed his lips and studied me, with his head slightly tilted to one side, in a cool fashion that i did not like. "rather an odd place to have met this miss--what name, did you say?--miss helen holbrook;--a closed school-house, and that sort of thing." "you may ease your mind on that point; she was with your sister, her aunt, mr. holbrook; and i want you to understand that your following miss patricia holbrook here is infamous and that i have no other business but to protect her from you." he bent his eyes upon me gravely and nodded several times. "mr. donovan," he began, "i repeat that i am not henry holbrook, and my daughter--is my daughter, and not your miss helen holbrook. moreover, if you will go to tippecanoe or to annandale and ask about me you will learn that i have long been a resident of this community, working at my trade, that of a canoe-maker. that shop down there by the creek and this house, i built myself." "but the girl--" "was not helen holbrook, but my daughter, rosalind hartridge. she has been away at school, and came home only a week ago. you are clearly mistaken; and if you will call, as you undoubtedly will, on your miss holbrook at st. agatha's in the morning, you will undoubtedly find your young lady there quite safely in charge of--what was the name, miss patricia holbrook?--in whose behalf you take so praiseworthy an interest." he was treating me quite as though i were a stupid school-boy, but i rallied sufficiently to demand: "if you are so peaceable and only a boat-maker here, will you tell me why you have enemies who are so anxious to kill you? i imagine that murder isn't common on the quiet shores of this little creek, and that an italian sailor is not employed to kill men who have not a past of some sort behind them." his brows knit and the jaw under his short beard tightened. then he smiled and threw his pipe on the cabarette. "i have only your word for it that there's an italian in the wood-pile. i have friends among the country folk here and in the lake villages who can vouch for me. as i am not in the least interested in your affairs i shall not trouble you for your credentials; but as the hour is late and i hope i have satisfied you that we have no acquaintances in common, i will bid you good night. if you care for a boat to carry you home--" "thank you, no!" i jerked. he bowed with slightly exaggerated courtesy, walked to the door and threw it open. he spoke of the beauty of the night as he walked by my side through the garden path to the outer gate. he asked where i had left my horse, wished me a pleasant ride home, and i was striding up the highway in no agreeable frame of mind before i quite realized that after narrowly escaping death on his house-boat at the hands of his enemies, henry holbrook had not only sent me away as ignorant as i had come, but had added considerably to my perplexities. chapter vi a sunday's mixed affairs of course, in company with the rest of my fellow-men, i had always tied the sheet in a sailing-boat; but in so little and crank a concern as a canoe, and with these charging squalls, i was not prepared to find myself follow the same principle; and it inspired me with some contemptuous views of our regard for life. it is certainly easier to smoke with the sheet fastened; but i had never before weighed a comfortable pipe of tobacco against an obvious risk, and gravely elected for the comfortable pipe.--_r. l. s., an inland voyage_. the faithful ijima opened the door of glenarm house, and after i had swallowed the supper he always had ready for me when i kept late hours, i established myself in comfort on the terrace and studied the affairs of the house of holbrook until the robins rang up the dawn. on their hint i went to bed and slept until ijima came in at ten o'clock with my coffee. an old hymn chimed by the chapel bells reminded me that it was sunday. services were held during the summer, so the house servants informed me, for the benefit of the cottagers at port annandale; and walking to our pier i soon saw a flotilla of launches and canoes steering for st. agatha's. i entered the school grounds by the glenarm gate and watched several smart traps approach by the lake road, depositing other devout folk at the chapel. the sight of bright parasols and modish gowns, the semi-urban sunday that had fallen in this quiet corner of the world, as though out of the bright blue above, made all the more unreal my experiences of the night. and just then the door of the main hall of st. agatha's opened, and forth came miss pat, helen holbrook and sister margaret and walked, toward the chapel. it was helen who greeted me first. "aunt pat can't withstand the temptations of a day like this. we're chagrined to think we never knew this part of the world before!" "i'm sure there is no danger," said miss pat, smiling at her own timidity as she gave me her hand. i thought that she wished to speak to me alone, but helen lingered at her side, and it was she who asked the question that was on her aunt's lips. "we are undiscovered? you have heard nothing, mr. donovan?" "nothing, miss holbrook," i said; and i turned away from miss pat--whose eyes made lying difficult--to helen, who met my gaze with charming candor. and i took account of the girl anew as i walked between her and miss pat, through a trellised lane that alternated crimson ramblers and purple clematis, to the chapel, sister margaret's brown-robed figure preceding us. the open sky, the fresh airs of morning, the bird-song and the smell of verdurous earth in themselves gave sabbath benediction. i challenged all my senses as i heard helen's deep voice running on in light banter with her aunt. it was not possible that i had seen her through the dusk only the day before, traitorously meeting her father, the foe of this dear old lady who walked beside me. it was an impossible thing; the thought was unchivalrous and unworthy of any man calling himself gentleman. no one so wholly beautiful, no one with her voice, her steady tranquil eyes, could, i argued, do ill. and yet i had seen and heard her; i might have touched her as she crossed my path and ran down to the house-boat! she wore to-day a white and green gown and trailed a green parasol in a white-gloved hand. her small round hat with its sharply upturned brim imparted a new frankness to her face. several times she looked at me quickly--she was almost my own height--and there was no questioning the perfect honesty of her splendid eyes. "we hoped you might drop in yesterday afternoon," she said, and my ears were at once alert. "yes," laughed miss pat, "we were--" "we were playing chess, and almost came to blows!" said helen. "we played from tea to dinner, and sister margaret really had to come and tear us away from our game." i had now learned, as though by her own intention, that she had been at st. agatha's, playing a harmless game with her aunt, at the very moment that i had seen her at the canoe-maker's. and even more conclusive was the fact that she had made this statement before her aunt, and that miss pat had acquiesced in it. we had reached the church door, and i had really intended entering with them; but now i was in no frame of mind for church; i murmured an excuse about having letters to write. "but this afternoon we shall go for a ride or a sail; which shall it be, miss holbrook?" i said, turning to miss pat in the church porch. she exchanged glances with helen before replying. "as you please, mr. donovan. it might be that we should be safer on the water--" i was relieved. on the lake there was much less chance of her being observed by henry holbrook than in the highways about annandale. it was, to be sure, a question whether the man i had encountered at the canoe-maker's was really her brother; that question was still to be settled. the presence of gillespie i had forgotten utterly; but he was, at any rate, the least important figure in the little drama unfolding before me. "i shall come to your pier with the launch at five o'clock," i said, and with their thanks murmuring in my ears i turned away, went home and called for my horse. i repeated my journey of the night before, making daylight acquaintance with the highway. i brought my horse to a walk as i neared the canoe-maker's cottage, and i read his sign and the lettering on his mail-box and satisfied myself that the name hartridge was indisputably set forth on both. the cedar hedge and the pines before the house shut the cottage off from the curious completely; but i saw the flutter of white curtains in the open gable windows, and the red roof agleam in the bright sunlight. there was no one in sight; perhaps the adventure and warning of the night had caused holbrook to leave; but at any rate i was bent upon asking about him in tippecanoe village. this place, lying about two miles beyond the canoe-maker's, i found to be a sleepy hamlet of perhaps fifty cottages, a country store, a post-office, and a blacksmith shop. there was a water-trough in front of the store, and i dismounted to give my horse a drink while i went to the cottage behind the closed store to seek the shopkeeper. i found him in a garden under an apple-tree reading a newspaper. he was an old fellow in spectacles, and, assuming that i was an idler from the summer colony, he greeted me courteously. he confirmed my impression that the crops were all in first-rate condition, and that the day was fine. i questioned him as to the character of the winters in this region, spoke of the employments of the village folk, then mentioned the canoe-maker. "yes; he works the year round down there on the tippecanoe. he sells his canoes all over the country--the hartridge, that's his name. you must have seen his sign there by the cedar hedge. they say he gets big prices for his canoes." "i suppose he's a native in these parts?" i ventured. "no; but he's been here a good while. i guess nobody knows where he comes from--or cares. he works pretty hard, but i guess he likes it." "he's an industrious man, is he?" "oh, he's a steady worker; but he's a queer kind, too. now he never votes and he never goes to church; and for the sake of the argument, neither do i,"--and the old fellow winked prodigiously. "he's a mighty odd man; but i can't say that that's against him. but he's quiet and peaceable, and now his daughter--" "oh, he has a daughter?" "yes; and that's all he has, too; and they never have any visitors. the daughter just come home the other day, and we ain't hardly seen her yet. she's been away at school." "i suppose mr. hartridge is absent sometimes; he doesn't live down there all the time, does he?" "i can't say that i could prove it; sometimes i don't see him for a month or more; but his business is his own, stranger," he concluded pointedly. "you think that if mr. hartridge had a visitor you'd know it?" i persisted, though the shopkeeper grew less amiable. "well, now i might; and again i mightn't. mr. hartridge is a queer man. i don't see him every day, and particularly in the winter i don't keep track of him." with a little leading the storekeeper described hartridge for me, and his description tallied exactly with the man who had caught me on the canoe-maker's premises the night before. and yet, when i had thanked the storekeeper and ridden on through the village, i was as much befuddled as ever. there was something decidedly incongruous in the idea that a man who was, by all superficial signs, at least, a gentleman, should be established in the business of making canoes by the side of a lonely creek in this odd corner of the world. from the storekeeper's account, hartridge might be absent from his retreat for long periods; if he were henry holbrook and wished to annoy his sister, it was not so far from this lonely creek to the connecticut town where miss pat lived. again, as to the daughter, just home from school and not yet familiar to the eyes of the village, she might easily enough be an invention to hide the visits of helen holbrook. i found myself trying to account for the fact that, by some means short of the miraculous, helen holbrook had played chess with miss pat at st. agatha's at the very hour i had seen her with her father on the tippecanoe. and then i was baffled again as i remembered that paul stoddard had sent the two women to st. agatha's, and that their destination could not have been chosen by helen holbrook. my thoughts wandered into many blind alleys as i rode on. i was thoroughly disgusted with myself at finding the loose ends of the holbrooks' affairs multiplying so rapidly. the sun of noon shone hot overhead, and i turned my horse into a road that led homeward by the eastern shore of the lake. as i approached a little country church at the crown of a long hill i saw a crowd gathered in the highway and reined my horse to see what had happened. the congregation of farmers and their families had just been dismissed; and they were pressing about a young man who stood in the center of an excited throng. drawing closer, i was amazed to find my friend gillespie the center of attention. "but, my dear sir," cried a tall, bearded man whom i took to be the minister of this wayside flock, "you must at least give us the privilege of thanking you! you can not know what this means to us, a gift so munificent--so far beyond our dreams." whereat gillespie, looking bored, shook his head, and tried to force his way through the encircling rustics. he was clad in a norfolk jacket and knickerbockers of fantastic plaid, with a cap to match. a young farmer, noting my curiosity and heavy with great news, whispered to me: "that boy in short pants put a thousand-dollar bill in the collection basket. all in one bill! they thought it was a mistake, but he told our preacher it was a free gift." just then i heard the voice of my fool raised so that all might hear: "friends, on the dusty highway of life i can take none of the honor or credit you so kindly offer me. the money i have given you to-day i came by honestly. i stepped into your cool and restful house of worship this morning in search of bodily ease. the small voice of conscience stirred within me. i had not been inside a church for two years, and i was greatly shaken. but as i listened to your eloquent pastor i was aware that the green wall-paper interrupted my soul currents. that vegetable-green tint is notorious as a psychical interceptor. spend the money as you like, gentlemen; but if i, a stranger, may suggest it, try some less violent color scheme in your mural decorations." he seemed choking with emotion as with bowed head he pushed his way through the circle and strode past me. the people stared after him, mystified and marveling. i heard an old man calling out: "how wonderful are the ways of the lord!" i let gillespie pass, and followed him slowly until a turn in the road hid us from the staring church folk. he turned and saw me. "you have discovered me, donovan. be sure your sins will find you out! a simple people, singularly moved at the sight of a greenback. i have rarely caused so much excitement." "i suppose you are trying to ease your conscience by giving away some of your button money." "that is just it, donovan. you have struck the brass tack on the head. but now that we have met again, albeit through no fault of my own, let me mention matters of real human interest." "you might tell me what you're doing here first." "walking; there were no cabs, donovan." "you choose a queer hour of the day for your exercise." "one might say the same for your ride. but let us be sensible. i dare say there's some common platform on which we both may stand." "we'll assume it," i replied, dismounting by the roadside that i might talk more easily. bandages were still visible at his wrists, and a strip of court-plaster across the knuckles of his right hand otherwise testified to the edges of the glass in st. agatha's garden. he held up his hands ruefully. "those were nasty slashes; and i ripped them up badly in climbing out of your window. but i couldn't linger: i am not without my little occupations." "you stand as excellent chance of being shot if you don't clear out of this. if there's any shame in you you will go without making further trouble." "it has occurred to me," he began slowly, "that i know something that you ought to know. i saw henry holbrook yesterday." "where?" i demanded. "on the lake. he's rented a sloop yacht called the _stiletto_. i passed it yesterday on the annandale steamer and i saw him quite distinctly." "it's all your fault that he's here!" i blurted, thoroughly aroused. "if you had not followed those women they might have spent the remainder of their lives here and never have been molested. but he undoubtedly caught the trail from you." gillespie nodded gravely and frowned before he answered. "i am sorry to spoil your theory, my dear irish brother, but put this in your pipe: _henry was here first_! he rented the sail-boat ten days ago--and i made my triumphal entry a week later. explain that, if you please, mr. donovan." i was immensely relieved by this disclosure, for it satisfied me that i had not been mistaken in the identity of the canoe-maker. i had, however, no intention of taking the button king into my confidence. "where is holbrook staying?" i asked casually. "i don't know--he keeps afloat. the _stiletto_ belongs to a cincinnati man who isn't coming here this summer and holbrook has got the use of the yacht. so much i learned from the boat storage man at annandale; then i passed the _stiletto_ and saw henry on board." it was clear that i knew more than gillespie, but he had supplied me with several interesting bits of information, and, what was more to the point, he had confirmed my belief that henry holbrook and the canoe-maker were the same person. "you must see that i face a difficult situation here, without counting you. you don't strike me as a wholly bad lot, gillespie, and why won't you run along like a good boy and let me deal with holbrook? then when i have settled with him i'll see what can be done for you. your position as an unwelcome suitor, engaged in annoying the lady you profess to love, and causing her great anxiety and distress, is unworthy of the really good fellow i believe you to be." he was silent for a moment; then he spoke very soberly. "i promise you, donovan, that i will do nothing to encourage or help holbrook. i know as well as you that he's a blackguard; but my own affairs i must manage in my own way." "but as surely as you try to molest those women you will have to answer to me. i am not in the habit of beginning what i never finish, and i intend to keep those women out of your way as well as out of holbrook's clutches, and if you get a cracked head in the business--well, the crack's in your own skull, mr. gillespie." he shrugged his shoulders, threw up his head and turned away down the road. there was something about the fellow that i liked. i even felt a certain pity for him as i passed him and rode on. he seemed simple and guileless, but with a dogged manliness beneath his absurdities. he was undoubtedly deeply attached to helen holbrook and his pursuit of her partook of a knight-errantish quality that would have appealed to me in other circumstances; but he was the most negligible figure that had yet appeared in the holbrook affair, and as i put my horse to the lope my thoughts reverted to red gate. that chess game and helen's visit to her father were still to be explained; if i could cut those cards out of the pack i should be ready for something really difficult. i employed myself with such reflections as i completed my sweep round the lake, reaching glenarm shortly after two o'clock. i was hot and hungry, and grateful for the cool breath of the house as i entered the hall. "miss holbrook is waiting in the library," ijima announced; and in a moment i faced miss pat, who stood in one of the open french windows looking out upon the wood. she appeared to be deeply absorbed and did not turn until i spoke. "i have waited for some time; i have something of importance to tell you, mr. donovan," she began, seating herself. "yes, miss holbrook." "you remember that this morning, on our way to the chapel, helen spoke of our game of chess yesterday?" "i remember perfectly," i replied; and my heart began to pound suddenly, for i knew what the next sentence would be. "helen was not at st. agatha's at the time she indicated." "well, miss pat," i laughed, "miss holbrook doesn't have to account to me for her movements. it isn't important--" "why isn't it important?" demanded miss pat in a sharp tone that was new to me. she regarded me severely, and as i blinked under her scrutiny she smiled a little at my discomfiture. "why, miss holbrook, she is not accountable to me for her actions. if she fibbed about the chess it's a small matter." "perhaps it is; and possibly she is not accountable to me, either." "we must not probe human motives too deeply, miss holbrook," i said evasively, wishing to allay her suspicions, if possible. "a young woman is entitled to her whims. but now that you have told me this, i suppose i may as well know how she accounted to you for this trifling deception." "oh, she said she wished to explore the country for herself; she wished to satisfy herself of our safety; and she didn't want you to think she was running foolishly into danger. she chafes under restraint, and i fear does not wholly sympathize with my runaway tactics. she likes a contest! and sometimes helen takes pleasure in--in--being perverse. she has an idea, mr. donovan, that you are a very severe person." "i am honored that she should entertain any opinion of me whatever," i replied, laughing. "and now," said miss pat, "i must go back. helen went to her room to write some letters against a time when it may be possible to communicate with our friends, and i took the opportunity to call on you. it might be as well, mr. donovan, not to mention my visit." i walked beside miss pat to the gate, where she dismissed me, remarking that she would be quite ready for a ride in the launch at five o'clock. the morning had added a few new-colored threads to the tangled skein i was accumulating, but i felt that with the chess story explained i could safely eliminate the supernatural; and i was relieved to find that no matter what other odd elements i had to reckon with, a girl who could be in two places at the same time was not among them. holbrook had not impressed me disagreeably; he had treated me rather decently, all things considered. the fact that he had enemies who were trying to kill him added zest to the whole adventure upon which my clerical friend stoddard had launched me. the italian sailor was a long way from tide-water, and who his employer was--the person who had hung aloof so conservatively during my scramble on the deck of the house-boat--remained to be seen. from every standpoint the holbrook incident promised well, and i was glad to find that human beings were still capable of interesting me so much. chapter vii a broken oar we are in love's land to-day; where shall we go? love, shall we start or stay, or sail or row? there's many a wind and way, and never a may but may; we are in love's hand to-day; where shall we go? --_swinburne_. the white clouds of the later afternoon cruised dreamily between green wood and blue sky. i brought the launch to st. agatha's landing and embarked the two exiles without incident. we set forth in good spirits, ijima at the engine and i at the wheel. the launch was comfortably large, and the bright cushions, with miss pat's white parasol and helen's red one, marked us with the accent of venice. i drove the boat toward the open to guard against unfortunate encounters, and the course once established i had little care but to give a wide berth to all the other craft afloat. helen exclaimed repeatedly upon the beauty of the lake, which the west wind rippled into many variations of color. i was flattered by her friendliness; and yielded myself to the joy of the day, agreeably thrilled--i confess as much--by her dark loveliness as she turned from time to time to speak to me. snowy sails stood forth upon the water like listless clouds; paddles flashed as they rose dripping and caught the sun; and the lake's wooded margins gave green horizons, cool and soothing to the eye, on every hand. one of the lake steamers on its incessant journeys created a little sea for us, but without disturbing my passengers. "aunt pat is a famous sailor!" observed helen as the launch rocked. "the last time we crossed the captain had personally to take her below during a hurricane." "helen always likes to make a heroine of me," said miss pat with her adorable smile. "but i am not in the least afraid on the water. i think there must have been sailors among my ancestors." she was as tranquil as the day. her attitude toward her niece had not changed; and i pleased myself with the reflection that mere ancestry--the vigor and courage of indomitable old sea lords--did not sufficiently account for her, but that she testified to an ampler background of race and was a fine flower that had been centuries in making. we cruised the shore of port annandale at a discreet distance and then bore off again. "let us not go too near shore anywhere," said helen; and miss pat murmured acquiescence. "no; we don't care to meet people," she remarked, a trifle anxiously. "i'm afraid i don't know any to introduce you to," i replied, and turned away into the broadest part of the lake. the launch was capable of a lively clip and the engine worked capitally. i had no fear of being caught, even if we should be pursued, and this, in the broad light of the peaceful sabbath afternoon, seemed the remotest possibility. it had been understood that we were to remain out until the sun dropped into the western wood, and i loitered on toward the upper lake where the shores were rougher. "that's a real island over there--they call it battle orchard--you must have a glimpse of it." "oh, nothing is so delightful as an island!" exclaimed helen; and she quoted william sharp's lines: "there is an isle beyond our ken, haunted by dreams of weary men. gray hopes enshadow it with wings weary with burdens of old things: there the insatiate water-springs rise with the tears of all who weep: and deep within it,--deep, oh, deep!-- the furtive voice of sorrow sings. there evermore, till time be o'er, sad, oh, so sad! the dreams of men drift through the isle beyond our ken." ijima had scanned the lake constantly since we started, as was his habit. miss pat turned to speak to helen of the shore that now swept away from us in broader curves as we passed out of the connecting channel into the farther lake. ijima remarked to me quietly, as though speaking of the engine: "there's a man following in a rowboat.", and as i replied to some remark by miss pat, i saw, half a mile distant, its sails hanging idly, a sloop that answered gillespie's description of the _stiletto_. its snowy canvas shone white against the green verdure of battle orchard. "shut off the power a moment. we will turn here, ijima,"--and i called miss pat's attention to a hoary old sycamore on the western shore. "oh, i'm disappointed not to cruise nearer the island with the romantic name," cried helen. "and there's a yacht over there, too!" i already had the boat swung round, and in reversing the course i lost the _stiletto_, which clung to the island shore; but i saw now quite plainly the rowboat ijima had reported as following us. it hung off about a quarter of a mile and its single occupant had ceased rowing and shipped his oars as though waiting. he was between us and the strait that connected the upper and lower lakes. though not alarmed i was irritated by my carelessness in venturing through the strait and anxious to return to the less wild part of the lake. i did not dare look over my shoulder, but kept talking to my passengers, while ijima, with the rare intuition of his race, understood the situation and indicated by gestures the course. "there's a boat sailing through the green, green wood," exclaimed helen; and true enough, as we crept in close to the shore, we could still see, across a wooded point of the island, the sails of the _stiletto_, as of a boat of dreams, drifting through the trees. and as i looked i saw something more. a tiny signal flag was run quickly to the topmast head, withdrawn once and flashed back; and as i faced the bow again, the boatman dropped his oars into the water. "what a strange-looking man," remarked miss pat. "he doesn't look like a native," i replied carelessly. the launch swung slowly around, cutting a half-circle, of which the italian's boat was the center. he dallied idly with his oars and seemed to pay no heed to us, though he glanced several times toward the yacht, which had now crept into full view, and under a freshening breeze was bearing southward. "full speed, ijima." the engine responded instantly, and we cut through the water smartly. there was a space of about twenty-five yards between the boatman and the nearer shore. i did not believe that he would do more than try to annoy us by forcing us on the swampy shore; for it was still broad daylight, and we were likely at any moment to meet other craft. i was confident that with any sort of luck i could slip past him and gain the strait, or dodge and run round him before he could change the course of his heavy skiff. i kicked the end of an oar which the launch carried for emergencies and ijima, on this hint, drew it toward him. "you can see some of the roofs of port annandale across the neck here," i remarked, seeing that the women had begun to watch the approaching boat uneasily. i kept up a rapid fire of talk, but listened only to the engine's regular beat. the launch was now close to the italian's boat, and having nearly completed the semi-circle i was obliged to turn a little to watch him. suddenly he sat up straight and lay to with the oars, pulling hard toward a point we must pass in order to clear the strait and reach the upper lake again. the fellow's hostile intentions were clear to all of us now and we all silently awaited the outcome. his skiff rose high in air under the impulsion of his strong arms, and if he struck our lighter craft amidships, as seemed inevitable, he would undoubtedly swamp us. ijima half rose, glanced toward the yacht, which was heading for the strait, and then at me, but i shook my head. "mind the engine, ijima," i said with as much coolness as i could muster. the margin between us and the skiff rapidly diminished, and the italian turned to take his bearings with every lift of his oars. he had thrown off his cap, and as he looked over his shoulder i saw his evil face sharply outlined. i counted slowly to myself the number of strokes that would be necessary to bring him in collision if he persisted, charging against his progress our own swift, arrow-like flight over the water. the shore was close, and i had counted on a full depth of water, but ijima now called out warningly in his shrill pipe and our bottom scraped as i veered off. this manoeuver cost me the equivalent of ten of the italian's deep strokes, and the shallow water added a new element of danger. "stand by with the oar, ijima," i called in a low tone; and i saw in a flash miss pat's face, quite calm, but with her lips set tight. ten yards remained, i judged, between the skiff and the strait, and there was nothing for us now but to let speed and space work out their problem. ijima stood up and seized the oar. i threw the wheel hard aport in a last hope of dodging, and the launch listed badly as it swung round. then the bow of the skiff rose high, and helen shrank away with a little cry; there was a scratching and grinding for an instant, as ijima, bending forward, dug the oar into the skiff's bow and checked it with the full weight of his body. as we fended off the oar snapped and splintered and he tumbled into the water with a great splash, while we swerved and rocked for a moment and then sped on through the little strait. looking back, i saw ijima swimming for the shore. he rose in the water and called "all right!" and i knew he would take excellent care of himself. the italian had shipped his oars and lay where we had left him, and i heard him, above the beat of our engine, laugh derisively as we glided out of sight. the water rippled pleasantly beneath us; the swallows brushed the quiet blue with fleet wings, and in the west the sun was spreading a thousand glories upon the up-piling clouds. out in the upper lake the wind freshened and we heard the low rumble of thunder. "miss holbrook, will you please steer for me?"--and in effecting the necessary changes of position that i might get to the engine we were all able to regain our composure. i saw miss pat touch her forehead with her handkerchief; but she said nothing. even after st. agatha's pier hove in sight silence held us all. the wind, continuing to freshen, was whipping the lake with a sharp lash, and i made much of my trifling business with the engine, and of the necessity for occasional directions to the girl at the wheel. my contrition at the danger to which i had stupidly brought them was strong in me; but there were other things to think of. miss pat could not be deceived as to the animus of our encounter, for the italian's conduct could hardly be accounted for on the score of stupidity; and the natural peace and quiet of this region only emphasized the gravity of her plight. my first thought was that i must at once arrange for her removal to some other place. with henry holbrook established within a few miles of st. agatha's the school was certainly no longer a tenable harborage. as i tended the engine i saw, even when i tried to avoid her, the figure of helen holbrook in the stern, quite intent upon steering and calling now and then to ask the course when in my preoccupation i forgot to give it. the storm was drawing a dark hood across the lake, and the thunder boomed more loudly. storms in this neighborhood break quickly and i ran full speed for st. agatha's to avoid the rain that already blurred the west. we landed with some difficulty, owing to the roughened water and the hard drive of the wind; but in a few minutes we had reached st. agatha's where sister margaret flung open the door just as the storm let go with a roar. when we reached the sitting-room we talked with unmistakable restraint of the storm and of our race with it across the lake--while sister margaret stood by murmuring her interest and sympathy. she withdrew immediately and we three sat in silence, no one wishing to speak the first word. i saw with deep pity that miss pat's eyes were bright with tears, and my heart burned hot with self-accusation. sister margaret's quick step died away in the hall, and still we waited while the rain drove against the house in sheets and the branches of a tossing maple scratched spitefully on one of the panes. "we have been found out; my brother is here," said miss pat. "i am afraid that is true," i replied. "but you must not distress yourself. this is not sicily, where murder is a polite diversion. the italian wished merely to frighten us; it's a case of sheerest blackmail. i am ashamed to have given him the opportunity. it was my fault--my grievous fault; and i am heartily sorry for my stupidity." "do not accuse yourself! it was inevitable from the beginning that henry should find us. but this place seemed remote enough. i had really begun to feel quite secure--but now!" "but now!" repeated helen with a little sigh. i marveled at the girl's composure--at her quiet acceptance of the situation, when i knew well enough her shameful duplicity. then by one of those intuitions of grace that were so charming in her she bent forward and took miss pat's hand. the emerald rings flashed on both as though in assertion of kinship. "dear aunt pat! you must not take that boat affair too seriously. it may not have been--father--who did that." she faltered, dropping her voice as she mentioned her father. i was aware that miss pat put away her niece's hand with a sudden gesture--i did not know whether of impatience, or whether some new resolution had taken hold of her. she rose and moved nearer to me. "what have you to propose, mr. donovan?" she asked, and something in her tone, in the light of her dear eyes, told me that she meant to fight, that she knew more than she wished to say, and that she relied on my support; and realizing this my heart went out to her anew. a maid brought in a lamp and within the arc of its soft light i saw helen's lovely head as she rested her arms on the table watching us. if there was to be a contest of wits or of arms on this peaceful lake shore under the high arches of summer, she and i were to be foes; and while we waited for the maid to withdraw i indulged in foolish speculations as to whether a man could love a girl and be her enemy at the same time. "i think we ought to go away--at once," the girl broke out suddenly. "the place was ill-chosen; father stoddard should have known better than to send us here!" "father stoddard did the best he could for us, helen. it is unfair to blame him," said miss pat quietly. "and mr. donovan has been much more than kind in undertaking to care for us at all." "i have blundered badly enough!" i confessed penitently. "it might be better, aunt pat," began helen slowly, "to yield. what can it matter! a quarrel over money--it is sordid--" miss pat stood up abruptly and said quietly, without lifting her voice, and turning from one to the other of us: "we have prided ourselves for a hundred years, we american holbrooks, that we had good blood in us, and character and decency and morality; and now that the men of my house have thrown away their birthright, and made our name a plaything, i am going to see whether the general decadence has struck me, too; and with my brother arthur, a fugitive because of his crimes, and my brother henry ready to murder me in his greed, it is time for me to test whatever blood is left in my own poor old body, and i am going to begin now! i will not run away another step; i am not going to be blackguarded and hounded about this free country or driven across the sea; and i will not give henry holbrook more money to use in disgracing our name. i have got to die--i have got to die before he gets it,"--and she smiled at me so bravely that something clutched my throat suddenly--"and i have every intention, mr. donovan, of living a very long time!" helen had risen, and she stood staring at her aunt in frank astonishment. not often, probably never before in her life, had anger held sway in the soul of this woman; and there was something splendid in its manifestation. she had spoken in almost her usual tone, though with a passionate tremor toward the close; but her very restraint was in itself ominous. "it shall be as you say, miss pat," i said, as soon as i had got my breath. "certainly, aunt pat," murmured helen tamely. "we can't be driven round the world. we may as well stay where we are." the storm was abating and i threw open the windows to let in the air. "if you haven't wholly lost faith in me, miss holbrook--" "i have every faith in you, mr. donovan!" smiled miss pat. "i shall hope to take better care of you in the future." "i am not afraid. i think that if henry finds out that he can not frighten me it will have a calming effect upon him." "yes; i suppose you are right, aunt pat," said helen passively. i went home feeling that my responsibilities had been greatly increased by miss pat's manifesto; on the whole i was relieved that she had not ordered a retreat, for it would have distressed me sorely to abandon the game at this juncture to seek a new hiding-place for my charges. long afterward miss pat's declaration of war rang in my ears. my heart leaps now as i remember it. and i should like to be a poet long enough to write a ballade of all old ladies, or a lyric in their honor turned with the grace of colonel lovelace and blithe with the spirit of friar herrick. i should like to inform it with their beautiful tender sympathy that is quick with tears but readier with strength to help and to save; and it should reflect, too, the noble patience, undismayed by time and distance, that makes a virtue of waiting--waiting in the long twilight with folded hands for the ships that never come! men old and battle-scarred are celebrated in song and story; but who are they to be preferred over this serene sisterhood? let the worn mothers of the world be throned by the fireside or placed at comfortable ease in the shadow of hollyhocks and old-fashioned roses in familiar gardens; it matters little, for they are supreme in any company. whoever would be gracious must serve them; whoever would be wise must sit at their feet and take counsel. nor believe too readily that the increasing tide of years has quenched the fire in their souls; rather, it burns on with the steady flame of sanctuary lights. lucky were he who could imprison in song those qualities that crown a woman's years--voicing what is in the hearts of all of us as we watch those gracious angels going their quiet ways, tending their secret altars of memory with flowers and blessing them with tears. chapter viii a lady of shadows and starlight still do the stars impart their light to those that travel in the night; still time runs on, nor doth the hand or shadow on the dial stand; the streams still glide and constant are: only thy mind untrue i find which carelessly neglects to be like stream or shadow, hand or star. --_william cartwright_. it was nine o'clock before ijima came in, dripping from his tumble in the lake and his walk home through the rain. the italian had made no effort to molest him, he reported; but he had watched the man row out to the _stiletto_ and climb aboard. ijima has an unbroken record of never having asked me a question inspired by curiosity. he may inquire which shoes i want for a particular morning, but _why, where_ and _when_ are unknown in his vocabulary. he was, i knew, fairly entitled to an explanation of the incident of the afternoon, though he would ask none, and when he had changed his clothes and reported to me in the library i told him in a word that there might be further trouble, and that i should expect him to stand night watch at st. agatha's for a while, dividing a patrol of the grounds with the gardener. his "yes, sir," was as calm as though i had told him to lay out my dress clothes, and i went with him to look up the gardener, that the division of patrol duty might be thoroughly understood. i gave the scotchman a revolver and ijima bore under his arm a repeating rifle with which he and i had diverted ourselves at times in the pleasant practice of breaking glass balls. i assigned him the water-front and told the gardener to look out for intruders from the road. these precautions taken, i rang the bell at st. agatha's and asked for the ladies, but was relieved to learn that they had retired, for the situation would not be helped by debate, and if they were to remain at st. agatha's it was my affair to plan the necessary defensive strategy without troubling them. and i must admit here, that at all times, from the moment i first saw helen holbrook with her father at red gate, i had every intention of shielding her to the utmost. the thought of trapping her, of catching her, _flagrante delicto_, was revolting; i had, perhaps, a notion that in some way i should be able to thwart her without showing my own hand; but this, as will appear, was not to be so easily accomplished. i went home and read for an hour, then got into heavy shoes and set forth to reconnoiter. the chief avenue of danger lay, i imagined, across the lake, and i passed through st. agatha's to see that my guards were about their business; then continued along a wooded bluff that rose to a considerable height above the lake. there was a winding path which the pilgrimages of school-girls in spring and autumn had worn hard, and i followed it to its crest, where there was a stone bench, established for the ease of those who wished to take their sunsets in comfort. the place commanded a fair view of the lake, and thence it was possible to see afar off any boat that approached st. agatha's or glenarm. the wooded bluff was cool and sweet from the rain, and a clear light was diffused by the moon as i lighted my pipe and looked out upon the lake for signs of the _stiletto_. the path that rose through the wood from st. agatha's declined again from the seat, and came out somewhere below, where there was a spring sacred to the school-girls, and where, i dare say, they still indulge in the incantations of their species. i amused myself picking out the pier lights as far as i had learned them, following one of the lake steamers on its zigzag course from port annandale to the village. around me the great elms and maples still dripped. eleven chimed from the chapel clock, the strokes stealing up to me dreamily. a moment later i heard a step in the path behind me, light, quick, and eager, and i bent down low on the bench, so that its back shielded me from view, and waited. i heard the sharp swish of bent twigs in the shrubbery as they snapped back into place in the narrow trail, and then the voice of some one humming softly. the steps drew closer to the bench, and some one passed behind me. i was quite sure that it was a woman--from the lightness of the step, the feminine quality in the voice that continued to hum a little song, and at the last moment the soft rustle of skirts. i rose and spoke her name before my eyes were sure of her. "miss holbrook!" i exclaimed. she did not cry out, though she stepped back quickly from the bench. "oh, it's you, mr. donovan, is it?" "it most certainly is!" i laughed. "we seem to have similar tastes, miss holbrook." "an interest in geography, shall we call it?" she chaffed gaily. "or astronomy! we will assume that we are both looking for the little dipper." "good!" she returned on my own note. "between the affairs of the holbrooks and your evening dipper hunt you are a busy man, mr. donovan." "i am not half so busy as you are, miss holbrook! it must tax you severely to maintain both sides of the barricade at the same time," i ventured boldly. "that does require some ingenuity," she replied musingly, "but i am a very flexible character." "but what will bend will break--you may carry the game too far." "oh, are you tired of it already?" "not a bit of it; but i should like to make this stipulation with you: that as you and i seem to be pitted against each other in this little contest, we shall fight it all out behind miss pat's back. i prefer that she shouldn't know what a--" and i hesitated. "oh, give me a name, won't you?" she pleaded mockingly. "what a beautiful deceiver you are!" "splendid! we will agree that i am a deceiver!" "if it gives you pleasure! you are welcome to all the joy you can get out of it!" "please don't be bitter! let us play fair, and not stoop to abuse." "i should think you would feel contrite enough after that ugly business of this afternoon. you didn't appear to be even annoyed by that italian's effort to smash the launch." she was silent for an instant; i heard her breath come and go quickly; then she responded with what seemed a forced lightness: "you really think that was inspired by--" she suddenly appeared at a loss. "by henry holbrook, as you know well enough. and if miss pat should be murdered through his enmity, don't you see that your position in the matter would be difficult to explain? murder, my dear young woman, is not looked upon complacently, even in this remote corner of the world!" "you seem given to the use of strong language, mr. donovan. let us drop the calling of names and consider just where you put me." "i don't put you at all; you have taken your own stand. but i will say that i was surprised, not to say pained, to find that you played the eavesdropper the very hour you came to annandale." a moment's silence; the water murmured in the reeds below; an owl hooted in the glenarm wood; a restless bird chirped from its perch in a maple overhead. "oh, to be sure!" she said at last. "you thought i was listening while aunt pat unfolded the dark history of the holbrooks." "i knew it, though i tried to believe i was mistaken. but when i saw you there on tippecanoe creek, meeting your father at the canoe-maker's house, i was astounded; i did not know that depravity could go so far." "my poor, unhappy, unfortunate father!" she said in a low voice; there was almost a moan in it. "i suppose you defend your conduct on the ground of filial duty," i suggested, finding it difficult to be severe. "why shouldn't i? who are you to judge our affairs? we are the unhappiest family that ever lived; but i should like you to know that it was not by my wish that you were brought into our councils. there is more in all this than appears!" "there is nothing in it but miss pat--her security, her peace, her happiness. i am pledged to her, and the rest of you are nothing to me. but you may tell your father that i have been in rows before and that i propose to stand by the guns." "i shall deliver your message, mr. donovan; and i give you my father's thanks for it," she mocked. "your father calls you rosalind--before strangers!" i remarked. "yes. it's a fancy of his," she murmured lingeringly. "sometimes it's viola, or perdita, but, as i think of it, it's oftener rosalind. i hope you don't object, mr. donovan?" "no, i rather like it; it's in keeping with your variable character. you seem prone, like rosalind, to woodland wandering. i dare say the other people of the cast will appear in due season. so far i have seen only the fool." "the fool? oh, yes; there was touchstone, wasn't there?" "i believe it is admitted that there was." she laughed; i felt that we were bound to get on better, now that we understood each other. "you are rather proud of your attainments, aren't you? i have really read the play, mr. donovan: i have even seen it acted." "i did not mean to reflect on your intelligence, which is acute enough; or on your attainments, which are sufficient; or on your experience of life, which is ample!" "well spoken! i really believe that i am liking you better all the time, mr. donovan." "my heart is swollen with gratitude. you heard my talk with your father at his cottage last night. and then you flew back to miss pat and played the hypocrite with the artlessness of rosalind--the real rosalind." "did i? then i'm as clever as i am wicked. you, no doubt, are as wise as you are good." she folded her arms with a quick movement, the better, i thought, to express satisfaction with her own share of the talk; then her manner changed abruptly. she rested her hands on the back of the bench and bent toward me. "my father dealt very generously with you. you were an intruder. he was well within his rights in capturing you. and, more than that, you drew to our place some enemies of your own who may yet do us grave injury." "they were no enemies of mine! didn't you hear me debating that matter with your father? they were his enemies and they pounced on me by mistake. it's not their fault that they didn't kill me!" "that's a likely story. that little creek is the quietest place in the world." "how do you know?" i demanded, bending closer toward her. "because my father tells me so! that was the reason he chose it." "he wanted a place to hide when the cities became too hot for him. i advise you, miss holbrook, in view of all that has happened, and if you have any sense of decency left, to keep away from there." "and i suggest to you, mr. donovan, that your devotion to my aunt does not require you to pursue my father. you do well to remember that a stranger thrusting himself into the affairs of a family he does not know puts himself in a very bad light." "i am not asking your admiration, miss holbrook." "you may save yourself the trouble!" she flashed; and then laughed out merrily. "let us not be so absurd! we are quarreling like two school-children over an apple. it's really a pleasure to meet you in this unconventional fashion, but we must be amiable. our affairs will not be settled by words--i am sure of that. i must beg of you, the next time you come forth at night, to wear your cloak and dagger. the stage-setting is fair enough; and the players should dress their parts becomingly. i am already named rosalind--at night; aunt pat we will call the duchess in exile; and we were speaking a moment ago of the fool. well, yes; there was a fool." "i might take the part myself, if gillespie were not already cast for it." "gillespie?" she said wonderingly; then added at once, as though memory had prompted her: "to be sure there is gillespie." "there is certainly gillespie. perhaps you would liefer call him orlando?" i ventured. "let me see," she pondered, bending her head; then: "'o, that's a brave man! he writes brave verses, speaks brave words, swears brave oaths and breaks them bravely, quite traverse, athwart the heart of his lover; as a puisny tilter, that spurs his horse but on one side, breaks his staff like a noble goose; but all's brave that youth mounts and folly guides.'" "that is celia's speech, but well rendered. let us consider that you are rosalind, celia, viola and ariel all in one. and i shall be those immortal villains of old tragedy--first, second and third murtherer; or, if it suit you better, let me be iago for honesty; othello for great adventures; hamlet for gloom; shylock for relentlessness, and romeo for love-sickness." again she bent her head; then drawing a little away and clasping her hands, she quoted: "'come, woo me, woo me; for now i am in a holiday humour and like enough to consent. what would you say to me now, an i were your very, very rosalind?'" i stammered a moment, dimly recalling orlando's reply in the play. i did not know whether she were daring me; and this was certainly not the girl's mood as we had met at st. agatha's. my heart leaped and the blood tingled in my finger-tips as memory searched out the long-forgotten scene; and suddenly i threw at her the line: "'how if the kiss be denied?'" she shrugged her shoulders. "the rehearsal has gone far enough. let us come back to earth again." but this, somehow, was not so easy. far across the lake a heavy train rumbled, and its engine blew a long blast for annandale. i felt at that instant the unreality of the day's events, with their culmination in this strange interview on the height above the lake. never, i thought, had man parleyed with woman on so extraordinary a business. in the brief silence, while the whistle's echoes rang round the shore, i drew away from the bench that had stood like a barricade between us and walked toward her. i did not believe in her; she had flaunted her shameful trickery in my face; and yet i felt her spell upon me as through the dusk i realized anew her splendid height, the faint disclosure of her noble head and felt the glory of her dark eyes. verily, a lady of shadows, moonlight and dreams, whom it befitted well to walk forth at night, bent upon plots and mischief, and compelling love in such foolish hearts as mine. she did not draw away, but stood quietly, with her head uplifted, a light scarf caught about her shoulders, and on her head a round sailors cap, tipped away from her face. "you must go back; i must see you safely to st. agatha's," i said. she turned, drawing the scarf close under her throat with a quick gesture, as though about to go. she laughed with more honest glee than i had known in her before, and i forgot her duplicity, forgot the bold game she was playing, and the consequences to which it must lead; my pulses bounded when a bit of her scarf touched my hand as she flung a loose end over her shoulder. "my dear mr. donovan, you propose the impossible! we are foes, you must remember, and i can not accept your escort." "but i have a guard about the house; you are likely to get into trouble if you try to pass through. i must ask you to remember our pledge, that you are not to vex miss pat unnecessarily in this affair. to rouse her in the night would only add to her alarm. she has had enough to worry her already. and i rather imagine," i added bitterly, "that you don't propose killing her with your own hands." "no; do give me credit for that!" she mocked. "but i shall not disturb your guards, and i shall not distress aunt pat by making a row in the garden trying to run your pickets. i want you to stay here five minutes--count them honestly--until i have had time to get back in my own fashion. is it a bargain?" she put out her hand as she turned away--her left hand. as my fingers closed upon it an instant the emerald ring touched my palm. "i should think you would not wear that ring," i said, detaining her hand, "it is too like hers; it is as though you were plighted to her by it." "yes; it is like her own; she gave it--" she choked and caught her breath sharply and her hand flew to her face. "she gave it to my mother, long ago," she said, and ran away down the path toward the school. a bit of gravel loosened by her step slipped after her to a new resting-place; then silence and the night closed upon her. i threw myself upon the bench and waited, marveling at her. if i had not touched her hand; if i had not heard her voice; if, more than all, i had not talked with her of her father, of miss pat, of intimate things which no one else could have known, i should not have believed that i had seen helen holbrook face to face. chapter ix the lights on st. agatha's pier the night is still, the moon looks kind, the dew hangs jewels in the heath, an ivy climbs across thy blind, and throws a light and misty wreath. the dew hangs jewels in the heath, buds bloom for which the bee has pined; i haste along, i quicker breathe, the night is still, the moon looks kind. buds bloom for which the bee has pined, the primrose slips its jealous sheath, as up the flower-watched path i wind and come thy window-ledge beneath. the primrose slips its jealous sheath,-- then open wide that churlish blind, and kiss me through the ivy wreath! the night is still, the moon looks kind. --edith m. thomas. on my way home through st. agatha's i stopped to question the two guards. they had heard nothing, had seen nothing. how that girl had passed them i did not know. i scanned the main building, where she and miss pat had two rooms, with an intervening sitting-room, but all was dark. miss helen holbrook was undeniably a resourceful young woman of charm and wit, and i went on to glenarm house with a new respect for her cleverness. i was abroad early the next morning, retracing my steps through st. agatha's to the stone bench on the bluff with a vague notion of confirming my memory of the night by actual contact with visible, tangible things. the lake twinkled in the sunlight, the sky overhead was a flawless sweep of blue, and the foliage shone from the deluge of the early night. but in the soft mold of the path the print of a woman's shoe was unmistakable. now, in ireland, when i was younger, i believed in fairies with all my heart, and to this day i gladly break a lance for them with scoffers. i know folk who have challenged them and been answered, and i have, with my own eyes, caught glimpses of their lights along irish hillsides. once, i verily believe, i was near to speech with them--it was in a highway by a starlit moor--but they laughed and ran away. the footprints in the school-path were, however, no elfin trifles. i bent down and examined them; i measured them--ungraciously, indefensibly, guiltily--with my hand, and rose convinced that the neat outlines spoke of a modish bootmaker, and were not to be explained away as marking the lightly-limned step of a fairy or the gold-sandaled flight of diana. then i descended to st. agatha's and found miss pat and helen loitering tranquilly in the garden. america holds no lovelier spot than the garden of st. agatha's, with its soft slopes of lawn, its hedges of box, its columned roses, its interludes of such fragrant trifles as mignonette and sweet alyssum; its trellised clematis and honeysuckle and its cool background of vine-hung wall, where the eye that wearies of the riot of color may find rest. they gave me good morning--miss pat calm and gracious, and helen in the spirit of the morning itself, smiling, cool, and arguing for peace. deception, as a social accomplishment, she had undoubtedly carried far; and i was hard put to hold up my end of the game. i have practised lying with past-masters in the art--the bazaar keepers of cairo, horse dealers in moscow and rug brokers in teheran; but i dipped my colors to this amazing girl. "i'm afraid that we are making ourselves a nuisance to you," said miss pat. "i heard the watchmen patrolling the walks last night." "yes; it was quite feudal!" helen broke in. "i felt that we were back at least as far as the eleventh century. the splash of water--which you can hear when the lake is rough--must be quite like the lap of water in a moat. but i did not hear the clank of arms." "no," i observed dryly. "ijima wears blue serge and carries a gun that would shoot clear through a crusader. the gardener is a scotchman, and his dialect would kill a horse." miss pat paused behind us to deliberate upon a new species of hollyhock whose minarets rose level with her kind, gentle eyes. something had been in my mind, and i took this opportunity to speak to helen. "why don't you avert danger and avoid an ugly catastrophe by confessing to miss pat that your duty and sympathy lie with your father? it would save a lot of trouble in the end." the flame leaped into helen's face as she turned to me. "i don't know what you mean! i have never been spoken to by any one so outrageously!" she glanced hurriedly over her shoulder. "my position is hard enough; it is difficult enough, without this. i thought you wished to help us." i stared at her; she was drifting out of my reckoning, and leading me into uncharted seas. "do you mean to tell me that you have not talked with your father--that you have not seen him here?" i besought. "yes; i have seen him--once, and it was by accident. it was quite by accident." "yes; i know of that--" "then you have been spying upon me, mr. donovan!" "why did you tell me that outrageously foolish tale about your chess game, when i knew exactly where you were at the very hour you would have had me think you were dutifully engaged with your aunt? it seems to me, my dear miss holbrook, that that is not so easy of explanation, even to my poor wits." "that was without purpose; really it was! i was restless and weary from so much confinement; you can't know how dreary these late years have been for us--for me--and i wished just once to be free. i went for a long walk into the country. and if you saw me, if you watched me--" i gazed at her blankly. the thing could not have been better done on the stage; but miss pat was walking toward us, and i put an end to the talk. "i came upon him by accident--i had no idea he was here," she persisted. "you are not growing tired of us," began miss pat, with her brave, beautiful smile; "you are not anxious to be rid of us?" "i certainly am not," i replied. "i can't tell you how glad i am that you have decided to remain here. i am quite sure that with a little patience we shall wear out the besiegers. our position here has, you may say, the strength of its weaknesses. i think the policy of the enemy is to harass you by guerilla methods--to annoy you and frighten you into submission." "yes; i believe you are right," she said slowly. helen had walked on, and i loitered beside miss pat. "i hope you have had no misgivings, miss pat, since our talk yesterday." "none whatever," she replied quickly. "i am quite persuaded in my own mind that i should have been better off if i had made a stand long ago. i don't believe cowardice ever pays, do you?" she smiled up at me in her quick, bright way, and i was more than ever her slave. "miss holbrook, you are the bravest woman in the world! i believe you are right. i think i should be equal to ten thousand men with your spirit to put heart into me." "don't be foolish," she said, laughing. "but to show you that i am not really afraid, suppose you offer to take us for a drive this evening. i think it would be well for me to appear to-day, just to show the enemy that we are not driven to cover by our little adventure in the launch yesterday." "certainly! shall we carry outriders and a rear guard?" "not a bit of it. i think we may be able to shame my brother out of his evil intentions by our defenselessness." we waited for helen to rejoin us, and the drive was planned for five. promptly on the hour, after a day of activity on my part in cruising the lake, looking for signs of the enemy, we set forth in an open trap, and plunged into country roads that traversed territory new to all of us. i carried ijima along, and when, after a few miles, helen asked to take the reins, i changed seats with her, and gave myself up to talk with miss pat. the girl's mood was grave, and she wished to drive, i fancied, as an excuse for silence. the land rolled gradually away into the south and west, and we halted, in an hour or so, far from the lake, on a wooded eminence that commanded a long sweep in every direction, and drew into the roadside. ijima opened a gate that admitted us to a superb maple grove, and in a few minutes we were having tea from the hamper in the cheeriest mood in the world. the sun was contriving new marvels in the west, and the wood that dipped lakeward beneath us gave an illusion of thick tapestry to the eye. "we could almost walk to the lake over the trees," said miss pat. "it's a charming picture." then, as we all turned to the lake, seeing it afar across the tree-tops through the fragrant twilight, i saw the _stiletto_ standing out boldly upon the waters of annandale, with a languid impudence that i began to associate with its slim outlines and snowy canvas. other craft were abroad, and miss pat, i judged, spoke only of the prettiness of the general landscape, and there was, to be sure, no reason why the sails of the _stiletto_ should have had any particular significance for her. helen was still looking down upon the lake when miss pat suggested that we should go home; and even after her aunt called to her, the girl still stood, one hand resting upon the trunk of a great beech, her gaze bent wistfully, mournfully toward the lake. but on the homeward drive--she had asked for the reins again--her mood changed abruptly, and she talked cheerily, often turning her head--a scarlet-banded sailor hat was, i thought, remarkably becoming--to chaff about her skill with the reins. "i haven't a care or trouble in the world," declared miss pat when i left them at st. agatha's. "i am sure that we have known the worst that can happen to us in annandale. i refuse to be a bit frightened after that drive." "it was charming," said helen. "this is better than the english lake country, because it isn't so smoothed out." "i will grant you all of that," i said. "i will go further and admit--what is much for me--that it is almost equal to killarney." there seemed to be sincerity in their good spirits, and i was myself refreshed and relieved as i drove into glenarm; but i arranged for the same guard as on the night before. helen holbrook's double-dealing created a condition of affairs that demanded cautious handling, and i had no intention of being caught napping. i am not, let me say, a person who boasts of his knowledge of human nature. good luck has served to minimize my own lack of subtlety in dealing with my fellow-creatures; and i take no credit for such fortune as i have enjoyed in contests of any sort with men or women. as for the latter, i admire, i reverence, i love them; but i can not engage to follow them when they leave the main road for short cuts and by-paths. the day had gone so well that i viewed the night with complacency. i read my foreign newspapers with a recurrence of the joy that the thought of remote places always kindles in me. an article in _the times_ on the unrest in bulgaria--the same old article on the same old unrest--gave me the usual heartache: i have been waiting ten years for something to happen in that neighborhood--something really significant and offering a chance for fun, and it seems as far away as ever. from the window of my room i saw the japanese boy patrolling the walks of st. agatha's, and the holbrooks' affairs seemed paltry and tame in contrast with the real business of war. a buckboard of youngsters from port annandale passed in the road, leaving a trail of song behind them. then the frog choruses from the little brook that lay hidden in the glenarm wood sounded in my ears with maddening iteration, and i sought the open. the previous night i had met helen holbrook by the stone seat on the ridge, and i can not deny that it was with the hope of seeing her again that i set forth. that touch of her hand in the moonlight lingered with me: i thrilled with eagerness as i remembered how my pulses bounded when i found myself so close to her there in the fringe of wood. she was beautiful with a rare loveliness at all times, yet i found myself wondering whether, on the strange frontiers of love, it was her daring duplicity that appealed to me. i set myself stubbornly into a pillory reared of my own shame at the thought, and went out and climbed upon the glenarm wall and stared at the dark bulk of st. agatha's as i punished myself for having entertained any other thought of helen holbrook than of a weak, vain, ungrateful girl, capable of making sad mischief for her benefactor. ijima passed and repassed in the paved walk that curved among the school buildings; i heard his step, and marked his pauses as he met the gardener at the front door by an arrangement that i had suggested. as i considered the matter i concluded that helen holbrook could readily slip out at the back of the house, when the guards thus met, and that she had thus found egress on the night before. at this moment the two guards met precisely at the front door, and to my surprise sister margaret, in the brown garb of her sisterhood, stepped out, nodded to the watchmen in the light of the overhanging lamp, and walked slowly round the buildings and toward the lake. the men promptly resumed their patrol. the sister slipped away like a shadow through the garden; and i dropped down from the wall inside the school park and stole after her. the guards were guilty of no impropriety in passing her; there was, to be sure, no reason why sister margaret should not do precisely as she liked at st. agatha's. however, my curiosity was piqued, and i crept quietly along through the young maples that fringed the wall. she followed a path that led down to the pier, and i hung back to watch, still believing that sister margaret had gone forth merely to enjoy the peace and beauty of the night. i paused in a little thicket, and heard her light step on the pier flooring; and i drew as near as i dared, in the shadow of the boat-house. she stood beside the upright staff from which the pier lights swung--the white lantern between the two red ones--looking out across the lake. the lights outlined her tall figure distinctly. she peered about anxiously several times, and i heard the impatient tap of her foot on the planks. in the lake sounded the faint gurgle of water round a paddle, and in a moment a canoe glided to the pier and a man stepped out. he bent down to seize the painter, and i half turned away, ashamed of the sheer curiosity that had drawn me after the sister. nuns who chafe at their prison-bars are not new, either to romance or history; and this surely was no affair of mine. then the man stood up, and i saw that it was gillespie. he was hatless, and his arms were bared. he began to speak, but she quieted him with a word; and as with a gesture she flung back her brown hood, i saw that it was helen holbrook. "i had given you up," she said. he took both her hands and held them, bending toward her eagerly. she seemed taller than he in the lantern light. "i should have come across the world," he said. "you must believe that i should not have asked this of you if i had not believed you could do it without injury to yourself--that it would impose no great burden on you, and that you would not think too ill of me--" "i love you; i am here because i love you!" he said; and i thought better of him than i had. he was a fool, and weak; but he was, i believed, an honest fool, and my heart grew hot with jealous rage as i saw them there together. "if there is more i can do!" "no; and i should not ask you if there were. i have gone too far, as it is," she sighed. "you must take no risks; you must take care that miss pat knows nothing." "no; i must see father. he must go away. i believe he has lost his senses from brooding on his troubles." "but how did he ever get here? there is something very strange about it." "oh, i knew he would follow us! but i did not tell him i was coming here--i hope you did not believe that of me. i did not tell him any more than i told you." he laughed softly. "you did not need to tell me; i could have found you anywhere in the world, helen. that man donovan is watching you like a hawk; but he's a pretty good fellow, with a milesian joy in a row. he's going to protect miss pat and you if he dies at the business." she shrugged her shoulders, and i saw her disdain of me in her face. a pretty conspiracy this was, and i seemed to be only the crumpled wrapping of a pack of cards, with no part in the game. gillespie drew an envelope from his pocket, held it to the white lantern for an instant, then gave it to her. "i telegraphed to chicago for a draft. he will have to leave here to get it--the bank at annandale carries no such sum; and it will be a means of getting rid of him." "oh, i only hope he will leave--he must--he must!" she cried. "you must go back," he said. "these matters will all come right in the end, helen," he added kindly. "there is one thing i do not understand." "oh, there are many things i do not understand!" "the thing that troubles me is that your father was here before you." "no--that isn't possible; i can't believe it." "he had engaged the _stiletto_ before you came to annandale; and while i was tracing you across the country he was already here somewhere. he amuses himself with the yacht." "yes, i know; he is more of a menace that way--always in our sight--always where i must see him!" her face, clearly lighted by the lanterns, was touched with anxiety and sorrow, and i saw her, with that prettiest gesture of woman's thousand graces--the nimble touch that makes sure no errant bit of hair has gone wandering--lift her hand to her head for a moment. the emerald ring flashed in the lantern light. i recall a thought that occurred to me there--that the widow's peak, so sharply marked in her forehead, was like the finger-print of some playful god. she turned to go, but he caught her hands. "helen!" he cried softly. "no! please don't!" she threw the nun's hood over her head and walked rapidly up the pier and stole away through the garden toward st. agatha's. gillespie listened for her step to die away, then he sighed heavily and bent down to draw up his canoe. when i touched him on the shoulder he rose and lifted the paddle menacingly. "ah, so it's our young and gifted irish friend!" he said, grinning. "no more sprinting stunts for me! i decline to run. the thought of asparagus and powdered glass saddens me. look at these hands--these little hands still wrapped in mystical white rags. i have bled at every pore to give you entertainment, and now it's got to be twenty paces with bird-guns." "what mischief are you in now?" i demanded angrily. "i thought i warned you, gillespie; i thought i even appealed to your chivalry." "my dear fellow, everything has changed. if a nun in distress appeals to me for help, i am johnny-on-the-spot for mother church." "that was not the sister, it was miss holbrook. i saw her distinctly; i heard--" "by jove, this is gallant of you, donovan! you are a marvelous fellow!" "i have a right to ask--i demand to know what it was you gave the girl." "matinée tickets--the american girl without matinée tickets is a lonely pleiad bumping through the void." "you are a contemptible ass. your conduct is scoundrelly. if you want to see miss holbrook, why don't you go to the house and call on her like a gentleman? and as for her--" "yes; and as for her--?" he stepped close to me threateningly. "and as for her--?" he repeated. "as for her, she may go too far!" "she is not answerable to you. she's the finest girl in the world, and if you intimate--" "i intimate nothing. but what i saw and heard interested me a good deal, gillespie." "what you heard by stealth, creeping about here at night, prying into other people's affairs!" "i have pledged myself to care for miss pat." "it's noble of you, donovan!" and he stepped away from me, grinning. "miss pat suggests nothing to me but 'button, button, who's got the button?' she's a bloomin' aristocrat, while i'm the wealth-cursed child of democracy." "you're a charming specimen!" i growled. it was plain that he saw nothing out of the way in thus conniving with helen holbrook against her aunt, and that he had not been struck by the enormity of the girl's conduct in taking money from him. he drew in his canoe as i debated with myself what to do with him. "you've got to leave the lake," i said. "you've got to go." "then i'm going, thank you!" he sprang into the canoe, driving it far out of my reach; his paddle splashed, and he was gone. "is that you, sir?" called ijima behind me. "i thought i heard some one talking." "it is nothing, ijima." chapter x the flutter of a handkerchief as a bell in a chime sets its twin-note a-ringing, as one poet's rhyme wakes another to singing, so once she has smiled all your thoughts are beguiled, and flowers and song from your childhood are bringing. each grace is a jewel would ransom the town; her speech has no cruel, her praise is renown; 'tis in her as though beauty, resigning to duty the scepter, had still kept the purple and crown. --_robert underwood johnson_. the next morning at eight o'clock i sent a note to miss pat, asking if she and the other ladies of her house would not take breakfast with me at nine; and she replied, on her quaint visiting-card, in an old-fashioned hand, that she and helen would be glad to come, but that sister margaret begged to be excused. it had been in my mind from the first to ask them to dine at glenarm, and now i wished to see this girl, to test, weigh, study her, as soon as possible after her meeting with gillespie. i wished to see how she would bear herself before her aunt and me with that dark transaction on her conscience. the idea pleased me, and when i saw the two women coming through the school garden i met them at the gate. breakfast seems to be, in common experience, the most difficult meal of the day, and yet that hour hangs in memory still as one of the brightest i ever spent. the table was set on the terrace, and its white napery, the best glenarm silver and crystal, and a bowl of red roses still dewy from the night, all blended coolly with the morning. as the strawberries were passed i felt that the little table had brought us together in a new intimacy. it was delightful to sit face to face with miss pat, and not less agreeable to have at my right hand this bewildering girl, whose eyes laughed at me when i sought shame in their depths. miss pat poured the coffee, and when i took my cup i felt that it carried benediction with it. i was glad to see her so at peace with the world, and her heart was not older, i could have sworn, than the roses before her. "i shall refuse to leave when my time is up!" she declared. "do you think you could spend a winter here, helen?" "i should love it!" the girl replied. "it would be perfectly splendid to watch the seasons march across the lake. we can both enroll ourselves at st. agatha's as post-graduate students, and take a special course in weather here." "if i didn't sometimes hear trains passing annandale in the night, i should forget that there's a great busy world off there somewhere," said miss pat. "i am ashamed of myself for having been so long discovering this spot. except one journey to california, i was never west of philadelphia until i came here." the world was satisfactory as it stood; and i was aware of no reason why it should move on. the chime of the chapel tower drifted to us drowsily, as though anxious to accommodate itself to the mood of a day that began business by shattering the hour-glass. the mist that hung over the water rose lazily, and disclosed the lake agleam in the full sunlight. though miss pat was content to linger, helen, i thought, appeared restless; she rose and walked to the edge of the terrace, the better to scan the lake, while miss pat and i talked on. miss pat's gift of detachment was remarkable; if we had been looking down from a balcony upon the grand canal, or breakfasting in an italian garden, she could not have been more at ease; nor did she refer even remotely to the odd business that had brought her to the lake. she was, to be explicit, describing in her delightful low voice, and in sentences vivid with spirit and color, a visit she had once paid to a noble italian family at their country seat. as helen wandered out of hearing i thought miss pat would surely seize the opportunity to speak of the girl's father, at least to ask whether i had heard of him further; but she avoided all mention of her troubles. helen stood by the line of scarlet geraniums that marked the balustrade, at a point whence the best view of the lake was obtainable--her hands clasped behind her, her head turned slightly. "there is no one quite like her!" exclaimed miss pat. "she is beautiful!" i acquiesced. miss pat talked on quickly, as though our silence might cause helen to turn and thus deprive us of the picture. "should you like to look over the house?" i asked a little later, when helen had come back to the table. "it is said to be one of the finest houses in interior america, and there are some good pictures." "we should be very glad," said miss pat; and helen murmured assent. "but we must not stay too long, aunt pat. mr. donovan has his own affairs. we must not tax his generosity too far." "and we are going to send some letters off to-day. if it isn't asking too much, i should like to drive to the village later," said miss pat. "yes; and i should like a paper of pins and a new magazine," said helen, a little, a very little eagerness in her tone. "certainly. the stable is at your disposal, and our entire marine." "but we must see the glenarm pictures first," said miss pat, and we went at once into the great cool house, coming at last to the gallery on the third floor. "whistler!" miss pat exclaimed in delight before the famous _lady in the gray cloak_. "i thought that picture was owned in england." "it was; but old mr. glenarm had to have it. that meissonier is supposed to be in paris, but you see it's here." "it's wonderful!" said miss pat. she returned to the whistler and studied it with rapt attention, and i stood by, enjoying her pleasure. one of the housemaids had followed us to the gallery and opened the french windows giving upon a balcony, from which the lake lay like a fold of blue silk beyond the wood. helen had passed on while miss pat hung upon the whistler. "how beautifully those draperies are suggested, helen. that is one of the best of all his things." but helen was not beside her, as she had thought. there were several recesses in the room, and i thought the girl had stepped into one of these, but just then i saw her shadow outside. "miss holbrook is on the balcony," i said. "oh, very well. we must go," she replied quietly, but lingered before the picture. i left miss pat and crossed the room to the balcony. as i approached one of the doors i saw helen, standing tiptoe for greater height, slowly raise and lower her handkerchief thrice, as though signaling to some one on the water. i laughed outright as i stepped beside her. "it's better to be a picture than to look at one, miss holbrook! allow me!" in her confusion she had dropped her handkerchief, and when i returned it she slipped it into her cuff with a murmur of thanks. a flash of anger lighted her eyes and she colored slightly; but she was composed in an instant. and, looking off beyond the water-tower, i was not surprised to see the _stiletto_ quite near our shore, her white sails filling lazily in the scant wind. a tiny flag flashed recognition and answer of the girl's signal, and was hauled down at once. we were both silent as we watched it; then i turned to the girl, who bent her head a moment, tucking the handkerchief a trifle more securely into her sleeve. she smiled quizzically, with a compression of the lips. "the view here is fine, isn't it?" we regarded each other with entire good humor. i heard miss pat within, slowly crossing the bare floor of the gallery. "you are incomparable!" i exclaimed. "verily, a daughter of janus has come among us!" "the best pictures are outdoors, after all," commented miss pat; and after a further ramble about the house they returned to st. agatha's, whence we were to drive together to annandale in half an hour. i went to the stone water-tower and scanned the movements of the _stiletto_ with a glass while i waited. the sloop was tacking slowly away toward annandale, her skipper managing his sheet with an expert hand. it may have been the ugly business in which the pretty toy was engaged, or it may have been the lazy deliberation of her oblique progress over the water, but i felt then and afterward that there was something sinister in every line of the _stiletto_. the more i deliberated the less certain i became of anything that pertained to the holbrooks; and i tested my memory by repeating the alphabet and counting ten, to make sure that my wits were still equal to such exercises. we drove into annandale without incident and with no apparent timidity on miss pat's part. helen was all amiability and cheer. i turned perforce to address her now and then, and was ashamed to find that the lurking smile about her lips, and a challenging light in her eyes, woke no resentment in me. the directness of her gaze was in itself disconcerting; there was no heavy-lidded insolence about her: her manner suggested a mischievous child who hides your stick and with feigned interest aids your search for it in impossible places. i left miss pat and helen at the general store while i sought the hardware merchant with a list of trifles required for glenarm. i was detained some time longer than i had expected, and in leaving i stood for a moment on the platform before the shop, gossiping with the merchant of village affairs. i glanced down the street to see if the ladies had appeared, and observed at the same time my team and wagon standing at the curb in charge of the driver, just as i had left them. while i still talked to the merchant, helen came out of the general store, glanced hurriedly up and down the street, and crossed quickly to the post-office, which lay opposite. i watched her as i made my adieux to the shopkeeper, and just then i witnessed something that interested me at once. within the open door of the post-office the italian sailor lounged idly. helen carried a number of letters in her hand, and as she entered the post-office--i was sure my eyes played me no trick--deftly, almost imperceptibly, an envelope passed from her hand to the italian's. he stood immovable, as he had been, while the girl passed on into the office. she reappeared at once, recrossed the street and met her aunt at the door of the general store. i rejoined them, and as we all met by the waiting trap the italian left the post-office and strolled slowly away toward the lake. i was not sure whether miss pat saw him. if she did she made no sign, but began describing with much amusement an odd countryman she had seen in the shop. "you mailed our letters, did you, helen? then i believe we have quite finished, mr. donovan. i like your little village; i'm disposed to love everything about this beautiful lake." "yes; even the town hall, where the old georgia minstrels seem to have appeared for one night only, some time last december, is a shrine worthy of pilgrimages," remarked helen. "and postage stamps cost no more here than in stamford. i had really expected that they would be a trifle dearer." i laughed rather more than was required, for those wonderful eyes of hers were filled with something akin to honest fun. she was proud of herself, and was even flushed the least bit with her success. as we passed the village pier i saw the _stiletto_ lying at the edge of the inlet that made a miniature harbor for the village, and, rowing swiftly toward it, his oars flashing brightly, was the italian, still plainly in sight. whether miss pat saw the boat and ignored it, or failed to see, i did not know, for when i turned she was studying the cover of a magazine that lay in her lap. helen fell to talking vivaciously of the contrasts between american and english landscape; and so we drove back to st. agatha's. thereafter, for the matter of ten days, nothing happened. i brought the ladies of st. agatha's often to glenarm, and we went forth together constantly by land and water without interruption. they received and despatched letters, and nothing marred the quiet order of their lives. the _stiletto_ vanished from my horizon, and lay, so ijima learned for me, within the farther lake. henry holbrook had, i made no doubt, gone away with the draft helen had secured from gillespie, and of gillespie himself i heard nothing. as for helen, i found it easy to forgive, and i grew eloquently defensive whenever my heart accused her. her moods were as changing as those of the lake, and, like it, knew swift-gathering, passionate storms. helen of the stars was not helen of the vivid sunlight. the mystery of night vanished in her zest for the day, and i felt that her spirit strove against mine in all our contests with paddle and racquet, or in our long gallops into the heart of the sunset. she had fashioned for the night a dream-world in which she moved like a whimsical shadow, but by day the fire of the sun flashed in her blood. we established between ourselves a comradeship that was for me delightfully perilous, but which--so she intimated one day, as though in warning--was only an armed neutrality. we were playing tennis in the glenarm court at the time, and she smashed the ball back to me viciously. "your serve," she said. and thus, with the joy of june filling the world, the enchanted days sped by. chapter xi the carnival of canoes thou canst not wave thy staff in air, or dip thy paddle in the lake, but it carves the bow of beauty there, and the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake. --_emerson_. i had dined alone and was lounging about the grounds when i heard voices near the glenarm wall. there was no formal walk there, and my steps were silenced by the turf. the heavy scent of flowers from within gave me a hint of my whereabouts; there was, i remembered, at this point on the school lawn a rustic bench embowered in honeysuckle, and miss pat and helen were, i surmised, taking their coffee there. i started away, thinking to enter by the gate and join them, when helen's voice rose angrily--there was no mistaking it, and she said in a tone that rang oddly on my ears: "but you are unkind to him! you are unjust! it is not fair to blame father for his ill-fortune." "that is true, helen; but it is not your father's ill-fortune that i hold against him. all i ask of him is to be sane, reasonable, to change his manner of life, and to come to me in a spirit of fairness." "but he is proud, just as you are; and uncle arthur ruined him! it was not father, but uncle arthur, who brought all these hideous things upon us." i passed rapidly on, and resumed my walk elsewhere. it was a sad business, the shadowy father; the criminal uncle, who had, as helen said, brought ruin upon them all; the sweet, motherly, older sister, driven in desperation to hide; and, not less melancholy, this beautiful girl, the pathos of whose position had struck me increasingly. perhaps miss pat was too severe, and i half accused her of i know not what crimes of rapacity and greed for withholding her brother's money; then i set my teeth hard into my pipe as my slumbering loyalty to miss pat warmed in my heart again. "it's the night of the carnival, sir," ijima reminded me, seeking me at the water-tower. "very good, ijima. you needn't lock the boat-house. i may go out later." the cottagers at port annandale hold once every summer a canoe fête, and this was the appointed night. i was in no mood for gaiety of any sort, but it occurred to me that i might relieve the strained relations between helen and her aunt by taking them out to watch the procession of boats. i passed through the gate and took a turn or two, not to appear to know of the whereabouts of the women, and to my surprise met miss pat walking alone. she greeted me with her usual kindness, but i knew that i had broken upon sad reflections. her handkerchief vanished into the silk bag she wore at her wrist. helen was not in sight, but i strolled back and forth with miss pat, thinking the girl might appear. "i had a note from father stoddard to-day," said miss pat. "i congratulate you," i laughed. "he doesn't honor me." "he's much occupied," she remarked defensively; "and i suppose he doesn't indulge in many letters. mine was only ten lines long, not more!" "father stoddard feels that he has a mission in the world, and he has little time for people like us, who have food, clothes and drink in plenty. he gives his life to the hungry, unclothed and thirsty." and now, quite abruptly, miss pat spoke of her brother. "has henry gone?" "yes; he left ten days ago." she nodded several times, then looked at me and smiled. "you have frightened him off! i am grateful to you!"--and i was glad in my heart that she did not know that gillespie's money had sent him away. helen had not appeared, and i now made bold to ask for her. "let me send the maid to tell her you are here," said miss pat, and we walked to the door and rang. the maid quickly reported that miss holbrook begged to be excused. "she is a little afraid of the damp night air of the garden," said miss pat, with so kind an intention that i smiled to myself. it was at the point of my tongue to remark, in my disappointment at not seeing her, that she must have taken sudden alarm at the lake atmosphere; but miss pat talked on unconcernedly. i felt from her manner that she wished to detain me. no one might know how her heart ached, but it was less the appeal of her gentleness that won me now, i think, than the remembrance that flashed upon me of her passionate outburst after our meeting with the italian; and that seemed very long ago. she had been magnificent that day, like a queen driven to desperation, and throwing down the gauntlet as though she had countless battalions at her back. indecision took flight before shame; it was a privilege to know and to serve her! "miss holbrook, won't you come out to see the water fête? we can look upon it in security and comfort from the launch. the line of march is from port annandale past here and toward the village, then back again. you can come home whenever you like. i had hoped miss helen might come, too, but i beg that you will take compassion upon my loneliness." i had flung off my cap with the exaggerated manner i sometimes used with her; and she dropped me a courtesy with the prettiest grace in the world. "i shall be with you in a moment, my lord!" she reappeared quickly and remarked, as i took her wraps, that helen was very sorry not to come. the gardener was on duty, and i called ijima to help with the launch. brightly decorated boats were already visible in the direction of port annandale; even the tireless lake "tramps" whistled with a special flourish and were radiant in vari-colored lanterns. "this is an ampler venice, but there should be music to make it complete," observed miss pat, as we stole in and out among the gathering fleet. and then, as though in answer, a launch passed near, leaving a trail of murmurous chords behind--the mournful throb of the guitar, the resonant beat of banjo strings. nothing can be so soothing to the troubled spirit as music over water, and i watched with delight miss pat's deep absorption in all the sights and sounds of the lake. we drifted past a sail-boat idling with windless sails, its mast trimmed with lanterns, and every light multiplying itself in the quiet water. many and strange craft appeared--farm folk and fishermen in clumsy rowboats and summer colonists in launches, skiffs and canoes, appeared from all directions to watch the parade. the assembling canoes flashed out of the dark like fireflies. not even the spirits that tread the air come and go more magically than the canoe that is wielded by a trained hand. the touch of the skilled paddler becomes but a caress of the water. to have stolen across saranac by moonlight; to have paddled the devious course of the york or kennebunk when the sea steals inland for rest, or to dip up stars in lovely annandale--of such experiences is knowledge born! i took care that we kept well to ourselves, for miss pat turned nervously whenever a boat crept too near. ijima, understanding without being told, held the power well in hand. i had scanned the lake at sundown for signs of the _stiletto_, but it had not ventured from the lower lake all day, and there was scarce enough air stirring to ruffle the water. "we can award the prize for ourselves here at the turn of the loop," i remarked, as we swung into place and paused at a point about a mile off glenarm. "here comes the flotilla!" "the music is almost an impertinence, lovely as it is. the real song of the canoe is 'dip and glide, dip and glide,'" said miss pat. the loop once made, we now looked upon a double line whose bright confusion added to the picture. the canoe offers, when you think of it, little chance for the decorator, its lines are so trim and so founded upon rigid simplicity; but many zealous hands had labored for the magic of this hour. slim masts supported lanterns in many and charming combinations, and suddenly, as though the toy lamps had taken wing, rockets flung up their stars and roman candles their golden showers at a dozen points of the line and broadened the scope of the picture. a scow placed midway of the loop now lighted the lake with red and green fire. the bright, graceful argosies slipped by, like beads upon a rosary. when the last canoe had passed, miss pat turned to me, sighing softly: "it was too pretty to last; it was a page out of the book of lost youth." i laughed back at her and signaled ijima to go ahead and then, as the water churned and foamed and i took the wheel, we were startled by an exclamation from some one in a rowboat near at hand. the last of the peaceful armada had passed, but now from the center of the lake, unobserved and unheralded, stole a canoe fitted with slim masts carried high from bow to stern with delightful daring. the lights were set in globes of green and gold, and high over all, its support quite invisible, shone a golden star that seemed to hover and follow the shadowy canoe. we all watched the canoe intently; and my eyes now fell upon the figure of the skipper of this fairy craft, who was set forth in clear relief against the red fire beyond. the sole occupant of the canoe was a girl--there was no debating it; she flashed by within a paddle's length of us, and i heard the low bubble of water under her blade. she paddled kneeling, indian fashion, and was lessening the breach between herself and the last canoe of the orderly line, which now swept on toward the casino. "that's the prettiest one of all--" began miss pat, then ceased abruptly. she bent forward, half rising and gazing intently at the canoe. what she saw and what i saw was helen holbrook plying the paddle with practised stroke; and as she passed she glanced aloft to make sure that her slender mast of lights was unshaken; and then she was gone, her star twinkling upon us bewilderingly. i waited for miss pat to speak, but she did not turn her head until the canoe itself had vanished and only its gliding star marked it from the starry sisterhood above. an exclamation faltered on my lips. "it was--it was like--it _was_--" "i believe we had better go now," said miss pat softly, and, i thought, a little brokenly. but we still followed the star with our eyes, and we saw it gain the end of the procession, sweep on at its own pace, past the casino, and then turn abruptly and drive straight for glenarm pier. it was now between us and our own shore. it shone a moment against our pier lights; then the star and the fairy lanterns beneath it vanished one after another and the canoe disappeared as utterly as though it had never been. i purposely steered a zigzag course back to st. agatha's. since helen had seen fit to play this trick upon her aunt i wished to give her ample time to dispose of her canoe and return to the school. if we had been struck by a mere resemblance, why did the canoeist not go on to the casino and enjoy the fruits of her victory? i tried to imagine gillespie a party to the escapade, but i could not fit him into it. meanwhile i babbled on with miss pat. an occasional rocket still broke with a golden shower over the lake, and she now discussed the carnival and declared the gondola inferior for grace to the american canoe. her phrases were, however, a trifle stiff and not in her usual light manner. i walked with her from the pier to st. agatha's. sister margaret, who had observed the procession from an upper window, threw open the door for us. "how is helen?" asked miss pat at once. "she is very comfortable," replied the sister. "i went up only a moment ago to see if she wanted anything." miss pat turned and gave me her hand in her pretty fashion. "you see, it could not have been--it was not--helen; our eyes deceived us! thank you very much, mr. donovan!" there was no mistaking her relief; she smiled upon me beamingly as i stood before her at the door. "of course! on a fête night one can never trust one's eyes!" "but it was all bewilderingly beautiful. you are most compassionate toward a poor old woman in exile, mr. donovan. i must go up to helen and make her sorry for all she has missed." i went back to the launch and sought far and near upon the lake for the canoe with the single star. i wanted to see again the face that was uplifted in the flood of colored light--the head, the erect shoulders, the arms that drove the blade so easily and certainly; for if it was not helen holbrook it was her shadow that the gods had sent to mock me upon the face of the waters. chapter xii the melancholy of mr. gillespie i have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; nor the soldier's, which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects; and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, in which my often rumination wraps me in a most humorous sadness.--_as you like it_. i laughed a moment ago when, in looking over my notes of these affairs, i marked the swift transition from those peaceful days to others of renewed suspicions and strange events. i had begun to yield myself to blandishments and to feel that there could be no further interruption of the idyllic hours i was spending in helen holbrook's company. i still maintained, to be sure, the guard as it had been established; and many pipes i smoked on st. agatha's pier, in the fond belief that i was merely fulfilling my office as protector of miss pat, whereas i had reached a point where the very walls that held helen holbrook were of such stuff as dreams are made of. my days were keyed to a mood that was impatient of questions and intolerant of doubts. i was glad to take the hours as they came, so long as they brought her. i did not refer to her appearance in the parade of canoes, nor did miss pat mention it to me again. it was a part of the summer's enchantment, and it was not for me to knock at doors to which helen holbrook held the golden keys. the only lingering blot in the bright calendar of those days was her meeting with gillespie on the pier, and the fact that she had accepted money from him for her rascally father. but even this i excused. it was no easy thing for a girl of her high spirits to be placed in a position of antagonism to her own father; and as for gillespie, he was at least a friend, abundantly able to help her in her difficult position; and if, through his aid, she had been able to get rid of her father, the end had certainly justified the means. i reasoned that an educated man of good antecedents who was desperate enough to attempt murder for profit in this enlightened twentieth century was cheaply got rid of at any price, and it was extremely decent of gillespie--so i argued--to have taken himself away after providing the means of the girl's release. i persuaded myself eloquently on these lines while i exhausted the resources of glenarm in providing entertainment for both ladies. there had been other breakfasts on the terrace at glenarm, and tea almost every day in the shadow of st. agatha's, and one dinner of state in the great glenarm dining-room; but more blessed were those hours in which we rode, helen and i, through the sunset into dusk, or drove a canoe over the quiet lake by night. miss pat, i felt sure, in so often leaving me alone with helen, was favoring my attentions; and thus the days passed, like bubbles on flowing water. she was in my thoughts as i rode into annandale to post some letters, and i was about to remount at the postoffice door when i saw a crowd gathered in front of the village inn and walked along the street to learn the cause of it. and there, calmly seated on a soap-box, was gillespie, clad in amazing checks, engaged in the delectable occupation of teaching a stray village mongrel to jump a stick. the loungers seemed highly entertained, and testified their appreciation in loud guffaws. i watched the performance for several minutes, gillespie meanwhile laboring patiently with the dull dog, until finally it leaped the stick amid the applause of the crowd. gillespie patted the dog and rose, bowing with exaggerated gravity. "gentlemen," he said, "i thank you for your kind attention. let my slight success with that poor cur teach you the lesson that we may turn the idlest moment to some noble use. the education of the lower animals is something to which too little attention is paid by those who, through the processes of evolution, have risen to a higher species. i am grateful, gentlemen, for your forbearance, and trust we may meet again under circumstances more creditable to us all--including the dog." the crowd turned away mystified, while gillespie, feeling in his pocket for his pipe, caught my eye and winked. "ah, donovan," he said coolly, "and so you were among the admiring spectators. i hope you have formed a high opinion of my skill as a dog trainer. once, i would have you know, i taught a plymouth rock rooster to turn a summersault. are you quite alone?" "you seem to be as big a fool as ever!" i grumbled in disgust, vexed at finding him in the neighborhood. "gallantly spoken, my dear fellow! you are an honor to the irish race and mankind. our meeting, however, is not inopportune, as they say in books; and i would have speech with you, gentle knight. the inn, though humble, is still not without decent comforts. will you honor me?" he turned abruptly and led the way through the office and up the stairway, babbling nonsense less for my entertainment, i imagined, than for the befuddlement of the landlord, who leaned heavily upon his scant desk and watched our ascent. he opened a door, and lighted several oil lamps, which disclosed three connecting rooms. "you see, i got tired of living in the woods, and the farmer i boarded with did not understand my complex character. the absurd fellow thought me insane--can you imagine it?" "it's a pity he didn't turn you over to the sheriff," i growled. "generously spoken! but i came here and hired most of this inn to be near the telegraph office. though as big a fool as you care to call me i nevertheless look to my buttons. the hook-and-eye people are formidable competitors, and the button may in time become obsolete--stranger things have happened. i keep in touch with our main office, and when i don't feel very good i fire somebody. only this morning i bounced our general manager by wire for sending me a letter in purple type-writing; i had warned him, you understand, that he was to write to me in black. but it was only a matter of time with that fellow. he entered a bull pup against mine in the westchester bench show last spring and took the ribbon away from me. i really couldn't stand for that. in spite of my glassy splash in the asparagus bed, i'm a man who looks to his dignity, donovan. will you smoke?" i lighted my pipe and encouraged him to go on. "how long have you been in this bake-oven?" "i moved in this morning--you are my first pilgrim. i have spent the long hot day in getting settled. i had to throw out the furniture and buy new stuff of the local emporium, where, it depressed me to learn, furniture for the dead is supplied even as for the living. that chair, which i beg you to accept, stood next in the shop to a coffin suitable for a carcass of about your build, old man. but don't let the suggestion annoy you! i read your book on tiger hunting a few years ago with pleasure, and i'm sure you enjoy a charmed life. "i myself," he continued, taking a chair near me and placing his feet in an open window, "am cursed with rugged health. i have quite recovered from those unkind cuts at the nunnery--thanks to your ministrations--and am willing to put on the gloves with you at any time." "you do me great honor; but the affair must wait for a lower temperature." "as you will! it is not like my great and gracious ways to force a fight. pardon me, but may i inquire for the health of the ladies at saint what's-her-name's?" "they are quite well, thank you." "i am glad to know it;"--and his tone lost for the moment its jauntiness. "henry holbrook has gone to new york." "good riddance!" i exclaimed heartily. "and now--" "--and now if i would only follow suit, everything would be joy plus for you!" he laughed and slapped his knees at my discomfiture, for he had read my thoughts exactly. "you certainly are the only blot on the landscape!" "quite so. and if i would only go hence the pretty little idyl that is being enacted in the delightful garden, under the eye of a friendly chaperon, would go forward without interruption." he spoke soberly, and i had observed that when he dropped his chaff a note of melancholy crept into his talk. he folded his arms and went on: "she's a wonderful girl, donovan. there's no other girl like her in all the wide world. i tell you it's hard for a girl like that to be in her position--the whole family broken up, and that contemptible father of hers hanging about with his schemes of plunder. it's pitiful, donovan; it's pitiful!" "it's a cheerless mess. it all came after the bank failure, i suppose." "practically, though the brothers never got on. you see my governor was bit by their bank failure; and miss pat resented the fact that he backed off when stung. but the gillespies take their medicine; father never squealed, which makes me sore that your aunt pat gives me the icy eye." "their affairs are certainly mixed," i remarked non-committally. "they are indeed; and i have studied the whole business until my near mind is mussed up, like scrambled eggs. your own pretty idyl of the nunnery garden adds the note _piquante_. cross my palm with gold and i'll tell you of strange things that lie in the future. i have an idea, donovan; singular though it seem, i've a notion in my head." "keep it," i retorted, "to prevent a cranial vacuum." "crushed! absolutely crushed!" he replied gloomily. "kick me. i'm only the host." we were silent while the few sounds of the village street droned in. he rose and paced the floor to shake off his mood, and when he sat down he seemed in better spirits. "holbrook will undoubtedly return," i said. "yes; there's no manner of doubt about that!" "and then there will be more trouble." "of course." "but i suppose there's no guessing when he will come back." "he will come back as soon as he's spent his money." i felt a delicacy about referring to that transaction on the pier. it was a wretched business, and i now realized that the shame of it was not lost on gillespie. "how does henry come to have that italian scoundrel with him?" i asked after a pause. "he's the skipper of the _stiletto_," gillespie replied readily. "he's a long way from tide-water," i remarked. "a blackguard of just his sort once sailed me around the italian peninsula in a felucca, and saved me from drowning on the way. his heroism was not, however, wholly disinterested. when we got back to naples he robbed me of my watch and money-belt and i profited by the transaction, having intended to give him double their value. but there are plenty of farm-boys around the lake who could handle the _stiletto_. henry didn't need a dago expert." the mention of the italian clearly troubled gillespie. after a moment he said: "he may be holding on to henry instead of henry's holding on to him. do you see?" "no; i don't." "well, i have an idea that the dago knows something that's valuable. last summer henry went cruising in the sound with a pretty rotten crowd, poker being the chief diversion. a man died on the boat before they got back to new york. the report was that he fell down a hatchway when he was drunk, but there were some ugly stories in the papers about it. that italian sailor was one of the crew." "where is he now?" "over at battle orchard. he knows his man and knows he'll be back. i'm waiting for henry, too. helen gave him twenty thousand dollars. the way the market is running he's likely to go broke any day. he plays stocks like a crazy man, and after he's busted he'll be back on our hands." "it's hard on miss pat." "and it's harder on helen. she's in terror all the time for fear her father will go up against the law and bring further disgrace on the family. there's her uncle arthur, a wanderer on the face of the earth for his sins. that was bad enough without the rest of it." "that was greed, too, wasn't it?" "no, just general cussedness. he blew in the holbrook bank and skipped." these facts i had gathered before, but they seemed of darker significance now, as we spoke of them in the dimly lighted room of the squalid inn. i recalled a circumstance that had bothered me earlier, but which i had never satisfactorily explained, and i determined to sound gillespie in regard to it. "you told me that henry holbrook found his way here ahead of you. how do you account for that?" he looked at me quickly, and rose, again pacing the narrow room. "i don't! i wish i could!" "it's about the last place in the world to attract him. port annandale is a quiet resort frequented by western people only. there's neither hunting nor fishing worth mentioning; and a man doesn't come from new york to indiana to sail a boat on a thimbleful of water like this lake." "you are quite right." "if helen holbrook gave him warning that they were coming here--" he wheeled on me fiercely, and laid his hand roughly on my shoulder. "don't you dare say it! she couldn't have done it! she wouldn't have done it! i tell you i know, independently of her, that he was here before father stoddard ever suggested this place to miss pat." "well, you needn't get so hot about it." "and you needn't insinuate that she is not acting honorably in this affair! i should think that after making love to her, as you have been doing, and playing the role of comforter to miss pat, you would have the decency not to accuse her of connivance with henry holbrook." "you let your jealousy get the better of your good sense. i have not been making love to miss holbrook!" i declared angrily and knew in my heart that i lied. "well, irishman," he exclaimed with entire good humor; "let us not bring up mine host to find us locked in mortal combat." "what the devil _did_ you bring me up here for?" i demanded. "oh, just to enjoy your society. i get lonesome sometimes. i tell you a man does get lonesome in this world, when he has nothing to lean on but a blooming button factory and a stepmother who flits among the world's expensive sanatoria. i know you have never had 'button, button, who's got the button?' chanted in your ears, but may i ask whether you have ever known the joy of a stepmother? i can see that your answer will be an unregretful negative." he was quite the fool again, and stared at me vacuously. "my stepmother is not the common type of juvenile fiction. she has never attempted during her widowhood to rob the orphan or to poison him. bless your irish heart, no! she's a good woman, and rich in her own right, but i couldn't stand her dietary. she's afraid i'm going to die, donovan! she thinks everybody's going to die. father died of pneumonia and she said ice-water in the finger-bowl did it, and she wanted to have the butler arrested for murder. she had a new disease for me every morning. it was worse than being left with a button-works to draw a stepmother like that. she ate nothing but hot water and zweibach herself, and shuddered when i demanded sausage and buckwheat cakes every day. she wept and talked of the duty she owed to my poor dead father; she had promised him, she said, to safeguard my health; and there i was, as strong as an infant industry, weighed a hundred and seventy-six pounds when i was eighteen, and had broken all the prep school records. she made me so nervous talking about her symptoms, and mine--that i didn't have!--that i began taking my real meals in the gardener's house. but to save her feelings i munched a little toast with her. she caught me one day clearing up a couple of chickens and a mug of bass with the gardener, and it was all over. she had noticed, she said, that i had been coughing of late--i was doing a few cigarettes too many, that was all--and wired to new york for doctors. she had all sorts, donovan--alienists and pneumogastric specialists and lung experts. "the people on strawberry hill thought there was a medical convention in town. i was kidnapped on the golf course, where i was about to win the eastern connecticut long-drive cup, and locked up in a dark room at home for two days while they tested me. they made all the known tests, donovan. they tested me for diseases that haven't been discovered yet, and for some that have been extinct since the days of noah. you can see where that put me. i was afraid to fight or sulk for fear the alienists would send me to the madhouse. i was afraid to eat for fear they would think _that_ was a symptom, and every time i asked for food the tape-worm man looked intelligent and began prescribing, while the rest of them were terribly chagrined because they hadn't scored first. the only joy i got out of the rumpus was in hitting one of those alienists a damned hard clip in the ribs, and i'm glad i did it. he was feeling my medulla oblongata at the moment, and as i resent being man-handled i pasted him one--he was a young chap, and fair game--i pasted him one, and then grabbed a suit-case and slid. i stole away in a clam-boat for new haven, and kept right on up into northern maine, where i stayed with the indians until my father's relict went off broken-hearted to bad neuheim to drink the waters. and here i am, by the grace of god, in perfect health and in full control of the button market of the world." "you have undoubtedly been sorely tried," i said as he broke off mournfully. in spite of myself i had been entertained. he was undeniably a fellow of curious humor and with unusual experience of life. he followed me to the street, and as i rode away he called me back as though to impart something of moment. "did you ever meet charles darwin?" "he didn't need me for proof, buttons." "i wish i might have had one word with him. it's on my mind that he put the monkeys back too far. i should be happier if he had brought them a little nearer up to date. i should feel less lonesome, irishman." he stopped me again. "once i had an ambition to find an honest man, donovan, but i gave it up--it's easier to be an honest man than to find one. i give you peace!" i had learned some things from the young button king, but much was still opaque in the affairs of the holbrooks. the italian's presence assumed a new significance from gillespie's story. he had been party to a conspiracy to kill holbrook, _alias_ hartridge, on the night of my adventure at the house-boat, and i fell to wondering who had been the shadowy director of that enterprise--the coward who had hung off in the creek, and waited for the evil deed to be done. chapter xiii the gate of dreams and as i muse on helen's face, within the firelight's ruddy shine, its beauty takes an olden grace like hers whose fairness was divine; the dying embers leap, and lo! troy wavers vaguely all aglow, and in the north wind leashed without, i hear the conquering argives' shout; and helen feeds the flames as long ago! --_edward a. u. valentine_. in my heart i was anxious to do justice to gillespie. sad it is that we are all so given to passing solemn judgment on trifling testimony! i myself am not impeccable. i should at any time give to the lions a man who uses his thumb as a paper-cutter; for such a one is clearly marked for brutality. spats i always associate with vanity and a delicate constitution. a man who does not know the art of nursing a pipe's fire, but who has constant recourse to the match-box, should be denied benefit of clergy and the consolations of religion and tobacco. a woman who is so far above the vanities of this world that she can put on her hat without the aid of the mirror is either reckless or slouchy--both unbecoming enough--or else of an humility that is neither admirable nor desirable. my prejudices rally as to a trumpet-call at the sight of a girl wearing overshoes or nibbling bonbons--the one suggestive of predatory habits and weak lungs, the other of nervous dyspepsia. the night was fine, and after returning my horse to the stable i continued on to the glenarm boat-house. i was strolling along, pipe in mouth, and was half-way up the boat-house steps, when a woman shrank away from the veranda rail, where she had been standing, gazing out upon the lake. there was no mistaking her. she was not even disguised to-night, and as i advanced across the little veranda she turned toward me. the lantern over the boat-house door suffused us both as i greeted her. "pardon, me, miss holbrook; i'm afraid i have disturbed your meditations," i said. "but if you don't mind--" "you have the advantage of being on your own ground," she replied. "i waive all my rights as tenant if you will remain." "it is much nicer here than on st. agatha's pier; you can see the lake and the stars better. on the whole," she laughed, "i think i shall stay a moment longer, if you will tolerate me." i brought out some chairs and we sat down by the rail, where we could look out upon the star-sown heavens and the dark floor of stars beneath. the pier lights shone far and near like twinkling jewels, and in the tense silence sounds floated from far across the water. a canoeing party drifted idly by, with a faint, listless splash of paddles, while a deep-voiced boy sang, _i rise from dreams of thee_. a moment later the last bars stole softly across to us, vague and shadowy, as though from the heart of night itself. helen bent forward with her elbows resting on the rail, her hands clasped under her chin. the lamplight fell full upon her slightly lifted head, and upon her shoulders, over which lay a filmy veil. she hummed the boy's song dreamily for a moment while i watched her. had she one mood for the day and another for the night? i had last seen her that afternoon after an hour of tennis, at which she was expert, and she had run away through glenarm gate with a taunt for my defeat; but now the spirit of stars and of all earth's silent things was upon her. i looked twice and thrice at her clearly outlined profile, at the brow with its point of dark hair, at the hand whereon the emerald was clearly distinguishable, and satisfied myself that there could be no mistake about her. "you grow bold," i said, anxious to hear her voice. "you don't mind the pickets a bit." "no. i'm quite superior to walls and fences. you have heard of those east indians who appear and disappear through closed doors; well, we'll assume that i had one of those fellows for an ancestor! it will save the trouble of trying to account for my exits and entrances. i will tell you in confidence, mr. donovan, that i don't like to be obliged to account for myself!" she sat back in the chair and folded her arms. i had not referred in any way to her transaction with gillespie; i had never intimated even remotely that i knew of her meeting with the infatuated young fellow on st. agatha's pier; and i felt that those incidents were ancient history. "it was corking hot this afternoon. i hope you didn't have too much tennis." "no; it was pretty enough fun," she remarked, with so little enthusiasm that i laughed. "you don't seem to recall your victory with particular pleasure. it seems to me that i am the one to be shy of the subject. how did that score stand?" "i really forget--i honestly do," she laughed. "that's certainly generous; but don't you remember, as we walked along toward the gate after the game, that you said--" "oh, i can't allow that at all! what i said yesterday or to-day is of no importance now. and particularly at night i am likely to be weak-minded, and my memory is poorer then than at any other time." "i am fortunate in having an excellent memory." "for example?" "for example, you are not always the same; you were different this afternoon; and i must go back to our meeting by the seat on the bluff, for the miss holbrook of to-night." "that's all in your imagination, mr. donovan. now, if you wanted to prove that i'm really--" "helen holbrook," i supplied, glad of a chance to speak her name. "if you wanted to prove that i am who i am," she continued, with new animation, as though at last something interested her, "how should you go about it?" "please ask me something difficult! there is, there could be, only one woman as fair, as interesting, as wholly charming." "i suppose that is the point at which you usually bow humbly and wait for applause; but i scorn to notice anything so commonplace. if you were going to prove me to be the same person you met at the annandale station, how should you go about it?" "well, to be explicit, you walk like an angel." "you are singularly favored in having seen angels walk, mr. donovan. there's a popular superstition that they fly. in my own ignorance i can't concede that your point is well taken. what next?" "your head is like an intaglio wrought when men had keener vision and nimbler fingers than now. with your hair low on your neck, as it is to-night, the picture carries back to a venetian balcony centuries ago." "that's rather below standard. what else, please?" "and that widow's peak--i would risk the direst penalties of perjury in swearing to it alone." she shrugged her shoulders. "you are an observant person. that trifling mark on a woman's forehead is usually considered a disfigurement." "but you know well enough that i did not mention it with such a thought. you know it perfectly well." "no; foolish one," she said mockingly, "the widow's peak can not be denied. i suppose you don't know that the peak sometimes runs in families. my mother had it, and her mother before her." "you are not your mother or your grandmother; so i am not in danger of mistaking you." "well, what else, please?" "there's the emerald. miss pat has the same ring, but you are not miss pat. besides, i have seen you both together." "still, there are emeralds and emeralds!" "and then--there are your eyes!" "there are two of them, mr. donovan!" "there need be no more to assure light in a needful world, miss holbrook." "good! you really have possibilities!" she struck her palms together in a mockery of applause and laughed at me. "to a man who is in love everything is possible," i dared. "the celtic temperament is very susceptible. you have undoubtedly likened many eyes to the glory of the heavens." "i swear--" "swear not at all!" "then i won't!"--and we laughed and were silent while the water rippled in the reeds, the insects wove their woof of sound and ten struck musically from st. agatha's. "i must leave you." "if you go you leave an empty world behind." "oh, that was pretty!" "thank you!" "conceited! i wasn't approving your remark, but that meteor that flashed across the sky and dropped into the woods away out yonder." "alas! i have fallen farther than the meteor and struck the earth harder." "you deserved it," she said, rising and drawing the veil about her throat. "my lack of conceit has always been my undoing; i am the humblest man alive. you are adorable," i said, "if that's the answer." "it isn't the answer! if mere stars do this to you, what would you be in moonlight?" as we stood facing each other i was aware of some new difference in her. perhaps her short outing skirt of dark blue had changed her; and yet in our tramps through the woods and our excursions in the canoe she had worn the same or similar costumes. she hesitated a moment, leaning against the railing and tapping the floor with her boot; then she said gravely, half questioningly, as though to herself: "he has gone away; you are quite sure that he has gone away?" "your father is probably in new york," i answered, surprised at the question. "i do not expect him back at once." "if he should come back--" she began. "he will undoubtedly return; there is no debating that." "if he comes back there will be trouble, worse than anything that has happened. you can't understand what his return will mean to us--to me." "you must not worry about that; you must trust me to take care of that when he comes. 'sufficient unto the day' must be your watchword. i saw gillespie to-night." "gillespie?" she repeated with unfeigned surprise. "that was capitally acted!" i laughed. "i wish i knew that he meant nothing more to you than that!" i added seriously. she colored, whether with anger or surprise at my swift change of tone, i did not know. then she said very soberly: "mr. gillespie is nothing to me whatever." "i thank you for that!" "thank me for nothing, mr. donovan. and now good night. you are not to follow me--" "oh, surely to the gate!" "not even to the gate. my ways are very mysterious. by day i am one person; by night quite another. and if you should follow me--" "to my own gate!" i pleaded. "it's only decent hospitality!" i urged. "not even to the gate of dreams!" "but in trying to get back to the school you have to pass the guards; you will fail at that some time!" "no! i whisper an incantation, and lo! they fall asleep upon their spears. and i must ask you--" "keep asking, for to ask you must stay!" "--please, when i meet you in daytime do not refer to anything that we may say when we meet at night. you have proved me at every point--even to this spot of ink on my forehead," and she put her forefinger upon the peak. "i am helen holbrook; but as--what shall i say?--oh, yes!" she went on lightly--"as a psychological fact, i am very different at night from anything i ever am in daylight. and to-morrow morning, when you meet me with aunt pat in the garden, if you should refer to this meeting i shall never appear to you again, not even through the gate of dreams. good night!" "good night!" i clasped her hand for an instant, and she met my eyes with a laughing challenge. "when shall i see you again--this you that is so different from the you of daylight?" she caught her hand away and turned to go, but paused at the steps. "when the new moon hangs, like a little feather, away out yonder, i shall be looking at it from the stone seat on the bluff; do you think you can remember?" she vanished away into the wood toward st. agatha's. i started to follow, but paused, remembering my promise, and sat down and yielded myself to the thought of her. practical questions of how she managed to slip out of st. agatha's vexed me for a moment; but in my elation of spirit i dismissed them quickly enough. i would never again entertain an evil thought of her; the money she had taken from gillespie i would in some way return to him and make an end of any claim he might assert against her by reason of that help. and i resolved to devote myself diligently to the business of protecting her from her father. i was even impatient for him to return and resume his blackguardly practice of intimidating two helpless women, that i might deal with him in the spirit of his own despicable actions. my heart was heavy as i thought of him, but i lighted my pipe and found at once a gentler glory in the stars. then as i stared out upon the lake i saw a shadow gliding softly away from the little promontory where st. agatha's pier lights shone brightly. it was a canoe, i should have known from its swift steady flight if i had not seen the paddler's arm raised once, twice, until darkness fell upon the tiny argosy like a cloak. i ran out on the pier and stared after it, but the silence of the lake was complete. then i crossed the strip of wood to st. agatha's, and found ijima and the gardener faithfully patrolling the grounds. "has any one left the buildings to-night?" "no one." "sister margaret hasn't been out--or any one?" "no one, sir. did you hear anything, sir?" "nothing, ijima. good night." i wrote a telegram to an acquaintance in new york who knows everybody, and asked him to ascertain whether henry holbrook, of stamford, was in new york. this i sent to annandale, and thereafter watched the stars from the terrace until they slipped into the dawn, fearful lest sleep might steal away my memories and dreams of the night. chapter xiv battle orchard we crossed the lake from the south and about nightfall came to the small island called battle orchard, which is so named by the american settlers from the peach, apple and other trees planted there about (so many have told me) by françois belot, a french voyageur who had crossed from the ouabache on his way from quebec to post vincennes near the ohio, and, finding the beaver plentiful, brought there his family. and here the indians laid siege to him; and here he valiantly defended the ford on the west side of the little isle for three days, killing many savages before they slew him.--_the relation of captain abel tucker_. when i called at st. agatha's the following morning the maid told me that miss pat was ill and that miss helen asked to be excused. i walked restlessly about the grounds until luncheon, thinking helen might appear; and later determined to act on an impulse, with which i had trifled for several days, to seek the cottage on the tippecanoe and satisfy myself of holbrook's absence. a sharp shower had cooled the air, and i took the canoe for greater convenience in running into the shallow creek. i know nothing comparable to paddling as a lifter of the spirit, and with my arms and head bared and a cool breeze at my back i was soon skimming along as buoyant of heart as the responsive canoe beneath me. it was about four o'clock when i dipped my way into the farther lake, and as the water broadened before me at the little strait i saw the _stiletto_ lying quietly at anchor off the eastern shore of battle orchard. i drew close to observe her the better, but there were no signs of life on board, and i paddled to the western side of the island. it had already occurred to me that holbrook might have another hiding-place than the cottage at red gate, where i had talked with him, and the island seemed a likely spot for it. i ran my canoe on the pebbly beach and climbed the bank. the island was covered with a tangle of oak and maple, with a few lordly sycamores towering above all. i followed a path that led through the underbrush and was at once shut in from the lake. the trail bore upward and i soon came upon a small clearing about an acre in extent that had once been tilled, but it was now preëmpted by weeds as high as my head. beyond lay an ancient orchard, chiefly of apple-trees, and many hoary veterans stood faithful to the brave hand that had marshaled them there. (every orchard is linked to the hesperides and every apple-waits for atalanta--if not for eve!) i stooped to pick a wild-flower and found an arrow-head lying beside it. fumbling the arrow-head in my fingers, i passed onto a log cabin hidden away in the orchard. it was evidently old. the mud chinking had dropped from the logs in many places, and the stone chimney was held up by a sapling. i approached warily, remembering that if this were holbrook's camp and he had gone away he had probably left the italian to look after the yacht, which could be seen from the cabin door. i made a circuit of the cabin without seeing any signs of habitation, and was about to enter by the front door, when i heard the swish of branches in the underbrush to the east and dropped into the grass. in a moment the italian appeared, carrying a pair of oars over his shoulder. he had evidently just landed, as the blades were dripping. he threw them down by the cabin door, came round to the western window, drew out the pin from an iron staple with which it was fastened, and thrust his head in. he was greeted with a howl and a loud demand of some sort, to which he replied in monosyllables, and after several minutes of this parley i caught a fragment of dialogue which seemed to be final in the subject under discussion. "let me out or it will be the worse for you; let me out, i say!" "my boss he sometime come back; then you get out it, maybe." with this deliverance, accomplished with some difficulty, the italian turned away, going to the rear of the cabin for a pail with which he trudged off toward the lake. he had not closed the window and would undoubtedly return in a few minutes; so i waited until he was out of sight, then rose and crawled through the grass to the opening. i looked in upon a bare room whose one door opened inward, and i did not for a moment account for the voice. then something stirred in the farther corner, and i slowly made out the figure of a man tied hand and foot, lying on his back in a pile of grass and leaves. "you ugly dago! you infernal pirate--" he bawled. there was no mistaking that voice, and i now saw two legs clothed in white duck that belonged, i was sure, to gillespie. my head and shoulders filled the window and so darkened the room that the prisoner thought his jailer had come back to torment him. "shut up, gillespie," i muttered. "this is donovan. that fellow will be back in a minute. what can i do for you?" "what can you do for me?" he spluttered. "oh, nothing, thanks! i wouldn't have you put yourself out for anything in the world. it's nice in here, and if that fellow kills me i'll miss a great deal of the poverty and hardship of this sinful world. but take your time, irishman. being tied by the legs like a calf is bully when you get used to it." in turning over, the better to level his ironies at me, he had stirred up the dust in the straw so that he sneezed and coughed in a ridiculous fashion. as i did not move he added: "you come in here and cut these strings and i'll tell you something nice some day." i ran round to the front door, kicked it open and passed through a square room that contained a fireplace, a camp bed, a trunk, and a table littered with old newspapers and a few books. i found gillespie in the adjoining room, cut his thongs and helped him to his feet. "where is your boat?" he demanded. "on the west side." "then we're in for a scrap. that beggar goes down there for water; and he'll see that there's another man on the island. i had a gun when i came," he added mournfully. he stamped his feet and threshed himself with his arms to restore circulation, then we went into the larger room, where he dug his own revolver from the trunk and pointed to a shot-gun in the corner. "you'd better get that. this fellow has only a knife in his clothes. he'll be back on the run when he sees your canoe." and we heard on the instant a man running toward the hut. i opened the breech of the shotgun to see whether it was loaded. "well, how do you want to handle the situation?" i asked. he had his eye on the window and threw up his revolver and let go. "your pistol makes a howling noise, gillespie. please don't do that again. the smoke is disagreeable." "you are quite right; and shooting through glass is always unfortunate! there's bound to be a certain deflection before the bullet strikes. you see if i were not a fool i should be a philosopher." "it isn't nice here; we'd better bolt." "i'm as hungry as a sea-serpent," he said, watching the window. "and i am quite desperate when i miss my tea." i stood before the open door and he watched the window. we were both talking to cover our serious deliberations. our plight was not so much a matter for jesting as we wished to make it appear to each other. i had experienced one struggle with the italian at the houseboat on the tippecanoe and was not anxious to get within reach of his knife again. i did not know how he had captured gillespie, or what mischief that amiable person had been engaged in, but inquiries touching this matter must wait. "are you ready? we don't want to shoot unless we have to. now when i say go, jump for the open." he limped a little from the cramping of his legs, but crossed over to me cheerfully enough. his white trousers were much the worse for contact with the cabin floor, and his shirt hung from his shoulders in ribbons. "my stomach bids me haste; i'm going to eat a beefsteak two miles thick if i ever get back to new york. are you waiting?" we were about to spring through the outer door, when the door at the rear flew open with a bang and the sailor landed on me with one leap. i went down with a thump and a crack of my head on the floor that sickened me. the gun was under my legs, and i remember that my dazed wits tried to devise means for getting hold of it. as my senses gradually came round i was aware of a great conflict about me and over me. gillespie was engaged in a hand-to-hand struggle with the sailor and the cabin shook with their strife. the table went down with a crash, and gillespie seemed to be having the best of it; then the italian was afoot again, and the clenched swaying figures crashed against the trunk at the farther end of the room. and there they fought in silence, save for the scraping of their feet on the puncheon floor. i felt a slight nausea from the smash my head had got, but i began crawling across the floor toward the struggling men. it was growing dark, and they were knit together against the cabin wall like a single monstrous, swaying figure. my stomach was giving a better account of itself, and i got to my knees and then to my feet. i was within a yard of the wavering shadow and could distinguish gillespie by his white trousers as he wrenched free and flung the italian away from him; and in that instant of freedom i heard the dull impact of gillespie's fist in the brute's face. as the sailor went down i threw myself full length upon him; but for the moment at least he was out of business, and before i had satisfied myself that i had firmly grasped him, gillespie, blowing hard, was kneeling beside me, with a rope in his hands. "i think," he panted, "i should like champignon sauce with that steak, donovan. and i should like my potatoes lyonnaise--the pungent onion is a spurring tonic. that will do, thanks, for the arms. get off his legs and i'll see what i can do for them. you oughtn't to have cut that rope, my boy. you might have known that we were going to need it. my father taught me in my youth never to cut a string. i want the pirate's knife for a souvenir. i kicked it out of his hand when you went bumpety-bumpety. how's your head?" "i still have it. let's get you outside and have a look at you. you think he didn't land with the knife?" "not a bit of it. he nearly squeezed the life out of me two or three times, though. what's that?" "he gave me a jab with his sticker when he made that flying leap and i guess i'm scratched." gillespie opened my shirt and disclosed a scratch across my ribs downward from the left collar bone. the first jab had struck the bone, but the subsequent slash had left a nasty red line. gillespie swore softly in the strange phrases that he affected while he tended my injury. my head ached and the nausea came back occasionally. i sat down in the grass while gillespie found the sailor's pail and went to fetch water. he found some towels in the hut and between his droll chaffing and his deft ministrations i soon felt fit again. "well, what shall we do with the dago?" he asked, rubbing his arms and legs briskly. "we ought to give him to the village constable." "that's the law of it, but not the common sense. the lords of justice would demand to know all the whys and wherefores, and the italian consul at chicago would come down and make a fuss, and the man behind the dago would lay low and no good would come." "when will holbrook be back?--that's the question." "well, the market has been very feverish and my guess is that he won't last many days. he had a weakness for industrials, as i remember, and they've been very groggy. what he wants is his million from miss pat, and he has his own chivalrous notions of collecting it." we decided finally to leave the man free, but to take away his boat. gillespie was disposed to make light of the whole affair, now that we had got off with our lives. we searched the hut for weapons and ammunition, and having collected several knives and a belt and revolver from the trunk, we poured water on the italian, carried him into the open and loosened the ropes with which gillespie had tied him. the man glared at us fiercely and muttered incoherently for a few minutes, but after gillespie had dashed another pail of water on him he stood up and was tame enough. "tell him," said gillespie, "that we shall not kill him to-day. tell him that this being tuesday we shall spare his life--that we never kill any one on tuesday, but that we shall come back to-morrow and make shark meat of him. assure him that we are terrible villains and man-hunters--" "when will your employer return?" i asked the sailor. he shook his head and declared that he did not know. "how long did he hire you for?" "for all summer." he pointed to the sloop, and i got it out of him that he had been hired in new york to come to the lake and sail it. "in the creek up yonder," i said, pointing toward the tippecanoe, "you tried to kill me. there was another man with you. who was he?" "that was my boss," he replied reluctantly, though his english was clear enough. "what is your employer's name?" i demanded. "holbrook. i sail his boat, the _stiletto_, over there," he replied. "but it was not he who was with you on the houseboat in the creek. mr. holbrook was not there. do not lie to me. who was the other man that wanted you to kill holbrook?" he appeared mystified, and gillespie, to whom i had told nothing of my encounter at the boat-maker's, looked from one to the other of us with a puzzled expression on his face. "all he knows is that he's hired to sail a boat and, incidentally, stick people with his knife," said gillespie in disgust. "we can do nothing till holbrook comes back; let's be going." we finally gathered up the italian's oars, and, carrying the captured arms, went to the east shore, where we put off in gillespie's rowboat, trailing the italian's boat astern. the sailor followed us to the shore and watched our departure in silence. we swung round to the western shore and got my canoe, and there again, the italian sullenly watched us. "he's not so badly marooned," said gillespie. "he can walk out over here." "no, he'll wait for holbrook. he's stumped now and doesn't understand us. he has exhausted his orders and is sick and tired of his job. a salt-water sailor loses his snap when he gets as far inland as this. he'll demand his money when holbrook turns up and clear out of this." gillespie took the oars himself, insisting that i must have a care for the slash across my chest, and so, towing the canoe and rowboat, we turned toward glenarm. the italian still watched us from the shore, standing beside a tall sycamore on a little promontory as though to follow us as far as possible. we passed close to the _stiletto_ to get a better look at her. she was the trimmest sailing craft in those waters, and the largest, being, i should say, thirty-seven feet on the water-line, sloop-rigged, and with a cuddy large enough to house the skipper. as we drew alongside i stood up the better to examine her, and the italian, still watching us intently from the island, cried out warningly. "he should fly the signal, 'owner not on board,'" remarked gillespie as we pushed off and continued on our way. the sun was low in the western wood as we passed out into the larger lake. gillespie took soundings with his oar in the connecting channel, and did not touch bottom. "you wouldn't suppose the _stiletto_ could get through here; it's as shallow as a sauce-pan; but there's plenty and to spare," he said, as he resumed rowing. "but it takes a cool hand--" i began, then paused abruptly; for there, several hundred yards away, a little back from the western shore, against a strip of wood through which the sun burned redly, i saw a man and a woman slowly walking back and forth. gillespie, laboring steadily at the oars, seemed not to see them, and i made no sign. my heart raced for a moment as i watched them pace back and forth, for there was something familiar in both figures. i knew that i had seen them before and talked with them; i would have sworn that the man was henry holbrook and the girl helen; and i was aware that when they turned, once, twice, at the ends of their path, the girl made some delay; and when they went on she was toward the lake, as though shielding the man from our observation. the last sight i had of them the girl stood with her back to us, pointing into the west. then she put up her hand to her bare head as though catching a loosened strand of hair; and the wind blew back her skirts like those of the winged victory. the two were etched sharply against the fringe of wood and bathed in the sun's glow. a second later the trees stood there alertly, with the golden targe of the sun shining like a giant's shield beyond; but they had gone, and my heart was numb with foreboding, or loneliness, and heavy with the weight of things i did not understand. gillespie tugged hard with the burden of the tow at his back. i will not deny that i was uncomfortable as i thought of his own affair with helen holbrook. he had, by any fair judgment, a prior claim. her equivocal attitude toward him and her inexplicable conduct toward her aunt were, i knew, appearing less and less heinous to me as the days passed; and i was miserably conscious that my own duty to miss patricia lay less heavily upon me. i was glad when we reached glenarm pier, where we found ijima hanging out the lamps. he gave me a telegram. it was from my new york acquaintance and read: holbrook left here two days ago; destination unknown. "come, gillespie; you are to dine with me," i said, when he had read the telegram; and so we went up to the house together. chapter xv i undertake a commission sweet is every sound, sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, the moan of doves in immemorial elms, and murmuring of innumerable bees. --_tennyson_. gillespie availed himself of my wardrobe to replace his rags, and appeared in the library clothed and in his usual state of mind on the stroke of seven. "you should have had the doctor out, donovan. being stuck isn't so funny, and you will undoubtedly die of blood-poisoning. every one does nowadays." "i shall disappoint you. ijima and i between us have stuck me together like a cracked plate. and it is not well to publish our troubles to the world. if i called the village doctor he would kill his horse circulating the mysterious tidings. are you satisfied?" "quite so. you're a man after my own heart, donovan." we had reached the dining-room and stood by our chairs. "i should like," he said, taking up his cocktail glass, "to propose a truce between us--" "in the matter of a certain lady?" "even so! on the honor of a fool," he said, and touched his glass to his lips. "and may the best man win," he added, putting down the glass unemptied. he was one of those comfortable people with whom it is possible to sit in silence; but after intervals in which we found nothing to say he would, with exaggerated gravity, make some utterly inane remark. to-night his mind was more agile than ever, his thoughts leaping nimbly from crag to crag, like a mountain goat. he had traveled widely and knew the ways of many cities; and of american political characters, whose names were but vaguely known to me, he discoursed with delightful intimacy; then his mind danced away to a tour he had once made with a company of acrobats whose baggage he had released from the grasping hands of a rural sheriff. "what," he asked presently, "is as sad as being deceived in a person you have admired and trusted? i knew a fellow who was professor of something in a blooming college, and who was so poor that he had to coach delinquent preps in summer-time instead of getting a vacation. i had every confidence in that fellow. i thought he was all right, and so i took him up into maine with me--just the two of us--and hired an indian to run our camp, and everything pointed to plus. well, i always get stung when i try to be good." he placed his knife and fork carefully across his plate and sighed deeply. "what was the matter? did he bore you with philosophy?" "no such luck. that man was weak-minded on the subject of domesticating prairie-dogs. you may shoot me if that isn't the fact. there he was, a prize-winner and a fellow of his university, and a fine scholar who edited greek text-books, with that thing on his mind. he held that the daily example of the happy home life of the prairie-dog would tend to ennoble all mankind and brighten up our family altars. think of being lost in the woods with a man with such an idea, and of having to sleep under the same blanket with him! it rained most of the time so we had to sit in the tent, and he never let up. he got so bad that he would wake me up in the night to talk prairie-dog." "it must have been trying," i agreed. "what was your solution, buttons?" "i moved outdoors and slept with the indian. your salad dressing is excellent, donovan, though personally i lean to more of the paprika. but let us go back a bit to the holbrooks. omitting the lady, there are certain points about which we may as well agree. i am not so great a fool but that i can see that this state of things can not last forever. henry is broken down from drink and brooding over his troubles, and about ready for close confinement in a brick building with barred windows." "then i'm for capturing him and sticking him away in a safe place." "that's the irish of it, if you will pardon me; but it's not the holbrook of it. a father tucked away in a private madhouse would not sound well to the daughter. i advise you not to suggest that to helen. i generously aid your suit to that extent. we are both playing for helen's gratitude; that's the flat of the matter." "i was brought into this business to help miss pat," i declared, though a trifle lamely. gillespie grinned sardonically. "be it far from me to interfere with your plans, methods or hopes. we both have the conceit of our wisdom!" "there may be something in that." "but it was decent of you to get me out of that italian's clutches this afternoon. when i went over there i thought i might find henry holbrook and pound some sense into him; and he's about due, from that telegram. if miss pat won't soften her heart i'd better buy him off," he added reflectively. we walked the long length of the hall into the library, and had just lighted our cigars when the butler sought me. "beg pardon, the telephone, sir." my distrust of the telephone is so deep-seated that i had forgotten the existence of the instrument in glenarm house, where, i now learned, it was tucked away in the butler's pantry for the convenience of the housekeeper in ordering supplies from the village. after a moment's parley a woman's voice addressed me distinctly--a voice that at once arrested and held all my thoughts. my replies were, i fear, somewhat breathless and wholly stupid. "this is rosalind; do you remember me?" "yes; i remember; i remember nothing else!" i declared. ijima had closed the door behind me, and i was alone with the voice--a voice that spoke to me of the summer night, and of low winds murmuring across starry waters. "i am going away. the rosalind you remember is going a long way from the lake, and you will never see her again." "but you have an engagement; when the new moon--" "but the little feather of the new moon is under a cloud, and you can not see it; and rosalind must always be helen now." "but this won't do, rosalind. ours was more than an engagement; it was a solemn compact," i insisted. "oh, not so very solemn!" she laughed. "and then you have the other girl that isn't just me--the girl of the daylight, that you ride and sail with and play tennis with." "oh, i haven't her; i don't want her--" "treacherous man! volatile irishman!" "marvelous, adorable rosalind!" "that will do, mr. donovan"--and then with a quick change of tone she asked abruptly: "you are not afraid of trouble, are you?" "i live for nothing else!" "you are not so pledged to the me you play tennis with that you can not serve rosalind if she asks it?" "no; you have only to ask. but i must see you once more--as rosalind!" "stop being silly, and listen carefully." and i thought i heard a sob in the moment's silence before she spoke. "i want you to go, at once, to the house of the boat-maker on tippecanoe creek; go as fast as you can!" she implored. "to the house of the man who calls himself hartridge, the canoe-maker, at red gate?" "yes; you must see that no harm comes to him to-night." there was no mistaking now the sobs that broke her sentences, and my mind was so a-whirl with questions that i stammered incoherently. "will you go--will you go?" she demanded in a voice so low and broken that i scarcely heard. "yes, at once," and the voice vanished, and while i still stood staring at the instrument the operator at annandale blandly asked me what number i wanted. the thread had snapped and the spell was broken. i stared helplessly at the thing of wood and wire for half a minute; then the girl's appeal and my promise rose in my mind distinct from all else. i ordered my horse before returning to the library, where gillespie was coolly turning over the magazines on the table. i was still dazed, and something in my appearance caused him to stare. "been seeing a ghost?" he asked. "no; just hearing one," i replied. i had yet to offer some pretext for leaving him, and as i walked the length of the room he stifled a yawn, his eyes falling upon the line of french windows. i spoke of the heat of the night, but he did not answer, and i turned to find his gaze fixed upon one of the open windows. "what is it, man?" i demanded. he crossed the room in a leap and was out upon the terrace, peering down upon the shrubbery beneath. "what's the row?" i demanded. "didn't you see it?" "no." "then it wasn't anything. i thought i saw the dago, if you must know. he'll probably be around looking for us." "humph, you're a little nervous, that's all. you'll stay here all night, of course?" i asked, without, i fear, much enthusiasm. he grinned. "don't be so cordial! if you'll send me into town i'll be off." i had just ordered the dog-cart when the butler appeared. "if you please, sir. sister margaret wishes to use our telephone, sir. st. agatha's is out of order." i spoke to the sister as she left the house, half as a matter of courtesy, half to make sure of her. the telephone at st. agatha's had been out of order for several days, she said; and i walked with her to st. agatha's gate, talking of the weather, the garden and the holbrook ladies, who were, she said, quite well. thereafter, when i had despatched gillespie to the village in the dog-cart, i got into my leggings, reflecting upon the odd circumstance that helen holbrook had been able to speak to me over the telephone a few minutes before, using an instrument that had, by sister margaret's testimony, been out of commission for several days. the girl had undoubtedly slipped away from st. agatha's and spoken to me from some other house in the neighborhood; but this was a matter of little importance, now that i had undertaken her commission. the chapel clock chimed nine as i gained the road, and i walked my horse to scan st. agatha's windows through vistas that offered across the foliage. and there, by the open window of her aunt's sitting-room, i saw helen holbrook reading. a table-lamp at her side illumined her slightly bent head; and, as though aroused by my horse's quick step in the road, she rose and stood framed against the light, with the soft window draperies fluttering about her. i spoke to my horse and galloped toward red gate. chapter xvi an odd affair at red gate brother, you have a vice of mercy in you, which better fits a lion than a man. --_troilus and cressida_. as i rode through port annandale the lilting strains of a waltz floated from the casino, and i caught a glimpse of the lake's cincture of lights. my head was none too clear from its crack on the cabin floor, and my chest was growing sore and stiff from the slash of the italian's knife; but my spirits were high, and my ears rang with memories of the voice. helen had given me a commission, and every fact of my life faded into insignificance compared to this. the cool night air rushing by refreshed me. i was eager for the next turn of the wheel, and my curiosity ran on to the boat-maker's house. i came now to a lonely sweep, where the road ran through a heavy woodland, and the cool, moist air of the forest rose round me. the lake, i knew, lay close at hand, and the hartridge cottage was not, as i reckoned my distances, very far ahead. i had drawn in my horse to consider the manner of my approach to the boat-maker's, and was jogging along at an easy trot when a rifle-shot rang out on my left, from the direction of the creek, and my horse shied sharply and plunged on at a wild gallop. he ran several hundred yards before i could check him, and then i turned and rode slowly back, peering into the forest's black shadow for the foe. i paused and waited, with the horse dancing crazily beneath me, but the woodland presented an inscrutable front. i then rode on to the unfenced strip of wood where i had left my horse before. i began this narrative with every intention of telling the whole truth touching my adventures at annandale, and i can not deny that the shot from the wood had again shaken my faith in helen holbrook. she had sent me to the tippecanoe on an errand of her own choosing, and i had been fired on from ambush near the place to which she had sent me. i fear that my tower of faith that had grown so tall and strong shook on its foundations; but once more i dismissed my doubts, just as i had dismissed other doubts and misgivings about her. my fleeting glimpse of her in the window of st. agatha's less than an hour before flashed back upon me, and the tower touched the stars, steadfast and serene again. i strode on toward red gate with my revolver in the side pocket of my norfolk jacket. a buckboard filled with young folk from the summer colony passed me, and then the utter silence of the country held the world. in a moment i had reached the canoe-maker's cottage and entered the gate. i went at once to the front door and knocked. i repeated my knock several times, but there was no answer. the front window-blinds were closed tight. it was now half-past ten and i walked round the dark house with the sweet scents of the garden rising about me and paused again at the top of the steps leading to the creek. the house-boat was effectually screened by shrubbery, and i had descended half a dozen steps before i saw a light in the windows. it occurred to me that as i had undoubtedly been sent to red gate for some purpose, i should do well not to defeat it by any clumsiness of my own; so i proceeded slowly, pausing several times to observe the lights below. i heard the tippecanoe slipping by with the subdued murmur of water at night; and then a lantern flashed on deck and i heard voices. some one was landing from a boat in the creek. this seemed amiable enough, as the lantern-bearer helped a man in the boat to clamber to the platform, and from the open door of the shop a broad shaft of light shone brightly upon the two men. the man with the lantern was holbrook, _alias_ hartridge, beyond a doubt; the other was a stranger. holbrook caught the painter of the boat and silently made it fast. "now," he said, "come in." they crossed the deck and entered the boat-maker's shop, and i crept down where i could peer in at an open port-hole. several brass ship-lamps of an odd pattern lighted the place brilliantly, and i was surprised to note the unusual furnishings of the room. the end nearest my port-hole was a shop, with a carpenter's bench with litter all about that spoke of practical use. two canoes in process of construction lay across frames contrived for the purpose, and overhead was a rack of lumber hung away to dry. the men remained at the farther end of the house--it was, i should say, about a hundred feet long--which, without formal division, was fitted as a sitting-room, with a piano in one corner, and a long settle against the wall. in the center was a table littered with books and periodicals; and a woman's sewing-basket, interwoven with bright ribbons, gave a domestic touch to the place. on the inner wall hung a pair of foils and masks. pictures from illustrated journals--striking heads or outdoor scenes--were pinned here and there. the new-comer stared about, twirling a tweed cap nervously in his hands, while holbrook carefully extinguished the lantern and put it aside. his visitor was about fifty, taller than he, and swarthy, with a grayish mustache, and hair white at the temples. his eyes were large and dark, but even with the length of the room between us i marked their restlessness; and now that he spoke it was in a succession of quick rushes of words that were difficult to follow. holbrook pushed a chair toward the stranger and they faced each other for a moment, then with a shrug of his shoulders the older man sat down. holbrook was in white flannels, with a blue scarf knotted in his shirt collar. he dropped into a big wicker chair, crossed his legs and folded his arms. "well," he said in a wholly agreeable tone, "you wanted to see me, and here i am." "you are well hidden," said the other, still gazing about. "i imagine i am, from the fact that it has taken you seven years to find me." "i haven't been looking for you seven years," replied the stranger hastily; and his eyes again roamed the room. the men seemed reluctant to approach the business that lay between them, and holbrook wore an air of indifference, as though the impending interview did not concern him particularly. the eyes of the older man fell now upon the beribboned work-basket. he nodded toward it, his eyes lighting unpleasantly. "there seems to be a woman," he remarked with a sneer of implication. "yes," replied holbrook calmly, "there is; that belongs to my daughter." "where is she?" demanded the other, glancing anxiously about. "in bed, i fancy. you need have no fear of her." silence fell upon them again. their affairs were difficult, and holbrook, waiting patiently for the other to broach his errand, drew out his tobacco-pouch and pipe and began to smoke. "patricia is here, and helen is with her," said the visitor. "yes, we are all here, it seems," remarked holbrook dryly. "it's a nice family gathering." "i suppose you haven't seen them?" demanded the visitor. "yes and no. i have no wish to meet them; but i've had several narrow escapes. they have cut me off from my walks; but i shall leave here shortly." "yes, you are going, you are going--" began the visitor eagerly. "i am going, but not until after you have gone," said holbrook. "by some strange fate we are all here, and it is best for certain things to be settled before we separate again. i have tried to keep out of your way; i have sunk my identity; i have relinquished the things of life that men hold dear--honor, friends, ambition, and now you and i have got to have a settlement." "you seem rather sure of yourself," sneered the older, turning uneasily in his chair. "i am altogether sure of myself. i have been a fool, but i see the error of my ways and i propose to settle matters with you now and here. you have got to drop your game of annoying patricia; you've got to stop using your own daughter as a spy--" "you lie, you lie!" roared the other, leaping to his feet. "you can not insinuate that my daughter is not acting honorably toward patricia." my mind had slowly begun to grasp the situation and to identify the men before me. it was as though i looked upon a miniature stage in a darkened theater, and, without a bill of the play, was slowly finding names for the players. holbrook, _alias_ hartridge, the boat-maker of the tippecanoe, was not henry holbrook, but henry's brother, arthur! and i sought at once to recollect what i knew of him. an instant before i had half turned to go, ashamed of eavesdropping upon matters that did not concern me; but the voice that had sent me held me to the window. it was some such meeting as this that helen must have feared when she sent me to the houses-boat, and everything else must await the issue of this meeting. "you had better sit down, henry," said arthur holbrook quietly. "and i suggest that you make less noise. this is a lonely place, but there are human beings within a hundred miles." henry holbrook paced the floor a moment and then flung himself into a chair again, but he bent forward angrily, nervously beating his hands together. arthur went on speaking, his voice shaking with passion. "i want to say to you that you have deteriorated until you are a common damned blackguard, henry holbrook! you are a blackguard and a gambler. and you have made murderous attempts on the life of your sister; you drove her from stamford and you tried to smash her boat out here in the lake. i saw the whole transaction that afternoon, and understood it all--how you hung off there in the _stiletto_ and sent that beast to do your dirty work." "i didn't follow her here; i didn't follow her here!" raged the other. "no; but you watched and waited until you traced me here. you were not satisfied with what i had done for you. you wanted to kill me before i could tell pat the truth; and if it hadn't been for that man donovan your assassin would have stabbed me at my door." arthur holbrook rose and flung down his pipe so that the coals leaped from it. "but it's all over now--this long exile of mine, this pursuit of pat, this hideous use of your daughter to pluck your chestnuts from the fire. by god, you've got to quit--you've got to go!" "but i want my money--i want my money!" roared henry, as though insisting upon a right; but arthur ignored him, and went on. "you were the one who was strong; and great things were expected of you, to add to the traditions of family honor; but our name is only mentioned with a sneer where men remember it at all. you were spoiled and pampered; you have never from your early boyhood had a thought that was not for yourself alone. you were always envious and jealous of anybody that came near you, and not least of me; and when i saved you, when i gave you your chance to become a man at last, to regain the respect you had flung away so shamefully, you did not realize it, you could not realize it; you took it as a matter of course, as though i had handed you a cigar. i ask you now, here in this place, where i am known and respected--i ask you here, where i have toiled with my hands, whether you forget why i am here?" henry holbrook tugged at his scarf nervously and his eyes wandered about uneasily. he did not answer his brother. arthur stood over him, with folded arms, his back to me so that i could not see his face; but his tone had in it the gathered passion and contempt of years. then he was at once himself, standing away a little, like a lawyer after a round with a refractory witness. "i must have my money; patricia must make the division," replied henry doggedly. "certainly! certainly! i devoutly hope she will give it to you; you need fear no interference from me. the sooner you get it and fling it away the better. patricia has been animated by the best motives in withholding it; she regarded it as a sacred trust to administer for your own good, but now i want you to have your money." "if i can have my share, if you will persuade her to give it, i will pay you all i owe you--" henry began eagerly. "what you owe me--what you _owe_ me!" and arthur bent toward his brother and laughed--a laugh that was not good to hear. "you would give me money--money--you would pay me _money_ for priceless things!" he broke off suddenly, dropping his arms at his sides helplessly. "there is no use in trying to talk to you; we use a different vocabulary, henry." "but that trouble with gillespie--if patricia knew--" "yes; if she knew the truth! and you never understood, you are incapable of understanding, that it meant something to me to lose my sister out of my life. when helen died"--and his voice fell and he paused for a moment, as a priest falters sometimes, gripped by some phrase in the office that touches hidden depths in his own experience, "then when helen died there was still patricia, the noblest sister men ever had; but you robbed me of her--you robbed me of her!" he was deeply moved and, as he controlled himself, he walked to the little table and fingered the ribbons of the work-basket. "i haven't those notes, if that's what you're after--i never had them," he said. "gillespie kept tight hold of them." "yes; the vindictive old devil!" "men who have been swindled are usually vindictive," replied arthur grimly. "gillespie is dead. i suppose the executor of his estate has those papers; and the executor is his son." "the fool. i've never been able to get anything out of him." "if he's a fool it ought to be all the easier to get your pretty playthings away from him. old gillespie really acted pretty decently about the whole business. your daughter may be able to get them away from the boy; he's infatuated with her; he wants to marry her, it seems." "my daughter is not in this matter," said henry coldly, and then anger mastered him again. "i don't believe he has them; you have them, and that's why i have followed you here. i'm going to patricia to throw myself on her mercy, and that ghost must not rise up against me. i want them; i have come to get those notes." i was aroused by a shadow-like touch on my arm, and i knew without seeing who it was that stood beside me. a faint hint as of violets stole upon the air; her breath touched my cheek as she bent close to the little window, and she sighed deeply as in relief at beholding a scene of peace. arthur holbrook still stood with bowed head by the table, his back to his brother, and i felt suddenly the girl's hand clutch my wrist. she with her fresher eyes upon the scene saw, before i grasped it, what now occurred. henry holbrook had drawn a revolver from his pocket and pointed it full at his brother's back. we two at the window saw the weapon flash menacingly; but suddenly arthur holbrook flung round as his brother cried: "i think you are lying to me, and i want those notes--i want those notes, i want them now! you must have them, and i can't go to patricia until i know they're safe." he advanced several steps and his manner grew confident as he saw that he held the situation in his own grasp. i would have rushed in upon them but the girl held me back. "wait! wait!" she whispered. arthur thrust his hands into the side pockets of his flannel jacket and nodded his head once or twice. "why don't you shoot, henry?" "i want those notes," said henry holbrook. "you lied to me about them. they were to have been destroyed. i want them now, to-night." "if you shoot me you will undoubtedly get them much easier," said arthur; and he lounged away toward the wall, half turning his back, while the point of the pistol followed him. "but the fact is, i never had them; gillespie kept them." threats cool quickly, and i really had not much fear that henry holbrook meant to kill his brother; and arthur's indifference to his danger was having its disconcerting effect on henry. the pistol-barrel wavered; but henry steadied himself and his clutch tightened on the butt. i again turned toward the door, but the girl's hand held me back. "wait," she whispered again. "that man is a coward. he will not shoot." the canoe-maker had been calmly talking, discussing the disagreeable consequences of murder in a tone of half-banter, and he now stood directly under the foils. then in a flash he snatched one of them, flung it up with an accustomed hand, and snapped it across his brother's knuckles. at the window we heard the slim steel hiss through the air, followed by the rattle of the revolver as it struck the ground. the canoe-maker's foot was on it instantly; he still held the foil. "henry," he said in the tone of one rebuking a child, "you are bad enough, but i do not intend that you shall be a murderer. and now i want you to go; i will not treat with you; i want nothing more to do with you! i repeat that i haven't got the notes." he pointed to the door with the foil. the blood surged angrily in his face; but his voice was in complete control as he went on. "your visit has awakened me to a sense of neglected duty, henry. i have allowed you to persecute our sister without raising a hand; i have no other business now but to protect her. go back to your stupid sailor and tell him that if i catch him in any mischief on the lake or here i shall certainly kill him." i lost any further words that passed between them, as henry, crazily threatening, walked out upon the deck to his boat; then from the creek came the threshing of oars that died away in a moment. when i gazed into the room again arthur holbrook was blowing out the lights. "i am grateful; i am so grateful," faltered the girl's voice; "but you must not be seen here. please go now!" i had taken her hands, feeling that i was about to lose her; but she freed them and stood away from me in the shadow. "we are going away--we must leave here! i can never see you again," she whispered. in the starlight she was helen, by every test my senses could make; but by something deeper i knew that she was not the girl i had seen in the window at st. agatha's. she was more dependent, less confident and poised; she stifled a sob and came close. through the window i saw arthur holbrook climbing up to blow out the last light. "i could have watched myself, but i was afraid that sailor might come; and it was he that fired at you in the road. he had gone to glenarm to watch you and keep you away from here. uncle henry came back to-day and sent word that he wanted to see my father, and i asked you to come to help us." "i thank you for that." "and there was another man--a stranger, back there near the road; i could not make him out, but you will be careful,--please! you must think very ill of me for bringing you into all this danger and trouble." "i am grateful to you. please turn all your troubles over to me." "you did what i asked you to do," she said, "when i had no right to ask, but i was afraid of what might happen here. it is all right now and we are going away; we must leave this place." "but i shall see you again." "no! you have--you have--helen. you don't know me at all! you will find your mistake to-morrow." she was urging me toward the steps that led up to the house. the sob was still in her throat, but she was laughing, a little hysterically, in her relief that her father had come off unscathed. "then you must let me find it out to-morrow; i will come to-morrow before you go." "no! no! this is good-by," she said. "you would not be so unkind as to stay, when i am so troubled, and there is so much to do!" we were at the foot of the stairway, and i heard the shop door snap shut. "good night, rosalind!" "good-by; and thank you!" she whispered. chapter xvii how the night ended one year ago my path was green, my footstep light, my brow serene; alas! and could it have been so one year ago? there is a love that is to last when the hot days of youth are past: such love did a sweet maid bestow one year ago. i took a leaflet from her braid and gave it to another maid. love, broken should have been thy how, one year ago. --_landor_. as my horse whinnied and i turned into the wood a man walked boldly toward me. "my dear donovan, i have been consoling your horse during your absence. it's a sad habit we have fallen into of wandering about at night. i liked your dinner, but you were rather too anxious to get rid of me. i came by boat myself!" gillespie knocked the ashes from his pipe and thrust it into his pocket. i was in no frame of mind for talk with him, a fact which he seemed to surmise. "it's late, for a fact," he continued; "and we both ought to be in bed; but our various affairs require diligence." "what are you doing over here?" i demanded. i was too weary and too perplexed for his nonsense, and in no mood for confidences. i needed time for reflection and i had no intention of seeking or of imparting information at this juncture. "well, to tell the truth--" "you'd better!" "to tell the truth, my dear donovan, since i left your hospitable board i have been deeply perplexed over some important questions of human conduct. are you interested in human types? have you ever noticed the man who summons all porters and waiters by the pleasing name of george? the name in itself is respectable enough; nor is its generic use pernicious--a matter of taste only. but the same man may be identified otherwise by his proneness to consume the cabinet pudding, the chocolate ice-cream and the fruit in season from the chastening american bill of fare, after partaking impartially of the preliminary fish, flesh and fowl. he is confidential with hotel clerks, affectionate with chambermaids and all telephone girls are nellie to him. types, my dear donovan--" "that's enough! i want to know what you are doing!" and in my anger i shook him by the shoulders. "well, if you must have it, after i started to the village i changed my mind about going, and i was anxious to see whether holbrook was really here; so i got a launch and came over. i stopped at the island but saw no one there, and i came up the creek until i grounded; then i struck inland, looking for the road. it might save us both embarrassment, irishman, if we give notice of each other's intentions, particularly at night. i hung about, thinking you might appear, and--" "you are a poor liar, buttons. you didn't come here alone!"--and i drove my weary wits hard in an effort to account for his unexpected appearance. "all is lost; i am discovered," he mocked. he had himself freed my horse; i now took the rein and refastened it to the tree. "well, inexplicable donovan!" i laughed, pleased to find that my delay annoyed him. i was confident that he was not abroad at this hour for nothing, and it again occurred to me that we were on different sides of the matter. my weariness fell from me like a cloak, as the events of the past hour flashed fresh in my mind. "now," i said, dropping the rein and patting the horse's nose for a moment, "you may go with me or you may sit here; but if you would avoid trouble don't try to interfere with me." i did not doubt that he had been sent to watch me; and his immediate purpose seemed to be to detain me. "i had hoped you would sit down and talk over the monroe doctrine, or the partition of africa, or something equally interesting," he remarked. "you disappoint me, my dear benefactor." "and you make me very tired at the end of a tiresome day, gillespie. please continue to watch my horse; i'm off." he kept at my elbow, as i expected he would, babbling away with his usual volubility in an effort, now frank enough, to hold me back; but i ignored his talk and plunged on through the wood toward the creek. henry holbrook must, i argued, have had time enough to get out of the creek and back to the island; but what mischief gillespie was furthering in his behalf i could not imagine. there was a gradual rise toward the creek and we were obliged to cling to the bushes in making our ascent. suddenly, as i paused for breath, gillespie grasped my arm. "for god's sake, stop! this is no affair of yours. on my honor there's nothing that affects you here." "i will see whether there is or not!" i exclaimed, throwing him off, but he kept close beside me. we gained the trail that ran along the creek, and i paused to listen. "where's your launch?" "find it," he replied succinctly. i had my bearings pretty well, and set off toward the lake, gillespie trudging behind in the narrow path. when we had gone about twenty yards a lantern glimmered below and i heard voices raised in excited colloquy. gillespie started forward at a run. "keep back! this is my affair!" "i'm making it mine," i replied, and flung in ahead of him. i ran forward rapidly, the voices growing louder, and soon heard men stumbling and falling about in conflict. a woman's voice now rose in a sharp cry: "let go of him! let go of him!" gillespie flashed by me down the bank to the water's edge, where the struggle ended abruptly. i was not far behind, and i saw henry holbrook in the grasp of the italian, who was explaining to the woman, who held the lantern high above her head, that he was only protecting himself. gillespie had caught hold of the sailor, who continued to protest his innocence of any wish to injure holbrook; and for a moment we peered through the dark, taking account of one another. "so it's you, is it?" said henry holbrook as the italian freed him and his eyes fell on me. "i should like to know what you mean by meddling in my affairs. by god, i've enough to do with my own flesh and blood without dealing with outsiders." helen holbrook turned swiftly and held the lantern toward me, and when she saw me shrugged her shoulders. "you really give yourself a great deal of unnecessary concern, mr. donovan." "you are a damned impudent meddler!" blurted henry holbrook. "i have had you watched. you--you--" he darted toward me, but the italian again caught and held him, and another altercation began between them. holbrook was wrought to a high pitch of excitement and cursed everybody who had in any way interfered with him. "come, helen," said gillespie, stepping to the girl's side; and at this henry holbrook turned upon him viciously. "you are another meddlesome outsider. your father was a pig--a pig, do you understand? if it hadn't been for him i shouldn't be here to-night, camping out like an outlaw. and you've got to stop annoying my daughter!" helen turned to the italian and spoke to him rapidly in his own tongue. "you must take him away. he is not himself. tell him i have done the best i could. tell him--" she lowered her voice so that i heard no more. holbrook was still heaping abuse upon gillespie, who stood submissively by; but helen ran up the bank, the lantern light flashing eerily about her. she paused at the top, waiting for gillespie, who, it was patent, had brought her to this rendezvous and who kept protectingly at her heels. the italian drew holbrook toward the boat that lay at the edge of the lake. he seemed to forget me in his anger against gillespie, and he kept turning toward the path down which the girl's lantern faintly twinkled. gillespie kept on after the girl, the lantern flashing more rarely through the turn in the path, until i caught the threshing of his launch as it swung out into the lake. i drew back, seeing nothing to gain by appealing to holbrook in his present overwrought state. the italian had his hands full, and was glad, i judged, to let me alone. a moment later he had pushed off his boat, and i heard the sound of oars receding toward the island. i found my horse, led him deeper into the wood and threw off the saddle. then i walked down the road until i found a barn, and crawled into the loft and slept. chapter xviii the lady of the white butterflies titania: and pluck the wings from painted butterflies, to fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes: nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies. peaseblossom: hail, mortal! --_midsummer night's dream_. the twitter of swallows in the eaves wakened me to the first light of day, and after i had taken a dip in the creek i still seemed to be sole proprietor of the world, so quiet lay field and woodland. i followed the lake shore to a fishermen's camp, where, in the good comradeship of outdoors men the world over, i got bread and coffee and no questions asked. i smoked a pipe with the fishermen to kill time, and it was still but a trifle after six o'clock when i started for red gate. my mood was not for the open road, and i sought woodland paths, that i might loiter the more. with squirrels scampering before me, and attended by bird-song and the morning drum-beat of the woodpecker, i strode on until i came out upon a series of rough pastures, separated by stake-and-rider fences that crawled sinuously through tangles of blackberries and wild roses. as i tramped along a cow-path that traversed these pastures, the dew sparkled on the short grass, and wings whirred and dipped in salutation before me. my memories of the night vanished in the perfection of the day; i went forth to no renewal of acquaintance with shadows, or with the lurking figures in a dark drama, but to enchantments that were fresh with life and light. barred gates separated these fallow fields, and i passed through one, crossed the intermediate pasture, and opened the gate of the third. before me lay a field of daisies, bobbing amid wild grass, the morning wind softly stirring the myriad disks, so that the whole had the effect of quiet motion. the path led on again, but more faintly here. a line of sycamores two hundred yards to my right marked the bed of the tippecanoe; and on my left hand, beyond a walnut grove, a little filmy dust-cloud hung above the hidden highway. the meadow was a place of utter peace; the very air spoke of holy things. i thrust my cap into my jacket pocket and stood watching the wind crisp the flowers. then my attention wandered to the mad antics of a squirrel that ran along the fence. when i turned to the field again i saw rosalind coming toward me along the path, clad in white, hatless, and her hands lightly brushing the lush grass that seemed to leap up to touch them. she had not seen me, and i drew back a little for love of the picture she made. three white butterflies fluttered about her head, like an appointed guard of honor, and she caught at them with her hands, turning her head to watch their staggering flight. [illustration: three white butterflies fluttered about her head.] she paused abruptly midway of the daisies, and i walked toward her slowly--it must have been slowly--and i think we were both glad of a moment's respite in which to study each other. then she spoke at once, as though our meeting had been prearranged. "i hoped i should see you," she said gravely. "i had every intention of seeing you! i was killing time until i felt i might decently lift the latch of red gate." she inspected me with her hands clasped behind her. "please don't look at me like that!" i laughed. "i camped in a barn last night for fear i shouldn't get here in time." "i wish to speak to you for a few minutes--to tell you what you may have guessed about us--my father and me." "yes; if you like; but only to help you if i can. it is not necessary for you to tell me anything." she turned and led the way across the daisy field. she walked swiftly, holding back her skirts from the crowding flowers, traversed the garden of red gate, and continued down to the house-boat. "we can be quiet here," she said, throwing open the door. "my father is at tippecanoe village, shipping one of his canoes. we are early risers, you see!" the little sitting-room adjoining the shop was calm and cool, and the ripple of the creek was only an emphasis of the prevailing rural quiet. she sat down by the table in a red-cushioned wicker chair and folded her hands in her lap and smiled a little as she saw me regarding her fixedly. i suppose i had expected to find her clad in saffron robes or in doublet and hose, but the very crispness of her white piqué spoke delightfully of present times and manners. my glance rested on the emerald ring; then i looked into her eyes again. "you see i am really very different," she smiled. "i'm not the same person at all!" "no; it's wonderful--wonderful!" and i still stared. she grew grave again. "i have important things to say to you, but it's just as well for you to see me in the broadest of daylight, so that"--she pondered a moment, as though to be sure of expressing herself clearly--"so that when you see helen holbrook in an hour or so in that pretty garden by the lake you will understand that it was not really rosalind after all that--that--amused you!" "but the daylight is not helping that idea. you are marvelously alike, and yet--" i floundered miserably in my uncertainty. "then,"--and she smiled at my discomfiture, "if you can't tell us apart, it makes no difference whether you ever see me again or not. you see, mr.--but _did_ you ever tell me what your name is? well, i know it, anyhow, mr. donovan." the little work-table was between us, and on it lay the foil which her father had snatched from the wall the night before. i still stood, gazing down at rosalind. fashion, i saw, had done something for the amazing resemblance. she wore her hair in the pompadour of the day, with exactly helen's sweep; and her white gown was identical with that worn that year by thousands of young women. she had even the same gestures, the same little way of resting her cheek against her hand that helen had; and before she spoke she moved her head a trifle to one side, with a pretty suggestion of just having been startled from a reverie, that was helen's trick precisely. she forgot for a moment our serious affairs, to which i was not in the least anxious to turn, in her amusement at my perplexity. "it must be even more extraordinary than i imagined. i have not seen helen for seven years. she is my cousin; and when we were children together at stamford our mothers used to dress us alike to further the resemblance. our mothers, you may not know, were not only sisters; they were twin sisters! but helen is, i think, a trifle taller than i am. this little mark"--she touched the peak--"is really very curious. both our mothers and our grandmother had it. and you see that i speak a little more rapidly than she does--at least that used to be the case. i don't know my grown-up cousin at all. we probably have different tastes, temperaments, and all that." "i am positive of it!" i exclaimed; yet i was really sure of nothing, save that i was talking to an exceedingly pretty girl, who was amazingly like another very pretty girl whom i knew much better. "you are her guardian, so to speak, mr. donovan. you are taking care of my aunt pat and my cousin. just how that came about i don't know." "they were sent to st. agatha's by father stoddard, an old friend of mine. they had suffered many annoyances, to put it mildly, and came here to get away from their troubles." "yes; i understand. uncle henry has acted outrageously. i have not ranged the country at night for nothing. i have even learned a few things from you," she laughed. "and you must continue to serve aunt patricia and my cousin. you see,"--and she smiled her grave smile--"my father and i are an antagonistic element." "no; not as between you and miss patricia! i'm sure of that. it is henry holbrook that i am to protect her from. you and your father do not enter into it." "if you don't mind telling me, mr. donovan, i should like to know whether aunt pat has mentioned us." "only once, when i first saw her and she explained why she had come. she seemed greatly moved when she spoke of your father. since then she has never referred to him. but the day we cruised up to battle orchard and henry holbrook's man tried to smash our launch, she was shaken out of herself, and she declared war when we got home. then i was on the lake with her the night of the carnival. helen did not go with us. and when you paddled by us, miss pat was quite disturbed at the sight of you; but she thought it was an illusion, and--i thought it was helen!" "i have been home only a few weeks, but i came just in time to be with father in his troubles. my uncle's enmity is very bitter, as you have seen. i do not understand it. father has told me little of their difficulties; but i know," she said, lifting her head proudly, "i know that my father has done nothing dishonorable. he has told me so, and i am content with that." i bowed, not knowing what to say. "i have been here only once or twice before, and for short visits only. most of the time i have been at a convent in canada, where i was known as rosalind hartridge. rosalind, you know, is really my name: i was named for helen's mother. the sisters took pity on my loneliness, and were very kind to me. but now i am never going to leave my father again." she spoke with no unkindness or bitterness, but with a gravity born of deep feeling. i marked now the lighter _timbre_ of her voice, that was quite different from her cousin's; and she spoke more rapidly, as she had said, her naturally quick speech catching at times the cadence of cultivated french. and she was a simpler nature--i felt that; she was really very unlike helen. "you manage a canoe pretty well," i ventured, still studying her face, her voice, her ways, eagerly. "that was very foolish, wasn't it?--my running in behind the procession that way!" and she laughed softly at the recollection. "but that was professional pride! that was one of my father's best canoes, and he helped me to decorate it. he takes a great delight in his work; it's all he has left! and i wanted to show those people at port annandale what a really fine canoe--a genuine hartridge--was like. i did not expect to run into you or aunt pat." "you should have gone on and claimed the prize. it was yours of right. when your star vanished i thought the world had come to an end." "it hadn't, you see! i put out the lights so that i could get home unseen." "you gave us a shock. please don't do it again; and please, if you and your cousin are to meet, kindly let it be on solid ground. i'm a little afraid, even now, that you are a lady of dreams." "not a bit of it! i enjoy a sound appetite; i can carry a canoe like a canadian guide; i am as good a fencer as my father; and i'm not afraid of the dark. you see, in the long vacations up there in canada i lived out of doors and i shouldn't mind staying on here always. i like to paddle a canoe, and i know how to cast a fly, and i've shot ducks from a blind. you see how very highly accomplished i am! now, my cousin helen--" "well--?" and i was glad to hear her happy laugh. sorrow and loneliness had not stifled the spirit of mischief in her, and she enjoyed vexing me with references to her cousin. i walked the length of the room and looked out upon the creek that ran singing through the little vale. they were a strange family, these holbrooks, and the perplexities of their affairs multiplied. how to prevent further injury and heartache and disaster; how to restore this girl and her exiled father to the life from which they had vanished; and how to save miss pat and helen,--these things possessed my mind and heart. i sat down and faced rosalind across the table. she had taken up a bright bit of ribbon from the work-basket and was slipping it back and forth through her fingers. "the name gillespie was mentioned here last night. can you tell me just how he was concerned in your father's affairs?" i asked. "he was the largest creditor of the holbrook bank. he lived at stamford, where we all used to live." "this gillespie had a son. i suppose he inherits his father's claims." she laughed outright. "i have heard of him. he is a remarkable character, it seems, who does ridiculous things. he did as a child: i remember him very well as a droll boy at stamford, who was always in mischief. i had forgotten all about him until i saw an amusing account of him in a newspaper a few months ago. he had been arrested for fast driving in central park; and the next day he went back to the park with a boy's toy wagon and team of goats, as a joke on the policeman." "i can well believe it! the fellow's here, staying at the inn at annandale." "so i understand. to be frank, i have seen him and talked with him. we have had, in fact, several interesting interviews,"--and she laughed merrily. "where did all this happen?" "once, out on the lake, when we were both prowling about in canoes. i talked to him, but made him keep his distance. i dared him to race me, and finally paddled off and left him. then another time, on the shore near st. agatha's. i was taking an observation of the school garden from the bluff, and mr. gillespie came walking through the woods and made love to me. he came so suddenly that i couldn't run, but i saw that he took me for helen, in broad daylight, and i--i--" "well, of course you scorned him--you told him to be gone. you did that much for her." "no, i didn't. i liked his love-making; it was unaffected and simple." "oh, yes! it would naturally be simple!" "that is brutal. he's clever, and earnest, and amusing. but--" and her brow contracted, "but if he is seeking my father--" "rest assured he is not. he is in love with your cousin--that's the reason for his being here." "but that does not help my father's case any." "we will see about that. you are right about him; he's really a most amusing person, and not a fool, except for his own amusement. he is shrewd enough to keep clear of miss pat, who dislikes him intensely on his father's account. she feels that the senior gillespie was the cause of all her troubles, but i don't know just why. she's strongly prejudiced against the young man, and his whimsicalities do not appeal to her." "i suppose helen cares nothing for him; he acted toward me as though he'd been crushed, and i--i tried to be nice to him to make up for it." "that was nice of you, very nice of you, rosalind. i hope you will keep right on the way you've begun. now i must ask you not to leave here, and not to allow your father to leave unless i know it." "but you have your hands full without us. your first obligation is to aunt pat and helen. my father and i have merely stumbled in where we were not invited. you and i had better say good-by now." "i am not anxious to say good-by," i answered lamely, and she laughed at me. helen, i reflected, did not laugh so readily. rosalind was beautiful, she was charming; and yet her likeness to helen failed in baffling particulars. even as she came through the daisy meadow there had been a difference--at least i seemed to realize it now. the white butterflies symbolized her ariel-like quality; for the life of me i could not associate those pale, fluttering vagrants with helen holbrook. "we met under the star-r-rs, mr. donovan" (this was impudent; my own _r's_ trill, they say), "at the stone seat and by the boat-house, and we talked shakespeare and had a beautiful time,--all because you thought i was helen. in your anxiety to be with her you couldn't see that i haven't quite her noble height,--i'm an inch shorter. i gave you every chance there at the boat-house, to see your mistake; but you wouldn't have it so. and you let me leave you there while i went back alone across the lake to red gate, right by battle orchard, which is haunted by indian ghosts. you are a most gallant gentleman!" "when you are quite done, rosalind!" "i don't know when i shall have a chance again, mr. donovan," she went on provokingly. "i learned a good deal from you in those interviews, but i did have to do a lot of guessing. that was a real inspiration of mine, to insist on playing that helen by night and helen by day were different personalities, and that you must not speak to the one of the other. that saved complications, because you did keep to the compact, didn't you?" i assented, a little grudgingly; and my thoughts went back with reluctant step to those early affairs of mine, which i have already frankly disclosed in this chronicle, and i wondered, with her counterpart before me, how much helen really meant to me. rosalind studied me with her frank, merry eyes; then she bent forward and addressed me with something of that prescient air with which my sisters used to lecture me. "mr. donovan, i fear you are a little mixed in your mind this morning, and i propose to set you straight." "about what, if you please?" the conceit in man always rises and struts at the approach of a woman's sympathy. my body ached, the knife slash across my ribs burnt, and i felt myself a sadly abused person as rosalind addressed me. "i understand all about you, mr. donovan." my plumage fell; i did not want to be understood, i told myself; but i said: "please go on." "i can tell you exactly why it is that helen has taken so strong hold of your imagination,--why, in fact, you are in love with her." "not that--not that." she snatched the foil from the table and cut the air with it several times as i started toward her. then she stamped her foot and saluted me. "stand where you are, sir! your race, mr. donovan, has a bad reputation in matters of the heart. for a moment you thought you were in love with me; but you are not, and you are not going to be. you see, i understand you perfectly." "that's what my sisters used to tell me." "precisely! and i'm another one of your sisters--you must have scores of them!--and i expect you to be increasingly proud of me." "of course i admire helen--" i began, i fear, a little sheepishly. "and you admire most what you don't understand about her! now that you examine me in the light of day you see what a tremendous difference there is between us. i am altogether obvious; i am not the least bit subtle. but helen puzzles and thwarts you. she finds keen delight in antagonizing you; and she as much as says to you, 'mr. donovan, you are a frightfully conceited person, and you have had many adventures by sea and shore, and you think you know all about human nature and women, but i--_i_--am quite as wise and resourceful as you are, and whether i am right or wrong i'm going to fight you, fight you, fight you!' there, mr. laurance donovan, is the whole matter in a nut-shell, and i should like you to know that i am not at all deceived by you. you did me a great service last night, and you would serve me again, i am confident of it; and i hope, when all these troubles are over, that we shall continue--my father, and you and i--the best friends in the world." i can not deny that i was a good deal abashed by this declaration spoken without coquetry, and with a sincerity of tone and manner that seemed conclusive. i began stammering some reply, but she recurred abruptly to the serious business that hung over us. "i know you will do what you can for aunt pat. i wish you would tell her, if you think it wise, that father is here. they should understand each other. and helen, my splendid, courageous, beautiful cousin,--you see i don't grudge her even her better looks, or that intrepid heart that makes us so different. i am sure you can manage all these things in the best possible way. and now i must find my father, and tell him that you are going to arrange a meeting with aunt pat, and talk to him of our future." she led the way up to the garden, and as i struck off into the road she waved her hand to me, standing under the overhanging sign that proclaimed hartridge, the canoe-maker, at red gate. chapter xix helen takes me to task my lady's name, when i hear strangers use, not meaning her, to me sounds lax misuse; i love none but my lady's name; maude, grace, rose, marian, all the same, are harsh, or blank and tame. * * * * * fresh beauties, howsoe'er she moves, are stirr'd: as the sunn'd bosom of a humming-bird at each pant lifts some fiery hue, fierce gold, bewildering green or blue; the same, yet ever new. --_thomas woolner_. i paced the breezy terrace at glenarm, studying my problems, and stumbling into new perplexities at every turn. my judgment has usually served me poorly in my own affairs, which i have generally confided to good luck, that most amiable of goddesses; and i glanced out upon the lake with some notion, perhaps, of seeing her fairy sail drifting toward me. but there, to my vexation, hung the _stiletto_, scarcely moving in the indolent air of noon. there was, i felt again, something sinister in the very whiteness of its pocket-handkerchief of canvas as it stole lazily before the wind. did miss pat, in the school beyond the wall, see and understand, or was the yacht hanging there as a menace or stimulus to helen holbrook, to keep her alert in her father's behalf? "there are ladies to see you, sir," announced the maid, and i found helen and sister margaret waiting in the library. the sister, as though by prearrangement, went to the farther end of the room and took up a book. "i wish to see you alone," said helen, "and i didn't want aunt pat to know i came," and she glanced toward sister margaret, whose brown habit and nun's bonnet had merged into the shadows of a remote alcove. the brim of helen's white-plumed hat made a little dusk about her eyes. pink and white became her; she put aside her parasol and folded her ungloved hands, and then, as she spoke, her head went almost imperceptibly to one side, and i found myself bending forward as i studied the differences between her and the girl on the tippecanoe. helen's lips were fuller and ruddier, her eyes darker, her lashes longer. but there was another difference, too subtle for my powers of analysis; something less obvious than the length of lash or the color of eyes; and i was not yet ready to give a name to it. of one thing i was sure: my pulses quickened before her; and her glance thrilled through me as rosalind's had not. "mr. donovan, i have come to appeal to you to put an end to this miserable affair into which we have brought you. my own position has grown too difficult, too equivocal to be borne any longer. you saw from my father's conduct last night how hopeless it is to try to reason with him. he has brooded upon his troubles until he is half mad. and i learned from him what i had not dreamed of, that my uncle arthur is here--here, of all places. i suppose you know that." "yes; but it is a mere coincidence. it was a good hiding-place for him, as well as for us." "it is very unfortunate for all of us that he should be here. i had hoped he would bury himself where he would never be heard of again!" she said, and anger burned for a moment in her face. "if he has any shame left, i should think he would leave here at once!" "it's to be remembered, miss holbrook, that he came first; and i am quite satisfied that your father sought him here before you and your aunt came to annandale. it seems to me the equity lies with your uncle--the creek as a hiding-place belongs to him by right of discovery." she smiled ready agreement to this, and i felt that she had come to win support for some plan of her own. she had never been more amiable; certainly she had never been lovelier. "you are quite right. we had all of us better go and leave him in peace. what is it he does there--runs a ferry or manages a boat-house?" "he is a canoe-maker," i said dryly, "with more than a local reputation." her tone changed at once. "i'm glad; i'm very glad he has escaped from his old ways; for all our sakes," she added, with a little sigh. "and poor rosalind! you may not know that he has a daughter. she is about a year younger than i. she must have had a sad time of it. i was named for her mother and she for mine. if you should meet her, mr. donovan, i wish you would tell her how sorry i am not to be able to see her. but aunt pat must not know that uncle arthur is here. i think she has tried to forget him, and her troubles with my father have effaced everything else. i hope you will manage that, for me; that aunt pat shall not know that uncle arthur and rosalind are here. it could only distress her. it would be opening a book that she believes closed forever." her solicitude for her aunt's peace of mind, spoken with eyes averted and in a low tone, lacked nothing. "i have seen your cousin," i said. "i saw her, in fact, this morning." "rosalind? then you can tell me whether--whether i am really so like her as they used to think!" "you _are_ rather like!" i replied lightly. "but i shall not attempt to tell you how. it would not do--it would involve particulars that might prove embarrassing. there are times when even i find discretion better than frankness." "you wish to save my feelings," she laughed. "but i am really taller!" "by an inch--she told me that!" "then you have seen her more than once?" "yes; more than twice even." "then you must tell me wherein we are alike; i should really like to know." "i have told you i can't; it's beyond my poor powers. i will tell you this, though--" "well?" "that i think you both delightful." "i am disappointed in you. i thought you a man of courage, mr. donovan." "even brave men falter at the cannon's mouth!" "you are undoubtedly an irishman, mr. donovan. i am sorry we shan't have any more tennis." "you have said so, miss holbrook, not i." she laughed, and then glanced toward the brown figure of sister margaret, and was silent for a moment, while the old clock on the stair boomed out the half-hour and was answered cheerily by the pretty tinkle of the chapel chime. i counted four poppy-leaves that fluttered free from a bowl on the book-shelf above her head and lazily fell to the floor at her feet. "i had hoped," she said, "that we were good friends, mr. donovan." "i have believed that we were, miss holbrook." "you must see that this situation must terminate, that we are now at a crisis. you can understand--i need not tell you--how fully my sympathies lie with my father; it could not be otherwise." "that is only natural. i have nothing to say on that point." "and you can understand, too, that it has not been easy for me to be dependent upon aunt pat. you don't know--i have no intention of talking against her--but you can't blame me for thinking her hard--a little hard on my father." i nodded. "i am sorry, very sorry, that you should have these troubles, miss holbrook." "i know you are," she replied eagerly, and her eyes brightened. "your sympathy has meant so much to aunt pat and me. and now, before worse things happen--" "worse things must not happen!" "then we must put an end to it all, mr. donovan. there is only one way. my father will never leave here until aunt pat has settled with him. and it is his right to demand it," she hurried on. "i would have you know that he is not as black as he has been painted. he has been his own worst enemy; and uncle arthur's ill-doings must not be charged to him. but he has been wrong, terribly wrong, in his conduct toward aunt pat. i do not deny that, and he does not. but it is only a matter of money, and aunt pat has plenty of it; and there can be no question of honor between uncle arthur and father. it was uncle arthur's act that caused all this trouble; father has told me the whole story. quite likely father would make no good use of his money--i will grant that. but think of the strain of these years on all of us; think of what it has meant to me, to have this cloud hanging over my life! it is dreadful--beyond any words it is hideous; and i can't stand it any longer, not another week--not another day! it must end now and here." her tear-filled eyes rested upon me pleadingly, and a sob caught her throat as she tried to go on. "but--" i began. "please--please!" she broke in, touching her handkerchief to her eyes and smiling appealingly. "i am asking very little of you, after all." "yes, it is little enough; but it seems to me a futile interference. if your father would go to her himself, if you would take him to her--that strikes me as the better strategy of the matter." "then am i to understand that you will not help; that you will not do this for us--for me?" "i am sorry to have to say no, miss holbrook," i replied steadily. "then i regret that i shall have to go further; i must appeal to you as a personal matter purely. it is not easy; but if we are really very good friends--" she glanced toward sister margaret, then rose and walked out upon the terrace. "you will hate me--" she began, smiling wanly, the tears bright in her eyes; and she knew that it was not easy to hate her. "i have taken money from mr. gillespie, for my father, since i came here. it is a large sum, and when my father left here he went away to spend it--to waste it. it is all gone, and worse than gone. i must pay that back--i must not be under obligations to mr. gillespie. it was wrong, it was very wrong of me, but i was distracted, half crazed by my father's threats of violence against aunt pat--against us all. i am sure that you can see how i came to do it. and now you are my friend; will you help me?" and she broke off, smiling, tearful, her back to the balustrade, her hand at her side lightly touching it. she had confidence, i thought, in the power of tears, as she slipped her handkerchief into her sleeve and waited for me to answer. "of course mr. gillespie only loaned you the money to help you over a difficulty; in some way that must be cared for. i like him; he is a fellow of good impulses. i repeat that i believe this matter can be arranged readily enough, by yourself and your father. my intrusion would only make a worse muddle of your affairs. send for your father and let him go to your aunt in the right spirit; and i believe that an hour's talk will settle everything." "you seem to have misunderstood my purpose in coming here, mr. donovan," she answered coldly. "i asked your help, not your advice. i have even thrown myself on your mercy, and you tell me to do what you know is impossible." "nothing is so impossible as the present attitude of your father. until that is changed your aunt would be doing your father a great injury by giving him this money." "and as for me--" and her eyes blazed--"as for me," she said, choking with anger, "after i have opened this page of my life to you and you have given me your fatherly advice--as for me, i will show you, and aunt pat and all of them, that what can not be done one way may be done in another. if i say the word and let the law take its course with my uncle--that man who brought all these troubles upon us--you may have the joy of knowing that it was your fault--your fault, mr. donovan!" "i beg of you, do nothing! if you will not bring your father to miss pat, please let me arrange the meeting." "he will not listen to you. he looks upon you as a meddler; and so do i, mr. donovan!" "but your uncle--you must not, you would not!" i cried, terror-struck to see how fate drew her toward the pitfall from which i hoped to save her. "don't say 'must not' to me, if you please!" she flung back; but when she reached the door she turned and said calmly, though her eyes still blazed: "i suppose it is not necessary for me to ask that you consider what i have said to you confidential." "it is quite unnecessary," i said, not knowing whether i loved or pitied her most; and my wits were busy trying to devise means of saving her the heartache her ignorance held in store for her. she called to sister margaret in her brightest tone, and when i had walked with them to st. agatha's gate she bade me good-by with quite as demure and christian an air as the sister herself. chapter xx the touch of dishonor give me a staff of honour for mine age. --_titus andronicus_. i was meditating my course over a cheerless luncheon when gillespie was announced. he lounged into the dining-room, drew his chair to the table and covered a biscuit with camembert with his usual inscrutable air. "i think it is better," he said deliberatingly, "to be an ass than a fool. have you any views on the subject?" "none, my dear buttons. i have been called both by shrewd men." "so have i, if the worst were known, and they offered proof! ah, more and more i see that we were born for each other, donovan. i was once so impressed with the notion that to be a fool was to be distinguished that i conceived the idea of forming a noble order of serene and incurable fools. i elected myself the grand and most worthy master, feeling safe from competition. news of the matter having gone forth, many persons of the highest standing wrote to me, recommending their friends for membership. my correspondence soon engaged three type-writers, and i was obliged to get the post-office department to help me break the chain. a few humble souls applied on their own hook for consideration. these i elected and placed in the first class. you would be surprised to know how many people who are chronic joiners wrote in absent-mindedly for application blanks, fearing to be left out of a good thing. united states senators were rather common on the list, and there were three governors; a bishop wrote to propose a brother bishop, of whose merits he spoke in the warmest terms. many newspapers declared that the society filled a long-felt want. i received invitations to speak on the uses and benefits of the order from many learned bodies. the thing began to bore me, and when my official stationery was exhausted i issued a farewell address to my troops and dissolved the society. but it's a great gratification to me, my dear donovan, that we quit with a waiting-list." "there are times, buttons, when you cease to divert me. i'm likely to be very busy for a few days. just what can i do for you this afternoon?" "look here, old man, you're not angry?" "no; i'm rarely angry; but i'm often bored." "then your brutal insinuation shall not go unrewarded. let me proceed. but first, how are your ribs?" "sore and a trifle stiff, but i'm comfortable, thanks." "as i understand matters, irishman, there is no real difference between you and me except in the matter of a certain lady. otherwise we might combine our forces in the interest of these unhappy holbrooks." "you are quite right. you came here to say something; go on and be done with it." he deftly covered another biscuit with the cheese, of whose antiquity he complained sadly. "i say, donovan, between old soldier friends, what were you doing up there on the creek last night?" "studying the landscape effects by starlight. it's a habit of mine. your own presence there might need accounting for, if you don't mind." "i will be square about it. i met helen quite accidentally as i left this house, and she wanted to see her father. i took her over there, and we found henry. he was up to some mischief--you may know what it was. something had gone wrong with him, and he was in all kinds of a bad humor. unfortunately, you got the benefit of some of it." "i will supply you a link in the night's affairs. henry had been to see his brother arthur." gillespie's face fell, and i saw that he was greatly surprised. "humph! helen didn't tell me that." "the reason henry came here was to look for his brother. that's how he reached this place ahead of miss pat and helen. and i have learned something--it makes no difference how, but it was not from the ladies at st. agatha's--i learned last night that the key of this whole situation is in your own hands, gillespie. your father was swindled by the holbrooks; which holbrook?" he was at once sane and serious, and replied soberly: "i never doubted that it was arthur. if he wasn't guilty, why did he run away? it was a queer business, and father never mentioned it. henry gave out the impression that my father had taken advantage of holbrook brothers and forced their failure; but father shut up and never told me anything." "but you have the notes--" "yes, but i'm not to open them, yet. i can't tell you about that now." he grew red and played with his cravat. "where are they?" i asked. "i've just had them sent to me; they're in the bank at annandale. there's another thing you may not know. old man holbrook, who lived to be older than the hills, left a provision in his will that adds to the complications. miss pat may have mentioned that stuff in her father's will about the honor of the brothers--?" "she just mentioned it. please tell me what you know of it." he took out his pocket-book and read me this paragraph from a newspaper cutting: "and the said one million dollars hereinbefore specifically provided for shall, after the lapse of ten years, be divided between my said sons henry and arthur holbrook, share and share alike; but if either of my said sons shall have been touched by dishonor through his own act, as honor is accounted, reckoned and valued among men, my said daughter patricia to be the sole judge thereof, then he shall forfeit his share of said amount thus withheld, and the whole of said sum of one million dollars shall be adjudged to belong to the other son." gillespie lighted a cigarette and smoked quietly for several minutes, and when he spoke it was with deep feeling. "i love that girl, donovan. i believe she cares for me, or would if she could get out of all these entanglements. i'm almost ready to burn that packet and tell miss pat she's got to settle with henry and be done with it. let him spend his money and die in disgrace and go to the devil; anything is better than all this secrecy and mystery that enmeshes helen. i'm going to end it; i'm going to end it!" we had gone to the library, and he threw himself down in the chair from which she had spoken of him so short a time before that i seemed still to feel her presence in the room. he was of that youthful, blond type which still sunburns after much tanning. his short hair was brushed smooth on his well-formed head. the checks and stripes and hideous color combinations in his raiment, which miss pat had mentioned at our first interview, were, i imagined, peculiar to his strange humor--a denotement of his willingness to sacrifice himself to mystify or annoy others. he seemed younger to-day than i had thought him before; he was a kind, generous, amusing boy, whose physical strength seemed an anomaly in one so gentle. he did not understand helen; and as i reflected that i was not sure i understood her myself, the heads of the dragon multiplied, and my task at annandale grew on my hands. but i wanted to help this boy if it was in me to do it, and i clapped him on the shoulder. "cheer up, lad! if we can't untie the knot we'll lose no time cutting the string. there may be some fun in this business before we get through with it." i began telling him of some of my own experiences, and won him to a cheerier mood. when we came round to the holbrooks again his depression had passed, and we were on the best of terms. "but there's one thing we can't get away from, donovan. i've got to protect helen; don't you see? i've got to take care of her, whatever comes." "but you can't take care of her father. he's hopeless." "i could give him this money myself, couldn't i? i can do it, and i've about concluded that i ought to do it." "but that would be a waste. it would be like giving whisky to a drunkard. money has been at the bottom of all this trouble." gillespie threw up his hands with a gesture of helplessness. "i shall undoubtedly lose such wits as i have if we don't get somewhere in this business pretty soon. but, donovan, there's something i want to ask you. i don't like to speak of it, but when we were coming away from that infernal island, after our scrap with the dago, there were two people walking on the bluff--a man and a woman, and the woman was nearest us. she seemed to be purposely putting herself in the man's way so we couldn't see him. it didn't seem possible that helen could be there--but?" he clearly wished to be assured, and i answered at once: "i saw them; it couldn't have been helen. it was merely a similarity of figure. i couldn't distinguish her face at all. very likely they were port annandale cottagers." "i thought so myself," he replied, evidently relieved. it did not seem necessary to tell him of rosalind at red gate; that was my secret, and i was not yet ready to share it. "i've got to talk to somebody, and i want to tell you something, donovan. i can't deny that there are times when helen doesn't seem--well, all that i have thought her at other times. sometimes she seems selfish and hard, and all that. and i know she hasn't treated miss pat right; it isn't square for her to take miss pat's bounty and then work against her. but i make allowances, donovan." "of course," i acquiesced, wishing to cheer him. "so do i. she has been hard put in this business. and a man's love can't always be at par--or a woman's either! the only thing a man ought to exact of the woman he marries is that she put up a cheerful breakfast-table. nothing else counts very much. start the day right, hand him his gloves and a kind word at the front door as he sallies forth to the day's battle, and constancy and devotion will be her reward. i have spoken words of wisdom. harken, o chief button-maker of the world!" the chiming of the bells beyond the glenarm wall caused him to lift his head defiantly. i knew what was in his mind. he was in love--or thought he was, which has been said to be the same thing--and he wanted to see the girl he loved; and i resolved to aid him in the matter. i have done some mischief in my life, but real evil i have, i hope, never done. it occurred to me now that i might do a little good. and for justification i reasoned that i was already so deep in the affairs of other people that a little further plunge could do no particular harm. "you think her rarely beautiful, don't you, buttons?" "she is the most beautiful woman in the world!" he exclaimed. "the type is not without charm. every man has his ideal in the way of a type. i will admit that her type is rare," i remarked with condescension. "rare!" he shouted. "rare! you speak of her, irishman, as though she were a mummy or a gargoyle or--or--" "no; i should hardly say that. but there are always others." "there are no others--not another one to compare with her! you are positively brutal when you speak of that girl. you should at least be just to her; a blind man could feel her beauty even if he couldn't see!" "i repeat that it's the type! propinquity, another pair of dark eyes, the drooping lash, those slim fingers resting meditatively against a similar oval olive cheek, and the mischief's done." "i don't understand you," he declared blankly, and then the color flooded his face. "i believe you are in love with her yourself!" and then, ironically: "or maybe it's just the type you fancy. any other girl, with the same dark eyes, the drooping lash--" "you'd never be happy with helen holbrook if she married you, gillespie. what you need is a clinging vine. helen isn't that." "that is your opinion, is it, mr. donovan? you want me to seek my faith in the arboretum, do you? you mustn't think yourself the permanent manager of all the holbrooks and of me, too! i have never understood just how you broke into this. and i can't see that you have done much to help anybody, if you must know my opinion." "i have every intention of helping you, buttons. i like you. you have to me all the marks of a good fellow. my heart goes out to you in this matter. i want to see you happily married to a woman who will appreciate you. if you're not careful some girl will marry you for your money." good humor mastered him again, and he grinned his delightful boyish grin. "i can't for the life of me imagine a girl's marrying me for anything else," he said. "can you?" "i'll tell you what i'll do for you, my lad," i said. "i'll arrange for you to see helen to-night! you shall meet and talk and dance with her at port annandale casino, in the most conventional way in the world, with me for chaperon. by reason of being mr. glenarm's guest here, i'm _ex officio_ a member of the club. i'll manage everything. miss pat shall know nothing--all on one condition only." "well, name your price." "that you shall not mention family affairs to her at all." "god knows i shall be delighted to escape them!" his eyes brightened and he clapped his hands together. "i owe her a pair of gloves on an old wager. i have them in the village and will bring them over to-night," he said; but deception was not an easy game for him. i grinned and he colored. "it's not money, donovan," he said, as hurt as a misjudged child. "i won't lie to you. i was to meet her at st. agatha's pier to-night to give her the gloves." "you shall have your opportunity, but those meetings on piers won't do. i will hand her over to you at the casino at nine o'clock. i suppose i may have a dance or two?" "i suppose so," he said, so grudgingly that i laughed aloud. "remember the compact; try to have a good time and don't talk of trouble," i enjoined, as we parted. chapter xxi a blue cloak and a scarlet when first we met we did not guess that love would prove so hard a master; of more than common friendliness when first we met we did not guess-- who could foretell this sore distress-- this irretrievable disaster when first we met? we did not guess that love would prove so hard a master. --robert bridges. miss pat asked me to dine at st. agatha's that night. the message came unexpectedly--a line on one of those quaint visiting-cards of hers, brought by the gardener; and when i had penned my acceptance i at once sent the following message by ijima to the boat-maker's house at red gate: to rosalind at red gate: it is important for you to appear with me at the port annandale casino to-night, and to meet reginald gillespie there. he is pledged to refer in no way to family affairs. it he should attempt to, you need only remind him of his promise. he will imagine that you are some one else, so please be careful not to tax his imagination too far. there is much at stake which i will explain later. you are to refuse nothing that he may offer you. i shall come into the creek with the launch and call for you at red gate. the irishman at glenarm. the casino dances are very informal. a plain white gown and a few ribbons. but don't omit your emerald. i was not sure where this project would lead me, but i committed myself to it with a fair conscience. i reached st. agatha's just as dinner was announced and we went out at once to the small dining-room used by the sister in charge during vacation, where i faced miss pat, with helen on one hand and sister margaret on the other. they were all in good humor, even sister margaret proving less austere than usual, and it is not too much to say that we were a merry party. helen led me with a particular intention to talk of irish affairs, and avowed her own unbelief in the capacity of the irish for self-government. "now, helen!" admonished miss pat, as our debate waxed warm. "oh, do not spare me! i could not be shot to pieces in a better cause!" "the trouble with you people," declared helen with finality, "is that you have no staying qualities. the smashing of a few heads occasionally satisfies your islanders, then down go the necks beneath the yoke. you are incapable of prolonged war. now even the cubans did better; you must admit that, mr. donovan!" she met my eyes with a challenge. there was no question as to the animus of the discussion: she wished me to understand that there was war between us, and that with no great faith in my wit or powers of endurance she was setting herself confidently to the business of defeating my purposes. and i must confess that i liked it in her! "if we had you for an advocate our flag would undoubtedly rule the seas, miss holbrook!" "i dip my colors," she replied, "only to the long-enduring, not to the valiant alone!" "a lady of high renown," i mused aloud, while miss pat poured the coffee, "a lady of your own name, was once more or less responsible for a little affair that lasted ten years about the walls of a six-gated city." "i wasn't named for _her_! no sugar to-night, please, aunt pat!" i stood with her presently by an open window of the parlor, looking out upon the night. sister margaret had vanished about her household duties; miss pat had taken up a book with the rather obvious intention of leaving us to ourselves. i expected to start at eight for my rendezvous at red gate, and my ear was alert to the chiming of the chapel clock. the gardener had begun his evening rounds, and paused in the walk beneath us. "don't you think," asked helen, "that the guard is rather ridiculous?" "yes, but it pleases my medieval instincts to imagine that you need defenders. in the absence of a moat the gardener combines in himself all the apparatus of defense. ijima is his asiatic ally." "and you, i suppose, are the grand strategist and field marshal." "at least that!" "after this morning i never expected to ask a favor of you; but if, in my humblest tone--" "certainly. anything within reason." "i want you to take me to the casino to-night to the dance. i'm tired of being cooped up here. i want to hear music and see new faces." "do pardon me for not having thought of it before! they dance over there every wednesday and saturday night. i'm sorry that to-night i have an engagement, but won't you allow me on saturday?" she was resting her arms on the high sill, gazing out upon the lake. i stood near, watching her, and as she sighed deeply my heart ached for her; but in a moment she turned her head swiftly with mischief laughing in her eyes. "you have really refused! you have positively declined! you plead another engagement! this is a place where one's engagements are burdensome." "this one happens to be important." she turned round with her back to the window. "we are eternal foes; we are fighting it out to a finish; and it is better that way. but, mr. donovan, i haven't played all my cards yet." "i look upon you as a resourceful person and i shall be prepared for the worst. shall we say saturday night for the dance?" "no!" she exclaimed, tossing her head. "and let me have the satisfaction of telling you that i could not have gone with you to-night anyhow. good-by." i found ijima ready with the launch at glenarm pier, and, after a swift flight to the tippecanoe, knocked at the door of red gate. arthur holbrook admitted me, and led the way to the room where, as his captive, i had first talked with him. "we have met before," he said, smiling. "i thought you were an enemy at that time. now i believe i may count you a friend." "yes; i should like to prove myself your friend, mr. holbrook." "thank you," he said simply; and we shook hands. "you have taken an interest in my affairs, so my daughter tells me. she is very dear to me--she is all i have left; you can understand that i wish to avoid involving her in these family difficulties." "i would cut off my right hand before i would risk injuring you or her, mr. holbrook," i replied earnestly. "you have a right to know why i wish her to visit the casino with me to-night. i know what she does not know, what only two other people know; i know why you are here." "i am very sorry; i regret it very much," he said without surprise but with deep feeling. the jauntiness with which he carried off our first interview was gone; he seemed older, and there was no mistaking the trouble and anxiety in his eyes. he would have said more, but i interrupted him. "as far as i am concerned no one else shall ever know. the persons who know the truth about you are your brother and yourself. strangely enough, reginald gillespie does not know. your sister has not the slightest idea of it. your daughter, i assume, has no notion of it--" "no! no!" he exclaimed eagerly. "she has not known; she has believed what i have told her; and now she must never know how stupid, how mad, i have been." "to-night," i said, "your daughter and i will gain possession of the forged notes. gillespie will give them to her; and i should like to hold them for a day or two." he was pacing the floor and at this wheeled upon me with doubt and suspicion clearly written on his face. "but i don't see how you can manage it!" "mr. gillespie is infatuated with your niece." "with helen, who is with my sister at st. agatha's." "i have promised gillespie that he shall see her to-night at the casino dance. your sister is very bitter against him and he is mortally afraid of her." "his father really acted very decently, when you know the truth. but i don't see how this is to be managed. i should like to possess myself of those papers, but not at too great a cost. more for rosalind's sake than my own now, i should have them." "you may not know that your daughter and her cousin are as like as two human beings can be. i am rather put to it myself to tell them apart." "their mothers were much alike, but they were distinguishable. if you are proposing a substitution of rosalind for helen, i should say to have a care of it. you may deceive a casual acquaintance, but hardly a lover." "i have carried through worse adventures. those documents must not get into--into--unfriendly hands! i have pledged myself that miss patricia shall be kept free from further trouble, and much trouble lies in those forged notes if your brother gets them. but i hope to do a little more than protect your sister; i want to get you all out of your difficulties. there is no reason for your remaining in exile. you owe it to your daughter to go back to civilization. and your sister needs you. you saved your brother once; you will pardon me for saying that you owe him no further mercy." he thrust his hands into his pockets and paced the floor a moment, before he said: "you are quite right. but i am sure you will be very careful of my little girl; she is all i have--quite all i have." he went to the hall and called her and bowed with a graceful, old-fashioned courtesy that reminded me of miss pat as rosalind came into the room. "will i do, gentlemen all?" she asked gaily. "do i look the fraud i feel?" she threw off a long scarlet cloak that fell to her heels and stood before us in white--it was as though she had stepped out of flame. she turned slowly round, with head bent, submitting herself for our inspection. her gown was perfectly simple, high at the throat and with sleeves that clasped her wrists. to my masculine eyes it was of the same piece and pattern as the gown in which i had left helen at st. agatha's an hour before. "i think i read doubt in your mind," she laughed. "you must not tell me now that you have backed out; i shall try it myself, if you are weakening. i am anxious for the curtain to rise." "there is only one thing: i suggest that you omit that locket. i dined with her to-night, so my memory is fresh." she unclasped the tiny locket that hung from a slight band of velvet at her throat, and threw it aside; and her father, who was not, i saw, wholly reconciled to my undertaking, held the cloak for her and led the way with a lantern through the garden and down to the waterside and along the creek to the launch where ijima was in readiness. we quickly embarked, and the launch stole away through the narrow shores, holbrook swinging his lantern back and forth in good-by. i had lingered longer at the boat-maker's than i intended, and as we neared the upper lake and the creek broadened ijima sent the launch forward at full speed. when we approached battle orchard i bade him stop, and hiding our lantern i took an oar and guided the launch quietly by. then we went on into the upper lake at a lively clip. rosalind sat quietly in the bow, the hood of her cloak gathered about her head. i was taking steering directions from ijima, but as we neared port annandale i glanced over my shoulder to mark the casino pier lights when rosalind sang out: "hard aport--hard!" i obeyed, and we passed within oar's length of a sailboat, which, showing no light, but with mainsail set, was loafing leisurely before the light west wind. as we veered away i saw a man's figure at the wheel; another figure showed darkly against the cuddy. "hang out your lights!" i shouted angrily. but there was no reply. "the _stiletto_," muttered ijima, starting the engine again. "we must look out for her going back," i said, as we watched the sloop merge into shadow. the lights of the casino blazed cheerily as we drew up to the pier, and rosalind stepped out in good spirits, catching up and humming the waltz that rang down upon us from the club-house. "lady," i said, "let us see what lands we shall discover." "i ought to feel terribly wicked, but i really never felt cheerfuller in my life," she averred. "but i have one embarrassment!" "well?"--and we paused, while she dropped the hood upon her shoulders. "what shall i call this gentleman?" "what does _she_ call him? i'm blest if i know! i call him buttons usually; knight of the rueful countenance might serve; but very likely she calls him reggie." "i will try them all," she said. "i think we used to call him reggie on strawberry hill. very likely he will detect the fraud at once and i shan't get very far with him." "you shall get as far as you please. leave it to me. he shall see you first on the veranda overlooking the water where there are shadows in plenty, and you had better keep your cloak about you until the first shock of meeting has passed. then if he wants you to dance, i will hold the cloak, like a faithful chaperon, and you may muffle yourself in it the instant you come out; so even if he has his suspicions he will have no time to indulge them. he is undoubtedly patrolling the veranda, looking for us even now. he's a faithful knight!" as we passed the open door the dance ceased and a throng of young people came gaily out to take the air. we joined the procession, and were accepted without remark. several men whom i had seen in the village or met in the highway nodded amiably. gillespie, i knew, was waiting somewhere; and i gave rosalind final admonitions. "now be cheerful! be cordial! in case of doubt grow moody, and look out upon the water, as though seeking an answer in the stars. though i seem to disappear i shall be hanging about with an eye for danger-signals. ah! he approaches! he comes!" gillespie advanced eagerly, with happiness alight in his face. "helen!" he cried, taking her hand; and to me: "you are not so great a liar after all, irishman." "oh, mr. donovan is the kindest person imaginable," she replied and turned her head daringly so that the light from a window fell full upon her, and he gazed at her with frank, boyish admiration. then she drew her wrap about her shoulders and sat down on a bench with her face in shadow, and as i walked away her laughter followed me cheerily. i was promptly seized by a young man, who feigned to have met me in some former incarnation, and introduced to a girl from detroit whose name i shall never know in this world. i remember that she danced well, and that she asked me whether i knew people in duluth, pond du lac, paducah and a number of other towns which she recited like a geographical index. she formed, i think, a high opinion of my sense of humor, for i laughed at everything she said in my general joy of the situation. after our third dance i got her an ice and found another cavalier for her. i did not feel at all as contrite as i should have felt as i strolled round the veranda toward rosalind and gillespie. they were talking in low tones and did not heed me until i spoke to them. "oh, it's you, is it?"--and gillespie looked up at me resentfully. "i have been gone two years! it seems to me i am doing pretty well, all things considered! what have you been talking about?" "'--'bout giunts, an' griffuns, an' elves, an' the squidgicum-squees 'at swallers therselves!'" rosalind quoted. "i hope you have been enjoying yourself." "after a dull fashion, yes." "i should like to tell her that! we saw you through the window. she struck us as very pretty, didn't she, reggie?" "i didn't notice her," gillespie replied with so little interest that we both laughed. "it's too bad," remarked rosalind, "that aunt pat couldn't have come with us. it would have been a relief for her to get away from that dreary school-house." "i might go and fetch her," i suggested. "if you do," said gillespie, grinning, "you will not find us here when you get back." rosalind sighed, as though at the remembrance of her aunt's forlorn exile; then the music broke out in a two-step. "come! we must have this dance!" she exclaimed, and gillespie rose obediently. i followed, exchanging chaff with rosalind until we came to the door, where she threw off her cloak for the first time. "lord and protector, will you do me the honor?" it all happened in a moment. i tossed the cloak across my arm carelessly and she turned to gillespie without looking at me. he hesitated--some word faltered on his lips. i think it must have been the quick transition of her appearance effected by the change from the rich color of the cloak to the white of her dress that startled him. she realized the danger of the moment, and put her arm on his arm. "we mustn't miss a note of it! good-by,"--and with a nod to me i next saw her far away amid the throng of dancers. as i caught up the cloak under my arm something crackled under my fingers, and hurrying to a dark corner of the veranda i found the pocket and drew forth an envelope. my conscience, i confess, was agreeably quiescent. you may, if you wish, pronounce my conduct at several points of this narrative wholly indefensible; but i was engaged in a sincere effort to straighten out the holbrook tangle, and helen had openly challenged me. if i could carry this deception through successfully i believed that within a few hours i might bring henry holbrook to terms. as for gillespie he was far safer with rosalind than with helen. i thrust the envelope into my breast pocket and settled myself by the veranda rail, where i could look out upon the lake, and at the same time keep an eye on the ball-room. and, to be frank about it, i felt rather pleased with myself! it would do helen no great harm to wait for gillespie on st. agatha's pier: the discipline of disappointment would be good for her. vigorous hand-clapping demanded a repetition of the popular two-step of the hour, and i saw rosalind and gillespie swing into the dance as the music struck up again. somewhere beneath i heard the rumble and bang of a bowling-alley above the music. then my eyes, roaming the lake, fell upon the casino pier below. some one was coming toward me--a girl wrapped in a long cloak who had apparently just landed from a boat. she moved swiftly toward the casino. i saw her and lost her again as she passed in and out of the light of the pier lamps. a dozen times the shadows caught her away; a dozen times the pier lights flashed upon her; and at last i was aware that it was helen holbrook, walking swiftly, as though upon an urgent errand. i ran down the steps and met her luckily on a deserted stretch of board walk. i was prepared for an angry outburst, but hardly for the sword-like glitter of her first words. "this is infamous! it is outrageous! i did not believe that even you would be guilty of this!" the two-step was swinging on to its conclusion, and i knew that the casino entrance was not the place for a scene with an angry girl. "i am anything you like; but please come to a place where we can talk quietly." "i will not! i will not be tricked by you again." "you will come along with me, at once and quietly," i said; and to my surprise she walked up the steps beside me. as we passed the ball-room door the music climbed to its climax and ended. "come, let us go to the farther end of the veranda." when we had reached a quiet corner she broke out upon me again. "if you have done what i think you have done, what i might have known you would do, i shall punish you terribly--you and her!" "you may punish me all you like, but you shall not punish her!" i said with her own emphasis. "reginald promised me some papers to-night--my father had asked me to get them for him. she does not know, this cousin of mine, what they are, what her father is! it is left for you to bring the shame upon her." "it had better be i than you, in your present frame of mind!"--and the pity welled in my heart. i must save her from the heartache that lay in the truth. if i failed in this i should fail indeed. "do you want her to know that her father is a forger--a felon? that is what you are telling her, if you trick reginald into giving her those papers he was to give me for my father!" "she hasn't those papers. i have them. they are in my pocket, quite safe from all of you. you are altogether too vindictive, you holbrooks! i have no intention of trusting you with such high explosives." "reginald shall take them away from you. he is not a child to be played with--duped in this fashion." "reginald is a good fellow. he will always love me for this--" "for cheating him? don't you suppose he will resent it? don't you think he knows me from every other girl in the world?" "no, i do not. in fact i have proved that he doesn't. you see, miss holbrook, he gave her the documents in the case without a question." "and she dutifully passed them on to you!" "nothing of the kind, my dear miss holbrook! i took them out of her cloak pocket." "that is quite in keeping!" "i'm not done yet! pardon me, but i want you to exchange cloaks with me. you shall have reginald in a moment, and we will make sure that he is deceived by letting him take you home. you are as like as two peas--in everything except temper, humor and such trifles; but your cloaks are quite different. please!" "i will not!" "please!" "you are despicable, despicable!" "i am really the best friend you have in the world. again, will you kindly exchange cloaks with me? yours is blue, isn't it? i think reginald knows blue from red. ah, thank you! now, i want you to promise to say nothing as he takes you home about papers, your father, your uncle or your aunt. you will talk to him of times when you were children at stamford, and things like that, in a dreamy reminiscential key. if he speaks of things that you don't exactly understand, refers to what he has said to your cousin here to-night, you need only fend him off; tell him the incident is closed. when i bring him to you in ten minutes it will be with the understanding that he is to take you back to st. agatha's at once. he has his launch at the casino pier; you needn't say anything to him when you land, only that you must get home quietly, so miss pat shan't know you have been out. your exits and your entrances are your own affair. now i hope you see the wisdom of obeying me, absolutely." "i didn't know that i could hate you so much!" she said quietly. "but i shall not forget this. i shall let you see before i am a day older that you are not quite the master you think you are: suppose i tell him how you have played with him." "then before you are three hours older i shall precipitate a crisis that you will not like, miss holbrook. i advise you, as your best friend, to do what i ask." she shrugged her shoulders, drew the scarlet cloak more closely about her, and i left her gazing off into the strip of wood that lay close upon the inland side of the club-house. i was by no means sure of her, but there was no time for further parley. i dropped the blue cloak on a chair in a corner and hurried round to the door of the ball-room, meeting rosalind and gillespie coming out flushed with their dance. "the hour of enchantment is almost past. i must have one turn before the princess goes back to her castle!"--and rosalind took my arm. "meet me at the landing in two minutes, gillespie! as a special favor--as a particular kindness--i shall allow you to take the princess home!" and i hurried rosalind away, regained the blue cloak, and flung it about her. "well," she said, drawing the hood over her head, "who am i, anyhow!" "don't ask me such questions! i'm afraid to say." "i like your air of business. you are undoubtedly a man of action!" "i thank you for the word. i'm breathing hard. i have seen ghosts and communed with dragons. she's here! your _alter ego_ is on this very veranda more angry than it is well for a woman to be." "oh," she faltered, "she found out and followed?" "she did; she undoubtedly did!" as we paused under one of the veranda lamps she looked down at the cloak and laughed. "so this is hers! i thought it didn't feel quite right. but that pair of gloves!" "it's in my pocket. i have stolen it!" i led the way to the lower veranda of the casino, which was now de-a sorted. "stay right here and appear deeply interested in the heavens above and the waters under the earth until i get back." i ran up the stairs again and found helen where i had left her. "and now," i said, giving her my arm, "you will not forget the rules of the game! your fortunes, and your father's are brighter to-night than they have ever been. you hate me to the point of desperation, but remember i am your friend after all." she stopped abruptly, hesitating. i felt indecision in the lessening touch upon my arm, and i saw it in her eyes as the light from the ball-room door flooded us. "you have taken everything away from me! you are playing reginald against me." "possibly--who knows! i supposed you had more faith in your powers than that!" "i have no faith in anything," she said dejectedly. "oh, yes, you have! you have an immense amount of faith in yourself. and you know you care nothing at all about reginald gillespie; he's a nice boy, but that's all." "you are contemptible and wicked!" she flared. "let us go." gillespie's launch was ready when we reached the pier, and after he had handed her into it he plucked my sleeve, and held me for an instant. "don't you see how wrong you are! she is superb! she is not only the most beautiful girl in the world, but the dearest, the sweetest, the kindest and best. you have served me better than you know, old man, and i'm grateful!" in a moment they were well under way and i ran back to the club-house and found rosalind where i had left her. "we must go at once," she said. "father will be very anxious to know how it all came out." "but what did you think of buttons?" "he's very nice," she said. "is that all? it doesn't seem conclusive, some way!" "oh, he's very kind and gentle, and anxious to please. but i felt like a criminal all the time." "you seemed to be a very cheerful criminal. i suppose it was only the excitement that kept you going." "of course that was it! i was wondering what to call it. i'm afraid the sisters at the convent would have a less pleasant word for it." "well, you are not in school now; and i think we have done a good night's work for everybody concerned. but tell me, did he make love acceptably?" "i suppose that was what he was doing, sir," she replied demurely, averting her head. "suppose?" i laughed. "yes; you see, it was my first experience. and he is really very nice, and so honest and kind and gentle that i felt sorry for him." "ah! you were sorry for him! then it's all over, i'm clear out of it. when a woman is sorry for a man--tchk! but tell me, how did his advances compare with mine on those occasions when we met over there by st. agatha's? i did my best to be entertaining." "oh, he is much more earnest than you ever could be. i never had any illusions about you, mr. donovan. you just amuse yourself with the nearest girl, and, besides, for a long time you thought i was helen. mr. gillespie is terribly in earnest. when he was talking to me back there in the corner i didn't remember at all that it was he who drove a goat-team in central park to rebuke the policeman!" "no; i suppose with the stage properly set,--with the music and the stars and the water,--one might forget mr. gillespie's mild idiosyncrasies." "but you haven't told me about helen. of course she saw through the trick at once." "she did," i answered, in a tone that caused rosalind to laugh. "well, you wouldn't hurt poor little me if she scolded you!" we were on the pier, and i whistled to ijima to bring up the launch. in a moment we were skimming over the lake toward the tippecanoe. arthur holbrook was waiting for us in the creek. "it is all right," i said. "i shall keep the papers for the present, if you don't mind, but your troubles are nearly over." and i left rosalind laughingly explaining to her father how it came about that she had gone to the casino in a scarlet cloak but had returned in a blue one. chapter xxii mr. gillespie's diversions patience or prudence,--what you will, some prefix faintly fragrant still as those old musky scents that fill our grandmas' pillows; and for her youthful portrait take some long-waist child of hudson's make, stiffly at ease beside a lake with swans and willows. --_austin dobson_. in my own room i drew the blinds for greater security, lighted the desk-lamp and sat down before the packet gillespie had given rosalind. it was a brown commercial envelope, thrice sealed, and addressed, "r. gillespie: personal." in a corner was written "holbrook papers." i turned the packet over and over in my hands, reflecting upon my responsibility and duty in regard to it. henry holbrook, in his anxiety to secure the notes, had taken advantage of gillespie's infatuation for helen to make her his agent for procuring them, and now it was for me to use the forged notes as a means of restoring arthur holbrook to his sister's confidence. the way seemed clear enough, and i went to bed resolving that in the morning i should go to henry holbrook, tell him that i had the evidence of his guilt in my possession and threaten him with exposure if he did not cease his mad efforts to blackmail his sister. i rose early and perfected my plans for the day as i breakfasted. a storm had passed round us in the night and it was bright and cool, with a sharp wind beating the lake into tiny whitecaps. it was not yet eight o'clock when i left the house for my journey in search of henry holbrook. the envelope containing the forged notes was safely locked in the vault in which the glenarm silver was stored. as i stepped down into the park i caught sight of miss pat walking in the garden beyond the wall, and as i lifted my cap she came toward the iron gate. she was rarely abroad so early and i imagined that she had been waiting for me. the chill of the air was unseasonable, and in her long coat her slight figure seemed smaller than ever. she smiled her grave smile, but there was, i thought, an unusual twinkle in her gentle eyes. she wore for the first time a lace cap that gave a new delicacy to her face. "you are abroad early, my lord," she said, with the delicious quaint mockery with which she sometimes flattered me. and she repeated the lines: "hast thou seen ghosts? hast thou at midnight heard in the wind's talking an articulate word? or art thou in the secret of the sea, and have the twilight woods confessed to thee?" "no such pleasant things have happened to me, miss holbrook." "this is my birthday. i have crowned myself--observe the cap!" "we must celebrate! i crave the privilege of dining you to-night." "you were starting for somewhere with an air of determination. don't let me interfere with your plans." "i was going to the boat-house," i answered truthfully. "let me come along. i am turned sixty-five, and i think i am entitled to do as i please; don't you?" "i do, indeed, but that is no reason. you are no more sixty-five than i am. the cap, if you will pardon me, only proclaims your immunity from the blasts of time." "i wish i had known you at twenty," she said brightly, as we went on together. "my subjection could not have been more complete." "do you make speeches like that to helen?" "if i do it is with less inspiration!" "you must stop chaffing me. i am not sixty-five for nothing and i don't think you are naturally disrespectful." when we reached the boat-house she took a chair on the little veranda and smiled as though something greatly amused her. "mr. donovan--i am sixty-five, as i have said before--may i call you--" "larry! and gladden me forever!" "then, larry, what a lot of frauds we all are!" "i suppose we are," i admitted doubtfully, not sure where the joke lay. "you have been trying to be very kind to me, haven't you?" "i have accomplished nothing." "you have tried to make my way easy here; and you have had no end of trouble. i am not as dull as i look, larry." "if i have deceived you it has been with an honest purpose." "i don't question that. but helen has been giving you a great deal of trouble, hasn't she? you don't quite make her out; isn't that true?" "i understand her perfectly," i averred recklessly. "you are a daring young man, larry, to make that statement of any woman. helen has not always dealt honestly with you--or me!" "she is the noblest girl in the world; she is splendid beyond any words of mine. i don't understand what you mean, miss holbrook." "larry, you dear boy, i am no more blind or deaf than i am dumb! helen has been seeing her father and reginald gillespie. she has run off at night, thinking i wouldn't know it. she is an extremely clever young woman, but when she has made a feint of retiring early, only to creep out and drop down from the dining-room balcony and dodge your guards, i have known it. she was away last night and came creeping in like a thief. it has amused me, larry; it has furnished me real diversion. the only thing that puzzles me is that i don't quite see where you stand." "i haven't always been sure myself, to be frank about it!" "why not tell me just how it is: whether helen has been amusing herself with you, or you with helen." "oh!" i laughed. "when you came here you told me she was the finest girl in the world, and i accepted your word for it. i have every confidence in your judgment, and you have known your niece for a long time." "i have indeed." "and i'm sure you wouldn't have deceived me!" "but i did! i wanted to interest you in her. something in your eye told me that you might do great things for her." "thank you!" "but instead of that you have played into her hands. why did you let her steal out at night to meet her father, when you knew that could only do her and me a grave injury? and you have aided her in seeing gillespie, when i particularly warned you that he was most repugnant to me." i laughed in spite of myself as i remembered the night's adventure; and miss pat stopped short in the path and faced me with the least glint of anger in her eyes. "i really didn't think you capable of it! she will marry him for his money!" "take my word for it, she will do nothing of the kind." "you are under her spell, and you don't know her! i think--sometimes--i think the girl has no soul!" she said at last. the dear voice faltered, and the tears flashed into miss pat's eyes as she confronted, me in the woodland path. "oh, no! it's not so bad as that!" i pleaded. "i tell you she has no soul! you will find it out to your cost. she is made for nothing but mischief in this world!" "i am your humble servant, miss holbrook." "then," she began doubtfully, and meeting my eyes with careful scrutiny, "i am going to ask you to do one thing more for me, that we may settle all this disagreeable affair. i am going to pay henry his money; but before i do so i must find my brother arthur, if he is still alive. that may have some difficulties." she looked at me as though for approval; then went on. "i have been thinking of all these matters carefully since i came here. henry has forfeited his right to further inheritance by his contemptible, cowardly treatment of me; but i am willing to forgive all that he has done. he was greatly provoked; it would not be fair for me to hold those things against him. as between him and arthur; as between him and arthur--" her gaze lay across the twinkling lake, and her voice was tremulous. she spoke softly as though to herself, and i caught phrases of the paragraph of her father's will that gillespie had read to me: "_dishonor as it is known, accounted and reckoned among men_;"--and she bowed her head on the veranda rail a moment; then she rose suddenly and smiled bravely through her tears. "why can't you find arthur for me? ah, it you could only find him there might be peace between us all; for i am very old, larry. age without peace is like life without hope. i can not believe that arthur is dead. i must see him again. larry, if he is alive find him and tell him to come to me." "yes," i said; "i know where he is!" she started in amazement and coming close, her hands closed upon my arm eagerly. "it can't be possible! you know where he is and you will bring him to me?" she was pitifully eager and the tears were bright in her eyes. "be assured of it. miss holbrook. he is near by and well; but you must not trouble about him or about anything. and now i am going to take you home. come! there is much to do, and i must be off. but you will keep a good heart; you are near the end of your difficulties." she was quite herself again when we reached st. agatha's, but at the door she detained me a moment. "i like you, larry!" she said, taking my hand; and my own mother had not given me sweeter benediction. "i never intended that helen should play with you. she may serve me as she likes, but i don't want her to singe your wings, larry." "i have been shot at in three languages, and half drowned in others, and rewards have been offered for me. do you think i'm going down before a mere matter of _beaux yeux_! think better of me than that!" "but she is treacherous; she will deliver you to the philistines without losing a heart-beat." "she could, miss patricia, but she won't!" "she has every intention of marrying gillespie; he's the richest man she knows!" "i swear to you that she shall not marry gillespie!" "she would do it to annoy me if for nothing else." i took both her hands--they were like rose-leaves, those dear slightly tremulous hands! "now, miss pat--i'm going to call you miss pat because we're such old friends, and we're just contemporaries, anyhow--now, miss pat, helen is not half so wicked as she thinks she is. gillespie and i are on the best of terms. he's a thoroughly good fellow and not half the fool he looks. and he will never marry helen!" "i should like to know what's going to prevent her from marrying him!" she demanded as i stepped back and turned to go. "oh, i am, if you must know! i have every intention of marrying her myself!" i ran away from the protest that was faltering upon her lips, and strode through the garden. i had just reached glenarm gate on my way back to the boat-house when a woman's voice called softly and sister margaret hurried round a turn of the garden path. "mr. donovan!" there was anxiety in the voice, and more anxious still was sister margaret's face as she came toward me in her brown habit, her hands clasped tensely before her. she had evidently been watching for me, and drew back from the gate into a quiet recess of the garden. her usual repose was gone and her face, under its white coif, showed plainly her distress. "i have bad news--miss helen has gone! i'm afraid something has happened to her." "she can't have gone far, sister margaret. when did you miss her?" i asked quietly; but i confess that i was badly shaken. my confident talk about the girl with miss pat but a moment before echoed ironically in my memory. "she did not come down for breakfast with her aunt or me, but i thought nothing of it, as i have urged both of them to breakfast up-stairs. miss patricia went out for a walk. an hour ago i tried helen's door and found it unlocked and her room empty. when or how she left i don't know. she seems to have taken nothing with her." "can you tell a lie, sister margaret?" she stared at me with so shocked an air that i laughed. "a lie in a good cause, i mean? miss pat must not know that her niece has gone--if she has gone! she has probably taken one of the canoes for a morning paddle; or, we will assume that she has borrowed one of the glenarm horses, as she has every right to do, for a morning gallop, and that she has lost her way or gone farther than she intended. there are a thousand explanations!" "but they hardly touch the fact that she was gone all night; or that a strange man brought a note addressed in helen's handwriting to her aunt only an hour ago." "kidnapped!"--and i laughed aloud as the meaning of her disappearance flashed upon me! "i don't like your way of treating this matter!" said sister margaret icily. "the girl may die before she can be brought back." "no, she won't--my word for it, sister margaret. please give me the letter!" "but it is not for you!" "oh, yes, it is! you wouldn't have miss pat subjected to the shock of a demand for ransom. worse than that, miss pat has little enough faith in helen as it is; and such a move as this would be final. this kidnapping is partly designed as a punishment for me, and i propose to take care of it without letting miss pat know. she shall never know!" sister margaret, only half convinced, drew an envelope from her girdle and gave it to me doubtfully. i glanced at the superscription and then tore it across, repeating the process until it was a mass of tiny particles, which i poured into sister margaret's hands. "burn them! now miss pat will undoubtedly ask for her niece at once. i suggest that you take care that she is not distressed by helen's absence. if it is necessary to reward your house-maid for her discretion--" i said with hesitation. "oh, i disarranged helen's bed so that the maid wouldn't know!"--and sister margaret blushed. "splendid! i can teach you nothing, sister margaret! please help me this much further: get one of miss helen's dresses--that blue one she plays tennis in, perhaps--and put it in a bag of some kind and give it to my jap when he calls for it in ten minutes. now listen to me carefully, sister margaret: i shall meet you here at twelve o'clock with a girl who shall be, to all intents and purposes, helen holbrook. in fact, she will be some one else. now i expect you to carry off the situation through luncheon and until nightfall, when i expect to bring helen--the real helen--back here. meanwhile, tell miss pat anything you like, quoting me! good-by!" i left her abruptly and was running toward glenarm house to rouse ijima, when i bumped into gillespie, who had been told at the house that i was somewhere in the grounds. "what's doing, irishman?" he demanded. "nothing, buttons; i'm just exercising." his white flannels were as fresh as the morning, and he wore a little blue cap perched saucily on the side of his head. "i was pondering," he began, "the futility of man's effort to be helpful toward his fellows." he leaned upon his stick and eyed me with solemn vacuity. "i suppose i'll have to hear it; go on." "i was always told in my youth that when an opportunity to do good offered one should seize upon it at once. no hesitation, no trifling! only a few years ago i wandered into a little church in a hill town of massachusetts where i waited for the boston express. it was a beautiful sunday evening--i shall never forget it!" he sighed. "i am uncertain whether i was led thither by good impulse, or only because the pews were more comfortable than the benches at the railway station. i arrived early and an usher seated me up front near a window and gave me an armful of books and a pamphlet on foreign missions. other people began to come in pretty soon; and then i heard a lot of giggling and a couple of church pillars began chasing a stray dog up and down the aisles. i was placing my money on the taller pillar; he had the best reach of leg, and, besides, the other chap had side whiskers, which are not good for sprinting,--they offer just so much more resistance to the wind. the unseemliness of the thing offended my sense of propriety. the sound of the chase broke in harshly upon my study of congo missions. after much pursuing the dog sought refuge between my legs. i picked him up tenderly in my arms and dropped him gently, donovan, gently, from the window. now wasn't that seizing an opportunity when you found it, so to speak, underfoot?" "no doubt of it at all. hurry with the rest of it, buttons!" "well, that pup fell with a sickening yelp through a skylight into the basement where the choir was vesting itself, and hit a bishop--actually struck a young and promising bishop who had never done anything to me. they got the constable and made a horrible row, and besides paying for the skylight i had to give the church a new organ to square myself with the bishop, who was a friend of a friend of mine in kentucky who once gave me a tip on the derby. since then the very thought of foreign missions makes me ill, i always hear that dog--it was the usual village mongrel of evil ancestry--crashing through the skylight. what's doing this morning, irishman?" i linked my arm in his and led the way toward glenarm house. there was much to be done before i could bring together the warring members of the house of holbrook, and gillespie could, i felt, be relied on in emergencies. he broke forth at once. "i want to see her--i've got to see her!" "who--helen? then you'll have to wait a while, for she's gone for a paddle or a gallop, i'm not sure which, and won't be back for a couple of hours. but you have grown too daring. miss pat is still here, and you can't expect me to arrange meetings for you every day in the year." "i've got to see her," he repeated, and his tone was utterly joyless. "i don't understand her, donovan." "man is not expected to understand woman, my dear buttons. at the casino last night everything was as gay as an octogenarian's birthday cake." he stopped in the shadow of the house and seized my arm. "you told her something about me last night. she was all right until you took her away and talked with her at the casino. on the way home she was moody and queer--a different girl altogether. you are not on the square; you are playing on too many sides of this game." "you're in love, that's all. these suspicions and apprehensions are leading symptoms. up there at the casino, with the water washing beneath and the stars overhead and the band playing waltzes, a spell was upon you both. even a hardened old sinner like me could feel it. i've had palpitations all day! cheer up! in your own happy phrase, everything points to plus." "i tell you she turned on me, and that you are responsible for it!"--and he glared at me angrily. "now, buttons! you're not going to take that attitude toward me, after all i have done for you! i really took some trouble to arrange that little meeting last night; and here you come with sad eye and mournful voice and rebuke me!" "i tell you she was different. she had never been so kind to me as she was there at the casino; but as we came back she changed, and was ready to fling me aside. i asked her to leave this place and marry me to-day, and she only laughed at me!" "now, buttons, you are letting your imagination get the better of your common sense. if you're going to take your lady's moods so hard you'd better give up trying to understand the ways of woman. it's wholly possible that helen was tired and didn't want to be made love to. it seems to me that you are singularly lacking in consideration. but i can't talk to you all morning; i have other things to do; but if you will find a cool corner of the house and look at picture-books until i'm free i'll promise to be best man for you when you're married; and i predict your marriage before christmas--a happy union of the ancient houses of holbrook and gillespie. run along like a good boy and don't let miss pat catch sight of you." "do you keep a goat, a donkey or a mule--any of the more ruminative animals?" he asked with his saddest intonation. "the cook keeps a parrot, and there's a donkey in one of the pastures." "good. are his powers of vocalization unimpaired?" "first rate. i occasionally hear his vesper hymn. he's in good voice." "then i may speak to him, soul to soul, if i find that i bore myself." we climbed the steps to the cool shadows of the terrace. as we stood a moment looking out on the lake we saw, far away toward the northern shore, the _stiletto_, that seemed just to have slipped out from the lower lake. the humor of the situation pleased me; helen was off there in the sloop playing at being kidnapped to harass her aunt into coming to terms with henry holbrook, and she was doubtless rejoicing in the fact that she had effected a combination of events that would make her father's case irresistible. but there was no time to lose. i made gillespie comfortable indoors and sent ijima to get the bag i had asked for; and a few minutes later the launch was skimming over the water toward the canoe-maker's house at red gate. chapter xxiii the rocket signal blow up the trumpet in the new moon. --_the psalter_. rosalind was cutting sweet peas in the garden where they climbed high upon a filmy net, humming softly to herself. she was culling out white ones, which somehow suggested her own white butterflies--a proper business for any girl on a sunny morning, with the dew still bright where the shadows lay, with bird-wings flashing about her, and the kindliest of airs blowing her hair. "a penny for your thoughts!" i challenged. she snipped an imaginary flower from the air in my direction. "keep your money! i was not thinking of you! you wear, sir, an intent commercial air; have you thread and needles in your pack?" "it is ordained that we continue the game of last night. to-day you are to invade the very citadel and deceive your aunt. your cousin has left without notice and the situation demands prompt action." i was already carrying the suit-case toward the house, explaining as we walked along together. "but was i so successful last night? was he really deceived, or did he just play that he was?" "he's madly in love with you. you stole away all his senses. but he thought you changed toward him unaccountably on the way home." "but why didn't she tell him?--she must have told him." "oh, i took care of that! i rather warned her against betraying us. and now she's trying to punish me by being kidnapped!" rosalind paused at the threshold, gathering the stems of the sweet peas in her hands. "do you think," she began, "do you think he really liked me--i mean the real me?" "like you! that is not the right word for it. he's gloomily dreaming of you--the real you--at this very moment over at glenarm. but do hasten into these things that sister margaret picked out for you. i must see your father before i carry you off. we've no time to waste, i can tell you!" the canoe-maker heard my story in silence and shook his head. "it is impossible; we should only get into deeper trouble. i have no great faith in this resemblance. it may have worked once on young gillespie, but women have sharper eyes." "but it must be tried!" i pleaded. "we are approaching the end of these troubles, and nothing must be allowed to interfere. your sister wishes to see you; this is her birthday." "so it is! so it is!" exclaimed the canoe-maker with feeling. "helen must be saved from her own folly. her aunt must not know of this latest exploit; it would ruin everything." as we debated rosalind joined her persuasions to mine. "aunt pat must not know what helen has done if we can help it," she said. while she changed her clothes i talked on at the house-boat with her father. "my sister has asked for me?" "yes; your sister is ready to settle with henry; but she wishes to see you first. she has begged me to find you; but helen must go back to her aunt. this fraudulent kidnapping must never be known to miss pat. and on the other hand, i hope it may not be necessary for helen to know the truth about her father." "i dare say she would sacrifice my own daughter quickly enough," he said. "no; you are wrong; i do not believe it! she is making no war on you, or on her aunt! it's against me! she enjoys a contest; she's trying to beat me." "she believes that i forged the gillespie notes and ruined her father. henry has undoubtedly told her so." "yes; and he has used her to get them away from young gillespie. there's no question about that. but i have the notes, and i propose holding them for your protection. but i don't want to use them if i can help it." "i appreciate what you are doing for me," he said quietly, but his eyes were still troubled and i saw that he had little faith in the outcome. "your sister is disposed to deal generously with henry. she does not know where the dishonor lies." "'we are all honorable men,'" he replied bitterly, slowly pacing the floor. his sleeves were rolled away from his sun-browned arms, his shirt was open at the throat, and though he wore the rough clothes of a mechanic he looked more the artist at work in a rural studio than the canoe-maker of the tippecanoe. he walked to a window and looked down for a moment upon the singing creek, then came back to me and spoke in a different tone. "i have given these years of my life to protecting my brother, and they must not be wasted. i have nothing to say against him; i shall keep silent." "he has forfeited every right. now is your time to punish him," i said; but arthur holbrook only looked at me pityingly. "i don't want revenge, mr. donovan, but i am almost in a mood for justice," he said with a rueful smile; and just then rosalind entered the shop. "is my fate decided?" she demanded. the sight of her seemed to renew the canoe-maker's distress, and i led the way at once to the door. i think that in spite of my efforts to be gay and to carry the affair off lightly, we all felt that the day was momentous. "when shall i expect you back?" asked holbrook, when we had reached the launch. "early to-night," i answered. "but if anything should happen here?" the tears flashed in rosalind's eyes, and she clung a moment to his hand. "he will hardly be troubled by daylight, and this evening he can send up a rocket if any one molests him. go ahead, ijima!" as we cleared battle orchard and sped on toward glenarm there was a sting in the wind, and lake annandale had fretted itself into foam. we saw the _stiletto_ running prettily before the wind along the glenarm shore, and i stopped the engine before crossing her wake and let the launch jump the waves. helen would not, i hoped, believe me capable of attempting to palm off rosalind on miss pat; and i had no wish to undeceive her. my passenger had wrapped herself in my mackintosh and taken my cap, so that at the distance at which we passed she was not recognizable. sister margaret was waiting for us at the glenarm pier. i had been a little afraid of sister margaret. it was presuming a good deal to take her into the conspiracy, and i stood by in apprehension while she scrutinized rosalind. she was clearly bewildered and drew close to the girl, as rosalind threw off the wet mackintosh and flung down the dripping cap. "will she do, sister margaret?" "i believe she will; i really believe she will!" and the sister's face brightened with relief. she had a color in her face that i had not seen before, as the joy of the situation took hold of her. she was, i realized, a woman after all, and a young woman at that, with a heart not hardened against life's daily adventures. "it is time for luncheon. miss pat expects you, too." "then i must leave you to instruct miss holbrook and carry off the first meeting. miss holbrook has been--" "--for a long walk"--the sister supplied--"and will enter st. agatha's parlor a little tired from her tramp. she shall go at once to her room--with me. i have put out a white gown for her; and at luncheon we will talk only of safe things." "and i shall have this bouquet of sweet peas," added rosalind, "that i brought from a farmer's garden near by, as an offering for aunt pat's birthday. and you will both be there to keep me from making mistakes." "then after luncheon we shall drive until miss pat's birthday dinner; and the dinner shall be on the terrace at glenarm, which is even now being decorated for a fête occasion. and before the night is old helen shall be back. good luck attend us all!" i said; and we parted in the best of spirits. i had forgotten gillespie, and was surprised to find him at the table in my room, absorbed in business papers. "'button, button, who's got the button!'" he chanted as he looked me over. "you appear to have been swimming in your clothes. i had my mail sent out here. i've got to shut down the factory at ponsocket. the thought of it bores me extravagantly. what time's luncheon?" "whenever you ring three times. i'm lunching out." "ladies?" he asked, raising his brows. "you appear to be a little social favorite; couldn't you get me in on something? how about dinner?" "i am myself entertaining at dinner; and your name isn't on the list, i'm sorry to say, buttons. but to-morrow! everything will be possible to-morrow. i expect miss pat and helen here to-night. it's miss pat's birthday, and i want to make it a happy day for her. she's going to settle with henry as soon as some preliminaries are arranged, so the war's nearly over." "she can't settle with him until something definite is known about arthur. if he's really dead--" "i've promised to settle that; but i must hurry now. will you meet me at the glenarm boat-house at eight? if i'm not there; wait. i shall have something for you to do." "meanwhile i'm turned out of your house, am i? but i positively decline to go until i'm fed." as i got into a fresh coat he played a lively tune on the electric bell, and i left him giving his orders to the butler. i was reassured by the sound of voices as i passed under the windows of st. agatha's, and sister margaret met me in the hall with a smiling face. "luncheon waits. we will go out at once. everything has passed off smoothly, perfectly." i did not dare look at rosalind until we were seated in the dining-room. her sweet peas graced the center of the round table, and sister margaret had placed them in a tall vase so that rosalind was well screened from her aunt's direct gaze. the sister had managed admirably. rosalind's hair was swept up in exactly helen's pompadour; and in one of helen's white gowns, with helen's own particular shade of scarlet ribbon at her throat and waist, the resemblance was even more complete than i had thought it before. but we were cast at once upon deep waters. "helen, where did you find that article on charles lamb you read the other evening? i have looked for it everywhere." rosalind took rather more time than was necessary to help herself to the asparagus, and my heart sank; but sister margaret promptly saved the day. "it was in the _round world_. that article we were reading on the authorship of the collects is in the same number." "yes; of course," said rosalind, turning to me. art seemed a safe topic; and i steered for the open, and spoke in a large way, out of my ignorance, of michelangelo's influence, winding up presently with a suggestion that miss pat should have her portrait painted. this was a successful stroke, for we all fell into a discussion of contemporaneous portrait painters about whom sister margaret fortunately knew something; but a cold chill went down my back a moment later when miss pat turned upon rosalind and asked her a direct question: "helen, what was the name of the artist who did that miniature of your mother?" sister margaret swallowed a glass of water, and i stooped to pick up my napkin. "van arsdel, wasn't it?" asked rosalind instantly. "yes; so it was," replied miss pat. luck was favoring us, and rosalind was rising to the emergency splendidly. it appeared afterward that her own mother had been painted by the same artist, and she had boldly risked the guess. sister margaret and i were frightened into a discussion of the possibilities of aërial navigation, with a vague notion, i think, of keeping the talk in the air, and it sufficed until we had concluded the simple luncheon. i walked beside miss pat to the parlor. the sky had cleared, and i broached a drive at once. i had read in the newspapers that a considerable body of regular troops was passing near annandale on a practice march from fort sheridan to a rendezvous somewhere to the south of us. "let us go and see the soldiers," i suggested. "very well, larry," she said. "we can make believe they are sent out to do honor to my birthday. you are a thoughtful boy. i can never thank you for all your consideration and kindness. and you will not fail to find arthur,--i am asking you no questions; i'd rather not know where he is. i'm afraid of truth!" she turned her head away quickly--we were seated by ourselves in a corner of the room. "i am afraid, i am afraid to ask!" "he is well; quite well. i shall have news of him, to-night." she glanced across the room to where rosalind and sister margaret talked quietly together. i felt miss pat's hand touch mine, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes. "i was wrong! i was most unjust in what i said to you of her. she was all tenderness, all gentleness when she came in this morning." she fumbled at her belt and held up a small cluster of the sweet peas that rosalind had brought from red gate. "i told you so!" i said, trying to laugh off her contrition. "what you said to me is forgotten, miss pat." "and now when everything is settled, if she wants to marry gillespie, let her do it." "but she won't! haven't i told you that helen shall never marry him?" i had ordered a buckboard, and it was now announced. "don't trouble to go up-stairs, aunt pat; i will bring your things for you," said rosalind; and miss pat turned upon me with an air of satisfaction and pride, as much as to say, "you see how devoted she is to me!" i wish to acknowledge here my obligations to sister margaret for giving me the benefit of her care and resourcefulness on that difficult day. there was no nice detail that she overlooked, no danger that she did not anticipate. she sat by miss pat on the long drive, while rosalind and i chattered nonsense behind them. we were so fortunate as to strike the first battalion, and saw it go into camp on a bit of open prairie to await the arrival of the artillery that followed. but at no time did i lose sight of the odd business that still lay ahead of me, nor did i remember with any satisfaction how helen, somewhere across woodland and lake, chafed at the delayed climax of her plot. the girl at my side, lovely and gracious as she was, struck me increasingly as but a tame shadow of that other one, so like and so unlike! i marveled that miss pat had not seen it; and in a period of silence on the drive home i think rosalind must have guessed my thought; for i caught her regarding me with a mischievous smile and she said, as miss pat and sister margaret rather too generously sought to ignore us: "you can see now how different i am--how very different!" when i left them at st. agatha's with an hour to spare before dinner, sister margaret assured me with her eyes that there was nothing to fear. i was nervously pacing the long terrace when i saw my guests approaching. i told the butler to order dinner at once and went down to meet them. miss pat declared that she never felt better; and under the excitement of the hour sister margaret's eyes glowed brightly. "sister margaret is wonderful!" whispered rosalind. "aren't my clothes becoming? she found them and got me into them; and she has kept me away from aunt pat and taken me over the hard places wonderfully. i really don't know who i am," she laughed; "but it's quite clear that you have seen the difference. i must play up now and try to be brilliant--like helen!" she said. "i can tell by the things in helen's room, that i'm much less sophisticated. i found his photograph, by the way!" "what!" i cried so abruptly that the others turned and looked at us. rosalind laughed in honest glee. "mr. gillespie's photograph. i think i shall keep it. it was upside down in a trunk where sister margaret told me i should find these pretty slippers. do you know, this playing at being somebody else is positively uncanny. but this gown--isn't it fetching?" "it's pink, isn't it? you said that photograph was face down, didn't you?" "it was! and at the very bottom under a pair of overshoes." "well, i hope _you_ will be good to him," i observed. "mr. donovan," she said, in a mocking tone that was so like helen's that i stared stupidly, "mr. donovan, you are a person of amazing penetration!" as we sat down in the screened corner of the broad terrace, with the first grave approach of twilight in the sky, and the curved trumpet of the young moon hanging in the west, it might have seemed to an onlooker that the gods of chance had oddly ordered our little company. miss patricia in white was a picture of serenity, with the smile constant about her lips, happy in her hope for the future. rosalind, fresh to these surroundings, showed clearly her pleasure in the pretty setting of the scene, and read into it, in bright phrases, the delight of a story-book incident. "let me see," she said reflectively, "just who we are: we are the lady of the castle perilous dining _al fresco_, with the abbess, who is also a noble lady, come across the fields to sit at meat with her. and you, sir, are a knight full orgulous, feared in many lands, and sworn to the defense of these ladies." "and you,"--and miss pat's eyes were beautifully kind and gentle, as she took the cue and turned to rosalind, "you are the well-loved daughter of my house, faithful in all service, in all ways self-forgetful and kind, our hope, our joy and our pride." it may have been the spirit of the evening that touched us, or only the light of her countenance and the deep sincerity of her voice; but i knew that tears were bright in all our eyes for a moment. and then rosalind glanced at the western heavens through the foliage. "there are the stars, aunt pat--brighter than ever to-night for your birthday." presently, as the dark gathered about us, the candles were lighted, and their glow shut out the world. to my relief the three women carried the talk alone, leaving me to my own thoughts of helen and my plans for restoring her to her aunt with no break in the new confidence that rosalind had inspired. i had so completely yielded myself to this undercurrent of reflection that i was startled to find miss pat with the coffee service before her. "larry, you are dreaming. how can i remember whether you take sugar?" sister margaret's eyes were upon me reproachfully for my inattention, and my heart-beats quickened as eight strokes of the chapel chime stole lingeringly through the quiet air. i had half-raised my cup when i was startled by a question from miss pat--a request innocent enough and spoken, it seemed, utterly without intention. "let me see your ring a moment, helen." sister margaret flashed a glance of inquiry at me, but rosalind met the situation instantly. "certainly, aunt pat,"--and she slipped the ring from her finger, passed it across the table, and folded her hands quietly upon the white cloth. she did not look at me, but i saw her breath come and go quickly. if the rings were not the same them we were undone. this thought gripped the three of us, and i heard my cup beating a tattoo on the edge of my saucer in the tense silence, while miss pat bent close to the candle before her and studied the ring, turning it over slowly. rosalind half opened her lips to speak, but sister margaret's snowy hand clasped the girl's fingers. the little circlet of gold with its beautiful green stone had been to me one of the convincing items of the remarkable resemblance between the cousins; but if there should be some differentiating mark miss pat was not so stupid as to overlook it. miss pat put down the ring abruptly, and looked at rosalind and then smiled quizzically at me. "you are a clever boy, larry." then, turning to rosalind, miss pat remarked, with the most casual air imaginable: "helen pronounces either with the long _e_. i noticed at luncheon that you say eyether. where's your father, rosalind?" [illustration: "where's your father, rosalind?"] my eyes were turning from her to rosalind when, on her last word, as though by prearranged signal, far across the water, against the dark shadows of the lake's remoter shore, a rocket's spent ball broke and flung its stars against the night. i spoke no word, but leaped over the stone balustrade and ran to the boat-house where gillespie waited. chapter xxiv "with my hands" maybe in spite of their tameless days of outcast liberty, they're sick at heart for the homely ways where their gathered brothers be. and oft at night, when the plains fall dark and hills loom large and dim, for the shepherd's voice they mutely hark, and their souls go out to him. meanwhile "black sheep! black sheep!" we cry, safe in the inner fold: and maybe they hear, and wonder why, and marvel, out in the cold. --_richard burton_. gillespie was smoking his pipe on the boat-house steps. he had come over from the village in his own launch, which tossed placidly beside mine. ijima stepped forward promptly with a lantern as i ran out upon the planking of the pier. "jump into my launch, gillespie, and be in a hurry!" and to my relief he obeyed without his usual parley. ijima cast us off, the engine sputtered a moment, and then the launch got away. i bade gillespie steer, and when we were free of the pier told him to head for the tippecanoe. the handful of stars that had brightened against the sky had been a real shock, and i accused myself in severe terms for having left arthur holbrook alone. as we swept into the open glenarm house stood forth from the encircling wood, marked by the bright lights of the terrace where miss pat had, with so much composure and in so few words, made comedy of my attempt to shield helen. i had certainly taken chances, but i had reckoned only with a man's wits, which, to say the least, are not a woman's; and i had contrived a new situation and had now incurred the wrath and indignation of three women where there had been but one before! in throwing off my coat my hand touched the envelope containing the forged notes which i had thrust into my pocket before dinner, and the contact sobered me; there was still a chance for me to be of use. but at the thought of what might be occurring at the house-boat on the tippecanoe i forced the launch's speed to the limit. gillespie still maintained silence, grimly clenching his empty pipe. he now roused himself and bawled at me: "did you ever meet the coroner of this county?" "no!" i shouted. "well, you will--coming down! you'll blow up in about three minutes." i did not slow down until we reached battle orchard, where it was necessary to feel our way across the shallow channel. here i shut off the power and paddled with an oar. as we floated by the island a lantern flashed at the water's edge and disappeared. but my first errand was at the canoe-maker's; the whereabouts of helen and the _stiletto_ were questions that must wait. we were soon creeping along the margin of the second lake seeking the creek, whose intake quickly lay hold of us. "we'll land just inside, on the west bank, gillespie." a moment later we jumped out and secured the launch. i wrapped our lantern in gillespie's coat, and ran up the bank to the path. at the top i turned and spoke to him. "you'll have to trust me. i don't know what may be happening here, but surely our interests are the same to-night." he caught me roughly by the arm. "if this means any injury to helen--" "no! it is for her!" and he followed silently at my heels toward red gate. the calm of the summer night lay upon the creek that babbled drowsily in its bed. we seemed to have this corner of the world to ourselves, and the thump of our feet in the path broke heavily on the night silence. as we crossed the lower end of the garden i saw the cottage mistily outlined among the trees near the highway, and, remembering gillespie's unfamiliarity with the place, i checked my pace to guide him. i caught a glimpse of the lights of the house-boat below. the voices of two men in loud debate rang out sharply upon us through the open windows of the house-boat as we crept down upon the deck. then followed the sound of blows, and the rattle of furniture knocked about, and as we reached the door a lamp fell with a crash and the place was dark. we seemed to strike matches at the same instant, and as they blazed upon their sticks we looked down upon arthur holbrook, who lay sprawling with his arms outflung on the floor, and over him stood his brother with hands clenched, his face twitching. "i have killed him--i have killed him!" he muttered several times in a low whisper. "i had to do it. there was no other way." my blood went cold at the thought that we were too late. gillespie was fumbling about, striking matches, and i was somewhat reassured by the sound of my own voice as i called him. "there are candles at the side--make a light, gillespie." and soon we were taking account of one another in the soft candle-light. "i must go," said henry huskily, looking stupidly down upon his brother, who lay quite still, his head resting on his arm. "you will stay," i said; and i stood beside him while gillespie filled a pail at the creek and laved arthur's wrists and temples with cool water. we worked a quarter of an hour before he gave any signs of life; but when he opened his eyes henry flung himself down in a chair and mopped his forehead. "he is not dead," he said, grinning foolishly. "where is helen?" i demanded. "she's safe," he replied cunningly, nodding his head. "i suppose pat has sent you to take her back. she may go, if you have brought my money." cunning and greed, and the marks of drink, had made his face repulsive. gillespie got arthur to his feet a moment later, and i gave him brandy from a flask in the cupboard. his brother's restoration seemed now to amuse henry. "it was a mere love-tap. you're tougher than you look, arthur. it's the simple life down here in the woods. my own nerves are all gone." he turned to me with the air of dominating the situation. "i'm glad you've come, you and our friend of button fame. rivals, gentlemen? a friendly rivalry for my daughter's hand flatters the house of holbrook. between ourselves i favor you, mr. donovan; the button-making business is profitable, but damned vulgar. now, helen--" "that will do!"--and i clapped my hand on his shoulder roughly. "i have business with you. your sister is ready to settle with you; but she wishes to see arthur first." "no--no! she must not see him!" he leaped forward and caught hold of me. "she must not see him!"--and his cowardly fear angered me anew. "you will do, mr. holbrook, very much as i tell you in this matter. i intend that your sister shall see her brother arthur to-night, and time flies. this last play of yours, this flimsy trick of kidnapping, was sprung at a very unfortunate moment. it has delayed the settlement and done a grave injury to your daughter." "helen would have it; it was her idea!" "if you speak of your daughter again in such a way i will break your neck and throw you into the creek!" he stared a moment, then laughed aloud. "so you are the one--are you? i really thought it was buttons." "i am the one, mr. holbrook. and now i am going to take your brother to your sister. she has asked for him, and she is waiting." arthur holbrook came gravely toward us, and i have never been so struck with pity for a man as i was for him. there was a red circle on his brow where henry's knuckles had cut, but his eyes showed no anger; they were even kind with the tenderness that lies in the eyes of women who have suffered. he advanced a step nearer his brother and spoke slowly and distinctly. "you have nothing to fear, henry. i shall tell her nothing." "but"--henry glanced uneasily from gillespie to me--"gillespie's notes. they are here among you somewhere. you shall not give them to pat. if she knew--" "if she knew you would not get a cent," i said, wishing him to know that i knew. he whirled upon me hotly. "you tricked helen to get them, and now, by god! i want them! i want them!" and he struck at me crazily. i knocked his arm away, but he flung himself upon me, clasping me with his arms. i caught his wrists and held him for a moment. i wished to be done with him and off to glenarm with arthur; and he wasted time. "i have that packet you sent helen to get--i have it--still unopened! your secret is as safe with me, mr. holbrook, as that other secret of yours with your italian body-guard." his face went white, then gray, and he would have fallen if i had not kept hold of him. "will you not be decent--reasonable--sane--for an hour, till we can present you as an honorable man to your sister? if you will not, your sailor shall deliver you to the law with his own hands. you delay matters--can't you see that we are your friends, that we are trying to protect you, that we are ready to lie to your sister that we may be rid of you?" i was beside myself with rage and impatient that time must be wasted on him. i did not hear steps on the deck, or gillespie's quick warning, and i had begun again, still holding henry holbrook close to me with one hand. "we expect to deceive your sister--we will lie to her--lie to her--lie to her--" "for god's sake, stop!" cried arthur holbrook, clutching my arm. i flung round and faced miss pat and rosalind. they stood for a moment in the doorway; then miss pat advanced slowly toward us where we formed a little semi-circle, and as i dropped henry's wrists the brothers stood side by side. arthur took a step forward, half murmuring his sister's name; then he drew back and waited, his head bowed, his hands thrust into the side pockets of his coat. in the dead quiet i heard the babble of the creek outside, and when miss pat spoke her voice seemed to steal off and mingle with the subdued murmur of the stream. "gentlemen, what is it you wish to lie to me about?" a brave little smile played about miss pat's lips. she stood there in the light of the candles, all in white as i had left her on the terrace of glenarm, in her lace cap, with only a light shawl about her shoulders. i felt that the situation might yet be saved, and i was about to speak when henry, with some wild notion of justifying himself, broke out stridently: "yes; they meant to lie to you! they plotted against me and hounded me when i wished to see you peaceably and to make amends. they have now charged me with murder; they are ready to swear away my honor, my life. i am glad you are here that you may see for yourself how they are against me." he broke off a little grandly, as though convinced by his own words. "yes; father speaks the truth, as mr. donovan can tell you!" i could have sworn that it was rosalind who spoke; but there by rosalind's side in the doorway stood helen. her head was lifted, and she faced us all with her figure tense, her eyes blazing. rosalind drew away a little, and i saw gillespie touch her hand. it was as though a quicker sense than sight had on the instant undeceived him; but he did not look at rosalind; his eyes were upon the angry girl who was about to speak again. miss pat glanced about, and her eyes rested on me. "larry, what were the lies you were going to tell me?" she asked, and smiled again. "they were about father; he wished to involve him in dishonor. but he shall not, he shall not!" cried helen. "is that true, larry?" asked miss pat. "i have done the best i could," i replied evasively. miss pat scrutinized us all slowly as though studying our faces for the truth. then she repeated: "_but if either of my said sons shall have teen touched by dishonor through his own act, as honor is accounted, reckoned and valued among men_--" and ceased abruptly, looking from arthur to henry. "what was the truth about gillespie?" she asked. and arthur would have spoken. i saw the word that would have saved his brother formed upon his lips. miss pat alone seemed unmoved; i saw her hand open and shut at her side as she controlled herself, but her face was calm and her voice was steady when she turned appealingly to the canoe-maker. "what is the truth, arthur?" she asked quietly. "why go into this now? why not let bygones be bygones?"--and for a moment i thought i had checked the swift current. it was helen i wished to save now, from herself, from the avalanche she seemed doomed to bring down upon her head. "i will hear what you have to say, arthur," said miss pat; and i knew that there was no arresting the tide. i snatched out the sealed envelope and turned with it to arthur holbrook; and he took it into his hands and turned it over quietly, though his hands trembled. "tell me the truth, gentlemen!"--and miss pat's voice thrilled now with anger. "trickery, more trickery; those were stolen from helen!" blurted henry, his eyes on the envelope; but we were waiting for the canoe-maker to speak, and henry's words rang emptily in the shop. arthur looked at his brother; then he faced his sister. "henry is not guilty," he said calmly. he turned with a quick gesture and thrust the envelope into the flame of one of the candles; but helen sprang forward and caught away the blazing packet and smothered the flame between her hands. "we will keep the proof," she said in a tone of triumph; and i knew then how completely she had believed in her father. "i don't know what is in that packet," said gillespie slowly, speaking for the first time. "it has never been opened. my lawyer told me that father had sworn to a statement about the trouble with holbrook brothers and placed it with the notes. my father was a peculiar man in some ways," continued gillespie, embarrassed by the attention that was now riveted upon him. "his lawyer told me that i was to open that package--before--before marrying into"--and he grew red and stammered helplessly, with his eyes on the floor--"before marrying into the holbrook family. i gave up that packet"--and he hesitated, coloring, and turning from helen to rosalind--"by mistake. but it's mine, and i demand it now." "i wish aunt pat to open the envelope," said rosalind, very white. henry turned a look of appeal upon his brother; but miss pat took the envelope from helen and tore it open; and we stood by as though we waited for death or watched earth fall upon a grave. she bent down to one of the candles nearest her and took out the notes, which were wrapped in a sheet of legal cap. a red seal brightened in the light, and we heard the slight rattle of the paper in her tremulous fingers as she read. suddenly a tear flashed upon the white sheet. when she had quite finished she gathered gillespie's statement and the notes in her hand and turned and gave them to henry; but she did not speak to him or meet his eyes. she crossed to where arthur stood beside me, his head bowed, and as she advanced he turned away; but her arms stole over his shoulders and she said "arthur" once, and again very softly. "i think," she said, turning toward us all, with her sweet dignity, her brave air, that touched me as at first and always, beyond any words of mine to describe, but strong and beautiful and sweet and thrilling through me now, like bugles blown at dawn; "i think that we do well, arthur, to give henry his money." and now it was arthur's voice that rose in the shop; and it seemed that he spoke of his brother as of one who was afar off. we listened with painful intentness to this man who had suffered much and given much, and who still, in his simple heart, asked no praise for what he had done. "he was so strong, and i was weak; and i did for him what i could. and what i gave, i gave freely, for it is not often in this world that the weak may help the strong. he had the gifts, pat, that i had not, and troops of friends; and he had ambitions that in my weakness i was not capable of; so i had not much to give. but what i had, pat, i gave to him; i went to gillespie and confessed; i took the blame; and i came here and worked with my hands--with my hands--" and he extended them as though the proof were asked; and kept repeating, between, his sobs, "with my hands." chapter xxv daybreak just as of old! the world rolls on and on; the day dies into night--night into dawn-- dawn into dusk--through centuries untold.-- just as of old. * * * * * lo! where is the beginning, where the end of living, loving, longing? _listen_, friend!-- god answers with a silence of pure gold-- just as of old. --_james whitcomb riley_. at midnight gillespie and i discussed the day's affairs on the terrace at glenarm. there were long pauses in our talk. such things as we had seen and heard that night, in the canoe-maker's shop on the little creek, were beyond our poor range of words. and in the silences my own reflections were not wholly happy. if miss pat and rosalind had not followed me to the canoe-maker's i might have spared helen; but looking back, i would not change it now if i could. helen had returned to st. agatha's with her aunt, who would have it so; and we had parted at the school door, miss pat and helen, gillespie and i, with restraint heavy upon us all. miss pat had, it seemed, summoned her lawyer from new york several days before, to discuss the final settlement of her father's estate; and he was expected the next morning. i had asked them all to glenarm for breakfast; and arthur holbrook and rosalind, and henry, who had broken down at the end, had agreed to come. as we talked on, gillespie and i, there under the stars, he disclosed, all unconsciously, new and surprising traits, and i felt my heart warming to him. "he's a good deal of a man, that arthur holbrook," he remarked after a long pause. "he's beyond me. the man who runs the enemy's lines to bring relief to the garrison, or the leader of a forlorn hope, is tame after this. i suppose the world would call him a fool." "undoubtedly," i answered. "but he didn't do it for the world; he did it for himself. we can't applaud a thing like that in the usual phrases." "no," gillespie added; "only get down on our knees and bow our heads in the dust before it." he rose and paced the long terrace. in his boat-shoes and white flannels he glided noiselessly back and forth, like a ghost in the star dusk. he paused at the western balustrade and looked off at st. agatha's. then he passed me and paused again, gazing lakeward through the wood, as though turning from helen to rosalind; and i knew that it was with her, far over the water, in the little cottage at red gate, that his thoughts lingered. but when he came and stood beside me and rested his hand on my shoulder i knew that he wished to speak of helen and i took his hand, and spoke to him to make it easier. "well, old man!" "i was thinking of helen," he said. "so was i, buttons." "they are different, the two. they are very different." "they are as like as god ever made two people; and yet they are different." "i think you understand helen. i never did," he declared mournfully. "you don't have to," i replied; and laughed, and rose and stood beside him. "and now there's something i want to speak to you about to-night. helen borrowed some money of you a little while ago to meet one of her father's demands. i expect a draft for that money by the morning mail, and i want you to accept it with my thanks, and hers. and the incident shall pass as though it had never been." about one o'clock the wind freshened and the trees flung out their arms like runners rushing before it; and from the west marched a storm with banners of lightning. it was a splendid spectacle, and we went indoors only when the rain began, to wash across the terrace. we still watched it from our windows after we went up-stairs, the lightning now blazing out blindingly, like sheets of flame from a furnace door, and again cracking about the house like a fiery whip. "we ought to have brought henry here to-night," remarked gillespie. "he's alone over there on the island with that dago and they're very likely celebrating by getting drunk." "the lightning's getting on your nerves; go to bed," i called back. the storm left peace behind and i was abroad early, eager to have the first shock of the morning's meetings over. gillespie greeted me cheerily and i told him to follow when he was ready. i went out and paced the walk between the house and st. agatha's, and as i peered through the iron gate i saw miss pat come out of the house and turn into the garden. i came upon her walking slowly with her hands clasped behind her. she spoke first, as though to avoid any expression of sympathy, putting out her hand. filmy lace at the wrists gave to her hands a quaint touch akin to that imparted by the cap on her white head. i was struck afresh by the background that seemed always to be sketched in for her, and just now, beyond the bright garden, it was a candle-lighted garret, with trunks of old letters tied in dim ribbons, and lavender scented chests of valenciennes and silks in forgotten patterns. "i am well, quite well, larry!" "i am glad! i wished to be sure!" "do not trouble about me. i am glad of everything that has happened--glad and relieved. and i am grateful to you." "i have served you ill enough. i stumbled in the dark much of the time. i wanted to spare you, miss pat." "i know that; and you tried to save helen. she was blind and misguided. she had believed in her father and the last blow crushed her. everything looks dark to her. she refuses to come over this morning; she thinks she can not face her uncle, her cousin or you again." "but she must come," i said. "it will be easier to-day than at any later time. there's gillespie, calling me now. he's going across the lake to meet arthur and rosalind. i shall take the launch over to the island to bring henry. we should all be back at glenarm in an hour. please tell helen that we must have her, that no one should stay away." miss pat looked at me oddly, and her fingers touched a stalk of hollyhock beside her as her eyes rested on mine. "larry," she said, "do not be sorry for helen if pity is all you have for her." i laughed and seized her hands. "miss pat, i could not feel pity for any one so skilled with the sword as she! it would be gratuitous! she put up a splendid fight, and it's to her credit that she stood by her father and resented my interference, as she had every right to. she was not really against you, miss pat; it merely happened that you were in the way when she struck at me with the foil, don't you see?" "not just that way, larry,"--and she continued to gaze at me with a sweet distress in her eyes; then, "rosalind is very different," she added. "i have observed it! the ways in which they are utterly unlike are remarkable; but i mustn't keep gillespie waiting. good-by for a little while!" and some foreboding told me that sorrow had not yet done with her. gillespie shouted impatiently as i ran toward him at the boat-house. "it's the _stiletto_," he called, pointing to where the sloop lay, midway of the lake. "she's in a bad way." "the storm blew her out," i suggested, but the sight of the boat, listing badly as though water-logged, struck me ominously. "we'd better pick her up," he said; and he was already dropping one of the canoes into the water. we paddled swiftly toward the sloop. the lake was still fretful from the storm's lashing, but the sky was without fleck or flaw. the earliest of the little steamers was crossing from the village, her whistle echoing and re-echoing round the lake. "the sloop's about done for," said gillespie over his shoulder; and we drove our blades deeper. the _stiletto_ was floating stern-on and rolling loggily, but retaining still, i thought, something of the sinister air that she had worn on her strange business through those summer days. "she vent to bed all right; see, her sails are furled snug and everything's in shape. the storm drove her over here," said gillespie. "she's struck something, or somebody's smashed her." it seemed impossible that the storm unassisted had blown her from battle orchard across lake annandale; but we were now close upon her and seeking for means of getting aboard. "she's a bit sloppy," observed gillespie as we swung round and caught hold. the water gurgled drunkenly in the cuddy, and a broken lantern rattled on the deck. i held fast as he climbed over, sending me off a little as he jumped aboard, and i was working back again with the paddle when he cried out in alarm. as i came alongside he came back to help me, and when he bent over to catch the painter, i saw that his face was white. "we might have known it," he said. "it's the last and worst that could happen." face down across the cuddy lay the body of henry holbrook. his water-soaked clothing was torn as though in a fierce struggle. a knife thrust in the side told the story; he had crawled to the cuddy roof to get away from the water and had died there. "it was the italian," said gillespie. "they must have had a row last night after we left them, and if came to this. he chopped a hole in the _stiletto_ and set her adrift to sink." i looked about for the steamer, which was backing away from the pier at port annandale, and signaled her with my handkerchief. and when i faced gillespie again he pointed silently toward the lower lake, where a canoe rode the bright water. rosalind and her father were on their way from red gate to glenarm. two blades flashed in the sun as the canoe came toward us. gillespie's lips quivered and he tried to speak as he pointed to them; and then we both turned silently toward st. agatha's, where the chapel tower rose above the green wood. "stay and do what is to be done," i said. "i will find helen and tell her." the end [illustration: "i shall get married when and where i please,--and to whom i please, mr. gwynne."] viola gwyn by george barr mccutcheon contents prologue--the beginning chapter i shelter for the night ii the strange young woman iii something about clothes, and men, and cats iv viola gwyn v reflections and an encounter vi barry lapelle vii the end of the long road viii rachel carter ix brother and sister x mother and daughter xi a roadside meeting xii isaac stain appears by night xiii the gracious enemy xiv a man from down the river xv the landing of the "paul revere" xvi concerning tempests and indians xvii revelations xviii rachel delivers a message xix lapelle shows his teeth xx the blow xxi the affair at hawk's cabin xxii the prisoners xxiii challenge and retort xxiv in an upstairs room xxv minda carter xxvi the flight of martin hawk xxvii the trial of moll hawk xxviii the trysting place of thoughts xxix the ending prologue the beginning kenneth gwynne was five years old when his father ran away with rachel carter, a widow. this was in the spring of , and in the fall his mother died. his grandparents brought him up to hate rachel carter, an evil woman. she was his mother's friend and she had slain her with the viper's tooth. from the day that his questioning intelligence seized upon the truth that had been so carefully withheld from him by his broken-hearted mother and those who spoke behind the hand when he was near,--from that day he hated rachel carter with all his hot and outraged heart. he came to think of her as the embodiment of all that was evil,--for those were the days when there was no middle-ground for sin and women were either white or scarlet. he rejoiced in the belief that in good time rachel carter would come to roast in the everlasting fires of hell, grovelling and wailing at the feet of satan, the while his lovely mother looked down upon her in pity,--even then he wondered if such a thing were possible,--from her seat beside god in his heaven. he had no doubts about this. hell and heaven were real to him, and all sinners went below. on the other hand, his father would be permitted to repent and would instantly go to heaven. it was inconceivable that his big, strong, well-beloved father should go to the bad place. but mrs. carter would! nothing could save her! god would not pay any attention to her if she tried to repent; he would know it was only "make-believe" if she got down on her knees and prayed for forgiveness. he was convinced that rachel carter could not fool god. besides, would not his mother be there to remind him in case he could not exactly remember what rachel carter had done? and were there not dozens of good, honest people in the village who would probably be in heaven by that time and ready to stand before the throne and bear witness that she was a bad woman? no, rachel carter could never get into heaven. he was glad. no matter if the scriptures did say all that about the sinner who repents, he did not believe that god would let her in. he supported this belief by the profoundly childish contention that if god let everybody in, then there would be no use having a hell at all. what was the use of being good all your life if the bad people could get into heaven at the last minute by telling god they were sorry and never would do anything bad again as long as they lived? and was not god the wisest being in all the world? he knew everything! he knew all about rachel carter. she would go to the bad place and stay there forever, even after the "resurrection" and the end of the world by fire in , a calamity to which he looked forward with grave concern and no little trepidation at the thoughtful age of six. at first they told him his father had gone off as a soldier to fight against the indians and the british. he knew that a war was going on. men with guns were drilling in the pasture up beyond his grandfather's house, and there was talk of indian "massacrees," and simon girty's warriors, and british red-coats, and the awful things that happened to little boys who disobeyed their elders and went swimming, or berrying, or told even the teeniest kind of fibs. he overheard his grandfather and the neighbours discussing a battle on lake erie, and rejoiced with them over the report of a great victory for "our side." vaguely he had grasped the news of a horrible battle on the tippecanoe river, far away in the wilderness to the north and west, in which millions of indians were slain, and he wondered how many of them his father had killed with his rifle,--a weapon so big and long that he came less than half way up the barrel when he stood beside it. his father was a great shot. everybody said so. he could kill wild turkeys a million miles away as easy as rolling off a log, and deer, and catamounts, and squirrels, and herons, and everything. so his father must have killed heaps of indians and red-coats and renegades. he put this daily question to his mother: "how many do you s'pose pa has killed by this time, ma?" and then, in the fall, his mother went away and left him. they did not tell him she had gone to the war. he would not have believed them if they had, for she was too sick to go. she had been in bed for a long, long time; the doctor came to see her every day, and finally the preacher. he hated both of them, especially the latter, who prayed so loudly and so vehemently that his mother must have been terribly disturbed. why should every one caution him to be quiet and not make a noise because it disturbed mother, and yet say nothing when that old preacher went right into her room and yelled same as he always did in church? he was very bitter about it, and longed for his father to come home with his rifle and shoot everybody, including his grandfather who had "switched" him severely and unjustly because he threw stones at parson hook's saddle horse while the good man was offering up petitions from the sick room. he went to the "burying," and was more impressed by the fact that nearly all of the men who rode or drove to the graveyard down in the "hollow" carried rifles and pistols than he was by the strange solemnity of the occasion, for, while he realized in a vague, mistrustful way that his mother was to be put under the ground, his trust clung resolutely to god's promise, accepted in its most literal sense, that the dead shall rise again and that "ye shall be born again." that was what the preacher said,--and he had cried a little when the streaming-eyed clergyman took him on his knee and whispered that all was well with his dear mother and that he would meet her one day in that beautiful land beyond the river. he was very lonely after that. his "granny" tucked him in his big feather bed every night, and listened to his little prayer, but she was not the same as mother. she did not kiss him in the same way, nor did her hand feel like mother's when she smoothed his rumpled hair or buttoned his flannel nightgown about his neck or closed his eyes playfully with her fingers before she went away with the candle. yet he adored her. she was sweet and gentle, she told such wonderful fairy tales to him, and she always smiled at him. he wondered a great deal. why was it that she did not feel the same as mother? he was deeply puzzled. was it because her hair was grey? his grandfather lived in the biggest house in town. it had an "upstairs,"--a real "upstairs,"--not just an attic. and his grandfather was a very important person. everybody called him "squire"; sometimes they said "your honour"; most people touched their hats to him. when his father went off to the war, he and his mother came to live at "grandpa's house." the cabin in which he was born was at the other end of the street, fully half-a-mile away, out beyond the grist mill. it had but three rooms and no "upstairs" at all except the place under the roof where they kept the dried apples, and the walnuts and hickory nuts, some old saddle-bags and boxes, and his discarded cradle. you had to climb up a ladder and through a square hole in the ceiling to get into this place, and you would have to be very careful not to stand up straight or you would bump your head,--unless you were exactly in the middle, where the ridge-pole was. he remembered that it was a very long walk to "grandpa's house"; he used to get very tired and his father would lift him up and place him on his shoulder; from this lofty, even perilous, height he could look down upon the top of his mother's bonnet,--a most astonishing view and one that filled him with glee. his father was the biggest man in all the world, there could be no doubt about that. why, he was bigger even than grandpa, or doctor flint, or the parson, or mr. carter, who lived in the cabin next door and was minda's father. for the matter of that, he was, himself, a great deal bigger than minda, who was only two years old and could not say anywhere near as many words as he could say--and did not know her abc's, or the golden rule, or who george washington was. and his father was ever so much taller than his mother. he was tall enough to be her father or her grandfather; why, she did not come up to his shoulder when she walked beside him. he was a million times bigger than she was. he was bigger than anybody else in all the world. the little border town in kentucky, despite its population of less than a thousand, was the biggest city in the world. there was no doubt about that either in kenneth's loyal little mind. it was bigger than philadelphia--(he called it fil-lef-ily),--where his mother used to live when she was a little girl, or massashooshoo, where minda's father and mother comed from. he was secretly distressed by the superior physical proportions of his "auntie" rachel. there was no denying the fact that she was a great deal taller than his mother. he had an abiding faith, however, that some day his mother would grow up and be lots taller than minda's mother. he challenged his toddling playmate to deny that his mother would be as big as hers some day, a lofty taunt that left minda quite unmoved. nevertheless, he was very fond of "auntie" rachel. she was good to him. she gave him cakes and crullers and spread maple sugar on many a surreptitious piece of bread and butter, and she had a jolly way of laughing, and she never told him to wash his hands or face, no matter how dirty they were. in that one respect, at least, she was much nicer than his mother. he liked mr. carter, too. in fact, he liked everybody except old boose, the tin pedlar, who took little boys out into the woods and left them for the wolves to eat if they were not very, very good. he was four when they brought mr. carter home in a wagon one day. some men carried him into the house, and aunt rachel cried, and his mother went over and stayed a long, long time with her, and his father got on his horse and rode off as fast as he could go for doctor flint, and he was not allowed to go outside the house all day,--or old boose would get him. then, one day, he saw "auntie" rachel all dressed in black, and he was frightened. he ran away crying. she looked so tall and scary,---like the witches biddy shay whispered about when his grandma was not around,--the witches and hags that flew up to the sky on broomsticks and never came out except at night. his father did the "chores" for '"auntie" rachel for a long time, because mr. carter was not there to attend to them. there came a day when the buds were fresh on the twigs, and the grass was very green, and the birds that had been gone for a long time were singing again in the trees, and it was not raining. so he went down the road to play in minda's yard. he called to her, but she did not appear. no one appeared. the house was silent. "auntie" rachel was not there. even the dogs were gone, and mr. carter's horses and his wagon. he could not understand. only yesterday he had played in the barn with minda. then his grandma came hurrying through the trees from his own home, where she had been with grandpa and uncle fred and uncle dan since breakfast time. she took him up in her arms and told him that minda was gone. he had never seen his grandma look so stern and angry. biddy shay had been there all morning too, and several of the neighbours. he wondered if it could be the sabbath, and yet that did not seem possible, because it was only two days since he went to sunday school, and yesterday his mother had done the washing. she always washed on monday and ironed on tuesday. this must be tuesday, but maybe he was wrong about that. she was not ironing, so it could not be tuesday. he was very much bewildered. his mother was in the bedroom with grandpa and aunt hettie, and he was not allowed to go in to see her. uncle fred and uncle dan were very solemn and scowling so terribly that he was afraid to go near them. he remembered that his mother had cried while she was cooking breakfast, and sat down a great many times to rest her head on her arms. she had cried a good deal lately, because of the headache, she always said. and right after breakfast she had put on her bonnet and shawl, telling him to stay in the house till she came back from grandpa's. then she had gone away, leaving him all alone until biddy shay came, all out of breath, and began to clear the table and wash the dishes, all the while talking to herself in a way that he was sure god would not like, and probably would send her to the bad place for it when she died. after a while all of the men went out to the barn-lot, where their horses were tethered. uncle fred and uncle dan had their rifles. he stood at the kitchen window and watched them with wide, excited eyes. were they going off to kill indians, or bears, or cattymunks? they all talked at once, especially his uncles,--and they swore, too. then his grandpa stood in front of them and spoke very loudly, pointing his finger at them. he heard him say, over and over again: "let them go, i say! i tell you, let them go!" he wondered why his father was not there, if there was any fighting to be done. his father was a great fighter. he was the bestest shot in all the world. he could kill an injin a million miles away, or a squirrel, or a groundhog. so he asked biddy shay. "ast me no questions and i'll tell ye no lies," was all the answer he got from biddy. the next day he went up to grandpa's with his mother to stay, and uncle fred told him that his pa had gone off to the war. he believed this, for were not the rifle, the powder horn and the shot flask missing from the pegs over the fireplace, and was not bob, the very fastest horse in all the world, gone from the barn? he was vastly thrilled. his father would shoot millions and millions of injins, and they would have a house full of scalps and tommyhawks and bows and arrers. but he was troubled about minda. uncle fred, driven to corner by persistent inquiry, finally confessed that minda also had gone to the war, and at last report had killed several extremely ferocious redskins. despite this very notable achievement, kenneth was troubled. in the first place, minda was a baby, and always screamed when she heard a gun go off; in the second place, she always fell down when she tried to run and squalled like everything if he did not wait for her; in the third place, injins always beat little girls' heads off against a tree if they caught 'em. moreover, uncle dan, upon being consulted, declared that a good-sized injin could swaller minda in one gulp if he happened to be 'specially hungry,--or in a hurry. uncle dan also appeared to be very much surprised when he heard that she had gone off to the war. he said that uncle fred ought to be ashamed of himself; and the next time he asked uncle fred about minda he was considerably relieved to hear that his little playmate had given up fighting altogether and was living quite peaceably in a house made of a pumpkin over yonder where the sun went down at night. it was not until sometime after his mother went away,--after the long-to-be-remembered "fooneral," with its hymns, and weeping, and praying,--that he heard the grown-ups talking about the war being over. the redcoats were thrashed and there was much boasting and bragging among the men of the settlement. strange men appeared on the street, and other men slapped their backs and shook hands with them and shouted loudly and happily at them. in time, he came to understand that these were the citizens who had gone off to fight in the war and were now home again, all safe and sound. he began to watch for his father. he would know him a million miles off, he was so big, and he had the biggest rifle in the world. "do you s'pose pa will know how to find me, grandma?" he would inquire. "'cause, you see, i don't live where i used to." and his grandmother, beset with this and similar questions from one day's end to the other, would become very busy over what she was doing at the time and tell him not to pester her. he did not like to ask his grandfather. he was so stern,--even when he was sitting all alone on the porch and was not busy at all. then one day he saw his grandparents talking together on the porch. aunt hettie was with them, but she was not talking. she was just looking at him as he played down by the watering trough. he distinctly heard his grandma say: "i think he ought to be told, richard. it's a sin to let him go on thinking---" the rest of the sentence was lost to him when she suddenly lowered her voice. they were all looking at him. presently his grandfather called to him, and beckoned with his finger. he marched up to the porch with his little bow and arrow. grandma turned to go into the house, and aunt hettie hurried away. "don't be afraid, granny," he sang out. "i won't shoot you. 'sides, i've only got one arrer, aunt hettie." his grandfather took him on his knee, and then and there told him the truth about his father. he spoke very slowly and did not say any of those great big words that he always used when he was with grown-up people, or even with the darkies. "now, pay strict attention, kenneth. you must understand everything i say to you. do you hear? your father is never coming home. we told you he had gone to the war. we thought it was best to let you think so. it is time for you to know the truth. you are always asking questions about him. after this, when you want to know about your father, you must come to me. i will tell you. do not bother your grandma. you make her unhappy when you ask questions. you see, your ma was once her little girl and mine. she used to be as little as you are. your pa was her husband. you know what a husband is, don't you?" "yes, sir," said kenneth, wide-eyed. "it's a boy's father." "you are nearly six years old. quite a man, my lad." he paused to look searchingly into the child's face, his bushy eyebrows meeting in a frown. "the devil of it is," he burst out, "you are the living image of your father. you are going to grow up to look like him." he groaned audibly, spat viciously over his shoulder, and went on in a strange, hard voice. "do you know what it is to steal? it means taking something that belongs to somebody else." "yes, sir. 'thou shalt not steal.' it's in the bible." "well, you know that indians and gipsies steal little boys, don't you? it is the very worst kind of stealing, because it breaks the boy's mother's heart. it sometimes kills them. now, suppose that somebody stole a husband. a husband is a boy's father, as you say. your father was a husband. he was your dear mother's husband. you loved your mother very, very much, didn't you? don't cry, lad,--there, there, now! be a little man. now, listen. somebody stole your mother's husband. she loved him better than anything in the world. she loved him, i guess, even better than she loved you, kenneth. she just couldn't live without him. do you see? that is why she died and went away. she is in heaven now. now, let me hear you say this after me: my mother died because somebody stole her husband away from her." "'my mother died because somebody stoled her husband away from her,'" repeated the boy, slowly. "you will never forget that, will you?" "no,--sir." "say this: my mother's heart was broken and so she died." "'my mother's heart was broken and she--and so she died.'" "you will never forget that either, will you, kenneth?" "no, sir." "now, i am going to tell you who stole your mother's husband away from her. you know who your mother's husband was, don't you?" "yes, sir. my pa." "one night,--the night before you came up here to live--your auntie rachel,--that is what you called her, isn't it? well, she was not your real aunt. she was your neighbour,--just as mr. collins over there is my neighbour,--and she was your mother's friend. well, that night she stole your pa from your ma, and took him away with her,--far, far away, and she never let him come back again. she took him away in the night, away from your mother and you forever and forever. she---" "but pa was bigger'n she was," interrupted kenneth, frowning. "why didn't he kill her and get away?" the old squire was silent for a moment. "it is not fair for me to put all the blame on rachel carter. your father was willing to go. he did not kill rachel carter. together he and rachel carter killed your mother. but rachel carter was more guilty than he was. she was a woman and she stole what belonged in the sight of god to another woman. she was a bad woman. if she had been a good woman she would not have stolen your father away from your mother. so now you know that your pa did not go to the war. he went away with rachel carter and left your mother to die of a broken heart. he went off into the wilderness with that bad, evil woman. your mother was unhappy. she died. she is under the ground up in the graveyard, all alone. rachel carter put her there, kenneth. i cannot ask you to hate your father. it would not be right. he is your father in spite of everything. you know what the good book says? 'honour thy father and--' how does the rest of it go, my lad?" "'honour thy father and thy mother that thou days may be long upon thou earth,'" murmured kenneth, bravely. "when you are a little older you will realize that your father did not honour his father and mother, and then you may understand more than you do now. but you may hate rachel carter. you must hate her. she killed your mother. she stole your father. she made an orphan of you. she destroyed the home where you used to live. as you grow older i will try to tell you how she did all these things. you would not understand now. there is one of the ten commandments that you do not understand,--i mean one in particular. it is enough for you to know the meaning of the one that says 'thou shalt not steal.' you must not be unhappy over what i have told you. everything will be all right with you. you will be safe here with granny and me. but you must no longer believe that your father went to the war like other men in the village. if he were my son, i would---" "don't say it, richard," cried kenneth's grandma, from the doorway behind them. "don't ever say that to him." chapter i shelter for the night night was falling as two horsemen drew rein in front of a cabin at the edge of a clearing in the far-reaching sombre forest. their approach across the stump-strewn tract had been heralded by the barking of dogs,--two bristling beasts that came out upon the muddy, deep-rutted road to greet them with furious inhospitality. a man stood partially revealed in the doorway. his left arm and shoulder were screened from view by the jamb, his head was bent forward as he peered intently through narrowed eyes at the strangers in the road. "who are you, and what do you want?" he called out. "friends. how far is it to the tavern at clark's point?" "clark's point is three miles back," replied the settler. "i guess you must have passed it without seein' it," he added drily. "if it happened to be rainin' when you come through you'd have missed seein' it fer the raindrops. where you bound fer?" "lafayette. i guess we're off the right road. we took the left turn four or five miles back." "you'd ought to have kept straight on. come 'ere, shep! you, pete! down with ye!" the two dogs, still bristling, slunk off in the direction of the squat log barn. a woman appeared behind the man and stared out over his shoulder. from the tall stone chimney at the back of the cabin rose the blue smoke of the kitchen fire, to be whirled away on the wind that was guiding the storm out of the rumbling north. there was a dull, wavering glow in the room behind her. at one of the two small windows gleamed a candle-light. "what's takin' you to clark's point? there ain't no tavern there. there ain't nothin' there but a hitch-post and a waterin'-trough. oh, yes, i forgot. right behind the hitch-post is jake stone's store and a couple of ash-hoppers and a town-hall, but you wouldn't notice 'em if you happened to be on the wrong side of the post. mebby it's middleton you're lookin' fer." "i am looking for a place to put up for the night, friend. we met a man back yonder, half an hour ago, who said the nearest tavern was at clark's point." "what fer sort of lookin' man was he?" "tall fellow with red whiskers, riding a grey horse." "that was jake stone hisself. beats all how that feller tries to advertise his town. he says it beats crawfordsville and lafayette all to smash, an' it's only three or four months old. which way was he goin'?" "i suppose you'd call it south. i've lost my bearings, you see." "that's it. he was on his way down to attica to get drunk. they say attica's goin' to be the biggest town on the wabash. did i ask you what your name was, stranger?" "my name is gwynne. i left crawfordsville this morning, hoping to reach lafayette before night. but the road is so heavy we couldn't---" "been rainin' steady for nearly two weeks," interrupted the settler. "hub-deep everywhere. it's a good twenty-five or thirty mile from crawfordsville to lafayette. looks like more rain, too. i think she'll be on us in about two minutes. i guess mebby we c'n find a place fer you to sleep to-night, and we c'n give you somethin' fer man an' beast. if you'll jest ride around here to the barn, we'll put the hosses up an' feed 'em, and--eliza, set out a couple more plates, an' double the rations all around." his left arm and hand came into view. "set this here gun back in the corner, eliza. i guess i ain't goin' to need it. gimme my hat, too, will ye?" as the woman drew back from the door, a third figure came up behind the man and took her place. the horseman down at the roadside, fifty feet away, made out the figure of a woman. she touched the man's arm and he turned as he was in the act of stepping down from the door-log. she spoke to him in a low voice that failed to reach the ears of the travellers. the man shook his head slowly, and then called out: "i didn't jist ketch your name, mister. the wind's makin' such a noise i--say it again, will ye?" "my name is kenneth gwynne. get it?" shouted the horseman. "and this is my servant, zachariah." the man in the door bent his head, without taking his eyes from the horseman, while the woman murmured something in his ear, something that caused him to straighten up suddenly. "where do you come from?" he inquired, after a moment's hesitation. "my home is in kentucky. i live at---" "kentucky, eh? well, that's a good place to come from. i guess you're all right, stranger." he turned to speak to his companion. a few words passed between them, and then she drew back into the room. the woman called eliza came up with the man's hat and a lighted lantern. she closed the door after him as he stepped out into the yard. "'round this way," he called out, making off toward the corner of the cabin. "don't mind the dogs. they won't bite, long as i'm here." the wind was wailing through the stripped trees behind the house,--a sombre, limitless wall of trees that seemed to close in with smothering relentlessness about the lonely cabin and its raw field of stumps. the angry, low-lying clouds and the hastening dusk of an early april day had by this time cast the gloom of semi-darkness over the scene. spasmodic bursts of lightning laid thin dull, unearthly flares upon the desolate land, and the rumble of apple-carts filled the ear with promise of disaster. the chickens had gone to roost; several cows, confined in a pen surrounded by the customary stockade of poles driven deep into the earth and lashed together with the bark of the sturdy elm, were huddled in front of a rude shed; a number of squealing, grunting pigs nosed the cracks in the rail fence that formed still another pen; three or four pompous turkey gobblers strutted unhurriedly about the barnlot, while some of their less theatrical hens perched stiffly, watchfully on the sides of a clumsy wagon-bed over against the barn. martins and chimney-swallows darted above the cabin and out-buildings, swirling in mad circles, dipping and careening with incredible swiftness. the gaunt settler conducted the unexpected guests to the barn, where, after they had dismounted, he assisted in the removal of the well-filled saddle-bags and rolls from the backs of their jaded horses. "water?" he inquired briefly. "no, suh," replied zachariah, blinking as the other held the lantern up the better to look into his face. zachariah was a young negro,--as black as night, with gleaming white teeth which he revealed in a broad and friendly grin. "had all dey could drink, marster, back yander at de crick." "you couldn't have forded the wea this time last week," said the host, addressing gwynne. "she's gone down considerable the last four-five days. out of the banks last week an' runnin' all over creation." "still pretty high," remarked the other. "came near to sweeping zack's mare downstream but--well, she made it and zack has turned black again." the settler raised his lantern again at the stable door and looked dubiously at the negro. "you're from kentucky, mr. gwynne," he said, frowning. "i got to tell you right here an' now that if this here boy is a slave, you can't stop here,--an' what's more, you can't stay in this county. we settled the slavery question in this state quite a spell back, an' we make it purty hot for people who try to smuggle niggers across the border. i got to ask you plain an' straight; is this boy a slave?" "he is not," replied gwynne. "he is a free man. if he elects to leave my service to-morrow, he is at liberty to go. my grandfather freed all of his slaves shortly before he died, and that was when zachariah here was not more than fifteen years of age. he is as free as i am,--or you, sir. he is my servant, not my slave. i know the laws of this state, and i intend to abide by them. i expect to make my home here in indiana,--in lafayette, as a matter of fact. this boy's name is zachariah button. ten years ago he was a slave. he has with him, sir, the proper credentials to support my statement,--and his, if he chooses to make one. on at least a dozen occasions, first in ohio and then in indiana, i have been obliged to convince official and unofficial inquirers that my--" "that's all right, mr. gwynne," cried the settler heartily. "i take your word for it. if you say he's not a slave, why, he ain't, so that's the end of it. and it ain't necessary for zachariah to swear to it, neither. we can't offer you much in the way of entertainment, mr. gwynne, but what we've got you're welcome to. i came to this country from ohio seven years ago, an' i learned a whole lot about hospitality durin' the journey. i learned how to treat a stranger in a strange land fer one thing, an' i learned that even a hoss-thief ain't an ongrateful cuss if you give him a night's lodgin' and a meal or two." "i shall be greatly indebted to you, sir. the time will surely come when i may repay you,--not in money, but in friendship. pray do not let us discommode you or your household. i will be satisfied to sleep on the floor or in the barn, and as for zachariah, he--" "the barn is for the hosses to sleep in," interrupted the host, "and the floor is for the cat. 'tain't my idee of fairness to allow human bein's to squat on proppety that rightfully belongs to hosses an' cats,--so i guess you'll have to sleep in a bed, mr. gwynne." he spoke with a drawl. "zachariah c'n spread his blankets on the kitchen floor an' make out somehow. now, if you'll jist step over to the well yander, you'll find a wash pan. eliza,--i mean mrs. striker,--will give you a towel when you're ready. jest sing out to her. here, you, zachariah, carry this plunder over an' put it in the kitchen. mrs. striker will show you. be careful of them rifles of your'n. they go off mighty sudden if you stub your toe. you'll find a comb and lookin' glass in the settin' room, mr. gwynne. you'll probably want to put a few extry touches on yourself when i tell you there's an all-fired purty girl spendin' the night with us. go along, now. i'll put the feed down fer your hosses an' be with you in less'n no time." "you are very kind, mr.--did you say striker?" "phineas striker, sir,--phin fer short." "i am prepared and amply able to pay for lodging and food, mr. striker, so do not hesitate to--" "save your breath, stranger. i'm as deef as a post. the storm's goin' to bust in two shakes of a dead lamb's tail, so you'd better be a leetle spry if you want to git inside afore she comes." with that he entered the barn door, leading the horses. gwynne and his servant hurried through the darkness toward the light in the kitchen window. the former rapped politely on the door. it was opened by mrs. striker, a tall, comely woman well under thirty, who favoured the good-looking stranger with a direct and smileless stare. he removed his tall, sorry-looking beaver. "madam, your husband has instructed my servant to leave our belongings in your kitchen. i fear they are not overly clean, what with mud and rain, devil-needles and burrs. your kitchen is as clean as a pin. shall i instruct him to return with them to the barn and--" "bring them in," she said, melting in spite of herself as she looked down from the doorstep into his dark, smiling eyes. his strong, tanned face was beardless, his teeth were white, his abundant brown hair tousled and boyishly awry,--and there were mud splashes on his cheek and chin. he was tall and straight and his figure was shapely, despite the thick blue cape that hung from his shoulders. "i guess they ain't any dirtier than phin striker's boots are this time o' the year. put them over here, boy, 'longside o' that cupboard. supper'll be ready in ten or fifteen minutes, mr. gwynne." his smile broadened. he sniffed gratefully. a far more exacting woman than eliza striker would have forgiven this lack of dignity on his part. "you will find me ready for it, mrs. striker. the smell of side-meat goes straight to my heart, and nothing in all this world could be more wonderful than the coffee you are making." "go 'long with you!" she cried, vastly pleased, and turned to her sizzling skillets. zachariah deposited the saddle-bags and rolls in the corner and then returned to the door where he received the long blue cape, gloves and the towering beaver from his master's hands. he also received instructions which sent him back to open a bulging saddle-bag and remove therefrom a pair of soft, almost satiny calf-skin boots. as he hurried past mrs. striker, he held them up for her inspection, grinning from ear to ear. she gazed in astonishment at the white and silver ornamented tops, such as were affected by only the most fastidious dandies of the day and were so rarely seen in this raw, new land that the beholder could scarce believe her eyes. "well, i never!" she exclaimed, and then went to the sitting-room to whisper excitedly to the solitary occupant, who, it so chanced, was at the moment busily and hastily employed in rearranging her brown, wind-blown hair before the round-topped little looking-glass over the fireplace. "i thought you said you wasn't goin' to see him," observed mrs. striker, after imparting her information. "if you ain't, what are you fixin' yourself up fer?" "i have changed my mind, eliza," said the young lady, loftily. "in the first place, i am hungry, and in the second place it would not be right for me to put you to any further trouble about supper. i shall have supper with the rest of you and not in the bedroom, after all. how does my hair look?" "you've got the purtiest hair in all the--" "how does it look?" "it would look fine if you never combed it. if i had hair like your'n, i'd be the proudest woman in--" "don't be silly. it's terrible, most of the time." "well, it's spick an' span now, if that's what you want to know," grumbled eliza, and vanished, fingering her straight, straw-coloured hair somewhat resentfully. meanwhile, kenneth gwynne, having divested himself of his dark blue "swallow-tail," was washing his face and hands at the well. the settler approached with the lantern. "she's comin'," he shouted above the howling wind. "i guess you'd better dry yourself in the kitchen. hear her whizzin' through the trees? gosh all hemlock! she's goin' to be a snorter, stranger. hurry inside!" they bolted for the door and dashed into the kitchen just as the deluge came. phineas striker, leaning his weight against the door, closed it and dropped the bolt. "whew! she's a reg'lar harricane, that's what she is. mighty suddent, too. been holdin' back fer ten minutes,--an' now she lets loose with all she's got. gosh! jest listen to her!" the hiss of the torrent on the clapboard roof was deafening, the little window panes were streaming; a dark, glistening shadow crept out from the bottom of the door and began to spread; the howling wind shook the very walls of the staunch cabin, while all about them roared the ear-splitting cannonade, the crash of splintered skies, the crackling of musketry, the rending and tearing of all the garments that clothe the universe. eliza striker, hardy frontierswoman though she was, put her fingers to her ears and shrank away from the stove,--for she had been taught that all metal "drew lightning." her husband busied himself stemming the stream of water that seeped beneath the door with empty grain or coffee bags, snatched from the top of a cupboard where they were stored, evidently for the very purpose to which they were now being put. gwynne stood coatless in the centre of the kitchen, rolling down his white shirt-sleeves. behind him cringed zachariah, holding his master's boots and coat in his shaking hands, his eyes rolling with terror, his lips mumbling an unheard appeal for mercy. the sitting-room door opened suddenly and the other guest of the house glided into the kitchen. her eyes were crinkled up as if with an almost unendurable pain, her fingers were pressed to her temples, her red lips were parted. "goodness!" she gasped, with a hysterical laugh, not born of mirth, nor of courage, but of the sheerest dismay. "don't be skeered," cried phineas, looking at her over his shoulder. "she'll soon be over. long as the roof stays on, we're all right,--an' i guess she'll stay." kenneth gwynne bowed very low to the newcomer. the dim candle-light afforded him a most unsatisfactory glimpse of her features. he took in at a glance, however, her tall, trim figure, the burnished crown of hair, and the surprisingly modish frock she wore. he had seen no other like it since leaving the older, more advanced towns along the ohio,--not even in the thriving settlements of wayne and madison counties or in the boastful village of crawfordsville. he was startled. in all his journeyings through the land he had seen no one arrayed like this. it was with difficulty that he overcame a quite natural impulse to stare at her as if she were some fantastic curiosity. the contrast between this surprising creature and the gingham aproned eliza was unbelievable. there was but one explanation: she was the mistress of the house, eliza the servant. and yet, even so, how strangely out-of-place, out-of-keeping she was here in the wilderness. in some confusion he strode over to lend a hand to phineas striker. the rustle of silk behind him and the quick clatter of heels, evidenced the fact that the girl had crossed swiftly to eliza's side. later on he had the opportunity to take in all the details of her costume, and he did so with a practised, sophisticated eye. it was, after all, of a fashion two years old, evidence of the slowness with which the modes reached these outposts of civilization. here was a perfect fitting blue frock of the then popular changeable gros de zane, the skirt very wide, set on the body in large plaits, one in front, one on each side and two behind. the sleeves also were wide from shoulder to elbow, where they were tightly fitted to the lower arm. the ruffles around the neck, which was open and rather low, and about the wrists were of plain bobinet quilling. her slippers were black, with cross-straps. he had seen such frocks as this, he was reminded, in fashionable richmond and new york only a year or so before, but nowhere in the west. add a dunstable straw bonnet with its strings of satin and the frilled pelerine, and this strange young woman might have just stepped from her carriage in the most fashionable avenue in the land. zachariah, lacking his master's good manners, gazed in open-mouthed wonder at the lady, forgetting for the moment his fear of the tempest's wrath. only the most hair-raising crash of thunder broke the spell, causing him to close his eyes and resume his supplication. "now's your chance to get at the lookin' glass, mr. gwynne," said striker. "right there in the sittin'-room. go ahead; i'll manage this." muttering a word of thanks, the young man turned to leave the room. he shot a glance at his fellow guest. her back was toward him, she had her hands to her ears, and something told him that her eyes were tightly closed. a particularly loud crash caused her to draw her pretty shoulders up as if to receive the death-dealing bolt of lightning. he heard her murmur again: "goodness--gracious!" eliza suddenly put an arm about her waist and drew the slender, shivering figure close. as the girl buried her face upon the older woman's shoulder, the latter cried out: "land sakes, child, you'll never get over bein' a baby, will ye?" to which phineas striker added in a great voice: "nor you, neither, eliza. ef we didn't have company here you'd be crawlin' under the table or something. she ain't afraid of wild cats or rattlesnakes or injins or even spiders," he went on, addressing gwynne, "but she's skeered to death of lightnin'. an' as fer that young lady there, she wouldn't be afeared to walk from here to lafayette all alone on the darkest night,--an' look at her now! skeered out of her boots by a triflin' little thunderstorm. why, i wouldn't give two--" "my goodness, phin striker," broke in his wife, a new note of alarm in her voice, "i do hope them chickens an' turkeys have got sense enough to get under something in this downpour. if they ain't, the whole kit an' boodle of 'em will be drownded, sure as--" "i never yet see a hen that liked water," interrupted phineas. "er a turkey either. don't you worry about 'em. you better worry about that side-meat you're fryin'. ef my nose is what it ort to be, i'd say that piece o' meat was bein' burnt to death,--an' that's a lot wuss than bein' drownded. they say drowndin' is the easiest death--" "you men clear out o' this kitchen," snapped eliza. "out with ye! you too, phin striker. i'll call ye when the table's set. now, you go an' set over there in the corner, away from the window, deary, where the lightnin' can't git at you, an'--you'll find a comb on the mantel-piece, mr. gwynne, an' phineas will git you a boot-jack out o' the bedroom if that darkey is too weak to pull your boots off for you. don't any of you go trampin' all over the room with your muddy boots. i've got work enough to do without scrubbin' floors after a pack of--my land! i do believe it's scorched. an' the corn-bread must be--" phineas, after a doubtful look at the stopped-up door-crack, led the way into the sitting-room. zachariah came last with his master's boots and coat. he was mumbling with suppressed fervour: "oh, lord, jes' lemme hab one mo' chaince,--jes' one mo' chaince. good lord! i been a wicked, ornery nigger,--only jes' gimme jes' one mo' chaince. i been a wicked,--yassuh, marster kenneth, i got your boots. yassuh. right heah, suh. oh, lordy-lordy! yassuh, yassuh!" seated in a big wooden rocker before the fireplace, gwynne stretched out his long legs one after the other; zachariah tugged at the heavy, mud-caked riding-boots, grunting mightily over a task that gave him sufficient excuse for interjecting sundry irrelevant appeals for mercy and an occasional reference to his own unworthiness as a nigger. the tempest continued with unabated violence. the big, raw-boned striker, pulling nervously at his beard, stood near a window which looked out upon the barn and sheds, plainly revealed in the blinding, almost uninterrupted flashes of lightning. such sentences as these fell from his lips as he turned his face from the bleaching flares before they ended in mighty crashes: "that struck powerful nigh,"--or "i seen that one runnin' along the ground like a ball of fire," or "there goes somethin' near," or "that was a tree jest back o' the barn, you'll see in the mornin'." "dere won't never be any mo'nin'," gulped the unhappy zachariah, bending lower to his task, which now had to do with the boot-straps at the bottoms of his master's trouser-legs. getting to his feet, he proceeded, with a well-trained dexterity that even his terror failed to divert, to draw on the immaculate calf-skin boots with the gorgeous tops. then he pulled the trouser-legs down over the boots, obscuring their upper glory; after which he smoothed out the wrinkles and fastened the instep straps. whereupon, kenneth arose, stamped severely on the hearth several times to settle his feet in the snug-fitting boots, and turned to the looking-glass. he was wielding the comb with extreme care and precision when his host turned from the window and approached. "seems to me you're goin' to a heap o' trouble, friend," he remarked, surveying the tall, graceful figure with a rather disdainful eye. "we don't dress up much in these parts, 'cept on sunday." "please do not consider me vain," said the young man, flushing. he smarted under the implied rebuke,--in fact, he was uncomfortably aware of ridicule. "my riding-boots were filthy. i--i--yes, i know," he broke in upon himself as phineas extended one of his own muddy boots for inspection. "i know, but, you see, i am the unbidden guest of yourself and mrs. striker. the least i can do in return for your hospitality is to make myself presentable--" "you'll have to excuse my grinnin', mr. gwynne," interrupted the other. "i didn't mean any offence. it's jest that we ain't used to good clothes an' servants to pull our boots off an' on, an'--butternut pants an' so on. we're 'way out here on the edge of the wilderness where bluejeans is as good as broadcloth or doe-skin, an' a chaw of tobacco is as good as the state seal fer bindin' a bargain. lord bless ye, i don't keer how much you dress up. i guess i might as well tell ye the only men up at lafayette who wear as good clothes as you do are a couple of gamblers that work up an' down the river, an' barry lapelle. i reckon you've heerd of barry lapelle. he's known from one end of the state to the other, an' over in ohio an' kentucky too." "i have never heard of him." striker looked surprised. he glanced at the closed sitting-room door before continuing. "well, he owns a couple steamboats that come up the river. got 'em when his father died a couple o' years ago. his home used to be in terry hut, but he's been livin' at bob johnson's tavern for a matter of six months now, workin' up trade fer his boats, i understand. he's as wild as a hawk an'--but you'll run across him if you're goin' to live in lafayette." "by the way, what is the population of lafayette?" phineas studied the board ceiling thoughtfully for a moment or two. "well, 'cordin' to people who live in attica she's got about five hundred. people who live in crawfordsville give her seven hundred. down at covington an' williamsport they say she's got about four hundred an' twelve. when you git to lafayette bob johnson an' the rest of 'em will tell you she's over two thousand an' growin' so fast they cain't keep track of her. there's so much lyin' goin' on about lafayette that it's impossible to tell jest how big she is. countin' in the dogs, i guess she must have a population of between six hundred and fifty an' three thousand. you see, everybody up there's got a dog, an' some of 'em two er three. one feller i know has got seven. but, on the whole, i guess you'll like the place. it's the head of navigation at high water, an' if they ever build the wabash an' erie canal they're talkin' about she'll be a regular seaport, like new york er boston. 'pears to me the worst is over, don't you reckon so?" kenneth, having adjusted his stock and white roll-over collar to suit his most exacting eye, slipped his arms into the coat zachariah was holding for him, settled the shoulders with a shrug or two and a pull at the flaring lapels, smoothed his yellow brocaded waist-coat carefully, and then, spreading his long, shapely legs and at the same time the tails of his coat, took a commanding position with his back to the blazing logs. "are you referring to my toilet, mr. striker?" he inquired amiably. "i was talkin' about the storm," explained phineas hastily. "take the boots out to the kitchen, zachariah. eliza'll git into your wool if she ketches you leavin' 'em in here. yes, sir, she's certainly lettin' up. goin' down the river hell-bent. they'll be gettin' her at attica 'fore long. are you plannin' to work the farm yourself, mr. gwynne, or are you goin' to sell er rent on shares?" gwynne looked at him in surprise. "you appear to know who i am, after all, mr. striker." striker grinned. "i guess everybody in this neck o' the woods has heerd about you. dan bugher,--he's the county recorder,--an' rube kelsey, john bishop, larry stockton, an' a lot more of the folks up in town, have been lookin' down the crawfordsville road fer you ever since your father died last august. you 'pear to be a very important cuss fer one who ain't never set foot in indianny before." "i see," said the other reflectively. "were you acquainted with my father, mr. striker?" "much so as anybody could be. he wasn't much of a hand fer makin' friends. stuck purty close to the farm, an' made it about the best piece o' propetty in the whole valley. i was jest wonderin' whether you was plannin' to live on the farm er up in town." "well, you see, i am a lawyer by profession. i know little or nothing about farming. my plans are not actually made, however. a great deal depends on how i find things. judge wylie wishes me to enter into partnership with him, and providence m. curry says there is a splendid chance for me in his office at crawfordsville. i shall do nothing until i have gone thoroughly into the matter. you know the farm, mr. striker?" "yes. it's not far from here,--five or six mile, i'd say, to the north an' east. takes in some of the finest land on the wea plain,--mostly clear, some fine timber, plenty of water, an' about the best stocked farm anywheres around. your father was one of the first to edge up this way ten er twelve year ago, an' he got the pick o' the new land. he came from some'eres down the river, 'bout vincennes er montezuma er some such place. i reckon you know that he left another passel of land over this way, close to the wabash, an' some propetty up in lafayette an' some more down in crawfordsville." "i have been so informed," said his guest, rather shortly. "i bought this sixty acre piece offen him two year ago. all timber when i took hold of it, 'cept seventeen acres out thataway," jerking his thumb, "along the middleton road." he hesitated a moment. "you see, i worked for your father fer a considerable time, as a hand. that's how he came to sell to me. i got married an' wanted a place of my own. he said he'd sooner sell to me than let some other feller cheat the eye-teeth outen me, me bein' a good deal of fool when it comes to business an' all. yep, i'd saved up a few dollars, so i sez what's the sense of me workin' my gizzard out fer somebody else an' all that, when land's so cheap an' life so doggoned short. 'course, there's a small mortgage on the place, but i c'n take keer of that, i reckon." "ahem! the mortgage, i fancy, is held by--er--the other heirs to his property." "you're right. his widder holds it, but she ain't the kind to press me. she's purty comfortable, what with this land along the edge o' the plain out here an' a whole section up in the grand prairie neighbourhood, besides half a dozen buildin' lots in town an' a two story house to live in up there. to say nothin' of--" "come to supper," called out mrs. striker from the doorway. "that's somethin' i'm always ready fer," announced mr. striker. "winter an' summer, spring an' fall. step right ahead, mr.--" "just a moment, if you please," said the young man, laying his hand on the settler's arm. "you will do me a great favour if you refrain from discussing these matters in the presence of your other guest to-night. my father, as you doubtless know, meant very little in my life. i prefer not to discuss him in the presence of strangers,--especially curious-minded young women." phineas looked at him narrowly for an instant, a queer expression lurking in his eyes. "jest as you say, mr. gwynne. not a word in front of strangers. i don't know as you know it, but up to the time your father's will was perduced there wasn't a soul in these parts as knowed such a feller as you wuz on earth. he never spoke of a son, er havin' been married before, er bein' a widower, er anything like--" "i am thoroughly convinced of that, mr. striker," said kenneth, a trifle austerely, and passed on ahead of his host into the kitchen. "bring in them two candlesticks, phin," ordered mrs. striker. "we got to be able to see what each other looks like, an' goodness knows we cain't with this taller dip i got out here to cook by. 'tain't often we have people right out o' the fashion-plates to supper, so let's have all the light we kin." chapter ii the strange young woman the tempest by now had subsided to a distant, rumbling murmur, although the rain still beat against the window-panes in fitful gusts, the while it gently played the long roll on the clapboards a scant two feet above the tallest head. far-off flashes of lightning cast ghastly reminders athwart the windows, fighting the yellow candle glow with a sickly, livid glare. kenneth's fellow-guest was standing near the stove, her back toward him as he entered the kitchen. the slant of the "ceiling" brought the crown of her head to within a foot or so of the round, peeled beams that supported the shed-like roof, giving her the appearance of abnormal height. as a matter of fact, she was not as tall as the gaunt eliza, who, like her husband and the six-foot guest, was obliged to lower her head when passing through the kitchen door to the yard. the table was set for four, in the middle of the little kitchen; rude hand-made stools, without backs, were in place. a figured red cloth covered the board, its fringe of green hanging down over the edges. the plates, saucers and coffee-cups were thick and clumsy and gaudily decorated with indescribable flowers and vines done entirely in green--a "set," no doubt, selected with great satisfaction in advance of the striker nuptials. there were black-handled case-knives, huge four-tined forks, and pewter spoons. a blackened coffee-pot, a brass tea-kettle and a couple of shallow skillets stood on the square sheet-iron stove. "come in and set down, mr. gwynne," said mrs. striker, pointing to a stool. with the other hand she deftly "flopped" an odorous corn-cake in one of the skillets. there was a far from unpleasant odor of grease. "i can't help thanking my lucky stars, mrs. striker, that i got here ahead of that storm," said he, moving over to his appointed place, where he remained standing. "we were just in time, too. ten minutes later and we would have been in the thick of it. and here we are, safe and sound and dry as toast, in the presence of a most inviting feast. i cannot tell you how much i appreciate your kindness." "oh, it's--it's nothing," said she, diffidently. then to striker: "put 'em here on the table, you big lummix. set down, everybody." the young lady sat opposite gwynne. she lowered her head immediately as phineas began to offer up his established form of grace. the unhappy host got himself into a dire state of confusion when he attempted to vary the habitual prayer by tacking on a few words appertaining to the recent hurricane and god's goodness in preserving them all from destruction as well as the hope that no serious damage had been done to other live-stock and fowls, or to the life and property of his neighbours,--amen! to which zachariah, seated on a roll of blankets in the corner, appended a heartfelt amen, and then sank back to watch his betters eat, much as a hungry dog feasts upon anticipation. he knew that he was to have what was left over, and he offered up a silent prayer of his own while wistfully speculating on the prospects. the two colonial candlesticks stood in the centre of the table, a foot or two apart. when gwynne lifted his head after "grace," he looked directly between them at his vis-a-vis. for a few seconds he stared as if spell-bound. then, realizing his rudeness and conscious of an unmistakable resentment in her eyes, he felt the blood rush to his face, and quickly turned to stammer something to his host,--he knew not what it was. never had he looked upon a face so beautiful, never had he seen any one so lovely as this strange young woman who shared with him the hospitality of the humble board. he had gazed for a moment full into her deep, violet eyes,--eyes in which there was no smile but rather a cool intentness not far removed from unfriendliness,--and in that moment he forgot himself, his manners and his composure. the soft light fell upon warm, smooth cheeks; a broad, white brow; red, sensitive lips and a perfect mouth; a round firm chin; a delicate nose,--and the faint shadows of imperishable dimples that even her unsmiling expression failed to disturb. not even in his dreams had he conjured up a face so bewilderingly beautiful. her hair, which was puffed and waved over her ears, took on the shade of brown spun silk on which the light played in changing tones of bronze. it was worn high on her head, banded a la grecque, with a small knot on the crown from which depended a number of ringlets ornamented with bowknots. her ears were completely hidden by the soft mass that came down over them in shapely knobs. she wore no earrings,--for which he was acutely grateful, although they were the fashion of the day and cumbersomely hideous,--and her shapely throat was barren of ornament. he judged her to be not more than twenty-two or -three. a second furtive glance caught her looking down at her plate. he marvelled at the long, dark eyelashes. who was she? what was she doing here in the humble cot of the strikers? certainly she was out of place here. she was a tender, radiant flower set down amongst gross, unlovely weeds. that she was a person of consequence, to whom the strikers paid a rude sort of deference, softened by the familiarity of long association but in no way suggestive of relationship, he was in no manner of doubt. he was not slow to remark their failure to present him to her. the omission may have been due to ignorance or uncertainty on their part, but that was not the construction he put upon it. striker was the free-and-easy type who would have made these strangers known to each other in some bluff, awkward manner,--probably by their christian names; he would never have overlooked this little formality, no matter how clumsily he may have gone about performing it. it was perfectly plain to gwynne that it was not an oversight. it was deliberate. his slight feeling of embarrassment, and perhaps annoyance, evidently was not shared by the young lady; so far as she was concerned the situation was by no means strained. she was as calm and serene and impervious as a princess royal. she joined in the conversation, addressed herself to him without constraint, smiled amiably (and adorably) upon the busy eliza and her jovial spouse, and even laughed aloud over the latter's account of zachariah and the silver-top boots. gwynne remarked that it was a soft, musical laugh, singularly free from the shrill, boisterous qualities so characteristic of the backwoods-woman. she possessed the poise of refinement. he had seen her counterpart,--barring her radiant beauty,--many a time during his years in the cultured east: in richmond, in philadelphia, and in new york, where he had attended college. he was subtly aware of the lively but carefully guarded interest she was taking in him. he felt rather than knew that she was studying him closely, if furtively, when his face was turned toward the talkative host. twice he caught her in the act of averting her gaze when he suddenly glanced in her direction, and once he surprised her in a very intense scrutiny,--which, he was gratified to observe, gave way to a swift flush of confusion and the hasty lowering of her eyes. no doubt, he surmised with some satisfaction, she was as vastly puzzled as himself, for he must have appeared equally out-of-place in these surroundings. his thoughts went delightedly to the old, well-beloved story of cinderella. was this a cinderella in the flesh,--and in the morning would he find her in rags and tatters, slaving in the kitchen? he noticed her hands. they were long and slim and, while browned by exposure to wind and sun, bore no evidence of the grinding toil to which the women and girls of the frontier were subjected. and they were strong, competent hands, at that. the food was coarse, substantial, plentiful. (even zachariah could see that it was plentiful.) solid food for sturdy people. there were potatoes fried in grease, wide strips of side meat, apple butter, corn-cakes piping hot, boiled turnips, coffee and dried apple pie. the smoky odor of frying grease arose from the skillets and, with the grateful smell of coffee, permeated the tight little kitchen. it was a savoury that consoled rather than offended the appetite of these hardy eaters. striker ate largely with his knife, and smacked his lips resoundingly; swigged coffee from his saucer through an overlapping moustache and afterwards hissingly strained the aforesaid obstruction with his nether lip; talked and laughed with his mouth full,--but all with such magnificent zest that his guests overlooked the shocking exhibition. indeed, the girl seemed quite accustomed to mr. striker's table-habits, a circumstance which created in kenneth's questing mind the conviction that she was not new to these parts, despite the garments and airs of the fastidious east. they were vastly interested in the account of his journey through the wilderness. "nowadays," said striker, "most people come up the river, 'cept them as hail from ohio. you must ha' come by way of wayne an' madison counties." "i did," said his guest. "we found it fairly comfortable travelling through wayne county. the roads are decent enough and the settlers are numerous. it was after we left madison county that we encountered hardships. we travelled for a while with a party of emigrants who were heading for the settlement at strawtown. there were three families of them, including a dozen children. our progress was slow, as they travelled by wagon. rumours that the indians were threatening to go on the warpath caused me to stay close by this slow-moving caravan for many miles, not only for my own safety but for the help i might be able to render them in case of an attack. at strawtown we learned that the indians were peaceable and that there was no truth in the stories. so zachariah and i crossed the white river at that point and struck off alone. we followed the wilderness road,--the old indian trace, you know,--and we travelled nearly thirty miles without seeing a house. at brown's wonder we met a party of men who had been out in this country looking things over. they were so full of enthusiasm about the prairies around here,--the wea, the wild cat and shawnee prairies,--that i was quite thrilled over the prospect ahead, and no longer regretted the journey which had been so full of privations and hardships and which i had been so loath to undertake in the beginning. have you been at thorntown recently?" "nope. not sence i came through there some years ago. it was purty well deserted in those days. nothin' there but injin wigwams an' they was mostly run to seed. at that time, crawfordsville was the only town to speak of between terry hut an' fort wayne, 'way up above here." "well, there are signs of a white settlement there now. some of the old french settlers are still there and other whites are coming in. i had heard a great deal about the big indian village at thorntown, and was vastly disappointed in what i found. i am quite romantic, miss--ahem!--quite romantic by nature, having read and listened to tales of thrilling adventures among the redskins, as we call them down my way, until i could scarce contain myself. i have always longed for the chance to rescue a beautiful white captive from the clutches of the cruel redskins. my valour--" "and i suppose you always dreamed of marrying her as they always do in stories?" said she, smiling. "invariably," said he. "alas, if i had rescued all the fair maidens my dreams have placed in jeopardy, i should by this time have as many wives as solomon. only, i must say in defence of my ambitions, i should not have had as great a variety. strange as it may seem, i remained through all my adventures singularly constant to a certain idealistic captive. she looked, i may say, precisely alike in each and every case. poor old solomon could not say as much for his thousand wives. mine, if i had them, would be so much alike in face and form that i could not tell one from the other,--and, now that i am older and wiser,--though not as wise as solomon,--i am thankful that not one of these daring rescues was ever consummated, for i should be very much distressed now if i found myself married to even the most beautiful of the ladies my feeble imagination conceived." this subtle touch of gallantry was over the heads of mr. and mrs. striker. as for the girl, she looked momentarily startled, and then as the dimples deepened, a faint flush rose to her cheeks. an instant later, the colour faded, and into her lovely eyes came a cold, unfriendly light. realizing that he had offended her with this gay compliment,--although he had never before experienced rebuff in like circumstances,--he hastened to resume his narrative. "we finally came to sugar river and followed the road along the southern bank. you may know some of the settlers we found along the river. wisehart and kinworthy and dewey? they were among the first to come to this part of the country, i am informed. fine, brave men, all of them. in crawfordsville i stopped at the tavern conducted by major ristine. while there i consulted with mr. elston and mr. wilson and others about the advisability of selling my land up here and my building lots in lafayette. they earnestly advised me not to sell. in their opinion lafayette is the most promising town on the wabash, while the farming land in this section is not equalled anywhere else in the world. of course, i realize that they are financially interested in the town of lafayette, owning quite a lot of property there, so perhaps i should not be guided solely by their enthusiasm." "they are the men who bought most of sam sargeant's lots some years back," said striker, "when there wasn't much of anything in the way of a town,--them and jonathan powers, i think it was. they paid somethin' like a hundred an' fifty dollars for more'n half of the lots he owned, an' then they started right in to crow about the place. i was workin' down at crawfordsville at the time. they had plenty of chance to talk, 'cause that town was full of emigrants, land-grabbers, travellers an' setch like. that was before the new county was laid out, you see. up to that time all the land north of montgomery county was what was called wabash county. it run up as fer as lake michigan, with the jedges an' courts an' land offices fer the whole district all located in crawfordsville. maybe you don't know it, but tippecanoe county is only about six years old. she was organized by the legislature in . to show you how smart elston and them other fellers was, they donated a lot of their property up in lafayette to the county on condition that the commissioners located the county seat there. that's how she come to be the county seat, spite of the claims of americus up on the east bank of the wabash. "maybe you've heard of bill digby. he's the feller that started the town o' lafayette. well, a couple o' days after he laid out the town o' lafayette,--named after a frenchman you've most likely heerd about,--he up an' sold the whole place to sam sargeant fer a couple o' hundred dollars, they say. he kept enough ground fer a ferry landin' an' a twenty-acre piece up above the town fer specolatin' purposes, i understand. he afterwards sold this twenty-acre piece to sam fer sixty dollars, an' thought he done mighty well. when i first come to the wea, lafayette didn't have more'n half a dozen cabins. i went through her once on my way up to the tradin' house at longlois, couple a mile above. you wouldn't believe a town could grow as fast as lafayette has in the last couple o' years. if she keeps on she'll be as big as all get-out, an' crawfordsville won't be nowhere. tim horran laid out fairfield two-three years back, over east o' here. been a heap o' new towns laid out this summer, all around here. but i guess they won't amount to much. josiah halstead and henry ristine have jest laid out the town o' columbia, down near the montgomery line. over on lauramie crick is a town called cleveland, an' near that is monroe, jest laid out by a feller named major. there's another town called concord over east o' columbia. there may be more of 'em, but i ain't heerd of 'em yet. they come up like mushrooms, an' 'fore you know it, why, there they are. "this land o' yours, mr. gwynne, lays 'tween here an' this new settlement o' columbia, an' i c'n tell you that it ain't to be beat anywheres in the country. i'd say it is the best land your fa--er--ahem!" the speaker was seized with a violent and obviously unnecessary spell of coughing. "somethin' must ha' gone the wrong way," he explained, lamely. "feller ort to have more sense'n to try to swaller when he's talkin'." "comes of eatin' like a pig," remarked his wife, glaring at him as she poured coffee into gwynne's empty cup. "mr. gwynne'll think you don't know any better. he never eats like this on sunday," she explained to their male guest. "i got a week-day style of eatin' an' one strickly held back fer sunday," said phineas. "same as clothes er havin' my boots greased." kenneth was watching the face of the girl opposite. she was looking down at her plate. he observed a little frown on her brow. when she raised her eyes to meet his, he saw that they were sullen, almost unpleasantly so. she did not turn away instantly, but continued to regard him with a rather disconcerting intensity. suddenly she smiled. the cloud vanished from her brow, her eyes sparkled. he was bewildered. there was no mistaking the unfriendliness that had lurked in her eyes the instant before. but in heaven's name, what reason had she for disliking him? "if you believe all that phineas says, you will think you have come to paradise," she said. at no time had she uttered his name, in addressing him, although it was frequently used by the strikers. she seemed to be deliberately avoiding it. "it is a present comfort, at least, to believe him," he returned. "i hope i may not see the day when i shall have to take him to task for misleading me in so vital a matter." "i hope not," said she, quietly. as he turned to striker, he caught that worthy gazing at him with a fixed, inquisitive stare. he began to feel annoyed and uncomfortable. it was not the first time he had surprised a similar scrutiny on the part of one or the other of the strikers. phineas, on being detected, looked away abruptly and mumbled something about "god's country." the young man decided it was time to speak. "by the way you all look at me, mr. striker, i am led to suspect that you do not believe i am all i represent myself to be. if you have any doubts, pray do not hesitate to express them." striker was boisterously reassuring. "i don't doubt you fer a second, mr. gwynne. as i said before, the whole county has been expectin' you to turn up. we heerd a few days back that you was in crawfordsville. if me an' eliza seem to act queer it's because we knowed your father an'--an', well, i can't help noticin' how much you look like him. when he was your age he must have looked enough like you to be your twin brother. we don't mean no disrespect, an' i hope you'll overlook our nateral curiosity." kenneth was relieved. the furtive looks were explained. "i am glad to hear that you do not look upon me as an outlaw or--" "lord bless you," cried striker, "there ain't nobody as would take you fer an outlaw. you ain't cut out fer a renegade. we know 'em the minute we lay eyes on 'em. same as we know a pottawatomy injin from a shawnee, er a jack-knife from a bowie. no, there ain't no doubt in my mind about you bein' your father's son--an' heir, as the sayin' goes. if you turn out to be a scalawag, i'll never trust my eyes ag'in." the young man laughed. "in any case, you are very good to have taken me in for the night, and i shall not forget your trust or your hospitality. wolves go about in sheep's clothing, you see, and the smartest of men are sometimes fooled." he turned abruptly to the girl. "did you know my father, too?" she started violently and for the moment was speechless, a curious expression in her eyes. "yes," she said, at last, looking straight at him: "yes, i knew your father very well." "then, you must have lived in these parts longer than i have suspected," said he. "i should have said you were a newcomer." mrs. striker made a great clatter of pans and skillets at the stove. the girl waited until this kindly noise subsided. "i have lived in this neighbourhood since i was eight years old," she said, quietly. striker hastened to add: "somethin' like ten or 'leven years,--'leven, i reckon, ain't it?" "eleven years," she replied. gwynne was secretly astonished and rather skeptical. he would have taken oath that she was twenty-two or -three years old, and not nineteen as computation made her. "she ain't lived here all the time," volunteered eliza, somewhat defensively. "she was to school in st. louis fer two or three years an'--" the young lady interrupted the speaker coldly. "please, eliza!" eliza, looking considerably crestfallen, accepted the rebuke meekly. "i jest thought he'd be interested," she murmured. "she came up the wabash when she was nothin' but a striplin'," began striker, not profiting by his wife's experience. he might have gone on at considerable length if he had not met the reproving, violet eye. he changed the subject hastily. "as i was sayin', we've had a powerful lot o' rain lately. why, by gosh, last week you could have went fishin' in our pertato patch up yander an' got a mess o' sunfish in less'n no time. i never knowed the wabash to be on setch a rampage. an' as fer the wild cat crick and tippecanoe river, why, they tell me there ain't been anything like--how's that?" "is wabash an indian name?" repeated kenneth. "that's what they say. named after a tribe that used to hunt an' fish up an' down her, they say." "there was once a tribe of indians in this part of the country," broke in the girl, with sudden zest, "known as the ouabachi. we know very little about them nowadays, however. they were absorbed by other and stronger tribes far back in the days of the french occupation, i suppose. french trappers and voyageurs are known to have traversed and explored the wilderness below here at least one hundred and fifty years ago. there is an old french fort quite near here,--ouiatanon." "she knows purty nigh everything," said phineas, proudly. "well, i guess we're about as full as it's safe to be, so now's your chance, zachariah." he pushed back his stool noisily and arose. taking up the two candlesticks, he led the way to the sitting-room, stopping at the door for a word of instruction to the negro. "you c'n put your blankets down here on the kitchen floor when you're ready to go to bed. mrs. striker will kick you in the mornin' if you ain't awake when she comes out to start breakfast." "yassuh, yassuh," grinned the hungry darkey. "missus won't need fo' to kick more'n once, suh,--'cause ise gwine to be hungry all over ag'in 'long about breakfus time,--yas-suh!" "zachariah will wash the dishes and--" began kenneth, addressing mrs. striker, who was already preparing to cleanse and dry her pots and pans. she interrupted him. "he won't do nothin' of the kind. i don't let nobody wash my dishes but myself. set down here, zachariah, an' help yourself. when you're done, you c'n go out an' carry me in a couple of buckets o' water from the well,--an, that's all you can do." "i guess i'll go out an' take a look around the barn an' pens," said phineas, depositing the candles on the mantelpiece. "see if everything's still there after the storm. no, mr. gwynne,--you set down. no need o' you goin' out there an' gettin' them boots o' your'n all muddy." he took up the lantern and lighted the tallow wick from one of the candles. then he fished a corncob pipe from his coattail pocket and stuffed it full of tobacco from a small buckskin bag hanging at the end of the mantel. "he'p yourself to tobaccer if you keer to smoke. there's a couple o' fresh pipes up there,--jest made 'em yesterday,--an' it ain't ag'inst the law to smoke in the house on rainy nights. used to be a time when we was first married that i had to go out an' git wet to the skin jest because she wouldn't 'low no tobaccer smoke in the house. many's the time i've sot on the doorstep here enjoyin' a smoke with the rain comin' down so hard it'd wash the tobaccer right out o' the pipe, an' twice er maybe it was three times it biled over an'--what's that you say?" "i did not say anything, phineas," said the girl, shaking her head mournfully. "i am wondering, though, where you will go when you die." "where i c'n smoke 'thout runnin' the risk o' takin' cold, more'n likely," replied phineas, winking at the young man. then he went out into the windy night, closing the door behind him. chapter iii something about clothes, and men, and cats smiling over the settler's whimsical humour, gwynne turned to his companion, anticipating a responsive smile. instead he was rewarded by an expression of acute dismay in her dark eyes. he recalled seeing just such a look in the eyes of a cornered deer. she met his gaze for a fleeting instant and then, turning away, walked rapidly over to the little window, where she peered out into the darkness. he waited a few moments for her to recover the composure so inexplicably lost, and then spoke,--not without a trace of coldness in his voice. "pray have this chair." he drew the rocking-chair up to the fireplace, setting it down rather sharply upon the strip of rag carpet that fronted the wide rock-made hearth. "you need not be afraid to be left alone with me. i am a most inoffensive person." he saw her figure straighten. then she faced him, her chin raised, a flash of indignation in her eyes. "i am not afraid of you," she said haughtily. "why should you presume to make such a remark to me?" "i beg your pardon," he said, bowing. "i am sorry if i have offended you. no doubt, in my stupidity, i have been misled by your manner. now, will you sit down--and be friendly?" his smile was so engaging, his humility so genuine, that her manner underwent a swift and agreeable change. she advanced slowly to the fireplace, a shy, abashed smile playing about her lips. "may i not stand up for a little while?" she pleaded, with mock submissiveness. "i do so want to grow tall." "to that i can offer no objection," he returned; "although in my humble opinion you would do yourself a very grave injustice if you added so much as the eighth of an inch to your present height." "i feel quite small beside you, sir," she said, taking her stand at the opposite end of the hearth, from which position she looked up into his admiring eyes. "i am an overgrown, awkward lummix," he said airily. "the boys called me 'beanpole' at college." "you are not an awkward lummix, as you call yourself,--though what a lummix is i have not the slightest notion. mayhap if you stood long enough you might grow shorter. they say men do,--as they become older." she ran a cool, amused eye over his long, well-proportioned figure, taking in the butter-nut coloured trousers, the foppish waistcoat, the high-collared blue coat, and the handsome brown-thatched head that topped the whole creation. he was almost a head taller than she, and yet she was well above medium height. "how old are you?" she asked, abruptly. again she was serious, unsmiling. "twenty-five," he replied, looking down into her dark, inquiring eyes with something like eagerness in his own. he was saying over and over again to himself that never had he seen any one so lovely as she. "i am six years older than you. somehow, i feel that i am younger. rather odd, is it not?" "six years," she mused, looking into the fire. the glow of the blazing logs cast changing, throbbing shadows across her face, now soft and dusky, like velvet, under the warm caress of the firelight. "sometimes i feel much older than nineteen," she went on, shaking her head as if puzzled. "i remember that i was supposed to be very large for my age when i was a little girl. everybody commented on my size. i used to be ashamed of my great, gawky self. but," she continued, shrugging her pretty shoulders, "that was ages ago." he drew a step nearer and leaned an elbow on the mantel. "you say you knew my father," he said, haltingly. "what was he like?" she raised her eyes quickly and for an instant studied his face curiously, as if searching for something that baffled her understanding. "he was very tall," she said in a low voice. "as tall as you are." "i have only a dim recollection of him," he said. "you see, i made my home with my grandparents after i was five years old." he did not offer any further information. "as a tiny lad i remember wishing that i might grow up to be as big as my father. did you know him well?" if she heard, she gave no sign as she turned away again. this time she walked over to the cabin door, which she opened wide, letting in a rush of chill, damp air. he felt his choler rise. it was a deliberate, intentional act on her part. she desired to terminate the conversation and took this rude, insolent means of doing so. never had he been so flagrantly insulted,--and for what reason? he had been courteous, deferential, friendly. what right had she,--this insufferable peacock,--to consider herself his superior? hot words rushed to his lips, but he checked them. he contented himself with an angry contemplation of her slender, graceful figure as she poised in the open doorway, holding the latch in one hand while the other was pressed against her bare throat for protection against the cold night air. her ringlets, flouted by the wind, threshed merrily about the crown of her head. he noted the thick coil of hair that capped the shapely white neck. despite his rancour and the glowering gaze he bent upon her, he was still lamentably conscious of her perfections. he had it in his heart to go over and shake her soundly. it would be a relief to see her break down and whimper. it would teach her not to be rude to gentlemen! the two dogs came racing up to the threshold. she half-knelt and stroked their heads. "no, no!" she cried out to them. "you cannot come in! back with you, shep! pete! that's a good dog!" then she arose and quickly closed the door. "the wind is veering to the south," she said calmly, as she advanced to the fireplace. she was shivering. "that means fair weather and warmer. we may even see the sun to-morrow." she held out her hands to the blaze. "won't you have this chair now?" he said stiffly, formally. she was looking down into the fire, but he saw the dimple deepen in her cheek and an almost imperceptible twitching at the corner of her mouth. confound her, was she laughing at him? was he a source of amusement to her? she turned her head and glanced up at him over her shoulder. he caught a strained, appealing gleam in her eyes. "please forgive me if i was rude," she said, quite humbly. he melted a little. he no longer desired to shake her. "i feared i had in some way offended you," he said. she shook her head and was silent for a moment or two, staring thoughtfully at the flames. a faint sigh escaped her, and then she faced him resolutely, frankly. "you have succeeded fairly well in concealing your astonishment at seeing me here in this hut, dressed as i am," she said, somewhat hurriedly. "you have been greatly puzzled. i am about to confess something to you. you will see me again,--often perhaps,--if you remain long in this country. it is my wish that you should not know who i am to-night. you will gain nothing by asking questions, either of me or of the strikers. you will know in the near future, so let that be sufficient. at first i--" "you have my promise not to disregard your wishes in this or any other matter," he said, bowing gravely. "i shall ask no questions." "ah, but you have been asking questions all to yourself ever since you came into this cabin and saw me--in all this finery--and you will continue to ask them," she declared positively. "i do not blame you. i can at least account for my incomprehensible costume. that much you shall have, if no more. this frock is a new one. it has just come up the river from st. louis. i have never had it on until to-day. another one, equally as startling, lies in that bedroom over there, and beside it on the bed is the dress i came here in this afternoon. it is a plain black dress, and there is a veil and a hideous black bonnet to go with it." she paused, a bright little gleam of mingled excitement and defiance in her eyes. "you--you have lost--i mean, you are in mourning for some one?" he exclaimed. the thought rushed into his mind: was she a widow? this radiantly beautiful girl a widow? "for my father," she stated succinctly. "he died almost a year ago. i was in school at st. louis when it happened. i had not seen him for two years. my mother sent for me to come home. since that time i have worn nothing but black,--plain, horrible black. do not misjudge me. i am not vain, nor am i as heartless as you may be thinking. i had and still have the greatest respect for my father. he was a good man, a fine man. but in all the years of my life he never spoke a loving word to me, he never caressed me, he never kissed me. he was kindness itself, but--he never looked at me with love in his eyes. i don't suppose you can understand. i was the flesh of his flesh, and yet he never looked at me with love in his eyes. "as i grew older i began to think that he hated me. that is a terrible thing to say,--and you must think it vile of me to say it to you, a stranger. but i have said it, and i would not take it back. i have seen in his eyes,--they were brooding, thoughtful eyes,--i have seen in them at times a look--oh, i cannot tell you what it seemed like to me. i can only say that it had something like despair in it,--sadness, unhappiness,--and i could not help feeling that i was the cause of it. when i was a tiny girl he never carried me in his arms. my mother always did that. when i was thirteen years old he hired me out as a servant in a farmer's family and i worked there until i was fourteen. it was not in this neighbourhood. i worked for my board and keep, a thing i could not understand and bitterly resented because he was prosperous. then my mother fell ill. she was a strong woman, but she broke down in health. he came and got me and took me home. i was a big girl for my age,--as big as i am now,--and strong. i did all the work about the house until my mother was well again. he never gave me a word of appreciation or one of encouragement. "he was never unkind, he never found fault with me, he never in all his life scolded or switched me when i was bad. then, one day,--it was three years ago,--he told me to get ready to go down to st. louis to school. he put me in charge of a trader and his wife who were going down the river by perogue. he gave them money to buy suitable clothes for me,--a large sum of money, it must have been,--and he provided me with some for my own personal use. all arrangements had been made in advance, without my knowing anything about it. "i stayed there until i was called home by his death. i expected to return to school, but my mother refused to let me go back. she said my place was with her. that was last fall. she is still in the deepest mourning, and i believe will never dress otherwise. i have said all there is to say about my father. i did not love him, i was not grieved when he passed away. it was almost as if a stranger had died." she paused. he took occasion to remark, sympathetically: "he must have been a strange man." "he was," she said. "i hope i have made you understand what kind of a man he was, and what kind of a father he was to me. now, i am coming to the point. this finery you see me in now was purchased without my mother's knowledge or consent,--with money of my own. the box was delivered to phineas striker day before yesterday up in lafayette. i came here to spend the night, in order that i might try them on. i live in town, with my mother. she left the farm after my father's death. she adored him. she could not bear to live out there on the lonely--but, that is of no interest to you. a few weeks ago i asked her if i might not take off the black. she refused at first, but finally consented. i have her promise that i may put on colours sometime this spring. so i wrote to the woman who used to make my dresses in st. louis,--my father was not stingy with me, so i always had pretty frocks,--and now they have come. my mother does not know about them. she will be shocked when i tell her i have them, but she will not be angry. she loves me. is your curiosity satisfied? it will have to be, for this is all i care to divulge at present." he smiled down into her earnest eyes. "my curiosity is appeased," he said. "i should not have slept tonight if you had not explained this tantalizing mystery. therefore, i thank you. may i have your permission to say that you are very lovely in your new frock and that you are marvellously becoming to it?" "as you have already said it, i must decline to give you the permission," she replied, naively. he thought her adorable in this mood. "as a lawyer," he said, "i make a practice of never withdrawing a statement, unless i am convinced by incontrovertible evidence that i was wrong in the first place,--and you will have great difficulty in producing the proof." "wait till you see me in my black dress and bonnet,--and mittens," she challenged. he bowed gallantly. "only the addition of the veil,--it would have to be a very thick one,--i am sure,--could make me doubt my own eyes. they are witnesses whose testimony it will be very hard to shake." her manner underwent another transformation, as swift as it was unexpected. a troubled, harassed expression came into her eyes, driving out the sparkle that had filled them during that all too brief exchange. the smile died on her lips, which remained drawn and slightly parted as if frozen; she seemed for the moment to have stopped breathing. he was acutely alive to the old searching, penetrating look,--only now there was an added note of uneasiness. in another moment all this had vanished, and she was smiling again,--not warmly, frankly as before, but with a strange wistfulness that left him more deeply perplexed than ever. "i wonder,--" she began, and then shook her head without completing the sentence. after a moment she went on: "phineas is a long time. i hope all is well." they heard the kitchen door open and close and striker's voice loudly proclaiming the staunchness of his outbuildings, a speech cut short by eliza's exasperation. "how many times do i have to tell you, phin striker, not to come in this here kitchen without wipin' your feet? might as well be the barn, fer as you're concerned. go out an' scrape that mud offen your boots." deep mumbling and then the opening and shutting of the door again. "sometimes, i fear, poor phineas finds matrimony very trying," said the girl, her eyes twinkling. eliza appeared in the doorway. she was rolling down her sleeves. "how are you two gettin' along?" she inquired, looking from one to the other keenly. "i thought phin was in here amusin' you the whole time with lies about him an' dan'l boone. he used to hunt with old dan'l when he was a boy, an' if ever'thing happened to them two fellers that he sez happened, why, phin'd have to be nearly two hundred years old by now an' there wouldn't be a live animal or indian between here an' the gulf of mexico." she seemed a little uneasy. "i hope you two made out all right." the girl spoke quickly, before her companion could reply. "we have had a most agreeable chat, eliza. are you through in the kitchen? if you are, would you mind coming into the bedroom with me? i want you to see the other dress on me, and besides i have a good many things i wish to talk over with you. good night," she said to gwynne. "no doubt we shall meet again." he was dumbfounded. "am i not to see you in the new dress?" he cried, visibly disappointed. "surely you are not going to deny me the joy of beholding you in--" she interrupted him almost cavalierly. "pray save up some of your compliments against the day when you behold me in my sombre black, for i shall need them then. again, good night." "good night," he returned, bowing stiffly and in high dudgeon. eliza, in hurrying past, had snatched one of the candlesticks from the mantel, and now stood holding the bedroom door open for the queenly young personage. a moment later the door closed behind them. gwynne was still scowling at the inoffensive door when striker came blustering into the room. "where are the women?" he demanded, stopping short. a jerk of the thumb was his answer. "gone to bed?" with something like an accusing gleam in his eye as his gaze returned to the young man. "i believe so," replied gwynne carelessly, as he sat down in the despised rocker and stretched his long legs out to the fire. "i fancy we are safe to smoke now, striker. we have the parlor all to ourselves. the ladies have deserted us." striker took the tobacco pouch from the peg on the mantel and handed it to his guest. "fill up," he said shortly, and then walked over to the bedroom door. he rapped timorously on one of the thick boards. "want me fer anything?" he inquired softly, as his wife opened the door an inch or two. "no. go to bed when you're ready an' don't ferget to smother that fire." "good night, phineas," called out another voice merrily. "good night," responded striker, with a dubious shake of his head. he returned to the fireplace. "women are funny things," said he, dragging up another chair. "'specially about boots. i go out 'long about sun-up an' work like a dog all day, an' then when i come in to supper what happens? first thing my wife does is to look at my boots. then she tells me to go out an' scrape the mud off'm 'em. then she looks up at my face to see if it's me. sometimes i get so doggoned mad i wish it wasn't me, so's i could turn out to be the preacher er somebody like that an' learn her to be keerful who she's talkin' to. supposin' i do track a little mud into her kitchen? it's our mud, ain't it? 'tain't as if it was somebody else's land i'm bringin' into her kitchen. between us we own every danged bit of land from here to the middleton dirt-road an' it ain't my fault if it happens to be mud once in awhile. you'd think, the way she acts, i'd been out stealin' somebody else's mud just for the sake of bringin' it into her kitchen. "an' what makes me madder'n anything else is the way she scolds them pore dogs when they come in with a little mud. as if a dog understood he had to scrape his feet off an' wash his paws an' everything 'fore he c'n step inside his master's cabin. now you take cats, they're as smart as all get out. they're jist like women. allus thinkin' about their pussonal appearance. ever notice a cat walk across a muddy strip o' ground? why, you'd think they was walkin' on a red hot stove, the way they step. i've seen a cat go fifty rods out of her way to get around a mud-puddle. i recollect seein' ole maje,--he's our principal tom-cat,--seein' him creepin' along a rail fence nearly half a mile from the house so's he wouldn't have to cross a stretch o' wet ground jist outside the kitchen door. now, a dog would have splashed right through it an' took the consequences. but ole maje--no, sir! he goes miles out'n his way an' then when he gits home he sets down on the doorstep an' licks his feet fer half an hour er so before he begins to meow so's eliza'll open the door an' let him in. "ever' so often i got to tie a litter of kittens up in a meal-bag an' take 'em over to the river an' drownd 'em, an' i want to tell you it's a pleasure to do it. you never in all your life heerd of anybody puttin' a litter of pups in a bag an' throwin' 'em in the river, did ye? no, sirree! dogs is like men. they grow up to be useful citizens, mud er no mud. why, if i had a dog what sat down on the doorstep an' licked his paws ever' time he got mud on 'em i'd take him out an' shoot him, 'cause i'd know he wasn't no kind of a dog at all. now, eliza's tryin' to make me act like a cat, an' me hatin' cats wuss'n pison. there's setch a thing as bein' too danged clean, don't you think so? sort o' takes the self-respect away from a man. makes you feel as if you'd ort to have petticoats on in place o' pants. how do you like that terbaccer?" throughout the foregoing dissertation, gwynne had sat with his moody gaze fixed upon the flaring logs, which striker had kicked into renewed life with the heel of one of his ponderous boots, disdaining the stout charred poker that leaned against the chimney wall. he was pulling dreamily at the corncob pipe; the fragrant blue smoke, drifting toward the open fireplace, was suddenly caught by the draft and drawn stringily into the hot cavern where it was lost in the hickory volume that swept up the chimney. he had taken in but a portion of his host's remarks; his thoughts were not of dogs and cats but of the perplexing girl who eagerly gave him her confidence in one moment and shrank into the iciest reticence the next. her unreserved revelations concerning her own father, uttered with all the frankness of an intimate, and the childish ingenuousness with which she accounted for her raiment, followed so closely, so abruptly by the most insolent display of bad manners he had ever known, gave him ample excuse for reflection, and if he failed to obtain the full benefit of striker's discourse it was because he had no power to command his addled thoughts. as a matter of fact, he was debating within himself the advisability of asking his host a few direct and pointed questions. a fine regard for striker's position deterred him,--and to this regard was added the conviction that his host would probably tell him to mind his own business and not go prying into the affairs of others. he came out of his reverie in good time to avoid injury to his host's feelings. "it is admirable," he assured him promptly. "do you cure it yourself or does it come up the river from kentucky?" "comes from kentucky. we don't have much luck tryin' to raise terbaccer in these parts." whereupon mr. striker went into a long and intelligent lecture upon the products of the soil in that section of indiana; what to avoid and what to cultivate; how to buy and how to sell; the traders one could trust and those who could not be trusted out of sight; the short corn crop of the year before and the way he lost half a dozen as fine shoats as you'd see in a lifetime on account of wild hogs coming out of the woods and enticin' 'em off. he interrupted himself at one stage in order to get up and close the door to the kitchen. zachariah was snoring lustily. "whenever you feel like goin' to bed, jist say so," he said at last, as his guest drew his huge old silver watch from his pocket and glanced at it. "i have been doing a little surmising, mr. striker," said the other. "you have only this sitting-room and one bedroom. the ladies are occupying the latter. my servant has gone to bed in the kitchen. i am wondering where you and i are to dispose ourselves." "i could see you was doin' some figgerin', friend. well, fer that matter, so was i. 'tain't often she comes to spend the night here, an' when she does me an' eliza give her our room an' bed an' we pull an extry straw tick out here in the room an' make the best of it. now, as i figger it out, eliza is usin' that straw tick herself, 'cause she certainly wouldn't ever dream of gettin' into bed with--with--er--her. not but what she's clean an' all that,--i mean eliza,--but you see, she used to be a hired girl once upon a time, an'--an'--well, that sort of makes a--" "my fellow-guest confided to me a little while ago that she too had been a hired girl, mr. striker, so i don't see--" "did she tell you that?" demanded phineas sharply. "she did," replied gwynne, enjoying his host's consternation. "well, i'll be tee-totally danged," exploded the settler. he got up suddenly and turning his back to his guest, knocked the burnt tobacco from his pipe against the stone arch of the fireplace. "i guess i better rake the ashes over these here coals," said he, "'cause if i don't an' the cabin took fire an' burnt us all alive eliza'd never git done jawin' me about it." presently he stood off and critically surveyed his work. "i guess that'll fix her so's she won't spit any sparks out here an' set fire to the carpet. as i was sayin', i reckon i'll have to make up a bed here in front of the fireplace fer myself, an' let you go up to the attic. we got a--" "i was afraid of this, mr. striker. you are putting yourselves out terribly on my account. i can't allow it, sir. it is too much to ask--" "now, don't you worry about us. you ain't puttin' us out at all. one night last winter,--the coldest night we had,--eliza an' me slep' on the kitchen floor with nary a blanket er quilt, an' i had to git up every half hour to put wood on the fire so's we wouldn't freeze to death, all because joe wadley an' his wife an' her father an' mother an' his sister with her three children dropped in sort of unexpected on account of havin' their two wagons git stuck in a snow drift a mile er so from here. no, sirree, don't you worry. there's a spare tick up in the attic what we use fer strangers when they happen along, an' zachariah has put your blankets right here by the door,--an' your pistols, too, i see,--so whenever you're ready, i'll lead the way up the ladder an' show you where you're to roost. there's a little winder at one end, so's you c'n have all the air you want,--an', my stars, there's a lot of it to-night, ain't there? jist listen to her whistle. sounds like winter. she's changed, though, an' i wouldn't be surprised if we'd find the moon is shinin'." chapter iv viola gwyn they stepped outside the cabin, into the fresh, brisk gale that was blowing. a gibbous moon hung in the eastern star-specked sky. scurrying moonlit clouds off in the west sped northward on the sweep of the inconstant wind, which had shifted within the hour. a light shone dimly through the square little window of the bedroom. kenneth's imagination penetrated to sacred precincts beyond the solid logs: he pictured her in the other frock, moving gracefully before the fascinated eyes of the settler's wife, proud as a peacock and yet as gay as the lark. "women like to talk," observed striker, with a sidelong glance at the lighted window. he led the way to the opposite end of the cabin and pointed off into the night. "lafayette's off in yan direction. there's a big stretch of open prairie in between, once you git out'n these woods, an' further on there's more timber. the town's down in a sort of valley, shaped somethin' like a saucer, with hills on all sides an' the river cuttin' straight through the middle. considerable buildin' goin' on this spring. there's talk of the baptists an' the methodists puttin' up new churches an' havin' regular preachers instead of the circuit riders. but you'll see all this fer yourself when you git there. plenty of licker to be had at sol hamer's grocery,--mostly mononga-durkee whisky,--in case you git the wabash shakes or suddenly feel homesick." "i drink very little," said kenneth. "well, you'll soon git over that," prophesied his host. "everybody does. a spell of aguer like we have along the river every fall an' winter an' spring will make you mighty thankful fer sol hamer's medicine, an' by the time summer comes you'll be able to stand more'n you ever thought you could stand. what worries me is how the women manage to git along without it. you see big strong men goin' around shakin' their teeth out an' docterin' day an' night at sol's, but i'll be doggoned if you ever see a woman takin' it. seems as if they'd ruther shake theirselves to death than tetch a drop o' whisky." "you would not have them otherwise, would you?" "why, if i ever caught my wife takin' a swaller o' whisky, i'd--well, by gosh, i don't know what i would do. first place, i'd think the world was comin' to an end, and second place, i guess i'd be glad it was. no, sirree, i don't want to see whisky goin' down a woman's gullet. but that don't explain how they come to git along without it when they've got the aguer. they won't even take it when a rattlesnake bites 'em. sooner die. an' in spite of all that, they bring he-children into the world that can't git over a skeeter bite unless they drink a pint or two of whisky. well, i guess we better go to roost, mr. gwynne. must be nine o'clock. everything's all right out at the barn an' the chicken coops. wolves an' foxes an' weasels visit us sometimes at night, but i got things fixed so's they go away hungry. in the day time, eliza's got an ole musket o' mine standin' in the kitchen to skeer the hawks away, an' i got a rifle in the settin' room fer whatever varmint comes along at night,--includin' hoss-thieves an' setch-like." "horse-thieves?" "yep. why, only last month a set of hoss-thieves from down the river went through the wea plains an' stole sixteen yearlin' colts, drove 'em down to the river, loaded 'em on a flat-boat an' got away without losin' a hair. done it on a sunday night, too." it was a few minutes past nine when kenneth followed his host up the ladder and through the trap-door into the stuffy attic. he carried his rough riding-boots, which zachariah had cleaned and greased with a piece of bacon-rind. "i'll leave the ladder here," said striker, depositing the candlestick on the floor. "so's i c'n stick my head in here in the mornin' an' rouse you up. there's your straw-tick over yander, an' i'll fotch your blankets up in a minute or two. i reckon you'll have to crawl on your hands an' knees; this attic wasn't built fer full-size men." "i will be all right," his guest assured him. "beggars cannot be choosers. a place to lay my head, a roof to keep the rain off, and a generous host--what more can the wayfarer ask?" the clapboard roof was a scant three feet above the dusty floor of the attic. stooping, the young man made his way to the bed-tick near the little window. he did not sniff with scorn at his humble surroundings. he had travelled long and far and he had slept in worse places than this. he was drawing off his boots when striker again stuck his head and shoulders through the opening and laid his roll of blankets on the floor. "eliza jist stuck her head out to tell me to shut this trap-door, so's my snorin' won't keep you awake. i fergot all about my snorin'. like as not if i left this door open the whole danged roof would be lifted right off'm the cabin 'fore i'd been asleep five minutes. well, good night. i'll call you in the mornin' bright an' early." the trap-door was slowly lowered into place as the shaggy head and broad shoulders of the settler disappeared. the young man heard the scraping of the ladder as it was being removed to a place against the wall. he pried open the tight little window, letting a draft of fresh air rush into the stifling attic. then he sat on the edge of the tick for a few minutes, ruminating, his gaze fixed thoughtfully on the sputtering, imperilled candle. finally he shook his head, sighed, and began to unstrap his roll of blankets. he had decided to remove only his coat and waistcoat. the sharp, staccato barking of a fox up in the woods fell upon his ears. he paused to listen. then came the faraway, unmistakable howl of a wolf, the solemn, familiar hoot of the wilderness owl and the raucous call of the great night heron. but there was no sound from the farmyard. he said his prayers--he never forgot to say the prayer his mother had taught him--blew out the candle, pulled the blankets up to his chin, and was soon fast asleep. he did not know what time it was when he was aroused by the barking of striker's dogs, loud, furious barking and ugly growls, signifying the presence in the immediate neighbourhood of the house of some intruder, man or beast. shaking off the sleep that held him, he crept to the window and looked out. the moon was gone and the stars had almost faded from the inky black dome. he guessed the hour with the acute instinct of one to whom the vagaries of night have become familiar through long understanding. it would now be about three o'clock in the morning, with the creeping dawn an hour and a half away. suddenly his gaze fell upon a light moving among the trees some distance from the cabin. it appeared and disappeared, like a jack o' lantern, but always it moved southward, obscured every few feet by an intervening trunk or a clump of brush. as he watched the bobbing light, he heard some one stirring in the room below. then the cabin door creaked on its rusty hinges and almost immediately a jumble of subdued hoarse voices came up to him. he felt for his pistols and realized with something of a shock that he had left them in the kitchen with zachariah. for the first time in his travels he had neglected to place them beside his bed. the dogs, admonished by a sharp word or two, ceased their barking. this reassured him, for they would obey no one except phineas striker. whoever was at the cabin door, there was no longer any question in his mind as to the peaceful nature of the visit. he crept over to the trap-door and cautiously attempted to lift it an inch or so, the better to hear what was going on, but try as he would he could not budge the covering. the murmur of voices went on for a few minutes longer, and then he heard the soft, light pad of feet on the floor below; sibilant, penetrating whispers; a suppressed feminine ejaculation followed by the low laugh of a man, a laugh that might well have been described as a chuckle. for a long time he lay there listening to the confused sound of whispers, the stealthy shuffling of feet, the quiet opening and closing of a door, and then there was silence. several minutes passed. he stole back to the window. the light in the forest had vanished. just as he was on the point of crawling into bed again, another sound struck his ear: the unmistakable rattle of wagon wheels on their axles, the straining of harness, the rasp of tug chains,--quite near at hand. the clack-clack of the hubs gradually diminished as the heavy vehicle made its slow, tortuous way off through the ruts and mire of the road. presently the front door of the cabin squealed on its hinges, the latch snapped and the bolt fell carefully into place. he could not go to sleep again. his brain was awake and active, filled with unanswered questions, beset by endless speculation. the first faint sign of dawn, creeping through the window, found him watching eagerly, impatiently for its appearance. the presence of a wagon, even at that black hour of the night, while perhaps unusual, was readily to be accounted for in more ways than one, none of them possessing a sinister significance. a neighbouring farmer making an early start for town stopping to carry out some friendly commission for phineas striker; a settler calling for assistance in the case of illness at his home; hunters on their way to the marshes for wild ducks and geese; or even guardians of the law in search of malefactors. but the mysterious light in the woods,--that was something not so easily to be explained. the square little aperture was clearly defined against the greying sky before he distinguished signs of activity in the room below. striker was up and moving about. he could hear him stacking logs in the fireplace, and presently there came up to him the welcome crackle of kindling-wood ablaze. a door opened and a gruff voice spoke. the settler was routing zachariah out of his slumbers. far off in some unknown, remote land a rooster crowed,--the day's champion, the first of all to greet the rising sun. almost instantly, a cock in striker's barnyard awoke in confusion and dismay, and sent up a hurried, raucous cock-a-doodle-doo,--too late by half a minute to claim the honours of the day, but still a valiant challenger. then other chanticleers, big and little, sounded their clarion call,--and the day was born. kenneth, despite his longing for this very hour to come, now perversely wished to sleep. a belated but beatific drowsiness seized him. he was only half-conscious of the noise that attended the lifting of the trap-door. "wake up! time to git up," a distant voice was calling, and he suddenly opened his eyes very wide and found himself staring at a shaggy, unkempt head sticking up out of the floor, rendered grim and terrifying by the fitful play of a ruddy light from the depths below. for a second he was bewildered. "that you, striker?" he mumbled. "yep,--it's me. time to git up. five o'clock. breakfass'll soon be ready. you c'n wash up out at the well. sleep well?" "passably. i was awakened some time in the night by your visitors." he was sitting up on the edge of the tick, drawing on his boots. striker was silent for a moment. "thought maybe you'd be disturbed, spite of all we could do to be as quiet as possible. people from a farm 'tother side of the plains." the head disappeared, and in a very few minutes gwynne, carrying his coat and waistcoat, descended the ladder into the presence of a roaring fire. he shot a glance at the closed bedroom door, and then hastily made his way out of the cabin and around to the well. eliza was preparing breakfast. in the grey half-light he made out striker and zachariah moving about the barnlot. a rough but clean towel hung across the board wall of the well, while a fresh bucket of water stood on the shelf inside, its chain hanging limply from the towering end of the "h'isting pole." as he completed his ablutions, the darkey boy approached. "good morning, zachariah," he spluttered, over the edge of the towel. "did you sleep well?" "no, suh, marse kenneth, ah slep' powerful porely. ah don't reckon ah had mah eyes close' more'n fifteen seconds all night long, suh." his master peered at him. zachariah's eyes were not yet thoroughly open. "you mean you did not have them open more than fifteen seconds, you rascal. why, you were asleep and snoring by nine o'clock." "yas, suh, yas, suh,--but ah done got 'em wide open ag'in 'side o' no time. ah jes' couldn't holp worryin', marse kenneth, 'bout you all. ah sez to mahself, ef marse kenneth he ain' got no fitten place to lay his weary haid--" "oh, then you were not kept awake by noises or--by the by, did you hear any noises?" "noises? no, suh! dis yere cabin hit was like a grave. thass what kep' me awake, mos' likely. ah reckon ah is used to noises. ah jes' couldn't go to sleep widdout 'em, marse kenneth. wuzzen't even a cricket er a--" his master's hearty laugh caused him to cut his speech short. a wary glance out of the corner of his eye satisfied him that it was now time to change the subject. "done fed de hosses, suh, an' mos' ready to packen up fo' de juhney, suh. yas, suh! ev'thing all hunky-dory jes' soon as marse kenneth done had his breakfuss. yas, suh! yas, suh!" they ate breakfast by candle-light, striker and eliza and kenneth. there was no sign of the beautiful and exasperating girl. phineas was strangely glum and preoccupied, his wife too busy with her flap-jacks to take even the slightest interest in the desultory conversation. "a little too early for my fellow-guest to be up and about, i see," ventured kenneth at last, taking the bull by the horns. his curiosity had to be satisfied. striker did not look up from his plate. "she's gone. she ain't here." "gone?" "yep. left jist a little while 'fore sun-up." "her ma sent for her," volunteered eliza. "sent fer her to come in a hurry," added striker, trying to be casual. "then it was she who went away in the wagon last night," said the young man, a note of disappointment in his voice. "airly this mornin'," corrected his host. "jist half an hour or so 'fore sun-up." "i trust her mother is not ill." "no tellin'," was striker's non-committal response. it was quite apparent to kenneth that they did not wish to discuss the matter. he waited a few moments before remarking: "i saw a light moving through the woods above here,--a lantern, i took it to be,--just after i was awakened by the barking of the dogs. i thought at first it was that which set the dogs off on a rampage." striker was looking at him intently under his bushy eyebrows, his knife poised halfway to his lips. while he could not see eliza, who was at the stove behind him, he was struck by the fact that there was a brief, significant suspension of activity on her part; the scrape of the "turnover" in the frying-pan ceased abruptly. "a lantern up in the woods?" said striker slowly, looking past gwynne at eliza. "a light. it may not have been a lantern." "which way was it movin'?" "in that direction," indicating the south. the turning of the flap-jacks in the pan was resumed. striker relaxed a little. "hunters, i reckon, goin' down stream for wild duck and geese this mornin'. there's a heap o' ducks an' geese passin' over--" "see here, phineas," broke in his wife suddenly, "what's the sense of sayin' that? you know it wasn't duck hunters. nobody's out shooting ducks with the river as high as it is down this way, an' mr. gwynne knows it, if he's got half as much sense as i think he has." "when i heard people out in front of the cabin shortly afterward, i naturally concluded that the lantern belonged to them," remarked the young man. "well, it didn't," said striker, laying down his knife. "i guess it won't hurt you to know now somethin' that will be of considerable interest to you later on. i ain't betrayin' nobody's secret, 'cause i said i was goin' to tell you the whole story." "don't you think you'd better let it come from somebody else, phin?" interposed his wife nervously. "no, i don't, eliza. 'cause why? 'cause i think he'd ort to know. maybe he'll be able to put a stop to her foolishness. we didn't know until long after you went to bed that her real reason fer comin' here yesterday was to run off an' get married to barry lapelle. she didn't tell you no lies about her clothes an' all that, 'cause her ma had put her foot down on her takin' off black. they had it all planned out beforehand, her an' this lapelle. he was to come fer her some time before daybreak with a couple of hosses an' they was to be off before the sun was up on their way to attica where they was to be married, an' then go on down the river to his home in terry hut. me an' eliza set up all night in that bedroom, tryin' to coax her out of it. i don't like this lapelle feller. he's a handsome cuss, but he's as wild as all get out,--drinks, gambles, an' all setch. well, to make a long story short, that was prob'ly him up yander on the ole injin trace, with his hosses, waitin' fer the time to come when they could be off. her ma must have found out about their plans, 'cause she come here herself with two of her hired men an' old cap'n scott, a friend of the fam'ly, an' took her daughter right out from under barry's nose. it was them you heared down here last night. i will say this fer the girl, she kinder made up her mind 'long about midnight that it was a foolish thing to do, runnin' off like this with barry, an' like as not when the time come she'd have backed out." "she's a mighty headstrong girl," said eliza. "sot in her ways an' sp'iled a good deal by goin' to school down to st. louis." "her mother don't want her to marry lapelle. she's dead sot ag'inst it. it's a mighty funny way fer the girl to act, when she's so fond of her mother. i can't understand it in her. all the more reason fer her to stick to her mother when it's a fact that the old woman ain't got what you'd call a friend in the whole deestrict. she's a queer sort of woman,--close an' stingy as all get out, an' as hard as a hickory log. never been seen at a church meetin'. she makes her daughter go whenever there's a meetin', but as fer herself,--no, sirree. 'course, i understand why she's so sot ag'inst barry. she's purty well off an' the girl will be rich some day." "shucks!" exclaimed eliza. "barry lapelle's after her 'cause she's the purtiest girl him or anybody else has ever seen. he ain't the only man that's in love with her. they all are,--clear from lafayette to terry hut, an' maybe beyond. don't you tell me it's her money he's after, phin striker. he's after her. he's got plenty of money himself, so they say, so why--" "i ain't so sure about that," broke in her husband. "there's a lot of talk about him gamblin' away most everything his father left him. lost one of his boats last winter in a poker game up at lafayette, an' had to borrer money on some land he's got down the river to git it back. the packet paul revere it was. used to run on the mississippi. i guess she kinder lost her head over him," he went on musingly. "he's an awful feller with women, so good-lookin' an' all, an' so different from the farm boys aroun' here. allus got good clothes on, an' they say he has fit a couple of duels down the river. somehow that allus appeals to young girls. but i can't understand it in her. she's setch a level-headed girl,--but, then, i guess they're all alike when a good-lookin' man comes along. look at eliza here. the minute she sot eyes on me she--" "i didn't marry you, phin striker, because you was purty, let me tell you that," exclaimed eliza, witheringly. gwynne, who had been listening to all this with a queer sinking of the heart, interrupted what promised to develop into an acrimonious wrangle over pre-connubial impressions. he was decidedly upset by the revelations; a vague dream, barely begun, came to a sharp and disagreeable end. "she actually had planned to run away with this man lapelle?" he exclaimed, frowning. "it was all arranged?" "so i take it," said striker. "she brought some of her personal trinkets with her, but eliza never suspected anything queer about that." "the fellow must be an arrant scoundrel," declared the young man angrily. "no gentleman would subject an innocent girl to such--" "all's well that ends well, as the feller says," interrupted striker, arising from the table. "at least fer the present. she seemed sort of willin' to go home with her ma, so i guess her heart ain't everlastingly busted. i thought it was best to tell you all this, mr. gwynne, 'cause i got a sneakin' idee you're goin' to see a lot of that girl, an' maybe you'll turn out to be a source of help in time o' trouble to her." "i fail to understand just what you mean, striker. she is an absolute stranger to me." "well, we'll see what we shall see," said striker, cryptically. he opened the kitchen door and called to zachariah to hurry in and get his breakfast. half an hour later kenneth and his servant mounted their horses in the barnyard and prepared to depart. the sun was shining and there was a taste and tang of spring in the breeze that flouted the faces of the horsemen. "follow this road back to the crossin' an' turn to your left," directed striker, "an' 'fore you know it you'll be in lay-flat, as they call it down in crawfordsville. remember, you're allus most welcome here. i reckon we'll see somethin' of each other as time goes on. it ain't difficult fer honest men to be friends as well as neighbours in this part of the world. i'm glad you happened my way last night." he walked alongside gwynne's stirrup as they moved down toward the road. "some day," said the young man, "i should like to have a long talk with you about my father. you knew him well and i--by the way, your love-lorn friend knew him also." the other was silent for half a dozen paces, looking straight ahead. "yes," said he, with curious deliberation. "she was sayin' as how she told you a lot about him last night,--what sort of a man he was, an' all that." "she told me nothing that--" "jist a minute, mr. gwynne," said striker, laying his hand on the rider's knee. kenneth drew rein. "i guess maybe you didn't know who she was talkin' about at the time, but it was your father she was describin'. we all three knowed somethin' that you didn't know, an' it's only fair fer me to tell you the truth, now that she's out of the way. that girl was viola gwyn, an' she's your half-sister." chapter v reflections and an encounter the sun was barely above the eastward wall of trees when kenneth and his man rode away from the home of phineas striker. their progress was slow and arduous, for the black mud was well up to the fetlocks of the horses in this new road across the boggy clearing. he rode ahead, as was the custom, followed a short distance behind by his servant on the strong, well-laden pack-horse. the master was in a thoughtful, troubled mood. he paid little attention to the glories of the fresh spring day. what he had just heard from the lips of the settler disturbed him greatly. that beautiful girl his half-sister! the child of his own father and the hated rachel carter! rachel carter, the woman he had been brought up to despise, the harlot who had stolen his father away, the scarlet wanton at whose door the death of his mother was laid! that evil woman, rachel carter! could she, this foulest of thieves, be the mother of so lovely, so sensitive, so perfect a creature as viola gwyn? as he rode frowningly along, oblivious to the low chant of the darkey and the song of the first spring warblers, he revisualized the woman he had known in his earliest childhood. strangely enough, the face of rachel carter had always remained more firmly, more indelibly impressed upon his memory than that of his own mother. this queer, unusual circumstance may be easily, reasonably accounted for: his grandfather's dogged, almost daily lessons in hate. he was not allowed to forget rachel carter,--not for one instant. always she was kept before him by that bitter, vindictive old man who was his mother's father,--even up to the day that he lay on his deathbed. small wonder, then, that his own mother's face had faded from his memory while that of rachel carter remained clear and vivid, as he had known it now for twenty years. the passing years might perforce bring about changes in the face and figure of rachel carter, but they could not, even in the smallest detail, alter the picture his mind's eye had carried so long and faithfully. he could think of her only as she was when he last saw her, twenty years ago: tall and straight, with laughing eyes and white teeth, and the colour of tan-bark in her cheeks. then there had been little minda,--tiny minda who existed vaguely as a name, nothing more. he had a dim recollection of hearing his elders say that the babe with the yellow curls had been drowned when a boat turned over far away in the big brown river. some one had come to his grandfather's house with the news. he recalled hearing the talk about the accident, and his grandfather lifting his fist toward the sky and actually blaming god for something! he never forgot that. his grandfather had blamed god! he had thought of asking striker about his father's widow, after hearing the truth about viola, but a stubborn pride prevented. it had been on his tongue to inquire when and where robert gwynne and rachel carter were married,--he did not doubt that they had been legally married,--but he realized in time that in all probability the settler, as well as every one else in the community, was totally uninformed as to the past life of robert and rachel gwynne. besides, the query would reveal an ignorance on his part that he was loath to expose to speculation. striker had explained the somewhat distasteful scrutiny to which he had been subjected the night before. all three of them, knowing him to be viola's blood relation, were studying his features with interest, seeking for a trace of family resemblance, not alone to his father but to the girl herself. this had set him thinking. there was not, so far as he could determine, the slightest likeness between him and his beautiful half-sister; there was absolutely nothing to indicate that their sire was one and the same man. pondering, he now understood what striker meant in declaring that he ought to know the truth about the frustrated elopement. even though the honest settler was aware of the strained relations existing between the widow and her husband's son by a former wife,--(the deceased in his will had declared in so many words that he owed more than mere reparation to the neglected but unforgotten son born to him and his beloved but long dead wife, laura gwynne),--even though striker knew all this, it was evident that he looked upon this son as the natural protector of the wilful girl, notwithstanding the feud between step-mother and step-son. and kenneth, as he rode away, felt a new weight of responsibility as unwelcome to him as it was certain to be to viola; for, when all was said and done, she was her mother's daughter and as such doubtless looked upon him through the mother's eyes, seeing a common enemy. still, she was his half-sister, and whether he liked it or not he was morally bound to stand between her and disaster,--and if striker was right, marriage with the wild lapelle spelled disaster of the worst kind. he had only to recall, however, the unaccountable look of hostility with which she had favoured him more than once during the evening to realize that he was not likely to be called upon for either advice or protection. he mused aloud, with the shrug of a philosopher: "heigh-ho! i fear me i shall have small say as to the conduct of this newly found relation. the only tie that bound us is gone. she is not only the child of my father, whom she feared and perhaps hated, but of mine enemy, whom she loves,--so the case is clear. there is a wall between us, and i shall not attempt to surmount it. what a demnition mess it has turned out to be. i came prepared to find only the creature i have scorned and despised, and i discover that i have a sister so beautiful that, not knowing her at all, my eyes are dazzled and my heart goes to thumping like any silly school boy's. aye, 'tis a very sorry pass. were it not so demned upsetting, it would be amusing. fate never played a wilder prank. what, ho, zachariah! where are we now? whose farm is that upon the ridge?" zachariah, urging his horse forward, consulted his memory. striker had mentioned the farms they were to pass en route, and the features by which they were to be identified. far away on a rise in the sweep of prairie-land stood a lonely cabin, with a clump of trees behind it. "well, marse kenneth, ef hit ain' de sherry place hit shorely am de sheridan place, an' ef hit ain't nuther one o' dem hit mus' belong to marse dimmit er---" "it is neither of these, you rascal. we are to the north of them, if i remember our directions rightly. mr. hollingsworth and the kisers live hereabouts, according to phineas striker. a house with a clump of trees,--it is mr. huff's farm. soon we will come to the martin and talbot places, and then the land that is mine, zachariah. it lies for the most part on this side of the crawfordsville road." "is yo' gwine to stop dere, marse kenneth?" "no. i shall ride out from town some day soon to look the place over," said his master with a pardonable lordliness of mien, becoming to a landed gentleman. "our affairs at present lie in the town, for there is much to be settled before i take charge. striker tells me the man who is farming the place is an able, honest fellow. i shall not disturb him. from what he says, my property is more desirable in every way than the land that fell to my father's widow. her farm lies off to our left, it seems, and reaches almost to the bottomlands of the river. we, zachariah, are out here in the fertile prairie land. our west line extends along the full length of her property. so, you see, the only thing that separates the two farms is an imaginary line no wider than your little finger, drawn by a surveyor and established by law. you will observe, my faithful fellow,--assuming that you are a faithful fellow,--that as we draw farther away from the woods along the river, the road becomes firmer, the soil less soggy, the--if you will cast your worthless eye about you, instead of at these mud-puddles, you will also observe the vast fields of stubble, the immense stretches of corn stalks and the signs of spring ploughing on all sides. truly 'tis a wonderful country. see yon pasture, zachariah, with the cows and calves,--a good score of them. and have you, by the way, noticed what a glorious day it is? this is life!" "yas, suh, marse kenneth, ah done notice dat, an' ah done notice somefin ailse. ah done notice dem buzzards flyin' low over yan way. dat means death, marse kenneth. somefin sho' am daid over yan way." "you are a melancholy croaker, zachariah. you see naught but the buzzards, when all about you are the newly come birds of spring, the bluebird, the robin, and the thrush. soon the meadow lark will be in the fields, and the young quail and the prairie-hen." "yas, suh," agreed zachariah, brightening, "an' de yaller-hammer an' de blue-jay an' de--an' de rattlesnake," he concluded, with a roving, uneasy look along the roadside. "do not forget the saucy parroquets we saw yesterday as we came through the forest. you went so far in your excitement over those little green and golden birds, with their scarlet heads, that you declared they reminded you of the garden of eden. look about you, zachariah. here is the garden of eden, right at your feet. do you see those plum trees over yonder? well, sir, old adam and eve used to sit under those very trees during the middle of the day, resting themselves in the shade. and right over there behind that big rock is where the serpent had his nest. he gave eve a plum instead of an apple, because eve was especially fond of plums and did not care at all for apples. she--" "'scuse me, marse kenneth, but dem is hawthorn trees," said zachariah, grinning. "so they are, so they are. now that i come to think of it, it was the red-haw that eve fancied more than any other fruit in the garden." "yas, suh,--an' ole adam he was powerful fond ob snappin'-turtles fo' breakfas'," said zachariah, pointing to a tortoise creeping slowly along the ditch. "an' lil cain an' abel,--my lan', how dem chillum used to gobble up de mud pies ole mammy eve used to make right out ob dish yere road we's ridin' on." and so, in this sportive mood, master and man, warmed by the golden sun and cheered by the spring wind of an april morn, traversed this new-found realm of cerus, forded the turbulent, swollen creek that later on ran through the heart of the gwynne acres, and came at length to the main road leading into the town. they passed log cabins and here and there pretentious frame houses standing back from the road in the shelter of oak and locust groves. their passing was watched by curious women and children in dooryards and porches, while from the fields men waved greeting and farewell with the single sweep of a hat. on every barn door the pelts of foxes and raccoons were stretched and nailed. presently they drew near to a lane reaching off to the west, and apparently ending in a wooded knoll, a quarter of a mile away. "there," said kenneth, with a wave of his hand, "is where i shall some day erect a mansion, zachariah, that will be the wonder and the envy of all the people in the country. for unless i am mistaken, that is the grove of oaks that striker mentioned. behold, zachariah,--all that is mine. four hundred acres of as fine farm-land as there is in all the world, and timber unparalleled. yes, i am right. there is the house that striker described, the place where my father lived he first came to the wea. egad, 'tis not a regal palace, is it, zachariah? the most imposing thing about it is the chimney." they were gazing at a cabin that squatted meekly over against the wall of oaks. its roof was barely visible above the surrounding stockade, while the barn and styes and sheds were hidden entirely beyond the slope. it was, in truth, the most primitive and insignificant house they had seen that day. "he was one of the first to build in this virgin waste," mused the young man aloud. "rough and parlous were the days when he came to this land, zachariah. there was no town of lafayette, no neighbours save the rude, uncultured trappers. now see how the times have changed. and, mark my guess, zachariah, there will be still greater changes before we are laid away. there will be cities and--ha! look, zachariah,--to the right of the grove. it is all as striker said. there is the other house,--two miles or more to the westward. that is her house. it is new, scarce two years old, built of lumber instead of logs, and quite spacious. there are, he tells me, two stories, containing four rooms, with a kitchen off the back, a smoke-house and a granary besides the barn,--yes, i see them all, just as he said we should see them after we rounded the grove." he drew rein and gazed at the distant house, set on a ridge and backed by the seemingly endless forest that stretched off to the north and south. his face clouded, his jaw was set, and his eyes were hard. "yes, that would be rachel carter's house," he continued, harshly. "her land and my land lying side by side, with only a fence between. her grain and my grain growing out of the same soil. what an unholy trick for fate to play. perhaps she is over there, even now. she and viola. it is not likely that they would have started for town at an earlier hour than this. and to think of the damnable situation i shall find in town. she will be my neighbour,--just as she was twenty years ago. we shall live within speaking distance of each other, we shall see each other perhaps a dozen times a day, and yet we may neither speak nor see. egad, i wonder what i'll do if she even attempts to address me! heigh-ho! 'tis the mischief of satan himself. come, zachariah,--you lazy rascal! as if you had not slept soundly all night long, you must now fall asleep sitting bolt upright in the saddle." and so on they rode again, at times breaking into a smart canter where the road was solid, but for the most part proceeding with irksome slowness through the evil slough. ahead lay the dense wood they were to traverse before coming to the town. soon the broad, open prairie would be behind them, they would be plunged into the depths of a forest primeval, wending their way through five miles of solitude to the rim of the vale in which the town was situated. but the forest had no terrors for them. they were accustomed to the long silences, the sombre shades, the seemingly endless stretches of wildwood wherein no mortal dwelt. they had come from afar and they were young, and hardy, and fearless. beyond that wide wall of trees lay journey's end; a new life awaited them on the other side of the barrier forest. suddenly zachariah called his master's attention to a horseman who rode swiftly, even recklessly across the fields to their left and well ahead of them. they watched the rider with interest, struck by the furious pace he was holding, regardless of consequences either to himself or his steed. "mus' be somebody pow'ful sick, marse kenneth, fo' dat man to be ridin' so fas'," remarked zachariah. "going for a doctor, i sup--begad, he must have come from rachel carter's farm! there is no other house in sight over in that direction. i wonder if--" he did not complete the sentence, but frowned anxiously as he looked over his shoulder at the distant house. judging by the manner and the direction in which he was galloping, the rider would reach the main road a quarter of a mile ahead of them, about at the point where it entered the wood. kenneth now made out an unfenced wagon-road through the field, evidently a short-cut from rachel carter's farm to the highway. he permitted himself a faint, sardonic smile. this, then, was to be her means of reaching the highway rather than to use the lane that ran past his house and no doubt crossed a section of his farm. sure enough the horseman turned into the road some distance ahead of them and rode straight for the forest. then, for the first time, gwynne observed a second rider, motionless at the roadside, and in the shadow of the towering, leafless trees that marked the portal through which they must enter the forest. the flying horseman slowed down as he neared this solitary figure, coming to a standstill when he reached his side. a moment later, both riders were cantering toward the wood, apparently in excited, earnest conversation. a few rods farther on, both turned to look over their shoulders at the slow-moving travellers. then they stopped, wheeled about, and stood still, awaiting their approach. kenneth experienced a poignant thrill of apprehension what was he to expect: a friendly or a sanguinary encounter? he slipped his right hand into the saddle pocket and drew forth a pistol which he shoved hastily inside his waistcoat, covering the stock with the folds of his cape. "keep a little way behind me," he said to his servant, a trace of excitement in his voice. "yas, suh," said zachariah, with more alacrity than valour, the whites of his eyes betraying something more than a readiness to obey this conservative order. it was a foregone conclusion that zachariah would turn tail and flee the instant there was a sign of danger. "slave hunters, marse kenneth, dat's what dey is," he announced with conviction. "ah c'n smell 'em five miles away. yas, suh,--dey's gwine a' make trouble fo' you, marse kenneth, sho' as you is--" but by this time he had dropped so far behind that his opinions were valueless. when not more than fifty yards separated the two parties, one of the men, with a word and an imperative jerk of the head to his companion, advanced slowly to meet kenneth. this man was the one who had waited for the other at the edge of the wood. gwynne beheld a tall, strongly built young man who rode his horse with the matchless grace of an indian. although his companion was roughly dressed and wore a coon-skin cap, this man was unmistakably a dandy. his high beaver hat observed a jaunty, rakish tilt; his brass-buttoned coat was the colour of wine and of the latest fashion, while his snug fitting pantaloons were the shade of the mouse. he wore no cumbersome cape, but fashioned about his neck and shoulders was a broad, sloping collar of mink. there were silver spurs on his stout riding boots, and the wide cuffs of his gauntlets were embroidered in silver. he was a handsome fellow of the type described as dashing. dark gleaming eyes peered out beneath thick black eyebrows which met in an unbroken line above his nose. set in a face of unusual pallor, they were no doubt rendered superlatively brilliant by contrast. his skin was singularly white above the bluish, freshly shaven cheeks and chin. his hair was black and long and curling. the thin lips, set and unsmiling, were nevertheless drawn up slightly at one corner of the mouth in what appeared to be a permanent stamp of superiority and disdain,--or even contempt. altogether, a most striking face, thought gwynne,--and the man himself a person of importance. the very manner in which he jerked his head to his companion was proof enough of that. "good morning," said this lordly gentleman, bringing his horse to a standstill and raising his "gad" to the brim of his hat in a graceful salute. gwynne drew rein alongside. he had observed in a swift glance that the stranger was apparently unarmed, except for the short, leather gad. "good morning," he returned. "i am on the right road to lafayette, i take it." "you are," said the other. "from crawfordsville way?" "yes. i left that place yesterday. i come from afar, however. this is a strange country to me." "it is strange to most of us. unless i am mistaken, sir, you are mr. kenneth gwynne." the other smiled. "my approach appears to be fairly well heralded. were i a vain person i should feel highly complimented." "then you are kenneth gwynne?" said the stranger, rather curtly. "yes. that is my name." "permit me to make myself known to you. my name is lapelle,--barry lapelle. while mine no doubt is unfamiliar to you, yours is well known to me. in fact, it is known to every one in these parts. you have long been expected. you will find the town anxiously awaiting your appearance." he smiled slightly. "if you could arrange to arrive after nightfall, i am sure you would find bonfires and perhaps a torchlight procession in your honour. as it is, i rather suspect our enterprising citizen, mr. william smith, will fire a salute when you appear in view." "a salute?" exclaimed kenneth blankly. "a joyful habit of his, but rather neglected of late. it used to be his custom, i hear, to put a charge of powder in a stump and set it off whenever a steamboat drew up to the landing. that was his way of letting the farmers for miles around know that a fresh supply of goods had arrived and they were to hurry in and do the necessary trading at the store. he almost blew himself and his store to hallelujah a year or two ago, and so he isn't quite so enterprising as he was. i am on my way to town, mr. gwynne, so if you do not mind, i shall give myself the pleasure of riding along with you for a short distance. i shall have to leave you soon, however, as i am due in the town by ten o'clock. you are too heavily laden, i see, to travel at top speed,--and that is the way i am obliged to ride, curse the luck. when i have set you straight at the branch of the roads a little way ahead, i shall use the spurs,--and see you later on." "you are very kind. i will be pleased to have you jog along with me." chapter vi barry lapelle so this was barry lapelle. this was the wild rake who might yet become his brother-in-law, and whose sprightly enterprise had been frustrated by a woman who had, herself, stolen away in the dark of a far-off night. as they rode slowly along, side by side, into the thick of the forest, kenneth found himself studying the lover's face. he looked for the signs of the reckless dissipated life he was supposed to have led,--and found them not. lapelle's eyes were bright and clear, his skin unblemished, his hand steady, his infrequent smile distinctly engaging. the slight, disdainful twist never left the corner of his mouth, however. it lurked there as a constant reminder to all the world that he, barry lapelle, was a devil of a fellow and was proud of it. while he was affable, there was no disguising the fact that he was also condescending. unquestionably he was arrogant, domineering, even pompous at times, absolutely sure of himself. he spoke with a slight drawl, in a mellow, agreeable voice, and with meticulous regard for the king's english,--an educated youth who had enjoyed advantages and associations uncommon to young men of the frontier. his untanned face testified to a life of ease and comfort, spent in sheltered places and not in the staining open, where sun and wind laid bronze upon the skin. a lordly fellow, decided kenneth, and forthwith took a keen dislike for him. nevertheless, it was not difficult to account for viola's interest in him; nor, to a certain extent, the folly which led her to undertake the exploit of the night before. barry lapelle would have his way with women. "you come from kentucky, mr. gwynne," lapelle was saying. "i am from louisiana. my father came up to st. louis a few years ago after establishing a line of steamboats between terre haute and the gulf. two of our company's boats come as far north as lafayette, so i spend considerable of my time there at this season of the year. you will find, sir, a number of kentucky and virginia people in this part of the state. splendid stock, some of them. i understand you have spent several years in the east, at college and in pursuit of your study of the law." "principally in new york and philadelphia," responded the other, subduing a smile. "my fame seems to have preceded me, mr. lapelle. even in remote parts of the country i find my arrival anticipated. the farmer with whom i spent the night was thoroughly familiar with my affairs." "you are an object of interest to every one in this section," said lapelle, indifferently. "where did you spend the night?" "at the farm of a man named striker,--phineas striker." lapelle started. his body appeared to stiffen in the saddle. "phineas striker?" he exclaimed, with a swift, searching look into the speaker's eyes. suddenly a flush mantled his cheek. "you were at phineas striker's last night?" "yes. we had lost our way and came to his place just before the storm," said kenneth, watching his companion narrowly. lapelle's face was a study. doubt, indecision, even dismay, were expressed in swift succession. "then you must have met,--but no, it isn't likely," he said, in some confusion. kenneth hesitated a moment, enjoying the other's discomfiture. then he said: "i met no one there except my sister, who also happened to be spending the night with the strikers." the colour faded from lapelle's face, leaving it a sickly white. "were you in any way responsible for--well, for her departure, mr. gwynne?" he demanded, his eyes flaming with swift, sudden anger. "i was not aware of her departure until i arose this morning, mr. lapelle. striker informed me that she went away before sunrise." for a moment lapelle glared at him suspiciously, and then gave vent to a short, contemptuous laugh. "a thousand apologies," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "i might have known you would not be consulted." "i never laid eyes on my half-sister until last night," said kenneth, determined to hold his temper. "it is not likely that she would have asked the advice of a total stranger, is it? especially in so simple a matter as going home when she felt like it." lapelle shrugged his shoulders again. "i quite forgot that you are a lawyer, mr. gwynne," he said, drily. "is it your purpose to hang out your shingle in the town of lafayette?" "my plans are indefinite." "you could do worse, i assure you. the town is bound to grow. it will be an important town in a very few years." and so the subject uppermost in the minds of both was summarily dismissed. they came at last to the point where a road branched off to the right. the stillness was intense. there was no sign of either human or animal life in the depths of this wide, primeval forest. "follow this road," said lapelle, pointing straight ahead. "it will take you into the town. you will find the bridge over durkee's run somewhat shaky after the rain, but it is safe. i must leave you here. i shall no doubt see you at johnson's inn, in case you intend to stop there. good morning, sir." he lifted his hat and, touching the spirited mare with the gad, rode swiftly away. a few hundred feet ahead he overtook his mud-spattered friend and the two of them were soon lost to sight among the trees. kenneth fell into profound cogitation. evidently lapelle had waited at the edge of the forest for a report of some description from the farmhouse belonging to rachel carter. in all probability viola was still at the farm with her mother, and either she had sent a message to her lover or had received one from him. or, it was possible, lapelle had despatched his man to the farmhouse to ascertain whether the girl was there, or had been hurried on into the town by her mother. in any case, the disgruntled lover was not content to acknowledge himself thwarted or even discouraged by the miscarriage of his plans of the night just ended. kenneth found himself wondering if the incomprehensible viola would prove herself to be equally determined. if so, they would triumph over opposition and be married, whether or no. he was conscious of an astounding, almost unbelievable desire to stand with rachel carter in her hour of trouble. his thoughts went back, as they had done more than once that morning, to viola's artful account of his own father. he had felt sorry for her during and after the recital and now, with the truth revealed to him, he was even more concerned than before,--for he saw unhappiness ahead of her if she married this fellow lapelle. he went even farther back and recalled his own caustic opinions of certain young rakes he had known in the east, wherein he had invariably asseverated that if he "had a sister he would sooner see her dead than married to that rascal." well,--here he was with a sister,--and what was he to do about it? zachariah, observing the dark frown upon his master's face, and receiving no answer to a thrice repeated question, fell silent except for the almost inaudible hymn with which he invited consolation. from afar in the thick wood now came the occasional report of a gun, proof that hunters were abroad. many times kenneth was roused from his reverie by the boom and whiz of pheasants, or the ring of a woodman's axe, or the lively scurrying of ground squirrels across his path. they forded three creeks before emerging upon a boggy, open space, covered with a mass of flattened, wind-broken reeds and swamp grass, in the centre of which lay a wide, still bayou partially fringed by willows with the first sickly signs of spring upon them in the shape of timid mole-ear leaves. beyond the bridge over the canal-like stream which fed the bayou was a ridge of hills along whose base the road wound with tortuous indecision. the first log cabin they had seen since entering the wood nestled among the scrub oaks of the hill hard by. the front wall of the hut was literally covered with the pegged-up skins of foxes, raccoons and what were described to kenneth as the hides of "linxes," but which, in reality, were from the catamount. a tall, bewhiskered man, smoking a corncob pipe, leaned upon the rail fence, regarding the strangers with lazy interest. kenneth drew rein and inquired how far it was to lafayette. "'bout two mile an' a half," replied the man. "my name is stain, isaac stain. i reckon you must be mister kenneth gwynne. i heerd you'd be along this way some time this mornin'." "i suppose mr. lapelle informed you that i was coming along behind," said kenneth, smiling. "'twuzn't barry lapelle as told me. i hain't seen him to-day." "didn't he pass here within the hour?" "nope," was the laconic response. "i met him back along the road. he was coming this way." "must 'a' changed his mind." "he probably took another road." "there hain't no other road. i reckon he turned off into the wood an' 'lowed you to pass," said mr. stain slowly. "but he was in great haste to reach town. he may have passed when you were not--" "he didn't pass this place unless he was astraddle of an eagle er somethin' like that," declared the other, grinning. "an' even then he'd have to be flyin' purty doggone high ef i couldn't see him. nope. i guess he took to the woods, mr. gwynne, for one reason er 'nother,--an' it must ha' been a mighty good reason, 'cause from what i know about barry lapelle he allus knows which way he's goin' to leap long before he leaps. he's sorter like a painter in that way." kenneth, knowing that he meant panther when he said painter, was properly impressed. "it is very strange," he said, frowning. it was suddenly revealed to him that if lapelle had tricked him it was because the messenger had brought word from viola, at the farmhouse, and that the baffled lovers might even now be laying fresh plans to outwit the girl's mother. this fear was instantly dissipated by the next remark of isaac stain. "nope. it wuzn't him that told me about you, pardner. it wuz violy gwyn. she went by here with her ma, jes' as i wuz startin' off to look at my traps,--'long about seven o'clock, i reckon,--headed for town. she sez to me, sez she: 'ike, there'll be a young man an' a darkey boy come ridin' this way some time this forenoon an' i want you to give him a message for me.' 'with pleasure,' sez i; 'anything you ask,' sez i. 'well,' sez she, 'it's this. fust you ask him ef his name is kenneth gwynne, an 'ef he sez it is, then you look an' see ef he is a tall feller an' very good-lookin', without a beard, an' wearin' a blue cape, an' when you see that he answers that description, why, you tell him to come an' see me as soon as he gits to town. tell him it's very important.' 'all right,' sez i, 'i'll tell him.'" "where was her mother all this time?" "settin' right there in the buggy beside her, holdin' the reins. where else would she be?" "did she say anything about my coming to see her daughter?" "nope. she never said anythin' 'cept 'good mornin', ike,' an' i sez 'good mornin', mrs. gwyn.' she don't talk much, she don't. you see, she's in mournin' fer her husband. i guess he wuz your pa, wuzn't he?" "yes," said kenneth briefly. "was there anything else?" "nothin' to amount to anything. violy sez, 'when did you get the linx skins, ike?' an' i sez, 'last friday, miss violy,' an' she sez, 'ain't they beautiful?' an' i sez--" "she wants me to come to her house?" broke in kenneth, his brow darkening. "i reckon so." "well, i thank you, mr. stain. you are very kind to have waited so long for me to arrive. i--" "oh, i'd do a whole lot more'n that fer her," said the hunter quickly. "you see, i've knowed her ever since she wuz knee-high to a duck. she wuzn't more'n five or six when i brung her an' her folks up the wabash in my perogue, all the way from vincennes, an' it wuz me that took her down to st. louis when she went off to school--her an' some friends of her pa's. skinny, gangling sort of a young 'un she wuz, but let me tell you, as purty as a picter. i allus said she'd be the purtiest woman in all creation when she got her growth an' filled out, an', by hokey, i wuz right. yes, sir, i used to run a boat on the river down below, but i give it up quite awhile ago an' come up here to live like a gentleman." he waved his hand proudly over his acre and a half estate. "i wuz talkin' to bill digby not long ago an' he sez this is a wonderful location for a town, right here at the fork of two o' the best fishin' cricks in the state. an' bill he'd ort to know, 'cause he's laid out more towns than anybody i know of. the only trouble with bill is that as soon as he lays 'em out somebody comes along an' offers him a hundred dollars er so fer 'em, er a team of hosses, er a good coon dog, an' he up an' sells. now, with me, i--got to be movin' along, have you? well, good-bye, an' be a little keerful when you come to durkee's run bridge. it's kinder wobbly." they were fording a creek some distance beyond stain's cabin when kenneth broke the silence that had followed the conversation with the hunter by exploding violently: "under no circumstances,--and that's all there is to it." zachariah, ever ready to seize an opportunity to raise his voice, either in expostulation or agreement, took this as a generous opening. he exclaimed with commendable feeling: "yas, suh! undeh no suckemstances! no, suh!" "it is not even to be thought of," declared his master, frowning heavily. "no, suh! we can't even think about it, marse kenneth," said zachariah, a trifle less decisively. "so that is the end of it,--absolutely the end." "dat's what ah say,--yas, suh, dat's what ah say all along, suh!" his master suddenly turned upon him. "i cannot go to that woman's house. it is unthinkable, zachariah." zachariah began to see light. "yo' all got to be mighty car'ful 'bout dese yere strange women, marse kenneth. don' you forget what done happen in 'at ole garden of eden. dis yere old eve, she--" "still i am greatly relieved to know that she is in town and not out on the farm. it is a relief, isn't it, zachariah?" "yas, suh,--hit sho'ly am." they progressed slowly up a long hill and came to an extensive clearing, over which perhaps half a dozen farmhouses were scattered. beyond this open space they entered a narrow strip of wood and, upon emerging, had their first glimpse of the wabash river. stopping at the brow of the hill, they looked long and curiously over the valley into which they were about to descend. the panorama was magnificent. to the left flowed the swollen, turgid river, high among the willows and sycamores that guarded the low-lying bank. far to the north it could be seen, a clayish, ugly monster, crawling down through the heart of the bowl-like depression. mile after mile of sparsely wooded country lay revealed to the gaze of the travellers, sunken between densely covered ridges, one on either side of the river. half a mile beyond where they stood feathery blue plumes of smoke rose out of the tree tops and, dispersing, floated away on the breeze,--and there lay the town of lafayette, completely hidden from view. the road wound down the hill and across a clumsily constructed bridge spanning the run and thence along the flat shelf that rimmed the bottom-land, through a maze of wild plum and hazel brush squatting, as it were, at the feet of the towering forest giants that covered the hills. presently the travellers came upon widely separated cabins and gardens, and then, after passing through a lofty grove, found themselves entering the town itself. signs of life and enterprise greeted them from all sides. here, there and everywhere houses were in process of erection,--log-cabins, frame structures, and even an occasional brick dwelling-place. turning into what appeared to be a well-travelled road,--(he afterwards found it to be wabash street), kenneth came in the course of a few minutes to the centre of the town. here was the little brick courthouse and the jail, standing in the middle of a square which still contained the stumps of many of the trees that originally had flourished there. at the southwest corner of the square was the tavern, a long story and a half log house,--and it was a welcome sight to gwynne and his servant, both of whom were ravenously hungry by this time. the former observed, with considerable satisfaction, that there were quite a number of substantial looking buildings about the square, mostly stores, all of them with hitching-racks along the edge of the dirt sidewalks. as far as the eye could reach, in every direction, the muddy streets were lined with trees. half a dozen men were standing in front of the tavern when the newcomers rode up. kenneth dismounted and threw the reins to his servant. landlord johnson hurried out to greet him. chapter vii the end of the long road "we've been expecting you, mr. gwynne," he said in his most genial manner. "step right in. dinner'll soon be ready, and i reckon you must be hungry. take the hosses around to the stable, nigger, and put 'em up. i allowed you'd be delayed some by the bad roads, but i guess you must have got a late start this mornin' from phin striker's. mrs.--er--ahem! i mean your step-mother sent word that you were on the way and to have accommodations ready for you. say, i'd like to make you acquainted with--" "my step-mother sent word to you?" demanded kenneth, incredulously. "she did. what would you expect her to do, long as she knew you were headed this way? i admit she isn't specially given to worryin' about other people's comforts, but, when you get right down to it, i guess she considers you a sort of connection of hers, spite of everything, and so she lays herself out a little. but i want to tell you one thing, mr. gwynne, you're not going to find her particularly cordial, as the sayin' is. she's about as stand-offish and unneighbourly as a kickapoo indian. but, as i was sayin', i'd like to make you acquainted with some of our leadin' citizens. this is daniel bugher, the recorder, and doctor davis, matt scudder, tom benbridge and john mccormick. it was moved and seconded, soon as you heaved in sight, that we repair at once to sol hamer's grocery for a little--" "excuse me," broke in kenneth, laughing; "i have heard of that grocery, and i think it would be wise for me to become a little better acquainted with my surroundings before i begin trading there." the landlord rubbed his chin and the other gentlemen laughed uproariously. "well," said the former, "i can see one thing mighty plain. you're going to be popular with my wife and all the other women in town. they'll point to you and say to practically nine-tenths of the married men in lafayette: 'there's a man that don't drink, and goodness knows he isn't a preacher!'" "i am hardly what you would call a teetotaler, gentlemen," said gwynne, still smiling. "wait till you get down with a spell of the wabash shakes," said mr. mccormick. "that'll make a new man of him, won't it, doc?" "depends somewhat on his constitution and the way he was brought up," said the doctor, with a professional frown which slowly relaxed into an unprofessional smile. "i was brought up by my grandmother," explained kenneth, vastly amused. "that settles it," groaned mr. johnson. "you're not long for this world. before we go in i wish you'd take a look at the new courthouse. we're mighty proud of that building. there isn't a finer courthouse in the state of indiana,--or maybe i'd better say there won't be if it's ever finished." "i noticed it as i came by," said the newcomer, dismissing the structure with a glance. "if you will conduct me to my room, mr. johnson, i--" "just a second," broke in the landlord, his gaze fixed on a horseman who had turned into the street some distance below. "here comes barry lapelle,--down there by that clump of sugar trees. he's the most elegant fellow we've got in town, and you'll want to know him. makes lafayette his headquarters most of the--" "i have met mr. lapelle," interrupted kenneth. "this morning, out in the country." "you don't say so!" exclaimed johnson. the citizens exchanged a general look of surprise. "thought you said he went down the river on yesterday's boat," said scudder. "that's just what he did," said johnson, puzzled. "packed some of his things and said he'd be gone a week or so. he must have got off at attica,--but, no, he couldn't have got here this soon by road. by glory, i hope the boat didn't strike a snag or a rock, or run ashore somewhere. looks kind of serious, boys." "couldn't he have landed almost anywhere in a skiff?" inquired gwynne, his eyes on the approaching horseman. "certainly he could,--but why? he had business down at covington, he said." "he told me this morning he had very important business here. that is why he could not ride in with me," said kenneth, affecting indifference. "by the way, is he riding his own horse?" "yes," said benbridge. "that's his mare fancy,--thoroughbred filly by king philip out of shawnee belle. he sent her down to joe fell's to stud yesterday and--say, that accounts for him being on her now. you made a good guess, mr. gwynne. he must have landed at la grange, rowed across the river, and hoofed it up to fell's farm. but what do you suppose made him change his mind so suddenly?" "he'll probably tell you to go to thunder if you ask him," said the landlord. "i'm not going to ask him anything," retorted benbridge. "he's working tooth and nail against the wabash and erie canal that's projected to run from lake erie to the mouth of the tippecanoe, mr. gwynne," said one of the citizens. "but it's coming through in spite of him and all the rest of the river hogs." "i see," said the young man, a grim smile playing about his lips. he knew that the mare fancy had been in waiting for her master when he clambered ashore on the river bank opposite la grange, and he also suspected that the little steamboat had remained tied up at the landing all night long and well into the morning, expecting two passengers who failed to come aboard. he could not suppress a chuckle of satisfaction. lapelle rode up at this instant and, throwing the bridle rein to a boy who had come running up from the stable, dismounted quickly. he came straight to gwynne, smiling cordially. "i see you beat me in. after we parted i decided to cut through the woods to have a look at jack moxley's keel boat, stuck in the mud on this side of the river. you'd think the blame fool would have sense enough to keep well out in mid stream at a time like this. happy to have you here with us, and i hope you will like us well enough to stay." "thank you. i shall like you all better after i have had something to eat," said kenneth. "and drink," added lapelle. it was then that kenneth noticed that his eyes were slightly blurred and his voice a trifle thick. he had been drinking. "what turned you back, barry?" inquired mccormick. "thought you were to be gone a week or--" "changed my mind," said lapelle curtly, and then, apparently on second thought, added: "i got off the boat at la grange and crossed over to spend the night at martin hawk's, the man you saw with me this morning, mr. gwynne. he is a hunter down middleton way. i fish and hunt with him a good deal. well, i reckon i'd better go in and get out of these muddy boots and pants." without another word, he strode up the steps, across the porch and into the tavern, his head high, his gait noticeably unsteady. "martin hawk!" growled the landlord. "the orneriest cuss this side of hell. plain no-good scalawag. barry'll find it out some day, and then maybe he'll wish he had paid some attention to what i've been tellin' him." "wouldn't surprise me a bit if mart knows a whole lot more about what became of some mighty good yearlin' colts that used to belong to honest men down on the wea," said one of the group, darkly. "i wouldn't trust mart hawk as far as i could throw a thousand pound rock," observed mr. johnson, compressing his lips. "well, come on in, mr. gwynne, and slick up a bit. the dinner bell will be ringin' in a few minutes, and i want you to meet the cook before you risk eatin' any of her victuals. my wife's the cook, so you needn't look scared. governor noble almost died of over-feedin' the last time he was here,--but that wasn't her fault. and my daughters, big and little, seem anxious to get acquainted with the celebrated kenneth gwynne. people have been talkin' so much about you for the last six months that nearly everybody calls you by your first name, and jim crouch's wife is so taken with it that she has made up her mind to call her baby kenneth,--that is, providing nature does the right thing. next week some time, ain't it, doc?" "that's what most everybody in town says, bob," replied the doctor solemnly, "so i guess it must be true." "we begin counting the inhabitants of the town as far as a month ahead sometimes," explained mr. mccormick drily. "i don't know as we've been out of the way more than a day or a day-and-a-half on any baby that's been born here in the last two years. hope to see you in my store down there, mr. gwynne--any time you're passing that way. you can't miss it. it's just across the street from that white frame building with the green stripes running criss-cross on the front door,--joe hanna's store." "robert gwyn's son is always welcome at my store and my home," said another cordially. "we didn't know till last fall that he had a son, and--well, i hope you don't mind my saying we couldn't believe it at first." "you spell the name different from the way he spelled it," answered bugher, the recorder. "i noticed it in your letters, and it struck me as queer." "my father appears to have reverted to the original way of spelling the name," said kenneth, from the upper step. "my forebears were welsh, you see. the manner of spelling it was changed when they came to america, over a hundred years ago." his bedroom was in the small wing off the dining-room. its one window looked out upon the courthouse, the view being somewhat restricted by the presence of a pair of low-branched oak trees in the side-yard, almost within arm's length of the wall,--they were so close, in fact, that their limbs stretched out over the rough shingle roof, producing in the wind an everlasting sound of scratching and scraping. there was a huge four-poster feather bed of mountainous proportions, leaving the occupant scant space in which to move about the room. "last people to occupy this room," said mr. johnson, standing in the doorway, "were george ripley and edna cole, three weeks ago last night. they came in from the grand prairie and only stayed the one night. had to get back to the farm next day on account of it bein' wash-day. i guess i forgot to say they were on their weddin'-trip. generally speaking, it takes about three years for people to get over callin' a girl by her maiden name,--so you needn't think there was anything wrong about george and edna stayin' here. i wish you could have been here to drive out to the infare at her pa's house two nights after the weddin'. it was the biggest ever held on that side of the river,--and as for the shiveree,--my lord, it was something to talk about. tin cans, cowbells, shot-guns, tenor-drums,--but i'm keeping you, mr. gwynne. you'll find water in that jug over there, and a towel by the lookin' glass. come out when you're ready." when kenneth returned to the dining-room, he found johnson waiting there with his wife and two of his comely daughters. they were presented to the new guest with due informality, and then the landlord went out upon the front porch to ring the dinner-bell. "i guess you won't be stayin' here long, mr. gwynne," said mrs. johnson. "your mother,--i should say, your step-mother,--has got your house all ready for you to move right in. job turner moved out last week, and she took some of the furniture and things over so's you could be sort of at home right away." observing his start, and the sudden tightening of his lips, she went on complacently: "'twasn't much trouble for her. your house isn't more than fifty yards from hers,--just across lots, you might say. she--" kenneth, forgetting himself in his agitation, interrupted her with the startling question: "where does rachel carter live?" "rachel who?" he collected his wits, stammering: "i believe that was her name before she--before she married my father." "oh, i see. her name is rachel, of course. well, her house is up columbia street,--that's the one on the other side of the square,--almost to the hill where isaac edwards has his brickyard, just this side of the swamp." after dinner, which was eaten at a long table in company with eight or ten "customers," to whom he was introduced by the genial host, he repaired to the office of recorder bugher. "everything's in good shape," announced bugher. "there ain't a claim against the property, now that mrs. gwyn has given up her idea of contesting the will. the property is in your name now, mr. gwynne,--and that reminds me that your father, in his will, spells your name with a double n and an e, while he spells hers with only one n. he took into consideration the fact that you spelled your name in the new-fangled way, as you say he used to spell it in kentucky. and that also accounts for his signing the will 'robert gwyn, formerly known as robert gwynne.' it's legal, all right, properly witnessed and attested by two reliable men of this county." "i have seen a copy of the will." "another queer thing about it is that he bequeathed certain property to you as 'my son, kenneth gwynne,'--while he fails to mention his daughter viola at all, except to say that he bequeaths so-and-so to 'rachel gwyn, to give, bequeath and devise as she sees fit.' of course, viola, by law, is entitled to a share of the estate and it should have been so designated. judge wylie says she can contest the will if she so desires, on the ground that she is entitled to as much as you, mr. gwynne. but she has decided to let it stand as it is, and i guess she's sensible. all that her mother now has will go to her when said rachel dies, and as it will be a full half of the estate instead of what might have been only a third, i guess she's had pretty good advice from some one." "the fact that my half-sister was not mentioned in the will naturally led me to conclude that no such person existed. i did not know till this morning, mr. bugher, that i had a half-sister." "well," began the recorder, pursing his lips, "for that matter she didn't know she had a half-brother till the will was read, so she was almost as ignorant as you." "it's all very strange,--exceedingly strange." "when did your own mother die, if it's a fair question?" "in the year . my father was away when she died." "off to the war, i suppose." "yes," said the young man steadily. "off to the war," he lied, still staring out of the window. "i was left with my grandparents when he went off to make his fortune in this new country. it was not until i was fairly well grown that we heard that he was married to a woman named rachel carter." "well, i guess it's something you don't like to talk about," said mr. bugher, and turned his attention to the records they were consulting. later the young man called at the office of mr. cornell, the lawyer who had charge of his affairs. he had come to lafayette prepared to denounce rachel carter, to drive her in shame and disgrace from the town, if necessary. now he found himself confronted by a condition that distressed and perplexed him; his bitter resolve was rudely shaken and he was in a dire state of uncertainty. he was faced by a most unexpected and staggering situation. to denounce rachel carter would be to deliberately strike a cruel, devastating blow at the happiness and peace of an innocent person,--viola gwyn, his own half-sister. a word from him, and that lovely girl, serene in her beliefs, would be crushed for life. the whole scheme of life had been changed for him in the twinkling of an eye, as it were. he could not wreak vengeance upon rachel carter without destroying viola gwyn,--and the mere thought of that caused him to turn cold with repugnance. how could he publish rachel carter's infamy to the world with that innocent girl standing beside her to receive and sustain the worst of the shock? impossible! viola must be spared,--and so with her, rachel carter! then there was the strange message he had received from viola, through the hunter, stain. what was back of the earnest request for him to come and see her at her mother's house? was she in trouble? was she in need of his help? was she depending upon him, her blood relation, for counsel in an hour of duress? he was sadly beset by conflicting emotions. in the course of his interview with the lawyer, from whom he had decided to withhold much that he had meant to divulge, he took occasion to inquire into the present attitude of rachel carter,--or gwyn, as he reluctantly spoke of her,--toward him, an open and admitted antagonist. "well," said cornell, shaking his head, "i don't believe you will catch her asking any favours of you. she has laid down her arms, so to speak, but that doesn't mean she intends to be friendly. as a matter of fact, she simply accepts the situation,--with very bad grace, of course,--but she'll never be able to alter her nature or her feelings. she considers herself cheated, and that's all there is to it. i doubt very much whether she will even speak to you, mr. gwynne. she is a strange woman, and a hard one to understand. she fought desperately against your coming here at all. one of her propositions was that she should be allowed to buy your share of the estate, if such a transaction could be arranged, you will remember. you declined to consider it. this was after she withdrew her proposed contest of the will. then she got certain crawfordsville men interested in the purchase of your land, and they made you a bona fide offer,--i think they offered more than the property is worth, by the way. i think, back of everything, she could not bear the thought of you, the son of a former wife, living next door to her. jealousy, i suppose,--but not unnatural, after all, in a second wife, is it? they're usually pretty cantankerous when it comes to the first wife's children. as regards her present attitude, i think she'll let you alone if you let her alone." "my sister has asked me to come up to the house to see her this afternoon," said kenneth. the lawyer looked surprised. "is that so? well," with a puzzled frown, "i don't quite understand how she came to do that. i was under the impression that she felt about as bitterly toward you as her mother does. in fact, she has said some rather nasty things about you. boasted to more than one of her friends that she would slap your face if you ever tried to speak to her." kenneth smiled, a reminiscent light in his eyes. "she has done so, figuratively speaking, mr. cornell. i am confident she hates me,--but if that's the case, why should she leave word for me to come and see her?" "experience has taught me that women have a very definite object in view when they let on as if they had changed their minds," was the judicial opinion of mr. cornell. "maybe they don't realize it, but they are as wily as the devil when they think, and you think, and everybody else thinks, they're behaving like an angel. it's not for me to say whether you should go to see her or not, but i believe i would if i were in your place. maybe she has made up her mind to be friendly, on the surface at least, and as you are bound to meet each other at people's houses, parties, and all such, perhaps it would be better to bury the hatchet. i think you will be quite safe in going up there to-day, so far as mrs. gwyn is concerned. she will not appear on the scene, i am confident. you will not come in contact with her. you say that she has put some of her furniture at your disposal, but she doubtless did so on the advice of her lawyer. you must not forget that your father, in his will, left half of his personal effects to you. she is just smart enough to select in advance the part that she is willing for you to have, feeling that you will not be captious about it." "i have no desire to exact anything of--" "quite so, quite so," broke in the lawyer. "but she could not be expected to know that. she is a long-headed woman, mr. gwynne. i suspect she is considerably worried about viola. your half-sister is being rather assiduously courted by a young man named lapelle. mrs. gwyn does not approve of him. she is strait-laced and--er--puritanical." "puritanical, eh?" said kenneth, with a short laugh that mr. cornell totally misinterpreted. "barry isn't exactly what you would call sanctimonious," admitted the lawyer, with a dry smile. "the worst of it is, i'm afraid viola is in love with him." his client was silent for a moment, reflecting. then he arose abruptly and announced: "i agree with you, mr. cornell. i will go up to see her this afternoon. i bear her no grudge,--and after all, she is my sister. good day, sir. i shall give myself the pleasure of calling in to see you to-morrow." chapter viii rachel carter kenneth strolled about the town for awhile before returning to the tavern to shave, change his boots, and "smarten" himself up a bit in preparation for the ceremonious call he had dreaded to make. on all sides he encountered the friendliest interest and civility from the townspeople. the news of his arrival had spread over the place with incredible swiftness. scores of absolute strangers turned to him and tendered to him the welcome to be found in a broad and friendly smile. shortly after three o'clock he set forth upon his new adventure. assailed by a strange and unaccustomed timidity,--he would have called it bashfulness had viola been other than his sister--he approached the young lady's home by the longest and most round-about way, a course which caused him to make the complete circuit of the three-acre pond situated a short distance above the public square--a shallow body of water dignified during the wet season of the year by the high-sounding title of "lake stansbury," but spoken of scornfully as the "slough" after the summer's sun had reduced its surface to a few scattered wallows, foul and green with scum. it was now full of water and presented quite an imposing appearance to the new citizen as he skirted its brush-covered banks; in his ignorance he was counting the probability of one day building a handsome home on the edge of this tiny lake. a man working in a garden pointed out to him mrs. gwyn's house half-hidden among the trees at the foot of a small slope. "that other house, a couple of hundred foot further on,--you can just see it from here,--well, that belonged to robert gwyn. i understand his long-lost son is comin' to live in it one of these days. they say this boy when he was a baby was stolen by the injins and never heard of ag'in until a few months ago. lived with the injins right up to the time he was found and couldn't speak a word of english. i have heard that he--what are ye laughin' at, mister?" "i was laughing at the thought of how surprised you are going to be some day, my friend. thank you. the house with the green window blinds, you say?" he proceeded first to the house that was to be his home. it was a good stone's throw from the pretentious two-story frame structure in which rachel carter and her daughter lived, but nearer the centre of the town when approached by a more direct route than he had followed. this smaller house, an insignificant, weather-beaten story and a half frame, snuggling among the underbrush, was where his father had lived when he first came to lafayette. later on he had erected the larger house and moved into it with his family, renting the older place to a man named turner. it was faced by a crudely constructed picket fence, once white but now mottled with scales of dirty sun-blistered paint, and inside the fence rank weeds, burdocks and wild grass flourished without hindrance. he strode up the narrow path to the low front door. finding it unlocked, he opened it and stepped into the low, roughly plastered sitting-room. the window blinds were open, permitting light and air to enter, and while the room was comparatively bare, there was ample evidence that it had been made ready for occupancy by a hand which, though niggardly, was well trained in the art of making a little go a long way. the bedroom and the kitchen were in order. there were rag carpets on the floors, and the place was immaculately clean. a narrow, enclosed stairway ran from the end of the sitting-room to the attic, where he discovered a bed for his servant. out at the back was the stable and a wagonshed. these he did not inspect. a high rail fence stretched between the two yards. as he walked up the path to the front door of the new house, he was wondering how viola gwyn would look in her garb of black,--the hated black she had cast aside for one night only. he was oppressed by a dull, cold fear, assuaged to some extent by the thrill of excitement which attended the adventure. what was he to do or say if the door was opened by rachel carter? his jaw was set, the palms of his hands were moist, and there was a strange, tight feeling about his chest, as if his lungs were full and could not be emptied. after a moment's hesitation, he rapped firmly on the door with his bare knuckles. the door was opened by a young coloured woman who wore a blue sunbonnet and carried a red shawl over her arm. "is miss viola at home?" he inquired. "is dis mistah gwynne, suh?" "yes." "come right in, suh, an' set down." he entered a small box of a hallway, opening upon a steep set of stairs. "right in heah, suh," said the girl, throwing open a door at his left. as he walked into this room, he heard the servant shuffling up the staircase. he deposited his hat and gloves on a small marble-top table in the centre of the room and then sent a swift look of investigation about him. logs were smouldering in the deep, wide fireplace at the far end of the room, giving out little spurts of flame occasionally from their charred, ash-grey skeletons. the floor was covered with a bright, new rag carpet, and there was a horse-hair sofa in the corner, and two or three stiff, round-backed little chairs, the seats also covered with black horse-hair. a thick, gilt-decorated holy bible lay in the centre of the marble-top table, shamed now by contact with the crown of his unsaintly hat. on the mantel stood a large, flat mahogany clock with floral decorations and a broad, white face with vivid black numerals and long black hands. the walls were covered with a gaudy but expensive paper, in which huge, indescribable red flowers mingled regularly with glaring green leaves. two "mottoes," worked in red and blue worsted and framed with narrow cross-pieces of oak, hung suspended in the corners beside the fireplace. one of them read "god bless our home," the other a sombre line done in black: "faith, hope and charity." three black oval oak frames, laden with stiff leaves that glistened under a coat of varnish, contained faded, unlovely portraits,--one of a bewhiskered man wearing a tall beaver hat and a stiff black stock: another of a sloping-shouldered woman with a bonnet, from which a face, vague and indistinct, sought vainly to emerge. the third contained a mass of dry, brown leaves, some wisps of straw, and a few colourless pressed blossoms. on a table in front of one of the two windows stood a spindling dutch lamp of white and delft blue, with a long, narrow chimney. there were two candlesticks on the mantel. all these features of the room he took in while he stood beside the centre table, awaiting the entrance of viola gwyn. he heard a door open softly and close upstairs, and then some one descending the steps; a few words spoken in the subdued voice of a woman and the less gentle response of the darky servant, who mumbled "yas'm," and an instant later went out by the front door. through the window he saw her go down the walk, the red shawl drawn tightly about her shoulders. he smiled. the clever viola getting rid of the servant so that she could be alone with him, he thought, as he turned toward the door. a tall woman in black appeared in the doorway, paused there for a second or two, and then advanced slowly into the room. he felt the blood rush to his head, almost blinding him. his hand went out for the support of the table, his body stiffened and suddenly turned cold. the smile with which he intended to greet viola froze on his lips. "god al--" started to ooze from his stiff lips, but the words broke off sharply as the woman stopped a few steps away and regarded him steadily, silently, unsmilingly. he stood there like a statue staring into the dark, brilliant eyes, sunken deep under the straight black eyebrows. even in the uncertain light from the curtained windows he could see that her face was absolutely colourless,--the pallor of death seemed to have been laid upon it. swiftly she lifted a hand to her throat, her eyes closed for a second and then flew wide open again, now filled with an expression of utter bewilderment. "is it--is it you, robert? is it really you, or am i--" she murmured, scarcely above a whisper. once more she closed her eyes, tightly; as if to shut out the vision of a ghost,--an unreal thing that would not be there when she looked again. the sound of her voice released him from the brief spell of stupefaction. "i know you. i remember you. you are rachel carter," he said hoarsely. she was staring at him as if fascinated. her lips moved, but no sound issued from them. he hesitated for an instant and then turned to pick up his hat and gloves. "i came to see your daughter, madame,--as well you know. permit me to take my departure." "you are so like your--" she began with an effort, her voice deep and low with emotion. "so like him i--i was frightened. i thought he had--" she broke off abruptly, lowered her head in an attempt to hide from him the trembling lips and chin, and to regain, if possible, the composure that had been so desperately shaken. "wait!" she cried, stridently. "wait! do not go away. give me time to--to--" "there is no need for us to prolong--" he began in a harsh voice. "i will not keep you long," she interrupted, every trace of emotion vanishing like a shadow that has passed. she was facing him now, her head erect, her voice steady. her dark, cavernous eyes were upon him; he experienced an odd, indescribable sensation,--as of shrinking,--and without being fully aware of what he was doing, replaced his hat upon the table, an act which signified involuntary surrender on his part. "where is viola?" he demanded sternly. "she left word for me to come here. where is she?" "she is not here," said the woman. he started. "you don't mean she has--has gone away with--" "no. she has gone over to spend the afternoon with effie wardlow. i will be frank with you. this is not the time for misunderstanding. she asked isaac stain to give you that message at my request,--or command, if you want the truth. i sent her away because what i have to say to you must be said in private. there is no one in the house besides ourselves. will you do me the favour to be seated? very well; we will stand." she turned away to close the hall door. then she walked to one of the windows and, drawing the curtain aside, swept the yard and adjacent roadway with a long, searching look. the strong light fell full upon her face; its warmth seemed suddenly to paint the glow of life upon her pallid skin. he gazed at her intently. out of the past there came to him with startling vividness the face of the rachel carter he had known. despite the fact that she was now an old woman,--he knew that she must be at least forty-six or -seven,--she was still remarkably handsome. she was very tall, deep-chested, and as straight as an arrow. her smoothly brushed hair was as black as the raven's wing. time and the toil of long, hard hours had brought deep furrows to her cheeks, like lines chiselled in a face of marble, but they had not broken the magnificent body of the rachel carter who used to toss him joyously into the air with her strong young arms and sure hands. but there was left no sign of the broad, rollicking smile that always attended those gay rompings. her lips were firm-set, straight and unyielding,--a hard mouth flanked by what seemed to be absolutely immovable lines. her chin was square; her nose firm and noticeably "hawk-like" in shape; her eyes clear, brilliant and keenly penetrating. she faced him, standing with her back to the light. "sooner or later we would have had to meet," she said. "it is best for both of us to have it over with at the very start." "i suppose you are right," said he stiffly. "you know how i feel toward you, rachel carter. there is nothing either of us can say that will make the situation easier or harder, for that matter." "yes,--i understand," said she calmly. "you hate me. you have been brought up to hate me. i do not question the verdict of those who condemned me, but you may as well understand at once that i do not regret what i did twenty years ago. i have not repented. i shall never repent. we need not discuss that side of the question any farther. you know my history, kenneth gwynne. you are the only person in this part of the world who does know it. when the controversy first came up over the settlement of your father's estate, i feared that you would reveal the story of my--" he held up his hand, interrupting her. "permit me to observe, rachel carter, that for many months after being notified of my father's death and the fact that he had left me a portion of his estate, i was without positive proof as to the identity of the woman mentioned in the correspondence as his widow. it was not until a copy of the will was forwarded to me that i was sure. by that time i had made up my mind to keep my own counsel. i can say to you now, rachel carter, that i do not intend to rake up that ugly story. i do not make war on helpless women." her lips writhed slightly, and her eyes narrowed as if with pain. it was but a fleeting exposition of vulnerability, however, for in another instant she had recovered. "you could not have struck harder than that if you had been warring against a strong man," she said gently. a hot flush stained his cheek. "it is the way i feel, nevertheless, rachel carter," he said deliberately. "you can think of me only as rachel carter," she said. "my name is rachel gwyn. still it doesn't matter. i am past the point where i can be hurt. you may tell the story if it suits your purpose. i shall deny nothing. it may even give you some satisfaction to see me wrap my soiled robes about me and steal away, leaving the field to you. i can sell my lands to-morrow and disappear. it will matter little whether i am forgotten or not. the world is large and i am not without fortitude. i wanted you to come here to-day, to see me alone, to hear what i have to say,--not about myself,--but about another. i am a woman of quick decisions. when i learned early this morning that you would be in lafayette to-day, i made up my mind to take a certain step,--and i have not changed it." "if you are referring to your daughter--to my half-sister, if you will--i have only to remind you that my mind is already made up. you need have no fear that i shall do or say anything to hurt that innocent girl. i am assuming, of course, that she knows nothing of--well, of what happened back there in kentucky." "she knows nothing," said the woman, in a voice strangely low and tense. "if she ever knew, she has forgotten." "forgotten?" he cried. "good god, how could she have forgotten a thing so--" she moved a step nearer, her burning eyes fixed on his. "you remember rachel carter well enough. have you no recollection of the little girl you used to play with? minda? the babe who could scarcely toddle when you--" "of course i remember her," he cried impatiently. "i remember everything. you took her away with you and--why did you not leave her behind as my father left me? why could you not have been as fair to your child as he was to his?" she was silent for a moment, pondering her answer. "i do not suppose it has ever occurred to you that i might have loved my child too deeply to abandon her," she said, a strange softness in her voice. "my father loved me," he cried out, "and yet he left me behind." "he loved you,--yes,--but he would not take you. he left you with some one who also loved you. don't ever forget that, kenneth gwynne. i would not go without minda. no more would your mother have gone without you. stop! i did not mean to offend. so you do remember little minda?" "yes, i remember her. but she is dead. why do you mention her--" "minda is not dead," said she slowly. "not--why, she was drowned in the--" "no. minda is alive. you saw her last night,--at phineas striker's house." he started violently. "the girl i saw last night was--minda?" he cried. "why, striker told me she was--" "i know,--i know," she interrupted impatiently. "striker told you what he believed to be true. he told you she was robert gwyn's daughter and your half-sister. but i tell you now that she is minda carter. there is not a drop of gwyn blood in her body." "then, she is not my half-sister?" he exclaimed, utterly dazed, but aware of the exquisite sensation of relief that was taking hold of him. "she is no blood relation of yours." "but she is,--yes, now i understand,--she is my step-sister," he said, with a swift fall of spirits. "i suppose that is what you might call her," said rachel gwyn, indifferently. "i have not given it much thought." "does she know that she is not my father's daughter?" "no. she believes herself to be his own flesh and blood,--his own daughter," said she with the deliberateness of one weighing her words, that they might fall with full force upon her listener. "why are you telling me all this?" he demanded abruptly. "what is your object? if she does not know the truth, why should i? good god, woman, you--you do not expect me to tell her, do you? was that your purpose in getting me here? you want me to tell her that--" "no!" she cried out sharply. "i do not want you or any one else to do that. listen to me. i sha'n't beat about the bush,--i will not waste words. so far as viola and the world are concerned, she is robert gwyn's daughter. that is clear to you, is it not? she was less than two years old when we came away,--too young to remember anything. we were in the wilderness for two or three years, and she saw but one or two small children, so that it was a very simple matter to deceive her about her age. she is nearly twenty-two now, although she believes she is but nineteen. she does not remember any other father than robert gwyn. she has no recollection of her own father, nor does she remember you. she--" "last night she described her father to me," he interrupted. "her supposed father, i mean. she made it quite plain that he did not love her as a father should love his own child." "it was not that," she said. "he was afraid of her,--mortally afraid of her. he lived in dread of the day when she would learn the truth and turn upon him. he always meant to tell her himself, and yet he could not find the courage. toward the end he could not bear to have her near him. it would not be honest in me to say that he loved her. i do not believe he would have loved a child if one had come to him and me,--no child of mine could take the place you had in his heart." she spoke with calm bitterness. "you say she told you about him last night. i am not surprised that she should have spoken of him as she did. it was not possible for her to love him as a father. nature took good care of that. there was a barrier between them. she was not his child. the tie of blood was lacking. nature cannot be deceived. she has never told me what her true feelings toward him were, but i have sensed them. i could understand. i think she is and always has been bewildered. it is possible that away back in her brain there is something too tiny to ever become a thought, and yet it binds her to a man she does not even remember. but we are wasting time. you are wondering why i have told you the truth about viola. the secret was safe, so why should i reveal it to you,--my enemy,--isn't that what you are thinking?" "yes. i don't quite grasp your motive in telling me, especially as i am still to look upon viola as my half-sister. i have already stated that under no circumstances will i hurt her by raking up that old, infamous story. i find myself in a most difficult position. she believes herself to be my sister while i know that she is not. it must strike even you, rachel carter, as the ghastliest joke that fate ever played on a man,--or a woman, either." "i have told you the truth, because i am as certain as i am that i stand here now that you would have found it all out some day,--some day soon, perhaps. in the first place your father did not mention her in his will. that alone is enough to cause you to wonder. you are not the only one who is puzzled by his failure to provide for her as well as for you. before long you would have begun to doubt, then to speculate, and finally you would have made it your business to find out why she was ignored. in time you could have unearthed the truth. the truth will always out, as the saying goes. i preferred to tell it to you at once. you understand i cannot exact any promises from you. you will do as you see fit in the matter. there is one thing that you must realize, however. viola has not robbed you of anything--not even a father's love. she does not profit by his death. he did not leave her a farthing, not even a spadeful of land. i am entitled to my share by law. the law would have given it to me if he had left no will. i am safe. that is clear to you, of course. i earned my share,--i worked as hard as he did to build up a fortune. when i die my lands and my money will go to my daughter. you need not hope to have any part of them. i do not ask you to keep silent on my account. i only ask you to spare her. if i have sinned,--and in the sight of man, i suppose i have,--i alone should be punished. but she has not sinned. i have thought it all out carefully. i have lain awake till all hours of the night, debating what was the best thing to do. to tell you or not to tell you, that was the question i had to settle. this morning i decided and this is the result. you know everything. there is no need for you to speculate. there is nothing for you to unravel. you know who viola is, you know why she was left out of your father's will. the point is this, when all is said,--she must never know. she must always,--do you hear me?--she must always look upon you as her brother. she must never know the truth about me. i put her happiness, her pride, her faith, in your hands, kenneth gwynne." he had listened with rigid attention, marvelling at the calm, dispassionate, unflinching manner in which she stated her case and viola's,--indeed, she had stated his own case for him. apparently she had not even speculated on the outcome of her revelations; she was sure of her ground before she took the first step. "there is no other course open to me," he said, taking up his hat. he was very pale. "there is nothing more to say,--now or hereafter. we have had, i trust, our last conversation. i hate you. i could wish you all the unhappiness that life can give, but i am not such a beast as to tell your daughter what kind of a woman you are. so there's the end. good-day, rachel carter." he turned away, his hand was on the door-latch, before she spoke again. "there is something more," she said, without moving from the spot where she had stood throughout the recital. the same calm, cold voice,--the same compelling manner. "it was my pleading, back in those other days, that finally persuaded robert gwyn to let me bring minda up as his daughter. he was bitterly opposed to it at first. he never quite reconciled himself to the deception. he did not consider it being honest with her. he was as firm as a rock on one point, however. he would bring her up as his daughter, but he would not give her his name. it was after he agreed to my plan that he changed the spelling of his own name. she was not to have his name,--the name he had given his own child. that was his real reason for changing his name, and not, as you may suspect, to avoid being traced to this strange land." "a belated attempt to be fair to me, i suppose," he said, ironically. "as you like," she said, without resentment. "in the beginning, as i have told you, he believed it to be his duty to tell her the truth about herself. he was sincere in that. but he did not have the heart to tell her after years had passed. now let me tell you what he did a few weeks before he passed away,--and you will know what a strange man he was. he came home one day and said to me: 'i have put viola's case in the hands of providence. you may call it luck or chance if you like, but i call it providence. i cannot go to her face to face and tell her the truth by word of mouth, but i have told her the whole story in writing.' i was shocked, and cried out to know if he had written to her in st. louis. he smiled and shook his head. 'no, i have not done that. i have written it all out and i have hidden the paper in a place where she is not likely to ever find it,--where i am sure she will never look. i will not even tell you where it is hidden,--for i do not trust you,--no, not even you. you would seek it out and destroy it.' how well he knew me! then he went on to say, and i shall never forget the solemn way in which he spoke: 'i leave it all with providence. it is out of my hands. if she ever comes across the paper it will be a miracle,--and miracles are not the work of man. so it will be god himself who reveals the truth to her.' now you can see, kenneth, that the secret is not entirely in our keeping. there is always the chance that she may stumble upon that paper. i live in great dread. my hope now is that you will find it some day and destroy it. i have searched in every place that i can think of. i confess to that. it is hidden on land that some day will belong to viola,--that much he confided to me. it is not on the land belonging to you,--nor in your house over there." "you are right," he said, deeply impressed. "there is always the chance that it will come to light. there is no telling how many times a day she may be within arm's length of that paper,--perhaps within inches of it. it is uncanny." he cast a swift, searching look about the room, as if in the hope that his eyes might unexpectedly alight upon the secret hiding place. "he could not have hidden it in this house without my knowing it," she said, divining his thought. he was silent for a moment, frowning reflectively. "are you sure that no one else knows that she is not his daughter?" "i am sure of it," she replied with decision. "and there is nothing more you have to tell me?" "nothing. you may go now." without another word he left her. he was not surprised by her failure to mention the early morning episode at striker's cabin. his concluding question had opened the way; it was clear that she had no intention of discussing with him the personal affairs of her daughter. nevertheless he was decidedly irritated. what right had she to ask him to accept viola as a sister unless she was also willing to grant him the privileges and interests of a brother? certainly if viola was to be his sister he ought to have something to say about the way she conducted herself,--for the honour of the family if for no other reason. as he walked rapidly away from the house in the direction of main street, he experienced a sudden sense of exaltation. viola was not his sister! as suddenly came the reaction, and with it stark realization. viola could never be anything to him except a sister. chapter ix brother and sister as he turned into main street he espied the figure of a woman coming toward him from the direction of the public square. she was perhaps a hundred yards farther down the street and was picking her way gingerly, mincingly, along the narrow path at the roadside. his mind was so fully occupied with thoughts of a most disturbing character that he paid no attention to her, except to note that she was dressed in black and that in holding her voluminous skirt well off the ground to avoid the mud-puddles, she revealed the bottom of a white, beruffled petticoat. his meditations were interrupted and his interest suddenly aroused when he observed that she had stopped stock-still in the path. after a moment, she turned and walked rapidly, with scant regard for the puddles, in the direction from which she had come. fifteen or twenty paces down the road, she came to what was undoubtedly a path or "short cut" through the wood. into this she turned hastily and was lost to view among the trees and hazel-brush. he had recognized her,--or rather he had divined who she was. he quickened his pace, bent upon overtaking her. then, with the thrill of the hunter, he abruptly whirled and retraced his steps. with the backwoodsman's cunning he hastened over the ground he had already traversed, chuckling in anticipation of her surprise when she found him waiting for her at the other end of the "short cut." he had noticed a path opening into the woods at a point almost opposite his own house, and naturally assumed that it was the one she was now pursuing in order to avoid an encounter with him. his long legs carried him speedily to the outlet and there he posted himself. he could hear her coming through the brush, although her figure was still obscured by the tangle of wildwood; the snapping of dead twigs under her feet; the scuffling of last year's leaves on the path, now wet and plastered with mud and the slime of winter; the swish of branches as she thrust them aside. she emerged, breathless, into a little open spot, not twenty feet away, and stopped to listen, looking back through the trees and underbrush to see if she was being followed. her skirts were drawn up almost to the knees and pinched closely about her grey-stockinged legs. he gallantly turned away and pretended to be studying the house across the road. presently he felt his ears burning; he turned to meet the onslaught of her scornful, convicting eyes. she had not moved. her hands, having released the petticoat, were clenched at her sides. her cheeks were crimson, and her dark eyes, peering out from the shade of the close-fitting hood of her black bonnet, smouldered with wrath,--and, if he could have read them better, a very decided trace of maidenly dismay. "ah, there you are," he cried, lifting his hat. "i was wondering whether you would come out at this--" "can't you see i am trying to avoid you?" she demanded with extreme frigidity. "i rather fancied you were," said he easily. "so i hurried back here to head you off. i trust you will not turn around and run the other way, now that i have almost trapped you. because if you do, i shall catch up with you in ten jumps." "i wish you would go away," she cried. "i don't want to see you,--or talk to you." "then why did you leave word for me to come to your house to see you?" he challenged. "i suspect you know by this time," she replied, significantly. he hesitated, regarding her with some uneasiness. "what do you mean?" he fenced. "well, you surely know that it was my mother who wanted to see you, and not i," she said, almost insolently. "are you going to keep me standing here in the mud and slush all day?" "no, indeed," he said. "please come out." "not until you go away." "why don't you want to talk to me? what have i done?" "you know very well what you have done," she cried, hotly. "in the first place, i don't like you. you have made it very unpleasant for my mother,--who certainly has never done you any harm. in the second place, i resent your interference in my affairs. wait! do not interrupt me, please. maybe you have not exactly interfered as yet, but you are determined to do so,--for the honour of the family, i suppose." she spoke scathingly. "i defy you,--and mother, too. i am not a child to be--" "i must interrupt you," he exclaimed. "i haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about." "don't lie," she cried, stamping her foot. "give me credit for a little intelligence. don't you suppose i know what mother wanted to see you about? there! i can see the guilty look in your eyes. you two have been putting your heads together, in spite of all the ill-will you bear each other, and there is no use in denying it. i am a naughty little girl and my big brother has been called in to put a stop to my foolishness. if you--what are you laughing at, mr. gwynne?" she broke off to demand furiously. "i am laughing at you," he replied, succinctly. "you are like a little girl in a tantrum,--all over nothing at all. little girls in tantrums are always amusing, but not always naughty. permit me to assure you that your mother and i have not discussed your interesting affair with mr. lapelle. we talked of business mat--" "then," she cried, "how do you happen to know anything about mr. lapelle and me? aha! you're not as clever as you think you are. that slipped out, didn't it? now i know you were discussing my affairs and nothing else. well, what is the verdict? what are you going to do to me? lock me in my room, or tie me hand and foot, or--please stay where you are. it is not necessary to come any nearer, mr. gwynne." he continued his advance through the thicket, undeterred by the ominous light in her eyes. she stood her ground. "i think we had better talk the matter over quietly,--viola," he said, affecting sternness. "we can't stand here shouting at each other. it is possible we may never have another chance to converse freely. as a matter of fact, i do not intend to thrust myself upon you or your mother. that is understood, i hope. we have nothing in common and i daresay we can go our own ways without seriously inconveniencing one another. i want you to know, however, that i went to that house over there this afternoon because i thought you wanted to consult with me about something. i was prepared to help you, or to advise you, or to do anything you wanted me to do. you were not there. i felt at first that you had played me a rather shabby trick. your mother,--my step-mother,--got me there under false pretences, solely for the purpose of straightening out a certain matter in connection with the--well, the future. she doubtless realized that i would not have come on her invitation, so she used you as a decoy. in any event, i am now glad that i saw her and talked matters over. it does not mean that we shall ever be friendly, but we at least understand each other. for your information i will state that your mother did not refer to the affair at striker's, nor did i. i know all about it, however. i know that you went out there to meet lapelle. you planned to run away with him and get married. i may add that it is a matter in which i have not the slightest interest. if you want to marry him, all well and good. do so. i shall not offer any objection as a brother or as a counsellor. if you were to ask for my honest opinion, however, i should--" "i am not asking for it," she cried, cuttingly. "--i should advise you to get married in a more or less regular sort of way in your mother's home." "thank you for the advice," she said, curtly. "i shall get married when and where i please,--and to whom i please, mr. gwynne." "in view of the fact that i am your brother, viola, i would suggest that you call me kenneth." "i have no desire to claim you as a brother, or to recognize you as one," said she. he smiled. "with all my heart i deplore the evil fate that makes you a sister of mine." she was startled. "that--that doesn't sound very--pretty," she said, a trifle dashed. "the god's truth, nevertheless. at any rate, so long as you have to be my sister, i rejoice in the fact that you are an extremely pretty one. it is a great relief. you might have turned out to be a scarecrow. i don't mind confessing that last night i said to myself, 'there is the most beautiful girl in all the world,' and i can't begin to tell you how shocked i was this morning when striker informed me that you were my half-sister. he knocked a romantic dream into a cocked hat,--and--but even so, sister or no sister, viola, you still remain beyond compare the loveliest girl i have ever seen." there was something in his eyes that caused her own to waver,--something that by no account could be described as brotherly. she looked away, suddenly timid and confused. it was something she had seen in barry lapelle's eyes, and in the eyes of other ardent men. she was flustered and a little distressed. "i--i--if you mean that," she said, nervously, "i suppose i--ought to feel flattered." "of course, i mean it,--but you need not feel flattered. truth is no form of flattery." she had recovered herself. "who told you about barry lapelle and me?" she demanded. "you mean about last night's adventure?" he countered, a trifle maliciously. she coloured. "i suppose some one has--oh, well, it doesn't matter. i sha'n't ask you to betray the sneak who--" "tut, tut, my dear viola! you must not--" "don't call me your dear viola!" "well, then, my dear sister,--surely you cannot expect me to address you as miss gwyn?" in mild surprise. "just plain viola, if you must have a name for me." "that's better," said he, approvingly. "whoever told you was a sneak," she said, wrathfully. she turned her face away, but not quickly enough to prevent his seeing her chin quiver slightly. "at any rate, it was not your mother," he said. "i have striker's permission to expose what you call his treachery. he thought it was his duty to tell me under the circumstances. and while i am about it, i may as well say that i think you conspired to take a pretty mean advantage of those good and faithful friends. you deceived them in a most outrageous manner. it wasn't very thoughtful or generous of you, viola. you might have got them into very serious trouble with your mother,--who, i understand, holds the mortgage on their little farm and could make it extremely unpleasant for them if she felt so inclined." she was staring at him in wide-eyed astonishment, her red lips slightly parted. she could not believe her ears. why, he was actually scolding her! she was being reprimanded! he was calmly, deliberately reproving her, as if she were a mischievous child! amazement deprived her momentarily of the power of speech. "to be sure," he went on reflectively, "i can appreciate the extremities to which you were driven. the course of true love was not running very smoothly. no doubt your mother was behaving abominably. mothers frequently do behave that way. this young man of yours may be,--and i devoutly hope he is,--a very worthy fellow, one to whom your mother ought to be proud and happy to see you married. in view of her stand in the matter, i will go so far as to say that you were probably doing the right thing in running away from home to be married. i think i mentioned to you last night that i am of a very romantic nature. lord bless you, i have lain awake many a night envying the dauntless gentlemen of feudal days who bore their sweethearts away in gallant fashion pursued by ferocious fathers and a score or more of blood-thirsty henchmen. ah, that was the way for me! with my lady fair seated in front of me upon the speeding palfrey, my body between her and the bullets and lances and bludgeons of countless pursuers! zounds! odds blood! gadzooks! and so forth! not any of this stealing away in the night for me! ah, me! how different we are in these prosaic days! but, even so, if i were you, the next time i undertake to run away with the valiant mr. lapelle i should see to it that he does his part in the good old-fashioned way. and i should not drag such loyal, honest folk as striker and his wife into the business and then ride merrily off, leaving them to pay the piper." his heart smote him as he saw her eyes fill with tears. he did not mistake them for tears of shame or contrition,--far from it, he knew they were born of speechless anger. he had hurt her sorely, even deliberately, and he was overcome by a sudden charge of compassion--and regret. he wanted to comfort her, he wanted to say something,--anything,--to take away the sting of chastisement. he was not surprised when she swept by him, her head high, her cheeks white with anger, her stormy eyes denying him even so much as a look of scorn. he stood aside, allowing her to pass, and remained motionless, gazing after her until she turned in at her own gate and was lost to view. he shook his head dubiously and sighed. "little minda," he mused, under his breath. "you were my playmate once upon a time,--and now! now what are you? a rascal's sweetheart, if all they say is true. gad, how beautiful you are!" he was walking slowly through the path, his head bent, his eyes clouded with trouble. "and how you are hating me at this moment. what a devil's mess it all is!" his eye fell upon something white lying at the edge of the path a few feet ahead. it was a neatly folded sheet of note paper. he stood looking down at it for a moment. she must have dropped it as she came through. it was clean and unsoiled. a message, perhaps, from barry lapelle, smuggled to her through the connivance of a friendly go-between,--the girl she had gone to visit, what was her name? he stooped to pick it up, but before his fingers touched it he straightened up and deliberately moved it with the toe of his boot to a less exposed place among the bushes, where he would have failed to see it in passing. then he strode resolutely away without so much as a glance over his shoulder, and, coming to the open road, stepped briskly off in the direction of the public square. his conscience would have rejoiced had he betrayed it by secreting himself among the bushes for a matter of five minutes,--quaint paradox, indeed!--for he would have seen her steal warily, anxiously into the thicket in search of the lost missive,--and he would have been further exalted by the little cry of relief that fell from her lips as she snatched it up and sped incontinently homeward, as if pursued by all the eyes in christendom. as a matter of fact, it was not a letter from barry to viola. it was the other way round. she had written him a long letter absolving herself from blame in the contretemps of the night before, at the same time confessing that she was absolutely in the dark as to how her mother had found out about their plans. suffice to say, she had found out early in the evening and, to employ her own words, "you know the result." then she went on to say that, all things considered, she was now quite sure she could never, never consent to make another attempt. "i am positive," she wrote, ingenuously, "that mother will relent in time, and then we can be married without going to so much trouble about it." farther on she admitted that, "mother is very firm about it now, but when she realizes that i am absolutely determined to marry you, i am sure she will give in and all will be well." at the end she said: "for the present, barry dear, i think you had better not come to the house. she feels very bitter toward you after last night. we can see each other at effie's and other places. after all, she has had a great sorrow and she is so very unhappy that i ought not to hurt her in any way if i can help it. i love you, but i also love her. please be kind and reasonable, dear, and do not think i am losing heart. i am just as determined as ever. nothing can change me. you believe that, don't you, barry dear? i know how impulsive you are and how set in your ways. sometimes you really frighten me but i know it is because you love me so much. you must not do anything rash. it would spoil everything. i do wish you would stay away from that awful place down by the river. mother would feel differently toward you, i know, if you were not there so much. she knows the men play cards there for money and drink and swear. i believe you will keep your promise never to touch a drop of whiskey after we are married, but when i told her that she only laughed at me. by this time you must know that my brother has come to lafayette. he arrived this morning. he knows nothing about what happened last night but i am afraid mother will tell him when she sees him to-day. it would not surprise me if they bury the hatchet and join hands and try to make a good little girl out of me. i think he is quite a prim young man. he spent the night at striker's and i saw him there. i must say he is good-looking. he is so good-looking that nobody would ever suspect that he is related to me." she signed herself, "your loving and devoted and loyal viola." she had been unable to get the letter to him that day, and for a very good reason. her messenger, effie wardlow's young brother, reached the tavern just in time to see barry emerge, quite tipsy and in a vile temper, arguing loudly with jack trentman and syd budd, the town's most notorious gamblers. the three men went off toward the ferry. the lad very sensibly decided this was no time to deliver a love letter to mr. lapelle, so forthwith returned it to the sender, who, after listening bleakly to a somewhat harrowing description of her lover's unsteady legs and the direction in which they carried him, departed for home fully convinced that something dreadful was going to happen to barry and that she would be to blame for it. halfway home she decided that her mother was equally if not more to blame than she, and, upon catching sight of her lordly, self-satisfied brother, acquitted herself of all responsibility and charged everything to her meddling relatives. her encounter with the exasperating kenneth, however, served to throw a new and most unwelcome light upon the situation. it was a shabby trick to play upon the strikers. she had not thought of it before. and how she hated him for making her think of it! the first thing she did upon returning to the house with the recovered letter was to proceed to the kitchen, where, after reading it over again, she consigned it to the flames. she was very glad it had not been delivered to barry. the part of it referring to the "place down by the river" would have to be treated with a great deal more firmness and decision. that was something she would have to speak very plainly about. by this time she had reached the conclusion that barry was to blame for that, and that nothing more terrible could happen to him than a severe headache,--an ailment to which he was accustomed and which he treated very lightly in excusing himself when she took him to task for his jolly lapses. "all red-blooded fellows take a little too much once in a while," he had said, more than once. chapter x mother and daughter rachel gwyn was seated at the parlor window when viola entered the house. she was there ten or fifteen minutes later when her daughter came downstairs. "may i have a word with you, mother?" said the girl, from the doorway, after waiting a moment for her mother to take some notice of her presence. she spoke in a very stiff and formal manner, for there had been no attempt on the part of either to make peace since the trying experiences of early morning. viola had sulked all day, while her mother preserved a stony silence that remained unbroken up to the time she expressed a desire to be alone with kenneth when he called. apparently mrs. gwyn did not hear viola's question. the girl advanced a few steps into the room and stopped again to regard the motionless, unresponsive figure at the window. mrs. gwyn's elbow was on the sill, her chin resting in the hand. apparently she was deaf to all sound inside the room. a wave of pity swept over viola. all in an instant her rancour took flight and in its place came a longing to steal over and throw her arms about those bent shoulders and whisper words of remorse. desolation hung over that silent, thinking figure. viola's heart swelled with renewed anger toward kenneth gwynne. what had he said or done to wound this stony, indomitable mother of hers? the room was cold. the fire had died down; only the huge backlog showed splotches of red against the charred black; in front of it were the faintly smoking ashes of a once sprightly blaze. she shivered, and then, moved by a sudden impulse, strode softly over and took down from its peg beside the fireplace the huge turkey wing used in blowing the embers to life. she was vigorously fanning the backlog when a sound from behind indicated that her mother had risen from the chair. she smiled as she glanced over her shoulder. her mother was standing with one of her hands pressed tightly to her eyes. her lips were moving. "he is robert--robert himself," she was murmuring. "as like as two peas. i was afraid he might be--would be--" the words trailed off into a mumble, for she had lowered her hand and was staring in dull surprise at viola. "what is it, mother?" cried the girl, alarmed by the other's expression. "what were you saying?" after a moment her mother said, quite calmly: "oh, it's you, is it? when did you get home?" "a few minutes ago. how cold it is! the fire is almost out. shall i get some kindling and start it up?" "yes. i don't know how i came to let it go down." when viola returned from the kitchen with the fagots and a bunch of shavings, the older woman was standing in front of the fireplace staring moodily down at the ashes. she moved to one side while her daughter laid the kindling and placed three or four sticks of firewood upon the heap. not a word was spoken until after viola had fanned a tiny flame out of the embers and lighted the shavings with a spill. "i met my brother out there in the grove," said she, rising and brushing the wood dust from her hands. "yes?" "i thought maybe you and he had been discussing barry lapelle and me and what happened last night, so i started to give him a piece of my mind," said viola, crimsoning. a faint smile played about the corners of mrs. gwyn's lips. "i can well imagine his astonishment," she said, drily. "he knew all about it, even if he did not get it from you, mother," said the girl, darkly. "phin striker told him everything." "everybody in town will know about it before the week is out," said the mother, a touch of bitterness in her voice. "i would have given all i possess if it could have been kept from kenneth gwynne. salt in an open sore, that's what it is, viola. it smarts, oh, how it smarts." viola, ignorant of the true cause of her mother's pain, snapped her fingers disdainfully. "that's how much i care for his opinion, one way or the other. i wouldn't let him worry me if i were you, mother. let him think what he pleases. it's nothing to us. i guess we can get along very well without his good opinion or his good will or anything else. and i will not allow him to interfere in my affairs. i told him so in plain words out there awhile ago. he comes here and the very first thing he does is to--" "he will think what he pleases, my child," broke in her mother; "so do not flatter yourself that he will be affected by your opinion of him. we will not discuss him, if you please. we have come to an understanding on certain matters, and that is all that is necessary to tell you about our interview. he will go his own way and we will go ours. there need be no conflict between us." viola frowned dubiously. "it is all very well for you to take that attitude, mother. but i am not in the same position. he is my half-brother. it is going to be very awkward. he is nothing to you,--and people will understand if you ignore him,--but it--it isn't quite the same with me. can't you see?" "certainly," admitted mrs. gwyn without hesitation. "you and he have a perfect right to be friendly. it would not be right for me to stand between you if you decide to--" "but i do not want to be friendly with him," cried the girl, adding, with a toss of her head,--"and i guess he realizes it by this time. but people know that we had the same father. they will think it strange if--if we have nothing to do with each other. oh, it's terribly upsetting, isn't it?" "what did he say to you out there?" "he was abominable! officious, sarcastic, insolent,--" "in plain words, he gave you a good talking to," interrupted mrs. gwyn, rather grimly. "he said some things i can never forgive." "about you and barry?" "well,--not so much about me and barry as about the way i--oh, you needn't smile, mother. he isn't going to make any fuss about barry. he told me in plain words that he did not care whether i married him or not,--or ran away with him, for that matter. you will not get much support from him, let me tell you. and now i have something i want to say to you. we may as well have it out now as any other time. i am going to marry barry lapelle." there was a ring of defiance in her voice. rachel gwyn looked at her steadily for a moment before responding to this out-and-out challenge. "i think it would be only fair of you," she began, levelly, "to tell mr. lapelle just what he may expect in case he marries you. tell him for me that you will never receive a penny or an inch of land when i die. i shall cut you off completely. tell him that. it may make some difference in his calculations." viola flared. "you have no right to insinuate that he wants to marry me for your money or your lands. he wants me for myself,--he wants me because he loves me." "i grant you that," said mrs. gwyn, nodding her head slowly, "he would be a fool not to want you--now. you are young and you are very pretty. but after he has been married a few years and you have become an old song to him, he will feel differently about money and lands. i know mr. lapelle and his stripe. he wants you now for yourself, but when you are thirty years old he will want you for something entirely different. at any rate, you should make it plain to him that he will get nothing but you,--absolutely nothing but you. men of his kind do not love long. they love violently--but not long. idle, improvident men, such as he is, are able to crowd a whole lot of love into a very short space of time. that is because they have nothing much else to do. they run through with love as they run through with money,--quickly. the man who wastes money will also waste love. and when he has wasted all his love, barry lapelle will still want money to waste. be good enough to make him understand that he will never have a dollar of my money to waste,--never, my child, even though his wife were starving to death." viola stared at her mother incredulously, her face paling. "you mean--you mean you would let me starve,--your own daughter? i--why, mother, i can't believe you would be so--" "i mean it," said rachel gwyn, compressing her lips. "then," cried viola, hotly, "you are the most unnatural, cruel mother that ever--" "stop! you will not find me a cruel and inhuman mother when you come creeping back to my door after barry lapelle has cast you off. i am only asking you to tell him what he may expect from me. and i am trying hard to convince you of what you may expect from him. there's the end of it. i have nothing more to say." "but i have something more to say," cried the girl. "i shall tell him all you have said, and i shall marry him in spite of everything. i am not afraid of starving. i don't want a penny of father's money. he did not choose to give it to me; he gave half of all he possessed to his son by another woman, he ignored me, he cut me off as if i were a--" "be careful, my child," warned rachel gwyn, her eyes narrowing. "i cannot permit you to question his acts or his motives. he did what he thought was best,--and we--i mean you and i--must abide by his decision." "i am not questioning your husband's act," said viola, stubbornly. "i am questioning my father's act." mrs. gwyn started. for a second or two her eyes wavered and then fell. one corner of her mouth worked curiously. then, without a word, she turned away from the girl and left the room. viola, greatly offended, heard her ascend the stairs and close a door; then her slow, heavy tread on the boards above. suddenly the girl's anger melted. the tears rushed to her eyes. "oh, what a beast i was to hurt her like that," she murmured, forgetting the harsh, unfeeling words that had aroused her ire, thinking only of the wonder and pain that had lurked in her mother's eyes,--the wonder and pain of a whipped dog. "the only person in all the world who has ever really loved me,--poor, poor old mother." she stared through her tears at the flames, a little pucker of uncertainty clouding her brow. "i am sure barry never, never can love me as she does, or be as kind and good to me," she mused. "i wonder--i wonder if what she says is true about men. i wish he had not gone to drinking to-day. but i suppose the poor boy really couldn't help it. he hates so to be disappointed." later on, at supper, she abruptly asked: "mother, how old is kenneth?" they had spoken not more than a dozen words to each other since sitting down to table, which was set, as usual, in the kitchen. both were thoughtful;--one of them was contrite. rachel gwyn, started out of a profound reverie, gave her daughter a sharp, inquiring look before answering. "i do not know. twenty-five or six, i suppose." "did you know his mother?" "yes," after a perceptible pause. "how long after she died were you and father married?" "your father had been a widower nearly two years when we were married," said rachel, steadily. "why doesn't kenneth spell his name as we do?" "gwyn is the way it was spelled a great many years ago, and it is the correct way, according to your father. it was his father, i believe, who added the last two letters,--i do not know why, unless it was supposed to be more elegant." "it seems strange that he should spell it one way and his own son another," ventured the girl, unsatisfied. "kenneth was brought up to spell it in the new-fangled way, i guess," was rachel gwyn's reply. "you need not ask me questions about the family, viola. your father never spoke of them. i am afraid he was not on good terms with them. he was a strange man. he kept things to himself. i do not recollect ever hearing him mention his first wife or his son or any other member of his family in,--well, in twenty years or more." "i should think you would have been a little bit curious. i know i should." "i knew all that was necessary for me to know," said rachel, somewhat brusquely. "can't you tell me something more about father's people?" persisted the girl. "i only know that they lived in baltimore. they never came west. your father was about twenty years old when he left home and came to kentucky. that is all i know, so do not ask any more questions." "he never acted like a backwoodsman," said viola. "he did not talk like one or--" "he was an educated man. he came of a good family." "and you are different from the women we used to see down the river. goodness, i was proud of you and father. there isn't a woman in this town who--" "i was born in salem, massachusetts, and lived there till i was nearly twenty," interrupted mrs. gwyn, calmly. "i taught school for two years after my father died. my mother did not long survive him. after her death i came west with my brother and his wife and a dozen other men and women. we lived in a settlement on the ohio river for several years. my brother was killed by the indians. his widow took their two small children and went back to salem to live. i have never heard from her. we did not like each other. i was glad to have her go." "where did you first meet father?" she regretted the question the instant the words were out of her mouth. the look of pain,--almost of pleading,--in her mother's eyes caused her to reproach herself. "forgive me, mother," she cried. "i did not stop to think. i know how it hurts you to talk about him, and i should have--" "be good enough to remember in the future," said rachel gwyn, sternly, her eyes now cold and forbidding. she arose and stalked to the kitchen window, where she stood for a long time looking out into the gathering darkness. "clear the table, hattie," said viola, presently. "we are through." then she walked over to her mother and timidly laid an arm across her shoulder. "i am sorry, mother," she said. to this mrs. gwyn did not reply. she merely observed: "we have had very little sleep in the last six and thirty hours. come to bed, child." as was her custom, rachel gwyn herself saw to the locking and bolting of the doors and window shutters at the front of the house. to-night viola, instead of hattie, followed the tall black figure from door to window, carrying the lighted candle. they stood together, side by side, in the open front door for a few moments, peering at the fence of trees across the road. off in the distance some one was whistling a doleful tune. the spring wind blowing in their faces was fresh and moist, a soft wind laden with the smell of earth. a clumsy hound came slouching around the corner of the little porch and, wagging his tail, stopped below them; the light shone down into his big, glistening eyes. viola spoke to him softly. he wagged his tail more briskly. rachel had turned her head and was looking toward the house that was to be kenneth's home. its outlines could be made out among the trees to the right, squat and lonely in a setting less black than itself. "before long there will be lights in the windows again," she was saying, more to herself than to viola. "a haunted house. haunted by a living, mortal ghost. eh?" she cried out, sharply, turning to viola. "i did not speak, mother." a look of awe came to rachel's eyes. "i was sure i heard--" she began, and then, after a short pause, laughed throatily. "i guess it was the wind. come in. i want to lock the door." viola was a long time in going to sleep. it seemed to her as she lay there, staring wide awake, that everything in the world was unsettled and topsy-turvy. nothing could ever be right again. what with the fiasco of the night just gone, the appearance of the mysterious brother, the counterbalancing of resolve and remorse within her troubled self, the report of barry's lapse from rectitude, her mother's astounding sophistry, her tired brain was in such a whirl as never was. there was a new pain in her breast that was not of thwarted desires nor of rancour toward this smug, insolent brother who had come upon the scene. it hurt her to think that up to this night she had known so little, ay, almost nothing, about her own mother's life. for the first time, she heard of salem, of her mother's people and her occupation, of the journey westward, of the uncle who was killed by the indians and the wife who turned back; of unknown cousins to whom she was also unknown. there was pain in the discovery that her mother was almost a stranger to her. chapter xi a roadside meeting kenneth remained at the tavern for a month. he did not go near the house of his step-mother. he saw her once walking along the main street, and followed her with his eyes until she disappeared into a store. a friendly citizen took occasion to inform him that it was the "fust time" he had seen her on the street in a coon's age. "she ain't like most women," he vouchsafed. "never comes down town unless she's got some reason to. most of 'em never stay to home unless they've got a derned good reason to, setch as sickness, or the washin' and ironin', or it's rainin' pitchforks. she's a mighty queer woman, rachel gwyn is. how air you an' her makin' out these days, kenneth?" "oh, fair to middlin'," replied the young man, dropping into the vernacular. "i didn't know but what ye'd patched things up sorter," said the citizen, invitingly. "there is nothing to patch up," said kenneth. "well, i guess it ain't any of my business, anyhow," remarked the other, cheerfully. the business of taking over the property, signing the necessary papers, renewing an agreement with the man who farmed his land on the wea, taking account of all live-stock and other chattels, occupied his time for the better part of a fortnight. he spent two days and a night at the little farmhouse, listening with ever increasing satisfaction to the enthusiastic prophecies of the farmer, a stout individual named jones whose faith in the new land was surpassed only by his ability to till it. even out here on his own farm kenneth was unable to escape the unwelcome influence of rachel carter. mr. jones magnanimously admitted that she was responsible for all of the latest conveniences about the place and characterized her as a "woman with a head on her shoulders, you bet." he confessed: "why, dodgast it, she stopped by here a couple o' weeks ago an' jest naturally raised hell with me because my wife's goin' to have another baby. she sez, sorter sharp-like, 'the only way to make a farm pay is to stock it with somethin' besides children.' that made me a leetle mad, so i up an' sez back to her: 'i wouldn't swap my seven children fer all the hogs an' cattle in the state o' indianny.' so she sez, kind o' grinnin', 'well, i'll bet your wife would jump at the chance to trade your next seven children, sight onseen, fer a new pair o' shoes er that bonnet she's been wantin' ever sence she got married.' that sorter mixed me up. i couldn't make out jest what she was drivin' at. must ha' been nine o'clock that night when it come to me all of a sudden. so i woke sue up an' told her what rachel gwyn said to me, an', by gosh, sue saw through it quicker'n a flash. 'you bet i would,' sez she. 'i'd swap the next hundred.' then she kinder groaned an' said, 'i guess maybe i'd better make it the next ninety-nine.' well, sir, that sot me to thinkin', an' the more i thought, the more i realized what a lot o' common sense that mother-in-law o' your'n has got. she--" "you mean my step-mother, jones." "they say it amounts to the same thing in most families," said the ready mr. jones, and continued to expatiate upon the remarkable qualities of rachel gwyn. kenneth found it difficult to think of the woman as rachel gwyn. to him, she was unalterably rachel carter. time and again he caught himself up barely in time to avoid using the unknown name in the presence of others. the possibility that he might some day inadvertently blurt it out in conversation with viola caused him a great deal of uneasiness and concern. he realized that he would have to be on his guard all of the time. there seemed to be no immediate prospect of such a calamity, however. since the memorable encounter in the thicket he had not had an opportunity to speak to the girl. for reasons of her own she purposely avoided him, there could be no doubt about that. on more than one occasion she deliberately had crossed a street to escape meeting him face to face, and there was the one especially irritating instance when, finding herself hard put, she had been obliged to turn squarely in her tracks and hurry back in the direction from which she came. this would have been laughable to kenneth but for the distressing fact that it was even more laughable to others. several men and women, witnessing the manoeuvre, had sniggered gleefully,--one of the men going so far as to slap his leg and roar: "well, by gosh, did you ever see anything like that?" his ejaculation, like that of a town-crier, being audible for a hundred feet or more, had one gratifying result. it caused viola to turn and transfix the offender with a stare so haughty that he abruptly diverted his attention to the upper north-east corner of the court-house, where, fortunately for him, a pair of pigeons had just alighted and were engaged in the interesting pastime of bowing to each other. a week or so after his return from the farm kenneth saw her riding off on horseback with two other young women and a youth named hayes. she passed within ten feet of him but did not deign to notice him, although her companions bowed somewhat eagerly. this was an occasion when he felt justified in swearing softly under his breath--and also to make a resolve--to write her a very polite and formal letter in which he would ask her pardon for presuming to suggest, as a brother, that she was making a perfect fool of herself, and that people were laughing "fit to kill" over her actions. it goes without saying that he thought better of it and never wrote the letter. she was a graceful and accomplished horsewoman. he watched her out of the corner of his eye as she cantered down the street, sitting the spirited sorrel mare with all the ease and confidence of a practised rider. her habit was of very dark blue, with huge puffed sleeves and a high lace collar. she wore a top-hat of black, a long blue veil trailing down her back. he heartily agreed with the laconic bystander who remarked that she was "purtier than most pictures." later on, urged by a spirit of restlessness, he ordered zachariah to saddle his horse and bring him around to the front of the tavern, where he mounted and set out for a ride up the wild cat road. two or three miles above town he met hayes and the two young women returning. the look of consternation that passed among them did not escape him. he smiled a trifle maliciously as he rode on, for now he knew what had become of the missing member of the party. half a mile farther on he came upon viola and barry lapelle, riding slowly side by side through the narrow lane. he drew off to one side to allow them to pass, doffing his beaver ceremoniously. lapelle's friendly greeting did not surprise him, for the two had seen a great deal of each other, and at no time had there been anything in the lover's manner to indicate that viola had confided to him the story of the meeting in the thicket. but he was profoundly astonished when the girl favoured him with a warm, gay smile and cried out a cheery "how do you do, kenneth!" more than that, she drew rein and added to his amazement by shaking her finger reproachfully at him, saying: "where on earth have you been keeping yourself? i have not laid eyes on you for more than a week." utterly confounded by this unexpected attack, kenneth stammered: "why, i--er--i have been very busy." not laid eyes on him, indeed! what was her game? "now that i come to think of it," he went on, recovering himself, "it is fully a week since i've seen you. don't you ever come down town, viola?" "every day," she said, coolly. "we just happen never to see each other, that's all. i am glad to have had this little glimpse of you, kenneth, even though it is away out here in the woods." there was no mistaking the underlying significance of these words. they contained the thinly veiled implication that he had followed for the purpose of spying upon her. "better turn around and ride back with us, kenny," said barry, politely but not graciously. "i am on my way up to the wild cat to see a man on business," said kenneth, lamely. "kenny?" repeated viola, puckering her brow. "where have i heard that name before? i seem to remember--oh, as if it were a thousand years ago. do they call you kenny for short?" "it grew up with me," he replied. "ever since i can remember, my folks--" he broke off in the middle of the sentence, confronted by a disconcerting thought. could it be possible that somewhere in viola's brain,--or rather in minda's baby brain,--that familiar name had stamped itself? why not? if it had been impressed upon his own baby brain, why not in a less degree upon hers? he made a pretence of stooping far over to adjust a corner of his saddle blanket. straightening up, he went on: "any name is better than what the boys used to call me at school. i was known by the elegant name of piggy, due to an appetite over which i seemed to have no control. well, i must be getting along. good day to you." he lifted his hat and rode off. he had gone not more than twenty rods when he heard a masculine shout from behind: turning, he discovered that the couple were still standing where he had left them. lapelle called out: "your sister wants to have a word with you." she rode swiftly up to where he was waiting. "i just want to let you know that i intend to tell mother about meeting barry out here to-day," she said, unsmilingly. "i shall not tell her that we planned it in advance, however. we did plan it, so if you want to run and tell her yourself, you may do so. it will make no--" "is that all you wanted to say to me, viola?" he interrupted. for a moment she faced him rebelliously, hot words on her lips. then a surprising change came over her. her eyes quailed under the justifiable scorn in his. she hung her head. "no," she said, miserably. "i thought it was all, but it isn't. i want to say that i am sorry i said what i did." he watched the scarlet flood sweep over her cheeks and then as swiftly fade. it was abject surrender, and yet he had no thrill of triumph. "it's--it's all right, viola," he stammered, awkwardly. "don't think anything more about it. we will consider it unsaid." "no, we'll not," she said, looking up. "we will just let it stand as another black mark against me. i am getting a lot of them lately. but i am sorry, kenneth. will you try to forget it?" he shook his head. "never! forgetting the bitter would mean that i would also have to give up the sweet," said he, gallantly. "and you have given me something very sweet to remember." she received this with a wondering, hesitating little smile. "i never dreamed that brothers could say such nice things to their sisters," she said, and he was aware of a deep, questioning look in her eyes. "they usually say them to other men's sisters." "ah, but no other fellow happens to have you as a sister," he returned, fatuously. she laughed aloud at this, perhaps a little uncertainly. "bless me!" he exclaimed. "it sounds good to hear you laugh like that,--such a jolly, friendly sort of laugh." "i must be going now," she said, biting her lip. "good-bye,--kenny." a faint frown clouded her brow after she had uttered the name. "i must ask mother if she remembers hearing father speak of you as kenny." "say, viola," came an impatient shout from barry lapelle, "are you going to take all day?" it was plain to be seen that the young man was out of temper. there was a sharp, domineering note of command in his voice. viola straightened up in her saddle and sent a surprised, resentful look at the speaker. kenneth could not repress a chuckle. "better hurry along," he said, grimly, "or he'll take your head off. lord, we are going to have a storm. i see a thundercloud gathering just below the rim of barry's hat. if you--" "please keep your precious wit to yourself," she flamed, but with all her show of righteous indignation she could not hide from him the chagrin and mortification that lurked in her tell-tale eyes. she rode off in high dudgeon, and he was left to curse his ill-timed jest. what a blundering fool he had been! her first, timid little advance,--and he had met it with boorish, clownish wit! a scurvy jest, indeed! she was justified in despising him. if viola had turned her proud head a few moments later, she would have beheld an amazing spectacle: her supposedly smug and impeccable brother riding away at break-neck speed down the soggy lane, regardless of overhanging branches and flying mud, fleeing in wrath from the scene of his discontent. dusk was falling when he rode slowly into the town again. he had reached a decision during that lonely ride. he would not remain in lafayette. he foresaw misery and unhappiness for himself if he stayed there,--for, be it here declared, he was in love with viola gwyn. no, worse than that, he was in love with minda carter,--and therein lay all the bitterness that filled his soul. he could never have her. even though she cast off the ardent lapelle, still he could not have her for his own. the bars were up, and it was now beyond his power to lower them. and so, with this resolve firmly fixed in his mind, he gave himself up to a strange sort of despair. after supper at the tavern, he set out for a solitary stroll about the town before going to bed. he took stock of himself. no later than that morning he had come to a decision to open an office and engage in the practice of law in lafayette. he had made many friends during his brief stay in the place, and from all sides he had been encouraged to "hang out his shingle" and "grow up with the town." he liked the people, he had faith in the town, he possessed all the confidence and courage of youth. the local members of the bar, including the judge and justices, seriously urged him to establish himself there--there was room for him,--the town needed such men as he,--indeed, one of the leading lawyers had offered to take him into partnership, an opportunity not to be despised, in view of this man's state-wide reputation as a lawyer and orator, and who was already being spoken of for high honours in the councils of state and nation. all this was very gratifying to the young stranger. he was flattered by the unmistakable sincerity of these new friends. and he was in a position to weather the customary paucity of clients for an indefinite period, a condition resulting to but few young men starting out for themselves in the practice of law. he was comfortably well-off in the matter of worldly goods, not only through his recently acquired possessions, but as the result of a substantial legacy that had come to him on the death of his grandmother. he had received his mother's full share of the blythe estate, a no inconsiderable fortune in lands and money. and now everything was changed. he would have to give up his plan to settle in lafayette, and so, as he strolled gloomily about the illy-lighted town, he was casting about for the next best place to locate. the incomprehensible and incredible had come to pass. he had fallen in love with viola gwyn at first sight, that stormy night at striker's. the discovery that she was his own half-sister had, of course, deluded his senses--temporarily, but now he realized that the strange, primitive instincts of man had not been deceived and would not be denied. his blood had known the truth from the instant he first laid eyes upon the lovely stranger. since that first night there had been revelations. first of all, viola was the flesh and blood of an evil woman, and that woman his mortal foe. notwithstanding her own innocence and purity, it was inconceivable that he should ever think of taking her to himself as wife. secondly, he was charged with a double secret that must forever stand between him and her: the truth about her mother and the truth about herself. there was but one thing left for him to do,--go away. he loved her. he would grow to love her a thousand-fold more if he remained near her, if he saw her day by day. these past few days had brought despair and jealousy to him, but what would the future bring? misery! no, he would have to go. he would wind up his affairs at once and put longing and temptation as far behind him as possible. there was the town of louisville. from all reports it was a prosperous, growing town, advantageously situated on the river ohio. crawfordsville was too near. he would have to go farther, much farther away than that,--perhaps back to the old home town. "what cruel foul luck!" he groaned, aloud. his wanderings had carried him through dark, winding cow-paths and lanes to within a stone's throw of jack trentman's shanty, standing alone like the pariah it was, on the steep bank of the river near the ferry. back in a clump of sugar trees it seemed to hide, as if shrinking from the accusing eye of every good and honest man. kenneth had stopped at the edge of the little grove and was gazing fiercely at the two lighted windows of the "shanty." he was thinking of barry lapelle as he muttered the words, thinking of the foul luck that seemed almost certain to deliver viola into his soiled and lawless hands. the fierceness of his gaze was due to the knowledge that lapelle was now inside trentman's notorious shanty and perhaps gambling. this evening, as on two or three earlier occasions, he had been urged by barry to come down to the shanty and try his luck at poker. he had steadfastly declined these invitations. trentman's place was known far and wide as a haven into which "cleaned out" river gamblers sailed in the hope of recovering at least enough of their fortunes to enable them to return to more productive fields down the reaches of the big river. these whilom, undaunted rascals, like birds of passage, stayed but a short time in the new town of lafayette. they came up the river with sadly depleted purses, confident of "easy pickings" among the vainglorious amateurs, and be it said in behalf of their astuteness, they seldom if ever boarded the south-bound boats as poor as when they came. in due time they invariably returned again to what they called among themselves "the happy hunting-ground." the stories of big "winnings" and big "losings" were rife among the people of the town. more than one adventurous citizen or farmer had been "wiped out," with no possible chance of ever recovering from his losses. it was common talk that barry lapelle was "fresh fish" for these birds of prey. he possessed the gambling instinct but lacked the gambler's wiles. he was reckless where they were cool. they "stripped" him far oftener than he won from them, but it was these infrequent winnings that encouraged him. he believed that some day he would make a big "killing"; the thought of that was ever before him, beckoning him on like the dancing will-o'-the-wisp. he took no note of the fact that these bland gentlemen could pocket their losings as well as their winnings. it was part of their trade to suffer loss. they had everything to gain and nothing to lose, so they throve on uncertainty. not so with barry, or others of his kind. they could only afford to win. it was no uncommon experience for the skilled river gambler to be penniless; it was all in the day's work. it did not hurt him to lose, for the morrow was ahead. but it was different with his victims. the morrow was not and never could be the same; when they were "cleaned out" it meant desolation. they went down under the weight and never came up, while the real gambler, in similar case, scraped his sparse resources together and blithely began all over again,--a smiling loser and a smiling winner. full purse or empty, he was always the same. rich to-day, poor to-morrow,--all the same to him. philosopher, rascal, soldier, knave,--but never the craven,--and you have the mississippi gambler. barry, after coming in from his ride with viola, had "tipped the jug" rather liberally. he kept a demi-john of whiskey in his room at the tavern, and to its contents all the "afflicted" were welcome. it could not be said of him that he was the principal consumer, for, except under unusual circumstances, he was a fairly abstemious man. as he himself declared, he drank sparingly except when his "soul was tried." the fact that he had taken several copious draughts of the fiery mononga-durkee immediately upon his return was an indication that his soul was tried, and what so reasonable as to assume that it had been tried by viola. in a different frame of mine, kenneth might have accepted this as a most gratifying augury. but, being without hope himself, he took no comfort in barry's gloom. what would he not give to be in the roisterer's boots instead of his own? the spoken lament had barely passed his lips when the wheel of fate took a new and unexpected turn, bringing his dolorous meditations to a sudden halt and subsequently upsetting all his plans. he thought he was alone in the gloom until he was startled by the sound of a man's voice almost at his elbow. "evenin', mr. gwynne." chapter xii isaac stain appears by night whirling, he made out the lank shadow of a man leaning against a tree close by. "good evening," he muttered in some confusion, conscious of a sense of guilt in being caught in the act of spying. "i've been follerin' you fer quite a ways," observed the unknown. "guess you don't remember me. my name is stain, isaac stain." "i remember you quite well," said kenneth, stiffly. "may i inquire why you have been following me, mr. stain?" "well, i jest didn't know of anybody else i could come to about a certain matter. it has to do with that feller, lapelle, up yander in trentman's place. fust, i went up to mrs. gwyn's house, but it was all dark, an' nobody to home 'cept that dog o' her'n. he knowed me er else he'd have jumped me. i guess we'd better mosey away from this place. a good many trees have ears, you know." they walked off together in the direction of town. stain was silent until they had put a hundred paces or more between them and the grove. "seems that violy is right smart taken with this lapelle feller," he observed. "well, i thought i'd oughter tell her ma what i heerd about him to-day. course, everybody's heerd queer things about him, but this beats anything i've come acrosst yet. martin hawk's daughter, moll, come hoofin' it up to my cabin this mornin' an' told me the derndest story you've ever heerd. she came to me, she sez, on account of me bein' an old friend of rachel's, an' she claims to be a decent, honest girl in spite of what her dodgasted father is. everybody believes mart is a hoss thief an' sheep-stealer an' all that, but he hain't ever been caught at it. he's purty thick with barry lapelle. moll hawk sez her dad'll kill her if he ever finds out she come to me with this story. seems that barry an' violy are calculatin' on gettin' married an' the old woman objects. some time this past week, violy told barry she wouldn't marry him anywheres 'cept in her own mother's house. well, from what moll sez, barry has got other idees about it." he paused to bite off a fresh chew of tobacco. "go on, stain. what did the girl tell you?" "'pears that barry ain't willin' to take chances on gettin' married jest that way, an' besides he's sort of got used to havin' anything he wants without waitin' very long fer it. now, i don't know whuther violy's a party to the scheme or not,--maybe she is an' maybe she ain't. but from what moll hawk sez there's a scheme on foot to get the best of rachel gwyn by grabbin' violy some night an' rushin' her to a hidin' place down the river where barry figgers he c'n persuade her to marry him an' live happy ever afterwards, as the sayin' is. seems that barry figgers that you, bein' a sort o' brother to her, will put your foot down on them gettin' married, so he's goin' to get her away from here before it's too late. moll sez it's all fixed up, 'cept the time fer doin' it. martin hawk an' a half dozen fellers from some'eres down the river is to do the job. all she knows is it's to be in the dark o' the moon, an' that's not fer off. moll sez she believes violy knows about the plan an' sort of agrees to--" "i don't believe it, stain," broke in kenneth. "she would not lend herself to a low-down trick like that." stain shook his head. "they say she's terrible in love with barry, an' gosh only knows what a woman'll stoop to in order to git the man she's set her heart on. why, i could tell you somethin' about a woman that was after me some years back,--a widder down below vincennes,--her husband used to run a flatboat,--an', by cracky, mr. gwynne, you wouldn't believe the things she done. chased me clean down to saint louis an' back ag'in, an' then trailed me nearly fifty miles through the woods to an injin village on the white river. i don't know what i'd have done if it hadn't been fer an injin i'd befriended a little while back. he shot her in the leg an' she was laid up fer nearly six weeks, givin' me that much of a start. that was four years ago an' to this day i never go to sleep at night without fust lookin' under the bed. some day i'll tell you all about that woman, but not now. i'm jest tellin' this to show you what a woman'll do when she once makes up her mind, an' maybe violy ain't any different from the rest of 'em." "nevertheless, viola is not that kind," asserted kenneth, stubbornly. "she may be in love with lapelle, but if she has made up her mind to be married at her mother's house, that's the end of it. see here, stain, i've been thinking while you were talking. if there is really anything in this story, i doubt the wisdom of going to mrs. gwyn with it, and certainly it would be a bad plan to speak to viola. we've got to handle this matter ourselves. i want to catch barry lapelle red-handed. that is the surest way to convince viola that he is an unworthy scoundrel. it is my duty to protect my--my sister--and i shall find a way to do so, whether she likes it or not. you know, perhaps, that we are not on the friendliest of terms." "yep, i know," said stain. "you might as well know that i am on their side, mr. gwynne. whatever the trouble is between you an' them two women, i am for them an' ag'in you. that's understood, ain't it?" "it is," replied kenneth, impressed by the hunter's frankness. "but all the more reason why in a case like this you and i should work hand in hand. i am glad you came to me with the hawk girl's story. hawk and his crew will find me waiting for them when they come. they will not find their job a simple one." "i guess you'll need a little help, mr. gwynne," said stain, drily. "what are you goin' to do? call in a lot o' these dodgasted canary birds to fight the hawks? if you do, you'll get licked. what you want is a man er two that knows how to shoot an' is in the habit o' huntin' varmints. you c'n count on me, mr. gwynne, if you need me. if you feel that you don't need me, jest say so, an' i'll go it alone. i don't like martin hawk; we got a grudge to settle, him an' me. so make your choice. you an' me will work in cahoots with each other, or we'll go at it single-hand." "we will work together, stain," said kenneth, promptly. "you know your man, you know the lay of the land, and you are smarter than i am when it comes to handling an affair of this kind. i will be guided by you. shake hands." the two men shook hands. then the lawyer in gwynne spoke. "you should see this hawk girl again and keep in touch with their plans. we must not let them catch us napping." "she's comin' to see me in a day er so. mart hawk went down to attica to-day, him an' a feller named suggs who's been soberin' up at mart's fer the past few days. the chances are he's gone down there on this very business." "will you keep in touch with me?" "yes, sir. if you ain't got anything to do to-morrow, you might ride out to my place, where we c'n talk a little more free-like." "a good idea, stain. you are sure nothing is likely to happen to-night?" "not till the dark o' the moon, she sez." "by the way, why is she turning against her father like this?" "well, you remember what i was jest sayin' about women,--how sot they are in their ways concarnin' a man? well, moll is after barry lapelle,--no question about that. she's an uncommon good-lookin' girl, i might say, an' i guess barry ain't blind. course, she's an unedicated girl an' purty poor trash,--you couldn't expect much else of a daughter of martin hawk, i guess,--but that don't seem to make much difference when it comes to fallin' in love. you don't need to have much book learnin' fer that. i could tell ye about a girl i used to know,--but we'll save it fer some other time." "i see," mused kenneth, reflectively. "she wants lapelle for herself. but doesn't she realize that if they attempt this outrage her own father stands a pretty good chance of being shot?" "lord love ye, that don't worry her none," explained the hunter. "she don't keer much what happens to him. why, up to this day he licks the daylights out o' her, big as she is. you c'n hear her yell fer half a mile. that's how she comes to be a friend o' mine, i happened to be huntin' down nigh mart's place last fall an' heerd her screamin',--you could hear the blows landin' on her back, too,--so i jest stepped sort o' spry to'ards his cabin an' ketched him layin' it on with a wilier branch as thick as your thumb, an' her a screechin' like a wild-cat in a trap. well, what happened inside the next minute made a friend o' her fer life,--an' an enemy o' him. you'd have thought any dootiful an' loyal offspring would o' tried to pull me off'n him, but all she done was to stand back an' egg me on, 'specially when i took to tannin' him with the same stick he'd been usin' on her. seems like mart's never felt very friendly to'ards me sence that day." "i shouldn't think he would." "when i got kind o' wore out with wollopin' him, i sot down to rest on the edge o' the waterin' trough, an' she comes over to me an' sez she wished i'd stay an' help her bury the old man. she said if i'd wait there she'd go an' get a couple o' spades out'n the barn,--well, to make a long story short, soon as mart begin to realize he was dead an' wasn't goin' to have a regular funeral, with mourners an' all that, he sot up an' begin to whine all over ag'in. so i up an' told him if i ever heerd of him lickin' his gal ag'in, i'd come down an' take off what little hide there was left on him. he said he'd never lick her ag'in as long as he lived. so i sez to moll, sez i, 'if you ever got anything to complain of about this here white-livered weasel, you jest come straight to me, an' i'll make him sorry he didn't get into hell sooner.' well, sir, after that he never licked her without fust tyin' somethin' over her mouth so's she couldn't yell, an' it wasn't till this afternoon that i found out he'd been at it all along, same as ever, 'cept when barry lapelle was there. seems that barry stopped him from lickin' her once, an' that made moll foller him around like a dog tryin' to lick his hand. no, sir, she won't be heartbroke if somebody puts a rifle ball between mart's eyes an' loses it some'eres back inside his skull. she'd do it herself if she wasn't so doggoned sure somebody else is goin' to do it, sooner or later." "you say there was no one at home up at mrs. gwyn's?" observed kenneth, apprehensively. "that's queer. where do you suppose they are?" "that's what i'm wonderin' about. mrs. gwyn never goes nowhere, 'cept out to the farm, an' i'm purty sure she didn't--say, do you hear somebody comin' up the road behind us?" he laid a hand on kenneth's arm and they both stopped to listen. "i hear no one," said the young man. "well, you ain't got a hunter's ears," said the other. "some one's follerin' us,--a good ways back. i've got so's i c'n hear an acorn drop forty mile away." they drew off into the shadows at the roadside and waited. twenty yards or more ahead gleamed the lights in the windows of the nearest store. a few seconds elapsed, and then kenneth's ears caught the sound of footsteps in the soft dirt road, and presently the subdued murmur of voices. "women," observed stain, laconically, lowering his voice. "let 'em pass. if we show ourselves now, they'll think we're highwaymen or something, an' begin screechin' fer dear life." two vague, almost indistinguishable figures took shape in the darkness down the road and rapidly drew nearer. they passed within ten feet of the two men,--black voiceless shadows. stain's hand still gripped his companion's arm. the women had almost reached the patches of light cast upon the road from the store windows, before the hunter spoke. "recognize 'em?" he whispered. "no." "well, i guess i know now why there wasn't nobody to home up yander. that was violy an' her ma." kenneth started. "you--you don't mean it!" "yep. an' if you was to ask me what they air doin' down here by the river i'd tell you. mrs. gwyn jest simply took violy down there to trentman's shanty an' showed her barry lapelle playin' cards." "impossible! i would have seen them." "not from where you stood. the winders on the river side air open, an' you c'n see into the house. on the side facin' this way, jack's got curtains hangin'. well, mrs. gwyn took violy 'round on t'other side where she could look inside. maybe you didn't hear what they was sayin' when we fust beared 'em talkin'. well, i did. i heared violy say, plain as day, 'i don't keer what you say, mother, he swore to me he never plays except fer fun.' an' rachel gwyn, she sez, 'there ain't no setch thing as playin' fer fun in that place, so don't talk foolish.' that's all i heared 'em say,--an' they ain't spoke a word sence." "come along, stain," said kenneth, starting forward. "we must follow along behind, to see that they reach home safely." the hunter gave vent to a deprecating grunt. "they won't thank us if they happen to turn around an' ketch us at it. 'sides, i got to be startin' to'ards home. that ole hoss o' mine ain't used to bein' out nights. like as not, he's sound asleep this minute, standin' over yander in front o' curt cole's blacksmith shop, an' whenever that hoss makes up his mind he's asleep there ain't nothin' that'll convince him he ain't. there they go, turnin' off main street, so's they won't run across any curious-minded saints. guess maybe we'd better trail along behind, after all." fifteen minutes later the two men, standing back among the trees, saw lights appear in the windows of mrs. gwyn's house. then they turned and wended their way toward the public square. they had spoken but few words to each other while engaged in the stealthy enterprise, and then only in whispers. no one may know what was in the mind of the hunter, but in kenneth's there was a readjustment of plans. a certain determined enthusiasm had taken the place of his previous depression. the excitement of possible conflict, the thrill of adventure had wrought a complete change in him. his romantic soul was aflame. "see here, stain," he began, when they were down the slope; "i've been thinking this matter over and i have come to the conclusion that the best thing for me to do is to go straight to lapelle and tell him i am aware of his--" "say, you're supposed to be a lawyer, ain't you?" drawled his companion, sarcastically. "yes, i am," retorted kenneth. "well, all i got to say is you'd make a better wood-chopper. barry'd jest tell you to go to hell, an' that'd be the end of it as fer as you're concarned. course, he'd give up the plan, but he'd make it his business to find out how you got wind of it. next thing we'd know, moll hawk would have her throat slit er somethin',--an' i reckon that wouldn't be jest what most people would call fair, mr. gwynne. i guess we'd better let things slide along as they air an' ketch mart an' his crowd in the act. you don't reckon that barry is goin' to take a active part in this here kidnappin' job, do you? not much! he won't be anywheres near when it happens. he's too cute fer that. you won't be able to fasten anything on him till it's too late to do anything." kenneth was properly humbled. "you are right, stain. if you hear of anybody who wants to have some wood chopped, free of charge, i wish you'd let me know." "well," began the laconic mr. stain, "it takes considerable practice to get to be even a fair to middlin' woodchopper." chapter xiii the gracious enemy bright and early the next morning kenneth gave orders to have his new home put in order for immediate occupancy. having made up his mind to remain in lafayette and face the consequences that had seemed insurmountable the night before, he lost no time in committing himself to the final resolve. zachariah was despatched with instructions to lay in the necessary supplies, while two women were engaged to sweep, scrub and furbish up the long uninhabited house. he had decided to move in that very afternoon. meanwhile he rented an "office" on the north side of the public square, a small room at the back of a furniture store, pending the completion of the two story brick block on the south side. with commendable enterprise he lost no time in outfitting the temporary office from the furniture dealer's stock. his scanty library of law books,--a half dozen volumes in all,--coke, kent and chitty, among them,--had been packed with other things in the cumbersome saddle bags, coming all the way from kentucky with him. of necessity he had travelled light, but he had come well provided with the means to purchase all that was required in the event that he decided to make lafayette his abiding place. as he was hurrying away from the tavern shortly after breakfast, he encountered lapelle coming up from the stable-yard. the young louisianian appeared to be none the worse for his night's dissipation. in fact, he was in a singularly amiable frame of mind. "hello," he called out. kenneth stopped and waited for him to come up. "i'm off pretty soon for my place below town. would you care to come along? it's only about eight miles. i want to arrange with martin hawk for a duck shooting trip the end of the week. he looks after my lean-to down there, and he is the keenest duck hunter in these parts. better come along." "sorry i can't make it," returned kenneth. "i am moving into my house to-day and that's going to keep me pretty busy." "well, how would you like to go out with us a little later on for ducks?" "i'd like to, very much. that is, after i've got thoroughly settled in my new office, shingles painted, and so forth. mighty good of you to ask me." barry was regarding him somewhat narrowly. "so you are moving up to your house to-day, are you? that will be news to viola. she's got the whim that you don't intend to live there." "i was rather undecided about it myself,--at least for the present. i am quite comfortable here at mr. johnson's." "it isn't bad here,--and he certainly sets a good table. say, i guess i owe you a sort of apology, kenny. i hope you will overlook the way i spoke last night when you said you couldn't go to jack trentman's. i guess i was a--well, a little sarcastic, wasn't i?" there was nothing apologetic in his voice or bearing. on the contrary, he spoke in a lofty, casual manner, quite as if this perfunctory concession to the civilities were a matter of form, and was to be so regarded by gwynne. "i make it a rule to overlook, if possible, anything a man may say when he is drinking," said kenneth, smiling. barry's pallid cheeks took on a faint red tinge; his hard eyes seemed suddenly to become even harder than before. "meaning, i suppose, that you considered me a trifle tipsy, eh?" he said, the corner of his mouth going up in mirthless simulation of a grin. "well, you had taken something aboard, hadn't you?" "a drink or two, that was all," said the other, shrugging his shoulders. "anyhow, i have apologized for jeering at you, gwynne, so i've done all that a sober man should be expected to do," he went on carelessly. "you missed it by not going down there with me last night. i cleaned 'em out." "you did, eh?" "a cool two thousand," said the other, with a satisfaction that bordered on exultation. "by the way, changing the subject, i'd like to ask you a question. has a mother the legal right to disinherit a son in case said son marries contrary to her wishes?" kenneth looked at him sharply. could it be possible that lapelle's mother objected to his marriage with viola, and was prepared to take drastic action in case he did so? "different states have different laws," he answered. "i should have to look it up in the statutes, barry." "well, what is your own opinion?" insisted the other, impatiently. "you fellows always have to look things up in a book before you can say one thing or another." "well, it would depend largely on circumstances," said kenneth, judicially. "a parent can disinherit a child if he so desires, provided there is satisfactory cause for doing so. i doubt whether a will would stand in case a parent attempted to deprive a child of his or her share of an estate descending from another parent who was deceased. for example, if your father left his estate to his widow in its entirety, i don't believe she would have the right to dispose of it in her will without leaving you your full and legal share under the statutes of this or any other state. of course, you understand, there is nothing to prevent her making such a will. but you could contest it and break it, i am sure." "that's all i want to know," said the other, drawing a deep breath as of relief. "a close friend of mine is likely to be mixed up in just that sort of unpleasantness, and i was a little curious to find out whether such a will would stand the test." "your friend should consult his own lawyer, if he has one, lapelle. that is to say, he should go to some one who knows all the circumstances. if you want my advice, there it is. don't take my word for it. it is too serious a matter to be settled off-hand,--and my opinion in the premises may be absolutely worthless." "i was only asking for my own satisfaction, gwynne. no doubt my friend has already consulted a lawyer and has been advised. i must be off. sorry you can't come with me." kenneth would have been surprised and disturbed if he could have known all that lay behind these casual questions. but it was not for him to know that viola had repeated mrs. gwyn's threat to her impatient, arrogant lover, nor was it for him to connect a simple question of law with the ugly plot that had been revealed to isaac stain by moll hawk. after two nights of troubled thought, barry lapelle had hit upon an extraordinary means to circumvent rachel gwyn. with machiavellian cunning he had devised a way to make viola his wife without jeopardizing her or his own prospects for the future. no mother, he argued, could be so unreasonable as to disinherit a daughter who had been carried away by force and was compelled to wed her captor rather than submit to a more sinister alternative. shortly after the noon meal, kenneth rode up to the old gwyn house. he found zachariah beaming on the front door step. "yas, suh,--yas, suh!" was the servant's greeting. "right aroun' dis way, marse kenny. watch out, suh, ailse yo' scrape yo' hat off on dem branches." he grasped the bit, after his master had dismounted in the weed-covered little roadway at the side of the house, and ceremoniously waved his hand toward the open door. "step right in, suh,--yas, suh,--an' make yo'self to home, suh. sit right down front of de fiah, marse kenny. ah won't be more'n two shakes, suh, stablin'--yas, suh! come on hyar, yo' brandy boy! ise gwine show yo' whar yo's gwine to be de happies' hoss in--yas, suh,--yas, suh!" the young man looked long and searchingly through the trees before entering the house, but saw no sign of his neighbours. he thought he detected a slight movement of a curtain in one of the windows,--the parlor window, if his memory served him right. it was late in the afternoon before he saw either of his relatives. he had had occasional glimpses of the negro servant-girl and also of a gaunt stable-man, both of whom favoured his partially obscured abode with frank interest and curiosity. a clumsy, silent hound came up to the intervening fence several times during the afternoon and inspected the newcomers with seeming indifference, an attitude which misled zachariah into making advances that were received with alarming ill-temper. kenneth was on his front doorstep, contemplating with secret despair the jungle of weeds and shrubbery that lay before him, completely obliterating the ancient path down to the gate. the whole place was overgrown with long, broken weeds, battered into tangled masses by the blasts of winter; at his feet were heaps of smitten burdocks and the dead, smothered stems of hollyhocks, geraniums and other garden plants set out and nurtured with tender care by rachel gwyn during her years of occupancy. the house needed painting, the roof required attention, the front gate was half open and immovably imbedded in the earth. he was not aware of viola's presence on the other side of the fence dividing the two yards until her voice fell upon his ears. it was clear and sweet and bantering. "i suppose you are wondering why we haven't weeded the yard for you, brother kenny." as he made his way through the weeds to the fence, upon which she rested her elbows while she gazed upon him with a mocking smile in the eyes that lay far back in the shovel-like hood of her black quaker bonnet, he experienced a sudden riotous tumult in the region of his heart. shaded by the dark, extended wings of the bonnet, her face was like a dusky rose possessed of the human power to smile. the ribbon, drawn close under her chin, was tied in a huge bow-knot, while at the back of her head the soft, loose cap of the bonnet fitted snugly over hair that he knew would gleam with tints of bronze if exposed to the rays of the sinking sun. "not at all," he rejoined. "i am wondering just where i'd better begin." "did you find the house all right?" "yes. you have saved me a lot of trouble, viola." "don't give me credit for it. mother did everything. i suppose you know that the furniture and other things belong to you by rights. she didn't give them to you out of charity." "the last thing in the world i should expect would be charity from your mother," he said, stung by the obvious jibe. she smiled tolerantly. "she is more charitable than you imagine. it was only last night that she said she wished barry lapelle was half as good and upright as you are." "that was very kind of her. but if such were the case, i dare say it never would have occurred to you to fall in love with him." he had come up to the fence and was standing with his hand on the top rail. she met his ironic gaze for a moment and then lowered her eyes. "i wish it were possible for us to be friends, kenny," she surprised him by saying. "it doesn't seem right for us to hate each other," she went on, looking up at him again. "it's not our fault that we are who and what we are. i can understand mother's attitude toward you. you are the son of another woman, and i suppose it is only natural for her to be jealous. but you and i had the same father. it--it ought to be different with us, oughtn't it?" "it ought to be,--and it shall be, viola, if you are willing. it rests entirely with you." "it is so hard to think of you as a brother. somehow i wish you were not." "it is pretty hard luck, isn't it? you may be sure of one thing. if i were not your brother i would be barry lapelle's most determined rival." she did not laugh at this. on the contrary, her eyes clouded. "the funny part of it is, kenny, i have been wondering what would have happened if you had come here as a total stranger and not as my relation." then she smiled whimsically. "goodness knows poor barry is having a hard enough time of it as it is, but what a time he would be having if you were some one else. you see, you are very good-looking, kenny, and i am a very silly, frivolous, susceptible little goose." "you are nothing of the kind," he exclaimed warmly, adding in some embarrassment, "except when you say that i am good-looking." "and i have also been wondering how many girls have been in love with you," she went on archly; "and whether you have a sweetheart now,--some one you are engaged to. you needn't be afraid to tell me. i can keep a secret. is there some one back in kentucky or in the east who--" "no such luck," whispered simple, honest kenneth. "no one will have me." "have you ever asked anybody?" she persisted. "no,--i haven't." "then, how do you know that no one will have you?" "well, of course, i--i mean to say i can't imagine any one caring for me in that way." "don't you expect ever to get married?" "why,--er,--naturally i--" he stammered, bewildered at this astonishing attack. "because if you want to remain a bachelor, i would advise you not to ask any one of half a dozen girls in this town that i could mention. they would take you so quick your head would swim." by this time he had recovered himself. affecting grave solicitude, he inquired: "is there any one here that you would particularly desire as a sister-in-law?" she shook her head, almost pensively. "i don't want you to bring any more trouble into the family than you've already brought, and goodness knows that would be doing it. but i shouldn't have said that, kenny. there are lots of fine, lovely girls here. i wouldn't know which one to pick out for you if you were to ask me to do your choosing." "i will leave it entirely in your hands," said he, grinning boyishly. "pick me out a nice, amiable, rather docile young lady,--some one who will come the nearest to being a perfect sister-in-law, and i will begin sparking her at once. by the way, i hope matters are going more smoothly for you and barry." her face clouded. she shot a suspicious, questioning look at him. "i--i want to talk to you about barry some day," she said seriously. "you seemed to resent it most bitterly the last time i attempted to talk to you about him," said he, somewhat pointedly. "you were horrid that day," said she. "i have a good deal to forgive. you said some very mean, nasty things to me that day over there," indicating the thicket with a jerk of her head. "i am glad to see that you took them to heart and have profited," he ventured boldly. she hesitated, and then spoke with a frankness that shamed him. "yes, i did take them to heart, kenny. i will not say that i have profited, but i'll never make the same kind of a fool of myself again. i hated you with all my soul that day,--and for a long time afterward,--but i guess you took the right way with me, after all. if i was fair and square, i would say that i am grateful to you. but, you see, i am not fair and square. i am as stubborn as a mule." "the best thing about a mule is that he takes his whalings without complaining." she sighed. "i often wonder what a mule thinks about when he stands there without budging while some angry, infuriated man beats him until his arm gets tired." "that's very simple. he just goes on thinking what a fool the man is for licking a mule." "good! i hope you will remember that the next time you try to reason with me." "what is it you want to say to me about barry?" he asked, abruptly. "oh, there is plenty of time for that," she replied, frowning. "it will keep. how are you getting along with the house?" "splendidly. it was in very good order. i will be settled in a day or two and as comfortable as anything. to-night zachariah and i are going to make a list of everything we need and to-morrow i shall start out on a purchasing tour. i intend to buy quite a lot of new furniture, things for the kitchen, carpets and--" viola interrupted him with an exclamation. her eyes were shining, sparkling with eagerness. "oh, won't you take me along with you? mr. hanna has just received a wonderful lot of things from down the river, and at benbridge & foster's they have a new stock of--" "hurrah!" he broke in jubilantly. "it's just what i wanted, viola. now you are being a real sister to me. we will start early in the morning and--and buy out the town. bless your heart, you've taken a great load off my mind. i haven't the intelligence of a snipe when it comes to fitting up a--why, say, i tell you what i'll do. i will let you choose everything i need, just as if you were setting up housekeeping for yourself. curtains, table cloths, carpets, counterpanes, china, queensware, chairs, chests--" "brooms, clothes-pins, rolling-pins, skillets, dough-bowls, cutlery--" "bureaus, looking-glasses, wardrobe, antimacassar tidies, bedspreads, towels--" "oh, kenny, what fun we'll have," she cried. "and, first of all, you must let me come over right now and help you with your list. i know much better than you do what you really need,--and what you don't need. we must not spend too much money, you see." "'gad," he gulped, "you--you talk just as if you and i were a poor, struggling young couple planning to get married." "no, it only proves how mean and selfish i am. i am depriving your future bride of the pleasure of furnishing her own house, and that's what all brides like better than anything. but i promise to pick out things that i know she will like. in the meantime, you will be happy in knowing that you have something handsome to tempt her with when the time comes. as soon as you are all fixed up, you must give a party. that will settle everything. they'll all want to marry you,--and they'll have something to remember me by when i'm gone. come on, kenny, let's go in and start making the list." she started off toward her own gate, but stopped as he called out to her. "wait! are you sure your mother will approve of your--" "of course she will!" she flung back at him. "she doesn't mind our being friendly. only,"--and she came back a few steps, "i am afraid she will never be friends with you, kenny. i am sorry." he was silent. she waited for a moment before turning away, shaking her head slightly as if attempting to dismiss something that perplexed her sorely. there was a yearning in his eyes as they followed her down to the gate; then he shot a quick, accusing glance at the house in which his enemy lived. he saw the white curtains in the north parlor window drop into place, flutter for a second or two, and then hang perfectly still. rachel gwyn had been watching them. he made no effort to hide the scowl that darkened his brow as he continued to stare resentfully at the window. he met viola at his own disabled gate, which cracked and shivered precariously on its rusty hinges as he jerked it open. "i lived for nearly three years in this house, kenny," she said as she picked her way through the weeds. "i slept on a very hard straw tick up in the attic. it was dreadfully cold in the winter time. i used to shiver all night long curled up with my knees up to my chin. and in the summer time it was so hot i slept with absolutely nothing,--" she broke off in sudden confusion. "our new house is only about a year old," she went after a moment. pointing, she added: "that is my bedroom window up there. you can get a glimpse of it through the trees but when the leaves are out you can't see it at all from here." "i shall keep an eye on that window," said he, with mock severity, "and if ever i catch you climbing down on a ladder to run away with--well, i'll wake the dead for miles around with my yells. see to it, my dear sister, that you attempt nothing rash at the dead hour of night." she laughed. "have you seen our dog? i pity the valiant knight who tries to put a ladder up to my window." they spent the better part of an hour going over the house. she was in an adorable mood. once she paused in the middle of a sentence to ask why he was so solemn. "goodness me, kenny, you look as if you had lost your very best friend. aren't you interested? shall we stop?" a feeling of utter desolation had stricken him. he was sick at heart. every drop of blood in his body was crying out for her. small wonder that despair filled his soul and lurked in his gloomy, disconsolate eyes. she had removed her bonnet. if he had thought her beautiful on that memorable night at striker's he now realized that his first impression was hopelessly inadequate. her eyes, dancing with eagerness, no longer reflected the disdain and suspicion with which she had regarded him on that former occasion. her smile was frank and warm and joyous. he saw her now as she really was, incomparably sweet and charming--and so his heart was sick. "i wouldn't stop for the world," he exclaimed, making a determined effort to banish the tell-tale misery from his eyes. "i know!" she cried, after a searching look into his eyes. "you are in love with some one, kenny, and you are wishing that she were here in my place, helping you to plan the--" "nonsense," he broke in gruffly. "put that out of your head, viola. i tell you there is no--er--no such girl." "then," she said darkly, "it must be the dreadful extravagance i am leading you into. goodness, when i look at this list, i realize what a lot of money it is going to take to--" "we're not half through," he said, "and i am not thinking of the expense. i am delighted with everything you have suggested. i shudder when i think how helpless i should have been without you. didn't i tell you in the beginning that i wanted you to fix this house up just as if you were planning to live in it yourself? put down all the things you would most like to have, viola, and--and--well, confound the expense. come along! we're losing time. did you jot down that last thing we were talking about? that--er--that--" he paused, wrinkling his forehead. "i don't believe you have been paying any attention to what--now, tell me, what was the last thing we were talking about?" he squinted hard at the little blank book in her hand. she closed it with a snap. "have you got it down?" he demanded severely. "i have." "then, there's no use worrying about it," he said, with great satisfaction. "now, let me see: don't you think i ought to have a clock for the mantelpiece?" "i put that down half an hour ago," she said. "the big gold french clock i was telling you about." "that's so. the one you like so well down at currie's." they proceeded. he had followed about, carrying the ink pot into which she frequently dipped the big quill pen. she overlooked nothing in the scantily furnished house. she even went so far as to timidly suggest that certain articles of furniture might well be replaced by more attractive ones, and he had promptly agreed. at last she announced that she must go home. "if you buy all the things we have put down here, kenny, you will have the loveliest house in lafayette. my, how i shall envy you!" "i have a feeling i shall be very lonely--amidst all this splendour," he said. "oh, no, you won't. i shall run in to see you every whipstitch. you will get awfully sick of having me around." "i am thinking of the time when you are married, viola, and,--and have gone away from lafayette." "well," she began, her brow clouding, "you seem to have got along without me for a good many years,--so i guess you won't miss me as much as you think. besides, we are supposed to be enemies, aren't we?" "it doesn't look much like it now, does it?" "no," she said dubiously, "but i--i must not do anything that will make mother feel unhappy or--" he broke in a little harshly. "are you forgetting how unhappy it will make her if you marry barry lapelle?" "oh, that may be a long way off," she replied calmly. "you see, barry and i quarrelled yesterday. we both have vile tempers,--perfectly detestable tempers. of course, we will make up again--we always do--but there may come a time when he will say, 'oh, what's the use trying to put up with you any longer?' and then it will all be over." she was tying her bonnet strings as she made this astonishing statement. her chin being tilted upward, she looked straight up into his eyes the while her long, shapely fingers busied themselves with the ribbons. "i guess you have found out what kind of a temper i have, haven't you?" she added genially. as he said nothing (being unable to trust his voice): "i know i shall lead poor barry a dog's life. if he knew what was good for him he would avoid me as he would the plague." he swallowed hard. "you--you will not fail to come with me to-morrow morning on the purchasing tour," he said, rather gruffly. "i'll be helpless without you." "i wouldn't miss it for anything," she cried. as they walked down to the gate she turned to him and abruptly said: "barry is going down the river next week. he expects to be away for nearly a fortnight. has he said anything to you about it?" kenneth started. next week? the dark of the moon. "not a word," he replied grimly. chapter xiv a man from down the river kenneth's first night in the old gwyn house was an uneasy, restless one, filled with tormenting doubts as to his strength or even his willingness to continue the battle against the forces of nature. viola's night was also disturbed. some strange, mysterious instinct was at work within her, although she was far from being aware of its significance. she lay awake for a long time thinking of him. she was puzzled. over and over again she asked herself why she had blushed when he looked down at her as she was tying her bonnet-strings, and why had she felt that queer little thrill of alarm? and why did he look at her like that? she answered this question by attributing its curious intensity to a brotherly interest--which was quite natural--and the awakening of a dutiful affection--but that did not in any sense account for the blood rushing to her face, so that she must have reminded him of a "turkey gobbler." she announced to her mother at breakfast: "i don't believe i can ever think of kenny as a brother." rachel gwyn looked up, startled. "what was that you called him?" she asked. "kenny. he has always been called that for short. and somehow, mother, it sounds familiar to me. have i ever heard father speak of him by that name?" "i--i am sure i do not know," replied her mother uneasily. "i doubt it. it must be a fancy, viola." "i can't get over feeling shy and embarrassed when he looks at me," mused the girl. "don't you think it odd? it doesn't seem natural for a girl to feel that way about a brother." "it is because you are not used to each other," interrupted rachel. "you will get over it in time." "i suppose so. you are sure you don't mind my going to the stores with him, mother?" her mother arose from the table. there was a suggestion of fatalism in her reply. "i think i can understand your desire to be with him." she went to the kitchen window and looked over at the house next door. "he is out in his back yard now, viola," she said, after a long pause, "all dressed and waiting for you. you had better get ready." "it will not hurt him to wait awhile," said viola perversely. "in fact, it will do him good. he thinks he is a very high and mighty person, mother." she glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. "i shall keep him waiting for just an hour." rachel's strong, firm shoulders drooped a little as she passed into the sitting-room. she sat down abruptly in one of the stiff rocking-chairs, and one with sharp ears might have heard her whisper to herself: "we cannot blindfold the eyes of nature. they see through everything." it was nine o'clock when viola stepped out into her front yard, reticule in hand, and sauntered slowly down the walk, stopping now and then to inspect some maytime shoot. he was waiting for her outside his own gate. "what a sleepy-head you are," was her greeting as she came up to him. "i've been up since six o'clock," he said. "then, for goodness' sake, why have you kept me waiting all this time?" "my dear viola, i was not born yesterday, nor yet the day before," he announced, with aggravating calmness. "long before you were out of short frocks and pantalettes i was a wise old gentleman." "i don't know just what you mean by that." "i learned a great many years ago that it is always best to admit you are in fault when a charming young lady says you are. if you had kept me waiting till noon i should still consider it my duty to apologize. which i now do." she laughed merrily. "come along with you. we have much to do on this fine may day. first, we will go to the hardware store, saving the queensware store till the last,--like float at the end of a sunday dinner." and so they advanced upon the town, as fine a pair as you would find in a twelvemonth's search. first she conducted him to jimmy munn's feed and wagon-yard, where he contracted to spend the first half-dollar of the expedition by engaging jimmy to haul his purchases up to the house. "put the sideboards on your biggest wagon, jimmy," was viola's order, "and meet us at hinkle's." she proved to be a very sweet and delightful autocrat. for three short and joyous hours she led him from store to store, graciously leaving to him the privilege of selection but in nine cases out of ten demonstrating that he was entirely wrong in his choice, always with the naive remark after the purchase was completed and the money paid in hand: "of course, kenny, if you would rather have the other, don't for the world let me influence you." "you know more about it than i do," he would invariably declare. "what do i know about carpets?"--or whatever they happened to be considering at the time. she was greatly dismayed, even appalled, as they wended their way homeward, followed by the first wagonload of possessions, to find that he had spent the stupendous, unparalleled sum of two hundred and forty-two dollars and fifty cents. "oh, dear!" she sighed. "we must take a lot of it back, kenny. why didn't you keep track of what you were spending? why, that's nearly a fourth of one thousand dollars." he grinned cheerfully. "and we haven't begun to paint the house yet, or paper the walls, or set out the flower beds, or--" "goodness me!" she cried, aghast. "you are not going to do all that now, are you?" "every bit of it," he affirmed. "i am going to rebuild the barn, put in a new well, dig a cistern, build a smoke-house, lay a brick walk down to the front gate and put up a brand new picket fence--" "you must be made of money," she cried, eyeing him with wonder in her big, violet eyes. "i am richer now than when we started out this morning," said he, magnificently. "when you say things like that, you almost make me wish you were not my brother," said she, after a moment, and to her annoyance she felt the blood mount to her face. "and what would you do if i were not your brother?" he inquired, looking straight ahead. whereupon she laughed unrestrainedly. "you would be dreadfully shocked if i were to tell you,--but i can't help saying that barry would be so jealous he wouldn't know what to do." "you might find yourself playing with fire." "well," she said, flippantly, "i've got over wanting to play with dolls. now don't scold me! i can see by your face that you'd like to shake me good and hard. my, what a frown! i am glad it isn't january. if your face was to freeze--there! that's better. i shouldn't mind at all if it froze now. you look much nicer when you smile, kenny." her voice dropped a little and a serious expression came into her eyes. "i don't believe i ever saw father smile. but i've seen him when he looked exactly as you did just then. i--i hope you don't mind my talking that way about your father, kenny. i wouldn't if he were not mine as well." "you knew him far better than i," he reminded her. then he added brightly: "i shall try to do better from now on. i'll smile--if it kills me." "don't do that," she protested, with a pretty grimace. "i've been in mourning for ages, it seems, and i'm sure i should hate you if you kept me in black for another year or two." as they parted at kenneth's gate,--it seemed to be mutely understood that he was to go no farther,--they observed a tall, black figure cross the little front porch of the house beyond and disappear through the door. kenneth's eyes hardened. the girl, looking up into those eyes, shook her head and smiled wistfully. "will you come over and help me put all these things where they belong?" he asked, after a moment. "this afternoon, kenny?" "if you haven't anything else you would rather--" he began. "i can't wait to see how the house will look when we get everything in place. i will be over right after dinner,--unless mother needs me for something." . . . . . that evening zachariah was noticeably perturbed. he had prepared a fine supper, and to his distress it was scarcely touched by his preoccupied master. now, zachariah was proud of his cooking. he was pleased to call himself, without fear of contradiction, "a natteral bo'n cook, from de bottom up." moreover, his master was a gentleman whose appetite was known to be absolutely reliable; it could be depended upon at almost any hour of the day or night. small wonder then that zachariah was not only mystified but grieved as well. he eyed the solemn looking young man with anxiety. "ain't yo' all feelin' well, marse kenneth?" he inquired, with a justifiable trace of exasperation in his voice. "what's that, zachariah?" asked kenneth, startled out of a profound reverie. "is dey anything wrong wid dat ham er--" "it is wonderful, zachariah. i don't believe i have ever tasted better ham,--and certainly none so well broiled." "ain't--ain't de co'n-bread fitten to eat, suh?" "delicious, zachariah, delicious. you have performed wonders with the--er--new baking pan and--" "what's de matteh wid dem b'iled pertaters, suh?" "matter with them? nothing! they are fine." "well, den, suh, if dere ain't nothin' de matteh wid de vittels, dere suttinly mus' be somefin de matteh wid you, marse kenneth. yo' all ain't etten enough fo' to fill a grasshoppeh." "i am not hungry," apologized his master, quite humbly. "'cause why? yas, suh,--'cause why?" retorted zachariah, exercising a privilege derived from long and faithful service. "'cause miss viola she done got yo' all bewitched. can't fool dis yere nigger. wha' fo' is yo' all feelin' dis yere way 'bout yo' own sister? yas, suh,--ah done had my eyes open all de time, suh. yo' all was goin' 'round lookin' like a hongry dog, 'spectin'--yas, suh! yas, suh! take plenty, suh, marse johnson he say to me, he say, 'dis yere sap come right outen de finest maple tree in de state ob indianny, day befo' yesterday,' he say. a leetle mo' coffee, suh? yas, suh! das right! yo' suttinly gwine like dat ham soon as ever yo' get a piece in yo' mouth,--yas, suh!" kenneth's abstraction was due to the never-vanishing picture of viola, the sleeves of her work-dress rolled up to the elbows, her eyes aglow with enthusiasm, her bonny brown hair done up in careless coils, her throat bare, her spirits as gay as the song of a roistering gale. she had come over prepared for toil, an ample apron of blue gingham shielding her frock, her skirts caught up at the sides, revealing the bottom of her white petticoat and a glimpse of trim, shapely ankles. she directed the placing of all the furniture carried in by the grunting jimmy munn and zachariah; she put the china safe and pantry in order; she superintended the erection of the big four poster bed, measured the windows for the new curtains, issued irrevocable commands concerning the hanging of several gay english hunting prints (the actual hanging to be done by kenneth and his servant in a less crowded hour,--after supper, she suggested); ordered zachariah to remove to the attic such of the discarded articles of furniture as could be carried up the pole ladder, the remainder to go to the barn; left instructions not to touch the rolls of carpet until she could measure and cut them into sections, and then went away with the promise to return early in the morning not only with shears and needle but with hattie as well, to sew and lay the carpets,--a "brussels" of bewildering design and an "ingrain" for the bedroom. "when you come home from the office at noon, kenny, don't fail to bring tacks and a hammer with you," she instructed, as she fanned her flushed face with her apron. "but i am not going to the office," he expostulated. "i have too much to see to here." "it isn't customary for the man of the house to be anywhere around at a time like this," she informed him, firmly. "besides you ought to be down town looking for customers. how do you know that some one may not be in a great hurry for a lawyer and you not there to--" "there are plenty of other lawyers if one is needed in a hurry," he protested. "and what's more, i can't begin to practise law in this state without going through certain formalities. you don't understand all these things, viola." "perhaps not," she admitted calmly; "but i do understand moving and house-cleaning, and i know that a man is generally in the way at such times. oh, don't look so hurt. you have been fine this afternoon. i don't know how i should have got along without you. but to-morrow it will be different. hattie and i will be busy sewing carpets and--and--well, you really will not be of any use at all, kenny. so please stay away." he was sorely disgruntled at the time and so disconsolate later on that it required zachariah's startling comment to lift him out of the slough of despond. spurred by the desire to convince his servant that his speculations were groundless, he made a great to-do over the imposed task of hanging the pictures, jesting merrily about the possibility of their heads being snapped off by mistress viola if she popped in the next morning to find that they had bungled the job. four or five days passed, each with its measure of bitter and sweet. by the end of the week the carpets were down and the house in perfect order. he invited her over for sunday dinner. a pained, embarrassed look came into her eyes. "i was afraid you would ask me to come," she said gently. "i don't think it would be right or fair for me to accept your hospitality. wait! i know what you are going to say. but it isn't quite the same, you see. mother has been very kind and generous about letting me come over to help you with the house,--and i suppose she would not object if i were to come as your guest at dinner,--but i have a feeling in here somewhere that it would hurt her if i came here as your guest. so i sha'n't come. you understand, don't you?" "yes," he said gravely,--and reluctantly. "i understand, viola." earlier in the week he had ridden out to isaac stain's. the hunter had no additional news to give him, except that barry, after spending a day with martin hawk, had gone down to attica by flat-boat and was expected to return to lafayette on the packet paul revere, due on monday or tuesday. lapelle's extended absence from the town was full of meaning. stain advanced the opinion that he had gone down the river for the purpose of seeing a williamsport justice of the peace whose record was none too good and who could be depended upon to perform the contemplated marriage ceremony without compunction if his "palm was satisfactorily greased." "if we could only obtain some clear and definite idea as to their manner of carrying out this plan," said kenneth, "i would be the happiest man on earth. but we will be compelled to work in the dark,--simply waiting for them to act." "well, moll hawk hain't been able to find out just yet when er how they're goin' to do it," said stain. "all she knows is that two or three men air comin' up from attica on the paul revere and air goin' to get off the boat when it reaches her pa's place. like as not this scalawag of a justice will be one of 'em, but that's guesswork. that reminds me to ask, did you ever run acrosst a feller in the town you come from named jasper suggs?" "jasper suggs? i don't recall the name." "well, she says this feller suggs that's been stayin' at martin's cabin fer a week er two claims to have lived there some twenty odd years ago. guess you must ha' been too small to recollect him. she says he sort of brags about bein' a renegade durin' the war an' fightin' on the side of the injins up along the lakes. he's a nasty customer, she says. claims to be a relation of old simon girty's,--nephew er something like that." "does he claim to have known any of my family down there?" inquired kenneth, apprehensively. "from what moll says he must have knowed your pa. leastwise, he says the name's familiar. he was sayin' only a day or two ago that he'd like to see a picter of your pa. he'd know if it was the same feller he used to know soon as he laid eyes on it." kenneth pondered a moment and then said: "do you suppose you could get a letter to moll hawk if i were to write it, stain?" "i could," said the other, "but it wouldn't do any good. she cain't read er write. besides, if i was you, i wouldn't risk anything like that. it might fall into hawk's hands, and the fust thing he would do would be to turn it over to lapelle,--'cause martin cain't read himself." "i was only wondering if she could find out a little more about this man suggs,--just when he lived there and--and all that." "he's purty close-mouthed, she says. got to be, i reckon. he fell in with martin ten er twelve years ago, an' there was a price on his head then. martin hid him for awhile an' helped him to git safe away. like as not suggs ain't his real name anyhow." kenneth was a long time in deciding to speak to rachel gwyn about the man suggs. he found an opportunity to accost her on the day that the paul revere came puffing up to the little log-built landing near the ferry. viola had left the house upon learning that the boat had turned the bend in the river two or three miles below town, and had made no secret of her intention to greet lapelle when he came ashore. this was gwynne's first intimation that she was aware of her lover's plan to return by the paul revere. he was distinctly annoyed by the discovery. rachel was in her back yard, feeding the chickens, when he came up to the fence and waited for her to look in his direction. all week,--in fact, ever since he had come up there to live,--he had been uncomfortably conscious of peering eyes behind the curtains in the parlor window. time and again he had observed a slight flutter when he chanced to glance that way, as of a sudden release of the curtains held slightly apart by one who furtively watched from within. on the other hand, she never so much as looked toward his house when she was out in her own yard or while passing by on the road. always she was the straight, stern, unfriendly figure in black, wrapped in her own thoughts, apparently ignorant of all that went on about her. she turned at last and saw him standing there. "may i have a word with you?" he said. she did not move nor did she speak for many seconds, but stood staring hard at him from the shade of her deep black bonnet. "what is it you want, kenneth gwynne?" "no favour, you may be sure, rachel carter." she seemed to wince a little. after a moment's hesitation, she walked slowly over to the fence and faced him. "well?" she said curtly. "do you remember a man at home named jasper suggs?" "are you speaking of my old home in salem or of--of another place?" "the place where i was born," he said, succinctly. "i have never heard the name before," she said. "why do you ask?" "there is a man in this neighbourhood,--a rascal, i am told,--who says he lived there twenty years ago." she eyed him narrowly. "well,--go on! what has he to say about me?" "nothing, so far as i know. i have not talked with him. it came to me in a roundabout way. he is staying with a man named hawk, down near the wea." "he keeps pretty company," was all she said in response to this. "i have been told that he would like to see a daguerreotype of my father some time, just to make sure whether he was the gwynne he used to know." "has he ever seen you, kenneth gwynne?" she appeared to be absolutely unconcerned. "no." "one look at you would be sufficient," she said. "if you are both so curious, why not arrange a meeting?" "i am in no way concerned," he retorted. "on the other hand, i should think you would be vitally interested, rachel carter. if he knew my father, he certainly must have known you." "very likely. what would you have me do?" she went on ironically. "go to him and beg him to be merciful? or, if it comes to the worst, hire some one to assassinate him?" "i am not thinking of your peace of mind. i am thinking of viola's. we have agreed, you and i, to spare her the knowledge of--" "quite true," she interrupted. "you and i have agreed upon that, but there it ends. we cannot include the rest of the world. chance sends this man, whoever he may be, to this country. i must likewise depend upon chance to escape the harm he may be in a position to do me. is it not possible that he may have left before i came there to live? that chance remains, doesn't it?" "yes," he admitted. "it is possible. i can tell you something about him. he is related to simon girty, and he was a renegade who fought with the indians up north during the war. does that throw any light upon his identity?" "he says his name is suggs?" she inquired. he was rewarded by a sharp catch in her breath and a passing flicker of her eyes. "jasper suggs." she was silent for a moment. "i know him," she said calmly. "his name is simon braley. at any rate, there was a connection of girty's who went by that name and who lived down there on the river for a year or two. he killed the man he was working for and escaped. that was before i--before i left the place. i don't believe he ever dared to go back. so, you see, chance favours us again, kenneth gwynne." "you forget that he will no doubt remember you as rachel carter. he will also remember that you had a little girl." "let me remind you that i remember the cold-blooded murder of john hendricks and that nobody has been hung for it yet," she said. "my memory is as good as his if it should come to pass that we are forced to exchange compliments. thank you for the information. the sheriff of this county is a friend of mine. he will be pleased to know that simon braley, murderer and renegade, is in his bailiwick. from what i know of simon girty's nephew, he is not the kind of man who will be taken alive." he started. "you mean,--that you will send the sheriff out to arrest him?" she shook her head. "not exactly," she replied. "did you not hear me say that simon braley would never be taken alive?" with that, she turned and walked away, leaving him to stare after her until she entered the kitchen door. he was conscious of a sense of horror that began to send a chill through his veins. chapter xv the landing of the "paul revere" the paul revere tied up at the landing shortly after two o'clock. the usual crowd of onlookers thronged the bank, attention being temporarily diverted from an important game of "horseshoes" that was taking place in the sugar grove below trentman's shanty. pitching horseshoes was the daily fair-weather pastime of the male population of the town. at one time or another during the course of the day, practically every man in the place came down to the grove to shy horseshoes at the stationary but amazingly elusive pegs. it was not an uncommon thing for a merchant to close his place of business for an hour or so in order to keep an engagement to pitch horseshoes with some time-honoured adversary. on this occasion a very notable match was in progress between "judge" billings and mr. pennington sawyer, the real estate agent. they were the recognized champions. both were accredited with the astonishing feat of ringing eight out of ten casts at twenty paces; if either was more than six inches away from the stake on any try the crowd mutely attributed the miss to inhibitions of the night before. not only was the betting lively when these two experts met but all other matches were abandoned during the classic clash. the "judge" did not owe his title to service on the bench nor even at the bar of justice. it had been bestowed upon him by a liberal-minded community because of his proficiency as a judge of horse races, foot races, shooting matches, dog or rooster fights, and other activities of a similar character. he was, above all things, a good judge of whiskey. when not engaged in judging one thing or another, he managed to eke out a comfortable though sometimes perilous living by trading horses,--a profession which made him an almost infallible judge of men, notwithstanding two or three instances where he had erred with painful results to his person. notably, the prodigious thrashing jake miller had given him two days after a certain trade, and an almost identical experience with bud shanks who had given a perfectly sound mare and seventeen dollars to boot for a racehorse that almost blew up with the heaves before bud was half-way home. but, whatever his reputation may have been as a horse-trader, "judge" billings was unaffectedly noble when it came to judging a contest of any description. far and wide he was known to be "as honest as the day is long," proof of which may be obtained from his publicly uttered contention that "nobody but a derned fool would do anything crooked while a crowd was lookin' on, with more'n half of 'em carryin' guns or some other weapon that can't be expected to listen to argument." he was kenneth gwynne's first client. in employing the young man to defend a suit brought by silas kenwright, he ingenuously announced that the plaintiff had a perfectly good case and that his only object in fighting the claim was to see how near silas could come to telling the truth under oath. mr. kenwright was demanding twenty-five dollars damages for slander. in the complaint mr. billings was charged with having held mr. kenwright up to ridicule and contumely by asseverating that said plaintiff was "a knock-kneed, cross-eyed, red-headed, white-livered liar." "the only chance we've got," he explained to gwynne, "is on the question of his liver. we can prove he's a liar,--in fact, he admits that,--but, doggone it, he's as bow-legged as a barrel hoop, he's wall-eyed, and what little hair he's got is as black as the ace o' spades. i don't suppose the court would listen to a request to have him opened up to see what colour his liver is,--and that's where he's got us. it ain't so much being called a liar that riles him; he's used to that. it's being called knock-kneed and cross-eyed. he don't mind the white-livered part so much, or the way i spoke about his hair, 'cause one of 'em you can't see an' the other could be dyed or sheared right down to the skin if the worst came to the worst. if i'd only called him a lousy, ornery, low-lived, sheep-stealing liar, this here suit never would have been brought. but what did i do but up and hurt his feelings by callin' him knock-kneed and cross-eyed. that comes of not stickin' to the truth, mr. gwynne,--and it's a derned good lesson for me. honesty is the best policy, as the feller says. it'll probably cost me forty or fifty dollars for being so slack with my veracity." kenneth's suggestion that an effort be made to settle the controversy out of court had met with instant opposition. "it ain't to be thought of," declared mr. billings firmly. "why, dodgast it, you don't suppose i'm going to pay that feller any money, do you? not much! i'm willing enough to let him get a judgment against me for any amount he wants, just fer the fun of it, but, by gosh, when you begin to talk about me giving him money, why, that's serious. i'm willing to pay you your ten dollars fee and the court costs, but the only way si kenwright can ever collect a penny from me will be after i'm dead and he sneaks in when nobody's around and steals the coppers off my eyes." this digression serves a simple purpose. it introduces a sporty gentleman of unique integrity whose friendship for kenneth gwynne flowered as time went on and ultimately bore such fruits as only the most favoured of men may taste. in passing he may be described as a pudgy, middle-aged individual, with mild blue eyes, an engaging smile, cherubic cheeks, sandy hair, and a highly pitched, far-reaching voice. he also had a bulbous nose resembling a large, ripe strawberry. before coming to rest alongside the wharf, the paul revere indulged in a vast amount of noise. she whistled and coughed and sputtered and gasped with all the spasmodic energy of a choking monster; her bells kept up an incessant clangour; her wheel creaked and grovelled on the bed of the river, churning the water into a yellowish, foaming mass; her captain bellowed and barked, her crew yelped, her passengers shouted; the flat boats and perogues moored along the bank, aroused from their lassitude, began to romp gaily in the swirl of her crazy backwash; ropes whined and rasped and groaned, the deck rattled hollowly with the tread of heavy feet and the shifting of boxes and barrels and crates; the gangplank came down with a crash,--and so the mighty hundred and fifty ton leviathan of the wabash came to the end of her voyage! there were a score of passengers on board, among them barry lapelle. he kept well in the rear of the motley throng of voyagers, an elegant, lordly figure, approached only in sartorial distinction by the far-famed gambler, sylvester hornaday, who likewise held himself sardonically aloof from the common horde, occupying a position well forward where, it might aptly be said, he could count his sheep as they straggled ashore. from afar barry had recognized viola standing among the people at the top of the bank, and his eager, hungry gaze had not left her. she, too, had caught sight of him long before the boat was near the landing. she waved her kerchief. he lifted his hat and blew a kiss to her. a thrill of exultation ran through him. he had not expected her to meet him at the landing. her mere presence there was evidence of a determination to defy not only her mother but also to brave the storm of gossip that was bound to attend this public demonstration of loyalty on her part, for none knew so well as he how the townspeople looked upon their attachment. a most satisfying promise for the future, he gloated; here was the proof that she loved him, that her tantalizing outbursts of temper were not to be taken seriously, that his power over her was irresistible. there were times when he felt uncomfortably dubious as to his hold upon her affections. she was whimsical, perverse, maddening in her sudden transitions of mood. and she had threatened more than once to have nothing more to do with him unless he mended his ways! now he smiled triumphantly as he gazed upon her. all that pother about nothing! henceforth he would pay no attention to her whims; let her rail and fume and lecture as much as she liked, there was nothing for him to be worried about. she would always come round like a lamb,--and when she was his for keeps he would take a lot of the nonsense out of her! with few exceptions the passengers on board the revere were strangers,--fortune-seekers, rovers, land-buyers and prospectors from the east and south come to this well-heralded region of promise, perhaps to stay, perhaps to pass on. three or four lafayette men, home after a trip down the river, crowded their way ashore, to be greeted by anxious wives. the strangers were more leisurely in their movements. they straggled ashore with their nondescript possessions and ambled off between two batteries of frank, appraising eyes. judge billings, shrewd calculator of human values, quite audibly disclosed his belief that at least three of the newcomers would have to be run out of town before they were a day older, possibly astraddle of a rail. one of these marked individuals was a tall, swart, bearded fellow with black, shifty eyes and a scowling brow. his baggage consisted of a buckskin sack slung across his shoulder and a small bundle which he carried under his arm. he appeared to have no acquaintances among the voyagers. "you don't know how happy this makes me, viola," exclaimed lapelle as he clasped the girl's hand in his. he was devouring her with a bold, consuming gaze. she reddened. "i told mother i was coming down to meet you," she explained, visibly embarrassed by the stares of those nearby. "i--i wanted to see you the instant you arrived, barry. shall we walk along slowly behind the rest?" "what's happened?" he demanded suspiciously, his brow darkening. "don't be impatient. wait till they are a little ahead." "'gad, it sounds ominous. i thought you came down to meet me because you love me and were--well, glad to see me." "i am glad to see you. you didn't expect me to make an exhibition of myself before all those people, did you?" his face brightened. "well, that sounds better." his mouth went up at the corner in its habitual curl. "i'd give all i possess if it was dark now, so that i could grab you and squeeze the--" "sh! they will hear you," she whispered, drawing away from him in confusion. they held back until the throng had moved on a short distance. then she turned upon him with a dangerous light in her eyes. "and what's more," she said in a low voice, "i don't like to hear you say such things. they sound so cheap and low--and vulgar, barry. i--" "oh, you're always jumping on me for saying the things i really feel," he broke in. "you're my girl, aren't you? why shouldn't i tell you how i feel? what's vulgar about my telling you i want to hold you in my arms and kiss you? why, i don't think of anything else, day or night. and what do i get? you put me off,--yes, you do!--bringing up some silly notion about--about--what is it?--propriety! good lord, viola, that's going back to the days of the puritans,--whoever they were. they just sat around and held hands,--and that's about all i've been allowed to do with you. it's not right,--it's not natural, viola. people who are really in love with each other just simply can't help kissing and--" "i guess you were right when you said you were not expecting me down to meet the boat, barry," she interrupted, looking straight before her. "well, didn't i tell you how happy it made me?" "if you had thought there was any chance of me coming down to meet you, you wouldn't have taken so much to drink," she went on, a little catch in her voice. whereupon he protested vigorously that he had not tasted a drop,--except one small dram the captain had given him early that morning when he complained of a chill. "why, you're drunk right now," she said miserably. "oh, barry, won't you ever--" "drunk? i'm as sober as the day i was born," he retorted, squaring his shoulders. "look at me,--look me in the eye, viola. oh, well, if you won't look you won't, that's all. and if i'm as drunk as you imagine i am i should think you'd be ashamed to be seen in my company." she did not respond to this, so, with a sneering laugh, he continued: "suppose i have had a little too much,--who's the cause of it? you! you drive me to it, you do. the last couple of weeks you've been throwing up all my faults to me, tormenting me till i'm nearly crazy with uncertainty. first you say you'll have me, that you'll do anything i wish, and then, just as i begin to feel that everything's all right, you up and say you're not sure whether you care for me or not and you're going to obey your mother in every--and, say, that reminds me. unless i am very much mistaken, i think i'll soon have a way to bring your mother to time. she won't--" he brought himself up with a jerk, realizing that his loose tongue was running away with his wits. she was looking at him with startled, inquiring eyes. "what do you mean by that, barry lapelle?" she asked, and he was quick to detect the uneasiness in her manner. he affected a grin of derision. "i'm going to put my case in the hands of kenny gwynne, the rising young barrister. with him on our side, my dear, i guess we'll bring her to time. all he has to do is to stand up to her and say he isn't going to put up with any more nonsense, and she'll see the light of wisdom. if he thinks it's all right for you to marry me, i guess that will end the matter. he's the head of the family, isn't he?" this hastily conceived explanation of his luckless remark succeeded in deceiving her. she stared at him in distress. "oh, barry, you--you surely can't be thinking of asking kenneth to intercede--" "why not? he doesn't see any reason why we shouldn't be married, my dear. in fact, he told me so a few days ago. he--" "i don't believe it," she cried. "you don't?" he exclaimed sharply. "no, i don't," she repeated. "has he been talking to you about me?" he demanded, an ugly gleam flashing into his eyes. "he has never said a word against you,--not one. but i don't believe you when you say he told you that we ought to get married." she felt her cheeks grow hot. she had turned her face away from him. "i'm a liar, am i?" he snarled. "i--i don't believe he ever said it," she said stubbornly. "well,--you're right," he admitted, after a moment's hesitation. "not in so many words. but he did say to me that he had told you he saw no reason why you shouldn't marry me if you wanted to. did he ever tell you that?" she remembered only too well the aggravating encounter in the thicket path. "yes, he did," she replied, lifting her head defiantly. "and," she added, "i hated him for it. i hate him more and more every time i think of it. he--he was perfectly abominable." "well, you're--you're damned complimentary," he grated, his face expressing the utmost bewilderment. she walked on for eight or ten paces before speaking again. her head was lowered. she knew that he was glaring at the wing of the bonnet which shielded her whitening cheek. suddenly she turned to him. "barry, let's sit down on that log over there for a few minutes. there is something i've got to say to you,--and i'm sorry. you must not be angry with me. won't you come over there with me,--and listen to what i have to tell you?" he hung back for a moment, his intuition grasping at something vague and yet strangely definite. "you--you are going to tell me it's all over between us, viola?" he ventured, going white to the lips. he was as sober now as though he had never touched liquor in his life. "come and sit down," she said gently, even compassionately. he followed her in silence to the log she had indicated, a few rods back from the roadside at the edge of the clearing. he sat down beside her and waited for her to speak, and as she remained speechless, evidently in distress, his lips curled in a smile of reviving confidence. he watched the quick rise and fall of her bosom, exulting in her difficulty. birds were piping among the fresh green twigs overhead. the air was redolent of the soft fragrance of may: the smell of the soil, the subtle perfume of unborn flowers, the tang of the journeying breeze, the spice of sap-sweating trees. the radiance of a warm, gracious sun lay soft upon the land. at last she spoke, not tremulously as he had expected but with a firmness that boded ill for his composure. "barry," she began, still staring straight ahead, "i don't know just how to begin. it is awfully hard to--to say what i feel i must say. perhaps i should have waited till--well, till you were home for a little while,--before doing what i have made up my mind to do. but i thought it right to have it over with as soon as possible." she paused for a moment and then resolutely faced him. he saw the pain in her dark, troubled eyes, and the shadow of an appealing smile on her lips. his face hardened. "so," she went on unflinchingly, "i came down to the landing to meet you in case you were on the paul revere. i cannot marry you, barry. i--i don't love you as i should. i thought i did but--but--well, that's all. i don't know what has happened to make me see things so differently, but whatever it is i know now that i was mistaken,--oh, so terribly mistaken. i know i am hurting you, barry,--and you have a right to despise me. i--i somehow hope you will,--because i deserve it." he smiled indulgently. "i hope you don't think i am taking this seriously. this isn't the first time i've heard you take on like--" "but i mean it this time, barry,--i do truly and honestly," she cried. "i know i've played hot and cold with you,--and that's just the point. it proves that i never really cared for you in--in that way--down in my soul, i mean. i am sure of it now. i have been dreadfully unhappy about it,--because, barry dear, i can't bear to hurt you. we are not suited to each other. we think differently about a great many things. we--" "look here," he exclaimed roughly, no longer able to disguise his anger; "you've got to stop this everlasting--" "let go of my arm, barry lapelle!" she cried. "don't you dare lay your hand on me like that!" he loosened his grip on her arm and drew back sulkily. "ah,--i didn't mean to hurt you and you know it. i wouldn't hurt you for anything in the world. i'm sorry if i was rough with--" "i don't blame you," she broke in, contritely. "i guess it would serve me right if you beat me black and blue." "what i was going to say," he growled, controlling himself with difficulty, "is this: if you think i'm going to take this as final, you're very much mistaken. you'll get over this, just as you've gotten over your peevishness before. i've spoiled you, that's the truth of the matter. i always give in to you--" "i tell you i am in earnest," she cried hotly. "this is for good and all,--and you make me furious when you talk like that. i am doing my best to be kind and considerate, so you'd better be careful, barry lapelle, not to say too much." he looked into her flaming eyes for a moment and then muttered slowly, wonderingly: "by heaven, viola, i believe you do mean it. you--you are actually throwing me over,--giving me the mitten?" "i can't help it, barry," she insisted. "something,--i don't know what,--has come over me. nothing seems to be the same as it used to be. i only know that i cannot bear the thought of--why, barry dear, for the past three or four nights i've lain awake for hours thinking of the awful consequences if we had succeeded in making our escape that night, and had been married as we planned. how terrible it would have been if i had found out too late that i did not love you,--and we were tied to each other for life. for your sake as well as my own, barry. can you imagine anything more horrible than to be married to a woman who--who didn't love you?" "yes," he snapped, "i can. it's worse a thousand times over not to be married to the girl you love,--and to see her married to some one else. that would be hell,--hell, do you understand?" she drew a little away from him. "but not the hell it would be for me when i found out--too late. won't you understand, barry? can't you see how terrible it would be?" "say, when did you get this idea into your head?" he demanded harshly. "what put it there? you were loving me hard enough a while ago,--couldn't get along without me, you claimed. now you're singing another tune. look here! is--is there some one else?" "you know there isn't," she cried indignantly. "who else could there be? don't be foolish, barry." "by god, if some one else has cut me out, i'll--i'll--" "there is no one else, i tell you! i don't love anybody,--i swear it." he eyed her narrowly. "has kenny gwynne anything to do with all this?" she started. "kenny? why,--no,--of course not. what on earth could he have to do with my loving or not loving you?" "it would be just like him to turn you against me because he thinks i'm not fit to--say, if i find out that he's been sticking his nose into my affairs, i'll make it so hot for him,--brother or no brother,--that he'll wish he'd never been born. wait a minute! i'll tell you what i think of him while i'm about it--and you can run and tell him as quick as you please. he's a g-- d---- snake in the grass, that's what he is. he's a conceited, sanctimonious, white-livered--" "stop that!" she cried, springing to her feet, white with fury, her eyes blazing. "you are forgetting yourself, barry lapelle. not another word! how dare you speak like that about my brother?" he sat staring up at her in a sort of stupefaction. "how dare you?" she repeated furiously. he found his voice. "you weren't sticking up for him this time last week," he sneered. "you were hating him like poison. has the old woman had a change of heart, too? is she letting him sit in her lap so's she can feed him with a spoon when he's hungry and--" "i wouldn't marry you if you were the only man in the world, barry lapelle," said she, her voice low with passion. she whirled and walked rapidly away from him, her head in the air, her hands clenched. leaping to his feet, he started after her, calling: "wait a minute, viola! can't you see i'm almost out of my head over what you've--oh, well, go it! i'm not going to crawl after you! but let me tell you one thing, my girl. you'll be talking out of the other side of your mouth before you're much older. you'll be down on your knees--" "don't you follow me another step!" she cried over her shoulder. he was not more than two yards behind her when she uttered this withering command. he stopped short in his tracks. "well, this is a hell of a way to treat a gentleman!" he shouted, hoarse with fury. chapter xvi concerning tempests and indians shortly after dark that evening, the tall, swarthy man who had come up on the paul revere sauntered slowly up and down that part of main street facing the court house. ostensibly he was inspecting store windows along the way, but in reality he was on the lookout for a man he had agreed to meet at a point just above the tavern,--a casual meeting, it was to appear, and between two strangers. barry lapelle came out of the tavern at the stroke of eight and walked eastward a few paces, halting at the dark open lot between johnson's place and smith's store beyond. the swarthy man approached slowly, unconcernedly. he accosted lapelle, inquiring: "is that the tavern, mister?" "yes," replied barry, needlessly pointing down the street. "well?" "it's her," said the stranger. "i had a good look at her 'long about five o'clock from the woods across from her house. she's a heap sight older but i knowed her all right." "you are sure?" "sure as my name is--" "sh!" "course i'm sure. she was owen carter's widder. he was killt by a tree fallin' on him. oh, i got a good memory. i can't afford to have a bad one. i remember her as plain as if it wuz yestiday." he pointed off in a westerly direction for the benefit of a passerby. "thank ye, mister. you say it's not more'n six mile out yan way?" lowering his voice, he went on: "a feller wouldn't be likely to fergit a woman like her. gosh, i used to wish--but wishin' don't count fer much in this world." "get on with it. we can't stand here talking all night." "well, she's the woman that run off with bob gwynne. there ain't no doubt about it. everybody knowed it. i wuz there at the time, workin' fer ed peters. he left his wife an' a little boy. his wife was a daughter of ole squire blythe,--damn his heart! he had me hoss-whipped in public fer--well, fer some triflin' thing i done. seems to me mrs. carter had a little baby girl. maybe not. i ain't much of a hand fer noticin' babies." "you are sure,--absolutely positive about all this?" whispered lapelle intensely. "you bet yer boots i am." "she ran off with a married man?" "she did. a feller by the name o' gwynne, as i said afore,--bob gwynne. an' i want to tell you, he got out o' that town jest in time or i'd have slit his gizzard fer him. he had me arrested fer stealin' a saddle an' bridle. he never would have got away ef i hadn't been locked up in jim hatcher's smokehouse with two men settin' outside with guns fer a solid month, keepin' watch on me day an' night. i wuz--" "that's all for to-night," snapped barry impatiently. "you get out of town at once. mart will be waiting for you down below granny neff's cabin,--this side of the tanyard,--as arranged." "what about that other business? mart'll want to know when we're to--" "he knows. the paul revere goes south day after to-morrow morning. if the plans are changed before that time, i'll get word to him. it may not be necessary to do anything at all. you've given me information that may bring the old woman to her senses." "them two fellers that come up on the boat to-day. air you sure you c'n--" "that's all for to-night," interrupted barry, and strode off up the street, leaving jasper suggs, sometime simon braley of the loathsome girty stock, to wend his lonely way out into a silence as black as the depths of his own benighted soul. the night was sultry. up in the marshy fastnesses of lake stansbury all the frogs in the universe seemed to have congregated for a grand festival of song. the treble of baby frogs, the diapason of ancient frogs, the lusty alto of frogs in the prime of life, were united in an unbroken, penetrating chant to the starless sky. the melancholy hoot of the owl, the blithesome chirp of the cricket, even the hideous yawp of the roaming loon, were lost in the din and clatter of lake stansbury's mighty chorus. there was promise of storm in the lifeless air. zachariah, resting his elbows on the fence, confided this prognostication to an almost invisible hattie on the opposite side of the barrier between two back yards. "ah allus covers my haid up wid de blanket--an' de bolster--an' de piller when hit's astormin'," said hattie, in an awed undertone. "an' ah squeals lak a pig ev' time hit claps." "shucks, gal!" scoffed zachariah. "what yo' all so skeert o' lightnin' fo'? why, good lan' o' goshen, ah hain't no mo' askeert o' storms dan ah is ob--ob you!" he chuckled rather timorously after blurting out this inspired and (to him) audacious remark. to his relief and astonishment, hattie was not offended. "ah bet yo' all hain't see no setch thunderstorms as we has 'round dis yere neck o' de woods," said she, with conviction. "ah bet yo' be skeert ef you--" "don' yo' talk to me, gal," boasted zachariah. "wuzzin ah in de wustest storm dis yere valley has seed sence dat ole noah he climb up in dat ole ark an' sez, 'lan' sakes, ah wonder ef ah done gone an' fergit anyt'ing.' yes, ma'am,--dat evenin' out to marse striker's--dat wuz a storm, gal. wuz ah skeert? no, suh! ah stup right out in de middle of it, lightnin' strikin' all 'round an' de thunder so turrible marse kenneth an' ever'body ailse wuz awonderin' ef de good lord could hear 'em prayin' fo' mercy. yas, suh--yas, suh! dat's de gospel trufe. an' me right out dere in dat ole barnyard doin' de chores fo' ole mis' striker. marse kenneth he stick his haid out'n de winder an' yell, 'zachariah, yo' come right in heah dis minnit! yo' heah me? wha' yo' all doin' out dere in dat hell-fire an' brimstone? ah knows yo' is de bravest nigger in all dis world, but fo' mah sake, zachariah, won't yo' please come in?' well, suh, jes' den ah happens to look up from what ah wuz doin' an' sees a streak o' lightnin' comin' straight to'ards de cabin. so ah yells fo' him to pull his haid in mighty quick, an' shore 'nuff he got it in jes' in de nick o' time. dat streak o' lightnin' went right pass de winder an' hit de groun'. den hit sort o' bounce up in de air an' lep right over mah haid an' hitten a tree--" "wuz hit rainin' all dis time?" "rainin'? mah lan', gal, course hit wuz rainin'," replied zachariah, somewhat testily. "hitten a tree not more'n ten foot from where ah wuz--" "hain't yo' all got no sense at all, nigger?" demanded hattie, witheringly. "don' yo' know 'nough to go in out'n de rain?" zachariah was flabbergasted. here was a bolt from a supposedly clear and tranquil sky; it flattened him out as no stroke of lightning could ever have done. for once in his life he was rendered speechless. hattie, who had got religion on several unforgettable occasions and was at this very time on the point of returning to the spiritual fold which she had more or less secretly abandoned at the behest of the flesh, regarded this as an excellent opportunity to re-establish herself as a disciple of salvation. "an' what's more, nigger," she went on severely, "ef de good lord ever cotch setch a monst'ous liar as yo' is out in a hurricane lak what yo' all sez it wuz, dere wouldn't be no use buryin' what wuz lef' of yo'. 'cause why, 'cause yo' jes' gwine to be a lil black cinder no bigger'n a chinkapin. i knows all about how brave yo' wuz out to marse striker's. miss violy she done tell how yo' all snuck under de table an' prayed an' carried on somefin' scan'lous." zachariah, though crushed, made a noble effort to extricate himself from the ruins. "ah lak to know what miss violy knows about me on dat yere occasion. yas, suh,--dat's what ah lak to know. she never lay eyes on me dat night. 'ca'se why? 'ca'se i wuz out in de barnlot all de time. she done got me contwisted wid dat other fool nigger, dat's what she done." "what other fool nigger?" "didden she tell yo' all about dat nigger we fotch along up from craffordsville to--" "yas, suh, she done tole all about dat craffordsville nigger, ef dat's de one yo' means." zachariah was staggered. "she--she tole yo' about--about dat craffordsville nigger?" "yas, suh,--she did. miss violy she say he wuz de han'somest boy she ever did see,--great big strappin' boy wid de grandest eyes an'--" "dat's enough,--dat'll do," exclaimed zachariah in considerable heat. "marse kenneth he got to change his tune, dat's all i got to say. he say ah am de biggest liar in dis yere land,--but, by golly, he ain' ever heared about dis yere gal hattie. no, suh! when ah lies, ah lies about somefin', but when yo' lies, yo' jes' lies about nuffin',--'ca'se why? 'ca'se dat craffordsville nigger he ain' nuffin'. yo' ought to be 'shamed o' yo'self, nigger, makin' out miss violy to be a liar lak dat,--an' her bein' de fines' lady in--" "go on 'way wid yo', nigger," retorted hattie airily. "don' yo' come aroun' heah no mo' makin' out how brave yo' is,--'ca'se ah knows a brave nigger when ah sees one, lemme tell yo' dat, mistah zachariah whatever-yo'-name is." silence followed this parthian shot. zachariah, being a true philosopher, rested his case without further argument. he appeared to have given himself up to reflection. presently hattie, tempering her voice with honey, remarked: "ah suttinly is mighty glad yo' is come up yere to live, zachariah." "look here, gal,--don' yo' go countin' on me too much," said he, suspiciously. "ah got all ah c'n do 'tendin' to mah own wo'k 'thout comin' over yander an' hulpin' yo'--" "lan's sakes, man, 'tain't mah look-out ef yo' come over yere an' tote mah clo'se-basket an' ev'thing 'round fo' me,--no, suh! ah ain' nev' ast yo', has ah? all ah does is to hole cato so he won't chaw yo' laig off when yo' come botherin' me to please 'low yo' to hulp me,--das all ah do. an' lemme tell yo', nigger, dat ain' no easy job. 'ca'se ef dere's one t'ing cato do enjoy hit's dark meat,--yas, suh, hit's come so he won't even look at light meat no mo', he so sick o' feedin' off'n dese yere white shin-bones." "well, den, why is yo' glad ah come up yere to live?" demanded zachariah defensively. "'ca'se o' dis yere ole black hawk." "ah don' know nuffin' 'bout no ole black hawk." "yo' all gwine to know 'bout him mighty quick," said she solemnly. "he's on de rampage. scalpin' an' burnin' white folks at de stake an' des wallerin' in blood. yas, suh,--ah suttinly ain't gwine feel so skeert o' dat ole black hawk 'long as yo' is livin' right nex' do', zachariah." "wha' yo' all talkin' about?" "marse joe,--he de sheriff dis yere county,--he done tole ole mis' gwyn dis evenin' all de news 'bout dat ole black hawk. yas, suh,--ole black hawk he on de warpath. all de injuns in dis yere--" "injuns?" gulped zachariah. "dey all got dere warpaint on an' dere tommyhawks--" "how come marse kenneth he don' know nuffin' 'bout all dis?" demanded zachariah, taking a step or two backward and glancing anxiously over one shoulder, then the other. "he a lawyer. how come he don' know nuffin' 'bout--say, how close dat ole sheriff say dem injuns is?" "dat's what i can't make out, zachariah. he talk so kind o' low an' me lettin' de dishpan drop right in de middle--" "ah guess ah better go right straight in de house an' tell marse kenneth 'bout dis," hastily announced zachariah. then he bethought himself to add: "'ca'se me an' him got a lot to do ef dese here injuns come 'roun' us lookin' fo' trouble, yas, suh! ah got to git de guns an' pistols an' huntin' knives all ready fo'--" the words froze on his lips. a low, blood-curdling moan that seemed to end in a gasp,--or even a death-rattle,--fell upon the ears of the two negroes. it was close at hand,--not more than twenty feet away. this was succeeded, after a few seconds of intense stillness--(notwithstanding the uproarious frogs!)--by a hair-raising screech from hattie. an instant later she was scuttling for her own kitchen door, emitting inarticulate cries of terror. as for zachariah? his course was a true one so far as direction was concerned. blind instinct located the back door for him and he made a bee-line toward it regardless of all that lay between. first he encountered a tree-stump. this he succeeded in passing without the slightest deviation from the chosen route. scrambling frantically to his feet after landing with a mighty grunt some two yards beyond the obstacle, he dashed onward, tearing his way through a patch of gooseberry bushes, coming almost immediately into contact with the wood-pile. here he was momentarily retarded in his flight. there was a great scattering of stove-wood and chips, accompanied by suppressed howls, and then he was on his feet again. almost simultaneously the heavy oak door received and withstood the impact of his flying body; a desperate clawing at the latch, the spasmodic squeak of rusty hinges, a resounding slam, the jar of a bolt being shot into place,--and zachariah vociferously at prayer in a sanctuary behind the kitchen stove. chapter xvii revelations that sepulchral groan had issued not from a mortal in the agony of impending death but from the smiling red lips of viola gwyn. the grewsome "death-rattle" was the result of the means she took to suppress a shriek of laughter by frantically clapping both hands to her convulsed mouth. for some time she had been standing at the fence, her elbows on the top rail, gazing pensively at the light in kenny's window. a clump of honeysuckle bushes was between her and the unsuspecting servants. at first she had paid little or no attention to the gabble of the darkies, her thoughts being centred on her own serious affairs. she had been considerably shaken and distressed by the unpleasant experience of the early afternoon. somehow she longed to take her troubles to kenneth, to rid herself of them in the comfort of his approbation, to be reassured by his brotherly counsel. she knew he was sitting beside the table in the cosy sitting-room, poring over one of his incomprehensible law books. how jolly, how consoling to her own agitated mind, if she could only be there in the same room with him, quiet as a mouse so as not to disturb his profound studies, and reposing in that comfortable new rocker on the opposite side of the table where she could watch the studious frown on his brow while she waited patiently for him to lay aside the book. indeed, she had come out of the house animated by a sudden impulse to pay him a brief, surreptitious visit; then to run back home before she was missed by her mother. this impulse was attended by a singularly delightful sensation of guilt. she had never been over to see him at night. in fact, it had never occurred to her to do such a thing before. but even as she started forth from the house, a strange timidity assailed her. it halted her impetuous footsteps, turned them irresolutely aside, and led her not to the gate but to the barrier fence. she could not explain, even to herself, the queer, half-frightened thumping of her heart, nor the amazing shyness, nor the ridiculous feeling that it would be improper for her to be alone with him at night. but why, she argued,--why should it be improper? what could be wrong in going to see her own brother? what difference did it make whether it was night or day? still the doubt persisted,--a nagging yet agreeable doubt that made her all the more eager to defy its feeble authority. first she sought to justify her inclination by reminding herself that her mother had never by word or look signified the slightest opposition to her intimacy with kenneth. this attitude of resignation on her mother's part, however, was a constant thorn in her side, a prick to her conscience. it caused her many a pang. then she called to mind certain of her girl friends who had brothers,--one in particular who declared that she had slept in the same bed with her brother up to the time she was fourteen years old. she felt herself turn scarlet. that was really quite dreadful, even though the cabin in which her friend dwelt was very tiny and there were six children in the family. she had bitterly envied certain others, those who told of the jolly good times they had had with their brothers, the fun they had in quarrelling and the way they teased the boys when they first began "going out" with the girls. what fun to have had a brother when she was little,--a brother to play with! kenny was so unreal. he was not like a brother at all. he was no different from other men,--she did not believe she could ever get used to thinking of him as a brother,--even a half-brother. this very thought was in her mind,--perhaps it was an ever-present thought,--as she stood gazing shyly at his window. she wanted to tell him about her break with barry. somehow,--although she was not quite conscious of it,--she longed to have him pat her on the shoulder, or clasp her hands in his, and tell her she had done the right thing and he was glad. the corners of her mouth were drooping a little. but the pensive droop slowly disappeared as she harkened to the valiant words of zachariah. it was not until kenny's servant lifted his voice in praise of his own deeds at phineas striker's that she became acutely aware of the close proximity of the speakers. gradually she surrendered to the spirits of mirth and mischief. the result of her awesome moan,--even though it narrowly escaped ending in a shriek of laughter,--has already been revealed. the manner of zachariah's flight sobered her instantly. too late she regretted the experiment. "oh, goodness!" she murmured, blanching. "the poor fellow has hurt himself--" the slamming of the door behind zachariah was reassuring. at any rate he was alive and far too sprightly to have suffered a broken leg or a cracked skull. a few seconds later she saw kenny's shadow flit hurriedly past the window as he dashed toward the kitchen. for some time she stood perfectly still, listening to the confused jumble of voices in the house across the way, debating whether she should hurry over to explain,--and perhaps to assist in dressing poor zachariah's cuts and bruises. suddenly she decided; and, without thought of her garments, she scrambled hastily over the fence. just as her feet touched the ground, the front door of kenneth's house flew open and a figure, briefly revealed by the light from within, rushed out into the yard and was swallowed up by the darkness. she whirled and started to climb back over into her own yard, giggling hysterically. she heard the rush of feet through the weeds and shrubbery. they halted abruptly, and then: "stop where you are, damn you! i've got you covered and, so help me god, i'll put a bullet through--" "kenny! kenny!" she cried out. "it's i--viola!" there was a moment's silence. "my god! you? viola?" came in suppressed, horrified tones from the darkness. "drop down,--drop to the ground! they may begin firing at me. you--" "firing at you?" she cried, shakily. "what on earth are you talking about? there's--there's no one here. i am all alone. i did it. i'm the ghost. it was all in fun. i didn't dream--" "do as i tell you!" he called out sharply. "there is a pack of ruffians--" "pack your granny!" she cried, with a shrill laugh. "i tell you i am all alone. my goodness, what on earth did zachariah think was after him? a regiment of soldiers?" as he came quickly toward her she shrank back, seized by a strange, inexplicable panic. he loomed above her in the darkness as she half-crouched against the fence. for a few seconds he stood looking down at her, breathing sharply. she heard something drop at his feet, and then both his hands gripped her shoulders, drawing her roughly up to him. "oh-h! wh-what are you doing?" she gasped as his arm went around her. that arm of steel drew her so close and held her so tightly to his breast that she could feel the tremendous thumping of his heart. she felt herself trembling--trembling all over; the light in the window up beyond seemed to draw nearer, swelling to vast proportions as it bore down upon her. she closed her eyes. what was happening to her,--what was causing this strange languor, this queer sensation as of falling? as abruptly as he had clasped her to him, he released her, springing back with a muttered execration. she tottered dizzily, and involuntarily reached out to clutch his arm for support. he shook her hand off. "what is the matter, kenny?" she murmured, hazily. he did not answer. he leaned heavily against the fence, his head on his arm. she did not move for many seconds. then he heard her gasp,--a gasp of actual terror. "who are you?" she whispered tensely. "you are not my brother. you are not the real kenneth gwynne! who are you?" she waited for the answer that did not come. then as she drew farther away from him: "you are an impostor. you have deceived us. you have come here representing yourself to be--to be my brother,--and you are not--you are not! i know it--oh, i know it now. you are--" this aroused him. "what is that you are saying?" he cried out, fighting to pull his disordered wits together. "not your brother? impostor? what are you saying, viola?" "i want the truth," she cried. "are you what you claim to be?" "of course i am," he answered, stridently. "i am kenneth gwynne. your brother. have you lost your senses?" "then, why--" she began huskily. "why did you--oh, kenny, i don't know what i am saying," she murmured piteously. "i--i don't know what has come over me. something--something--oh, i don't know what made me feel--i mean, what made me say that to you. you are kenneth gwynne. you are my half-brother. you are not--" "there, there!" he interrupted, his voice shaking a little. "you were frightened. i came so near to shooting--yes, that is it. and i was so happy, so relieved that i--i almost ate you alive,--my little sister. god, what a horrible thing it would have been if i had--fired and the bullet had--" she interrupted him, speaking rapidly, breathlessly in her effort to regain command of herself. "but you didn't--you didn't, you see,--so what is the use of worrying about it now?" she laughed jerkily. "but, my goodness, it is a good lesson for me! i'll never try to scare anybody else again as i did poor zachariah." he stooped and, feeling among the weeds, recovered not one but both of the long duelling pistols. "i was after bigger game than you," he muttered. "here are my pistols,--all primed and ready for business." she stretched out her hand and touched one of the weapons. "ready for what business?" she inquired. "what did you mean by a pack of ruffians?" as he did not answer at once, she went on to explain what had actually occurred, ending with, "i suppose zachariah ran in and told you that old black hawk and his warriors were attacking the town." "i couldn't get much out of him, he was so excited. but i was mortally afraid they had stolen a march on us, and you were already in their hands. you see, isaac stain was to have kept me informed and we were to have laid a trap for them. oh, lord!" he exclaimed in sudden consternation. "i am letting the cat out of the bag." "will you please tell me what you are talking about, kenneth gwynne?" she said impatiently. he came to a quick decision. "yes, i will tell you everything. i guess i was a fool not to have told you before,--you and your mother. there is a plot afoot, viola, to abduct you. stain got wind of it, through--well, he got wind of it. he came to me with the story. i don't suppose you will believe me,--and you will probably despise me for what i am about to say,--but the man you love and expect to marry is behind the scheme. i mean barry lapelle. he--" "when did you hear of this?" she interrupted quickly. "after the revere came in?" "more than a week ago. he came home on the revere to-day. his plan is to--" "i know. i saw him. we quarrelled. it is all over between us, kenny. he was furious. i thought he may have--but you say you knew of this a week ago? i don't--i can't understand it. a week ago there was no heed of--of carrying me off against my will." "it is all over between you?" he cried, and he could not disguise the joy in his voice. "you have ended it, viola?" "yes,--it is all over," she said stiffly. "i am not going to marry him. i was coming over to tell you. but--go on. what is this cock-and-bull story about abducting me? goodness, i am beginning to feel like a girl in a story-book." "it is no laughing matter," he said, a little gruffly. "does it look like it when i come rushing out here with two loaded pistols and come near to shooting you? come up to the house. we will talk it all over, and then,--" he hesitated for a moment,--"then i'll go over and see your mother." he took her arm and led her up to the house. as they entered the front door, zachariah's groans fell upon their ears. she looked at kenny in alarm, and for the first time realized that he was without coat or waistcoat. his hair was tousled in evidence of his studious application to the open law books that lay on the floor. "he must be quite badly hurt," she cried miserably. "oh, i'm so sorry." kenny went to the kitchen door. "zachariah! stop that groaning. you're not hurt. here! what are you doing with that rifle?" "ah was jes' co-comin' out, marse kenny, fo' to he'p yo' kill--yas, suh! ah was--" the remainder was lost as kenneth deliberately closed the door behind him and walked over to the negro, who was squatting in a corner with a rifle in his hands. viola, left alone, crossed to the window and looked out. she was pale and anxious. her wide, alarmed eyes tried to pierce the darkness outside. suddenly she started back, pressing her hands to her cheeks. "oh, my soul!" she murmured. "they could have shot him dead. he could not have seen them." she felt herself turn faint. then a thrill of exaltation swept over her and she turned quickly toward the kitchen door, her eyes glowing. "and he was not afraid! he ran out to face them alone. he thought they were out there,--he risked being shot to save me from--" the door opened and kenneth came swiftly into the room. he stopped short, staring at her radiant face. "oh, kenny, you--you really believed they were out there,--a crowd of them,--trying to carry me off? why,--why, that was the bravest thing a man--" "shucks!" he scoffed. "my tragedy turns out to be the most uproarious farce. i've never seen a funnier one in the theatre. but there is a serious side to it, viola. sit down for a minute or two, and i'll tell you. zachariah is all right. barked his shins a little, that's all." at the conclusion of his short, unembellished recital, he said: "there is nothing for you to be worried about. they cannot carry out the plot. we are all forewarned now. i should have told you all this before, but i was afraid you would think i was trying to blacken lapelle. i wanted to catch him red-handed, as the saying is. isaac stain is coming in to sleep here to-morrow night, and zachariah, for all his fear of ghosts and lightning, is not afraid of men. we will be ready for them if they come,--so don't you worry." there was a puzzled frown in her eyes. "i don't see why he should have planned this a week ago, kenny. i had told him i would marry him. there must be something back of all this." "do you know anything about a friend of his who is going to be married soon? he spoke to me about it the other day, and asked if a parent could legally deprive a daughter of a share in her deceased father's--" "why,--that's me, kenny," she cried excitedly. "i told him that mother would disinherit me entirely if i married him without her consent." a light broke over him. "by jingo!" he cried. "i am beginning to see. why, it's as plain as day to me now. the beastly scoundrel!" "what do you mean?" "could your mother very well carry out her threat if he made off with you by force and compelled you to marry him, whether or no?" she stiffened. "i would never,--never consent, kenny. i would die first." "i suppose you imagine there could be no worse fate than that?" he said, pity in his eyes. she looked puzzled for a moment and then grasped his meaning. her face blanched. "i said i would die first," she repeated in a low, steady voice. "well," he cried, starting up briskly from his chair, "i guess we'd better hurry if we want to catch your mother before she goes to bed. and that reminds me, viola,--i would like to speak with her alone. you see," he went on lamely, "you see, we're not friends and i don't know how she will receive me." she nodded her head without speaking and together they left the house. chapter xviii rachel delivers a message rachel was standing on her porch as they came up the walk. the light through the open door at her back revealed her tall, motionless figure but not her face which was in shadow. "kenneth wants to talk to you about something very important," said viola unevenly, as they drew near. the woman on the porch did not speak until they paused at the bottom of the steps. "have you been over at his house, viola?" she asked levelly. "yes, mother." after a moment's hesitation: "come in, kenneth." she stood aside to let viola pass. kenneth, who had hastily donned his coat, followed the two women into the house. there was a light in the parlor. "will you sit down, or do you prefer to remain standing in my house, kenneth gwynne?" he bowed stiffly, indicating a chair with a gesture. "will you be seated first, madam?" his sophomoric dignity drew a faint, ironic smile to her lips. "thank you," she said calmly, and seated herself on the little horsehair sofa. if there was any uneasiness in the look she sent from one to the other of the young people it was not noticeable. "hattie came in a little while ago," she said, "scared out of her wits. i suspected that you were up to one of your pranks, viola. i do wish you would stop frightening the girl." "kenneth will tell you what happened," said the girl, hurriedly. "he wants to see you alone. i am going upstairs." she left the room, closing the door behind her. neither spoke until they heard her footsteps on the floor overhead. "well, what have you been telling her?" asked rachel, leaning forward, her eyes narrowing. he drew a chair up close to the sofa and sat down. "nothing that she should not know," he answered. "i will first tell you what happened a little while ago, and then--the rest of it. there is evil afoot. i have been wrong, i realize, in not warning you and viola." she listened intently to the end; not once did she interrupt him, but as he proceeded to unfold the meagre details of the plot as presented to him by isaac stain, her brow darkened and her fingers began to work nervously, restlessly in her lap. his account of the frightening of zachariah and its immediate results took up but little time. he was careful to avoid any mention of that stirring scene at the fence, its effect upon the startled girl, or how near he was to betraying the great secret. rachel gwyn's eyes never left his face during the whole of the unbroken recital. toward the end he had the disconcerting impression that she was reading his turbulent thoughts, that she was successfully searching his soul. "that's the story as it came to me," he concluded. "i deserve your condemnation for not preparing viola against a trick that might have resulted disastrously while we were marking time." "why did isaac stain go to you instead of coming to me?" was her first question. "because he believes i am her brother, and this happens to be a man's job," he said, lowering his voice. "it is only fair, however, to state that he wanted to come to you and i, in my folly, advised him not to do so." she was silent for a moment. then: "and why did you think it not advisable to tell me?" "i will be frank with you," he replied, colouring under her steady gaze. "i wanted her to find out for herself just what kind of man lapelle really is. i was prepared to let the plot go almost to the point of consummation. i--i wanted to be the one to save her." he lowered his eyes, afraid that she would discover the truth in them. again she hesitated, apparently weighing her words. "you are in love with her, kenneth." he looked up, startled, almost aghast. involuntarily he started to rise to his feet, his eyes still fixed on hers, vehement denial on his parted lips, only to sink back into the chair again, convicted. there was no use attempting to deceive this cold, clear-headed woman. she knew. no lie, no evasion could meet that direct statement. for a long time they looked straight into each other's eyes, and at length his fell in mute confession. "god help me,--i am," he groaned. "oh, the pity of it!" she cried out. he looked up and saw that she was trembling, her ashen face working as in pain. "no! the curse of it, rachel carter!" she appeared not to have heard his words. "'god works in a mysterious way,'" she muttered, almost inaudibly. "the call of the blood is unfailing. the brain may be deceived, the heart never." with an effort, she regained control of herself. "she has broken off with barry lapelle. do you know the reason why? because, all unbeknownst to her, she has fallen in love with you. yes! it is true. i know. i have seen it coming." she arose and crossed to the door, which she cautiously opened. for a moment she remained there listening, then closing it gently, she came over and stood before him. "love is a wonderful thing, kenneth," she said slowly. "it is the most powerful force in all the world. it overcomes reason, it crushes the conscience, it makes strong men weak and weak men strong. for love a woman will give her honour, for love a man will barter his chance for eternal salvation. it overlooks faults, it condones crime, it rises above every obstacle that the human mind can put before it. it knows no fear, it has no religion, it serves no god. you love my girl, kenneth. she is the daughter of the woman you despise, the daughter of one you call evil. is your love for her great enough,--or will it ever be great enough,--to overcome these obstacles? in plain words, would you take her unto yourself as your wife, to love and cherish and honour,--mind you, honour,--to the end of your days on earth?" he stood up, facing her, his face white. "she has done nothing dishonourable," he said levelly. "'the sins of the mother,'" she paraphrased, without taking her eyes from his. "was her mother any worse than my father? has the sin been visited upon one of us and not upon the other?" "then, you would be willing to take viola as your wife?" he seemed to wrench his gaze away. "oh, what is the use of talking about the impossible?" he exclaimed. "i have confessed that i love her,--yes, in spite of everything,--and you--" "you have not answered my question." "no, i have not," he said deliberately,--"and i do not intend to answer it. you know as well as i that i cannot ask her to marry me, so why speak of it? good god, could i ask my own sister to be my wife?" "she is not your sister. she has not one drop of gwynne blood in her veins." he gave a short, bitter laugh. "but who is going to tell her that, may i ask, rachel carter?" she turned away, took two or three turns up and down the room, her head bent, a heavy frown between her eyes, and then sank wearily into a chair. "i will put it this way, kenneth," she said. "would you ask her to be your wife if the time should ever come when she knows the truth?" he hesitated a long time. "will you be kind enough to tell me what your object is in asking me these questions?" "i want to know whether you are truly in love with her," she replied steadily. "and if i say that i could not ask her to marry me, would that prove anything to you?" "yes. it would prove two things. it would prove that you do not love her with all your heart and soul, and it would prove that you are the same kind of man that your father was before you." he started. it was the second reason that caused him to look at her curiously. "what do you mean?" "when you have answered my question, i will answer yours, kenneth." "well," he began, setting his jaw, "i do love her enough to ask her to be my wife. but i would ask her as owen carter's daughter. and," he added, half closing his eyes as with pain, "she would refuse to have me. she could not look at the matter as i do. her love,--if she should ever come to have such a feeling for me,--her love would revolt against--oh, you know what i mean! do you suppose it would survive the shock of realization? no! she has a clean heart. she would never marry the son of the man who--who--" he found himself unable to finish the sentence. a strange, sudden reluctance to hurt his enemy checked the words even as they were being framed on his lips,--reluctance due not to compassion nor to consideration but to a certain innate respect for an adversary whose back is to the wall and yet faces unequal odds without a sign of shrinking. "shall i say it for you?" she asked in a cold, level voice. but she had winced, despite her iron control. "it is not necessary," said he, embarrassed. "in any case," she said, with a sigh, "you have answered my question. if you could do this for my girl i am sure of your love for her. there could be no greater test. i shall take a little more time before answering your question. there are one or two more things i must say to you before i come to that,--and then, if you like, we will take up this story of isaac stain's. kenneth, the time may come,--i feel that it is sure to come, when--" she stopped. a sound from above caught her ear,--a regular, rhythmic thumping on the floor. after a few seconds she remarked: "it is all right. that is a rocking-chair. she is getting impatient." nevertheless she lowered her voice and leaned forward in her chair. "the time is sure to come when viola will learn the truth about herself and me,--and you, as well. i feel it in my bones. it may not come till after i am dead. but no matter when it comes, i want to feel sure now,--to-night, kenneth,--that you will never undertake to deprive her of the lands and money i shall leave to her." he stared at her in astonishment. "what is this you are saying?" she slowly repeated the words. "why, how could i dispossess her? it is yours to bequeath as you see fit, madam. do you think i am a mercenary scoundrel,--that i would try to take it away from her? i know she is not my father's daughter, but--why, good heaven, i would never dream of fighting for what you--" "your love for her,--though unrequited,--aye, even though she became embittered toward you because of what happened years ago,--you love her enough to stand aside and allow her to hold what i shall leave to her?" "you are talking in riddles. what on earth are you driving at?" "you will not fight her right, her claim to my estate?" she insisted, leaning still closer. "why, of course not!" he exclaimed, angrily. "even though the law might say she is not entitled to it?" "the law can take no action unless i invoke its aid," said he. "and that is something i shall never do," he added, with finality. "i wish i could be sure of that," she murmured, wistfully. he came to his feet. "you may be sure of it," he said, with dignity. "possess your soul in peace, if that is all that is troubling it." "sit down," she said, a strange huskiness in her voice. he obeyed her. "your father left a certain part of his fortune to me. there was no provision made for viola. you understand that, don't you?" "yes. i know all about that," said he, plainly bewildered. "on the other hand, he did not impose any restrictions upon you. you are at liberty to dispose of your share by will, as you see fit, madam. i am not likely to deny my step-sister what is rightfully hers. and that reminds me. she is not my blood relation, it's true. but she is my step-sister. that settles another point. i could not ask my step-sister to be my wife. the law would--" "now we have come to the point where i shall answer the question you asked a while ago," she interrupted, straightening up in her chair and regarding him with a fixed, steady light in her eyes that somehow seemed to forewarn him of what was about to be revealed. "i said it would prove two things to me. one of them was that you are the same kind of man that your father was before you. i mean if you had said you could not ask viola to be your wife." she paused, and then went on slowly, deliberately. "i lived with your father for nearly twenty years. in all that time he never asked me to be his wife." at first he stared blankly at her, uncomprehending. then a slow, dark flush spread over his face. he half-started up from his chair. "you--you mean--" he stammered. "he never asked me to be his wife," she repeated without emotion. he sank back, incredulous, dumbfounded. "my god! am i to understand that you--that you were never married to my father?" "yes. i waited twenty years for him to ask me to marry him,--but he never did." he was still somewhat stupefied. the disclosure was so unexpected, so utterly at odds with all his understanding that he could not wholly grasp its significance. somewhat footlessly he burst out: "but surely you must have demanded--i mean, did you never ask him to--to marry you?" her eyebrows went up slightly. "how could i?" she inquired, as if surprised by the question. "i had not sunk so low in my own estimation as that, kenneth gwynne. my bed was made the day i went away with him. some day you may realize that even such as i may possess the thing called pride. no! i would have died rather than ask him to marry me. i chose my course with my eyes open. it was not for me to demand more than i gave. he was not a free man when i went to him. he made no promises, nor did i exact any." she spoke in the most matter-of-fact way. he regarded her in sheer wonder. "but he should have made you his wife," he exclaimed, his sense of fairness rising above the bitter antipathy he felt toward her. "that was for him to decide," said she, calmly. "i respected his feelings in the matter,--and still do. he had no right to marry me when we went away together. he did not take me as a wife, kenneth gwynne. he took me as a woman. he had a wife. up to the day he died he looked upon her as his wife. i was his woman. i could never take her place. not even after she had been in her grave for twenty years. he never forgot her. i see the scorn in your eyes. he does not quite deserve it, kenneth. after all is said and done, he was fair to me. not one man in a thousand would have done his part so well as he. "i don't suppose you know what men do with their mistresses when they begin to feel that they are through with them and there is no legal bond to hold them. they desert them. they cast them off. and then they turn to some honest woman and marry her. that is the way with men. but he was not like that. i can tell what you are about to say. it is on your lips to say that he deserted an honest woman. well, so he did. and therein lies the secret of his constancy to me,--even after he had ceased to love me and the passion that was in him died. he would never desert another woman who trusted him. he paid too dearly in his conscience for the first offence to be guilty of a second. "you see i am laying bare my innermost soul to you. it hurts me to say that through all these years he loved and honoured and revered his wife,--and the memory of her. he was never unkind to me,--he never spoke of her. but i knew, and he knew that i knew. he loved you, his little boy. i, too, loved you once, kenneth. when you were a little shaver i adored you. but i came to hate you as the years went by. it is needless to tell you the reason why. when it came time for him to die he left you half of his fortune. the other half,--and a little over,--he gave to me." her voice faltered a little as she added: "for good and faithful service, i suppose." during this long speech kenneth had succeeded in collecting his thoughts. he had been shocked by her confession, and now he was mentally examining the possibilities that might arise from the aspect it bared. first of all, viola was not even his step-sister. he experienced a thrill of joy over that,--notwithstanding the ugly truth that gave her the new standing; to his simple, straightforward mind, viola's mother was nothing more than a prostitute. (in his thoughts he employed another word, for he lived in a day when prostitutes were called by another name.) still, viola was not to blame for that. that could never be held against her. "why have you told me all this?" he asked bluntly. "i had no means of learning that you were never married to my father. there was never a question about it in my mind, nor in anybody else's, so far as i know. you have put a very dangerous weapon in my hand in case i should choose to use it against you." she was silent for a long time, struggling with herself. he could almost feel the battle that was going on within her. somehow it appalled him. the wind outside was rising. it moaned softly, plaintively through the trees. a shutter creaked somewhere at the back of the house and at intervals banged against the casement. the frogs down in the hollow had ceased their clamour and no doubt took to themselves credit for the storm that was on the way in answer to their exhortations. the even, steady thump of the rocking-chair in the room overhead stopped suddenly, and viola's quick tread was heard crossing the floor. she closed a window. then, after a moment, the sound of the rocking-chair again. rachel left her chair and walked over to the window to peer out into the night. "it is coming from the west," she said, as if to test the steadiness of her voice. a far-off flicker of lightning cast a faint, phosphorescent glow into the dimly lighted room, quivering for a second or two on the face of the woman at the window, then dying away with what seemed to be a weird suggestion of reluctance. she stood before him, looking down. "i have at last obeyed a command imposed by robert gwynne when he was on his death-bed. almost his last words to me were in the nature of a threat. he told me that if i failed to carry out his request,--he did not call it a command,--he would haunt me to my dying day. you may laugh at me if you will, but he has been haunting me, kenneth gwynne. if i ever cherished the notion that i could ignore his command and go on living in the security of my own secret, i must have known from the beginning that it would be impossible. day and night, ever since you came, some force that was not my own has been driving at my resistance. you will call it compunction, or conscience or an honest sense of duty. i do not call it by any of those names. your father commanded me to tell you with my own lips,--not in writing or through the mouth of an agent,--he commanded me to say to you that your mother was the only wife he ever had. i have done this to-night. i have humbled myself,--but it was after a long, cruel fight." she sat down, and it seemed to him that her very soul went out in the deep, long sigh that caused her bosom to flatten and her shoulders to droop forward. "he was either an ingrate or a coward," said he harshly, after a short silence. "it is not for you to pass judgment on my master," said she, simply. "may i beg you to refrain from putting your own judgment of him into words? will you not spare me that?" he stared at her in astonishment. he saw that she was in earnest, desperately in earnest. choking back the words that had rushed to his lips, he got up from his chair and bent his head gravely. "yes, if it is any comfort to you, rachel carter," he said, acute pity in his eyes. "i cannot resist saying, however, that you have not spared yourself. it cost you a great deal to pay one of the debts he left for you to settle. i shall not forget it." she arose and all the humility fell away from her. once more she was the strong, indomitable,--even formidable,--figure he had come to know so well. her bosom swelled, her shoulders straightened, and into her deep-set, sombre eyes came the unflinching light of determination. "then we are done with that," she said quietly. "i have asked no favours save this last one for myself,--but it is a greater one than you may think. you know everything now, kenneth. you have called me rachel carter. was it divination or was it stubborn memory? i wonder. so far as i know, you are the only person left in the world who knows that i was not his wife, the only one who knows that i am still rachel carter. no matter what this man braley may know, or what he may tell, he--but we are wasting time. viola must be wondering. now as to this plan of barry lapelle's. i think i can safely assure you that nothing will come of it." "then, you knew about it before i told you?" he exclaimed. "no. you brought me word of jasper suggs this morning. you said he was staying at martin hawk's cabin. you may have forgotten what i said to you at the time. now you bring me word that barry lapelle's plot was hatched at martin hawk's. well, this afternoon i went to the court house and swore out a warrant charging martin hawk with stealing some of my yearling calves and sheep. that warrant is now in the hands of the sheriff. it will be served before another day is gone." "that's pretty sharp work," he said, but still a little puzzled. "naturally it will upset barry's plans, but suggs is still to be accounted for. you mentioned something about charging him with a murder back in--" "i guess that can wait till another day," said she, with a smile that he did not quite understand. "it would be rather stupid of me, don't you think, to have him arrested?" "you said he was not the kind of a man to be taken alive," he remarked, knitting his brows. "i think i said something of the kind. the name of simon braley is known from one end of this state to the other. it is a name to conjure fear with. every indian uprising in the past ten years has had braley's name connected with it. it was he who led the band of chippewas twelve years ago when they massacred some fifteen or eighteen women and children in a settlement on white river while their men were off in the fields at work. isn't it rather significant that the renegade simon braley should turn up in these parts at a time when black hawk is--but that is neither here nor there. my warrant calls for the arrest of martin hawk. for more than two years hawk has been suspected of stealing livestock down on the wea, but no one has ever been willing to make a specific charge against him. he is very cunning and he has always covered his tracks." "do you think he will resist the sheriff? i mean, is there likely to be fighting?" "it all depends on whether martin is caught napping," she replied in a most casual manner. "by the way, has isaac stain told you much about himself?" kenneth could not repress a smile. "he has mentioned one or two affairs of the heart." "his sister was one of the women massacred by the chippewas down on white river that time. she was the young wife of a settler. isaac will be overjoyed when he finds out that jasper suggs and simon braley are one and the same person." he was speechless for a moment, comprehension coming slowly to him. "by all that's holy!" he exclaimed, something like awe in his voice. "i am beginning to understand. stain will be one of the sheriff's party?" "we will stop at his cabin on the way to hawk's," she replied. "if he chooses to join us after i have told him who i think this man suggs really is, no one will object." "you say 'we.' do you mean to tell me that you are going along with the posse? good god, woman, there will be shooting! you must not think of--" she checked him with an imperious gesture. "i cannot send these men to face a peril that i am not willing to face myself. that would be dastardly. i will take my chances with the rest of them. you seem to forget that i spent a good many years of my life in the wilderness. this will not be my first experience with renegades and outlaws. when i first came to this state, the women had to know how to shoot. not only to shoot birds and beasts, but men as well. those were hard days. i was not like the men who cut notches in their rifle stocks for every indian they slew, and yet there is a gun in my room upstairs that could have two notches on it if i had cared to put them there." "what time do you start?" he said, the fire of excitement in his eyes. "i insist on being one of the--" "you will not be needed," she said succinctly. "i think you had better go now. the storm will soon be upon us. thank you for coming here to-night, kenneth." chapter xix lapelle shows his teeth kenneth went to bed that night firmly resolved to accompany the sheriff when he set out to arrest martin hawk. zachariah had instructions to call him at daybreak and to have breakfast ready on the dot. no doubt the posse would start about sunrise,--in any case, he would be up and prepared to take to his saddle the instant he saw his neighbour leaving her house. the thunderstorm came rollicking down the valley, crashed and rolled and roared for half an hour or so, and then stole mumbling away in the night, leaving in its wake a sighing wind and the drip of forsaken raindrops. he was astir at cockcrow. the first faint glow of red in the greying east found him at breakfast, with zachariah sleepily serving him with hot corn-cakes, lean side-meat and coffee. "take plenty dis yere hot coffee, marse kenneth," urged zachariah, at the end of a prodigious yawn. "yo' all gwine need sumpin to keep yo' 'wake, suh, so's yo' won't fall out'n de saddle. dis yere--" "speaking of saddles, have you fed brandy boy?" "yas, suh. ah dunno as ah evah see a hoss mo' took by 'stonishment dan he wuz when ah step brisk-like into his stall an' sez 'doggone yo', brandy boy, don't yo' know de sun's gwine to be up in less'n two hours? wha' fo' is yo' keepin' me an' marse kenneth waitin' lak dis? git ep dar, yo' lazy, good-fer-nuffin,--'" "and what did brandy boy say in response to that?" broke in his master, airily. "how dat, suh?" "did he reply in courteous terms or was he testy and out of sorts? now, just what did he say?" zachariah stared at the speaker in some uneasiness. "ah reckon yo' all better go on back to bed, suh, an' lemme call yo' when yo' is wide awake. ain' no sense in yo' startin' off on dis yere hossback ride when yo' is still enjoyin' setch a good night's sleep. no, suh!" "i will take another cup of your excellent coffee, zachariah. that will make three, won't it?" zachariah shuffled over to the stove, muttering as he lifted the coffee pot: "fust ah is seein' things in de evenin' an' den ah hears all dis yere talk 'bout a hoss sayin' things in de mornin',--yas, suh,--yas, suh! comin' right along, suh. little mo' side-meat, suh?" "take a peep out of the window and see if any one is stirring over at mrs. gwyn's." "'pears lak ah c'n see a lady out in de front yard, suh," said zachariah, at the window. "you don't say so! is it mrs. gwyn?" cried kenneth, hastily gulping his coffee as he pushed his chair back from the table. "hit ain' light enough fo' to see--" "run out and saddle brandy boy at once, and be quick about it." "no, suh, hit ain' mrs. gwyn. hit's miss violy. 'pears lak she comin' over here, suh. leastwise she come out'n de gate kind o' fast-like,--gotten a shawl wrap aroun'--" kenneth waited for no more. he dashed from the house and down to the fence,--where stood viola, pulling at the swollen, water-soaked gate peg. she was bareheaded, her brown hair hanging down her back in long, thick braids. it was apparent at a glance that she had dressed hastily and but partially at that. with one hand she pinched close about her throat the voluminous scarlet shawl of embroidered crepe in which the upper part of her body was wrapped. later he was to observe that her heavy shoes were unlaced and had been drawn on over her bare feet. her eyes were filled with alarm. "i don't know where mother is," she said, without other greeting. "she is not in the house, kenny. i am worried almost sick." he stared at her in dismay. "oh, blast the luck! she must have--say, are you sure she's gone?" "i can't find her anywhere," cried she, in distress. "i've been out to the barn and--why, what ails you, kenneth?" "she got away without my knowing it. but maybe it's not too late. i can catch up with them if i hurry. hey, zachariah!" "then, you know where she is?" cried the girl, grasping his arm as he turned to rush away. "for goodness' sake, tell me! where has she gone?" "why, don't you--but of course you don't!" he exclaimed. "you poor girl! you must be almost beside yourself,--and here i go making matters worse by--" "where is she?" she broke in, all the colour going from her face as she shook his arm impatiently. "come in the house," he said gently, consolingly. "i'll tell you all i know. there's nothing to be worried about. she will be home, safe and sound, almost before you know it. i will explain while zachariah is saddling brandy boy." he laid his hand upon her shoulder. "come along,--dear." she held back. "if anything happens to her and you could have--" she began, a threat in her dark, harassed eyes. "i had no idea she would start at such an unearthly hour. i had made up my mind to go with her, whether or not. didn't she tell you she had made an affidavit against martin hawk?" "no. the sheriff was up here last night, just after supper, but,--oh, kenny, what is it all about?" his arm stole about her shoulders. she leaned heavily, wearily against him as they walked up the drenched path. "have you any idea at all what time she left the house?" he asked. "i heard her go down the stairs. it was pitch dark, but the clock struck one quite a long time afterward. i did not think anything about it then, because she often gets up in the middle of the night and goes down to sit in the kitchen. ever since father died. i must have gone to sleep again because i did not hear her come back upstairs. i awoke just at daybreak and got up to see if she needed me. she--she had not gone to bed at all, kenny.--and i couldn't find her anywhere. then i thought that martin hawk and the others had come and taken her away by mistake, thinking it was me in the darkness." "sit down, viola. i'll light the fire. it's quite chilly and you are shaking like a--" "i want to know where she has gone," she insisted. then he told her briefly as much as he thought she ought to know. she was vastly relieved. she even smiled. "there's no use of your trying to catch up with her. thank you for lighting the fire, kenny. if you don't mind, i will sit here awhile, and i may go to sleep in this comfortable chair of yours. goodness, i must look awful. my hair--" "don't touch it! it is beautiful as it is. i wish girls would always wear their hair in braids like that." she yawned, stretched her legs out to the fire, and then suddenly realizing that her ankles were bare, drew them back again to the shelter of her petticoat with a quick, shy glance to see if he had observed. "i wish i could cut it off,--like a boy's. it is miles too long. you might as well head zachariah off. she has been gone since one o'clock. i am sure i heard the front door close before i dropped off to sleep. don't fidget, kenny. they've probably got old martin in the calaboose by this time. mother never fails when she sets out to do a thing. that good-for-nothing sleepy-head, hattie, never heard a sound last night. what a conscience she must have!" he frowned at his big silver watch. "it's after five. see here, viola, suppose you just curl up on the sofa there and get some sleep. you look tired. i'll put a quilt over you and--" she half-started up from the chair, flushing in embarrassment. "oh, i ought not to stay here, kenny. suppose somebody were to come along and catch me here in your--" "shucks! you're my sister, aren't you?" "i suppose it's all right," she said dubiously, sinking back into the chair again. "but somehow, kenny, i don't believe i will ever be able to think of you as a brother; not if i live a thousand years. i'm sorry to hurt your feelings, but--well, i just can't help being a little bit afraid of you. i suppose it's silly of me, but i'm so ashamed to have you see me with my hair down like this, and no stockings on, and only half-dressed. i--i feel hot all over. i didn't think of it at first, i was so worried, but now i--" "it is very silly of you," he said, rather thickly. "you did right in coming over, and i'm going to make you comfortable now that you are here. lie down here and get some sleep, like a good little girl, and when you wake up zachariah will have a nice hot breakfast for you." "i'd rather not lie down," she stammered. "let me just sit here awhile,--and don't bother about breakfast for me. hattie will--" "but he has to get breakfast anyhow," he argued. she looked at him suspiciously. "haven't you had your breakfast?" "no," he lied. then he hurried off to give guilty instructions to zachariah. "fo' de lan's sake," the latter blurted out as he listened to his master's orders; "is yo' all gwine to eat another breakfast?" "yes, i am," snapped kenneth. "i'll take care of brandy boy. you go in and clear the table,--and see to it that you don't make any noise. if you do, i'll skin you alive." an hour later, kenneth arose from his seat on the front doorstep and stole over to the sitting-room window. she was asleep in the big rocking-chair, her head twisted limply toward her left shoulder, presenting a three-quarters view of her face to him as he gazed long and ardently upon her. he could see the deep rise and fall of her bosom. the shawl, unclasped at the throat, had fallen away, revealing the white flannel nightgown over which she had hastily drawn a petticoat before sallying forth. he went to the kitchen door and found zachariah sitting grumpily on the step. "she's still sound asleep," he announced. "so's dat lazy hattie over yander," lamented zachariah, with a jerk of his head. "ain' no smoke comin' out'n her chimbley, lemme tell yo'." "fill that wash-pan and get me a clean towel," ordered his master. he looked at his watch. "i'm going to awaken her,--in half an hour." it was nearly seven o'clock when he stamped noisily into the sitting-room with towel and basin. he had thrice repeated his visit to the window, and with each succeeding visit had remained a little longer than before, notwithstanding the no uncertain sense of guilt that accused him of spying upon the lovely sleeper. she awoke with a start, looked blankly about as if bewildered by her strange surroundings, and then fixed her wide, questioning eyes upon him, watching him in silence as he placed the basin of spring-water on a chair and draped the coarse towel over the back. "breakfast will be ready in ten minutes, miss," he announced, bowing deeply. "if you desire to freshen yourself a bit after your profound slumbers, you will find here some of the finest water in the universe and a towel warranted to produce a blush upon the cheek of a graven image." "has mother come home?" she inquired anxiously, as she drew the shawl close about her throat again. "no sign of her. hurry along, and as soon as we've had a bite to eat i'll ride down to the court house and see if she's there." he left her, and presently she came out into the kitchen, her skin glowing warmly, her braids loosely coiled on the crown of her head, her eyes like violet stars. zachariah marvelled at his master's appetite. recollection of an already devoured meal of no small proportions caused him to doubt his senses. from time to time he shook his head in wonder and finally took to chuckling. the next time marse kenneth complained about having no appetite he would know what to say to him. "i must run home now," said viola at the close of the meal. "it's been awfully nice,--and so exciting, kenny. i feel as if i had been doing something i ought not to do. isn't it queer? having breakfast with a man i never saw until six weeks ago!" "it does my heart good to see you blush so prettily," said he warmly. then his face darkened. "and it turns my blood cold to think that if you had succeeded in doing something you ought not to have done six weeks ago, you might now be having breakfast with somebody else instead of with me." "i wish you would not speak of that, kenneth," she said severely. "you will make me hate you if you bring it up again." then she added with a plaintive little smile: "the bible says, 'love thy neighbour as thyself.' i am doing my best to live up to that, but sometimes you make it awfully hard for me." he went to the door with her. she paused for a moment on the step to look searchingly up the road and through the trees. there was no sign of her mother. the anxious, worried expression deepened in her eyes. "don't come any farther with me," she said. "go down to the court house as fast as you can." he watched her till she passed through the gate. as he was on the point of re-entering the house he saw her come to an abrupt stop and stare straight ahead. he shot a swift, apprehensive glance over his shoulder. barry lapelle had just emerged from rachel's yard, his gaze fixed on the girl who stood motionless in front of gwynne's gate, a hundred feet away. without taking his eyes from her, he slowly closed the gate and leaned against it, folding his arms as he did so. viola, after a moment's indecision and without a glance at kenneth, lifted her chin and went forward to the encounter. kenneth looked in all directions for lapelle's rascals. he was relieved to find that the discarded suitor apparently had ventured alone upon this early morning mission. what did it portend? filled with sharp misgivings, he left his doorstep and walked slowly down to the gate, where he halted. it occurred to him that barry, after a sleepless night, had come to make peace with his tempestuous sweetheart. if such was the case, his own sense of fairness and dignity would permit no interference on his part unless it was solicited by the girl herself. he was ready, however, to take instant action if she made the slightest sign of distress or alarm. while he had no intention of spying or eavesdropping, their voices reached him distinctly and he could not help hearing what passed between them. "have you been up to the house, barry?" were viola's first words as she stopped in front of the man who barred the way. lapelle did not change his position. his chin was lowered and he was looking at her through narrowed, unsmiling eyes. "yes, i have." "where was the dog?" she inquired cuttingly. "he came and licked my hand. he's the only friend i've got up here, i reckon." "i will have him shot to-day. what do you want?" "i came to see your mother. where is she?" "she's away." "over night?" "it will do you no good to see her, barry. you might as well realize it first as last." lapelle glanced past her at the man beyond and lowered his voice. kenneth could not hear what he said. "well, i'm going to see her, and she will be down on her knees before i'm through with her, let me tell you. oh, i'm sober, viola! i had my lesson yesterday. i'm through with whiskey forever. so she was away all night, eh? out to the farm, eh? that nigger girl of yours says she must have gone out to the farm last night, because her bed wasn't slept in. and you weren't expecting visitors as early as this or you would have got home a little sooner yourself, huh?" "what are you talking about?" "soon as she is out of the house you scoot over to big brother kenny's, eh? afraid to sleep alone, i suppose. well, all i've got to say is you ought to have taken a little more time to dress." "oh! oh,--you--you low-lived dog!" she gasped, going white to the roots of her hair. "how dare you say--" "that's right! call me all the pretty names you can think of. and say, i didn't come up here to beg anything from you or your mother. i'm not in a begging humour. i'm through licking your boots, viola. what time will the old woman be back?" "stand away from that gate!" she said in a voice low and hoarse with fury. "don't you dare speak to me again. and if you follow me to the house i'll--i'll--" "what'll you do?" he jeered. "call brother kenny? well, go ahead and call him. there he is. i'll kick him from here to the pond,--and that won't be half so pleasant as rocking little sister to sleep in her cradle while mamma is out for the night." "and i used to think i was in love with you!" she cried in sheer disgust. "i could spit in your face, barry lapelle. will you let me pass?" "certainly. but i'm going into the house with you, understand that. i'd just as soon wait there for your mother as anywhere else." "when my mother hears about this she will have you horsewhipped within an inch of your life," cried the girl furiously. these words, rising on a wave of anger, came distinctly to kenneth's ears. he left his place at the gate and walked swiftly along inside his fence until he came to the corner of the yard, where the bushes grew thickly. here he stopped to await further developments. he heard barry say, with a harsh laugh: "oh, she will, will she?" "yes, she will. she knows more about you than you think she does,--and so do i. let me by! do you hear me, bar--" "that's funny," he interrupted, lowering his voice to a half-whisper. "that's just what i came up to see her about. i want to tell her that i know more about her than she thinks i do. and when i get through telling her what i know she'll change her mind about letting us get married. and you'll marry me, too, my girl, without so much as a whimper. oh, you needn't look around for big brother,--god, i bet you'd be happy if he wasn't your brother, wouldn't you? well, he has sneaked into the house, just as i knew he would if it looked like a squall. he's a white-livered coward. how do you like that?" he was not only astonished but distinctly confounded by the swift, incomprehensible smile that played about her disdainful lips. "what the hellfire are you laughing at?" he exploded. "nothing much. i was only thinking about last night." "christ!" he exclaimed, the blood rushing to his face. "why,--why, you--" the words failed him. he could only stare at her as if stunned by the most shocking confession. "please remember that you are speaking to--" he broke in with a snarling laugh. "by thunder, i'm beginning to believe you're no better than she was. she wasn't anything but a common------, and i'm blessed if i think it's sensible to marry into the family, after all." "oh!" she gasped, closing her eyes as she shrank away from him. the word he had used stood for the foulest thing on earth to her. it had never passed her clean, pure lips. for the moment she was petrified, speechless. "it's about time you learned the truth about that damned old hypocrite,--if you don't know it already," he continued, raising his voice at the urge of the now reckless fury that consumed him. he stood over her shrinking figure, glaring mercilessly down into her horror-struck eyes. "you don't need to take my word for it. ask gwynne. he knows. he knows what happened back there in kentucky. he knows she ran off with his father twenty years ago, taking him away from the woman he was married to. that's why he hates her. that's why he never had anything to do with his dog of a father. and, by god, he probably knows you were born out of wedlock,--that you're a love-child, a bas--" chapter xx the blow he never finished the word. a whirlwind was upon him. before he could raise a hand to defend himself, kenneth gwynne's brawny fist smote him squarely between the eyes. he went down as though struck by a sledge-hammer, crashing to the ground full six feet from where he stood. behind that clumsy blow was the weight of a thirteen stone body, hurled as from a mighty catapult. he never knew how long afterward it was that he heard a voice speaking to him. the words, jumbled and unintelligible, seemed to come from a great distance. he attempted to rise, gave it up, and fell back dizzily. his vision was slow in clearing. what he finally saw, through blurred, uncertain eyes, was the face of kenneth gwynne, far above him,--and it was a long time before it stopped whirling and became fixed in one place. then he realized that it was the voice of gwynne that was speaking to him, and he made out the words. something warm and wet crept along the sides of his mouth, over his chin, down his neck. his throat was full of a hot nauseous fluid. he raised himself on one elbow and spat. "get up! get up, you filthy whelp! i'm not going to hit you again. get up, i say!" he struggled to his knees and then to his feet, sagging limply against the fence, to which he clung for support. he felt for his nose, filled with a horrid, sickening dread that it was no longer on his face. "i ought to kill you," he heard gwynne saying. "you black-hearted, lying scoundrel. get out of my sight!" he succeeded in straightening up and looked about him through a mist of tears. he tried to speak, but could only wheeze and sputter. he cleared his throat raucously and spat again. "where--where is she?" he managed to say at last. "shut up! you've dealt her the foulest--" he broke off abruptly, struck by the other's expression: lapelle was staring past him in the direction of the house and there was the look of a frightened, trapped animal in his glassy eyes. "my god!" fell from his lips, and then suddenly he sprang forward, placing kenneth's body between him and the object of his terror. "stop her! for god's sake, gwynne,--stop her!" for the first time since barry went crashing to earth and lay as one dead, gwynne raised his eyes from the blood-smeared face. vaguely he remembered the swift rush of viola's feet as she sped past him,--but that was long ago and he had not looked to see whither she fled. she was now coming down the steps of the porch, a half-raised rifle in her hands. he was never to forget her white, set face, nor the menacing look in her eyes as she advanced to the killing of barry lapelle,--for there was no mistaking her purpose. "drop down!" he shouted to lapelle. as barry sank cowering behind him, he cried out sharply to the girl: "viola! drop that gun! do you hear me? good god, have you lost your senses?" she came on slowly, her head a little to one side the better to see the partially obscured figure of the crouching man. "it won't do you any good to hide, barry," she said, in a voice that neither of the men recognized. "don't be a fool, viola!" cried kenneth. "leave him to me. go back to the house. i will attend to him." she stopped and lifted her eyes to stare at the speaker in sheer wonder and astonishment. "why,--you heard what he said. you heard what he called my mother. stand away from him, kenneth." "i can't allow you to shoot him, viola. you will have to shoot me first. my god, child,--do you want to have a man's life-blood on your hands?" "he said she ran away with your father," she cried, a spasm of pain crossing her face. "he said i was born before they were married. i have a right to kill him. do you hear? i have a right to--" "don't you know it would be murder? cold-blooded murder? no! you will have to kill me first. do you understand? i shall not move an inch. i am not going to let you do something you will regret to the end of your life. put it down! drop that gun, i say! if there is to be any killing, i will do it,--not you!" she closed her eyes. her tense body relaxed. the two men, watching her with bated breath and vastly different emotions, could almost visualize the struggle that was going on within her. at last the long rifle barrel was lowered; as the muzzle touched the ground she opened her eyes. slowly they went from kenneth to the man who crouched behind him. she gazed at the bloody face as if seeing it for the first time. the woman in her revolted at the spectacle. after a moment of indecision, she turned with a shudder and walked toward the house, dragging the rifle by the stock. as she was about to mount the steps she paused to send a swift glance over her shoulder and then, obeying the appeal in kenneth's eyes, reluctantly, even carefully, leaned the gun against a post and disappeared through the door. "stand up!" ordered gwynne, turning to lapelle. "i ought to kill you myself. it's in my heart to do so. do you know what you've done to her?" barry drew himself up, his fast swelling, bloodshot eyes filled with a deadly hatred. his voice was thick and unsteady. "you'd better kill me while you have the chance," he said. "because, so help me god, i'm going to kill you for this." "go!" thundered the other, his hands twitching. "if you don't, i'll strangle the life out of you." lapelle drew back, quailing before the look in kenneth's eyes. he saw murder in them. "you didn't give me a chance, damn you," he snarled. "you hit me before i had a chance to--" "i wish to god i had hit you sooner,--and that i had killed you," grated kenneth. "you will wish that with all your soul before i am through with you," snarled barry. "oh, i'm not afraid of you! i know the whole beastly story about your father and that--" "stop!" cried kenneth, taking a step forward, his arm drawn back. "not another word, lapelle! you've said enough! i know where you got your information,--and i can tell you, here and now, that the man lied to you. i'm going to give you twenty-four hours to get out of this town for good. and if i hear that you have repeated a word of what you said to her i'll see to it that you are strung up by the neck and your miserable carcass filled with bullets. oh, you needn't sputter! it will be your word against mine. i guess you know which of us the men of this town will believe. and you needn't expect to be supported by your friend jasper suggs or the gentle mr. hawk,--aha, that got under your pelt, didn't it? if either of them is still alive at this minute, it's because he surrendered without a fight and not because god took care of him. your beautiful game is spoiled, lapelle,--and you'll be lucky to get off with a whole skin. i'm giving you a chance. get out of this town,--and stay out!" barry, recovering quickly from the shock, made a fair show of bravado. "what are you talking about? what the devil have i got to do with--" "that's enough! you know what i'm talking about. take my advice. get out of town before you are a day older. you will save yourself a ride on a rail and a rawhiding that you'll not forget to your dying day." "i will leave this town when i feel like it, gwynne," said lapelle, drawing himself up. "i don't take orders from you. you will hear from me later. you've got the upper hand now,--with that nigger of yours standing over there holding an axe in his hands, ready to kill me if i make a move. we'll settle this in the regular way, gwynne,--with pistols. you may expect a friend of mine to call on you shortly." "as you like," retorted the other, bowing stiffly. "you may name the time and place." lapelle bowed and then cast an eye about in quest of his hat. it was lying in the road some distance away. he strode over and picked it up. quite naturally, perhaps unconsciously, he resorted to the habit of years: he cocked it slightly at just the right angle over his eye. then, without a glance behind, he crossed the road and plunged into the thicket. kenneth watched him till he disappeared from view. suddenly aware of a pain in his hand, he held it out before him and was astonished to find that the knuckles were already beginning to puff. he winced when he tried to clench his fist. a rueful smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "mighty slim chance i'll have," he said to himself. "won't be able to pull a trigger to save my life." he hurried up the path and, without knocking, opened the door and entered the house. hattie was coming down the stairs, her eyes as round as saucers. "where is miss viola?" "she done gone up stairs, suh. lan' sakes, mistah gwynne, what fo' yo' do dat to mistah barry? he her beau. didn't yo'all know dat? ah close mah eyes when she tooken dat gun out dar. sez ah, she gwine to shoot mistah gwynne--" "tell her i'm here, hattie. i must see her at once. it's all right. she isn't angry with me." the girl hesitated. "she look mighty white an' sick, suh. she never say a word. jes' go right up stairs, she did. ah follers, 'ca'se ah was skeert about de way she look. she shutten de do' an' drop de bolt,--yas, suh, dat's what she do. lordy, ah wonder why her ma don't come home an' look after--" "see here," he broke in, "don't disturb her now. i will come back in a little while. if she wants me for anything you will find me out at the gate. do you understand? don't fail to call me. i am going out there to wait for her mother." it suddenly had occurred to him that he ought to intercept rachel carter before she reached the house, not only to prepare her for the shock that awaited her but to devise between them some means of undoing the harm that already had been done. they would have to stand together in denouncing barry, they would have to swear to viola that the story was false. he realized what this would mean to him: an almost profane espousal of his enemy's cause, involving not only the betrayal of his own conscience, but the deliberate repudiation of the debt he owed his mother and her people. he would have to go before viola and proclaim the innocence of the woman who had robbed and murdered his own mother. the unthinkable, the unbelievable confronted him. a cold sweat broke out all over him as he stood down by the gate, torn between hatred for one woman and love for another: rachel and minda carter. he could not spare one without sparing the other; lying to one of them meant lying for the other. but there was no alternative. the memory of the look in viola's eyes as she shrank away from lapelle, the thought of the cruel shock she must have suffered, the picture of her as she came down the path to kill--no, there could be no alternative! and so, as he leaned rigidly against the gate, sick at heart but clear of head, waiting for rachel carter, he came to think that, after all, a duel with barry lapelle might prove to be the easiest and noblest way out of his difficulties. chapter xxi the affair at hawk's cabin it wanted half an hour of daybreak when a slow-riding, silent group of men came to a halt and dismounted in the narrow lane some distance from the ramshackle abode of martin hawk, squatting unseen among the trees that lined the steep bank of the wabash. a three hours' ride through dark, muddy roads lay behind them. there were a dozen men in all,--and one woman, at whose side rode the hunter, stain. they had stopped at the latter's cabin on the way down, and she had conversed apart with him through a window. then they rode off, leaving him to follow. there were no lights, and no man spoke above a whisper. the work of tethering the horses progressed swiftly but with infinite caution. eyes made sharp by long hours of darkness served their owners well in this stealthy enterprise. the half-hour passed and the night began to lift. vague unusual objects slowly took shape, like gloomy spectres emerging from impenetrable fastnesses. blackness gave way to a faint drab pall; then the cold, unearthly grey of the still remote dawn came stealing across the fields. at last it was light enough to see, and the advance upon the cabin began. silently through the dense, shadowy wood crept the sheriff and his men,--followed by the tall woman in black and a lank, bearded man whose rifle-stock bore seven tiny but significant notches,--sinister epitaphs for as many by-gone men. a dog barked,--the first alarm. then another, and still a third joined in a fierce outcry against the invaders. suddenly the door of the hut was thrown open and a half-dressed man stooped in the low aperture, peering out across the dawn-shrouded clearing. the three coon-dogs, slinking out of the shadows, crowded up to the door, their snarling muzzles pointed toward the encircling trees. two men stepped out of the underbrush and advanced. even in the dim, uncertain light, martin hawk could see that they carried rifles. his eyes were like those of the bird whose name he bore. they swept the clearing in a flash. as if by magic, men appeared to right of him, to left of him, in front of him. he counted them. seven,--no, there was another,--eight. and he knew there were more of them, back of the house, cutting off retreat to the river. "don't move, martin," called out a voice. "what do you want?" demanded hawk, in a sharp, querulous voice. "i am the sheriff. got a warrant for your arrest. no use makin' a fight for it, hawk. you are completely surrounded. you can't get away." "i ain't done nothin' to be arrested fer," cried the man in the doorway. "i'm an honest man,--i hain't ever done--" "well, that's not for me to decide," interrupted the sheriff, now not more than a dozen feet away. "i've got a warrant charging you with sheep-stealing and so on, and that's all there is to it. i'm not the judge and jury. you come along quiet now and no foolishness." "who says i stole sheep?" "step outside here and i'll read the affidavit to you. and say, if you don't want your dogs massacreed, you'd better call 'em off." martin hawk looked over his shoulder into the dark interior of the hut, spoke to some one under his breath, and then began cursing his dogs. "i might have knowed you'd git me into trouble, you lop-eared, sheep-killin' whelps!" he whined. "i'd ought to shot the hull pack of ye when you was pups. git out'n my sight! there's yer sheep-stealers, sheriff,--them ornery, white-livered, blood-suckin'--" "i don't know anything about that, martin," snapped the sheriff. "all i know is, you got to come along with me,--peaceable or otherwise,--and i guess if you're half as smart as i think you are, you won't come otherwise. here! don't go back in that house, hawk." "well, i got to tell my daughter--" "we'll tell her. there's another man or two in there. just tell 'em to step outside,--and leave their weapons behind 'em." "there ain't a livin' soul in thar, 'cept my daughter,--so he'p me god, sheriff," cried hawk, his teeth beginning to chatter. the sheriff was close enough to see the look of terror and desperation in his eyes. "no use lyin', hawk. you've got a man named suggs stayin' with you. he ain't accused of anything, so he needn't be afraid to come out. same applies to your daughter moll. but i don't want anybody in there to take a shot at us the minute we turn our backs. shake 'em out, hawk." "i tell ye there ain't nobody here but me an' moll,--an' she's sick. she can't come out. an'--an' you can't go in,--not unless you got a warrant to search my house. that's what the law sez,--an' you know it. i'll go along with you peaceable,--an' stand my trial fer sheep-stealin' like a man. lemme get my hat an' coat, an' i'll come--" "i guess there's something queer about all this," interrupted the sheriff. the man beside him had just whispered something in his ear. "we'll take a look inside that cabin, law or no law, hawk. move up, boys!" he called out to the scattered men. "keep your eyes skinned. if you ketch sight of a rifle ball comin' to'ards you,--dodge. and you, martin, step outside here, where you won't be in the way. i'm going in there." martin hawk looked wildly about him. on all sides were men with rifles. there was no escape. his craven heart failed him, his knees gave way beneath him and an instant later he was grovelling in the mud at the sheriff's feet. "i didn't do it! i didn't do it! i swear to god i didn't. it was her. she done it,--moll done it!" he squealed in abject terror. he was grabbed by strong hands and jerked to his feet. while others held him, the sheriff and several of the men rushed into the cabin. off at the edge of the clearing stood rachel carter and isaac stain, watching the scene at the door. "one look will be enough," the woman had said tersely. "twenty years will not have changed simon braley much. i will know him at sight." "you got to be sure, mrs. gwyn," muttered the hunter. "ef you got the slightest doubt, say so." "i will, isaac." "and ef you say it's him, fer sure an' no mistake, i'll foller him to the end of the world but what i git him." "if it is simon braley he will make a break for cover. he is not like that whimpering coward over yonder. and the sheriff will make no attempt to bring him down. there is no complaint against him. no one knows that he is simon braley." "well, i'll be on his heels," was the grim promise of isaac stain, thinking of the sister who had been slain by braley's indians down on the river white. one of the men rushed out of the cabin. he was vastly excited. "don't let go of him," he shouted to the men who were holding martin. "there's hell to pay in there. where is mrs. gwyn?" "i never done it!" wailed martin, livid with terror. "i swear to god--" "shut up!" "she's over there, sam,--with ike stain." ignoring the question that followed him, the man called sam hurried up to the couple at the edge of the bush. "better clear out, mrs. gwyn," he said soberly. "i mean, don't stay around. something in there you oughtn't to see." "what is it?" she inquired sharply. "well, you see,--there's a dead man in there,--knifed. blood all over everything and--" "the man called suggs?" "i reckon so. leastwise it must be him. 'pears to be a stranger to all of us. deader'n a door nail. he's--" "i am not chicken-hearted, mr. corbin," she announced. "i have seen a good many dead men in my time. the sight of blood does not affect me. i will go in and see him. no! please do not stay me." despite his protestations, she strode resolutely across the lot. as she passed martin hawk that cowering rascal stared at her, first without comprehension, then with a suddenly awakened, acute understanding. it was she who had brought the authorities down upon him. she had made "affidavy" against him,--she had got him into this horrible mess by swearing that he stole her sheep and calves. true, he had stolen from her,--there was, no doubt about that,--but he had covered his tracks perfectly. any one of a half-dozen men along the river might have stolen her stock,--they were stealing right and left. how then did she come to fix upon him as the one to accuse? in a flash he leaped to a startling conclusion. barry lapelle! the man who knew all about his thievish transactions and who for months had profited by them. hides, wool, fresh meats from the secret lairs and slaughter pens back in the trackless wilds, all these had gone down the river on barry's boats, products of a far-reaching system of outlawry, with barry and his captains sharing in the proceeds. now he understood. lapelle had gone back on him, had betrayed him to his future mother-in-law. the fine gentleman had no further use for him; mrs. gwyn had given her consent to the marriage and in return for that he had betrayed a loyal friend! and now look at the position he was in, all through barry lapelle. sheep stealing was nothing to what he might have to face. even though moll had done the killing, he would have a devil of a time convincing a jury of the fact. more than likely, moll would up and deny that she had anything to do with it,--and then what? it would be like the ornery slut to lie out of it and let 'em hang her own father, just to pay him back for the lickings he had given her. all this raced through the fast-steadying brain of martin hawk as he watched his accuser pass him by without a look and stop irresolutely on his threshold to stare aghast at what lay beyond. it became a conviction, rather than a conjecture. barry had set the dogs upon him! snake! well,--just let him get loose from these plagued hounds for half an hour or so and, by glory, they'd have something to hang him for or his name wasn't martin hawk. isaac stain did not move from the spot where she had left him, over at the edge of the clearing. his rifle was ready, his keen eyes alert. rachel carter entered the hut. many minutes passed. then she came to the door and beckoned to him. "it is simon braley," she said quietly. "he is dead. the girl killed him, isaac. will you ride over to my farm and have allen come over here with a wagon? they're going to take the body up to town,--and the girl, too." stain stood his rifle against the wall of the hut. "i guess i won't need this," was all he said as he turned and strode away. the man called jasper suggs lay in front of the tumble-down fireplace, his long body twisted grotesquely by the final spasm of pain that carried him off. the lower part of his body was covered by a filthy strip of rag carpet which some one had hastily thrown over him as rachel carter was on the point of entering the house. his coarse linsey shirt was soaked with blood, now dry and almost black. the harsh light from the open door struck full upon his bearded face and its staring eyes. in a corner, at the foot of a straw pallet, ordinarily screened from the rest of the cabin by a couple of suspended quilts, stood moll hawk, leaning against the wall, her dark sullen eyes following the men as they moved about the room. the quilts, ruthlessly torn from their fastenings on the pole, lay scattered and trampled on the floor, sinister evidence of the struggle that had taken place between woman and beast. at the other end of the room were two similar pallets, unscreened, and beside one of these lay jasper suggs' rawhide boots. from her place in the shadows moll hawk watched the other woman stoop over and gaze intently at the face of the slain man. she was a tall, well-developed girl of twenty or thereabouts. her long, straight hair, the colour of the raven's wing, swung loose about her shoulders, an occasional strand trailing across her face, giving her a singularly witchlike appearance. her body from the waist up was stripped almost bare; there were several long streaks of blood across her breast, where the fingers of a gory hand had slid in relaxing their grip on her shoulder. with one hand she clutched what was left of a tattered garment, vainly seeking to hide her naked breasts. the stout, coarse dress had been almost torn from her body. mrs. gwyn left the hut but soon returned. after a few earnest words with the sheriff, she came slowly over to the girl. moll shrank back against the wall, a strange glitter leaping into her sullen, lifeless eyes. "i don't want nobody prayin' over me," she said huskily. "i jest want to be let alone." "i am not going to pray over you, my girl. i want you to come out in the back yard with me, where i can wash the blood off of you and put something around you." "what's the use'n that? they're goin' to take me to jail, ain't they?" "have you another frock to put on, moll?" the girl looked down at her torn, disordered dress, a sneering smile on her lips. "this is all i got,--an' now look at it. i ain't had a new dress in god knows how long. pap ain't much on dressin' me up. mr. lapelle he promised me a new dress but--say, who air you?" "i am mrs. gwyn, moll." "i might ha' knowed it. you're her ma, huh? well, i guess you'd better go on away an' let me alone. i ain't axin' no favours off'n--" "i am not trying to do you a favour. i am only trying to make you a little more presentable. you are going up to town, moll." "yes,--i guess that's so. can't they hang me here an' have it over?" a look of terror gleamed in her eyes, but there was no flinching of the body, no tremor in her voice. the sheriff came over. "better let mrs. gwyn fix you up a little, moll. she's a good, kind lady and she'll--" "i don't want to go to town," whimpered the girl, covering her face with her hands. "i don't want to be hung. i jest had to do it,--i jest had to. there wuz no other way,--'cept to--'cept to--an' i jest couldn't do that. now i wish i had,--oh, lordy, how i wish i had! that wuz bad enough, but hangin's wuss. he wuz goin' away in a day or two, anyhow, so--" "you're not going to be hung, moll," broke in the sheriff. "don't you worry about that. we don't hang women for killing men like that feller over there. like as not you'll be set free in no time at all. all you've got to do is to tell the truth about how it happened and that'll be all there is to it." "you're lyin' to me, jest to git me to go along quiet," she quavered, but there was a new light in her eyes. "i'm not lying. you will have to stand trial, of course,--you understand that, don't you?--but there isn't a jury on earth that would hang you. we don't do that kind of thing to women. now you go along with mrs. gwyn and do what she says,--and you can tell me all about this after a while." "i'll wash, but i hain't got no more clothes," muttered the girl. "we will manage somehow," said mrs. gwyn. "one of the men will give you a coat,--or you may have my cape to wear, moll." moll looked at her in surprise. again she said the unexpected thing. "why, ever'body says you air a mighty onfeelin' woman, mis' gwyn. i can't believe you'd let me take your cape." "you will see, my girl. come! show me where to find water and a comb and--" "wait a minute," said moll abruptly. "somehow i ain't as skeert as i wuz. you're shore they won't hang me? 'ca'se i'd hate to be hung,--i'd hate to die that-away, mister." "they won't hang you, moll,--take my word for it." "well, then," said she, bringing forward the hand she had been holding behind her back all the time; "here's the knife i done it with. it's his'n. he was braggin' last night about how many gullets he had slit with it,--i mean men's gullets. i wuz jest sort o' hangin' onto it in case i--but i don't believe i ever could a' done it. 'tain't 'ca'se i'm afeared to die but they say a person that takes his own life is shore to go to hell--'ca'se he don't git no chance fer to repent. take it, mister." she handed the big sheath-knife to the sheriff. then she followed rachel carter out of the hut, apparently unconscious of the curious eyes that followed her. she passed close by the corpse. she looked down at the ghastly face and twisted body without the slightest trace of emotion,--neither dread nor repugnance nor interest beyond a curious narrowing of the eyes as of one searching for some sign of trickery on the part of a wily adversary. on the way out she stopped to pick up a wretched, almost toothless comb and some dishrags. "i guess we better go down to the river," she said as they stepped out into the open. "'tain't very fer, mrs. gwyn,--an' the water's cleaner. hain't no danger of me tryin' to git away," she went on, with a feeble grin as her eyes swept the little clearing, revealing armed men in all directions. her gaze rested for a moment on martin hawk, who was staring at her from his seat on a stump hard by. "there's my pap over yonder," she said, with a scowl. "he's the one that ort to be strung up fer all this. he didn't do it,--but he's to blame, just the same. they ain't got him 'rested fer doin' it, have they? 'ca'se he didn't. he'll tell you he's as innocent as a unborn child,--he allus does,--an' he is as fer as the killin' goes. but ef he'd done what wuz right hit never would 'a' happened. thet's whut i got ag'inst him." rachel carter was looking at the strange creature with an interest not far removed from pity. despite the sullen, hang-dog expression she was a rather handsome girl; wild, untutored, almost untamed she was, and yet not without a certain diffidence that bespoke better qualities than appeared on the surface. she was tall and strongly built, with the long, swinging stride of the unhampered woods-woman. her young shoulders and back were bent with the toil and drudgery of the life she led. her eyes, in which lurked a never-absent gleam of pain, were dark, smouldering, deep set and so restless that one could not think of them as ever being closed in sleep. the girl led the way down a narrow path to a little sand-bar. "i go in swimmin' here every day, 'cept when it's froze over," she volunteered dully. "hain't you skeert at the sight o' blood, ma'am? some people air. we wuz figgerin' on whuther we'd dig a grave fer him or jest pull out yonder into the current an' drop him over. pap said we had to git rid of him 'fore anybody come around. 'nen the dogs begin to bark an' he thought mebby it wuz mr. lapelle, so he--say, you mustn't get mr. lapelle mixed up in this. he--" "i know all about mr. lapelle, moll," interrupted the older woman. the girl gave her a sharp, almost hostile look. "then you hain't goin' to let him have your girl, air you?" mrs. gwyn shook her head. "no, moll,--i am not," she said. "you set here on this log," ordered the girl as they came down to the water's edge. "i'll do my own washin'. i'm kind o' 'shamed to have any one see me as naked as this. there ain't much left of my dress, is they? we fit fer i don't know how long, like a couple o' dogs. you c'n see the black an' blue places on my arms out here in the daylight,-an' i guess his finger marks must be on my neck, where he wuz chokin' me. i wuz tryin' to wrassle around till i could git nigh to the table, where his knife wuz stickin'. my eyes wuz poppin' right out'n my head when i--" "for heaven's sake, girl!" cried rachel carter. "don't! don't tell me any more! i can't bear to hear you talk about it." moll stared at her for a moment as if bewildered, and then suddenly turned away, her chin quivering with mortification. she had been reprimanded! for several minutes rachel stood in silence, watching her as she washed the blood from her naked breast and shoulders. presently the girl turned toward her, as if for inspection. "i'm sorry, ma'am, if i talked too much," she mumbled awkwardly. "i'd ort to have knowed better. is--is it all off?" "i think so," said rachel, pulling herself together with an effort. "let me--" "no, i'll finish it," said the girl stubbornly. she dried her brown, muscular arms, rubbed her body vigorously with one of the rags and then began to comb out her long, tangled hair,--not gently but with a sort of relentless energy. swiftly, deftly she plaited it into two long braids, which she left hanging down in front of her shoulders, squaw fashion. "how long had you known this man suggs, moll?" suddenly inquired the other woman. "off an' on ever sence i kin remember," replied the girl. "pap knowed him down south. we hain't seed much of him fer quite a spell. four--five year, i guess mebby. he come here last week one day." the eyes of the two women met. moll broke the short silence that ensued. she glanced over her shoulder. the nearest man was well out of earshot. still she lowered her voice. "he claims he use ter know you a long time ago," she said. "yes?" "mebby you'd recollect him ef i tole you his right name." "his name was simon braley," said rachel carter calmly. moll's eyes narrowed. "then what he sez wuz true?" "i don't know what he said to you, moll." "he sez you run off with some other woman's husband," replied moll bluntly. "did he tell this to any one except you and your father?" "he didn't tell no one but me, fer as i know. he didn't tell pap." "when did he tell you?" "las' night," said moll, suddenly dropping her eyes. "he wuz drinkin',--an' i thought mebby he wuz lyin'." "you are sure he did not tell your father?" "i'm purty shore he didn't." "why did he tell you?" the girl raised her eyes. there was a deeper look of pain in them now. "i'd ruther not tell," she muttered. "you need not be afraid." "well, he wuz arguin' with me. he said there wuzn't any good women in the world. 'why,' sez he, 'i seen a woman this very day that everybody thinks is as good as the angels up in heaven, but when i tell you whut i know about her you'll--'" "you need not go on," interrupted rachel carter, drawing her brows together. "would you believe me if i told you the man lied, moll hawk?" "yes, ma'am,--i would," said the girl promptly. "fer as that goes, i tole him he lied." rachel started to say something, then closed her lips tightly and fell to staring out over the river. the girl eyed her for a moment and then went on: "you needn't be skeert of me ever tellin' anybody whut he said to me. hit wouldn't be right to spread a lie like thet, mis' gwyn. you--" "i think they are waiting for us, moll," interrupted rachel, suddenly holding out her hand to the girl. "thank you. come, give me your hand. we will go back to them, hand in hand, my girl." moll stared at her in sheer astonishment. "you--you don't want to hold my hand in yours, do you?" she murmured slowly, incredulously. "i do. you will find me a good friend,--and you will need good friends, moll." dumbly the girl held out her hand. it was clasped firmly by rachel carter. they were half-way up the bank when moll held back and tried to withdraw her hand. "i--i can't let you,--why, ma'am, that's the hand i--i held the knife in," she cried, agitatedly. rachel gripped the hand more firmly. "i know it is, moll," she said calmly. chapter xxii the prisoners the grewsome cavalcade wended its way townward. moll hawk sat between the sheriff and cyrus allen on the springless board that served as a seat atop the lofty sideboards of the wagon. the crude wooden wheels rumbled and creaked and jarred along the deep-rutted road, jouncing the occupants of the vehicle from side to side with unseemly playfulness. back in the bed of the wagon, under a gaily coloured indian blanket, lay the outstretched body of jasper suggs, seemingly alive and responsive to the jolts and twists and turns of the road. the rear end gate had been removed and three men sat with their heels dangling outside, their backs to the sinister, unnoticed traveller who shared accommodations with them. the central figure was martin hawk, grim, saturnine, silent, his feet and hands secured with leather thongs. trotting along under his heels, so to speak, were his three dogs,--their tongues hanging out, their tails drooping, their eyes turning neither to right nor left. they were his only friends. some distance behind rode three horsemen, leading as many riderless steeds. on ahead was another group of riders. rachel carter rode alongside the wagon. moll had firmly refused to wear the older woman's cape. she had on a coat belonging to one of the men and wore a flimsy, deep-hooded bonnet that once had been azure blue. her shoulders sagged wearily, her back was bent, her arms lay limply upon her knees. she was staring bleakly before her over the horses' ears, at the road ahead. the reaction had come. she had told the story of the night, haltingly but with a graphic integrity that left nothing to be desired. martin hawk had spent a black and unhappy hour. he was obliged to listen to his daughter's story and, much to his discontent, was not permitted to contradict her in any particular. two or three mournful attempts to reproach her for lying about her own,--and, he always added, her only--father, met with increasingly violent adjurations to "shut up," the last one being so emphatic that he gave vent to a sharp howl of pain and began feeling with his tongue to see if all his teeth were there. luckily for him, he was impervious to the scorn of his fellow-man, else he would have shrivelled under the looks he received from time to time. especially distressing to him was that part of her recital touching upon his unholy greed; he could not help feeling, with deep parental bitterness, that no man alive ever had a more heartless, undutiful daughter than he,--a conviction that for the time being at least caused him to lament the countless opportunities he had had to beat her to death instead of merely raising a few perishable welts on her back. if he had done that, say a month ago, how different everything would be now! this part of her story may suffice: "pap never wanted anything so bad in all his life as that powder horn an' shot flask. they wuz all fixed up with gold an' silver trimmin's an' i guess there wuz rubies an' di'monds too. fer three days pap dickered with him, tryin' to make some kind of a swap. jasper he wouldn't trade 'em er sell 'em nuther. he said they wuz wuth more'n a thousand dollars. some big injun chief made him a present of 'em, years ago,--fer savin' his life, he said. first pap tried to swap his hounds fer 'em, 'nen said he'd throw in one of the hosses. jasper he jest laughed at him. yesterday i heerd pap tell him he would swap him both hosses, seven hogs, the wagon an' two boats, but jasper he jest laughed. they wuz still talkin' about it when they got home from town last night, jest ahead of the storm. i could hear 'em arguin' out in the room. they wuz drinkin' an' talkin' so loud i couldn't sleep. "purty soon pap said he'd trade him our cabin an' ever'thing else fer that pouch an' flask. it wuz rainin' so hard by this time i couldn't hear all they said but when it slacked up a little i cotch my own name. they wuz talkin' about me. i heerd jasper tell pap he'd give him the things ef he'd promise to go away an' leave him an' me alone in the cabin. that kind o' surprised me. but all pap sez wuz that he hated to go out in the rain. so jasper he said fer him to wait till hit stopped rainin'. pap said all right, he would, an' fer jasper to hand over the pouch and flask. jasper cussed an' said he'd give 'em to him three hours after sunrise the nex' morning' an' not a minute sooner, an' he wuz to stay away from the house all that time or he wouldn't give 'em to him at all. well, they argued fer some time about that an' finally pap said he'd go out to the hoss shed an' sleep if jasper would hand over the shot pouch then an' there an' hold back the powder flask till mornin'. jasper he said all right, he would. i never guess what wuz back of all this. so when pap went out an' shut the door behind him, i wuz kind o' thankful, ca'se all the arguin' an' jawin' would stop an' i could go to sleep ag'in. jasper he let down the bolt inside the door." . . . . . . . . . . . . it was after eight o'clock when the wagon and its escort entered the outskirts of the town. grim, imperturbable old dames sitting on their porches smoking their clay or corncob pipes regarded the strange procession with mild curiosity; toilers in gardens and barnyards merely remarked to themselves that "some'pin must'a happened some'eres" and called out to housewife or offspring not to let them forget to "mosey up to the square" later in the day for particulars, if any. the presence of the sheriff was more or less informing; it was obvious even to the least sprightly intelligence that somebody had been arrested. but the appearance of mrs. gwyn on horseback, riding slowly beside the wagon, was not so easily accounted for. that circumstance alone made it absolutely worth while to "mosey up to the square" a little later on. martin hawk was lodged in the recently completed brick jail adjoining the courthouse. he complained bitterly of the injustice that permitted his daughter, a confessed murderess, to enjoy the hospitality of the sheriff's home whilst he, accused of nothing more heinous than sheep-stealing, was flung into jail and subjected to the further indignity of being audibly described as a fit subject for the whipping post, an institution that still prevailed despite a general movement to abolish it throughout the state. it galled him to hear the fuss that was being made over moll. everybody seemed to be taking her part. why, that gwyn woman not only went so far as to say she would be responsible for moll's appearance in court, but actually arranged to buy her a lot of new clothes. and the sheriff patted her on the shoulder and loudly declared that the only thing any judge or jury could possibly find her guilty of was criminal negligence in only half-doing the job. this was supplemented by a look that left no doubt in martin's mind as to just what he considered to be the neglected part of the job. he bethought himself of the one powerful friend he had in town,--barry lapelle. so he sent this message by word of mouth to the suspected dandy: "i'm in jail. i want you to come and see me right off. i mean business." needless to say, this message,--conveying a far from subtle threat,--was a long time in reaching mr. lapelle, who had gone into temporary retirement at jack trentman's shanty, having arrived at that unsavoury retreat by a roundabout, circuitous route which allowed him to spend some time on the bank of a sequestered brook. meanwhile rachel carter approached her own home, afoot and weary. as she turned the bend she was surprised and not a little disturbed by the sight of kenneth gwynne standing at her front gate. he hurried up the road to meet her. "the worst has come to pass," he announced, stopping in front of her. "before you go in i must tell you just what happened here this morning. come in here among the trees where we can't be seen from the house." she listened impassively to his story. only the expression in her steady, unswerving eyes betrayed her inward concern and agitation. not once did she interrupt him. her shoulders, he observed, drooped a little and her arms hung limply at her side, mute evidence of a sinking heart and the resignation that comes with defeat. "i am ready and willing," he assured her at the end, "to do anything, to say anything you wish. it is possible for us to convince her that there is no truth in what he said. we can lie--" she held up her hand, shaking her head almost angrily. "no! not that, kenneth. i cannot permit you to lie for me. that would be unspeakable. i am not wholly without honour. there is nothing you can do for her,--for either of us at present. thank you for preparing me,--and for your offer, kenneth. stay away from us until you have had time to think it all over. then you will realize that this generous impulse of yours would do more harm than good. let her think what she will of me, she must not lose her faith in you, my boy." "but--what of her?" he expostulated. "what are you going to say to her when she asks you--" "i don't know," she interrupted, lifelessly. "i am not a good liar, kenneth gwynne. whatever else you may say or think of me, i--i have never wilfully lied." she started away, but after a few steps turned back to him. "jasper suggs is dead. moll hawk killed him last night. she has been arrested. there is nothing you can do for viola at present, but you may be able to help that poor, unfortunate girl. suggs told her about me. she will keep the secret. go and see the sheriff at once. he will tell you all that has happened." then she strode off without another word. he watched the tall, black figure until it turned in at the gate and was lost to view, a sort of stupefaction gripping him. presently he aroused himself and walked slowly homeward. as he passed through his own gate he looked over at the window of the room in which viola had sought seclusion. the curtains hung limp and motionless. he wondered what was taking place inside the four walls of that room. out of the maze into which his thoughts had been plunged by the swift procession of events groped the new and disturbing turn in the affairs of rachel carter. what was back of the untold story of the slaying of jasper suggs? what were the circumstances? why had moll hawk killed the man? had rachel carter figured directly or indirectly in the tragedy? he recalled her significant allusion to isaac stain the night before and his own rather startling inference,--and now she was asking him to help moll hawk in her hour of tribulation. a cold perspiration started out all over him. the question persisted: what was back of the slaying of jasper suggs? he gave explicit and peremptory directions to zachariah in case mrs. gwyn asked for him, and then set out briskly for the courthouse. by this time the news of the murder had spread over the town. a crowd had gathered in front of scudder's undertaking establishment. knots of men and women, disregarding traffic, stood in the streets adjoining the public square, listening to some qualified narrator's account of the night's expedition and the tragedy at martin hawk's. kenneth hurried past these crowds and made his way straight to the office of the sheriff. farther down the street a group of people stood in front of the sheriff's house, while in the vicinity of the little jail an ever-increasing mob was collecting. "judge" billings espied him. disengaging himself from a group of men at the corner of the square, the defendant in the case of kenwright vs. billings made a bee-line for his young attorney. "i've been over to your office twice, young man," he announced as he came up. "where the devil have you been keepin' yourself? mrs. gwyn left word for you to come right up to her house. she wants you to take charge of the hawk girl's case. maybe you don't know it, but you've been engaged to defend her. you better make tracks up to mrs. gwyn's and--" "i have seen mrs. gwyn," interrupted kenneth. "she sent me to the sheriff. where is he?" "over yonder talkin' to that crowd in front of the tavern. he's sort o' pickin' out a jury in advance,--makin' sure that the right men get on it. he got me for one. he don't make any bones about it. just tells you how it all happened an' then asks you whether you'd be such a skunk as to even think of convictin' the girl for what she did. then you up an' blaspheme considerable about what you'd like to do to her dodgasted father, an' before you git anywhere's near through, he holds up his hand an' says, 'now, i've only got to git three more (or whatever it is), an' then the jury's complete!' we're figgerin' on havin' the trial to-morrow mornin' between nine an' ten o'clock. the judge says it's all right, far as he's concerned. we'd have it to-day, only moll's got to have a new dress an' bonnet an' such-like before she can appear in court. all you'll have to do, kenny, is jest to set back,--look wise an' let her tell her story. 'cordin' to law, she's got to stand trial fer murder an' she's got to have counsel. nobody's goin' to object to you makin' a speech to the jury,--bringin' tears to our eyes, as the sayin' is,--only don't make it too long. i've got to meet a man at half-past ten in regards to a hoss trade, an' i happen to know that tom rank's clerk is sick an' he don't want to keep his store locked up fer more than an hour. i'm jest tellin' you this so's you won't have to waste time to-morrow askin' the jurymen whether they have formed an opinion or not, or whether they feel they can give the prisoner a fair an' impartial trial or not. the sheriff's already asked us that an' we've all said yes,--so don't delay matters by askin' ridiculous questions." the "judge" interrupted himself to look at his watch. "well, i've got to be movin' along. i'm on the coroner's jury too, and we're goin' up to matt's right away to view the remains. the verdict will probable be: 'come to his death on account of moll hawk's self-defense,' or somethin' like that. 'never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day,' as the sayin' goes. wouldn't surprise me a bit if he was buried before three o'clock to-day. then we won't have him on our minds to-morrow. well, see you later--if not sooner." an hour later kenneth accompanied the sheriff to the latter's home for an interview with his client. he had promptly consented to act as her counsel after hearing the story of the crime from the sheriff. "mrs. gwyn told my wife to go out and get some new clothes for the girl," said the sheriff as they strode down the street, "and she'd step into the store some time to-day and settle for them. by thunder, you could have knocked me over with a feather, kenneth. if your stepmother was a man we'd describe her as a skinflint. she's as stingy and unfeeling as they make 'em. hard as nails and about as kind-hearted as a tombstone. what other woman on this here earth would have gone out to martin hawk's last night just for the satisfaction of seein' him arrested? we didn't want her,--not by a long shot,--but she made up her mind to go, and, by gosh, she went. i guess maybe she thought we'd make a botch of it, and so she took that long ride just to make sure she'd git her money's worth. 'cause, you see, i had to pay each of the men a dollar and a half and mileage before they'd run the risk of bein' shot by hawk and his crowd. hard as nails, i said, but doggone it, the minute she saw that girl out there she turned as soft as butter and there is nothin' she won't do for her. it beats me, by gosh,--it certainly beats me." "women are very strange creatures," observed kenneth. "yep," agreed the other. "you can most always tell what a man's goin' to do, but i'm derned if you can even guess what a woman's up to. take my wife, for instance. why, i've been livin' with that woman for seventeen years and i swear to guinea she's still got me puzzled. course i know what she's talking about most of the time, but, by gosh, i never know what she's thinkin' about. women are like cats. a cat is the thoughtfulest animal there is. it's always thinkin'. it thinks when it's asleep,--and most of the time when you think it's asleep it ain't asleep at all. well, here we are. i guess moll's out in the kitchen with my wife. i told ma to roll that old dress of moll's up and save it for the jury to see. it's the best bit of evidence she's got. all you'll have to do is to hold it up in front of the jury and start your speech somethin' like this: 'gentlemen of the jury, i ask you to gaze upon this here dress, all tattered and torn,--' and that's as far as you'll get, 'cause this jury is goin' to be composed of gentlemen and they'll probably stand up right then and there and say 'not guilty.' come right in, mr. gwynne." after considerable persuasion on the part of the sheriff and his kindly wife, moll repeated her story to gwynne. she was abashed before this elegant young man. a shyness and confusion that had been totally lacking in her manner toward the other and older men took possession of her now, and it was with difficulty that she was induced to give him the complete details of all that took place in her father's cabin. when he shook hands with her as he was about to take his departure, she suddenly found courage to say: "kin i see you alone fer a couple of minutes, mr. gwynne?" "certainly, miss hawk," he replied, gravely courteous. "i am sure mr. and mrs.--" "come right in the sitting-room, mr. gwynne," interrupted the housewife, bustling over to open the door. moll stared blankly at her counsel. no one had ever called her miss hawk before. she was not quite sure that she had heard aright. could it be possible that this grand young gentleman had called her miss hawk? still wondering, she followed him out of the kitchen, sublimely unconscious of the ridiculous figure she cut in the garments of the older woman. "shut the door," she said, as her keen, wood-wary eyes swept the room. she crossed swiftly to the window and looked out. her lips curled a little. "most of them people has been standin' out yonder sence nine o'clock, tryin' to see what sort of lookin' animile i am, mr. gwynne. hain't nohody got any work to do?" "vulgar curiosity, nothing more," said he, joining her at the window. "'tain't ever' day they get a chance to see a murderer, is it?" she said, lowering her head suddenly and putting a hand to her quivering chin. for the first time she seemed on the point of breaking down. he made haste to exclaim, "you are not a murderer. you must not think or say such things, miss hawk." she kept her head down. a scarlet wave crept over her face. "i--i wish you wouldn't call me that, mr. gwynne. hit--hit makes me feel kind o'--kind o' lonesome-like. jest as--ef i didn't have no friends. call me moll. that's all i am." he studied for a moment the half-averted face of this girl of the forest. he could not help contrasting it with the clear-cut, delicate, beautifully modelled face of another girl of the dark frontier,--viola gwyn. and out of this swift estimate grew a new pity for poor moll hawk, the pity one feels for the vanquished. "you will be surprised to find how many friends you have, moll," he said gently. there was no indication that she was impressed one way or the other by this remark. she drew back from the window and faced him, her eyes keen and searching. "do you reckon anybody is listenin'?" she asked. "i think not,--in fact, i am sure we are quite alone." "well, this is somethin' i don't keer to have the shurreff know, or anybody else, mr. gwynne. hit's about mr. lapelle." "yes?" he said, as she paused warily. "mrs. gwyn she tole me this mornin' that whatever i said to my lawyer would be sacred an' wouldn't ever be let out to anybody, no matter whut it wuz. she said it wuz ag'inst the code er somethin'. wuz she right?" "in a sense, yes. of course, you must understand, moll, that no honest lawyer will obligate himself to shield a criminal or a fugitive from justice, or--i may as well say to you now that if you expect that of me i must warn you not to tell me anything. you would force me to withdraw as your counsel. for, you see, moll, i am an honest lawyer." she looked at him in a sort of mute wonder for a moment, and then muttered: "why, pap,--pap he sez there ain't no setch thing as a honest lawyer." an embarrassed little smile twisted her lips. "i guess that must ha' been one of pap's lies." "it is possible he may never have come in contact with one," he observed drily. "well, i guess ef you're a honest lawyer," she said, knitting her brows, "i'd better keep my mouth shut. i wuz only thinkin' mebby you could see your way to do somethin' i wuz goin' to ask. i jest wanted to git some word to mr. lapelle." "mr. lapelle and i are not friends, moll." "is it beca'se of whut i asked ike stain to tell ye?" "partly." "i mean about stealin' miss violy gwyn an' takin' her away with him?" "i want to thank you, moll, for sending me the warning. it was splendid of you." "oh, i didn't do it beca'se--" she began, somewhat defiantly, and then closed her lips tightly. the sullen look came back into her eyes. "i understand. you--you like him yourself." "well,--whut ef i do?" she burst out. "hit's my look-out, ain't it?" "certainly. i am not blaming you." "i guess there ain't no use talkin' any more," she said flatly. "you wouldn't do whut i want ye to do anyhow, so what's the sense of askin' you. we better go back to the kitchen." "it may console you to hear that i have already told mr. lapelle that he must get out of this town before to-morrow morning," said he deliberately. "and stay out!" she leaned forward, her face brightening. "you tole him to git away to-night?" she half-whispered, eagerly. "i thought you said you wuzn't a friend o' his'n." "that is what i said." "then, whut did you warn him to git away fer?" he was thinking rapidly. "i did it on account of miss gwyn, moll," he replied, evasively. "do you think he'll go?" she asked, a fierce note of anxiety in her voice. "that remains to be seen." then he hazarded: "i think he will when he finds out that your father has been arrested." "he's been a good friend to me, mr. gwynne, mr. lapelle has," said she, a little huskily. she waited a moment and then went on earnestly and with a garrulousness that amazed him: "i don't keer whut he's done that ain't right, er whut people is goin' to say about him, he's allus been nice to me. i guess mebby you air a-wonderin' why i tole ike stain about him figgerin' on carryin' miss gwyn away. that don't look very friendly, i guess. hit wuzn't beca'se i thought i might git him fer myself some time,--no, hit wuzn't that, mr. gwynne. i ain't setch a fool as to think he could ever want to be sparkin' me. i reckon ike stain tole ye i wuz jealous. well, i wuzn't, i declare to goodness i wuzn't. hit wuz beca'se i jest couldn't 'low her to git married to him, knowin' whut i do. i wuz tryin' to make up my mind to go an' see her some time an' tell her not to marry him, but i jest couldn't seem to git the spunk to do it. she used to come to see me when i wuz sick last winter an' she wuz mighty nice to me. "first thing i know, him an' pap begin to fix up this plan to carry her off. so i started up to town to tell her. i got as fer as ike's when i figgered i better let him do it, him bein' a man, so i drapped in at his cabin an' tole him. i didn't know whut else to do. i had to stop 'em from doin' it somehow. hit wouldn't do no good fer me to beg pap to drap it, er to rare up on my hind-legs an' make threats ag'inst 'em,--ca'se they'd soon put a stop to that. course i had it all figgered out whut i wuz goin' to do when thet pack o' rascals got caught tryin' to steal her,--some of 'em shot, like as not,--and i didn't much keer whuther my pap wuz one of 'em er not. "i knowed where mr. lapelle wuz to meet 'em down the river acrosst from le grange, so i was figgerin' on findin' him there an' tellin' him whut had happened an' fer him to make his escape down the river while he had setch a good start. i wuzn't goin' to let him be ketched an' at the same time i wuzn't goin' to let anything happen to miss violy gwyn ef i could help it. i--i sort of figgered it out as a good way to help both o' my friends, mr. gwynne, an'--an' then this here thing happened. i want mr. lapelle to git away safe,--ca'se i know whut pap's goin' to do. he's goin' to blat out a lot o' things. he says he's sure mr. lapelle put mrs. gwyn up to havin' him arrested." "i think you may rest easy, moll," said he, a trifle grimly. "mr. lapelle had an engagement with me for to-morrow morning, but i'll stake my life he will not be here to keep it." "all right," she said, satisfied. "ef you say so, mr. gwynne, i'll believe it. whut do you think they'll do to pap?" "he will probably get a dose of the whipping-post, for one thing." she grinned. "gosh, i wish i could be some'eres about so's i could see it," she cried. chapter xxiii challenge and retort kenneth could hardly contain himself until the time came for him to go home for his noon-day meal. try as he would, he could not divorce his thoughts from the trouble that had come to viola. the sinister tragedy in martin hawk's cabin was as nothing compared to the calamity that had befallen the girl he loved, for moll hawk's troubles would pass like a whiff of the wind while viola's would endure to the end of time,--always a shadow hanging over her brightest day, a cloud that would not vanish. out of the silence had come a murmur more desolating than the thunderbolt with all its bombastic fury; out of the silence had come a voice that would go on forever whispering into her ear an unlovely story. a crowd still hung about the jail and small, ever-shifting groups held sober discourse in front of business places. he hurried by them and struck off up the road, his mind so intent upon what lay ahead of him that he failed to notice that jack trentman had detached himself from the group in front of the undertaker's and was following swiftly after him. he was nearly half-way home when he turned, in response to a call from behind, and beheld the gambler. "i'd like a word with you, mr. gwynne," drawled jack. "i am in somewhat of a hurry, mr.--" "i'll walk along with you, if you don't mind," said the other, coming up beside him. "i'm not in the habit of beating about the bush. when i've got anything to do, i do it without much fiddling. barry lapelle is down at my place. he has asked me to represent him in a little controversy that seems to call for physical adjudication. how will day after to-morrow at five in the morning suit you?" "perfectly," replied kenneth stiffly. "convey my compliments to mr. lapelle and say to him that i overlook the irregularity and will be glad to meet him at any time and any place." "i know it's irregular," admitted mr. trentman, with an apologetic wave of the hand, "but he was in some doubt as to who might have the honour to act for you, mr. gwynne, so he suggested that i come to you direct. if you will oblige me with the name of the friend who is to act as your second, i will make a point of apologizing for having accosted you in this manner, and also perfect the details with him." "i haven't given the matter a moment's thought," said kenneth, frowning. "day after to-morrow morning, you say?" "yes, sir." "can't you arrange it for to-morrow morning?" mr. trentman spread out his hands in a deprecatory manner. "in view of the fact that you are expected to appear in court at nine to-morrow morning to defend an unfortunate girl, mr. lapelle feels that he would be doing your client a very grave injustice if he killed her lawyer--er--a trifle prematurely, you might say. he has confided to me that he is the young woman's friend and can't bear the thought of having her chances jeopardized by--" "pardon me, mr. trentman," interrupted kenneth shortly. "both of you are uncommonly thoughtful and considerate. now that i am reminded of my pleasant little encounter with mr. lapelle this morning, i am constrained to remark that i have had all the satisfaction i desire. you may say to him that i am a gentleman and not in the habit of fighting duels with horse-thieves." mr. trentman started. his vaunted aplomb sustained a sharp spasm that left him with a slightly fallen jaw. "am i to understand, sir, that you are referring to my friend as a horse-thief?" he demanded, bridling. "i merely asked you to take that message to him," said kenneth coolly. "i might add cattle-thief, sheep-stealer, hog-thief or--" "why, good god, sir," gasped mr. trentman, "he'd shoot you down like a dog if i--" "you may also tell mr. lapelle that his bosom friend martin hawk is in jail." "well, what of it?" "does lapelle know that martin is in jail?" "certainly,--and he says he ought to be hung. that's what he thinks of hawk. a man that would sell his own--" "hawk is in jail for stock-stealing, mr. trentman." "what's that got to do with the case? what's that got to do with your calling my friend a horse-thief?" "a whole lot, sir. you will probably find out before the day is over that you are harbouring and concealing a thief down there in your shanty, and you may thank martin hawk for the information in case you prefer not to accept the word of a gentleman. if you were to come to me as a client seeking counsel, i should not hesitate to advise you,--as your lawyer,--that there is a law against harbouring criminals and that you are laying yourself open to prosecution." trentman dubiously felt of his chin. "being well versed in the law," he said, "i suppose you realize that mr. lapelle can recover heavy damages against you in case what you have said to me isn't true." "perfectly. therefore, i repeat to you that i cannot engage in an affair of honour with a thief. i knocked him down this morning, but that was in the heat of righteous anger. for fear that your report to him may lead mr. lapelle to construe my refusal to meet him day after to-morrow morning as cowardice on my part, permit me to make this request of you. please say to him that i shall arm myself with a pistol as soon as i have reached my house, and that i expect to be going about the streets of lafayette as usual." "i see," said mr. trentman, after a moment. "you mean you'll be ready for him in case he hunts you up." "exactly." "by the way, mr. gwynne, have you ever fought a duel?" "no." "would it interest you to know that mr. lapelle has engaged in several, with disastrous results to his adversaries?" "i think he has already mentioned something of the kind to me." "i'd sooner be your friend than your enemy, mr. gwynne," said the gambler earnestly. "i am a permanent citizen of this town and i have no quarrel with you. as your friend, i am obliged to inform you that barry lapelle is a dead shot and as quick as lightning with a pistol. i hope you will take this in the same spirit that it is given." "i thank you, sir," said kenneth, courteously. "by the way, do you happen to have a pistol with you at present, mr. trentman?" the other looked at him keenly for a few seconds before answering. "i have. i seldom go without one." "if you will do me the kindness to walk with me up to the woods beyond the lake and will grant me the loan of your weapon for half a minute, i think i may be able to demonstrate to you that mr. lapelle is not the only dead shot in the world. i was brought up with a pistol in my hand, so to speak. have you ever tried to shoot a ground squirrel at twenty paces? you have to be pretty quick to do that, you know." trentman shook his head. "there's a lot of difference between shooting a ground squirrel and blazing away at a man who is blazing away at you at the same time. i'll take your word for the ground squirrel business, mr. gwynne, and bid you good day." "my regrets to your principal and my apologies to you, mr. trentman," said kenneth, lifting his hat. the gambler raised his own hat. a close observer would have noticed a troubled, anxious gleam in his eye as he turned to retrace his steps in the direction of the square. it was his custom to saunter slowly when traversing the streets of the town, as one who produces his own importance and enjoys it leisurely. he never hurried. he loitered rather more gracefully when walking than when standing still. but now he strode along briskly,--in fact, with such lively decision that for once in his life he appeared actually to be going somewhere. as he rounded the corner and came in sight of the jail, he directed a fixed, consuming glare upon the barred windows; a quite noticeable scowl settled upon his ordinarily unruffled brow,--the scowl of one searching intently, even apprehensively. he was troubled. his composure was sadly disturbed. kenneth gwynne had given him something to think about,--and the more he thought about it the faster he walked. he was perspiring quite freely and he was a little short of breath when he flung open the door and entered his "den of iniquity" down by the river. he took in at a glance the three men seated at a table in a corner of the somewhat commodious "card-room." one of them was dealing "cold hands" to his companions. a fourth man, his dealer, was leaning against the window frame, gazing pensively down upon the slow-moving river. two of the men at the table were newcomers in town. they had come up on the _revere_ and they had already established themselves in his estimation as "skeletons"; that is, they had been picked pretty clean by "buzzards" in other climes before gravitating to his "boneyard." he considered himself a good judge of men, and he did not like the looks of this ill-favoured pair. he had made up his mind that he did not want them hanging around the "shanty"; men of that stripe were just the sort to give the place a bad name! one of them had recalled himself to barry lapelle the night before; said he used to work for a trader down south or somewhere. without the ceremony of a knock on the door, mr. trentman entered a room at the end of the shanty, and there he found lapelle reclining on a cot. two narrow slits in a puffed expanse of purple grading off to a greenish yellow indicated the position of barry's eyes. the once resplendent dandy was now a sorry sight. "say," began trentman, after he had closed the door, "i want to know just how things stand with you and martin hawk. no beating about the bush, barry. i want the truth and nothing else." barry raised himself on one elbow and peered at his host. "what are you driving at, jack?" he demanded, throatily. "are you mixed up with him in this stock-running business?" "well, that's a hell of a question to ask a--" "it's easy to answer. are you?" "certainly not,--and i ought to put a bullet through you for asking such an insulting question." "he's in jail, charged with stealing sheep and calves, and he's started to talk. now, look here, lapelle, i'm your friend, but if you are mixed up in this business the sooner you get out of here the better it will suit me. wait a minute! i've got more to say. i know you're planning to go down on the boat to-morrow, but i don't believe it's soon enough. i've seen gwynne. he says in plain english that he won't fight a duel with a horse-thief. he must have some reason for saying that. he has been employed as moll hawk's lawyer. she's probably been talking, too. i've been thinking pretty hard the last ten minutes or so, and i'm beginning to understand why you wanted me to arrange the duel for day after to-morrow when you knew you were leaving town on the _revere_ in the morning. you were trying to throw gwynne off the track. i thought at first it was because you were afraid to fight him, but now i see things differently. i'll be obliged to you if you'll come straight out and tell me what's in the air. i'm a square man and i like to know whether i'm dealing with square men or not." lapelle sat up suddenly on the edge of the bed. somehow, it seemed to trentman, the greenish yellow had spread lightly over the rest of his face. "you say martin's in jail for stealing?" he asked, gripping the corn-husk bedtick with tense, nervous fingers, "and not in connection with the killing of suggs?" "yep. and i sort of guess you'll be with him before you're much older, if gwynne knows what he's--" "i've got to get out of this town to-night, jack," cried the younger man, starting to his feet. "understand, i'm not saying i am mixed up in any way with hawk and his crowd, but--but i've got important business in attica early to-morrow morning. that's all you can get me to say. i'll sneak up the back road to the tavern and pack my saddle-bags this afternoon, and i'll leave money with you to settle with johnson. i may have to ask you to fetch my horse down here--" "just a minute," broke in trentman, who had been regarding him with hard, calculating eyes. "if it's as bad as all this, i guess you'd better not wait till to-night. it may be too late,--and besides i don't want the sheriff coming down here and jerking you out of my place. you don't need to tell me anything more about your relations with hawk. i'm no fool, barry. i know now that you are mixed up in this stock-stealing business that's been going on for months. it don't take a very smart brain to grasp the situation. you've probably been making a pretty good thing out of moving this stuff down the river on your boats, and--now, don't get up on your ear, my friend! no use trying to bamboozle me. you're scared stiff,--and that's enough for me. and you've got a right to be. this will put an end to your company's boats coming up here for traffic,--it will kill you deader'n a doornail so far as business is concerned. so you'd better get out at once. i never liked you very much anyhow and now i've got no use for you at all. just to save my own skin and my own reputation as a law-abiding citizen, i'll help you to get away. now, here's what i'll do. i'll send up and get your horse and have him down here inside of fifteen minutes. there's so darned much excitement up in town about this murder that nobody's going to notice you for the time being. and besides a lot of farmers from over west are coming in, scared half to death about black hawk's indians. they'll be out looking for you before long, your lordship, and it won't be for the purpose of inviting you to have a drink. they'll probably bring a rail along with 'em, so's you'll at least have the consolation of riding up to the calaboose. you'll--" "oh, for god's sake!" grated barry, furiously. "don't try to be comical, trentman. this is no time to joke,--or preach either. give me a swig of--" "nope! no whiskey, my friend," said the gambler firmly. "whiskey always puts false courage into a man, and i don't want you to be doing anything foolish. i'll have your mare fancy down here in fifteen minutes, saddled and everything, and you will hop on her and ride up the street, right past the court house, just as if you're out for an hour's canter for your health. you will not have any saddle-bags or traps. you'll ride light, my friend. that will throw 'em off the track. but what i want you to do as soon as you get out the other side of the tanyard is to turn in your saddle and wave a last farewell to the star city. you might throw a kiss at it, too, while you're about it. because you've got a long journey ahead of you and you're not coming back,--that is, unless they overtake you. there's some pretty fast horses in this town, as you may happen to remember. so i'd advise you to get a good long start,--and keep it." if lapelle heard all of this he gave no sign, for he had sidled over to the little window and was peering obliquely through the trees toward the road that led from the "shanty" toward the town. suddenly he turned upon the gambler, a savage oath on his lips. "you bet i'll come back! and when i do, i'll give this town something to talk about. i'll make tracks now. it's the only thing to do. but i'm not licked--not by a long shot, jack trentman. i'll be back inside of--" "i'll make you a present of a couple of pistols a fellow left with me for a debt a month or so ago. you may need 'em," said trentman blandly. "better get ready to start. i'll have the horse here in no time." "you're damned cold-blooded," growled barry, pettishly. "yep," agreed the other. "but i'm kind-hearted." he went out, slamming the door behind him. twenty minutes later, barry emerged from the "shanty" and mounted his sleek, restless thoroughbred. having recovered, for purposes of deception, his lordly, cock-o'-the-walk attitude toward the world, he rode off jauntily in the direction of the town, according trentman the scant courtesy of a careless wave of the hand at parting. he had counted his money, examined the borrowed pistols, and at the last moment had hurriedly dashed off a brief letter to kenneth gwynne, to be posted the following day by the avid though obliging mr. trentman. stifling his rancour and coercing his vanity at the same time, he cantered boldly past the tavern, bitterly aware of the protracted look of amazement that interrupted the conversation of some of the most influential citizens of the place as at least a score of eyes fell upon his battered visage. pride and rage got the better of him. he whirled fancy about with a savage jerk and rode back to the group. "take a good look, gentlemen," he snapped out, his eyes gleaming for all the world like two thin little slivers of red-hot iron. "the coward who hit me before i had a chance to defend myself has just denied me the satisfaction of a duel. i sent him a challenge to fight it out with pistols day after to-morrow morning. he is afraid to meet me. the challenge still stands. if you should see mr. gwynne, gentlemen, between now and friday morning, do me the favour to say to him that i will be the happiest man on earth if he can muster up sufficient courage to change his mind. good day, gentlemen." with this vainglorious though vicarious challenge to an absent enemy, he touched the gad to fancy's flank and rode away, his head erect, his back as stiff as a ramrod, leaving behind him a staring group whose astonishment did not give way to levity until he was nearing the corner of the square. he cursed softly under his breath at the sound of the first guffaw; he subdued with difficulty a wild, reckless impulse to turn in the saddle and send a shot or two at them. but this was no time for folly,--no time to lose his head. out of the corner of his eye he took in the jail and the group of citizens on the court house steps. something seemed to tell him that these men were saying, "there he goes,--stop him! he's getting away!" they were looking at him; of that he was subtly conscious, although he managed to keep his eyes set straight ahead. only the most determined effort of the will kept him from suddenly putting spur to the mare. afterwards he complimented himself on his remarkable self-control, and laughed as he likened his present alarm to that of a boy passing a graveyard at night. nevertheless, he was now filled with an acute, very real sense of anxiety and apprehension; every nerve was on edge. it was all very well for jack trentman to say that this was the safest, most sensible way to go about it, but had jack ever been through it himself? at any moment martin hawk might catch a glimpse of him through the barred window of the jail and let out a shout of warning; at any moment the sheriff himself might dash out of the court house with a warrant in his hand,--and then what? he had the chill, uneasy feeling that they would be piling out after him before he could reach the corner of the friendly thickets at the lower end of the street. a pressing weight seemed to slide off his shoulders and neck as fancy swung smartly around the bend into the narrow wagon-road that stretched its aimless way through the scrubby bottom-lands and over the ridge to the open sweep of the plains beyond. presently he urged the mare to a rhythmic lope, and all the while his ears were alert for the thud of galloping horses behind. it was not until he reached the table-land to the south that he drove the rowels into the flanks of the swift four-year-old and leaned forward in the saddle to meet the rush of the wind. full well he knew that given the start of an hour no horse in the county could catch his darling fancy! and so it was that barry lapelle rode out of the town of lafayette, never to return again. chapter xxiv in an upstairs room it was characteristic of rachel carter that she should draw the window curtains aside in viola's bedroom, allowing the pitiless light of day to fall upon her face as she seated herself to make confession. she had come to the hour when nothing was to be hidden from her daughter, least of all the cheek that was to be smitten. the girl sat on the edge of the bed, her elbow on the footboard, her cheek resting upon her hand. not once did she take her eyes from the grey, emotionless face of the woman who sat in the light. in course of time, rachel carter came to the end of her story. she had made no attempt to justify herself, had uttered no word of regret, no signal of repentance, no plea for forgiveness. the cold, unfaltering truth, without a single mitigating alloy in the shape of sentiment, had issued from her tired but unconquered soul. she went through to the end without being interrupted by the girl, whose silence was eloquent of a strength and courage unsurpassed even by this woman from whom she had, after all, inherited both. she did not flinch, she did not cringe as the twenty-year-old truth was laid bare before her. she was made of the same staunch fibre as her mother, she possessed the indomitable spirit that stiffens and remains unyielding in the face of calamity. "now you know everything," said rachel carter wearily. "i have tried to keep it from you. but the truth will out. it is god's law. i would have spared you if i could. you are of my flesh and blood, you are a part of me. there has never been an instant in all these hard, trying years when i have not loved and cherished you as the gift that no woman, honest or dishonest, can despise. you will know what that means when you have a child of your own, and you will never know it until that has come to pass. you may cast me out of your heart, viola, but you cannot tear yourself out of mine. so! i have spoken. there is no more." she turned her head to look out of the window. viola did not move. presently the older woman spoke again. "your name is minda carter. you will be twenty-two years old next september. you have no right to the name of gwynne. the boy who lives in that house over yonder is the only one who has a right to it. but his birthright is no cleaner than yours. you can look him in the face without shame to yourself, because your father was an honest man and your mother was his loyal, faithful wife,--and kenneth gwynne can say no more than that." "nor as much," burst from the girl's lips with a fervour that startled her mother. "his father was not a loyal, faithful husband, nor was he an honest man or he would have married you." she was on her feet now, her body bent slightly, forward, her smouldering eyes fixed intently upon her; mother's face. rachel carter stared incredulously. something in viola's eyes, in the ring of her voice caused her heart to leap. "i was his wife in the eyes of god," she began, but something rushed up into her throat and seemed to choke her. "and you have told kenneth all this?" cried viola, a light as of understanding flooding her eyes. "he knows? how long has he known?" "i--i can't remember. some of it for weeks, some of it only since last night." "ah!" there was a world of meaning in the cry. even as she uttered it she seemed to feel his arms about her and the strange thrill that had charged through her body from head to foot. she sat down again on the edge of the bed; a dark wave of colour surging to her cheek and brow. "i am waiting," said her mother, after a moment. her voice was steady. "it is your turn to speak, my child." viola came to her side. "mother," she began, a deep, full note in her voice, "i want you to let me sit in your lap, with your arms around me. like when i was a little girl." rachel lifted her eyes; and as the girl looked down into them the hardness of years melted away and they grew wondrous soft and gentle. "is this your verdict?" she asked solemnly. "yes," was the simple response. "you do not cast me out of your heart? remember, in the sight of man, i am an evil woman." "you are my mother. you did not desert me. you would not leave me behind. you have loved me since the day i was born. you will never be an evil woman in my eyes. hold me in your lap, mother dear. i shall always feel safe then." rachel's lips and chin quivered.... a long time afterward the girl gently disengaged herself from the strong, tense embrace and rose to her feet. "you say that kenneth hates you," she said, "and you say that you do not blame him. is it right and fair that he should hate you any more than i should hate his father?" "yes," replied rachel carter, "it is right and fair. i was his mother's best friend. his father did not betray his best friend as i did, for my husband was dead. there is a difference, my child." viola shook her head stubbornly. "i don't see why the woman must always be crucified and the man allowed to go his way--" "it is no use, viola," interrupted rachel, rising. her face had hardened again. "we cannot change the ways of the world." she crossed the room, but stopped with her hand on the door-latch. turning to her daughter, she said: "whatever kenneth may think of me, he has the greatest respect and admiration for you. he bears no grudge against minda carter. on the contrary, he has shown that he would lay down his life for you. you must bear no grudge against him. you and he are children who have walked in darkness for twenty years, but now you have come to a place where there is light. see to it, viola, that you are as fair to him as you would have him be to you. you stand on common ground with the light of understanding all about you. do not turn your backs upon each other. face one another. it is the only way." viola's eyes flashed. she lifted her chin. "i am not ashamed to look kenneth gwynne in the face," said she, a certain crispness in her voice. then, with a quick change to tenderness, "you are so tired, mother. won't you lie down and sleep awhile?" "after i have eaten something. come downstairs. i want to hear what happened here this morning. kenneth told me very little and you have done nothing but ask questions of me." "did he tell you that he struck barry lapelle?" "no." "or how near i came to shooting him?" "merciful heaven!" "well, i guess barry won't rest till he has told the whole town what we are,--and then we'll have to face something cruel, mother. but we will face it together." she put her arm about her mother's shoulders and they went down the narrow staircase together. "it will not cost me a single friend, viola," remarked rachel grimly. "i have none to lose. but with you it will be different." "we don't have to stay in the old town," said viola bravely. "the world is large. we can move on. just as we used to before we came here to live. always moving on, we were." rachel shook her head. they were at the bottom of the stairs. "i will not move on. this is where i intend to live and die. the man i lived for is up yonder in the graveyard. i will not go away and leave him now,--not after all these years. but you, my child, you must move on. you have something else to live for. i have nothing. but i can hold my head up, even here. you will not find it so easy. you will--" "it will be as easy for me as it will for kenneth gwynne," broke in the girl. "wait and see which one of us runs away first. it won't be me." "he will not go away and leave you," said rachel carter. viola gave her a quick, startled look. they were in the kitchen, however, before she spoke. then it was to say: "now i understand why i have never been able to think of him as my brother." that, and nothing more; there was an odd, almost frightened expression in her eyes. she got breakfast for her mother, hattie having been sent down into the town by her mistress immediately upon her return home, ostensibly to make a few purchases but actually for the purpose of getting rid of her. viola, in relating the story of the morning's events, was careful to avoid using the harshest of barry's terms, but earnestly embellished the account of kenny's interference with some rather formidable expressions of her own, putting them glibly into the mouth of her champion. once her mother interrupted her to inquire: "did kenneth actually use those words, viola? 'pusillanimous varlet,'--and 'mendacious scalawag'? it does not sound like kenneth." viola had the grace to blush guiltily. "no, he didn't. he swore harder than anybody i've ever--" "that's better," said rachel, somewhat sternly. later on they sat on the little front porch, where the older woman, with scant recourse to the graphic, narrated the story of moll hawk. pain and horror dwelt in viola's wide, lovely eyes. "oh, poor, poor moll," she murmured at the end of the wretched tale. "she has never known a mother's love, or a mother's care. she has never had a chance." then rachel carter said a strange thing. "when all this is over and she is free, i intend to offer her a home here with me." the girl stared, open-mouthed. "with you? here with us?" "you will not always be here with me," said her mother. "how can you say such a thing?" with honest indignation. then quickly: "i know i planned to run off and leave you a little while ago, but that was before i came to know how much you need me." rachel experienced one of her rare smiles. "and before you came to know kenneth gwynne," she said. "no, my dear, the time is not far off when you will not need a mother. moll hawk needs one now. i shall try to be a mother to that hapless girl." viola looked at her, the little line of perplexity deepening between her eyes. "somehow it seems to me that i am just beginning to know my own mother," she said. a bluejay, sweeping gracefully out over the tree-tops, came to rest upon a lofty bough in the grove across the road. they sat for a long time without speaking, these two women, watching him preen and prink, a bit of lively blue against the newborn green. then he flew away. he "moved on,"--a passing symbol. how simple, how easy it was for this bright, gay vagabond to return to the silence from which he had come. chapter xxv minda carter viola was alone on the porch when kenneth came into view at the bend in the road. he had chuckled more than once after parting from the gambler; a mental vision of the inwardly agitated though outwardly bland mr. trentman making tracks as fast as his legs would carry him to warn lapelle of his peril afforded him no small amount of satisfaction. if he knew his man,--and he thought he did,--barry would lose no time in shaking the dust of lafayette from his feet. the thought of that had sent his spirits up. he went even farther in his reflections and found himself hoping that barry's flight might be so precipitous that he would not have the opportunity to disclose his newfound information concerning rachel carter. he was nearing his own gate before he saw viola, seated on the porch. involuntarily he slackened his pace. a sort of panic seized him. was she waiting there to question him? he experienced a sudden overwhelming dismay. what was he to say to her? how was he to face the unhappy, stricken,--but even as he contemplated a cowardly retreat, she arose and came swiftly down the path. he groaned inwardly. there was no escape. now, as he hesitated uncertainly at his own gate, his heart in his boots, she serenely beckoned to him. "i want to see you, kenny," she called out. this was no stricken, unhappy creature who approached him. her figure was proudly erect; she walked briskly; there was no trace of shame or humiliation in her face; if anything, she was far more at ease than he. "i want to thank you," she said calmly, "for what you did this morning. not only for what you did to him but for keeping me from shooting him." she held out her hand, but lowered it instantly when she saw that his own was rather significantly hidden inside the breast of his coat. a look of pain fluttered across her eyes. "where is your mother?" he asked lamely. she seemed to read his thoughts. "mother and i have talked it all over, kenneth. she has told me everything." "oh, you poor darling!" he cried. "don't waste any sympathy on me," she retorted, coldly. "i don't want it. not from robert gwynne's son at any rate." he was now looking at her steadily. "i see. you don't care for the breed, is that it?" "kenny," she began, a solemn note in her voice, "there is no reason why you and i should hurt each other. if i hurt you just now i am sorry. but i meant what i said. i do not want the pity of robert gwynne's son any more than you want to be pitied by the daughter of rachel carter. we stand on even terms. i just want you to know that my heart is as stout as yours and that my pride is as strong." he bowed his head. "all my life i have thought of my father as a samson who was betrayed by a delilah. i have never allowed myself to think of him as anything but great and strong and good. i grew to man's estate still believing him to be the victim of an evil woman. i am not in the ordinary sense a fool and yet i have been utterly without the power to reason. my eyes have been opened, viola. i am seeing with a new vision. i have more to overlook, more to forgive in my father than you have in your mother. i speak plainly, because i hope this is to be the last time we ever touch upon the subject. you, at least, have grown up to know the enduring love of a mother. she did not leave you behind. she was not altogether heartless. that is all i can say, all i shall ever say, even to you, about my father." he spoke with such deep feeling and yet so simply that her heart was touched. a wistful look came into her eyes. "i am still bewildered by it all, kenny," she said. "in the wink of an eye, everything is altered. i am not viola gwyn. i am minda carter. i am not your half-sister. you seem suddenly to have gone very far away from me. it hurts me to feel that we can never be the same toward each other that we were even this morning. i had come to care for you as a brother. now you are a stranger. i--i loved being your sister and--and treating you as if you were my brother. now all that is over." she sighed deeply. "yes," he said gently, "all that is over for you, viola. but i have known for many weeks that you are not my sister." "i bear no grudge against you," she said, meeting his gaze steadily. "my heart is bitter toward the man i have always looked upon as my father. but it does not contain one drop of bitterness toward you. what matters if i have walked in darkness and you in the light? we were treading the same path all the time. now we meet and know each other for what we really are. the path is not wide enough for us to walk beside each other without our garments touching. are we to turn back and walk the other way so that our unclean garments may not touch?" "for heaven's sake, viola," he cried in pain, "what can have put such a thought into your head? have i ever said or done anything to cause you to think i--" "you must not forget that you can walk by yourself, kenny. your father is dead. the world is kind enough to let the dead rest in peace. but it gives no quarter to the living. my mother walks with me, kenneth gwynne. the world, when it knows, will throw stones at her. that means it will have to throw stones at me. she did not abandon me. i shall not abandon her. she sinned,"--here her lip trembled,--"and she has been left to pay the penalty alone. it may sound strange to you, but my mother was also deserted by your father. god let him die, but i can't help feeling that it wasn't fair, it wasn't right for him to die and leave her to face this all alone." "and you want to know where i stand in the matter?" "it makes no difference, kenny. i only want you to understand. i don't want to lose you as a friend,--i would like to have you stand up and take your share of the--" "and that is just what i intend to do," he broke in. "we occupy strange positions, viola. we are,--shall i say birds of a feather? this had to come. now that it has come and you know all that i know, are we to turn against each other because of what happened when we were babies? we have done no wrong. i love you, viola,--i began loving you before i found out you were not my half-sister. i will love you all my life. now you know where i stand." she looked straight into his eyes for a long time; in her own there was something that seemed to search his soul, something of wonder, something groping and intense as if her own soul was asking a grave, perplexing question. a faint, slow surge of colour stole into her face. "i must go in the house now," she said, a queer little flutter in her voice. "after dinner i am going down with mother to see moll hawk. if--if you mean all that you have just said, kenny, why did you refuse to shake hands with me?" he withdrew his bruised right hand from its hiding-place. "it is an ugly thing to look at but i am proud of it," he said. "i would give it for you a thousand times over." "oh, i'm--i'm sorry i misjudged you--" she cried out. then both of her hands closed on the unsightly member and pressed it gently, tenderly. there was that in the touch of her firm, strong fingers that sent an ecstatic shock racing into every fibre in his body. "i will never question that hand again, kenny," she said, and then, releasing it, she turned and walked rapidly away. he stood watching her until she ran nimbly up the porch steps and disappeared inside the house. whereupon he lifted the swollen but now blessed knuckles to his lips and sighed profoundly. "something tells me she still loves barry, in spite of everything," he muttered, suddenly immersed in gloom. "women stick through thick and thin. if they once love a man they never--" "dinner's ready, marse kenneth," announced zachariah from the door-step. chapter xxvi the flight of martin hawk now, martin hawk was not a patient man. he waited till mid-afternoon for some word from barry lapelle in response to his message, and, receiving none,--(for the very good reason that it was never delivered),--fell to blaspheming mightily, and before he was through with it revealed enough to bring about an ultimate though fruitless search for the departed "go-between." he was, however, careful to omit any mention of the _paul revere's_ captain, remembering just in time that hardy riverman's promise to blow his brains out if he even so much as breathed his name in connection with certain nefarious transactions,--and something told him that cephas redberry would put a short, sharp stop to any breathing at all on his part the instant he laid eyes on him. he was not afraid of barry lapelle but he was in deadly terror of redberry. the more he thought of ceph being landed in the same jail with him, the longer the goose feathers grew on his shrinking spine. so he left the captain out of it altogether,--indeed, he gave him a perfectly clean bill of health. along about dusk that evening a crowd began to collect in the neighbourhood of the jail. martin, peering from behind a barred window, was not long in grasping the significance of this ominous gathering. he was the only inmate of the "calaboose"; therefore, he was in no doubt as to the identity of the person to whom so many different terms of opprobrium were being applied by certain loud-voiced citizens in the crowd. he also gathered from remarks coming up to the window that the person referred to stood in grave danger of being "skinned alive," "swung to a limb," "horsewhipped till he can't stand," "rode on a rail," "ham-strung," "drownded," "hung up by the thumbs," "dogged out o' town," "peppered with bird-shot," "filled with buckshot," and numerous other unpleasant alternatives, no one of which was conducive to the peace of mind. as the evening wore on, martin became more and more convinced that his life wasn't worth a pinch of salt, and so began to pray loudly and lustily. the crowd had increased to alarming proportions. in the light of torches and bonfires he recognized men from far-off grand prairie, up to the northwest of town. wagons rumbled past the jail and court house and were lost in the darkness of the streets beyond. he was astonished to see that most of these vehicles contained women and children, and many of them were loaded high with household goods. this, thought martin, was the apex of attention. people were coming from the four corners of the world to witness his execution! evidently it was to be an affair that every householder thought his women-folk and the children ought to see. some men might have been gratified by all this interest, but not martin. he began to increase the fervor of his prayers by inserting, here and there, hair-raising oaths,--not bravely or with the courage of the defiant, but because all other words failed him in his extremity. he had no means of knowing, of course, that he was dividing the honours, so to speak, with another and far more imposing rascal,--the terrible black hawk. how was he to know, locked up in jail, that all evening long panic-stricken people from the distant and thinly-settled prairies were piling into town because of the report that bands of black hawk's warriors had been seen by reputable settlers along the upper edge of the prairie? like reports had been filtering into town for several days, but not much credence had been given them. indian scares were not uncommon, and for the most part people had scoffed at them. but now there was an actual threat from the powerful black hawk, whose headquarters were up along the rock river, in the northern part of illinois. the chieftain had at last thrown down the gauntlet; he had refused to recognize the transfer of lands and rights as laid down by the government, and had openly announced his intention to fight. already troops from the forts were on the move, and there was talk of the state militia being called out. some of the leading spirits in lafayette had been moved to organize a local company. naturally, martin hawk knew nothing of all this. he knew, through simon braley, that indian troubles were bound to come, but how was he to know that red-skins in warpaint had been seen on the grand prairie, or that he was not the only subject of conversation? all he knew was that if the lord didn't take a hand pretty soon he would be--well, it was useless to fix his mind on any particular form of destruction, so many and so varied were the kinds being disputatiously considered by the people in the street. suddenly the sound of fife and drum smote upon his ear, coming from somewhere up the street. he huddled down in a corner and began to moan. he knew the meaning of that signal-call. they were organizing for a rush upon the jail,--an irresistible, overwhelming charge that would sweep all opposition before it. then he heard the shuffling of many feet, loud exclamations and an occasional cheer. finally he screwed up the courage for another cautious peep through the bars. the crowd was moving off up the street. a small group remained undecided near a bonfire in the court house yard. one of these men held a long rope in his hand, and seemed argumentative. martin listened with all ears, trying to catch what was being said. what an infernal noise that fife and drum were making! at last the little knot of men moved away from the fire, coming toward the window. martin, being a wary rascal, promptly ducked his head, but kept his ears open. "it's a trick, that's what it is," he heard some one growl. "a trick to get us away from the jail. they know we'll get him, sure as god made little apples, so they've fixed this up to--" "well, what if it is a trick?" broke in another. "it ain't going to work. the crowd'll be back here again inside of ten minutes an' all the sheriffs an' constables in the state can't stop us from taking him out an' stringin' him up." "we might as well go and see what's up," said another. "i guess he's where he'll keep. he'll be here when we come back, bill. he can't get out till we open the door, so what's the use cussin' about ten or fifteen minutes' delay? come on! i don't take any stock in this talk about indians, but, great snakes, if they want to get up a company to go out and--" the rest of the remark was lost to martin when the group turned the corner of the jail. "ten or fifteen minutes," he groaned. in ten or fifteen minutes the whole town would be out there, breaking down the door--the work of a few seconds. he remembered hearing people laugh and joke about the new jail. no less a person than cap' redberry had said, after a casual inspection of the calaboose, that if that was what they called a jail he'd hate to be inside of it if a woodpecker started to peckin' at it, 'cause if such a thing happened the whole blamed she-bang would cave in and like as not hurt him considerable. and cap' was not the only one who spoke derisively of the new jail. ed bloker declared he had quit walkin' past it on his way home from the grocery because he was in mortal terror of staggerin' up against it and knockin' it all to smash. of course, martin knew that it was not as bad as all that, but, even so, it could not hold out for more than a minute if some one began pounding at the door with a sledge-hammer. there were two rooms, or compartments, to the jail; a little ante-room and the twelve-by-sixteen foot "cage," of which he was the sole occupant. a single cornhusk mattress had been put in for him that afternoon. he never seemed quite able to fix its position in his mind, a circumstance that caused him to stumble over it time and again as he tramped restlessly about the place in the darkness. suddenly he stopped as if shot. a tremendous idea struck him, and for a moment his head spun dizzily. if it was so blamed easy to break into the jail, why should it be so all-fired difficult to break out of it? why, he hadn't even tried the door, or the bars in the window; now that he thought of it, the grate in the south window had appeared to be a little shaky. inspired by a wild, alluring hope, he sprang over to the window and gripped the thin iron bars; with all his might and main he jerked, bracing his feet against the wall. no use! it would come just so far and no farther. he tried the other window, with even less encouraging results. in eight or ten minutes now, the crowd would be,--he leaped to the barred door. it, too, resisted his crazy strength. the huge padlock on the other side clattered tauntingly against the grating, but that was all. all the while he was grunting and whining: "if i ever get out of this, it'll take a streak o' greased lightnin' to ketch me. oh, lordy! that drum's gettin' closer! they're comin'! if i ever get out of this, nobody'll ever see me closer'n a hundred mile o' this here town,--never as long as i live. gimme a half hour's start an'--jehosophat!" he had shoved a trembling hand between the bars and was fumbling with the padlock. his ejaculation was due to a most incredible discovery. some one had forgotten to take the key out of the padlock! he laughed shrilly, witlessly. twenty seconds later he was out in the little anteroom or vestibule, panting and still chortling. the outer door opened readily to the lifting of the latch. he peeped out cautiously, warily. the square was deserted save for a few men hurrying along the street toward the drill ground up beyond horton's tanyard,--where the drum and fife were playing and men were shouting loudly. thereupon martin hawk did the incomprehensible thing. he squared his brawny shoulders, set his hat rakishly over one ear, and sauntered out of the jail, calmly stopping to latch the door--and even to rattle it to make sure that it had caught! he was far too cunning to dart around the corner and bolt for safety. that would have been the worst kind of folly. instead, he strode briskly off in the direction from whence came the strains of martial music! so much for the benefit of watchful, suspicious eyes. but as he turned the corner of baker's store his whole demeanour changed. he was off like a frightened rabbit, and as soft-footedly. he ran as the huntsman or the indian runs,--almost soundlessly, like the wind breezing over dead leaves or through the tops of reeds. three men stepped out from behind a wagon on the far side of the square. the flare of a bonfire reached dimly to the corner around which the fugitive had scurried. one of the men gave vent to a subdued snort and then spat hurriedly and copiously. "we'll never see hide nor hair of him again," quoth he. "he won't stop running till daybreak. i guess you'd better wait about ten minutes, jake, and then fire a few shots. that'll put new life into him. course, a lot of blamed fools will cuss the daylights out of me for letting him get away right under my nose, and all that, but let 'em talk. he's gone for good, you can bet on that,--and the county's lucky to get rid of him so cheaply." "i guess you're right, sheriff," agreed one of his companions. "from all i hear, mrs. gwyn would have a hard time provin' it was him as stole her--" "supposin' she did prove it, what then?" broke in the high sheriff of the bailiwick. "the county would have to feed him for a couple of months or so and then turn him loose again to go right back to stealing, same as before. the best way to punish a thief, accordin' to my notion, is to keep him everlastingly on the jump, scared to death to show his face anywheres and always hatin' to go to sleep for fear he'll wake up and find somebody pointin' a pistol at him and sayin,' 'well, i got you at last, dang ye.' besides, lockin' mart up isn't going to bring back mrs. gwyn's sheep, is it?" "when that gal of his tells her story in court to-morrow," advanced the third member of the group, "there'll be plenty of people in this town that won't be put off a second time by any fife and drum shinanigan." "anyhow," said the sheriff, "i didn't want to have the blamed skunk on my mind while we're organizin' the company. it's bad enough havin' to go out and fight indians without worryin' all the time i'm away about whether anybody back here has had sense enough to keep martin from starvin' to death. i guess we'd better mosey along up to the drill ground, boys. martin's got into the bushes by this time, and if i'm any kind of a guesser he ain't dawdlin' along smellin' every spring flower he comes across." "don't you think you'd better go over an' take a look around the jail first?" "what for? there ain't anybody in it." "no, but like as not the dog-gasted whelp run off with that padlock, an' we'd ought to know it before he gets too big a start. padlocks cost money," explained the other, with a dry chuckle and a dig in the sheriff's ribs. "so do prisoners," was the rejoinder of this remarkable sheriff. and thus it came to pass that between the sheriff and kenneth gwynne and moll hawk, the county got rid of three iniquitous individuals. one rode forth in broad daylight on a matchless thoroughbred; another stole off like a weasel in the night, and the third took passage on the ship that never returns. chapter xxvii the trial of moll hawk the trial of moll hawk was a brief one. "judge" billings, as foreman of the jury, asked permission of the court to make a few remarks before the taking of testimony began. "your honour, this here jury got together last night and sort of talked things over while mr. benbridge and other patriotic citizens of lafayette were engaged in organizing a number of noble and brave-hearted gentlemen into a company of soldiers to give battle to the bloodthirsty red man who is about to swoop down upon us, with tommyhawk and knife and rifle, to ravage our lands and pillage our women--er--i mean pillage our lands and--er--so forth. as i was saying, your honour, we talked it over and seeing as how we have all enlisted in mr. benbridge's troop and he sort of thought we'd better begin drilling as soon as possible, and also seeing as how this here trial is attractin' a good deal of attention at a time when we ought to be thinkin' of the safety of our wives and children,--if we have any,--we came to the conclusion to address you, sir, with all respect, and suggest that you instruct the counsel on both sides to be as lenient as possible with the jury. "this here innocent girl's father broke out of jail and got away. as far as this here jury knows he ain't likely ever to come back, so, for the time being at least, there don't seem to be anybody we can hang for the crime with which the prisoner at the bar is charged. this jury was picked with a great deal of care by the sheriff and is, i am reliably informed, entirely satisfactory to both sides of the case. "in view of the fact that black hawk's warriors are reported to have been seen within twenty miles of our beautiful little city, and also in view of the additional fact that mrs. rachel gwyn, one of our foremost citizens and taxpayers, has recently informed me,--and your honour also, i believe, in my presence,--that she intends to give this poor girl a home as soon as she is lawfully discharged by the jury as not guilty, we, the jury, implore your honour to keep an eye on the clock. as we understand the case, there were only two witnesses to the killing of the villain against whom this young woman fought so desperately in self-defence. one of 'em is here in this courtroom. the other is dead and buried. it is now ten minutes past nine. we, the jury, would like for you to inform the counsel on both sides that at precisely ten o'clock we are going to render a verdict, because at a quarter-past ten the majority of us have to attend a company drill. the lawyer for the prisoner enlisted last night as a private in our company, and so did the prosecuting attorney." "this is a most unusual and unprecedented action on the part of a jury," said the court gravely. "however, in view of the extraordinary circumstances, i feel that we should be as expeditious as possible in disposing of the case on trial. gentlemen, you have heard the remarks of the foreman of the jury. have either of you any reason for objecting to the suggestion he has made? very well, then; we will proceed with the trial of mary hawk, charged with murder in the first degree. call your first witness, mr. prosecutor." the little courtroom was jammed to its capacity. hundreds, unable to gain admission, crowded about the entrance and filled the square. the town was in the throes of a vast excitement, what with the trial, the indian uprising in the north, the escape of martin hawk and the flight of barry lapelle, hitherto regarded as a rake but not even suspected of actual dishonesty. the paul revere, with captain redberry in charge, had got away at daybreak, loaded to the rails with foot-loose individuals who suddenly had decided to try their fortunes elsewhere rather than remain in a district likely to be overrun by savages. moll hawk sat in front of the judge's table and at her side was kenneth gwynne. mrs. gwyn and viola occupied seats on a bench near one of the windows, facing the jury. the prisoner was frightened. she was stiff and uncomfortable in the new dress the sheriff's wife had selected for her. her black hair was neatly brushed and coiled in two thick lobs which hung down over her ears. her deep-set eyes darted restlessly, even warily about her as she sat there in the midst of this throng of strange, stern-faced men. now and then they went appealingly to mrs. gwyn or viola or to the sheriff's wife, and always they seemed to be asking: "what are they going to do to me?" the prosecuting attorney, a young man of slender experience but chivalrous instincts, solemnly announced that he had but two witnesses to examine and then he was through. he called the undertaker to the stand. "in as few words as possible, tell the jury who it was that you buried yesterday afternoon." "jasper suggs." "was he dead?" "he was." "that's all, your honour." "any questions, mr. gwynne?" inquired the judge. "none, your honour." "call your next witness, mr. prosecutor." "mr. sheriff, will you take the stand for a moment? did you see the defendant along about four o'clock yesterday morning?" "i did." "state where." "at her father's cabin." "state what had happened there prior to your arrival, if you know." "this defendant had had a little difficulty with the corpse, and he was dead on the floor when we got there." "from a knife wound?" "yes, sir." "who inflicted that wound, if you know?" "miss mary hawk." "you are sure about that, mr. sheriff?" "pos-i-tively." "how can you be sure of that, sir, if you did not witness the deed with your own eyes?" the court rapped on the table. "this is your own witness, mr. prosecutor. are you trying to cross-examine him, or to discredit his testimony?" "i beg your honour's pardon." kenneth arose. "we will admit that jasper suggs came to his death at the hands of the defendant." "in that case," said his gentlemanly adversary, "the state rests." "judge" billings was heard audibly to remark: "give 'em an inch and they take a mile." "order in the court! call your first witness, mr. gwynne." "take this chair, if you please, miss hawk. hold up your right hand and be sworn. now, be good enough to answer the questions i put to you, clearly and distinctly, so that the jury may hear." after a few preliminary questions he said: "now tell the court and the jury exactly what happened, beginning with the return of your father and jasper suggs from a trip to town. don't be afraid, miss--er--moll. tell the jury, in your own words, just what took place between the time you first heard suggs and your father talking in the cabin and the arrival of the sheriff and his men." it lacked just three minutes of ten o'clock when she finished her story. it had been delivered haltingly and with visible signs of embarrassment at times, but it was a straightforward, honest recital of facts. "any questions, mr. prosecutor?" "none, your honour. the state does not desire to present argument. it is content to submit its case to the jury without argument, asking only that a verdict be rendered fairly and squarely upon the evidence as introduced. all we ask is justice." "any argument, mr. gwynne?" "none, your honour. the defence is satisfied to leave its case entirely in the hands of the jury." "gentlemen of the jury," said the court, glancing at the clock, "the court will omit its instructions to you, merely advising you that if you find the prisoner guilty as charged your verdict must be murder in the first degree, the penalty for which is death." "judge" billings leaned over and picked up his hat from the floor. then he arose and announced: "we, the jury, find the defendant not guilty." "prisoner discharged," said the court, arising. "the court desires to thank the jurors for the close attention you have paid to the evidence in this case and for the prompt and just verdict you have returned. court stands adjourned." later on moll hawk walked up the hill with mrs. gwyn and viola. very few words had passed between them since they left the curious but friendly crowd in the public square. finally moll's dubious thoughts found expression in words, breaking in upon the detached reflections of her two companions. "i don't see why they let me off like that, mis' gwyn. i killed him, didn't i?" "yes, moll,--but the law does not convict a person who kills in self-defence. didn't you understand that?" "but supposin' i wuz starvin' to death an' i stole a ham like bud gridley did last fall when his pa an' ma wuz sick, wouldn't that be self-defence? they put him in jail fer two months, jest fer stealin' a ham when he hadn't had nothin' to eat fer three days,--bein' crippled an' couldn't work. wuz that fair?" "don't forget, moll," said rachel ironically, "that henry butts valued his ham at seventy-five cents." "anyhow, hit don't seem right an' fair," said moll. "i didn't have to kill jasper to save my life. i could ha' saved it without killin' him." "you did perfectly right in killing him, moll," broke in viola warmly. "i would have done the same thing if i had been in your place." moll thought over this for a few seconds. "well, maybe you might have had to do it, miss violy, if them fellers had got away with you as they wuz plannin' to do," she said. silence fell between them again, broken after a while by moll. "they'll never ketch pap," she said. "i guess i'll never lay eyes on him ag'in. i wuz jest wonderin' what's goin' to become of his dogs. do you suppose anybody'll take the trouble to feed 'em?" toby moxler, jack trentman's dealer, accosted kenneth gwynne at the conclusion of the first drill. "jack found this here letter down at the shanty this morning, mr. gwynne. it's addressed to you, so he asked me to hand it to you when i saw you." kenneth knew at once who the letter was from. he stuck it into his coat pocket, unopened. "tell jack that i am very much obliged to him," he said, and walked away. when he was safely out of hearing distance, toby turned to the man at his side and remarked: "if what barry lapelle told me and jack trentman yesterday morning is true, there'll be the doggonedest scandal this town ever heard of." "what did he tell you?" inquired his neighbour eagerly. "it's against my principles to talk about women," snapped toby, glaring at the man as if deeply insulted. seeing the disappointment in the other's face, he softened a little: "'specially about widders," he went so far as to explain. "you keep your shirt on, elmer, and wait. and when it _does_ come out, you'll be the most surprised man in town." kenneth did not open barry's letter until he reached his office. his face darkened as he read but cleared almost instantly. he even smiled disdainfully as he tore the sheet into small pieces and stuffed them into his pocket against the time when he could consign them to the fire in his kitchen stove. "kenneth gwynne, esquire. "sir: upon receipt of your discurtious and cowardly reply to my challenge i realized the futility of expecting on your part an honourable and gentlemanly settlement of our difficulties. my natural inclination was to seek you out and force you to fight but advice of friends prevailed. i have decided to make it my business to verify the story which has come to my ears regarding the gwynne and carter families. in pursuit of this intention i am starting immediately for your old home town in kentucky where i am convinced there still remain a number of people who will be able to give me all the facts. if i was misled into making statements that were untrue in my last meeting with your sister i shall most humbly apologize to her. if on the contrary i find that what i said to her was true i will make it my business to bring all the facts to the notice of the people of lafayette and let them decide what to do in the matter. in any case i shall return in about a month or six weeks at which time i shall renew my challenge to you with the sincere hope that you may accept it and that i may have the belated pleasure of putting a bullet through your cowardly heart. i must however in the meantime refuse to sign myself "yours respectfully "barry lapelle." chapter xxviii the trysting place of thoughts the turmoil and excitement over the indian outbreak increased during the day. a constant stream of refugees, mostly old men, women and children, poured into lafayette from regions west of the wabash. by nightfall fully three hundred of them were being cared for by the people of the town, and more were coming. shortly after noon a mounted scout rode in from warren county with the word that the militia of his county was preparing to start off at once to meet the advancing hordes; he brought in the report that farther north the frontier was being abandoned by the settlers and that massacres already had occurred. there was also a well-supported rumour that a portion of the illinois militia, some two hundred and fifty men in all, had been routed on hickory creek by black hawk's invincible warriors, with appalling losses to the whites. he bore a stirring message from his commanding officer, urging the men of tippecanoe to rouse themselves and join warren county troops in an immediate movement to repel or at least to check the sacs and miamis and pottawattomies who were swarming over the prairies like locusts. the appearance of this messenger, worn and spent after his long ride, created a profound sensation. here at last was official verification of the stories brought in by the panic-stricken refugees; here was something that caused the whole town suddenly to awake to the fact that a real menace existed, and that it was not, after all, another of those rattle-brained "scares" which were constantly cropping up. for months there had been talk of old black hawk and his sacs going on the warpath over the occupation of their lands in northern illinois by the swift-advancing, ruthless whites. the old sac, or sauk, chieftain had long threatened to resist by force of arms this violation of the treaty. he had been so long, however, in even making a start to carry out his threat that the more enlightened pioneers had ceased to take any stock in his spoutings. the free press, lafayette's only newspaper, had from time to time printed news seeping out of the northwest by means of carrier or voyageur; their tales bore out the reports furnished by federal and state authorities on the more or less unsettled conditions. there was, for example, the extremely disquieting story that black hawk, on his return from a hunting trip west of the mississippi, had travelled far eastward across northern indiana to seek the advice of the british commander in canada. not only was the story of this pilgrimage true, but the fact was afterward definitely established that the british official advised the chief to make war on the white settlers,--this being late in , nearly twenty years after the close of the war of . many of black hawk's warriors had served under tecumseh in the last war with england, and they still were rabid british sympathizers. amidst the greatest enthusiasm and excitement, the men of lafayette organized the "guards," a company some three hundred strong. after several days of intensive and, for a time, ludicrous "drilling," they were ready and eager to ride out into the terrorized northwest. kenneth gwynne was a private in "the guards." during the thrilling days of preparation for the expedition, he saw little of the women next door. doubtless for reasons of their own, viola and her mother maintained a strange and persistent aloofness. it was not until the evening before the departure of the "guards" that he took matters into his own hands and walked over to rachel's house. the few glimpses he had had of viola during these busy days and nights served not only to increase his ardent craving for her but caused him the most acute misery as well. utter despond had fallen upon him. it was significant of her new attitude toward life that she had cast aside the sombre habiliments of mourning. she was now appearing in bright, though not gay, colours,--unmistakable evidence of her decision to abandon all pretence of grief for the man she had looked upon for so many years as her father. there was a strange, new vivacity in her manner, too,--something that hurt rather than cheered him. he heard her singing about the house,--gay, larksome little snatches,--and she whistled merrily as she worked in the garden. somehow her very light-heartedness added to his despair. what right had she to be happy and gay and cheerful whilst he was so miserable? had he not told her in so many words that he loved her? did that mean nothing to her? why should she sing and whistle in her own domain when she must have known that he was suffering in his, not twenty rods away? he was conscious at times of a sense of injury, and as the time drew near for his departure without so much as a sign of regret or even interest on her part, this feeling deepened into resentment. he was very stiff and formal as he approached the porch on which viola and her mother were seated, enjoying the cool evening breeze that had sprung up at the end of the hot and sultry day. a strange woman and two small children, refugees from the grand prairie, had been given shelter by mrs. gwyn, but they had already gone to bed. "we are off at daybreak," he said, standing before them, his hat in his hand. "i thought i would come over to say good-bye." his hungry gaze swept over the figure of the girl, shadowy and indistinct in the semi-darkness. to his amazement, he saw that she was attired in the frock she had worn on that unforgettable night at striker's. she leaned forward and held out her hand to him. as he took it he looked up into her dusky face and caught his breath. good heaven! she was actually smiling! smiling when he was going away perhaps never to return alive! she did not speak. it was rachel carter who said, quietly: "thank you for coming over, kenneth. we would not have allowed you to go, however, without saying good-bye and wishing you well on this hazardous undertaking. may god protect you and all the brave men who go out with you." he had not released viola's hand. suddenly her grip tightened; her other hand was raised quickly to her face, and he was dumbfounded to see that she was dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. his heart swelled. she had been smiling bravely all the while her eyes were filled with tears. and now he knew why she was silent. he lifted her hand to his lips. "i want you to know, viola dear, before i go away," he said huskily, "that i can and will give you back the name of gwynne, and with my name i give more love than ever any man had for woman before in all this world. i lay my heart at your feet. it is yours whether you choose to pick it up or not." she slowly withdrew her hand. neither of them heard the long, deep sigh in the darkness beside them. "i don't know what to say to you, kenny," she murmured, almost inaudibly. "there is nothing for you to say, viola, unless you love me. i am sorry if i have distressed you. i only wanted you to know before i go away that i love you." "i--i am glad you love me, kenny. it makes me very happy. but it is all so strange, so unreal. i can't seem to convince myself that it is right for you to love me or for me to love you. some day, perhaps, it will all straighten itself out in my mind and then i will know whether it is love,--the kind of love you want,--or just a dear, sweet affection that i feel for you." "i understand," he said gravely. "it is too soon for you to know. a brother turned into a lover, as if by magic, and you are bewildered. i can only pray that the time will come when your heart tells you that you love me as i want you to, and as i love you." they spoke thus freely before the girl's mother, for those were the days when a man's courting was not done surreptitiously. it is doubtful, however, if they remembered her presence. "there have been times--" she began, a trace of eagerness in her voice, "when something seemed to tell me that--that i ought to keep away from you. i used to have the queerest sensations running all over--" she did not complete the sentence; instead, as if in a sudden panic over the nearness of unmaidenly revelations, she somewhat breathlessly began all over again: "i guess it must have been a--a warning, or something." "they say there is such a thing as a magnetic current between human beings," he said. "it was that, viola. you felt my love laying hold upon you, touching you, caressing you." "the other night, when you held me so close to you, i--i couldn't think of you as my brother." out of the darkness spoke rachel carter. "you love each other," she said. "there is no use trying to explain or account for your feelings. the day you came here, kenneth gwynne, i saw the handwriting on the wall. i knew that this would happen. it was as certain as the rising of the sun. it would have been as useless for me to attempt to stop the rising sun as to try to keep you two from falling in love with each other. it was so written long ago." "but, mother, i am not sure,--how can you say that i am in love with him when i don't know it myself?" cried viola. "when you came, kenneth, i knew that my days were numbered," went on the older woman, leaning forward in her chair. "the truth would have to come out. a force i could not stand up against had entered the field. for want of a better word we will call it fate. it is useless to fight against fate. if i had never told you two the truth about yourselves, you would have found it out anyway. you would have found it out in the touch of your hands, in the leap of the blood, in the strange, mysterious desire of the flesh over which the soul has no control. you began loving him, viola,--without knowing it,--that night at phineas striker's. you--" "how can you say such a thing, mother?" cried viola hotly. "i was in love with barry lapelle at that--" "you were never in love with barry," broke in her mother calmly. "i think i ought to know when i am in love and when i am not!" "be that as it may, you now know that you were never in love with him,--so it comes to the same thing." kenneth's heart gave a joyous bound. "i--i wish i could believe that. i wish i knew that you are not thinking of him now, viola, and wanting him back in spite of all he has done." viola arose suddenly. "i am going in the house," she said haughtily. "neither of you seems to think i have a grain of sense. first mother says i am in love with you without knowing it, and now you are wondering if i am in love with barry without knowing it, i suppose. don't you give me credit for having a mind of my own? and, mother, i've just got to say it, even if it is insolent,--i will be very much obliged to you if you will allow me to make up my own mind about kenny. it is not for you or anybody else to say i am in love with him." "oh, don't go away angry, viola," cried kenneth, distressed. "let's forget all we've said and--" "i don't want to forget all we've said," she exclaimed, stamping her foot. "how dare you come over here and tell me you love me and then ask me to forget--oh, if that's all it amounts to with you, kenneth, i dare say i can make up my mind right now. i--" "you will find, kenneth," broke in her mother drily, "that she has a temper." "i guess he has found that out before this," said viola, from the doorstep. "he has had a taste of it. if he doesn't like--" "i am used to tempers," said he, now lightly. "i have a devil of a temper myself." "i don't believe it," she cried. "you've got the kindest, sweetest, gentlest nature i've ever--" "come and sit down, viola," interrupted her mother, arising. "i am going in the house myself." "you needn't, mother. i am going to bed. good night, kenny." "i came to say good-bye," he reminded her. she paused with her hand on the latch. he heard the little catch in her breath. then she turned impulsively and came back to him. he was still standing on the ground, several feet below her. "what a beast i am, kenny," she murmured contritely. "i waited out here all evening for you to come over so that i could say good-bye and tell you how much i shall miss you,--and to wish you a speedy and safe return. and you paid me a great compliment,--the greatest a girl can have. i don't deserve it. but i will miss you, kenny,--i will miss you terribly. now, i must go in. if i stay another second longer i'll say something mean and spiteful,--because i am mean and spiteful, and no one knows it better than i do. good-bye, kenneth gwynne." "good-bye, minda carter," he said softly, and again raised her hand to his lips. "my little minda grown up to be the most beautiful queen in all the world." she turned and fled swiftly into the house. they heard her go racing up the stairs,--then a door open and slam shut again. "she would be very happy to-night, kenneth, if it were not for one thing," said rachel. "i still stand in the way. she cannot give herself to you except at a cost to me. there can be nothing between you until i stand before the world and say there is no reason why you should not be married to each other. do you wonder that she does not know her own heart?" "and i would not deserve her love and trust if i were to ask you to pay that price, rachel carter," said he steadily. "good-bye, kenneth," she said, after a moment. she held out her hand. "will you take my hand,--just this once, boy?" he did not hesitate. he grasped the hard, toil-worn hand firmly in his. "we can never be friends, rachel carter,--but, as god is my witness, i am no longer your enemy," he said, with feeling. "good-bye." he was half-way down to the gate when she called to him: "wait, kenneth. moll has something for you." he turned back and met moll hawk as she came swiftly toward him. "here's somethin' fer you to carry in your pocket, mr. gwynne," said the girl in her hoarse, low-pitched voice. "no harm c'n ever come to you as long as you got this with you,--in your pocket er anywheres. hit's a charm an old injin chief give my pap when he wuz with the tribe, long before i wuz born. pap lost it the day before he wuz tooken up by the sheriff, er else he never would ha' had setch bad luck. i found it day before yesterday when i wuz down to the cabin, seein' about movin' our hogs an' chickens an' hosses over to mis' gwyn's barn. the only reason the injun give it to pap wuz because he wuz over a hundred years old an' didn't want to warn off death no longer. hit's just a little round stone with somethin' fer all the world like eyes an' nose an' mouth on one side of it,--jest as if hit had been carved out, only hit wuzn't. hit's jest natural. hit keeps off sickness an' death an' bad luck, mr. gwynne. pap knowed he wuz goin' to ketch the devil the minute he found out he lost it. i tole miss violy i wanted fer you to have it with you while you wuz off fightin' the injuns, an' she said she'd love me to her dyin' day if i would give you the loan of it. mebby you don't believe in charms an' signs an' all setch, but it can't hurt you to carry it an'--an' hit's best to be on the safe side. please keep it, mr. gwynne." it was a round object no bigger than a hickory nut. he had taken it from her and was running his thumb over its surface while she was speaking. he could feel the tiny nose and the little indentations that produced the effect of eyes. "thank you, moll," he said, sincerely touched. "it's mighty good of you. i will bring it back to you, never fear, and i hope that after it has served me faithfully for a little while it may do the same for you till you, too, have seen a hundred and don't want to live any longer. what was it miss viola said to you?" "i guess i hadn't ought to said that," she mumbled. "anyhow, i ain't goin' to say it over again. good-bye, mr. gwynne,--and take good keer o' yourself." with that she hurried back to the house, and he, after a glance up at the second story window which he knew to be viola's, bent his steps homeward. his saddle-bags were already packed, his pistols cleaned and oiled; the long-barrelled rifle he had borrowed from the tavern keeper was in prime order for the expedition. zachariah had gotten out his oldest clothes, his thick riding boots, a linsey shirt and the rough but serviceable buckskin cap that old mr. price had hobbled over to the office to give him after the first day of drill with the sententious remark that a "plug hat was a perty thing to perade around in but it wasn't a very handy sort of a hat to be buried in." his lamp burned far into the night. he tried to read but his thoughts would not stay fixed on the printed page. not once but many times he took up from the table a short, legal-looking document and re-read its contents, which were entirely in his own cramped, scholastic hand save for the names of two witnesses at the end. it was his last will and testament, drawn up that very day. minda carter was named therein as his sole legatee,--"minda carter, at present known as viola gwyn, the daughter of owen and rachel carter." his father had, to all intents and purposes, cut her off without a penny, an injustice which would be righted in case of his own death. it was near midnight when he blew out the light and threw himself fully dressed upon the bed. sleep would not come. at last, in desperation, he got up and stole guiltily, self-consciously out into the yard, treading softly lest he should wake the vehement zachariah in his cubbyhole off the kitchen. presently he was standing at the fence separating the two yards, his elbows on the top rail, his gloomy, lovelorn gaze fixed upon viola's darkened window. the stars were shining. a cool, murky mantle lay over the land. he did not know how long he had been standing there when his ear caught the sound of a gently-closing door. a moment later a dim, shadowy figure appeared at the corner of the house, stood motionless for a few seconds, and then came directly toward him. the blood rushed thunderously to his head. he could not believe his senses. he had been wishing--aye, vainly wishing that by some marvellous enchantment she could be transported through the dark little window into his arms. he rubbed his eyes. "viola!" he whispered. "oh, kenny," she faltered, and her voice was low and soft like the sighing of the wind. "i--i am so ashamed. what will you think of me for coming out here like this?" the god of love gave him wings. he was over the fence, she was in his arms, and he was straining the warm, pliant body close to his bursting breast. his lips were on hers. he felt her stiffen and then relax in swift surrender. her heart, stilled at first, began to beat tumultuously against his breast; her free arm stole about his neck and tightened as the urge of a sweet, overwhelming passion swept over her. at last she released herself from his embrace and stood with bowed head, her hands pressed to her eyes. "i didn't mean to do it,--i didn't mean to do this," she was murmuring. "you love me,--you love me," he whispered, his voice trembling with joy. he drew her hands down from her eyes and held them tight in his own. "say you do, viola,--speak the words." "it must be love," she sighed. "what else could make me feel as i do now,--as i did when you were holding me,--and kissing me? oh,--oh,--yes, i do love you, kenny. i know it now. i love you with all my soul." she was in his arms again. "but," she panted a little later, "i swear i didn't know it when i came out here, kenny,--i swear i didn't." "oh, yes, you did," he cried triumphantly. "you've known it all the time, only you didn't understand." "i wonder," she mused. then quickly, shyly: "i had no idea it could come like this,--that it would be like this. i feel so queer. my knees are all trembly,--it's the strangest feeling. now you must let me go, kenny. i must not stay out here with you. it is terribly late. i--" "i can't let you go in yet, dearest. come! we will sit for a little while on the steps. don't leave me yet, viola. it is all so wonderful, so unbelievable. and to think i was looking up at your window only a few minutes ago, wishing that you would fly down to me. good heavens! it can't be a dream, can it? all this is real, isn't it?" she laughed softly. "it can't be a dream with me, because i haven't even been in bed. i've been sitting up there in my window for hours, looking over at your house. when your light went out, i was terribly lonely. yes, and i was a little put out with you for going to bed. then i saw you come and lean on the fence. i knew you were looking up at my window,--and i was sure that you could see me in spite of the darkness. you never moved,--just stood there with your elbows on the fence, staring up at me. it made me very uncomfortable, because i was in my nightgown. so i made up my mind to get into bed and pull the coverlet up over my head. but i didn't do it. i put on my dress,--everything,--shoes and stockings and all,--and then i went back to see if you were still there. there you were. you hadn't moved. so i sat down again and watched you. after awhile i--i--well, i just couldn't help creeping downstairs and coming out to--to say good-bye to you again, kenny. you looked so lonesome." "i was lonesome," he said,--"terribly lonesome." she led him to a crudely constructed bench at the foot of a towering elm whose lower branches swept the fore-corner of the roof. "let us sit here, kenny dear," she said. "it is where i shall come and sit every night while you are gone away. i shall sit with my back against it and close my eyes and dream that you are beside me as you are now, with your arms around me and your cheek against mine,--and it will be the trysting place for our thoughts." "that's wonderful, viola," he said, impressed. "'the trysting place for our thoughts.' aye, and that it shall be. every night, no matter where my body may be or what peril it may be in, i shall be here beside you in my thoughts." she rested against him, in the crook of his strong right arm, her head against his shoulder, and they both fell silent and pensive under the spell of a wondrous enchantment. after a while, she spoke, and there was a note of despair in her voice: "what is to become of us, kenny? what are we to do?" "no power on earth can take you away from me now, minda," he said. "ah,--that's it," she said miserably. "you call me minda,--and still you wonder why i ask what we are to do." "you mean--about--" "we can be nothing more to each other than we are now. there is some one else we must think of. i--i forgot her for a little while, kenny,--i was so happy that i forgot her." "were ever two souls so tried as ours," he groaned, and again silence fell between them. kneeling at the window from which viola had peered so short a time before, looking down upon the figures under the tree, was rachel carter. she could hear their low voices, and her ears, made sharp by pain, caught the rapturous and the forlorn passages breathed upon the still air. she arose stiffly and drew back into the darkness, out of the dim, starlit path, and standing there with her head high, her arms outspread, she made her solemn vow of self-renunciation. "i have no right to stand between them and happiness. they have done no wrong. they do not deserve to be punished. my mind is made up. to-morrow i shall speak. god has brought them together. it is not for me to keep them apart. aye, to-morrow i shall speak." then rachel carter, at peace with herself, went back to her bed across the hall and was soon asleep, a smile upon her lips, the creases wiped from between her eyes as if by some magic soothing hand. chapter xxix the ending at crack-o'-day kenneth rode out of his stable-yard on brandy boy, and went cantering away, followed on foot by the excited zachariah, bound for the parade ground where the "soldiers" were to concentrate. the rider turned in his saddle to wave farewell to the little group huddled at rachel's gate,--three tall women who waved back to him. rounding the bend, he sent a swift glance over his shoulder. there was but one figure at the gate now; she blew a kiss to him. nearly three hundred horsemen moved out of lafayette that forenoon amidst the greatest excitement and enthusiasm. most of them swam their horses across the river, too eager to wait for the snail-like ferry to transport them to the opposite bank. they were fearfully and wonderfully armed and equipped for the expedition. guns of all descriptions and ages; pistols, axes, knives and diligently scoured swords; pots and pans and kettles; blankets, knapsacks and parcels of varying sizes; in all a strange and motley assortment that would have caused a troop of regulars to die of laughter. but the valiant spirit was there. even the provident and far-sighted gentlemen who strapped cumbersome and in some cases voluptuous umbrellas (because of their extraneous contents) across their backs alongside the guns, were no more timorous than their swashbuckling neighbours who scorned the tempest even as they scoffed at the bloodthirsty red-skins. four heavily laden wagons brought up the rear. kenneth gwynne rode beside the ubiquitous "judge" billings, who cheerfully and persuasively sought to "swap" horses with him when not otherwise employed in discoursing upon the vast inefficiency of certain specifically named officers who rode in all their plump glory at or near the head of the column. he was particularly out of sympathy with a loud-mouthed lieutenant. "why," said he, "if the captain was to say 'halt' suddenly that feller'd lose his mind tryin' to think what to do. no more head on him than a grasshopper. and him up there givin' orders to a lot of bright fellers like you an' me an' the rest of us! by gosh, i'd like to be hidin' around where i could see the look on the indian's face that scalps him. the minute he got through scrapin' a little hide an' hair off of the top o' that feller's head he'd be able to see clear down to the back of his adam's apple." historians have recorded the experiences and achievements of this gallant troop of horse. it is not the intention of the present chronicler to digress. suffice to say, the expedition moved sturdily westward and northward for five or six days without encountering a single indian. then they were ordered to return home. there were two casualties. one man was accidentally shot in the arm while cleaning his own rifle, and another was shot in the foot by a comrade who was aiming at a rattlesnake. nine or ten days after they rode out from lafayette, the majority of the company rode back again and were received with acclaim. two score of the more adventurous, however, separated from the main body on sugar creek and, electing their own officers, proceeded to hickory creek and on to the river o'plein in northern illinois, without finding a hostile redskin. as a matter of fact, black hawk was at no time near the indiana border. his operations were confined to northwestern illinois in the region of the mississippi river. subsequently a series of sanguinary battles took place between the indians and strong illinois militia forces supported by detachments of united states troops under general brady. it was not until the beginning of august that black hawk was finally defeated, his dwindling horde almost annihilated, and the old chieftain, betrayed into the hands of the whites by the winnebagos, was made a prisoner of war. and so, summarily, the present chronicler disposes of the "great black hawk war," and returns to his narrative and the people related thereto. kenneth gwynne did not go back to lafayette with the main body of troops; he decided to join captain mcgeorge and his undaunted little band of adventurers. gwynne's purpose in remaining with mcgeorge was twofold. not only was he keenly eager to meet the indians but somewhere back in his mind was the struggling hope that, given time, rachel carter's reserve would crack under the fresh strain put upon it and she would voluntarily, openly break the silence that now stood as an absolutely insurmountable obstacle to his marriage with viola. not until rachel carter herself cleared the path could they find the way to happiness. he would have been amazed, even shocked, could he have known all that transpired in lafayette on the day following his departure. he was not to know for many a day, as it was nearly three weeks after the return of the main body of troops that mcgeorge and his little band rode wearily down through the grand prairie and entered the town, their approach being heralded by a scout sent on in advance. kenneth searched eagerly among the crowd on the river bank, seeking the face that had haunted him throughout all the irksome days and nights; he looked for the beloved one to whom his thoughts had sped each night for communion at the foot of the blessed elm. she was nowhere to be seen. he was bitterly disappointed. as soon as possible he escaped from his comrades and hurried home. there he learned from rachel carter herself that viola had gone away, never to return to lafayette again. mid-morning on the day after the troops rode away, rachel carter appeared at the office of her lawyer, andrew holman. there, in the course of the next hour, she calmly, unreservedly bared the whole story of her life to the astonished and incredulous gentleman. she did not consult with her daughter before taking this irrevocable step. she put it beyond her daughter's power to shake the resolution she had made on the eve of kenneth's departure; she knew that viola would cry out against the sacrifice and she was sorely afraid of her own strength in the presence of her daughter's anguish. "i shall put it all in the paper," she said, regarding the distressed, perspiring face of the lawyer with a grim, almost taunting smile, as if she actually relished his consternation. "what i want you to do, first off, andrew, is to prepare some sort of affidavit, setting forth the facts, which i will sign and swear to. it needn't be a long document. the shorter the better, just so it makes everything clear." "but, my dear mrs. gwyn, this--this may dispossess you of everything," remonstrated the agitated man of law. "the fact that you were never the wife of robert--" "your memory needs refreshing," she interrupted. "if you will consult robert gwyn's will you will discover that he leaves half of his estate, et cetera, to 'my beloved and faithful companion and helpmate, rachel, who, with me, has assumed the name of gwyn for the rest of her life in view of certain circumstances which render the change in the spelling of my name advisable, notwithstanding the fact that in signing this, my last will and testament, i recognize the necessity of affixing my true and legal name.' you and i know the sentence by heart, andrew. no one can or will dispute my claim to the property. i have thought this all out, you may be sure,--just as he thought it all out when he drew up the paper. i imagine he must have spent a great deal of time and thought over that sentence, and i doubt if you or any other lawyer could have worded it better." "of course, if the will reads as you say,--er,--ahem! yes, yes,--i remember now that it was a--er--somewhat ambiguous. ahem! but it has just occurred to me, mrs. gwyn, that you are going a little farther than is really necessary in the matter. may i suggest that you are not--er--obliged to reveal the fact that you were never married to him? that, it seems to me, is quite unnecessary. if, as you say, your object is merely to set matters straight so that your daughter and mr. gwynne may be free to marry, being in no sense related either by blood or by law,--such as would have been the case if you had married kenneth's father,--why, it seems to me you can avoid a great deal of unpleasant notoriety by--er--leaving out that particular admission." "no," she said firmly. "thank you for your kind advice,--but, if you will reflect, it is out of the question. you forget what you have just said. for a lawyer, my dear friend, you are surprisingly simple to-day." "i see,--i see," mumbled the lawyer, mopping his brow. "of course,--er,--you are quite right. you are a very level-headed woman. quite so. i would have thought of it in another moment or two. you can't leave out that part of it without--er--nullifying the whole object and intent of your--er--ahem!--i was about to say confession, but that is a nasty word. in other words, unless you acknowledge that you and robert were never lawfully married, the--er--" "exactly," she broke in crisply. "that is the gist of the matter. society does not countenance marriage between step-brother and -sister. so we will tell the whole truth,--or nothing at all. besides, robert gwyn put the whole story in writing himself, as i have told you. the hiding-place of that piece of paper is still a mystery, but it will be found some day. i am trying to take the curse off of it, andrew." as she was leaving the office, he said to her, with deep feeling: "i suppose you realize the consequences, mrs. gwyn? it means ostracism for you. you will not have a friend in this town,--not a person who will speak to you, aside from the storekeepers who value your custom and"--he bowed deeply--"your humble servant." "i fully appreciate what it means," she responded wearily. "it means that if i continue to hold my head up or dare to look my neighbour in the face i shall be called brazen as well as corrupt," she went on after a moment, a sardonic little twist at the corner of her mouth. "well, so be it. i have thought of all that. have no fear for me, my friend. i have never been afraid of the dark,--so why should i fear the light?" "you're a mighty fine woman, rachel gwyn," cried the lawyer warmly. she frowned as she held out her hand. "none of that, if you please," she remarked tersely. "will you have the paper ready for me to sign this afternoon?" "i will submit it to you right after dinner." "you may expect me here at two o'clock. we will then step over to the free press and allow mr. semans to copy the document for his paper." she allowed herself a faint smile. "i daresay he can make room for it, even if he has to subtract a little from his account of the stirring events of yesterday." "your story will make a great sensation," declared the lawyer, wiping his brow once more. "he can't afford to--er--to leave it out." at two o'clock she was in his office again. he read the carefully prepared document to her. "this is like signing your own death warrant, rachel gwyn," he said painfully, as she affixed her signature and held up her hand to be sworn. "no. i am signing a pardon for two guiltless people who are suffering for the sins of others." "that reminds me," he began, pursing his lips. "i have been reflecting during your absence. has it occurred to you that this act of yours is certain to react with grave consequences upon the very people you would--er--befriend? i am forced to remind you that the finger of scorn will not be pointed at you alone. your daughter will not escape the--er--ignominy of being--ahem!--of being your daughter, in fact. young gwynne will find his position here very greatly affected by the--er--" "i quite understand all that, andrew. i am not thinking of the present so much as i am considering the future. the past, so far as we all are concerned, is easily disposed of, but these two young people have a long life ahead of them. it is not my idea that they shall spend it here in this town,--or even in this state." "you mean you will urge them to leave lafayette forever?" "certainly." "but if i know viola,--and i think i do,--she will refuse to desert you. as for gwynne, he strikes me as a fellow who would not turn tail under fire." "in any case, andrew, it will be for them to decide. kenneth had already established himself as a lawyer back in the old home town. i shall urge him to return to that place with viola as soon as they are married. his mother was a blythe. there is no blot upon the name of blythe. my daughter was born there. her father was an honest, god-fearing, highly respected man. his name and his memory are untarnished. no man can say aught against the half of kenneth that is blythe, nor the half of viola that is carter. i should like the daughter of owen carter to go back and live among his people as the wife of the son of laura blythe, and to honourably bear the name that was denied me by a gwynne." he looked at her shrewdly for a moment and then, as the full significance of her plan grew upon him, revealing in a flash the motive behind it, he exclaimed: "well, by gosh, you certainly have done an almighty lot of calculating." "and why shouldn't i? she is my child. is it likely that i would give myself the worst of everything without seeing to it that she gets the best of everything? no, my friend; you must not underrate my intelligence. i will speak plainly to you,--but in confidence. this is between you and me. there is no love lost between kenneth gwynne and me. he hates me and always will, no matter how hard he may try to overcome it. in a different way i hate him. we must not be where we can see each other. i am sorely afraid that the tender love he now has for viola would fail to outlast the hatred he feels toward me. i leave you to imagine what that would mean to her. he has it in his power to give her a place among his people. he can force them to honour and respect her, and her children will be their children. do you see? need i say more?" "you need say nothing more. i understand what you want, mrs. gwyn,--and i must say that you are in a sense justified. what is to become of young gwynne's property here in this county?" "i think i can be trusted to look after it satisfactorily," she said quietly; "perhaps even better than he could do for himself. i am a farm woman." "i thought maybe you had some notion of buying him out." "he would not sell to me. his farm is being properly handled by the present tenant. his lots here in town cannot run away. the time will come when they will be very valuable, or i am no prophetess. there is nothing to keep him here, andrew, and his interests and my daughter's will be as carefully looked after as my own." "we will be sorry to lose him as a citizen." "if you are ready, we will step over to the free press office," she said, without a sign that she had heard his remark. they crossed the square and turned up the first street to the left. "this will be a terrible shock to your daughter," said he, breaking a long silence. "she will survive it," replied rachel gwyn sententiously. he laid his hand on her arm. "will you accept a bit of advice from me?" they stopped. "i am not above listening to it," she replied. "my advice is to postpone this action until you are sure of one thing." "and what may that be?" "kenneth gwynne's safe return from this foray against the indians. he may not come back alive." "he will come back alive," said she, in a cool, matter-of-fact tone. "it is so ordained. i know. come, we are wasting time. i have much to do between now and nightfall. bright and early to-morrow morning my daughter and i are leaving town." "leaving town?" he cried, astonished. "i am taking her out in the country,--to the farm. if i can prevent it she shall never put foot in this town again. you know phineas striker? an honest, loyal man, with a wife as good as gold. when kenneth gwynne marches back to town again he will find me here to greet him. i will tell him where to find viola. out at striker's farm, my friend, she will be waiting for him to come and claim his own." a smile he did not understand and never was to understand played about her lips as she continued drily, for such was the manner of this amazing woman: "he will even find that her wedding gown is quite as much to his fancy as it was the day he met her." the end [illustration: "what are you doing up here?"] quill's window by george barr mccutcheon frontispiece by c. allan gilbert contents chapter i the forbidden rock ii the story the old man told iii courtney thane iv dowd's tavern v trespass vi charlie webster entertains vii courtney appears in public viii alix the third ix a mid-october day x the chimney corner xi thane visits two houses xii words and letters xiii the old indian trail xiv suspicion xv the face at the window xvi rosabel xvii shadows xviii mr. gilfillan is puzzled xix bringing up the past xx the disappearance of rosabel vick xxi out of the night xxii the thrower of stones xxiii a message and its answer xxiv at quill's window quill's window chapter i the forbidden rock a young man and an old one sat in the shade of the willows beside the wide, still river. the glare of a hot august sun failed to penetrate the shelter in which they idled; out upon the slow-gliding river it beat relentlessly, creating a pale, thin vapour that clung close to the shimmering surface and dazzled the eye with an ever-shifting glaze. the air was lifeless, sultry, stifling; not a leaf, not a twig in the tall, drooping willows moved unless stirred by the passage of some vagrant bird. the older man sat on the ground, his back against the trunk of a tree that grew so near to the edge that it seemed on the point of toppling over to shatter the smooth, green mirror below. some of its sturdy exposed roots reached down from the bank into the water, where they caught and held the drift from upstream,--reeds and twigs and matted grass,--a dirty, sickly mass that swished lazily on the flank of the slow-moving current. the water here in the shade was deep and clear and limpid, contrasting sharply with the steel-white surface out beyond. the young man occupied a decrepit camp stool, placed conveniently against the trunk of another tree hard by. a discarded bamboo rod lay beside him on the bank, the hook and line hopelessly tangled in the drift below. he smoked cigarettes. his companion held a well-chewed black cigar in the vise-like corner of his mouth. his hook and line were far out in the placid water, an ordinary cork serving as a "bob" from which his dreary, unwavering gaze seldom shifted. "i guess they're through bitin' for today," he remarked, after a long unbroken silence. "how many have we got?" inquired the other languidly. "between us we've got twenty-four. that's a fair-sized mess. sunfish don't make much of a showing unless you get a barrel of 'em." "good eating though," mused the young man. "fried in butter," supplemented the other. "what time is it?" "half-past nine." "well, that's just about what i'd figured. i've been fishin' in this 'hole' for something like forty years, off and on, and i've found out that these here sunfish get through breakfast at exactly eighteen minutes past nine. i always allow about ten minutes' leeway in case one or two of 'em might have been out late the night before or something,--but as a general thing they're pretty dog-goned prompt for breakfast. specially in august. even a fish is lazy in august. look at that fish-worm. by gosh, it's boiled! that shows you how hot the water is." he removed the worm from the hook and slowly began to twist the pole in the more or less perfunctory process of "winding up" the line. the young man looked on disinterestedly. "ain't you going to untangle that line?" inquired the old man, jerking his thumb. "what's the use? the worm is dead by this time, and god knows i prefer to let him rest in peace. the quickest way to untangle a line is to do it like this." he severed it with his pocket-knife. "a line like that costs twenty-five cents," said the old man, a trace of dismay in his voice. "that's what it cost when it was new," drawled the other. "you forget it's been a second-hand article since eight o'clock this morning,--and what's a second-hand fish-line worth?--tell me that. how much would you give, in the open market, or at an auction sale, for a second-hand fish-line?" "i guess we'd better be gittin' back to the house," said the other, ignoring the question. "got to clean these fish if we're expectin' to have 'em for dinner,--or lunch, as you fellers call it. i'll bet your grandfather never called it lunch. and as for him callin' supper dinner,--why, by crickey, he never got drunk enough for that." "more than that," said the young man calmly, "he never saw a cigarette, or a telephone, or a ford, or a safety-razor,--or a lot of other things that have sprung up since he cashed in his checks. to be sure, he did see a few things i've never seen,--such as clay-pipes, canal boats, horse-hair sofas, top-boots and rag-carpets,--and he probably saw abraham lincoln,--but, for all that, i'd rather be where i am today than where he is,--and i'm not saying he isn't in heaven, either." the older man's eyes twinkled. "i don't think he's any nearer heaven than he was forty years ago,--and he's been dead just about that long. he wasn't what you'd call a far-seeing man,--and you've got to look a long ways ahead if you want to see heaven. your grandma's in heaven all right,--and i'll bet she was the most surprised mortal that ever got inside the pearly gates if she found him there ahead of her. like as not she would have backed out, thinking she'd got into the wrong place by mistake. and if he is up there, i bet he's making the place an everlastin' hell for her. yep, your grandpa was about as mean as they make 'em. as you say, he didn't know anything about cigarettes, but he made up for it by runnin' after women and fast horses,--or maybe it was hosses and, fast women,--and cheatin' the eye teeth out of everybody he had any dealings with." "i don't understand how he happened to die young, if all these things were true about him," said the other, lighting a fresh cigarette and drawing in a deep, full breath of the pungent smoke. the old man waited a few seconds for the smoke to be expelled, and then, as it came out in a far-reaching volume, carrying far on the still air, his face betrayed not only relief but wonder. "you don't actually swaller it, do you?" he inquired. "certainly not. i inhale, that's all. any one can do it." "i'd choke to death," said the old man, shifting his cigar hastily from one side of his mouth to the other, and taking a fresh grip on it with his teeth,--as if fearing the consequences of a momentary lapse of control. "you've been chewing that cigar for nearly two hours," observed the young man. "i call that a filthy habit." "i guess you're right," agreed the other, amiably. "the best you can say for it is that it's a man's job, and not a woman's," he added, with all the scorn that the cigar smoker has for the man who affects nothing but cigarettes. "you can't make me sore by talking like that," said his companion, stretching himself lazily. "approximately ten million men smoked cigarettes over in france for four years and more, and i submit that they had what you might call a man's job on their hands." "how many of them things do you smoke in a day?" "it depends entirely on how early i get up in the morning,--and how late i stay up at night. good lord, it's getting hotter every minute. for two cents, i'd strip and jump in there for a game of hide and seek with the fish. by the way, i don't suppose there are any mermaids in these parts, are there?" "you stay out of that water," commanded the old man. "you ain't strong enough yet to be takin' any such chances. you're here to get well, and you got to be mighty all-fired careful. the bed of that river is full of cold springs,--and it's pretty deep along this stretch. weak as you are,--and as hot as you are,--you'd get cramps in less'n a minute." "i happen to be a good swimmer." "so was bart edgecomb,--best swimmer i ever saw. he could swim back an' forth across this river half a dozen times,--and do you know what happened to him last september? he drowned in three foot of water up above the bend, that's what he did. come on. let's be movin'. it'll be hotter'n blazes by eleven o'clock, and you oughtn't to be walkin' in the sun." the young man settled himself a little more comfortably against the tree. "i think i'll stay here in the shade for a while longer. don't be uneasy. i shan't go popping into the water the minute your back's turned. what was it you said early this morning about sniffing rain in the air?" "thunderstorms today, sure as my name's brown. been threatening rain for nearly a week. got to come some time, and i figure today's--" "threats are all we get," growled the young man peevishly. "lord, i never dreamed i could get so sick of white skies and what you call fresh air. you farmers go to bed every night praying for rain, and you get up in the morning still praying, and what's the result? nothing except a whiter sky than the day before, and a greater shortage of fresh air. don't talk to me about country air and country sunshine and country quiet. my god, it never was so hot and stifling as this in new york, and as for peace and quiet,--why, those rotten birds in the trees around the house make more noise than the elevated trains at the rush hour, and the rotten roosters begin crowing just about the time i'm going to sleep, and the dogs bark, and the cows,--the cows do whatever cows do to make a noise,--and then the crows begin to yawp. and all night long the katydids keep up their beastly racket, and the frogs in the pond back of the barns,--my god, man, the city is as silent as the grave compared to what you get in the country." "i manage to sleep through it all," said the old man drily. "the frogs and katydids don't keep me awake." "yes, and that reminds me of another noise that makes the night hideous. it's the way you people sleep. at nine o'clock sharp, every night, the whole house begins to snore, and--say, i've seen service in france, i've slept in barracks with scores of tired soldiers, i've walked through camps where thousands of able-bodied men were snoring their heads off,--but never have i heard anything so terrifying as the racket that lasts from nine to five in the land of my forefathers. gad, it sometimes seems to me you're all trying to make my forefathers turn over in their graves up there on the hill." "you're kind of peevish today, ain't you?" inquired the other, grinning. "you'll get used to the way we snore before long, and you'll kind of enjoy it. i'd be scared to death if i got awake in the night and didn't hear everybody in the house snoring. it's kind of restful to know that everybody's asleep,--and not dead. if they wasn't snoring, i'd certainly think they was dead." the young man smiled. "i'll say this much for you farmers,--you're a good-natured bunch. i ought to be ashamed of myself for grousing. i suppose it's because i've been sick. you're all so kind and thoughtful,--and so darned genuine,--even when you're asleep,--that i feel like a dog for finding fault. by the way, you said something awhile ago about that big black cliff over yonder having a history. i've been looking at that cliff or hill or rock, or whatever it is, and it doesn't look real. it doesn't look as though god had made it. it's more like the work of man. so far as i can see, there isn't another hill on either bank of the river, and yet that thing over there must be three or four hundred feet high, sticking up like a gigantic wart on the face of the earth. what is it? solid rock?" "sort like slate rock, i guess. there's a stretch of about a mile on both sides of the river along here that's solid rock. this bank we're standin' on is rock, covered with six or eight foot of earth. you're right about that big rock over there being a queer thing. there's been college professors and all sorts of scientific men here, off and on, to examine it and to try to account for its being there. but, thunderation, if it's been there for a million years as they say, what's the sense of explaining it?" "there's something positively forbidding about it. gives you the willies. how did it come by the name you called it a while ago?" "quill's window? goes back to the days of the indians. long before the time of tecumseh or the prophet. they used to range up and down this river more than a hundred years ago. the old trail is over there on the other bank as plain as day, covered with grass but beaten down till it's like a macadam road. i suppose the indians followed that trail for hundreds of years. there's still traces of their camps over there on that side, and a little ways down the river is a place where they had a regular village. over here on this side, quite a little ways farther down, is the remains of an old earthwork fort used by the french long before the revolution, and afterwards by american soldiers about the time of the war of . we'll go and look at it some day if you like. most people are interested in it, but for why, i can't see. "there ain't nothing to see but some busted up breastworks and lunettes, covered with weeds, with here and there a sort of opening where they must have had a cannon sticking out to scare the squaws and papooses. you was askin' about the name of that rock. well, it originally had an indian name, which i always forget because it's the easiest way to keep from pronouncing it. then the french came along and sort of frenchified the name,--which made it worse, far as i'm concerned. i'm not much on french. about three-quarters of the way up the rock, facing the river, is a sort of cave. you can't see the opening from here, 'cause it faces north, looking up the river from the bend. there are a lot of little caves and cracks in the rock, but none of 'em amounts to anything except this one. it runs back something like twenty foot in the rock and is about as high as a man's head. "shortly after general harrison licked the prophet and his warriors up on the tippecanoe, a man named quill,--an irishman from down the river some'eres towards vincennes,--all this is hearsay so far as i'm concerned, mind you,--but as i was saying, this man quill begin to make his home up in that cave. he was what you might call a hermit. there were no white people in these parts except a few scattered trappers and some people living in a settlement twenty-odd miles south of here. as the story goes, this man quill lived up there in that cave for about four or five years, hunting and trapping all around the country. white people begin to get purty thick in these parts soon after that, indiana having been made a state. there was a lot of coming and going up and down the river. a feller named digby started a kind of settlement or trading-post further up, and clearings were made all around,--farms and all that, you see. your great grandfather was one of the first men to settle in this section. coming down the river by night you could see the light, up there in quill's cave. you could see it for miles, they say. people begin to speak of it as the light in quill's window,--and that's how the name happened. i'm over seventy, and i've never heard that hill called anything but quill's window." "what happened to quill?" "well, that's something nobody seems to be quite certain about. whether he hung himself or somebody else done the job for him, nobody knows. according to the story that was told when i was a boy, it seems he killed somebody down the river and come up here to hide. the relations of the man he killed never stopped hunting for him. a good many people were of the opinion they finally tracked him to that cave. in any case, his body was found hanging by the neck up there one day, on a sort of ridge-pole he had put in. this was after people had missed seeing the light in quill's window for quite a spell. there are some people who still say the cave is ha'nted. when i was a young boy, shortly before the civil war, a couple of horse thieves were chased up to that cave and--ahem!--i reckon your grandfather, if he was alive, could tell you all about what became of 'em and who was in the party that stood 'em up against the back wall of the cave and shot 'em. there's another story that goes back even farther than the horse thieves. the skeleton of a woman was found up there, with the skull split wide open. that was back in or . so, you see, when all of them ghosts get together and begin scrapping over property rights, it's enough to scare the gizzard out of 'most anybody that happens to be in the neighbourhood. but i guess old man quill was the first white man to shuffle off, so it's generally understood that his ghost rules the roost. come on now, let's be moving. it's gettin' hotter every minute, and you oughtn't to be out in all this heat. for the lord's sake, you ain't going to light another one of them things, are you?" "sure. it's the only vice i'm capable of enjoying at present. being gassed and shell-shocked, and then having the flu and pneumonia and rheumatism,--and god knows what else,--sort of purifies a chap, you see." "well, all i got to say is--i guess i'd better not say it, after all." "you can't hurt my feelings." "i'm not so sure about that," said the old man gruffly. "how do you get up to that cave?" "you ain't thinking of trying it, are you?" apprehensively. "when i'm a bit huskier, yes." the old man removed his cigar in order to obtain the full effect of a triumphant grin. "well, in the first place, you can't get up to it. you've got to come down to it. the only way to get to the mouth of that cave is to lower yourself from the top of the rock. and in the second place, you can't get down to it because it ain't allowed. the owner of all the land along that side of the river has got 'no trespass' signs up, and nobody's allowed to climb to the top of that rock. she's all-fired particular about it, too. the top of that rock is sacred to her. nobody ever thinks of violatin' it. all around the bottom of the slope back of the hill she's got a white picket fence, and the gate to it is padlocked. you see it's her family buryin'-ground." "her what?" "buryin'-ground. her father and mother are buried right smack on top of that rock." the young man lifted his eyebrows. "does that mean there are a couple of married ghosts fighting on top of the rock every night, besides the gang down in the--" "it ain't a joking matter," broke in the other sharply. "go on, tell me more. the monstrosity gets more and more interesting every minute." the old man chewed his cigar energetically for a few seconds before responding. "i'll tell you the story tonight after supper,--not now. the only thing i want to make clear to you is this. everybody in this section respects her wishes about keeping off of that rock, and i want to ask you to respect 'em, too. it would be a dirty trick for you to go up there, knowin' it's dead against her wishes." "a dirty trick, eh?" said the young man, fixing his gaze on the blue-black summit of the forbidden rock. chapter ii the story the old man told david windom's daughter alix ran away with and married edward crown in the spring of . windom was one of the most prosperous farmers in the county. his lands were wide, his cattle were many, his fields were vast stretches of green and gold; his granaries, his cribs and his mows, filled and emptied each year, brought riches and dignity and power to this man of the soil. back when the state was young, his forefathers had fared westward from the tide-water reaches of virginia, coming at length to the rich, unbroken region along the river with the harsh indian name, and there they built their cabins and huts on lands that had cost them little more than a song and yet were of vast dimensions. they were of english stock. (another branch of the family, closely related, remains english to this day, its men sitting sometime in parliament and always in the councils of the nation, far removed in every way from the windoms in the fertile valley once traversed by the war-like redskins.) but these windoms of the valley were no longer english. there had been six generations of them, and those of the first two fought under general washington against the red-coats and the hessians in the war of ' . david windom, of the fourth generation, went to england for a wife, however,--a girl he had met on the locally celebrated trip to europe in the early seventies. for years he was known from one end of the county to the other as "the man who has been across the atlantic ocean." the dauntless english bride had come unafraid to a land she had been taught to regard as wild, peopled by savages and overrun by ravenous beasts, and she had found it populated instead by the gentlest sort of men and equally gentle beasts. she did a great deal for david windom. he was a proud man and ambitious. he saw the wisdom of her teachings and he followed them, not reluctantly but with a fierce desire to refine what god had given him in the shape of raw material: a good brain, a sturdy sense of honour, and above all an imagination that lifted him safely,--if not always sanely,--above the narrow world in which the farmer of that day spent his entire life. not that he was uncouth to begin with,--far from it. he had been irritatingly fastidious from boyhood up. his thoughts had wandered afar on frequent journeys, and when they came back to take up the dull occupation they had abandoned temporarily, they were broader than when they went out to gather wool. the strong, well-poised english wife found rich soil in which to work; he grew apace and flourished, and manifold were the innovations that stirred a complacent community into actual unrest. a majority of the farmers and virtually all of the farmers' wives were convinced that dave windom was losing his mind, the way he was letting that woman boss him around. the women did not like her. she was not one of them and never could be one of them. her "hired girls" became "servants" the day she entered the ugly old farmhouse on the ridge. they were no longer considered members of the family; they were made to feel something they had never felt before in their lives: that they were not their mistress's equals. the "hired girl" of those days was an institution. as a rule, she moved in the same social circle as the lady of the house and it was customary for her to intimately address her mistress by her christian name. she enjoyed the right to engage in all conversations; she was, in short, "as good as anybody." the new mrs. windom was not long in transporting the general housework "girl" into a totally unexampled state of astonishment. this "girl,"--aged forty-five and a prominent member of the methodist church,--announced to everybody in the community except to mrs. windom herself that she was going to leave. she did not leave. the calm serenity of the new mistress prevailed, even over the time-honoured independence in which the "girl" and her kind unconsciously gloried. respect succeeded injury, and before the bride had been in the windom house a month, maria bliss was telling the other "hired girls" of the neighbourhood that she wouldn't trade places with them for anything in the world. greatly to the consternation and disgust of other householders, a "second girl" was added to the windom menage,--a parlour-maid she was called. this was too much. it was rank injustice. general housework girls began to complain of having too much work to do,--getting up at five in the morning, cooking for half a dozen "hands," doing all the washing and ironing, milking, sweeping and so on, and not getting to bed till nine or ten o'clock at night,--to say nothing of family dinners on sunday and the preacher in every now and then, and all that. moreover, mrs. windom herself never looked bedraggled. she took care of her hair, wore good clothes, went to the dentist regularly (whether she had a toothache or not), had meals served in what maria bliss loftily described as "courses," and saw to it that david windom shaved once a day, dressed better than his neighbours, kept his "surrey" and "side-bar buggy" washed, his harness oiled and polished, and wore real riding-boots. the barnyard took on an orderly appearance, the stables were repaired, the picket fences gleamed white in the sun, the roof of the house was painted red, the sides a shimmering white, and there were green window shutters and green window boxes filled with geraniums. the front yard was kept mowed, and there were great flower-beds encircled by snow-white boulders; a hammock was swung in the shade of two great oaks, and--worst of all! a tennis-court was laid out alongside the house. tennis! that was a game played only by "dudes"! passers-by looked with scorn upon young david windom and his flaxen-haired wife as they played at the silly game before supper every evening. and they went frequently to the "opera house" at the county seat, ten miles up the river; they did not wait for summer to come with its circus, as all the other farmers were content to do; whenever there was a good "show" at the theatre in town they sent up for reserved seats and drove in for supper at the principal hotel. altogether, young mrs. windom was simply "raising cain" with the conventions. strange to say, david did not "go to smash." to the intense chagrin of the wiseacres he prospered despite an unprecedented disregard for the teachings of his father and his grandfather before him. the wolf stayed a long way off from his door, the prophetic mortgage failed to lay its blight upon his lands, his crops were bountiful, his acreage spread as the years went by,--and so his uncles, his cousins and his aunts were never so happy as when wishing for the good old days when his father was alive and running the farm as it should be run! if david had married some good, sensible, thrifty, hard-working farmer's daughter,--well, it might not have meant an improvement in the crops but it certainly would have spared him the expense of a tennis court, and theatre-going, and absolutely unnecessary trips to chicago or indianapolis whenever she took it into her head to go. besides, it wasn't natural that they should deliberately put off having children. it wasn't what god and the country expected. after a year had passed and there were no symptoms of approaching motherhood, certain narrow-minded relatives began to blame great britain for the outrage and talked a great deal about a worn-out, deteriorating race. then, after two years, when a girl baby was born to david and his wife, they couldn't, for the life of them, understand how it came to pass that it wasn't a boy. there had been nothing but boys in the windom family for years and years. it appeared to be a windom custom. and here was this fair-haired outsider from across the sea breaking in with a girl! they could not believe it possible. david,--a great, strong, perfect specimen of a windom,--the father of a girl! why, they emphasized, he was over six feet tall, strong as an ox, broad-shouldered,--as fine a figure as you would see in a lifetime. there was something wrong,--radically wrong. the district suffered another shock when a nurse maid was added to david's household,--a girl from the city who had nothing whatever to do, except to take care of the baby while the unnatural mother tinkered with the flower-beds, took long walks about the farm, rode horseback, and played tennis with david and a silly crowd of young people who had fallen into evil ways. she died when her daughter was ten years old. those who had misunderstood her and criticized her in the beginning, mourned her deeply, sincerely, earnestly in the end, for she had triumphed over prejudice, narrow-mindedness, and a certain form of malice. the whole district was the better for her once hateful innovations, and there was no one left who scoffed at david windom for the choice he had made of a wife. her death wrought a remarkable, enduring change in windom. he became a silent, brooding man who rarely smiled and whose heart lay up in the little graveyard on the ridge. the gay, larksome light fled from his eyes, his face grew stern and sometimes forbidding. she had taken with her the one great thing she had brought into his life: ineffable buoyancy. he no longer played, for there was no one with whom he would play; he no longer sang, for the music had gone out of his soul; he no longer whistled the merry tunes, for his lips were stiff and unyielding. only when he looked upon his little daughter did the soft light of love well up into his eyes and the rigid mouth grow tender. she was like her mother. she was joyous, brave and fair to look upon. she had the same heart of sunshine, the same heart of iron, and the blue in her eyes was like the blue of the darkening skies. she adored the grim, silent man who was her father, and she was the breath of life to him. and then, when she was nineteen, she broke the heart of david windom. for two years she had been a student in the university situated but half a score of miles from the place where she was born, a co-educational institution of considerable size and importance. windom did not believe in women's colleges. he believed in the free school with its broadening influence, its commingling of the sexes in the search for learning, and in the divine right of woman to develop her mind through the channels that lead ultimately and inevitably to superiority of man. he believed that the girl trained and educated in schools devoted exclusively to the finer sex fails to achieve understanding as well as education. the only way to give a girl a practical education,--and he believed that every woman should have one,--was to start her off even with the boy who was training to become her master in all respects. during her second year at the university she met edward crown, a senior. he was the son of a blacksmith in the city, and he was working his way through college with small assistance from his parent, who held to the conviction that a man was far better off if he developed his muscles by hard work and allowed the brain to take care of itself. young crown was a good-looking fellow of twenty-three, clean-minded, ambitious, dogged in work and dogged in play. he had "made" the football team in his sophomore year. customary snobbishness had kept him out of the fraternities and college societies. he may have been a good fellow, a fine student, and a cracking end on the eleven, and all that, but he was not acceptable material for any one of the half dozen fraternities. when he left college with his hard-earned degree it was to accept a position with a big engineering company, a job which called him out to the far northwest. alix windom was his promised wife. they were deeply, madly in love with each other. separation seemed unendurable. she was willing to go into the wilderness with him, willing to endure the hardships and the discomforts of life in a construction camp up in the mountains of montana. she would share his poverty and his trials as she would later share his triumphs. but when they went to david windom with their beautiful dream, the world fell about their ears. david windom, recovering from the shock of surprise, ordered edward from the house. he would sooner see his child dead than the wife of nick crown's son,--nick crown, a drunken rascal who had been known to beat his wife,--nick crown who was not even fit to lick the feet of the horses he shod! one dark, rainy night in late june, alix stole out of the old farmhouse on the ridge and met her lover at the abandoned tollgate half a mile up the road. he waited there with a buggy and a fast team of horses. out of a ramshackle cupboard built in the wall of the toll-house, they withdrew the bundles surreptitiously placed there by alix in anticipation of this great and daring event, and made off toward the city at a break-neck, reckless speed. they were married before midnight, and the next day saw them on their way to the far west. but not before alix had despatched a messenger to her father, telling him of her act and asking his forgiveness for the sake of the love she bore him. the same courier carried back to the city a brief response from david windom. in a shaken, sprawling hand he informed her that if she ever decided to return to her home alone, he would receive her and forgive her for the sake of the love he bore her, but if she came with the coward who stole her away from him, he would kill him before her eyes. ii the summer and fall and part of the winter passed, and in early march alix came home. david windom, then a man of fifty, gaunt and grey and powerful, seldom had left the farm in all these months. he rode about his far-spread estate, grim and silent, his eyes clouded, his voice almost metallic, his manner cold and repellent. his tenants, his labourers, his neighbours, fearing him, rarely broke in upon his reserve. only his animals loved him and were glad to see him,--his dogs, his horses, even his cattle. he loved them, for they were staunch and faithful. never had he uttered his daughter's name in all these months, nor was there a soul in the community possessed of the hardihood to inquire about her or to sympathize with him. it was a fierce, cruel night in march that saw the return of alix. a fine, biting snow blew across the wide, open farmlands; the beasts of the field were snugly under cover; no man stirred abroad unless driven by necessity; the cold, wind-swept roads were deserted. so no one witnessed the return of alix crown and her husband. they came out of the bleak, unfriendly night and knocked at david windom's door. there were lights in his sitting-room windows; through them they could see the logs blazing in the big fireplace, beside which sat the lonely, brooding figure of alix's father. it was late,--nearly midnight,--and the house was still. old maria bliss and the one other servant had been in bed for hours. the farmhands slept in a cottage windom had erected years before, acting upon his wife's suggestion. it stood some two or three hundred yards from the main house. a dog in the stables barked, first in anger and then with unmistakable joy. david's favourite, a big collie, sprang up from his place on the rug before the fire and looked uneasily toward the door opening onto the hall. then came a rapping at the front door. the collie growled softly as he moved toward the door. he sniffed the air in the hall and suddenly began to whine joyously, wagging his tail as he bounded back and forth between his master and the door. david windom knew then that his daughter had come home. he sprang to his feet and took two long strides toward the door. abruptly, as if suddenly turned to stone, he stopped. for a long time he stood immovable in the middle of the room. the rapping was repeated, louder, heavier than before. he turned slowly, retraced his steps to the fireplace and took from its rack in the corner a great iron poker. his face was ashen grey, his eyes were wide and staring and terrible. then he strode toward the door, absolutely unconscious of the glad, prancing dog at his side. in the poor shelter of the little porch stood alix, bent and shivering, and, behind her, edward crown, at whose feet rested two huge "telescope satchels." the light from within fell dimly upon the white, upturned face of the girl. she held out her hands to the man who towered above her on the doorstep. "daddy! daddy!" she cried brokenly. "oh, my daddy! let me come in--let me,--i--i am freezing." but david windom was peering over her head at the indistinct face of the man beyond. he wanted to be sure. lifting his powerful arm, he struck. edward crown, stiff and numb with cold and weak from an illness of some duration, did not raise an arm to ward off the blow, nor was he even prepared to dodge. the iron rod crashed down upon his head. his legs crumpled up; he dropped in a heap at the top of the steps and rolled heavily to the bottom, sprawling out on the snow-covered brick walk. the long night wore on. windom had carried his daughter into the sitting-room, where he placed her on a lounge drawn up before the fire. she had fainted. after an hour he left her and went out into the night. the body of edward crown was lying where it had fallen. it was covered by a thin blanket of snow. for a long time he stood gazing down upon the lifeless shape. the snow cut his face, the wind threshed about his coatless figure, but he heeded them not. he was muttering to himself. at last he turned to re-enter the house. his daughter was standing in the open doorway. "is--is that edward down there?" she asked, in weak, lifeless tones. she seemed dull, witless, utterly without realization. "go back in the house," he whispered, as he drew back from her in a sort of horror,--horror that had not struck him in the presence of the dead. "is that edward?" she insisted, her voice rising to a queer, monotonous wail. "i told you to stay in the house," he said. "i told you i would look after him, didn't i? go back, alix,--that's a good girl. your--your daddy will--oh, my god! don't look at me like that!" "is he dead?" she whispered, still standing very straight in the middle of the doorway. she was not looking at the inert thing on the walk below, but into her father's eyes. he did not, could not answer. he seemed frozen stiff. she went on in the same dull, whispered monotone. "i begged him to let me come alone. i begged him to let me see you first. but he would come. he brought me all the way from the west and he--he was not afraid of you. you have done what you said you would do. you did not give him a chance. and always,--always i have loved you so. you will never know how i longed to come back and have you kiss me, and pet me, and call me those silly names you used--" "what's done, is done," he broke in heavily. "he is dead. it had to be. i was insane,--mad with all these months of hatred. it is done. come,--there is nothing you can do. come back into the house. i will carry him in--and wake somebody. tomorrow they will come and take me away. they will hang me. i am ready. let them come. you must not stand there in the cold, my child." she toppled forward into his arms, and he lifted her as if she were a babe and carried her into the house. the collie was whining in the corner. windom sat down in the big armchair before the fire, still holding the girl in his arms. she was moaning weakly. suddenly a great, overwhelming fear seized him,--the fear of being hanged! a long time afterward,--it was after two,--he arose from his knees beside the lounge and prepared to go out into the night once more. alix had promised not to send her father to the gallows. she was almost in a stupor after the complete physical and mental collapse, but she knew what she was doing, she realized what she was promising in return for the blow that had robbed her of the man she loved. no one will ever know just what took place in that darkened sitting-room, for the story as afterwards related was significantly lacking in details. the light had been extinguished and the doors silently closed by the slayer. the stiffening body of edward crown out in the snow was not more silent than the interior of the old farmhouse, apart from the room in which david windom pleaded with his stricken daughter. and all the while he was begging her to save him from the consequences of his crime, his brain was searching for the means to dispose of the body of edward crown and to provide an explanation for the return of alix without her husband. circumstances favoured him in a surprising manner. young crown and his wife had travelled down from chicago in a day coach, and they had left the train at a small way station some five miles west of the windom farm. crown was penniless. he did not possess the means to engage a vehicle to transport them from the city to the farm, nor the money to secure lodging for the night in the cheapest hotel. alix's pride stood in the way of an appeal to her husband's father or to any one of his friends for assistance. it was she who insisted that they leave the train at hawkins station and walk to windom's house. they had encountered no one who knew them, either on the train or at the station; while on their cold, tortuous journey along the dark highway they did not meet a solitary human being. no one, therefore, was aware of their return. edward crown's presence in the neighbourhood was unknown. if david windom's plan succeeded, the fact that crown had returned with his wife never would be known. to all inquirers both he and his daughter were to return the flat but evasive answer: "it is something i cannot discuss at present," leaving the world to arrive at the obvious conclusion that alix's husband had abandoned her. and presently people, from sheer delicacy, would cease to inquire. no one would know that crown had been ill up in the mountains for weeks, had lost his position, and had spent his last penny in getting his wife back to the house in which she was born,--and where her own child was soon to be born. windom went about the task of secreting his son-in-law's body in a most systematic, careful manner. he first carried the two "telescopes" into the house and hid them in a closet. then he put on an old overcoat and cap, his riding boots and gloves. stealing out to the rear of the house, he found a lantern and secured it to his person by means of a strap. a few minutes later he was ready to start off on his ghastly mission. alix nodded her head dumbly when he commanded her to remain in the sitting-room and to make no sound that might arouse maria bliss. he promised to return in less than an hour. "your father's life depends on your silence, my child, from this moment on," he whispered in her ear. she started up. "and how about my husband's life?" she moaned. "what of him? why do you put yourself--" "sh! your husband is dead. you cannot bring him to life. it is your duty,--do your hear?--your duty to spare the living. remember what i said to you awhile ago. never forget it, my child." "yes," she muttered. "'blood is thicker than water.' i remember." iii he went out into the night, closing the door softly behind him. the collie was at his heels. he was afraid to go alone. grimly, resolutely he lifted the body of edward crown from the ground and slung it across his shoulder, the head and arms hanging down his back. desperation added strength to his powerful frame. as if his burden were a sack of meal, he strode swiftly down the walk, through the gate and across the gravel road. the night was as black as ink, yet he went unerringly to the pasture gate a few rods down the road. unlatching it, he passed through and struck out across the open, wind-swept meadow. the dog slunk along close behind him, growling softly. snow was still falling, but the gale from the north was sweeping it into drifts, obliterating his tracks almost as soon as they were made. straight ahead lay the towering, invisible rock, a quarter of a mile away. he descended the ridge slope, swung tirelessly across the swales and mounds in the little valley, and then bent his back to the climb up the steep incline to quill's window. picking his way through a fringe of trees, he came to the tortuous path that led to the crest of the great rock. panting, dogged, straining every ounce of his prodigious strength, he struggled upward, afraid to stop for rest, afraid to lower his burden. the sides and the flat summit of the rock were full of treacherous fissures, but he knew them well. he had climbed the sides of quill's window scores of times as a boy, to sit at the top and gaze off over the small world below, there to dream of the great world outside, and of love, adventure, travel. many a night, after the death of his beloved alix, he had gone up there to mourn alone, to be nearer to the heaven which she had entered, to be closer to her. he knew well of the narrow fissure at the top,--six feet deep and the length of a grave! filled only with the leaves of long dead years! he lowered his burden to the bare surface of the rock. the wind had swept it clean. under the protecting screen of his overcoat he struck a match and lighted the lantern. then for the first time he studied closely the grey, still face of the youth he had slain. the skull was crushed. there was frozen blood down the back of the head and neck--he started up in sudden consternation. there would be blood-stains where the body had lain so long,--tell-tale, convicting stains! he must be swift with the work in hand. those stains must be wiped out before the break of day. lowering himself into the opening, he began digging at one end with his hands, scooping back quantities of wet leaves. there was snow down there in the pit,--a foot or more of it. after a few minutes of vigorous clawing, a hole in the side of the fissure was revealed,--an aperture large enough for a man to crawl into. he knew where it led to: down into quill's cave twenty feet below. some one,--perhaps an indian long before the time of quill, or it may have been quill himself,--had chiselled hand and toe niches in the sides of this well and had used the strange shaft as means of getting into and out of the cave. windom's father had closed this shaft when david was a small boy, after the venturesome youngster had gone down into the cave and, unable to climb out again, had been the cause of an all-day search by his distracted parent and every neighbour for miles around. the elder windom had blocked the bottom of the hole with a huge boulder, shorn from the side of the cave by some remote wrench of nature. then he had half filled the cavity from the top by casting in all of the loose stones to be found on the crest of the rock, together with a quantity of earth. the work had never been completed. there still remained a hole some ten feet deep. david windom clambered out, leaving his lantern below. letting the dead man's body slide into the crevice, he followed, bent on at least partially finishing the job. when he climbed out a second time, edward crown was at the bottom of the hole and the wet, foul leaves again hid the opening. tomorrow night, and the night after, he would come again to close the hole entirely with earth and stones, hiding forever the grewsome thing in quill's "chimney," as the flue-like passage was called. extinguishing the lantern, he started down the hill at a reckless, break-neck speed. he had the uncanny feeling that he was being followed, that edward crown was dogging his footsteps. halfway down, he stumbled and fell sprawling. as he started to rise, a sound smote his ears--the sound of footsteps. for many seconds he held his breath, terror clutching his throat. he was being followed! some one was shuffling down the rock behind him. the collie! he had forgotten the dog. but even as he drew in the deep breath of relief, he felt his blood suddenly freeze in his veins. it was not the dog. something approached that moaned and whimpered and was not mortal. it passed by him as he crouched to the earth,--a shadow blacker than the night itself. suddenly the truth burst upon him. "my god! alix!" half an hour later he staggered into his house, bearing the form of his daughter,--tenderly, carefully, not as he had borne the despised dead. she had followed him to the top of quill's window, she had witnessed the ghastly interment, and she had whispered a prayer for the boy who was gone. the next day her baby was born and that night she died. coming out of a stupor just before death claimed her, she said to david windom: "i am going to edward. i do not forgive you, father. you must not ask that of me. you say it is my duty to save you from the gallows,--a child's duty to her parent. i have promised. i shall keep my promise. it is not in my heart to send you to the gallows. you are my father. you have always loved me. this is my baby,--mine and edward's. she may live,--god knows i wish i might have died yesterday and spared her the accursed breath of life,--she may grow up to be a woman, just as i grew up. i do not ask much of you in return for what i have done for you, father. you have killed my edward. i loved him with all my soul. i do not care to live. but my child must go on living, i suppose. my child and his. she is his daughter. i cannot expect you to love her, but i do expect you to take care of her. you say that blood is thicker than water. you are right. i cannot find it in my heart to betray you. you may tell the world whatever story you like about edward. he is dead, and i shall soon be dead. you can hurt neither of us, no matter what you do. i ask two things of you. one is that you will be good to my baby as long as you may live, and the other is that you will bury me up there where you put edward last night. i must lie near him always. say to people that i have asked you to bury me in that pit at the top of quill's window,--that it was my whim, if you like. close it up after you have placed me there and cover it with great rocks, so that edward and i may never be disturbed. i want no headstone, no epitaph. just the stones as they were hewn by god." david windom promised. he was alone in the room with her when she died. iv twenty years passed. windom came at last to the end of his days. he had fulfilled his promises to alix. he had taken good care of her daughter, he had given her everything in his power to give, and he had worshipped her because she was like both of the alixes he had loved. she was alix crown,--alix the third, he called her. on the day of his death, windom confessed the crime of that far off night in march. in the presence of his lawyer, his doctor, his granddaughter and the prosecuting attorney of the county, he revealed the secret he had kept for a score of years. the mystery of edward crown's disappearance was cleared up, and for the first time in her young life alix was shorn of the romantic notion that one day her missing father would appear in the flesh, out of the silences, to claim her as his own. from earliest childhood, her imagination had dealt with all manner of dramatic situations; she had existed in the glamour of uncertainty; she had looked upon herself as a character worthy of a place in some gripping tale of romance. the mound of rocks on the crest of quill's window, surrounded by a tall iron paling fence with its padlocked gate, covered only the body of the mother she had never seen. she did not know until this enlightening hour that her father was also there and had been throughout all the years in which fancy played so important a part. like all the rest of the world, she was given to understand that her father had cruelly abandoned her mother. in her soul she had always cherished the hope that this heartless monster might one day stand before her, pleading and penitent, only to be turned away with the scorn he so richly deserved. she even pictured him as rich and powerful, possessed of everything except the one great boon which she alone could give him,--a daughter's love. and she would point to the top of quill's window and tell him that he must first look there for forgiveness,--under the rocks where his broken-hearted victim slept. the truth stunned her. she was a long time in realizing that her grandfather, whom she both loved and feared,--this grim, adoring old giant,--not only had murdered her father but undoubtedly had killed her mother as well. the story that david windom had written out and signed at the certain approach of death, read aloud in his presence by the shocked and incredulous lawyer, and afterwards printed word for word in the newspapers at the old man's command, changed the whole course of life for her. in fact, her nature underwent a sharp but subtle change. there was nothing left to her of the old life, no thought, no purpose, no fancy; all had been swept up in a heap and destroyed in the short space of half an hour. everything in her life had to be reconstructed, made-over to suit the new order. she could no longer harbour vengeful thoughts concerning her father, she could no longer charge him with the wanton destruction of her mother's happiness. the grandfather she had loved all her life assumed another shape entirely; he was no longer the same, and never again could be the same. she did not hate him. that was impossible. she had never seen her parents, so she had not known the love of either. they did not belong in her life except through the sheerest imagination. her grandfather was the only real thing she had had in life, and she had adored him. he had killed two people who were as nothing to her, but he had taken the place of both. how could she bring herself to hate this man who had destroyed what were no more than names to her? father,--mother! two words,--that was all. and for twenty long years he had been paying,--oh, how he must have paid! she recalled his reason for taking her to england when she was less than eight years old and leaving her there until she was twelve. she remembered that he had said he wanted her to be like her grandmother, to grow up among her people, to absorb from them all that had made the first alix so strong and fine and true. and then he had come to take her from them, back to the land of her birth, because, he said, he wanted her to be like her mother, the second alix,--an american woman. she recalled his bitter antipathy to co-educational institutions and his unyielding resolve that she should complete her schooling in a sacred heart convent. she remembered the commotion this decision created among his neighbours. in her presence they had assailed him with the charge that he was turning the girl over, body and soul, to the catholic church, and he had uttered in reply the never to be forgotten words: "if i never do anything worse than that for her, i'll be damned well satisfied with my chance of getting into heaven as soon as the rest of you." when david's will was read, it was found that except for a few small bequests, his entire estate, real and personal, was left to his granddaughter, alix crown, to have and to hold in perpetuity without condition or restriction of any sort or character. the first thing she did was to have a strong picket fence constructed around the base of the hill leading up to quill's window, shutting off all accessible avenues of approach to the summit. following close upon the publication of david windom's confession, large numbers of people were urged by morbid curiosity to visit the strange burial-place of edward and alix crown. the top of quill's window became the most interesting spot in the county. alix the third was likewise an object of vast interest, and the old, deserted farmhouse on the ridge came in for its share of curiosity. almost immediately after the double tragedy and the birth of little alix, david windom moved out of the house and took up his residence in the riverside village of windomville, a mile to the south. the old house was closed, the window shutters nailed up, the doors barred, and all signs of occupancy removed. it was said that he never put foot inside the yard after his hasty, inexplicable departure. the place went to rack and ruin. in course of time he built a new and modern house nearer the village, and this was now one of the show places of the district. the influence of alix the first was expressed in the modelling of house and grounds, the result being a picturesque place with a distinctly english atmosphere, set well back from the highway in the heart of a grove of oaks,--a substantial house of brick with a steep red tile roof, white window casements, and a wide brick terrace guarded by a low ivy-draped wall. english ivy swathed the two corners of the house facing the road, mounting high upon the tall red chimneys at the ends. there were flower-beds below the terrace, and off to the right there was an old-fashioned garden. the stables were at the foot of the hill some distance to the rear of the house. the village of windomville lay below, hugging the river, a relic of the days when steamboats plied up and down the stream and railways were remote, a sleepy, insignificant, intensely rural hamlet of less than six hundred inhabitants. its one claim to distinction was the venerable but still active ferry that laboured back and forth across the river. of secondary importance was the ancient dock, once upon a time the stopping place of steamboats, but now a rotten, rickety obstruction upon which the downstream drift lodged in an unsightly mass. in the solid red-brick house among the oaks alix the third had spent her childhood days. she was taken to england when she was eight by her haunted grandfather, not only to receive the bringing-up of an english child, but because david windom's courage was breaking down. as she grew older, the resemblance to edward crown became more and more startling. she had his dark, smiling eyes; his wavy brown hair; her very manner of speech was like his. to david windom, she was the re-incarnation of the youth he had slain. out of her eyes seemed to look the soul of edward crown. he could not stand it. she became an obsession, a curious source of fascination. he could not bear her out of his sight, and yet when she was with him, smiling up into his eyes,--he was deathly afraid of her. there were times when he was almost overcome by the impulse to drop to his knees and plead for forgiveness as he looked into the clear, friendly, questioning eyes of edward crown. and her voice, her speech,--therein lay the true cause of his taking her to england. when she came home to him, after four years, there was no trace of edward crown in her voice or manner of speaking. she was almost as english as alix the first. but her eyes had not changed; he was still a haunted man. in the little graveyard on the outskirts of the village more than a score of windoms lie. with them lies all that was mortal of fair alix the first, and beside her is david windom, the murderer. chapter iii courtney thane "and what has become of alix the third?" inquired the young man, squinting at his wristwatch and making out in the semi-darkness that it was nearly half-past nine. he had listened somewhat indulgently to the story of the three alixes. the old man, prompted and sometimes disputed by other members of the family, had narrated in his own simple way the foregoing tale, arriving at the end in a far more expeditious and certainly in a less studied manner than the present chronicler employs in putting the facts before his readers. the night was hot. he was occasionally interrupted by various members of the little group on the front porch of the big old farmhouse, the interruption invariably taking the form of a conjecture concerning the significance of certain signs ordinarily infallible in denoting the approach of rain. heat lightning had been playing for an hour or more in the gloomy west; a tree-toad in a nearby elm was prophesying thunder in unmelodious song: night-birds fluttered restlessly among the lofty branches; widely separated whiffs of a freshening wind came around the corner of the house. all of these had a barometric meaning to the wistful group. there was a thunderstorm on the way. it was sure to come before morning. the prayers inaugurated a month ago were at last to be answered. as old man brown drily remarked: "there's one satisfaction about prayin' for rain. if you keep at it long enough, you're bound to get what you're askin' for. works the same way when you're prayin' for it to stop rainin'. my grandfather once prayed for a solid two months before he got rain, and then, by gosh, he had to pray for nearly three weeks to get it to quit." supper over, the young man had reminded his venerable angling companion of his promise to relate the history of quill's window. old caleb brown was the father of mrs. vick,--lucinda vick, wife of the farmer in whose house the young man was spending a month as a boarder. the group on the porch included amos vick, anxious, preoccupied, and interested only in the prospect of rain; his daughter rosabel, aged eighteen, a very pretty and vivacious girl, interested only in the young man from the far-off, mysterious city in the east; his son caleb, a rugged youth of nineteen; mrs. vick, and a neighbour named white, who had come over for the sole purpose of finding out just what amos vick thought about the weather. two dogs lay panting on the dry grass at the foot of the steps. "oh, she's living over there in the windom house," said mrs. vick. "sort of running the place," explained mr. brown, a trace of irony in his voice. "well," put in amos vick, speaking for the first time in many minutes, "she's got a lot of sense, that girl has. she may be letting on that she's running the farm, but she ain't, you bet. that's where she's smart. she's got sense enough to know she don't know anything about running a farm, and while she puts on a lot of airs and acts kind of important like, the real truth is she leaves everything to old jim bagley. i guess you don't know who jim bagley is, do you, courtney?" "i can't say that i do," replied the young man. "well, he's about the slickest citizen you ever saw. from what father here says about your granddad, he must have been a purty hard customer to deal with, but, by ginger, if he was any worse than jim bagley in driving a bargain, i'm glad he died as long ago as he did." "you're just sore, amos," said his wife, "because mr. bagley got the best of you in that hog deal three years ago." "oh, lord, ain't you ever going to get tired of throwin' that up to me?" groaned mr. vick. "i never mention jim bagley's name but what you up and say something about them hogs. now, as a matter of fact, them hogs--" "for goodness sake, pa, you're not going to tell mr. thane about that hog business, are you?" cried rosabel. "well, when your ma begins to insinuate that i got the worst of--" "i don't say that you got the worst of it, amos," interrupted mrs. vick good-humouredly. "i only say that he got the best of it." "well, if that don't come to the same--" "looks to me, amos, like we'd get her good and plenty before mornin'," broke in mr. white. he was referring to the weather. "that ain't all heat lightnin' over there. seems to me i heard a little thunder just now." "alix crown is away a good part of the time, courtney," said mrs. vick, taking up the thread where it had been severed by recrimination. "all through the war,--long before we went in,--she was up in town working for the belgiums, and then, when we did go in, she went east some'eres to learn how to be a nurse or drive an ambulance or something,--new york, i believe. and as for money, she contributed quite a bit--how much do they say it was, amos?" "well, all i know is that mary simmons says she gave ten thousand dollars and josie fiddler says it was three hundred,--so you can choose between 'em." "she did her share, all right," said young caleb defensively. "that's more'n a lot of people around here did." "gale's in love with her, mr. thane," explained rosabel. "she's five years older than he is, and don't know he's on earth." "aw, cut that out," growled caleb. "is she good-looking?" inquired courtney thane. "i don't like 'em quite as tall as she is," said mr. white. "she's got a good pair of legs," said old caleb brown, shifting his cigar with his tongue. "we're not talking about horses, father," said mrs. vick sharply. "who said we was?" demanded old caleb. "most people think she's good-looking," said rosabel, somewhat grudgingly. "and she isn't any taller than i am, mr. white." "well, you ain't no dwarft, rosie," exclaimed farmer white, with a brave laugh. "you must be five foot seven or eight, but you ain't skinny like she is. she'd ought to weigh about a hunderd and sixty, for her height, and i'll bet she don't weigh more'n a hunderd and thirty." "i wouldn't call that skinny," remarked courtney. "she wears these here new-fangled britches when she's on horseback," said old caleb, justifying his observation. "rides straddle, like a man. you can't help seeing what kind of--" "that will do, pa," broke in his wife. "it's no crime for a woman to wear pants when she's riding, although i must say i don't think it's very modest. i never rode any way except side-saddle,--and neither has rosabel. i've brought her up--" "don't you be too sure of that, ma," interrupted young caleb maliciously. "i never did it but once, and you know it, cale vick," cried rosabel, blushing violently. the subject was abruptly changed by mr. white. "well, i guess i'll be moseyin' along home, amos. that certainly did sound like thunder, didn't it? and that tree-toad has stopped signallin',--that's a sure sign. like as not i'll get caught in the rain if i don't,--what say, lucindy?" "do you want an umberell, steve?" "i should say not! what do you want me to do? scare the rain off? no, sir! rain's the funniest thing in the world. if it sees you got an umberell it won't come within a hunderd miles of you. that's why i got my sunday clothes on, and my new straw hat. sometimes that'll bring rain out of a clear sky,--that an' a sunday-school picnic. it's a pity we couldn't have got up a sunday-school picnic,--but then, of course, that wouldn't have done any good. you can't fool a rainstorm. so long, amos. night, everybody. night, courtney. as i was sayin' awhile ago, i used to go to school with your pa when him an' me was little shavers,--up yonder at the old kennedy schoolhouse. fifty odd years ago. seems like yesterday. how old did you say you was?" "twenty-eight, mr. white." "and your pa's been dead--how long did you say?" "he died when i was twenty-two." "funny your ma didn't bring him out here and bury him 'longside his father and all the rest of 'em up in the family burying-ground," was mr. white's concluding observation as he ambled off down the gravel walk to the front gate. "i wish you'd brought your croix de guerre along with you, mr. thane," said young caleb, his eyes gleaming in the faint light from the open door. "i guess i don't pronounce it as it ought to be. i'm not much of a hand at french." "you came pretty close to it," said thane, with a smile. "you see, cale, it's the sort of thing one puts away in a safe place. that's why i left it in new york. mother likes to look at it occasionally. mothers are queer creatures, you know. they like to be reminded of the good things their sons have done. it helps 'em to forget the bad things, i suppose." "you're always joking," pouted rosabel, leaning forward, ardour in her wide, young eyes. "if i was a boy and had been in the war, i'd never stop talking about it." "and i'd have been in it, too, if pa hadn't up and told 'em i was only a little more than fifteen," said cale, glowering at his father in the darkness. "you mustn't blame your pa, cale," rebuked his mother. "he knows what a soldier's life is better than you do. he was down in that camp at chattanooga during the spanish war, and almost died of typhoid, courtney. and when i think of the way our boys died by the millions of the flu, i--well, i just know you would have died of it, sonny, and i wouldn't have had any cross or medal to look at, and--and--" "don't begin cryin', lucindy," broke in old caleb hastily. "he didn't die of the flu, so what's the sense of worryin' about it now? he didn't even ketch it, and gosh knows, the whole blamed country was full of it that winter." "well," began mrs. vick defensively, and then compressed her lips in silence. "i think it was perfectly wonderful of you, mr. thane, to go over to france and fight in the american ambulance so long before we went into the war." this from the adoring rosabel. "i wish you'd tell us more about your experiences. they must have been terrible. you never talk about them, though. i think the real heroes were the fellows who went over when you did,--when you didn't really have to, because america wasn't in it." "the american ambulance wasn't over there to fight, you know," explained courtney. "what did you get the cross for if you weren't fighting?" demanded young cale. "for doing what a whole lot of other fellows did,--simply going out and getting a wounded man or two in no-man's land. we didn't think much about it at the time." "was it very dangerous?" asked rosabel. "i suppose it was,--more or less so," replied thane indifferently. he even yawned. "i'd rather talk about alix the third, if it's all the same to you. is she light or dark?" "she's a brunette," said rosabel shortly. "all except her eyes. they're blue. how long were you up at the front, mr. thane?" "oh, quite a while,--several months, in fact. at first we were in a place where there wasn't much fighting. just before the first big verdun drive we were transferred to that sector, and then we saw a lot of action." "some battle, wasn't it?" exclaimed young cale, a thrill in his voice. "certainly was," said courtney. "we used to work forty-eight hours at a stretch, taking 'em back by the thousands." "how near did the shells ever come to you?" "oh, sometimes as close as twenty or thirty feet. i remember one that dropped in the road about fifty feet ahead of my car, and before i could stop we ran plunk into the hole it made and upset. i suppose the windom estate must be a pretty big one, isn't it, mr. vick?" "taking everything into consideration, it amounts to nearly a million dollars. david windom had quite a bit of property up in the city, aside from his farm, and he owned a big ranch out in texas. the grain elevator in windomville belonged to him,--still belongs to alix crown,--and there's a three mile railroad connecting with the main line over at smith's siding. every foot of it is on his land. he built the railroad about twenty year ago, and the elevator, too,--out of spite, they say, for the men that run the elevator at hawkins a little further up the road. hawkins is the place where his daughter and edward crown got off the train the night of the murder." "and this young girl owns all of it,--farms, ranch, railroad and everything?" "every cent's worth of it is her'n. there ain't a sign of a mortgage on any of it, either. it's as clear as a blank sheet of writin' paper." "when was it you were gassed, mr. thane?" inquired young caleb. "oh, that was when i was in the air service,--only a few weeks before the armistice." "you left your wings at home, too, i suppose?" "yes. mother likes to look at the only wings i'll probably ever have,--now or hereafter." "how does it come, court, that you went into the british air corpse, 'stead of in the u. s. a.?" inquired old caleb. "i joined the royal flying corps, mr. brown, because the americans wouldn't have me," replied thane tersely. "i tried to get in, but they wouldn't pass me. said i had a weak heart and a whole lot of rubbish like that. it's no wonder the american air service was punk. i went over to toronto and they took me like a shot in the royal british. they weren't so blamed finicky and old womanish. all they asked for in an applicant was any kind of a heart at all so long as it was with the cause. i don't suppose i ought to say it, but the american air service was a joke." "i hope you ain't turning british in your feelings, court," remarked amos vick. "it's purty difficult to be both, you know,--english and yankee." "i'm american through and through, mr. vick, even though i did serve under the british flag till i was gassed and invalided out." "affects the lungs, don't it?" inquired old caleb. "i don't like to talk about it, mr. brown. i'm trying to forget what hell was like. i was in hospital for four months. it took a lot more nerve to draw a breath then than it did to fly over the german lines with the boches popping away from all sides. i didn't mind the wounds i sustained,--but the gas! gee, it was horrible." "your ma said in her letter to me that you'd had pneumonia twice since you got back," said mrs. vick. "was that due to the gas?" "i suppose so. they thought i had tuberculosis for awhile, you see. then, this spring, i had to go and have a bout with typhoid. i ought to be dead, with all i've had,--but here i am, alive and happy, and if you keep on feeding me as you have been for the past three days, i'll live forever." "you mustn't overdo, courtney," warned the farmer's wife. "your ma sent you out here to get well, and i feel a kind of responsibility for you. i guess it's about time you was off to bed. come on, amos. it isn't going to bring rain any sooner for you to be setting out here watching for it." old caleb had his say. "i suppose it was all right for you to serve with the british, court, but if you'd waited a little while longer you might have carried a gun over there under the stars and stripes. but, as you say, you couldn't bear to wait. i give you credit for it. i'm derned glad to see one member of the thane family that had the nerve to volunteer. at the time of the civil war your grandpa was what we call a slacker in these days. he hired a feller to go in his place, and when that feller was killed and a second call for volunteers come up, dogged if he didn't up and hire another one. one of your grandpa's brothers skipped off to canada so's he wouldn't have to serve, and the other,--his name was george washington thane, by the way,--accidentally shot two of his fingers off while his company was in camp down at crawfordsville, gettin' ready to go down and meet morgan's riders,--and that let him out. i admit it takes right smart of courage to accidentally shoot your fingers off, specially when nobody is lookin', but at any rate he had a uniform on when he done it. course, there wasn't any wars during your pa's day, so i don't know how he would have acted. he wasn't much of a feller for fightin', though,--i remember that. i mean fist fightin'. i'm glad to know you don't take after your granddad. i never had any use for a coward, and that's why i'm proud to shake hands with you, my boy. there was a derned bad streak in your family back in your granddad's day, and it certainly is good to see that you have wiped it out. it don't always happen so. yeller streaks are purty hard to wipe out. takes more than two generations to do it as a rule. i'm happy to know you ain't gun shy." the young man laughed. "i don't mind telling you, mr. brown, that i never went into action without being scared half out of my boots. but i wasn't alone in that, you see. i never knew a man over there who wasn't scared when he went over the top. he went, just the same,--and that's what i call courage." "so do i," cried rosabel. "did you ever know for sure whether you got a german?" asked the intense young caleb. "i mean,--did you ever kill one?" "that's pretty hard to say, cale. we never knew, you see,--we fellows up in the clouds. i was in a bombing machine. i'd hate to think that we wasted any bombs." "come now,--all of you,--off to bed," interposed mrs. vick. "i don't want to hear any more, courtney. i wouldn't sleep a wink." "strikin' ten," said amos, arising from his rocking-chair and turning it upside down at the back of the porch. "don't do that, amos," protested old caleb. "it'll never rain if you--why, dog-gone it, ain't you learned that it's bad luck to turn a chair bottom-side up when rain's needed? turn it right-side up and put it right out here in front again where the rain can get at it. nothin' tickles the weather more'n a chance to spoil something. that's right. now we c'n go to bed. better leave them cushions on the steps too, rosie." courtney thane went to his room,--the spare-room on the second floor,--and prepared to retire. the process was attended by the smoking of three cigarettes. presently he was stretched out on the bed without even so much as a sheet over him. the heat was stifling. not a breath of air came in through the wide-open windows. he lay awake for a long time, staring out into the night. "so my precious granddad had a yellow streak in him, did he? and father wasn't much of a fighter either. takes more than two generations to wipe out a yellow streak, does it? i wonder what the old boob meant by that rotten slam at my people." chapter iv dowd's tavern the last week in august courtney thane left the vick farm and, crossing the river, took lodgings at the boarding house conducted by the misses dowd in the town of windomville. in a letter to his mother, informing her of the change, he had said: of course, i appreciate the fact that you are paying the bills, old dear, and out of consideration for you i dare say i ought to stick it out with the vicks till november as we arranged. but i simply cannot stand it any longer. the old woman almost puts me to bed, the girl almost sits on my lap, the boy drives me crazy with his infernal questions about the war, and old man brown,--the one who went to school with father out in this gosh awful land of the grasshopper,--he is the limit. he never lets a day go by without some slur about my grandfather or some other member of the family who existed long before i was born. thinks he's witty. he is always nagging at me about cigarette smoking. i wish you could see the way he mishandles a cigar. as you know, i seldom smoke more than a half dozen cigarettes a day, but he swears to god i am everlastingly ruining my health, and it has got on my nerves so that if i stay on here another week i'll call the old jay so hard he'll drop dead from the shock. and, my heavens, how lonesome it is here. i almost die of homesickness. i just had to find a place where there is some one to talk to besides the cows and sheep and people who never think of anything but crops and the weather, last sunday's sermon and theodore roosevelt. they are honest, but, my god, how could they be anything else? it would not be right for me to deny that i have improved a great deal in the last couple of weeks. i am beginning to feel pretty fit, and i've put on four or five pounds. still, i'm getting sick of fresh eggs and fresh milk and their everlasting bacon,--they call it side-meat,--and preserves. she simply stuffs me with them. the air is wonderful, even during that awful hot spell i wrote you about. i am sure that another month or two out here,--perhaps three,--will put me back on my pins stronger than ever, and then i'll be in condition to go back to work. i am eager to get at it as soon as possible in order to pay back all you have put up for me during this beastly year. if i did not know you can well afford to do what you have been doing for me, mother dear, i wouldn't allow you to spend another penny on me. but you will get it all back some day, not in cash, of course,--for that means nothing to you,--but in the joy of knowing that it was worth while to bring your only son into the world. now, as to this change i am going to make. i've been across the river several times and i like it over there much better than here. i think the air is better and certainly the surroundings are pleasanter. windomville is a funny little village of five or six hundred people, about the same number of dogs (exaggeration!), and the sleepiest place you've ever imagined. old caleb brown says it was laid out back in or thereabouts by the first windom to come to these parts. it has a public school, a town hall, a motion-picture house (with last year's reels), a drug store where you can get soda water, a grain elevator, and a wonderful old log hut that was built by the very first settler, making it nearly a hundred years old. miss alix crown, who owns nearly everything in sight,--including the log hut,--has had the latter restored and turned into the quaintest little town library you've ever seen. but you ought to see the librarian! she is a dried-up, squinty old maid of some seventy summers, and so full of jane austen and the bronte women and mrs. southworth that she hasn't an inch of room left in her for the modern writers. her name caps the climax. it is alaska spigg. can you beat it? no one ever calls her miss spigg,--not even the kids,--nor is she ever spoken of or to as alaska. it is always alaska spigg. i wish you could see her. miss crown is the girl i wrote you about, the one with the dime novel history back of her. she has a house on the edge of the town,--a very attractive place. i have not seen her yet. she is up in michigan,--harbor point, i believe,--but i hear she is expected home within a week or two. i am rather curious to see her. the place where i have taken a room is run by a couple of old maids named dowd. it is really a sort of hotel. at least, you would insult them if you called it a boarding house. their grandfather built the house and ran it as a tavern back before the civil war. when he died his son carried on the business. and now his two daughters run the place. they have built on a couple of wings and it is really an interesting old shack. clean as a pin, and they say the grub is good. it will be, as i said, a little more expensive living here than with the vicks but not enough to amount to anything. the dowds ask only fifteen dollars a week for room and board, which is cheaper than the ritz-carlton or the commodore, isn't it?...here is my new address in the metropolis of windomville-by-the-crick: dowd's tavern, main street. her reply was prompt. she wrote from bar harbor, where she was spending the summer: ...perfectly silly of you, dearest, to speak of repaying me. all i possess will be yours some day, so why begrudge you a little of what should be yours now? your dear father perhaps thought he was doing the right thing for both of us when he left everything to me during my lifetime, but i do not believe it was fair....there will not be a great deal, of course. you understand how heavy my expenses have been....in any case, you are in wretched health, my dear boy. nothing must stand in the way of your complete recovery. when you are completely recovered, well and strong and eager to take up life where this cruel war cut it off, i shall be the happiest mother alive. i am sure you will have no difficulty in establishing yourself. they tell me the returned soldiers are not having an easy time finding satisfactory and lucrative positions. it is a shame the way certain concerns have treated a good many of them, after actually promising to hold their places open for them. but with you it will be different. i spoke to mr. roberts yesterday about you. he wants to have a talk with you. i have an idea he wants to put you in charge of one of their offices in spain. at any rate, he asked if you spoke spanish well....so i can easily afford to increase your allowance to one hundred and fifty a month. more, if you should ask for it, but you are so proud and self-reliant i can do absolutely nothing with you, dear boy. i quite understand your unwillingness to accept more than you actually need from me. it is splendid, and i am very proud of you....this girl you wrote me about, is she so very rich?...your father used to speak of a young man named windom and how he envied him because he was so tall and handsome. of course, your dear father was a small boy then, and that is always one of the laments of small boys. that, and falling in love with women old enough to be their mothers....do write me often. but don't be angry with me if i fail to answer all of your letters. i am so frightfully busy. i rarely ever have more than a minute to myself. how i have managed to find the time to write this long letter to you i cannot imagine. it is really quite a nice long one, isn't it?...and don't be writing home to me in a few weeks to say you are engaged to be married to her. it took me a great many years to convert your dear father into what he was as you knew him. i don't relish the thought at my time of life of transforming a crude farmer's daughter into a fifth avenue lady, no matter how pretty she may be in the rough. the days of cinderella are long since past. one has so much to overcome in the way of a voice with these country girls, to say nothing of the letter r. your poor father never quite got over being an indiana farmer's son, but he did manage to subdue the aforesaid letter....and these country-girls take a harmless, amusing flirtation very seriously, dear boy.... your adoring mother. courtney thane's fame had preceded him to windomville. by this time, the entire district had heard of the man who was gassed, and who had actually won two or three medals for bravery in the great war. the young men from that section of the state who had seen fighting in france were still in new york city, looking for jobs. most of them had "joined up" at the first call for volunteers. some of them had been killed, many of them wounded, but not one of them had received a medal for bravery. the men who had been called by the draft into the great national army were all home again, having got no nearer to the battle front than an embarkation camp in new jersey,--and so this tall, slender young fellow from the east was an object not only of curiosity but of envy. the misses dowd laid themselves out to make him comfortable,--as well as prominent. they gave him a corner room on the upper floor of dowd's tavern, dispossessing a tenant of twelve years' standing,--a photographer named hatch, whose ability to keep from living too far in arrears depended on his luck in inveigling certain sentimental customers into taking "crayon portraits" of deceased loved ones, satisfaction guaranteed, frames extra. two windows, looking out over the roof of the long front porch, gave him an unobstructed view of main street, including such edifices as the postoffice, the log-hut library, the ancient watering trough, the drug store, and the steeple of the presbyterian church rising proudly above the roofs of the houses in between. main street ran almost parallel with the river. with commendable forethought, the first settlers had built their houses and stores some little distance back from the stream along the summit of a wooded ridge perhaps forty feet above the river at its midsummer low-water level. the tremendous, devastating floods that came annually with the breaking up of winter failed to reach the houses,--although in ,--according to the records,--the water came up to within a foot of joe roush's blacksmith shop, situated at that time halfway down the slope, compelling the smith to think seriously of "moving up a couple of hops," a precaution that was rendered unnecessary by a subsequent midsummer bolt of lightning that destroyed not only the forge but shocked joe so severely that he "saw green" for a matter of six weeks and finally resulted in his falling off the dock into deep water in the middle of what was intended to be a protracted spree brought on by the discovery that his insurance policy did not cover "loss by lightning." to this day, the older inhabitants of windomville will tell you about the way his widow "took on" until she couldn't stand it any longer,--and then married george hooper, the butcher, four months after the shocking demise of joseph. dowd's tavern had few transient guests. "drummers" from the city hard-by dropped in occasionally for a midday meal, but they never stayed the night. the guests were what the misses dowd called "regulars." they included hatch, the photographer; an old and indigent couple, parents of a farmer whose wife objected so vehemently to their well-meant efforts to "run" her house for her that he was obliged to "board 'em" with the dowd girls, an arrangement that seemed to satisfy every one concerned except the farmer himself, who never missed an opportunity to praise the food and the comforts to be enjoyed at the county "poorhouse" when he paid his semi-annual visit to the venerable dependents; mr. charlie webster, the rotund manager of the grain elevator, who spent every saturday night and sunday in the city and showed up for duty on monday with pinkish eyes and a rather tremulous whistle that was supposed to be reminiscent of ecclesiastical associations; miss flora grady, the dress-maker; doctor simpson, the dentist, a pale young man with extremely bad teeth and a habit of smiling, even at funerals; miss miller, the principal of the school, who was content with a small room over the kitchen at ten dollars a week, thereby permitting her to save something out of her salary, which was fifty dollars a month; a. lincoln pollock, the editor, owner and printer of the weekly sun, and his wife, maude baggs pollock, who besides contributing a poem to each and every issue of the paper, (over her own signature), collected news and society items, ran the postoffice for her husband, (he being the postmaster), and taught the bible class in the presbyterian sunday-school, as well as officiating as president and secretary of the literary society, secretary to the town board, secretary of the w. c. t. u., secretary of the woman's foreign missionary society, secretary of the american soldiers' and sailors' relief fund, secretary of the windomville improvement association, secretary of the lady maccabees, and, last but far from least, secretary of the local branch of the society for the preservation of the redwood forests of california. she was a born secretary. a. lincoln pollock, being a good democrat and holding office under a democratic administration, had deemed it wise to abbreviate his first name, thereby removing all taint of republicanism. he reduced abraham to an initial, but, despite his supreme struggle for dignity, was forced by public indolence to submit to a sharp curtailment of his middle name. he was known as link. the weekly sun duly reported the advent of colonel courtney thane, of new york and london, and gave him quite a "send-off," at the same time getting in a good word for the "excellent hostelry conducted by the misses dowd," as well as a paragraph congratulating the readers of the sun on the "scoop" that paper had obtained over the "alleged" newspapers up at the county seat. "if you want the news, read the sun," was the slogan at the top of the editorial column on the second page, followed by a line in parenthesis: ("if you want the sun, don't put off till tomorrow what you can do today. price three dollars a year in advance.") all of the boarders sat at the same table in the dining-room. punctuality at meals was obligatory. miss jennie dowd was the cook. she was assisted by miss margaret slattery, daughter of martin slattery, the grocer. miss mary dowd had charge of the dining-room. she was likewise assisted by miss slattery. between meals miss slattery did the dish-washing, chamber-work, light cleaning and "straightening," and still found room for her daily exercise, which consisted of half a dozen turns up and down main street in her best frock. old jim house did the outside chores about the place. he had worked at dowd's tavern for thirty-seven years, and it was his proud boast that he had never missed a day's work,--drunk or sober. the new guest was given the seat of honour at table. he was placed between mrs. pollock and miss flora grady, supplanting doctor simpson, who had held the honour ever since charlie webster's unfortunate miscalculation as to the durability of an unfamiliar brand of bourbon to which he had been introduced late one sunday evening. it was a brand that wore extremely well,--so well, in fact, that when he appeared for dinner at noon on monday he was still in a lachrymose condition over the death of his mother, an event which took place when he was barely six years old. doctor simpson relinquished the seat cheerfully. he had held it a year and he had grown extremely tired of having to lean back as far as possible in his chair so that mrs. pollock and miss grady could converse unobstructedly in front of him, a position that called for the utmost skill and deliberation on his part, especially when it came to conveying soup and "floating island" to such an altitude. (he had once resorted to the expedient of bending over until his nose was almost in the plate, so that they might talk across his back, but gave it up when miss molly dowd acridly inquired if he smelt anything wrong with the soup.) mr. hatch invited courtney down to the studio to have his photograph taken, free of charge; mr. pollock subjected him to a long interview about the war; mr. webster notified him that he had laid in a small stock just prior to july the first and that all he had to do was to "say the word,"--or wink if it wasn't convenient to speak; miss grady told him, at great length, of her trip to new york in , and inquired about certain landmarks in the metropolis,--such as the aquarium, the hoffman house, madison square, stewart's drygoods store, tiffany's place,--revealing a sort of lofty nonchalance in being able to speak of things she had seen while the others had merely read about them; mrs. pollock had him write in her autograph album, and wondered if he would not consent to give a talk before the literary society at its next meeting; and margaret slattery made a point of passing things to him first at meals, going so far as to indicate the choicest bits of "white meat," or the "second joint," if he preferred the dark, whenever they had chicken for dinner,--which was quite often. old mr. nichols, (the indigent father), remembered courtney's grandfather very well, and, being apt to repeat himself, told and retold the story of a horse-trade in which he got the better of silas thane. mrs. nichols, living likewise in the remote past, remembered being in his grandmother's sunday-school class, and how people used to pity the poor thing because silas ran around considerable after other women,--'specially a lively-stableman's wife up in the city,--and what a terrible time she had when john robinson's circus came to town a little while before her first child was born and the biggest boa-constrictor in captivity escaped and eat up two lambs on silas's farm before it went to sleep and was shot out in the apple orchard by jake billings. she often wondered whether her worrying about that snake had had any effect on the baby, who, it appears, ultimately grew up and became courtney's father. the young man smilingly sought to reassure her, but after twice repeating his remark, looked so embarrassed that mr. hatch gloomily announced from the foot of the table: "she's deef." now, as to mr. courtney thane. he was a tall, spare young man, very erect and soldierly, with an almost unnoticeable limp. he explained this limp by confessing that he had got into the habit of favouring his left leg, which had been injured when his machine came down in flames a short distance back of the lines during a vicious gas attack by the enemy--(it was on this occasion that he was "gassed" while dragging a badly wounded comrade to a place of safety)--but that the member was quite as sound as ever and it was silly of him to go on being so confounded timid about it, especially as it hadn't been anything to speak of in the beginning,--nothing more, in fact, than a cracked knee joint and a trifling fracture of the ankle. his hair was light brown, almost straw-coloured, and was brushed straight back from the forehead. a small, jaunty moustache, distinctly english in character, adorned his upper lip. his eyes were brown, set well back under a perfectly level, rather prominent brow. his mouth was wide and faintly satirical; his chin aggressively square; his nose long and straight. his voice was deep and pleasant, and he spoke with what miss miller described as a "perfectly fascinating drawl." mrs. pollock, who was quite an extensive reader of novels and governed her conversation accordingly went so far as to say that he was "the sort of chap that women fall in love with easily,"--and advised miss miller to keep a pretty sharp watch on her heart,--a remark that drew from miss miller the confession that she had rejected at least half a dozen offers of marriage and she guessed if there was any watching to be done it would have to be done by the opposite sex. (as miss miller had repeatedly alluded to these fruitless masculine manifestations, mrs. pollock merely sniffed,--and afterwards confided to miss molly dowd her belief that if any one had ever asked angie miller to marry him she'd be a grandmother by this time.) from this, it may be correctly surmised that miss miller was no longer in the first bloom of youth. whenever courtney appeared on main street, he was the centre not only of observation but of active attention. nearly every one had some form of greeting for him. introductions were not necessary. women as well as men passed the time of day with him, and not a few of the former solicitously paused to inquire how he was feeling. young girls stared at him and blushed, young boys followed his progress about town with wide, worshipful eyes,--for was he not a hero out of their cherished romance? he had to hear from the lips of ancient men the story of antietam, of chancellorsville and of shiloh; eulogies and criticisms of grant, mcclellan and meade; praise for the enemy chieftains, lee, stonewall jackson and johnston; comparisons in the matter of fatalities, marksmanship, generalship, hardships and all such, and with the inevitable conclusion that the civil war was the greatest war ever fought for the simple reason that it was fought by men and not by machinery. "and, what's more," declared old captain house vigorously, "it was fit entirely by americans, and not by every dodgasted nation on the face of the earth, no two of 'em able to understand a blamed word of what was being said by friend er foe." "and," added ex-corporal grimes, stamping the sidewalk with his peg leg, "what's more, there wasn't ary one of them johnny rebs that couldn't pick off a squirrel five hundred yards away with a rifle--a rifle, mind ye, not a battery of machine guns. every time they was a fight, big er little, we used to stand out in the open and shoot at each other like soldiers--and gentlemen--aimin' straight at the feller we'd picked out to kill. they tell me they was more men shot right smack between the eyes in the civil war than all the other wars put together. yes-sir-ee! and as fer ree-connoiterin', why it was nothin' for our men,--er the rebs, either, fer that matter,--to crawl up so close to the other side's camps that they could smell the vittels cookin',--and i remember a case when one of our scouts, bein' so overcome by the smell of a fried chicken, snuck right up and grabbed it offen the skillet when the cook's back was turned, and got away with it safe, too, b'gosh!" chapter v trespass courtney never was without the heavy english walking-stick on which he occasionally leaned for support. he took long strolls in the country, frequently passing the windom place, and twice he had gone as far as the railed-in base of quill's window. from the footpath at the bottom he could look through the trees up to the bare crest of the rock. the gate through the high fence was padlocked, and contained a sign with the curt warning: "no trespass." on the opposite side of the wide strip of meadow-land, in which cattle grazed placidly, he could see the abandoned house where alix crown was born,--a colourless, weather-beaten, two-storey frame building with faded green window shutters and a high-pitched roof blackened by rain and rot. every shutter was closed; an atmosphere of utter desolation hung over the place. across that brown, sunburnt stretch of meadow-land when it was white and cold, old david windom had carried the stiff body of edward crown,--and returning had borne the soft, limp figure of his stricken child. courtney permitted his fancy to indulge in calculation. he followed with his eye what must have been the path of the slayer on that dreadful night. it led, no doubt, to the spot on which he now was standing, for just behind him was the suggestion of a narrow, weed-lined path that wormed its way through the trees toward the top of the great rock. he decided that one day soon he would disregard that sign on the gate, and climb up to the strange burial place of edward crown and alix the second. he had tested his increasing strength and endurance by rowing up the river with rosabel for a fair view of the hole in the face of the rock--quill's window. it was plainly visible from the river, a wide black gash in the almost perpendicular wall that reached well above the fringe of trees and underbrush along the steep bank of the stream. he tried to picture quill as he sat in his strange abode, a hundred years ago, cowering over the fire or reading perhaps by the light of a huge old-fashioned lanthorn. he thought of him hanging by the neck back in the dark recess, victim either of his own conscience or the implacable hatred of the enemy "down the river." and then there were the others who had found death in the heart of that mysterious cavern,--ugly death. he wondered what the interior of the cave was like, and whether he could devise some means of entering it. a rope ladder attached to a substantial support at the top of the cliff would afford the easiest way of reaching the mouth of the cave,--in fact, he recalled that quill employed some such means of descending to his eerie home. the entrance appeared to be no more than twenty feet below the brow of the cliff. it would not even be a hazardous undertaking. besides, if quill and his successors were able to go up and down that wall safely and repeatedly, why not he? no doubt scores of men,--perhaps even schoolboys of the tom sawyer type,--had made frequent visits to the cave. he knew he would be disregarding the command of alix crown,--a command that all people respected and observed,--if he passed the barrier and climbed to the top of the rock, but who, after all, was alix crown that she should say "no trespass" to the world at large? the thought of edward crown wedged in at the bottom of quill's chimney, weighted down with stones and earth, alone served as an obstacle to the enterprise. he shrank from certain gruesome possibilities,--such as the dislodgment of stones at the bottom of the crevice and the consequent exposure of a thing that would haunt him forever. and even though the stones remained in place there would still remain the fact that almost within arm's length was imprisoned the crushed, distorted remains of the murdered man. toward the end of his second week at dowd's tavern, he set out to climb to the top of the big rock. he had no intention of descending to the cavern's mouth on this occasion. that feat was to be reserved for another day. arriving at the gate, he was surprised and gratified to discover that it was unlocked. while it was latched, the padlock and chain hung loosely from the post to which the latter was attached. without hesitation, he opened the gate and strode boldly into proscribed territory. the ascent was gradual at first, then steep and abrupt for a matter of fifty or sixty feet to the bald summit of the hill. once at the top, he sat down panting and exhausted upon the edge of the shallow fissure he had followed as a path up the rock, and again his thoughts went back to the night of the murder. this had been david windom's route to the top of the hill. he found himself discrediting one feature at least of the man's confession. only a fabled giant could have carried the body of a man up that steep, tortuous incline. why, he was exhausted, and he had borne no heavier burden than his stout walking-stick. that part of windom's story certainly was "fishy." presently he arose and strode out upon the rough, uneven "roof" of the height. he could look in all directions over the tops of the trees below. the sun beat down fiercely upon the unsheltered rock. off to the north lay the pall of smoke indicating the presence of the invisible county seat. thin, anfractuous highways and dirt roads scarred the green and brown landscape, and as far as the eye could reach were to be seen farmhouses and barns and silos. avoiding the significant heap of rocks near the centre of the little plateau, he made his way to the brink of the cliff overlooking the river. there he had a wonderful view of the winding stream, the harvest fields, the groves, and the herds in the far-reaching stretches of what was considered the greatest corn raising "belt" in the united states. some yards back from the edge of the cliff he discovered the now thoroughly rotted section of a tree trunk, eight or ten inches in diameter, driven deeply into a narrow fissure and rendered absolutely immovable by a solid mass of stones and gravel that completely closed the remainder of the crevice. he was right in surmising that this was the support from which quill's rope or vine ladder was suspended a hundred years ago. nearby were two heavy iron rings attached to standards sunk firmly into the rock, a modern improvement on the hermit's crude device. (he afterwards learned that david windom, when a lad of fifteen, had drilled the holes in the rock and imbedded the stout iron shafts, so that he might safely descend to the mouth of the cave.) turning back, he approached the heap of boulders that covered the grave of edward and alix crown. no visible sign of the cleft in the surface of the rock remained. six huge boulders, arranged in a row, rose above a carefully made bed of stones held in place by a low, soundly mortared wall. chiselled on one of the end boulders was the name of alix windom crown, with the date of her birth and her death, with the line: "rock of ages cleft for me." below this inscription was the recently carved name of edward joseph crown, born july , . died march , . three words followed this. they were "abide with me." ii thane stood for a long time looking at the pile. he was not sentimental. his life had been spent in an irreverent city, among people hardened by pleasure or coarsened by greed. his thoughts as he stood there were not of the unhappy pair who reposed beneath those ugly rocks; they were of the far-off tragedy that had brought them to this singular resting-place. the fact that this was a grave, sacred in the same sense that his father's grave in woodlawn was supposed to be sacred to him and to his mother, was overlooked in the silent contemplation of what an even less sophisticated person might have been justified in describing as a "freak." nothing was farther from his mind, however, than the desire or impulse to be disrespectful. and yet, as he was about to turn away from this sombre pile, he leaned over and struck a match on one of the huge boulders. as he was conveying the lighted sulphur match,--with which dowd's tavern abounded,--to the cigarette that hung limply from his lips, he was startled by a sharp, almost agonized cry. it seemed to come from nowhere. he experienced the uncanny feeling that a ghost,--the ghost that haunted quill's window,--standing guard over the mound, had cried out under the pain inflicted by that profane match. even as he turned to search the blazing, sunlit rock with apprehensive eyes, a voice, shrill with anger, flung these words at him: "what are you doing up here?" his gaze fell upon the speaker, standing stockstill in the cloven path below him, not twenty feet away. in his relief, he laughed. he beheld a slim figure in riding-togs. nothing formidable or ghostlike in that! nevertheless, a pair of dark blue eyes transfixed him with indignation. they looked out from under the rim of a black sailor hat, and they were wide and inimical. "did you not see that sign on the gate?" demanded the girl. "i did," he replied, still smiling as he removed his hat,--one of knox's panamas. "and i owe you an apology." she advanced to the top. he noted the riding-crop gripped rather firmly in her clenched hand. "no one is permitted to come up here," she announced, stopping a few feet away. she was quite tall and straight. she panted a little from the climb up the steep. he saw her bosom rise and fall under the khaki jacket; her nostrils were slightly distended. in that first glimpse of her, he took in the graceful, perfect figure; the lovely, brilliant face; the glorious though unsmiling eyes. "you must leave at once. this is private property. go, please." "i cannot go before telling you how rotten i feel for striking that match. i beg of you, miss crown,--you are miss crown?--i can only ask you to believe that it was not a conscious act of desecration. it was sheer thoughtlessness. i would not have done it for the world if i had--" "it is not necessary for you to explain," she broke in curtly. "i saw what you did,--and it is just because of such as you that this spot is forbidden ground. idle curiosity, utter disregard for the sacredness of that lonely grave,--oh, you need not attempt to deny it. you are a stranger here, but that is no excuse for your passing through that gate. i am miss crown. this hill belongs to me. it was i who had that fence put up and it was i who directed the sign to be put on the gate. they are meant for strangers as well as for friends. it was not thoughtlessness that brought you up here. you thought a long time before you came. will you be good enough to go?" he flushed under the scornful dismissal. "the gate was unlocked--" he began. "that doesn't matter. it might have been wide open, sir,--but that did not grant you any special privileges." "i can only ask your pardon, miss crown, and depart in disgrace," said he, quite humbly. as he started down the path, he paused to add: "i did not know you had returned. i daresay i should have been less venturesome had i known you were in the neighbourhood." the thinly veiled sarcasm did not escape her. "i suppose you are the young man from new york that every one is talking about. that may account for your ignorance. in order that you may not feel called upon to visit this place again to satisfy your curiosity, i will point out to you the objects of interest. this pile of rocks marks the grave of my father and mother. the dates speak for themselves. you may have noticed them when you scratched your match just above my mother's name. my father was murdered by my grandfather before i was born. my mother died on the day i was born. i never saw them. i do not love them, because i never knew them. but i do respect and honour them. they were good people. i have no reason to be ashamed of them. if you will look out over those trees and across that pasture, you will see the house in which my mother died and where i was born. directly in front of the little porch my father died as the result of a blow delivered by my grandfather. as to the disposal of the body, you may obtain all the information necessary from alaska spigg, our town librarian, who will be more than delighted to supply you with all the ghastly details. to your right is the post to which a man named quill attached his ladder in order to reach the cave in the face of this rock,--where he lived for many years. this is the path leading down to the gate, which you will still find unlocked. it will not be necessary for you to come up here again. you have seen all there is to see." with that, she deliberately turned her back on him and walked toward the edge of the cliff. he stared after her for a few seconds, his lips parted as if to speak, and then, as the flush of mortification deepened in his cheeks, he began picking his way rather blindly down the steep path. he was never to forget his first encounter with alix the third. chapter vi charlie webster entertains that evening at the supper table, mr. pollock politely informed him that alix crown had returned from michigan, looking as fit as a fiddle. "you've been so sort of curious about her, court?" (it had not taken the male boarders long to dispense with formalities), "that i thought you'd be interested in knowing that she's home. got back last evening. her packard automobile met her at the depot up in the city. you'll know her when you see her. tall girl and fairly good-looking. puts on an awful lot of 'dog.' what is it you fellows in the army call it? swunk?" "swank," said courtney, rather shortly. he was still smarting under the sting of his afternoon's experience. "lemme help you to some more squash, mr. thane," said margaret slattery in his ear. "and another biscuit." "thank you, no," said he. "what's the matter with your appetite?" she demanded. "you ain't hardly touched anything this evenin'. sick?" "i'm not hungry, margaret." "been out in the sun too much, that's what's the matter with you. first thing you know you'll get a sunstroke, and then! my uncle mike was sunstruck when i was--" "pass me the biscuits, maggie, and don't be all night about it," put in mr. webster. "i'm hungry, even if court isn't. i can distinctly remember when you used to pass everything to me first, and almost stuff it--" "yes, and she used to do the same for me before you shaved off your chin whiskers, charlie," said mr. hatch gloomily. "how times have changed." "it ain't the times that's changed," said margaret. "it's you men. you ain't what you used to be, lemme tell you that." "true,--oh so true," lamented mr. webster. "i used to be nice and thin and graceful before you began showering me with attention. now look at me. you put something like fifty pounds on me, and then you desert me. i was a handsome feller when i first came here, wasn't i, flora? i leave it to you if i wasn't." "i don't remember how you looked when you first came here," replied miss grady loftily. "can you beat that?" cried charlie to courtney across the table. "and she used to say i was the handsomest young feller she'd ever laid eyes on. used to say i looked like,--who was it you used to say i looked like, flora?" "the only thing i ever said you looked like was a mud fence, charlie webster." "what did she say, pa? hey?" this from old mrs. nichols, holding her hand to her ear. "what are they laughing at?" "she says charlie looks like a mud fence," shouted old mr. nichols, his lips close to her ear. "his pants? what about his pants?" this time courtney joined in the laugh. after supper he sat on the front porch with the pollocks and miss grady. it was a warm, starry night. charlie webster and doc simpson had strolled off down the street. mr. hatch and miss miller sat in the parlour. "she's going to land furman hatch, sure as you're a foot high," confided mr. pollock, with a significant jerk of his head in the direction of the parlour. "heaven knows she's been trying long enough," said miss grady. "i heard him ask doc and charlie to wait for him, but she nabbed him before he could get out. now he's got to sit in there and listen to her tell about how interested she is in art,--and him just dyin' for a smoke. why, there's alix crown now. she's comin' in here." a big touring car drew up to the sidewalk in front of the tavern. miss crown sprang lightly out of the seat beside the chauffeur and came up the steps. "how do you do, mrs. pollock? hello, flora. good evening, mr. editor," was her cheery greeting as she passed by and entered the house. "she comes around every once in a while and takes the dowd girls out riding in her car," explained mrs. pollock. "mighty nice of her," said mr. pollock, taking his feet down from the porch-rail and carefully brushing the cigar ashes off of his coat sleeve. "takes old alaska spigg out too, and the nicholses, and--" "we've been out with her a great many times," broke in mrs. pollock. "i think a packard is a wonderful car, don't you, mr. thane? so smooth and--" "i think i'll take a little stroll," said courtney abruptly; and snatching up his hat from the floor beside his chair he hurried down the steps. she had not even glanced at him as she crossed the porch. he had the very uneasy conviction that so far as she was concerned he might just as well not have been there at all. in the early dusk, her face was clearly revealed to him. there was nothing cold or unfriendly about it now. instead, her smile was radiant; her eyes,--even in the subdued light,--glowed with pleasure. her voice was clear and soft and singularly appealing. in the afternoon's encounter he had been struck by its unexpected combination of english and american qualities; the sharp querulousness of the english and the melodious drawl of the american were strangely blended, and although there had been castigation in her words and manner, he took away with him the disturbing memory of a voice he was never to forget. and now he had seen the smile that even the most envious of her kind described as "heavenly." it was broad and wholesome and genuine. there was a flash of white, even teeth between warm red lips, a gleam of merriment in the half-closed eyes, a gay tilt to the bare, shapely head. her dark hair was coiled neatly, and the ears were exposed. he liked her ears. he remembered them as he had seen them in the afternoon, fairly large, shapely and close to the head. no need for her to follow the prevailing fashion of the day! she had no reason to hide her ears beneath a mat of hair. in the evening glow her face was gloriously beautiful,--clear-cut as a cameo, warm as a rose. it was no longer clouded with anger. she seemed taller. the smart riding costume had brought her trim figure into direct contrast with his own height and breadth, and she had looked like a slim, half-grown boy beside his six feet and over. now, in her black and white checked sport skirt and dark sweater jacket, she was revealed as a woman quite well above the average height. he was standing in front of the drug store when the big car went by a few minutes later, filled with people. she was driving, the chauffeur sitting in the seat beside her. in the tonneau he observed the two dowd sisters, mr. and mrs. pollock and flora grady. as the car whizzed by, a. lincoln pollock espied him. waving his hand triumphantly, the editor called out: "hello, court!" the object of this genial shout did not respond by word or action. he looked to see if the girl at the wheel turned her head for a glance in his direction. she did not, and he experienced a fresh twinge of annoyance. he muttered something under his breath. the car disappeared around a bend as he turned to enter the store. "that was alix crown, court," remarked charlie webster from the doorway. "little too dark to get a good look at her, but wait till she flashes across you in broad daylight some time. she'll make you forget all those fifth avenue skirts so quick your head'll swim." "is that so?" retorted courtney, allowing rancour to get the better of fairness. down in his heart he had said that alix crown was the loveliest girl he had ever seen. "what do you know about fifth avenue?" charlie webster grinned amiably. he was not offended by the other's tone. "well, i've seen it in the movies," he explained. "what are you sore about?" "sore? i'm not sore. what put that into your head?" the rotund superintendent of the elevator fanned himself lazily with his straw hat. "if i was fifteen years younger and fifty pounds lighter," said he, "i'd be sore too. but what's the use of a fat old slob like me getting peeved because miss alix crown don't happen to notice me? oh, we're great friends and all that, mind you, and she thinks a lot of me,--as manager of her grain elevator. same as she thinks a lot of jim bagley, her superintendent,--and ed stevens, her chauffeur, and so on. now, as for you, it's different. you're from new york and it goes against the grain to be overlooked, you might say, by a girl from indiana. oh, i know what you new yorkers think of indiana,--and all that therein is, as the scriptures would say. you think that nothing but boobs and corn-fed squaws come from indiana, but if you hang around long enough you'll find you're mistaken. this state is full of girls like alix crown,--bright, smart, good-looking girls that have been a hell of a ways farther east than new york. of course, there are boobs like me and doc simpson and tintype hatch who get up to chicago once every three or four years and have to sew our return trip tickets inside our belly-bands so's we can be sure of getting back home after chicago gets through admiring us, but now since prohibition has come in i don't know but what we're as bright and clever as anybody else. most of the fellers i've run across in chicago seem to be brightest just after they change feet on the rail and ask the bartender if he knows how to make a cucumber cocktail, or something else as clever as that. but that ain't what we were talking about. we were talking about--" "i wasn't talking about anything," interrupted courtney. "oh, yes, you were," said charlie. "not out loud, of course,--but talking just the same. you were talking about alix crown and the way she forgot to invite you to take a ride with the rest of--" "see here, webster,--are you trying to be offensive?" "offensive? lord, no! i'm just telling you, that's all. on the level now, am i right or wrong?" "i do not know miss crown," replied thane stiffly. "why should i expect her to ask me,--a total stranger,--to go out in her car?" "didn't maude pollock introduce you a while ago?" "no," said the other succinctly. "well, by gosh, that ain't like maude," exclaimed charlie. "i'd 'a' bet two dollars she said 'i want to present my friend from new york, mr. courtney thane, the distinguished aviator, miss crown,' or something like that. i can't understand maude missing a chance like that. she just loves it." courtney smiled. "i daresay she wasn't quick enough," he said drily. "miss crown was in a hurry. and i left before she came out of the house. now is your curiosity satisfied?" "absolutely," said charlie. "now i'll sleep soundly tonight. i was afraid the darned thing would keep me awake all night. remember me saying i had a small stock hid away up in my room? what say to going up,--now that the coast is clear,--and having a nip or two?" "no, thanks, old man. i don't drink. doctor's orders. besides, i've got some letters to write. i'll walk home with you if you're ready to go." ii mr. webster shook his head sadly. "that's the one drawback to livin' in windomville," he said. "people either want to drink too much or they don't want to drink at all. nobody wants to drink in moderation. now, here's you, for instance. you look like a feller that could kiss a highball or two without compromising yourself, and there's hatch that has to hold his nose so's he won't get drunk if he comes within ten feet of a glass of whiskey." they were strolling slowly toward the tavern. "now you up and claim you're on the water wagon. i'd been counting on you, court,--i certainly had. the last time i took hatch and doc simpson up to my room,--that was on the fourth of last july,--i had to sleep on the floor. course, if i was skinny like doc and hatch that wouldn't have been necessary. but i can't bear sleepin' three in a bed. doctor's orders, eh? that comes of livin' in new york. there ain't a doctor in indiana that would stoop so low as that,--not one. look at old man nichols. he's eighty-two years old and up to about a year ago he never missed a day without taking a couple o' swigs of rye. he swears he wouldn't have lived to be more than seventy-five if he hadn't taken his daily nip. that shows how smart and sensible our doctors are out here. they--" "by the way, mrs. nichols appears to be a remarkably well-preserved old lady,--aside from her hearing. how old is she?" "eighty-three. wonderful old woman." "i suppose she has always had her daily swig of rye." charlie webster was silent for a moment. he had to think. this was a very serious and unexpected complication. "what did you say?" he inquired, fencing for time. "has she always been a steady drinker, like the old man?" charlie was a gentleman. he sighed. "i guess it's time to change the subject," he said. "the only way you could get a spoonful of whiskey down that old woman would be to chloroform her. if i'm any good at guessin', she'll outlive the old man by ten years,--so what's the sense of me preachin' to you about the life preserving virtues of booze? oh, lordy! there's another of my best arguments knocked galley-west. it's no use. i've been playing old man nichols for nearly fifteen years as a bright and shining light, and he turns out to be nothing but a busted flush. she's had eleven children and he's never had anything worse than a headache, and, by gosh, he's hangin' onto her with both hands for support to keep his other foot from slippin' into the grave. but,"--and here his face brightened suddenly,--"there's one thing to be said, court. she didn't consult any darned fool doctor about it." courtney was ashamed of his churlishness toward this good-natured little man. "say no more, charlie. i'll break my rule this once if it will make you feel any better. one little drink, that's all,--in spite of the doctor. he's a long way off, and i daresay he'll never know the difference. lead the way, old chap. anything to cheer up a disconsolate comrade." a few minutes later they were in webster's room, second floor back. the highly gratified host had lighted the kerosene lamp on the table in the centre of the room, and pulled down the window shades. then, putting his fingers to his lips to enjoin silence, he tip-toed to the door and threw it open suddenly. after peering into the hall and listening intently for a moment, he cautiously closed it again. "all's well, as the watchman says at midnight," he remarked, as he drew his key ring from his hip pocket and selected a key with unerring precision from the extensive assortment. "i always do that," he added. "i don't suppose it was necessary tonight, because angie miller has got hatch where he can't possibly escape. long as she knows where he is, she don't do much snooping. she used to be the same way with me,--and doc, too, for that matter. poor hatch,--setting down there in the parlour,--listening to her talk about birds and flowers and trying to help her guess what she's going to give him for next christmas. it's hell to be a bachelor, court." he unlocked a trunk in the corner of the room, and after lifting out two trays produced a half empty whiskey bottle. "i had a dozen of these to begin with," said he, holding the bottle up to the light. "dollar sixty a quart. quite a nifty little stock, eh?" "is that all you have left?" charlie scratched his ear reflectively. "well, you see, i've had a good deal of toothache lately," he announced. "and as soon as doc simpson and hatch found out about it, they begin to complain about their teeth achin' too. seemed to be a sort of epidemic of toothache, court. nothing like whiskey for the toothache, you know." "but simpson is a dentist. why don't you have him treat your teeth?" "seems as though he'd sooner have me treat his," said charlie, with a slight grimace. rummaging about in the top tray of the trunk, he produced a couple of bar glasses, which he carefully rinsed at the washstand. "tastes better when you drink it out of a regular glass," he explained. "always seems sort of cowardly to me to take it with water,--almost as if you were trying to drown it so's it won't be able to bite back when you tackle it. needn't mind sayin' 'when' the glass holds just so much, and i know enough to stop when it begins to run over. well! here's hoping your toothache will be better in the morning, court." "i don't think i ought to rob you like this, charlie,--" "lord, man, you're not robbing me. if you're robbing anybody, it's doc simpson,--and he's been absolutely free from toothache ever since i told him this room was dry. excuse me a second, court. i always propose a toast before i take a drink up here. here's to miss alix crown, the finest girl in the u. s. a., and the best boss a man ever had. course i've never said that in a saloon, but up here it's different,--and kind of sacred." "i usually make a wry face when i drink it neat like this," said courtney. "you'll like her just as well as i do when you get to know her, boy. i've known her since she was a little kid,--long before she was sent abroad,--and she's the salt of the earth. that's one thing on which doc and hatch and me always agree. we differ on most everything else, but--well, as i was saying, you wait till you get to know her." he tossed off the whiskey in one prodigious gulp, smacked his lips, and then stood watching his guest drink his. tears came into courtney's eyes as he drained the last drop of the fiery liquid. a shudder distorted his face. "pretty hot stuff, eh?" observed charlie sympathetically. courtney's reply was a nod of the head, speech being denied him. "don't try to talk yet," said charlie, as if admonishing a child who has choked on a swallow of water. "anyhow," he went on quaintly, after a moment, "it makes you forget all about your toothache, don't it?" the other cleared his throat raucously. "now i know why the redskins call it fire water," said he. "have another?" "not on your life," exclaimed the new yorker. "put it back in the trunk,--and lock it up!" "no sooner said than done," said charlie amicably. "now i'll pull up the shades and let in a little of our well-known hoosier atmosphere,--and some real moonshine. hello! there go hatch and angie, out for a stroll. yep! she's got him headed toward foster's soda water joint. i'll bet every tooth in his head is achin'." "how long have you been running the grain elevator, charlie?" "ever since david windom built it, back in ,--twenty-two years. i took a few months off in ' , expecting to see something of cuba, but the darned spaniards surrendered when they heard i was on the way, so i never got any farther than indianapolis. twenty-two years. that's almost as long as alix crown has lived altogether." "have you ever seen the grave at the top of quill's window?" "when i first came here, yes. nobody ever goes up there now. in the first place, she don't like it, and in the second place, most people in these parts are honourable. we wouldn't any more think of trespassin' up there than we'd think of pickin' somebody's pocket. besides which, there's supposed to be rattlesnakes up there among the rocks. and besides that, the place is haunted." "haunted? i understood it was the old windom house that is haunted." "well, spooks travel about a bit, being restless sort of things. thirty or forty years back, people swore that old quill and the other people who croaked up there used to come back during the dark of the moon and hold high revels, as the novel writers would say. strange to say, they suddenly stopped coming back when the sheriff snook up there one night with a couple of deputies and arrested a gang of male and female mortals and confiscated a couple of kegs of beer at the same time. shortly after old david windom confessed that he killed alix's father and buried him on the rock, people begin to talk about seeing things again. funny that eddie crown's ghost neglected to come back till after he'd been dead eighteen years or so. ghosts ain't usually so considerate. nobody ever claims to have seen him floating around the old windom front yard before mr. windom confessed. but, by gosh, the story hadn't been printed in the newspapers for more than two days before george heffner saw eddie in the front yard, plain as day, and ran derned near a mile and a half past his own house before he could stop, as he told some one that met him when he stopped for breath. course, that story sort of petered out when george's wife went down and cowhided a widow who lived just a mile and a half south of their place, and that night george kept on running so hard the other way that he's never been heard of since. since then there hasn't been much talk about ghosts,--'specially among the married men." "and the rattlesnakes?" said courtney, grinning. "along about david windom killed a couple of rattlers up there. it's only natural that their ghosts should come back, same as anybody else's. far as i can make out, nobody has ever actually seen one, but the lord only knows how many people claim to have heard 'em." he went on in this whimsical fashion for half an hour or more, and finally came back to alix crown again. "she did an awful lot of good during the war,--contributed to everything, drove an ambulance in new york, took up nursing, and all that, and if the war hadn't been ended by you fellers when it was, she'd have been over in france, sure as you're a foot high." "strange she hasn't married, young and rich and beautiful as she is," mused courtney. "plenty of fellers been after her all right. she don't seem to be able to see 'em though. now that the war's over maybe she'll settle down and pay some attention to sufferin' humanity. there's one thing sure. if she's got a beau he don't belong around these parts. nobody around here's got a look-in." "does she live all alone in that house up there? i mean, has she no--er--chaperon?" "nancy strong is keeping house for her,--her husband used to run the blacksmith shop here and did all of david windom's work for him. he's been dead a good many years. nancy is one of the finest women you ever saw. her father was an episcopal minister up in the city up to the time he died. nancy had to earn her own living, so she got a job as school teacher down here. let's see, that was over thirty years ago. been here ever since. tom strong wasn't good enough for her. too religious. he was the feller that led the mob that wiped out tony zimmerman's saloon soon after i came here. i'll never forget that night. i happened to be in the saloon,--just out of curiosity, because it was new and everybody was dropping in to see the bar and fixtures he'd got from chicago,--but i got out of a back window in plenty of time. but as i was saying, nancy strong keeps house for alix. she's got a cook and a second girl besides, and a chauffeur." "an ideal arrangement," said courtney, looking at his wrist-watch. "i wonder if you ever came across nancy strong's son over in france. he was in the medical corps in our army. he's a doctor. went to rush medical college in chicago and afterwards to some place in the east,--john hopkins or some such name as that. feller about your age, i should say. david strong. mr. windom sent him through college. they say he's paying the money back to alix crown as fast as he makes it. alix hates him worse'n poison, according to jim bagley, her foreman. of course, she don't let on to david's mother on account of her being housekeeper and all. seems that alix is as sore as can be because he insists on paying the money to her, when she claims her grandpa gave it to him and it's none of her business. davy says he promised to pay mr. windom back as soon as he was able, and can't see any reason why the old man's death should cancel the obligation. jim was telling me some time ago about the letter alix showed him from davy. she was so mad she actually cried. he said in so many words he didn't choose to be beholden to her, and that he was in the habit of paying his debts, and she needn't be so high and mighty about refusin' to accept the money. he said he didn't accept anything from mr. windom as charity,--claiming it was a loan,--and he'd be damned if he'd accept charity from her. i don't believe he swore like that, but then jim can't say good morning to you without getting in a cuss word or two. alix is as stubborn as all get out. jim says that every time she gets a cheque from davy she cashes it and hands the money over to mrs. strong for a present, never letting on to nancy that it came from davy. did i say that davy is practisin' in philadelphia? he was back here for a week to see his mother after he got out of the army, but when alix heard he was coming she beat it up to chicago. i thought maybe you might have run across him over in france." "i was not with the american army,--and besides there were several million men in france, charlie," said courtney, arising and stretching himself. "well, good night. thanks for the uplift. i'll skip along now and write a letter or two." "snappy dreams," said charlie webster. just as courtney was closing a long letter to his mother, the automobile drew up in front of the tavern and alix crown's guests got out. there were "good-nights" and "sleep-tights" and then the car went purring down the dimly lighted road. he had no trouble in distinguishing alix's clear, young voice, and thereupon added the following words of comfort to his faraway mother: "you will love her voice, mater dear. it's like music. so put away your prejudice and wish me luck. i've made a good start. the fact that she refused to look at me on the porch tonight is the best sign in the world. just because she deliberately failed to notice me is no sign that she didn't expect me to notice her. it is an ancient and time-honoured trick of your adorable sex." iii the next morning his walk took him up the lane past the charming, red-brick house of alix the third. his leg was troubling him. he walked with quite a pronounced limp, and there were times when his face winced with pain. "it's that confounded poison you gave me last night," he announced to charlie webster as they stood chatting in front of the warehouse office. "first time i ever heard of booze going to the knee," was charlie's laconic rejoinder. "it's generally aimed at the head." he made good use of the corner of his eye as he strolled leisurely past the windom house, set well back at the top of a small tree-surrounded knoll and looking down upon the grassy slope that formed the most beautiful "front yard" in the whole county, according to the proud and boastful denizens of windomville. along the bottom of the lawn ran a neatly trimmed privet hedge. there were lilac bushes in the lower corners of the extensive grounds, and the wide gravel walk up to the house was lined with flowers. rose bushes guarded the base of the terrace that ran the full length of the house and curved off to the back of it. a red and yellow beach umbrella, tilted against the hot morning sun, lent a gay note of colour to the terrace to the left of the steps. some one,--a woman,--sat beneath the big sunshade, reading a newspaper. a belgian police dog posed at the top of the steps, as rigid as if shaped of stone, regarding the passer-by who limped. halfway between the house and the road stood two fine old oaks, one at either side of the lawn. their cool, alluring shadows were like clouds upon an emerald sea. down near the hedge a whirling garden spray cast its benevolent waters over the grateful turf, and, reaching out in playful gusts, blew its mist into the face of the man outside. back of the house and farther up the timbered slope rose a towering windmill and below it the red water tank, partially screened by the tree-tops. the rhythmic beat of a hydraulic pump came to the stroller's ears. courtney's saunterings had taken him past this charming place before,--half a dozen times perhaps,--but never had it seemed so alluring. outwardly there was no change that he could detect, and yet there was a subtle difference in its every aspect. the spray, the shadows, the lazy windmill, the flowers,--he had seen them all before, just as they were this morning. they had not changed. but now, by some strange wizardry, the tranquil setting had been transformed into a vibrant, exquisite fairyland, throbbing with life, charged with an appeal to every one of the senses. it was as if some hand had shaken it out of a sound sleep. but, for that matter, the whole village of windomville had undergone a change. it was no longer the dull, sleepy place of yesterday. over night it had blossomed. courtney thane alone was aware of this amazing transformation. it was he who felt the thrill that charged the air, who breathed in the sense-quickening spice, who heard the pipes of pan. all these signs of enchantment were denied the matter-of-fact, unimaginative inhabitants of windomville. and you would ask the cause of this amazing transformation? before he left the breakfast table courtney had consented to give a talk before the literary society on the coming friday night. mrs. maude baggs pollock had been at him for a week to tell of his experiences at the front. she promised a full attendance. "i've never made a speech in my life," he said, "and i know i'd be scared stiff, mrs. pollock." "pooh! don't you talk to me about being scared! anybody who did the things you did over in france--" "ah, but you forget i was armed to the teeth," he reminded her, with a grin. "well," put in charlie webster, "we'll promise to leave our pistols at home. the only danger you'll be in, court, will come from a lot of hysterical women trying to kiss you, but i think i can fix it to have the best lookin' ones up in front so that--" "i wish you wouldn't always try to be funny, charlie webster," snapped mrs. pollock. "mr. thane and i were discussing a serious matter. if you can postpone--" "i defy anybody to prove that there's anything funny about being kissed by practically half the grown-up population of windomville with the other half lookin' on and cussin' under their breath." "don't pay any attention to him, mr. thane," said the poetess of windomville. "alix crown said last night she was coming to the meeting this week, and i'd so like to surprise her. now please say you will do it." "i really wouldn't know what to talk about," pleaded the young man. "you see, as a rule, we fellows who were over there don't feel half as well qualified to talk about the war as those who stayed at home and read about it in the papers." "nonsense! all you will have to do is just to tell some of your own personal experiences. nobody's going to think you are bragging about them. we'll understand." "next friday night, you say? well, i'll try, mrs. pollock, if you'll promise to chloroform charlie webster," said he, and charlie promptly declared he would do the chloroforming himself. chapter vii courtney appears in public the meetings of the literary society were held once a month in the windomville schoolhouse, a two story brick building situated some distance back from the main street at the upper edge of the town. there were four classrooms and three teachers, including the principal, miss angie miller, who taught the upper grade. graduates from her "room" were given diplomas admitting them to the first year of high school in the city hard-by in case they desired to take advantage of the privilege. as a rule, however, the parents of such children were satisfied to call it an honour rather than a privilege, with the result that but few of them ever saw the inside of the high school. they were looked upon as being quite sufficiently educated for all that windomville could possibly expect or exact of them. when the old schoolhouse was destroyed by fire in the winter of , alix crown contributed fifteen thousand dollars toward the construction of this new and more or less modern structure, with the provision that the town board should appropriate the balance needed to complete the building. on completion the schoolhouse was found to have cost exactly $ , . , and so, at the next township election, the board was unanimously returned to office by an appreciative constituency, and miss crown graciously notified by the assessor that she had been credited with ten dollars and twenty-five cents against her next year's road tax. the literary society always met in miss miller's "room," not because it was more imposing or commodious than any of the others but on account of its somewhat rarified intellectual atmosphere. miss angie's literary attainments, while confined to absorption rather than to production, were well known. she was supposed to have read all of the major poets. at any rate she was able to quote them. besides, she had made a study of dickens and thackeray and trollope, being qualified to discuss the astonishing shortcomings of those amiable mid-victorians in a most dependable manner. she made extensive use of the word "erudite," and confused a great many people by employing "vicarious" and "didactic" and "raison d'etre" in the course of ordinary conversation. for example, in complaining to mr. hodges, the school trustee, about the lack of heat in mid-january, she completely subdued him be remarking that there wasn't "the least raison d'etre for such a condition." in view of these and other intellectual associations, miss miller's "room" was obviously the place for the literary society to meet. mr. george ade, mr. booth tarkington, mr. james whitcomb riley, mr. meredith nicholson and other noted indiana authors had been invited to "read from their works" before the society, and while none of them had been able to accept, each and every one had written a polite note of regret to the secretary, who not only read them aloud to the society but preserved them in her own private scrap book and spoke feelingly of her remarkable "collection." the room was crowded to hear the "celebrated air-man" relate his experiences at the front. the exercises were delayed for nearly an hour while mr. hatch, the photographer, prepared and foozled three attempts to get a flashlight picture of the gathering. everybody was coughing violently when a. lincoln pollock arose to introduce the speaker of the evening. in conclusion he said: "mr. thane was not only wounded in the service of humanity but he was also gassed. i wish to state here and now that it was not laughing gas the germans administered. far from it, my friends. mr. thane will tell you that it was no laughing matter. he has come to god's own country to recuperate and to regain his once robust health. after looking the world over, he chose the health-giving climate of his native state,--ahem! i should say, his father's native state,--and here he is not only thriving but enjoying himself. i take it upon myself to announce that he left all of his medals at his home in new york. they are too precious to be carried promiscuously about the country. it is my pleasure, ladies and gentlemen, to introduce to you one of the real heroes of the great war, mr. courtney thane, of new york city, who will now speak to you." alix crown sat at the back of the room. there were no chairs, of course. each person present occupied a scholar's seat and desk. courtney had seen her come in. she was so late that he began to fear she was not coming at all. the little thrill of exultation that came with her arrival was shortly succeeded by an even greater fear that she would depart as soon as the meeting was over, without stopping to meet him at the "reception" which was to follow. in his most agreeable drawl and with the barest reference to his own exploits, he described, quite simply, a number of incidents that had come under his personal observation while with the american ambulance and afterwards in the british flying corps. most of his talk was devoted to the feats of others and to the description of scenes and events somewhat remote from the actual fighting zone. he confessed that he knew practically nothing of the work of the american expeditionary force, except by hearsay, as he did not come in contact with the american armies, except an occasional unit brigaded with british troops in the cambrai section of the great line. his listeners, no doubt, knew a great deal more about the activities and achievements of the americans than he, so he was quite sure there was nothing he could say that would interest or enlighten them. in concluding he very briefly touched upon his own mishap. "we were returning from a bombing flight over the german positions when somebody put a bullet into our petrol and down we came in flames. there was a gas attack going on at the time. we managed to land in a cloud of it, and--somehow we got back to our own lines, a little the worse for wear and all that sort of thing, you know. it wasn't as bad as you'd think,--except for the gas, which isn't what you would call palatable,--and i came out not much worse off than a chap who has been through a hard football scrimmage. knee and ankle bunged up a little,--and a dusty uniform,--that's about all. i hope you will excuse me from talking any longer. my silly throat goes back on me, you see. my mother probably would tell you, 'too many cigarettes.' perhaps she is right. thank you for listening to all this rot, ladies and gentlemen. you are very kind to have given me this undeserved honour." not once during his remarks did he allow his gaze to rest upon alix crown. it was his means of informing her that she had not made the slightest impression upon him. as he resumed his seat beside mr. pollock, and while the generous hand-clapping was still going on, pastor mavity arose and benignly waited for the applause to cease. mr. mavity invariably claimed the ecclesiastical privilege of speech. no meeting was complete, no topic exhausted, until he had exercised that right. it did not matter whether he had anything pertinent to say, the fact still remained that he felt called upon to say something: "i should like to ask mr. thane if he thinks the germans are preparing for another war. we have heard rumours to that effect. many of our keenest observers have declared that it is only a matter of a few years before the germans will be in a position to make war again, and that they will make it with even greater ferocity than before. we all know of the conflict now raging in russia, and the amazing rebellion of de annunzio in fiume, and the--er--as i was saying, the possibility of the kaiser seizing his bloody throne and calling upon his minions to--ah--er--renew the gigantic struggle. the history of the world records no such stupendous sacrifice of life on the cruel altars of greed and avarice and--er--ambition. we may turn back to the vast campaigns of hannibal and hamilcar and julius caesar and find no--er--no war comparable to the one we have so gloriously concluded. our own civil war, with all its,--but i must not keep you standing, mr. thane. do you, from your experience and observation, regard another war as inevitable?" "i do," was courtney's succinct reply. there was a distinctly audible flutter throughout the room. here, at last, was something definite to support the general contention that "we aren't through with the germans yet." a lady up in front leaned across the aisle and whispered piercingly to her husband: "there! what did i tell you?" another lady arose halfway from her seat and anxiously inquired: "how soon do you think it will come, mr. thane?" she had a son just turning seventeen. "that is a question i am afraid you will have to put to god or the german emperor," said courtney, with a smile. "when david strong was home this spring i asked him what he thought about it," said editor pollock. "i published the interview in the sun. he was of the opinion that the germans had had all they wanted of war. i tried to convince him that he was all wrong, but all i could get him to say was that if they ever did make war again it would be long after the most of us were dead." "david strong didn't see anything of the war except what he saw in the hospitals," said a woman contemptuously. "permit me to correct you, mrs. primmer," said alix crown, without arising. "david strong was under fire most of the time. he was not in a base hospital. he was attached to a field hospital,--first with the french, then with the british, and afterwards with the americans." "in that case," said courtney, facing her, "he was in the thick of it. every man in the army, from general down to the humblest private, takes his hat off to the men who served in the field hospitals. while we may differ as to the next war, i do not hesitate to say that dr. strong saw infinitely more of the last one than i did. it may sound incredible to you, ladies and gentlemen, but my job was a picnic compared to his. as a matter of fact, i have always claimed that i was in greater danger when i was in the american ambulance than when i was flying, quite safely, a couple of miles up in the air. at any rate, i felt safer." "oh, but think of falling that distance," cried miss angie miller. "it was against the rules to think of falling," said he, and every one laughed. the "reception" followed. every one came up and shook hands with courtney and told him how much his address was enjoyed. as the group around him grew thicker and at the same time more reluctant to move on, he began to despair of meeting alix crown. he could see her over near the door conversing with alaska spigg and charlie webster. then he saw her wave her hand in farewell to some one across the room and bow to charlie. there was a bright, gay smile on her lips as she said something to charlie which caused that gentleman to laugh prodigiously. all hope seemed lost as she and little old alaska turned toward the open door. it was not fate that intervened. it was pastor mavity. disengaging himself from the group and leaving a profound sentence uncompleted, he dashed over to her, calling out her name as he did so. "alix! just a moment, please!" she paused,--and courtney discreetly turned his back. presently a benevolent hand was laid on his shoulder and the voice of the shepherd fell upon his ear. "i want you to meet miss crown, mr. thane. she has just been telling me how interested she was in your remarks. miss crown, my very dear friend, mr. courtney thane. mr. thane, as you may already know, is sojourning in our midst for--" "i am delighted to meet you, miss crown," broke in courtney, with an abashed smile. "formally, i mean. i have a very distinct recollection of meeting you informally," he added wrily. "dear me!" exclaimed mr. mavity, elevating his eyebrows. courtney's humility disarmed her. she allowed her lips to curve slightly in a faint smile. the merest trace of a dimple flickered for an instant in her smooth cheek. "i suppose it was the old story of forbidden fruit, mr. thane," said she. then, impulsively, she extended her hand. he clasped it firmly, and there was peace between them. "on the contrary, miss crown, it was an unpardonable piece of impudence, for which i am so heartily ashamed that i wonder how i can look you in the face." "i was tremendously interested in your talk tonight," she said, coolly dismissing the subject. "thank you for giving us the pleasure. it is just such adventures as you have had that makes me wish more than ever that i had not been born a girl." he bowed gallantly. "what would the world be like if god had neglected to create the rose?" "bravo!" cried mr. mavity, slapping him on the back. "spoken like a knight of old." "good night, mr. thane,--and thank you again," she said. nodding to mr. mavity, she turned to leave the group. again the parson intervened. "my dear alix, i can't let you go without saying a word about your splendid defence of david strong. it was fine. and you, sir, were--ah--what shall i say?--you were most generous in saying what you did. david is a fine fellow. he--" "i should have said the same about any doctor who was up at the front," said courtney simply. "is he an old friend, miss crown?" "i have known him ever since i can remember," she replied, and he detected a slight stiffness in her manner. "ahem! er--ah--" began mr. mavity tactfully. "david was born here, mr. thane. well, good night, alix,--good night." when she was quite out of hearing, the flustered parson lowered his voice and said to courtney: "they--er--don't get along very well, you see. i couldn't explain while she was here. something to do with money matters,--nothing of consequence, i assure you,--but very distressing, most distressing. it is too bad,--too bad." mrs. pollock overheard. "they're both terribly set in their ways," she remarked. "stubborn as mules. for my part, i think alix is too silly for words about it. especially with his mother living in the same house with her. now, mind you, i'm not saying anything against alix. i love her. but just the same, she can be the most unreasonable--" "they haven't spoken to each other for over three years," inserted angie miller. "when they were children they were almost inseparable. david windom took a fancy to little david. the story is that he was trying to ease his conscience by being nice to a blacksmith's son. you see, his own daughter ran away with a blacksmith's son,--and you've heard what happened, mr. thane. david was in my class for two years before he went up to high school, and i remember he always used to get long letters from alix when she was in england. then, when she came home,--she was about twelve i think,--they were great friends. always together, playing, studying, reading, riding and--" "everybody used to say old david windom was doing his best to make a match of it," interrupted mrs. pollock, who had been out of the conversation longer than she liked. "up to the time the old man died, we used to take it for granted that some day they would get married,--but, my goodness, it's like waving a red flag at a bull to even mention his name to alix now. she hates him,--and i guess he hates her." "oh, my dear friend," cried mr. mavity, "i really don't think you ought to say that. hate is a very dreadful word. i am sure alix is incapable of actually hating any one. and as for david, he is kindness, gentleness itself. it is just one of those unfortunate situations that cannot be accounted for." charlie webster came up at that juncture. "say, court, why didn't you tell 'em about the time you called colonel what's-his-name down,--the french guy that--" the scowl on courtney's brow silenced the genial charlie. he coughed and sputtered for a moment or two and then said something about "taking a joke." as charlie moved away, miss angie miller sniffed and said, without appreciably lowering her voice: "i wonder where he gets it. there isn't supposed to be a drop in windomville." suddenly her eyes flew wide open. "furman! oh, furman hatch!" she called out to a man who was sidling toward the door in the wake of the pernicious mr. webster. while there was nothing to indicate that mr. hatch heard her, the most disinterested spectator would have observed a perceptible acceleration of speed on his part. "you promised to tell me how to--" but mr. hatch was gone. mr. webster turned a surprised and resentful look upon him as he felt himself being pushed rather roughly through the door ahead of the hurrying photographer. when miss angie reached the door,--she had lost some little time because of the seats and the stupidity of mrs. primmer who blocked the way by first turning to the right, then to the left, and finally by not turning at all,--mr. hatch was nowhere in sight, even though mr. webster was barely two-thirds of the way down the stairs. a pleasant, courteous voice accosted her from behind as she stood glaring after the chubby warehouseman. "do you mind if i walk home with you, miss miller?" "oh, is--is that you, mr. thane?" she fairly gasped. then she simpered. "i'm really not a bit afraid. still,"--hastily--"if you really wish to, i should be delighted." if mr. hatch was lurking anywhere in the shadows, he must have been profoundly impressed by the transformation in miss angie miller as she strode homeward at the side of the tall young new yorker, her hand on his arm, her head held high,--he might also have noticed that she stepped a little higher than usual. chapter viii alix the third october came, with its red and golden trees, its brown pastures, its crisp nights and its hazy, smoky days. fires were kindled in old-fashioned fireplaces; out in the farmyards busy housewives were making soap and apple butter in great iron kettles suspended over blazing logs; wagons laden with wheat and corn rumbled through country roads and up to the windom elevator; stores were thriving under the spur of new-found money; the school was open, main street childless for hours at a time,--and courtney thane was still in windomville. he was a frequent, almost constant visitor at the red-brick house on the knoll. the gossips were busy. sage winks were exchanged when alix and he were seen together in her automobile; many a head was lowered so that its owner might peer quizzically over the upper rims of spectacles as they strolled past the postoffice and other public porches; convicting feminine smiles pursued the young man up the lane leading to alix's home. there were some doubtful head-shakings, but in the main windomville was rather well pleased with the prospect. opinion, though divided, was almost unanimous: few there were who held that "nothin' would come of it." charlie webster was one of the latter. his early intimacy with the ex-aviator had suffered a decided slump. his jovial attempts to plague the young man about his intentions met with the frostiest reception. indeed, on one memorable occasion, the object of these good-natured banterings turned upon him coldly and said: "see here, webster, you're getting to be considerable of a nuisance. cut it out, will you? you are not half as funny as you think you are. i'm pretty well fed up with your freshness--understand?" it was a slap in the face that charlie did understand, and one he never forgot. as the rebuke was uttered on the porch of dowd's tavern and in the presence of flora grady, maude baggs pollock and one or two others, the sting was likely to endure. while courtney's manner had undergone a decided change so far as nearly all of his fellow-lodgers were concerned, he still maintained a very friendly and courteous attitude toward the dowd sisters and mr. and mrs. pollock. for some reason known only to himself,--(but doubtless plain to the reader of this narrative),--he devoted most of his attention to the editor and his wife and to the two spinsters who were such close friends of the young lady of his dreams. as for the others, he made no attempt to conceal his disdain. it was not long before the irish in miss flora grady was aroused. she announced to miss angie miller that he was a "stuck up smart-aleck," and sooner or later he'd get a piece of her mind that would "take him down a couple of pegs." miss miller, while in complete accord with flora's views, was content to speak of him as "supercilious." charlie webster grew more and more thoughtful under the weight of indignity. "i certainly missed my guess as to that feller," he remarked to doc simpson and hatch one day. "i had him sized up as a different sort of feller altogether. why, up to a couple of weeks ago, he was as nice as pie to all of us,--'specially to me. he used to come over to my office and sit around for hours, chatting and smoking cigarettes and joshing like a good feller. but i've got it all figgered out, boys. he was simply workin' me. he always led the conversation round to alix crown, and then, like a dern' fool, i'd let him pump me dry. why, there's nothing he don't know about that girl,--and all through me. now he's got in with her,--just as he wanted to all along,--and what does he do but tie a can to me and give me a swift kick. and there's another thing i might as well say to you fellers while i'm about it. i've been doing a lot of thinking lately,--sort of putting things together in my mind,--and it's my opinion that he is one of the blamedest liars i've ever come across." he paused to see the effect of this startling assertion. hatch removed the corn-cob pipe from between his lips and laconically observed: "well, i know of one lie he's told." "you do?" "remember him telling us at the supper table one night that a german submarine fired three torpedoes at the steamer he was coming home on with a lot of other sick and wounded? well, a couple of nights ago he forgot himself and made the statement that he was in a hospital in england for nearly two months after the armistice was signed." "by gosh, that's right," cried doc simpson. "and what's more," went on hatch, "wasn't he serving in the british army? what i'd like to know is this: why would england be sending her wounded soldiers over to america? you can bet your life england wasn't doing anything like that." "there's another thing that don't sound just right to me," said charlie, his brow furrowed. "he says one night he got lost driving his ambulance and the first thing he knew he was away behind the german lines. i may be wrong, but i've always thought both sides had trenches. what puzzles me is how the dickens he managed to drive that ford of his over the german trenches without noticin' 'em,--and back again besides." "well," said doc, desiring to be fair, "it seems to be the habit of soldiers to lie a little. that's where we get the saying, 'he lied like a trooper.' i know my uncle george lied so much about what he did in the civil war that he ought to have had twenty pensions instead of one. still, there's a big change in court, as you say, charlie. i wonder if alix is really keen about him. he's up there all the time, seems to me. or is she just stringin' him?" charlie frowned darkly. "he's a slick one. i--i'd hate to see alix fall for him." the sententious mr. hatch: "the smartest women in the world lose their heads over a feller as soon as they find out he's in poor health." "he's in perfect health," exploded charlie. "i know,--but that don't prevent him from coughing and holding his side and walking with a cane, does it? that's what gets 'em, charlie. the quickest way to get a girl interested is to let her think you're in need of sympathy." "it don't work when you're as fat as i am," said charlie gloomily. conscious or unconscious of the varying opinions that were being voiced behind his back, courtney went confidently ahead with his wooing. he congratulated himself that he was in alix's good graces. if at times she was perplexingly cool,--or "upstage," as he called it,--he flattered himself that he knew women too well to be discouraged by these purely feminine manifestations. this was a game he knew how to play. the time was not yet ripe for him to abandon his well-calculated air of indifference. that he was desperately in love with her goes without saying. if at the outset of his campaign he was inspired by the unworthy motive of greed, he was now consumed by an entirely different desire,--the desire to have her for his own, even though she were penniless. those whirlwind tactics that had swept many another girl off her feet were not to be thought of here. alix was different. she was not an impressionable, hair-brained flapper, such as he had come in contact with in past experiences. despite her sprightly, thoroughly up-to-the-moment ease of manner, and an air of complete sophistication, she was singularly old-fashioned in a great many respects. while she was bright, amusing, gay, there was back of it all a certain reserve that forbade familiarity,--sufficient, indeed, to inspire unexampled caution on his part. she invited friendship but not familiarity; she demanded respect rather than admiration. he was not slow in arriving at the conclusion that she knew men. she knew how to fence with them. he was distinctly aware of this. other men, of course, had been in love with her; other men no doubt had dashed their hopes upon the barrier in their haste to seize the treasure. it was inconceivable that one so lovely, so desirable, so utterly feminine should fail to inspire in all men that which she inspired in him. the obvious, therefore, was gratifying. granted that she had had proposals, here was the proof that the poor fools who laid their hearts at her feet had gone about it clumsily. such would not be the case with him. oh no! he would bide his time, he would watch for the first break in her enchanted armour,--and then the conquest! there were times, of course, when he came near to catastrophe,--times when he was almost powerless to resist the passion that possessed him. these were the times when he realized how easy it would have been to join that sad company of fools in the path behind her. he had no real misgivings. he felt confident of winning. true, her moods puzzled him at times, but were they not, after all, omens of good fortune? were they not indications of the mysterious changes that were taking place in her? and the way was clear. so far as he knew, there was no other man. her heart was free. what more could he ask? on her side, the situation was not so complex. he came from the great outside world, he brought the outside world to the lonely little village on the bank of the river. he was bright, amusing, cultivated,--at least he represented cultivation as it exists in open places and on the surface of a sea called civilization. he possessed that ineffable quality known as "manner." the spice of the metropolis clung to him. he could talk of the things she loved,--not as she loved the farm and village and the home of her fathers, but of the things she loved because they stood for that which represented the beautiful in intellect, in genius, in accomplishment. the breath of far lands and wide seas came with him to the town of windomville, grateful and soothing, and yet laden with the tang of turmoil, the spice of iniquity. alix was no puritan. she had been out in the world, she had come up against the elemental in life, she had learned that god in his wisdom had peopled the earth with saints and sinners,--and she was tolerant of both! in a word, she was broad-minded. she had been an observer rather than a participant in the passing show. she had absorbed knowledge rather than experience. the conventions remained unshaken so far as she was personally concerned. in others she excused much that she could not have excused in herself,--for the heritage of righteousness had come down to her through a long line of staunch upholders. she loved life. she craved companionship. she could afford to gratify her desires. week-ends found two or more guests at her home,--friends from the city up the river. sometimes there were visitors from chicago, indianapolis and other places,--girls she had met at school, or in her travels, or in the canteen. early in the war her house was headquarters for the local red cross workers, the knitters, the bandage rollers, and so on, but after the entry of the united states into the conflict, most of her time was spent away from windomville in the more intense activities delegated to women. she attended the theatre when anything worth while came to the city, frequently taking one or two of the village people with her. once, as she was leaving the theatre, she heard herself discussed by persons in the aisle behind. "that's alix crown. i'll tell you all about her when we get home. her father and mother were murdered years ago and buried in a well or something. i wish she'd turn around so that you could get a good look at her face. she's quite pretty and--" and she had deliberately turned to face the speaker, who never forgot the cold, unwavering stare that caused her to lower her own eyes and her voice to trail off into a confused mumble. alix was a long time in recovering from the distress caused by the incident. she avoided the city for weeks. it was her first intimation that she was an object of unusual interest to people, that she was the subject of whispered comment, that she was a "character" to be pointed out to strangers. even now, with the sting of injury and injustice eased by time and her own good sense, there still remained the disturbing consciousness that she was,--for want of a milder term,--a "marked woman." she was thoroughly acquainted with every detail connected with the extensive farms and industries that had been handed down to her. a great deal of her time was devoted to an intelligent and comprehensive interest in the management of the farms. she was never out of touch with conditions. her tenants respected and admired her; her foremen and superintendents consulted with her as they would not have believed it possible to consult with a woman; her bankers deferred to her. she would have laughed at you if you had suggested to her that she had more than a grain of business-sense, or ability, or capacity, and yet she was singularly far-sighted and capable,--without being in the least aware of it. her pleasures were not allowed to interfere with her obligations as a landlord, a citizen and a taxpayer. a certain part of each day was set aside for the business of the farms. she repaired bright and early to the little office at the back of the house where her grandfather had worked before her, and there she struggled over accounts, reports, claims,--and her cheque-book. and like her grim, silent grandsire, she "rode" the lanes that twined through field and timber,--only she rode gaily, blithely, with sunshine in her heart. the darkness was always behind her, never ahead. courtney undoubtedly had overcome the prejudice his visit to quill's window had inspired in her. they never spoke of that first encounter. it was as a closed book between them. he had forgotten the incident. at any rate, he had put it out of his mind. he sometimes wondered, however, if she would ever invite him to accompany her to the top of that forbidden hill. in their rambles they had passed the closed gate on more than one occasion. the words, "no trespass," still met the eye. some day he would suggest an adventure: the descent to the cave in quest of treasure! the two of them! rope ladder and all! it would be great fun! he was assiduous in his efforts to amuse her house guests. he laid himself out to be entertaining. if he resented the presence of young men from the city, he managed to conceal his feelings remarkably well. on one point he was firm: he would not accompany her on any of her trips to the city. once she had invited him to motor in with her to a tea, and another time she offered to drive him about the city and out to the college on a sight-seeing tour. it was then that he said he was determined to obey "doctor's orders." no city streets for him! even she couldn't entice him! he loved every inch of this charming, restful spot,--every tree and every stone,--and he would not leave it until the time came for him to go away forever. he was very well satisfied with the fruits of this apparently ungracious refusal. she went to the city less frequently than before, and only when it was necessary. this, he decided, was significant. it could have but one meaning. her dog, sergeant, did not like him. chapter ix a mid-october day one chilly, rainy afternoon in mid-october courtney appeared at the house on the knoll half an hour earlier than was his custom. alix was expecting friends down from the city for tea. from the hall where he was removing his raincoat he had a fair view through an open door of the north end of the long living-room. logs were blazing merrily in the fireplace. alix was standing before the fire, tearing a sheet of paper into small pieces. she was angry. she threw rather than dropped the bits of paper into the flames,--unmistakably she was furious. he waited a moment before entering the room. her back was toward him. she turned in response to his discreet cough. even in the dim light that filtered in from the grey, leaden day outside, he could detect the heightened colour in her cheeks, and as he advanced he saw that her eyes were wet with illy-suppressed tears. she bit her lip and forced a smile. he possessed the philanderer's tact. there was nothing in his manner to indicate that he noticed anything unusual. he greeted her cheerfully and then, affecting a shiver, passed on to spread his hands out over the fire. "this is great," he exclaimed, his back to her. he was giving her a chance to compose herself. "nothing like a big log fire to warm the cockles of your heart,--although it isn't my heart that needs warming. moreover, i don't know what cockles are. i must look 'em up in the dictionary. come here, sergeant,--there's a good dog! come over and get warm, old fellow. toast your cockles. by jove, miss crown, isn't he ever going to make friends with me?" "they are 'one man' dogs, mr. thane," she replied. "come, sergeant,--if you're going to be impolite you must leave the room. excuse me a moment. sergeant! do you hear me, sir? come!" the big grey dog followed her slowly, reluctantly, from the room. courtney heard her going up the stairs. "that nasty brute is going to take a bite out of me some day," he muttered under his breath. "fat chance i'd have to kiss her with that beast around." he heard the closing of an upstairs door. his thoughts were still of the police dog. "there's one thing sure," he said to himself. "that dog and i can't live in the same house." then his thoughts rose swiftly to that upstairs room,--he was sure it was a dainty, inviting room,--to picture her before the mirror erasing all visible evidence of agitation. he found himself wondering what it was that caused this exhibition of temper. a letter? of course,--a letter. a letter that contained something she resented, something that infuriated her. a personal matter, not a business one. she would not have treated a business matter in such a way. he knew her too well for that. the leaping flames gave no hint of what they had destroyed. was it an anonymous letter? had it anything to do with him? his eye fell upon several envelopes on the library table. after a moment's hesitation and a quick glance toward the door, he strode over to inspect them. they were all unopened. two were postmarked chicago, one new york; on the others the postmarks were indistinct. the handwriting was feminine on most of them. a narrow, folded slip of paper lay a little detached from the letters. he picked it up and quickly opened it. it proved to be a check on a philadelphia bank. a glance sufficed to show that it was for two hundred and fifty dollars, payable to the order of alix crown, and signed "d. w. strong." the door upstairs was opened and closed. replacing the bit of paper on the table, he resumed his position before the fire. quite a different alix entered the room a few seconds later. she was smiling, her eyes were soft and tranquil. all traces of the passing tempest were gone. "sit down,--draw this big chair up to the fire,--do. it is raw and nasty today, isn't it? i think the mallons are coming out in an open car. isn't it too bad?" "bad for the curls," he drawled. "mind if i smoke?" "certainly not. don't you know that by this time?" he had drawn a chair up beside hers. her reply afforded him a very definite sense of elation. "it seems to me that the world is getting to be a rather heavenly place to live in," he said, and there was a trace of real feeling in his voice. "you don't mind my saying it's entirely due to you, do you?" "not in the least," she said calmly. "charlie webster once paraphrased a time-honoured saying. he said 'in the fall an old man's fancy slightly turns to thoughts of comfort.' i sha'n't deprive my fireplace and my big armchair of their just due by believing a word of what you say." he tossed the match into the fire, drew in a deep breath of smoke, settled himself comfortably in the chair before exhaling, and then remarked: "but i don't happen to be an old man. i happen to be a rather young one,--and a very truthful one to boot." "do you always tell the truth?" he grinned. "more or less always," was his reply. "i never lie in october." "and the other eleven months of the year?" "oh, i merely change the wording. in july i say 'i never lie in july,'--and so on throughout the twelve-month. i don't slight a single month. by the by, i hope i didn't pop in too far ahead of time this afternoon. you asked me to come at four. i'm half an hour early. were you occupied with anything--" "i was not busy. a few letters,--but they can wait." he caught the faint shadow of a cloud as it flitted across her eyes. "they are all personal,--nothing important in any of them, i am sure." she shot a quick glance at the folded check and, arising abruptly, went over to the table where, with apparent unconcern, she ran through the little pile of letters. he saw her pick up the check and thrust it into the pocket of her sport skirt. then she returned to the fireplace. the cloud was on her brow again as she stared darkly into the crackling flames. he knew now that it was strong's letter she had destroyed in anger. he would have given much to know what the man she despised so heartily had written to her. if he could have seen that brief note he would have read: dear alix: i enclose my checque for two-fifty. if all goes well i hope to clean up the indebtedness by the first of the year. in any case, i am sure it can be accomplished by early spring. you may thank the flu for my present prosperity. it has been pretty bad here in the east again, although not so virulent as before. please credit me with the amount. this leaves me owing you five hundred dollars. it should not take long to wipe it out entirely, interest and all. sincerely yours, david. courtney eyed her narrowly as she stood for a moment looking into the fire before resuming her seat. he realized that her thoughts were far away and that they were not pleasant. "it's queer," he said presently, "that you have never learned to smoke." she started slightly at the sound of his voice. as she turned to sit down, he went on: "almost every girl i know smokes. i will not say that i like to see it,--especially in restaurants and all that sort of thing,--but it's rather jolly if there's a nice, cosy fire like this,--see what i mean? sort of intimate, and friendly, and--soothing. don't you want to try one now?" "thank you, no. if it weren't so shocking, i think i should like to learn how to smoke a pipe,--but i suppose that isn't to be thought of. somehow i feel that a pipe might be a pal, a good old stand-by, or even a relative,--something to depend upon in all sorts of weather, fair and foul. i've noticed that the men on the place who smoke pipes appear to be contented and jolly and good humoured,--and efficient. yes, i think i should like to smoke a pipe." "would you like me better if i cut out the cigarettes, and took up the pipe of peace--and contentment?" he inquired thoughtfully. "i doubt it," she replied, smiling. "i can't imagine you smoking a pipe." "is that supposed to be flattering or scornful?" "neither. it is an impression, that's all." he frowned slightly. "i used to smoke a pipe,--in college, you know. up to my sophomore year. it was supposed to indicate maturity. but i don't believe i'd have the courage to tackle one now, miss crown. not since that little gas experience over there. you see, my throat isn't what it was in those good old freshman days. pipe smoke,--you may even say tobacco smoke, for heaven only knows what these cigarettes are made of,--pipe smoke is too strong. my throat is so confounded sensitive i--well, i'd probably cough my head off. that beastly gas made a coward of me, i fear. you've no idea what it does to a fellow's throat and lungs. if i live to be a thousand years old, i'll never forget the tortures i went through for weeks,--yes, ages. every breath was like a knife cutting the very--but what a stupid fool i am! distressing you with all these wretched details. please forgive me." she was looking at him wonderingly. "you are so different from the poor fellows i saw in new york," she said slowly. "i mean the men who had been gassed and shell-shocked. i saw loads of them in the hospitals, you know,--and talked with them. i was always tremendously affected by their silence, their moodiness, their unwillingness to speak of what they had been through. the other men, the ones who had lost legs or arms or even their eyes,--were as a rule cheerful and as chatty as could be,--oh, how my heart used to ache for them,--but the shell-shock men and the men who had been gassed, why, it was impossible to get them to talk about themselves. i have seen some of them since then. they are apparently well and strong, and yet not one word can you get out of them about their sufferings. you are almost unique, mr. thane. i am glad you feel disposed to talk about it all. it is a good sign. it--" "i didn't say much about it at first," he interrupted hurriedly. "moreover, miss crown," he went on, "a lot of those chaps,--the majority of them, in fact,--worked that dodge for all it was worth. it was a deliberate pose with them. they had to act that way or people wouldn't think they'd been hurt at all. bunk, most of it." "i don't believe that, mr. thane. i saw too many of them. the ones with whom i came in contact certainly were not trying to deceive anybody. they were in a pitiable condition, every last one of them,--pitiable." "i do not say that all of them were shamming,--but i am convinced that a great many of them were." "the doctors report that the shell-shock cases--" "ah, the doctors!" he broke in, shrugging his shoulders. "they were all jolly good fellows. all you had to do was to even hint that you'd been knocked over by a shell that exploded two hundred yards away and--zip! they'd send you back for repairs. as for myself, the only reason i didn't like to talk about my condition at first was because it hurt my throat and lungs. it wasn't because i was afflicted with this heroic melancholy they talk so much about. i was mighty glad to be alive. i couldn't see anything to mope about,--certainly not after i found out i wasn't going to die." "i daresay there were others who took it as you did. i wish there could have been more." he hesitated a moment before speaking again. then he hazarded the question: "what does your friend, dr. strong, have to say about the general run of such cases?" "i don't know. i have not seen dr. strong since the war ended." he looked mildly surprised. "hasn't he been home since the war?" "i believe so. i was away at the time." "how long was he in france?" "he went over first in and again in the fall of , and remained till the end of the war. his mother is here with me, you know." "yes, i know. by jove, i envy him one thing,--lucky dog." she remained silent. "you were playmates, weren't you?" "yes," she said, lifting her chin slightly. "well, that's why i envy him. to have been your playmate,--why, i envy him every minute of his boyhood. when i think of my own boyhood and how little there was to it that a real boy should have, i--i--confound it, i almost find myself hating chaps like strong, chaps who lived in the country and had regular pals, and girl sweethearts, and went fishing and hunting, and played hookey as it ought to be played, and grew up with something fine and sweet and wholesome to look back upon,--and to have had you for a playmate,--maybe a sweetheart,--you in short frocks, with your hair in pigtails, barefooted in summertime, running--" she interrupted him. "your imagination is at fault there, mr. thane," she said, smiling once more. "i never went barefooted in my life." "at any rate, he did. and he played all sorts of games with you; he--" "my impression of david strong is that he was a boy's boy," she broke in rather stiffly. "his games were with the boys of the town,--and they were rough games. football, baseball, shinney, circus,--things like that." "i don't mean sports, miss crown. i was thinking of those wonderful boy and girl games,--such as 'playing house,' 'getting married,' 'hide-and-go-seek,'--all that sort of thing." "yes, i know," she admitted. "we often played at getting married, and we had very large but inanimate families, and we quarrelled like real married people, and i used to cry and take my playthings home, and he used to stand outside our fence and make faces at me till i hated him ferociously. but all that was when we were very small, you see." "and as all such things turn out, i suppose he grew up and went off and got married to some one else." "he is not married, mr. thane." "well, for that matter, neither are you," said he, leaning forward, his eyes fixed intently on hers. she did not flinch. "i wonder just how you feel toward him today, miss crown." she was incapable of coquetry. "we are not the best of friends," she said quietly. "now, if you please, let us talk of something else. did i tell you that an old ambulance man is coming down for a day or two nest week? a harvard man who lives in chicago. his sister and i went to new york together to take our chances there on getting over to france. i think i've told you about her,--mary blythe?" "blythe?" repeated courtney thoughtfully. "blythe. seems to me i heard of a chap named blythe over there in the ambulance, but i don't remember whether i ran across him anywhere or not. he may have been after my time, however. i was with the ambulance in ' and the early part of ' , you see." "addison blythe. he was afterwards a field artillery captain. i've known mary blythe for years, but i know him very slightly. he went direct from harvard to france, you see." "what section was he with?" "i don't know. i only know he was at pont-a-mousson for several months. you were there too at one time, i remember. i've heard him speak of the bois le pretre. you may have been there at the same time." "hardly possible. i should have known him in that case. my section was sent up to bar le duc just before the first big verdun battle." "why, he was all through the first battle of verdun. his section was transferred from pont-a-mousson at an hour's notice. were there more than one section at pont-a-mousson?" "i don't know how they were fixed after i left. you see, i was trying to get into the aviation end of the game along about that time. i was in an aviation camp for a couple of months, but went back to the ambulance just before the verdun scrap. they slapped me into another section, of course. i used to see fellows from my own section occasionally, but i don't recall any one named blythe. he probably was sent up while i was at toul,--or it may have been during the time i was with a section in the vosges. i was up near dunkirk too for a while,--only for a few weeks. when did you say he was coming?" "next tuesday. they are stopping off on their way to attend a wedding in louisville. you two will have a wonderful time reminiscing." "blythe. i'll rummage around in my memory and see if i can place him. there was a fellow named bright up there at one time,--at least i got the name as bright. it may have been blythe. i'll be tickled to death to meet him, miss crown." "you will love mary blythe. she is a darling." "i may be susceptible, miss crown, but i am not inconstant," said he, with a gallant bow. she was annoyed with herself for blushing. "will you throw another log or two on the fire, please?" she said, arising. "i think i hear a car coming up the drive. the poor mallons will be chilled to the bone." he smiled to himself as he took the long hickory logs from the wood box and placed them carefully on the fire. he had seen the swift flood of colour mount to her cheeks, and the odd little waver in her eyes before she turned them away. she was at the window, looking out, when he straightened himself and gingerly brushed the wood dust from his hands. instead of joining her, he remained with his back to the fire, his feet spread apart, his hands in his coat pockets, comforting himself with the thought that she was wondering why he had not followed her. it was, he rejoiced, a very clever bit of strategy on his part. he waited for her to turn away from the window and say, with well-assumed perplexity: "i was sure i heard a car, mr. thane." and that is exactly what she did say after a short interval, adding: "it must have been the wind in the chimney." "very likely," he agreed. she remained at the window. he held his position before the fire. "if i were just a plain damned fool," he was saying to himself, "i'd rush over there and spoil everything. it's too soon,--too soon. she's not ready yet,--not ready." alix, looking out across the porch into the grey drizzle that drenched the lawn, thrust her hand into her skirt pocket and, clutching the bit of paper in her fingers, crumpled it into a small ball. her eyes were serene, however, as she turned away and walked back to the fireplace. "i don't believe they are coming, after all. i think they might have telephoned," she said, glancing up at the old french ormula clock on the mantelpiece. "half-past four. we will wait a few minutes longer and then have tea." his heart gave a sudden thump. was it possible--but no! she would not stoop to anything like that. the little thrill of exultation departed as quickly as it came. "tire trouble, perhaps," he ventured. tea was being brought in when the belated guests arrived. courtney, spurred by the brief vision of success ahead, was never in better form, never more entertaining, never so well provided with polite cynicisms. later on, when he and alix were alone and he was putting on his raincoat in the hall, she said to him impulsively: "i don't know what i should have done without you, mr. thane. you were splendid. i was in no mood to be nice or agreeable to anybody." "alas!" he sighed. "that shows how unobserving i am. i could have sworn you were in a perfectly adorable mood." "well, i wasn't," she said stubbornly. "i was quite horrid." "has anything happened to--to distress you, miss crown?" he inquired anxiously. his voice was husky and a trifle unsteady. "can't you tell me? sometimes it helps to--" "nothing has happened," she interrupted nervously. "i was--just stupid, that's all." "when am i to see you again?" he asked, after a perceptible pause. "may i come tonight?" "not tonight," she said, shaking her head. she gave no reason,--nothing more than the two little words,--and yet he went away exulting. he walked home through the light, gusty rain, so elated that he forgot to use his cane,--and he had limped quite painfully earlier in the afternoon, complaining of the dampness and chill. he had the habit of talking to himself when walking alone in the darkness. he thought aloud: "she wants to be alone,--she wants to think. she has suddenly realized. she is frightened. she doesn't understand. she is bewildered. she doesn't want to see me tonight. bless her heart! i'll bet my head she doesn't sleep a wink. and tomorrow? tomorrow i shall see her. but not a word, not a sign out of me. not tomorrow or next day or the day after that. keep her thinking, keep her guessing, keep her wondering whether i really care. pretty soon she'll realize how miserable she is,--and then!" chapter x the chimney corner a. lincoln pollock was full of news at supper that evening. courtney, coming in a little late,--in fact, miss margaret slattery already had removed the soup plates and was beginning to wonder audibly whether a certain guy thought she was a truck-horse or something like that,--found the editor of the sun anticipating by at least twelve hours the forthcoming issue of his paper. he was regaling his fellow-boarders with news that would be off the press the first thing in the morning,--having been confined to the composing-room for the better part of a week,--and he was enjoying himself. charlie webster once made the remark that "every time the sun goes to press, link pollock acts for all the world like a hen that's just laid an egg, he cackles so." "i saw nancy strong this morning and she was telling me about a letter she had from david yesterday. he wants her to pack up and come to philadelphia, pennsylvania, to live with him. he says he'll take a nice little apartment, big enough for the two of 'em, if she'll only come. she can't make up her mind what to do. she's so fond of alix she don't see how she can desert her,--at least, not till she gets married,--and yet she feels she owes it to her son to go and make a home for him. every once in a while alix makes her a present of a hundred dollars or so,--once she gave her three hundred in cold, clean cash,--and actually loves her as if she was her own mother. nancy's terribly upset. she is devoted to alix, and at the same time she's devoted to her son. she seemed to want my advice, but of course i couldn't give her any. it's a thing she's got to work out for herself. i couldn't advise her to leave alix in the lurch and i couldn't advise her to turn her back on her only son,--could i?" "how soon does david want her to come?" inquired miss molly dowd. "before christmas, i believe. he wants her to be with him on christmas day." "well, it would work out very nicely," said mrs. pollock, "if alix would only get married before that time." "i guess that's just what nancy is kind of hoping herself," stated mr. pollock. "it would simplify everything. of course, when she told alix about david's letter and what he wanted her to do, alix was mighty nice about it. she told nancy to go by all means, her place was with her son if he needed her, and she wouldn't stand in the way for the world. nancy says she had about made up her mind to go, but changed it last night. she was telling me about sneaking up to alix's bedroom door and listening. alix was crying, sort of sobbing, you know. that settled it with nancy,--temporarily at any rate. now she's up in the air again, and don't know what to do. she's gone and told alix she won't leave her, but all the time she keeps wondering if davy can get along without her in that great big city, surrounded by all kinds of perils and traps and pitfalls,--night and day. evil women and--" "has alix said anything to you about it, mr. thane?" inquired maude baggs pollock. "not a word," replied courtney, secretly irritated by the discovery that alix had failed to take him into her confidence. "she doesn't discuss servant troubles with me." "oh, good gracious!" cried miss dowd. "if nancy strong ever heard you speak of her as a servant she'd--". "she'd bite your head off," put in miss margaret slattery. "are you through with your soup, mr. thane?" without waiting for an answer, she removed the plate with considerable abruptness. "are you angry with me, margaret?" he asked, with a reproachful smile. his smile was too much for margaret. she blushed and mumbled something about being sorry and having a headache. "say, court, do you know this ambulance feller that's coming to visit alix next week?" asked the editor, with interest. "you mean addison blythe? he was up at pont-a-mousson for a while, i believe, but it was after i had left for the vosges section. i've heard of him. harvard man." "you two ought to have a good time when you get together," said doc simpson. "i've got an item in the sun about him this week, and next week we'll have an interview with him." the usually loquacious mr. webster had been silent since courtney's arrival. now he lifted his voice to put a question to miss angie miller, across the table. "did you write that letter i spoke about the other day, angie?" "yes,--but there hasn't been time for an answer yet." "speaking about david strong," remarked mr. pollock, "i'll never forget what he did when mr. windom gave him a silver watch for his twelfth birthday. shows what a bright, progressive, enterprising feller he was even at that age. you remember, miss molly? i mean about his setting his watch fifteen minutes ahead the very day he got it." miss molly smiled. "it was cute of him, wasn't it?" "what was the idea?" inquired mr. hatch. "so's he would know what time it was fifteen minutes sooner than anybody else in town," said mr. pollock. "my, what a handsome boy he was," said miss angie miller. "do you really think so?" cried mrs. pollock. "i never could see anything good looking about him,--except his physique. he has a splendid physique, but i never liked his face. it's so--so--well, so, raw-boned and all. i like smooth, regular features in a man. i--" "like mine," interjected the pudgy mr. webster, with a very serious face. "david strong has what i call a very rugged face," said miss miller. "i didn't say it was pretty, maude." "he takes a very good photograph," remarked mr. hatch. "specially a side-view. i've got one side-view of him over at the gallery that makes me think of an indian every time i look at it." "perhaps he has indian blood in him," suggested courtney, who was tired of david strong. "well, every drop of blood he's got in him is red," said charlie webster; "so maybe you're right." "the most interesting item in the sun tomorrow," said mr. pollock, "is the word that young cale vick, across the river, has enlisted in the navy. he leaves on monday for chicago to join some sort of a training school, preparatory to taking a job on one of uncle sam's newest battleships,--the biggest in the world, according to his grandfather, who was in to see me a day or two ago. i have promised to send young cale the sun for a year without charging him a cent. old man brown says amos vick's daughter rosabel isn't at all well. something like walking typhoid, he says,--mopes a good deal and don't sleep well." "oh, i'm sorry to hear that," exclaimed courtney, real concern in his voice. "she was such a lively, light-hearted girl when i was over there. i can't imagine her moping. i hope amos vick isn't too close-fisted to consult a doctor. he's an awful tight-wad--believe me." "doctor can't seem to find anything really the matter ter with her, so old cale brown told me," said mr. pollock. "but don't you think it's fine of young cale to join the navy, court? maybe your tales about the war put it into his head." "it's more likely that he'd got fed up with life on a farm," said courtney. "he'll find himself longing for the farm and mother a good many times before he's through with the navy." instead of going up to his room immediately after supper, as was his custom of late, courtney joined the company in the "lounging room," so named by mr. webster who contended that no first-class hotel ever had such a thing as a parlour any more. the misses dowd, of course, called it the parlour, but as they continued to refer to the fireplace as the "chimney corner," one may readily forgive their reluctance to progress. smoking was permitted in the "lounging room" during the fall and winter months only. a steady rain was beating against the windows, and a rising wind made itself heard in feeble wails as it turned the dark corners of the tavern. presently it was to howl and shriek, and, as the rain ceased, to rattle the window shutters and the ancient, creaking sign that hung out over the porch,--for on the wind tonight came the first chill touch of winter. "a fine night to be indoors," remarked courtney in his most genial manner as he moved a rocking chair up to the fireplace and gallantly indicated to old mrs. nichols that it was intended for her. "ain't you going out tonight, court?" inquired mr. hatch. "iron horses couldn't drag me out tonight," he replied. "sit here, mrs. pollock. doc, pull up that sofa for miss grady and miss miller. let's have a chimney-corner symposium. is symposium the right word, miss miller? ah, i see it isn't. well, i did my best. i could have got away with it in new york, but no chance here. and speaking of new york reminds me that at this very instant the curtains are going up and the lights are going down in half a hundred theatres,--and i don't mind confessing i'd like to be in one of them." "that's one thing i envy new york for," said mrs. pollock. "hand me my knitting off the table, lincoln, please. i love the theatre. i could go every night--" "you get tired of them after a little while, maude," said flora grady, a trifle languidly. "isn't that so, mr. thane?" "quite," agreed courtney. "you get fed up with 'em." "i remember once when i was in new york going six nights in succession, seeing all the best things on the boards at that time, and i give you my word," said miss grady, "they did feed me up terribly." "i know just what you mean, miss grady," said courtney, without cracking a smile. "one gets so bored with the best plays in town. what one really ought to do, you know, is to go to the worst ones." "i've always wanted to see 'the blue bird,'" said miss miller wistfully. "it's by maeterlinck, mr. nichols." old mr. nichols looked interested. "you don't say so," he ejaculated. "give me a good minstrel show,--that's what i like. haverly's or barlow, wilson, primrose & west, or billy emerson's or--say, did you ever see luke schoolcraft? well, sir, there was the funniest end man i ever see. there used to be another minstrel man named,--er--lemme see,--now what was that feller's name? it begin with l, i think--or maybe it was w. now--lemme--think. go on talkin', the rest of you. i'll think of his name before bedtime." whereupon the ancient mr. nichols relapsed into a profound state of thought from which he did not emerge until mr. webster shook his shoulder some fifteen or twenty minutes later and informed him that if he got any worse mrs. nichols would be able to hear him, and then she couldn't go 'round telling people that he slept just like a baby. courtney was in his element. he liked talking about the stage, and stage people. and on this night,--of all nights,--he wanted to talk, he wanted company. the clock on the mantel-piece struck ten and half-past and was close to striking eleven before any one made a move toward retiring,--excepting mr. and mrs. nichols who had gone off to bed at eight-thirty. the misses dowd had joined the little company in the "parlour." he discussed books with mrs. pollock and miss miller, fashions with miss grady, politics with mr. pollock,--(agreeing with the latter on president wilson),--art with mr. hatch and the erudite miss miller, the drama with every one. now, courtney thane knew almost nothing about books, and even less about pictures. he possessed, however, a remarkable facility when it came to discussing them. he belonged to that rather extensive class of people who thrive on ignorance. if you wanted to talk about keats or shelley, he managed to give you the impression that he was thoroughly familiar with both,--though lamenting a certain rustiness of memory at times. he could talk intelligently about joseph conrad, arnold bennet, bernard shaw, galsworthy, walpole, mackenzie, wells and others of the modern english school of novelists,--that is to say, he could differ or agree with you on almost anything they had written, notwithstanding the fact that he had never read a line by any one of them. he professed not to care for thomas hardy's "jude the obscure," though nothing could have been more obscure to him than the book itself or the author thereof, and agreed with the delightful mrs. pollock that "the mayor of casterbridge" was an infinitely better piece of work than "tess of the d'urbervilles." as for the american writers, he admitted a shameful ignorance about them. "of course, i read scott when i was a boy,--i was compelled to do so, by the way,--but as for the others i am shockingly unfamiliar with them. ever since i grew up i've preferred the english novelists and poets, so i fear i--" "i thought scott was an english writer," put in charlie webster quietly. "what scott are you referring to, charlie?" he asked indulgently. "why, sir walter scott,--he wrote 'ivanhoe,' you know." "well, i happen to be speaking of william scott, the american novelist,--no doubt unknown to most of you. he was one of the old-timers, and i fancy has dropped out of the running altogether." "never heard of him," said mr. pollock, scratching his ear reflectively. "indigenous to new england, i fancy,--like the estimable codfish," drawled courtney, and was rewarded by a wholesome middle west laugh. "what are those cabarets like?" inquired mr. hatch. he pronounced it as if he were saying cigarettes. "pretty rotten," said thane. "are you fond of dancing, mr. thane?" inquired mrs. pollock. "i used to love to trip the light fantastic." "i am very fond of dancing," said he, and then added with a smile: "especially since the girls have taken to parking their corsets." there was a shocked silence, broken by miss grady, who, as a dressmaker, was not quite so finicky about the word. "what do you mean by parking?" she inquired. "same as you park an automobile," said he, enjoying the sensation he had created. "it's the fashion now, among the best families as well as the worst, for the girls when they go to dances to leave their corsets in the dressing rooms. check 'em, same as you do your hat." "bless my soul," gasped mr. pollock. "haven't they got any mothers?" "sure,--but the mothers don't know anything about it. you see, it's this way. we fellows won't dance with 'em if they've got corsets on,--so off they come." "what's the world coming to?" cried the editor. "you'd better ask where it's going to," said charlie webster. "do you go to the opera very often?" asked miss miller nervously. he spoke rather loftily of the metropolitan opera house, and very lightly of the metropolitan museum,--and gave charlie webster a sharp look when that amiable gentleman asked him what he thought of the metropolitan tower. but he was at home in the theatre. he told them just what maude adams and ethel barrymore were like, and julia marlowe, and elsie ferguson, and chrystal herne, and all the rest of them. he spoke familiarly of mr. faversham as "favvy," of mr. collier as "willie," of mr. sothern as "ned," of mr. drew as "john," of mr. skinner as "otis," of mr. frohman as "dan." and when he said good night and reluctantly wended his way to the room at the end of the hall, round the corner of which the fierce october gale shrieked derisively, he left behind him a group enthralled. "isn't he a perfect dear?" cried mrs. pollock, clasping her hands. "the most erudite man i have ever met," agreed miss miller ecstatically. "don't you think so, mr. hatch?" mr. hatch was startled. "oh,--er--yes, indeed. absolutely!" he stammered, and then looked inquiringly at his finger nails. he hoped he had made the proper response. charlie webster ambled over to one of the windows and peered out into the whistling night. "it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good," said he sententiously. "what do you mean by that, charlie?" inquired flora grady, at his elbow. "well, if it had been a pleasant night he'd have been up at alix crown's instead of here," said charlie. "i see," said flora, after a moment. "you mean the ill wind favoured alix, eh?" charlie's round face was unsmiling as he stared hard at the fire. "i wonder--" he began, and then checked the words. "don't you worry about alix," said flora. "she's nobody's fool." "i wasn't thinking of alix just then," said charlie. ii the following morning, courtney went, as was his custom, to the postoffice. he had arranged for a lock-box there. his letters were not brought up to the tavern by old jim house, the handy-man. the day was bright and clear and cold; the gale had died in the early morning hours. alix crown's big automobile was standing in front of the post-office, the engine running. catching sight of it as he left the tavern porch, he hastened his steps. he was a good two hundred yards away and feared she would be off before he could come up with her. as he drew near, he saw the lanky chauffeur standing in front of the drug store, chatting with one of the villagers. alix was in the post-office. as he passed the car, he slackened his pace and glanced over his shoulder into the tonneau. the side curtains were down. a low growl greeted him. he hastened on. she was at the registry window. "hello!" he exclaimed, extending his hand and searching her face as he did so for signs of a sleepless night. "good morning," she responded cheerily. there was nothing in her voice, her eyes or her manner to indicate an even remotely disturbed state of mind. her gaze met his serenely; the colour did not rush to her cheeks as he had fondly expected, nor did her eyes waver under the eager, intense gleam in his. he suddenly felt cheated. "where are you off to this morning?" he inquired. "to town for the day. i have some business to attend to and some shopping to do. would you like to come along?" he was in a sulky mood. "you know i hate the very thought of going to town," he said. then, as she raised her eyebrows slightly, he made haste to add: "i'd go from one end of the desert of sahara to the other with you, but--" shaking his head so solemnly that she laughed outright,--"not to the city. just ask me to go to the sahara with you and see how--" "haven't you had enough of no-man's land?" she cried merrily. "it depends on what you'd call no-man's land," said he, and her gaze faltered at last. there was no mistaking his meaning. "sometimes it is paradise, you know," he went on softly. twice before she had seen the same look in his eyes, and both times she had experienced a strange sensation, as of the weakness that comes with ecstasy. there had been something in his eyes that seemed to caress her from head to foot, something that filled her with the most disquieting self-consciousness. strange to say, it was not the ardent look of the love-sick admirer,--and she had not escaped such tributes,--nor the inquiring look of the adventurous married man. it was not soulful nor was it offensive. she reluctantly confessed to herself that it was warm and penetrating and filled her with a strange, delicious alarm. she quickly withdrew her gaze and turned to the little window where mrs. pollock was making out her receipt for a registered package. she felt that she was cowardly, and the thought made her furious. "will it go out today, mrs. pollock?" she asked. "this afternoon," replied the postmaster's wife and assistant. "wasn't that a dreadful wind last night, alix? i thought of you. you must have been frightened." "i slept like a log through all of it," said alix. "i love the wild night wind. it makes me feel so nice and comfy in bed. i was awfully tired last night. thanks." then turning to courtney: "sorry you will not go with me. i'll bear you in mind if i ever take a trip to the sahara. good-bye." "will you be at home tonight?" he asked, holding the door open for her to pass through. "yes," she replied composedly. "i mean,--to me?" "if you care to come," she said. he did not accompany her to the car. the big grey-brown dog with his paws on the back of the front seat, was eagerly watching her approach. she wore a long mole-skin coat and a smart little red turban. she had never looked so alluring to the young man who waited in the open door until the car started away. "close the door, please," called out mrs. pollock. "this isn't july, you know." "so she slept like a log, did she?" muttered courtney as he turned away from his lockbox with a letter. "well, that's more than i did." he glanced hurriedly through the letter, crumpled it up in his hand, and went jauntily up the street until he came to hatch's photograph gallery. entering, he gave the proprietor a hearty "good morning," and then drew a chair up before the low "sheet-iron stove" which heated the reception-room. hatch was "printing" behind a partition, and their conversation was carried on at long range over the top. presently the visitor drew the crumpled letter from his pocket, tore it into tiny pieces and cast it into the fire. "well, so long, hatch. i'm off for a stroll in your crisp october air." chapter xi thane visits two houses all day long alix was troubled. she could not free her thoughts of that searing look or the spell it had cast over her during the brief instant of contact. she was haunted by it. at times she gave herself up to a reckless, unmaidenly rejoicing in the thrill it had given her; at such times she flushed to the roots of her hair despite the chill of ecstasy that swept over her. but far more often she found herself resenting the liberty his eyes had taken,--a mental rather than a physical liberty. she was resolved that it should not happen again. she had posted a note to david strong that morning. before the car had covered the first mile on its way to town, she was wishing she had not dropped it into the slot at the post-office. only the fear of appearing ridiculous to mrs. pollock kept her from turning back to reclaim it. she could not explain this sudden, almost frantic impulse,--she did not attempt to account for it. somehow she sensed that it had to do with the look in thane's eyes,--but it was all so vague and intangible that even the suggestion did not take the form of thought. in this curt little note she had said: dear david: i hereby acknowledge receipt of your cheque no. for two hundred and fifty dollars, but as i have tried to make you understand before, it is not only an unnecessary but a most unwelcome bit of paper. you are perfectly well aware that my grandfather's estate has been settled and, as i have informed you time and again, your obligation to him no longer exists. you may have owed something to him, but you owe nothing to me. if i were to follow my impulse i should tear up this cheque of yours. it would be useless to return it to you, for you would only send it back to me, as you did with the first two cheques that came last winter. i want you to understand that i do not accept this money as my own. if it is any satisfaction to you to know that i give it away,--no matter how,--you are welcome to all the consolation you may get out of it. yours truly, alix crown. p.s.--i have advised your mother to go to philadelphia whenever you are ready for her to come. a. p.s.s.--under separate cover by registered post i am also returning to you the bracelet you sent me from paris. i think i wrote you a long time ago how much i admired it. a. meanwhile, thane was making the best of a rather empty morning. he put off finishing a letter to his mother, who had returned to new york and was so busy with dressmakers that twice she had employed the telegraph in promising to "write soon,"--a letter in which he already had written, among other rapturous passages: "she is positively ravishing, mater dear. i am simply mad about her, and i know you will be too." he was determined that the day should not be a total loss; he would turn at least a portion of it to profit. first of all, he visited alaska spigg at the log-hut village library. miss spigg was very proud of her geraniums. no one else in windomville,--or in the world, for that matter, if one were to recall mr. pollock's article in the sun,--no one else cultivated such geraniums as those to be seen in the pots that crowned the superinforced windowsills at the library. there was no such thing as a florist's shop in windomville. roses or orchids or even carnations were unobtainable. a potted geranium plant, in full bloom,--one of alaska spigg's tall, sturdy, jealously guarded treasures was the best he could do in the way of a floral offering to his goddess. so he set about the supposedly hopeless task of inducing alaska to part with one of her plants. half an hour after entering the library he departed with a balloon shaped object in his arms. he was not too proud to be seen shuffling up the lane with his prize, a huge thing loosely done up in newspapers,--leaving behind him a completely dazzled alaska who went about the place aimlessly folding and unfolding a brand new two-dollar bill. "i don't know what come over me," explained alaska later on to a couple of astonished ladies who had hurried in to see if the report was true that she had parted with one of her geraniums. "for the life of me, i don't know how i happened to do it. 'specially the one i was proudest of, too. i've always said i'd never sell one of my plants,--not even if the president of the united states was to come in and offer me untold millions for it,--and here i--i--why, martha, i almost gave it to him, honest i did. i just couldn't seem to help letting him have it. of course, i don't mind its loss half so much, knowing that it is going to alix. she loves flowers. she'll take the best of care of it. but how i ever came to--" "don't cry, alaska," broke in one of her callers cheerfully. "you'll be getting it back before long." "never," lamented alaska. "what makes you think i'll get it back?" she went on, suddenly peeping over the edge of her handkerchief. "why, as soon as alix knows how miserable you are about parting with that geranium, she'll send it back to you,--and you'll be two dollars ahead. don't be silly." repairing at once to the house on the knoll, courtney took counsel with mrs. strong. the housekeeper could hardly believe her eyes when she saw the geranium. "well, all i've got to say is that you must have stolen it," she exclaimed. "there couldn't be any other way to get one of those plants away from alaska spigg." "be that as it may," said he airily, "what we've got to decide now, mrs. strong, is just where to put it. i want to surprise miss crown when she returns from town." "she'll be surprised all right when she finds out you got one of alaska spigg's pet geraniums. i remember alaska saying not so long ago that she wouldn't sell one of those plants for a million dollars. now let me see. it ought to go where it will get as much sun as possible. that would be in the dining-room. i guess we'd better--" "i really think it would look better right here in this room, mrs. strong," said he, indicating one of the windows looking out over the terrace. there was little or no sunlight there, but he did not mind that. as a matter of fact, he wasn't at all concerned about the future welfare of the plant. it meant no more to him than the customary bunch of violets that one sends, "sight unseen," to the lady of the hour. "well, you're the boss. it's your plant," said mrs. strong briskly. "alaska spigg will go into hysterics when she hears where you've put it,--but that's of no consequence." and so the plant was placed on a small table in the window of the long living-room. "link pollock told us last night that you may go to philadelphia to join your son, mrs. strong," said he, as he watched her arranging the window curtains. mrs. strong flushed. "it did not occur to me to ask mr. pollock not to repeat what i said to him in confidence," she said, with dignity. "i'm sorry i mentioned it. i am sure pollock didn't understand it was--er--a secret or anything like that, mrs. strong." "it isn't a secret. i have talked it over with miss alix, and i have practically decided to remain with her. you may tell that to mr. pollock if you like." "she would miss you terribly," said he, allowing the sarcasm to pass over his head. "your son and miss crown were boy and girl sweethearts, i hear,--oh, please don't be offended. those things happen, you know,--and pass off like all of the children's diseases. like the measles, or mumps or chicken pox. every boy and girl has to go through that stage, you know. i remember being horribly in love with a girl in our block when i was fifteen,--and she with me. but, for the life of me, i can't remember her name now. i mean her married name," he explained, with his whimsical grin. "i don't believe alix and david ever were in love with each other," said she stiffly. "they were wonderful friends,--playmates and all that,--but,"--here she flushed again, "you see, my boy was only the blacksmith's son. people may have told you that, mr. thane." "what has that to do with it?" he cried instantly. "wasn't miss crown's father the son of a blacksmith?" he caught the passing flicker of appreciation in her eyes as she lifted her head. "true," she said quietly. "and a fine young man, they tell me,--those who knew him. his father was not like my david's father, however. he was a drunkard. he beat his wife, they say." "abraham lincoln was a rail splitter. james a. garfield drove a canal boat. does anybody think the worse of them for that? your son, mrs. strong,--i am told by all who know him,--will be a great surgeon, a great man. you must not forget that people will speak of his son as the son of dr. david strong, the famous surgeon." her face glowed with pleasure. mother love and mother pride kindled in her dark eyes. he caught himself wondering if young david strong was like this tall, grey-haired woman with the steady gaze and quiet smile. "i am sure david will succeed," she said warmly. "he always was a determined boy. mr. windom was very fond of him. he took a great interest in him." a self-conscious, apologetic smile succeeded the proud one. "i suppose you would call alix and david boy and girl sweethearts. as you say, boys and girls just simply can't help having such ailments. it's like an epidemic. even the strongest catch it and,--get over it without calling in the doctor." he grinned. "it is a most amiable disease. the only medicine necessary is soda water and ice cream, with a few pills in the shape of chocolate caramels or marshmallows, taken at all hours and in large doses." mrs. strong's eyes softened as she looked out of the window. a faraway, wistful expression lurked in them. "those were wonderful days, mr. thane,--when those two children were growing up." she sighed. "david is four years older than alix, but ever since she was a tiny child she seemed older than he was. i guess it was because he was so big and strong that he just couldn't bear to lord it over her like most boys do with girls. he was kind of like a big shepherd dog. always watching over her and--dear me, i'll never forget the time they got lost in the woods up above here. that was when she was about seven. they were not found till next morning. we had everybody for miles around beating the woods for them all night long. well, sir, that boy had taken off his coat and put it on her, and his stockings too, and he had even removed his shirt to make a sort of muffler to wrap around her throat, because she always had sore throats and croup when she was a child. and when the men found them, he was sitting up against a tree sound asleep, almost frozen stiff, with her in his lap and his cold little arms around her. it was late in september and the nights were cold. then there was the time when she fell off the side of the ferry boat and he jumped in after her,--with his best suit on, the little rascal,--and held her up till josh wilson stopped the ferry and old mr. white, who was crossing with his team, managed to throw a buggy rein out to him and pull him in. the water out there in the middle of the river is ten feet deep, mr. thane, and david was just learning how to swim. and they both had croup that night. my goodness, i thought that boy was going to die. but, my land, that seems ages ago. here they are, a grown, man and woman, and probably don't even remember those happy days." "that's the horrible penalty one pays for growing up, mrs. strong." "i guess you're right. of course, they write to each other every once in a while,--but nothing is like it used to be. alix had a letter from davy only a day or so ago. you'd think she might occasionally tell me some of the things he writes about,--but she never does. she never opens her mouth about them. and he never writes anything to me about what she writes to him. i suppose that's the way of the world. when they were little they used to come to me with everything. "you see, i came here to keep house for mr. windom soon after old maria bliss died. my husband died when david was six years old. alix was only four years old when i came here, mr. thane. this house was new,--just finished. i'll never forget the rage mr. windom got into when he found out that alix and david were going up to the old farmhouse where her mother died and were using one of the upstairs rooms as a 'den.' they got in through a cellar window, it seems. they were each writing a novel, and that was where they worked and read what they had written to each other. that lasted only about six weeks or so before mr. windom found out about it. he was terrible. you see, without knowing it, they had picked out the room that was most sacred to him. it was his wife's own room,--where she died and where alix's mother was born and where she also died,--and where our alix was born. "of course, at that time nobody knew about edward crown. we all thought he was alive somewhere. the children never went there again. no, sirree! they both ought to have known better than to go at all. alix was fifteen years old when that happened, and davy was going to college in the winter time." "did your son live here in the house with you all those years?" inquired courtney. "we lived in the first cottage down the lane from here. mr. windom was a very thoughtful man. he did not want me to live here in the house with him because of what people might say. you see, i was a young woman then, and--well, people are not always kind, you know." she spoke simply and without the slightest embarrassment. he looked hard at her half-averted face and was suddenly confronted by the realization that this grey, motherly woman must have been young once, like alix, and pretty. as it is with the young, he could not think of her except as old. he had always thought of his mother as old; it was impossible to think of her as having once been young and gay like the girls he knew. yes, mrs. strong must have been young and pretty and desirable,--somebody's sweetheart, somebody's "girl." the thought astonished him. ii shortly afterward he took his departure. there was a frown of annoyance on his brow as he strode briskly up the lane in the direction of the crossroads, half a mile or more above the village. as usual, he thought aloud. "there's no way of finding out just how things stand between them. the old lady doesn't know anything, that's a cinch. if she really knew she would have let it out to me. i'll never get a better chance to pump her than i had today. she doesn't know. you can see she hopes her son will get her. that's as plain as the nose on your face. but she doesn't know anything. is that a good sign or a bad one? i wish i knew. alix isn't the sort to forget. maybe strong has gotten over it and not she. it's darned aggravating, that's what it is. there must be some good reason why she's never married. i wonder if she's still keen about him. this talk of charlie webster's may be plain bunk. if she hates him,--why? that's the question. why does she hate him? there must be some reason beside that debt he owed to old windom. gad, i wish i could have seen that letter he wrote her when he sent the cheque. well, anyhow, it's up to me to get busy. that's sure!" his walk took him past the windomville cemetery and up the gravel turnpike leading to the city. alix had traversed this road an hour or so earlier. swinging around a bend in the highway, he came in view of the abandoned farmhouse half a mile ahead. it was a familiar object by this time, for he had passed it many times, not only on his solitary walks but on several occasions with alix. the desolate house, with its weed-grown yard, its dilapidated paling fence, its atmosphere of decay, had always possessed a certain fascination for him. he secretly confessed to a queer little sensation as of awe whenever he looked upon the empty, green-shuttered house. it suggested death. more than once he had paused in the road below the rickety gate to gaze intently at the closed windows, or to scrutinize the tangled mass of weeds and rose bushes that almost hid the porch and its approach from view. he was never without the strange feeling that the body of edward crown might still be lying at the foot of the hidden steps. now he approached the place with a new and deeper interest. strangely enough, it had been shorn within the hour of much that was grim and terrifying. it was no longer a house to inspire dread and uneasiness. two young and venturesome spirits had invaded its silent precincts, there to dream in safety and seclusion, unhaunted by its spectres, undisturbed by its secret. in one of its darkened rooms they had set up a "workshop," a "playhouse." a glaze came over his eyes as he wondered what had transpired in that room during the surreptitious six weeks' tenancy. had david strong kissed her? had she kissed david strong? were promises made and futures planned? his throat was tight with the swell of jealousy. he stopped at the gate. after a moment's hesitation he lifted the rusty latch and jerked the gate open far enough to allow him to squeeze through. then he paused to sweep the landscape with an inquiring eye. far up the pike a load of fodder moved slowly. there were cattle in the pasture near at hand, but no human being to observe his actions. in a distant upland field men were moving among a multitude of corn-shocks, trailing the horses and wagons that belonged to alix crown. crows cawed in the trees on the eastern edge of the strip of meadowland, and on high soared two or three big birds,--hawks or buzzards, he knew not which,--circling slowly in the arc of the steel blue sky. confident that he was unobserved, he made his way up the half-buried walk to the porch, and, deliberately mounting the steps, tried the door-knob. as he expected, the door was locked. after another searching look in all directions, he started off through the tangle of weeds and burdocks to circle the house. he passed through what once must have been the tennis-court of alix the first,--now a weedy patch,--and came to the back door. below him lay the deserted stables and outbuildings, facing the barnyard in which a few worn-out farm implements were to be seen, weather-beaten skeletons of a past generation. there was no sign of human life. a lean and threadbare scarecrow flapped his ragged coat-sleeves in the wind that swept across the barren garden patch farther up the slope,--this was the nearest approach to human life that came within the range of vision. and as if to invite jovial companionship, this pathetic gentleman wore his ancient straw hat cocked rakishly over what would have been his left ear if he had had any ears at all. while standing before the gate, courtney had come to a sudden, amazing decision. he resolved to enter and explore the house if it were possible to do so. he remembered that mrs. strong, in pursuing the subject, had declared that alix and david were not even permitted to return to the house for their literary products; moreover, she doubted very much whether the former had taken the trouble to recover them after she became sole possessor of the property. if they were still there, with other tangible proofs of an adolescent intimacy, he saw no reason why he should not lay eyes,--or even hands,--upon them. he saw no wrong in the undertaking. it was a justifiable adventure, viewed from the standpoint of a lover whose claim was in doubt. the back door was locked and the window shutters securely nailed. entrance to the cellar was barred by heavy scantlings fastened across the sloping hatch. in the barnyard he found a stout single-tree. with this he succeeded in prying off the two scantlings. the staple holding the padlock was easily withdrawn from one of the rotten boards. descending the steps, he found himself in the small, musty cellar. the vault-like room was empty save for a couple of barrels standing in a corner and a small pile of firewood under the stairs that led to regions above. selecting a faggot of kindling-wood from this pile, he fashioned a torch by whittling the end into a confusion of partially detached slivers. this he lighted with a match, and then mounted the stairs. the door at the head opened at the lifting of an old-fashioned latch. a thick screen of cobwebs almost closed the upper half of the aperture. he burnt it away with the flaming torch, and passed on into the kitchen. he was grateful for the snapping fire of the faggot, for otherwise the silence of the grave would have fallen about him as he stood motionless for a moment peering about the empty room. no light penetrated from the outside. the air was dead. spiders had clothed the corners and the ceiling with their silk, over which the dust of years lay thick and ugly. he felt, with a queer little shiver, that the eyes of a thousand spiders peered gloatingly down upon him from the murky fastnesses. he hurried on. the rooms on the lower floor had been stripped of all signs of habitation. his footsteps resounded throughout the house. boards creaked under his tread. without actually realizing what he was doing, he began to tiptoe toward the stairway that led to the upper floor. he laughed at himself for this precaution, and yet could not rid himself of the feeling that some one was listening, that the stealth of the midnight burglar was necessary. the stairs groaned under his weight, the dust-covered banister cracked loudly when he laid his hand upon it. he had the strange notion that they were sounding the alarm to some guardian occupant of the premises,--to a slumbering ghost perhaps. he came at last to the room where alix and david had played at book-writing. in the centre stood a kitchen table, on either side of which was a rudely constructed bench,--evidently the handiwork of david strong. two strips of rag carpet served as a rug. at each end of the table was a candlestick containing a half-used tallow candle. there was a single ink pot, but there were two penholders beside it, and a couple of blue blotters. nearby were two ancient but substantial rocking chairs,--singularly out of place,--no doubt discarded survivors of long-distant days of comfort, rescued from an attic storeroom by the young trespassers. a scrap basket, half-full of torn and crumpled sheets of paper, stood conveniently near the table. he lighted both of the candles and extinguished the flickering faggot. the steady glow of the candlelight filled the room. on the mantel above the blackened fireplace he saw a small, white framed mirror. a forgotten pair of gloves lay beside it, and two or three hairpins. he picked up the gloves, slapped them against his leg to rid them of accumulated dust, and then stuck them into his coat pocket. they were long and slim and soiled by wear. a closet door, standing partly open, drew him across the room. hanging from one of the hooks was a moth-eaten vicuna smoking jacket of blue. beside this garment hung a girl's bright red blazer, with black collar; protecting, business-like paper cuffs were still attached. in the corner of the closet reposed a broom, a mop and an empty pail. he smiled at the thought of young alix sweeping and scrubbing the floor of this sequestered retreat. returning to the table, he pulled out the drawer, and there, side by side, lay two neat but far from voluminous manuscripts, each weighted down by the unused portion of the scratch pad from which the written sheets had been torn. one was in the bold, superior scrawl of a boy, the other ineffably feminine in its painstaking regard for legibility and tidiness. iii these literary efforts had been cut off short in their infancy. david's vigorously written pages, marred by frequent scratchings and erasures, far outnumbered alix's. he was in the midst of chapter three of a novel entitled "the phantom singer" when the calamitous interruption came. alix's work had progressed to chapter five. inspection revealed the further fact that she was thrifty. she had written on both sides of the sheets, while the prodigal david confined himself to the inexorable "one side of the sheet only." there were unmistakable indications of editorial arrogance on the part of alix on every sheet of david's manuscript. her small, precise hand was to be seen here, there and everywhere,--sometimes in the substitution of a single word, often in the rewriting of an entire sentence. but nowhere on her own pages was to be found so much as a scratch by the clumsy hand of her fellow novelist. her story bore the fetching title: "lady mordaunt's lover." courtney read the first page of her script. a sudden wave of remorse, even guilt, swept through him. back in his mind he pictured her bending studiously, earnestly to the task, her heart in every line she was penning, her dear little brow wrinkled in thought. he could almost visualize the dark, wavy hair, the soft white neck,--as if he were standing behind looking down upon her as she struggled with an obstinate muse,--and the quick, gentle rise and fall of her young breast. he could see her lift her head now and then to stare dreamily at the ceiling, searching there for inspiration. he could see the cramped, tense fingers that gripped the pen as she wrote these precious lines,--with david scratching away laboriously at the opposite end of the table. a strange tenderness entered his soul. something akin to reverence took possession of him. he had invaded sanctuary. slowly, almost tenderly, he replaced the manuscript in the drawer beside its bristling mate. then he resolutely closed the drawer, blew out the candles, and strode swiftly from the room and down the creaking stairs, lighting the way with matches. even as he convicted himself of wrong, he justified himself as right. the virtuous renunciation balanced, aye, overbalanced,--the account with cupidity. he was saying to himself as he made his way down to the cellar: "it would be downright rotten to take that story of hers, even as a joke,--and i came mighty near to doing it. thank the lord, i didn't. of course, it's piffle,--both of 'em,--but i just couldn't take hers away for no other reason than to get a good laugh out of it. anyhow, my conscience is clear. i put it back where she left it,--and that's the end of it so far as i'm concerned. damn these cobwebs! good lord, i wonder if any of these spiders are poisonous!" brushing the cobwebs from his face as he ran, he hurried across the cellar and bolted up the steps, out into the brilliant sunlight. he made frantic efforts to remove the disgusting webs from his garments, his eyes darting everywhere in search of the evil insects. presently he set to work replacing the staple and padlock, inserting the nails in the holes they had left in the rotting board. he did his best to fasten the scantlings down, making a sorry job of it, and then, as he prepared to leave the premises, he was suddenly seized by the uncanny feeling that some one was watching him. his gaze swept the fields, the barn lot, even the high grass that surrounded the house. there was no one in sight, and yet he could feel the eyes of an invisible watcher. up in the garden patch, the scarecrow flapped his empty sleeves. his hat was still tilted jauntily over his absent ear. it was ridiculous to suppose that that uncanny object could see,--yet somehow it seemed to courtney that it was looking at him, looking at him with malicious, accusing eyes. not once, but half a dozen times, he turned in the road to glance over his shoulder at the house he had left behind. always his gaze went to the scarecrow. he shivered slightly and cursed himself for a fool. the silly thing couldn't be looking at him! what nonsense! still he breathed a sigh of relief when he turned the bend and was safely screened from view by the grove of oaks that crowned the hill above the village. several automobiles passed him as he trudged along the pike; an old man afoot driving a little herd of sheep gave him a cheery "good morning," but received no response. "i wish i hadn't gone into that beastly house," he was repeating to himself, a scowl in his eyes. "it gave me the 'willies.' jolly lot of satisfaction i got out of it,--i don't think. i daresay he kissed her a good many times up there in that,--but, lord, what's the sense of worrying about something that happened ten years ago?" at the dinner table that noon, charlie webster suddenly inquired: "well, what have you been up to this morning, court?" courtney started guiltily and shot a quick, inquiring look at the speaker. satisfied that there was no veiled significance in charlie's question, he replied: "took a long ramble up the pike. the air is like wine today. i walked out as far as the old windom house." charlie was interested. "is that so? did you see amos vick's daughter hanging around the place?" "amos vick's--you mean rosabel?" he swallowed hard. "no, i didn't see her. was she over there?" "jim bagley was in the office half an hour or so ago. as he was coming past the house in his ford he saw her standing at the front gate, so he stopped and asked her what she was doing over on this side of the river. she'd been over here spending the night with annie jordan,--that's phil jordan's girl, you know, the township assessor,--and went out for a long walk this morning. she looked awful tired and sort of sickly, so jim told her to hop in and he'd give her a lift back to phil's house. she got in with him and he left her at phil's." "i saw her walking down to the ferry with annie as i was coming over from the office a little while ago," said doc simpson. "sorry i didn't meet her," said courtney. "she's jolly good fun,--and i certainly was in need of somebody to cheer me up this morning. for the first time since i came out here i was homesick for new york,--and mother. it must have been our talk last night about the theatres and all that." chapter xii words and lettebs mary blythe and her brother arrived on tuesday for a two days' visit. alix motored to town and brought them out in the automobile. she was surprised and gratified when courtney, revoking his own decree, volunteered to go up with her to meet the visitors at the railway station in the city. but when the day came, he was ill and unable to leave his room. the cold, steady rains of the past few days had brought on an attack of pleurisy, and the doctor ordered him to remain in bed. he grumbled a great deal over missing the little dinner alix was giving on the first night of their stay, and sent more than one lamentation forth in the shape of notes carried up to the house on the knoll by jim house, the venerable handy-man at dowd's tavern. "i really don't recall him," said addison blythe, frowning thoughtfully. "he probably came to the sector after i left, miss crown. i've got a complete roster at home of all the fellows who served in the american ambulance up to the time it was taken over. i'd like to meet him. i may have run across him any number of times. names didn't mean much, you see, except in cases where we hung out together in one place for some time. i would remember his face, of course. faces made impressions, and that's more than names did. courtney thane? seems to me i have a vague recollection of that name. you say he was afterward flying with the british?" "yes. he was wounded and gassed at--at--let me think. what was the name of the place? only a few weeks before the armistice." "there was a great deal doing a few weeks before the armistice," said blythe, smiling. "you'll have to be a little more definite than that. the air was full of british aeroplanes from london clear to palestine. what is he doing here?" "recovering his health. he has had two attacks of pneumonia, you see,--and a touch of typhoid. his family originally lived in this country. the old thane farm is almost directly across the river from windomville. courtney's father was born there, but went east to live during the first cleveland administration. he had some kind of a political appointment in washington, and married a congressman's daughter from georgia, i think--anyhow, it was one of the southern states. he is really quite fascinating, mary. you would lose your heart to him, i am sure." "and, pray, have you offered any reward for yours?" inquired mary blythe, smiling as she studied her friend's face rather narrowly. alix met her challenging gaze steadily. a sharper observer than mary blythe might have detected the faintest shadow of a cloud in the dark, honest eyes. "when i lose it, dear, i shall say 'good riddance' and live happily ever after without one," she replied airily. the next morning she started off with her guests for a drive down the river, to visit the old fort and the remains of the indian village. stopping at the grain elevator, she beckoned to charlie webster. the fat little manager came bustling out, beaming with pleasure. "how is mr. thane today, charlie?" she inquired, after introducing him to the blythes. charlie pursed his lips and looked wise. "well, all i can say is, he's doing as well as could be expected. temperature normal, pulse fluctuating, appetite good, respiration improved by a good many cusswords, mustard plaster itching like all get out,--but otherwise he's at the point of death. i was in to see him after breakfast. he was sitting up in bed and getting ready to tell doc smith what he thinks of him for ordering him to stay in the house till he says he can go out. he is terribly upset because he can't get up to alix's to see you, mr. blythe. i never saw a feller so cut up about a thing as he is." "he must not think of coming out in this kind of weather," cried alix firmly. "it would be--" "oh, he's not thinking of coming out," interrupted charlie quietly. "i am sorry not to have met him," said blythe. "we probably have a lot of mutual friends." a queer little light flashed into charlie webster's eyes and lingered for an instant. "he's terribly anxious to meet you. it wouldn't surprise me at all if he got up today sometime and in spite of doc smith hustled over to call on you. i'll tell you what we might do, alix. if mr. blythe isn't going to be too busy, i might take him up to see court,--that is, when you get back from your drive. i know he'll appreciate it, and be tickled almost to death." "fine!" cried blythe. "if you're sure he will not mind, mr. webster." "why should he mind? he says he's crazy to meet you, and he's able to see people--" "but i've always understood that talking was very painful to any one suffering from pleurisy," protested alix. "doesn't seem to hurt court very much," declared charlie. "he nearly talked an arm off of me and furman hatch this morning,--and it certainly seemed to be a real pleasure for him to cuss. i really think he'll get well quicker if you drop in for a chat with him, mr. blythe." "it would be very nice," said alix warmly, "if you could run in for a few minutes--" "sure i will," cried the young man. "this afternoon, mr. webster,--about half-past two?" "any time suits me," said the obliging mr. webster. as if struck by something irresistibly funny, he suddenly put his hand to his mouth and got very red in the face. after an illy-suppressed snort or two, he coughed violently, and then stammered: "excuse me. i was just thinking about--er--about something funny. i'm always doing some fool thing like that. this was about ed jones's dog,--wouldn't be the least bit funny to anybody but me, so i won't tell you about it. two-thirty it is, then? i'll meet you up at alix's. it's only a step." "will you tell mr. thane that you are bringing mr. blythe to see him this afternoon, charlie?" said alix. "you said he was threatening to disobey the doctor's--" "you leave it to me, alix," broke in charlie reassuringly. "trust me to see that he don't escape." a little before two-thirty, tall mr. blythe, one time captain in the field artillery, and short mr. webster wended their way through the once busy stableyard in the rear of dowd's tavern. charlie gave his companion a brief history of the tavern and indicated certain venerable and venerated objects of interest,--such as the ancient log watering-trough (hewn in ); the rain-barrels, ash-hoppers and fodder cribs (dating back to civil war days), the huge kettle suspended from a thick iron bar the ends of which were supported by rusty standards, where apple-butter was made at one season of the year, lye at another, and where lard was rendered at butchering-time. he took him into the wagon-shed and showed him the rickety high-wheeled, top-heavy carriage used by the first of the dowds back in the forties, now ready to fall to pieces at the slightest ungentle shake; the once gaudy sleigh with its great curved "runners"; and over in a dark corner two long barrelled rifles with rusty locks and rotten stocks, that once upon a time cracked the doom of deer and wolf and fox, of catamount and squirrel and coon, of wild turkeys and geese and ducks--to say nothing of an occasional horsethief. "they say old man dowd could shoot the eye out of a squirrel three hundreds yards away with one of these rifles," announced charlie; "and it was no trick at all for him to nip a wild turkey's head off at five hundred yards. i'll bet you didn't run up against any such shooting as that over in france." blythe shook his head. "no such rifle shooting, i grant you. but what would you say to a german cannon twelve miles away landing ten shells in succession on a battery half as big as this stable without even being able to see the thing they were shooting at?" "i give up," said charlie gloomily. "old man dowd was some liar, but, my gosh, he couldn't hold a--well, my respect for the american army is greater than it ever was, i'll say that, captain. dan dowd was the rankest kind of an amateur." "do you mean as a shot,--or as a liar?" inquired blythe, grinning. "both," said charlie. he had a very definite purpose in leading his guest through the stable-yard. by doing so he avoided the customary approach to the tavern, in full view from courtney's windows. they circled the building and arrived at the long, low porch from the north. here they encountered furman hatch. charlie appeared greatly surprised to find the photographer there. "what are you doing here at this time o' day, tintype?" he demanded. "takin' a vacation?" "i come over for some prints i left in my room last night," explained mr. hatch. "we're going up to call on court," said charlie. "won't you join us?" hatch looked at his watch, frowned dubiously, and then said he could spare a few minutes,--and that was just what it was understood in advance that he was to say! "he goes by the name of tintype," explained mr. webster, after the two men had shaken hands. "not because he looks like one, but because the village idiot's name is furman, and we have to have some way of tellin' them apart." a few minutes later, charlie knocked resoundingly on courtney's door. "who is it?" "it's me,--charlie webster. got a nice surprise for you." "come in." and in strode charlie, followed by the tall stranger and the lank mr. hatch. courtney, full dressed,--except that he wore instead of his coat a thick blue bath gown,--was sitting at a table in front of the small wood-fire stove, playing solitaire. a saucer at one corner of the table served as an ash tray. it was half full of cigarette stubs. "well, what the--" he began, and then, catching sight of the stranger, scrambled up from his chair, his mouth still open. "i thought you'd be surprised," said charlie triumphantly. "this is mr. blythe, mr. thane,--shake hands with each other, comrades. when i told him you were so keen to see him and talk over old times, he said slap-bang he'd come with me when i offered to bring him up." "i hope we're not intruding, mr. thane," said blythe, advancing with hand extended. "mr. webster assured me you were quite well enough to receive--" "i am glad you came," cried courtney, recovering from his surprise. "awfully good of you. these beastly lungs of mine, you know. the least little flare-up scares me stiff. still, i had almost screwed up my nerve to going out this afternoon--" "it doesn't pay to take any risks," warned blythe, as they shook hands. the two men looked each other closely, steadily in the eye. courtney was the first to speak at the end of this mutual scrutiny. "i wasn't quite sure whether i met you over there, captain blythe," he said, "but now i know that i didn't. i've been puzzling my brain for days trying to recall the name, or at least your face. i may be wrong, however. i haven't much of a memory. i hope you will forgive me if we did meet and i have forgotten it. i--" "i have no recollection of ever having seen you, mr. thane," said blythe. "it isn't surprising, however. it--it was a pretty big war, you know." charlie webster was slightly dashed. if anything, courtney thane was more at ease, more convincing than addison blythe. he felt rather foolish. something, it seemed, had fallen very flat. he evaded mr. hatch's eye. "sit down, captain blythe," said courtney affably. "hope you don't mind this bath gown. charlie, make yourself at home on the bed,--you too, hatch. we're as shy of chairs here as we were at the front, you see." blythe remained for half an hour and then went away with his two companions. courtney shook hands with him and said good-bye at the hall door; then he strode over to the bureau to look at himself in the glass. he saw reflected therein a very well satisfied face, with brightly confident eyes and the suggestion of a triumphant smile. hatch accompanied the moody mr. webster to the warehouse office. "strikes me, charlie," said he, thoughtfully, "that of the two our friend courtney seems a long sight more genuine than this feller blythe. i guess you're off your base, old boy. why, darn it, he had blythe up in the air half the time. if i was a betting man, i'd put up a hundred or two that blythe never even saw the places they were talking about." "do you think blythe is a fake?" cried charlie in some heat. "i wouldn't go so far as to say that," said hatch diplomatically, "but you'll have to admit that court asked him a lot of questions he didn't seem able to answer." charlie stared hard at the floor for a few seconds. then: "well, if i was to ask you what my mother's maiden name was, tintype, you'd have to say you didn't know, wouldn't you?" "sure," said hatch. "but i wouldn't go so far as to say i wasn't certain whether she had a maiden name or not, would i?" "there's no use arguing with you, hatch," said charlie irritably, and turned to his desk by the window, there to frown fiercely over his scales book. ii alix and miss blythe were sitting in front of the fireplace when young blythe entered the living-room on his return from dowd's tavern. the former looked up at him brightly, eagerly as he planted himself between them with his back to the cheerful blaze. "did you see him?" she inquired. he was struck by the deep, straining look in her dark eyes,--as if she were searching for something far back in his brain. "yes," he replied, as he took his pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket. "he was up and around the room and was as pleased as punch to see me." he began stuffing the bowl of the pipe. "he is a most attractive chap, alix. i don't know when i've met a more agreeable fellow." "then you had not met before,--over there?" "no. we missed each other by days on two or three occasions. he left for the vosges just before i got to pont-a-mousson, and was transferred to another section when we all went up to bar le duc at the time of the verdun drive. he joined the ambulance several months before i did, and was shifted about a good deal. had some trouble with a french officer at pont-a-mousson and asked to be transferred." here he smiled feelingly. "he's got a mustard plaster on his back now, he says, that would cover an army mule. i know how that feels, by jinks! i wore one for three weeks over there because i didn't have the nerve to rip it off." he was still aware of the unanswered question in her eyes. changing his position slightly, he busied himself with the lighting of his pipe. "was he expecting you?" inquired alix. "not at all. it seems that your roly-poly friend forgot to notify him. i say, alix, what a wonderful lot of pre-historic junk there is in that old stable-yard. webster took me around there and showed me the stuff. tell me something about the place." late in the afternoon blythe,--after submitting to an interview at the hands of a. lincoln pollock,--sat alone before the fire, his long legs stretched out, a magazine lying idly in his lap, his pipe dead but gripped firmly in the hand that had remained stationary for a long, long time halfway to his lips. he was staring abstractedly into the neglected fire. his sister came in. he was not aware of her entrance until she appeared directly in front of him. "hello!" he exclaimed, blinking. "what is on your mind, addy?" he glanced over his shoulder. "where is alix?" "writing letters. there were two or three she has to get off before we start for town." she sat down on the arm of his chair. "you may as well tell me what you really think of him, addison. isn't he good enough for her?" he lowered his voice. the frown of perplexity deepened in his eyes. "i can't make him out, mary," he said, lowering his voice. "what do you mean?" she asked quickly. "well, i may be doing him the rottenest injustice, but--somehow--he doesn't ring quite true to me." "for goodness sake, addy,--" she began, and then: "in what way? hurry up! tell me before she comes down. isn't he a--a gentleman?" "oh, yes,--i suppose he is. he's a most engaging chap; he certainly seems well-bred, and he's darned good-looking. that isn't what i mean." he hesitated a moment and then blurted out: "does alix know positively that he was in the american ambulance? i mean, has she anybody else's word for it except his?" mary blythe stared at her brother, her lips parted. then her eyes narrowed suddenly. "don't--don't you think he's straight, addy?" she half-whispered. "i confess i'm puzzled. i never dreamed of doubting him when i went there. but i've been doing a lot of thinking since i saw him, and,--by george, mary, i'm up a tree. good lord, if he should be--well, if he should be putting something over on alix, he ought to be shot, that's all. do you think she's in love with him?" "i don't know. she's interested in him, i'm sure, but two or three times i have caught the queerest little look in her eyes when she is speaking of him,--almost as if she were afraid of something. i can't describe it. it's just--well, the only thing i can think of is that it's kind of pleading, if you know what i mean." "groping, i guess is the word you're after." "exactly. but go on,--tell me." "it won't do to say anything about this to alix, mary," said he firmly. "at least not at present. not until i've satisfied myself. i'm going to write to three or four fellows who were in section two for months,--before i was there,--and see if they know anything about him. i'd write to mr. hereford himself, but he's in europe. he could give me the right dope in a minute. piatt andrew's in france, i understand. the records will show, of course, but it will take time to get at them. we must not breathe a word of all this to alix, mary. understand? i've got to make sure first. it would be unpardonable if i were to make a break about him and he turned out to be all right." "you must find out as quickly as possible, addison. we would never forgive ourselves if we allowed alix to--" "don't you worry! it won't take long to get a line on him. i'd telegraph if i were sure of the addresses. i ought to hear in three or four days, a week at the outside. of course, he talks very convincingly. that's what floors me. but, on the other hand, he's too darned convincing. first of all, he called me captain blythe all the time. that isn't done by fellows in the know. i'm just plain mister these days. he was rather hazy about the places i know all about, and tremendously clear about places i've never even heard of,--the places around pont-a-mousson, i mean. he actually looked suspicious of me when i said i didn't know where they were. and he mentioned a lot of men that i am dead sure never were up at pont-a-mousson,--either before or after i was there. names i had never heard before in my life. and, confound it, the way he lifted his eyebrows made me feel for a minute or two that i hadn't been there myself. he says that since his injury and his sicknesses his memory isn't the best, but when i spoke of some of the fellows who were there with me, he remembered them perfectly. didn't know them well, because he wasn't with the bunch very long, it seems. when i remarked that he must see a good bit of the chaps who live in new york city, he told me he had been sick ever since he came home from england and hadn't seen one of the crowd. he said he knew pottle, and fay, and tyler, sudbery and several others,--so i'm going to write to all of them tomorrow." "it would be terrible, addy, if she were to--" "mind you, old girl, i'm not saying this fellow isn't square," he interrupted. "he may be all he says he is. he's got me guessing, that's all." "she says he has the croix de guerre and a d. s. medal." he looked at her pityingly. "i've got a couple of iron crosses, old dear, but that doesn't mean i had 'em pinned on me by a boche general. i've also got a german helmet, but i got it the same way i got the crosses,--off of a german whose eyes were closed. anyhow, i'd like to see his medals. has alix seen them?" "his mother has them in new york," she replied. she stared into the fire for a moment or two and then turned to him, a look of deep concern in her eyes. "i think alix is in love with him, addy. she isn't herself at all. she is distrait. twice this afternoon she has asked me if i didn't want to walk down into the village,--to the postoffice or the library. what she really wanted to do was to walk past the place where he lives. oh, i know the symptoms. i've had them myself,--when i was younger than i am now. we don't do the things at thirty-two that we did at twenty-four. she is the dearest, finest girl i've ever known, addy. we must not let anything happen to her." he shook his head slowly. "if she is really in love with him, there's nothing we can do. the saying that 'there's no fool like an old fool' isn't in it with 'there's no fool like a woman in love.' look at isabel harrington. wasn't she supposed to be as sensible as they make 'em? and didn't everybody she knew tell her what kind of a man he was? did it do any good?" "she knew he gambled,--and drank--and he was a fascinating chap, addy. you'll admit that." "you bet i admit it. it was certainly proved when those other women turned up with marriage certificates, and old mrs. mason jumped into the scrimmage and had him arrested for swindling her out of thirty-five thousand dollars, and the new york police came along with a warrant for--" "yes, yes," she interrupted impatiently. "but alix is quite different. she is not a fool, and isabel was,--and still is, i maintain. you have seen this friend of alix's. is he attractive?" "well," he mused aloud, "unless i am mistaken, he is the sort of fellow that women fall for without much of an effort. the sort that can fool women but can't fool men, mary, if that means anything to you. now that i think of it, i believe webster and that friend of his are--well, i'm sure they don't like him. he--" "sh! she is coming!" alix's quick, light tread was heard in the hall. she came from her "office" in the wing where the kitchen was situated. there was a heightened colour in her cheeks and her lovely eyes were shining. "well, that job is done," she cried, tossing two or three letters on the table. "don't let me forget them, mary. i'll post them in the city. we leave at six o'clock, addison. i telephoned to town and asked george richards to meet us at the raleigh at a quarter before seven. i am dreadfully disappointed, mary, that mr. thane cannot go, but you will like george. mr. thane never goes to town. he was going to break his rule tonight, and now he can't go. isn't that always the way?" "mary's awfully partial to georges," said addison, "so don't you worry about her. i know i shall have a better time if thane isn't in the party. to be perfectly frank with you, i'm jolly well fed up with mary,--as we say in london. and if thane was along i'd have to talk to her for three solid--why, 'pon my soul, alix, you're blushing!" "don't be silly!" "skip along, addy, and see how quickly you can dress," interposed his sister briskly. "you've got forty-six minutes." "i can dress and undress three times in forty-six minutes, and still have time to read the evening paper and do a few odd chores about the place. i say, alix, red is awfully becoming to you." with that parting shot, he disappeared. iii one of the envelopes on the table was addressed to david strong. it was a reply to a special delivery letter received in the afternoon post. he had been very prompt in responding to alix's curt note, and she was being equally prompt with her answer. there were stamps sufficient on hers to insure "special delivery" to him. he had written: dear alix: i have not received the bracelet yet. registered mail moves slowly. if i did not know you so well, i might even hope that you had changed your mind at the last minute and did not send it. but i know it will come along in a day or so. i shall not ask you to explain why you are returning my gift. you have a good reason, no doubt. we have not been very friendly of late. i admit that i have been stubborn about paying back the money your grandfather lent to me, and i suppose i have not been very gentlemanly or tactful in trying to make you understand. i still maintain that it is a very silly thing for us to quarrel about, but i am not going to hector you about it now. i trust you will forgive me if i add to your annoyance by saying that i'd like to be where i could shake a little sense into that stubborn head of yours. you are returning my gift. as i told you when i sent it to you, it was given me by a french lady whose son i had taken care of and for whose ultimate recovery i was perhaps responsible. she appreciated the fact that i could not and would not accept pay for my services. this much i have told you before. now, i shall tell you something more. when she pressed it upon me she said that i was to give it to my sweetheart back in america. i gave it to you. i daresay i am greatly to blame for never having told you before that you were my sweetheart, alix. very sincerely yours, david. to this alix replied: dear david: by this time you will have received the bracelet. it is not beyond the bounds of probability that you may yet be in a position to carry out the terms imposed by the lady in france. all the more reason for my returning it to you. you are now free to give it to any one to whom you may have confided the astonishing secret you so successfully withheld from me. you seem to have forgotten that i gave you a receipt in full for the amount you are supposed to have owed my grandfather's estate. i did this with the consent of my lawyer. he said it was perfectly legal and that it was in my power to cancel the so-called obligation,--especially as we have no documentary evidence that you ever had promised to reimburse my grandfather. on the contrary, as i have told you over and over again, i have in my possession a statement written by grandfather windom which absolutely settles the matter. he states in so many words that in making his will he failed to mention his "beloved young friend, david strong" as a beneficiary, in view of the fact that "i have made him a substantial gift during the closing years of my life in the shape of such education as he may require, and for which i trust him to repay me, not in money, but in the simplest and truest form of compensation: gratitude." in spite of this, you continue to offend me,--i might even say insult me,--by choosing to consider his gift as an obligation which can only be met by paying money to me. all that you owed my grandfather was gratitude and respect. as for myself, i relieve you of the former but i do think i am entitled to the latter. yours sincerely, alix crown the same post that carried her letter east was to take one from courtney thane to his mother. dearest mater: i am going to ask alix crown to marry me. i have hesitated to do so for obvious reasons, perfectly clear to you. now, i have decided. she understands my financial situation. she knows that i am almost entirely dependent on you for support at present. if it had not been for the war and my confounded ill-health, i should, of course, have been quite independent by this time. i have explained my present unbearable situation to her in a general sort of way, and i know that she is in complete sympathy with me. your resolve to not increase my allowance is, i suppose, irrevocable. i shall soon be in a position, i hope, to dispense with what you are already so gracious as to allow me. i have not deemed it wise to tell her at this time of my unfortunate and, as you say, foolish mismanagement of my affairs before and after father's death. when all is said and done, he didn't leave me very much. it went before i quite knew what was happening, and i submit that it was bad judgment due to my youth rather than to recklessness, as old mumford claims. i'll make him eat his words some day. thanks for your cheque. you are a darling. you're the best mother a fellow ever had. i quite understand your position, so don't lose a moment's sleep thinking that i may be resenting your decision. i shall manage very nicely on what you give me. it is ample for my present needs. i shall probably find it rather humiliating when it comes time for a wedding journey, but, bless your dear old heart, i'll manage somehow. i am quite well and very happy. hope you are the same. by the way, have you made that visit to washington? your loving son, courtney. p.s.--i am still looking for the little parcel i asked you to send me. have you forgotten to attend to it? c. as alix and her friends went out to the automobile, the big police dog trotted beside addison blythe, looking up into his face with pleased and friendly eyes. he allowed the man to stroke his head and rumple the thick fur on his back. "he likes you, addison," said alix, a serious little frown in her eyes. "i can't understand his not liking courtney thane. his hair fairly bristles and he growls like a bear every time he sees him. isn't it odd?" blythe looked up quickly. it was on the tip of his tongue to say something tactless. what he did say was this: "can you blame the poor dog for being jealous?" chapter xiii the old indian trail courtney delayed. a certain aloofness on alix's part caused him to hesitate. something in her manner following upon the visit of the blythes invited speculation. she was as pleasant as ever, yet he sensed a subtle change that warned him of defeat if he attempted to storm the citadel. his confidence was slightly shaken,--but not his resolve. "she's been different ever since those infernal blythes were here," he reflected aloud, scowling as he watched her pass in the car several days after the departure of her guests. she went to the city nearly every day now, and seldom returned before dark. somehow he felt that his grip was slipping. he was standing in front of the tavern. she had waved her hand to him, and had smiled gaily, but it was not the first time that week she had failed to stop and repeat her usual invitation for him to accompany her, even though she knew he would politely decline. he resented this oversight. how could she know that he hadn't changed his mind about going to the city? as a matter of fact, he had changed it. he would have gone like a shot. indeed, he had dressed with that very object in view,--and she had gone by with a casual wave of her hand. his annoyance was increased by the remark of mr. nichols, who was standing at the top of the steps at the time. "thought you said you was going up to town, courtney," said the old man, with a detestable grin on his wrinkled visage. "i didn't say anything of the kind," snapped courtney, and strode off angrily. his stroll,--and his reflections,--took him up the old indian trail along the bank of the river. he wanted solitude. he wanted to be where he could talk without fear of being overheard. there was much that he had to say to himself. the rarely used path through the willows and underbrush ran along the steep bank, sometimes within a few feet of water. once before he had walked a couple of hundred yards over this ancient, hard-packed trail of tecumseh's people, but had been turned back by the sight of a small snake wriggling off into the long grass ahead of him. that was in the warm days of early september. there was no likelihood of serpents being abroad on this chill october morning. leaving the road at the cut above the ferry landing, he turned into the trail. a half hour's walk brought him to the gradually rising, rock-covered slope that led to the base of quill's window. on all sides were great, flat slabs of stone, some of them almost buried in the earth, others sticking their jagged points up above the brush and weeds. back in ages dim these drab, moss-covered rocks had been sliced from the side of the towering mound by the forces that shaped the earth, to be hurled hither and thither with the calm disdain of the mighty. no human agency had blasted them from their insecure hold on the shoulders of the cliff. uncounted centuries ago they had come bounding, crashing down from the heights, shaken loose by the convulsions of mother earth, tearing their way through the feeble barrier of trees to a henceforth place of security. the trail wound in and out among these boulders, dividing at a point several hundred feet south of the steep ascent to the top of the great black mound. the main-travelled path turned in from the river at this point, to skirt the hill at its rear. a more tortuous way, traversed presumably by the fishers and hunters of the tribes, or perhaps by war parties in swift pursuit or retreat, held directly to the bank of the stream and passed along the front of the cliff. courtney took the latter branch. presently he was picking his way carefully along the base of the cliff, scrambling over and between the rocks that formed a narrow ledge between the river and the sheer face of quill's window. he was now some fifty or sixty feet above the cold, grey water. below him grew a line of stunted, ragged underbrush, springing from the earth-filled fissures among the boulders. across the river stretched far away the farms and fields of the far-famed grain-belt. he sat down upon a rock and gazed out over these fertile lands, now crowded with shocks of corn or rusty with the dead glories of summer. there were great square fields of stubble, fenced-in patches of pasture-land, small oases of woodland, houses and barns and silos as far as the eye could reach,--and always the huge red barns dwarfed the houses in which the farmers dwelt. cattle and sheep and horses, wagons and men, all made small and insignificant in the sweep of this great and solemn panorama. the home of amos vick was visible, standing half-a-mile back from the river. he looked hard and long at the house in which he had spent the first three weeks of his stay in the country. so young cale had gone off to join the navy, eh? good! and rosabel,--what of her? what was she doing over at the old windom house that day? could it have been she who was watching him? looking badly, too, they said. such a strong, pretty, wind-tanned young thing she was! how long ago was it? not two months....he lit a cigarette and resumed his way, the shadow of a fond smile lingering in his eyes. rounding the curve, he came to that side of the stone hill which faced up the river. he had passed many small, shallow niches along the base of the eminence, miniature caves from which oozed what might well have been described as sweat. there were, besides, deep upright slashes in the side of the rock, higher than his head, suggesting to the imagination the vain effort of some unhappy giant to burst through the walls of his rocky prison,--some monster of a man who now lay dead in the heart of the hill. the turn took him farther away from the river. he was looking now into the tops of several tall sycamores that rose from the low ground at the foot of the hill. extending far to the north along the river was a fringe of these much be-sung trees. the space between the straight face of the cliff and the edge of the ledge on which he stood was not more than seven or eight feet. it was possible, he perceived, for one to continue along and down this natural path to the bottom of the hill, coming out among the trees in the low ground. the descent, however, was a great deal more precipitous than the ascent from the other direction. now that he was immediately below the cave known as quill's window, he was surprised to find that the cliff was not absolutely perpendicular. there was quite a pronounced slant; the top of the wall was, at a guess, ten feet farther back than the foot. his gaze first sought the strange opening three-fourths of the way to the top,--a matter of eighty or ninety feet above the spot on which he stood. there it was,--a deep, black gash in the solid rock, rendered narrow by fore-shortening and a slightly protruding brow. he could think of nothing more analogous than an open mouth with a thick upper lip and the nether lip drawn in. then he saw what surprised him even more,--something that none of the chroniclers had mentioned: a series of hand-cut niches up the face of the cliff, leading directly to the mouth of the cave. he had been given to understand that there was no other means of reaching quill's window save from the top of the rock. these niches or "hand-holds" were about two feet apart. he examined the lower ones. they were deeply chiselled, affording a substantial foothold as well as a grip for a strong, resolute climber. most of them were packed with dirty, wind blown leaves from the trees nearby,--so tightly packed by the furious rains that beat against the rock that he had difficulty in removing the substance. higher up they appeared to be quite clean and free from obstruction. he scraped the leaves out of five or six of the slits, one after the other, as he climbed a short distance up the wall. further progress was checked, not so much by lack of desire to go to the top, but by an involuntary glance over his shoulder. he was not more than ten feet above the trail, but the trail was shockingly narrow and uneven. so down he came, quite thrilled by his discovery, to lean against the rock and laugh scornfully over the silly tales about quill's window and its eerie impregnability. anybody could climb up there! all that one needed was a stout heart and a good pair of arms. closer inspection convinced him that these niches were of comparatively recent origin,--certainly they were not of quill's time. david windom? had that adventurous lad hewn this ladder to the cave long before the beautiful alix the first came to complete the romance of his dreams? no matter who cut them, they were still there to prove that quill's window was accessible. according to tradition, no one had put foot inside the cave since david windom, in his youth, had ventured to explore its grisly interior. courtney promised himself that one day he would enter that unhallowed hole in the wall! retracing his steps over the trail, he soon found himself in the village. he was more cheerful now. he had talked himself into a better frame of mind....she was shy. she had reached the turning point,--the inevitable point where women tremble with a strange mixture of alarm and rapture, and are as timid as the questioning deer. what a fool he was not to have thought of that! there was a small package in his lockbox at the postoffice--and two or three letters. the package was from new york, addressed in his mother's hand. he stopped at the general delivery window for a chat with mrs. pollock. "i had forgotten all about my birthday," he said, "but here's mother reminding me of it as usual. she never forgets,--and, hang it all, she won't let me forget." he fingered the unopened package lovingly. "goodness me, mr. thane,--is this your birthday?" she cried excitedly. "we must have a celebration. we can't allow--" "alas, it is too late. your super-efficient postal service has brought this to me just forty-eight hours behind time. day before yesterday was the day, now that i think of it." mrs. pollock mentally resolved to indite a short poem to him, notwithstanding. she could feel it coming, even as she stood there talking to him. the first line was already written, so to speak. it went: "the flight of time has brought once more--" he continued, oblivious to the workings of the muse: "twenty-nine! by jove, i begin to feel that i'm getting on in life." he ripped open one of the envelopes. maude baggs pollock looked intently at the ceiling of the outer office, and thought of line number two: "the busy reaper to his door," she hastily snatched a pencil from her hair and began jotting down these precious lines. fumbling for a bit of paper her fingers encountered an envelope addressed to alaska spigg. the muse worked swiftly. before she had dashed off the first two lines, the second pair were crowding down upon them, to wit: "but while he whets his fatal scythe, gaze ye upon his victim lithe." at this juncture george rice's son came in for a half dozen postal cards, and while she was making change for a dime the muse forsook her. bent on preserving the lines already shaped, she stuffed alaska's letter into the pocket of her apron, intending to copy them at the first leisure moment. unfortunately for alaska, there was a rush of business at the window, including an acrimonious dispute with mrs. ryan over the non-arrival of a letter she was expecting from her son, and a lengthy conversation with miss flora grady who dropped in to say that her chilblains always began to bother her in october. in the meantime, courtney departed. two days later, alaska spigg received her letter, considerably crumpled and smelling of licorice root,--(a favourite remedy of mrs. pollock's)--but rendered precious by the presence of a mysterious "quatrain" done in violet hues by some poetic wielder of an indelible pencil. guilt denied maude baggs pollock the right to claim authorship of these imperishable lines, and to this day they remain unidentified in the archives of the windomville public library, displayed upon request by alaska spigg, their proud and unselfish donor. courtney read two of his letters. the third he consigned, unopened, to the fireplace at dowd's tavern. the little package, minus the wrapping paper, was locked away in his trunk. charlie webster, emerging from his office at the dinner hour,--twelve noon,--espied miss angie miller hurrying toward the tavern. he hailed her,--not ceremoniously or even gallantly,--but in the manner of windomville. "hey!" he called, and angie promptly responded, not with the dignity for which she was famous but with an entirely human spontaneity: "hey yourself!" she waited till he caught up with her. "have you had an answer to that letter, angie?" he inquired, glancing at a small bunch of letters she held in her hand. "no, i haven't." she replied, somewhat guardedly. "i can't understand why he hasn't answered, charlie,--unless he's away or something." "must be that," said he, frowning slightly. "you wrote nearly two weeks ago, didn't you?" "two weeks ago yesterday." "sure you had the right address?" "absolutely. thirty-three cedar street. he's had an office there for ever so long. i ought to know where my uncle's office is, oughtn't i?" "i thought maybe you might have got the wrong tree," explained charlie. "it's cedar," said miss angie flatly. "cedar and pine are a good deal alike, except in--" began charlie, doubtfully, "goodness!" cried miss angie, stopping short. "it is pine! how perfectly stupid of me! how utterly reprehensible!" charlie stared at her a moment in sheer disdain. "well, by gosh, if that ain't like a woman," he exclaimed disgustedly. "i'd hate to send you for a half dozen oranges if there were any lemons in the market." "he is such a well-known lawyer," began angie humbly, "that you would think the mail carrier would--" "what did you say his name was?" "joseph smith. he is my mother's brother." "east or west?" "east or west what?" "pine street. same as north fourth street and south fourth street up in the city. it runs both ways, angie,--you poor simp." "i shall write to him again this evening," said angie stiffly. "and i'll thank you, charlie webster, to remember that i am a lady and not a--" "i apologize, angie," cried charlie. "you'd better!" they walked along in silence for a few rods. then charlie spoke. "you say your uncle was mixed up in a lawsuit of some kind concerning the thane family?" "i remember it distinctly. it was five or six years ago, before my mother died. he wrote her a letter about it when he found out that the thanes originally came from this neighbourhood. i don't remember what it was all about, but i think it was some kind of a rumpus over money." "well, you write tonight, angie," ordered mr. webster; "and remember it ain't cedar, or oak, or mahogany. it's pine,--the stuff you make boxes of." much to courtney's dismay, alix remained in town over night. he went up to the house that evening, only to receive this disconcerting bit of information. halfway home, he stopped short in the road, confronted by a most astonishing doubt. had she really stayed in town? could it be possible that she was at home and did not care to see him? was it an excuse? he compressed his lips. with lightning rapidity certain bits of circumstantial evidence raced through his mind. in the first place, there was sergeant, the police dog. he wished he could remember whether he had seen the animal in the car with her that morning. it was her custom to take the dog with her when she went up for the day. one thing was certain: sergeant was now at home. did that mean she had returned from the city? and then there was another extraordinary thing,--something to which he had not given a thought till now. the dog was on the terrace when he strode up the walk. not only was he there, but he interposed his lean, bristling body between him and the porch-steps, growling ominously and showing his teeth. he did not bark. he merely stood there, daring him to approach. courtney remembered saying to himself: "there's one thing sure, you and i can't live in the same house, you filthy brute. you'd better learn how to say your prayers, my amiable friend." it was not so much the presence of the dog or his inimical attitude that troubled him now as the fact that mrs. strong opened the front door without having been summoned by the bell. what did that signify? but one thing: either she or some one else had been waiting and watching for his arrival,--waiting behind the window curtains of a darkened room! "well,--i'm damned!" he swore to himself, as the blood rushed furiously to his head. for an instant he saw red. "good lord, what have i done to deserve such a slap in the face as this? what can be--but, what the devil's the matter with me? of course, she's in town! i must be going batty. certainly she's in town. she--but, even so, why should she have gone off like this without saying a word to me about it? she didn't mention it last night. not a word. and she must have known then she was planning to spend the night,--why, by gad, i wonder if she calls that being fair with me? letting me trail up here tonight, expecting--any way you want to look at it, it's rotten,--just plain rotten!" chapter xiv suspicion early the next morning she called him up from the city. she explained everything. the little daughter of her best friend had fallen downstairs, injuring herself badly,--perhaps fatally. she felt it her duty to remain with the distracted mother,--she hoped he would understand. and she was in such a hurry to reach the city after the child's father had called her on the telephone that she really did not have the time to stop and explain. he would understand that, too, wouldn't he? and she thought perhaps she would stay over another night. she couldn't leave marjorie,--at least, not until something definite was known. he was vastly relieved. all his worry for nothing! he wished now that he had remained in his room instead of going out a second time last night to tramp about the dark, lonely village, driven forth by an ugly fit of temper. "but mrs. strong didn't say anything about the accident," he said over the wire. "she simply said you were in town for the night." "i can't understand that," replied alix. "she knew why i came up to town, and i telephoned her during the afternoon that i would stay overnight. "she might have told me," he complained. "it would have relieved my mind enormously. i--i was horribly unhappy. never closed my eyes. i thought you,--that is, i wondered if i had done anything to offend you. my lord, you'll never know how happy i am this minute. my heart is singing--and to think it was like a lump of lead all last night. do try to come out this evening." she did not answer at once, but he could plainly hear her breathing. then she said softly: "if--if the child is better. i can't leave marjorie until--until--" "i understand," he cried heartily. "what a selfish beast i am. don't give me another thought. your place is there. because you are an angel!" later on he sauntered over to the postoffice. a number of men and women were congregated in front of the drug store, among them charlie webster and a. lincoln pollock. the latter had his "pad" in hand and was writing industriously. "what's the excitement?" courtney inquired, coming up to charlie. "somebody poisoned henry brickler's collie last night," replied charlie. there was a dark scowl on his chubby face. "you don't mean that corking dog up at the white house on the--" "yep. that's the one," replied charlie harshly. "anybody that would poison a dog ought to be tarred and feathered." "who did it?" "you don't suppose a man mean enough to give an unsuspectin' dog a dose of poison would be kind enough to pin his card on the gatepost, do you? i should say not!" "but why on earth should any one want to poison that big beautiful dog?" cried courtney indignantly. "had he bitten anybody?" "not as anybody knows of. henry says he never harmed a living soul. that dog--" "by george!" exclaimed courtney suddenly. "this reminds me of something. i passed a couple of men last night down at the corner where you turn up to miss crown's. they were leaning against the fence on the opposite side of the road, and i had the queerest sort of feeling about them. i felt that they were watching me. i remember turning my head to look back at them. they were still standing there. it was too dark to see what they looked like--" "wait a second," broke in charlie. "here's bill foss, the constable. tell it to him, court." the town constable, vastly excited, came up the street, accompanied by two or three stern-visaged citizens. "well, by thunder!" growled the officer, wiping his forehead. "somebody's been making a wholesale job of it. dick hurdle's 'jackie' and bert little's 'prince' are dead as doornails. that makes three. now, who the hell,--" "just a second,--just a second," cried a. lincoln pollock, elbowing his way into the thick of the new group. "let me get the facts. you first, dick. where did you find your dog's remains? now, take it calm, dick. don't cuss like that. i can't print a word of it, you know,--not a word. remember there are ladies present, dick. you've got to--" mr. hurdle said he didn't give a cuss if all the women in town were present, he was going to say what he thought of any blankety-blank,--and so on at great length, despite the fact that the ladies crowded even a little closer, evidently reluctant to miss a word of his just and unbridled blasphemy. the occasion demanded the sonorous efficiency of mr. richard hurdle. in all windomville there was no one so well qualified to do justice to the situation as he. (later on, charlie webster was heard to remark that "as long as these dogs had to be killed, it's a great relief that dick's was one of 'em, because he's got the best pair of lungs in town. he can expand his chest nearly seven inches, and when he fills all that extra space up with words nobody ever even heard of before, people clear over in illinois have to rush out and shoo their children into the house and keep 'em there till it blows over.") doctor smith came rattling up in his ford, hopped out, and started to enter the drug store. catching sight of the druggist in the crowd, he stopped to bawl out: "who's been buying prussic acid of you, sam foster? what do you mean by selling--" "i ain't sold a grain of prussic acid in ten years," roared mr. foster. "or any other kind of poison. don't you accuse me of--" "anything new, doc? anything new?" cried the editor of the sun, rushing up to the doctor. "they got that dog of alix crown's. i tried to save him,--but he was as good as dead when i got there. of all the damnable outrages--" "miss crown's dog?" cried courtney, aghast, "good god! why,--why, it will break her heart! she loved that dog! men! we've got to find the scoundrel. we've got to fix him. he ought to be strung up. has any one called miss crown up, doctor? she is in the city. she--" "mrs. strong called her up. the automobile started for town fifteen or twenty minutes ago to bring her home." "keep your shirt on, court," warned charlie webster. "you'll bust a blood vessel. cool off! there's no use talkin' about getting him. whoever it was that planted these dog-buttons around town was slick enough to cover up his tracks. we'll never find out who did it. it's happened before, and the result is always the same. dead dogs tell no tales." "but those two fellows i saw down at the corner last night--" "would you be able to identify them?" "no,--hang it all! it was too dark. it was about half-past nine. why, earlier in the evening i was at miss crown's. i saw the dog. he was on the terrace. he growled at me,--he always growled at me. he didn't like me. mrs. strong came to the door and called him into the house. i am sure he was all right then. when is he supposed to have got the poison, doctor?" "this morning. she let him out of the house about seven o'clock. paid no attention to him till he came crawling around to the kitchen door some time afterward. he just laid down and kicked a few times,--that's what makes me think it was prussic acid. it knocks 'em quick." "come on, charlie," cried courtney, clutching the other's arm. "we must go up to the house. there may be some trace,--something that will give us a clue." he was at the house when the car returned without alix. she had sent the chauffeur back with instructions to bury the dog. she could not bear looking at him. she wanted it to be all over with before she came home. "i don't blame her," said charlie soberly. "shows how much she thought of sergeant when she's willing to pay five hundred dollars reward for the capture of the man or men who poisoned him." "where did you hear that?" demanded courtney, surprised. "ed stevens says she told him to authorize bill foss to have reward notices struck off over at the sun office, offering five hundred cash. she always said that dog was the best friend she had on earth." "but five hundred dollars! why, good lord, you can buy a dozen police dogs for that amount of--" "you couldn't have bought sergeant for ten times five hundred," interrupted charlie. "you see, as a matter of fact, he didn't actually belong to alix." "you must be crazy. she has had him since he was a puppy three months old." "sure, but, all the same, he didn't belong to her. he belonged to david strong. davy got him in france in the spring of and sent him clear over here for his mother to take care of for him." courtney was silent for a moment. "it's strange miss crown never told me this," he said, biting his lip. "well," said charlie quaintly, "far as that goes, i don't suppose it ever occurred to her to tell sergeant he belonged to somebody else, but even if she had i don't reckon it would have made a darn' bit of difference to him. he would have gone on loving her, just the same,--and workin' twenty-four hours a day for her, sundays and holidays included. a dog don't care who he belongs to, court, but he's mighty darned particular about who belongs to him." "i can't understand why he never seemed to like me," mused courtney. "well, maybe," began charlie soberly, "--maybe, after all, he did sort of know that he was davy strong's dog." ii for three days windomville talked of nothing but the "dog murders." the sun came out on thursday with a long and graphic account of the mysterious affairs of monday night, including the views and theories of well-known citizens. it also took occasion to "lambast" constable foss with great severity. the constable, being a republican, (and not a subscriber to the sun), was described as about the most incompetent official windomville had ever known, and that it would have been quite possible for the miscreant or miscreants to have poisoned every dog in town, in broad daylight, accompanied by a brass band, without bill ever "getting onto it." it goes without saying that everybody in town was stimulated to prodigious activity by the reward offered by miss crown. notices were stuck up in the postoffice and on all the telephone poles. a great many embarrassing incidents resulted, and three fist-fights of considerable violence occurred,--for the gentlemen accused of the crimes took drastic and specific means of establishing complete and satisfactory alibis. courtney thane chafed under the prolonged absence of alix crown. valuable time was being wasted. he had assisted at the burial of sergeant, and had shed tears with mrs. strong while ed stevens, the chauffeur, was filling in the grave up back of the orchard; and he had done further homage to the dead by planting a small american flag at the head of the mound and,--as an afterthought,--the flag of belgium at the foot. he felt that he had done very well by a dog that would have torn him to pieces if encouraged by the merest whisper of the words "sic 'im!" alix returned late on friday afternoon. he had a box of roses, ordered from the city for him by miss flora grady, awaiting her, and with them a tender little note of sympathy. she sat for a long time with mrs. strong. her dark eyes softened and filled with tears as david's mother gently stroked her hair and sought by words to convince her that david would understand. "it wasn't your fault, alix darling," she protested. "david won't mind,--not in the least. sergeant didn't really mean anything to him. he was yours more than he was david's. don't you worry about david's feelings, dear. he--" "you don't understand, aunt nancy,--you don't understand at all," alix repeated over and over again in her distress. "you're just worrying yourself sick over it," said the older woman. "why, you look all tuckered out, child,--i was shocked when you first came in. now, don't be foolish, dear. i tell you it will be all right with david. i wrote him all about it, and--what's that you are saying?" "you don't suppose he will think i--think i did it, aunt nancy?" alix whispered bleakly. "think you--for the land's sake, alix, what on earth are you saying? are you stark, staring crazy? you come right upstairs and get into bed this minute. my land, i--i believe you're going to be sick. you've got the queerest look in your eyes. come on, now, deary, and--" "i am sick,--just sick with unhappiness, aunt nancy," sobbed the girl. "you don't know,--you don't understand. oh, he couldn't believe i would do such a thing as that! he couldn't think me so cruel, and wicked and--and spiteful." "now, listen to me," said mrs. strong sternly. "what is the meaning of all this? what has happened between you and david that makes you talk like this? tell me,--tell me this minute, alix crown." "hasn't he told you--written you about anything?" cried the girl. "i don't know what you are driving at, alix, but whatever it is i know david hasn't got anything against you that would make you say such things as you've just been saying." she hesitated a moment and then laid her hand on alix's head. "i've been wondering a whole lot of late, alix. have you and david had a--a misunderstanding?" "we--we don't like each other as--as we used to, aunt nancy," said the girl, lifting her head almost defiantly to look david's mother full in the eyes. "is it david's fault?" asked mrs. strong after a moment. "i--i wish you wouldn't ask me anything more about it. at least, not now." "is it david's fault?" demanded the other once more, insistently. "i will say this much; it isn't my fault," replied alix stiffly. mrs. strong smiled,--a tender, loving smile. "i think i could straighten everything out if david were only here," she said. "i would take you both across my knee and give you a good sound spanking. it used to work beautifully when you were children,--and i think it would work now. i--i wonder if it would help matters any if i were to spank--no, i'm sure it wouldn't. to do any good at all david would have to be here to see me spanking you and to beg me to let you off and give it to him just twice as hard." "oh, aunt nancy," cried alix eagerly, "if you only would! how i wish i were a little girl again! and david a little boy!" then she fled from the room. nancy strong put her hand over her eyes and sighed. "i wish david were here," she said to herself. "if he were only here today." during dinner that evening alix was strangely repressed. it was plain to mrs. strong that she was inwardly agitated. after they left the table she became visibly nervous. she was "fidgety," to speak the thought of her perplexed companion. time and again she started and appeared to be listening intently, and always there was a queer little expression in her eyes as of expectancy. once or twice mrs. strong surprised a flash of anxiety,--aye, even fear,--in them. "you haven't read your letters yet, alix," she said at last, seeking for some means to divert the girl's thoughts. "there is quite a pile of them there on the table." "i don't feel like reading letters tonight," said alix. "they can wait till tomorrow." she arose, however, and hurriedly ran through the pile. "i wrote to david before dinner, aunt nancy," she said suddenly. "a long letter about sergeant's death. i wanted him to know how miserably i feel about it." "bless your heart, he'll know that without your telling him, child. i am glad you wrote to him, however." alix came to a letter addressed in an unfamiliar hand,--a bold, masculine scrawl. the postmark was chicago. she tore it open. it began with "dear alix." she quickly turned to the last page. it was signed "addison blythe." a "thank you" letter, of course. her back was to mrs. strong as she stood beside the table, bending slightly forward to get the full light from the library lamp. she read the letter through to the end; then she walked over to the fireplace and threw it into the flames. her face had lost every vestige of colour: dear alix: [it began] you will no doubt throw this letter into the fire the instant you have finished reading it, and you will hate me for having written it. nevertheless, i am doing so because i think it is my duty. i offer no apology. i only ask you to believe that my intentions are good. it is best to come straight to the point. i have talked it all over with mary and she approves of this letter. what i am about to say still requires official confirmation. i do not speak with authority, you must understand. i am merely giving you certain bits of information i have obtained from men who were in france in and . it rests with you to believe or disbelieve. in any case, if you are wise, you will at least take the trouble to investigate. i am at your service. if i can help you in any way, please call upon me. if you desire it, i will provide you with the names of at least three men who were in ambulance, all of whom have answered my letters of inquiry. one of these men met courtney thane in paris in november, . he was living at the hotel chatham with his mother. she had a husband up at the front, fighting with the french. this husband was a count or something of the sort and a good many years her junior. my informant writes me that young thane, who drank a great deal and talked quite freely of family affairs, told him that his mother had married this young frenchman a few months before the war broke out and went to paris to live with him. he went so far as to say that the frenchman married her for her money and he hoped the germans would make a widow of her again before it was too late. according to this chap, thane had also been in paris since the beginning of the war. he spent money like a drunken sailor and touched nothing but the high spots. the second or third time he met him, thane said he would like to get into the ambulance. his mother, however, was bitterly opposed to his joining up. the last time he saw him, he had on an ambulance uniform and was as drunk as a lord in one of the cafes. my friend had it straight from fellows out at neuilly that thane hadn't worn the uniform a week before it was taken away from him and he was kicked out of the service in disgrace. one of the other chaps has written me, saying that he was at the base hospital when thane was stripped of his uniform. he was not a witness to this, but he heard other fellows and the nurses talking about it. not only was his uniform taken away, but he was ordered to get out of paris at once. they heard afterward that he went to madrid with his mother. he was never at pont-a-mousson. it is obvious that he was not in the vosges sector, in view of the fact that he lasted less than a week in the ambulance, and did a vast amount of carousing in a uniform that i revere. it is up to you, alix. the records of the american ambulance are available. you can obtain all the information you desire, and i beg of you to get into communication with mr. hereford or mr. andrew or some other official at once. i append below the addresses of several persons to whom you may write. they were high in authority. they will give you facts. i was convinced that thane was not on the level when i met him that day. his stories did not jibe. i said nothing to you at the time, because i could not be sure of my ground. i think i am reasonably sure now. i may add that i have written to col. andrew and others on my own hook. if you care to see their replies, when i get them, i shall send them to you. all you have to do is to say the word. in any case, i ask you to believe that my devotion and mary's deep and honest love are the excuse for this letter, which you may show to mr. thane if you see fit. i have no right to question his statement that he served in the royal air force. i know nothing to the contrary. i speak only of the ambulance. i am, dear alix, yours devotedly, addison blythe. chapter xv the face at the window mrs. strong, observing her pallor, arose quickly and went to alix's side, "what is it, dear?" she cried. "what was in that letter? you are as white as a ghost." receiving for answer a pitiful little smile that was not so much a smile as a grimace of pain, she placed her hand on the girl's shoulder. "why did you destroy it?" "i--i don't know," murmured alix through set, rigid lips. "yes, you do know," said the other firmly. alix looked dumbly into her old friend's eyes for a moment, and then her honest heart spoke: "i destroyed it, aunt nancy, because i was afraid to read it again. it was from addison blythe. he has been making inquiries concerning courtney thane. in that letter he said things which, if true, make courtney out to be a most--a most unworthy person." she turned to look into the fire, her eyes narrowing. the black, flaky remnants of the letter were still fluttering on the hearth. as she watched, the draft caught them and sent them swirling up the chimney. a high wind was blowing outside. it whistled mournfully around the corners of the house. somewhere on the floor above a door, buffeted by the wind from an open window, beat a slow and muffled measure against its frame. david's mother saw the colour slowly return to her companion's face. she waited. something akin to joy possessed her. she was afraid to speak for fear that her voice would betray her. at last she said: "we know nothing about mr. thane except what he has told us, alix." the girl looked searchingly into her eyes. "you do not like him, aunt nancy. i have felt it from the beginning. is it because you are david's mother?" mrs. strong started. the direct question had struck home. she was confused. "why,--alix,--i--what a silly thing to ask. what has david to do with it?" alix was still looking at her, broodingly. "why don't you like him, aunt nancy?" "have i ever said i didn't like him?" "no. but i know. i know that charlie webster does not like him. i knew that addison did not like him." mrs. strong could not resist the impulse to add: "and sergeant did not like him." "and you think that convicts him?" said the girl, half ironically. "i have a good deal of faith in dogs," muttered mrs. strong, flushing. alix's gaze went to the huge vase of roses on the table. then she turned quickly to look once more into her companion's eyes. "you believe that courtney poisoned him, don't you?" "i have no more reason for believing it than you have, alix," returned mrs. strong calmly. "why,--why do you say that?" cried the girl, startled. "because you would not have asked the question if you hadn't been--well, wondering a little yourself, alix." "oh,--i don't want to think it," cried alix miserably. "i don't want to think of it!" "no more do i want to think it. listen to me, alix. i confess that i do not like this man. i have no way of explaining my feeling toward him. he has always been polite and agreeable to me. he has never done a thing that i can call to mind that would set me against him. maybe it's because he is not of my world, because he comes from a big city, because deep in his heart he probably looks down on us hoosiers. i will go farther, alix, and say that i do not trust him. that is a nasty thing to say. it is none of my business, but i--i wish you did not like him so well, alix." "it would appear that my friends are taking more than an ordinary interest in my welfare," said alix slowly, and with some bitterness. "is it possible that you all believe me incapable of taking care of myself?" "smarter women than you, alix crown, have been fooled by men," said the other sententiously. "oh, i don't mean the way you think, my child,--so don't glare at me like that. i know you can take care of yourself that way,--but how about falling in love? and getting married? and finding out afterward that roses don't grow on cactus plants? that's how women are fooled,--and you're no different from the rest of us." "i think,--i am quite sure that he is in love with me, aunt nancy," said alix, somewhat irrelevantly. there was no sign of gladness, however, nor of triumph, in her dark, brooding eyes. "that's easy to understand. the point is, alix,--are you in love with him?" alix did not answer at once. the little frown in her eyes deepened. "i don't think so, aunt nancy," she said at last. "i don't believe it is love. that is what troubles me so. it is something i cannot understand. i don't know what has come over me. i will be honest with you,--and with myself. i do not really trust him. i don't believe he is all that he claims to be. and yet,--and yet, aunt nancy, i,--i--" "don't try to tell me," broke in the older woman gently. "my only sister thought she was in love with terry moore, a fellow who had been in the penitentiary once for stealing, and was a drunkard, a gambler, and a bad man with women, and all that. she was crazy about him. she ran off with him and got married. she never was in love with him, alix. she hated him after a few weeks. he just cast some kind of a spell over her--not a mental spell, you may be sure. it was something physical. he was slick and smart and good looking, and he just made up his mind to get her. a man can be awful nice when he has once set his heart on getting a girl,--and that's what fools 'em, great and small. all the mistakes are not made by ignorant, scatter-brained girls, my dear. my father used to say that the more sense a woman has, the more likely she is to do something foolish. now, alix dear, i know just how it is with you. courtney thane has cast a spell over you. i believe in spells, same as the old new englander used to believe in witchcraft. you don't love him, you don't actually believe in him. you--you are sort of like a bird that is being charmed by a snake. it knows it ought to fly away and yet it can't, because it's so interested in what the snake is going to do next. thane is attractive. he is, far as i know, a gentleman. at any rate, he would pass for one, and that's about all you can expect in these days. the thought has entered both our minds that he put sergeant out of the way. well, my dear, i don't believe either of us would ever dream of connecting him with it if there wasn't something back in our minds that has been asking questions of us ever since he came here. you say you were afraid to read mr. blythe's letter again. does that mean you are afraid everything he says is true?" "oh, i can't believe it,--i must not allow myself to even think it," cried the girl. "why, if what addison says is true, courtney thane is not fit to--there must be some mistake, aunt nancy. there were two men of the same name. _i_ will not believe it!" the two tall women stood tense and rigid, side by side, their backs to the fire, gazing straight before them down the lamp-lit room. "has addison blythe any reason for lying to you, alix?" asked the elder quietly. "of course not," alix answered impatiently. "there is some mistake, that's all." "do you mind telling me what he says?" "mr. thane is coming to see me tonight," said the girl, uneasily. "he may come at any moment now. what time is it?" "ten minutes of eight. he never comes before half-past." she waited a moment, and then went on deliberately: "i always had an idea it was because he wanted to be sure sergeant was in the house and not out in the yard." alix closed her eyes for a second or two, as if by doing so it were possible to shut out the same thought that had floated through mrs. strong's mind. "but he need not be afraid of sergeant now," she said, with a little tremor in her voice. "he will come earlier tonight." the unintentional sarcasm did not escape mrs. strong. "wait till tomorrow, aunt nancy. then i may tell you." "you are trembling, dear. i wish you would let me make your excuses to him when he comes. don't see him tonight. let me tell him--" alix turned squarely and faced her. there was a harassed, haunted expression in her eyes,--and yet there was defiance. "i stayed away five days," she said huskily. "for five days i kept away from him. then i--i gave up. i couldn't stand it any longer. i had to come home. now, you have the truth. i just simply had to see him, aunt nancy,--i just had to." "then,--then it is a spell," cried the other, dismay in her voice. "you are not yourself, alix. this is not you who say these things." "oh, yes, it is!" cried the girl recklessly. "i wanted to come home. i wanted to see him. i don't love him, but i wanted to be with him. i don't trust him, but here i am. now you have it all! i want to see him!" mrs. strong was looking past her. she stared hard at the window in the far end of the room, her eyes narrowed, her chin thrust slightly forward. then suddenly she clutched the girl's arm, her eyes now widespread with alarm. "look!" she whispered shrilly, pointing. the flush faded from alix's face; the reckless, defiant light left her eyes, and in its place came fear. ii plainly outlined in the window was the face of a masked man. a narrow black mask, through which a pair of eyes gleamed brightly. the exposed lower portion of the face, save for the heavily bearded upper lip, was ghastly white. brief as this glimpse was, they were able to see that he wore a cap, pulled well down over his forehead. for a few seconds the two women stood as if petrified, their eyes wide and staring, their hearts cold, their tongues paralyzed. they were gazing straight into his shining eyes. suddenly he turned his head for a quick, startled glance over his shoulder. the next instant he was gone, vanishing in the blackness that hung behind him like the magician's curtain in a theatre. they heard rapid footsteps on the veranda, the crash of a chair overturned, then a loud shout, and again the sound of flying footsteps across the brick-paved terrace. another shout, and still another, farther away. "quick!" screamed alix, the first to recover her voice. "the telephone! call the drug store. bill foss is there." she ran swiftly out into the hall. "come back!" cried mrs. strong. "what are you doing? don't open that door! he's got a pistol, alix!" even as she spoke, the report of a pistol shot came to their ears. as alix stopped short, her hand outstretched to clutch the door knob, a second report came. "oh, my god!" she cried. "he has killed courtney! he has shot courtney!" by this time, her companion had reached her side. she dragged her back from the door. "killed courtney? what's the matter with you? why do you say he has killed--" "don't you see--can't you understand? it was courtney who surprised him. that's why he ran. he shot,--oh, let go of me! let go of me, i say!" "i'll do nothing of the sort," cried mrs. strong. "do you want to get shot? come away from this door!" a door slammed against the wall at the back of the house. some one came running through the dining-room. first the cook, then the little waitress, dashed into the hall. "wha-what is it? what's the matter?" shouted the former. "what was that shootin'--" "where is stevens?" demanded mrs. strong, as she fairly pushed alix into the living-room. "call him! isn't he out there in--" "he went out,--half hour ago,--out," stuttered the waitress. "who's been--what's happened to miss alix?" "nothing! go and yell for ed! thieves! on the porch. don't stand there, hilda. go out back and scream!" "oh, my god! ed's killed! he's been shot! my husband's been shot!" it was the cook who sent this lamentation to the very roof of the house. mrs. strong whispered fiercely in alix's ear: "that's it! ed is the one who surprised him. courtney nothing! now, you stay here! i'll telephone. don't you dare go outside, alix crown. a stray bullet--" far away sounded the third shot, muffled by distance and the shriek of the wind.... mrs. strong was off somewhere trying to telephone. shrill voices, out back, were screaming. alix stood alone in the middle of the long room, staring at the window in which the sinister face had appeared. she had not moved in what seemed to be an age. a strange, incredible thing was creeping through her mind,--a thought that was not a part of her, something that seemed to shape itself outside of her brain and force its way in to crowd out the fear and anxiety that had gripped her but a few short moments before. what would it mean to her if courtney thane were dead out there in the night? it was not the question but the answer that fixed itself in her mind. she was unconscious of the one, but vividly aware of the other. his death would mean--emancipation! for one brief instant she actually longed for the word that he was dead! the reaction was swift, overwhelming. "god!" she gasped, shutting her eyes and clenching her hands in an ecstasy of revulsion. "what a beast,--what a horrible beast i am! what a coward!" her knees trembled; an icy perspiration seemed to start out all over her body. she had wished him dead! she had grasped at that as the solution! her heart had leaped joyously! it was as if some great weight suddenly had been lifted from it. now she was numb with horror. what devilish power had taken possession of her in that brief, soul-destroying instant? she shuddered. she was afraid to open her eyes. she reached out with her hand for the support of the table. she had longed for some one to come and tell her that he was dead! some one was pounding on the outer door. she had a dim, vague impression that this pounding had been going on for some time. a sort of paralysis benumbed her sensibilities. her eyes were now wide open, staring. had her wish come true? was some, one come to tell her that her horrible wish had come true? suddenly the fetters fell away. she rushed frantically to the door and turned the knob. the driving wind flung it open with a force that almost swept her off her feet. thane stood on the threshold, hatless, panting. the light from the hall, falling upon his face, revealed a long red stain that ran from temple to chin. as she drew back, alarmed, he staggered into the hall, limping painfully, and pushed the door shut behind him. "oh!" she gasped. he shot a swift, searching glance down the hall and into the living-room. then he held out his arms to her. she was gazing spell-bound into his eager, shining eyes. he waited. she came to him as if drawn by some overpowering magnet. his arms closed about her....she was crushed against his body, she seemed a part of him. his arms were like smothering coils that pressed the life out of her; his hungry lips were fastened upon hers, hot and lustful. presently she began to struggle. shame,--a vast, sickening shame,--possessed her. she was conscious of the wild, increasing lust that mastered him. she tried to tear herself from contact with his body, as from something base, unclean, revolting. his kisses held her. she was powerless to resist the passion that swept over her. once more she surrendered,--and then came the shame, the overwhelming shame. she was debased, defiled! she put her hand to his face and pushed frantically to release herself from those consuming, unholy lips. suddenly he freed her, and sprang back, panting but triumphant. she heard him whisper, hoarsely, rapturously: "god!" some one was coming. he had caught the sound of footsteps,--somewhere. alix sank breathless, rigid, almost fainting, upon the hall-seat. "darling!" he whispered passionately. she half arose, caught once more by the irresistible spell that had first swept her into his embrace. he shook his head. then she heard him speak. he was looking past her. "i'm all right, mrs. strong. don't mind me. telephone for help." "i have telephoned," cried mrs. strong, coming toward them quickly. "help is coming. good heavens! you are bleeding! were you hit?" iii the question aroused alix. she was aware of something wet and sticky on the palm of her hand. she looked. it was covered with blood. then she remembered putting her hand against his cheek. as if fascinated she stared for a second or two before her wits returned. mrs. strong must not see that bloody hand. she would know! guiltily she clenched her fingers again and thrust her hand behind her back. she shuddered at the feel of the moist, sticky substance, and turned suddenly sick. her one thought was to get to her room where she could wash away the tell-tale evidence. again she heard him speaking, and hung on his words. "nothing but a scratch. i fell while chasing him. he got the start of me. my overcoat bothered me. i got it off, but not in time. it's out there somewhere. my rotten old leg is the worst. i twisted it when i jumped over the fence. that's when i fell. tripped over some bushes or something. i was gaining on him. up in the woods, you see. he was making for the road above. oh, if this leg of mine was any good, i would have--" he broke off short to grip his knee with both hands, his face twitching with pain. the sentences came jerkily, breathlessly. "send for dr. smith!" alix cried out suddenly. "be quick! he has been shot,--i know he has been shot. go--" "it's a scratch, i tell you, alix," he protested. "he didn't get me. he fired at me, but it was dark. i'm all right. there is no time to lose. if they get after him at once they'll catch him. i can show them which way he went. where the devil are they? we ought to have every man in town out there in the woods. did you tell 'em to bring guns? he's armed. he--" "you are hurt," cried alix. "you must have the doctor. oh, for heaven's sake, do something!" the last was directed impatiently to mrs. strong. "i'll give him a basin of water,--and some court plaster," said the older woman, who had looked closely at the scratch on the young man's cheek. "it doesn't amount to anything,--if that's all, mr. thane?" "that's all,--except my knee, and that will be all right in a few minutes. let me sit down here a minute. not in there,--i'm covered with dirt and burrs and,--i might get some of this filthy blood on,--that's all right, mrs. strong, thank you. i'll be able to go out with the gang as soon as they come. gad! it's going to be great sport. man-hunting!" alix was leaning against the end of the hall-seat, watching him as if fascinated. he bent an ardent, significant look upon her, and her eyes widened slightly under the contact. "i'll get some water ready for you in the kitchen, and a--" began mrs. strong, but alix, suddenly alive, intercepted her with a cry. "no! i will go, aunt nancy,--i insist!" and before mrs. strong could offer a word of protest, she flashed past her and was running up the stairs. a look of chagrin leaped into courtney's eyes. he had counted on another minute or two alone with her. under his breath he muttered an oath. alix's bedroom door opened and closed. mrs. strong was still looking in astonishment up the staircase. "i--she's pretty badly upset, mr. thane," she said at last. "that face in the window,--and everything." "good lord,--you don't mean to say you saw him?" "yes,--looking in that window over there. only for a second. you must have scared him away." "then, by george, you can identify him!" "he had a mask on. didn't you see his face?" "no. it was dark. masked, you say. that's bad. it will be hard to swear--still, i saw his figure. short, heavy fellow. wore a cap." she continued to look anxiously up the stairs. "wait here," she said shortly. "i must go up to her. go to the kitchen if you like, and wash the blood off. i'll be back in a jiffy." he waited till she was out of sight, and then limped into the living-room,--but with a swiftness incredible in one with a twisted knee. going direct to the fireplace, he took something out of his coat pocket and, after a glance at door and window, quickly consigned it to the flames. a small black object it was, that crumpled softly in his palm and was consumed in a flash by the flames. a moment later he entered the kitchen, bringing consternation to the two excited domestics, both of whom sent up cries of alarm at the sight of his bloody face. meanwhile mrs. strong had surprised alix in her bathroom, frantically washing her hands. she looked up and saw the housekeeper standing in the door behind her. the bowl was half full of reddish water. the expression of disgust in her eyes remained for a moment and then gave way to confusion. neither spoke for some time. "what are you doing?" asked mrs. strong. "oh, aunt nancy!" came in a choked voice from the girl's lips. "is that blood?" "yes," replied alix, looking away. "i--i understand. oh, alix,--alix!" "i don't know what made me do it,--i couldn't help myself. i--oh, it was terrible! i don't love him,--i don't love him! as long as i live,--as long as i live, i shall never forget it. i shall never know anything like it again. i could feel my soul being dragged out of my body,--oh, aunt nancy! what am i to do? what is to become of me?" "there's only one thing for you to do now," said the other, slowly, levelly. "stay in this room. lock the door. don't see him again. keep away from him. he's--he's bad, alix!" "but he is not a coward!" cried the girl eagerly. "he followed that man, he chased him, he was shot at,--that is not what a coward would do. addison blythe is mistaken. those men are mistaken. he--" "i hear people downstairs,--and out in the yard. you must obey me, alix. you must not see him again tonight. god in heaven, what kind of a spell has he cast upon you? the spell of the devil! child, child,--don't you understand? that's what it is. the spell that makes women helpless! stay here! i will send hilda up to you." "why do you blame him for everything?" cried the girl hotly. "doesn't a woman ever cast this spell you speak of? what defence has a man against--" "do you call yourself an evil woman? nonsense! don't talk like that. i am not blaming him. he can't help himself. he loves you. that's not his fault. but you do not love him. you are afraid of him. you would run from him if you could. he must go away. you must send him away. tell him of blythe's letter. face him with it. tomorrow,--not tonight. you are not yourself tonight. trust me, dearest alix. do as i tell you. promise." "i will not come down," said alix slowly, and mrs. strong went out. she heard the key turn in the door. chapter xvi rosabel all night long bands of men scoured the woods and fields, with lanterns and dogs and guns. courtney thane, thrilled by that one glorious, overpowering moment of contact, sallied forth with the first of the searchers. he showed them where the masked man vaulted over the porch rail, and the course he took in crossing the terrace, below which courtney's coat was found where he had cast it aside at the beginning of the chase. the first shot was fired as the man climbed over the fence separating the old-fashioned garden from the wooded district to the west, the second following almost immediately. thane was over the fence and picking himself up from the ground after tripping when the last shot was fired. he ran forty or fifty yards farther on and then his knee gave out. realizing that pursuit was useless under the circumstances, he hurried back to the house to give the alarm. it appears that he first saw the man as he was nearing the top of the steps leading to the terrace. the fellow's figure, in a crouching position, was distinctly outlined against the lighted window. "kind of a funny time for a robber to be monkeyin' around a house," said charlie webster, after courtney had concluded his brief story. "eight o'clock is no time to figure on breaking into a house." "he probably figured that the occupants would be at dinner," said courtney. "or maybe he was getting the lay of the land while there were lights to guide him. that is most likely the case. lord, how i wish i had had a gun!" "maybe it's lucky you didn't," said charlie. "guns are pretty treacherous things to monkey with, court. you might have shot yourself." "oh, i guess i know how to handle a gun, charlie," retorted thane, after a perceptible pause. "anyhow," remarked constable foss, "we now know why that dog of alix's was killed. this robber had things purty well sized up. he knowed he had to fix that dog first of all,--and that goes to show another thing. he is purty well posted around these parts. he knowed all about that dog. he ain't no tramp or common stranger. the chances are he ain't even a perfessional burglar. maybe some dago,--or, by gosh, somebody we all know." a chosen group waited at the roadside above the windom place for automobiles which were to be used in the attempt to head off the invader. this was courtney's idea. he suggested a wide cordon of machines and men as the only means of cutting off the fellow's escape. "you're not likely to get anywhere, foss, by keeping up a stern chase," he argued. "he has got too big a lead. our only chance is to rush a lot of men out ahead of him in cars, and then work back through the woods." a boy came up with courtney's fedora hat, which he had picked up in the brush near the fence. "there's a bullet hole through it, mr. thane," he cried in great excitement. "lookee here!" sure enough there was a hole in the crown of the hat. "whew!" whistled courtney, staring at the hat blankly. "i never dreamed--why, good lord, a couple of inches lower and he'd have got me. i remember my hat blowing off as i got up, but i thought it was the wind. where did you find it, kid?" "back there by the fence." "we must have that hat for evidence," said the constable. "shows the calibre of the bullet, and all that. bring it down to the office in the morning, mr. thane. better put it on now. you'll ketch cold out here bareheaded." by this time the lane and grounds were alive with excited people,--men, women and children. several automobiles approached, sounding their horns. men were shouting directions, dogs were barking, small children were squalling lustily. shadowy, indistinct figures scuttled through the darkness, here and there coming into bold relief as they passed before the lamps of automobiles or entered the radius of light shed by an occasional lantern. half the town was already on the scene, and the belated remainder was either on the way or grimly guarding cash drawers in empty, deserted stores. courtney reluctantly announced that he did not feel up to accompanying the searchers, his leg was bothering him so. no, he didn't need a doctor. the confounded thing simply gave out on him whenever he got the least bit reckless, but it seldom if ever amounted to anything. only made him realize that he couldn't "get gay" with it. he'd be all right in a day or two. hobble a little, that's all,--like a lame dog. more scared than hurt, you know, etc., etc. he picked his way through the ever-increasing crowd of agitated people, avoiding rampant automobiles and inquisitive citizens with equal skill, and approached alix's gate. his blood was rioting. the memory of that triumphant moment when her warm body lay in his arms,--when her lips were his,--when his eager hand pressed the firm, round breast,--ah, the memory of it all set fire to his blood. she had come to him, she had clung to him, she had kissed him! he had won! she was his! he must see her again tonight, hold her once more in his arms, drink of the rapture that came through her lips, caress the throbbing heart she had surrendered to him. anticipation sent the blood rushing to his head. he grew strangely dizzy. he narrowly escaped being struck by a car. "the darned fools!" he muttered, as he leaped aside into the shallow ditch. a figure separated itself from a group near the gate and approached him. there were no lights near and the lane was dark. he could not see the face of the woman who halted directly in front of him, barring the path. "it is i, courtney,--rosabel," came in low, tremulous tones. he stood stockstill, peering intently. "rosabel!" he repeated vacantly. "i--i saw you. the auto lamp shone on your face." her teeth were chattering. her voice was little more than a whisper. "you--you poor child!" he cried. "what are you doing here? how do you happen to be--" "i came over to spend the night with annie jordan. i--i do that quite often, courtney. aren't--aren't you ever coming to see me again?" "i was planning to come over tomorrow, rosie,--tomorrow sure. i've been meaning to run over to your house--" "i--i thought you had forgotten all about us," she broke in, pathetically. "you wouldn't do that, would you? didn't you get my letters? i wrote four or five times and you never answered. you--you haven't forgotten, have you?" "bless your heart, no! i should say not. i've been so busy. working like a dog on my book. the one we talked about, rosie. the story of my experiences over in france, you know." "oh, courtney, are you really, truly writing it?" she cried eagerly. "sure," he replied. "it's a tough job, believe me. i've been so busy i haven't even had time to write letters. mother complains that i never write to her. dear old mater,--i ought to be kicked for neglecting her. stacks of unanswered letters. really, it's appalling. but i've just got to finish this work. the publisher wants it before christmas." "you promised to read it to me as you wrote it, courtney," she murmured wistfully. "don't you remember?" "just as soon as i've got it in little better shape, rosie. you see, it's an awful mess now. i'm trying so hard to concentrate. it would be different if i were an experienced writer. but i'm a terrible duffer, you know. the least little thing throws me off. i--" "i wouldn't interfere for the world, courtney. i will wait. i don't want to bother you. please don't think about reading it to me now. but,--oh, courtney, i have wanted to see you so much. you will come over, won't you. or would you rather have me come--" "i'll be over, rosie,--tomorrow," he said hastily. "or the day after, sure. i'm all done up. i can hardly stand on this leg. did they tell you? i chased the robber up through the woods. had a bad fall. bunged up this rotten old knee again." "you poor boy," she cried. "yes, i heard them talking about how brave you were. and he shot at you, too. i saw the plaster on your face when the light shone on it a while ago. i was frightened. i forgot to ask you how bad it is. i forgot everything but--but just speaking to you. is it dangerous? is it a bad wound?" "i don't know. the doctor is waiting for me up at miss crown's. they sent me back, the other fellows did. i wanted to go with the gang,--but i was weak and--oh, i'll be all right. don't you worry, little girl. dr. smith may slap me into bed,--" "you must not be foolish, courtney. do what the doctor says. you must get well--oh, you must get well!" she had come quite close to him and was peering at his face. even in the darkness he could see her big, dark eyes. her teeth no longer chattered, but there was a perilous quaver in her low, tense voice. she put out a hand to touch him. he drew back. "i'll be as fit as a fiddle in no time at all," he said hurriedly. "see you tomorrow, rosie,--or as soon as the blamed old doctor turns me loose. i've got to be on my way now. he's waiting for me up there. may have to put a stitch in my mug,--and yank my leg like the devil, but--" she still blocked his path. "courtney, i'm--i'm terribly unhappy. i want to see you,--very soon." "i hear you have been ill, rosie. some one was telling me you were looking thin and--and all that sort of thing. i hope you're feeling better." she waited a moment. when she spoke it was with difficulty. "i'm awfully worried, courtney," she cried, her voice little more than a whisper. he was silent, so after a little while she went on: "i wish i could die,--i wish i could die!" "come, come!" he said reassuringly. "you must not talk like that, rosie. cheer up! you're too young to talk about dying. think what i've been through,--and i'm still alive! i'll run over tomorrow,--or next day,--and try to cheer you up a bit, little girl. so long. i've got to see the doctor. i'm--i'm suffering like the dickens." "i mustn't keep you, courtney," she murmured, stepping aside to let him pass. "good night! you--you will come, won't you? sure?" "sure!" he replied, and limped painfully away. a little later annie jordan found her standing beside the road, where he had left her. she was looking up at the brightly lighted house at the top of the lane. "goodness!" cried annie. "i thought you were lost, rosie. where on earth have you been?" "maybe i am lost," replied the girl, and annie, failing to see anything cryptic in the words, laughed gaily at the quaintness of them. "come on," she said, thrusting her arm through rosabel's, "let's go back home. there's nothing doing here. and that wind cuts through one like a knife. gee, it's fierce, isn't it?" "i don't want to go in yet," protested rosabel, hanging back. "let's wait awhile. let's wait till dr. smith comes out. he's up there with--with alix crown. maybe he can tell us how--" "doc smith isn't up there. he's gone up the road in his car with dick hurdle and--why, rosie, you're shivering like a leaf. have you got a chill? come on home. we'll have dr. smith in as soon as he gets back to--" "i don't want the doctor," cried rosabel fiercely. "i won't have one, i tell you. i won't have one!" chapter xvii shadows greatly to courtney's chagrin, his triumphal progress was summarily checked when he presented himself at the door. he could hardly believe his ears. miss crown was in her room and would not be able to see any one that night. she was very nervous and "upset," explained the maid, and had given orders to admit no one. of course, hilda went on to say, if mr. thane wanted to come in and rest himself, or if there was anything she or the cook could do for him,--but courtney brusquely interrupted her to say that he was sure miss crown did not mean to exclude him, and directed hilda to take word up to her that he was downstairs. "it won't do any good," said hilda, who was direct to say the least. "she's gone to bed. my orders is not to disturb her." "are they her orders or mrs. strong's orders?" demanded courtney, driven to exasperation. "all i can say, sir, is they're my orders, sir," replied hilda, quite succinctly. "all right," said he curtly. then, as an afterthought: "please say that i stopped in to see if i could be of any further service to miss crown, will you, hilda?" he was very much crestfallen as he made his way down the steps to the lane. this wasn't at all what he had expected. there were a number of people near the gate. instead of going directly down the walk, he turned to the right at the bottom of the terrace and cut diagonally across the lawn. coming to one of the big oaks he sat down for a moment on the rustic seat that encircled its base. sheltered from the wind he managed to strike a match and light a cigarette. assured that no one was near, he leaned over and felt with his hand under the bench. his fingers closed upon an object wedged between the seat and one of the slanting supports. quickly withdrawing it, he dropped it into his overcoat pocket, and, after a moment, resumed his progress, making for the carriage gate in the left lower corner of the grounds. he had a sharp eye out for rosabel vick. he heard annie jordan's high-pitched voice in the road ahead of him and slackened his pace. in due time he limped up the steps of dowd's tavern. several women were in the "lounge," chattering like magpies in front of the fire. there were no men about. he went in and for ten minutes listened to the singing of his praises. then, requesting a pitcher of hot water, he hobbled upstairs, politely declining not only the misses dowd's offer to bathe and bandage his heroic knee, but miss grady's bottle of witchhazel, miss miller's tube of baume analgesique and old mrs. nichols' infallible remedy for every ailment under the sun,--a flaxseed poultice. the first thing he did on entering his room was to open his trunk and deposit therein the shiny object he had recovered from its hiding-place under the tree-seat. before hanging his hat on the clothes-tree in the corner of the room, he thoughtfully examined the bullet hole in the crown. "thirty-eight calibre, all right," he reflected. poking his forefinger through the hole, he enlarged it to some extent. "more like a forty-four now," he said in a satisfied tone. margaret slattery brought up the hot water and some fresh firewood for his stove, in which the fire burned low. "would you be liking a drink of whiskey, mr. thane?" she inquired, with a stealthy look over her shoulder. "you're all done up,--and half-frozen, i guess." "whiskey?" he exclaimed. "there ain't no sitch animal," he lamented dolefully. "miss jennie's got some cooking brandy stuck away in the cellar," whispered margaret. "we use it at christmas time,--for the plum pudding, you know. i guess it's the same thing as whiskey, ain't it?" "well, hardly. still, i think i could do with a nip of it, maggie." "i'll see what i can do," said margaret, and departed. she did not return, for the very good reason that miss jennie apprehended her in the act of pouring something from a dark brown bottle into a brand new fruit jar. "what are you doing there, maggie?" demanded miss dowd from the foot of the cellar stairs. miss slattery's back was toward her at the time. she was startled into hunching it slightly, as if expecting the lash of a whip,--an attitude of rigidity maintained during the brief period in which her heart suspended action altogether. "i'm--i'm getting some vinegar for mr. thane to gargle with, miss jennie," she mumbled. "he's--he's got a sore throat." "let me smell that stuff, maggie," said miss jennie sternly. one sniff was sufficient. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself, margaret slattery, leading a young man into temptation like this. you may be starting him on the road to perdition. it is just such things as this that--" "oh, gosh!" exclaimed margaret, recovering herself. "don't you go thinking he's as good as all that. from what he was telling me at breakfast the other day, he used to make the round trip to purgatory every night or so,--only he said it was paradise. keep your old brandy. he wouldn't like it anyway. not him! he says he's swallered enough champagne to float the whole american navy." "the very idea!" exclaimed miss jennie. "go to your room, maggie. it's bad enough for you to be stealing but when you make it worse by lying, i--" "i'm quitting you in the morning," said margaret, her irish up. "it won't be the first time," said miss jennie, imperturbably. courtney sat for a long time before the booming little stove. he forgot margaret slattery and her mission. "i guess it took her off her feet," he reflected aloud. "that's the way with some of them. they get panicky. go all to pieces when they find out what it really means to let go of themselves. god! she's wonderful!" he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes; a smile settled on his lips. for a long time he sat there, fondling the memory of that blissful moment. a slight frown made its appearance after a while. he opened his eyes. his thoughts had veered. "what rotten luck! if it could only have been alix instead of that--" he arose abruptly and began pacing the floor. after a long time he sighed resignedly. "i mustn't forget to telephone her tomorrow." then he began to undress for bed. he looked at his knee. there was a deep, irregular scar on the outside of the leg, while on the inside a knuckle-like protuberance of considerable size provided ample evidence of a badly shattered joint, long since healed. along the thigh there was another wicked looking scar, with several smaller streaks and blemishes of a less pronounced character. he placed some hot compresses on the joint, gave it a vigorous massage, and, before getting into bed, worked it up and down for several minutes. "clumsy ass!" he muttered. "next time you'll watch your step. don't go jumping over fences in the dark. gad, for a couple of minutes i thought i'd put it on the blink for keeps." the next morning, up in the woods above alix's house, the crude black mask was found, and some distance farther on an old grey cap, from which the lining and sweatband had been ripped. the search for the man, however, was fruitless. constable foss visited the camp of a gang of italian railroad labourers near hawkins and was reported to be bringing several indignant "dagoes" over to windomville to see if courtney or the two ladies could identify them. he was very careful to choose men with thick black moustaches. bright and early, courtney repaired to the house on the hill. his progress was slow. aside from the effort it cost him to walk, he was delayed all along the route by anxious, perturbed citizens who either complimented him on his bravery or advised him to "look out for that cut" on his cheek, or he'd have "a tough time if blood-poisoning set in." mrs. strong admitted him. "well, when will she be able to see me?" he demanded on being informed that alix was in no condition to see any one. "i can't say," said mrs. strong shortly. "have you had the doctor in to see her?" "no." "well, that's rather strange, isn't it?" "not at all, mr. thane. she isn't ill. she has had a shock,--same as i have had,--and she'll get over it in good time." "you seem to have survived the shock remarkably well, mrs. strong," he said with unmistakable irony. "how is the scratch on your face?" she asked, ignoring the remark. "amounts to nothing," he replied, almost gruffly. "i'll write a little note to alix, if you'll be so good as to take it up to her." "very well. i'll see that she gets it. will you write it here?" "if you don't mind. i'll wait in case she wants to send down an answer." "i'll get you some paper and pen and ink," said she. "some paper, that's all. i have a fountain pen." he dashed off a few lines, folded the sheet of note paper and handed it to mrs. strong. he had written nothing he was unwilling for her to read. in fact, he expected her to read it as soon as she was safely out of his sight. "she thinks she may feel up to seeing you tomorrow--or next day," reported the housekeeper on her return from alix's room. his rankling brain seized upon the words--" tomorrow--next day." he had used them himself only the night before. "tomorrow,--or next day!" he frowned. hang it all, was she putting him off? he experienced a slight chill. "i will run in again in the morning," he said, managing to produce a sympathetic smile. "and i'll telephone this evening to see how she is." all the way down the walk to the gate, he kept repeating the words "tomorrow,--or next day." in some inexplicable way they had fastened themselves upon him. at the gate he turned and looked up at alix's bedroom windows. the lace curtains hung straight and immovable. it pleased him to think that she was peering out at him from behind one of those screens of lace, soft-eyed and longingly. moved by a sudden impulse, he waved his hand and smiled. his guess was right. she was looking down through the narrow slit between the curtains. her eyes were dark and brooding and slightly contracted by the perplexity that filled them. she started back in confusion, her hand going swiftly to her breast. was it possible that he could see through the curtains? a warm flush mantled her face. she felt it steal down over her body. incontinently she fled from the window and hopped back into the warm bed she had left on hearing the front door close. "how silly!" she cried irritably. she sat bolt upright and looked at her reflection in the mirror of her dressing-table across the room. her night-dress had slipped down from one shapely shoulder; her dark, glossy hair hung in two long braids down her back; her warm, red lips were parted in a shy, embarrassed smile. "i wonder--but of course he couldn't. unless,--" and here the smile faded away,--"unless he possesses some strange power to see through walls and--sometimes i feel that he has that power. if he could not see me, why did he wave his hand at me?" there came a knock at her door. she was seized by a sudden panic. for a moment she was unable to speak. "alix! are you awake?" it was mrs. strong's voice. a vast wave of relief swept through her. "goodness!" she gasped, and then: "come in, aunt nancy?" "courtney thane has just been here," said the housekeeper as she approached the bed. "has he?" inquired alix innocently. "he left a note for you." "read it to me," said the girl. "'dearest: i am grieved beyond words to hear that you are so awfully done up. i am not surprised. it was enough to bowl anybody over. i did not sleep a wink last night, thinking about it. i have been living in a daze ever since. i cannot begin to tell you how disappointed i am in not being able to see you this morning. perhaps by tonight you will feel like letting me come. ever yours, courtney.'" "well?" said mrs. strong, sitting down on the edge of the bed. a fine line appeared between alix's eyes. she was deep in thought. "have they caught the man?" she asked, after a moment. "not that i know of. what's more, they'll never catch him. bill foss sent word up he was bringing several italians here to see if we could identify one of them as the man." "how can we be expected to identify a man whose face was covered by a mask?" "well, bill is doing his best," replied mrs. strong patiently. "we've got to say that much for him. charlie webster was here early this morning to say that the police up in town have been notified, and they're sending a detective out. but he won't be any better than bill foss, so it's a waste of time. what we ought to have is a pinkerton man from chicago." despite the calm, deliberate manner in which she spoke, there was an odd, eager light in mrs. strong's eyes. "i wish you would go down to the warehouse, aunt nancy, and ask charlie to take the car and go up to the city. tell him to call up the pinkerton offices in chicago and ask them to send the best man they have. no one must know about it, however. impress that very firmly upon charlie. not even the police--or bill foss. have him arrange to meet the man in town and give him directions and all the information possible. please do it at once,--and tell ed to have the car ready." "that's the way i like to hear you talk," cried mrs. strong. half an hour later, charlie webster was on his way to the city. he had an additional commission to perform. mrs. strong was sending a telegram to her son david. ii the next day a well-dressed, breezy-looking young man walked into charlie's office and exclaimed: "hello, uncle charlie!" "good lord!" gasped charlie webster. "it can't be--why, by gosh, if it ain't harry! holy smoke!" he jumped up and grasped the stranger's hand. pumping it vigorously, he cried: "i'd know that conkling nose if i saw it in ethiopia. god bless my soul, you're--you're a man! it beats all how you kids grow up. how's your mother? and what in thunder are you doing here?" "i guess i've changed a lot, uncle charlie," said the young man, "but you ain't? you look just the same as you did fifteen years ago." "how old are you? my gosh, i can't believe my eyes." "i was twenty-four last birthday. you--" "if ever a feller grew up to look like his father, you have, harry. you're the living image of george conkling,--and you don't look any more like your mother than you look like me." "well, you and mother look a lot alike, uncle charlie. she's thinner than you are but--" "well, i should hope so," exploded charlie. "take a chair, harry,--and tell us all about yourself. wait a minute. sam, shake hands with my nephew, harry conkling,--mr. slutterback, mr. conkling. harry lives up in laporte. his mother--" "guess again, uncle charlie. no more laporte for me. i've been living in chicago ever since i got married. working for--" "married? you married? a kid like you? well, i'll--be--darned!" "sure. and i'm not harry, uncle charlie. i'm wilbur. harry's two years older than i am. he's married and got a kid three years old. lives in gary." "you don't mean to say you're little wilbur? little freckle-faced wilbur with the pipe-stem legs?" mr. webster's nephew took a chair near the stove, unbuttoned his overcoat, and held his hands to the fire. he was a tall, rather awkward young man, with large ears, a turned-up nose and a prominent "adam's apple." "i'm working for one of the biggest oil companies in the world. we've got six hundred thousand acres of the finest oil-producing territory in the united states, and we control most of the big concessions in honduras, ecuador, peru, colombia and--thirty million dollar concern, that's all it is. oh, you needn't look worried. i'm not going to try to sell you any stock, uncle charlie. that is, not unless you've got fifty thousand to invest. i'll tell you what i'm here for. my company wants to interest miss crown in--" "hold on a minute, wilbur," interrupted charlie firmly. "you might just as well hop on a train and go back to chicago. if you're expecting me to help you unload a lot of bum oil stock on miss alix crown you're barking up the wrong tree,--i don't give a cuss if you are my own sister's son. miss crown is my--" the young man held up his hand, and favoured his uncle with a tolerant smile. "i'm not asking your help, old chap. i've got a letter to her from mr. addison blythe, one of our biggest stockholders. all i'm asking you to do is to put me up at your house for a day or two while i lay the whole matter before miss crown." "i haven't got any house," said charlie, rather helplessly. "wait a second! let me think. how long do you expect to be here, wilbur?" "i wouldn't be here more than half an hour if i could get miss crown to say she'd take--" "well, she's sick and can't see anybody for a couple of days,--'specially book agents or oil promoters. i was just thinking i might fix something up for you over at the tavern where i'm staying. it won't cost you a cent, my boy. i'd be a darned cheap sort of an uncle if i couldn't entertain my nephew when he comes to our town,--out of a clear sky, you might say. i'll be mighty glad to have you, wilbur, but you've got to understand i won't have miss crown bothered while she's sick." "permit me to remind you, uncle charlie, that i am a gentleman. i don't go butting in where i'm not wanted. my instructions from the general manager are very explicit. i am to see miss crown when convenient, and give her all the dope on our gigantic enterprise,--that's all." "by the way,--er,--is that your automobile out there?" "it's one i hired in the city." "you--er--didn't happen to bring your wife with you, did you? because it would be darned awkward if you did. she'd have to sleep with angie miller or flora--" "she's not with me, uncle charlie,--so don't worry. of course, if it isn't convenient for you to have me for a day or two, i can motor in and out from the city. money's no object, you know. i've got a roll of expense money here that would choke a hippopotamus." "come on over to the tavern, wilbur. we'll see miss molly dowd and fix things up. sam, if anybody asks for me, just say i'll be back in fifteen minutes." and that is how "mortie" gilfillan, one of the ablest operatives in the pinkerton service, made his entry into the village of windomville. inasmuch as he comes to act in a strictly confidential capacity, we will leave him to his own devices, content with the simple statement that he remained two full days at dowd's tavern as the guest of his "uncle charlie"; that he succeeded in obtaining an interview with the rich miss crown, that he "talked" oil to everybody with whom he came in contact, including courtney thane; that he declined to consider the appeals of at least a score of citizens to be "let in on the ground floor" owing to the company's irrevocable decision to sell only in blocks of ten thousand shares at five dollars per share; that he said good-bye to mr. webster at the end of his second day and departed--not for chicago but, very cleverly disguised, to accept a job as an ordinary labourer with jim bagley, manager of the crown farms. chapter xviii mr. gilfillan is puzzled three days passed. the village had recovered from its excitement. the weekly sun appeared with a long and harrowing account of the "vile attempt to rifle the home of our esteemed and patriotic citizeness," and sang the praises of courtney thane, whose "well-known valour, acquired by heroic services during the great war," prevented what might have been "a most lamentable tragedy." those three days were singularly unprofitable to the "hero." he was unable to see alix crown. he made daily visits to her home but always with the same result. miss crown was in no condition to see any one. "but she saw this fellow conkling," he expostulated on the third day. "he sold her a lot of phony oil stock. if she could see him, i--" "he came all the way from chicago to see her,--with a letter from mr. blythe," explained mrs. strong. "she had to see him. i guess you can wait, can't you, mr. thane?" "certainly. that isn't the point. if i had seen her in time i should have warned her against buying that stock. she's been let in for a whale of a loss, that's all i can say,--and it's too late to do anything about it. good lord, if ever a woman needed a man around the house, she does. she--" "i will tell her what you say," said mrs. strong calmly. "don't you do anything of the kind," he exclaimed hastily. "i was speaking to you as a friend, mrs. strong. she means a great deal to both of us. you understand how it stands with alix and me, don't you? i--i would cheerfully lay down my life for her. more than that, i cannot say or do." "she will be up by tomorrow," said mrs. strong, impressed in spite of herself by this simple, direct appeal. (all that day she caught herself wondering if he had cast his spell over her!) "please give her my love,--and say that i am thinking about her every second of the day," said he gravely, and went away. alix had received another letter from addison blythe. enclosed with it was a communication from an official formerly connected with the american ambulance. it was brief and to the point: courtney thane volunteered for service in the american ambulance in paris in november, . he was accepted and ordered to appear at the hospital at neuilly-sur-seine for instructions. his conduct was such that he was dismissed from the service before the expiration of a week, his uniform taken away from him, and a request made to the french military authorities to see that he was ordered to leave the country at once. our records show that he left hurriedly for spain. he was a bad influence to our boys in paris, and there was but one course left open to us. we have no account of his subsequent movements. with his dismissal from the service, he ceased to be an object of concern to us. alix did not destroy this letter. she locked it away in a drawer of her desk. she had made up her mind to confront thane with this official communication. it was an ordeal she dreaded. her true reason for refusing to see him was clear to her if to no one else: she hated the thought of hurting him! moreover, she was strangely oppressed by the fear that she would falter at the crucial moment and that her half-guarded defences would go down before the assault. she knew his strength far better than she knew his weakness. she had had an illuminating example of his power. was she any stronger now than on that never-to-be-forgotten night?...she put off the evil hour. and on the same third day of renunciation, she had a letter from david strong. she wept a little over it, and driven finally by a restlessness such as she had never known before, feverishly dressed herself, and set forth late in the afternoon for a long walk in the open air. she took to the leaf-strewn woodland roads, and there was a definite goal in mind. ii courtney remembered rosabel vick. "i guess i'd better call her up," he said to himself. "i ought to have done it several days ago. beastly rotten of me to have neglected it. she's probably been sitting over there waiting ever since--gad, she may; have some good news. maybe she is mistaken." he went over to the telephone exchange and called up the vick house. rosabel answered. "that you, rosie?...well, i couldn't. i've been laid up, completely out of commission ever since i saw you....what?...i--i didn't get that, rosie. speak louder,--closer to the telephone." very distinctly now came the words, almost in a wail: "oh, courtney, why--why do you lie to me?" "lie to you? my dear girl, do you know what you are--" a low moan, and a harsh, choking sob smote his ear, and then the click of the receiver on the hook. "well, i'll be hanged!" he muttered angrily. "that's the last time i'll call you up, take it from me." and it was the last time he ever called her up. then he, too, ravaged by uneasy thoughts, struck off into the country lanes, the better to commune with himself. in due course, he came to the gate leading up to the top of quill's window. here he lagged. his gaze went across the strip of pasture-land to the deserted house above the main-travelled road. he started. his gaze grew more intense. a lone figure traversed the highway. it turned in at the gate, and, as he watched, strode swiftly up the path to the front door....he saw her bend over, evidently to insert a key in the lock. then the door opened and closed behind her. iii every word of david's letter was impressed on alix's brain. over and over again she repeated to herself certain passages as she strode rapidly through the winding lanes. she spoke them tenderly, wonderingly, and her eyes were shining. dearest alix: i have always loved you. i want you to know it. there has never been an hour in all these years that i have not thought of you, that your dear face has not been before me. in france, here, everywhere,--always i am looking into your eyes, always i am hearing your voice, always i am feeling the gentle touch of your hand. now you know. i could not have told you before. i am the blacksmith's son. god knows i am not ashamed of that. but i cannot forget, nor can you, that a blacksmith's son lies buried at the top of that grim old hill, and that he was not good enough for the daughter of a windom. i hear that you have given your heart to some one else. you will marry him. but to the end of your days,--and i hope they may be many,--i want you to know that there is one man who will love you with all his heart and all his soul to the end of his days. i hope you will be happy. it is my greatest, my only wish. once upon a time, we stole away, you and i, to write romances of love and adventure. even then, you were my heroine. i was putting you into my poor story, but you were putting your dreams into yours, and i was not your dream hero. then we would read to each, other what we had written. do you remember how guardedly we read and how stealthy we were so as not to arouse suspicion or attract attention to our lair? i shall never forget those happy hours. every line i wrote and read to you, alix dear, was of you and for you. you were my heroine. my hero, feeble creature, told you how much i loved you, and you never suspected. i am telling you all this now, when my hope is dead, so that you may know that my love for you began when you were little more than a baby, and has endured to this day and will endure forever. i pray god you may always be happy. and now, in closing, i can only add the trite sentence,--which i recall reading in more than one novel and which i was imitative enough to put into my own unfinished masterpiece: if ever you are in trouble and despair and need me, i will come to you from the ends of the earth. i mean it, alix. with all the best wishes in the world, i am and will remain yours devotedly, david. p.s.--i have just looked up from this letter to catch sight of myself in a mirror across the office. i have to smile. that beastly but honourable glass reveals the true secret of my failure to captivate you. how could any self-respecting heroine fall in love with a chap with a nose like mine, and a mouth that was intended for old goliath himself, and cheek bones that were handed down by tecumseh, and eyes that squint a little--but i daresay that's because they are somewhat blurred at this particular instant. i am reminded of the "yank" who had his nose shot off at chateau thierry. he said that now that the germans didn't have anything visible to train their artillery on, the war would soon be over. he had lost his nose but not his sense of the ridiculous. i have managed to retain both. up in that bare, dust-laden room, with the two candles burning at her elbows, sat alix. there were tears in her eyes, a wistful little smile on her lips. she was reading again the clumsy lines david had written in those long-ago days of adolescence. now they meant something to her. they were stilted, commonplace expressions; she would have laughed at them had they been written by any one else, and she still would have been vastly amused, even now, were it not for the revelations contained in his letter. and the postscript,--how like him to have added that whimsical twist! he wanted her to smile, even though his heart was hurt. ten years! ten years ago they had sat opposite each other at this dusty table, their heads bent to the task, their brows furrowed, their hands reaching out to the same bottle of ink, their souls athrill with romance. and she was writing of a handsome, incredibly valiant hero, whilst he--he was writing of her! time and again his hand, in seeking the ink, had touched the hand of his heroine,--she remembered once jabbing her pen into his less nimble finger as she went impatiently to the fount of romance, and he had exclaimed with a grimace: "gee, you must have struck a snag, alix!" she recalled the words as of yesterday, almost as of this very moment, and her arrogant rejoinder, "well, why can't you keep your hand out of the way?" she was always hurting him, and he was always patient. she was always sorry, and he was always forgiving. she was superior in her weakness, he was gentle in his strength. and his heroine? she read through the mist that filled her eyes and saw herself. the lofty heroine wooed by the poor and humble musician who crept up from unutterable depths to worship unseen at her feet! "the phantom singer!" the lover she could not see because her starry eyes were fixed upon the peak! and yet he stood beneath her casement window and sang her to sleep, lulled her into sweet dreams,--and went his lonely way in the chill of the morning hours, only to return again at nightfall. she looked up from the sheet she held. she stared, not into space, but at the face of david strong, sitting opposite,--the phantom singer. it was as plain to her as if he were actually there. she looked into his deep grey eyes, honest and true and smiling. what was it he said in his letter? about his nose and mouth and eyes? they were before her now. that keen, boyish face with its coat of tan,--its broad, whimsical mouth and the white, even teeth that once on a dare had cracked a walnut for her; its rugged jaw and the long, straight nose; its wide forehead and the straight eyebrows; and the thick hair as black as the raven's wing, rumpled by fingers that strove desperately to encourage a recalcitrant brain; and those big, bony hands, so large that her little brown paws were lost in them; and the broad shoulders hunched over the table, supported by widespread elbows that encroached upon her allotted space so often that she had to remind him: "i do wish you'd watch what you're doing," and he would get up and meekly recover the scattered sheets of paper from the floor. ugly? david ugly? why, he was beautiful! suddenly her head dropped upon her arms, now resting on david's manuscript; she sobbed. "oh, davy,--davy, i wish you were here! i wish you were here now!" the creaking of the stairs startled her. she half arose and stared at the open door, expecting to see--the ghost! goose-flesh crept out all over her. the ghost that people said came to-- the very corporeal presence of courtney thane appeared in the doorway. for many seconds she was stupefied. she could see his lips moving, she knew he was speaking, she could see his smile as he approached, and yet only an unintelligible mumble came to her ears. "--and so i cut across the field and ventured in where angels do not fear to tread," were the first words that possessed any degree of coherency for her. she hastily thrust the precious manuscript into the drawer. he stopped several feet away and looked about the room curiously, his gaze coming back to her after a moment. the light of the candles was full on her face. "well, of all the queer places," he said. "what in the world brings you here? i thought no one ever entered this house, alix." "i have not been inside this house in ten years," she said, struggling for control of herself. "i came today to--to look for some papers that were left here. i was on the point of leaving when you came up." she picked up her gloves from the table. "it's cold here. do you think it was wise for you to sit here in this chilly--gad, it's like an ice-house or a tomb. better let me give you my coat." he started to remove his overcoat. there was an anxious, solicitous expression in his eyes. "no,--no, thank you. i am quite warm,--and i shall be as warm as toast after i've walked a little way. i must be going now, mr. thane." she took a few steps toward the door. "are you going away without blowing the candles out?" he inquired. she halted. she felt herself trapped. she did not want to be alone in the dark with him. "if you will go ahead while there is light, i will follow--" the solution came suddenly. "how stupid! there is nothing to prevent us carrying the candles downstairs with us, is there? will you take one, please?" she returned to the table and took up one of the candlesticks. "i've been terribly worried about you, alix," he said, without moving. "how wonderful it is to see you again,--to see what is really you and not the girl i've seen in dreams for the past few endless nights. you in the flesh, you with your beautiful eyes, you whose lips--oh, god, i--i have been nearly mad, alix. a thousand times i have felt you in my arms,--you've never been out of them in my thoughts. i--" "please--please!" she cried, shrinking back and putting her hands to her temples. still he did not move. there was a gentleness in his voice, a softness that disarmed her. it was not the voice of a conqueror, rather it was that of a suppliant. "i am not worthy to touch the hem of your garment," he went on, an expression of pain leaping swiftly to his eyes. "i am most unworthy. my life has not been perfect. i have done many things that i am ashamed of, things i would give my soul to recall. but my love for you, alix crown, is perfect. all the good that god ever put into me is in this feeling i have for you. you are the very soul of me. if you tell me to go away, i will go. that is how i love you. you do believe i love you with all my heart and soul, don't you, alix? you do believe that i would die for you?" now she was looking into his eyes across the candle flames. david's features had vanished. she saw nothing save the white, drawn face of the man whose voice, sweet with passion, fell upon her ears like the murmur of far-off music. she felt the warm thrill of blood rushing back into her icy veins, surging up to her throat, to her trembling lips, to her eyes. "i--i don't know what to think--i don't know what to believe," she heard herself saying. he came a step or two nearer. her eyes never left his. she tried to look away. "i want you to me mine forever, alix. i want you to be my wife. i want you to be with me to the end of my life. i cannot live without you. do not send me away now. it is too late." her knees gave way. she sank slowly to the bench,--and still she looked into his gleaming eyes. he came to her. she was in his arms. his face was close to hers, his breath was on her cheek.... "no! no!" she almost shrieked, and wrenched herself free. "not now! not here! give me time--give me time to think!" she had sprung to her feet and was glaring at him with the eyes of an animal at bay. he fell back in astonishment. "you--you had no right to follow me here," she was crying. "you had no right! this place is sacred. it is sanctuary." her voice broke. "my mother was born in this room. she died in this room. and i was born here. go! please go!" he controlled himself. he held back those words that were on his tongue, ready to be flung out at her: "yes, and in this room you behaved like hell with david strong!" but he checked them in time. he lowered his head. "forgive me, alix," he said abjectly. "i--i did not know. i was wrong to follow you here. i could not help myself. i was mad to see you. nothing could have stopped me." he looked up, struck by a sudden thought. "you call this sanctuary. it is a sacred place to you. will you make it sacred to me? promise here and now, in this sanctuary of yours, to be my wife, and all my life it shall be the most sacred spot on earth." she turned her head quickly to look at david strong. a startled, incredulous expression leaped into her eyes. he was not there. by what magic had he vanished? she had felt his presence. he was sitting there a moment ago, his tousled head bent down over the pad of paper,--she was sure of it! then she realized. a wave of relief surged over her. he was not there to hear this man making love to her in the room where he had poured out his soul to her. she experienced a curious thrill of exultation. david could never take back those unspoken words of love. she had them safely stored away in that blessed drawer! a flush of shame leaped to her cheeks. she could not banish the notion that he,--honest, devoted david,--had seen her in this man's arms, clinging to him, giving back his passionate kisses with all the horrid rapture of a--she stiffened. her head went up. she faced the man who had robbed david. "i cannot marry you," she said quietly. the spell was gone. she was herself again. "i do not love you." he stared, speechless, uncomprehending. "you--you do not love me?" he gasped. "i do not love you," she repeated deliberately. "but, good god, you--you couldn't have kissed me as you--" "please!" "--as you did just now," he went on, honestly bewildered. "you put your arms around my neck,--you kissed me--" "stop! yes, i know i did,--i know i did. but it was not love,--it was not love! i don't know what it was. you have some dreadful, appalling power to--oh, you need not look at me like that! i don't care that for your scorn. call me a fool, if you like,--call me anything you like. it is all one to me now. what's done, is done. but it can never happen again. i will not even say that i am ashamed, for in saying so i would be confessing that i was responsible for my actions. i was not responsible. that is all, mr. thane. no doubt you are sincere in asking me to be your wife. no doubt your love for me is sincere. i should like to think so--always. it would help me to forget my own weakness. i am going. i want you to leave this house before i go, mr. thane." she spoke calmly, evenly, with the utmost self-possession. "i can't let you go like this, alix! i can't take this as final. you--you must care for me. how can i think otherwise? in god's name, what has happened to turn you against me? you owe me more of an explanation than--" "you are right," she interrupted. "i do owe you an explanation. this is not the time or the place to give it. if you will come to see me tomorrow, i will tell you everything. it is only fair that you should know. but not now." "has some one been lying about me?" he demanded, his eyes narrowing. she waited an instant before replying. "no, mr. thane," she said; "no one has been lying about you." he took up his hat from the table. "i will come tomorrow," he said. at the door he paused to say: "but i am not going to give you up, alix. you mean too much to me. i think i understand. you are frightened. i--i should not have come here." "yes, i was frightened," she cried out shrilly. "i was frightened,--but i am not afraid now." she had moved to thane's side of the table, and there she stood until she heard his footsteps on the little porch outside. she was in an exalted frame of mind as she hurried from the house. the short october day had turned to night. for a moment she paused, peering ahead. a queer little thrill of alarm ran through her. she had never been afraid of the dark before. but now she shivered. a great uneasiness assailed her. she listened intently. far up the hard gravel road she heard the sound of footsteps, gradually diminishing. he was far ahead of her and walking rapidly. at the gate she stopped again. then she struck out resolutely for home,--the phantom singer was beside her. she was not afraid. a farm-hand, leaning on the fence at the lower corner of the yard, scratched his head in perplexity. "well, here's a new angle to the case," he mused sourly. "i'm up a tree for sure. why the devil should miss crown be meeting him out there in this old deserted house. my word, it begins to look a trifle spicy. it also begins to look like a case that ought to be dropped before it gets too hot. i guess it's up to me to see my dear old uncle charlie what's-his-name." whereupon mr. gilfillan set off in the wake of the girl who had employed him to catch the masked invader. chapter xix bringing up the past charlie webster wore a troubled expression when he appeared for dinner that same evening. he was late. if such a thing were believable, his kindly blue eyes glittered malevolently as they rested upon the face of courtney thane, who had taken his place at table a few minutes earlier. the fat little man was strangely preoccupied. he was even gruff in his response to mr. pollock's bland inquiry as to the state of his health. "how's your liver, charlie?" inquired the genial editor. this amiable question was habitual with mr. pollock. he varied it a little when the object of his polite concern happened to be of the opposite sex; then he gallantly substituted the word "appetite." it was never necessary to reply to mr. pollock's question. in fact, he always seemed a little surprised when any one did reply, quite as if he had missed a portion of the conversation and was trying in a bewildered sort of way to get the hang of it again. "same as it was yesterday," said charlie. "i don't want any soup, maggie. yes, i know it's bean soup, but i don't want it, just the same." "going on a hunger strike, charlie?" inquired doc simpson. "sh! he's reducing," scolded flora grady. "what's on your mind, charlie?" asked courtney. charlie swallowed hard. he made a determined effort and succeeded in recovering some of his old-time sprightliness. "nothing, now that i've got my hat off." "have you heard the latest news, charlie?" inquired mrs. pollock, a thrill of excitement in her voice. he started, and looked up quickly. "there's been so blamed much news lately," he muttered, "i can't keep track of it." "well, this is the greatest piece of news we've had in ages," said the poetess. "wedding bells are to ring in our midst. somebody you know very well is going to be married." mr. webster's heart went to his boots. he stared open-mouthed at the speaker. "oh, my lord!" he almost groaned. "don't tell me she has promised to marry--" he broke off to glare venomously at thane. "don't blame me for it, charlie," exclaimed the latter. "i am as innocent as an unborn babe. charge it to woman's wiles." he laughed boisterously, unnaturally. mr. pollock spoke. "the next issue of the sun will contain the formal announcement of the engagement of the most popular and beloved young lady in windomville. no doubt it will be old news by that time,--next thursday,--but publication in the press gives it the importance of officialty." "we may congratulate ourselves, however, that we are not to lose her," said mrs. pollock. "she is to remain in--" "whe-when is it to take place?" groaned charlie, moisture starting out on his brow. "that," began mr. pollock, "is a matter which cannot be definitely announced at present, owing to certain family--er--ah--conditions. in addition to this, i may say that there is also the children to consider, as well as the township trustee and, to an extent, the taxpayer. the--" "all i've got to say," grated charlie, "is that the police ought to be consulted, first of all." "the police!" exclaimed angie miller. "the--the what?" gasped furman hatch, lifting his head suddenly. he was very red in the face. "i'd like to know what the devil the police have to do with it?" charlie took a look at angie miller's face, and then the truth dawned upon him. he sank back in his chair so suddenly that the legs gave forth an ominous crack. "don't do that!" cried margaret slattery sharply. "you know them chairs are not made of iron. and i don't want you flopping all over me when i'm passing the stew--" "yes, sir!" boomed charlie, who had collected his wits by this time, and was pointing his finger accusingly at mr. hatch. "the police have simply got to be called. it's going to take half the force, including bill foss, to keep me from drinking the heart's blood of my hated rival. ladies and gents, that infernal, low-down villain over there has come between me and--but nobody shall say that charles darwin webster is a poor loser! say what you please about him, but do not say he is a short sport. it breaks my heart to do it, but i'm coming around there to shake hands with you, old tintype. i'm going to congratulate you, but i'm never going to get through hating you." he arose and bolted around the table. mr. hatch got to his feet and the long and the short man clasped hands. "put her there, old boy! i've already made up my mind what my wedding present is going to be. the day before the wedding i'm coming in and order a dozen photographs of myself,--pay for 'em in advance. and i'm going to give every darned one of 'em to the bride, so's she can stick 'em up all over the house just to make you feel at home, you blamed old bachelor. and as for you, miss angelina miller, the very topmost height of my ambition will be reached in less than two minutes after the ceremony. because, then and there, i'm going to kiss you. bless you, my children. as old rip van winkle used to say, 'may you live long and brosper.'" having delivered himself of this felicitous speech, the somewhat relieved mr. webster wiped his brow. "what did he say?" quaked old mrs. nichols, putting her hand to her ear. "says he hoped they'd be happy," bawled old mr. nichols, close to her ear. "pass the bread, doc," said mr. hatch, getting pinker and pinker. "when's it to take place, angle?" inquired charlie, resuming his seat. he cast a sharp look at courtney. the young man shifted his gaze immediately. "as i explained to mr. pollock, everything depends on my aunt," said angie composedly. "she is very old,--eighty-three, in fact." "you don't mean to say your aunt objects to your marrying old tintype," exclaimed charlie. "not at all," replied angie, somewhat tartly. "you see, it's this way," volunteered mr. pollock. "miss angie is the sole support of a venerable and venerated aunt who lives in frankfort. that is a thing to be considered. her duty to her father's sister--" courtney interrupted, chuckling. "it's too much to ask of any woman. i suppose it must take nearly all you earn, miss miller, to support your aged relative, so naturally you do not feel like taking on mr. hatch immediately." there was a moment's silence around the table. "i see by the chicago tribune," said mr. pollock, after a hurried gulp of coffee, "that there's likely to be a strike of the street-car men up there." "you don't say so," said doc simpson, looking so concerned that one might have been led to suspect that he was dismayed over the prospect of getting to his office the next day. "what's the world coming to?" sighed maude baggs pollock nervously. "strikes, strikes everywhere. murder, bloodshed, robbery, revolution--" "next thing we know," put in charlie webster, without looking up from his plate, "god will strike, and when he does there'll be hell to pay, begging your pardon, ladies, for using a word that sounds worse than it tastes." "i use it every day of my life," said miss flora grady. "it's a grand word, charlie," she added, a little defiantly. "times have changed," remarked mr. pollock blandly. "it wasn't so very long ago that women said 'pshaw' when they wanted to let off steam. then they got to saying 'shucks,' and from that they progressed to 'darn,' and now they say 'damn' without a quiver. only yesterday i heard my wife say something that sounded suspiciously like 'dammit to hell' when she upset a bottle of ink on her desk. she hasn't stubbed her toe against a rocking-chair lately, thank goodness." doc simpson stopped courtney as he was starting upstairs after dinner. the dentist was unsmiling. "say, court, i'm running a little close this week. been so much excitement a lot of patients have forgotten all about their teeth. can you let me have that ten you borrowed last week?" "sure," said courtney, in his most affable manner. "i'll hand it to you tomorrow. i'll give it to you now if you'll wait till i run upstairs and get it out of my trunk. that's my bank, you know." "tomorrow'll do all right," said doc, a trifle abashed. "can i see you a second, mr. thane?" called miss grady, when he was halfway up the stairs. he stopped and smiled down at her. "i hope you'll forgive me if i don't come down, miss flora. my knee is still on the blink. it hurts worse to go downstairs, than it does up." "i'll come up," said miss grady promptly. "you remember those roses i ordered for you last week? well, i had to pay cash for them, including parcel post. you owe me seven dollars and thirteen cents." "i'm glad you spoke of it. i hadn't forgotten it, of course, but--i simply neglected to square it up with you. have you change for a twenty, miss flora?" "not with me." "i'll hand it to you tomorrow. seven-thirteen, you say? shall we make it seven-fifteen?" he favoured her with his most engaging smile, and miss grady, who thought she had steeled her heart against his blandishments, suffered a momentary relapse and said, "no hurry. i just thought i'd remind you." he failed completely, however, to affect the susceptibilities of miss mary dowd, who presently rapped at his door, and rapped again when he called out "come in." he opened the door. "pardon me, mr. thane, for coming up to speak to you about your bill. will it be convenient for you to let me have the money this evening?" she did not soften the dun by offering the usual excuse about "expenses being a little heavier this month than we expected," or that she "hated to ask him for the amount." "is it three or four weeks, miss molly?" he inquired, taking out an envelope and a pencil. "four weeks today." "sixty dollars." he jotted it down. "i cannot let this opportunity pass to tell you how thoroughly satisfied i have been with everything here, miss molly. the table is really extraordinarily good. i don't see how you can do it for fifteen dollars a week, including room." he replaced the envelope in his pocket, and smiled politely, his hand going to the door knob. "we couldn't do it, mr. thane, unless we stuck pretty closely to our rule,--that is, of asking our patrons to pay promptly at the end of every week." "it's really the only way," he agreed. "so if you will be kind enough to let me have the amount now, i will be very much obliged to you." he stepped to the head of the stairs, ostensibly to be nearer a light, and took out his purse. while counting out the bills, he cast frequent glances down into the lower hall. the buzz of conversation came up from the "lounge." "i think you will find the proper amount here, miss molly," he said, after restoring the purse to his pocket. she took the bank-notes and counted them. "quite correct, mr. thane. thank you. by the way, i have been meaning to ask how much longer you contemplate remaining with us. pastor mavity has been inquiring for room and board for his sister, who is coming on from indianapolis to spend several months in windomville. if by any chance you are thinking of vacating your room within the next few days, i would be obliged if you would let me know as soon as possible in order that i may give mr. mavity an answer." "i think i shall be leaving shortly, miss dowd. i can let you know in a day or two," said he stiffly. "i am afraid your winters are too severe for me. good night,--and thank you for being so patient, miss dowd." meanwhile, miss angie miller had taken charlie webster off to a corner of the "lounge" remote from the fireplace. she was visibly excited. "i had a letter in this afternoon's mail from my uncle, charlie," she announced in subdued tones. "my goodness, you'll simply pass away when you read it." "where is it?" demanded charlie eagerly. "i haven't even shown it to furman," said she, looking over her shoulder. "i've been wondering whether i ought to let him read it first." "not at all," said he promptly. "it's none of his business. this is between you and me, angie. let's have a look at it." "i don't think you'd better read it here," she whispered nervously. "it--it is very private and confidential." "that's all right," said charlie. "i'll sneak upstairs with it, angie." "well, act as if you are looking out of the window," she said, and when his back was turned she produced the letter from its hiding place inside her blouse. ii charlie retired to his room a few minutes later. there he perused the following letter, written on the stationery of beck, blossom, fredericks & smith, attorneys-at-law, new york city: my dear niece: pardon my delay in replying to your letter of recent date. i have been very busy in court and have not been in a position to devote even a little of my time to your inquiry. your second letter reached me yesterday, and i now make amends for my previous delinquency by answering it with a promptness most uncommon in lawyers. the firm of which i am a member appeared in for the plaintiff in the case of ritter vs. thane. our client was a young woman residing in brooklyn. the defendant was courtney thane, the son of howard thane, and no doubt the young man to whom you refer. in any case, he was the grandson of silas thane, who lived in your part of the state of indiana. we were demanding one hundred thousand dollars for our client. miss ritter was a trained nurse. young thane had been severely injured in an automobile accident. if your courtney thane is the same as mine, he will be walking with a slight limp. his left leg was badly crushed in the accident to which i refer. for several months he was unable to walk. upon his removal from st. luke's hospital to his father's home in park avenue, a fortnight after the accident, our client was employed as a nurse on the case. this was early in the spring of . in june the thane family went to the berkshires, where they had rented a house for the summer. our client accompanied them. prior to their departure, thane, senior, had settled out of court with the occupants of the automobile with which his son's car had collided in upper broadway. his son was alone in his car when the accident occurred, but there were a number of witnesses ready to testify that he was driving at a high rate of speed, regardless of traffic or crossings. if my memory serves me correctly, his father paid something like twenty-five thousand dollars to the three persons injured. that, however, is neither here nor there, except to illustrate the young man's disregard for the law. miss ritter had been on the case a very short time before he began to make ardent love to her. she was an extremely pretty girl, two years his senior, and, i am convinced, a most worthy and exemplary young woman. she became infatuated with the young man. he asked her to marry him. (permit me to digress for a moment in order to state that while courtney thane was in his freshman year at college his father was obliged to pay out quite a large sum of money to a chorus-girl with whom, it appears, he had become involved.) to make a long story short, our client, trusting implicitly to his honour and submitting to the ardour of their joint passion, anticipated the marriage ceremony with serious results to herself. when she discovered that he had no intention of marrying her, she attempted suicide. her mother, on learning the truth, went to thane's parents and pleaded for the righting of the wrong. howard thane had, by this time, lost all patience with his son. he refused to have anything to do with the matter. the young man's mother ordered miss ritter's mother out of the apartment and threatened to have her arrested for blackmail. shortly after this episode, we were consulted by mrs. ritter, much against the wishes of her daughter, who shrank from the notoriety and the disgrace of a lawsuit. the elder thane was adamant in his decision that his son should marry the girl, who, he was fair enough to admit, was a young woman of very superior character and who, he was convinced, had been basely deceived. the mother, on the other hand, was relentlessly opposed to the sacrifice of her son. we took the matter to court. on the morning of the first day of the trial, before the opening of court, the defendant's counsel came to us with a proposition. they offered to settle out of court for twenty-five thousand dollars. in the end, we accepted fifty thousand, and the case was dismissed. afterwards counsel for the other side informed us that the elder thane turned his son out of his home and refused to have anything more to do with him. i understand the young man went to europe, where he subsisted on an allowance provided by his mother. thane, senior, died shortly after this. our client, i am pained to say, died with her babe in childbirth. you may be interested to know, my dear niece, that mrs. thane married soon after her husband's death. her second husband was a young french nobleman, many years her junior. he was killed in the war, i think at verdun. i understand she is now living in this city. her present name escapes me, but i know that her widowhood has been made endurable by a legacy which happens to be one in name only. in other words, he left her the title of countess. if i can be of any further service to you, my dear niece, pray do not hesitate to call upon me. believe me to be...etc., etc. within ten minutes after the perusal of this very convincing indictment, charlie webster was on his way to alix's home. he was quite out of breath when he presented himself at the front door, and his first words to alix were: "while i'm getting my breath, alix, you might prepare yourself for a shock." chapter xx the disappearance of rosabel vick early the next morning, the telephone in township assessor jordan's house rang. annie jordan was "setting" the breakfast table. she waited for the call to be repeated; she was not sure whether the bell had rung thrice or four times. their call was "party j, ring four." four sharp rings came promptly. she looked at the kitchen clock. it lacked five minutes of seven. "gee," she grumbled, "i didn't know anybody had to get up as early as i do." taking down the receiver she uttered a sweet "hello," because, as she said, "you never know who's at the other end, and it's just as likely to be him as not." "is that you, annie? this is mrs. vick. may i speak to rosabel?" "why, rosabel isn't here, mrs. vick." "what?" "rosabel isn't here." there was a short silence. then: "are you joking with me, annie? if she isn't up yet, please tell her to--" "honest to goodness, mrs. vick, she's not here. i haven't seen her since day before yesterday." "she said she was going over to spend the night with you. she left home about four yesterday. oh, my goodness, i--i--is there any one else she might have,--i'm sure she said you, though, annie. can you think of any one else? she took her nightdress--and things." "she always comes here, mrs. vick," said annie, and felt a little chill creeping over her. "still she may have gone to mrs. urline's. she and hattie are good friends. shall i call up and ask? i'll ring you up in a couple of minutes." that was the beginning. within the hour the whole of windomville was talking about the strange disappearance of the pretty daughter of amos vick, across the river. old jim house, the handy-man at dowd's tavern, inserted his shaggy head through the dining-room door and informed the editor of the sun in a far from ceremonious manner that he had an "item" for the paper. "i'll be out as soon as i've finished breakfast," said mr. pollock. "well, you can't say i didn't tell ye," said jim, and withdrew his head. "no wonder there ain't ever anything worth readin' in that pickerune paper of his, maggie," he growled to margaret slattery. "if ever i do subscribe for a paper, it's goin' to be one that's got some git up and go about it. some injinapolis er cincinnaty paper, b'gosh. there's link pollock settin' in there eatin' pancakes while a girl is bein' missed from one end of the township to the other. bill foss has--" "what girl?" demanded margaret. "that girl of amos vick's. they ain't seen hide er hair of her sence yesterday afternoon. amos is over to the drug store, nearly crazy with suspicion. i got it all figgered out. one of two things has happened. she's either run off to get married er else she's been waylaid and--er--execrated by some tramp. like as not the very feller that peeped in at alix crown's winder the other night. 'twouldn't surprise me a particle if she was found some'eres er other with her head beat in or somethin'! and link pollock jest sits in there stuffin' pan--" margaret slattery having disappeared abruptly into the dining-room, jim grunted and edged over to the kitchen range, where miss jennie dowd was busily engaged. "i ain't got nothin' personal ag'in link pollock, jennie," he said, sniffing the browning batter with pleasurable longing, "but if you was to ask me i'd say his wife is twice the man he is, and a little over. the minute that woman is a widder i'm goin' to subscribe for the paper, 'cause i know she'll--what say, jennie?" "bring me another scuttle of coal,--and, for goodness' sake, don't smoke that pipe in my kitchen." "what's the matter with this here pipe?" demanded mr. house in some surprise. "never mind. i'm busy." "yes,--cookin' pancakes for that--all right, all right, i'll get your coal fer ye. i ought to be out helpin' amos vick to investigate fer his daughter, that's where i ought to be. first thing you know, he'll be offerin' twenty-five er fifty dollars fer her and--say, it seems to me you ought to be more interested in that pore lost girl than makin' pancakes fer link pollock." he prepared to sit down. "there's a lot of people in this here town payin' him two dollars a year fer to git the news, and all he does is to--all right, i wasn't goin' to set down anyways. i was jest movin' this cheer out o' the way a little, so's maggie--yes, and with coal as high as it is now and a lot of pore people starvin' and freezin' to death, it exaggerates me considerable to see you wastin'--well, is he still eatin', maggie?" "he's beat it upstairs to change his carpet slippers," announced margaret slattery excitedly. "you needn't make any more, miss jennie. they're all beatin' it,--all except mr. thane, and he says he don't want any more. he says he ain't feelin' well and thinks he'll go up to his room and lay down for a while." "well, seein's you don't need that coal, jennie, i guess i'll mosey along and see if i c'n be any help to amos. this jest goes to show what an ijit i'd ha' been to let my pipe go out." courtney thane hung over the little stove in his room, shivering as with a chill. about ten o'clock some one knocked at his door. he started up from the chair, his gaze fixed on the door. with an effort he pulled himself together and inquired who was there. "is there anything i can do for you, mr. thane?" asked miss molly dowd, outside. "nothing, thank you." after a moment's indecision, he crossed over and opened the door. "it's awfully good of you, miss molly. there's nothing really the matter with me. i was awake most of the night with a pain in my back,--something like lumbago, i suppose. i was afraid at first it was my old pleurisy coming back for another visit, but it seems to be lower down. i feel much better, thank you. the fresh air will do me good. i think i'll go out and see if i can be of any assistance to poor vick. have they had any news of rosabel?" "i think not. they have telephoned to the city to ask the police to watch out for her, especially at the trains. she's been terribly depressed, they say, since her brother went to the navy training school up near chicago. amos thinks she may have taken it into her head to go up there somewhere to be near him." "it is possible. she was devoted to her brother. i hope nothing worse has happened to her. she is a sweet, lovable girl, and they worshipped her." later on, as he was standing in front of the postoffice, smoking a cigarette, vick came up in alix crown's automobile. the former had been to the city to consult with the police. he inquired anxiously if any word had been received from the men who had volunteered to search in the woods and along the river bank for the girl. receiving a reply in the negative from several of the hangers-on, he turned to give an order to the chauffeur. as he did so, his gaze fell upon courtney, who was on the outer edge of the little group surrounding the car. after a moment of indecision, the young man pushed his way forward, an expression of deep concern in his eyes. "morning, courtney," greeted the older man, extending his hand. "i'm glad to see you. i suppose you've heard about rosabel?" thane shook hands with rosabel's father. "i wouldn't be worried if i were you, mr. vick. she'll turn up all right. i feel sure of it. if there is anything in the world i can do, i wish you would say so, mr. vick. anything, sir. there is nothing i wouldn't do for you and mrs. vick and rosabel. i adore that child. why, i get positively sick all over when i let myself think that--but, it's impossible! i feel it in my bones she'll come home sometime today." vick pressed the young man's hand. "i wish i could be sure of that,--god, i wish i could be sure," he said, with a little catch in his gruff voice. "i don't see what got into her to run away like this. she ain't been very chipper since cale went away, you know. sort of sick and down in the mouth. her mother's heard her crying a good bit lately up in her room. i promised her only a couple of days ago to take her up to chicago for a spell, so's she could see cale every once in a while. so it can't be she's gone off on her own hook to see him, knowin' that either me or her mother was planning to go up with her next week. thank you, courtney, for offering to help us. if there's anything, i'll let you know. we've been telegraphin' and telephonin' everywhere to see if we can get track of her, and we've been to all her friends' homes to ask if they've seen her. i wish, if you feel like it, you'd go over and see mrs. vick. maybe you can cheer her up, encourage her or something. she's terribly worried. i--i think it would break her heart if anything happened to--to--" his lips twisted as with pain. he bent over and picked a burr from his trousers' leg. "buck up, old fellow," said courtney, a ringing note of confidence in his voice. he laid his hand on vick's arm. "tell me all about it. when did she leave the house, and where did she say she was going?" "yesterday afternoon. she said she was going to spend the night at the jordans'. she kissed her mother good-bye,--just as she always does,--and we ain't seen or heard anything of her since. nobody in windomville saw her. bill foss is afraid she may have been waylaid by hoboes down along the river road. if--if that happened there'll be something worse than lynchin' if i ever lay hands on--" thane broke in with an oath. "by god, i'll do the job for you if i get hold of him first, vick. i could set fire to a devil like that and see him burned alive without moving a muscle." "i can't let myself believe she's met with any such horrible fate as that, courtney. i simply can't bear to think of my pretty little rosie in the hands of--" "don't think about it, vick. i believe she will turn up safe and sound and--by the way, has it occurred to you that she may have eloped? was she in love with anybody? was she interested in any young fellow that you didn't approve of?" "she never spoke of being in love with anybody. she never even gave us an inklin' of such a thing. she would have told her mother. why, good heavens, courtney, she wasn't much more'n a little girl! she was eighteen her last birthday, and we never thought of her as anything but a child just out of short dresses. did she ever speak to you about being gone on any of these young fellows that come to see her? she liked you tremendous, courtney,--and i didn't know but what maybe she might have mentioned something to you about it when you were off on those long walks together. some of the times when you used to take a lunch basket and go off--" "not a word," broke in courtney. "why, she was just like a kid, laughing and singing and begging me to tell her stories about the war, and life in new york, and all that sort of thing. she used to read to me, bless her heart,--read by the hour while i smoked,--or went to sleep. if she was in love with anybody she certainly never took me into her confidence." "i--i guess there's nothing in that theory," said amos vick, shaking his head. "she didn't run away with anybody. that's out of the question. i'm working on the theory that she sort of went out of her head or something and wandered away. you read about cases like that in the papers. i forget what they call the disease, but there's--" "aphasia," supplied courtney absently. his gaze was fixed on a graceful, familiar figure down the street. alix crown had just dismounted from her horse in front of the library. she stood, straight and slim, on the sidewalk awaiting the approach of editor pollock, who was hurrying up from assessor jordan's house where he had been "interviewing" annie. a warm glow shot through courtney's veins. he had held that adorable, boyish figure tight in his arms! nothing could rob him of that rapturous thought,--nothing could deprive him of those victorious moments. amos vick's voice recalled him. "i'll have to be on the move, courtney. here comes bill foss. he's been telephonin' to litchtown, down the river. i do wish you'd go over and see lucinda. she'll be mighty grateful to you." "don't fail to call on me, mr. vick, if there's anything i can do," called out courtney after the moving machine. he did not take his eyes from alix until she disappeared through the library door. the horse, a very fine animal, was wet with sweat. he could see, even at that distance, the "lather" on her flanks. "any news?" he inquired of pollock, as that worthy came up panting. "nope. alix crown is just back from jim bagley's. some one said a hired man of his had seen a woman walking across the pasture yesterday just before dark--out near the old windom place,--but it couldn't have been rosie vick because she had no way to get across the river except by the ferry, and she didn't come that way, joe burk swears. alix saw this hired man and he says it was almost dark and he couldn't be sure whether it was a man or a woman." a greyish pallor spread over courtney's face. he turned away abruptly and hurried down the street. he remembered the "skiff" that belonged to young cale, salvaged some years before on the abatement of a february flood. on more than one occasion he had taken rosabel out on the river in this clumsy old boat, twice at least to the base of quill's window where she had refused to land because of the dread she had for the gruesome place. cale kept his boat down among the willows, chained to a pole he had driven deep in the bed of the river. it was one of his treasures. he had fished from it up and down the stream; he had gone forth in it at daybreak for wild ducks and geese. yes, thane remembered the "skiff." strange that no one else had thought of it. strange that even amos vick was satisfied she could not have crossed the river except by the ferry. he wondered whether it was tied up in its accustomed place over yonder, or was it now on this side of the river? he felt a strange chill in his blood. he was nearing the library when alix came out. if she saw him she gave no sign. she crossed the sidewalk threw the bridle rein over the horse's neck, and swung herself gracefully into the saddle. without so much as a glance over her shoulder, she rode off at a brisk canter in the direction of the ferry. he knew she was on her way to see mrs. vick. the r. f. d. postman making his rounds, came to amos vick's shortly after noon that day. he volunteered a bit of information. rosabel had given him a letter when he stopped the day before. it was addressed to caleb vick. she asked him how long he thought it would take the letter to reach its destination. when he told her that it might be delivered to cale early the next day, she thanked him and returned to the house. he thought at the time that she looked "kind of white around the gills." ii jim bagley and his new "hired man," pursuing a suggestion made by the latter, went to the top of quill's window for a bird's-eye view of the river and the surrounding country. the sharp eyes of the pinkerton man descried the rowboat under the willows along the opposite bank of the stream. half an hour later, bagley and several companions came upon the boat. on one of the seats lay rosabel vick's heavy coat and the black fur collar she was known to have worn when she left home. under the seat in the stern was a small paper bundle. it contained a nightgown, a pair of black stockings, and several toilet articles. across the river, several hundred yards above quill's window, a small gravelly "sand-bar" reached out into the stream. here the practised eyes of gilfillan found unmistakable indications of a recent landing. the prow of the boat, driven well out upon the bar, had left its mark. also, there were two deep cuts in the sand where an oar had been used in pushing off. it was impossible to make out footprints in the loose, shifting gravel. mr. gilfillan pondered deeply. "that boat crossed over here yesterday," he reflected. "it's pretty clear that it belongs over on that side. if the vick girl came over in it, there's no use looking for her on this side of the river. that boat couldn't have got back to the other side unless somebody rowed it over. if it was a woman i saw walking across the pasture in the direction of the river, it must have been this girl. now--one of two things happened--in case it was the vick girl. either she was up near that old house before i got there, or she saw me when she was approaching, and turned back. in either case, she had an object in hanging around that house. now we come to the object. was she going there to meet some one? if so, it would naturally be a man. "now let's get this thing straight. thane crossed the pasture from this direction. that's positive,--because i followed him. it is a dead certainty he did not meet the vick girl. i would have witnessed any such meeting. the fact that he lived at her father's house for several weeks may have something to do with the case,--but that's guesswork. what we want is facts. this much is certain. i did not see miss crown go into that house,--but i did see her come out. i never was so paralysed in my life. it is clear, therefore, that she was in there before either i or thane came upon the scene. now the question is, was she there to meet thane? i doubt it. things begin to look a little clearer to me. suppose, for instance, he went out to that big hill to meet some one else,--presumably the vick girl, and that they had planned to go to that old deserted house. he was late. so, thinking she had gone on, he hustled across the field and received the surprise of his life. now, we'll say the vick girl was over there waiting for him when miss crown came to the house,--a thing they couldn't have foreseen in view of the fact that she shunned the place. our hero comes up and enters the house as if he owned it. the other girl hangs around outside till it gets dark enough for her to risk making a getaway without attracting my attention,--in case she saw me. she beats it back to the river, and then, being afraid that i saw and recognized her, she concludes to beat it to somebody's house over in the next county, so's she'll have an alibi if i go to miss crown with the story. now, that's one way to look at it. the other angle is that she was jealous and trailed thane to his rendezvous, as my old friend nick carter would say. in that case,--by thunder!" he gave vent to a soft whistle. "in that case, she may have jumped into the river and--no, that doesn't hang together. she wouldn't have gone to the trouble to row back to the other side. wait a second! now, let me think. here's an idea. we'll suppose somebody waylaid her over there on the other side of the river, put the quietus on her and chucked her into the water. then he rowed across here and started for the turnpike. seeing me and also thane, he turns back. it's a man i see in the darkness instead of a woman. he goes back to the boat, rows over to the other side again and--holy mackerel! here's a new one. that girl's body may be lying up there in the underbrush at this instant. dumped there by the murderer, who turned back after seeing me--i'll take a look!" for an hour gilfillan searched through the underbrush along the bank. finally he gave it up and started toward the village. he found the town in a state of great excitement. everybody was hurrying down to the river. overtaking an old man, he inquired if there was any news of the missing girl. "they say she's been drownded," chattered the ancient. "my daughter says they found her things in a boat, but no sign of her. did you ever see the beat? they's been more goin' on in this here town in the last week than--" gilfillan hurried on. he caught charlie webster as he was leaving the warehouse. "i want to see miss crown as soon as possible, webster," he said. "do you suppose she will go up in the air if i mention the fact that i know she was with thane yesterday up in that old house? it's a rather ticklish thing to spring on her if she--" "it's all right," interrupted charlie. "i talked with her about it last night. she had no idea he was coming there. he told her he saw her from across the pasture and hustled over. she was surprised almost out of her skin when he popped in on her. she tells me she ordered him out of the house." the detective was thoughtful. "i wonder if it has occurred to miss crown that thane might have mistaken her for some one else at that distance." "not so's you'd notice it," declared charlie. "he knew it was alix all right. she isn't in any doubt on that score." "it begins to take shape," mused gilfillan. "he didn't wait for her, that's all." "what say?" "i was just thinking," replied the other. "where is thane at the present moment, webster?" "he just went off in an automobile with dick hurdle and a couple of fellows to stretch one of joe hart's big fish nets across the river down at the narrows, five or six miles below here." "would you mind inviting me up to your room at the tavern for a little while, webster?" "well, i was going down to the ferry. there are half a dozen skiffs down--" "see here, webster, as i understand it, my real job is to find out all i can about this chap thane. i am really working for you, not for miss crown, although she is putting up the money. i am just as thoroughly convinced as you are that thane staged that masked robber business himself. it's an old gag, especially with lovers--and occasionally with husbands." charlie grinned sheepishly, a guilty flush staining his rubicund face. "i guess i might as well confess that i was guilty of something of the sort when i was about seventeen," he said. "that's how i came to figger out that maybe he was up to the same kind of heroism." "nearly every kid has done the same thing. it's boy nature." "i reckon that's right. i fixed it for a boy friend of mine to jump out of a dark place one night when i was walkin' home from a church sociable with my girl. he had false whiskers on. i helped him glue them on,--and he had an awful time getting 'em off. course when he jumped out and growled 'hands up,' i just sailed into him and the fur flew for a few seconds. then he run like a whitehead. it didn't work out very well, however. that kid's sister got onto the trick and told my girl about it, and--well, i almost had to leave town. but it ain't a game for a grown-up man to play, and that's what i think this feller thane has been pulling." "what you want to find out, before it's too late, is whether thane is all that he professes to be," said the other. "well, i'm simply sitting tight on the job, stalling along until i hear from our people in new york. they have cabled england to find out whether he was connected with the british air forces. now, what i want to do is to get into that fellow's room for ten or fifteen minutes. can you fix it?" "it--it wouldn't be legal," protested charlie. "you've got to get out a search warrant." "my dear fellow, i'm not planning to steal anything," exclaimed gilfillan. "i merely want to get into his room by mistake. that happens frequently,--you know." charlie was finally persuaded. he cast an apprehensive glance down the road leading to the ferry, searched the main street for observers, and then led the way over to the practically deserted tavern. half an hour later mr. gilfillan re-entered charlie's room. "remember i don't know where you've been or what you were up to," warned the fat man firmly. "i'm not a party to this nefarious--" "righto!" said the detective cheerily. "your skirts are clear. they are immaculate. let's beat it." "well, what did you find out?" inquired charlie, when they were in the street once more. he was bursting with curiosity. "in as much as you don't know where i was or what i've been doing, it will not compromise you if i say that i found a thirty-eight calibre revolver with three empty shells in the cylinder. i also found a theatrical make-up box, with grease paints, gauze, and all that. also currency amounting to about three hundred dollars. nothing incriminating, nothing actually crooked. simply circumstantial as relating to recent events in your midst, mr. webster." "makes it look mighty certain that he was the feller with the mask, don't it? only three shots were fired, you know. i've been thinking a lot about what you said awhile ago. you don't think that he had anything to do with--with putting the vick girl out of the way? you spoke about him being mistaken in the woman." "he had nothing to do with it, webster. i told you i saw a figure in the pasture after he had gone into the house. if it was the vick girl, she was certainly alive then. he went straight home after leaving that house. he didn't go out of the tavern again last night, that's positive. now, what i want to find out is this: was the girl in love with him? was there anything between them? if she's at the bottom of the river down there, it's a plain case of suicide, my friend, and people do not take their own lives unless there's a mighty good reason. with a young girl it's usually a case of unrequited love,--or worse. according to that letter miss miller had from new york, thane is not above betraying a girl. of course, if the vick girl is dead and left nothing behind to implicate thane, it will be out of the question to charge him with being even indirectly responsible for her death." "the main thing," said charlie, who had turned a shade paler during this matter-of-fact, cold-blooded analysis, "is to keep alix crown from falling into his clutches. he's a bad egg, that feller is, and he's made up his mind to win her by fair means or foul." "well, if she falls for him after reading that lawyer's letter and when she hears what i believe to be the truth about that heroic episode the other night,--why, she ought to get what's coming to her, that's all i have to say," said mr. gilfillan flatly. "i've discovered one thing, mr. webster. if a woman makes up her mind to marry a man, hell-fire and brimstone can't stop her. the older i get and the more i see of women, the more i am convinced that vice is its own reward. i guess we'd better stroll down to the river and see what's doing." "i've been thinking," said charlie as they walked along, "that if thane wasn't in the british army and wasn't in our army, then he must be a slacker and wanted by the government for--" "nothing doing on that line. you forget he was crippled long before the war. he couldn't get by a medical board. they'd turn him down in a second. if he was in this country at the time of the draft, he would have had no trouble getting an exemption. what i can't understand is why he, a new yorker, should be hiding out here in the jungles of indiana. there's something queer about that, my friend." "kind of fishy," said charlie darkly. then upon reflection, he added with considerable vehemence: "damn him!" already half a dozen rowboats were out in the stream, with men peering over the sides into the deep, slow-moving water. burk's ferry did a thriving business. it plied back and forth from one "road-cut" to the other, crowded with foot passengers, all of whom studied the water intently. men, women and children tramped close to the edge of both banks. people spoke in subdued voices; an atmosphere of the deepest solemnity hung over the scene. the sky itself was overcast; a raw wind moaned through the trees, sighing a requiem. the drab, silent river went placidly, mockingly on its way down to the sea, telling no tales: if rosabel vick was rolling, gliding along the bottom, gently urged by the current, the grim waters covered well the secret. the word went from lip to lip that motor-boats were on the way down from the city, with police officers and grappling-hooks and men experienced in the gruesome business of "dragging." the boss of the railway construction gang at hawkins, where the new bridge was being built, had started for windomville with a quantity of dynamite to be exploded on the bottom of the river in the hope and expectation of bringing the body to the surface. chapter xxi out of the night all afternoon the search continued. at intervals and at widely separated points dull explosions took place on the bed of the river, creating smooth, round hillocks that lasted for the fraction of a second and then dissolved into swift-spreading wavelets, stained a dirty yellow by the upheaval of sand and mud, and went racing in ruffles to the banks which they tenderly licked before they died. white-bellied fish, killed by the shock of the explosions, came to the surface and floated away,--scores of them, large and small. spider-like grappling hooks, with their curving iron prongs, raked the bottom from side to side, moving constantly downstream, feeling here, there and everywhere with insensate fingers for the body of rosabel vick. a pall settled over the river; it reached far beyond the environs of windomville, for amos vick was a man known and respected by every farmer in the district. night came. courtney thane, considerably shaken by the tragedy, set out immediately after dinner for the home of alix crown. he had been silent and depressed at dinner, taking his little part in the conversation, which dealt exclusively with the incomprehensible act of young rosabel vick. "what possible reason could that pretty happy young girl have had for killing herself?" that was the question every one asked and no one answered. mrs. maude baggs pollock repeatedly asked it at dinner, and once thane had replied: "i still don't believe she killed herself. it is beyond belief. if she is out there in the river, as they suspect, it is because there was foul play. some fiend attacked her. i will never believe anything else, mrs. pollock. i knew her too well. she would never dream of killing herself. she loved life too well. i can't help feeling that she is alive and well somewhere, that they will hear from her in a day or two, and that--" "but how about the things they found in that boat?" demanded doc simpson. "she wouldn't be so heartless as to play a trick like that on her folks." courtney's answer was a gloomy shake of the head. his heart was pounding heavily as he trudged up the walk to alix's door. he knew that the crisis in his affairs was at hand. she had asked him to come. he had not given up hope. he was still confident of his power to win in spite of her amazing perversity. inconsistency, he called it. of one thing he was resolved: he would brook no delay. she would have to marry him at once. he wanted to get away from windomville as soon as possible. he loathed the place. hilda came to the door. "miss crown is over at mr. vick's," she announced. "she's not at home." he stiffened. "i had an appointment with her for this evening, hilda. she must be at home." "she ain't," said the maid succinctly. "did she leave any word for me?" "not with me, sir. she telephoned to mrs. strong this evening to say she was going to stay with mrs. vick." "all night?" "no, sir. the car's going down to meet her at the ferry about ten o'clock." he departed in a very unpleasant frame of mind. this was laying it on a bit thick, he complained. if she thought she could treat him in this cavalier fashion she'd soon find out where she "got off." what business had she, anyhow, over at the vicks? all the old women in the neighbourhood would be there to--an idea struck him suddenly. "i'll do it," he muttered. "i'll have to go over some time, so why not now? it's the decent thing to do. i'll go tonight." he hurried up to his room. opening his trunk, he took out his revolver, replaced the discharged shells and stuck it into his overcoat pocket. picking up the little package of bank-notes, he fingered them for a moment and then, moved by an impulse for which he had no explanation, he not only counted them but quickly stuffed them into his trousers' pocket. afterwards he was convinced that premonition was responsible for this incomprehensible act. he crossed the ferry with several other people. the moon had broken through the clouds. its light upon the cold, sluggish water produced the effect of polished steel. it reminded him of the grey surface of an ancient suit of armour. the crossing was slow. he could not repress a shudder when he looked downstream and saw lights that seemed to be fixed in the centre of the river. he closed his eyes. he could not bear to look at the cold, silent water. the soft splashing against the broad, square bow of the old-fashioned ferry served to increase his nervousness. the horrid fancy struck him that rosabel vick was out there ahead clawing at the slimy timbers in the vain effort to draw herself out of the water....he wished to god he had not come. he was the first person off the ferry when it came to a stop on the farther side of the river. ahead of him lay the road through the narrow belt of trees that lined the bank. he knew that a scant hundred yards lay between the river and the open road beyond and yet a vast dread possessed him. he shrank from that black opening in the wall of trees where dead leaves rustled and the wind whispered secrets to the barren branches. he fell in behind a couple of men who strode fearlessly into the dark avenue. after him came two men and a woman. they were all strangers to him, so far as he could make out, but he felt a sense of security in their nearness. he gathered that they were bound for amos vick's. presently they came to the open road beyond the trees. the half moon rode high and clear; the figures of his companions took shape, dusky and ghost-like; the fences alongside the road became visible, while straw-ricks, lone trees and other shadowy objects emerged from the maw of the night. here and there in the distance points of light indicated the presence of invisible farmhouses, while straight ahead, a mile or more away, a cluster of lights marked the house of amos vick. as he drew nearer, thane was able to count the lights. he looked intently for the sixth window, an upstairs corner room was where it would be,--but there were lights in only five. the corner window was dark. he knew that window well....he wished he had a stiff drink of whiskey. half a dozen automobiles stood at the roadside in front of the house. he stopped beside one of them to look at his wrist-watch. it was half-past eight. alix would be starting home in less than an hour. no doubt it had been arranged that one of these cars was to take her down to the ferry. he had seen her saddle horse late that afternoon standing in front of the blacksmith's shop, evidently waiting to be re-shod. if he had his way,--and he was determined to have it,--alix would walk with him to the ferry. as he turned in at the gate he observed that the woman and her two companions, after pausing for a moment to look at the house, continued their way up the road. the men who had preceded him all the way were already on the front porch. he followed the disappearing trio with his eyes. the woman, he noticed for the first time, was very tall,--quite as tall as the men. she wore a shawl over her head, and some sort of a long cloak. setting his jaw he strode up the walk, looking neither to right nor left, mounted the steps where many a night he had sat with rosabel beside him, and after passing a group of low-voiced neighbours, knocked on the closed door. he was admitted by an elderly woman who looked askance at this well-dressed stranger. "i am mr. thane, a friend," he said. "will you tell mrs. vick, please?" "she's upstairs, and i--i--" "i think she is expecting me. but,--wait. i thought i might be able to comfort her, but i can see by your expression that she isn't feeling up to seeing people. i came over primarily to see if there is anything i can do, madam. you see, rosabel and i were great pals." his voice broke a little, and he bit his nether lip. "we've finally got her to lie down," said the woman. "she's--she's nearly crazy with the suspense and--everything. if you'll wait a little bit, i'll find out if she feels like seeing you. alix crown is with her. she coaxed her to stretch out on the bed. miss crown understands these things. she did some hospital work during the war--" "yes, i know miss crown," he interrupted. "--and saw a lot of suffering, 'specially among mothers who came to see their crippled and sick sons in the hospitals." "perhaps if you were to tell miss crown that i am here she could--but no, i sha'n't even bother miss crown. she's got her hands full. i will sit down and wait awhile, however. if by any chance, you should be able to get word to mrs. vick that i am here, i think she might feel like seeing me." "i'll see," said the woman dubiously, and went away. courtney sat down on a sofa in the parlour. he looked around the lamp-lit room....over in the corner was the upright piano on which rosabel used to play for him. he could see her now--the shapely, girlish back; the round, white neck and the firm young shoulders; the tilt of her head; the strong, brown hands,--he could see her now. and she used to turn her head and smile at him, and make dreadful grimaces when this diversion resulted in a discord....he got up suddenly and walked out into the dining-room. beyond, in the kitchen, he heard the rumble of men's voices. he hesitated for a moment, and then opened the door. there were half a dozen men in the kitchen, and one of them was amos vick. they were preparing to go out into the night. vick's face was haggard, his garments were muddy, his long rubber boots were covered with sludge and sand. catching sight of thane in the doorway, the farmer went toward him, his hand outstretched. "i'm glad you came, courtney," he said, his voice hoarse but steady. "lucinda will be pleased. does she know you're here?" "i sent word up, but if she doesn't feel like--" "she'll want to see you. we're starting out again. down the river." (his voice shook a little.) "my soul,--boy,--you look as white as a sheet. here,--take a good swig of this. it's some rye that steve white brought over. we all needed it. help yourself. you've been overdoing a little today, courtney. you're not fit for this sort of--that's right! that will brace you up. you needed it, my boy." courtney drained half a tumbler of whiskey neat. he choked a little. "i guess we'd better be starting, amos," said steve white. "take me along with you, mr. vick," cried courtney, squaring his shoulders. "i can't stand being idle while--" "you'd catch your death of cold," interrupted vick, laying his hand on the young man's shoulder. "it's mighty fine of you and i--i sha'n't forget it. but you're not fit for an all night job like this. i feel sort of responsible for you, my boy. your mother would never forgive me if anything happened to you, and this is a time when we've got to think about the mothers. good night,--god bless you, courtney." "good night, amos." the men trooped heavily out of the kitchen door. presently he heard the chugging of automobile engines and then the roar as they sped off down the road. he returned to the parlour. the whiskey had given him fresh confidence. the elderly woman was talking to a couple of men in the hall. from the scraps of conversation he was able to pick up, he gathered that they were reporters from the city. she invited him into the room. "we would prefer a very recent picture," one of the men was saying. "something taken within the last few weeks, if possible. a snap-shot will do, madam." the speaker was a middle-aged man with horn-rimmed spectacles. his companion was much the younger of the two. the latter bowed to thane, who had taken a position before the fireplace and was regarding the strangers with interest. "i'll have to speak to mrs. vick," murmured the woman. "i don't know as she would want rosabel's picture printed in the papers." "it would be of incalculable assistance, madam, in case she has run away from home. we have an idea that she may have planted those garments in the boat in order to throw people off the track." "oh, she--she wouldn't have done that," cried the woman. "she couldn't be so heartless." "you overlook the possibility that her mind may be affected. dementia frequently takes the form of--er--you might say unnatural cunning." "i'll speak to mrs. vick. there's a scrap-book of kodak pictures there on the table. i was looking through it today. she and her brother, cale, made heaps of pictures. you might be looking through it while i go upstairs." thane was lighting a cigarette. "have you told miss crown that i am here?" asked he, as she started toward the stairs. "she says she'll be down in a few minutes. mrs. vick wants to see you before you go." the two reporters were examining the contents of the scrap-book. the younger of the two was standing at the end of the little marble-topped table, his body screening the book from courtney's view. there were a number of loose prints lying between the leaves toward the end of the book. rosabel had neglected to paste them in. the man with the horn-rimmed spectacles ran through them hastily. he stealthily slipped two of these prints up his sleeve. thane would have been startled could he have seen those prints. they were not pictures of rosabel vick, but fair-sized, quite excellent likenesses of himself! the woman returned to say that mrs. vick was very much upset by the thought of her daughter's picture appearing in the paper, and could not think of allowing them to use it. the elder man bowed courteously. "i quite understand, madam. we would not dream of using the picture if it would give pain to the unhappy mother. please assure her that we respect her wishes. thank you for your kindness. we must be on our way back to town. good night, madam." "these reporters are awful nuisances," remarked courtney as the front door closed behind the two men. "always butting in where they're not wanted." "they seemed very nice," observed the woman. "i've never seen one that wasn't a sneak," said he, raising his voice a little. the whiskey was having its effect. mrs. vick and alix entered the room together. the former came straight toward the young man. her rather heavy face was white and drawn, but her eyes were wide and bright with anxiety. there was no trace of tears. he knew there would be no scene, no hysterics. lucinda vick was made of stern, heroic stuff. as he advanced, holding out his hands, he noticed that she was fully dressed. she could be ready at a moment's notice to go to her daughter. "oh, courtney!" she cried, and a little spasm of pain convulsed her face for a fleeting second or two. her voice was husky, tight with strain. he took her cold, trembling hands in his. "it's inconceivable," he cried. "i can't believe it, i won't believe it. you poor, poor thing!" "it's true. she's gone. my little girl is gone. i could curse god." she spoke in a low, emotionless voice. "why should he have taken her in this way? what have we done to deserve this cruelty? why couldn't he have let her die in my arms, with her head upon my breast,--where it belongs?" "don't give up--yet," he stammered, confounded by this amazing exhibition of self-control. "there is a chance,--yes, there is a chance, mrs. vick. don't give up. be--be brave." she shook her head. "she is dead," came from her stiff lips, and that was all. he laid his arm across her shoulder. "i wish to god it was me instead of her," he cried fervently. "i would take her place--willingly, mrs. vick." "i--i know you would, courtney," said she, looking into his eyes. "you were her best friend. she adored you. i know you would,--god bless you!" he looked away. his gaze fell upon alix, standing in the door. his eyes brightened. the hunted expression left them. an eager, hungry light came into them. she was staring at him. gradually he came to the realization that she was looking at him with unspeakable horror. mrs. vick was speaking. he hardly heard a word she uttered. "it was kind of you to come, courtney. thank you. i must go now. i--i can't stand it,--i can't stand it!" she left him abruptly. alix stood aside to allow her to pass through the door. they heard her go up the stairs, heavily, hurriedly. "alix!" he whispered, holding out his hands. she did not move. "i went up to the house to see you," he hurried on. "they told me you were here. i--" her gesture checked the eager words. "you snake!" she fairly hissed the word. he drew back, speechless. she came a few steps nearer. "you snake!" she repeated, her eyes blazing. "wha--what do you mean?" he gasped, a fiery red rushing to his face. "would you have died for the ritter girl?" a bomb exploding at his feet could not have produced a greater shock. his mouth fell open; the colour swiftly receded, leaving his face a sickly white. "who the hell--" he began blankly. "be good enough to remember where you are," cried alix, lowering her voice as she glanced over her shoulder. "i can say all i have to say to you in a very few words, mr. thane. don't interrupt me. i have been a fool,--a stupid fool. we need not go into that. thank heaven, i happen to be made of a little stronger stuff than others who have come under your influence. you would have married me,--yes, i believe that,--because it would have been the only way. i have the complete history of your betrayal of the ritter girl. i know how your leg was injured. i know that you were kicked out of the american ambulance and advised to leave france. i don't believe you ever served in the british army. i have every reason to believe that you poisoned my dog, and that you,--were the man who came to my window the other night. and i suspect that you are the cause of poor rosabel vick's suicide. now you know what i think of you. my god, how could you have come here tonight? these people trusted you,--they still trust you. until now i did not believe such men as you existed. you--" "i had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with rosabel," he cried hoarsely. he was trembling like a leaf. "don't you go putting such ideas into their heads. don't you--" "oh, i am not likely to do that," she interrupted scornfully. "i shall not add to their misery. if i could prove that you betrayed that poor, foolish child,--then i would see to it that you paid the price. but i cannot prove it. i only know that she would have been helpless in your hands. oh, i know your power! i have felt it. and i did not even pretend to myself that i loved you. what chance would she have had if she loved and trusted you? i shudder at the thought of--if amos vick should even suspect you of wronging his child, he would not wait for proof. he would tear you to pieces. you may be innocent. that is why i am giving you your chance. now, go!" "you certainly will give me the opportunity to defend myself, alix. am i to be condemned unheard? if you will allow me to walk to the ferry with you--" "and who is to act as my bodyguard?" she inquired with a significant sneer. "go! i never want to see your face again." with that, she left him. he stood perfectly still, staring after the slender, boyish figure until it was hidden from view by the bend of the stairway. his eyes were glassy. fear possessed his soul. suddenly he was aroused to action. "i'd better get out of this," he muttered. his hand clutched the weapon in his coat pocket as he strode swiftly toward the front door. once outside he paused to look furtively about him before descending the porch steps. several men were standing near the gate. the porch was deserted. he wondered if amos vick was down there waiting for him. then he remembered what alix had said to him: "these people trust you,--they still trust you." what had he to fear? he laughed,--a short, jerky, almost inaudible laugh,--and went confidently down the walk. as he passed the little group he uttered a brief "good night" to the men, and was rewarded by a friendly response from all of them. down the moonlit road he trudged, his brain working rapidly, feverishly. in his heart was the rage of defeat, in his soul the clamour of fear,--not fear now of the dark strip of woods but of the whole world about him. he communed aloud. "the first thing to do is to pack. i've got to do that tonight. i'm through here. the jig's up. she means it. how the devil did she find out all this stuff?...but if i leave immediately it will look suspicious. i've got to stick around for a few days. if i beat it tomorrow morning some one's bound to ask questions. it will look queer. tomorrow i'll receive an urgent letter calling me home. mother needs me. her health is bad....i wonder if an autopsy would reveal anything....tomorrow sure. i can't stand it here another day....there's nothing to worry about,--not a thing,--but what's the sense of my hanging around here any longer? she's on. some meddling whelp has been--good lord, i wonder if it could be that fat fool, webster?...if i skip out tonight, it would set vick to thinking....what a fool i was...." and so on till he came to the woods. there, his face blanched and his heart began to pound like a hammer. he drew the revolver from his pocket and plunged desperately into the black tunnel; he was out of breath when he ran down to the landing. through the gloom he distinguished the ferry boat three-quarters of the way across the river, nearing the opposite bank. his "halloa" brought an answer from the ferryman. cursing his luck in missing the boat by so short a margin of time, he sat down heavily on the stout wooden wall that guarded the approach. it would be ten or fifteen minutes before the tortoise-like craft could recross and pick him up. his gaze instantly went downstream. the faint, rhythmic sound of oarlocks came to his ears. there were no lights on the river, but after a time he made out the vague shape of an object moving on the surface a long way off. from time to time it was lost in the shadows of the tree-lined bank, only to steal into view again as it moved slowly across a jagged opening in the far-reaching wall of black. it was a boat coming upstream, hugging the bank to avoid the current farther out. some one approached. he turned quickly and beheld the figure of a woman coming down the road. his heart leaped. could it be alix? he dismissed the thought immediately. this was a tall woman--in skirts. she came quite close and stopped, her gaze evidently fixed upon him. then she moved a little farther down the slope and stood watching the ferry which, by this time, was moving out from the farther side. he recognized the figure. it was that of the gaunt woman who crossed with him earlier in the night. the ferry was drawing out from the windomville side when a faint shout came from down the river. burk answered the call, which was repeated. "this is my busy night," growled the ferryman. "i ain't been up this late in a coon's age. not since the old settlers' picnic three years ago down at the old fort. i wonder if those fellers have got any news?" courtney stepped off the boat a few minutes later and hurried up the hill. the woman followed. at the top of the slope he passed three or four men standing in the shelter of the blacksmith shop, where they were protected from the sharp, chill wind that had sprung up. a loud shout from below caused him to halt. burk, the ferryman, had called out through his cupped hands: "what say?" the wind bore the answer from an unseen speaker in the night, clear and distinct: "we've got her!" chapter xxii the thrower of stones an icy chill, as of a great gust of wind, swept through and over courtney thane. his mouth seemed suddenly to fill with water. he could not move. the men by the forge ran swiftly down the hill. the tall woman turned and after a moment followed the men, stopping in the middle of the road a few rods above the landing. she was still standing there when courtney recovering his power of locomotion struck off rapidly in the direction of dowd's tavern. halfway home he came to an abrupt halt. an inexplicable irresistible force was drawing his mind and body back to the river's edge. he did not want to go back there and see--rosabel. he tried not to turn his steps in that direction, and yet something like a magnet was dragging him. a sort of fascination,--the fascination that goes with dread, and horror, and revulsion--took hold of him....he moved slowly, hesitatingly at first, then swiftly, not directly back over the ground he had just covered but by a circuitous route that took him through the lot at the rear of the forge. he made his way stealthily down the slope, creeping along behind a thick hedge of hazel brush to a point just above the ferry landing and to the left of the old dilapidated wharf. here he could see without himself being seen.... he watched them lift a dark, inanimate object from the boat and lay it on the wharf....he heard men's voices in excited, subdued conversation....he saw the tall woman running up the road toward the town. she paused within a dozen feet of his hiding place.... then something happened to him. he seemed to be losing the sense of sight and the sense of hearing. his brain was blurred, the sound of voices trailed off into utter silence. he felt the earth giving way beneath his quaking knees....the next he knew, men's voices fell upon his dull, uncomprehending ears. gradually his senses returned. out of the confused jumble words took shape. he heard his own name mentioned. instantly his every faculty was alive. through the brush he could see the dark, indistinct forms of three or four men. they were in the road just below him. "you shouldn't have let him out of your sight," one of the men was saying. "hang it all, we can't let him give us the slip now." the listener's eyes, sharpened by anxiety, made out the figure of the woman. she spoke,--and he was startled to hear the deep voice of a man. "he was making for the boarding house. webster says he is not in his room. i took it for granted he was going home or i wouldn't have turned back." where had he heard that voice before? it was strangely familiar. "well, we've got to locate him. i'll stake my life he is george ritchie. i compared this snap-shot with the photograph i have with me. shave off that dinky little moustache and i'll bet a hundred to one you'll have ritchie's mug all right. hustle back there, gilfillan,--you and simons. he'll be turning up at the house unless he's got wind of us. don't let him see you. you stay here with me, constable. the chances are he'll come back here to wait for miss crown, if he's as badly stuck on her as you say, gilfillan. they're all fools about women." the hidden listener was no longer quaking. his body was tense, his mind was working like lightning. he was wide awake, alert; the fingers that clutched the weapon in his pocket were firm and steady; he scarcely breathed for fear of betraying his presence, but the courage of the hunted was in his heart. the little group broke up. constable foss and one of the strangers remained on the spot, the others vanished up the road. he glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the wharf. a long dark object was lying near the edge, while some distance away a small knot of men stood talking. the moon, riding high, cast a cold, sickly light upon the scene. "i've always been kind of suspicious of him," foss was saying, his voice lowered. "what did you say his real name is?" "his real name is thane, i suppose. i guess there's no doubt about that. mind you, i'm not sure he's the man we've been looking for these last six months, but i'm pretty sure of it. last february two men and a woman tried to smuggle a lot of diamonds through the customs at new york. i'll not go into details now further than to say they landed from one of the big ocean liners and came within an ace of getting away with the job. the woman was the leader. she was nabbed with one of the men at a hotel. the other man got away. he was on the passenger list as george ritchie, of cleveland, ohio. the woman had half a dozen photographs of him in her possession. i've got a copy of one of 'em in my pocket now, and it's so much like this fellow thane that you'd swear it was of the same man. this morning gilfillan,--that's the pinkerton man,--telephoned to his chief in chicago to notify the federal authorities that he was almost dead certain that our man was here. he's a wonder at remembering faces, and he had seen our photographs. simons and i took the three o'clock train. gilfillan met us in the city and brought us out after we had instructed the police to be ready to help us in case he got onto us and gave us the slip." "how much of a reward is offered?" inquired foss. "we are not supposed to be rewarded for doing our duty," replied the secret service man curtly. "he got away from us and it's our business to catch him again. you can bet he's our man. he wouldn't be hanging around a burg like this for months unless he had a blamed good reason for keeping out of sight." "he's been in mighty bad health,--and, if anybody should ask you, there ain't a healthier place in the world than right here in--" "it's healthier than most jails," admitted the other with a chuckle. "umph!" grunted mr. foss, delivering without words a full and graphic opinion on the subject of humour as it exists in the minds of people who live in large cities. he chewed for a time in silence. "what became of the woman and the other man?" "oh, they were sent up,--i don't know for how long. they're old hands. husband and wife. steamship gamblers before the war. fleeced any number of suckers. she must be a peach, judging from the pictures i've seen of her. they probably would have got away with this last job if she and ritchie hadn't tried to put something over on friend husband. she had the can all ready to tie to him when he got wise and laid for her lover with a gun. the revenue people had been tipped off by agents in paris and traced the couple to the hotel. they sprung the trap too soon, however, and the second man got away." "well, i guess there ain't any question but what this feller here is old silas thane's grandson. they say he's the livin' image of old silas. so he must have sailed under a false name." "they usually do," said the other patiently. "and you want me to arrest him on suspicion, eh?" "certainly. you're a county official, aren't you?" "i'm an officer of the law." "well, that's the answer. we are obliged to turn such matters over to the local authorities. what do you suppose i'm telling you about the case for? when i give the word, you land him and--well, uncle sam will do the rest, never fear." "that's all right, but supposin' he ain't the man you're after and he turns around and sues me for false arrest?" "you can detain anybody on information and belief, my friend. don't you know that?" "certainly," said mr. foss with commendable asperity. "supposin' he's got a revolver?" "he probably has,--but so have we. don't worry. he won't have a chance to use it. hello! isn't that a man standing up there by that telephone pole? we'll just stroll up that way. don't hurry. keep cool. talk about the drowning." they were halfway up the hill before courtney moved. every nerve was aquiver as he raised himself to his feet and looked cautiously about. the thing he feared had come to pass, but even as he crouched there in the shelter of the bushes the means of salvation flashed through his mind. he realized that the next fifteen or twenty minutes would convince these dogged, experienced man chasers that their quarry had "got wind of them" and was in flight. the hunt would be on in grim earnest; the alarm would go out in all directions. men would be watching for him at every cross-roads, every railway station, every village, and directing the hunt would be--these men who never give up until they "land" their man. his only chance lay in keeping under cover for a day or two,--or even longer,--until the chase went farther afield and he could take the risk of venturing forth from his hiding place. he had the place in mind. they would never think of looking for him in that sinister hole in the wall, quill's window! there he could lie in perfect safety until the coast was clear, and then by night steal down the river in the wake of pursuit. their first thoughts would be of the railroad, the highways and the city. they would not beat the woods for him. they would cut off all avenues of escape and set their traps at the end of every trail, confident that he would walk into them perforce before another day was done. like a ghost he stole across the little clearing that lay between the road and the willows above the ferry. the snapping of a twig under his feet, the scuffling of a pebble, the rustling of dead leaves and grass, the scraping of his garments against weeds and shrubbery, were sounds that took on the magnitude of ear-splitting crashes. it was all he could do to keep from breaking into a mad, reckless dash for the trees at the farther side of this moonlit stretch. with every cautious, fox-like step, he expected the shout of alarm to go up from behind, and with that shout he knew restraint would fail him; he would throw discretion to the winds and bolt like a frightened rabbit, and the dogs would be at his heels. he was nearing the trees when he heard some one running in the road, now a hundred yards behind him. stooping still lower, he increased his speed almost to a run. the sound of footsteps ceased abruptly; the runner had come to a sudden halt. thane reached the thicket in another stride or two and paused for a few seconds to listen. a quick little thrill of relief shot through him. no one was coming along behind him. the runner, whoever he was, had not seen him; no cry went up, no loud yell of "there he goes!" picking his way carefully down the slope he came to the trail of the indians, over which he had trudged recently on his trip to the great rock. he could tell by the feel of the earth under his feet that he was on the hard, beaten path by the river's edge. now he went forward more rapidly, more confidently. there were times when he had to cross little moon-streaked openings among the trees, and at such times he stooped almost to a creeping position. occasionally he paused in his flight to listen for sounds of pursuit. once his heart seemed to stop beating. he was sure that he heard footsteps back on the trail behind him. again, as he drew near the rock-strewn base of the hill, a sound as of some one scrambling through the underbrush came to his straining ears, but the noise ceased even as he stopped to listen. he laughed at his fears. an echo, no doubt, of his own footsteps; the wind thrashing a broken limb; the action of the water upon some obstruction along the bank. nevertheless he dropped to his hands and knees when he came to the outlying boulders and jagged slabs close to the foot of the black, towering mass. there was no protecting foliage here. never in his life had he known the moon to shine so brightly. he whispered curses to the high-hanging lantern in the sky. the murmur of the river below brought a consoling thought to him. he would not suffer from thirst. he could go without food for a couple of days, even longer. had not certain english women survived days and days of a voluntary hunger strike? but he could not do without water. in the black hours before dawn he would climb down from his eerie den and drink his fill at the river's brink. now a sickening fear gripped him. what if he were to find it impossible to scale that almost perpendicular steep? what if those hand-hewn clefts in the rock fell short of reaching to the cave's entrance? the processes of time and the elements may have sealed or obliterated the shallow hand and toe holds. his blood ran cold. he had dreaded the prospect of that hazardous climb up the face of the rock. now he was overcome by an even greater dread: that he would be unable to reach the place of refuge. he had no thought of alix crown now--no thought of her beauty, her body, her riches. his cherished dream was over. she took her place among other forgotten dreams. the sinister business of saving his own skin drove her out of his mind. it drove out all thought of rosabel vick. the hounds were at his heels. it was no time to think of women! ii anxiety that touched almost upon despair hastened his steps. abandoning caution, he ran recklessly up the path among the rocks, stumbling and reeling but always keeping his feet, and came at last to the gloomy, forbidding facade of quill's window. here he groped along the wall, clawing for the sunken cleats with eager, trembling hands. he knew they were there--somewhere. not only had he seen them, he had climbed with ease, hand over hand, ten or a dozen feet up the cliff. he had shuddered a little that day as he looked first over his shoulder and then upward along the still unsealed stretch that lay between him and the mouth of the cave, seventy or eighty feet away. but that was in broad daylight. it would be different now, with darkness as his ally. he remembered thinking that day how easy it would be to reach quill's window by this rather simple route. all that was required was a stout heart, a steady hand, and a good pair of arms. all of these were bestowed upon him by magic of darkness. it was what the light revealed that made a coward of him. why, he could shut his eyes tight and go up that cliff by night as easily as--but where were the slots? at last his hand encountered one of the sharp edges. he reached up and found the next one above,--and then for the first time realized that his eyes had been closed all the time he was feeling along the cold surface of the rock. he opened them in a start of actual bewilderment. the blackish mass rose almost sheer above him, like a vast wall upon which the moon cast a dull, murky light. he closed his eyes again and leaned heavily against the rock. his heart began to beat horribly. he felt his courage slipping; he wondered if he had the strength, the nerve to go on; he saw himself halfway up that endless wall, clutching wildly to save himself when a treacherous hand-hold broke loose and-- he opened his eyes and tried to pierce the shadows below the rocky path. was it best to hide in that hole up there, after all? would it not be wiser, now that he had a fair start, to keep on up the river, trusting to-- a chorus of automobile horns in the distance came to his ears suddenly,--a confused jumble of raucous blasts produced by many cars. the alarm! the search was on! the wild shriek of a siren broke the stillness near at hand, followed a few seconds later by the gradually increasing roar of an engine as it sped up the dirt road not three hundred yards to his left,--the road that ran past the gate on the other side of the hill. god! they were getting close! another and even more disturbing sound came to him as he stood with his fingers gripping one of the little ledges, the toe of his shoe fumbling for a foothold in another. somewhere back on the trail he had just traversed, a rock went clattering down to the river. he heard it bounding--and the splash as it shot into the water. he hesitated no longer. shutting his eyes, he began the ascent.... a dark object turned the corner of the cliff below and moved slowly, cautiously along the wall. suddenly it stopped. from somewhere in the gloom ahead came a strange and puzzling sound, as of the dragging of a tree limb across the face of the rock. the crouching object in the trail straightened up and was transformed into the tall, shadowy figure of a man. for many seconds he stood motionless, listening, his eyes searching the trail ahead. the queer sound of scraping went on, broken at intervals by the faint rattle of sand or dirt upon the rocky path. at last he looked up. far up the face of the cliff a bulky, shapeless thing was crawling, slowly but surely like a great beetle. the watcher could not believe his eyes. and yet there could be no mistake. something was crawling up the sheer face of the cliff, a bulging shadow dimly outlined against the starlit sky. the man below went forward swiftly. twice he stooped to search with eager hands for something at his feet, but always with his gaze fixed on the creeping shadow. he knew the creeper's goal: that black streak in the wall above, rendered thin by foreshortening. he knew the creeper! twenty or thirty paces short of the ladder he stopped. from that spot he hurled his first rock. his was a young, powerful arm and the missile sped upward as if shot from a catapult. it struck the face of the cliff a short distance above the head of the climber and glanced off to go hurtling down among the trees beyond. thane stopped as if paralysed. for one brief, horrible moment he felt every vestige of strength deserting him, oozing out through his tense, straining finger-tips. the shock had stunned him. he moaned,--a little whimpering moan. he was about to fall! he could hold on no longer with those weak, trembling hands. his brain reeled. a great dizziness seized him. he clung frantically to the face of the rock, making a desperate effort to regain his failing senses. suddenly his strength returned; he was stronger than ever. a miracle had happened. the mouth of the cave was not more than half a dozen feet above him. he opened his eyes for one brief, daring glance upward. not more than five or six steps to go. gritting his teeth he went on. now only four more ledges to grip, four more footholds to find. a second stone whizzed past his head and struck with a crash beyond him. he heard it whistle, he felt the rush of air. "god! if that had got my head! what an inhuman devil he is! the dirty beast!" the fourth stone caught him in the side after glancing off the wall to his left. he groaned aloud, but gripped more fiercely than ever at his slender support. for a few seconds he could not move. then he reached up and felt for the next "cleat." he found it but, like many others he had encountered, it was filled with sand and dirt. that meant delay. he would have to dig it out with his fingers before risking his grip on the edge. fast and feverishly he worked. another stone struck below his feet. "hey!" he yelled. "let up on that! do you want to kill me? cut it out! i can't get away, you damned fool! you've got me cornered." his voice was high and shrill. the answer was another stone which grazed his leg. a moment later he reached over and felt along the floor of the cave for the final hold. finding it, he drew himself up over the edge and crawled, weak and half fainting, out of range of the devilish marksman. for a long time he lay still, gasping for breath. they had him cold! there was no use in trying to think of a way out of his difficulty. all he wanted now was to rest, a chance to pull himself together. after all was said and done, what were a few years in the penitentiary? he was young. five years--even ten,--what were they at his time of life? he would be thirty-five, at the most forty, when he came out, and as fit as he was when he went in. "it was all my fault anyway," he reflected bitterly. "if i had let madge alone i--oh,--what's the use belly-aching now! that's all over,--and here am i, paying pretty blamed dearly for a month's pleasure. they've got me. there's no way out of it now. jail! well, worse things could happen than that. what will mother think? i suppose it will hurt like the devil. but she could have fixed this if she'd loosened up a bit. she could have gone to washington as i told her to do and--hell, it wouldn't have cost her half as much as it will to defend me in court. she can't get a decent lawyer under--well, god knows how many thousands." he sat up and unbuttoned his overcoat in order to feel of the spot where the stone had struck him. he winced a little. after a moment's reflection he drew a box of matches from his pocket. "no harm in striking a match now," he chattered aloud. "i may as well see what sort of a place it is." he crawled farther back in the cave, out of the wind, and struck a match. his hand shook violently, his chin quivered. during the life of the brief flare, the interior of quill's window was revealed to him. the cave was perhaps twenty feet deep and almost as wide at the front, with an uneven, receding roof and a flat floor that dropped at no inconsiderable slant toward the rear. it appeared to be empty except for the remains of two or three broken-up boxes over against one of the walls. he struck a second match to light a cigarette, continuing his scrutiny while the tiny blaze lasted. he saw no bones, no ghastly skulls, no signs of the ancient tragedies that made the place abhorrent. he crawled back to the entrance. lying flat, he peered over the ledge. "hallo, down there!" he called out. no response. he shouted once more, his voice cracking a little. "where are you?" this time he got an answer. a hoarse voice replied: "i'm here, all right." thane forced a laugh. "well, i'm up here, all right. you've got me treed. what's the idea? waiting for me to come down?" no answer, "say, it's worth a lot of money to you if you'll just walk on and forget that i'm up here. i'll give you my word of honour to come across with enough to put you on easy street for the rest of your life." he heard the man below walking up and down the path. "did you hear what i said? you can't pick up twenty-five thousand every day, you know." he waited for the response that never came. "honesty isn't always the best policy. think it over." another long silence. then: "i suppose you know the government does not pay any reward." still that heavy, steady tread. "if you think i'm going to come down you're jolly well off your nut." he wriggled nearer the edge and peered over. the black form shuttled restlessly back and forth past the foot of the ladder, for all the world like a lion in its cage. presently it moved off toward the bend at the corner of the cliff, where it stopped, still in view of the man above,--a vague, shapeless object in the faint light of the moon. many minutes passed. ten, fifteen,--they seemed hours to the trapped fugitive,--and then he heard a voice, suppressed but distinct. "who's there?" there was a moment's silence, and then another voice replied, but he could not make out the words. the man stepped out of sight around the bend. a few seconds later, thane heard a jumble of voices. drawing away from the ledge, he slunk deeper into the cave. he heard some one running along the trail, and a muffled voice giving directions. he drew a deep, long breath. "the death watch, eh?" he muttered. "they're going to sit there till i have to come out. like vultures. they haven't the nerve to come up here after me. the rotten cowards!" then he heard something that caused him to start up in a sort of panic. he stood half erect, crouching back against the wall, his eyes glued on the opening, his hand fumbling nervously for the revolver in his pocket. some one was climbing up the cliff! chapter xxiii a message and its answer charlie webster met alix at the ferry. the body of the drowned girl had been removed to hart's undertaking parlours and expert carpenter's shop in obedience to the county coroner's instructions by telephone. the fat man was so overcome by excitement he could hardly speak. sitting beside alix in the automobile, he rattled on at a great rate about the extraordinary turn of affairs, and it was not until they were nearly home that he discovered she was sobbing quietly in her corner of the car. "gosh, what are you crying for, alix?" he demanded. "it's the greatest piece of good fortune that ever--" "i am thinking of poor mrs. vick," she murmured chokingly. "oh! yes, that's right. it's terrible for that poor woman. terrible. as i was saying, the last anybody saw of him was when he started for the tavern. gilfillan follered him part ways and then went back to the ferry, never dreaming he--but didn't i tell you that before? i'm so upset i don't seem to remember what i--oh, yes, now i know where i was. the detectives insisted on searching every room in the tavern. angie miller got as sore as a boiled lobster when they knocked on her door and asked if he was in her room. you ought to have heard what she said to 'em from behind the door when she finally opened it and let 'em in,--and she nearly had a fit when she saw old tintype was with 'em. she lit into him,--my gosh, how she lit into him! accused him of suspecting her of having an erudite affair with courtney,--erudite wasn't the word she used, but it don't matter, it's as good as any for an old maid. we searched everywhere, but no sign of him. you needn't be surprised to find one of the detectives hanging around your place, alix. they think maybe he'll turn up there before long." "he can't be very far away," said she suddenly aroused to anxiety. she had ceased crying and was drying her eyes with her handkerchief. the car was nearing the entrance to her grounds. "he wouldn't dare come to my house after--after what i said to him tonight. he could not expect me to help him in any--" "well, you see, it's barely possible he don't know they're after him, alix. i guess maybe i'd better stay here for a while. you won't be so nervous with me in the house." "i am not afraid, charlie. of course, i am terribly unstrung and unhappy over poor little rosabel,--but i am not afraid of him. he will not come here. tell me again just what he is accused of doing." the car had drawn up under the porte-cochere. webster repeated the story he had had from gilfillan. she sat perfectly still during the lengthy recital. "and to think--" she began, but checked the words in time. "oh, what fools we have been, charlie!" "anyhow," said charlie, divining her thoughts, "there's a good deal to be said for that saying, 'all's well that ends well.' i've been thinking what a difference there is in men. now, take for instance david strong. just stack him up alongside this slick, smooth-talking--" "oh, charlie!" it was almost a wail. he took her hand in one of his and gently patted it with the other. "i guess you'd kind of like to see davy for a change, wouldn't you, alix?" she caught her breath sharply, as if in pain. "now, there's a feller," went on charlie after a moment, "that's all wool and a yard wide. he--" "good night, charlie," she broke in abruptly. "thank you for coming to meet me. you--you are the best, the dearest man in the world. i--" "you needen't thank me for standin' up for davy strong. that's what you're really thankin' me for, you know," said he. "i've always loved that boy, alix." she pressed his hand. "that's good!" he cried fervently. "i love him so much i wish he was sitting right here where i'm sitting now. i'll bet he'd be the happiest feller in all--well, so long, alix. you've had a hard day. i won't make it any worse for you by talking about david strong. i know how much you hate him. just the same, i wish he was sitting here in my place." "so do i, charlie," she confessed, with a deep sigh. "so's you could hate him to your heart's content, eh?" he chaffed. "yes," she murmured,--"to my heart's content." "well, i've got to get busy," he exclaimed briskly. "can't sit here talkin' nonsense to you when there's so much to do. link pollock and doc and tintype are waiting for me down at the tavern. i promised to hurry back with the car. that reminds me, alix. we're going to use your car to go hunting in. i guess you don't mind, do you?" she spoke to the chauffeur as she got out. "take mr. webster wherever he wants to go, ed. i shall not need the car until eleven o'clock in the morning." mrs. strong was waiting up for her. there was a big fire in the living-room, and a tray with hot coffee and toast on a table beside the comfortable chair that had been drawn up near the fender. alix dropped wearily into the chair and stretched her booted, pantalooned legs out in complete relaxation. "you poor child," cried mrs. strong. "you're all done up. my, but you're white and tired-looking. it's been a terrible strain. sit still now and i'll take your hat off for you. better have your coat and boots off, too, dear. hilda will have a hot bath ready for you whenever you're ready to--" "i suppose you know they've found her, auntie? in the river." "yes. ed told me. now, don't talk about it. here's some hot coffee." "never mind my coat. i'm too tired. you know about courtney thane?" "i only know they're hunting for him. there's a man out in the kitchen. is--is it in connection with rosabel's death?" "no. thank you, auntie. that feels better. i haven't had it off since morning. charlie told me about thane, but i am not sure whether i can get it straight. he was so excited,--and i was so distressed." her voice was low and husky with fatigue and emotion; it was apparent that she controlled it with difficulty. in her dark eyes there was a brooding, haunted look. she repeated as best she could charlie's rambling, disjointed story. "and just to think," cried mrs. strong at the end, "you let that beast kiss you and--" "oh, don't! don't!" cried the girl, covering her eyes with her hands. "i can't bear the thought of it. i wasn't myself. i don't know what came over--" "there, there! don't think about it any more. it's all right now. and you're not the only woman that's lost her head since god made adam, my dear. it's pretty hard not to sometimes. you--" "oh, i couldn't,--i couldn't have done anything bad. i couldn't--" "god bless you, of course you couldn't," cried the older woman, stroking the girl's hair. "do you think this coffee will keep you awake?" she poured out a steaming cup and dropped two lumps of sugar into it. "i sha'n't go to sleep anyway, auntie, so--" the ringing of the door bell startled them. alix sprang to her feet in alarm. "don't go to the door!" she cried. "it's--it's courtney thane!" "nonsense! he'll not be coming here. sit down. i'll inquire who it is before i open the door." "under no circumstances are you to let him in, mrs. strong," ordered alix peremptorily. "i should say not! it would look pretty, wouldn't it, if the papers came out and said the notorious bandit was captured in the home of miss alix crown, the beautiful and wealthy heiress? they always--" the bell rang again. "put the cream in yourself, alix. i'll see who it is." alix followed her with anxious, apprehensive eyes as she passed into the hall. she heard the following dialogue: "who is it?" "does miss crown live here?" came in a clear, boyish voice from the outside. "she does. who are you and what do you want?" "i'm a messenger boy. i got a letter for her." "a letter? who's it from?" "say, open up! i can't stand out here all night." "who is it from?" repeated mrs. strong firmly. "how do i know? i ain't no mind-reader." mrs. strong looked in at alix. "i guess it's all right, isn't it?" "open the door," said alix quietly. a small, shivering messenger boy in uniform entered. "are you miss crown?" "no, i'm not. where's the letter?" "i got to deliver it to her. if she ain't here i'm to wait. i got to get an answer." alix came forward. "i am miss crown. come in, my boy, and warm yourself by the fire." "sign here," said the boy, indicating a line in his receipt book. while alix was signing her name, mrs. strong looked the boy over. "dear me, you must be nearly frozen, child. no overcoat on a night like this. did you come all the way out here from the city on a bicycle?" "give him some coffee, mrs. strong," said alix, handing back the book and receiving the envelope in return. "i got a taxi waiting for me out in front," said the boy. "say, what's goin' on in this burg? we been held up three times, and just now a man stopped me out here in the yard and--" "what's the matter, alix?" cried mrs. strong. the girl was staring at the address on the envelope. doubt, wonder, incredulity filled her eyes. "why,--why, auntie,--it's david's writing! david's!" she cried. "see! isn't it? i would recognize it--" "bless my soul, so it is!" exclaimed david's mother. "oh,--what does it mean? boy, where did you get this letter?" her voice trembled with excitement, her eyes were gleaming. "never mind," put in mrs. strong, turning her head to hide a smile. "you run upstairs and read it, alix, and i--" "auntie strong, do you know anything about this?" demanded alix suspiciously. the colour was flowing back into her cheeks. "have you been keeping something--" "--and i will entertain this young gentleman during your absence," went on the other serenely,--but there was a flush in her cheeks and her eyes were very bright and happy. "you go and read your letter and,--did you say there was to be an answer, boy?" "yes'm." "and write your answer," concluded mrs. strong. "come along, my lad, and have a nice hot cup of coffee and some toast. i hope you take sugar. there are two lumps in it already." alix fairly ran from the room. they heard her racing up the stairs. "will you have cream, my boy?" asked mrs. strong, steadying her voice with an effort. he had shuffled along behind her to the fireplace. "yes'm," and then as an afterthought: "if you please, ma'am." he looked up and saw that his hostess's eyes were swimming in tears. "i--i hope it ain't bad news," he stammered uncomfortably. "don't you know there are such things as tears of joy?" inquired the lady. he looked very doubtful. "no ma'am," he solemnly confessed. the tears he knew about were not joyous. "wasn't it just like david to hire an automobile to send you out here to deliver the letter to her? i suppose it must have cost him a pretty penny. most men would have put a two cent stamp on it. but my son is not like other men. he is always doing the most unexpected things,--and the very nicest things. now, who else in the world would have thought of hiring an automobile to send a message by?" "is he your son, ma'am?" "yes. my son david. did you see him?" "sure i did." "how was he looking?" "fine," said the lad. "gee, but he's tall." "six feet three, my boy," said david's mother. "that's very hot. be careful not to scald your mouth. shall i put in another lump,--or two?" "will it cool it off any?" "i am sure it will." meanwhile, alix was greedily devouring the contents of the letter. she stood beside the light over her dressing-table; her heart was pounding furiously, her eyes were radiantly bright. dear alix: i have just this instant arrived in town, and i am scribbling this in the hotel writing-room, with my overcoat still on my back. i shall not go to sleep tonight until i have had your reply. somehow i will find a way to get this letter to you tonight, i don't know how at present, but where there's a will there's a way. if mother and charlie webster are mistaken, or if they have assumed something that is not true, i shall go away again without bothering you. but if you want me, i will come straight out to you. you are in trouble. i am not asking anything for myself, dear,--you know me well enough to understand that,--i am only asking you to let me do anything in the world i can for you. that is why i dropped everything to come. i am happy, you don't know how happy, to be even this close to you. i have always wanted to hang out my shingle in this dear old town. i do not like the east. i am a westerner and i can't seem to make myself fit in with the east. i shall always be a hoosier, i fear,--and hope. just the few minutes i have been here in this familiar old hotel, and the ride through the quiet streets, and getting off the train at the insignificant little depot, and having the hackman,--they are taxi-drivers now,--yell out,--"hello, davy," and run up to shake hands with me,--well, i am so homesick i could cry. but you know why i cannot come here to live and practise. if i can't be very, very near to you, alix darling, i must keep myself as far away as possible. it is the only way. but if i keep on at this rate, you will think i am writing a love letter to you, when, as a matter of fact, i am only asking you if you care to see me and tell me what i can do to help you now,--if you need the help of your always devoted david. p.s.--if you would rather not see me, don't hesitate to say so. i will understand. and please do not blame mother and charlie. they would both die for you, dear. p.s.s.--you will be pleased to know, i am sure, that i have the five hundred i still owe you in my pocket, all in brand new bills, and i think you might give me the happiness of quarrelling face to face with you about the matter instead of under the protection of a two-cent stamp. d. she read the letter aloud. when she came to the end she kissed the sheet of paper rapturously and then pressed it to her breast. for a few moments she stood there with her eyes closed, a little smile on her lips, the blush of roses deepening in her cheeks. suddenly she roused herself. hurrying to the desk across the room, she snatched a sheet of note paper from the rack, seated herself, and began to write. dearest david: this is a love letter. i love you. i have always loved you, ever since i can remember, only i did not realize how much until you wouldn't let me have my own way about the money. then i tried to hate you. the best thing i can say for the experiment was that it kept me thinking about you all the time. you were never out of my thoughts, david dear. oh, how many nights have i laid awake inventing reasons for hating you, and how many, many times have i ended up by hating myself. i am a very mean, despicable creature. i am a loathsome, poisonous reptile, and you ought to put your foot on my neck and keep it there forever and ever. now i know why i have been so mean to you. it is because i love you so much. you cannot grasp that, can you? you could if you were a woman. the boy is waiting for this. how wonderful of you to send him out here in a taxi!!! i shall tell him to go back to town as fast as the car can travel. i hope it is a fast one, because i want you to get in it and come to me at once. i shall wait up for you, david. please come tonight. you don't know how badly i need you. you must stay here with your mother and me, and i don't want you ever to go away again,--unless you take me with you. your humble sweetheart, alix. p.s.--i wouldn't quarrel with you for five hundred million dollars. p.s.s.--oh, how i wish some kind genie could transport you to me instantly! a. sealing the envelope, she sprang to her feet and started for the door. she stopped halfway, dashed back and fished in a drawer of her desk, found her purse and extracted a crumbling bank-note. without so much as a glance to ascertain its denomination, she turned and sped downstairs. her eyes were aglow with excitement, her lips were parted in a divine smile. she was a little out of breath. the boy gazed upon her spellbound. in that brief, transcendent moment he fell deeply, hopelessly in love,--and that is why, a moment later, he manfully endeavoured to refuse the prodigious tip she was offering him. only when she stuffed it, with her own fingers, into the depths of his breast pocket, directly over his heart, was he able to persuade himself that he ought to accept it if for no other reason than it would hurt her feelings if he didn't. "you must go straight back just as fast as you can," she was saying,--and what a sweet, wonderful voice she had, just like some kind of a song he thought,--"and see that mr. strong has this letter at once. he is waiting for it, you know. you will hurry, won't you,--that's a good boy." "yes'm," gulped the lad, and then, realizing he had not quite come up to expectations, amplified his promise with a stirring: "you bet your life i will." she went to the door with him, and said good night so sweetly, and with such a thrill in her voice, that he experienced the amazing sensation of having wings on his feet as he sped down to the gate. alix ran to mrs. strong and threw her arms around her neck. "oh, auntie,--he's in town. he is coming out and--and i am going to marry him. yes, i am! tomorrow, if he'll let me. i ought not to be so happy, i know. it is terrible, with so much grief and sorrow over at--but i can't help it! i never was so happy in my life--never!" rushing up to the waiting taxi, the boy thrust the letter in through the open door. it was seized by a big, eager hand. an instant later the owner of that hand was out on the ground, reading the missive by the light of a forward lamp. he was not long in getting to the end. thrusting the precious letter into his overcoat pocket, he sprang to the door of the cab, jerked out a heavy suitcase and a small black satchel, which he deposited unceremoniously on the sidewalk, and then dug down into his trousers' pocket for a handful of bills, one of which he pressed into the small boy's hand. then, turning to the driver, the tall, impetuous fare clapped another into his extended palm. "there you are, genie!" he exclaimed exultantly, and, grabbing up his bags, was off up the walk as fast as his long legs would carry him. "what was that he called me, kid?" demanded the driver uneasily. "janie." chapter xxiv at quill's window the scraping, laboured sound grew nearer and louder, and presently there was added the thick, stertorous breathing of the climber as he drew close to the mouth of the cave. courtney crept farther away from the opening and watched with narrow, frowning eyes for the head to appear above the ledge. he held the revolver in his shaking hand, but he knew he was not going to shoot. he thrilled with a strange sort of glee, however, at the thought of the ease with which he could send the fool crashing to the ground far below, but what would be the use? he was trapped. he had a queer and strangely ungrudging respect for the courage of this man of uncle sam's, this man who was not to be turned back or daunted by the prospect of sudden death when engaged in the performance of his duty. what use to slay this single, indomitable pursuer when nothing was to be gained by the act? there were others down there to avenge him,--to starve him out, or to burn him out if needs be. murder, that's what it would be, and they would hang him for murder. if he shot this fellow there would be but one course left open to him. he would have to shoot himself. and he loved life too well for that. five, even ten years behind the bars,--and then freedom once more. but the gallows,--god, no! he stood up and leaned with his back against the wall, bracing his legs which threatened to crumple up under him. with a sort of craven bravado, he inhaled deeply. the end of the cigarette created a passing but none the less comforting glow which died away almost instantly. a jolly brave thing, a cigarette,--no wonder the soldiers smoked them! nerve steadying,--no question about it. he waited. once he thought he was going to scream. why was the fellow so slow? surely it had not taken him so long to come up that ladder of stone,--and he was the pioneer, he had cleared the slots of dirt and sand, he had made the hand holds safe, he had torn his finger-tips digging them out,--what made the fellow so slow? at last he made out a vague, slender object moving like the tentacle of an octopus above the ledge,--and then the bulky head and shoulders of the climber. "i surrender!" he called out. "i give up. if you had waited till i pulled myself together, i would have come down. i'm all in. i surrender." the man scrambled over the ledge and drew himself erect. his figure was dimly outlined against the moon-lit sky. he came a few steps inside the cave and stopped, evidently striving to pierce the darkness with his questing eyes. courtney pushed himself away from the supporting wall and advanced slowly. "here's my gun," he faltered, and the weapon clattered on the rocky floor at his feet. "don't shoot! i am unarmed. my hands are up,--comrade." "stand still," warned the other hoarsely. he was breathing heavily. "don't move!" courtney took another pull at the cigarette that hung limply between his sagging lips. he could be as brave, as cool as the other fellow! he would give them something to talk about when they related the story of his capture. he would-- suddenly the man lunged forward...a pair of iron arms wrapped themselves about his waist. he went down with a crash. even as the cry of surprise and indignation rose to his lips, his head struck and his mind became a blank. slowly, as out of a fog, his senses came back. he was hazily aware of a light shining in his eyes, and of a dull pain somewhere. things began to take shape before his whirling eyes. he strove to steady them, to concentrate on the bright thing that flitted back and forth before them. at last the blaze became stationary. quite close at hand was a fire,--a bright, crackling fire whose flames danced merrily. where was he? it was not like any other fire he had ever seen before....then he saw a face. it gradually fashioned itself out of the gloom high above the flames. he blinked his eyes and stared. somehow it was vaguely familiar, that face.... he lifted his head and peered intently. then he raised himself on his elbow, all the while trying to fix that floating face in his mind. suddenly his brain cleared. the full picture was revealed: a man standing over the blazing pile of box-wood, gazing down at him with great, unblinking eyes. the sloping roof of the cave, half lost in the thin cloud of smoke, almost touched the crown of the watcher's head,--and this watcher was in the garb of a sailor. caleb vick! young caleb vick! for a long time the two looked into each other's eyes. courtney's wavering and uncertain, caleb's fixed and triumphant. "is--is that you, cale?" mumbled the former wonderingly. young vick nodded his head slowly. "how did you get here?" asked thane, sensing peril in those boring, unfaltering eyes. his hand went out to feel for the revolver he had dropped. "where--what has become of the man that jumped on me? the detective." "i am the man," said cale levelly. "you? what's the matter with you, cale? this is a hell of a way to treat a friend. what do you mean by helping these--" "cut that out," snarled cale. "it don't go with me. get up! you dirty cur,--get up!" "my god, cale,--have you gone crazy?" gasped thane, going cold to the marrow. he shot a swift, terrified look toward the mouth of the cave. "get up! it won't do you any good to yell. no one will hear you." courtney drew himself to his knees. "it won't, eh? there's a gang of secret service men down there. they'll blow your brains out if you--" "there is no one down there," said the boy, a crooked smile on his lips. "i tell you there is," cried the other, desperately. "i heard them. they trailed me here. they--" "i guess i put one over on you, courtney," interrupted cale, his voice low and deadly. "i am the fellow that chased you here. there's nobody else. oh, i know they're looking for you,--but they don't know where you are. nobody knows but me. i saw you sneaking across that lot back yonder. i was down at the ferry--i saw--rosabel--there." his voice faltered. he steadied it with an effort before going on. "i was too late. she wrote me. then father telegraphed me--they let me off. i came as soon as i could. i ran all the way from hawkins. i knew what had happened. she wrote me. but i thought maybe she'd lose her nerve,--or, maybe you would do the right thing by her and save her. i saw her down there on the dock. you did it. you got her into trouble. you--" "i don't know what you are talking about," cried the other. "what's this you are saying? have you lost your mind, cale? my god, boy,--i,--why, what sort of a beast do you think i am? i--i adored her. come, come, cale! calm yourself! you know perfectly well how fond i was of her. i couldn't have done anything so foul as--why, cale, she was nothing but a kid, a little girl to me. i--" "yes,--that's what she was,--a kid, just a poor little kid. she trusted you. i trusted you. we all trusted you. and now she's--she's dead. my sister! my pretty little sister!" he straightened up and threw his arm across his eyes, only to withdraw it instantly. "god damn you! get up! come over here! here's her letter. read it! read it, you dirty swine!" he reached inside his blouse and drew forth a folded bit of paper. "i--i don't want to read it," faltered thane, shrinking back. "i know nothing about all this nonsense you are--" "i give you ten seconds to do what i tell you," grated cale, harshly. "if you don't i'll blow your head off." he levelled the revolver. "it's your own gun,--so i guess you know it's loaded. come on!" thane crawled to the fire. "my god,--you wouldn't kill me, cale?" he gasped, reaching out his shaking hand for the letter. "read it!" ordered the inexorable voice. it was a short letter. courtney took it in as a whole; the dancing, jumbled web of words that raced before his glazed eyes. parts of sentences, a word here and there, his own name, filtered through the veil,--and were lost in the chaos of his own thoughts. he was not thinking of rosabel's letter. if he could only catch cale off his guard,--just for a second or two! a swift leap, a blow, and--but a lightning glance out of the corner of his eye killed the thought even as it was being created. cale would not be off his guard. he was watching like a hawk, his body bent slightly forward, the revolver held in a grip of steel. "well?" cried cale. "have you read it?" "yes," whispered courtney through his stiff lips. "it's not true, cale,--it's not true!" "yes, it is true. rosie would not lie about herself like that. no girl would. every word of it is true." he snatched the paper from courtney's palsied hands and cast it into the waning fire. "no one shall ever see that letter. i would not have mother know what i know for all the world. she'll never know about rosie." courtney took hope. "by gad, cale, that's fine of you. i promise you, on my word of honour, no one ever shall know. i'll keep the secret with you. you--" "there will be only one person left in all the world that knows about rosie," said cale in a strangely quiet tone. his left hand went out swiftly. the fingers clutched courtney's hair, pushing his head back. even as the wretch opened his lips to squeal for mercy, the cold muzzle of the weapon was jammed against the flesh under his ear. there was a loud explosion.... young cale vick stood for a long time looking down at the inert thing at his feet. then he calmly stooped over and placed the pistol in one of the outstretched hands, closing the stiff fingers over it. scattering the fire with his feet, he trampled out what was left of the feeble flames, and then strode to the mouth of the cave. he stood rigid for a long time, listening. a dog was howling mournfully away off in the night; an owl was hooting somewhere in the trees nearby. he turned and began the descent, and there was neither remorse nor terror in his soul. a few days later the report reached windomville that a farmer up the river had seen a light in quill's window the night that rosabel vick was found, and all the superstitious shook their heads and talked of ghosts. the end note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). trees of indiana (first revised edition) by chas. c. deam april, fort wayne printing company contractors for indiana state printing and binding fort wayne, indiana the department of conservation state of indiana w. a. guthrie, chairman. stanley coulter. john w. holtzman. e. m. wilson, secretary. publication no. richard lieber. director. [illustration: plate . sycamore near worthington. ind., the largest broad-leaved tree in the u. s. five feet above the ground it is ft. in. in circ.; the east branch is ft. in. in circ. and the west branch is ft. in. in circ. see jour. heredity, vol. : : .] preface the first edition of deam's "trees of indiana" was published in . by limiting the distribution, the edition of , lasted about three years. the demand for a book of this kind was so great that a second edition of , copies was published in march . this edition was exhausted within five days after its publication was announced, and thousands of requests for it could not be filled. these came from all classes of people, but the greatest demand was from the school teachers of the state. since forestry is an integral part of agriculture which is now taught in our public schools, and since a book on the trees of the state is in demand, the conservation commission has authorized a revised edition of "the trees of indiana." what was formerly bulletin no. of the division of forestry is now published as publication no. of the department. the reader's attention is called to a new departure in illustrations, which were made from photographic reproductions of specimens in mr. deam's herbarium. the photographs were taken by mr. harry f. dietz of the division of entomology. it is believed that it will be gratefully received by the public and will stimulate an interest in forestry that should achieve practical results. richard lieber, director, the department of conservation. table of contents. preface list of illustrations introduction key to families trees of indiana excluded species measurements of some large trees that grow in indiana specific gravity of indiana woods index illustrations. plate number plates page . frontispiece; sycamore, largest hardwood tree in u.s. . pinus strobus (white pine) . pinus banksiana (gray or jack pine) . pinus virginiana (scrub pine) . larix laricina (tamarack) . tsuga canadensis (hemlock) . taxodium distichum (cypress) . thuja occidentalis (arbor-vitæ) . juniperus virginiana (red cedar) . salix nigra (black willow) . salix amygdaloides (peach-leaved willow) . salix alba (white willow) . salix fragilis (crack willow) . salix discolor (pussy willow) . populus alba (silver-leaf poplar) . populus heterophylla (swamp cottonwood) . populus deltoides (cottonwood) . populus grandidentata (large-toothed aspen) . populus tremuloides (quaking aspen) . juglans cinerea (butternut) . juglans nigra (black walnut) . carya illinoensis (pecan) . carya cordiformis (pignut hickory) . carya ovata (shellbark hickory) . carya laciniosa (big shellbark hickory) . carya alba (white hickory) . carya glabra (black hickory) . carya ovalis (small-fruited hickory) . carya buckleyi var. arkansana . carpinus caroliniana (water beech) . ostrya virginiana (ironwood) . betula lutea (yellow birch) . betula populifolia (gray or white birch) . betula papyrifera (paper or canoe birch) . betula nigra (black or red birch) . alnus incana (speckled alder) . alnus rugosa (smooth alder) . fagus grandifolia (beech) . castanea dentata (chestnut) . quercus alba (white oak) . quercus bicolor (swamp white oak) . quercus muhlenbergii (chinquapin oak) . quercus michauxii (cow or basket oak) . quercus prinus (chestnut oak) . quercus stellata (post oak) . quercus macrocarpa (bur oak) . quercus lyrata (overcup oak) . quercus imbricaria (shingle oak) . quercus rubra (red oak) . quercus palustris (pin oak) . quercus schneckii (schneck's red oak) . quercus ellipsoidalis (hill's oak) . quercus velutina (black oak) . quercus coccinea (scarlet oak) . quercus falcata (spanish oak) . quercus marilandica (black jack oak) . ulmus fulva (slippery or red elm) . ulmus americana (white elm) . ulmus thomasi (hickory or rock elm) . ulmus alata (winged elm) . celtis occidentalis (hackberry) . celtis pumila var. deamii (dwarf hackberry) . celtis mississippiensis (sugarberry) . morus rubra (red mulberry) . maclura pomifera (osage orange) . magnolia acuminata (cucumber tree) . liriodendron tulipifera (tulip tree or yellow poplar) . asimina triloba (pawpaw) . sassafras officinale (sassafras) . liquidambar styraciflua (sweet gum) . platanus occidentalis (sycamore) . malus glaucescens (american crab apple) . malus lancifolia (narrow-leaved crab apple) . malus ioensis (western crab apple) . amelanchier canadensis (juneberry or service berry) . amelanchier lævis (smooth juneberry or service berry) . cratægus crus-galli (cock-spur thorn) . cratægus cuneiformis (marshall's thorn) . cratægus punctata (large-fruited thorn) . cratægus margaretta (judge brown's thorn) . cratægus collina (chapman's hill thorn) . cratægus succulenta (long-spined thorn) . cratægus neo-fluvialis (new river thorn) . cratægus calpodendron (pear thorn) . cratægus chrysocarpa (round-leaved thorn) . cratægus viridis (southern thorn) . cratægus nitida (shining thorn) . cratægus macrosperma (variable thorn) . cratægus basilica (edson's thorn) . cratægus jesupi (jesup's thorn) . cratægus rugosa (fretz's thorn) . cratægus filipes (miss beckwith's thorn) . cratægus gattingeri (gattinger's thorn) . cratægus pruinosa (waxy-fruited thorn) . cratægus coccinoides (eggert's thorn) . cratægus coccinea (scarlet thorn) . cratægus mollis (red-fruited or downy thorn) . cratægus phænopyrum (washington's thorn) . prunus americana (wild red plum) . prunus americana var. lanata (woolly-leaf plum) . prunus nigra (canada plum) . prunus hortulana (wild goose plum) . prunus pennsylvanica (wild red cherry) . prunus serotina (wild black cherry) . cercis canadensis (redbud) . gleditsia triacanthos (honey locust) . gleditsia aquatica (water honey locust) . gymnocladus dioica (coffeenut tree) . robinia pseudo-acacia (black locust) . ailanthus altissima (ailanthus or tree of heaven) . acer negundo (box elder) . acer saccharinum (silver maple) . acer rubrum (red maple) . acer nigrum (black maple) . acer saccharum (sugar maple) . Æsculus glabra (buckeye) . Æsculus octandra (sweet buckeye) . tilia glabra (linn or basswood) . tilia heterophylla (white basswood) . nyssa sylvatica (black gum) . cornus florida (dogwood) . oxydendrum arboreum (sour wood or sorrel tree) . diospyros virginiana (persimmon) . fraxinus americana (white ash) . fraxinus biltmoreana (biltmore ash) . fraxinus lanceolata (green ash) . fraxinus pennsylvanica (red ash) . fraxinus profunda (pumpkin ash) . fraxinus quadrangulata (blue ash) . fraxinus nigra (black ash) . adelia acuminata (pond brush or crooked brush) . catalpa bignonioides (catalpa) . catalpa speciosa (hardy catalpa) . viburnum prunifolium (black haw) . county map of indiana . map showing certain areas of forest distribution . english and metric scales compared trees of indiana _introduction_ the present edition has been entirely rewritten. while the general plan of the first edition has been followed, some changes have been made. the number of trees included has been wholly arbitrary. all woody plants of the state which generally attain a maximum diameter of cm. ( inches) at breast high are regarded as tree forms. _alnus rugosa_ which so closely resembles _alnus incana_, is an exception, and a description of it is given to aid in the identification of our tree form of _alnus_. also several species of cratægus are included which commonly do not attain tree size. the species of all cratægus begin to flower and fruit many years before they attain their maximum size. the genus is much in need of study, and the smaller forms are included to stimulate a study of the genus, and in order that the larger forms may be more easily and certainly identified. the number of introduced trees has been limited to those that more or less freely escape at least in some parts of the state. the one exception is _catalpa bignonioides_, which is given to help separate it from our native catalpa, both of which are now commonly planted. =botanic description.=--the botanic descriptions have been made from specimens collected in indiana. in most instances the material has been quite ample, and collected from all parts of the state. technical terms have been avoided, and only when precision and accuracy were necessary have a few been used which can be found in any school dictionary. the length of the description varies in proportion to the importance and interest of the species and the number of characters necessary to separate it from other forms. the characters used are those which are the most conspicuous, and are generally with the specimen at hand. in most instances mature leaves are at hand, and these are most fully described. when leaves are discussed, only mature and normal leaves are considered. the descriptions are not drawn to include the leaf forms, and sizes of coppice shoots or seedlings. measurements of simple leaves do not include the petiole unless mentioned. when the term twig is used, it means the growth of the year. branchlets and branches mean all growth except the present year. by seasons are meant the calendar seasons. the size of trees is designated as small, medium and large. these terms are defined as follows: small trees are those that attain a diameter of dm.; medium-sized trees are those whose maximum diameter is between dm. and dm.; large-sized trees are those which are commonly more than dm. in diameter. diameter measurements are at dm. ( - / ) feet above the ground, or breast high. the common names given are those most generally used in our area. where common names are rarely applied to our forms, the common commercial or botanical common name is given. in some instances where a tree is known by several names, one or more of which are often applied to a related species, the liberty has been taken to select a common name which should be restricted to the one species. botanical names are usually pronounced according to the english method of pronouncing latin. the accented syllables have been marked as follows: the grave (\) accent to indicate the long english sound of the vowel and the acute (/) accent to show the short or otherwise modified sound. measurements have been given in the metric system, and in some instances the english equivalent has also been given. the nomenclature attempted is that of the international code. the sequence of families is that of gray's manual, th edition. =distribution.=--the general distribution of the species is first given, which is followed by the distribution in indiana. the general distribution has been obtained by freely consulting all the local floras and general works on botany. the indiana distribution has been obtained for the greater part from specimens represented in the writer's herbarium and from notes in doing field work during the past years. since the first edition of the "trees of indiana" was published the writer has traveled over , miles in indiana, via auto, making a special study of the flora of the state, and has visited every county and has traversed practically every township in the state. in discussing numbers in distribution it was decided to use terms already in common use, but to assign a definite meaning to each as follows: very common means more than trees to the acre; common, - trees to the acre; frequent - trees to the acre; infrequent, tree to - acres; rare, tree to every - acres; very rare, tree to more than acres; local when the distribution is circumscribed or in spots. where a species has the limit of its range in our area, its distribution is sometimes given at length for scientific reasons. it should be remembered that some of the older records of distribution were made by geologists or inexperienced botanists, and when such records are questioned it is done with a spirit of scientific accuracy. some of our early authors did not distinguish between cultivated and native trees, which involves the distribution of certain species. the habitat of many species is discussed; which suggests forestal, horticultural and ornamental possibilities. then too, the habitat of a tree, helps to identify it. when associated trees are given, those are enumerated which are characteristic of the species throughout its range in our area and they are arranged in the order of their abundance. a county map of the state is included which will assist in finding the range of each species. a forestal area map is also added to visualize certain habitats of the state. the range and distribution of the species in the state has been given considerable attention to encourage investigation along this line. =remarks.=--under this title the economic uses of the trees and their products have been given. in addition horticultural and unclassified information is included. =illustrations.=--all of the illustrations except two are photographic reproductions of specimens in the writer's herbarium. the two drawings were used in the first edition. about of the photographs were made by paul ulman, and the remainder by harry f. dietz, who has laboriously tried to obtain good reproductions from the material at hand. =explanation of map of certain forestal areas.=--in describing the distribution of certain species of trees within the state, it was found convenient to speak of certain forestal areas which are here described, and are illustrated by a map which may be found at the end of the text. _lake region_:--the southernmost lakes in indiana are those located in the southwestern part of wells county; lake galacia about five miles northeast of fairmount in grant county; lake cicott in cass county; and kate's pond about - / miles northwest of independence in warren county. roughly estimated, all of indiana north of a line connecting these lakes might be considered the lake area of the state. _prairie area_:--while the interior of indiana has quite a few small areas called prairies, the real western prairie did not extend far into the state. the dividing line is very irregular, and several elongated lobes extended farther east than indicated by the map. the larger areas east of the line were the extensive prairie area of the kankakee valley; the northern part of pulaski county; and parts of white and tippecanoe counties. _"knob" area_:--this is the hilliest part of the state and is located in the southcentral part. it is contained in the unglaciated portion of the state, and includes the "knobs" of the knobstone, chester and mansfield sandstone areas of indiana. in this area are included the scrub pine and chestnut oak, with one exception; sorrel tree and the chestnut, with two possible exceptions. _the flats_:--this is a level stretch of country, here and there deeply eroded. being level, and the soil a fine compact clay, the drainage is poor which suggested the local name "flats." _the lower wabash valley_:--this is part of knox, gibson and posey counties which is usually inundated each year by the wabash river. =acknowledgments.=--the character and qualities of the wood have for the greater part been taken from the works of britton and brown, hough, and sargent, to whom indebtedness is acknowledged. the _salicaceæ_, except the genus _populus_ was written by c. r. ball, of the bureau of plant industry, washington, d. c. the _malaceæ_ was contributed by w. w. eggleston, also of the bureau of plant industry, washington, d. c. these authors were asked to make their part conform to the general plan of the book. mr. ball and mr. eggleston are recognized authorities on the respective parts they have written and users of this book will appreciate the value of having these difficult parts written by our best authorities. the author wishes to gratefully acknowledge this great favor. the most grateful acknowledgement is given to prof. stanley coulter, dean, school science, purdue university, who has read all of the manuscript and made valuable suggestions, corrections and criticisms. i wish to acknowledge the assistance of stella m. deam, my wife, in field and clerical work. i wish to thank the department of conservation for the opportunity of doing this work. key to the families. page leaves linear or scale-like. pinaceæ leaves not as above. a. leaves compound. leaves palmately compound. Æsculaceæ leaves without an odd leaflet at the end. cæsalpinaceæ leaves with an odd leaflet at the end. leaves alternate. leaflets toothed all around. juglandaceæ leaflets entire, or with - teeth near the base. trees with thorns, leaflets entire, generally less than cm. ( - / inches) long. fabaceæ trees without thorns, leaflets entire or with - teeth near the base, generally longer than cm. ( - / inches). simarubaceæ leaves opposite. leaflets - , fruit in pairs. aceraceæ leaflets - , fruit single. oleaceæ a. leaves simple. leaves opposite or whorled. petioles more than cm. ( - / inches) long. blades palmately - lobed. aceraceæ blades entire or with or lateral lobes. bignoniaceæ petioles less than cm. ( - / inches) long. flowers -parted, stone of fruit round. cornaceæ flowers -parted, stone of fruit flattened. caprifoliaceæ leaves alternate. b. leaves entire. trees with thorns and a milky sap. maclura in moraceæ trees without thorns, sap not milky. leaves - nerved at the base. leaves -nerved at the base. celtis in ulmaceæ leaves -nerved at the base. cercis in cæsalpinaceæ leaves with primary nerve. leaves usually more than . dm. ( inches) long, flowers solitary. flowers appearing before or with the leaves. anonaceæ flowers appearing after the leaves. magnoliaceæ leaves less than . dm. ( inches) long, flowers in clusters. bark and leaves aromatic lauraceæ bark and leaves not aromatic. fruit dry, an acorn quercus imbricaria in fagaceæ fruit fleshy. fruit with one seed, stone cylindrical nyssa in cornaceæ fruit with more than one seed, rarely one, seeds flat ebenaceæ b. leaves finely serrate, coarsely toothed or lobed. c. leaves with one primary vein. bark and leaves aromatic lauraceæ bark and leaves not aromatic. staminate and pistillate flowers and fruit in catkins. scales of winter buds , ovary many-seeded, seeds with a tuft of hairs at the summit salix in salicaceæ scales of winter buds more than , ovary -seeded, seeds without a tuft of hairs at the summit betulaceæ staminate and pistillate flowers and fruit not in catkins. fruit dry. fruit a samara ulmus in ulmaceæ fruit not a samara bark smooth; fruit spiny fagaceæ bark furrowed; fruit a smooth capsule ericaceæ fruit fleshy. flowers more than mm. ( / inch) broad, fruit edible, apple-like. trees mostly with thorns, fruit with remnant of calyx at apex of fruit, normally with more than seed. malaceæ trees without thorns, fruit with no remnant of calyx at the apex, fruit a -seeded edible drupe. amygdalaceæ flowers less than mm. ( / inch) across, fruit a non-edible drupe cornaceæ c. leaves with more than primary vein. staminate and pistillate flowers in catkins. fruit dry populus in salicaceæ fruit fleshy morus in moraceæ staminate and pistillate flowers not in catkins. pistillate and staminate flowers separate. leaves -nerved at the base, fruit a -seeded drupe celtis in ulmaceæ leaves -nerved at the base, fruit a head of carpels or achenes. bark fissured, not peeling off in flakes, leaves aromatic altingiaceæ bark peeling off in flakes, leaves not aromatic platanaceæ pistillate and staminate flowers in one. fruit dry tiliaceæ fruit fleshy malaceæ =pinÀceae.= the pine family. trees and shrubs with a resinous sap, which yields rosin, tar, turpentine and essential oils. the leaves are linear or scale-like, alternate, whorled or clustered; flowers naked, appearing in the spring; fruit a cone or sometimes berry-like. a large family of trees and shrubs, containing over species, found in many parts of the world, and of great economic importance. in indiana only nine species are native, and the distribution of seven of these species has always been very limited. leaves linear, in clusters of , , or more than . leaves in bundles of - . pinus. leaves in bundles of more than . larix. leaves linear and solitary, or scale-like. leaves all linear. leaves obtuse. tsuga. leaves sharp-pointed. leaves green on both sides, alternate. taxodium. leaves glaucous beneath, opposite or whorled. juniperus. leaves all scale-like, or some of the branches with linear sharp-pointed leaves. leaves all scale-like, fruit a cone of - imbricated scales. thuja. leaves scale-like or some linear and sharp-pointed, fruit berry-like. juniperus. = . pÌnus.= the pines. evergreen trees with needle-shaped leaves in bundles of - or ; flowers appearing in the spring, the staminate clustered at the base of the season's shoots, the pistillate on the side or near the end of the shoots; fruit a woody cone which matures at the end of the second season, or more rarely at the end of the third season; scales of the cone variously thickened; seeds in pairs at the base of the scales. there are about species of pines of which three are native to indiana. commercially the pines are classed as soft and hard. in our area the soft pines are represented by the white pine, while the gray and jersey pines are classed as hard pines. leaves in a bundle, - cm. long. p. strobus. leaves - in a bundle. scales of cones unarmed, leaves usually - cm. long. p. banksiana. scales of cones tipped with a short spine, leaves usually over cm. long. p. virginiana. = .= =pinus stròbus= linnæus. white pine. plate . bark greenish and smooth on young trees, becoming reddish or gray and furrowed on old trees; young twigs scurvy-pubescent, soon smooth and light brown; leaves normally in a bundle, sometimes more, - cm. long, -sided, sharp-pointed, bluish-green, maturing and falling at end of second season; cones ripening at end of second season, usually - cm. long; wood light, soft, not strong, works easily, takes a good polish, and warps little. =distribution.=--newfoundland to manitoba, south to iowa, kentucky and along the alleghany mountains to northern georgia. the mass distribution of this species is to the north of our area, and in indiana it is local and found in small numbers. it is a common tree on some of the dunes bordering lake michigan, and is found locally throughout the area bordering lake michigan. its distribution in this part of the state has not been studied, but it is believed that in lake and porter counties it is not at present found far from the lake. blatchley[ ] reports "a thicket of this species about a peat bog on the hayward farm one mile east of merrillville in lake county." the writer has seen it as a frequent tree in a black oak woods about four miles southwest of michigan city, also quite a number of large trees seven miles northeast of michigan city in a swampy woods, associated with white elm, black ash, soft maple, etc. nieuwland[ ] reports a single tree found in a tamarack swamp miles east of michigan city near lydick in st. joseph county. the next appearance of this species is to the south in warren county on the outcrops of sandstone along big pine, little pine, rock and kickapoo creeks. it is found more or less on bluffs of these creeks. it was the most abundant along big pine creek, and followed up the creek for a distance of about ten miles, or midway between rainsville and indian village. to the south it is next found in fountain county on the outcrops of sandstone along big shawnee and bear creeks. franklin watts who owns the "bear creek canyon" just south of fountain says he remembers the area before any cutting was done along the creek. he says that the white pine was a common tree along the creek for a distance of half a mile and that a few scattered trees were found as far as rods from the creek. he stated that the largest trees were about inches in diameter and as high as the highest of the surrounding trees. moving southward it is next found on a ridge of sandstone in montgomery county on the south side of sugar creek about a mile east of the shades. here it is closely associated with hemlock which is absent in all of the stations to the north. coulter[ ] reports a colony in the "knobs" of the northeast corner of floyd county. this species was also reported from clark county by baird and taylor. the writer has made inquiry and diligently searched for this species in this county but failed to locate it. in the vicinity of borden where the jersey pine grows, millmen distinguish two kinds of pines. investigation showed that both are jersey pine. the one with resinous exudations along the trunk is one kind, and trunks without exudation is the other. since baird and taylor include cultivated trees in their list of the plants of clark county, it is proposed to drop this reference. [illustration: plate . pinus strobus linnæus. (× / .) white pine.] =remarks.=--white pine on account of the excellent qualities of its wood is in great demand, and has always ranked as one of our leading timber trees. in fact it was so highly prized that practically all of the original stand of this species has been cut. the tree adapts itself to many habitats, hence has been used extensively for forestry purposes both in america and europe. in fact it was the most used tree in forestry until about ten years ago when the white pine blister rust was discovered in america. this disease is now found in practically all of the states where this species forms dense stands. however, federal and state authorities are trying to stamp out the disease. in indiana it is a species well worth a trial for forestry purposes, especially in windbreaks where other species are used. = .= =pinus banksiàna= lambert. gray pine. jack pine. plate . a small tree - m. high with reddish-brown bark, broken into short flakes; shoots of season yellow-green, turning reddish-brown, smooth; leaves dark green, in twos, - cm. long, divergent, curved or twisted, rigid, sharp-pointed, persisting for two or three years; cones sessile, sharp-pointed, oblique at the base, - cm. long, usually pointing in the direction of the branch; wood light, soft and weak. =distribution.=--the most northern of all of our pines. nova scotia to northern new york, northern illinois, minnesota and northward. in indiana it is found only on and among the sand dunes in the immediate vicinity of lake michigan, and in no instance has it been seen more than three miles from the lake. found sparingly in lake, porter and laporte counties. it is the most abundant in the vicinity of dune park. [illustration: plate . pinus banksiana lambert. gray or jack pine. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . pinus virginiana miller. jersey or scrub pine. (× / .)] = .= =pinus virginiàna= miller. jersey pine. scrub pine. plate . bark dark-brown with rather shallow fissures, the ridges broken, somewhat scaly; shoots green, light brown or purplish with a bloom, becoming a gray-brown; leaves in bundles of two, rarely three, twisted, usually about - cm. long, deciduous during the third or fourth year; cones sessile or nearly so, narrowly conic when closed, - cm. long, opening in the autumn of the second season; scales armed with a curved spine - mm. long; wood light, soft, weak, brittle and slightly resinous. =distribution.=--long island to south carolina, alabama and north to indiana and licking county, ohio. the distribution in indiana is quite limited, and has never been understood by authors who variously give it as found throughout the southern part of indiana. it is confined to the knob area of floyd, clark and scott counties, and the southeastern part of washington county. in the original forest it is confined to the tops of the knobs where it is associated with quercus prinus (gray's man. th edition). it propagates easily from self-sown seed, hence is soon found on the lower slopes of cut-over lands, and soon occupies fallow fields. it is now found in the open woods several miles east of the knobs in the preceding counties, but pioneers of this section say it was not a constituent of the original forests but has come in since the original forests were heavily cut over. it is believed that it crowned the knobs over our area from - miles wide extending through the counties named and extending northward about miles. this species is found in the open woods on a few hills on the millport ridge in the northern part of washington county, and it appears as if native, but investigation showed that it had spread from a tree on the site of a pioneer's cabin. it is also found as a frequent escape on the wooded bluff of raccoon creek in the southern part of owen county, and appears as native here. it is associated on the bluff and slope with hemlock. chas. green, a man of sixty years, who owns the place says the trees were seeded by a tree planted in his father's yard nearby. his father also planted a white pine in his yard, and it is to be noted while the jersey pine has freely escaped the white pine has not, although the habitat seems favorable. =remarks.=--in its native habitat on the exposed summits of the "knobs" it is usually a small tree about dm. in diameter and m. high. when it finds lodgement on the lower slopes and coves it may attain a diameter of dm. and a height of m. this tree is really entitled to be called "old field pine" on account of its ability to establish itself on them. from the ease with which this species propagates itself from seed it seems worthy a trial for forestry purposes in the "knob" area of the state. however, all attempts to grow this species from seedlings at the forest reserve have failed. = . lÀrix.= the larches. =larix laricìná= (du roi) koch. tamarack. plate no. . tall spire-like trees, usually - dm. in diameter, rarely as large as dm. in diameter; bark gray or reddish-brown, scaly; twigs slender, smooth, light brown, becoming a dark gray brown; leaves scattered along the shoots of the season, in fascicles on the older branches, usually - in a bundle; filiform, - . cm. long, obtuse at apex, triangular in cross-section, all falling off late in autumn; staminate flowers borne on the short leafless branches, the pistillate appear with the leaves on the branches of the previous season; cones borne on short, stout branchlets, normally erect or inclined to be so, - mm. long, purplish brown while growing, turning to a light brown at maturity, persisting on the tree for about a year; wood hard, heavy, light brown, variable in strength. =distribution.=--labrador, newfoundland south to southern new york, west virginia, northern ohio and indiana, wisconsin, minnesota and northward. in indiana it is confined to the northern part of the state, and has not been reported south of the northern part of cass county. the most southern station in the eastern part of the state is about lake everett in the northwest part of allen county. it is found on low borders of lakes, in swamps and in bogs. in all of its stations in indiana it is found growing near the water level in great depths of organic matter more or less decomposed or in beds of peat, which contain little or practically no soil. where it is found, it usually forms a pure stand. =remarks.=--formerly the tamarack was a common tree in its area. recently many of the tamarack swamps have been drained. this with heavy cutting has reduced the supply of tamarack in indiana to an insignificant amount. the tamarack is popularly classed as white and yellow--the yellow being considered the better of the two. in our area it is used principally for poles and posts. there is a diversity of opinion as to the durability of tamarack in contact with the soil. the most authentic information places the life of fence posts at about ten years. [illustration: plate . larix laricina (du roi) koch. tamarack. (× .)] = . tsÙga.= the hemlocks. =tsuga canadénsis= (linnæus) carrière. hemlock. plate . tall trees, - dm. in diameter, with reddish-brown or grayish bark, deeply furrowed; shoots very slender and hairy, becoming smooth in a few years; leaves apparently -ranked, persisting for about three years, linear, short petioled, - mm. long, usually about mm. long, usually flat, obtuse or notched at apex, bright green and shiny above, bluish-white beneath; staminate flowers appear early in the spring from buds in the axils of the leaves of the previous season, the pistillate terminal, erect, oblong; cones almost sessile and pendulous, borne on the end of last year's branch, maturing the first season, ovoid, . - . cm. long; wood light, soft, brittle, not durable, difficult to work, splintery but holds a nail well. =distribution.=--nova scotia south to delaware, west to minnesota and southeastward through indiana and eastern kentucky, thence southward on the mountains to northern alabama. in indiana it is not found[ ] north of brown county. it is found in limited numbers at the following places: on a bluff of bean blossom creek in brown county; on a steep wooded slope on the south side of a small creek about one and a half miles north of borden in clark county, and also reported on the bank of silver creek between clark and floyd counties; a few trees on the top and sides of the cliffs about one mile east of taswell in crawford county; a few trees on the bluff of guthrie creek in jackson county; a few trees along the north fork of the muscatatuck river between vernon and north vernon in jennings county; a few trees on the south bank of back creek near leesville in lawrence county; frequent on the banks of sugar creek near the "shades" in montgomery county; a few trees on the bank of raccoon creek in the southern part of owen county; frequent on the bank of sugar creek in turkey run state park in parke county; a few trees on the banks of raccoon and walnut creeks in putnam county. also reported by beeler[ ] as found on a bluff of white river in morgan county. in all of its stations it is found on sandstone bluffs on the south side of streams, giving it a north or northwest exposure. in a few of the stations there are no small trees, but in montgomery county along sugar creek it is reproducing well. =remarks.=--hemlock is of no economic importance in indiana. the bark is much used in tanning. hemlock is frequently used for a hedge plant, also as a specimen tree in parks, etc. [illustration: plate . tsuga canadensis (linnæus) carrière. hemlock. (× / .)] = . taxÒdium.= the bald cypress. =taxodium dístichum= (linnæus) l. c. richard. cypress. plate . large tall straight trees, up to dm. in diameter and m. high, usually with a buttressed base which is frequently hollow. in wet situations it develops steeple-shaped projections from the roots to above the water level, known as "knees"; bark gray or reddish-brown, separating from the trunk in long thin narrow strips; shoots light green, smooth, turning reddish-brown the first year, then a darker brown; leaves spirally arranged, appearing as if -ranked on vegetative shoots, linear, - mm. long, sessile, acute, yellowish-green, turning brown in the fall and dropping off; staminate flowers numerous, borne on long terminal panicles, pistillate flowers solitary in the axils of the leaves; fruit a cone, globose, about . cm. in diameter, the surface with some wrinkles made by the edges of the closely fitting scales; wood light, soft and straight-grained, rather weak, does not warp or shrink much and reputed to be very durable when exposed to soil or weather. =distribution.=--along the atlantic coast from delaware to florida and along the gulf west to texas and north along the mississippi valley to indiana. in indiana it has a peculiar and limited distribution. the mass distribution was just north and west of decker in knox county. collett[ ] estimates that , acres were "covered with a fine forest of cypress". wright[ ] maps the other places in the southern part of knox county where the cypress was known to have occurred. at present the only cypress in knox county is in the extreme southwest part of the county, and is known as little cypress swamp. here it is associated with such trees as white elm and schneck's oak. it is believed that it extended only a few miles north of the deshee river. going southward it has not been seen in gibson county, and is first noted in posey county along the wabash river in a cypress pond about miles southwest of mt. vernon. then again in posey county along the ohio river on the shores of hovey lake, and in a slough about miles east of mt. vernon. it occurred in a few spots in vanderburg county along the ohio river southwest of evansville. it again appears in limited numbers along cypress creek a few miles east of newburg in warrick county, which is its eastern[ ] known limit. the cypress in all of its stations is found only in places that are for the greater part of the year under water. =remarks.=--the original stand of cypress in indiana has practically all been cut, and the swamps drained and now under cultivation. in the slough east of mt. vernon for several years, thousands of seedlings of the year have been noted, but for some reason they do not survive a second year. the present indications are that the cypress will be extinct in indiana before many years because practically no small trees can be found. [illustration: plate . taxodium distichum (linnæus) l. c. richard. cypress. (× / .)] this species is highly recommended by some nurserymen for ornamental planting. it proves hardy in the southern part of the state. it is a fast growing tree, adapted to a wet soil, but will succeed in drier situations. = . thÙja.= arbor-vitæ. =thuja occidentàlis= linnæus. arbor-vitæ. plate . small evergreen trees with a conical crown, bark on old trees reddish-brown or dark gray, shreddy; branchlets compressed, reddish-brown; leaves all closely appressed, in alternate pairs, scale-like, about mm. long on young branchlets, on old branches somewhat longer together with a spine - mm. long; flowers appear early in the spring from the ends of the branches; cones mature the first season, about cm. long and . cm. in diameter; wood soft, brittle, weak and durable. =distribution.=--new brunswick to manitoba, south to minnesota and new jersey thence southward along the alleghanies to north carolina and tennessee. in indiana it is found native[ ] only in lake and porter counties. in lake county a few isolated specimens have been found in several places near lake michigan. in porter county it is known only in a large tamarack swamp north of the mineral springs stop on the traction line, and about a mile from lake michigan. here about trees are found scattered over an area of less than two acres. the largest specimen measures cm. in circumference. this species is doomed to early extinction in our area. no doubt it already has vanished from lake county, and it is probable that the colony north of mineral springs is the last of the species in indiana. =remarks.=--while only found in a swamp in indiana, this species adapts itself to all kinds of soils and exposures. it transplants readily and is used for ornamental purposes, and for windbreaks. dwarf forms are frequently planted for hedges. the wood is used principally for poles and posts, and is commercially known as white cedar. = . junÍperus.= the junipers. evergreen shrubs or trees, leaves opposite or whorled, sessile, scale-like or short-linear; fruit berry-like; seeds - . =juniperus virginiàna= linnæus. red cedar. plate . a small tree, usually - dm. and rarely up to dm. in diameter; bark shreddy; branches usually more or less ascending which gives the tree a narrow conic appearance; shoots green, soon turning light to reddish-brown and on older branches gray or dark brown; leaves -ranked, scale-like and . - mm. long, or subulate, decurrent at base and - mm. long on vigorous branches or very small trees; flowers terminal; fruit ripening the first season, berry-like, globose but longer than wide, with a bloom and a very resinous pulp about the seeds which are usually or ; wood light, brittle, close-grained, durable and fragrant. [illustration: plate . thuja occidentalis linnæus. arbor-vitæ. (× / .).] =distribution.=--nova scotia south to florida, west to texas and north to south dakota. it is found in all parts of indiana, although sparingly in the northern part, especially where streams with bluffs are absent. no doubt this species in the original forests was confined principally to the bluffs of streams and rocky ravines. since the forests have been cut, it is now found growing along fences, in open dry woods, and in southern indiana it is a common tree in old abandoned fields, and in waste places. =remarks.=--red cedar has had many uses, and the large trees have been practically all harvested. it is now used principally for poles, posts, crossties, cigar boxes and lead pencils. it is the best wood known for lead pencils. the odor is so objectionable to insects that a market has been made for chests of this wood in which to store clothing and furs. =salicÀceae.=[ ] the willow family. trees or shrubs with bitter bark; simple alternate leaves; flowers in catkins, which fall off as a whole, the staminate after flowering, the pistillate after ripening and scattering of the seeds, the staminate and pistillate on different plants (dioecious); flower scales single, below each flower; fruit a lanceolate or ovate-lanceolate capsule opening lengthwise into recurving carpels or valves; seeds numerous, minute, oblong, bearing a tuft of hairs at the base. genera , _salix_, the willows, and _populus_, the aspens and poplars, or cottonwoods, separated by the following characters, those applying only to indiana trees species in parentheses: buds covered by a single scale; (leaf-blades mostly enlongated, more than twice as long as wide); flower scales entire or rarely shallowly toothed at apex; stamens mostly or - or salix. buds covered by numerous scales; (leaf-blades mostly cordate-ovate, less than twice as long as broad); flower scales deeply cut or lacerate; stamens more than populus. [illustration: plate . juniperus virginiana linnæus. red cedar. (× / .)] = . sÀlix.= the willows. trees or shrubs (occasionally herbaceous) with usually clustered teims, twigs round; leaf-blades lanceolate and long-acuminate or elliptic-lanceolate and short pointed in all indiana tree species, finely toothed or nearly entire; catkins appearing before (precocious), with (coetaneous), or after the leaves (serotinous); each pistillate flower with a little gland at the base of the pedicel on the inside. a large genus of several hundred species varying from tiny shrubby or subherbaceous plants scarcely an inch in height to . m. ( feet) or more in diameter, in alluvial lowlands; occurring under indiana conditions from cold bogs and river banks to dry sand dunes. willows are used for many purposes, among them ornament, shade, hedges, posts, poles, mattresses, revetments to protect levees, baskets, fish-weirs, whistles, etc., while the wood is used for charcoal, which is especially prized for gunpowder making, and the bark is used for tanning and furnishes salicin, which is used in medicine as a substitute for quinine and as a tonic and febrifuge. small to large trees; leaves narrowly to broadly lanceolate, mostly long pointed, finely and rather closely toothed; flowers appearing with the leaves; capsules not hairy. native trees; leaves green on both sides (no. ) or white (glaucous) beneath (no. ), and then with very long points and long slender twisted petioles which are never glandular; stamens - - or more. twigs dark green, spreading; leaves narrowly lanceolate, green on both sides; petioles short s. nigra. twigs yellowish, somewhat drooping; leaves broadly lanceolate, glaucous beneath; petioles long, twisted s. amygdaloides. european trees, cultivated for ornament and use; leaves always glaucous beneath; stamens always . teeth on edge of leaf - to each cm. ( - to the inch); petioles usually glandular; capsules almost sessile s. alba. teeth on edge of leaf - per cm. ( - to the inch); petioles usually glandular; pedicels . - mm. long s. fragilis. shrubs or rarely small trees; leaves elliptical or oblanceolate, short pointed; margin entire or coarsely wavy or shallow-toothed; flowers before the leaves; stamens ; capsules long, hairy. twigs and leaves not hairy; leaves thin s. discolor. twigs and sometimes the lower surface of the leaves densely hairy, leaves thicker s. discolor eriocephala. [illustration: plate . salix nigra marshall. black willow. (× / .)] = .= =salix nìgra= marshall. willow. black willow. plate . shrub or tree - m. ( - feet) high, dark green in mass color; bark of trunk thick, rough, flaky, dark brown to nearly black; twigs brittle at base, the younger pubescent and green, becoming glabrous and darker with age; buds ovate, small, - mm. ( / inch) long; petioles - or mm. ( / - / inch) long; stipules small, ovate to roundish; leaf blades narrowly lanceolate, acute or rounded at base, long-acuminate at the apex, - cm. ( - / - - / inches) long, - mm. ( / - / inch) wide, often falcate (scythe-shaped), the so-called variety =falcata=, finely serrate, green on both sides, shining above, paler and dull beneath, glabrous or sometimes pubescent beneath on midrib and larger veins; flowers appearing with the leaves in late april in the southern part of the state and well into may in the northern part; catkins slender, - or cm. ( / - or - / inches) long, the staminate bright yellow; capsules - mm. ( / inch) long, ovoid or ovoid-lanceolate, on pedicels - mm. ( / inch) long. =distribution.=--new brunswick and new england, westward to the eastern part of the great plains area from north dakota to texas, and, in some forms, westward across that state and into mexico. it is interesting that this species, the first willow published in america, in the first book on american botany ever published in this country, should be abundantly and widely distributed in the united states. specimens have been seen from the following counties in indiana:--allen (deam); bartholomew (deam); clark (deam); crawford (deam); dearborn (deam); dubois (deam); decatur (deam); floyd (deam); fulton (deam); harrison (deam); hendricks (deam); henry (deam); jackson (deam); jay (deam); jennings (deam); knox (deam); kosciusko (deam); lagrange (deam); marion (mrs. chas. c. deam); marshall (deam); miami (deam); morgan (deam); noble (deam); ohio (deam); parke (deam); perry (deam); porter (deam); posey (deam); pulaski (deam); ripley (deam); steuben (deam); sullivan (deam); tippecanoe (deam); vermillion (deam); wabash (deam); warrick (deam); white (deam). =economic uses.=--the black willow is used very extensively along the lower reaches of the mississippi river in making mattresses which protect the levees from washing. in , it was estimated that , cords were used annually. = .= =salix amygdaloìdes= andersson. willow. peach-leaved willow. plate . trees - m. ( - feet) high, yellowish-green in mass color; bark of trunk fissured, dark brown or reddish-brown; twigs longer and less brittle than those of _salix nigra_, yellowish to reddish-brown, usually somewhat drooping, giving a "weeping" effect, which, with the color, makes the species easily recognizable from a distance; buds ovoid, about mm. ( / inch) long, colored as the twigs; petioles long, slender, twisted, - or mm. ( / - / inch) long; leaves lanceolate to broadly lanceolate or ovate-lanceolate, rounded or somewhat acute at base, long-pointed at apex, closely serrulate, - cm. ( - inches) long, . - cm. ( / - - / inches) wide, yellowish-green above, glaucous beneath, glabrous; flowers appear from late april throughout may, usually later than those of _salix nigra_; catkins slender, - cm. ( - inches) long, the fertile becoming - cm. ( - / - inches) long in fruit; capsules lanceolate, - mm. ( / inch) long; pedicels slender, mm. ( / inch) long. [illustration: plate . salix amygdaloides andersson. peach-leaved willow. (× / .)] =distribution.=--from western quebec and central new york, west to the cascade mountains in british columbia, washington and oregon, south to colorado and northwest texas. in indiana fairly common in the northern third, rare in the central third, and lacking in the southern portion of the state. specimens have been seen from indiana from the following counties: elkhart (deam); fulton (deam); henry (deam); jasper (deam); kosciusko (deam); lake (deam), (umbach); laporte (deam); marion (mrs. chas. c. deam); marshall (deam); pulaski (deam); steuben (deam); wells (deam); white (deam). = .= =salix álba= linnæus. willow. white willow. plate . trees with - spreading stems, - m. ( - feet) high; bark rough, coarsely ridged, gray to brownish; twigs brittle at base, green or yellowish, glabrous; buds - mm. ( / inch) long; petioles - mm. ( / - / inch) long, seldom glandular; leaves lanceolate, - cm. ( - inches) long, - . cm. ( / - inch) wide, acuminate at apex, usually acute at base, leaves bright green above, glaucous beneath, thinly to densely silky on both sides when young, often permanently silky beneath, margins with about - teeth per cm. ( / inch), usually glandular; flowers with the leaves, in april and may; catkins slender, cylindrical, - cm. ( - / - - / inches) long; scales pale yellow; capsules ovoid-conical, - mm. ( / inch) long, almost sessile. the common form usually is referred to variety =vitellina= (linnæus) koch, with orange twigs and more glabrate leaves. =distribution.=--a native of europe which has been frequently planted and sometimes escapes. specimens have been seen from indiana from the following counties: gibson (schneck); hamilton (mrs. chas. c. deam); harrison (deam); switzerland (deam); warren (deam); wells (deam). = .= =salix frágilis= linnæus. willow. crack willow. plate . tree very similar to _salix alba_; twigs very brittle at the base (hence the name), green to reddish; petioles - mm. ( / - / inch) long, glandular just below the base of the leaf; leaves lanceolate, acuminate, - cm. ( - inches) long, - . cm. ( / - - / inches) wide, coarsely serrate with - teeth to each cm. ( / inch) of margin, dark green and shining above, paler to glaucous beneath, rarely green, glabrous on both sides; catkins appearing with the leaves in late april and during may, - cm. ( - / - inches) long; capsules slenderly conical, - mm. ( / inch) long, on pedicels . - mm. ( / inch) long. [illustration: plate . salix alba linnæus. white willow. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . salix fragilis linnæus. crack willow. (× / .)] =distribution.=--a native of europe. it has been frequently planted and often escapes. specimens have been seen from the following indiana counties: benton (deam); clark (deam); laporte (deam); switzerland (deam); union (deam); wells (deam). =economic uses.=--this species and the white willow are introduced from europe and extensively grown for the production of charcoal to use in powder making. = .= =salix díscolor= muhlenberg. pussy willow. swamp willow. glaucous willow. plate . shrub or small tree, - or occasionally - m. ( - or feet) high; bark thin, usually smooth, reddish brown; twigs stoutish, reddish-purple to dark brown, often pubescent (see the variety); buds large, - mm. ( / - / inch) long, colored as the twigs; stipules large, mostly roundish, entire or toothed; leaves short-lanceolate to elliptic or elliptic-oblanceolate, acute or short-acuminate at the apex, rounded or acute at the base, - cm. ( - inches) long, - . cm. ( / - - / inches) wide, nearly entire to coarsely wavy-toothed on the margins, dark shining green above, densely glaucous and occasionally somewhat pubescent beneath, especially on midrib and primaries; flowers appear in late march or in april before the leaves; catkins sessile, on old wood, stout, dense, the staminate very beautiful (pussies), without leaf-bracts at base, - cm. ( - inches) long, the pistillate becoming - cm. ( - / - inches) long in fruit; scales elliptic-oblanceolate, densely clothed with long shining hairs; capsules conic-rostrate, - or mm. ( / - / inch) long, densely gray-woolly; pedicels . - mm. ( / - / inch) long. =distribution.=--nova scotia south to delaware and west to the eastern edge of the great plains area. fairly well distributed over the entire state of indiana. specimens have been seen from the following counties: allen (deam); dearborn (deam); decatur (deam); elkhart (deam); fulton (deam); gibson (schneck); hancock (mrs. chas. c. deam); henry (deam); jackson (deam); jay (deam); jefferson (deam); jennings (deam); knox (deam); lake (deam); marion (mrs. chas. c. deam); marshall (deam); newton (deam); porter (deam); randolph (deam); ripley (deam); shelby (mrs. chas. c. deam); sullivan (deam); tippecanoe (deam); wabash (deam); warren (deam); wayne (deam); wells (deam); white (deam). = a.= =salix discolor= variety =eriòcéphala= (michaux) andersson. differs from the species chiefly in rather densely pubescent twigs and buds; thicker and more lanceolate leaves, usually more or less pubescent beneath; and the sometimes more densely pubescent catkins. [illustration: plate . salix discolor muhlenberg. pussy willow. (× / .)] =distribution.=--range of the species but less common. specimens have been seen from the following indiana counties: cass (deam); decatur (deam); fulton (deam); gibson (schneck); jackson (deam); jay (deam); knox (deam); laporte (deam); pulaski (deam); sullivan (deam); warren (deam); wayne (deam). = . pÓpulus.= the poplars. rapidly growing trees; buds usually large, scaly and more or less resinous; leaves alternate, broad, toothed or sometimes lobed; flowers appearing before the leaves on large pendulous catkins; anthers red or purple. in the following key mature leaves from trees are considered: petioles round or channeled, scarcely or not at all flattened laterally. leaves chalky-white tomentose beneath, some of them more or less lobed, blades - cm. long p. alba. leaves pubescent or whitish tomentose while young, never lobed, blades - cm. long p. heterophylla. petioles strongly flattened laterally especially near the blade. winter buds more than mm. in length, stamens more than , capsules more than mm. in diameter, leaves broadly deltoid, majority more than cm. wide p. deltoides. winter buds less than mm. in length, stamens fewer than , capsules less than mm. in diameter, leaves roundish ovate, majority less than cm. wide. winter buds more or less pubescent, dull; leaves generally with less than teeth to a side p. grandidentata. winter buds smooth or rarely somewhat pubescent, glossy; leaves with more than teeth to a side p. tremuloides. = .= =populus álba= linnæus. silver-leaf poplar. plate . short-trunked trees with a round top, up to a meter or more in diameter; bark on young trees smooth, greenish-white or gray, becoming furrowed on old trees, gray or dark brown; shoots white tomentose, becoming smooth in age; leaves ovate or triangular, - lobed or irregularly toothed, hairy on both surfaces on expanding, becoming dark green and glabrous above, remaining white tomentose beneath; stamens about ; wood light, soft and weak. =distribution.=--introduced from europe and escaped in all parts of the state. =remarks.=--this tree has long been under cultivation, and several horticultural forms have been introduced. it is falling into disuse on account of its habit of sending up root shoots. it adapts itself to all kinds of soil, grows rapidly, transplants easily, stands pruning well and has few insect or fungous enemies. [illustration: plate . populus alba linnæus. silver-leaf poplar. (× / .)] = .= =populus heterophylla= linnæus. swamp cottonwood. swamp poplar. plate . tall trees up to - dm. in diameter; bark of old trees very thick, broken into long ridges which are separated by deep furrows, reddish-brown but generally weathered to ash-color; shoots densely woolly at first, becoming glabrous before the second season; leaves broadly-ovate with petioles - cm. long, more or less woolly on both surfaces on unfolding, becoming glabrous above and remaining woolly beneath, at least on the larger veins, rarely becoming entirely glabrous, usually cordate at the base, blunt at apex, margins rather regularly crenate-serrate; flowers in april; capsules ripening in june, about mm. in diameter, on stalks - mm. long; wood same as the next species. =distribution.=--along the atlantic coast from connecticut to florida and along the gulf to louisiana, and northward along the mississippi valley to michigan. it is found in many parts of indiana. in the northern counties it is found in "gumbo" soils in swamps. it is a common tree in the river swamps of the lower wabash valley where it reaches its greatest size. there are no records for the extreme southeastern part of the state, although it has been found in swamps in harrison and clark counties and is found in many counties of ohio. =remarks.=--the pith of the shoots of this species is orange which easily distinguishes it from all other species of the genus which have a white pith. this species in all of its range is closely associated with the common cottonwood, and millmen make no distinction in the price or qualities of the timber. = .= =populus deltoìdes= marshall. cottonwood. carolina poplar. (_populus balsamifera_ var. _virginiana_ (castiglioni) sargent). plate . one of the largest trees of the indiana forests; bark of very old trees very thick, broken into ridges up to dm. or more in thickness, separated by deep furrows, reddish-brown, weathering to a gray; leaves hairy on both surfaces as they unfold, soon glabrous except on the margins which are more or less ciliate, broadly-deltoid, usually - cm. long, and about as wide, base more or less truncate or cordate, or somewhat wedge-shaped, with rather short acuminate tips, crenate-serrate; capsules ovate, about mm. in diameter, on stalks - mm. long; wood light, soft, weak, sap wood white, heartwood small and brown; warps badly on drying. =distribution.=--quebec to florida and west to the rocky mountains. throughout indiana in low ground along streams, in swamps and about lakes. on account of its habit of growing only in low ground it is infrequent in the hill country of southern indiana. [illustration: plate . populus heterophylla linnæus. swamp cottonwood. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . populus deltoides marshall. cottonwood. (× / .)] =remarks.=--the cottonwood is adapted to a moist soil, propagates easily, grows rapidly and is one of the best trees for forestry purposes for planting overflow lands, and for planting where a quick shade is desired or for temporary windbreaks. the leaves of this tree are quite variable and several forms have been described. the carolina poplar of nurserymen has an upright habit of growth and was formerly much planted as a shade tree. its undesirable qualities have condemned it, and most cities now prohibit its planting. cottonwood has many uses, and was formerly a very important timber tree, but the supply has so diminished that large trees have become quite scarce. the thick bark was much used by the boys of the pioneers for whittling out toys, etc. = .= =populus grandidentàta= michaux. large-toothed aspen. plate . a small or medium-sized tree, - dm. in diameter; bark smooth, grayish-green or whitish, becoming furrowed and dark brown on the trunks of old trees that grow in the northern part of the state, especially when growing in a swampy habitat. in the southern part of the state where the tree usually grows on the top of hills, the bark does not darken so much, frequently remaining a light to dark gray until maturity. shoots more or less woolly at first, becoming glabrous, reddish-brown; leaves on sprouts and very young trees very velvety beneath, slightly hairy above, ovate in outline, cordate at base and with blades up to cm. in length; leaves on older trees a yellow green, glabrous, ovate, blades usually - cm. long, coarsely and unevenly toothed, the base slightly rounded, rarely truncate or slightly cordate, the apex pointed or rounded; petioles strongly flattened laterally; stamens - ; capsule about mm. long on a stalk about mm. long; wood soft, light and not strong. =distribution.=--nova scotia west to northern minnesota and south to the ohio river, and along the alleghany mountains to south carolina. found throughout indiana, except we have no authentic records for gibson[ ] and posey[ ] counties. in the northern part of indiana it is found in great colonies about lakes, etc. or rarely a few trees on the crests of gravel and sand ridges. in southern indiana it is found in the "knob" area in small colonies on the tops of the ridges associated with scrub pine and chestnut oak and is rarely found in low ground in this part of the state. =remarks.=--this species is too rare to be of much economic importance. it could be most profitably used for excelsior and pulp wood. [illustration: plate . populus grandidentata michaux. large-toothed aspen. (× / .)] = .= =populus tremuloìdes= michaux. quaking aspen. plate . a straight narrow tree up to dm. in diameter, usually about - dm. in diameter; bark usually smooth, greenish-white or gray, on older trees becoming rough or fissured, and turning darker; shoots glabrous or with a few hairs, turning reddish-brown the first season, later to a gray; leaves of sprouts and very small trees usually ovate with a cordate base and two or three times as large as leaves of older trees; mature leaves on older trees variable, glabrous, the prevailing type has a bluish-green leaf which is widely ovate or nearly orbicular, - cm. long, truncate or slightly rounded at the base, usually abruptly short-pointed at apex, finely and regularly serrate, the unusual type of leaf is thinner, yellow-green, ovate, / as wide as long, rounded or wedge-shaped at base, gradually tapering to a point at the apex, otherwise as the prevailing form; stamens - ; capsules about mm. long, on stalks about mm. long; wood light, soft and weak. =distribution.=--one of the most widely distributed of north american trees. it ranges from labrador south to pennsylvania, thence southwest to northern mexico, and then north to northern alaska. it is found at sea level and at elevations of , feet. there are records of its occurrence in all parts of indiana. in all of its indiana stations it grows only in low ground about lakes, swamps, ponds, low places between sand dunes, and along streams. in many places in the lake region it is found in almost pure stands over small areas. =remarks.=--in indiana this species is not of sufficient size and abundance to be of much economic importance. =juglandÀceae.= the walnut family. trees with large, aromatic, odd pinnate leaves; flowers appearing after the leaves unfold, the staminate in catkins, the pistillate solitary or in clusters; fruit a nut in a fleshy or hard fibrous shell; kernel edible or astringent. pith of twigs chambered; staminate catkins thick, sessile or short stalked; stamens - , glabrous; nuts with a network of rough projections juglans. pith of twigs not chambered; staminate catkins slender, long-stalked; stamens - , hairy; nuts more or less angled but smooth carya. = . jÙglans.= the walnuts. trees with furrowed bark; pulp surrounding nut continuous, without lines of dehiscence on the surface. [illustration: plate . populus tremuloides michaux. quaking aspen. (× / .)] bark gray, ridges smooth; upper part of leaf-scar of last year's twigs with a mat of hairs; pith dark-brown; fruit oblong, husk clammy j. cinerea. bark dark brown, ridges rough; upper part of leaf-scar of last year's twigs without a mat of hairs; pith light brown; fruit orbicular to slightly elongate, husk not clammy j. nigra. = .= =juglans cinèrea= linnæus. butternut. plate . a medium sized tree, usually less than dm. in diameter; leaf-scars with upper margin convex or rarely notched; leaves - dm. in length; leaflets - , the middle pairs the longest, clammy, almost sessile, oblong-lanceolate, - cm. long, fine serrate, rounded at base and acuminate at apex; flowers in may or june; fruit ripens in october, - cm. long with prominent longitudinal ridges; kernel sweet and very oily; wood light, soft, not strong, coarse-grained but takes a good polish. =distribution.=--valley of the st. lawrence river south to the gulf states and west to nebraska. found in all parts of indiana, although very sparingly in some counties. it is an infrequent tree in our range, and in only a few localities is it frequent or common. it is found along streams and in ravines, and in two instances it has been noted in old tamarack marshes. it prefers a well drained gravelly soil, and is rarely if ever found in a compact soil. thrifty trees of any size in the woodland are now rarely seen. the tops of the larger trees are usually found in a more or less dying condition. benedict and elrod[ ] as early as make the following observation in a catalogue of the plants of cass and wabash counties: "a few scrubby, half dead trees were seen, the last of their race. it seems unable to adapt itself to new conditions, and is rapidly dying out." =remarks.=--this tree is often called the white walnut to distinguish it from the black walnut from which it is easily separated. it is too rare in indiana to be of economic importance, except that trees growing in the open are spared for the nut crop. trees growing in the open develop a short trunk with a wide spreading top and are apparently much healthier than when grown under forest conditions. the bark of the root is used in medicine as a hepatic stimulant. [illustration: plate . juglans cinerea linnæus. butternut. (× / .)] = .= =juglans nìgra= linnæus. walnut. plate . one of the largest and most valuable trees of the indiana forest. leaf-scars with the upper margin notched; leaves - dm. long, mature leaves glabrous above and pubescent beneath, leaflets, usually - , almost sessile, ovate-lanceolate, - cm. long, finely serrate, long-pointed at apex; flowers in may or june; fruit ripens the first year, in september and october, globose to oblong, - cm. in diameter; nut variable, from subglobose to ovoid or elliptical, more or less rounded or pointed at the ends, . - . cm. through the widest diameter; kernel edible; wood heavy, hard, strong, rather coarse, heart wood dark brown, durable, works easily and takes a high polish. =distribution.=--ontario south to the gulf states and west to texas and nebraska. it was more or less frequent to common in all parts of indiana in well drained rich soils. =remarks.=--this tree is frequently called black walnut. on account of the many excellent qualities of the wood, the walnut has been a choice timber tree from pioneer days to the present. it served the pioneer for rails, and in his buildings for sleepers, rafters, interior finish, furniture, etc. it soon sprung into commercial importance, and has been used for almost everything for which wood is used. indiana and ohio have furnished the greatest amount of walnut. the supply of lumber from old forest-grown trees has become so scarce that it is sought in old buildings, rail fences, old stumps and old furniture has been worked over. that the demand for walnut timber will not cease is assured; this should encourage land owners to grow this tree. it is adapted to a moist, rich, deep soil and will do well in such a habitat in all parts of the state. where such land is set aside for forestry purposes, no better tree could be used for planting. since the tree develops a long tap root which makes it difficult to transplant, it is recommended that the nuts be stratified in the fall, and the germinated nuts be planted in april or may. the foliage of the walnut is often attacked by the "tent caterpillar" which can be easily destroyed by burning about sun down when the larvæ collect in a bunch on or near the trunk of the tree. since the nut of the walnut is of considerable commercial value, it is recommended that the walnut be planted along fences, about orchards and as one of the species in windbreaks. = . cÀrya.= the hickories. trees with hard, tight or scaly bark; leaflets alternate, odd-pinnate, glandular-dotted beneath; leaflets serrate, usually unequal at the base, the lateral sessile or nearly so, the terminal short-stalked, the lowest pair the smallest, upper pair and terminal the largest, bruised leaflets characteristically aromatic; staminate flowers in slender catkins, anthers hairy; pistillate flowers in small clusters; fruit a bony nut contained in a woody husk which separates more or less completely from the nut into four parts. [illustration: plate . juglans nigra linnæus. black walnut. (× / .)] there are now recognized[ ] fifteen species and several varieties of hickory, all of which grow in the united states east of the rocky mountains. hickory grows in no other place in the world, except one species in northern mexico. the wood of the different species of hickory is not of equal commercial value, but the wood of the commercial species heads the list of indiana woods for strength, toughness and resiliency. the individuals of the several species vary much in respect to their bark, size and pubescence of the twigs, number and size of the leaflets, size and shape of the nuts. no attempt will be made to deal with all of the extreme forms, and only those reported by heimlich[ ] and sargent[ ] will be discussed. bud scales - , valvate (in pairs), leaflets generally curved backward. leaflets - , generally about ; nut elongated, circular in cross-section; kernel sweet c. illinoensis. leaflets - , generally - ; nut about as broad as long, compressed in cross-section; kernel bitter c. cordiformis. bud scales more than , imbricated (not in pairs); leaflets not curved backward. branchlets usually stout; terminal buds large, - mm. long; the year's growth usually more or less hairy; dry husks - mm. thick. prevailing number of leaflets c. ovata. prevailing number of leaflets more than . trees of low ground; bark of young trees tight and light, of older trees scaly, separating into long thin plates; branchlets usually light orange color; nuts usually large, compressed, - cm. long, pointed at base c. laciniosa. trees of high ground; bark of young trees tight and dark, of older trees tight and deeply furrowed, the thick ridges broken into short lengths which on very old trees loosen at the base; branchlets reddish-brown; nuts usually about half as large as the preceding and usually with a rounded base c. alba. branchlets usually slender; terminal buds small, - mm. long; the year's growth usually glabrous, rarely hairy; dried husk - . mm. thick. branchlets and leaves not covered when they first appear with rusty-brown pubescence. prevailing number of leaflets ; fruit usually smooth and tapering at base to a short stem (fig-like); shell of nut thick, kernel sweet and astringent c. glabra. prevailing number of leaflets generally ; fruit usually granular, rarely tapering at the base to a short stem (fig-like); shell of nut thin, kernel sweet without astringency c. ovalis. branchlets and leaves densely covered when they first appear with rusty-brown pubescence c. buckleyi. = .= =carya illinoénsis= (wangenheim) k. koch. pecan. plate . very tall slender trees up to dm. in diameter; bark tight, sometimes becoming scaly on very old trees, fissured, ridges narrow, ashy-brown tinged with red; twigs at first hairy, becoming smooth or nearly so and reddish-brown by the end of the season; leaves - dm. long; leaflets - , ovate to oblong-lanceolate, somewhat curved backward, - cm. long, taper-pointed, hairy when they unfold, becoming at maturity smooth or nearly so, dark green above, and a yellow-green beneath; clusters of staminate catkins sessile; fruit single or in small clusters, oblong . - cm. long, the winged sutures extending to the base, the husk splitting to below the middle; nut ovoid-oblong, reddish-brown; wood heavy, hard and not strong. =distribution.=--in the mississippi valley from indiana and iowa south to texas. in indiana it was a native of the southwest part of the state. it was a common tree in the river bottoms of point township of posey county, and in the bottoms of the southwest part of gibson county. it was found more or less frequently in the bottoms of the wabash valley, as far north as to within four miles of covington where the author collected specimens in . it followed the bottoms of the ohio river east at least as far as clark county. michaux[ ] gives it as rare in the vicinity of louisville. victor lyons of jeffersonville says that it was a native to the east part of survey of the illinois grant, and one tree in the northwest corner of no. ; and there were nine trees - dm. in diameter in floyd county on "loop island". a large tree grew in the bottoms near bethlehem in clark county, which is said to have been a native. young[ ] says that there are two trees in jefferson county, one planted, the other probably native. coulter[ ] says "there are several trees in the river bottoms." [illustration: plate . carya illinoensis (wangenheim) k. koch. pecan. (× / .) the two nuts to right are from the mccallister hybrid pecan tree.] there are several trees on the elisha golay farm about one mile east of vevay which are in rows, which show that they were planted. the largest has a trunk . m. long and a circumference of dm. it followed the north fork of white river as far as greene county, and the south fork of white river as far as seymour. a pioneer told me he remembered a small colony in the eastern part of washington county in the bottoms near the muscatatuck river. in indiana it is found only in very low land which is subject to overflow. =remarks.=--so far as the wood is concerned, the pecan is the poorest of all hickories. it has only about one-half the strength and stiffness of the shellbark hickory. although the wood is inferior, the pecan has the distinction of producing the best nut of any native tree of america. the pecan was well known to the indians, and some authors say the range of the species was extended by planting by the indians. it has been a nut of commerce ever since the area of its range has been settled. it was planted by the pioneers, and recently nurserymen took up the subject of growing stock by budding and grafting from superior trees. at present there are about horticultural varieties. the horticulturist has developed forms twice the size of the native nuts, and with shells so thin as to be styled "paper-shelled." the pecan has been extensively planted for commercial purposes in the southern states, but information obtained from owners of pecan trees in indiana indicate that the winters are too severe for profitable pecan culture in indiana. during the winter of - the whole of a tract of year old pecan trees on the forest reserve in clark county was killed back to the ground. in noble county about one mile south of wolf lake is a tree planted about years ago that is about dm. in circumference that frequently sets nuts but they never mature on account of the early frosts. = .= =carya cordifórmis= (wangenheim) k. koch. pignut hickory. plate . large tall trees with tight bark, usually a light gray, sometimes darker, fissures shallow and very irregular; twigs at first green, somewhat hairy, soon becoming smooth or nearly so, and a yellowish-brown, or reddish-brown by the end of the season; leaves and leaflets variable, the prevailing type of trees have smaller leaves with long and narrow leaflets, the unusual form has larger leaves up to dm. in length with terminal leaflets up to dm. in length and . cm. in width, and the last pair almost as large; fruit subglobose or rarely oblong, - . cm. long; wings of sutures extending to below the middle, rarely one reaching the base; husk about . mm. thick, tardily separating to about the middle; nut ovoid or oblong, slightly flattened laterally, often as wide or wider than long, depressed, obcordate, with a short or long point at the apex, ovoid or rounded at the base, smooth or rarely with four distinct ridges; shell very thin and brittle; kernel very bitter; wood heavy, very hard, strong, tough and close-grained. it has about per cent of the strength and about per cent of the stiffness of shellbark hickory. [illustration: plate . carya cordiformis (wangenheim) k. koch. pignut hickory. (× / .) the nuts are from different trees to show variation.] =distribution.=--valley of the st. lawrence river west to nebraska and south to the gulf states. in indiana a map distribution of the species in the state shows that it has been found in practically all of the counties on the west, north and east borders. it is usually found in rich soil along streams and in rich woods, and may be found in all of the counties of the state. despite the fact that no animal agency was active against the propagation of this tree, it was rarely found more than as an infrequent tree throughout our range. =remarks.=--the hickories as a class, except the pecan, can not stand "civilization," especially much tramping about the base. it appears that the pignut hickory is the most easily affected. in parke county about coxville great numbers of the trees have been killed by the borers. for the uses of the wood see shellbark hickory. since this species does not produce as much marketable lumber as the shellbark hickory, and the nuts are valueless, it should not be recommended for planting in the farmer's woodlot. the rossed bark of this species is preferred by manufacturers of split-bottomed chairs, and is known by them as "yellow-bud" hickory. = .= =carya ovàta= (miller) k. koch. shellbark hickory. plate . large and very tall trees; bark of young trees tight, beginning to scale when the trees reach - dm. in diameter, separating into long thin strips on old trees; twigs at the end of the season usually stout, - mm. in diameter near the tip, but some are slender and as small as . mm. in diameter, at first covered with hairs, becoming smooth at the end of the season or remaining hairy, reddish-brown; winter buds hairy, the terminal one on vigorous shoots long-ovoid, outer scales sharp-pointed; ordinary leaves - dm. long; leaflets - , the lateral sessile or nearly so, the terminal one on a stalk about dm. long, up to cm. wide and cm. long, leaflets variable in shape from ovate to oval, oblong-oval or obovate, all long taper-pointed, hairy beneath when they unfold and remaining hairy until maturity or sometimes becoming almost glabrous; fruit variable in size, - cm. long, usually subglobose, furrowed along the sutures at least near the outer end; husk freely splitting to the base, except one tree which was noted where the husk remains on the nut, rarely opening for only a short distance at the apex, very variable in thickness from - mm.; nut exceedingly variable, compressed, -angled, the angles generally visible to the base, - cm. long, more or less pointed, rarely rounded at the base or obcordate at the apex, generally ovate to oval in outline, some almost freakish in shape; shell generally thin; kernel sweet; wood heavy, very hard and strong, close-grained, light brown, sap wood white and thin on old trees. [illustration: plate . carya ovata (miller) k. koch. shellbark hickory. (× / .) the nuts are from different trees to show variation.] =distribution.=--quebec west to southern minnesota, kansas and eastern texas, thence eastward to the atlantic through the north part of the gulf states. it is frequent to common in all parts of indiana except on the hills of the southern part. it prefers rich moist soil and is generally found in bottom lands or on rolling land, and if in dryer situations on the sides of hills. it is generally associated with red oak, big shellbark hickory, swamp white oak, sweet gum, linn, white ash, slippery elm, sugar maple, beech, etc. in the forest it is a tall straight tree with few main branches for a crown. no tree carries its taper better than this species. when grown in the open the side branches do not shade off, and it grows to a medium height with a wide spreading crown. =remarks.=--the writer has one specimen from wells county which no doubt should be referred to this species, but the description has not been drawn to cover it. the twigs are very slender and pubescent; the leaves are normal and pubescent; the fruit is obovoid, - cm. long; husk less than mm. thick at outer end and mm. thick at the base; nut obovoid, - cm. long, little compressed, rounded at the base, rounded at the apex, slightly angled, angles obscure on lower half; otherwise as the type. the species is very variable and no dependence can be placed upon such characters as pubescence of the twigs, leaves or fruit, size of the twigs, color of the anthers, size or shape of the nuts. the wood of the shellbark and the big shellbark hickories is the most used of all the hickories because it is generally freer from knots and blemishes. hickory is used principally for carriage and wagon stock, agricultural implements, handles and fuel. the supply of hickory is fast waning, and in the near future will be limited. the hickories are very slow growing trees. they develop a long tap root, hence are hard to transplant. hickory should constitute an important part of the woodlot. if this species is not well represented, germinated nuts should be planted. the nut of this species usually sells for $ . to $ . per bushel, which should encourage land owners to plant it in the open along fences and about the orchard. it should be remembered that hickory will not stand much tramping by stock. = a.= =carya ovata= variety =fraxinifòlia= sargent. trees and shrubs : : . is described as having leaflets lanceolate to slightly oblanceolate, acuminate, thick and firm in texture, lustrous above, pubescent along the midribs below, the terminal . - . dm. long from . - cm. wide, and raised on a slender puberulous petiolule, the lateral leaflets unsymmetrical at the base, sessile, those of the lowest pair - cm. long, and from . - cm. wide. sargent[ ] says "this variety occurs in indiana," basing his authority upon my specimens of which he has duplicates. heimlich[ ] reports this variety from white county, and at the same time he reported the variety from daviess, martin and wells counties, based upon specimens collected by the author and determined by sargent. i have carefully studied the specimens from daviess, martin and wells counties, and they do not agree with sargent's description of the variety. while most of the leaves of the specimens in question agree with the description, some do not, which excludes it from the variety. = b.= =carya ovata= variety =nuttallii= sargent. trees and shrubs : : . this variety is described as having "nut rounded, obcordate or rarely pointed at apex, rounded or abruptly pointed at the base, much compressed, prominently angled, about . cm. long and - . cm. thick; the involucre - mm. thick, splits freely to the base. except in size of the fruit there appears to be no character by which the variety can be distinguished from the common shagbark." heimlich[ ] reported this variety from dekalb county, based upon specimens collected by the author and determined by sargent. the nuts of the specimens from dekalb county are cm. long. the author has specimens from wells county that agree with the description. = .= =carya laciniòsa= (michaux filius) loudon. big shellbark hickory. plate . large tall trees with trunks like those of the shellbark hickory; bark of young trees tight, beginning to scale when the trees reach a diameter of - dm., on older trees separating and scaling off into long thin narrow strips; twigs at the end of the season stout, - mm. thick near the tip, the twigs of the season hairy at first, becoming glabrous or nearly so by the end of autumn, yellowish or late in autumn a rusty brown, frequently retaining the leaf-stalks of the leaves of the previous season until spring which is peculiar to this species; terminal buds large, ovoid to ovoid-oblong, - mm. long; ordinary leaves - dm. long; leaflets - , prevailing number , ovate to oblong-lanceolate or obovate, the largest - dm. long, velvety beneath when they unfold and remaining hairy beneath until maturity, rarely nearly glabrous; fruit ovate, subglobose, oblong or obovate, . - cm. long; dry husk . - mm. thick; nut variable, generally much compressed, up to . cm. long, usually circular in outline, but varying from ovate to obovate and oblong, usually each side has or ridges which extend more or less often to the base; shell very thick; kernel sweet; wood and uses same as that of the shellbark hickory. [illustration: plate . carya laciniosa (michaux filius) loudon. big shellbark hickory. (× / .) the nuts are from different trees to show variation.] =distribution.=--southwestern ontario south to alabama and west to louisiana, nebraska and iowa. found throughout indiana, except there are as yet no records from the extreme northwest counties. it is frequent to common in moist rich woods, or in river bottoms which is its favorite habitat. it is usually associated with the shellbark hickory where it grows in moist situations. sometimes in the river bottoms it grows in situations too wet for the shellbark hickory. in the lower wabash bottoms it becomes a common tree. =remarks.=--this hickory is also known as the big scaly-bark hickory and hard-head hickory. the nuts are an article of commerce and by some are preferred to the shellbark hickory although the nuts are hard to crack. this objection is easily overcome by wetting the nuts, and drying them by using heat which cracks the shell, making them easy to crack. = .= =carya álba= (linnæus) k. koch. white hickory. plate . medium sized tall trees up to dm. in diameter; bark tight, of two types, one light colored, thin and fissured into a network. this form has been seen only in the river bottoms of the southwestern part of the state. the common type of bark is thick, with thick ridges, dark but on the older trees it weathers to a light gray and becomes thickly covered with lichens; terminal twigs of branches at end of season stout, . - mm. in diameter near the tip, densely hairy at first and remaining hairy throughout the season or becoming almost glabrous, reddish-brown; terminal bud large, ovate, - mm. long; ordinary leaves - dm. long, the rachis and under side of leaflets densely hairy when they unfold, remaining pubescent until maturity; leaflets - , prevailing number , long-oval, ovate-lanceolate, or obovate; fruit usually globose, more rarely short elliptic, ovate or obovoid, the husk rather tardily opening to nearly the base, or only checking open at the top; dried husk - mm. thick; nut variable in shape, little compressed, somewhat globose, a little longer than wide, more rarely wider than long or short elliptic, usually . - . cm. long, generally rounded at the base and short-pointed at the apex, more rarely pointed at the base and long pointed at the apex, (one specimen is at hand that is almost a square box), usually with - angles, on some forms obscure; shell thick; kernel very small, sweet; wood and uses same as shellbark hickory. [illustration: plate . carya alba (linnæus) k. koch. white hickory. (× / .) the nuts are from different trees to show variation.] =distribution.=--southwestern ontario south to the gulf and west to texas, missouri and iowa. found throughout indiana, except there are no records from the extreme northwestern counties. this species except in the lower wabash valley is confined to the uplands. it is rather a rare tree in northern indiana, but becomes more or less frequent in the western part of the state south of the wabash river and more or less frequent to common on the hills in all of the state south of marion county. it is most abundant in the unglaciated area. =remarks.=--this species is called mockernut by text books, and bull hickory in the vicinity of new albany. = a.= =carya alba= variety =subcoriàcea= sargent. trees and shrubs : : . only one tree of this variety is known in indiana and it is located in posey county on the bank of the cypress swamp about miles southwest of mt. vernon. specimens from this tree were sent to sargent and he referred them to this variety.[ ] it differs from the type in the larger size and shape of the fruit and nut. the dried fruit is cm. long, oblong. the nut is oblong, . cm. long, pointed at both ends, or some nuts somewhat ovate in shape and more rounded at the base, little compressed and strongly angled; shell very thick, mm. at the thinnest place; kernel very small and sweet. the nut easily distinguishes it from all forms of hickory. the author has bought hickory nuts for table use for several years from posey county and this nut is frequently found in the assortment which shows that this variety is more or less frequent in that section. = .= =carya glàbra= (miller) spach. black hickory. plate . very tall medium sized trees, up to dm. in diameter; bark tight, usually dark, fissures shallow on some and quite deep on others; twigs reddish-brown, glabrous, terminal buds small, ovoid, about - mm. long; ordinary leaves - dm. long; leaflets generally lanceolate, sometimes quite wide, or wider beyond the middle, prevailing number , the terminal usually - cm. long, somewhat pubescent on unfolding, more or less pubescent below at maturity, usually only the midrib, axils and larger veins with hairs; fruit generally smooth and obovoid, rarely globose or oval, - mm. long; husk sometimes not opening, more often one or more of the sutures open to less than half way, - mm. thick; nut about - mm. long and - mm. wide, rounded at the apex, elongated and rounded at the base, angles wanting or obscure; shell very hard and thick, about . mm. thick at the thinnest point; kernel sweet and astringent; wood and uses same as that of the shellbark hickory. [illustration: plate . carya glabra (miller) spach. black hickory. (× / .) fruit from different trees to show variation.] =distribution.=--southern ontario south to the gulf states and west to texas and iowa. this species is reported for all parts of the state. however, the records for the northern counties were made when this species was not separated from _carya ovalis_, and since the latter species is quite frequent in the northern counties it is best to refer the early records to _carya ovalis_. the most northern station based upon an existing specimen is the north side of the mississinewa river east of eaton in delaware county. it is a frequent, common to very common tree on the hills in the southern part of the state. it has its mass distribution in the unglaciated part of the state, although it is locally a frequent to a common tree of the hills of the other southern counties. it appears that this species has the ability to invade areas after the virgin forest is cut, and it is not an uncommon sight to see this species in almost pure stands on the hills of cut-over lands. =remarks.=--this species is often called pignut. sargent wisely suggests that this name be used exclusively for _carya cordiformis_. the great abundance of this species in brown, morgan and monroe counties has been instrumental in building up a large business in the manufacture of hickory chairs and furniture. frames of furniture are made from the very young trees, and backs and seats from the bark of old trees, which are cut, stripped of their bark, and often left to rot. = a.= =carya glabra= variety =megacárpa= sargent[ ]. this variety was reported for indiana by heimlich.[ ] his report was based on a specimen collected by the author in franklin county. it was named by sargent who has a duplicate specimen. sargent in his revision of the hickories does not include indiana in its range. the size of the fruit is the character that marks the variety and i do not believe this is sufficient to warrant its separation. i have, therefore, included all indiana forms under the type. = .= =carya ovàlis= (wangenheim) sargent. small-fruited hickory. plate . medium sized tall trees; bark usually tight on the trunk for a distance up to . - m., then becoming more or less scaly like the shellbark hickory, on some trees the bark is very thick and is quite scaly but it does not flake off in thin plates as the shellbark hickory; twigs purplish or reddish-brown, generally smooth by the end of the season, generally - mm. thick near the tip; terminal winter buds ovoid, - mm. long, covered with yellow scales and more or less pubescent; average size leaves - dm. long; leaflets - , prevailing number usually , sometimes , usually lanceolate, frequently oval or slightly obovate, the terminal - cm. long, at maturity usually pubescent beneath in the axils of the veins, more rarely also the veins covered with hairs; fruit varies greatly in size and shape, the most common form is obovoid, more rarely oval, or subglobose, - mm. in length, granular and covered with yellow scales; husk usually splitting to the base, although tardily on some, often quite aromatic, dry husk . - mm. thick; nut variable in size and shape, from elliptic to obovoid, - mm. long, compressed, generally about per cent wider than thick, usually rounded at the base, generally slightly obovoid with the apex rounded, or obcordate; a common form has the four sides rounded, as wide as long or almost so, with the ends abruptly rounded so as to appear almost truncate, the elliptic form with both ends pointed is our rarest and smallest form; the surface on all forms is quite smooth, except the elliptic forms which have the angles usually extending from the tip to the base, on other forms the nuts are usually not prominently angled and on some the angles are very obscure except at the apex; shell usually thin, - . mm. thick; kernel sweet; wood and uses the same as that of the shellbark hickory. [illustration: plate . carya ovalis (wangenheim) sargent. small-fruited hickory. (× / .) the nuts show the species and its varieties.] sargent[ ] has described five varieties of this species, three of which he credits to indiana. the writer has sent him specimens from over trees of this species, and he has variously distributed them to the type and varieties. heimlich has reported sargent's determination of many of these specimens in the proc. ind. acad. science, : - : . the writer cannot agree with the determinations and believes further field study is necessary to discover characters by which the several forms can consistently be divided. to stimulate the study of this species, the original description of the varieties together with sargent's characterization of the type are quoted because they are contained in a book not usually found in libraries. to these descriptions are added new characters which sargent gives in his revision of the hickories in bot. gaz. : - : . =carya ovalis= (type). "in the shape of the fruit and in the thickness of its involucre this tree is of four distinct forms; in all of them the involucre splits freely to the base, or nearly to the base, the shell of the nut is thin and the seed, although small, is sweet and edible. the extremes of these forms are very distinct, but there are forms which are intermediate between them, so that it is difficult to decide sometimes to which of the forms these intermediate forms should be referred. the first of these forms, as the fruit agrees with wangenheim's figure, must be considered the type of the species. the fruit is oval, narrowed and rounded at the base, acute at the apex, usually from . - cm. long and about . cm. in diameter. the involucre is from - . mm. thick and occasionally one of the sutures remains closed. the nut is oblong, slightly flattened, rounded at the base, acute or acuminate and four-angled at the apex, the ridges extending for one-third or rarely for one-half of its length, from - . cm. long and about . cm. in diameter. the shell is usually about mm. thick." "the type of this species and its varieties have glabrous or rarely slightly pubescent leaves, with usually thin leaflets." = a.= =carya ovalis= variety =obcordàta= (muhlenberg) sargent. "the fruit varies from subglobose to short-oblong or to slightly obovate, showing a tendency to pass into that of the other varieties of the species. it varies from - cm. in diameter, and the involucre, which is from - mm. thick, splits freely to the base or nearly to the base by narrowly winged sutures, one of them rarely extending only to the middle of the fruit. the nut is usually much compressed, often broadest above the middle, slightly angled sometimes to below the middle, rounded at the base and much compressed, often broadest above the middle, slightly angled sometimes to below the middle, rounded at the base and rounded and often more or less obcordate at the apex." = b.= =carya ovalis= variety =odoràta= (marshall) sargent. "the name may have been given by marshall to this variety on account of the strong resinous odor of the inner surface of the fresh involucre of the fruit, which i have not noticed in that of the other forms. the fruit is subglobose or sometimes slightly longer than broad, flattened and usually from . - . cm. in diameter. the involucre varies from - . mm. in thickness and splits freely to the base by distinctly winged sutures. the nut is rounded or acute at the base with a short point, rounded at the apex, very slightly or not at all ridged, pale colored, from . - . cm. long and wide and from - . cm. thick." = c.= =carya ovalis= variety =obovàlis= sargent. "in the fourth form the fruit is more or less obovate, about . cm. long and cm. in diameter, and the involucre varies from - mm. in thickness. the nut is much compressed, pointed or rounded at the apex, rounded at the base, usually about cm. long, nearly as broad and about . cm. thick." "the fruit resembles in shape that of _carya glabra_, but the involucre is thicker and splits easily to the base or nearly to the base." = d.= =carya ovalis= variety =obcordàta=, =f. vestita= sargent. bot. gaz. : : . this is a form described from a specimen collected by the author on the border of dan's pond in knox county. it differs from "the variety _obcordata_ in the thick tomentose covering of the branchlets during their first year. the leaves of this form are slightly pubescent in the autumn on the under surface of the midribs. although the nuts are more compressed than those of the ordinary forms of var. _obcordata_, the fruit is of that variety. the branchlets are unusually stout for a form of _carya ovalis_ and are covered with rusty tomentum during their first year and are more or less pubescent in their second and third seasons." =distribution.=--western new york west to illinois and south to north carolina, georgia, alabama, mississippi, arkansas and missouri. the species is found in all parts of the state, although the distribution of the varieties has not been worked out. the habitat of this species is high ground, and only rarely is it found in low ground. it prefers hills, slopes, base of the terraces of streams, and in the northern part of the state gravelly ridges and sandy soil. in all of its range it is usually associated with white and black oak. it is infrequent in the southern part of the state but north of the wabash river it becomes more frequent and in some places it becomes common to very common. it is a common tree in wells county north of the wabash river and in the northern part of lagrange county, and in both places a wide range of forms occur, some of which are not covered by the preceding description. no one of our trees offers a better opportunity for intensive study than this hickory. =remarks.=--text books call this species the small-fruited hickory. it is not commonly distinguished from the other hickories, but in wells county where it is common the boys call it "ladies' hickory." = .= =carya búckleyi= variety =arkansàna= sargent.[ ] plate . medium sized trees, bark tight, dark, deeply furrowed; mature twigs more or less pubescent, reddish brown; terminal buds ovoid, about mm. long, thickly covered with yellow scales, and more or less pubescent; leaves - . dm. long, rachis permanently pubescent; leaflets - , prevailing number , lanceolate, terminal one about cm. long, tawny pubescent on unfolding, more or less glabrous at maturity; fruit ellipsoid to slightly obovoid, very aromatic, about . - cm. long, covered with yellow scales; husk usually splitting to below the middle, - mm. thick; nut oblong to slightly obovoid, - . cm. long, scarcely compressed, rounded at each end, the four ridges faint except at the apex; shell thick, about mm. at the thinnest point; kernel sweet; wood same as the white hickory which it most closely resembles. =distribution.=--southwestern indiana, south in the mississippi valley to louisiana and texas. known in indiana only from one tree in knox county on the sand ridge on the east side of what was formerly a cypress swamp, about two miles north of decker. the soil is the knox sand. it is associated with black and black jack oaks. =remarks.=--the description has been drawn from ample material from this single tree. [illustration: plate . carya buckleyi var. arkansana sargent. (× / .)] =betulÀceae.= the birch family. trees or shrubs with simple, petioled, alternate (in pairs on the older branches of _betula_) leaves; staminate flowers in long drooping catkins, - in the axil of each bract, the pistillate in short lateral or terminal aments; fruit a nut or samara. staminate flowers solitary in the axil of each bract, without a calyx, pistillate flowers with a calyx; nut wingless. bark of tree smooth; staminate aments in winter enclosed in bud scales; nut exposed, its subtending bract more or less irregularly -cleft carpinus. bark of older trees shreddy; staminate aments in winter naked; nut enclosed in a bladder-like bract ostrya. staminate flowers - in the axil of each bract, with a calyx, pistillate flowers without a calyx; nut winged. winter buds sessile; stamens ; fruit membranous and hop-like; fruiting bract deciduous at the end of the season when the nut escapes betula. winter buds stalked; stamens ; fruit woody and cone-like; fruiting bracts woody and persisting after the nuts escape alnus. = . carpÌnus.= the hornbeam. =carpinus caroliniàna= walter. water beech. blue beech. plate . a small tree up to dm. in diameter, usually - . dm. in diameter with fluted or ridged trunks; bark smooth, close, gray; twigs hairy at first, soon becoming glabrous; leaves ovate-oblong, average leaves - cm. long, pointed at the apex, double-serrate, hairy when young, glabrous at maturity except on the veins and in the axils beneath, pubescent, not glandular, staminate catkins appearing in early spring; nut at the base of a -cleft bract about cm. long, nut broadly ovate, compressed, pointed and about mm. long; wood heavy, hard, tough and strong. =distribution.=--nova scotia west to minnesota and south to florida and texas. in indiana it is frequent to common throughout the state in moist rich woods. it prefers a moist rich soil; however, it has a range from the tamarack bog to the dry black and white oak slope. it is tolerant of shade and is seldom found outside of the forest. =remarks.=--this tree is too small and crooked to be of economic importance. it is regarded as a weed tree in the woodland, and should be removed to give place to more valuable species. [illustration: plate . carpinus caroliniana walter. water or blue beech. (× / .)] = . Óstrya.= the hop hornbeam. =ostrya virginiàna= (miller) willdenow. ironwood. plate . small trees up to dm.[ ] in diameter, usually about - dm. in diameter; bark smooth and light brown on small trees, shreddy on older trees; shoots hairy, becoming at the end of the season glabrous or nearly so and a reddish-brown; leaves oblong-ovate, other forms rare, average size about - cm. long, acuminate, usually double-serrate, hairy on both surfaces when they unfold, glabrous or nearly so above at maturity, more or less pubescent beneath, especially on the midrib and veins; staminate spikes develop in early winter; fruit hop-like about - cm. long; nut oblong-ovate about mm. long and half as wide, compressed, light brown; wood very hard, tough, close-grained, strong, light brown. =distribution.=--nova scotia west to manitoba, south to the gulf states and west to texas. it is frequent to common in all of the counties of the state. however, it is entirely absent in the lower wabash bottoms, except rarely on high grounds in this area. it prefers well drained dry soil, and is most frequent when it is associated with beech and sugar maple, although it is often quite plentiful in white oak woods. it is shade enduring and is one of the under trees in the forest where it grows very tall and slender and free from branches. when it grows in exposed places such as bluffs, it retains its side branches and is usually bushy. =remarks.=--the trees are too small to be of much economic importance. it is per cent stronger than white oak, and per cent more elastic. these exceptional qualities were recognized by the indians and it was used by them where wood of great strength and hardness was desired. likewise the pioneer used it where he could for handles, wooden wedges, etc. since it grows neither large nor fast, it is usually regarded as a weed tree in the woodland, and should be removed to give place to more valuable species. =ostrya virginiàna= variety =glandulòsa= spach. this is the name given to the form which has the twigs, petioles, peduncles and often the midrib and veins of the leaves beneath covered more or less with short erect, reddish, glandular hairs. it is found with the species, but is not so frequent. [illustration: plate . ostrya virginiana (miller) k. koch. ironwood. (× / .)] = . bÉtula.= the birches. trees and shrubs with bark tight, scaly or separating into very thin plates and peeling off transversely, whitish or dark colored; staminate catkins developing in autumn and dehiscing in early spring before or with the appearance of the leaves, pistillate catkins ovoid or cylindric; fruit a small winged flat seed, bearing at the apex the two persistent stigmas. bark of twigs usually with a slight wintergreen flavor; leaves with - , usually - pairs of prominent veins; rounded or slightly cordate at the base; fertile catkins generally mm. or more in diameter. b. lutea. bark of twigs usually bitter, not wintergreen flavored; leaves with - , usually - pairs of prominent veins, more or less obtusely angled at the base; fertile catkins generally less than mm. in diameter (rarely mm. or more, _b. nigra_). bark of trunk chalky-white; fruiting aments drooping or spreading. bark below base of lateral branches darkened-triangular in outline; leaves long acuminate and lustrous above; staminate catkins usually solitary. b. populifolia. bark below base of lateral branches not darkened; leaves ovate and not lustrous above; staminate catkins usually - . b. papyrifera. bark of trunks dark; fruiting aments erect or nearly so. b. nigra. = .= =betula lùtea= michaux filius. birch. yellow birch. plate . medium size trees; bark of small trees and of the branches of old trees smooth, silver or dark gray, freely peeling off in thin strips, becoming on older trees a dark brown, rarely tight, usually fissured into wide plates and rolling back from one edge; the shoots of the year hairy, greenish gray, becoming glabrous or nearly so and reddish-brown by the end of the second year, not aromatic when bruised but when chewed sometimes a faint wintergreen odor can be detected; winter buds pointed, reddish-brown, the lower scales more or less pubescent, generally with a fringe of hairs on the margins; leaves usually appearing in pairs, ovate to ovate-oblong, - cm. long, taper-pointed, oblique and wedge-shape, rounded or slightly cordate at the base, sharply and rather coarsely serrate, hairy on both sides when they appear, becoming at maturity glabrous or nearly so above, and remaining more or less pubescent below, especially on the veins, both surfaces with few to numerous resinous dots; petioles permanently hairy, generally - mm. long; flowers appear in may; staminate spikes in clusters at the ends of the branches, about cm. long, scales broadly ovate, blunt, fringed with hairs, green-tipped with a margin of reddish-brown; pistillate spikes solitary in the axils of the leaves, mature spikes . - cm. long, generally . - cm. long, commonly about half as thick as long, recurved to ascending, commonly about horizontal, sessile or on short stalks; scales very variable, - mm. long, generally - mm. long, sometimes as wide as long but generally about one-fourth longer than wide, densely pubescent on the back, or rarely glabrous on the back, ciliate, glabrous or nearly so on the inside, commonly with a few brown or black glands on the margin, commonly lobed to more than one-third of their length, lobes ascending or divaricate, the lateral generally the larger and almost as long as the narrower middle lobe; nuts divested of the wings, slightly obovate, about mm. long, wings about two-thirds as wide as the nut and usually with a fringe of hairs at the blunt apex. [illustration: plate . betula lutea michaux filius. yellow birch. (× / .)] =distribution.=--the distribution of this species is variously given as from newfoundland west to manitoba and south in the alleghenies to georgia. it is now definitely known that the species of _betula_ hybridize which may account for the peculiar forms often encountered. that there are geographic races or mendelian segregates of this species is evidenced by the different interpretations given this species by different authors. _betula alleghanensis_ britton appears to be one of them. the descriptive difference between _betula lenta_ and _betula lutea_ is not clear, which has resulted in many authors crediting _betula lenta_ to indiana and the area west of indiana. the preceding description does not agree with that of _betula lutea_ exactly, and has been drawn to cover the specimens at hand from indiana which the author has from allen, crawford, lagrange, lake, marshall, porter and steuben counties. it has recently been reported from white county by heimlich.[ ] he says: "specimens were taken from two trees about two miles south of buffalo near the water's edge of the river." the writer has visited this locality and found here, and also on the island above the bridge a little farther down the river, _betula nigra_, but could not find _betula lutea_. since heimlich did not report _betula nigra_, which unmistakably occurs here, i assume he has confused the two species. it is very local in its distribution, and appears to be confined to swamps, borders of lakes, and streams in the extreme northern part of the state. it has not been seen south of the northern end of the state, except a few small trees found clinging to the walls of the cliffs of a ravine about one mile east of taswell in crawford county. the walls of this ravine are about meters high; associated with it were a few trees of hemlock, and on the top of the cliffs, laurel (_kalmia latifolia_). large trees of this species in indiana are usually from - dm. in diameter and about m. high. the number in any one station is usually few, although there were formerly patches where it was plentiful. van gorder[ ] reports for noble county _betula lenta_ which should be transferred to this species, and he says: "there is a marsh of several acres of birch in section of york township." the largest area now known is that contained in the large tamarack swamp near mineral springs in porter county. in this swamp are found tamarack and white cedar. it was in this swamp that the writer found a peculiar form of birch which has been determined as _betula sandbergi_. since this species[ ] is recognized as a hybrid of _betula papyrifera_ and _betula pumila_ variety _glandulifera_, and the last parent of this hybrid is not found in the vicinity, a discussion of this form is not presented. in the immediate vicinity are found only _betula lutea_ and _betula pumila_. _betula papyrifera_ is found about a mile distant to the south. it is assumed that this form is a cross between _betula lutea_ and _betula pumila_. = .= =betula populifòlia= marshall. gray or white birch. plate . a small tree; bark a chalky-white, not separating into thin layers, inner bark orange, on the trunks of old trees nearly black; shoots at first covered with numerous glands, becoming smooth and yellowish or reddish-brown; leaves generally long-deltoid, average blades - cm. long, usually long taper-pointed, truncate or nearly so at the base, irregularly double-serrate, slightly pubescent on the veins when young, soon becoming glabrous; fertile catkins . - cm. long and about mm. in diameter; bracts of eastern trees differ from those of indiana trees which are about - mm. long, lobed to about / of the distance from the apex, lateral lobes the largest and strongly divaricate, puberulent on the back; seed strongly notched at the apex; nut slightly obovoid; wings much broader than the nut. =distribution.=--nova scotia west to southern ontario and south to delaware and pennsylvania. in indiana it has been reported from lake, laporte, porter, st. joseph and tippecanoe counties. there may be some doubt about the tippecanoe record, since many of the older records were made from cultivated trees. the numbers of the species in indiana were always limited. it is not able to meet changed conditions and it has already almost disappeared from our area. i was told that formerly this species was found all about a lake in laporte county, but it has all died out. its appearance in indiana is peculiar since it is not found west of us, or north in michigan or east in ohio. this small group of trees near lake michigan is three or four hundred miles from the nearest of their kind. =remarks.=--this species is called white and gray birch. the largest tree seen in indiana was about dm. in diameter and m. high. [illustration: plate . betula populifolia marshall. white or gray birch. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . betula papyrifera marshall. paper or canoe birch. (× / .)] = .= =betula papyrífera= marshall. paper or canoe birch. plate . rather a small tree; bark thin, creamy white; chalky, dark near the base on old trees, separating in thin papery layers; shoots green, glandular and hairy, becoming glabrous and reddish-brown; leaves ovate or rhombic-ovate, acute to long taper-pointed, truncate, rounded or wedge-shape at the base, average blades - cm. long, usually irregularly double-serrate, hairy at first, becoming glabrous above or nearly so, remaining more or less pubescent below, especially on the veins and with tufts of hairs in the axils of the veins, minutely glandular on both surfaces, sometimes with only a few glands on the midribs above; fertile catkins - cm. long and about - mm. wide, bracts about mm. long, pubescent on both faces, lobed to about one-third the distance from the apex, the lateral lobes the largest, divaricate or slightly recurved; seed deeply notched at apex, nut oval, pubescent at the apex, wings as broad as, or broader than the nut. =distribution.=--alaska to labrador, south to new york, northern indiana, colorado and washington. in indiana it has been reported from lake, laporte, marshall and st. joseph counties. it has not been found as a native in ohio. this species is another example of a northern form finding its southern limit near lake michigan. =remarks.=--this species in other parts of the country is known as white, paper and canoe birch. i have not seen specimens more than dm. in diameter in indiana. = .= =betula nìgra= linnæus. black or red birch. plate . a medium sized tree; bark on young trees peeling off transversely in thin reddish-brown strips which roll back and usually persist for several years, bark of older trees dark brown, furrowed and separating into short plates or peeling off in strips; young twigs hairy, becoming glabrous and reddish at the end of the season; leaves rhombic-ovate, acute, short and broadly wedge-shaped at the base, blades of ordinary leaves - cm. long, irregularly toothed, glabrous above and pubescent beneath, rarely entirely glabrous; fertile catkins generally - cm. long, and usually slightly less than cm. wide; bracts - mm. long, pubescent, ciliate, lobed to near the middle, the lobes about equal; nuts broadly ovate, broader than its wings, pubescent at the apex; wood light, strong, close-grained, heart wood light brown. =distribution.=--massachusetts west to minnesota and south to florida and texas. in indiana it is found more or less frequent in the counties bordering the kankakee river, and as far east as st. joseph, marshall and miami counties. along the kankakee river it is frequently a tree of - dm. in diameter. this species has not been found in michigan, northeastern indiana or northern ohio. it has never been noted near lake michigan, and the nearest point is cedar lake in lake county about miles south of the lake. it is more or less frequent along certain streams throughout the southwestern part of the state. it is found as far north as putnam and marion counties and eastward as far as bartholomew, scott and clark counties. there are no records for this species for eastern indiana or western ohio. about hovey lake in posey county it reaches its greatest size, where trees up to dm. in diameter and m. high are to be found. in the "flats" in certain parts of jackson and scott counties it becomes a common tree, associated with pin oak and sweet gum. [illustration: plate . betula nigra linnæus. black or red birch. (× / .)] =remarks.=--this is the most abundant birch of indiana. in fact all other species are too rare to be of economic importance. the fact that other species of birch are so rare in indiana, is the reason that this species is simply called "birch." outside of indiana it is known as red birch and river birch. the principal use of this wood in this state is for heading. all of the birches, especially the horticultural forms, are used more or less for ornamental planting. they are beautiful trees but are short lived. = . Álnus.= the alders. trees or shrubs; bark astringent; staminate and pistillate catkins begin to develop early in summer and flower the following year early in the spring before the leaves appear; bracts of the fertile catkins thick and woody, obdeltoid with -rounded lobes at the apex; nuts obovate, reddish-brown. leaves sharply double-serrate, the ends of the primary veins forming the apex of the larger teeth, glaucous beneath; nuts with a narrow thick margin a. incana. leaves single-serrate, pale beneath; nuts without margins a. rugosa. = .= =alnus incàna= (linnæus) muenchhausen. speckled alder. plate . shrubs or small trees; bark generally smooth and a reddish-brown with a tinge of gray, with grayish dots, hence its name; twigs hairy at first, becoming smooth by the end of the season and a golden or reddish-brown with many fine dark specks; leaves broadly-oval, acute or short-pointed at apex, usually broadly rounded at the base, average blades . - cm. long, glaucous beneath, hairy on both sides on unfolding, at maturity becoming glabrous above or with a few hairs on the veins, beneath remaining more or less hairy until late in autumn when usually only the veins are hairy; pistillate catkins resembling small cones, - . cm. long and usually - mm. wide, near the ends of the branches, usually in clusters of - . [illustration: plate . alnus incana (linnæus) muenchhausen. speckled alder. (× / .)] =distribution.=--newfoundland to the saskatchewan, south to new york, northeastern ohio, northern indiana and nebraska. in indiana it is confined to the northern tier of counties. i have specimens from elkhart, lagrange, lake and porter counties. it was reported from carroll county by thompson, but in the absence of a verifying specimen i am inclined to think this citation should be referred to _alnus_ _rugosa_. this species grows in low ground on the borders of streams, borders of swamps and in almost extinct sloughs near lake michigan. it is also found along pigeon river in the eastern part of lagrange county. in the vicinity of mineral springs in porter county it is locally a common shrub or tree. it has the habit of stooling out, and commonly the several specimens will be deflected from a vertical from - degrees. the largest specimens are from - . dm. in diameter and about m. high. =remarks.=--this species could be used to good advantage in ornamental planting in low ground. it grows rapidly, is easily transplanted and its foliage is dense and attractive. = .= =alnus rugòsa= (du roi) sprengel. smooth alder. plate . shrubs with fluted or angled trunks, resembling _carpinus_; bark thin, smooth or nearly so, reddish-brown, weathering gray; twigs hairy at first, becoming gray or reddish-brown by the end of the season and more or less glabrous and covered with small dark specks; leaves obovate, barely acute or rounded at apex, wedge-shape at base, average blades - cm. long, hairy on both surfaces while young, becoming smooth or nearly so above, remaining more or less hairy beneath, especially on the veins, under surface of leaves sufficiently glutinous to adhere to paper if pressure be applied, margins set with short callous teeth, about . - mm. long; fertile catkins cone-shape, - mm. long and about mm. in diameter, borne at the ends of branches in clusters of - . =distribution.=--maine to minnesota, south to florida and texas. in indiana it is quite local. it has been reported in many of the counties of northern indiana north of the wabash river. it has been found in several of the southern counties and as far north as salt creek in monroe county. no reports for the central part of the state. it is absent also in all of the eastern counties of the state, and the western part of ohio. it is found growing in clumps in wet woods, swamps, cold bogs and along streams. it is usually a tall slender shrub; however, a specimen has been seen that measured cm. in diameter and m. in height. =remarks.=--of no value except for ornamental planting in wet ground. =fagÀceae.= the beech family. trees with simple, alternate, petioled leaves; flowers of two kinds; fruit a one-seeded nut. this is the most important family of trees occurring in the state. [illustration: plate . alnus rugosa (du roi) sprengel. smooth alder. (× / .)] winter buds long and slender, at least times as long as wide; staminate flowers in globose heads on drooping peduncles; nuts sharply -angled fagus. winter buds not long and slender and less than times as long as wide; staminate flowers in slender catkins; nuts not as above. staminate catkins erect or spreading; nut flattened on one side and enclosed in a spiny, woody husk castanea. staminate catkins drooping; nuts not flattened on one side, seated in a scaly, woody cup quercus. = . fÀgus.= the beech. =fagus grandifòlia= ehrhart. beech. plate . large tall trees with bark from light to dark gray; twigs densely covered at first with long hairs, soon becoming glabrous and turning to a reddish-brown; terminal winter buds about cm. long; leaves ovate to ovate-oblong, long taper-pointed to merely acute, wedge-shape to cordate at base, regularly and usually minutely serrate, average blades - cm. long, silky when young, becoming at maturity glabrous above and nearly so beneath except on the veins; flowers appear in may; fruit a bur, supported on a club-shaped pubescent peduncle about . cm. long, covered with short recurved prickles, densely rufous-pubescent, its -valves enclosing the two triangular brown nuts; nuts edible; wood very hard, strong, usually tough, difficult to season, close-grained, takes a high polish, sap wood white, heart wood reddish. =distribution.=--nova scotia, southern ontario to wisconsin, south to the gulf states and texas. it is found in every county of the state, although it is local in the prairie and dry sandy regions of the northwestern part of the state. it is a frequent to a very common tree on the high ground in many parts of the state. if the high ground and hills of the state are not forested with white and black oak, beech is almost certain to be the prevailing species. wherever beech is found it is usually a frequent to a common tree, and it is not uncommon to see areas which are almost a pure stand of this species. it is also a frequent to a common tree in southern indiana in what is called the "flats." here it is associated with sweet gum and pin oak. on the slopes of hills of the southern counties it is associated with a great variety of trees. in the central part of the state its most frequent associate is the sugar maple. in the northern counties it has a wider range of associates, including white oak, ash, slippery elm, buckeye, ironwood, etc. it should be added that tulip is a constant associate except in the "flats." in point of number it ranks as first of indiana trees. [illustration: plate . fagus grandifolia ehrhart. beech. (× / .)] =remarks.=--specimens with the habit of retaining their branches which lop downward, usually have thicker sap wood and are harder to split. this form is popularly styled the white beech. the form with smooth tall trunks with upright branches usually has more heart wood, splits more easily and is popularly distinguished as red beech. the term yellow beech is variously applied. this species is a large tree in all parts of the state, although the largest specimens are found in the southeastern part of the state. in the virgin forests trees almost m. in diameter and m. high were frequent. beech was formerly used only for fuel, but in the last few decades it has been cut and used for many purposes, and the supply is fast diminishing. the beauty of this tree both in summer and winter, sunshine or storm makes it one of the most desirable for shade tree planting, but i have failed to find where it has been successfully used. it is one of the few trees that does not take to domestication. when the original forest is reduced to a remnant of beech, as a rule, the remaining beech will soon begin to die at the top. it is difficult to transplant. when planted the hole should be filled with earth obtained from under a living tree, in order to introduce the mycorrhiza that is necessary to the growth of the tree. = . castÀnea.= the chestnut. =castanea dentàta= (marshall) borkhausen. chestnut. plate . large trees with deeply fissured bark, smooth on young trees; young twigs more or less hairy, soon becoming glabrous and a reddish-brown; leaves lanceolate, average blades - cm. long, taper-pointed, wedge-shape or obtuse at the base, coarsely serrate, teeth usually incurved, at maturity glabrous on both sides; flowers appear after the leaves in the latter part of june or early in july, the staminate catkins from the axils of the leaves of the year's growth, . - dm. long, pistillate flowers in heads on short stalks in the axils of the leaves, usually on the branch beyond the greater part of the staminate catkins; fruit a globular spiny bur - cm. in diameter which contains the nuts; nuts usually - , rarely , flattened on one side, edible; wood light, soft, not strong, checks and warps on seasoning, yellowish-brown, durable in contact with the ground. [illustration: plate . castanea dentata (marshall) borkhausen. chestnut. (× / .)] =distribution.=--maine, southern ontario, michigan, south to delaware and in the mountains to alabama, and west to arkansas. in indiana it is found locally in the south central counties. the most northern station where i have seen trees that are native to a certainty is in morgan county a short distance north of martinsville. there are a few trees on the south bank of white river in mound park about miles east of anderson. this site was formerly an indian village, and the trees may have been introduced here. the late a. c. benedict formerly of the state geological survey, told me he saw a colony in in fayette county on the farm of dr. b. ball, about miles west of connersville on the east side of little williams creek. the trees were at least dm. in diameter. the western line of distribution would be a line drawn from martinsville to a point a few miles west of shoals and south to tell city. =remarks.=--the greatest numbers of this species are found on the outcrops of the knobstone in clark, floyd, harrison, jackson, lawrence, martin, orange and washington counties. it grows on high ground, associated with white and black oak, beech, etc. the species in all of our area grows to be a large tree. in the ind. geol. rept. : : there is a reference to a "stump in jackson county that was ft. and in. in diameter." this species is rather gregarious in habit, and rarely are isolated trees found. it is quite local in its distribution, but where found it is usually a common tree. the bark was much used in tanning, and the timber for poles, ties and posts. the demand for this species has led to heavy cutting, so that the present supply is practically limited to inferior or small trees. the nut crop in this state is usually badly infested by the weevil. this species is easily propagated by seed or seedlings. it is recommended for forest planting in all parts of its natural range and other parts of the state where the soil is very sandy and free from limestone. this species never attains to an old age when growing close to the limestone. it grows rapidly and requires little pruning. the only objection to planting it for forestry purposes is that it might be infested by the chestnut bark disease which is fatal to this tree. this disease is far to the east of us, and there are wide barriers to its western migration. since a chestnut grove would soon grow into post and pole size, in the event the grove would be killed by the bark disease, the crop could be harvested and the loss would be more of the nature of a disappointment than a financial one. if planted in a cleared area the seedlings should be spaced about  ×  feet if no cultivation can be done. if the trees can be cultivated, plant  ×  or  ×  feet and grow corn for one or two years between the rows. = . quÉrcus.= the oaks. the leaves of indiana oaks are deciduous; flowers appear in april or may, very small, the staminate on slender pendulous catkins, the pistillate solitary or in clusters in scaly bud-like cups; fruit an acorn which takes one or two years to mature, ripening in september or october. the species that mature their fruit the first year are popularly and commercially classed as "white oaks." those that mature their fruit the second year are classed as "red, black or bristle-tipped oaks." the oaks are the largest genus of indiana trees, and commercially are the most important of all trees of the state. they are the longest lived of all the trees that occur in the state, and while they have numerous insect enemies none of them prove fatal to it, except a certain gall insect. note:--in collecting leaf specimens of oaks for identification it should be borne in mind that the foliage is quite variable. the leaves of seedlings, coppice shoots and of vigorous shoots of old trees sometimes vary considerably in size, form and leaf-margins. also leaves of old trees that grow in the shade usually have the margins more nearly entire than the typical leaves. for example leaves may be found on the lower and interior branches of a pin oak which are not lobed to beyond the middle, which throws them into the red oak group. bark gray, (except in no. ) more or less scaly; mature leaves never with bristle tips; fruit maturing the first year. mature leaves smooth beneath. q. alba. mature leaves pubescent beneath. primary veins beneath show regular pinnate venation. some of the primary veins beneath end in a sinus. q. bicolor. all primary veins beneath end in teeth of the margin. tips of leaves of fruiting branches sharp-pointed, usually forming an acute angle; fruit sessile or nearly so. q. muhlenbergii. tips of leaves of fruiting branches rounded or if sharp-pointed, it rarely forms an acute angle; fruit peduncled. petioles green and woolly pubescent beneath (rarely almost glabrous); under surface of leaves velvety to the touch; bark gray, scaly, of the white oak type; trees of low ground. q. michauxii. petioles yellowish and smooth beneath, or rarely somewhat pubescent; under surface of leaves not velvety to the touch; bark dark, and tight, of the red oak type; trees of high ground (in indiana confined to the "knobstone" area). q. prinus. primary veins beneath show irregular venation. last year's growth pubescent; acorns generally less than mm. in diameter. q. stellata. last year's growth glabrous or nearly so; acorns more than mm. in diameter. leaves sinuate dentate, sometimes lobed near the base, velvety to the touch beneath; peduncles of fruit longer than the petioles. q. bicolor. leaves irregularly lobed, harsh or rarely velvety or smooth to the touch beneath; peduncles of fruit shorter than the petioles. cup of fruit fringed; apex of lobes of leaves generally rounded; trees of lowland. q. macrocarpa. cup of fruit not fringed; apex of lobes of leaves generally acute; trees of swamps in the extreme southwestern counties of indiana. q. lyrata. bark dark, tight and furrowed; leaves with bristle tips; fruit maturing the second year. leaves entire q. imbricaria. leaves more or less deeply lobed, the lobes and teeth conspicuously bristle pointed. mature leaves smooth beneath, except tufts of hairs in the axils. leaves lobed to about the middle, the lateral lobes broadest at the base; cup saucer-shaped; nut about . - cm. in diameter; terminal buds reddish. q. rubra. leaves lobed to beyond the middle, frequently those grown in dense shade not so deeply lobed, some or all of the lateral lobes broadest toward the apex. cup saucer-shaped, rarely enclosing the nut for more than / its length; trees of the low lands and swamps. leaves glossy above; blades usually - cm. long; cups usually . cm. or less broad; terminal buds chestnut brown. q. palustris. leaves dull above, usually about cm. long; cups . - . cm. broad, rarely as narrow as . cm.; terminal buds grayish brown. q. schneckii. cup hemispheric, generally enclosing the nut for half its length; trees of the uplands. inner bark yellowish or orange; kernel of nut yellowish or orange, and very bitter. terminal buds usually mm. or less in length, ovoid and generally blunt, reddish-brown; scales of cup closely appressed; trees local in the extreme northwest part of the state. q. ellipsoidalis. terminal buds usually longer than mm., usually angled and sharp-pointed; scales of cup not closely appressed; trees of all parts of the state q. velutina. inner bark reddish or gray; kernel white and not very bitter q. coccinea. mature leaves more or less pubescent on the whole under surface. leaves grayish or yellowish pubescent beneath; scales of cup with a reddish-brown border; nut enclosed for about / its length q. falcata. leaves brownish or rusty pubescent beneath, sometimes appearing grayish; scales of cup without a dark border; nut enclosed for about half of its length. leaves expanded at the apex, and generally with three lobes; mature twigs generally scurvy-pubescent q. marilandica. leaves deeply lobed; mature twigs generally glabrous. q. velutina. = .= =quercus álba= linnæus. white oak. plate . large trees with gray, fissured bark, flaky on the branches, on the upper part of the trunks of some trees the bark loosens at the fissures and peels back, forming flat strips which remain attached at one side; twigs at first hairy, becoming smooth; leaves mostly obovate in outline, generally - cm. long on petioles . - cm. long, more or less deeply lobed into - lobes, the lobes ascending and generally blunt and entire, sometimes the lobes have one or two secondary lobes, leaves narrowed and oblique at the base, smooth above, smooth and glaucous beneath; acorns sessile or on stalks up to cm. long; nuts quite variable on different trees as to size and shape, ovoid or oblong, - mm. long; cup flat on the bottom, tuberculate and encloses about / of the nut; scales blunt and woolly. =distribution.=--maine, southern ontario, minnesota south to florida and texas. found in all parts of indiana. in point of number it is exceeded only by the beech, although it has a more general distribution. it is adapted to many types of soil, and is found in almost all situations in indiana except in very wet soils. it is sparingly found in the sand dune area. on the clay soils of the northern part of the state it is a frequent to an abundant tree, and in the southern part of the state it often forms complete stands on the slopes of the hills. the white oak is one of the largest and possibly the longest lived tree of indiana. while it is able to adapt itself to many situations, it grows to the largest size in a porous, moist and rich soil. =remarks.=--wood heavy, hard, close-grained, tough, strong and durable. on account of its abundance, and wide range of uses, it has always been the most important timber tree of indiana. formerly the woods were full of white oak - . meters ( - ft.) in diameter, but today trees of a meter ( ft.) in diameter with long straight trunks are rare indeed. michaux who traveled extensively in america - , while the whole mississippi valley was yet a wilderness, remarks: "the white oak is the most valuable tree in america." he observed the ruthless destruction of this valuable tree, and predicted that the supply would soon be depleted, and that america would be sorry that regulations were not adopted to conserve the supply of this valuable tree. michaux's prediction has come true, and yet no constructive measures have been provided to insure the nation an adequate supply of this timber. it should be remembered that it requires two to three hundred years to grow a white oak a meter in diameter, and if we are to have white oak of that size in the next generation the largest of our present stand must be spared for that harvest. [illustration: plate . quercus alba linnæus. white oak. (× / .) acorns from different trees to show variation.] white oak was formerly much used in construction work, but it has become so costly that cheaper woods take its place. at present it is used principally in cooperage, interior finish, wagon and car stock, furniture, agricultural implements, crossties, and veneer. indiana has the reputation of furnishing the best grade of white oak in the world. little attention has been given this valuable species either in horticultural or forestal planting. this no doubt is due in a great measure to the slow growth of the tree. it should be used more for shade tree, ornamental and roadside tree planting. there are good reasons why white oak should be much used in reforestation. the cheapest and most successful method of propagating white oak is to plant the seed in the places where the trees are desired to grow. this is best done by planting the acorns as soon as they fall or are mature. the best results will be obtained if the nuts are planted with the small end down, and covered about an inch deep with earth. if the ground is a hard clay soil and the small end of the nut is placed down a half inch of earth on the nut is sufficient. rodents often destroy the nuts, and if this danger is apprehended it is best to poison the rodents or to stratify the seed, or grow seedlings and plant them when they are one year old. in forestal planting it is suggested that the planting be  ×  feet. the white oak is quite variable in the lobing of the leaves, and in size and shape of the fruit, and in the length of its peduncle. the variable lobing of the leaves has lead several authors to describe varieties based on this character. the latest is that of sargent[ ] who describes: "the trees with leaves less deeply divided, with broad rounded lobes and usually smaller generally sessile fruit," as =quercus alba= variety =latiloba=. =quercus alba × muhlenbérgii= (× _quercus deami_ trelease). this rare hybrid was discovered in a woods about miles northwest of bluffton indiana by l. a. williamson and his son e. b. williamson in .[ ] the tree is still standing and in bore a heavy crop of seed. a liberal quantity was sent for propagation to the arnold arboretum, new york botanical gardens, and missouri botanical gardens. the arboretum succeeded in germinating several seed. the new york gardens succeeded in getting seedlings. the missouri gardens failed to get any to germinate. about a gallon of seeds was planted in the clark county state forest nursery and all failed. = .= =quercus bícolor willdenow.= swamp white oak. plate . large trees; leaves on petioles - mm. long, - cm. long, obovate, wedge-shaped or narrowly rounded at base, rounded or pointed at the apex, margins coarsely divided with rounded or blunt teeth or somewhat pinnatifid, primary venation beneath somewhat regular, but usually some of the veins end in a sinus of the margin, both surfaces hairy at first, becoming smooth above and remaining velvety pubescent beneath; the upper surface of the leaf a bronze or dark green and the under surface grayish due to the dense tomentum, which in some instances becomes sparse and short, in which case the under surface is a light green; acorns usually in pairs on stalks - cm. long; nuts ovoid, - . cm. long, enclosed for / - / their length in the cup; scales of cup acute to very long acuminate, scurvy pubescent and frequently tuberculate; kernel sweetish. =distribution.=--maine, southern ontario, southern minnesota south to georgia and arkansas. found in all parts of indiana. it is always found in wet places. in most of its range it is associated with the bur oak from which it is not commonly separated. in the northern counties it is usually associated with pin and bur oak, and white elm; in the flats of the southeastern part of the state it is usually associated with cow oak and sweet gum, while in the southwestern counties it is found most commonly with spanish and pin oak. =remarks.=--commercially the wood is not distinguished from white oak, and the cut is sold for that species. = .= =quercus muhlenbérgii= engelmann. chinquapin oak. sweet oak. yellow oak. chestnut oak. plate . large trees; leaves on petioles - cm. long, blades very variable in size, shape and leaf margins, generally - cm. long, oblong-lanceolate to broadly obovate, narrowed or rounded and more or less unequal at the base, taper-pointed at the apex, the apex always forming an acute angle, margins coarsely and rather regularly toothed, primary veins beneath regular and straight, and end in a prominent gland in the point of the teeth, teeth more or less incurved, leaves smooth and dark green above, and grayish pubescent beneath; acorns generally sessile, but often on short stalks up to cm. long; nut ovoid to oblong ovoid, - mm. long, enclosed for / - / its length in a very thin cup; scales of cup ovate, blunt-pointed or merely acute, sometimes tuberculate near the base of the cup, grayish pubescent without; kernel sweet, and the most edible of all of our oaks. [illustration: plate . quercus bicolor willdenow. swamp white oak. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . quercus muhlenbergii engelmann. chinquapin oak. (× / .) detached acorns and leaves from different trees.] =distribution.=--vermont, southwestern ontario to wisconsin and south to florida and west to texas. found in limited numbers in all parts of indiana, although hill's record for lake county is the only record in the block of the northwest counties. it is without a doubt found in every county south of the wabash river. it is a rare or an infrequent tree in practically all parts of its range. it is generally found on the dry banks of streams, river terrace banks, rocky bluffs of streams, and only rarely in level dry woods. in the southern counties it is sometimes found on clay or rocky ridges. in most of its range it is now so rare that most of the inhabitants do not know the tree. =remarks.=--wood similar to white oak, and with the same uses. in white county a pioneer was found who knew the tree only by the name of pigeon oak. he said it received this name from the fact that the wild pigeons were fond of the acorns. the leaves of this tree vary greatly in size, shape, and leaf margins. the fruit also varies on different trees in the shape of the nut, and the depth of the cup. these variations have lead some authors to separate the forms and one histological study[ ] seems to support minor differences. it has been observed that the leaves in the top of some trees may be thick, narrow and with long incurved teeth, while the leaves of the lower branches will be strongly obovate, thinner, and the teeth more dentate. in a general study it is best to include the polymorphic forms under one name. the distribution of the shallow and deep cup forms is so general that no regional or habitat areas can be assigned to either of them in indiana. = .= =quercus michaúxii= nuttall (_quercus prinus_ sargent). cow oak. basket oak. plate . large trees; leaves on petioles - cm. long, generally - dm. long, obovate, narrowed or narrowly rounded at the base, short taper-pointed, the apex generally blunt, the margins coarsely toothed, the teeth broad and rounded or more rarely acute, shaded leaves sometimes with margins merely undulate, hairy on both surfaces when young, becoming at maturity a dark yellow green and glabrous above, sometimes remaining somewhat pubescent along the midrib and the principal veins, leaves grayish and woolly pubescent beneath; acorns solitary or in pairs, sessile or on very short stalks, up to almost a cm. in length; nuts ovoid or oval with a broad base, enclosed for about / their length by the cup, the cups thick and generally - cm. broad; scales ovate, acute, rather blunt-pointed and more or less tuberculate near the base of the cup, tomentose on the back; kernel sweet. [illustration: plate . quercus michauxii nuttall. cow or basket oak. (× / .)] =distribution.=--delaware, southern indiana, missouri, south to florida and west to texas. in indiana it is believed that its distribution is pretty well known and well defined. it is an inhabitant of low wet woods, although large trees may be found in fairly dry woods which have been made dry by drainage. in discussing the distribution it must be remembered that this species was reported as _quercus prinus_ before the sixth edition of gray's manual which was published in . gorby's[ ] reference to miami county should be ignored, because he compiled his list of trees from a list of common names to which he appended the scientific names. his list includes several species which are not native, and his water willow (_dianthera americana_) is an herbaceous plant. wilson's[ ] report for hamilton county i believe also to be an error. wilson preserved no specimen. since hamilton county has no cow oak habitat, and wilson was not acquainted with the species, i think this reference should be transferred to the broad-leaf form of _quercus muhlenbergii_. the author has collected and distributed authentic specimens from a point - / miles southwest of napoleon in ripley county. this species is reported by meyncke for franklin county as scarce, and by collins for dearborn county. since the habitat of the species is found in these counties, it is fair to admit them into the range of the species. this species is a frequent to a very common tree in the flats of clark, scott, jefferson, jackson, jennings, and ripley counties, where it is usually associated with beech and sweet gum. it is now known to range as far north as the northern parts of jackson, jennings and ripley counties. it is an infrequent tree of the lower wabash valley as far north as southern knox county and no doubt followed eastward along white river. it follows the ohio river eastward at least to a point six miles east of grandview in spencer county. it no doubt was an occasional tree along the ohio river up to dearborn county. it has also been reported by aiken for hamilton county, ohio. in the lower wabash valley it is associated with spanish and pin oak. =remarks.=--wood and uses similar to white oak. in the flats of southeastern indiana it is generally called white oak, and in some places it is known as bur oak. it grows very rapidly and to a large size. a tree was measured in in the klein woods about miles north of north vernon that was . meters ( feet, inches) in circumference, breast high, and was estimated to be m. ( feet) to the first branch. this species when grown in the open forms a large oval head, and in moist soil would make one of the best shade and roadside trees to be had. it is not known how it would adapt itself to high ground, but it is believed this species is worthy a trial as a shade tree. it is apparently hardy in the northern counties. =quercus bèadlei= trelease. (_quercus alba × michauxii_). this hybrid between the white and cow oak was found by the writer in in the white river bottoms miles east of medora in jackson county. the tree measured . meters ( inches) in circumference breast high. specimens were distributed under no. , , and the determination was made by william trelease, our leading authority on oaks. = .= =quercus prìnus= linnæus. (_quercus montana_ willdenow of some recent authors). chestnut oak. plate . medium to large sized tree; bark dark, tight, deeply fissured, the furrows wide, and the ridges continuous; leaves on petioles - cm. long, - dm. long, obovate to lanceolate, those growing in the shade usually the widest, rounded at the base, usually narrowly so or even wedge-shaped, short or long taper-pointed at the apex, the apex blunt, margins coarsely and nearly regularly crenate-toothed, the teeth broad and rounded, dark green above at maturity, a lighter and usually a yellow or grayish green beneath, only slightly hairy above when young, soon becoming entirely glabrate, very pubescent beneath when young and usually remaining so until maturity; petioles, midrib and primary veins beneath are usually conspicuously yellow, which is a distinctive character of this species; acorns solitary or in pairs, on short stalks usually about cm. long, sometimes sessile; nuts large ovoid or oblong-ovoid, - cm. long, enclosed generally for about / their length in a thin cup; scales with triangular blunt tips, generally somewhat tuberculate and pubescent on the back; kernel sweet. =distribution.=--maine, northern shore of lake erie, to west central indiana and south to northern georgia and alabama. in indiana its distribution is limited to the knobstone and sandstone area of the state. its distribution has been fairly well mapped. two large trees on the edge of the top of the bluff of the ohio river at marble hill which is located in the south corner of jefferson county is the eastern limit of its range. it crowns some of the ridges, sometimes extending down the adjacent slopes a short distance, from floyd county north to the south side of salt creek in brown county. its range then extends west to the east side of monroe county, thence southwestward to the west side of martin county, thence south to the ohio river. where it is found it is generally such a common tree that the areas are commonly called chestnut oak ridges and are regarded as our poorest and most stony land. in floyd and clark counties it is usually associated with scrub pine. in the remainder of its range it is generally associated with black jack post and black oaks. in our area this species is never found closely associated with limestone, and reports of this species being found on limestone areas should be referred to _quercus muhlenbergii_. [illustration: plate . quercus prinus linnæus. chestnut oak. (× / .) acorns and loose leaves from different trees.] =remarks.=--wood similar and uses generally the same as white oak. the tree usually grows in such poor situations that it never acquires a large diameter, and it is only when a tree is found in a cove or in richer and deeper soil that it grows to a large size. the amount of this species is very limited and it is therefore of no especial economic importance as a source of timber supply. the bark is rich in tannin. the crests of chestnut oak ridges are often cut bare of this species. the trunks are made into crossties, and the larger branches are peeled for their bark. the nuts germinate on top of the ground as soon as they fall, or even before they fall. usually a large percentage germinate. the tree grows rapidly where soil conditions are at all favorable. it is believed that this species should be used to reforest the chestnut oak ridges of the state, and possibly it would be one of the best to employ on the slopes of other poor ridges. = .= =quercus stellàta= wangenheim. post oak. plate . medium to large trees; bark resembles that of the white oak except on old trees the fissures are deeper when compared with a white oak of equal size, and the ridges are usually broken into shorter lengths; twigs stout, yellowish-brown at first, remaining this color more or less to the end of the season, at first densely covered with hairs which remain throughout the season, and usually one year old branchlets are more or less tomentose; leaves on hairy petioles . - cm. long, generally about cm. long; leaves obovate in outline, commonly - dm. long and about / as wide, and generally lobed into five principal lobes which are disposed as follows: the two basal are formed by two deep sinuses just below the middle of the leaf which cut off a large roughly triangular portion, one angle of which forms the base, the top two angles prolonged on each side into a rounded lobe which may be long or short; the terminal lobe is produced by two deep sinuses which constrict the blade at about / - / its length from the apex; the two basal and two terminal sinuses form the two lateral lobes which in size are equal to about one half of the leaf area; the lateral lobes are generally ascending with the terminal portion usually indented with a shallow sinus which produces two short lobes; the terminal lobe of the leaf commonly has two or three shallow secondary lobes; all the lobes of the leaf are rounded; base of leaf narrowed or rounded; leaves very thick at maturity, when they first appear both surfaces are densely covered with a yellowish pubescence, at maturity the upper surface is a dark glossy green, and smooth or nearly so, except some leaves retain fascicles of hairs, and the midrib and principal veins may be more or less rough pubescent, the under surface at maturity is a gray-green, and remains more or less densely covered with fascicles of hairs; acorns single or in clusters, sessile or nearly so; nuts small, ovoid - mm. long and - mm. wide, inclosed for about / their length in the cup; scales ovate, gray or reddish brown, tomentose on the back, blunt except those near the top of the cup which are sometimes acute; kernel sweet. [illustration: plate . quercus stellata wangenheim. post oak. (× / .) acorns from different trees.] =distribution.=--massachusetts, indiana, south to florida, and west to oklahoma and texas. in indiana it is confined to the southwestern part of the state. in our area it is found on the crest of ridges in the knob area where it is generally associated with black, and black jack oaks, hence in our poorest and thinnest soils. west of the knob area it takes up different habitats. from vigo county southward it is found on sand ridges associated with black and black jack oaks. west of the knob area it is frequently found in black oak woods and in warrick county about two miles southwest of tennyson it is a frequent tree in the little pigeon creek bottoms which are a hard light clay soil. here it is associated with pin oak and cork elm (_ulmus alata_). in the lower wabash valley, especially in point township of posey county in the hard clay of this area it is a frequent to a common tree, associated with spanish, pin, swamp, white and shingle oaks, and sweet gum. in this area it grows to be a large tree. this species has been reported for hamilton county by wilson, but i regard this reference a wrong identification which will relieve hamilton county of the reputation of having "post oak" land. it was reported, also, by gorby for miami county. since gorby's list is wholly unreliable, it is best to drop this reference. higley and raddin[ ] reported a single tree near whiting. nieuwland[ ] reported this species from near mineral springs in porter county, the report being based on his number , which i have not seen. there is no reason to doubt these references, because it is not an unusual thing to find a southern form jump from southern indiana to a congenial habitat about lake michigan. =remarks.=--wood is similar but tougher than white oak, and its uses are the same as white oak. since in our area the tree is usually medium sized, most of the trees are worked up into crossties. a tree in a black oak woods miles east of washington in daviess county measured . meters ( - / inches) in circumference breast high. this species in some localities is called iron oak, and in gibson county on the sand dune area it is called sand bur oak. [illustration: plate . quercus macrocarpa michaux. bur oak. (× / .) acorns from different trees. the right two belong to the variety olivÆformis.] = .= =quercus macrocàrpa= michaux. bur oak. plate . large trees; branchlets of young trees generally develop corky wings which are usually absent on mature trees; leaves on petioles - cm. long, obovate in outline, generally - . dm. long, the margins more or less deeply cut so that there are usually lobes, sometimes only , or as many as or , sometimes the sinuses extend to the midrib, giving the leaf a "skeleton" appearance, the lobes are very irregular in shape and variously arranged, but often appear as if in pairs, lobes rounded and ascending, the larger lobes are sometimes somewhat lobed, the three terminal lobes are usually the largest and considered as a whole would equal in size one half or more of the entire leaf area, the base of the leaf is wedge-shape or narrowly rounded; leaves at maturity are dark green and smooth above, or somewhat pubescent along the midrib, a gray-green and woolly pubescent beneath; acorns usually solitary, sometimes in pairs or clusters of three, sessile or on short stalks, sometimes on stalks as long as . cm.; nuts very variable in size and shape, ovoid to oblong, often very much depressed at the apex, - cm. long, enclosed from / to almost their entire length in the cup which is fringed at the top; cups thick and large, sometimes . cm. in diameter; scales tomentose on the back and somewhat tuberculate, blunt near the base of the cup, but at and near the top of the cup they become long attenuate and on some trees appear almost bristle like; kernel sweet. =distribution.=--nova scotia to manitoba, south to georgia and west to texas and wyoming. found in all parts of indiana, although we have no reports from the knob area where no doubt it is only local. it is a tree of wet woods, low borders of streams, etc., except among the hills of southern indiana, it is an occasional tree of the slopes. in favorable habitats it was a frequent to a common tree. its most constant associates are white elm, swamp white and red oak, linn, green and black ash, shellbark hickory, etc. it is sometimes called mossy-cup oak. =remarks.=--wood and uses similar to that of white oak. in point of number, size and value it ranks as one of the most valuable trees of the state. michaux[ ] says: "a tree three miles from troy, ohio, was measured that was fourteen feet and nine inches in diameter six feet above the ground. the trunk rises about fifty feet without limbs, and with scarcely a perceptible diminution in size." = a.= =quercus macrocarpa= var. =olivæfórmis= (michaux filius) gray. this variety is distinguished from the typical form by its shallow cup, and the long oval nut which is often cm. long. the cup is semi-hemispheric, and encloses the nut for about one-half its length. authentic specimens are at hand from wells county, and it has been reported from gibson and hamilton counties. no doubt this form has a wider range. = .= =quercus lyràta= walter. overcup oak. plate . medium sized trees; bark generally intermediate between that of the swamp white and bur oak; leaves on petioles - mm. long which are generally somewhat reddish toward the base, - cm. long, obovate or oblong-obovate, margins very irregularly divided into - short or long lobes, ascending and generally acute, ordinarily the three terminal lobes are the largest, base of leaves wedge-shape, or narrowly rounded, upper surface at maturity dark green and smooth, the under surface densely covered with a thick tomentum to which is added more or less long and single or fascicled straight hairs; when the leaves are as described on the under surface they are gray beneath; however, a form occurs which is yellow green beneath and has little or no tomentum, but is thickly covered with long single or fascicled straight hairs; acorn single or in pairs, on stalks generally about cm. long, sometimes the stalks are cm. long, the stalk lies in a plane at a right angle to the base of the acorn which is a characteristic of this species; nut depressed-globose, about . cm. long, generally almost completely enclosed in the cup, or sometimes enclosed only for about / its length; cup generally very thick at the base, gradually becoming thinner at the top, and often it splits open; scales tomentose on the back, those near the base, thick and tuberculate on the back and blunt, but those near the top of the cup are acute or long attenuate; kernel sweet. =distribution.=--maryland to missouri,[ ] and south to florida and west to texas. in indiana it is found only about river sloughs or deep swamps in the southwestern counties. at present it is known only from knox, gibson, posey and spencer counties. it was reported by nieuwland[ ] for marshall county on the authority of clark. this specimen was taken during a survey of lake maxinkuckee, and is deposited in the national museum. i have had the specimen examined by an authority, who reports that it is some other species. its habitat is that of areas that are inundated much of the winter season. it is so rare that its associates could not be learned. in one place it grew in a depression lower than a nearby pin oak, and in another place it grew in a depression in a very low woods, surrounded by sweet gum, big shell bark hickory, and pin oak. it is generally found singly in depressions, but it is a common tree on the low border of the west side of burnett's pond in gibson county. =remarks.=--wood and uses similar to that of white oak. in our area it is usually known as bur oak. [illustration: plate . quercus lyrata walter. overcup oak. (× / .) acorns from different trees.] = .= =quercus imbricària= michaux. shingle oak. plate . medium to large sized trees; leaves on petioles generally . - cm. long, - cm. long, elliptic to oblong-lanceolate, narrowed or rounded at the base, apex generally sharp-pointed and ending with a bristle, sometimes very wide leaves are blunt at the apex, margins entire, when they first appear the upper surface is somewhat woolly and the under surface whitish with a dense tomentum, soon glabrous and a dark green above, remaining more or less densely woolly or pubescent beneath; acorns sessile or nearly so, solitary or in pairs; nuts ovoid, about cm. long and enclosed for about / their length in the cup; cup rounded at the base; scales pubescent on the back and obtuse. =distribution.=--pennsylvania, michigan to nebraska, south to georgia and west to arkansas. found throughout indiana. it is essentially a tree of low ground, but it is sometimes found near the base of slopes, and in the knob area it is sometimes found on the crest of ridges. in all parts of indiana except the southwestern part it is found only locally and then usually in colonies of a few trees. in wells county, i know of only two trees located at the base of a slope bordering a pond in jackson township. in the southwestern part of the state it is frequent to a common tree in its peculiar habitat. it appears that when drainage basins decrease in size, and leave sandy river bottoms, and bordering low sand dunes, that the shingle oak is the first oak to occupy the area. on the sand ridges it is crowded out by the black, black jack and post oaks. in the bottoms it is succeeded by pin, schneck's, spanish, swamp white and post oaks. special notes were made on its distribution on a trip through gibson, pike, daviess, greene and sullivan counties, going from francisco northward through the patoka bottoms where in many places it forms pure stands. usually in situations a little higher than the pin oak zone. thence eastward to winslow and then north to sandy hook in daviess county, thence north to washington, montgomery, odon, newberry, lyons, marco and sullivan. in its habitat all along this route it was a frequent to a very common tree. a few miles northeast of montgomery is a small area which a pioneer informed me was originally a prairie. typical prairie plants are yet found along the roadside and fences in the area. i was informed that the shingle oak was the only species found on the area, and on the border of the area. it is believed the mass distribution of the species was in the area indicated by the preceding route. both east and west of this area the species becomes less frequent. =remarks.=--wood similar to red oak, but much inferior. evidently it is rather a slow growing tree, but it might find a use as a shade or ornamental tree in sandy habitats where the pin oak would not thrive. it is also called black oak, peach oak, jack oak and water oak. [illustration: plate . quercus imbricaria michaux. shingle oak. (× / .)] = .= =quercus rùbra= linnæus. [_quercus maxima_ (marshall) ashe of some recent authors]. red oak. plate . large trees; winter buds ovoid, pointed, reddish, outer scales glabrous, sometimes pubescent on the edges; twigs soon smooth and reddish; leaves on petioles . - cm. long, - cm. long, oval to oblong-obovate, broadly wedge-shape or truncate at the base, the margins divided by wide or narrow sinuses generally into - lobes, sometimes as many as , the lobes not uniform in size or shape, lobes broadest at the base and ending generally in - bristle points, pubescent above and below at first, soon becoming smooth at maturity and a dark green above, paler and yellowish-green beneath and smooth or with tufts of tomentum in the axils of the veins; acorns solitary or in pairs, sessile or on very short stalks; nuts ovoid, flat at the base, and rounded at the apex, - cm. long, enclosed for about / their length in the shallow cup; cups - cm. in diameter, thick, saucer-shape, flat or only slightly rounded at the base; scales ovate, blunt, appressed, and pubescent on the back; kernel somewhat bitter, eaten by hogs and cattle, but not relished by wild animals. =distribution.=--nova scotia to minnesota, south to florida and west to texas. found throughout indiana, although local in the knob area. its preferred habitat is that of moist, rich and fairly well drained woods. it does not thrive in situations that are inundated much of the winter season such as the pin oak will endure. in the southern part of the state, especially in the flats it is frequently found on the high bluffs of streams and very large forest trees are frequent on a dry wooded slope of ten acres, on the davis farm four miles south of salem. in a congenial habitat it was a frequent to a common tree, although such a thing as nearly a pure stand would never be met with, such as was often formed by the white, black, shingle or pin oak. =remarks.=--wood hard, heavy, strong, close-grained, but not as good as white oak in any of its mechanical qualities. commercially all of the biennial oaks are usually considered as red oak. the true red oak, however, is generally considered the best of all the biennial oaks. until recently, when white oak became scarce, red oak was not in much demand, and was used principally for construction material. now it is substituted in many places for white oak, and the uses now are in a great measure the same as those of white oak. the red oak grows rapidly, and is able to adapt itself to many soil conditions. it has been used in european countries for two centuries for shade and ornamental planting. it reproduces easily by planting the acorns, and should receive attention by woodlot owners as a suitable species for reinforcing woodlands, or in general forest planting. [illustration: plate . quercus rubra linnæus. red oak. (× / .) acorns from different trees.] = .= =quercus palústris= du roi. pin oak. plate . medium to large trees with very tight bark, the furrows shallow and generally wide; twigs at first pubescent, soon becoming smooth and reddish-brown; leaves on petioles generally - cm. long, blades about - cm. long, usually about / as wide, sometimes as wide as long, ovate to obovate in outline, narrowed to broadly truncate at the base, the margins divided into - lobes by deep and wide sinuses, except leaves that grow in the shade, the sinus cuts the blade to more than half way to the midrib, the lobes are widest at the base, or sometimes widest near the apex, the lobes usually somewhat toothed or lobed and end in - bristle tips, leaves hairy when they first appear, soon becoming glabrate and a glossy dark green above, a paler green beneath and smooth except tufts of hairs in the axils of the principal veins; acorns sessile or nearly so, single or in clusters; nuts subglobose or ovoid, generally - mm. long, the ovoid form somewhat smaller, covered about / their length by the shallow cups; cups saucer-shape and generally flat on the bottom, those with the ovoid nuts are rounded on the bottom; scales pubescent on the back, and rounded or blunt at the apex. =distribution.=--massachusetts, southwestern ontario, michigan to iowa and south to virginia and west to oklahoma. found in every county of indiana. it is found only in wet situations where it is a frequent to a common tree. it prefers a hard compact clay soil with little drainage hence is rarely met with on the low borders of lakes where the soil is principally organic matter. =remarks.=--wood similar to red oak, but much inferior to it. it is tardy in the natural pruning of its lower branches, and when the dead branches break off they usually do so at some distance from the trunk. the stumps of the dead branches which penetrate to the center of the tree have given it the name of pin oak. it is also sometimes called water oak, and swamp oak. for street and ornamental planting it is one of the most desirable oaks to use. it is adapted to a moist soil, grows rapidly, and produces a dense shade. when grown in the open it develops a pyramidal crown. the nut of this species always has a depressed form, except a tree or two in wells county which produce ovate nuts which are cone-pointed, and in bulk about half the size of the ordinary form. this form should be looked for to ascertain its area of distribution. [illustration: plate . quercus palustris muenchhausen. (× / .) acorns from different trees. those on the left the common form, those on the right the rare form.] [illustration: plate . quercus schneckii britton. schneck's oak. (× / .) specimens from type tree.] = .= =quercus schnéckii= britton. schneck's oak. plate . large trees; bark somewhat intermediate between pin and red oak; twigs gray by autumn; winter buds large, about . cm. long, ovoid, glabrous and gray; leaves on petioles - cm. long, blades generally - cm. long, generally truncate at the base, sometimes wedge-shaped, leaves ovate to obovate in outline, divided into - lobes, by deep rounded and wide sinuses, the sinuses cutting the blade to more than half way to the midrib, except the leaves of lower branches that grow in the shade, the lobes variable in shape and size, usually the lowest are the shortest and smaller, the middle the longest and largest, the lobes are sometimes widest at the base, and sometimes widest at the apex, the end of the lobes are more or less toothed or lobed; the leaves at maturity are bright green, glossy and smooth above, a paler and yellow green and smooth beneath except tufts of hairs in the axils of the principal veins; acorns solitary or in pairs, usually on stalks about . cm. long; nuts ovoid, sometimes broadly so, or oblong, broad and flat or slightly convex at base, usually . - cm. long, enclosed in the cup from / - / their length; cups flat or convex at the base: scales generally pubescent on the back, gray or with a reddish tip on those of the lower wabash valley, or reddish gray and with margins more or less red of trees of the upper wabash valley. =distribution.=--in indiana this species has been reported only from wells, bartholomew, vermillion, knox, gibson and posey counties. this species was not separated from our common red oak until after all of the local floras of indiana had been written, and it may have a much wider range than is at present known. in wells county it is the prevailing "red oak" of the county, and no doubt is distributed throughout the wabash valley. in this area it is associated with all moist ground species. in the lower wabash valley, especially in gibson, knox and posey counties it is associated with spanish, pin, and shingle oaks, sweet gum, etc. several trees were noted in knox county in little cypress swamp where it was associated with cypress, pin oak, white elm, red maple and swell-butt ash. =remarks.=--this anomalous red oak has a range from indiana to texas. when the attention of authors was directed to it, several new species were the result. later authors are not agreed as to whether this form, which has such a wide range and hence liable to show considerable variation within such a long range, is one or several species. c. s. sargent who for years has studied this form throughout its range has seen the author's specimens and calls those with shallow cups typical or nearly typical _quercus shumardii_ buckley[ ] and those with the deep cups _quercus shumardii_ variety _schneckii_ (britton) sargent. the writer has made rather an intensive study of the forms in wells county and in the lower wabash valley and has not been able to satisfy himself that, allowing for a reasonable variation, there is even a varietal difference in indiana forms. the description has been drawn to cover all of the forms of indiana. dr. j. schneck of mt. carmel, illinois, was one of the first to discover that this form was not our common red oak, and when he called dr. britton's attention to it, dr. britton named it _quercus schneckii_ in honor of its discoverer. = .= =quercus ellipsoidàlis.= e. j. hill. hill's oak. plate . medium sized trees; inner bark yellowish; twigs pubescent at first, becoming smooth and reddish brown by autumn; leaves on petioles - cm. long, ovate to slightly obovate or nearly orbicular in outline, - cm. long, wedge-shape or, truncate at the base, margin divided into - long lobes by wide sinuses which usually extend to more than half way to the midrib, sinuses rounded at the base, lobes broadest at the base or the apex, ending in - bristle points, leaves at first pubescent, both above and below, soon becoming glabrous above, and smooth beneath except tufts of hairs in the axils of the principal veins; acorns nearly sessile or on short stalks, single or in pairs; nuts oval to oblong, - mm. long, enclosed for / - / their length in the cup; scales obtuse, light reddish-brown, pubescent on the back; kernel pale yellow and bitter. =distribution.=--northwestern indiana to manitoba and south to iowa. in indiana it has been reported only from lake and porter counties by hill, and from white county by heimlich. according to hill, who has made the most extensive study of the distribution of this species in our area, the tree is found on sandy and clayey uplands, and in moist sandy places. it closely resembles the pin oak for which it has been mistaken. it also resembles the black and scarlet oaks. we have very little data on the range or distribution of the species in this state. = .= =quercus velùtina= lamarck. black oak. plate . medium to large sized trees; inner bark yellow or orange; leaves on petioles - cm. long, ovate oblong or obovate, very variable in outline and in size, those of young trees and coppice shoots being very large, those of mature trees usually - cm. long, wedge-shape or truncate at the base, the margin divided into - lobes by wide and usually deep sinuses which are rounded at the base, the lobes variable in shape and size, the terminals of many of the lobes toothed or slightly lobed and ending in one or more bristles, leaves pubescent on both sides at first, soon becoming smooth, glossy and a dark green above; leaves of fruiting branches usually smooth beneath except the tufts of brown hairs in the axils of the principal veins, or rarely more or less pubescent over the whole under surface, the under surface of leaves of sterile branches and young trees usually are the most pubescent beneath, the leaves of some trees are much like those of the scarlet oak, but on the whole are larger; acorns sessile or nearly so, single or in pairs; nuts ovoid, oblong or subglobose, . - cm. long, enclosed for about half their length in the cup-shaped cup; scales light-brown, densely pubescent on the back, obtuse, loose above the middle of the cup; kernel bitter. [illustration: plate . quercus ellipsoidalis e. j. hill. hill's oak. (× / .) specimens from type tree.] [illustration: plate . quercus velutina lamarck. black oak. (× / .)] =distribution.=--maine, southern ontario, southern minnesota, southern nebraska south to florida and west to texas. found throughout indiana. it was no doubt found in every county or nearly every county of the state. it of course would be a rare tree throughout the rich black loam soils of the central indiana counties. the black oak is confined to the poorer soils of the state, such as clay and gravelly ridges, sand dunes, sand ridges, and the hills of southern indiana that are not covered with beech or white oak. it is a frequent to a common tree in the southwestern part of the state in the bottom lands where it is associated with schneck's, shingle, and post oaks. in the northern part of the state it is generally associated with the white oak and if the soil is very poor it will form almost pure stands. on the poor ridges of southern indiana it is generally associated with the white, and scarlet oaks, and invades habitats still poorer which are occupied by post, black jack, or chestnut oaks. wherever the black oak is found it is generally more than a frequent tree and is usually a common tree or forms the principal stand. while the black is not so uniformly distributed over the state as the white oak, yet in point of numbers it nearly equals it, or may even exceed it. in floyd and harrison counties are certain small areas which were known to the early settlers as the "barrens." these areas were treeless. they were covered with a growth of some sort of oak which the natives call "scrub" oak, hazel, and wild plum. the height of the growth in any part would "not hide a man on horse back." these areas are now all under cultivation, and are no longer distinguished from the forested areas. however, many parts of the barrens are now covered with forests, but these forests are a complete stand of black oak. last year one of these areas was cut off, and the age of the trees were ascertained to be about years old. the barrens of southern indiana and adjacent states offer a good problem for ecologists. =remarks.=--wood similar to that of red oak, but often much inferior. the uses of the best grades of black oak are practically the same as red oak. where the black and scarlet oaks are associated, the scarlet oak is rarely separated from it. the two species superficially much resemble each other. the black oak is always easily distinguished by cutting into the inner bark which is yellow, while that of scarlet oak is gray or reddish. the inner bark imparts a yellow color to spittle, and the scarlet does not. when mature fruiting branches are at hand they may be separated by the appearance of the acorns. the scales of the cups of the black oak are dull, and loosely imbricated near the top while those of the scarlet oak are rather glossy and closely imbricated. the scales of the scarlet oak, however, become somewhat loose after the acorn has matured, and fallen for some time. this species is sometimes called yellow oak. since the chinquapin oak is also often called yellow oak, it is best to always call this species black oak. = .= =quercus coccínea= muenchhausen. scarlet oak. plate . medium sized trees with bark resembling the black oak, inner bark gray or reddish; twigs reddish by autumn; winter buds reddish-brown and pubescent; leaves on petioles . - cm. long, broadly oval to obovate, blades - cm. long, truncate or wedge-shape at the base, the blade divided into - lobes by deep and wide sinuses which cut the blade more than half the distance to the midrib, sinuses rounded at the base, the lobes variable in size and shape, usually the lowest are the shortest and smallest, the middle lobes the largest and longest, the lobes widest either at the base or the apex, the terminal part toothed or lobed, the terminal lobe generally -lobed or -toothed, both surfaces of the leaves at first pubescent, soon smooth and a dark glossy green above, and paler and smooth beneath except tufts of hairs in the axils of the principal veins; acorns sessile or nearly so, solitary or in pairs; nuts ovoid to oblong, . - cm. long, enclosed for about half their length in the thick cup-shape cup; scales triangular but blunt, closely appressed, pubescent on the back except the center which is generally elevated and smooth and shiny, giving the cup a glossy appearance which easily separates it from its nearest ally the black oak whose cup is a dull, ash or reddish gray color; kernel white within, and less bitter than the black oak. =distribution.=--maine, southern ontario to southern nebraska, south to north carolina, alabama and arkansas. it has been reported for the northwest counties and the southern part of indiana, but we have no records for the east-central portion of the state. clark reports it as common about winona lake, but does not report _quercus velutina_ which is a common tree of the vicinity, and it is believed that clark has confused the two species. in the northern part of the state its habitat is that of sand and gravel ridges associated with black oak. in the hill part of southern indiana it is intimately associated with the black oak on the poorer ridges. we have no authentic records for the southwestern counties. the author has schneck's specimens on which the record for gibson and posey county was based. i determined the specimens as belonging to the spanish oak, and william trelease verified the determination. i have no doubt that scarlet oak occurred on the sand ridges of that area. [illustration: plate . quercus coccinea muenchhausen. scarlet oak. (× / .)] in the northern part of the state it is a rare or infrequent tree, while in favorable habitats in the hill country of the southern part of the state it is a frequent to a common tree. =remarks.=--wood similar but much inferior to red oak. the cut in this state is marketed as black oak, from which it is rarely separated. = .= =quercus falcàta= michaux. spanish oak. plate . large trees; bark thick, rather deeply fissured, furrows usually narrow, ridges generally broad and broken into short lengths, the outer bark is reddish, except sometimes it becomes grayish by weathering; twigs densely pubescent at first, remaining more or less pubescent during the first year, or becoming smooth or nearly so and a reddish brown by autumn; leaves on petioles . - cm. long, ordinarily about - cm. long, blades very variable in outline, ovate, ovate-oblong or obovate, usually somewhat curved, wedge-shaped, rounded or truncate at the base, shallow or deeply lobed, generally about / of the distance to the midrib; lobes - , commonly - , the number, size and shape of the lobes exceedingly variable, the longest lateral lobes are generally near the middle of the leaf, sometimes the lowest pair, sometimes the upper pair are the longest, terminal lobe triangular or oblong, generally widest at the base, although frequently widest at the apex, lateral lobes widest at the base and gradually becoming narrower, towards the apex, rarely somewhat wider at the apex, generally somewhat curved, lobes generally sharp-pointed, sometimes wide-angled or rounded at the apex, margins of lobes entire, wavy, toothed or lobed, sinuses wide and rounded at the base; leaves densely pubescent on both surfaces at first, gradually becoming smooth and dark green above by autumn, the under surface remaining covered with a tomentum which is grayish or yellowish; acorns sessile or nearly so, solitary or in pairs; nuts broadly ovoid, generally - mm. long, broadly rounded at the base, rounded at the apex, enclosed about one-half their length by the cup; cups strongly convex at the base; scales blunt, grayish and pubescent on their backs, their margins reddish and generally smooth. =distribution.=--new jersey and missouri, south to florida and west to texas. the known distribution in indiana would be that part of the state south of a line drawn from vincennes to north madison. it is local except in the southwestern counties. in our area it is found on both high and low ground. in jefferson and clark counties it is found only in the flats where it is associated with beech, sweet gum, pin oak, red maple and black gum. a colony was found in washington county on high ground, about eight miles southwest of salem associated with black and post oak. in harrison county about two miles southeast of corydon it was found on the crest of a ridge with white and black oak. in daviess county about four miles east of washington it is associated with black and post oak. in knox, gibson, pike and warrick counties it is local on sand ridges with black oak. it occurs in the greatest abundance in the river bottoms of gibson, posey and spencer counties, where it is generally associated with pin, schneck's, shingle, swamp white, black and post oaks, and sweet gum. in the last named counties it is fairly well distributed, and is a frequent to a common tree. brown's[ ] report for fountain county should not be recognized without a verifying specimen, since his list was compiled from a list of common names of the trees which he obtained. [illustration: plate . quercus falcata michaux. spanish oak. (× / .)] =remarks.=--wood and uses similar to that of red oak. in indiana it is all sold as red oak. in all parts of its range in indiana it is known as red or black oak. however, the best accepted common name of this species throughout its range is spanish oak, and since no other species is known by this name, it should be used for this species. the bark of this species varies considerably in color and tightness. the leaves are exceedingly variable in form. the leaves on the same tree will vary from -lobed to -lobed. usually the lobing is deepest in the leaves nearest the top of the tree. leaves of small trees, coppice shoots, and of the lower branches of some trees are often all or for the greater part -lobed. the color of the pubescence of the lower surface of the leaves varies from a gray to a yellow-gray. the variations have lead authors to divide this polymorphic species into several species and varieties. the author has included all the forms that occur in indiana under one name. this species is variously known as _quercus digitata_, _quercus triloba_, _quercus pagodaefolia_, and by the most recent authors as _quercus pagoda_ and _quercus rubra_ and its varieties. specimens in the author's collection from jefferson county were reported by sargent[ ] as _quercus rubra_ var. _triloba_. = .= =quercus marilándica= muenchhausen. black jack oak. plate . mature trees generally - cm. in diameter; bark resembles that of a gnarled black oak; twigs generally scurvy-pubescent the first year; leaves on petioles from nearly sessile to . cm. long, usually less than a cm. long, blades - cm. long, broadly obovate, often almost as wide as long, narrowly rounded at the base, with three primary lobes at the apex, sometimes with two small lateral lobes, the apex is sometimes almost rounded and the position where the lobes usually occur is indicated by three primary veins which end in a bristle, the apex of the leaf is generally about equally divided into three lobes by two very shallow rounded sinuses, the lobes are rounded or merely acute; sometimes the terminal lobes develop a secondary lobe, leaves very pubescent both above and beneath when they first appear, becoming smooth and glossy above at maturity, and remaining more or less pubescent beneath; acorns sessile or nearly so, single or in pairs; nuts ovoid or oblong, - . cm. long, broadly rounded at the base, rounded or somewhat conic at the apex, enclosed for about half their length in the cup-shaped cup; scales blunt, not closely appressed, pubescent on back, light reddish-brown; kernel bitter. [illustration: plate . quercus marilandica muenchhausen. black jack oak. (× / .)] =distribution.=--new york to nebraska, south to florida and west to texas. in indiana it is known to the author from sullivan, greene and clark counties and southwestward. it has been reported from jefferson county by barnes which is no doubt correct. doubtful records are those by brown for fountain county, miami county by gorby, and phinney's report for the area of delaware, jay, randolph and wayne counties. it has been reported for the vicinity of chicago by higley and raddin. it may be local on sterile, sandy ridges of the northern part of the state, but very local if it does occur. it is generally found in very poor soil on the crest of ridges associated with black and post oak. however, it has been found in greene, sullivan and knox counties on sand ridges and at the base of sand ridges associated with black and post oak. the species has a very limited mass distribution and is only occasionally found and in colonies of a few trees each. =remarks.=--trees too small and scarce to be of any economic importance. ulmÀceae. the elm family. trees or shrubs with simple, alternate, -ranked, petioled leaves; sepals - , petals none, stamens as many as the sepals and opposite them, stigmas . branchlets with solid pith; leaves with primary veins parallel; flowers borne on the twigs of the preceding season ulmus. branchlets with chambered pith at the nodes; leaves -veined at the base; flowers borne on the twigs of the season celtis. . Úlmus. the elms. trees with furrowed bark; leaves short petioled, with lateral veins prominent and parallel, oblique or unequally heart-shaped at the base, taper-pointed at the apex, mostly double-serrate; flowers of indiana species expanding before the leaves in march or april; fruit a samara surrounded with a wide membranous margin, maturing in the spring. inner bark mucilaginous; leaves very rough above; flowers nearly sessile; fruit not ciliate u. fulva. inner bark not mucilaginous; leaves smooth or somewhat rough above; flowers on slender pedicils; fruit ciliate. branches without corky wings; sides of samara glabrous u. americana. branches (at least some of them) with corky wings; at least one side of the samara pubescent. buds ovate, not twice as long as wide, obtuse, or short-pointed, dark brown; scales pubescent and ciliate; leaves usually not twice as long as wide, base of petiole glabrous beneath; calyx lobes - u. thomasi. buds small, narrow, twice as long as wide, very sharp-pointed, light brown; scales glabrous or merely puberulent; leaves usually twice as long as wide, base of petiole pubescent all around u. alata. = . ulmus fúlva= michaux. slippery elm. red elm. plate . fairly large trees with deeply fissured reddish-brown bark without white streaks between the layers of the ridges, twigs very pubescent and green at first, becoming gray or reddish-brown at the end of the season and remaining more or less pubescent for a year or more; buds ovate, a very dark reddish brown, the scales more or less pubescent; leaves ovate, oval or slightly obovate, average blades - cm. long, hairy on both surfaces at first, remaining more or less pubescent beneath until maturity, and becoming very rough above with a few scattered hairs remaining, fragrant when dried, fragrance remaining for years; fruit ripening the last of april or the first of may before or with the unfolding of the leaves; samara orbicular or obovate, usually longer than wide, average size - mm. long and - mm. wide, the margin as wide or wider than the seed, margin glabrous, seed densely pubescent on both sides; wood hard, strong, light when well seasoned and not warping as badly as white elm. =distribution.=--quebec south to florida, west to texas, nebraska and north dakota. found in all parts of indiana. in the prairies or in the "flats" it may be absent in one or more contiguous counties and may be entirely absent on the crests and upper slopes of ridges. it prefers a moist well drained soil, and where it is found it is usually a frequent to a common tree, although rarely is it found as a very common tree. it is usually associated with sugar maple, beech, white ash, linn, tulip, white oak, etc. =remarks.=--this tree usually is from - dm. in diameter and tall for its diameter. however, larger trees occur. in the ind. geol. rept. : : mention is made of a tree in jackson county that was " feet in circumference." the uses of the wood are similar to that of white elm. the inner bark collected in spring is much used in medicine under the name of slippery elm. [illustration: plate . ulmus fulva michaux. red or slippery elm. (× / .)] = . ulmus americàna= linnæus. white elm. plate . large trees; bark deeply fissured, gray, the ridges showing white streaks between the layers; twigs more or less hairy at first and usually becoming glabrous by the end of the season; buds ovate, acute and glabrous; leaves ovate, oval or obovate, average blades - cm. long, hairy on both sides on expanding, becoming at maturity glabrous above and smooth or rough, sometimes very rough on vigorous young shoots, remaining pubescent beneath, rarely glabrous; fruit ripening before or as the leaves unfold, generally oval in shape, about cm. long, both surfaces glabrous, margins about as wide as the seed and fringed with hairs; wood hard, tough, flexible, generally hard to split, warps badly in seasoning. =distribution.=--quebec to florida, west to texas and nebraska. found throughout indiana, and doubtless in every county. it is frequent to common or very common on the flood plains of streams, in wet woods and in low ground generally. =remarks.=--this species is also called water elm, swamp elm, gray elm, bitter elm, sour elm and in southwestern counties it is often called red elm. in perry county it is often called hub elm. it is generally known as "elm" and when this term is used, it refers to this species. the wood has a very wide range of uses. the greatest amount has been used for hoops, staves and heading. large quantities have been used in the manufacture of agricultural implements, hubs, furniture, basket handles, etc. white elm is usually considered very difficult to split, but i was informed by a pioneer timber cutter that the heart wood of the veterans of the forest splits as well as oak, and that he worked many a tree up into staves. he told me that he made into staves a tree in paulding county, ohio, that was eight feet in diameter at the stump. there is little attempt being made by woodlot owners to propagate this tree. however, the natural propagation of the species is probably greater than any other species because it produces seed at an early age, and culls of the forest are not cut because they are not good for fuel which leaves them to produce seed. then the seed are light, and are scattered to great distances by the wind and water. it is propagated very easily from seedlings. the tree when grown in the open has a tendency to be bushy and unless it is given some pruning will have a very short clear trunk. it has always been regarded as one of the best species for shade tree planting. for beauty of form it is not excelled by any tree for shade or ornamental planting. however, it has several insect enemies that require spraying to keep them under control. [illustration: plate . ulmus americana linnæus. white elm. (× / .)] = . ulmus thomási= sargent. hickory elm. rock elm. plate . large trees; bark deeply fissured and grayish like the bark of the white elm; twigs light brown, generally densely hairy and remaining more or less pubescent until the end of the season or later, the twigs of some specimens are glabrous or only slightly hairy at first and soon become glabrous and somewhat glaucous, after the first year some of the branchlets begin to develop - corky ridges from a few millimeters to or mm. in thickness, the ridges are wide and rounded at the top, dark gray, brown and discontinuous, rarely a corky ridge will appear on a branchlet the first year; leaves oval or obovate, average blades - cm. long, at maturity glabrous and smooth or rough to very rough above, permanently pubescent beneath especially on the veins; fruit ripens late in may or early in june when the leaves are from / to / grown; samara oval, usually . - cm. long, oblique at the base, with a beak - mm. long at the apex, both faces pubescent, wing about as wide as the seed; wood hard heavy, strong, flexible, uses the same as white elm. =distribution.=--southern quebec and ontario south to northern new jersey and west to minnesota and missouri. the distribution in indiana has not been studied. the frequency of its occurrence is not known, and all of the known stations are given. the published records are as follows: dearborn (collins); franklin (meyncke); hamilton (wilson); jefferson (barnes) and (deam); noble (vangorder); parke (hobbs); st. joseph (nieuwland); steuben (bradner); wayne (petry and markle); wells (deam). additional records are hendricks, noble, ripley, vermillion and wayne by deam. the published record for posey county by deam and schneck should be referred to _ulmus alata_. it prefers a well drained soil and is most frequently found near the base of the slope or on the top of flood plain banks of streams, in ravines, or in a habitat like a beech-sugar maple woods. it is reported to have been frequent in franklin, noble and wells counties. its appearance and habit of growth is so much like the white elm that it is not commonly distinguished from it, which accounts for the lack of definite knowledge of its range in our area. [illustration: plate . ulmus thomasi sargent. hickory or rock elm. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . ulmus alata michaux. winged elm. (× / .)] = . ulmus alàta= michaux. winged elm. plate . small to medium sized trees; bark rather closely fissured, grayish or reddish-brown, in appearance like white elm; twigs hairy at first, generally remaining more or less pubescent throughout the season, rarely becoming entirely glabrous before the end of the season, a light brown gradually becoming a gray-brown; branchlets usually begin to develop two thin narrow corky ridges, becoming by the end of the second year - mm. thick, the year's growth of corky layer a light brown, the older layers a darker brown, the two main corky ridges are on opposite sides of the twigs, and between these there are generally additional corky excrescences, especially on the older branches; leaves oblong-lanceolate or oval, some somewhat falcate, average blades - cm. long, pubescent on both sides on unfolding, becoming at maturity glabrous or nearly so above, some are rough above at maturity, remaining pubescent until maturity beneath; petioles short, generally - mm. long, rarely mm. or longer; fruit ripening before or with the unfolding of the leaves; samara - mm. long, pubescent on both faces. =distribution.=--virginia west through southern indiana to southern missouri, south to the gulf and west to texas. in indiana it is confined to the southwestern part of the state. gorby's report for miami should be ignored. it has been reported as far north as vigo and monroe counties by blatchley, and as far east as clark county by baird and taylor. the author has collected it in crawford, dubois, martin, orange, perry, posey, spencer and warrick counties. the tree has two rather distinct habitats. in the hill counties it is found on the sides of cliffs, steep slopes or on the top of the ridges with such species as the black, chestnut and scarlet oaks and chestnut. in this habitat it is usually a small scrubby tree with an excessive number of side branches. such specimens usually have the corky ridges well developed on all of the branches and the tree presents a weird appearance. the second habitat is in the hard clay flats of the southwestern counties. in warrick county along big pigeon creek west of boonville i measured a specimen dm. in circumference and i estimated the clear bole at m. it was associated with sweet gum, black gum, white elm, red birch, red oak, etc. it is found throughout this county both in the "flats" and on the sandy ridges. in posey county it is a frequent tree in the low woods about miles southwest of mt. vernon. in these woods it acquires a diameter of - dm. and is associated with post oak, spanish oak, sweet gum, shingle oak, etc. it is to be noted that specimens that grow in these conditions and those that acquire a large size do not develop such conspicuous corky branches. a large tree over dm. in diameter was noted in the eastern part of gibson county growing in low sandy soil which was destitute of corky branches so far as could be seen from the ground. all of the branches examined were free from corky ridges, and only a few corky excrescences were present. the specimen could easily be identified by the leaves. another large tree dm. in circumference in a black oak woods miles south of marengo in crawford county was also free from corky ridges. this is an interesting tree and requires further study to establish its range in indiana and to learn its habits. in jasper, indiana, it is a frequent shade tree. no doubt the trees were obtained from a nearby woods along the patoka river where this species is known to occur. = . cÉltis.= the hackberries. trees with pith of branchlets chambered; flowers in indiana species appear before the leaves, the leaves generally with primary veins at the base; staminate flowers usually in clusters, the pistillate solitary or few together in the axils of the leaves, and near the end of the twigs; fruit a globose drupe, sometimes elongated, pulp thin and sweet, frequently remaining on the tree until late winter, relished by birds; stone bony, wrinkled. some of the american species of hackberry are very variable. the habitat of the species varies from deep swamps to arid rocky slopes. in fact, a single species as now understood may have a variable habitat. the following variations may be noted on the same tree or on different trees of the same species. the twigs may be glabrous, or pubescent; the leaves may vary in size, shape and texture, leaf margin, and in the roughness or smoothness of the surfaces; the petioles may be smooth or hairy; the pedicels may be glabrous or pubescent, shorter or longer than the petioles; the fruit also varies in shape. leaves have been seen on the same tree which were smooth above, while others were quite rough above, the difference being due to the exposure to light. the original descriptions of the species are too short to sufficiently characterize the species, which adds to the confusion. however, c. s. sargent[ ] has recently revised the species and varieties of our area. prof. sargent has examined and named all of my material for me. mr. b. f. bush, who has extensively studied the hackberries in the field, also has examined my specimens. the writer has paid special attention to the hackberries of the state for the past few years and is still in doubt as to the status of the species that occur in the state. since i am not following the determinations made by sargent and bush, and am following the nomenclature of the first edition, i regard the present treatment as tentative only. margins of all the leaves sharply serrate all around except at base; nutlets - mm. long c. occidentalis. margins of leaves of fruiting branches generally entire, or some with a few teeth on one side or with a few teeth on both sides; margins of the leaves of vegetative branches and shoots similar to those of fruiting branches or with the margins serrate nearly all around; nutlets - mm. long. leaves of a rather broad ovate type; mature fruit a dark cherry-red; usually shrubs, sometimes very small trees, of a dry habitat c. pumila. leaves of an ovate-lanceolate type; mature fruit a light cherry-red; medium-sized trees of a wet habitat c. mississippiensis. [illustration: plate . celtis occidentalis linnæus. hackberry. (x / .)] = . celtis occidentàlis= linnæus. hackberry. plate . medium to large-sized trees; bark of old trees irregularly furrowed, sometimes some of the surface warty and rough; twigs smooth or pubescent, the fruiting ones generally smooth; leaves of an ovate type on petioles . - cm. long, the blades of fruiting twigs - cm. long, those of vegetative twigs sometimes larger, oblique or slightly cordate at base, gradually tapering to a point at apex, or long acuminate at the apex, often becoming thick at maturity, especially those exposed to full sunlight, generally smooth above at maturity, especially those of fruiting twigs, or sometimes rough, especially those of vegetative branchlets or those growing in the shade, the under surface more or less pubescent along the veins at maturity; fruit matures in late autumn, very dark red, sometimes appearing almost black, globose or somewhat oblong, generally about - mm. in diameter, borne on pedicels which are longer or up to twice as long as the petioles; the pedicels which are always ascending are straight or somewhat curved upwards; nutlets globose, a little longer than wide. =distribution.=--valley of the st. lawrence river, southern ontario, to north dakota, and south to the gulf states and west to texas. more or less frequent along streams throughout the state, except in the hilly counties of the southern part of the state. it is always found in moist soil, except in the hilly counties where it may be found on wooded slopes or on high rocky bluffs bordering streams. in all of our area the species is practically confined to drainage basins, and is generally close to streams. =remarks.=--the wood is yellowish-white and before seasoning very much resembles ash for which it was generally sold. it has good bending qualities and is now much sought after for hoops. it was formerly often known as hoop ash. the supply is now becoming scarce, but when bought sells for the same price as good white elm. some writers include under the name _celtis occidentalis_ only those forms which are small trees and have ovate, short-pointed leaves. this type of tree has not been found in indiana. the form with long acuminate pointed leave which is the common form in our area, is regarded as a variety of _celtis occidentalis_. trees having the upper surface of the leaves very rough are called _celtis crassifolia_ lamarck, or are merely regarded as a variety of _celtis occidentalis_. this form is found throughout our area. the hackberry is sometimes used as a shade tree. it can scarcely be recommended because its leaves and twigs are often affected by galls which detract from its appearance. [illustration: plate . celtis pumila var. deamii sargent. dwarf hackberry. (× / .)] = . celtis pùmila= (muhlenberg) pursh. dwarf hackberry. plate . bark thin, smooth and gray on shrub-like forms, warty or deeply fissured on the larger forms; ridges flat and broken, dark gray-brown; twigs at first hairy, becoming smooth or nearly so by autumn; leaves of an ovate type, broadly-ovate, oblong-ovate to narrow ovate, on petioles . - . cm. long, blades of fruiting branchlets - cm. long, those of sterile twigs sometimes larger, oblique, rounded or somewhat cordate at the base, taper-pointed, sometimes acuminate at the apex, margins entire or with a few teeth usually about or above the middle, becoming thick and smooth above at maturity, sometimes rough, especially on vigorous shoots, generally somewhat pubescent along the veins beneath; fruit matures late in the autumn, usually an orange or light cherry color late in summer, becoming a very dark cherry color late in the autumn, globose to ellipsoidal, on pedicels about as long as the petioles; sometimes the pedicels are shorter but usually about one-half longer; pedicels generally ascending, rarely recurved, when recurved the pedicels are short. =distribution.=--pennsylvania to northern illinois, south to florida and west to arkansas. local in indiana. it has been collected by the writer in lake county near the mouth of the grand calumet river where it was collected by e. j. hill who has given us the most detailed account of this species.[ ] also collected on a high, gravelly hill on the east side of hog-back lake, steuben county; on a rocky wooded slope in hamar's hollow southeast of mitchell in lawrence county; on a "knob" in floyd county; on a rocky wooded slope near big spring in washington county; frequent on a rocky wooded slope near the ohio river east of elizabeth in harrison county; on the bank of blue river near milltown in crawford county; and in perry county along the bluffs of the ohio river about six miles east of cannelton, and also on the crest of a ridge about six miles southwest of derby. it has also been reported by nieuwland for clark in marshall county. =remarks.=--this species is usually a small shrub, and usually bears fruit when only . - meters ( or feet) tall. only a few trees have been seen that were cm. ( inches) in diameter. the small size at which this species fruits, easily distinguishes it from other species in our area. its habitat also serves to distinguish it. along lake michigan it grows on the dry sand dunes, and in southern indiana it grows on dry rocky slopes. sargent who has examined all of my specimens credits indiana with the typical species, and separates from it a form which he calls _celtis pumila_ variety _deamii_[ ]. this variety is based upon my no. , , and the type specimen has been photographed to illustrate this species. the writer is not able to separate the two forms in our area, and believes that all belong either to _celtis pumila_ or to the new variety. = . celtis mississippiénsis= bosc. (_celtis laevigata_ willdenow). sugarberry. hackberry. plate . medium sized trees with the bark of the trunk of large trees irregularly covered with wart-like excrescences, rarely somewhat irregularly fissured, bark of the upper part of trunk and larger branches resembling that of the beech; leaves of an ovate-lanceolate type, as a whole narrower than the preceding species; on petioles - mm. long, blades of fruiting twigs - cm. long, usually rounded at the base, sometimes oblique, slightly cordate or somewhat narrowed at the base, usually gradually long-taper pointed at apex, margins generally entire, rarely a few teeth toward the apex, green on both surfaces, generally mature leaves are smooth above and below, more rarely somewhat rough above, and with some pubescence along the veins beneath; fruit in late summer an orange red color, gradually becoming darker until late autumn when it becomes red; pedicels shorter or longer than the petioles, usually slightly longer and ascending, fruit nearly globose, a trifle smaller than the preceding, and about two-thirds as large as the first. =distribution.=--virginia, southern indiana, missouri, eastern kansas, south to the gulf states and west to texas. in indiana it is confined to the southwestern counties. it is now known to definitely occur in sullivan, gibson, posey, warrick and spencer counties. two trees were noted also, in the muscatatuck bottoms near delany creek in washington county. a "single bush about eight feet high" was reported from jefferson county by young. this may have been the preceding species. it was also reported by haymond from franklin county. =remarks.=--with one exception all the specimens of this species have been found in very low ground. usually it is associated with such low ground species as pecan, sweet gum, swell-butt ash, and the cane. one very peculiar specimen was found on the crest of a ridge about seven miles north of salem in washington county. it was a tree about fifteen feet tall, and had very narrow entire leaves. =morÀceae.= the mulberry family. trees or shrubs with a milky sap; leaves simple, alternate, petioled, - nerved at the base; fruit fleshy. branches without spines; leaves serrate; pistillate flowers in spikes morus. branches with spines; leaves entire; pistillate flowers in heads. maclura. [illustration: plate . celtis mississippiensis bosc. sugarberry. (× / .)] = . mÒrus.= the mulberries. trees with leaves -nerved at the base; flowers of two kinds on different branches of the same tree or on different trees; the staminate in long catkins, calyx -parted, petals none, stamens , the pistillate catkins short; fruit an aggregate of drupes. leaves softly pubescent beneath m. rubra. leaves glabrous beneath, or with a few hairs on the veins or in the axils m. alba. = . morus rùbra linnæus.= red mulberry. plate . medium sized trees with short trunks and round heads; twigs at first green and puberulent, soon becoming glabrous and later usually turning gray; leaves ovate or somewhat orbicular, frequently - lobed, average mature blades - cm. long, more or less cordate at the base, abruptly taper-pointed, rough and glabrous above and finely pubescent beneath; fruit ripening in june or july, . - cm. long, dark purple or nearly black, edible; wood light, soft, rather tough, coarse-grained, and durable in contact with the soil. =distribution.=--southern ontario west to eastern dakotas, south to the gulf states and west to texas. found throughout indiana, although there are no records for the extreme northwestern counties. throughout our area it must be regarded as infrequent. it is only here and there that you find a tree, and i have never seen it where there were even a small number of trees close together. in the northern part of the state it is usually found in a moist well drained soil, associated with trees such as beech and sugar maple, or in lower ground with slippery elm and linn. it has no particular affinity for streams. in the southern part of the state it is found in both rich and poor soils. however, it is most often met with near the base of slopes. =remarks.=--this tree seldom has a clear bole of more than - m. and is usually a tree about cm. in diameter, rarely as large as dm. in diameter, although there is a record[ ] of a tree in georgia that was " feet in diameter at feet above the ground." the wood has been a favorite for fence posts since pioneer times. it transplants easily. the fruit is a favorite with birds and for this reason it should be planted about orchards and in woodlots. it is sometimes called the red mulberry to distinguish it from the following species.[ ] [illustration: plate . morus rubra linnæus. red mulberry. (× / .)] = . maclÙra.= the osage orange. =maclura pomífera= (rafinesque) schneider. hedge. osage orange. (_toxylon pomiferum raf._) plate . trees with brown shreddy bark on old trees; mature twigs greenish gray, zigzag; spines about - mm. long; leaves ovate to oblong lanceolate, average blades - cm. long, wedge-shape, rounded or cordate at the base, long taper-pointed at the apex, margins entire, pubescent on both sides while young, becoming at maturity lustrous and glabrous above, remaining pubescent beneath; fruit globose, about dm. in diameter; wood heavy, very hard and strong, the most durable in contact with the soil of any of our post timbers. =distribution.=--missouri and kansas south to texas. introduced into indiana for hedge fences. there is some question as to the ability of this species to escape. i have heard that it frequently sends up root shoots at several feet from hedge fences, and that it frequently seeds itself along old hedge fences. for the past few years i have given the species especial attention and i have never seen it as an escape except in three instances. =remarks.=--this species was formerly much planted for farm fences, but since land has become so valuable, its use has been discontinued, and the old fences are being dug up. the tree grows a short trunk, and one was noted in grant county that was at least dm. in diameter that was estimated to be less than fifty years old. this species is subject to the san jose scale and in some localities it has been killed by it. it has been but little used for forest planting, and the plantations are not yet old enough to measure their success. [illustration: plate . maclura pomifera (rafinesque). schneider. osage orange. (× / .)] =magnoliÀceae.= the magnolia family. trees or shrubs with alternate and petioled leaves; flowers large, terminal and solitary with numerous stamens and pistils. buds silky white pubescent; leaves entire; fruit fleshy, dehiscent magnolia. buds glabrous; leaves lobed; fruit a cone of dry carpels, indehiscent liriodendron. = . magnÒlia.= the magnolias. =magnolia acuminàta= linnæus. cucumber tree. plate . large trees with furrowed bark which is gray and much resembles the tulip tree except the ridges are shallower and closer; twigs downy at first, becoming glabrous or nearly so and a light to a cherry brown by the end of the season; leaves oval, average blades - cm. long, rounded to truncate at the base, abruptly short-pointed, pubescent on both sides at first, becoming glabrous above, and remaining pubescent beneath, rarely entirely glabrous; flowers about cm. long, bell-shaped, pale yellowish-green; fruit cylindrical, - cm. long, - cm. diameter, the large scarlet seeds begin to push out of their receptacle in september; wood light, soft, not strong, close-grained and durable. =distribution.=--north shore of lake erie, western new york, eastern ohio, southern indiana, southern illinois and along the appalachian mountains to southern alabama and west to arkansas. it doubtless occurred in all or nearly all of the counties in southern indiana south of a line drawn from franklin to knox counties. it no doubt was extremely local. for instance a pioneer years old who had always lived in washington county told me that there were two trees on his farm near pekin, and these were the only two trees he knew of in the vicinity. these trees were popular because the neighbors came for the fruit to put into whisky for making bitters which were a specific for all ailments. i have seen only a shrub on the forest reserve in clark county. on a beech and sugar maple ridge about miles northwest of medora in jackson county on the geo. w. scott farm two trees were still standing in . mr. scott, a pioneer, said the species was found on the ridge for about miles and that there were about a half dozen trees to the acre, and the largest was about a meter in diameter. it is known in two other places in this county. a tree is still standing in lawrence county on the sam mitchell farm - / miles south of bedford. mr. mitchell is a pioneer and says that a few trees were found in the vicinity on the ridges. it has been reported for franklin, floyd and jefferson counties. there is hearsay evidence that it occurred in other counties. [illustration: plate . magnolia acuminata linnæus. cucumber tree. (× / .)] =remarks.=--the cucumber tree has been too rare in indiana to be of economic importance. the greatest interest with us is its distribution. the uses of the wood are similar to that of tulip with which it is botanically related. it is said that the greater part of the lumber which is produced in the south is sold as tulip. the seeds of this tree are extremely bitter and no bird, squirrel or mouse will carry or touch them. however, man after macerating them in whisky can use them for medicine. = . liriodÈndron.= the tulip tree. =liriodendron tulipífera= linnæus. tulip. yellow poplar. plate . large trees with deeply furrowed grayish bark; twigs glabrous and glaucous at first, becoming reddish-brown by the end of the season, then gray or dark brown; leaves very variable, - lobed, average blades - cm. long, truncate and notched at the apex, more or less rounded, truncate or cordate at the base, glabrous above and below at maturity or with a few hairs on the veins beneath; flowers appear in may or june, large bell-shaped, about cm. deep, greenish-yellow, sometimes tinged with orange-red; fruit upright, cone-shaped, - cm. long; wood light, weak, soft, stiff, straight and moderately coarse-grained, seasons and works well. sap wood white, heart wood a light yellow. =distribution.=--vermont, southern ontario, southern michigan, south to florida and west to arkansas and missouri. found throughout indiana, and doubtless is found in every county. it is rare to infrequent in most of the counties north of the wabash river. it gradually becomes more frequent toward the south and where its habitat is found it is frequent to common. it prefers a moist rich well drained soil and thrives best in protected coves and near the lower part of slopes of hills. it is found with beech, sugar maple and white oak. it is rarely found in a black loam soil, but prefers a sandy soil. it was generally a common tree and of very large size in practically all of the counties in the southern two-thirds of the state. =remarks.=--this tree is generally known by botanists as tulip tree. by lumbermen it is usually known as yellow poplar, or more often shortened to poplar. it is also known as blue, white and hickory poplar, or as white wood. the tulip tree is the second largest tree of indiana. in the ind. geol. rept. : : , is the following: "i measured four poplar trees that stood within a few feet of each other; the largest was thirty-eight feet in circumference three feet from the ground, one hundred and twenty feet high, and about sixty-five feet to the first limb. the others were, respectively eighteen and a half, eighteen and seventeen feet in circumference at three feet from the ground." the range of the uses of the wood is not so great as the oak, but it has many uses. the demand has been so great that practically all of the large trees have been cut. small trees have so much sap or white wood that they are not sought for lumber, but can be used for pulp and excelsior. [illustration: plate . liriodendron tulipifera linnæus. tulip or yellow poplar. (× / .)] the tulip transplants easily, grows rapidly, tall and with short side branches. experiments in growing this tree indicate that it is one of the very best trees for reinforcing the woodlot, and other forest planting. it can be recommended for roadside planting because it grows tall and has a deep root system. where conditions of life are not too severe it could be used for shade tree planting. =anonÀceae.= the custard apple family. =asÍmina.= the pawpaw. =asímina tríloba= (linnæus) dunal. pawpaw. plate . shrubs or small trees; bark smooth except on very old trees when it becomes somewhat furrowed; twigs at first covered with rusty brown hairs, becoming glabrous and reddish-brown by the end of the season; leaves obovate-lanceolate, average blades - cm. long, abruptly taper-pointed, wedge-shape at base, margins entire, somewhat rusty pubescent at first, becoming at maturity glabrous above, and glabrous or nearly so beneath; flowers appear in may or early june, maroon color, drooping; fruit edible, ripening in september and october, - cm. long, greenish-yellow, smooth, pulp white or yellow, with a few large, dark-brown flattened seeds; wood light, soft and weak. =distribution.=--new york, north shore of lake erie, southern michigan, nebraska, south to florida and west to texas. found in all parts of indiana, although it is found in the greatest abundance in the central counties. it prefers a moist rich soil, although it is quite adaptive. sometimes it is found in a black loam soil in low woods or about lakes, but its preference is for a beech and sugar maple woods or habitats approximating it. in the southern counties it is absent on the sterile wooded ridges, but may be a common shrub at the base of the slopes. it is a constant companion of the tulip tree and where one will grow the other is likely to be found. it is a great tree to send up suckers, hence it is always found in clumps, or forms real thickets. this species with us is usually - meters high; however, there are records of large trees. collett in ind. geol. rept. : : , in a geological report of gibson county says: "a forest of pawpaw bushes attracted our attention by their tree-like size, being nearly a foot in diameter." [illustration: plate . asimina triloba (linnæus) dunal. pawpaw. (× / .)] =remarks.=--this species is also known as the yellow and white pawpaw. recently some enthusiasts have christened it the "hoosier banana". there has been an attempt for years to cultivate the pawpaw, and some varieties have been named. the fruit is variable. the one with a white pulp is rather insipid and is not considered good to eat. the form with a yellow pulp is the kind that is regarded as the most palatable. the two forms are not botanically separated but prof. stanley coulter has made some observations on the two forms in the ind. geol. rept. : : . he says: "two forms, not separated botanically are associated in our area. they differ in time of flowering, in size, shape, color and flavor of the fruit, in leaf shape, venation and odor and color of the bark. they are of constant popular recognition and probably separate species, never seeming to intergrade." it is desirable for ornamental planning on account of its interesting foliage, beautiful and unique flowers and delicious fruit. it is very difficult to transplant a sucker plant, and in order to get a start of this species it is best to plant the seed or seedlings. it is usually found growing in the shade, but does well in full sunlight. mr. arthur w. osborn of spiceland, who has done much experimental work in propagating this species, reports some interesting cases of pawpaw poisoning. he says he knew a lady whose skin would be irritated by the presence of pawpaws. some individuals after eating them develop a rash with intense itching. in one instance he fed a person, subject to the rash from eating the pawpaw, a peeled pawpaw with a spoon, and the subject never touched the pawpaw, and the results were the same. the american genetic association has taken up the subject of improving the fruit of this tree, and there is no doubt but that in the future this species will be of considerable economic importance. the tree is free from all insect enemies, and since it can be grown in waste places, there is no reason why it should not receive more attention than it does. =laurÀceae.= the laurel family. =sÁssafras.= the sassafras. =sassafras officinàle= nees and ebermaier. sassafras. red sassafras. white sassafras. plate . small to large trees; bark aromatic, smooth on young trees, reddish-brown and deeply furrowed on old trees, resembling that of black walnut; branchlets yellowish-green, splotched more or less with sooty spots; twigs at first more or less hairy, soon becoming smooth or remaining more or less hairy until autumn, more or less glaucous, especially the smooth forms; buds more or less pubescent, the axillary ones usually more or less hairy, the outer scales of the terminal one usually smooth and glaucous; leaves simple, alternate, ovate, elliptic to obovate, blades - cm. long, entire or with - lobes, narrowed at the base, the apex and terminal of the lobes acute, both surfaces hairy when they expand, generally becoming smooth above and beneath, or more often remaining more or less pubescent beneath, the midrib and two lateral veins usually prominent beneath; petioles . - cm. long, hairy at first, becoming smooth or more often retaining some pubescence; flowers appear before or with the leaves in april or may, small, yellow or greenish, the male and female generally on different trees, on racemes up to cm. long; flower stalks usually pubescent, sometimes smooth; fruit an oblong, blue-black, glaucous berry which matures late in summer; fruit generally - mm. long, on a stalk including the pedicel and raceme up to cm. long. [illustration: plate . sassafras officinale nees and ebermaier. sassafras. (× / .)] =distribution.=--maine, southern ontario to iowa and south to florida and west to texas. no doubt it was formerly found in every county of indiana. in the northern part of the state it is more local in its distribution than in the southern counties. in the northern counties where it is local it is found in colonies on sandy or clayey ridges. sassafras is usually considered an indicator of poorer soils, hence, in the central counties it is often very local. it is frequent to common throughout the hilly counties of the southern part of the state. in this part of the state it becomes a pernicious weed tree. it soon invades fence rows and fallow fields, and is extremely difficult to kill out. it is rarely found in wet situations; however, in sullivan and clay counties large trees have been observed in low alluvial ground, associated with the white elm, etc. =remarks.=--wood light, soft, coarse-grained, aromatic, heartwood brownish. in our area sassafras wood is used principally for posts and crossties. the roots contain a volatile oil which is much used in medicine and perfumery. every one is familiar with the sassafras peddler who in the spring sells a small bundle of roots or bark for making sassafras tea. the tea is reputed "to thin the blood." the aromatic character of the wood led the earliest inhabitants to attribute many medicinal and other qualities to the wood which, in many instances bordered on superstition. in some of the southern states bedsteads were made of sassafras with the belief that they would produce sounder sleep. floors were made of sassafras to keep out the rats and mice. perches of chicken houses were made of sassafras poles to keep off the lice. to successfully make soap, it was necessary to stir the contents of the kettle with a sassafras stick. the sassafras is usually about one-fourth of a meter in diameter. however, on the charles hole farm about three miles southeast of butlerville grew two of the largest trees of which we have record. the trees grew within seven meters of each other on a slope now grown up with large sugar maple. they were cut by mr. hole's father, on whose farm they were located. the largest was cut in the later sixties and the smaller in the early seventies. the stumps were seen by the writer in . both are now hollow although the outside is quite solid after having been cut about fifty years. chips were cut from the root spurs and the wood was almost as aromatic as if the tree had just been cut. "the stumps have been burned at least three times," says mr. hole, yet the smaller now measures . m. ( inches) in diameter at a meter high. the largest stump now measures . m. ( inches), in diameter at a meter high. mr. hole says that the smallest tree had a clear hole of at least meters, and the largest tree was . m. ( inches) in diameter meters from the stump. sassafras deserves more consideration than it has received as a shade and ornamental tree. the autumnal coloring of its foliage is scarcely surpassed by any tree; and it is free from injurious insect pests. it adapts itself to almost all kinds of soils, and grows rapidly. it is, however, transplanted with difficulty; this means only more care in digging the tree and planting it. commonly the sassafras is classed as red and white sassafras. the roots of the white sassafras are said to be whiter, the aroma of the wood has a suggestion of camphor, and the wood is less durable. this belief is common throughout the area of its distribution, but so far as the writer knows, no scientific work has been published to verify this division of the species. sassafras is extremely variable, but most botanical authors have considered the many variations as one species. nuttall in was the first author to make a division of the forms, and he has been followed by some recent authors. nuttall separated those forms with smooth twigs, buds, and under surface of leaves, from those with pubescent twigs, buds, and under surface of leaves. nieuwland[ ] separates a variety from the smooth forms which he calls =sassafras albida= variety =glauca=, and reports it as occurring in the counties in the vicinity of lake michigan. the writer has at hand specimens from counties in indiana, including all of the lake michigan counties, and he has not been able to find a single character that is constant enough to make a division of our forms, consequently all the indiana forms are included under one and the old name for sassafras. [illustration: plate . liquidambar styraciflua linnæus. sweet or red gum. (× / .)] =altingiÀceae.= sweet gum family. =liquidámbar styracíflua= linnæus. sweet gum. plate . large trees with resinous sap; bark deeply furrowed, grayish; twigs when very young somewhat hairy, soon becoming glabrous, a light reddish-brown by the end of the season, later a gray, usually some or all of the branchlets develop one or more corky ridges running lengthwise of the branchlets, or in some cases only corky excrescences; leaves simple, alternate, long-petioled, orbicular in outline, cleft into wedge-shaped lobes, rarely lobes, average blades - cm. long, truncate or cordate at the base, margins finely serrate, hairy on both surfaces on unfolding, soon becoming glabrous above, and remaining more or less hairy beneath especially in the axils of the veins, at maturity turning to a dull or brilliant red; flowers in heads, expanding in april or may; fruit a globular, horny aggregate of carpels, - cm. in diameter including the horns; wood heavy, hard, not strong, close-grained, inclined to shrink and warp in seasoning, takes a good polish, heart wood a rich brown which can be finished to imitate walnut or mahogany. =distribution.=--connecticut, southern ohio to missouri, south to florida and west to texas, and in the mountains in mexico south to guatemala. in indiana it is confined to wet woods in the southern half of the state. the most northern records are from franklin, shelby, putnam and parke counties. wherever it is found it is usually a frequent to a common or very common tree. it is most frequently associated with the beech, but in the very wet woods it is found with pin oak, red birch, cow oak and white elm. =remarks.=--this species grows rapidly; is somewhat hard to transplant; grows straight and tall with few side branches, and adapts itself to a wet, compact soil. in the "flats" of southern indiana where it is associated with pin oak, red birch and beech, it is to be preferred for forest planting to these or any other species that could be grown in the "flats." it is practically free from all injurious insects. sweet gum should be one of the principal species in wet places of the woodlots of southern indiana. this species is one of the best for ornamental planting in all parts of the state where it is hardy. it is doubtful if it is wise to use it in the northern part of the state. several trees in the northern part of the state are known to be quite hardy, but there are reports that it sometimes winter-kills. it can also be recommended for roadside and street planting. [illustration: plate . platanus occidentalis linnæus. sycamore. (× / .)] =platanÀceae.= the plane tree family. =plÁtanus.= the plane tree. platanus occidentàlis linnæus. sycamore. plate . the largest tree of the state; bark thin, smooth, on age separating into thin plates and exfoliating, base of the trunks of very old trees somewhat roughened or fissured, gray to grayish-green, splotched with white; twigs at first covered with a scurvy pubescence, becoming at maturity glabrous except a ring at the node about the leaf-scar, gray or light brown, and zigzag; leaves alternate, long-petioled, nearly orbicular in outline, the blades somewhat deltoid, blades large, variable in size and shape, average blades - cm. long, frequently much larger on vigorous shoots, generally with - main lobes, sometimes the lobes are indistinct and the leaves appear only irregularly toothed, margins toothed, rarely entire between the lobes, truncate or cordate at the base, acute or acuminate at the apex; one form has been noted with leaves obovate, scarcely lobed and with a wedge-shaped base; leaves covered on both sides at first with a dense tomentum, becoming at maturity glabrous above--rarely tardily pubescent, nearly glabrous beneath, except on the veins and in the axils, petioles remaining pubescent; flowers appear in may with the leaves in heads on long woolly peduncles; fruit a globose head of many seeds, - . cm. in diameter, maturing late in the year; the seed are scattered by the wind during the winter months; wood heavy, hard, weak, close-grained, difficult to split and work, takes a high polish; when used as a container it does not communicate an objectional taste or odor to contents. =distribution.=--maine, ontario to nebraska, south to the gulf states and west to texas. found in all parts of indiana, although there are no records for the extreme northwestern counties. it is a tree of a low ground habitat, and is found principally in low ground along streams, about lakes, and ponds. in such habitats it is a frequent tree in all parts, except in the "flats" of the southern counties. in some places it is a common to a very common tree, especially along the upper courses of white river. =remarks.=--in this state this species is always called the sycamore tree. it is the largest tree of the state, and the largest deciduous tree of the united states. indiana has the distinction of having the largest living sycamore in the united states. it is located near worthington, indiana, and "in , measured feet and inches in circumference at five feet above the ground." see frontispiece. the sycamore grew to great diameters in all parts of the state. it was commonly hollow, because it is believed the tree in early life is usually more or less injured by floating ice and debris which starts inner decay. hollow sycamore logs were commonly used by the pioneers in which to smoke their meat, and sections of hollow logs about dm. ( feet) long were used to store grain in, and were known as "gums." the value of sycamore lumber has been very much underestimated. it has many uses such as butcher blocks, interior finish, furniture, piling, tobacco boxes, veneer berry boxes, handles, wooden ware, etc. indiana has led in the production of sycamore lumber for years. the sycamore is well adapted for shade, ornamental and forestry purposes. it transplants easily, grows rapidly, stands pruning well and is comparatively free from injurious insects. it grows straight, tall and usually with a rather narrow crown. it prefers a moist soil, but adapts itself to dry situations. for planting overflow lands, or on the banks of streams it is one of the best species we have. it is also one of the best species for roadside tree planting, because it is deep rooted, grows tall, and does not produce a dense shade. =malÀceae.=[ ] the apple family. the trees of this family that occur in our area have simple, alternate leaves; perfect, regular flowers, -merous calyx and corolla; fruit a more or less fleshy pome. flowers in racemes, cavities of mature fruit twice as many as the styles, seeds less than mm. ( / inch) long amelanchier. flowers in cymes or corymbs, cavities of mature fruit as many as the styles, seeds more than mm. ( / inch) long. fruit green, mature carpels papery malus. fruit red, orange, blue-black or yellow, mature carpels bony cratægus. =i. mÀlus.= the apples. _malus angustifolia_ has been reported from the state, but it is a species of more southern range. both _malus ioensis_ and _malus lancifolia_ may easily be mistaken for this species. leaves and petioles glabrous or only slightly pubescent; calyx tube and outside of calyx lobes glabrous or only slightly pubescent. leaves distinctly lobed, at least those of vigorous shoots; petioles pubescent above m. glaucescens. leaves serrate, not lobed; petioles glabrous m. lancifolia. leaves (at least the lower surfaces) and petioles densely tomentose; calyx lobes densely tomentose on both sides m. ioensis. = . malus glaucéscens= rehder. american crab apple (_m. fragrans_ rehder). plate . bark reddish, fissured and scaly; leaves on glandless petioles, petioles usually - cm. ( / - - / inches) long, leaves narrow ovate to almost triangular, those on the lateral branchlets of the ovate type, those of the terminal branchlets and vigorous shoots of the triangular type, - cm. ( - / - inches) long, acute at the apex, mostly rounded or somewhat cordate at the base, sometimes tapering, those of the triangular type usually truncate, margin of the ovate type of leaves more or less sharply serrate, the basal third of the leaf with shallow teeth or entire, margins of the triangular type more deeply serrate to almost lobed, hairy above and below when they expand, becoming smooth both above and below, sometimes a few hairs are found on the veins beneath at maturity, bright green above, paler beneath; flowers appear in may when the leaves are about half grown, usually or in a cluster, white or rose-color, very fragrant, - cm. ( - / - inches) broad when fully expanded; calyx lobes lanceolate-acuminate, tomentose on the inside, glabrous outside; fruit depressed-globose, without angles, yellow-green, - . cm. ( / - inches) thick, - . cm. ( / - inch) long, very fragrant and covered with a waxy bloom. =distribution.=--central new york, lower peninsula michigan, western new jersey to northern alabama and missouri. found in all parts of indiana. no doubt in the original forests it was rare, but the removal of the large trees has been favorable to its growth until today it is somewhat frequent in moist open woods, along streams and neglected fences. it is most frequent among the hills in southern indiana, and in all its distribution it is usually found in clumps. in our area it is a small tree about - cm. ( - inches) in diameter and - m. ( - feet) high, with a spreading crown. an exceptionally large tree is located on the south bank of round lake in whitley county which measures . m. ( inches) in circumference at one meter ( feet) above the ground where the first branch appears. specimens which were collected by the person whose name follows the county have been seen by the writer from the following counties of indiana: allen (deam) ; brown (deam) ; clark (deam) ; daviess (deam) ; decatur (deam) ; delaware (deam) ; floyd (very) ; fountain (deam) ; hamilton (mrs. chas. c. deam) ; kosciusko (deam) ; laporte (deam) ; morgan (deam) ; noble (deam) ; owen (deam) ; posey (deam) ; randolph (deam) , ; steuben (deam) ; warren (deam) ; wayne (deam) ; wells (e. b. williamson) , (deam) , , , . [illustration: plate . malus glaucescens rehder. american crab apple. (× / .)] = . malus lancifòlia= rehder. narrow-leaved crab apple. (_m. coronaria_ of manuals, in part.) plate . leaves ovate, oblong to oblong-lanceolate, . - cm. ( / - - / inches) wide, . - cm. ( - / - inches) long, acute or shortly acuminate at the apex; rounded or broadly cuneate at the base, finely serrate often doubly serrate, slightly tomentose when young, becoming entirely glabrous; bright yellow-green on both sides. flowers - . cm. broad, - in a cluster, pedicels slender, glabrous. calyx lobes oblong, lanceolate, glabrous outside, slightly villous inside, fruit subglobose, - cm. ( / - - / inches) in diameter, green. =distribution.=--pennsylvania to the mountains of north carolina, west to indiana and south to missouri. specimens have been seen from the following counties of indiana: allen (deam) ; daviess (deam) ; delaware (deam) ; dubois (deam) ; fountain (deam) ; henry (deam) , ; jay (deam) ; jennings (deam); knox (deam) , ; noble (deam) ; posey (deam) ; spencer (deam) ; starke (deam) ; union (deam) ; vermillion (deam) . = . malus ioénsis= (wood) britton. western crab apple. iowa crab apple. plate . leaves oblong to ovate-oblong, - cm. ( - / - inches) long, - cm. ( / - - / inches), wide, obtuse or acute at the apex, rounded or broadly cuneate at the base, dentate-crenate or doubly so, slightly pubescent above, becoming glabrous, dark green, slightly rugose above, densely white-tomentose below, remaining so at least along the veins; petioles . - cm. ( / - - / inches) long, densely white-tomentose; corymbs - flowered, pedicels pubescent; calyx densely white-tomentose, calyx lobes lanceolate-acuminate, densely tomentose on both sides; flowers similar to those of _malus coronaria_; fruit globose, without angles, green, - . cm. ( / - - / inches) thick, - cm. ( / - - / inches) long. =distribution.=--indiana, central kentucky, louisiana, wisconsin, southern minnesota, eastern kansas and texas. a tree in habit, similar to _malus glaucescens_. specimens have been seen from allen (deam) ; benton (deam) ; cass (deam) ; daviess (deam) ; delaware (deam) ; floyd (very) ; huntington (deam); jasper (deam) ; knox (deam) ; lake (deam) ; lagrange (deam) ; laporte (deam) , ; newton (deam) ; porter (deam) ; posey (deam) ; putnam (grimes); sullivan (deam) , ; tippecanoe (dorner) , (deam) ; vigo (deam) , ; warren (deam) ; white (deam) ; whitley (deam) . [illustration: plate . malus lancifolia rehder. narrow-leaved crab apple. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . malus ioensis (wood) britton. western crab apple. (× / .)] =malus ioensis × lancifolia= n. hyb. specimens collected by deam in grant county in and huntington county in appear to be this cross. it would be strange indeed if such closely related species as these _malus_ and many _cratægus_ would not cross. = . amelÁnchier.= the service berries. leaves densely white tomentose when young, becoming green. a. canadensis. leaves nearly or quite glabrous a. lævis. = . amelanchier canadénsis= (linnæus) medicus. juneberry. service berry. plate . leaves obovate, ovate, oval or oblong, - cm. ( - / - inches) long, . - cm. ( - inches) wide, cordate at base, acute, or acuminate at apex, sharply and doubly serrate; blades and petioles densely white tomentose when young, persisting particularly on petioles with age, green or yellowish green, not unfolded at flowering time; racemes short, dense, silky tomentose pedicels, - mm. ( / - inch) long in fruit; petals linear or linear-oblong - mm, ( / - / inch) long; calyx . - mm. broad, campanulate, glabrous or somewhat woolly, calyx lobes oblong-triangular, obtuse, tomentose - mm. long, abruptly reflexed at the base when the petals fall; summit of ovary glabrous; fruit scanty, maroon-purple, dry and tasteless; flowers in april or may; fruit ripening june or july. =distribution.=--southern maine to southern michigan, iowa, kansas, missouri and south to georgia and louisiana. bushy tree or shrub sometimes meters ( feet) high. specimens have been seen from the following counties: clark (deam) ; clay (deam) ; crawford (deam) ; floyd (deam) ; fountain (l. a. williamson) ; jackson (deam) ; jefferson (deam) ; jennings (deam); lagrange (deam) ; tippecanoe (dorner) ; warren (deam) . = . amelanchier laévis= wiegand. smooth juneberry. service berry. (_amelanchier canadensis_ of manuals, in part.) plate . leaves ovate-oval to ovate-oblong or sometimes obovate or elliptical, - cm. ( / - - / inches) long, . - cm. ( - - / inches) wide, apex short, acuminate, base cordate, rounded or sometimes acute, sharply serrate, glabrous or with a few hairs when young, dark green and slightly glaucous when mature, one-half or two-third grown at flowering time; petioles glabrous; racemes many flowered, drooping, glabrous or nearly so; fruiting pedicels - mm. ( - / - inches) long; petals oblong-linear, - mm. ( / - / inch) long; calyx campanulate, . - mm. wide, glabrous, sepals triangular, lanceolate, - mm. long, abruptly reflexed at base when petals fall; summit of ovary glabrous; fruit purple to nearly black, glaucous, edible; flowers in april or may; fruit, june or july. [illustration: plate . amelanchier canadensis (linnæus) medicus. june or service berry. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . amelanchier laevis wiegand. smooth juneberry or service berry. (× / .)] =distribution.=--newfoundland, northern michigan, kansas, missouri and south in the mountains to georgia and alabama. specimens have been seen from the following counties: brown (deam) ; dubois (deam) ; grant (deam) ; jackson (deam) ; jefferson (deam) ; lagrange (deam) ; lake (deam) ; laporte (deam) , ; lawrence (deam) ; owen (deam) ; perry (deam) ; porter (deam) and (agnes chase); putnam (mrs. chas. c. deam) ; ripley (deam) ; st. joseph (deam) ; steuben (deam) ; wells (deam) . trees or shrubs, sometimes meters ( feet) high. in the mountains of vermont the fruit is often abundant, very juicy and sweet, and in much demand both by man and the birds. the berries on the long racemes ripen at different times and are perhaps two weeks in maturing, thus furnishing food for some time. = . crataÈgus.= thorn apples. red haws. large shrubs or small trees, most at home in a limestone region. this genus has been studied a great deal in this country. much work is still necessary in indiana since there are a number of other species that belong in this range. the "knob country" and southwestern indiana are likely to produce the best results. a. leaves not deltoid-cordate; pubescent or glabrous. i. leaves broadest at the middle or apex, cuneate. a. leaves broadest towards the apex. leaves not impressed-veined above, shining i. crus-galli. c. crus-galli. leaves impressed-veined above, dull. ii. punctatæ. fruit glabrous; calyx lobes entire. fruit ellipsoidal; nutlets usually or . leaves bright yellow-green, slightly impressed above; fruit ellipsoidal. c. cuneiformis. leaves dull gray-green, strongly impressed-veined; fruit short ellipsoidal. c. punctata. fruit globose. c. margaretta. fruit villous; calyx lobes glandular-serrate. c. collina. b. leaves broadest at the middle. leaves impressed-veined; nutlets deeply pitted on inner face. iii. macracanthæ. leaves dark green, glabrous and shining above, coriaceous. fruit sometimes mm. ( / inch) thick; stamens usually ; leaves and anthers large. c. succulenta. fruit sometimes mm. ( / inch) thick; stamens - ; leaves and anthers small. c. neo-fluvialis. leaves gray-green, pubescent and dull above, subcoriaceous. c. calpodendron. leaves not impressed-veined; nutlets without pits. calyx glandular margined, fruit more than mm. ( / inch) thick; leaves not trilobate. iv. rotundifoliæ. c. chrysocarpa. calyx lobes not glandular margined; fruit - mm. ( / - / inch thick); leaves often trilobate towards the apex. v. virides. fruit bright red, glaucous, - mm. ( / - / inch) thick; leaves serrate. c. viridis. fruit dull dark red, - mm. ( / - / inch) thick; leaves coarsely serrate. c. nitida. ii. leaves broadest at the base. a. leaves . - cm. ( / - - / inches) long and wide, membranaceous; calyx lobes usually entire. leaves yellow-green, often slightly pubescent; fruit soft at maturity. vi. tenuifoliæ. fruit ellipsoidal, ovoid or pyriform. c. macrosperma. fruit compressed, globose or subglobose. c. basilica. leaves blue-green, glabrous; fruit hard at maturity. vii. pruinosæ. leaves elliptic-ovate. c. jesupi. leaves usually cordate. fruit conspicuously angled, strongly pruinose. c. rugosa. fruit without conspicuous angles, slightly pruinose. c. filipes. leaves usually cuneate. leaves deltoid. c. gattingeri. leaves ovate. c. pruinosa. b. leaves - cm. ( - inches) long and wide; calyx lobes usually serrate. viii. coccineæ. mature leaves usually glabrous above; young foliage bronze-green; anthers pink. corymbs and fruit glabrous. c. coccinioides. corymbs and fruit pubescent or tomentose. c. coccinea. mature leaves tomentose above; young foliage yellow-green; anthers yellow. c. mollis. b. leaves conspicuously deltoid-cordate. ix. cordatæ. c. phænopyrum. = . crataegus crus-gálli= linnæus. cock-spur thorn. newcastle thorn. plate . bark dark gray, scaly; spines many, strong, straight, - cm. ( - inches) long; leaves obovate to elliptical, - cm. ( / - inches) long, - cm. ( / - - / inches) wide, sharply serrate, except towards the base, acute or rounded at the apex, cuneate, dark green and shining above, coriaceous, glabrous or occasionally slightly pubescent; petioles slightly winged above, glandless, - cm. ( / - / inch) long; corymbs glabrous or occasionally pubescent, many flowered; flowers appear in may or june, about . cm. ( / inch) wide; stamens - ; anthers usually pink; calyx lobes lanceolate-acuminate, entire; styles and nutlets usually ; fruit ripens in october, ellipsoidal-ovoid to subglobose, about cm. ( / inch) thick, greenish to red; flesh hard and dry, rather thin. =distribution.=--northern new york to ontario, eastern kansas and south through western connecticut to georgia and texas. introduced near montreal, about lake champlain and nantucket island. well distributed in indiana (but apparently more common in the southern part of the state). a small tree, sometimes m. ( feet) high, with spreading branches and a broad crown; but often a large shrub. this is a variable species and has received many names. i have seen specimens from the following counties: allen (deam); crawford (deam); dearborn (deam); decatur (mrs. chas. c. deam); delaware (deam); dubois (deam); franklin (deam); gibson (schneck), (deam); grant (deam); hancock (mrs. chas. c. deam); jackson (deam); knox (schneck); lawrence (deam); marion (mrs. chas. c. deam); posey (deam); owen (grimes); randolph (deam); scott (deam); tippecanoe (deam); vermillion (deam); vigo (blatchley); washington (deam); wells (deam). = . crataegus cuneifórmis= (marshall) eggleston. (_c. pausiaca_ ashe). marshall's thorn. plate . bark dark brown, scaly; spines numerous, - cm. ( / - inches) long; leaves oblanceolate-obovate, acute at the apex, cuneate at the base, serrate or doubly serrate - cm. ( / - - / inches) wide, dark vivid yellow-green, glabrous and impressed veined above when mature, subcoriaceous; petioles - cm. ( / - / inch) long, slightly winged above; corymbs usually slightly pubescent, many flowered; flowers appear in may, . - . cm. ( / - / inch) wide; calyx lobes lanceolate-acuminate, entire; stamens, - ; anthers dark pink; styles and nutlets - ; fruit ripens in october, ellipsoidal-pyriform, scarlet or dark red, about mm. ( / inch) thick, flesh hard, thick. =distribution.=--western new york and pennsylvania to southwestern virginia, west to central illinois. [illustration: plate . crataegus crus-galli linnæus. cock-spur thorn. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . crataegus cuneiformis (marshall) eggleston. marshall's thorn. (× / .)] a small tree sometimes m. ( feet) high, with spreading branches, forming a flat or round crown. this species is intermediate between _crus-galli_ and _punctata_ and has been found as yet only in a region where both these species are known. i have seen specimens from the following counties: clark (deam); floyd (deam); gibson (schneck), (deam); hamilton (mrs. chas. c. deam); knox (schneck); marion (mrs. chas. c. deam); posey (deam); vigo (blatchley); wells (deam). = . crataegus punctàta= jacquin. large-fruited thorn. dotted haw. plate . bark grayish-brown, scaly; leaves light grey, - cm. ( / - inches) long, - cm. ( / - inches) broad, dull gray-green and markedly impressed-vein above, pubescent, becoming nearly glabrous above when mature, acute or obtuse at the apex, sharply cuneate at the base, serrate, doubly serrate or lobed at the apex, subcoriaceous; petioles - cm. ( / - / inch) long, slightly winged above; corymbs tomentose or canescent, many flowered; flowers appear in june, about cm. ( / inch) wide; calyx lobes lanceolate, acuminate, entire; stamens about ; anthers white or pink; styles and nutlets usually or ; fruit ripens in october or november, green, yellow or red, short-ellipsoidal, . - . cm. ( / - inch) thick, flesh hard, thick; calyx lobes spreading. =distribution.=--quebec to pennsylvania, southeastern minnesota, iowa, kentucky and south to the high alleghenies. well distributed over indiana. a small tree, sometimes m. ( feet) high, with distinctly horizontal branches and a broad, flat crown. specimens have been seen from the following counties: allen (deam); bartholomew (deam); dearborn (deam); fulton (deam); gibson (deam); grant (deam); hamilton (mrs. chas. c. deam); hendricks (deam); howard (deam); jennings (deam); johnson (deam); marion (deam); noble (deam); putnam (grimes); vermillion (deam); vigo (blatchley); wayne (deam); wells (deam). = . crataegus margarètta= ashe. judge brown's thorn. mrs. ashe's thorn. plate . bark dark grayish-brown; spines curved, - cm. ( / - - / inches) long; leaves oblong-obovate or ovate, sometimes broadly so, - cm. ( / - - / inches) long, - cm. ( / - - / inches) wide, obtuse or acute at the apex, cuneate or rounded at the base, serrate or doubly serrate with or pairs of acute or obtuse lobes towards the apex, glabrous when mature, dark green above, membranaceous; petioles - cm. ( / - - / inches) long, slightly winged; corymbs slightly pubescent, becoming glabrous, - flowered; flowers appear in may, . - cm. ( / - / inch) wide; stamens about ; anthers yellow; styles and nutlets usually ; calyx lobes lanceolate-acuminate, slightly pubescent inside; fruit ripens in october, dull rusty green, yellow or red, compressed-globose, to short ellipsoidal, angular, - mm. ( / - / inch) thick, flesh yellow, mealy, hard, thick; calyx lobes reflexed, deciduous. [illustration: plate . crataegus punctata jacquin. large-fruited thorn. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . cratÆgus margaretta ashe. judge brown's thorn. mrs. ashe's thorn. (× / .)] =distribution.=--southern ontario to central iowa, western virginia, tennessee and missouri. known in indiana only from the northern part of the state. a small tree sometimes m. ( feet) high, with spreading branches. specimens have been seen from the following counties: allen (deam); blackford (deam); cass (mrs. ida jackson); delaware (deam); elkhart (deam); fulton (deam); grant (deam); henry (deam); huntington (deam); johnson (deam); lagrange (deam); lawrence (deam); noble (deam); randolph (deam); steuben (deam); tipton (mrs. chas. c. deam); wayne (deam); wells (deam). = . crataegus collìna= chapman. chapman's hill thorn. plate . bark dark gray, scaly; spines numerous, about - cm. ( - - / inches) long; often numerous branched thorns on the trunk - cm. ( - inches) long, brown; leaves obovate to oblanceolate, - cm. ( / - - / inches) long, . - cm. ( / - inches) wide, acute or obtuse at the apex, strongly cuneate, serrate or doubly serrate with obtuse lobes towards the apex, subcoriaceous, yellow-green, young leaves somewhat pubescent, becoming glabrous with age; petioles about . cm. ( inch) long, slightly hairy, somewhat winged; corymbs and calyx pubescent; flowers about mm. ( / inch) wide; stamens - , usually , anthers usually yellow; styles and nutlets, - ; calyx lobes glandular-ciliate or glandular-serrate; fruit ripens in october, globose or compressed-globose, red or orange-red, - mm. ( / - / inch) thick; calyx tube somewhat prominent, the lobes reflexed. =distribution.=--virginia to georgia, indiana, missouri and mississippi. only one station known in indiana; deam's no. from dearborn county. a tree sometimes meters ( feet) high with spreading branches and a broad flat crown. = . crataegus succulénta= schrader. long-spined thorn. plate . bark gray; spines numerous, strong, - cm. ( - / - inches) long, chestnut-brown; leaves rhombic-ovate to obovate, - cm. ( - / - - / inches) long, . - cm. ( - - / inches) wide, acute at the apex, broadly cuneate at the base, serrate or doubly serrate with fine teeth, often lobed towards the apex, coriaceous, dark shining green above, pubescent along the veins beneath; petioles - cm. ( / - / inch) long, slightly winged above; corymbs slightly villous, many-flowered; flowers appear in may, about cm. ( / inch) broad; stamens - , usually ; anthers pink or occasionally yellow or white, large; styles and nutlets usually or ; calyx lobes lanceolate-acuminate, glandular-laciniate, villous; fruit ripens in september, subglobose, - mm. ( / - / inch) thick, dark red, shining, flesh thin, glutinous; nutlet with deep pits on the inner faces; calyx-lobes villous, reflexed. [illustration: plate . cratÆgus collina chapman. chapman's hill thorn. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . cratÆgus succulenta schrader. long-spined thorn. (× / .)] =distribution.=--nova scotia to minnesota, nebraska and south in the higher alleghenies to north carolina and in the rocky mountains to southern colorado. as yet reported only from northern to central indiana. a small tree sometimes m. ( feet) high, with ascending branches and a broad, irregular crown; more often, however, a large shrub. specimens have been seen from the following counties: allen (deam); cass (mrs. ida jackson); fulton (deam); noble (vangorder); putnam (grimes); tippecanoe (deam); wells (deam). =horticultural uses.=--highly ornamental for parks and hedges because of the abundant flowers, dark green shining leaves and its dark red shining fruit. = . crataegus neo-fluviàlis= ashe. new river thorn. plate . bark grayish; spines numerous, . - cm. ( - inches) long; leaves elliptical-ovate to obovate, . - cm. ( - inches) long, - cm. ( / - - / inches) wide, acute or obtuse at the apex, cuneate at the base, sharply and doubly serrate, with obtuse or acute lobes towards the apex, coriaceous, dark green and shining above, pubescent along the veins beneath; petioles - cm. ( / - / inch) long, slightly winged-above; corymbs and calyx-tubes glabrous or slightly villous, many-flowered; flowers appear in may, . - . cm. ( / - / inch) broad, stamens - , anthers usually pink, small; styles and nutlets usually or ; calyx lobes more villous on the inside, lanceolate-acuminate, glandular-laciniate; fruit ripens in september, globose or short ellipsoidal, dark red, - mm. ( / - / inch) thick, flesh thin, glutinous, nutlets with deep pits in the inner faces; calyx lobes reflexed, glabrous or slightly hairy. =distribution.=--western vermont to eastern wisconsin, iowa and south in the alleghenies to north carolina. a small tree sometimes m. ( feet) high, with ascending and spreading branches. specimens have been seen from allen (deam); fulton (deam); shelby (deam); wells (deam). [illustration: plate . cratÆgus neo-fluvialis ashe. new riverthorn. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . cratÆgus calpodendron (ehrhart) medicus. pear-thorn. (× / .)] = . crataegus calpodéndron= (ehrhart) medicus. pear-thorn. pear or red haw. plate . bark pale gray to dark brown, furrowed; spines occasional, slender - cm. ( - / - inches) long; leaves rhombic-ovate, - cm. ( - / - - / inches) long, - cm. ( - / - inches) wide, acute or acuminate at the apex, finely and doubly serrate, those on the vegetative shoots obtuse and more entire than the others, pubescent on both sides, becoming scabrate above, subcoriaceous, dull green above; petioles about cm. ( / inch) long, wing margined, glandular hairy; corymbs white-tomentose, many flowered; flowers appear in june, about . cm. ( / inch) broad; stamens about ; anthers small, pink; styles and nutlets usually or ; calyx lobes lanceolate-acuminate, glandular laciniate; fruit ripens in september, pyriform to ellipsoidal, orange-red or red, - mm. ( / inch) thick, flesh glutinous; nutlets with deep pits in their inner faces; calyx lobes reflexed. =distribution.=--central new york, northeastern new jersey to minnesota and missouri and south in the mountains to northern georgia. a large shrub or occasionally a tree m. ( feet) high, with ascending branches forming a broad crown. specimens have been examined from the following counties: boone (deam); floyd (deam); hancock (mrs. chas. c. deam); harrison (deam); marion (mrs. chas. c. deam); posey (deam); putnam (grimes); tippecanoe (stanley coulter); wells (deam); white (deam); whitley (deam). = . crataegus chrysocárpa= ashe. (_crataegus dodgei_ sargent. _crataegus rotundifolia_, borckhausen.) round-leaved thorn. plate . bark dark red-brown, scaly; spines numerous, chestnut-brown, curved, - cm. ( - inches) long; leaves ovate-orbicular or obovate, - cm. ( - / - - / inches) long, - cm. ( / - - / inches) wide, acute at the apex, broadly cuneate at the base, doubly serrate with rather coarse teeth and with or pairs of acute lobes, subcoriaceous, dark yellow-green and shining above, slightly pubescent or glabrous; corymbs glabrous or slightly pubescent; flowers - mm. ( / - / inch) wide; stamens - ; anthers light yellow; styles and nutlets usually - ; calyx lobes lanceolate, acuminate, usually entire, but glandular margined; fruit depressed-globose to short ovoid, about mm. ( / inch) thick, flesh soft; calyx lobes reflexed. =distribution.=--nova scotia and new brunswick to saskatchewan, south to nebraska and pennsylvania and in the mountains to north carolina and new mexico. round topped shrub or tree sometimes meters ( feet) high. specimens have been seen from the following counties: delaware and lagrange (deam). [illustration: plate . cratÆgus chrysocarpa ashe. round-leaved thorn. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . cratÆgus viridis linnæus. southern thorn. (× / .)] = . crataegus víridis= linnæus. southern thorn. plate . bark gray to light orange; spines uncommon, - cm. ( / - - / inches) long; leaves oblong-ovate, - cm. ( / - - / inches) long, - cm. ( / - inches) wide, acute, acuminate or even obtuse at the apex, serrate or doubly serrate, often with acute or obtuse lobes towards the apex, dark green, shining and slightly impressed veined above, sometimes pubescent along the veins beneath; petioles - cm. ( / - / inch) long, slightly winged above; corymbs glabrous, many flowered; flowers appear in may, - . cm. ( / - / inch) broad; stamens about ; anthers usually yellow, sometimes pink; styles and nutlets or ; calyx lobes lanceolate-acuminate, entire, slightly pubescent inside; fruit ripens in october, globose or compressed-globose, bright red or orange, glaucous, - mm. ( / inch) thick, flesh thin, hard, edible. =distribution.=--moist, alluvial soil along streams and lakes, southeastern virginia to northern florida and southwestern indiana to eastern kansas and texas. a tree from - m. ( - feet) high, with ascending branches and a broad crown. specimens have been examined from the following counties: dubois (deam); gibson (schneck), (deam); knox (schneck); posey (deam). = . crataegus nítida= (engelmann) sargent. shining thorn. plate . bark dark and scaly; spines occasional, - cm. ( - inches) long; leaves oblong-ovate to oval, - cm. ( - / - inches) long, - cm. ( / - - / inches) wide, acute at the apex, cuneate at the base, coarsely serrate or twice serrate with acute lobes towards the apex, dark green and shining above, glabrous; petioles - cm. ( / - / inch) long, slightly winged above, slightly villous when young; corymbs glabrous, many-flowered; flowers appear in may, . - cm. ( / - / inch) broad; stamens about ; anthers light yellow; styles and nutlets - ; calyx lobes lanceolate-acuminate, entire; fruit ripens in october, globose to short-ellipsoidal, dark dull red, - mm. ( / - / inch) thick; flesh yellow, mealy, hard. =distribution.=--river bottoms southwestern indiana to southern illinois. a tree sometimes m. ( feet) high, with ascending and spreading branches and a broad crown. specimens have been seen from gibson (schneck); posey (deam). [illustration: plate . cratÆgus nitida (engelmann) sargent. shining thorn. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . cratÆgus macrosperma ashe. variable thorn. (× / .)] = . crataegus macrospérma= ashe. variable thorn. plate . bark brown, scaly; spines numerous, stout, curved, - cm. ( / - - / inches) long; leaves broadly elliptical-ovate to broadly ovate, - cm. ( / - - / inches) long and wide, acute at the apex, rounded, truncate or rarely cordate at the base, serrate or doubly serrate, slightly villous, becoming glabrate, dark yellow-green above, membranaceous; petioles slender, - cm. ( / - - / inches) long, slightly winged above; corymbs glabrous or slightly villous, many-flowered; flowers appear in may, . - cm. ( / - / inch) broad; stamens - , usually - ; styles and nutlets usually or ; calyx lobes lanceolate-acuminate, entire; fruit ripens in august or september, ellipsoidal or pyriform, scarlet to crimson, often glaucous, - . cm. ( / - / inch) thick, flesh succulent, edible; calyx lobes persistent, erect or spreading. =distribution.=--nova scotia and maine to southeastern minnesota and south in the mountains to north carolina and tennessee. usually a large shrub but occasionally a small tree, sometimes m. ( feet) high, with ascending branches. specimens have been seen from the following counties: allen (deam); bartholomew (deam); clark (deam); decatur (deam); fulton (deam); hancock (mrs. chas. c. deam); madison (deam); porter (deam); randolph (deam); shelby (mrs. chas. c. deam); washington (deam); wells (deam); whitley (deam). =crataegus macrosperma= ashe. var. =matura= (sargent) eggleston. lobes of the leaves acuminate, often recurved; fruit ripens early. =distribution.=--known in indiana only from deam's specimen no. from wells county. = . crataegus basilìca= beadle. (_crataegus alnorum_ sargent. _crataegus edsoni_ sargent). edson's thorn. plate . bark brown, scaly; spines . - cm. ( - - / inches) long, stout, curved; leaves ovate, - cm. ( - / - - / inches) long, acute at the apex, broadly cuneate or truncate at base, serrate or doubly serrate with acute lobes, dull dark yellow-green above, paler beneath; corymbs glabrous, many flowered; flowers - mm. ( / - / inch) broad; stamens about ; anthers pink; styles and nutlets - ; fruit subglobose, slightly angular, dark cherry-red, - mm. ( / - / inch) thick, flesh succulent; calyx lobes erect or spreading. =distribution.=--new england to southern michigan, northern indiana and pennsylvania to mountains of north carolina and tennessee. a broad shrub or small tree sometimes . meters ( feet) high, branches ascending. specimens examined: wells (deam). [illustration: plate . cratÆgus basilica beadle. edson's thorn. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . cratÆgus jesupi sargent. jesup's thorn. (× / .)] = . crataegus jésupi= sargent. jesup's thorn. twin mountain thorn. plate . bark grayish-brown; spines stout, straight - cm. ( / - - / inches) long; leaves elliptical-ovate, . - cm. ( - / - inches) long, - . cm. ( - inches) wide, acute or acuminate at the apex, broadly cuneate to truncate-cordate, serrate or doubly serrate, with or pairs of acute lobes, yellow-green above, paler beneath, glabrous; petioles slender, - . cm. ( / - - / inches) long, slightly winged above; corymbs glabrous, many-flowered; flowers appear in may, about cm. ( / inch) broad; stamens about ; anthers dark red; styles and nutlets usually or ; calyx lobes entire; fruit ripens in october, short-ellipsoidal to pyriform, dark red, slightly angled, lacking bloom when mature, about cm. ( / inch) thick, flesh yellow, firm; calyx lobes mostly deciduous. =distribution.=--western vermont, to southwestern wisconsin and south to pennsylvania and owen county, indiana. a shrubby tree, sometimes m. ( feet) high, with ascending branches and a round crown. specimens examined: owen (mrs. chas. c. deam). = . crataegus rugòsa= ashe. (_crataegus deltoides_ ashe). fretz's thorn. plate . spines numerous, - cm. ( - / - - / inches) long, stout curved; leaves broadly ovate, - cm. ( - - / inches) long and broad, acute or acuminate at the apex, cordate or truncate at the base, serrate or twice serrate with - pairs of broad acuminate lobes, glabrous, membranaceous; petioles - cm. ( / - - / inches) long, glabrous; corymbs many-flowered, glabrous; flowers appear in may, about cm. ( / inch) broad; stamens - ; anthers pink; styles and nutlets usually or ; calyx lobes deltoid-acuminate, entire or slightly serrate at the base; fruit ripens in october, depressed-globose, bright red, angular, glabrous, waxy, - . cm. ( / - / inch) thick, flesh yellow, somewhat succulent; calyx lobes persistent, spreading, the tube rather prominent. =distribution.=--southwestern new england to southern indiana and the mountains of north carolina. a shrub or tree sometimes m. ( feet) high, with ascending branches and an irregular crown. specimens examined: allen (deam); decatur (deam); grant (deam); jennings (deam); owen (deam); perry (deam); wells (deam). = . crataegus fílipes= ashe. miss beckwith's thorn. (_crataegus silvicola_ var. _beckwithae_ (sargent) eggleston). plate . spines numerous, curved, chestnut-brown, . to cm. ( - - / inches) long; bark slightly scaly; leaves - cm. ( / - - / inches) long, - cm. ( / - - / inches) wide; leaves ovate, acute or acuminate at apex, rounded, truncate or on vegetative shoots cordate at base, serrate or doubly serrate, lower pair of acuminate lobes often deeply cut, membranaceous, glabrous; corymbs glabrous; flowers about cm. ( / inch) broad; stamens about ; anthers pink; styles and nutlets - ; fruit globose or compressed-globose, cherry-red, - mm. ( / inch) thick, ripens in october. [illustration: plate . cratÆgus rugosa ashe. fretz's thorn. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . cratÆgus filipes ashe. miss beckwith's thorn. (× / .)] =distribution.=--western new england to central michigan and south to pennsylvania and southern indiana. a shrub or tree sometimes meters ( feet) high, with irregular ascending branches. specimens have been seen from perry county, deam's no. . = . crataegus gattíngeri= ashe. (_crataegus coccinea_ var. _oligandra_ torrey and gray). dr. clapp's thorn. gattinger's thorn. plate . spines numerous, . - cm. ( - inches) long; leaves narrowly ovate to deltoid, . - cm. ( - - / inches) long, - cm. ( / - inches) wide, acuminate at the apex, broadly cuneate or rounded at the base, serrate or doubly serrate, lobed towards the apex, membranaceous, glabrous, dark green above; petioles glabrous, - cm. ( / - - / inches) long; corymbs glabrous, many-flowered; flowers appear in may, about cm. ( / inch) broad; stamens - ; anthers small, pink; styles and nutlets usually or ; fruit ripens in october, globose, angular, red, slightly waxy, . - . cm. ( / - / inch) thick, flesh hard; calyx tube prominent, the lobes triangular, spreading. =distribution.=--southern pennsylvania and southern indiana to west virginia and central tennessee. shrub or small tree sometimes . m. ( feet) high, with ascending, irregular branches. specimens seen from: floyd (dr. clapp, before ); knox (schneck); perry (deam); steuben (deam); wells (deam). = . crataegus pruinòsa= (wendland) k. koch. waxy-fruited thorn. plate . bark dark brown; spines numerous, slender, - cm. ( - / - - / inches) long; leaves elliptic-ovate to broadly ovate, . - cm. ( - - / inches) long and wide, acute or acuminate at the apex, abruptly cuneate, rounded or occasionally cordate at the base, serrate or doubly serrate with or pairs of broad acute lobes towards the apex, blue-green, glabrous, membranaceous; petioles or cm. ( / - - / inches) long, glabrous; corymbs glabrous, many-flowered; flowers appear in may, about cm. ( / inch) broad; stamens - ; anthers pink or sometimes yellow or white; styles and nutlets or ; calyx lobes lanceolate-acuminate, entire, slightly serrate at the base; fruit ripens in october, depressed-globose to short-ellipsoidal, strongly angled, waxy, apple green, becoming scarlet or purple, . - . cm. ( / - / inch), thick, firm, yellow, sweet; calyx tube prominent, the lobes spreading, persistent. =distribution.=--rocky, open woods, western new england to michigan and south to north carolina and missouri. well distributed in indiana. [illustration: plate . cratÆgus gattingeri ashe. dr. gattinger's thorn. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . cratÆgus pruinosa (wendland) k. koch. waxy-fruited thorn. (× / .)] a small shrubby tree sometimes m. ( feet) high, with irregular branches and crown. specimens have been seen from the following counties: allen (deam); clark (deam); decatur (deam); delaware (deam); gibson (deam); hamilton (deam); hancock (mrs. chas. c. deam); lagrange (deam); madison (deam); marion (deam); monroe (deam); porter (deam); putnam (grimes); randolph (deam); steuben (deam); sullivan (deam); tipton (deam); vermillion (deam); warren (deam); wayne (deam); wells (deam). = . crataegus coccinioìdes= ashe. eggert's thorn. (_crataegus eggertii_ britton). plate . bark grayish-brown, scaly; spines curved, - cm. ( / - - / inches) long; leaves broadly ovate, - cm. ( - / - - / inches) long, . - cm. ( - / - inches) wide, acute at the apex, rounded or truncate at the base, doubly serrate with several pairs of broad, acute lobes, dark green above, paler and slightly tomentose along the veins beneath, membranaceous; petioles to cm. ( / - - / inches) long, slightly pubescent; corymbs glabrous, - flowered; flowers appear in may, about cm. ( / inch) broad; stamens about ; anthers pink; styles and nutlets usually or ; calyx lobes ovate, acute, glandular-serrate; fruit ripens in september, subglobose, obtusely angled, . - cm. ( / - inch) thick, flesh reddish, subacid, edible; calyx tube prominent, the lobes spreading. =distribution.=--montreal island to rhode island and west to eastern kansas and missouri. a small tree sometimes m. ( feet) high, with ascending and spreading branches and a broad, round-topped crown. specimens have been seen from: floyd (dr. clapp, before ), (deam); gibson (schneck); marion (deam); martin (deam); vigo (blatchley); whitley (deam). = . crataegus coccínea= linnæus. scarlet thorn. red haw. (_crataegus pedicillata_ sargent). plate . bark light gray, spines stout, curved, - cm. ( / - inches) long; leaves broadly ovate, - cm. ( - / - inches) long, - cm. ( - / - - / inches) wide, acute or acuminate at the apex, broadly cuneate to truncate at the base, serrate, doubly serrate or lobed, slightly pubescent, becoming scabrous above, nearly glabrous beneath, membranaceous; corymbs glabrous or sometimes slightly villous, many-flowered; flowers appear in may, . - cm. ( / - / inch) broad; stamens - ; anthers pink; styles and nutlets - ; fruit ripens in september, pyriform to short ellipsoidal, scarlet or red, glabrous or slightly pubescent, . - cm. ( / - / inch) thick, flesh thick, dry and mealy; calyx lobes lanceolate-acuminate, glandular-serrate, erect or spreading, rather persistent. [illustration: plate . cratÆgus coccinoides ashe. eggert's thorn. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . cratÆgus coccinea linnæus. scarlet thorn. (× / .)] =distribution.=--connecticut to ontario, illinois, delaware and pennsylvania. a small tree sometimes m. ( feet) high, with ascending and spreading branches and a broad, round-topped crown. specimens have been seen from the following counties: floyd (deam); knox (deam); noble (vangorder); steuben (deam); white (deam). =horticultural uses.=--this fine tree has been in the gardener's hands several centuries. there are specimens in the kew gardens, england, more than two hundred years old. = a. crataegus coccinea= var. =ellwangeriàna=, n. nom. (_crataegus pedicillata_ var. _ellwangeriana_ (sargent) eggleston). corymbs densely villous; fruit slightly villous. =distribution.=--known in indiana from deam's specimen no. from warren county. = . crataegus móllis= (torrey and gray) scheele. red-fruited or downy thorn. red haw. plate . bark grayish-brown, fissured and scaly; spines curved, - cm. ( - inches) long; leaves broadly ovate, acute at the apex, cordate to truncate at the base, serrate or twice serrate with narrow acute lobes, - cm. ( - / - inches) long, - cm. ( - / - inches) wide, slightly rugose, densely tomentose beneath, tomentose above, becoming scabrous, membranaceous; petioles - cm. ( / - - / inches) long, tomentose; corymbs tomentose, many-flowered; flowers appear in may, about . cm. ( inch) broad; stamens about ; anthers light yellow; styles and nutlets or ; fruit ripens in september, short-ellipsoidal to subglobose, scarlet, . - . cm. ( / - inch) thick, flesh thick, yellow, edible; calyx lobes glandular-serrate, swollen, erect or spreading, deciduous. =distribution.=--southern ontario to south dakota, south to central tennessee and arkansas. this thorn is well distributed over indiana. a small tree often m. ( feet) high, with ascending and spreading branches, forming a broad, round-topped crown. specimens have been examined from the following counties: allen (deam); cass (mrs. ida jackson); dearborn (deam); decatur (deam); delaware (deam); floyd (deam); gibson (schneck), (deam); hancock (deam); hendricks (deam); henry (deam); jackson (deam); knox (schneck), (deam); madison (deam); marion (mrs. chas. c. deam); montgomery (grimes); posey (deam); putnam (grimes); shelby (deam); sullivan (deam); vermillion (deam); wells (deam); whitley (deam). [illustration: plate . cratÆgus mollis (torrey and gray) scheele. red-fruited thorn. (× / .)] = . crataegus phænopyrum= (linnæus fils) medicus. washington thorn. scarlet haw. (_crataegus cordata_ aiton). plate . bark grayish-brown, scaly; spines numerous, slightly curved, - cm. ( / - inches) long; leaves ovate-triangular, - cm. ( / - inches) long and wide, simply or doubly serrate, often - lobed, acute at the apex, rounded to cordate at the base, bright green above, glabrous; petioles slender, . - cm. ( / - inches) long, glabrous; corymbs glabrous, many-flowered; flowers appear in june, - mm. ( / - / inch) broad; stamens about ; anthers pink; styles and nutlets usually ; calyx lobes deltoid, entire, deciduous; fruit ripens in october or november, depressed-globose, scarlet, - mm. ( / - / inch) thick, nutlets with a bare apex and smooth back, flesh thin, firm. =distribution.=--virginia to georgia, indiana to arkansas. moist rich soil. naturalized in pennsylvania and new jersey. possibly it may be naturalized at the indiana station. more knowledge of distribution in southern indiana is needed to settle this question. a shrubby tree sometimes m. ( feet) high, with nearly erect branches and an oblong crown. specimens have been seen from wayne (deam). it also occurs in the wabash valley. =horticultural uses.=--this is one of the most desirable thorns for ornamental planting and hedges. its scarlet autumn foliage and beautiful little scarlet fruit persist for a long time. it is also one of the american thorns long in cultivation, both in europe and the united states. =crataegus álbicans= linnæus. this species was reported for indiana by heimlich.[ ] the material at hand is not sufficient to make a satisfactory determination, hence it is omitted in the text. according to the treatment of the genus crataegus in britton and brown's illustrated flora, nd edition, the range of the following species extend into indiana. throughout the state-- in the northern part of the state-- c. boyntoni. c. brainerdi. c. lucorum. in the southern part of the state-- c. roanensis. c. beata. c. berberifolia. c. villipes. c. denaria. c. pringlei. c. fecunda. c. ovata. [illustration: plate . cratÆgus phÆnopyrum (linnæus filius) medicus. washington thorn. (× / .)] =amygdalÀceae.= the plum family. trees or shrubs with alternate, simple, petioled and usually serrate leaves; flowers perfect, calyx and corolla numerous, stamens - ; fruit a -seeded drupe. the characters which separate the species are not at all constant, and the species often vary much in the extremes of their range. =prÙnus.= the plums and cherries. flowers in umbel like clusters, or somewhat corymbose, appearing before or with the leaves on branchlets of the preceding year. margins of leaves with sharp teeth. petioles glabrous beneath p. americana. petioles more or less pubescent all around. p. americana var. lanata. margins of leaves with blunt or crenate teeth. teeth of center of leaves about per cm.; calyx lobes glandular; fruit more than mm. in diameter. principal leaves of fruiting branches generally more than cm. broad; flowers white and generally more than mm. wide. p. nigra. principal leaves of fruiting branches generally less than cm. broad; flowers white which on age show a tinge of pink and generally less than mm. wide. p. hortulana. teeth of center of leaves about per cm.; calyx lobes glandless; fruit less than mm. in diameter. p. pennsylvanica. flowers in racemes, appearing after the leaves on twigs of the present year p. serotina. = . prunus americàna= marshall. wild red plum. plate . small trees with crooked branches; bark of old trees exfoliating in irregular plates; twigs smooth; leaves obovate or oval, - cm. long, . - cm. wide, narrowed or sometimes rounded at the base, acuminate at apex, margins sharply serrate or doubly serrate, glabrous above and smooth below, or hairy on the veins and sometimes more or less pubescent over the whole under surface, inner surface of petiole more or less hairy and sometimes bearing one or two glands; flowers appear in april or may before or with the leaves in clusters of - or sometimes singly, about cm. in diameter, calyx smooth or with some hairs near the base of the lobes which are pubescent within and smooth or hairy without, lobes entire or cut-toothed above the middle, glandless or with inconspicuous glands; fruit ripens in august or september, usually globose, about cm. in diameter, red; stone doubly convex, oval to nearly orbicular, surface usually smooth. [illustration: plate . prunus americana marshall. wild red plum. (× / .)] =distribution.=--massachusetts to florida, west to manitoba and south to new mexico. found throughout indiana. while it has a general distribution, it is not generally distributed through the forests, but is local in colonies in low grounds along streams or in low places in the forest. in the southern counties it is found on the ridges and commonly about the basins of sink-holes. large single trees may be found but they are usually surrounded by many smaller ones which are root shoots. from this habit of the tree to produce root shoots large colonies are formed which has given rise to the term "plum thickets." =remarks.=--the wood of this tree is of no economic importance, but the species from a horticultural standpoint is one of the most important of all of the plums. many named varieties belong to this species. it should be noted that all species of plums are quite variable, and one must not be surprised to find specimens that will not come entirely within the descriptions. = . prunus americana= var. =lanàta= sudworth. woolly-leaf plum. plate . small trees with the characteristic wild plum tree bark, except on age it becomes more furrowed; twigs generally puberulent or sometimes smooth; leaves obovate, oblong-obovate, or sometimes somewhat ovate, generally about - cm. long, and - cm. wide, rounded at the base, acute or short acuminate at the apex, margins sharply serrate, or doubly serrate, upper surface covered with short appressed hairs, lower surface permanently pubescent with longer hairs; petioles more or less pubescent and often bearing one or more glands; flowers appear in april or may in umbels of - , upper part of calyx, and its lobes pubescent both inside and out, the lobes more or less cut-toothed and bearing inconspicuous glands; fruit ripening in september, globose, reddish with a bluish bloom; stone nearly orbicular and turgid. =distribution.=--indiana west to indian territory and south to the gulf. the range of this variety has not been well understood, and it is believed that forms of this variety in the northern part of its range have been included in the preceding species. it is certain that in our area the two forms are separated with difficulty; especially is this true of certain individuals. specimens at hand show it to occur in floyd, clark, bartholomew, martin, warren, vermillion, gibson, warrick, and perry counties. =remarks.=--this form intergrades with the preceding to such an extent that there is little difference between the extremes of the two forms. [illustration: plate . prunus americana variety lanata sudworth. woolly-leaf plum. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . prunus nigra aiton. canada plum. (× / .)] = . prunus nìgra= aiton. canada plum. plate . small trees with the characteristic bark of the genus; twigs smooth; leaves obovate or oval, - cm. long and - cm. wide, rounded or somewhat narrowed at the base, abruptly short acuminate toward the apex, smooth or sparsely covered above with a short appressed pubescence, more or less pubescent beneath especially along the veins, usually pubescent on the veins at maturity, margins crenate-serrate, the teeth ending in persistent glands, petioles more or less pubescent on the inner surface, and generally bearing a pair of glands, which number varies from to , or sometimes absent; flowers appear in april or may in umbels of - , about cm. in diameter--the largest of the genus in indiana, calyx smooth, the lobes smooth without and within, except toward the base which is pubescent, the lobes reddish and the margins studded with numerous red glands; fruit ripens in july, globose, red; stone short oval and very flat. =distribution.=--new brunswick to massachusetts and west to minnesota and south to central indiana. in indiana it is definitely known only from wells, blackford and marion counties. no doubt it ranges throughout the northern part of indiana, but it has not been separated from _prunus americana_. higley and raddin[ ] in , when our text books did not separate this species, in a flora which included a part of lake county indiana, remark: "there are two distinct forms of _prunus americana_; one with slender branches and large flowers with glandular calyx, found in swamps and another found with stout branches and much smaller flowers with the calyx less glandular, grows in dry soil." this no doubt refers to the species under discussion. in the author found this species growing in a swamp in wells county, and transplanted a specimen to high ground in his orchard. it has persisted ever since, growing vigorously and freely suckering from the roots, but it has been quite susceptible to the san jose scale. = . prunus hortulàna= bailey. wild goose plum. plate . small trees with bark exfoliating in plates or rolls on old trees; twigs smooth; leaves oblong-oval, oval, slightly ovate or obovate, generally - cm. long and . - . cm. wide, rounded and often slightly oblique at the base, acuminate at the apex, margins finely serrated with short rounded and glandular teeth, generally glossy and smooth above, more or less pubescent all over beneath with long hairs, the midrib and lateral veins usually prominent below, petioles pubescent on the inner face and usually bearing one or more glands; flowers appear with the leaves in april or may in umbels of - ; calyx glabrous, the lobes glabrous on the outer face, and more or less pubescent within, margins glandular; fruit ripens in august, generally globose, red; stone generally short oval, very turgid, face reticulated. [illustration: plate . prunus hortulana bailey. wild goose plum. (× / .)] =distribution.=--central kentucky northwestward to central iowa and southwestward to kansas and east to northwest tennessee. in indiana the specimens at hand show it to be confined to the southwestern part of the state, although pepoon[ ] reports a single tree found near dune park in porter county. it is found on sandy roadside cuts, base of sandy wooded slopes, etc., and is a common tree in sullivan county for miles on the wooded bank of the terrace of the wabash river. = . prunus pennsylvánica= linnæus filius. wild red cherry. plate . small trees with smooth cherry-like bark, somewhat roughened near the base on old trees; twigs smooth, at least at maturity; leaves oval, oval-lanceolate, or ovate, sometimes slightly falcate, - cm. long, and . - cm. wide, rounded or narrowed at the base, long acuminate at the apex, margins finely serrate with glandular incurved teeth, glossy and smooth above, generally smooth beneath, sometimes pubescent along the midrib and veins, petioles generally smooth, rarely pubescent; flowers appear with the leaves in may in umbels of - , or sometimes raceme-like but the rachis shorter than the pedicels; calyx glabrous, the lobes glabrous within and without, entire and glandless; fruit ripens in august, globose, - mm. in diameter, red; stone roundish-oval, surface granular. =distribution.=--newfoundland and new england to the rocky mountains, south to colorado and eastward through northern indiana to pennsylvania and thence in the mountains to north carolina. in indiana it is definitely known to occur only in lake, porter, laporte, st. joseph and lagrange counties. it is frequently found on the black oak ridges about lake michigan. all other reports of this species for indiana should be looked upon with suspicion. the one by chipman from kosciusko county may be correct. the one by ridgway[ ] for posey county is undoubtedly an error. no doubt phinney's[ ] record for central eastern indiana (jay, delaware, randolph and wayne counties) is an error. the range of the species is to the north of our area, and like a few others it is found about the great lakes south of its general range. in ohio it is reported only from cuyahoga county which borders lake erie. [illustration: plate . prunus pennsylvanica linnæus fils. wild red cherry. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . prunus serotina ehrhart. wild black cherry. (× / .)] = . prunus serótina= ehrhart. wild cherry. cherry. =wild black cherry.= plate . medium to large sized trees; bark of young trees smooth, becoming on old trees irregularly fissured and separating in small scaly plates; twigs slender and smooth, sometimes pubescent while young; leaves oval, oblong-oval, ovate or narrowly ovate, generally - cm. long and - cm. wide, generally narrowed at the base, sometimes rounded, short or long acuminate at the apex, margin finely serrate with incurved sharp callous teeth, smooth above and below, sometimes slightly pubescent beneath while young; flowers appear in may, when the leaves are almost grown, on the ends of the year's growth, in racemes generally - cm. long; fruit ripens in july and august, globose, about - mm. in diameter, dark red to almost black. =distribution.=--nova scotia to south dakota, south to florida and west to texas. found in all parts of indiana. it prefers a moist loose soil and is usually found with beech, sugar maple, tulip, white ash and white oak. in the original forest it was a rare to a frequent tree, and only rarely and locally did it ever become common. it grew to be several feet in diameter and was as tall as the highest trees of the forest. the trunk of the tree, however, was inclined to be crooked. it has now become a frequent tree along fences. =remarks.=--the wood of wild cherry from pioneer times has been a favorite wood, and for this reason the tree soon disappeared and today large trees are very rare. the wood is strong, close-grained, reddish-brown, and very much resembles mahogany. in value it stands second in indiana woods. it is used principally for furniture, office and store fixtures. the wild cherry grows readily from seed; is not difficult to transplant; adapts itself to almost all kinds of soils and grows rapidly. in spring it is one of the very first trees to put out its leaves. it is not shade enduring, which no doubt, in a great measure, accounts for its rarity in the primeval forests. when grown in the open the tree usually produces an abundance of fruit which is much relished by birds. this species has many good features, and might be used to advantage in forest planting. =caesalpinÀceae.= the senna family. leaves simple; flowers pink; seed pod papery cercis. leaves compound; flowers not pink; seed pod woody or leathery. trees with thorns; stamens - , longer than the corolla; pods flat and leathery; seeds about cm. ( / inch) long gleditsia. trees without thorns; stamens , shorter than the corolla; pods swollen, woody; seeds about cm. ( inch) long gymnocladus. = . cÉrcis.= the redbud. =cercis canadénsis= linnæus. redbud. plate . small trees; bark of trunk of old trees fissured, reddish-brown; twigs glabrous, light brown, becoming a dark brown; leaves alternate, broadly ovate, average blades - cm. long, cordate at base, short-pointed, sometimes short-acuminate or rarely rounded at the apex, margins entire, glabrous or pubescent on unfolding, at maturity usually glabrous on both sides, or with a few hairs in the axils of the veins or along the veins, sometimes more or less pubescent beneath, and with hairs on the veins above; petioles generally - cm. long; flowers appear in april or may before the leaves, in clusters of - on the branches of the preceding season, pink or rose color; pods - cm. long, thin, flat and glabrous; wood heavy, hard and weak. =distribution.=--in canada along the shores of lake erie and ontario, new york west through michigan to iowa, south to the gulf states and west to texas. found throughout indiana except there are no records from the counties bordering lake michigan. in the northern part of the state it is rare or frequent in alluvial soil along streams or in rich woods. in the southern part of the state it is a frequent to a common tree in ravines and on slopes. it is never found in wet situations, and consequently is absent in the "flats" of the southern counties. =remarks.=--the redbud is the common name for this tree throughout the state. in one locality it was known as the fish blossom because the larger fish spawn when this tree is in flower. in text books it is also called judas tree. it is usually a tree - . dm. in diameter and - m. high. it is of no economic importance and is classed as a weed tree in the woodlot and should be removed. it is frequently recommended for ornamental planting. it prefers a rich moist soil, and is shade enduring, although it succeeds best in the open or in a light shade. = . gledÍtsia.= the honey locust. pods more than cm. long; seeds oval g. triacanthos. pods less than cm. long; seeds orbicular g. aquatica. = . gleditsia triacánthos= linnæus. honey locust. plate . medium to large sized trees; bark of old trunks fissured and peeling off in strips; spines on trunk large and often much branched, sometimes dm. long; spines on branches not so large, generally more or less forked; twigs at first green, turning a light brown; leaves pinnate or bipinnate, - dm. long, rachis permanently pubescent; leaflets - pairs, fewer on the bipinnate forms, petiolules about mm. long, form variable from ovate to lanceolate, sometimes somewhat falcate, generally - cm. long, usually more or less pubescent beneath; flowers appear in may or june, inconspicuous, greenish-yellow, rich in honey, their appearance being announced by the hum of the swarm of insects visiting them; fruit a flat, linear twisted pod, - dm. long, glabrous and lustrous or pubescent on the sides; seeds several, oval, about mm. wide, and mm. long, glabrous and chestnut brown; wood heavy, hard, strong, coarse-grained and takes a good polish. [illustration: plate . cercis canadensis linnæus. redbud. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . gleditsia triacanthos linnæus. honey locust. (× / .)] =distribution.=--pennsylvania, southern michigan to iowa, and south to the gulf states and west to texas. found infrequently throughout indiana along streams, except that it is absent about lake michigan and that in the southwestern counties it becomes a frequent tree in the wabash bottoms. in its native habitat it is rarely found except near a stream, pond, lake, etc. however, in the southeastern counties it has spread all over many of the hillsides which were once cleared and have been abandoned for agricultural purposes and left to natural forest regeneration. it was interesting to learn how this tree was able to propagate itself on the steep bare slopes. it was found that the seeds were scattered by cattle that greedily eat the fruit. it is a medium sized tree, except in the wabash bottoms of the southwestern part of the state where it grows to be one of the largest trees of the forest, and is more luxuriant than in any other part of its range. =remarks.=--in making a study of the fruit of this species, it was found that the sides of all the pods of all the specimens at hand except one are glabrous, even those of young fruit. the margins of the pods are pubescent. however, a specimen collected on august th in vermillion county has the entire pod covered with long hairs. in consulting the literature on the subject it is found that some authors describe the fruit as glabrous while others describe it as hairy. it would be interesting to study the significance of this character to learn if each form has a geographic range. the wood is used principally for interior finish, furniture, posts and crossties. the tree has a grace that recommends it for ornamental planting despite its thorns. however, a thornless variety is now offered by nurserymen. it adapts itself to all kinds of soils, although it prefers a moist rich soil; grows rapidly and is comparatively free from insect damage. [illustration: plate . gleditsia aquatica marshall. water honey locust. (× / .)] = . gleditsia aquática= marshall. water honey locust. plate . a medium sized tree with rather smooth bark, which becomes rough and flaky on large trees; twigs greenish, turning to a light brown by the end of the year; branchlets a greenish-gray brown; spines all usually more or less flattened, those of the branchlets and branches, rather few and usually simple, - cm. long, those of the trunk branched, spines do not develop on the year's growth; leaves from old wood pinnate, from the year's growth bipinnate; rachis grooved and pubescent or puberulent above and smooth below; leaflets generally - pairs, variable in shape and size, generally lanceolate and . - . cm. long, on petiolules about mm. long, glabrous; flowers similar to the preceding species; fruit a glabrous, shining, oblique pod about - cm. long, containing seed; seeds orbicular, flat, chestnut brown, about cm. in diameter. =distribution.=--atlantic coast from north carolina south to florida, and the mississippi valley from southwestern indiana southward to texas. in indiana this species is rare and limited to the banks of river sloughs, locally called ponds and to one cypress swamp. it is known to have occurred on the banks of wabash and dan's ponds and little cypress swamp in the southwest corner of knox county, and in gibson county on the bank of a slough near skelton and about burnett's pond. the reference to posey county is without a verifying specimen, although it may be found in the county. the writer has visited about every place in the county where the species might occur, and has never found it. gorby's[ ] reference for miami county is without doubt an error. in our area it is a low crooked tree and grows with its base submerged more or less during the year. the idea of the proportions of this tree can be obtained from the measurements taken from the largest tree now known in indiana, which is located on the shore of dan's pond in knox county. it measures cm. ( inches) in circumference at m. above the ground, and is estimated to be m. ( feet) high. this species is too rare to be of economic importance. =gleditsia aquatica × triacanthos.= dr. schneck[ ] found two honey locust trees which he described as hybrids of the two species. the one was located on the bank of dan's pond in knox county, and the other in gibson county. the original description is as follows: "in both instances the pods are the distinguishing feature. these are very much alike in both trees, being about inches long, - / inches wide, smooth, shining, of a light brown color and entirely destitute of pulp. otherwise the tree cannot be distinguished from the trees among which they stand. they are both about feet high, with short stems and spreading branches, and stand about miles apart." the writer has five fruiting specimens from these two trees, taken by dr. schneck. two of the sheets have the round and branched spines of _g. triacanthos_. = . gymnÓcladus.= the coffee tree. =gymnocladus dioíca= (linnæus) koch. coffeenut tree. plate . medium sized trees; bark of trunks fissured, the ridges often curling up along the sides, very hard; twigs at first hairy, becoming glabrous and mottled gray-brown by the end of the season, robust, usually about cm. in diameter; leaves alternate, twice pinnate, - dm. long, leaflets usually - pairs, ovate, generally from - cm. long, generally oblique and rounded, wedge-shape or truncate at the base, acute or very sharp-pointed at the apex, petiolules about mm. long, pubescent on both sides at first, becoming glabrous or nearly so at maturity; flowers of two kinds, the male and female on separate trees, appearing in may or june; fruit a pod generally about - dm. long, thick, curved; seeds generally - , large, flattened about cm. in diameter; wood heavy, not hard, coarse-grained and takes a high polish. =distribution.=--new york, southwestern ontario to southern minnesota south to tennessee and arkansas. this species has been reported or is known to exist in counties in various parts of the state. it no doubt was native to every county of the state, except it be those bordering lake michigan from which we have no reports. it is a rare tree in all parts. only exceptionally is it found even frequently. a few trees may be found in one place, and it will not be found again for many miles. no doubt there are many areas with a radius of to miles where this tree never occurred. it is usually found in alluvial soil along streams, or nearby terraces. =remarks.=--this species generally is not very tall, and is usually found in open places in the forest or cut-over lands. however, one specimen was seen in posey county that was as tall as a specimen of pecan of equal size that grew nearby. this species was so rare in this vicinity that i was asked to drive three miles to identify this tree which no one could name. coffeenut, which is sometimes called kentucky coffeenut, has always been so rare as to be of little economic importance. it has no qualities to recommend it for ornamental planting. =fabÀceae.= the pea family. trees, shrubs, vines or herbs with alternate leaves, mostly compound; flowers with five petals which are pea-like (papilionaceous); stamens generally ; fruit a legume. [illustration: plate . gymnocladus dioica (linnæus) koch. coffeenut tree. (× / ).] =robÍnia.= the locusts. =robinia pseùdo-acàcia= linnæus. locust. black locust. plate . medium sized trees with deeply furrowed bark; twigs at first green and hairy, becoming at the end of the season glabrous and a light brown, the stipules developing in about a year into a pair of woody spines about cm. long; leaves pinnate, . - dm. long; leaflets - on short stalks, ovate to oblong, - cm. long, rounded at base, rounded or pointed and with a small indenture at apex, margin entire, pubescent on both sides at first, becoming at maturity glabrous above and remaining more or less pubescent below, especially on the midrib; flowers in loose racemes, white, expanding in may or june; fruit a flat and slightly curved pod about - cm. long, glabrous; seeds usually - in each pod, about mm. long and . mm. wide; wood heavy, very hard, close-grained, takes a good polish, very durable in contact with the soil. =distribution.=--appalachian mountains from pennsylvania south to northern georgia, and in arkansas. in indiana it is found as an escape in all parts and was doubtless native along the ohio river, at least in the southeastern part of the state. thomas[ ] says: "we had gazed at the majestic beech of this country (near rising sun) three feet in diameter; we had seen the honey locust, the black walnut, a buckeye of equal magnitude; and then we saw with surprise, the black locust almost a rival in stature." drake[ ] says: "the flowering locust is abundant in kentucky. along the ohio river it is rarely found more than miles north of the river." =remarks.=--this tree is generally known as the locust tree, but is sometimes called the yellow locust. locust wood is somewhat lighter than white oak, but it is percent stiffer and per cent stronger. these remarkable qualities added to its durability in contact with the ground make it one of the most desirable trees for forest planting. the wood has been used principally for posts, ties, tree nails, etc. the locust when grown close together usually grows to - inches in diameter. there are, however, specimens that have grown in the open that are almost three feet in diameter. the pioneers used it extensively for ornamental planting, and it has escaped from such planting in all parts of the state. it propagates easily by root shoots which is the principal mode of spreading, except where the seed fall on exposed soil. [illustration: plate . robinia pseudo-acacia linnæus. black locust. (× / .)] the locust has of recent years been extensively planted for post timber. it is very easily propagated from seedlings and grows rapidly. it is adapted to all kinds of soil, except a wet one. it prefers a well drained soil and seems to grow as fast in a loose clay soil as in a black loam. when used for forest planting the spacing should be from  ×  feet to  ×  feet. the spacing should be governed by the quality of the soil, and the amount of pruning that can be done. the locust has the habit of having the terminal to end in a fork and having one or more very large side branches. the best management requires that the very large side branches be removed as soon as they are noted, and one part of the terminal forks be cut off. the locust until recently gave great promise of being an important tree for planting sterile, washed and eroded slopes, on which it usually thrives and in many cases grows thriftily. however, reports from all parts of the state show that locust groves wherever planted are being killed by the locust body borer. the locust has also been attacked by the twig borer, bag worm and the leaf miner. at present there are no known economic means of controlling these destructive pests, and until they can be controlled, the planting of locust for commercial purposes will not prove profitable. =simarubÀceae.= the quassia family. =ailÁnthus.= tree of heaven. =ailanthus altíssima= (miller) swingle. tree of heaven. stink tree. (_ailanthus glandulosa_ desfontaines). plate . medium sized trees with dark gray bark, thin, rough or fissured on old trees; branchlets very robust; twigs smooth; leaves compound and very large, especially on coppice shoots, usually about - dm. long, odd-pinnate, arranged spirally on the branchlets; leaflets - , ovate-oblong, acuminate, oblique at base, entire or with a few blunt teeth toward the base, smooth or hairy when they unfold, becoming smooth at maturity, dark green above, lighter beneath; flowers appear in june in large terminal panicles, the staminate and pistillate on different trees; fruit maturing in autumn, consists of many light brown, twisted and broadly-winged samaras which are about cm. wide and - cm. long. =distribution.=--a native of china. introduced and spreading in cities, and into fields and woods in the southern part of the state. the most notable occurrence is in jefferson county on the wooded bluffs of the ohio river between madison and hanover. =remarks.=--where the sugar and black maple can not be used for shade tree planting this tree should receive attention. it adapts itself to all kinds of soils, and to all kinds of growing conditions such as smoke, etc. the crown is of an oval or rounded type. it stands pruning and injury to trunk or branches quite well. it is practically free from all diseases and insect injury. the leaves appear late but they do not fall until the first killing frost when they are killed, and frequently practically all of the leaves will fall in one day. the staminate flowers exhale a fetid odor for a few days which is about the only objectionable feature in this tree. in order to obviate this objection, nurserymen are now offering for sale pistillate trees which have been grafted on common stock. [illustration: plate . ailanthus altissima (miller) swingle. ailanthus or tree of heaven. (× / .)] =acerÀceae.= the maple family. =Àcer.= the maples. trees with terete branches; scaly buds; long petioled, opposite leaves; fruit consists of two long-winged samaras which are joined at their base, separating at maturity. the sap of some of the species, when concentrated, yields the maple sugar and sirup of commerce. leaves trifoliate or pinnate a. negundo. leaves simple. winter buds blunt; flowers appear from lateral buds before the leaves; fruit maturing in the spring or early summer. leaves entirely glabrous beneath at maturity, -lobed; the two sinuses between the three largest lobes generally somewhat closed, formed as it were by the arcs of two circles which meet to form the sinus, and which if they were extended outward would cross each other within a few dm. of the sinus; fruit more or less pubescent at maturity a. saccharinum. leaves are never all entirely glabrous at maturity, - lobed; the two largest sinuses are generally angular with straight sides which if extended outward would never cross; fruit smooth at maturity. twigs smooth at maturity; leaves at maturity smooth beneath except a few hairs in the axils of the veins, or more rarely the entire lower surface covered more or less with a short pubescence; mature fruit generally - . cm. long a. rubrum. twigs more or less pubescent at maturity; leaves beneath covered with a dense tomentum which remains until maturity or sometimes becoming scanty; fruit about - cm. long var. drummondii. winter buds acute, sometimes somewhat blunt; flowers appear from terminal buds after the leaves; fruit maturing in the autumn. leaves yellow green beneath; base of the petiole of the terminal leaves enlarged at the base, smooth or somewhat pubescent about the enlarged base. a. nigrum. leaves not yellow green beneath; base of the petiole of the terminal leaves not enlarged, petioles smooth, or if pubescent at the base the pubescence will be more or less evident the entire length of the petiole. petioles smooth; leaves - lobed, blade as long or longer than wide, not densely pubescent beneath at maturity. a. saccharum. petioles smooth; leaves -lobed, blades wider than long. a. saccharum var. rugelii. petioles pubescent, rarely smooth; leaves -lobed, rarely -lobed, the under surface densely pubescent at maturity. a. saccharum var. schneckii. = . acer negúndo= linnæus. box elder. plate . a medium-sized tree with a short trunk and round head; bark of young trees smooth and gray, becoming thick on old trees, light to dark brown and more or less furrowed or rarely somewhat flaky; twigs smooth and greenish; leaves of average size are . - dm. long, generally with leaflets on the flowering branches, sometimes or rarely with , on sterile branches or on growing shoots - , the petioles generally / - / the length of the leaf and glabrous or nearly so at maturity; leaflets all on stalks more or less pubescent, the lateral stalks short, the terminal ones much longer, leaflets of varying size and shape, the margins usually varying from lobed to serrate or entire, pinnately veined, smooth above at maturity and remaining more or less pubescent beneath, especially along the veins; flowers appear just before the leaves the last of april or the first of may, the staminate and pistillate on separate trees; fruit matures late in summer, the body of the samara green and more or less pubescent. =distribution.=--new england to florida, west to minnesota and south to eastern texas. in indiana, it is found throughout the state in moist or wet places along creeks and rivers, and infrequently on the highlands along roadsides and fences. its original distribution in the state can only be conjectured. judging from its tolerance to shade and its habitat, and from the earliest reports of its occurrence in the state, this species was quite rare in the northern part of the state, becoming infrequent to frequent in its habitat in the southern part of the state. even today it is rather local in its distribution. i have never seen it on the low mucky border of a lake. =remarks.=--this species on account of its rapid growth was formerly much used in our area as a shade tree. it is believed that most of the trees now found along roadsides, fences, clearings and on the drier banks of streams are from seed distributed by the wind from planted trees. this species is now little used as a shade tree and is never recommended because it sheds its leaves early, and is subject to injury from disease and insects. [illustration: plate . acer negundo linnæus. box elder. (× / .)] = a. acer negundo= variety =violàceum= kirchner. (_rulac nuttallii_ nieuwland). this variety is distinguished by its glaucous twigs and by the body of the fruit being glabrous at maturity. in most instances when the bloom is rubbed from the twigs they show a purple tinge, hence the varietal name. =distribution.=--i have this variety in indiana from the following counties: brown, cass, elkhart, franklin, fulton, hendricks, henry, jennings, lagrange, martin, posey, st. joseph, vermillion and wayne. = . acer saccharìnum= linnæus. silver maple. soft maple. white maple. plate . medium sized trees; bark of small trees smooth and gray, becoming on old trees reddish-brown, and freely splitting into thin scales; branchlets light to reddish-brown and generally turning upward at their tips; leaves generally about dm. long, generally somewhat cordate at the base, sometimes truncate, deeply -lobed, each of the lateral lobes with an additional lobe below, margins of all of the lobes more or less irregular or even lobed, the two principal sinuses generally show a tendency to close, leaves hairy beneath when young, glabrous above and below at maturity and very glaucous beneath; flowers appear in march or april in the axils of the leaves of the previous year, the staminate and pistillate in separate clusters on the same or different trees; fruit on pedicels . - cm. long, maturing in the spring or early summer, green, densely hairy while young and remaining more or less hairy at maturity, - cm. long, wings - cm. wide. =distribution.=--new brunswick to florida, west to south dakota and south to texas. locally frequent to very common in all parts of indiana. this species is always found in wet or moist places, and in the lower wabash bottoms in low overflow lands or in or about old sloughs it often forms the principal stand. it is more frequently associated with black willow, white elm, red birch, sycamore, etc. =remarks.=--the silver maple has been used extensively for shade tree planting. the branches are very brittle, and ice storms sometimes break off so many branches that the tree may be badly injured. the shade trees of this species are in many parts of the state being killed by scale insects, and for this reason it should not be used. on account of its rapid growth it has also been much used for windbreaks but this practice should be discouraged and better species used. [illustration: plate . acer saccharinum linnæus. silver maple. (× / .)] = . acer rùbrum= linnæus. red maple. soft maple. swamp maple. plate . medium to large sized trees; bark of small trees smooth and gray, becoming dark brown on old trees, somewhat furrowed and scaly; branchlets smooth and reddish; twigs generally smooth but sometimes hairy, becoming glabrous by autumn; leaves - cm. long, - lobed, more or less cordate at the base, sometimes truncate or rounded, sinuses acute, those of -lobed leaves generally wider angled than those of -lobed ones, the lobes more or less irregularly serrate or dentate, hairy while young, glabrous above and more or less hairy beneath at maturity, glaucous beneath; flowering period march or april; flowers red or reddish, in the axils of the leaves of the previous year, the staminate and pistillate in separate clusters on the same or different trees; fruit maturing late in spring, on pedicels - cm. long, generally red, sometimes green, glabrous at maturity, rarely somewhat pubescent, . - . cm. long. =distribution.=--newfoundland to florida, west to minnesota and south to texas. it is found in all parts of indiana. its preferred habitat is that of low ground about lakes, swamps, along streams and in the "flats" in the southeast part of the state. throughout its range in indiana where it is found in low ground, it is in places rich in organic matter, except in the "flats" of the southern part of the state where it grows in a hard clay soil with sweet gum, red birch, etc. in contrast the silver maple is generally found growing in wet places with little organic matter; especially is this true in the lower wabash bottoms. the red maple grows also on high ground. in the northern part of the state it is only an occasional tree of gravelly ridges or on high ground about lakes or along streams. in the southern part of the state it is a local to a frequent tree in most parts of the "knob" area where it is associated with white oak, black oak, black gum, etc. it is also an occasional tree on the top of bluffs and cliffs. =remarks.=--the red maple is not abundant enough in indiana to be of any economic importance. it grows rapidly and should replace the silver maple for shade tree planting since its branches are not broken off as easily by ice storms and it is more resistant to insect attack. = a. acer rubrum= variety =drummóndii= (hooker and arnott) torrey and gray. this variety of the red maple is a form found in the dense swamps of the lower wabash valley. it is distinguished from the type by its twigs which generally remain more or less hairy until maturity; by the under surface of the leaves remaining more or less tomentose during the summer, and by its larger fruit. this variety is known with certainty only from little cypress swamp in knox county about miles southwest of decker. here it is a frequent to a common tree associated with cypress, swell-butt ash, button-bush, sweet gum, etc. all of the trees of this locality have -lobed leaves. [illustration: plate . acer rubrum linnæus. red maple. (× / .)] a specimen collected in the "bottoms" about two miles east of huntingburg in dubois county has -lobed leaves which are tomentose beneath at fruiting time and has fruit intermediate in size between the type and variety _drummondii_ which i doubtfully refer to variety tridens wood. = . acer nìgrum= f. a. michaux. black maple. black sugar. plate . medium to large sized trees with dark furrowed bark on old trees; leaves a little wider than long, - cm. long, on petioles usually - cm. long which are more or less swollen at the base and by maturity develop a scale like appendage on each side of the petiole at the base--especially on each of the terminal pair of leaves, sometimes with foliar stipules which are - cm. long on stalks of equal length, leaves with three main lobes, the two lower lobes generally have a small lobe at their base, margins of lobes entire and undulating, sinuses between main lobes generally rounded at the base, wide and shallow, base with a narrow sinus, the lower lobes often overlapping, rarely somewhat dentate, dark green above and a paler yellow green below, hairy on both surfaces when young, becoming at maturity glabrous above and remaining more or less pubescent beneath; flowers appear in may when the leaves are about half grown on long hairy pedicels, the staminate and pistillate in separate clusters on the same or different trees; fruit matures in autumn, the samaras about cm. long. =distribution.=--quebec to georgia, west to south dakota and south to louisiana. found in all parts of indiana and invariably associated with sugar maple, and often with beech in addition. frequently almost pure stands of sugar maple may be found with the black maple absent. where found it is usually a frequent to common tree, and when it occurs on a wooded slope it is more frequent near the base and appears to be able to advance farther into moist situations than its congener. =remarks.=--this tree cannot be distinguished from the sugar maple by its form, but at short range can be separated from it by its richer green foliage and by the drooping habit of the lower lobes of the leaves. it is commonly separated from the sugar maple by the darker color and by the narrower and shallower furrows of the bark, but these characters will not always separate the two species. hence, when buying black maple trees from a nurseryman you may receive the sugar maple. those who distinguish the two species agree that the black maple is the more desirable tree for shade tree planting. the black and sugar maple are the two most desirable trees for shade tree planting in indiana. they are long lived, have a very desirable form, beautiful foliage, a long leaf period, and are quite free from disease and insect injury. [illustration: plate . acer nigrum. f. a. michaux. black maple. (× / .)] = . acer sáccharum= marshall. sugar maple. sugar tree. hard maple. rock maple. plate . usually large, tall trees. the bark of small trees is smooth or rough, becoming fissured on old trees, tight or on very old trees sometimes the ridges loosen on one edge and turn outward. the leaves are extremely variable on different trees, and frequently show a wide variation on the same tree, as to form and in the presence or absence of hairs on the petioles and on the under surface of the leaves. in our area all of the forms which have the majority of the leaves longer than wide or about as wide as long, may be considered as falling within the type. the average sized leaves are - cm. long, - lobed, more or less cordate at the base, generally with a broad sinus, sometimes truncate or slightly wedge-shape, sinuses generally wide-angled and rounded at the base, sometimes acute, hairy beneath when young, becoming smooth at maturity except for a few hairs along the veins or in the main axils of the veins, or sometimes remaining more or less pubescent over the whole under surface, more or less glaucous beneath; flowers appear in april or may, on hairy pedicels - cm. long, the staminate and pistillate in clusters on the same or different trees; fruit ripening in autumn, samaras glabrous and usually - cm. long. =distribution.=--newfoundland to georgia, west to manitoba and south to texas. a frequent to a very common tree in all parts of indiana. it is confined to rich uplands, or along streams in well drained alluvial soil. throughout our area it is constantly associated with the beech. it is absent in the "flats" of the southeastern part of the state, and on the crest of the ridges of the "knob" area of indiana, but it is a frequent or common tree on the lower slopes of the spurs of the "knobs." =remarks.=--the under surface of the leaves of the sugar maple in the northern part of its range are green, while those of the southern part of its range are quite glaucous beneath. to distinguish these two intergrading forms the southern form has been called =acer saccharum= var. =glaucum= sargent[ ]. all of the trees seen in indiana have leaves more or less glaucous beneath. this character, however, is not always evident in dried specimens. the writer prefers not to apply the varietal name to the forms of our area. the sugar maple always has been and will continue to be one of the most important trees of the state. in its mass distribution in indiana it ranks not less than third. in the quality and uses of its wood it is equalled or exceeded only by the oak, ash and hickory. when compared with white oak it is a little lighter but thirty per cent stronger and fifty-three per cent stiffer. the greatest amount of the annual cut of maple is worked into flooring which is shipped to all parts of the world. it is much used in the manufacture of furniture and ranks third in use for veneer and hard wood distillation, and as a fuel wood is excelled only by hickory. since pioneer times, the sap of this tree has been made into sirup and sugar and their manufacture now forms a valuable industry. on an average it takes to gallons of sap to make a pound of sugar, and an average sized tree will annually yield about to pounds of sugar. [illustration: plate . acer saccharum marshall. sugar maple. (× / .)] the sugar maple on account of its slow growth has not been used much in reforestation. it is very tolerant of shade, can adapt itself to almost all kinds of soils, thrives either in a pure or mixed stand, and is practically free from injury of insects and diseases. it has, however, been extensively used as a shade tree. for this purpose it is scarcely excelled by any other tree. when grown in the open it almost invariably assumes a symmetrical oval form, and the autumnal coloration of its foliage is rarely surpassed by any of our trees. where a large tree is desired for street or ornamental planting the sugar maple can safely be recommended. = a. acer saccharum= variety =rugélii= (pax) rehder. this variety of the sugar maple has leaves much wider than long, smaller and -lobed. the lobes are long acuminate and usually entire, sometimes the lower lobe has a small lobe near the base. this variety is included in our flora on the authority of c. s. sargent who has given this name to specimens from indiana in the writer's herbarium. the specimens so named are from the southern part of the state. while there is a wide range of difference in the shape of the leaves of the typical -lobed _acer saccharum_ and its variety _rugelii_, all intermediate forms can be easily found. the leaves of a tree will vary most on those trees whose average shaped leaves are farthest from the typical form. = b. acer saccharum= variety =schnéckii= rehder. this variety in its extreme form is well marked by having the petioles and under surface of the leaves densely covered with hairs. the variety is characterized by having a "fulvous pubescence," but the specimens at hand show the color of the pubescence on both young and mature specimens to range from white to fulvous. the leaves of all specimens at hand are -lobed and show a variation of leaves with petioles and under surface of leaves densely pubescent to those with petioles glabrous and with densely pubescent under surface. the habitat is that of a dry soil and associated with beech. it has been found in gibson, martin, perry, posey and vanderburgh counties. =aesculÀceae.= the buckeye family. =aÉsculus.= the buckeyes. trees with dark or ashy-gray colored bark; twigs stout; buds large, leaves opposite, palmately divided into - ovate or oblong divisions, the divisions serrate; flowers in terminal panicles; fruit a -lobed capsule. the fruit is poisonous to stock, although it rarely proves fatal. anthers protruding from the flower; fruit warty a. glabra. anthers included in the flower; fruit smooth a. octandra. = . Æsculus glàbra= willdenow. buckeye. plate . medium to large sized trees[ ]; bark of old trees fissured, not tight; branchlets robust; twigs at first more or less pubescent, remaining more or less hairy until maturity; leaves large, -foliate, rarely or foliate, petioles more or less pubescent; leaflets sessile or on very short stalks, ovate-oblong, oval-oblong, or obovate, about dm. long, acuminate, narrowed to a wedge-shaped base, more or less pubescent beneath until maturity, especially along the principal veins, margins irregularly serrate except near the base; flowers generally appear in may when the leaves are almost full size, but in the southern part of the state the flowers sometimes appear the last of march, flower clusters - . dm. long, the whole inflorescence usually densely covered with white hairs, flowers pale-greenish yellow; fruit a globular spiny capsule, generally - cm. in diameter, which usually contains - large glossy chocolate-colored nuts. the pubescence on the petioles, leaflets and inflorescence is generally white, but often with it are reddish and longer hairs which are scattered among the other hairs, except in the articulations of the flowers, pedicels and leaflets, where they appear in tufts. =distribution.=--pennsylvania south to alabama, west to iowa and south to the indian territory. found in all parts of indiana. it is usually associated with beech, sugar maple and linn. on account of the poisonous character of its fruit, land owners have almost exterminated it. from the data at hand it appears that the buckeye was a rare tree in the northern tier of counties. however, as soon as the basin of the wabash is reached it becomes a frequent to a common tree where beech, sugar maple, and linn are found. in all of our area it prefers a rich moist soil, except in the southern counties it may be found even on the bluffs of streams with the species just named. in the lower wabash valley especially in posey county it was a rare tree, or entirely absent. [illustration: plate . aesculus glabra willdenow. buckeye. (× / .)] =remarks.=--in our area the buckeye is the very first tree to put out its leaves. on this account in early spring it can be easily distinguished in the forest. this character together with its large clusters of flowers which appear early are features which recommend it for shade tree and ornamental planting. the tree has now become so rare in indiana as to have no economic importance. = . Æsculus octándra= marshall. buckeye. sweet buckeye. plate . medium to large sized trees with smooth bark which on old trees becomes more or less scaly. this tree closely resembles the preceding from which it can be easily distinguished by the following characters. its smoother and lighter colored bark; by the entire under surface of the leaves remaining permanently pubescent; the hairs more or less fulvous; by the included anthers; and by its smooth capsule. =distribution.=--western pennsylvania, westward along the ohio to iowa, south to georgia and west to louisiana and texas. in indiana it is confined to a few counties along the ohio river. the records of mccaslin for jay and phinney for delaware counties are doubtless errors in determination. the writer has diligently tried to extend the range of this species in indiana and has found it only in dearborn, jefferson, clark and crawford counties, and in no place more than a mile from the ohio river. no doubt under favorable situations it found its way to a greater distance from the river. on account of the poisonous character of its fruit, it has been almost exterminated, and only along the precipitous bluffs of the ohio river are trees yet to be found. doubtless its exact range in our area can never be determined. dr. drake[ ] minutely described this species and remarks: "this species delights in rich hills, and is seldom seen far from the ohio river. it frequently arrives at the height of feet and the diameter of four feet." =remarks.=--the wood is soft, white and resembles the sap wood of the tulip tree for which wood it is commonly sold. too rare in indiana to be of economic importance. young[ ] reported a purple flowered form of buckeye from jefferson county, but since no specimen was preserved and the size of the plant is not given, it will not be considered here. the form was reported as rare under the name of =Æsculus flava= var. =purpurascens=. [illustration: plate . aesculus octandra marshall. sweet buckeye. (× / .)] tiliÀceae. the linden family. tÍlia. the basswoods. trees with medium sized twigs; leaves alternate, mostly taper-pointed, oblique cordate or truncate at the base, serrate; flowers in axillary or terminal cymes, white or yellow, fragrant, peduncles of the cymes with a leaf-like bract adhering to about half their length; fruit nut-like, woody, -celled. leaves smooth or nearly so beneath t. glabra. leaves densely white or gray pubescent beneath t. heterophylla. = . tilia glàbra= ventenat (_tilia americana_ linnæus of authors). linn. basswood. plate . medium to large sized trees with deeply furrowed bark, much resembling that of white ash or black walnut; twigs when chewed somewhat mucilaginous, usually somewhat zigzag; leaves on petioles - cm. long, blades ovate to nearly orbicular, - cm. long, short or long acuminate at the apex, margins more or less coarsely or finely serrate with teeth attenuate and ending in a gland, dark green and smooth above, a lighter green and generally smooth beneath at maturity except tufts of hairs in the axils of the principal veins, or sometimes with a scanty pubescence of simple or stellate hairs beneath; flowers appear in june or july, when the leaves are almost mature; bracts of the peduncles very variable, generally about - cm. long, rounded, or tapering at the base, obtuse or rounded at the apex, smooth both above and beneath at maturity; peduncles from very short up to cm. in length; pedicels of flowers variable in length on the same and on different trees, generally about one cm. long; styles pubescent near the base on all of the specimens at hand; fruit woolly, globose or somewhat ellipsoidal, generally about mm. in diameter. =distribution.=--new brunswick to manitoba, south to georgia and west to texas. more or less frequent to common in rich moist soil in all parts of indiana. it is the most frequent and common in the lake area of the state but was almost as frequent and common throughout the central part of the state until the hilly area is reached where its habitat disappears for the greater part. in the hill area it is confined to the basins of streams, although sometimes found on the high rocky bluffs of streams. rare or absent in the flats. in most of its area it is associated with white ash, slippery elm, beech, maple, shellbark hickory, etc. =remarks.=--wood soft, light, straight and close-grained, white and seasons well. on account of its softness and lightness it has always been a favorite wood where these two factors were important considerations. is practically odorless, hence, is a desirable wood to contain food products. its principal uses are lumber, heading, excelsior and veneer. the supply of this species in indiana is now practically exhausted. [illustration: plate . tilia glabra ventenat. linn or basswood. (× / .)] in indiana this species is commonly called linn, and only in a few counties near the michigan line is it known as basswood. the name basswood is a corruption of the name bastwood, meaning the inner tough and fibrous part of the bark, which was used by pioneers for tying shocks of corn, and other cordage purposes. however, dr. schneck gives the name whittle-wood as one of its common names; and in some localities it is called bee tree, because bees find its flowers rich in honey. linn is adapted to a rich moist soil, transplants fairly well, and grows rapidly. it has been used to some extent as an ornamental and shade tree, but its use as a street shade tree is no longer recommended because it is not adapted to city conditions, and is killed by the scale. it could, however, be recommended as an integral part of a windbreak, or woodlot where the land owner has an apiary. = . tilia heterophylla= ventenat. linn. white basswood. plate . usually large trees; bark similar to the preceding but lighter in color; twigs similar to the preceding species; leaves on petioles - cm. long, blades ovate to nearly orbicular, generally - cm. long, generally oblique at the base, oblique-truncate or cordate at the base, abruptly short or long acuminate at the apex, margins serrate with teeth attenuate and ending in a gland, at maturity smooth and a dark yellow-green above, the under surface generally densely covered with a silvery or gray tomentum, however, on some specimens the pubescence is thin and appears as a stellate pubescence, the tufts of hairs in the principal axils of the veins are reddish brown, in addition to the pubescence reddish glands are often found on the veins beneath; flowers appear in june or july when the leaves are almost mature; bracts very variable. - cm. long, generally on short peduncles, rounded or wedge-shape at the base, generally rounded at the apex, sometimes merely obtuse, glabrous both above and below, or more or less densely pubescent beneath and generally sparingly pubescent above; pedicels of flowers variable in length, usually about cm. long; styles of flowers pubescent at the base; fruit globose or somewhat ellipsoidal generally - mm. in diameter. =distribution.=--this species as understood by sargent ranges from west virginia to indiana and south to florida and west to alabama. in indiana it is confined to counties near the ohio river. specimens are in the writer's herbarium from dearborn, ripley, switzerland, jefferson, clark, harrison, crawford, perry, southeastern dubois and east spencer counties. practically in all of its range in indiana it is found on the tops of high bluffs along streams or on the slopes of deep ravines. it is an infrequent to a common tree where found. in general in the counties just mentioned it supplants the other species of _tilia_. it was reported from wayne county by phinney, and schneck says a single tree was found near the mouth of white river. the last named tree may be _tilia neglecta_ which is said to be found just west in illinois. [illustration: plate . tilia heterophylla ventenat. white basswood. (× / .)] =remarks.=--wood and uses similar to that of the preceding species. in indiana the species are not commercially separated. a satisfactory division of the species of _tilia_ of the united states has long been a puzzle. c. s. sargent[ ] has recently published his studies of the species and credits indiana with two species and one variety. his range of _tilia neglecta_ might include a part of indiana, and it may be that the pubescent forms of _tilia glabra_ in our area should be referred to that species. specimens no. and in the writer's herbarium collected from trees on the high bluff of graham creek in jennings county, sargent refers to =tilia heterophylla= variety =michauxii= sargent. while sargent's key to _tilia_ quite distinctly separates the species and varieties, yet when specimens are collected from an area where the species overlap and seem to intergrade, the task of referring a specimen to the proper species or variety is not an easy one. in fact the writer acknowledges his inability to satisfactorily classify our forms of _tilia_, and the present arrangement should be accepted as provisional. cornÀceae. the dogwood family. trees or shrubs; leaves simple, alternate, opposite or whorled; fruit mostly a drupe, or seeded. leaves alternate; flowers of two kinds, the staminate in heads, -parted; stigmas lateral. nyssa. leaves opposite; flowers perfect, -parted; stigmas terminal. cornus. = . nyssa.= the tupelos. =nyssa sylvática= marshall. gum. black gum. sour gum. yellow gum. pepperidge. plate . medium to large sized trees; bark on old trees deeply and irregularly furrowed, the ridges broken up into small lengths; twigs at first pubescent, becoming glabrous; leaves oval-obovate or oblong, blades - cm. long on petioles . - cm. long, rather abruptly acuminate at apex, narrowed at the base, sometimes rounded, margins entire, petioles and both surfaces pubescent when they unfold, becoming glabrous above and glabrous or nearly so beneath at maturity; flowers appear in may or june, the staminate in clusters, numerous, small greenish-white, the pistillate - or solitary; fruit ripens in autumn, a fleshy drupe, - of a cluster ripening on a pedicel - cm. long, ovoid, usually - mm. long, blue-black, sour and astringent; stone generally cylindric and tapering at each end and with - indistinct ribs. [illustration: plate . nyssa sylvatica marshall. black gum. (× / .)] =distribution.=--maine, southern ontario, southern michigan, southeastern wisconsin[ ] to missouri and south to the gulf. found throughout indiana and no doubt was a native of practically every county. it is an infrequent to a very rare tree in the northern half of the state, becoming a common tree in certain parts of the southern counties. in the northern part of the state it is usually found on dry ground associated with the oaks, although it is also found with sugar maple and beech. =remarks.=--wood heavy, soft, very difficult to split. woodsmen always speak of two kinds of black gum. there is one form which splits easily which is designated as "yellow gum." this distinction has not been substantiated. the uses of gum are many. the quality of not splitting makes many uses for it. the greater amount of gum is used as rough stuff. in the manufactures it is used for mine rollers, heading, boxes, hatter's blocks, water pipes, firearms, wooden ware, musical instruments, etc. the distinctive habit of growth of the black gum together with the gorgeous coloring of the autumnal foliage recommend this species for ornamental planting. it has an upright habit of growth, although the trunk is more or less crooked. the crown when grown in the open is usually pyramidal, composed of horizontal crooked branches. = . cÒrnus.= dogwood. =cornus flórida= linnæus. dogwood. flowering dogwood. plate . usually a small tree[ ] - dm. in diameter; bark deeply fissured, the ridges divided into short oblong, pieces; branchlets slender, in winter condition turning up at the tips; twigs green and smooth or nearly so from the first; leaves oval or slightly obovate, blades generally - cm. long on petioles about cm. long, generally abruptly taper-pointed at apex, gradually narrowed and generally oblique at the base, margins thickened and entire, or very slightly crenulate, appressed pubescent both above and beneath, light green above and a grayish-green beneath; flowering heads surrounded by an involucre of large white or pinkish bracts; the mature bracts are obovate, - cm. long, notched at the apex, appear before the leaves in april or may; flowers are in a head, numerous, small and greenish, opening usually about the middle of may as the leaves appear or even when the leaves are one-third grown; fruit ripens in september or october, an ovoid red drupe about cm. long, usually about - flowers of a head mature fruit; stone elliptic and pointed at each end. [illustration: plate . cornus florida linnæus. dogwood. (× / .)] =distribution.=--southern maine, southern ontario, southern michigan, to missouri and south to florida and west to texas. found in all parts of indiana. frequent to very common in all beech-sugar maple woods of the state. it is very rare or absent in the prairie area of the northwest part of the state, although it has been found in upland woods in all of the counties bordering lake michigan. it is also a frequent or more common tree in most parts of the state associated with white oak, or in the southern part of the state with black and white oak. it prefers a dry habitat, and is rarely found in wet situations. =remarks.=--wood hard, heavy, strong, close-grained and takes a high polish. the indians made a scarlet dye from the roots. it was used much by the pioneers for wedges, mallets and handles for tools. the trees are so small that they do not produce much wood. the present supply is used principally for shuttles, golfheads, brush blocks, engraver's blocks, etc. the mature fruit is much relished by squirrels and birds. the tree is quite conspicuous in the flowering season, and when the fruit is maturing. these features recommend it for ornamental planting, and it is used to some extent. the tree has a flat crown, and is quite shade enduring. it is very difficult to transplant, and when the tree is transplanted, if possible, some earth taken from under a live dogwood tree, should be used to fill in the hole where it is planted. =ericÀceae.= the heath family. =oxydéndrum arbòreum= (linnæus) decandolle. sour wood. sorrel tree. plate . small trees with a gray and deeply fissured bark, much resembling that of a young sweet gum tree; twigs and branchlets greenish and smooth; leaves alternate, on petioles about a cm. long, oblong-oval, generally - cm. long, narrowed at the base, acute or acuminate at the apex, margins entire toward the base or sometimes all over, usually about three-fourths is irregularly serrate with very short incurved teeth, glabrous above and beneath except a puberulence on the midrib and sometimes on the petiole to which an occasional prickle is added beneath; flowers appear in june when the leaves are full grown, in large panicles at the end of the year's growth, white, the whole inflorescence covered with a short gray pubescence; fruit a capsule about . cm. long on an erect and recurved pedicel of about the same length, maturing in autumn. [illustration: plate . oxydendrum arboreum (linnæus) decandolle. sour wood. sorrel tree. (× / .)] =distribution.=--a tree of the elevated regions of the area from southeastern pennsylvania to florida and west to southern indiana and south to louisiana. in indiana it is definitely known to occur only in perry county at the base of a beech spur of the van buren ridge about miles southeast of cannelton. here it is a common tree over an area of an acre or two. the largest tree measured was about . dm. in diameter and meters high. here it is associated with beech, sugar maple, dogwood, sassafras, etc. when coppiced it grows long slender shoots which the boys of the pioneers used for arrows. a pioneer who lived near this colony of trees is the author of this use of the wood and he called the tree "arrow wood." =ebenÀceae.= the ebony family. =diospyros virginiàna= linnæus. persimmon. plate . small or medium sized trees with deeply and irregularly fissured bark, the ridges broken up into short lengths; twigs pubescent; leaves alternate, oval, oblong-oval or ovate, generally - cm. long and - cm. wide, narrowed, rounded or cordate at the base, short pointed at the apex, margin entire but ciliate, slightly pubescent above when young, becoming glabrous on age, more or less pubescent beneath, sometimes glabrous except the midrib and margin; flowers appear in may or june on the year's growth when the leaves are about half grown, greenish yellow, the staminate on one tree and the pistillate on another; fruit ripens in august, september or october, depressed-globose or oblong in shape, - cm. in diameter, generally with - very hard flat seed. =distribution.=--connecticut to iowa and south to the gulf. in indiana it is confined to the south half of the state. we have no record of wild trees being found north of indianapolis, except prof. stanley coulter reports three trees growing in tippecanoe county in situations such as to indicate that they are native. it is doubtful if it was ever more than a frequent tree in the original forest. in some of the hill counties of the south central part of the state, it has become a common tree in clearings and abandoned fields. it grows long surface roots from which numerous suckers grow which form the "persimmon thickets." it seems to thrive in the poorest and hardest of soils. however, it reaches its greatest size in the alluvial bottoms of the lower wabash valley. here large and tall trees have been observed on the low border of sloughs, associated with such water-loving plants as water-locust, button-bush, swell-butt ash, etc. it thrives equally well on the high sandy ridges of knox and sullivan counties. [illustration: plate . diospyros virginiana linnæus. persimmon. (× / .)] =remarks.=--the fruit is edible and the horticultural possibilities of this tree have never received the attention they deserve. the opinion is current that the fruit does not ripen and is not edible until it is subjected to a frost. this is an error. the best and largest fruit i have ever eaten ripened without a frost. a large native tree on the forest reserve in clark county ripens its fruit in august, which is of an excellent quality and usually has only one, and rarely more than three seeds. the fruit of this tree is of the oblong type. the fruit varies much in size, time of ripening and quality. some is scarcely edible. some of the native trees bear fruit when they are not over eight feet tall, some are usually prolific bearers while others bear sparingly. for this reason if one wishes to grow persimmon trees it is best to buy grafted trees from some reliable nurseryman. the tree is hardy throughout indiana and while it is a very slow growing tree, it can nevertheless be recommended for ornamental and roadside tree planting. it is to be noted that cattle will not browse persimmon, and that hogs greedily eat the ripe fruit. the fruit of many trees does not fall until early winter, and such trees are a granary for several kind of animals of the forest. the wood is hard, heavy, strong and close-grained. practically the whole output of persimmon lumber is used in making shuttles. in indiana the tree is too rare to furnish much lumber. =oleÀceae.= the olive family. leaves compound; fruit dry, a samara. fraxinus. leaves simple; fruit fleshy, a drupe. adelia. = . frÁxinus.= the ashes. trees with opposite, odd-pinnate leaves; flowers appear in april or may in clusters from the axils of last year's leaves, the staminate and pistillate on different or sometimes on the same tree; fruit a -seeded samara. bark of mature trees furrowed; fruit not winged to the base. body of fruit robust, round and rather abruptly passing into the wing; the body rarely winged / its length. shoots and axis of leaves smooth. f. americana. shoots and axis of leaves velvety pubescent, at least when young. f. biltmoreana. body of fruit flattened and gradually passing into the wing; the body usually winged more than / its length. shoots glabrous, or practically so. f. lanceolata. shoots velvety pubescent, at least when young. calyx of fruit less than mm. long; body of samara just below the wing less than mm. wide, rarely mm. wide, usually . - . mm. wide; samaras - . cm. long. f. pennsylvanica. calyx of fruit more than mm. long, generally - mm. long; body of samara just below the wing more than mm. wide, usually - mm. wide; samaras generally - cm. long. f. profunda. bark of mature trees scaly or flaky; fruit winged to the base. twigs usually angled; leaflets on very short stalks. f. quadrangulata. twigs round; leaflets sessile. f. nigra. = . fraxinus americàna= linnæus. white ash. gray ash. plate . large trees with deeply furrowed bark; twigs smooth, greenish gray and often covered with a bloom; leaves generally - . dm. long, rachis smooth; leaflets - , usually , generally - cm. long, on stalks generally . - cm. long, the terminal one on a stalk - times as long, leaflets ovate to narrow-oblong, narrowed, rounded or oblique at base, short or long acuminate at apex, sometimes merely acute, margins entire or irregularly serrate, usually not serrated to the base, teeth short, dark green and smooth above, glaucous beneath, sometimes almost green beneath about lake michigan and in the northern tier of counties, usually pubescent beneath along the midrib and along the veins, sometimes glabrous; calyx persistent on the fruit, about mm. long; fruit ripens in september and october, linear, - . cm. long, variable in size and shape, body of samara cylindrical, somewhat narrower than the wing and usually / - / the length of the samara, each face of the body usually striated longitudinally with about faint lines; wing terminal, generally about . cm. wide, pointed or notched at apex. =distribution.=--nova scotia to minnesota and south to the gulf. frequent to common in all parts of indiana. it is the most abundant in the northern two-thirds of the state, where it is associated principally with beech, sugar maple, linn, slippery elm and red oak. in the hilly part of the state it is found principally near water courses and in ravines, and rarely on the white and black oak ridges. it is rarely found in the low "flats" of the southeast part of the state, or in the shingle oak bottoms along the patoka river. =remarks.=--the foliage of the white ash is quite variable in the texture of the leaflets. leaflets on some trees are quite thin while those of other trees are thick and leathery, and no doubt would be classed by sargent as variety =subcoriacea=[ ]. [illustration: plate . fraxinus americana linnæus. white ash. (× / .)] a form of white ash with reddish-purple fruit is found from steuben to clark county. this form is the prevailing type of white ash in wayne county in the vicinity of centerville. it has been described by fernald as forma =iodocarpa=.[ ] the wood is heavy, hard, strong, elastic, sap wood white and the heart wood light brown. it is one of the most valuable of indiana woods, and is used by almost all wood using industries. its principal uses include handles, butter tubs, car and vehicle stock, automobiles and implements. the white ash has been under cultivation at the clark county state forest for fifteen years, and the present indications are that it is one of the very best species to use for forest planting. it is hardy; grows in nearly all kinds of soil, although it prefers a moist, rich soil; transplants successfully; grows rapidly; bears pruning well; erect in habit of growth, and so far in our area forest plantings have not been destroyed by injurious insects. however, in some parts of the state, where trees have grown in the cities, some have been killed by scale insects. aside from this the white ash would be an excellent tree for roadside planting, because it comes into leaf late, and never produces a dense shade. at present seed collectors are not able to separate the species of ash, and as a consequence white ash seedlings bought from a nursery are not always true to name. for this reason it is suggested that to obtain seedlings true to name that seed be collected and planted from a tree true to name. the seed should be planted in a sandy soil in rows, about seeds to the foot, and covered about an inch deep with earth. the trees should be planted  ×  ft. to  ×  ft. apart. = . fraxinus biltmoreàna= beadle. biltmore ash. plate . large forest trees, resembling the white ash. young trees acquire the furrowed bark character earlier than the white ash, furrows of the bark of mature trees are usually deeper, and the ridges correspondingly farther apart; twigs are robust like the white ash and always velvety pubescent except in age when they may become smooth; leaves generally - . dm. long, rachis pubescent; leaflets - , usually - , generally - cm. long, on stalks generally . - cm. long, the terminal one on a stalk - times as long, leaflets broadly ovate to narrow ovate, or oblong to narrow oblong, narrowed, rounded, or oblique at the base, short or long acuminate at apex, sometimes merely acute, margins generally entire, sometimes with a few short teeth toward the apex, dark green and smooth above, glaucous and more or less pubescent beneath; fruit similar to the preceding species. [illustration: plate . fraxinus biltmoreana beadle. biltmore ash. (× / .)] =distribution.=--this species has only recently been separated from the white ash and its range has not been ascertained. it is known to occur in the appalachian mountains from pennsylvania to georgia. in indiana it is known to occur as far north as wells county. it is commonly associated with the white ash, but much less frequent except in a few districts where it is the prevailing type. such a district is in gibson county north of owensville. here as well as in other parts of gibson county very large trees have been observed. in the original forest the pioneers called the very large specimens of ash with deeply furrowed bark "the old fashion" ash. it is believed that most of these specimens were of this species. in the hilly parts of indiana this species is found in situations too dry for the white ash, and for this reason should be given preference in hillside planting. on the wooded bluff of white river in fairview park north of indianapolis is a specimen that measures dm. in circumference, b.h. the deepest furrows on the north side of the tree are cm. deep. =remarks.=--this species is not yet commonly separated from the white ash and is known to the trade as white ash. mr. beadle who first recognized the species, named it biltmore ash in honor of the biltmore estate on which the first tree was discovered. authors ever since have so called it, and the common name which this form should bear is biltmore ash. on the clark county state forest is a planting of sixteen year old white ash in which are mixed quite a number of biltmore ash. this species at a distance, can be distinguished from the white ash by the rougher bark of the trunks and the darker green color of its foliage, and in the autumn by its more colored foliage. a closer view shows that the leaflets of the biltmore ash stand in a plane above the rachis higher than those of the white ash. the wood is not commercially distinguished from the white ash, but its mechanical properties rank it somewhat below that species.[ ] [illustration: plate . fraxinus lanceolata borkhausen. green ash. (× / .)] = . fraxinus lanceolàta= borckhausen. white ash. green ash. swamp ash. plate . medium to large sized trees with fissured bark, the ridges and furrows narrower than those of the white ash; twigs slender and glabrous at maturity; leaves generally - dm. long, rachis smooth, rarely slightly pubescent; leaflets - , usually , generally - cm. long, on stalks generally about . cm. or less in length, the terminal one on a stalk - times as long, leaflets generally narrow-oblong or ovate to narrow ovate-oblong, generally with a narrowed base, sometimes rounded and oblique, short or long acuminate at apex, margin entire near the base, the remainder of the margin generally sparsely serrate with short teeth, dark green and smooth above, a lighter green beneath and more or less pubescent on the petiolules, midrib and veins; calyx persistent, about mm. long; fruit ripens in september and october, linear or spatulate, - cm. long, variable in size and shape, body / - / the length of samara, compressed or flattened and gradually narrowed to the base, usually less than half as wide as the wing, each face of the body usually striated with about - lines which are stronger than those near the edge of the body; wing generally - mm. wide, pointed or notched at apex, and decurrent on the sides of the body for about one-half of its length. =distribution.=--lake champlain to the saskatchewan and south to the gulf. found in all parts of indiana. it is usually found in low ground along streams, in swamps, and in low woods. it is usually associated with white elm, red maple, cottonwood, aspens, linn, bur oak, etc., in the south to this list should be added silver maple and cypress. it prefers a habitat wetter than that of the white ash, although the two are found together in wet woods. in swampy woods it is often a common tree. while it has a general distribution in the state, it is much more local than the white ash. =remarks.=--this form is not usually separated from the next species, and both are known in books and by nurserymen as green or red ash. the common name, green ash, should be applied to this species to separate it from the true white ash, and the next. in ash forest plantings on the clark county state forest, it is to be noted that this and the next species bear fruit while the trees are as small as . cm. in diameter, while the white and biltmore ash which are much older and - cm. in diameter have never borne fruit. this species and the next bear fruit oftener and in greater abundance than the white or biltmore ash. it is also to be noted that practically all of the volunteer ash trees found along fences and roadsides, except very large trees, are of the green ash species. the wood is similar to that of white ash, and the cut is usually sold as that species. however, it ranks below white ash in its mechanical qualities.[ ] while the native green ash is found growing in swamps, it adapts itself to drier situations. it is planted more than any other species of ash in the cold and dry regions of the west and northwest. [illustration: plate . fraxinus pennsylvanica marshall. red ash. (× / .)] = . fraxinus pennsylvánica= marshall. red ash. white ash. swamp ash. plate . usually medium sized trees much like the preceding; twigs velvety pubescent at maturity; leaves generally - dm. long, rachis pubescent; leaflets - , usually , generally - cm. long, on stalks generally about . cm. long, the terminal one on a stalk - times as long, leaflets generally ovate, ovate-oblong, or oblong to narrow-oblong, generally with a narrowed base, sometimes rounded and oblique, short or long acuminate at the apex, margins sometimes entire, generally entire near the base, the remainder more or less serrated with shallow teeth, dark green and smooth above, a lighter green beneath and more or less densely pubescent all over the lower surface, especially on the midrib and veins; calyx persistent, about mm. long; fruit can not be distinguished from the preceding. =distribution.=--quebec to manitoba, and south to florida. found sparingly in all parts of indiana. it is usually found in low ground, but frequently on bluffs, and flood plain banks. =remarks.=--this species is not commonly separated from the white ash group, but in books it is known as the red ash. this is the common name that should be applied to this form. this species is not usually separated from the preceding, but it is easily distinguished from it by its pubescent twigs. it can be distinguished from the next by its smaller twigs, smaller calyx and smaller fruit. the wood is similar to that of the white ash, and the cut is usually sold as that species. in mechanical qualities it is on a par with the green ash. = . fraxinus profúnda= bush. swell-butt ash. plate . medium or large trees with fissured bark similar to the white ash; twigs robust and velvety pubescent at least while young; leaves generally - dm. long, rachis densely pubescent, rarely almost smooth; leaflets - , generally , on stalks . - cm. long, the terminal one on a stalk - times as long, leaflets ovate, narrow-ovate to narrow-oblong, narrowed or rounded and oblique at the base, short or long taper-pointed at the apex, margins entire, rarely with a few short teeth, dark green and smooth above, a lighter green and densely pubescent beneath, rarely somewhat smooth; calyx persistent, generally - mm. long, rarely as short as mm.; fruit ripening in september and october, linear, generally - cm. long, variable in size and shape, body about / the length of the samara, compressed or flattened and gradually narrowed to the base, the striations on the face of the body not prominent and usually not distinct the full length of the body, samara often unilateral or somewhat falcate; wings notched or merely rounded at the apex, decurrent on the body / - / its length, sometimes almost terminal. [illustration: plate . fraxinus profunda bush. swell-butt or pumpkin ash. (× / .)] =distribution.=--virginia, indiana and missouri, and south to florida. in indiana the distribution has not been determined. it is a common to an infrequent tree of the river sloughs and cypress swamps of the southwestern counties. authentic specimens are at hand from knox, gibson, posey, perry, bartholomew, jackson, marion and daviess counties, and specimens from hamilton, tipton and starke counties, i doubtfully refer to this species. the preferred habitat of this species is inundated swamps, and when it grows in such situations it generally develops a base swollen to a point somewhat above the water level. in bartholomew county it was found associated with the cow oak, and the trunk resembled the white ash. =remarks.=--this species is known by authors and commercially as pumpkin ash. the wood is similar to white ash but is inferior to that species. on account of its habitat this species was little cut until the past few years when ash became scarce. during the past few years most of the deep river and cypress swamps have been invaded and all of the ash cut. = . fraxinus quadrangulàta= michaux. blue ash. plate . medium to large sized trees with light gray bark, not regularly fissured, scaly at least above; twigs and branchlets more or less distinctly -angled, the angles of vigorous shoots develop corky wings about mm. high; leaves generally - dm. long; leaflets - , generally - cm. long, on short stalks, usually - mm. long, sometimes sessile, the terminal one on a stalk generally about - cm. long, leaflets ovate to lanceolate, narrowed or rounded at the base, generally long acuminate at the apex, margins rather regularly and coarsely serrated with short incurved teeth, yellow-green and smooth above, about the same color beneath and generally smooth except along the veins, midrib and petiolules which are permanently pubescent; calyx very small, usually about . mm. long, and persisting more or less in fruit; fruit ripens last of june to august, samaras twisted, generally - cm. long and - mm. wide, rounded at the base, notched or rounded and apiculate at the apex, the apical end of all specimens at hand twisted to the right, the wing surrounds the body. =distribution.=--southern ontario to iowa, and south to northern alabama and arkansas. found sparingly in most parts of indiana, except the northwest part. there are no records northwest of white and noble counties. in the northern two-thirds of the state it is a rare to very rare tree, generally found only along the bluffs of streams. in many areas it is so rare that even the pioneers do not know the tree. it was the most frequent in the southeastern part of the state. here also it is found principally along the higher banks of streams. while the species is confined principally to high ground it also grew in lower ground. the largest tree seen is on level ground at a fork of the road between charlestown and jeffersonville about miles northeast of jeffersonville. in this tree measured . dm. ( - / inches) in circumference breast high. [illustration: plate . fraxinus quadrangulata michaux. blue ash. (× / .)] this species has not been observed in the "knob" area of the state or anywhere in the flats of the lower wabash valley. schneck reports it as rare on the hills of this area. the tree is too rare to definitely determine its associates, although sugar maple is usually found with it. =remarks.=--this species is becoming too scarce to be of much economic importance. the cut is usually sold as white ash. the uses of the wood are practically the same as the white ash. the fruit and foliage of this species most closely resembles that of the black ash, from which it can be distinguished by its greenish-yellow foliage and the habitat in which it grows. = . fraxinus nìgra= marshall. black ash. plate . medium sized, tall and straight trees with a light gray bark, broken up into small thin plates on old trunks; twigs round, robust and smooth at maturity; leaves . - dm. long, leaflets generally - and - cm. long, sessile, the terminal one generally on a stalk . - cm. long, oblong or oblong-lanceolate, narrowed or rounded at the base, and short or long acuminate at the apex, margins coarsely and rather irregularly serrate with short teeth which are usually somewhat incurved, dark green and glabrous above, not much lighter beneath and glabrous or pubescent along the midrib and larger veins; calyx and corolla none; fruit ripens the last of june to august, similar to the fruit of the blue ash, samaras generally - cm. long, and - mm. wide, body winged all around, the base of the samara rounded, the apex notched or rounded, the apical end of the samara twisted more or less to the right in all specimens at hand. =distribution.=--nova scotia to manitoba, south to virginia and northern arkansas. local in all parts of indiana except in the "knob" area of the state. it is generally found in places that are inundated much of the winter season. its habitat is in cold swampy woods or similar places about lakes. it has no special affinity for streams. it is local in its distribution. where it is found it is generally a frequent to common tree. in the lake area of indiana its habitat conditions are frequent, consequently colonies of it are frequent. south of the lake area of the state it becomes rare to extremely local. in the southwest part of the state it has been sparingly found in a few cypress swamps. it is usually associated with white elm, cottonwood, aspens, red maple, bur oak, and is one of the first species to invade extinct tamarack swamps. [illustration: plate . fraxinus nigra marshall. black ash. (× / .)] =remarks.=--the wood is tougher but in most qualities is inferior to white ash and cannot be used for handles. the layers of growth separate easily which enables the wood to be separated into thin strips. this fact was known to the indians who used this wood for making baskets. this use was continued by the white man and in addition it was a favorite wood for making hoops, and in many sections it is known as the "hoop ash." the wood has many uses such as for baskets, splint boxes, butter tubs, vehicle stock, interior finish, furniture, etc. the black burls of the trunk are much sought for by veneer manufacturers. = . adÈlia.= =adèlia acuminàta michaux.= pond brush. crooked brush, plate . small trees, or shrub like, with gray smooth bark, becoming rough or fissured on large trees, the ridges short and broken; branchlets numerous and somewhat spiny; twigs glabrous; leaves opposite on petioles about cm. long, ovate to elliptic-ovate, - cm. long, with a long narrow base, long acuminate at the apex, margins entire near the base, the remainder more or less coarsely serrated with short rounded teeth, rarely entire, smooth above and beneath; flowers appear last of march to the first of may, the staminate in small sessile clusters along the branchlets, the pistillate in short panicles; fruit a dark purple drupe, oblong, about mm. long; stone with many longitudinal ribs. =distribution.=--southwestern indiana and southern illinois south to northern florida and texas. in indiana it has been found only in knox, gibson, posey and perry counties. it grows on the low borders of river sloughs, swamps and river banks. it is very tolerant of shade and may be found growing under larger trees. it usually forms dense thickets on the bank that surrounds standing water and is usually associated with button-bush. a straight specimen is rarely seen because the area where it grows overflows each winter, and the small trees are usually covered more or less with debris, and then the following season the side branches assume a vertical growth. the top may be released by the next inundation, and then other branches may assume leadership, and so on until the top is a mass of branches growing in several directions. the specimens found in perry county grew on the low bank of the ohio river about miles east of cannelton. the species is quite local in the area where it is found. it may border one river slough, and be entirely absent from another nearby. =remarks.=--of no economic use. in books it is called "swamp privet" but in the area where it grows it is not known by that name. [illustration: plate . adelia acuminata michaux. pond brush. crooked brush. (× / .)] =bignoniÀceae.= the trumpet creeper family. =catÁlpa.= the catalpas. leaves simple, opposite or whorled, with long petioles; flowers in terminal panicles or corymbs; fruit a long round pod which splits into halves; seed many, flat, papery with a tuft of long hairs at each end. a small genus of widely distributed trees. the species freely hybridize, and have been cultivated and planted so extensively that it is difficult to find typical specimens. bark of old trees thin and scaly; odor of bruised leaves fetid; lower lobe of corolla entire. catalpa bignonioides. bark of old trees fissured and ridgy; odor of bruised leaves not fetid; lower lobe of corolla notched at the apex. catalpa speciosa. = . catalpa bignonioìdes= walter. catalpa. (_catalpa catalpa_ (linnæus) karsten). plate . medium to large sized trees, usually with a trunk - meters in length, and a wide crown; bark a grayish-brown, scaly and flaking off in small thin plates; leaves ovate, blades usually . - dm. long, cordate at the base, taper-pointed at apex, margins entire, or with or lateral lobes, yellow-green and smooth above, and pubescent beneath; flowering period the last of may to the first of july, about two weeks later than the next species; inflorescence in a rather compact large panicle; flowers white, usually - cm. across at expanded end; marked on the lower inner surface by two rows of yellow blotches, the lower lobes marked with purplish spots, the lower lobe entire or nearly so; fruit a long pod, generally - develop in each panicle, usually . - dm. long, about cm. thick, somewhat flattened, the valves meeting at an angle which forms a ridge which is sensible to the fingers, the valves of the pod are thin, and become flat after they open; seed . - . cm. long, including the tufts of hairs at each end, and about - mm. wide, the tuft of hairs usually converging to a point. =distribution.=--supposed to be native to parts of florida, georgia, alabama and mississippi. it has been introduced throughout the eastern part of the united states. in indiana it has been used in all parts as an ornamental and shade tree. it has few qualities to recommend it, and since the difference between this and the next species has been known the next species is usually substituted for it. [illustration: plate . catalpa bignonioides walter. catalpa. (× / .)] [illustration: plate . catalpa speciosa warder. catalpa. hardy catalpa. (× / .)] = . catalpa speciòsa= warder. catalpa. hardy catalpa. catalfa. plate . medium to large sized trees with long and rather straight trunks when grown in the forest; bark dark grayish-brown, fissured and much resembling the bark of a linden or black walnut in appearance; leaves ovate, generally . - dm. long, cordate or somewhat rounded at the base, long taper-pointed at apex, margins entire, dark green and smooth above, pubescent beneath; flowering period may or june; flowers in large terminal panicles, white with yellow and purplish spots within, expanded part about cm. across; fruit a long cylindrical pod which matures late in autumn or early winter, - dm. long, and about . cm. in diameter, usually or and rarely pods develop in a panicle, the valves of the pod remaining semi-terete after separating; seed many, thin and papery, . - cm. long, and - mm. wide, body of samara about equals in length the tuft of hairs at each end, the hairs remain separated and are little inclined to form a tuft at the end. =distribution.=--known to have been a native of the southwestern part of indiana, and to have followed the valley of the ohio and mississippi rivers to the southeastern part of missouri and the northeastern part of arkansas. the tree has practically disappeared from the forests of indiana, and the exact range in indiana can never be known. being such a conspicuous tree, it was thought that the memory of living pioneers might be relied upon to fix the limits of its range in indiana. one pioneer living near austin in scott county said it was a native of the muscatatuck bottoms, and another said it was a native in the flats of the southwestern part of clark county. in its native habitat it was found only in very low ground, usually with such associates as pin oak, sweet gum, southern hackberry, big shellbark hickory, pecan, etc. in its native habitat it was an infrequent to a frequent tree, never a common tree. a pioneer was interviewed who settled in the knox county bottoms about three miles west of decker, when the whole area was a virgin forest. he said the catalpa was an occasional tree in the bottoms throughout the area; that he did not recall that it was ever found in as low situations as the cypress; that the tree was as tall as its associates, straight, and usually about dm. in diameter, and that he never saw a tree a meter in diameter; that on account of the durable quality of the wood that it was cut for fence posts and rails. a pioneer who lived near the mouth of deer creek in perry county said it was a native in his vicinity. the information at hand would fix the mass distribution of the species to the southwest of a line drawn from terre haute to a point about miles east of grandview in spencer county. =remarks.=--attention was directed to this tree about by dr. john a. warder and dr. geo. engelmann, and it has had enthusiastic admirers ever since. in indiana its most enthusiastic advocate was john p. brown of connersville. its popularity was based upon the durability of its wood and its rapid growth. nurserymen grew seedlings and through their agents plantations of all sizes were sold in many states. the trees were planted to grow posts, telephone poles and crossties. in indiana there is one plantation years old, but the majority are only to years old. the tree has been planted long enough in our area to definitely conclude that it should not be planted in any part of indiana for economic purposes. the range of the catalpa sphinx which defoliates the tree is rapidly increasing, and now ranges as far north as wells county. in the southern part of the state the trees are usually defoliated twice each year by the larvæ of this insect, and as a consequence the trees make very little growth, and some owners of plantations have abandoned them on this account. a new insect is appearing which kills the young shoots, which will interfere with the upright habit of the tree. the catalpa is not recommended for forest planting in indiana, and its use for this purpose has practically ceased. the catalpa prefers a moist, deep, rich soil, but will grow in almost all kinds of situations. in the northern part of the state, the young trees are frequently winter killed. the tree is quite tenacious of life and when cut off at the ground, usually sends up several coppice shoots. this species can be recommended for planting for shade for hog lots, and as a specimen tree in parks, etc. it is not a desirable street tree. =caprifoliÀceae.= the honeysuckle family. =vibÚrnum.= the viburnums. =viburnum prunifòlium= linnæus. black haw. plate . small trees or shrubs; bark of old trees reddish-brown, furrowed and the ridges broken into short lengths; leaves simple, opposite, on petioles . - . cm. long; the lower pairs of leaves are generally smaller and have their petioles more or less winged, red and more or less densely covered with a rusty tomentum which may extend along the midrib and veins beneath or may sometimes cover a considerable part of the lower surface of the leaf while young, sometimes the margined petioles are only rough on the margins; leaf blades very variable in size and shape, usually - cm. long, ovate to slightly obovate, or narrow-oval to nearly orbicular, narrowed or rounded at the base, pointed at the apex, or sometimes rounded, margins finely serrate, glabrous both above and beneath at maturity; flowers appear the last of april or in may in cymes which are sessile or nearly so, flowers white, numerous, and generally about . cm. in diameter, fruit ripens in september and october, oval, oblong or nearly globose, generally - mm. long, dark blue, covered with a bloom, edible, and if not eaten by birds they persist on the branches until late autumn; stone oval and very flat. [illustration: plate . viburnum prunifolium linnæus. black haw. (× / .)] =distribution.=--connecticut to iowa and south to georgia and west to texas. it is more or less frequent in moist woods throughout indiana, except in the hilly counties where it becomes more or less rare. in the hilly counties its place is taken by the southern black haw, _viburnum rufidulum_ which only rarely attains tree size. =remarks.=--this species could be used to advantage in ornamental planting where small trees or shrubs are required for a screen or back ground. the fruit of the black and red haws attract several species of birds. this species is quite variable in the shape, and texture of its leaves, and in the size and shape of its fruit. in the southern part of the state specimens are found that have very thick leaves with margined and tomentose petioles which very much resemble the southern species. =species excluded.= the following species have been reported for indiana but have been excluded for want of satisfactory evidence to warrant their inclusion: the reasons for exclusion are discussed under the name of the species. it is needless to say that critical examination has been given doubtful species, and doubtful records, and every effort possible has been made to validate them. =pinus echinàta= miller. short-leaf pine. this species does not occur in our area and all reference to it should be transferred to _pinus virginiana_. references to this species are instances of wrong determination. =pinus resinòsa= aiton. norway pine. this species was reported as an escape in wabash county by coulter[ ] for jenkins. =pinus rígida= miller. pitch pine. baird and taylor[ ] reported this species for clark county. the range of this species is to the east of our area. they also reported _pinus strobus_, which has not been seen since they reported it, and they failed to report _pinus virginiana_ which is a common tree on the "knobs" of clark county. a study of their flora of clark county shows that they did little or no collecting in the "knobs." they also freely reported field crop, garden and flower escapes, and it is believed that their reference to _pinus rigida_ and _pinus strobus_ should be regarded as to cultivated trees. =Àbies balsàmea= (linnæus.) miller. balsam fir. heimlich[ ] reports this as occurring in porter county about dune park. he cites for his authority bot. gaz. vol. : apr. . the article referred to is cowles' article on the flora of the sand dunes of lake michigan, in which he discusses the flora from glen haven in northern michigan to dune park, indiana in porter county, which has confused heimlich in separating the trees reported at several stations. it has never been found in indiana. =chamæcyparis thyoìdes= (linnæus) britton, sterns and poggenberg. white cedar. the range of this species is east of the alleghany mountains and no doubt was never native in our area. the first reference to it is by dr. drake in his picture of cincinnati, published in , page , in which he says: "the white cedar and cypress are found on the banks of the wabash." schneck[ ] in his flora of the lower wabash valley says: "wet places near the mouth of the wabash river." i am certain it is not on the indiana side of the river. gorby[ ] reports it for miami county. all of his botanical records are too unreliable to receive serious consideration. coulter[ ] reports it as found in allen county on the authority of dr. c. r. dryer. i saw dr. dryer recently and he says he has no recollections about it. =juniperus commùnis= linnæus. juniper. this species has been reported from all parts of the state. the distribution of the species is to the north of indiana, and examining herbarium specimens it is found that subulate forms of _juniperus virginiana_ are frequently named _juniperus communis_. in the older floras it was a custom to include cultivated forms, and not distinguish them as such. since juniper has been for years a common ornamental shrub, especially in cemeteries, it is highly probable that many records have such a basis. it is proposed to drop this species from our flora. i refer higley and raddin's[ ] record to the decumbent variety. vangorder's and bradner's records may also be the decumbent form. heimlich's record i regard as an error, see remarks under _abies balsamea_. =populus balsamífera= linnæus. balsam poplar. this species was reported by bradner for steuben county. in a letter from the late prof. bradner, he said he had no specimen and had no recollection of the tree. j. m. coulter reported it for jefferson county, but young who also wrote a flora of jefferson county does not mention it. baird and taylor also reported it for clark county. the last two records may have been from cultivated trees or mistaken for _populus grandidentata_ which was not reported and is in the area, and is a frequent tree in the "knobs" in clark county. heimlich reports it in proc. ind. acad. sci. : : for cowles. i regard this as an error. see discussion under _abies canadensis_ on page . since the range of the species is to the north of indiana, it is here proposed to drop it from our flora. it should be looked for on the "divide" in steuben county and about lake michigan. =populus cándicans= aiton. balm of gilead. this species has been included in a few local floras, but it is believed that it has not yet escaped from cultivation. phinney[ ] gives it as "an important timber tree of delaware county," which is an error. =populus nìgra= var. =itálica= du roi. lombardy poplar. reference is made to this tree by blatchley[ ], meyncke[ ] and nieuwland[ ] but it is scarcely more than an accidental escape. =carya aquática= nuttall. water hickory. this species is listed as one of the principal trees occurring along the wabash in the coblenz edition of prince maximilan's travels in north america. it is recorded as "water bitternut (_juglans aquatica_)." if it occurs in our area it most likely would be found in the extreme southwestern counties. it has been reported from gallatin county, illinois, bordering posey county on the west. there are two other records of its occurrence in the state, which are doubtful. ryland t. brown[ ] reported it in a list of the principal trees of fountain county in a report of the geology of fountain county. _carya laciniosa_, which is sometimes called swamp hickory and which is more or less frequent in the county, he failed to report. it is believed this reference to _carya aquatica_ should be referred to _laciniosa_. b. c. hobbs also reported it as common in parke county in a short list of the principal trees. he named only four of the five or more species of hickory that occur in the county, and it is believed since he was no botanist, that he confused the names. elliott in his trees of indiana gives "_carya aquatica_" as common, but no doubt this reference should be transferred to some other species. =carya myristicæfórmis= nuttall. nutmeg hickory. this tree also was reported by prince maximilian as occurring along the wabash river. the known range of the species is from north carolina to arkansas, and for this reason the species is not included in this list. =betula lénta= linnæus. black birch. this species has been reported for indiana as occurring in fulton, gibson, miami, noble, posey, st. joseph and steuben counties. sargent[ ] says: "this species has until recently been badly misunderstood. the range of the species is southern maine to northwestern vermont, eastern kentucky, and south to delaware and along the appalachian mountains to northern georgia and alabama." no doubt all of the indiana records should be transferred to _betula lutea_, except the gibson and posey county record which may be _betula nigra_. =castanea púmila= (linnæus) miller. chinquapin. this species was given a place in our flora in coulter's catalogue upon the authority of sargent, ridgway and schneck. ridgway, in giving an additional list of the trees of the lower wabash valley[ ] says: "there is some doubt as to no. _castanea pumila_, which is given on prof. sargent's authority; but there is a possibility of an error having been made from the circumstances that the name 'chinquapin' is in that region almost universally applied to the fruit of _quercus muhlenbergii_." the posey county record was based on a specimen in dr. schneck's herbarium, which proves to have been taken from a cultivated tree near poseyville. =quercus ilicifòlia= wangenheim. bear oak. this species is credited to our flora by will scott in his ecological study of "the leesburg swamp" in kosciusko county, published in the indiana academy of science, , page . in a reply to an inquiry addressed to him he says no herbarium material was preserved. this ecological work was done during the summer months while working at the biological station at winona lake. in a footnote in this paper we are informed that for the identification of the trees listed, apgar's trees of the northern united states was used. in this key to the trees, _quercus velutina_ (black oak) is given only as a variety of _quercus coccinea_ (scarlet oak), and the distinction between _quercus velutina_ with its many formed leaves, and _quercus ilicifolia_ is not made apparent. in view of the fact that the natural habitat of _quercus ilicifolia_ is sandy barrens and rocky hillsides and its western range is eastern ohio, it is believed what mr. scott had in hand was a variable form of _quercus velutina_, which is frequent in that vicinity. the evidence is not encouraging enough to include it. =quercus nìgra= linnæus. water oak. this species has been reported by several authors for indiana. it is believed that a majority of the records should be transferred to _velutina_ and _imbricaria_ or _marylandica_. gorby and schneck call _quercus nigra_ black jack oak, which is generally the common name for _quercus marilandica_. ridgway in his writings of the flora of the lower wabash valley, likewise speaks of _quercus nigra_ as jack oak and says it is found in poor soil. coulter in his catalogue of indiana plants regarded these references to _nigra_ as errors and did not include it in his list. the report for crawford county by deam should be transferred to _marilandica_. since the range of the species is not north of kentucky, the reference to the species in the state should be dropped. the published records are as follows: carroll (thompson); crawford (deam); delaware, jay, randolph and wayne (phinney); jay (mccaslin); fountain (brown); miami (gorby); parke (hobbs). =quercus phéllos= linnæus. willow oak. this species has been reported from various counties of the state. the tree is said to grow in swamps and on sandy uplands, ranging from staten island, new york, south to florida and west to texas, and north to southern kentucky. if it occurs within our area it no doubt would have been found by dr. schneck, who was an enthusiastic student of the oaks. he reported it as occurring in the lower wabash in his early writings, but his herbarium contained no specimens. the writer while in search for this species in posey county met three men in widely separated parts of the county who were acquainted with the species in the south and they said they had never seen it in indiana. one of the men was an old man who had spent his boyhood in arkansas and he was well acquainted with the willow oak before he came to indiana. it is believed what has been reported for _q. phellos_ has been narrow-leaved forms of _q. imbricaria_ (shingle oak), and that the records should be transferred to that species. the published records are as follows: gibson, knox and posey (schneck); knox (thomas); miami (gorby). =quercus prinoìdes= willdenow. scrub or dwarf chestnut oak. reported for marshall county by nieuwland[ ] on the authority of a specimen deposited in the national museum collected by clark. i had this reference checked by e. s. steele and in a letter to me dated january , , he says: "i find no specimen labeled _quercus prinoides_, but there is one named _q. prinus_. there is no ground for calling it _q. prinoides_." since the specimen in question is a very immature one, i propose not to take it into consideration since the range of the species would be extended on a dubious specimen. =planèra aquática= (walter) j. f. gmelin. planer-tree. water elm. this tree was included in coulter's catalogue upon the authority of sargent, who includes indiana in the range of the species in his "forest trees of north america," vol. , u.s. census report, , page . dr. schneck spent a lifetime along the lower wabash bottoms and very carefully preserved specimens of all the flora of the region where this species is reported to occur. in his report of the flora of this region in he does not include this tree. an examination of his herbarium material showed no specimens of this tree either from indiana or illinois. it is fair to presume if he had been acquainted with the tree he would have had it represented in his herbarium. since the white elm is frequently called water elm, as well as the planer-tree, it is easy to understand how confusion might arise in separating these trees by non-professional people. =morus nìgra= linnæus. black mulberry. this species is reported by phinney[ ] as one of the "more important and common forest trees observed in delaware county." he also enumerates _morus rubra_. a splendid example of careless work. this species is reported by brown[ ] for fountain county, and by mccaslin[ ] for jay county. these authors reported this species as a native forest tree. since this species is not a native of the united states the citations no doubt should be referred to our native mulberry, _morus rubra_ (red mulberry). =Ìlex opàca= aiton. holly. this species was included in coulter's catalogue of the plants of indiana on the authority of robert ridgway. i find no reference to this species in the writings of ridgway. in shawnee park on the west side of louisville, kentucky is a large tree of this species. i was told that it was a native. a timber buyer of tell city told me that there was a native tree on his grandfather's farm in the southern part of perry county. since this species has been reported for grayson county, kentucky, which is less than forty miles to the south, it is quite probable that a few trees were found as far north as indiana. =acer pennsylvánicum= linnæus. moosewood. the only record of this species occurring in indiana is in a report of the trees occurring along the wabash river by prince maximilian. since the report does not definitely state where the species was observed or how frequently it occurred and since the greater part of maximilian's time was spent on the illinois side of the wabash, it is more than likely that he observed it on the illinois side of the wabash. while indiana is within the possible range of the species, it has not been discovered since. if not extinct in our area it is most likely to be found among the hills of the southern counties or in the vicinity of lake michigan. robert ridgway says that he and dr. schneck saw it growing in a wooded cove near a cavern called flory's cave in johnson county, illinois. =nyssa aquática= linnæus. tupelo gum. several early authors erroneously reported _nyssa sylvatica_ as this species. this species inhabits deep swamps. dr. schneck and robert ridgway, recognized authorities and best acquainted with the swamp area of the southwestern counties, at first thought it was a member of our flora, but later decided that it should be excluded. michael catt, years old, who lived nearly years about three miles west of decker on the border of the cypress swamp in the south part of knox county, told me that he is positive that the tupelo gum was an occasional tree in the cypress swamp west of decker. =fraxinus caroliniàna= miller. water ash. this species was included in coulter's catalogue of indiana plants upon the authority of dr. schneck. it is asserted that specimens were sent to missouri botanical gardens for verification. the writer has carefully examined all the specimens of _fraxinus_ in the missouri botanical gardens, and all of schneck's specimens in the herbarium are now correctly named _fraxinus profunda_. since this species is not in our range it should be dropped from our flora. table of measurements of the largest trees of some species that occur in indiana. ---------+-----------+-----------------------+-----------+-------+------- authority| county. | name. | circum- | clear | total | | | ference. | bole. |height. ---------+-----------+-----------------------+-----------+-------+------- | | | cm.ft.in.|dm. ft.|dm. ft. | | | | | deam |laporte |pinus strobus | |... .. | | | (white pine) | | | deam |lake |pinus banksiana | |... .. | | | (jack pine) | | | schneck |l. w. v.[a]|taxodium distichum | | | | | (cypress) | | | ridgway |l. w. v. |salix nigra | ..|... .. | | | (black willow) | | | schneck |l. w. v. |populus deltoides | ..| | | | (cottonwood) | | | ridgway |l. w. v. |populus grandidentata | | | | | (quaking aspen) | | | ridgway |knox |populus heterophylla | | | | | (cottonwood) | | | deam |marshall |populus tremuloides | ..| | | | (quaking aspen) | | | schneck |l. w. v. |juglans nigra | ..| | | | (black walnut) | | | schneck |l. w. v. |carya alba | | | | | (white hickory) | | | ridgway |l. w. v. |carya glabra | |... .. | | | (black hickory) | | | ridgway |l. w. v. |carya ovalis | ..| | | | (small-fruited | | | | | hickory) | | | schneck |l. w. v. |carya illinoensis | ..| | | | (pecan) | | | deam |madison |ostrya virginiana | |... .. | | | (ironwood) | | | ridgway |knox |carpinus caroliniana | | | | | (blue beech) | | | deam |porter |betula papyrifera | |... .. | | | (paper birch) | | | deam |porter |alnus incana | |... .. | | | (tag alder) | | | schneck |l. w. v. |fagus grandifolia | ..|... .. | | | (beech) | | | bot. gaz.|jackson |castanea dentata | ..| |... ... june ' | | (chestnut) | | | schneck |l. w. v. |quercus alba | ..| | | | (white oak) | | | schneck |l. w. v. |quercus schneckii | | | | | (schneck's oak) | | | ridgway |l. w. v. |quercus falcata | ..| | | | (spanish oak) | | | schneck |l. w. v. |quercus macrocarpa | ..| | | | (burr oak) | | | ridgway |l. w. v. |quercus michauxii | ..| | | | (cow oak) | | | schneck |l. w. v. |quercus palustris | ..| | | | (pin oak) | | | ridgway |gibson |quercus rubra | ..| |... ... | | (red oak) | | | ridgway |knox |quercus rubra | ..| | | | (red oak) | | | schneck |l. w. v. |quercus velutina | ..| | | | (black oak) | | | ridgway |l. w. v. |ulmus americana | ..| | | | (white elm) | | | ridgway |gibson |celtis occidentalis | ..| | | | (hackberry) | | | schneck |l. w. v. |liriodendron tulipifera| ..| | | | (yellow poplar) | | | schneck |posey |asimina triloba | |... .. | | | (pawpaw) | | | johnson |posey |sassafras officinale | | | | | (sassafras) | | | schneck |l. w. v. |liquidambar styraciflua| ..| | | | (sweet gum) | | | schneck |l. w. v. |platanus occidentalis | , | | | | (sycamore) | | | bot. gaz.|daviess |platanus occidentalis | , ..| |... .. june ' | | (sycamore) | | | deam |steuben |amelanchier lævis | |... .. | | | (juneberry) | | | deam |porter |prunus pennsylvanica | ..|... .. | | | (wild red cherry) | | | ridgway |knox |cercis canadensis | | | | | (redbud) | | | ridgway |l. w. v. |gleditsia aquatica | ..|... .. | | | (water honey locust) | | | schneck |posey |gleditsia triacanthos | ..| | | | (honey locust) | | | deam |posey |acer negundo | | | | | (box elder) | | | schneck |l. w. v. |acer rubrum | ..| | | | (red maple) | | | schneck |l. w. v. |acer saccharum | | | | | (sugar maple) | | | schneck |l. w. v. |tilia glabra | | | | | (linn) | | | deam |jefferson |tilia heterophylla | | | | | (white linn) | | | ridgway |l. w. v. |nyssa sylvatica | ..|... .. |... ... | | (black gum) | | | deam |posey |diospyros virginiana | | | | | (persimmon) | | | ridgway |l. w. v. |diospyros virginiana | | | | | (persimmon) | | | schneck |l. w. v. |catalpa speciosa | ..| | | | (catalpa) | | | ---------+-----------+-----------------------+-----------+-------+------- [a] l. w. v.--lower wabash valley. specific gravity of indiana woods.[ ] the specific gravity was derived from wood dried at ° centigrade ( fah.) until it ceased to lose weight. carya ovata (shellbark hickory) . quercus stellata (post oak) . viburnum prunifolium (black haw) . quercus lyrata (overcup oak) . ostrya virginiana (ironwood) . carya alba (white hickory) . carya glabra (black hickory) . cornus florida (flowering dogwood) . carya laciniosa (big shellbark hickory) . quercus michauxii (cow oak) . diospyros virginiana (persimmon) . amelanchier canadensis (juneberry) . maclura pomifera (osage orange) . quercus bicolor (swamp white oak) . carya cordiformis (pig hickory) . quercus imbricaria (shingle oak) . quercus prinus (chestnut oak) . ulmus alata (cork elm) . quercus alba (white oak) . quercus macrocarpa (bur oak) . quercus coccinea (scarlet oak) . gleditsia aquatica (water honey locust) . robinia pseudo-acacia (black locust) . quercus marilandica (black jack oak) . celtis occidentalis (hackberry) . carpinus caroliniana (water beech) . ulmus thomasi (hickory elm) . prunus americana (wild plum) . fraxinus quadrangulata (blue ash) . carya illinoensis (pecan) . malus glaucescens (crab apple) . quercus velutina (black oak) . ulmus fulva (slippery elm) . quercus palustris (pin oak) . gymnocladus dioica (coffeenut) . quercus falcata (spanish oak) . acer nigrum (black maple) . acer saccharum (sugar maple) . fagus grandifolia (beech) . gleditsia triacanthos (honey locust) . betula lutea (yellow birch) . fraxinus americana (white ash) . quercus rubra (red oak) . ulmus americana (white elm) . cercis canadensis (redbud) . nyssa sylvatica (black gum) . adelia acuminata (swamp privet) . fraxinus nigra (water ash) . fraxinus pennsylvanica (red ash) . larix laricina (tamarack) . acer rubrum (red maple) . juglans nigra (black walnut) . betula papyrifera (paper birch) . liquidambar styraciflua (sweet gum) . morus rubra (red mulberry) . prunus serotina (wild black cherry) . betula nigra (river birch) . betula populifolia (white birch) . platanus occidentalis (sycamore) . pinus virginiana (jersey pine) . acer saccharinum (silver maple) . sassafras officinale (sassafras) . prunus pennsylvanica (wild red cherry) . juniperus virginiana (red cedar) . pinus banksiana (gray pine) . magnolia acuminata (cucumber tree) . alnus rugosa (alder) . populus grandidentata (quaking aspen) . alnus incana (tag alder) . taxodium distichum (cypress) . Æsculus glabra (buckeye) . tilia glabra (linn) . castanea dentata (chestnut) . salix amygdaloides (willow) . catalpa bignonioides (catalpa) . salix nigra (black willow) . acer negundo (box elder) . Æsculus octandra (sweet buckeye) . tilia heterophylla (white linn) . tsuga canadensis (hemlock) . liriodendron tulipifera (yellow poplar) . catalpa speciosa (catalpa) . populus heterophylla (downy cottonwood) . juglans cinerea (butternut) . populus tremuloides (quaking aspen) . asimina triloba (pawpaw) . populus deltoides (cottonwood) . pinus strobus (white pine) . thuja occidentalis (arbor-vitæ) . [illustration: plate . county map of indiana.] [illustration: plate . county map of indiana showing certain areas of forest distribution.] [illustration: plate . english and metric scales compared. these can be cut out and pasted on wood.] footnotes: [ ] ind. geol. rept. : : . [ ] amer. mid. nat. : : . [ ] proc. ind. acad. sci. : : . [ ] see discussion under abies balsamea on page . [ ] proc. ind. hort. soc. : : . [ ] ind. geol. surv. rept. : : . [ ] proc. ind. acad. sci. : : . [ ] baird & taylor's reference to this species is regarded as a cultivated tree or as an error: manual public schools of clark county, ind. - , page . [ ] hamilton county by wilson, no doubt from a cultivated tree. [ ] contributed by c. r. ball, bureau plant industry, washington, d.c., except the genus populus. [ ] coulter's record for gibson county by schneck is regarded as an error because schneck himself does not report it, and there was no specimen in the schneck herbarium. [ ] deam's record in rept. ind. st. board forestry : : was a manuscript error. [ ] ind. geol. rept. : : . [ ] sargent in bot. gaz. vol. : : . [ ] heimlich in proc. ind. acad. sci. : : : credits most of my records jointly with prof. g. n. hoffer. this is an error. on my invitation prof. hoffer accompanied me nine days in the field doing mycological work. while he gave me valuable assistance in collecting during these days, his assistance and responsibility stopped there and he never asked or expected to be considered joint author. again on our trip we collected only in daviess, gibson, fountain, knox, lawrence, martin, pike and sullivan counties. [ ] sargent .c. [ ] andré michaux's travels - . [ ] flora of jefferson county. ind. geol. surv. rept. : : . [ ] flora of jefferson county. ind. geol. surv. rept. : : . [ ] bot. gaz. vol. : : . [ ] proc. ind. acad. sci. : : . [ ] proc. ind. acad. sci. : : . [ ] bot. gaz. : : . [ ] bot. gaz. : : . [ ] proc. ind. acad. sci. : : . [ ] trees and shrubs : - : and bot. gaz. : : . [ ] bot. gaz. : : . [ ] in in allen county along cedar creek, i measured a specimen that was . dm. in circ. b.h. with a clear bole of about m. [ ] proc. ind. acad. sci. : : . [ ] ind. geol. rept. : : . [ ] minnesota bot. studies : : . [ ] sargent in bot. gaz. vol. : : . [ ] this hybrid was described in the report of the indiana state board of forestry for . [ ] elliott: histological variations of _quercus muhlenbergii_. university of kansas science bul. : : : plates: . [ ] gorby: trees and shrubs indigenous to miami county, ind. geol. rept. : - : . [ ] wilson: flora of hamilton and marion counties, indiana. proc. ind. acad. science. : - : . [ ] higley and raddin: flora of cook county illinois, and a part of lake county indiana. bul. chicago acad. sci. vol. : : [ ] nieuwland: notes on our local flora. amer. mid. nat. vol. : : . [ ] michaux: north american silva. j. j. smith's trans. vol. : : . [ ] nieuwland: notes on our local flora. amer. mid. nat. vol. : : . [ ] prof. b. shimek told me that recently a few trees were found about miles west of iowa city, iowa. [ ] sargent: notes on north american trees. bot. gaz. vol. : : . [ ] brown: trees of fountain county, ind. geol. rept. vol. : : . [ ] sargent: notes on north american trees. bot. gaz. vol. : : . [ ] bot. gaz. vol. : - : . [ ] hill: notes on celtis pumila, etc. bul. torrey club: vol: : - : . [ ] bot. gaz. vol. : - : . [ ] garden & forest : : . [ ] =morus alba= linnæus. white mulberry. a small crooked tree; leaves ovate, sometimes lobed, blades - cm. long, cordate at the base, acute at apex, at maturity glabrous above and glabrous beneath or with some hairs on the veins and in the axils of the veins; fruit subglobose or oblong, - cm. long, white to pinkish. this is an introduced tree and has been reported as an escape in many parts of the state, especially by the older botanists. =morus alba= variety =tatarica= loudon, the russian mulberry, has been reported as an escape. the writer has seen single specimens as an escape in woods in cass and marshall counties. it can be distinguished by practically all of the leaves being more or less lobed and the reddish fruit. this form was introduced into the united states in great numbers about fifty years ago by the mennonites. it was especially recommended by nurserymen for fence posts and it has been planted to some extent in indiana, but it cannot be recommended. it grows too slowly and is too crooked to compensate for any lasting qualities the wood may have. =morus nigra= has been reported from indiana by phinney, brown and mccaslin as a forest tree. since this is an introduced tree, and is not supposed to be hardy in our area, their reports should be transferred to some other species. [ ] amer. midland naturalist vol. : : . [ ] contributed by w. w. eggleston, bureau plant industry, washington, d.c. [ ] proc. ind. acad. sci. : : . [ ] higley and raddin: flora of cook county illinois and a part of lake county indiana. bul. chic. acad. sci. vol. : : . [ ] trans. ill. acad. science, : . [ ] amer. nat. : : . [ ] rept. ind. geol. surv. : : . [ ] ind. geol. rept. : : . [ ] plant world : : . [ ] thomas' western travels, page : . [ ] drake in picture of cincinnati, page , . [ ] bot. gaz. vol. : : . [ ] s. coulter: size of some trees of jefferson county, ind. bot. gaz. vol. : : . he says: "fifty trees were measured at three feet above the ground with an average diameter of ft. and inches. an equal number of _Æsculus octandra_ were measured at the same height from the ground with an average diameter of ft. and inches." [ ] drake: picture of cincinnatus: : . [ ] young: botany of jefferson county, ind. geo. surv. ind. rept. : : . [ ] sargent: notes on north american trees. bot. gaz. vol. : - and - : . [ ] wadmond: flora of racine and kenosha counties. trans. wis. acad. sci. vol. : : . the author says: "two trees near berryville, the only known trees of this species in the state." [ ] in i measured a specimen near yankeetown in warrick county that had a clear bole of meters ( feet), and a circumference of dm. ( inches) b.h. [ ] bot. gaz. vol. : - : . [ ] rhodora vol. : : . [ ] sterrett: utilization of ash. u. s. dept. agri. bul. : . [ ] sterrett: utilization of ash, u. s. dept. agri. bul. : . [ ] proc. ind. acad. sci. : : . [ ] manual public schools clark county, ind. - , page . [ ] proc. ind. acad. sci. : : . [ ] rept. geol. surv. ind. : : . [ ] rept. geol. surv. ind. : : . [ ] rept. geol. surv. ind. : : . [ ] sci. bul. chic. acad. vol. : : . [ ] ind. geol. rept. : : . [ ] blatchley's, mss. flora of monroe county, ind. june . [ ] bul. brockville nat. hist. soc. no. : : [ ] amer. midland nat. vol. : : . [ ] it is said that this list and that of hobb's list of trees of parke county were prepared by obtaining from farmers a list of the common names of the trees to which they attached botanical names. [ ] sargent in a letter to the author. [ ] proc. u.s. nat. mus. : . [ ] american midland naturalist : : . [ ] ind. geol. rept. : : . [ ] ind. geol. rept. : : . [ ] ind. geol. rept. : : . [ ] adapted from sargent's "trees of north america." index the accepted botanical names are in bold-face type. synonyms are placed in italics. where the subject receives the most extended notice the page number is in bold-face type. page =abies balsamea=, = = =aceracea=, = = =acer=, = = negundo, = =, , , =negundo= variety =violaceum=, = = =nigrum=, = =, , =pennsylvanicum=, = = =rubrum=, = =, , , =rubrum= variety =drummondii=, = = =rubrum= variety =tridens=, = = =saccharinum=, , , =saccharum=, , , , =saccharum= variety =glaucum=, = = =saccharum= variety =schneckii=, = = =saccharum= variety =rugelii=, = = acknowledgments, =adelia=, = = =acuminata=, = =, , =Æsculaceæ=, = = =Æsculus=, = = _flava_ variety _purpurascens_, _ _ =glabra=, = =, , =octandra=, = =, , =ailanthus altissima=, = =, _glandulosa_, _ _ alder, , smooth, , speckled, , =alnus=, = =, =incana=, , = =, , , =rugosa=, , , = =, , =altingiaceæ=, = = =amelanchier canadensis=, = =, =lævis=, = =, , , =amygdalaceæ=, = = =anonaceæ=, = = apple, american crab, , , iowa crab, narrow-leaved crab, , western crab, , thorn, arbor-vitæ , , arrow wood ash biltmore , black , blue , , gray green , hoop , pumpkin red , , swamp , swell-butt , water white , , , =asimina triloba= = =, , , aspen, large-toothed , quaking , , ball, carleton r balm of gilead banana, hoosier basswood , white , beech , , , blue , , red water , , white yellow =betulaceæ= = = =betula= = = =alleghenensis= = = =lenta= , , = =, =lutea= = =, , , =nigra= , = =, , , =papyrifera= = =, , , =papyrifera × pumila glandulifera= = = =populifolia= = =, , =sanbergi= = = =bignoniaceæ= = = birch , , black , , canoe , , gray , paper , , , , red , , river , white , , , yellow , , botanic descriptions, comments on box elder , britton and brown buckeye , , , sweet , , butternut , , =cæsalpinaceæ= = = =caprifoliaceæ= = = =carpinus caroliniana= = =, , , =carya= = = =alba= = =, , =alba= variety =subcoriacea= = = =aquatica= = = =buckleyi= variety =arkansana= = =, =cordiformis= = =, , , =glabra= = =, , =glabra= variety =megacarpa= = = =illinoensis= = =, , =laciniosa= = =, , , =myristicæformis= = = =ovalis= , = =, , =ovalis= variety =obcordata= = = =ovalis= variety =obcordata= forma =vestita= = = =ovalis= variety =obovalis= = = =ovalis= variety =odorata= = = =ovata= = =, , =ovata= variety =fraxinifolia= = = =ovata= variety =nuttallii= = = =castanea dentata= = =, , , =pumila= = = catalfa catalpa , , hardy =catalpa= = = =catalpa bigonnioides= , = =, , _catalpa catalpa_ _ _ =speciosa= = =, , , , cedar, red , , white =celtis= = = _laevigata_ _ _ =mississipiensis= = =, =occidentalis= , = =, , =occidentalis= variety =crassifolia= = = =pumila= = =, =pumila= variety =deamii= , = = =cercis canadensis= = =, , , =chamæcyparis thyoides= = = cherry, wild wild black , , wild red , , , chestnut , , , chinquapin coffeenut , , contents, table of conservation, the department of =cornacea= = = =cornus florida= = =, , cottonwood , , , downy swamp , coulter, stanley, commissioner , , =cratægus= = = =albicans= = = _alnorum_ _ _ =basilica= = =, =beata= = = =berberifolia= = = =boyntoni= = = =brainerdi= = = =calpodendron= = =, =chrysocarpa= = =, =coccinea= = =, =coccinea= variety =elwangeriana= = = _coccinea_ variety _oligandra_ _ _ =coccinoides= = =, =collina= = =, _cordata_ _ _ =crus-galli= = =, =cuneiformis= = =, _deltoides_ _ _ =denaria= = = _dodgei_ _ _ _edsoni_ _ _ _eggertii_ _ _ =fecunda= = = =filipes= = =, =gattingeri= = =, =jesupi= = =, =lucorum= = = =macrosperma= = =, =macrosperma= variety =matura= = = =margaretta= = =, =mollis= = =, =neo-fluvialis= = =, =nitida= = =, =ovata= = = _pausiaca_ _ _ _pedicillata_ _ _ _pedicillata_ variety _elwangeriana_ _ _ =phænopyrum= = =, =pringlei= = = =pruinosa= = =, =punctata= = =, =roanensis= = = _rotundifolia_ _ _ =rugosa= = =, _silvicola_ variety _beckwithae_ _ _ =succulenta= = =, =villipes= = = =viridis= , = = crooked brush , cucumber tree , , cypress, bald , , , deam, stella m. dietz, harry f. , =diospyros virginiana= = =, , , distribution of trees, terms used to define dogwood , flowering , =ebenaceæ= = = eggleston, w. w. , elder, box , , , elm bitter cork gray hickory , , hub red , , rock , slippery , , sour swamp water , white , , winged , english and metric scales compared =ericaceæ= = = =fabaceæ= = = =fagaceæ= = = =fagus grandifolia= = =, , , fir, balsam =fraxinus= = = =americana= = =, , =americana= forma =iodocarpa= = = =americana= variety =subcoriacea= = = =biltmoreana= = =, =caroliniana= = = =lanceolata= = =, =nigra= = =, , =pennsylvanica= = =, , =profunda= = =, , =quadrangulata= = =, , frontispiece =gleditsia aquatica= = =, , =aquatica x triacanthos= = = =triancanthos= = =, , gum black , , sour sweet , , , tupelo yellow =gymnocladus dioica= = =, , hackberry , , , , dwarf , haw, black , , dotted pear , red , , , scarlet southern black hedge hemlock , , hickory big scaly-bark big shellbark , , , black , , , hard-head nutmeg pignut , , , shellbark , , , small-fruited , , , ladies water white , , , yellow-bud holly , hop hornbeam hough, r. b. =ilex opaca= = = illustrations, explanation of list of introduction ironwood , , =juglandaceæ= = = =juglans= = = _aquatica_ _ _ =cinerea= = =, , =nigra= = =, , , juneberry , , smooth , juniper =juniperus communis= = = =virginiana= = =, , , =kalmia latifolia= = = key to the families of indiana trees larch =larix laricina= = =, , =lauraceæ= = = laurel lieber, richard linn , , , =liquidambar styraciflua= = =, , , =liriodendron tulipifera= = =, , , locust black , , honey , , , water honey , , , yellow =maclura pomifera= = =, , =magnoliaceæ= = = =magnolia acuminata= = =, , =malaceæ= = = =malus= = = =angustifolia= = = _coronaria_ _ _, _fragrans_ _ _ =glaucescens= = =, , =ioensis= = = =ioensis= × lancifolia = = =lancifolia= = =, maple, black , , black sugar hard red , , , rock silver , , soft , sugar , , , swamp white map of certain forestal areas of indiana explanation of map of indiana moosewood =moraceæ= = = =morus= = = =alba= = = =alba= variety =tatarica= = = =nigra= , = = =rubra= = =, , , mulberry, red , , , , black white nomenclature =nyssa aquatica= = = =sylvatica= = =, , , oak basket , bear black , , , , , black jack , , bur , , , , , chestnut , , , chinquapin , cow , , , dwarf chestnut hill's , iron jack mossy cup over cup , , peach pigeon pin , , , post , , red , , , , , sand bur scarlet , , schneck's , scrub shingle , , spanish , , , , swamp swamp white , , sweet water , , white , , , willow yellow , =oleaceæ= = = osage orange , , =ostrya virginiana= = =, , =virginiana= variety =glandulosa= = = =oxydendrum arboreum= = =, pawpaw , , white yellow pecan , , , mccallister pepperidge persimmon , , , =pinaceæ= = = pine gray , , jack , , jersey , , , norway pitch scrub , , short-leaf white , , , , =pinus= = = =banksiana= = =, , =echinata= = = =resinosa= = = =rigida= = = =strobus= = =, , , =virginiana= , = = =planera aquatica= = = planer-tree plane tree =platanaceæ= = = =platanus occidentalis= , , , plum, canada , wild goose , wild red , , woolly-leaf , pond brush , poplar , balsam blue carolina , hickory lombardy silver-leaf , swamp white yellow , , =populus= = = =alba= = =, =balsamifera= = = _balsamifera_ variety _virginiana_ _ _ =candicans= = = =deltoides= = =, , , =grandidentata= = =, , , , =heterophylla= = =, , , =nigra= variety =italica= = = =tremuloides= = =, , , preface privet swamp =prunus= = = =americana= = =, , =americana= variety =lanata= = =, =hortulana= = =, =nigra= = =, =pennsylvanica= = =, , =serotina= = =, , quaking aspen , =quercus= = = =alba= = =, , , =alba= variety =latiloba= = = =alba x michauxii= = = =alba x muhlenbergii= = = =beadlei= = = =bicolor= = =, , =coccinea= = =, , =deami= = = _digitata_ _ _ =ellipsoidalis= = =, =falcata= = =, , , =illicifolia= = = =imbricaria= = =, , =lyrata= = =, , =macrocarpa= , = =, , =macrocarpa= variety =olivæformis= = = =marilandica= = =, , , _maxima_ _ _ =michauxii= = =, , , _montana_ _ _ =muhlenbergii= = =, , , , =nigra= = = _pagoda_ _ _ _pagodaefolia_ _ _ =palustris= = =, , , =phellos= = = =prinoides= = = =prinus= , = =, , , =rubra= = =, , , , _rubra_ variety _triloba_ _ _ =schneckii= = =, , , _shumardii_ _ _ _shumardii_ variety _schneckii_ _ _ =stellata= = =, , _triloba_ _ _ =velutina= = =, , , , redbud , , , remarks, explanation of =robinia pseudo-acacia= = =, , _rulac nuttallii_ _ _ =salicaceæ= = = =salix= = = =alba= = =, =alba= variety =vitellina= = = =amygdaloides= = =, , =discolor= = =, =discolor= variety =eriocephala= = = =fragilis= = =, =nigra= = =, , =nigra= variety =falcata= = = sassafras , , , red white _sassafras albida_ variety _glauca_ _ _ =officinale= = =, sargent, c. s. service berry =simarubaceæ= = = sorrel tree , sour wood , specific gravity of some of the woods of indiana stink tree sugar berry sugar, black sugar tree sycamore , , , , tamarack , , =taxodium distichum= = =, , , thorn, mrs. ashe's , miss beckwith's , judge brown's , chapman's hill , dr. clapp's cock-spur , downy eggert's , fretz's , dr. gattinger's , jesup's , large-fruited , long-spined , marshall's newcastle new-river , pear , red-fruited , round-leaved , scarlet , shining , southern , variable , washington , waxy-fruited , =thuja occidentalis= = =, , =tiliaceæ= = = =tilia= = = _americana_ _ _ =glabra= = =, , , =heterophylla= = =, , _heterophylla_ variety _michauxii_ _ _ =neglecta= = = =toxylon pomiferum= = = tree of heaven , trees, key to families occurring in indiana species excluded from indiana flora measurement of some of the largest found in indiana terms used to define distribution of =tsuga canadensis= = =, , tulip , tupelo =ulmaceæ= = = ulman, paul =ulmus= = = =alata= = =, , =americana= = =, , , =fulva= = =, , =thomasi= = =, , =viburnum prunifolium= = =, , =rufidulum= = = walnut , , black , , , white , williamson, l. a. williamson, e. b. willow , , , black , , , crack , glaucous peach-leaved , pussy , swamp white , wood, specific gravity of some species that occur in indiana wood, white whittle * * * * * transcriber's note footnote was not indicated in the text and so was assumed to be associated with the text associated with e. j. hill's account of the species _celtis pumila_. the last three items in the key on page were renumbered as " " appeared twice. on page , "dr. jno. a. warder" was changed to "dr. john a. warder". formatting of the titles for the sections listed in the table of contents was standardized. hyphenation and æ ligature use was standardized. the [oe] ligature was converted to oe. small captioned text was not converted to upper case as that is used in the text for the family headers. provided by the internet archive home again with me by james whitcomb riley drawings by howard chandler christy decorations by franklin booth indianapolis the bobbs-merrill company [illustration: ] [illustration: ] braunworth & co. bookbinders and printers brooklyn, n. y. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] dedication his love of home "as { }love of native land," the old man said, 'er stars and stripes a-wavin' overhead, er nearest kith-and-kin, er daily bread, a hoosier's love is for the old homestead." home again with me [illustration: ] |i'm { }a-feelin' ruther sad, fer a father proud and glad as i am--my only child home, and all so rickonciléd!-- ```feel so strange-like, and don't know ```what the mischief ails me so!-- [illustration: ] [illustration: ] ```'stid { }o' _bad_, i ort to be ```feelin' good _pertickerly_-- ```yes, and extry thankful, too,--- ```'cause my nearest kith-and-kin, ```my elviry's schoolin' 's through, ```and i' got her home ag'in-- `````home ag'in with me! [illustration: ] [illustration: ] my { }elviry's schoolin' 's through, and i' got her home ag'in -- ```same as ef her mother'd bin ```livin', i have done my best ```by the girl, and watchfulest; ```nussed her--keerful' as i could-- ```from a baby, day and night,-- ```drawin' on the neighberhood ```and the women-folks as light ```as needsessity 'u'd 'low-- ```'cept in "teethin'," onc't, and fight ```through black-measles..... [illustration: ] [illustration: ] same as ef her mother'd bin livin', i have done my best `````don't know now ```how we ever saved the child! ```doc _hed_ give her up, and said ```(as i stood there by the bed ```sort o' foolin' with her hair ```on the hot wet piller there) ```"wuz no use!"--and at them-air ```very words she waked and smiled-- ```yes, and _knowed_ me. and that's where ```i broke down, and simply jes ```bellered like a boy--i guess!-- [illustration: ] [illustration: ] ```_women_ claimed i did, but i ```alius helt i _didn't_ cry ```but wuz laughin',--and i _wuz_,-- ```(men _don't_ cry like _women_ does!) ```well, right then and there i felt ```'t 'uz her mother's doin's, and, ```jes like to myse'f, i knelt, ```whisperin' "_i understand_."... [illustration: ] ```so i've raised her, you might say, ```stric'ly in the narrer way ```'at her mother walked therein-- ```not so quite _religiously_, ```yit still strivin'-like to do ```ever'thing a father _could_ ```do he knowed the _mother_ would ```ef she'd lived.--and now all's through ```and i' got her home ag'in-- `````home ag'in with me!= [illustration: ] [illustration: ] [illustration: ] ```and i' bin so lonesome, too-- ```here o' late, especially,-- ```"old aunt abigail," you know, ```ain't no company;--and so ```jes the hired hand, you see-- ```jonas--like a relative ```more--sence he come here to live ```with us, nigh ten year' ago. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] ```still he don't count much, you know. ```in the line o' company-- ```lonesome, 'peared-like, 'most as me! ```so, as _i_ say, i' bin so ```special lonesome-like and blue, ```with elviry, like she's bin, ```'way so much, last two er three ```year'.--but now she's home ag'in-- `````home ag'in with me! [illustration: ] [illustration: ] ```driv in fe'r her yisterday, ```me and jonas--gay and spry,-- ```we jes cut up, all the way!-- ```yes, and sung!--tel, blame it! i ```keyed my voice up 'bout as high ```as when--days 'at i wuz young-- ```"buckwheat-notes" wuz all they sung ```jonas bantered me, and 'greed ```to sing one 'at town-folks sing ```down at split stump 'er high-low-- [illustration: ] [illustration: ] ```some new "ballet," said, 'at he'd ```learnt--about "the grapevine swing." ```and when _he_ quit, _i_ begun ```to chune up my voice and run ```through the what's-called "scales" and "do ```sol-me-rays" i _ust_ to know-- ```then let loose old favor_ite_ one, ```"hunters o' kentucky!" _my!_ ```tel i thought the boy would _die!_ ```and we _both_ laughed...... [illustration: ] [illustration: ] `````yes, and still ```heerd _more_ laughin', top the hill; ```fer we'd _missed_ elviry's train, ```and she'd lit out 'crosst the fields-- ```dewdrops dancin' at her heels,-- ```and cut up old smoots's lane ```so's to meet us. and there in ```shadder o' the chinkypin, ```with a danglin' dogwood-bough ```bloomin' 'bove her--see her now!-- [illustration: ] [illustration: ] ```sunshine sort o' flickerin' down ```and a kind o' laughin' all ```round her new red parasol, ```try'n' to git at _her!_--well--like ```_i_ jumped out and showed 'em how! ```yes, and jes the place to strike ```that-air mouth o' hern--as sweet ```as the blossoms breshed her brow ```er sweet-williams round her feet--- [illustration: ] [illustration: ] ```white and blushy, too, as she ```"howdy'd" up to jonas and ```jieuked her head and waved her hand. ```"_hey!_" says i, as she bounced in ```the spring-wagon, reachin' back ```to give _me_ a lift, "_whoop-ee! _" ```i-says-ee, "_you're home agin-- `````home agin with me!_" [illustration: ] [illustration: ] ```lord! how _wild_ she wuz and glad, ```gittin' home!--and things she had ```to inquire about, and talk-- ```plowin', plantin', and the stock-- ```news o' neighberhood; and how ```wuz the deem-girls doin' now, ```sence that-air young chicken-hawk ```they was "tamin'" soared away ```with their settin'-hen, one day?-- ```(said she'd got marne's postal-card ```'bout it, very day 'at she ```started home from bethany.) [illustration: ] [illustration: ] ```how wuz pro-duce--eggs, and lard?-- ```er wuz stores still claimin' "hard ```times," as usual? and, says she, ```troubled-like, "how's deedie--say? ```sence pore child e-loped away ```and got back, and goin' to 'ply ```fer school-license by and by-- ```and where's 'lijy workin' at? ```and how's 'aunt' and 'uncle jake'? ```how wuz 'old maje'--and the cat? ```and wuz marthy's baby fat ```as his 'humpty-dumpty' ma!-- [illustration: ] [illustration: ] ```sweetest thing she ever saw!-- ```must run 'crosst and see 'em, too, ```soon as she turned in and got ```supper fer us--smokin'-hot-- ```and the 'dishes' all wuz through.--" ```_sich_ a supper! w'y, i set ```there and et, and et, and et!-- ```jes et on, tel jonas he ```pushed his chair back, laughed, and says, ```"i could walk _his_ log!" [illustration: ] [illustration: ] `````and we ```all laughed then, tel 'viry she ```lit the lamp--and i give in!-- ```riz and kissed her: "heaven bless ```you!" says i--"you're home ag'in-- ```same old dimple in your chin, ```same white apern," i-says-ee, ```"same sweet girl, and good to see ```as your _mother_ ust to be,-- ```and i' got you home ag'in-- `````home ag-'in with me!"... [illustration: ] [illustration: ] [illustration: ] [illustration: ] [illustration: ] `````and by and by ```heerd elviry, soft and low, ```at the organ, kind o' go ```a mi-anderin' up and down ```with her fingers 'mongst the keys- ```"vacant chair" and "old camp- `````groun'."... ```dusk was moist-like, with a breeze ```lazin' round the locus'-trees... ```heerd the hosses champin', and ```jonas feedin'--and the hogs-- ```yes, and katydids and frogs-- ```and a tree-toad, som'er's... [illustration: ] [illustration: ] `````heerd ```also whipperwills.--my land!-- ```all so mournful ever'where-- ```them out here, and her in there, ```that the whole thing railly 'peared ```'most like 'tendin' _services!_ ```_anyway_, i must 'a' jes ```kind o' drapped asleep, i guess; ```'cause when jonas must 'a' passed ```me, a-comin' in, i knowed ```nothin' of it--yit it seemed ```sort o' like i kind o' dreamed ```'bout him, too, a-slippin' in, [illustration: ] [illustration: ] ```and a-watchin' back to see ```ef i _wuz_ asleep--and then ```passin' in where 'viry wuz-- ```and where, i declare, it does ```'pear to me i heerd him say, ```wild and glad and whisperin'-- ```'peared-like heerd him say, says-ee ```"ah! i' got you home ag'in-- ````home ag'in witn me!" [illustration: ] [illustration: ] at the foot of the rainbow by gene stratton-porter "and the bow shall be set in the cloud; and i will look upon it, that i may remember the everlasting covenant between god and every living creature of all flesh that is upon the earth." --genesis, ix- . contents i. the rat-catchers of the wabash ii. ruben o'khayam and the milk pail iii. the fifty coons of the canoper iv. when the kingfisher and the black bass came home v. when the rainbow set its arch in the sky vi. the heart of mary malone vii. the apple of discord becomes a jointed rod viii. when the black bass struck ix. when jimmy malone came to confession x. dannie's renunciation xi. the pot of gold gene stratton-porter a little story of her life and work for several years doubleday, page & company have been receiving repeated requests for information about the life and books of gene stratton-porter. her fascinating nature work with bird, flower, and moth, and the natural wonders of the limberlost swamp, made famous as the scene of her nature romances, all have stirred much curiosity among readers everywhere. mrs. porter did not possess what has been called "an aptitude for personal publicity." indeed, up to the present, she has discouraged quite successfully any attempt to stress the personal note. it is practically impossible, however, to do the kind of work she has done--to make genuine contributions to natural science by her wonderful field work among birds, insects, and flowers, and then, through her romances, to bring several hundred thousands of people to love and understand nature in a way they never did before--without arousing a legitimate interest in her own history, her ideals, her methods of work, and all that underlies the structure of her unusual achievement. her publishers have felt the pressure of this growing interest and it was at their request that she furnished the data for a biographical sketch that was to be written of her. but when this actually came to hand, the present compiler found that the author had told a story so much more interesting than anything he could write of her, that it became merely a question of how little need be added. the following pages are therefore adapted from what might be styled the personal record of gene stratton-porter. this will account for the very intimate picture of family life in the middle west for some years following the civil war. mark stratton, the father of gene stratton-porter, described his wife, at the time of their marriage, as a "ninety-pound bit of pink porcelain, pink as a wild rose, plump as a partridge, having a big rope of bright brown hair, never ill a day in her life, and bearing the loveliest name ever given a woman--mary." he further added that "god fashioned her heart to be gracious, her body to be the mother of children, and as her especial gift of grace, he put flower magic into her fingers." mary stratton was the mother of twelve lusty babies, all of whom she reared past eight years of age, losing two a little over that, through an attack of scarlet fever with whooping cough; too ugly a combination for even such a wonderful mother as she. with this brood on her hands she found time to keep an immaculate house, to set a table renowned in her part of the state, to entertain with unfailing hospitality all who came to her door, to beautify her home with such means as she could command, to embroider and fashion clothing by hand for her children; but her great gift was conceded by all to be the making of things to grow. at that she was wonderful. she started dainty little vines and climbing plants from tiny seeds she found in rice and coffee. rooted things she soaked in water, rolled in fine sand, planted according to habit, and they almost never failed to justify her expectations. she even grew trees and shrubs from slips and cuttings no one else would have thought of trying to cultivate, her last resort being to cut a slip diagonally, insert the lower end in a small potato, and plant as if rooted. and it nearly always grew! there is a shaft of white stone standing at her head in a cemetery that belonged to her on a corner of her husband's land; but to mrs. porter's mind her mother's real monument is a cedar of lebanon which she set in the manner described above. the cedar tops the brow of a little hill crossing the grounds. she carried two slips from ohio, where they were given to her by a man who had brought the trees as tiny things from the holy land. she planted both in this way, one in her dooryard and one in her cemetery. the tree on the hill stands thirty feet tall now, topping all others, and has a trunk two feet in circumference. mrs. porter's mother was of dutch extraction, and like all dutch women she worked her special magic with bulbs, which she favoured above other flowers. tulips, daffodils, star flowers, lilies, dahlias, little bright hyacinths, that she called "blue bells," she dearly loved. from these she distilled exquisite perfume by putting clusters, & time of perfect bloom, in bowls lined with freshly made, unsalted butter, covering them closely, and cutting the few drops of extract thus obtained with alcohol. "she could do more different things," says the author, "and finish them all in a greater degree of perfection than any other woman i have ever known. if i were limited to one adjective in describing her, 'capable' would be the word." the author's father was descended from a long line of ancestors of british blood. he was named for, and traced his origin to, that first mark stratton who lived in new york, married the famous beauty, anne hutchinson, and settled on stratton island, afterward corrupted to staten, according to family tradition. from that point back for generations across the sea he followed his line to the family of strattons of which the earl of northbrooke is the present head. to his british traditions and the customs of his family, mark stratton clung with rigid tenacity, never swerving from his course a particle under the influence of environment or association. all his ideas were clear-cut; no man could influence him against his better judgment. he believed in god, in courtesy, in honour, and cleanliness, in beauty, and in education. he used to say that he would rather see a child of his the author of a book of which he could be proud, than on the throne of england, which was the strongest way he knew to express himself. his very first earnings he spent for a book; when other men rested, he read; all his life he was a student of extraordinarily tenacious memory. he especially loved history: rollands, wilson's outlines, hume, macauley, gibbon, prescott, and bancroft, he could quote from all of them paragraphs at a time contrasting the views of different writers on a given event, and remembering dates with unfailing accuracy. "he could repeat the entire bible," says mrs. stratton-porter, "giving chapters and verses, save the books of generations; these he said 'were a waste of gray matter to learn.' i never knew him to fail in telling where any verse quoted to him was to be found in the bible." and she adds: "i was almost afraid to make these statements, although there are many living who can corroborate them, until john muir published the story of his boyhood days, and in it i found the history of such rearing as was my father's, told of as the customary thing among the children of muir's time; and i have referred many inquirers as to whether this feat were possible, to the muir book." all his life, with no thought of fatigue or of inconvenience to himself, mark stratton travelled miles uncounted to share what he had learned with those less fortunately situated, by delivering sermons, lectures, talks on civic improvement and politics. to him the love of god could be shown so genuinely in no other way as in the love of his fellowmen. he worshipped beauty: beautiful faces, souls, hearts, beautiful landscapes, trees, animals, flowers. he loved colour: rich, bright colour, and every variation down to the faintest shadings. he was especially fond of red, and the author carefully keeps a cardinal silk handkerchief that he was carrying when stricken with apoplexy at the age of seventy-eight. "it was so like him," she comments, "to have that scrap of vivid colour in his pocket. he never was too busy to fertilize a flower bed or to dig holes for the setting of a tree or bush. a word constantly on his lips was 'tidy.' it applied equally to a woman, a house, a field, or a barn lot. he had a streak of genius in his make-up: the genius of large appreciation. over inspired biblical passages, over great books, over sunlit landscapes, over a white violet abloom in deep shade, over a heroic deed of man, i have seen his brow light up, his eyes shine." mrs. porter tells us that her father was constantly reading aloud to his children and to visitors descriptions of the great deeds of men. two "hair-raisers" she especially remembers with increased heart-beats to this day were the story of john maynard, who piloted a burning boat to safety while he slowly roasted at the wheel. she says the old thrill comes back when she recalls the inflection of her father's voice as he would cry in imitation of the captain: "john maynard!" and then give the reply. "aye, aye, sir!" his other until it sank to a mere gasp: favourite was the story of clemanthe, and her lover's immortal answer to her question: "shall we meet again?" to this mother at forty-six, and this father at fifty, each at intellectual top-notch, every faculty having been stirred for years by the dire stress of civil war, and the period immediately following, the author was born. from childhood she recalls "thinking things which she felt should be saved," and frequently tugging at her mother's skirts and begging her to "set down" what the child considered stories and poems. most of these were some big fact in nature that thrilled her, usually expressed in biblical terms; for the bible was read twice a day before the family and helpers, and an average of three services were attended on sunday. mrs. porter says that her first all-alone effort was printed in wabbly letters on the fly-leaf of an old grammar. it was entitled: "ode to the moon." "not," she comments, "that i had an idea what an 'ode' was, other than that i had heard it discussed in the family together with different forms of poetic expression. the spelling must have been by proxy: but i did know the words i used, what they meant, and the idea i was trying to convey. "no other farm was ever quite so lovely as the one on which i was born after this father and mother had spent twenty-five years beautifying it," says the author. it was called "hopewell" after the home of some of her father's british ancestors. the natural location was perfect, the land rolling and hilly, with several flowing springs and little streams crossing it in three directions, while plenty of forest still remained. the days of pioneer struggles were past. the roads were smooth and level as floors, the house and barn commodious; the family rode abroad in a double carriage trimmed in patent leather, drawn by a matched team of gray horses, and sometimes the father "speeded a little" for the delight of the children. "we had comfortable clothing," says mrs. porter, "and were getting our joy from life without that pinch of anxiety which must have existed in the beginning, although i know that father and mother always held steady, and took a large measure of joy from life in passing." her mother's health, which always had been perfect, broke about the time of the author's first remembrance due to typhoid fever contracted after nursing three of her children through it. she lived for several years, but with continual suffering, amounting at times to positive torture. so it happened, that led by impulse and aided by an escape from the training given her sisters, instead of "sitting on a cushion and sewing a fine seam"--the threads of the fabric had to be counted and just so many allowed to each stitch!--this youngest child of a numerous household spent her waking hours with the wild. she followed her father and the boys afield, and when tired out slept on their coats in fence corners, often awaking with shy creatures peering into her face. she wandered where she pleased, amusing herself with birds, flowers, insects, and plays she invented. "by the day," writes the author, "i trotted from one object which attracted me to another, singing a little song of made-up phrases about everything i saw while i waded catching fish, chasing butterflies over clover fields, or following a bird with a hair in its beak; much of the time i carried the inevitable baby for a woman-child, frequently improvised from an ear of corn in the silk, wrapped in catalpa leaf blankets." she had a corner of the garden under a big bartlett pear tree for her very own, and each spring she began by planting radishes and lettuce when the gardening was done; and before these had time to sprout she set the same beds full of spring flowers, and so followed out the season. she made special pets of the birds, locating nest after nest, and immediately projecting herself into the daily life of the occupants. "no one," she says, "ever taught me more than that the birds were useful, a gift of god for our protection from insect pests on fruit and crops; and a gift of grace in their beauty and music, things to be rigidly protected. from this cue i evolved the idea myself that i must be extremely careful, for had not my father tied a 'kerchief over my mouth when he lifted me for a peep into the nest of the humming-bird, and did he not walk softly and whisper when he approached the spot? so i stepped lightly, made no noise, and watched until i knew what a mother bird fed her young before i began dropping bugs, worms, crumbs, and fruit into little red mouths that opened at my tap on the nest quite as readily as at the touch of the feet of the mother bird." in the nature of this child of the out-of-doors there ran a fibre of care for wild things. it was instinct with her to go slowly, to touch lightly, to deal lovingly with every living thing: flower, moth, bird, or animal. she never gathered great handfuls of frail wild flowers, carried them an hour and threw them away. if she picked any, she took only a few, mostly to lay on her mother's pillow--for she had a habit of drawing comfort from a cinnamon pink or a trillium laid where its delicate fragrance reached her with every breath. "i am quite sure," mrs. porter writes, "that i never in my life, in picking flowers, dragged up the plant by the roots, as i frequently saw other people do. i was taught from infancy to cut a bloom i wanted. my regular habit was to lift one plant of each kind, especially if it were a species new to me, and set it in my wild-flower garden." to the birds and flowers the child added moths and butterflies, because she saw them so frequently, the brilliance of colour in yard and garden attracting more than could be found elsewhere. so she grew with the wild, loving, studying, giving all her time. "i fed butterflies sweetened water and rose leaves inside the screen of a cellar window," mrs. porter tells us; "doctored all the sick and wounded birds and animals the men brought me from afield; made pets of the baby squirrels and rabbits they carried in for my amusement; collected wild flowers; and as i grew older, gathered arrow points and goose quills for sale in fort wayne. so i had the first money i ever earned." her father and mother had strong artistic tendencies, although they would have scoffed at the idea themselves, yet the manner in which they laid off their fields, the home they built, the growing things they preserved, the way they planted, the life they led, all go to prove exactly that thing. their bush--and vine-covered fences crept around the acres they owned in a strip of gaudy colour; their orchard lay in a valley, a square of apple trees in the centre widely bordered by peach, so that it appeared at bloom time like a great pink-bordered white blanket on the face of earth. swale they might have drained, and would not, made sheets of blue flag, marigold and buttercups. from the home you could not look in any direction without seeing a picture of beauty. "last spring," the author writes in a recent letter, "i went back with my mind fully made up to buy that land at any reasonable price, restore it to the exact condition in which i knew it as a child, and finish my life there. i found that the house had been burned, killing all the big trees set by my mother's hands immediately surrounding it. the hills were shorn and ploughed down, filling and obliterating the creeks and springs. most of the forest had been cut, and stood in corn. my old catalpa in the fence corner beside the road and the bartlett pear under which i had my wild-flower garden were all that was left of the dooryard, while a few gnarled apple trees remained of the orchard, which had been reset in another place. the garden had been moved, also the lanes; the one creek remaining out of three crossed the meadow at the foot of the orchard. it flowed a sickly current over a dredged bed between bare, straight banks. the whole place seemed worse than a dilapidated graveyard to me. all my love and ten times the money i had at command never could have put back the face of nature as i knew it on that land." as a child the author had very few books, only three of her own outside of school books. "the markets did not afford the miracles common with the children of today," she adds. "books are now so numerous, so cheap, and so bewildering in colour and make-up, that i sometimes think our children are losing their perspective and caring for none of them as i loved my few plain little ones filled with short story and poem, almost no illustration. i had a treasure house in the school books of my elders, especially the mcguffey series of readers from one to six. for pictures i was driven to the bible, dictionary, historical works read by my father, agricultural papers, and medical books about cattle and sheep. "near the time of my mother's passing we moved from hopewell to the city of wabash in order that she might have constant medical attention, and the younger children better opportunities for schooling. here we had magazines and more books in which i was interested. the one volume in which my heart was enwrapt was a collection of masterpieces of fiction belonging to my eldest sister. it contained 'paul and virginia,' 'undine,' 'picciola,' 'the vicar of wakefield,' 'pilgrim's progress,' and several others i soon learned by heart, and the reading and rereading of those exquisitely expressed and conceived stories may have done much in forming high conceptions of what really constitutes literature and in furthering the lofty ideals instilled by my parents. one of these stories formed the basis of my first publicly recognized literary effort." reared by people who constantly pointed out every natural beauty, using it wherever possible to drive home a precept, the child lived out-of-doors with the wild almost entirely. if she reported promptly three times a day when the bell rang at meal time, with enough clothing to constitute a decent covering, nothing more was asked until the sabbath. to be taken from such freedom, her feet shod, her body restricted by as much clothing as ever had been worn on sunday, shut up in a schoolroom, and set to droning over books, most of which she detested, was the worst punishment ever inflicted upon her she declares. she hated mathematics in any form and spent all her time on natural science, language, and literature. "friday afternoon," writes mrs. porter, "was always taken up with an exercise called 'rhetoricals,' a misnomer as a rule, but let that pass. each week pupils of one of the four years furnished entertainment for the assembled high school and faculty. our subjects were always assigned, and we cordially disliked them. this particular day i was to have a paper on 'mathematical law.' "i put off the work until my paper had been called for several times, and so came to thursday night with excuses and not a line. i was told to bring my work the next morning without fail. i went home in hot anger. why in all this beautiful world, would they not allow me to do something i could do, and let any one of four members of my class who revelled in mathematics do my subject? that evening i was distracted. 'i can't do a paper on mathematics, and i won't!' i said stoutly; 'but i'll do such a paper on a subject i can write about as will open their foolish eyes and make them see how wrong they are.'" before me on the table lay the book i loved, the most wonderful story in which was 'picciola' by saintine. instantly i began to write. breathlessly i wrote for hours. i exceeded our limit ten times over. the poor italian count, the victim of political offences, shut by napoleon from the wonderful grounds, mansion, and life that were his, restricted to the bare prison walls of fenestrella, deprived of books and writing material, his one interest in life became a sprout of green, sprung, no doubt, from a seed dropped by a passing bird, between the stone flagging of the prison yard before his window. with him i had watched over it through all the years since i first had access to the book; with him i had prayed for it. i had broken into a cold sweat of fear when the jailer first menaced it; i had hated the wind that bent it roughly, and implored the sun. i had sung a paean of joy at its budding, and worshipped in awe before its thirty perfect blossoms. the count had named it 'picciola'--the little one--to me also it was a personal possession. that night we lived the life of our 'little one' over again, the count and i, and never were our anxieties and our joys more poignant. "next morning," says mrs. porter, "i dared my crowd to see how long they could remain on the grounds, and yet reach the assembly room before the last toll of the bell. this scheme worked. coming in so late the principal opened exercises without remembering my paper. again, at noon, i was as late as i dared be, and i escaped until near the close of the exercises, through which i sat in cold fear. when my name was reached at last the principal looked at me inquiringly and then announced my inspiring mathematical subject. i arose, walked to the front, and made my best bow. then i said: 'i waited until yesterday because i knew absolutely nothing about my subject'--the audience laughed--'and i could find nothing either here or in the library at home, so last night i reviewed saintine's masterpiece, "picciola."' "then instantly i began to read. i was almost paralyzed at my audacity, and with each word i expected to hear a terse little interruption. imagine my amazement when i heard at the end of the first page: 'wait a minute!' of course i waited, and the principal left the room. a moment later she reappeared accompanied by the superintendent of the city schools. 'begin again,' she said. 'take your time.' "i was too amazed to speak. then thought came in a rush. my paper was good. it was as good as i had believed it. it was better than i had known. i did go on! we took that assembly room and the corps of teachers into our confidence, the count and i, and told them all that was in our hearts about a little flower that sprang between the paving stones of a prison yard. the count and i were free spirits. from the book i had learned that. he got into political trouble through it, and i had got into mathematical trouble, and we told our troubles. one instant the room was in laughter, the next the boys bowed their heads, and the girls who had forgotten their handkerchiefs cried in their aprons. for almost sixteen big foolscap pages i held them, and i was eager to go on and tell them more about it when i reached the last line. never again was a subject forced upon me." after this incident of her schooldays, what had been inclination before was aroused to determination and the child neglected her lessons to write. a volume of crude verse fashioned after the metre of meredith's "lucile," a romantic book in rhyme, and two novels were the fruits of this youthful ardour. through the sickness and death of a sister, the author missed the last three months of school, but, she remarks, "unlike my schoolmates, i studied harder after leaving school than ever before and in a manner that did me real good. the most that can be said of what education i have is that it is the very best kind in the world for me; the only possible kind that would not ruin a person of my inclinations. the others of my family had been to college; i always have been too thankful for words that circumstances intervened which saved my brain from being run through a groove in company with dozens of others of widely different tastes and mentality. what small measure of success i have had has come through preserving my individual point of view, method of expression, and following in after life the spartan regulations of my girlhood home. whatever i have been able to do, has been done through the line of education my father saw fit to give me, and through his and my mother's methods of rearing me. "my mother went out too soon to know, and my father never saw one of the books; but he knew i was boiling and bubbling like a yeast jar in july over some literary work, and if i timidly slipped to him with a composition, or a faulty poem, he saw good in it, and made suggestions for its betterment. when i wanted to express something in colour, he went to an artist, sketched a design for an easel, personally superintended the carpenter who built it, and provided tuition. on that same easel i painted the water colours for 'moths of the limberlost,' and one of the most poignant regrets of my life is that he was not there to see them, and to know that the easel which he built through his faith in me was finally used in illustrating a book. "if i thought it was music through which i could express myself, he paid for lessons and detected hidden ability that should be developed. through the days of struggle he stood fast; firm in his belief in me. he was half the battle. it was he who demanded a physical standard that developed strength to endure the rigours of scientific field and darkroom work, and the building of ten books in ten years, five of which were on nature subjects, having my own illustrations, and five novels, literally teeming with natural history, true to nature. it was he who demanded of me from birth the finishing of any task i attempted and who taught me to cultivate patience to watch and wait, even years, if necessary, to find and secure material i wanted. it was he who daily lived before me the life of exactly such a man as i portrayed in 'the harvester,' and who constantly used every atom of brain and body power to help and to encourage all men to do the same." marriage, a home of her own, and a daughter for a time filled the author's hands, but never her whole heart and brain. the book fever lay dormant a while, and then it became a compelling influence. it dominated the life she lived, the cabin she designed for their home, and the books she read. when her daughter was old enough to go to school, mrs. porter's time came. speaking of this period, she says: "i could not afford a maid, but i was very strong, vital to the marrow, and i knew how to manage life to make it meet my needs, thanks to even the small amount i had seen of my mother. i kept a cabin of fourteen rooms, and kept it immaculate. i made most of my daughter's clothes, i kept a conservatory in which there bloomed from three to six hundred bulbs every winter, tended a house of canaries and linnets, and cooked and washed dishes besides three times a day. in my spare time (mark the word, there was time to spare else the books never would have been written and the pictures made) i mastered photography to such a degree that the manufacturers of one of our finest brands of print paper once sent the manager of their factory to me to learn how i handled it. he frankly said that they could obtain no such results with it as i did. he wanted to see my darkroom, examine my paraphernalia, and have me tell him exactly how i worked. as i was using the family bathroom for a darkroom and washing negatives and prints on turkey platters in the kitchen, i was rather put to it when it came to giving an exhibition. it was scarcely my fault if men could not handle the paper they manufactured so that it produced the results that i obtained, so i said i thought the difference might lie in the chemical properties of the water, and sent this man on his way satisfied. possibly it did. but i have a shrewd suspicion it lay in high-grade plates, a careful exposure, judicious development, with self-compounded chemicals straight from the factory, and c.p. i think plates swabbed with wet cotton before development, intensified if of short exposure, and thoroughly swabbed again before drying, had much to do with it; and paper handled in the same painstaking manner had more. i have hundreds of negatives in my closet made twelve years ago, in perfect condition for printing from to-day, and i never have lost a plate through fog from imperfect development and hasty washing; so my little mother's rule of 'whatsoever thy hands find to do, do it with thy might,' held good in photography." thus had mrs. porter made time to study and to write, and editors began to accept what she sent them with little if any changes. she began by sending photographic and natural history hints to recreation, and with the first installment was asked to take charge of the department and furnish material each month for which she was to be paid at current prices in high-grade photographic material. we can form some idea of the work she did under this arrangement from the fact that she had over one thousand dollars' worth of equipment at the end of the first year. the second year she increased this by five hundred, and then accepted a place on the natural history staff of outing, working closely with mr. casper whitney. after a year of this helpful experience mrs. porter began to turn her attention to what she calls "nature studies sugar coated with fiction." mixing some childhood fact with a large degree of grown-up fiction, she wrote a little story entitled "laddie, the princess, and the pie." "i was abnormally sensitive," says the author, "about trying to accomplish any given thing and failing. i had been taught in my home that it was black disgrace to undertake anything and fail. my husband owned a drug and book store that carried magazines, and it was not possible to conduct departments in any of them and not have it known; but only a few people in our locality read these publications, none of them were interested in nature photography, or natural science, so what i was trying to do was not realized even by my own family. "with them i was much more timid than with the neighbours. least of all did i want to fail before my man person and my daughter and our respective families; so i worked in secret, sent in my material, and kept as quiet about it as possible. on outing i had graduated from the camera department to an illustrated article each month, and as this kept up the year round, and few illustrations could be made in winter, it meant that i must secure enough photographs of wild life in summer to last during the part of the year when few were to be had. "every fair day i spent afield, and my little black horse and load of cameras, ropes, and ladders became a familiar sight to the country folk of the limberlost, in rainbow bottom, the canoper, on the banks of the wabash, in woods and thickets and beside the roads; but few people understood what i was trying to do, none of them what it would mean were i to succeed. being so afraid of failure and the inevitable ridicule in a community where i was already severly criticised on account of my ideas of housekeeping, dress, and social customs, i purposely kept everything i did as quiet as possible. it had to be known that i was interested in everything afield, and making pictures; also that i was writing field sketches for nature publications, but little was thought of it, save as one more, peculiarity, in me. so when my little story was finished i went to our store and looked over the magazines. i chose one to which we did not subscribe, having an attractive cover, good type, and paper, and on the back of an old envelope, behind the counter, i scribbled: perriton maxwell, nassau street, new york, and sent my story on its way. "then i took a bold step, the first in my self-emancipation. money was beginning to come in, and i had some in my purse of my very own that i had earned when no one even knew i was working. i argued that if i kept my family so comfortable that they missed nothing from their usual routine, it was my right to do what i could toward furthering my personal ambitions in what time i could save from my housework. and until i could earn enough to hire capable people to take my place, i held rigidly to that rule. i who waded morass, fought quicksands, crept, worked from ladders high in air, and crossed water on improvised rafts without a tremor, slipped with many misgivings into the postoffice and rented a box for myself, so that if i met with failure my husband and the men in the bank need not know what i had attempted. that was early may; all summer i waited. i had heard that it required a long time for an editor to read and to pass on matter sent him; but my waiting did seem out of all reason. i was too busy keeping my cabin and doing field work to repine; but i decided in my own mind that mr. maxwell was a 'mean old thing' to throw away my story and keep the return postage. besides, i was deeply chagrined, for i had thought quite well of my effort myself, and this seemed to prove that i did not know even the first principles of what would be considered an interesting story. "then one day in september i went into our store on an errand and the manager said to me: 'i read your story in the metropolitan last night. it was great! did you ever write any fiction before?' "my head whirled, but i had learned to keep my own counsels, so i said as lightly as i could, while my heart beat until i feared he could hear it: 'no. just a simple little thing! have you any spare copies? my sister might want one.' "he supplied me, so i hurried home, and shutting myself in the library, i sat down to look my first attempt at fiction in the face. i quite agreed with the manager that it was 'great.' then i wrote mr. maxwell a note telling him that i had seen my story in his magazine, and saying that i was glad he liked it enough to use it. i had not known a letter could reach new york and bring a reply so quickly as his answer came. it was a letter that warmed the deep of my heart. mr. maxwell wrote that he liked my story very much, but the office boy had lost or destroyed my address with the wrappings, so after waiting a reasonable length of time to hear from me, he had illustrated it the best he could, and printed it. he wrote that so many people had spoken to him of a new, fresh note in it, that he wished me to consider doing him another in a similar vein for a christmas leader and he enclosed my very first check for fiction. "so i wrote: 'how laddie and the princess spelled down at the christmas bee.' mr. maxwell was pleased to accept that also, with what i considered high praise, and to ask me to furnish the illustrations. he specified that he wanted a frontispiece, head and tail pieces, and six or seven other illustrations. counting out the time for his letter to reach me, and the material to return, i was left with just one day in which to secure the pictures. they had to be of people costumed in the time of the early seventies and i was short of print paper and chemicals. first, i telephoned to fort wayne for the material i wanted to be sent without fail on the afternoon train. then i drove to the homes of the people i wished to use for subjects and made appointments for sittings, and ransacked the cabin for costumes. the letter came on the eight a.m. train. at ten o'clock i was photographing colonel lupton beside my dining-room fireplace for the father in the story. at eleven i was dressing and posing miss lizzie huart for the princess. at twelve i was picturing in one of my bed rooms a child who served finely for little sister, and an hour later the same child in a cemetery three miles in the country where i used mounted butterflies from my cases, and potted plants carried from my conservatory, for a graveyard scene. the time was early november, but god granted sunshine that day, and short focus blurred the background. at four o'clock i was at the schoolhouse, and in the best-lighted room with five or six models, i was working on the spelling bee scenes. by six i was in the darkroom developing and drying these plates, every one of which was good enough to use. i did my best work with printing-out paper, but i was compelled to use a developing paper in this extremity, because it could be worked with much more speed, dried a little between blotters, and mounted. at three o'clock in the morning i was typing the quotations for the pictures, at four the parcel stood in the hall for the six o'clock train, and i realized that i wanted a drink, food, and sleep, for i had not stopped a second for anything from the time of reading mr. maxwell's letter until his order was ready to mail. for the following ten years i was equally prompt in doing all work i undertook, whether pictures or manuscript, without a thought of consideration for self; and i disappointed the confident expectations of my nearest and dearest by remaining sane, normal, and almost without exception the healthiest woman they knew." this story and its pictures were much praised, and in the following year the author was asked for several stories, and even used bird pictures and natural history sketches, quite an innovation for a magazine at that time. with this encouragement she wrote and illustrated a short story of about ten thousand words, and sent it to the century. richard watson gilder advised mrs. porter to enlarge it to book size, which she did. this book is "the cardinal." following mr. gilder's advice, she recast the tale and, starting with the mangled body of a cardinal some marksman had left in the road she was travelling, in a fervour of love for the birds and indignation at the hunter, she told the cardinal's life history in these pages. the story was promptly accepted and the book was published with very beautiful half-tones, and cardinal buckram cover. incidentally, neither the author's husband nor daughter had the slightest idea she was attempting to write a book until work had progressed to that stage where she could not make a legal contract without her husband's signature. during the ten years of its life this book has gone through eight different editions, varying in form and make-up from the birds in exquisite colour, as colour work advanced and became feasible, to a binding of beautiful red morocco, a number of editions of differing design intervening. one was tried in gray binding, the colour of the female cardinal, with the red male used as an inset. another was woodsgreen with the red male, and another red with a wild rose design stamped in. there is a british edition published by hodder and stoughton. all of these had the author's own illustrations which authorities agree are the most complete studies of the home life and relations of a pair of birds ever published. the story of these illustrations in "the cardinal" and how the author got them will be a revelation to most readers. mrs. porter set out to make this the most complete set of bird illustrations ever secured, in an effort to awaken people to the wonder and beauty and value of the birds. she had worked around half a dozen nests for two years and had carried a lemon tree from her conservatory to the location of one nest, buried the tub, and introduced the branches among those the birds used in approaching their home that she might secure proper illustrations for the opening chapter, which was placed in the south. when the complete bird series was finished, the difficult work over, and there remained only a few characteristic wabash river studies of flowers, vines, and bushes for chapter tail pieces to be secured, the author "met her jonah," and her escape was little short of a miracle. after a particularly strenuous spring afield, one teeming day in early august she spent the morning in the river bottom beside the wabash. a heavy rain followed by august sun soon had her dripping while she made several studies of wild morning glories, but she was particularly careful to wrap up and drive slowly going home, so that she would not chill. in the afternoon the author went to the river northeast of town to secure mallow pictures for another chapter, and after working in burning sun on the river bank until exhausted, she several times waded the river to examine bushes on the opposite bank. on the way home she had a severe chill, and for the following three weeks lay twisted in the convulsions of congestion, insensible most of the time. skilled doctors and nurses did their best, which they admitted would have availed nothing if the patient had not had a constitution without a flaw upon which to work. "this is the history," said mrs. porter, "of one little tail piece among the pictures. there were about thirty others, none so strenuous, but none easy, each having a living, fighting history for me. if i were to give in detail the story of the two years' work required to secure the set of bird studies illustrating 'the cardinal,' it would make a much larger book than the life of the bird." "the cardinal" was published in june of . on the th of october, , "freckles" appeared. mrs. porter had been delving afield with all her heart and strength for several years, and in the course of her work had spent every other day for three months in the limberlost swamp, making a series of studies of the nest of a black vulture. early in her married life she had met a scotch lumberman, who told her of the swamp and of securing fine timber there for canadian shipbuilders, and later when she had moved to within less than a mile of its northern boundary, she met a man who was buying curly maple, black walnut, golden oak, wild cherry, and other wood extremely valuable for a big furniture factory in grand rapids. there was one particular woman, of all those the author worked among, who exercised herself most concerning her. she never failed to come out if she saw her driving down the lane to the woods, and caution her to be careful. if she felt that mrs. porter had become interested and forgotten that it was long past meal time, she would send out food and water or buttermilk to refresh her. she had her family posted, and if any of them saw a bird with a straw or a hair in its beak, they followed until they found its location. it was her husband who drove the stake and ploughed around the killdeer nest in the cornfield to save it for the author; and he did many other acts of kindness without understanding exactly what he was doing or why. "merely that i wanted certain things was enough for those people," writes mrs. porter. "without question they helped me in every way their big hearts could suggest to them, because they loved to be kind, and to be generous was natural with them. the woman was busy keeping house and mothering a big brood, and every living creature that came her way, besides. she took me in, and i put her soul, body, red head, and all, into sarah duncan. the lumber and furniture man i combined in mclean. freckles was a composite of certain ideals and my own field experiences, merged with those of mr. bob burdette black, who, at the expense of much time and careful work, had done more for me than any other ten men afield. the angel was an idealized picture of my daughter. "i dedicated the book to my husband, mr. charles darwin porter, for several reasons, the chiefest being that he deserved it. when word was brought me by lumbermen of the nest of the black vulture in the limberlost, i hastened to tell my husband the wonderful story of the big black bird, the downy white baby, the pale blue egg, and to beg back a rashly made promise not to work in the limberlost. being a natural history enthusiast himself, he agreed that i must go; but he qualified the assent with the proviso that no one less careful of me than he, might accompany me there. his business had forced him to allow me to work alone, with hired guides or the help of oilmen and farmers elsewhere; but a limberlost trip at that time was not to be joked about. it had not been shorn, branded, and tamed. there were most excellent reasons why i should not go there. much of it was impenetrable. only a few trees had been taken out; oilmen were just invading it. in its physical aspect it was a treacherous swamp and quagmire filled with every plant, animal, and human danger known in the worst of such locations in the central states. "a rod inside the swamp on a road leading to an oil well we mired to the carriage hubs. i shielded my camera in my arms and before we reached the well i thought the conveyance would be torn to pieces and the horse stalled. at the well we started on foot, mr. porter in kneeboots, i in waist-high waders. the time was late june; we forced our way between steaming, fetid pools, through swarms of gnats, flies, mosquitoes, poisonous insects, keeping a sharp watch for rattlesnakes. we sank ankle deep at every step, and logs we thought solid broke under us. our progress was a steady succession of prying and pulling each other to the surface. our clothing was wringing wet, and the exposed parts of our bodies lumpy with bites and stings. my husband found the tree, cleared the opening to the great prostrate log, traversed its unspeakable odours for nearly forty feet to its farthest recess, and brought the baby and egg to the light in his leaf-lined hat. "we could endure the location only by dipping napkins in deodorant and binding them over our mouths and nostrils. every third day for almost three months we made this trip, until little chicken was able to take wing. of course we soon made a road to the tree, grew accustomed to the disagreeable features of the swamp and contemptuously familiar with its dangers, so that i worked anywhere in it i chose with other assistance; but no trip was so hard and disagreeable as the first. mr. porter insisted upon finishing the little chicken series, so that 'deserve' is a poor word for any honour that might accrue to him for his part in the book." this was the nucleus of the book, but the story itself originated from the fact that one day, while leaving the swamp, a big feather with a shaft over twenty inches long came spinning and swirling earthward and fell in the author's path. instantly she looked upward to locate the bird, which from the size and formation of the quill could have been nothing but an eagle; her eyes, well trained and fairly keen though they were, could not see the bird, which must have been soaring above range. familiar with the life of the vulture family, the author changed the bird from which the feather fell to that described in "freckles." mrs. porter had the old swamp at that time practically untouched, and all its traditions to work upon and stores of natural history material. this falling feather began the book which in a few days she had definitely planned and in six months completely written. her title for it was "the falling feather," that tangible thing which came drifting down from nowhere, just as the boy came, and she has always regretted the change to "freckles." john murray publishes a british edition of this book which is even better liked in ireland and scotland than in england. as "the cardinal" was published originally not by doubleday, page & company, but by another firm, the author had talked over with the latter house the scheme of "freckles" and it had been agreed to publish the story as soon as mrs. porter was ready. how the book finally came to doubleday, page & company she recounts as follows: "by the time 'freckles' was finished, i had exercised my woman's prerogative and 'changed my mind'; so i sent the manuscript to doubleday, page & company, who accepted it. they liked it well enough to take a special interest in it and to bring it out with greater expense than it was at all customary to put upon a novel at that time; and this in face of the fact that they had repeatedly warned me that the nature work in it would kill fully half its chances with the public. mr. f.n. doubleday, starting on a trip to the bahamas, remarked that he would like to take a manuscript with him to read, and the office force decided to put 'freckles' into his grip. the story of the plucky young chap won his way to the heart of the publishers, under a silk cotton tree, 'neath bright southern skies, and made such a friend of him that through the years of its book-life it has been the object of special attention. mr. george doran gave me a photograph which mr. horace macfarland made of mr. doubleday during this reading of the mss. of 'freckles' which is especially interesting." that more than , , readers have found pleasure and profit in mrs. porter's books is a cause for particular gratification. these stories all have, as a fundamental reason of their existence, the author's great love of nature. to have imparted this love to others--to have inspired many hundreds of thousands to look for the first time with seeing eyes at the pageant of the out-of-doors--is a satisfaction that must endure. for the part of the publishers, they began their business by issuing "nature books" at a time when the sale of such works was problematical. as their tastes and inclinations were along the same lines which mrs. porter loved to follow, it gave them great pleasure to be associated with her books which opened the eyes of so great a public to new and worthy fields of enjoyment. the history of "freckles" is unique. the publishers had inserted marginal drawings on many pages, but these, instead of attracting attention to the nature charm of the book, seemed to have exactly a contrary effect. the public wanted a novel. the illustrations made it appear to be a nature book, and it required three long slow years for "freckles" to pass from hand to hand and prove that there really was a novel between the covers, but that it was a story that took its own time and wound slowly toward its end, stopping its leisurely course for bird, flower, lichen face, blue sky, perfumed wind, and the closest intimacies of the daily life of common folk. ten years have wrought a great change in the sentiment against nature work and the interest in it. thousands who then looked upon the world with unobserving eyes are now straining every nerve to accumulate enough to be able to end life where they may have bird, flower, and tree for daily companions. mrs. porter's account of the advice she received at this time is particularly interesting. three editors who read "freckles" before it was published offered to produce it, but all of them expressed precisely the same opinion: "the book will never sell well as it is. if you want to live from the proceeds of your work, if you want to sell even moderately, you must cut out the nature stuff." "now to put in the nature stuff," continues the author, "was the express purpose for which the book had been written. i had had one year's experience with 'the song of the cardinal,' frankly a nature book, and from the start i realized that i never could reach the audience i wanted with a book on nature alone. to spend time writing a book based wholly upon human passion and its outworking i would not. so i compromised on a book into which i put all the nature work that came naturally within its scope, and seasoned it with little bits of imagination and straight copy from the lives of men and women i had known intimately, folk who lived in a simple, common way with which i was familiar. so i said to my publishers: 'i will write the books exactly as they take shape in my mind. you publish them. i know they will sell enough that you will not lose. if i do not make over six hundred dollars on a book i shall never utter a complaint. make up my work as i think it should be and leave it to the people as to what kind of book they will take into their hearts and homes.' i altered 'freckles' slightly, but from that time on we worked on this agreement. "my years of nature work have not been without considerable insight into human nature, as well," continues mrs. porter. "i know its failings, its inborn tendencies, its weaknesses, its failures, its depth of crime; and the people who feel called upon to spend their time analyzing, digging into, and uncovering these sources of depravity have that privilege, more's the pity! if i had my way about it, this is a privilege no one could have in books intended for indiscriminate circulation. i stand squarely for book censorship, and i firmly believe that with a few more years of such books, as half a dozen i could mention, public opinion will demand this very thing. my life has been fortunate in one glad way: i have lived mostly in the country and worked in the woods. for every bad man and woman i have ever known, i have met, lived with, and am intimately acquainted with an overwhelming number of thoroughly clean and decent people who still believe in god and cherish high ideals, and it is upon the lives of these that i base what i write. to contend that this does not produce a picture true to life is idiocy. it does. it produces a picture true to ideal life; to the best that good men and good women can do at level best. "i care very little for the magazine or newspaper critics who proclaim that there is no such thing as a moral man, and that my pictures of life are sentimental and idealized. they are! and i glory in them! they are straight, living pictures from the lives of men and women of morals, honour, and loving kindness. they form 'idealized pictures of life' because they are copies from life where it touches religion, chastity, love, home, and hope of heaven ultimately. none of these roads leads to publicity and the divorce court. they all end in the shelter and seclusion of a home. "such a big majority of book critics and authors have begun to teach, whether they really believe it or not, that no book is true to life unless it is true to the worst in life, that the idea has infected even the women." in , having seen a few of mrs. porter's studies of bird life, mr. edward bok telegraphed the author asking to meet him in chicago. she had a big portfolio of fine prints from plates for which she had gone to the last extremity of painstaking care, and the result was an order from mr. bok for a six months' series in the ladies' home journal of the author's best bird studies accompanied by descriptions of how she secured them. this material was later put in book form under the title, "what i have done with birds," and is regarded as authoritative on the subject of bird photography and bird life, for in truth it covers every phase of the life of the birds described, and contains much of other nature subjects. by this time mrs. porter had made a contract with her publishers to alternate her books. she agreed to do a nature book for love, and then, by way of compromise, a piece of nature work spiced with enough fiction to tempt her class of readers. in this way she hoped that they would absorb enough of the nature work while reading the fiction to send them afield, and at the same time keep in their minds her picture of what she considers the only life worth living. she was still assured that only a straight novel would "pay," but she was living, meeting all her expenses, giving her family many luxuries, and saving a little sum for a rainy day she foresaw on her horoscope. to be comfortably clothed and fed, to have time and tools for her work, is all she ever has asked of life. among mrs. porter's readers "at the foot of the rainbow" stands as perhaps the author's strongest piece of fiction. in august of two books on which the author had been working for years culminated at the same time: a nature novel, and a straight nature book. the novel was, in a way, a continuation of "freckles," filled as usual with wood lore, but more concerned with moths than birds. mrs. porter had been finding and picturing exquisite big night flyers during several years of field work among the birds, and from what she could have readily done with them she saw how it would be possible for a girl rightly constituted and environed to make a living, and a good one, at such work. so was conceived "a girl of the limberlost." "this comes fairly close to my idea of a good book," she writes. "no possible harm can be done any one in reading it. the book can, and does, present a hundred pictures that will draw any reader in closer touch with nature and the almighty, my primal object in each line i write. the human side of the book is as close a character study as i am capable of making. i regard the character of mrs. comstock as the best thought-out and the cleanest-cut study of human nature i have so far been able to do. perhaps the best justification of my idea of this book came to me recently when i received an application from the president for permission to translate it into arabic, as the first book to be used in an effort to introduce our methods of nature study into the college of cairo." hodder and stoughton of london published the british edition of this work. at the same time that "a girl of the limberlost" was published there appeared the book called "birds of the bible." this volume took shape slowly. the author made a long search for each bird mentioned in the bible, how often, where, why; each quotation concerning it in the whole book, every abstract reference, why made, by whom, and what it meant. then slowly dawned the sane and true things said of birds in the bible compared with the amazing statements of aristotle, aristophanes, pliny, and other writers of about the same period in pagan nations. this led to a search for the dawn of bird history and for the very first pictures preserved of them. on this book the author expended more work than on any other she has ever written. in two more books for which mrs. porter had gathered material for long periods came to a conclusion on the same date: "music of the wild" and "the harvester." the latter of these was a nature novel; the other a frank nature book, filled with all outdoors--a special study of the sounds one hears in fields and forests, and photographic reproductions of the musicians and their instruments. the idea of "the harvester" was suggested to the author by an editor who wanted a magazine article, with human interest in it, about the ginseng diggers in her part of the country. mr. porter had bought ginseng for years for a drug store he owned; there were several people he knew still gathering it for market, and growing it was becoming a good business all over the country. mrs. porter learned from the united states pharmacopaeia and from various other sources that the drug was used mostly by the chinese, and with a wholly mistaken idea of its properties. the strongest thing any medical work will say for ginseng is that it is "a very mild and soothing drug." it seems that the chinese buy and use it in enormous quantities, in the belief that it is a remedy for almost every disease to which humanity is heir; that it will prolong life, and that it is a wonderful stimulant. ancient medical works make this statement, laying special emphasis upon its stimulating qualities. the drug does none of these things. instead of being a stimulant, it comes closer to a sedative. this investigation set the author on the search for other herbs that now are or might be grown as an occupation. then came the idea of a man who should grow these drugs professionally, and of the sick girl healed by them. "i could have gone to work and started a drug farm myself," remarks mrs. porter, "with exactly the same profit and success as the harvester. i wrote primarily to state that to my personal knowledge, clean, loving men still exist in this world, and that no man is forced to endure the grind of city life if he wills otherwise. any one who likes, with even such simple means as herbs he can dig from fence corners, may start a drug farm that in a short time will yield him delightful work and independence. i wrote the book as i thought it should be written, to prove my points and establish my contentions. i think it did. men the globe around promptly wrote me that they always had observed the moral code; others that the subject never in all their lives had been presented to them from my point of view, but now that it had been, they would change and do what they could to influence all men to do the same." messrs. hodder and stoughton publish a british edition of "the harvester," there is an edition in scandinavian, it was running serially in a german magazine, but for a time at least the german and french editions that were arranged will be stopped by this war, as there was a french edition of "the song of the cardinal." after a short rest, the author began putting into shape a book for which she had been compiling material since the beginning of field work. from the first study she made of an exquisite big night moth, mrs. porter used every opportunity to secure more and representative studies of each family in her territory, and eventually found the work so fascinating that she began hunting cocoons and raising caterpillars in order to secure life histories and make illustrations with fidelity to life. "it seems," comments the author, "that scientists and lepidopterists from the beginning have had no hesitation in describing and using mounted moth and butterfly specimens for book text and illustration, despite the fact that their colours fade rapidly, that the wings are always in unnatural positions, and the bodies shrivelled. i would quite as soon accept the mummy of any particular member of the rameses family as a fair representation of the living man, as a mounted moth for a live one." when she failed to secure the moth she wanted in a living and perfect specimen for her studies, the author set out to raise one, making photographic studies from the eggs through the entire life process. there was one june during which she scarcely slept for more than a few hours of daytime the entire month. she turned her bedroom into a hatchery, where were stored the most precious cocoons; and if she lay down at night it was with those she thought would produce moths before morning on her pillow, where she could not fail to hear them emerging. at the first sound she would be up with notebook in hand, and by dawn, busy with cameras. then she would be forced to hurry to the darkroom and develop her plates in order to be sure that she had a perfect likeness, before releasing the specimen, for she did release all she produced except one pair of each kind, never having sold a moth, personally. often where the markings were wonderful and complicated, as soon as the wings were fully developed mrs. porter copied the living specimen in water colours for her illustrations, frequently making several copies in order to be sure that she laid on the colour enough brighter than her subject so that when it died it would be exactly the same shade. "never in all my life," writes the author, "have i had such exquisite joy in work as i had in painting the illustrations for this volume of 'moths of the limberlost.' colour work had advanced to such a stage that i knew from the beautiful reproductions in arthur rackham's 'rheingold and valkyrie' and several other books on the market, that time so spent would not be lost. mr. doubleday had assured me personally that i might count on exact reproduction, and such details of type and paper as i chose to select. i used the easel made for me when a girl, under the supervision of my father, and i threw my whole heart into the work of copying each line and delicate shading on those wonderful wings, 'all diamonded with panes of quaint device, innumerable stains and splendid dyes,' as one poet describes them. there were times, when in working a mist of colour over another background, i cut a brush down to three hairs. some of these illustrations i sent back six and seven times, to be worked over before the illustration plates were exact duplicates of the originals, and my heart ached for the engravers, who must have had job-like patience; but it did not ache enough to stop me until i felt the reproduction exact. this book tells its own story of long and patient waiting for a specimen, of watching, of disappointments, and triumphs. i love it especially among my book children because it represents my highest ideals in the making of a nature book, and i can take any skeptic afield and prove the truth of the natural history it contains." in august of the author's novel "laddie" was published in new york, london, sydney and toronto simultaneously. this book contains the same mixture of romance and nature interest as the others, and is modelled on the same plan of introducing nature objects peculiar to the location, and characters, many of whom are from life, typical of the locality at a given period. the first thing many critics said of it was that "no such people ever existed, and no such life was ever lived." in reply to this the author said: "of a truth, the home i described in this book i knew to the last grain of wood in the doors, and i painted, it with absolute accuracy; and many of the people i described i knew more intimately than i ever have known any others. taken as a whole it represents a perfectly faithful picture of home life, in a family who were reared and educated exactly as this book indicates. there was such a man as laddie, and he was as much bigger and better than my description of him as a real thing is always better than its presentment. the only difference, barring the nature work, between my books and those of many other writers, is that i prefer to describe and to perpetuate the best i have known in life; whereas many authors seem to feel that they have no hope of achieving a high literary standing unless they delve in and reproduce the worst. "to deny that wrong and pitiful things exist in life is folly, but to believe that these things are made better by promiscuous discussion at the hands of writers who fail to prove by their books that their viewpoint is either right, clean, or helpful, is close to insanity. if there is to be any error on either side in a book, then god knows it is far better that it should be upon the side of pure sentiment and high ideals than upon that of a too loose discussion of subjects which often open to a large part of the world their first knowledge of such forms of sin, profligate expenditure, and waste of life's best opportunities. there is one great beauty in idealized romance: reading it can make no one worse than he is, while it may help thousands to a cleaner life and higher inspiration than they ever before have known." mrs. porter has written ten books, and it is not out of place here to express her attitude toward them. each was written, she says, from her heart's best impulses. they are as clean and helpful as she knew how to make them, as beautiful and interesting. she has never spared herself in the least degree, mind or body, when it came to giving her best, and she has never considered money in relation to what she was writing. during the hard work and exposure of those early years, during rainy days and many nights in the darkroom, she went straight ahead with field work, sending around the globe for books and delving to secure material for such books as "birds of the bible," "music of the wild," and "moths of the limberlost." every day devoted to such work was "commercially" lost, as publishers did not fail to tell her. but that was the work she could do, and do with exceeding joy. she could do it better pictorially, on account of her lifelong knowledge of living things afield, than any other woman had as yet had the strength and nerve to do it. it was work in which she gloried, and she persisted. "had i been working for money," comments the author, "not one of these nature books ever would have been written, or an illustration made." when the public had discovered her and given generous approval to "a girl of the limberlost," when "the harvester" had established a new record, that would have been the time for the author to prove her commercialism by dropping nature work, and plunging headlong into books it would pay to write, and for which many publishers were offering alluring sums. mrs. porter's answer was the issuing of such books as "music of the wild" and "moths of the limberlost." no argument is necessary. mr. edward shuman, formerly critic of the chicago record-herald, was impressed by this method of work and pointed it out in a review. it appealed to mr. shuman, when "moths of the limberlost" came in for review, following the tremendous success of "the harvester," that had the author been working for money, she could have written half a dozen more "harvesters" while putting seven years of field work, on a scientific subject, into a personally illustrated work. in an interesting passage dealing with her books, mrs. porter writes: "i have done three times the work on my books of fiction that i see other writers putting into a novel, in order to make all natural history allusions accurate and to write them in such fashion that they will meet with the commendation of high schools, colleges, and universities using what i write as text books, and for the homes that place them in their libraries. i am perfectly willing to let time and the hearts of the people set my work in its ultimate place. i have no delusions concerning it. "to my way of thinking and working the greatest service a piece of fiction can do any reader is to leave him with a higher ideal of life than he had when he began. if in one small degree it shows him where he can be a gentler, saner, cleaner, kindlier man, it is a wonder-working book. if it opens his eyes to one beauty in nature he never saw for himself, and leads him one step toward the god of the universe, it is a beneficial book, for one step into the miracles of nature leads to that long walk, the glories of which so strengthen even a boy who thinks he is dying, that he faces his struggle like a gladiator." during the past ten years thousands of people have sent the author word that through her books they have been led afield and to their first realization of the beauties of nature her mail brings an average of ten such letters a day, mostly from students, teachers, and professional people of our largest cities. it can probably be said in all truth of her nature books and nature novels, that in the past ten years they have sent more people afield than all the scientific writings of the same period. that is a big statement, but it is very likely pretty close to the truth. mrs. porter has been asked by two london and one edinburgh publishers for the privilege of bringing out complete sets of her nature books, but as yet she has not felt ready to do this. in bringing this sketch of gene stratton-porter to a close it will be interesting to quote the author's own words describing the limberlost swamp, its gradual disappearance under the encroachments of business, and her removal to a new field even richer in natural beauties. she says: "in the beginning of the end a great swamp region lay in northeastern indiana. its head was in what is now noble and dekalb counties; its body in allen and wells, and its feet in southern adams and northern jay the limberlost lies at the foot and was, when i settled near it, exactly as described in my books. the process of dismantling it was told in, freckles, to start with, carried on in 'a girl of the limberlost,' and finished in 'moths of the limberlost.' now it has so completely fallen prey to commercialism through the devastation of lumbermen, oilmen, and farmers, that i have been forced to move my working territory and build a new cabin about seventy miles north, at the head of the swamp in noble county, where there are many lakes, miles of unbroken marsh, and a far greater wealth of plant and animal life than existed during my time in the southern part. at the north end every bird that frequents the central states is to be found. here grow in profusion many orchids, fringed gentians, cardinal flowers, turtle heads, starry campions, purple gerardias, and grass of parnassus. in one season i have located here almost every flower named in the botanies as native to these regions and several that i can find in no book in my library. "but this change of territory involves the purchase of fifteen acres of forest and orchard land, on a lake shore in marsh country. it means the building of a permanent, all-year-round home, which will provide the comforts of life for my family and furnish a workshop consisting of a library, a photographic darkroom and negative closet, and a printing room for me. i could live in such a home as i could provide on the income from my nature work alone; but when my working grounds were cleared, drained and ploughed up, literally wiped from the face of the earth, i never could have moved to new country had it not been for the earnings of the novels, which i now spend, and always have spent, in great part upon my nature work. based on this plan of work and life i have written ten books, and 'please god i live so long,' i shall write ten more. possibly every one of them will be located in northern indiana. each one will be filled with all the field and woods legitimately falling to its location and peopled with the best men and women i have known." chapter the rat-catchers of the wabash "hey, you swate-scented little heart-warmer!" cried jimmy malone, as he lifted his tenth trap, weighted with a struggling muskrat, from the wabash. "varmint you may be to all the rist of creation, but you mane a night at casey's to me." jimmy whistled softly as he reset the trap. for the moment he forgot that he was five miles from home, that it was a mile farther to the end of his line at the lower curve of horseshoe bend, that his feet and fingers were almost freezing, and that every rat of the ten now in the bag on his back had made him thirstier. he shivered as the cold wind sweeping the curves of the river struck him; but when an unusually heavy gust dropped the ice and snow from a branch above him on the back of his head, he laughed, as he ducked and cried: "kape your snowballing till the fourth of july, will you!" "chick-a-dee-dee-dee!" remarked a tiny gray bird on the tree above him. jimmy glanced up. "chickie, chickie, chickie," he said. "i can't till by your dress whether you are a hin or a rooster. but i can till by your employmint that you are working for grub. have to hustle lively for every worm you find, don't you, chickie? now me, i'm hustlin' lively for a drink, and i be domn if it seems nicessary with a whole river of drinkin' stuff flowin' right under me feet. but the old wabash ain't runnin "wine and milk and honey" not by the jug-full. it seems to be compounded of aquil parts of mud, crude ile, and rain water. if 'twas only runnin' melwood, be gorry, chickie, you'd see a mermaid named jimmy malone sittin' on the kingfisher stump, combin' its auburn hair with a breeze, and scoopin' whiskey down its gullet with its tail fin. no, hold on, chickie, you wouldn't either. i'm too flat-chisted for a mermaid, and i'd have no time to lave off gurglin' for the hair-combin' act, which, chickie, to me notion is as issential to a mermaid as the curves. i'd be a sucker, the biggest sucker in the gar-hole, chickie bird. i'd be an all-day sucker, be gobs; yis, and an all-night sucker, too. come to think of it, chickie, be domn if i'd be a sucker at all. look at the mouths of thim! puckered up with a drawstring! oh, hell on the wabash, chickie, think of jimmy malone lyin' at the bottom of a river flowin' with melwood, and a puckerin'-string mouth! wouldn't that break the heart of you? i know what i'd be. i'd be the black bass of horseshoe bend, chickie, and i'd locate just below the shoals headin' up stream, and i'd hold me mouth wide open till i paralyzed me jaws so i couldn't shut thim. i'd just let the pure stuff wash over me gills constant, world without end. good-by, chickie. hope you got your grub, and pretty soon i'll have enough drink to make me feel like i was the bass for one night, anyway." jimmy hurried to his next trap, which was empty, but the one after that contained a rat, and there were footprints in the snow. "that's where the porrage-heart of the scotchman comes in," said jimmy, as he held up the rat by one foot, and gave it a sharp rap over the head with the trap to make sure it was dead. "dannie could no more hear a rat fast in one of me traps and not come over and put it out of its misery, than he could dance a hornpipe. and him only sicond hand from hornpipe land, too! but his feet's like lead. poor dannie! he gets just about half the rats i do. he niver did have luck." jimmy's gay face clouded for an instant. the twinkle faded from his eyes, and a look of unrest swept into them. he muttered something, and catching up his bag, shoved in the rat. as he reset the trap, a big crow dropped from branch to branch on a sycamore above him, and his back scarcely was turned before it alighted on the ice, and ravenously picked at three drops of blood purpling there. away down the ice-sheeted river led dannie's trail, showing plainly across the snow blanket. the wind raved through the trees, and around the curves of the river. the dark earth of the banks peeping from under overhanging ice and snow, looked like the entrance to deep mysterious caves. jimmy's superstitious soul readily peopled them with goblins and devils. he shuddered, and began to talk aloud to cheer himself. "elivin muskrat skins, times fifteen cints apiece, one dollar sixty-five. that will buy more than i can hold. hagginy! won't i be takin' one long fine gurgle of the pure stuff! and there's the boys! i might do the grand for once. one on me for the house! and i might pay something on my back score, but first i'll drink till i swell like a poisoned pup. and i ought to get mary that milk pail she's been kickin' for this last month. women and cows are always kickin'! if the blarsted cow hadn't kicked a hole in the pail, there'd be no need of mary kicking for a new one. but dough is dubious soldering. mary says it's bad enough on the dish pan, but it positively ain't hilthy about the milk pail, and she is right. we ought to have a new pail. i guess i'll get it first, and fill up on what's left. one for a quarter will do. and i've several traps yet, i may get a few more rats." the virtuous resolve to buy a milk pail before he quenched the thirst which burned him, so elated jimmy with good opinion of himself that he began whistling gayly as he strode toward his next trap. and by that token, dannie macnoun, resetting an empty trap a quarter of a mile below, knew that jimmy was coming, and that as usual luck was with him. catching his blood and water dripping bag, dannie dodged a rotten branch that came crashing down under the weight of its icy load, and stepping out on the river, he pulled on his patched wool-lined mittens as he waited for jimmy. "how many, dannie?" called jimmy from afar. "seven," answered dannie. "what for ye?" "elivin," replied jimmy, with a bit of unconscious swagger. "i am havin' poor luck to-day." "how mony wad satisfy ye?" asked dannie sarcastically. "ain't got time to figure that," answered jimmy, working in a double shuffle as he walked. "thrash around a little, dannie. it will warm you up." "i am no cauld," answered dannie. "no cauld!" imitated jimmy. "no cauld! come to observe you closer, i do detect symptoms of sunstroke in the ridness of your face, and the whiteness about your mouth; but the frost on your neck scarf, and the icicles fistooned around the tail of your coat, tell a different story. "dannie, you remind me of the baptizin' of pete cox last winter. pete's nothin' but skin and bone, and he niver had a square meal in his life to warm him. it took pushin' and pullin' to get him in the water, and a scum froze over while he was under. pete came up shakin' like the feeder on a thrashin' machine, and whin he could spake at all, 'bless jasus,' says he, 'i'm jist as wa-wa-warm as i wa-wa-want to be.' so are you, dannie, but there's a difference in how warm folks want to be. for meself, now, i could aisily bear a little more hate." "it's honest, i'm no cauld," insisted dannie; and he might have added that if jimmy would not fill his system with casey's poisons, that degree of cold would not chill and pinch him either. but being dannie, he neither thought nor said it. '"why, i'm frozen to me sowl!" cried jimmy, as he changed the rat bag to his other hand, and beat the empty one against his leg. "say, dannie, where do you think the kingfisher is wintering?" "and the black bass," answered dannie. "where do ye suppose the black bass is noo?" "strange you should mintion the black bass," said jimmy. "i was just havin' a little talk about him with a frind of mine named chickie-dom, no, chickie-dee, who works a grub stake back there. the bass might be lyin' in the river bed right under our feet. don't you remimber the time whin i put on three big cut-worms, and skittered thim beyond the log that lays across here, and he lept from the water till we both saw him the best we ever did, and nothin' but my old rotten line ever saved him? or he might be where it slumps off just below the kingfisher stump. but i know where he is all right. he's down in the gar-hole, and he'll come back here spawning time, and chase minnows when the kingfisher comes home. but, dannie, where the nation do you suppose the kingfisher is?" "no' so far away as ye might think," replied dannie. "doc hues told me that coming on the train frae indianapolis on the fifteenth of december, he saw one fly across a little pond juist below winchester. i believe they go south slowly, as the cold drives them, and stop near as they can find guid fishing. dinna that stump look lonely wi'out him?" "and sound lonely without the bass slashing around! i am going to have that bass this summer if i don't do a thing but fish!" vowed jimmy. "i'll surely have a try at him," answered dannie, with a twinkle in his gray eyes. "we've caught most everything else in the wabash, and our reputation fra taking guid fish is ahead of any one on the river, except the kingfisher. why the diel dinna one of us haul out that bass?" "ain't i just told you that i am going to hook him this summer?" shivered jimmy. "dinna ye hear me mention that i intended to take a try at him mysel'?" questioned dannie. "have ye forgotten that i know how to fish?" "'nough breeze to-day without starting a highlander," interposed jimmy hastily. "i believe i hear a rat in my next trap. that will make me twilve, and it's good and glad of it i am for i've to walk to town when my line is reset. there's something mary wants." "if mary wants ye to go to town, why dinna ye leave me to finish your traps, and start now?" asked dannie. "it's getting dark, and if ye are so late ye canna see the drifts, ye never can cut across the fields; fra the snow is piled waist high, and it's a mile farther by the road." "i got to skin my rats first, or i'll be havin' to ask credit again," replied jimmy. "that's easy," answered dannie. "turn your rats over to me richt noo. i'll give ye market price fra them in cash." "but the skinnin' of them," objected jimmy for decency sake, though his eyes were beginning to shine and his fingers to tremble. "never ye mind about that," retorted dannie. "i like to take my time to it, and fix them up nice. elivin, did ye say?" "elivin," answered jimmy, breaking into a jig, supposedly to keep his feet warm, in reality because he could not stand quietly while dannie pulled off his mittens, got out and unstrapped his wallet, and carefully counted out the money. "is that all ye need?" he asked. for an instant jimmy hesitated. missing a chance to get even a few cents more meant a little shorter time at casey's. "that's enough, i think," he said. "i wish i'd staid out of matrimony, and then maybe i could iver have a cint of me own. you ought to be glad you haven't a woman to consume ivery penny you earn before it reaches your pockets, dannie micnoun." "i hae never seen mary consume much but calico and food," dannie said dryly. "oh, it ain't so much what a woman really spinds," said jimmy, peevishly, as he shoved the money into his pocket, and pulled on his mittens. "it's what you know she would spind if she had the chance." "i dinna think ye'll break up on that," laughed dannie. and that was what jimmy wanted. so long as he could set dannie laughing, he could mold him. "no, but i'll break down," lamented jimmy in sore self-pity, as he remembered the quarter sacred to the purchase of the milk pail. "ye go on, and hurry," urged dannie. "if ye dinna start home by seven, i'll be combing the drifts fra ye before morning." "anything i can do for you?" asked jimmy, tightening his old red neck scarf. "yes," answered dannie. "do your errand and start straight home, your teeth are chattering noo. a little more exposure, and the rheumatism will be grinding ye again. ye will hurry, jimmy?" "sure!" cried jimmy, ducking under a snow slide, and breaking into a whistle as he turned toward the road. dannie's gaze followed jimmy's retreating figure until he climbed the bank, and was lost in the woods, and the light in his eyes was the light of love. he glanced at the sky, and hurried down the river. first across to jimmy's side to gather his rats and reset his traps, then to his own. but luck seemed to have turned, for all the rest of dannie's were full, and all of jimmy's were empty. but as he was gone, it was not necessary for dannie to slip across and fill them, as was his custom when they worked together. he would divide the rats at skinning time, so that jimmy would have just twice as many as he, because jimmy had a wife to support. the last trap of the line lay a little below the curve of horseshoe bend, and there dannie twisted the tops of the bags together, climbed the bank, and struck across rainbow bottom. he settled his load to his shoulders, and glanced ahead to choose the shortest route. he stopped suddenly with a quick intake of breath. "god!" he cried reverently. "hoo beautifu' are thy works." the ice-covered wabash circled rainbow bottom like a broad white frame, and inside it was a perfect picture wrought in crystal white and snow shadows. the blanket on the earth lay smoothly in even places, rose with knolls, fell with valleys, curved over prostrate logs, heaped in mounds where bushes grew thickly, and piled high in drifts where the wind blew free. in the shelter of the bottom the wind had not stripped the trees of their loads as it had those along the river. the willows, maples, and soft woods bent almost to earth with their shining burden; but the stout, stiffly upstanding trees, the oaks, elms, and cottonwoods defied the elements to bow their proud heads. while the three mighty trunks of the great sycamore in the middle looked white as the snow, and dwarfed its companions as it never had in summer; its wide-spreading branches were sharply cut against the blue background, and they tossed their frosted balls in the face of heaven. the giant of rainbow bottom might be broken, but it never would bend. every clambering vine, every weed and dried leaf wore a coat of lace-webbed frostwork. the wind swept a mist of tiny crystals through the air, and from the shelter of the deep woods across the river a cardinal whistled gayly. the bird of good cheer, whistling no doubt on an empty crop, made dannie think of jimmy, and his unfailing fountain of mirth. dear jimmy! would he ever take life seriously? how good he was to tramp to town and back after five miles on the ice. he thought of mary with almost a touch of impatience. what did the woman want that was so necessary as to send a man to town after a day on the ice? jimmy would be dog tired when he got home. dannie decided to hurry, and do the feeding and get in the wood before he began to skin the rats. he found walking uncertain. he plunged into unsuspected hollows, and waded drifts, so that he was panting when he reached the lane. from there he caught the gray curl of smoke against the sky from one of two log cabins side by side at the top of the embankment, and he almost ran toward them. mary might think they were late at the traps, and be out doing the feeding, and it would be cold for a woman. on reaching his own door, he dropped the rat bags inside, and then hurried to the yard of the other cabin. he gathered a big load of wood in his arms, and stamping the snow from his feet, called "open!" at the door. dannie stepped inside and filled the empty box. with smiling eyes he turned to mary, as he brushed the snow and moss from his sleeves. "nothing but luck to-day," he said. "jimmy took elivin fine skins frae his traps before he started to town, and i got five more that are his, and i hae eight o' my own." mary looked such a dream to dannie, standing there all pink and warm and tidy in her fresh blue dress, that he blinked and smiled, half bewildered. "what did jimmy go to town for?" she asked. "whatever it was ye wanted," answered dannie. "what was it i wanted?" persisted mary. "he dinna tell me," replied dannie, and the smile wavered. "me, either," said mary, and she stooped and picked up her sewing. dannie went out and gently closed the door. he stood for a second on the step, forcing himself to take an inventory of the work. there were the chickens to feed, and the cows to milk, feed, and water. both the teams must be fed and bedded, a fire in his own house made, and two dozen rats skinned, and the skins put to stretch and cure. and at the end of it all, instead of a bed and rest, there was every probability that he must drive to town after jimmy; for jimmy could get helpless enough to freeze in a drift on a dollar sixty-five. "oh, jimmy, jimmy!" muttered dannie. "i wish ye wadna." and he was not thinking of himself, but of the eyes of the woman inside. so dannie did all the work, and cooked his supper, because he never ate in jimmy's cabin when jimmy was not there. then he skinned rats, and watched the clock, because if jimmy did not come by eleven, it meant he must drive to town and bring him home. no wonder jimmy chilled at the trapping when he kept his blood on fire with whiskey. at half-past ten, dannie, with scarcely half the rats finished, went out into the storm and hitched to the single buggy. then he tapped at mary malone's door, quite softly, so that he would not disturb her if she had gone to bed. she was not sleeping, however, and the loneliness of her slight figure, as she stood with the lighted room behind her, struck dannie forcibly, so that his voice trembled with pity as he said: "mary, i've run out o' my curing compound juist in the midst of skinning the finest bunch o' rats we've taken frae the traps this winter. i am going to drive to town fra some more before the stores close, and we will be back in less than an hour. i thought i'd tell ye, so if ye wanted me ye wad know why i dinna answer. ye winna be afraid, will ye?" "no," replied mary, "i won't be afraid." "bolt the doors, and pile on plenty of wood to keep ye warm," said dannie as he turned away. just for a minute mary stared out into the storm. then a gust of wind nearly swept her from her feet, and she pushed the door shut, and slid the heavy bolt into place. for a little while she leaned and listened to the storm outside. she was a clean, neat, beautiful irish woman. her eyes were wide and blue, her cheeks pink, and her hair black and softly curling about her face and neck. the room in which she stood was neat as its keeper. the walls were whitewashed, and covered with prints, pictures, and some small tanned skins. dried grasses and flowers filled the vases on the mantle. the floor was neatly carpeted with a striped rag carpet, and in the big open fireplace a wood fire roared. in an opposite corner stood a modern cooking stove, the pipe passing through a hole in the wall, and a door led into a sleeping room beyond. as her eyes swept the room they rested finally on a framed lithograph of the virgin, with the infant in her arms. slowly mary advanced, her gaze fast on the serene pictured face of the mother clasping her child. before it she stood staring. suddenly her breast began to heave, and the big tears brimmed from her eyes and slid down her cheeks. "since you look so wise, why don't you tell me why?" she demanded. "oh, if you have any mercy, tell me why!" then before the steady look in the calm eyes, she hastily made the sign of the cross, and slipping to the floor, she laid her head on a chair, and sobbed aloud. chapter ii ruben o'khayam and the milk pail jimmy malone, carrying a shinning tin milk pail, stepped into casey's saloon and closed the door behind him. "e' much as wine has played the infidel, and robbed me of my robe of honor--well, i wonder what the vinters buy one-half so precious as the stuff they sell." jimmy stared at the back of a man leaning against the bar, and gazing lovingly at a glass of red wine, as he recited in mellow, swinging tones. gripping the milk pail, jimmy advanced a step. the man stuck a thumb in the belt of his norfolk jacket, and the verses flowed on: "the grape that can with logic absolute the two and seventy jarring sects confute: the sovereign alchemist that in a trice life's leaden metal into gold transmute." jimmy's mouth fell open, and he slowly nodded indorsement of the sentiment. the man lifted his glass. "ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, before we too into the dust descend; yesterday this day's madness did prepare; to-morrow's silence, triumph, or despair: drink! for you know not whence you came nor why: drink! for you know not why you go nor where." jimmy set the milk pail on the bar and faced the man. "'fore god, that's the only sensible word i ever heard on my side of the quistion in all me life. and to think that it should come from the mouth of a man wearing such a go-to-hell coat!" jimmy shoved the milk pail in front of the stranger. "in the name of humanity, impty yourself of that," he said. "fill me pail with the stuff and let me take it home to mary. she's always got the bist of the argumint, but i'm thinkin' that would cork her. you won't?" questioned jimmy resentfully. "kape it to yoursilf, thin, like you did your wine." he shoved the bucket toward the barkeeper, and emptied his pocket on the bar. "there, casey, you be the sovereign alchemist, and transmute that metal into melwood pretty quick, for i've not wet me whistle in three days, and the belly of me is filled with burnin' autumn leaves. gimme a loving cup, and come on boys, this is on me while it lasts." the barkeeper swept the coin into the till, picked up the bucket, and started back toward a beer keg. "oh, no you don't!" cried jimmy. "come back here and count that 'leaden metal,' and then be transmutin' it into whiskey straight, the purest gold you got. you don't drown out a three-days' thirst with beer. you ought to give me 'most two quarts for that." the barkeeper was wise. he knew that what jimmy started would go on with men who could pay, and he filled the order generously. jimmy picked up the pail. he dipped a small glass in the liquor, and held near an ounce aloft. "i wonder what the vinters buy one-half so precious as the stuff they sell?" he quoted. "down goes!" and he emptied the glass at a draft. then he walked to the group at the stove, and began dipping a drink for each. when jimmy came to a gray-haired man, with a high forehead and an intellectual face, he whispered: "take your full time, cap. who's the rhymin' inkybator?" "thread man, boston," mouthed the captain, as he reached for the glass with trembling fingers. jimmy held on. "do you know that stuff he's giving off?" the captain nodded, and rose to his feet. he always declared he could feel it farther if he drank standing. "what's his name?" whispered jimmy, releasing the glass. "rubaiyat, omar khayyam," panted the captain, and was lost. jimmy finished the round of his friends, and then approached the bar. his voice was softening. "mister ruben o'khayam," he said, "it's me private opinion that ye nade lace-trimmed pantalettes and a sash to complate your costume, but barrin' clothes, i'm entangled in the thrid of your discourse. bein' a boston man meself, it appeals to me, that i detict the refinemint of the east in yer voice. now these, me frinds, that i've just been tratin', are men of these parts; but we of the middle east don't set up to equal the culture of the extreme east. so, mr. o'khayam, solely for the benefit you might be to us, i'm askin' you to join me and me frinds in the momenchous initiation of me new milk pail." jimmy lifted a brimming glass, and offered it to the thread man. "do you transmute?" he asked. now if the boston man had looked jimmy in the eye, and said "i do," this book would not have been written. but he did not. he looked at the milk pail, and the glass, which had passed through the hands of a dozen men in a little country saloon away out in the wilds of indiana, and said: "i do not care to partake of further refreshment; if i can be of intellectual benefit, i might remain for a time." for a flash jimmy lifted the five feet ten of his height to six; but in another he shrank below normal. what appeared to the thread man to be a humble, deferential seeker after wisdom, led him to one of the chairs around the big coal base burner. but the boys who knew jimmy were watching the whites of his eyes, as they drank the second round. at this stage jimmy was on velvet. how long he remained there depended on the depth of melwood in the milk pail between his knees. he smiled winningly on the thread man. "ye know, mister o'khayam," he said, "at the present time you are located in one of the wooliest parts of the wild east. i don't suppose anything woolier could be found on the plains of nebraska where i am reliably informed they've stuck up a pole and labeled it the cinter of the united states. being a thousand miles closer that pole than you are in boston, naturally we come by that distance closer to the great wool industry. most of our wool here grows on our tongues, and we shear it by this transmutin' process, concerning which you have discoursed so beautiful. but barrin' the shearin' of our wool, we are the mildest, most sheepish fellows you could imagine. i don't reckon now there is a man among us who could be induced to blat or to butt, under the most tryin' circumstances. my mary's got a little lamb, and all the rist of the boys are lambs. but all the lambs are waned, and clusterin' round the milk pail. ain't that touchin'? come on, now, ruben, ile up and edify us some more!" "on what point do you seek enlightenment?" inquired the thread man. jimmy stretched his long legs, and spat against the stove in pure delight. "oh, you might loosen up on the work of a man," he suggested. "these lambs of casey's fold may larn things from you to help thim in the striss of life. now here's jones, for instance, he's holdin' togither a gang of sixty gibbering atalyans; any wan of thim would cut his throat and skip in the night for a dollar, but he kapes the beast in thim under, and they're gettin' out gravel for the bed of a railway. bingham there is oil. he's punchin' the earth full of wan thousand foot holes, and sendin' off two hundred quarts of nitroglycerine at the bottom of them, and pumpin' the accumulation across continents to furnish folks light and hate. york here is runnin' a field railway between bluffton and celina, so that i can get to the river and the resurvoir to fish without walkin'. haines is bossin' a crew of forty canadians and he's takin' the timber from the woods hereabouts, and sending it to be made into boats to carry stuff across sea. meself, and me partner, dannie micnoun, are the lady-likest lambs in the bunch. we grow grub to feed folks in summer and trap for skins to cover 'em in winter. corn is our great commodity. plowin' and hoein' it in summer, and huskin' it in the fall is sich lamb-like work. but don't mintion it in the same brith with tendin' our four dozen fur traps on a twenty-below-zero day. freezing hands and fate, and fallin' into air bubbles, and building fires to thaw out our frozen grub. now here among us poor little, transmutin', lambs you come, a raging lion, ripresentin' the cultour and rayfinement of the far east. by the pleats on your breast you show us the style. by the thrid case in your hand you furnish us material so that our women can tuck their petticoats so fancy, and by the book in your head you teach us your sooperiority. by the same token, i wish i had that book in me head, for i could just squelch dannie and mary with it complate. say, mister o'khayam, next time you come this way bring me a copy. i'm wantin' it bad. i got what you gave off all secure, but i take it there's more. no man goin' at that clip could shut off with thim few lines. do you know the rist?" the thread man knew the most of it, and although he was very uncomfortable, he did not know just how to get away, so he recited it. the milk pail was empty now, and jimmy had almost forgotten that it was a milk pail, and seemed inclined to resent the fact that it had gone empty. he beat time on the bottom of it, and frequently interrupted the thread man to repeat a couplet which particularly suited him. by and by he got to his feet and began stepping off a slow dance to a sing-song repetition of lines that sounded musical to him, all the time marking the measures vigorously on the pail. when he tired of a couplet, he pounded the pail over the bar, stove, or chairs in encore, until the thread man could think up another to which he could dance. "wine! wine! wine! red wine! the nightingale cried to the rose," chanted jimmy, thumping the pail in time, and stepping off the measures with feet that scarcely seemed to touch the floor. he flung his hat to the barkeeper, and his coat on a chair, ruffled his fingers through his thick auburn hair, and holding the pail under one arm, he paused, panting for breath and begging for more. the thread man sat on the edge of his chair, and the eyes he fastened on jimmy were beginning to fill with interest. "come fill the cup and in the fire of spring your winter-garment of repentance fling. the bird of time has but a little way to flutter and the bird is on the wing." smash came the milk pail across the bar. "hooray!" shouted jimmy. "besht yet!" bang! bang! he was off. "ird ish on the wing," he chanted, and his feet flew. "come fill the cup, and in the firesh of spring--firesh of spring, bird ish on the wing!" between the music of the milk pail, the brogue of the panted verses, and the grace of jimmy's flying feet, the thread man was almost prostrate. it suddenly came to him that here might be a chance to have a great time. "more!" gasped jimmy. "me some more!" the thread man wiped his eyes. "wether the cup with sweet or bitter run, the wine of life keeps oozing drop by drop, the leaves of life keep falling one by one." away went jimmy. "swate or bitter run, laves of life kape falling one by one." bang! bang! sounded a new improvision on the sadly battered pail, and to a new step jimmy flashed back and forth the length of the saloon. at last he paused to rest a second. "one more! just one more!" he begged. "a book of verses underneath the bough, a jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou beside me singing in the wilderness. oh, wilderness were paradise enough!" jimmy's head dropped an instant. his feet slowly shuffled in improvising a new step, and then he moved away, thumping the milk pail and chanting: "a couple of fish poles underneath a tree, a bottle of rye and dannie beside me a fishing in the wabash. were the wabash paradise? hully gee! tired out, he dropped across a chair facing the back and folded his arms. he regained breath to ask the thread man: "did you iver have a frind?" he had reached the confidential stage. the boston man was struggling to regain his dignity. he retained the impression that at the wildest of the dance he had yelled and patted time for jimmy. "i hope i have a host of friends," he said, settling his pleated coat. "damn hosht!" said jimmy. "jisht in way. now i got one frind, hosht all by himself. be here pretty soon now. alwaysh comesh nights like thish." "comes here?" inquired the thread man. "am i to meet another interesting character?" "yesh, comesh here. comesh after me. comesh like the clock sthriking twelve. don't he, boys?" inquired jimmy. "but he ain't no interesting character. jisht common man, dannie is. honest man. never told a lie in his life. yesh, he did, too. i forgot. he liesh for me. jish liesh and liesh. liesh to mary. tells her any old liesh to keep me out of schrape. you ever have frind hish up and drive ten milesh for you night like thish, and liesh to get you out of schrape?" "i never needed any one to lie and get me out of a scrape," answered the thread man. jimmy sat straight and solemnly batted his eyes. "gee! you musht misshed mosht the fun!" he said. "me, i ain't ever misshed any. always in schrape. but dannie getsh me out. good old dannie. jish like dog. take care me all me life. see? old folks come on same boat. women get thick. shettle beside. build cabinsh together. work together, and domn if they didn't get shmall pox and die together. left me and dannie. so we work together jish shame, and we fallsh in love with the shame girl. dannie too slow. i got her." jimmy wiped away great tears. "how did you get her, jimmy?" asked a man who remembered a story. "how the nation did i get her?" jimmy scratched his head, and appealed to the thread man. "dannie besht man. milesh besht man! never lie--'cept for me. never drink--'cept for me. alwaysh save his money--'cept for me. milesh besht man! isn't he besht man, spooley?" "ain't it true that you served dannie a mean little trick?" asked the man who remembered. jimmy wasn't quite drunk enough, and the violent exercise of the dance somewhat sobered him. he glared at the man. "whatsh you talkin' about?" he demanded. "i'm just asking you," said the man, "why, if you played straight with dannie about the girl, you never have had the face to go to confession since you married her." "alwaysh send my wife," said jimmy grandly. "domsh any woman that can't confiss enough for two!" then he hitched his chair closer to the thread man, and grew more confidential. "shee here," he said. "firsht i see your pleated coat, didn't like. but head's all right. great head! sthuck on frillsh there! want to be let in on something? got enough city, clubsh, an' all that? want to taste real thing? lesh go coon huntin'. theysh tree down canoper, jish short pleashant walk, got fify coons in it! nobody knowsh the tree but me, shee? been good to ush boys. sat on same kind of chairs we do. educate ush up lot. know mosht that poetry till i die, shee? 'wonner wash vinters buy, halfsh precious ash sthuff shell,' shee? i got it! let you in on real thing. take grand big coon skinch back to boston with you. ringsh on tail. make wife fine muff, or fur trimmingsh. good to till boysh at club about, shee?" "are you asking me to go on a coon hunt with you?" demanded the thread man. "when? where?" "corshally invited," answered jimmy. "to-morrow night. canoper. show you plashe. bill duke's dogs. my gunsh. moonsh shinin'. dogs howlin'. shnow flying! fify coonsh rollin' out one hole! shoot all dead! take your pick! tan skin for you myself! roaring big firesh warm by. bag finesh sandwiches ever tasted. milk pail pure gold drink. no stop, slop out going over bridge. take jug. big jug. toss her up an' let her gurgle. dogsh bark. fire pop. guns bang. fifty coons drop. boysh all go. want to get more education. takes culture to get woolsh off. shay, will you go?" "i wouldn't miss it for a thousand dollars," said the thread man. "but what will i say to my house for being a day late?" "shay gotter grip," suggested jimmy. "never too late to getter grip. will you all go, boysh?" there were not three men in the saloon who knew of a tree that had contained a coon that winter, but jimmy was jimmy, and to be trusted for an expedition of that sort; and all of them agreed to be at the saloon ready for the hunt at nine o'clock the next night. the thread man felt that he was going to see life. he immediately invited the boys to the bar to drink to the success of the hunt. "you shoot own coon yourself," offered the magnanimous jimmy. "you may carrysh my gunsh, take first shot. first shot to missher o'khayam, boysh, 'member that. shay, can you hit anything? take a try now." jimmy reached behind him, and shoved a big revolver into the hand of the thread man. "whersh target?" he demanded. as he turned from the bar, the milk pail which he still carried under his arm caught on an iron rod. jimmy gave it a jerk, and ripped the rim from the bottom. "thish do," he said. "splendid marksh. shinesh jish like coon's eyesh in torch light." he carried the pail to the back wall and hung it over a nail. the nail was straight, and the pail flaring. the pail fell. jimmy kicked it across the room, and then gathered it up, and drove a dent in it with his heel that would hold over the nail. then he went back to the thread man. "theresh mark, ruben. blash away!" he said. the boston man hesitated. "whatsh the matter? cansh shoot off nothing but your mouth?" demanded jimmy. he caught the revolver and fired three shots so rapidly that the sounds came almost as one. two bullets pierced the bottom of the pail, and the other the side as it fell. the door opened, and with the rush of cold air jimmy gave just one glance toward it, and slid the revolver into his pocket, reached for his hat, and started in the direction of his coat. "glad to see you, micnoun," he said. "if you are goingsh home, i'll jish ride out with you. good night, boysh. don't forgetsh the coon hunt," and jimmy was gone. a minute later the door opened again, and this time a man of nearly forty stepped inside. he had a manly form, and a manly face, was above the average in looks, and spoke with a slight scotch accent. "do any of ye boys happen to know what it was jimmy had with him when he came in here?" a roar of laughter greeted the query. the thread man picked up the pail. as he handed it to dannie, he said: "mr. malone said he was initiating a new milk pail, but i am afraid he has overdone the job." "thank ye," said dannie, and taking the battered thing, he went out into the night. jimmy was asleep when he reached the buggy. dannie had long since found it convenient to have no fence about his dooryard. he drove to the door, dragged jimmy from the buggy, and stabled the horse. by hard work he removed jimmy's coat and boots, laid him across the bed, and covered him. then he grimly looked at the light in the next cabin. "why doesna she go to bed?" he said. he summoned courage, and crossing the space between the two buildings, he tapped on the window. "it's me, mary," he called. "the skins are only half done, and jimmy is going to help me finish. he will come over in the morning. ye go to bed. ye needna be afraid. we will hear ye if ye even snore." there was no answer, but by a movement in the cabin dannie knew that mary was still dressed and waiting. he started back, but for an instant, heedless of the scurrying snow and biting cold, he faced the sky. "i wonder if ye have na found a glib tongue and light feet the least part o' matrimony," he said. "why in god's name couldna ye have married me? i'd like to know why." as he closed the door, the cold air roused jimmy. "dannie," he said, "donsh forget the milk pail. all 'niciate good now." chapter iii the fifty coons of the canoper near noon of the next day, jimmy opened his eyes and stretched himself on dannie's bed. it did not occur to him that he was sprawled across it in such a fashion that if dannie had any sleep that night, he had taken it on chairs before the fireplace. at first jimmy decided that he had a head on him, and would turn over and go back where he came from. then he thought of the coon hunt, and sitting on the edge of the bed he laughed, as he looked about for his boots. "i am glad ye are feeling so fine," said dannie at the door, in a relieved voice. "i had a notion that ye wad be crosser than a badger when ye came to." jimmy laughed on. "what's the fun?" inquired dannie. jimmy thought hard a minute. here was one instance where the truth would serve better than any invention, so he virtuously told dannie all about it. dannie thought of the lonely little woman next door, and rebelled. "but, jimmy!" he cried, "ye canna be gone all nicht again. it's too lonely fra mary, and there's always a chance i might sleep sound and wadna hear if she should be sick or need ye." "then she can just yell louder, or come after you, or get well, for i am going, see? he was a thrid peddler in a dinky little pleated coat, dannie. he laid up against the counter with his feet crossed at a dancing-girl angle. but i will say for him that he was running at the mouth with the finest flow of language i iver heard. i learned a lot of it, and cap knows the stuff, and i'm goin' to have him get you the book. but, dannie, he wouldn't drink with us, but he stayed to iducate us up a little. that little spool man, dannie, iducatin' jones of the gravel gang, and bingham of the standard, and york of the 'lectric railway, and haines of the timber gang, not to mintion the champeen rat-catcher of the wabash." jimmy hugged himself, and rocked on the edge of the bed. "oh, i can just see it, dannie," he cried. "i can just see it now! i was pretty drunk, but i wasn't too drunk to think of it, and it came to me sudden like." dannie stared at jimmy wide-eyed, while he explained the details, and then he too began to laugh, and the longer he laughed the funnier it grew. "i've got to start," said jimmy. "i've an awful afternoon's work. i must find him some rubber boots. he's to have the inestimable privilege of carryin' me gun, dannie, and have the first shot at the coons, fifty, i'm thinkin' i said. and if i don't put some frills on his cute little coat! oh, dannie, it will break the heart of me if he don't wear that pleated coat!" dannie wiped his eyes. "come on to the kitchen," he said, "i've something ready fra ye to eat. wash, while i dish it." "i wish to heaven you were a woman, dannie," said jimmy. "a fellow could fall in love with you, and marry you with some satisfaction. crimminy, but i'm hungry!" jimmy ate greedily, and dannie stepped about setting the cabin to rights. it lacked many feminine touches that distinguished jimmy's as the abode of a woman; but it was neat and clean, and there seemed to be a place where everything belonged. "now, i'm off," said jimmy, rising. "i'll take your gun, because i ain't goin' to see mary till i get back." "oh, jimmy, dinna do that!" pleaded dannie. "i want my gun. go and get your own, and tell her where ye are going and what ye are going to do. she'd feel less lonely." "i know how she would feel better than you do," retorted jimmy. "i am not going. if you won't give me your gun, i'll borrow one; or have all my fun spoiled." dannie took down the shining gun and passed it over. jimmy instantly relented. he smiled an old boyish smile, that always caught dannie in his softest spot. "you are the bist frind i have on earth, dannie," he said winsomely. "you are a man worth tying to. by gum, there's nothing i wouldn't do for you! now go on, like the good fellow you are, and fix it up with mary." so dannie started for the wood pile. in summer he could stand outside and speak through the screen. in winter he had to enter the cabin for errands like this, and as jimmy's wood box was as heavily weighted on his mind as his own, there was nothing unnatural in his stamping snow on jimmy's back stoop, and calling "open!" to mary at any hour of the day he happened to be passing the wood pile. he stood at a distance, and patiently waited until a gray and black nut-hatch that foraged on the wood covered all the new territory discovered by the last disturbance of the pile. from loosened bark dannie watched the bird take several good-sized white worms and a few dormant ants. as it flew away he gathered an armload of wood. he was very careful to clean his feet on the stoop, place the wood without tearing the neat covering of wall paper, and brush from his coat the snow and moss so that it fell in the box. he had heard mary tell the careless jimmy to do all these things, and dannie knew that they saved her work. there was a whiteness on her face that morning that startled him, and long after the last particle of moss was cleaned from his sleeve he bent over the box trying to get something said. the cleaning took such a length of time that the glint of a smile crept into the grave eyes of the woman, and the grim line of her lips softened. "don't be feeling so badly about it, dannie," she said. "i could have told you when you went after him last night that he would go back as soon as he wakened to-day. i know he is gone. i watched him lave." dannie brushed the other sleeve, on which there had been nothing at the start, and answered: "noo, dinna ye misjudge him, mary. he's goin' to a coon hunt to-nicht. dinna ye see him take my gun?" this evidence so bolstered dannie that he faced mary with confidence. "there's a traveling man frae boston in town, mary, and he was edifying the boys a little, and jimmy dinna like it. he's going to show him a little country sport to-nicht to edify him." dannie outlined the plan of jimmy's campaign. despite disapproval, and a sore heart, mary malone had to smile--perhaps as much over dannie's eagerness in telling what was contemplated as anything. "why don't you take jimmy's gun and go yoursilf?" she asked. "you haven't had a day off since fishing was over." "but i have the work to do," replied dannie, "and i couldna leave--" he broke off abruptly, but the woman supplied the word. "why can't you lave me, if jimmy can? i'm not afraid. the snow and the cold will furnish me protiction to-night. there'll be no one to fear. why should you do jimmy's work, and miss the sport, to guard the thing he holds so lightly?" the red flushed dannie's cheeks. mary never before had spoken like that. he had to say something for jimmy quickly, and quickness was not his forte. his lips opened, but nothing came; for as jimmy had boasted, dannie never lied, except for him, and at those times he had careful preparation before he faced mary. now, he was overtaken unawares. he looked so boyish in his confusion, the mother in mary's heart was touched. "i'll till you what we'll do, dannie," she said. "you tind the stock, and get in wood enough so that things won't be frazin' here; and then you hitch up and i'll go with you to town, and stay all night with mrs. dolan. you can put the horse in my sister's stable, and whin you and jimmy get back, you'll be tired enough that you'll be glad to ride home. a visit with katie will be good for me; i have been blue the last few days, and i can see you are just aching to go with the boys. isn't that a fine plan?" "i should say that is a guid plan," answered the delighted dannie. anything to save mary another night alone was good, and then--that coon hunt did sound alluring. and that was how it happened that at nine o'clock that night, just as arrangements were being completed at casey's, dannie macnoun stepped into the group and said to the astonished jimmy: "mary wanted to come to her sister's over nicht, so i fixed everything, and i'm going to the coon hunt, too, if you boys want me." the crowd closed around dannie, patted his back and cheered him, and he was introduced to mister o'khayam, of boston, who tried to drown the clamor enough to tell what his name really was, "in case of accident"; but he couldn't be heard for jimmy yelling that a good old irish name like o'khayam couldn't be beat in case of anything. and dannie took a hasty glance at the thread man, to see if he wore that hated pleated coat, which lay at the bottom of jimmy's anger. then they started. casey's wife was to be left in charge of the saloon, and the thread man half angered casey by a whispered conversation with her in a corner. jimmy cut his crowd as low as he possibly could, but it numbered fifteen men, and no one counted the dogs. jimmy led the way, the thread man beside him, and the crowd followed. the walking would be best to follow the railroad to the canoper, and also they could cross the railroad bridge over the river and save quite a distance. jimmy helped the thread man into a borrowed overcoat and mittens, and loaded him with a twelve-pound gun, and they started. jimmy carried a torch, and as torch bearer he was a rank failure, for he had a careless way of turning it and flashing it into people's faces that compelled them to jump to save themselves. where the track lay clear and straight ahead the torch seemed to light it like day; but in dark places it was suddenly lowered or wavering somewhere else. it was through this carelessness of jimmy's that at the first cattle-guard north of the village the torch flickered backward, ostensibly to locate dannie, and the thread man went crashing down between the iron bars, and across the gun. instantly jimmy sprawled on top of him, and the next two men followed suit. the torch plowed into the snow and went out, and the yells of jimmy alarmed the adjoining village. he was hurt the worst of all, and the busiest getting in marching order again. "howly smoke!" he panted. "i was havin' the time of me life, and plum forgot that cow-kitcher. thought it was a quarter of a mile away yet. and liked to killed meself with me carelessness. but that's always the way in true sport. you got to take the knocks with the fun." no one asked the thread man if he was hurt, and he did not like to seem unmanly by mentioning a skinned shin, when jimmy malone seemed to have bursted most of his inside; so he shouldered his gun and limped along, now slightly in the rear of jimmy. the river bridge was a serious matter with its icy coat, and danger of specials, and the torches suddenly flashed out from all sides; and the thread man gave thanks for dannie macnoun, who reached him a steady hand across the ties. the walk was three miles, and the railroad lay at from twenty to thirty feet elevation along the river and through the bottom land. the boston man would have been thankful for the light, but as the last man stepped from the ties of the bridge all the torches went out save one. jimmy explained they simply had to save them so that they could see where the coon fell when they began to shake the coon tree. just beside the water tank, and where the embankment was twenty feet sheer, jimmy was cautioning the boston man to look out, when the hunter next behind him gave a wild yell and plunged into his back. jimmy's grab for him seemed more a push than a pull, and the three rolled to the bottom, and half way across the flooded ditch. the ditch was frozen over, but they were shaken, and smothered in snow. the whole howling party came streaming down the embankment. dannie held aloft his torch and discovered jimmy lying face down in a drift, making no effort to rise, and the thread man feebly tugging at him and imploring some one to come and help get malone out. then dannie slunk behind the others and yelled until he was tired. by and by jimmy allowed himself to be dragged out. "who the thunder was that come buttin' into us?" he blustered. "i don't allow no man to butt into me when i'm on an imbankmint. send the fool back here till i kill him." the thread man was pulling at jimmy's arm. "don't mind, jimmy," he gasped. "it was an accident! the man slipped. this is an awful place. i will be glad when we reach the woods. i'll feel safer with ground that's holding up trees under my feet. come on, now! are we not almost there? should we not keep quiet from now on? will we not alarm the coons?" "sure," said jimmy. "boys, don't hollo so much. every blamed coon will be scared out of its hollow!" "amazing!" said the thread man. "how clever! came on the spur of the moment. i must remember that to tell the club. do not hollo. scare the coon out of its hollow!" "oh, i do miles of things like that," said jimmy dryly, "and mostly i have to do thim before the spur of the moment; because our moments go so domn fast out here mighty few of thim have time to grow their spurs before they are gone. here's where we turn. now, boys, they've been trying to get this biler across the tracks here, and they've broke the ice. the water in this ditch is three feet deep and freezing cold. they've stuck getting the biler over, but i wonder if we can't cross on it, and hit the wood beyond. maybe we can walk it." jimmy set a foot on the ice-covered boiler, howled, and fell back on the men behind him. "jimminy crickets, we niver can do that!" he yelled. "it's a glare of ice and roundin'. let's crawl through it! the rist of you can get through if i can. we'd better take off our overcoats, to make us smaller. we can roll thim into a bundle, and the last man can pull it through behind him." jimmy threw off his coat and entered the wrecked oil engine. he knew how to hobble through on his toes, but the pleated coat of the boston man, who tried to pass through by stooping, got almost all jimmy had in store for it. jimmy came out all right with a shout. the thread man did not step half so far, and landed knee deep in the icy oil-covered slush of the ditch. that threw him off his balance, and jimmy let him sink one arm in the pool, and then grabbed him, and scooped oil on his back with the other hand as he pulled. during the excitement and struggles of jimmy and the thread man, the rest of the party jumped the ditch and gathered about, rubbing soot and oil on the boston man, and he did not see how they crossed. jimmy continued to rub oil and soot into the hated coat industriously. the dogs leaped the ditch, and the instant they struck the woods broke away baying over fresh tracks. the men yelled like mad. jimmy struggled into his overcoat, and helped the almost insane boston man into his and then they hurried after the dogs. the scent was so new and clear the dogs simply raged. the thread man was wild, jimmy was wilder, and the thirteen contributed all they could for laughing. dannie forgot to be ashamed of himself and followed the example of the crowd. deeper and deeper into the wild, swampy canoper led the chase. with a man on either side to guide him into the deepest holes and to shove him into bushy thickets, the skinned, soot-covered, oil-coated boston man toiled and sweated. he had no time to think, the excitement was so intense. he scrambled out of each pitfall set for him, and plunged into the next with such uncomplaining bravery that dannie very shortly grew ashamed, and crowding up beside him he took the heavy gun and tried to protect him all he could without falling under the eye of jimmy, who was keeping close watch on the boston man. wild yelling told that the dogs had treed, and with shaking fingers the thread man pulled off the big mittens he wore and tried to lift the gun. jimmy flashed a torch, and sure enough, in the top of a medium hickory tree, the light was reflected in streams from the big shining eyes of a coon. "treed!" yelled jimmy frantically. "treed! and big as an elephant. company's first shot. here, mister o'khayam, here's a good place to stand. gee, what luck! coon in sight first thing, and mellen's food coon at that! shoot, mister o'khayam, shoot!" the thread man lifted the wavering gun, but it was no use. "tell you what, ruben," said jimmy. "you are too tired to shoot straight. let's take a rist, and ate our lunch. then we'll cut down the tree and let the dogs get cooney. that way there won't be any shot marks in his skin. what do you say? is that a good plan?" they all said that was the proper course, so they built a fire, and placed the thread man where he could see the gleaming eyes of the frightened coon, and where all of them could feast on his soot and oil-covered face. then they opened the bag and passed the sandwiches. "i really am hungry," said the weary thread man, biting into his with great relish. his jaws moved once or twice experimentally, and then he lifted his handkerchief to his lips. "i wish 'twas as big as me head," said jimmy, taking a great bite, and then he began to curse uproariously. "what ails the things?" inquired dannie, ejecting a mouthful. and then all of them began to spit birdshot, and started an inquest simultaneously. jimmy raged. he swore some enemy had secured the bag and mined the feast; but the boys who knew him laughed until it seemed the thread man must suspect. he indignantly declared it was a dirty trick. by the light of the fire he knelt and tried to free one of the sandwiches from its sprinkling of birdshot, so that it would be fit for poor jimmy, who had worked so hard to lead them there and tree the coon. for the first time jimmy looked thoughtful. but the sight of the thread man was too much for him, and a second later he was thrusting an ax into the hands accustomed to handling a thread case. then he led the way to the tree, and began chopping at the green hickory. it was slow work, and soon the perspiration streamed. jimmy pulled off his coat and threw it aside. he assisted the thread man out of his and tossed it behind him. the coat alighted in the fire, and was badly scorched before it was rescued. but the thread man was game. fifty times that night it had been said that he was to have the first coon, of course he should work for it. so with the ax with which casey chopped ice for his refrigerator, the boston man banged against the hickory, and swore to himself because he could not make the chips fly as jimmy did. "iverybody clear out!" cried jimmy. "number one is coming down. get the coffee sack ready. baste cooney over the head and shove him in before the dogs tear the skin. we want a dandy big pelt out of this!" there was a crack, and the tree fell with a crash. all the boston man could see was that from a tumbled pile of branches, dogs, and men, some one at last stepped back, gripping a sack, and cried: "got it all right, and it's a buster." "now for the other forty-nine!" shouted jimmy, straining into his coat. "come on, boys, we must secure a coon for every one," cried the thread man, heartily as any member of the party might have said it. but the rest of the boys suddenly grew tired. they did not want any coons, and after some persuasion the party agreed to go back to casey's to warm up. the thread man got into his scorched, besooted, oil-smeared coat, and the overcoat which had been loaned him, and shouldered the gun. jimmy hesitated. but dannie came up to the boston man and said: "there's a place in my shoulder that gun juist fits, and it's lonesome without it. pass it over." only the sorely bruised and strained thread man knew how glad he was to let it go. it was dannie, too, who whispered to the thread man to keep close behind him; and when the party trudged back to casey's it was so surprising how much better he knew the way going back than jimmy had known it coming out, that the thread man did remark about it. but jimmy explained that after one had been out a few hours their eyes became accustomed to the darkness and they could see better. that was reasonable, for the thread man knew it was true in his own experience. so they got back to casey's, and found a long table set, and a steaming big oyster supper ready for them; and that explained the thread man's conference with mrs. casey. he took the head of the table, with his back to the wall, and placed jimmy on his right and dannie on his left. mrs. casey had furnished soap and towels, and at least part of the boston man's face was clean. the oysters were fine, and well cooked. the thread man recited more of the wonderful poem for dannie's benefit, and told jokes and stories. they laughed until they were so weak they could only pound the table to indicate how funny it was. and at the close, just as they were making a movement to rise, casey proposed that he bring in the coon, and let all of them get a good look at their night's work. the thread man applauded, and casey brought in the bag and shook it bottom up over the floor. therefrom there issued a poor, frightened, maltreated little pet coon of mrs. casey's, and it dexterously ran up casey's trouser leg and hid its nose in his collar, its chain dragging behind. and that was so funny the boys doubled over the table, and laughed and screamed until a sudden movement brought them to their senses. the thread man was on his feet, and his eyes were no laughing matter. he gripped his chair back, and leaned toward jimmy. "you walked me into that cattle-guard on purpose!" he cried. silence. "you led me into that boiler, and fixed the oil at the end!" no answer. "you mauled me all over the woods, and loaded those sandwiches yourself, and sored me for a week trying to chop down a tree with a pet coon chained in it! you----! you----! what had i done to you?" "you wouldn't drink with me, and i didn't like the domned, dinky, little pleated coat you wore," answered jimmy. one instant amazement held sway on the thread man's face; the next, "and damned if i like yours!" he cried, and catching up a bowl half filled with broth he flung it squarely into jimmy's face. jimmy, with a great oath, sprang at the boston man. but once in his life dannie was quick. for the only time on record he was ahead of jimmy, and he caught the uplifted fist in a grip that jimmy's use of whiskey and suffering from rheumatism had made his master. "steady--jimmy, wait a minute," panted dannie. "this mon is na even wi' ye yet. when every muscle in your body is strained, and every inch of it bruised, and ye are daubed wi' soot, and bedraggled in oil, and he's made ye the laughin' stock fra strangers by the hour, ye will be juist even, and ready to talk to him. every minute of the nicht he's proved himself a mon, and right now he's showed he's na coward. it's up to ye, jimmy. do it royal. be as much of a mon as he is. say ye are sorry!" one tense instant the two friends faced each other. then jimmy's fist unclenched, and his arms dropped. dannie stepped back, trying to breathe lightly, and it was between jimmy and the thread man. "i am sorry," said jimmy. "i carried my objictions to your wardrobe too far. if you'll let me, i'll clean you up. if you'll take it, i'll raise you the price of a new coat, but i'll be domn if i'll hilp put such a man as you are into another of the fiminine ginder." the thread man laughed, and shook jimmy's hand; and then jimmy proved why every one liked him by turning to dannie and taking his hand. "thank you, dannie," he said. "you sure hilped me to mesilf that time. if i'd hit him, i couldn't have hild up me head in the morning." chapter iv when the kingfisher and the black bass came home "crimminy, but you are slow." jimmy made the statement, not as one voices a newly discovered fact, but as one iterates a time-worn truism. he sat on a girder of the limberlost bridge, and scraped the black muck from his boots in a little heap. then he twisted a stick into the top of his rat sack, preparatory to his walk home. the ice had broken on the river, and now the partners had to separate at the bridge, each following his own line of traps to the last one, and return to the bridge so that jimmy could cross to reach home. jimmy was always waiting, after the river opened, and it was a remarkable fact to him that as soon as the ice was gone his luck failed him. this evening the bag at his feet proved by its bulk that it contained just about one-half the rats dannie carried. "i must set my traps in my own way," answered dannie calmly. "if i stuck them into the water ony way and went on, so would the rats. a trap is no a trap unless it is concealed." "that's it! go on and give me a sarmon!" urged jimmy derisively. "who's got the bulk of the rats all winter? the truth is that my side of the river is the best catching in the extrame cold, and you get the most after the thaws begin to come. the rats seem to have a lot of burrows and shift around among thim. one time i'm ahead, and the nixt day they go to you: but it don't mane that you are any better trapper than i am. i only got siven to-night. that's a sweet day's work for a whole man. fifteen cints apace for sivin rats. i've a big notion to cut the rat business, and compete with rocky in ile." dannie laughed. "let's hurry home, and get the skinning over before nicht," he said. "i think the days are growing a little longer. i seem to scent spring in the air to-day." jimmy looked at dannie's mud-covered, wet clothing, his blood-stained mittens and coat back, and the dripping bag he had rested on the bridge. "i've got some music in me head, and some action in me feet," he said, "but i guess god forgot to put much sintimint into me heart. the breath of spring niver got so strong with me that i could smell it above a bag of muskrats and me trappin' clothes." he arose, swung his bag to his shoulder, and together they left the bridge, and struck the road leading to rainbow bottom. it was late february. the air was raw, and the walking heavy. jimmy saw little around him, and there was little dannie did not see. to him, his farm, the river, and the cabins in rainbow bottom meant all there was of life, for all he loved on earth was there. but loafing in town on rainy days, when dannie sat with a book; hearing the talk at casey's, at the hotel, and on the streets, had given jimmy different views of life, and made his lot seem paltry compared with that of men who had greater possessions. on days when jimmy's luck was bad, or when a fever of thirst burned him, he usually discoursed on some sort of intangible experience that men had, which he called "seeing life." his rat bag was unusually light that night, and in a vague way he connected it with the breaking up of the ice. when the river lay solid he usually carried home just twice the rats dannie had, and as he had patronized dannie all his life, it fretted jimmy to be behind even one day at the traps. "be jasus, i get tired of this!" he said. "always and foriver the same thing. i kape goin' this trail so much that i've got a speakin' acquaintance with meself. some of these days i'm goin' to take a trip, and have a little change. i'd like to see chicago, and as far west as the middle, anyway." "well, ye canna go," said dannie. "ye mind the time when ye were married, and i thought i'd be best away, and packed my trunk? when ye and mary caught me, ye got mad as fire, and she cried, and i had to stay. just ye try going, and i'll get mad, and mary will cry, and ye will stay at home, juist like i did." there was a fear deep in dannie's soul that some day jimmy would fulfill this long-time threat of his. "i dinna think there is ony place in all the world so guid as the place ye own," dannie said earnestly. "i dinna care a penny what anybody else has, probably they have what they want. what _i_ want is the land that my feyther owned before me, and the house that my mither kept. and they'll have to show me the place they call eden before i'll give up that it beats rainbow bottom--summer, autumn, or winter. i dinna give twa hoops fra the palaces men rig up, or the thing they call 'landscape gardening'. when did men ever compete with the work of god? all the men that have peopled the earth since time began could have their brains rolled into one, and he would stand helpless before the anatomy of one of the rats in these bags. the thing god does is guid enough fra me." "why don't you take a short cut to the matin'-house?" inquired jimmy. "because i wad have nothing to say when i got there," retorted dannie. "i've a meetin'-house of my ain, and it juist suits me; and i've a god, too, and whether he is spirit or essence, he suits me. i dinna want to be held to sharper account than he faces me up to, when i hold communion with mesel'. i dinna want any better meetin'-house than rainbow bottom. i dinna care for better talkin' than the 'tongues in the trees'; sounder preachin' than the 'sermons in the stones'; finer readin' than the books in the river; no, nor better music than the choir o' the birds, each singin' in its ain way fit to burst its leetle throat about the mate it won, the nest they built, and the babies they are raising. that's what i call the music o' god, spontaneous, and the soul o' joy. give it me every time compared with notes frae a book. and all the fine places that the wealth o' men ever evolved winna begin to compare with the work o' god, and i've got that around me every day." "but i want to see life," wailed jimmy. "then open your eyes, mon, fra the love o' mercy, open your eyes! there's life sailing over your heid in that flock o' crows going home fra the night. why dinna ye, or some other mon, fly like that? there's living roots, and seeds, and insects, and worms by the million wherever ye are setting foot. why dinna ye creep into the earth and sleep through the winter, and renew your life with the spring? the trouble with ye, jimmy, is that ye've always followed your heels. if ye'd stayed by the books, as i begged ye, there now would be that in your heid that would teach ye that the old story of the rainbow is true. there is a pot of gold, of the purest gold ever smelted, at its foot, and we've been born, and own a good living richt there. an' the gold is there; that i know, wealth to shame any bilious millionaire, and both of us missing the pot when we hold the location. ye've the first chance, mon, fra in your life is the great prize mine will forever lack. i canna get to the bottom of the pot, but i'm going to come close to it as i can; and as for ye, empty it! take it all! it's yours! it's fra the mon who finds it, and we own the location." "aha! we own the location," repeated jimmy. "i should say we do! behold our hotbed of riches! i often lay awake nights thinkin' about my attachmint to the place. "how dear to me heart are the scanes of me childhood, fondly gaze on the cabin where i'm doomed to dwell, those chicken-coop, thim pig-pen, these highly piled-wood around which i've always raised hell." jimmy turned in at his own gate, while dannie passed to the cabin beyond. he entered, set the dripping rat bag in a tub, raked open the buried fire and threw on a log. he always ate at jimmy's when jimmy was at home, so there was no supper to get. he went out to the barn, wading mud ankle deep, fed and bedded his horses, and then went over to jimmy's barn, and completed his work up to milking. jimmy came out with the pail, and a very large hole in the bottom of it was covered with dried dough. jimmy looked at it disapprovingly. "i bought a new milk pail the other night. i know i did," he said. "mary was kicking for one a month ago, and i went after it the night i met ruben o'khayam. now what the nation did i do with that pail?" "i have wondered mysel'," answered dannie, as he leaned over and lifted a strange looking object from a barrel. "this is what ye brought home, jimmy." jimmy stared at the shining, battered, bullet-punctured pail in amazement. slowly he turned it over and around, and then he lifted bewildered eyes to dannie. "are you foolin'?" he asked. "did i bring that thing home in that shape?" "honest!" said dannie. "i remember buyin' it," said jimmy slowly. "i remember hanging on to it like grim death, for it was the wan excuse i had for goin', but i don't just know how--!" slowly he revolved the pail, and then he rolled over in the hay and laughed until he was tired. then he sat up and wiped his eyes. "great day! what a lot of fun i must have had before i got that milk pail into that shape," he said. "domned if i don't go straight to town and buy another one; yes, bedad! i'll buy two!" in the meantime dannie milked, fed and watered the cattle, and jimmy picked up the pail of milk and carried it to the house. dannie came by the wood pile and brought in a heavy load. then they washed, and sat down to supper. "seems to me you look unusually perky," said jimmy to his wife. "had any good news?" "splendid!" said mary. "i am so glad! and i don't belave you two stupids know!" "you niver can tell by lookin' at me what i know," said jimmy. "whin i look the wisest i know the least. whin i look like a fool, i'm thinkin' like a philosopher." "give it up," said dannie promptly. you would not catch him knowing anything it would make mary's eyes shine to tell. "sap is running!" announced mary. "the divil you say!" cried jimmy. "it is!" beamed mary. "it will be full in three days. didn't you notice how green the maples are? i took a little walk down to the bottom to-day. i niver in all my life was so tired of winter, and the first thing i saw was that wet look on the maples, and on the low land, where they are sheltered and yet get the sun, several of them are oozing!" "grand!" cried dannie. "jimmy, we must peel those rats in a hurry, and then clean the spiles, and see how mony new ones we will need. to-morrow we must come frae the traps early and look up our troughs." "oh, for pity sake, don't pile up work enough to kill a horse," cried jimmy. "ain't you ever happy unless you are workin'?" "yes," said dannie. "sometimes i find a book that suits me, and sometimes the fish bite, and sometimes it's in the air." "git the condinser" said jimmy. "and that reminds me, mary, dannie smelled spring in the air to-day." "well, what if he did?" questioned mary. "i can always smell it. a little later, when the sap begins to run in all the trees, and the buds swell, and the ice breaks up, and the wild geese go over, i always scent spring; and when the catkins bloom, then it comes strong, and i just love it. spring is my happiest time. i have more news, too!" "don't spring so much at wance!" cried jimmy, "you'll spoil my appetite." "i guess there's no danger," replied mary. "there is," said jimmy. "at laste in the fore siction. 'appe' is frinch, and manes atin'. 'tite' is irish, and manes drinkin'. appetite manes atin' and drinkin' togither. 'tite' manes drinkin' without atin', see?" "i was just goin' to mintion it meself," said mary, "it's where you come in strong. there's no danger of anybody spoilin' your drinkin', if they could interfere with your atin'. you guess, dannie." "the dominick hen is setting," ventured dannie, and mary's face showed that he had blundered on the truth. "she is," affirmed mary, pouring the tea, "but it is real mane of you to guess it, when i've so few new things to tell. she has been setting two days, and she went over fifteen fresh eggs to-day. in just twinty-one days i will have fiftane the cunningest little chickens you ever saw, and there is more yet. i found the nest of the gray goose, and there are three big eggs in it, all buried in feathers. she must have stripped her breast almost bare to cover them. and i'm the happiest i've been all winter. i hate the long, lonely, shut-in time. i am going on a delightful spree. i shall help boil down sugar-water and make maple syrup. i shall set hins, and geese, and turkeys. i shall make soap, and clane house, and plant seed, and all my flowers will bloom again. goody for summer; it can't come too soon to suit me." "lord! i don't see what there is in any of those things," said jimmy. "i've got just one sign of spring that interests me. if you want to see me caper, somebody mention to me the first rattle of the kingfisher. whin he comes home, and house cleans in his tunnel in the embankment, and takes possession of his stump in the river, the nixt day the black bass locates in the deep water below the shoals. thin you can count me in. there is where business begins for jimmy boy. i am going to have that bass this summer, if i don't plant an acre of corn." "i bet you that's the truth!" said mary, so quickly that both men laughed. "ahem!" said dannie. "then i will have to do my plowing by a heidlicht, so i can fish as much as ye do in the day time. i hereby make, enact, and enforce a law that neither of us is to fish in the bass hole when the other is not there to fish also. that is the only fair way. i've as much richt to him as ye have." "of course!" said mary. "that is a fair way. make that a rule, and kape it. if you both fish at once, it's got to be a fair catch for the one that lands it; but whoever catches it, _i_ shall ate it, so it don't much matter to me." "you ate it!" howled jimnmy. "i guess not. not a taste of that fish, when he's teased me for years? he's as big as a whale. if jonah had had the good fortune of falling in the wabash, and being swallowed by the black bass, he could have ridden from peru to terre haute, and suffered no inconvanience makin' a landin'. siven pounds he'll weigh by the steelyard i'll wager you." "five, jimmy, five," corrected dannie. "siven!" shouted jimmy. "ain't i hooked him repeated? ain't i seen him broadside? i wonder if thim domn lines of mine have gone and rotted." he left his supper, carrying his chair, and standing on it he began rummaging the top shelf of the cupboard for his box of tackle. he knocked a bottle from the shelf, but caught it in mid-air with a dexterous sweep. "spirits are movin'," cried jimmy, as he restored the camphor to its place. he carried the box to the window, and became so deeply engrossed in its contents that he did not notice when dannie picked up his rat bag and told him to come on and help skin their day's catch. mary tried to send him, and he was going in a minute, but the minute stretched and stretched, and both of them were surprised when the door opened and dannie entered with an armload of spiles, and the rat-skinning was all over. so jimmy went on unwinding lines, and sharpening hooks, and talking fish; while dannie and mary cleaned the spiles, and figured on how many new elders must be cut and prepared for more on the morrow; and planned the sugar making. when it was bedtime, and dannie had gone an jimmy and mary closed their cabin for the night, mary stepped to the window that looked on dannie's home to see if his light was burning. it was, and clear in its rays stood dannie, stripping yard after yard of fine line through his fingers, and carefully examining it. jimmy came and stood beside her as she wondered. "why, the domn son of the rainbow," he cried, "if he ain't testing his fish lines!" the next day mary malone was rejoicing when the men returned from trapping, and gathering and cleaning the sugar-water troughs. there had been a robin at the well. "kape your eye on, mary" advised jimmy. "if she ain't watched close from this time on, she'll be settin' hins in snowdrifts, and pouring biling water on the daffodils to sprout them." on the first of march, five killdeers flew over in a flock, and a half hour later one straggler crying piteously followed in their wake. "oh, the mane things!" almost sobbed mary. "why don't they wait for it?" she stood by a big kettle of boiling syrup at the sugar camp, almost helpless in jimmy's boots and dannie's great coat. jimmy cut and carried wood, and dannie hauled sap. all the woods were stirred by the smell of the curling smoke and the odor of the boiling sap, fine as the fragrance of flowers. bright-eyed deer mice peeped at her from under old logs, the chickadees, nuthatches, and jays started an investigating committee to learn if anything interesting to them was occurring. one gayly-dressed little sapsucker hammered a tree near by and scolded vigorously. "right you are!" said mary. "it's a pity you're not big enough to drive us from the woods, for into one kittle goes enough sap to last you a lifetime." the squirrels were sure it was an intrusion, and raced among the branches overhead, barking loud defiance. at night the three rode home on the sled, with the syrup jugs beside them, and mary's apron was filled with big green rolls of pungent woolly-dog moss. jimmy built the fires, dannie fed the stock, and mary cooked the supper. when it was over, while the men warmed chilled feet and fingers by the fire, mary poured some syrup into a kettle, and just as it "sugared off" she dipped streams of the amber sweetness into cups of water. all of them ate it like big children, and oh, but it was good! two days more of the same work ended sugar making, but for the next three days dannie gathered the rapidly diminishing sap for the vinegar barrel. then there were more hens ready to set, water must be poured hourly into the ash hopper to start the flow of lye for soap making, and the smoke house must be gotten ready to cure the hams and pickled meats, so that they would keep during warm weather. the bluebells were pushing through the sod in a race with the easter and star flowers. one morning mary aroused jimmy with a pull at his arm. "jimmy, jimmy," she cried. "wake up!" "do you mane, wake up, or get up?" asked jimmy sleepily. "both," cried mary. "the larks are here!" a little later jimmy shouted from the back door to the barn: "dannie, do you hear the larks?" "ye bet i do," answered dannie. "heard ane goin' over in the nicht. how long is it now till the kingfisher comes?" "just a little while," said jimmy. "if only these march storms would let up 'stid of down! he can't come until he can fish, you know. he's got to have crabs and minnies to live on." a few days later the green hylas began to pipe in the swamps, the bullfrogs drummed among the pools in the bottom, the doves cooed in the thickets, and the breath of spring was in the nostrils of all creation, for the wind was heavy with the pungent odor of catkin pollen. the spring flowers were two inches high. the peonies and rhubarb were pushing bright yellow and red cones through the earth. the old gander, leading his flock along the wabash, had hailed passing flocks bound northward until he was hoarse; and the brahma rooster had threshed the yellow dorkin until he took refuge under the pig pen, and dare not stick out his unprotected head. the doors had stood open at supper time, and dannie staid up late, mending and oiling the harness. jimmy sat by cleaning his gun, for to his mortification he had that day missed killing a crow which stole from the ash hopper the egg with which mary tested the strength of the lye. in a basket behind the kitchen stove fifteen newly hatched yellow chickens, with brown stripes on their backs, were peeping and nestling; and on wing the killdeers cried half the night. at two o'clock in the morning came a tap on the malone's bedroom window. "dannie?" questioned mary, half startled. "tell jimmy!" cried dannie's breathless voice outside. "tell him the kingfisher has juist struck the river!" jimmy sat straight up in bed. "then glory be!" he cried. "to-morrow the black bass comes home!" chapter v when the rainbow set its arch in the sky "where did jimmy go?" asked mary. jimmy had been up in time to feed the chickens and carry in the milk, but he disappeared shortly after breakfast. dannie almost blushed as he answered: "he went to take a peep at the river. it's going down fast. when it gets into its regular channel, spawning will be over and the fish will come back to their old places. we figure that the black bass will be home to-day." "when you go digging for bait," said mary, "i wonder if the two of you could make it convanient to spade an onion bed. if i had it spaded i could stick the sets mesilf." "now, that amna fair, mary," said dannie. "we never went fishing till the garden was made, and the crops at least wouldna suffer. we'll make the beds, of course, juist as soon as they can be spaded, and plant the seed, too." "i want to plant the seeds mesilf," said mary. "and we dinna want ye should," replied dannie. "all we want ye to do, is to boss." "but i'm going to do the planting mesilf," mary was emphatic. "it will be good for me to be in the sunshine, and i do enjoy working in the dirt, so that for a little while i'm happy." "if ye want to put the onions in the highest place, i should think i could spade ane bed now, and enough fra lettuce and radishes." dannie went after a spade, and mary malone laughed softly as she saw that he also carried an old tin can. he tested the earth in several places, and then called to her: "all right, mary! ground in prime shape. turns up dry and mellow. we will have the garden started in no time." he had spaded but a minute when mary saw him run past the window, leap the fence, and go hurrying down the path to the river. she went to the door. at the head of the lane stood jimmy, waving his hat, and the fresh morning air carried his cry clearly: "gee, dannie! come hear him splash!" just why that cry, and the sight of dannie macnoun racing toward the river, his spade lying on the upturned earth of her scarcely begun onion bed, should have made her angry, it would be hard to explain. he had no tackle or bait, and reason easily could have told her that he would return shortly, and finish anything she wanted done; but when was a lonely, disappointed woman ever reasonable? she set the dish water on the stove, wiped her hands on her apron, and walking to the garden, picked up the spade and began turning great pieces of earth. she had never done rough farm work, such as women all about her did; she had little exercise during the long, cold winter, and the first half dozen spadefuls tired her until the tears of self-pity rolled. "i wish there was a turtle as big as a wash tub in the river" she sobbed, "and i wish it would eat that old black bass to the last scale. and i'm going to take the shotgun, and go over to the embankment, and poke it into the tunnel, and blow the old kingfisher through into the cornfield. then maybe dannie won't go off too and leave me. i want this onion bed spaded right away, so i do." "drop that! idjit! what you doing?" yelled jimmy. "mary, ye goose!" panted dannie, as he came hurrying across the yard. "wha' do ye mean? ye knew i'd be back in a minute! jimmy juist called me to hear the bass splash. i was comin' back. mary, this amna fair." dannie took the spade from her hand, and mary fled sobbing to the house. "what's the row?" demanded jimmy of the suffering dannie. "i'd juist started spadin' this onion bed," explained dannie. "of course, she thought we were going to stay all day." "with no poles, and no bait, and no grub? she didn't think any such a domn thing," said jimmy. "you don't know women! she just got to the place where it's her time to spill brine, and raise a rumpus about something, and aisy brathin' would start her. just let her bawl it out, and thin--we'll get something dacent for dinner." dannie turned a spadeful of earth and broke it open, and jimmy squatted by the can, and began picking out the angle worms. "i see where we dinna fish much this summer," said dannie, as he waited. "and where we fish close home when we do, and where all the work is done before we go." "aha, borrow me rose-colored specks!" cried jimmy. "i don't see anything but what i've always seen. i'll come and go as i please, and mary can do the same. i don't throw no 'jeminy fit' every time a woman acts the fool a little, and if you'd lived with one fiftane years you wouldn't either. of course we'll make the garden. wish to goodness it was a beer garden! wouldn't i like to plant a lot of hop seed and see rows of little green beer bottles humpin' up the dirt. oh, my! what all does she want done?" dannie turned another spadeful of earth and studied the premises, while jimmy gathered the worms. "palins all on the fence?" asked dannie. "yep," said jimmy. "well, the yard is to be raked." "yep." "the flooer beds spaded." "yep." "stones around the peonies, phlox, and hollyhocks raised and manure worked in. all the trees must be pruned, the bushes and vines trimmed, and the gooseberries, currants, and raspberries thinned. the strawberry bed must be fixed up, and the rhubarb and asparagus spaded around and manured. this whole garden must be made----" "and the road swept, and the gate sandpapered, and the barn whitewashed! return to grazing, nebuchadnezzar," said jimmy. "we do what's raisonable, and then we go fishin'. see?" three beds spaded, squared, and ready for seeding lay in the warm spring sunshine before noon. jimmy raked the yard, and dannie trimmed the gooseberries. then he wheeled a barrel of swamp loam for a flower bed by the cabin wall, and listened intently between each shovelful he threw. he could not hear a sound. what was more, he could not bear it. he went to jimmy. "say, jimmy," he said. "dinna ye have to gae in fra a drink?" "house or town?" inquired jimmy sweetly. "the house!" exploded dannie. "i dinna hear a sound yet. ye gae in fra a drink, and tell mary i want to know where she'd like the new flooer bed she's been talking about." jimmy leaned the rake against a tree, and started. "and jimmy," said dannie. "if she's quit crying, ask her what was the matter. i want to know." jimmy vanished. presently he passed dannie where he worked. "come on," whispered jimmy. the bewildered dannie followed. jimmy passed the wood pile, and pig pen, and slunk around behind the barn, where he leaned against the logs and held his sides. dannie stared at him. "she says," wheezed jimmy, "that she guesses she wanted to go and hear the bass splash, too!" dannie's mouth fell open, and then closed with a snap. "us fra the fool killer!" he said. "ye dinna let her see ye laugh?" "let her see me laugh!" cried jimmy. "let her see me laugh! i told her she wasn't to go for a few days yet, because we were sawin' the kingfisher's stump up into a rustic sate for her, and we were goin' to carry her out to it, and she was to sit there and sew, and umpire the fishin', and whichiver bait she told the bass to take, that one of us would be gettin' it. and she was pleased as anything, me lad, and now it's up to us to rig up some sort of a dacint sate, and tag a woman along half the time. you thick-tongued descindint of a bagpipe baboon, what did you sind me in there for?" "maybe a little of it will tire her," groaned dannie. "it will if she undertakes to follow me," jimmy said. "i know where horse-weeds grow giraffe high." then they went back to work, and presently many savory odors began to steal from the cabin. whereat jimmy looked at dannie, and winked an 'i-told-you-so' wink. a garden grows fast under the hands of two strong men really working, and by the time the first slice of sugar-cured ham from the smoke house for that season struck the sizzling skillet, and mary very meekly called from the back door to know if one of them wanted to dig a little horse radish, the garden was almost ready for planting. then they went into the cabin and ate fragrant, thick slices of juicy fried ham, seasoned with horse radish; fried eggs, freckled with the ham fat in which they were cooked; fluffy mashed potatoes, with a little well of melted butter in the center of the mound overflowing the sides; raisin pie, soda biscuit, and their own maple syrup. "ohumahoh!" said jimmy. "i don't know as i hanker for city life so much as i sometimes think i do. what do you suppose the adulterated stuff we read about in papers tastes like?" "i've often wondered," answered dannie. "look at some of the hogs and cattle that we see shipped from here to city markets. the folks that sell them would starve before they'd eat a bit o' them, yet somebody eats them, and what do ye suppose maple syrup made from hickory bark and brown sugar tastes like?" "and cold-storage eggs, and cotton-seed butter, and even horse radish half turnip," added mary. "bate up the cream a little before you put it in your coffee, or it will be in lumps. whin the cattle are on clover it raises so thick." jimmy speared a piece of salt-rising bread crust soaked in ham gravy made with cream, and said: "i wish i could bring that thrid man home with me to one meal of the real thing nixt time he strikes town. i belave he would injoy it. may i, mary?" mary's face flushed slightly. "depends on whin he comes," she said. "of course, if i am cleaning house, or busy with something i can't put off----" "sure!" cried jimmy. "i'd ask you before i brought him, because i'd want him to have something spicial. some of this ham, and horse radish, and maple syrup to begin with, and thin your fried spring chicken and your stewed squirrel is a drame, mary. nobody iver makes turtle soup half so rich as yours, and your green peas in cream, and asparagus on toast is a rivilation--don't you rimimber 'twas father michael that said it? i ought to be able to find mushrooms in a few weeks, and i can taste your rhubarb pie over from last year. gee! but i wish he'd come in strawberrying! berries from the vines, butter in the crust, crame you have to bate to make it smooth--talk about shortcake!" "what's wrong wi' cherry cobbler?" asked dannie. "or blackberry pie?" "or greens cooked wi' bacon?" "or chicken pie?" "or catfish, rolled in cornmeal and fried in ham fat?" "or guineas stewed in cream, with hard-boiled eggs in the gravy?" "oh, stop!" cried the delighted mary. "it makes me dead tired thinkin' how i'll iver be cookin' all you'll want. sure, have him come, and both of you can pick out the things you like the best, and i'll fix thim for him. pure, fresh stuff might be a trate to a city man. when dolan took sister katie to new york with him, his boss sent them to a five-dollar-a-day house, and they thought they was some up. by the third day poor katie was cryin' for a square male. she couldn't touch the butter, the eggs made her sick, and the cold-storage meat and chicken never got nearer her stomach than her nose. so she just ate fish, because they were fresh, and she ate, and she ate, till if you mintion new york to poor katie she turns pale, and tastes fish. she vows and declares that she feeds her chickens and hogs better food twice a day than people fed her in new york." "i'll bet my new milk pail the grub we eat ivery day would be a trate that would raise him," said jimmy. "provided his taste ain't so depraved with saltpeter and chalk he don't know fresh, pure food whin he tastes it. i understand some of the victims really don't." "your new milk pail?" questioned mary. "that's what!" said jimmy. "the next time i go to town i'm goin' to get you two." "but i only need one," protested mary. "instead of two, get me a new dishpan. mine leaks, and smears the stove and table." "be gorry!" sighed jimmy. "there goes me tongue, lettin' me in for it again. i'll look over the skins, and if any of thim are ripe, i'll get you a milk pail and a dishpan the nixt time i go to town. and, by gee! if that dandy big coon hide i got last fall looks good, i'm going to comb it up, and work the skin fine, and send it to the thrid man, with me complimints. i don't feel right about him yet. wonder what his name railly is, and where he lives, or whether i killed him complate." "any dry goods man in town can tell ye," said dannie. "ask the clerk in the hotel," suggested mary. "you've said it," cried jimmy. "that's the stuff! and i can find out whin he will be here again." two hours more they faithfully worked on the garden, and then jimmy began to grow restless. "ah, go on!" cried mary. "you have done all that is needed just now, and more too. there won't any fish bite to-day, but you can have the pleasure of stringin' thim poor sufferin' worms on a hook and soaking thim in the river." "'sufferin' worms!' sufferin' job!" cried jimmy. "what nixt? go on, dannie, get your pole!" dannie went. as he came back jimmy was sprinkling a thin layer of earth over the bait in the can. "why not come along, mary?" he suggested. "i'm not done planting my seeds," she answered. "i'll be tired when i am, and i thought that place wasn't fixed for me yet." "we can't fix that till a little later," said jimmy. "we can't tell where it's going to be grassy and shady yet, and the wood is too wet to fix a sate." "any kind of a sate will do," said mary. "i guess you better not try to make one out of the kingfisher stump. if you take it out it may change the pool and drive away the bass." "sure!" cried jimmy. "what a head you've got! we'll have to find some other stump for a sate." "i don't want to go until it gets dry under foot, and warmer" said mary. "you boys go on. i'll till you whin i am riddy to go." "there!" said jimmy, when well on the way to the river. "what did i tell you? won't go if she has the chance! jist wants to be asked." "i dinna pretend to know women," said dannie gravely. "but whatever mary does is all richt with me." "so i've obsarved," remarked jimmy. "now, how will we get at this fishin' to be parfectly fair?" "tell ye what i think," said dannie. "i think we ought to pick out the twa best places about the black bass pool, and ye take ane fra yours and i'll take the ither fra mine, and then we'll each fish from his own place." "nothing fair about that," answered jimmy. "you might just happen to strike the bed where he lays most, and be gettin' bites all the time, and me none; or i might strike it and you be left out. and thin there's days whin the wind has to do, and the light. we ought to change places ivery hour." "there's nothing fair in that either," broke in dannie. "i might have him tolled up to my place, and juist be feedin' him my bait, and here you'd come along and prove by your watch that my time was up, and take him when i had him all ready to bite." "that's so for you!" hurried in jimmy. "i'll be hanged if i'd leave a place by the watch whin i had a strike!" "me either," said dannie. "'tis past human nature to ask it. i'll tell ye what we'll do. we'll go to work and rig up a sort of a bridge where it's so narrow and shallow, juist above kingfisher shoals, and then we'll toss up fra sides. then each will keep to his side. with a decent pole either of us can throw across the pool, and both of us can fish as we please. then each fellow can pick his bait, and cast or fish deep as he thinks best. what d'ye say to that?" "i don't see how anything could be fairer than that," said jimmy. "i don't want to fish for anything but the bass. i'm goin' back and get our rubber boots, and you be rollin' logs, and we'll build that crossing right now." "all richt," said dannie. so they laid aside their poles and tackle, and dannie rolled logs and gathered material for the bridge, while jimmy went back after their boots. then both of them entered the water and began clearing away drift and laying the foundations. as the first log of the crossing lifted above the water dannie paused. "how about the kingfisher?" he asked. "winna this scare him away?" "not if he ain't a domn fool," said jimmy; "and if he is, let him go!" "seems like the river would no be juist richt without him," said dannie, breaking off a spice limb and nibbling the fragrant buds. "let's only use what we bare need to get across. and where will we fix fra mary?" "oh, git out!" said jimmy. "i ain't goin' to fool with that." "well, we best fix a place. then we can tell her we fixed it, and it's all ready." "sure!" cried jimmy. "you are catchin' it from your neighbor. till her a place is all fixed and watin', and you couldn't drag her here with a team of oxen. till her you are going to fix it soon, and she'll come to see if you've done it, if she has to be carried on a stritcher." so they selected a spot that they thought would be all right for mary, and not close enough to disturb the bass and the kingfisher, rolled two logs, and fished a board that had been carried by a freshet from the water and laid it across them, and decided that would have to serve until they could do better. then they sat astride the board, dannie drew out a coin, and they tossed it to see which was heads and tails. dannie won heads. then they tossed to see which bank was heads or tails, and the right, which was on rainbow side, came heads. so jimmy was to use the bridge. then they went home, and began the night work. the first thing jimmy espied was the barrel containing the milk pail. he fished out the pail, and while dannie fed the stock, shoveled manure, and milked, jimmy pounded out the dents, closed the bullet holes, emptied the bait into it, half filled it with mellow earth, and went to mary for some corn meal to sprinkle on the top to feed the worms. at four o'clock the next morning, dannie was up feeding, milking, scraping plows, and setting bolts. after breakfast they piled their implements on a mudboat, which dannie drove, while jimmy rode one of his team, and led the other, and opened the gates. they began on dannie's field, because it was closest, and for the next two weeks, unless it were too rainy to work, they plowed, harrowed, lined off, and planted the seed. the blackbirds followed along the furrows picking up grubs, the crows cawed from high tree tops, the bluebirds twittered about hollow stumps and fence rails, the wood thrushes sang out their souls in the thickets across the river, and the king cardinal of rainbow bottom whistled to split his throat from the giant sycamore. tender greens were showing along the river and in the fields, and the purple of red-bud mingled with the white of wild plum all along the wabash. the sunny side of the hill that sloped down to rainbow bottom was a mass of spring beauties, anemones, and violets; thread-like ramps rose rank to the scent among them, and round ginger leaves were thrusting their folded heads through the mold. the kingfisher was cleaning his house and fishing from his favorite stump in the river, while near him, at the fall of every luckless worm that missed its hold on a blossom-whitened thorn tree, came the splash of the great black bass. every morning the bass took a trip around horseshoe bend food hunting, and the small fry raced for life before his big, shear-like jaws. during the heat of noon he lay in the deep pool below the stump, and rested; but when evening came he set out in search of supper, and frequently he felt so good that he leaped clear of the water, and fell back with a splash that threw shining spray about him, or lashed out with his tail and sent widening circles of waves rolling from his lurking place. then the kingfisher rattled with all his might, and flew for the tunnel in the embankment. some of these days the air was still, the earth warmed in the golden sunshine, and murmured a low song of sleepy content. some days the wind raised, whirling dead leaves before it, and covering the earth with drifts of plum, cherry, and apple bloom, like late falling snow. then great black clouds came sweeping across the sky, and massed above rainbow bottom. the lightning flashed as if the heavens were being cracked open, and the rolling thunder sent terror to the hearts of man and beast. when the birds flew for shelter, dannie and jimmy unhitched their horses, and raced for the stables to escape the storm, and to be with mary, whom electricity made nervous. they would sit on the little front porch, and watch the greedy earth drink the downpour. they could almost see the grass and flowers grow. when the clouds scattered, the thunder grew fainter; and the sun shone again between light sprinkles of rain. then a great, glittering rainbow set its arch in the sky, and it planted one of its feet in horseshoe bend, and the other so far away they could not even guess where. if it rained lightly, in a little while dannie and jimmy could go back to their work afield. if the downpour was heavy, and made plowing impossible, they pulled weeds, and hoed in the garden. dannie discoursed on the wholesome freshness of the earth, and jimmy ever waited a chance to twist his words, and ring in a laugh on him. he usually found it. sometimes, after a rain, they took their bait cans, and rods, and went down to the river to fish. if one could not go, the other religiously refrained from casting bait into the pool where the black bass lay. once, when they were fishing together, the bass rose to a white moth, skittered over the surface by dannie late in the evening, and twice jimmy had strikes which he averred had taken the arm almost off him, but neither really had the bass on his hook. they kept to their own land, and fished when they pleased, for game laws and wardens were unknown to them. truth to tell, neither of them really hoped to get the bass before fall. the water was too high in the spring. minnows were plentiful, and as jimmy said, "it seemed as if the domn plum tree just rained caterpillars." so they bided their time, and the signs prohibiting trespass on all sides of their land were many and emphatic, and mary had instructions to ring the dinner bell if she caught sight of any strangers. the days grew longer, and the sun was insistent. untold miles they trudged back and forth across their land, guiding their horses, jerked about with plows, their feet weighted with the damp, clinging earth, and their clothing pasted to their wet bodies. jimmy was growing restless. never in all his life had he worked so faithfully as that spring, and never had his visits to casey's so told on him. no matter where they started, or how hard they worked, dannie was across the middle of the field, and helping jimmy before the finish. it was always dannie who plowed on, while jimmy rode to town for the missing bolt or buckle, and he generally rolled from his horse into a fence corner, and slept the remainder of the day on his return. the work and heat were beginning to tire him, and his trips to casey's had been much less frequent than he desired. he grew to feel that between them dannie and mary were driving him, and a desire to balk at slight cause, gathered in his breast. he deliberately tied his team in a fence corner, lay down, and fell asleep. the clanging of the supper bell aroused him. he opened his eyes, and as he rose, found that dannie had been to the barn, and brought a horse blanket to cover him. well as he knew anything, jimmy knew that he had no business sleeping in fence corners so early in the season. with candor he would have admitted to himself that a part of his brittle temper came from aching bones and rheumatic twinges. some way, the sight of dannie swinging across the field, looking as fresh as in the early morning, and the fact that he had carried a blanket to cover him, and the further fact that he was wild for drink, and could think of no excuse on earth for going to town, brought him to a fighting crisis. dannie turned his horses at jimmy's feet. "come on, jimmy, supper bell has rung," he cried. "we mustn't keep mary waiting. she wants us to help her plant the sweet potatoes to-nicht." jimmy rose, and his joints almost creaked. the pain angered him. he leaned forward and glared at dannie. "is there one minute of the day whin you ain't thinkin' about my wife?" he demanded, oh, so slowly, and so ugly! dannie met his hateful gaze squarely. "na a minute," he answered, "excepting when i am thinking about ye." "the hell you say!" exploded the astonished jimmy. dannie stepped out of the furrow, and came closer. "see here, jimmy malone," he said. "ye ain't forgot the nicht when i told ye i loved mary, with all my heart, and that i'd never love another woman. i sent ye to tell her fra me, and to ask if i might come to her. and ye brought me her answer. it's na your fault that she preferred ye. everybody did. but it is your fault that i've stayed on here. i tried to go, and ye wouldna let me. so for fifteen years, ye have lain with the woman i love, and i have lain alone in a few rods of ye. if that ain't man-hell, try some other on me, and see if it will touch me! i sent ye to tell her that i loved her; have i ever sent ye to tell her that i've quit? i should think you'd know, by this time, that i'm na quitter. love her! why, i love her till i can see her standin' plain before me, when i know she's a mile away. love her! why, i can smell her any place i am, sweeter than any flower i ever held to my face. love her! till the day i dee i'll love her. but it ain't any fault of yours, and if ye've come to the place where i worry ye, that's the place where i go, as i wanted to on the same day ye brought mary to rainbow bottom." jimmy's gray jaws fell open. jimmy's sullen eyes cleared. he caught dannie by the arm. "for the love of hivin, what did i say, dannie?" he panted. "i must have been half asleep. go! you go! you leave rainbow bottom! thin, by god, i go too! i won't stay here without you, not a day. if i had to take my choice between you, i'd give up mary before i'd give up the best frind i iver had. go! i guess not, unless i go with you! she can go to----" "jimmy! jimmy!" cautioned dannie. "i mane ivery domn word of it," said jimmy. "i think more of you, than i iver did of any woman." dannie drew a deep breath. "then why in the name of god did ye say that thing to me? i have na betrayed your trust in me, not ever, jimmy, and ye know it. what's the matter with ye?" jimmy heaved a deep sigh, and rubbed his hands across his hot, angry face. "oh, i'm just so domn sore!" he said. "some days i get about wild. things haven't come out like i thought they would." "jimmy, if ye are in trouble, why do ye na tell me? canna i help ye? have'nt i always helped ye if i could?" "yes, you have," said jimmy. "always, been a thousand times too good to me. but you can't help here. i'm up agin it alone, but put this in your pipe, and smoke it good and brown, if you go, i go. i don't stay here without you." "then it's up to ye na to make it impossible for me to stay," said dannie. "after this, i'll try to be carefu'. i've had no guard on my lips. i've said whatever came into my heid." the supper bell clanged sharply a second time. "that manes more hivin on the wabash," said jimmy. "wish i had a bracer before i face it." "how long has it been, jimmy?" asked dannie. "etarnity!" replied jimmy briefly. dannie stood thinking, and then light broke. jimmy was always short of money in summer. when trapping was over, and before any crops were ready, he was usually out of funds. dannie hesitated, and then he said, "would a small loan be what ye need, jimmy?" jimmy's eyes gleamed. "it would put new life into me," he cried. "forgive me, dannie. i am almost crazy." dannie handed over a coin, and after supper jimmy went to town. then dannie saw his mistake. he had purchased peace for himself, but what about mary? chapter vi the heart of mary malone "this is the job that was done with the reaper, if we hustle we can do it ourselves, thus securing to us a little cheaper, the bread and pie upon our pantry shelves. eat this wheat, by and by, on this beautiful wabash shore, drink this rye, by and by, eat and drink on this beautiful shore." so sang jimmy as he drove through the wheat, oats and rye accompanied by the clacking machinery. dannie stopped stacking sheaves to mop his warm, perspiring face and to listen. jimmy always with an eye to the effect he was producing immediately broke into wilder parody: "drive this mower, a little slower, on this beautiful wabash shore, cuttin' wheat to buy our meat, cuttin' oats, to buy our coats, also pants, if we get the chance. by and by, we'll cut the rye, but i bet my hat i drink that, i drink that. drive this mower a little slower, in this wheat, in this wheat, by and by." the larks scolded, fluttering over head, for at times the reaper overtook their belated broods. the bobolinks danced and chattered on stumps and fences, in an agony of suspense, when their nests were approached, and cried pitifully if they were destroyed. the chewinks flashed from the ground to the fences and trees, and back, crying "che-wink?" "che-wee!" to each other, in such excitement that they appeared to be in danger of flirting off their long tails. the quail ran about the shorn fields, and excitedly called from fence riders to draw their flocks into the security of rainbow bottom. frightened hares bounded through the wheat, and if the cruel blade sheared into their nests, dannie gathered the wounded and helpless of the scattered broods in his hat, and carried them to mary. then came threshing, which was a busy time, but after that, through the long hot days of late july and august, there was little to do afield, and fishing was impossible. dannie grubbed fence corners, mended fences, chopped and corded wood for winter, and in spare time read his books. for the most part jimmy kept close to dannie. jimmy's temper never had been so variable. dannie was greatly troubled, for despite jimmy's protests of devotion, he flared at a word, and sometimes at no word at all. the only thing in which he really seemed interested was the coon skin he was dressing to send to boston. over that he worked by the hour, sometimes with earnest face, and sometimes he raised his head, and let out a whoop that almost frightened mary. at such times he was sure to go on and give her some new detail of the hunt for the fifty coons, that he had forgotten to tell her before. he had been to the hotel, and learned the thread man's name and address, and found that he did not come regularly, and no one knew when to expect him; so when he had combed and brushed the fur to its finest point, and worked the skin until it was velvet soft, and bleached it until it was muslin white, he made it into a neat package and sent it with his compliments to the boston man. after he had waited for a week, he began going to town every day to the post office for the letter he expected, and coming home much worse for a visit to casey's. since plowing time he had asked dannie for money as he wanted it, telling him to keep an account, and he would pay him in the fall. he seemed to forget or not to know how fast his bills grew. then came a week in august when the heat invaded even the cool retreat along the river. out on the highway passing wheels rolled back the dust like water, and raised it in clouds after them. the rag weeds hung wilted heads along the road. the goldenrod and purple ironwort were dust-colored and dust-choked. the trees were thirsty, and their leaves shriveling. the river bed was bare its width in places, and while the kingfisher made merry with his family, and rattled, feasting from abram johnson's to the gar-hole, the black bass sought its deep pool, and lay still. it was a rare thing to hear it splash in those days. the prickly heat burned until the souls of men were tried. mary slipped listlessly about or lay much of the time on a couch beside a window, where a breath of air stirred. despite the good beginning he had made in the spring, jimmy slumped with the heat and exposures he had risked, and was hard to live with. dannie was not having a good time himself. since jimmy's wedding, life had been all grind to dannie, but he kept his reason, accepted his lot, and ground his grist with patience and such cheer as few men could have summoned to the aid of so poor a cause. had there been any one to notice it, dannie was tired and heat-ridden also, but as always, dannie sank self, and labored uncomplainingly with jimmy's problems. on a burning august morning dannie went to breakfast, and found mary white and nervous, little prepared to eat, and no sign of jimmy. "jimmy sleeping?" he asked. "i don't know where jimmy is," mary answered coldly. "since when?" asked dannie, gulping coffee, and taking hasty bites, for he had begun his breakfast supposing that jimmy would come presently. "he left as soon as you went home last night," she said, "and he has not come back yet." dannie did not know what to say. loyal to the bone to jimmy, loving each hair on the head of mary malone, and she worn and neglected; the problem was heartbreaking in any solution he attempted, and he felt none too well himself. he arose hastily, muttering something about getting the work done. he brought in wood and water, and asked if there was anything more he could do. "sure!" said mary, in a calm, even voice. "go to the barn, and shovel manure for jimmy malone, and do all the work he shirks, before you do anything for yoursilf." dannie always had admitted that he did not understand women, but he understood a plain danger signal, and he almost ran from the cabin. in the fear that mary might think he had heeded her hasty words, he went to his own barn first, just to show her that he did not do jimmy's work. the flies and mosquitoes were so bad he kept his horses stabled through the day, and turned them to pasture at night. so their stalls were to be cleaned, and he set to work. when he had finished his own barn, as he had nothing else to do, he went on to jimmy's. he had finished the stalls, and was sweeping when he heard a sound at the back door, and turning saw jimmy clinging to the casing, unable to stand longer. dannie sprang to him, and helped him inside. jimmy sank to the floor. dannie caught up several empty grain sacks, folded them, and pushed them under jimmy's head for a pillow. "dannish, didsh shay y'r nash'nal flowerish wash shisle?" asked jimmy. "yes," said dannie, lifting the heavy auburn head to smooth the folds from the sacks. "whysh like me?" "i dinna," answered dannie wearily. "awful jagsh on," murmured jimmy, sighed heavily, and was off. his clothing was torn and dust-covered, his face was purple and bloated, and his hair was dusty and disordered. he was a repulsive sight. as dannie straightened jimmy's limbs he thought he heard a step. he lifted his head and leaned forward to listen. "dannie micnoun?" called the same even, cold voice he had heard at breakfast. "have you left me, too?" dannie sprang for a manger. he caught a great armload of hay, and threw it over jimmy. he gave one hurried toss to scatter it, for mary was in the barn. as he turned to interpose his body between her and the manger, which partially screened jimmy, his heart sickened. he was too late. she had seen. frightened to the soul, he stared at her. she came a step closer, and with her foot gave a hand of jimmy's that lay exposed a contemptuous shove. "you didn't get him complately covered," she said. "how long have you had him here?" dannie was frightened into speech. "na a minute, mary; he juist came in when i heard ye. i was trying to spare ye." "him, you mane," she said, in that same strange voice. "i suppose you give him money, and he has a bottle, and he's been here all night." "mary," said dannie, "that's na true. i have furnished him money. he'd mortgage the farm, or do something worse if i didna; but i dinna where he has been all nicht, and in trying to cover him, my only thought was to save ye pain." "and whin you let him spind money you know you'll never get back, and loaf while you do his work, and when you lie mountain high, times without number, who is it for?" then fifteen years' restraint slid from dannie like a cloak, and in the torture of his soul his slow tongue outran all its previous history. "ye!" he shouted. "it's fra jimmy, too, but ye first. always ye first!" mary began to tremble. her white cheeks burned red. her figure straightened, and her hands clenched. "on the cross! will you swear it?" she cried. "on the sacred body of jesus himself, if i could face him," answered dannie. "anything! everything is fra ye first, mary!" "then why?" she panted between gasps for breath. "tell me why? if you have cared for me enough to stay here all these years and see that i had the bist tratemint you could get for me, why didn't you care for me enough more to save me this? oh, dannie, tell me why?" and then she shook with strangled sobs until she scarce could stand alone. dannie macnoun cleared the space between them and took her in his arms. her trembling hands clung to him, her head dropped on his breast, and the perfume of her hair in his nostrils drove him mad. then the tense bulk of her body struck against him, and horror filled his soul. one second he held her, the next, jimmy smothering under the hay, threw up an arm, and called like a petulant child, "dannie! make shun quit shinish my fashe!" and dannie awoke to the realization that mary was another man's, and that man, one who trusted him completely. the problem was so much too big for poor dannie that reason kindly slipped a cog. he broke from the grasp of the woman, fled through the back door, and took to the woods. he ran as if fiends were after him, and he ran and ran. and when he could run no longer, he walked, but he went on. just on and on. he crossed forests and fields, orchards and highways, streams and rivers, deep woods and swamps, and on, and on he went. he felt nothing, and saw nothing, and thought nothing, save to go on, always on. in the dark he stumbled on and through the day he staggered on, and he stopped for nothing, save at times to lift water to his parched lips. the bushes took his hat, the thorns ripped his shirt, the water soaked his shoes and they spread and his feet came through and the stones cut them until they bled. leaves and twigs stuck in his hair, and his eyes grew bloodshot, his lips and tongue swollen, and when he could go no further on his feet, he crawled on his knees, until at last he pitched forward on his face and lay still. the tumult was over and mother nature set to work to see about repairing damages. dannie was so badly damaged, soul, heart, and body, that she never would have been equal to the task, but another woman happened that way and she helped. dannie was carried to a house and a doctor dressed his hurts. when the physician got down to first principles, and found a big, white-bodied, fine-faced scotchman in the heart of the wreck, he was amazed. a wild man, but not a whiskey bloat. a crazy man, but not a maniac. he stood long beside dannie as he lay unconscious. "i'll take oath that man has wronged no one," he said. "what in the name of god has some woman been doing to him?" he took money from dannie's wallet and bought clothing to replace the rags he had burned. he filled dannie with nourishment, and told the woman who found him that when he awoke, if he did not remember, to tell him that his name was dannie macnoun, and that he lived in rainbow bottom, adams county. because just at that time dannie was halfway across the state. a day later he awoke, in a strange room and among strange faces. he took up life exactly where he left off. and in his ears, as he remembered his flight, rang the awful cry uttered by mary malone, and not until then did there come to dannie the realization that she had been driven to seek him for help, because her woman's hour was upon her. cold fear froze dannie's soul. he went back by railway and walked the train most of the way. he dropped from the cars at the water tank and struck across country, and again he ran. but this time it was no headlong flight. straight as a homing bird went dannie with all speed, toward the foot of the rainbow and mary malone. the kingfisher sped rattling down the river when dannie came crashing along the bank. "oh, god, let her be alive!" prayed dannie as he leaned panting against a tree for an instant, because he was very close now and sickeningly afraid. then he ran on. in a minute it would be over. at the next turn he could see the cabins. as he dashed along, jimmy malone rose from a log and faced him. a white jimmy, with black-ringed eyes and shaking hands. "where the hell have you been?" jimmy demanded. "is she dead?" cried dannie. "the doctor is talking scare," said jimmy. "but i don't scare so easy. she's never been sick in her life, and she has lived through it twice before, why should she die now? of course the kid is dead again," he added angrily. dannie shut his eyes and stood still. he had helped plant star-flowers on two tiny cross-marked mounds at five mile hill. now, there were three. jimmy had worn out her love for him, that was plain. "why should she die now?" to dannie it seemed that question should have been, "why should she live?" jimmy eyed him belligerently. "why in the name of sinse did you cut out whin i was off me pins?" he growled. "of course i don't blame you for cutting that kind of a party, me for the woods, all right, but what i can't see is why you couldn't have gone for the doctor and waited until i'd slept it off before you wint." "i dinna know she was sick," answered dannie. "i deserve anything ony ane can say to me, and it's all my fault if she dees, but this ane thing ye got to say ye know richt noo, jimmy. ye got to say ye know that i dinna understand mary was sick when i went." "sure! i've said that all the time," agreed jimmy. "but what i don't understand is, why you went! i guess she thinks it was her fault. i came out here to try to study it out. the nurse-woman, domn pretty girl, says if you don't get back before midnight, it's all up. you're just on time, dannie. the talk in the house is that she'll wink out if you don't prove to her that she didn't drive you away. she is about crazy over it. what did she do to you?" "nothing!" exclaimed dannie. "she was so deathly sick she dinna what she was doing. i can see it noo, but i dinna understand then." "that's all right," said jimmy. "she didn't! she kapes moaning over and over 'what did i do?' you hustle in and fix it up with her. i'm getting tired of all this racket." all dannie heard was that he was to go to mary. he went up the lane, across the garden, and stepped in at the back door. beside the table stood a comely young woman, dressed in blue and white stripes. she was doing something with eggs and milk. she glanced at dannie, and finished filling a glass. as she held it to the light, "is your name macnoun?" she inquired. "yes," said dannie. "dannie macnoun?" she asked. "yes," said dannie. "then you are the medicine needed here just now," she said, as if that were the most natural statement in the world. "mrs. malone seems to have an idea that she offended you, and drove you from home, just prior to her illness, and as she has been very sick, she is in no condition to bear other trouble. you understand?" "do ye understand that i couldna have gone if i had known she was ill?" asked dannie in turn. "from what she has said in delirium i have been sure of that," replied the nurse. "it seems you have been the stay of the family for years. i have a very high opinion of you, mr. macnoun. wait until i speak to her." the nurse vanished, presently returned, and as dannie passed through the door, she closed it after him, and he stood still, trying to see in the dim light. that great snowy stretch, that must be the bed. that tumbled dark circle, that must be mary's hair. that dead white thing beneath it, that must be mary's face. those burning lights, flaming on him, those must be mary's eyes. dannie stepped softly across the room, and bent over the bed. he tried hard to speak naturally. "mary" he said, "oh, mary, i dinna know ye were ill! oh, believe me, i dinna realize ye were suffering pain." she smiled faintly, and her lips moved. dannie bent lower. "promise," she panted. "promise you will stay now." her hand fumbled at her breast, and then she slipped on the white cover a little black cross. dannie knew what she meant. he laid his hand on the emblem precious to her, and said softly, "i swear i never will leave ye again, mary malone." a great light swept into her face, and she smiled happily. "now ye," said dannie. he slipped the cross into her hand. "repeat after me," he said. "i promise i will get well, dannie." "i promise i will get well, dannie, if i can," said mary. "na," said dannie. "that winna do. repeat what i said, and remember it is on the cross. life hasna been richt for ye, mary, but if ye will get well, before the lord in some way we will make it happier. ye will get well?" "i promise i will get well, dannie," said mary malone, and dannie softly left the room. outside he said to the nurse, "what can i do?" she told him everything of which she could think that would be of benefit. "now tell me all ye know of what happened," commanded dannie. "after you left," said the nurse, "she was in labor, and she could not waken her husband, and she grew frightened and screamed. there were men passing out on the road. they heard her, and came to see what was the matter." "strangers?" shuddered dannie, with dry lips. "no, neighbors. one man went for the nearest woman, and the other drove to town for a doctor. they had help here almost as soon as you could. but, of course, the shock was a very dreadful thing, and the heat of the past few weeks has been enervating." "ane thing more," questioned dannie. "why do her children dee?" "i don't know about the others," answered the nurse. "this one simply couldn't be made to breathe. it was a strange thing. it was a fine big baby, a boy, and it seemed perfect, but we couldn't save it. i never worked harder. they told me she had lost two others, and we tried everything of which we could think. it just seemed as if it had grown a lump of flesh, with no vital spark in it." dannie turned, went out of the door, and back along the lane to the river where he had left jimmy. "'a lump of flesh with na vital spark in it,'" he kept repeating. "i dinna but that is the secret. she is almost numb with misery. all these days when she's been without hope, and these awful nichts, when she's watched and feared alone, she has no wished to perpetuate him in children who might be like him, and so at their coming the 'vital spark' is na in them. oh, jimmy, jimmy, have ye mary's happiness and those three little graves to answer for?" he found jimmy asleep where he had left him. dannie shook him awake. "i want to talk with ye," he said. jimmy sat up, and looked into dannie's face. he had a complaint on his lips but it died there. he tried to apologize. "i am almost dead for sleep," he said. "there has been no rest for anyone here. what do you think?" "i think she will live," said dannie dryly. "in spite of your neglect, and my cowardice, i think she will live to suffer more frae us." jimmy's mouth opened, but for once no sound issued. the drops of perspiration raised on his forehead. dannie sat down, and staring at him jimmy saw that there were patches of white hair at his temples that had been brown a week before; his colorless face was sunken almost to the bone, and there was a peculiar twist about his mouth. jimmy's heart weighed heavily, his tongue stood still, and he was afraid to the marrow in his bones. "i think she will live," repeated dannie. "and about the suffering more, we will face that like men, and see what can be done about it. this makes three little graves on the hill, jimmy, what do they mean to ye?" "domn bad luck," said jimmy promptly. "nothing more?" asked dannie. "na responsibility at all. ye are the father of those children. have ye never been to the doctor, and asked why ye lost them?" "no, i haven't," said jimmy. "that is ane thing we will do now," said dannie, "and then we will do more, much more." "what are you driving at?" asked jimmy. "the secret of mary's heart," said dannie. the cold sweat ran from the pores of jimmy's body. he licked his dry lips, and pulled his hat over his eyes, that he might watch dannie from under the brim. "we are twa big, strong men," said dannie. "for fifteen years we have lived here wi' mary. the night ye married her, the licht of happiness went out for me. but i shut my mouth, and shouldered my burden, and went on with my best foot first; because if she had na refused me, i should have married her, and then ye would have been the one to suffer. if she had chosen me, i should have married her, juist as ye did. oh, i've never forgotten that! so i have na been a happy mon, jimmy. we winna go into that any further, we've been over it once. it seems to be a form of torture especially designed fra me, though at times i must confess, it seems rough, and i canna see why, but we'll cut that off with this: life has been hell's hottest sweat-box fra me these fifteen years." jimmy groaned aloud. dannie's keen gray eyes seemed boring into the soul of the man before him, as he went on. "now how about ye? ye got the girl ye wanted. ye own a guid farm that would make ye a living, and save ye money every year. ye have done juist what ye pleased, and as far as i could, i have helped ye. i've had my eye on ye pretty close, jimmy, and if ye are a happy mon, i dinna but i'm content as i am. what's your trouble? did ye find ye dinna love mary after ye won her? did ye murder your mither or blacken your soul with some deadly sin? mon! if i had in my life what ye every day neglect and torture, heaven would come doon, and locate at the foot of the rainbow fra me. but, ye are no happy, jimmy. let's get at the root of the matter. while ye are unhappy, mary will be also. we are responsible to god for her, and between us, she is empty armed, near to death, and almost dumb with misery. i have juist sworn to her on the cross she loves that if she will make ane more effort, and get well, we will make her happy. now, how are we going to do it?" another great groan burst from jimmy, and he shivered as if with a chill. "let us look ourselves in the face," dannie went on, "and see what we lack. what can we do fra her? what will bring a song to her lips, licht to her beautiful eyes, love to her heart, and a living child to her arms? wake up, mon! by god, if ye dinna set to work with me and solve this problem, i'll shake a solution out of ye! what i must suffer is my own, but what's the matter with ye, and why, when she loved and married ye, are ye breakin' mary's heart? answer me, mon!" dannie reached over and snatched the hat from jimmy's forehead, and stared at an inert heap. jimmy lay senseless, and he looked like death. dannie rushed down to the water with the hat, and splashed drops into jimmy's face until he gasped for breath. when he recovered a little, he shrank from dannie, and began to sob, as if he were a sick ten-year-old child. "i knew you'd go back on me, dannie," he wavered. "i've lost the only frind i've got, and i wish i was dead." "i havena gone back on ye," persisted dannie, bathing jimmy's face. "life means nothing to me, save as i can use it fra mary, and fra ye. be quiet, and sit up here, and help me work this thing out. why are ye a discontented mon, always wishing fra any place save home? why do ye spend all ye earn foolishly, so that ye are always hard up, when ye might have affluence? why does mary lose her children, and why does she noo wish she had na married ye?" "who said she wished she hadn't married me?" cried jimmy. "do ye mean to say ye think she doesn't?" blazed dannie. "i ain't said anything!" exclaimed jimmy. "na, and i seem to have damn poor luck gettin' ye to say anything. i dinna ask fra tears, nor faintin' like a woman. be a mon, and let me into the secret of this muddle. there is a secret, and ye know it. what is it? why are ye breaking the heart o' mary malone? answer me, or 'fore god i'll wring the answer fra your body!" and jimmy keeled over again. this time he was gone so far that dannie was frightened into a panic, and called the doctor coming up the lane to jimmy before he had time to see mary. the doctor soon brought jimmy around, prescribed quiet and sleep; talked about heart trouble developing, and symptoms of tremens, and dannie poured on water, and gritted his teeth. and it ended by jimmy being helped to dannie's cabin, undressed, and put into bed, and then dannie went over to see what he could do for the nurse. she looked at him searchingly. "mr. macnoun, when were you last asleep?" she asked. "i forget," answered dannie. "when did you last have a good hot meal?" "i dinna know," replied dannie. "drink that," said the nurse, handing him the bowl of broth she carried, and going back to the stove for another. "when i have finished making mrs. malone comfortable, i'm going to get you something to eat, and you are going to eat it. then you are going to lie down on that cot where i can call you if i need you, and sleep six hours, and then you're going to wake up and watch by this door while i sleep my six. even nurses must have some rest, you know." "ye first," said dannie. "i'll be all richt when i get food. since ye mention it, i believe i am almost mad with hunger." the nurse handed him another bowl of broth. "just drink that, and drink slowly," she said, as she left the room. dannie could hear her speaking softly to mary, and then all was quiet, and the girl came out and closed the door. she deftly prepared food for dannie, and he ate all she would allow him, and begged for more; but she firmly told him her hands were full now, and she had no one to depend on but him to watch after the turn of the night. so dannie lay down on the cot. he had barely touched it when he thought of jimmy, so he got up quietly and started home. he had almost reached his back door when it opened, and jimmy came out. dannie paused, amazed at jimmy's wild face and staring eyes. "don't you begin your cursed gibberish again," cried jimmy, at sight of him. "i'm burning in all the tortures of fire now, and i'll have a drink if i smash down casey's and steal it." dannie jumped for him, and jimmy evaded him and fled. dannie started after. he had reached the barn before he began to think. "i depend on you," the nurse had said. "jimmy, wait!" he called. "jimmy, have ye any money?" jimmy was running along the path toward town. dannie stopped. he stood staring after jimmy for a second, and then he deliberately turned, went back, and lay down on the cot, where the nurse expected to find him when she wanted him to watch by the door of mary malone. chapter vii the apple of discord becomes a jointed rod "what do you think about fishing, dannie?" asked jimmy malone. "there was a licht frost last nicht," said dannie. "it begins to look that way. i should think a week more, especially if there should come a guid rain." jimmy looked disappointed. his last trip to town had ended in a sodden week in the barn, and at dannie's cabin. for the first time he had carried whiskey home with him. he had insisted on dannie drinking with him, and wanted to fight when he would not. he addressed the bottle, and dannie, as the sovereign alchemist by turns, and "transmuted the leaden metal of life into pure gold" of a glorious drunk, until his craving was satisfied. then he came back to work and reason one morning, and by the time mary was about enough to notice him, he was jimmy at his level best, and doing more than he had in years to try to interest and please her. mary had fully recovered, and appeared as strong as she ever had been, but there was a noticeable change in her. she talked and laughed with a gayety that seemed forced, and in the midst of it her tongue turned bitter, and jimmy and dannie fled before it. the gray hairs multiplied on dannie's head with rapidity. he had gone to the doctor, and to mary's sister, and learned nothing more than the nurse could tell him. dannie was willing to undertake anything in the world for mary, but just how to furnish the "vital spark," to an unborn babe, was too big a problem for him. and jimmy malone was growing to be another. heretofore, dannie had borne the brunt of the work, and all of the worry. he had let jimmy feel that his was the guiding hand. jimmy's plans were followed whenever it was possible, and when it was not, dannie started jimmy's way, and gradually worked around to his own. but, there never had been a time between them, when things really came to a crisis, and dannie took the lead, and said matters must go a certain way, that jimmy had not acceded. in reality, dannie always had been master. now he was not. where he lost control he did not know. he had tried several times to return to the subject of how to bring back happiness to mary, and jimmy immediately developed symptoms of another attack of heart disease, a tendency to start for town, or openly defied him by walking away. yet, jimmy stuck to him closer than he ever had, and absolutely refused to go anywhere, or to do the smallest piece of work alone. sometimes he grew sullen and morose when he was not drinking, and that was very unlike the gay jimmy. sometimes he grew wildly hilarious, as if he were bound to make such a racket that he could hear no sound save his own voice. so long as he stayed at home, helped with the work, and made an effort to please mary, dannie hoped for the best, but his hopes never grew so bright that they shut out an awful fear that was beginning to loom in the future. but he tried in every way to encourage jimmy, and help him in the struggle he did not understand, so when he saw that jimmy was disappointed about the fishing, he suggested that he should go alone. "i guess not!" said jimmy. "i'd rather go to confission than to go alone. what's the fun of fishin' alone? all the fun there is to fishin' is to watch the other fellow's eyes when you pull in a big one, and try to hide yours from him when he gets it. i guess not! what have we got to do?" "finish cutting the corn, and get in the pumpkins before there comes frost enough to hurt them." "well, come along!" said jimmy. "let's get it over. i'm going to begin fishing for that bass the morning after the first black frost, if i do go alone. i mean it!" "but ye said--" began dannie. "hagginy!" cried jimmy. "what a lot of time you've wasted if you've been kaping account of all the things i've said. haven't you learned by this time that i lie twice to the truth once?" dannie laughed. "dinna say such things, jimmy. i hate to hear ye. of course, i know about the fifty coons of the canoper, and things like that; honest, i dinna believe ye can help it. but na man need lie about a serious matter, and when he knows he is deceiving another who trusts him." jimmy became so white that he felt the color receding, and turned to hide his face. "of course, about those fifty coons noo, what was the harm in that? nobody believed it. that wasna deceiving any ane." "yes, but it was," answered jimmy. "the boston man belaved it, and i guiss he hasn't forgiven me, if he did take my hand, and drink with me. you know i haven't had a word from him about that coon skin. i worked awful hard on that skin. some way, i tried to make it say to him again that i was sorry for that night's work. sometimes i am afraid i killed the fellow." "o-ho!" scoffed dannie. "men ain't so easy killed. i been thinkin' about it, too, and i'll tell ye what i think. i think he goes on long trips, and only gets home every four or five months. the package would have to wait. his folks wouldna try to send it after him. he was a monly fellow, all richt, and ye will hear fra him yet." "i'd like to," said jimmy, absently, beating across his palm a spray of goldenrod he had broken. "just a line to tell me that he don't bear malice." "ye will get it," said dannie. "have a little patience. but that's your greatest fault, jimmy. ye never did have ony patience." "for god's sake, don't begin on me faults again," snapped jimmy. "i reckon i know me faults about as well as the nixt fellow. i'm so domn full of faults that i've thought a lot lately about fillin' up, and takin' a sleep on the railroad." a new fear wrung dannie's soul. "ye never would, jimmy," he implored. "sure not!" cried jimmy. "i'm no good catholic livin', but if it come to dyin', bedad i niver could face it without first confissin' to the praste, and that would give the game away. let's cut out dyin', and cut corn!" "that's richt," agreed dannie. "and let's work like men, and then fish fra a week or so, before ice and trapping time comes again. i'll wager i can beat ye the first row." "bate!" scoffed jimmy. "bate! with them club-footed fingers of yours? you couldn't bate an egg. just watch me! if you are enough of a watch to keep your hands runnin' at the same time." jimmy worked feverishly for an hour, and then he straightened and looked about him. on the left lay the river, its shores bordered with trees and bushes. behind them was deep wood. before them lay their open fields, sloping down to the bottom, the cabins on one side, and the kingfisher embankment on the other. there was a smoky haze in the air. as always the blackbirds clamored along the river. some crows followed the workers at a distance, hunting for grains of corn, and over in the woods, a chewink scratched and rustled among the deep leaves as it searched for grubs. from time to time a flock of quail arose before them with a whirr and scattered down the fields, reassembling later at the call of their leader, from a rider of the snake fence, which inclosed the field. "bob, bob white," whistled dannie. "bob, bob white," answered the quail. "i got my eye on that fellow," said jimmy. "when he gets a little larger, i'm going after him." "seems an awful pity to kill him," said dannie. "people rave over the lark, but i vow i'd miss the quail most if they were both gone. they are getting scarce." "well, i didn't say i was going to kill the whole flock," said jimmy. "i was just going to kill a few for mary, and if i don't, somebody else will." "mary dinna need onything better than ane of her own fried chickens," said dannie. "and its no true about hunters. we've the river on ane side, and the bluff on the other. if we keep up our fishing signs, and add hunting to them, and juist shut the other fellows out, the birds will come here like everything wild gathers in national park, out west. ye bet things know where they are taken care of, well enough." jimmy snipped a spray of purple ironwort with his corn-cutter, and stuck it through his suspender buckle. "i think that would be more fun than killin' them. if you're a dacint shot, and your gun is clane" (jimmy remembered the crow that had escaped with the eggs at soap-making), "you pretty well know you're goin' to bring down anything you aim at. but it would be a dandy joke to shell a little corn as we husk it, and toll all the quail into rainbow bottom, and then kape the other fellows out. bedad! let's do it." jimmy addressed the quail: "quailie, quailie on the fince, we think your singin's just imminse. stay right here, and live with us, and the fellow that shoots you will strike a fuss." "we can protect them all richt enough," laughed dannie. "and when the snow comes we can feed cardinals like cheekens. wish when we threshed, we'd saved a few sheaves of wheat. they do that in germany, ye know. the last sheaf of the harvest they put up on a long pole at christmas, as a thank-offering to the birds fra their care of the crops. my father often told of it." "that would be great," said jimmy. "now look how domn slow you are! why didn't you mintion it at harvest? i'd like things comin' for me to take care of them. gee! makes me feel important just to think about it. next year we'll do it, sure. they'd be a lot of company. a man could work in this field to-day, with all the flowers around him, and the colors of the leaves like a garden, and a lot of birds talkin' to him, and not feel afraid of being alone." "afraid?" quoted dannie, in amazement. for an instant jimmy looked startled. then his love of proving his point arose. "yes, afraid!" he repeated stubbornly. "afraid of being away from the sound of a human voice, because whin you are, the voices of the black divils of conscience come twistin' up from the ground in a little wiry whisper, and moanin' among the trees, and whistlin' in the wind, and rollin' in the thunder, and above all in the dark they screech, and shout, and roar,'we're after you, jimmy malone! we've almost got you, jimmy malone! you're going to burn in hell, jimmy malone!'" jimmy leaned toward dannie, and began in a low voice, but he grew so excited as he tried to picture the thing that he ended in a scream, and even then dannie's horrified eyes failed to recall him. jimmy straightened, stared wildly behind him, and over the open, hazy field, where flowers bloomed, and birds called, and the long rows of shocks stood unconscious auditors of the strange scene. he lifted his hat, and wiped the perspiration from his dripping face with the sleeve of his shirt, and as he raised his arm, the corn-cutter flashed in the light. "my god, it's awful, dannie! it's so awful, i can't begin to tell you!" dannie's face was ashen. "jimmy, dear auld fellow," he said, "how long has this been going on?" "a million years," said jimmy, shifting the corn-cutter to the hand that held his hat, that he might moisten his fingers with saliva and rub it across his parched lips. "jimmy, dear," dannie's hand was on jimmy's sleeve. "have ye been to town in the nicht, or anything like that lately?" "no, dannie, dear, i ain't," sneered jimmy, setting his hat on the back of his head and testing the corn-cutter with his thumb. "this ain't casey's, me lad. i've no more call there, at this minute, than you have." "it is casey's, juist the same," said dannie bitterly. "dinna ye know the end of this sort of thing?" "no, bedad, i don't!" said jimmy. "if i knew any way to ind it, you can bet i've had enough. i'd ind it quick enough, if i knew how. but the railroad wouldn't be the ind. that would just be the beginnin'. keep close to me, dannie, and talk, for mercy sake, talk! do you think we could finish the corn by noon?" "let's try!" said dannie, as he squared his shoulders to adjust them to his new load. "then we'll get in the pumpkins this afternoon, and bury the potatoes, and the cabbage and turnips, and then we're aboot fixed fra winter." "we must take one day, and gather our nuts," suggested jimmy, struggling to make his voice sound natural, "and you forgot the apples. we must bury thim too." "that's so," said dannie, "and when that's over, we'll hae nothing left to do but catch the bass, and say farewell to the kingfisher." "i've already told you that i would relave you of all responsibility about the bass," said jimmy, "and when i do, you won't need trouble to make your adieus to the kingfisher of the wabash. he'll be one bird that won't be migrating this winter." dannie tried to laugh. "i'd like fall as much as any season of the year," he said, "if it wasna for winter coming next." "i thought you liked winter, and the trampin' in the white woods, and trappin', and the long evenings with a book." "i do," said dannie. "i must have been thinkin' of mary. she hated last winter so. of course, i had to go home when ye were away, and the nichts were so long, and so cold, and mony of them alone. i wonder if we canna arrange fra one of her sister's girls to stay with her this winter?" "what's the matter with me?" asked jimmy. "nothing, if only ye'd stay," answered dannie. "all i'll be out of nights, you could put in one eye," said jimmy. "i went last winter, and before, because whin they clamored too loud, i could be drivin' out the divils that way, for a while, and you always came for me, but even that won't be stopping it now. i wouldn't stick my head out alone after dark, not if i was dying!" "jimmy, ye never felt that way before," said dannie. "tell me what happened this summer to start ye." "i've done a domn sight of faleing that you didn't know anything about," answered jimmy. "i could work it off at casey's for a while, but this summer things sort of came to a head, and i saw meself for fair, and before god, dannie, i didn't like me looks." "well, then, i like your looks," said dannie. "ye are the best company i ever was in. ye are the only mon i ever knew that i cared fra, and i care fra ye so much, i havna the way to tell ye how much. you're possessed with a damn fool idea, jimmy, and ye got to shake it off. such a great-hearted, big mon as ye! i winna have it! there's the dinner bell, and richt glad i am of it!" that afternoon when pumpkin gathering was over and jimmy had invited mary out to separate the "punk" from the pumpkins, there was a wagon-load of good ones above what they would need for their use. dannie proposed to take them to town and sell them. to his amazement jimmy refused to go along. "i told you this morning that casey wasn't calling me at prisent," he said, "and whin i am not called i'd best not answer. i have promised mary to top the onions and bury the cilery, and murder the bates." "do what wi' the beets?" inquired the puzzled dannie. "kill thim! kill thim stone dead. i'm too tinder-hearted to be burying anything but a dead bate, dannie. that's a thousand years old, but laugh, like i knew you would, old ramphirinkus! no, thank you, i don't go to town!" then dannie was scared. "he's going to be dreadfully seek or go mad," he said. so he drove to the village, sold the pumpkins, filled mary's order for groceries, and then went to the doctor, and told him of jimmy's latest developments. "it is the drink," said that worthy disciple of esculapius. "it's the drink! in time it makes a fool sodden and a bright man mad. few men have sufficient brains to go crazy. jimmy has. he must stop the drink." on the street, dannie encountered father michael. the priest stopped him to shake hands. "how's mary malone?" he asked. "she is quite well noo," answered dannie, "but she is na happy. i live so close, and see so much, i know. i've thought of ye lately. i have thought of coming to see ye. i'm na of your religion, but mary is, and what suits her is guid enough for me. i've tried to think of everything under the sun that might help, and among other things i've thought of ye. jimmy was confirmed in your church, and he was more or less regular up to his marriage." "less, mr. macnoun, much less!" said the priest. "since, not at all. why do you ask?" "he is sick," said dannie. "he drinks a guid deal. he has been reckless about sleeping on the ground, and noo, if ye will make this confidential?"--the priest nodded--"he is talking aboot sleeping on the railroad, and he's having delusions. there are devils after him. he is the finest fellow ye ever knew, father michael. we've been friends all our lives. ye have had much experience with men, and it ought to count fra something. from all ye know, and what i've told ye, could his trouble be cured as the doctor suggests?" the priest did a queer thing. "you know him as no living man, dannie," he said. "what do you think?" dannie's big hands slowly opened and closed. then he fell to polishing the nails of one hand on the palm of the other. at last he answered, "if ye'd asked me that this time last year, i'd have said 'it's the drink,' at a jump. but times this summer, this morning, for instance, when he hadna a drop in three weeks, and dinna want ane, when he could have come wi' me to town, and wouldna, and there were devils calling him from the ground, and the trees, and the sky, out in the open cornfield, it looked bad." the priest's eyes were boring into dannie's sick face. "how did it look?" he asked briefly. "it looked," said dannie, and his voice dropped to a whisper, "it looked like he might carry a damned ugly secret, that it would be better fra him if ye, at least, knew." "and the nature of that secret?" dannie shook his head. "couldna give a guess at it! known him all his life. my only friend. always been togither. square a mon as god ever made. there's na fault in him, if he'd let drink alone. got more faith in him than any ane i ever knew. i wouldna trust mon on god's footstool, if i had to lose faith in jimmy. come to think of it, that 'secret' business is all old woman's scare. the drink is telling on him. if only he could be cured of that awful weakness, all heaven would come down and settle in rainbow bottom." they shook hands and parted without dannie realizing that he had told all he knew and learned nothing. then he entered the post office for the weekly mail. he called for malone's papers also, and with them came a slip from the express office notifying jimmy that there was a package for him. dannie went to see if they would let him have it, and as jimmy lived in the country, and as he and dannie were known to be partners, he was allowed to sign the book, and carry away a long, slender, wooden box, with a boston tag. the thread man had sent jimmy a present, and from the appearance of the box, dannie made up his mind that it was a cane. straightway he drove home at a scandalous rate of speed, and on the way, he dressed jimmy in a broadcloth suit, patent leathers, and a silk hat. then he took him to a gold cure, where he learned to abhor whiskey in a week, and then to the priest, to whom he confessed that he had lied about the number of coons in the canoper. and so peace brooded in rainbow bottom, and all of them were happy again. for with the passing of summer, dannie had learned that heretofore there had been happiness of a sort, for them, and that if they could all get back to the old footing it would be well, or at least far better than it was at present. with mary's tongue dripping gall, and her sweet face souring, and jimmy hearing devils, no wonder poor dannie overheated his team in a race to carry a package that promised to furnish some diversion. jimmy and mary heard the racket, and standing on the celery hill, they saw dannie come clattering up the lane, and as he saw them, he stood in the wagon, and waved the package over his head. jimmy straightened with a flourish, stuck the spade in the celery hill, and descended with great deliberation. "i mintioned to dannie this morning," he said "that it was about time i was hearin' from the thrid man." "oh! do you suppose it is something from boston?" the eagerness in mary's voice made it sound almost girlish again. "hunt the hatchet!" hissed jimmy, and walked very leisurely into the cabin. dannie was visibly excited as he entered. "i think ye have heard from the thread mon," he said, handing jimmy the package. jimmy took it, and examined it carefully. he never before in his life had an express package, the contents of which he did not know. it behooved him to get all there was out of the pride and the joy of it. mary laid down the hatchet so close that it touched jimmy's hand, to remind him. "now what do you suppose he has sent you?" she inquired eagerly, her hand straying toward the packages. jimmy tested the box. "it don't weigh much," he said, "but one end of it's the heaviest." he set the hatchet in a tiny crack, and with one rip, stripped off the cover. inside lay a long, brown leather case, with small buckles, and in one end a little leather case, flat on one side, rounding on the other, and it, too, fastened with a buckle. jimmy caught sight of a paper book folded in the bottom of the box, as he lifted the case. with trembling fingers he unfastened the buckles, the whole thing unrolled, and disclosed a case of leather, sewn in four divisions, from top to bottom, and from the largest of these protruded a shining object. jimmy caught this, and began to draw, and the shine began to lengthen. "just what i thought!" exclaimed dannie. "he's sent ye a fine cane." "a hint to kape out of the small of his back the nixt time he goes promenadin' on a cow-kitcher! the divil!" exploded jimmy. his quick eyes had caught a word on the cover of the little book in the bottom of the box. "a cane! a cane! look at that, will ye?" he flashed six inches of grooved silvery handle before their faces, and three feet of shining black steel, scarcely thicker than a lead pencil. "cane!" he cried scornfully. then he picked up the box, and opening it drew out a little machine that shone like a silver watch, and setting it against the handle, slipped a small slide over each end, and it held firmly, and shone bravely. "oh, jimmy, what is it?" cried mary. "me cane!" answered jimmy. "me new cane from boston. didn't you hear dannie sayin' what it was? this little arrangemint is my cicly-meter, like they put on wheels, and buggies now, to tell how far you've traveled. the way this works, i just tie this silk thrid to me door knob and off i walks, it a reeling out behind, and whin i turn back it takes up as i come, and whin i get home i take the yardstick and measure me string, and be the same token, it tells me how far i've traveled." as he talked he drew out another shining length and added it to the first, and then another and a last, fine as a wheat straw. "these last jints i'm adding," he explained to mary, "are so that if i have me cane whin i'm riding i can stritch it out and touch up me horses with it. and betimes, if i should iver break me old cane fish pole, i could take this down to the river, and there, the books call it 'whipping the water.' see! cane, be jasus! it's the jim-dandiest little fishing rod anybody in these parts iver set eyes on. lord! what a beauty!" he turned to dannie and shook the shining, slender thing before his envious eyes. "who gets the black bass now?" he triumphed in tones of utter conviction. there is no use in taking time to explain to any fisherman who has read thus far that dannie, the patient; dannie, the long-suffering, felt abused. how would you feel yourself? "the thread man might have sent twa," was his thought. "the only decent treatment he got that nicht was frae me, and if i'd let jimmy hit him, he'd gone through the wall. but there never is anything fra me!" and that was true. there never was. aloud he said, "dinna bother to hunt the steelyards, mary. we winna weigh it until he brings it home." "yes, and by gum, i'll bring it with this! look, here is a picture of a man in a boat, pullin' in a whale with a pole just like this," bragged jimmy. "yes," said dannie. "that's what it's made for. a boat and open water. if ye are going to fish wi' that thing along the river we'll have to cut doon all the trees, and that will dry up the water. that's na for river fishing." jimmy was intently studying the book. mary tried to take the rod from his hand. "let be!" he cried, hanging on. "you'll break it!" "i guess steel don't break so easy," she said aggrievedly. "i just wanted to 'heft' it." "light as a feather," boasted jimmy. "fish all day and it won't tire a man at all. done--unjoint it and put it in its case, and not go dragging up everything along the bank like a living stump-puller. this book says this line will bear twinty pounds pressure, and sometimes it's takin' an hour to tire out a fish, if it's a fighter. i bet you the black bass is a fighter, from what we know of him." "ye can watch me land him and see what ye think about it," suggested dannie. jimmy held the book with one hand and lightly waved the rod with the other, in a way that would have developed nerves in an indian. he laughed absently. "with me shootin' bait all over his pool with this?" he asked. "i guess not!" "but you can't fish for the bass with that, jimmy malone," cried mary hotly. "you agreed to fish fair for the bass, and it wouldn't be fair for you to use that, whin dannie only has his old cane pole. dannie, get you a steel pole, too," she begged. "if jimmy is going to fish with that, there will be all the more glory in taking the bass from him with the pole i have," answered dannie. "you keep out," cried jimmy angrily to mary. "it was a fair bargain. he made it himself. each man was to fish surface or deep, and with his own pole and bait. i guess this is my pole, ain't it?" "yes," said mary. "but it wasn't yours whin you made that agreemint. you very well know dannie expected you to fish with the same kind of pole and bait that he did; didn't you, dannie?" "yes," said dannie, "i did. because i never dreamed of him havin' any other. but since he has it, i think he's in his rights if he fishes with it. i dinna care. in the first place he will only scare the bass away from him with the racket that reel will make, and in the second, if he tries to land it with that thing, he will smash it, and lose the fish. there's a longhandled net to land things with that goes with those rods. he'd better sent ye one. now you'll have to jump into the river and land a fish by hand if ye hook it." "that's true!" cried mary. "here's one in a picture." she had snatched the book from jimmy. he snatched it back. "be careful, you'll tear that!" he cried. "i was just going to say that i would get some fine wire or mosquito bar and make one." dannie's fingers were itching to take the rod, if only for an instant. he looked at it longingly. but jimmy was impervious. he whipped it softly about and eagerly read from the book. "tells here about a man takin' a fish that weighed forty pounds with a pole just like this," he announced. "scat! jumpin' jehosophat! what do you think of that!" "couldn't you fish turn about with it?" inquired mary. "na, we couldna fish turn about with it," answered dannie. "na with that pole. jimmy would throw a fit if anybody else touched it. and he's welcome to it. he never in this world will catch the black bass with it. if i only had some way to put juist fifteen feet more line on my pole, i'd show him how to take the bass to-morrow. the way we always have come to lose it is with too short lines. we have to try to land it before it's tired out and it's strong enough to break and tear away. it must have ragged jaws and a dozen pieces of line hanging to it, fra both of us have hooked it time and again. when it strikes me, if i only could give it fifteen feet more line, i could land it." "can't you fix some way?" asked mary. "i'll try," answered dannie. "and in the manetime, i'd just be givin' it twinty off me dandy little reel, and away goes me with mr. bass," said jimmy. "i must take it to town and have its picture took to sind the thrid man." and that was the last straw. dannie had given up being allowed to touch the rod, and was on his way to unhitch his team and do the evening work. the day had been trying and just for the moment he forgot everything save that his longing fingers had not touched that beautiful little fishing rod. "the boston man forgot another thing," he said. "the dude who shindys 'round with those things in pictures, wears a damn, dinky, little pleated coat!" chapter viii when the black bass struck "lots of fish down in the brook, all you need is a rod, and a line, and a hook," hummed jimmy, still lovingly fingering his possessions. "did dannie iver say a thing like that to you before?" asked mary. "oh, he's dead sore," explained jimmy. "he thinks he should have had a jinted rod, too." "and so he had," replied mary. "you said yoursilf that you might have killed that man if dannie hadn't showed you that you were wrong." "you must think stuff like this is got at the tin-cint store," said jimmy. "oh, no i don't!" said mary. "i expect it cost three or four dollars." "three or four dollars," sneered jimmy. "all the sinse a woman has! feast your eyes on this book and rade that just this little reel alone cost fifteen, and there's no telling what the rod is worth. why it's turned right out of pure steel, same as if it were wood. look for yoursilf." "thanks, no! i'm afraid to touch it," said mary. "oh, you are sore too!" laughed jimmy. "with all that money in it, i should think you could see why i wouldn't want it broke." "you've sat there and whipped it around for an hour. would it break it for me or dannie to do the same thing? if it had been his, you'd have had a worm on it and been down to the river trying it for him by now." "worm!" scoffed jimmy. "a worm! that's a good one! idjit! you don't fish with worms with a jinted rod." "well what do you fish with? humming birds?" "no. you fish with--" jimmy stopped and eyed mary dubiously. "you fish with a lot of things," he continued. "some of thim come in little books and they look like moths, and some like snake-faders, and some of them are buck-tail and bits of tin, painted to look shiny. once there was a man in town who had a minnie made of rubber and all painted up just like life. there were hooks on its head, and on its back, and its belly, and its tail, so's that if a fish snapped at it anywhere it got hooked." "i should say so!" exclaimed mary. "it's no fair way to fish, to use more than one hook. you might just as well take a net and wade in and seine out the fish as to take a lot of hooks and rake thim out." "well, who's going to take a lot of hooks and rake thim out?" "i didn't say anybody was. i was just saying it wouldn't be fair to the fish if they did." "course i wouldn't fish with no riggin' like that, when dannie only has one old hook. whin we fish for the bass, i won't use but one hook either. all the same, i'm going to have some of those fancy baits. i'm going to get jim skeels at the drug store to order thim for me. i know just how you do," said jimmy flourishing the rod. "you put on your bait and quite a heavy sinker, and you wind it up to the ind of your rod, and thin you stand up in your boat----" "stand up in your boat!" "i wish you'd let me finish!--or on the bank, and you take this little whipper-snapper, and you touch the spot on the reel that relases the thrid, and you give the rod a little toss, aisy as throwin' away chips, and off maybe fifty feet your bait hits the water, 'spat!' and 'snap!' goes mr. bass, and 'stick!' goes the hook. see?" "what i see is that if you want to fish that way in the wabash, you'll have to wait until the dredge goes through and they make a canal out of it; for be the time you'd throwed fifty feet, and your fish had run another fifty, there'd be just one hundred snags, and logs, and stumps between you; one for every foot of the way. it must look pretty on deep water, where it can be done right, but i bet anything that if you go to fooling with that on our river, dannie gets the bass." "not much, dannie don't 'gets the bass,'" said jimmy confidently. "just you come out here and let me show you how this works. now you see, i put me sinker on the ind of the thrid, no hook of course, for practice, and i touch this little spring here, and give me little rod a whip and away goes me bait, slick as grase. mr. bass is layin' in thim bass weeds right out there, foreninst the pie-plant bed, and the bait strikes the water at the idge, see! and 'snap,' he takes it and sails off slow, to swally it at leisure. here's where i don't pull a morsel. jist let him rin and swally, and whin me line is well out and he has me bait all digistid, 'yank,' i give him the round-up, and thin, the fun begins. he leps clear of the water and i see he's tin pound. if he rins from me, i give him rope, and if he rins to, i dig in, workin' me little machane for dear life to take up the thrid before it slacks. whin he sees me, he makes a dash back, and i just got to relase me line and let him go, because he'd bust this little silk thrid all to thunder if i tried to force him onpleasant to his intintions, and so we kape it up until he's plum wore out and comes a promenadin' up to me boat, bank i mane, and i scoops him in, and that's sport, mary! that's man's fishin'! now watch! he's in thim bass weeds before the pie-plant, like i said, and i'm here on the bank, and i think he's there, so i give me little jinted rod a whip and a swing----" jimmy gave the rod a whip and a swing. the sinker shot in air, struck the limb of an apple tree and wound a dozen times around it. jimmy said things and mary giggled. she also noticed that dannie had stopped work and was standing in the barn door watching intently. jimmy climbed the tree, unwound the line and tried again. "i didn't notice that domn apple limb stickin' out there," he said. "now you watch! right out there among the bass weeds foreninst the pie-plant." to avoid another limb, jimmy aimed too low and the sinker shot under the well platform not ten feet from him. "lucky you didn't get fast in the bass weeds," said mary as jimmy reeled in. "will, i got to get me range," explained jimmy. "this time----" jimmy swung too high. the spring slipped from under his unaccustomed thumb. the sinker shot above and behind him and became entangled in the eaves, while yards of the fine silk line flew off the spinning reel and dropped in tangled masses at his feet, and in an effort to do something jimmy reversed the reel and it wound back on tangles and all until it became completely clogged. mary had sat down on the back steps to watch the exhibition. now, she stood up to laugh. "and that's just what will happen to you at the river," she said. "while you are foolin' with that thing, which ain't for rivers, and which you don't know beans about handlin', dannie will haul in the bass, and serve you right, too!" "mary," said jimmy, "i niver struck ye in all me life, but if ye don't go in the house, and shut up, i'll knock the head off ye!" "i wouldn't be advisin' you to," she said. "dannie is watching you." jimmy glanced toward the barn in time to see dannie's shaking shoulders as he turned from the door. with unexpected patience, he firmly closed his lips and went after a ladder. by the time he had the sinker loose and the line untangled, supper was ready. by the time he had mastered the reel, and could land the sinker accurately in front of various imaginary beds of bass weeds, dannie had finished the night work in both stables and gone home. but his back door stood open and therefrom there protruded the point of a long, heavy cane fish pole. by the light of a lamp on his table, dannie could be seen working with pincers and a ball of wire. "i wonder what he thinks he can do?" said jimmy. "i suppose he is trying to fix some way to get that fifteen feet more line he needs," replied mary. when they went to bed the light still burned and the broad shoulders of dannie bent over the pole. mary had fallen asleep, but she was awakened by jimmy slipping from the bed. he went to the window and looked toward dannie's cabin. then he left the bedroom and she could hear him crossing to the back window of the next room. then came a smothered laugh and he softly called her. she went to him. dannie's figure stood out clear and strong in the moonlight, in his wood-yard. his black outline looked unusually powerful in the silvery whiteness surrounding it. he held his fishing pole in both hands and swept a circle about him that would have required considerable space on lake michigan, and made a cast toward the barn. the line ran out smoothly and evenly, and through the gloom mary saw jimmy's figure straighten and his lips close in surprise. then dannie began taking in line. that process was so slow, jimmy doubled up and laughed again. "be lookin' at that, will ye?" he heaved. "what does the domn fool think the black bass will be doin' while he is takin' in line on that young windlass?" "there'd be no room on the river to do that," answered mary serenely. "dannie wouldn't be so foolish as to try. all he wants now is to see if his line will run, and it will. whin he gets to the river, he'll swing his bait where he wants it with his pole, like he always does, and whin the bass strikes he'll give it the extra fifteen feet more line he said he needed, and thin he'll have a pole and line with which he can land it." "not on your life he won't!" said jimmy. he opened the back door and stepped out just as dannie raised the pole again. "hey, you! quit raisin' cain out there!" yelled jimmy. "i want to get some sleep." across the night, tinged neither with chagrin nor rancor, boomed the big voice of dannie. "believe i have my extra line fixed so it works all right," he said. "awful sorry if i waked you. thought i was quiet." "how much did you make off that?" inquired mary. "two points," answered jimmy. "found out that dannie ain't sore at me any longer and that you are." next morning was no sort of angler's weather, but the afternoon gave promise of being good fishing by the morrow. dannie worked about the farms, preparing for winter; jimmy worked with him until mid-afternoon, then he hailed a boy passing, and they went away together. at supper time jimmy had not returned. mary came to where dannie worked. "where's jimmy?" she asked. "i dinna, know" said dannie. "he went away a while ago with some boy, i didna notice who." "and he didn't tell you where he was going?" "no." "and he didn't take either of his fish poles?" "no." mary's lips thinned to a mere line. "then it's casey's," she said, and turned away. dannie was silent. presently mary came back. "if jimmy don't come till morning," she asked, "or comes in shape that he can't fish, will you go without him?" "to-morrow was the day we agreed on," answered dannie. "will you go without him?" persisted mary. "what would he do if it were me?" asked dannie. "when have you iver done to jimmy malone what he would do if he were you?" "is there any reason why ye na want me to land the black bass, mary?" "there is a particular reason why i don't want your living with jimmy to make you like him," answered mary. "my timper is being wined, and i can see where it's beginning to show on you. whativer you do, don't do what he would." "dinna be hard on him, mary. he doesna think," urged dannie. "you niver said twer words. he don't think. he niver thought about anybody in his life except himself, and he niver will." "maybe he didna go to town!" "maybe the sun won't rise in the morning, and it will always be dark after this! come in and get your supper." "i'd best pick up something to eat at home," said dannie. "i have some good food cooked, and it's a pity to be throwin' it away. what's the use? you've done a long day's work, more for us than yoursilf, as usual; come along and get your supper." dannie went, and as he was washing at the back door, jimmy came through the barn, and up the walk. he was fresh, and in fine spirits, and where ever he had been, it was a sure thing that it was nowhere near casey's. "where have you been?" asked mary wonderingly. "robbin' graves," answered jimmy promptly. "i needed a few stiffs in me business so i just went out to five mile and got them." "what are ye going to do with them, jimmy?" chuckled dannie. "use thim for bass bait! now rattle, old snake!" replied jimmy. after supper dannie went to the barn for the shovel to dig worms for bait, and noticed that jimmy's rubber waders hanging on the wall were covered almost to the top with fresh mud and water stains, and dannie's wonder grew. early the next morning they started for the river. as usual jimmy led the way. he proudly carried his new rod. dannie followed with a basket of lunch mary had insisted on packing, his big cane pole, a can of worms, and a shovel, in case they ran out of bait. dannie had recovered his temper, and was just great-hearted, big dannie again. he talked about the south wind, and shivered with the frost, and listened for the splash of the bass. jimmy had little to say. he seemed to be thinking deeply. no doubt he felt in his soul that they should settle the question of who landed the bass with the same rods they had used when the contest was proposed, and that was not all. when they came to the temporary bridge, jimmy started across it, and dannie called to him to wait, he was forgetting his worms. "i don't want any worms," answered jimmy briefly. he walked on. dannie stood staring after him, for he did not understand that. then he went slowly to his side of the river, and deposited his load under a tree where it would be out of the way. he lay down his pole, took a rude wooden spool of heavy fish cord from his pocket, and passed the line through the loop next the handle and so on the length of the rod to the point. then he wired on a sharp bass hook, and wound the wire far up the doubled line. as he worked, he kept an eye on jimmy. he was doing practically the same thing. but just as dannie had fastened on a light lead to carry his line, a souse in the river opposite attracted his attention. jimmy hauled from the water a minnow bucket, and opening it, took out a live minnow, and placed it on his hook. "riddy," he called, as he resank the bucket, and stood on the bank, holding his line in his fingers, and watching the minnow play at his feet. the fact that dannie was a scotchman, and unusually slow and patient, did not alter the fact that he was just a common human being. the lump that rose in his throat was so big, and so hard, he did not try to swallow it. he hurried back into rainbow bottom. the first log he came across he kicked over, and grovelling in the rotten wood and loose earth with his hands, he brought up a half dozen bluish-white grubs. he tore up the ground for the length of the log, and then he went to others, cramming the worms and dirt with them into his pockets. when he had enough, he went back, and with extreme care placed three of them on his hook. he tried to see how jimmy was going to fish, but he could not tell. so dannie decided that he would cast in the morning, fish deep at noon, and cast again toward evening. he rose, turned to the river, and lifted his rod. as he stood looking over the channel, and the pool where the bass homed, the kingfisher came rattling down the river, and as if in answer to its cry, the black bass gave a leap, that sent the water flying. "ready!" cried dannie, swinging his pole over the water. as the word left his lips, "whizz," jimmy's minnow landed in the middle of the circles widening about the rise of the bass. there was a rush and a snap, and dannie saw the jaws of the big fellow close within an inch of the minnow, and he swam after it for a yard, as jimmy slowly reeled in. dannie waited a second, and then softly dropped his grubs on the water just before where he figured the bass would be. he could hear jimmy smothering oaths. dannie said something himself as his untouched bait neared the bank. he lifted it, swung it out, and slowly trailed it in again. "spat!" came jimmy's minnow almost at his feet, and again the bass leaped for it. again he missed. as the minnow reeled away the second time, dannie swung his grubs higher, and struck the water "spat," as the minnow had done. "snap," went the bass. one instant the line strained, the next the hook came up stripped clean of bait. then dannie and jimmy really went at it, and they were strangers. not a word of friendly banter crossed the river. they cast until the bass grew suspicious, and would not rise to the bait; then they fished deep. then they cast again. if jimmy fell into trouble with his reel, dannie had the honesty to stop fishing until it worked again, but he spent the time burrowing for grubs until his hands resembled the claws of an animal. sometimes they sat, and still-fished. sometimes, they warily slipped along the bank, trailing bait a few inches under water. then they would cast and skitter by turns. the kingfisher struck his stump, and tilted on again. his mate, and their family of six followed in his lead, so that their rattle was almost constant. a fussy little red-eyed vireo asked questions, first of jimmy, and then crossing the river besieged dannie, but neither of the stern-faced fishermen paid it any heed. the blackbirds swung on the rushes, and talked over the season. as always, a few crows cawed above the deep woods, and the chewinks threshed about among the dry leaves. a band of larks were gathering for migration, and the frosty air was vibrant with their calls to each other. killdeers were circling above them in flocks. a half dozen robins gathered over a wild grapevine, and chirped cheerfully, as they pecked at the frosted fruit. at times, the pointed nose of a muskrat wove its way across the river, leaving a shining ripple in its wake. in the deep woods squirrels barked and chattered. frost-loosened crimson leaves came whirling down, settling in a bright blanket that covered the water several feet from the bank, and unfortunate bees that had fallen into the river struggled frantically to gain a footing on them. water beetles shot over the surface in small shining parties, and schools of tiny minnows played along the banks. once a black ant assassinated an enemy on dannie's shoe, by creeping up behind it and puncturing its abdomen. noon came, and neither of the fishermen spoke or moved from their work. the lunch mary had prepared with such care they had forgotten. a little after noon, dannie got another strike, deep fishing. mid-afternoon found them still even, and patiently fishing. then it was not so long until supper time, and the air was steadily growing colder. the south wind had veered to the west, and signs of a black frost were in the air. about this time the larks arose as with one accord, and with a whirr of wings that proved how large the flock was, they sailed straight south. jimmy hauled his minnow bucket from the river, poured the water from it, and picked his last minnow, a dead one, from the grass. dannie was watching him, and rightly guessed that he would fish deep. so dannie scooped the remaining dirt from his pockets, and found three grubs. he placed them on his hook, lightened his sinker, and prepared to skitter once more. jimmy dropped his minnow beside the kingfisher stump, and let it sink. dannie hit the water at the base of the stump, where it had not been disturbed for a long time, a sharp "spat," with his worms. something seized his bait, and was gone. dannie planted his feet firmly, squared his jaws, gripped his rod, and loosened his line. as his eye followed it, he saw to his amazement that jimmy's line was sailing off down the river beside his, and heard the reel singing. dannie was soon close to the end of his line. he threw his weight into a jerk enough to have torn the head from a fish, and down the river the black bass leaped clear of the water, doubled, and with a mighty shake tried to throw the hook from his mouth. "got him fast, by god!" screamed jimmy in triumph. straight toward them rushed the fish. jimmy reeled wildly; dannie gathered in his line by yard lengths, and grasped it with the hand that held the rod. near them the bass leaped again, and sped back down the river. jimmy's reel sang, and dannie's line jerked through his fingers. back came the fish. again dannie gathered in line, and jimmy reeled frantically. then dannie, relying on the strength of his line thought he could land the fish, and steadily drew it toward him. jimmy's reel began to sing louder, and his line followed dannie's. instantly jimmy went wild. "stop pullin' me little silk thrid!" he yelled. "i've got the black bass hooked fast as a rock, and your domn clothes line is sawin' across me. cut there! cut that domn rope! quick!" "he's mine, and i'll land him!" roared dannie. "cut yoursel', and let me get my fish!" so it happened, that when mary malone, tired of waiting for the boys to come, and anxious as to the day's outcome, slipped down to the wabash to see what they were doing, she heard sounds that almost paralyzed her. shaking with fear, she ran toward the river, and paused at a little thicket behind dannie. jimmy danced and raged on the opposite bank. "cut!" he yelled. "cut that domn cable, and let me bass loose! cut your line, i say!" dannie stood with his feet planted wide apart, and his jaws set. he drew his line steadily toward him, and jimmy's followed. "ye see!" exulted dannie. "ye're across me. the bass is mine! reel out your line till i land him, if ye dinna want it broken." "if you don't cut your domn line, i will!" raved jimmy. "cut nothin'!" cried dannie. "let's see ye try to touch it!" into the river went jimmy; splash went dannie from his bank. he was nearer the tangled lines, but the water was deepest on his side, and the mud of the bed held his feet. jimmy reached the crossed lines, knife in hand, by the time dannie was there. "will you cut?" cried jimmy. "na!" bellowed dannie. "i've give up every damn thing to ye all my life, but i'll no give up the black bass. he's mine, and i'll land him!" jimmy made a lunge for the lines. dannie swung his pole backward drawing them his way. jimmy slashed again. dannie dropped his pole, and with a sweep, caught the twisted lines in his fingers. "noo, let's see ye cut my line! babby!" he jeered. jimmy's fist flew straight, and the blood streamed from dannie's nose. dannie dropped the lines, and straightened. "you--" he panted. "you--" and no other words came. if jimmy had been possessed of any small particle of reason, he lost it at the sight of blood on dannie's face. "you're a domn fish thief!" he screamed. "ye lie!" breathed dannie, but his hand did not lift. "you are a coward! you're afraid to strike like a man! hit me! you don't dare hit me!" "ye lie!" repeated dannie. "you're a dog!" panted jimmy. "i've used you to wait on me all me life!" "that's the god's truth!" cried dannie. but he made no movement to strike. jimmy leaned forward with a distorted, insane face. "that time you sint me to mary for you, i lied to her, and married her meself. now, will you fight like a man?" dannie made a spring, and jimmy crumpled up in his grasp. "noo, i will choke the miserable tongue out of your heid, and twist the heid off your body, and tear the body to mince-meat," raved dannie, and he promptly began the job. with one awful effort jimmy tore the gripping hands from his throat a little. "lie!" he gasped. "it's all a lie!" "it's the truth! before god it's the truth!" mary malone tried to scream behind them. "it's the truth! it's the truth!" and her ears told her that she was making no sound as with dry lips she mouthed it over and over. and then she fainted, and sank down in the bushes. dannie's hands relaxed a little, he lifted the weight of jimmy's body by his throat, and set him on his feet. "i'll give ye juist ane chance," he said. "is that the truth?" jimmy's awful eyes were bulging from his head, his hands were clawing at dannie's on his throat, and his swollen lips repeated it over and over as breath came, "it's a lie! it's a lie!" "i think so myself," said dannie. "ye never would have dared. ye'd have known that i'd find out some day, and on that day, i'd kill ye as i would a copperhead." "a lie!" panted jimmy. "then why did ye tell it?" and dannie's fingers threatened to renew their grip. "i thought if i could make you strike back," gasped jimmy, "my hittin' you wouldn't same so bad." then dannie's hands relaxed. "oh, jimmy! jimmy!" he cried. "was there ever any other mon like ye?" then he remembered the cause of their trouble. "but, i'm everlastingly damned," dannie went on, "if i'll gi'e up the black bass to ye, unless it's on your line. get yourself up there on your bank!" the shove he gave jimmy almost upset him, and jimmy waded back, and as he climbed the bank, dannie was behind him. after him he dragged a tangled mass of lines and poles, and at the last up the bank, and on the grass, two big fish; one, the great black bass of horseshoe bend; and the other nearly as large, a channel catfish; undoubtedly, one of those which had escaped into the wabash in an overflow of the celina reservoir that spring. "noo, i'll cut," said dannie. "keep your eye on me sharp. see me cut my line at the end o' my pole." he snipped the line in two. "noo watch," he cautioned, "i dinna want contra deection about this!" he picked up the bass, and taking the line by which it was fast at its mouth, he slowly drew it through his fingers. the wiry silk line slipped away, and the heavy cord whipped out free. "is this my line?" asked dannie, holding it up. jimmy nodded. "is the black bass my fish? speak up!" cried dannie, dangling the fish from the line. "it's yours," admitted jimmy. "then i'll be damned if i dinna do what i please wi' my own!" cried dannie. with trembling fingers he extracted the hook, and dropped it. he took the gasping big fish in both hands, and tested its weight. "almost seex," he said. "michty near seex!" and he tossed the black bass back into the wabash. then he stooped, and gathered up his pole and line. with one foot he kicked the catfish, the tangled silk line, and the jointed rod, toward jimmy. "take your fish!" he said. he turned and plunged into the river, recrossed it as he came, gathered up the dinner pail and shovel, passed mary malone, a tumbled heap in the bushes, and started toward his cabin. the black bass struck the water with a splash, and sank to the mud of the bottom, where he lay joyfully soaking his dry gills, parched tongue, and glazed eyes. he scooped water with his tail, and poured it over his torn jaw. and then he said to his progeny, "children, let this be a warning to you. never rise to but one grub at a time. three is too good to be true! there is always a stinger in their midst." and the black bass ruefully shook his sore head and scooped more water. chapter ix when jimmy malone came to confession dannie never before had known such anger as possessed him when he trudged homeward across rainbow bottom. his brain whirled in a tumult of conflicting passions, and his heart pained worse than his swelling face. in one instant the knowledge that jimmy had struck him, possessed him with a desire to turn back and do murder. in the next, a sense of profound scorn for the cowardly lie which had driven him to the rage that kills encompassed him, and then in a surge came compassion for jimmy, at the remberence of the excuse he had offered for saying that thing. how childish! but how like jimmy! what was the use in trying to deal with him as if he were a man? a great spoiled, selfish baby was all he ever would be. the fallen leaves rustled about dannie's feet. the blackbirds above him in chattering debate discussed migration. a stiff breeze swept the fields, topped the embankment, and rushed down circling about dannie, and setting his teeth chattering, for he was almost as wet as if he had been completely immersed. as the chill struck in, from force of habit he thought of jimmy. if he was ever going to learn how to take care of himself, a man past thirty-five should know. would he come home and put on dry clothing? but when had jimmy taken care of himself? dannie felt that he should go back, bring him home, and make him dress quickly. a sharp pain shot across dannie's swollen face. his lips shut firmly. no! jimmy had struck him. and jimmy was in the wrong. the fish was his, and he had a right to it. no man living would have given it up to jimmy, after he had changed poles. and slipped away with a boy and gotten those minnows, too! and wouldn't offer him even one. much good they had done him. caught a catfish on a dead one! wonder if he would take the catfish to town and have its picture taken! mighty fine fish, too, that channel cat! if it hadn't been for the black bass, they would have wondered and exclaimed over it, and carefully weighed it, and commented on the gamy fight it made. just the same he was glad, that he landed the bass. and he got it fairly. if jimmy's old catfish mixed up with his line, he could not help that. he baited, hooked, played, and landed the bass all right, and without any minnows either. when he reached the top of the hill he realized that he was going to look back. in spite of jimmy's selfishness, in spite of the blow, in spite of the ugly lie, jimmy had been his lifelong partner, and his only friend, and stiffen his neck as he would, dannie felt his head turning. he deliberately swung his fish pole into the bushes, and when it caught, as he knew it would, he set down his load, and turned as if to release it. not a sight of jimmy anywhere! dannie started on. "we are after you, jimmy malone!" a thin, little, wiry thread of a cry, that seemed to come twisting as if wrung from the chill air about him, whispered in his ear, and dannie jumped, dropped his load, and ran for the river. he couldn't see a sign of jimmy. he hurried over the shaky little bridge they had built. the catfish lay gasping on the grass, the case and jointed rod lay on a log, but jimmy was gone. dannie gave the catfish a shove that sent it well into the river, and ran for the shoals at the lower curve of horseshoe bend. the tracks of jimmy's crossing were plain, and after him hurried dannie. he ran up the hill, and as he reached the top he saw jimmy climb on a wagon out on the road. dannie called, but the farmer touched up his horses and trotted away without hearing him. "the fool! to ride!" thought dannie. "noo he will chill to the bone!". dannie cut across the fields to the lane and gathered up his load. with the knowledge that jimmy had started for town came the thought of mary. what was he going to say to her? he would have to make a clean breast of it, and he did not like the showing. in fact, he simply could not make a clean breast of it. tell her? he could not tell her. he would lie to her once more, this one time for himself. he would tell her he fell in the river to account for his wet clothing and bruised face, and wait until jimmy came home and see what he told her. he went to the cabin and tapped at the door; there was no answer, so he opened it and set the lunch basket inside. then he hurried home, built a fire, bathed, and put on dry clothing. he wondered where mary was. he was ravenously hungry now. he did all the evening work, and as she still did not come, he concluded that she had gone to town, and that jimmy knew she was there. of course, that was it! jimmy could get dry clothing of his brother-in-law. to be sure, mary had gone to town. that was why jimmy went. and he was right. mary had gone to town. when sense slowly returned to her she sat up in the bushes and stared about her. then she arose and looked toward the river. the men were gone. mary guessed the situation rightly. they were too much of river men to drown in a few feet of water; they scarcely would kill each other. they had fought, and dannie had gone home, and jimmy to the consolation of casey's. where should she go? mary malone's lips set in a firm line. "it's the truth! it's the truth!" she panted over and over, and now that there was no one to hear, she found that she could say it quite plainly. as the sense of her outraged womanhood swept over her she grew almost delirious. "i hope you killed him, dannie micnoun," she raved. "i hope you killed him, for if you didn't, i will. oh! oh!" she was almost suffocating with rage. the only thing clear to her was that she never again would live an hour with jimmy malone. he might have gone home. probably he did go for dry clothing. she would go to her sister. she hurried across the bottom, with wavering knees she climbed the embankment, then skirting the fields, she half walked, half ran to the village, and selecting back streets and alleys, tumbled, half distracted, into the home of her sister. "holy vargin!" screamed katy dolan. "whativer do be ailin' you, mary malone?" "jimmy! jimmy!" sobbed the shivering mary. "i knew it! i knew it! i've ixpicted it for years!" cried katy. "they've had a fight----" "just what i looked for! i always told you they were too thick to last!" "and jimmy told dannie he'd lied to me and married me himsilf----" "he did! i saw him do it!" screamed katy. "and dannie tried to kill him----" "i hope to hivin he got it done, for if any man iver naded killin'! a carpse named jimmy malone would a looked good to me any time these fiftane years. i always said----" "and he took it back----" "just like the rid divil! i knew he'd do it! and of course that mutton-head of a dannie micnoun belaved him, whativer he said." "of course he did!" "i knew it! didn't i say so first?" "and i tried to scrame and me tongue stuck----" "sure! you poor lamb! my tongue always sticks! just what i ixpicted!" "and me head just went round and i keeled over in the bushes----" "i've told dolan a thousand times! i knew it! it's no news to me!" "and whin i came to, they were gone, and i don't know where, and i don't care! but i won't go back! i won't go back! i'll not live with him another day. oh, katy! think how you'd feel if some one had siparated you and dolan before you'd iver been togither!" katie dolan gathered her sister into her arms. "you poor lamb," she wailed. "i've known ivery word of this for fiftane years, and if i'd had the laste idea 'twas so, i'd a busted jimmy malone to smithereens before it iver happened!" "i won't go back! i won't go back!" raved mary. "i guess you won't go back," cried katy, patting every available spot on mary, or making dashes at her own eyes to stop the flow of tears. "i guess you won't go back! you'll stay right here with me. i've always wanted you! i always said i'd love to have you! i've told thim from the start there was something wrong out there! i've ixpicted you ivry day for years, and i niver was so surprised in all me life as whin you came! now, don't you shed another tear. the lord knows this is enough, for anybody. none at all would be too many for jimmy malone. you get right into bid, and i'll make you a cup of rid-pipper tay to take the chill out of you. and if jimmy malone comes around this house i'll lav him out with the poker, and if dannie micnoun comes saft-saddering after him i'll stritch him out too; yis, and if dolan's got anything to say, he can take his midicine like the rist. the min are all of a pace anyhow! i've always said it! if i wouldn't like to get me fingers on that haythen; never goin' to confission, spindin' ivrything on himself you naded for dacent livin'! lit him come! just lit him come!" thus forestalled with knowledge, and overwhelmed with kindness, mary malone cuddled up in bed and sobbed herself to sleep, and katy dolan assured her, as long as she was conscious, that she always had known it, and if jimmy malone came near, she had the poker ready. dannie did the evening work. when he milked he drank most of it, but that only made him hungrier, so he ate the lunch he had brought back from the river, as he sat before a roaring fire. his heart warmed with his body. irresponsible jimmy always had aroused something of the paternal instinct in dannie. some one had to be responsible, so dannie had been. some way he felt responsible now. with another man like himself, it would have been man to man, but he always had spoiled jimmy; now who was to blame that he was spoiled? dannie was very tired, his face throbbed and ached painfully, and it was a sight to see. his bed never had looked so inviting, and never had the chance to sleep been further away. with a sigh, he buttoned his coat, twisted an old scarf around his neck, and started for the barn. there was going to be a black frost. the cold seemed to pierce him. he hitched to the single buggy, and drove to town. he went to casey's, and asked for jimmy. "he isn't here," said casey. "has he been here?" asked dannie. casey hesitated, and then blurted out, "he said you wasn't his keeper, and if you came after him, to tell you to go to hell." then dannie was sure that jimmy was in the back room, drying his clothing. so he drove to mrs. dolan's, and asked if mary were there for the night. mrs. dolan said she was, and she was going to stay, and he might tell jimmy malone that he need not come near them, unless he wanted his head laid open. she shut the door forcibly. dannie waited until casey closed at eleven, and to his astonishment jimmy was not among the men who came out. that meant that he had drank lightly after all, slipped from the back door, and gone home. and yet, would he do it, after what he had said about being afraid? if he had not drank heavily, he would not go into the night alone, when he had been afraid in the daytime. dannie climbed from the buggy once more, and patiently searched the alley and the street leading to the footpath across farms. no jimmy. then dannie drove home, stabled his horse, and tried jimmy's back door. it was unlocked. if jimmy were there, he probably would be lying across the bed in his clothing, and dannie knew that mary was in town. he made a light, and cautiously entered the sleeping room, intending to undress and cover jimmy, but jimmy was not there. dannie's mouth fell open. he put out the light, and stood on the back steps. the frost had settled in a silver sheen over the roofs of the barns and the sheds, and a scum of ice had frozen over a tub of drippings at the well. dannie was bitterly cold. he went home, and hunted out his winter overcoat, lighted his lantern, picked up a heavy cudgel in the corner, and started to town on foot over the path that lay across the fields. he followed it to casey's back door. he went to mrs. dolan's again, but everything was black and silent there. there had been evening trains. he thought of jimmy's frequent threat to go away. he dismissed that thought grimly. there had been no talk of going away lately, and he knew that jimmy had little money. dannie started for home, and for a rod on either side he searched the path. as he came to the back of the barns, he rated himself for not thinking of them first. he searched both of them, and all around them, and then wholly tired, and greatly disgusted, he went home and to bed. he decided that jimmy had gone to mrs. dolan's and that kindly woman had relented and taken him in. of course that was where he was. dannie was up early in the morning. he wanted to have the work done before mary and jimmy came home. he fed the stock, milked, built a fire, and began cleaning the stables. as he wheeled the first barrow of manure to the heap, he noticed a rooster giving danger signals behind the straw-stack. at the second load it was still there, and dannie went to see what alarmed it. jimmy lay behind the stack, where he had fallen face down, and as dannie tried to lift him he saw that he would have to cut him loose, for he had frozen fast in the muck of the barnyard. he had pitched forward among the rough cattle and horse tracks and fallen within a few feet of the entrance to a deep hollow eaten out of the straw by the cattle. had he reached that shelter he would have been warm enough and safe for the night. horrified, dannie whipped out his knife, cut jimmy's clothing loose and carried him to his bed. he covered him, and hitching up drove at top speed for a doctor. he sent the physician ahead and then rushed to mrs. dolan's. she saw him drive up and came to the door. "send mary home and ye come too," dannie called before she had time to speak. "jimmy lay oot all last nicht, and i'm afraid he's dead." mrs. dolan hurried in and repeated the message to mary. she sat speechless while her sister bustled about putting on her wraps. "i ain't goin'," she said shortly. "if i got sight of him, i'd kill him if he wasn't dead." "oh, yis you are goin'," said katy dolan. "if he's dead, you know, it will save you being hanged for killing him. get on these things of mine and hurry. you got to go for decency sake; and kape a still tongue in your head. dannie micnoun is waiting for us." together they went out and climbed into the carriage. mary said nothing, but dannie was too miserable to notice. "you didn't find him thin, last night?" asked mrs. dolan. "na!" shivered dannie. "i was in town twice. i hunted almost all nicht. at last i made sure you had taken him in and i went to bed. it was three o'clock then. i must have passed often, wi'in a few yards of him." "where was he?" asked katy. "behind the straw-stack," replied dannie. "do you think he will die?" "dee!" cried dannie. "jimmy dee! oh, my god! we mauna let him!" mrs. dolan took a furtive peep at mary, who, dry-eyed and white, was staring straight ahead. she was trembling and very pale, but if katy dolan knew anything she knew that her sister's face was unforgiving and she did not in the least blame her. dannie reached home as soon as the horse could take them, and under the doctor's directions all of them began work. mary did what she was told, but she did it deliberately, and if dannie had taken time to notice her he would have seen anything but his idea of a woman facing death for any one she ever had loved. mary's hurt went so deep, mrs. dolan had trouble to keep it covered. some of the neighbors said mary was cold-hearted, and some of them that she was stupefied with grief. without stopping for food or sleep, dannie nursed jimmy. he rubbed, he bathed, he poulticed, he badgered the doctor and cursed his inability to do some good. to every one except dannie, jimmy's case was hopeless from the first. he developed double pneumonia in its worst form and he was in no condition to endure it in the lightest. his labored breathing could be heard all over the cabin, and he could speak only in gasps. on the third day he seemed a little better, and when dannie asked what he could do for him, "father michael," jimmy panted, and clung to dannie's hand. dannie sent a man and remained with jimmy. he made no offer to go when the priest came. "this is probably in the nature of a last confession," said father michael to dannie, "i shall have to ask you to leave us alone." dannie felt the hand that clung to him relax, and the perspiration broke on his temples. "shall i go, jimmy?" he asked. jimmy nodded. dannie arose heavily and left the room. he sat down outside the door and rested his head in his hands. the priest stood beside jimmy. "the doctor tells me it is difficult for you to speak," he said, "i will help you all i can. i will ask questions and you need only assent with your head or hand. do you wish the last sacrament administered, jimmy malone?" the sweat rolled off jimmy's brow. he assented. "do you wish to make final confession?" a great groan shook jimmy. the priest remembered a gay, laughing boy, flinging back a shock of auburn hair, his feet twinkling in the lead of the dance. here was ruin to make the heart of compassion ache. the father bent and clasped the hand of jimmy firmly. the question he asked was between jimmy malone and his god. the answer almost strangled him. "can you confess that mortal sin, jimmy?" asked the priest. the drops on jimmy's face merged in one bath of agony. his hands clenched and his breath seemed to go no lower than his throat. "lied--dannie," he rattled. "sip-rate him--and mary." "are you trying to confess that you betrayed a confidence of dannie macnoun and married the girl who belonged to him, yourself?" jimmy assented. his horrified eyes hung on the priest's face and saw it turn cold and stern. always the thing he had done had tormented him; but not until the past summer had he begun to realize the depth of it, and it had almost unseated his reason. but not until now had come fullest appreciation, and jimmy read it in the eyes filled with repulsion above him. "and with that sin on your soul, you ask the last sacrament and the seal of forgiveness! you have not wronged god and the holy catholic church as you have this man, with whom you have lived for years, while you possessed his rightful wife. now he is here, in deathless devotion, fighting to save you. you may confess to him. if he will forgive you, god and the church will ratify it, and set the seal on your brow. if not, you die unshriven! i will call dannie macnoun." one gurgling howl broke from the swollen lips of jimmy. as dannie entered the room, the priest spoke a few words to him, stepped out and closed the door. dannie hurried to jimmy's side. "he said ye wanted to tell me something," said dannie. "what is it? do you want me to do anything for you?" suddenly jimmy struggled to a sitting posture. his popping eyes almost burst from their sockets as he clutched dannie with both hands. the perspiration poured in little streams down his dreadful face. "mary," the next word was lost in a strangled gasp. then came "yours" and then a queer rattle. something seemed to give way. "the divils!" he shrieked. "the divils have got me!" snap! his heart failed, and jimmy malone went out to face his record, unforgiven by man, and unshriven by priest. chapter x dannie's renunciation so they stretched jimmy's length on five mile hill beside the three babies that had lacked the "vital spark." mary went to the dolans for the winter and dannie was left, sole occupant of rainbow bottom. because so much fruit and food that would freeze were stored there, he was even asked to live in jimmy's cabin. dannie began the winter stolidly. all day long and as far as he could find anything to do in the night, he worked. he mended everything about both farms, rebuilt all the fences and as a never-failing resource, he cut wood. he cut so much that he began to realize that it would get too dry and the burning of it would become extravagant, so he stopped that and began making some changes he had long contemplated. during fur time he set his line of traps on his side of the river and on the other he religiously set jimmy's. but he divided the proceeds from the skins exactly in half, no matter whose traps caught them, and with jimmy's share of the money he started a bank account for mary. as he could not use all of them he sold jimmy's horses, cattle and pigs. with half the stock gone he needed only half the hay and grain stored for feeding. he disposed of the chickens, turkeys, ducks, and geese that mary wanted sold, and placed the money to her credit. he sent her a beautiful little red bank book and an explanation of all these transactions by dolan. mary threw the book across the room because she wanted dannie to keep her money himself, and then cried herself to sleep that night, because dannie had sent the book instead of bringing it. but when she fully understood the transactions and realized that if she chose she could spend several hundred dollars, she grew very proud of that book. about the empty cabins and the barns, working on the farms, wading the mud and water of the river bank, or tingling with cold on the ice went two dannies. the one a dull, listless man, mechanically forcing a tired, overworked body to action, and the other a self-accused murderer. "i am responsible for the whole thing," he told himself many times a day. "i always humored jimmy. i always took the muddy side of the road, and the big end of the log, and the hard part of the work, and filled his traps wi' rats from my own; why in god's name did i let the deil o' stubbornness in me drive him to his death, noo? why didna i let him have the black bass? why didna i make him come home and put on dry clothes? i killed him, juist as sure as if i'd taken an ax and broken his heid." through every minute of the exposure of winter outdoors and the torment of it inside, dannie tortured himself. of mary he seldom thought at all. she was safe with her sister, and although dannie did not know when or how it happened, he awoke one day to the realization that he had renounced her. he had killed jimmy; he could not take his wife and his farm. and dannie was so numb with long-suffering, that he did not much care. there come times when troubles pile so deep that the edge of human feeling is dulled. he would take care of mary, yes, she was as much jimmy's as his farm, but he did not want her for himself now. if he had to kill his only friend, he would not complete his downfall by trying to win his wife. so through that winter mary got very little consideration in the remorseful soul of dannie, and jimmy grew, as the dead grow, by leaps and bounds, until by spring dannie had him well-nigh canonized. when winter broke, dannie had his future well mapped out. and that future was devotion to jimmy's memory, with no more of mary in it than was possible to keep out. he told himself that he was glad she was away and he did not care to have her return. deep in his soul he harbored the feeling that he had killed jimmy to make himself look victor in her eyes in such a small matter as taking a fish. and deeper yet a feeling that, everything considered, still she might mourn jimmy more than she did. so dannie definitely settled that he always would live alone on the farms. mary should remain with her sister, and at his death, everything should be hers. the night he finally reached that decision, the kingfisher came home. dannie heard his rattle of exultation as he struck the embankment and the suffering man turned his face to the wall and sobbed aloud, so that for a little time he stifled jimmy's dying gasps that in wakeful night hours sounded in his ears. early the next morning he drove through the village on his way to the county seat, with a load of grain. dolan saw him and running home he told mary. "he will be gone all day. now is your chance!" he said. mary sprang to her feet, "hurry!" she panted, "hurry!" an hour later a loaded wagon, a man and three women drew up before the cabins in rainbow bottom. mary, her sister, dolan, and a scrub woman entered. mary pointed out the objects which she wished removed, and dolan carried them out. they took up the carpets, swept down the walls, and washed the windows. they hung pictures, prints, and lithographs, and curtained the windows in dainty white. they covered the floors with bright carpets, and placed new ornaments on the mantle, and comfortable furniture in the rooms. there was a white iron bed, and several rocking chairs, and a shelf across the window filled with potted hyacinths in bloom. among them stood a glass bowl, containing three wonderful little gold fish, and from the top casing hung a brass cage, from which a green linnet sang an exultant song. you should have seen mary malone! when everything was finished, she was changed the most of all. she was so sure of dannie, that while the winter had brought annoyance that he did not come, it really had been one long, glorious rest. she laughed and sang, and grew younger with every passing day. as youth surged back, with it returned roundness of form, freshness of face, and that bred the desire to be daintily dressed. so of pretty light fabrics she made many summer dresses, for wear mourning she would not. when calmness returned to mary, she had told the dolans the whole story. "now do you ixpict me to grieve for the man?" she asked. "fiftane years with him, through his lying tongue, whin by ivery right of our souls and our bodies, dannie micnoun and i belanged to each other. mourn for him! i'm glad he's dead! glad! glad! if he had not died, i should have killed him, if dannie did not! it was a happy thing that he died. his death saved me mortal sin. i'm glad, i tell you, and i do not forgive him, and i niver will, and i hope he will burn----" katy dolan clapped her hand over mary's mouth. "for the love of marcy, don't say that!" she cried. "you will have to confiss it, and you'd be ashamed to face the praste." "i would not," cried mary. "father michael knows i'm just an ordinary woman, he don't ixpict me to be an angel." but she left the sentence unfinished. after mary's cabin was arranged to her satisfaction, they attacked dannie's; emptying it, cleaning it completely, and refurnishing it from the best of the things that had been in both. then mary added some new touches. a comfortable big chair was placed by his fire, new books on his mantle, a flower in his window, and new covers on his bed. while the women worked, dolan raked the yards, and freshened matters outside as best he could. when everything they had planned to do was accomplished, the wagon, loaded with the ugly old things mary despised, drove back to the village, and she, with little tilly dolan for company, remained. mary was tense with excitement. all the woman in her had yearned for these few pretty things she wanted for her home throughout the years that she had been compelled to live in crude, ugly surroundings; because every cent above plainest clothing and food, went for drink for jimmy, and treats for his friends. now she danced and sang, and flew about trying a chair here, and another there, to get the best effect. every little while she slipped into her bedroom, stood before a real dresser, and pulled out its trays to make sure that her fresh, light dresses were really there. she shook out the dainty curtains repeatedly, watered the flowers, and fed the fish when they did not need it. she babbled incessantly to the green linnet, which with swollen throat rejoiced with her, and occasionally she looked in the mirror. she lighted the fire, and put food to cook. she covered a new table, with a new cloth, and set it with new dishes, and placed a jar of her flowers in the center. what a supper she did cook! when she had waited until she was near crazed with nervousness, she heard the wagon coming up the lane. peeping from the window, she saw dannie stop the horses short, and sit staring at the cabins, and she realized that smoke would be curling from the chimney, and the flowers and curtains would change the shining windows outside. she trembled with excitement, and than a great yearning seized her, as he slowly drove closer, for his brown hair was almost white, and the lines on his face seemed indelibly stamped. and then hot anger shook her. fifteen years of her life wrecked, and look at dannie! that was jimmy malone's work. over and over, throughout the winter, she had planned this home-coming as a surprise to dannie. book-fine were the things she intended to say to him. when he opened the door, and stared at her and about the altered room, she swiftly went to him, and took the bundles he carried from his arms. "hurry up, and unhitch, dannie," she said. "your supper is waiting." and dannie turned and stolidly walked back to his team, without uttering a word. "uncle dannie!" cried a child's voice. "please let me ride to the barn with you!" a winsome little maid came rushing to dannie, threw her arms about his neck, and hugged him tight, as he stooped to lift her. her yellow curls were against his cheek, and her breath was flower-sweet in his face. "why didn't you kiss aunt mary?" she demanded. "daddy dolan always kisses mammy when he comes from all day gone. aunt mary's worked so hard to please you. and daddie worked, and mammy worked, and another woman. you are pleased, ain't you, uncle dannie?" "who told ye to call me uncle?" asked dannie, with unsteady lips. "she did!" announced the little woman, flourishing the whip in the direction of the cabin. dannie climbed down to unhitch. "you are goin' to be my uncle, ain't you, as soon as it's a little over a year, so folks won't talk?" "who told ye that?" panted dannie, hiding behind a horse. "nobody told me! mammy just said it to daddy, and i heard," answered the little maid. "and i'm glad of it, and so are all of us glad. mammy said she'd just love to come here now, whin things would be like white folks. mammy said aunt mary had suffered a lot more'n her share. say, you won't make her suffer any more, will you?" "no," moaned dannie, and staggered into the barn with the horses. he leaned against a stall, and shut his eyes. he could see the bright room, plainer than ever, and that little singing bird sounded loud as any thunder in his ears. and whether closed or open, he could see mary, never in all her life so beautiful, never so sweet; flesh and blood mary, in a dainty dress, with the shining, unafraid eyes of girlhood. it was that thing which struck dannie first, and hit him hardest. mary was a careless girl again. when before had he seen her with neither trouble, anxiety or, worse yet, fear, in her beautiful eyes? and she had come to stay. she would not have refurnished her cabin otherwise. dannie took hold of the manger with both hands, because his sinking knees needed bracing. "dannie," called mary's voice in the doorway, "has my spickled hin showed any signs of setting yet?" "she's been over twa weeks," answered dannie. "she's in that barrel there in the corner." mary entered the barn, removed the prop, lowered the board, and kneeling, stroked the hen, and talked softly to her. she slipped a hand under the hen, and lifted her to see the eggs. dannie staring at mary noted closer the fresh, cleared skin, the glossy hair, the delicately colored cheeks, and the plumpness of the bare arms. one little wisp of curl lay against the curve of her neck, just where it showed rose-pink, and looked honey sweet. and in one great surge, the repressed stream of passion in the strong man broke, and dannie swayed against his horse. his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he caught at the harness to steady himself, while he strove to grow accustomed to the fact that hell had opened in a new form for him. the old heart hunger for mary malone was back in stronger force than ever before; and because of him jimmy lay stretched on five mile hill. "dannie, you are just fine!" said mary. "i've been almost wild to get home, because i thought iverything would be ruined, and instid of that it's all ixactly the way i do it. do hurry, and get riddy for supper. oh, it's so good to be home again! i want to make garden, and fix my flowers, and get some little chickens and turkeys into my fingers." "i have to go home, and wash, and spruce up a bit, for ladies," said dannie, leaving the barn. mary made no reply, and it came to him that she expected it. "damned if i will!" he said, as he started home. "if she wants to come here, and force herself on me, she can, but she canna mak' me." just then dannie stepped in his door, and slowly gazed about him. in a way his home was as completely transformed as hers. he washed his face and hands, and started for a better coat. his sleeping room shone with clean windows, curtained in snowy white. a freshly ironed suit of underclothing and a shirt lay on his bed. dannie stared at them. "she think's i'll tog up in them, and come courtin'" he growled. "i'll show her if i do! i winna touch them!" to prove that he would not, dannie caught them up in a wad, and threw them into a corner. that showed a clean sheet, fresh pillow, and new covers, invitingly spread back. dannie turned as white as the pillow at which he stared. "that's a damn plain insinuation that i'm to get into ye," he said to the bed, "and go on living here. i dinna know as that child's jabber counts. for all i know, mary may already have picked out some town dude to bring here and farm out on me, and they'll live with the bird cage, and i can go on climbin' into ye alone." here was a new thought. mary might mean only kindness to him again, as she had sent word by jimmy she meant years ago. he might lose her for the second time. and again a wave of desire struck dannie, and left him staggering. "ain't you comin', uncle dannie?" called the child's voice at the back door. "what's your name, little lass?" inquired dannie. "tilly," answered the little girl promptly. "well, tilly, ye go tell your aunt mary i have been in an eelevator handlin' grain, and i'm covered wi' fine dust and chaff that sticks me. i canna come until i've had a bath, and put on clean clothing. tell her to go ahead." the child vanished. in a second she was back. "she said she won't do it, and take all the time you want. but i wish you'd hurry, for she won't let me either." dannie hurried. but the hasty bath and the fresh clothing felt so good he was in a softened mood when he approached mary's door again. tilly was waiting on the step, and ran to meet him. tilly was a dream. almost, dannie understood why mary had brought her. tilly led him to the table, and pulled back a chair for him, and he lifted her into hers, and as mary set dish after dish of food on the table, tilly filled in every pause that threatened to grow awkward with her chatter. dannie had been a very lonely man, and he did love mary's cooking. until then he had not realized how sore a trial six months of his own had been. "if i was a praying mon, i'd ask a blessing, and thank god fra this food," said dannie. "what's the matter with me?" asked mary. "i have never yet found anything," answered dannie. "and i do thank ye fra everything. i believe i'm most thankful of all fra the clean clothes and the clean bed. i'm afraid i was neglectin' myself, mary." "will, you'll not be neglected any more," said mary. "things have turned over a new leaf here. for all you give, you get some return, after this. we are going to do business in a businesslike way, and divide even. i liked that bank account, pretty will, dannie. thank you, for that. and don't think i spint all of it. i didn't spind a hundred dollars all togither. not the price of one horse! but it made me so happy i could fly. home again, and the things i've always wanted, and nothing to fear. oh, dannie, you don't know what it manes to a woman to be always afraid! my heart is almost jumping out of my body, just with pure joy that the old fear is gone." "i know what it means to a mon to be afraid," said dannie. and vividly before him loomed the awful, distorted, dying face of jimmy. mary guessed, and her bright face clouded. "some day, dannie, we must have a little talk," she said, "and clear up a few things neither of us understand. 'til thin we will just farm, and be partners, and be as happy as iver we can. i don't know as you mean to, but if you do, i warn you right now that you need niver mintion the name of jimmy malone to me again, for any reason." dannie left the cabin abruptly. "now you gone and made him mad!" reproached tilly. during the past winter mary had lived with other married people for the first time, and she had imbibed some of mrs. dolan's philosophy. "whin he smells the biscuit i mane to make for breakfast, he'll get glad again," she said, and he did. but first he went home, and tried to learn where he stood. was he truly responsible for jimmy's death? yes. if he had acted like a man, he could have saved jimmy. he was responsible. did he want to marry mary? did he? dannie reached empty arms to empty space, and groaned aloud. would she marry him? well, now, would she? after years of neglect and sorrow, dannie knew that mary had learned to prefer him to jimmy. but almost any man would have been preferable to a woman, to jimmy. jimmy was distinctly a man's man. a jolly good fellow, but he would not deny himself anything, no matter what it cost his wife, and he had been very hard to live with. dannie admitted that. so mary had come to prefer him to jimmy, that was sure; but it was not a question between him and jimmy, now. it was between him, and any marriageable man that mary might fancy. he had grown old, and gray, and wrinkled, though he was under forty. mary had grown round, and young, and he had never seen her looking so beautiful. surely she would want a man now as young, and as fresh as herself; and she might want to live in town after a while, if she grew tired of the country. could he remember jimmy's dreadful death, realize that he was responsible for it, and make love to his wife? no, she was sacred to jimmy. could he live beside her, and lose her to another man for the second time? no, she belonged to him. it was almost daybreak when dannie remembered the fresh bed, and lay down for a few hours' rest. but there was no rest for dannie, and after tossing about until dawn he began his work. when he carried the milk into the cabin, and smelled the biscuit, he fulfilled mary's prophecy, got glad again, and came to breakfast. then he went about his work. but as the day wore on, he repeatedly heard the voice of the woman and the child, combining in a chorus of laughter. from the little front porch, the green bird warbled and trilled. neighbors who had heard of her return came up the lane to welcome a happy mary malone. the dead dreariness of winter melted before the spring sun, and in dannie's veins the warm blood swept up, as the sap flooded the trees, and in spite of himself he grew gladder and yet gladder. he now knew how he had missed mary. how he had loathed that empty, silent cabin. how remorse and heart hunger had gnawed at his vitals, and he decided that he would go on just as mary had said, and let things drift; and when she was ready to have the talk with him she had mentioned, he would hear what she had to say. and as he thought over these things, he caught himself watching for furrows that jimmy was not making on the other side of the field. he tried to talk to the robins and blackbirds instead of jimmy, but they were not such good company. and when the day was over, he tried not to be glad that he was going to the shining eyes of mary malone, a good supper, and a clean bed, and it was not in the heart of man to do it. the summer wore on, autumn came, and the year tilly had spoken of was over. dannie went his way, doing the work of two men, thinking of everything, planning for everything, and he was all the heart of mary malone could desire, save her lover. by little mary pieced it out. dannie never mentioned fishing; he had lost his love for the river. she knew that he frequently took walks to five mile hill. his devotion to jimmy's memory was unswerving. and at last it came to her, that in death as in life, jimmy malone was separating them. she began to realize that there might be things she did not know. what had jimmy told the priest? why had father michael refused to confess jimmy until he sent dannie to him? what had passed between them? if it was what she had thought all year, why did it not free dannie to her? if there was something more, what was it? surely dannie loved her. much as he had cared for jimmy, he had vowed that everything was for her first. she was eager to be his wife, and something bound him. one day, she decided to ask him. the next, she shrank in burning confusion, for when jimmy malone had asked for her love, she had admitted to him that she loved dannie, and jimmy had told her that it was no use, dannie did not care for girls, and that he had said he wished she would not thrust herself upon him. on the strength of that statement mary married jimmy inside five weeks, and spent years in bitter repentance. that was the thing which held her now. if dannie knew what she did, and did not care to marry her, how could she mention it? mary began to grow pale, and lose sleep, and dannie said the heat of the summer had tired her, and suggested that she go to mrs. dolan's for a weeks rest. the fact that he was willing, and possibly anxious to send her away for a whole week, angered mary. she went. chapter xi the pot of gold mary had not been in the dolan home an hour until katy knew all she could tell of her trouble. mrs. dolan was practical. "go to see father michael," she said. "what's he for but to hilp us. go ask him what jimmy told him. till him how you feel and what you know. he can till you what dannie knows and thin you will understand where you are at." mary was on the way before mrs. dolan fully finished. she went to the priest's residence and asked his housekeeper to inquire if he would see her. he would, and mary entered his presence strangely calm and self-possessed. this was the last fight she knew of that she could make for happiness, and if she lost, happiness was over for her. she had need of all her wit and she knew it. father michael began laughing as he shook hands. "now look here, mary," he said, "i've been expecting you. i warn you before you begin that i cannot sanction your marriage to a protestant." "oh, but i'm going to convart him!" cried mary so quickly that the priest laughed harder than ever. "so that's the lay of the land!" he chuckled. "well, if you'll guarantee that, i'll give in. when shall i read the banns?" "not until we get dannie's consint," answered mary, and for the first her voice wavered. father michael looked his surprise. "tut! tut!" he said. "and is dannie dilatory?" "dannie is the finest man that will ever live in this world," said mary, "but he don't want to marry me." "to my certain knowledge dannie has loved you all your life," said father michael. "he wants nothing here or hereafter as he wants to marry you." "thin why don't he till me so?" sobbed mary, burying her burning face in her hands. "has he said nothing to you?" gravely inquired the priest. "no, he hasn't and i don't belave he intinds to," answered mary, wiping her eyes and trying to be composed. "there is something about jimmy that is holding him back. mrs. dolan thought you'd help me." "what do you want me to do, mary?" asked father michael. "two things," answered mary promptly. "i want you to tell me what jimmy confissed to you before he died, and then i want you to talk to dannie and show him that he is free from any promise that jimmy might have got out of him. will you?" "a dying confession--" began the priest. "yes, but i know--" broke in mary. "i saw them fight, and i heard jimmy till dannie that he'd lied to him to separate us, but he turned right around and took it back and i knew dannie belaved him thin; but he can't after jimmy confissed it again to both of you." "what do you mean by 'saw them fight?'" father michael was leaning toward mary anxiously. mary told him. "then that is the explanation to the whole thing," said the priest. "dannie did believe jimmy when he took it back, and he died before he could repeat to dannie what he had told me. and i have had the feeling that dannie thought himself in a way to blame for jimmy's death." "he was not! oh, he was not!" cried mary malone. "didn't i live there with them all those years? dannie always was good as gold to jimmy. it was shameful the way jimmy imposed on him, and spint his money, and took me from him. it was shameful! shameful!" "be calm! be calm!" cautioned father michael. "i agree with you. i am only trying to arrive at dannie's point of view. he well might feel that he was responsible, if after humoring jimmy like a child all his life, he at last lost his temper and dealt with him as if he were a man. if that is the case, he is of honor so fine, that he would hesitate to speak to you, no matter what he suffered. and then it is clear to me that he does not understand how jimmy separated you in the first place." "and lied me into marrying him, whin i told him over and over how i loved dannie. jimmy malone took iverything i had to give, and he left me alone for fiftane years, with my three little dead babies, that died because i'd no heart to desire life for thim, and he took my youth, and he took my womanhood, and he took my man--" mary arose in primitive rage. "you naden't bother!" she said. "i'm going straight to dannie meself." "don't!" said father michael softly. "don't do that, mary! it isn't the accepted way. there is a better! let him come to you." "but he won't come! he don't know! he's in jimmy's grip tighter in death than he was in life." mary began to sob again. "he will come," said father michael. "be calm! wait a little, my child. after all these years, don't spoil a love that has been almost unequaled in holiness and beauty, by anger at the dead. let me go to dannie. we are good friends. i can tell him jimmy made a confession to me, that he was trying to repeat to him, when punishment, far more awful than anything you have suffered, overtook him. always remember, mary, he died unshriven!" mary began to shiver. "your suffering is over," continued the priest. "you have many good years yet that you may spend with dannie; god will give you living children, i am sure. think of the years jimmy's secret has hounded and driven him! think of the penalty he must pay before he gets a glimpse of paradise, if he be not eternally lost!" "i have!" exclaimed mary. "and it is nothing to the fact that he took dannie from me, and yet kept him in my home while he possessed me himsilf for years. may he burn----" "mary! let that suffice!" cried the priest. "he will! the question now is, shall i go to dannie?" "will you till him just what jimmy told you? will you till him that i have loved him always?" "yes," said father michael. "will you go now?" "i cannot! i have work. i will come early in the morning." "you will till him ivirything?" she repeated. "i will," promised father michael. mary went back to mrs. dolan's comforted. she was anxious to return home at once, but at last consented to spend the day. now that she was sure dannie did not know the truth, her heart warmed toward him. she was anxious to comfort and help him in the long struggle which she saw that he must have endured. by late afternoon she could bear it no longer and started back to rainbow bottom in time to prepare supper. for the first hour after mary had gone dannie whistled to keep up his courage. by the second he had no courage to keep. by the third he was indulging in the worst fit of despondency he ever had known. he had told her to stay a week. a week! it would be an eternity! there alone again! could he bear it? he got through to mid-afternoon some way, and then in jealous fear and foreboding he became almost frantic. one way or the other, this thing must be settled. fiercer raged the storm within him and at last toward evening it became unendurable. at its height the curling smoke from the chimney told him that mary had come home. an unreasoning joy seized him. he went to the barn and listened. he could hear her moving about preparing supper. as he watched she came to the well for water and before she returned to the cabin she stood looking over the fields as if trying to locate him. dannie's blood ran hotly and his pulses were leaping. "go to her! go to her now!" demanded passion, struggling to break leash. "you killed jimmy! you murdered your friend!" cried conscience, with unyielding insistence. poor dannie gave one last glance at mary, and then turned, and for the second time he ran from her as if pursued by demons. but this time he went straight to five mile hill, and the grave of jimmy malone. he sat down on it, and within a few feet of jimmy's bones, dannie took his tired head in his hands, and tried to think, and for the life of him, he could think but two things. that he had killed jimmy, and that to live longer without mary would kill him. hour after hour he fought with his lifelong love for jimmy and his lifelong love for mary. night came on, the frost bit, the wind chilled, and the little brown owls screeched among the gravestones, and dannie battled on. morning came, the sun arose, and shone on dannie, sitting numb with drawn face and bleeding heart. mary prepared a fine supper the night before, and patiently waited, and when dannie did not come, she concluded that he had gone to town, without knowing that she had returned. tilly grew sleepy, so she put the child to bed, and presently she went herself. father michael would make everything right in the morning. but in the morning dannie was not there, and had not been. mary became alarmed. she was very nervous by the time father michael arrived. he decided to go to the nearest neighbor, and ask when dannie had been seen last. as he turned from the lane into the road a man of that neighborhood was passing on his wagon, and the priest hailed him, and asked if he knew where dannie macnoun was. "back in five mile hill, a man with his head on his knees, is a-settin' on the grave of jimmy malone, and i allow that would be dannie macnoun, the damn fool!" he said. father michael went back to the cabin, and told mary he had learned where dannie was, and to have no uneasiness, and he would go to see him immediately. "and first of all you'll tell him how jimmy lied to him?" "i will!" said the priest. he entered the cemetery, and walked slowly to the grave of jimmy malone. dannie lifted his head, and stared at him. "i saw you," said father michael, "and i came in to speak with you." he took dannie's hand. "you are here at this hour to my surprise." "i dinna know that ye should be surprised at my comin' to sit by jimmy at ony time," coldly replied dannie. "he was my only friend in life, and another mon so fine i'll never know. i often come here." the priest shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and then he sat down on a grave near dannie. "for a year i have been waiting to talk with you," he said. dannie wiped his face, and lifting his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, as if to arouse himself. his eyes were dull and listless. "i am afraid i am no fit to talk sensibly," he said. "i am much troubled. some other time----" "could you tell me your trouble?" asked father michael. dannie shook his head. "i have known mary malone all her life," said the priest softly, "and been her confessor. i have known jimmy malone all his life, and heard his dying confession. i know what it was he was trying to tell you when he died. think again!" dannie macnoun stood up. he looked at the priest intently. "did ye come here purposely to find me?" "yes." "what do ye want?" "to clear your mind of all trouble, and fill your heart with love, and great peace, and rest. our heavenly father knows that you need peace of heart, and rest, dannie." "to fill my heart wi' peace, ye will have to prove to me that i'm no responsible fra the death of jimmy malone; and to give it rest, ye will have to prove to me that i'm free to marry his wife. ye can do neither of those things." "i can do both," said the priest calmly. "my son, that is what i came to do." dannie's face grew whiter and whiter, as the blood receded, and his big hands gripped at his sides. "aye, but ye canna!" he cried desperately. "ye canna!" "i can," said the priest. "listen to me! did jimmy get anything at all said to you?" "he said, 'mary,' then he choked on the next word, then he gasped out 'yours,' and it was over." "have you any idea what he was trying to tell you?" "na!" answered dannie. "he was mortal sick, and half delirious, and i paid little heed. if he lived, he would tell me when he was better. if he died, nothing mattered, fra i was responsible, and better friend mon never had. there was nothing on earth jimmy would na have done for me. he was so big hearted, so generous! my god, how i have missed him! how i have missed him!" "your faith in jimmy is strong," ventured the bewildered priest, for he did not see his way. dannie lifted his head. the sunshine was warming him, and his thoughts were beginning to clear. "my faith in jimmy malone is so strong," he said, "that if i lost it, i never should trust another living mon. he had his faults to others, i admit that, but he never had ony to me. he was my friend, and above my life i loved him. i wad gladly have died to save him." "and yet you say you are responsible for his death!" "let me tell ye!" cried dannie eagerly, and began on the story the priest wanted to hear from him. as he finished father michael's face lighted. "what folly!" he said, "that a man of your intelligence should torture yourself with the thought of responsibility in a case like that. any one would have claimed the fish in those circumstances. priest that i am, i would have had it, even if i fought for it. any man would! and as for what followed, it was bound to come! he was a tortured man, and a broken one. if he had not lain out that night, he would a few nights later. it was not in your power to save him. no man can be saved from himself, dannie. did what he said make no impression on you?" "enough that i would have killed him with my naked hands if he had na taken it back. of course he had to retract! if i believed that of jimmy, after the life we lived together, i would curse god and mon, and break fra the woods, and live and dee there alone." "then what was he trying to tell you when he died?" asked the bewildered priest. "to take care of mary, i judge." "not to marry her; and take her for your own?" dannie began to tremble. "remember, i talked with him first," said father michael, "and what he confessed to me, he knew was final. he died before he could talk to you, but i think it is time to tell you what he wanted to say. he--he--was trying--trying to tell you, that there was nothing but love in his heart for you. that he did not in any way blame you. that--that mary was yours. that you were free to take her. that----" "what!" cried dannie wildly. "are ye sure? oh, my god!" "perfectly sure!" answered father michael. "jimmy knew how long and faithfully you had loved mary, and she had loved you----" "mary had loved me? carefu', mon! are ye sure?" "i know," said father michael convincingly. "i give you my priestly word, i know, and jimmy knew, and was altogether willing. he loved you deeply, as he could love any one, dannie, and he blamed you for nothing at all. the only thing that would have brought jimmy any comfort in dying, was to know that you would end your life with mary, and not hate his memory." "hate!" cried dannie. "hate! father michael, if ye have come to tell me that jimmy na held me responsible fra his death, and was willing fra me to have mary, your face looks like the face of god to me!" dannie gripped the priest's hand. "are ye sure? are ye sure, mon?" he almost lifted father michael from the ground. "i tell you, i know! go and be happy!" "some ither day i will try to thank ye," said dannie, turning away. "noo, i'm in a little of a hurry." he was half way to the gate when he turned back. "does mary know this?" he asked. "she does," said the priest. "you are one good man, dannie, go and be happy, and may the blessing of god go with you." dannie lifted his hat. "and jimmy, too," he said, "put jimmy in, father michael." "may the peace of god rest the troubled soul of jimmy malone," said father michael, and not being a catholic, dannie did not know that from the blessing for which he asked. he hurried away with the brightness of dawn on his lined face, which looked almost boyish under his whitening hair. mary malone was at the window, and turmoil and bitterness were beginning to burn in her heart again. maybe the priest had not found dannie. maybe he was not coming. maybe a thousand things. then he was coming. coming straight and sure. coming across the fields, and leaping fences at a bound. coming with such speed and force as comes the strong man, fifteen years denied. mary's heart began to jar, and thump, and waves of happiness surged over her. and then she saw that look of dawn, of serene delight on the face of the man, and she stood aghast. dannie threw wide the door, and crossed her threshold with outstretched arms. "is it true?" he panted. "that thing father michael told me, is it true? will ye be mine, mary malone? at last will you be mine? oh, my girl, is the beautiful thing that the priest told me true?" "the beautiful thing that the priest told him!" mary malone swung a chair before her, and stepped back. "wait!" she cried sharply. "there must be some mistake. till me ixactly what father michael told you?" "he told me that jimmy na held me responsible fra his death. that he loved me when he died. that he was willing i should have ye! oh, mary, wasna that splendid of him. wasna he a grand mon? mary, come to me. say that it's true! tell me, if ye love me." mary malone stared wide-eyed at dannie, and gasped for breath. dannie came closer. at last he had found his tongue. "fra the love of mercy, if ye are comin' to me, come noo, mary" he begged. "my arms will split if they dinna get round ye soon, dear. jimmy told ye fra me, sixteen years ago, how i loved ye, and he told me when he came back how sorry ye were fra me, and he--he almost cried when he told me. i never saw a mon feel so. grand old jimmy! no other mon like him!" mary drew back in desperation. "you see here, dannie micnoun!" she screamed. "you see here----" "i do," broke in dannie. "i'm lookin'! all i ever saw, or see now, or shall see till i dee is 'here,' when 'here' is ye, mary malone. oh! if a woman ever could understand what passion means to a mon! if ye knew what i have suffered through all these years, you'd end it, mary malone." mary gave the chair a shove. "come here, dannie," she said. dannie cleared the space between them. mary set her hands against his breast. "one minute," she panted. "just one! i have loved you all me life, me man. i niver loved any one but you. i niver wanted any one but you. i niver hoped for any hivin better than i knew i'd find in your arms. there was a mistake. there was an awful mistake, when i married jimmy. i'm not tillin' you now, and i niver will, but you must realize that! do you understand me?" "hardly," breathed dannie. "hardly!" "will, you can take your time if you want to think it out, because that's all i'll iver till you. there was a horrible mistake. it was you i loved, and wanted to marry. now bend down to me, dannie micnoun, because i'm going to take your head on me breast and kiss your dear face until i'm tired," said mary malone. an hour later father michael came leisurely down the lane, and the peace of god was with him. a radiant mary went out to meet him. "you didn't till him!" she cried accusingly. "you didn't till him!" the priest laid a hand on her head. "mary, the greatest thing in the whole world is self-sacrifice," he said. "the pot at the foot of the rainbow is just now running over with the pure gold of perfect contentment. but had you and i done such a dreadful thing as to destroy the confidence of a good man in his friend, your heart never could know such joy as it now knows in this sacrifice of yours; and no such blessed, shining light could illumine your face. that is what i wanted to see. i said to myself as i came along, 'she will try, but she will learn, as i did, that she cannot look in his eyes and undeceive him. and when she becomes reconciled, her face will be so good to see.' and it is. you did not tell him either, mary malone!" affectionately to my father, the reverend grigg thompson. hoosier mosaics. by maurice thompson. new york: e. j. hale & son, publishers, murray street. . entered according to act of congress, in the year , by e. j. hale & son, in the office of the librarian of congress at washington. contents. page. _was she a boy?_ _ _ trout's luck, _big medicine_, _ _ _the venus of balhinch_, _ _ the legend of potato creek, _stealing a conductor_, _ _ hoiden, the pedagogue, an idyl of the rod, was she a boy? no matter what business or what pleasure took me, i once, not long ago, went to colfax. whisper it not to each other that i was seeking a foreign appointment through the influence of my fellow hoosier, the late vice-president of the united states. o no, i didn't go to the hon. schuyler colfax at all; but i went to colfax, simply, which is a little dingy town, in clinton county, that was formerly called midway, because it is half way between lafayette and indianapolis. it was and is a place of some three hundred inhabitants, eking out an aguish subsistence, maintaining a swampy, malarious aspect, keeping up a bilious, nay, an atra-bilious color, the year round, by sucking like an attenuated leech at the junction, or, rather, the crossing of the i. c. & l., and the l. c. & s. w. railroads. it lay mouldering, like something lost and forgotten, slowly rotting in the swamp. i do not mean to attack the inhabitants of colfax, for they were good people, and deserved a better fate than the eternal rattling the ague took them through from year's end to year's end. why, they had had the ague so long that they had no respect for it at all. i've seen a woman in colfax shaking with a chill, spanking a baby that had a chill, and scolding a husband who had a chill, all at once--and i had a dreadful ague on me at the same time! but, as i have said, they were good people, and i suppose they are still. they go quietly about the usual business of dead towns. they have "stores" in which they offer for sale calico, of the big-figured, orange and red sort, surprisingly cheap. they smoke those little cuba sixes at a half cent apiece, and call them cigars; they hang round the dépôt, and trade jack-knives and lottery watches on the afternoons of lazy sundays; they make harmless sport of the incoming and outgoing country folk; and, in a word, keep pretty busy at one thing or another, and above all--they shake. in colfax the chief sources of exciting amusement are dog fights and an occasional row at sheehan's saloon, a doggery of the regular old-fashioned, drink, gamble, rob and fight sort--a low place, known to all the hard bats in the state. as you pass through the town you will not fail to notice a big sign, outhanging from the front of the largest building on the principal street, which reads: "union hotel, ." from the muddy suburbs of the place, in every direction, stretch black muck swamps, for the most part heavily timbered with a variety of oaks, interspersed with sycamores, ash, and elms. in the damp, shady labyrinths of these boggy woods millions of lively, wide awake, tuneful mosquitoes are daily manufactured; and out from decaying logs and piles of fermenting leaves, from the green pools and sluggish ditch streams, creeps a noxious gas, known in that region as the "double refined, high pressure, forty hoss power quintessential of the ager!" so, at least, i was told by the landlord of the union hotel, and his skin had the color of one who knew. notwithstanding what i have said, colfax, in summer, is not wholly without attractions of a certain kind. it has some yellow dogs and some brindle ones; it has some cattle and some swine; it has some swallows and some spotted pigeons; it has cool, fresh smelling winds, and, after the water has sufficiently dried out, the woods are really glorious with wild roses, violets, turkey-pea blossoms, and wild pinks. but to my story. i was sitting on the long veranda of the union hotel, when a rough but kindly voice said to me: "mornin', stranger; gi' me a light, will ye?" i looked up from the miserable dime novel at which i had been tugging for the last hour, and saw before me a corpulent man of, perhaps, forty-five years of age, who stood quite ready to thrust the charred end of a cigar stump into the bowl of my meerschaum. i gave him a match, and would fain have returned to angelina st. fortescue, the heroine of the novel, whom i had left standing on the extreme giddy verge of a sheer alpine precipice, known, by actual triangulation, to be just seven thousand feet high, swearing she would leap off if donald gougerizeout, the robber, persisted further in his rough addresses; but my new friend, the corpulent smoker, seemed bent on a little bit of conversation. "thankee, sir. fine mornin', sir, a'n't it?" "beautiful," i replied, raising my head, elevating my arms, and, by a kind of yawn, taking in a deep draught of the fresh spring weather, absorbing it, assimilating it, till, like a wave of retarded electricity, it set my nerves in tune for enjoying the bird songs, and filled my blood with the ecstasy of vigorous health and youth. i, no doubt, just then felt the burden of life much less than did the big yellow dog at my feet, who snapped lazily at the flies. "yes, yes, this 'ere's a fine mornin'--julicious, sir, julicious, indeed; but le' me tell ye, sir, this 'ere wind's mighty deceitful--for a fact it is, sir, jist as full of ager as a acorn is of meat. it's blowin' right off'n ponds, and is loaded chock down with the miasm--for a fact it is, sir." while delivering this speech, the fat man sat down on the bench beside me there in the veranda. by this time i had my thumbs in the arm holes of my vest, and my chest expanded to its utmost--my lungs going like a steam bellows, which is a way i have in fine weather. "monstrous set o' respiratory organs, them o' your'n," he said, eyeing my manoeuvres. just then i discovered that he was a physician of the steam doctor sort, for, glancing down at my feet, i espied his well worn leather medicine bags. i immediately grew polite. possibly i might ere long need some quinine, or mandrake, or a hot steam bath--anything for the ague! "yes, i've got lungs like a porpoise," i replied, "but still the ague may get me. much sickness about here, doctor----a----a----what do they call your name?" "benjamin hurd--doctor hurd, they call me. i'm the only thorer bred botanic that's in these parts. i do poorty much all the practice about here. yes, there's considerable of ager and phthisic and bilious fever. keeps me busy most of my time. these nasty swamps, you know." after a time our conversation flagged, and the doctor having lit a fresh cigar, we smoked in silence. the wind was driving the dust along the street in heavy waves, and i sat watching a couple of lean, spotted calves making their way against the tide. they held their heads low and shut their eyes, now and then bawling vigorously. some one up stairs was playing "days of absence" on a wretched wheezing accordeon. "there's a case of asthma, doctor," i said, intending to be witty. but my remark was not noticed. the doctor was in a brown study, from which my words had not startled him. presently he said, as if talking to himself, and without taking the cigar from his mouth: "'twas just a year ago to-night, the th day of may, 'at they took 'er away. and he'll die afore day to a dead certainty. beats all the denied queer things i ever seed or heerd of." he was poking with the toe of his boot in the dust on the veranda floor, as he spoke, and stealing a glance at his face, i saw that it wore an abstracted, dreamy, perplexed look. "what was your remark, doctor?" i asked, more to arouse him than from any hope of being interested. "hum!--ah, yes," he said, starting, and beginning a vigorous puffing. "ah, yes, i was cogitatin' over this matter o' berry young's. never have been able to 'count for that, no how. think about it more an' more every day. what's your theory of it?" "can't say, never having heard anything of it," i replied. "well, i do say! thought everybody had hearn of that, any how! it's a rale romance, a reg'lar mystery, sir. it's been talked about, and writ about in the papers so much 'at i s'posed 'at it was knowed of far and wide." "i've been in california for several years past," i replied, by way of excuse for my ignorance of even the vaguest outline of the affair, whatever it might be. "well, you see, a leetle more'n a year ago a gal an' her father come here and stopped at this 'ere very hotel. the man must 'a' been som'res near sixty years old; but the gal was young, and jist the poortiest thing i ever seed in all my life. i couldn't describe how she looked at all; but everybody 'at saw her said she was the beautifulest creatur they ever laid eyes onto. where these two folks come from nobody ever knowed, but they seemed like mighty nice sort of persons, and everybody liked 'em, 'specially the gal. somehow, from the very start, a kind of mystery hung 'round 'em. they seemed always to have gobs o' money, and onct in awhile some little thing'd turn up to make folks kinder juberous somehow 'at they wasn't jist what they ginerally seemed to be. but that gal was fascinatin' as a snake, and as poorty as any picter. her flesh looked like tinted wax mixed with moon-shine, and her eyes was as clear as a lime-stone spring--though they was dark as night. she was that full of restless animal life 'at she couldn't set still--she roamed round like a leopard in a cage, and she'd romp equal to a ten-year-old boy. well, as mought be expected, sich a gal as that 'ere 'd 'tract attention in these parts, and i must say 'at the young fellows here did git 'bominable sweet on her. 'casionally two of 'em 'd git out in the swamps and have a awful fight on her 'count; but she 'peared to pay precious little 'tention to any of 'em till finally berry young stepped in and jist went for 'er like mad, and she took to 'm. berry was r'ally the nicest and intelligentest young man in all this country. he writ poetry for the papers, sir--snatchin' good poetry, too--and had got to be talked of a right smart for his larnin', an' 'complishments. he was good lookin', too; powerful handsome, for a fact, sir. so they was to be married, berry and the gal, an' the time it was sot, an' the day it come, an' all was ready, an' the young folks was on the floor, and the 'squire was jist a commencin' to say the ceremony, when lo! and beholden, four big, awful, rough lookin' men rushed in with big pistols and mighty terrible bowie knives, and big papers and big seals, and said they was a sheriff and possum from kaintucky. they jist jumped right onto the gal an' her father an' han'cuffed 'em, an' took 'em!" "handcuffed them and took them!" i repeated, suddenly growing intensely interested. this was beating my dime novel, for sensation, all hollow. "yes, sir, han'cuffed 'em an' took 'em, an' away they went, an' they've not been hearn of since to this day. but the mysteriousest thing about the whole business was that when the sheriff grabbed the gal he called her george, and said she wasn't no gal at all, but jist a terrible onery boy 'at had been stealin' an' counterfeitin' an' robbin' all round everywhere. what d'ye think of that?" "a remarkably strange affair, certainly," i replied; "and do you say that the father and the girl have not since been heard from?" "never a breath. the thing got into all the newspapers and raised a awful rumpus, and it turned out that it wasn't no sheriff 'at come there; but some dark, mysterious kidnappin' transaction 'at nobody could account for. detectives was put on their track an' follered 'em to injun territory an' there lost 'em. some big robberies was connected with the affair, but folks could never git head nor tail of the partic'lers." "and it wasn't a real sheriff's arrest, then?" said i. "no, sir, 'twas jist a mystery. some kind of a dodge of a band of desperadoes to avoid the law some way. the papers tried to explain it, but i never could see any sense to it. 'twas a clean, dead mystery. but i was goin' on to tell ye 'at berry young took it awful hard 'bout the gal, an' he's been sort o' sinkin' away ever sence, an' now he's jist ready to wink out. yonder's where berry lives, in that 'ere white cottage house with the vines round the winder. he's desp'rit sick--a sort o' consumption. i'm goin' to see 'im now; good mornin' to ye." thus abruptly ending our interview, the doctor took up his medicine bag and went his way. he left me in a really excited state of mind; the story of itself was so strange, and the narrator had told it so solemnly and graphically. i suppose, too, that i must have been in just the proper state of mind for that rough outline, that cartoon of a most startling and mysterious affair, to become deeply impressed in my mind, perhaps, in the most fascinating and fantastic light possible. a thirst to know more of the story took strong hold on my mind, as if i had been reading a tantalizing romance and had found the leaves torn out just where the mystery was to be explained. i half closed my eyes to better keep in the lines and shades of the strange picture. its influence lay upon me like a spell. i enjoyed it. it was a luxury. the wings of the morning wind fanned the heat into broken waves, rising and sinking, and flowing on, with murmur and flash and glimmer, to the cool green ways of the woods, and, like the wind, my fancy went out among golden fleece clouds and into shady places, following the thread of this new romance. i cannot give a sufficient reason why the story took so fast a hold on me. but it did grip my mind and master it. it appeared to me the most intensely strange affair i had ever heard of. while i sat there, lost in reflection, with my eyes bent on a very unpromising pig, that wallowed in the damp earth by the town pump, the landlord of the hotel came out and took a seat beside me. i gave him a pipe of my tobacco and forthwith began plying him with questions touching the affair of which the doctor had spoken. he confirmed the story, and added to its mystery by going minutely into its details. he gave the names of the father and daughter as charles afton and ollie afton. ollie afton! certainly no name sounds sweeter! how is it that these gifted, mysteriously beautiful persons always have musical names! "ah," said the landlord, "you'd ort to have seen that boy!" "boy!" i echoed. "well, gal or boy, one or t'other, the wonderfulest human bein' i ever see in all the days o' my life! lips as red as ripe cur'n's, and for ever smilin'. such smiles--oonkoo! they hurt a feller all over, they was so sweet. she was tall an' dark, an' had black hair that curled short all 'round her head. her skin was wonderful clear and so was her eyes. but it was the way she looked at you that got you. ah, sir, she had a power in them eyes, to be sure!" the pig got up from his muddy place by the pump, grunted, as if satisfied, and slowly strolled off; a country lad drove past, riding astride the hounds of a wagon; a pigeon lit on the comb of the roof of sheehan's saloon, which was just across the street, and began pluming itself. just then the landlord's little sharp-nosed, weasel-eyed boy came out and said, in a very subdued tone of voice: "pap, mam says 'at if you don't kill 'er that 'ere chicken for dinner you kin go widout any fing to eat all she cares." the landlord's spouse was a red-headed woman, so he got up very suddenly and took himself into the house. but before he got out of hearing the little boy remarked: "pap, i speaks for the gizzard of that 'ere chicken, d'ye hear, now?" i sat there till the dinner hour, watching the soft pink and white vapors that rolled round the verge of the horizon. i was thoroughly saturated with romance. strange, that here, in this dingy little out-of-the-way village, should have transpired one of the most wonderful mysteries history may ever hold! at dinner the landlord talked volubly of the afton affair, giving it as his opinion that the aftons were persons tinged with negro blood, and had been kidnapped into slavery. "they was jist as white, an' whiter, too, than i am," he went on, "but them southerners'd jist as soon sell one person as 'nother, anyhow." i noticed particularly that the little boy got his choice bit of the fowl. he turned his head one side and ate like a cat. when the meal was over i was again joined by doctor hurd on the verandah. he reported berry young still alive, but not able to live till midnight. i noticed that the doctor was nervous and kept his eyes fixed on sheehan's saloon. "stranger," said he, leaning over close to me, and speaking in a low, guarded way, "things is workin' dasted curious 'bout now--sure's gun's iron they jist is!" "where--how--in what way, doctor?" i stammered, taken aback by his behavior. "sumpum's up, as sure as ned!" he replied, wagging his head. "doctor," i said, petulantly, "if you would be a trifle more explicit i could probably guess, with some show of certainty, at what you mean!" "can't ye hear? are ye deaf? did ye ever, in all yer born days, hear a voice like that ere 'un? listen!" sure enough, a voice of thrilling power, a rich, heavy, quavering alto, accompanied by some one thrumming on a guitar, trickled and gurgled, and poured through the open window of sheehan's saloon. the song was a wild, drinking carol, full of rough, reckless wit, but i listened, entranced, till it was done. "there now, say, what d'ye think o' that? ain't things a workin' round awful curious, as i said?" delivering himself thus, the doctor got up and walked off. when i again had an opportunity to speak to the landlord, i asked him if doctor hurd was not thought to be slightly demented. "what! crazy, do you mean? no, sir; bright as a pin!" "well," said i, "he's a very queer fellow any how. by the way, who was that singing just now over in the saloon there?" "don't know, didn't hear 'em. some of the boys, i s'pose. they have some lively swells over there sometimes. awful hole." i resumed my dime novel, and nothing further transpired to aggravate or satisfy my curiosity concerning the strange story i had heard, till night came down and the bats began to wheel through the moonless blackness above the dingy town. at the coming on of dusk i flung away the book and took to my pipe. some one touched me on the shoulder, rousing me from a deep reverie, if not a doze. "ha, stranger, this you, eh? berry young's a dyin'; go over there wi' me, will ye?" it was the voice of doctor hurd. "what need for me have you?" i replied, rather stiffly, not much relishing this too obtrusive familiarity. "well--i--i jist kinder wanted ye to go over. the poor boy's 'bout passin' away, an' things is a workin' so tarnation curious! come 'long wi' me, friend, will ye?" something in the fellow's voice touched me, and without another word i arose and followed him to the cottage. the night was intensely black. i think it was clear, but a heavy fog from the swamps had settled over everything, and through this dismal veil the voices of owls from far and near struck with hollow, sepulchral effect. "a heart is the trump!" sang out that alto voice from within the saloon as we passed. doctor hurd clutched my arm and muttered: "that's that voice ag'in! strange--strange! poor berry young!" we entered the cottage and found ourselves in a cosy little room, where, on a low bed, a pale, intelligent looking young man lay, evidently dying. he was very much emaciated, his eyes, wonderfully large and luminous, were sunken, and his breathing quick and difficult. a haggard, watching-worn woman sat by his bed. from her resemblance to him i took her to be his sister. she was evidently very unwell herself. we sat in silence by his bedside, watching his life flow into eternity, till the little clock on the mantel struck, sharp and clear, the hour of ten. the sound of the bell startled the sick man, and after some incoherent mumbling he said, quite distinctly: "sister, if you ever again see ollie afton, tell him--tell her--tell, say i forgive him--say to her--him--i loved her all my life--tell him--ah! what was i saying? don't cry, sis, please. what a sweet, faithful sister! ah! it's almost over, dear----ah, me!" for some minutes the sister's sobbing echoed strangely through the house. the dying man drew his head far down in the soft pillow. a breath of damp air stole through the room. all at once, right under the window by which the bed sat, arose a touching guitar prelude--a tangled mesh of melody--gusty, throbbing, wandering through the room and straying off into the night, tossing back its trembling echoes fainter and fainter, till, as it began to die, that same splendid alto voice caught the key and flooded the darkness with song. the sick man raised himself on his elbow, and his face flashed out the terrible smile of death. he listened eagerly. it was the song "come where my love lies dreaming," but who has heard it rendered as it was that night? every chord of the voice was as sweet and witching as a wind harp's, and the low, humming undertone of the accompaniment was perfection. tenderly but awfully sweet, the music at length faded into utter silence, and berry young sank limp and pallid upon his pillows. "it is ollie," he hoarsely whispered. "tell her--tell him--o say to her for me--ah! water, sis, it's all over!" the woman hastened, but before she could get the water to his lips he was dead. his last word was ollie. the sister cast herself upon the dead man's bosom and sobbed wildly, piteously. soon after this some neighbors came in, which gave me an opportunity to quietly take my leave. the night was so foggy and dark that, but for a bright stream of light from a window of sheehan's saloon, it would have been hard for me to find my way back to the hotel. i did find it, however, and sat down upon the verandah. i had nearly fallen asleep, thinking over the strange occurrences of the past few hours, when the rumble of an approaching train of cars on the i. c. & l. from the east aroused me, and, at the same moment, a great noise began over in the saloon. high words, a few bitter oaths, a struggle as of persons fighting, a loud, sonorous crash like the crushing of a musical instrument, and then i saw the burly bar tender hurl some one out through the doorway just as the express train stopped close by. "all aboard!" cried the conductor, waving his lantern. at the same time, as the bar-tender stood in the light of his doorway, a brickbat, whizzing from the darkness, struck him full in the face, knocking him precipitately back at full length on to the floor of the saloon. "all aboard!" repeated the conductor. "all aboard!" jeeringly echoed a delicious alto voice; and i saw a slender man step up on the rear platform of the smoking car. a flash from the conductor's lantern lit up for a moment this fellow's face, and it was the most beautiful visage i have ever seen. extremely youthful, dark, resplendent, glorious, set round with waves and ringlets of black hair--it was such a countenance as i have imagined a young chaldean might have had who was destined to the high calling of astrology. it was a face to charm, to electrify the beholder with its indescribable, almost unearthly loveliness of features and expression. the engine whistled, the bell rang, and as the train moved on, that slender, almost fragile form and wonderful face disappeared in the darkness. as the roar and clash of the receding cars began to grow faint in the distance, a gurgling, grunting sound over in the saloon reminded me that the bar-tender might need some attention, so i stepped across the street and went in. he was just taking himself up from the floor, with his nose badly smashed, spurting blood over him pretty freely. he was in an ecstasy of fury and swore fearfully. i rendered him all the aid i could, getting the blood stopped, at length, and a plaster over the wound. "who struck you?" i asked. "who struck me? who hit me with that 'ere brick, d'ye say? who but that little baby-faced, hawk-eyed cuss 'at got off here yesterday! he's a thief and a dog!--he's chowzed me out'n my last cent! where is he?--i'll kill 'im yet! where is he?" "gone off on the train," i replied, "but who is he? what's his name?" "blamed if i know. gone, you say? got every derned red o' my money! every derned red!" "don't you know anything at all about him?" i asked. "yes." "what?" "i know 'at he's the derndest, alfiredest, snatchin'est, best poker-player 'at ever dealt a card!" "is that all?" "that's enough, i'd say. if you'd been beat out'n two hundred an' odd dollars you'd think you know'd a right smart, wouldn't ye?" "perhaps," said i. the question had a world of philosophy and logic in it. the shattered wreck of a magnificent guitar lay in the middle of the floor. i picked it up, and, engraved on a heavy silver plate set in the ebony neck, i read the name, georgina olive afton. trout's luck. as early as eight o'clock the grand entrance gateway to the kokomo fair ground was thronged with vehicles of almost every kind; horsemen, pedestrians, dogs and dust were borne forward together in clouds that boiled and swayed and tumbled. noise seemed to be the chief purpose of every one and the one certain result of every thing in the crowd. this had been advertised as the merriest day that might ever befall the quiet, honest folk of the rural regions circumjacent to kokomo, and it is even hinted that aristocratic dames and business plethoric men of the town itself had caught somewhat of the excitement spread abroad by the announcement in the county papers, and by huge bills posted in conspicuous places, touching le papillon and his monster balloon, which balloon and which le papillon were pictured to the life, on the said posters, in the act of sailing over the sun, and under the picture, in remarkably distinct letters, "no humbug! go to the fair!" dozier's minstrel troupe was dancing and singing attendance on this agricultural exhibition, too, and somebody's whirling pavilion, a shooting gallery, a monkey show, the glass works, and what not of tempting promises of entertainments, "amusing and instructive." until eleven o'clock the entrance gateway to the fair ground was crowded. farm wagons trundled in, drawn by sleek, well fed plough nags, and stowed full of smiling folk, old and young, male and female, from the out townships; buggies with youths and maidens, the sparkle of breastpins and flutter of ribbons; spring wagons full of students and hard bats from town; carriages brimming with laces, flounces, over skirts, fancy kid gloves, funny little hats and less bonnets, all fermented into languid ebullition by mild-eyed ladies; omnibuses that bore fleshy gentlemen, who wore linen dusters and silk hats and smoked fine cigars; and jammed in among all these were boys on skittish colts, old fellows on flea-bit gray mares, with now and then a reckless stripling on a mule. occasionally a dog got kicked or run over, giving the assistance of his howls and yelps to the general din, and over all the dust hung heavily in a yellow cloud, shot through with the lightning of burnished trappings and echoing with the hoarse thunder of the trampling, shouting rumbling multitude. indeed, that hot aguish autumn day let fall its sunshine on the heads and blew its feverish breath through the rifts of the greatest and liveliest mass of people ever assembled in howard county. inside the extensive enclosure the multitude divided itself into streams, ponds, eddies, refluent currents and noisy whirlpools of people. some rare attraction was everywhere. early in the day the eyes of certain of the rustic misses followed admiringly the forms of jack trout and bill powell, handsome young fellows dressed in homespun clothes, who, arm in arm, strolled leisurely across the grounds, looking sharply about for some proper place to begin the expenditure of what few dimes they had each been able to hoard up against this gala day. they had not long to hunt. on every hand the "hawkers hawked their wares." rising and falling, tender-toned, deftly managed, a voice rang out across the crowd pleading with those who had long desired a good investment for their money, and begging them to be sure and not let slip this last golden opportunity. "only a half a dollah! come right along this way now! here's the great golden scheme by which thousands have amassed untold fortunes! here's your only and last chance to get two ounces of first class candy, with the probability of five dollars in gold coin, all for the small sum of half a dollah! and the cry is--still they come!" the speaker was such a man as one often observes in a first class railway car, with a stout valise beside him containing samples, dressed with remarkable care, and ever on the alert to make one's acquaintance. he stood on top of a small table or tripod, holding in his hand a green pasteboard package just taken from a box at his feet. "only a half a dollah and a fortune in your grasp! here's the gold! roll right this way and run your pockets over!" drifting round with the tide of impulsive pleasure seekers into which they happened to fall, jack trout and bill powell floated past a bevy of lasses, the prettiest of whom was minny hart, a girl whose healthy, vivid beauty was fast luring jack on to the rock of matrimonial proposals. "jimminy, but ain't she a little sweety!" exclaimed the latter, pinching bill's arm as they passed, and glancing lovingly at minny. "you're tellin' the truth and talkin' it smooth," replied bill, bowing to the girls with the swagger peculiar to a rustic who imagines he has turned a fine period. and with fluttering hearts the boys passed on. "roll on ye torrents! only a half a dollah! right this way if you want to become a bloated aristocrat in less than no time! five dollahs in gold for only a half a dollah! and whose the next lucky man?" blown by the fickle, gusty breath of luck, our two young friends were finally wafted to the feet of this oily vendor of prize packages, and they there lodged, becalmed in breathless interest, to await their turn, each full of faith in the yellow star of his fortune--a gold coin of the value of five dollars. they stood attentively watching the results of other men's investments, feeling their fingers tingle when now and then some lucky fellow drew the coveted prize. five dollars is a mighty temptation to a poor country boy in indiana. that sum will buy oceans of fun at a fair where almost any "sight" is to be seen for the "small sum of twenty-five cents!" without stopping to take into consideration the possible, or rather, the probable result of such a venture, bill powell handed up his half dollar to the prize man, thus risking the major part of all the money he had, and stood trembling with excitement while the fellow broke open the chosen package. was it significant of anything that a blue jay fluttered for a moment right over the crier's head just at the point of his detaching some glittering object from the contents of the box? "here you are, my friend; luck's a fortune!" yelled the man, as he held the gold coin high above his head, shaking it in full view of all eyes in the multitude. "here you are! which 'd you rather have, the gold or five and a half in greenbacks?" "hand me in the rag chips--gold don't feel good to my fingers," answered bill powell, swaggering again and grasping the currency with a hand that shook with eagerness. jack trout stood by, clutching in his feverish palm a two-dollar bill. his face was pale, his lips set, his muscles rigid. he hesitated to trust in the star of his destiny. he stood eyeing the bridge of lodi, the dykes of arcole. would he risk all on a bold venture? his right shoulder began to twitch convulsively. "still it rolls, and who's the next lucky man? don't all speak at once! who wants five dollahs in gold and two ounces of delicious candy, all for the small sum of half a dollah?" jack made a mighty effort and passed up his two dollar bill. "bravely done; select your packages!" cried the vendor. jack tremblingly pointed them out. very carelessly and quietly the fellow opened them, and with a ludicrous grimace remarked-- "eight ounces of mighty sweet candy, but nary a prize! better luck next time! only a half a dollah! and who's the next lucky man?" a yell of laughter from the crowd greeted this occurrence, and jack floated back on the recoiling waves of his chagrin till he was hidden in the dense concourse, and the uppermost thought in his mind found forcible expression in the three monosyllables: "hang the luck!" it is quite probable that of all the unfortunate adventurers that day singed in the yellow fire of that expert gambler's gold, jack recognized himself as the most terribly burned. putting his hands into his empty pockets, he sauntered dolefully about, scarcely able to look straight into the face of such friends as he chanced to meet. he acted as if hunting for something lost on the ground. poor fellow, it was a real relief to him when some one treated him to a glass of lemonade, and, indeed, so much were his feelings relieved by the cool potation, that when, soon after, he met minny hart, he was actually smiling. "o, jack!" cried the pretty girl, "i'm so glad to see you just now, for i do want to go into the minstrel show _so bad_!" she shot a glance of coquettish tenderness right into jack's heart. for a single moment he was blessed, but on feeling for his money and recalling the luckless result of his late venture, he felt a chill creep up his back, and a lump of the size of his fist jump up into his throat. here was a bad affair for him. he stood for a single point of time staring into the face of his despair, then, acting on the only plan he could think of to escape from the predicament, he said: "wait a bit, minny, i've got to go jist down here a piece to see a feller. i'll be back d'rectly. you stay right here and when i come back i'll trot you in." so speaking, as if in a great hurry, and sweating cold drops, with a ghastly smile flickering on his face, the young man slipped away into the crowd. minny failed to notice his confusion, and so called after him cheerily: "well, hurry, jack, for i'm most dead to see the show!" what could trout do? he spun round and round in that vast flood of people like a fish with but one eye. he rushed here, he darted there, and ever and anon, as a lost man returns upon his starting point, he came in sight of sweet minny hart patiently waiting for his return. then he would spring back into the crowd like a deer leaping back into a thicket at sight of a hunter. penniless at the fair, with minny hart waiting for him to take her into the show! few persons can realize how keenly he now felt the loss of his money. he ought, no doubt, to have told the lass at once just how financial matters stood; but nothing was more remote from his mind than doing anything of the kind. he was too vain. "tell 'er i 'ain't got no money! no, sir-ee!" he muttered. "but what _am_ i to do? bust the luck! hang the luck! rot the luck!" he hurried hither and thither, intent on nothing and taking no heed of the course he pursued. his cheeks were livid and his eyes had in them that painful, worried, wistful look so often seen in the eyes of men going home from ruin on wall street. meantime that sea of persons surged this way and that, flecked with a foam of ribbons and dancing bubbles of hats, now flowing slowly through the exhibition rooms a tide of critics, now breaking into groups and scattered throngs of babblers, anon uniting to roar round some novel engine suddenly set to work, or to break on the barrier of the trolling ring into a spray of cravats and a mist of flounces. swimming round in this turbulent tide like a crazy flounder with but one fin, jack finally found himself hard by the pavilion of the minstrels. he could hear somewhat of the side-splitting jokes, with the laughs that followed, the tinkle of banjo accompaniments and the mellow cadences of plantation songs, the rattle of castanets and the tattoo of the jig dancers' feet. a thirst like the thirst of fever took hold of him. "come straight along gentlemen and ladies! this celebrated troupe is now performing and twenty-five cents pays the bill! only a quawtah of a dollah!" bawled the fat crier from his lofty perch. "that's right, my young man, take the young lady in! she's sure to love you better; walk right along!" "her lip am sweet as sugah, her eye am bright as wine, dat yaller little boogah her name am emiline!" sung by four fine voices, came bubbling from within. the music thrilled jack to the bone, and he felt once more for his money. not a cent. this was bad. "you're the lad for me," continued the fat man on the high seat; "take your nice little sweetheart right in and let her see the fun. walk right in!" jack looked to see who it was, and a pang shot through his heart and settled in the very marrow of his bones; for lo! arm in arm, bill powell and minny hart passed under the pavilion into the full glory of the show! "o cut me up for fish bait an' feed me to de swine, don't care where i goes to so i has emiline!" sang the minstrel chorus. "dast him, he's got me!" muttered jack as bill and minny disappeared within. he turned away, sick at heart, and this was far from the first throe of jealousy he had suffered on bill's account. indeed it had given him no little uneasiness lately to see how sweetly minny sometimes smiled on young powell. "yes, sir," jack continued to mutter to himself, "yes, sir, he's got me! he's about three lengths ahead o' me, as these hoss fellers says, an' i don't know but what i'm distanced. blow the blasted luck!" heartily tired of the fair, burning with rage, and jealousy, and despair, but still vaguely hoping against hope for some better luck from some visionary source, jack strolled about, chewing the bitter cud of his feelings, his hands up to his elbows in his trowser pockets and his soul up to its ears in the flood of discontent. he puckered his mouth into whistling position, but it refused to whistle. he felt as if he had a corn cob crossways in his throat. the wind blew his new hat off and a mule kicked the top out of the crown. "only a half a dollah! who's the next lucky man?" cried the prize package fellow. "i'm now going to sell a new sort of packages, each of which, beside the usual amount of choice candy, contains a piece of jewelry of pure gold! who takes the first chance for only a half a dollah?" "'ere's your mule!" answered bill powell, as with minny still clinging to his arm, he pushed through the crowd and handed up the money. "bravely done!" shouted the crier; "see what a beautiful locket and chain! luck's a fortune! and who's the next to invest? come right along and don't be afraid of a little risk! only a half a dollah!" jack saw bill put the glittering chain round minny's neck and fasten the locket in her belt; saw the eyes of the sweet girl gleam proudly, gratefully; saw black spots dancing before his own eyes; saw bill swagger and toss his head. he turned dizzily away, whispering savagely, "dern 'im!" just here let me say that such an expression is not a profane one. i once saw a preacher kick at a little dog that got in his way on the sidewalk. the minister's foot missed the little dog and hit an iron fence, and the little dog bit the minister's other leg and jumped through the fence. the minister performed a _pas de zephyr_ and very distinctly said "dern 'im!" wherefore i don't think it can be anything more than a mere puff of fretfulness. after this jack was for some time standing near the entrance to the "glass-works," a place where transparent steam engines and wonderful fountains were on exhibition. he felt a grim delight in tantalizing himself with looking at the pictures of these things and wishing he had money enough to pay the entrance fee. he saw persons pass in eagerly and come out calm and satisfied--men with their wives and children, young men with girls on their arms, prominent among whom were bill and minny, and one dapper sportsman even bought a ticket for his setter, and, patting the brute on the head, took him in. "onery nor a dog!" hissed jack, shambling off, and once more taking a long deep dive under the surface of the crowd. a ground swell cast him again near the vender of prize packages. "only a half a dollah!" he yelled; "come where fortune smiles, and cares and poverty take flight, for only a half a dollah!" "jist fifty cents more'n i've got about my clothes!" replied jack, and the bystanders, taking this for great wit, joined in a roar of laughter, while with a grim smile the desperate youth passed on till he found himself near the toe mark of a shooting gallery, where for five cents one might have two shots with an air gun. he stood there for a time watching a number of persons try their marksmanship. it was small joy to know that he was a fine off-hand shot, so long as he had not a nickel in his pocket, but still he stood there wishing he might try his hand. "cl'ar the track here! let this 'ere lady take a shoot!" cried a familiar voice; and a way was opened for bill powell and minny hart. the little maiden was placed at the toe mark and a gun given to her. she handled the weapon like one used to it. she raised it, shut one eye, took deliberate aim and fired. "centre!" roared the marker, as to the sound of a bell the funny little puppet leaped up and grinned above the target. every body standing near laughed and some of the boys cheered vociferously. minny looked sweeter than ever. jack trout felt famished. he begged a chew of tobacco of a stranger, and, grinding the weed furiously, walked off to where the yellow pavilion with its painted air-boats was whirling its cargoes of happy boys and girls round and round for the "small sum of ten cents." a long, lean, red-headed fellow in one of the boats was paying for a ride of limitless length by scraping on a miserable fiddle. to jack this seemed small labor for so much fun. how he envied the fiddler as he flew round, trailing his tunes behind him! "wo'erp there! stop yer old merchine! we'll take a ride ef ye don't keer!" the pavilion was stopped, a boat lowered for bill powell and minny hart, who got in side by side, and the fiddler struck up the tune of "black-eyed susie." jack watched that happy couple go round and round, till, by the increased velocity, their two faces melted into one, which was neither bill's nor minny's--it was luck's! "he's got one outo me," muttered jack; "i've got no money, can't fiddle for a ride, nor nothin', and i don't keer a ding what becomes o' me, nohow!" with these words jack wended his way to a remote part of the fair ground, where, under gay awnings, the sutlers had spread their tempting variety of cakes, pies, fruits, nuts and loaves. here were persons of all ages and sizes--men, women and children--eating at well supplied tables. the sight was a fascinating one, and, though seeing others eat did not in the least appease his own hunger, jack stood for a long time watching the departure of pies and the steady lessening of huge pyramids of sweet cakes. he particularly noticed one little table that had on its centre a huge peach pie, which table was yet unoccupied. while he was actually thinking over the plan of eating the pie and trusting to his legs to bear him beyond the reach of a dun, bill and minny sat down by the table and proceeded to discuss the delicious, red-hearted heap of pastry. at this point bill caught jack's eye: "come here, jack," said he; "this pie's more'n we can eat, come and help us." "yes, come along, jack," put in minny in her sweetest way; "i want to tell you what a lot of fun we've had, and more than that, i want to know why you didn't come back and take me into the show!" "i ain't hungry," muttered jack, "and besides i've got to go see a feller." he turned away almost choking. "bill's got me. 'taint no use talkin', i'm played out for good. i'm a trumped jack!" he smiled a sort of flinty smile at his poor wit, and shuffled aimlessly along through the densest clots of the crowd. and it so continued to happen, that wherever jack happened to stop for any considerable length of time he was sure to see bill and minny enjoying some rare treat, or disappearing in or emerging from some place of amusement. at last, driven to desperation, he determined on trying to borrow a dollar from his father. he immediately set about to find the old gentleman; a task of no little difficulty in such a crowd. it was jack's forlorn hope, and it had a gloomy outlook; for old 'squire trout was thought by competent judges to be the stingiest man in the county. but hoping for the best, jack hunted him here, there and everywhere, till at length he met a friend who said he had seen the 'squire in the act of leaving the fair ground for home just a few minutes before. taking no heed of what folks might say, jack, on receiving this intelligence, darted across the ground, out at the gate and down the road at a speed worthy of success; but alas! his hopes were doomed to wilt. at the first turn of the road he met a man who informed him that he had passed 'squire trout some three miles out on his way home, which home was full nine miles distant! panting, crestfallen, defeated, done for, poor jack slowly plodded back to the fair ground gate, little dreaming of the new trouble that awaited him there. "ticket!" said a gruff voice as he was about to pass in. he recoiled, amazed at his own stupidity, as he recollected that he had not thought to get a check as he went out! he tried to explain, but it was no go. "you needn't try that game on me," said the gatekeeper. "so just plank down your money or stay outside." then jack got furious, but the gatekeeper remarked that he had frequently "hearn it thunder afore this!" jack smiled like a corpse and turned away. going a short distance down the road he climbed up and sat down on top of the fence of a late mown clover field. then he took out his jack-knife and began to whittle a splinter plucked from a rail. his face was gloomy, his eyes lustreless. finally he stretched himself, hungry, jealous, envious, hateful, on top of the fence with his head between the crossed stakes. his face thus upturned to heaven, he watched two crows drift over, high up in the torrid reaches of autumn air, hot as summer, even hotter, and allowed his lips free privilege to anathematize his luck. for a long time he lay thus, dimly conscious of the blue bird's song and the water-like ripple of the grass in the fence corners. "minny, minny hart, minny!" sang the meadow larks, and the burden of the grasshopper's ditty was----"only a half a dollah!" all at once there arose from the fair ground a mighty chorus of yells, that went echoing off across the country to the bluffs of wild-cat creek and died far off in the woods toward greentown. jack did not raise his head, but lay there in a sort of morose stupor, knowing well that whatever the sport might be, he had no hand in it. "let 'em rip!" he muttered, "bill's got me!" presently the wagons and other vehicles began to leave the ground, from one of which he caught the sound of a sweet, familiar voice. he looked just in time to get a glimpse of mr. hart's wagon, and in it, side by side, bill powell and minny! a cloud of yellow dust soon hid them, and turning away his head, happening to glance upward, jack saw, just disappearing in a thin white cloud, the golden disc of le papillon's balloon! he immediately descended from his perch and began plodding his way home, muttering as he did so---- "dast the luck! ding the prize package feller! doggone bill powell! blame the old b'loon! dern everybody!" it was long after nightfall when he reached his father's gate. hungry, weak, foot-sore, collapsed, he leaned his chin on the top rail of the gate and stood there for a moment while the starlight fell around him, sifted through the dusky foliage of the old beech trees, and from the far dim caverns of the night a voice smote on his ear, crying out tenderly, mockingly, persuasively---- "only a half a dollah!" and jack slipped to his room and went supperless to bed, often during the night muttering, through the interstices of his sleep----"bill's got me!" big medicine. the corner brick storehouse--in fact the only brick building in jimtown--was to be sold at auction; and, consequently, by ten o'clock in the morning, a considerable body of men had collected near the somewhat dilapidated house, directly in front of which the auctioneer, a fat man from indianapolis, mounted on an old goods box, began crying, partly through his tobacco-filled mouth and partly through his very unmusical nose, as follows:-- "come up, gentlemen, and examine the new, beautiful and commodious property i now offer for sale! walk round the house, men, and view it from every side. go into it, if you like, up stairs and down, and then give me a bid, somebody, to start with. it is a very desirable house, indeed, gentlemen." with this preliminary puff, the speaker paused and glanced slowly over his audience with the air of a practiced physiognomist. the crowd before him was, in many respects, an interesting one. its most prominent individual, and the hero of this sketch, was dave cook, sometimes called dr. cook, but more commonly answering to the somewhat savage sounding sobriquet of big medicine--a man some thirty-five years of age, standing six feet six in his ponderous boots; broad, bony, muscular, a real giant, with a strongly marked roman face, and brown, shaggy hair. he was dressed in a soiled and somewhat patched suit of butternut jeans, topped off with a wide rimmed wool hat, wonderfully battered, and lopped in every conceivable way. he wore a watch, the chain of which, depending from the waistband of his pants, was of iron, and would have weighed fully a pound avoirdupois. he stood quite still, near the auctioneer, smoking a clay pipe, his herculean arms folded on his breast, his feet far apart. as for the others of the crowd, they were, taken collectively, about such as one used always to see in the "dark corners" of indiana, such as boone county used to be before the building of any railroads through it, such as the particular locality of jimtown was before the ditching law and the i. b. & w. railway had lifted the fog and enlightened the miasmatic swamps and densely timbered bog lands of that region of elms, burr oaks, frogs and herons. big medicine seemed to be the only utterly complacent man in the assembly. all the others discovered evidences of much inward disturbance, muttering mysteriously to each other, and casting curious, inquiring glances at an individual, a stranger in the place, who, with a pair of queer green spectacles astride his nose, and his arms crossed behind him, was slowly sauntering about the building offered for sale, apparently examining it with some care. his general appearance was that of a well dressed gentleman, which of itself was enough to excite remark in jimtown, especially when an auction was on hand, and everybody felt jolly. "them specs sticks to that nose o' his'n like a squir'l to a knot!" said one. "his pantaloons is ruther inclined to be knock-kneed," put in an old, grimy sinner leaning on a single barrelled shot gun. "got lard enough onto his hair to shorten a mess o' pie crust," added a liver colored boy. "walks like he'd swallered a fence rail, too," chimed in a humpbacked fellow split almost to his chin. "chaws mighty fine terbacker, you bet." "them there boots o' his'n set goin' an' comin' like a grubbin' hoe onto a crooked han'le." "well, take'm up one side and down t'other, he's a mod'rately onery lookin' feller." these remarks were reckoned smart by those who perpetrated them, and were by no means meant for real slurs on the individual at whom they were pointed. indeed they were delivered in guarded undertones, so that he might not hear them; and he, meanwhile, utterly ignorant of affording any sport, continued his examination of the house, the while some happy frogs in a neighboring pond rolled out a rattling, jubilant chorus, and the summer wind poured through the leafy tops of the tall elms and athletic burr oaks with a swash and roar like a turbulent river. "what am i now offered for this magnificent property? come, give me a bid! speak up lively! what do i hear for the house?" the auctioneer, as he spoke, let his eyes wander up the walls of the old, dingy building, to where the blue birds and the peewees had built in the cracks and along the warped cornice and broken window frames, and just then it chanced that a woman's face appeared at one of those staring holes, which, with broken lattice and shattered glass, still might be called a window. the face was a plump, cheerful one, the more radiant from contrast with the dull wall around it--a face one could never forget, however, and would recall often, if for nothing but the fine fall of yellow hair that framed it in. it was a sweet, winning, intellectual face, full of the gentlest womanly charms. "forty dollars for the house, 'oman and all!" cried big medicine, gazing up at the window in which, for the merest moment, the face appeared. the man with the green spectacles darted a quick glance at the speaker. "i am bid forty dollars, gentlemen, forty dollars, do all hear? agoing for forty dollars! who says fifty?" bawled the auctioneer. the crowd now swayed earnestly forward, closing in solid order around the goods box. many whiskered, uncouth, but not unkindly faces were upturned to the window only in time to see the beautiful woman disappear quite hastily. "hooray for the gal!" cried a lusty youth, whose pale blue eyes made no show of contrast with his faded hair and aguish complexion. "dad, can't ye bid agin the doctor so as i kin claim 'er?" "fifty dollars!" shouted the sunburnt man addressed as dad. this made the crowd lively. every man nudged his neighbor, and the aguish, blue-eyed boy grinned in a ghastly, self-satisfied way. "agoing at fifty dollars! fiddlesticks! the house is worth four thousand. no fooling here now! agoing at only fifty dollars--going--" "six hundred dollars," said he of the green glasses in a clear, pleasant voice. "six hundred dollars!" echoed the auctioneer in a triumphant thunderous tone. "that sounds like business. who says the other hundred?" "hooray for hooray, and hooray for hooray's daddy!" shouted the tallow-faced lad. the frogs pitched their song an octave higher, the blue birds and peewees wheeled through the falling floods of yellow sunlight, and lower and sweeter rose the murmur of the tide of pulsating air as it lifted and swayed the fresh sprays of the oaks and elms. the well dressed stranger lighted a cigar, took off his green glasses and put them carefully in his pocket, then took a cool straight look at big medicine. the roman face of the latter was just then a most interesting one. it was expressive of more than words could rightly convey. six hundred dollars, cash down, was a big sum for the crazy old house, but he had made up his mind to buy it, and now he seemed likely to have to let it go or pay more than it was worth. the stem of his clay pipe settled back full three inches into his firmly-set mouth, so that there seemed imminent danger to the huge brown moustache that overhung the fiery bowl. he returned the stare of the stranger with interest, and said-- "six hundred an' ten dollars." "agoing, a----," began the auctioneer. "six twenty," said the stranger. "ago----." "six twenty-one!" growled big medicine. "six twenty-five!" quickly added his antagonist. big medicine glanced heavenward, and for a moment allowed his eyes to follow the flight of a great blue heron that slowly winged its way, high up in the yellow summer reaches of splendor, toward the distant swamps where the white sycamores spread their fanciful arms above the dark green maples and dusky witch-hazel thickets. the auctioneer, a close observer, saw an ashy hue, a barely discernible shade, ripple across the great roman face as big medicine said, in a jerking tone: "six twenty-five and a half!" the stranger took his cigar from his mouth and smiled placidly. no more imperturbable countenance could be imagined. "six twenty-six!" he said gently. "take the ole house an' be derned to you!" cried big medicine, looking furiously at his antagonist. "take the blamed ole shacke-merack an' all the cussed blue-birds an' peer-weers to boot, for all i keer!" everybody laughed, and the auctioneer continued: "agoing for six twenty-six! who says seven hundred? bid up lively! agoing once, agoing twice--once, twice, three-e-e-e-e times! sold to abner golding for six hundred and twenty-six dollars, and as cheap as dirt itself!" "hooray for the man who hed the most money!" shouted the tallow-faced boy. the sale was at an end. the auctioneer came down from his box and wiped his face with a red handkerchief. the crowd, as if blown apart by a puff of wind, scattered this way and that, drifting into small, grotesque groups to converse together on whatever topic might happen to suggest itself. big medicine seemed inclined to be alone, but the irrepressible youth of the saffron skin ambled up to him and said, in a tone intended for comic: "golly, doctor, but didn't that 'ere gal projuce a orful demand for the ole house! didn't she set the ole trap off when she peeked out'n the winder!" big medicine looked down at the strapping boy, much as a lion might look at a field rat or a weasel, then he doubled his hand into an enormous fist and held it under the youth's nose, saying in a sort of growl as he did so: "you see this 'ere bundle o' bones, don't ye?" "guess so," replied the youth. "well, would you like a small mess of it?" "not as anybody knows of." "well, then, keep yer derned mouth shet!" which, accordingly, the boy proceeded to do, ambling off as quickly as possible. about this time, the stranger, having put the green spectacles back upon his nose, walked in the direction of 'squire tadmore's office, accompanied by the young woman who had looked from the window. when big medicine saw them he picked up a stick and began furiously to whittle it with his jack-knife. his face wore a comically mingled look of chagrin, wonder, and something like a new and thrilling delight. he puffed out great volumes of smoke, making his pipe wheeze audibly under the vigor of his draughts. he was certainly excited. "orful joke the boys 'll have on me arter this," he muttered to himself. "wonder if the 'oman's the feller's wife? monstrous poorty, shore's yer born!" he soon whittled up one stick. he immediately dived for another, this time getting hold of a walnut knot. a tough thing to whittle, but he attacked it as if it had been a bit of white pine. soon after this 'squire tadmore's little boy came running down from his father's office to where big medicine stood. "mr. big medicine," cried he, all out of breath, "that 'ere man what bought the ole house wants to see you partic'ler!" "mischief he does! tell 'im to go to----; no, wait a bit. guess i'll go tell 'im myself." and, so saying, he moved at a slashing pace down to the door of the 'squire's office. he thrust his great hirsute head inside the room, and glaring at the mild mannered stranger, said: "d'ye want to see me?" mr. golding got up from his seat and coming out took big medicine familiarly by the arm, meanwhile smiling in the most friendly way. "come one side a little, i wish to speak with you privately, confidentially." big medicine went rather sulkily along. when they had gone some distance from the house mr. golding lifted his spectacles from his nose, and turning his calm, smiling eyes full upon those of big medicine, said, with a shrug of his finely cut shoulders: "i outbid you a little, my friend, but i'm blessed if i haven't got myself into a ridiculous scrape on account of it." "how so?" growled big medicine. "why, when i come to count my funds i'm short a half dollar." "you're what?" "i lack just a half dollar of having enough money to pay for the house, and i thought i'd rather ask you to loan me the money than anybody else here." big medicine stood for a time in silence, whittling away, as if for dear life, on the curly knot. dreamy gusts of perfumed heat swept by from adjacent clover and wheat fields, where the blooms hung thick; little whirlwinds played in the dust at their feet as little whirlwinds always do in summer; and far away, faint, and made tenderly musical by distance, were heard the notes of a country dinner-horn. big medicine's ample chest swelled, and swelled, and then he burst at the mouth with a mighty bass laugh, that went battling and echoing round the place. mr. golding laughed too, in his own quiet, gentlemanly way. they looked at each other and laughed, then looked off toward the swamps and laughed. big medicine put his hands in his pockets almost up to the elbows, and leaned back and laughed out of one corner of his mouth while holding his pipe in the other. "i say, mister," said he at length, "a'n't you railly got but six hundred and twenty-five an' a half?" "just that much to a cent, and no more," replied mr. golding, with a comical smile and bow. big medicine took his pipe from his mouth, gave the walnut knot he had dropped a little kick and guffawed louder and longer than before. to have been off at a little distance watching them would have convinced any one that mr. golding was telling some rare anecdote, and that big medicine was convulsed with mirth, listening. "well i'm derned if 'taint quare," cried the latter, wringing himself into all sorts of grotesque attitudes in the ecstasy of his amusement. "you outbid me half a dollar and then didn't have the half a dollar neither! wha, wha, wha-ee!" and his cachinnations sounded like rolling of moderate thunder. at the end of this he took out a greasy wallet and paid mr. golding the required amount in silver coin. his chagrin had vanished before the stranger's quiet way of making friends. a week passed over jimtown. a week of as rare june weather as ever lingered about the cool places of the woods, or glimmered over the sweet clover fields all red with a blush of bloom, where the field larks twittered and the buntings chirped, and where the laden bees rose heavily to seek their wild homes in the hollows of the forests. by this time it was generally known in jimtown that mr. golding would soon receive a stock of goods with which to open a "store" in the old corner brick; but big medicine knew more than any of his neighbors, for he and golding had formed a partnership to do business under the "name and style" of cook & golding. this abner golding had lately been a wealthy retail man in cincinnati, and had lost everything by the sudden suspension of a bank wherein the bulk of his fortune was on deposit. his creditors had made a run on him and he had been able to save just the merest remnant of his goods, and a few hundred dollars in money. thus he came to jimtown to begin life and business anew. to big medicine the week had been a long one; why, it would not be easy to tell. no doubt there had come a turning point in his life. in those days, and in that particular region, to be a 'store keeper' was no small honor. but big medicine acted strangely. he wandered about, with his hands in his pockets, whistling plaintive tunes, and often he was seen standing out before the old corner brick, gazing up at one of the vacant windows where pieces of broken lattice were swaying in the wind. at such times he muttered softly to himself: "ther's wher i fust seed the gal." four big road wagons (loaded with boxes), three of them containing the merchandise and one the scanty household furniture of mr. golding and his daughter carrie, came rumbling into jimtown. big medicine was on hand, a perfect hercules at unloading and unpacking. mr. golding was sadly pleasant; carrie was roguishly observant, but womanly and quiet. the tallow-faced youth and two or three others stood by watching the proceedings. the former occasionally made a remark at which the others never failed to laugh. "ef ye'll notice, now," said he, "it's a fac 'at whenever big medicine goes to make a big surge to lift a box, he fust takes a peep at the gal, an' that 'ere seems to kinder make 'im 'wax strong an' multiply,' as the preacher says, an' then over goes the box!" "has a awful effect on his narves," some one replied. "i'm a thinkin'," added tallow-face, "'at ef big medicine happens to look at the gal about the time he goes to make a trade, it'll have sich a power on 'im 'at he'll sell a yard o' caliker for nigh onto forty dollars!" "er a blanket overcoat for 'bout twelve an' a half cents!" put in another. "i'm kinder weakly," resumed tallow-face with a comical leer at big medicine; "wonder if 't wouldn't be kinder strengthnin' on me ef i'd kinder sidle up towards the gal myself?" "i'll sidle up to you!" growled big medicine; and making two strides of near ten feet each, he took the youth by his faded flaxen hair, and holding him clear of the ground, administered a half dozen or so of resounding kicks, then tossed him to one side, where he fell in a heap on the ground. when he got on his feet again he began to bristle up and show fight, but when big medicine reached for him he ambled off. in due time the goods were all placed on the shelves and mr. golding's household furniture arranged in the upper rooms where he purposed living, carrie acting as housekeeper. on the first evening after all things had been put to rights, mr. golding said to big medicine: "i suppose we ought to advertise." "do how?" "advertise." "sartinly," said big medicine, having not the faintest idea of what his partner meant. "who can we get to paint our fence advertisements?" a gleam of intelligence shot from big medicine's eyes. he knew now what was wanted. he remembered once, on a visit to crawfordsville, seeing these fence advertisements. he comprehended in a moment. "o, i know what ye mean, now," he said, with a grin, as if communing with himself on some novel suggestion. "i guess i kin 'tend to that my own self. the moon shines to-night, don't it?" "yes; why?" "i'll do the paintin' to-night. a good ijee has jist struck me. you jist leave it all to me." so the thing was settled, and big medicine was gone all night. the next day was a sluice of rain. it poured incessantly from daylight till dark. big medicine sat on the counter in the corner brick and chuckled. his thoughts were evidently very pleasant ones. mr. golding was busy marking goods and carrie was helping him. the great grey eyes of big medicine followed the winsome girl all the time. when night came, and she went up stairs, he said to golding: "that gal o' your'n is a mighty smart little 'oman." "yes, and she's all i have left," replied mr. golding in a sad tone. big medicine stroked his brown beard, whistled a few turns of a jig tune, and, jumping down from the counter, went out into the drizzly night. a few rods from the house he turned and looked up at the window. a little form was just vanishing from it. "ther's wher i fust seed the gal," he murmured, then turned and went his way, occupied with strange, sweet imaginings. as a matter of the merest conjecture, it is interesting to dwell upon the probable turn taken by his thoughts as he slowly stalked through the darkness and rain that night; but i shall not trench on what, knowing all that i do, seems sanctified and hallowed. it would be breaking a sacred confidence. who has stood and watched for a form at a window? who has expressed, in language more refined, to the inner fountain of human sympathy, the idea conveyed in the rough fellow's remark? who that has, let him recall the time and the place holy in his memory. "ther's wher i fust seed the gal," said the man, and went away to his lonely bed to dream the old new dream. all night the rain fell, making rich music on the roof and pouring through his healthy slumber a sound like the flowing of strange rivers in a land of new delights--a land into which he had strayed hand in hand with some one, the merest touch of whose hand was rapture, the simplest utterance of whose voice was charming beyond expression. the old new dream. the dream of flesh that is divine--the vision of blood that is love's wine--the apocalypse that bewildered the eyes of the old singer when from a flower of foam in the sweet green sea rose the cytherean venus. we have all dreamed the dream and found it sweet. it is quite probable that no fence advertisements ever paid as well, or stirred up as big a "muss" as those painted by big medicine on the night mentioned heretofore. as an artist our hoosier was not a genius, but he certainly understood how to manufacture a notoriety. if space permitted i would copy all those rude notices for your inspection; but i must be content with a few random specimens taken from memory, with an eye to brevity. they are characteristic of the man and in somewhat an index of the then state of society in and around jimtown. on deacon jones's fence was scrawled the following: "dern yer ole sole, ef yer want good koffy go to cook & golding's nu stoar." john butler, a nice old quaker, had the following daubed on his gate: "yu thievin' duk-legged ya and na ole cuss, ef the sperit muves ye, go git a broad-brimmed straw hat at cook & golding's great stand at jimtown." the side of william smith's pig pen bore this: "bill, ye ornery sucker, come traid with cook & golding at the ole corner brick in jimtown." old peter gurley found writing to the following effect on his new wagon bed: "ef yoor dri or anything, you'll find a virtoous kag of ri licker at cook & golding's." on a large plank nailed to a tree at canaan's cross roads all passers by saw the following: "git up an brindle! here's yer ole and faithful mewl! come in gals and git yer dofunny tricks and fixens, hats, caps, bonnets, parrysols, silk petty-coat-sleeves and other injucements too noomerous too menshen! rip in--we're on it! call at cook & golding's great corner brick!" these are fair specimens of what appeared everywhere. how one man could have done so much in one night remains a mystery. some people swore, some threatened to prosecute, but finally everybody went to the corner brick to trade. jimtown became famous on account of big medicine and the corner brick store. the sun rose through the morning gate beyond the quagmires east of jimtown and set through the evening gate past the ponds and maple swamps to the west. the winds blew and there were days of calm. the weather ran through its mutations of heat and cold. the herons flew over, the blue birds twittered and went away and came again, and the peewees disappeared and returned. a whole year had rolled round and it was june again, with the air full of rumors about the building of a railroad through jimtown. during this flow of time big medicine had feasted his eyes on the bright curls and brighter eyes of carrie golding, till his heart had become tender and happy as a child's. they rarely conversed more than for him to say, "miss carrie, look there," or for her to call out, "please, mr. cook, hand me down this bolt of muslin." but big medicine was content. it was june the th, about ten o'clock in the morning, and big medicine was slowly making his way from his comfortable bachelor's cabin to the corner brick. a peculiar smile was on his face, his heart was fluttering strangely, and all on account of a little circumstance of the preceding day, now fresh in his memory. great boy that he was, he was poring ever a single sweet smile carrie golding had given him! the mail hack stood at the post-office door, whence mr. golding was coming with a letter in his hand. big medicine stopped and looked up at the window. there stood carrie. she was looking hopefully toward her father. big medicine smiled and murmured: "ther's wher i fust seed the gal--bless her sweet soul!" there was a whole world of sincere happiness in the tones of his voice. mr. golding passed him hastily, his green spectacles on his nose, and a great excitement flashing from his face. big medicine gazed wonderingly after his partner till he saw him run up stairs to carrie's room. then he thought he heard carrie cry out joyfully, but it may have been the wind. when an hour had passed mr. golding and carrie came down dressed for travelling. how strangely, wondrously beautiful the girl now looked! mr. golding was as nervous as an old woman. he rubbed his thin white hands together rapidly and said: "mr. cook, i have glorious news this morning!" "and what mought it be?" asked big medicine, as a damp chilliness crept over him, and his face grew pinched and almost as white as his shirt bosom. "krofton & kelly, the bankers, have resumed payment, and i'll get all my money! it _is_ glorious news, is it not, my friend?" big medicine was silent. he tried to speak, but his mouth was dry and powerless. a mist drifted across his eyes. he hardly realized where he was or what was said, but he knew all. "i have concluded to give you this house and all my interest in this store. you must not refuse. i haven't time to make the transfer now, but i'll not neglect it. carrie and i must hasten at once to cincinnati. the hack is waiting; so good bye, my dear friend, god bless you!" mr. golding wrung his partner's cold, limp hand, without noticing how fearfully haggard that roman face had suddenly grown. "good bye, mr. cook," said carrie in her sweet, sincere way. "i'm real sorry to leave you and the dear old house--but--but--good bye, mr. cook. come to see us in cincinnati. good bye." she gave him her hand also. he smiled a wan, flickering smile, like the last flare of a fire whose fuel is exhausted. carrie's woman's heart sank under that look, though she knew not wherefore. the hack passed round the curve of the road. they were gone! big medicine stood alone in the door of the corner brick. he looked back over his shoulders at the well filled shelves and muttered: "she ain't here, and what do i want of the derned old store?" the wind rustled the elm leaves and tossed the brown locks of the man over his great forehead; the blue birds sang on the roof; the dust rose in little columns along the street; and, high over head, in the yellow mist of the fine june weather, sailed a great blue heron, going to the lakes. big medicine felt like one deserted in the wilderness. he stood there a while, then closed and locked the door and went into the woods. a month passed before he returned. jimtown wondered and wondered. but when he did return his neighbors could not get a word out of him. he was silent, moody, listless. where had he been? only hunting for mr. golding and carrie. he found them, after a long search, in a splendid residence on the heights just out of cincinnati. mr. golding greeted him cordially, but somehow big medicine felt as though he were shaking hands with some one over an insurmountable barrier. that was not the mr. golding he had known. "carrie is out in the garden. she will be glad to see you. go along the hall there. you will see the gate." mr. golding waved his hand after the manner of a very rich man, and a patronizing tone would creep into his voice. somehow big medicine looked terribly uncouth. with a hesitating step and a heart full of unreal sensations, big medicine opened the little gate and strode into the flower garden. suddenly a vision, such as his fancy had never pictured, burst on his dazzled eyes. flowers and vines and statues and fountains; on every hand rich colors; perfumes so mixed and intensified that his senses almost gave way; long winding walks; fairy-like bowers and music. he paused and listened. a heavy voice, rich and manly, singing a ballad--some popular love song--to the sweet accompaniment of a violin, and blended through it all, like a silvery thread, the low sweet voice of carrie golding. the poor fellow held his breath till the song was done. two steps forward and big medicine towered above the lovers. carrie sprang to her feet with a startled cry; then, recognizing the intruder, she held out her little hand and welcomed him. turning to her lover she said: "henry, this is mr. cook, lately papa's partner in indiana." the lover was a true gentleman, so he took the big hard hand of the visitor and said he was glad to see him. big medicine stood for a few moments holding a hand of each of the lovers. presently a tremor took possession of his burly frame. he did not speak a word. his breast swelled and his face grew awfully white. he put carrie's hand in that of her lover and turned away. as he did so a tear, a great bitter drop, rolled down his haggard cheek. a few long strides and big medicine was gone. shrilly piped the blue birds, plaintively sang the peewees, sweetly through the elms and burr oaks by the corner brick blew the fresh summer wind, as, just at sunset, big medicine once more stood in front of the old building with his eyes fixed on the vacant, staring window. it was scarcely a minute that he stood there, but long enough for a tender outline of the circumstances of the past year to rise in his memory. a rustling at the broken lattice, a sudden thrill through the iron frame of the watching man, a glimpse of a sweet face--no, it was only a fancy. the house was still, and old and desolate. it stared at him like a death's head. big medicine raised his eyes toward heaven, which was now golden and flashing resplendently with sunset glories. high up, as if almost touching the calm sky, a great blue heron was toiling heavily westward. taking the course chosen by the lone bird, big medicine went away, and the places that knew him once know him no more forever. the venus of balhinch. when i returned from europe with a finished education, i found that my fortune also was finished in the most approved modern style, so i left new york and drifted westward in search of employment. at length i came to indiana, and, having not even a cent left, and mustering but one presentable suit of clothes, i looked about me in a hungry, half desperate sort of way, till i pounced upon the school in balhinch. now balhinch is not a town, nor a cross-road place, nor a post-office--it is simply a neighborhood in the southwestern corner of union township, montgomery county--a neighborhood _sui generis_, stowed away in the breaks of sugar creek, containing as good, quiet, law-abiding folk as can be found anywhere outside of switzerland. my school was a small one in numbers, but the pupils ranged from four to six feet three in altitude, and well proportioned. the most advanced class had thumbed along pretty well through the spelling book. i need not take up your time with the school, however, for it has nothing at all to do with my story, excepting merely to explain how i came to be in balhinch, in the state of indiana. my first sight of susie adair was on sunday at the methodist prayer meeting. i was sitting with my back to a window and facing the door of the log meeting house when she entered. it was july--a hot glary day, but a steady wind blew cool and sweet from the southwest, bringing in all sorts of woodland odors. the grasshoppers were chirruping in the little timothy field hard by, and over in a bit of woodland pasture a swarm of blue jays were worrying a crow, keeping up an incessant squeaking and chattering. the dumpy little class leader--the only little man in balhinch--had just begun to give out the hymn "love is the sweetest bud that blows, its beauties never die, on earth among the saints it grows and ripens in the sky," &c., when susie came in. ben crane was sitting by me. he nudged me with his elbow and whispered: "how's that 'ere for poorty?" i made him no answer, but remained staring at the girl till long after she had taken her seat. nature plays strange tricks. susie, the daughter of farmer adair, was as beautiful in the face as any angel could be, and her form was as perfect as that of the cnidian venus. her motion when she walked was music, and as she sat in statuesque repose, the undulations of her queenly form were those of perfect ease, grace and strength. her hands were small and taper, a little browned from exposure, as was also her face. her hair was the real classic gold, and her grey eyes were riant with health and content. when her red lips parted to sing, they discovered small even teeth, as white as ivory. i can give you no idea of her. physically she was perfection's self in the mould of a venus of the grandest type. her head, too, was an intellectual one (though feminine), in the best sense of the word. the first thought that flashed across my mind was embodied in the words--_a venus_--and i still think of her as the best model i ever saw. "how's that for poorty?" repeated crane. "who is she!" i replied interrogatively. "she's my jewlarker," said he. "your what?" "my sweetheart." "what is her name?" "susie adair." so i came to know her and admire her, and even before that little prayer meeting was over i loved her. introductions were an unknown institution in balhinch, but i was not long in finding a way to the personal acquaintance of susie. i found her remarkably intelligent for one of her limited opportunities, very fond of reading, sprightly in conversation, womanly, modest, sweet tempered, and, indeed, altogether charming as well as superbly beautiful. as for me, i am an insignificant looking man, and then i was even more so than now. my hair is terribly stiff and red, you know, and my eyes are very pale blue, nearly white. my neck is very long and has a large adam's apple. i am small and narrow chested, and have slender bow legs. my teeth are uneven and my nose is pug. i have a very fine thin voice, decidedly nasal, as you perceive. one thing, however, i am well educated, polite, and not a bad conversationalist. susie was a most entertaining and perplexing study for me from the start. she treated me with decided consideration and kindness, seemed deeply interested in my accounts of my travels, asked me many questions about the old world and good society, sat for hours at a time listening to me as i read aloud. in fact i felt that i was impressing her deeply, but she would go with ben crane, that long, awkward, ignorant gawk. how could a young woman of such fine magnetic presence, and endowed with such genuine, instinctive purity of taste in everything else, bear the presence of a rough greenhorn like that? finally i said to myself: she is kind and good; she cannot bear to slight ben, though she cares nothing for him. what a strange state being in love is! it is like dreaming in the grass. one hears the flow of the wind--it is the breath of love--one smells the flowers, and it is the perfume of a young cheek, the sharp fragrance of blonde curls. what dreams i had in those days! i could scarcely endure my school to the end of the first three months. then i gave it up, and collecting my wages purchased me some fine clothes--that is, fine for the time and the place. i recollect that suit now, and wonder how a man of my taste could have borne to wear it. a black coat, a scarlet vest and white pants, ending with calf boots and a very tall silk hat! if you should see me dressed that way now you would laugh till your ribs would hurt. i do not know how true it is, but, from a pretty good source, i heard that ben crane said i looked like a red-headed woodpecker. one thing i do know, i never saw a woodpecker with a freckled face. i have a freckled face. ben soon recognized me as his rival and treated me with supreme impertinence, even going so far as to rub his fist under my nose and swear at me--a thing at which i felt profoundly indignant, and considering which i was surely justified in sticking a lucifer match into ben's six valuable hay stacks one night thereafter. it was a great fire, and two hundred dollars loss to ben. let him keep his fist out from under my nose. but i must come to my story, cutting short these preliminaries. it is a story i never tire of telling, and a story which has elicited ejaculations from many. it was a ripe sweet day in the latter part of september--clear, but hazy and dreamful--a prelude to the indian summer. i stood before the glass in my room at 'squire jones's, where i boarded, and very carefully arranged my bright blue neck-tie. then i combed my hair. i never have got thoroughly familiar with my hair. i cannot, even now, comb it, while looking in a glass, without cringing for fear of burning my fingers. the long, wavy red locks flow through the comb like flames, and underneath is a gleam of live coals and red hot ashes. ben crane said he believed my head had set his hay stacks a-fire. maybe it did. i wished that a stray flash from the same source would kindle the heart of susie adair and heat it until it lay under her cytherean breasts a puddle of molten love. i put my silk hat carefully upon my head and wriggled my hands into a pair of kid gloves; then, walking-stick in hand, i set out to know my fate at the hands of susie. my way was across a stubble field in which the young clover, sown in the spring, displayed itself in a variety of fantastic modes. have you ever noticed how much grass is like water? some one, hawthorne, perhaps, has spoken of "a gush of violets," and swinburne, going into one of his musical frenzies, cries: "where tides of grass break into foam of flowers." i have seen pools of clover and streams of timothy; i have stood ankle deep in shoal blue grass and have watched for hours the liquid ripples of the red top. i have seen the field sparrows dive into the green waves of young wheat, and the black starlings wade about in the sink-foil of southern countries. grass is a liquid that washes earth's face till it shines like that of a clean, healthy child. but clover prefers to stand in pools and eddies, in which oft and oft i have seen the breasts of meadow larks shine like gold, the while a few sweet notes, like rung silver, rose and trembled above the trefoil, all woven, in and out, through the swash of the wind's palpitant currents--a music of unspeakable influence. swallows skim the surface of grass just as they do that of water. when the summer air agitates the smooth bosom of a broad green meadow field, you will see these little random arrows glancing along the emerald surface, cutting with barbed wings through the tossing, bloom-capped waves, thence ricochetting high into the bright air to whirl and fall again as swiftly as before. many a time i have traced streams of grass to their fresh fountains, where jets of tender foliage and bubbles of tinted flowers welled up from dark, rich earth, and flowed away, with a velvet rustle and a ripple like blown floss, to break and recoil and eddy against the dark shadows of a distant grove. such a fountain is a place of fragrance and joy. the bees go thither to get the sweetest honey, and find it a very hybla. the butterflies float about it in a dreamful trance, while in the cool, damp shade of a dock leaf squats a great toad, like a slimy dragon guarding the gate of a paradise. as i slowly walked across that stubble field, now and then stepping into a tuft of clover, out from which a quail would start, whirling away in a convulsion of flight, i allowed dreams of bliss to steal rosily across my brain. i scarcely saw the great gold-sharded beetles that hummed and glanced in the mellow sun-light. i heard like one half asleep, as if far away, the sharp twitter of the blue bird and the tender piping of the meadow lark. susie adair was all my thought. i recollect that, just as i climbed the fence at the farther side of the clover field, i saw a white winged, red headed woodpecker pounce upon and carry off a starry opal-tinted butterfly, and i thought how sweet it would be if i could thus steal away into the free regions of space the object of my gentler passion. but then what wonderful big wings i should have needed, for my venus of the hollow of the hill of balhinch was no airy thing. her tall, strong body and magnificent limbs equalled one hundred and forty pounds avoirdupois! my own weight was about one hundred and twenty. as i neared susie's home i began, for the first time in my life, to suffer from palpitation. the shadow of a doubt floated in the autumn sun-light. i set my teeth together and resolved not to be faint hearted. i must go in boldly and plead my cause and win. when i reached the gate of the adair farmhouse i had to look straight over the head of a very large, sanctimonious-faced bull-dog to get a view of the vine covered porch. this dog looked up at me and smiled ineffably; then he came to the gate and stood over against me, peeping between the slats. i hesitated. about this time ben crane came out of the house with a banjo in his hand. he had been playing for susie. he was a natural musician. "'feared o' the dog, mr. woodpecker?" said he. "begone, bull!" and he kicked the big-headed canine aside so that i could go in. i heard him thrumming on his banjo far down the road as susie met me at the door. how wondrously beautiful she was! "sit down mr. ----, and, if you do not care, i'll bring the churn in and finish getting the butter while we talk." i was delighted--i was charmed--fascinated. susie's father had gone to a distant village, and her mother, a gentle work-worn matron, was in the other room spinning flax, humming, meantime, snatches of camp meeting hymns. the sound of that spinning-wheel seemed to me strangely mournful and sad, but susie's deep, clear gray eyes and cheerful voice were the very soul of joyousness, health and youth. she brought in a great fragrant cedar churn, made to hold six or eight gallons of cream, and forthwith began her labor. she stood as she worked, and the exercise throwing her entire body into gentle but well-defined motion, displayed all the riches of her contour. the sleeves of her calico gown were rolled up above the elbows, leaving her plump, muscular arms bare, and her skirt was pinned away from her really small feet and shapely ankles in such a way as to give one an idea, a suggestion, of supreme innocence and grace. her long, crinkled gold hair was unbound, hanging far below her waist, and shining like silk. her lips, carmine red, seemed to overflow with tender utterances. ever since that day i have thought churning a kind of sacred, charmingly blessed work, which ought to be, if really it is not, the pastime of those delightful beings the ancients called deities. cream is more fragrant, more delicious, more potent than nectar or ambrosia. a cedar churn is more delicately perfumed than any patera of the gods. and, i say it with reverence, i have seen, swaying lily-like above the churn, a beauty more perfect than that which bloomed full grown from the bright focus of the sea's ecstatic travail. what a talk susie and i had that day! slowly, stealthily i crept nearer and nearer to the subject burning in my heart. i watched susie closely, for her face was an enigma to me. i never think of her and of that day without recalling baudelaire's dream of a giantess. more happy than the poet, i really saw my colossal beauty stand full grown before me, but, like him, i wondered-- * * * "si son coeur couve une sombre flamme aux humides brouillards qui nagent dans ses yeux." i could not tell, from any outward sign, what was going on in her heart. no sphinx could have been more utterly calm and mysterious. she had a most baffling way about her, too. when at last i had reached the point of a confession of my maddening love, she broke into one of my charmingest sentences to say-- "mr. ----, you'd better move farther away from the churn or i might spatter your clothes." this, somehow, disconcerted and bothered me. but susie was so calm and sweet about it, her gray eyes beamed so mysteriously innocent of any impropriety, that i soon regained my lost eloquence. how sharply and indelibly cut in my memory, like intaglios in ivory, the surroundings of that scene, even to the minutest detail! for instance, i can see as plainly as then my new silk hat on the floor between my knees, containing a red handkerchief and a paper of chewing tobacco. i recall, also, that a slip-trod shoe lay careened to one side near the centre of the room. the bull-dog came to the door and peeped solemnly in a time or two. a string of dried pumpkin cuts hung by the fireplace, and under a small wooden table in one corner were piled a few balls of "carpet rags." i sat in a very low chair. a picture of george washington hung above a small square window. the floor was ash boards uncarpeted. i heard some chickens clucking and cackling under the house. finally, i recollect it as if it were but yesterday, i said: "i love you, susie--i love you, and i have loved you ever since i first saw you!" how tame the words sound now! but then they came forth in a tremulous murmur that gave them character and power. susie looked straight at me a moment, and i thought i saw a softer light gather in her eyes. then she took away the churn dasher and lid and fetched a large bowl from a cupboard. what a fine golden pile of butter she fished up into the bowl! i drew my chair somewhat nearer, and watched her pat and roll and squeeze the plastic mass with the cherry ladle. a little gray kitten came and rubbed and purred round her. again the bull-dog peeped in. a breeze gathered some force and began to ripple pleasantly through the room. far away in the fields i heard the quails whistling to each other. an old cow strolled up the lane by the house and round the corner of the orchard, plaintively tinkling her bell. steadily hummed mrs. adair's spinning wheel. i slipped my hat and my chair a little closer to susie, and by a mighty effort directed my burning words straight to the point. i cannot repeat all i said. i would not if i could. such things are sacred. "susie, i love you, madly, blindly, dearly, truly! o, susie! will you love me--will you be my wife?" again she turned on me that strange, sweet, half smiling look. her lips quivered. the flush on her cheeks almost died out. "answer me, susie, and say you will make me happy." she walked to the cupboard, put away the bowl of butter and the ladle, then came back and stood by the churn and me. how indescribably charming she looked! she smiled strangely and made a motion with her round strong arms. i answered the movement. i spread wide my arms and half rose to clasp her to my bosom. a whole life was centred in the emotion of that moment. susie's arms missed me and lifted the churn. i sank back into my chair. how gracefully susie swayed herself to her immense height, toying with the ponderous churn held far above her head. i saw a kitten fairly fly out of the room, its tail as level as a gun barrel; i saw the bull-dog's face hastily withdraw from the door; i saw the carpet balls, the pumpkin cuts and the print of washington all through a perpendicular cataract of deliciously fragrant buttermilk! i saw my hat fill up to the brim, with my handkerchief afloat. i heaved an awful sigh and leaped to my feet. i saw old mrs. adair standing in the partition door, with her arms akimbo, and heard her say-- "w'y, susan jane samantha ann! what 'pon airth hev ye done?" and the venus replied: "i've been givin' this 'ere little woodpecker a good dose of buttermilk!" i seized my hat and shuffled out of the door, feeling the milk gush from the tops of my boots at each hasty step i made. i ran to the gate, went through and slammed it after me. as i did so i heard a report like the closing of a strong steel trap. it was the bull-dog's teeth shutting on a slat of the gate as he made a dive at me from behind. i smiled grimly, thinking how i'd taste served in buttermilk. on my way home i passed ben crane's house. he was sitting at a window playing his banjo, and singing in a stentorian voice: "o! woodpecker jim, yer chance is mighty slim! jest draw yer red head into yer hole and there die easy, dern your soul, o! slim woodpecker jim!" i was so mad that i sweat great drops of pure buttermilk, but over in the fields the quails whistled just as clear and sweet as ever, and i heard the wind pouring through the stubble as it always does in autumn! the legend of potato creek. big yellow butterflies were wheeling about in the drowsy summer air, and hovering above the moist little sand bars of potato creek. a shady dell, wrapped in the hot lull of august, sent up the spires and domes of its walnut and poplar trees, clearly defined, and sheeny, while underneath the forest roof the hazel and wild rose bushes had wrung themselves into dusky mats. the late violets bloomed here and there, side by side with those waxlike yellow blossoms, called by the country folk "butter and eggs." through this dell potato creek meandered fantastically, washing bare the roots of a few gnarled sycamores, and murmuring among the small bowlders that almost covered its bed. it was not a strikingly romantic or picturesque place--rather the contrary--much after the usual type of ragged little dells. "a scrubby little holler" the neighborhood folk called it. perched on the topmost tangle of the dry, tough roots of an old upturned tree, sat little rose turpin, sixteen that very august day; pretty, nay beautiful, her school life just ended, her womanhood just beginning to clothe her face and form in that mysterious mantle of tenderness--the blossom, the flower that brings the rich sweet fruit of love. from her high perch she leaned over and gazed down into the clear water of the creek and smiled at the gambols of the minnows that glanced here and there, now in shadowy swarms and anon glancing singly, like sparks of dull fire, in the limpid current. some small cray-fishes, too, delighted her with their retrograde and side-wise movements among the variegated pebbles at the bottom of the water. a small sketch book and a case of pencils lay beside her. so busy was she with her observations, that a fretful, peevish, but decidedly masculine voice near by startled her as if from a doze. she had imagined herself so utterly alone. "wo-erp 'ere, now can't ye! wo, i say! turn yer ole head roun' this way now, blast yer ole picter! no foolin', now; wo-erp, i tell ye!" rose was so frightened at first that she seemed about to rise in the air and fly away; but her quick glance in the direction of the sound discovered the speaker, who, a few rods further down the creek, stood holding the halter rein of a forlorn looking horse in one hand, and in the other a heavy woodman's axe. "wo-erp, now! i hate like the nation to slatherate ye; but i said i'd do it if ye didn't get well by this august the fifteenth; an' shore 'nuff, here ye are with the fistleo gittin' wus and wus every day o' yer life. so now ye may expect ter git what i tole ye! stan' still now, will ye, till i knock the life out'n ye!" by this time rose had come to understand the features of the situation. the horse was sadly diseased with that scourge of the equine race, scrofulous shoulder or fistula, commonly called, among the country folk, fistleo, and because the animal could not get well the man was on the point of killing it by knocking it on the head with the axe. of all dumb things a horse was rose's favorite. she had always, since her very babyhood, loved horses. "wo-wo-wo-erp, here! ha'n't ye got no sense at all? ding it, how d'ye 'spect me to hit yer blamed ole head when ye keep it a waggin' 'round in that sort o' style? wo-erp!" the fellow had tied the halter rein around a sapling about two feet from the ground, and was now preparing to deal the horse a blow with the axe between its eyes. the animal seemed unaware of any danger, but kept its head going from side to side, trying to fight certain bothersome gad-flies. "o, sir, stop; don't, don't; please, sir, don't!" cried the girl, her sweet voice breaking into silvery echo fragments in every nook of the little hollow. the man gazed all around, and, seeing no one, let fall the axe by his side. the birds, taking advantage of the silence, lifted a twittering chorus through the dense dark tops of the trees. the slimmest breath of air languidly caressed the leaves of the rose vines. the bubbling of the brook seemed to touch a mellower key, and the yellow butterflies settled all together on a little sand bar, their bright wings shut straight and sharp above their bodies. the man seemed intently listening. "tw'an't mammy's voice, nohow," he muttered; "but i'd like to know who 'twas, though." he stood a moment longer, as if in doubt, then again raising his axe he continued: "must 'a' been a jay bird squeaked. wo-erp 'ere now! i'm not goin' to fool wi' ye all day, so hold yer head still!" that was a critical moment for the lean, miserable horse. it lowered its head and held it quite still. the axe was steadily poised in the air. the man's face wore a look of determination--grim, stone-like. he was, perhaps, twenty-five, tall and bony, with a countenance sallow almost to greenness, sunken pale blue eyes, sun burnt hair, thin flaxy beard, and irregular, half decayed teeth. although his body and limbs were shrunken to the last degree of attenuation, still the big cords of his neck and wrists stood out taut, suggesting great strength. the blow would be a terrible one. the horse would die almost without a struggle. "o, o, o! indeed, sir, you must not! stop that, sir, instantly! you shall not do it, sir! o, sir!" and fluttering down from her perch, rose flew to the spot where the tragedy was pending, and cast herself pale and trembling between the horse and its would-be executioner. the axe fell from the man's hands. his eyes became exactly circular. his under jaw dropped so that his mouth was open to its fullest gaping capacity. his shoulders fell till their points almost met in front of his sunken chest. he was a picture of overwhelming surprise. "an' what in thunder do you want of him? what good's he goin' to do you? 'cause, you see, he can't work nor be rid on nor nothin'." "o never mind, sir, just please give him to me and i'll take him and care for him. poor horsey! poor horsey! see, he loves me already!" the beast had thrust its nose against the maiden's hand. "well, i don't know 'bout this. i'd as soon 'at you have 'im as not if i hadn't swore to kill 'im, an' i musn't lie to 'im. an' besides, i've had sich a pesky derned time wi' 'im 'at it looks kinder mean 'at i shouldn't have the satisfaction of bustin' his head for it. i'm goin' to knock 'im, an' ye jist mought as well stan' aside!" just then the peculiarities of the man's character were written on his face. his nose denoted pugnacity, his lips sensuality, but not of a base sort, his eyes ignorance and rough kindness, his chin firmness, his jaw tenacity of purpose, and his complexion the ague. he had sworn to kill the horse, and kill him he would. you could see that in the very wrinkles of his neck. he evidently felt that it was a duty he owed to his conscience--a duty made doubly imperative by the horse's refusal to get well by the exact time prescribed. high up on the dead spire of a walnut tree a woodpecker began to beat a long, rattling tattoo. the horse very lazily and innocently winked his brown eyes, and putting forth his nose sniffed at the skirt of the girl's dress. "i'm glad--o i'm ever so glad you'll not kill him!" murmured the little lady when she saw the axe fall to the ground. the man stood a long moment, as if petrified or frozen into position, then somewhat recovering, he re-seized the axe, and flourishing it high in the air, cried in a voice that, cracked and shrill, rang petulantly through the woods: "i said i'd kill 'im if that garglin' oil didn't cure 'im, 'an i'm derned ef i don't, too!" "o, sir, if you please! the poor horse is not to blame!" exclaimed the excited girl. "'taint no use o' beggin'; he's no 'count but to jist eat up corn, an' hay, an' paster an' the likes; and his blasted fistleo gits wus an' wus all the time. an't i spent more'n he's wo'th a tryin' to cure 'm, an' don't everybody laugh at me 'cause i've got sich a derned ole slummux of a hoss? jist blame my picter if i'll stand it! so now you've hearn me toot my tin horn, an' ye may as well stan' out'n the way!" "but, sir, i'll take him off your hands, may i? say, sir? o please let me take him!" while he stood with his axe raised, rose was very diligently and nervously tugging at the knot that fastened the halter rein to the tree, and ere he was aware of her intent, she had untied it and was resolutely leading the poor old animal away. the man's eyes got longest the short way as he gazed at the retreating figure. "well now, that's as cool as a cowcumber and twicet as juicy! gal, ye'r' a brick! ye'r' a knot! ye'r' a born pacer! take 'im 'long for all i keer! take 'im 'long!" he put down his axe, placed his hands against his sides and smiled, as he spoke, a big wrinkling smile that covered the whole of his sallow, skinny face and ran clear down to the neck band of his homespun shirt. "pluck, no eend to it!" he muttered; "wonder who she is? poorty--geeroody!" the wild birds sang a triumphant hymn, the breeze freshened till the whole woods rustled, and louder still rose the bubbling of the stream among its bowlders. "well, i'll jist be dorged! the poortiest gal in all injianny! an' she's tuck my ole hoss whether or no! she's a knot! sort o' a cool proceedin', it 'pears to me, but she's orful welcome to the hoss! howdsomever it's mighty much of a joke on me, 'r my name's not zach jones!" he laughed long and loud. the birds laughed, too, and still the wind freshened. the girl and the horse had quickly disappeared behind the hazel and papaw bushes. zach jones was alone with his axe and his reflections. "yender's where she sot--right up yender on that ole clay root. she must 'a' been a fishin', i reckon." another admiring chuckle. he went to the spot and clambered up among the roots. there lay rose's sketch book and pencil case. he took up the book and curiously turned the leaves, his eyes running with something like childish delight over the flowers and bits of landscape. he had never before seen a drawing. "poorty as the gal 'erself, 'most," he said, "an' seein' 'at she's tuck my ole hoss, i spose i'll have to take these 'ere jimcracks o' her'n. i'll take 'em 'long anyhow, jist to 'member her by!" this argument seemed logical and conclusive, and with a quick glance over his shoulder he crammed book and pencil case into the capacious depths of the side pocket of his pants. "now then it's about time for my chill, an' i'd better go home. hang the luck; s'pose i'll allus have the ager!" this last sentence was uttered in a tone of comical half despair, and accompanied by a facial contortion possible to no one but a person thoroughly saturated with ague in its chronic form. after he left the dell, zach had a hot walk across a clover field before he reached the dilapidated log house where he lived with his widowed mother. in a short time his chill set in, and it was a fearful one. his teeth chattered and his bony frame rattled like a bundle of dry sticks in a strong wind. after it had shaken him thus for about an hour, his brother sammy, a lad of ten years, came in with a jug of buttermilk brought from a neighbor's. "mammy, 'ere's yer buttermilk," said he, setting the jug on the floor. "shakin' like forty--a'n't ye, zach? he added, glancing with a sad, lugubrious smile at his brother; then, changing his tone and also his countenance, he continued, with a broader grin: "bet ye a dollar ye can't guess what i seed over to 'squire martin's!" "no, nor i don't care a cuss; so put off an' don't come yawpin' round me!" replied zach. "yes ye do, too; an' i know ye do, for 'twas yer ole fistleo hoss. that 'ere fine gal 'at stays over there is havin' a man wash 'im an' doctor 'im." sammy winked and hitched up his pants as he spoke. "do say, sammy, is that so, now?" cried the widow, holding up her hands. "how on 'arth come she by the hoss? zach, i thought you'd killed that creater'!" "mammy, ef you an' sammy'll jist let me 'joy this 'ere ager in peace i'll be orful 'bleeged to ye," said zach, making his chair creak and quiver with the ecstasy of his convulsion. but sammy's tongue would go. he thought he had a "good 'un" on zach, and nothing short of lightning could have killed him quick enough to prevent his telling it. "the gal says as how zach gin 'er the ole hoss for to 'member 'im by!" he blurted out, shying briskly from zach's foot, which otherwise would have landed him in the door yard. "lookee here now, zach, you jist try the likes o' that ag'in an' i'll give ye sich a broom-stickin' as ye a'n't had lately. ye mought 'a' injured the child's insides!" and as she spoke the widow flourished the broom. so zach dropped his head upon his chest and employed himself exclusively with his chill. when his mother was not looking at him, however, he would occasionally slip the sketch book partly out of his pocket and peep between its leaves. when his fever came on he got "flighty" and horrified the widow with talk about an angel on a clay root and a sweet little "hoss thief" from whom he had stolen the "picters!" i cannot exactly say how zach got to going over to 'squire martin's so often after this. but his first visit was a compulsory one. his mother happening to discover his possession of the sketch book and pencil case, made him return them with his own hand to rose. he at once became deeply interested in the progress of his former patient's convalescence; for, strange to say, the poor horse began almost immediately to get well, and in two months was sound, glossy and fat. nor was he an ill-looking animal. on the contrary, when rose sat on his back and stroked his mane, he arched his neck and pawed the ground like a thoroughbred. 'squire martin was a good man, and seeing how zach seemed to enjoy rose's company, he one day took the girl aside and said to her: "you must be somewhat of a doctor, my dear, seeing how you've touched up the old hoss, and i propose for you to try your hand on another subject. there's poor zach jones, who's had the chills for six or eight years as constant as sunrise and sunset, and no medicine can't do him any good. now i'll be bound if you'll try you can cure him sound and well. all you need to do in the world is to pet him up some'at as you have the ole hoss. jist take a little interest in the feller an' he'll come out all right. all he wants is to forget he ever had the ager and take some light exercise and have some fun. fun is the only medicine to cure the chills with. quinine is no 'count but to make a racket in a feller's head, and calomel'll kill 'im, sure. now i propose to let zach have a hoss and saddle and you must go out a riding with 'im and try to divert his mind from his sorrows and aches and pains--now that's a good girl, rosie." rose, whose healthful, impulsive, generous nature would not allow her to refuse so well intended and withal so small a request, readily agreed to do all she could in the matter, and very soon thereafter she and zach were the very best of friends, taking long rides together through woodlands and up and down the pleasant lanes of 'squire martin's broad estates. the young girl soon found the companionship of zach, novel and most awkward as it was at first, agreeable and almost charming in its freshness and sincerity. as for zach himself, he was the girl's slave from the start. he could not do too much for her in his earnest, respectful way. women are always tyrants, and their tyranny seems to be inversely as their size and directly as the size of the man upon whom it is exerted. rose was a very little chit of a maiden, and zach was a great big bony frame of a fellow. the result, of course, was despotism. but, although zach was a democrat, he seemed to like the oppression, and ran after big-winged butterflies, opened gates, pulled down and put up innumerable fences, climbed trees after empty bird nests, gathered flowers and ferns--did everything, in fact, required of him by his little queen. he became a daily visitor at the 'squire's, and seemed to have entirely forgotten everything else or utterly submerged it in his unselfish devotion to the girl. the good 'squire saw this with unbounded delight. so august quietly drifted by, and september hung its yellow banner on the corn and said farewell with a sigh that had in it a smack of winter. rose's parents were wealthy and lived in indianapolis, and now came the time for the girl's return to her city home. meanwhile a remarkable change had taken place in the health and spirits of zach jones. the ague had departed, the sallowness was gone from his skin, somewhat of flesh had gathered on his cheeks, and in his eyes shone a cheerful light. he was straight and almost plump, and his hair and beard had assumed a gloss and liveliness they had never before known. he had thrown away quinine and calomel, and his sleep at night was soft and sweet, broken only by fair, happy dreams, that lingered long after he was awake. at home his mother had far less trouble with him, and sammy never got a kick even if he did occasionally mention old fistleo in an equivocal way. the amount of provender it required to satisfy zach's appetite now was a constant source of amazement to the widow. the evening preceding rose's departure was a fine one. the woods were gold, the sky was turquoise. instead of riding, as usual, the young people took a stroll in the 'squire's immense orchard. the apples were ripe and ready to be gathered into the cellars; their mellow fragrance flavored the autumn air so delicately that zach said it smelt sweeter than an oven full of sugar cakes. when the young folk returned from their walk the 'squire was standing on the door step of his house. his quick eyes caught a glimpse of something unsatisfactory in the faces of the approaching couple--zach, particularly, despite his evident effort to choke down something, discovered unmistakable signs of suffering. rose was simply sober and thoughtful. "what now, zach?" asked the 'squire, "sick, eh?" "d'know; guess i'm in for a shake; wish to the lord it'd shake my back bone clean out'n me!" was the reply, in a queer gurgling voice. a bunch of fall roses fell from his vest button-hole, but he did not pick it up. a hot flush, in the midst of a ghastly pallor, burned on the cheeks of the speaker. rose tapped the ground with the toe of her kid boot, but did not speak. the man and the girl stood there close together awhile, and the 'squire did not catch what they said as they shook hands and parted. when zach had gone home the 'squire told rose that he wished she would stay a little longer, till the ague season was over, just on zach's account. rose quietly replied, "i have already stayed too long;" but her voice had an infinity of pity and sorrow in it that the 'squire did not detect. next morning rose went home to the city and soon after made a brilliant _debut_ in society, for she was really a charming little thing. that winter was a festive one--a season of great social activity--and some of its most direct and prominent results were a few notable marriages in the spring, among which was that of rose to a banker of p----, kentucky, the happy union being consummated in may. on the very day of her wedding rose received from her uncle the following note: "dear niece: "come to see us, even if you won't stay but one day. come right off, if you're a christian girl. zach jones is dying of consumption and is begging to see you night and day. he says he's got something on his mind he wants to say to you, and when he says it he can die happy. the poor fellow is monstrous bad off, and i think you ought to be sure and come. we're all well. your loving uncle, "jared martin." something in this homely letter so deeply affected rose that she prevailed on her husband, a few days after their marriage, to take her to 'squire martin's. it was nearly sundown when the young wife, accompanied by the 'squire, entered the room of the dying man. he lay on a low bed by an open window, through which, with hollow hungry eyes, he was gazing into the blue distance that is called the sky of may. birds were singing in the trees all around the house, and a cool breath of violet-scented air rippled through the window. the widow jones, worn out with watching by the sick bed, sat sleeping in her rude arm-chair; sammy had gone after the cow--a gift from the 'squire. the visitors entered softly, but zach heard them and feebly turned his head. he put out a bloodless hand and clasped the warm fingers of rose, pulling her into a seat by his couch. a wan smile flitted across his face as he fixed his eyes, burning like sparks in the gray ash of a spent fire, on hers, dewy with rising tears. "the same little rose you use to wus," he said, in a low faltering voice, that had in it an unconquerable allegiance to the one dream of his manhood. his unnaturally bright eyes ran swiftly over her face and form, then closed, as if to fasten the vision within, that it might follow him to eternity. "the same little rose you use to wus," he repeated, "only now you're picked off the vine an' nobody can't touch ye but the owner. i'm a poor, no 'count dyin' man, rose, but you'll never----." his voice choked a little and he did not finish the sentence. perhaps he thought it were better not finished. a few moments of utter silence followed, during which, faintly, far out in the field behind the house, was heard the childish voice of sammy, singing an old hymn, two lines of which were most distinctly heard by those in the house. "ah, yes-- "this world's a wilderness of woe, this world it ain't my home," chimed in the trembling voice of the sick man. then, by an effort that evidently taxed his fading powers to the last degree, he fixed his eyes firmly on those of the young woman. here was a martyr of the divine sort, true and unchangeable in the flame of the torture. "rose, little rose," he said, glancing uneasily at the 'squire, "i've got something private like to say to you." the young woman trembled. memory was at work. "'squire, go out a minute, will ye?" continued zach. the sick man's request was promptly obeyed, and rose sat, drooping, alone beside the bed, while the widow snored away. zach now more nervously clasped the hand of the young woman. a spot of faint sunshine glimmered on the pillow close by the man's head. the out-door sounds of the wind in the young grass, and the rustle of the new soft leaves of the trees, crept into the room gently, as if not to drown the low voice of the dying man. "it's been on my mind ever since we parted, rose, and i ort 'a' said it then, but i choked an' couldn't; but i kin say it now and i will." he paused a moment and rose looked pitifully at him. his chin was thrust out firmly and his lips had a determined set. he looked just as he did when about to knock the poor old horse on the head over in the dell that day. how vividly the tragic situation was recalled in rose's mind! "yes, i will say it now, so i will," he resumed. "since things turned out jist as they have, rose, i do wish i'd 'a' paid no 'tention to ye an' jist gone on and knocked that derned ole fistleoed hoss so dead 'at he'd 'a' never kicked--i do--i do, 'i hokey! i don't want to make ye feel bad, but i'm goin' away now, an' it 'pears to me like as if i'd go easy if i know'd you'd----." he turned away his face and drew just one little fluttering breath. when, after only a few minutes' absence, the 'squire came in, the widow still slept, the sweet air still rippled through the room, but rose held a dead hand; zach was at rest! the 'squire placed his hand on the bright hair of rose and gazed mournfully down into the pinched, pallid face of the dead. how awfully calm a dead face is! the widow stirred in her chair, groaned, and awoke. for a moment she bent her eyes wonderingly, inquiringly on the young woman; then, rising, she clasped her in her great bony arms. "you are the rose, the little rose he's been goin' on so about. o, honey, i'm orful glad you've come. you ort jist to 'a' heerd him talk about ye when he got flighty like----but o--o--my! o lor'! zach--zachy, dear! o, miss, o, he's dead--he's dead!" "dead, yes, dead!" echoed the 'squire, his words dropping with the weight of lead. across the fields of young green wheat ran waves of the spring wind, murmuring and sighing, while the dust of blossoms wheeled, and rose and fell in the last soft rays of the going sun. a big yellow butterfly flitted through the room. presently sammy entered. he came in like a gust of wind, making things rattle with his impetuous motion. "o, mammy! o, zach! i's got s'thin' to tell ye, an' i'll bet a biscuit you can't guess what 't is!" he cried breathlessly. "o, sammy, honey, o, dear!" groaned the widow. "s-s-h!" said the 'squire solemnly. "well, i jist wanted 'm to guess," replied sammy, "for it's awful doggone cur'u's 'at----" "s-s-h!" "the fistleo is broke out on zach's ole hoss ten times as wuss as ever!" "s-s-s-s-h!" "it's so, for i seed it. it's layin' down over in the hollow by 'tater creek, where the ole clay root is, an' its jist about to d----." "s-s-h!" the child caught a glimpse of the face and was struck mute. and darkness stole athwart the earth, but the morrow's sun drove it away. never, however, did any sun or any season chase from the heart of little rose the shadow that was the memory of the man who died in that cabin. stealing a conductor. he shambled into the bar-room of the hotel at thorntown, a boone county village, and, with a bow and a hearty "how-de do to you all," took the only vacant chair. he scratched a match and lighted his pipe. "now we'll be bored with some sort of a long-winded story," whispered some to others of the loungers present. "never knowed him to fail," said a lank fellow, almost loud enough for the subject to hear. "he's our travelled man," added a youth, who winked as if he were extremely intelligent and didn't mind letting folks know it. the man himself whiffed away carelessly at his pipe, now and then raising one eye higher than the other, to take a sort of side survey of the persons present. that eye was not long in settling upon me, and after a short, searching look, gleamed in a well pleased way. he was a stout formed man of about fifty years, dressed rather seedily, and wearing a plug hat of enormous height, the crown of which was battered into the last degree of grotesqueness. he got right up, and, dragging his chair behind him, came over and settled close down in front of me. "stranger here, a'n't you?" "yes, sir." "your name's fuller, a'n't it?" "no, sir." "well, mebbe i'm mistaken, but you're just the picter o' fuller. never was a conductor on a railroad, was you?" "never, sir." "never was down in the swamps o' south-eastern georgy, was you?" "never, sir." "well, that beats four aces! i could 'a' bet on your bein' fuller." he paused a moment, and then added in a very insinuating tone: "if you _are_ fuller you needn't be afeard to say so, for i don't hold any grudge 'gin you about that little matter. now, sure enough, a'n't your name fuller, in fact?" i glared at the man a moment, hesitating about whether or not i should plant my fist in his eye. but something of almost child-like simplicity and sincerity beaming from his face restrained me. surely the fellow did not wish to be as impudent as his words would imply. "well, stranger, i see i've got to explain, but the story's not overly long," said he, hitching up a little closer to me and settling himself comfortably. i was about to get up and walk out of the room, when some one of the by-sitters filliped a little roll of paper to me. unrolling it i read-- "let him go on, he'll give you a lively one. he's a brick." so, concluding that possibly i might be entertained, i lounged back in my seat. "you see," said he, "i thought you was fuller, an' fuller was the only conductor i ever stole." "stole a conductor," whispered somebody, "that's a new one!" "i've stole a good many things in my time, but i'm here to bet that no other living hoosier ever stole a railroad conductor, an' fuller was the only one i ever stole. i stole him slicker 'n a eel. i had him 'fore he knowed it, and you jist better bet he was one clean beat conductor fore i was done wi' 'im. "i kin tell you the whole affair in a few minutes, and i da' say you'll laugh a good deal 'fore i'm through. you see i went down to floridy for my health, and when i had about recivered i got onto a bum in jacksonville and spent all my money and everything else but my very oldest suit o' clothes and my pistol, a colt's repeater, ten inch barrel. none o' you can't tell how a feller feels in a predicament o' that sort. somethin' got into my throat 'bout as big as a egg, and i felt kinder moist about the eyes when i had to stare the fact in the face that i was nigh onto, or possibly quite a thousand miles from home without ary a dime in my pocket. but if there's one thing i do have more 'n another in my nater it's common sense grit. well, what you s'pose i done? w'y i jest lit out for home afoot. well, sir, the derndest swamps is them floridy and georgy swamps. it's ra'lly all one swamp--the okeefenokee. i follered the railroad that goes up to savanny, and it led me deeper and deeper into the outlying fringes of that terrible old bog. when i had travelled a considerable distance into georgy, and had pretty well wore my feet off up to my ankle j'ints, and was about as close onto starvation as a 'tater failure in ireland, and when my under lip had got to hanging down like the skirt o' a wore out saddle, and when every step seemed like it'd be my last, i jest got clean despairing like and concluded to pray a little. so i got down upon my knee j'ints and put up a most extra-ornary supplication. i felt every word o' it, too, in all the marrer of my bones. the place where i was a prayin' was a sort o' hummock spot in a mighty bad part o' the swamp. some awful tall pines towered stupenjisly above me. well, jest as i was finished, and was a saying amen, the lordy mercy what a yowl something did give right over me in a tree! i think i jumped as high as your head, stranger, and come down flat-footed onto a railroad cross tie. whillikins, how i was scared! it was one o' them whooping owls they have down there. it was while i was a running from that 'ere owl a thinkin' it was a panther, that the thought struck me somewhere in the back o' the head that i might steal a ride to savanny on the first train 'at might pass. 'i'll try it!' says i, and so i sot right down there in the swamp and calmly waited for a train. in about a hour here come one, like the de'il a braking hemp, jist more'n a roaring through the swamp. i forgot to tell you 'at it was after dark, but the moon was dimly a shining through the fog that covers everything there o' nights. well, here come the train, and as she passed i made a lunge at the hind platform of the last car and some how or another got onto it and away i went. it was mighty much softer 'n walking, i tell you, and i was pleased as a monkey with a red cap on. my, how fast that train did go! i could hardly hold onto where i wus. you may jist bet i clung on though, and finally i got myself setting down on the steps and then i was all hunkey. but i didn't have much time to enjoy myself there, though, for all of a sudden the light of a lantern shined on me and then somebody touched me and said-- 'ticket!' "mebbe you don't know how onery a feller'll feel sometimes when he hears that 'ere word ticket--'specially when he a'n't got no ticket nor no money to pay his fare, and too, when he does want to ride a little of the derndest! that was my fix! i'd 'a' give a thousand dollars for a half dollar! 'ticket!' "he shook me a little this time and held his lantern down low, so's to see into my face. i know i must 'a' looked like the de'il. 'ticket here, quick!' 'i've done paid,' said i. 'show your check then.' 'lost it,' says i. 'money, then, quick!' 'got none,' says i. 'what the ---- did you git onto my train for without ticket or money? how do you expect to travel without paying, you ---- lousy vagabond! you can't steal from me; out with your ---- wallet and gi' me the money! hurry up!' 'a'n't got no wallet nor no money,' says i. 'well, i'll dump you off right here, then,' said he, reaching for the bell-rope to stop the train. 'for the lord's sake let me ride to savanny!' says i. 'a dam northerner, i know from your voice!' said he, pulling the rope. the train began to slack and soon stopped. 'get off!' said the conductor. 'please l'me ride!' says i. 'off with you!' 'jist a few miles here on the steps!' 'off, quick!' 'please----' 'here you go!' and as he said the words he tried to kick me off. "in a second i was like a bengal tiger. i jumped up and gethered him and we went at it. i'm as good as ever fluttered, and pretty soon i give him one flat on the nose, and we both went off 'n the platform together. as i started off i happened to think of it, so i grabbed up and pulled the bell-rope to signal the engineer to drive on. 'hoot-toot!' says the whistle, and away lick-to-split went the train, and slashy-to-splashy, rattle-o-bangle, kewoppyty-whop, bump, thud! down me and that 'ere conductor come onto a pile o' wore out cross ties in the side ditch, and there we laid a fightin'! "but you jest bet it didn't take me long to settle _him_. he soon began to sing out ''nuff! 'nuff! take 'm off!' and so i took him by the hair and dragged him off 'n the cross ties, shot him one or two more under the ear with my fist, and then dropped him. he crawled up and stood looking at me as if i was the awfulest thing in the world. i s'pect i did look scary, for i was terrible mad. his face was bruised up mightily, but he wasn't a bleeding much. he was mostly swelled. 'where's my train?' says he, in a sort o' blank, hollow way. 'don't ye hear it?' i answered him, 'it's gone on to savanny!' 'gone! who told 'm to go on? what'd they go leave me for?' 'i pulled the bell rope,' says i. '_you?_' 'yes, _me_!' 'what in the world did you do _that_ for, man?' ''cause you wouldn't let me ride to savanny!' 'what'll i do! what'll i do!' he cried, beginning to waltz 'round like one possessed. "i laughed--i couldn't help it--and at the same time i pulled out my old pistol. 'yah-hoo-a!' yelled another owl. 'for the sake o' humanity don't kill me!' said the conductor. 'i'm jest a going to shoot you a little bit for the fun o' the thing,' says i. 'mercy, man!' he prayed. 'ticket!' says i. "he groaned the awfulest kind, and, by the moonlight, i saw 'at the big tears was running down his face. i felt sorry for him, but i kinder thought 'at after what he'd done he'd better pray a little, so i mentioned it to him. 'i guess it mought be best if you'd pray a little,' says i, cocking the pistol. my voice had a decided sepulchreal sound. the pistol clicked very sharp. 'o, kind sir,' says he, 'o, dear sir, i never did pray, i don't know how to pray!' 'ticket or check!' says i, and he knowed i was talking kind o' sarcasm. 'pray quick!' "he got down and prayed like a methodist preacher at his very best licks. he must 'a' prayed afore. "about the time his prayer was ended i heard a train coming in the distance. he jumped up and listened. 'glory! heaven be praised!' says he, capering around like a mad monkey, 'they've missed me and are backing down to hunt me! where's my lantern? have you a match? gi'me your handkerchief!' 'not so fast,' says i; 'you jest be moderate now, will you? i've no notion o' you getting on that train any more. you jest walk along wi' me, will you?' 'where?' says he. 'into the swamp,' says i; 'step off lively, too, d'you hear me?' 'o mercy, mercy, man!' says he. 'ticket!' says i, and then he walked along wi' me into the swamp some two or three hundred yards from the railroad. "i took him into a very thickety place, and made him back up agin a tree and put back his arms around it. then i took one o' his suspenders and tied him hard and fast. then i gagged him with my handkerchief. so far, so good. "here come the train slowly backing down, the brakesman a swinging lanterns, and the passengers all swarming onto the platforms. poorty soon they stopped right opposite us. the conductor began to struggle. i poked the pistol in his face and jammed the gag furder into his mouth. he saw i meant work and got quiet. "the passengers was swarming off 'n the train and i saw 'at i must git about poorty fast if i was to do anything. i soon hit on a plan. i jist stepped back a piece out o' sight o' the conductor and turned my coat, which was one o' these two-sided affairs, one side white, t'other brown. i turned the white side out. then i flung away my greasy skull cap and took a soft hat out 'n my pocket and put it on. then i watched my chance and mixed in with the passengers who was a hunting for the conductor. 'strange what's become o' him,' says i to a fat man, who was puffing along. 'dim strange, dim strange,' says the big fellow, in a keen, wheezing voice. "well, you never saw jist sich hunting as was done for that conductor. everybody slopped around in the swamp till their clothes was as wet and muddy as mine. i was monstrous active in the search. i hunted everywhere 'cepting where the conductor was. finally he got the gag spit out and lordy how he did squeal for help. everybody rushed to him and soon had him free. "it tickled me awful to hear that conductor explaining the matter. he told it something like this: 'devil of a great big ruffian on hind platform. asked him for ticket. refused. tried to put him off. grabbed me. smashed my nose. flung me off. pulled the bell-rope, then lit out on me. mauled ---- out o' me. had a pistol two feet long. made me pray. heard train a coming. took me to swamp. tied me and sloped. lord but i'm glad to see you all!' "we all went aboard o' the train and i rode to savanny onmolested. the conductor didn't mistrust me. he asked me for my check and i told him 'at i'd lost it a thrashing round in the bushes a hunting him. that was all right. "when we got to savanny i couldn't help letting the conductor know me, so as i passed down the steps of the car i whispered savagely in his ear: 'ticket! dod blast you!' "he tried to grab me as i shambled off into the crowd, but i knowed the ropes. i heard him a shoutin'-- 'there he goes! ketch him, dern him, ketch him!' but they didn't. "that conductor's name was fuller, and i swear, stranger, 'at you look jest like him! gi' me a match, will you, my pipe's out. thanky. hope i ha'n't bored you. good bye all." he shambled out and i never saw him again. hoiden. the house was known as rackenshack throughout the neighborhood for miles around. it was a frame structure, originally of sorry workmanship, at least thirty years old, and upon which not a cent's worth of repairing had been done since first erected, wherefore the name was peculiarly appropriate. it was not only old, rickety, paintless, half rotten and sadly sunken at one end, but the fencing around the place was broken, grown over with weeds, and slanted in as many ways as there were panels. the lawn or yard in front of the house had some old cherry trees, gnarled and decaying, growing in what had once been straight rows, but storms and more insidious vicissitudes had twisted and curled them about till they looked as though they had been thrown end foremost at the ground hap-hazard. under and all round these trees young sprouts, from the scattered cherry seeds of many years of fruiting, had grown so thick that one could with difficulty get through them. a narrow, well-beaten path led from the gate, which lazily lolled on one hinge, up to the decayed and sunken porch, in front of which was the well, with its lop-eared windlass and dilapidated curb and shed. a country thoroughfare, one of the old state roads leading westward to a ferry on the wabash river near the village of attica and eastward to either crawfordsville, indianapolis or lafayette. this road was in the direct line of emigration, and in the proper seasons long lines of covered wagons rolled past, the drivers, a jolly set, hallooing to each other and bandying sharp wit and rude sarcasm at the expense of rackenshack. poor old house, it leered at the passers, with its windows askew, and clattered its loose boards and battered shutters in utter and complacent defiance of all their jeers! rackenshack belonged to luke plunkett and betsy, his sister; the latter an old maid beyond all cavil, the former a bachelor of about thirty. the lands of the estate were pretty broad, comprising some two thousand acres of rich prairie and "river bottom" land, which had been kept in a much better state of improvement than the house had. in fact, luke was considered a careful, industrious, frugal farmer. he had large, well regulated barns and stock sheds and stables--plenty of fine horses, cattle, hogs, sheep and mules, all well fed and cared for, and it was generally understood that he had a pretty round deposit in a bank. perhaps 'squire rube fink, sometimes called "the rev. major fink" and sometimes "talking rube," gives the best description of luke's condition, habits and surroundings, that i can offer. it is truthful and singularly graphic. he says: "luke plunkett's no fool if he does live at rack-a-me-shack and 'spect the ole rotten tabernacle to fall down on him every time a rooster crows close by. that feller's long-headed, he is. to be sure, sartinly, his barn's a dern sight better 'n his house, but his head's level, for, d'ye see, that's the way to make money. a house don't never make no money for a feller--it's nothin' but dead capital to put money into a fine dwellin'. luke's pilin' his money in the bank. he's been doin' a sharp thing in wheat and live stock at cincinnati, and i guess he knows what he's about. he don't keer about what sort o' house he lives in. but i tell you that red haired sister o' his'n is lightning. she's what bosses the job all round that ole shanty; but she can't red-hair it over luke in the farm matters. he has his own way. he's so quiet and peculiar; a still, say nothin', bull-dog sort o' man he is." indeed, luke was one of that quiet sort of men who, without ever once loudly asserting a right or disputing any word you say, invariably go ahead on their own judgment and carry their point in everything. nevertheless, he was a man of fine, generous nature at bottom, a good brother and a worthy friend. but it was with luke just as it is, more or less, with us all. he absorbed into his life the spirit of his surroundings. he grew somewhat to resemble rackenshack in outward appearance. he became slovenly in his dress and let his hair and beard grow wild. his naturally handsome face gradually took on a sort of good humored ugliness, and his heavy shoulders slanted over like the uneven gables of his house. he became an inveterate chewer and smoker of tobacco. what time a quid of the weed was not in his mouth, the short thick stem of a dark, nicotine-coated briar-root pipe took its place there. luke was an early riser; therefore it happens that our story properly begins on a fine june morning, just before sunrise. the birds seemed to suspect that a story was to date from that hour, for they were up earlier than usual and made a great rustle of wings and a sweet babel of voices in the old cherry trees. there were the oriole, the cat bird, the yellow throat, the brown thrush and the red bird, all putting forth at once their charmingest efforts. the old cherry trees, knee deep in the foliage of their under growing seedlings, gleamed dusky green in the early light, as luke, bareheaded, barefooted and in his "shirt sleeves," as the phrase goes, issued from the front door of rackenshack, and walked down the path across the yard to the gate at the road. of late he had been in the habit of "taking a smoke" the first thing after getting up in the morning, and somehow the gate, though off one hinge and having doubtful tenure of the other, was his favorite thing to lean upon while watching the whiffs of blue smoke slowly float away. on this particular morning he seemed a little agitated; and, indeed, he was vexed more deeply than he had ever before been. just the preceding evening he had learned that a corps of civil engineers were rapidly approaching his premises with a line of survey, and that the purpose was to locate and build a railway right through the middle of his farm. to luke the very idea was outrageous. he felt that he could never stand such an imposition. his land was his own, and when he wanted it dug up and leveled down and a track laid across it he would do it himself. he did not want his farm cut in two, his fields disarranged and his fences moved, nor did he wish to see his live stock killed by locomotives. the truth is he was bitterly opposed to railroads, any how. they were innovations. they were enemies to liberty. they brought fashion, and spendthrift ways, and speculation, and all that along with them. other folks might have railroads if they wanted them, but they must not bother him with them. he could take care of his affairs without any railroads. besides, if he wanted one he could build it. he hung heavily upon the gate, thinking the matter over, and would not have bestowed a second glance at the carriage that came trundling past if he had not caught the starry flash of a pair of blue eyes and a rosy, roguish girl's face within. the beauty of that countenance struck the great rough fellow like a blow. he stared in a dazed, bewildered way. he took his pipe from his mouth and involuntarily tried to hide his great big bare feet behind the gate post. he felt a queer, dreamy thrill steal all over him. it was his first definite impression of feminine beauty. instantly that round, happy, mischievous face, with its dimples and indescribable shining lines of half latent mirth, set itself in his heart forever. the carriage trundled on in the direction of the ferry. luke followed it with his eyes till it disappeared round a turn in the road; then he put the pipe to his mouth again and began puffing vigorously, wagging his head in a way that indicated great confusion of mind. there are times when a glimpse of a face, the sudden half-mastering of a new, grand idea, a view of a rare landscape or even a cadence in some new tune, will start afresh the long dried up wells of a heart. something like this had happened to luke. "sich a gal! sich a gal!" he murmured from the corner of his mouth opposite his pipe stem. "i don't guess i'm a dreamin' now, though i feel a right smart like it. i _hev_ dreamed of that 'ere face though, many of times. i've seed it in my sleep a thousand times, but i never s'posed 'at i'd see it shore enough when i'd be awake! sweetest dreams i ever had--sweetest face god ever made! i wonder who she is?" as if to supplement luke's soliloquy at this point, a cardinal red bird flung out from the dusky depths of the oldest cherry tree an ecstatic carol, and a swallow, swooping down from the clear purple heights, almost touched the man's cheek with its shining wings, and the sun lifted its flaming face in the east and flooded the fields with gold. luke turned slowly toward the old house. the breeze that came up with the sun poured through the orchard with a broad, joyous surge, while something like blowing of strange winds and streaming of soft sunlight made strangely happy the inner world of the smitten hoosier. his big strong heart fluttered mysteriously. he actually took his pipe from his lips and broke into a snatch of merry song, that startled betsy, his sister, from her morning nap. for the time the hated railroad survey was forgotten. the landscape at rackenshack, as if by a turn of the great prisms of nature, suddenly took on rainbow hues. the fields flashed with jewels, and the woods, a wall of dusky emerald, were wrapped in a roseate mist, stirred into dreamy motion by the breeze. a light, grateful fragrance seemed to pervade all space, as if flung from the sun to soften and enhance the charm of his gift of light and heat. such a hold did all this take upon luke, and so utterly abstracted was he, that when breakfast was ready betsy was obliged to remind him of the fact that he had neglected to wash his face and hands, and comb his hair and beard--things absolutely prerequisite to eating at her table. "forgot it, sure's the world," said luke; "don't know what ever possessed me." "maybe you've forgot to turn the cows into the milk stalls, too?" said betsy. "if i ha'n't i'm a gourd!" and luke scratched his head distractedly. "what'd i tell you, luke plunkett? it's come at last, o lordy! you're as crazy as a june bug all along of smoking that old pipe! rot the nasty, stinking old thing! it's a perfect shame, luke, for a man to just smoke what little brains he's got clean out. you ought to be ashamed of yourself, so you ought!" while she was speaking betsy got the big wooden washbowl for her brother, whereupon he proceeded to make his ablutions in a most energetic way, taking up great double handfuls of water and sousing his face therein with loud puffings, that enveloped his head in a cloud of spray. when a clean tow linen towel had served its purpose, luke remarked: "don't know but what i _am_ some'at crazy in good earnest, betsy, since i come to think it all over. i'm r'ally onto it a right smart. what'd you think, betsy, if i'd commence talkin' 'oman to ye?" "luke, luke! are you crazy? is your mind clean gone out of your poor smoky head?" "that's not much of a answer to my question." "well, what _do_ you mean, _anyhow_?" "i mean business, that's what!" "luke!" "yes'm." "do try to act sensible now. what is it, luke? what makes your eyes look so strange and dance about so? what do you mean by all this queer talk?" luke finished combing, and, going to the table, sat down and was proceeding to discuss the fried chicken and coffee without further remark, but betsy was not so easily balked. she, like most red haired women, wished her questions to be fully and immediately answered, wherefore some indications of a storm began to appear. luke smiled a quiet little smile that had hard work getting out through his beard. betsy trotted her foot under the table. her hand trembled as she poured the coffee--trembled so violently that she scalded her left thumb. it was about time for luke to speak or have trouble, so, in a very gentle voice, he said: "well, i saw a gal--a gal an' her father, i reckon--go by this mornin'." "well, what of it? s'pose there's plenty of girls and their fathers, ain't there?" snapped betsy. luke drew a chicken leg through his mouth, laid down the bone, leered comically at his sister from under his bushy eyebrows, and said: "but the gal was purty, betsy--purty as a pictur', sweet as a peach, juicy an' temptin' as a ripe, red cored watermillion! you can't begin to guess how sweet an' nice she did look. my heart just flolloped and flopped about, an' it's at it yet!" "luke plunkett, you _are_ crazy! you're just as distracted as a blind dog in high rye. drink a cup of hot coffee, luke, and go lie down a bit, you'll feel better." the spinster was horrified beyond measure. she really thought her brother crazy. the man finished his meal in silence, smiling the while more grimly than before, after which he took his shot gun and a pan of salt and trudged off to a distant field to salt some cattle. he always carried his gun with him on such occasions, and not unfrequently brought back a brace of partridges or some young squirrels. as he strode along, thinking all the time of the girl in the carriage, he suddenly came upon a corps of engineers with transit, level, rod and chain, staking out, through the centre of a choice field, a line of survey for a railroad. in an instant he was like a roaring lion. he glared for a second or so at the intruders, then lowering his gun he charged them at a run, storming out as he did so: "what you doin' here, you onery cusses, you! leave here! get out! scratch! sift! dern yer onery skins, i'll shoot every dog of ye! git out 'n here, i say--out, out!" the corps stampeded at once. the surveyor seized his transit, the leveller his level, the rod man his rod, the axe men and chain men their respective implements, and away they went, "lick-to-split, like a passel o' scart hogs," as luke afterwards said, "as fast as they could ever wiggle along!" no wonder they ran, for luke looked like a demon of destruction. it was a wild race for the line fence, a full half mile away. the leveler, being the hindmost man, rolled over this fence just as a heavy bowlder, hurled by luke, struck the top rail. it was a close shave, a miss of a hair's breadth, a marvelous escape. luke rushed up to the fence and glared over at his intended victims. here he knew he must stop, for he doubted the legality of pursuing them beyond the confines of his own premises. somewhat out of breath he leaned on the fence and proceeded to swear at the corps individually and collectively, shaking his fists at them excitedly, till the appearance of a new man on the scene made him start and stare as if looking at a ghost. he was a well dressed, gentlemanly appearing person of about the age of forty-five, pale and thoughtful--calm, gray eyed, commanding. luke recognized him at once as the man he had seen in the carriage, and, indeed, the vehicle itself stood hard by, with a beautiful, laughing, roguish face looking out of one of the windows. the lion in the stalwart farmer was quelled in an instant. he felt his legs grow weak. he set his gun by the fence and touched his hat to the little lady. "your name, i believe, is luke plunkett?" said the approaching gentleman. "yes, sir," said luke. "you own two thousand acres of land here?" "yes, sir." "your residence is called rackenshack?" "yes, sir." (suppressed titter from the carriage.) "so i thought. pull back, men (addressing the corps), pull back to where you dropped the line and bring it right along. mr. plunkett will not harm you now." the corps began to move. luke fiercely seized his gun; but before he could lift it or utter a word, a ten-inch colt's repeater was thrust into his face by the calm gentleman, and a steady hand held it there. "mr. plunkett," said the man, "i am the chief engineer of the ---- railroad. i am making a location. the laws of this state give me the right to go upon your land with my corps and have the survey made. i am not to be trifled with. if you offer to cock that gun i'll put six holes through you. what do you say, now?" the voice was that of a cold man of business. there was a coffin in every word. the muzzle of the pistol steadily covered luke's left eye. the situation was rigid. luke hesitated--his face ashy with anger and fear, his eyes alternating their glances between the muzzle of the pistol and that wonderful shining face at the carriage. "shoot him, papa, shoot him! shoot him!" sweet as a silver bell rang out the girl's voice, more like a ripple of idle song than a murderous request, and then a clear, happy laugh went echoing off through the woods in which the carriage stood. slowly, steadily, luke let fall the breech of his gun upon the ground beside him. the engineer smiled grimly and lowered his pistol, while the corps, headed by the surveyor, took up its line of march to the point where work had been so suddenly left off. the young lady clapped her tiny white hands for joy. a big black woodpecker began to cackle in a tree hard by. luke felt like a man in a dream. the whole adventure, so far, had been clothed in most unreal seeming. it can hardly be told how, by rapid transitions from one thing to another in his talk, the engineer drew luke's mind away from the late difficulty and gradually aroused in him a kindly feeling. in less than ten minutes the two men were sitting side by side on a log, smoking cigars from the engineer's pouch and chatting calmly, amicably. luke's eyes often rested steadily fixed in the direction of the carriage. through the thin veil of tobacco smoke the face of the young girl seemed to the farmer angelic in its beauty. all around the sweets of summer rose and fell, and drifted like scarcely visible shining mists, fraught with the spice of leaf and perfume of blossom, agitated by swells of tricksy wind, going on and on to the mysterious goal of the season. the two men talked on until the corps had pushed the line of survey far past them into the cool, shady deeps of the woods, whence their voices came back fainter and fainter every moment. at length the engineer arose, and stretching out his hand to luke, said: "mr. plunkett, i'm sure i'll be able to serve you some time; let us be friends. i shall be in this vicinity most of the time till the road is built. no doubt i can show a way to profit by the construction of a railroad across your land. if you are sharp it will make your fortune. i like your independent way, sir, and hope to know you better. here is my card." luke took the bit of pasteboard without saying a word. they shook hands and the engineer got into his carriage. "here's my card, too, mr. plunkett," cried the girl. she said something more, but the horses were made to plunge rapidly away, and the words were lost; but the flash of a white jewelled hand caught luke's eye as a delicately tinted card came fluttering towards him. he sprang and seized it. if a bag of diamonds had been flung at his feet he could not have been more excited. his hands trembled. all the incidents of the only fairy tale he had ever read came at once into his mind. he stood with his feet turned in, like some great awkward boy, a bashful, shame-faced look lurking about his mouth and eyes. he filled his pipe and lighted it from the stump of his cigar with nervous eagerness. a squirrel came down to the lowest limbs of a beech tree hard by and barked at him, but he did not notice it. he read the names on the cards: "_elliot pearl, c. e._" "_hoiden pearl._" the first printed in small capitals, the second written in a delicate, rather cramped feminine hand. he stood for a long time dreamily employed in turning these bits of paper over and over. his thoughts were so vague in outline and so dim in filling up that they cannot be reproduced. they slipped away on the summer air, like little puffs of perfume, and were lost, to be found by many and many a one in the ineffable places of dreamland. finally, shaking himself as if to break the charm that held him in its meshes, he took up his gun and slowly made his way homeward. all along his walk he kept smiling to himself and talking aloud, but his words were such that it would be sacrilege to repeat them now. let them hover about in the sunlight of summer, where he uttered them, as things too delicate to be pressed between the lids of a book. betsy had trouble with luke for some days after this. he lay about the house, saying little, eating little, giving little attention to the many tenants who worked his estate. he was in good health, was not in trouble (so he said to his sister), but he did not care to be bothered with business. he was tired and would rest awhile. "he smoked pretty near all the time," as betsy declared. but not a hint fell from his lips as to what might be running in his mind. so the days slipped past till july hung golden mists on the horizon and filled the woods with that rare stillness and dusky slumbrousness that follows the maturing of the foliage and the coming on of fruit. the cherry trees at rackenshack had grown ragged and dull, and the birds, excepting a few swallows wheeling about the old chimney tops, had all flown away to the woods and fields. the wheat had been cut and stacked, the corn had received its last ploughing. still luke hung about the house annoying betsy with his pipe and his utter carelessness. that he was "distracted" betsy did not for a moment doubt. she used every means her small stock of wit could invent to urge him out of his singular mood, but without avail. he took to the few old novels he could find about the house, but sometimes he would gaze blankly at a single paragraph for a whole hour. one morning as he lay on the porch, his head resting upon the back of a chair, reading, or pretending to read an odd volume of "the scottish chiefs," a little boy, 'squire brown's son, came to bring home a monkey-wrench his father had borrowed some time before. the boy was a bright, rattle-box, say-everything, pop-eyed sort of child, and was not long telling all the news of the neighborhood. luke gave little attention to what he was saying, till at length he let fall something about a young lady--a fine, rich young lady, staying at judge barnett's--a young lady who could outrun him, out jump him, beat him playing marbles and ball, who could climb away up in the june apple tree, who could ride a colt bareback, who could beat jim barnett shooting at a mark, who could, in fact, do a half a hundred things to perfection that strict persons would think a young lady should never do at all, but which seemed to make a heroine of her in the narrator's boyish view. "what's the gal's name?" queried luke in a slow, lazy way, but his eyes shot a gleam of hope. "hoidy pearl," replied the lad. hoiden pearl! that name had been woven into every sound that had reached luke's ears for days and nights and nights together, and now, like a sweet tune nearly mastered, it took a deeper, tenderer meaning as the boy pronounced it in his childish way. "hoidy pearl is her name," the lad continued. "she's come to stay at the judge's all summer till the new railroad's finished. her father's the boss of the road. she's jest the funniest girl, o-o-e! and she likes me, too!" luke raised himself to a sitting posture and looked at the boy so earnestly that he drew back a pace or two as if afraid. "boy, you're not lyin', are ye?" said the man in a low, earnest tone. "no i'm not, neither," was the quick reply. luke got up, flung aside his book and strolled off into the woods. wandering there in the cool, silent places, he dreamed his dream. for hours he sat by a little spring stream in the dense shadow of a big cotton-wood tree. the birds congregated about him, and chirped and sang; the squirrels came out chattering and frisking from branch to branch; but he gave them no look of recognition--he saw them not, heard them not. the birds might have lit upon his head and the squirrels might have run in and out of his pockets with impunity. he smoked all the time, refilling and relighting his pipe whenever it burned out. he did not know how much he was smoking, nor that he was smoking at all. a bright face set in a mass of yellow curls, a wee white hand all spangled with jewels, a voice sweeter than any bird's, a name--hoiden pearl--these rang, and danced, and echoed, and shone in the recesses of his brain and heart to the exclusion of all else. he was trying to think, but he could not. he wanted to mature a plan, but not even an outline could find room in his head. it was full. strange, indeed, it may seem, that a rough farmer of luke's age should thus fall into the ways of the imaginative, sentimental stripling; but, after all, the fit must come on some time in life. no doubt it goes harder with some constitutions than with others. luke may have been unwittingly strongly predisposed that way. neither the exterior of a man nor his surroundings will do to judge him by. nature is that mysterious in all her ways. luke talked aloud, sometimes gesticulating in a quiet way. "i _must_ see the gal--i _will_ see the gal," he muttered at last. "it's no use talkin', i jist will see her!" suddenly a light broke from his face. he smiled like one who has victory in his grasp--like an editor who has an idea, like a reviewer who has found some bad verse. he got up immediately, went back to the barn, hitched a horse to a small road wagon and drove to town. there he spent time and money with a merchant tailor and other vendors of clothing. he was very fastidious in his selection. nothing but the finest would do him. a few days after this he brought home a trunk full of princely raiment--broad cloth and fine linen. betsy was struck dumb with amazement when the trunk was opened. a dream of such costly things, such reckless extravagance, would have driven her mad. silent, open-eyed, wondering, she came in and stood behind luke while he was unpacking. he looked up presently and saw her. his face flushed violently, and in a half-whining, half-ashamed tone he muttered: "now, betsy, you jest git out'n here faster'n ye come in, for i'm not goin' to stan' no foolin' at all, now. these 'ere's my clothes and paid for out'n my money, an' i'm the jedge of what i need. i ha'n't had any good duds for a long time, and i'm tired o' lookin' like a scarecrow made out'n a salt bag. i've been thinkin' for a long time i'd git these 'ere things, an' now i've got'm. you kin git you some if ye like, but i don't want ye a standin' round here gawpin' at me on 'count o' my clothes; so you go off an' mind yer own affairs. it's no great sight to see some shirts, an' coats, and pants, an' collars, an' vests, an' sich like, is it?" before this speech was finished betsy had backed out of the room and closed the door. as she did so she let go a sigh that came back to luke like a parthian arrow; but it happened just then that he was holding up in front of him a buff linen vest which kept the missile from his heart. he dressed himself with great care, and an hour later he slipped out of the house unseen, and took his way towards the rather pretentious residence of judge barnett, the gables of which, a mile away, gleamed between rows of lombardy poplars. the judge was one of those half cultivated men who, in every country neighborhood, pass for prodigies of learning and ability. he was the autocrat of the county in political and social affairs--one of those men who really know a great deal, but who arrogate more. he got his title from having been county commissioner when the court house was building. some said he made money out of the transaction, but our story is silent there. it would have been an interesting study for a philosopher to have watched luke throughout the singular ramble he took that morning. it would have been such a manifest revelation of the state of the fellow's feelings. it would have minutely disclosed, and more eloquently than any verbal confession, the rise and fall, the ebb and flow, the alternating strength and weakness of his purpose, and the will behind it. then, too, it would have let fall delightful hints of the unselfishness of his new and all-engrossing passion, and of the charming simplicity and sincerity of his great rugged nature at its inner core. at first he struck out boldly a direct line to judge barnett's residence, his face beaming with the light of settled happiness, but as he neared the pleasant grounds surrounding the house he began to discover some trepidation. his gait wavered, the expression of his face shifted with each step, and soon his course was indeterminate--a fitful sauntering from this place to that--a tricksy, uneven flight, like that of a lazy butterfly, if one may indulge the comparison--a meandering in and out among the trees of a small walnut grove--a strolling here and there, now along the verge of a well set old orchard, now down the low hedge behind the garden, and anon leaning over the board fence that inclosed the judge's ample barn and stable lot; he gazed wistfully, half comically, in the direction of the upper windows of the farm house. it was one of those peculiarly yellow days of summer, when everything swims in a golden mist. the blue birds floated aimlessly about from stake to stake of the fences; the wind, felt only in jerky puffs, blew no particular way, and as idly and as eccentrically as any blue bird, and in full accord with the fitful will of the wind, luke drifted through the sheen of summer all round barnett place. he lazed about, humming a tune, and, for a wonder, not smoking--half restless, half contented, looking for something, scarcely expecting anything. when once a great rough man does get into a childish way, he is a child of which ordinary children would be ashamed, and just then luke, the big bashful fellow, was an instance strikingly in point. occasionally he talked half aloud to himself. once, while lounging on the orchard fence, gazing down between the long rows of russet and pippin trees, he said dreamily, "i _must_ see her. i can't go back 'ithout seein' her." it so chanced that just then a shower of blackbirds fell upon the orchard, covering the trees and the ground, flying over and over each other, twittering and whistling as only blackbirds can. their wings smote together with a tender rustling sound like that of a spring wind in young foliage, or of a thousand lovers whispering together by moonlight. luke watched them a long while, a doleful shade gathering in his face. "the little things loves each other," he muttered; "everything loves something; an' jest dern my lights ef i don't love the gal, an' i'm boun' to see her!" seemingly nerved by sudden resolution, he climbed over the fence and started at a slashing pace across the orchard towards the house, scaring all the birds into an ecstasy of flight, so that they dashed themselves against the foliage of the apple trees, making it rustle and sway as if blown on by a strong wind. he did not keep on, however. his resolution seemed to burn out about midway the orchard. he began to drift around again, his pace becoming slower and slower. his shoulders drooped forward as if burdened with a great load, his eyes turned restlessly from side to aide. "i jest can't do it!" he murmured--"i jest can't do it, an' i mought as well go back!" there was a petulant ring to his voice--a nervous, worried tone, that had despair in it. out of a june apple tree right over his head fell a sweet, silvery, half child's, half woman's voice, that thrilled him through every fibre to the marrow of his bones. "what's the matter, goosey? what have you lost! what are you hunting for? want a good apple?" luke looked up just in time to catch squarely on his nose a fine, ripe june apple, and through a mist of juice and a sheeny curtain of leaves he saw the lovely face he had come to look for. a thump on the nose from an apple, no matter if it is ripe and soft, is a little embarrassing, and it only makes it more so when the racy wine of the fruit flies into one's eyes and all over one's new clothes. but there are moments of supreme bliss when such a mishap passes unnoticed. luke felt as if the blow had been the touch of a magician conjuring up a scene that held him rapt and speechless. "o, my! i didn't go to hit you! please excuse me, sir--do. i thought you'd catch it in your hands." she came lightly down from the tree, descending like a bird, easily, gracefully, as if she had been born to climb. she murmured many apologies, but the genius of fun danced in her saucy, almost impertinent eyes, belying her regretful words. luke looked down at her dazed and speechless. she, however, was full of prattle--half childish, half womanly, half serious, half bantering--her eyes upturned to his, her voice a very bird's in melody. in the more innocent sense of the word she looked like her name, hoiden. nothing unchaste or indelicate about her appearance; just a sort of want of restraint; a freedom that amounted to an utter lack of responsibility to the ordinary claims and dictates of propriety. a close, trained, intelligent observer would have seen at once that she was wilful, spoiled, unbridled, but not bad, not in the least vicious; really innocent and full of good impulses. she was beautiful, too--wonderfully beautiful--just on the hither side of womanhood, plump, budding, bewitching. how she did it can never be known, but she soon had luke racing with her all over the orchard. they climbed trees together, they scrambled for the same apple, they laughed, and shouted, and played till the horn at the farmhouse called the field hands to dinner. they parted then, as children part, promising to meet again the next day. the girl's cheeks were rosy with exercise, so were luke's. how strange! day after day that great, bearded, almost middle-aged, uncouth farmer went and played slave to that chit of a girl, doing whatever ridiculous or childish thing she proposed, caring for nothing, asking for nothing but to be with her, listen to her voice and feast his eyes upon her beauty. he gladly bore everything she heaped upon him, and to be called "goosey" by her was to him inexpressibly charming. betsy's womanly nature was not to be deceived. she soon comprehended all; but she dared not mention the subject to luke. he was in no mood to be opposed. so he went on--and betsy sighed. the summer softened into autumn. the maple leaves reddened. the long grass turned brown and lolled over. a softness and tenderness lurked in the deep blue sky, and the air had a sharp racy fragrance from ripe fruit and grain. meantime the railroad had been pushed with amazing rapidity nearly to completion. every day long construction trains went crashing-across luke's farm. passenger coaches were to be put on in a few days. luke was the very picture of happiness. he seemed to grow younger every day. his worldly prospects, too, were flattering. a station had been located on his land, around which a town had already begun to spring up. the vast value of luke's timber, walnut and oak, was just beginning to appear; indeed, immense wealth lay in his hands. but his happiness was of a deeper and purer sort than that generated by simple pecuniary prosperity. hoiden pearl was in the focus of all his thoughts; her face lighted his dreams, her voice made the music that charmed him into a wonderland of bliss. he said little about her, even to betsy, but it needed no sharpness of sight to discover from his face what was going on in his heart. he had even forgotten his pipe. he had not smoked since that first day in the orchard. he had straightened up and looked a span taller. the girl did not seem to dream of any tender attachment on luke's part. in fact he gave her no cause for it. he fed on his love inwardly and never thought of telling it. to be with her was enough. it satisfied all his wants. she was frank and free with him, but tyrannized over him--ordered him about like a servant, scolded him, flattered him, pouted at him, smiled on him, indeed kept him crazy with rapture all the time. once only she became confidentially communicative. it was one day, sitting on an old mossy log in the judge's woodland pasture, she told him the story of her past life. how thrillingly beautiful her face became as it sobered down with the history of early orphanage! her father had died first; then her mother, who left her four years old in the care of mr. pearl, her paternal uncle, with whom she had ever since been, going from place to place, as the calls of his nomadic profession made it necessary, from survey to survey, from this state to that, seeing all sorts of people, and receiving her education in small, detached parcels. the story was a sad, unsatisfactory one, breathing neglect, yet full of a certain kind of sprightliness, and touched here and there with the fascination of true romance. it is hard to say when luke would have awakened from his tender trance to the strong reality of love. he was too contented for self-questioning, and no act or word of hoiden's invited him to consider what he was doing or whither he was drifting. it was well for luke and the girl, too, that it was a sparsely settled neighborhood, for evil tongues might have made much of their constant companionship and childish behavior. as for the judge, after it was all over he admitted that he felt some qualms of conscience about allowing such unlimited intimacy to go on, but he excused himself by saying that the girl, when confined to the house, was such an unmitigated nuisance that he was glad for some one to monopolize her company. "why," said he, in his peculiar way, "she set the whole house by the ears. she made more clatter and racket than a four-horse pennsylvania wagon coming down a rocky hill. she would go from garret to cellar like a whirlwind and twist things wrong side out as she went----she was a tart!" but at length, toward the middle of autumn the end came. luke had business with some hog-buyers in cincinnati, whither he was gone several days. meantime the railroad was completed, and mr. pearl came to the judge's early one morning and called for hoiden. his business with his employers was ended, and he had just finished an arrangement that had long been on foot to go to one of the south american states and take charge of a vast engineering scheme there. the girl was delighted. such a prospect of travel and adventure was enough to set one of her temperament wild with enthusiasm. she flew to packing her trunk, her face radiant with joy. only an hour later mr. pearl and hoiden stood at the new station on luke's land, waiting for the east-going train. mr. pearl happened to think of a business message he wished to leave for luke, so he went into the depôt building and wrote it. when hoiden saw the letter was for luke she begged leave to put in a few words of postscript, and she had her way. the train came and the man and girl were whirled away to new york, and thence they took ship for south america, never to return. next day luke came back, bringing with him a beautifully carved mahogany box mounted in silver. betsy met him at the door, and, woman-like, told the story of hoiden's departure almost at the first breath. "gone all the way to south america," she added, after premising that she would never return. a peculiarly grim, grayish smile mantled the face of luke. he swallowed a time or two before he could speak. "come now, sis" (he always said "sis" when he felt somewhat at betsy's mercy), "come now, sis, don't try to fool me. i'm goin' right over to see the gal now, an' i've got what'll tickle her awfully right here in this 'ere box." out in the yard the blue jays and woodpeckers were quarrelling over the late apples heaped up by the cider mill. the sky was clear, but the sunlight, coming through a smoky atmosphere, was pale, like the smile of a sick man. the wind of autumn ran steadily through the shrubby weedy lawn with a sigh that had in it the very essence of sadness. "i tell you, luke, i'm not trying to fool you; they've gone clean to south america to stay always," reiterated betsy. luke gazed for a moment steadily into his sister's eyes, as if looking for a sign. slowly his stalwart body and muscular limbs relaxed and collapsed. the box fell to the floor with a crash, where it burst, letting roll out great hoops of gold and starry rings and pins--a gold watch and chain, a beautiful gold pen and pencil case, and trinkets and gew-gaw things almost innumerable. they must have cost the full profits of his business trip. luke staggered into a chair. betsy just then happened to think of the letter that had been left for her brother. this she fetched and handed to him. it was the note of business from mr. pearl. there was a postscript in a different hand: "_good-bye, goosey!_ _hoidy pearl._" that was all. luke is more morose and petulant than he used to be. he is decaying about apace with rackenshack, and he smokes constantly. he is vastly wealthy and unmarried. betsy is quiet and kind. up stairs in her chest is hidden the mahogany coffer full of golden testimonials of her brother's days of happiness and the one dark hour of his despair! the pedagogue. he was one of the farmer princes of hoosierdom, a man of more than average education, a fluent talker and ready with a story. knowing that i was looking up reminiscences of hoosier life and specimens of hoosier character, he volunteered one evening to give me the following, vouching for the truth of it. here it is, as i "short-handed" it from his own lips. i omit quotation marks. the study of one's past life is not unlike the study of geology. if the presence of the remains of extinct species of animals and vegetables in the ancient rocks calls up in one's mind a host of speculative thoughts touching the progress of creation, so, as we cut with the pick of retrospection through the strata of bygone days, do the remains of departed things, constantly turning up, put one into his studying cap to puzzle over specimens fully as curious and interesting in their way as the _cephalaspis_. the first stratum of my intellectual formation contains most conspicuously the remains of dog-eared spelling books, a score or more of them by different names, among which the _elementary_ of webster is the best preserved and most clearly defined. it was finding an old, yellow, badly thumbed and dirt soiled copy of webster's spelling book in the bottom of an old chest of odds and ends, on the fly-leaf of which book was written "t. blodgett," that lately brightened my memory of the things i am about to tell you. the old time pedagogue is a thing of the past--_pars temporis acti_ is the latin of it, may be, but i'm not sure--i'm rusty in the latin now. when i quit school i could read it a good deal. but of the pedagogue. the twenty years since he ceased to flourish seem, on reflection, like an age--an _æon_, as the greeks would say. i never did know much greek. i got most of my education from pedagogues of the old sort. they kept pouring it on to me till it soaked in. that's the way i got it. i have had corns and bunions on my back for not being sufficiently porous to absorb the multiplication table rapidly enough to suit the whim of one of those learned tyrants. but the pedagogue became extinct and passed into the fossil state some twenty years ago, when free schools took good hold. he scampered away when he heard the whistle of the steam engine along iron highways and the cry of small boys on the streets of the towns hawking the daily papers. he could live nowhere within the pale of innovation. he was born an exemplar of rigidity. the very name of reform was hateful to him. we older fellows remember him well, but to the younger fry he is not even a fossil, he is a myth. of course pedagogues differed slightly in the matter of particular disposition and real character, but in a _general way_ they had a close family resemblance. i purpose to write of one blodgett--t. blodgett, as it was written in the fly-leaf of webster's elementary--and he was an extraordinary specimen of the genus pedagogue. but before i introduce him, let me, by way of preface and prelude, give you a view of the salients of the history of the days when pole-ribbed school houses--log cabin school houses--flourished, with each a pedagogue for supreme, "unquestioned and unquestionable" despot. in those fine days boys from five to fifteen years of age wore tow linen pants held up by suspenders (often made of tow strings), and having at each side pockets that reached down to about the wearer's knees. these pockets held as much as a moderate sized bushel basket will now. the girls, big and little, wore mere tow linen slips, that hung loose from the shoulders. democracy, pure and undefiled, flourished like a green buckeye tree. society was in about the same condition as a boy is when his voice is changing. you know when a boy's voice is changing if you hear him in another room getting his lesson by saying it over aloud, you think there's about fourteen girls, two old men, and a dog barking in the room. society was much the same. the elements of everything were in it, but not developed and separated yet. women rode behind their husbands on the same horse, occasionally reaching round in the man's lap to feel if the baby was properly fixed. sometimes the girls rode to singing school behind their sweethearts. at such times the horses always kicked up, and, of course, the girls had to hold on. the boys liked the holding on part. young men went courting always on saturday night. the girls wouldn't suffer any hugging before eleven o'clock--unless the old folk were remarkably early to bed. candles were scarce in those days, so that billing and cooing was done by very dim fire-light. _o, le bon temps!_ i've forgot whether that's latin or french. the pedagogue was the intellectual and moral centre of the neighborhood. he was of higher authority, even in the law, than the justice of the peace. he was consulted on all subjects, and, as a rule, his decisions were final, and went upon the people's record as law. his jurisdiction was unlimited, as to subject matter or amount, and, as to the person, was unquestioned. of course his territory was bounded by the circumstances of each particular case. i just now recollect quite a number of pedagogues who in turn ruled me in my youthful days. of one of them i never think without feeling a strange sadness steal over me. he was a young fellow whom to know was to love; pale, delicate, tender-hearted. he taught us two terms and we all thought him the best teacher in the world. he was so kind to us, so gentle and mild-voiced, so prone to pat us on our heads and encourage us. some of the old people found fault with him because, as they alleged, he did not whip us enough, but we saw no force in the objection. well, he took a cough and began to fail. he dismissed us one fine may evening and we saw him no more alive. we all followed him, in a solemn line, to his grave, and for a long time thereafter we never spoke of him except in a low, sad whisper. as for me, till long afterwards, the hushed wonder of his white face haunted my dreams. i have now in my possession a little bead money-purse he gave me. blodgett came next, and here my story properly begins. blodgett--who, having once seen him, could ever forget blodgett? not i. he was too marked a man to ever wholly fade from memory. he was, as i have said, a perfect type of his kind, and his kind was such as should not be sneered at. he was one of the humble pioneers of american letters. he was a character of which our national history must take account. he was one of the vital forces of our earlier national growth. he was in love with learning. he considered the matter of imparting knowledge a mere question of effort, in which the physical element preponderated. if he couldn't talk or read it into one he took a stick and mauled it into him. this mauling method, though somewhat distasteful to the subject, always had a charming result--red eyes, a few blubbers and a good lesson. the technical name of this method was "_warming the jacket_." it always seemed to me that the peewee birds sang very dolefully after i had had my jacket warmed. i recollect my floggings at school with so much aversion that i do think, if a teacher should whale one of my little ruddy-faced boys, i'd spread his (the teacher's) nose over his face as thin as a rabbit skin! i'd run both his eyes into one and chew his ears off close to his head, sir! forgive my earnestness, but i can't stand flogging in schools. it's brutal. from the first day that blodgett came circulating his school "articles" among us, we took to him by common consent as a wonderfully learned man. i think his strong, wise looking face, and reserved, pompous manners, had much to do with making this impression. we believed in him fully, and for a long time gave him unfaltering loyalty. as for me, i never have wholly withdrawn my allegiance. i look back, even now, and admire him. i sigh, thinking of the merry days when he flourished. i solemnly avow my faith in progress. i know the world advances every day, still i doubt if men and women are more worthy now than they were in the time of the pedagogues. i don't know but what, after all, i am somewhat of a fogy. any how, i will not, for the sake of pleasing your literary _swallows_--your eclectics of to-day--turn in and berate my dear old blodgett. in his day men could not and did not skim the surface of things like swallows on a mill pond. they _dived_, and got what they did get from the bottom, and by honest labor. whenever one of your silk-winged swallows skims past me and whispers progress, i cannot help thinking of heyne, jean paul and--blodgett. somehow genius and poverty are great cronies. it used to be more so than it is now. blodgett was a genius, and, consequently, poor. he was virtuous, and, of course, happy. he was a democrat and a hard shell baptist, and he might never have swerved from the path of rectitude, even to the extent of a hair's breadth, if it had not been for the coming of a not over scrupulous rival into the neighboring village. but i must not hasten. a little more and i would have blurted out the whole nub of my story. bear with me. i have nothing of the "lightning calculator" in me. i must take my time. it has been agreed that biography must include somewhat of physical portraiture. "what sort of looking man was blodgett?" i will tell you as nearly as i can, but bear in mind it is a long time since i saw him, and, in the meanwhile, the world has been so washed, and combed, and trimmed, and pearl powdered, that one can scarcely be sure he recollects things rightly. the seedy dandy who teaches the free schools of to-day, is, no doubt, all right as things go; but then the way they go--that's it! as for finding some one of these dapper, umbrella-lugging, green-spectacled, cadaverous teachers to compare with our burly blodgett, the thing is preposterous. our pedagogue, when he first came among us, was, as nearly as i can judge, about forty, and a bachelor, tall, raw-boned, lean-faced, and muscular--a man of many words, and big ones, but not over prone to seek audience of the world. to me, a boy of twelve, he appeared somewhat awful, especially when plying the beech rod for the benefit of a future man, and i do still think that something harder than mere sternness slept or woke in and around the lines of his strong, flat jaws--that something sharper than acid shrewdness lurked in his light gray eyes, and that surely a more powerful expression than ordinary brute obstinacy lingered about his firm mouth and smoothly shaven chin. blodgett had a mighty body and a mighty will, joined with a self-appreciation only bounded by his power to generate it. this, added to the deep deference with which he was approached by everybody, made him not a little arrogant and despotic--though, doubtless, he was less so than most men, under like circumstances, would have been. his years sat lightly on him. his step was youthful though slouching, his raven hair was bright and wavy, his skin had the tinge of vigorous health, and in truth he was not far from handsome. his voice was nasal, but pleasantly so. i cannot hope to give you more than a faint idea of the absolute power vested in blodgett by the men, women and children of the school vicinage; suffice it to say that his view was a _sine qua non_ to every neighborhood opinion, his words the basis of neighborhood action in all matters of public interest. if he pronounced the parson's last sermon a failure, at once the entire church agreed in condemning it, not only as a failure but a consummate blunder. if he hinted that a certain new comer impressed him unfavorably, the nincompoop was summarily kicked out of society. in fact, in the pithy phraseology of these latter days, "it was dangerous to be safe" about where he lived. thus, for a long time, blodgett ruled with an iron hand his little world, with no one to dream of disputing his right or of doubting his capacity, till at length fate let fall a bit of romance into the strong but placid stream of his life, and tinged it all with rose color. he wrote some poetry, but it is obsolete--that is, it is not now in existence. while this streak of romance lasted he looked, for all the world, like a gilt-edged mathematical problem drawn on rawhide. it was a great event in our neighborhood when miss grace holland, a yellow-haired, blue-eyed, very handsome and well educated young lady from louisville, kentucky, came to spend the summer with parson holland, our preacher, and the young woman's uncle. kentucky girls are all sweet. my wife was a kentucky girl. all the young men fell in love with miss holland right away, but it was of no use to them. blodgett, in the language of your fast youngsters, "shied his castor into the ring," and what was there left for the others but to stand by and see the glory of the pedagogue during the season of his wooing? it would have done your eyes good to see the pedagogue "slick himself up" each saturday evening preparatory to visiting the parson's. he went into the details of the toilette with an enthusiasm worthy a better result. ordinarily he was ostentatiously pious and grave, but now his nature began to slip its bark and disclose an inner rind of real mirthfulness, which made him quite pleasant company for miss holland, who, though a mere girl, was sensible and old enough to enjoy the many marked peculiarities of the pedagogue. on blodgett's side it was love--just the blindest, craziest kind of love, at first sight. as to miss holland, i cannot say. one never can precisely say as to a woman; guessing at a woman's feelings, in matters of love, is a little like wondering which makes the music, a boy's mouth or the jewsharp--a doubtful affair. great events never come singly. when it rains it pours. if you have seen a bear, every stump is a bear. a few days after the advent of miss holland came a pop-eyed, nervous, witty little fellow with a hand press, and started a weekly paper in our village. a newspaper in town! it was startling. blodgett from the first seemed not to relish the innovation, but public sentiment had set in too strongly in its favor for him to jeopardize his reputation by any serious denunciations. a real live paper in our midst was no small matter. everybody subscribed, and so did blodgett. it did, formerly, require a little brains to run a newspaper, and in those days an editor was looked upon as nearly or quite as learned and intelligent as a pedagogue; but everybody, however ignorant himself, could not fail to see that one represented progress, the other conservatism, and formerly most persons were ultra-conservatives. this, of course, gave the pedagogue a considerable advantage. of course blodgett and the editor soon became acquainted. the latter, a dapper yankee, full of "get-up-and-snap," and alert to make way for his paper, measured the pedagogue at a glance, seeing at once that a big bulk of strong sense and a will like iron were enwrapped in the stalwart hoosier's brain. one of two things must be done. blodgett must be vanquished or his influence secured. he must be prevailed on to endorse the _star_ (the new paper), or the _star_ must attack and destroy him at once. meantime the pedagogue grimly waited for an opportunity to demolish the editor. the big hoosier had no thought of compromise or currying favor. he would sacrifice the little sleek, stuck-up, big-headed, pop-eyed, roman-nosed yankee between his thumb nails as he would a flea. blodgett was a predestinarian of the old school, and was firmly imbedded in the belief that from all eternity it had been fore-ordained that he was to attend to just such fellows as the editor. still, the little lady from louisville took up so much of his time, and so distracted his mind, that no well laid plan of attack could be matured by the pedagogue. but when nations wish to fight it is easy to find a pretext for war. so with individuals. so with the editor and blodgett. they soon came to open hostilities and raised the black flag. what an uproar it did make in the county! this war seemed to come about quite naturally. it had its beginning in a debating society, where blodgett and the editor were leading antagonists. the question debated was, "which has done more for the cause of human liberty, napoleon or wellington?" two village men and two countrymen were the jury to decide which side offered the best argument. the jury was out all night and finally returned a split verdict, two of them standing for blodgett and two for the editor. of course it was town against country--the villagers for the editor, the country folk for the pedagogue. "huzza for the little editor!" cried the town people. "'rah for blodgett!" bawled the lusty country folk. the matter quickly came to blows at certain parts of the room. jim dowder caught phil gates by the hair and snatched him over two seats. sarah jane beaver hit martha ann randall in the mouth with a reticule full of hazel nuts. farmer heath choked store-keeper jones till his face was as blue as moderate-like indigo. old mrs. baber pulled off granny logan's wig and threw it at 'squire hank. but pete develin wound the thing up with a most disgraceful feat. he seized a bucket half full of water and deliberately poured it right on top of the editor's head. this was the beginning of trouble and fun. some lawsuits grew out of it and some hard fisticuffs. all the country-folk sided with blodgett--the towns-folk with the editor. the _star_ began to get dim, but the editor, shrewd dog, when he saw how things were turning, at once took up the question of napoleon _vs._ wellington in his journal, kindly and condescendingly offering his columns to blodgett for the discussion. the pedagogue foolishly accepted the challenge, and thus laid the stones upon which he was to fall. so the antagonists sharpened their goose quills and went at it. in sporting circles the proverb runs: never bet on a man's own trick. blodgett ought to have known better than to go to the editor's own ground to fight. i have always suspected that miss holland did much to shear our samson of his strength. she certainly did, wittingly or unwittingly, occupy too much of his time and thought. poor fellow! he would have given his life for her. he often looked at her, with his head turned a little one side, sadly, thoughtfully, as i have seen a terrier look at a rat hole, as though he half expected disappointment. the battle in the _star_ began in very earnest. it was a harvest for the shrewd journalist. everybody took the _star_ while the discussion was going on. everybody took sides, everybody got mad, and almost everybody fought more or less. even parson holland and the village preacher had high words and ceased to recognize each other. as for the young lady from louisville, she had little to say about the discussion, though blodgett always read to her each one of his articles first in ms. and then in the _star_ after it was printed. well, finally, in the very height of the war of words, the editor, in one of his articles, indulged in latin. as you are aware, when an editor gets right down to pan-rock latin, it's a sure sign he's after somebody. this instance was no exception to the general rule. he was baiting for the pedagogue. the pedagogue swallowed hook and all. "_nil de mortuis nisi bonum_," said the editor, "is my motto, which may be freely translated: 'if you can't say something good of the dead, keep your tarnal mouth shut about them!'" blodgett started as he read this, and for a full minute thereafter gazed steadily and inquiringly on vacancy. at length his great bony right hand opened slowly, then quickly shut like a vice. "i have him! i have him!" he muttered in a murderous tone, "i'll crush him to impalpable dust!" he forthwith went for a small latin lexicon and began busily searching its pages. it was saturday evening, and so busily did he labor at what was on his mind, he came near forgetting his regular weekly visit to miss holland. he did not forget it, however. he went; without pointing out to her the exact spot so vulnerable to his logical arrows, he told her in a confidential and confident way that his next letter would certainly make an end of the editor. he told her that, at last, he had the shallow puppy where he could expose him thoroughly. of course miss holland was curious to know more, but, with a grim smile, blodgett shook his head, saying that to insure utter victory he must keep his own counsel. the next day, though the sabbath, was spent by the pedagogue writing his crusher for the _star_. he wrote it and re-wrote it, over and over again. he almost ruined a latin grammar and the afore-mentioned lexicon. he worked till far in the night, revising and elaborating. his gray eyes burned like live coals--his jaws were set for victory. that week was one of intense excitement all over the county, for somehow it had come generally to be understood that the pedagogue's forthcoming essay was to completely defeat and disgrace the editor. work, for the time, was mostly suspended. the school children did about as they pleased, so that they were careful not to break rudely in upon blodgett's meditations. on the day of its issue the _star_ was in great demand. for several hours the office was crowded with eager subscribers, hungry for a copy. the 'squire and two constables had some trouble to keep down a genuine riot. the following is an exact copy of blodgett's great essay: mr. editor--sir: this, for two reasons, is my last article for your journal. firstly: my time and the exigencies of my profession will not permit me to further pursue a discussion which, on your part, has degenerated into the merest twaddle. secondly: it only needs, at my hands, an exposition of the false and fraudulent claims you make to classical attainments, to entirely annihilate your unsubstantial and wholly undeserved popularity in this community, and to send you back to peddling your bass wood hams and maple nutmegs. in order to put on a false show of erudition, you lug into your last article a familiar latin sentence. now, sir, if you had sensibly foregone any attempt at translation, you might, possibly, have made some one think you knew a shade more than a horse; but "whom the gods would destroy they first make mad." you say, "_de mortuis nil nisi bonum_" may be freely translated, "if you can't say something good of the dead, keep your tarnal mouth shut about them!" shades of horace and praxiteles! what would pindar or cæsar say? but i will not jest at the expense of sound scholarship. in conclusion, i simply submit the following _literal translation_ of the latin sentence in question: "_de_--of, _mortuis_--the dead, _nil_--nothing, _nisi_--but, _bonum_--goods," so that the whole quotation may be rendered as follows--"nothing (is left) of the dead but (their) goods." this is strictly according to the dictionary. here, so far as i am concerned, this discussion ends. your ob't serv't, t. blodgett. the country flared into flames of triumph. blodgett's friends stormed the village and "_bully-ragged_" everybody who had stood out for the editor. the little yankee, however, did not appear in the least disconcerted. his clear, blue, pop-eyes really seemed twinkling with half suppressed joy. blodgett put a copy of the _star_ into his pocket and stalked proudly, victoriously, out of town. after supper he dressed himself with scrupulous care and went over to see miss holland. rumor said they were engaged to be married, and i believe they were. on this particular evening the young lady was enchantingly pretty, dressed in white muslin and blue ribbons, her bright yellow hair flowing full and free down upon her plump shoulders, her face radiant with health and high spirits. she met the pedagogue at the door with more than usual warmth of welcome. he kissed her hand. all that he said to her that evening will never be known. it is recorded, however, that, when he had finished reading his essay to her, she got up and took from her travelling trunk a "book of foreign phrases," and examined it attentively for a time, after which she was somewhat uneasy and reticent. blodgett observed this, but he was too dignified to ask an explanation. the "last day" of blodgett's school was at hand. the "exhibition" came off on saturday. everybody went early. the pedagogue was in his glory. he did not know the end was so near. a little occurrence, toward evening, however, seemed to foreshadow it. blodgett called upon the stage a bright eyed, ruddy faced lad, his favorite pupil, to translate latin phrases. the boy, in his sunday best, and sleekly combed, came forth and bowed to the audience, his eyes luminous with vivacity. the little fellow was evidently precocious--a rapid if not a very accurate thinker--one of those children who always have an answer ready, right or wrong. after several preliminary questions, very promptly and satisfactorily disposed of, blodgett said: "now, sir, translate _monstrum horrendum informe ingens_." quick as lightning the child replied: "the horrid monster informed the indians!" fury! the face of the pedagogue grew livid. he stretched forth his hand and took the boy by the back of the neck. the curtain fell, but the audience could not help hearing what a flogging the boy got. it was terrible. even while this was going on a rumor rippled round the outskirts of the audience--for you must know that the "exhibition" was held under a bush arbor erected in front of the school house door--a rumor, i say, rippled round the outer fringe of the audience. some one had arrived from the village and copies of the _star_ were being freely distributed. looks of blank amazement flashed into people's faces. the name of the editor and that of prof. w----, of wabash college, began to fly in sharp whispers from mouth to mouth. the crowd reeled and swayed. men began to talk aloud. finally everybody got on his feet and confusion and hubbub reigned supreme. the exhibition was broken up. blodgett came out of the school house upon the stage when he heard the noise. he gazed around. some one thrust a copy of the _star_ into his hand. poor blodgett! we may all fall. the crowd resolved itself into an indignation meeting then and there, at which the following extract from the _star_ was read, followed by resolutions dismissing and disgracing blodgett: "the following letter is rich reading for those who have so long sworn by t. blodgett. we offer no comment: "editor of the star--dear sir: in answer to your letter requesting me to decide between yourself and mr. blodgett as to the correct english rendering of the latin sentence '_de mortuis nil nisi bonum_,' allow me to say that your free translation is a good one, if not very literal or elegant. as to mr. blodgett's, if the man is sincere, he is certainly crazy or wofully illiterate; no doubt the latter. "very respectfully, "w----, "_prof. languages, wabash college._" blodgett walked away from the school house into the dusky june woods. he knew that it was useless to contend against the dictum of a college professor. his friends knew so too, so they turned to rend him. he was dethroned and discrowned forever. he was boarding at my father's then, and i can never forget the haggard, wistful look his face wore when he came in that evening. i have since learned that he went straight from the scene of his disgrace to miss holland, whom he found inclined to laugh at him. the next week he collected what was due him and left for parts unknown. i was over at parson holland's, playing with his boys. the game was mumble peg. i had been rooting a peg out of the ground and my face was very dirty. we were under a cherry tree by a private hedge. presently miss holland came out and began, girl-like, to pluck and eat the half ripe cherries. the wind rustled her white dress and lifted the gold floss of her wonderful hair. the birds chattered and sang all round us; the white clouds lingered overhead like puffs of steam vanishing against the splendid blue of the sky. the fragrance of leaf and fruit and bloom was heavy on the air. the girl in white, the quiet glory of the day, the murmur of the unsteady wind stream flowing among the dark leaves of the orchard and hedge, the charm of the temperature, and over all, the delicious sound of running water from the brook hard by, all harmonized, and in a tender childish mood i quit the game and lolled at full length on the ground, watching the fascinating face of the young lady as she drifted about the pleasant places of the orchard. suddenly i saw her fix her eyes in a surprised way in a certain direction. i looked to see what had startled her, and there, half leaning over the hedge, stood blodgett. his face was ghastly in its pallor, and deep furrows ran down his jaws. his gray eyes had in them a look of longing blended with a sort of stern despair. it was only for a moment that his powerful frame toppled above the hedge, but he is indelibly pictured in my memory just as he then appeared. "good-bye, miss holland, good-bye." how dismally hollow his voice sounded! ah! it was pitiful. i neither saw nor heard of him after that. years have passed since then. blodgett is, likely, in his grave, but i never think of him without a sigh. yesterday i was in the old neighborhood, and, to my surprise, learned that the old log school house was still standing. so i set out alone to visit it. i found it rotten and shaky, serving as a sort of barn in which a farmer stows his oats, straw and corn fodder. the genius of learning has long since flown to finer quarters. the great old chimney had been torn down or had fallen, the broad boards of the roof, held on by weight poles, were deeply covered with moss and mould, and over the whole edifice hung a gloom--a mist of decay. i leaned upon a worm fence hard by and gazed through the long vacant side window, underneath which our writing shelf used to be, sorrowfully dallying with memory; not altogether sorrowfully either, for the glad faces of children that used to romp with me on the old play ground floated across my memory, clothed in the charming haze of distance, and encircled by the halo of tender affections. the wind sang as of old, and the bird songs had not changed a jot. slowly my whole being crept back to the past. the wonders of our progress were all forgotten. and then from within the old school room came a well remembered voice, with a certain nasal twang, repeating slowly and sternly the words: "_arma virumque cano_;" then there came a chime of silver tones--"school is out!--school is out!" and i started, to find that i was all alone by the rotting but blessed old throne and palace of the pedagogue. an idyl of the rod. it was as pretty a country cottage as is to be found, even now, in all the wabash valley, situated on a prominent bluff, overlooking the broad stretches of bottom land, and giving a fine view of the wide winding river. the windows and doors of this cottage were draped in vines, among which the morning glory and the honeysuckle were the most luxuriant; while on each side of the gravelled walk, that led from the front portico to the dooryard gate, grew clusters of pinks, sweet-williams and larkspurs. the house was painted white, and had green window shutters--old fashioned, to be sure, but cosy, homelike and tasty withal. everything pertaining to and surrounding the place had an air of methodical neatness, that betokened great care and scrupulous order on the part of the inmates. about the hour of six on a monday morning, in the month of may, a fine, hearty, intelligent looking lad of twelve years walked slowly up the path which led from the old orchard to the house. he was dressed in loose trowsers of bottle green jeans, a jacket of the same, heavy boots and a well worn wool hat. the boy's shoulders stooped a little, and a slight hump discovered itself at the upper portion of his back. his face was strikingly handsome, being fair, bright, healthful, and marked with signs of great precocity of intellect, albeit it wore just now an indescribable, faintly visible shade, as of innocent perplexity, or, possibly, grief. his mind was evidently not at ease, but the varying shadows that chased each other across the mild depths of his clear, vivacious eyes would have stumped a physiognomist. between a laugh and a cry, but more like a cry; between defiance and utter shame, but more like the latter; his cheeks and lips took on every shade of pallor and of flush. he shrugged his shoulders as he moved along, and cast rapid glances in every direction, as if afraid of being seen. "whippoo-tee, tippoo-tee-tee-e!" sang a great cardinal red bird in the apple tree over his head. he flung a stone at the bird with terrible energy, but missed it. the mistress of the cottage was at this time in the kitchen preparing for the week's washing, for do not all good hoosier housewives wash on monday? she was a middle aged, stoutly built, healthy matron, sandy haired, slightly freckled, blue eyed and quick in her movements. usually smiling and happy, it was painful to see how she struggled now to master the emotions of great grief and sadness that constantly arose in her bosom, like spectres that would not be driven away. a bright eyed, golden haired lass of sixteen was in the breakfast room washing the dishes and singing occasional snatches from a mournful ditty. it was sad, indeed, to see a cloud of sorrow on a face so fresh and sweet. mr. coulter, the head of the family, and owner of the cottage and its lands, stood near the centre of the sitting room with his hands crossed behind him, gazing fixedly and sadly on the picture of a sweet child holding a white kitten in its lap, which picture hung on the wall over against the broad fire-place. a look of sorrow betrayed itself even in the dark, stern visage of the man. he drew down his shaggy eyebrows and occasionally pulled his grizzled moustache into his mouth and chewed it fiercely. evidently he was chafing under his grief. the cottage windows were wide open, as is the western custom in fine weather, and the fragrance of spice wood and sassafras floated in on the flood tide of pleasant air, while from the big old locust tree down by the fence fell the twittering prelude to a finch's song. a green line of willows and a thin, pendulous stratum of fog marked the way of the river, plainly visible from the west window, and through the white haze flocks of teal and wood ducks cut swiftly in their downward flight to the water. a golden flicker sang and hammered on the gate-post the while he eyed a sparrow-hawk that wheeled and screamed high over head. the dew was like little mirrors in the grass. the lad entered the kitchen and said to his mother, in a voice full of tenderness, though barely audible: "mammy, where's pap?" "in the front room, billy," replied the matron solemnly, quaveringly. passing into the breakfast room, billy looked at his sister and a flash of sympathetic sorrow played back and forth from the eyes of one to those of the other; then he went straight into the sitting room and handed something to mr. coulter. it was a moment of silence and suspense. out in the orchard the cherry and apple blooms were falling like pink and white snow. the man looked down at his boy sadly, sorrowfully, regretfully. he drew his face into a stern frown. the lad looked up into his father's eyes timidly, ruefully, strangely. it was a living tableau no artist could reproduce. it was the moment before a crisis. "billy," said the father gravely, "i took your mother and sister to church yesterday." "yes, sir," said billy. "and left you to see to things," continued the man. "yes, sir," replied the boy, gazing through the window at the flicker as it hitched down the gate-post and finally dropped into the grass with a shrill chirp. "and you didn't water them pigs!" "o-o-o! oh, sir! geeroody! o me! ouch! lawsy! lawsy! mercy me!" the slender scion of an apple tree, in the hand of mr. coulter, rose and fell, cutting the air like a rapier, and up from the jacket of the lad, like incense from an altar, rose a cloud of dust mingled with the nap of jeans. down in the young clover of the meadow the larks and sparrows sang cheerily; the gnats and flies danced up and down in the sunshine, the fresh soft young leaves of the vines rustled like satin, and all was merry indeed! billy's eyes were turned upward to the face of his father in appealing agony; but still the switch, with a sharp hiss, cut the air, falling steadily and mercilessly on his shoulders. all along the green banks of the river the willows shook their shining fingers at the lifting fog, and the voices of children going by to the distant school smote the sweet may wind. "whippee! whippee-tippee-tee!" sang the cardinal bird. "o pap! ouch! o-o-o! i'll not forget to water the pigs no more!" "s'pect you won't, neither!" said the man. the wind, by a sudden puff, lifted into the room a shower of white bloom petals from a sweet apple tree, letting them fall gracefully upon the patchwork carpet, the while a ploughman whistled plaintively in a distant field. "crackee! o pap! ouch! o-o-o! you're a killin' me!" "shet your mouth 'r i'll split ye to the backbone in a second! show ye how to run off fishin' with ed jones and neglect them pigs! take every striffin of hide off'n ye!" how many delightful places in the woods, how many cool spots beside the murmuring river, would have been more pleasant to billy than the place he just then occupied! he would have swapped hides with the very pigs he had forgot to water. "o, land! o, me! geeroody me!" yelled the lad. "them poor pigs!" rejoined the father. still the dust rose and danced in the level jet of sunlight that fell athwart the room from the east window, and the hens out at the barn cackled and sang for joy over new laid eggs stowed away in cosy places. at one time during the falling of the rod the girl quit washing the dishes, and thrusting her head into the kitchen said, in a subdued tone: "my land! mammy, ain't bill a gittin' an awful one this load o' poles?" "you're moughty right!" responded the matron, solemnly. along toward the last mr. coulter tip-toed at every stroke. the switch actually screamed through the air. billy danced and bawled and made all manner of serio-comic faces and contortions. "now go, sir," cried the man, finally tossing the frizzled stump of the switch out through the window. "go now, and next time i'll be bound you water them pigs!" and, while the finch poured a cataract of melody from the locust tree, billy went. poor boy! that was a terrible thrashing, and to make it worse, it had been promised to him on the evening before, so that he had been dreading it and shivering over it all night! now, as he walked through the breakfast room, his sister looked at him in a commiserating way, but on passing through the kitchen he could not catch the eye of his mother. finally he stood in the free open air in front of the saddle closet. it was just then that a speckled rooster on the barn yard fence flapped his wings and crowed lustily. a turkey cock was strutting on the grass by the old cherry tree. billy opened the door of the closet. "a boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." billy peeped into the saddle closet and then cast a glance around him, as if to see if any one was near. at length, during a pleasant lull in the morning wind, and while the low, tenderly mellow flowing of the river was distinctly audible, and the song of the finch increased in volume, and the bleating of new born lambs in the meadow died in fluttering echoes under the barn, and while the fragrance of apple blooms grew fainter, and while the sun, now flaming just a little above the eastern horizon, launched a shower of yellow splendors over him from head to foot, he took from under his jacket behind a doubled sheep skin with the wool on, which, with an ineffable smile, he tossed into the closet. then, as the yellow flicker rose rapidly from the grass, billy walked off, whistling the air of that once popular ballad-- "o give me back my fifteen cents, and give me back my money," &c. transcriber's notes: passages in italics or underlined are indicated by _italics_. inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original. punctuation has been corrected without note. proofreaders _michael_ _o'halloran_ _gene stratton-porter_ copyright , _contents_ page i. happy home in sunrise alley ii. moccasins and lady slippers iii. s.o.s. iv. "bearer of morning" v. little brother vi. the song of a bird vii. peaches' preference in blessings viii. big brother ix. james jr. and malcolm x. the wheel of life xi. the advent of nancy and peter xii. feminine reasoning xiii. a safe proposition xiv. an orphans' home xv. a particular nix xvi. the fingers in the pie xvii. initiations in an ancient and honourable brotherhood xviii. malcolm and the hermit thrush xix. establishing protectorates xx. mickey's miracle chapter i _happy home in sunrise alley_ "_aw_ kid, _come on! be square!_" "_you look out what you say to me._" "_but ain't you going to keep your word?_" "_mickey, do you want your head busted?_" "_naw! but i did your work so you could loaf; now i want the pay you promised me._" "_let's see you get it! better take it from me, hadn't you?_" "_you're twice my size; you know i can't, jimmy!_" "_then you know it too, don't you?_" "_now look here kid, it's 'cause you're getting so big that folks will be buying quicker of a little fellow like me; so you've laid in the sun all afternoon while i been running my legs about off to sell your papers; and when the last one is gone, i come and pay you what they sold for; now it's up to you to do what you promised._" "_why didn't you keep it when you had it?_" "_'cause that ain't business! i did what i promised fair and square; i was giving you a chance to be square too._" "_oh! well next time you won't be such a fool!_" jimmy turned to step from the gutter to the sidewalk. two things happened to him simultaneously: mickey became a projectile. he smashed with the force of a wiry fist on the larger boy's head, while above both, an athletic arm gripped him by the collar. douglas bruce was hurrying to see a client before he should leave his office; but in passing a florist's window his eye was attracted by a sight so beautiful he paused an instant, considering. it was spring; the indians were coming down to multiopolis to teach people what the wood gods had put into their hearts about flower magic. the watcher scarcely had realized the exquisite loveliness of a milk-white birch basket filled with bog moss of silvery green, in which were set maidenhair and three yellow lady slippers, until beside it was placed another woven of osiers blood red, moss carpeted and bearing five pink moccasin flowers, faintly fined with red lavender; between them rosemary and white ladies' tresses. a flush crept over the lean face of the scotsman. he saw a vision. over those baskets bent a girl, beautiful as the flowers. plainly as he visualized the glory of the swamp, douglas bruce pictured the woman he loved above the orchids. while he lingered, his heart warmed, glowing, his wonderful spring day made more wonderful by a vision not adequately describable, on his ear fell mickey's admonition: "be square!" he sent one hasty glance toward the gutter. he saw a sullen-faced newsboy of a size that precluded longer success at paper selling, because public sympathy goes to the little fellows. before him stood one of these same little fellows, lean, tow-haired, and blue-eyed, clean of face, neat in dress; with a peculiar modulation in his voice that caught douglas squarely in the heart. he turned again to the flowers, but as his eyes revelled in beauty, his ears, despite the shuffle of passing feet, and the clamour of cars, lost not one word of what was passing in the gutter, while with each, slow anger surged higher. mickey, well aware that his first blow would be all the satisfaction coming to him, put the force of his being into his punch. at the same instant douglas thrust forth a hand that had pulled for oxford and was yet in condition. "aw, you big stiff!" gasped jimmy, twisting an astonished neck to see what was happening above and in his rear so surprisingly. had that little mickey o'halloran gone mad to hit _him?_ mickey standing back, his face upturned, was quite as surprised as jimmy. "what did he promise you for selling his papers?" demanded a deep voice. "twen--ty-_five_," answered mickey, with all the force of inflection in his power. "and if you heard us, mister, you heard him own up he was owing it." "i did," answered douglas bruce tersely. then to jimmy: "hand him over twenty-five cents." jimmy glared upward, but what he saw and the tightening of the hand on his collar were convincing. he drew from his pocket five nickels, dropping them into the outstretched hand of douglas, who passed them to mickey, the soiled fingers of whose left hand closed over them, while his right snatched off his cap. fear was on his face, excitement was in his eyes, triumph was in his voice, while a grin of comradeship curved his lips. "many thanks, boss," he said. "and would you add to them by keeping that strangle hold 'til you give me just two seconds the start of him?" he wheeled, darting through the crowd. "mickey!" cried douglas bruce. "mickey, wait!" but mickey was half a block away turning into an alley. the man's grip tightened a twist. "you'll find mickey's admonition good," he said. "i advise you to take it. 'be square!' and two things: first, i've got an eye on the mickeys of this city. if i ever again find you imposing on him or any one else, i'll put you where you can't. understand? second, who is he?" "mickey!" answered the boy. "mickey who?" asked douglas. "how'd i know?" queried jimmy. "you don't know his name?" pursued douglas. "naw, i don't!" said the boy. "where does he live?" continued douglas. "i don't know," answered jimmy. "if you have a charge to prefer, i'll take that youngster in for you," offered a policeman passing on his beat. "he was imposing on a smaller newsboy. i made him quit," douglas explained. "that's all." "oh!" said the officer, withdrawing his hand. away sped jimmy; with him went all chance of identifying mickey, but bruce thought he would watch for him. he was such an attractive little fellow. mickey raced through the first alley, down a street, then looked behind. jimmy was not in sight. "got _him_ to dodge now," he muttered. "if he ever gets a grip on me he'll hammer me meller! i'm going to have a bulldog if i half starve to buy it. maybe the pound would give me one. i'll see to-morrow." he looked long, then started homeward, which meant to jump on a car and ride for miles, then follow streets and alleys again. finally he entered a last alley that faced due east. a compass could not have pointed more directly toward the rising sun; while there was at least half an hour each clear morning when rickety stairs, wavering fire-escapes, flapping washes, and unkept children were submerged in golden light. long ago it had been named. by the time of mickey's advent sunrise alley was as much a part of the map of multiopolis as biddle boulevard, and infinitely more pleasing in name. he began climbing interminable stairs. at the top of the last flight he unlocked his door to enter his happy home; for mickey had a home, and it was a happy one. no one else lived in it, while all it contained was his. mickey knew three things about his father: he had had one, he was not square, and he drank himself to death. he could not remember his father, but he knew many men engaged in the occupation of his passing, so he well understood why his mother never expressed any regrets. vivid in his mind was her face, anxious and pale, but twinkling; her body frail and overtaxed, but hitting back at life uncomplainingly. bad things happened, but she explained how they might have been worse; so fed on this sop, and watching her example, mickey grew like her. the difficult time was while she sat over a sewing machine to be with him. when he grew stout-legged and self-reliant, he could be sent after the food, to carry the rent, and to sell papers, then she could work by the day, earn more, have better health, while what both brought home paid the rent of the top room back, of as bad a shamble as a self-respecting city would allow; kept them fed satisfyingly if not nourishingly, and allowed them to slip away many a nickel for the rainy day that she always explained would come. and it did. one morning she could not get up; the following mickey gave all their savings to a man with a wagon to take her to a nice place to rest. the man was sure about it being a nice place. she had told mickey so often what to do if this ever happened, that when it did, all that was necessary was to remember what he had been told. after it was over and the nice place had been paid for, with the nickels and the sewing machine, with enough left for the first month's rent, mickey faced life alone. but he knew exactly what to do, because she had told him. she had even written it down lest he forget. it was so simple that only a boy who did not mind his mother could have failed. the formula worked perfectly. _morning: get up early. wash your face, brush your clothes. eat what was left from supper for breakfast. put your bed to air, then go out with your papers. don't be afraid to offer them, or to do work of any sort you have strength for; but be deathly afraid to beg, to lie, or to steal, while if you starve, freeze, or die, never, never touch any kind of drink_. any fellow could do that; mickey told dozens of them so. he got along so well he could pay the rent each month, dress in whole clothing, have enough to eat, often cooked food on the little gasoline stove, if he were not too tired to cook it, and hide nickels in the old place daily. he had a bed and enough cover; he could get water in the hall at the foot of the flight of stairs leading to his room for his bath, to scrub the floor, and wash the dishes. from two years on, he had helped his mother with every detail of her housekeeping; he knew exactly what must be done. it was much more dreadful than he thought it would be to come home alone, and eat supper by himself, but if he sold papers until he was almost asleep where he stood, he found he went to sleep as soon as he reached home and had supper. he did not awaken until morning; then he could hurry his work and get ahead of the other boys, and maybe sell to their customers. it might be bad to be alone, but always he could remember her, and make her seem present by doing every day exactly what she told him. then, after all, being alone was a very wonderful thing compared with having parents who might beat and starve him and take the last penny he earned, not leaving enough to keep him from being hungry half the time. when mickey looked at some of the other boys, and heard many of them talk, he almost forgot the hourly hunger for his mother, in thankfulness that he did not have a father and that his mother had been herself. mickey felt sure that if she had been any one of the mothers of most other boys he knew, he would not have gone home at all. he could endure cold, hunger, and loneliness, but he felt that he had no talent for being robbed, beaten, and starved; while lately he had fully decided upon a dog for company, when he could find the right one. mickey unlocked his door, entering for his water bucket. such was his faith in his environment that he relocked the door while he went to the water tap. returning to the room he again turned the key, then washed his face and hands. he looked at the slip nailed on the wall where she had put it. he knew every word of it, but always it comforted him to see her familiar writing, to read aloud what to do next as if it were her voice speaking to him. evening: "make up your bed." mickey made his. "wash any dirty dishes." he had a few so he washed them. "sweep your floor." he swept. "always prepare at least one hot thing for supper." he shook the gasoline tank to the little stove. it sounded full enough, so he went to the cupboard his mother had made from a small packing case. there were half a loaf of bread wrapped in its oiled paper, with two bananas discarded by joe of the fruit stand. he examined his pocket, although he knew perfectly what it contained. laying back enough to pay for his stock the next day, then counting in his twenty-five cents, he had forty cents left. he put thirty in the rent box, starting out with ten. five paid for a bottle of milk, three for cheese, two for an egg for breakfast. then he went home. at the foot of the fire-escape that he used in preference to the stairs, he met a boy he knew tugging a heavy basket. "take an end for a nickel," said the boy. "thanks," said mickey. "it's my time to dine. 'sides, i been done once to-day." "if you'll take it, i'll pay first," he offered. "how far?" questioned mickey. "oh, right over here," said the boy indefinitely. "sure!" said mickey. "cross my palm with the silver." the nickel changed hands. mickey put the cheese and egg in his pocket, the milk in the basket, then started. the place where they delivered the wash made mickey feel almost prosperous. he picked up his milk bottle and stepped from the door, when a long, low wail that made him shudder, reached his ear. "what's that?" he asked the woman. "a stiff was carried past to-day. mebby they ain't took the kids yet." mickey went slowly down the stairs, his face sober. that was what his mother had feared for him. that was why she had trained him to care for himself, to save the pennies, so that when she was taken away, he still would have a home. sounded like a child! he was halfway up the long flight of stairs before he realized that he was going. he found the door at last, then, stood listening. he heard long-drawn, heart-breaking moaning. presently he knocked. a child's shriek was the answer. mickey straightway opened the door. the voice guided him to a heap of misery in a corner. "what's the matter kid?" inquired mickey huskily. the bundle stirred, while a cry issued. he glanced around the room. what he saw reassured him. he laid hold of the tatters, beginning to uncover what was under them. he dropped his hands, stepping back, when a tangled yellow mop and a weazened, bloated girl-child face peered at him, with wildly frightened eyes. "if you'd put the wind you're wastin' into words, we'd get something done quicker," advised mickey. the tiny creature clutched the filthy covers, still staring. "did you come to '_get_' me?" she quavered. "no," said mickey. "i heard you from below so i came to see what hurt you. ain't you got folks?" she shook her head: "they took granny in a box and they said they'd come right back and '_get_' me. oh, please, please don't let them!" "why they'd be good to you," said mickey largely. "they'd give you"--he glanced at all the things the room lacked, then enumerated--"a clean bed, lots to eat, a window you could be seeing from, a doll, maybe." "no! no!" she cried. "granny always said some day she'd go and leave me; then they'd '_get_' me. she's gone! the big man said they'd come right back. oh don't let them! oh hide me quick!" "well--well--! if you're so afraid, why don't you cut and hide yourself then?" he asked. "my back's bad. i can't walk," the child answered. "oh lord!" said mickey. "when did you get hurt?" "it's always been bad. i ain't ever walked," she said. "well!" breathed mickey, aghast. "and knowing she'd have to leave you some day, your granny went and scared you stiff about the home folks taking you, when it's the only place for you to be going? talk about women having the sense to vote!" "i won't go! i won't! i'll scratch them! i'll bite them!" then in swift change: "oh boy, don't. please, please don't let them '_get_' me." mickey took both the small bony hands reaching for him. he was so frightened with their hot, tremulous clutch, that he tried to pull away, dragging the tiny figure half to light and bringing from it moans of pain. "oh my back! oh you're hurting me! oh don't leave me! oh boy, oh _dear_ boy, please don't leave me!" when she said "oh dear boy," mickey heard the voice of his mother in an hourly phrase. he crept closer, enduring the touch of the grimy claws. "my name's mickey," he said. "what's your?" "peaches," she answered. "peaches, when i'm good. crippled brat, when i'm bad." "b'lieve if you had your chance you could look the peaches," said mickey, "but what were you bad for?" "so's she'd hit me," answered peaches. "but if me just pulling a little hurt you so, what happened when she hit you?" asked mickey. "like knives stuck into me," said peaches. "then what did you be bad for?" marvelled mickey. "didn't you ever get so tired of one thing you'd take something that hurt, jus' for a change?" "my eye!" said mickey. "i don't know one fellow who'd do that, peaches." "mickey, hide me. oh hide me! don't let them '_get_' me!" she begged. "why kid, you're crazy," said mickey. "now lemme tell you. where they'll take you _looks_ like a nice place. honest it does. i've seen lots of them. you get a clean soft bed all by yourself, three big hot meals a day, things to read, and to play with. honest peaches, you do! i wouldn't tell you if it wasn't so. if i'll stay with you 'til they come, then go with you to the place 'til you see how nice it is, will you be good and go?" she burrowed in the covers, screeching again. "you're scared past all reason," said mickey. "you don't know anything. but maybe the orphings' homes ain't so good as they look. if they are, why was mother frightened silly about them getting _me?_ always she said she just _had_ to live until i got so big they wouldn't 'get' me. and i kept them from getting me by doing what she told me. wonder if i could keep them from getting you? there's nothing of you. if i could move you there, i bet i could feed you more than your granny did, while i know i could keep you cleaner. you could have my bed, a window to look from, and clean covers." mickey was thinking aloud. "having you to come home to would be lots nicer than nothing. you'd beat a dog all hollow, 'cause you can talk. if i could get you there, i believe i could be making it. yes, i believe i could do a lot better than this, and i believe i'd like you, peaches, you are such a game little kid." "she could lift me with one hand," she panted. "oh mickey, take me! hurry!" "lemme see if i can manage you," said mickey. "have you got to be took any particular way?" "mickey, ain't you got folks that beat you?" she asked. "i ain't got folks now," said mickey, "and they didn't beat me when i had them. i'm all for myself--and if you say so, i guess from now on, i'm for you. want to go?" her arms wound tightly around his neck. her hot little face pressed against it. "put one arm 'cross my shoulders, an' the other round my legs," she said. "but i got to go down a lot of stairs; it's miles and miles," said mickey, "and i ain't got but five cents. i spent it all for grub. peaches, are you hungry?" "no!" she said stoutly. "mickey, hurry!" "but honest, i can't carry you all that way. i would if i could, peaches, honest i would." "oh mickey, dear mickey, hurry!" she begged. "get down and cover up 'til i think," he ordered. "say you look here! if i tackle this job do you want a change bad enough to be mean for me?" "just a little bit, maybe," said peaches. "but i won't hit you," explained mickey. "you can if you want to," she said. "i won't cry. give me a good crack now, an' see if i do." "you make me sick at my stummick," said mickey. "lord, kid! snuggle down 'til i see. i'm going to get you there some way." mickey went back to the room where he helped deliver the clothes basket. "how much can you earn the rest of the night?" he asked the woman. "mebby ten cents," she said. "well, if you will loan me that basket and ten cents, and come with me an hour, there's that back and just a dollar in it for you, lady," he offered. she turned from him with a sneering laugh. "honest, lady!" said mickey. "this is how it is: that crying got me so i went anthony comstockin'. there's a kid with a lame back all alone up there, half starved and scared fighting wild. we could put her in that basket, she's just a handful, and take her to a place she wants to go. we could ride most of the way on the cars and then a little walk, and get her to a cleaner, better room, where she'd be taken care of, and in an hour you'd be back with enough nickels in your pocket to make a great, big, round, shining, full-moon cartwheel. dearest lady, doesn't the prospect please you?" "it would," she said, "if i had the cartwheel now." "in which case you wouldn't go," said mickey. "dearest lady, it isn't business to pay for undone work." "and it isn't business to pay your employer's fare to get to your job either," she retorted. "no, that beats business a mile," said mickey. "that's an _investment_. you invest ten cents and an hour's time on a gamble. now look what you get, lady. a nice restful ride on the cars. your ten cents back, a whole, big, shining, round, lady-liberty bird, if you trust in god, as the coin says the bird does, and more'n that, dearest lady, you go to bed feeling your pinfeathers sprouting, 'cause you've done a kind deed to a poor crippled orphing." "if i thought you really had the money--" she said. "honest, lady, i got the money," said mickey, "and 'sides, i got a surprise party for you. when you get back you may go to that room and take every scrap that's in it. now come on; you're going to be enough of a sporting lady to try a chance like that, ain't you? may be a gold mine up there, for all i know. put something soft in the bottom of the basket while i fetch the kid." mickey ran up the stairs. "now peaches," he said, "i guess i got it fixed. i'm going to carry you down; a nice lady is going to put you in a big basket, then we'll take you to the cars and so get you to my house; but you got to promise, 'cross your heart, you won't squeal, nor say a word, 'cause the police will 'get' you sure, if you do. they'll think the woman is your ma, so it will be all right. see?" peaches nodded. mickey wrapped her in the remnants of a blanket, carried her downstairs and laid her in the basket. by turning on her side and drawing up her feet, she had more room than she needed. "they won't let us on the cars," said the woman. "dearest lady, wait and see," said mickey. "now peaches, shut your eyes, also your mouth. don't you take a chance at saying a word. if they won't stand the basket, we'll carry you, but it would hurt you less, while it would come in handy when we run out of cars. you needn't take coin only for going, dearest lady; you'll be silver plated coming back." "you little fool," said the woman, but she stooped to her end of the basket. "ready, peaches," said mickey, "and if it hurts, 'member it will soon be over, and you'll be where nobody will ever hurt you again." "hurry!" begged the child. down the long stairs they went and to the car line. crowded car after car whirled past; finally one came not so full, it stopped to let off passengers. mickey was at the conductor's elbow. "please mister, a lame kid," he pleaded. "we want to move her. please, please help us on." "can't!" said the conductor. "take a taxi." "broke my limousine," said mickey. "aw come on mister; ain't you got kids of your own?" "get out of the way!" shouted the conductor. "hang on de back wid the basket," cried the woman. with peaches laid over her shoulder, she swung to the platform, and found a seat, while mickey grabbed the basket and ran to the back screaming after her: "i got my fare; only pay for yourself." mickey told the conductor to tell the lady where to leave the car. when she stepped down he was ready with the basket. peaches, panting and in cold perspiration with pain, was laid in it. "lovely part of the village, ain't it, lady?" said mickey. "see the castles of the millyingaires piercing the sky; see their automobiles at the curb; see the lovely ladies and gents promenading the streets enjoying the spring?" every minute mickey talked to keep the woman from noticing how far she was going; but soon she growled: "how many miles furder is it?" "just around a corner, up an alley, and down a side street a step. nothing at all! nice promenade for a spry, lovely young lady like you. evening walk, smell spring in the air. 'most there now, peaches." "where are ye takin' this kid? how'll i ever get back to the car line?" asked the woman. mickey ignored the first question. "why, i'll be eschorting you of course, dearest lady," he said. at the point of rebellion, mickey spoke. "now set the basket down right here," he ordered. "i'll be back in no time with the lady-bird." he returned in a few minutes. into her outstretched palm he counted twenty-two nickels, picked the child from the basket, darted around a corner calling, "back in a minute," and was gone. "now peaches, we got some steps to climb," he said. "grip my neck tight and stand just a little more." "i ain't hurt!" she asserted. "i like seein' things. i never saw so much before. i ain't hurt--much!" "your face, your breathing, and the sweating on your lips, is a little disproving," said mickey, "but i'll have to take your word for it, 'cause i can't help it; but it'll soon be over so you may rest." mickey climbed a flight, then sat down until he could manage another. the last flight he rested three times. one reason he laid peaches on the floor was because he couldn't reach the bed. after a second's pause he made a light, and opened the milk bottle. "connect with that," he said. "i got to take the lady back to the cars." "oh!" cried the connected child. "oh mickey, how good!" "go slow!" said mickey. "you better save half to have with some bread for your supper. now i got to leave you a little bit, but you needn't be afraid, 'cause i'll lock you in. nobody will '_get_' you here." "now for the cars," said mickey to his helper. "what did them folks say?" she asked. "tickled all over," answered mickey promptly. "that bundle of dirty rags!" she scoffed. "they are going to throw away the rags and wash her," said mickey. "she's getting her supper now." "sounds like lying," said the woman, "but mebby it ain't. save me, i can't see why anybody would want a kid at any time, let alone a reekin' bunch of skin and crooked bones." "you've known folks to want a dog, ain't you?" said mickey. "sure something that can think and talk back must be a lot more amusing. i see the parks are full of the rich folks dolling up the dogs, feeding them candy and sending them out for an airing in their automobiles; so it's up to the poor people to look after the homeless children, isn't it?" "do you know the folks that took her?" "sure i do!" said mickey. "do you live close?" she persisted. "yes! i'm much obliged for your help, dearest lady. when you get home, go up to the last attic back, and if there is anything there you want, help yourself. peaches don't need it now, while there's no one else. thank you, and good-bye. don't fly before your wings grow, 'cause i know you'll feel like trying to-night." mickey hurried back to his room. the milk bottle lay on the floor, the child asleep beside it. the boy gazed at her. there were strange and peculiar stirrings in his lonely little heart. she was so grimy he scarcely could tell what she looked like, but the grip of her tiny hot hands was on him. presently he laughed. "well fellers! look what i've annexed! and i was hunting a dog! well, she's lots better. she won't eat much more, she can talk, and she'll be something alive waiting when i come home. gee, i'm _glad_ i found her." mickey set the washtub on the floor near the sleeping child, and filling the dishpan with water, put it over the gasoline burner. then he produced soap, a towel, and comb. he looked at the child again, and going to the box that contained his mother's clothing he hunted out a nightdress. then he sat down to wait for the water to heat. the door slammed when he went after a bucket of cold water, and awakened the girl. she looked at him, then at his preparations. "i ain't going to be washed," she said. "it'll hurt me. put me on the bed." "put you on my bed, dirty like you are?" cried mickey. "i guess not! you are going to be a soaped lady. if it hurts, you can be consoling yourself thinking it will be the last time, 'cause after this you'll be washed every day so you won't need skinning alive but once." "i won't! i won't!" she cried. "now looky here!" said mickey. "i'm the boss of this place. if i say wash, it's _wash!_ see! i ain't going to have a dirty girl with mats in her hair living with me. you begged me and begged me to bring you, now you'll be cleaned up or you'll go back. which is it, back or soap?" the child stared at him, then around the room. "soap," she conceded. "that's a lady," said mickey. "course it's soap! all clean and sweet smelling like a flower. see my mammy's nice white nightie for you? how bad is your back, peaches? can you sit up?" "a little while," she answered. "my legs won't go." "never you mind," said mickey. "i'll work hard and get a doctor, so some day they will." "they won't ever," insisted peaches. "granny carried me to the big doctors once, an' my backbone is weak, an' i won't ever walk, they all said so." "poot! doctors don't know everything," scorned mickey. "that was _long_ ago, maybe. by the time i can earn enough to get you a dress and shoes, a doctor will come along who's found out how to make backs over. there's one that put different legs on a dog. i read about it in the papers i sold. we'll save our money and get him to put another back on you. just a bully back." "oh mickey, will you?" she cried. "sure!" said mickey. "now you sit up and i'll wash you like mammy always did me." peaches obeyed. mickey soaped a cloth, knelt beside her; then he paused. "say peaches, when was your hair combed last?" "i don't know, mickey," she answered. "there's more dirt in it than there is on your face." "if you got shears, just cut it off," she suggested. "sure!" said mickey. he produced shears and lifting string after string cut all of them the same distance from her head. "girls' shouldn't be short, like boys'," he explained. "now hang your head over the edge of the tub and shut your eyes so i can wash it," he ordered. mickey soaped and scoured until the last tangle was gone, then rinsed and partly dried the hair, which felt soft and fine to his fingers. "b'lieve it's going to curl," he said. "always did," she answered. mickey emptied and rinsed the tub at the drain, then started again on her face and ears, which he washed thoroughly. he pinned a sheet around her neck, then she divested herself of the rags. mickey lifted her into the tub, draped the sheet over the edge, poured in the water, and handed her the soap. "now you scour, while i get supper," he said. peaches did her best. mickey locked her in and went after more milk. he wanted to add several extras, but remembering the awful hole the dollar had made in his finances, he said grimly: "no-sir-ee! with a family to keep, and likely to need a doctor at any time and a carrel back to buy, there's no frills for mickey. seeing what she ain't had, she ought to be thankful for just milk." so he went back, lifted peaches from the tub and laid her on the floor, where he dried her with the sheet. then he put the nightdress over her head, she slipped her arms in the sleeves, and he stretched her on his bed. she was so lost in the garment he tied a string under her arms to hold it, and cut off the sleeves at her elbows. the pieces he saved for washcloths. mickey spread his sheet over her, rolled the bed before the window where she could have air, see sky and housetops, then brought her supper. it was a cup of milk with half the bread broken in, and a banana. peaches was too tired to eat, so she drank the milk while mickey finished the remainder. then he threw her rags from the window, and spread his winter covers on the floor for his bed. soon both of them were asleep. chapter ii _moccasins and lady slippers_ "no messenger boy for those," said douglas bruce as he handed the florist the price set on the lady slippers. "leave them where people may enjoy them until i call." as he turned, another man was inquiring about the orchids; he too preferred the slippers; but when he was told they were taken, he had wanted the moccasins all the time, anyway. the basket was far more attractive. he refused delivery, returning to his waiting car smiling over the flowers. he also saw a vision of the woman into whose sated life he hoped to bring a breath of change with the wonderful gift. he saw the basket in her hands, and thrilled in anticipation of the favours her warmed heart might prompt her to bestow upon him. in the mists of early morning the pink orchids surrounded by rosemary and ladies' tresses had glowed and gleamed from the top of a silvery moss mound four feet deep, under a big tamarack in a swamp, through the bog of which the squaw plunged to her knees at each step to uproot them. in the evening glow of electricity, snapped from their stems, the beautiful basket untouched, the moccasins lay on the breast of a woman of fashion, while with every second of contact with the warmth of her body, they drooped lower, until clasped in the arms of her lover, they were quite crushed, then flung from an automobile to be ground to pulp by passing wheels. the slippers had a happier fate. douglas bruce carried them reverently. he was sure he knew the swamp in which they grew. as he went his way, he held the basket, velvet-white, in strong hands, swaying his body with the motion of the car lest one leaf be damaged. when he entered the hall, down the stairs came leslie winton. "why douglas, i wasn't expecting you," she said. douglas bruce held up the basket. "joy!" she cried. "oh joy unspeakable! who has been to the tamarack swamp?" "a squaw was leaving lowry's as he put these in his window," answered douglas. "bring them," she said. he followed to a wide side veranda, set the basket on a table in a cool spot, then drew a chair near it. leslie winton seated herself, leaning on the table to study the orchids. unconsciously she made the picture douglas had seen. she reached up slim fingers in delicate touchings here and there of moss, corolla and slipper. "never in all my days--" she said. "never in all my days--i shall keep the basket always, and the slippers as long as i possibly can. see this one! it isn't fully open. i should have them for a week at least. please hand me a glass of water." douglas started to say that ice water would be too cold, but with the wisdom of a wise man waited; and as always, was joyed by the waiting. for the girl took the glass and cupping her hands around it sat talking to the flowers, and to him, as she warmed the water with heat from her body. douglas was so delighted with the unforeseen second that had given him first chance at the orchids, and so this unexpected call, that he did not mind the attention she gave the flowers. he had reasons for not being extravagant; but seldom had a like sum brought such returns. he began drawing interest as he watched leslie. never had her form seemed so perfect, her dress so becoming and simple. how could other women make a vulgar display in the same pattern that clothed her modestly? how wonderful were the soft coils of her hair, the tints paling and flushing on her cheeks, her shining eyes! why could not all women use her low, even, perfectly accented speech and deliberate self-control? he was in daily intercourse with her father, a high official of the city, a man of education, social position, and wealth. mr. winton had reared his only child according to his ideas; but douglas, knowing these things, believed in blood also. as leslie turned and warmed the water, watching her, the thought was strong in his mind: what a woman her mother must have been! each day he was with leslie, he saw her do things that no amount of culture could instil. instinct and tact are inborn; careful rearing may produce a good imitation, they are genuine only with blood. leslie had always filled his ideal of a true woman. to ignore him for his gift would have piqued many a man; douglas bruce was pleased. "you wonders!" she said softly. "oh you wonders! when the mists lifted in the marshes this morning, and the first ray of gold touched you to equal goldness, you didn't know you were coming to me. i almost wish i could put you back. just now you should be in such cool mistiness, while you should be hearing a hermit thrush sing vespers, a cedar bird call, and a whip-poor-will cry. but i'm glad i have you! oh i'm so glad you came to me! i never materialized a whole swamp with such vividness as only this little part of it brings. douglas, when you caught the first glimpse of these, how far into the swamp did you see past them?" "to the heart--of the swamp--and of my heart." "i can see it as perfectly as i ever did," she said. "but i eliminate the squaw; possibly because i didn't see her. and however exquisite the basket is, she broke the law when she peeled a birch tree. i'll wager she brought this to lowry, carefully covered. and i'm not sure but there should have been a law she broke when she uprooted these orchids. much as i love them, i doubt if i can keep them alive, and bring them to bloom next season. i'll try, but i don't possess flower magic in the highest degree." she turned the glass, touching it with questioning palm. was it near the warmth of bog water? after all, was bog water warm? next time she was in a swamp she would plunge her hand deeply in the mosses to feel the exact temperature to which those roots had been accustomed. then she spoke again. "yes, i eliminate the squaw," she said. "these golden slippers are the swamp to me, but i see you kneeling to lift them. i am so glad i'm the woman they made you see." douglas sat forward and opened his lips. was not this the auspicious moment? "did the squaw bring more?" she questioned. "yes," he answered. "pink moccasins in a basket of red osiers, with the same moss, rosemary and white tresses. would you rather those?" she set down the glass, drawing the basket toward her with both hands. as she parted the mosses to drop in the water she slowly shook her head. "one must have seen them to understand what that would be like," she said. "i know it was beautiful, but i'm sure i should have selected the gold had i been there. oh i wonder if the woman who has the moccasins will give them a drink to-night! and will she try to preserve their roots?" "she will not!" said douglas emphatically. "how can you possibly know?" queried the girl. "i saw the man who ordered them," laughed douglas. "oh!" cried leslie, comprehendingly. "i'd stake all i'm worth the moccasins are drooping against a lavender dress; the roots are in the garbage can, while the cook or maid has the basket," he said. "douglas, how can you!" exclaimed leslie. "i couldn't! positively couldn't! mine are here!" the slow colour crept into her cheek. "i'll make those roots bloom next spring; you shall see them in perfection," she promised. "that would be wonderful!" he exclaimed warmly. "tell me, were there yet others?" she asked hastily. "only these," he said. "but there was something else. i came near losing them. while i debated, or rather while i possessed these, and worshipped the others, there was a gutter row that almost made me lose yours." "in the gutter again?" she laughed. "once again," he admitted. "such a little chap, with an appealing voice, while his inflection was the smallest part of what he was saying. 'aw kid, come on. be square!' oh leslie!" "why douglas!" the girl cried. "tell me!" "of all the wooden-head slowness!" he exclaimed. "i've let him slip again!" "let who 'slip again?'" questioned leslie. "my little brother!" answered he. "oh douglas! you didn't really?" she protested. "yes i did," he said. "i heard a little lad saying the things that are in the blood and bone of the men money can't buy and corruption can't break. i heard him plead like a lawyer and argue his case straight. i lent a hand when his eloquence failed, got him his deserts, then let him go! i did have an impulse to keep him. i did call after him. but he disappeared." "douglas, we can find him!" she comforted. "i haven't found either of the others i realized i'd have been interested in, after i let them slip," he answered, "while this boy was both of them rolled into one, and ten more like them." "oh douglas! i'm so sorry! but maybe some other man has already found him," said leslie. "no. you can always pick the brothered boys," said douglas. "the first thing that happens to them is a clean-up and better clothing; then an air of possessed importance. no man has attached this one." "douglas, describe him," she commanded. "i'll watch for him. how did he look? what was the trouble?" "one at a time," cautioned the man. "he was a little chap, a white, clean, threadbare little chap, with such a big voice, so wonderfully intoned, and such a bigger principle, for which he was fighting. one of these overgrown newsboys the public won't stand for unless he is in the way when they are making a car, had hired him to sell his papers while he loafed. mickey----" "'mickey?'" repeated leslie questioningly. "the big fellow called him 'mickey'; no doubt a mother who adored him named him michael, and thought him 'like unto god' when she did it. the big fellow had loafed all afternoon. when mickey came back and turned over the money, and waited to be paid off, his employer laughed at the boy for not keeping it when he had it. mickey begged him 'to be square' and told him that 'was not business'--'_not business_,' mind you, but the big fellow jeered at him and was starting away. mickey and i reached him at the same time; so i got in the gutter again. i don't see how i can be so slow! i don't see how i did it!" "i don't either," she said, with a twinkle that might have referred to the first of the two exclamations. "it must be your scotch habit of going slowly and surely. but cheer up! we'll find him. i'll help you." "have you reflected on the fact that this city covers many square miles, of which a fourth is outskirts, while from them three thousand newsboys gathered at the last salvation army banquet for them?" "that's where we can find him!" she cried. "thanksgiving, or christmas! of course we'll see him then." "mickey didn't have a salvation army face," he said. "i am sure he is a free lance, and a rare one; besides, this is may. i want my little brother to go on my vacation with me. i want him now." "would it help any if i'd be a sister to you?" "not a bit," said douglas. "i don't in the very least wish to consider you in the light of a sister; you have another place in my heart, very different, yet all your own; but i do wish to make of mickey the little brother i never have had. minturn was telling me what a rejuvenation he's getting from the boy he picked up. already he has him in his office, and is planning school and partnership with a man he can train as he chooses." "but minturn has sons of his own!" protested leslie. "oh no! not in the least!" exclaimed douglas. "minturn has sons of his _wife's_. she persistently upsets and frustrates minturn's every idea for them, while he is helpless. you will remember she has millions; he has what he earns. he can't separate his boys, splendid physical little chaps, from their mother's money and influence, and educate them to be a help to him. they are to be made into men of wealth and leisure. minturn will evolve his little brother into a man of brains and efficiency." "but minturn is a power!" cried the girl. "not financially," explained douglas. "nothing but money counts with his wife. in telling me of this boy, minturn confessed that he was forced, _forced_ mind you, to see his sons ruined, while he is building a street gamin as he would them, if permitted." "how sad, douglas!" cried leslie. "your voice is bitter. can't he do something?" "not a blooming thing!" answered douglas. "she has the money. she is their mother. her character is unimpeachable. if minturn went to extremes, the law would give them to her; she would turn them over to ignorant servants who would corrupt them, and be well paid for doing it. why minturn told me--but i can't repeat that. anyway, he made me eager to try my ideas on a lad who would be company for me, when i can't be here and don't wish to be with other men." "are you still going to those brotherhood meetings?" "i am. and i always shall be. nothing in life gives me such big returns for the time invested. there is a world of talk breaking loose about the present 'unrest' among women; i happen to know that the 'unrest' is as deep with men. for each woman i personally know, bitten by 'unrest,' i know two men in the same condition. as long as men and women are forced to combine, to uphold society, it is my idea that it would be a good thing if there were to be a sisterhood organized; then the two societies frankly brought together and allowed to clear up the differences between them." "but why not?" asked the girl eagerly. "because we are pursuing false ideals, we have a wrong conception of what is _worth while in life_," answered the scotsman. "because the sexes except in rare, very rare, instances, do not understand each other, and every day are drifting farther apart, while most of the married folk i know are farthest apart of all. leslie, what is it in marriage that constrains people? we can talk, argue and agree or disagree on anything, why can't the minturns?" "from what you say, it would seem to me it's her idea of what is worth while in life," said leslie. "exactly!" cried douglas. "but he can sway men! he can do powerful work. he could induce her to marry him. why can't he control his own blood?" "if she should lose her money and become dependent upon him for support, he could!" said leslie. "he should do it anyway," insisted douglas. "do you think you could?" she queried. "i never thought myself in his place," said douglas, "but i believe i will, and if i see glimmerings, i'll suggest them to him." "good boy!" said the girl lightly. and then she added: "do you mind if i think myself in her place and see if i can suggest a possible point at which she could be reached? i know her. i shouldn't consider her happy. at least not with what i call joy." "what do you call joy?" asked douglas. "being satisfied with your environment." douglas glanced at her, then at her surroundings, and looking into her eyes laughed quizzically. "but if it were different, i am perfectly confident that i should work out joy from life," insisted leslie. "it owes me joy! i'll have it, if i fight for it!" "leslie! leslie! be careful! you are challenging providence. stronger men than i have wrought chaos for their children," said a warning voice, as her father came behind her chair. "chaos or no, still i'd put up my fight for joy, daddy," laughed the girl. "only see, preciousest!" "one minute!" said her father, shaking hands with douglas. "now what is it, leslie? oh, i do see!" "take my chair and make friends," said the girl. mr. winton seated himself, then began examining and turning the basket. "indians?" he queried. "yes," said douglas. "a particularly greasy squaw. i wish i might truthfully report an artist's indian of the minnehaha type, but alack, it was the same one i've seen ever since i've been in the city, and that you've seen for years before my arrival." mr. winton still turned the basket. "i've bought their stuff for years, because neither leslie nor her mother ever would tolerate fat carnations and overgrown roses so long as i could find a scrap of arbutus, a violet or a wake-robin from the woods. we've often motored up and penetrated the swamp i fancy these came from, for some distance, but later in the season; it's so very boggy now. aren't these rather wonderful?" he turned to his daughter. "perfectly, daddy," she said. "perfectly!" "but i don't mean for the creator," explained mr. winton. "i am accustomed to his miracles. every day i see a number of them. i mean for the squaw." "i'd have to know the squaw and understand her viewpoint," said leslie. "she had it in her tightly clenched fist," laughed douglas. "one, i'm sure; anyway, not over two." "that hasn't a thing to do with the _art_ with which she made the basket and filled it with just three perfect plants," said leslie. "you think there is real art in her anatomy?" queried mr. winton. "bear witness, o you treasures of gold!" cried leslie, waving toward the basket. "there was another," explained douglas as he again described the osier basket. mr. winton nodded. he looked at his daughter. "i like to think, young woman, that you were born with and i have cultivated what might be called artistic taste in you," he said. "granted the freedom of the tamarack swamp, could you have done better?" "not so well, daddy! not nearly so well. i never could have defaced what you can see was a noble big tree by cutting that piece of bark, while i might have worshipped until dragged away, but so far as art and i are concerned, the slippers would still be under their tamarack." "you are begging the question, leslie," laughed her father. "i was not discussing the preservation of the wild, i was inquiring into the state of your artistic ability. if you had no hesitation about taking the flowers, could you have gone to that swamp, collected the material and fashioned and filled a more beautiful basket that this?" "how can i tell, daddy?" asked the girl. "there's only one way to learn. i'll forget my scruples, you get me a pair of rubber boots, then we'll drive to the tamarack swamp and experiment." "we'll do it!" cried mr. winton. "the very first half day i can spare, we'll do it. and you douglas, you will want to come with us, of course." "why, 'of course,'" laughed leslie. "because he started the expedition with his golden slippers. when it come to putting my girl, and incidentally my whole family, in competition with an indian squaw on a question of art, naturally, her father and one of her best friends would want to be present." "but maybe 'minnie' went alone, and what chance would her work have with you two for judges?" asked leslie. "we needn't be the judges," said douglas bruce quietly. "we can put this basket in the basement in a cool, damp place, where it will keep perfectly for a week. when you make your basket we can find the squaw and bring her down with us. lowry could display the results side by side. he could call up whomever you consider the most artistic man and woman in the city and get their decision. you'd be willing to abide by that, wouldn't you?" "surely, but it wouldn't be fair to the squaw," explained leslie. "i'd have had the benefit of her art to begin on." "it would," said mr. winton. "does not every artist living, painter, sculptor, writer, what you will, have the benefit of all art that has gone before?" "you agree?" leslie turned to douglas. "your father's argument is a truism." "but i will know that i am on trial. she didn't. is it fair to her?" persisted leslie. "for begging the question, commend me to a woman," said mr. winton. "the point we began at, was not what you could do in a contest with her. she went to the swamp and brought from it some flower baskets. it is perfectly fair to her to suppose that they are her best art. now what we are proposing to test is whether the finest product of our civilization, as embodied in you, can go to the same swamp, and from the same location surpass her work. do i make myself clear?" "perfectly clear, daddy, and it would be fair," conceded leslie. "but it is an offence punishable with a heavy fine to peel a birch tree; while i wouldn't do it, if it were not." "got her to respect the law anyway," said mr. winton to douglas. "the proposition, leslie, was not that you do the same thing, but that from the same source you outdo her. you needn't use birch bark if it involves your law-abiding soul." "then it's all settled. you must hurry and take me before the lovely plants have flowered," said leslie. "i'll go day after to-morrow," promised mr. winton. "in order to make our plan work, it is necessary that i keep these orchids until that time," said leslie. "you have a better chance than the lady who drew the osier basket has of keeping hers," said mr. winton. "if i remember i have seen the slippers in common earth quite a distance from the lake, while the moccasins demand bog moss, water and swamp mists and dampness." "i have seen slippers in the woods myself," said leslie. "i think the conservatory will do, so they shall go there right now. i have to be fair to 'minnie.'" "let me carry them for you," offered douglas, arising. "'scuse us. back in a second, daddy," said leslie. "i am interested, excited and eager to make the test, yet in a sense i do not like it." "but why?" asked douglas. "can't you see?" countered leslie. "no," said douglas. "it's shifting my sense of possession," explained the girl. "the slippers are no longer my beautiful gift from you. they are perishable things that belong to an indian squaw. in justice to her, i have to keep them in perfect condition so that my work may not surpass hers with the unspeakable art of flower freshness; while instead of thinking them the loveliest thing in the world, i will now lie awake half the night, no doubt, studying what i can possibly find that is more beautiful." douglas bruce opened his slow lips, taking a step in her direction. "dinner is served," announced her father. he looked inquiringly toward his daughter. she turned to douglas. "unless you have a previous engagement, you will dine with us, won't you?" she asked. "i should be delighted," he said heartily. when the meal was over and they had returned to the veranda, leslie listened quietly while the men talked, most of the time, but when she did speak, what she said proved that she always had listened to and taken part in the discussions of men, until she understood and could speak of business or politics intelligently. "have you ever considered an official position, douglas?" inquired mr. winton. "i have an office within my gift, or so nearly so that i can control it, and it seems to me that you would be a good man. surely we could work together in harmony." "it never has appealed to me that i wanted work of that nature," answered douglas. "it's unusually kind of you to think of me, and make the offer, but i am satisfied with what i am doing, while there is a steady increase in my business that gives me confidence." "what's your objection to office?" asked mr. winton. "that it takes your time from your work," answered douglas. "that it changes the nature of your work. that if you let the leaders of a party secure you a nomination, and the party elect you, you are bound to their principles, at least there is a tacit understanding that you are, and if you should happen to be afflicted with principles of your own, then you have got to sacrifice them." "'afflict' is a good word in this instance," said mr. winton. "it is painful to a man of experience to see you young fellows of such great promise come up and 'kick' yourself half to death 'against the pricks' of established business, parties, and customs, but half of you do it. in the end all of you come limping in, poor, disheartened, defeated, and then swing to the other extreme, by being so willing for a change you'll take almost anything, and so the dirty jobs naturally fall to you." "i grant much of that," douglas said, in his deliberate way, "but happily i have sufficient annual income from my father's estate to enable me to live until i become acquainted in a strange city, and have time to establish the kind of business i should care to handle. i am thinking of practising corporation law; i specialized in that, so i may have the pleasure before so very long of going after some of the men who do what you so aptly term the 'dirty' jobs." "a repetition of the customary chorus," said mr. winton, "differing only in that it is a little more emphatic than usual. i predict that you will become an office-holder, having party affiliations, inside ten years." "possibly," said douglas. "but i'll promise you this: it will be a new office no man ever before has held, in the gift of a party not now in existence." "oh you dreamers!" cried mr. winton. "what a wonderful thing it is to be young and setting out to reform the world, especially on a permanent income. that's where you surpass most reformers." "but i said nothing about reform," corrected douglas. "i said i was thinking of corporation law." "i'm accustomed to it; while you wouldn't scare leslie if you said 'reform,'" remarked mr. winton. "she's a reformer herself, you know." "but only sweat-shops, child labour, civic improvement, preservation of the wild, and things like that!" cried leslie so quickly and eagerly, that both men laughed. "god be praised!" exclaimed her father. "god be _fervently_ praised!" echoed her lover. before she retired leslie visited the slippers. "i'd like to know," she said softly, as she touched a bronze striped calyx, "i'd like to know how i am to penetrate your location, and find and fashion anything to outdo you and the squaw, you wood creatures you!" then she bent above the flowers and whispered: "tuck this in the toe of your slipper! three times to-night it was in his eyes, and on his tongue, but his slowness let the moment pass. i can 'bide a wee' for my scotsman, i can bide forever, if i must; for it's he only, and no other." the moccasins soon had been ground to pulp and carried away on a non-skid tire while at three o'clock in the morning a cross, dishevelled society woman, in passing from her dressing room to her bed, stumbled over the osier basket, kicking it from her way. chapter iii _s.o.s._ mickey, his responsibility weighing upon him, slept lightly and awakened early, his first thought of peaches. he slipped into his clothing and advancing peered at her through the grayness. his heart beat wildly. "aw you poor kid! you poor little kid!" he whispered to himself as he had fallen into the habit of doing for company. "the scaring, the jolting, the scouring, and everything were too much for you. you've gone sure! you're just like them at the morgue. aw peaches! i didn't mean to hurt you, peaches! i was _trying_ to be good to you. honest i was, peaches! aw----!" as his fright increased mickey raised his voice until his last wail reached the consciousness of the sleeping child. she stirred slightly, her head moving on the pillow. mickey almost fell, so great was his relief. he stepped closer, gazing in awe. the sheared hair had dried in the night, tumbling into a hundred golden ringlets. the tiny clean face was white, so white that the blue of the closed eyes showed darkly through the lids, the blue veins streaked the temples and the little claws lying relaxed on the sheet. mickey slowly broke up inside. a big, hard lump grew in his throat. he shut his lips tight and bored the tears from his eyes with his wiry fists. he began to mutter his thoughts to regain self-control. "gee kid, but you had me scared to the limit!" he said. "i thought you were gone, sure. honest i did! ain't i glad though! but you're the whitest thing! you're like----i'll tell you what you're like. you're like the lily flowers in the store windows at easter. you're white like them, and your hair is the little bit of gold decorating them. if i'd known it was like that i wouldn't a-cut it if i'd spent a month untangling it. honest i wouldn't, kid! i'm awful sorry! gee, but it would a-been pretty spread over mother's pillow." mickey gazed, worshipped and rejoiced as he bent lower from time to time to watch the fluttering breath. "you're so clean now you just smell good; but i got to go easy. the dirt covered you so i didn't see how sick you were. you'll go out like a candle, that's what you'll do. i mustn't let even the wind blow cold on you. i couldn't stand it if i was to hurt you. i'd just go and lay down before the cars or jump down an elevator hole. gee, i'm glad i found you! i wouldn't trade you for the smartest dog that's being rode around in the parks. nor for the parks! nor the trees! nor the birds! nor the buildings! nor the swimming places! nor the automobiles! nor nothing! not nothing you could mention at all! not eating! nor seeing! nor having! not no single thing--nothing at all--lily! "lily!" he repeated. "little snow white lily! peaches is a good name for you if you're referring to sweetness, but it doesn't fit for colour. least i never saw none white. lily fits you better. if you'd been a dog, i was going to name you partner. but you're mine just as much as if you was a dog, so i'll name you if i want to. lily! that's what god made you; that's what i'm going to call you." the god thought, evoked by creation, remained in mickey's heart. he glanced at the sky clearing from the graying mists of morning, while the rumble of the streets came up to him in a dull roar. "o god, i guess i been forgetting my praying some, since mother went. i'd nothing but myself and i ain't worth bothering you about. but o god, if you are going to do any _big_ things to-day, why not do some for lily? can't be many that needs it more. if you saw her yesterday, you must see if you'll look down now, that she's better off, she's worlds better off. wonder if you sent me to get her, so she would be better off. gee, why didn't you send one of them millyingaires who could a-dressed her up, fed her and took her to the country where the sun would shine on her. ain't never touched her, i bet a liberty-bird. but if you did the sending, you sent just me, so she's _my_ job, an' i'll do her! but i wish you'd help me, or send me help, o god. it's an awful job to tackle all alone, for i'm going to be scared stiff if she gets sick. i can tell by how i felt when i thought she was gone. so if you sent me god, it's up to you to help me. come on now! if you see the sparrows when they fall, you jest good naturedly ought to see lily peaches, 'cause she's always been down, and she can't ever get up, unless we can help her. help me all you can o god, and send me help to help her all i can, 'cause she can use all the help she can get, and then some! amen!" mickey took one of peaches' hands in his. "i ain't the time now, but to-night i got to cut your nails and clean them, then i guess you'll do to start on," he said as he squeezed the hand. "lily! lily peaches, wake up! it's morning now. i got to go out with the papers to earn supper to-night. wake up! i must wash you and feed you 'fore i go." peaches opened her eyes, drawing back startled. "easy now!" cautioned mickey. "easy now! don't be scared. nobody can 'get' you here! what you want for breakfast, flowersy-girl? little lily white." an adorable smile illumined the tiny face at the first kindly awakening it ever had known. "_you_ won't let them 'get' me, will you?" she triumphed. "you know it!" he answered conclusively. "now i'll wash your face, cook your breakfast, and fix you at the window where maybe you can see birds going across. think of that, lily! birds!" "my name's peaches!" said the child. "so 'tis!" said mickey. "but since you arrived to such bettered conditions, you got to be a lady of fashion. now peaches, every single kid in the park is named _two_ names, these days. fellow can't have a foot race for falling over mary elizabeths, and louisa ellens. i can't do so much just to start on, 'cause i can't earn the boodle; fast as i get it, you're going to line up; but nachally, just at starting you must begin on the things that are not expensive. now names don't cost anything, so i can be giving you six if i like, and you are a lily, so right now i'm naming you lily, but two's the style; keep your peaches, if it suits you. lily just flies out of my mouth when i look at you." this was wonderful. no cursing! no beating! no wailing over a lame-back brat to feed. mickey _liked_ to give her breakfast! mickey named her for the wonderful flower like granny had picked up before a church one day, a few weeks ago and in a rare sober moment had carried to her. mickey had made her feel clean, so rested, and so fresh she wanted to roll over the bed. with child impulse she put up her arms. mickey stooped to them. "you goin' to have two names too," she said. "you gotter be fash'nable. i ist love you for everythin', washin', an' breakfast, an' the bed, an' winder, an' off the floor; oh i just love you _sick_ for the winder, an' off the floor. you going to be"--she paused in a deep study to think of a word anywhere nearly adequate, then ended in a burst that was her best emanation--"lovest! mickey-lovest!" she hugged him closely, then lifted her chin and pursed her lips. mickey pulled back, a dull colour in his face. "now nix on the mushing!" he said. "i'll stand for a hug once a day, but nix on the smear!" "you'd let a dog," she whimpered. "i ain't kissed nothin' since granny sold the doll a lady gave me the time we went to the doctor's, an' took the money to get drunk on, an' beat me more'n i needed for a change, 'cause i cried for it. i think you might!" "aw well, go on then, if you're going to bawl," said mickey, "but put it there!" he stepped as far back as he could, leaned over, and swept the hair from his forehead, which he brought in range of her lips. he had to brace himself to keep from flinching at their cold touch and straightened in relief. "now that's over!" he said briskly. "i'll wash you, and get your breakfast." "you do a lot of washin', don't you?" inquired peaches. "you want the sleep out of your eyes," coaxed mickey. he brought the basin and a cloth, washing the child's face and hands gently as was in his power. "flowersy-girl," he said, "if you'd looked last night like you do this morning, i'd never tackled getting you here in the world. i'd thought you'd break sure." "g'wan kid," she said. "i can stand a lot. i been knocked round somepin awful. she dragged me by one hand or the hair when she was tight, and threw me in a corner an' took the"--peaches glanced over the bed, refusing to call her former estate by the same name--"took the _place_ herself. you ain't hurting me. you can jerk me a lot." "i guess you've been jerked enough, lily peaches," he said. "i guess jerkin' ain't going to help your back any. i think we better be easy with it 'til we lay up the money to carrel it. he put different legs on a dog, course he can put a new back on you." "dogs doesn't count only with rich folks 'at rides 'em, an' feeds 'em cake; but where'll you find 'nother girl 'at ull spare her back for me, mickey-lovest?" asked peaches. "gee, lily!" he cried. "i didn't _think_ of that--i wish i hadn't promised you. course he could _change_ the backs, but where'd i get one. i'll just have to let him take mine." "i don't want no boy's back!" flashed peaches. "i won't go out an' sell papers, an' wash you, an' feed you, an' let you stay here in this nice bed. i don't want no new back, grand like it is here. i won't have no dog's back, even. i won't have no back!" "course i couldn't let you work and take care of me, lily," he said. "course i couldn't! i was just thinking what i _could_ do. i'll write a letter and ask the carrel man if a dog's back would do. i could get one your size at the pound, maybe." peaches arose at him with hands set like claws. "you fool!" she shrieked. "you big damn fool! '_a dog's back!'_ i won't! you try it an' i'll scratch your eyes out! you stop right now on backs an' go hell-bent an' get my breakfast! i'm hungry! i like my back! i will have it! you----" mickey snatched his pillow from the floor, using it to press the child against hers. then he slipped it down a trifle at one corner and spoke: "now you cut that out, miss chicken, right off!" he said sternly. "i wouldn't take no tantrums from a dog, so i won't from you. you'll make your back worse acting like that, than beating would make it, and 'sides, if you're going to live with me, you must be a lady. no lady says such words as you used, and neither does no gentleman, 'cause i don't myself. now you'll either say, 'mickey, please get me my breakfast,' and i'll get you one with a big surprise, or you'll lay here alone and hungry 'til i come back to-night. and it'll be a whole day, see?" "'f i wasn't a pore crippled kid, you wouldn't say that to me," she wailed. "and if you wasn't 'a poor crippled kid,' you wouldn't say swearin's to me," said mickey, "'cause you know i'd lick the stuffin' out of you, and if you could see yourself, you'd know that you need stuffin' in, more than you need it out. i'm 'mazed at you! forget that you ever heard such stuff, and be a nice lady, won't you? my time's getting short and i got to go, or the other kids will sell to my paper men, then we'll have no supper. now you say, 'mickey, please get my breakfast,' like a lady, or you won't get a bite." "'mickey, please get my breakfast,'" she imitated. mickey advanced threateningly with the pillow. "won't do!" he said. "that ain't like no lady! that's like _me_. you'll say it like _yourself_, or you won't get it." she closed her lips, burying her face in her own pillow. "all right," said mickey. "then i'll get my own. if you don't want any, i'll have twice as much." he laid the pillow on the foot of the bed, saying politely: "'scuse me, lily, till i get _me_ a bottle of milk." soon he returned and with his first glimpse of the bed stood aghast. it was empty. his eyes searched the room. his pallet on the floor outlined a tiny form. a dismayed half smile flashed over his face. he took a step toward her, and then turned, getting out a cloth he had not used since being alone. near the bed he set the table and laid a plate, knife, fork and spoon. because he was watching peaches he soon discovered she was peeking out at him, so he paid strict attention to the burner he was lighting. then he sliced bread, put on a toaster, set the milk on the table, broke an egg in a saucer, and turned the toast. soon the odours filled the room, also a pitiful sound. mickey knew peaches must have hurt herself sliding from the bed, although her arms were strong for the remainder of her body. she had no way to reach his pallet but to roll across the floor. she might have bruised herself badly. he was amazed, disgusted, yet compassionate. he went to her and turned back the comfort. "you must be speaking a little louder, lily," he said gently. "i wasn't quite hearing you." only muffled sobbing. mickey dropped the cover. "i want my breakfast," said a very small voice. "you mean, 'mickey, please _get_ my breakfast,' flowersy-girl," he corrected gently. "oh i hurt myself so!" peaches wailed. "oh mickey, i fell an' broke my back clear in two. 'tain't like rollin' off my rags; oh mickey, it's so _far_ to the floor, from your bed! oh mickey, even another girl's back, or yours, or a dog's, or anybody's wouldn't fix it now. it'll hurt for days. mickey, why did i ever? oh what made me? mickey-lovest, please, please put me back on the nice fine bed, an' do please give me some of that bread." mickey lifted her, crooning incoherent things. he wiped her face and hands, combed her hair, and pushed the table against the bed. he broke toast in a glass and poured milk over it. then he cooked the egg and gave her that, keeping only half the milk and one slice of bread. he made a sandwich of more bread, and the cheese, put a banana with it, set a cup of water in reach, and told her that was her lunch; to eat it when the noon whistles blew. then he laid all the picture books he had on the back of the bed, put the money for his papers in his pocket, and locking her in, ran down sunrise alley fast as he could. he was one hour late. he had missed two regular customers. they must be made up and more. light, air, cleanliness, and kindness would increase peaches' appetite, which seemed big now for the size of her body. mickey's face was very sober when he allowed himself to think of his undertaking. how would he make it? he had her now, he simply must succeed. the day was half over before mickey began to laugh for no apparent reason. he had realized that she had not said what he had required of her, after all. "gee, i'm up against it," said mickey. "i didn't s'pose she'd act like that! i thought she'd keep on being like when she woke up. i never behaved like that." then in swift remorse: "but i had the finest mother a fellow ever had to tell me, while she ain't had any one, and only got me now, so i'll have to tell her; course i can't do everything at once. so far as that goes, she didn't do any worse than the millyingaires' kids in the park who roll themselves in the dirt, bump their own heads, and scream and fight. i guess my kid's no worse than other people's. i can train her like mother did me; then we'll be enough alike we can live together, and even when she was the worst, i liked her. i liked her cartloads." so mickey shouldered the duties of paternity, and began thinking for his child, his little, neglected, bad, sick child. his wits and feet always had been nimble; that day he excelled himself. anxiety as to how much he must carry home at night to replace what he had spent in moving peaches to his room, three extra meals to provide before to-morrow night, something to interest her through the long day: it was a contract, surely! mickey faced it gravely, but he did not flinch. he did not know how it was to be done, but he did know it must be done. "_get_" her they should not. whatever it had been his mother had feared for him, nameless though the horror was, from _that_ he must save lily. mickey had thought it must be careless nurses or lack of love. yesterday's papers had said there were some children at one of the homes, no one ever visited; they were sick for love; would not some kind people come to see them? it must have been _that_ she feared. he could not possibly know it was the stigma of having been a charity child she had been combating with all her power. they had not "got" him; they must not "get" his lily; yet stirrings in mickey's brain told him he was not going to be sufficient, alone. there were emergencies he did not know how to manage. he must have help. mickey revolved the problem in his worried head without reaching a solution. his necessity drove him. he darted, dodged and took chances. far down the street he selected his victim and studied his method of assault as he approached; for mickey did victimize people that day. he sold them papers when they did not want them. he bettered that and sold them papers when they had them. he snatched up lost papers, smoothed and sold them over. every gay picture or broken toy dropped from an automobile he caught up and pocketed for her. a woman stumbled alighting from a passing car. mickey dropped his papers and sprang forward. her weight bore him to the pavement, but he kept her from falling, and even as he felt her on her feet, he snatched under the wheels for her purse. "is that all your stuff, lady?" he asked. "thank you! i think so," she said. "wait a minute!" to lend help was an hourly occurrence with mickey. _she_ had been most particular to teach him that. he was gathering up and smoothing his papers several of which were soiled. the woman opened the purse he had rescued, taking therefrom a bill which she offered him. "thanks!" said mickey. "my shoulder is worth considerable to me; but nothing like that to you, lady!" "well!" she said. "are you refusing the money?" "sure!" said mickey. "i ain't a beggar! just a balance on my shoulder and picking up your purse ain't worth an endowment. i'll take five cents each for three soiled papers, if you say so." "you amazing boy!" said the woman. "don't you understand that if you hadn't offered your shoulder, i might now be lying senseless? you saved me a hard fall, while my dress would have been ruined. you step over here a minute. what's your name?" "michael o'halloran," was the answer. "where do you live?" "sunrise alley. it's miles on the cars, then some more walking," explained mickey. "whom do you live with?" "myself," said mickey. "alone?" "all but peaches," said mickey. "lily peaches." "who is lily peaches?" "she's about so long"--mickey showed how long--"and about so wide"--he showed how wide--"and white like easter church flowers. her back's bad. i'm her governor; she's my child." "if you won't take the money for yourself, then take it for her," offered the woman. "if you have a little sick girl to support, you surely can use it." "umm!" said mickey. "you kind of ball a fellow up and hang him on the ropes. honest you do, lady! i can take care of myself. i know i can, 'cause i've done it three years, but i don't know how i'm goin' to make it with lily, for she needs a lot. she may get sick any day, so i ain't sure how i'm going to manage well with her." "how long have you taken care of her?" "since last night," explained mickey. "oh! how old is she?" questions seemed endless. "i don't know," answered mickey. "her granny died and left her lying on rags in a garret. i found her screeching, so i took her to my castle and washed her, and fed her. you should see her now." "i believe i should!" said the woman. "let's go at once. you know michael, you can't care for a _girl_. i'll put her in one of the beautiful children's homes--" "now nix on the children's homes, fair lady!" he cried angrily. "i guess you'll _find_ her, 'fore you take her! i found her first, and she's _mine!_ i guess you'll _find_ her, 'fore you take her to a children's home, where the doctors slice up the poor kids for practice so they'll know how to get money for doing it to the rich ones. i've _annexed_ lily peaches, and you don't '_get_' her! see?" "i see," said the woman. "but you're mistaken----" "'scuse crossing your wire, but i don't think i _am_," said mickey. "the only way you can know, is to have been there yourself. i don't think you got that kind of a start, or want it for kids of your own. my mother killed herself to keep me out of it, and if it had been so grand, she'd _wanted_ me there. nix on the orphings' home talk. lily ain't going to be raised in droves, nor flocks, nor herds! see? lily's going to have a home of her own, and a man to take care of her by herself." mickey backed away, swallowing a big lump in his throat, and blinking down angry tears. "'smorning," he said, "i asked god to help me, and for a minute i was so glad, 'cause i thought he'd helped by sending _you_, so you could tell me how to do; but if god can't beat _you_, i can get along by myself." "you _can't_ take care of a girl by yourself," she insisted. "the _law_ won't allow you." "oh can't i?" scoffed mickey. "well you're mistaken, 'cause i am! and getting along bully! you ought to seen her last night, and then this morning. next time i yell for help, i won't ask to have anybody sent, i'll ask him to help me save our souls, myself. ever see that big, white, wonderful jesus at the cathedral door, ma'am, holding the little child in his arms so loving? i don't s'pose he stopped to ask whether it was a girl, or a boy, 'fore he took it up; he just opened his arms to the first _child_ that _needed_ him. and if i remember right, he didn't say: 'suffer little children to be sent to orphings' homes.' mammy never read it to me _that_ way. it was suffer them to come to 'me,' and be took up, and held tender. see? nix on the orphings' home people. they ain't in my class. beaucheous lady, adoo! farewell! i depart!" mickey wheeled, vanishing. it was a wonderful exhibition of curves, leaps, and darts. he paused for breath when he felt safe. "so that's the dope!" he marvelled. "i can't take care of a girl? going to take her away from me? i'd like to know _why?_ men all the time take care of women. i see boys taking care of girls i know their mothers left with them, every day--i'd like to know _why_. mother said i was to take care of _her_. she said that's what men were made _for_. 'cause _he didn't_ take care of her, was why she was glad my father was _dead_. i guess i know what i'm doing! but i've learned something! nix on the easy talk after this; and telling anybody you meet all you know. shut mouth from now on. 'what's your name, little boy?' 'andrew carnegie.' 'where d'you live?' 'castle on the hudson!' a mouth just tight shut about lily, after this! and nix on the swell dames! next one can bust her crust for all i care! i won't touch her!" on the instant, precisely that thing occurred, at mickey's very feet. with his lips not yet closed, he knelt to shove his papers under a woman's head, then went racing up the stone steps she had rolled down, his quick eye catching and avoiding the bit of fruit on which she had slipped. he returned in a second with help. as the porter lifted the inert body, mickey slid his hands under her head, and advised: "keep her straight!" into one of the big hospitals he helped carry a blue and white clad nurse, on and on, up elevators and into a white porcelain room where they laid her on a glass table. mickey watched with frightened eyes. doctors and nurses came running. he stood waiting for his papers. he was rather sick, yet he remembered he had five there he must sell. "better clear out of here now!" suggested a surgeon. "my papers!" said mickey. "she fell right cross my feet. i slid them under, to make her head more pillowlike on the stones. maybe i can sell some of them." the surgeon motioned to a nurse at the door. "take this youngster to the office and pay him for the papers he has spoiled," he ordered. "will she--is she going to----?" wavered mickey. "i'm not sure," said the surgeon. "from the bleeding probably concussion; but she will live. do you know how she came to fall?" "there was a smear of something on the steps she didn't see," explained mickey. "thank you! go with the nurse," said the surgeon. then to an attendant: "take miss alden's number, and see to her case. she was going after something." mickey turned back. "paper, maybe," he suggested, pointing to her closed hand. the surgeon opened it and found a nickel. he handed it to mickey. "if you have a clean one left, let this nurse take it to miss alden's case, and say she has been assigned other duty. see to sending a substitute at once." every paper proved to be marked. "i can bring you a fresh one in a second, lady," offered mickey. "i got the money." "all right," she said. "wait with it in the office and then i'll pay you." "i'm sent for a paper. i'm to be let in as soon as i get it," announced mickey to the porter. "i ain't taking chances of being turned down," he said to himself, as he stopped a second to clean the step. he returned and was waiting when the nurse came. she was young and fair faced; her hair was golden, and as she paid mickey for his papers he wondered how soon he could have lily looking like her. he took one long survey as he pocketed the money, thinking he would rush home at once; but he wanted to fix in his mind how lily must appear, to be right, for he thought a nurse in the hospital would be right. the nurse knew she was beautiful, and to her mickey's long look was tribute, male tribute; a small male indeed, but such a winning one; so she took the occasion to be her loveliest, and smile her most attractive smile. mickey surrendered. he thought she was like an angel, that made him think of heaven, heaven made him think of god, god made him think of his call for help that morning, the call made him think of the answer, the beautiful woman before him made him think that possibly _she_ might be the answer instead of the other one. he rather doubted it, but it might be a chance. mickey was alert for chances for peaches, so he smiled again, then he asked: "are you in such an awful hurry?" "i think we owe you more than merely paying for your papers," she said. "what is it?" again mickey showed how long and how wide lily was. "and with hair like yours, and eyes and cheeks that would be, if she had her chance, and nobody to give her that chance but just me," he said. "me and lily are all each other's got," he explained hastily. "we're _home_ folks. we're a family. we don't want no bunching in corps and squads. we're nix on the orphings' home business; but you _must know_, ma'am--would you, oh would you tell me just how i should be taking care of her? i'm doing everything like my mother did to me; but i was well and strong. maybe lily, being a girl, should have things different. a-body so beautiful as you, would tell me, wouldn't you?" then a miracle happened. the nurse, so clean she smelled like a drug store, so lovely she shone as a sunrise, laid an arm across mickey's shoulders. "you come with me," she said. she went to a little room, and all alone she asked mickey questions; with his eyes straight on hers, he answered. she told him surely he could take care of lily. she explained how. she rang for a basket and packed it full of things he must have, showing him how to use them. she told him to come each saturday at four o'clock, as she was going off duty, and tell her how he was getting along. she gave him a thermometer, and told him how to learn if the child had fever. she told him about food, and she put in an ointment, instructing him to rub the little back with it, so the bed would not be so tiresome. she showed him how to arrange the pillows; when he left, the tears were rolling down mickey's cheeks. both of them were so touched she laid her arm across his shoulder again and went as far as the elevator, while a passport to her at any time was in his pocket. "i 'spect other folks tell you you are beautiful like flowers, or music, or colours," said mickey in farewell, "but you look like a window in heaven to me, and i can see right through you to god and all the beautiful angels; but what gets me is why the other one had to bust her crust, to make you come true!" the nurse was laughing and wiping her eyes at the same time. mickey gripped the basket until his hands were stiff as he sped homeward at least two hours early and happy about it. at the last grocery he remembered every word and bought bread, milk, and fruit with care "for a sick lady" he explained, so the grocer, who knew him, used care. triumphing mickey climbed the stairs. he paused a second in deep thought at the foot of the last flight, then ascended whistling to let peaches know that he was coming, then on his threshold recited: "_one't a little kid named lily, was so sweet she'd knock you silly, yellow hair in millying curls, beat a mile all other girls._" she was on his bed; she was on his pillow; she had been lonely; both arms were stretched toward him. "mickey, hurry!" she cried. "mickey, lemme hold you 'til i'm sure! mickey, all day i didn't hardly durst breathe, fear the door'd open an' they'd '_get_' me. oh mickey, you won't let them, will you?" mickey dropped his bundles and ran to the bed. this time he did not shrink from her wavering clasp. it was delight to come home to something alive, something that belonged to him, something to share with, something to work and think for, something that depended upon him. "now nix on the scare talk," he comforted. "forget it! i've lived here three years alone, and not a single time has anybody come to 'get' me, so they won't you. there's only one thing can happen us. if i get sick or spend too much on eating, and don't pay the rent, the man that owns this building will fire us out. if we, _if we_" mickey repeated impressively, "pay our rent regular, in advance, nobody will _ever_ come, not _ever_, so don't worry." "then what's all them bundles?" fretted peaches. "you ortn't a-got so much. you'll never get the _next_ rent paid! they'll 'get' me sure." "now throttle your engine," advised mickey. "stop your car! smash down on the brakes! they are things the city you reside in furnishes its taxpayers, or something like that. i pay my rent, so this is my _share_, and it's things for you: to make you comfortable. which are you worst--tiredest, or hungriest, or hottest?" "i don't know," she said. "then i'll make a clean get-a-way," said mickey. "washing is cooling; and it freshens you up a lot." so mickey brought his basin again, bathing the tired child gently as any woman could have done it. "see what i got!" he cried as he opened bundles and explained. "i'm going to see if you have fever." peaches rebelled at the thermometer. "now come on in," urged mickey. "slide straight home to your base! if i'm going to take care of you, i'm going to right. you can't lay here eating wrong things if you have _fever_. no-sir-ee! you don't get to see in any more of these bundles, nor any supper, nor talked to any more, 'til you put this little glass thing under your tongue and hold it there just this way"--mickey showed how--"three minutes by the clock, then i'll know what to do with you next. i'll sit beside you, and hold your hands, and tell you about the pretty lady that sent it." mickey wiped the thermometer on the sheet, then presented it. peaches took one long look at him and opened her lips. mickey inserted the tube, set the clock in sight, and taking both her hands he held them closely and talked as fast as he could to keep her from using them. he had not half finished the day when the time was up. if he had done it right, peaches had very little, if any, fever. "now turn over so i can rub your back to make it all nice and rested," he said. "and then i'll get supper." "i don't want my back rubbed," she protested. "my back's all right now." "nothing to do with going to have it rubbed," said mickey. "it would be a silly girl who would have a back that wouldn't walk, and then wouldn't even try having it doctored, so that it would get better. just try lily, and if it doesn't _help_, i won't do it any more." peaches took another long look at mickey, questioning in nature, then turned her back to him. "gosh, kid! your back looks just like horses' going to the fertilizer plant," he said. "ain't that swearin's?" asked peaches promptly. "first-cousin," answered mickey. "'scuse me lily. if you could see your back, you'd 'scuse worse than that." "feelin' ull do fer me," said peaches. "i live wid it." "honest kid, i'm scared to touch you," he wavered. "aw g'wan!" said peaches. "i ain't goin' screechin' even if you hurt awful, an' you touch like a sparrer lookin' for crumbs. mickey, can we put out a few?" "for the sparrows? sure!" cried mickey. "they're the ones that god sees especial when they fall. sure! put out some in a minute. still now!" mickey poured on ointment, then began softly rubbing it into the dreadful back. his face was drawn with anxiety and filled with horror. he was afraid, but the nurse said this he should do, while mickey's first lesson had been implicit obedience. so he rubbed gently as he was fearful; when peaches made no complaint, a little stronger, and a little stronger, until he was tired. then he covered her, telling her to lie on it, and see how it felt. peaches looked at him with wondering eyes. "mickey," she said, "nothin" in all my life ever felt like that, an' the nice cool washin' you do. mickey-lovest, nex' time i act mean 'bout what you want to do to me, slap me good, an' hold me, an' go on an' _do_ it!" "now nix on the beating," said mickey. "i never had any from my mother; but the kids who lost sales to me took my nickels, and give me plenty. you ought to know, lily, that i'm trying hard as i can to make you feel good; and to take care of you. what i want to do, i think will make you _better_, so i'm just nachally going to _do_ it, 'cause you're mine, and you got to do what i say. but i won't say anything that'll hurt you and make you worse. if you must take time to think new things over, i can wait; but i can't hit you lily, you're too little, too sick, and i like you too well. i wish you'd be a lady! i wish you wouldn't ever be bad again!" "hoh i feel so good!" peaches stretched like a kitten. "mickey, bet i can walk 'fore long if you do that often! mickey, i just love you, an' _love_ you. mickey, say that at the door over again." "what?" queried mickey. "'one't a little kid named lily,'" prompted peaches. mickey laughed and obeyed. neatly he put away all that had been supplied him; before lighting the burner he gave lily a drink of milk and tried arranging both pillows to prop her up as he had been shown. when the water boiled he dropped in two bouillon cubes the nurse had given him, and set out some crackers he had bought. he put the milk in two cups, and when he cut the bread, he carefully collected every crumb, putting it on the sill in the hope that a bird might come. the thieving sparrows, used to watching windows and stealing from stores set out to cool, were soon there. peaches, to whom anything with feathers was a bird, was filled with joy. the odour of the broth was delicious. mickey danced, turned handsprings, and made the funniest remarks. then he fixed the bowl on a paper, broke the crackers in her broth, growing unspeakably happy at her delight as she tasted it. "every saturday you get a box of that from the nurse lady," he boasted. "pretty soon you'll be so fat i can't carry you and so well you can have supper ready when i come, then we can----" mickey stopped short. he had started to say, "go to the parks," but if other ladies were like the first one he had talked with, and if, as she said, the law would not let him keep peaches, he had better not try to take her where people would see her. "can what?" asked peaches. "have the most fun!" explained mickey. "we can sit in the window to see the sky and birds; you can have the shears and cut pictures from the papers i'll bring you, while i'll read all my story books to you. i got three that she gave me for christmas presents, so i could learn to read them----" "mickey could i ever learn to read them?" "sure!" cried mickey. "surest thing you know! you are awful smart, lily. you can learn in no time, and then you can read while i'm gone, so it won't seem long. i'll teach you. mother taught me. i can read the papers i sell. honest i can. i often pick up torn ones i can bring to you. it's lots of fun to know what's going on. i sell many more by being able to tell what's in them than kids who can't read. i look all over the front page and make up a spiel on the cars. i always fold my papers neat and keep them clean. to-day it was like this: 'here's your nice, clean, morning paper! sterilized! deodorized! vulcanized!'" "mickey what does that mean?" asked peaches. "now you see how it comes in!" said mickey. "if you could read the papers, you'd _know_. 'sterilized,' is what they do to the milk in hot weather to save the slum kids. that's us, lily. 'deodorized,' is taking the bad smell out of things. 'vulcanized,' is something they do to stiffen things. i guess it's what your back needs." "is all them things done to the papers?" asked peaches. "well, not _all_ of them," laughed mickey, "but they are starting in on _some_ of them, and all would be a good thing. the other kids who can't read don't know those words, so i study them out and use them; it catches the crowd for they laugh, and then pay me for making them. see? this world down on the streets is in such a mix a laugh is the scarcest thing there is; so they _pay_ for it. no grouchy, sad-cat-working-on-your-sympathy kid sells many. i can beat one with a laugh every inning." "what's 'inning,' mickey?" came the next question. "playin' a side at a ball game. now ty cobb----" "go on with what you say about the papers," interrupted peaches. "all right!" said mickey. "'here's your nice, clean morning paper! sterilized! deodorized! vulcanized! i _like_ to sell them. you _like_ to buy them! _sometimes_ i sell them! sometimes i _don't!_ latest war news! japan takes england! england takes france! france takes germany! germany takes belgium! belgium takes the cake! here's your paper! nice clean paper! rush this way! change your change for a paper! yes, i _like_ to sell them----' and on and on that way all day, 'til they're gone and every one i pick up and smooth out is gone, and if they're torn and dirty, i carry them back on the cars and sell them for pennies to the poor folks walking home." "mickey, will we be slum kids always?" she asked. "not on your tin type!" cried mickey. "if this is slum kids, i like it!" protested peaches. "well, sunrise alley ain't so slummy as where you was, lily," explained the boy. "this is grand," said peaches "fine an' grand! no lady needn't have better!" "she wouldn't say so," said mickey. "but lily, you got something most of the millyingaire ladies hasn't." "what mickey?" she asked interestedly. "one man all to yourself, who will do what you want, if you ask pretty, and he ain't going to drag you 'round and make you do things you don't like to, and hit you, and swear at you, and get drunk. gee, i bet the worst you ever had didn't hurt more than i've seen some of the swell dames hurt sometimes. it'd make you sick lily." "i guess 'at it would," said the girl, "'cause granny told me the same thing. lots of times she said 'at she couldn't see so much in bein' rich if you had to be treated like she saw rich ladies. she said all they got out of it was nice dresses an' struttin' when their men wasn't 'round; nelse the money was theirn, an' nen they made the men pay. she said it was 'bout half and half." "so 'tis!" cried mickey. "tell you lily, don't let's ever _be_ rich! let's just have enough." "mickey, what is 'enough?'" asked peaches. "why plenty, but not too much!" explained mickey judicially. "not enough to fight over! just enough to be comfortable." "mickey, i'm comf'rable as nangel now." "gee, i'm glad, lily," said mickey in deep satisfaction. "maybe he heard my s.o.s. after all, and you just being _comfortable_ is the answer." chapter iv "_bearer of morning_" "douglas," called leslie over the telephone, "i have developed nerves." "why?" inquired he. "dad has just come in with a pair of waist-high boots, and a scalping knife, i think," answered leslie. "are you going to bring a blanket and a war bonnet?" "the blanket, i can; the bonnet, i might," said douglas. "how early will you be ready?" she asked. "whenever you say," he replied. "five?" she queried. "very well!" he answered. "and leslie, i would suggest a sweater, short stout skirts, and heavy gloves. do you know if you are susceptible to poison vines?" "i have handled anything wild as i pleased all my life," she said. "i am sure there is no danger from that source; but douglas, did you ever hear of, or see, a massasauga?" "you are perfectly safe on that score," he said. "i am going along especially to take care of you." "all right, then i won't be afraid of snakes," she said. "i have waders, too," he said, "and i'm going into the swamp with you. wherever you wish to go, i will precede you and test the footing." "very well! i have lingered on the borders long enough. to-morrow will be my initiation. by night i'll have learned the state of my artistic ability with natural resources, and i'll know whether the heart of the swamp is the loveliest sight i ever have seen, and i will have proved how i 'line up' with a squaw-woman." "leslie, i'm now reading a most interesting human document," said douglas, "and in it i have reached the place where indians in the heart of terrific winter killed and heaped up a pile of deer in early day in minnesota, then went to camp rejoicing, while their squaws were left to walk twenty-eight miles and each carry back on her shoulder a deer frozen stiff. leslie, you don't line up! you are not expected to." "do you believe that, douglas?" asked the girl. "it's history dear, not fiction," he answered. "douglas!" she warned. "leslie, i beg your pardon! that was a slip!" cried he. "oh!" she breathed. "leslie, will you do something for me?" he questioned. "what?" she retorted. "listen with one ear, stop the other, and tell me what you hear," he ordered. "yes," she said. "did you hear, leslie?" he asked anxiously. "i heard something, i don't know what," she answered. "can you describe it, leslie?" "just a rushing, beating sound! what is it douglas?" "my heart, leslie, sending to you each throbbing stroke of my manhood pouring out its love for you." "oh-h-h!" cried the astonished girl. "will you listen again, leslie?" begged the man. "no!" she said. "you don't want to hear what my heart has to say to you?" he asked. "not over a wire! not so far away!" she panted. "then i'll shorten the distance. i'm coming, leslie!" "what shall i do?" she gasped. she stared around her, trying to decide whether she should follow her impulse to hide, when her father entered the room. "daddy," she cried, "if you want to be nice to me, go away a little while. go somewhere a few minutes and stay until i call you." "leslie, what's the matter?" he asked. "i've been talking to douglas, and daddy, he's coming like a charging highland trooper. daddy, i heard him drop the receiver and start. please, please go away a minute. even the dearest father in the world can't do anything now! we must settle this ourselves." "i'm not to be allowed a word?" he protested. "daddy, you've had two years! if you know anything to say against douglas and haven't said it in all that time, why should you begin now? you couldn't help knowing! daddy, do go! there he is! i hear him!" mr. winton took his daughter in his arms, kissed her tenderly, and left the room. a second later douglas bruce entered. rushing to leslie he caught her to his breast roughly, while with a strong hand he pressed her ear against his heart. "now you listen, my girl!" he cried. "you listen at close range." leslie remained quiet a long second. then she lifted her face, adorable, misty eyed and tenderly smiling. "douglas, i never listened to a heart before! how do i know what it is saying? i can't tell whether it is talking about me or protesting against the way you've been rushing around!" "no levity, my lady," he said grimly. "this is serious business. you listen while i interpret. i love you, leslie! every beat, every stroke, love for you. i claim you! my mate! my wife! i want you!" he held her from him, looking into her eyes. "now leslie, the answer!" he cried. "may i listen to it or will you tell me? _is_ there any answer? what is _your_ heart saying? may i hear or will you tell me?" "i want to tell you!" said the girl. "i love you, douglas! every beat, every stroke, love for you." early the next morning they inspected their equipment carefully, then drove north to the tamarack swamp, where they arranged that leslie and douglas were to hunt material, while mr. winton and the driver went to the nearest indian settlement to find the squaw who had made the other basket, and bring her to the swamp. if you have experienced the same emotions you will know how douglas and leslie felt when hand in hand they entered the swamp on a perfect morning in late may. if you have not, mere words are inadequate. through fern and brake head high, through sumac, willow, elder, buttonbush, gold-yellow and blood-red osiers, past northern holly, over spongy moss carpet of palest silvery green up-piled for ages, over red-veined pitcher plants spilling their fullness, among scraggy, odorous tamaracks, beneath which cranberries and rosemary were blooming; through ethereal pale mists of dawn, in their ears lark songs of morning from the fields, hermit thrushes in the swamp, bell birds tolling molten notes, in a minor strain a swelling chorus of sparrows, titmice, warblers, vireos, went two strong, healthy young people newly promised for "better or worse." they could only look, stammer, flush, and utter broken exclamations, all about "better." they could not remotely conceive that life might serve them the cruel trick of "worse." leslie sank to her knees. douglas lifted her up, set her on the firmest location he could see, adoring her with his eyes and reverent touch. since that first rough grasp as he drew her to him, leslie had felt positively fragile in his hands. she smiled at him her most beautiful smile when wide-eyed with emotion. "douglas, why just now, when you've waited two years?" she asked. "wanted a degree of success to offer," he answered. leslie disdained the need for success. "wanted you to have time to know me as completely as possible." leslie intimated that she could learn faster. "wanted to have the acknowledged right to put my body between yours and any danger this swamp might have to offer to-day." "exactly what i thought!" cried she. "wise girl," commented the man. "douglas, i must hurry!" said leslie. "it may take a long time to find the flowers i want, while i've no idea what i shall do for a basket. i saw osiers yellow and red in quantities, but where are the orchids?" "we must make our way farther in and search," he said. "douglas, listen!" breathed leslie. "i hear exquisite music," he answered. "but don't you recognize it?" she cried. "it does seem familiar, but i am not sufficiently schooled in music----" the girl began softly to whistle. "by jove!" cried the man. "what is that leslie?" "di provenza, from traviata," she answered. "but i must stop listening for birds douglas, when i can scarcely watch for flowers or vines. i have to keep all the time looking to make sure that you are really my man." "and i, that you are my woman. leslie, that expression and this location, the fact that you are in competition with a squaw and the indian talk we have indulged in lately, all conspire to remind me that a few days ago, while i was still a 'searcher' myself, i read a poem called 'song of the search' that was the biggest thing of its kind that i have yet found in our language. it was so great that i reread it until i am sure i can do it justice. listen my 'bearer of morning,' my 'bringer of song----'" douglas stood straight as the tamaracks, his feet sinking in "the little moss," while from his heart he quoted constance skinner's wonderful poem: "_i descend through the forest alone. rose-flushed are the willows, stark and a-quiver, in the warm sudden grasp of spring; like a woman when her lover has suddenly, swiftly taken her. i hear the secret rustle of little leaves, waiting to be born. the air is a wind of love from the wings of eagles mating---- o eagles, my sky is dark with your wings! the hills and the waters pity me, the pine-trees reproach me. the little moss whispers under my feet, "son of earth, brother, why comest thou hither alone?" oh, the wolf has his mate on the mountain---- where art thou, spring-daughter? i tremble with love as reeds by the river, i burn as the dusk in the red-tented west, i call thee aloud as the deer calls the doe, i await thee as hills wait the morning, i desire thee as eagles the storm; i yearn to thy breast as night to the sea, i claim thee as the silence claims the stars. o earth, earth, great earth, mate of god and mother of me, say, where is she, the bearer of morning, my bringer of song? love in me waits to be born, where is she, the woman?_ "'where is she, the woman?' the answer is 'here!' 'bearer of morning,' 'bringer of song,' i adore you!" "oh douglas, how beautiful!" cried leslie. "my man, can we think of anything save ourselves to-day? can we make that basket?" "it would be a bad start to give up our first undertaking together," he said. "of course!" she cried. "we must! we simply must find things. father may call any minute. let go my hand and follow behind me. keep close, douglas!" "i should go before to clear the way," he suggested. "no, i may miss rare flowers if you do," she objected. "go slowly, so i can watch before and overhead." "yes!" she answered. "there! there, douglas!" "ah! there they are!" he exulted. "but i can't take them!" she protested. "only a few, leslie. look before you! see how many there are!" he said. "douglas, could there be more wonderful flowers than the moccasins and slippers?" she asked. "scarcely more wonderful; there might be more delicate and lovely!" "farther! let us go farther!" she urged. her cry closed the man's arms around her. then there was a long silence during which they stood on the edge of a small open space breathlessly worshipping, but it was the almighty they were now adoring. here the moss lay in a flat carpet, tinted deeper green. water willow rolled its ragged reddish-tan hoops, with swelling bloom and leaf buds. overflowing pitcher plants grew in irregular beds, on slender stems, lifting high their flat buds. but scattered in groups here and there, sometimes with massed similar colours, sometimes in clumps and variegated patches, stood the rare, early fringed orchis, some almost white, others pale lavender and again the deeper colour of the moccasins; while everywhere on stems, some a foot high, nodded the exquisite lavender and white showy orchis. "count!" he commanded. leslie pointed a slender finger indicating each as she spoke: "one, two, three--thirty-two, under the sweep of your arms, douglas! and more! more by the hundred! surely if we are careful not to kill them, the lord won't mind if we take out a few for people to see, will he?" "he must have made them to be seen!" said douglas. "and worshipped!" cried the girl. "douglas, why didn't the squaw----?" asked leslie. "maybe she didn't come this far," he said. "perhaps she knows by experience that these are too fragile to remove. you may not be able to handle them, leslie." "i'm going to try," she said. "but first i must make my basket. we'll go back to the osiers to weave it and then come here to fill it. oh douglas! did you ever see such flower perfection in all your life?" "only in books! in my home country applied botany is a part of every man's education. i never have seen ragged or fringed orchids growing before. i have read of many fruitless searches for the white ones." "so have i. they seem to be the rarest. douglas, look there!" "there" was a group of purple-lavender, white-lipped bloom, made by years of spreading from one root, until above the rank moss and beneath the dark tamarack branch the picture appeared inconceivably delicate. "yes! the most exquisite flowers i ever have seen!" "and there, douglas!" she pointed to another group. "just the shade of the lavender on the toe of the moccasin--and in a great ragged mass! would any one believe it?" "not without seeing it," he said emphatically. "and there, douglas! exactly the colour of the moccasins--see that cluster! there are no words, douglas!" "shall you go farther?" he asked. "no," she answered. "i'm going back to weave my basket. there is nothing to surpass the orchids in rarity and wondrous beauty." "good!" he cried. "i'll go ahead and you follow." so they returned to the osiers. leslie pondered deeply a few seconds, then resolutely putting douglas aside, she began cutting armloads of pale yellow osiers. finding a suitable place to work, she swiftly and deftly selected perfect, straight evenly coloured ones, cutting them the same length, then binding the tip ends firmly with raffia she had brought to substitute for grass. then with fine slips she began weaving, gradually spreading the twigs while inwardly giving thanks for the lessons she had taken in basketry. at last she held up a big, pointed, yellow basket. "ready!" she said. "beautiful!" cried douglas. leslie carefully lined the basket with moss in which the flowers grew, working the heads between the open spaces she had left. she bent three twigs, dividing her basket top in exact thirds. one of these she filled with the whitest, one with stronger, and one with the deepest lavender, placing the tallest plants in the centre so that the outside ones would show completely. then she lifted by the root exquisite showy orchis, lavender-hooded, white-lipped, the tiniest plants she could select and set them around the edge. she bedded the moss-wrapped roots in the basket and began bordering the rim and entwining the handle with a delicate vine. she looked up at douglas, her face thrilled with triumph, flushed with exertion, her eyes humid with feeling, while he gazed at her stirred to the depth of his heart with sympathy and the wonder of possession. "'bearer of morning,' you win!" he cried triumphantly. "there is no use going farther. let me carry that to your father, and he too will say so." "i have a reason for working out our plan," she said. "yes? may i know?" he asked. "surely!" she answered. "you remember what you told me about the minturns. i can't live in a city and not have my feelings harrowed every day, and while i'd like to change everything wrong, i know i can't all of it, so what i can't cope with must be put aside; but this refuses, it is insistent. when you really think of it, that is so _dreadful_, douglas. if they once felt what we do now, could it _all_ go? there must be something left! you mention him oftener than any other one man, so you must admire him deeply; i know her as well as any woman i meet in society, better than most; i had thought of asking them to be the judges. she is interested in music and art; it would please her and be perfectly natural for me to ask her; you are on intimate terms with him from your offices being opposite; there could be no suspicion of any ulterior motive in having them. i don't know that it would accomplish anything, but it would let them know, to begin with, that we consider them friends; so it would be natural for them to come with us; if we can't manage more than that to-day, it will give us ground to try again." "splendid!" he said. "a splendid plan! it would let them see that at least our part of the world thinks of them together, and expects them to be friends. splendid!" "i have finished," said leslie. "i quite agree," answered douglas. "no one could do better. that is the ultimate beauty of the swamp made manifest. there is the horn! your father is waiting." a surprise was also waiting. mr. winton had not only found the squaw who brought the first basket, but he had made her understand so thoroughly what was wanted that she had come with him, while at his suggestion she had replaced the moccasin basket as exactly as she could and also made an effort at decoration. she was smiling woodenly when leslie and douglas approached, but as leslie's father glimpsed and cried out over her basket, the squaw frowned, drawing back. "where you find 'em?" she demanded. "in the swamp!" leslie nodded backward. the squaw grunted disapprovingly. "lowry no buy 'em! sell slipper! sell moccasin! no sell weed!" leslie looked with shining eyes at her father. "that lies with lowry," he said. "i'll drive you there and bring you back, and you'll have the ride and the money for your basket. that's all that concerns you. we won't come here to make any more." the squaw smiled again, so they started to the city. they drove straight to the winton residence for the slippers. while mr. winton and the squaw went to take the baskets to lowry's and leave douglas at his office, leslie in his car went to mrs. minturn's. "don't think i'm crazy," laughed leslie, as mrs. minturn came down to meet her. "i want to use your exquisite taste and art instinct a few minutes. please do come with me. we've a question up. you know the wonderful stuff the indians bring down from the swamps to sell on the streets and to the florists?" "indeed yes! i often buy of them in the spring. i love the wild white violets especially. what is it you want?" "why you see," said leslie, looking eagerly at mrs. minturn, "you see there are three flower baskets at lowry's. douglas bruce is going to buy me the one i want most for a present, to celebrate a very important occasion, and i can't tell which is most artistic. i want you to decide. your judgment is so unfailing. will you come? only a little spin!" "leslie, you aren't by any chance asking me to select your betrothal gift, are you?" leslie's face was rose-flushed smiling wonderment. she had hastily slipped off her swamp costume. joy that seemed as if it must be imperishable shone on her brightly illumined face. with tightly closed, smile-curved lips she vigorously nodded. the elder woman bent to kiss her. "of course i'll come!" she laughed. "i feel thrilled, and flattered. and i congratulate you sincerely. bruce is a fine man. he'll make a big fortune soon." "oh i hope not!" said leslie. "are you crazy?" demanded mrs. minturn. "you said you didn't want me to think you so!" "you see," said leslie, "mr. bruce has a living income; so have i, from my mother. fortunes seem to me to work more trouble than they do good. i believe poor folks are happiest, they get most out of life, and after all what gives deep, heart-felt joy, is the thing to live for, isn't it? but we must hurry. mr. lowry didn't promise to hold the flowers long." "i'll be ready in a minute, but i see where douglas bruce is giving you wrong ideas," said mrs. minturn. "he needs a good talking to. money is the only thing worth while, and the comfort and the pleasure it brings. without it you are crippled, handicapped, a slave crawling while others step over you. i'll convince _him!_ back in a minute." when mrs. minturn returned she was in a delightful mood, her face eager, her dress beautiful. leslie wondered if this woman ever had known a care, then remembered that not long before she had lost a little daughter. leslie explained as they went swiftly through the streets. "you won't mind waiting only a second until i run up to mr. bruce's offices?" she asked. he was ready, so together they stopped at mr. minturn's door. douglas whispered: "watch the office boy. he is minturn's little brother i told you about." leslie nodded and entered gaily. "please ask mr. minturn if he will see miss winton and mr. douglas bruce a minute?" she said. an alert, bright-faced lad bowed politely, laid aside a book and entered the inner office. "now let me!" said leslie. "good may, mr. minturn!" she cried. "positively enchanting! take that forbidding look off your face. come for a few minutes maying! it will do you much good, and me more. all my friends are pleasuring me to-day. so i want as good a friend of mr. bruce as you, to be in something we have planned. you just must!" "has something delightful happened?" asked mr. minturn, retaining the hand leslie offered him as he turned to douglas bruce. "you must ask miss winton," he said. mr. minturn's eyes questioned her sparkling face, while again with closed lips she nodded. "my most earnest congratulations to each of you. may life grant you even more than you hope for, and from your faces, that is no small wish to make for you. surely i'll come! what is it you have planned?" "something lovely!" said leslie. "at lowry's are three flower baskets that are rather bewildering. i am to have one for my betrothal gift, but i can't decide. i appealed to mrs. minturn to help me, and she agreed; she is waiting below. mr. bruce named you for him; so you two and mr. lowry are to choose the most artistic basket for me, then if i don't agree, i needn't take it, but i want to see what you think. you'll come of course?" mr. minturn's face darkened at the mention of his wife, while he hesitated and looked penetratingly at leslie. she was guileless, charming, and eager. "very well," mr. minturn said gravely. "i'm surprised, but also pleased. beautiful young ladies have not appealed to me so often of late that i can afford to miss the chance of humouring the most charming of her sex." "how lovely!" laughed leslie. "douglas, did you ever know mr. minturn could flatter like that? it's most enjoyable! i shall insist on more of it, at every opportunity! really, mr. minturn, society has missed you of late, and it is our loss. we need men who are worth while." "now it is you who flatter," smiled mr. minturn. "see my captive!" cried leslie, as she emerged from the building and crossed the walk to the car. "mr. bruce and mr. minturn are great friends, so as we passed his door we brought him along by force." "it certainly would require that to bring him anywhere in my company," said mrs. minturn coldly. the shock of the cruelty of the remark closed douglas' lips, but it was leslie's day to bubble, so she resolutely set herself to heal and cover the hurt. "i think business is a perfect bugbear," she said as she entered the car. "i'm going to have a pre-nuptial agreement as to just how far work may trespass on douglas' time, and how much belongs to me. i think it can be arranged. daddy and i always have had lovely times together, and i would call him successful. wouldn't you?" "a fine business man!" said mr. minturn heartily. "you could have had much greater advantages if he had made more money," said mrs. minturn. "the advantage of more money--yes," retorted leslie quickly, "but would the money have been of more advantage to me than the benefits of his society and his personal hand in my rearing? i think not! i prefer my daddy!" "when you take your place in society, as the mistress of a home, you will find that millions will not be too much," said mrs. minturn. "if i had millions, i'd give most of them away, and just go on living about as i do now with daddy," said leslie. "leslie, where did you get bitten with this awful, common--what kind of an idea shall i call it? you haven't imbibed socialistic tendencies have you?" "haven't a smattering of what they mean!" laughed leslie. "the 'istics' scare me completely. just _social_ ideas are all i have; thinking home better than any other place on earth, the way you can afford to have it. merely being human, kind and interested in what my men are doing and enjoying, and helping any one who crosses my path and seems to need me. oh, i get such joy, such delicious _joy_ from life." "if i were undertaking wild-eyed reform, i'd sell my car and walk, and do settlement work," said mrs. minturn scornfully. then leslie surprised all of them. she leaned forward, looked beamingly into the elder woman's face and cried enthusiastically: "i am positive you'd be stronger, and much happier if you would! you know there is no greater fun than going to the end of the car line and then walking miles into the country, especially now in bloom-time. you see sights no painter ever transferred even a good imitation of to canvas; you hear music--i wish every music lover with your trained ear could have spent an hour in that swamp this morning. you'd soon know where verdi and strauss found some of their loveliest themes, and where beethoven got the bird notes for the brook scene of the pastoral symphony. think how interested you'd be in a yellow and black bird singing the spinning song from martha, while you couldn't accuse the bird of having stolen it from flotow, could you? surely the bird holds right of priority!" "if you weren't a little fool and talking purposely to irritate me, you'd almost cause me to ask if you seriously mean that?" said mrs. minturn. "why," laughed leslie, determined not to become provoked on this her great day, "that is a matter you can test for yourself. if you haven't a score of martha, get one and i'll take you where you can hear a bird sing that strain, then you may judge for yourself." "i don't believe it!" said mrs. minturn tersely, "but if it were true, that would be the _most wonderful experience_ i ever had in my life." "and it would cost you only ten cents," scored leslie. "you needn't ride beyond the end of the car line for that, while a woman who can dance all night surely could _walk_ far enough, to reach any old orchard. that's what i am trying to _tell_ you. money in large quantities isn't necessary to provide the _most interesting_ things in the world, while millions don't bring happiness. i can find more in what you would class almost poverty." "why don't you try it?" suggested mrs. minturn. "but i _have!_" said leslie. "and i enjoy it! i could go with a man i love as i do daddy, and make a home, and get joy i never have found in society, from just what we two could do with our own hands in the woods. i don't like a city. if daddy's business didn't keep him here, i would be in the country this minute. look at us poor souls trying to find pleasure in a basket from the swamp, when we might have the whole swamp. i'd be happy to live at its door. now try a basket full of it. there are three. you are to examine each of them carefully, then write on a slip of paper which you think the _most artistic_. you are not to say things that will influence each other's decisions, or mr. lowry's. i want a straight opinion from each of you." they entered the florist's, and on a glass table faced the orchids, the slippers, the fringed basket, and the moccasins. mr. winton and the squaw were waiting, while the florist was smiling in gratification, but the minturns went to the flowers without a word. they simply stood and looked. each of the baskets was in perfect condition. the flowers were as fresh as at home in the swamp. each was a thing of wondrous beauty. each deserved the mute tribute it was exacting. mrs. minturn studied them with gradually darkening face. mrs. minturn repeatedly opened her lips as if she would speak, but did not. she stepped closer and gently turned the flowers and lightly touched the petals. "beautiful!" she said at last. "beautiful!" another long silence. then: "_honestly leslie, did you hear a bird sing that strain from martha?_" "yes!" said leslie, "i did. and if you will go with me to the swamp where those flowers came from, you shall hear one sing a strain that will instantly remind you of the opening chorus, while another renders di provenza il mar from traviata." the lady turned again to the flowers. she was thinking something deep and absorbing, but no one could have guessed exactly what it might be. finally: "i have decided," she said. "shall we number these one, two, and three, and so indicate them?" "yes," said leslie a little breathlessly. "put your initials to the slips and i'll read them," offered douglas. then he smilingly read aloud: "mr. lowry, one. mrs. minturn, two. mr. minturn, three!" "i cast the deciding vote," cried leslie. "one!" the squaw seemed to think of a war-whoop, but decided against it. "now be good enough to state your reasons," said mr. winton. "_why_ do you prefer the slipper basket, mr. lowry?" "it satisfies my sense of the artistic." "why the fringed basket, mrs. minturn?" "because it contains daintier, more wonderful flowers than the others, and is by far the most pleasing production." "now minturn, your turn. why do you like the moccasin basket?" "it makes the deepest appeal to me," he answered. "but why?" persisted mr. winton. "if you will have it--the moccasins are the colour i once loved on the face of my little daughter." "now leslie!" said mr. winton hurriedly as he noted mrs. minturn's displeased look. "must i tell?" she asked. "yes," said her father. "douglas selected it for me, so i like it best." "but leslie!" cried douglas, "there were only two baskets when i favoured that. had the fringed orchids been here then, i most certainly should have chosen them. i think yours far the most exquisite! i claim it now. will you give it to me?" "surely! i'd love to," laughed the girl. "you have done your most exquisite work on the fringed basket," said mrs. minturn to the squaw. "no make!" said she promptly, pointing to leslie. "leslie winton, did you go to the swamp to make that basket?" demanded mrs. minturn. "yes," answered leslie. "did you make all of them?" "only that one," replied leslie. "why?" marvelled the lady. "to see if i could go to the tamarack swamp and bring from it with the same tools and material, a more artistic production than an indian woman." "well, you have!" conceded mrs. minturn. "the majority is against me," said leslie. "majorities mean masses, and masses are notoriously insane!" said mrs. minturn. "but this is a small, select majority," said leslie. "craziest of all," said mrs. minturn decidedly. "if you have finished with us, i want to thank you for the pleasure of seeing these, and leslie, some day i really think i shall try that bird music. the idea interests me more than anything that i have ever heard of. if it were true, it would indeed be wonderful, it would be a new experience!" "if you want to hear for yourself, make it soon, because now is nesting time; not again until next spring will the music be so entrancing. i can go any day." "i'll look over my engagements and call you. if one ever had a minute to spare!" "another of the joys of wealth!" said leslie. "only the poor can afford to 'loaf and invite their souls.' the flowers you will see will delight your eyes, quite as much as the music your ears." "i doubt your logic, but i'll try the birds. are you coming mr. minturn?" "not unless you especially wish me. are these for sale?" he asked, picking up the moccasins. "only those," replied the florist. "send your bill," he said, turning with the basket. "how shining a thing is consistency!" sneered his wife. "you condemn the riches you never have been able to amass, but at the same time spend like a millionaire." "i never said i was not able to gain millions," replied mr. minturn coldly. "i have had frequent opportunities! i merely refused them, because i did not consider them legitimate. as for my method in buying flowers, in this one instance, price does not matter. you can guess what i shall do with them." "i couldn't possibly!" answered mrs. minturn. "the only sure venture i could make is that they will not by any chance come to me." "no. these go to baby elizabeth," he said. "do you want to come with me to take them to her?" with an audible sneer she passed him. he stepped aside, gravely raising his hat, while the others said good-bye to him and followed. "positively insufferable!" cried mrs. minturn. "every one of my friends say they do not know how i endure his insults and i certainly will not many more. i don't, i really don't know what he expects." mr. winton and douglas bruce were confused, while leslie was frightened, but she tried turning the distressing occurrence off with excuses. "of course he intended no insult!" she soothed. "he must have adored his little daughter and the flowers reminded him. i am so much obliged for your opinion and i shall be glad to take you to the swamp any time. your little sons--would they like to go? it is a most interesting and instructive place for children." "for heaven's sake don't mention children!" cried mrs. minturn. "they are a bother and a curse!" "oh mrs. minturn!" exclaimed leslie. "of course i don't mean _quite_ that; but i do very near! mine are perfect little devils; all the trouble james and i ever had came through them. his idea of a mother is a combined doctor, wet-nurse and nursery maid, while i must say, i far from agree with him. what are servants for if not to take the trouble of children off your hands?" leslie was glad to reach the rich woman's door and deposit her there. as the car sped away the girl turned a despairing face toward douglas: "for the love of moike!" she cried. "isn't that shocking? poor mr. minturn!" "i don't pity him half so much as i do her," he answered. "what must a woman have suffered or been through, to warp, twist, and harden her like that?" "society life," answered leslie, "as it is lived by people of wealth who are aping royalty and the titled classes." "a branch of them--possibly," conceded douglas. "i know some titled and wealthy people who would be dumbfounded over that woman's ideas." "so do i," said leslie. "of course there are exceptions. sometimes the exception becomes bigger than the rule, but not in our richest society. douglas, let's keep close together! oh don't let's ever drift into such a state as that. i should have asked them to lunch, but i couldn't. if that is the way she is talking before her friends, surely she won't have many, soon." "then her need for a real woman like you will be all the greater," answered douglas. "i suppose you should have asked her; but i'm delighted that you didn't! to-day began so nearly perfect, i want to end it with only you and your father. will he resent me, leslie?" "it all depends on us. if we are selfish and leave him alone he will feel it. if we can make him realize gain instead of loss he will be happier than he is now." "i wish i hadn't felt obliged to reject his offer the other night. i'm very sorry about it." "i'm not," said leslie. "you have a right to live your life in your own way. i have seen enough of running for office, elections and appointments that i hate it. you do the work you educated yourself for and i'll help you." "then my success is assured," laughed douglas. "leslie, may i leave my basket here? will you care for it like yours, and may i come to see it often?" "no. you may come to see me and look at the basket incidentally," she answered. "do you think mrs. minturn will go to the swamp to listen to those birds?" he asked. "eventually she will," answered the girl. "i may have to begin by taking her to an orchard to hear a bird of gold sing a golden song about 'sewing, and mending, and baby tending,' to start on; but when she hears that, she will be eager for more." "how interesting!" cried douglas. "'bearer of morning,' sing that song to me now." leslie whistled the air, beating time with her hand, then sang the words: "_i can wash, sir, i can spin, sir, i can sew and mend, and babies tend._" "oh you 'bringer of song!'" exulted douglas. "i'd rather hear you sing that than any bird, but from what she said, nellie minturn won't care particularly for it!" "she may not approve of, or practise, the sentiment," said leslie, "but she'll love the music and possibly the musician." chapter v _little brother_ "now what am i going to do yet to make the day shorter, lily?" asked mickey. "i guess i got everything," she answered. "there's my lunch. here's my pictures to cut. here's my lesson to learn. there's my sky and bird crumbs. mickey, sometimes they hop right in on the sheet. yest'day one tried to get my lunch. ain't they sassy?" "yes," said mickey. "they fight worse than rich folks. i don't know why the almighty pays attention if they fall." "mebby nobody else cares," said peaches, "and he feels obliged to 'cause he made 'em." "gee! you say the funniest things, kid," laughed mickey as he digested the idea. "wonder if he cares for us 'cause he made us." "mebby he didn't make us," suggested peaches. "well we got one consoling thing," said mickey. "if he made any of them, he made us, and if he didn't make us, he didn't none of them, 'cause everybody comes in and goes out the same way; she said so." "then of course it's so," agreed peaches. "that gives us as good a chance as anybody." "course it does if we got sense to take it," said mickey. "we got to wake up and make something of ourselves. let me see if you know your lesson for to-day yet. there is the picture of the animal--there is the word that spells its name. now what is it?" "milk!" answered peaches, her eyes mischievous. mickey held over the book chuckling. "all right! there is the word for that, too. for being so smart, miss chicken, you can learn it 'fore you get any more to drink. if i have good luck to-day, i'm going to blow in about six o'clock with a slate and pencil for you; and then you can print the words you learn, and make pictures. that'll help make the day go a lot faster." "oh it goes fast enough now," said peaches. "i love days with you and the window and the birds. i wish they'd sing more though." "when your back gets well, i'll take you to the country where they sing all the time," promised mickey, "where there are grass, and trees, and flowers, and water to wade in and----" "mickey, stop and go on!" cried peaches. "sooner you start, the sooner i'll get my next verse. i want just norful good one to-night." she held up her arms. mickey submitted to a hug and a little cold dab on his forehead, counted his money, locked the door and ran. on the car he sat in deep thought, then suddenly sniggered aloud. he had achieved the next installment of the doggerel to which every night peaches insisted on having a new verse added as he entered. he secured his papers, and glimpsing the headlines started on his beat crying them lustily. mickey knew that washing, better air, enough food, and oil rubbing were improving peaches. what he did not know was that adding the interest of her presence to his life, even though it made his work heavier, was showing on him. he actually seemed bigger, stronger, and his face brighter and fuller. he swung down the street thrusting his papers right and left, crossed and went up the other side, watching closely for a customer. it was ten o'clock and opportunities with the men were almost over. mickey turned to scan the street for anything even suggesting a sale. he saw none and started with his old cry, watching as he went: "i _like_ to sell papers! _sometimes_ i sell them! sometimes i _don't_----!" then he saw her. she was so fresh and joyous. she walked briskly. even his beloved nurse was not so wonderful. straight toward her went mickey. "i _like_ to sell papers! _sometimes_ i sell them! sometimes i _don't!_ morning paper, lady! sterilized! deodorized! vulcanized! nice _clean_ paper!" the girl's eyes betokened interest; her smiling lips encouraged mickey. he laid his chin over her arm, leaned his head against it and fell in step with her. "_sometimes_ i sell them! sometimes i _don't!_ if i _sell_ them, i'm happy! if i don't, i'm _hungry!_ if you _buy_ them, you're happy! pa--per?--lady." "not to-day, thank you," she said. "i'm shopping, so i don't wish to carry it." mickey saw peaches' slate vanishing. it was a beautiful slate, small so it would not tire her bits of hands, and its frame was covered with red. his face sobered, his voice changed, taking on unexpected modulations. "aw lady! i thought _you'd_ buy my paper! far down the street i saw you _coming_. lady, i like your gentle _voice_. i like your pleasant _smile!_ you don't want a nice _sterilized_ paper?--lady." the lady stopped short; she lifted mickey's chin in a firm grip, looking intently into his face. "just by the merest chance, could your name be mickey?" she asked. "sure, lady! mickey! michael o'halloran!" her smile became even more attractive. "i really don't want to be bothered with a paper," she said; "but i do wish a note delivered. if you'll carry it, i'll pay you the price of half a dozen papers." "gets the slate!" cried mickey, bouncing like a rubber boy. "sure i will! is it ready, lady?" "one minute!" she said. she stepped to the inside of the walk, opened her purse, wrote a line on a card, slipped it in an envelope, addressed it and handed it to mickey. "you can read that?" she asked. "i've read worse writing than that," he assured her. "you ought to see the hieroglyphics some of the dimun-studded dames put up!" mickey took a last glimpse at the laughing face, then wheeling ran. presently he went into a big building, studied the address board, then entered the elevator and following a corridor reached the number. he paused a second, glancing around, when he saw the name on the opposite door. a flash passed over his face. "ugh!" he muttered. "'member now--been to this place before! glad she ain't sending a letter to _that_ man." he stepped inside the open door before him, crossed the room and laid the note near a man who was bending over some papers on a desk. the man reached a groping hand, tore open the envelope, taking therefrom a card on which was pencilled: "could this by any chance be your little brother?" he turned hastily, glancing at mickey, then in a continuous movement arose with outstretched hand. "why little brother," he cried, "i'm so glad to see you!" mickey's smile slowly vanished as he whipped his hands behind him, stepping back. "nothin' doing, boss," he said. "you're off your trolley. i've no brother. my mother had only me." "don't you remember me, mickey?" inquired douglas bruce. "sure!" said mickey. "you made jimmy pay up!" "has he bothered you again?" asked the lawyer. "nope!" answered mickey. "sit down, mickey, i want to talk with you." "i'm much obliged for helping me out," said mickey, "but i guess you got other business, and i know i have." "what is your business?" was the next question. "selling papers. what's yours?" was the answer. "trying to be a corporation lawyer," explained douglas. "i've been here only two years, and it is slow getting a start. i often have more time to spare than i wish i had, while i'm lonesome no end." "is your mother dead?" asked mickey solicitously. "yes," answered douglas. "so's mine!" he commented. "you _do_ get lonesome! course she was a good one?" "the very finest, mickey," said douglas. "and yours?" "same here, mister," said mickey with conviction. "well since we are both motherless and lonesome, suppose we be brothers!" suggested douglas. "aw-w-w!" mickey shook his head. "no?" questioned douglas. "what's the use?" cried mickey. "you could help me with my work and share my play, while possibly i could be of benefit to you." "i just wondered if you wasn't getting to that," commented mickey. "getting to what?" inquired douglas. "going to do me good!" explained mickey. "the swell stiffs are always going to do us fellows good. mostly they do! they do us good and brown! they pick us up a while and make lap dogs of us, then when we've lost our appetites for our jobs and got to having a hankerin' for the fetch and carry business away they go and forget us, so we're a lot worse off than we were before. some of the fellows come out of it knowing more ways to be mean than they ever learned on the street," explained mickey. "if it's that big brother bee you got in your bonnet, pull its stinger and let it die an unnatural death! nope! none! good-bye!" "mickey, wait!" cried douglas. "me business calls, an' i must go--'way to my ranch in idaho!" gaily sang mickey. "i'd like to shake you!" said douglas bruce. "well, go on," said mickey. "i'm here and you're big enough." "if i thought it would jolt out your fool notions and shake some sense in, i would," said douglas indignantly. "now look here, kitchener," said mickey. "did i say one word that ain't so, and that you don't know is so?" "what you said is not even half a truth, young man! i do know cases where idle rich men have tried the little brother plan as a fad, and made a failure of it. but for a few like that, i know dozens of sincere, educated men who are honestly giving a boy they fancy, a chance. i can take you into the office of one of the most influential men in this city, right across the hall there, and show you a boy he liked who has in a short time become his friend, an invaluable helper, and hourly companion, and out of it that boy will get a fine education, good business training, and a start in life that will give him a better chance to begin on than the man who is helping him had." mickey laughed boisterously, then sobered suddenly. "'scuse me, brother," he said politely, "but that's most _too funny_ for any use. once i took a whirl with that gentleman myself. whether he does or not, i know the place where he ought to get off. see? answer me this: why would he be spending money and taking all that time for a 'newsy' when he hardly knows his own kids if he sees them, and they're the wickedest little rippers in the park. just _why_ now?" douglas bruce closed the door; then he came back and placing a chair for mickey, he took one opposite. "sit down mickey," he said patiently. "there's a reason for my being particularly interested in james minturn, and the reason hinges on the fact you mention: that he can't control his own sons, yet can make a boy he takes comfort in, of a street gamin." mickey's eyes narrowed while he sat very straight in the chair he had accepted. "if he's made so much of him, it sort of proves that he _wasn't_ a gamin. some of the boys are a long shot closer gentlemen than the guys who are experimenting with them; 'cause they were born rich and can afford it. if your friend's going to train his pick-up to be what _he_ is, then that boy would stand a better chance on his own side the curb. see? i've been right up against that gentleman with the documents, so i know him. also her! gee! 'tear up de choild and gimme de papers' was meant for a joke; but i saw that lady and gentleman do it. see? and she was the prettiest little pink and yellow thing. lord! i can see her gasping and blinking now! makes me sick! if the boy across the hall had seen what i did, he'd run a mile and never stop. gee!" douglas bruce stared aghast. at last he said slowly: "mickey, you are getting mighty close the very thing i wish to know. if i tell you what i know of james minturn, will you tell me what you know and think?" "sure!" said mickey readily. "i got no reasons for loving him. i wouldn't convoy a millying to the mint for that gentleman!" "mickey, shall i go first, or will you?" "i will," replied mickey instantly, "'cause when i finish you'll save your breath. see?" "i see," said douglas bruce. "proceed." "well, 'twas over two years ago," said mickey, leaning forward to look bruce in the eyes. "i hadn't been up against the game so awful long alone. 'twas summer and my papers were all gone, and i was tired, so i went over in the park and sat on a seat, just watching folks. pretty soon 'long comes walking a nice lady with a sweet voice and kind eyes. she sat down close me and says: 'it's a nice day.' we got chummy-like, when right up at the fountain before us stops as swell an automobile as there is. one of the brown french-governess-ladies with the hatchet face got out, and unloaded three kids: two boys and a girl. she told the kids if they didn't sit on the benches she socked them on hard, and keep their clothes clean so she wouldn't have to wash and dress them again that day, she'd knock the livers out of them, and walked off with the entrance policeman. soon as she and bobbie got interested, the kids began sliding off the bench and running around the fountain. the girl was only 'bout two or three, a fat toddly thing, trying to do what her brothers did, and taking it like the gamest kid you ever saw when they pushed her off the seat, and tripped her, and 'bused her like a dog. "me and the woman were getting madder every minute. 'go tell your nurse,' says she. but the baby thing just glanced where nurse was and kind of shivered and laughed, and ran on round the fountain, when the big boy stuck his foot out so she fell. nursie saw and started for her, but she scrambled up and went kiting for the bench, and climbed on it, so nurse told her she'd cut the blood out of her if she did that again, then went back to her policeman. soon as she was gone those little devils began coaxing their sister to get down and run again. at last she began to smile the cunningest and slipped to the walk, then a little farther, and a little farther, all the time laughing and watching the nurse. the big boy, he said: 'you ain't nothing but a _girl!_ you can't step on the edge like i can and then step back!' she says: 'c'n too!' she did to show him, and just as she did she saw that he was going to push her, then she tried to get back, but he did push, and over she went! not real in, but her arms in, and her dress front some wet. "she screamed while the little devil that pushed her grabbed her, pretending to be _pulling her out_. honest he did! up came nurse just frothing, and in language we couldn't understand she ripped and raved. she dragged little pink back, grabbed her by the hair and cracked her head two or three times against the _stone!_ the lady screamed, and so did i, and we both ran at her. the boys just shouted and laughed and the smallest one he up and kicked her while she was down. the policeman walked over laughing too, but he told nurse that was _too rough_. then my lady pitched in, so he told her to tend to her business, that those kids were too tough to live, and deserved all they got. the nurse laughed at her, and went back to the grass with the policeman. the baby lay there on the stones, and never made a sound. she just kind of gasped, and blinked, and lay there, till my lady went almost wild. she went to her and stooped to lift her up when she got awful sick. the policeman said something to the nurse, so she came and dragged the kid away and said, 'the little pig has gone and eaten too much again, and now i'll have to take her home and wash and dress her all over,' then she gave her an awful shake. the policeman said she'd better cut that out, because it _might_ have been the bumping, and she said 'good for her if 'twas.' the driver pulled up just then and he asked 'if the brat had been stuffin' too much again?' she said, 'yes,' and the littlest boy he said, 'she pounded her head on the stone, good,' and the nurse hit him 'cross the mouth till she knocked him against the car, and she said, 'want to try _that_ again? open your head to say _that_ again, and i'll smash you too. _eating too much made her sick_.' she looked at the big boy fierce like so he laughed and said, 'course eating too much made her sick!' she nodded at him and said, 'course! you get two dishes of ice and two pieces of cake for remembering!' then she loaded them in and they drove away. "my lady was as white as marble and she said, 'is there any way to find out who they are?' i said, 'sure! half a dozen!' 'boy,' she said, 'get their residence for me and i'll give you a dollar.' ought to seen me fly. car was chuffing away, waiting to get the traffic cop's sign when to cut in on the avenue. i just took a dodge and hung on to the extra tire under the top where nobody saw me, and when they stopped, i got the house number they went in. little pink was lying all white and limber yet, and nurse looked worried as she carried her up. she said something fierce to the boys, the big one rang and they went inside. i saw a footman take the girl. i heard nurse begin that 'eat too much' story, then i cut back to the park. the lady said, 'get it?' i said, 'sure! dead easy.' she said, 'can you take me?' i said, 'glad to!' "she said, 'that was the dreadfullest sight i ever saw. that child's mother is going to know right now what kind of a nurse she is paying to take care of her children. you come show me,' she said, so we went. "'will you come in with me?' she asked and i said, 'yes!' "well, we rang and she asked pleasant to see the lady of the house on a little matter of important business, so pretty soon here comes one of the dimun-studded, fashion-paper ladies, all smiling sweet as honey, and asked what the business was. my nice lady she said her name was mrs. john wilson and her husband was a banker in plymouth, illinois, and she was in the city shopping and went to the park to rest and was talking to me, when an automobile let out a nurse, and two boys and a lovely little pink girl, and she give the number and asked, 'was the car and the children hers?' the dimun-lady slowly sort of began to freeze over, and when the nice lady got that far, she said: 'i have an engagement. kindly state in a _few_ words what you want.' "my lady sort of stiffened up and then she said: 'i saw, this boy here saw, and the park policeman nearest the entrance fountain saw your nurse take your little girl by the hair, and strike her head against the fountain curb three times, because her brother pushed her in. she lay insensible until the car came, and she has just been carried into your house in that condition.' "i could see the footman peeking and at that he cut up the stairs. the dimun-lady stiffened up and she said: 'so you are one of those meddling, interfering country jays that come here and try to make us lose our good servants, so you can hire them later. i've seen that done before. lucette is invaluable,' said she, 'and perfectly reliable. takes all the care of those dreadful little imps from me. now you get out of here.' and she reached for the button. my lady just sat still and smiled. "'do you really think i'd take the trouble to come here in this way if i couldn't _prove_ i had seen the thing happen?' she asked. "'god only knows what you country women would do!' the woman answered. "'we would stand between our children and beastly cruelty,' my lady said. 'your child's _condition_ is all the proof my words need. you go examine her head, and feel the welt on it; see hew ill she is and you will thank me. your nurse is _not_ reliable! keep her and your children will be ruined, if not killed.' "'raving!' sneered the dimun-lady. 'but i know your kind so i'll go, as it's the only way to get rid of you.' "now what do you think happened next? well sir, 'bout three minutes in walked the footman and salutes, sneering like a cat, and he said: 'madam's compliments. she finds her little daughter in perfect condition, sweetly sleeping, and her sons having dinner. she asks you to see how quickly you can leave her residence.' "the woman looked at me so i said: 'it's all over but burying the kid if it dies; come on, lady, they'd be _glad_ to plant it, and get it out of the way.' so i started and she followed, and just as he let me out the door i handed him this: 'i saw you listen and cut to tell, and i bet you helped put the kid to sleep! but you better look out! she gave it to that baby too rough for any use!' "he started for me, but i flew. when we got on the street, the lady was all used up so she couldn't say anything. she had me call a taxi to take her to her hotel. i set down her name she gave me, and her house and street number. i cut to a newsies' directory and got the name of the owner of the palace-place and it was mrs. james minturn. next morning coming down on the cars i was hunting headliners to make up a new call, like i always do, and there i saw in big type, 'mr. and mrs. james minturn prostrate over the sudden death of their lovely little daughter from poisoning, from an ice she ate.' i read it every word. even what the doctors said, and how investigation of the source of the ice came from was to be made. what do you think of it?" "i have no doubt but it's every word horrible truth," answered douglas. "_sure!_" said mickey. "i just hiked to the park and walked up to the cop and showed him the paper, and he looked awful glum. i can point him out to you, and give you the lady's address, and there were plenty more who saw parts of it could be found if anybody was on the _kid's_ side. sure it's the truth! "well i kept a-thinking it over. one day about three weeks later, blest if the same car didn't stop at the same fountain, and the same nurse got out with the boys and she set them on the same bench and told them the same thing, and then she went into another palaver with the same p'liceman. i looked on pretty much interested, and before long the boys got to running again and one tripped the other, and she saw and come running, and fetched him a crack like to split his head, and pushed him down still and white, so i said to myself: 'all right for you. lady tried a lady and got nothing. here's where a gentleman tries a gentleman, and sees what he gets.' "i marched into the door just across the hall from you here, and faced mr. james minturn, and gave him names, and dates, and addresses, even the copper's name i'd got; and i told him all i've told you, and considerable more. he wasn't so fiery as the lady, so i told him the whole thing, but he never opened his trap. he just sat still and stony, listened till i quit, and finally he heaved a big breath and looked at me sort of dazed like and he said: 'what do you want, boy?' "that made me red hot so i said: 'i want you to know that i saw the same woman bust one of your _boys_ a good crack, over the head, a few minutes ago.' "that made him jump, but he didn't say or do anything, so i got up and went--and--the same woman was in the park with the same boys yesterday, and they're the biggest little devils there. what's the answer?" "a heartbroken man," said douglas bruce. "now let me tell you, mickey." then he told mickey all he knew of james minturn. "all the same, he ought to be able to do something for his own kids, 'stead of boys who don't need it _half_ so bad," commented mickey. "why honest, i don't know one street kid so low that he'd kick a little girl--after she'd been beat up scandalous, for his meanness to start on. honest, i don't! i don't care what he is doing for the boy he has got, that boy doesn't need help half so much as his _own_; i can prove it to you, if you'll come with me to the park 'most any morning." "all right, i'll come," said douglas promptly. "well i couldn't say that they would be there this minute," said mickey, "but i can call you up the first time i see they are." "all right, i'll come, if it's possible. i'd like to see for myself. so this gives you a settled prejudice against the big brother movement, mickey?" "in my brogans, what would it give you?" "a hard jolt!" said douglas emphatically. "then what's the answer?" "that it is more unfair than i thought you could be, to deprive me of my little brother, because you deem the man across the hall unfit to have one. do i look as if you couldn't trust me, mickey?" "no, you don't! but neither does mr. james minturn. he _looks_ as if a fellow could get a grip on him and pull safe across belgium hanging on. but you know i said the _same woman_----" "i know mickey; but that only proves that there are times when even the strongest man can't help himself." "then like ulhan i'd trot : - / to the judge of the juvenile court," said mickey, "and i'd yell long and loud, and i'd put up the _proof_. that would get the lady down to brass tacks. see?" "but with mrs. minturn's position and the stain such a proceeding would put on the boys----" "cut out the boys," advised mickey. "they're gold plated, staining wouldn't stick to them." "so you are going to refuse education, employment and a respectable position because you disapprove of one man among millions?" demanded douglas. "that lets me out," said mickey. "_she_ educated me a lot! no day is long enough for the work i do right now; you can take my word for it that i'm respectable, same as i'm taking yours that you are." "all right!" said douglas. "we will let it go then. maybe you are right. at least you are not worth the bother it requires to wake you up. will you take an answer to the note you brought me?" "now the returns are coming in," said mickey. "sure i will; but she is in the big stores shopping." "i'll find out," said douglas. he picked up the telephone and called the winton residence; on learning leslie was still away, he left a request that she call him when she returned. "i would spend the time talking with you," he said to mickey, "if i could accomplish anything; as i can't, i'll go on with my work. you busy yourself with anything around the rooms that interests you." mickey grinned half abashed. he took a long survey of the room they were in, arose and standing in the door leading to the next he studied that. to him "busy" meant work. presently he went into the hall and returned with a hand broom and dust pan he had secured from the janitor. he carefully went over the floor, removing anything he could see that he thought should not be there, and then began on the room adjoining. next he appeared with a cloth and dusted the furniture and window seats. once he met douglas' eye and smiled. "your janitor didn't have much of a mother," he commented. "i could beat him to his base a rod." "job is yours any time you want it." "morning papers," carrolled mickey. "sterilized, deodorized, vulcanized. i _like_ to sell them----" defeated again bruce turned to his work and mickey to his. he straightened every rug, pulled a curtain, set a blind at an angle that gave the worker more light and better air. he was investigating the glass when the telephone rang. "hello, leslie! it certainly was! how did you do it? not so hilarious as you might suppose. leslie, i want to say something, not for the wire. will you hold the line a second until i start mickey with it? all right! "she is there now, mickey. can you find your way?" "sure!" laughed mickey. "if you put the address on. she started me from the street." "the address is plain. for straightening my rooms and carrying the note, will that be about right?" "a lady-bird! gee!" cried mickey. "i didn't s'pose you was a plute! and i don't s'pose so yet. you want a little brother bad if you're willing to _buy_ one. this number ain't far out, and i wouldn't have sold more than three papers this time of day--twenty-five is about right." "but you forget cleaning my rooms," said douglas. mickey grinned, his face flushed. "me to you!" he said. "nothing! just a little matter of keeping in practice. good-bye and be good to yourself!" douglas turned to the telephone. "leslie!" he said, "i'm sending mickey back to you with a note, not because i had anything to say i couldn't say now, but because i can't manage him. i pretended i didn't care, and let him go. can't you help me? see if you can't interest him in something that at least will bring him back, or show us where to find him. certainly! thank you very much!" when mickey delivered the letter the lovely young woman just happened to be in the hall. she told him to come in until she read it, to learn what mr. bruce wanted. mickey followed into a big room, looked around, then a speculative, appreciative gleam crossed his face. he realized the difference between a home and a show room. he did not know what he was seeing or why it affected him as it did. really the thought that was in his mind was that this woman was far more attractive, but had less money to spend on her home, than many others. he missed the glitter, but enjoyed the comfort, for he leaned back against the chair offered him, thinking what a cool, restful place it was. the girl seemed in no hurry to open the letter. "have trouble finding mr. bruce?" she asked. "easy! i'd been to the same building before." "and i suppose you'll be there many times again," she suggested. "i'm going back right now, if you want to send an answer to that letter," he said. "and if it requires none?" she questioned. "then i'm going to try to sell the rest of these papers, get a slate for lily and go home." "is lily your little sister?" she asked. mickey straightened, firmly closing his lips. he had done it again. "just a little girl i know," he said cautiously. "a little bit of a girl?" she asked. "'bout the littlest girl you ever saw," said mickey, unconsciously interested in the subject. "and you are going to take her a slate to draw pictures on? how fine! i wish you'd carry her a package for me, too. i was arranging my dresser this morning and i put the ribbons i don't want into a box for some child. maybe lily would like them for her doll." "lily hasn't any doll," he said. "she had one, but her granny sold it and got drunk on the money." mickey stopped suddenly. in a minute more he would have another orphans' home argument on his hands. "scandalous!" cried leslie. "in my room there is a doll just begging to go to some little girl. if you took it to lily, would her granny sell it again?" "not this morning," said mickey. "you see miss, a few days ago she lost her breath. permanent! no! if lily had a doll, nobody would take it from her now." "i'll bring it at once," she offered "and the ribbons." "never mind," said mickey. "i can get her a doll." "but you haven't seen this one!" cried leslie. "you save your money for oranges." without waiting for a reply she left the room, presently returning with a box and a doll that seemed to mickey quite as large as peaches. it had a beautiful face, hair, real hair that could be combed, and real clothes that could be taken off. leslie had dressed it for a birthday gift for the little daughter of one of her friends; but by making haste she could prepare another. mickey gazed in bewilderment. he had seen dolls, even larger and more wonderful than that, in the shop windows, but connecting such a creation with his room and peaches required mental adjustments. "i guess you better not," he said with conviction. "but why not?" asked leslie in amazement. "well for 'bout fifty reasons," replied mickey. "you see lily is a poor kid, and her back is bad. that doll is so big she couldn't dress it without getting all tired out; and what's the use showing her such dresses, when she can't have any herself. she's got the best she ever had, and the best she can have right now; so that ain't the kind of a doll for lily--it's too big--and too--too gladsome!" "i see," laughed leslie. "well mickey, you show me what would be the right size of a doll for lily. i'll get another, and dress it as you say. how would that do?" "you needn't!" said mickey. "lily is happy now." "but wouldn't she _like_ a doll?" persisted leslie. "i never knew a girl who didn't love a doll. wouldn't she _like_ a doll?" "'most to death i 'spect," said mickey. "i know she said she cried for the one her granny sold, 'til she beat her. yes i guess she'd _like_ a doll; but i can get her one." "but you can't make white nighties for lily to put on it to take to bed with her, and cunning little dresses for morning, and a street dress for afternoon, and a party dress for evening," tempted the girl. "lily has been on the street twice, and she never heard of a party. just nighties and the morning dress would do, and there's no use for me to be sticking. if you like to give away dolls, lily might as well have one, for she'd just--i don't know what she would do about it," conceded mickey. "all right," said leslie. "i'll dress it this afternoon, and tomorrow you can come for it in the evening before you go home. if i am not here, the package will be ready. take the ribbons now. she'd like them for her hair." "her hair's too short for a ribbon," said mickey. "then a headband! this way!" said leslie. she opened a box and displayed a wonderment of ribbon bands, and bits of gay colour. "gee!" gasped mickey. "i couldn't pick up that much brightness for her in a year!" "you save what you find for her?" asked leslie. "sure!" said mickey. "you see miss, things are pretty plain where she is, so all the brightness i can take her ain't going to hurt her eyes. thank you heaps. is there going to be any answer to the letter?" "why i haven't read it yet!" cried the girl. "no! a-body can see that some one else is rustling for your grub!" commented mickey. "that's so too," laughed leslie. "darling old daddy!" "just about right is he?" queried mickey, interestedly. "just exactly right!" said leslie. "gur-ur-and!" said mickey. "some of them ain't so well fixed! and he that wrote the note, i guess he's about as fine as you make them, too!" "he's the finest man i ever have known, mickey!" said the girl earnestly. "barring daddy?" suggested mickey. "not barring anybody!" cried she. "daddy is lovely, but he's daddy! mr. bruce is different!" "no letter?" questioned mickey, rising. "none!" said the girl. "come to-morrow night. you are sure lily is so very little, mickey?" "you wouldn't call me big, would you?" he asked. "well! i can lift her with one hand! such a large doll as that would be tiring and confusing. please make lily's _more like she's used to_. see?" "mickey, i do see!" said leslie. "i beg your pardon. lily's doll shall not tire her or make her discontented with what she has. thank you for a good idea." mickey returned to the street shortly after noon, with more in his pocket than he usually earned in a day, where by expert work he soon disposed of his last paper. he bought the slate, then hurried home carrying it and the box. at the grocery he carefully selected food again. then he threw open his door and achieved this: "_once a little kid named peaches, swelled my heart until it eatches. if you think i'd trade her for a dog, your think-tank has slipped a cog!_" peaches laughed, stretching her hands as usual. mickey stooped for her caress, scattering the ribbons over her as he arose. she gasped in delighted amazement. "oh! mickey! where did you ever? mickey, where did you get them? mickey, you didn't st----?" "you just better choke on that, miss!" yelled mickey. "no i didn't st----! and i don't st----! and nothing i ever bring you will be st----! and you needn't ever put no more st's---- at me. see?" "mickey, i didn't _mean_ that! course i know you _wouldn't!_ course i know you _couldn't!_ mickey, that's the best poetry piece yet! did you bring the slate?" "sure!" said mickey, somewhat mollified, but still injured. "i must have dropped it with the banquet!" peaches pushed away the billow of colour, taking the slate. her fingers picking at the string reminded mickey of sparrow feet; but he watched until she untied and removed the paper which he folded to lay away. she picked up the pencil, meditating. "mickey!" she said. "make my hand do a word!" "sure!" said mickey. "what do you want to write first, flowersy-girl?" peaches looked at him reproachfully. "course there wouldn't be but _one_ i'd want to do first of all," she said. "hold my hand tight, and big and plain up at the top make it write, 'mickey-lovest.'" "sure," said the boy in a hushed voice. he gripped the hand, bending above her, but suddenly collapsed, buried his face in her hair and sobbed until he shook. peaches crouched down, lying rigidly. she was badly frightened. at last she could endure it no longer. "mickey!" she gasped. "mickey, what did i do? mickey, don't write it if you don't _want_ to!" mickey arose, wiping his face on the sheet. "you just bet i want to write that, lily!" he said. "i never wanted to do anything _more_ in all my life!" "then why----?" she began. "never you mind 'why' miss!" said mickey. grasping her hand, he traced the words. peaches looked at them a long time, then carefully laid the slate aside. she began fingering the ribbons. "let me wash you," said mickey, "and rub your back to rest you from all this day, then i'll comb your hair and you pick the prettiest one. i'll put it on the way she showed me, so you'll be a fash'nable lady." "who showed you mickey, and gave you such pretties?" "a girl i carried a letter to. after you're bathed and have had supper i'll tell you." then mickey began work. he sponged peaches, rubbed her back, laid her on his pallet, putting fresh sheets on her bed and carefully preparing her supper. after she had eaten he again ran the comb through her ringlets, telling her to select the ribbon he should use. "no you!" said peaches. mickey squinted, so exacting was the work of deciding. red he discarded with one sweep against her white cheeks; green went with it; blue almost made him shudder, but a soft warm pink pleased him, so mickey folded it into the bands in which it had been creased before, binding it around peaches' head as leslie had shown him, then with awkward fingers did his best on a big bow. he crossed the room and picked up a mirror which he held before her reciting: "once a little kid named peaches, swelled my heart----" peaches took the mirror, studying the face intently. she glanced over her shoulder so mickey piled the pillows higher. then she looked at him. mickey scrutinized her closely. "you're clean kid, clean as a plate!" he assured her. "honest you are! you needn't worry about that. i'll always keep you washed clean. _she_ was more particular about that than anything else. don't you fret about my having a dirty girl around! you're clean, all right!" peaches sighed as she returned the mirror. mickey replaced it, laid the slate and ribbons in reach, washed the dishes, then the sheets he had removed, and their soiled clothing. peaches lay folding and unfolding the ribbons; asking questions while mickey worked, or with the pencil tracing her best imitations of the name on the slate. by the time he had finished everything to be done and drawn a chair beside the bed, to see if she had learned her lesson for the day, it was cool evening. she knew all the words he had given her, so he proceeded to write them on the slate. then told her about the big man named douglas bruce and the lovely girl named leslie winton, also every word he could remember about the house she lived in; then he added: "lily, do you like to be surprised better or do you like to think things over?" "i don't know," said peaches. "well, before long, i'll know," said mickey. "what i was thinking was this: you are going to have something. i just wondered whether you'd rather know it was coming, or have me walk in with it and surprise you." "mickey, you just walk in," she decided. "all right!" said mickey. "mickey, write on the other side of my slate what you said at the door to-night," she coaxed. "get a little book an' write 'em all down. mickey, i want to learn all of them, when i c'n read. lemme tell you. you make all you c'n think of. nen make more. an' make 'em, an' make 'em! an' when you get big as you're goin' to be, make books of 'em, an' be a poet-man 'stead of sellin' papers." "sure!" said mickey. "i'd just as lief be a poet-man as not! i'd write a big one all about a little yellow-haired girl named lily peaches, and i'd put it on the front page of the _herald!_ honest i would! i'd like to!" "gee!" said peaches. "you go on an' grow hel--wope! i mean hurry! hurry an' grow up!" chapter vi _the song of a bird_ "leslie," said the voice of mrs. james minturn over the telephone, "is there any particular time of the day when that bird of yours sings better than at another?" "morning, mrs. minturn; five, the latest. at that time one hears the full chorus, and sees the perfect beauty. really, i wouldn't ask you, if i were not sure, positively sure, that you'd find the trip worth while." "i'll be ready in the morning, but that's an unearthly hour!" came the protest. "it is almost unearthly sights and sounds to which you are going," answered leslie. "and be sure you wear suitable clothing." "what do you call suitable clothing?" "high heavy shoes," said leslie, "short stout skirts." "as if i had such things!" laughed mrs. minturn. "let me send you something of mine," offered leslie. "i've enough for two." "you're not figuring on really going in one of those awful places, are you?" questioned mrs. minturn. "surely!" cried leslie. "the birds won't sing to an automobile. and you wouldn't miss seeing such flowers on their stems as you saw at lowry's for any money. it will be something to tell your friends about." "send what i should have. i'd ride a llama through a sea of champagne for a new experience." mrs. minturn turned from the telephone with a contemptuous sneer on her face; but leslie's gay laugh persisted in her ears. restlessly she moved through her rooms thinking what she might do to divert herself, and shrinking from all the tiresome things she had been doing for years until there was not a drop of the fresh juice of life to be extracted from them. "i'm going to take a bath, go to bed early and see if i can sleep," she muttered. "i don't know what it is that james is contemplating, but his face haunts me. really, if he doesn't be more civil, and stop his morose glowering when i do see him, i'll put him or myself where we won't come in contact. he makes it plain every day that he blames me about elizabeth. why should he? he couldn't possibly know of the call of that wild-eyed reformer. so unfortunate that she should come just at that time too! of course hundreds of children die from spoiled milk every summer, the rich as well as the poor. i'll never get over regretting that i didn't finish what i started to do; but i'd scarcely touched her in her life. she always was so pink and warm, and that awful whiteness chilled me to the soul. i wish i had driven, forced myself! then i could defy james with more spirit. that's what i lack--_spirit!_ maybe this trip to the swamp will steady my nerves! something must be done soon, and i believe, actually i believe he is thinking of doing it! pooh! what _could_ he do? there isn't an irregularity in my life he can lay his fingers on!" she rang for her maid and cancelling two engagements for the evening, went to bed, but not to sleep. when she was called early in the morning, she gladly arose, and was dressed in leslie winton's short skirts, a waist of khaki, and high shoes near enough her size to be comfortable. her bath had refreshed her, a cup of hot coffee stimulated her, and despite the lack of sleep she felt better than she had that spring as she went down to the car. on the threshold she met her husband. evidently he had been out all night on strenuous business. his face was haggard, his eyes bloodshot, while in both hands he gripped a small, square paper-wrapped package. they looked at each other a second that seemed long to both, then the woman laughed. "evidently an accounting is expected," she said. "leslie winton at the door and the roll of music i carry should be sufficient to prove why i am going out at this hour. you heard us make the arrangement. thank heaven i've no interest in knowing where you have been, or what your precious package contains." his expression and condition frightened her. "for the weight of a straw overbalance," he said, "only for a hint that you have a soul, i'd freeze it for all time with the contents of this package." "a threat? you to me?" she cried in amazement. "verily, madam," he said. "i wish you all the joy of the birds and flowers this morning." "you've gone mad!" she cried. "contrarily, i have come to my senses after years of insanity," he said. "i will see you when you return." she stood bewildered, watching him go down the hall and enter his library. that and his sleeping room were the only places in the house sacred to him. no one entered, no one, not even the incorrigible children, touched anything there. she slowly went to the car, trying to rally to leslie's greeting, struggling to fix her mind on anything pointed out to her as something she might enjoy. at last she said: "i don't know what is the matter with me leslie. james is planning something, i haven't an idea what; but his grim, reproachful face is slowly driving me wild. i'm getting so i can't sleep. you saw him come home as i left. he talked positively crazy, as if he had the crack of doom in his hands and were prepared to crack it. he said he 'would see me when i came back.' indeed he will--to his sorrow! he will be as he used to be, or we will separate. the idea, with scarcely a cent to his name, of him undertaking to dictate to me, _to me!_ do you blame me leslie? you heard him the other day! you know how he insulted me!" leslie leaned forward, laying a firm hand in a grip on mrs. minturn's arm. "since you ask me," she said, "i will answer. if you find life with mr. minturn insufferable, an agony to both of you, i _would_ separate, and _speedily_. if it has come to the place where you can't see each other or speak without falling into unpleasantness, then i'd keep apart." "that is exactly the case!" cried mrs. minturn. "oh leslie, i am so glad you agree with me!" "but i haven't finished," said leslie, "you interrupted me in the middle. if you are absolutely sure you can't go on peaceably, i would stop; but if i once had loved a man enough to give my life and my happiness into his keeping, to make him the father of my children, i would not separate from him, until i had exhausted every resource, to see if i couldn't in some possible way end with credit." "if you had been through what i have," said mrs. minturn, "you wouldn't endure it any longer." "perhaps," said leslie. "but you see dear mrs. minturn, i am handicapped by not knowing _what_ you have been through. to your world you appear to be a woman of great wealth, who does exactly as she pleases and pays her own bills. you seem to have unlimited money, power, position, leisure for anything you fancy. i'll wager you don't know the names of half the servants in your house; a skillful housekeeper takes the responsibility off your hands. you never are seen in public with your children; competent nurses care for them. you don't appear with your husband any more; yet he is a man of fine brain, unimpeachable character, who handles big affairs for other men, and father says he believes his bank account would surprise you. he has been in business for years; surely all he makes doesn't go to other men." "you know i never thought of that!" cried mrs. minturn. "he had nothing to begin on and i've always kept our establishment; he's never paid for more than his clothing. do you suppose that he has made money?" "i know that he has!" said leslie. "not so fast as he might! not so much as he could, for he is incorruptible; but money, yes! he is a powerful man, not only in the city, but all over the state. some of these days you're going to wake up to find him a senator, or governor. you seem to be the only person who doesn't know it, or who doesn't care if you do. but when it comes about, as it will, you'll be so proud of him! dear mrs. minturn, please, please go slowly! don't, oh don't let anything happen that will make a big regret for both." "leslie, where did you get all this?" asked mrs. minturn in tones of mingled interest and surprise. "from my father!" answered leslie. "and from douglas bruce. douglas' office is across the hall from mr. minturn's; they meet daily, and from the first they have been friends. mr. minturn took douglas to his clubs, introduced him and helped him into business, so often they work together. why only yesterday douglas came to me filled with delight. mr. minturn secured an appointment for him to make an investigation for the city which will be a great help to douglas. it will bring him in contact with prominent men, give him big work and a sample of how mercenary i am--it will bring him big pay and he knows how to use the money in a big way. douglas knows mr. minturn so well, and respects him so highly, yet no one can know him as you do----" "that is quite true! i live with him! i know the real man!" cried mrs. minturn. "how mean of you!" laughed leslie, "to distort my reasoning like that! i don't ask you to think up all the little things that have massed into one big grievance against him; i mean stop that for to-day, out here in the country where everything is so lovely, and go back where i am." "he surely has an advocate! leslie, when did you start making an especial study of mr. minturn?" "when douglas bruce began speaking to me so frequently of him!" answered leslie. "then i commenced to watch him and to listen to what people were saying about him, and to ask daddy." "it's very funny that every one seems so well informed and so enthusiastic just at the time when i feel that life is unendurable with him," said mrs. minturn. "i can't understand it!" "mrs. minturn, try, oh do try to get my viewpoint before you do anything irreparable," begged leslie. "away up here in the woods let's think it out! let's discuss james minturn in every phase of his nature and see if the big manly part doesn't far outweigh the little irritations. let's see if you can't possibly go to the meeting he wants when we return with a balance struck in his favour. a divorced woman is always--well, it's disagreeable. alone you'd feel stranded. attempt marrying again, where would you find a man with half the points that count for good, to replace him? in after years when your children realize the man he is, how are you going to explain to them why you couldn't live with him?" "from your rush of words, it is evident you have your arguments at hand," said mrs. minturn. "you've been thinking more about my affairs than i ever did. you bring up points i never have thought of; you make me see things that would not have occurred to me; yet as you put them, they have awful force. you haven't exactly said it, but what you mean is that you believe _me_ in the wrong; so do all my friends. all of you sympathize with mr. minturn! all of you think him a big man worthy of every consideration and me deserving none." "you're putting that too strong," retorted leslie. "you are right about mr. minturn; but i won't admit that i find you 'worthy of no consideration at all,' or i wouldn't be imploring you to give yourself a chance at happiness." "'give myself a chance at happiness!'" "dear mrs. minturn, yes!" said leslie. "all your life, so far, you have lived absolutely for yourself; for your personal pleasure. has happiness resulted?" "happiness?" cried mrs. minturn in amazement. "you little fool! with my husband practically a madman, my children incorrigible, my nerves on edge until i can't sleep, because one thought comes over and over." "well you achieved it in society!" said leslie. "it's the result of doing exactly what you _wanted to!_ you can't say james minturn was to blame for what you had the money and the desire to do. you can't think your babies would have preferred their mother to the nurses and governesses they have had----" "if you say another word about that i'll jump from the car and break my neck," threatened mrs. minturn. "no one sympathizes with me!" "that is untrue," said leslie. "i care, or i wouldn't be doing what i am now. and as for sympathy, i haven't a doubt but every woman of your especial set will weep tears of condolence with you, if you'll tell them what you have me. there is mrs. clinton and mrs. farley, and a dozen women among your dearest friends who have divorced their husbands, and are free lances or remarried; you can have friends enough to suit you in any event." "fools! shallow-pated fools!" cried mrs. minturn. "they never read anything! their idea of any art would convulse you! they don't know a note of real music!" "but they are your best friends," interposed leslie. "what then is their attraction?" "i am sure i don't know!" said mrs. minturn. "i suppose it's unlimited means to follow any fad or fancy, to live extravagantly as they choose, to dress faultlessly as they have taste, freedom to go as they please! oh they do have a good time!" "are you sure that they didn't go through the same 'good time' you are having right now, before they lost the men they loved and married, and then became mothers who later deliberately orphaned their own children?" "leslie, for god's sake where did you learn it?" cried mrs. minturn. "how can you hit like that? you make me feel like a--like a----! oh lord!" "don't let's talk any more, mrs. minturn," suggested leslie. "you know what all refined, home-loving people think. you know society and what it has to offer. you're making yourself unhappy, while i am helping you, but if some one doesn't stop you, you may lose the love of a good man, the respect of the people worth while, and later of your own children! see, here is the swamp and this is as close as we can go with the car." "is this where you found the flowers for your basket?" "yes," said leslie. "no snakes, no quicksands?" "snakes don't like this kind of moss," answered leslie; "this is an old lake bed grown up with tamaracks and the bog of a thousand years." "looks as if ten thousand might come closer!" "where you ever in such a place?" asked leslie. "never!" said mrs. minturn. "well to do this to perfection," said leslie, "we should go far enough for you to see the home life of our rarest wild flowers and to get the music full effect. we must look for a high place to spread this waterproof sheet i have brought along, then nestle down and keep still. the birds will see us going in, but if we make ourselves inconspicuous, they will soon forget us. have you the score?" "yes," answered mrs. minturn. "go ahead!" leslie had not expected mrs. minturn's calm tones and placid acceptance of the swamp. the girl sent one searching look the woman's way, then came enlightenment. this was a stunt. mrs. minturn had been doing stunts in the hope of new sensations all her life. what others could do, she could, if she chose; in this instance she chose to penetrate a tamarack swamp at six o'clock in the morning, to listen to the notes of a bird. "i'll select the highest places and go as nearly where we were as i can," said leslie. "if you step in my tracks you'll be all right." "why, you're not afraid, are you?" asked mrs. minturn. "not in the least," said leslie. "are you?" "no!" said mrs. minturn. "one strikes almost everything motoring through the country, in the mountains or at sea, and travelling. this looks interesting. how deep could one sink anyway?" "deeply enough to satisfy you," laughed leslie. "come quietly now!" grasping the score she carried, mrs. minturn unconcernedly plunged after leslie. purposely the girl went slowly, stooping beneath branches, skirting too wet places, slipping over the high hummocks, turning to indicate by gesture a moss bed, a flower, or glancing upward to try to catch a glimpse of some entrancing musician. once leslie turned to look back and saw mrs. minturn on her knees separating the silvery green moss heads and thrusting her hand deeply to learn the length of the roots. she noticed the lady's absorbed face, and the wet patches spreading around her knees. leslie fancied she could see mrs. minturn entering the next gathering of her friends, smiling faintly and crying: "dear people, i've had a perfectly new experience!" she could hear every tone of mrs. minturn's voice saying: "ferns as luxuriant as anything in florida! moss beds several feet deep. a hundred birds singing, and all before sunrise, my dears!" when mrs. minturn arose leslie went forward slowly until she reached the moccasin flowers, but remembering, she did not stop. the woman did. she stooped and leslie winced as she snapped one to examine it critically. she held it up in the gray light, turning it. "did you ever see--little elizabeth?" she asked. "yes," said leslie. "do you think----?" she stopped abruptly. "that one is too deep," said leslie. "the colour he saw was on a freshly opened one like that." she pointed to a paler moccasin of exquisite pink with red lavender veining. mrs. minturn assented. "he can't forget anything," she said, "or let any one else. he always will keep harping." "we were peculiarly unfortunate that day," said leslie. "he really had no intention of saying anything, if he hadn't been forced." "oh he doesn't require forcing," said mrs. minturn. "he's always at the overflow point about her." "perhaps he was very fond of her," suggested leslie. "he was perfectly foolish about her," said mrs. minturn impatiently. "i lost a nurse or two through his interference. when i got such a treasure as lucette i just told her to take complete charge, make him attend his own affairs, and not try being a nursery maid. it really isn't done these days!" leslie closed her lips, moving forward until she reached the space where the ragged boys and the fringed girls floated their white banners, where lacy yellow and lavender blooms caressed each other, there on the highest place she could select, across a moss-covered log, she spread the waterproof sheet, and seating herself, motioned mrs. minturn to do the same. she reached for the music and opening it ran over the score. her finger paused on the notes she had whistled, while with eager face she sat waiting. mrs. minturn dropped into an attitude of tense listening. the sun began dissipating the gray mists and heightening the exquisite tints on all sides. every green imaginable was there from palest silver to the deepest, darkest shades; all dew wet, rankly growing, gold tinted and showing clearer each minute. gradually mrs. minturn relaxed, made herself comfortable as possible, then turned to the orchids of the open space. the colour flushed and faded on her tired face, she nervously rolled the moccasin stem in her fingers, or looked long at the delicate flower. she was thinking so intently that leslie saw she was neither seeing the swamp, nor hearing the birds. it was then that a little gray singer straying through the tamaracks sent a wireless to his mate in the bushes of borderland, in which he wished to convey to her all there was in his heart about the wonders of spring, the joy of mating, the love of her, and their nest. he waited a second, then tucking his tail, swelled his throat, and made sure he had done his best. at the first measure, leslie thrust the sheet before mrs. minturn, pointing to the place. instantly the woman scanned the score, then leaned forward listening. as the bird flew, leslie faced mrs. minturn with questioning eyes. she cried softly: "he did it! perfectly! if i hadn't heard i never would have believed." "there is another that can do this from verdi's _traviata_." leslie whistled the notes. "we may hear him also." again they waited. leslie realized that mrs. minturn was not listening, and would have to be recalled if the bird sang. leslie sat silent. the same bird sang, and others, but to the girl had come the intuition that mrs. minturn was having her hour in the garden, so wisely she remained silent. after an interminable time she arose, making her way forward as far as she could penetrate and still see the figure of the woman, then hunting an old stump, climbed upon it and did some thinking herself. at last she returned to the motionless figure. mrs. minturn was leaning against the tamarack's scraggy trunk, her head resting on a branch, lightly sleeping. a rivulet staining her cheeks from each eye showed where slow tears had slipped from under her closed lids. leslie's heart ached with pity. she thought she never had seen any one seem so sad, so alone, so punished for sins of inheritance and rearing. she sat beside mrs. minturn, waiting until she awakened. "why i must have fallen asleep!" she cried. "for a minute," said leslie. "but i feel as if i had rested soundly a whole night," said mrs. minturn. "i'm so refreshed. and there goes that bird again. verdi to take his notes! who ever would have thought of it? leslie, did you bring any lunch? i'm famished." "we must go back to the car," said leslie. they spread the waterproof sheet on the ground where it would be bordered with daintily traced partridge berry, and white-lined plantain leaves, and sitting on it ate their lunch. leslie did what she could to interest mrs. minturn and cheer her, but at last that lady said: "thank you dear, you are very good to me; but you can't entertain me to-day. some other time we'll come back and bring the scores you suggest, and see what we can really hear from these birds. but to-day, i've got the battle of my life to fight. something is coming; i should be in a measure prepared, and as i don't know what to expect, it takes all the brains i have to figure things out." "you don't know, mrs. minturn?" asked leslie. "no," she said wearily. "i know james hates the life i lead; he thinks my time wasted. i know he's a disappointed man, because he thought when he married me he could cut me out of everything worth while in the world, and set me to waiting on him, and nursing his children. every single thing i have done since, or wanted or had, has been a disappointment to him. i know now he never would have married me, if he hadn't figured he was going to make me over; shape me and my life to suit his whims, and throw away my money to please his fancies. he's been utterly discontented since elizabeth was born. why leslie, we haven't lived together since then. he said if i were going to persist in bringing 'orphans' into the world, babies i wouldn't mother myself, or wouldn't allow him to father, there would be no more children. i laughed at him, because i didn't think he meant it; but he did, so that ended even a semblance of content. half the time i don't know where he is, or what he is doing; he seldom knows where i am; if we appear together it is accidental; i thought i had my mind made up to leave him, and soon; but what you say, coupled with doubts i had myself, have set me to thinking, till i don't know. i hate a scandal. you know how careful i always have been. all my closest friends have jeered me for a prude; there isn't a flaw he can find, there has been none!" "certainly not," said leslie. "every one knows that." "leslie, you don't know, do you?" asked mrs. minturn. "he didn't say anything to bruce, did he?" "you want an honest answer?" questioned leslie. "of course i do!" cried mrs. minturn. "douglas did tell me in connection with mr. minturn joining the brotherhood and taking a gamin from the streets into his office, that he said he was scarcely allowed to see his own sons, not to exercise the slightest control, so he was going to try his theories on a little brother. but douglas wouldn't mention it, only to me, and of course i wouldn't repeat it to any one. mr. minturn seemed to feel that douglas thought it peculiar for a man having sons, to take so much pains with a newsboy; they're great friends, so he said that much to bruce." "'he said that much----'" scoffed mrs. minturn. "well, even so, that is very little compared with what you've said about him to me," retorted leslie. "you shouldn't complain on that score." "i suppose, in your eyes, i shouldn't complain about anything," said mrs. minturn. "a world of things, mrs. minturn, but not the ones you do," said leslie. "oh!" cried mrs. minturn. "i think your grievance is that you were born in, and reared for, society," said leslie, "and in your extremity it has failed you. i believe i can give you more help to-day than any woman of your age and intimate association." "that's true leslie, quite true!" exclaimed mrs. minturn eagerly. "and i need help! oh i do!" "you poor soul, you!" comforted leslie. "turn where you belong! turn to your own blood!" "my mother would jeer me for a weakling," said mrs. minturn. "she has urged me to divorce james, ever since elizabeth was born." "i didn't mean your mother," said leslie. "i meant closer relatives, i meant your husband and sons." "my husband would probably tell me he had lost all respect for me, while my sons would very likely pull my hair and kick my shins if i knelt to them for sympathy," said mrs. minturn. "they are perfect little animals." "oh mrs. minturn!" cried leslie amazed. "then you simply must take them in charge and save them; they are so fine looking, while you're their mother, you are!" "it means giving up life as i have known it always, just about everything!" said mrs. minturn. "look at yourself now!" said leslie. "i should think you would be glad to give up your present state." "leslie, do you think it wrong to gather those orchids?" "i think it unpardonable sin to _exterminate_ them," answered leslie. "if you have any reason for wanting a few, and merely gather the flowers, leaving the roots to spread and bloom another year, i should say take them." "will you wait in the car until i go back?" she asked. "but i wish to be alone," said mrs. minturn. "you're not afraid? you won't become lost?" "i am not afraid, and i will not lose myself," said mrs. minturn. "must i hurry?" "take all the time you want," said leslie. it was mid-afternoon when she returned, her hands filled with a dripping moss ball in which she had embedded the stems of a mass of feathery pink-fringed orchids. her face was flushed with tears, but her eyes were bright, her step quick and alert. "leslie, what do you think i am going to do?" she cried. then without awaiting a reply: "i'm going to ask james to go with me to take these to elizabeth, to beg him to forgive my neglect of her; to pledge the rest of my life to him and the boys." leslie caught mrs. minturn in her arms. "oh you darling!" she exulted. "oh you brave, wonderful girl!" "after all, it's no more than fair," mrs. minturn said. "i have had everything my way since we were married. and i did love james. he's the only man i have ever really wanted. leslie, he will forgive me and start over, won't he?" "he'll be at your feet!" cried leslie. "fortunately, i have decided to be at his," said mrs. minturn. "i've reached the place where i will even wipe james jr.'s nose and dress malcolm, and fix james' studs if it will help me to sleep, and have only a tinge of what you seem to be running over with. leslie, you are the most joyous soul!" "you see, i never had to think about myself," said leslie. "daddy always thought for me, so there was nothing left for me to spend my time and thought on but him. it was a beautiful arrangement." "leslie, this is your car, but won't you dear, drive fast!" begged mrs. minturn. "of course nellie!" exclaimed the girl. "leslie, will you stand by me, and show me the way, all you can?" asked mrs. minturn anxiously. "i'll lose every friend i have got; my house must be torn down and built up from the basement on a new system, as to management; and i haven't an idea _how_ to do it. oh, i hope james can help me." "you may be sure james will know and can help you," comforted leslie. "you'll be leaving for the seashore in a few days; install a complete new retinue, and begin all fresh. half the servants you keep, really interested in their work, would make you far more comfortable than you are now." "yes, i think that too!" agreed mrs. minturn eagerly. "some way i feel as if i were turning against lucette. i never want to see her again, after i tell her to go; not that i know what i shall do without her. the boys will probably burn down the house, and where i'll find a woman who will tolerate them, i don't know." "employ a man until you get control," suggested leslie. "they are both old enough; hire a man, and explain all you want to him. they'd be afraid of a man." "afraid!" cried mrs. minturn. "they are afraid of lucette! i can't understand it. i wonder if james----" "poor james!" laughed leslie. "honestly nellie, don't impose too much of your--your work on him. undertake it yourself. show him what a woman you are." "great heavens, leslie, you don't know what you are saying!" cried mrs. minturn. "my only hope lies in deceiving him. if i showed him the woman i am, as i saw myself back there in that swamp an hour ago, he'd take one look, and strangle me for the public good." "how ridiculous!" exclaimed leslie. "why must a woman always rush from one extreme to the other? choose a middle course and keep it." "that's what i am telling you i must do," said mrs. minturn. "leslie, it is wonderful how i feel. i'm almost flying. do you honestly think it is possible that there is going to be something new, something interesting, something really worth while in the world for me?" "i know it," said leslie. "such interest, such novelty, such joy as you never have experienced!" with that hope in her heart, her eyes filled with excitement, nellie minturn rang her bell, ran past her footman and hurried up the stairs. she laid her flowers on a table, summoned her maid, then began throwing off her hat and outer clothing. "do you know if mr. minturn is here?" "yes. he----" began the maid. "never mind what 'he.' get out the prettiest, simplest dress i own, and the most becoming," she ordered. "be quick! can't you see i'm in a hurry?" "mrs. minturn, i think you will thank me for telling you there is an awful row in the library," said the maid. "'an awful row?'" mrs. minturn paused. "yes. i think they are killing lucette," explained the maid. "she's shrieked bloody murder two or three times." "who? what do you mean?" demanded mrs. minturn. she slipped on the bathrobe she had picked up, and stood holding it together, gazing at the maid. "mr. minturn came with two men. one was a park policeman we know. they went into the library and sent for lucette. there she goes again!" "is there any way i could see, could hear, what is going on, without being seen?" "there's a door to the den from the back hall, and that leads to the library," suggested the maid. "show me! help me!" begged mrs. minturn. as they passed the table the orchids hanging over the edge caught on the trailing robe and started to fall. mrs. minturn paused to push them back, then studied the flowers an instant, and catching up the bunch carried it along. she closed the den door after her without a sound, and creeping beside the wall, hid behind the door curtain and peeped into the library. there were two men who evidently were a detective and a policeman. she saw lucette backed against the wall, her hands clenched, her eyes wild with fear. she saw her husband's back, and on the table beside him a little box, open, its wrappings near, its contents terrifying to the woman. "to sum up then," said mr. minturn in tones she never before had heard: "i can put on oath this man, who will be forced to tell what he witnessed or be impeached by others who saw it at the same time, and _are ready to testify to what he said;_ i can produce the boy who came to tell me the part he took in it; i have the affidavit and have just come from the woman who interfered and followed you here in an effort to save elizabeth; i have this piece of work in my hands, done by one of the greatest scientists and two of the best surgeons living. although you shrink from it, i take pleasure in showing it to you. this ragged seam is an impress of the crack you made in a tiny skull lying in a vault out at forest hill." he paused, holding a plaster cast before the woman. "it's a little bit of a thing," he said deliberately. "she was a tiny creature to have been done to death at your hands. i hope you will see that small pink face as i see it, and feel the soft hair in your fingers, and--after all, i can't go on with that. but i am telling you, and showing you exactly what you are facing, because you must go from this house with these men; your things will be sent. you must leave this city and this country on the boat they take you to, and where you go you will be watched; if ever you dare take service handling a _child_ again, i shall have you promptly arrested and forced to answer for the cold-blooded murder of my little daughter. live you must, i suppose, but not longer by the torture of children. go, before i strangle you as you deserve!" how mrs. minturn came to be standing beside her husband, she never afterward knew; only that she was, pulling down his arm to stare at the white cast. then she looked up at him and said simply: "but lucette didn't murder her; it was i. i was her mother. i knew she was beaten. i knew she was abused! i didn't stop my pleasure to interfere, lest i should lose a minute by having to see to her myself! a woman did come to me, and a boy! i knew they were telling the truth! i didn't know it was so bad, but i knew it must have been dreadful, to bring them. i had my chance to save her. i went to her as the woman told me to, and because she was quiet, i didn't even turn her over. i didn't run a finger across her little head. i didn't call a surgeon. i preferred an hour of pleasure to taking the risk of being disturbed. i am quite as guilty as lucette! have them take me with her." james minturn stepped back, gazing at his wife. then he motioned the men toward the door, so with the woman they left the room. "lucette just had her sentence," he said, "now for yours! words are useless! i am leaving your house with my sons. they _are_ my sons, and with the proof i hold, you will not claim them. if you do, you will not get them. i am taking them to the kind of a house i deem suitable for them, and to such care as i can provide. i shall keep them in my presence constantly as possible until i see just what harm has been done, and how to remedy what can be changed. i shall provide such teachers as i see fit for them, and devote the remainder of my life to them. all i ask of you is to spare them the disgrace of forcing me to _prove_ my right to them, or ever having them realize just _what_ happened to their sister, and _your_ part in it." she held the flowers toward him. "i brought these----" she began, then paused. "you wouldn't believe me, if i should tell you. you are right! perfectly justified! of course i shall not bring this before the public. go!" at the door he looked back. she had dropped into a chair beside the table, holding the cast in one hand, the fringed orchids in the other. chapter vii _peaches' preference in blessings_ "_god ain't made a sweeter girl 'an lily, at keeps my heart a-whirl. if i was to tell an awful whopper, i'd get took by the cross old copper._" thus chanted mickey at his door, his hands behind him. peaches stretched both hers toward him as usual; but he stood still, swinging in front of him a beautiful doll, for a little sick girl. a baby doll in a long snowy dress and a lace cap; it held outstretched arms, but was not heavy enough to tire small wavering hands. peaches lunged forward until only mickey's agility saved her from falling. he tossed the doll on the bed, and caught the child, the lump in his throat so big his voice was strained as he cried: "why you silly thing!" with her safe he again proffered it. peaches shut her eyes and buried her face on his breast. "oh don't let me see it! take it away!" "why lily! i thought you'd be crazy about it," marvelled mickey. "honest i did! the prettiest lady sent it to you. let me tell you!" "giving them up is worser 'an never having them. take it away!" wailed peaches. "well lily!" said mickey. "i never was stuck up about my looks, but i didn't s'pose i looked so like a granny that you'd think _that_ of me. don't i seem man enough to take care of a little flowersy-girl 'thout selling her doll? there's where i got your granny skinned a mile. i don't booze, and i never will. mother hammered that into me. now look what a pretty it is! you'll just love it! i wouldn't take it! i'd lay out anybody who would. come on now! negotiate it! get your flippers on it!" he was holding the child gently and stroking her tumbled hair. when he put her from him to see her face, mickey was filled with envy because he had been forced to admit the gift was not from him. he shut his lips tight, but his face was grim as he studied peaches' flushed cheeks and wet eyes, and noted the shaking eagerness for the doll she was afraid to look at. he reached over and put it into her arms, then piled the pillows so she could see better, talking the while to comfort her. "course it is yours! course nobody is going to take it! course you shall _always_ have it, and maybe a grown-up lady doll by christmas. who knows?" in utter content peaches sank against the pillows, watching mickey, while she gripped the baby. "thank you, mickey-lovest," she said. "oh thank you for this precious child!" "you got to thank a lady about twice my height, with dark hair, pink cheeks, and beautiful dresses. she's got a big rest house, a lover man, and an automobile i wish you could see, lily," he said. "if i was on the rags in the corner, i'd have this child--wouldn't i?" scoffed peaches, still clutching the doll, but her gaze on mickey. "what happened was, 'at she _liked you_ for something, and _give_ you the baby, so you brought it to me. thank you mickey, for this precious child!" peaches lifted her lips. mickey met them more obsessed than before. then she turned away, clasping the doll. mickey could see that the tears were slipping from under the child's closed lids, but her lips were on the doll face, so he knew she was happy. he stole out to bring in his purchases for supper, and begin his evening work. he gave peaches a drink, her daily rub, cleaned the room without making dust as the nurse had shown him, and brought water. he shook his fist at the faucet. "now hereafter, nix on the butting in!" he said belligerently. "mebby i couldn't have got _that_ doll, but i could have got one she'd have _liked_ just as well, and earned it extra, in one day. there's one feature of the big brother business that i was a little too fast on. he's the finest man that ever wanted me, while his rooms are done shameful. i could put a glitter on them so he could see himself with the things he has to work with, and he said any time i wanted it, the job was mine. it wouldn't be cheating him any if i took it, and did better work than he's getting, and my steady papers are sure in the morning; that would be sure in the afternoon, and if i cut ice with a buzz saw, i might get through in time to pick up something else before coming home, and being sure beats _hoping_ a mile, yes ten miles! mebby i'll investigate that business a little further, 'cause hereafter i provide for my own family. see? lily was grand about it. gee! she's smart to think it out that way all in a minute. but by and by she's going to have a lot of time to think. then she'll be remembering about the lady i got to tell her of 'stead of _me_, as she _should!_ guess i'll run my own family! i'll take another look at cleaning that office. there ain't any lap-dog business in a job, and being paid for it, if you do it well." mickey turned the faucet and marched up the stairs with head high and shoulders square. his face was grave while he worked, but peaches was so happy she did not notice. when he came with her supper she kissed the doll, then insisted on mickey kissing it also. such was the state of his subjugation he commenced with "aw!" and ended by doing as he was told. he even helped lay the doll beside peaches exactly as her fancy dictated, and covered it with her sheet, putting its hands outside. peaches was enchanted. she insisted on offering it a drink of her milk first, and was so tremulously careful lest she spill a drop that mickey had to guide her hand. he promised to wash the doll's dress if she did have an accident, or when it became soiled, and bowed his head meekly to the crowning concession by sitting on the edge of the bed, after he had finished his evening work, and holding the doll where she could see it, exactly as instructed, while he told her about his wonderful adventure. "began yesterday," explained mickey. "you know i told you there was going to be a surprise. well this is it. when the lady gave me the ribbons for you, she told me to come back to-night, and get it. course i _could_ a-got it myself. i _would_ a-got it for christmas----" "oh mickey-lovest, does christmas come here?" "surest thing you know!" said mickey. "a fat stocking full of every single thing the nurse lady tell santa claus a little--a little flowersy-girl that ain't so strong yet, may have, and a big lady doll and a picture book." "but i never had no stockings," said peaches. "well you'll have by _that_ time," promised mickey. "oh mickey, i'm so glad i want to say a prayin's 'at you found _me_, 'stead of some other kid!" exulted peaches. "yes miss, and that's one thing i forgot!" said mickey. "we'll _begin_ to-night. you ain't a properly raised lady unless you say your prayers. i know the one _she_ taught me. to-night will be a good time, 'cause you'll be so thankful for your pretty ribbons and your baby, that you'll just love to say a real thankful prayer." "mickey, i ain't goin' to say prayin's! i just _said_ i was," explained peaches. "i never said none for granny, 'cause she only told me to when she was drunk." "no and you never had a box of ribbons to make you look so sweet, or a baby to stay with you while i'm gone. if you ain't thankful enough for them to say your prayers, you shouldn't have them, nor any more, nor christmas, nor anything, but just--_just like you was_." peaches blinked, gasped, digested the statements, then yielded wholly. "i guess i'll say them. mickey when shall i?" "to-night 'fore you go to sleep," said mickey. "now tell me about the baby," urged peaches. "sure! i _was!_ i _could_ a-got it myself, like i was telling you; but the ones in the stores have such funny clothes. they look so silly. i knew i couldn't wash them and of course they'd get dirty like everything does, and we couldn't _have_ them dirty, so i thought it over, and i said to mickey-boy, 'if the joy lady is so anxious to get the baby, and sew its clothes herself, why i'll just let her,' so i did _let_ her, but it took some time to make them, so i had to wait to bring it 'til tonight. i was to go to her house after it, and when i got there she was coming home in her car from a long drive, and gee, lily, i wish you could have seen her! she's the prettiest lady, and the most joyous lady i ever saw." "prettier than the nurse lady?" asked peaches. "well different," explained mickey. "nurse lady is all gold like the end of sunrise alley at four o'clock in the morning. this lady has dark hair and eyes. both of them are as pretty as women are made, but they are not the same. nurse lady is when the sun comes up, and warms and comforts the world; but the doll-lady is like all the stars twinkling in the moonlight on the park lake, and music playing, and everybody dancing. the doll-lady is joy, just the joy lady. gee, lily, you should have seen her face when the car stopped, while i was coming down the steps." "was she so glad to see you?" asked peaches. "'twasn't me!" said mickey. "'twas on her face _before_ she saw me. she was just gleaming, and shining, and spilling over joy! she isn't the kind that would dance on the street, nor where it ain't nice to dance; but she was dancing inside just the same. she pulled me right into that big fine car, so i sat on the seat with her, and we went sailing, and skating, and flying along and all the boys guying me, but i didn't care! i like to ride in her car! i never rode in a car like that before. she went a-whizzing right to the office of the big man, where maybe i'll work; i guess i'll go see him tomorrow, i got a hankering for knowing what i'm going to _do_, and _where_ i'm going to be paid for it. well she went spinning there, and she said 'you wait a minute,' then she ran in and pretty soon out she came with him. his name is mr. douglas bruce, and i guess it would be a little closer what _she'd_ think right if i'd use it. and hers he calls her by, is leslie. ain't that pretty? when he says 'leslie' sounds as if he kissed the name as it came through. honest it does!" "i bet he says it just like you say 'lily!'" "i wonder now!" grinned mickey. "well he came out and what she had told him, set him crazy too. they just talked a streak, but he shook hands with me, and she said, 'you tell the driver where to go mickey,' and i said, 'go where, miss?' and she said, 'to take you home,' and i said, 'you don't need!' and she said, 'i'd like to!' and i saw she didn't care _what_ she did, so i just sent him to the end of the car line and saved my nickel, and then i come on here, and both of them----" "what?" asked peaches eagerly. mickey changed the "wanted to come to see you" that had been on his lips. if he told peaches that, and she asked for them to come, and they came, and then thought he was not taking care of her right, and took her away from him--then what? "said good-bye the nicest," he substituted. "and i'm going to see if she wants any more letters carried as soon as my papers are gone in the morning, and if she does, i'm going to take them, and if one is to him, i'm going to ask him more about the job he offered me, and if we can agree, i'm going to take it. then i can buy you what you want myself, because i'll know every day exactly what i'll have, and when the rent is counted out, and for the papers, all the rest will be for eating, and what you need, and to save for your new back." "my, i wisht i had it now!" cried peaches. "i wisht i could a-rode in that car too! wasn't it perfeckly grand mickey?" "grand as any king," said mickey. "what is a king?" asked peaches. "one of the big bosses across the ocean," explained mickey. "you'll learn them when you get farther with your lessons. they own most all the money, and the finest houses, and _all the people_. just _own_ them. own them so's they can tell good friends to go to it, and _kill_ each other, even _relations_." "and do they _do_ it?" marvelled peaches. "sure they do it!" cried mickey. "why they are doing it _right now!_ i could bring a paper and read you things that would make you so sick you couldn't sit up!" "what kind of things, mickey?" "about kings making all the fathers kill each other, and burn down each other's houses, and blow up the cities, and eat all the food themselves, and leave the mothers with no home, and no groceries, and no stove, and no beds, and the bullets flying, and the cities burning, and no place to go, and the children starving and dying--gee, i ain't ever going to tell you any more, lily! it's too awful! you'd feel better not to know. honest you would! wish i hadn't told you anything about it at all. where's your slate? we got to do lessons 'fore it gets so dark and we are so sleepy we can't see." peaches proudly handed him the slate. in wavering lines and tremulous curves ran her first day's work alone, over erasures, and with relinings, in hills and deep depressions, which it is possible mickey read because he knew what it had to be, he proudly translated, "mickey-lovest." then the lines of the night before, then "cow" and "milk." and then mickey whooped because he faintly recognized an effort to draw a picture of the cow and the milk bottle. "grand lily!" he cried. "gee, you're the smartest kid i ever knew! you'll know all i do 'fore long, and then you'll need your back, so's you can get ready to go to a young ladies' sem'nary." "what's that?" interestedly asked peaches. "a school. where other _nice_ girls go, and where you learn all that i don't know to teach you," said mickey. "i won't go!" said peaches. "oh yes you will, miss," said mickey. "'cause you're my family, so you'll do as i say." "will you go with me?" asked peaches. "sure! i'll take you there in a big au----oh, i don't know as i will either. we'll have to save our money, if we _both_ go. we'll go on a _street_ car, and walk up a grand av'noo among trees, and i'll take you in, and see if your room is right, and everything, and all the girls will like you 'cause you're so smart, and your hair's so pretty, and then i'll go to a boys' school close by, and learn how to make poetry pieces that beat any in the papers. every time i make a new one i'll come and ask, 'is miss lily--miss lily peaches----' gee kid, _what's your name?_" mickey stared at peaches, while she stared back at him. "i don't know," she said. "do you care, mickey?" "what was your granny's?" asked mickey. "i don't know," answered peaches. "was she your mother's mother?" persisted mickey. "yes," replied peaches. "did you ever see your father?" mickey went on. "i don't know nothing about fathers," she said. mickey heaved a deep sigh. "well! _that's_ over!" he said. "_i_ know something about fathers. i know a lot. i know that you are no worse off, not knowing _who_ your father was than to know he was so _mean_ that you are _glad_ he's dead. your way leaves you _hoping_ that he was just awful nice, and got killed, or was taken sick or something; my way, there ain't no doubts in your mind. you are plumb sure he wasn't decent. don't you bother none about fathers!" "my i'm glad, mickey!" cried peaches joyously. "so am i," said mickey emphatically. "we don't want any fathers coming here to butt in on us, just as we get your back carreled and you ready to start to school." "can i go without a _name_ mickey?" asked peaches. "course not!" said mickey. "you have to put your name on a roll the first thing, then you must be interdooced to the head lady and all the girls." "what'll i do mickey?" anxiously inquired peaches. "well, for smart as you are in some spots, you're awful dumb in others," commented mickey. "what'll you do, saphead? gee! ain't you _mine?_ ain't you my _family?_ ain't _my name_ good enough for you? your name will be miss lily peaches o'halloran. that's a name good enough for a queen lady!" "what's a queen?" inquired peaches. "wife of those kings we were just talking about." "sure!" said peaches. "none of them have a nicer name than that! mickey, is my bow straight?" "naw it ain't!" said mickey. "take the baby 'til i fix it! it's about slipped off! there! that's better." "mickey, let me see it!" suggested peaches. mickey brought the mirror. she looked so long he grew tired and started to put it back, but she clung to it. "just lay it on the bed," she said. "naw i don't, miss chicken--o'halloran!" he said. "mirrors cost money, and if you pull the sheet in the night, and slide ours off, and it breaks, we got seven years of bad luck coming, and we are nix on changing the luck we have right now. it's good enough for us. think of them belgium kids where the kings are making the fathers fight. this goes where it belongs, then you take your drink, and let me beat your pillow, and you fix your baby, and then we'll say our prayers, and go to sleep." mickey replaced the mirror and carried out the program he had outlined. when he came to the prayer he ordered peaches to shut her eyes, fold her hands and repeat after him: "'now i lay me down to sleep'"---- peaches' eyes opened. "oh, is it a poetry prayer, mickey?" she asked. "yes. kind of a one. say it," answered mickey. peaches obeyed, repeating the words lingeringly and in her sweetest tones. mickey thrilled to his task. "'i pray the lord my soul to keep'"----he proceeded. "what's my soul, mickey?" she asked. "the very nicest thing inside of you," explained mickey. "go on!" "like my heart?" questioned peaches. "yes. only nicer," said mickey. "shut your eyes and go on!" peaches obeyed. "'if i should die before i wake'"----continued mickey. peaches' eyes flashed open; she drew back in horror. "i won't!" she cried. "i won't _say_ that. that's what happened to granny, an' i saw. she was the awfullest, an' then--the men came. i _won't!_" mickey opened his eyes, looking at peaches, his lips in a set line, his brow wrinkled in thought. "well i don't know what they went and put _that_ in for," he said indignantly. "scaring little kids into fits! it's all right when you don't _know_ what it means, but when kids has been through what we have, it's different. i wouldn't say it either. you wait a minute. i can beat that myself. let me think. now i got it! shut your eyes and go on: "if i should come to live with thee----" "well i ain't goin'!" said peaches flatly. "i'm goin' to stay right here with you. i'd a lot rather than anywhere. king's house or anywhere!" "i never saw such a kid!" wailed mickey. "i think that's pretty. i like it heaps. come on peaches! be good! listen! the next line goes: 'open loving arms to shelter me.' like the big white jesus at the cathedral door. come on now!" "i _won't!_ i'm goin' to live right here, and i don't want no big white jesus' arms; i want _yours_. 'f i go anywhere, you got to lift me yourself, and let me take my precious child along." "lily, you're the worst kid i ever saw," said mickey. "no you ain't either! i know a lot worse than you. you just don't understand. i guess you better pray something you _do_ understand. let me think again. now try this: keep me through the starry night----" "sure! i just love that," crooned peaches. "wake me safe with sunrise bright," prompted mickey, and the child smilingly repeated the words. "now comes some 'blesses,'" said mickey. "i don't know just how to manage them. you haven't a father to bless, and your mother got what was coming to her long ago; blessing her now wouldn't help any if it wasn't pleasant; same with your granny, only more recent. i'll tell you! now i know! 'bless the sunshine lady for all the things to make me comfortable, and bless the moonshine lady for the ribbons and the doll.'" "aw!" cried peaches, staring up at him in rebellion. "now you go on, miss chicken," ordered mickey, losing patience, "and then you end with 'amen,' which means, 'so be it,' or 'make it happen that way,' or something like that. go to it now!" peaches shut her eyes, refolded her hands and lifted her chin. after a long pause mickey was on the point of breaking, she said sweetly: "bless mickey-lovest, an' bless him, an' bless him million times; an' bless him for the bed, an' the window, an' bless him for finding the nurse lady, an' bringing the ribbons, an' the doll, an' bless him for the slate, an' the teachin's, an' bless him for everything i just love, an' love. amen--hard!" when peaches opened her eyes she found mickey watching her, a commingling of surprise and delight on his face. then he bent over and laid his cheek against hers. "you fool little kid," he whispered tenderly. "you precious fool little flowersy-kid! you make a fellow love you 'til he nearly busts inside. kiss me good-night, lily." he slipped the ribbon from her hair, straightened the sheets, arranged as the nurse had taught him, laid the doll as peaches desired, and then screened by the foot of the bed, undressed and stretched himself on the floor. the same moon that peeped in the window to smile her broadest at peaches and her precious child, and touched mickey's face to wondrous beauty, at that hour also sent shining bars of light across the veranda where leslie sat and told douglas bruce about the trip to the swamp. "i never knew i could be so happy over anything in all this world that didn't include you and daddy. but of course this does in a way; you, at least. much as you think of, and are with, mr. minturn, you can't help being glad that joy has come to him at last. why don't you say something, douglas?" "i have been effervescing ever since you came to the office after me, and i find now that the froth is off, i'm getting to the solid facts in the case, and, well i don't want to say a word to spoil your joyous day, but i'm worried, 'bringer of song.'" "worried?" cried leslie. "why? you don't think he wouldn't be pleased? you don't think he might not be--responsive, do you?" "think of the past years of neglect, insult and humiliation!" suggested douglas. "think of the future years of loving care, reparation and joy!" commented leslie. "please god they outweigh!" said douglas. "of course they will! it must be a few things i've seen lately that keep puzzling me." "what have you seen, douglas?" questioned leslie. "deals in real estate," he answered. "consultations with detectives and policemen, scientists and surgeons." "but what could that have to do with nellie minturn?" "nothing, i hope," said douglas, "but there has been a grimness about minturn lately, a going ahead with jaws set that looks ugly for what opposes him, and you tell me they have been in opposition ever since they married. i can't put him from my thoughts as i saw him last." "and i can't her," said leslie. "she was a lovely picture as she came across the silver moss carpet, you know that gray green, douglas, her face flushed, her eyes wet, her arms full of those perfectly beautiful, lavender-pink fringed orchids. she's a handsome woman, dearest, and she never looked quite so well to me as when she came picking her way beneath the dark tamarack boughs. she was going to ask him to go with her to take her flowers to elizabeth, and over that little white casket she intended--why douglas, he couldn't, he simply couldn't!" "suppose he had something previously worked out that cut her off!" "oh douglas! what makes you think such a thing?" "what minturn said to me this morning with such bitterness on his face and in his voice as i never before encountered in man," douglas answered. "he said----?" prompted leslie. "this is my _last_ day as a _laughing-stock_ for my fellowmen! to-morrow i shall hold up my head!" "why didn't you tell me that _before?_" "didn't realize until just now that you and she hadn't _seen_ him--that you were acting on presumption. "i'm going to call her!" cried leslie. "i wouldn't!" advised douglas. "why not?" "after as far as she went to-day, if she had anything she wanted you to know, wouldn't she feel free to call you?" "you are right," conceded leslie. "even after to-day, for me to call would be an intrusion. let's not talk of it further! don't you wish we could take a peep at mickey carrying the doll to the little sick girl?" "i surely do!" answered douglas. "what do you think of him, leslie?" "great! simply great!" cried the girl. "douglas you should have heard him educate me on the doll question." "how?" he asked interestedly. "from the first glimpse i had of him, the thought came to me, 'that's douglas' little brother'" she explained. "when you telephoned and said you were sending him to me, just one idea possessed me: to get what you wanted. almost without thought at all i tried the first thing he mentioned, which happened to be a little sick neighbour girl he told me about. all girls like a doll, and i had one dressed for a birthday gift for a namesake of mine, and time plenty to fix her another. i brought it to mickey and thought he'd be delighted." "was he rude?" inquired douglas anxiously. "not in the least!" she answered. "only casual! merely made me see how thoughtless and unkind and positively vulgar my idea of pleasing a poor child was." "leslie, you shock me!" exclaimed douglas. "i mean every word of it," said the girl. "now listen to me! it _is_ thoughtless to offer a gift headlong, without considering a second, is it not?" "merely impulsive," replied douglas. "identically the same thing!" declared leslie. "listen i said! without a thought about suitability, i offered an extremely poor child the gift i had prepared for a very rich one. mickey made me see in ten words that it would be no kindness to fill his little friend's head with thoughts that would sadden her heart with envy, make her feel all she lacked more keenly than ever; give her a gift that would breed dissatisfaction instead of joy; if that isn't vulgarity, what is? mickey's lily has no business with a doll so gorgeous the very sight of it brings longing, instead of comfort. it was unkind to offer a gift so big and heavy it would tire and worry her." "there _are_ some ideas there on giving!" "aren't there though!" said leslie. "mickey took about three minutes to show me that lily was _satisfied_ as she was, so no one would thank me for awakening discontent in her heart. he measured off her size and proved to me that a small doll, that would not tire her to handle, would be suitable, and so dressed that its clothes could be washed and would be plain as her own. even further! once my brain began working i saw that a lady doll with shoes and stockings to suggest outdoors and walking, was not a kind gift to make a bedridden child. douglas, after mickey started me i arose by myself to the point of seeing that a little cuddly baby doll, helpless as she, one that she could nestle, and play with lying in bed would be the proper gift for lily. think of a 'newsy' making me see _that!_ isn't he wonderful?" "you should have heard him making me see things!" said douglas. "yours are faint and feeble to the ones he taught me. refused me at every point, and marched away leaving me in utter rout! outside wanting you for my wife, more than anything else on earth, i wanted mickey for my little brother." "you have him!" comforted the girl. "the lord arranged that. you remember he said, 'all men are brothers,' and wasn't it tolstoy who wrote: 'if people would only understand that they are not the sons of some fatherland or other, nor of governments, but are sons of god?' you and mickey will get your brotherhood arranged to suit both of you some of these days." "exactly!" conceded douglas. "but i wanted mickey at hand now! i wanted him to come and go with me. to be educated with what i consider education." "it will come yet," prophesied leslie. "your ideas are splendid! i see how fine they are! the trouble is this: you had a plan mapped out at which mickey was to jump. mickey happened to have preconceived ideas on the subject, so he didn't jump. you wanted to be the king on the throne and stretch out a royal hand," laughed leslie. "you wanted to lift mickey to your level, and with the inherent fineness in him, have him feel eternal love and gratitude toward you?" "that sounds different, but it is the real truth." "and mickey doesn't care to be brother to kings, he doesn't perceive the throne even; he wants you to understand at the start that you will _take_, as well as _give_. refusing pay for tidying your office was his first inning. that 'me to you!' was great. i can see the accompanying gesture. it was the same one he used in demolishing my doll. something vital and inborn. something loneliness, work, the crowd, and raw life have taught mickey, that we don't know. learn all you can from him. i've had one good lesson, i'm receptive and ready for the next. let's call the car and drive an hour." "that will be pleasant," agreed douglas. "anywhere in the suburbs to avoid the crowds," was leslie's order to her driver. slowly, under traffic regulations, the car ran through the pleasant spring night; the occupants talking without caring where they were so long as they were together, in motion, and it was may. they were passing residences where city and country met. the dwellings of people city bound, country determined. homes where men gave so many hours to earning money, then sped away to train vines, prune trees, dig in warm earth and make things grow. such men now crossed green lawns and talked fertilizers, new annuals, tree surgery, and carried gifts of fragrant, blooming things to their friends. here the verandas were wide and children ran from them to grassy playgrounds; on them women read or sat with embroidery hoops or visited in small groups. "let's move," said leslie. "let's coax daddy to sell our place and come here. one wouldn't ever need go summering, it's cool and pleasant always. i'd love it! there's a new house and a lawn under old trees, to shelter playing children; isn't it charming?" "quite! but that small specimen seems refractory." leslie leaned forward to see past him. in an open door stood a man clearly silhouetted against the light. down the steps sped a screaming boy about nine. after him ran another five or six years older. when the child saw he would be overtaken, he headed straight for the street; as the pursuer's hand brushed him, he threw himself kicking and clawing. the elder boy hesitated, looking for an opening to find a hold. the car was half a block away when leslie turned a white face to douglas and gasped inarticulately. he understood something was wrong so signalled the driver to stop. "turn and pass those children again!" ordered leslie. as the car went by slowly the second time, the child still fought, the boy stepped back, while james minturn with grim face, bent under the light and by force took into his arms the twisting, fighting boy. "heaven help him!" cried douglas. "not a sign of happy reconciliation there!" leslie tried to choke down her sobs. "oh nellie minturn! poor woman!" she wailed. "so _that's_ what he was doing!" marvelled douglas. "a house he has built to suit himself; training his sons personally, with the assistance of his little brother. that boy was william. i see him in minturn's office every day." "oh i think he might have given her a chance!" protested leslie. "remember how she was reared! think what a struggle it was for her even to contemplate trying to be different." "evidently she was too late!" said douglas. "he must have been gone before you returned from the swamp." "i'm going back there and tell him a few things! i think he might have waited. douglas, i'm afraid he did wait! she said he told her he wanted to talk with her when she came back--and oh douglas, she said he had a small box and he threatend to 'freeze her soul with its contents!' douglas, _what_ could he have had?" "'freeze her soul!' let me think!" said douglas. "i met professor tickner and dr. wills coming from his offices a few days ago, while he's just back from a trip that he didn't tell me he was taking---- "you mean tickner, the scientist; wills, the surgeon?" "yes," answered douglas. "but those children! aren't they perfectly healthy?" "they look it! lord, leslie!" cried douglas, "i have it! he _has_ made good his threat. he has frozen her soul! what you want to do is to go to her, leslie!" "douglas, tell me!" she demanded. "i can't!" said douglas. "i may be mistaken. i think i am not, but there is always a chance! drive to the minturn residence," he ordered. they found a closed dark pile of stone. "go past that place where the children were again!" said leslie. the upper story was quiet. outlined by veranda lights the massive form of james minturn paced back and forth under the big trees, his hands clasped behind him, his head bowed, and he walked alone. "douglas, i'm going to speak to him. i'm going to tell him!" declared leslie. "but you're now conceding that _she_ saw him!" douglas pointed out. "then what have you to tell him that she would not? if she couldn't move him with what she said, and while you don't know his side, what could you say to him?" "nothing," she conceded. "precisely my opinion," said douglas. "remember leslie i am a little ahead of you in this. you know _her_ side. i know all you have told me of her, also i know what he has told me; while putting what i have seen, and heard at the office, and him here with the boys, in a house she would consider too plebeian for words----" "no douglas. no! she is changed!" cried leslie. "completely changed, i tell you! she said she would wipe malcolm's nose and fix james' studs----" "mere figures of speech!" remarked douglas. "they meant she was ready to work with her own hands for happiness," said leslie indignantly. "i think she's too late!" said douglas. "i am afraid she is one of the unhappiest women in the world to-night!" "douglas, it wrings my heart!" cried leslie. "mine also, but what can we do?" he answered. "for ten years, she has persisted in having her way, you tell me; what could she have expected?" "that he would have some heart," protested leslie. "that he would forgive when he was asked, as all of us are commanded to." "does it occur to you that he might have confronted her with something that prevented her from asking?" suggested douglas. "she may never have reached her flowers and her proposed concessions." "what makes you think so?" queried leslie. "what i see and surmise, and a thing i know." "what can i do?" asked leslie. "nothing!" douglas said with finality. "if either of them wants you, they know where to find you. but you're tired now. let's give the order for home." "shan't sleep a wink to-night!" prophesied leslie. "i was afraid of that!" exclaimed douglas. "there may be a message there for you that will be a comfort." "so there may be! let's hurry!" urged the girl. there was. they found a brief, pencilled note. dear leslie: _after to-day, it was due you to send a word. you tried so hard dear, and you gave me real joy for an hour. then james carried out his threat. he did all to me he intended, and more than he can ever know. i have agreed to him taking full possession of the boys, and going into a home such as he thinks suitable. they will be far better off, and since they scarcely know me, they can't miss me. before you receive this, i shall have left the city. i can't state just now where i am going or what i shall do. you can realize a little of my condition. if ever you are tired of home life and faintly tempted to neglect it for society, use me for your horrible example. good-bye,_ nellie minturn. leslie read this aloud. "it's a relief to know that much," she said with a deep breath. "i can't imagine myself ever being 'faintly tempted," but if i am, surely she is right about the 'horrible example.' douglas, whatever did james minturn have in that box?" "i could tell you what i surmise, but so long as i don't _know_ i'd better not," he answered. "as our mutual friend mickey would say, 'nix on the swell dames,' for me!" said leslie determinedly. "thank god with all my heart!" cried douglas bruce. chapter viii _big brother_ "i've no time to talk," said douglas bruce, as mickey appeared the following day; "my work seems too much for one man. can you help me?" "sure!" said mickey, wadding his cap into his back pocket. then he rolled his sleeves a turn higher, lifted his chin a trifle and stepped forward. "say what!" it caught douglas so suddenly there was no time for concealment. he laughed heartily. "that's good!" he cried. mickey grinned in comradeship. "first, these letters to the box in the hall." "next?" mickey queried as he came through the door. "this package to the room of the clerk in the city hall, and bring back a receipt bearing his signature." mickey saluted, laid the note inside the cover of a book, put it in the middle of the package, and a second later his gay whistle receded down the hall. "'train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it,'" douglas quoted. "mickey has been trained until he would make a good trainer himself." in one-half the time the trip had taken the messenger boys douglas was accustomed to employing, mickey was back like the gulf in the forum, demanding "more." "see what you can do for these rooms, until the next errand is ready," suggested douglas. mickey began gathering up the morning papers, straightening the rugs, curtains and arranging the furniture. "hand this check to the janitor," said douglas. "and mickey, kindly ask him if two dollars was what i agreed to pay him for my extras this week." "sure!" said mickey. douglas would have preferred "yes sir," but "sure!" was a permanent ejaculation decorating the tip of mickey's tongue. the man watching closely did not fail to catch the flash of interest and the lifting of the boy figure as he paused for instructions. when he returned douglas said casually: "while i am at it, i'll pay off my messenger service. take this check to the address and bring a receipt for the amount." mickey's comment came swiftly: "gee! that boy would be sore, if he lost his job!" "messenger service agency," douglas said, busy at his desk. "no boy would lose his job." "oh!" exclaimed mickey comprehendingly. his face lighted at the information. next he carried a requisition for books to another city official and telephoned a café to deliver a pitcher of lemonade and some small cakes, and handed the boy a dime. "why didn't you send me and save your silver?" "i did not think," answered bruce. "some one gets the tip, you might as well have had it." "i didn't mean me _have_ it, i meant you _save_ it." "mickey," said douglas, "you know perfectly i can't take your time unless you accept from me what i am accustomed to paying other boys." "letting others bleed you, you mean," said mickey indignantly. "why i'd a-been glad to brought the juice for five! you never ought to paid more." "should have paid more," corrected douglas. "'should have paid more,'" repeated mickey. "thanks!" "now try this," said douglas, filling two glasses. "'tain't usual!" said mickey. "you drink that yourself or save it for friends that may drop in." "very well!" said douglas. "of course you might have it instead of the boy who comes after the pitcher, but if you don't like it----" "all right if that's the way!" agreed mickey. he retired to a window seat, enjoyed the cool drink and nibbled the cake, his eyes deeply thoughtful. when offered a second glass mickey did not hesitate. "nope!" he said conclusively. "a fellow's head and heels work better when his stomach is running light. i can earn more not to load up with a lot of stuff. i eat at home when my work is finished. she showed me that." "she showed you a good many things, didn't she?" "sure!" said mickey. "she was my mother, so we had to look out for ourselves. when you got nothing but yourself between you and the wolf, you learn to fly, and keep your think-tank in running order. she knew just what was coming to me, so she _showed_ me, and _every single thing she said has come, and then some!_" "i see!" said douglas. "a wise mother!" "sure!" agreed mickey. "but i guess it wouldn't have done either of us much good if i hadn't remembered and kept straight on doing what she taught me." "you are right, it wouldn't," conceded douglas. "that's where i'm going to climb above some of the other fellows," announced mickey confidently. "either they didn't have mothers to teach them or else they did, and forget, or think the teaching wasn't worth anything. now me, i _know_ she was right! she always _proved_ it! she had been up against it longer than i had and she knew, so i am going to go right along doing as she said. i'll beat them, and carry double at that!" "how double, mickey?" inquired douglas. "i didn't mean to say that," he explained. "that was a slip. there's a--there's something----something i'm trying to do that costs more than it does to live. i'm bound to do it, so i got to run light and keep my lamps polished for chances. what next, sir?" "call - -x, and order my car here," said douglas. he bent over his papers to hide his face when from an adjoining room drifted mickey's voice in clear enunciation and suave intonation: "mr. douglas bruce desires his car to be sent immediately to the iroquois building." his mental comment was: "the little scamp has drifted to street lingo when he lacked his mother to restrain him. he can speak a fairly clean grade of english now if he chooses." "next?" briskly inquired mickey. "now look here," said douglas. "this isn't a horse race. i earn my living with my brains, not my heels. i must have time to think things out; when your next job arrives i'll tell you. if you are tired, take a nap on that couch in there." "asleep at the switch!" marvelled mickey. he went to the adjoining room but did not sleep. he quietly polished and straightened furniture, lingered before bookcases and was at douglas' elbow as he turned to call him. then they closed the offices and went to the car, each carrying a load of ledgers. "you do an awful business!" commented mickey. "your car?" "yes," answered douglas. "you're doing grand, for young as you are." "i haven't done it all myself, mickey," explained douglas. "i happened to select a father who was of an acquisitive turn of mind. he left me enough that i can have a comfortable living in a small way, from him." "gee! it's lucky you got the joy lady then!" exclaimed mickey. "maybe you wouldn't ever work if you didn't have her to scratch for!" "i always have worked and tried to make something of myself," said douglas. "yes, i guess you have," conceded mickey. "i think it shows when a man does. it just shows a lot on you." "thank you, mickey! same to you!" "aw, nix on me!" said mickey. "i ain't nothing on looks! i ain't ever looked at myself enough that if i was sent to find michael o'halloran i mightn't bring in some other fellow." "but you're enough acquainted with yourself that you wouldn't bring in a dirty boy with a mouth full of swearing and beer," suggested douglas. "well not this evening!" cried mickey. "on a gamble that ain't my picture!" "if it were, you wouldn't be here!" said douglas. "no, nor much of any place else 'cept the gutters, alleys, and the police court," affirmed mickey. "that ain't my style! i'd like to be--well--about like you." "you are perfectly welcome to all i have and am," said douglas. "if you fail to take advantage of the offer, it will be your own fault." "yes, i guess it will," reflected mickey. "you gave me the chance. i am to blame if i don't cop on to it, and get in the game. i like you fine! your work is more interesting than odd jobs on the street, and you pay like a plute. you're being worked though. you pay too much. if i work for you it would save you money to let me manage that; i could get you help and things a lot cheaper, then you could spend what you save on the joy lady, making her more joyous." "you are calling miss winton the joy lady?" "yes," said mickey. "doesn't she just look it?" "she surely does," agreed douglas. "it's a good title. i know only two that are better. she sows happiness everywhere. what about your lily girl and her doll?" "doll doesn't go. that's a precious child!" "i see! lily is a little girl you like, mickey?" "lily is the littlest girl you ever saw," answered mickey, "with a bad back so that she hasn't ever walked; and she's so sweet--she's the only thing i've got to love, so i love her 'til it hurts. her back is one thing i'm saving for. i'm going to have it carreled as soon as i get money, and she grows strong enough to stand it." "'carreled?'" queried douglas wonderingly. "you know the man who put different legs on a dog?" said mickey. "i often read about him in papers i sell. i think he can fix her back. but not yet. a sunshine nurse i know says nobody can help her back 'til she grows a lot stronger and fatter. she has to have milk and be rubbed with oil, and not be jerked for a while before it's any use to begin on her back." "and has she the milk and the oil and the kindness?" "you just bet she has," said mickey. "her family tends to that. and she has got a bed, and a window, and her precious child, and a slate, and books." "that's all right then," said douglas. "any time you see she needs anything mickey, i'd be glad if you would tell me or miss winton. she loves to do kind things to little sick children to make them happier." "so do i," said mickey. "and lily is _my_ job. but that isn't robbing miss joy lady. she can love herself to death if she wants to on hundreds of little, sick, cold, miserable children, in every cellar and garret and tenement of the east end of multiopolis. the only kind thing god did for them out there was to give them the first chance at sunrise. multiopolis hasn't ever followed his example by giving them anything." "you mean miss winton can find some other child to love and care for?" asked douglas. "sure!" said mickey emphatically. "it's hands off lily. her family is taking care of her, so she's got all she needs right now." "that's good!" said bruce. "here we unload." they entered a building and exchanged the books they carried for others which douglas selected with care, then returning to the office, locked them in a safe. "now i am driving to the golf grounds for an hour's play," said douglas. "will you go and caddy for me?" "i never did. i don't know how," answered mickey. "you can learn, can't you?" suggested douglas. "sure!" said mickey. "i've seen boys carrying golf clubs that hadn't enough sense to break stone right. i can learn, but my learning might spoil your day's sport." "it would be no big price to pay for an intelligent caddy," replied douglas. "mr. bruce, what price is an intelligent caddy worth?" "our scotch club pays fifty cents a game and each man employs his own boy if he chooses. the club used to furnish boys, but since the big brother movement began, so many of the men have boys in their offices they are accustomed to, and want to give a run over the hills after the day's work, that the rule has been changed. i can employ you, if you want to serve me." "i'd go to the _country_ in the car with you, every day you play, and carry your clubs?" asked mickey wonderingly. "yes," answered douglas. "over real hills, where there's trees, grass, cows and water?" questioned mickey. "yes," repeated douglas. "what time would we get back?" he asked. "depends on how late i play, and whether i have dinner at the club house, say seven as a rule, maybe ten or later at times." "nothing doing!" said mickey promptly. "i got to be home at six by the clock every day, even if we were engaged in 'hurling back the enemy.' see?" "but mickey! that spoils everything!" cried douglas. "of course you could work for me the remainder of the day if you wanted to, and i could keep my old clubhouse caddy, but i want _you_. you want the ride in the country, you want the walk, you _need_ the change and recreation. you are not a real boy if you don't want that!" "i'm so real, i'm two boys if _wanting_ it counts, but it doesn't!" said mickey. "you see i got a _job_ for evening. i'm promised. i'd rather do what you want than anything i ever saw or heard of, except just this. i've given my word, and i'm depended on. i couldn't give up this work, and i wouldn't, if i could. even golf ain't in it with this job that i'm on." "what is your work mickey?" "oh i ain't ever exactly certain," said mickey. "sometimes it is one thing, sometimes it is another, but always it's something, and it's work for a party i couldn't disappoint, not noways, not for all the golf in the world." "you are sure?" persisted douglas. "dead sure with no changing," said mickey. "all right then. i'm sorry!" exclaimed douglas. "so am i," said mickey. "but not about the job!" douglas laughed. "well come along this evening and look on. i'll be back before six and i'll run you where we did last night, if that is close your home." "thanks," said mickey. "i'd love to, but you needn't bother about taking me home. i can make it if i start at six. shall i take the things back to the café?" "let them go until morning," said douglas. "what becomes of the little cakes?" "their fate is undecided. have you any suggestions?" "i should worry!" he exclaimed. "they'd fit my pocket. i could hike past the hospital and ask the sunshine lady; if she said so, i could take them to lily. bet she never tasted any like them. if it's between her and the café selling them over, s'pose she takes the cake?" mickey's face was one big insinuating, suggestive smile. douglas' was another. "suppose she does," he agreed. "i must wrap them," said mickey. "have to be careful about lily. if she's fed dirty, wrong stuff, it will make fever so her back will get worse instead of better." "will a clean envelope do?" suggested douglas. "that would cost you two cents," said mickey. "haven't you something cheaper?" "what about a sheet of paper?" hazarded douglas. "fine!" said mickey, "and only half as expensive." so they wrapped the little cakes and closed the office. then douglas said: "now this ends work for the day. next comes playtime." "then before we begin to play we ought to finish business," said mickey. "i have been thinking over what you said the other day, and while i was right about some of it, i was mistaken about part. i ain't changing anything i said about minturn men and his sort, and millyingaire men and their sort; but you ain't that kind of a man----" "thank you, mickey," said douglas. "no you ain't that _kind_ of a man," continued mickey. "and you are just the kind of a man i'd _like_ to be; so if the door ain't shut, guess i'll stick around afternoons." "not all day?" inquired douglas. "well you see i am in the paper business and that takes all morning," explained mickey. "i can always finish my first batch by noon, lots of times by ten; from that on to six i could work for you." "don't you think you could earn more with me, and in the winter at least, be more comfortable?" asked douglas. "winter!" cried mickey, his face whitening. "yes," said douglas. "the newsboys always look frightfully cold in winter." "winter!" it was a piteous cry. "what is it, mickey?" questioned bruce kindly. "you know i _forgot_ it," he said. "i was so took up with what i was doing, and thinking right now, that i forgot a time ever was coming when it gets blue cold, and little kids freeze. gee! i almost wish i hadn't thought of it. i guess i better sell my paper business, and come with you all day. i _know_ i could earn more. i just sort of _hate_ to give up the papers. i been at them so long. i've had such a good time. 'i like to sell papers!' that's the way i always start my cry, and i do. i just love to. i sell to about the same bunch every morning, and most of my men know me, and they always say a word, and i like the rush and excitement and the things that happen, and the looking for chances on the side----" "there's messenger work in my business." "i see! i like that! i like your work all right," said mickey. "gimme a few days to sell my route to the best advantage i can, and i'll come all day. i'll come for about a half what you are paying now." "but you admit you need money urgently." "well not so urgently as to skin a friend to get it--not even with the winter i hadn't thought of coming. gee--i don't know just what i am going to do about that." "for yourself, mickey?" inquired douglas. "well in a way, yes," hesitated mickey. "there are things to _think_ about! gee i got to hump myself while the sun shines! if you say so, then i'll get out of the paper business as soon as i can; and i'll begin work for you steady at noon to-morrow. i've seen you pay out over seven to-day. i'll come for six. is it a bargain?" "no," said douglas, "it isn't! the janitor bill was for a week of half-done work. the messenger bill was for two days, no caddying at all. if you come you will come for not less than eight and what you earn extra over that. i don't agree to better service for less pay. if you will have things between us on a commercial basis, so will i." "oh the big brother business would be all right--with you," conceded mickey, "but i don't just like the way it's managed, mostly. god didn't make us brothers no more than he did all men, so we better not butt in and try to fix things over for him. looks to me like we might cut the brother business and just be _friends_. i could be an awful good _friend_ to you, honest i could!" "and i to you mickey," said douglas bruce, holding out his hand. "have it as you will. friends, then! look for you at noon to-morrow. now we play. hop in and we'll run to my rooms and get my clubs." "shall i sit up with your man?" asked mickey. "my friends sit beside me," said douglas. mickey spoke softly: "yes, but if i watched him sharp, maybe i could get the hang of driving for you. think what a lump that would save. when i'm going, i'd love to drive, just for the fun of it." "and i wouldn't allow you to drive for less than i pay him," said douglas. "i don't see why!" exclaimed mickey. "when you grow older and know me better, you will." while the car was running its smoothest, while the country mickey had not seen save on rare newsboy excursions, flashed past, while the wonder of the club house, the links, and the work he would have loved to do developed, he shivered and cried in his tormented little soul: "gee, how will i ever keep lily warm?" douglas noticed his abstraction and wondered. he had expected more appreciation of what mickey was seeing and doing; he was coming to the realization that he would find out what was in the boy's heart in his own time and way. on the home run, when douglas reached his rooms, he told the driver to take mickey to the end of the car line; the boy shyly interposed to ask if he might go to the "star of hope hospital," so douglas changed the order. mickey's passport held good at the hospital. the sunshine nurse inspected the cakes and approved them. she was so particular she even took a tiny nibble of one and said: "sugar, flour, egg and shortening--all right mickey, those can't hurt her. and how is she to-day?" "fine!" cried mickey. "she is getting a lot stronger already. she can sit up longer and help herself better, and she's got ribbons, the prettiest you ever laid eyes on, that a lady gave me for her hair, and they make her pink and nicer; and she's got a baby doll in long clean white dresses to snuggle down and stay with her all day; and she's got a slate, and a book, and she knows 'cow' and 'milk' and my name, and to-day she is learning 'bread.' to-morrow i am going to teach her 'baby,' and she can say her prayer too nice for anything, once we got it fixed so she'd say it at all." "what did you teach her, mickey?" "'now i lay me,' only lily wouldn't say it the way she taught me. you see lily was all alone with her granny when she winked out and it scared her most stiff, so when i got to that 'if i should die before i wake,' line, she just went into fits, and remembering what i'd seen myself, i didn't blame her; so i changed it for her 'til she liked it." "tell me about it, mickey?" said the nurse. "well you see she has a window, so she can see the stars and the sun. she knows them, so i just shifted the old sad, scary lines to: "_guard me through the starry night, wake me safe with sunshine bright!_" "but mickey, that's lovely!" cried the nurse. "wait till i write it down! i'll teach it to my little people. half of them come here knowing that prayer and when they are ill, they begin to think about it. some of them are old enough to worry over it. why you're a poet, mickey!" "sure!" conceded mickey. "that's what i'm going to be when i get through school. i'm going to write a poetry piece about lily for the first sheet of the _herald_ that'll be so good they'll pay me to write one every day, but all of them will be about her." "mickey, is there enough of such a little girl to furnish one every day?" asked the nurse. "surest thing you know!" cried mickey enthusiastically. "why there are the hundred gold rings on her head, one for each; and her eyes, tender and teasy, and sad and glad, one for each; and the colour of them different a dozen times a day, and her little white face, and her lips, and her smile, and when she's good, and when she's bad; why miss, there's enough of lily for a book big as mr. bruce's biggest law book." "well mickey!" cried the girl laughing. "there's no question but you will write the poetry, only i can't reconcile it with the kind of a hustler you are. i thought poets were languid, dreamy, up-in-the-clouds kind of people." "so they are," explained mickey. "_that_ comes later. first i got to hustle to get lily's back carreled and us through school, and ready to _write_ the poetry; then it will take so much dreaming to think out what is nicest about her, and how to say it best, that it would make any fellow languid--you can see how that would be!" "yes, i see!" conceded the nurse. "mickey, by carreling her back, do you mean dr. carrel?" "sure!" cried mickey. "you see i read a lot about him in the papers i sell. he's the biggest man in the _world! he's bigger than emperors and kings!_ they--why the biggest thing they can _do_ is to kill all their strongest, bravest men. he's so much bigger than kings, that he can take men they shoot to pieces and put them together again. killing men ain't much! anybody can do killing! look at him making folks live! _gee, he's big!_" "and you think he can make lily's back better?" "why i _know_ he can!" said mickey earnestly. "that wouldn't be a patching to what he _has_ done! soon as you say she is strong enough, i'm going to write to him and tell him all about her, and when i get the money saved, he'll come and fix her. sure he will!" "if you could get to him and tell him yourself, i really believe he would," marvelled the nurse. "but you see it's like this, mickey: when men are as great as he is, just thousands of people want everything of them, and write letters by the hundreds, and if all of them were read there would be time for nothing else, so a secretary opens the mail and decides what is important, and that way the big people don't always know about the ones they would answer if they were doing it. he's been here in this very hospital; i've seen him operate once. next time a perfectly wonderful case comes in, that is in his peculiar line, no doubt he will be notified and come again. then if i could get word to you, and you could get lily here, possibly--just possibly he would listen to you and look at her--of course i can't say surely he would--but i think he would!" "why of course he would!" triumphed mickey. "of course he would! he'd be tickled to pieces! he'd just love to! any man would! why a white little flowersy-girl who can't walk----!" "if you could reach him, i really think he would," said the nurse positively. "well just you gimme a hint that he's here, and see if i don't get to him," said mickey. "is there any place i'd be certain to find you quickly, if a chance should come?" she asked. "one never can tell. he might not be here in years, but he might be called, and come, to-morrow." "why yes!" cried mickey. "why of course! why the telephone! call me where i work!" "but i thought you were a 'newsy!'" said the nurse. "well i was," explained mickey lifting his head, "but i've give up the papers. i've graduated. i'm going to sell out tomorrow. i'm going to work permanent for mr. douglas bruce. he's the biggest lawyer in multiopolis. he's got an office in the iriquois building, and his call is -x. write that down too and put it where you can't lose it. he's just a grand man. he asked about lily to-day. he said any time he'd do things for her. sure he would! he'd stop saving the taxpayers of multiopolis, and take his car, and go like greased lightning for a little sick girl. he's the grandest man and he's got a joy lady that puts in most of her time making folks happy. either of them would! why it's too easy to talk about! you call me, i take a car and bring her scooting! if i'd see lily standing on her feet, stepping right out like other folks, i'd be so happy i'd almost bust wide open. honest i would! if he _does_ come, you'd try _hard_ to get me a chance, wouldn't you?" "i'd try as hard for you as i would for myself mickey; i couldn't promise more," she said. "lily's as good as fixed," exulted mickey. "why there is that big easy car standing down in the street waiting to take me home right now." "does douglas bruce send you home in his car?" "oh no, not regular! this is extra! work is over for to-day so we went to the golf links; then he lets his man take me while he bathes and dresses to go to his joy lady. gee, i got to hurry or i'll make the car late; but i can talk with you all you will. i can send the car back and walk or hop a 'tricity-wagon." "which is a street car?" queried the nurse. "sure!" said mickey. "well go hop it!" she laughed. "i can't spare more time now, but i won't forget, mickey; and if he comes i'll keep him till you get here, if i have to chain him." "you go to it!" cried mickey. "and i'll begin praying that he comes soon, and i'll just pray and pray so long and so hard, the lord will send him quick to get rid of being asked so constant. no i won't either! well wouldn't that rattle your slats?" "what, mickey?" asked the nurse. "why don't you _see?_" cried mickey. "no, i don't see," admitted the girl. "well i do!" said mickey. "what would be square about that? why that would be asking the lord to make maybe some other little girl so sick, the carrel man would be sent for, so i'd get my chance for lily. that ain't business! i wouldn't have the cheek! what would the lord _think_ of me? he wouldn't come in a mile of _doing_ it. i wouldn't come in ten miles of having the nerve to ask him. i do get up against it 'til my head swims. and there is _winter_ coming, too!" the nurse put her arm around mickey again, and gently propelled him toward the elevator. "mickey," she said softly, her lips nipping his fair hair, "god doesn't give many of us your clear vision and your big heart. i'd have asked him that, with never a thought of who would have to be ill to bring dr. carrel here. but i'll tell you. you can pray _this_ with a clean conscience: you can ask god if the doctor _does_ come, to put it into his heart to hear you, and to examine lily. that wouldn't be asking ill for anyone else so that you might profit by it. and dear laddie, don't worry about _winter_. this city is still taking care of its taxpayers. you do your best for lily all summer, and when winter comes, if you're not fixed for it, i will see what your share is and you can have it in a stove that will burn warm a whole day, and lots of coal, _plenty_ of it. i know i can arrange that." "gee, you're great!" he cried. "this is the biggest thing that ever happened to me! i see now what i can ask him on the square; so it's _business_ and all right; and mr. bruce or miss leslie will loan me a car, and if you see about the stove and the coal the city has for me"--in came mickey's royal flourish--"why dearest nurse lady, lily is as good as walking right now! gee! in my place would you tell her?" "i surely would," said the nurse. "it will do her good. it will give her hope. dr. carrel isn't the only one who can perform miracles; if he _doesn't_ come by the time lily is strong enough to bear the strain of being operated, we can try some other great man; and if she is shy, and timid from having been alone so much, expecting it will make it easier for her. by the way, wait until i bring some little gifts, i and three of my friends have made for her in our spare time. i think your mother's night dresses must be big and uncomfortable for her, even as you cut them off. try these. give her a fresh one each day. it is going to be dreadfully hot soon. when she has used two, bring them here and i'll have them washed for you." "now nix on that!" said mickey. "you're a shining angel bright to sew them for her, i'm crazy over them, but i wash them. mother showed me. that will be _my_ share. i can do it fine. and they _will_ be better! she's so lost in mother's, i have to shake them to find her!" they laughed together, then mickey sped to the sidewalk and ordered the car back. "i've been too long," he said. "nurse lady had some things to tell me about a little sick girl and i was glad to miss my ride for them. mr. bruce will be ready by now. you go where he told you." "i got twenty-seven minutes yet," said the driver. "i can take you at least almost there. hop in." "mither o' mike!" cried mickey. "is _that_ all there is to it? gee, how i'd like to have a try at it." "are you going to be in mr. bruce's office from now on?" asked the driver. "if i can sell my paper line," answered mickey. "got a good route?" inquired the man. "best of any boy in my district," said mickey. "i _like_ to sell papers. i got it down fine!" "i guess you have," said the driver. "i know your voice, and everybody on your street knows that cry. your route ought to be worth a fair price. i got a kid that wants a paper start. what would you ask to take him over your round and tell the men you are turning your business over to him, and teach him your cries?" "hum-m-m-m!" said mickey. "my cry is whatever has the biggest headlines on the front page, mixed in with a lot of joyous fooling, and i'd have to see your boy 'fore i'd say if i could teach him. is he a clean kid with a joyous face, and his anatomy decorated with a fine large hump? that's the only kind that gets my job. i won't have my nice men made sore all day 'cause they start it by seeing a kid with a boiled-owl face." "you think a happy face sells most papers?" "know it!" said mickey, "'cause i wear it on the job, and i get away with the rest of them three times and coming. same everywhere as with the papers. a happy face would work with your job, if you'd loosen up a link or two, and tackle it. it may crack your complexion, if you start too violent, but taking it by easy runs and greasing the ways 'fore you cut your cable, i believe you'd survive it!" mickey flushed and grinned in embarrassment when people half a block away turned to look at his driver, and the boy's mouth opened as a traffic policeman smiled in sympathy when he waved his club, signalling them to cross. mickey straightened up reassured. "_did you get that?_" he inquired. "i got it!" said the driver. "but it won't ever happen again. mcfinley has been on that crossing for five years and that's his first smile on the job." "then make it your business to see that it ain't his _last!_" advised mickey. "there's no use growing morgue lines on your mug; with all may running wild just to please you and the man in the moon; loosen up, if you have to tickle your liver with a torpedo to start you!" "you brass monkey!" said the driver. "you climb down right here, before i'm arrested for a plain drunk." "don't you think it," called mickey. "if you like your job, man, cotton up to it; chuckle it under the chin, and get real familiar. see? try grin, 'stead of grouch just one day and watch if the whole world doesn't look better before night." "thanks kid, i'll think it over!" promised the driver. mickey hurried home to peaches. he hid the cake and the hospital box under the things he bought for supper and went to her with empty hands. he could see she was tired and hungry, so he gave her a drink of milk, and proceeded to the sponge bath and oil rub. these rested and refreshed her so that mickey demanded closed eyes, while he slipped the dainty night-robe over her head, and tied the pink ribbon on her curls. then he piled the pillows, leaned her against them and brought the mirror. "now open your peepers, flowersy-girl, and tell me how miss o'halloran strikes you!" he exulted. peaches took one long look. she opened her mouth. then she turned to mickey and shut her mouth; shut it and clapped both hands over it; so that he saw the very act of strangling a phrase he would have condemned. "that's a nice lady!" he commented in joy. "now let me tell you! you got four of these gorgeous garments, each one made by a different nurse-lady, while she was resting. every day you get a clean one, and i wash the one you wore last, careful and easy not to tear the lacy places. ain't they the gladdest rags you ever saw!" peaches gasped: "mickey, i'll bust!" "go on and bust then!" conceded mickey. "bust if you must; but don't you dare say no words that ain't for the ladiest of ladies, in that beautiful, softy, white dress." peaches set her lips, stretching her arms widely. she sat straighter than mickey ever had seen her, lifting her head higher. gradually a smile crept over her face. she was seeing a very pinched, white little girl, with a shower of yellow curls bound with a pink ribbon tied in a big bow; wearing a dainty night dress with a fancy yoke run with pink ribbons tied under her chin and at her elbows. she crooked an arm, primped her mouth, and peered at the puffed sleeves, then hastily gulped down whatever she had been tempted to say. again mickey approved. despite protests he removed the mirror, then put the doll in her arms. "now you line up," he said. "now you look alike! after you get your supper, comes the joy part for sure." "more joyous than this?" peaches surveyed herself. "yes, miss! the joyousest thing of all the world that could happen to you," he said. "but mickey-lovest!" she cried in protest. "you know--_you know_--what _that_ would be!" "sure i know!" said mickey. "i don't believe it! it never could!" she cried. "there you go!" said mickey in exasperation. "you make me think of them texas bronchos kicking at everything on earth, in the wild west shows every spring. honest you do!" "mickey, you forgot my po'try piece to-night!" she interposed hastily. "what you want a poetry piece for with such a dress and ribbon as you got?" he demanded. "i like the po'try piece _better_ than the dress or the ribbon," she asserted positively. "you'll be saying better than the baby, next!" "yes, an' better than the baby!" "you look out miss," marvelled mickey. "you got to tell true or you can't be my family." "sure and true!" said peaches emphatically. "well if i ever!" cried mickey. "i didn't think you was _that_ silly!" "'tain't silly!" said peaches. "the po'try pieces is _you!_ 'tain't silly to like _you_ better than a dress, and a ribbon, or a precious child. i want my piece now!" "well i've been so busy to-day, i forgot your piece, said mickey. "'nough things have happened to make me forget my head, if 'twasn't fast. i forgot your piece. i thought you'd like the dress and the joyous thing better." "then you _didn't_ forget it!" cried peaches. "you thought something else, and you thought what ain't! so there! i _want_ my po'try piece!" "well do you want it worse than your supper?" demanded mickey. "yes i do!" said peaches. "well use me for a mop!" cried mickey. "then you'll have to wait 'til i make one." "go on and make it!" ordered the child. "well how do you like this?" "_once a stubborn little kicker, kicked until she made me snicker. if she had wings, she couldn't fly, 'cause she'd be too stubborn to try._" a belligerent look slowly spread over peaches' face. "_that's_ no po'try piece," she scoffed, "an' i don't like it at all, an' i won't write it on my slate; not if i never learn to write anything. mickey-lovest, please make a _nice_ one to save for my book. it's going to have three on ev'ry page, an' a nice piece o' sky like right up there for backs, and mebby--mebby a cow on it!" "sure a cow on it," agreed mickey. "i saw a lot to-day! i'll tell you after supper. gimme a little time to think. i can't do nice ones right off." "you did that one right off," said peaches. "sure!" answered mickey. "i was a little--a little--per_voked!_ and you said that wasn't a _nice_ one." "and so it wasn't!" asserted peaches positively. "if i have a nice one ready when i bring supper, will that do?" questioned mickey. "yes," said peaches. "but i won't eat my supper 'til i have it." "now don't you get too bossy, miss chicken," warned mickey. "there's a surprise in this supper like you never had in all your life. i guess you'd eat it, if you'd see it." "i wouldn't 'til i had my po'try piece." in consideration of the poetry piece mickey desisted. the inference was too flattering. between narrowed lids he looked at lily. "you fool sweet little kid," he muttered. then he prepared supper. when he set it on the table he bent over and taking both hands he said gently: "_flowersy-girl of moonbeam white, golden head of sunshine bright, dancing eyes of sky's own blue, no other flower in the world like you._" "get the slate!" cried peaches. "get the slate! now _that's_ a po'try piece. that's the best one yet. i'm going to put that right under the cow!" "sure!" said mickey. "i think that's the best yet myself. you see, you make them come better every time, 'cause you get so much sweeter every day." "then why did you make the bad one?" she pouted. "well every time you just yell 'i won't,' without ever giving me a chance to tell you _what_ i'm going to do, or why," explained mickey. "if only you'd learn to wait a little, you'd do better. if i was to tell you that carrel man was at the door with a new back for you, if you turn over and let him put it in, i s'pose you'd yell: 'i won't!'" the first tinge of colour mickey had seen, almost invisibly faint, crept to the surface of peaches' white cheek. "just you try it, mickey-lovest!" she exclaimed. "finish your supper, and see what i try." peaches obeyed. she had stopped grabbing and cramming. she ate slowly, masticating each morsel as the nurse told mickey she should. to-night he found her so dainty and charming, as she instinctively tried to be as nice as her dress and supper demanded, that he forgot himself, until she reminded him. then he rallied and ate his share. he presented the cakes, and while they enjoyed them he described every detail of the day he thought would interest her, until she had finished. he told her of the nurse and the dresses and when she wanted to see the others he said: "no sir! you got to wait till you are bathed and dressed each evening, and then you can see yourself, and that will be more fun than taking things all at once. you needn't think i'm coming in here _every_ night with a great big lift-the-roof surprise for you. most nights there won't be anything for you only me, and your supper." "but mickey, them's the nicest nights of all!" said peaches. "i like thinking about you better than nurse-ladies, or joy-ladies, or my back, even; if it wasn't for having supper ready to _help_ you." "there you go again!" exclaimed mickey. "cut that stuff out, kid! you'll get me so broke up, i won't be fit for nothing but poetry, and that's tough eating; there's a lot must come, 'fore i just make a business of it. now miss, you brace up, and get this: the carrel man has been in this very burg. see! our nurse lady at the 'star of hope' has watched him making some one over. every time anybody is brought there with a thing the matter with them, that he knows best how to cure, the big head knifers slip it over to him, so he comes and does it to get practice on the job. he _may_ not come for a long time; he _might_ come to-morrow. see?" "oh mickey! would he?" gasped peaches. "why sure he would!" cried mickey with his most elaborate flourish. "sure he would! that's what he lives for. he'd be tickled to pieces to make over the back of a little girl that can't walk. sure he would! what i ain't sure of is that you wouldn't gig back and say, 'i won't!' if you had a chance to be fixed." peaches spoke with deliberate conviction: "mickey, i'm most _sure_ i've _about_ quit that!" "well, it's time!" said mickey. "what you got to do is to eat, and sleep, and be bathed, and rubbed, and get so big and strong that when i come chasing up the steps and say, 'he's here, lily, clap your arms around my neck and come to the china room and the glass table and be fixed,' you just take a grip and never open your head. see! you can be a game little kid, the gamest i ever saw, you will then, lily, won't you?" "sure!" she promised. "i'll just grab you and i'll say, 'go mickey, go h----!" "wope! wope there lady!" interposed mickey. "look out! there's a subm'rine coming. sink it! sink it!" "mickey what's a subm'rine?" asked peaches. "why it's like this," explained mickey. "there's places where there's water, like i bring to wash you, only miles and miles of it, such a lot, it's called an ocean----" "sure! 'crost it where the kings is makin' people kill theirselves," cried peaches. "yes," agreed mickey. "and on the water, sailing along like a lady, is a big, beautiful ship. then there's a nasty little boat that can creep under the water. it slips up when she doesn't know it's coming, and blows a hole in the fine ship and sinks her all spoiled. but if the nice ship sees the subm'rine coming and sinks it, why then she stays all nice, and isn't spoiled at all. see?" "subm'rines spoil things?" ventured peaches. "they were just _invented_ for that, and nothing else." "mickey, i'll just say, 'hurry! run fast!' mickey, can you carry me that far?" she asked anxiously. "no, i can't carry you that far," admitted mickey. "but mr. douglas bruce, that we work for after this, will let me take his driver and his nice, easy car, and it will beat streetcars a mile, and we'll just go sailing for the 'star of hope' and get your back made over, and then comes school and everything girls like. see?" "mickey, what if he never comes?" wavered peaches. "yes, but he _will!_" said mickey positively. "mickey, what if he should come, an' wouldn't even _look_ at my back?" she pursued. "why, he'd be _glad_ to!" cried mickey. "don't be silly. give the man some chance!" chapter ix _james jr. and malcolm_ nellie minturn returned to her room too dazed to realize her suffering. she had intended doing something; the fringed orchids reminded her. she rang for water to put them in, while her maid with shaking fingers dressed her, then ordered the car. the girl understood that some terrible thing had happened and offered to go with the woman who moved so mechanically she proved she scarcely knew what she was doing. "no," said mrs. minturn. "no, the little soul has been out there a long time alone, her mother had better go alone and see how it is." she entered the car, gave her order and sank back against the seat. when the car stopped, she descended and found the gates guarding the doors of the onyx vault locked. she pushed her flowers between the bars, dropping them before the doors, then wearily sank on the first step, leaning her head against the gate, trying to think, but she could not. near dawn her driver spoke to her. "it's almost morning," he said. "you've barely time to reach home before the city will be stirring." she paid no attention, so at last he touched her. "you, weston?" she asked. "yes, madam," he said. "i'm afraid for you. i ventured to come closer than you said. excuse me." "thank you weston," she answered. "let me drive you home now, madam," he begged. "just where would you take me if you were taking me home, weston?" "where we came from," he replied. "do you think that has ever been a home, weston?" "i have thought it the finest home in multiopolis, madam," said the driver in surprise. she laughed bitterly. "so have i, weston. and to-day i have learned what it really is. help me, weston! take me back to the home of my making." when he rang for her, she gave him an order: "find mr. john haynes and bring him here immediately." "bring him now, madam?" he questioned. "immediately, i said," she repeated. "i will try, madam," said weston. "you will bring him at once if he is in multiopolis," she said with finality. weston knew that john haynes was her lawyer; he had brought him from his residence or office at her order many times; he brought him again. at once john haynes dismissed all the servants in the minturn household, arranged everything necessary, and saw mrs. minturn aboard a train in company with a new maid of his selection; then he mailed a deed of gift of the minturn residence to the city of multiopolis for an endowed children's hospital. the morning papers briefly announced the departure and the gift. at his breakfast table james minturn read both items, then sat in deep thought. "not like her!" was his mental comment. "i can understand how that place would become intolerable to her; but i never knew her to give a dollar to the suffering. now she makes a princely gift, not because she is generous, but because the house has become unbearable; and as usual, with no thought of any one save herself. if the city dares accept, how her millionaire neighbours will rage at disease and sickness being brought into the finest residence district! probably the city will be compelled to sell it and build somewhere else. but there is something fitting in the reparation of turning a building that has been a place of torture to children, into one of healing. it proves that she has a realizing sense." he glanced around the bright, cheerful breakfast room, with its carefully set, flower-decorated table, at his sister at its head, at a son on either hand, at a pleasant-faced young tutor on one side, and his little brother on the other; for so had james minturn ordered his household. mrs. winslow had left a home she loved to come at her brother's urgent call for help to save his boys. the tutor had only a few hours of his position, and thus far his salary seemed the attractive feature. james jr. and malcolm were too dazed to be natural for a short time. they had been picked up bodily, and carried kicking and screaming to this place, where they had been dressed in plain durable clothing. malcolm's bed stood beside little brother's in a big sunny room; james' was near the tutor's in a chamber the counterpart of the other, save for its bookcases lining one wall. there was a schoolroom not yet furnished with more than tables and chairs, its floors and walls bare, its windows having shades only. when worn out with the struggle the amazed boys had succumbed to sleep on little, hard, white beds with plain covers; had awakened to a cold bath at the hands of a man, and when they rebelled and called for lucette and their accustomed clothing, were forcibly dressed in linen and khaki. in a few minutes together before they were called to breakfast, james had confided to malcolm that he thought if they rushed into william's back with all their strength, on the top step, they could roll him downstairs and bang him up good. malcolm had doubts, but he was willing to try. william was alert, because as many another "newsy" he had known these boys in the park; so when the rush came, a movement too quick for untrained eyes to follow swung him around a newel post, while both boys bumping, screaming, rolled to the first landing and rebounded from a wall harder than they. when no one hastened at their screams to pick them up, they arose fighting each other. the tutor passed and james tried to kick him, merely because he could. he was not there either, but he stopped for this advice to the astonished boy: "if i were you i wouldn't do that. this is a free country, and if you have a right to kick me, i have the same right to kick you. i wouldn't like to do it. i'd rather allow mules and vicious horses to do the kicking; still if you're bound to kick, i can; but my foot is so much bigger than yours, and if i forgot and took you for a football, you'd probably have to go to the hospital and lie in a plaster cast a week or so. if i were you, i wouldn't! let's go watch the birds till breakfast is called, instead." the invitation was not accepted. the tutor descended alone. as he stepped to the veranda he met mr. minturn. "well?" that gentleman asked tersely. mr. tower shook his head. he was studying law. he needed money to complete his course. he needed many things he could acquire from james minturn. "it's a problem," he said guardedly. "you draw your salary for its solution," mr. minturn said tartly. "work on the theory i outlined; if it fails after a fair test, we'll try another. those boys have got to be saved. they are handsome little chaps with fine bodies and good ancestry. what happened just now?" "they tried to rush william on the top step. william evaporated, so they took the fall themselves." "exactly right," commented mr. minturn. "get the idea and work on it. every rough, heartless thing they attempt, if at all possible, make it a boomerang to strike them their own blow; but you reserve blows as a last resort. there is the bell." mr. minturn called: "boys! the breakfast bell is ringing. come!" there was not a sound. mr. minturn nodded to the tutor. together they ascended the stairs. they found the boys hidden in a wardrobe. mr. minturn opened the door, gravely looking at them. "boys," he said, "you're going to live with me after this, so you're to come when i call you. you're going to eat the food that makes _men_ of boys, where i can see what you get. you are going to do what i believe best for you, until you are so educated that you are capable of thinking for yourselves. now what you must do, is to come downstairs and take your places at the table. if you don't feel hungry, you needn't eat; but i would advise you to make a good meal. i intend to send you to the country in the car. you'll soon want food. with me you will not be allowed to lunch at any hour, in cafes and restaurants. if you don't eat your breakfast you will get nothing until noon. it is up to you. come on!" neither boy moved. mr. minturn smiled at them. "the sooner you quit this, the sooner all of us will be comfortable," he said casually. "observe my size. see mr. tower, a college athlete, who will teach you ball, football, tennis, swimming in lakes and riding, all the things that make boys manly men; better stop sulking in a closet and show your manhood. with one finger either of us can lift you out and carry you down by force; and we will, but why not be gentlemen and walk down as we do?" both boys looked at him; then at each other, but remained where they were. "time is up!" said mr. minturn. "they've had their chance, mr. tower. if they won't take it, they must suffer the consequences. take malcolm, i'll bring james." instantly both boys began to fight. no one bribed them to stop, struck them, or did anything at all according to precedent. they raged until they exposed a vulnerable point, then each man laid hold, lifted and carefully carried down a boy, placing him on a chair. james instantly slid to the floor. "take james' chair away!" ordered mr. minturn. "he prefers to be served on the floor." malcolm laughed. "i don't either. i slipped," cried james. "then excuse yourself, resume your chair, and be mighty careful you don't slip again." james looked at his father sullenly, but at last muttered, "excuse me," and took the chair. with bright inflamed eyes they stared at their almost unknown father, who now had them in his power; at a woman they scarcely knew, whom they were told to call aunt margaret; at a strange man who was to take lucette's place, and who had a grip that made hers seem feeble, and who was to teach them the things of which they knew nothing, and therefore hated; and at a boy nearer their own size and years, whom their father called william. both boys refused fruit and cereal, rudely demanding cake and ice cream. margaret winslow looked at her brother in despair. he placidly ate his breakfast, remarking that the cook was a treasure. as he left the table mr. minturn laid the papers before his sister, indicating the paragraphs he had read, then calling for his car he took the tutor and the boys and left for his office. he ordered them to return for him at half-past eleven, and with minute instructions as to how they were to proceed, mr. tower and william drove to the country to begin the breaking in of the minturn boys. they disdained ball, did not care for football, improvised golf clubs and a baseball were not interesting, further than the use of the clubs on each other, which was not allowed. they did not care what the flowers were, they jerked them up by the roots when they saw it annoyed mr. tower, while every bird in range flew from a badly aimed stone. they tried chasing a flock of sheep, which chased beautifully for a short distance, then a ram declined to run farther and butted the breath from malcolm's small body until it had to be shaken in again. they ran amuck and on finding they were not pursued, gave up, stopping on the bank of a creek. there they espied tiny shining fish swimming through the water and plunged in to try to capture them. when mr. tower and william came up, both boys were busy chasing fish. from a bank where they sat watching came a proposal from william. "i'll tell you fellows, i believe if we could build a dam we could catch them. gather stones and pile them up till i get my shoes off." instantly both boys obeyed. mr. tower and william stripped their feet, and rolled their trousers. into the creek they went setting stones, packing with sod and muck, using sticks and leaves until in a short time they had a dam before which the water began rising, then overflowing. "now we must wait until it clears," said william. so they sat under a tree to watch until in the clean pool formed they could see little fish gathering. then the boys lay on the banks and tried to catch them with their hands, and succeeded in getting a few. mr. tower suggested they should make pools, one on each side of the creek, for their fish, so they eagerly went to work. they pushed and slapped each other, they fought over the same stone, but each constructed with his own hands a stone and mud enclosed pool in which to pen his fish. they were really interested in what they were doing, they really worked, also soon they were really tired, they were really hungry. with imperative voice they demanded food. "you forget what your father told you at breakfast," said mr. tower. "he knew you were coming to the country where you couldn't get food. william and i are not hungry. we want to catch these little fish, and see who can get the most. we think it's fun. we can't take the car back until your father said to come." "you take us back right now, and order meat, and cake, and salad and ice cream, lots of it!" stormed james. "i have to obey your father!" said mr. tower. "i just hate fathers!" cried james. "i'll wager you do!" conceded mr. tower. james stared open mouthed. "i can see how you feel," said mr. tower companionably. "when a fellow has been coddled by nurses all his life, has no muscle, no appetite except for the things he shouldn't have, and never has done anything but silly park-playing, it must be a great change to be out with men, and doing as they do." both boys were listening, so he went on: "but don't feel badly, and don't waste breath hating. save it for the grand fun we are going to have, and next time good food is before you, eat like men. we don't start back for an hour yet; see which can catch the most fish in that time." "where is lucette?" demanded james. "gone back to her home across the ocean; you'll never see her again," said mr. tower. "wish i could a-busted her head before she went!" said james regretfully. "no doubt," laughed mr. tower. "but break your own and see how it feels before you try it on any one else." "i wish i could break yours!" cried james angrily. "no doubt again," agreed the tutor, "but if you do, the man who takes my place may not know how to make bows and arrows, or build dams, or anything that's fun, while he may not be so patient as i am." "being hungry ain't fun," growled malcolm. "that's your own fault," mr. tower reminded him. "you wouldn't eat. that was a good breakfast." "wasn't a thing lucette gave us!" scoffed james. "but you don't like lucette very well," said mr. tower. "after you've been a man six months, you won't eat cake for breakfast; or much of it at any time." "lucette is never coming back?" marvelled malcolm. "never!" said mr. tower conclusively. "how soon are we going home?" demanded james. "never!" replied mr. tower. "you are going to live where you were last night, after this." "where is mamma?" cried malcolm. "gone for the summer," explained mr. tower. "i know. she always goes," said james. "but she took us before. i just hate it. i like this better. we make no difference to her anyway. let her go!" "ain't we rich boys any more?" inquired malcolm. "i don't know," said mr. tower. "that is your father's business. i think you have as much money as ever, but from now on, you are going to live like men." "we won't live like men!" cried both boys. "now look here," said mr. tower kindly, "you may take my word for it that a big boy almost ten years old, and another nearly his age, who can barely read, who can't throw straight, who can't swim, or row, or walk a mile without puffing like an engine, who begins to sweat over lifting a few stones, is a mighty poor specimen. you think you are wonders because you've heard yourself called big, fine boys; you are soft fatties. i can take you to the park and pick out any number of boys half your size and age who can make either of you yell for mercy in three seconds. you aren't boys at all; if you had to get on your feet and hike back to town, before a mile you'd be lying beside the road bellowing worse than i've heard you yet. you aren't as tough and game as half the girls of your age i know." "you shut your mouth!" cried james in rage. "mother'll fire you!" "it is you who are fired, young man," said the tutor. "your mother is far away by this time. she left you boys with your father, who pays me to make _men_ of you, so i'm going to do it. you are big enough to know that you'll never be men, motoring around with nurses, like small babies; eating cake and ice cream when your bones and muscles are in need of stiffening and toughening. william, peel off your shirt, and show these chaps how a man's muscle should be." william obeyed, swelling his muscles. "now you try that," suggested mr. tower to james, "and see how much muscle you can raise." "i'm no gutter snipe," he sneered. "i'm a gentleman! i don't need muscle. i'm never going to work." "but you've just been working!" cried the tutor. "carrying those stones was work, and you'll remember it took both of you to lift one that william, who is only a little older than you, james, moved with one hand. you can't _play_ without working. you've got to pull to row a boat, or hold a horse. you must step out lively to play tennis, or golf, or to skate, while if you try to swim without work, you'll drown." "i ain't going to do those things!" retorted james. "no, you are going to spend your life riding in an automobile with a nurse, feeding you cake!" scoffed the tutor. william shouted and turned a cart wheel so flashingly quick that both boys jumped, james' face coloured a slow red, so the tutor took hope. "i see that makes you blush," he said. "no wonder! you should be as tough as leather, and spinning along this creek bank like william. instead you are a big, bloated softy. you carry too much fat for your size, while you are mushy as pudding! if i were you, i'd show my father how much of a man i could be, instead of how much of a baby." "father isn't a gentleman!" announced malcolm. "lucette said so!" "hush!" cried mr. tower. "don't you ever say that again! your father is one of the big men of this great city: one of the men who think, plan, and make things happen, that result in health, safety and comfort for all of us. one of the men who is going to rule, not only his own home, but this city, and this whole state, one of these days. you don't _know_ your father. you don't know what men say and think of him. you do know that lucette was fit for nothing but to wash and dress you like babies, big boys who should have been _ashamed_ to let a woman wait on them. you do know that she is on her way back where she came from, because she could not do her work right. and you have the nerve to tell me what she said about a fine man like your father. i'm amazed at you!" "gentlemen don't work!" persisted malcolm. "mother said so!" "i'm sorry to contradict your mother, but she forgot something," said mr. tower. "if the world has any gentlemen it surely should be those born for generations of royal and titled blood, and reared from their cradles in every tradition of their rank. europe is full of them, and many are superb men. i know a few. now will you tell me where they are to-day? they are down in trenches six feet under ground, shivering in mud and water, half dead for sleep, food, and rest, trying to save the land of their birth, the homes they own, to protect the women and children they love. they are marching miles, being shot down in cavalry rushes, and blown up in boats they are manning, in their fight to save their countries. _gentlemen don't work!_ you are too much of an idiot to talk with, if you don't know how gentlemen of birth, rank and by nature are working this very day." the descent on him was precipitate and tumultuous. "the war!" shouted both boys in chorus. "tell us about the war! oh i just love the war!" cried malcolm. "when i'm a man i'm going to have a big shiny sword, and ride, and fight, and make the enemy fly! you ought to seen gretchen and lucette fight! they ain't either one got much hair left." the tutor could not help laughing; but he made room for a boy on either side of him, and began on the war. it was a big subject, there were phases of it that shocked and repulsed him; but it was his task to undo the wrong work of ten years, he was forced to use the instrument that would accomplish that end. with so much material he could tell of things unavoidable, that men of strength and courage were doing, not forgetting the boys and the _women_. william stretched at his feet and occasionally made a suggestion, or asked a question, while james and malcolm were interested in something at last. when it was time to return, neither wanted to go. "your father's orders were to come for him at half-past eleven," reminded mr. tower. "i work for him, so i must obey!" "nobody pays any attention to father," cried james. "i order you to stay here and tell of the fighting. tell about the french boy who wouldn't show where the troops were." "oh, i am to take orders from you, am i?" queried mr. tower. "all right! pay my salary and give me the money to buy our lunch!" james stood thinking a second. "i have all the money i want," he said. "i go to mrs. ranger for my money. mother always makes her give me what i ask for." "you have forgotten that you have moved, and brought only yourselves," said mr. tower. "your mother and the money are gone. your father pays the bills now, and if you'll watch sharp, you'll see that things have changed since this time yesterday. every one pays all the attention there is to _father_ now. what we have, and do, and want, must come from him, and as it's a big contract, and he's needed to help manage this city, we'd better begin thinking about father, and taking care of him as much as we can. now we are to obey him. come on william. it's lunch time, and i'm hungry." the boys climbed into the car without a word, and before it had gone a mile malcolm slipped against the tutor and shortly thereafter james slid to the floor, tired to insensibility and sound asleep. so mr. minturn found them when he came from his office. he looked them over carefully, wet, mud-stained, grimy, bruised and sleeping in exhaustion. "poor little soldiers," he said. "your battle has been a hard one i see. i hope to god you gained a victory." he entered the car, picked up james and taking him in his arms laid the tired head on his breast, leaning his face against the boy's hair. when the car stopped at the new house, the tutor waited for instructions. "wake them up, make them wash themselves, and come to lunch," said mr. minturn. "afterward, if they are sleepy, let them nap. they must establish regular habits at the beginning. it's the only way." dashes of cold water helped, so william and the tutor telling each other how hungry they were, brought two boys ready to eat anything, to the table. cake and cream were not mentioned. bread and milk, cold meat, salad, and a plain pudding were delicious. between bites james studied his father, then suddenly burst forth: "are you a gentleman?" "i try to be," answered mr. minturn. "are you running this city?" put in malcolm. "i am doing what i can to help," said his father. "make johnston take me home to get my money." "you have no home but this," said mr. minturn. "your old home now belongs to the city of multiopolis. it is to be torn up and made over into a place where sick children can be cured. if you are ever too ill for us to manage, we'll take you there to be doctored." "will mother and lucette be there?" asked james. malcolm nudged his brother. "can't you remember?" he said. "lucette has gone across the ocean, and she is never coming back, goody! goody! and you know about how much mother cares when we are sick. she's _coming_ the other _way_, when anybody is _sick_. she just hates sick people. let _them_ go, and get your _money!_" thus reminded, james began again, "i want to get my money." "your money came from your mother, so it went with your home, your clothes, and your playthings," explained mr. minturn. "you have none until you _earn_ some. i can give you a home, education, and a fine position when you are old enough to hold it; but i _can't give you money. no one ever gave me any. i always had to work for mine. from now on you are going to live with me, so if you have money you'll have to go to work and earn it_." both boys looked aghast at him. "ain't we rich any more?" "no," said mr. minturn. "merely comfortable!" james leaned back in his chair, twisting his body in its smooth linen covering. he looked intently at the room, table and people surrounding it. he glanced from the window at the wide green lawn, the big trees, and for an instant seemed to be listening to the birds singing there. he laid down his fork, turning to his brother. then he exploded the bomb that shattered the family. "oh damn being rich!" he cried. "i like being _comfortable_ a _lot_ better! malcolm, being rich has put us about ten miles behind where we ought to be. we're baby-girl softies! we wouldn't a-faced the guns and _not_ told where the soldiers were, _we'd_ a-bellered for cake. brace up! let's get in the game! father, have we got to go on the street and hunt work, or can you give us a job?" james minturn tried to speak, then pushing back his chair left the table precipitately. james jr. looked after him doubtfully. he turned to aunt margaret. "please excuse me," he said. "i guess he's choked. i'd better go pound him on the back like lucette does us." malcolm looked at aunt margaret. "mother won't let us work," he announced. "it's like this malcolm," said aunt margaret gently. "mother had charge of you for ten years. the women she employed didn't train you as boys should be, so mother has turned you over to father. for the next ten years you will try _another_ plan; after that, you will be big enough to decide how you want to live; but now i think you will just love father's way, if you will behave yourself long enough to find out what fun it is." "mother won't like it," said malcolm positively. "i think she does dear, or she wouldn't have gone and left you to try it," said aunt margaret. "she knew what your father would think you should do; if she hadn't thought he was _right_ she would have taken you with her, as before." "i just hate being taken on trains and boats with her. so does james! we like the dam, the fish, and we're going to have bows and arrows, to shoot at mark. "and we are going to swim and row," added william. "and we are going to be soldiers, and hurl back the enemy," boasted malcolm, "ain't we mr. tower?" "indian scouts are more fun," suggested the tutor. "and there is the money we must earn, if we've _got_ to," said malcolm. "i guess father is telling james how. i'll go ask him too. excuse me, aunt margaret!" "of all the surprises i ever did have, this is the biggest one!" said aunt margaret. "i was afraid i never could like them. i thought this morning it would take years." "there is nothing like the receptivity and plasticity of children," said the tutor. later james minturn appeared on his veranda with a small boy clinging to each hand. the trio came forth with red eyes, but firmly allied. "call the car, if you please, william," said senior. "i am going to help build that dam higher, and see how many fish i can catch for my pool." malcolm walked beside him, rubbing his head caressingly across an arm. "we don't have to go on the streets and hunt," he announced. "father is going to find us work. while the war is so bad, we'll drink milk, and send what we earn to boys who have no father. the war won't take our father, will it?" "to-night we will pray god not to let that happen," said aunt margaret. "is there room in the car for me too, james? i haven't seen one of those little brook fish in years!" james jr. went to her and leaned against her chair. "i got three in my pool. you may see mine! i'll give you one." "i'd love to see them," said aunt margaret. "i'll go bring my hat. but i think you shouldn't give the fish away, james. they belong to god. he made their home in the water. if you take them out, you will kill them, and he won't like that. let's just look at them, and leave them in the water." "malcolm, the fish 'belong to god,'" said james, turning to his brother. "we may play with them, but we mustn't take them out of the water and hurt them." "well, who's going to take them out of the water?" cried malcolm. "i'm just going to scoot one over into father's pool to start him. will you give him one too?" "yes," said james jr. "the next money i earn, i shall send to the war; but the first time i rake the lawn, and clean the rugs, i'll give what i earn to father, so he will have more time to play with us. father is the biggest man in this city!" "it may take a few days to get a new régime started," said father, "i've lived only for work so long; but as soon as it's possible, my day will be so arranged that some part of it shall be yours, boys, to show me what you are doing. i think one day can be given wholly to going to the country." with an ecstatic whoop they rushed james minturn, whose wide aching arms opened to them. chapter x _the wheel of life_ "what are your plans for this summer, leslie?" asked mr. winton over his paper at breakfast. "the real question is, what are yours?" "i have none," said mr. winton. "i can't see my way to making any for myself. between us, strictly, swain has been hard hit. he gave me my chance in life. it isn't in my skin to pack up and leave for the sea-shore or the mountains on the results of what he helped me to, and allow him to put up his fight _alone_. if you understood, you'd be ashamed of me if i did, leslie." "but i do understand, daddy!" cried the girl. "what makes you think i don't? all my life you've been telling me how you love mr. swain and what a splendid big thing he did for you when you were young. is the war making business awfully hard for you men?" "close my girl," said mr. winton. "bed rock close!" "that is what cramps mr. swain?" she continued. "it is what cramps all of us," said mr. winton. "it hit him with peculiar force because he had made bad investments. he was running light anyway in an effort to recoup. all of us are on a tension brought about by the result of political changes, to which we were struggling to adjust ourselves, when the war began working greater hardships and entailing millions of loss and expenses." "i see, and that's why i said the real question was, 'what are your plans?'" explained leslie, "because when i find out, if perchance they should involve staying on the job this summer, why i wanted to tell you that i'm on the job too. i've thought out the grandest scheme." "yes, leslie? tell me!" said mr. winton. "it's like this," said leslie. "everybody is economizing, shamelessly--and that's a bully word, daddy, for in most instances it is shameless. open faced 'lord save me and my wife, and my son john and his wife.' in our women's clubs and lectures, magazines and sermons, we've had a steady dose all winter of hard times, and economy, and i've tried to make my friends see that their efforts at economy are responsible for the very hardest crux of the hard times." "you mean, leslie--?" suggested mr. winton eagerly. "i mean all of us quit using eggs, dealers become frightened, eggs soar higher. economize on meat, packers buy less, meat goes up. all of us discharge our help, army of unemployed swells by millions. it works two ways and every friend i've got is economizing for herself, and with every stroke for herself she is weakening her nation's financial position and putting a bigger burden on the man she is trying to help." "well leslie--" cried her father. "the time has come for women to find out what it is all about, then put their shoulders to the wheel of life and push. but before we gain enough force to start with any momentum, women must get together and decide what they want, what they are pushing for." "have you decided what you are pushing for?" "unalterably!" cried the girl. "and what is it?" asked her father. "my happiness! my joy in life!" she exclaimed. "and exactly in what do you feel your happiness consists, leslie?" he asked. "you and douglas! my home and my men and what they imply!" she answered instantly. "as i figure it, it's _homes_ that count, daddy. if the nation prospers, the birth rate of americans has got to keep up, or soon the immigrants will be in control everywhere, as they are in places, right now. births imply homes. homes suggest men to support them, women to control them. if the present unrest resolves itself into a personal question, so far as the women are concerned at least, if you are going to get to primal things, whether she realizes it or no, what each woman really _wants_ she learns, as nellie minturn learned when she took her naked soul into the swamp and showed it to her god--what each woman _wants_ is her man, her cave, and her baby. if the world is to prosper, _that_ is woman's work, why don't you men who are doing big things _realize_ it, and do yourselves what women are going to be forced from home to _do_, mighty soon now, if you don't!" "well leslie!" cried mr. winton. "you said that before daddy!" exclaimed the girl. "yet what you truly want of a woman is a home and children. children imply to all men what i am to you. if some men have not reared their children so that they receive from them what you get from me, it is time for the men to _realize_ this, and change their methods of _rearing_ their daughters and sons. a home should mean to every man what your home does to you. if all men do not get from their homes what you do, in most cases it is _their own fault_. of course i know there are women so abominably obsessed with self, they refuse to become mothers, and prefer a café, with tangoing between courses, to a home; such women should have first the ducking stool, and if that isn't efficacious, extermination; they are a disgrace to our civilization and the weakest spot we have. they are at the bottom of the present boiling discontent of women who really want to be home loving, home keeping. they are directly responsible for the fathers, sons, brothers, and lovers with two standards of morals. a man reared in the right kind of a home, by a real mother, who goes into other homes of the same kind, ruled by similar mothers, when he leaves his, and marries the right girl and establishes for himself a real home, is not going to go _wrong_. it is the sons, lovers, and husbands of the women who refuse home and children, and carry their men into a perpetual round of what they deem pleasure in their youth, who find life desolate when age begins to come, and who instantly rebel strongest against the very conditions they have made. i've been listening to you all my life, daddy, and remembering mother, reading, thinking, and watching for what really pays, and believe me, _i've found out_. i gave nellie minturn the best in my heart the other day, but you should see what i got back. horrors, daddy! just plain horrors! i said to douglas that night when i read him the letter i afterward showed you, that if, as she suggested, i was 'ever faintly tempted to neglect home life for society,' in her i would have all the 'horrible example' i'd ever need, and rest assured i shall." "poor woman!" exclaimed mr. winton. "exactly!" cried leslie. "and the poorest thing about it is that _she_ is not to _blame_ in the least. you and my mother could have made the same kind of a woman of me. if you had fed me cake instead of bread; if you had given me candy instead of fruit; if you had taken me to the show instead of entertaining me at home; if you had sent me to summer resorts instead of summering with me in the country, you'd have had another nellie on your hands. the world is full of nellies, but where one woman flees too strict and monotonous a home, to make a nellie out of herself, ten are taken out and deliberately moulded, drilled and fashioned into nellies by their own parents. i have lain awake at nights figuring this, daddy; some woman is urging me every day to join different movements, and i've been forced to study this out. i know the cause of the present unrest among women." "and it is--?" suggested mr. winton. "it is the rebound from the pioneer lives of our grandmothers! they and their mothers were at one extreme; we are at the widest sweep of the other. they were forced to enter the forest and in most cases defend themselves from savages and animals; to work without tools, to live with few comforts. in their determination to save their children from hardships, they lost sense, ballast and reason. they have saved them to such an extent they have _lost_ them. by the very method of their rearing, they have robbed their children of love for, and interest in, home life, and with their own hands sent them to cafés and dance halls, when they should be at their homes training their children for the fashioning of future homes. i tell you, daddy----" "leslie, tell me this," interposed mr. winton. "did you get any small part of what you have been saying to me, from me? do you feel what i have tried to teach you, and the manner in which i have tried to rear you, have put your love for me into your heart and such ideas as you are propounding into your head?" "of course, daddy!" cried the girl. "who else? mother was dear and wonderful, but i scarcely remember her. what you put into the growth of me, that is what is bound to come out, when i begin to live independently." "this is the best moment of my life!" said mr. winton. "from your birth you have been the better part of me, to me; and with all my heart i have _tried_ to fashion you into such a woman for a future home, as your mother began, and you have completed for me. other things have failed me; i count you my success, leslie!" "oh daddy!" cried the happy girl. "now go back to our start," said mr. winton. "you have plans for the summer, of course! i realized that at the beginning. are you ready to tell me?" "i am ready to ask you," she said. "thank you," said mr. winton. "i appreciate the difference. surely a man does enjoy counting for something with his women." "spoiled shamelessly, dearest, that's what you are," said leslie. "a spoiled, pampered father! but to conclude. mr. swain helped you. pay back, daddy, no matter what the cost; pay _back_. you help _him_, i'll help _you!_ my idea was this: for weeks i've foreseen that you wouldn't like to leave business this summer. douglas is delving into that investigation mr. minturn started him on and he couldn't be dragged away. he's perfectly possessed. of course where my men are, like ruth, 'there will be i also,' so for days i've been working on a plan, and now it's all finished and waiting your veto or approval." "thrilling, leslie! tell quickly. i'm all agog!" "it's this: let's not go away and spend big sums on travel, dress, and close the house, and throw our people out of work. do you realize, daddy, how long you've had the same housekeeper, cook, maid and driver? do you know how badly i'd feel to let them go, and risk getting them back in the fall? my scheme is to rent, for practically nothing, a log cabin i know, a little over an hour's run from here--a log cabin with four rooms and a lean-to and a log stable, beside a lake where there is grand fishing and swimming." "but leslie----" protested mr. winton. "now listen!" cried the girl. "the rent is nominal. we get the house, stable, orchard, garden, a few acres and a rented cow. the cabin has two tiny rooms above, one for you, the other for douglas. below, it has a room for me, a dining-room and a kitchen. the big log barn close beside has space in the hay-mow for the women, and in one side below for our driver, the other for the cars. over the cabin is a grapevine. around it there are fruit trees. there is a large, rich garden. if i had your permission i could begin putting in vegetables tomorrow that would make our summer supply. rogers----" "you are not going to tell me rogers would touch a garden?" queried mr. winton. "i am going to tell you that rogers has been with me in every step of my investigations," replied leslie. "yesterday i called in my household and gave them a lecture on the present crisis; i found them a remarkably well-informed audience. they had a very distinct idea that if i economized by dismissing them for the summer, and leaving the house with a caretaker, what it would mean to _them_. then i took my helpers into the car and drove out the atwater road--you know it well daddy, the road that runs smooth over miles of country and then instead of jumping into a lake as it seems to be going to, it swings into corduroy through a marsh, runs up on a little bridge spanning the channel between two lakes, lifts to atwater lake shore, than which none is more lovely--you remember the white sand floor and the clean water for swimming--climbs another hill, and opposite beautiful wood, there stands the log cabin i told you of, there i took them and explained. they could clean up in a day; rogers could plant the garden and take enough on one truck load, for a beginning. we may have wood for the fireplace by gathering it from the forest floor. rogers again!" "are you quite _sure_ about rogers?" "suppose you ride with him going down and ask him yourself," suggested leslie. "rogers is anxious to hold his place. you see it's like this: all of them get regular wages, have a chance at the swimming, rowing, gardening and the country. the saving comes in on living expenses. out there we have the cow, flour, fish, and poultry from the neighbours, fresh eggs, butter and the garden--i can cut expenses to one-fourth; lights altogether. moonshine and candles will serve; cooking fuel, gasoline. daddy will you go to-night and see?" "no, i won't go to-night and see, i'll go swim and fish," said mr. winton. "great heavens, leslie, do you really mean to live all _summer_ beside a lake, where a man can expand, absorb and exercise? i must get out my fishing tackle. i wonder what douglas has! i've tried that lake when bass were slashing around wild thorn and crab trees shedding petals and bugs. it is man's sport there! i like black bass fishing. i remember that water. fine for swimming! not the exhilaration of salt, perhaps, but grand, clean, old northern indiana water, cooled by springs. i love it! lord, leslie! why don't we _own_ that place? why haven't we homed there, and been comfortable for years?" "i shall go ahead then?" queried leslie. "you shall go a-hurry, miss, hurry!" cried mr. winton. "i'll give you just two days. one to clean, the other to move; to-morrow night send for me. i want a swim; and cornbread, milk, and three rashers of bacon for my dinner and nothing else; and can't the maids have my room and let me have a blanket on the hay?" "but father, the garden!" cautioned leslie. "oh drat the garden!" cried mr. winton. "but if you go dratting things, i can't economize," the girl reminded him. "rogers and i have that garden down on paper, and it's _late_ now." "leslie, don't the golf links lie half a mile from there?" "closer daddy," said the girl, "right around the corner." "i don't see why you didn't think of it before," he said. "have you told douglas?" "not a word!" exclaimed leslie. "i'm going to invite him out when everything is in fine order." "don't make things fine," said mr. winton. "let's have them rough!" "they will be rough enough to suit you, daddy," laughed leslie, "but a few things have got to be done." "then hurry, but don't forget the snake question." "people are and have been living there for generations; common care is all that is required," said leslie. "i'll be careful, but if you tell bruce until i am ready, i'll never forgive you." mr. winton arose. "'come to me arms,'" he laughed, spreading them wide. "i wonder if douglas bruce knows what a treasure he is going to possess!" "certainly not!" said leslie emphatically. "i wouldn't have him know for the world! i am going to be his progressive housekeeping party, to which he is invited every day, after we are married, and each day he has got a new surprise coming, that i hope he will like. the woman who endures and wears well in matrimony is the one who 'keeps something to herself.' it's my opinion that modern marriage would be more satisfactory if the engaged parties would not come so nearly being married, for so long before they are. there is so little left for afterward, in most cases, that it soon grows monotonous." "leslie, where did you get all of this?" he asked. "i told you. from you, mostly," explained the girl, "and from watching my friends. go on daddy! and send rogers back soon! i want to begin buying radish seed and onion sets." so leslie telephoned douglas bruce that she would be very busy with housekeeping affairs the coming two days. she made a list of what would be required for that day, left the maids to collect it, and went to buy seeds and a few tools; then returning she divided her forces and leaving part to pack the bedding, old dishes and things absolutely required for living, she took the loaded car and drove to atwater lake. the owner of the land, a cultured, refined gentleman, who spoke the same brand of english used by the wintons, and evinced a knowledge of the same books, was genuinely interested in leslie and her plans. it was a land owner's busiest season, but he spared a man an hour with a plow to turn up the garden, and came down himself and with practiced hand swung the scythe, and made sure about the snakes. soon the maids had the cabin walls swept, the floors scrubbed, the windows washed, and that was all that could be done. the seeds were earth enfolded in warm black beds, with flower seeds tucked in for borders. the cut grass was raked back, and spread to dry for the rented cow. when nothing further was to be accomplished there, they returned to multiopolis to hasten preparations for the coming day. it was all so good leslie stopped at her father's office and poured a flood of cloverbloom, bird notes and water shimmer into his willing ears. she seldom went to douglas bruce's offices, but she ran up a few moments to try in person to ease what she felt would be disappointment in not spending the evening with her. the day would be full far into the night with affairs at home, he would notice the closing of the house, and she could not risk him spoiling her plans by finding out what they were, before she was ready. she found him surrounded with huge ledgers, delving and already fretting for mickey. she stood laughing in his doorway, half piqued to find him so absorbed in his work, and so full of the boy he was missing, that he seemed to take her news that she was too busy to see him that night with quite too bearable calmness; but his earnestness about coming the following night worked his pardon, so leslie left laughing to herself over the surprise in store for him. bruce bent over his work, praying for mickey. everything went wrong without him. he was enough irritated by the boy who was not mickey, that when the boy who was mickey came to his door, he was delighted to see him. he wanted to say: "hello, little friend. come get in the game, quickly!" but two considerations withheld him: mickey's manners were a trifle too casual; at times they irritated douglas, and if he took the boy into his life as he hoped to, he would come into constant contact with leslie and her friends, who were cultured people of homing instincts. mickey's manners must be polished, and the way to do it was not to drop to his level, but to improve mickey. and again, the day before, he had told mickey to sit down and wait until an order was given him. to invite him to "get in the game" now, was good alliteration; it pleased the formal scotch ear as did many another united states phrase of the street, so musical, concise and packed with meaning as to become almost classic; but in his heart he meant as mickey had suspected, "to do him good"; so he must lay his foundations with care. what he said was a cordial and cheerful, "good morning!" "noon," corrected mickey. "right ye are! good it is! what's my job? 'scuse me! i won't ask that again!" "plenty," douglas admitted, "but first, any luck with the paper route?" "all over but killing the boy i sold it to, if he doesn't do right. i ain't perfectly crazy about him. he's a papa's boy and pretty soft; but maybe he'll learn. it was a fine chance for me, so i soaked it." "to whom did you sell, mickey?" asked douglas. "to your driver, for his boy," answered mickey. "we talked it over last night. say, was your driver 'the same continued,' or did you detect glimmerings of beefsteak and blood in him this morning?" "why?" asked douglas curiously. "oh he's such a stiff," explained mickey. "he looks about as lively as a salted herring." "and did you make an effort to enliven him, mickey?" "sure!" cried mickey. "the operation was highly successful! the patient made a fine recovery. right on the job, right on the street, right at the thickest traffic corner, right at 'dead man's crossing,' he let out a whoop that split the features of a copper who hadn't smiled in years. it was a double play and it worked fine. what i want to know is whether it was fleeting or holds over." "it must be 'over,' mickey," said douglas. "since you mention it, he opened the door with the information that it was a fine morning, while i recall that there was colour on his face, and light in his usually dull eyes." "good!" cried mickey. "then there's some hope that his kid may go and do likewise." "the boy who takes your route has to smile, mickey?" "well you see most of my morning customers are regulars, so they are used to it," said mickey. "the minute one goes into his paper, he's lost 'til knocking off time; but if he starts on a real-wide-a-wake-soulful smile, he's a chance of reproducing it, before the day is over, leastwise he has _more_ chance than if he never smiles." "so it is a part of the contract that the boy smiles at his work?" questioned douglas. "_it is so!_" exclaimed mickey. "i asked mr. chaffner at the _herald_ office what was a fair price for my route. you see i've sold the _herald_ from the word go, and we're pretty thick. so he told me what he thought. it lifted my lid, but when i communicated it to henry, casual like, he never batted an eye, so i am going to try his boy 'til i'm satisfied. if he can swing the job it's a go." "your customers should give you a vote of thanks!" "and so they will!" cried mickey. "you see the men who buy of me are the top crust of multiopolis, the big fine men who can smile, and open their heads and say a pleasant word, and they like to. it does them good! i live on it! i always get my papers close home as i can so i have time coming down on the cars to take a peep myself, and nearly always there are at least three things on the first page that hit you in the eye. once long ago i was in the _herald_ office with a note to chaffner the big chief, and i gave him a little word jostle as i passed it over. he looked at me and laughed good natured like, so i handed him this: 'are you the big stiff that bosses the make-up?' he says, 'mostly! i can control it if i want to.' 'all right for you,' i said. 'i live by selling your papers, but i could sell a heap more if i had a better chance.' 'chance in what way?' said he. 'building your first page,' said i. he said, 'sure. what is it that you want?' 'i'll show you,' said i. 'i'll give you the call i used this morning.' then i cut loose and just like on the street i cried it, and he yelled some himself. 'what more do you want?' he asked me. 'a lot,' i said. 'you see i only got a little time on the cars before my men begin to get on, and my time is precious. i can't read second, third, and forty-eleventh pages hunting up eye-openers. i must get them _first_ page, 'cause i'm short time, and got my pack to hang on to. now makin'-up, if you'd a-put that "germans driven from the last foot of belgian soil," first, it would a-been better, 'cause that's what every living soul wants. then the biggest thing about _ourselves_. place it prominent in big black letters, where i get it quick and easy, and then put me in a scream. get me a laugh in my call, and i'll sell you out all by myself. folks are spending millions per annum for the glad scream at night, they'll pay just the same morning, give them a chance. i live on a laugh,' said i, to chaffner. he looked me over and he said: 'when you get too big for the papers, you come to me and i'll make a top-notch reporter out of you.' 'thanks boss,' said i, 'you couldn't graft that job on to me, with asphaltum and a buzz saw. i'm going to be on your front page 'fore you know it, but it's going to be a poetry piece that will raise your hair; i ain't going to frost my cake, poking into folks' private business, telling shameful things on them that half kills them. lots of times i see them getting their dose on the cars, and they just shiver, and go white, and shake. nix on the printing about shame, and sin, and trouble in the papers for me!' i said, and he just laughed and looked at me closer and he said, 'all right! bring your poetry yourself, and if they don't let you in, give them this,' and he wrote a line i got at home yet." "is that all about chaffner?" asked douglas. "oh no!" said mickey. "he said, 'well here is a batch of items being written up for first page to-morrow. according to you, i should give "belgian citizens flocking back to search for devastated homes," the first place?' 'that's got the first place in the heart of every man in god's world. giving it first place is putting it where it belongs.' 'here's the rest of it,' said he, 'what do you want next?' 'at the same glance i always take, _this_,' said i, pointing to where it said, 'movement on foot to eliminate graft from city offices.' 'you think that comes next?' said he. 'sure!' said i. 'hits the pocketbook! sure! heart first! money next!' 'are you so sure it isn't exactly the reverse?' asked he. 'know it!' said i. 'watch the crowds any day, and every clip you'll see that loving a man's country, and his home, and his kids, and getting fair play, comes _before_ money.' 'yes, i guess it does!' he said thoughtful like, 'least it _should_. we'll make it the policy of this paper to put it that way anyhow. what next?' 'now your laugh,' said i. 'and while you are at it, make it a scream!' 'all right,' he said, 'i haven't anything funny in yet, but i'll get it. now show me where you want these spaced.' so i showed him, and every single time you look, you'll see mr. _herald_ is made up that way, and you ought to hear me trolling out that belgian line, soft and easy, snapping in the graft quicklike, and then yelling out the scream. you bet it catches them! if i can't get that kid on to his job, 'spect i'll have to take it back myself; least if he can't get on, he's doomed to get off. i gave him a three days' try, and if he doesn't catch by that time, he never will." "but how are you going to know?" asked douglas. "i'm going down early and follow him and drill him like a dutch recruit, and he'll wake up my men, and interest them and fetch the laugh or he'll stop!" "you think you got a fair price?" asked douglas. "know it! all it's worth, and it looks like a margin to me," said mickey. "that's all right then, and thank you for telling me about the papers," said douglas. "i enjoyed it immensely. i see you are a keen student of human nature." "'bout all the studying i get a chance at," said mickey. "you'll have opportunity at other things now," said douglas. "since you mention it, i see your point about the papers, and if that works on business men going to business, it should work on a _jury_. i think i've had it in mind, that i was to be a compendium of information and impress on a judge or jury what i know, and why what i say is _right_. you give me the idea that a better way would be to impress on them what _they_ know. put it like this: first soften their hearts, next touch their pockets, then make them laugh; is that the idea?" "duck again! you're doing fine! i ain't made my living selling men papers for this long not to know the big boys _some_, and more. each man is different, but you can cod him, or bluff him, or scare him, or let down the floodgates; some way you can put it over if you take each one separate, and hit him where he lives. see? finding his dwelling place is the trouble." "mickey, i do see," cried douglas. "what you tell me will be invaluable to me. you know i am from another land so i have personal ways of thinking and the men i'm accustomed to are different. what i have been centring on is myself, and what i can do." "won't work here! what you got to get a bead on here is the _other fellow_, and how to _do_ him. see?" "take these books and fly," said douglas. "i've spent one of the most profitable hours of my life, but concretely it is an hour, and we're going to the country club to-night and may stay as long as we choose and we're going to have a grand time. you like going to the country, don't you?" "ain't words for telling," said mickey, gathering his armload of books and racing down the hall. when the day's work was finished, with a load of books to deliver before an office closed, they started on the run to the club house. bruce waited in the car while mickey sped in with the books, and returning, to save opening the door and crossing before the man he was fast beginning to idolize, mickey took one of his swift cuts across the back end of the car. while his hand was outstretched and his foot uplifted to enter, from a high-piled passing truck toppled a box, not a big box, but large enough to knock mickey senseless and breathless when it struck him between the shoulders. douglas had mickey in the car with orders for the nearest hospital, toward which they were hurrying, when the boy opened his eyes and sat up. he looked inquiringly at douglas, across whose knees he had found himself. "wha--what happened?" he questioned with his first good indrawing of recovered breath. "a box fell from a truck loaded past reason and almost knocked the life out of you!" cried douglas. "'knocked the life out of me?'" repeated mickey. "you've been senseless for three blocks, mickey." a slow horror spread over mickey's face. "wha--what was you going to do?" he wavered. "running for a hospital," said douglas. "s'pose my head had been busted, and i'd been stretched on the glass table and maybe laid up for days or knocked out altogether?" demanded mickey. "you'd have had the best surgeon in multiopolis, and every care, mickey," assured douglas. "ugh!" mickey collapsed utterly. "must be hurt worse than i thought," was douglas' mental comment. "he couldn't be a coward!" but mickey almost proved that very thing by regaining his senses again, and immediately falling into spasms of long-drawn, shuddering sobbing. douglas held him carefully, every moment becoming firmer in his conviction of one of two things: either he was hurt worse or he was----he would not let himself think it; but never did boy appear to less advantage. douglas urged the driver to speed. mickey heard and understood. "never mind," he sobbed. "i'm all right mr. bruce; i ain't hurt. not much! i'll be all right in a minute!" "if you're not hurt, what _is_ the matter with you?" "a minute!" gasped mickey, as another spasm of sobbing caught him. "i am amazed!" cried douglas. "a little jolt like that! you are acting like a coward, mickey!" the word straightened mickey. "coward! who? me!" he cried. "me that's made my way since i can remember? coward, did you say?" "of course not, mickey!" cried douglas. "excuse me. i shouldn't have said that. but it is unlike you. what the devil _is_ the matter with you?" "i helped carry in a busted head and saw the glass table once," he cried. "inch more and it would a-been my head--and i might have been knocked out for days. o lord! what will i _do?_" "mickey you're not afraid?" asked douglas. "'fraid? me? 'bout as good as coward!" "what is the matter with you?" demanded douglas. mickey stared at him amazedly. "o lord!" he panted. "you don't s'pose i was thinking about _myself_, do you?" "i don't know what to think!" exclaimed douglas. "sure! how could you?" conceded mickey. he choked back another big dry sob. "gimme a minute to think!" he said. "o god! what have i been doing? i see now what i'm up against!" "mickey," said douglas bruce, suddenly filled with compassion, "i am beginning to understand. won't you tell me?" "i guess i got to," panted mickey. "but i'm afraid! o lord, i'm so afraid!" "afraid of me, mickey?" asked douglas gently now. "yes, afraid of you," said mickey, "and afraid of her. afraid of her, more than you." "you mean miss winton?" pursued douglas. "yes, i mean miss winton," replied mickey. "i guess i don't risk her, or you either. i guess i go to the nurse lady. she's used to folks in trouble. she's trained to know what to do. why sure! that's the thing!" "your back hurts, mickey?" questioned douglas. "my back hurts? aw forget my back!" cried mickey roughly. "i ain't hurt, honest i ain't." douglas took a long penetrating look at the small shaking figure, then he said softly: "i wish you wanted to confide in me, mickey! i can't tell you how glad i'd be if you'd trust me; but if you have some one else you like better, where is it you want to be driven?" "_course_ there ain't any one i _like_ better than you, 'cept----" he caught a name on the tip of his tongue and paused. "you see it's like this: i've been to this nurse lady before, and i know exactly what she'll say and think. if you don't think like i do, and if you go and take----" "gracious heaven mickey, you don't think i'd try to take anything you wanted, do you?" demanded douglas. "i don't know _what_ you'd do," said mickey. "i only know what one swell dame i struck wanted to do." "mickey," said douglas, "when i don't know what you are thinking about, i can't be of much help; but i'd give considerable if you felt that you had come to trust me." "trust you? sure i trust you, about myself. but this is----" cried mickey. "this is about some one else?" asked douglas casually. mickey leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his head bent with intense thinking. "much as you are doing for me," he muttered, "if you really care, if it makes a difference to you--of course i can _trust_ you, if you _don't_ think as i do!" "you surely can!" cried douglas bruce. "now mickey, both of us are too shaken to care for the country; take me home with you and let's have supper together and become acquainted. we can't know each other on my ground alone. i must meet you on yours, and prove that i'm really your friend. let's go where you live and have supper." "go where i live? you?" cried mickey. "yes! you come from where you live fresh and clean each day, so can i. take me home with you. i want to go dreadfully, mickey. please?" "well, i ain't such a cad i'm afraid for you to see how i live," he said. "though you wouldn't want to come more than once; that ain't what i was thinking about." "think all you like, mickey," said douglas. "henry, drive to the end of the car line where you've gone before." on the way he stopped at a grocery, then a café, and at each place piles of tempting packages were placed in the car. mickey's brain was working fast. one big fact was beginning to lift above all the others. his treasure was slipping from him, and for her safety it had to be so. if he had been struck on the head, forced to undergo an operation, and had lain insensible for hours--mickey could go no further with that thought. he had to stop and proceed with the other part of his problem. of course she was better off with him than where she had been; no sane person could dispute that; she was happy and looking improved each day but--could she be made happier and cared for still better by some one else, and cured without the long wait for him to earn the money? if she could, what would be the right name for him, if he kept her on what he could do? so they came at last as near as the car could go to mickey's home in sunrise alley. at the foot of the last flight mickey paused, package laden. "now i'll have to ask you to wait a minute," he said. he ascended, unlocked the door and stepped inside. peaches' eyes gleamed with interest at the packages, but she waved him back. as mickey closed the door she cried: "my po'try piece! say it, mickey!" "you'll have to wait again," said mickey. "i got hit in the back with a box and it knocked the poetry out of me. you'll have to wait 'til after supper to-night, and then i'll fix the grandest one yet. will that do?" "yes, if the box hit hard, mickey," conceded peaches. "it hit so blame hard, miss chicken, that it knocked me down and knocked me out, and mr. bruce picked me up and carried me three blocks in his car before i got my wind or knew what ailed me." peaches' face was tragic; her hands stretched toward him. mickey was young, and his brain was whirling so it whirled off the thought that came first. "and if it had hit me _hard_ enough to bust my head, and i'd been carried to a hospital to be mended and wouldn't a-knowed what hurt me for days, like sometimes, who'd a-fed and bathed you, miss?" peaches gazed at him wordless. "you close your mouth and tell me, miss," demanded mickey, brutal with emotion. "if i hadn't come, what would you have done?" peaches shut her mouth and stared while it was closed. at last she ventured a solution. "you'd a-told our nurse lady," she said. mickey made an impatient gesture. "hospitals by the dozen, kid," he said, "and not a chance in a hundred i'd been took to the 'star of hope,' and times when your head is busted, you don't know a thing for 'most a _week_. what would you _do_ if i didn't come for a week?" "i'd have to slide off the bed if it killed me, and roll to the cupboard, and make the things do," said peaches. "you couldn't get up to it to save your life," said mickey, "and there's never enough for a week, and you couldn't get to the water--what would you _do?_" "mickey, what would i do?" wavered peaches. "well, i know, if you don't," said mickey, "and i ain't going to tell you; but i'll tell you this much: you'd be scared and hurt worse than you ever was yet; and it's soon going to be too hot for you here, so i got to move you to a cooler place, and i don't risk being the only one knowing where you are another day; or my think-tank will split. it's about split now. i don't want to do it, miss, but i got to, so you take your drink and lemme straighten you, and wash your face, and put your pretties on; then mr. douglas bruce, that we work for now, is coming to see you and he's going to stay for supper--now cut it out! shut right up! here, lemme fix you, and you see, miss, that you act a _lady_ girl, and don't make me lose my job with my boss, or we can't pay our rent. hold still 'til i get your ribbon right, and slip a fresh nightie on you. there!" "mickey----" began peaches. "shut up!" said mickey in desperation. "now mind this, miss! you belong to _me!_ i'm taking care of you. you answer what he says to you pretty or you'll not get any supper this night, and look at them bundles he got. sit up and be nice! this is a party!" mickey darted around arranging the room, then he flung the door wide and called: "ready!" douglas bruce climbed the stairs and entered the door. as mickey expected, his gaze centred and stopped. mickey began taking packages from his hands; still gazing douglas yielded them. then he stepped forward when mickey placed the chair, and said: "mr. douglas bruce, this is lily. this is lily peaches o'halloran. will you have a chair?" he turned to peaches, putting his arm around her as he bent to kiss her. "he's all right, flowersy-girl," he said. "we _like_ to have him come. he's our friend. our big, nice friend who won't let a soul on earth get us. he doesn't even want us himself, 'cause he's got _one_ girl. his girl is the moonshine lady that sent you the doll. maybe she will come some day too, and maybe she'll make the precious child a new dress." peaches clung to mickey and past him peered at her visitor, and the visitor smiled his most winning smile. he recognized leslie's ribbon, and noted the wondrous beauty of the small white face, now slowly flushing the faintest pink with excitement. still clinging she smiled back. wordless, douglas reached over to pick up the doll. then the right thought came at last. "has the precious child been good to-day?" he asked. peaches released mickey, dropping back against her pillows, her smile now dazzling. "jus' as _good!_" she said. "fine!" said douglas, straightening the long dress. "an' that's my slate and lesson," said peaches. "fine!" he said again as if it were the only adjective he knew. mickey glanced at him, grinning sympathetically, "she does sort of knock you out!" he said. "'sort' is rather poor. completely, would be better," said douglas. "she's the loveliest little sister in all the world, but she doesn't resemble you. is she like your mother?" "lily isn't my sister, only as you wanted me for a brother," said mickey. "she was left and nobody was taking care of her. she's my find and you bet your life i'm going to _keep_ her!" "oh! and how long have you had her, mickey?" "now that's just what the orphings' home dame asked me," said mickey with finality, "and we are nix on those dames and their askings. lily is _mine_, i tell you. my family. now you visit with her, while i get supper." mickey pushed up the table, then began opening packages and setting forth their contents. watching him as he moved swiftly and with assurance, his head high, his lips even, a slow deep respect for the big soul in the little body began to dawn in the heart of douglas bruce. understanding of mickey came in rivers swift and strong, so while he wondered and while he watched entranced, over and over in his head went the line: "fools rush in where angels fear to tread." with every gentle act of mickey for the child douglas' liking for him grew. when he went over the supper and with the judgment of a nurse selected the most delicate and suitable food for her, in the heart of the scotsman swelled the marvel and the miracle that silenced criticism. chapter xi _the advent of nancy and peter_ when leslie began the actual work of closing her home, and loading what would be wanted for the country, she found the task too big for the time allotted, so wisely telephoned douglas that she would be compelled to postpone seeing him until the following day. "leslie," laughed douglas over the telephone, "did you ever hear of the man who cut off his dog's tail an inch at a time, so it wouldn't hurt so badly?" "i have heard of that particular dog." "well this process of cutting me out of seeing you a day at a time reminds me of 'that particular dog,' and evokes my sympathy for the canine as never before." "it's a surprise i am getting ready for you douglas!" "it _is_ a surprise all right," answered douglas, "and 'bearer of morning,' i have got a surprise for you too." "oh goody!" cried leslie. "i adore surprises." "you'll adore this one!" "you might give me a hint!" she suggested. "very well!" he laughed. "since last i saw you i have seen the loveliest girl of my experience." "delightful! am i to see her also?" "undoubtedly!" explained douglas. "and you'll succumb to her charms just as i did." "when may i meet her?" asked leslie eagerly. "i can't say; but soon now." "all right!" agreed the girl. "be ready at four tomorrow." leslie sat in frowning thought a moment, before the telephone; then her ever-ready laugh bubbled. "why didn't i think of it while i was talking?" she wondered. "of course mickey has taken him to visit his lily. i must see about that wrong back before bone and muscle harden." then she began her task. by evening she had a gasoline stove set up, the kitchen provisioned, her father's room ready and arrangements sufficiently completed that she sent the car to bring him to his dinner of cornbread and bacon under an apple tree scattering pink petals beside the kitchen door, with every lake breeze. then they went fishing and landed three black bass. douglas bruce did not mind one day so much, but he resented two. when he greeted mickey that morning it was not with the usual salutation of his friends, so the boy knew there was something not exactly right. he was not feeling precisely jovial himself. he was under suspended judgment. he knew that when mr. bruce had time to think, and talk over the situation with miss winton, both of them might very probably agree with the woman who said the law would take lily from him and send her to a charity home for children. mickey, with his careful drilling on the subject, was in rebellion. _how_ could the law take lily from him? did the law know anything _about_ her? was she in the _care_ of the law when he found her? wouldn't the law have allowed her to _die_ grovelling in filth and rags, inside a few more hours? he had not infringed on the law in any way; he had merely saved a life the law had forgotten to save. now when he had it in his possession and in far better condition than he found it, how had the law _power_ to step in and rob him? mickey did not understand, while there was nothing in his heart that could teach him. he had found her: he would keep her. the orphans' home should not have her. the law should not have her. only one possibility had any weight with mickey: if some one like mr. bruce or miss winton wanted to give her a home of luxury, could provide care at once, for which he would be forced to wait years to earn the money; if they wanted her and the carrel man of many miracles would come for them; did he dare leave her lying an hour, when there was even hope she might be on her feet? there was only one answer to that with mickey, but it pained his heart. so his greeting lacked its customary spontaneity. by noon bruce was irritable, while mickey was as nearly sullen as it was in his nature to be. at two o'clock bruce surrendered, summoned the car, and started to the golf grounds. he had played three holes when he overtook a man who said a word that arrested his attention, so both of them stopped, and with notebooks and pencils, under the shade of a big tree began discussing the question that meant more to douglas than anything save leslie. he dismissed mickey for the afternoon, promising him that if he would be ready by six, he should be driven back to the city. mickey wanted to be alone to concentrate on his problem, but people were everywhere and more coming by the carload. he could see no place that was then, or would be, undisturbed. the long road with grassy sides gave big promises of leading somewhere to the quiet retreat he sought. telling the driver that if he were not back by six, he would be waiting down the road, mickey started on foot, in thought so deep he scarcely appreciated the grasses he trod, the perfume in his nostrils, the concert in his ears. what did at last arouse him was the fact that he was very thirsty. that made him realize that this was the warmest day of the season. instantly his mind flew to the mite of a girl, lying so patiently, watching the clock for his coming, living for the sound of his feet. mickey stopped, studying the landscape. a cool gentle breeze crossed the clover field beside the way, refreshing him in its passing. he sucked his lungs full, then lifted his cap, shaking the hair from his forehead. he stuffed the cap into his pocket, walking slowly along, intending to stop at the nearest farmhouse to ask for water. but the first home was not to mickey's liking. he went on, passing another and another. then he came to land that attracted him. the fences were so straight. the corners so clean where they were empty, so delightful where they were filled with alder, wild plum, hawthorn; attractive locations for the birds of the bushes that were field and orchard feeders. then the barn and outbuildings looked so neat and prosperous; grazing cattle in rank meadows were so sleek; then a big white house began to peep from the screen of vines, bushes and trees. "well if the water here gives you fever, it will anywhere," said mickey, and turning in at the open gate started up a walk having flower beds on each side. there was a wide grassy lawn where the big trees scattered around afforded almost complete shade. mickey never had seen a home like it closely. he scarcely could realize that there were places in the world where families lived alone like this. he tried to think how he would feel if he belonged there. when he reached the place where he saw lily on a comfort under a big bloom-laden pear tree, his throat grew hard, his eyes dry and his feet heavy. then the screen to the front door swung back as a smiling woman in a tidy gingham dress came through and stood awaiting mickey. "i just told peter when he came back alone, i bet a penny you'd got off at the wrong stop!" she cried. "i'm so glad you found your way by yourself. but you must be tired and hot walking. come right in and have a glass of milk, then strip your feet and i'll ring for junior." for one second mickey was dazed. the next, he knew what it must mean. these people were the kind whom god had made so big and generous they divided home and summer with tenement children from the big city thirty miles away. some boy was coming for a week, maybe, into what exactly filled mickey's idea of heaven, but he was not the boy. "'most breaks my heart to tell you," he said, "but i ain't the boy you're expecting. i'm just taking a walk and i thought maybe you'd let me have a drink. i've wanted one past the last three houses, but none looked as if they'd have half such good, cool water as this." "now don't that beat the nation!" exclaimed the woman. "the multiopolis papers are just oozing sympathy for the poor city children who are wild for woods and water; and when i'd got myself nerved up to try one and thought it over till i was really anxious about it, and got my children all worked up too, here for the second time peter knocks off plowing and goes to the trolley to meet one, and he doesn't come. i've got a notion to write the editor of the _herald_ and tell him my experience. i think it's funny! but you wanted water, come this way." mickey followed a footpath white with pear petals around the big house and standing beside a pump waited while the woman stepped to the back porch for a cup. he took it, drinking slowly. "thank you ma'am," he said as he handed it back, turning to the path. yesterday had weakened his nerve. he was going to cry again. he took a quick step forward, but the woman was beside him, her hand on his shoulder. "wait a minute," she said. "sit on this bench under the pear tree. i want to ask you something. excuse me and rest until i come back." mickey leaned against the tree, shutting his eyes, fighting with all his might. he was too big to cry. the woman would think him a coward as mr. bruce had. then things happened as they actually do at times. the woman hurriedly came from the door, sat on the bench beside him, and said: "i went in there to watch you through the window, but i can't stand this a second longer. you poor child you, now tell me right straight what's the matter!" mickey tried but no sound came. the woman patted his shoulder. "now doesn't it beat the band?" she said, to the backyard in general. "just a little fellow not in long trousers yet, and bearing such a burden he can't talk. i guess maybe god has a hand in this. i'm not so sure my boy hasn't come after all. who are you, and where are you going? don't you want to send your ma word you will stay here a week with me?" mickey lifted a bewildered face. "why, i couldn't, lady," he said brokenly, but gaining control as he went on. "i must work. mr. bruce needs me. i'm a regular plute compared with most of the 'newsies'; you wouldn't want to do anything for me who has so much; but if you're honestly thinking about taking a boy and he hasn't come, how would you like to have a little girl in his place? a little girl about _so_ long, and _so_ wide, with a face like easter church flowers, and rings of gold on her head, and who wouldn't be half the trouble a boy would, because she hasn't ever walked, so she couldn't get into things." "oh my goodness! a crippled little girl?" "she isn't crippled," said mickey. "she's as straight as you are, what there is of her. she had so little food, and care, her back didn't seem to stiffen, so her legs won't walk. she wouldn't be half so much trouble as a boy. honest, dearest lady, she wouldn't!" "who are you?" asked the woman. mickey produced a satisfactory pedigree, and gave unquestionable references which she recognized, for she slowly nodded at the names of chaffner and bruce. "and who is the little girl you are asking me to take?" mickey studied the woman and then began to talk, cautiously at first. ashamed to admit the squalor and the awful truth of how he had found the thing he loved, then gathering courage he began what ended in an outpouring. the woman watched him, listening, and when mickey had no further word: "she is only a tiny girl?" she asked wonderingly. "the littlest girl you ever saw," said mickey. "perfectly helpless?" marvelled the woman. "oh no! she can sit up and use her hands," said mickey. "she can feed herself, write on her slate, and learn her lessons. it's only that she stays put. she has to be lifted if she's moved." "you lift her?" queried the woman. "could with one hand," said mickey tersely. "you say this young lawyer you work for, whose name i see in the _herald_ connected with the investigation going on, is at the club house now?" she asked. "yes," answered mickey. "he's coming past here this evening?" she pursued. mickey explained. "about how much waiting on would your little girl take?" she asked next. "well just at present, she does the waiting on me," said mickey. "you see, dearest lady, i have to get her washed and fix her breakfast and her lunch beside the bed, and be downtown by seven o'clock, and i don't get back 'til six. then i wash her again to freshen her up and cook her supper. then she says her lesson, her prayers and goes to sleep. so you see it's mostly _her_ waiting on _me_. a boy couldn't be less trouble than that, could he?" "it doesn't seem like it," said the woman, "and no matter how much bother she was, i guess i could stand it for a week, if she's such a little girl, and can't walk. the difficulty is this: i promised my son junior a boy and his heart is so set. he's wild about the city. he's going to be gone before we know it. he doesn't seem to care for anything we have, or do. i don't know just what he hoped to get out of a city boy; but i promised him one. then i felt scared and wrote mr. chaffner how it was and asked him to send me a real nice boy who could be trusted. if it were not for junior--mary and the little man would be delighted." "well never mind," said mickey. "i'll go see the nurse lady and maybe she can think of a plan. anyway i don't know as it would be best for lily. if she came here a week, seems like it would kill me to take her back, and i don't know how she'd bear staying alone all day, after she had got used to company. and pretty soon now it's going to get so hot, top floors in the city, that if she had a week like this, going back would make her sick." "you must give me time to think," said the woman. "peter will soon be home to supper. i'll talk it over with him and with junior and see what they think. where could you be found in multiopolis? we drive in every few days. we like to go ourselves, and there's no other way to satisfy the children. they get so tired and lonesome in the country." mickey was aghast. "they _do?_ why it doesn't seem possible! i wish i could trade jobs with junior for a while. what is his work?" "he drives the creamery wagon," answered the woman. "o lord!" mickey burst forth. "excuse me ma'am, i mean----oh my! drives a real live horse along these streets and gathers up the cream cans we pass at the gates, and takes them to the trolley?" "yes," she said. "and he'd give up _that_ job for blacking somebody's shoes, or carrying papers, or running errands, or being shut up all summer in a big hot building! oh my!" "when will you be our way again?" asked the woman. "i'll talk this over with peter. if we decided to try the little girl and she did the 'waiting' as you say, she couldn't be much trouble. i should think we could manage her, and a boy too. i wish you could be the boy. i'd like to have _you_. i've been thinking if we could get a boy to show junior what it is he wants to know about a city, he'd be better satisfied at home, but i don't know. it's just possible it might make him worse. now such an understanding boy as you seem to be, maybe you could teach junior things about the city that would make him contented at _home_. do you think you could?" "dearest lady, i _get_ you," said mickey. "_do i think i could?_ well if you really wished me to, i could take your junior to multiopolis with me for a week and make him so sick he'd never want to see a city again while his palpitator was running." "hu'umh!" said the lady slowly, her eyes on far distance. "let me think! i don't know but that would be a fine thing for all of us. we have land enough for a nice farm for both boys, and the way things look now, land seems about as sure as anything; we could give them a farm apiece when we are done with it, and the girl the money to take to her home when she marries--i would love to know that junior was going to live on land as his father does; but all his life he's talked about working in the city when he grows up. hu'umh!" "well if you want him cured of that, gimme the job," he grinned. "you see lady, i know the city, inside out and outside in again. i been playing the game with it since i can remember. you can't tell me anything i don't know about the lowest, poorest side of it. oh i could tell you things that would make your head swim. if you want your boy dosed just sick as a horse on what a workingman gets in multiopolis 'tween sunrise alley and biddle boulevard, just you turn him over to me a week. i'll fix him. i'll make the creamery job look like 'lijah charioteering for the angels to him, honest i will lady; and he won't ever _know_ it, either. he'll come through with a lump in his neck, and a twist in his stummick that means home and mother. see?" the woman looked at mickey in wide-eyed and open-mouthed amazement: "well if i ever!" she gasped. "if you don't believe me, try it," said mickey. "well! well! i'll have to think," she said. "i don't know but it would be a good thing if it could be done." "well don't you have any misgivings about it being done," said mickey. "it's being _done_ every day. i know men, hundreds of them, just scraping, and slaving and half starving to get together the dough to pull out. i hear it on the cars, on the streets, and see it in the papers. they're jumping their jobs and going every day, while hundreds of schmeltzenschimmers, o'laughertys, hansons, and pietros are coming in to take their places. multiopolis is more than half filled with crowd-outs from across the ocean now, instead of home folks' cradles, as it should be. if junior has got a hankering for multiopolis that is going to cut him out of owning a place like this, and bossing his own job, dearest lady, cook him! cook him quick!" "would you come here?" she questioned. "would i?" cried mickey. "well try me and see!" "i'm deeply interested in what you say about junior," she said. "i'll talk it over to-night with peter." "well i don't know," said mickey. "he might put the grand kibosh on it. hard! but if junior came back asking polite for his mush and milk, and offering his christmas pennies for the privilege of plowing, or driving the cream wagon, believe me dear lady, then peter would fall on your neck and weep for joy." "yes, in that event, he would," said the lady, "and the temptation is so great, that i believe if you'll give me your address, i'll look you up the next time i come to multiopolis, which will be soon. i'd like to see your lily before i make any promises. if i thought i could manage, i could bring her right out in the car. tell me where to find you, and i'll see what peter thinks." mickey grinned widely. "you ain't no suffragette lady, are you?" he commented. "well i don't know about that," said the lady. "there are a good many things to think of these days." "yes i know," said mickey, "but as long as everything you say swings the circle and rounds up with peter, it's no job to guess what's most important in your think-tank. peter must be some pumpkins!" "come to think of it, he is, mickey," she said. "come to think of it, i do sort of revolve around peter. we always plan together. not that we always _think_ alike: there are some things i just _can't_ make peter see, that i wish i _could;_ but i wouldn't trade peter----" "no i guess he's top crust," laughed mickey. "he is so!" said the woman. "how did you say i could reach you?" "well, the easiest way would be this. here, i'll write the number for you." "fine!" said the woman. "i'll hurry through my shopping and call you--when would it suit you best?" "never mind me," said mickey. "for this, i'll come when you say." "what about three in the afternoon, then?" "sure!" cried mickey. "suits me splendid! mostly quit for the day then. but ma'am, i don't know about this. lily isn't used to anybody but me, she may be afraid to come with you." "and i may think i would scarcely want to try to take care of her for a week, when i see her," said the woman. "you may think that now, but you'll change your mind when you see her," said mickey. "dearest lady, when you see a little white girl that hasn't ever walked, smiling up at you shy and timid, you won't be any more anxious for orphings' homes and charity palaces to swallow her up than i am; not a bit! all i must think of is what lily will say about coming. she's never been out of my room since i found her, and she hasn't seen any one but mr. bruce, so she'll be afraid, and worried. _seeing her_ is all i ask of _you!_ what i'm up against is what she's going to say; and how i'm going to take her _back_ after a week here, when it will be hotter there and lonesomer than ever." "you surely give one things to think about," commented the woman. "do i?" queried mickey. "well i don't know as i should. probably with peter, and three children of your own, and this farm to run, you are busy enough without spending any of your time on me." "the command in the good book is plain: 'bear ye one another's burdens,'" quoted the woman. "oh yes! 'burdens,' of course!" agreed mickey. "but that couldn't mean lily, 'cause she's nothing but joy! just pure joy! all about her is that a fellow loves her so, that it keeps him laying awake at nights thinking how to do what would be _best_ for her. she's mine, and i'm going to _keep_ her; that's the surest thing you know. if i take you to see lily, and if i decide to let you have her a few days to rest her and fresh her up, you wouldn't go and want to put her 'mong the orphings' home kids, would you? you wouldn't think she ought to be took from me and raised in a flock of every kind, from every place. would you lady?" "no, i wouldn't," said the lady. "i see how you feel, and i am sure i wouldn't want that for one of mine." "well, there's no question about her being _mine!_" said mickey. "but i like you so, maybe i'll let you _help_ me a _little_. a big boy that can run and play doesn't need you, dearest lady, half so much as my little girl. do you think he does?" "no, i think the lord sent you straight here. if you don't stop i'll be so worked up i can't rest. i may come to-morrow." mickey arose, holding out his hand. "thank you dearest lady," he said. "i must be getting out where the car won't pass without my seeing it." "you wait at the gate a minute," she said, "i want to send in a little basket of things to-night. i'll have it ready in a jiffy." mickey slowly walked to the gate. when the woman came with a basket covered with a white cloth, he thanked her again; as he took it he rested his head against her arm, smiling up at her with his wide true eyes. "a thing i can't understand is," he said, "why when the lord was making mothers, he didn't cut all of them from the same piece he did you. i'll just walk on down the road and smell june beside this clover field. is it yours?" "yes," she said. "would you care if i'd take just a few to lily? i know she never saw any." "take a bunch as big as your head if you want them." "lily is so little, three will do her just as well; besides, she's got to remember how we are fixed, so she needn't begin to expect things to come her way by baskets and bunches," said mickey. "she's bound to be spoiled bad enough as it is. i can't see how i'm going to come out with her, but she's mine, and i'm going to keep her." "mickey," laughed the woman, "don't you think you swing around to lily just about the way i do to peter?" "well maybe i do," conceded mickey. "what kind of a car did you say mr. bruce has?" "oh the car is dark green, and the driver has sandy hair; and mr. bruce--why you'd know him anywhere! just look for the finest man you ever saw, if you are out when he goes by, and that will be mr. douglas bruce." "i guess i'll know him if i happen to be out." "sure lady, you couldn't miss him," replied mickey. carefully holding his basket he went down the road. the woman made supper an hour late standing beside the gate watching for a green car. many whirled past, then at last one with the right look came gliding along; so she stepped out and raised her hand for a parley. the car stopped. "mr. douglas bruce?" she asked. "at your service, madam!" he answered. "just a word with you," she said. he arose instantly, swung open the car door, and stepping down walked with her to the shade of a big widely branching maple. the woman looked at him, and said flushing and half confused: "please to excuse me for halting you, but i had a reason. this afternoon such an attractive little fellow stopped here to ask for a drink in passing. now peter and i had decided we'd try our hand at taking a city boy for a week or so for his vacation, and twice peter has left his work and gone to the trolley station to fetch him, and he failed us. i supposed peter had missed him, so when i saw the boy coming, just the first glimpse my heart went right out to him----" "very likely----" assented mr. bruce. "he surely is the most winning little chap i ever saw with his keen blue eyes and that sort of light on his forehead," said the woman. "i've noticed that," put in the man. "yes," she said, "anybody would see that almost the first thing. so i thought he was the boy i was to mother coming, and i went right at the job. he told me quick enough that i was mistaken, but i could see he was in trouble. someway i'd trust him with my character or my money, but i got to be perfectly sure before i trust him with my children. you see i have three, and if ever any of them go wrong, i don't want it to be because i was _careless_. i thought i'd like to have him around some; my oldest boy is bigger, but just about his age. he said he might be out this way with you this summer and i wanted to ask him in, and do what i could to entertain him; but first i wanted to inquire of you----" "i see!" said douglas bruce. "i haven't known mickey so long, but owing to the circumstances in which i met him, and the association with him since, i feel that i know him better than i could most boys in a longer time. the strongest thing i can say to you is this: had i a boy of my own, i should be proud if mickey liked him and would consider being friends with him. he is absolutely trustworthy, that i know." "then i won't detain your further," she said. mickey, cheered in mind and heart, had walked ahead briskly with his basket, while as he went he formulated his plans. he would go straight to the sunshine nurse, tell her about the heat and this possible chance to take lily to the country for a week, and consult with her as to what the effect of the trip might be, and what he could do with her afterward, then he would understand better. he kept watching the clover field beside the way. when he decided he had reached the finest, best perfumed place, he saw a man plowing on the other side of the fence and thought it might be peter and that peter would wonder what he was doing in his field, so mickey set the basket in a corner and advanced. he was wonderfully elated by what had happened to him and the conclusions at which he had arrived, as he came across the deep grasses beside the fence where the pink of wild rose and the snow of alder commingled, where song sparrows trilled, and larks and quail were calling. he approached smiling in utter confidence. as he looked at the man, at his height, his strong open face, his grip on the plow, he realized why the world of the little woman revolved around peter. mickey could have conceived of few happier fates than being attached to peter, so he thought in amazement of the boy who wanted to leave him. then a slow grin spread over his face, for by this time peter had stopped his horses and was awaiting him with an answering smile and hand outstretched. "why son, i'm glad to see you!" he cried. "how did i come to miss you? did you get off at the wrong stop?" mickey shook his head as he took the proffered hand. "you are peter?" he asked. "yes, i'm peter," confirmed the man. "well you're making the same mistake your pleasant lady did," explained mickey. "she thought i was the boy who had been sent to visit you, so she gave me the glad hand too. i wish i was in his shoes! but i'm not your boy. gee, your lady is a nice gentle lady." "you're all correct there," agreed peter. "and so you are not the boy who was to be sent us. pshaw now! i wish you were. i'm disappointed. i've been watching you coming down the road, and the way you held together and stepped up so brisk and neat took my eye." "i been 'stepping up brisk and neat' to sell papers, run errands, hop cars, dodge cars and automobiles, and climbing fire-escapes instead of stairs, and keeping from under foot since i can remember," laughed mickey. "you learn on the streets of multiopolis to step up, and watch sharp without knowing you are doing it." "you're a newsboy?" asked peter. "i was all my life 'til a few days ago," said mickey. "then i went into the office of mr. douglas bruce. he's a corporation lawyer in the iriquois building." "hum, i've been reading about him," said peter. "if i ever have a case, i'm going to take it to him." "well you'll have a man that will hang on and dig in and _sweat_ for you," said mickey. "just now he's after some of them big office-holders who are bleeding the taxpayers of multiopolis. some of these days if you watch your _herald_ sharp, you're going to see the lid fly off of two or three things at once. he's on a hot trail now." "why i have seen that in the papers," said peter. "he was given the job of finding who is robbing the city, by james minturn; i remember his name. and you work for him? well, well! sit down here and tell me about it." "i can't now," said mickey. "i must get back to the road. his car may pass any minute, and i'm to be ready. your pleasant lady said i might take a few clover flowers to my little sick girl, and just as i came to the finest ones in the field, i saw you so i thought maybe i'd better tell you what i was doing before you fired me." "take all you want," said peter. "i'd like to send the whole field, larks and all, to a little sick girl. i'd like especial to send her some of these clowny bobolink fellows to puff up and spill music by the quart for her; i guess nothing else runs so smooth except water." "i don't know what she'd say," said mickey gazing around him. "you see she hasn't ever walked, so all she's seen in her life has been the worst kind of bare, dark tenement walls, 'til lately she's got a high window where she can see sky, and a few sparrows that come for crumbs. this!"--mickey swept his arm toward the landscape--"i don't know what she'd say to this!" "pshaw, now!" cried peter. "why bring her out! you bring her right out! that's what we been wanting to know. just what a city child would _think_ of country things she'd never seen before. bring her to see us!" "she's a little bit of a thing and she can't walk, you know," explained mickey. "poor little mite! that's too bad," lamented peter. "wonder if she couldn't be doctored up. it's a shame she can't walk, but taking care of her must be easy!" "oh she takes care of herself," said mickey. "you see she is alone all day from six 'til six; she must take care of herself, so she studies her lesson, and plays with her doll--i mean her precious child." "too bad!" said peter. "by jacks that's a sin! did you happen to speak to ma about her?" "we did talk a little," admitted mickey. "she was telling me of the visitor boy who didn't come, and your son who doesn't think he'll want to stay; so we got to talking. she said just what you did about wanting to see how a city child who hadn't ever seen a chicken, or a cow, or horse would act----" "good lord!" cried peter. "_is_ there a child in multiopolis who hasn't ever seen a little chicken, or a calf?" "hundreds of them!" said mickey. "i've scarcely seen a cow myself. i've seen hens and little chickens in shop windows at easter time----" "but not in the orchard in june?" queried peter. "no, 'not in the orchard in june!'" said mickey. "well, well!" marvelled peter. "there's nothing so true as that 'one half doesn't know how the other half lives.' i've heard that, but i didn't quite sense it, and i don't know as i do yet. you bring her right out!" "your pleasant lady talked about that; but you see bringing her out and showing her these things, and getting her used to them is _one_ thing; then taking her back to a room so hot i always sleep on the fire-escape, and where she has to stay all day alone, is _another_. i don't know but so long as she must go _back_ to what she has now, it would be better to _leave_ her there." "humph! i see! what a pity!" exclaimed peter. "well, if you'll be coming this way again, stop and see us. i'll talk to ma about her. we often take a little run to multiopolis. junior wouldn't be satisfied till we got a car, and i can't say we ain't enjoying it ourselves. what was that you were saying about my boy not thinking he'll stay?" "_she_ told me," said mickey, "about the city bug he had in his system. why don't you swat it immediate?" "what do you mean?" inquired peter. "turn him over to me a week or two," suggested mickey. "i can give him a dose of working in a city that will send him hiking back to home and father." "it's worth considering," said peter. "i know that what i got of multiopolis would make me feel like von hindenberg if i had the job of handling the ribbons of your creamery wagon; and so i know about what would put sonny back on the farm, tickled 'most to death to be here." "by gum! well, i'll give you just one hundred dollars if you'll do it!" exclaimed peter. "you see my grandfather and father owned this land before me. we've been on the plowing job so long we have it reduced to a system, so it comes easy for me, and i take pride and pleasure in it; i had supposed my boys would be the same. do you really think you could manage it?" "sure," said mickey. "only, if you really mean it, not now, nor ever, do you want son to _know_ it. see! the medicine wouldn't work, if he knew he took it." "well i'll be jiggered!" laughed peter. "i guess you could do it, if you went at it right." "well you trust me to do it right," grinned mickey. "loan me sonny for a week or two, and you can have him back for keeps." "well it's worth trying," said peter. "say, when will you be this way again?" "'most any day," said mickey. "and your lady said she'd be in multiopolis soon, so we are sure to have a happy meeting before long. i think that is mr. bruce's car coming. goodbye! be good to yourself!" with a spring from where he was standing mickey arose in air, alighted on the top rail of the division fence, then balancing, he raced down it toward the road. peter watched him in astonishment, then went back to his plowing with many new things on his mind. thus it happened that after supper, when the children were in bed, and he and his wife went to the front veranda for their usual evening visit, and talk over the day, she had very little to tell him. as was her custom, she removed her apron, brushed her waving hair and wore a fresh dress. she rocked gently in her wicker chair, while her voice was moved to unusual solicitude as she spoke. peter also had performed a rite he spoke of as "brushing up" for evening. he believed in the efficacy of soap and water, so his body, as well as his clothing, was clean. he sat on the top step leaning against the pillar where the moonlight emphasized his big frame, accented the strong lines of his face and crowned his thick hair, as nancy harding thought it should be, with glory. "peter," she said, "did you notice anything about that boy, this afternoon, different from other boys?" "yes," answered peter slowly, "i did nancy. he didn't strike me as being _one_ boy. he has the best of three or four concealed in his lean person." "he's had a pretty tough time, i judge," said nancy. "yet you never saw a boy who took your heart like he did, and neither did i," answered peter. mickey holding his basket and clover flowers was waiting when the car drew up, and to bruce's inquiry answered that a lady where he stopped for a drink had given him something for lily. he left the car in the city, sought the nurse and luckily found her at leisure. she listened with the greatest interest to all he had to say. "it's a problem," she said, as he finished. "to take her to such a place for a week, and then bring her back where she is, would be harder for her than never going." "i got that figured," said mickey; "but i've about made up my mind, after seeing the place and thinking over the folks, that it wouldn't _happen_ that way. once they see her, and find how little trouble she is, they're not people who would send her back 'til it's cool, if they'd want to then. and there's this, too: there are other folks who would take her now, and see about her back. have i got the right to let it go a day, waiting to earn the money myself, when some one else, maybe the moonshine lady, or mr. bruce, would do it _now_, and not put her in an orphings' home, either?" "no mickey, you haven't!" said the nurse. "just the way i have it figured," said mickey. "but she's mine, and i'm going to _keep_ her. if her back is fixed, i'm going to have it done. i don't want any one else meddling with my family. you haven't heard anything from the carrel man yet?" "no," she said. "my, i wish he'd come!" cried mickey. "so do i," said the nurse. "but so far mickey, i think you are doing all right. if she must be operated, she'd have to be put in condition for it; and while i suspect i could beat you at your job, i am positive you are far surpassing what she did have." "well i know that too," said mickey. "but surpassing nothing at all isn't going either far or fast. i must do something." "if you could bring yourself to consent to giving her up----" suggested the nurse. "well i can't!" interposed mickey. "just for a while!" continued the nurse. "not for a minute! i found her! she's mine!" "yes, i know; but----" began the nurse. "i know too," said mickey. "gimme a little time." he studied the problem till he reached his grocery. there he thriftily lifted the cloth to peep, and with a sigh of satisfaction pursued his way. presently he opened his door, to be struck by a wave of hot air and to note a flushed little face and drawn mouth as he went into peaches' outstretched arms. then he delivered the carefully carried clover and the following: "_i got these from a big, pink field bewildering, that god made a-purpose for cows and childering. her share is being consumed by the cow, let's go roll in ours right now._" "again!" demanded peaches. mickey repeated slowly. "how could we?" asked peaches. "easy!" said mickey. "'easy?'" repeated peaches. "just as easy!" reiterated mickey. "did you see it?" demanded peaches. "yes, i saw it to-day," said mickey. "it's like this: you see some folks live in houses all built together, and work at selling things to eat, and wear, and making things, and doing other work that must be done like doctors, and lawyers, and hospitals; _that's a city_. then to _feed them_, other folks live on big pieces of land; the houses are far apart, with streets between, and beside them the big fields where the wheat grows for our bread, and our potatoes, and the grass, and the clover like this to feed the cows. to-day mr. bruce didn't play long, so i went walking and stopped at a house for a drink, and there was the nicest lady; we talked some and she give me our supper in that pretty basket; and she sent you the clovers from a big pink field so sweet smelly it would 'most make you sick; and there are trees through it, and lots of birds sing, and there are wild roses and fringy white flowers; and it's quiet 'cept the birds, and the roosters crowing, and the wind comes in little perfumery blows on you, and such milk!" "better 'an our milk?" asked peaches. "their milk is so rich it makes ours look like a poorhouse relation," scoffed mickey. "tell me more," demanded peaches. "wait 'til i get the water to wash you, you are so warm." "yes, it's getting some hot; but 'tain't nothing like on the rags last summer. it's like a real lady here." "a pretty warm lady, just the same," said mickey. then he brought water and leaving the door ajar for the first time, he soon started a draft; that with the coming of cooler evening lowered the child's temperature, and made her hungry. as he worked mickey talked. the grass, the blooming orchard, the hen and her little downy chickens, the big cool porch, the wonderful woman and man, the boy whom they expected and who did not come; and then cautiously, slowly, making sure she understood, he developed his plan to take her to the country. peaches drew back and opened her lips. mickey promptly laid the washcloth over them. "now don't begin to say you 'won't' like a silly baby," he said. "try it and see, then if you don't like it, you can come right back. you want to ride in a grand automobile like a millyingaire lady, don't you? all the swells go away to the country for the summer, you got to be a swell lady! i ain't going to have you left way behind!" "mickey, would you be there?" she asked. "yes lady, i'd be right on the job!" said mickey. "i'd be there a lot more than i am here. you go the week they wanted that boy, and he didn't come; then if you like it, i'll see if they won't board you, and you can have a nice little girl to play with, and a fat, real baby, and a boy bigger than me--and you should see peter!" peaches opened her lips, mickey reapplied the cloth. "calm down now!" he ordered. "i've decided to do it. we got to hump ourselves. this is our _chance_. why there's milk, and butter, and eggs, and things to eat there like you never tasted, and to have a cool breeze, and to lie on the grass----" "oh mickey, could i?" cried peaches. "sure silly! why not?" said mickey. "there's big fields of it, and the cows don't need it all. you can lie on the grass, or the clover, and hear the birds, and play with the children. i'll take a day and get things started right before i leave you to come to work, like i'll have to. when i come at night, i'll carry your outdoors; why i'll take you down to the water and you can kick your feet in it, where it's nice and warm; all the time you can have as many flowers as your hands will hold; and such bird singing, why lily peaches o'halloran, there are birds as red as blood, yes ma'am, and yellow as orange peel and light blue like this ribbon and dark blue like that--hold still 'til i fix you--and such singing!" "mickey, would you hold me?" wavered peaches. "smash anybody that lays a finger on you, unless you say so," said mickey promptly. "and you'd stay a whole day?" she asked anxiously. "sure!" cried mickey. "an' if i was afraid you'd bring me back?" she went on. "sure! right away!" he promised. "an' they wouldn't anybody 'get' me there?" "'way out there 'mong the clover?" scoffed mickey. "why it's _here_ they'll '_get_' you if they are going to. nobody out there _wants_ you, but me." "mickey, when will you take me?" she asked eagerly. "before so very long," promised mickey. "you needn't be surprised to hear me coming with the nice lady to see you any day now, and to be wrapped in a sheet, and put in a big car, and just scooted right out to the very place that god made especial for little girls. to-night we put in another blesses, lily. we'll pray, 'bless the nice lady who sent our supper,' won't we?" "yes mickey, and 'fore you came i didn't want any supper at all, and now i _do_," said peaches. "you were too warm honey," said mickey. "we'll just fix this old hot city. we'll run right away from it. see? now we'll have the grandest supper we ever had." mickey brought water, plates, and forks, and opened the basket. peaches bolstered with her pillows cried out and marvelled. there was a quart bottle of milk wrapped in a wet cloth. there was a big loaf of crusty brown country bread. there was a small blue bowl of yellow butter, a square of honey even yellower, a box of strawberries, and some powdered sugar, and a little heap of sliced, cold boiled ham. mickey surveyed the table. "now miss chicken, here's how!" he warned. "i found you all warm and feverish. if you load up with this, you'll be sick sure. you get a cup of milk, a slice of bread and butter, some berries and a teeny piece of meat. we can live from this a week, if the heat doesn't spoil it." "you fix me," said peaches. then they had such a supper as they neither one ever had known, during which mickey explained wheat fields and bread, bees and honey, cows and clover, pigs and ham, as he understood them. peaches repeated her lesson and her prayers and then as had become her custom, demanded that mickey write his last verse on the slate, so she might learn and copy it on the morrow. she was asleep before he finished. mickey walked softly, cleared the table, placed it before the window, and taking from his pocket an envelope mr. bruce had given him drew out a sheet of folded paper on which he wrote long and laboriously, then locking peaches in, he slipped down to the mail-box and posted this letter: dear mister carrel: _i saw in papers i sold how you put different legs on a dog. i have a little white flowersy-girl that hasn't ever walked. it's her back. a nurse lady told me at the "star of hope" how you came there sometimes, and the next time you come, i guess i will let you see my little girl; and maybe i'll have you fix her back. when you see her you will know that to fix her back would be the biggest thing you ever did or ever could do. i got a job that i can pay her way and mine, and save two dollars a week for you. i couldn't pay all at once, but i could pay steady; and if you'd lose all you have in any way, it would come in real handy to have that much skating in steady as the clock every week for as long as you say, and soon as i can, i'll make it more. i'd give all i got, or ever can get, to cure lily's back, and because you fixed the dog, i'd like you to fix her. i do hope you will come soon, but of course i don't wish anybody else would get sick so you'd have to. you can ask if i am square of mr. douglas bruce, iriquois building, multiopolis, indiana, or of mr. chaffner, editor of the_ herald, _whose papers i've sold since i was big enough._ michael o'halloran. chapter xii _feminine reasoning_ with vigour renewed by a night of rest leslie began her second day at atwater cabin. she had so many and such willing helpers that before noon she could find nothing more to do. after lunch she felt a desire to explore her new world. choosing the shady side, she followed the road toward the club house, but one thought in her mind: she must return in time to take the car and meet douglas bruce as she had promised. she felt elated that she had so planned her summer as to spend it with her father, while of course it was going to be delightful to have her lover with her. so going she came to a most attractive lane that led from the road between tilled fields, back to a wood on one side, and open pasture on the other. faintly she heard the shouts of children, and yielding to sudden impulse she turned and followed the grassy path. a few more steps, then she stopped in surprise. an automobile was standing on the bank of a brook. on an indian blanket under a tree sat a woman of fine appearance holding a book, but watching with smiling face the line of the water, which spread in a wide pool above a rudely constructed dam, overflowing it in a small waterfall. on either bank lay one of the minturn boys, muddy and damp, trying with his hands to catch something in the water. below the dam, in a blue balbriggan bathing suit, stood james minturn, his hands filled with a big piece of sod which he bent and applied to a leak. leslie untied the ribbons of her sunshade and rumpling her hair to the light breeze came forward laughing. "well mr. minturn!" she cried. "what is going to become of the taxpayers of multiopolis while their champion builds a sod dam?" whether the flush on james minturn's face as he turned to her was exertion, embarrassment, or unpleasant memory leslie could not decide; but she remembered, after her impulsive greeting, that she had been with his wife in that early morning meeting the day of the trip to the swamp. she thought of many things as she went forward. james minturn held out his muddy hands as he said laughingly: "you see i'm not in condition for our customary greeting." "surely!" cried leslie. "it is going to wash off, isn't it? if from you, why not from me?" "of course if you want to play!" he said. "playing? you? honestly?" queried leslie. "honestly playing," answered the man. "the 'honestest' playing in all the world; not the political game, not the money game, not anything called manly sport, just a day off with my boys, being a boy again. heavens leslie, i'm wild about it. i could scarcely sleep last night for eagerness to get started. but let me make you acquainted with my family. my sister, mrs. winslow, a friend of mine, miss leslie winton; my sons' tutor, mr. tower; my little brother, william minturn; my boys, junior and malcolm." "anyway, we can shake hands," said leslie to mrs. winslow. "the habit is so ingrained i am scandalized on meeting people if i'm forced to neglect it." "will you share my blanket?" asked mrs. winslow. "thanks! yes, for a little time," said leslie. "i am greatly interested in what is going on here." "so am i," said mrs. winslow. "we are engaged in the evolution of an idea. a real 'do-the-boy's-hall.'" "it seems to be doing them good," commented leslie. "never mind the boys," said mr. minturn. "i object to such small men monopolizing your attention. look at the 'good' this is doing me. and would you please tell me why you are here, instead of disporting yourself at, say lenox?" "how funny!" laughed leslie. "i am out in search of amusement, and i'm finding it. i think i'm perhaps a mile from our home for the summer." "you amaze me!" cried mr. minturn. "i saw douglas this morning, and told him where i was coming, but he never said a word." "he didn't know one to say on this subject," explained leslie. "you see i rented a cabin over at atwater and had my plans made before i told even father what a delightful thing was in store for him." "but how did it happen?" "through my seeing how desperately busy daddy and douglas have been all spring, daddy especially," replied leslie. "douglas is bad enough, but father's just obsessed, so much so that i think he's carrying double." "i know he is," said mr. minturn. "and so you made a plan to allow him to proceed with his work all day and then have the delightful ride, fishing and swimming in atwater morning and evening. how wonderful! and of course douglas will be there also?" "of course," agreed leslie. "at least he shall have an invitation. i'm going to surprise him with it this very evening. how do you think he'll like it?" "i think he will be so overjoyed he won't know how to express himself," said james minturn. "but isn't it going to be lonely for you? won't you miss your friends, your frocks, and your usual summer round?" "you forget," said leslie. "my friends and my frocks always have been for winter. all my life i have summered with father." "how will you amuse yourself?" he asked. "it will take some time each day to plan what to do the next that will bring most refreshment and joy; i often will be compelled to drive in of mornings with orders for my house-keeping, and when other things are exhausted, i am going to make an especial study of wild-bird music." "that is an attractive subject," said mr. minturn. "have you really made any progress?" "little more than verifying a few songs already recorded," replied leslie. "i hear smatterings and snatches, but they are elusive, while i'm not always sure of the identity of the bird. but the subject is thrillingly tempting." "it surely is," conceded mr. minturn. "i could see that nellie was alert the instant you mentioned it. come over here to the shade and tell me how far you have gone. you see i've undertaken the boys' education. malcolm inherits his mother's musical ability to a wonderful degree. it is possible that he could be started on this, and so begin his work while he thinks he's playing." leslie walked to the spot indicated, far enough away that conversation would not interrupt mrs. winslow's reading, and near enough to watch the boys; she and mr. minturn sat on the grass and talked. "it might be the very thing," said leslie. "whatever gives even a faint hope of attracting a boy to an educational subject is worth testing." "one thing i missed, i always have regretted," said mr. minturn, "i never had educated musical comprehension. nellie performed and sang so well, and in my soul i knew what i could understand and liked in music she scorned. sometimes i thought if i had known only enough to appreciate the right thing at the right time, it might have formed a slender tie between us; so i want the boys both to recognize good music when they hear it; but they have so much to learn all at once, poor little chaps, i scarcely see where to begin, and in a musical way, i don't even know how to begin. tell me about the birds, leslie. just what is it you are studying?" "the strains of our famous composers that are lifted bodily for measures at a time, from the song of a bird or indisputably based upon it," answered leslie. "did you and nellie have any success?" "indeed yes! we had the royal luck to hear exactly the song i had hoped; and besides we talked of many things and nellie settled her future course in her mind. when she went into the swamp alone and came out with an armload of lavender fringed orchids she meant to carry to elizabeth, and her heart firmly resolved to begin a new life with you, she told me she felt like flying; that never had she been so happy." leslie paused, glancing at james minturn. he seemed puzzled: "i don't understand. but nothing matters now. tell me about the birds," he said. "and it is what you admit you don't understand that i must tell you of," said leslie. "i've been afraid, horribly afraid you didn't understand, and that you took some course you wouldn't have taken if you did. what happened in the swamp was all my fault!" "the birds, leslie, tell me of the birds," commanded james minturn. "you can't possibly know what occurred that separated nellie and me." "no, i don't know your side of it; but i do know hers, and i don't think you do," persisted leslie. "now if you would be big enough to let me tell you how it was with her that day, and what she said to me, your mind would be perfectly at rest as to the course you have taken." "my mind is 'perfectly at rest now as to the course i have taken,'" said mr. minturn. "i realize that a man should meet life as it comes to him. i endured mine in sweating humiliation for years, and i would have gone on to the end, if it had been a question of me only, but when the girl was sacrificed and the boys in a fair way to meet a worse fate than hers, the question no longer hinged on me. you have seen my sons during their mother's régime, when they were children of wealth in the care of servants; look at them now and dare to tell me that they are not greatly improved." "surely they are!" said leslie. "you did right to rescue them from their environment; all the fault that lies with you so far is, that you did not do from the start what you are now doing. the thing that haunts me is this, mr. minturn, and i must get it out of my mind before i can sleep soundly again--you will let me tell you--you won't think me meddling in what must be dreadful heartache? oh you won't will you?" "no, i won't," said mr. minturn, "but it is prolonging heartache to discuss this matter, and wasting time better used in the building of a sod dam--indeed leslie, tell me about the birds." "i will, if you'll answer one question," said leslie. "dangerous, but i'll risk it," replied mr. minturn. "i must ask two or three minor ones to reach the real one," explained the girl. "oh leslie," laughed mr. minturn. "i didn't think you were so like the average woman." "a large number of men are finding 'the average woman' quite delightful," said leslie. "men respect a masculine, well-balanced, argumentative woman, but every time they love and marry the impulsive, changeable, companionable one." "provided she be endowed with truth, character, and common mother instinct enough to protect her young--yes--i grant it, and glory in it," said mr. minturn. "i can furnish logic for one family, and most men i know feel qualified to do the same." "surely!" agreed leslie. "you were waiting for nellie the night she came from the tamarack swamp with me, and she told me you had a little box, and that with its contents you had threatened to 'freeze her soul,' if she had a soul. i'll be logical and fair, and ask but the _one_ question i first stipulated. here it is: did you wait until you made sure she had a soul, worthy of your consideration, before you froze it?" james minturn's laugh was ugly to hear. "my dear girl," he said. "i made sure she had _not_ three years ago." "and i made equally sure that she had," said leslie, "in the tamarack swamp when she wrestled as jacob at peniel against her birth, her environment, her wealth, and triumphed over all of them for you and her sons. i can't go on with my own plan for personal happiness, until i know for sure if you perfectly understand that she came to you that night to confess to you her faults, errors, mistakes, sins, if need be, and ask you to take the head of your household, and to help her fashion each hour of her life anew. did she have a chance to tell you all this?" "no," said mr. minturn. "but it would have made _no difference,_ if she had. it came too late." "you have not the right to say that to any living, suffering human being!" protested leslie. "i have a perfect right to say it to her," said mr. minturn. "a right that would be justified in any court in the world, either of lawyers or people." "then thank god, nellie gets her trial higher. he will understand, and forgive her." "you don't know what she did," said mr. minturn. "what she stood before me and the officers of the law, and admitted she did." "i don't care what she did! there were men forgiven on the cross; because they sincerely repented, god had mercy on them, so he will on her, and what's more, he won't have any on _you_, unless you follow his example and forgive when you are asked, by a woman who is as deeply repentant as she was." "her repentance comes too late," said mr. minturn with finality. "her error is _not reparable_." "there is no such thing as true repentance being too late," insisted leslie. "you are distinctly commanded to forgive; you have got to do it! there is no error that is reparable. since you hint tragedy, i will concede it. if she had been directly responsible for the death of her child, it was a mistake, criminal carelessness, but not a thing purposely planned; so she could atone for it by doing her best for you and the boys." "any mother who once did the things she did is not fit to be trusted again!" "what nonsense! james minturn, you amaze me!" said leslie. "that is a little too cold masculine logic. that is taking from the whole human race the power to repent of and repair a mistake." "there are some mistakes that cannot be repaired!" "i grant it," said leslie. "there are! _you are making one right now!_" "that's the most strictly feminine utterance i ever heard," said mr. minturn, with a short laugh. "thank you," retorted leslie. "the compliment is high, but i accept it. i ask nothing better at the hands of fate than to be the most feminine of women. and i've told you what i feel forced to. you can now go on with your plans, knowing they are exactly what she had mapped out, hastily, but surely. she said to me that she must build from the foundations, which meant a new home." "you are fatuously mistaken!" said mr. minturn. "she said to me," reiterated leslie forcefully, "that for ten years she had done exactly what she pleased, lived only for her own pleasure, now she would do as _you_ dictated for a like time, live your way--i never was farther from a mistake in my life. if you think it doesn't take courage to tell you this, and if you think i enjoy it, and if you think i don't wish i were a mile away----" "i still maintain i know the lady better than you do," said mr. minturn. "but you are wonderful leslie, and i always shall respect and honour you for your effort in our behalf. it does credit to your head and heart. i envy douglas bruce. if ever an hour of trial comes to you, i would feel honoured for a chance to prove to you how much i appreciate----" "don't talk like that!" wailed leslie. "it's all a failure if you do! promise me that you will _think this over_. let me send you the note nellie wrote me before she went away. won't you try to imagine what she is suffering to-day, in the change from what she went to you hoping, and what she received at your hands?" "let me see," said james minturn. "at this hour she is probably enduring the pangs of wearing the most tasteful afternoon gown on the veranda of whatever summer resort suits her variable fancy, also the discomfiture of the woman she induced to bid high and is now winning from at bridge. i am particularly intimate with her forms of suffering; you see i judge them by my own and my children's during the past years." "then you think i'm not sincere?" asked leslie. "surely, my dear girl!" said mr. minturn. "with all my heart i believe you! i know you are loyal to her, and to me! it isn't _you_ i disbelieve, child, it is my wife." "but i've told you over and over that she's changed." "and i refuse to believe in her power to undergo the genuine and permanent change that would make her an influence for good with her sons, or anything but an uncontrollable element in my home," said mr. minturn. "why leslie, if i were to hunt her up and ask her to come to my house, do you think she would do it?" "i know she would be most happy," said leslie. "small plain rooms, wait on herself, children over the house and lawn at all times--nellie minturn? you amuse me!" he said. "there's no amusement in it for me, it is pitiful tragedy," said leslie. "she is willing, she has offered to change, you are denying her the opportunity." "you don't think deeply enough!" said the man. "suppose, knowing her as i do, i agreed to her coming to my house. suppose i filled it with servants to wait on her, and ruin and make snobs of the boys; it could only result in a fiasco all around, and bring me again to the awful thing i have been through once, in forcing a separation. the present is too good for the boys, and now they are my first consideration." "so i see," said leslie. "nellie isn't getting a particle and she _is_ their mother, and once she really awakened to the situation, she was hungry to mother them, and to take her place in their hearts. i don't know where she is, but feeling as she did when we parted, i know she's not at any summer resort playing bridge at this minute." "you are a friend worth having, leslie; i congratulate my wife on so staunch an advocate," said james minturn. "and i'll promise you this: i'll go back to the hateful subject, just when i felt i was free from it. i'll think on both sides, and i'll weigh all you've said. if i see a glimmering, i will do this much--i will locate her, and learn how genuine was the change you witnessed, and i rather think i'll manage for you to see also. will that satisfy you?" "that will make me radiant, because the change i witnessed was genuine. i know that wherever nellie is to-day and whatever she is doing, she is still firm as when she left me in her desire for reparation toward you and her sons. please think fast, and find her quickly." "leslie, you're incorrigible! go bring douglas to his surprise. he has a right to be happy." "so have you," insisted leslie. "more than he, because you have had such deep sorrow. good-bye." then leslie took leave of the others, returned to the cabin, and hurried to her room to dress for her trip to bring her lover. douglas bruce was waiting when she stopped at the iriquois and his greeting was joyous. mr. winton was cordial, but douglas noticed that he seemed tired and worried, and inquired if he were working unusually hard. he replied that he was, and beginning to feel the heat a little. "then we will drive to the country before dinner to cool off," said leslie, seeing her opportunity. both men agreed that would be enjoyable. after a few minutes of casual talk they relaxed while making smooth passage over city streets and the almost equally level highways of the country. at the end of half an hour douglas sat upright, looking around him. "i don't recognize this," he said. "have we been here before, leslie?" "i think not," she answered. "i don't know why. it is one of my best loved drives. always before we have taken the road to the club house, or some of its branches." they began a gentle ascent, when directly across their way stretched the blue water of a lake. "is here where we take the plunge?" inquired douglas. "no indeed!" answered leslie. "here we speed until we gather such momentum that we shoot across the water and alight on the opposite bank without stopping. make your landing neatly, rogers!" "why have we never been here before?" marvelled douglas. "i don't remember any other road one-half so inviting. just look ahead here! see what a beautiful picture!" he indicated a vine of creeping blackberry spreading over gold sand, its rough, deeply serrated leaves of most artistic cutting, with tufts of snowy bloom surrounding dark-tipped stamens in their centres. "isn't it!" answered mr. winton. "you know what whitman said of it?" "i'm not so well read in whitman as you are." "which is your distinct loss," said mr. winton. "it was he who wrote, 'a running blackberry would adorn the parlours of heaven.'" "and so it would!" exclaimed douglas. "what a frieze that would make for a dining-room! have you ever seen it used?" "never," answered leslie, "or many other of our most exquisite forms of wild growth." "what beautiful country!" douglas commented a minute later as the car sped from the swamp, ran uphill, and down a valley between stretches of tilled farm land on either side, sloping back to the lakes now growing distant, then creeping up a gradual incline until atwater flashed into sight. "man! that's fine!" he said, rising in the car to better admire the view, at which leslie signalled the driver to run slower. "i don't remember that i ever saw anything quite so attractive as this. and if ever water invited a swimmer--that white sand bed seems to extend as far into the lake as you can see. jove! wasn't that a black bass under that thorn bush?" leslie's eyes were shining while her laugh was as joyous as any of the birds. he need not say more. there was a bathing suit in his room; in ten minutes he could be cleaving the water to the opposite shore and have time to return before dinner. the car sped down where the road ran level with the water. a flock of waders arose and circled the lake. on the right was the orchard, the newly made garden, the tiny cabin with green lawn, hammocks swinging between trees, indian blankets spread, and the odour of cooking food in the air. the car stopped, douglas sprang out and offered his hand as he saw leslie intended descending. she took the hand and kept it in her left. with her right she included woods, water, orchard and cabin. "these are my surprise for you," she said. "i am going to live here this summer, and keep house for you and dad while you run and reform the world. welcome home, douglas!" he slowly looked around, then at mr. winton. "do you believe her?" he asked incredulously. "yes indeed! leslie has the faculty of making good. and i'm one day ahead of you. she tried this on me last night. hurry into your bathing suit; we'll swim before dinner, and then we'll fish. it was great going in this morning! i'm sure you'll enjoy it!" "enjoy it!" cried douglas. "here is where the paucity of our language is made manifest." too happy herself for the right word, leslie showed douglas to his room, with its white bed, and row of hooks, on one of which hung the bathing suit; then she went to put on her own, and they hurried to the lake. "you are happy here, leslie?" asked douglas. "never in my life have i been so happy as i am this moment," said leslie, skifting the clear water with her hands while she waited for her father before starting the swim to the opposite shore. "i've got the most joyous thing to tell you." "go on and tell, 'bearer of morning,'" he said. "i am so delighted i'm maudlin." "right over there, on the road to the club house, while 'seeking new worlds to conquer' this afternoon, i ran into james minturn wearing a bathing suit, to his knees in mud and water, building a sod dam for his boys." "you did?" cried douglas. "i did!" said leslie. "here's the picture: a beautiful winding stream, big trees like these on the banks, shade and flowers, birds, and air a-plenty, a fine appearing woman he introduced as his sister, a minturn boy catching fish with his bare hands on either bank, the brother minturn must have adopted legally, since he gave him his name----" "he did," interrupted douglas. "he told me so----" "i was sure of it," said leslie. "and an interesting young man, a tutor, bringing up more sod; the boys acted quite like any other agreeably engaged children--but minturn himself, looking like a man i never saw before, down in the sand and water building a sod dam--a sod dam i'm telling you----" "i notice what you are telling me," cried douglas. "it is duly impressing me. 'dam' is all i can think of." "it's no wonder!" exclaimed leslie. "what did he say to you?" queried douglas. "it wasn't necessary for him to say anything," said leslie. "i could see. he is making over his boys and in order to do it sympathetically, and win their confidence and love, he is being a boy himself again. he has the little chaps under control now. there are love and admiration in their tones when they speak to him, while they _obey_ him. think of it!" "it is something worth thinking of," said douglas. "he was driven to action, but his methods must have been heroic; for they seem to have worked." "yes, for him and the boys," said leslie, "but they are not all his family." "the remainder of his family always has looked out for herself to the exclusion of everything else in life, you have told me; i imagine she is still doing it with wonderful success," hazarded douglas. "it amazes me how men can be so unfeeling." "so you talked to him about her?" "i surely did!" asserted leslie. "and i'll wager you wasted words," said douglas. "not one!" cried the girl. "he will remember each one i spoke. if i don't hear of him taking some action soon, i'll find another occasion, and try again. he shall divide the joy of remaking those boys with their mother." "she will respectfully--i mean disdainfully, decline!" "you don't believe she was in earnest in what she said to me then?" asked the girl. "i am quite sure she was," he answered, "but a few days of her former life with her old friends will take her back to her previous ways with greater abandon than ever. you mark my words." "bother your words!" cried leslie emphatically. "i tell you douglas, i went through the fire with her. i watched her soul come out white. promise me that if ever he talks to you, you won't say anything against her." "it would be a temptation," he said. "minturn is a different man." "so is she a different woman! come on dad, we are waiting for you," called leslie. "what kept you so?" "a paper fell from my pocket, so i picked it up and in glancing at it i became interested in a thought that hadn't occurred to me before, and i forgot. you must forgive your old daddy; his hands are about full these days. between my job for the city, and my own affairs, and those of a friend, i have all i can carry. now let me forget business. i call this great of the girl. and one of the biggest appeals to me is the bill of fare. i had a dinner for a king last night. what have we to-night?" "but won't anticipation spoil it?" she asked. "not a particle," he declared. "it's the fish we caught last night, baked potatoes, cress salad from minturn's brook, strawberries from atwaters, cream from our rented cow, real clover cream, mrs. james says, and biscuit. that's all." "glory!" cried mr. winton. "doesn't that thrill you? let's head for the tallest tamarack of the swamp and then have a feast." on the opposite bank they rested a few minutes, then returned to dinner. afterward, with rogers rowing for mr. winton, and leslie for douglas, they went bass fishing. when the boats passed on the far shore leslie and douglas had three, and mr. winton five. this did not prove that he was the better fisherman, only that he worked constantly; they lost much time in conversation which interested them; but as they enjoyed what they had to say more than the sport, while leslie only wished them to take the fish they would use, it was their affair. the girl soon returned to the minturns and secured a promise from douglas that if mr. minturn talked with him, at least he would say nothing to discourage his friend about the sincerity of his wife's motives. leslie's thoughts then turned to the surprise douglas had mentioned. "oh, that pretty girl?" he inquired casually. "yes, lily," she said. "of course mickey took you to see her! is she really a lovable child, and attractive? could you get any idea of what is her trouble?" douglas carefully reeled while looking at leslie with a speculative smile. "you refuse to consider an attractive young lady of greater beauty than i have previously seen?" he queried. "absolutely! don't waste time on it," she said. "you'll have to begin again and ask me one at a time," he laughed. "what was your first?" "is she really a lovable child?" repeated leslie. "she most certainly is," said douglas. "i could love her dearly. it's plain that mickey adores her. why when a boy gives up trips to the country, the chance to pick up good money, in order to stand over, wash, and cook for a little sick girl, what is the answer?" "the one you have given--that he adores her," conceded leslie. "the next was, 'is she attractive?'" "wonderfully!" cried douglas. "and what she would be in health with flesh to cover her bones and colour on her lips and cheeks is now only dimly foreshadowed." "she must have her chance," said leslie. "i was thinking of her to-day. i'll go to see her at once and bring her here. i will get the best surgeon in multiopolis to examine her and a nurse if need be; then mickey can come out with you." "would you really, leslie?" asked douglas. "but why not?" cried she. "that's one of the things worth while in the world." "i'd love to go halvers with you," proposed douglas. "let's do it! when will you go to see her?" "in a few days," said leslie. "the last one was, 'could you get any idea of what is the trouble?'" "very little," said douglas. "she can sit up and move her hands. he is teaching her to read and write. she had her lesson very creditably copied out on her slate. she practises in his absence on poems mickey makes." "poems?" "doggerel," explained douglas. "four lines at a time. some of it is pathetic, some of it is witty, some of it presages possibilities. he may make a poet. she requires a verse each evening, so he recites it, then writes it out, and she uses it for copy the next day. the finished product is to have a sky-blue cover and be decorated either with an english sparrow, the only bird she has seen, or a cow. she likes milk, and the pictures of cows give her an idea that she can handle them like her doll----" "oh douglas!" protested leslie. "i believe she thinks a whole herd of cows could be kept on her bed, while she finds them quite suitable to decorate mickey's volume," said douglas. "why, hasn't she seen anything at all?" "she has been on the street twice in her life that she knows of," answered douglas. "it will be kind of you to take her, and cure her if it can be done, but you'll have to consult mickey. she is his find, so he claims her, belligerently, i might warn you!" "claims her! _he has her?_" marvelled leslie. "surely! in his room! on his bed! taking care of her himself, and doing a mighty fine job of it! best she ever had i am quite sure," said douglas. "but douglas!" cried leslie in amazement. "'but me no buts,' my lady!" warned douglas. "i know what you would say. save it! you can't do anything that way. mickey is right. she _is_ his. he found her in her last extremity, in rags, on the floor in a dark corner of an attic. he carried her home in that condition, to a clean bed his mother left him. since, he has been her gallant little knight, lying on the floor on his winter bedding, feeding her first and most, not a thought for himself. god, leslie! i don't stand for anything coming between mickey and his child, his 'family' he calls her. he's the biggest small specimen i ever have seen. i'll fight his cause in any court in the country, if his right to her is questioned, as it will be the minute she is taken to a surgeon or a hospital." "how old is she?" asked leslie. "neither of them knows. about ten, i should think." "how has he managed to keep her hidden this long?" "he lives in an attic. the first woman he tried to get help from started the home question, and frightened him; so he appealed to a nurse he met through being connected with an accident; she gave him supplies, instructions and made lily gowns." "but why didn't she----?" began leslie. "she may have thought the child was his sister," said douglas. "she's the loveliest little thing, leslie!" "very little?" asked leslie. "tiny is the word," said douglas. "it's the prettiest sight i ever saw to watch him wait on her, and to see her big, starved, scared eyes follow him with adoring trust." "adoration on both sides, then," laughed leslie. "you imply i'm selecting too big words," said douglas. "wait till you see her, and see them together." "it's a problem!" said leslie. "yes, i admit that!" conceded douglas, "but it isn't _your_ problem." "but they can't go on that way!" cried leslie. "i grant that," said douglas. "all i stipulate is that mickey shall be left to plan their lives himself, and in a way that makes him happy." "that's only fair to him!" said leslie. "now you are grasping and assimilating the situation properly," commented douglas. when they returned to the cabin they found mr. winton stretched in a hammock smoking. douglas took a blanket and leslie a cushion on the steps, while all of them watched the moon pass slowly across atwater. "how are you progressing with the sinners of multiopolis?" asked mr. winton of douglas. "fine!" he answered. "i've found what i think will turn out to be a big defalcation. somebody drops out in disgrace with probably a penitentiary sentence." "oh douglas! how can you?" cried leslie. "how can a man live in luxury when he is stealing other people's money to pay the bills?" he retorted. "yes i know, but douglas, i wish you would buy this place and plow corn, or fish for a living." "sometimes i have an inkling that before i finish with this i shall wish so too," replied he. "what do you think, daddy?" asked leslie. "i think the 'way of the transgressor is hard,' and that as always he pays in the end. go ahead son, but let me know before you reach my office or any of my men. i hope i have my department in perfect order, but sometimes a man gets a surprise." "of course!" agreed douglas. "look at that water, will you? just beyond that ragged old sycamore! that fellow must have been a whale. isn't this great?" "the best of life," said mr. winton, stooping to kiss leslie as he said good-night to both. chapter xiii _a safe proposition_ when mickey posted his letter, in deep thought he slowly walked home. that night his eyes closed with a feeling of relief. he was certain that when peter and his wife and children talked over the plan he had suggested they would be anxious to have such a nice girl as lily in their home for a week. he even went so far as the vague thought that if they kept her until fall, they never would be able to give her up, and possibly she could remain with them until he could learn whether her back could be cured, and make arrangements suitable for her. in his heart he felt sure that mr. bruce or miss leslie would help him take care of her, but he had strong objections to them. he thought the country with its clean air, birds, flowers and quiet the best place for her; if he allowed them to take her, she would be among luxuries which would make all he could do unappreciated. "she wasn't born to things like that; what's the use to spoil her with them?" he argued. "course they haven't spoiled miss leslie, but she wasn't a poor kid to start on, and she has a father to take care of her, and mr. bruce. lily has only me and i'm going to manage my family myself. pretty soon those nice folks will come, and if she likes them, maybe i'll let them take her 'til it's cooler." mickey had thought they would come soon, but he had not supposed it would be the following day. he went downtown early, spent some time drilling his protégé in the paper business, and had the office ready when douglas bruce arrived an hour late. during that hour, mickey's call came. he made an appointment to meet mr. and mrs. peter harding at marsh & jordan's at four o'clock. "peter must have wanted to see her so bad he quit plowing to come," commented mickey, as he hung up the receiver. "he couldn't have finished that field last night! they're just crazy to see lily, and when they do, they'll be worse yet; but of course they wouldn't want to take her from me, 'cause they got three of their own. i guess peter is the safest proposition i know. course he wouldn't ever put a little flowersy-girl in any old orphings' home. sure he wouldn't! he wouldn't put his own there, course he wouldn't mine!" "mickey, what do you think?" asked douglas as he entered. "i've moved to the country!" mickey stared. then came his slow comment: "gee! the cows an' the clover gets all of us!" "i can beat that," said douglas. "i'm going to live beside a lake where i can swim every night and morning, and catch big bass, and live on strawberries from the vines and cream straight from the cow----" "i thought you'd get to the cow before long." "and you are invited to go out with me as often as you want to, and you may arrange to have lily out too! won't that be fine?" mickey hesitated while his eyes grew speculative, before he answered with his ever ready: "sure!" "miss winton made a plan for her father and me," explained douglas. "she knew we would lose our vacations this summer, so she took an old cabin on atwater, and moved out. we are to go back and forth each morning and evening. i never was at the lake before, but it's not far from the club house and it's beautiful. i think most of all i shall enjoy the swimming and fishing." "i haven't had experience with water enough to swim in," said mickey. "a tub has been my limit. you'll have a fine time all right, and thank you for asking me. i think miss winton is great. ain't it funny how many fine folks there are in the world? 'most every one i meet is too nice for any use; but i don't know any swell dames, my people are just common folks." "you wouldn't call miss winton a 'swell dame,' then?" "well i should say nix!" cried mickey. "you wouldn't catch her motoring away to a party and leaving her baby to be slapped and shook out of its breath by a mad nurselady, 'cause she left it herself where the sun hurt its eyes. she wouldn't put a little girl that couldn't walk in any orphings' home where no telling what might happen to her! she'd fix her a precious child and take her for a ride in her car and be careful with her." "are you quite sure about that mickey?" "surest thing you know," said mickey emphatically. "why look her straight in the eyes, and you can tell. i saw her coming away down the street, and the minute i got my peepers on her i picked her for a winner. i guess you did too." "i certainly did," said douglas. "but it is most important that i be perfectly sure, so i should like to have your approval of my choice." "i guess you're kidding now," ventured mickey. "no, i'm in earnest," said douglas bruce. "you see mickey, as i have said before, your education and mine have been different, but yours is equally valuable." "what shall i do now? 'scuse me, i mean--what do i mean?" asked mickey. "to wait until i'm ready for you," suggested douglas. "sure!" conceded mickey. "it's because i'm used to hopping so lively on the streets." "do you miss the streets?" inquired douglas. "well not so much as i thought i would," said mickey, "'sides in a way i'm still on the job, but i guess i'll get henry's boy so he can go it all right. he seems to be doing fairly well; so does the old man." "have you got him in training too?" asked douglas. "oh it's his mug," explained mickey impatiently. "s'pose you do own a grouch, what's the use of displaying it in your show window? those things are dangerous. they're contagious. seeing a fellow on the street looking like he'd never smile again, makes other folks think of their woes, so pretty soon everybody gets sorry for themselves. i'd like to see the whole world happy." "mickey, what makes _you_ so happy to-day?" "i scent somepin' nice in the air," said mickey. "i hear the rumble of the joy wagon coming my way." "you surely look it," declared douglas. "it's a mighty fine thing to be happy. i am especially thinking that, because it looks like this last batch you brought me has a bad dose in it for a man i know. he won't be happy when he sees his name in letters an inch high on the front page of the _herald_." "no, he won't," agreed mickey, his face dulling. "that _comes in my line_. i've seen men forced to take it right on the cars. open a paper, slide down, turn white, shiver, then take a brace and try to sit up and look like they didn't care, when you could see it was all up with them. gee, it's tough! i wish we were in other business." "but what about the men who work hard for their money, not to mince matters, that these men you are pitying steal?" asked douglas. "yes, i know," said mickey. "but there's a big bunch of taxpayers, so it doesn't hit any _one_ so hard. it's tough on them, but honest, mr. bruce, it ain't as tough to lose your coin as it is to lose your glad face. you can earn more money or slide along without so much; but once you get the slick, shamed look on your show window, you can't ever wash it off. since your face is what your friends know you by, it's an awful pity to spoil it." "that's so too, mickey," laughed bruce, "but keep this clearly in your mind. _i'm not spoiling any one's face_. if any man loses his right to look his neighbour frankly in the eye, from the job we're on, it is _his_ fault, not _ours_. if men have lived straight we can't find defalcations in their books, can we?" "nope," agreed mickey. "just the same i wish we were plowing corn, 'stead of looking for them. that plowing job is awful nice. i watched a man the other day, the grandest big bunch of bone and muscle, driving a team it took a gladiator to handle. first time i ever saw it done at close range and it got me. he looked like a man you'd want to tie to and stick 'til the war is over. if he ever has a case he is going to bring it to you. but where he'll get a case out there ten miles from anybody, with the bluest sky you ever saw over his head, and black fields under his feet, i can't see. yes, i wish we were plowing for corn 'stead of trouble." "you little dunce," laughed douglas. "we'd make a fortune plowing corn." "what's the difference how much you make if something black keeps ki-yi-ing at your heels 'bout how you make it?" asked mickey. "there's a good strong kick in my heels, and the 'ki-yi-ing' is for the feet of the man i'm after." "yes, i know," said mickey, "but 'fore we get through with this i just got a hunch that you'll wish we had been plowing corn, too." "what makes you so sure, mickey?" said douglas. "oh things i hear men say when i get the books keep me thinking," replied mickey. "what things?" queried douglas. "oh about who's going to get the axe next!" said mickey. "but what of that?" asked douglas. "why it might be somebody you know!" he cried. "when you find these wrong entries you can't tell who made them." "i know that the man who made them deserves what he gets," said douglas. "yes, i guess he does," agreed mickey. "well go on! but when i grow up i'm going to plow corn." "what about the poetry?" queried douglas. "they go together fine," explained mickey. "when the book is finished, i'd like clover on the cover better than the cow; but if lily wants the live stock it goes!" "of course," assented douglas. "but when she sees a real cow she may change her mind." "right in style! ladies do it often," conceded mickey. "i've seen them so changeful they couldn't tell when they called a taxi where they wanted to be taken." "mickey, your observations on human nature would make a better book than your poetry." "oh i don't know," said mickey. "you see i ain't really got _at_ the poetry job yet. i have to be educated a lot to do it right. what i do now i wouldn't show to anybody else, it's just fooling for lily. but i got an address that gives me a look-in on the paper business if i ever want it. i ain't got at the poetry yet, but i been on the human-nature job from the start. when you go cold and hungry if you don't know human nature--why you _know_ it, that's all!" "you surely do," said douglas. "now let's hustle this forenoon, and then you may have the remainder of the day. i am going fishing." "thank you," said mickey, "i hope you get a bass as long as your arm, and i hope the man you are chasing breaks his neck before you get him." mickey grinned at douglas' laugh, and went racing about his work, then he helped on his paper route until four, when he hurried to his meeting with nancy and peter. "when everybody is so nice if you give them any show at all, i can't understand where the grouchers get their grouch," muttered mickey, as he hopped from one toe to the other and tried to select the car at the curb which would be peter's. "hey you!" presently called a voice from one of them. mickey sent a keen glance over a boy who had come up and entered the car. "straw you!" retorted mickey, landing on the curb in a flying leap. "is your name mickey?" inquired the boy. "yep. is your father's name peter?" asked mickey. "yep. and mine is peter too. so to avoid two peters i am junior. come on in 'til the folks come." formalities were over. mickey laughed as he entered the car and straightway began an investigation of its machinery. now any boy is proud to teach another something he wants to know and does not, so by the time the car was thoroughly explained any listener would have thought them acquaintances from birth. "hurry!" cried junior when his parents came. "i want to get home with mickey. i want him to show me----" "don't you hurry your folks, junior," said mickey, "i'll show you all right!" "well it's about time i was seeing something." "sure it is," agreed mickey. "come on with me here, and i'll show you what real boys are!" "say father, i'm coming you know," cried junior. "i'm tired poking in the country. just look what being in the city has made of mickey." "yes, just look!" cried mickey, waving both hands and bracing on feet wide apart. "do look! your age or more, and about _half_ your beefsteak and bone." "but you got muscle. i bet i couldn't throw you!" "i bet you couldn't either," retorted mickey, "'cause i survived multiopolis by being johnny _not_ on the spot! i've dodged for my life and my living since i can remember. i'm champeen on that. but you come on with me, and i'll get you a job and let you try yourself." "i'm coming," said junior. then remembering he was not independent he turned to his mother. "can't i take a job and work here?" mrs. harding braced herself and succumbed to habit. "that will be as your father says." junior turned toward his father, doubt in his eye, to receive a shock. there was not a trace of surprise or disapproval on the face of peter. "now maybe that would be the best way in the world for you to help me out," he said. "you see me through planting and harvest and then i'll arrange to spare you, and you can see how you like it till fall. but you are too young to give up school and i don't agree to interrupting your education." mrs. harding entered the car. "now mickey," she said as she distributed parcels, "you sit up there with peter and show him the way, and we will go see if we want to undertake the care of your little girl for a week." "drop the anchor, furl the sail, right here," directed mickey when they reached sunrise alley. "you know i told you dearest lady, about how scared my little girl is, having seen so few folks and not expecting you; so i'll have to ask you to wait a few minutes 'til i go up and get her used to your being here and then i'll have to sort of work her up to you one at a time. i 'spect you can't hardly believe that there's anything in all the world so small, and so white, that's lived to have the brains she has, and yet hasn't seen the streets of this city but for a short ride on a street-car twice in her life, and hasn't talked to half a dozen people. she may take you for a bear, peter; you will be quiet and easy, won't you?" "why mickey," said peter, "why of course, son!" mickey bounded up the stairs and swung wide his door. again the awful heat hit him in the face. he swallowed a mouthful, hastily shutting the door. "it's hard on lily," was his mental comment, "but i guess i'll just _save_ that for mr. and mrs. peter. i think a few gulps of it will do them good; it will show them better than talking why, once she's _out_ of it, she shouldn't come back 'til cold weather at least, if at all. yes i guess!" "most baked honey?" he asked, taking her hot hands. "mickey, 'tain't near six," she panted. "no it's two hours early," said mickey. "but you know flowersy-girl, i'm going to take _care_ of you. it's getting too hot for you. don't you remember what i told you last night?" "'bout laying on the grass an' the clover flowers?" "exactly yes!" said mickey. "'fore we melt let's roll up in this sheet and go, lily! what do you say?" "has--has the red-berry folks come?" she cried. "they're downstairs, lily. they're waiting." peaches began climbing into his arms. "mickey, mickey-lovest, hold me tight," she panted. "mickey, i'm scairt just god-damned!" "wope! wope lady! none of that!" cried mickey aghast. "the place where you're going there's a _nice little girl_ that never said such a word in all her life, and if she did her mammy would wash the badness out of her mouth with soap, just like i'll have to wash out yours, if you don't watch. you can't go in the big car, being held tight by me, else you promise cross your heart never, not never to say that again." "mickey, will soapin' take it out?" wailed peaches. "well my mammy took it out of _me_ that way!" "mickey get the soap, an' wash, an' scour it all out now, so's i can't ever. mickey, quick before the nice lady comes that has flower fields, an' red berries, an' honey 'lasses. mickey, hurry!" "oh you fool little sweet kid," he half laughed, half sobbed. "you fool little precious child-kid--i can't! there's a better way. i'll just put on a kiss so tight that no bad swearin's will ever pop out past it. there, like that! now you won't ever say one 'fore the nice little girl, and when i want you not to so bad, will you?" "not never mickey! not never, never, never!" "the folks can't wait any longer," said mickey. "here quick, i'll wash your face and comb you, and get a clean nightie on you, and your sweetest ribbon." "then it's pink," declared peaches, "an' mickey, make me a pretty girl, so's the nice lady will like me to drink her milk." "greedy!" said mickey. "how can i make you pretty when the lord didn't!" "ain't i pretty any at all?" queried peaches. "mebby you would be if you'd fatten up a little," said mickey judicially. "can't anybody be pretty that's got bones sticking out all over them." "mickey, is the girl where we are going pretty?" "i don't know," said mickey. "i haven't seen her. she's a fine little girl, for she's at home taking care of her baby brother so's that her mammy can come and see if you are _nice enough_ to go to her house and not _spoil_ her children. see?" peaches nodded comprehendingly. "mickey, i won't again!" she insisted. "i said not never, never, never. didn't you _hear_ me?" "yes i heard you," said mickey, applying the washcloth, slipping on a fresh nightdress, brushing curls, and tying the ribbon with fingers shaking with excitement and haste. "yes i heard you, but that stuff seems to come awful easy, miss. you got to be careful no end. now, i'm going to bring them. you just smile at them, and when they ask you, tell them the right answer _nice_. will you honey? will you _sure?_" "surest thing you know," quoted peaches promptly. "aw-w-w-ah!" groaned mickey. "that ain't right! miss leslie wouldn't ever said that! you got that from me, too! i guess i better soap out my mouth 'fore i begin on you. 'yes ma'am,' is the answer. now you remember! i'll just bring in the lady first." "i want to see peter first!" announced peaches. "well if i ever!" cried mickey. "peter is a great big man, 'bout twice as big as mr. bruce. you don't either! you want to see the nice lady first, 'cause it's up to _her_ to say if she'll take care of you. she may get mad and not let you go at all, if you ask to see peter _first_. you want to see the nice lady first, don't you lily?" "yes, if i got to, to see the cow. but i don't!" said lily. "i want to see peter. i like peter the _best_." "now you look here miss chicken, don't you start a tantrum!" cried mickey. "if you don't see this nice lady first and be pretty to her, i'll just go down and tell them you _like_ lying here roasting, and they can go back to their flower-fields and berries. see?" peaches drew a deep breath but her eyes were wilful. a wave of heat seemed to envelop them. "sweat it out right now!" ordered mickey. "when people do things for you 'cause they are sorry for you, it's up to you to be polite, to pay back with manners at least. see?" peaches' smile was irresistible: "mickey, i feel so p'lite! i'll see the nice lady first." "now there's a real, sure-enough lady!" mickey stooped to kiss peaches again, take a last look at the hair ribbon, and straighten the sheet, then he ran; but he closed in the heat quickly as he slipped through the doorway. a few seconds later with the harding family at his heels he again approached it. there he made his second speech. he addressed it to peter and junior. "'cause she's so little and so scared, i guess the nice lady better go in first, and make up with her. then one at a time you can come, so so many strangers won't upset her." peter assented heartily, but with a suffocating gesture removed his coat, so junior followed his example. mickey cut short something about "extreme heat" on the lips of mrs. harding by indicating the door, and opening it. he quickly closed it after her, advancing to peaches. "lily, this is the nice lady i was telling you of who has got the bird singing and the flower-fields----" he began. peaches drew back, her eyes wide with wonder and excitement, but her mind followed mickey's lead, for she shocked his sense of propriety by adding: "and the good red berries." but mrs. harding came from an environment where to have "good red berries," spicy smoked ham, fat chickens and golden loaves constituted a first test of efficiency. to have her red berries appreciated did not offend her. if peaches had said "the sweetest, biggest red berries in noble country," the woman would have been delighted, because that was her private opinion, but she was not so certain that corroboration was unpleasant. she advanced, gazing at the child unconsciously gasping the stifling air. she took one hurried glance at the room in its scrupulous bareness, with waves of heat pouring in the open window, and bent over peaches. "won't you come out of this awful heat quickly, and let us carry you away to a cool, shady place? dear little girl, don't you want to come?" she questioned. "is mickey coming too?" asked peaches. "of course mickey is coming too!" said the lady. "will he hold me?" "he will if you want him to," said mrs. harding, "but peter is so much bigger, it wouldn't tire him a mite." mickey shifted on his feet and gazed at peaches; as her eyes sought his, the message he telegraphed her was so plain that she caught it right. "mickey is just awful strong," she said. "i'll go if he'll hold me. but i want to _see_ peter! i _like_ peter!" "why you darling!" cried the nice lady. "and i like junior, that mickey told me about, and your nice little girl that i mustn't ever say no sw----" mickey promptly applied the flat of his hand to the lips of the astonished child. "and you like the little girl and the fat toddly baby----" he prompted. "yes," agreed peaches enthusiastically, twisting away her head, "and i like the milk and the meat--gee, i like the _meat_, only mickey wouldn't give me but a tiny speck 'til he asked the sunshine nurse lady." "you blessed child!" cried nancy harding. "call peter quickly!" mickey opened the door and signalled peter and junior. "she likes you. she asked for you. you can both come at once," he announced, holding the door at a narrow crack until they reached it, both red faced, dripping, and fanning with their hats. peter gasped for air. "my god! has any living child been cooped in this all day?" he roared. "get her out! get her out quick! get her out first and talk afterward. this will give her scarlet fever!" a shrill shout came from behind the intervening lady who arose and stepped back as peaches raised to her elbow, and stretched a shaking hand toward peter. "gee, peter! you get your mouth soaped out first!" she cried. "gee, peter! i _like_ you, peter!" peter bent over her and then stooping to her level he explored her with astonished eyes, as he cried: "why child, you ain't big enough for an exclamation point!" peaches didn't know what an exclamation point was, but mickey did. his laugh brought him again into her thought. "mickey, let's beat it! take me quick!" she panted. "take me first and talk afterward. mickey, we just love these nice people, let's go drink their milk, and eat their red berries." "well miss chicken!" said mickey turning a dull red. the harding family were laughing. "all right, everybody move," said peter. "what do you want to take with you mickey?" "that basket there," he said. "and that box, you take that junior, and you take the precious child, and the slate and the books dearest lady--and i'll take my family; but i ain't so sure about this, lady. she's sweaty now, and riding is the coolingest thing you can do. we mustn't make her sick. she must be well wrapped." "why she couldn't take cold to-day----" began peter. "you and junior shoulder your loads and go right down to the car," said mrs. harding. "mickey and i will manage this. he is exactly right about it. to be taken from such heat to the conditions of motoring might----" "sure!" interposed mickey, dreading the next word for the memories it would awaken in the child's heart. "sure! you two go ahead! we'll come in no time!" "but i'm not going to lug a basket and have a little chap carrying a child. you take this and i'll take the baby!" mickey's wireless went into instant action so peaches promptly rebelled. "i ain't no baby!" she said. "miss leslie moonshine lady sent me her hair ribbons and i 'spect she's been crying for them back every day; and my name what granny named me is peaches, so there!" "corrected! beg pardon!" said peter. "miss peaches, may i have the honour of carrying you to the car?" "nope," said peaches with finality. "nobody, not nobody whatever, not the biggest, millyingairest nobody alive can't ever carry me, nelse mickey says they can, and he is away off on the cars. i like you peter! i just like you heaps; but i'm mickey's, so i got to do what he says 'cause he makes me, jes like he ort, and nobody can't ever tend me like mickey." "so that's the ticket!" mused peter. "yes, that's the ticket," repeated peaches. "i ain't heavy. mickey carried me up, down is easier." "sure!" said mickey. "_i take my own family_. you take yours. we'll be there in a minute." peter and junior disappeared with thankfulness and speed. mrs. harding and mickey wrapped peaches in the sheet and took along a comfort for shelter from the air stirred by motion. steadying his arm, which he wished she would not, they descended. did she think he wanted peaches to suppose he couldn't carry her? he ran down the last flight to show her, frightening her into protest, and had the reward of a giggle against his neck and the tightening of small arms clinging to him. he settled in the car and wrapped lily in the comfort until she had only a small peep of daylight. mickey knew from peaches' laboured breathing and the grip of her hands how agitated she was; but as the car glided smoothly along, driven skilfully by mentality, guided by the controlling thought of a tiny lame back, she became easier and clutched less frantically. he kept the comfort over her head. she had enough to make the change, to see so many strangers all at once, without being excited by unfamiliar things that would bewilder and positively frighten her. mickey stoutly clung to a load that soon grew noticeably heavy; while over and over he repeated in his heart with fortifying intent: "she is my family, i'll take care of her. i'll let them keep her a while because it is too hot for her there, but they shan't _boss_ her, and they got to know it first off, and they shan't take her from me, and they got to understand it." right at that point mickey's grip tightened until the child in his arms shivered with delight of being so enfolded in her old and only security. she turned her head to work her face level with the comfort and whisper in glee: "mickey, we are going just stylish like millyingaire folks, ain't we?" "you just bet we are!" he whispered back. "mickey, you wouldn't let them 'get' me, would you?" "not on your life!" said mickey, gripping her closer. "and peter wouldn't let them 'get' me?" "no, peter would just wipe them clear off the slate if they tried to get you," comforted mickey. "we're in the country now lily. nobody will even think of you away out here." "mickey, i want to see the country!" said peaches. "no miss! i'm scared now," replied mickey. "it was awful hot there and it's lots cooler here, even slow and careful as peter is driving. if you get all excitement, and rearing around, and take a chill, and your back gets worse, just when we have such a grand good chance to make it better--you duck and lay low, and if you're good, and going out doesn't make you sick, after supper when you rest up, maybe i'll let you have a little peepy yellow chicken in your hand to hold a minute, and maybe i'll let you see a cow. you'd give a good deal to see the cow that's going on your book, wouldn't you?" peaches snuggled down in pure content and proved her femininity as she did every day. "yes. but when i see them, maybe i'll like a chicken better, and put it on." "all right with me," agreed mickey. "you just hold still so this doesn't make you sick, and to-morrow you can see things when you are all nice and rested." "mickey," she whispered. mickey bent and what he heard buried his face against peaches' a second and when lifted it radiated a shining glory-light, for she had whispered: "mickey, i'm going to always mind you and love you best of anybody." because she had expected the trip to result in the bringing home of the child, mrs. harding had made ready a low folding davenport in her first-floor bedroom, beside a window where grass, birds and trees were almost in touch, and where it would be convenient to watch and care for her visitor. there in the light, pretty room, mickey gently laid peaches down and said: "now if you'll just give me time to get her rested and settled a little, you can see her a peep; but there ain't going to be _much_ seeing or talking to-night. if she has such a lot she ain't used to and gets sick, it will be a bad thing for her, and all of us, so we better just go slow and easy." "right you are, young man," said peter. "come out of here you kids! come to the back yard and play quietly. when little white butterfly gets rested and fed, we'll come one at a time and kiss her hand, and wish her pleasant dreams with us, and then we'll every one of us get down on our knees and ask god to help us take such good care of her that she will get well at our house." mickey suddenly turned his back on them and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. then he arranged his family so it was not in a draft, sponged and fed it, and failed in the remainder of his promise, because it went to sleep with the last bite and lay in deep exhaustion. so mickey smoothed the sheet, slipped off the ribbon, brushed back the curls, shaded the light, marshalled them in on tiptoe, and with anxious heart studied their compassionate faces. then he telephoned douglas bruce to ask permission to be away from the office the following day, and ventured as far from the house as he felt he dared with junior; but so anxious was he that he kept in sight of the window. and so manly and tender was his scrupulous care, so tiny and delicate his small charge as she lay waxen, lightly breathing to show she really lived, that in the hearts of the harding family grew a deep respect for mickey, and such was their trust in him, that when he folded his comfort and stretched it on the floor beside the child, not even to each other did they think of uttering an objection. so peaches spent her first night in the country breathing clover air, watched constantly by her staunch protector, and carried to the foot of the throne on the lips of one entire family; for even bobbie was told to add to his prayer: "god bless the little sick girl, and make her well at our house." chapter xiv _an orphans' home_ "margaret, i want a few words with you some time soon," said james minturn to his sister. "why not right now?" she proposed. "i'm not busy and for days i've known you were in trouble. tell me at once, and possibly i can help you." "you would deserve my gratitude if you could," he said. "i've suffered until i'm reduced to the extremity that drives me to put into words the thing i have thrashed over in my heart day and night for weeks." "come to my room james," she said. james minturn followed his sister. "now go on and tell me, boy," she ordered. "of course it's about nellie." "yes it's about nellie," he repeated. "did you hear any part of what that very charming young lady had to say to me at our chosen playground, not long ago?" "yes i did," answered mrs. winslow. "but not enough to comprehend thoroughly. did she convince you that you are mistaken?" "no. but this she did do," said mr. minturn. "she battered the walls of what i had believed to be unalterable decision, until she made this opening: i must go into our affairs again. i have got to find out where my wife is, and what she is doing; and if the things miss leslie thinks are true. margaret, i thought it was _settled_. i was happy, in a way; actually happy! no biblical miracle ever seemed to me half so wonderful as the change in the boys." "the difference in them is quite as much of a marvel as you think it," agreed mrs. winslow. "it is greater than i would have thought possible in any circumstances," said mr. minturn. "do they ever mention their mother to you?" "incidentally," she replied, "just as they do maids, footman or governess, in referring to their past life. they never ask for her, in the sense of wanting her, that i know of. malcolm resembles her in appearance and any one could see that she liked him best. she always discriminated against james in his favour if any question between them were ever carried to her." "malcolm is like her in more than looks. he has her musical ability in a marked degree," said mr. minturn. "i have none, but miss winton suggested a thing to me that mr. tower has been able to work up some, and while both boys are deeply interested, it's malcolm who is beginning to slip away alone and listen to and practise bird cries until he deceives the birds themselves. yesterday he called a catbird to within a few feet of him, by reproducing the notes as uttered and inflected by the female." "i know. it was a triumph! he told me about it." "james is well named," said mr. minturn. "he is my boy. already he's beginning to ask questions that are filled with intelligence, solicitude and interest about my business, what things mean, what i am doing, and why. he's going to make the man who will come into my office, who in a few more years will be offering his shoulder for part of my load. you can't understand what the change is from the old attitude of regarding me as worth no consideration; not even a gentleman, as my wife's servants were teaching my sons to think. margaret, how am i going back even to the thought that i may be making a mistake? wouldn't the unpardonable error be to again risk those boys an hour in the company and influence which brought them once to what they were?" "you poor soul!" exclaimed mrs. winslow. "never mind that!" warned mr. minturn. "i'm not accustomed to it, and it doesn't help. have you any faith in nellie?" "none whatever!" exclaimed mrs. winslow. "she's so selfish it's simply fiendish. i'd as soon bury you as to see you subject to her again." "and i'd much sooner be buried, were it not that my heart is set on winning out with those boys," said mr. minturn. "there is material for fine men in them, but there is also depravity that would shock you inexpressibly, instilled by ignorant, malicious servants. i wish leslie winton had kept quiet." "and so do i!" agreed mrs. winslow. "i could scarcely endure it, as i realized what was going on. while nellie had you, there was no indignity, no public humiliation at which she stopped. for my own satisfaction i examined elizabeth before she was laid away, and i held my tongue because i thought you didn't know. when _did_ you find out?" "a newsboy told me. he went with a woman who was in the park where it happened, to tell nellie, but they were insulted for their pains. some way my best friend douglas bruce picked him up and attached him, as i did william; it was at my suggestion. of course i couldn't imagine that out of several thousand newsies douglas would select the one who knew my secret and who daily blasts me with his scorn. if he runs into an elevator where i am, the whistle dies on his lips; his smile fades and he actually shrinks from my presence. you can't blame him. a man _should be able to protect the children he fathers_. what he said to me stunned me so, he thought me indifferent. in my place, would you stop him some day and explain?" "i most certainly would," said mrs. winslow. "a child's scorn is withering, and you don't deserve it." "i have often wondered what or how much he told bruce," said mr. minturn. "could you detect any change in mr. bruce after the boy came into his office?" asked mrs. winslow. "only that he was kinder and friendlier than ever." "that probably means that the boy told him and that mr. bruce understood and was sorry." "no doubt," he said. "you'd talk to the boy then? now what would you do about nellie?" "what was it miss winton thought you _should_ do?" "see nellie! take her back!" he exclaimed. "give her further opportunity to exercise her brand of wifehood on me and motherhood on the boys!" "james, if you do, i'll never forgive you!" cried his sister. "if you tear up this comfortable, healthful place, where you are the honoured head of your house, and put your boys back where you found them, i'll go home and stay there; and you can't blame me." "miss winton didn't ask me to go back," he explained; "that couldn't be done. i saw and examined the deed of gift of the premises to the city. the only thing she could do would be to buy it back, and it's torn up inside, and will be in shape for opening any day now, i hear. the city needed a children's hospital; to get a place like that free, in so beautiful and convenient a location--and her old friends are furious at her for bringing sickness and crooked bodies among them. no doubt they would welcome her there, but they wouldn't welcome her anywhere else. she must have endowed it liberally, no hospital in the city has a staff of the strength announced for it." "james, you are wandering!" she interrupted. "you started to tell me what miss winton asked of you." "that i bring nellie here," he explained. "that i make her mistress of this house. that i put myself and the boys in her hands again." "oh good lord!" ejaculated mrs. winslow. "james, are you actually thinking of _that?_ mind, i don't care for myself. i have a home and all i want. but for you and those boys, are you really contemplating it?" "no!" he said. "all i'm thinking of is whether it is my duty to hunt her up and once more convince myself that she is heartless vanity personified, and utterly indifferent to me personally, as i am to her." "suppose you do go to her and find that through pique, because you made the move for separation yourself, she wants to try it over, or to get the boys again--she's got a mint of money. do you know just how much she has?" "i do not, and i never did," he replied. "her funds never in any part were in my hands. i felt capable of making all i needed myself, and i have. i earn as much as it is right i should have; but she'd scorn my plan for life and what satisfies me; and she'd think the boys disgraced, living as they are." "james, was there an hour, even in your honeymoon, when nellie forgot herself and was a lovable woman?" "it is painful to recall, but yes! yes indeed!" he answered. "never did a man marry with higher hope!" "then what----?" marvelled mrs. winslow. "primarily, her mother, then her society friends, then the power of her money," he answered. "just how did it happen?" she queried. "it began with mrs. blondon's violent opposition to children; when she knew a child was coming she practically moved in with us, and spent hours pitying her daughter, sending for a doctor at each inevitable consequence, keeping up an exciting rush of friends coming when the girl should have had quiet and rest, treating me with contempt, and daily holding me up as the monster responsible for all these things. the result was nervousness and discontent bred by such a course at such a time, until it amounted to actual pain, and lastly unlimited money with which to indulge every fancy. "in such circumstances delivery became the horror they made of it, although several of the doctors told me privately not to have the slightest alarm; it was simply the method of rich selfish women to make such a bugbear of childbirth a wife might well be excused for refusing to endure it. sifted to the bottom that was _exactly what it was_. i didn't know until the birth of james that they had neglected to follow the instructions of their doctors and made no preparation for nursing the child; as a result, when i insisted that it must be done, shrieks of pain, painful enough as i could see, resulted in a nervous chill for the mother, more inhumanity in me, and the boy was turned over to a hired woman with his first breath and to begin unnatural life. i watched the little chap all i could; he was strong and healthy, and while skilled nurses were available he upset every rule by thriving; which was one more count against me, and the lesson pointed out and driven home that no young wife could give a child such attention, so the baby was better off in the hands of the nurse. that he was reared without love, that his mother took not an iota of responsibility in his care, developed not a trait of motherhood, simply went on being a society belle, had nothing to do with it. "he did so well, nellie escaped so much better than many of her friends, that in time she seemed to forget it and didn't rebel at malcolm's advent, or elizabeth's, but by that time i had been practically ostracized from the nursery; governesses were empowered to flout and insult me; i scarcely saw my children, and what i did see made me furious, so i vetoed more orphans bearing my name, and gave up doing anything. then came the tragedy of elizabeth. surely you understand 'just how' it was done margaret?" "of course i had an idea, but i never before got just the perfect picture, and now i have it, though it's the last word i _want_ to say to you, god made me so that i'm forced to say it, although it furnishes one more example of what is called inconsistency." "be careful what you say, margaret!" "i must say it," she replied. "i've encouraged you to talk in detail, because i wanted to be sure i was right in the position i was taking; but you've given me a different viewpoint. why james, think it over yourself in the light of what you just have told me. nellie never has been a mother at all! her heart is more barren than that of a woman to whom motherhood is physical impossibility, yet whose heart aches with maternal instinct!" "margaret!" cried james minturn. "james, it's true!" she persisted. "i never have understood. for fear of that, i led you on and now look what you've told me. nellie never had a chance at natural motherhood. the thing called society made a foolish mother to begin with, while she in turn ruined her daughter, and if elizabeth had lived it would have been passed on to her. you throw a new light on nellie. as long as she was herself, she was tender and loving, and you adored her; if you had been alone and moderately circumstanced, she would have continued being so lovable that after ten years your face flushes with painful memory as you speak of it. i've always thought her abandoned as to wifely and motherly instinct. what you say proves she was a lovable girl, ruined by society, through the medium of her mother and friends." "if she cared for me as she said, she should have been enough of a woman----" began mr. minturn. "maybe she _should_, but you must take into consideration that she was not herself when the trouble began; she was, as are all women, even those most delighted over the prospect, in an unnatural condition, _in so far that usual conditions were unusual_, and probably made her ill, nervous, apprehensive, not herself at all." "do you mean to say that you are changing?" "worse than that!" she said emphatically. "i have positively and permanently changed. even at your expense i will do nellie justice. james, your grievance is not against your wife; it is against the mother who bore her, the society that moulded her." "she should have been woman enough----" he began. "left alone, she was!" insisted mrs. winslow. "with the ills and apprehensions of motherhood upon her, she yielded as most young, inexperienced women would yield to what came under the guise of tender solicitude, and no doubt eased or banished pain, which all of us avoid when possible; and the pain connected with motherhood is a thing in awe of which the most practised physicians admit themselves almost stunned. the woman who would put aside pampering and stoically endure what money and friends could alleviate is rare. jim, pain or no pain to you, you must find your wife and learn for yourself if she is heartless; or whether in some miraculous way some one has proved to her what you have made plain as possible to me. you must hunt her up, and if she is still under her mother's and society's influence, and refuses _to change_, let her remain. but--but if she has changed, as you have just seen me change, then you should give her another chance if she asks it." "i can't!" he cried. "you must! the evidence is in her favour." "what do you mean?" he demanded impatiently. "her acquiescence in your right to take the boys and alter their method of life; her agreement that for their sakes you might do as you chose with no interference from her; both those are the acknowledgment of failure on her part and willingness for you to repair the damages if you can," she explained. "her gift of a residence, the furnishings of which would have paid for the slight alterations necessary to transform a modern home into the most beautiful of modern hospitals, in a wonderfully lovely location, and leave enough to start it with as fine a staff as money can provide--that gift is a deliberately planned effort at reparation; the limiting of patients to children under ten is her heart trying to tell yours that she would atone." "o lord!" cried james minturn. "yes i know," said mrs. winslow. "call on him! you need him! there is no question but that he put into her head the idea of setting a home for the healing of little children, in the most exclusive residence district of multiopolis, where women of millions are forced to see it every time they look from a window or step from their door. have you seen it yourself, james?" "naturally i wouldn't haunt the location." "i would, and i did!" said mrs. winslow. "a few days ago i went over it from basement to garret. you go and see it. and i recall now that her lawyer was there, with sheets of paper in his hand, talking with workmen. i think he's working for nellie and that she is probably directing the changes and personally evolving a big, white, shining reparation." "it's a late date to talk about reparation," he said. "which simply drives me to the truism, 'better late than never!' and to the addition of the comment that nellie is only thirty and that but ten years of your lives have been wasted; if you hurry and save the remainder, you should have fifty apiece coming to you, if you breathe deep, sleep cool, and dine sensibly," said mrs. winslow. she walked out of the room and closed the door. james minturn sat thinking a long time, then called his car and drove to atwater alone. he found leslie in the orchard, a book of bird scores in her hands, and several sheets of music beside her. her greeting was so cordial, so frankly sweet and womanly, he could scarcely endure it, because his head was filled with thoughts of his wife. "you are still at your bird study?" he asked. "yes. it's the most fascinating thing," she said. "i know," he conceded. "i want the titles of the books you're using. i mentioned it to mr. tower, our tutor, and he was interested instantly, and far more capable of going at it intelligently than i am, because he has some musical training. ever since we talked it over he and the boys have been at work in a crude way; you might be amused at their results, but to me they are wonderful. they began hiding in bird haunts and listening, working on imitations of cries and calls, and reproducing what they heard, until in a few weeks' time--why i don't even know their repertoire, but they can call quail, larks, owls, orioles, whip-poor-wills, so perfectly they get answers. james will never do anything worth while in music, he's too much like me; but malcolm is saving his money and working to buy a violin; he's going to read a music score faster than he will a book. i'm hunting an instructor for him who will start his education on the subjects which interest him most. do you know any one leslie?" "no one who could do more than study with him. it's a branch that is just being taken up, but i have talked of it quite a bit with mr. dovesky, the harmony director of the conservatory. if you go to him and make him understand what you want along every line, i think he'd take malcolm as a special student. i'd love to help him as far as i've gone, but i'm only a beginner myself, and i've no such ability as it is very possible he may have." "he has it," said mr. minturn conclusively. "he has his mother's fine ear and artistic perception. if she undertook it, what a success she could make!" "i never saw her so interested in anything as she was that day at the tamarack swamp," said leslie, "and her heart was full of other matters too; but she recognized the songs i took her to hear. she said she never had been so attracted by a new idea in her whole life." "leslie, i came to you this morning about nellie. i promised you to think matters over, and i've done nothing else since i last saw you, hateful as has been the occupation. you're still sure of what you said about her then?" "positively!" cried leslie. "do you hear from her?" he asked. "no," she answered. "you spoke of a letter----" he suggested. "a note she wrote me before leaving," explained leslie. "you see i'd been with her all day and we had raced home so joyously; and when things came out as they did, she knew i wouldn't understand." "might i see it?" he asked. "surely," said leslie. "i spoke of that the other day. i'll bring it." when leslie returned james minturn read the missive several times; then he handed it back, saying: "what is there in that leslie, to prove your points?" "three things," said leslie with conviction: "the statement that for an hour after she reached her decision she experienced real joy and expected to render the same to you; the acknowledgment that she understood that you didn't know what you were doing to her, in your reception of her; and the final admission that life now held so little for her that she would gladly end it, if she dared, without making what reparation she could. what more do you want?" "you're very sure you are drawing the right deductions?" he asked. "i wish you would sit down and let me tell you of that day," said leslie. "i have come to you for help," said james minturn. "i would be more than glad, if you'd be so kind." at the end: "i don't think i've missed a word," said leslie. "that day is and always will be sharply outlined." "you've not heard from her since that note?" he asked. "you don't know where she is?" "no," said leslie. "i haven't an idea where you could find her; but because of her lawyer superintending the hospital repairs, because of the wonderful way things are being done, daddy thinks it's sure that the work is in john haynes' hands, and that she is directing it through him." "if it were not for the war, i would know," said mr. minturn. "but understanding her as i do----" "i think instead of understanding her so well, you scarcely know her at all," said leslie gently. "you may have had a few months of her real nature to begin with, but when her rearing and environment ruled her life, the real woman was either perverted or had small chance. do you ever stop to think what kind of a man you might have been, if all your life you had been forced and influenced as nellie was?" "good lord!" cried mr. minturn. "exactly!" agreed leslie. "that's what i'm telling you! she had got to the realization of the fact that her life had been husks and ashes; so she went to beg you to help her to a better way, and you failed her. i'm not saying it was your fault; i'm not saying i blame you; i'm merely stating facts." "margaret blames me!" said mr. minturn. "she thinks i'm enough at fault that i never can find happiness until i locate nellie and learn whether she is with her mother and friends, or if she really meant what she said about changing, enough to go ahead and be different from principle." "her change was radical and permanent." "i've got to know," said mr. minturn, "but i've no faith in her ability to change, and no desire to meet her if she has." "humph!" said leslie. "that proves that you need some changing yourself." "i certainly do," said james minturn. "if i could have an operation on my brain which would remove that particular cell in which is stored the memory of the past ten years----" "you will when you see her," said leslie, "and she'll be your surgeon." "impossible!" he cried. "go find her," said leslie. "you must to regain peace for yourself." james minturn returned a troubled man, but with viewpoint shifting so imperceptibly he did not realize what was happening. on his way he decided to visit the hospital, repugnant as the thought was to him. from afar he was amazed at sight of the building. he knew instantly that it must have been the leading topic of conversation among his friends purposely avoided in his presence. marble pillars and decorations had been freshly cleaned, the building was snowdrift white; it shone through the branches of big trees surrounding it like a fairy palace. at the top of the steps leading to the entrance stood a marble group of heroic proportions that was wonderful. it was a seated figure of christ, but cut with the face of a man of his station, occupation, and race, garbed in simple robe, and in his arms, at his knees, leaning against him, a group of children: the lean, sick and ailing, such as were carried to him for healing. cut in the wall above it in large gold-filled letters was the admonition: "suffer little children to come unto me." that group was the work of a student and a thinker who could carry an idea to a logical conclusion, and then carve it from marble. the thought it gave james minturn, arrested before it, was not the stereotyped idea of christ, not the conventional reproduction of childhood. it impressed on mr. minturn's brain that the man of galilee had lived in the form of other men of his day, and that such a face, filled with infinite compassion, was much stronger and more forceful than that of the mild feminine countenance he had been accustomed to associating with the saviour. he entered the door to find his former home filled with workmen, and the opening day almost at hand. everywhere was sanitary whiteness. the reception hall was ready for guests, his library occupied by the matron; the dining-hall a storeroom, the second and third floors in separate wards, save the big ballroom, now whiter than ever, its touches of gold freshly gleaming, beautiful flowers in tubs, canaries singing in a brass house filling one end of the room, tiny chairs, cots, every conceivable form of comfort and amusement for convalescing little children. the pipe organ remained in place, music boxes and wonderful mechanical toys had been added, rugs that had been in the house were spread on the floor. no normal man could study and interpret the intention of that place unmoved. all over the building was the same beautiful whiteness, the same comfort, and thoughtful preparation for the purpose it was designed to fill. the operating rooms were perfect, the whole the result of loving thought, careful execution, and uncounted expense. he came in time to the locked door of his wife's suite, and before he left the building he met her lawyer. he offered his hand and said heartily: "my sister told me of the wonderful work going on here; she advised me to come and see for myself. i am very glad i did. there's something bigger than the usual idea in this that keeps obtruding itself." "i think that too," agreed john haynes. "i've almost quit my practice to work out these plans." "they are my wife's, by any chance?" "all hers," said mr. haynes. "i only carry out her instructions as they come to me." "will you give me her address?" asked mr. minturn. "i should like to tell her how great i think this." "i carry a packet for you that came with a bundle of plans this morning," said mr. haynes. "perhaps her address is in it. if it isn't, i can't give it to you, because i haven't it myself. she's not in the city, all her instructions she sends some one, possibly at her mother's home, and they are delivered to me. i give my communications to the boy who brings her orders." "then i'll write my note and you give it to him." "i'm sorry minturn," said mr. haynes, "but i have my orders in the event you should wish to reach her through me." "she doesn't wish to hear from me?" "i'm sorry no end, mr. minturn, but----" "possibly this contains what i want to know," said mr. minturn. "thank you, and i congratulate you on your work here. it is humane in the finest degree." james minturn went to his office and opened the packet. it was a complete accounting of every dollar his wife was worth, this divided exactly into thirds, one of which she kept, one she transferred to him, and the other she placed in his care for her sons to be equally divided between them at his discretion. he returned and found the lawyer had gone to his office. he followed and showed him the documents. "what she places to my credit for our sons, that i will handle with the utmost care," he said. "what she puts at my personal disposal i do not accept. we are living comfortably, and as expensively as i desire to. there is no reason why i should take such a sum at her hands, even though she has more than i would have estimated. you will kindly return this deed of transfer to her, with my thanks, and a note i will enclose." "sorry minturn, but as i told you before, i haven't her address. i'm working on a salary i should dislike to forfeit, and my orders are distinct concerning you." "you could give me no idea where to find her?" "not the slightest!" said the lawyer. "will you take charge of these papers?" he questioned. "i dare not," replied mr. haynes. "will you ask her if you may?" persisted mr. minturn. "sorry minturn, but perhaps if you should see my instructions in the case, you'd understand better. i don't wish you to think me disobliging." mr. minturn took the sheet and read the indicated paragraph written in his wife's clear hand: _leslie winton was very good to me my last day in multiopolis. she was with me when i reached a decision concerning my future relations with mr. minturn, as i would have arranged them; and i am quite sure when she knows of our separation she will feel that it would not have occurred had james known of this decision of mine. it would have made no difference; but i am convinced leslie will think it would, and that she will go to james about it. i doubt if it will change his attitude; but if by any possibility it should, and if in any event whatever he comes to you seeking my address, or me, i depend on you to in no way help him, if it should happen that you could. for this reason i am keeping it out of your power, unless i make some misstep that points to where i am. i don't wish to make any mystery of my location, or to disregard any intention that it is barely possible leslie could bring mr. minturn to, concerning me. i merely wish to be left alone for a time; to work out my own expiation, if there be any; and to test my soul until i know for myself whether it is possible for a social leopard to change her spots. i have got to know absolutely that i am beyond question a woman fit to be a wife and mother, before i again trust myself in any relation of life toward any one_. mr. minturn returned the sheet, his face deeply thoughtful. "i see her point," he said. "i will deposit the papers in a safety vault until she comes, and in accordance with this, i shall make no effort to find her. my wife feels that she must work out her own salvation, and i am beginning to realize that a thorough self-investigation and revelation will not hurt me. thank you. good morning." chapter xv _a particular nix_ peaches awakened early the following morning, but mickey was watching beside her to help her remember, to prompt, to soothe, to comfort and to teach. he followed mrs. harding to the kitchen and from the prepared food selected what he thought came closest filling the diet prescribed by the sunshine nurse, and then he carried the tray to a fresh, cool peaches beside a window opening on a grassy, tree-covered lawn. her room was bewildering on account of its many, and to the child, magnificent furnishings. she found herself stretching, twisting and filled with a wild desire to walk, to see the house, the little girl and the real baby, the lawn beyond her window, the flower-field, the red berries where they grew, and the birds and animals from which came the most amazing sounds. after doing everything for peaches he could, mickey went to his breakfast. mary harding and bobbie were so anxious to see the visitor they could scarcely eat. knowing it was no use to try forcing them, their mother excused them and they ventured as far as the door. there they stopped, gazing at the little stranger, while she stared back at them; but she was not frightened, because she knew who they were and that they would be good to her, else mickey would not let them come. so when mary, holding little brother's hand, came peeping around the door-casing, peaches withdrew her attention from exploration of the strip of lawn in her range and concentrated on them. if they had come bounding at her, she would have been frightened, but they did not. they stood still, half afraid, watching the tiny white creature, till suddenly she smiled at them and held out her hand. "i like you," she said. "did you have red berries for breakfus?" mary nodded and smiled back. "i think you're a pretty little girl," said peaches. "i ain't half as pretty as you," said mary. "no a-course you ain't," she admitted. "your family don't put your ribbon on you 'til night, do they? mickey put mine on this morning 'cause i have to look nice and be jus' as good, else i have to be took back to the hot room. do you have to be nice too?" "yes, i have to be a good girl," said mary. "what does your family do to you if you don't mind?" "i ain't going to tell, but it makes me," said mary. "what does yours do to you?" "i ain't going to tell either," said peaches, "but i get jus' as good! what's your name?" "mary." "what's his?" "bobbie. mostly we call him little brother. ain't he sweet?" asked mary. "jus' a precious child! let him mark on my slate." mickey hurried to the room. as he neared the door he stepped softly and peeped inside. it was a problem with him as to how far mary and bobbie could be trusted. having been with peaches every day he could not accurately mark improvements, but he could see that her bones did not protrude so far, that her skin was not the yellow, glisteny horror it had been, that the calloused spots were going under the steady rubbing of nightly oil massage, so lately he had added the same treatment to her feet; if they were not less bony, if the skin were not soft and taking on a pinkish colour, mickey felt that his eyes were unreliable. surely she was better! of course she was better! she had to be! she ate more, she sat up longer, she moved her feet where first they had hung helpless. she was better, much better, and for that especial reason, now was the time to watch closer than before. now he must make sure that a big strong child did not drag her from the bed, and forever undo all he had gained. since he had written dr. carrel, mickey had rubbed in desperation, not only nights but mornings also, lest he had asked help before he was ready for it; for the sunshine lady had said explicitly that the sick back could not be operated until the child was stronger. he was working according to instructions. mickey watched. any one could have seen the delicate flush on peaches' cheek that morning, the hint of red on her lips, the clearing whites of her lovely eyes. she was helping bobbie as mickey had taught her. and bobbie approved mightily. he lifted his face, put up his arms and issued his command: "take bobbie!" "no! no, bobbie," cautioned mary. "mother said no! you must stay on the floor! sister will take you. you mustn't touch peaches 'til god makes her well. you asked him last night, don't you know? mother will spank something awful if you touch her. you must be careful 'til her back is well, mother said so, and father too; father said it crosser than mother, don't you remember?" "mustn't touch!" repeated bobbie, drawing back. mickey was satisfied with mrs. harding's instructions, but he took the opportunity to emphasize a few points himself. he even slipped one white, bony foot from under the sheet and showed mary how sick it was, and how carefully it must be rubbed before it would walk. "i can rub it," announced mary. "well don't you try that," cautioned mickey. "why go on and let her!" interposed peaches. "go on and let her! after today you said you'd be gone all day, an' if rubbing in the morning and evening is good, maybe more would make me walk sooner. mickey i ain't ever said it, 'cause you do so much an' try so hard, but mickey, _i'm just about dead to walk!_ mickey, i'm so tired being lifted. mickey, i want to get up an' _go_ when i want to, like other folks!" "well that's the first time you ever said that." "well 'tain't the first time i ever could a-said it, if i'd a-wanted to," explained peaches. "i see! you game little kid, you," said mickey. "all right mary, you ask your mother and if she says so, i'll show you how, and maybe you can rub lily's feet, if you go slow and easy and don't jar her back a speck." "ma said i could a-ready," explained mary. "ma said for me to! she said all of us would, all the time we had while you were away, so she'd get better faster. ma said she'd give a hundred dollars if peaches would get so she could walk here." mickey sat back on his heels suddenly. "who'd she say that to?" he demanded. "pa. and he said he'd give five hundred." "aw-a-ah!" marvelled mickey. "he did too!" insisted mary. "this morning 'fore you came out. and junior would too. he'd give all in his bank! and he'd rub too! he said he would." "well, if you ain't the nicest folks!" cried mickey. "gee, i'm glad i found you!" "jus' as glad!" chimed in peaches. "mary bring robert here!" called mrs. harding from the hall. mary obeyed. mickey moved up and looked intently at peaches. "well lily," he asked, "what do you _think_ of this?" "i wouldn't trade this for heaven!" she answered. "the country is all the heaven a-body needs, in june." "mickey, bring in the cow now!" ordered peaches. "bring in the cow?" queried mickey. "sure, the little red cow in the book that makes the milk. i want you to milk her right here on my bed!" "well, if i ever!" gasped mickey. "sure, i'll bring her in a minute; but a cow is big, lily! awful, great big. i couldn't bring her in here; but maybe i can drive her where you can see, or i don't know what would be the harm in taking you where the cows are. but first, one thing! now you look right at me, miss chicken. there's something i got to _know_ if you got in your head _straight_. who found you, and kept them from 'getting' you?" "mickey-lovest," replied peaches promptly. "then who d'you belong to?" he demanded. "mickey!" she answered instantly. "who you got to do as i say?" he continued. "mickey," she repeated. "whose _family_ are you?" he pursued. "mickey's!" she cried. "mickey, what's the matter? mickey, i love you best. i'm all yours. mickey, i'll go back an' never say a word 'bout the hotness, or the longness, or anything, if you don't _want_ me here." "well i do want you here," said mickey in slow insistent tone. "i want you right here! but you got to _understand_ a few things. you're mine. i'm going to keep you; you got to understand that." "yes mickey," conceded peaches. "and if it will help you to be rubbed more than i can rub you while i got to earn money to pay for our supper when we go home, and fix your back, and save for the seminary, i'll let the nice pleasant lady rub you; and i'll let a good girl like mary rub you, and if his hands ain't so big they hurt, maybe i'll let peter rub you; he takes care of bobbie, maybe he could you, and he's got a family of his own, so he knows how it feels; but it's _nix_ on anybody else, miss chicken, see?" "they ain't nobody else!" said peaches. "there is too!" contradicted mickey. "mary said junior would rub your feet! well he _won't!_ it's nix on junior! _he's only a boy! he ain't got a family. he hasn't had experience. he doesn't know anything about families! see?_" "he carries bobbie, an' i bet he's heavier 'an me." for the first time mickey lost his temper. "now you looky here, miss chicken," he stormed. "i ain't saying what he _can_ do, i'm saying what he _can't!_ see? you are mine, and i'm going to keep you! he can lift me for all i care, but he can't carry you, nor rub your feet, nor nothing; because he didn't find you, and you ain't his; and i won't have it, not at all! course he's a good boy, and he's a nice boy, and you can play with him, and talk to him, i'll let you just be awful nice to him, because it's polite that you should be, but when it comes to carrying and rubbing, it's nix on junior, because he's got no family and doesn't understand. see?" "umhuh," taunted peaches. "well, are you going to promise?" demanded mickey. "maybe," she teased. "back you go and never see a cow at all if you don't promise," threatened mickey. "mickey, what's the matter with you?" cried peaches suddenly. "what you getting a tantrum yourself for? you ain't never had none before." "that ain't no sign i ain't just busting full of them," said mickey. "bad ones, and i feel an awful one as can be coming right now, and coming quick. are you going to promise me nobody who hasn't a _family_, carries you, and rubs you?" peaches looked at him in steady wonderment. "i guess you're pretty tired, an' you need to sleep a while, or somepin," she said. "if you wasn't about sick yourself, you'd know 'at anybody 'cept you 'ull get their dam-gone heads ripped off if they touches me, nelse _you_ say so. _course_, you found me! _course_, they'd a-got me, if you hadn't took me. _course_, i'm yours! _course_, it's nix on junior, an' it's _nix_ on peter if you say so. mickey, i jus' love you an' love you. i'll go back now if you say so, i tell you. mickey _what's_ the matter?" she stretched up her arms, and mickey sank into them. he buried his face beside hers and for the first time she patted him, and whispered to him as she did to her doll. she rubbed her cheek against his, crooned over him, and held him tight while he gulped down big sobs. "mickey, tell me," she begged, like a little mother. "tell me honey? are you got a pain anywhere?" "no!" he said. "maybe i _was_ kind of strung up, getting you here and being so awful scared about hurting you; but it's all right now. you are here, and things are going to be fine, only, will you, cross your heart, _always and forever remember this: it's nix on junior, or any boy, who ain't got a family, and doesn't understand?_" "yes mickey, cross my heart, an' f'rever, an' ever; an' mickey, you must get the soap. i slipped, an' said the worse yet. i didn't mean to, but mickey, i guess you can't _trust_ me. i guess you got to soap me, or beat me, or somepin awful. go on an' do it, mickey." "why crazy!" said mickey. "you're mixed up. you didn't say anything! what you said was all rightest ever; rightest of anything i ever heard. _it was just exactly what i wanted you to say_. i just _loved_ what you said." "well if i ever!" cried peaches. "mickey, you was so mixed up you didn't hear me. i got 'nother chance. goody, goody! now show me the cow!" "all right!" said mickey. "i'll talk with mrs. harding and see how she thinks i best go at it. lily, you won't ever, ever forget that particular nix, will you?" "not ever," she promised, and lifted her lips to seal the pact with a kiss that meant more to mickey than all that had preceded it. "just how do you feel, anyway, flowersy-girl?" "fine!" said peaches. "i can tell by how it is right now, that it isn't going to get all smothery an' sweatin's here; whoohoo it's so good, mickey!" mickey bent over her holding both hands and whispered: "then just you keep right before your eyes where you came from, miss, and what you must go _back_ to, if you don't behave. you will be a good girl, won't you?" "honest, mickey-lovest, jus' as good." "well how goes it with the little white butterfly?" asked peter at the door. mickey looked at peaches to slightly nod encouragement, then he slipped from the room. she gave peter a smile of wonderment and answered readily: "grand as queen-lady. you're jus' so nice and fine." now peter hadn't known it, but all his life he had been big; handled rough tools, tasks, implements and animals; while his body grew sinewy and hard, to cope with his task, his heart demanded more refined things; so if peaches had known the most musical languages on earth, she could not have used words to peter that would have served her better. he radiated content. "good!" he cried. "that's grand and good! i didn't take a fair look at you last night. it was so sissing hot in that place and you went to sleep before i got my chores done; but now we must get acquainted. tell me honey, does any particular place in your little body hurt you? if there does, put your hand and show peter where." peaches stared at peter, then she faintly smiled at him and laid a fluttering hand on her left side. "oh shockings!" mourned peter. "that's too bad! that's vital! your heart's right under there, honey. is there a pain in your _heart?_" peaches nodded solemnly. "not _all_ the time!" she explained. "only like now, when you are so _good_ to me. jus' so fine and good." then and there peter surrendered. he bent and kissed the hand he held, and said with tears saturating his words, just as tears do permeate speech sometimes: "pshaw now, little white butterfly! i never was more pleased to hear anything in my life. ma and i have talked for years of having some city children here for summer, but we've been slow trying it because we hear such bad reports from many of them, and it's natural for people to shield their own; but i guess instead of shielding, we may have been denying. i can't see anything about you children to hurt ours; and i notice a number of ways where it is beneficial to have you here. it's surely good for all of us. you're the nicest little folks!" peaches sat up suddenly and smiled on peter. "mickey is nice an' fine," she told him. "not even you, or anybody, is nice as mickey. an' i'm _going_ to be. i'd _like_ to be! but you see, i laid alone all day in a dark corner so long, an' i got so wild like, 'at when granny did come, i done an' said jus' like she did, but mickey doesn't like it. he's scairt 'most stiff fear i'll forget an' say bad swearin's, an' you'll send me back to the hotness, so's i won't get better. would you send me back if i forget _just once_, peter?" "why pshaw now!" said peter. "pshaw little soul, don't you worry about that. you try _hard_ to remember, and be like mickey wants you to, and if you make a slip, i'll speak to ma about it, and we'll just turn a deaf ear, and away out here, you'll soon forget it." just then, mickey, trailing a rope, passed before the window; there was a crunching sound; a lumbering cow stopped, lifted a mouth half filled with grass, and bawled her loudest protest at being separated from her calf. peaches had only half a glance, but her shriek was utter terror. she launched herself on peter and climbed him, until her knees were on his chest, and her fingers clutching his hair. "god jesus!" she screamed. "it 'ull eat me!" peter caught her in his arms, turning his back. mickey heard, and saw, and realized that the cow was too big and had appeared too precipitately, and bellowed too loudly. he should have begun on the smallest calf on the place. he rushed the cow back to junior, and himself to peaches, who, sobbing wildly, still clung to peter. as mickey entered, frightened and despairing, he saw that peter was much concerned, but laughing until his shoulders shook, and in relief that he was, and that none of the children were present, mickey grinned, acquired a slow red, and tried to quiet peaches. "shut that window!" she screamed. "shut it quick!" "why honey, that's the cow you wanted to see," soothed mickey. "that's the nice cow that gave the very milk you had for breakfast. junior was going to milk her where you could see. we thought you'd _like_ it!" "don't let it get me!" cried peaches. "why it ain't going to get anything but grass!" said mickey. "didn't you see me leading it? i can make that big old thing go where i please. come on, be a game kid now. you ain't a baby coward girl! it's only a cow! you are going to put it on your book!" "i ain't!" sobbed peaches. "i ain't ever going to drink milk again! i jus' bet the _milk_ will _get_ me!" "be game now!" urged mickey. "mary milks the cow. baby bobbie runs right up to her. everything out here is big, lily. i ran from the horses. i jumped on a fence, and junior laughed at me." "mickey, what did you say?" wavered peaches. "i didn't say anything," said mickey. "i just jumped." "mickey, i jumped, an' i said it, both. i said it right on peter," she bravely confessed. "mickey, i said the worst yet! i didn't know i _did_, 'til i heard it! but mickey, i got another chance!" peaches wiped her eyes, tremulously glanced at the window, and still clinging to mickey explained: "i was just telling peter about the swearin's, an' mickey, don't feel so bad. he won't send me back for just once. mickey, peter has got 'a deaf ear.' he _said_ he had! he ain't goin' to hear it when i slip a swearin's, an' mickey, i am tryin'! honest i'm tryin' jus' as hard, mickey!" mickey turned a despairing face toward peter. "just like she says," assured peter. "we've all got our faults. you'll have to forgive her mickey." "me? of course!" conceded mickey. "but what about you? you don't want your nice little children to hear bad words." "well," said peter, "don't make too much of it! it's likely there are no words she can say that my children don't know. just ignore and forget it! she won't do it often. i'm sure she won't!" "are you sure you won't, miss?" demanded mickey. "sure!" said peaches, and in an effort to change the subject: "mickey, is that cow out there yet?" "no. junior took her back to the barnyard." "mickey, i ain't going to put a cow on my book; but i want to see her again, away off. mickey, take me where i can see. you said last night you would." "but the horses are bigger than the cows. you'll get scared again, and with scaring and crying you'll be so bad off your back won't get any better all day, and to-morrow i got to leave you and go to work." "then i'll see all the things to-day, an' to-morrow i'll think about them 'til you come back. please mickey! if things don't get bobbie an' mary, they won't get me!" "that's a game little girl!" said mickey. "all right, i'll take you. but you ought to have----" "have what mickey?" she inquired, instantly alert. "well never you mind what," said mickey. "you be a good girl and lie still, so your back will be better, and watch the bundle i'll bring home to-morrow night." peaches shivered in delight. mickey proceeded slowly, followed by the entire family. "mickey, it's so big!" she marvelled. "everything is so far away, an' so big!" "now isn't it!" agreed mickey. "you see it's like i told you. now let me show you the garden." he selected that as a safe proposition. peaches grasped the idea readily enough. mrs. harding gathered vegetables for her to see. when they reached the strawberry bed mickey knelt and with her own fingers peaches pulled a berry and ate it, then laughed, exclaimed, and cried in delight. she picked a flower, and from the safe vantage of the garden viewed the cows and horses afar; and the fields and sheep were explained to her. mickey carried her across the road, mary brought a comfort, and for a whole hour the child lay under a big tree with pink and white clover in a foot-deep border around her. when they lifted her she said: "mickey, to-night we put in the biggest blesses of all." "what?" inquired mickey. "bless the nice people for such grand things, an' the berries; but never mind about the cow." then mickey took her back to the house. she awoke from a restful nap to find a basket of chickens waiting for her, barely down dry from their shells. she caught up a little yellow ball, and with both hands clutched it, exclaiming and crying in joy until mickey saw the chicken was drooping. he pried open her excited little fingers; but the chicken remained limp. soon it became evident that she had squeezed the life from it. "oh peaches, you held it too tight!" wailed mickey. "i'm afraid you've made it sick!" "i didn't mean to mickey!" she protested. mrs. harding reached over and picked the chicken from mickey's fingers. "that chicken wasn't very well to begin with," she said. "'you give it to me, and i'll doctor it up, while you take another one. which do you want?" "yellow," sniffed peaches, "but please hurry, and mickey, you hold this one. maybe i held too hard!" "yes you did," laughed peter. "but we wanted to see what you'd do. one little chicken is a small price for the show you give. it's all right, butterfly." "peter, you make everything all right, don't you?" "well honey, i would if i could," said peter. "but that's something of a contract. now you rest till after dinner, and if ma and mickey agree on it, we'll go see the meadow brook and hear the birds sing." "the water!" shouted peaches. "mickey, you promised----" "yes i remember," said mickey. "i'll see how cold it is and if i think it won't chill you--yes." "oh gee!" chortled peaches. "'nother blesses!" "what does she mean?" asked peter. mickey explained. "can't see how it would hurt her a mite," said peter. "water is warm, nice day. it will be good for her." "all right," said mickey, "then we'll try it. but how about the plowing peter, shouldn't i be helping you?" "not to-day," said peter. "i never allow my work to drive me, so i get pleasure from life my neighbours miss, and i'll compare bank accounts with any of them. to-morrow i'll work. to-day i'm entertaining company, or rather they are entertaining me. i think this is about the best day of my life. isn't it great, ma?" "it just is! i can't half work, myself!" answered nancy harding. "i just wonder if we could take a little run in the car after supper?" "what do you think about it, mickey?" asked peter. "why, i can't see that coming out hurt her any." "then we'll go," said peter. "do i have to be all covered?" questioned peaches. "not nearly so much," explained mickey. "i'll let you see a lot more. there's a bobolink bird down the street peter wants to show you." "'street!'" jeered junior. "that's a road!" "sure!" said mickey. "i got a lot to learn. you tell me, will you junior?" "course!" said junior, suddenly changing from scorn to patronage. "now let's take her to the creek!" "well that's quite a walk," said peter. "we're not going there unless i carry the little white butterfly. you want me to take you, don't you?" peaches answered instantly. "mickey always carries me. he can! and of course i like _him_ the best; but after him, i like you best peter, so you may, if he'll let you." "so that's the way the wind blows!" laughed peter. "then mickey, it's up to you." "why sure!" said mickey. "since you are so big, and got a family of your own, so you understand----" "what mickey?" asked peter. "oh how to be easy with little sick people," answered mickey, "and that a man's family is _his_ family, and he don't want anybody else butting in!" "i see!" said peter, struggling with his facial muscles. "of course! but this sheet is going to be rather bunglesome. ma, could you do anything about it?" "yes," said mrs. harding. "mary, you run up to the flannel chest, and get bobbie's little blue blanket." peter lifted the child to his broad breast, she slipped her arms around his neck, and laid her head on his shoulder. bloom time was past, but bird time was not, while the leaves were still freshly green and tender. some of them reached to touch peaches' gold hair in passing. she was held high to see into nests and the bluebirds' hollow in the apple tree. peaches gripped peter and cried: "don't let it get my feet!" when the old turkey gobbler came rasping, strutting, and spitting at the party. mickey pointed to mary, who was unafraid, and peaches' clutch grew less frantic but she defended: "well, i don't care! i bet if she hadn't ever seen one before, an' then a big thing like that would come right at her, tellin' plain it was goin' to eat her alive, it would scare the livers out of her." "yes i guess it would," conceded peter. "but you got the eating end of it wrong. it isn't going to eat us, we are going to eat it. about thanksgiving, we'll lay its head on the block and ma will stuff it----" "i've quit stuffing turkeys, peter," said mrs. harding. "i find it spoils the flavour of the meat." "well then it will stuff us," said peter, "all we can hold, and mince pie, plum pudding, and every good thing we can think of. what piece of turkey do you like best, butterfly?" mickey instantly scanned peter, then mrs. peter, and tensely waited. "oh stop! stop! is _that a turkey bird?_" cried peaches. "surely it is," said mrs. harding. "why childie, haven't you ever seen a turkey, either?" "no i didn't ever," said peaches. "can turkey birds sing?" just then the gobbler stuck forward his head and sang: "gehobble, hobble, hobble!" peaches gripped peter's hair and started to ascend him again. mrs. harding waved her apron; the turkey suddenly reduced its size three-fourths, skipped aside, and a neat, trim bird, high stepping and dainty, walked through the orchard. peaches collapsed in peter's arms in open-mouthed wonder. "gosh! how did it cave in like that?" she cried. peter's shoulders were shaking, but he answered gravely: "well that's a way it has of puffing itself up and making a great big pretense that it is going to flop us, and then if just little bobbie or ma waves an apron or a stick it gets out of the way in a hurry." "i've seen multiopolis millyingaires cave in like that sometimes when i waved a morning paper with an inch-high headline about them," commented mickey. peter harding glanced at his wife, then they laughed together. peter stepped over a snake fence, went carefully down a hill, crossed the meadow to the shade of a tree, sat on the bank of the brook and watched peaches as she studied first the clear babbling water, then the grass trailing in the stream, the bushes, trees, and then the water again. "mickey, come here!" she commanded. "put your head right down beside mine. now look just the way i do, an' tell me what you see." "i see running water, grassy banks, trees, the birds, the sky and the clouds--the water shows what's above it like a mirror, lily." peaches pointed. mickey watched intently. "sure!" he cried. "little fish with red speckles on them. shall i catch you one to see?" "'tain't my eyes then?" questioned peaches. "your eyes, miss?" asked mickey bewildered. "'tain't my eyes seein' things that yours doesn't?" mickey took her hand and drew closer. "well, it isn't any wonder you almost doubt it, honey," he said. "i would too, if i hadn't ever seen it before. but i been on the trolley, and on a few newsboys' excursions, and in the car with mr. bruce, and i've got to walk along the str--roads some, so i know it's real. let me show you----!" mickey slipped down the bank, scooped his hands full of water, and lifted them, letting it drip through his fingers. then he made a sweep and brought up one of the fish, brightly marked as a flower, and gasping in the air. "look quick!" he cried. "see it good! it's used to water and the air chokes it, just like the water would you if a big fish would take you and hold your head under; i got to put it back quick." "mickey, lay it in my hand, just a little bit!" mickey obeyed while peaches examined it hurriedly. "put it back!" she cried. "i guess that's as long as i'd want to be choked, while a fish looked at me." mickey exchanged the fish for a handful of wet, vividly coloured pebbles, then brought a bunch of cowslips yellow as gold, and a long willow whip with leaves on, and when she had examined these, she looked inquiringly at mrs. harding. "nicest lady, may i put my feet in your water?" "how about the temperature of it, mickey?" inquired mrs. harding. "it's all right," said mickey. "i've washed her in colder water lots of times. the sunshine lady said i should, to toughen her up." "then go ahead," said mrs. harding. "peter, may i?" asked peaches. "surely!" agreed peter. "whole bunch may get in if ma says so!" "well, i don't say so!" exclaimed mrs. harding. "the children have their good clothes on and they always get to romping and dirty themselves and then it's bigger washings and mine are enough to break my back right now." peter looked at his wife intently. "why nancy, i hadn't heard you complain before!" he said. "if they're too big, we must wear less and make them smaller, and i'll take an hour at the machine, and junior can turn the wringer. all of you children listen to me. your ma is feeling the size of the wash. that means we must be more careful of our clothes and help her better. if ma gets sick, or tired of us, we'll be in a fix, i tell you!" "i didn't say i was sick, or tired of you, i'm just tired of washing!" said mrs. harding. "i see!" said peter. "but it is a thing that has got to be done, like plowing and sowing." "yes i know," said mrs. harding, "but plowing and sowing only come once a year. washing comes once and twice a week." "let me," said mickey. "i always helped mother, and i do my own and lily's at home. of course i will here, and i can help you a lot with yours!" "yes a boy!" scoffed mrs. harding. "well i'll show you that a boy can work as well as a girl, if he's been taught right," said mickey. "i wasn't bringing up any question of work," said mrs. harding. "i just didn't want the children to dirty a round of clothing apiece. they may wade when their things are ready for the wash anyway. go on peaches!" peter moved down the bank and prepared to lower her to the water, but she reached her arms for mickey. "he promised me," she said. "back there on his nice bed in the hot room he promised me this." "so i did," said mickey, radiating satisfaction he could not conceal. "so i did! now, i'll let you put your feet in, like i said." "will the fish bite me?" she questioned timidly. "those little things! what if they did?" thus encouraged she put her toes in the water, gripping mickey and waiting breathlessly to see what happened. nothing happened, while the warm, running water felt pleasant, so she dipped lower, and then did her best to make it splash. it wasn't much of a splash, but it was a satisfying performance to the parties most interested, and from their eagerness the watchers understood what it meant to them. junior sidled up to his mother. "ain't that tough?" he whispered. she bit her lip and silently nodded. "look at her feet, will you?" he breathed. she looked at him instead, then suddenly her eyes filled with a mist like that clouding his. "_think they'll ever walk?_" he questioned. "i don't know," she said softly, "but it looks as if god has given us the chance to make them if it's possible." "well say what's my share?" he said. "just anything you see that you think will help." "if i be more careful not to dirty so many clothes, will it help?" he asked. "it would leave me that much more time and strength to give to her," she said. "will all i can save you in any way be helping her that much?" he persisted. "surely!" she said. "soon as he's out of sight, i'm going to begin on her. but don't let them hear!" junior nodded. he sat down on the bank watching as if fascinated the feet trying to splash in the water. mickey could feel the effort of the small body. "you take her now," he said to peter. then he threw off his shoes and stockings, turned up his knee breeches and stepped into the water, where he helped the feet to kick and splash. he rubbed them and at last picked up handfuls of fine sand and lightly massaged with it until he brought a pink glow. "that's the stuff," indorsed peter. "look at that! you're pulling the blood down." "where's the blood?" asked peaches. peter explained the circulatory system and why all the years of lying, with no movement, had made her so helpless. he told her why scarce and wrong food had not made good blood to push down and strengthen her feet so they would walk. he told her the friction of the sand-rubbing would pull it down, while the sun, water, and earth would help. peaches with wide eyes listened, her breath coming faster and faster, until suddenly she leaned forward and cried: "rub, mickey! rub 'til the blood flies! rub 'em hot as hell!" "well, miss chicken!" he cried in despair. peaches buried her shamed face on peter's breast. he screened her with a big hand. "now never you mind! never you mind!" he repeated. "everybody turn a deaf ear! that was a slip! nobody heard it! you mean little butterfly white, 'rub hard.' say rub hard and that will fix it!" "mickey," she said in a faint voice so subdued and contrite as to be ridiculous, "mickey-lovest, won't you please to rub hard! rub jus' as hard!" mickey suddenly bent to kiss the bony little foot he was chafing. "yes darling, i'll rub 'til it a-most bleeds," he said. when the feet were glowing with alternate sand-rubbing and splashing in cold water, peter looked at his wife. "i think that's the ticket!" he said. "nancy, don't you? that pulls down the blood with rubbing, and drives it back with cold water, and pulls it down, to be pushed back again--ain't that helping the heart get in its work? now if we strengthen her with right food, and make lots of pure blood to run in these little blue canals on her temples, and hands and feet, ain't we gaining ground? ain't we making headway?" "we've just got to be," said mrs. harding. "there's no other way to figure it. but this is enough for a start." peaches leaned toward her and asked: "may we do this again to-morrow, nicest lady?" "well i can't say as we can come clear here every day; i'm a busy woman, and my spare time is scarce; and even light as you are, you'd be a load for me; i can't say as we can do this when peter is busy plowing and harvesting and junior is away on the cream wagon, and mickey is in town at his work; we can't do just this; but there is something we can do that will help the feet quite as much. we can bring a bucket of sand up to the house, and set a tub of water in the sun, and you can lie on a comfort under an apple tree with mary and bobbie to watch you, and every few hours we can take a little time off for rubbing and splashing." "my job!" shouted junior. "i get a bucket and carry up the sand!" "i bring the tub and pump the water!" cried mary. "me shoo turkey!" announced bobbie. "i lift the tub to the edge of the shade and carry out the butterfly!" said peter. "and where do i come in?" demanded mickey. "why mickey, you 'let' them!" cried peaches. "you '_let_' them! an' you earn the money to pay for the new back, when i get strong enough to have it changed, an' the carrel man comes! don't you 'member?" "sure!" boasted mickey, taking on height. "i got the biggest job of all! i got the job that really does the trick, and to-morrow i get right after it. now i must take you back to the house to rest a while." "aw come on to the barn with me!" begged junior. "let father carry her! ain't you going to be any company for me at all?" "sure!" said mickey. "wait a minute! i'd like to go to the barn with you." he dried peaches' feet with his handkerchief, stuffed his stockings in his pocket, and picked up his shoes. "lily, can you let peter take you back to rest 'til supper time, so i can see what junior wants to show me?" "yes i can," said peaches. "yes i can, 'cause i'm a game kid; but i don't wish to!" "now you look here, miss chicken, that hasn't got anything to do with it," explained mickey. "every single time you can't have your way, 'cause it ain't good for you. if all these nice folks are so kind to you, you must think part of the time about what they want, and just now junior wants _me_, so you march right along nice and careful with peter, and pretty soon i'll come." peaches pouted a second, then her face cleared by degrees, until it lifted to peter with a smile. "peter, will you please to carry me while mickey does what junior wants?" she asked with melting sweetness. "sure!" said peter. "i'm the one to take you anyway, big and strong as an ox; but that's a pretty way to ask, and acting like a nice lady!" peaches radiated pride while peter returned her to the couch, brought her a glass of milk and a cracker, pulled the shade, and going out softly closed the door. in five minutes she was asleep. an hour before supper time mickey appeared and without a word began watching mrs. harding. suddenly her work lightened. when she was ready for water, the bucket was filled, saving her a trip to the pump. when she lifted the dishpan and started toward the back door, mickey met her with the potato basket. when she glanced questioningly at the stove, he put in more wood. he went to the dining-room and set the table exactly as it had been for dinner. he made the trip to the cellar with her and brought up bread and milk, while she carried butter and preserves. as she told peter that night, no strange woman ever had helped her as quickly and understandingly. with dishwashing he was on hand, for he knew that peaches' fate hung on how much additional work was made for mrs. harding. that surprised woman found herself seated in a cool place on the back porch preparing things for breakfast, while mickey washed the dishes, and mary carried them. peaches was moved to the couch in the dining-room where she could look on. then wrapped in bobbie's blanket and held closely in mickey's arms, the child lay quivering with delight while the big car made the trip to the club house, and stopped under the trees to show peaches where mr. bruce played, and then slowly ran along the country road, with all its occupants talking at once in their effort to point out everything to her. no one realized how tired she was, until in calling her attention to a colt beside its mother, she made no response, then it was discovered that she was asleep, so they took her home and put her to bed. chapter xvi _the fingers in the pie_ when mickey went the following morning to bring water for the inevitable washing, mrs. harding said to him: "is it possible that child is awake this early?" "no. she is sleeping like she'd never come to," said mickey. "i'll wait 'til the last minute before i touch her." "you shouldn't wake her," said mrs. harding. "but i must," said mickey. "i can't go away and leave her not washed, fed, and fixed the best i can." "of course i understand that," said mrs. harding, "but now it's different. then you were forced, this is merely a question of what is best for her. now mickey, we're all worked up over this till we're most beside ourselves, so we want to help; suppose you humour us, by letting us please ourselves a trifle. how does that proposition strike you?" "square, from the ground up," answered mickey promptly. "but what would please you?" "well," said mrs. harding, "it would please me to keep this house quiet, and let that child sleep till the demands of her satisfied body wake her up. then i'd love to bathe her as a woman would her own, in like case; and cook her such dainties as she should have: things with lots of lime in them. i think her bones haven't been built right; i believe i could make her fifty per cent better in three months myself; and as far as taking her away when this week is up, you might as well begin to make different plans right now. if she does well here, and likes it, she can't be taken back where i found her, till cool weather, if i can get the consent of my mind to let her go then. of course i know she's yours, so things will be as you say, but think a while before you go against me. if i do all i can for her i ought to earn the privilege of having my finger in the pie a little bit." "so far as lily goes," said mickey, "i'd be tickled 'most to death. i ain't anxious to pull and haul, and wake up the poor, little sleepy thing. every morning it 'most makes me sick. i'd a lot rather let her sleep it out as you say, but while lily is mine, and i've got to do the best by her i can, you are peter's so he must do the best by you he can; and did you notice how he jumped on that washing business yesterday? how we going to square up with peter?" "i'm perfectly willing to do what i said for the sake of that child. i've come to be mighty fond of you mickey, in the little time i've known you; if i didn't like and want to help peaches i'd do a lot for her, just to please you----" "gee, you're something grand!" cried mickey. "just common clay, commonest kind of clay mickey," said mrs. harding. "but if you want to know how you could 'square' it with me, which will 'square' it with peter--i'll tell you. you may think i'm silly; but as we're made, we're made, and this is how it is with me: of course i love peter, my children, my home, and i love my work; but i've had this job without 'jot or tittle' of change for fifteen years, and i'm about stalled with the sameness of it. i know you'll think i'm crazy----" "i won't!" interrupted mickey. "you go on and tell me! the sameness of it is getting you and----" "just the way you flew around and did things last night perfectly amazed me. i never saw a boy like you before; you helped me better and with more sense than any woman i ever hired, and thinking it over last night, i said to myself, 'now if mickey would be willing to trade jobs with me, it would give me a change, and it wouldn't be any more woman's work for him than what he _is_ doing----" "well never you mind about the 'woman's work' part of it," said mickey. "that doesn't cut any ice with me. it's men's work to eat, and i don't know who made a law that it was any more 'woman's work' to cook for men than it is their own. if there _is_ a law of that kind, i bet a liberty-bird the _men_ made it. i haven't had my show at law-making yet, but when i get it, there are some things i can see right now that i'm going to fix for lily, and i'd sooner fix them for you too, than not. just _what_ were you thinking?" mrs. harding went to mickey, took him by the shoulder, turned him toward the back door and piloted him to the porch, where she pointed east indicating an open line. it began as high as his head against the side of the harding back wall and ran straight. it crossed the yard between trees that through no design at all happened to stand in line with those of the orchard so that they formed a narrow emerald wall on each side of a green-carpeted space that led to the meadow, where it widened, ran down hill and crossed lush grass where cattle grazed. then it climbed a far hill, tree crested, cloud capped, and in a mist of glory the faint red of the rising sun worked colour miracles with the edges of cloud rims, tinted them with flushes of rose, lavender, streaks of vivid red, and a broad stripe of pale green. alone, on the brow of the hill, stood one giant old apple tree, the remains of an early-day orchard. it was widely branching, symmetrically outlined, backed and coloured by cloud wonder, above and around it. the woman pointed down the avenue with a shaking finger, and asked: "see that mickey? start slow and get all of it. every time i've stepped on this back porch for fifteen years, summer or winter, i've seen that just as it is now or as it was three weeks ago when the world was blooming, or as it will be in the red and gold of fall, or the later grays and browns, and when it's ice coated, and the sun comes up, i think sometimes it will kill me. i've neglected my work to stand staring, many's the time in summer, and i've taken more than one chill in winter--i've tried to show peter, and a few times i've suggested----" "he ought to have seen for himself that you should have had a window cut there the first thing," said mickey. "well, he didn't; and he doesn't!" said mrs. harding. "but mickey, for fifteen years, _there hasn't been a single morning when i went to the back porch for water_----" "and you ought to have had water inside, fifteen years ago!" cried mickey. "_why so i had!_" exclaimed mrs. harding. "and come to think of it, i've mentioned _that_ to peter, over and over, too. but mickey, what i started to say was, that i've been perfectly possessed to follow that path and watch the sun rise while sitting under that apple tree; and never yet have i got to the place where there wasn't bread, or churning, or a baby, or visitors, or a wash, or ironing, or some reason why i couldn't go. maybe i'm a fool, but sure as you're a foot high, i've got to take that trip pretty soon now, or my family is going to see trouble. and last night thinking it over for the thousandth time i said to myself: since he's so handy, if he'd keep things going just one morning, just one morning----" mickey handed her a sun hat. "g'wan!" he said gruffly. "i'll do your work, and i'll do it right. lily can have her sleep. g'wan!" the woman hesitated a second, pushed away the hat, took her bearings and crossed the walk, heading directly toward the old apple tree on the far crest. her eyes were set on the rising sun, and as she turned to close the yard gate, mickey could see that there was an awed, unnatural expression on her face. he stepped into the dining-room. by the time peter and junior came with big buckets of milk, mickey had the cream separator rinsed and together, as he had helped mrs. harding fix it the day before. with his first glance peter inquired: "where's ma?" "she's doing something she's been crazy to for fifteen years," answered mickey calmly, as he set the gauge and poured in the first bucket of milk. "which ain't answering where she is." "so 'tain't!" said mickey, starting the machine. "well if you'll line up, i'll show you. train your peepers down that green subway, and on out to glory as presented by the almighty in this particular stretch of country, and just beyond your cows there you'll see a spot about as big as bobbie, and that will be your nice lady heading straight for sunrise. she said she'd wanted to go for fifteen years, but there always had been churning, or baking, or something, so this morning, as there wasn't a thing but what i could do as good as she could, why we made it up that i'd finish her work and let her see her sunrise, since she seems to be set on it; and when she gets back she's going to wash and dress lily for a _change_. strange how women folks get discouraged on their job, among their best friends, who would do anything in the world for them, 'cept just to see that a little bit of change would help them. it will be a dandy scheme for lily, 'cause it lets her get her sleep out, and it will be good for you, 'cause if mrs. harding doesn't get to sit under that apple tree and watch sunup pretty soon, things are going to go wrong at this house." peter's lower jaw slowly sagged. "if you don't hurry," said mickey, "even loving her like you do, and loving you as she does, she's going to have them nervous prostrations like the swell dames in multiopolis get when they ask a fellow to carry a package, and can't remember where they want to send it. she's not there _yet_. she's ahead of them now, for she _wants_ to sit under that apple tree and watch sunup; but if she hadn't got there this morning or soon now, she'd a-begun to get mixed, i could see that plain as the city hall." "mickey, what else can you see?" asked peter. "enough to make your head swim," said mickey. "out with it!" ordered peter. "well," said mickey gravely, and seemingly intent on the separator, but covertly watching peter, "well, if you'd a-cut that window she's wanted for fifteen years, right over her table there where the line comes, she would a-been seeing that particular bit of glory--you notice peter, that probably there's nothing niftier on earth than just the little spot she's been pining for; look good yourself, and you'll see, there she's just climbing the hill to the apple tree--look at it carefully, and then step inside and focus on what she's faced instead." "what else does she want?" inquired peter. "she didn't mention anything but to watch sunup, just once, under that apple tree," said mickey. "i don't know _what_ she wants; but from one day here, i could tell you things she _should_ have." "well go ahead and tell," said peter. "will you agree not to break my neck 'til i get this cream in the can, and what she keeps strained, and these buckets washed?" asked mickey. "i want to have her job all done when she gets back, 'cause i promised her, and that's quite a hike she's taking." "well i was 'riled' for a minute, but i might as well hold myself," said peter. "looks like you were right." "strangers coming in can always see things that folks on the job can't," consoled mickey. "well go on and tell me what you've seen here mickey!" mickey hoisted the fourth bucket. "well, i've seen the very nicest lady i ever saw, excepting my mother," said mickey. "i've seen a man 'bout your size, that i like better than any man i know, barring mr. douglas bruce, and the bar is such a little one it would take a microscope to find it." peter laughed, which was what mickey hoped he would do, for he drew a deep breath and went on with greater assurance: "i've seen a place that i thought was a new edition of heaven, and it is, only it needs a few modern improvements----" "yes mickey! the window, and what else?" "you haven't looked at what i told you to about the window yet," said mickey. "well since you insist on it, i will," said peter. "and while you are in there," suggested mickey, "after you finish with that strip of brown oilcloth and the pans and skillets adorning it, cotton up to that cook stove, and imagine standing over it while it is roaring, to get three meals a day, and all the baking, fruit canning, boiling clothes, and such, and tell me if lily's bed was in so much hotter a place than your wife is, all but about three hours each day." mickey listened as intently as he could for the separator he dared not stop, heard not a sound for what seemed a long time, and then came amazing ones. he grinned sympathetically as peter emerged red faced and raging. "and you're about the finest man i ever met, too," commented mickey, still busy with the cream. "you can see what a comfort this separator must be, but it's the _only_ thing your nice lady has got, against so many for your work it takes quite a large building to keep them in. junior was showing me last night and telling me what all those machines were made for. you know peter, if there was money for a hay rake, and a manure spreader, and a wheel plow, and a disk, and a reaper, and a mower, and a corn planter, and a corn cutter, and a cider press, and a windmill, and a silo, and an automobile--you know peter, there _should_ have been enough for that window, and the pump inside, and a kitchen sink, and a bread-mixer, and a dish-washer; and if there wasn't any other single thing, there ought to be some way you sell the wood, and use the money for the kind of a summer stove that's only hot under what you are cooking, and turns off the flame the minute you finish. honest there had peter! i got a little gasoline one in my room that's better than what your nice lady has. the things she should have would cost something, cost a lot for all i know, but i bet what she needs wouldn't take half the things in the building junior showed me did; and it couldn't be the start of what a sick wife, and doctor bills, and strange women coming and going, and abusing you and the children would cost----" "shut up!" cried peter. "that will do! now you listen to me young man. since you are so expert at seeing things, and since you've traded work with my wife, to _rest her_ by _changing her job_, suppose you just keep your eyes open, and make out a list of what she should have to do her work convenient and easy as can be, and of course, comfortably. that stove's hot yet! and breakfast been over an hour too! nothing like it must be going full blast, and things steaming and frying!" "sure!" said mickey. "watch a few days, and then we'll talk it over. if it is your train time, ride down with junior, and i'll stay in the house till she comes. i guess little white butterfly won't wake up; and if she does, she'll be all right with me. mary dresses herself and bobbie. is mary helping her ma right?" "well some," said mickey. "not all she could! but her taking care of bobbie is a big thing. junior could do a lot of things, but he doesn't seem to see them, and----" "and so could i?" asked peter. "is that the ticket?" "yes," said mickey. "all right young man," said peter. "fix us over! we are ready for anything that will benefit ma. she's the pinwheel of this place. now you scoot! i can see her coming." "it's our secret then?" asked mickey. "yes, it's our secret!" answered peter gravely. mickey took one long look at peaches and went running to the milk wagon. junior offered to let him drive, so for the first time he took the lines and guided a horse. he was a happy boy as he spun on his heel waiting a few minutes for the trolley. he sat in the car with no paper in which to search for headlines, no anxiety as to whether he could dispose of enough to keep peaches from hunger that night, sure of her safety and comfort. the future, coloured by what mrs. harding had said to him, took on such a rosy glow it almost hurt his mental eyes. he revelled in greater freedom from care than he ever had known. he sat straighter, and curiously watched the people in the car. when they entered the city and the car swung down his street near the business centre, mickey stepped off and hiding himself watched for the passing of the boy, on his old route. before long it came, "i _like_ to sell papers," in such good imitation of his tone and call that mickey's face grew grave and a half-jealous little ache began in his heart. "course we're better off," he commented. "course i can't go back now, and i wouldn't if i could; but it makes me want to swat any fellow using my call, and taking my men. gee, the kid is doing better than i thought he could! b'lieve he's got the idea all right. i'll just join the procession." mickey stepped into line and followed, pausing whenever a paper was sold, until he was sure that his men were patronizing his substitute, then he overtook him. "good work, kid!" he applauded. "been following you and you're doing well. lemme take a paper a second. yes, i thought so! you're leaving out the biggest scoop on the sheet! here, give them a laugh on this 'chasing wrinkles.' how did you come to slide over it and not bump enough to wake you up? get on this sub-line, 'males seeking beauty doctors to renew youth.'" "how would you cry it?" asked the boy. "aw looky! looky! looky!" mickey shouted, holding his side with one hand and waving a paper with the other. "all the old boys hiking to the beauty parlours. pinking up the glow of youth to beat billie burke. corner on icicles; billie gets left, 'cause the boys are using all of them! oh my! wheel o' time oiled with cold cream and reversed with an icicle! morning paper! tells you how to put the cream on your face 'stead of in the coffee! stick your head in the ice box at sixty, and come out sixteen! awah get in line, gentlemen! don't block traffic!" when the policemen scattered the crowd mickey's substitute had not a paper remaining. with his pocket full of change he was running to the nearest stand for a fresh supply. mickey went with him and watched with critical eye while the boy tried a reproduction of what he called "a daily scream!" the first time it was rather flat. "you ain't going at it right!" explained mickey. "'fore you can make anybody laugh on this job, you must see the fun of life yourself. beauty parlours have always been for the swell dames and the theatre ladies, who pink up, while their gents hump to pay the bill. you ought always take one paper home, and _read_ it, so you know what's going on in the world. now from what i've read, i know that the get-a-way of the beauty parlours is cold cream. and one of the show ladies the boys are always wild over told the papers long ago 'bout how she used icicles on her face to pink it up. now if you'd a-knowed this like you should, the minute you clapped your peepers on that, 'chasing wrinkles,' you'd a-knowed where your laugh came in today, like i've told you over and over you _must_ get it. bet chaffner put that there on purpose for me. which same gives me an idea. you been calling the hoc de geezer war, and the light-weight champeen of mexico, and 'the psychological panic' something fine; but did you sell out on them? not on your topknot! you lost your load on the scream. _get the joke of life soaked in your system good_. on this, you make yourself see the plutes, and the magnates, and the city officials leaving their jobs, and hiking to the beauty parlours, to beat the dames at their daily stunt of being creamed and icicled and--it's funny! when it's so funny to you that you just howl about it, why it's catching! didn't you see me catch them with it? now go on and do it again, and get the _scream_ in." the boy began the cry with tears of laughter in his eyes. he kept it up as he handed out papers and took in change. satisfied, mickey called to him: "tell your sire it's all over but polishing the silver." he started down the street glancing at clocks he was passing, with nimble feet threading the crowds until he reached the _herald_ office; there he dodged in and making his way to the editorial desk he waited his chance. when he saw an instant of pause in the work of the busy man, he started his cry: "morning papers! i _like_ to sell them!" and so on to the "chasing wrinkles." there because he was excited, for he knew that his reception would depend on how good a laugh he gave them, mickey outdid himself. reporters waiting assignments crowded around him; mr. chaffner beckoned, and mickey stepped to him. "found it all right, did you, young man?" "the scream lifted the load!" cried mickey. "war, and waste, and wickedness, didn't get a look in." "i thought you'd like that!" laughed the editor. "biggest scoop yet!" said mickey. "why it took the police to scatter the crowd. they struggled to get papers, 'til they looked like the bird on the coin they were passing in, trying to escape the awful things it goes through on the money, and get back to nature where perfectly good birds belong. honest, they did!" "have you any poetry for me yet?" "no, but i'm headed that way," answered mickey. "how so?" inquired the editor. "why i've got another kid so he can do my stunt 'til nobody knows the difference, and i've gone into mr. bruce's office, and we're after the grafters." "douglas bruce?" queried mr. chaffner. "yes," said mickey. "he's my boss, and say, he's the finest man you ever met; and his joy lady is nice as he is, and prettier than moonshine on the park lake. i never saw a lady who could hold a candle to miss leslie winton, and they just love to tell folks they're engaged." suddenly the editor arose from his chair, gripped his desk, leaned across it toward mickey, and almost knocked him from his feet with one word. "_what?_" mickey staggered. at last he recovered his breath. "mr. bruce and miss leslie don't care if i tell," he defended. "they all the time tell it!" "_what?_" "why that they are going to be married, soon as mr. bruce gets the grafter who's robbing the taxpayers of multiopolis, and collects his big fee. that's what." as suddenly as he had arisen mr. chaffner dropped back, and in a stupefied way still looked at mickey. then: "you come with me," mr. chaffner said rising, and he entered a small room and closed the door. "now you tell me all about this engagement." "maybe they don't want it in the papers yet," said mickey. "i guess i'll let mr. bruce do his own talking." "but you said they told everybody." "so they do," said mickey. "and of course they'd tell you. you can call him. his number is -x." the editor made a note of it, studying mickey. "yes, that would be the better way, of course," he agreed. "you have a long head, young man. and so you think miss leslie winton is a fine young lady?" "surest thing you know," said mickey. "why let me tell you----" and then in a few swift words, mickey sketched in the young woman so intelligent she had selected him from all the other "newsies" by a description, and sent him to mr. bruce; how she had dolls ready to give away, and poor children might ride in her car; how she lived with "darling old daddy," and there mickey grew enthusiastic, and told of the rest house, and then the renting of the cabin on atwater by the most considerate of daughters for her father and her lover, and when he could not think of another commendatory word to say, mickey paused, while a dazed man muttered a word so low the boy scarcely heard it. "i don't know why you say _that!_" cried mickey. "ommh!" said mr. chaffner, slowly. "i don't either, only i didn't understand they were _engaged_. it's my business to find and distribute news, and get it fresh, 'scoop it,' as our term is, and so, mickey, when investigations are going on, and everybody knows a denou--a big surprise is coming, in order to make sure that my paper gets in on the ground floor, i make some investigation for myself, and sometimes by accident, sometimes by intuition, sometimes by sharp deduction we _happen_ to land before the investigators. of course we have personal, financial, and political reasons for not spoiling the game. now we haven't gone into the city hall investigation as bruce has and we can't show figures, but we know enough to understand where he's coming out; so when the gig upsets, we have our side ready and we'll embroider his figures with what the public is entitled to, in the way of news." "sure! but i don't see why you act so funny!" "oh it's barely possible that i've got ahead of your boss on a few features of his investigation." "aw-w-wh!" said mickey. "well i hope you ain't going to rush in and spoil _his_ scoop. you see he doesn't know who he's after, himself. we talk about it a lot of times. i tell him how i've sold papers, and seen men like he's chasing get their dose, and go sick and white, and can't ever face men straight again; but he says stealing is stealing, and cut where it will, those who rob the taxpayers must be exposed. i told him maybe he'd be surprised, and maybe he'd be sorry; but he says it's got to be stopped, no matter who gets hurt." "well he's got his nerve!" cried the editor. "yes!" agreed mickey. "he's so fine himself, he thinks no other men worth saving could go wrong. i told him i wished the men he was after would break their necks 'fore he gets them, but he goes right on." "mickey, you figure closer than your boss does." "in one way i _do_," conceded mickey. "it's like this: he knows books, and men, and how things _should_ be; but i know how they _are_. see?" "i certainly see," said the intent listener. "mickey, when it comes to the place where you think you know better than your boss, while it's bad business for me to tell you, keep your eye open, and maybe you can save him. books and theories are all right, but there are times when a man comes a cropper on them. you watch, and if you think he's riding for a fall, you come skinning and tell me, not over the 'phone, _come and tell me_. here, take this, it will get you to me any time, no matter where i am or what i'm doing. understand?" "you think mr. bruce is going to get into trouble?" "his job is to get other people into trouble----" "but he says he ain't got a thing to do with it," said mickey. "he says they get themselves into trouble." "that's so too," commented mr. chaffner. "anyway, keep your mouth tight shut, and your eyes wide open, and if you think your boss is getting into deep water, you come and tell me. i want things to go right with _you_, because i'm depending on that poem for my front page, soon." mickey held out his hand. "sure!" he agreed. "i'm in an awful good place now to work up the poetry piece, being right out among the cows and clover. and about mr. bruce, gee! i wish he was plowing corn. i just hate his job he's doing now. sure if i see rocks i'll make a run for you. thanks boss!" mickey had lost time, and he hurried, but things seemed to be happening, for as he left the elevator and sped down the hall, he ran into mr. james minturn. with a hasty glance he drew back, and darted for the office door. mr. minturn's face turned a dull red. "one minute, young man!" he called. "i'm late," said mickey shortly. "i must hurry." "bruce is late too. i just came from his office and he isn't there," answered mr. minturn. "well i want to get it in order before he comes." "in fact you want anything but to have a word to say to me!" hazarded mr. minturn. "well then, since you are such a good guesser, i ain't just crazy about you," said mickey shortly. "and i'm tired of having you run from me as if i were afflicted with smallpox," said mr. minturn. "if your blood is right, smallpox ain't much," said mickey. "i haven't a picture of myself running from _that_, if it really wanted a word with me." "but you have a picture of yourself running from me?" "maybe i do," conceded mickey. "i've noticed it on occasions so frequent and conspicuous that others, no doubt, will do the same," said mr. minturn. "if you are all bruce thinks you, then you should give a man credit for what he tries to do. you surprised me too deeply for words with the story you brought me one day. i knew most of your facts from experience, better than you did, except the one horrible thing that shocked me speechless; but mickey, when i had time to adjust myself, i made the investigations you suggested, and proved what you said. i deserve your scorn for not acting faster, but what i had to do couldn't be done in a day, and for the boys' sake it had to be done as privately as possible. there's no longer any reason why you should regard me as a monster----" "i'm awful glad you told me," mickey said. "i surely did have you sized up something scandalous. and yet i couldn't quite make out how, if my view was right, mr. bruce and miss leslie would think so much of you." "they are friends i'm proud to have," said mr. minturn. "and i hope you'll consider being a friend to me, and to my boys also. if ever a times comes when i can do anything for you, let me know." "now right on that point, pause a moment," said mickey. "you _are_ a friend to my boss?" "i certainly am, and i'm under deep obligations to miss winton. if ever my home becomes once more what it was to start with, it will be her work. could a man bear heavier obligation than that?" "well hardly," said mickey. "course there wouldn't likely ever be anything you could do for miss leslie that would square _that_ deal; but i'm worried about my boss something awful." "why mickey?" asked mr. minturn. "that investigation you started him on." "i did start him on that. what's the matter?" "well the returns are about all in," said mickey, "and the man who draws the candy suit is about ready to put it on. see?" "good! exactly what he should do." "yes exactly," agreed mickey dryly, "but _who_ do you figure it is? we got some good friends in the city hall." "always is somebody you don't expect," said mr. minturn. "don't waste any sympathy on them, mickey." "not unless in some way my boss got himself into trouble," said mickey. "there's no possible way he could." "about the smartest man in multiopolis thinks yes," said mickey. "i just been talking with him." "who, mickey?" asked mr. minturn, instantly. "chaffner of the _herald_," said mickey. "_what!_" mr. minturn seized the boy's arm, shoved him inside his door and closed it. mickey pulled away and turned a belligerent face upward. "now nix on knocking me down with _your_ 'whats!'" he cried. "i just been hammered meller with his, and dragged into his room, and shut up, and scared stiff, about twenty minutes ago." "_the devil you say!_" exploded mr. minturn. "no, i said chaffner!" insisted mickey. "chaffner of the _herald_. i'm going to write a poetry piece for his front page, some day soon now. i been selling his paper all my life." "and so you're a friend of chaffner's?" "oh not bosom and inseparable," explained mickey. "i haven't seen so awful much of him, but when i do, we get along fine." "and he said----?" questioned mr. minturn. "just what i been afraid of all the time," said mickey. "that these investigations at times got into places you didn't _look_ for, and made awful trouble; and that my boss _might_ get it with his." "mickey, you will promise me something?" asked mr. minturn. "you see i started mr. bruce on this trying to help him to a case that would bring him into prominence, so if it should go wrong, it's in a way through me. if you think douglas is unlike himself, or worried, will you tell me? will you?" "why surest thing you know!" cried mickey. "why i should say i would! gee, you're great too! i think i'll like you awful well when we get acquainted." mickey was busy when bruce entered, and with him was leslie winton. they brought the breath of spring mellowing into summer, freighted with emanations of real love, touched and tinctured with joy so habitual it had become spontaneous on the part of leslie winton, and this morning contagious with douglas bruce. mickey stood silent, watched them closely, and listened. so in three minutes, from ragged scraps and ejaculations effervescing from what was running over in their brains, he knew that they had taken an early morning plunge into atwater, landed a black bass, had a breakfast of their own making, at least in so far as gathering wild red raspberries from the sand pit near the bridge; and then they had raced to the multiopolis station to start mr. winton on a trip west to try to sell his interest in some large land holdings there, the care of which he was finding burdensome. "heavens, how i hope daddy makes that sale!" cried leslie. "i've been so worried about him this summer." "i wondered at you not going with him," said douglas. "he didn't seem to want me," said leslie. "he said it was a flying trip and he was forced to be back before some reports from his office were filed; so he thought i wouldn't enjoy it; and for the first time in my life he told me distinctly that he didn't have _time_ for me. fancy daddy! i can't understand it." "i've noticed that he has been brooding and preoccupied of late, not at all like himself," said douglas. "have you any idea what troubles him?" "of course! he told me!" said leslie. "it's mr. swain. when daddy was a boy, mr. swain was his father's best friend, and when grandfather died, he asked him to guide daddy, and he not only did that, but he opened his purse and started him in business. now mr. swain is growing old, and some of his investments have gone wrong; just when political changes made business close as could be, he lost heavily; and then came the war. there was no way but for daddy to stay here and fight to save what he could for him. he told me early last fall; we talked of it again in the winter, and this spring most of all--i've told you!" "yes i know! i wish i could help!" said douglas. "i do too! i wish it intensely," said leslie. "when father comes, we'll ask him. we're young and strong, and we should stand by. i never saw daddy in such a state. he _must_ sell that land. he _said_ so. he said last night he'd be forced to sell if he only got half its value, and that wouldn't be enough." "enough for what?" asked douglas. "to help mr. swain," said leslie. "he's going to use his fortune?" queried douglas. "i don't know that daddy has holdings large enough to deserve the word," said leslie. "he's going to use what he has. i urged him to; it's all he can do." "did you take into consideration that it may end in his failure?" asked douglas. "i did," said leslie, "and i forgot to tell him, but i will as soon as he comes back: he can have all mother left me, too, if he needs it." "leslie, you're a darling, but have you ever had even a small taste of poverty?" asked douglas. "no! but i've always been curious, if i did have, to see if i couldn't so manage whatever might be my share, that it would appear to the world without that peculiar state of grime which always seems to distinguish it," said the girl. "i'm not afraid of poverty, and i'm not afraid of work; it's dishonour that would kill me. daddy accepted obligations; if they involve him, which includes me also, then to the last cent we possess, we pay back." mickey drew the duster he handled between vacuum days across a table and steadily watched first douglas, then leslie, both of whom had forgotten him. "that should be good enough for daddy; what about me?" asked douglas. "if ever i get in a close place, does the same hold good?" "if i know what you are doing, surely!" "i knew you were a 'bearer of morning' first time i saw you," said douglas. "but we are forgetting mickey." mickey promptly stepped forward, putting away the duster to be ready for errands. "how are you this morning?" asked douglas. "fine!" answered mickey. "i've taken my family to the country, too!" "why mickey! without saying a word!" cried douglas. "well it happened so fast," said mickey, "and i didn't want to bother you when your head was so full of your old investigation and your own moving." "did you hear that leslie?" he asked. "mickey dislikes my investigation as much as the man who comes out short is going to, any day now. so you've moved peaches to the country? you should have told me, first." "i'm sorry if you don't like it," said mickey. "you see my room was getting awful hot. i never was there days this time of year, and nights i slept on the fire-escape; all right for me, but it wouldn't do for lily. why should i have told you?" "because miss winton had plans for her," explained douglas. "she intended to take her to atwater, and she even contemplated having her back examined for you." mickey's eyes danced and over his face spread a slow grin of comprehension. "well?" ejaculated douglas. "nothing!" said mickey. "well?" demanded douglas. mickey laughed outright. then he sobered suddenly and spoke gravely, directly to miss winton. "thank you for thinking of it, and planning for her," he said. "i was afraid you would." "thank me for something you feared i would do! mickey, aren't you getting things mixed?" "thank you for thinking of lily and wanting to help her," explained mickey, "but she doesn't need you. she's mine and i'm going to keep her; so what i can do for her will have to be enough, until i can do better." "i see," said leslie. "but suppose that she should have attention at once, that you can't give her, and i can?" "then i'd be forced to let you, even if it took her from me," agreed mickey. "but thank the lord, things ain't that way. i didn't take my say-so for it; i went to the head nurse of the star of hope; she's gone to the new elizabeth home now; she loves to nurse children best. all the time from the first day she's told me how, and showed me, so lily has been taken care of right, you needn't worry about that. and where she is now, if she was a queen-lady she couldn't have grander; honest she couldn't!" "but mickey, how are you going to pay for all that?" queried douglas. "easy as falling off a car in a narrow skirt," said mickey. "'member that big house where things are heaven-white, and a yard full of trees, and the fence corners are cut with the shears, and the street--i mean the road--swept with a broom, this side the golf grounds about two miles?" "yes," said douglas. "the woman there halted my car one evening and spoke to me about you." "oh she did?" exclaimed mickey. "well i hope you gave me a good send-off, 'cause she's a lady i'm most particular about. you see i stopped there for a drink, the day you figured instead of playing, and she told me about a boy who was to be sent out by the _herald_ and hadn't come, and as she was ready, and interested, she was disappointed. so i just said to her if the boy didn't come, how'd she like to have a nice, good little girl that wouldn't ever be the least bother. next day she came to see us, and away lily went sailing to the country in a big automobile, and she isn't coming back 'til my rooms are cool, if she can be spared then." "but how are you going to pay, mickey? most people only take children for a week----?" "yes i know," said mickey. "but these folks haven't ever tried it before, and they don't know the ropes, so we're doing it our own way, and it works something grand." "if they are suited----" said douglas. "that place is far better than where we feel so comfortable." "we started this morning," said mickey. "the lady and i traded jobs; she sat on a hill under an apple tree and watched sunrise. i washed the dishes, sep'rated the cream, and scrubbed the porch for her. when lily wakes up, the lady is going to bathe, rub, feed her, and see to her like she owned her, to pay me back. it's a bargain! you couldn't beat it, could you?" "of course if you want to turn yourself into a housemaid!" said douglas irritably. mickey laughed, and leslie sent a slightly frowning glance toward douglas. "you can search me!" cried the boy, throwing out his hands in his familiar gesture. "why i just love to! i always helped mother! pay? i'll pay all right; the nice lady will say i do, and so will peter. it's my most important job to make her glad of me as i am of her. and if you put it up to me, i'd a lot rather have my job than yours; and i bet i get more joy from it for my family!" "croaker!" laughed bruce. "'tain't going to be a scream for the fellow who comes short," warned mickey. "so you're planning not to allow me to do anything for lily?" inquired miss winton. "well there's something you can do this minute if you'd like," said mickey. "i was going to hurry up and see my sunshine nurse, but it's a long way to the new hospital, and you could do as well, if you would." "mickey, i'd love to. what is it? and may i see your family? you know i haven't had a peep yet." "well soon now, you may," said mickey. "you see i ain't quite ready." "mickey, what do you know about the new elizabeth home?" asked douglas. "only that a rich lady gave her house and money, and that my sunshine nurse is going to be there after this. i was going for my first trip to-night." "i wondered," said douglas. "mickey, when you get there, you'll find that you've been there _before_." "my eye!" cried mickey. "fact! mr. minturn did put his foot down, and took his boys----" began douglas. "yes he was telling me this morning. that's what i get for stopping at the first page. if i'd a-looked inside, bet i'd have known that long ago." "he was telling you?" queried douglas. "yes. i guess i must kind of shied at him 'til he noticed it; i didn't _know_ i did, but he caught me and told me his troubles by force. we shook hands to quit on. say, he's just fine when you know him, and there doesn't seem to be a thing on earth he wouldn't do for you, miss leslie. why he said if ever he found happiness again, and his home become what it should, it would be because you were sorry for him, and fixed things." "mickey, did he really?" rejoiced the girl. "douglas, when may mickey show me what he wants me to do?" "right now," he answered. "i got a load of books while he was away yesterday and i haven't started them yet. now is the best time." when mickey made a leap from the trolley platform that night, at what he already had named cold cream junction, he was almost buried under boxes. he stepped high and prideful, for he had collected the money from his paper route and immediately spent some of it under leslie winton's supervision. pillow bolstered, on the front porch, on his comfort lay the tiny girl he loved. mickey stopped and made a detailed inspection. peaches leaned forward and reached toward him; her greeting was indescribably sweet. mickey dropped the bundles and went into her arms; even in his joy he noted a new strength in her grip on him, an unusual clinging. he drew back half alarmed. "you been a good girl?" he queried suspiciously. "jus' as good!" asserted peaches. "you didn't go and say any----?" "not ever mickey-lovest! not one!" she cried. "i ain't even _thinked_ one! that will help, peter says so!" "you have been washed and fed and everything all right?" he proceeded. "jus' as right!" she insisted. "you like the nice lady?" he went on. "jus' love the nice lady, an' mary, an' bobbie, an' peter, an' junior, jus' love all of them!" she affirmed. "well i hope i don't bust!" he said. "i never was so glad as i am that everything is good for you." "they's two things that ain't good." "well if things ain't right here, with what everybody's doing for you, they ought to be!" cried mickey. "you cut complaining right out, miss chicken!" "you forgot to set my lesson, an' i ain't had my po'try piece for two days. that ain't complainin'." "no 'tain't honey," conceded mickey regretfully. "no 'tain't! that's just all right. i thought you were going to start kicking, and i wasn't going to stand for it. course i'll set your lesson; course i'll make up your piece, but you must give me a little time. i was talking with mr. chaffner of the _herald, our_ paper you know, and he's beginning to get in a hurry about his piece, too." "i want mine first!" demanded peaches. "sure! you'll get it first! always! but i'm going to do something for you before i make it, 'cause i won't know how it goes 'til afterward. see?" "what you going to do?" she questioned. "what's all the bundles? my they look excitements!" "and so they are!" triumphed mickey. "where are all the folks? do they leave you alone like this?" "no, they don't leave me alone only when i'm asleep in the room," said peaches. "they saw you coming an' went away 'cause they know families likes to be alone, sometimes. ain't they smart to know that?" "they are!" said mickey. "first, you come to your bed a little while. i got something for you." "ooh mickey! those bundles jus' look----!" "now you hold on. you wait and see, miss!" mickey carried her in then he returned for the boxes. he opened one and from it selected a pair of pink stockings and slipped them on peaches; then tiny, soft buckskin moccasins embroidered and tied with ribbons to match the hose. peaches squealed and clapped her hand over her mouth to muffle the sound; but mrs. harding heard and came to the door. mickey asked for help. "young ladies who are going automobiling and taking walks are well enough to have dresses, and things that all _good_ girls have," he announced. "but i'm a little dubious about how these things go. will you dress her?" "yes," said mrs. harding. "you fill the water bucket and the wood box, and start the fire for supper." mrs. harding looked over the contents of the box and from plain soft pieces of underwear chose a gauze shirt, a dainty combination suit and a tucked and trimmed petticoat, while peaches laughed and sobbed for pure joy. then mickey came, and mrs. harding went away. after various trials he decided on a white dress with pink ribbons run in the neck, sleeves, and belt, slipping it on her and carefully fastening it. "mickey, i want the glass!" she begged. "please, oh please hurry, mickey." "now you just wait, miss chicken!" said mickey. then he brushed her hair and put on a new pink ribbon, not so large as those she had, but much more becoming. he laid a soft warm little gray sweater with white collar and cuffs in reach, and in turning it she discovered a handkerchief and a pair of gloves in one pocket. immediately she searched the other and produced a purse with five pennies in it. then for no reason at all, peaches began to cry. "well miss chicken!" exclaimed mickey in surprise, "i thought you'd be pleased!" "pleased!" sobbed peaches. "pleased! mickey, i'm dam--i'm busted!" "oh well then, go on and cry, if you want to," agreed mickey. "but you'd look much nicer to show mrs. harding and peter if you wouldn't!" peaches immediately wiped her eyes. mickey lifted and carried her back to the porch, placing her in a pillow-piled big chair. then he put the gloves on her hands, set a hat on her head and tied the pink ribbons. peaches both laughed and cried at that, while the harding family came in because they could not wait. mickey raised and put in peaches' shaking fingers the crowning glory of any small girl: a wonderful little pink parasol. peaches appeared for a minute as if a faint were imminent. "now do you see why i couldn't come with a poetry piece when my head was so full of these things?" "yes mickey, but you will before night?" she begged. "you want it even now?" he marvelled. "more 'an the passol, even!" she declared. "well you fool little sweet kid!" cried mickey and choked. he fled around the house as peter came out. in his ears as he went sounded peter's big voice and the delighted cries of the family. "i want mickey!" wailed peaches. he heard her call and ran back fast for fear he might be so slow reaching her that peter would serve. but to his joy he found that he alone would answer. "i want to see me!" demanded peaches. "sure you do!" cried peter. "i'll just hand down the big hall mirror so you can see all of you at once." he brought it and set it before her. peaches stared and drew back. she cried, "aw-w--ah!" in a harsh, half-scared voice. she gripped mickey with one hand and the parasol with the other; she leaned and peeped, and marvelled, and smiled at a fully clothed little girl in the glass, while the image smiled back. peaches thought of letting go of mickey to touch her hat and straighten her skirt, but felt so lost without him, that she handed peter the parasol, and used that hand, while the other clung to her refuge. when mickey saw the treasure go in his favour, he swallowed lumps of emotion so big that the hardings could see them running down his throat. peaches intent on the glass smiled, grimaced, tilted her head, and finally began flirting outrageously with herself, until all of them laughed and recalled her. she looked at peter, smiled her most winsome smile and exclaimed: "well ain't i the----" "now you go easy, miss chicken," warned mickey. "mickey, if you hadn't stopped me i'd done it sure!" sobbed peaches, collapsing against him. "'f i had, would you a-took these bu'ful things 'way from me?" "no i wouldn't!" said mickey. "i couldn't to save me. but i _should!_" "mickey, i'm so tired," she said. "take my hat an' put it where i can see it, an' my passol, an' my coat; gee, i don't have to be wrapped in sheets no more, an' lay me down. quick mickey, i'm sick-like." "well i ought to had the sense not to spring so much all at once," said mickey, "but it all seemed to belong. sure i will, you poor kid!" "and mickey, you won't forget the lesson and the po'try piece?" she panted. "no, i won't forget," promised mickey, as he stretched her among her treasures and watched her fall asleep even while he slipped the gloves from her fingers. next morning she found the lesson and the poetry on her slate. mrs. harding bathed and clothed her in the little garments, and showed her enough more for the changes she would need, even two finer dresses for sunday. she left the coat, hat, and parasol in reach. then peaches resolutely took up her pencil and set herself to copy the lines without knowing enough of the words to really understand; but she was extremely well acquainted with one word that mickey had said "just flew out of his mouth when he looked at her," and in her supreme satisfaction over her new possessions she was sure the lines must be concerning them. most of all she was delighted with her slippers. a hundred times that morning she looked down, wiggled her toes and moved her feet so that she could see them better. between whiles she copied over and over: _lily miss l. p. o'halloran daily went walking, in slippers so nifty the neighbours were talking. the minute she raised her gay pink parasol the old red cow began to friskily bawl. when they observed the neat coat on her back, all the guineas in the orchard cried: "rack! pot rack!" she was so lovely a bird flying her way, sang "sweet, sweet, sweet!" all the rest of the day._ peter came in to visit a few minutes, so she gave him the slate to see if he could read her copy, and by this ruse she found what the lines were. she was so overjoyed she opened her lips and then clapped both hands over them, to smother the ejaculation at her tongue's end. to distract peter she stuck out her foot and moved it for him to see. "ain't that pretty, an' jus' as soft and fine?" she asked. "yes," said peter. "they remind me of a flower called 'lady slipper,' that grows along the edge of the woods. it's that shape and the prettiest gold yellow, but little, they'd about fit your doll." "oh peter, could you get me one? i want to see." "why i would, but they are all gone now, honey," answered peter. "next year i'll remember and bring you some when they bloom. but it's likely by that time you can go yourself, and see them." "do you honest think it peter?" asked peaches, leaning forward eagerly. "yes i honest think it," repeated peter emphatically. "but i won't be here then," peaches reminded him. "well it won't be my fault, if you're not," said peter. chapter xvii _initiations in an ancient and honourable brotherhood_ "now father, you said if i'd help till after harvest, i could go to multiopolis and hunt a job," junior reminded peter. "when may i?" "i remember," said peter. "you may start monday morning if you want to. ma and i have talked it over, and if you're bound to leave us, i guess there'd never be a better time. i can get jud jason to drive the cream wagon for me, and i'll do the best i can at the barn. i had hoped that we'd be partners and work together all our days; but if you have decided upon leaving us, of course you won't be satisfied till you've done it." "well i can try," said junior, "and if i don't like it i can come back." "i don't know about that," objected peter. "of course i'd have other help hired; your room would be occupied and your work contracted for----" "well i hadn't figured on that," he said. "i supposed i could go and try it, and if i didn't like it i could come home. couldn't i come home ma?" nancy slowly became a greenish white colour; but the situation had been discussed so often, it worried her dreadfully; now that it had to be met, evasion would do no good. peter grimly watched her. he knew she was struggling with a woman's inborn impulse to be the haven of her children, her son, her first-born, especially. he was surprised to hear her saying: "why i hardly think so junior, it wouldn't be a right start in life. you must figure that whatever kind of work you find, or whoever you work for, there will be things you won't like or think fair, but if you are going to be your own man, you must begin like a man; and of course a man doesn't go into business with his mind made up to run for his mother's petticoats, the first thing that displeases him. no, i guess if you go, you must start with your mind made up to stay till the october term of school opens, anyway." "then we'll call that settled," said peter. "you may go with mickey on the monday morning car and we probably won't see you again till you are one of the leading business men of multiopolis, and drive out in your automobile. have you decided which make you'll get?" "well from what i've learned driving yours, if i were buying one myself, i'd get a glide-by," said junior. "they strike me as the best car on the market." peter glanced sharply at his son. when he saw that the answer was perfectly sincere, his heart almost played him the trick he had expected from his wife. "all right ma, gather up his clothes and get them washed, and have him ready," said peter. "i thought maybe you'd take me in the car and sort of look around with me," said junior. "i don't see how i am going to do it, with both our work piled on me," said peter. "and besides, i'm a farmer born and bred; i wouldn't have the first idea about how to get a boy a job in the city or what he ought to do or have. mickey is on to all that; he'll go with you, won't you mickey?" "sure!" said mickey. "and you can save a lot by using my room. it is high, but it's clean"--junior scowled but mickey proceeded calmly--"and while it gets hot in the daytime, if you open the door at night, and push the bed before the window, it soon cools off, while very hottest times i always take to the fire-escape. it's nice and cool there." "of course! that will be the ticket," said peter heartily. "a boy starting with everything to learn couldn't expect to earn much, and when you haven't ma and me to depend on for your board you'll be glad to have the bed free. thank you mickey, that's fine!" junior did not look as if he thought it were. presently he asked: "how much money ought i to take to start on, mickey?" "hully gee!" said mickey. "why your fare in! you're going to make money, kid, not to spend it. if i was turned loose there with just one cent i'd be flying by night, and if i hadn't the cent, i'd soon earn it." "how could you mickey?" asked junior eagerly. "with or without?" queried mickey. "both!" exclaimed junior. "well, 'without,'" said mickey, "i'd keep my lamps trimmed and burning, and i'd catch a lady falling off a car, or pick up a purse, or a kid, or run an errand. 'with,' there'd be only one thing i'd think of, because papers are my game. i'd buy one for a penny and sell it for two; buy two, sell for four; you know the multiplication table, don't you? but of course you don't want a street job, you want in a factory or a store. if you could do what you like best, what would it be junior?" junior opened his mouth several times and at last admitted he hadn't thought that far: "why i don't know." "well," said mickey calmly, "there's making things, that's factories. there's selling them, that's stores. there's doctors, and lawyers, that's professional, like my boss. and there's office-holders, like the men he is after, but of course you'd have to be old enough to vote and educated enough to do business, and have enough money earned at something else to buy your office; that's too far away. now if you don't like the street, there's the other three. the quickest money would be in the first two. if you were making things, what would you make?" "automobiles!" said junior. "all right!" said mickey, "we can try them first. if we can't find a factory that you'd like, what would you rather sell?" "automobiles," said junior promptly. "gee!" said mickey. "i see where we hit that business at both ends. if we miss, what next?" "i don't know," said junior. "i'll make up my mind when i have looked around some." "you can come closer deciding out here, than you can in the rush of the streets," said mickey. "there, you'll be rustling for your supper, and you'll find boys hunting jobs thick as men at a ball game, and lots of them with dads to furnish their room and board." junior hesitated, but mickey excused himself and without having been told what to do, he accomplished half a day's work for mrs. harding, then began some of peter's jobs and afterward turned his attention to hearing peaches' lesson and setting her new copy. when junior paid his fare monday morning, mickey, judging by the change he exhibited, realized that both his mother and father had given him, to start on, a dollar to spend. mickey would have preferred that he be penniless. he decided as they ran cityward that the first thing was to part junior from his money, so he told him he would be compelled to work in the forenoon, and for a while in the afternoon, and left him to his own devices on the street, with a meeting-place agreed on at noon. when mickey reached the spot he found junior with a pocket full of candy, eating early peaches, and instead of hunting work, he had attended three picture shows. mickey could have figured to within ten cents of what was left of one of junior's dollars; but as the cure did not really begin until the money disappeared, the quicker it went the better. as he ate his sandwich and drank his milk, he watched junior making a dinner of meat, potatoes, pie and ice-cream, and made a mental estimate of the remains of the other dollar. as a basis for a later "i told you so," he remonstrated, and pointed out the fact that there were hundreds of unemployed men of strength, skilled artisans with families to support, looking for work that minute. "i know your dad signed up that contract with jud jason," he said, "'cause i saw him, and that means that he's got no use for you for three months; so you must take care of yourself for that long at least, if you got any ginger in you. of course," explained mickey, "i know that most city men think country boys won't stick, and are big cowards, but i'm expecting you to show them just where they are mistaken. i know you're not lazy, and i know you got as much sand and grit as any city boy, but you must _prove it_ to the rest of them. you must show up!" "sure!" said junior. "i'll convince them!" by night the last penny of the second dollar was gone, so junior borrowed his fare to his room from mickey, who was to remain with him to show him the way back and forth, and to spend an early hour in search of employment. it was mickey's first night away from peaches, and while he knew she was safe, he felt that when night came she would miss him. the thought that she might cry for him tormented him to speech. he pointed out to junior very clearly that he would have to mark corners and keep his eyes open because he need not expect that he could leave her longer than that. junior agreed with him, for he had promised peaches in saying good-bye to keep mickey only one night. he had treated himself to candy and unusual fruits until his money was gone, while by night these and a walk of miles on hot pavement had bred such an appetite that he felt he had not eaten a full meal in years, so when mickey brought out the remains of the food mrs. harding had given him, her son felt insulted. but mickey figured a day on the basis of what he had earned, what he had expended, what he must save to be ready when the great surgeon came, and prepared exactly as he would have done for himself and peaches. on reaching the tenement and climbing until his legs ached, junior faced stifling heat, but mickey opened the window and started a draft by setting the door wide. while they ate supper, mickey talked unceasingly, but junior was sulkily silent. he tried the fire-escape, but one glance from the rickety affair, hung a mile above the ground it seemed to him, was enough, so he climbed back in the window and tossed on the bed. junior did his first real thinking that night. he was ravenous before morning and aghast at what he was offered for breakfast. he was eager to find work and he knew for what his first day's wage would go. in justice to his own sense of honour and in justice to junior, mere common fairness, such as he would have wanted in like case, for the first few days mickey honestly and unceasingly hunted employment. with junior at his elbow he suffered one rebuff after another, until it was clear to him that it was impossible for a country boy unused to the ways of the city to find or to hold a job at which he could survive, even with his room provided, while the city swarmed with unemployed men. everywhere they found the work they would have liked done by an italian, greek, swede, german, or polander who seemed strong as oxen, oblivious, as no doubt they were, to treatment junior never had seen accorded a balky mule, and able to live on a chunk of black bread, a bit of cheese, and a few cents' worth of stale beer. when mickey had truly convinced himself of what he had believed, with a free conscience he then began allowing junior to find out for himself exactly what he was facing. by that time junior had lost himself on the way to mickey's rooms, spent a night wandering the streets, and breakfastless was waiting before the iriquois. mickey listened sympathetically, supplied a dime, which seemed to be all he had, for breakfast, and said as he entered the building: "well kid, 'til we can find a job you'll just have to go up against the street. if i can live and save money at it, you ought to be smart enough to _live_. go to it 'til i get my day's work done. you just can't go home, because they'll think you don't amount to anything; the fellows will make game of you, and besides jud is doing wonderfully well, your father said so. he seemed so tickled over him, i guess the fact is he is getting more help from him that he ever did from junior boy, so your job there isn't open. go at whatever you can see that needs to be done, 'til i get my work over and we'll try again. i'll be out about three, and you can meet me here." empty and disheartened junior squeezed the dime and hurried toward the nearest restaurant. but the transaction had been witnessed by a boy as hungry as he, and hardened to the street. how junior came to be sprawling on the sidewalk he never knew; only that his hand involuntarily opened in falling and he threw it out to catch himself, so he couldn't find the dime. before noon he was sick and reeling with sleeplessness and hunger. he was waiting when it was mickey's time to lunch, but he did not come, and in desperation junior really tried the street. at last he achieved a nickel by snatching a dropped bundle from under a car. he sat a long time in a stairway looking at it, and then having reached a stage where he was more sick, and less hungry, he hunted a telephone booth and tried to get his home, only to learn that the family was away. gladdened by the thought that they might be in the city, he walked miles, watching the curb before stores where they shopped, searching for their car, and he told himself that if he found it, nothing could separate him from the steering gear until he sped past all regulation straight to his mother's cupboard. he had wanted ham and chicken in the beginning; later helping himself to cold food in the cellar seemed a luxury; then crackers and cookies in the dining-room cupboard would have satisfied his wildest desire; and before three o'clock, junior, in mad rebellion, remembered his mother's slop bucket. how did she dare put big pieces of bread and things good enough for any one to eat in feed for pigs and poultry! if he ever reached home he resolved he would put a stop to that. at three to mickey's cheerful, "now we'll find a job or make it," he answered: "no we will find a square meal or steal it," and then he told. mickey watched him reflectively, but as he figured the case, it was not for him to suggest retreat. he condoled, paid for the meal, and started hunting work again, with junior silent and dogged beside him. to the surprise of both, almost at once they found a place for a week with a florist. junior went to work. after a few tasks bunglingly performed, he was tried on messenger service and started with his carfare to deliver a box containing a funeral piece. he had no idea where he was to go, or what car line to take. in his extremity a bootblack came to his aid. he safely delivered the box at a residence where the owner was leaving his door for his car. he gave junior half a dollar. junior met the first friendly greeting he had encountered in multiopolis, as he reached the street. two boys larger than he walked beside him and talked so frankly, that before he reached his car line, he felt he had made friends. they offered to show him a shorter cut to the car line just by going up an alley and out on a side street. at the proper place for seclusion, the one behind knocked him senseless, and the one before wheeled and relieved him of money, and both fled. junior lay for a time, then slowly came back, but he was weak and ill. he knew without investigating what had happened, and preferring the mercy that might be inside to that of the alley, he crawled into a back door. it proved to be a morgue. a workman came to his assistance, felt the lump on his head, noticed the sickness on his face, and gave him a place to rest. junior was dubious from the start about feeling better, as he watched the surroundings. the proprietor came past and inquired who he was and why he was there. junior told him, and showed the lumps behind his ear and on his forehead, to prove his words. the man was human. he gave junior another nickel and told him which car to take from his front door. he had to stand aside and see five pieces of charred humanity from a cleaning-establishment explosion, carried through the door before he had a chance to leave it. he reached the florist's two hours late and in spite of his story and his perfectly discernible bumps to prove it, he was discharged as a fool for following strangers into an alley. on the streets once more and penniless, he started to walk the miles to his room. when he found the building he thought it would be cooler to climb the fire-escape and sit on it until he decided what to do, then he could open the door from the inside. at the top he thrust a foot, head, and shoulders into the room and realized he had selected the wrong escape. he tried to draw back, but two men leaped for him, and as he was doubled in the window he could not make a swift movement. he was landed in the middle of the room, cursed for a prowling thief, his protestations silenced, his pockets searched, and when they yielded nothing, his body stripped of its clean, wholesome clothing and he was pitched down the stairs. he appealed to several people, and found that the less he said the safer he was. he snatched a towel from a basket of clothes before a door, twisted it around him, and ran down the street to mickey's front entrance. with all his remaining breath he sped up flight after flight of stairs and at last reached the locked door, only to find that the key was in the pocket of his stolen trousers, and he could not force his way with his bare hands. he could only get to his clothing by trying the fire-escapes again. he was almost too sick to see or cling to the narrow iron steps, but that time he counted carefully, and looked until he was sure before he entered. he found his clothes, and in the intense heat dressed himself, but he could not open the door. he sat on the fire-escape to think. presently he espied one of the men who had robbed him watching him from another escape, and being afraid and beaten sore, he crept into the heat, and lay on the bed beside the window. after a while a breath of air came in, and junior slept the sleep of exhaustion. when he awoke it was morning, his head aching, his mouth dry, and the room cooler. glancing toward the door he saw it standing open and then noticed the disorder of the room, and of himself, and sat up to find he was on the floor, once more disrobed, and the place stripped of every portable thing in it, even the bed, little stove, and the trunk filled with clothes and a few personal possessions sacred to mickey because they had been his mother's. the men had used the key in junior's pocket to enter while he slept, drugged him, and carried away everything. he crept to the door and closed it, then sank on the floor and cried until he again became unconscious. it was four o'clock that afternoon when mickey looked in and understood the situation. he bent over junior's bruised and battered body, stared at his swollen, tear-stained face, and darting from the room, brought water, and then food and clothing. redressed and fed, junior lay on the floor and said to mickey: "go to the nearest 'phone and call father. tell him i'm sick, to come in a hurry with the car." "sure!" said mickey. "but hadn't we better wait 'til morning now, and get you rested and fed up a little?" "no," said junior. "the sooner he sees the fix i'm in the better he will realize that i'm not a quitter; but that this ain't just the place for me. mickey, did you ever go through this? why do i get it so awful hard?" "it's because the regulars can tell a mile off you are country, junior," said mickey. "all my life i've been on the streets so they knew me for city born, and supposed i'd friends to trace them and back me if they abused me; and then, i always look ahead sharp, and don't trust a living soul about alleys. you say the next escape but one? i've got to find them, and get back my things. i want mother's, and lily and i can't live this winter with no bed, and no stove, and nothing at all." "i'm sorry about your mother's things mickey, but don't worry over the rest," said junior. "pa and ma won't ever be willing to give up peaches again, i can see that right now, and if they keep her, they will have to take you too, because of course you can't be separated from her; your goods, i'll pay back. i owe you a lot as it is, but i got some money in the bank, and i'll have to sell my sheep." junior laid his head on his arm and sobbed weakly. "don't junior," said mickey. "i feel just awful about this. i thought you had a place that would earn your supper, and you had the room, and would be all right." "why of course!" said junior. mickey looked intently at him. "now look here junior," he said, "i got to square myself on this. i didn't think all the time you'd like multiopolis, when you saw it with the bark off. course viewing it on a full stomach, from an automobile, with spending money in your pocket, and a smooth run to a good home before you, is one thing; facing up to it, and asking it to hand out those things to you in return for work you can do here, without knowing the ropes, is another. you've stuck it out longer than i would, honest you have, but it isn't your game, and you don't know how, and you'd be a fool to learn. i thought you'd get enough to satisfy you when you came, but seeing for yourself seemed to be the only way to cure you." "oh don't start the 'i told you so,'" said junior. "father and mother will hand it out for the rest of my life. i'd as lief die as go back, but i'm going; not because i can't get in the game, and make a living if you can, even if i have to go out and start as you did, with a penny. i'm going back, but not for the reason you think. it's because seen at close range, multiopolis ain't what it looks like from an automobile. i know something that i really know, and that comes natural to me, that beats it a mile; and now i've had my chance, and made my choice. i'm so sore i can't walk, but if you'll just call father and tell him to come in on high, i'll settle with you later." "course if that's the way you feel, i'll call him," said mickey, "but junior, let me finish this much i was trying to say. i knew multiopolis would do to you all it had done to me, and i knew you wouldn't like it; but i _didn't_ figure on your big frame and fresh face spelling country 'til it would show a mile down the street. i _didn't_ figure on you getting the show i would, and i _didn't_ intend anything worse should happen to you than has to me. honest i didn't! i'm just about sick over this junior. don't you want to go to mr. bruce's office--i got a key and he won't care--don't you want to go there and rest a little, and feed up better, before i call your father?" "no i don't! i got enough and i know it! they must know it some time; it might as well come at once." "then let's go out on the car," said mickey. "i guess you don't realize just how bad this is," said junior. "you call father, and call him quick and emphatic enough to bring him." "all right then," said mickey. "here goes!" "and put the call in nearest place you can find and hustle back," said junior. "i'm done with alleys, and sluggers, and robbers. goliath couldn't have held his own against two big men, when he was fifteen, and i guess father won't think i'm a coward because they got away with me. but you hurry!" "sure! i'll fly, and i'll get him if i can." "there's no doubt about getting him. this is baked potato, bacon, blackberry roll, honey and bread time at our house. they wouldn't be away just now, and it's strange they have been so much this week." mickey gave junior a swift glance; then raced to the nearest telephone. "you mickey?" queried peter. "yes. it's you for s.o.s., and i'm to tell you to come on high, and lose no time in starting." "am i to come mickey, or am i too busy?" "you are to come, peter, to my room, and in a hurry. things didn't work according to program." "why what's the matter, mickey?" "just what i told you would be when it came to getting a job here; but i didn't figure on street sharks picking on junior and robbing him, and following him to my room, and slugging him 'til he can't walk. you come peter, and come in a hurry, and peter----" "you better let me start----" said peter. "yes, but peter, one minute," insisted mickey. "i got something to say to you. this didn't work out as i planned, and i'm awful sorry, and you'll be too. but junior is cured done enough to suit you; he won't ever want to leave you again, you can bank on that--and he ain't hurt permanent; but if you have got anything in your system that sounds even a little bit like 'i told you so,' forget it on the way in, and leave instructions with the family to do the same. see? junior is awful sore! he don't need anything rubbed in in the way of reminiscences. he's ready to do the talking. see?" "yes. you're sure he ain't really hurt?" "sure!" said mickey. "three days will fix him, but peter, it's been mighty rough! go easy, will you?" "mickey have you got money----" "all we need, just you get here with the car, and put in a comfort and pillow. all my stuff is gone!" peter senior arrived in a surprisingly short time, knelt on the floor and looked closely at his sleeping boy. "naked and beaten to insensibility, you say?" mickey nodded. "nothing to eat for nearly two days?" another affirmation. peter arose, pushed back his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. "i haven't been thinking about anything but him ever since he left," he said, "and what makes me the sorest is that the longer i think of it, the surer i get that this is my fault. i didn't raise him right!" "aw-w-ah peter!" protested mickey. "i've got it all studied out," said peter, "and i didn't! there have been two mistakes, junior's and mine, and of the two, mine is twice as big as the boy's." peter stooped and picked up his son, who stirred and awakened. when he found himself in his father's arms junior clung to him and whispered over and over: "father, dear father!" peter gripped him with all his might and whispered back: "forgive me son! forgive me!" "well i don't know what for?" sobbed junior. "you will before long," said peter. he drove to a cool place, and let the car stand while he called his wife, and explained all of the situation he saw fit. she was waiting at the gate when they came. she never said a word except to urge junior to eat his supper. but junior had no appetite. "i want to run things here for a few minutes," he said. "when the children finish, put them to bed, and then let me tell you, and you can decide what you'll do to me." "well, don't you worry about that," said peter. "no i won't," said junior, "because there's nothing you can do that will be half i deserve." when the little folks were asleep, and mickey had helped mrs. harding finish the work, and jud jason had been paid five dollars for his contract and had gone home, junior lay in the hammock on the front porch, while his father, mother and mickey sat close. when he started to speak peter said: "now junior, wait a minute! you've been gone a week, and during that time i've used my brains more than i ever did in a like period, even when i was courting your ma, and the subject i laboured on was what took you away from us. i've found out why you were not satisfied, and who made you dissatisfied. the guilty party is peter harding, aided and abetted by one nancy harding, otherwise known as ma----" "why father!" interrupted junior. "silence!" said peter. "i've just found out that it's a man's job to be the _head of his family_, and i'm going to be the head of mine after this, and like mickey here, 'i'm going to keep it.' let me finish. i've spent this week thinking, and all the things i have thought would make a bigger book than the dictionary if they were set down. why should you ask to be forgiven for a desire to go to multiopolis when i carried you there as a baby, led you as a toddler, and went with you every chance i could trump up as a man? who bought and fed you painted, adulterated candy as a child, when your ma should have made you pure clean taffy at home from our maple syrup or as good sugar as we could buy? often i've spent money that now should be on interest, for fruit that looked fine to you there, and proved to be grainy, too mellow, sour or not half so good as what you had at home. "i never took you hunting, or fishing, or camping, or swimming, in your life; but i haven't had a mite of trouble to find time and money to take you to circuses, which i don't regret, i'll do again; and picture shows, which i'll do also; and other shows. i'm not condemning any form of amusement we ever patronized so much, we'll probably do all of it again; but what gets me now, is how i ever came to think that the only _interesting things_ and those worth taking time and spending money on, were running to multiopolis, to eat, to laugh, to look, and getting little to show for it but disappointment and suffering for all of us. you haven't had the only punishment that's struck the harding family this week, junior. your ma and i have had our share, and i haven't asked her if she has got enough, but speaking strictly for myself, i have." "i wouldn't live through it again for the farm," sobbed mrs. harding. "i see what you are getting at pa, and it's we who are the guilty parties, just as you say." junior sat up and stared at them. "i don't so much regret the things i did," said peter, "as i condemn myself for the things i haven't done. i haven't taught you to ride so you don't look a spectacle on a horse, and yet horses should come as natural as breathing to you. you should be a skilled marksman; you couldn't hit a wash-tub at ten paces. you should swim like a fish, with a hundred lakes in your country; you'd drown if you were thrown in the middle of one and left to yourself. you ought to be able to row a boat as well as it can be done, and cast a line with all the skill any lad of your age possesses. that you can't make even a fair showing at any sport, results from the fact that every time your father had a minute to spare he took you and headed straight for multiopolis. here's the golf links at our door, and if ever any game was a farmer's game, and if any man has a right to hold up his head, and tramp his own hills, and swing a strong arm and a free one, and make a masterly stroke, it's a _land owner_. there's no reason why plowing and tilling should dull the brains, bend the back, or make a pack-horse of a man. modern methods show you how to do the same thing a better way, how to work one machine instead of ten men, how to have time for a vacation, just as city men do, and how to have money for books, and music, and school, instead of loading with so much land it's a burden to pay the taxes. i have quite a bunch of land for sale, and i see a way open to make three times the money i ever did, with half the hard work. we've turned over a new leaf at this place from start to finish, including the house, barn, land, and family. a year from now you won't know any of us; but that later. just now, it's this: i'm pointing out to you junior, exactly how you came to have your hankering for multiopolis. i can see you followed the way we set you thinking, that all the amusing things were there, the smart people, the fine clothes, the wealth, and the freedom----" "yes you ought to see the 'amusing things' and the 'happy people' when your stomach's cramping and your head splitting!" cried junior. "i tell you down among them it looks different from riding past in an automobile." "exactly!" conceded peter. "exactly what i'm coming at. all your life i've given you the wrong viewpoint. now you can busy yourselves planning how to make our share of the world over, so it will bring all the joy of life right to the front door. i guess the first big thing is to currycomb the whole place, and fix it as it should be to be most convenient for us. then we better take a course of training in making up our minds to be _satisfied_ with what we can afford. junior, does home look better to you than it did this time last week?" "father," began junior, and sobbed aloud. "the answer is sufficient," said peter dryly. "never mind son! when, with our heads put together, we get our buildings and land fixed right, i suggest that we also fix our clothes and our belongings right. i can't see any reason why a woman as lovely as ma, should be told from any other pretty woman, by her walk or dress. i don't know why a man as well set up as i am, shouldn't wear his clothes as easy as the men at the club house. i can't see why we shouldn't be at that same club house for a meal once in a while, just to keep us satisfied with home cooking, and that game looks interesting. next trip to multiopolis i make, i'm going to get saddles for junior and mickey and teach them what i know about how to sit and handle a horse properly; and it needn't be a plow horse either. next day off i have, i'm going to spend hauling lumber to one of these lakes we decide on, to build a house for a launch and fishing-boat for us. then when we have a vacation, we'll drive there, shelter our car, and enjoy ourselves like the city folks by the thousand, since we think what they do so right and fine. they've showed us what they like, flocking five thousand at a clip, to red wing lake a few miles from us. since we live among what they are spending their thousands every summer to enjoy, let's help ourselves to a little pleasure. i am going to buy each of us a fishing rod, and get a box of tackle, soon as i reach it, and i'm going fast. i've wasted sixteen years, now i'm on the homestretch, and it's going to be a stretch of all there is in me to make our home the sweetest, grandest place on earth to us. will you help me, nancy?" "i think maybe i'll be saved nervous prostration if i can help just a few of these things to take place." "yes, i've sensed that," said peter. "mickey pointed that out to me the morning you jumped your job and headed for sunup. for years, just _half your time and strength has been thrown away using old methods and implements in your work, and having the kitchen unhandy and inconvenient; and i'm the man who should have seen it, and got you right tools for your job at the same time i bought a houseful for myself and my work_. we must stir up this whole neighbourhood, and build a big entertainment house, where we can have a library suitable for country folks, and satisfying to their ways of life. it's got to have music boxes in it, and a floor fit for dancing and skating, and a stage for our own entertainments, and the folks we decide to bring here to amuse us. we can put in a picture machine and a screen, that we can pay for by charging a few cents admission the nights we run it, and rent films once or twice a week from a good city show. we could fix up a place like that, and get no end of fun and education out of it, without going thirty miles and spending enough money in one night to get better entertainment for a month at home, and in a cool, comfortable hall, and where we can go from it to bed in a few minutes. once i am started, with mickey and junior to help me, i'm going to call a meeting and talk these things over with my neighbours, and get them to join in if i can. if i can't, i'll go on and put up the building and start things as i think they should be, and charge enough admittance to get back what i invest; and after that, just enough to pay running expenses and for the talent we use. i'm so sure it can be done, i'm going to do it. will you help me, son?" "yes father, i'd think it was fine to help do that," said junior. "_now_ may i say what i want to?" "why yes, you might son," said peter, "but to tell the truth i can't see that you have anything to say. if you have got the idea, junior, that you have wronged us any, and that it's your job to ask us to forgive you for wanting to try the things we started and kept you hankering after all your life so far, why you're mistaken. if i'd trained you from your cradle to love your home, as i've trained you to love multiopolis, you never would have left us. so if there is forgiving in the air, you please forgive me. and this includes your ma as well. i should ask her forgiveness too, for a whole lot of things that i bungled about, when i thought i was loving her all i possibly could. i've got a new idea of love so big and all-encompassing it includes a fireless cooker and a dish-washing machine. i'm going to put it in practice for a year; then if my family wants to change back, we'll talk about it." "but father----" began junior. "go to bed son," said peter. "you can tell us what happened when you ain't as sleepy as you are right now." junior arose and followed his mother to the kitchen. "ain't he going to let me tell what a fool i've been at all?" he demanded. "i guess your pa felt that when he got through telling what fools we've been, there wasn't anything left for you to say. i know i feel that way. this neighbourhood does all in its power, from the day their children are born, to teach them that _home_ is only a _stopping-place,_ to eat, and sleep, and work, and be sick in; and that every desirable thing in life is to be found _somewhere else_, the else being, in most cases, multiopolis. just look at it year after year gobbling up our boys and girls, and think over the ones you know who have gone, and see what they've come to. among the men as far as i remember, joel harris went into a law office and made a rich, respectable man; and two girls married and have good homes; the others, many of them, i couldn't name to you the places they are in. this neighbourhood needs reforming, and if pa has set out to attempt it, i'll lend a hand, and i guess from what you got this week, you'll be in a position to help better than you could have helped before." "yes i guess so too," said junior emphatically. he gladly went back to the cream wagon. peter didn't want him to, but there was a change in junior. he was no longer a wilful discontented boy. he was a partner, who was greatly interested in a business and felt dissatisfied if he were not working at furthering it. he had little to say, but his eyes were looking far ahead in deep thought. the first morning he started out, while junior unhitched his horse, peter filled the wagon and went back to the barn where mickey was helping him. junior, passing, remembered he had promised jud jason to bring a bundle he had left there, and stopped for it. he stepped into the small front door and bent for the package lying in sight, when clearly and distinctly arose mickey's voice lifted to reach peter, at another task. "course i meant him to get enough to make him good and sick of it, like we agreed on; but i never intended him to get any such a dose as he had." junior straightened swiftly, and his lower jaw dropped. his father's reply was equally audible. "of course i understand _that_, mickey." "surest thing you know!" said mickey. "i like junior. i like him better than any other boy i ever knew, and i've known hundreds. i tell you peter, he was gamer than you'll ever believe to hang on as long as he did." "yes i think that too," said peter. "you know he didn't come because he was all in," explained mickey. "you can take a lot of pride in that. he'd about been the limit when he quit. and he quit, not because he was robbed and knocked out, but because what he had seen showed him that multiopolis wasn't the job he wanted for a life sentence. see?" "i hope you are right about that," said peter. "i'm glad to my soul to get him home, cured in any way; but it sort of gags me to think of him as having been scared out. it salves my vanity considerable to feel, as you say, that he had the brains to sense the situation, and quit because he felt it wasn't the work for which he was born." then mickey's voice came eagerly, earnestly, warming the cockles of junior's heart. "now lemme tell you peter; i was there, and i _know_. it _was_ that way. _it was just that way exact!_ he wasn't scared out, he'd have gone at it again, all right, if he'd seen anything in it he _wanted_. it was just as his mother felt when she first talked it over with me, and the same with you later: that if he got to the city, and got right up against earning a living there, he would find it wasn't what he wanted; and he did, like all of us thought. course i meant to put it to him stiff; i meant to 'niciate him in the ancient and honourable third degree of multiopolis all right, so he'd have enough to last a lifetime; but i only meant to put him up against what i'd. had myself on the streets; i was just going to test his ginger; i wasn't counting on the robbing, and the alleys, and the knockout, and the morgue. gee, peter!" then they laughed. a dull red surged up junior's neck, and flooded his face. he picked up the bundle, went silently from the barn, and climbed on the wagon. the jerk of the horse stopping at its accustomed place told him when to load the first can. he had been thinking so deeply he was utterly oblivious to everything save the thought that it had been prearranged among them to "cure" him; even his mother knew about, if he heard aright, had been the instigator of the scheme to let him go, to be what mickey called "initiated in the ancient and honourable third degree of multiopolis." once he felt so outraged he thought of starting the horse home, taking the trolley, going back to multiopolis and fighting his way to what his father would be compelled to acknowledge success. he knew that he could do it; he was on the point of vowing that he _would_ do it; but in his heart he knew better than any one else how repulsed he was, how he hated it, and against a vision of weary years of fighting, came that other vision of himself planning and working beside his father to change and improve their home life. "say junior are you asleep?" called jud jason. "you sit there like you couldn't move. d'ye bring my bundle?" "yes, it's back there," answered junior. "get it!" "how'd you like multiopolis?" asked jud. junior knew he had that to face. "it's a cold-blooded sell, jud," he said promptly. "i'm glad i went when i did, and found out for myself. you see it's like this, jud: i _could_ have stayed and made my way; but i found out in a few days that i wouldn't give a snap for the way when it was made. we fellows are better off right where we are, and a lot of us are ready to _throw away_ exactly what _many of the men in multiopolis are wild to get_. now let me tell you----" junior told him, and through putting his experience into words, he eased his heart and cleared his brain. he came to hints of great and wonder-working things that were going to happen soon. there was just a possibility that jud gleaned an idea that the experience in multiopolis had brought his friend home to astound and benefit the neighbourhood. at any rate junior picked up the lines with all the sourness gone from his temperament, which was usually sweet, except that one phrase of mickey's, and the laughter. suddenly he leaned forward. "jud, come here," he said. junior began to speak, and jud began to understand and sympathize with the boy he had known from childhood. "could we?" asked junior. "'could we?' well, i just guess we _could!_" "when?" queried junior. "this afternoon, if he's going to be off," said jud. "well i don't know what his plans are, but i could telephone from here and by rustling i could get back by two. i've done it on a bet. where will we go, and what for?" "to atwater. fishing is good enough excuse." "all right! father will let me take the car." "hayseed! isn't walking good enough to suit you? what's the matter with the elkhart swale, atwater marsh, and the woods around the head of the lake----" "hold the horse till i run in and 'phone him." when he came down the walk he reported: "he wants to go fishing awful bad, and he'll be ready by two. that's all settled then. we'll have a fine time." "bully!" said jud laconically, and started to the house of another friend, where a few words secured a boy of his age a holiday. junior drove fast as he dared and hurried with his work; so he reached home a little before two, where he found mickey with poles and a big can of worms ready. despite the pressing offer of the car, they walked, in order to show mickey the country which he was eager to explore on foot. junior said the sunfish were big as lunch plates at atwater, the perch fine, and often if you caught a grasshopper or a cricket for bait, you got a big bass around the shore, and if they had the luck to reach the lake, when there was no one ahead of them, and secured a boat they were sure of taking some. "wouldn't i like to see lily eating a fish i caught," said mickey, searching the grass and kicking rotting wood as he saw junior doing to find bass bait. "minnies are the real thing," explained junior. "when we get the scheme father laid out going, before we start fishing, you and i will take a net and come to this creek and catch a bucketful of right bait, and then we'll have man's sport, for sure. won't it be great?" "exactly what the plutes are doing," said mickey. "gee, junior, if your pa does all the things he said he was going to, you'll be a plute yourself!" "never heard him say anything in my life he didn't do," said junior, "and didn't you notice that he put _you_ in too? you'll be just as much of a plute as i will." "not on your bromide," said mickey. "he is _your_ father, and you'll be in business with him; i'll just be along sometimes, as a friend, maybe." "i usually take father at just what he says. i guess he means you to stay in our family, if you like." "i wonder now!" said mickey. "looks like it to me. father and mother both like you, and they're daffy about peaches." "it's because she's so little, and so white, and so helpless," mickey hastened to explain, "and so awful sweet!" "well for what ever it is, it _is_," said junior, "and i'm just as crazy about her as the rest. look out kid! that fellow's coming right at us!" junior dashed for the fence, while mickey lost time in turning to see what "that fellow" might be; so he faced the ram that had practised on malcolm minturn. with lowered head, the ram sprang at mickey. he flew in air, and it butted space and whirled again, so that before the boy's breath was fully recovered he lifted once more, with all the agility learned on the streets of multiopolis; but that time the broad straw hat he wore to protect his eyes on the water, sailed from his head; he dropped the poles, and as the ram came back at him he hit it squarely in the face with the bait can, which angered rather than daunted it. then for a few minutes mickey was too busy to know exactly what happened, and movements were too quick for junior. when he saw that mickey was tiring, and the ram was not, he caught a rail from the fence and helped subdue the ram. panting they climbed the fence and sat resting. "why i didn't know higgins had that ram," said junior. "we fellows always crossed that field before. say, there ain't much in that '_gentle sheep pray tell me why, in the pleasant fields you lie?_' business, is there?" "not much but the lie," said mickey earnestly. junior dropped from the fence and led the way toward a wood thick with underbrush, laughing until his heart pained. as they proceeded they heard voices. "why that sounds like my bunch," said junior. he whistled shrilly, which brought an immediate response, and soon two boys appeared. "hello!" said junior. "hello!" answered they. "where're you going?" asked junior. "to atwater lake, fishing. where you?" "there too!" said junior. "why great! we'll go together! sam, this is mickey." mickey offered his hand and formalities were over. "but i threw our worms at the ram," said mickey. "well that was a smart trick!" cried junior. "wasn't it?" agreed mickey. "but you see the ram was coming and i had the worms in my strong right, so i didn't stop to think i'd spent an hour digging them; i just whaled away--" "never mind worms," said jud. "i guess we got enough to divide; if you fellows want to furnish something for your share, you can find some grubs in these woods, and we'll get more chance at the bass." "sure!" said mickey. "what are grubs and where do you look for them?" "oh anywhere under rotting wood and round old logs," said jud. "b'lieve it's a good place right here, mickey; dig in till i cut a stick to help with." mickey pushed aside the bushes, dropped on his knees and "dug in." a second later, with a wild shriek, he rolled over and over striking and screaming. "yellow jackets!" shouted jud. "quick fellers, help mickey! he's got too close to a nest!" armed with branches they came beating the air and him; until mickey had a fleeting thought that if the red-hot needles piercing him did not kill, the boys would. presently he found himself beside a mudhole and as the others "ouched" and "o-ohed" and bewailed their fate, and grabbed mud and plastered it on, he did the same. jud generously offered, as he had not so many stings, to help mickey. soon even the adoring eyes of peaches could not have told her idol from the mudhole. he twisted away from an approaching handful crying: "gee jud! leave a feller room to breathe! if you are going to smother me, i might as well die from bites!" "bites!" cried the boys while all of them laughed wildly, so wildly that mickey flushed with shame to think he had so little appreciation of the fun calling a sting a bite, when it was explained to him. "well they sure do get down to business," he chattered, chilling from the exquisite pain of a dozen yellow-jacket stings, one of which on his left eyelid was rapidly closing that important organ. he bowed a willing head for jud's application of cold mud. finally they gathered up their poles and bait and again started toward the lake. the day was warm, and there was little air in the marsh, and on the swampy shore they followed. suddenly jud cried: "i tell you fellows, what's the use of walking all the way round the lake? bet the boats will be taken when we get there! let's cut fishing and go swimming right here where there's a cool, shady place. it will be good for you mickey, it will cool off your stings a lot." mickey promptly began to unbutton, and the others did the same. then they made their way through the swamp tangle lining the shore at the head of the lake, and tried to reach the water beside the tamaracks. sam and junior found solid footing, and waded toward deep water. jud piloted mickey to a spot he thought sufficiently treacherous, and said: "looks good here; you go ahead mickey, and i'll come after you." mickey was unaccustomed to the water. he waded in with the assurance he had seen the others use, but suddenly he cried: "gee boys, i'm sucking right down!" then on his ears fell a deafening clamour. "help! help! quicksands! mickey's sinking! help him!" mickey threw out his arms. he grabbed wildly; while a force, seemingly gentle but irresistible, sucked him lower and lower, and with each inch it bore him down, gripped tighter, and pulled faster. when he glanced at the boys he saw panic in their faces, and he realized that he was probably lost, and they were terror stricken. the first gulp of tepid shore water that strangled him in running across his gasping lips made him think of peaches. struggling he threw back his head and so saw a widespreading branch of a big maple not far above him. all that was left of mickey went into the cry: "junior! bend me that branch!" junior swiftly climbed the tree, crept on the limb, and swayed it till it swept the water, then mickey laid hold; just a few twigs, and then as junior backed, and the branch lifted higher and higher, mickey worked, hand over hand, and finally grasped twigs that promised to stand a gentle pull. then jud began to shout instructions: "little lower, junior! get a better grip before you pull hard, mickey! maple is brittle! easy! it will snap with you! kind of roll yourself and turn to let the water in and loosen the sand. now roll again! now pull a little! you're making it! you are out to your shoulders! back farther, junior! don't you fall in, or you'll both go down!" mickey was very quiet now. his small face was pallid with the terror of leaving peaches forever with no provision for her safety. the grip of the sucking sand was yet pulling at his legs and body; while if the branch broke he knew what it meant; that sucking, insistent pulling, and caving away beneath his feet told him. suddenly mickey gave up struggling, set his teeth, and began fighting by instinct. he moved his shoulders gently, until he let the water flow in, then instead of trying to work his feet he held them rigid and flattened as he could, and with the upper part of his body still rolling, he reached higher, and kept inching up the branch as junior backed away, until with sickening slowness he at last reached wood thick as his wrist. then he dragged his helpless body after him to safety, where he sank in a heap to rest. "jud, it's a good thing i went in there first," he said. "heavy as you are, you'd a-been at the bottom by now, if there _is_ any bottom." mickey's gaze travelled slowly over his lumpy, purple frame, and then he looked closely at the others. "why them stingers must a-give about all of it to me," he commented. "i don't see any lumps on the rest of you." "oh we are used to it," scoffed jud. "they don't show on you after you get used to them. 'sides most all mine are on my head, i kept 'em off with the bushes." "so did i," chimed in sam and junior with one voice. "i guess i did get a lot the worst of it," conceded mickey. "but if they only stung your heads, it's funny you didn't know where to put your mud!" "well i'll tell you," said jud earnestly. "on your head they hurt worst of all. they hurt so blame bad, you get so wild like you don't know where you _are_ stung, and you think till you cool off a little, you got them all over." "yes i guess you do," agreed mickey. the boys were slowly putting on their clothing and junior was scowling darkly. jud edged close. "gosh!" he whispered. "i thought it was only a little spring! i didn't think it was a quicksand!" "you cut out anything more!" said junior tersely. jud nodded. after a while they started home, walking slowly and each one being particularly careful of and good to mickey. when he had rested, he could see that it was only an accident; such an astounding one he forgot his bites and could talk of little else. they made another long pause under a big tree, and mickey felt so much better as they again started home, that junior lagged behind, and jud seeing, joined him. junior asked softly: "have any more?" jud nodded. "what?" whispered junior. jud told him. "oh that! nothing in that! go on!" so they struck into the path they had followed from the swamp to the woods, when suddenly a warm, yielding, coiling thing slipped under mickey's feet. with a wild cry he leaped across the body of a big rattlesnake that had been coiled in the path. as he arose, clear cut against the light launched the ugly head and wide jaws of the rattler, then came the sickening buzz of its rattles in mad recoil for a second stroke. "run mickey! jump!" screamed junior. "what is it?" asked mickey bewildered. "rattlesnakes! sure death!" yelled jud. "run fool!" but mickey stood perfectly still, and looked, not where the increasing buzz came from, but at them. they had no choice. jud carried a heavy club; he threw himself in front of mickey and as the second stroke came, he swung at the snake's head. the other boys collected their senses and beat it to pulp, then the dead mate it watched beside. junior glared at jud, but when he saw how frightened he was, he knew what had happened. mickey gazed at the snakes in horror. "ain't that a pretty small parcel to deal out sudden death in?" he asked. "and if they're laying round like that, ain't we taking an awful risk to be wading through here, this way? gee, they're the worst sight i ever saw!" mickey became violently ill. he lay down for a time, while the boys waited on him, and at last when he could slowly walk toward home, they went on. jud and sam left them at the creek, and junior and mickey started up the harding lane. suddenly mickey sat down in a fence corner, leaned against the rails, and closed his eyes. "gee!" he said. "never felt so rotten in all my life." "maybe that snake grazed you." "if it did, would it kill me?" asked mickey dully. "well after the yellow-jacket poison in your blood, and being so tired and hot, you wouldn't stand the chance you'd had when we first started," said junior. "do you know where it came closest to you?" "back of my legs, i s'pose," said mickey. "if it had hit you, it would leave two places like needles stuck in, just the width of its head apart. i can't find any-thing that looks like it, thank the lord!" "here too!" said mickey. "you see if it or the quicksands had finished me, i haven't things fixed for lily. they might '_get'_ her yet. if anything should happen to me, she would be left with no one to take care of her." "father would," offered junior. "mother never would let anybody take her. i know she wouldn't." "well i don't," said mickey, "and here is where guessing doesn't cut any ice. i must be _sure_. to-night i'll ask him. i'd like to know how it happens that sudden death has just been rampaging after me all this trip, anyway. i seemed to get it coming or going." junior did not hide his grin quickly enough. "aw-w-w-ah!" grated mickey, suddenly tense and alert. he sprang to his feet. so did junior. "say, look here----" cried mickey. "all right, 'look here,'" retorted junior. his face flamed ted, then paled, and his hands gripped, while his jaw protruded in an ugly scowl. then slowly and distinctly he quoted: "course i meant to put it to you stiff; i meant to 'niciate you in the ancient and honourable third degree of the country all right, so's you'd have enough to last a lifetime; but i only meant to put you up against what i'd had myself in the fields and woods; i was just going to test your ginger; i wasn't counting on the _quicksand_, and the _live_ snake, finding its dead mate jud fixed for you." "so you were sneaking in the barn this morning, when we thought you were gone?" demanded mickey. "easy you!" cautioned junior. "going after the bundle i promised jud was _not_ sneaking----" "so 'twasn't," conceded mickey, instantly. "so 'twasn't!" he looked at junior a second. "you heard us, then?" he demanded. "all of it?" "i don't know," answered junior. "i heard what i just repeated, and what you said about my being game, and exactly why i came back; thank you for _that_, even if i lick you half to death in a minute--and i heard that my own mother first fixed it up with you, and then father agreed. oh i heard enough----!" "and so you got a grouch?" commented mickey. "yes i did," admitted junior. "but i got over all of it, after i'd had time to think, but that third degree business; that made me so sore i told jud about it, and he said he'd help me pay you up; but we struck the same rock you did, in giving you a bigger dose than we meant to. honest mickey, jud didn't know there was a _real_ quicksand there, and of course we didn't dream a live snake would follow and find the one the boys hunted, killed, and set for you this morning----" "awful innocent!" scoffed mickey. "'member you didn't know about the ram either?" "honest i _didn't_, mickey," persisted junior. "i thought steering you into the yellow jackets was to be the first degree! cross my heart, i did." suddenly mickey whooped. he tumbled on the grass in the fence corner and twisted in wild laughter until he was worn out. then he struggled up, and held out his hand to junior. "if you're willing," he said, "i'll give you the grip, and the password will be, 'brothers!'" chapter xviii _malcolm and the hermit thrush_ "mr. dovesky, i want a minute with you," said james minturn. "all right, mr. minturn, what is it?" "you are well acquainted with mrs. minturn?" "very well indeed!" said mr. dovesky. "i have had the honour of working with her in many concerts." "and of her musical ability you are convinced?" "brilliant is the only word," exclaimed the professor. "my reason for asking is this," said mr. minturn: "one of our boys, the second, malcolm, is like his mother, and lately we discovered that he has her gift in music. we ran on it through miss leslie winton, who interested mrs. minturn in certain wild birds." "yes i know," cried the professor eagerly. "when she became certain that she had heard a--i think she said song sparrow, sing di provenza from traviata--correct me if i am wrong--until she felt that verdi copied the bird or the bird copied the master, she told my wife, and nellie was greatly interested." "yes i know," repeated the musician. "she stopped here one day in passing and told me what she had heard from miss winton. she asked me if i thought there were enough in the subject to pay for spending a day investigating it. i knew very little, but on the chance that she would have a more profitable time in the woods than in society, i strongly urged her to go. she heard enough to convince her, for shortly after leaving for her usual summer trip she wrote me twice concerning it." "you mean she wrote you about studying bird music?" "yes," said the professor, "the first letter, if i remember, came from boston, where she found much progress had been made; there she heard of a man who had gone into the subject more deeply than any one ever before had investigated, and written a book. her second letter was from the country near boston, where she had gone to study under his direction. i have thought about taking it up myself at odd times this spring." "that is why i am here," said mr. minturn. "i want you to begin at once, and go as far as you are able, taking malcolm with you. the boys have been spending much of their time in the country lately, hiding in blinds, selecting a bird and practising its notes until they copy them so perfectly they induce it to answer. they are proud as pompey when they succeed; and it teaches them to recognize the birds. i believe this is setting their feet in the right way. but malcolm has gone so fast and so far, that he may be reproducing some of the most wonderful of the songs, for all i know, for the birds come peering, calling, searching, even to the very branch which conceals him. isn't it enough for a beginning?" "certainly," said the musician. "he's been badly spoiled by women servants," said mr. minturn, "but the men are taking that out of him as fast as it can be eliminated. i believe he is interested enough to work. i think his mother will be delighted on her return to find him working at what she so enjoys. does the proposition interest you?" "deeply!" cried the professor. "matters musical are extremely dull here now, and i can't make my usual trip abroad on account of the war; i should be delighted to take up this new subject, which i could make serve me in many ways with my advanced conservatory pupils." "may i make a suggestion?" asked mr. minturn. "most assuredly," exclaimed the professor. "you noticed i began by admitting i didn't know a thing about it, so i'll not be at all offended if you indorse the statement. my boys are large, and old for the beginning they must make. i have to go carefully to find what they care for and will work at; so that i get them started without making them feel confined and forced, and so conceive a dislike for the study to which i think them best adapted. would you find the idea of going to the country, putting a tuned violin in the hands of the lad, and letting him search for the notes he hears, and then playing the composers' selections to him, and giving his ear a chance, at all feasible?" "it's a reversal, but he could try it." "very well, then," said mr. minturn rising. "all i stipulate is that you allow the other boys and the tutor to go along and assimilate what they can, and that when you're not occupied with malcolm, their tutor shall have a chance to work in what he can in the way of spelling, numbers, and nature study. is it a bargain?" "a most delightful one on my part, mr. minturn," said mr. dovesky. "when shall i begin?" "whenever you have selected the instrument you want the boy to have, call mr. tower at my residence and arrange with him to come for you," said mr. minturn. "you can't start too soon to suit the boy or me." "very well then, i'll make my plans and call the first thing in the morning," said the professor. james minturn went home and told what he had done. "won't that be great, malcolm?" cried james jr. "maybe you can do the music so well you can be a birdman and stand upon a stage before a thousand people and make all of them think you're a bird." "i believe i'd like to do it," said malcolm. "if i find out the people who make music have gone and copied in what the birds sing, and haven't told they did it, i'll tell on them. it's no fair way, 'cause of course the birds sang their songs before men, didn't they father?" "i think so, but i can't prove it," said mr. minturn. "can you prove it, mr. tower?" asked malcolm. "yes," said mr. tower, "science proves that the water forms developed first. crickets were singing before the birds, and both before man appeared." "then that's what i think," said malcolm. "when are they to begin, james?" asked mrs. winslow. "mr. dovesky is to call mr. tower in the morning and tell him what arrangements he has been able to make," answered mr. minturn. "malcolm, you are old enough to recognize that he is a great man, and it is a big thing for him to leave his conservatory and his work, and go to the woods to help teach one small boy what the birds say. you'll be very polite and obey him instantly, will you not?" "do i have to mind him just like he was mr. tower?" "i don't think you are obeying mr. tower because you must," said aunt margaret. "seems to me i saw you with your arms around his neck last night, and i think i heard you tell him that you'd give him all your money, except for your violin, if he wouldn't go away this winter. honestly, malcolm, do you obey mr. tower because you feel forced to?" "no!" cried malcolm. "we have dandy times! and we are learning a lot too! i wonder if mr. dovesky will join our campfire?" "very probably he'll be eager to," said mrs. winslow, "and more than likely you'll obey him, just as you do father and mr. tower, because you love to." "father, are william and i going to study the birds?" asked james. "if you like," said mr. minturn. "it would please me greatly if each of you would try hard to understand what mr. dovesky teaches malcolm, and to learn all of it you can, and to produce creditable bird calls if possible; and of course these days you're not really educated unless you know the birds, flowers, and animals around you. it is now a component and delightful part of life." "gee, it's a pity mother isn't here," said malcolm. "i bet she knows more about it than mr. dovesky." "i bet she does, too," agreed james. "but she wouldn't go where we do. there isn't a party there, and if a mosquito bit her she'd have a fit." "aw! she would if she wanted to!" insisted malcolm. "well she wouldn't _want_ to!" said james. "well she might, smarty," said malcolm. "she did once! i saw the boots and skirt she was going to wear. don't you wish she liked the things we do better than parties, father?" "yes, i wish she did," said mr. minturn. "maybe she will." "if she'd hear me call the quail and the whip-poor-will, she'd like it," said malcolm. "she wouldn't like it well enough to stay away from a party to go with you to hear it," said james. "she might!" persisted malcolm. "she didn't know about this when she went to the parties. when she comes back i'm going to tell her; and i'm going to take her to hear me, and i'll show her the flowers and my fish-pond, and yours and father's. wouldn't it be fun if she'd wear the boots again, and make a fish-pond too?" "yes, she'd wear boots!" scoffed james. "well she would if she wanted to," reiterated malcolm. "she wore them when she wanted to hear the birds; if she did once, she would again, if she pleased." "well she wouldn't please," laughed james. "well she _might_," said malcolm stubbornly. "mightn't she, father?" "if she went once, i see no reason why she shouldn't again," said mr. minturn. "course she'll go again!" triumphed malcolm. "i'll make her, when she comes." "yes 'when' she comes!" jeered james. "she won't ever live here! she wouldn't think this was good enough for lucette and gretchen! and she gave away our house for the sick children, and she hates it at grandmother's! bet she doesn't ever come again!" "bet she does!" said malcolm instantly. "would you like to have mother come here, malcolm?" interrupted mr. minturn quietly. "why----" he said and shifted his questioning gaze toward aunt margaret, "why--why--well, i'll tell you, father: if she would wear boots and go see the birds and the flowers--if she would do as we do----sometimes in the night i wake up and think how pretty she is, and i just get hungry to see her--but of course it would only kick up a row for her to come here--of course she better stay away--but father, if she _would_ come, and if she _would_ wear the boots--and if she'd let old slapping lucette go, and live as we do, father, _wouldn't that be great?_" "yes i think it would," said james minturn conclusively, as he excused himself and arose from the table. "james," said malcolm, when they went to their schoolroom, "if mr. dovesky goes to shutting us up in the study and won't let us play while we learn, what will we do to him to make him sick of his job?" "oh things would turn up!" replied james. "but malcolm, wouldn't you kind o' hate to have him see you be mean?" "well father saw us be mean," said malcolm. "yes, but what would you give if he _hadn't?_" "i'm not proud of it," replied malcolm. "yes and that's just it!" cried james. "that's just what comes of living here. all of them are so polite, and if you are halfway decent they are so good to you, and they help you to do things that will make you into a man who needn't be ashamed of himself--that's just it! how would you like to go back and be so rough and so mean nobody at all would care for us?" "father wouldn't let us, would he?" asked malcolm. "he wouldn't if he could help it," said james. "he didn't used to seem as if he could help it. don't you remember he would tell us it was not the right way, and try to have us be decent, and lucette would tell mother, and mother would fire him? i wonder how she could! and if she could then, why doesn't she now? i guess he doesn't want to stop her party to bother with us; but if she ever conies and wants to take us back like we were, malcolm, i'm not going. i _like_ what we got now. mother always said we were to be gentlemen; but we never could be that way. father and mr. tower and mr. dovesky are gentlemen, just as kind, and easy, and fine. when we were mean as could be, and acted like fight-cats, you remember father and mr. tower only _held_ us; they didn't get mad and beat us. if mother comes you may go with her if you want to." "i wish she'd come with us!" said malcolm. "not mother! we ain't her kind of a party." "i know it," admitted malcolm slowly. "sometimes i want her just awful. i wonder why?" "i guess it's 'cause a boy is born wanting his mother. i want her myself a lot of times, but i wouldn't go with her if she'd come today, so i don't know _why_ i want her, but i _do_ sometimes." "i didn't know you did," said malcolm. "well i do," said james, "but i ain't ever going. often i think the queerest things!" "what queer things do you think, james?" "why like this," said james. "that it ain't _safe_ to let children be jerked, and their heads knocked. you know what lucette did to elizabeth? i think she hit her head too hard. she gave me more cake, and said i was a good boy for saying the ice made her sick, but all the time i thought it was hitting her head. i wouldn't be the boy who said that again, if i had to be shot for _not_ saying it, like the french boy was about the soldiers. 'member that day?" "yes i do," said malcolm shortly. "you know you coaxed her off the bench, and i pushed her in!" said james, slowly. "yes," said malcolm. "and i kicked her. and i wasn't mad at her a bit. i wonder _why_ i did it!" "i guess you did it because you were more of an animal than a decent boy, same as i pushed her," said james. "i guess i won't ever forget that i pushed her." "pushing her wasn't as bad as what i did," said malcolm. "i guess ain't either one of us going to feel right about elizabeth again, long as we live." "malcolm, we can't get her back," said james, "but if any way happens that we ever get another little sister, we'll take care of her like father _wanted to_." "you bet we will!" said malcolm. next morning the boys had the car ready. they packed in all their bird books, their flower records, and botanies, and were eagerly waiting when the call from mr. dovesky came. at once they drove to his home for him, and from there to a music store where a violin was selected for malcolm. mr. dovesky was so big, the boys stood in awe of his size. he was so clean, no boy would want him to see him dirty. he was so handsome, it was good to watch his face, because you had to like him when he smiled. he was so polite, that you never for a minute forgot that soon you were going to be a man, and if you could be the man you wished, you would be exactly like him. both boys were very shy of him and very much afraid his entrance into their party would spoil their fun. when they left the music store, malcolm carefully carrying his new violin, mr. dovesky his, and a roll of music, the boys with anxious hearts awaited developments. "now mr. tower," said mr. dovesky, "suppose we drive wherever you are likely to find the birds you have been practising on, and for a start let me hear just what you have done and can do, and then i can plan better to work in with you." when they reached the brook they stopped to show the fish pools and then entered an old orchard, long abandoned for fruit growing and so worm infested as to make it a bird paradise. cuckoos, jays, robins, bluebirds, thrashers, orioles, sparrows, and vireos, nested there, singing on wing, among the trees, on the fences, and from bushes in the corners. malcolm and mr. dovesky secreted themselves on a board laid across the rails of an alder-filled fence corner, then the boy began pointing out the birds he knew and giving his repetition of their calls, cries, bits of song, sometimes whistled, sometimes half spoken, half whistled, any vocal rendition that would produce the bird tones. he had practised carefully, he was slightly excited, and sooner than usual he received replies. little feathered folk came peeping, peering, calling, and beyond question answering malcolm's notes. in an hour mr. dovesky was holding his breath with interest, suggesting corrections, trying notes himself, and when he felt he had whistled accurately and heard a bird reply, he was as proud as the boy. then a thing happened that none of them had mentioned, because they were not sure enough that it would. a brown thrush, catching the unusual atmosphere of the orchard that morning, selected the tallest twig of an apple tree and showed that orchard what real music was. the thrush preened, flirted his feathers, opened his beak widely and sang his first liquid notes. "starts on c," commented mr. dovesky softly. "three times, and does it over, to show us we needn't think it was an accident and he can't do it as often as he pleases," whispered malcolm. mr. dovesky glanced at the boy and nodded. "there he goes from c to e," he commented an instant later, "repeats that--c again, falls to b, up to g, repeats that--i wish he would wait till i get my pencil." "i can give it to you," said malcolm. "he does each strain over as soon as he sings it. i know his song!" on the back of an envelope, mr. dovesky was sketching a staff of music in natural key, setting off measures and filling in notes. as the bird confused him with repetitions or trills on e or c so high he had to watch sharply to catch just what it was, his fingers trembled when he added lines to the staff for the highest notes. for fifteen minutes the blessed bird sang, and at each rendition of its full strain, it seemed to grow more intoxicated with its own performance. finishing the last notes perfectly, the bird gave a hop, glanced around as if he were saying: "now any one who thinks he can surpass that, has my permission to try." from a bush a small gray bird meouwed in derision and accepted the challenge. the watchers could not see him, but he came so close singing the same song that he deceived mr. dovesky, for he said: "he's going to do it over from the bushes now!" "listen!" cautioned malcolm. "don't you hear the difference? he starts the same, but he runs higher, he drops lower, and does it quicker, and i think the notes clearer and sweeter when the little gray fellow sings them, and you should see his nest! do you like him better?" "humph!" said mr. dovesky. "why i was so entranced with the first performance i didn't suppose anything could be better. i must have time to learn both songs, and analyze and compare." "i can't do gray's yet," said malcolm. "it's so fine, and cut up, with going up and down on the jump, but i got the start of it, and the part that goes this way----" "this is my work!" cried mr. dovesky. "is there any chance the apple-tree bird will repeat his performance?" "mostly he doesn't till evening," answered malcolm. "he's pretty sure to again to-morrow morning, but old cat of the bushes, he sings any time it suits him all day. his nest isn't where he sings, and he doesn't ever perch up so high and make such a fuss about it, but i think mother would like his notes best." "first," said mr. dovesky, "i'll take down what mr. brown bird sang, and learn it. i'd call that a good start, and when i get his song so i can whistle, and play it on the instruments, then we'll go at mr. cat's song, and see if i can learn why, and in what way you think it finer." "oh, it goes from high to low quicker, more notes in a bunch, and sweeter tones trilling," explained malcolm. mr. dovesky laughed, saying in a question of music that would constitute quite a difference. they went to the brook and lunched and made easy records of syllabic calls that could be rendered in words and by whistling. then all of them gathered around mr. dovesky while he drew lines, crossed them with bands and explained the staff, and different time, and signatures, and together they had their first music lesson. malcolm whistled the thrush song while mr. dovesky copied the notes, tuned the violin, and showed the boy how the strings corresponded to the lines he had made, where the notes lay on them, and how to draw them out with the bow. he could not explain fast enough to satisfy the eager lad. after mr. dovesky had gone as far as he thought wise, and left off with music, he wandered with mr. tower hunting flowers in which he seemed almost as much interested as the music. malcolm clung to the violin, and over and over ran the natural scale he had been taught; then slowly, softly, with wavering awkward bow, he began whistling plain easy calls, and hunting up and down the strings for them. that day was the beginning. others did not dawn fast enough to suit malcolm, while the ease with which he mastered the songs of the orchard and reproduced them, in a few days set him begging to be taken to the swamp to hear the bird that sang "from the book." leslie winton was added to the party that day. malcolm came from the land of the tamarack obsessed. james, william, and the tutor did not care for that location, but malcolm and mr. dovesky wanted to erect a tent and take provisions and their instruments and live among the dim coolness, where miracles of song burst on the air at any moment. they heard and identified the veery. they went on their knees at their first experience with the clear, bell-toned notes of the wood thrush. with a little practice malcolm could reproduce the "song from the book." he talked of it incessantly, sang and whistled it, making patent to every member of the family that what was in his heart was fully as much a desire to do the notes so literally that he would win the commendation of his mother, as to obtain an answer from an unsuspecting bird; for that was the sport. the big thing for which to strive! they worked to obtain a record so accurately, to reproduce it so perfectly that the bird making it would answer and come at their call. the day malcolm, hidden in the tamarack swamp, coaxed the sparrow, now flitting widely in feeding its young, he knew not how far, to the bush sheltering him, and with its own notes set it singing against him as a rival, the boy was no happier than mr. dovesky. mr. minturn could not quite agree to the camp at the swamp, but he provided a car and a driver and allowed them to go each morning and often to remain late at night to practise owl and nighthawk calls, veery notes, chat cries, and the unsurpassed melody of the evening vespers of the hermit bird. this song once heard, comprehended, copied, and reproduced, the musician and the boy with music in his heart, brain, and finger tips, clung to each other and suffered the exquisite pain of the artist experiencing joy so poignant it hurt. after a mastery of those notes as to time, tone, and grouping, came the task of perfecting them so that the bird would reply. hours they practised until far in the night, and when malcolm felt he really had located a bird, gained its attention, and set it singing against him, he was wild, and nothing would satisfy him but that his father should go to the swamp with him, and well hidden, hear and see that he called the bird. gladly mr. minturn assented. whether the boy succeeded in this was a matter of great importance to his father, but it was not paramount. the thing that concerned him most was that malcolm's interest in what he was doing, his joy in the study he was making, had bred a deep regard in his heart for his instructor. the boy loved the man intensely in a few days, and immediately began studying with him, watching him, copying him. he moved with swift alertness, spoke with care to select the best word, and was fast becoming punctiliously polite. on their return mr. dovesky had fallen into the habit of lunching with the minturns. the things of which he and the boy reminded each other, the notes they reproduced by whistling, calling, or a combination, the execution of these on the violin, the references mr. dovesky made to certain bird songs which recalled to his mind passages in operas, in secular and sacred productions, his rendition of the wild music, and then the human notes, his comparison of the two, and his remarks on different composers, his mastery of the violin, and his ability to play long passages preceding and following the parts taken from the birds, were intensely absorbing and educative to all of them. then mr. tower would add the description and history of each bird in question. mr. minturn started the boys' library with interesting works on ornithology, everything that had been written concerning strains in bird and human music; the lives and characters of the musicians in whose work the bird passages appeared, or who used melodies so like the birds it made the fact apparent the feathered folk had inspired them. this led to minute examination of the lives of the composers, in an effort to discover which of them were country born and had worked in haunts where birds might be heard. the differing branches of information opened up seemed endless. the change this work made in the boys appeared to james minturn and his sister as something marvellous. that the work was also making a change in the heart of the man himself, was an equal miracle he did not realize. as each day new avenues opened, he began to understand dimly how much it would have meant to him in his relations with his wife, if he had begun long ago under her tuition and learned, at least enough to appreciate the one thing outside society, which she found absorbing. he began to see that if he had listened, and tried, and had induced her to repeat to him parts of the great composers she so loved, on her instruments, when they reached home, he soon could have come to recognize them, and so an evening at the opera with her would have meant pleasure to himself instead of stolid endurance. ultimately it might have meant an effective wedge with which to pry against the waste of time, strength and money on the sheer amusement of herself in society. once he started searching for them, he found many ways in which he might have made his life with his wife different, if indeed he had not had it in his power to effect a complete change by having been firm in the beginning. of this one thing he was sure to certainty: that if he had been able to introduce any such element of interest into his wife's residence as he had, through merely saying the word, in his own, it surely would have made some of the big difference then it was making now. he found himself brooding, yearning over his sons, and his feeling for them broadening and deepening. as he daily saw james seeking more and more to be with him, to understand what he was doing, his pride in being able to feel that he had helped if it were no more than to sit in court and hand a marked book at the right moment, he began to make a comrade of, and to develop a feeling of dependence on, the boy. he watched malcolm with his quicker intellect, his daily evidence of temperament, his rapidly developing musical ability, and felt the tingle of pride in his lithe ruddy beauty, so like his mother, and his talent, so like hers. the boy, under the interest of the music, and with the progress he was making in doing a new, unusual thing, soon began to develop her mannerisms; when he was most polite, her charm was apparent; when he was offended, her hauteur enveloped him. when he was pleased and happy, her delicate tinge of rose flushed his transparent cheek, while the lights on his red-brown hair glinted with her colour. he shut himself in his room and worked with his violin until time to start to the tamarack swamp. when mr. minturn promptly appeared with the car, he found malcolm had borrowed mr. dovesky's khaki suit and waders for him, and on the advice of the boy he wore the stiff coarse clothing, which the tamaracks would not tear, the mosquitoes could not bite through, and muck and water would not easily penetrate--there were many reasons. when they reached the swamp both of them put on boots and then, following his son and doing exactly what he was told, james minturn forgot law, politics, and business. with anxious heart he prayed that the bird the lad wished to sing would evolve its sweetest notes, and that his high hope of reproducing the music perfectly enough to induce the singer to answer would be fulfilled. malcolm advanced softly, slipping under branches, around bushes, over deep moss beds that sank in an ooze of water at the pressure of a step and sprung back on release. imitating every caution, stepping in the boy's tracks, and keeping a few rods behind, followed his father. he had rolled his sleeves to the elbow, left his shirt open at the throat, while for weeks the joy of wind and weather on his bared head had been his, so that as he silently followed his son he made an impressive figure. at a certain point malcolm stopped, motioning his father to come to him. "now this is as far as i've gone yet," he whispered. "you stay here, and we'll wait till the music begins. if i can do it as well as i have for three nights, and get an answer, i'm going to try to call the hermit bird i sing with. if a hen answers, i'll do the male notes, and try to coax her where you can see. if a male sings, i'll do his song once or twice to show you how close i can come, and then i'll do the hen's call note, and see if i can coax him out for you. if i creep ahead, you keep covered as much as you can and follow; but stay as far as that big tree behind me, and don't for your life move or make a noise when i'm still. i'll go far ahead as i want to be, to start on. now don't forget to be quiet, and listen hard!" "i won't forget!" said james minturn. "oh but it will be awful if one doesn't sing to-night!" "not at all!" answered mr. minturn. "this is a new experience for me; i'll get the benefit of a sight of the swamp that will pay for the trip, if i don't even see a bird." by the boy's sigh of relief the father knew he had quieted his anxiety. malcolm went softly ahead a few yards, and stopped, sheltering himself in a clump of willow and button bushes. his father made himself as inconspicuous as he could and waited. he studied the trunks of the big scaly trees, the intermingled branches covered with tufts of tiny spines, and here and there the green cones nestling upright. the cool water rising around his feet called his attention to the deep moss bed, silvery green in the evening light. here and there on moss mounds at the tree bases he could see the broad leaves and ripening pods that he thought must be moccasins seeding. then his eye sought the crouching boy, and he again prayed that he would not be disappointed; with his prayer came the answer. a sweep of wings overhead, a brown flash through the tamaracks, and then a burst of slow, sweet notes, then silence. james minturn leaned forward, his eyes on his son, his precious little lad. how the big strong man hoped, until it became the very essence of prayer, that he would be granted the pride and pleasure, the triumph, of success; for his ears told him that to reproduce the notes he had just heard would undoubtedly be the crowning performance of bird music; surely there could be no other songster gifted like that! the bird made a short flight and sang again. across the swamp came a repetition of his notes from another of his kind, so the brown streak moved in that direction. at its next pause its voice arose again, sweeter for the mellowing distance, and then another bird, not so far away, answered. the bird replied and came winging in sight, this time peering, uttering a short note, unlike its song; and not until it came searching where he could see it distinctly, did james minturn awake to the realization that the last notes had been malcolm's. his heart swelled big with prideful possession. what a wonderful accomplishment! what a fine boy! how careful he must be to help and to guide him. again the bird across the swamp sang and the one in sight turned in that direction. then began a duet that was a marvellous experience. the far bird called. malcolm answered. soon they heard a reply. mr. minturn saw the boy beckoning him, and crept to his side. "it's a female," whispered malcolm. "i'm going to sing the male notes and calls, and try to toll her. you follow, but don't get too close and scare her." the father could see the tense poise of malcolm, stepping lightly, avoiding the open, stooping beneath branches, hiding in bushes, making his way onward, at every complete ambush sending forth those wonderful notes. at each repetition it seemed to the father that the song grew softer, more pleading, of fuller intonation; and then his heart almost stopped, for he began to realize that each answer to the boy's call was closer than the one before. malcolm would sleep that night with a joyful heart. he was tolling the bird he imitated; it was coming at his call, of that there could be no question. his last notes came from a screen of spreading button bushes and northern holly. at the usual interval they heard the reply, but recognizably closer. malcolm raised his hand without moving or looking back, but his father saw, and interpreted the gesture to mean that the time had come for him to stop. he took a few steps to conceal himself, for he was between trees when the signal came, and paused, already so elated he wanted to shout; he scarcely could restrain the impulse. what was the use in going farther? his desire was to race back to multiopolis at speed limit to tell mr. dovesky, margaret, and mr. tower what a triumph he had witnessed. he wanted to talk about it to his men friends and business associates. distinctly, through the slowly darkening green, he could see the boy putting all his heart into the song. james minturn watched so closely he was not mistaken in thinking he could see the lad's figure grow tense as he delivered the notes, and relax when the answer relieved his anxiety as to whether it would come again, and then gather for another trial. at the last call the reply came from such a short distance that mr. minturn began intently watching from his shelter to witness the final triumph of seeing the bird malcolm had called across the swamp, come into view. he could see that the boy was growing reckless, for as he delivered the strain, he stepped almost into the open, watching before him and slowly going ahead. with the answer, there was a discernible movement a few yards away. mr. minturn saw the boy start, and gazed at him. with bent body malcolm stared before him, and then his father heard his amazed, awed cry: "_why mother!_ is that _you_, mother?" "_malcolm! are you malcolm?_" came the incredulous answer. james minturn was stupefied. distinctly he could see now. he did not recognize the knee boots, the outing suit of coarse green material, but the beautiful pink face slowly paling, the bright waving hair framing it, he knew very well. astonishment bound him. malcolm advanced another step, still half dazed, and cried: "why, have i been calling _you?_ i thought it was the bird i saw, still answering!" "and i believed you were the hermit singing!" she said. "but you fooled the bird," said the boy. "close here it answered you." "and near me it called you," said mrs. minturn. "your notes were quite as perfect." malcolm straightened and seemed reassured. "why mother!" he exclaimed. "when did you study _bird_ music? have you just come back?" "i've been away only two weeks, malcolm," she answered, "and if it hadn't been for learning the bird notes, i'd have returned sooner." "but where have you _been?_" cried the boy. "at home. i reserved my suite!" she answered. "but home's all torn up, and pounding and sick people, and you hate pounding and sick people," he reminded her. "there wasn't so very much noise, malcolm," she said, "and i've changed about sickness. you have to suffer yourself to do that. once you learn how dreadful pain is, you feel only pity for those who endure it. every night when the nurses are resting, i change so no one knows me, and slip into the rooms of the suffering little children who can't sleep, and try to comfort them." "mother, who takes care of _you?_" he questioned. "a very sensible girl named susan," she answered. the boy went a step closer. "mother, have you changed about anything besides sickness?" he asked eagerly. "yes malcolm," said his mother. "i've changed about every single thing in all this world that i ever said, or did, or loved, when you knew me." "you have?" he cried in amazement. "would you wear that dress and come to the woods with us now, and do some of the things we like?" "i'd rather come here with you, and sing these bird notes than anything else i ever did," she answered. malcolm advanced another long stride. "mother, is susan a pounding, beating person like lucette?" he asked anxiously. "no," she said softly. "susan likes children. when she's not busy for me, she goes into the music room and plays games, and sings songs to little sick people." "because you know," said malcolm, "james and i talk it over when we are alone, we never let father hear because he loved elizabeth so, and he's so fine--mother you were _mistaken_ about father not being a gentleman, not even mr. dovesky is a finer gentleman than father--and father loved her so; but mother, james and i _saw_. we believe if it had been the cream, it would have made us sick too, and we're so _ashamed_ of what we did; if we had another _chance_, we'd be as good to a little sister as father is to us. mother, we wish we had her back so we could try _again_----" nellie minturn shut her eyes and swayed on her feet, but presently she spoke in a harsh, breathless whisper, yet it carried, even to the ears of the listening man. "yes malcolm, i'd give my life, oh so gladly if i could bring her back and try over----" "you wouldn't have any person like lucette around, would you mother?" he questioned. "not ever again malcolm," she answered. "i'd have little sister back if it were possible, but that can't ever be, because when we lose people as elizabeth went, they never can come back; but i'll offer my life to come as near replacing her as possible, and everywhere i've neglected you, and james, and father. i'll do the best there is in me, if any of you love me, or _want_ me in the least, or will give me an opportunity to try." "mother, would you come where we are? would you live as we do?" marvelled the boy. "gladly," she answered. "it's about the only way i could live now, i've given away so much of the money." "then i'll ask father!" cried the boy. "why i forgot! father is right back here! father! father! father come quick! father it wasn't the hermit bird at all, it was mother! and oh joy, father, joy! she's just changed and changed, till she's _most as changed as we are!_ she'll come back, father, and she'll go to the woods with us, oh she will! father, you're _glad_, aren't you?" when nellie minturn saw her husband coming across the mosses, his arms outstretched, his face pain-tortured, she came swiftly forward, and as she reached malcolm, mr. minturn caught both of them in his arms crying: "my sweetheart! my beautiful sweetheart, give me another chance, and this time i'll be the head of my family in deed and in truth, and i'll make life go right for all of us." chapter xix _establishing protectorates_ "i'm sorry no end!" said mickey. "first time i ever been late. i was helping peter; we were so busy that the first thing i knew i heard the hum of her gliding past the clover field, so i was left. i know how hard you're working. it won't happen again." mickey studied his friend closely. he decided the time had come to watch. douglas bruce was pale and restless, he spent long periods in frowning thought. he aroused from one of these and asked: "what were you and peter doing that was so very absorbing?" "well about the most interesting thing that ever happened," said mickey. "you see peter is one of the grandest men who ever lived; he's so fine and doing so many _big_ things, in a way he kind of fell behind in the _little_ ones." "i've heard of men doing that before," commented douglas. "can't you tell me a new one?" "sure!" said mickey. "you know the place and how good it seems on the outside--well it didn't look so good inside, in the part that counted most. you've noticed the big barns, sheds and outbuildings, all the modern conveniences for a man, from an electric lantern to a stump puller; everything i'm telling you--and for the nice lady, nix! her work table faced a wall covered with brown oilcloth, and frying pans heavy enough to sprain willard, a wood fire to boil clothes and bake bread, in this hot weather, the room so low and dark, no ice box, with acres of ice close every winter, no water inside, no furnace, and carrying washtubs to the kitchen for bathing as well as washing, aw gee--you get the picture?" "i certainly do," agreed douglas, "and yet she was a neat, nice-looking little woman." "sure!" said mickey. "if she had to set up housekeeping in sunrise alley in one day you could tell her place from anybody else's. sure, she's a nice lady! but she has troubles of her own. i guess everybody has." "yes, i think they have," assented douglas. "i could muster a few right now, myself." "yes?" cried mickey. "that's bad! let's drop this and cut them out." "presently," said douglas. "my head is so tired it will do me good to think about something else a few minutes. you were saying mrs. harding had trouble; what is it?" mickey returned to his subject with a chuckle. "she was 'bout ready to tackle them nervous prostrations so popular with the swell dames," he explained, "because every morning for fifteen years she'd faced the brown oilcloth and pots and pans, while she'd been wild to watch sunup from under a particular old apple tree; when she might have seen it every morning if peter had been on his job enough to saw a window in the right place. get that?" "yes, i get it," conceded douglas. "go on!" "well i began her work so she started right away, and before she got back in comes peter. when he asks where she was and why she went, i was afraid, but for her sake i told him. i told him everything i had noticed. at first he didn't like it." "it's a wonder he didn't break your neck." "well," said mickey judicially, "as i size peter up he'd fight an awful fight if he was fighting, but he ain't much on _starting_ a fight. i worked the separator steady, and by and by when i 'summed up the argument,' as a friend of mine says, i guess that cream separator didn't look any bigger to peter, set beside a full house and two or three sheds for the stuff he'd brought to make _his_ work easier, than it did to me." "i'll wager it didn't," laughed douglas. "no it didn't!" cried mickey earnestly. "and when he stood over it awhile, that big iron stove made his kitchen, where his wife lived most of her day, seem 'bout as hot as my room where he was raving over lily having been; and when he faced the brown oilcloth and the old iron skillets for a few minutes of silent thought, he bolted at about two. peter ain't so slow!" "what did he do?" asked douglas. "why we planned to send her on a visit," said mickey, "and cut that window, and move in the pump, and invest in one of those country gas plants, run on a big tank of gasoline away outside where it's all safe, and a bread-mixer, and a dishwasher, and some lighter cooking things; but we got interned." "how mickey?" interestedly inquired douglas. "remember i told you about junior coming in to hunt work because he was tired of the country, and how it turned out?" said mickey. "yes i recall perfectly," answered douglas. "there's a good one on me about that i haven't told you yet, but i will," said mickey. "well when son came home, wrapped in a comfort, there was a ripping up on the part of peter. he just 'hurled back the enemy,' and who do you think he hit the hardest?" "i haven't an idea," said douglas. "in your shoes, i wouldn't a-had one either," said mickey. "well, he didn't go for junior, or his ma, or me. peter stood mister peter harding out before us, and then didn't leave him a leg to stand on. he proved conclusive he'd used every spare moment he'd had since junior was in short clothes, carrying him to multiopolis to amuse him, and feed him treats, and show him shows; so he was to blame if junior developed a big consuming appetite for such things. how does the argument strike you?" "sound!" cried douglas. "perfectly sound! it's precisely what the land owners are doing every day of their lives, and then wailing because the cities take their children. i've had that studied out for a year past." "well peter figured it right there for us in detail," said mickey. "then he tackled ma harding and her sunup, and then he thought out a way to furnish entertainment and all the modern comforts right there at home." "what entertainment?" said douglas. "well he specified saddles and horses to ride," grinned mickey, "and swimming, and a fishing-boat and tackle for all of us, a launch on whatever lake we like best, a big entertainment house with a floor for skating and dancing, and a stage for plays we will get up ourselves, and a movie machine. i'm to find out how to run one and teach them, and then he'll rent reels and open it twice a week. the big hole that will cave in on the north side of multiopolis soon now will be caused by the slump when our neighbourhood withdraws its patronage and begins being entertained by peter. and you'll see that it will work, too!" "of course it will," agreed douglas. "once the country folk get the idea it will go like a landslide. so that's what made you late?" "well connected with that," explained mickey. "peter didn't do a thing but figure up the price he'd paid for every labour-saver he ever bought for himself, and he came out a little over six thousand. he said he wouldn't have wanted ma in a hardware store selecting his implements, so he guessed he wouldn't choose hers. he just drew a check for what he said was her due, with interest, and put it in her name in the bank, and told her to cut loose and spend it exactly as she pleased." "what did she do?" marvelled douglas. "well she was tickled silly, but she didn't lose her head; she began investigating what had been put on the market to meet her requirements. at present we are living on the threshing floor mostly, and the whole house is packed up; when it is unpacked, there'll be a bathroom on the second floor, and a lavatory on the first. there'll be a furnace in one room of the basement, and a coal bin big enough for a winter's supply. we can hitch on to the trolley line for electric lights all over the house, and barn, and outbuildings, and fireless cooker, iron, and vacuum cleaner, and a whole bunch of conveniences for ma, including a washing machine, and stationary tubs in the basement. gee! get the picture?" "i surely do! what else mickey?" asked douglas. "you know i've a house to furnish soon myself." "well a new kitchen on the other end of the building where there's a breeze, and a big clover field, and a wood, and her work table right where it is in line with her private and particular sunup. there's a big sink with hot and cold water, and a dishwasher. there's a bread-mixer and a little glass churn, both of which can be hitched to the electricity to run. there's a big register from the furnace close the work table for winter, and a gas cook stove that has more works than a watch." "what does the lady say about it?" "_mighty little!_" said mickey. "she just stands and wipes the shiny places with her apron or handkerchief, and laughs and cries, 'cause _she's so glad_. it ain't set up yet, but you can see just standing before it what it's going to mean for her. and there's a chute from the upstairs to the basement, to scoot the wash down to the electric machine to rub them, and a little gas stove with two burners to boil them, and the iron i told you of. hanging it up is the hardest part of the wash these days, and since they have three big rooms in the basement, peter thought this morning that he could put all the food in one, and stretch her lines in the winter for the clothes to dry in the washroom. the furnace will heat it, and it's light and clean; we are going to paint it when everything is in place." "is that all?" queried douglas. "it's a running start," said mickey; "i don't know as peter will ever get to 'all'. the kitchen is going to have white woodwork, and blue walls and blue linoleum, and new blue-and-white enamelled cooking things from start to finish, with no iron in the bunch except two skillets saved for frying. even the dishpan is going to be blue, and she's crying and laughing same time while she hems blue-and-white wash curtains for the windows. all the house is going to have hardwood floors, the rooms cut more convenient; out goes the old hall into just a small place to take off your wraps, and the remainder added to the parlour. all the carpets and the old heavy curtains are being ground up and woven into rugs. gee, it's an insurrection! ma harding and i surely started things when we planned to dose junior on multiopolis, and let her 'view the landscape o'er.' you can tell by her face she's seeing it! if she sails into the port o' glory looking more glorified, it'll be a wonder! and peter! you ought to see peter! and junior! you should see junior planning his room. and mickey! you must see mickey planning his! and mary and bobbie! and above all, you should see lily! last i saw of her, peter was holding her under her arms, and she was shoving her feet before her trying to lift them up a little. we've most rubbed them off her with fine sand, and then stuck them in cold water, and then sanded them again, and they're not the same feet--that's a cinch!" "is that the sum of the harding improvements?" asked douglas, drawing fine lines on a sheet of figures before him. "well it's a fair showing," said mickey. "we ain't got the new rugs, and the music box, and the books; or the old furniture rubbed and oiled yet. when the house is finished, peter expressly specified that his lady was to get her clothes so she could go to the club house, and not be picked for a country woman by what she _wore_." "mickey, this is so interesting it has given my head quite a rest. maybe now i can see my way clearly. but one thing more: how long are you planning to stay there? you talk as if----" "'stay there?'" said mickey. "didn't you hear me say there was a horse and saddle and a room for me, and a room for lily? 'stay there!' why for ever and ever more! that's _home!_ when i got into trouble and called on peter to throw a lifeline, he did it up browner than his job for ma. a _line_ was all i asked; _but peter established a regular pertectorate_--_nobody can 'get' us now_----" "you mean peter adopted both of you?" cried douglas. "sure!" indorsed mickey with a flourish. "you see it was like this: when we dosed junior with multiopolis, the old threshing machine took a hand and did some things to him that wasn't on the program; he found out about it, and it made him mad. when he got his dander up he hit back by turning old miss country loose on me. first i tried a ram and yellow jackets; then only a little bunch of maple twigs was all the pull i had to keep me from going to the bottomless pit by the way of the nastiest quicksand on atwater lake. us fellows went back one day and fed it logs bigger than i am, and it sucked them down like peter does a plate of noodles. then junior thought curling a big dead rattler in the path, and shunting me so i'd step right on it, would be a prime joke; but he didn't figure on the snake he had fixed for me having a mate as big and ugly as it was, that would follow and coil zipping mad over the warm twisting body----" "mickey!" gasped douglas. "just so! exactly what i thought--and then some. when i dragged what was left of me home that night, and figured out where i'd been if the big maple hadn't spread its branch just as wide as it did, or if the snake had hit my leg 'stead of my britches--when i took my bearings and saw where i was at, the thing that really hurt me worst was that if i'd gone, either down or up, i hadn't done anything for lily but give her a worse horror than she had, of being 'got' by them orphings' home people, when i should have made her _safe forever_. i took peter to the barn and told him just how it was, 'cause i felt mighty queer. i wasn't so sure that one scratch on my leg that looked ugly mightn't a-been the snake striking through the cloth and dosing me some, i was so sick and swelled up; it turned out to be yellow jackets, but it might a-been snakes, and i was a little upset. as man to man i asked him what i ought to do for my _family_ 'fore i took any more _risks_. a-body would have thought the jolt the box gave me would have been enough, but it wasn't! it took the snake and the quicksand to just right real wake me up. first i was some sore on junior; but pretty quick i saw how funny it was, so i got over it----" "he should have had his neck broken!" "wope! wope! back up!" cautioned mickey. "nothing of the kind! you ain't figuring on the starving, the beating, being knocked senseless, robbed of all his clothes _twice_, and landing in the morgue with the cleaning-house victims. gee, junior had reasons for his grouch!" douglas bruce suddenly began to laugh wildly. "umhum! that's what i told you," said mickey. "well, that night i laid the case before peter, out on the hay wagon in the barnyard, so moon white you could have read the _herald_, the cattle grunting satisfied all around us, katydids insisting on it emphatic, crickets chirping, and the old rooster calling off the night watches same as he did for that first peter, who denied his lord. i thought about that, as i sat and watched the big fellow slowly whittling the rack, and once in a while putting in a question, and when i'd told him all there was to tell, he said this: he said _sure_ lily was _mine_, and i had a perfect _right_ to _keep_ her; but the law _might_ butt in, 'cause there _was_ a law we couldn't evade that _could_ step in and take her any day. he said too, that if she had to go to the hospital, sudden, first question a surgeon would ask was who were her parents, and if she had none, who in their place could give him a right to operate. he said while she was _mine_, and it was my _right_, and _my job_, the law and the surgeon would say _no_, 'cause we were not related, and i was not of age. he said there were times when the law got its paddle in, and went to fooling with red tape, it let a sick person lay and die while it decided what to do. he said he'd known a few just exactly such cases; so to keep the law from making a fool of itself, as it often did, we'd better step in and fix things to suit us before it ever got a showdown." "what did he do?" asked douglas bruce eagerly. "well, after we'd talked it over we moved up to the back porch and peter explained to ma, who is the boss of that family, only she doesn't _know_ it, and she said for him to do exactly what his conscience and his god dictated. that's where his namesake put it over that first peter. our peter said: 'well if god is to dictate my course, you remember what he said about "suffering the little children to come to him," and we are commanded to be like him, so there's no way to _twist_ it, but that it means _suffer them to come to us_,' he said. "ma she spoke quick and said: 'well we've got them!' "peter said, 'yes, we've got them; now the question is whether we _keep_ them, or send them to an orphings' home.' "the nice lady she said faster than i can tell you: 'peter harding, i'm ashamed of you! there's no question of that kind! there's never going to be!' "'well don't get het up about it,' said peter. 'i knew all the time there _wasn't_, i just _wanted to hear you say so plain and emphatic_. so far as i'm concerned, my way is clear as noonday sun,' said peter. 'then you go first thing in the morning and adopt them, and adopt them _both_,' said ma. 'lily will make mary just as good a sister as she could ever have,' said she, and then she reached over and put her arms right around me and she said, 'and if you think i'm going to keep on trying to run this house without mickey, you're mistaken.' i began to cry, 'cause i had had a big day, and i was shaking on my feet anyway. then peter said, 'have you figured it out to the end? is it to be 'til they are of age, or forever?' she just gripped tighter and said fast as words can come, 'i say make it forever, and share and share alike. i'm willing if you are.' peter, he said, 'i'm willing. they'll pay their way any place. forever, and share and share alike, is my idea. do you agree, mickey?' 'exactly what do you mean?' i asked, and peter told me it was making me and lily both his, just as far as the law could do it; we could go all the farther we wanted to ourselves. he said it meant him getting the same for me and lily as he did for his own, and leaving us the same when he died. i told him he _needn't do that_, if he'd just keep off the old orphings' home devil, that's had me scared stiff all my days, i'd tend to _that_, so now me and lily belong to peter; he's our _pertectorate_." "mickey, why didn't you tell me?" asked douglas. "why didn't you want me to adopt you?" "well so far as 'adopting' is concerned," said mickey, "i ain't _crazy_ about it, with anybody. but that's the _law_ you men have made; a boy must obey it, even if he'd rather be skinned alive, and when he _knows_ it ain't _right or fair_. that's the law. i was up against it, and i didn't know but i _did_ have the snake, and peter was on hand and made that offer, and he was grand and big about it. i don't love him any more than i do you; but i've just this minute discovered that it ain't in my skin to love any man more than i do peter; so you'll have to get used to the fact that i love him just as well, and say, mr. bruce, peter is the finest man you ever knew. if you'll come out and get acquainted, you'll just be tickled to have him in the golf club, and to come to his house, and to have him at yours. his nice lady is exactly like miss winton, only older. say, she and peter will adopt you too, if you say so, and between us, just as man to man, peter is a regular lifesaver! if you got a chance you better catch on! no telling what you might want of him!" "mickey, you do say the most poignant things!" cried douglas. "i'd give all i'm worth to catch on to peter right now, and cling for much _more_ than life; but what i started, i must finish, and peter isn't here." "well what's the matter with me?" asked mickey. "have you run into the yellow jackets too? 'cause if you have, i'm ahead of you, so i know what to do. just catch on to me!" "think you are big enough to serve as a straw for a drowning man, mickey?" inquired douglas. "sure! i'm big enough to establish a _pertectorate_ over you, this minute. the weight of my body hasn't anything to do with the size of my heart, or how fast i can work my brains and feet, if i must." "mickey," said douglas despairingly, "it's my candid opinion that no one can save me, right now." mickey opened his lips, and showed that his brain _was_ working by shutting them abruptly on something that seemed very much as if it had started to be: "sure!" "is that so?" he substituted. "yes, i'm in the sweat box," admitted douglas. "and it's uncomfortable and weakening. what's the first thing we must do to get you out?" "what i'm facing now is the prospect that there's no way for me to get out, or for my friends to get me out," admitted douglas. "i wish i _had_ been plowing corn." the boy's eyes were gleaming. he was stepping from one foot to the other as if the floor burned him. "gosh, we must saw wood!" he cried. "you go on and tell me. i been up against a lot of things. maybe i can think up something. honest, maybe i can!" "no mickey, there's nothing you or any one can do. a miracle is required now, and miracles have ceased." "oh i don't know!" exclaimed mickey. "look how they been happening to me and lily right along. i can't see why one mightn't be performed for you just as well. i wish you wouldn't waste so much time! i wish you hadn't spent an hour fooling with what i was telling you; _that_ would keep. i wish you'd give me a job, and let me get busy." douglas bruce smiled forlornly. "i'd gladly give you the job of saving me, my dear friend," he said, "but the fact is i haven't a notion of how to go to work to achieve salvation." "is somebody else getting ahead of you?" "not that i know of! no i don't think so. that isn't the trouble," said douglas. "i do wish you'd just plain tell me," said mickey. "now that i got the _pertectorate_ all safe over lily, i'd do anything for you. maybe i could think up some scheme. i'm an awful schemer! i wish you'd _trust_ me! you needn't think i'd _blab!_ come on now!" suddenly douglas bruce's long arms stretched across the table before him, his head fell on them, and shuddering sobs shook him. mickey's dance steps became six inches high, while in desperation he began polishing the table with his cap. then he reached a wiry hand and commenced rubbing douglas up and down the spine. the tears were rolling down his cheeks, but his voice was even and clear. "aw come on now!" he begged. "cut that out! that won't help none! what shall i _do?_ shall i call mr. minturn? shall i get miss leslie on the wire?" bruce arose and began walking the floor. "yes," he said. "yes! 'bearer of morning,' call her!" mickey ran to the telephone. in a minute, "here she is," he announced. "shall i go?" "no! stay right where you are." "hello leslie! are you all right? i'm sorry to say i am not. i'm up against a proposition i don't know how to handle. why just this: remember your father told me in your presence that if in the course of my investigations i reached his office, i was to wait until he got back? yes. i thought you'd remember. you know the order of the court gave me access to the records, but the officials whose books i have gone over haven't been pleased about it, although reflection would have told them if it hadn't been i, it would have been some other man. but the point is this: i'm almost at the finish and i haven't found what obviously exists somewhere. i'm now up to the last office, which is your father's. the shortage either has to be there, or in other departments outside those i was delegated to search; so that further pursuit will be necessary. two or three times officials have suggested to me that i go over your father's records first, as an evidence that there was no favouritism; now i have reached them, and this proposition: if i go ahead in his, as i have in other offices, i disobey his express order. if i do not, the gang will set up a howl in to-morrow morning's paper, and they will start an investigation of their own. did you get anything from him this morning leslie? not for four days? and he's a week past the time he thought he would be back? i see! leslie, what shall i do? in my morning's mail there is a letter from the men whose records i have been over, giving me this ultimatum: 'begin on winton's office immediately, or we will.' "tell them to go ahead? but leslie! yes i know, but leslie----yes! you are ordering me to tell them that i propose to conduct the search in his department as i did theirs, and if they will not await his return from this business trip, they are perfectly free to go ahead----you are _sure_ that is the thing you want said? but leslie----yes, i know, but leslie it is _disobeying_ him, and it's barely possible there might be a traitor there; better men than he have been betrayed by their employees. i admit i'm all in. i wish you would come and bring your last letter from him. we'll see if we can't locate him by wire. it's an ugly situation. of course i didn't think it would come to this. yes i wish you would! if you say so, i will, but----all right then. come at once! good-bye!" douglas turned to his desk, wrote a few hasty lines and said to mickey: "deliver that to muller at the city hall." mickey took the envelope and went racing. in half the time he would have used in going to the city hall he was in the _herald_ building, making straight for the office of the editor. mr. chaffner was standing with a group of men earnestly discussing some matter, when his eye was attracted by mickey, directly in range, and with the tip of his index finger he was cutting in air letters plainly to be followed: "s.o.s." chaffner nodded slightly, and continued his talk. a second later he excused himself, and mickey followed to the private room. "well?" he shot at the boy. "our subm'rine has sunk our own cotton." "humph!" said chaffner. "i've known for two weeks it was heading your way. just what happened?" mickey explained and produced the letter. chaffner reached for it. mickey drew back. "why i wouldn't dare do just that," he said. "but i know that's what's in it, because i heard what he said, and by it you could tell what she said. i've told you every word, and you said the other day you knew; please tell me if i should deliver this letter?" "if you want to give me a special with the biggest scoop of ten years," said chaffner, "and ruin douglas bruce and disgrace the wintons, take it right along." "aw gee!" wailed mickey, growing ghastly. "aw gee, mr. chaffner! why you _can't_ do that! not to _them!_ why they're the _nicest folks;_ and 'tain't two weeks ago i heard miss leslie say to mr. bruce right in our office, 'losing money i could stand, disgrace would _kill_ me.' you can't kill her, mr. chaffner! why she's the nicest, and the prettiest----she found me, and sent me to the boss, like i told you. honest she did! why you can't! you just _can't!_ why mr. chaffner, i can see by your nice eyes you can't! aw gee, come on now!" mickey's chin hooked over the editor's elbow, his small head was against his arm, his eyes were dripping tears, but his voice controlled and steady was entreating. "you know there's a screw loose somewhere," explained mickey. "you know 'darling old daddy' couldn't ever have done it; and if somebody under him has gone wrong, maybe he could make it up, if he was here and had an hour or so. that day, miss leslie said he should give all he had for his friend, and he could have all of hers. if she'd be willing for the money to go for her 'dear old daddy's' _friend_, course she'd be glad to use it for her daddy, and she's got a lot from her mother, and maybe daddy has sold the land he went to sell, and all of that ought to be enough; and if it isn't, i know who will help them. honest i do!" "who, mickey?" demanded mr. chaffner, instantly. "mr. minturn! mr. james minturn!" said mickey. "he's mr. bruce's best friend, and he _told_ me he would do _anything_ for miss leslie, that day right after i saw you, for if his home ever came right again, it would be 'cause she made it; and she _did_ make it, and it is _right_, and he's so crazy happy he can't hardly keep on the floor. _course_ he'd pay miss leslie back. he _said_ he would. he's the nicest man!" "isn't your world rather full of nice men, mickey?" mickey renewed his grip. his eyes were pleading, the white light on his brow was shining, his voice was irresistibly sweet: "you just bet my world is full of nice men, packed like sardines; but they'll all scrooge up a little and make room for you on the top layer among the selects! come on now! rustle for your place before we revolve and leave you. all your life you'll be sorry if you make that scoop, and kill miss leslie, and shame 'darling old daddy,' and ruin my boss. oh i say mr. chaffner, you _can't!_ you can't ever sleep nights again, if you do! they haven't ever done anything to you. you'll be the _nicest_ man of all, if you'll _tell me what to do_. 'twon't take you but a second, 'cause you _know_. oh tell me, for the love of god tell me, mr. chaffner! _you'll be the nicest man i know, if you'll tell me_." the editor looked down in mickey's compelling eyes. he laid his hand on the lad's brow and said: "that would be worth the price of any scoop i ever pulled off, mickey. are you going to be a lawyer or write that poetry for me?" "if i'd ever even thought of law, _this_ would cook me," said mickey. "poetry it is, as soon as i earn enough to pay for finding out how to do it right." "and when you find out, will you come on my staff, and work directly under me?" asked mr. chaffner. "sure!" promised mickey. "i'd rather do it than anything else in the world. it would suit me fine. that is, if you're coming in among my nice men----" mr. chaffner held out his hand. "this is going to cost me something in prestige and in cash," he said, "but mickey, you make it _worthwhile_. here are your instructions: _don't_ deliver that letter! cut for minturn and give it to him. tell him if he wants me, to call any time inside an hour, and that he hasn't longer than noon to make good. he'll understand. if you can't beat a taxi on foot, take one. have you money?" "yes," said mickey, "but just suppose he isn't there and i can't find him?" "then find his wife, and tell her to call me." "all right! thanks, boss! you're simply great!" mickey took the taxi and convinced the driver he was in a hurry. he danced in the elevator, ran down the hall, and into mr. minturn's door. there he stopped abruptly, for he faced miss winton and mrs. minturn, whose paling face told mickey that he was stamped on her memory as she was on his. he pulled off his cap, and spoke to mr. minturn. "could i see you a minute?" he asked. "certainly! step this way. excuse us ladies." mickey showed the letter, told what had caused it to be written, and that he had gone to mr. chaffner instead of delivering it, and what instructions had been given him there. mr. minturn picked up the telephone and called mr. chaffner. when he got him he merely said: "this is minturn. what's the amount, and where does he bank his funds? thank you very much indeed." then he looked at mickey. "till noon did you say?" "yes," cried mickey breathlessly, "and 'tisn't so long!" "no," said mr. minturn, "it isn't. ask mrs. minturn if i may speak with her a moment." "shall i come back or stay there?" inquired mickey. "come back," said mr. minturn. "i may need you." mickey stood before mrs. minturn. "please will you speak with mr. minturn a minute?" "excuse me leslie," said the lady, rising, and entering the private room. there she turned to mickey. "i remember you very well," she said, with a steady voice. "you needn't shrink from me. i've done all in my power to atone. it will never be possible for me to think of forgiving myself; but you'll forgive me, won't you?" "sure! why lady, i'm awful sorry for you." "i'm sorry for myself," said she. "what was it you wanted, mr. minturn?" "suppose you tell mrs. minturn about both your visits here," suggested mr. minturn to mickey. "sure!" said mickey. "you see it was like this lady. this morning mr. bruce's head is down, and if he doesn't get help before noon, he and miss leslie and all those nice people are in trouble. i thought mr. minturn ought to know, so i slipped in and told him." "what is the trouble, lad?" asked mrs. minturn. "why you see miss leslie's 'darling old daddy' is one of the city officials, and of course mr. bruce left him 'til last, because he would a-staked his life he'd find the man he was hunting before he got to his office, and he _didn't!_" "what, james?" said the lady, turning hurriedly. "tell her about it, mickey," said mr. minturn calmly. "well there ain't much to tell," said mickey. "my boss he just kept stacking up figures; two or three times he thought he had his man and then he'd strike a balance; and the men whose records he searched kept getting madder, and mr. winton went west to sell some land. someway he's been gone a week longer than he expected; and my boss is all through except him, and now the other men say if he doesn't begin on mr. winton's books right away, _they_ will, and he told my boss _not to 'til he got back_. a while ago i was in the _herald_ office talking to mr. chaffner, whose papers i've sold since i started and i was telling him what nice friends i had, and how mr. bruce and miss leslie were engaged, and he like to ate me up. when i couldn't see why, he told me about investigations he had his men, like i'm going to be, make, and sometimes they get a 'scoop' on the men appointed to do the job, and he told me he had a 'scoop' on this, and if i saw trouble coming toward my boss, i was to tell him and maybe--he didn't say sure, but _maybe_ he'd do something." "oh james!" cried mrs. minturn. "wait dear! go on mickey," said mr. minturn. "well," said mickey, "the elevated jumped the track this morning when my boss got a letter saying if he didn't go on at once with mr. winton's office, somebody else would; and the people who have been in the air ever since are due to land at noon, and it's pretty quick now, and they are too nice for any use. did you ever know finer people?" "no i never did," said mrs. minturn; "but james, i don't understand. tell me quickly and plainly." "chaffner just gave me the figures," he said, holding over a slip of paper. "if that amount is to mr. winton's credit on his account with the city, at the universal bank before noon--nothing at all. if it's _not_, disgrace for them, and i started it by putting bruce on the case. i'll raise as much as i can, but i can't secure enough by that time without men knowing it. mr. winton has undoubtedly gone to try to secure what he needs; but he's going to be too late. there never has been a worse time to raise money in the history of this country." "but if _money_ is the trouble," said mrs. minturn, "you said you never would touch what i put in your name for yourself, why not use it for him? if that isn't enough, i will gladly furnish the remainder. that i'm not a stranded, forsaken woman is due to leslie winton; all i have wouldn't be big enough price to pay for you, and my boys, and my precious home. be quick james!" mr. minturn was calling the universal bank. mickey and mrs. minturn waited anxiously. they involuntarily drew together, and the woman held the boy in a close grip, while her face alternately paled and flushed, and both of them were breathing short. "i want the cashier!" mr. minturn was saying. "don't his voice just make you feel like you were on the rock of ages?" whispered mickey. mrs. minturn smiling nodded. "hello, mr. freeland. this is minturn talking--james minturn. you will remember some securities i deposited with you not long ago? i wish to use a part of them to pay a debt i owe mr. winton. kindly credit his account with--oh, he's there in the bank? well never mind then. i didn't know he was back yet. let it go! i'll see him in person. and you might tell him that his daughter is at my office. yes, thank you. no you needn't say anything about that to him; we'll arrange it ourselves. good-bye!" "now where am i at?" demanded mickey. "i don't think you know, mickey," said mr. minturn, "and i am sure i don't, but i have a strong suspicion that mr. winton will be here in a few minutes, and if his mission has been successful, his face will tell it; and if he's in trouble, that will show; and then we will know what to do. mr. bruce would like to know he is here, and at the bank i think." "i'll go tell him right away," said mickey. douglas was walking the floor as mickey entered. "you delivered the letter?" he cried. mickey shook his head, producing the envelope. "you didn't!" shouted bruce. "you didn't! thank god! oh, thank god you _didn't!_" "aw-w-ah!" protested mickey. "why didn't you?" demanded douglas. "well you see," said mickey, "me and mr. chaffner of the _herald_ were talking a while ago about some poetry i'm going to write for his first page, soon now--i've always sold his papers you know, so i sort of belong--and i happened to tell him i was working for you, and how fine you were, and about your being engaged to miss leslie, and he seemed to kind of think you was heading for trouble; he just plain _said so_. i was so scared i begged him not to let _that_ happen. i told him how everything was, and finally i got him to promise that if you _did_ get into trouble he'd help you, at least he _almost_ promised. you see he's been a newspaper man so long, he eats it, and sleeps it, and he had a s'scoop'--" "'he had a scoop?'" repeated douglas. "yes! a great one! biggest one in ten years!" said the boy. "he loved it so, that me trying to pry him loose from it was about like working to move the iriquois building with a handspike. all he'd promise that first trip was that if i'd come and tell him when i saw you'd got into trouble, he'd _see_ what he could do." "wanted to pump you for material for his scoop, i suppose?" commented douglas. "wope! wope! back up!" warned mickey. "he didn't pump me a little bit, and he didn't _try_ to. he told me nearly three weeks ago just what _would_ happen about now, as he had things doped out, and they have. i didn't _think_ that letter should be delivered this morning, 'cause you had no business in 'darling old daddy's' office if he said 'stay out.'" in came mickey's best flourish. "_why he mightn't a-been ready!_" he exclaimed. "he had his friend to help you remember, i heard miss leslie tell you he did. and she told him to. she told you he could have what she had, you remember of course. he might a-had to use some of his office money real quick, to save a friend that he _had_ to save if it took all he had and all miss leslie had; and _that_ was right. i asked you the other day if a man might use the money he handled, and you said yes, he was _expected_ to, if he had his books straight and the money in the bank when his time for accounting came. 'tain't time to account yet; but you was doing this investigating among his bunch, and so i guess if he did use the money for his friend, he had to go on that trip he was too busy to take miss leslie, and sell something, or do something to get ready for you. _that's_ all right, ain't it?" "yes, if he could _do_ it," conceded douglas. "well he can!" triumphed mickey. "he can just as easy, 'cause he's down at the universal bank doing it right now!" "what?" cried douglas. "sure!" said mickey. "back on time! at the bank fixing things so you can investigate all you want to. what's the matter with 'darling old daddy?' _he's all right!_ go on and write your letter over, and tell them anxious, irritated gents, that you'll investigate 'til the basement and cupola are finished, just as soon as you make out the reports you are figuring up _now_. that will give you time to act independent, and it will give daddy time to be ready for you----" "mickey, what if he didn't get the land sold?" wavered douglas. "what if his trip was a failure?" "well that's fixed," said mickey, stepping from one toe to the other. "don't ruffle your down about that. if 'darling old daddy' has bad luck, and for staking his money and his honour on his friend, he's going to get picked clean and dished up himself, why it's fixed so he _isn't!_ see?" "_it's fixed?_" marvelled douglas. "surest thing you know!" cried mickey. "you've had your _pertectorate_ all safe a long time, and didn't know it." "mickey, talk fast! tell me! what do you mean?" "why that was fixed three weeks ago, i tell you," explained mickey. "when mr. chaffner said you would strike trouble, i wasn't surprised any, 'cause i've thought all the time you _would;_ and when you did, i went skinning to him, and he told me _not_ to deliver that letter; and he was grand, just something grand! he told me what had to happen to save you, so i kept the letter, and scuttled for mr. james minturn, who started all this, and i just said to him, 'chickens, home to roost,' or words like that; and he got on the wire with chaffner, and 'stead of giving that 'scoop' to all multiopolis and the whole world, he give mr. minturn a few figures on a scrap of paper that he showed to his nice lady--gosh you wouldn't ever believe she _was_ a nice lady or could be, but honest, mr. bruce, me and her has been holding hands for half an hour while we planned to help you out, and say, she's so nice, she's just peachy--and she's the _same_ woman. i don't know how that happens, but she's the same woman who fired me and the nice lady from plymouth, and now she _ain't_ the same, and these are the words she said: 'all i have on earth would not be enough to pay leslie winton for giving you back to me, and my boys, and my precious home.' 'precious home!' do you get that? after her marble palace, where she is now must look like a cottage on the green to her, but 'precious home' is what she said, and she ought to know----" "mickey go on! you were saying that mr. chaffner gave mr. minturn some figures--" prompted douglas. "yes," said mickey. "his precious 'scoop,' so mr. minturn showed her, and she said just as quick to put that amount to mr. winton's credit at the universal bank, so he called the bank to tell them; when he got the cashier he found that 'darling old daddy' was there that minute----" "'was there?'" cried douglas. "'_was there_,'" repeated mickey; "so mr. minturn backed water, and _then_ he told the cashier he needn't mention to mr. winton that he was going to turn over some securities he had there to pay a debt he owed him, 'cause now that he was home, they could fix it up between themselves. but he told the cashier to tell mr. winton that miss leslie was in his office. he said 'daddy' would come to her the minute he could, and then if he was happy and all right, it meant that he had sold his land and made good; and if he was broke up, we would know what to do about putting the money to his credit. the nice lady said to put a lot more than he needed, so if they did investigate they could see he had plenty. see? mr. minturn said we could tell the minute we saw him----" "well young man, can you?" inquired a voice behind them. with the same impulse douglas and mickey turned to mr. winton and leslie standing far enough inside the door to have heard all that had been said. a slow red crept over mickey's fair face. douglas sprang to his feet, his hand outstretched, words of welcome on his lips. mr. winton put him aside with a gesture. "i asked this youngster a question," he said, "and i'm deeply interested in the answer. _can you?_" mickey stepped forward, taking one long, straight look into the face of the man before him; then his exultant laugh trilled as the notes of peter's old bobolink bird on the meadow fence. "surest thing you know!" he cried in ringing joy. "you're tired, you need washing, sleep, and a long rest, but there isn't any glisteny, green look on your face. it's been with you, like i told mr. chaffner it's in the bible; only with you, it's been even more than a man 'laying down his life for his friend,' it was a near squeak, but you made it! gee, you made it! i should say i _could_ tell!" mr. winton caught mickey, lifting him from his feet. "god made a jewel after my heart when he made you lad," he said. "if you haven't got a father, i'm a candidate for the place." "gee, you're the nicest man!" said mickey. "if i was out with a telescope searching for a father, i'd make a home run for you; but you see i'm fairly well fixed. here's my boss, too fine to talk about, that i work for to earn money to keep me and my family; there's peter, better than gold, who's annexed both me and my child; there's mr. chaffner punching me up every time i see him about my job for him, soon as i finish school; i'd _like_ you for a father, only i'm crazy about peter. just you come and see _peter_, and you'll understand----" "i'll be there soon," said mr. winton. "i have reasons for wanting to know him thoroughly. and by the way, how do you do, douglas? how is the great investigation coming on? 'fine!' i'm glad to hear it. push it with all your might, and finish up so we can have a month on atwater without coming back and forth. i feel as if i'd need about that much swimming to make me clean, as the young man here suggests; travelling over the west in midsummer is neither cool nor cleanly; but it's great, when things sell as ours did. land seems to be moving, and there's money under the surface; nobody has lost so much, they are only economizing; we must do that ourselves, but swain and i are both safe, so we shall enjoy a few years of work to recoup some pretty heavy losses; we're not worth what we were, but we are even, with a home base, the love of god big in our hearts, and doubly all right, since if we couldn't have righted ourselves, our friends would have saved us, thanks to this little live wire on my left!" "oh daddy, if you'd searched forever, you couldn't have found a better name for mickey!" cried leslie. "come on douglas let's go home and rest." "just as soon as i write and start mickey with a note," said douglas. "go ahead, i'll be down soon." he turned to his desk, wrote a few lines, and sealing them, handed the envelope to the waiting boy. "city hall," he said. "and mickey, i see the whole thing. it will take some time to figure just what i do owe you----" "aw-a-ah g'wan!" broke in mickey, backing away. "mickey, we'll drive you to take the note, and then you come with us," said douglas. "thanks, but it would try my nerve," said mickey, "and i must help peter move in the pump!" chapter xx _mickey's miracle_ that night mickey's voice, shrill in exuberant rejoicing, preceded him down the highway, so the hardings, all busy working out their new plans for comfort, understood that something unusually joyous had happened. peaches sat straighter in her big pillow-piled chair, leaned forward, and smilingly waited. "ain't he happy soundin'?" she said to mrs. harding, who sat near her sewing. "i guess he has thought out the best po'try piece yet. mebby this time it will be good enough for the first page of the _herald_." "young as he is, that's not likely," said the literal woman. "there's no manner of doubt in my mind but that he _can_ do great newspaper work when he finishes his education and makes his start; but i think mr. bruce will use all his influence to turn him toward law." "mr. douglas bruce is a swell gentl'man," said peaches, "and me and mickey just loves him for his niceness to us; but we got _that_ all settled. mickey is going to write the po'try piece for the first page of the _herald_--that's our paper--and then we are going to make all my pieces into a bu'ful book, like i got it started here." peaches picked up a small notebook, scrupulously kept, and lovingly glanced over the pages, on each of which she had induced mickey to write in his plainest script one section of her nightly doggerel; and if he failed from the intense affairs of the day, she left a blank page for him to fill later. taken together, the remainder of her possessions were as nothing to peaches compared with that book. not an hour of the day passed that it was not in her fingers, every line of it she knew by heart, and she learned more from it than all mickey's other educational efforts. peter scraped a piece of fine black walnut furniture free from the accumulated varnish of years, and ran an approving hand over the smooth dark surface, seasoned with long use. he smiled at her. she smiled back, falling into a little chant that had been on her lips much of the time of late: "you know, peter! you know, peter! we know somepin' we won't tell!" peter nodded, beaming on her. "just listen to that boy, peter, he must be perfectly possessed!" said nancy. "he didn't ever sound so glad before!" cried the child eagerly. mickey came up the walk radiant. he divided a smile between mrs. harding and peter, and bowed low before peaches as he laid a package at her feet. then he struck an attitude of exaggerated obeisance and recited: "_days like this i'm tickled silly, when i see my august lily. no other fellow, dude or gawk, owns a flower that can laugh and talk._" peaches immediately laughed; so did all of them. "peter," asked mickey, "were you ever so glad that you thought you would bust wide open?" "i was," said peter; "i am this minute." "would you mind specifying circumstances?" "not a bit," said peter. "first time was when ma said she'd marry me, and i got my betrothal kiss; second, was the day she said she'd forgive my years of selfish dunderheadedness, and start over. now you, mickey, what's yours?" "the great investigation is over, so far as our commission goes," answered mickey. "multiopolis isn't robbed where she was sure she was. her accounts balance in the departments we've gone over. nobody gets the slick face, the glass eye, the lawn mower on his cocoanut, or dons the candy suit from our work; but some folks i love had a near squeak, and i got a month vacation! think of that, miss lily peaches o'halloran! gee, let's get things fixed up here and have a party, to show the neighbouring gentlemen what's coming to them, before the weather gets so cold they won't have time to finish their jobs this fall. some of them will squirm, but we don't care. some of them will think they won't do it, but they _will_. kiss me, lily! hug me tight, and let me go dig on the furnace foundation 'til i sweat this out of me." when the children were sleeping that night he sat on the veranda and told mrs. harding and peter exactly what he thought wise to repeat of the day's experience and no more; so that when he finished, all they knew was that the investigation was over, so far as mr. bruce was concerned, mickey had a vacation, and was a happy boy. as she came to dinner the next day, mary laid a bundle of mail beside her father's plate. when he saw it, peter, as was his custom, reached for the _herald_ to read the war headlines. he opened the paper, gave it a shake, stared at it in amazement, scanned a few lines and muttered: "well for the lord's sake!" then he glanced over the sheets at mickey and back again. the family arose and hurried to a point of vantage at peter's shoulder, while he spread the paper wide and held it high so that all of them could see. enclosed in a small ruled space they read: _sacred to the memory of the biggest scoop, that ever fell in mister chaffner's soup, and was pitched by this nicest editor-man, where it belonged, in the garbage can, to please his friend, michael o'halloran. whoop fellers, whoop, for the drownded scoop, that departed this life in our editor's soup! all together boys, scoop! soup! whoop!_ they rushed at mickey, shook hands, thumped, patted and praised him, when a wail arose to the point of reaching his consciousness. "mickey, what?" cried peaches. "let me take it just a minute, peter," said mickey. "wait a second," suggested mrs. harding, picking up a big roll that they had knocked to the floor. "this doesn't look like catalogues, and it's addressed to you. likely they've sent you some of your own." "now maybe mr. chaffner did," said mickey, almost at the bursting point. "course he is awful busy, the busiest man in the world, i expect, but he _might_ have sent me a copy of my poetry, since he used it." with shaking fingers he opened the roll, and there were several copies of the _herald_ similar to the one peter held, and on the top of one was scrawled in pencil: "your place, your desk, and your salary are ready whenever you want to begin work. you can't come too soon to suit me.--chaffner." mickey read it aloud. "gee!" he said. "i 'most wish i had education enough to begin right now. i'd _like_ it! i could just go _crazy_ about that job! yes honey! yes, i'm coming!" he caught up another paper, and hurried across the room, quietly but decidedly closing the door behind him, so when mary started to follow, junior interposed. "better not, molly," he said. "mickey wants to be alone with his family for a few minutes. say father, ain't there a good many newspaper men worked all their lives, and got no such show as that?" "i haven't a doubt of it," said peter. "mickey must have written that, and sent it in before he came home yesterday," said mrs. harding. "i call it pretty bright! i bet if the truth was told, something went wrong, and he was at the bottom of shutting it up. don't you call that pretty bright, pa?" "i guess i'm no fair judge," said peter. "i'm that prejudiced in his favour that when he said, 'see the cat negotiate the rat' out in the barn, i thought it was smart." "yes, and it was," commented junior. "it's been funny for everybody to 'negotiate' all sorts of things ever since that north pole business, so it was funny for the cat too. father, do you think that note really means that mr. chaffner would give mickey a place on his paper, and pay him right now?" "i don't know why chaffner would write it out and sign his name to it if he _didn't_ mean it," said peter. "you know he is full of stuff like that," said junior. "he could do some every day about people other than peaches if he wanted to. father, ain't you glad he's in our family? are you going to tell him to take that job if he asks you?" "no i ain't," said peter. "he's too young, and not the book learning to do himself justice, while that place is too grown up and exciting for a boy of his nerve force. don't you think, nancy?" "yes, i do, but you needn't worry," said mrs. harding. "mickey knows that himself. didn't you hear him say soon as he read it, that he hadn't the education yet? he's taken care of himself too long to spoil his life now, and he will see it; but i marvel at chaffner. he ought to have known better. and among us, i wonder at mickey. where did he get it from?" "easy!" said peter. "from a god-fearing, intelligent mother, and an irresponsible irish father, from inborn, ingrained sense of right, and a hand-to-hand scuffle with life in multiopolis gutters. mickey is all right, and thank god, he's _ours_ if he does show signs of wanting to go to the _herald_ office, discourage him all you can, ma; it wouldn't be good for him--yet." "no it wouldn't; but it would be because he needs solid study and school routine to settle him, and make him _great_ instead of a clown, as that would at his age. but if you think there is anything in the _herald_ office that could _hurt_ mickey, you got another think coming. it wouldn't hurt mickey; but it would be mighty good for the rest of them. the _herald_ has more honour and conscience than most; some of the papers are just disgraceful in what they publish, and then take back next day; while folks are forced to endure it. sit up and eat your dinners now. i want to get on with my work." "mickey, what happened?" begged peaches as mickey came in sight, carrying the papers. he was trembling and tensely excited as her sharp eyes could see. they rested probingly a second on him, then on the paper. her lips tightened while her eyes darkened. she stretched out her hand. "mickey, let me see!" she commanded. mickey knelt beside her, spreading out the sheet. then he took her hand, setting a finger on the first letter of his name and slowly moved along as she repeated the letters she knew best of all, then softly pronounced the name. she knew the _herald_ too. she sat so straight mickey was afraid she would strain her back, lifting her head "like a queen," if a queen lifts her head just as high as her neck can possibly stretch, and smiled a cold little smile of supreme self-satisfaction. "now mickey, go on and read what you wrote about _me_," her highness commanded. the collapse of mickey was sudden and complete. he stared at peaches, at the paper, opened his lips, thought a lie and discarded it, shut his lips to pen the lie in for sure, and humbly and contritely waited, a silent candidate for mercy. peaches had none. to her this was the logical outcome of what she had been led to expect. there was the paper. the paper was the _herald_. there was the front page. there was mickey's name. she had no conception of mickey writing a line which did _not_ concern her; also he had expressly stated that all of them and the whole book were to be about her. she indicated the paper and his name, while the condescension of her waiting began to be touched with impatience. "mickey, why don't you go on and read what it says about me?" she demanded. mickey saw plainly what must be done. he gazed at her and suddenly, for the first time, a wave of something new and undefined rushed through him. this exquisitely delicate and beautiful little highness, sitting so proudly straight, and so uncompromisingly demanding that he redeem his promises, made a double appeal to mickey. her highness scared him until he was cold inside. he was afraid, and he knew it. he wanted to run, and he knew it; yet no band of steel could have held him as this bit of white femininity, beginning to glow a soft pink from slowly enriching blood, now held and forever would hold him, and best of all he knew that. it was in his heart to be a gentleman; there was nothing left save to be one now. he took both peaches' hands, and began preparing her gently as was in his power for what had to come. "yes, flowersy-girl," he said, "i'll read it to you, but you won't understand 'til i tell you----" "i always understand," she said sweepingly. "you know how wild like i came home last night," explained mickey. "well, i had reason. some folks who have been good to us, and that i love like we love peter and ma, had been in awful danger of something that would make them sore all their lives, and maybe i had some little part in putting it over, so it never touched them; anyway, they thought so, and i was tickled past all sense and reason about it. it was up to the editor of the _herald_ to decide; and what he did, was what i begged him to. course left to himself, he would a-done it anyway, _after he had time to think_----" "mickey, read my po'try piece about me, an' then talk," urged peaches. "honey, you make me so sick i can't tell you." "mickey, what's the matter?" peaches' penetrating eyes were slowly changing to accusing. she drew a deep breath, giving him his first cold, unrelenting look. "mister michael o'halloran," she said in incisive tones, "did you write a po'try piece for the first page of the _herald, not_ about me?" "well miss chicken," he cried, "i wish you wouldn't talk so much! i wish you'd let me _tell_ you." "i guess you ain't got anything to tell," said peaches, folding her arms and tilting her chin so high mickey feared she might topple backward. "i guess i have!" shouted mickey. "_i_ didn't put that there! i didn't _mean_ it to _be_ there! if i'd a-put it there, and _meant_ it there, and knowed it would _be_ there, it would a-been about you, of course! answer me this, miss. any single time did i ever _not_ do anything that i said i would?" "nothing but this," admitted peaches. "there you go again!" said mickey. "i tell you i _didn't_ do _this_, and when i tell you, i tell true, miss, get that in your system. if you'd let me explain how it was, you'd see that i didn't have a single thing to do with it." peaches accomplished a shrug that was wonderful, and gazed at the ceiling, her lips closed. mickey watched her a second, then he began softly: "flowersy-girl, i don't see what you mean! i don't know why you act like this! i don't know what's to have a tantrum for, when i didn't _mean_ it to be there, and didn't _know_ it would be there. honest, i don't!" "go on an' read it!" she commanded. mickey obeyed. as he finished she faced him in wonder. "why they ain't a damn bit of sense to it!" she cried. "_course_ there ain't!" agreed mickey. "course there _would be_ no sense to anything that wasn't about _you!_" "then what did you put it there in my place for?" "i didn't! i'm trying to tell you!" persisted mickey. peaches shed one degree of royal hauteur. "well why don't you go on an' tell, then?" "aw-w-ah! well if you don't maneuver to beat a monoplane! i've tried to tell you, and you won't _let_ me. if you stop me again, i'm going to march out of this room and stay 'til you bawl your eyes red for me." "if you go, i'll call junior!" said peaches instantly. "well go on and call him!" he turned, his heart throbbing, his eyes burning with repressed tears, the big gulp in his throat audible to peaches, as her little wail was to him. he whirled and dropping on his knees took her in his arms. she threw hers around his neck, buried her face against his cheek, and they cried it out together. at last she produced a bit of linen, and mopped mickey's eyes and face, then her own. while still clinging to him she whispered: "mickey, i'm jus' about _dead_ to have it be the _herald_, an' the _front page_, an' _you_, an' _not_ about _me!_" "flowersy-girl, i'm just as sorry as you are," said mickey. "it was this way: i was just crazy over things our editor-man did, that saved our dear boss and the lovely moonshine lady who gave you your precious child and her 'darling old daddy' from such awful trouble it would just a-killed them; honest it would lily! when our editor-man was so great and nice, and did what he didn't _want_ to at all, i went sort of wild like, and when i was off for the day and got on the streets, everything pulled me his way. i was anxious just to see him again, and if i'd done what i wanted to, i'd a-gone in the _herald_ office and knelt down, and said: 'thank you, oh thank you!' and kissed his feet, but of course i knew men didn't do like that, and it would have shamed him, but i had to do something or bust, and i went running for the office like flying, and my mind got whirling around, and that stuff began to come. "i slipped in and back to his desk, like i may if i want to, and there he sat. he had a big white sheet just like this before it is printed, spread out, and a pencil in his fingers, and about a dozen of his best men were crowding 'round with what they had for the paper to-day. i've told you how they do it, often, and when i edged up some of the men saw me. they knew i had a pass to him, so they stepped back just as he said: 'well boys, who's got some _big stuff_ to fill the space of our departed scoop?' that 'departed' word means lost, gone, and it's what they say about people when they--they go for good. then he looked up to see who would speak first, and noticed me. 'oh there is the little villain who scooped our scoop, right now,' he said. 'let's make him fill the space he's cut us out of.' i thought it was a joke, but i wasn't going to have all that bunch of the swellest smarties who work for him put it clear over me; i've kidded back with my paper men too long for that; so i stepped back and shot it at him, that what's printed there, and when i got to the end and invited the fellows to 'whoop,' lily, you could a-heard them a mile. i saw they was starting for me, so i just slung in a 'thank you something awful, boss,' and ducked through and between, and cut for life; 'cause if they'd a-got me, i might a-been there yet. they are the _nicest_ men on earth, but they get a little keyed up sometimes, and a kid like me couldn't keep even. now that's all there is to it, lily, honest, cross my heart! i _didn't_ know they would put it there. i didn't know they thought it was _good_ enough. i wouldn't a-let them for the life of them, if i'd _known_ they was going to." "you jus' said it once, mickey?" inquired peaches. "jus' once, flowersy-girl, fast as i could rattle." "it's twice as long as mine ever are," she said. "i don't see how they 'membered." "oh that!" cried mickey. "why honey, that's easy! those fellows jump on to a thing like chained lightning, and they got a way of writing that is just a lot of little twists and curls, but one means a whole sentence--they call it 'shorthand'--and doing that way, they can set down talk as fast as anybody can speak, and there were a dozen of them there with pencils and paper in their fingers. that wasn't anything for them!" "mickey, are you going to learn to write that way?" "sure!" said mickey. "before i go to the _herald_ to take my desk, and my 'signment,' i've got to know, and you ought to know too; 'cause i always have to bring what i write to you first, to see if you like it." "yes, if the mean old things don't go an' steal my place again, when you don't know it," protested peaches. "well, don't you fret about that," said mickey. "they got away with me this time, but they won't ever again, 'cause i'll be on to their tricks. see? now say you forgive me, and eat your dinner, 'cause it will be spoiled, and you must have a good rest, for there's going to be something lovely afterward. you ain't mad at me any more, lily?" "no, i ain't mad at you, but i'm just so----" "wope! wope!" cautioned mickey. peaches pulled away indignantly. "--so--so--so _estremely mad_ at those paper men! mickey, i don't think i'll ever let you be a _herald_ man at all if they're going to leave me out like that!" "what do you care about an old paper sold on the streets, and ground up for buckets, and used to start fires, anyway?" scoffed mickey. "why don't you sit up on the shelf in a nice pretty silk dress and be a book lady? i wouldn't be in the papers at all, if i were you." "no, an' i won't, either!" cried peaches instantly. "take the old paper an' put what you please in it. i shall have all about _me_ in the nice silky covered book on the shelf; so there, you needn't try to make me do anything else, 'cause i shan't ever!" "course you shan't!" agreed mickey. he went back to the dinner table to find the family finished and gone. he carried what had been left for him to the back porch, and eating hastily began helping to get things in place. as always he went to mrs. harding for orders. she was a little woman, so very like his mother in size, colouring, speech, and manner, that mickey could almost forget she was not truly his, when every hour she made him feel her motherly kindness; so from early habit it was natural with him to seek her first, and do what he could to assist her before he attempted anything else. all the help peter had from him came when he found no more to do for mrs. harding. as he washed the dishes while she sat sewing for the renovation of the house, he said to her: "when you dress lily for this afternoon i wish you'd make her just as pretty as you can, and put her very nicest dress on her." "why mickey, is some one coming?" she asked. "i don't know," said mickey, "but i have a hunch that my boss, and miss leslie, and her father may be out this afternoon. they have been talking about it a long time, but i kept making every excuse i could think up to keep them away." "why, mickey?" asked mrs. harding, looking at him intently. she paused in her sewing, running the needle slowly across the curtain material. "well, for a lot of reasons," said mickey. "a fellow of my size doesn't often tackle a family, and when he does, if he's going to be square about it, he has got to do a lot of _thinking_. one thing was that it's hard for me to get lily out my head like i first saw her. i guess i couldn't tell you so you'd get a fair idea of how dark, dirty, alone, and little, and miserable she was. just with all my heart i was ashamed of her folks, and sick sorry for her; but i can't bear for anybody else to be! i didn't want any of them to see her 'til she was fed, and fatted up a lot, and trained 'til how nice she really is shows plain. it just hurt me to think of it." "um-m-uh!" agreed mrs. harding, differing emotions showing on her face. "i see, mickey." "then," continued mickey, "i'm sticking sore and mean on one point. i _did_ find her! she _is_ mine! i _am_ going to keep her! nobody in all this world takes her, nor god in heaven!" "mickey, be careful what you say," she cautioned. "i don't mean anything wicked," explained mickey. "i'm just telling you that nobody on earth can have her, and i'd fight 'til i'd die with her, before even heaven gets her. i don't mean anything ugly about it. i'm just telling you friendly like, how i _feel_ about her." "i see mickey," said mrs. harding. "go on!" "well, lots of reasons," said mickey. "she wasn't used to folks, so they scared her. she was crazy with fear about the orphings' home getting her, while i wasn't any too sure myself. i flagged one swell dame, and like to got caught in a trap and lost her. then my sunshine nurse helped me all i needed; so not knowing how much women were alike, i didn't care to go rushing in a lot on lily just to find out. she was a little too precious to experiment with. "that home business has been a big, grinning, 'get-you-any-minute devil,' peeping 'round the corner at me ever since mother went. i could dodge him for myself, but i couldn't take any _risks_ for lily. _these orphings' homes ain't no place for children_. 'stead of the law building them, and penning the little souls starving for home and love in them, what it _should_ do is to make people who pay the money to run them, take the children in their _own homes_ and love and raise them _personal_. if every family in the world that has no children would take two, and them that has would take just one, all the orphings' homes would make good hospitals and schools; while the orphings would be fixed like lily and i are. course i know all folks ain't the same as you and peter; but in the long run, children are _safer in homes_ than they are in _squads_. 'most any kind of a home beats no home at all. you can stake your liberty-birds on that." "you surely can," agreed mrs. harding. "you just bet," persisted mickey. "when i didn't know what they would do, i didn't want them pestering 'round, maybe to ruin everything; and when i _did_, i didn't want them any more, 'cause then i saw their idea would be to take her themselves, and in one day they would a-made all i could do look like thirty cents. she was mine, and what she had with me was so much better than what she would a-had without me, or if the law got her, that i thought she was doing well enough. i see now she could a-had more; but i thought then it was all right!" "now mickey, don't begin that," said mrs. harding. "what you did was to find her, and without a doubt, save her life; at least if you didn't, you landed her in a fairly decent home where all of us will help you do _what you think best for her;_ and there's small question but we can beat any orphans' home yet in existence. and as for the condition in which i found her, it _was_ growing warm in that room, but i'll face any court in the universe and swear i never saw a cleaner child, or one in better condition for what you had to begin on. the almighty himself couldn't have covered those awful bones with flesh and muscle, and smoothed the bed sores and scars from that little body; and gone much faster training her right, unless he was going back to miracles again. as far as miracles are concerned, i think from what you tell me, and what the child's condition proves, that you have performed the miracle yourself. to the day of my death i'll honour, respect, and love you, mickey, for the way in which you've done it. i've yet to see a woman who could have done better, so i want you to know it." "i don't know the right words to say to you and peter." "never mind that," said mrs. harding. "we owe you quite as much, and something we are equally as thankful for. it's an even break with us, mickey, and no talk of obligations on either side. we prize junior as he is just now, fully as much as you do anything you've gained." mickey polished the plates and studied mrs. harding. then he spoke again: "there's one more obligation i'm just itching to owe you." "tell me about it, mickey," she said. "well right in line with what we been talking of," said mickey. "just suppose a big car comes chuffing up here this afternoon, like i have a hunch it will, and all those nice folks so polite and beautifully dressed come to see us, i know you are busy, but i'll work afterward to pay back, if you and peter will dust up a little--course i know the upset fix we are in; but just glorify a trifle, and lay off and _keep right on the job without a second of letting up_, 'til they are gone. see?" "you mean you don't want to be left _alone_ with them?" "you get me!" cried mickey. "you get me clearly. i don't want to be left alone with them, for them to put ideas in lily's head about a nicer car than ours, and a bigger house, and finer dolls and dresses, and going to the city to stay with them on visits; or me going to live with mr. winton, to be the son he should have found for himself long ago. i guess i have lily sized up about as close as the next one; and she has got all that is _good_ for her, right now. she'd make the worst spoiled kid you ever saw if she had half a chance. what she needs to make a grand woman of her, like you and mother, is clean air, quiet, good food like she's got here, with bone as well as muscle in it; and just enough lessons and child play with children to keep her brains going as fast as her body, and no silly pampering to make her foolish and disagreeable. i know how little and sick she is, but she shan't use it for capital to spoil her whole life. see?" "'through a glass darkly,'" quoted mrs. harding laughing. "oh mickey, i didn't think it of you. you're deeper than the well." "that's all right," said mickey, his face flushing. "often i hear you say 'let good enough alone.' my sentiments exact. lily is fine, and so am i. let us alone! if you and peter will do me the 'cap-sheaf favour, as he would say, you'll dust up and _spunk_ up, and the very first hint that comes--'cause it's coming--at the very first hint of how miss leslie would love to take care of the dear little darling awhile, smash down with the nix! _smash like sixty!_ keep your eyes and ears open, and if you could, dearest lady, beat them to it: i'd be tickled silly if you manage _that_. if you could only tell them how careful she has to be handled, and taken care of, and how strangers and many around would be bad for her----" "mickey, the minute they see the shape things are in here, it will give them the chance they are after, so they will begin that very thing," she said. "i know it," conceded mickey. "that's why i'd put them off if i could, 'til we were fixed and quiet again. but at _that_, their chance isn't so grand. this isn't worrying lily any. she saw all of it happen, she knows what's going on. what i want, dearest lady, is for you to get on the job, and spunk up to them, just like you did about junior going away. i didn't think you'd get through with that, and i know peter didn't; but you _did_, fine! now if you and peter would have a little private understanding and engineer this visit that i scent in the air, so that when you see they are going to offer pressing invitations to take lily, and to take me, and put me at work that i wasn't born to do; if you'd only have a receiver out, and when your wires warn you what's coming down the line, first and beforehand, _calm_ and _plain_, fix things so the nix wouldn't even be needed; do you get me, dearest mother harding, do you see?" "that i do!" said mrs. harding rising abruptly. "i'll go and speak to peter at once, then we'll shift these workmen back, and quiet them as much as we can. i'll slip on a fresh dress, and put some buttermilk in the well, and fix peaches right away, if she's finished her nap----" mrs. harding's voice trailed back telling what she would do as she hastened to peter. mickey, with anxious heart, helped all he could, washed, slipped on a fresh shirt, and watched the process of adjusting peaches' hair ribbon. "now understand, i don't _know_ they're coming," he said. "i just _think_ they will." because he thought so, for an hour the harding premises wore a noticeable air of expectation. all the family were clean and purposely keeping so; but the waiting was long, while work was piled high in any direction. peaches started the return to normal conditions by calling for her slate, and beginning to copy her lesson. mary with many promises not to scatter her scraps, sat beside the couch, cutting bright pictures from the papers. mickey grew restless and began breaking up the remains of packing cases, while junior went after the wheelbarrow. mrs. harding brought out her sewing, and peter went back to scraping black walnut furniture. mickey passed him on an errand to the kitchen and asked anxiously: "did she tell you?" "yes," said peter. "will you make it a plain case of 'nobody home! nobody home?'" questioned mickey. "i will!" said peter emphatically. being busy, the big car ran to the gate before they saw it coming. leslie winton and douglas bruce came up the walk together, while mr. winton and mrs. minturn waited in the car, in accordance with a suggestion from douglas that the little sick girl must not see too many strange people at once. mickey went to meet them, and peaches watching, half in fear and wholly in pride, saw douglas bruce shake his hand until she frowned lest it hurt, clap him on the back, and cry: "oh but i'm proud of you! say that was great!" leslie purposely dressed to emphasize her beauty, slipped an arm across his shoulders and drawing him to her kissed his brow. "our poet!" she said. "oh mickey, hurry! i'm so eager to hear the ones in the book douglas tells me you are making! won't you please read them to us?" mickey smiled as he led the way. "just nonsense stuff for lily," he said. "nothing but fooling, only the prayer one, and maybe two others." an abrupt movement from peaches as they advanced made mrs. harding glance her way in time to see the first wave of deep colour that ever had flooded the child's white face, come creeping up her neck and begin tinging her cheeks, even her forehead. with a swift movement she snatched her poetry book, which always lay with her slate and primer, thrusting it under her pillow; when she saw mrs. harding watching her she tilted her head and pursed her lips in scorn: "'our!'" she mimicked. "'our!' wonder whose she thinks he is? nix on her!" mrs. harding, caught surprisedly, struggled to suppress a laugh as she turned to meet her guests. mickey noticed this. he made his introductions, and swiftly thrust peaches' precious child into her arms, warning in a whisper: "_you be careful, miss!_" peaches needed the reminder. she loved the doll. she had been drilled so often on the thanks she was to tender for it, that with it in her fingers she thought of nothing else, so her smile as leslie approached was lovely. she held out her hand and before mickey could speak announced: "jus' as glad to see you! thank you ever so much for my precious child!" nothing more was necessary. leslie was captivated and would scarcely make way for douglas to offer his greeting. mary ran to call her father, while the visitors seated themselves to say the customary polite things; but each of them watched a tiny white-clad creature, with pink ribbons to match the colour in a flawless little face, rounded to the point of delicate beauty, overshadowed by a shower of gold curls, having red lips and lighted by a pair of big, blue-gray eyes with long dark lashes. when mrs. harding saw both visitors look so intently at peaches, and intercepted their glance of admiration toward each other, she looked again herself, and then once more. peaches spoke imperiously. "mickey-lovest, come here and bend down your head." mickey slipped behind douglas' chair, knelt on one knee, and leaned to see what peaches desired of him. she drew her hankerchief from her waist ribbon, rubbed it across his forehead, looked at the spot with frowning intentness, rubbed again, and then dropping the handkerchief, laid a hand on each side of his head, bent it to her and kissed the spot fervently; then she looked him in the eyes and said with solicitous but engaging sweetness: "_mickey, i do wish you would be more careful what you get on your face!_" mickey drew back thrilled with delight, but extremely embarrassed. "aw-a-ah you fool little kid!" he muttered, and could not look at his friends. watching, douglas almost shouted, while the flush deepened on miss winton's cheeks. peter began talking to help the situation, so all of them joined in. "you are making improvements that look very interesting around here," said douglas to mrs. harding. "we are doing our level best to evolve a sanitary, modern home for all of us, and to set an example for our neighbours," she said quietly. "we always got along very well as we were, but lately, we have found we could have things much more convenient, and when god gave us two more dear children, we needed room for them, and comforts and appliances to take care of our little new daughter right. when we got started, one thing led to another until we are pretty well torn up; but we've saved the best place for her, and the worst is over." "yes we are on the finish now," said peter. "i did think of taking her and going to my sister's," continued mrs. harding, "but peaches isn't accustomed to meeting people, while mickey and i both thought being among strangers and changing beds and food would be worse for her than the annoyance of remodelling; then too, i wanted very much to see the work here done as i desired. at first i was doubtful about keeping her, but she doesn't mind in the least; she even takes her afternoon naps with hammers pounding not so far from her----" "gee, there is no noise and jar here to compare with multiopolis," said mickey. "she's all right, getting stronger every day." peaches spread both hands, looking at them critically, back and palm. "they are better," she said. "you ought to seen them when they was so clawy they made mickey shiver if i touched him; and first time i wanted to kiss something or go like granny did, he wouldn't let me 'til i cried, an' then he made me put it on his forehead long time, 'til i got so the bones didn't scratch him; didn't you mickey?" "well i wish you wouldn't tell everything!" "then i won't," said peaches, "'cause _i'm_ your fam'ly, an' i must do what _you_ say; an' _you_ are _my_ fam'ly, an' you must do what _i_ say. are you a fam'ly?" she questioned leslie and douglas. "we hope to be soon," laughed leslie. "then," said peaches, "you can look how we're fixing our house so you can make yours nice as this. mickey, i want to show that pretty lady in the auto'bile my precious child." "sure!" said mickey. "i'll go tell her. and the man with her is miss leslie's father, just like peter is ours; you want to show him the child, don't you?" "maybe!" said peaches with a tantalizing smirk. "miss chicken, you're getting well too fast," commented mickey in amazement as he started to the car. because of what mr. winton had said to him the previous day, he composed and delivered this greeting when he reached it: "lily is asking to show you her precious child, mrs. minturn, and i want both of you to see our home, and meet our new father and mother. letting us have them is one thing the law does that makes up a little for the orphings' homes most kids get who have had the bad luck to lose their own folks." "mickey, are you prejudiced against orphans' homes?" asked mrs. minturn as she stepped from the car. "ain't no name for it," said mickey. "i'm dead against bunching children in squads. if rich folks want to do something worth while with their money, they can do it by each family taking as many orphings as they can afford, and raising them personal. see?" "i should say i do!" exclaimed the lady. "i must speak to james about that. we have two of our own, and william, but i believe we could manage a few more." "i know one i'd like very much to try," said mr. winton, but mickey never appeared so unconscious. he managed his introductions very well, while again peaches justified her appellation by being temptingly sweet and conspicuously acid. when mickey reached peter in his round of making friends acquainted, he slid his arm through that of the big man and said smilingly: "nobody is going to mix me with peter's son by blood--see what a fine chap junior is; but peter and i fixed up my sonship with the almighty, whom my peter didn't deny, when he took me in, and with the judge of the multiopolis courts; so even if it doesn't show on the outside, i belong, don't i?" peter threw his left arm around mickey even as he shook hands with his right: "you surely do," he said, "by law and by love, to the bottom of all our hearts." the visit was a notable success. the buttermilk was cold, the spice cake was fresh, the apples and peaches were juicy, the improvements highly commendable. peter was asked if he would consider a membership in the golf club, the playhouse was discussed, and three hours later a group of warm friends parted, with the agreement that mickey was to spend a day of the latter part of the week fishing on atwater. the hardings smiled broadly. "well son, did we manage that to your satisfaction?" asked peter. "sure!" said mickey. "i might have been mistaken in what half of that trip was for, but i think not." "so do i," said mrs. harding emphatically. "they were just itching to get their fingers on peaches; while bruce and mr. winton both were chagrined over our getting you first." "we feel bad about that too, don't we, peter?" laughed mickey. "well, i would," said peter, "if it were the other way around. i didn't mind the young fellow. you'll be with him every day, and he'll soon have boys of his own no doubt; but i feel sorry for mr. winton. he looks hungry when he watches you. he could work you into his business fine." "he's all right, he's a nice man," said mickey, "but i've lived off the _herald_ all my life 'til this summer, so when school is over i go straight to mr. chaffner." the winton car ran to the club house; sitting in a group, the occupants looked at each other rather foolishly. "seems to me you were going to bring peaches right along, if you liked her, leslie," laughed douglas. "the little vixen!" she said flushing. "sorry you didn't care for her," he commented. "it is a pity!" said leslie. "but i didn't 'miss bringing her along' any farther than mrs. minturn missed taking her to the hospital to be examined and treated!" "i'll have to go again about that," said mrs. minturn. "i just couldn't seem to get at it, someway." "no, you 'just couldn't seem to,'" agreed douglas. "and mr. winton 'just couldn't seem to' lay covetous hands on mickey, and bear him away to be his assistant any more than i could force him to be my little brother. i hope all of us have a realizing sense that we are permitted to be good and loyal friends; but we will kindly leave mickey to make his own arrangements, and work out his own salvation, and that of his child. and leslie, i didn't hear you offering to buy any of the quaint dishes and old furniture you hoped you might pick up there, either." "heavens!" cried leslie half tearfully. "how would any one go about offering to buy an old platter that was wrapped in a silk shawl and kept in the dresser drawer during repairs, or ask a man to set a price on old furniture, when he was scraping off the varnish of generations, and showing you wood grain and colouring with the pride of a veteran collector? i feel so silly! let's play off our chagrin, and then we'll be in condition for friendship which is the part that falls to us, if i understand mickey." "well considering the taste i've had of the quality of his friendship, i hope you won't be surprised at the statement that i feel highly honoured," said mr. winton, leading the way, while the others thoughtfully followed. with four days' work the harding home began to show what was being accomplished. the song of the housewife carried to the highway. neighbours passing went home to silent, overworked drudges, and critically examined for the first time stuffy, dark kitchens, reeking with steam, heat, and the odour of cooking and decorated with the grime of years. the little leaven of one home in the neighbourhood, as all homes should be, set them thinking. a week had not passed until people began calling mrs. harding to the telephone to explain just what she was doing, and why. men would stop to ask peter what was going on, so every time he caught a victim, he never released him until the man saw sunrise above a kitchen table, a line in the basement for a winter wash, kitchen implements from a pot scraper and food pusher to a gas range and electric washing machine, with a furnace and hardwood floors thrown in. soon the rip of shovelled shingles, the sound of sawing, and the ring of hammers filled the air. the harding improvements improved so fast, that sand, cement, and the big pile of lumber began accumulating at peter's corner of the crossroads below the home, for the playhouse. men who started by calling peter a fool, ended by borrowing his plans and belabouring themselves for their foolishness; for the neighbourhood was awakening and beginning to develop a settled conviction as to what constituted the joy of life, and that the place to enjoy it was at home, and the time immediately. peter's reward was not only in renewed happiness for himself and nancy; equal to it was his pleasure over the same renewal for many of his lifelong friends. mickey started on his day to atwater with joyful anticipation, but he jumped from douglas' car and ran up the harding front walk at three o'clock, his face anxious. he saw the harding car at the gate, and wondered at peter sitting dressed for leisure on the veranda. "got anxious about lily," he explained. "out on the lake i thought i heard her call me, then i had the notion she was crying for me. they laughed at me, but i couldn't stand it. is she asleep, as they said she'd be?" peter opened his lips, but no word came. mickey slowly turned a ghastly white. peter reached in his side pocket, drew out a letter, and handed it to the boy. mickey pulled the sheet from the envelope, still staring at peter, then glanced at what he held and collapsed on the step. peter moved beside him, laid a steadying arm across his shoulders and proved his fear was as great as mickey's by being unable to speak. at last the boy produced articulate words. "_he came?_" he marvelled. "about ten this morning," said peter. "he took her to the hospital?" panted mickey. "yes," said peter. "why did you let him?" demanded mickey. that helped peter. he indicated the letter. "there's your call for him!" he said, emphatically. "you asked me to adopt her so i could give him orders to go ahead when he came." "why didn't you telephone me?" asked mickey. "i did," said peter. "the woman who answered didn't know where you were, but she said their car had gone to town, so i thought maybe they'd find you there. i was just going to call them again." "was she afraid?" wavered mickey. "yes, i think she was," said peter. "did she cry for me?" asked mickey. "yes she did," admitted peter, who hadn't a social lie in his being, "but when he offered to put off the examination till he might come again, she climbed from the cot and made him take her. ma went with her." "the sunshine nurse came?" questioned mickey. "yes," said peter, "and mrs. minturn. she sent for him to see about an operation on a child she is trying to save, so when it was over, he showed her your letter. she brought them out in her car, and ma went back with them." "she may be on that glass table right now," gulped mickey. "what time is it? when's the next car? run me to the station will you, and if you've got any money, let me have it 'til i get to mine." "of course!" said peter. "will junior and mary be all right?" asked mickey, pausing in his extremity to think of others. "yes, they often stay while we go." "hurry!" begged mickey. peter took hold of the gear and faced straight ahead. "she's oiled, the tank full, the engine purring like a kitten," he said. "mickey, i always wanted to beat that trolley just once, to show it i _could_, if i wasn't loaded with women and children. awful nice road----" "go on!" said mickey. peter smiled, sliding across the starter. "sit tight!" he said tersely. the big car slipped up the road no faster than it had gone frequently, passed the station, then on and on; mickey twisted to look back at the rattle of the trolley stopping behind them, watching it with wishful eye. peter opened his lips to say: "just warmed up enough, and an even start!" the trolley came abreast and whistled. peter blew his horn, glancing that way with a little "come on" forward jerk of his head. the motorman nodded, touched his gear and the car started. peter laid prideful, loving hands on his machinery; for the first time with legitimate racing excuse, as he long had wished to, he tried out his engine. mickey could see the faces of the protesting passengers and the conductor grinning in the door, but peter could not have heard if he had tried to tell him. flying it was, smooth and even, past fields, orchards, and houses; past people who cried out at them and shook their fists. mickey looked at peter and registered for life each line of his big frame and lineament of his face, as he gripped the gear and put his car over the highway. when they reached the pavement, mickey touched peter's arm. "won't make anything by getting arrested," he cautioned. "no police for blocks yet," said peter. "well there's risk of life and damage suit at each crossing!" shouted mickey, so peter slowed a degree; but he was miles ahead of all regulations as he stopped before the gleaming entrance. mickey sprang from the car and hurried up the steps. mrs. minturn arose from a seat and came to meet him. "take me to her quick!" begged mickey. silently she led the way to her suite in her old home, and opened the door. mickey had a glimpse of mrs. harding, his sunshine nurse, and three men, one of whom he recognized from reproductions of his features in the papers. a very white, tired-looking peaches stretched both hands and uttered a shrill cry as mickey appeared in the doorway. his answer was inarticulate while his arms spread widely. then peaches arose, and in a few shuffling but sustained steps fell on his breast, gripping him with all her strength. "oh darling, you'll kill yourself," wailed mickey. he laid her on the davenport and knelt clasping her. peaches regained self-control first; she sat up, shamelessly wiping mickey's eyes and her own alternately. "flowersy-girl, did you hurt yourself awful?" "i know something i won't tell," chanted peaches, as she had been doing for days. mickey looked at her, then up at peter, who had entered and come to them. "_did you?_" eagerly asked peter of the child. peaches nodded proudly. "to meet mickey," she triumphed. "i wouldn't for anybody else _first! the longest piece yet! and it didn't hurt and i didn't fall!_" "good!" shouted peter. "that's the ticket!" "you look here miss chicken, what do you mean?" cried mickey wonderingly. "oh the doctor carrel man you sent for, came," explained peaches, "and you wasn't there, but he had your name on the letter you wrote; he showed me, so i came and let him examination me; but peter and i been standing alone, and taking steps when nobody was looking. you've surprised me joyful so much, it takes one as big as that to pay you back." mickey clung to his treasure, while turning to peter an awed, questioning face. "that's it!" said peter. "she's been on her feet for ten days or such a matter!" mickey appealed to dr. carrel. "how about this?" he demanded. "she's going to walk," said the great man assuringly. "it's all over? you've performed your miracle?" asked mickey. "yes," said dr. carrel. "it's all over, mickey; but you had the miracle performed before i saw her, lad." mickey retreated to peaches' neck again, while she smiled over and comforted him. "mickey, i knew you'd be crazy," she said. "i knew you'd be glad, but i didn't know you could be so----" mickey took her in his arms a second, then slowly recovered his feet and a small amount of self-possession. again he turned to the surgeons. "_are you sure?_ will it hurt her? will it last?" "very sure," said dr. carrel. "calm yourself, lad. her case is not so unusual; only more aggravated than usual. i've examined her from crown to sole, and she's straight and sound. you have started her permanent cure; all you need is to keep on exactly as you are going, and limit her activities so that in her joy she doesn't overdo and tire herself. you are her doctor. i congratulate you!" dr. carrel came forward, holding out his hand, and mickey took it with the one of his that was not gripping peaches and said, "aw-a-ah!" but he was a radiant boy. "thank you sir," he said. "thank everybody. but thank you especial, over and over. i don't know how i'll ever square up with you, but i'll pay you all i have to start on. i've some money i've saved from my wages, and i'll be working harder and earning more all the time." "but mickey," protested the surgeon, "you don't owe me anything. i didn't operate! you had the work done before i arrived. i would have come sooner, but i knew she couldn't be operated, even if her case demanded it, until she had gained more strength----" he was watching mickey's face and he read aright, so he continued: "i like that suggestion you made in your letter very much. something 'coming in steadily' is a good thing for any man to have. for the next three months, suppose you send me that two dollars a week you offered me if i'd come. how would that be?" mickey gathered peaches in his arms and looked over his shoulder as he started on the homeward trip. "thank you sir," he said tersely. "that would be square." the end